Noble House

by James Clavell

  A fireman took to his heels….

  In the darkness at the roadblock up on Kotewall Road, onlookers from nearby buildings had been collecting, everyone petrified that there would be another slide, tenants frantic, not knowing whether to evacuate or not. Orlanda was still leaning numbly against the car, the rain on her face mixing with her tears. Another group of police reinforcements poured over the barrier onto the morass and fanned out with heavy-duty flashlights searching the terrain. One heard a call for help from below and directed his light into the brush, then changed direction quickly as he saw Riko waving and shouting, two figures inert beside her.

  Down Kotewall Road at the fork, Gornt’s car skidded to a halt. Brushing aside orders from the harassed policeman there, he pressed the keys into his hand and rushed off up the hill. When he got near to the barrier and saw the extent of the disaster he was stunned. Only moments ago he had been there, drinking and flirting with Casey, everything settled, Orlanda settled, then his whole victory upside down and raging at Dunross, but some miracle had sent him away in time and now perhaps all the others were dead and buried and gone forever. Christ! Dunross Orlanda Casey Jason Bar—

  “Keep out of the way!” the policeman shouted. More ambulance bearers hurried past, firemen with axes following, up and over the mess of mud and boulders and trees toward the ruins. “Sorry, but you can’t stay there, sir.”

  Gornt moved aside, breathing heavily from his run. “Did anyone get out?”

  “Oh yes, of course, I’m sure th—”

  “Have you seen Dunross, Ian Dunross?”

  “Who?”

  “The tai-pan, Dunross?”

  “No, no sorry I haven’t.” The policeman turned away to intercept and calm some disheveled parents.

  Gornt’s eyes went back to the disaster, still appalled by its immensity.

  “Jesus,” an American voice muttered.

  Gornt turned. Paul Choy and Venus Poon were crammed in a new group who were straggling up. Everyone stared, dumbfounded, into the darkness. “Jesus!”

  “What’re you doing here, Paul?”

  “Oh hello, Mr. Gornt! My … my uncle’s in there,” Paul Choy said, hardly able to talk. “Jesus Christ, lookit!”

  “Four Fingers?”

  “Yes. He …”

  Venus Poon overrode him grandly. “Mr. Wu’s waiting for me to discuss a movie contract. He’s going to be a film producer.”

  Gornt dismissed the patent fabrication as his mind raced. If he could save Four Fingers, perhaps the old man would help extricate him from the looming stock market debacle. “What floor was he on?”

  “The fifth,” Venus Poon said.

  “Paul, cut around to Sinclair Road and work your way up this side of the slope. I’ll work down to meet you! Off you go!”

  The young man raced off before Venus Poon could stop him. The policeman was still distracted. Without hesitation Gornt darted for the barrier. He knew Plumm’s fifth-floor apartment well—Four Fingers should be nearby. In the darkness he did not notice Orlanda on the other side of the road.

  Once over the barrier he moved as fast as he could, his feet sinking into the earth. From time to time he stumbled. “Heya, Honored Sir!” he called out in Cantonese to a nearby stretcher bearer. “Do you have a spare flashlight?”

  “Yes, yes, here you are!” the man said. “But beware, the path is treacherous. There are many ghosts here.”

  Gornt thanked him and hurried off, making better time. Nearing where the foyer would have been he stopped. Up the mountainside as far as he could see was the ugly sloping gash of the slide, a hundred yards wide. On the edges of all three tiers were other buildings and high-rises, one under construction, and the thought of being caught in one of those nauseated him. All of Conduit Road had gone, trees torn up, parapets gone. When he looked below he shuddered. “It’s impossible,” he muttered, remembering the size and strength of the high-rise and the joy of Rose Court over the years. Then he saw the lights skeetering over the top of Sinclair Towers, the building that he had always hated—had hated Dunross even more for financing and owning—for destroying his wonderful view. When he noticed the upper corner missing, a flash of pleasure went through him, but it quickly turned to bile as he remembered his own penthouse apartment that had been on the twelfth floor of Rose Court, and all the good times he had had with Orlanda, there and on the eighth floor, now rubble and death filled. “Christ,” he said out loud, blessing his joss. Then he went onward….

  Casey was sitting on a pile of rubble, waiting and in misery. Rescuers were all over the slope working in semidarkness, picking their way over the dangerous surfaces, alternatively calling and listening for calls from those who were trapped. Here and there a few were digging desperately, moving rubble away as another unfortunate was found.

  Nervously she got up and peered down the slope, seeking Dunross. He had quickly disappeared from her line of sight into the wreckage, but from time to time she had caught a glint from his flashlight. Now for some minutes she had seen nothing. Her anxiety increased, the minutes hanging, and whenever the wreck settled more fear had whipped her. Linc, Linc’s somewhere there, was pounding on her brain. I’ve got to do something, I can’t just sit, better to sit and wait and pray and wait, wait for Ian to come back. He’ll find him …

  In a sudden fright she leapt to her feet. A great section halfway down the slope had broken free, scattering rescuers who ran for their lives. In a moment the chain reaction ceased and it was quiet again but her heart kept up its pounding. There was no moving glint of Dunross’s light to reassure her. “Oh Jesus let him be all right!”

  “Casey? Casey, is that you?” Gornt came out of the darkness and scrambled up to her.

  “Oh Quillan,” she began pathetically and he held her in his arms, his strength giving her strength. “Please help Lin—”

  “I came as soon as I heard,” he told her quickly, overriding her. “It was on the wireless. Christ, I was petrified you were … I never expected … Hold on, Casey!”

  “I’m … I’m all right. Linc’s in … he’s in there somewhere, Quillan.”

  “What? But how? Did he an—”

  “He was in Or … Orlanda’s apartment and Ia—”

  “Perhaps you’re wrong, Casey. Lis—”

  “No. Orlanda told me.”

  “Eh? She got out too?” Gornt gasped. “Orlanda got out?”

  “Yes. She was with me, near me, back there, I saw it all happen, Quillan, I saw the whole terrible avalanche and the whole building collapse and then I ran here, Ian came to help and Linc’s d—”

  “Dunross? He got out too?” he asked, bile in his mouth.

  “Oh yes. Yes, he’s down there now. Some of the building shifted and the elevator, the elevator was full of bodies. He’s down there somewhere, looking … looking in case …” Her voice died away.

  She saw Gornt shift his attention to the slope. “Who else got out?”

  “Jacques, the Chens, that newspaperman, I don’t know …” She could not see his face so she could not read him. “You’re sorry that … that Ian’s alive?”

  “No. On the contrary. Where did he go?”

  “Down there.” She took his flashlight and directed it. “There, where that outcrop is. He, I haven’t seen him for a while but just there. You see the remains of the elevator? Near there.” Now she could see his face better, dark eyes, the bearded chiseled face, but it told her nothing.

  “Stay here,” he said. “You’re safe here.” He took the flashlight and moved into the wreckage, soon to be swallowed by it.

  The rain was heavier now, warm like the night was warm, and Gornt spat the bile out of his mouth, glad that his enemy was alive, hating that he was alive, but wanting him alive more.

  It was very slippery as he worked his way down. A slab teetered and gave way. He stumbled, barked his shin and cursed, then moved onward, his flashlight seeking safety where he knew there was none. So Ian bloody tai-pan Dunross got out before it colla
psed, he was thinking. That bugger’s got a charmed life! Christ! But don’t forget, the gods were on your side too. Don’t forget th—

  He stopped. Faint calls for help from somewhere near. Intently he listened again but he could not identify the direction. He called out, “Where are you, where are you?” listening again. Nothing. Hesitating, he reexamined the way ahead. This whole god-cursed mess can slide down a hundred feet or more at the drop of a hat, he thought. “Where are you?” Still nothing, so cautiously he went on, the gas smell heavy.

  When he got nearer to the remains of the elevator he looked at the bodies, not recognizing any of them, went on and eased around a corner, ducking under an overhang. Suddenly a flashlight blinded him.

  “What the hell’re you doing here, Quillan?” Dunross asked.

  “Looking for you,” Gornt said grimly, putting the light on him. “Casey told me you were playing hide and seek.”

  Dunross was resting on some rubble, catching his breath, his arms ripped and bloody, clothes in tatters. When this part of the wreckage had shifted, the way in had shrieked closed. As he had darted for safety the flashlight had been knocked out of his hand and when the avalanche subsided he was trapped with Clinker. It had taken him all his will not to panic in the darkness. Patiently he worked the area, his fingers groping, seeking the flashlight. Inch by inch. And when he was almost ready to give up, his fingers locked on it. In the light once more, fear had left him. The light had pointed a new way out. He stared back at Gornt, then smiled with the skin of his face. “Sorry I’m not dead?”

  Gornt shrugged and smiled the same rotten smile. “Yes. Joss. But it’ll happen soon enough.” The overhang creaked and shifted slightly and his light swung upward. Both men held their breath. It settled back with a sigh. “Sooner if we don’t get to hell out of here.”

  Dunross got up, grunted as a stab of pain went up his back.

  “You’re not hurt, I hope?” Gornt asked.

  Dunross laughed and felt better, the fright of entombment wearing off. “No. Give me a hand will you?”

  “What?”

  Dunross pointed into the wreckage with his light. Now Gornt could see the old man. “I got trapped down there trying to get him out.” At once Gornt moved to help, squatting down, moving what rubble they could to increase the crawlspace.

  “His name’s Clinker. His legs’re a mess and he’s lost a foot.”

  “Christ! Here, let me do that.” Gornt got a better grip on the slab, shifted it away, then jumped down into the cavity. In a moment he turned back and peered up at Dunross. “Sorry, the bugger’s dead.”

  “Oh Christ! You’re sure?”

  Gornt lifted the old man like a doll and they put him into the open.

  “Poor bugger.”

  “Joss. Did he say where he was in the building? What floor? Was anyone with him?”

  “He muttered something about caretaker, and being underneath the building, and something about, I think he said Mabel.”

  Gornt put the flash all around. “Did you hear anything or anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s get him out of here,” Gornt said with finality.

  They picked him up. When they were in the open and relatively safe they stopped to get their breath. Some stretcher bearers were nearby. Dunross beckoned them. “We will take him away, Honored Lord,” one said. They bundled the body onto a stretcher and hurried off.

  “Quillan, before we get back to Casey. She sai—”

  “About Bartlett? Yes, she told me he was in Orlanda’s place.” Gornt watched him. “Her flat was on the eighth floor.”

  Dunross looked down the slope. There were more lights than before. “Where would that have ended up?”

  “He’s got to be dead. The eighth floor?”

  “Yes. But whereabouts?”

  Gornt searched the hillside. “I can’t see from here. I might recognize something, but I doubt it. It’d be, it’d be down there, almost at Sinclair Road.”

  “He could be alive, in a pocket. Let’s go and look.”

  Gornt’s face twisted with a curious smile. “You need him and his deal, don’t you?”

  “No, no not now.”

  “Bullshit.” Gornt clambered onto an outcrop. “Casey!” he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “We’re going below! Go back to the barrier and wait there!”

  They heard her call back faintly, “Okay, be careful!” Then Gornt said sourly, “All right, Gunga Din, if we’re going to play hero, we’d better do it right. I lead.” He moved off.

  Equally sourly, but needing him, Dunross followed, his anger gathering. The two men worked their way out. Once clear, they scrambled down the slope. From time to time they would see a body or a part of a body but no one they recognized. They passed a few frantic survivors or relatives of those missing, pathetically digging or trying to dig with their hands, a broken piece of wood—anything they could find.

  Down at the bottom of the slope Gornt stopped, his flashlight examining the wreckage carefully.

  “Anything?” Dunross asked.

  “No.” Gornt caught sight of some bedraggled curtains that might have been Orlanda’s but it had been almost two years since he was in her apartment. His light hesitated.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” Gornt began climbing, seeking clues to her apartment or to the Asian Properties apartment on the fifth floor. “That could be part of Plumm’s furniture,” he said. The sofa was torn in half, the springs akimbo.

  “Help! Help in the name of all gods!” The faint Cantonese cry came from somewhere in the middle of this section. At once Gornt scrambled toward the sound, thinking he recognized Four Fingers, Dunross close behind, up and over and under. In the center of a mass of debris was an old Chinese man, bedraggled, covered with rubble dust. He was sitting in the wreckage, looking around perplexed, seemingly unhurt. When Gornt and Dunross came up to him he grimaced at them, squinting in their light.

  At once they recognized him and now he recognized them. It was Smiler Ching, the banker. “What happened, Honored Sirs?” he asked, his Cantonese heavy-accented, his teeth protruding.

  Gornt told him briefly and the man gasped. “By all the gods, that’s impossible! Am I alive? Truly alive?”

  “Yes. What floor were you on, Smiler Ching?”

  “The twelfth—I was in my living room. I was watching television.” Smiler Ching searched his memory and his lips opened into another grimace. “I’d just seen Little Mealy Mouth, Venus Poon, and then … then there was a thunderous noise from the direction of Conduit Road. The next thing I remember is waking up here, just a few minutes ago, waking up here.”

  “Who was in the flat with you?”

  “My amah. First Wife is out playing mah-jong!” The small old man got up cautiously, felt all his limbs and let out a cackle. “Ayeeyah, by all the gods, it’s a fornicating miracle, tai-pan and second tai-pan! Obviously the gods favor me, obviously I shall recover my bank and become rich again and a steward at the Turf Club! Ayeeyah! What joss!” Again he tested his feet and legs then clambered off, heading for safety.

  “If this mess was part of the twelfth floor, the eighth should be back there,” Dunross said, his light pointing.

  Gornt nodded, his face taut.

  “If that old bastard can survive, so could Bartlett.”

  “Perhaps. Let’s look.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  11:05 P.M.:

  An army truck swirled up in the heavy rain, spattering mud, and stopped near the command posts. Irish guardsmen in fatigues and raincoats, some with fire axes, jumped down. An officer was waiting for them. “Go up there, Sergeant! Work alongside R.S.M. O’Connor!” He was a young man and he pointed with a swagger stick to the right of the slide, his uniform raincoat, boots and trousers mud filthy. “No smoking, there’s still a bloody gas leak, and get the lead out!”

  “Where’s Alpha Company, sir?”

  “Up at Po Shan. Delta’s halfway. We’ve an aid
station on Kotewall. I’m monitoring Channel 4. Off you go!”

  The men stared at the devastation. “Glory be to God,” someone muttered. They charged off, following their sergeant. The officer went back to his command post and picked up the field telephone. “Delta Company, this is Command. Give me a report.”

  “We’ve recovered four bodies, sir, and two injured up here. We’re halfway across the slope now. One’s a Chinese woman called Kwang, multiple fractures but all right, and her husband, he’s just shook up a bit.”

  “What part of the building were they in?”

  “Fifth floor. We think the heavy-duty girders protected them. Both casualties’re on their way to our aid station at Kotewall. We can hear someone buried deep but, glory be, sir, we can’t get at him—the firemen can’t use their oxy-acetylene cutters. The gas’s too heavy. Nothing else in our area, sir.”

  “Keep it up.” The officer turned around and snapped at an orderly, “Go and chase up those gas board fellows and see what the hell’s holding them up! Tell’em to get their fingers out!”

  “Yes sir.”

  He switched channels. “Kotewall Aid Station, this is Command. What’s the score?”

  “Fourteen bodies so far, Captain, and nineteen injured, some very bad. We’re getting their names as quick as we can. Sir Dunstan Barre, we dug him out, he just has a broken wrist.”

  “Keep up the good work! The police’ve set up a missing persons station on Channel 16. Get them all the names, dead, injured, everyone, quick as you can. We’ve some pretty anxious people down here.”

  “Yes sir. The rumor’s we’re going to evacuate the whole area.”

  “The governor, commissioner and the fire chief’re deciding that right now.” The officer rubbed his face tiredly, then rushed out to intercept another incoming truck with Gurkhas from the Engineers Corps, passing the governor, commissioner and senior fire officer who stood at the central command post under the foyer overhang of Sinclair Towers. A white-haired engineer-surveyor from the Public Works Department got out of a car and hurried over to them.

  “Evening, sir,” he said anxiously. “We’ve been all through all the buildings now, from Po Shan down to here. I recommend we evacuate nineteen buildings.”