Noble House

  “Sure, thank you, Lim.”

  Once Lim was in the traffic he reached under the dash and touched a hidden switch. At once Bartlett’s voice came through the speaker.

  “… going to rain?”

  “I don’t know, Linc. The radio said it would but everyone’s praying.” A hesitation, then coldly, “I still think you’re wrong.”

  Lim settled back happily. His trusted older brother Lim Chu, majordomo to the tai-pans of the Noble House, had arranged for another younger brother, an expert radio mechanic, to install this bypass switch so that he could overhear his passengers. It had been done at great cost to protect the tai-pan and older brother Lim had ordered it was never to be used when the tai-pan was in the car. Never never never. It never had been. Yet. Lim felt queasy at the thought of being caught but their wish to know—of course to protect—overcame their anxiety. Oh oh oh, he chortled, Golden Pubics is certainly in a rage!

  Casey was seething.

  “Let’s quit this, Linc, huh?” she said. “Since our breakfast meeting you’ve been like a bear with a sore ass!”

  “And what about you?” Bartlett glared at her. “We’re going with Gornt—the way I want it.”

  “This’s my deal, you’ve said that fifty times, you promised, you’ve always listened before. Jesus, we’re on the same side. I’m only trying to protect you. I know you’re wrong.”

  “You think I’m wrong. And it’s all because of Orlanda!”

  “That’s a crock! I went through my reasons fifty times. If Ian gets out of the trap then we’re better off to go with him than Gornt.”

  Bartlett’s face was cold. “We’ve never had a bust before, Casey, but if you want to vote your shares, I’ll vote mine and your ass’ll be in a vise before you can count to ten!”

  Casey’s heart was thumping. Ever since their breakfast meeting with Seymour Steigler, the day had been heavy going. Bartlett was adamant that their best course lay with Gornt and nothing she could say would dissuade him. After an hour of trying she had closed the meeting and gone off to deal with a pile of overnight telexes, then, remembering suddenly at the last moment, had rushed out in a panic and bought her hat.

  When she had met Bartlett in the foyer with great trepidation, wanting the hat to please him, she had begun to make peace but he had interrupted her. “Forget it,” he had said. “So we disagree. So what?”

  She had waited and waited but he hadn’t even noticed. “What do you think?”

  “I told you. Gornt’s best for us.”

  “I meant my hat.”

  She had seen his blank stare.

  “Oh that’s what’s different! Hey, it’s okay.”

  She had felt like tearing it off and hurling it at him. “It’s Parisian,” she had said halfheartedly. “It says hats and gloves on the invitation, remember? It’s a crock but Ian said that la—”

  “What makes you think he can get out of the trap?”

  “He’s clever. And the tai-pan.”

  “Gornt’s got him on the run.”

  “It looks that way. So let’s forget it for now. Maybe we’d better wait outside. The car’s coming at noon promptly.”

  “Just a minute, Casey. What have you got cooking?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know you better than anyone. What do you have on the burner?”

  Casey hesitated, unsure of herself, wondering if she should reveal the First Central ploy. But there’s no reason to, she reassured herself. If Ian gets the credit and squeezes out, I’ll be the first to know. Ian promised. Then Linc can cover his 2 million with Gornt and they can buy back in to cover their selling short and make a huge profit. At the same time Ian, Linc and I get in at the bottom of the market and make our own killing. I’ll be the first to know after Murtagh and Ian. Ian promised. Yes, yes he did. But can I trust him?

  A wave of nausea went through her. Can you trust anyone in business here, or anywhere? Man or woman?

  At dinner last night she had trusted him. Influenced by the wine and food she had told him about her relationship with Linc, and about the bargain they had made.

  “That’s a bit rough, isn’t it? On both of you?”

  “Yes, yes and no. We were both over twenty-one, Ian, and I wanted so much more than being just Mrs. Linc Bartlett, a mother-mistress-servant-dishwasher-diaperwasher-slave and a left-at-home. That’s the thing that kills off any woman. You’re always left. At home. So home becomes a prison in the end, and it drives you mad, being trapped until death do us part! I’ve seen it too many times.”

  “Someone has to look after the home and the children. It’s the man’s job to make the money. It’s the wife’s j—”

  “Yes. Most times. But not for me. I’m not prepared to accept that and I don’t think it’s wrong to want a different sort of life. I’m the wage earner for my family. My sister’s husband died so there’s my sister and her kids, and my Ma and uncle are getting on. I’m educated and good and better than most in business. The world’s changing, everything’s changing, Ian.”

  “I said before, not here thank God!”

  Casey remembered how she had readied to return measure for measure, but had bitten back the old Casey and said instead, “Ian, what about the Hag? How did she do it? What was her secret? How did she become more equal than anyone?”

  “She kept her hands on the purse strings. Absolutely. Oh she conceded outward position and face to Culum and following taipans but she kept the books, she hired and fired through him—she was the strength of that family. When Culum was dying, it was easy to persuade him to make her tai-pan. He gave her the Struan chop, family chop and all the reins and all the secrets. But, wisely, she kept it all very secret and after Culum she only appointed those she could control, and never once gave any one of them the purse strings, or real power, not until she herself was dying.”

  “But ruling through others, is that enough?”

  “Power is power and I don’t think it matters so long as you rule. For a woman—after a certain age—power only comes with control of the purse. But you’re right about drop dead money. Hong Kong’s the only place on earth you can get it to keep it. With money, real money, you can be more equal than anyone. Even Linc Bartlett. I like him, by the way. I like him very much.”

  “I love him. Our partnership’s worked, Ian. I think it’s been good for Linc—oh how I hope so. He’s our tai-pan and I’m not trying to become one. I just want to succeed as a woman. He’s helped me tremendously, of course he has. Without him I’d never have made it. So we’re in business together, until my birthday. November 25 this year. That’s D Day. That’s when we both decide.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. Oh I love Linc, more than ever, but we’re not lovers.”

  Later, coming back on the ferry, she had been sorely tempted to ask him about Orlanda. She had decided not to. “Perhaps I should have,” she muttered out loud.

  “Eh?”

  “Oh!” She came out of her reverie, finding herself in the limo on the car ferry en route to Hong Kong. “Sorry, Linc, I was daydreaming.”

  She looked at him and saw that he was as handsome as ever, even though now he stared back coldly. You’re more attractive to me than either Ian or Quillan, she thought. And yet, right now, I’d prefer to pillow with either of them than with you. Because you’re a bastard.

  “Do you want to have at it?” he said. “You want to vote your shares against mine?”

  Casey stared back at him, enraged. Tell him to go screw, the devil half of her screamed, he needs you more than you need him, you’ve got the reins of Par-Con, you know where the bodies are buried, you can take apart what you helped to create. But the other half of her urged caution. She remembered what the tai-pan had said about this man’s world, and about power. And about the Hag.

  So she dropped her gaze a moment and allowed tears to seep. At once she saw the change in him.

  “Jesus, Casey, don’t cry, I’m sorry??
?” he was saying and his arms reached out for her. “Jesus, you’ve never cried before … Listen, we’ve been through the mill a dozen times, hell, fifty times, there’s no need to get so uptight. We’ve got Struan’s and Gornt locked into battle. There’s no difference in the end. We’ll still be the Noble House, but up front, up front Gornt’s better, I know I’m right.”

  Oh no, you’re not, she thought contentedly, warm in his embrace.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  12:32 P.M.:

  Brian Kwok was screaming and beyond terror. He knew he was in prison and in hell and it had gone on forever. His whole insane world was an instant of never-ending blinding light, everything blood-colored, the cell walls floor ceiling blood-colored, no doors or windows, and the floor awash with blood, but everything twisted and all upside down for somehow he was lying on the ceiling, his whole being in torment, frantically trying to claw his way down to normality, each time falling back into the mess of his own vomit, then the next instant once more in the blackness, grinding pulsating voices laughing, drowning out his friend, drowning out Robert who pleaded with the devils to stop stop for the love of God stop, then once more the eye-tearing head-exploding bloodlight, seeing the blood waters that would not fall, groping desperately, stretching down for the chairs and table that sat in the blood water but falling back, always falling back, floor meeting ceiling everything wrong upside sideways madness madness the devil’s invention …

  Bloodlight and darkness and laughter and stench and blood again, on and on and on …

  He knew he had begun raving years ago, begging them to stop, begging them to let him go, swearing he would do anything but let him go, that he was not the one they sought, not due for hell … It’s a mistake, it’s all a mistake, no it’s not a mistake I was the enemy who was the enemy what enemy? Oh please let the world turn right side up and let me lie where I should be lying up there, down there, where oh Jesus Christ Robert Christ help, help meeeeee …

  “All right, Brian. I’m here. I’m putting everything right. I am. I’m putting everything right!” He heard the compassionate words come soaring out of the maelstrom, drowning the laughter. The enveloping blood went away. He felt his friend’s hand, cool and gentle, and he clutched it, terrified lest it was another dream within a dream within a dream, oh Christ Robert don’t leave me….

  Oh Jesus it’s impossible! Look there! The ceiling’s there where it should be and I’m here, I’m lying on the bed where I should be and the room’s dim but soft where it should be, everything’s clean, flowers, blinds drawn but flowers and the water properly in the vase and I’m right side up, I’m right side up. “Oh Christ, Robert…”

  “Hello, chum,” Robert Armstrong said gently.

  “Oh Jesus Robert thank you thank you, I’m right side up oh thank you thank you …”

  It was hard to talk and he felt weak, his strength gone, but it was glorious just to be here, out of the nightmare, his friend’s face misted but real. And smoking, am I smoking? Oh yes. Yes I think I remember Robert left me a packet of cigarettes though those devils came and found them and took them away last week … thank God for smoke … When was it, last month, last week, when? I remember yes but Robert came back again and gave me a secret drag last month, was it last month? “Oh that tastes so good, so good and the peace, no nightmare, Robert, not seeing blood up there, the ceiling awash, not lying up there but down here not in hell oh thank you thank you …”

  “I must go now.”

  “Oh Christ don’t go they may come back no don’t go sit and stay please stay. Look, we’ll talk, yes, that’s it, talk, you wanted to talk … don’t leave. Please talk …”

  “All right, old friend, then talk. I won’t go while we talk. What do you want to tell me, eh? Certainly I’ll stay while you talk. Tell me about Ningtok and your father. Didn’t you go back to see him?”

  “Oh yes, I went back to see him once, yes, just before he died, my friends helped me, they helped me it only took a day, my friends helped me … that, that was so long ago….”

  “Did Ian go with you?”

  “Ian? No it … was it Ian? I can’t remember … Ian, the tai-pan? Someone went with me. Was it you, Robert? Ah, with me in Ning-tok? No it wasn’t you or Ian it was John Chancellor from Ottawa. He hates the Soviets too, Robert, they’re the great enemy. Even in school, and devil Chiang Kai-shek and his assassins Fong-fong and … and … Oh I’m so tired and so pleased to see you….”

  “Tell me about Fong-fong.”

  “Oh him. He was a bad man, Robert, him and all his spy group they were against us, the PRC, and pro-Chiang, I know; don’t worry as soon as I read the … What are you asking me, eh? What?”

  “It was that rotten Grant, eh?”

  “Yes, yes it was and I almost fainted when he knew I was … I … where was I oh yes but I stopped Fong-fong at once.… Oh yes.”

  “Who did you tell?”

  “Tsu-yan. I whispered it to Tsu-yan. He’s back in Peking now … Oh he was very high up, though he didn’t know who I really was, Robert, I was all very hush-hush.… Yes then it was in school, my father sent me after old Sh’in was murdered … thugs came and flogged him to death in the village square because he was one of us, one of the people, one of Chairman Mao’s people, and when I was in Hong Kong I stayed with … with Uncle … I went to school … and he schooled me at night.… Can I sleep now?”

  “Who was your uncle, Kar-shun, and where did he live?”

  “I don’t … don’t remember….”

  “Then I must go. Next week I’ll come ba—”

  “No wait, Robert, wait, it was Wu Tsa-fing, on … on Fourth Alley in Aberdeen … number 8, lucky 8, fifth floor. There, I can remember! Don’t go!”

  “Very good, old chum. Very good. Were you at school long in Hong Kong?” Robert Armstrong kept his voice soft and kind and his heart went out to his friend that once was. He was astonished that Brian had broken so easily, so quickly.

  The client’s mind was open now, ready for him to take apart. He kept his eyes on the shell of the man who lay on the bed, encouraging him to remember so that the others who listened secretly could record all the facts and figures and names and places, the undercover truths and half-truths that were spilling out and would continue to spill out until Brian Kar-shun Kwok was a husk. And he knew that he would continue to probe, to cajole or threaten or become impatient or angry or pretend to want to leave or curse the jailer away who would interrupt, if necessary. With Crosse and Sinders monitoring the in-depth debriefing, he was just a tool like Brian Kwok had been a tool for others who had used his mind and talents for their own purposes. His job was just to be the medium, to keep the client talking, to bring him back when he rambled or became incoherent, to be his sole friend and his sole prop in this unreal universe, the one who brought the truth forth—like John Chancellor of Ottawa, who’s he? Where does he fit? I don’t know yet.

  We’ll get everything the client has now, he thought. We’ll get all his contacts, his mentors, enemies and friends. Poor old Fong-fong and the lads. We’ll never see them again—unless they turn up as agents of the other side. What a rotten filthy business this is, selling out your friends, working with the enemy who, everyone knows, wants you enslaved.

  “… in Vancouver it was wonderful, wonderful, Robert. There was a girl there who … Yes and I almost married her but Sensible Tok, Sensible was my 489, he lived … he lived on … oh yes it was Pedder Street in Chinatown and he owned the Hoho-tok Restaurant … yes Sensible Tok said I should honor Chairman Mao before any quai loh…. Oh how I loved her but he said it was the quai lohs who raped China for centuries.… You know that’s true that’s true….”

  “Yes that’s true,” he said, humoring him. “Sensible Tok was your only friend in Canada?”

  “Oh no Robert I have dozens….”

  Armstrong listened, astounded by the wealth of information about the inner workings of the Canadian Mounted Police, and the extent of Chinese Communist infiltrat
ion throughout the Americas and Europe and particularly on the Western seaboard—Vancouver, Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego—wherever a Chinese restaurant or shop or business existed there was the potential of pressure, of funds and most of all of knowledge. “… and the Wo Tuk on Gerrard Street in London’s the Center where I … when I was … Oh my head aches I’m so thirsty….”

  Armstrong gave him the water that contained stimulant. When he or Crosse considered the moment correct, the client would be given the thirst-quenching, delicately flavored Chinese tea that was his favorite. This contained the soporific.

  Then it was up to Crosse and Sinders what happened, whether it was more of the same, more of the Red Room or the end of the exercise and then, carefully, the gradual bringing back of the client to reality, with great care, so that no permanent damage was done.

  It’s up to them, he thought. Sinders was right to put on the pressure while we’ve time. The client knows too much. He’s too well trained, and if we’d had to give him back without knowing what he knows, well that would have been irresponsible. We’ve got to keep ahead.

  Armstrong lit two cigarettes and inhaled his own deeply. I’ll give up smoking for Christmas. I can’t now, not with all this horror. It was Brian Kwok’s wailing screams so soon, barely twenty minutes after being put into the room for the second time that had shattered him. He had been watching through spyholes with Crosse and Sinders, watching the insanity of trying to reach the ceiling that was the floor that was the ceiling, astonished that someone so strong, so well trained as Brian Kwok would break so quickly. “It’s impossible,” he had muttered.

  “He may be faking,” Sinders said.

  “No,” Crosse had said. “No. It’s real, for him. I know.”

  “I don’t believe he’d break so easily.”

  “You will, Robert.” And then when Brian Kwok had been carried out to be brought to this room, clean and nice and the Red Room had been mopped clean, Roger Crosse had said, “All right, Robert, try it, then you’ll see.”

  “No, no thanks. It’s like something out of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari,” he had muttered. “No thanks!”