The Secret

by Harold Robbins

  “I might have known,” said Malloy. “Guangdong Micro-Technology—GMT.”

  “What do you know of Zhang and his company?”

  “He’s a young man who’s made himself very rich very quickly, partly by theft, partly by guanxi.”

  “What’s guanxi?” I asked.

  “It’s the grease that makes anything in China run well—that is, anything that does run well. It means ‘pull,’ or influence, often with bribery.”

  “I take it you don’t much like him.”

  “He tried to sell us components. They didn’t test well.”

  “I would expect you to test very thoroughly every single item that comes from Zhang,” I said. “We won’t accept and we won’t pay for anything that doesn’t pass.”

  “Am I expected to put GMT components in Sphere Four?”

  “We haven’t committed to fund Sphere four.”

  “Well, do commit. If you don’t, I’ll leave the company the minute you take over.”

  “We won’t commit,” I said, “until you come up with a business plan. We’ll want the design and all the specifications for Sphere Four. We’ll want a complete estimate of what it will cost to develop and build it, based on two assumptions: one, that you use GMT components, and two, that you don’t.”

  “How soon do you want this?”

  “I have to fly out to Hong Kong for a week or two. I’d like to see it when I come back. In the meantime, you can work with Liz.”

  Malloy smiled. “‘Vice President, Technology Operations.’ She’s the only computer scientist you have, isn’t she?”

  “I have others on a consulting basis.”

  “Obviously it will do me no good to try to convince you what an extraordinary machine Sphere Four will be. Okay, then. I will try to convince Liz.”

  “Convince her in writing,” I said. “Convince her with documents I can show to others. And, incidentally … while we’re on the subject, let me see what your plans are to prevent your laser printer from becoming obsolete. Let me have cost figures on that.”

  “I see I’m going to have to deal with bean counters,” he said grudgingly.

  I nodded. “Three separate people who don’t know each other have described you to me as a genius but also as a stubborn and unrealistic egomaniac. Gazelle is ready, just about, to give you a major new infusion of capital. You had better get used to the idea that you won’t be able to make major policy by the snap of your finger, just because you think it’s a good idea. My father ran Gazelle that way when it was a small business. Even he can’t do it that way anymore.”

  53

  I flew back to Hong Kong, this time alone. Vicky and the kids stayed at home.

  Vicky offered to send Maria with me, to take care of things in the apartments, but I said no. Maria was more important with the children. We had been assured that her Chinese was not accented, and she spoke it to little J. J. and Catherine. It was Cantonese, not Mandarin, but we were assured also that for the kids to learn a little Cantonese would help them when they studied Mandarin in earnest.

  Anyway, we had contracted with a company to send personnel into the apartments twice a week, to dust and make certain all was in order. When I knew I was going out there, I called them, and they assigned a fulltime maid for the duration of my stay. When I arrived, the refrigerator and bar were stocked, the air conditioners were running, and the South China Morning Post lay on my dining table.

  I had E-mail waiting: a message from Zhang Feng saying he would fly to Hong Kong at my convenience. I had a fax from Charlie Han, saying Bai Fuyuan would come down from Shenzhen on whatever date we suggested.

  I had dinner with Charlie my first night in town. We ate in an excellent—and I mean excellent—Italian restaurant called Tutta Luna, which served Italian cuisine that would have met Vicky’s approval. It was within walking distance of the apartments.

  “What do you think of the merchandise Bai Fuyuan sent?” I asked Charlie.

  “It’s like a letter of recommendation, Len,” he said. “If it wasn’t first-class stuff he wouldn’t have sent it to us. The question will be: Can he keep it up? Or will he? Does he intend to?”

  “So what deal does he want?”

  “He wants to manufacture Cheeks merchandise in China. He wants to sell much of it in China, but he wants to export much of it to the States, where it will enter the stock of Cheeks stores. He is willing to submit to our most rigorous standards of quality control, to allow our inspectors to look at every item individually.”

  “And of course he can manufacture cheap.”

  “Yes. Very cheap.”

  “And sell for—?”

  “American prices. The profit will be immense.”

  “Are his Chinese customers going to be so stupid as to believe they are buying something that was manufactured outside China? That stretches credibility a little, doesn’t it?”

  “There is a way of making them believe it,” said Charlie. “He sews the goods in Shenzhen, takes them to Guangzhou by truck, and loads the crates on Chinese ships. The crates bear stenciled signs saying the port of origin is Hong Kong or maybe even New York. No one cares about that. The shipping documents sealed to the crates say the port of origin is Guangzhou. In the port of Shanghai the crates are unloaded. The shipping documents, now unsealed, say the crates were put aboard the ship in Guangzhou. That makes the merchandise coastal trade. Legally, it has never been out of China, so it is not subject to tariffs. The inspectors tear off the documents, which are all they are interested in, and clear the crates to leave the ship. The merchandise arrives in warehouses here and there, in crates saying it came from Hong Kong or the States, and the labels sewn in the garments say they are Cheeks items, made in the U.S.A. or in Hong Kong.”

  “It’s almost exactly what Zhang Feng wants to do,” I said.

  Charlie smiled. “They may very well be partners.”

  “It’s a little too transparent, it seems to me,” I objected.

  “Well, there’s a certain amount of guanxi involved.”

  “Okay. What about the merchandise he wants to send to the States?” I asked.

  “The stuff comes from Shenzhen by truck. British inspectors look at the merchandise—and will until the Handover, after which the inspectors will be Hong Kong Chinese, whom we may expect will be a little more lax. It bears labels saying the articles were made in China and identifying a maker. In warehouses here the labels are changed to ones reading, like, ‘Made in Hong Kong exclusively for Cheeks.’ Coming in, the merchandise is valued as stuff manufactured in China, so it’s quite cheap. Going out, it is Hong Kong merchandise, already worth three times as much. In the States you sell it for your regular prices.”

  “Will he also want us to shill for him in China?” I asked. “That’s what Zhang wants.”

  “He will want you and your father to make one or two well-publicized tours of China, appearing in stores and on television, saying how happy you are that Cheeks merchandise is now available in China.”

  “And our way will be smoothed by guanxi,” I said sarcastically.

  “Well … you will be endorsing merchandise made from Cheeks designs, to Cheeks standards, inspected by Cheeks inspectors. So, what’s the problem?”

  “There’s a problem,” I said. “It’s called Jerry Cooper.”

  “And you will make a lot of money,” said Charlie Han. For him that was the clinching argument.

  * * *

  Two days later Bai Fuyuan arrived from Shenzhen. He took a suite in the Kimberly Hotel in Kowloon and asked me and Charlie to have lunch with him and let him show us some more merchandise.

  Kowloon is not my favorite part of Hong Kong. It is not, of course, on Hong Kong island but is across the harbor on the mainland. American tourists obsessed with the idea that Hong Kong is a shoppers’ paradise go to Kowloon to be ripped off on Nathan Road.

  The hotel, even so, was first class. Bai had a spacious suite—unfortunately overlooking, for the time being, an en
ormous scaffolding made of bamboo, on which workmen swarmed as they erected a twenty-story building. I had observed this before: that the Chinese put up bamboo scaffolding that looked flimsy but was, I was assured, as strong as scaffolding made of steel.

  Bai wore again a white double-breasted suit, as he had the first time I met him. He welcomed us effusively and gestured toward a long table where an elaborate buffet luncheon had been spread for us. Three delicately beautiful Chinese girls stood behind the table. They poured and handed us flutes of champagne.

  “The little girls speak very little or no English, I am afraid,” Bai said to us. “Just point at anything that pleases you, and they will serve your plates.”

  The food was a curious mixture of Chinese and Western. There was caviar and foie gras but also little cups of shark’s-fin soup and egg-white medallions flavored with birds’ nest and crabmeat. I recognized these dishes. Others I did not.

  We sat on two couches facing low tables, on which the girls placed our loaded plates.

  “Enjoy, enjoy,” said Bai. “While we eat, the girls will model some items for us.”

  He gestured, and two of the girls hurried away into a bedroom, leaving one to continue serving us.

  After a moment one of the girls came out. She was wearing crotchless panties—it was our bestselling example of that item—and a bra with holes to show her little brown nipples. She was not a professional model, but she knew how to show off her body.

  Bai spoke to her in Chinese, and she slipped out of the bra and panties and handed them to me, leaving herself standing quite naked.

  “Can you see,” Bai asked, “that these garments have been sewn to the very same standard you habitually use?”

  I examined the items perfunctorily, then handed them to Charlie, who examined them critically. The girl stood there patiently, showing not the least sign of discomfort. Charlie handed the things back to her, and she walked to the bedroom.

  This was repeated maybe twenty times. A girl would come out and model something, then she would take it off and offer it to be inspected, while she stood naked. We looked at panties, bras, nighties, teddies, G-strings. The girls also demonstrated Bai’s ability to make fetishist items of leather and rubber. Looking at some of those items being modeled, I was actually sorry that every item was a knockoff on something offered in the Cheeks catalog.

  “You see?” Bai said finally. “I am prepared to offer exact replicas of the things you sell, made to your standards of quality. But available for a fraction of what you pay.”

  Cued, I suppose, one of the girls came from the bedroom wearing an innovative design for a bra, consisting only of satin bands that stretched tightly under the breasts to lift them and thrust them forward—plus a G-string with a wide slit.

  This girl’s nipples had been pierced, and she wore little platinum rings in them.

  “This you sell for thirty dollars,” said Bai. “I can deliver you this item for four dollars.”

  Finally a model came from the bedroom wearing a garment I had never seen before, something we didn’t sell in Cheeks shops. I don’t know what to call it: a teddy, I suppose. Anyway, it was fabricated of small aluminum rings woven together after the fashion of medieval chain mail. Obviously it covered nothing. I supposed, too, it had to be quite uncomfortable; for example, the girl’s butt would be marked with little ring indentations if she sat down. She, too, had pierced nipples, and platinum rings set with green stones hung from them.

  “I suggest you stock this item,” said Bai. “I can offer them to you for twelve dollars apiece.”

  “Very interesting,” I said noncommittally.

  Bai dismissed the model with a curt gesture. “So,” he said. “Do you think we can do business?”

  “On the basis of the quality of your merchandise, I see no reason why not,” I said. “On the basis of your prices, that looks doable, too. The only element of the thing that troubles me is the … irregular ways we will have to operate to disguise the origin of the goods. Also, I am not sure I can persuade my father to visit China to promote them.”

  “Let us, then, set to work to resolve these minor problems,” said Bai.

  And that was where we left it.

  * * *

  Zhang Feng liked to take people for boat rides. It was a way to get his business associates isolated with him. This time—it was on a Sunday—he took Charlie and me aboard a chartered yacht much bigger than the one that had taken us to Lamma Island. Our destination was Lantau Island, an island larger than Hong Kong Island and even more mountainous.

  The trip out took about an hour, from Hong Kong Central to Silver Mine Bay. The yacht was luxurious and carried for the day a buffet lunch comparable to the one Bai Fuyuan had spread for us in the Kimberley Hotel. Three girls in colorful microskirted, skintight dresses poured champagne for us.

  The trip across the water was pleasant. A bracing wind blew, and the yacht plowed through three-foot seas. One of the girls began to show signs of motion sickness, and I went to her and explained to her how to avoid it.

  “Stand up. Don’t sit. Now flex your knees a little, opposite to the movement of the boat. When you’re sitting, your whole body moves with every motion of the boat. When you stand and use your knees, you will move less than half as much, if at all.”

  She tried it and found it relieved her queasiness. From that moment she attached herself to me. Her name was Chang Li, and she was a diminutive, perfectly formed Chinese girl who spoke a bit of English. Her little dress was silk, emerald green, and fit like her skin. It was obvious she wore nothing under it. My eyes could trace the dent of her navel and the cleft of her behind.

  We docked at Silver Mine Bay and went ashore to find a Mercedes limousine with driver waiting for us. Li sat close beside me.

  Zhang wanted us to see the Po Lin monastery, high on a mountain on Lantau Island. It featured the world’s largest outdoor sitting statue of Buddha, cast in bronze and one hundred ten feet tall. The statue was visible for miles. We could have left the car and climbed the stairs to its base, but we elected to view it from the limo.

  We returned to the yacht, which eased out and began a leisurely circuit of the island, in generally smooth waters. Hong Kong’s immense new airport was under construction on the north side of Lantau Island.

  We sat on couches in the aft cabin. Li sat close to me.

  Zhang wanted to talk business.

  “I am confident,” I told him, “that we are going to acquire control of Sphere. We are going to have the problem you anticipated.”

  “Malloy,” said Zhang.

  “He wants to continue to build the Sphere computer. That is to say, he wants to resume building it: a new version.”

  “That could be useful, if you are willing to invest the money.”

  “How so?”

  “It will be Sphere Corporation’s signature product, its façade, as we might say. If Sphere is once more known as the maker of a superior computer, that should facilitate sales of the Sphere microprocessors. And … the use of GMT components will enable you to manufacture the new computer at a price that will attract the market.”

  I smiled. “So we will need more GMT components. To incorporate in the computers.”

  Zhang returned my smile and nodded.

  “Quality is the key,” I said.

  He nodded again. “Quality is the key.”

  The crew of the yacht laid out a dinner on a big table that was lifted from the floor in the main cabin. We sat down to a meal of Chinese delicacies—Li beside me as always.

  “Would you like,” Zhang asked, “to see Macau? It is an hour or so from here. The activity there will just be beginning. I can introduce you to the finest casinos.”

  “I love the casinos,” said Charlie Han. This was something I had observed in the Chinese. They loved to gamble—from mah jong, on which some of them risked huge sums, to horse races, to cockroaches placed in a circle, the bet being on which one would leave the circle first.

&n
bsp; “We can sleep on the boat. And have breakfast. It has accommodations.”

  I understood from that moment that “accommodations” was going to include Li in my bed. I had cheated on Vicky only once and very briefly, with Susan. But maybe this small, affectionate Chinese girl … whom I’d never see again.

  I remember little about Macau. The casinos just didn’t appeal to me. And, in anticipation of what was going to happen, my attention was fixed on Li. I decided I wanted her. I wanted her very much.

  While the others were gambling, I quietly suggested to Li that we return to the boat. We were holding hands, and she squeezed my hand and nodded.

  Our cabin was small but lavish. It had a bed and one upholstered chair, a telephone, television, and its own head, with shower. I suggested to Li that we shower together. She undressed immediately, and I held her and felt her smooth skin. She unzipped me and pulled out my cock, then pushed down my pants. We couldn’t undress fast enough. My socks were still on my feet when I led her into the shower.

  Under the stream of hot water, I knelt and introduced my tongue into her. It quickly found her tiny clit. She gasped, and I felt it harden. She urged me to stand, and when I did she seized my cock and pushed it into herself.

  She was exquisite. I mean she was exquisite in her little body as well as in her ardor. She made love with me as though we were two kids just learning.

  “Word in Chinese is dew,” she said, “which means fuck. We fuck good, Len. We fuck very good.”

  I had to realize she had fucked many times before. Innocent as she looked and acted, she was a hooker.

  I was glad, when I reflected on that. She was being paid for what she was doing. I would give her some more money. And we were establishing no relationship whatever. I would remember her. Maybe she would remember me for a while. For the money, I imagine, and for the fact that I had not been abusive. I was racist enough to wonder what Chinese men did to her.

  When we left the boat, I hugged and kissed her. I hoped I would never see her again, but I was not going to be that lucky.