“It was a great day.”
“You think the tai-pan’s going to pull it off? The General Stores takeover?”
“Monday will tell.” Bartlett went to the reception desk. “Mr. Banastasio please?”
The handsome Eurasian assistant manager said, “Just a moment please. Oh yes, he changed his room again. Now it’s 832.” He handed him a house phone. Bartlett dialed.
“Yeah?”
“Vincenzo? Linc. I’m downstairs.”
“Hey, Linc, good to hear your voice. Casey with you?”
“Sure.”
“You want to come up?”
“On our way.” Bartlett went back to Casey.
“You sure you want me along?”
“He asked for you.” Bartlett led the way to the elevator, thinking of Orlanda and their date later, thinking of Biltzmann and Gornt and Taipei tomorrow and whether or not he should ask Dunross if he could take her. Shit, life’s complicated suddenly. “It’ll only be a few minutes,” he said, “then it’s cocktails with the tai-pan. The weekend’s going to be interesting. And next week.”
“You out for dinner tonight?”
“Yes. We should have breakfast though. Seymour needs straightening out and as I’m off for a couple of days we’d better have our signals straight.”
They crowded into the elevator. Casey casually avoided being trampled on and ground her heel into her assailant’s instep. “Oh so sorry,” she said sweetly, then muttered “Dew neh loh moh” which Peter Marlowe had taught her this afternoon, just loud enough for the woman to hear. She saw the sudden flush. Hastily the woman shoved her way out at the mezzanine floor and Casey knew she had won a great victory. Amused, she glanced at Bartlett but he was lost in thought, staring into space, and she wondered very much what the real problem was. Orlanda?
On the eighth floor they got out. She followed Bartlett down the corridor. “You know what this’s all about, Linc? What Banastasio wants?”
“He said he just wanted to say hi and pass the time of day.” Bartlett pressed the button. The door opened.
Banastasio was a good-looking man with iron-gray hair and very dark eyes. He welcomed them cordially. “Hey, Casey, you’ve lost weight—you’re looking great. Drink?” He waved a hand at the bar. It was stocked with everything. Casey fixed herself a martini after opening a can of beer for Bartlett, lost in thought. Peter Marlowe’s right. So’s the tai-pan. So’s Linc. All I have to do is decide. By when? Very soon. Today, tomorrow? By Tuesday dinner for sure. Absolutely one hundred percent for sure and meanwhile maybe I’d better begin a few diversionary raids.
“How’s it going?” Banastasio was saying.
“Fine. With you?”
“Great.” Banastasio sipped a Coke then reached forward and turned on a small tape recorder. Out of it came a confusing mishmash of voices, the sort of background heard at any busy cocktail party.
“Just a habit, Linc, Casey, when I want to talk private,” Banastasio said quietly.
Bartlett stared at him. “You think this place’s bugged?”
“Maybe, maybe not. You never know who could be listening, huh?”
Bartlett glanced at Casey then back at Banastasio. “What’s on your mind, Vincenzo?”
Banastasio smiled. “How’s Par-Con?” the man asked.
“Same as ever—great,” Bartlett said. “Our growth rate will be better’n forecast.”
“By 7 percent,” Casey added, all her senses equally sharpened.
“You going to deal with Struan’s or Rothwell-Gornt?”
“We’re working on it.” Bartlett covered his surprise. “Isn’t this new for you, Vincenzo? Asking about deals before they happen?”
“You going to deal with Struan’s or Rothwell-Gornt?”
Bartlett watched the cold eyes and the strangely menacing smile. Casey was equally shocked. “When the deal’s done I’ll tell you. The same time I tell the other stockholders.”
The smile did not change. The eyes got colder. “The boys and I’d like to get invol—”
“What boys?”
Banastasio sighed. “We’ve got a good piece of change in Par-Con, Linc, and now we’d like to figure in some of the up-front decisions. We figure I should have a seat on the board. And on the Finance Committee and the New Acquisitions Committee.”
Bartlett and Casey stared at him openly. “That was never part of the stock deal,” Bartlett told him. “Up front you said it was just an investment.”
“That’s right,” Casey added, her voice sounding thin to her. “You wrote us you were just an investor an—”
“Times’ve changed, little lady. Now we want in. Got it?” The man’s voice was harsh. “Just one seat, Linc. That much stock in General Motors and I’d have two seats.”
“We’re not General Motors.”
“Sure. Sure, we know. But what we want isn’t out of line. We want Par-Con to grow faster. Maybe I ca—”
“It’s growing just fine. Don’t you think it’d be bet—” Again Banastasio turned his bleak gaze on her. Casey stopped. Bartlett’s fists began to clench but he held them still. Carefully.
Banastasio said, “It’s settled.” The smile came back. “I’m on the board from today, right?”
“Wrong. Directors get elected by the stockholders at the annual general meeting,” Bartlett said, his voice raw. “Not before. There’s no vacancy.”
Banastasio laughed. “Maybe there will be.”
“Do you want to say that again?”
Abruptly Banastasio hardened. “Listen, Linc, that’s not a threat, just a possibility. I can be good on the board. I’ve got connections. And I want to put in my two cents’ worth here and there.”
“About what?”
“Deals. For instance, Par-Con goes with Gornt.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
“A little nudge from us and Dunross’ll be on the street. Gornt’s our boy, Linc. We checked and he’s better.”
Bartlett got up. Casey followed, her knees very weak. Banastasio didn’t move. “I’ll think about all this,” Bartlett said. “As of right now it’s a toss-up if we make a deal with either one.”
Banastasio’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“I’m not convinced that either’s good for us. Right, Casey?”
“Yes, Linc.”
“My vote says Gornt. Got it?”
“Go screw.” Bartlett turned to go.
“Just a minute!” Banastasio stood up and came closer. “No one wants trouble, not me, not the boys, n—”
“What boys?”
Again the other man sighed. “C’mon, Linc, you’re over twenty-one. You’ve had a good ride. We don’t want to make waves, just money.”
“We have that in common. We’ll buy back your stock and give you a profit of si—”
“No deal. It’s not for sale.” Another sigh. “We bought in when you needed dough. We paid a fair price and you used our cash to expand. Now we want a piece of the exec action. Got it?”
“I’ll put it to the stockholders at the annual gen—”
“Goddamnit, now!”
“Goddamnit no!” Bartlett was ready and very dangerous. “Got it?”
Banastasio looked at Casey, his eyes flat like a reptile’s. “That your vote too, Miss Executive Vice-President and Treasurer?”
“Yes,” she said, surprised that her voice sounded firm. “No seat on the board, Mr. Banastasio. If it comes to a vote, my stock’s against you and totally against Gornt.”
“When we get control, you’re fired.”
“When you get control, I’ll already have left.” Casey walked toward the door, astonished that her legs worked.
Bartlett stood in front of the other man, on guard. “See you around,” he said.
“You’d better change your mind!”
“You’d better stay the hell out of Par-Con.” Bartlett turned and followed Casey out of the room.
At the elevator he said, “Jesus!”
“Yes,
” she muttered as helplessly.
“We’d … we’d better talk.”
“Sure. I think I need a drink. Jesus, Linc, that man petrified me. I’ve never been so frightened in my whole life.” She shook her head, as though trying to clear it. “That was like a goddamn nightmare.”
In the bar on the top floor she ordered a martini and he a beer and when the drinks had been silently consumed, he ordered another round. All the while their minds had been sifting, pitting facts against theories, changing the theories.
Bartlett shifted in his chair. She looked across at him. “Ready for what I think?” she asked.
“Sure, sure, Casey. Go ahead.”
“There’s always been a rumor he’s Mafia or connected with Mafia and after our little talk I’d say that’s a good bet. Mafia jumps us to narcotics and all sorts of evil. Theory: maybe it also jumps us somehow to the guns?”
The tiny lines beside Bartlett’s eyes crinkled. “I reached that too. Next?”
“Fact: if Banastasio’s scared of being bugged that jumps us to surveillance. That means FBI.”
“Or CIA.”
“Or CIA. Fact: if he’s Mafia and if the CIA or FBI’re involved, we’re in a game we’ve no right to be in, with nowhere to go but down. Now, as to what he wan—” Casey stopped. She gasped.
“What?”
“I just … I just remembered Rosemont, you remember him from the party, Stanley Rosemont, the tall, good-looking, gray-haired man from the consulate? We met on the ferry yesterday, yesterday afternoon. By chance. Maybe it’s a coincidence, maybe not, but now that I think of it he brought up Banastasio, said his friend Ed someone, also at the consulate, knew him slightly—and when I said he was arriving today he was knocked for a loop.” She recapped her conversation. “I never thought much about it at the time … but the consulate and what he said adds up: CIA.”
“Got to be. Sure. And if…” He stopped too. “Come to think of it, Ian brought up Banastasio out of the blue too. Tuesday, in the lobby when you were at the phone, just before we went to the gold vaults.”
After a pause she said, “Maybe we’re in real deep shit! Fact: we got a murder, kidnapping, guns, Banastasio, Mafia, John Chen. Come to think of it, John Chen and Tsu-yan were very friendly with that bum.” Her eyes widened. “Banastasio and John Chen’s killing. Does that tie? From what the papers’ve said, the Werewolves don’t sound like Chinese—the ear bit. That’s, that’s brutal.”
Bartlett sipped his beer, lost in thought. “Gornt? What about Gornt? Why did Banastasio go for him and not Struan’s?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try this for size, Casey. Say Banastasio’s end play is guns, or narcotics, or both guns and narcotics. Both companies would be good for him. Struan’s have ships and a huge complex at the airport that dominates inward and outward cargoes, great for smuggling. Gornt has ships and wharfing too. And Gornt’s got All Asia Airways. An in with Asia’s major feeder airline would give him—them—what they need. The airline goes to Bangkok, India, Vietnam, Cambodia, Japan—wherever!”
“And connects here with Pan-Am, TWA, JAL and all places east, west, north and south! And if we help Gornt to smash Struan’s, the two companies together give them everything.”
“So, back to the sixty-four-dollar question: what do we do?” Bartlett asked.
“Couldn’t we play a waiting game? The Struan-Gornt contest will be solved next week at the latest.”
“For this skirmish, we need information—and the right counterforces. Different guns, big guns, guns we don’t have.” He sipped his beer, even more thoughtful. “We’d better get some top-level advice. And help. Fast. It’s Armstrong and the English cops—or Rosemont and the CIA.”
“Or both?”
“Or both.”
Dunross got out of the Daimler and hurried into police headquarters. “Evening, sir,” the young Australian duty inspector on the desk said. “Sorry you lost the fifth—I heard Bluey White was carpeted for interference. Can’t trust a bloody Aussie, eh?”
Dunross smiled. “He won, Inspector. The stewards ruled the race was won fair and square. I’ve an appointment with Mr. Crosse.”
“Yes sir, square but not fair dinkum. Top floor, third on the left. Good luck next Saturday, sir.”
Crosse met him on the top floor. “Evening. Come on in. Drink?”
“No thanks. Good of you to see me at once. Evening, Mr. Sinders.” They shook hands. Dunross had never been in Crosse’s office before. The walls seemed as drab as the man and when the door was shut on the three of them the atmosphere seemed to close in even more.
“Please sit down,” Crosse said. “Pity about Noble Star—we were both on her.”
“She’ll be worth another flutter on Saturday.”
“You’re going to ride her?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Both men smiled.
“What can we do for you?” Crosse asked.
Dunross put his full attention on Sinders. “I can’t give you new files—the impossible I can’t do. But I can give you something—I don’t know what, yet, but I’ve just received a package from AMG.”
Both men were startled. Sinders said, “Hand-delivered?”
Dunross hesitated. “Hand-delivered. Now, please, no more questions till I’ve finished.”
Sinders lit his pipe and chuckled. “Just like AMG to have a bolt-hole, Roger. He always was clever, damn him. Sorry, please go on.”
“The message from AMG said the information was of very special importance and to be passed on to the prime minister personally or the current head of MI-6, Edward Sinders, at my convenience—and if I considered it politic.” In the dead silence, Dunross took a deep breath. “Since you understand barter, I’ll trade you—you directly, in secret, in the presence of the governor alone—whatever the hell ‘it’ is. In return Brian Kwok is allowed out and over the border, if he wants to go, so we can deal with Tiptop.”
The silence deepened. Sinders puffed his pipe. He glanced at Crosse. “Roger?”
Roger Crosse was thinking about it—and what information was so special that it was for Sinders or the P.M. only. “I think you could consider Ian’s proposal,” he said smoothly. “At leisure.”
“No leisure,” Dunross said sharply. “The money’s urgent, and the release is clearly considered urgent. We can’t delay past Monday at 10:00 A.M. when the ban—”
“Perhaps Tiptop and money don’t come into the equation at all,” Sinders interrupted, his voice deliberately brittle. “It doesn’t matter a jot or a tittle to SI or MI-6 if all Hong Kong rots. Have you any idea the sort of value a senior superintendent in SI—especially a man with Brian Kwok’s qualifications and experience—could have to the enemy, if in fact Brian Kwok is under arrest as you think and this Tiptop claims? Have you also considered that such an enemy traitor’s information to us about his contacts and them, could be of great importance to the whole realm? Eh?”
“Is that your answer?”
“Did Mrs. Gresserhoff hand-deliver the package?”
“Are you prepared to barter?”
Crosse said irritably, “Who’s Gresserhoff?”
“I don’t know,” Sinders told him. “Other than that she’s the vanished recipient of the second phone call from AMG’s assistant, Kiernan. We’re tracing her with the help of the Swiss police.” His mouth smiled at Dunross. “Mrs. Gresserhoff delivered the package to you?”
“No,” Dunross said. That’s not a real lie, he assured himself. It was Riko Anjin.
“Who did?”
“I’m prepared to tell you that after we have concluded our deal.”
“No deal,” Crosse said.
Dunross began to get up.
“Just a moment, Roger,” Sinders said and Dunross sat back. The MI-6 man tapped the pipe stem against his tobacco-discolored teeth. Dunross kept his face guileless, knowing he was in the hands of experts.
At length Sinders said, “Mr. Dunross, are you prepared to swear for
mally under the perjury conditions of the Official Secrets Act that you do not have possession of the original AMG files?”
“Yes,” Dunross said at once, quite prepared to twist the truth now—AMG had always had the originals, he had always been sent the top copy. If and when it came to a formal moment under oath, that would be another matter entirely. “Next?”
“Monday would be impossible.”
Dunross kept his eyes on Sinders. “Impossible because Brian’s being interrogated?”
“Any captured enemy asset would immediately be questioned, of course.”
“And Brian will be a very hard nut to take apart.”
“If he’s the asset, you’d know that better than us. You’ve been friends a long time.”
“Yes, and I swear to God I still think it’s impossible. Never once has Brian been anything other than an upright, staunch British policeman. How is it possible?”
“How were Philby, Klaus Fuchs, Sorge, Rudolf Abel, Blake and all the others possible?”
“How long would you need?”
Sinders shrugged, watching him.
Dunross watched him back. The silence became aching.
“You destroyed the originals?”
“No, and I must tell you I also noticed the difference between all the copies I gave you and the one you intercepted. I’d planned to call AMG to ask him why the difference.”
“How often were you in contact with him?”
“Once or twice a year.”
“What did you know about him? Who suggested him to you?”
“Mr. Sinders, I’m quite prepared to answer your questions, I realize it’s my duty to answer them, but the time’s not appropriate tonight be—”
“Perhaps it is, Mr. Dunross. We’re in no rush.”
“Ah, I agree. But unfortunately I’ve got guests waiting and my association with AMG has nothing to do with my proposal. My proposal requires a simple yes or no.”
“Or a maybe.”
Dunross studied him. “Or a maybe.”
“I’ll consider what you’ve said.”
Dunross smiled to himself, liking the cat-and-mouse of the negotiation, aware he was dealing with masters. Again he let the silence hang until exactly the right moment. “Very well. AMG said at my discretion. At the moment I don’t know what ‘it’ is. I realize I’m quite out of my depth and should not be involved in SI or MI-6 matters. It’s not of my choosing. You intercepted my private mail. My understanding with AMG was quite clear: I had his assurance in writing that he was allowed to be in my employ and that he would clear everything with the government in advance. I’ll give you copies of our correspondence if you wish, through the correct channels, with the correct secrecy provisions. My enthusiasm for my offer diminishes, minute by minute.” He hardened his voice. “Perhaps it doesn’t matter to SI or MI-6 if all Hong Kong rots but it does to me, so I’m making the offer a last time.” He got up. “The offer’s good to 8:30 P.M.”