Noble House

  “An hour or two, just to refuel, I don’t remember exactly.” Bartlett thought for a moment. “Jannelli got off but he always does. Those racks couldn’t’ve been loaded in an hour or so.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, but I’d still bet it was done before we left the States. Though when and where and why and who I’ve no idea. Have you?”

  “Not yet.” Armstrong was watching him keenly. “Perhaps you’d like to go back to your office, Mr. Bartlett. We could take your statement there.”

  “Sure.” Bartlett glanced at his watch. It was 5:43 A.M. “Let’s do that now, then I can make a few calls. We’re not wired into your system yet. There’s a local phone there?” He pointed to the terminal.

  “Yes. Of course we’d prefer to question Captain Jannelli and Mr. O’Rourke before you do—if you don’t mind. Where are they staying?”

  “At the Victoria and Albert.”

  “Sergeant Lee!”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Get on to HQ.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “We’d also like to talk to Miss Tcholok first. Again if you don’t mind.”

  Bartlett walked up the steps, Armstrong beside him. At length he said, “All right. Provided you do that personally, and not before 7:45. She’s been working overtime and she’s got a heavy day today and I don’t want her disturbed unnecessarily.”

  They went into the airplane. Sven was waiting by the galley, dressed now and very perturbed. Uniformed and plainclothes police were everywhere, searching diligently.

  “Sven, how about that coffee?” Bartlett led the way through the anteroom into his office-study. The central door, aft, at the end of the corridor, was open. Armstrong could see part of the master suite with its king-size bed. Inspector Thomas was going through some drawers.

  “Shit!” Bartlett muttered.

  “Sorry,” Armstrong said, “but this is necessary.”

  “That doesn’t mean I have to like it, Superintendent. Never did like strangers peeking into my private life.”

  “Yes. I agree.” The superintendent beckoned one of the plain clothes officers. “Sung!”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Take this down will you please.”

  “Just a minute, let’s save some time,” Bartlett said. He turned to a bank of electronic gear and pressed two switches. A twin cassette tape deck clicked into operation. He plugged in a microphone and set it on the desk. “There’ll be two tapes, one for you, one for me. After your man’s typed it up—if you want a signature I’m here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Okay, let’s begin.”

  Armstrong was suddenly uneasy. “Would you please tell me what you know about the illegal cargo found in the main gear bay of your aircraft, Mr. Bartlett.”

  Bartlett repeated his denial of any knowledge. “I don’t believe any of my crew or any of my people are involved in any way. None of them has ever been involved with the law as far as I know. And I would know.”

  “How long has Captain Jannelli been with you?”

  “Four years. O’Rourke two. Svensen since I got the airplane in ’58.”

  “And Miss Tcholok?”

  After a pause Bartlett said, “Six—almost seven years.”

  “She’s a senior executive in your company?”

  “Yes. Very senior.”

  “That’s unusual, isn’t it, Mr. Bartlett?”

  “Yes. But that has nothing to do with this problem.”

  “You’re the owner of this aircraft?”

  “My company is. Par-Con Industries Incorporated.”

  “Do you have any enemies—anyone who’d want to embarrass you seriously?”

  Bartlett laughed. “Does a dog have fleas? You don’t get to head a half-billion-dollar company by making friendships.”

  “No enemy in particular?”

  “You tell me. Running guns is a special operation—this has to have been done by a professional.”

  “Who knew about your flight plan to Hong Kong?”

  “The visit’s been scheduled for a couple of months. My board knew. And my planning staff.” Bartlett frowned. “It was no real secret. No reason to be.” Then he added, “Of course Struan’s knew—exactly. For at least two weeks. In fact we confirmed the date on the 12th by telex, exact ETD and ETA. I wanted it sooner but Dunross said Monday the 19th’d suit him better, which is today. Maybe you should ask him.”

  “I will, Mr. Bartlett. Thank you, sir. That will do for the moment.”

  “I’ve got some questions, Superintendent, if you don’t mind. What’s the penalty for smuggling guns?”

  “Ten years without parole.”

  “What’s the value of this cargo?”

  “Priceless, to the right buyer, because no guns—absolutely none—are available to anyone.”

  “Who’s the right buyer?”

  “Anyone who wants to start a riot, insurrection, or commit mass murder, bank robbery, or some crime of whatever magnitude.”

  “Communists?”

  Armstrong smiled and shook his head. “They don’t have to shoot at us to take over the Colony, or smuggle M14’s—they’ve got guns a-plenty of their own.”

  “Nationalists? Chiang Kai-shek’s men?”

  “They’re more than well supplied with all sorts of armaments by the U.S. Government, Mr. Bartlett. Aren’t they? So they don’t need to smuggle this way either.”

  “A gang war maybe?”

  “Good God, Mr. Bartlett, our gangs don’t shoot each other. Our gangs-triads as we call them—our triads settle their differences in sensible, civilized Chinese fashion, with knives and axes and fighting irons and anonymous calls to the police.”

  “I’ll bet it was someone in Struan’s. That’s where you’ll find the answer to the riddle.”

  “Perhaps.” Armstrong laughed strangely, then said again, “Perhaps. Now if you’ll excuse me …”

  “Of course.” Bartlett turned off the recorder, took out the two cassettes and handed one over.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bartlett.”

  “How long will this search go on?”

  “That depends. Perhaps an hour. We may wish to bring in some experts. We’ll try to make it as easy as possible. You’ll be off the plane before lunch?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you want access please check with my office. The number’s 88–77–33. There’ll be a permanent police guard here for the time being. You’ll be staying at the Vic?”

  “Yes. Am I free to go into town now, do what I like?”

  “Yes sir, provided you don’t leave the Colony, pending our inquiries.”

  Bartlett grinned. “I’ve got that message already, loud and clear.”

  Armstrong left. Bartlett showered and dressed and waited until all the police went away except the one who was guarding the gangway. Then he went back into his office suite and closed the door. Quite alone now he checked his watch. It was 7:37. He went over to his communications center and clicked on two micro switches and pressed the sending button.

  In a moment there was a crackle of static and Casey’s sleepy voice. “Yes, Linc?”

  “Geronimo,” he said clearly, into the mike.

  There was a long pause. “Got it,” she said. The loudspeaker went dead.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  9:40 A.M.:

  The Rolls came off the car ferry that linked Kowloon to Hong Kong Island and turned east along Connaught Road, joining the heavy traffic. The morning was very warm, humid and cloudless under a nice sun. Casey settled deeper into the back cushions. She glanced at her watch, her excitement growing.

  “Plenty time, Missee,” the sharp-eyed chauffeur said. “Noble House down street, tall building, ten, fifteen minutes never mind.”

  “Good.”

  This is the life, she told herself. One day I’ll have a Rolls of my very own and a neat, polite quiet Chinese chauffeur and I’ll not have to worry about the price of gas. Not ever. Maybe—at long last—this is where
I’m going to get my drop dead money. She smiled to herself. Linc was the first one who had explained about drop dead money. He had called it screw you money. Enough to say screw you to anybody or anything. “Screw you money’s the most valuable in the world … but the most expensive,” he had said. “If you work for me—with me but for me—I’ll help you get your screw you money. But Casey, I don’t know if you’ll want to pay the cost.”

  “What’s the cost?”

  “I don’t know. I only know it varies, person to person—and always costs you more than you’re prepared to pay.”

  “Has yours?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Well, she thought, the price hasn’t been too high yet. I make $52,000 a year, my expense account is good and my job stretches my brain. But the government takes too much and there’s not enough left to be drop dead money. “Drop dead money comes from a killing,” Linc had said. “Not from cash flow.”

  How much do I need?

  She had never asked herself the question before.

  $500,000? At 7 percent that’ll bring $35,000 a year forever but that’s taxable. What about the Mexican Government guarantee of 11 percent, less 1 for them for their trouble? Still taxable. In tax free bonds at 4 percent it’s $20,000 but bonds are dangerous and you don’t gamble your drop dead money.

  “That’s the first rule, Casey,” Linc had said. “You never risk it. Never.” Then he had laughed that lovely laugh of his which disarmed her as always. “You never risk your screw you money except the once or twice you decide to.”

  A million? Two? Three?

  Get your mind on the meeting and don’t dream, she told herself. I won’t but my price is 2 million cash in the bank. Tax free. That’s what I want. 2 million at 5¼ percent tax free will bring $105,000 a year. And that will give me and the family everything I want with enough to spare forever. And I could better 5¼ percent on my money.

  But how to get 2 million tax free?

  I don’t know. But somehow I know this’s the place.

  The Rolls stopped suddenly as a mass of pedestrians dodged through the tightly packed lines of cars and double-decker buses and taxis and trucks and carts and lorries and bicycles and handcarts and some rickshaws. Thousands of people scurried this way and that, pouring out of or into the alleys and side roads, spilling off the pavements onto the roadway in the morning rush hour. Rivers of human ants.

  Casey had researched Hong Kong well, but she was still not prepared for the impact that the incredible overcrowding had made upon her.

  “I never saw anything like it, Linc,” she had said this morning when he had arrived at the hotel just before she left for the meeting. “It was after ten when we drove here from the airport, but there were thousands of people out—including kids—and everything—restaurants, markets, shops—were still open.”

  “People mean profit—why else’re we here?”

  “We’re here to usurp the Noble House of Asia with the secret help and collusion of a Judas Iscariot, John Chen.”

  Linc had laughed with her. “Correction. We’re here to make a deal with Struan’s, and to look around.”

  “Then the plan’s changed?”

  “Tactically yes. The strategy’s the same.”

  “Why the change, Linc?”

  “Charlie called last night. We bought another 200,000 shares of Rothwell-Gornt.”

  “Then the bid for Struan’s is just a blind and our real target’s Rothwell-Gornt?”

  “We still have three targets: Struan’s, Rothwell-Gornt and Asian Properties. We look around and we wait. If things look good we attack. If not, we can make 5, maybe 8 million this year on our straight deal with Struan’s. That’s cream.”

  “You’re not here for 5 or 8 million. What’s the real reason?”

  “Pleasure.”

  The Rolls gained a few yards then stopped again, the traffic heavier now as they approached Central District. Ah Linc, she thought, your pleasure covers a multitude of piracies.

  “This first visit to Hong Kong, Missee?” broke into her thoughts.

  “Yes, yes it is. I arrived last night,” she said.

  “Ah very good. Weather very bad never mind. Very smelly, very humid. Always humid in summer. First day very pretty, heya?”

  First day had started with the sharp buzz of her citizens band transceiver jerking her out of sleep. And “Geronimo.”

  It was their code word for danger—beware. She had showered and dressed quickly, not knowing where the danger was coming from. She had just put in her contact lenses when the phone rang. “This is Superintendent Armstrong. Sorry to bother you so early, Miss Tcholok, but could I see you for a moment?”

  “Certainly, Superintendent.” She had hesitated. “Give me five minutes—I’ll meet you in the restaurant?”

  They had met and he had questioned her, telling her only that contraband had been found aboard the airplane.

  “How long have you worked for Mr. Bartlett?”

  “Directly, six years.”

  “Have there ever been any police problems before? Of any sort?”

  “You mean with him—or with me?”

  “With him. Or with you.”

  “None. What’s been found aboard, Superintendent?”

  “You don’t seem unduly worried, Miss Tcholok.”

  “Why should I be? I’ve done nothing illegal, neither has Linc. As to the crew, they’re carefully picked professionals, so I’d doubt they have anything to do with smuggling. It’s drugs, isn’t it? What sort of drugs?”

  “Why should it be drugs?”

  “Isn’t that what people smuggle in here?”

  “It was a very large shipment of guns.”

  “What?”

  There had been more questions, most of which she had answered, and then Armstrong was gone. She had finished her coffee and refused, for the fourth time, the home-baked, warm hard French rolls offered by a starched and smiling boy-waiter. They reminded her of those she had had in the south of France three years ago.

  Ah, Nice and Cap D’Ail and the vin de Provence. And dear Linc, she had thought, going back to the suite to wait for him to phone.

  “Casey? Listen, th—”

  “Ah Linc, I’m glad you called,” she had said at once, deliberately interrupting him. “Superintendent Armstrong was here a few minutes ago—and I forgot to remind you last night to call Martin about the shares.” Martin was also a code word, meaning, “I think this conversation’s being overheard.”

  “I’d thought about him too. That’s not important now. Tell me exactly what happened.”

  So she told him. He related briefly what had occurred. “I’ll fill in the rest when I get there. I’m heading for the hotel right now. How’s the suite?”

  “Fantastic! Yours’s called Fragrant Spring, my room’s adjoining, guess it’s normally part of it. Seems like there are ten houseboys per suite. I called room service for coffee and it arrived on a silver tray before I’d put the phone down. The bathrooms’re big enough for a cocktail party for twenty with a three-piece combo.”

  “Good. Wait for me.”

  She sat in one of the deep leather sofas in the luxurious sitting room and began to wait, enjoying the quality that surrounded her. Beautiful Chinese lacquered chests, a well-stocked bar in a mirrored alcove, discreet flower arrangements and a bottle of monogrammed Scotch—Lincoln Bartlett—with the compliments of the chief manager. Her bedroom suite through an interlocking door was one side, his, the master suite, the other. Both were the biggest she had ever seen, with king-size beds.

  Why were guns put on our airplane and by whom?

  Lost in thought she glanced out of the wall-to-wall window and faced Hong Kong Island and the dominating Peak, the tallest mountain on the island. The city, called Victoria after Queen Victoria, began at the shoreline, then rose, tier on tier, on the skirts of the sharply rising mountain, lessening as the slopes soared, but there were apartment buildings near the crest. She could see one just above the t
erminal of the Peak’s funicular. The view from there must be fantastic, she thought absently.

  The blue water was sparkling nicely, the harbor as traffic-bound as the streets of Kowloon below. Liners and freighters were anchored or tied up alongside the wharves of Kowloon or steaming out or in, their sirens sounding merrily. Over at the dockyard Hong Kong side was a Royal Navy destroyer and, nearby at anchor, a dark-gray U.S. Navy frigate. There were hundreds of junks of every size and age—fishing vessels mostly—some powered, some ponderously sailing this way and that. Crammed double-decker ferries darted in and out of the traffic like so many dragonflies, and everywhere tiny sampans, oared or powered, scurried unafraid across the ordered sea-lanes.

  Where do all these people live? she asked herself, appalled. And how do they support themselves?

  A room boy opened the door with his passkey, without knocking, and Linc Bartlett strode in. “You look great, Casey,” he said, shutting the door behind him.

  “So do you. This gun thing’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “Anyone here? Any maids in the rooms?”

  “We’re alone, but the houseboys seem to come in and out as they please.”

  “This one had his key out before I reached the door.” Linc told her what had happened at the airport. Then he dropped his voice. “What about John Chen?”

  “Nothing. He just made nervous, light conversation. He didn’t want to talk shop. I don’t think he’d recovered from the fact that I’d turned out to be a woman. He dropped me at the hotel and said they’d send a car at 9:15.”

  “So the plan worked fine?”

  “Very fine.”

  “Good. Did you get it?”

  “No. I said I was authorized by you to take delivery and offered the initial sight draft. But he pretended to be surprised and said he’d talk to you privately when he drives you back after the lunch. He seemed very nervous.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Your car’ll be here in a few minutes. I’ll see you at lunch.”

  “Should I mention the guns to Struan’s? To Dunross?”

  “No. Let’s wait and see who brings it up.”

  “You think it might be them?”

  “Easily. They knew our flight plan, and they’ve a motive.”