Secret files, MI-6, Special Intelligence, Bartlett, Casey, Gornt, no Tsu-yan and now Alan Medford Grant very dead. His phone call before dinner to Kiernan, Alan Medford Grant’s assistant in London, had been a shocker. “It was sometime this morning, Mr. Dunross,” Kiernan had said. “It was raining, very slippery and he was a motorcycle enthusiast as you know. He was coming up to town as usual. As far as we know now there were no witnesses. The fellow who found him on the country road near Esher and the A3 highway, just said he was driving along in the rain and then there in front of him was the bike on its side and a man sprawled in a heap on the edge of the road. He said as far as he could tell, AMG was dead when he reached him. He called the police and they’ve begun inquiries but … well, what can I say? He’s a great loss to all of us.”
“Yes. Did he have any family?”
“Not that I know of, sir. Of course I informed MI-6 at once.”
“Oh?”
“Yes sir.”
“Why?”
There was heavy static on the line. “He’d left instructions with me, sir. If anything happened to him I was to call two numbers at once and cable you, which I did. Neither number meant anything to me. The first turned out to be the private number of a high-up official in MI-6—he arrived within half an hour with some of his people and they went through AMG’s desk and private papers. They took most of them when they left. When he saw the copy of the last report, the one we’d just sent you, he just about hit the roof, and when he asked for copies of all the others and I told him, following AMG’s instructions—I always destroyed the office copy once we’d heard you had received yours—he just about had a hemorrhage. It seems AMG didn’t really have Her Majesty’s Government’s permission to work for you.”
“But I have Grant’s assurance in writing he’d got clearance from HMG in advance.”
“Yes sir. You’ve done nothing illegal but this MI-6 fellow just about went bonkers.”
“Who was he? What was his name?”
“I was told, told, sir, not to mention any names. He was very pompous and mumbled something about the Official Secrets Act.”
“You said two numbers?”
“Yes sir. The other was in Switzerland. A woman answered and after I’d told her, she just said, oh, so sorry, and hung up. She was foreign, sir. One interesting thing, in AMG’s final instructions he had said not to tell either number about the other but, as this gentleman from MI-6 was, to put it lightly, incensed, I told him. He called at once but got a busy line and it was busy for a very long time and then the exchange said it had been temporarily disconnected. He was bloody furious, sir.”
“Can you carry on AMG’s reports?”
“No sir. I was just a feeder—I collated information that he got. I just wrote the reports for him, answered the phone when he was away, paid office bills. He spent a good part of the time on the Continent but he never said where he’d been, or volunteered anything. He was … well, he played his cards close to his nose. I don’t know who gave him anything—I don’t even know his office number in Whitehall. As I said, he was very secretive …”
Dunross sighed and sipped his brandy. Bloody shame, he thought. Was it an accident—or was he murdered? And when do MI-6 fall on my neck? The numbered account in Switzerland? That’s not illegal either, and no one’s business but mine and his.
What to do? There must be a substitute somewhere.
Was it an accident? Or was he killed?
“Sorry?” he asked, not catching what Barre had said.
“I was just saying it was bloody funny when Casey didn’t want to go and you threw her out.” The big man laughed. “You’ve got balls, old boy.”
At the end of the dinner just before the port and cognac and cigars had arrived, Penelope had got up from her table where Linc Bartlett was deep in conversation with Havergill and the ladies had left with her, and then Adryon at her table, and then, all over the terraces, ladies had begun trickling away after her. Lady Joanna, who was sitting on Dunross’s right, had said, “Come on girls, time to powder.”
Obediently the other women got up with her and the men politely pretended not to be relieved by their exodus.
“Come along, dear,” Joanna had said to Casey, who had remained seated.
“Oh I’m fine, thanks.”
“I’m sure you are but, er, come along anyway.”
Then Casey had seen everyone staring. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, dear,” Lady Joanna had said. “It’s custom that the ladies leave the men alone for a while with the port and cigars. So come along.”
Casey had stared at her blankly. “You mean we’re sent off while the men discuss affairs of state and the price of tea in China?”
“It’s just good manners, dear. When in Rome …” Lady Joanna had watched her, a slight, contemptuous smile on her lips, enjoying the embarrassed silence and the shocked looks of most of the men. All eyes went back to the American girl.
“You can’t be serious. That custom went out before the Civil War,” Casey said.
“In America I’m sure it did.” Joanna smiled her twisted smile. “Here it’s different; this is part of England. It’s a matter of manners. Do come along, dear.”
“I will—dear,” Casey said as sweetly. “Later.”
Joanna had sighed and shrugged and raised an eyebrow at Dunross and smiled crookedly and gone off with the other ladies. There was a stunned silence at the table.
“Tai-pan, you don’t mind if I stay, do you?” Casey had said with a laugh.
“Yes, I’m sorry but I do,” he had told her gently. “It’s just a custom, nothing important. It’s really so the ladies can get first crack at the loo and the pails of water.”
Her smile faded and her chin began to jut. “And if I prefer not to go?”
“It’s just our custom, Ciranoush. In America it’s custom to call someone you’ve just met by his first name, it’s not here. Even so …” Dunross stared back calmly, but just as inflexibly. “There’s no loss of face in it.”
“I think there is.”
“Sorry about that—I can assure you there isn’t.”
The others had waited, watching him and watching her, enjoying the confrontation, at the same time appalled by her. Except Ed Langan who was totally embarrassed for her. “Hell, Casey,” he said, trying to make a joke of it, “you can’t fight City Hall.”
“I’ve been trying all my life,” she had said sharply—clearly furious. Then, abruptly, she had smiled gloriously. Her fingers drummed momentarily on the tablecloth and she got up. “If you gentlemen will excuse me …” she had said sweetly and sailed away, an astonished silence in her wake.
“I hardly threw her out,” Dunross said.
“It was bloody funny, even so,” Barre said. “I wonder what changed her mind? Eh Phillip?”
“What?” Phillip Chen asked absently.
“For a moment I thought she was going to belt poor old Ian, didn’t you? But something she thought of changed her mind. What?”
Dunross smiled. “I’ll bet it’s no good. That one’s as touchy as a pocketful of scorpions.”
“Great knockers, though,” Barre said.
They laughed. Phillip Chen didn’t. Dunross’s concern for him increased. He had tried to cheer him up all evening but nothing had drawn the curtain away. All through dinner Phillip had been dulled and monosyllabic. Barre got up with a belch. “Think I’ll take a leak while there’s space.” He lurched off into the garden.
“Don’t pee on the camellias,” Ian called after him absently, then forced himself to concentrate. “Phillip, not to worry,” he said, now that they were alone. “They’ll find John soon.”
“Yes, I’m sure they will,” Phillip Chen said dully, his mind not so much swamped by the kidnapping as appalled by what he had discovered in his son’s safety deposit box this afternoon. He had opened it with the key that he had taken from the shoebox.
“Go on, Phillip, take it, don’t be a fool
,” his wife Dianne had hissed. “Take it—if we don’t the tai-pan will!”
“Yes, yes I know.” Thank all gods I did, he thought, still in shock, remembering what he had found when he’d rifled through the contents. Manila envelopes of various sizes, mostly itemized, a diary and phone book. In the envelope marked “debts” betting slips for 97,000 HK for current debts to illegal, off-course gamblers in Hong Kong. A note in favor of Miser Sing, a notorious money-lender, for 30,000 HK at 3 percent per month interest; a long overdue sight demand note from the Ho-Pak Bank for $20,000 U.S. and a letter from Richard Kwang dated last week saying unless John Chen made some arrangements soon he would have to talk to his father. Then there were letters which documented a growing friendship between his son and an American gambler, Vincenzo Banastasio, who assured John Chen that his debts were not pressing: “… take your time, John, your credit’s the best, anytime this year’s fine …” and, attached, was the photocopy of a perfectly legal, notarized promissory note binding his son, his heirs or assignees, to pay Banastasio, on demand, $485,000 U.S., plus interest.
Stupid, stupid, he had raged, knowing his son had not more than a fifth of those assets, so he himself would have to pay the debt eventually.
Then a thick envelope marked “Par-Con” had caught his attention.
This contained a Par-Con employment contract signed by K. C. Tcholok, three months ago, hiring John Chen as a private consultant to Par-Con for “… $100,000 down ($50,000 of which is hereby acknowledged as already paid) and, once a satisfactory deal is signed between Par-Con and Struan’s, Rothwell-Gornt or any other Hong Kong company of Par-Con’s choosing, a further one million dollars spread over a five-year period in equal installments; and within thirty days of the signing of the above said contract, a debt to Mr. Vincenzo Banastasio of 85 Orchard Road, Las Vegas, Nevada, of $485,000 paid off, the first year’s installment of $200,000, along with the balance of $50,000 …”
“In return for what,” Phillip Chen had gasped helplessly in the bank vault.
But the long contract spelled out nothing further except that John Chen was to be a “private consultant in Asia.” There were no notes or papers attached to it.
Hastily he had rechecked the envelope in case he had missed anything but it was empty. A quick leafing through the other envelopes produced nothing. Then he happened to notice a thin airmail envelope half stuck to another. It was marked “Par-Con II.” It contained photocopies of handwritten notes from his son to Linc Bartlett.
The first was dated six months ago and confirmed that he, John Chen, would and could supply Par-Con with the most intimate knowledge of the innermost workings of the whole Struan complex of companies, “… of course this has to be kept totally secret, but for example, Mr. Bartlett, you can see from the enclosed Struan balance sheets for 1954 through 1961 (when Struan’s went public) what I advise is perfectly feasible. If you look at the chart of Struan’s corporate structure, and the list of some of the important stockholders of Struan’s and their secret holdings, including my father’s, you should have no trouble in any takeover bid Par-Con cares to mount. Add to these photocopies the other thing I told you about—I swear to God that you can believe me—I guarantee success. I’m putting my life on the line, that should be collateral enough, but if you’ll advance me fifty of the first hundred now, I’ll agree to let you have possession on arrival—on your undertaking to return it to me once your deal’s set—or for use against Struan’s. I guarantee to use it against Struan’s. In the end Dunross has to do anything you want. Please reply to the usual post box and destroy this as we have agreed.”
“Possession of what?” Phillip Chen had muttered, beside himself with anxiety. His hands were shaking now as he read the second letter. It was dated three weeks ago. “Dear Mr. Bartlett. This will confirm your arrival dates. Everything’s prepared. I look forward to seeing you again and meeting Mr. K. C. Tcholok. Thanks for the fifty cash which arrived safely—all future monies are to go to a numbered account in Zurich—I’ll give you the bank details when you arrive. Thank you also for agreeing to our unwritten understanding that if I can assist you in the way I’ve claimed I can, then I’m in for 3 percent of the action of the new Par-Con (Asia) Trading Company.
“I enclose a few more things of interest: note the date that Struan’s demand notes (countersigned by my father) become due to pay Toda Shipping for their new super containerships—September 1, 11 and 15. There’s not enough money in Struan’s till to meet them.
“Next: to answer Mr. Tcholok’s question about my father’s position in any takeover or proxy fight. He can be neutralized. Enclosed photocopies are a sample of many that I have. These show a very close relationship with White Powder Lee and his cousin, Wu Sang Fang who’s also known as Four Finger Wu, from the early fifties, and secret ownership with them—even today—of a property company, two shipping companies and Bangkok trading interests. Though outwardly, now, both pose as respectable businessmen, property developers and shipping millionaires, it’s common knowledge they have been successful pirates and smugglers for years—and there’s a very strong rumor in Chinese circles that they are the High Dragons of the opium trade. If my father’s connection with them was made public it would take his face away forever, would sever the very close links he has with Struan’s, and all the other hongs that exist today, and most important, would destroy forever his chance for a knighthood, the one thing he wants above all. Just the threat of doing this would be enough to neutralize him—even make him an ally. Of course I realize these papers and the others I have need further documentation to stick in a court of law but I have this already in abundance in a safe place….”
Phillip Chen remembered how, panic-stricken, he had searched frantically for the further documentation, his mind shrieking that it was impossible for his son to have so much secret knowledge, impossible for him to have Struan’s balance sheets of the prepublic days, impossible to know about Four Finger Wu and those secret things.
Oh gods that’s almost everything I know—even Dianne doesn’t know half of that! What else does John know—what else has he told the American?
Beside himself with anxiety he had searched every envelope but there was nothing more.
“He must have another box somewhere—or safe,” he had muttered aloud, hardly able to think.
Furiously he had scooped everything into his briefcase, hoping that a more careful examination would answer his questions—and slammed the box shut and locked it. At a sudden thought, he had reopened it. He had pulled the slim tray out and turned it upside down. Taped to the underside were two keys. One was a safety deposit box key with the number carefully filed off. He stared at the other, paralyzed. He recognized it at once. It was the key to his own safe in his house on the crest. He would have bet his life that the only key in existence was the one that he always wore around his neck, that had never been out of his possession—ever since his father had given it to him on his deathbed sixteen years ago.
“Oh ko,” he said aloud, once more consumed with rage.
Dunross said, “You all right? How about a brandy?”
“No, no thank you,” Phillip Chen said shakily, back in the present now. With an effort he pulled his mind together and stared at the tai-pan, knowing he should tell him everything. But he dare not. He dare not until he knew the extent of the secrets stolen. Even then he dare not. Apart from many transactions the authorities could easily misconstrue, and others that could be highly embarrassing and lead to all sorts of court cases, civil if not criminal—stupid English law, he thought furiously, stupid to have one law for everyone, stupid not to have one law for the rich and another for the poor, why else work and slave and gamble and scheme to be rich—apart from all this he would still have had to admit to Dunross that he had been documenting Struan secrets for years, that his father had done so before him—balance sheets, stockholdings and other secret, very very private personal family things, smugglings and payoffs—and he knew it would be no good s
aying I did it just for protection, to protect the House, because the tai-pan would rightly say, yes but it was to protect the House of Chen and not the Noble House, and he would rightly turn on him, turn his full wrath on him and his brood, and in the holocaust of a fight against Struan’s he was bound to lose—Dirk Struan’s will had provided for that—and everything that almost a century and a half had built up would vanish.
Thank all gods that everything was not in the safe, he thought fervently. Thank all gods the other things are buried deep.
Then, suddenly, some words from his son’s first letter ripped to the forefront of his mind, “… Add to these photocopies the other thing I told you about…”
He paled and staggered to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, tai-pan … I, er, I’ll say good night. I’ll just fetch Dianne and I … I’ll … thank you, good night.” He hurried off toward the house.
Dunross stared after him, shocked.
“Oh, Casey,” Penelope was saying, “may I introduce Kathren Gavallan—Kathren’s Ian’s sister.”
“Hi!” Casey smiled at her, liking her at once. They were in one of the antechambers on the ground floor among other ladies who were talking or fixing their makeup or standing in line, waiting their turn to visit the adjoining powder room. The room was large, comfortable and mirrored. “You both have the same eyes—I’d recognize the resemblance anywhere,” she said. “He’s quite a man, isn’t he?”
“We think so,” Kathren replied with a ready smile. She was thirty-eight, attractive, her Scots accent pleasing, her flowered silk dress long and cool. “This water shortage’s a bore, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Must be very difficult with children.”
“No, chérie, the children, they just love it,” Susanne deVille called out. She was in her late forties, chic, her French accent slight. “How can you insist they bathe every night?”