Noble House

by James Clavell

  The landslide had taken seven seconds.

  When Rose Court was struck, it appeared to shudder, and then the building came away from its foundations and moved forward in the direction of the harbor, toppled over and broke up near the middle like a man kneeling then falling.

  As it fell, the upper stories struck and ripped off a corner of the upper stories of Sinclair Towers below, then crumpled and disintegrated into rubble. Part of the slide and the demolished building continued on and fell into a construction site farther down the mountain, then stopped. The lights went out as the building collapsed in a cloud of dust. And now over all Mid Levels there was a stunned, vast silence.

  Then the screams began….

  In the tunnel under Sinclair Road, Suslev was choking, half-buried in rubble. Part of the tunnel roof was torn off, water gushing in now from fractured mains and drains, the tunnel filling rapidly. He scrambled and fought up into the open, his confused mind helpless, not knowing what was happening, what had happened, only that somehow he must have been captured and drugged and now he was in a wake-sleep nightmare from the Red Room. He looked around, panic-stricken. All buildings were dark, power gone, a monstrous pile of shrieking, shifting wreckage surrounding him. Then his glands overpowered him and he fled pell-mell down Sinclair Road….

  Far above on Kotewall Road, those on the other side of the barrage were safe though paralyzed with shock. The few still on their feet, Casey among them, could not believe what they had witnessed. The vast slide had torn away all of the roadway as far as they could see. Most of the mountainside that a moment ago was terraced was now an undulating, ugly mud-earth-rock slope—roads vanished, buildings gone, and Dunross and his party carried away somewhere down the slope.

  Casey tried to scream but she had no voice. Then, “Oh Jesus Christ! Linc!” tore from her mouth and her feet moved and before she knew what was happening she was scrambling, falling, groping her way toward the wreckage. The darkness was awful now, the screams awful, voices beginning, shouts for help from everywhere, the unbelievable twisted pile of debris still moving here and there, bits still falling and being crushed. All at once the night was lit by power lines exploding, sending cascades of fireballs into the air among the wreckage.

  Frantically she rushed to where the foyer once had been. Extended below, far below, the darkness obscuring almost everything, was the twisted mass of rubble, concrete blocks, girders, shoes, toys, pots pans sofas chairs beds radios TVs clothes limbs books, three cars that had been parked outside, and more screams. Then in the light of the exploding power lines she saw the mashed wreckage that was once the elevator down the slope, broken arms and legs jutting from its carcass.

  “Linc!” she shrieked at the top of her voice, again and again, not knowing she was crying, the tears streaming down her face. But there was no answer. Desperately she clambered and half fell and groped her way into and over the dangerous rubble. Around her, men and women were shouting, screaming. Then she heard a faint wail of terror nearby and part of the rubble moved. She was on her knees now, stockings torn, dress torn, knees bruised and she pulled away some bricks and found a small cavity, and there was a Chinese child of three or four, beyond terror, coughing, almost choking, trapped under a vast, groaning pile of debris in the rubble dust.

  “Oh Jesus you poor darling.” Casey looked around frantically but there was no one to help. Part of the rubble shifted, screaming and groaning, a big chunk of concrete with its imbedded, reinforcing iron almost hanging loose. Careless of her safety, Casey fought the debris away, fingers bleeding. Again the wreckage twisted over her as some of it slid farther down the slope. Desperately she clawed a crawlspace and grabbed the child’s arm, helping her to squeeze out, then caught her in her arms and darted back to safety as this part of the wreckage collapsed and she stood alone, the trembling child safe and unhurt in her arms, clutching her tightly….

  When the avalanche toppled the high-rise and tore up most of the roadway and parapet, Dunross and the others on its edge were hurtled down the steep slope, head over heels, brush and vegetation breaking part of their fall. The tai-pan picked himself up in the semidarkness, felt himself blankly, dazed, astonished to find he could stand and was unhurt. From near him came whimpers of agony. The slope was steep and everywhere muddy and sodden as he groped up to Dianne Chen. She was semiconscious, groaning, one leg twisted brutally underneath her. Part of her shinbone jutted through the skin but as far as he could see, no arteries were severed and there was no dangerous bleeding. As carefully as he could he straightened her and her limb, but she let out a howl of pain and fainted. He felt someone nearby and glanced up. Riko was standing there, her dress ripped, her shoes gone, her hair akimbo, a small trickle of blood from her nose.

  “Christ, you all right?”

  “Yes … yes,” she said shakily. “It’s … was it an earthquake?” At that moment there was another crackling explosion of power cables short-circuiting, and momentarily fireballs lit up the area. “Oh my God!” he gasped. “It’s like London in the blitz.” Then he caught sight of Phillip Chen in an inert heap around a sapling, sprawled headfirst down the slope. “Stay here with Dianne,” he ordered and scrambled down the slope. Hanging onto his dread, he turned Phillip over. His compradore was still breathing. Dunross shook with relief. He settled him as best he could and looked around in the gloom. Others were picking themselves up. Nearby, Christian Toxe was shaking his head, trying to clear it.

  “Bloody sodding Christ,” he was muttering over and over. “There must be a couple of hundred people living there.” He reeled to his feet then slipped in the mud and cursed again. “I’ve … I’ve got to get to a phone. Give me, give me a hand will you?” Toxe swore as he slipped again. “It’s my ankle, the bloody thing’s twisted a bit.”

  Dunross helped him stand and then, with Riko on Toxe’s other side, they climbed awkwardly back to the remains of the roadway. People were still standing paralyzed, others clambering over the first slide to see if they could help, a few of the tenants frantic and moaning. One mother was being held back, her husband already running falling clambering toward the wreckage, their three children and amah somewhere there.

  The moment they were on level ground, Toxe hobbled off down Kotewall Road and Dunross rushed for his car to fetch his flashlight and emergency medical pack.

  Lim was nowhere to be seen. Then Dunross remembered his chauffeur had been with them when the avalanche hit. As he found the keys to unlock the trunk he searched his memory. Who was with us? Toxe, Riko, Jacques—no, Jacques had left—Phillip and Dianne Chen, Barre … no we left Barre at the party. Jesus Christ! The party! I’d forgotten the party! Who was still there? Richard Kwang and his wife, Plumm, Johnjohn, no he’d gone earlier, Roger Crosse, no wait a minute, didn’t he leave?

  Dunross jerked open the trunk and found two flashlights and the medical kit, a length of rope. He ran back to Riko, his back hurting him now. “Will you go back and look after Dianne and Phillip till I can get help?” His voice was deliberately firm. “Here.” He gave her a flashlight, some bandages and a bottle of aspirin. “Off you go. Dianne’s broken her leg. I don’t know about Phillip. Do what you can and stay with them till an ambulance comes or I come back. All right?”

  “Yes, yes, all right.” Her eyes flickered with fear as she looked above. “Will there … is there any danger from another slide?”

  “No. You’ll be quite safe. Go quickly!” His will took away her fear and she started down the slope with the flashlight, picking her way carefully. It was only then he noticed that she was barefoot. Then he remembered Dianne had been barefoot too and Phillip. He stretched to ease his back. His clothes were ripped, but he paid them no attention and rushed for the barrier. In the distance he heard police sirens. His relief became almost nauseating as he broke into a run.

  Then he noticed Orlanda at the head of the line of cars. She was staring fixedly at where Rose Court had been, her mouth moving, tiny spasms trembling her face and body, and he r
emembered the night of the fire when she had been equally petrified and near snapping. Quickly he went to her and shook her hard, hoping to jerk her out of the panic breakdown that he had witnessed so many times during the war. “Orlanda!”

  She came out of her almost trance. “Oh … oh … what, what…”

  Greatly relieved, he saw her eyes were normal now and the agony normal, the spilling tears normal. “You’re all right. Nothing to worry about. Get hold now, you’re all right, Orlanda!” he said, his voice kind though very firm, and leaned her against the hood of a car and left her.

  Her eyes focused. “Oh my God! Linc!” Then she shrieked after him through her tears, “Linc … Linc’s there!”

  He jerked to a stop, turned back. “Where? Where was he?”

  “He’s … in my, my apartment. It’s on the eighth floor … it’s on the eighth floor!”

  Dunross ran off again, his flashlight the only moving speck of light on the morass.

  Here and there people were groping blindly, ankle-deep in the soaking earth, their hands cupped around matches, heading for the ruins. As he came nearer the catastrophe, his heart twisted. He could smell gas. Every second the smell became stronger.

  “Put out the matches, for chrissake!” he roared. “You’ll blow us all to helllll!”

  Then he saw Casey …

  The police car following the fire truck roared up the hill, sirens howling, the traffic heavy here and no one getting out of the way. Inside the car Armstrong was monitoring the radio calls: “All police units and fire trucks converge on Kotewall Road. Emergency, emergency emergency! There’s a new landslip in the vicinity of Po Shan and Sinclair Road! Callers say Rose Court and two other twelve-story buildings’ve collapsed.”

  “Bloody ridiculous!” Armstrong muttered, then, “Watch out for chrissake!” he shouted at the driver who had cut across the road to the wrong side, narrowly missing a truck. “Turn right here, then cut up Castle into Robinson and into Sinclair that way,” he ordered. He had been going home from another rebuild session with Brian Kwok, his head aching and exhausted, when he had heard the emergency call. Remembering that Crosse lived on Sinclair Road and that he’d said he would be going to Jason Plumm’s party after he’d followed a lead with Rosemont, he had decided to check it out. Christ, he thought grimly, if he’s been clobbered who’ll take over SI? And do we still let Brian go or hold him or what?

  A new voice came on, firm, unhurried, the static on the radio heavy. “This is Deputy Fire Chief Soames. Emergency One!” Armstrong and the driver gasped. “I’m at the junction of Sinclair, Robinson and Kotewall Road where I have set up a command post. Emergency One repeat One! Inform the commissioner and the governor at once, this is a disaster of very great proportions. Inform all hospitals on the Island to be on standby. Order every ambulance and all paramedics to the area. We will require immediate and heavy army assistance. All power is out so we require generators, cables and lights….”

  “Jesus Christ,” Armstrong muttered. Then sharply, “Get the lead out for chrissake, and hurry it up!”

  The police car increased speed….

  “Oh, Ian,” Casey said beyond tears, the petrified child still in her arms. “Linc’s somewhere down there.”

  “Yes, yes I know,” he said above the insane bedlam of screams and cries for help that came through the ominous grinding of the wreckage as it still settled. People wandered around blindly, not knowing where to look, where to start, how to help. “You all right?”

  “Oh yes but … but Linc. I don—” She stopped. Just ahead, down the slope near the remains of the elevator, a vast pile of twisted beams and shattered fragments of concrete subsided deafeningly, starting a chain reaction all down the slope and as he focused his flashlight on it they saw a loosened mass of debris smash against the elevator, claw it loose and send it reeling, leaving bodies in its wake.

  “Oh Jesus,” she whimpered. The child clutched her in panic.

  “Go back to the car, you’ll be saf—” At that moment a man crazed with anxiety rushed up to them, peered at the child in her arms, then grabbed her, clutching her to him, mumbling his thanks to God and to her. “Where, where did you find her?”

  Casey pointed numbly.

  The man peered at the spot blankly then went off into the night, weeping openly with relief.

  “Stay here, Casey,” Dunross said urgently, sirens approaching from every direction. “I’ll take a quick look.”

  “Do be careful. Jesus, do you smell gas?”

  “Yes, lots of it.” Using the flashlight he began to thread his way over and under and through the wreckage, slipping and sliding. It was treacherous, the whole mass uneasy and creaking. The first crumpled body was a Chinese woman he did not know. Ten yards below was a European man, his head mashed and almost obliterated. Quickly he scoured the way ahead with his light but could not see Bartlett among the other dead. Farther below were two broken bodies, both Chinese. Swallowing his nausea, he worked his way under a dangerous overhang toward the European, then, holding the flashlight carefully, reached into the dead man’s pockets. The driver’s license said: Richard Pugmire.

  “Christ!” Dunross muttered. The smell of gas was heavy. His stomach turned over as, far below, more power lines gushed sparks. We’ll all go to kingdom come if those bloody sparks reach up here, he thought. Carefully he eased out of the debris and stood at his full height, breathing easier now. A last look at Pugmire’s body and he started down the slope again. A few steps later he heard a faint moan. It took a little time to find the source but he centered on it and climbed down, his heart beating heavily. With great care he squirmed into the depths under a monstrous overhang of beams and rubble. His fingers took hold. Using all his strength he tilted the broken concrete and shoved it aside. A man’s head was below. “Help,” Clinker said weakly. “God love you, mate….”

  “Hang on a second.” Dunross could see the man was wedged down by a huge rafter but the rafter was also keeping the debris above from crushing him. With the flashlight he searched until he found a broken piece of pipe. With this as a lever he tried to raise the rafter. A pyramid of rubble shifted ominously. “Can you move?” he gasped.

  “It’s … it’s me legs, I hurt proper bad, but I can try.” Clinker reached out and gripped an imbedded piece of iron. “Ready when you are.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Clinker, Ernie Clinker. Wot’s yorn?”

  “Dunross. Ian Dunross.”

  “Oh!” Clinker moved his head painfully and peered upward, his face and head bleeding, hair matted and lips raw. “Thanks, tai-pan,” he said. “Ready, ready when you are.”

  Dunross put his weight and strength onto his makeshift lever. The beam raised an inch. Clinker squirmed but could not dislodge himself. “Bit more, mate,” he gasped, in great pain. Again Dunross bore down. He felt the sinews of his arms and legs cry out under the strain. The beam came up a fraction. A trickle of rubble cascaded into the cavity. Higher still. “Now!” he said urgently. “I can’t hold it….”

  The old man’s grip on the iron tightened and he dragged himself out inch by inch. More rubble moved as he shifted his grip. Now he was halfway out. Once his trunk was free, Dunross let the rafter settle back, oh so gently, and when it was completely at rest he grabbed the old man and wrenched him free. It was then that he saw the trail of blood, the left foot missing. “Don’t move, old fellow,” he said compassionately as Clinker lay panting, half unconscious, trying to stop the whimpers of pain. Dunross tore open a bandage, tying a rough tourniquet just under the knee.

  Then he stood up in the small space and looked at the vicious overhang above him, trying to decide what to do next. Next I get the poor bugger out, he thought, loathing the closeness. Then he heard the rumble and shriek of shifting debris. The earth lurched and he ducked, his arms protecting his head. A new avalanche began….

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  9:13 P.M.:

  It was just sixteen minutes since Ros
e Court was struck, but all over the vast area of destruction people were moving. Some had fought themselves out of the rubble. Others were rescuers and down below, near the command post set up at the junction, police cars, four fire trucks and rescue units were there, their mobile lights washing the slope, firemen and police frantically working their way through the wreckage. A small fire flickered and it was quickly doused, everyone aware of the gas danger. An ambulance with wounded or dying had already been dispatched, more were converging.

  It was chaotic in the darkness, all streetlighting failed, the rain beginning again. The senior divisional fire officer had arrived a moment ago and had sent for gas company engineers and organized other experts to inspect the foundations of the other high-rises and buildings nearby in case they should be evacuated—the whole three tiers of Kotewall, Conduit and Po Shan Roads suspect. “Christ,” he muttered, appalled, “this’s going to take weeks to dig out and clean up.” But he stood in the open, an outward picture of calm. Another patrol car whined to a halt. “Oh hello, Robert,” he said as Armstrong joined him. “Yes,” he said, seeing his shock, “Christ knows how many’re buried th—”

  “Look out!” someone shouted and everyone ran for cover as a huge lump of reinforced concrete came crashing down from the mutilated top stories of Sinclair Towers. One of the police cars turned its light upward. Now they could see the shreds of rooms open to the skies. A tiny figure was teetering on the brink. “Get someone up there and see what the hell’s going on!”