Noble House

  And she had. Exactly. It was her giri.

  She had cut the phone wires with the wire snips as he had shown her, just behind the box that was attached to the wall so that the cut was hardly noticeable. In Geneva in the bank there had been a letter of instructions, $10,000 U.S. in cash in the safety deposit box, a new Swiss passport, stamped, with her photograph but a new name and new birthday and new birth certificate that documented she was born in the city of Berne twenty-three years ago. She had liked the new name he had chosen for her and she remembered how, in the safety of her hotel room overlooking the lovely lake, she had wept for him.

  Also in the safety deposit box had been a savings book in her new name for $20,000 U.S. in this same bank, and a key, an address and a deed. The deed was for a small chalet on the lake, private and furnished and paid for, with a caretaker who knew her only by her new name and that she was a widow who had been abroad—the deed registered in her new name though purchased four years before, a few days prior to her marriage.

  “Ah, mistress, I am so happy you have come home at long last. Traveling in all those foreign places must be very tiring,” the pleasant, though simple old lady had said in greeting. “Oh, for the last year or so, your home has been rented to such a charming, quiet Englishman. He paid promptly every month, here are the accounts. Perhaps he will come back this year, he said, perhaps not. Your agent is on Avenue Firmet….”

  Later, wandering around the lovely house, the lake vast and clean in the bowl of mountains, the house clean like the mountains, pictures on the walls, flowers in vases, three bedrooms and a living room and verandas, tiny but perfect for her, the garden cherished, she had gone into the main bedroom. Among a kaleidoscope of small pictures of various shapes and sizes on one of the walls was what seemed to be part of an old letter in a glass-covered frame, the paper already yellowing. She recognized his writing. It was in English. “So many happy hours in your arms, Ri-chan, so many happy days in your company, how do I say that I love you? Forget me, I will never forget you. How do I beg God to grant you ten thousand days for every one of mine, my darling, my darling, my darling.”

  The huge double bed was almost convex with its thick eiderdown quilt, multicolored, the windows opened to the tender air, late summer perfumes within it, snow dusting the mountaintops. She had wept again, the chalet taking her to itself.

  Within a few hours of being there Dunross had called and she had boarded the first jet and now she was here, most of her work completed, never a need to return, the past obliterated—if she wished it. The new passport was genuine as far as she could tell, and the birth certificate. No reason ever to return to Switzerland—except for the chalet. And the picture.

  She had left it on the wall undisturbed. And she had resolved, as long as she owned the house, the picture would stay where he had placed it. Always.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  5:10 P.M.:

  Orlanda was driving her small car, Bartlett beside her, his hand resting lightly across her shoulders. They had just come over the pass from Aberdeen and now, still in cloud, were heading down the mountainside in Mid Levels toward her home in Rose Court. They were happy together, aware and filled with expectation. After lunch they had crossed to Hong Kong and she had driven to Shek-O on the southeastern tip of the Island to show him where some of the tai-pans had weekend houses. The countryside was rolling and sparsely populated, hills, ravines, the sea always near, sheer cliffs and rocks.

  From Shek-O they had slid along the southern road that curled and twisted until they got to Repulse Bay where she had stopped at the wonderful hotel for tea and cakes on the veranda, looking out at the sea, then on again, past Deepwater Cove to Discovery Bay where she stopped again at a lookout. “Look over there, Linc, that’s Castle Tok!” Castle Tok was a vast, incongruous house that looked like a Norman castle and was perched on the cliffside high over the water. “During the war the Canadians—Canadian soldiers—were defending this part of the Island against the invading Japanese and they all retreated to Castle Tok for a last stand. When they were overwhelmed and surrendered there were about two hundred and fifty of them left alive. The Japanese herded them all onto the terrace of Castle Tok and drove them by bayonet over the terrace wall to the rocks below.”

  “Jesus.” The drop was a hundred feet or more.

  “Everyone. The wounded, the … the others, everyone.” He had seen her shiver and at once had reached out to touch her.

  “Don’t, Orlanda, that’s such a long time ago.”

  “It’s not, no, not at all. I’m afraid history and the war’s still very much with us, Linc. It always will be. Ghosts walk those terraces by night.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Yes. Oh yes.”

  He remembered looking back at the brooding house, the surf crashing against the rocks below, her perfume surrounding him as she leaned back against him, feeling her heat, glad to be alive and not one of those soldiers. “Your Castle Tok looks like something out of the movies. You ever been inside?”

  “No. But they say there are suits of armor and dungeons and it’s a copy of a real castle in France. The owner was old Sir Cha-sen Tok, Builder Tok. He was a multimillionaire who made his money in tin. They say that when he was fifty a soothsayer told him to begin building a ‘big mansion’ or he would die. So he began to build and he built dozens of places, all mansions, three in Hong Kong, one near Sha Tin and many in Malaya. Castle Tok was the last one he built. He was eighty-nine but hale and hearty and like a middle-aged man. But after Castle Tok the story is he said enough, and quit building. Within a month he was dead and the soothsayer’s prophecy came true.”

  “You’re making it all up, Orlanda!”

  “Oh no, Linc, I wouldn’t, not without telling. But what’s true and what’s false? Who really knows, eh, my darling?”

  “I know I’m mad about you.”

  “Oh Linc, you must know I feel the same.”

  They had driven on past Aberdeen, warm and together, his hand on her shoulder, her hair brushing his hand. From time to time she would point out houses and places and the hours went by imperceptibly, delightfully for both of them. Now, as they came down from the pass through the clouds and broke out of them, they could see most of the city below. Lights were not on yet, though here and there the huge colored neon signs down by the water’s edge were beginning to brighten.

  The traffic was heavy and on the steep mountain roads water still ran in the gutters with piles of fresh mud and rocks and vegetation here and there. She drove deftly, without taking chances, and he felt safe with her though driving on the wrong side of the road had been hair-raising on the bends.

  “But we’re on the correct side,” she said. “You drive on the wrong side!”

  “The hell we do. It’s only the English who drive on the left. You’re as American as I am, Orlanda.”

  “I wish I were, Linc, oh so very much.”

  “You are. You sound American and you dress American.”

  “Ah, but I know what I am, my darling.”

  He let himself just watch her. I’ve never enjoyed watching anyone so much, he thought. Not Casey, not anyone in my whole life. Then his mind took him again to Biltzmann and he wished he had that man’s neck in his hands.

  Put him away, old buddy, away with the shit of the world. That’s what he is—he and Banastasio. Bartlett felt another twinge go through him. He had had a phone call just before lunch, and an apology that was really an added threat.

  “Let’s break bread, baby, you’n me? Hell, Linc, it’s shitsville with you’n me hollerin’. How about steaks tonight? There’s a great steak house off Nathan Road, the San Francisco.”

  “No thanks. I’ve got a date,” he had said coldly. “Anyway, you made your point yesterday. Let’s leave it at that, okay? We’ll get together at the annual board meeting, if you attend.”

  “Hey Linc, this is me, your old buddy. Remember we came through for you when you needed the cash. Didn’t we give yo
u cash up front?”

  “Cash up front in return for shares which have been the best investment—the best regular investment you ever had. You’ve doubled your money in five years.”

  “Sure we have. Now we want a little of the say-so, that’s only fair, isn’t it?”

  “No. Not after yesterday. What about the guns?” he had asked on a sudden hunch.

  There was a pause. “What guns?”

  “The ones aboard my airplane. The hijacked M14’s and grenades.”

  “It’s news to me, baby.”

  “My name’s Linc. Baby. Got it?”

  Another pause. The voice grated now. “I got it. About our deal. You gonna change your mind?”

  “No. No way.”

  “Not now, not later?”

  “No.”

  There had been the silence on the other end of the line and then a click and the endless dial tone began. At once he had called Rosemont.

  “Don’t worry, Linc. Banastasio’s a top target of ours and we have lots of help in these parts.”

  “Anything on the guns?”

  “You’re in the clear. The Hong Kong brass here’ve withdrawn the lien on you. You’ll hear that officially tomorrow.”

  “They found something?”

  “No. We did. We checked out your hangar in L.A. One of the night watchmen remembered seeing a couple of jokers fiddling around in your landing bay. He thought nothing about it till we asked.”

  “Jesus. You catch anybody?”

  “No. Maybe never will. No sweat. About Banastasio, he’ll be off your back soon enough. Don’t worry.”

  Now, thinking about it, Bartlett felt chilled again.

  “What’s the matter, darling?” Orlanda asked. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I was just thinking that fear’s lousy and can destroy you if you don’t watch out.”

  “Oh yes I know, I know so very well.” She took her eyes off the road a second and smiled hesitantly and put her hand on his knee. “But you’re strong, my darling. You’re afraid of nothing.”

  He laughed. “I wish that were true.”

  “Oh but it is. I know.” She slowed to go around a pile of slush, the road steeper here, water swirling in a minor flood in and out of the gutters. The car was hugging the tall retaining wall as she turned down into Kotewall Road and around the corner to Rose Court. When she came alongside he held his breath as she hesitated a moment, then firmly bypassed the foyer and turned into the steep down-path that led to the garage. “It’s cocktail time,” she said.

  “Great,” he said, his voice throaty. He did not look at her. When they stopped he got out and went to her side and opened the door. She locked the car and they went to the elevator. Bartlett felt the pulse in his neck throbbing.

  Two Chinese caterers carrying trays of canapés got in with them and asked for the Asian Properties flat. “It’s on the fifth floor,” she said, and after the caterers had got out Bartlett said, “Asian Properties’re the landlords here?”

  “Yes,” she said. “They’re also the original builders.” She hesitated. “Jason Plumm and Quillan are good friends. Quillan still owns the penthouse though he sublet it when we broke up.”

  Bartlett put his arm around her. “I’m glad you did.”

  “So’m I.” Her smile was tender and her wide-eyed innocence tore at him. “Now I am.”

  They reached the eighth floor and he noticed her fingers tremble slightly as she put the key into her lock. “Come in, Linc. Tea, coffee, beer or a cocktail?” She slipped off her shoes and looked up at him. His heart was pounding and his senses reached out to feel whether the apartment was empty. “We’re alone,” she said simply.

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?”

  She shrugged a little shrug. “It’s only some things.”

  He put his hands on her waist. “Orlanda …”

  “I know, my darling.”

  Her voice was husky and it sent a tremor through him. When he kissed her, her lips welcomed him, her loins soft and unresisting. His hands traced her. He felt her nipples harden and the throb of her heart equal his. Then her hands left his neck and pressed against his chest but this time he held her against him, his kiss more urgent. The pressure of her hands ceased and once more the hands slid around his neck, her loins closer now. They broke from the kiss but held each other.

  “I love you, Linc.”

  “I love you, Orlanda,” he replied, and the sudden truth of it consumed him. Again they kissed, her hands tender but strong, his own hands wandering and in their wake, fire. For him and for her. More of her weight rested on his arms as her knees weakened and he lifted her easily and carried her through the open door into the bedroom. The gossamer curtains that hung from the ceiling to form the four-poster moved gently in the cool sweet breeze from the open windows.

  The coverlet was soft and down-filled.

  “Be kind to me, my darling,” she whispered huskily. “Oh how I love you.”

  From the stern of the Sea Witch, Casey waved good-bye to Dunstan Barre, Plumm and Pugmire who stood on the wharf, Hong Kong side, where they had just been dropped, the late afternoon pleasant but still overcast. The boat was heading back across the harbor again—Peter Marlowe and the girls had already been dropped off at Kowloon—Gornt having persuaded her to stay on board for the extra trip. “I’ve got to come back to Kowloon again,” he had told her. “I’ve an appointment at the Nine Dragons. Keep me company. Please?”

  “Why not?” she had agreed happily, in no hurry, still in plenty of time to change for the cocktail party to which Plumm had invited her this afternoon. She had decided to postpone her dinner with Lando Mata for one day next week.

  On the way back from Sha Tin this afternoon she had dozed part of the time, wrapped up warm against a stiff breeze, curled up on the wide, comfortable cushions that circled the stern, the other guests scattered, sometimes Gornt there at the conn, tall, strong and captain of the ship, Peter Marlowe alone in a deck chair dozing at the bow. Later they had had tea and cakes, he and Casey and Barre. During tea, Pugmire and Plumm had appeared, tousled and content, their girls in tow.

  “Sleep well?” Gornt had asked with a smile.

  “Very,” Plumm had said.

  I’ll bet, she had thought, watching him and his girl, liking her—big, dark eyes, svelte, a happy soul called Wei-wei who stayed with him like his shadow.

  Earlier, when she and Gornt had been alone on deck, he had told her that none of these were casual friends, all of them special.

  “Does everyone here have a mistress?”

  “Good lord no. But, well, sorry, but men and women age differently and after a certain age it’s difficult. Bluntly, pillowing and love and marriage aren’t the same.”

  “There’s no such thing as faithfulness?”

  “Of course. Absolutely. For a woman it means one thing, for a man another.”

  Casey had sighed. “That’s terrible. Terrible and so unfair.”

  “Yes. But only if you wish it to be.”

  “That’s not right! Think of the millions of women who work and slave all their lives, looking after the man, scrubbing and cleaning and nowadays helping to support their children, to be shoved aside just because they’re old.”

  “You can’t blame men, that’s the way society is.”

  “And who runs society? Men! Jesus, Quillan, you’ve got to admit men are responsible!”

  “I already agree it’s unfair, but it’s unfair on men too. What about the millions of men who work themselves to death to provide—that jolly word—to provide the money for others to spend, mostly women. Face it, Ciranoush, men have to go on working until they are dead, to support others, and more than frequently at the end of their lives, a hacking, shrewish wife—look at Pug’s wife for God’s sake! I could point out fifty who are unnecessarily fat, ugly and stink—literally. Then there’s the other neat little female trick of the women who use their sex to t
rap, get pregnant to ensnare, then cry havoc and scream for a highly paid divorce. What about Linc Bartlett, eh? What sort of a wringer did that wonderful wife of his put him through, eh?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Of course. You ran a tape on me, I ran one on both of you. Are your divorce laws fair? Fifty percent of everything and then the poor bloody American male has to go to court to decide what proportion of his fifty percent he can retain.”

  “It’s true Linc’s wife and her attorney almost put him away. But not every wife’s like that. But God, we’re not chattel and most women need protection. Women throughout the world still get a raw deal.”

  “I’ve never known a real woman to get a raw deal,” he said. “I mean a woman like you or Orlanda who understands what femininity means.” Suddenly he had beamed at her. “Of course, en route she has to give us poor weak bastards what we want to stay healthy.”

  She had laughed with him, also wanting to change the subject—too difficult to solve now.

  “Ah, Quillan, you’re one of the bad ones all right.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.”

  He had turned away to search the sky ahead. She watched him and he looked fine to her, standing there, swaying slightly, the wind ruffling the hairs on his strong forearms, his sea cap jaunty. I’m glad he trusts me and considers me a woman, she had thought, lulled by the wine and the food and by his desire. Ever since she had come aboard she had felt it strongly and she had wondered again how she would deal with it when it manifested itself, as it would, inevitably. Would it be yes or no? Or maybe? Or maybe next week?

  Will there be a next week?

  “What’s going to happen tomorrow, Quillan? At the stock market?”

  “Tomorrow can take care of tomorrow,” he had said, the wind whipping him.

  “Seriously?”

  “I will win or I will not win.” Gornt shrugged. “Either way I’m covered. Tomorrow I buy. With joss I have him by the shorts.”

  “And then?”