“Yes. In a funny sort of a way, right now the Dragons are one of our strongest supports. Let’s face it, Brian, only Chinese can govern Chinese. The status quo’s good for them too—violent crime’s bad for them. So we get help when we need it—sometimes, probably—help that we foreign devils couldn’t get any other way. I’m not in favor of their corruption or of breaking the law, not at all—or bribery or all the other shitty things we have to do, or informers, but what police force in the world could operate without dirty hands sometimes and snotty little bastard informers? So the evil the Dragons represent fills a need here, I think. Hong Kong’s China and China’s a special case. Just so long as it’s just illegal gambling I don’t care never mind. Me, if it was left up to me I’d make gambling legal tonight but I’d break anyone for any protection racket, any dance hall protection or girls or whatever. I can’t stand pimps as you know. Gambling’s different. How can you stop a Chinese gambling? You can’t. So make it legal and everyone’s happy. How many years have the Hong Kong police been advising that and every year we’re turned down. Twenty that I know of. But oh no and why? Macao! Simple as that. Dear old Portuguese Macao feeds off illegal gambling and gold smuggling and that’s what keeps them alive and we can’t afford, we, the UK, we can’t afford to have our old ally go down the spout.”
“Robert Armstrong for prime minister!”
“Up yours! But it’s true. The take on illegal gambling’s our only slush fund—a lot of it goes to pay our ring of informers. Where else can we get quick money? From our grateful government? Don’t make me laugh! From a few extra tax dollars from the grateful population we protect? Ha!”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not, Robert. But it’s certainly going to backfire one day. The payoffs—the loose and uncounted money that ‘happens’ to be in a station drawer? Isn’t it?”
“Yes, but not on me ’cause I’m not in on it, or a taker, and the vast majority aren’t either. British or Chinese. Meanwhile how do we three hundred and twenty-seven poor foreign devil police officers control eight odd thousand civilized junior officers and coppers, and another three and a half million civilized little bastards who hate our guts never mind.”
Brian Kwok laughed. It was an infectious laugh and Armstrong laughed with him and added, “Up yours again for getting me going.”
“Likewise. Meanwhile are you going to read that first or am I?”
Armstrong looked down at the file he held in his hand. It was thin and contained twelve closely typewritten pages and seemed to be more of a newsletter with topics under different headings. The contents page read: Part One: The Political and Business Forecast of the United Kingdom. Part Two: The KGB in Asia. Part Three: Gold. Part Four: Recent CIA Developments.
Wearily Armstrong put his feet on the desk and eased himself more comfortably in his chair. Then he changed his mind and passed the file over. “Here, you can read it. You read faster than I do anyway. I’m tired of reading about disaster.”
Brian Kwok took it, his impatience barely contained, his heart thumping heavily. He opened it and began to read.
Armstrong watched him. He saw his friend’s face change immediately and lose color. That troubled him greatly. Brian Kwok was not easily shocked. He saw him read through to the end without comment, then flick back to check a paragraph here and there. He closed the file slowly.
“It’s that bad,” Armstrong said.
“It’s worse. Some of it—well, if it wasn’t signed by A. Medford Grant, I’d say he was off his rocker. He claims the CIA have a serious connection with the Mafia, that they’re plotting and have plotted to knock off Castro, they’re into Vietnam in strength, into drugs and Christ knows what else—here—read it for yourself.”
“What about the mole?”
“We’ve a mole all right.” Brian reopened the file and found the paragraph. “Listen: ‘There’s no doubt that presently there is a high-level Communist agent in the Hong Kong police. Top-secret documents brought to our side by General Hans Richter—second-in-command of the East German Department of Internal Security—when he defected to us in March of this year clearly state the agent’s code name is “Our Friend,” that he has been in situ for at least ten, probably fifteen years. His contact is probably a KGB officer in Hong Kong posing as a visiting friendly businessman from the Iron Curtain countries, possibly as a banker or journalist, or posing as a seaman off one of the Soviet freighters visiting or being repaired in Hong Kong. Among other documented information we now know “Our Friend” has provided the enemy with are: All restricted radio channels, all restricted private phone numbers of the governor, chief of police and top echelon of the Hong Kong Government, along with very private dossiers on most of them …’”
“Dossiers?” Armstrong interrupted. “Are they included?”
“No.”
“Shit! Go on, Brian.”
“‘… most of them; the classified police battle plans against a Communist-provoked insurrection, or a recurrence of the Kowloon riots; copies of all private dossiers of all police officers above the rank of inspector; the names of the chief six Nationalist undercover agents of the Kuomintang operating in Hong Kong under the present authority of General Jen Tang-wa (Appendix A); a detailed list of Hong Kong’s Special Intelligence agents in Kwantung under the general authority of Senior Agent Wu Fong Fong (Appendix B).’”
“Jesus!” Armstrong gasped. “We’d better get old Fong Fong and his lads out right smartly.”
“Yes.”
“Is Wu Tat-sing on the list?”
Kwok checked the appendix. “Yes. Listen, this section ends: ‘… It is the conclusion of your committee that until this traitor is eliminated, the internal security of Hong Kong is hazardous. Why this information has not yet been passed on to the police themselves we do not yet know. We presume this ties in with the current political Soviet infiltration of UK administration on all levels which enables the Philbys to exist, and permits such information as this to be buried, or toned down, or misrepresented (which was the material for Study 4/1962). We would suggest this report—or portions of it, should be leaked at once to the governor or the commissioner of police, Hong Kong, if you consider them trustworthy.’” Brian Kwok looked up, his mind rocking. “There’s a couple of other pieces here, Christ, the political situation in the UK and then there’s Sevrin.… Read it.” He shook his head helplessly. “Christ, if this’s true … we’re in it up to our necks. God in Heaven!”
Armstrong swore softly. “Who? Who could the spy be? Got to be high up. Who?”
After a great silence, Brian said, “The only one … the only one who could know all of this’s Crosse himself.”
“Oh come on for chrissake!”
“Think about it, Robert. He knew Philby. Didn’t he go to Cambridge also? Both have similar backgrounds, they’re the same age group, both were in Intelligence during the war—like Burgess and Maclean. If Philby could get away with it for all those years, why not Crosse?”
“Impossible!”
“Who else but him? Hasn’t he been in MI-6 all his life? Didn’t he do a tour here in the early fifties and wasn’t he brought back here to set up our SI as a separate branch of SB five years ago? Hasn’t he been director ever since?”
“That proves nothing.”
“Oh?”
There was a long silence. Armstrong was watching his friend closely. He knew him too well not to know when he was serious. “What’ve you got?” he asked uneasily.
“Say Crosse is homosexual.”
“You’re plain bonkers,” Armstrong exploded. “He’s married and … and he may be an evil son of a bitch but there’s never been a smell of anything like that, never.”
“Yes, but he’s got no children, his wife’s almost permanently in England and when she’s here they have separate rooms.”
“How do you know?”
“The amah would know so if I wanted to know it’d be easy to find out.”
“That proves nothing. Lots of people have separ
ate rooms. You’re wrong about Crosse.”
“Say I could give you proof?”
“What proof?”
“Where does he always go for part of his leave? The Cameron Highlands in Malaya. Say he had a friend there, a young Malayan, a known deviate.”
“I’d need photos and we both know photos can be easily doctored,” Armstrong said harshly. “I’d need tape recordings and we both know those can be doctored too. The youth himself? That proves nothing—it’s the oldest trick in the book to produce false testimony and false witnesses. There’s never been a hint … and even if he’s AC-DC, that proves nothing—not all deviates are traitors.”
“No. But all deviates lay themselves open to blackmail. And if he is, he’d be highly suspect. Highly suspect. Right?”
Armstrong looked around uneasily. “I don’t even like talking about it here, he could have this place tapped.”
“And if he has?”
“If he has and if it’s true he can fry us so quickly your head would spin. He can fry us anyway.”
“Perhaps—but if he is the one then he’ll know we’re on to him and if he’s not he’ll laugh at us and I’m out of SI. In any event, Robert, he can’t fry every Chinese in the force.”
Armstrong stared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Perhaps there’s a file on him. Perhaps every Chinese above the rank of corporal’s read it.”
“What?”
“Come on, Robert, you know Chinese are great joiners. Perhaps there’s a file, per—”
“You mean you’re all organized into a brotherhood? A tong, a secret society? A triad within the force?”
“I said perhaps. This is all surmise, Robert. I said perhaps and maybe.”
“Who’s the High Dragon? You?”
“I never said there was such a grouping. I said perhaps.”
“Are there other files? On me, for instance?”
“Perhaps.”
“And?”
“And if there was, Robert,” Brian Kwok said gently, “it’d say you were a fine policeman, uncorrupted, that you had gambled heavily on the stock market and gambled wrong and needed twenty-odd thousand to clean up some pressing debts—and a few other things.”
“What other things?”
“This is China, old chum. We know almost everything that goes on with quai loh here. We have to, to survive, don’t we?”
Armstrong looked at him strangely. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I haven’t told you anything now. Nothing. I said perhaps and I repeat perhaps. But if this’s all true …” He passed over the file and wiped the sweat off his upper lip. “Read it yourself. If it’s true we’re up the creek without a paddle and we’ll need to work very quickly. What I said was all surmise. But not about Crosse. Listen Robert, I’ll bet you a thousand … a thousand to one, he’s the mole.”
CHAPTER TEN
7:43 P.M.:
Dunross finished reading the blue-covered file for the third time. He had read it as soon as it had arrived—as always—then again on the way to the Governor’s Palace. He closed the blue cover and set it onto his lap for a moment, his mind possessed. Now he was in his study on the second floor of the Great House that sat on a knoll on the upper levels of the Peak, the leaded bay windows overlooking floodlit gardens, and then far below, the city and the immensity of the harbor.
The ancient grandfather clock chimed a quarter to eight.
Fifteen minutes to go, he thought. Then our guests arrive and the party begins and we all take part in a new charade. Or perhaps we just continue the same one.
The room had high ceilings and old oak paneling, dark green velvet curtains and Chinese silk rugs. It was a man’s room, comfortable, old, a little worn and very cherished. He heard the muted voices of the servants below. A car came up the hill and passed by.
The phone rang. “Yes? Oh hello, Claudia.”
“I haven’t reached Tsu-yan yet, tai-pan. He wasn’t in his office. Has he called?”
“No. No not yet. You keep trying.”
“Yes. See you in a little while. ’Bye.”
He was sitting in a deep, high-winged chair and wore a dinner jacket, his tie not yet tied. Absently he stared out of the windows, the view ever pleasing. But tonight he was filled with foreboding, thinking about Sevrin and the traitor and all the other evil things the report had foretold.
What to do?
“Laugh,” he said out loud. “And fight.”
He got up and went with his easy stride to the oil painting of Dirk Struan that was on the wall over the mantelpiece. Its frame was heavy and carved gilt and old, the gilt chipped off here and there, and it was secretly hinged on one side. He moved it away from the wall and opened the safe the painting covered. In the safe were many papers, some neatly tied with scarlet ribbons, some ancient, some new, a few small boxes, a neat, well-oiled, loaded Mauser in a clip attached to one of the sides, a box of ammunition, a vast old Bible with the Struan arms etched into the fine old leather and seven blue-covered files similar to the one he had in his hand.
Thoughtfully he slid the file alongside the others in sequence. He stared at them a moment, began to close the safe but changed his mind as his eyes fell on the ancient Bible. His fingers caressed it, then he lifted it out and opened it. Affixed to the thick flyleaf with old sealing wax were halves of two old Chinese bronze coins, crudely broken. Clearly, once upon a time, there had been four such half-coins for there was still the imprint of the missing two and the remains of the same red sealing wax attached to the ancient paper. The handwriting heading the page was beautiful copperplate: “I swear by the Lord God that whomsoever produces the other half of any of these coins, I will grant him whatsoever he asks.” It was signed Dirk Struan, February 23, 1841, and below his signature was Culum Struan’s and all the other tai-pans and the last name was Ian Dunross.
Alongside the first space where once a coin had been was written: “Wu Fang Choi, paid in part, March 29, Year of our Lord 1841,” and signed again by Dirk Struan and cosigned below by Culum Struan and dated 18 June 1845 “paid in full.” Alongside the second: “Sun Chen-yat, paid in full, October 10, 1911,” and signed boldly, Hag Struan.
Ah, Dunross told himself, bemused, what lovely arrogance—to be so secure to be able to sign the book thus and not Tess Struan, for future generations to see.
How many more generations? he asked himself. How many more tai-pans will have to sign blindly and swear the Holy Oath to do the bidding of a man dead almost a century and a half?
Thoughtfully he ran his finger over the jagged edges of the two remaining half-coins. After a moment he closed the Bible firmly, put it into its place again, touched it once for luck and locked the safe. He swung the painting back into its place and stared up at the portrait, standing now with his hands deep in his pockets in front of the mantelpiece, the heavy old oak carved with the Struan arms, chipped and broken here and there, an old Chinese fire screen in front of the huge fireplace.
This oil of Dirk Struan was his favorite and he had taken it out of the long gallery when he became tai-pan and had hung it here in the place of honor—instead of the portrait of Hag Struan that had been over the mantelpiece in the tai-pan’s study ever since there was a Great House. Both had been painted by Aristotle Quance. In this one, Dirk Struan was standing in front of a crimson curtain, broad-shouldered and arrogant, his high-cut coat black and his waistcoat and cravat and ruffled shirt white and high-cut. Heavy eyebrows and strong nose and clean-shaven, with reddish hair and muttonchop sideburns, lips curled and sensual and you could feel the eyes boring into you, their green enhanced by the black and white and crimson.
Dunross half-smiled, not afraid, not envious, more calmed than anything by his ancestor’s gaze—knowing he was possessed, partially possessed by him. He raised his glass of champagne to the painting in half-mocking jest as he had done many times before: “Health!”
The eyes stared back at him.
What
would you do, Dirk—Dirk o’ the will o’ the wisp, he thought.
“You’d probably say just find the traitors and kill them,” he mused aloud, “and you’d probably be right.”
The problem of the traitor in the police did not shatter him as much as the information about the Sevrin spy ring, its U.S. connections and the astonishing, secret gains made by the Communists in Britain. Where the hell does Grant get all his info? he asked himself for the hundredth time.
He remembered their first meeting. Alan Medford Grant was a short, elflike, balding man with large eyes and large teeth, in his neat pin-striped suit and bowler hat and he liked him immediately.
“Don’t you worry, Mr. Dunross,” Grant had said when Dunross had hired him in 1960, the moment he became tai-pan. “I assure you there’ll be no conflict of interest with Her Majesty’s Government if I chair your research committee on the nonexclusive basis we’ve discussed. I’ve already cleared it with them in fact. I’ll only give you—confidentially of course, for you personally of course, and absolutely not for publication—I’ll only give you classified material that does not, in my opinion, jeopardize the national interest. After all, our interests are the same there, aren’t they?”
“I think so.”
“May I ask how you heard of me?”
“We have friends in high places, Mr. Grant. In certain circles your name is quite famous. Perhaps even a foreign secretary would recommend you,” he had added delicately.
“Ah yes.”
“Our arrangement is satisfactory?”
“Yes—one year initially, extended to five if everything goes well. After five?”
“Another five,” Dunross said. “If we achieve the results I want, your retainer will be doubled.”
“Ah. That’s very generous. But may I ask why you’re being so generous—perhaps extravagant would be the word—with me and this projected committee?”
“Sun Tzu said: ‘What enables a wise sovereign or good general to strike and to conquer and to achieve things beyond the reach of normal men is foreknowledge. Foreknowledge comes only through spies. Nothing is of more importance to the state than the quality of its spies. It is ten thousand times cheaper to pay the best spies lavishly than even a tiny army poorly.’”