Noble House

by James Clavell

  “You’re sure?” Suslev asked, needing reassurance.

  “Yes. Oh yes, Dunross will do very nicely thank you. He’s the decoy. I’ll need all the help I can get. You’re going to shop Arthur. Aren’t you?”

  Suslev saw the eyes boring into him and his heart almost stopped but he kept his shock off his face. Just. “I’m glad Sinders told you about our meeting. That saves me the trouble. How can I get out of his trap?”

  “How’re you going to avoid it?”

  “I don’t know, Roger. Will Sinders do what he threatened?”

  Crosse snapped, “Come on, for God’s sake! Wouldn’t you?”

  “What can I do?”

  “It’s your neck or Arthur’s. If it’s Arthur’s, then the next neck could be mine.” There was a long, violent pause and Suslev felt the hair on the nape of his neck twist. “So long as it’s not mine—and I know what’s going on in advance—I don’t care.”

  Suslev looked back at him. “You want a drink?”

  “You know I don’t drink.”

  “I meant water—or soda.” The big man went to the refrigerator and took out the vodka bottle and drank from the bottle. “I’m glad Sinders told you.”

  “For chrissake, Gregor, where’ve your brains gone? Of course he didn’t tell me—the fool still thinks it was a secret, private deal, just you and him, of course he does! Good sweet Christ, this’s my bailiwick! I maneuvered him into a room that I’d bugged. Am I a simpleton?” The eyes hardened even more and Suslev felt his chest tighten unbearably. “So it’s a simple choice, Gregor. It’s you or Arthur. If you shop him I’m in danger and so’s everyone else. If you don’t concede to Sinders you’re finished. Of the two choices I’d prefer you dead—and me, Arthur and Sevrin safe.”

  “The best solution’s that I betray Arthur,” Suslev said. “But that before they catch him he flees. He can come aboard the Ivanov. Eh?”

  “Sinders’ll be ahead of you and he’ll stop you in Hong Kong waters.”

  “That’s possible. Not probable. I’d resist a boarding at sea.” Suslev watched him, the bile in his mouth. “It’s that or Arthur commits suicide—or is eliminated.”

  Crosse stared at him. “You must be joking! You want me to send Jason into the Great Hereafter?”

  “You said yourself, it’s someone’s neck. Listen, at the moment we’re just examining possibilities. But it’s a fact you’re not expendable. Arthur is. The others. I am,” Suslev said, meaning it. “So whatever happens it mustn’t be you—and preferably not me. I never did like the idea of dying.” He took another swig of the vodka and felt the lovely, stomach-warming sensation, then turned his eyes back on his ally. “You are an ally, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Oh yes. So long as the money keeps up and I enjoy the game.”

  “If you believed, you would live a longer and better life, tovarich.”

  “The only thing that keeps me alive is that I don’t. You and your KGB friends can try and take over the world, infiltrate capitalism and any other ism you like, for whatever purpose you admit, or enjoy, and meanwhile, I shall jolly you along.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s an old English expression that means to help,” Crosse said dryly. “So you’re going to shop Arthur?”

  “I don’t know. Could you lay a false trail to the airport to give us time to escape Hong Kong waters?”

  “Yes, but Sinders has already doubled surveillance there.”

  “What about Macao?”

  “I could do that. I don’t like it. What about the others of Sevrin?”

  “Let them burrow deeper, we close everything down. You take over Sevrin and we activate again once the storm subsides. Could deVille become tai-pan after Dunross?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’ll be Gavallan. Incidentally, two more Werewolf victims were discovered out at Sha Tin this morning.”

  Suslev’s hope quickened and some of his dread left him. “What happened?”

  Crosse told him how they were found. “We’re still trying to identify the poor buggers. Gregor, shopping Arthur’s dicey, whatever happens. It might spill back to me. Perhaps with the stock market crashing, the banks all messed up and Dunross vanishing, it might be cover enough. It might.”

  Suslev nodded. His nausea increased. The decision had to be made. “Roger, I’m going to do nothing. I’m just going to leave and take the chance. I’ll, I’ll make a private report to forestall Sinders and tell Center what happened. Whatever Sinders does, well, that’s up to the future. I’ve got friends in high places too. Perhaps the Hong Kong disaster and having Dunross—I’ll do the chemical debrief myself anyway, just in case he’s cheating us and is as clever as you say he is … what is it?”

  “Nothing. What about Koronski?”

  “He left this morning after I got all the chemicals. I rescheduled the debrief to be on the Ivanov, not ashore. Why?”

  “Nothing. Go on.”

  “Perhaps the Hong Kong debacle’ll placate my superiors.” Now that Suslev had made the decision he felt a little better. “Send an urgent report to Center through the usual channels to Berlin. Get Arthur to do the same by radio tonight. Make the report very pro-me, eh? Blame the Metkin affair on the CIA here, the carrier leak, Voranski. Eh? Blame the CIA and the Kuomintang.”

  “Certainly. For a double fee. By the way, Gregor, if I were you I’d clean my prints off that bottle.”

  “Eh?”

  Sardonically Crosse told him about Rosemont filching the glass in the raid and how, months ago, to protect Suslev he had extracted his prints from his dossier.

  The Russian was white. “The CIA have my prints on file?”

  “Only if they’ve a better dossier than ours. I doubt that.”

  “Roger, I expect you to cover my back.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll make the report so lily-white they’ll promote you. In return you recommend my bonus’s 100,000 dol—”

  “That’s too much!”

  “That’s the fee! I’m getting you out of one helluva mess.” The mouth smiled, the eyes did not. “It’s fortunate we’re professionals. Isn’t it?”

  “I’ll—I’ll try.”

  “Good. Wait here. Clinker’s phone’s bugged. I’ll phone from Jason’s flat the moment I know about Dunross.” Crosse put out his hand. “Good luck, I’ll do what I can with Sinders.”

  “Thanks.” Suslev gave him a bear hug. “Good luck to you too, Roger. Don’t fail me on Dunross.”

  “We won’t fail.”

  “And keep up the good work, eh?”

  “Tell your friends to keep up the money. Eh?”

  “Yes.” Suslev closed the door behind Crosse, then wiped the palms of his hands on his trousers and took out the roll of film. Quietly he cursed it and Dunross and Hong Kong and Sinders, the specter of the KGB questioning him about Metkin swamping him. Somehow I’ve got to avoid that, he told himself, the cold sweat running down his back. Perhaps I should shop Arthur after all. How to do it, and keep Roger in the clear? There must be a way.

  Outside on the landing, Roger Crosse got into the elevator and pressed the ground-floor button. Alone now he leaned exhaustedly against the rickety walls and shook his head to try to get the fear out. “Stop it!” he muttered. With an effort he dominated himself and lit a cigarette, noticing his fingers were trembling. If that bugger chemical debriefs Dunross, he told himself, I’m up the creek. And I’ll bet fifty dollars to a pile of dung Suslev still hasn’t ruled out the possibility of shopping Plumm. And if he does that, Christ my whole pack of cards can come tumbling down about my ears. One mistake, one tiny slip and I’m finished.

  The elevator stopped. Some Chinese got in noisily but he did not notice them.

  On the ground floor, Rosemont was waiting.

  “And?”

  “Nothing, Stanley.”

  “You and your hunches, Rog.”

  “You never know, Stanley, there might have been something,” Crosse said, trying to get his mind workin
g. He had invented the hunch and invited Rosemont along—to wait below—the ruse just to throw off Rosemont’s CIA men he knew were still watching the foyer.

  “You all right, Rog?”

  “Oh yes. Yes, thanks. Why?”

  Rosemont shrugged. “You want a coffee or a beer?” They walked out into the night. Rosemont’s car was waiting outside.

  “No thanks. I’m going there.” Crosse pointed to Rose Court, the high-rise that loomed over them on the road above. “It’s a cocktail party obligation.” He felt his fear welling again. What the hell do I do now?

  “What’s up, Rog?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Rose Court, huh? Maybe I should get me an apartment there. Rosemont of Rose Court.”

  “Yes.” Crosse mustered his strength. “Do you want to come down to the dock to see the Ivanov off?”

  “Sure, why not? I’m glad you sent that mother packing.” Rosemont stifled a yawn. “We broke that computer bastard tonight. Seems he had all sorts of secrets stacked away.”

  “What?”

  “Bits and pieces about the Corregidor, her top speed, where her nukes come from, their arming codes, things like that. I’ll give you a rundown tonight. You pick me up at midnight, okay?”

  “Yes, yes all right.” Crosse turned and hurried off. Rosemont frowned after him, then looked up at Rose Court. Lights blazed from all of the twelve floors. Again the American put his eyes back on Crosse, a small figure now in the dark as he turned the corner, climbing the steep curling roadway.

  What’s with Rog? he asked himself thoughtfully. Something’s wrong.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  8:10 P.M.:

  Roger Crosse got out of the elevator on the fifth floor, his face taut, and went through the open door into the Asian Properties apartment. The large room was crowded and noisy. He stood at the doorway, his eyes ranging the guests, seeking Plumm or Dunross. At once he noticed that there was little happiness here, an air of gloom over most of the guests, and this added to his disquiet. Few wives were present—the few that were stood uneasily grouped together at the far end. Everywhere conversation was heated about the coming debacle of the stock market crash and bank runs.

  “Oh come on for chrissake, it’s all very well for the Victoria to announce a multimillion takeover of the Ho-Pak but where’s the cash to keep us all afloat?”

  “It was a merger, not a takeover, Dunstan,” Richard Kwang began, “the Ho-Pak’s n—”

  Barre’s face was suddenly choleric. “For chrissake, Richard, we’re all friends here and we all know there’s more in it than a bail-out, for God’s sake. Are we children? My point,” Barre said, raising his voice louder to drown Richard Kwang and Johnjohn out, “my point, old boy, is that merger or not, we the businessmen of Hong Kong, can’t stay afloat if all you bloody banks have stupidly run out of cash. Eh?”

  “It’s not our fault, for God’s sake,” Johnjohn rapped. “It’s just a temporary loss of confidence.”

  “Bloody mismanagement if you ask me,” Barre replied sourly to general agreement, then noticed Crosse trying to pass. “Oh, oh hello, Roger!” he said with a pasty smile.

  Roger Crosse saw the immediate caution that was normal whenever he caught anyone unawares. “Is Ian here?”

  “No. No, not yet,” Johnjohn said and Crosse exhaled, wet with relief. “You’re sure?”

  “Oh yes. Soon as he arrives I’m leaving,” Dunstan said sourly. “Bloody banks! If it wasn’t—”

  Johnjohn interrupted, “What about those bloody Werewolves, Roger?” The discovery of the two bodies had been the lead item of Radio Hong Kong and all Chinese newspapers—there being no afternoon English Sunday papers.

  “I know nothing more than you do,” Crosse told them. “We’re still trying to identify the victims.” His eyes zeroed in on Richard Kwang, who quailed. “You don’t know of any sons or nephews, missing or kidnapped, do you, Richard?”

  “No, no sorry, Roger, no.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’d better see our host.” Crosse pushed his way through the crush. “Hello, Christian,” he said, easing past the tall, thin editor of the Guardian. He saw the desolation the man desperately tried to hide. “Sorry about your wife.”

  “Joss,” Christian Toxe said, attempting to sound calm, and stood in his way. “Joss, Roger. She, well, she’d … life has to go on, doesn’t it?” His forced smile was almost grotesque. “The Guardian has to do its work, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I have a word later?”

  “Certainly—off the record, as always?”

  “Of course.”

  He went on, passing Pugmire and Sir Luis deep in conversation about the General Stores-Struan takeover and noticed Casey in the center of a group on the wide balcony overlooking the harbor, deVille among them, Gornt also part of the group, looking benign, which Crosse found strange. “Hello, Jason,” he said coming up behind Plumm who was talking with Joseph Stern and Phillip Chen. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  “Oh. Oh hello, Roger. Glad you could come.”

  “Evening,” he said to the others. “Jason, where’s your guest of honor?”

  “Ian phoned to say he’d been delayed but was on his way. He’ll be here any moment.” Plumm’s tension was evident. “The, er, the champagne’s ready, and my little speech. Everything’s ready,” he said, watching him. “Come along, Roger, let me get you a drink. It’s Perrier, isn’t it? I’ve got some on ice.”

  Crosse followed him, equally glad for the opportunity to talk privately but just as they reached the kitchen door there was a momentary hush. Dunross was at the door with Riko, Gavallan beside them. All three were beaming.

  “Listen, Jason, I—” Crosse stopped. Plumm had already turned back to the bar and if he hadn’t been watching very carefully he would never have seen Plumm’s left hand deftly break the tiny vial over one of the filled champagne glasses, then palm the shreds back into his pocket, pick up the tray with four glasses on it and head for the door. Fascinated, he watched Plumm come up to Dunross and offer the champagne.

  Dunross let Riko take a glass, then Gavallan. Without any apparent prompting Dunross took the doctored glass. Plumm took the last, giving the tray to an embarrassed waiter. “Welcome, Ian, and congratulations on the coup,” Plumm said, casually toasting him, not making a big thing of it. Those nearby politely followed suit. Dunross of course did not drink his own toast.

  “Now, perhaps you should toast Richard Kwang and Johnjohn and their merger?” Plumm said, his voice sounding strange.

  “Why not?” Dunross replied with a laugh and glanced across the room at Johnjohn. “Bruce,” he called out, raising his glass, and there was a small hole in the general level of noise. “Here’s to the Victoria!” His voice picked up power and cut through neatly. Others glanced over and stopped in mid-sentence. “Perhaps everyone should share the toast. I’ve just heard the Bank of China’s agreed to lend you and the other banks half a billion in cash in good time for Monday’s opening.”

  There was a sudden vast silence. Those on the balcony came into the room, Gornt to the fore. “What?”

  “I’ve just heard the Bank of China’s lending Hong Kong—lending the Vic to lend to other banks—half a billion in cash and as much more as you want. All bank runs’re over!” Dunross raised his glass. “To the Victoria!”

  As pandemonium broke out and everyone started asking questions, Crosse got his feet into motion and the moment before Dunross could drink, appeared to stumble and collided with him, knocking the glass out of his hand. It shattered as it hit the parquet flooring. “Oh Christ, I’m sorry,” he said apologetically.

  Plumm stared at him appalled. “For chrissa—”

  “Ah, Jason, I’m so sorry,” Crosse overrode him, adding more quickly as a waiter hastily retrieved the pieces, “Perhaps you’d get Ian another glass.”

  “Er, yes, but…” Numbly Plumm went to obey but stopped as Riko said, “Oh, here, tai-pan, please to take mine.” Then John
john shouted over the uproar, “Quiet, quiet a moment!” and pushed over to Dunross. “Ian,” he said in the utter silence, “You’re sure? Sure about the cash?”

  “Oh yes,” Dunross replied leisurely, sipping Riko’s drink, enjoying the moment. “Tiptop called me personally. It’ll be on the nine o’clock news.”

  There was a sudden great cheer and more questions and answers and Dunross saw Gornt staring at him from across the room. His smile hardened and he raised his glass, paying no attention to the barrage of questions. “Your health, Quillan!” he called out, mocking him. Quickly conversation died again. Everyone’s attention zeroed on them.

  Gornt toasted him back, equally mocking. “Your health, Ian. We’ve really got China’s money?”

  “Yes, and by the way, I’ve just arranged a new revolving fund of 50 million U.S. Now the Noble House’s the soundest hong in the Colony.”

  “Secured by what?” Gornt’s voice slashed through the abrupt silence.

  “The honor of the Noble House!” With a nonchalance he did not feel, Dunross turned on Johnjohn. “The loan’s from the Royal Belgium, a subsidiary of First Central of New York and backed by them.” Deliberately he did not look back at Gornt as he repeated, enjoying greatly the sound, “50 million U.S. Oh by the way, Bruce, tomorrow I’m retiring your loans on both my ships. I no longer need the Vic loan—Royal Belgium’s given me better terms.”

  Johnjohn just stared at him.

  “You’re joking!”

  “No. I’ve just talked to Paul.” Momentarily Dunross glanced at Plumm. “Sorry, Jason, that was why I was late. Naturally I had to see him. Bruce, old fellow, Paul’s already down at the bank making arrangements for the transfer of China’s cash in time for opening—he asked if you’d go there, at once.”

  “Eh?”

  “At once. Sorry.”

  Johnjohn stared at him blankly, started to talk, stopped, then erupted with a cheer that everyone took up, and rushed out, cheers following him.