“I understand, but I repeat that we do not wish the exchange fund to be used to support the bank.”
“Director, I must not be making myself clear. If the bank fails, and if the market crashes, there will be civil disorder of the like never seen before in Hong Kong, coming at a time when our police force is in a weakened state. We will be stretched to the limit to contain the discontent.”
“We have already considered that eventuality,” said the director, calmly. “We are moving a division of the People’s Liberation Army to the outskirts of Guangdong. If necessary they will be used to maintain law and order in the colony.”
“You can’t do that!” exclaimed the Governor without thinking.
“We can, and if necessary we will,” said the director, unaffected by the Governor’s undiplomatic outburst. “Do not forget that you are only tenants of Hong Kong, we are the landlords. If a tenant does not take care of the property, a landlord has the right to move to make sure that there is no damage. You are also aware how close we came to sending in troops during the stock market crash of 1987. We will do everything we have to do in order to maintain law and order in Hong Kong. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, perfectly,” said the Governor.
“The Kowloon and Canton Bank must put its own affairs in order,” said the director. “That is an end to it. Good night, Governor, and my sincere apologies for awakening you.”
“Good morning,” said the Governor pointedly. The line went dead. His wife lay curled up in the foetal position, snoring quietly, the quilt pulled around her like a shroud. The Governor dialled the number of the Financial Secretary, shaking his head in bewilderment.
An angry crowd gathered outside the headquarters of the Kowloon and Canton Bank at six o’clock in the morning, shouting slogans and waving banners. An effigy of William Fielding was soaked in petrol and set on fire. When police moved in with fire extinguishers, the demonstrators started breaking up paving stones and throwing them. One officer was taken to hospital with a cut eye and three demonstrators were injured when the police moved in with stun guns and batons. More than a dozen demonstrators sat in a circle outside the bank building and announced they were going on a hunger strike until they received their money. The Police Commissioner ordered all his men to report for duty, no matter what their status. All leave was cancelled, all men were to work around the clock until further notice. Two hundred constables in riot gear were posted outside the bank’s headquarters. Rumours that the government was refusing to bail out the bank spread like wildfire, and several branches in the New Territories reported that their windows had been broken. The Police Commissioner doubled the guard on his home, just to be on the safe side.
William Fielding arrived in his office at seven o’clock, three hours before his branches were due to open. He had needed three stitches on his forehead and they’d been covered with a large sticking plaster. His head throbbed and he had trouble focusing but he’d discharged himself from hospital and called an emergency meeting of his directors, his head of security and the bank’s public relations advisers. Following Alex Perman’s dismal performance on television after the robbery, Fielding had insisted on outside consultants being called in. They were now into crisis public relations and Alex Perman was clearly out of his depth.
Fielding had needed a police escort to get into the building, and his car had been kicked and spat on. Two policemen had gone with him into the building and ridden up in the elevator with him. Both had been armed. The boardroom had been prepared – notepads and pens distributed around the long, oval mahogany table, and crystal decanters of water set in the centre, with upturned crystal tumblers at each place setting. Most of the directors were there. George Ballantine nodded a greeting and Alex Perman was flanked by two representatives of the public relations firm. Charles Devlin got up from his chair and went over to Fielding as he sat down at the head of the table.
“William, are you sure you should be out of the hospital? You look terrible.”
Devlin had been one of the first to visit Fielding in the hospital. He’d also helped Anne and Debbie deal with the police investigating the break-in at their house.
“I’ll be okay, Charlie, but thanks for your concern. And thanks for taking care of Anne.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s in shock, the doctor’s given her a tranquilliser.”
“What about the man they took with you?”
“Anthony Chung? He’s still in hospital. It seems the bullet did more damage than they thought at first. He might lose his arm.”
“Poor devil,” sympathised Devlin. “You’re lucky they didn’t shoot you, I guess.”
Fielding put his hand to his injured head and winced. “Lucky isn’t exactly how I feel, Charlie, but I know what you mean.”
Devlin went back to his seat and the remaining directors arrived and took their places. Fielding opened the meeting, and quickly went over the events of the previous eighteen hours. The story of the depository raid had been all over the front pages of the morning papers, along with the abortive robbery at the racetrack. None of the newspapers, English or Chinese, reported the clash between Hong Kong and Chinese police at sea. The South China Morning Post and the Hong Kong Standard had both carried editorials calling on the government to use the exchange fund to support the bank, and there were unattributed quotes in their news stories suggesting that the Banking Commissioner would announce such a rescue before the stock exchange started trading. The Hong Kong Economic Journal had managed to get quotes from the Banking Commissioner saying he planned to use the fund, but the Chinese paper also suggested that Beijing was unhappy with his proposal. Several of the Chinese papers had investigated the effect the robbery would have on the stock exchange. They had discovered that two of Hong Kong’s most aggressive corporate raiders had substantial loans from the bank, backed by gold deposits, which they had used to fund several major acquisitions. The shares were certain to be sold in early trading, the papers warned, and there were quotes from analysts suggesting that share prices could plunge by as much as forty per cent. Estimates of how much had been taken in the robbery varied from 700 million to 1,000 million HK dollars.
“George, do we have a figure on how much was taken?” Fielding asked Ballantine.
George Ballantine looked at him with bleary, reddened eyes. He had had very little sleep, like most of the men around the table. “Virtually all our gold stocks were taken, equivalent to 426 million HK dollars at Friday’s closing price. The foreign exchange stocks they took amount to about 125 million HK dollars, depending on the exchange rates. As to the contents of the safety-deposit boxes, well, it’s anybody’s guess. We’ve a queue half a mile long outside the depository. We’ve had clerks taking statements from as many people as we can, but most are reluctant to say what was in their boxes until they know whether they’ve been broken into or not. It’s hundreds of millions of dollars, that’s for sure. Tens of millions of pounds.”
Fielding nodded. “What about our cash flow? Assuming there is a run on the bank, what shape are we in to pay out?”
The director in charge of operations tapped his pen on his notepad. “We have up to 100,000 HK dollars cash in each branch, minimum. Our larger branches have up to 500,000 HK dollars. That sounds a lot but it could go very quickly once people start closing their accounts. The ATMs alone can pay out 120,000 HK dollars every hour, and we have 410 of them. Assuming they’re all in operation, that’s almost fifty million HK dollars an hour.”
There were whistles of disbelief from around the table.
Fielding nodded. “I suggest that we don’t replenish the ATMs,” he said, and there were several nods of agreement. “What about getting cash to the branches?”
The director tapped his pen again. “We have sixty-three armoured cars and vans, of which eighteen are out of service. That leaves forty-five, but Personnel tells me we have only thirty-eight drivers.”
“We can commandeer more drivers if ne
cessary,” said Fielding.
“In that case we have forty-five vans and cars. If it takes each car thirty minutes to make a delivery, it will take just two hours to resupply each branch. I would add, however, that following last night’s events, we will need extra security when deliveries are taking place.”
George Ballantine coughed. “If I may interrupt, Mr Chairman, security won’t be a problem. I have arranged with the police for armed guards as and when we deliver, and I have brought in two private security firms. We will cope.”
“Good, good,” said Fielding. “The only problem is, do we have enough cash. Charlie?”
Devlin exhaled deeply. “That depends on what the Banking Commissioner decides,” he said. “If he comes through and supports us with the exchange fund, we can borrow all we need from the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank and from Standard Chartered. Once the crowds see we’re paying out, confidence will soon return.”
Fielding nodded. “I hope to hear from the Banking Commissioner within the hour,” he said. “I think one of our main priorities must be to inform our customers what is happening. Alex, I want you to arrange radio and television interviews for nine o’clock, and I want posters printed so that we can stick them up on the windows. In Chinese, of course. They should explain what is happening and that their money is safe.”
One of the public relations consultants raised a hand. Fielding smiled at his schoolroom approach and asked him to speak.
“I think you should consider the international ramifications of this,” said a suave man in his forties, with slicked-back hair and horn-rimmed spectacles. “I suggest you call in the major foreign correspondents – The Times, the Financial Times, the Independent, Wall Street Journal, New York Times. Get them here and speak to them personally. You’re going to need all the overseas support you can get.”
“Good idea,” said Fielding. “Get on to it, will you, Alex?”
Perman nodded and scribbled on his notepad.
“I’d recommend seeing the analysts, too. They’re going to want to know what effect this is likely to have on the share price, short and long term.”
“Good thinking,” said Fielding. “Charlie, can you organise that? Get one of your boys in corporate finance to talk to them as soon as possible. If the small investors sell, maybe we can persuade the institutions to buy.”
“Will do,” said Devlin.
A telephone rang just behind Fielding and he turned round in his chair and picked up the receiver. It was his secretary, telling him that the Banking Commissioner was on the line.
“Put him on, Faith,” Fielding said, slumping back in his chair. His head was throbbing worse than ever, and it felt as if the stitches were cutting into his skin. As he listened to the voice at the other end of the line, his face went grey and he closed his eyes. The men around the table could tell it was bad news even before Fielding replaced the receiver and addressed them.
“Gentlemen, I’m afraid I have to tell you that there will be no support from the Banking Commissioner. The Governor has ruled out using the exchange fund to support the bank.”
There was a chorus of dismay from around the table, and the sound of hands being slapped against the wood. “That can’t be right,” said one director. Another sat with his head in his hands.
“There’s no need for me to tell you that this puts a totally different complexion on the situation,” said Fielding. “Without government support we will be unlikely to find anyone willing to lend us cash to see us over the next few days.”
“Did they say why?” asked Devlin.
Fielding shook his aching head. “No, but reading between the lines, I think the Chinese government has vetoed it. Ever since they won the airport fiasco they’ve been dying to flex their political muscles again. I think they want us to go to the wall to prove a point. It’s up to us to prove them wrong. Ideas, gentlemen?”
Fielding looked at a wall of blank faces. He raised his eyebrows but the action caused him to flinch with pain. “Gentlemen?” he repeated.
It was Devlin who spoke first. “I can go to the Hongkong and Shanghai and Standard Chartered and see if they’ll help us without a government guarantee. I don’t hold out much hope, though.”
“A rights issue?” said one of the directors.
“With the share price in free fall?” said Devlin scornfully.
“What about asking one of the Seven Sisters for help? Or the Cathay Bank?” said another director.
“You think the Chinese would bail out a gweilo bank?” asked Fielding. “I’d have thought they would take great pleasure in seeing us go under. Especially as most of the depositors who take their funds from our accounts will be putting them straight back into the Bank of China.”
The telephone rang and Fielding turned to answer it. It was his secretary again. Fielding nodded as he spoke to her and replaced the receiver.
“Gentlemen, it appears I have visitors. Charles, please chair the meeting in my absence.” Fielding eased himself out of his chair and walked slowly to the door of the boardroom, his shoulders sagging as if he carried the weight of the world on them.
Neil Coleman could think of a million things he’d rather be doing than standing in front of the headquarters of the Kowloon and Canton Bank in full riot gear, but he hadn’t been given the choice. Every constable and officer had been called in for duty and assigned to one or other of the bank’s branches. It didn’t matter in the least to his superiors that the previous day Coleman had been chasing a Mercedes loaded with the bank’s gold and had almost been blown up by a Chinese gunboat. The priority now was to make sure that a lid was kept on the volatile Chinese population until the banking system had been stabilised by whatever means necessary. Coleman knew that the Chinese had every reason not to trust the colony’s British administrators. The last time the Banking Commissioner had said there was no need to panic was at the time of the BCCI scandal in 1991, and thousands of Hong Kong investors had lost their savings by taking the administration at its word. And they remembered, too, the way the Stock Exchange had shut its doors for four days during the worldwide stock market crash in 1987, leaving local investors locked into a falling market while the rest of the world sold shares as if there were no tomorrow. It was eight o’clock in the morning and the queue of anxious investors wound twice around the base of the building and for several hundred yards down Queen’s Road. There were 200 men in riot gear, with four expatriate inspectors and a superintendent. Two water-cannons were standing by and there were five dark blue minibuses containing men with the force’s latest acquisitions – electronic riot shields which could deliver more than 50,000 volts of electricity. All the men had been issued with 120,000 volt stun guns and there were more than a dozen constables standing close to the superintendent with CS gas grenades.
Like the rest of the men, Coleman was wearing black overalls and a crash helmet with a protective visor and thick rubber boots. His gun was holstered on his side, a thin link chain connecting its butt to the belt. He was soaked with sweat and unable to wipe his brow.
Coleman had been told to write a full report on Sunday’s off-duty activities, and he’d had to do more than a little creative writing. There had been no way he could explain why he had been hanging around outside William Fielding’s house on raceday, or why he had followed Chung and Fielding to the depository. He’d been economical with the truth and said that he’d been driving by the depository when he’d seen a Mercedes leave, and that it was the car and its darkened windows which had sparked his interest. His report said that he’d waited outside the depository for just half an hour before he called it in and went off in pursuit of the Mercedes and the Toyota. Nobody had so far queried his description of Sunday’s events and if everything worked out he’d end up a hero with a Commissioner’s commendation.
He’d assumed that CID would want him to help with their investigation into the robbery, but two Chinese detectives had brusquely told him that he’d be interviewed in due course and that his s
tatement was all they needed at present. He’d only been in bed for five hours when he was ordered to report to Wan Chai police station where he’d been issued with riot gear. When Coleman had been pursuing the Mercedes through the New Territories he’d had no idea that he was involved in something that could lead to major riots and violence in the city. The Chinese seemed to be reacting to the robbery with far more emotion than they had responded to the killings in Tiananmen Square. Then there had been marches, slogans politely shouted and token hunger strikes, but there had been no riots, no petrol bombs, no attacks on police and buildings. When it came down to it, the Chinese cared more about hard cash than democracy, Coleman thought, hefting his long riot baton in his hands.
A young Chinese man standing in line was talking earnestly to an old woman with an empty shopping bag. He was shaking his head but eventually he nodded and she handed over a bunch of yellow notes and he allowed her to take his place in the queue. The price for a spot near the front had now grown to 8,000 HK dollars.
The superintendent came over and stood by Coleman’s shoulder. “I’ve just heard that the government has ruled out a rescue,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “We’re bringing more men in. These people are going to erupt when they find out.”
Faith was standing by her desk, a worried expression on her face. “William, there are three representatives from the Cathay Bank.” She nodded over to the reception area and Fielding looked over to see three men sitting with straight backs and placid faces. She gave him three simple business cards. Each had the logo of the Cathay Bank, one of the most powerful Chinese financial institutions. All three men held the position of director. Fielding went over and introduced himself. They stood up as they saw him coming and each politely shook hands with him. The man in the middle of the trio was the oldest, a short man in a Mao-style black suit, the style simple but the workmanship first class, as if a Savile Row tailor had been commissioned to stitch the material. On the left was a good-looking Chinese man in his mid-thirties who wore a made-to-measure pinstripe suit and carried a slim black briefcase. He spoke perfect English with a mid-American accent and he introduced his two companions to Fielding. The man on the right of the group was mainland Chinese, wearing an ill-fitting grey suit and a white shirt with a worn collar. One of his front teeth was gold and it glinted as he smiled and bowed his head.
The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 58