“You’ll be with us for a while?”
“That depends on our business deal,” Casey said after a pause. She smiled at John Chen. “We hope to be in business for a long time.”
John Chen said, “Yes. Er, we hope so too.” He was still non plussed, his mind churning. It’s surely not possible for Casey Tcholok to be a woman, he thought.
Behind them the steward, Sven Svensen, came bouncing down the stairs, carrying two air suitcases. “Here you are, Casey. You’re sure this’s enough for tonight?”
“Yes. Sure. Thanks, Sven.”
“Linc said for you to go on. You need a hand through Customs?”
“No thanks. Mr. John Chen kindly met us. Also, Superintendent Armstrong, head of Kowloon CID.”
“Okay.” Sven studied the policeman thoughtfully for a moment. “I’d better get back.”
“Everything all right?” she asked.
“I think so.” Sven Svensen grinned. “Customs’re just checking our stocks of booze and cigarettes.” Only four things were subject to any import license or customs duty in the Colony—gold, liquor, tobacco and gasoline—and only one contraband—apart from narcotics—and totally forbidden: all forms of firearms and ammunition.
Casey smiled up at Armstrong. “We’ve no rice aboard, Super in tendent. Linc doesn’t eat it.”
“Then he’s in for a bad time here.”
She laughed then turned back to Svensen. “See you tomorrow. Thanks.”
“9 A.M. on the dot!” Svensen went back to the airplane and Casey turned to John Chen.
“Linc said for us not to wait for him. Hope that’s all right,” she said.
“Eh?”
“Shall we go? We’re booked into the Victoria and Albert Hotel, Kowloon.” She began to pick up her bags but a porter materialized out of the darkness and took them from her. “Linc’ll come later … or tomorrow.”
John Chen gawked at her: “Mr. Bartlett’s not coming?”
“No. He’s going to stay in the airplane overnight if he can get permission. If not, he’ll follow us by cab. In any event he’ll join us tomorrow for lunch as arranged. Lunch is still on, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes, but…” John Chen was trying to get his mind working. “Then you’ll want to cancel the 10 A.M. meeting?”
“Oh no. I’ll attend that as arranged. Linc wasn’t expected at that meeting. That’s just financing—not policy. I’m sure you understand. Linc’s very tired, Mr. Chen,” she said. “He just got back yesterday from Europe.” She looked back at Armstrong. “The captain asked the tower if Linc could sleep in, Superintendent. They checked with Immigration who said they’d get back to us but I presume our request’ll come through channels to you. We’d certainly appreciate it if you’d approve. He’s really been on the jet lag trail for too long.”
Armstrong found himself saying, “I’ll chat with him about it.”
“Oh thanks. Thanks very much,” she said, and then to John Chen, “Sorry for all this trouble, Mr. Chen. Shall we go?” She began to head for Gate 16, the porter following, but John Chen pointed to his Rolls. “No, this way, Miss Tchu—er, Casey.”
Her eyes widened. “No Customs?”
“Not tonight,” Armstrong said, liking her. “A present from Her Majesty’s Government.”
“I feel like visiting royalty.”
“All part of the service.”
She got into the car. Lovely smell of leather. And luxury. Then she saw the porter hurrying through the gate into the terminal building. “But what about my bags?”
“No need to worry about those,” John Chen said irritably. “They’ll be in your suite before you are.”
Armstrong held on to the door for a moment. “John came with two cars. One for you and Mr. Bartlett—the other for luggage.”
“Two cars?”
“Of course. Don’t forget you’re in Hong Kong now.”
He watched the car drive off. Linc Bartlett’s a lucky man, he thought, and wondered absently why Special Intelligence was interested in her.
“Just meet the airplane and go through her passport personally,” the director of SI had told him this morning. “And Mr. Lincoln Bartlett’s.”
“May I ask why, sir?”
“No, Robert, you may not ask why. You’re no longer in this branch—you’re in a nice cushy job at Kowloon. A positive sinecure, what?”
“Yes sir.”
“And Robert, kindly don’t balls up this operation tonight—there may be a lot of very big names involved. We go to a great deal of trouble to keep you fellows abreast of what the nasties are doing.”
“Yes sir.”
Armstrong sighed as he walked up the gangway followed by Sergeant Lee. Dew neh loh moh on all senior officers, particularly the director of SI.
One of the Customs officials was waiting at the top of the gangway with Svensen. “Evening, sir,” he said. “Everything’s shipshape aboard. There’s a .38 with a box of a hundred shells unopened as part of ship’s stores. A Verey Light pistol. Also three hunting rifles and a twelve-bore with ammo belonging to Mr. Bartlett. They’re all listed on the manifest and I inspected them. There’s a locked gun cabinet in the main cabin. Captain has the key.”
“Good.”
“You need me anymore, sir?”
“No, thanks.” Armstrong took the airplane’s manifest and began to check it. Lots of wine, cigarettes, tobacco, beer and spirits. Ten cases of Dom Pérignon ’59, fifteen Puligny Montrachet ’53, nine Château Haut Brion ’53. “No Lafite Rothschild 1916, Mr. Svensen?” he said with a small smile.
“No sir.” Svensen grinned. “’16 was a very bad year. But there’s half a case of the 1923. It’s on the next page.”
Armstrong flipped the page. More wines and the cigars were listed. “Good,” he said. “Of course all this is in bond while you’re on the ground.”
“Yes sir. I’d already locked it—your man’s tagged it. He said it was okay to leave a twelve-pack of beer in the cooler.”
“If the owner wants to import any of the wines, just let me know. There’s no fuss and just a modest contribution to Her Majesty’s bottom drawer.”
“Sir?” Svensen was perplexed.
“Eh? Oh, just an English pun. Refers to a lady’s bottom drawer in a chest of drawers—where she puts away the things she needs in the future. Sorry. Your passport please.” Svensen’s passport was Canadian. “Thanks.”
“May I introduce you to Mr. Bartlett? He’s waiting for you.”
Svensen led the way into the airplane. The interior was elegant and simple. Right off the small hallway was a sitting area with half a dozen deep leather chairs and a sofa. A central door closed off the rest of the airplane, aft. In one of the chairs a stewardess was half asleep, her travel bags beside her. Left was the cockpit door. It was open.
The captain and first officer/copilot were in their seats, still going through their paperwork.
“Excuse me, Captain. This is Superintendent Armstrong,” Svensen said, and stepped aside.
“Evening, Superintendent,” the captain said. “I’m Captain Jannelli and this’s my copilot, Bill O’Rourke.”
“Evening. May I see your passports please?”
Both pilots had massed international visas and immigration stamps. No Iron Curtain countries. Armstrong handed them to Sergeant Lee for stamping. “Thank you, Captain. Is this your first visit to Hong Kong?”
“No sir. I was here a couple of times for R and R during Korea. And I had a six-month tour with Far Eastern as first officer on their round-the-world route in ’56, during the riots.”
“What riots?” O’Rourke asked.
“The whole of Kowloon blew apart. Couple hundred thousand Chinese went on a sudden rampage, rioting, burning. The cops—sorry, the police tried to settle it with patience, then the mobs started killing so the cops, police, they got out a couple of Sten guns and killed half a dozen jokers and everything calmed down very fast. Only police have guns here which is a great idea.” To Arm
strong he said, “I think your guys did a hell of a job.”
“Thank you, Captain Jannelli. Where did this flight emanate?”
“LA—Los Angeles. Linc’s—Mr. Bartlett’s head office’s there.”
“Your route was Honolulu, Tokyo, Hong Kong?”
“Yes sir.”
“How long did you stop in Tokyo?”
Bill O’Rourke turned up the flight log at once. “Two hours and seventeen minutes. Just a refueling stop, sir.”
“Just enough time to stretch your legs?”
Jannelli said, “I was the only one who got out. I always check my gear, the landing gear, and do an exterior inspection whenever we land.”
“That’s a good habit,” the policeman said politely. “How long are you staying?”
“Don’t know, that’s up to Linc. Certainly overnight. We couldn’t leave before 1400. Our orders’re just to be ready to go anywhere at any time.”
“You’ve a fine aircraft, Captain. You’re approved to stay here till 1400. If you want an extension, call Ground Control before that time. When you’re ready, just clear Customs through that gate. And would you clear all your crew together, please.”
“Sure. Soon as we’re refueled.”
“You and all your crew know the importing of any firearms into the Colony is absolutely forbidden? We’re very nervous about firearms in Hong Kong.”
“So am I, Superintendent—anywhere. That’s why I’ve the only key to the gun cabinet.”
“Good. Any problems, please check with my office.” Armstrong left and went into the anteroom, Svensen just ahead.
Jannelli watched him inspect the air hostess’s passport. She was pretty, Jenny Pollard. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, then added quietly, “Something stinks around here.”
“Huh?”
“Since when does CID brass check goddamn passports for chrissake? You sure we’re not carrying anything curious?”
“Hell no. I always check everything. Including Sven’s stores. Of course I don’t go through Linc’s stuff—or Casey’s—but they wouldn’t do anything stupid.”
“I’ve flown him for four years and never once … Even so, something sure as hell stinks.” Jannelli wearily twisted and settled himself in his pilot’s seat more comfortably. “Jesus, I could use a massage and a week off.”
In the anteroom Armstrong was handing the passport to Sergeant Lee who stamped it. “Thank you, Miss Pollard.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s all the crew, sir,” Svensen said. “Now Mr. Bartlett.”
“Yes, please.”
Svensen knocked on the central door and opened it without waiting. “Linc, this’s Superintendent Armstrong,” he said with easy informality.
“Hi,” Linc Bartlett said, getting up from his desk. He put out his hand. “May I offer you a drink? Beer?”
“No thanks. Perhaps a cup of coffee.”
Svensen turned for the galley at once. “Coming up,” he said.
“Make yourself at home. Here’s my passport,” Bartlett said. “Won’t be a moment.” He went back to the typewriter and continued tapping the keys with two fingers.
Armstrong studied him leisurely. Bartlett was sandy haired with gray-flecked blue eyes, a strong good-looking face. Trim. Sports shirt and jeans. He checked the passport. Born Los Angeles, October 1, 1922. He looks young for forty, he thought. Moscow franking, same as Casey Tcholok, no other Iron Curtain visits.
His eyes wandered the room. It was spacious, the whole width of the airplane. There was a short central corridor aft with two cabins off it and two toilets. And at the end a final door which he presumed was the master suite.
The cabin was fitted as if it were a communications center. Teletype, international telephone capability, built-in typewriters. An illuminated world time clock on a bulkhead. Filing cabinets, duplicator and a built-in leather-topped desk strewn with papers. Shelves of books. Tax books. A few paperbacks. The rest were war books and books on generals or by generals. Dozens of them. Wellington and Napoleon and Patton, Eisenhower’s Crusade in Europe, Sun Tzu’s The Art of War…
“Here you are, sir,” broke into Armstrong’s inspection.
“Oh, thank you, Svensen.” He took the coffee cup and added a little cream.
Svensen put a fresh, opened can of chilled beer beside Bartlett, picked up the empty, then went back to the galley, closing the door after him. Bartlett sipped the beer from the can, rereading what he had written, then pressed a buzzer. Svensen came at once. “Tell Jannelli to ask the tower to send this off.” Svensen nodded and left. Bartlett eased his shoulders and swung around in the swivel chair. “Sorry—I had to get that right off.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Bartlett. Your request to stay overnight is approved.”
“Thanks—thanks very much. Could Svensen stay as well?” Bartlett grinned. “I’m not much of a housekeeper.”
“Very well. How long will your aircraft be here?”
“Depends on our meeting tomorrow, Superintendent. We hope to go into business with Struan’s. A week, ten days.”
“Then you’ll need an alternate parking place tomorrow. We’ve another VIP flight coming in at 1600 hours. I told Captain Jannelli to phone Ground Control before 1400 hours.”
“Thanks. Does the head of CID Kowloon usually deal with parking around here?”
Armstrong smiled. “I like to know what’s going on in my division. It’s a tedious habit but ingrained. We don’t often have private aircraft visiting us—or Mr. Chen meeting someone personally. We like to be accommodating if we can. Struan’s owns most of the airport and John’s a personal friend. He’s an old friend of yours?”
“I spent time with him in New York and L.A. and liked him a lot. Say, Superintendent, this airplane’s my comm—” One of the phones rang. Bartlett picked it up. “Oh hello Charlie, what’s happening in New York? … Jesus, that’s great. How much? … Okay Charlie, buy the whole block.… Yes, the whole 200,000 shares.… Sure, first thing Monday morning, soon as the market opens. Send me a confirm by telex….” Bartlett put the phone down and turned to Armstrong. “Sorry. Say, Superintendent, this’s my communications center and I’ll be lost without it. If we park for a week is it okay to come back and forth?”
“I’m afraid that might be dicey, Mr. Bartlett.”
“Is that yes or no or maybe?”
“Oh that’s slang for difficult. Sorry, but our security at Kai Tak’s very particular.”
“If you have to put on extra men, I’d be glad to pay.”
“It’s a matter of security, Mr. Bartlett, not money. You’ll find Hong Kong’s phone system first class.” Also it will be far easier for Special Intelligence to monitor your calls, he thought.
“Well, if you can I’d appreciate it.”
Armstrong sipped the coffee. “This’s your first visit to Hong Kong?”
“Yes sir. My first time in Asia. Farthest I’ve gotten was Guadalcanal, in ’43.”
“Army?”
“Sergeant, Engineers. Construction—we used to build anything: hangars, bridges, camps, anything. A great experience.” Bartlett sipped from the can. “Sure I can’t give you a drink?”
“No thanks.” Armstrong finished his cup, began to get up. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Now may I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“What’s Dunross like? Ian Dunross. The head of Struan’s?”
“The tai-pan?” Armstrong laughed outright. “That depends whom you ask, Mr. Bartlett. You’ve never met him?”
“No, not yet. I do tomorrow. At lunch. Why do you call him the tai-pan?”
“Tai-pan means ‘supreme leader’ in Cantonese—the person with the ultimate power. The European heads of all the old trading companies are all tai-pans to the Chinese. But even among tai-pans there’s always the greatest. The tai-pan. Struan’s is nicknamed the ‘Noble House’ or ‘Noble Hong,’ hong meaning ‘company.’ It goes back to the beginning of the Ch
ina trade and the early days of Hong Kong. Hong Kong was founded in 1841, January 26, actually. The founder of Struan and Company was a legend, still is in some ways—Dirk Struan. Some say he was a pirate, some a prince. In any event he made a fortune smuggling Indian opium into China, then converting that silver into China teas which he shipped to England in a fleet of China clippers. He became a merchant prince, earned the title of the tai-pan, and ever since, Struan’s has always tried to be first in everything.”
“Are they?”
“Oh a couple of companies dog their heels, Rothwell-Gornt particularly, but yes, I’d say they were first. Certainly not a thing comes into Hong Kong or goes out, is eaten or buried or made without Struan’s, Rothwell-Gornt, Asian Properties, Blacs—the Bank of London and China—or the Victoria Bank having a finger in the stew somewhere.”
“And Dunross himself? What’s he like?”
Armstrong thought a moment, then said lightly, “Again it depends very much whom you ask, Mr. Bartlett. I know him just a little, socially—we meet from time to time at the races. I’ve had two official meetings with him. He’s charming, very good at his job.… I suppose brilliant might sum him up.”
“He and his family own a lot of Struan’s?”
“I don’t know that for certain. I doubt if anyone does, outside of the family. But his stockholdings aren’t the key to the tai-pan’s desk. Oh no. Not of Struan’s. Of that I’m very certain.” Armstrong locked his eyes on Bartlett’s. “Some say Dunross is ruthless and ready to kill. I know I wouldn’t like him as an enemy.”
Bartlett sipped his beer and the little lines beside his eyes crinkled with a curious smile. “Sometimes an enemy’s more valuable than a friend.”
“Sometimes. I hope you have a profitable stay.”
At once Bartlett got up. “Thanks. I’ll see you out.” He opened the door and ushered Armstrong and Sergeant Lee through it, then followed them out of the main cabin door onto the landing steps. He took a deep breath of air. Once again he caught a strangeness on the wind, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, neither odor nor perfume—just strange, and curiously exciting. “Superintendent, what’s that smell? Casey noticed it too, the moment Sven opened the door.”