“Absolutely.”
Sinders pulled at his eyebrows, his washed-out blue eyes even more colorless than usual. “What about the client?”
“I’d say …” The elevator door opened. They got out and walked across the foyer. The uniformed doorman opened the door of Crosse’s car for him.
Crosse cut into the snarled traffic, the harbor misted and the rain stopped for a moment. “I’d say one more session, then Armstrong can begin rebuilding. Monday sunset is too fast but…” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t suggest any more of the Red Room.”
“No. I agree, Roger. Thank God the fellow’s got a strong constitution.”
“Yes.”
“I think Armstrong’s ready to crack, poor fellow.”
“He can conduct one more. Safely.”
“I hope so. My God we’ve been very lucky. Unbelievable!” The session, at 6:00 this morning, had brought forth nothing. But just as they were about to quit, Armstrong’s probing produced gold: at long last, the who and the why and the what of Professor Joseph Yu. Of Cal Tech, Princeton, Stanford. Rocket expert par excellence and NASA consultant.
“When’s he due in Hong Kong, Brian?” Armstrong had asked, the whole SI team in the control room breathless.
“I … I don’t … let me think, let me think … ah, I can’t remember … ah yes, it, it’s in a we … at the end of … of this month … what is this month? I can’t rem … remember … which day it is. He was to arrive … and then go on.”
“Where from and where to?”
“Oh I don’t know, oh no they didn’t tell me … except … except someone said he … he was sailing in Guam on holiday from Hawaii and due here ten days.… I think it’s ten days after … after Race Day.”
And when Crosse had called in Rosemont and told him—though not where the information had come from—the American was speechless and in panic. At once he had ordered the Guam area scoured to prevent the defection.
“I wonder if they’ll catch him,” Crosse muttered.
“Who?”
“Joseph Yu.”
“I jolly well hope so,” Sinders said. “Why the devil do these scientists defect? Damnable! The only good point is he’ll launch China’s rocketry into the stratosphere and send shivers of horror down all Soviet spines. Bloody good if you ask me. If those two fall out it could help us all immensely.” He eased more comfortably in the seat of the car, his back aching. “Roger, I can’t risk Dunross publishing those ciphers or keeping a copy.”
“Yes.”
“He’s too damned clever for his own boots is your tai-pan. If it leaks that AMG sent us a ciphered message and if Dunross has the memory he’s supposed to have, he’s a marked man. Eh?”
“Yes.”
They reached the Skyline penthouse restaurant in good time. Crosse was instantly recognized and at once a discreet table was empty at the bar. As Sinders ordered a drink and more coffee Crosse phoned for two agents, one British and one Chinese. They arrived very fast.
At a few minutes to one o’clock Dunross walked in and they watched him go to the best table, maître d’ in advance, waiters in tow, champagne already in a silver bucket.
“The bugger’s got everyone well trained, eh?”
“Wouldn’t you?” Crosse said. His eyes ranged the room, then stopped. “There’s Rosemont! Is that a coincidence?”
“What do you think?”
“Ah, look over there. In the far corner. That’s Vincenzo Banastasio. The Chinese he’s with is Vee Cee Ng. Perhaps that’s who they’re watching.”
“Perhaps.”
“Rosemont’s clever,” Crosse said. “Bartlett went to see him too. It could be Banastasio they’re watching.” Armstrong had reported Bartlett’s conversation about Banastasio to them. Surveillance on the man had been increased. “By the way, I heard he’s chartered a helicopter for Macao on Monday.”
“We should cancel that.”
“It’s already done. Engine trouble.”
“Good. I suppose Bartlett reporting Banastasio rather clears him, what?”
“Perhaps.”
“I still think I’d better go Monday. Yes. Interesting, ah, that Dunross’s receptionist had a date with the client. Good God, there’s a smasher,” Sinders said.
The girl was following the maître d’. Both men were taken by surprise when she stopped at the tai-pan’s table, smiled, bowed and sat down. “Christ! Mrs. Gresserhoff’s Chinese?” Sinders gasped.
Crosse was concentrating on their lips. “No Chinese’d bow like that. She’s Japanese.”
“How in the hell does she fit?”
“Perhaps there’s more than one guest. Per—oh Christ!”
“What?”
“They’re not speaking English. Must be Japanese.”
“Dunross speaks Jap?”
Crosse looked at him. “Yes, Japanese. And German, French, three dialects of Chinese and passable Italian.”
Sinders stared back. “You needn’t be so disapproving, Roger. I lost a son on HMS Prince of Wales, my brother starved to death on the Burma Road, so don’t give me any sanctimonious bullshit, though I still think she’s a smasher.”
“At least that shows a certain amount of tolerance.” Crosse turned back to study Dunross and the girl.
“Your war was in Europe, eh?”
“My war, Edward, is never ending.” Crosse smiled, liking the sound of that. “World War Two’s ancient history. Sorry about your kin but now Japan’s not the enemy, they’re our allies, the only real ones we’ve got in Asia.”
For half an hour they waited. He could not read their lips at all.
“She must be Gresserhoff,” Sinders said.
Crosse nodded. “Then shall we go? No point in waiting. Shall we fish and chip?”
They went out. The British and Chinese SI agents stayed, waiting patiently, unable to overhear what was being said, envying Dunross, as many did in the room—because he was the tai-pan and because of her.
“Gehen Sie?” she asked in German. Are you going?
“To Japan, Riko-san? Oh yes,” he answered in the same language, “the week after next. We take delivery of a new super-cargo ship from Toda Shipping. Did you chat with Hiro Toda yesterday?”
“Yes, yes I had that honor. The Toda family is famous in Japan. Before the Restoration when the samurai class was abolished, my family served the Toda.”
“Your family was samurai?”
“Yes, but of low degree. I, I did not mention about my family to him. Those were ancient days. I would not like him to know.”
“As you wish,” he said, his curiosity piqued. “Hiro Toda’s an interesting man,” he added, leading her on.
“Toda-sama is very wise, very strong, very famous.” The waiter brought their salad and when he had left she said, “Struan’s are famous in Japan too.”
“Not really.”
“Oh yes. We remember Prince Yoshi.”
“Ah. I didn’t know you knew.”
In 1854 when Perry forced the Shōgun Yoshimitsu Toranaga to open up Japan to trade, the Hag had sailed north from Hong Kong, her father and enemy, Tyler Brock, in pursuit. Thanks to her, Struan’s was the first into Japan, first to buy land for a trading post and the first outsider to trade. Over the years and many voyages, she made Japan a cornerstone of Struan policy.
During the early years she met a young prince, Prince Yoshi, a relation of the Emperor and cousin to the Shogun—without whose permission nothing happened in Japan. At her suggestion and with her help, this prince went to England on a Struan clipper to learn about the might of the British Empire. When he returned home a few years later, it was in another Struan ship, and that year some of the feudal barons—daimyo—hating the incursion of foreigners, revolted against the Shogun whose family, the Toranaga, had exclusively ruled Japan for two and a half centuries in an unbroken line back to the great general Yoshi Toranaga. The revolt of the daimyo succeeded and power was restored to the Emperor but the land was riven. “Without Prin
ce Yoshi, who became one of the Emperor’s chief ministers,” she said, unconsciously turning to English, “Japan would still be trembling and torn apart in civil war.”
“Why so?” he asked, wanting to keep her talking, her lilting accent pleasing him.
“Without his help, the Emperor could not have succeeded, could not have abolished the Shōgunate, abolished feudal law, the daimyo, the whole samurai class, and forced them to accept a modern constitution. It was Prince Yoshi who negotiated a peace among the daimyo, and then invited English experts to Japan to build our navy, our banks and our civil service, and help us into the modern world.” A small shadow went across her face. “My father told me much about those times, tai-pan, not yet a hundred years ago. Transition from samurai rule to democracy was often bloody. But the Emperor had decreed an ending so there was an ending and all the daimyo and samurai dragged themselves painfully into a new life.” She toyed with her glass, watching the bubbles. “The Toda were Lords of Izu and Sagami where Yokohama is. For centuries they had had shipyards. It was easy for them and their allies, the Kasigi, to come into this modern age. For us …” She stopped. “Oh, but you already know this, so sorry.”
“Only about Prince Yoshi. What happened to your family?”
“My great-grandfather became a very minor member of Prince Yoshi’s staff, as a civil servant. He was sent to Nagasaki where my family have lived since. He found it difficult not to wear the two swords. My grandfather was also a civil servant, like my father, but only very tiny.” She looked up and smiled at him. “The wine is too good. It makes my tongue run away.”
“No, not at all,” he said, then conscious of the eyes watching them, he added in Japanese, “Let us talk Japanese for a while.”
“It is my honor, tai-pan-san.”
Later, over coffee, he said, “Where should I deposit the money owing to you, Riko-san?”
“If you could give me a cashier’s check or bank draft”—she used the English words for there was no Japanese equivalent—“before I leave that would be perfect.”
“On Monday morning I will have it sent to you. There’s £10,625, and a further £8,500 payable in January, and the same the following year,” he told her, knowing her good manners would not permit her to ask outright. He saw the flash of relief and was glad he had decided to give her two extra years of salary—AMG’s information about oil alone was more than worth it. “Would eleven o’clock be convenient for the ‘sight draft’?” Again Dunross used the English word.
“Whatever pleases you. I do not wish to put you to any trouble.”
Dunross noticed how she was speaking slowly and distinctly to help him. “What will be your travel plans?”
“On Monday I think I will go to Japan, then … then I don’t know. Perhaps back to Switzerland though I have no real reason to return. I have no relations there, the house was a rented house and the garden not mine. My Gresserhoff life ended with his death. Now I think I should be Riko Anjin again. Karma is karma.”
“Yes,” he told her, “karma is karma.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a gift-wrapped package. “This is a present from the Noble House to thank you for taking so much trouble and such a tiring trip on our behalf.”
“Oh. Oh thank you, but it was my honor and pleasure.” She bowed. “Thank you. May I open it now?”
“Perhaps later. It is just a simple jade pendant but the box also contains a confidential envelope that your husband wanted you to have, for your eyes only and not for the eyes that surround us.”
“Ah. I understand. Of course.” She bowed again. “So sorry, please excuse my stupidity.”
Dunross smiled back at her. “No stupidity, never, only beauty.”
Color came into her face and she sipped coffee to cover. “The envelope is sealed, tai-pan-san?”
“Yes, as he instructed. Do you know what’s in it?”
“No. Only that … only that Mr. Gresserhoff said that you would give me a sealed envelope.”
“Did he say why? Or what you were supposed to do with it?”
“One day someone would come to claim it.”
“By name?”
“Yes, but my husband told me I was never to divulge the name, not even to you. Never. Everything else I could tell you but not the … the name. So sorry, please excuse me.”
Dunross frowned. “You’re just to give it to him?”
“Or her,” she said pleasantly. “Yes, when I am asked, not before. After it has been digested, Mr. Gresserhoff said the person would repay a debt. Thank you for the gift, tai-pan-san. I will cherish it.”
The waiter came and poured the last of the champagne for him then went away again. “How do I reach you in the future, Riko-san?”
“I will give you three addresses and phone numbers that will find me, one in Switzerland, two in Japan.”
After a pause he said, “Will you be in Japan the week after next?”
Riko looked up at him and his spirit twisted at such beauty. “Yes. If you wish it,” she said.
“I wish it.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
2:30 P.M.:
The Sea Witch was tied just offshore beside Sha Tin boat harbor where they had moored for lunch. As soon as they had arrived, the cook, Casey and Peter Marlowe, had gone ashore with Gornt in command to select the prawns and shrimps and fish that were still swimming in sea tanks, then on to the bustling market for morning-fresh vegetables. Lunch had been quick-fried prawns with crunchy broccoli, then fish rubbed with garlic and pan-fried, served with mixed Chinese greens, again al dente.
The lunch had been laughter filled, the Chinese girls entertaining and happy, all of them speaking varying degrees of salty English, Dunstan Barre choleric and outrageously funny, the others joining in, and Casey thought how different the men were. How much more unrestrained and boyish, and she thought that sad. The talk had turned to business, and in the few short hours she had learned more about Hong Kong techniques than through all the reading she had done. More and more it was clear that unless you were on the inside, real power and real riches would escape you.
“Oh, you’ll do very well here, Casey, you and Bartlett,” Barre had said. “If you play the game according to Hong Kong rules, Hong Kong tax structures and not U.S. rules, right, Quillan?”
“Up to a point. If you go with Dunross and Struan’s—if Struan’s and Dunross exist as an entity by next Friday—you’ll get some milk but none of the cream.”
“With you we’ll do better?” she had asked.
Barre had laughed. “Very much better, Casey, but it’ll still be milk and very little cream!”
“Let’s say, Casey, with us the milk’ll be homogenized,” Gornt had said amiably.
Now the wonderful smell of freshly roasted coffee, freshly ground, was wafting up from the galley. Conversation was general around the table, banter back and forth, mostly for her benefit, about trading in Asia, supply and demand and the Asian attitude to smuggling, the Chinese girls chattering among themselves.
Abruptly, Grey’s voice, a biting rasp to it, cut through. “You’d better ask Marlowe about that, Mr. Gornt. He knows everything about smuggling and blackmailing from our Changi days.”
“Come on, Grey,” Peter Marlowe said in the sudden silence. “Give over!”
“I thought you were proud of it, you and your Yankee blackmailer mate. Weren’t you?”
“Let’s leave it, Grey,” Marlowe said, his face set.
“Whatever you say, old lad.” Grey turned to Casey. “Ask him.”
Gornt said, “This is hardly the time to rehash old quarrels, Mr. Grey.” He kept his voice calm and the enjoyment off his face, outwardly the perfect host.
“Oh, I wasn’t, Mr. Gornt. You were talking about smuggling and black marketeering. Marlowe’s an expert, that’s all.”
“Shall we have coffee on deck?” Gornt got up.
“Good idea. A cuppa coffee’s ever so good after grub.” Grey used the word deliberately, knowing it would of
fend them, not caring now, suddenly tired of the banter, hating them and what they represented, hating being the odd man out here, wanting one of the girls, any one. “Marlowe and his Yankee friend used to roast beans in the camp when the rest of us were starving,” he said, his face stark. “Used to drive us mad.” He looked at Peter Marlowe, his hate open now. “Didn’t you?”
After a pause, Peter Marlowe said, “Everyone had coffee some of the time. Everyone roasted coffee beans.”
“Not like you two.” Grey turned to Casey. “They had coffee every day, him and his Yankee friend. Me, I was provost marshal and I had it once a month if I was lucky.” He glanced back. “How did you get coffee and food while the rest of us starved?”
Casey noticed the vein in Peter Marlowe’s forehead knotting and she realized, aghast, that no answer was also an answer. “Robin …” she began, but Grey overrode her, his voice taunting.
“Why don’t you answer, Marlowe?”
In the silence they all looked from Grey to Peter Marlowe, staring at each other, even the girls tense and on guard, feeling the sudden violence in the cabin.
“My dear fellow,” Gornt interrupted, deliberately using that slight nuance of accent he knew would goad Grey, “surely those are ancient times and rather unimportant now. It is Sunday afternoon and we’re all friends.”
“I think ’em rather important, Sunday afternoon or not and Marlowe and I aren’t friends, never have been! He’s a toff, I’m not.” Grey aped the long a he loathed and broadened his accent. “Yes. But the war changed everything and us workers’ll never forget!”
“You consider yourself a worker and me not?” Peter Marlowe asked, his voice grating.
“We’re the exploited, you’re the exploiters. Like in Changi.”
“Get off that old broken record, Grey! Changi was another world, another place and another time—”
“It was the same as everywhere. There was bosses and the bossed, workers and them that fed off the workers. Like you and the King.”
“Stuff and nonsense!”
Casey was near to Grey and she reached out and took his arm. “Let’s have coffee, okay?”
“Of course,” Grey said. “But first ask him, Casey.” Grimly Grey stood his ground, well aware he had, at long last, brought his enemy to bay in front of his peers. “Mr. Gornt, ask him, eh? Any of you …”
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