Noble House Read online

  The phone rang again. Claudia picked it up. “Hello, the tai-pan’s office! Yes? Oh!” Her happiness vanished and she hardened. “Just a moment, please.” She punched the hold button. “It’s a person to person from Hiro Toda in Yokohama.”

  Dunross knew how she felt about him, knew she hated the Japanese and loathed the Noble House’s connection with them. He could never forgive the Japanese either for what they had done to Asia during the war. To those they had conquered. To the defenseless. Men, women and children. The prison camps and unnecessary deaths. Soldier to soldier he had no quarrel with them. None. War was war.

  His own war had been against the Germans. But Claudia’s war had been here in Hong Kong. During the Japanese Occupation, because she was Eurasian, she had not been put into Stanley Prison with all European civilians. She and her sister and brother had tried to help the POWs with food and drugs and money, smuggling it into the camp. The Kampeitai, the Japanese military police, had caught her. Now she could have no children.

  “Shall I say you’re out?” she asked.

  “No.” Two years before Dunross had committed an enormous amount of capital to Toda Shipping Industries of Yokohama for two giant bulk ships to build up the Struan fleet that had been decimated in the war. He had chosen this Japanese shipyard because their product was the finest, their terms the best, they guaranteed delivery and all the things the British shipyards would not, and because he knew it was time to forget. “Hello, Hiro,” he said, liking the man personally. “Nice to hear from you. How’s Japan?”

  “Please excuse me for interrupting you, tai-pan. Japan’s fine though hot and humid. No change.”

  “How’re my ships coming along?”

  “Perfectly, tai-pan. Everything is as we arranged. I just wanted to advise you that I will be coming to Hong Kong on Saturday morning for a business trip. I will be staying for the weekend, then on to Singapore and Sydney, back in time for our closing in Hong Kong. You’ll still be coming to Yokohama for both launchings?”

  “Oh yes. Yes, absolutely. What time do you arrive Saturday?”

  “At 11:10, Japan Air Lines.”

  “I’ll send a car to meet you. What about coming directly to Happy Valley to the races? You could join us for lunch, then my car will take you to the hotel. You’re staying at the Victoria and Albert?”

  “This time at the Hilton, Hong Kong side. Tai-pan, please excuse me, I do not wish to put you to any trouble, so sorry.”

  “It’s nothing. I’ll have one of my people meet you. Probably Andrew Gavallan.”

  “Ah, very good. Then thank you, tai-pan. I look forward to seeing you, so sorry to inconvenience you.”

  Dunross put the phone down. I wonder why he called, the real reason? he asked himself. Hiro Toda, managing director of the most go-ahead shipbuilding complex in Japan, never does anything suddenly or unpremeditated.

  Dunross thought about the closing of their ship deal and the three payments of 2 million each that were due imminently on September 1, 11 and 15, the balance in ninety days. $12 million U.S. in all that he didn’t have at the moment. Or the charterer’s signed contract that was necessary to support the bank loan that he did not have, yet. “Never mind,” he said easily, “everything’s going to be fine.”

  “For them, yes,” Claudia said. “You know I don’t trust them, tai-pan. Any of them.”

  “You can’t fault them, Claudia. They’re only trying to do economically what they failed to do militarily.”

  “By pricing everyone out of the world markets.”

  “They’re working hard, they’re making profits and they’ll bury us, if we let them.” His eyes hardened too. “But after all, Claudia, scratch an Englishman—or a Scot—and find a pirate. If we’re such bloody fools to allow it we deserve to go under—isn’t that what Hong Kong’s all about?”

  “Why help the enemy?”

  “They were the enemy,” he said kindly. “But that was only for twenty-odd years and our connections there go back a hundred. Weren’t we the first traders into Japan? Didn’t Hag Struan buy us the first plot offered for sale in Yokohama in 1860? Didn’t she order that it be a cornerstone of Struan’s policy to have the China-Japan-Hong Kong triangle?”

  “Yes, tai-pan, but don’t you thi—”

  “No, Claudia, we’ve dealt with the Todas, the Kasigis, the Toranagas for a hundred years, and right now Toda Shipping’s very important to us.”

  The phone rang again. She answered it. “Yes, I’ll phone him back.” Then to Dunross, “It’s the caterers—about your party tonight.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “None, tai-pan—they’re moaning. After all, it’s the tai-pan’s twentieth wedding anniversary. All Hong Kong will be there and all Hong Kong better be impressed.” Again the phone rang. She picked it up. “Ahh good! Put him through.… It’s Bill Foster from Sydney.”

  Dunross took the phone. “Bill … no, you were top of the list. Have you closed on the Woolara Properties deal yet? … What’s the holdup? … I don’t care about that.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s just past noon your time. Call them right now and offer them fifty cents Australian more a share, the offer good till the close of business today. Get on to the bank in Sydney at once and tell them to demand full repayment of all their loans at the close of business today.… I couldn’t care less; they’re thirty days overdue already. I want control of that company now. Without it our new bulk-carrier charter deal will fall apart and we’ll have to begin all over again. And catch the Qantas Flight 543 on Thursday. I’d like you here for a conference.” He put the phone down. “Get Linbar up here as soon as the Tcholok meeting’s over. Book him on Qantas 716 for Sydney on Friday morning.”

  “Yes, tai-pan.” She made a note and handed him a list. “Here’re your appointments for today.”

  He glanced at it. Four board meetings of some subsidiary companies this morning: Golden Ferry at 10:30, Struan’s Motor Imports of Hong Kong at 11:00, Chong-Li Foods at 11:15 and Kowloon Investments at 11:30. Lunch with Lincoln Bartlett and Miss Casey Tcholok 12:40 to 2:00 P.M. More board meetings this afternoon, Peter Marlowe at 4:00 P.M., Phillip Chen at 4:20, cocktails at 6:00 with the governor, his anniversary party beginning at 8:00, a reminder to call Alastair Struan in Scotland at 11:00, and at least fifteen other people to phone throughout Asia during the day.

  “Marlowe?” he asked.

  “He’s a writer, staying at the Vic—remember, he wrote for an appointment a week ago. He’s researching a book on Hong Kong.”

  “Oh yes—the ex-RAF type.”

  “Yes. Would you like him put off?”

  “No. Keep everything as arranged, Claudia.” He took out a thin black leather memo-card case from his back pocket and gave her a dozen cards covered with his shorthand. “Here’re some cables and telexes to send off at once and notes for the various board meetings. Get me Jen in Taipei, then Havergill at the bank, then run down the list.”

  “Yes, tai-pan. I hear Havergill’s going to retire.”

  “Marvelous. Who’s taking over?”

  “No one knows yet.”

  “Let’s hope it’s Johnjohn. Put your spies to work. A hundred says I find out before you do!”

  “Done!”

  “Good.” Dunross held out his hand and said sweetly, “You can pay me now. It’s Johnjohn.”

  “Eh?” She stared at him.

  “We decided it last night—all the directors. I asked them to tell no one until eleven today.”

  Reluctantly she took out the hundred-dollar note and offered it.

  “Ayeeyah, I was particularly attached to this note.”

  “Thank you,” Dunross said and pocketed it. “I’m particularly attached to that one myself.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Yes?” he said.

  The door was opened by Sandra Yi, his private secretary. “Excuse me, tai-pan, but the market’s up two points and Holdbrook’s on line two.” Alan Holdbrook was head of their in-house stockbroking c
ompany.

  Dunross punched the line two button. “Claudia, soon as I’m through bring in Armstrong.” She left with Sandra Yi.

  “Yes, Alan?”

  “Morning, tai-pan. First: There’s a heavy rumor that we’re going to make a bid for control of Asian Properties.”

  “That’s probably put out by Jason Plumm to boost his shares before their annual meeting. You know what a canny bastard he is.”

  “Our stock’s gone up ten cents, perhaps on the strength of it.”

  “Good. Buy me 20,000 at once.”

  “On margin?”

  “Of course on margin.”

  “All right. Second rumor: We’ve closed a multimillion-dollar deal with Par-Con Industries—huge expansion.”

  “Pipe dreams,” Dunross said easily, wondering furiously where the leaks were. Only Phillip Chen—and in Edinburgh, Alastair Struan and old Sean MacStruan—was supposed to know about the ploy to smash Asian Properties. And the Par-Con deal was top secret to the Inner Court only.

  “Third: someone’s buying large parcels of our stock.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. But there’s something smelly going on, tai-pan. The way our stock’s been creeping up the last month … There’s no reason that I know of, except a buyer, or buyers. Same with Rothwell-Gornt. I heard a block of 200,000 was bought offshore.”

  “Find out who.”

  “Christ, I wish I knew how. The market’s jittery, and very nervous. A lot of Chinese money’s floating around. Lots of little deals going on … a few shares here, a few there, but multiplied by a hundred thousand or so … the market might start to fall apart … or to soar.”

  “Good. Then we’ll all make a killing. Give me a call before the market closes. Thanks, Alan.” He put the phone down, feeling the sweat on his back. “Shit,” he said aloud. “What the hell’s going on?”

  In the outer office Claudia Chen was going over some papers with Sandra Yi who was her niece on her mother’s side—and smart, very good to look at, twenty-seven with a mind like an abacus. Then she glanced at her watch and said in Cantonese, “Superintendent Brian Kwok’s downstairs, Little Sister, why don’t you fetch him up—in six minutes.”

  “Ayeeyah, yes, Elder Sister!” Sandra Yi hastily checked her makeup and swished away. Claudia smiled after her and thought Sandra Yi would be perfect—a perfect choice for Brian Kwok. Happily she sat behind her desk and began to type the telexes. Everything’s done that should be done, she told herself. No, something the tai-pan said … what was it? Ah yes! She dialed her home number.

  “Weyyyyy?” said her amah, Ah Sam.

  “Listen, Ah Sam,” she said in Cantonese, “isn’t Third Toiletmaid Fung at the Vic your cousin three times removed?”

  “Oh yes, Mother,” Ah Sam replied, using the Chinese politeness of servant to mistress. “But she’s four times removed, and from the Fung-tats, not the Fung-sams which is my branch.”

  “Never mind that, Ah Sam. You call her and find out all you can about two foreign devils from the Golden Mountain. They’re in Fragrant Spring suite.” Patiently she spelled their names, then added delicately, “I hear they have peculiar pillow habits.”

  “Ayeeyah, if anyone can find out, Third Toiletmaid Fung can. Ha! What peculiars?”

  “Strange peculiars, Ah Sam. You get on with it, little oily mouth.” She beamed and hung up.

  The elevator doors opened and Sandra Yi ushered the two police officers in, then left reluctantly. Brian Kwok watched her go. He was thirty-nine, tall for a Chinese, just over six feet, very handsome, with blue-black hair. Both men wore civilian clothes. Claudia chatted with them politely, but the moment she saw the light on line two go out she ushered them in and closed the door.

  “Sorry to come without an appointment,” Armstrong said.

  “No sweat, Robert. You look tired.”

  “A heavy night. It’s all the villainy that goes on in Hong Kong,” Armstrong said easily. “Nasties abound and saints get crucified.”

  Dunross smiled, then glanced across at Kwok. “How’s life treating you, Brian?”

  Brian Kwok smiled back. “Very good, thanks, Ian. Stock market’s up—I’ve a few dollars in the bank, my Porsche hasn’t fallen apart yet, and ladies will be ladies.”

  “Thank God for that! Are you doing the hill climb on Sunday?”

  “If I can get Lulu in shape. She’s missing an offside hydraulic coupling.”

  “Have you tried our shop?”

  “Yes. No joy, tai-pan. Are you going?”

  “Depends. I’ve got to go to Taipei Sunday afternoon—I will if I’ve got time. I entered anyway. How’s SI?”

  Brian Kwok grinned. “It beats working for a living.” Special Intelligence was a completely independent department within the elite, semisecret Special Branch responsible for preventing and detecting subversive activities in the Colony. It had its own secret ways, secret funding and overriding powers. And it was responsible to the governor alone.

  Dunross leaned back in the chair. “What’s up?”

  Armstrong said, “I’m sure you already know. It’s about the guns on Bartlett’s plane.”

  “Oh yes, I heard this morning,” he said. “How can I help? Have you any idea why and where they were destined? And by whom? You caught two men?”

  Armstrong sighed. “Yes. They were genuine mechanics all right—both ex-Nationalist Air Force trained. No previous record, though they’re suspected of being members of secret triads. Both have been here since the exodus of ’49. By the way, can we keep this all confidential, between the three of us?”

  “What about your superiors?”

  “I’d like to include them in—but keep it just for your ears only.”

  “Why?”

  “We have reason to believe the guns were destined for someone in Struan’s.”

  “Who?” Dunross asked sharply.

  “Confidential?”

  “Yes. Who?”

  “How much do you know about Lincoln Bartlett and Casey Tcholok?”

  “We’ve a detailed dossier on him—not on her. Would you like it? I can give you a copy, providing it too is kept confidential.”

  “Of course. That would be very helpful.”

  Dunross pressed the intercom.

  “Yes sir?” Claudia asked.

  “Make a copy of the Bartlett dossier and give it to Superintendent Armstrong on his way out.” Dunross clicked the intercom off.

  “We won’t take much more of your time,” Armstrong said. “Do you always dossier potential clients?”

  “No. But we like to know who we’re dealing with. If the Bartlett deal goes through it could mean millions to us, to him, a thousand new jobs to Hong Kong—factories here, warehouses, a very big expansion—along with equally big risks to us. Everyone in business does a confidential financial statement—perhaps we’re a bit more thorough. I’ll bet you fifty dollars to a broken hatpin he’s done one on me.”

  “No criminal connections mentioned?”

  Dunross was startled. “Mafia? That sort of thing? Good God no, nothing. Besides, if the Mafia were trying to come in here they wouldn’t send a mere ten M14 rifles and two thousand rounds and a box of grenades.”

  “Your information’s damn good,” Brian Kwok interrupted. “Too damn good. We only unpacked the stuff an hour ago. Who’s your informant?”

  “You know there’re no secrets in Hong Kong.”

  “Can’t even trust your own coppers these days.”

  “The Mafia would surely send in a shipment twenty times that and they’d be handguns, American style. But the Mafia would be bound to fail here, whatever they did. They could never displace our triads. No, it can’t be Mafia—only someone local. Who tipped you about the shipment, Brian?”

  “Tokyo Airport Police,” Kwok said. “One of their mechanics was doing a routine inspection—you know how thorough they are. He reported it to his superior, their police phoned us and we said to let it through.”

 
; “In that case get hold of the FBI and the CIA—get them to check back to Honolulu—or Los Angeles.”

  “You went through the flight plan too?”

  “Of course. That’s obvious. Why someone in Struan’s?”

  “Both of the villains said …” Armstrong took out his pad and referred to it. “Our question was, ‘Where were you to take the packages?’ Both answered using different words: ‘To 15 go-down, we were to put the packages in Bay 7 at the back.’” He looked up at Dunross.

  “That proves nothing. We’ve the biggest warehouse operation at Kai Tak—just because they take it to one of our go-downs proves nothing—other than they’re smart. We’ve got so much merchandise going through, it’d be easy to send in an alien truck.” Dunross thought a moment. “15’s right at the exit—perfect placing.” He reached for the phone. “I’ll put my security folk on it right n—”

  “Would you not, please, just for the moment.”

  “Why?”

  “Our next question,” Armstrong continued, “was, ‘Who employed you?’ Of course they gave fictitious names and descriptions and denied everything but they’ll be more helpful soon.” He smiled grimly. “One of them did say, however, when one of my sergeants was twisting his ear a little, figuratively speaking of course”—he read from the pad—“‘You leave me alone, I’ve got very important friends!’ ‘You’ve no friends in the world,’ the sergeant said. ‘Maybe, but the Honorable Tsu-yan has and Noble House Chen has.’”

  The silence became long and heavy. They waited.

  Those God-cursed guns, Dunross thought furiously. But he held his face calm and his wits sharpened. “We’ve a hundred and more Chens working for us, related, unrelated—Chen’s as common a name as Smith.”

  “And Tsu-yan?” Brian Kwok asked.

  Dunross shrugged. “He’s a director of Struan’s—but he’s also a director of Blacs, the Victoria Bank and forty other companies, one of the richest men in Hong Kong and a name anyone in Asia could pull out of a hat. Like Noble House Chen.”

  “Do you know he’s suspected of being very high up in the triad hierarchy—specifically in the Green Pang?” Brian Kwok asked.