Breaking the Rules (Harte Family Saga Book 7)

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “I am gratified you enjoyed the meal, Jack,” the respected Chinese banker murmured, inclining his head graciously. Settling back in the carved mahogany chair, he added, “It is I who am honored that you are here in my home. And I thank you for coming to see me. It was vital that we meet, and I am too frail to travel. Now that we have dined, let us go into the library, where we can enjoy jasmine tea or a digestive, and we shall speak of many things.”

  Jack rose and followed the refined and dignified old banker out of the dining room, thinking how elegant he looked in his red-and-gold brocade ceremonial robe. A family heirloom of great antiquity, it was magnificent, and Jack was fully aware that Zhèng only wore it with his family and intimate friends. This in itself was a compliment to him, and he was flattered by this relaxation of formality.

  A long, wide gallery, where priceless Chinese scrolls, paintings, and objects of art were displayed, separated the dining room and the library. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack noticed a few new pieces of exquisitely carved jade on display on the glass shelves, and he hoped Zhèng would show them to him later.

  Stepping briskly after his host, Jack caught his breath when he entered the library. When he had first arrived, the mist had been rolling down the Peak, and outside the vast plate-glass window the panoramic view of Hong Kong, Victoria Harbour, and Kowloon had been obscured by smog.

  But now all were visible, and the view was spectacular under the ink-black sky scattered with shining stars. Hong Kong glitters, he thought. But then it always had for him, and in so many ways; if he had to pick a favorite city in the world, this would be it. What a mixture it was: skyscrapers and squalor; jewels and junk; big money and stark poverty . . . rich and poor living cheek by jowl in this great melting pot of humanity, where anything and everything was possible. He had come here as often as he could when he was younger, and he had once even contemplated living here. But he had known all those years ago that this would never happen. England was his country and his home.

  Moving forward, Jack joined Zhèng at the window, and his friend turned to him, murmured, “There is no view like this in the world, is there, Jack?”

  “There surely isn’t, and it’s different every hour of the day, or so it seems to me . . . constantly changing.”

  “As life is constantly changing . . . the only thing that is permanent is change.” Zhèng sighed and indicated with a wave of his long, slender hand that Jack should be seated. He took the chair opposite this Englishman whom he considered the best friend he had ever had.

  Almost immediately one of the Chinese houseboys appeared, carrying a silver tray of jasmine tea; another followed sharp on his heels with glasses of iced water; a third boy brought a brass tray holding a bottle of vintage Napoleon cognac and brandy balloons.

  Jack took a small, paper-thin porcelain bowl of the jasmine tea, as did Zhèng, and when they were alone, the banker said, “I am quite certain you understood that I had an important and confidential matter to discuss when I asked you to come here . . . because it was imperative that I speak to you face-to-face.”

  “I did, Wen Li, and knowing you the way I do, I had no intention of ignoring your request, or questioning your judgment.”

  “We have known each other a long time, haven’t we?” Zhèng said, slipping his hand into the pocket of his robe, bringing out a small green-jade pebble, smoothing his hand over it, turning it slowly. A smile touched his eyes. “My talisman, Jack. For good joss.”

  Jack nodded. “I remember it. And we’ve known each other for thirty-five years, to be exact.”

  “And the first time we met, all those many years ago, you introduced me to your friend Mallory Carpenter, then head of the Hong Kong Police, when this island was still the British Crown Colony. Thanks to you, he helped me to solve a terrible problem. He became a wonderful friend, as indeed you did.”

  Jack sat back, listening carefully to his wise Chinese friend, wondering what he was leading up to.

  Leaning forward, Zhèng said in a low voice, “You risked your life to save mine. At the time I told you I owed you a debt of honor, but that I hoped and prayed I never would have to repay it. I explained that I didn’t want you to need my help because you were in danger or in trouble. Do you remember, Jack?”

  “I do indeed, Wen Li.” Jack spoke quietly. He was startled and wondering what this was all about, and he returned Zhèng’s long stare, waiting. When he had flown here two days ago, he had done so on the assumption that Zhèng needed his help. Now it appeared that the boot might be on the other foot.

  Rubbing his hand over his mouth, Jack straightened his back, moved to the edge of the chair, decided to plunge in. “Am I in some kind of danger, Wen Li? Is that why you asked me to come here?”

  “I am loath to be the bearer of bad news; however, in this instance I must be. A man you and I detest has surfaced in Hong Kong, although he is not here at this moment. I am aware he bears you ill will. I had to warn you, Jack. You must protect yourself.”

  Jack frowned in perplexity and shook his head. “I’m sure there are a lot of people who’d like to do me in, but in Hong Kong? I don’t think so.” He was certain of this, and his voice reflected his confidence.

  “I am sure of it.”

  “So tell me who it is.”

  “Jonathan Ainsley.”

  Thunderstruck, Jack gaped at Wen Li.

  Jonathan Ainsley. That dreaded name from the past, the evil man who had vowed to destroy Paula and her daughters: Tessa, Linnet, and M. Her whole family, in fact, including her sons, Lorne and Desmond, and her husband, Shane O’Neill. Emma Harte’s grandson, who believed that he had been cheated of his due and that his first cousin Paula had inherited what was rightfully his . . . the great Harte emporium in Knightsbridge and all the other stores as well. And to think that his father, Robin Ainsley, and Paula’s mother, Daisy Amory, were brother and sister. How had such evil come about in one man? He was not like the rest of the Hartes at all. That old saying “Blood is thicker than water” did not hold true. . . .

  “It is apparent you don’t believe me,” Zhèng eventually murmured, adding with some insistence, “but it is the truth.”

  “He’s dead. He died in 2002!” Jack exclaimed. “He was in a car crash in France. His car was hit by a lorry head-on. We all know this. The car was demolished and so was he. He’s dead. I’m telling you he’s dead. And buried.”

  Zhèng shook his head.

  “It’s a silly rumor somebody’s spread around. It’s not true, it can’t be,” Jack persisted.

  “I did not believe it. I reacted as you have. However, apparently his American wife took him to a clinic in Switzerland and they healed him. It took a long time, but they pumped life back into him.”

  “I just can’t accept this! I can’t!” Jack muttered.

  There was a long silence between the two men, and finally Zhèng said in a carefully measured voice, “Surely you believe me. In any event, I have the benefit of my own eyes. An intermediary brought a message to me, asking me to come to Ainsley’s office. I was flabbergasted, as you are. But I went, I met with him. Ten days ago. He invited me to do business with him again.”

  Jack remained silent, stricken by the news, which he realized he now had to believe.

  The banker continued. “He is a dangerous man, and he has not changed. He is still vindictive, and that is why I had to warn you. He will endeavor to destroy Paula, as well as you. He still hates her with his whole being. The hatred goes back to their childhood.”

  “Did he mention me? Or Paula?”

  “No, he did not. But I know, Jack . . . I know it here,” Zhèng said, putting a hand over his heart. “And I know it in my frail old bones. . . . I was compelled to send for you. . . .”

  Jonathan Ainsley. Back from the dead. The words floated before Jack’s eyes. How this was possible he did not know; they must have worked a miracle at the Swiss clinic. He said, all of a sudden, “What does he look like?”

  “I did not recogniz
e him,” Zhèng replied. “And neither would you if you were to see him.”

  Jack did not answer.

  Zhèng sat studying his old friend, and after a moment he drew closer to Jack, placed a hand on his knee.

  Jack looked at him, his expression quizzical.

  Zhèng said in a voice so low it was almost inaudible, “There is another reason I needed to see you in person. I have many things I must share with you about Ainsley.” The Chinese banker paused, held Jack with his eyes, said at last, “We must discuss ways to render him powerless. That is an imperative. Let us start planning. There must be a way you and I can defeat this odious man.”

  It was long after midnight when Jack got back to his hotel in Central. As usual he was staying at the Mandarin Oriental, and although it was his habit to have a nightcap in the Captain’s Bar, tonight he went straight to his room.

  As he went in, he immediately saw the blinking red light on the telephone, and he closed the door and went over to the desk in front of the window. Checking his hotel voice mail, he discovered that Linnet had called him, and so had Simon. A third message was from Linnet, explaining that she and Simon were in her office at the store. Until eight. After that they would be having supper at M’s flat. Jack checked his cell phone, which he had left on the desk recharging, and found messages from the two of them left about half an hour ago.

  Sitting down heavily, he knew at once there was some kind of problem. Five years of peace and tranquillity. Now the tension was back. The thought of Ainsley made his blood run cold. Gooseflesh spreckled the back of his neck, and he shivered. Somebody walked over my grave, he thought, remembering an old saying from his childhood.

  He pulled the phone toward him, glancing at his watch as he did. It was almost one o’clock in the morning in Hong Kong; six o’clock in London. Since there was a seven-hour time difference, Linnet and Simon would still be at Harte’s.

  After dialing her private line, Jack sat back and started to worry about her mother. How to protect Paula O’Neill from Ainsley? That was going to be some task.

  “Linnet O’Neill.”

  “Hello, Beauty. It’s me.”

  “Jack! You got our messages?”

  “I did, Linnet, yes. Has something happened? I hope not.”

  “I’m afraid so, Jack. I guess you haven’t seen the news. Turn on CNN. We’ve been attacked by terrorists. The Bird Cage blew up around noon today—”

  “Jesus Christ!” He went cold all over and closed his eyes, then snapped them open. “Tell me the worst.”

  “I’d closed it, Jack. At six o’clock this morning. Brenda Powell had called me at five about trouble with the drainage system. She was in early because she was running the power breakfast today. She acted fast. Jack, some good news. Nobody’s dead. Staff and customers injured by the blast, but it’s not overwhelming.”

  “I shall come back straightaway, Lin, don’t worry. I suppose Simon called everybody. Brought in the Yard, all that lot.”

  “Yes, he did, and here he is. He wants to tell you everything. But we’re both fine, Jack. And we’ve got matters under control.”

  Jack Figg listened to everything Simon had to say. He had trained Simon himself and knew what a brilliant security officer he was. There was nobody more alert, responsible, and efficient. But Jack became alarmed when he heard that the counterterrorism squad had discovered two unexploded bombs in the Bird Cage. He knew that if they had gone off, the damage would have been horrendous. The executive offices, he suddenly thought, Linnet could have been killed. She’d had a narrow escape. A chill ran through him again.

  After a few more minutes on the phone, he told Simon he would be back by the weekend, Monday at the latest, and hung up. Once he had found the remote control, he stood in front of the television set, zipped around until he found CNN. Then he sat down on the end of the bed, waiting for the coverage of the terrorist attack at Harte’s to show up on the screen. He saw mention of it on the crawl first, and suddenly there it was, his beloved store, and his beloved Linnet, the managing director, being interviewed about the attack on the most famous department store in the world.

  He awakened in the middle of the night, and for a moment he thought it must be morning. After glancing at the illuminated electric clock, he learned it was only four and groaned.

  Jack lay there, listening, wondering what had woken him. And within seconds he understood. His own brain had dealt a solid blow to sleep; his thoughts had intruded, and so had M’s voice. Two weeks ago she had said to him, “I had a narrow escape, Jack. If I hadn’t sprained my ankle, I’d have been on the runway. And I could have been a goner. I think my namesake is watching over me. . . . Mummy has always said Emma’s my guardian angel.”

  M had had a narrow escape. Linnet had just had a narrow escape. Both incidents, in public places, were considered terrorist attacks. But were they?

  Throwing back the bedclothes, Jack got up, put on a robe, and went over to the desk. He found a piece of hotel writing paper and drew an oblong shape on it. He then drew three squares next to one another and wrote in the squares “Bird Cage,” “Linen Department,” “Linnet’s Office.” All three adjoined one another. He knew they did; he had just needed to see them set out like a floor plan.

  Had Linnet’s office been the real target? Maybe. But it was impossible to get into the executive offices without setting off a series of alarms. If somebody wanted to do damage to Linnet’s office, why not place bombs in the linen department next to it? Because it didn’t have any doors, was open to the entire floor, and therefore likely to be checked at night by patrolling security men. The Bird Cage was the obvious place to hide bombs. And to hide the perpetrators themselves until they could leave the next morning.

  Jack leaned back in the chair, wondering if M had been the real target in Paris. And what about her husband? Larry had eaten contaminated food the day the runway collapsed. Or had he been poisoned? Running his hand over his face, Jack asked himself if he was becoming paranoid now that he knew Jonathan Ainsley was alive.

  He had no answer. But he did know he had to watch his back, and Paula’s, and the backs of her daughters.

  Jack didn’t even bother to go back to bed. He sat at the desk, wondering where the hell to begin. Jonathan Ainsley was a psychopath, there was no question in his mind about that. And a billionaire, so money was no object. He had to be stopped. Whatever it took.

  Jonathan Ainsley. Alive not dead. Bad joss. His bad joss.

  When he hit the streets at ten o’clock that morning, Jack caught his breath in surprise. For a moment he had forgotten what it was like to move on foot here. He was quickly engulfed in a cacophony of sound, blinded by swirls of color and brilliant light. Everywhere there was movement, noise, and tumult, as he was instantly caught up in the crowds rushing about their daily business.

  Jets soared in the skies above the Peak; junks, sampans, ferries, and yachts plowed the waters around Kowloon and Central. Yet there was a distinct rhythm to all of this flow of humanity. Normally, Jack reveled in the teeming life of this island where space was at such a premium. But this morning he was irritated as he hurried to his destination in Central, dodging the trams, buses, rickshaws, and cars that surged through the streets.

  He was intent on his purpose, making for the offices of Zhèng Wen Li, where he was expected in a short while. Last night, as he was leaving the banker’s grand house on the Peak, Zhèng had invited him to come to the private bank so that they could finish their business.

  Within fifteen minutes Jack arrived and was immediately shown into Zhèng’s inner sanctum. The respected banker, smiling at the sight of his friend and rising at once, came around the desk and shook his hand. He said, “I am saddened that Harte’s has been hit by the terrorists, Jack. I am sure you have spoken to Linnet. From the information I garnered from the television news, it appears that the damage was not as enormous as it might have been.” He sat down at the desk; Jack took a chair at the other side.

  “Tha
t’s correct, Wen Li. And I did speak to Linnet, and to Paula. They both send you greetings and their good wishes. The store is closed until tomorrow; antiterrorism squads have been checking every nook and cranny, making sure there are no more hidden explosives. Fortunately, there have been no fatalities, although a number of people were injured. Nevertheless, it could have been much worse.”

  “The special terrorist branch of Scotland Yard are calling it a terrorist attack,” Zhèng murmured, eyeing Jack pointedly. “But what is your opinion? Could this crime have been perpetrated by . . . an individual with extraordinary resources?”

  “Yes, it could. And that thought had crossed my mind. Ainsley could have set everything in motion with no trouble at all. He’s done similar things in the past, and we know he is unconscionable.”

  Zhèng simply nodded.

  Jack said, “I have several other appointments today, various things I want to put in place, and a couple of meetings tomorrow. But I am flying back to London on Saturday, Wen Li.”

  Leaning across the desk, the banker said, “I shall proceed as we discussed last evening, Jack, and keep you abreast of all matters.”

  “Thank you, and I’m sure you understand my urgent need to go back to London.”

  “I do indeed. Now, I have a few more items to clear with you, and then I wish to introduce you to a most brilliant young man, whose expertise might be helpful to us at some point in the future.”

  Jack nodded and listened as the banker passed on additional useful information about Jonathan Ainsley, before finishing, “And that is everything I know, Jack. For the moment.” Zhèng picked up the telephone, dialed a number, spoke quickly in Cantonese, and hung up.

  A moment later there was a knock on the door, and it opened to admit a man who looked to be in his mid-twenties.

  Jack stood, stepped forward, and took the hand that was instantly offered to him.