Noble House

by James Clavell

  “I agree,” the tai-pan said. “But at the moment there’s little to discuss. The offer’s made. By the way, Pug, your own deal stands, except that it’s extended from five to seven years, with a seat on Struan’s board for the same period.”

  Pugmire’s mouth dropped open. “That’s part of the tender?”

  “We’d need your expertise, of course,” Dunross said airily, and everyone knew Pugmire was hooked and landed. “The rest of the package as negotiated by you and Superfoods stands. The papers will be on your desk by 9:30. Perhaps you’ll put our tender to your stockholders on Friday.” He went over to Biltzmann and put out his hand. “Good luck. I presume you’ll be coming back with a counteroffer at once.”

  “Well, er, I have to check with head office, Mr., er, tai-pan.” Biltzmann was flushed and angry. “We … we put our best foot forward and … That’s a mighty fine offer you made. Yes. But with the run on your stock, the run on the banks and the market going down, that’s going to be kinda hard to close, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Biltzmann,” Dunross said, gambling everything that Bartlett would not renege on the promise of cash, that he would close with Par-Con, extricate himself from Gornt and put his stock back into its rightful place by next weekend. “We can close with no trouble at all.”

  Biltzmann’s voice sharpened. “Dickie, I think you’d better consider our bid carefully. It’s good till Tuesday,” he said, confident that by Tuesday Struan’s would be in a shambles. “Now I’ll make me a bet on the next race.” He stalked out. Tension in the box went up several decibels.

  Everyone began talking but Haply called out, “Tai-pan, may I ask a question?”

  Again attention zeroed. “What is it?”

  “I understand it’s customary in takeovers for there to be a down payment, in cash, a measure of good faith. May I ask how much Struan’s is putting up?”

  Everyone waited breathlessly, watching Dunross. He held the pause as his eyes raked the faces, enjoying the excitement, knowing everyone wanted him humbled, almost everyone, except … except who? Casey for one, even though she’s in the know. Bartlett? I don’t know, not for certain. Claudia? Oh yes, Claudia was staring at him, white-faced. Donald McBride, Gavallan, even Jacques.

  His eyes stopped on Martin Haply. “Perhaps Mr. Pugmire would prefer to have that detail in private,” he said, leading them on. “Eh, Pug?”

  Gornt interrupted Pugmire and said, as a challenge, “Ian, since you’ve decided to be unorthodox, why not make it all public? How much you put down measures the value of your tender. Doesn’t it?”

  “No. Not really,” Dunross said. He heard the distant muted roar of the off for the third race and was sure, watching the faces, that no one heard it except him. “Oh, very well,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Pug, how about $2 million, U.S., with the papers at 9:30 Monday? In good faith.”

  A gasp went through the room. Havergill, Johnjohn, Southerby, Gornt, were aghast. Phillip Chen almost fainted. Involuntarily Havergill began, “Ian, don’t you think we, er, th—”

  Dunross wheeled on him. “Oh, don’t you consider it enough, Paul?”

  “Oh yes, yes of course, more than enough, but, er …” Havergill’s words trailed off under Dunross’s gaze.

  “Oh for a moment…” Dunross stopped, pretending to have a sudden thought. “Oh, you needn’t worry, Paul, I haven’t committed you without your approval of course. I have alternate financing for this deal, external financing,” he continued with his easy charm. “As you know, Japanese banks and many others are anxious to expand into Asia. I thought it better—to keep everything secret and prevent the usual leaks—to finance this externally until I was ready to announce. Fortunately the Noble House has friends all over the world! See you all later!”

  He turned and left. Phillip Chen followed. Martin Haply started for the phone and then everyone was talking and saying I don’t believe it, Christ if Ian’s got that sort of external funds …

  In the hubbub Havergill asked Johnjohn, “Which Japanese bank?”

  “I wish I knew. If Ian’s got finance for this … my God, $2 million U.S.’s twice as much as he needed to offer.”

  Southerby, who was alongside them, wiped his palms. “If Ian pulls this off it’ll be worth $10 million U.S. the first year at least.” He smiled sardonically. “Well, Paul, now it looks as though we’re both out of this particular pie.”

  “Yes, yes it does, but I just don’t see how Ian could … and to keep it so quiet!”

  Southerby bent closer. “Meanwhile,” he asked softly, “more important, what about Tiptop?”

  “Nothing, nothing yet. He hasn’t returned my calls, or Johnjohn’s.” Havergill’s eyes fell on Gornt who was now talking privately with Plumm. He turned his back on him. “What will Quillan do now?”

  “Buy first thing Monday morning. He has to. Has to now, too dangerous to hold on,” Southerby said.

  “I agree,” Sir Luis Basilio added, joining them. “If Ian can toss that sort of cash around, those who’ve been selling him short better watch out. Come to think of it, we’ve been buying General Stores for nominees this last week. Probably Ian, eh? He has to have taken a position, lucky devil!”

  “Yes,” Johnjohn muttered. “For the life of me I can’t figure … Good sweet Christ, and now if he wins with Noble Star! With joss like that he could turn his whole mess about, you know what Chinese’re like!”

  “Yes,” Gornt said, butting in, startling them. “But thank God we’re not all Chinese. We’ve yet to see the cash.”

  “He must have it—must have it,” Johnjohn said. “Matter of face.”

  “Ah, face.” Gornt was sardonic. “9:30 A.M., eh? If he’d really been smart he would have said noon, or 3:00 P.M., then we wouldn’t know all day and he could’ve manipulated us all day. As it is now…” Gornt shrugged. “I win either way, millions, if not control.” He glanced across the noisy box, nodded noncommittally to Bartlett and Casey, then turned away.

  Bartlett took Casey’s arm and led her on to the balcony. “What do you think?” he asked softly.

  “About Gornt?”

  “About Dunross.”

  “Fantastic! He’s fantastic. ‘Japanese bank’—that was a stunning red herring,” she said excitedly. “He’s put this whole group into a tailspin, you could see that, and if this group, the whole of Hong Kong. You heard what Southerby said?”

  “Sure. It looks like we’ve all got it made—if he can squeeze out of Gornt’s trap.”

  “Let’s hope.” Then she noticed his smile. “What?”

  “You know what we just did, Casey? We just bought the Noble House for the promise of 2 million bucks.”

  “How?”

  “Ian’s gambling I will put up the 2.”

  “That’s no gamble, Linc, that was the deal.”

  “Sure. But say I don’t. His whole pack of cards collapses. If he doesn’t get the 2 he’s finished. Yesterday I told Gornt I might jerk the rug Monday morning. Say I withdraw Ian’s 2 before the market opens. Ian’s down the tube.”

  She stared at him, appalled. “You wouldn’t?”

  “We came here to raid and become the Noble House. Look what Ian did to Biltzmann, what they all did to him. That poor bastard didn’t know what hit him. Pugmire made a deal but reneged to take Ian’s better offer. Right?”

  “That’s different.” She looked at him searchingly. “You’re going to renege after making a deal?”

  Bartlett smiled a strange smile, looked down at the packed crowds and at the tote. “Maybe. Maybe that depends on who does what to whom over the weekend. Gornt or Dunross, it’s all the same.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  “Sure, Casey, I know,” he said calmly. “But it’s my $2 million and my game.”

  “Yes, and your word and your face! You shook on the deal.”

  “Casey, these guys here would eat us for breakfast if they got the chance. You think Dunross wouldn’t sell us out if he had to choose between him and
us?”

  After a pause she said, “You’re saying a deal’s never a deal, no matter what?”

  “You want $4 million tax free?”

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “Say you’re in for 49 percent of the new Par-Con-Gornt company, free and clear. It’s got to be worth that.”

  “More,” she said, afraid of this line of talk and for the first time in her life suddenly not sure of Bartlett.

  “You want that 49 percent?”

  “In return for what, Linc?”

  “In return for getting in back of Gornt-Par-Con 100 percent.”

  Her stomach felt weak and she looked at him searchingly, trying to read his mind. Normally she could, but not since Orlanda. “Are you offering that?”

  He shook his head, his smile the same, his voice the same. “No. Not yet.”

  She shivered, afraid she would take the deal if it were really offered. “I’m glad, Raider. I guess, yes, I’m glad.”

  “The point’s straight and simple, Casey: Dunross and Gornt play the game to win but for different stakes. Why this box would mean more to both of them than $2 or $4 million. We came here, you and I, to profit and to win.”

  They both glanced at the sky as a few raindrops spattered. But it was from the roof overhang and not a new shower. She began to say something, stopped.

  “What, Casey?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m going to circulate, see what the reaction is. See you back in our box.”

  “What about the fifth?” she asked.

  “Wait for the odds. I’ll be back before the start.”

  “Have fun!” She followed him with her eyes, out of the door, then turned and leaned on the balcony to hide from him and everyone. She had almost blurted out, Are you going to pull the rug and renege?

  Jesus, before Orlanda—before Hong Kong—I’d never have needed to ask that question. Linc would never go back on a deal before. But now, now I’m not sure.

  Again she shivered. What about my tears? I’ve never pulled that one before, and what about Murtagh? Should I tell Linc about Murtagh now—or later—because he must be told, certainly before 9:30 Monday. Oh God, I wish we’d never come here.

  The patter of rain splashed the stadium and someone said, “Christ, I hope it doesn’t get any worse!” The track was already scarred and muddy and very slippery. Outside the main entrance the road was slicked, puddled, traffic heavy and many late-coming people still hurried through the turnstiles.

  Roger Crosse, Sinders and Robert Armstrong got out of the police car and went through the barriers and the checkpoints to the members’ elevator, their blue lapel badges fluttering. Crosse had been a voting member for five years, Armstrong for one. Crosse was also a steward this year. Every year the commissioner of police suggested to the stewards that the police should have their own box and each year the stewards agreed enthusiastically and nothing happened.

  In the members’ stand Armstrong lit a cigarette. His face was lined, his eyes tired. The huge, crowded room went half the length of the stands. They went to the bar and ordered drinks, greeting other members. “Who’s that?” Sinders asked.

  Armstrong followed his glance. “That’s a little of our local color, Mr. Sinders.” His voice was sardonic. “Her name’s Venus Poon and she’s our top TV starlet.”

  Venus Poon was wearing a full-length mink and surrounded by an admiring group of Chinese. “The fellow on her left’s Charles Wang—he’s a film producer, multimillionaire, cinemas, dance halls, nightclubs, bars, girls and a couple of banks in Thailand. The small old man who looks like a bamboo and’s just as tough is Four Finger Wu, one of our local pirates—smuggling’s his life’s work and he’s very good.”

  “Yes,” Crosse said. “We almost caught him a couple of days ago. We think he’s into heroin now—of course gold.”

  “Who’s the nervous one in the gray suit? The fellow on the outside?”

  “That’s Richard Kwang of the Ho-Pak disaster,” Armstrong said. “The banker. He’s her current, or was her current—what’s the word—patron?”

  “Interesting.” Sinders concentrated on Venus Poon. Her dress was low-cut and saucy. “Yes, very. And who’s that? Over there—the one with the European.”

  “Where? Oh. That’s Orlanda Ramos, Portuguese which usually means Eurasian here. Once she was Quillan Gornt’s mistress. Now, now I don’t know. The man’s Linc Bartlett, the ‘gun-runner.’”

  “Ah! She’s unattached?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “She looks expensive.” Sinders sipped his drink and sighed. “Delectable, but expensive.”

  “I’d say very,” Crosse told him distastefully. Orlanda Ramos was with several middle-aged women, all couturier dressed, around Bartlett. “Rather overdone for my taste.”

  Sinders glanced at him, surprised. “I haven’t seen so many smashers in years—or so many jewels. Have you ever had a raid here?”

  Crosse’s eyes soared. “In the Turf Club? Good God, surely no one’d dare.”

  Armstrong smiled his hard smile. “Every copper who does duty here, from the high to the low, spends most of the time trying to work out the perfect heist. The final day’s take must be 15 million at least. It’s baffled us all. Security’s too tight, too clever—Mr. Crosse set it up.”

  “Ah!”

  Crosse smiled. “Would you like a snack, Edward? Perhaps a sandwich?”

  “Good idea. Thank you.”

  “Robert?”

  “No thank you, sir. If you don’t mind I’ll study the form and see you later.” Armstrong was achingly aware that after the seventh race, they were due to return to HQ, where Brian Kwok was scheduled for another session.

  “Robert’s a serious punter, Edward. Robert, do me a favor, show Mr. Sinders the ropes, where to bet, and order him a sandwich. I’d better see if the governor’s free for a moment—I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Glad to,” Armstrong said, hating the idea, the envelope with 40,000 h’eung yau dollars that he had taken from his desk on an impulse now a never-ending fire in his pocket. Christ, do I or don’t I? he asked himself over and over, grimly trying to decide and all the while trying to push away the horror of his friend Brian and the next session—no, no longer his friend but a committed, highly trained foreign asset and enormously valuable catch that they had by a miracle uncovered.

  “Robert,” Crosse said, keeping his voice deliberately kind, “you’ve done a very good job today. Very good.”

  “Yes,” Sinders agreed. “I’ll see the minister’s aware of your help, and of course the CP.”

  Crosse went for the elevator. Wherever he went nervous Chinese eyes followed him. On the top floor he bypassed the governor’s box and went into Plumm’s.

  “Hello, Roger!” Plumm greeted him affably. “Drink?”

  “Coffee would be fine. How’re things?”

  “Lost my shirt so far, though a number of us have the first leg of the quinella. You?”

  “I’ve just arrived.”

  “Oh, then you missed the drama!” Plumm told Crosse about Dunross’s takeover bid. “Ian’s thrown a monkey wrench into Pug.”

  “Or given him a great offer,” someone volunteered.

  “True, true.”

  Plumm’s box was as packed as all the others. Lots of chatter and laughter, drinks and good food. “Tea’ll be up in half an hour. I’m just going along to the stewards’ committee room, Roger. Would you like to stroll with me?”

  The committee room was at the end of the corridor, through guarded swing doors. It was small with a table and twelve chairs, a phone, good windows over the track and a tiny balcony. And empty. At once Plumm’s easygoing facade vanished. “I talked to Suslev.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s furious about the raid on the Ivanov last night.”

  “I can imagine. That was ordered by London. I wasn’t even told till this morning. Bloody Sinders!”

  Plumm became even grimmer. “Th
ey couldn’t be onto you, could they?”

  “Oh no. It’s routine. Just Special Branch, MI-6 and Sinders flexing their wings. They’re a secretive lot and quite right, nothing to do with SI. Go on.”

  “He said if you came that he’d be by a phone booth.” Plumm handed him a slip of paper. “Here’s the number. He’ll be there exactly at the off of the next three races. Please call him—he said it was urgent. What the hell was the raid for?”

  “Just to frighten all the KGB aboard, to frighten them enough to flush out Sevrin. Pressure. Same as the order for Suslev and the new commissar to appear at HQ on Sunday. It was just to frighten.”

  “Suslev’s frightened all right.” A sardonic smile flickered over Plumm’s handsome face. “His sphincter’s out of joint for ten years at least. They’ll all have some explaining to do. When Armstrong ‘happened’ to bust open the radio room, Red One operated and they dutifully and unnecessarily wrecked all their scramble and decoding equipment, along with their classified radar scanners.”

  Crosse shrugged. “The Ivanov’s leaving and they’ve got plenty to replace them with. It wasn’t Suslev’s fault, or ours. We can send a report telling Center what happened. If we want.”

  Plumm’s eyes narrowed. “If?”

  “Rosemont and his CIA thugs picked up a glass in their raid on Sinclair Towers. Suslev’s prints are all over it.”

  Plumm went white. “Christ! Now he’s on file?”

  “Has to be. He’s in our files as you know, not as KGB, and I think I’ve the only copies of his fingerprints existing. I removed them from his dossier years ago. I’d say it’s only a matter of time before the CIA are onto him, so the sooner he leaves Hong Kong the better.”

  “You think we should tell Center?” Plumm asked uneasily. “They’ll throw their book at him for being so careless.”

  “We can decide over the weekend. We knew Voranski over a number of years, knew he was to be trusted. But this man?” Crosse left the word hanging, keeping up the pretense that his contact with Suslev was recent, the same as Plumm’s. “After all, isn’t he only a minor KGB officer, a jumped-up courier. He’s not even Voranski’s official replacement and we’ve ourselves to think of.”