He leaned back against the wall. Soon the pain vanished and left euphoria. It was all-pervading. He felt young again and strong again and now he knew that he would finish his shift perfectly and this Saturday, when he went to the races, he would win the double quinella. Yes, this would be his lucky week and he would put most of his winnings down on a piece of property, yes, a small piece of property at first but with the boom my property will go up and up and up and then I’ll sell that piece and make a fortune and buy more and more and then I’ll be an ancestor, my grandchildren flocking around my knees …
He got up and stood tall then went back down the stairs again and stood in line, waiting his turn impatiently. “Dew neh loh moh hurry up,” he said in his lilting Shantung dialect, “I haven’t all night! I’ve another job at midnight.”
The other job was on a construction site in Central, not far from the Ho-Pak and he knew he was blessed to have two bonus jobs in one night on top of his regular day job as a construction laborer. He knew, too, that it was the expensive white powder that had transformed him and taken his fatigue and pain away. Of course, he knew the white powder was dangerous. But he was sensible and cautious and only took it when he was at the limit of strength. That he took it most days now, twice a day most days now, did not worry him. Joss, he told himself with a shrug, taking the new canvas sack on his back.
Once he had been a farmer and the eldest son of landowning farmers in the northern province of Shantung, in the fertile, shifting delta of the Yellow River where, for centuries, they had grown fruit and grain and soybeans, peanuts, tobacco and all the vegetables they could eat.
Ah, our lovely fields, he thought happily, climbing the stairs now, oblivious of his pounding heart, our lovely fields rich with growing crops. So beautiful! Yes. But then the Bad Times began thirty years ago. The Devils from the Eastern Sea came with their guns and their tanks and raped our earth, and then, after warlord Mao Tse-tung and warlord Chiang Kai-shek beat them off, they fought among themselves and again the land was laid waste. So we fled the famine, me and my young wife and my two sons and came to this place, Fragrant Harbor, to live among strangers, southern barbarians and foreign devils. We walked all the way. We survived. I carried my sons most of the way and now my sons are sixteen and fourteen and we have two daughters and they all eat rice once a day and this year will be my lucky year. Yes. I’ll win the quinella or the daily double and one day we’ll go home to my village and I’ll take our lands back and plant them again and Chairman Mao will welcome us home and let us take our lands back and we’ll live so happily, so rich and so happy….
He was out of the building now, in the night, standing beside the truck. Other hands lifted the sack and stacked it with all the other sacks of gold, more clerks checking and rechecking the numbers. There were two trucks in the side street. One was already filled and waiting under its guards. A single unarmed policeman was watching idly as the traffic passed. The night was warm.
The old man turned to go. Then he noticed the three Europeans, two men and a woman, approaching. They stopped near the far truck, watching him. His mouth dropped open.
“Dew neh loh moh! Look at that whore—the monster with the straw hair,” he said to no one in particular.
“Unbelievable!” another replied.
“Yes,” he said.
“It’s revolting the way their whores dress in public, isn’t it?” a wizened old loader said disgustedly. “Flaunting their loins with those tight trousers. You can see every fornicating wrinkle in her lower lips.”
“I’ll bet you could put your whole fist and whole arm in it and never reach bottom!” another said with a laugh.
“Who’d want to?” Nine Carat Chu asked and hawked loudly and spat and let his mind drift pleasantly to Saturday as he went below again.
“I wish they wouldn’t spit like that. It’s disgusting!” Casey said queasily.
“It’s an old Chinese custom,” Dunross said. “They believe there’s an evil god-spirit in your throat which you’ve got to get rid of constantly or it will choke you. Of course spitting’s against the law but that’s meaningless to them.”
“What’d that old man say?” Casey asked, watching him plod back into the side door of the bank, now over her anger and very glad to be going to dinner with them both.
“I don’t know—I didn’t understand his dialect.”
“I’ll bet it wasn’t a compliment.”
Dunross laughed. “You’d win that one, Casey. They don’t think much of us at all.”
“That old man must be eighty if he’s a day and he’s carried his load as though it was a feather. How’d they stay so fit?”
Dunross shrugged and said nothing. He knew.
Another coolie heaved his burden into the truck, stared at her, hawked, spat and plodded away again. “Up yours too,” Casey muttered and then parodied an awful hawk and a twenty-foot spit and they laughed with her. The Chinese just stared.
“Ian, what’s this all about? What’re we here for?” Bartlett asked.
“I thought you might like to see fifty tons of gold.”
Casey gasped. “Those sacks’re filled with gold?”
“Yes. Come along.” Dunross led the way down the dingy stairs into the gold vault. The bank officials greeted him politely and the unarmed guards and loaders stared. Both Americans felt disquieted under the stares. But their disquiet was swamped by the gold. Neat stacks of gold bars on the steel shelves that surrounded them—ten to a layer, each stack ten layers high.
“Can I pick one up?” Casey asked.
“Help yourself,” Dunross told them, watching them, trying to test the extent of their greed. I’m gambling for high stakes, he thought again. I have to know the measure of these two.
Casey had never touched so much gold in her life. Nor had Bartlett. Their fingers trembled. She caressed one of the little bars, her eyes wide, before she lifted it. “It’s so heavy for its size,” she muttered.
“These’re called smuggler bars because they’re easy to hide and to transport,” Dunross said, choosing his words deliberately. “Smugglers wear a sort of canvas waistcoat with little pockets in it that hold the bars snugly. They say a good courier can carry as much as eighty pounds a trip—that’s almost 1,300 ounces. Of course they have to be fit and well trained.”
Bartlett was hefting two in each hand, fascinated by them. “How many make up eighty pounds?”
“About two hundred, give or take a little.”
Casey looked at him, her hazel eyes bigger than usual. “Are these yours, tai-pan?”
“Good God, no! They belong to a Macao company. They’re shifting it from here to the Victoria Bank. Americans or English aren’t allowed by law to own even one of these. But I thought you might be interested because it’s not often you see fifty tons all in one place.”
“I never realized what real money was like before,” Casey said. “Now I can understand why my dad’s and uncle’s eyes used to light up when they talked about gold.”
Dunross was watching her. He could see no greed in her. Just wonder.
“Do banks make many shipments like this?” Bartlett asked, his voice throaty.
“Yes, all the time,” Dunross said and he wondered if Bartlett had taken the bait and was considering a Mafioso-style hijack with his friend Banastasio. “We’ve a very large shipment coming in in about three weeks,” he said, increasing the lure.
“What’s fifty tons worth?” Bartlett asked.
Dunross smiled to himself remembering Zeppelin Tung with his exactitude of figures. As if it mattered! “63 million dollars legally, give or take a few thousand.”
“And you’re moving it just with a bunch of old men, two trucks that’re not even armored and no guards?”
“Of course. That’s no problem in Hong Kong, which’s one of the reasons our police are so sensitive about guns here. If they’ve the only guns in the Colony, well, what can the crooks and nasties do except curse?”
“But wher
e’re the police? I didn’t see but one and he wasn’t armed.”
“Oh, they’re around, I suppose,” Dunross said, deliberately underplaying it.
Casey peered at the gold bar, enjoying the touch of the metal. “It feels so cool and so permanent. Tai-pan, if it’s 63 million legal, what’s it worth on the black market?”
Dunross noticed tiny beads of perspiration now on her upper lip. “However much someone’s prepared to pay. At the moment, I hear the best market’s India. They’d pay about $80 to $90 an ounce, U.S., delivered into India.”
Bartlett smiled crookedly and reluctantly put his four bars back onto their pile. “That’s a lot of profit.”
They watched in silence as another canvas bag was sealed, the bars checked and rechecked by both clerks. Again the two loaders lifted the sack onto a bent back and the man plodded out.
“What’re those?” Casey asked, pointing to some much bigger bars that were in another part of the vault.
“They’re the regulation four-hundred-ounce bars,” Dunross said. “They weigh around twenty-five pounds apiece.” The bar was stamped with a hammer and sickle and 99,999. “This’s Russian. It’s 99.99 percent pure. South African gold is usually 99.98 percent pure so the Russian’s sought after. Of course both’re easy to buy in the London gold market.” He let them look awhile longer, then said, “Shall we go now?”
On the street there was still only one policeman and the sloppy, unarmed bank guards, the two truck drivers smoking in their cabins. Traffic eased past from time to time. A few pedestrians.
Dunross was glad to get out of the close confinement of the vault. He had hated cellars and dungeons ever since his father had locked him in a cupboard when he was very small, for a crime he could not now remember. But he remembered old Ah Tat, his amah, rescuing him and standing up for him—him staring up at his father, trying to hold back the terror tears that would not be held back.
“It’s good to be out in the air again,” Casey said. She used a tissue. Inexorably her eyes were dragged to the sacks in the nearly full truck. “That’s real money,” she muttered, almost to herself. A small shudder wracked her and Dunross knew at once that he had found her jugular.
“I could use a bottle of beer,” Bartlett said. “So much money makes me thirsty.”
“I could use a Scotch and soda!” she said, and the spell was broken.
“We’ll stroll over to the Victoria and see the delivery begin, then we’ll eat—” Dunross stopped. He saw the two men chatting near the trucks, partially in shadow. He stiffened slightly.
The two men saw him. Martin Haply of the China Guardian and Peter Marlowe.
“Oh, hello, tai-pan,” young Martin Haply said, coming up to him with his confident grin. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Evening, Miss Casey, Mr. Bartlett. Tai-pan, would you care to comment on the Ho-Pak matter?”
“What Ho-Pak matter?”
“The run on the bank, sir.”
“I didn’t know there was one.”
“Did you happen to read my column about the various branches and the rumo—”
“My dear Haply,” Dunross said with his easy charm, “you know I don’t seek interviews or give them lightly … and never on street corners.”
“Yes sir.” Haply nodded at the sacks. “Transferring all this gold out’s kinda rough for the Ho-Pak, isn’t it? That’ll put the kiss of death on the bank when all this leaks.”
Dunross sighed. “Forget the Ho-Pak, Mr. Haply. Can I have a word in private?” He took the young man’s elbow and guided him away with velvet firmness. When they were alone, half covered by one of the trucks, he let go of the arm. His voice dropped. Involuntarily, Haply flinched and moved back half a pace. “Since you are going out with my daughter, I just want you to know that I’m very fond of her and among gentlemen there are certain rules. I’m presuming you’re a gentleman. If you’re not, God help you. You’ll answer to me personally, immediately and without mercy.” Dunross turned and went back to the others, full of sudden bonhomie. “Evening, Marlowe, how’re things?”
“Fine, thank you, tai-pan.” The tall man nodded at the trucks. “Astonishing, all this wealth!”
“Where did you hear about the transfer?”
“A journalist friend mentioned it about an hour ago. He said that some fifty tons of gold were being moved from here to the Victoria. I thought it’d be interesting to see how it was done. Hope it’s not … hope I’m not treading on any corns.”
“Not at all.” Dunross turned to Casey and Bartlett. “There, you see, I told you Hong Kong was just like a village—you can never keep any secrets here for long. But all this”—he waved at the sacks—“this is all lead—fool’s gold. The real shipment was completed an hour ago. It wasn’t fifty tons, only a few thousand ounces. The majority of the Ho-Pak’s bullion’s still intact.” He smiled at Haply who was not smiling but listening, his face set.
“This’s all fake after all?” Casey gasped.
Peter Marlowe laughed. “I must confess I did think this whole operation was a bit haphazard!”
“Well, good night you two,” Dunross said breezily to Marlowe and Martin Haply. He took Casey’s arm momentarily. “Come on, it’s time for dinner.” They started down the street, Bartlett beside them.
“But tai-pan, the ones we saw,” Casey said, “the one I picked up, that was fake? I’d’ve bet my life, wouldn’t you have, Linc?”
“Yes,” Bartlett agreed. “But the diversion was wise. That’s what I’d’ve done.”
They turned the corner, heading along toward the huge Victoria Bank building, the air warm and sticky.
Casey laughed nervously. “That golden metal was getting to me—and it was fake all the time!”
“Actually it was all real,” Dunross said quietly and she stopped. “Sorry to confuse you, Casey. I only said that for Haply and Marlowe’s benefit, to pour suspicion on their source. They could hardly prove it one way or another. I was asked to make the arrangements for the transfer little more than an hour ago—which I did, obviously, with great caution.” His heart quickened. He wondered how many other people knew about the AMG papers and the vault and the box number in the vault.
Bartlett watched him. “I bought what you said, so I guess they did,” he said, but he was thinking, Why did you bring us to see the gold? That’s what I’d like to know.
“It’s curious, tai-pan,” Casey said with a little nervous laugh. “I knew, I just knew the gold was real to begin with. Then I believed you when you said it was fake, and now I believe you back again. Is it that easy to fake?”
“Yes and no. You only know for certain if you put acid on it—you’ve got to put it to the acid test. That’s the only real test for gold. Isn’t it?” he added to Bartlett and saw the half-smile and he wondered if the American understood.
“Guess that’s right, Ian. For gold—or for people.”
Dunross smiled back. Good, he thought grimly, we understand each other perfectly.
It was quite late now. Golden Ferries had stopped running and Casey and Linc Bartlett were in a small private hire-launch chugging across the harbor, the night grand, a good sea smell on the wind, the sea calm. They were sitting on one of the thwarts facing Hong Kong, arm in arm. Dinner had been the best they had ever eaten, the conversation filled with lots of laughter, Dunross charming. They’d ended with cognac atop the Hilton. Both were feeling marvelously at peace with the world and with themselves.
Casey felt the light pressure of his arm and she leaned against him slightly. “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Linc? Look at the Peak, and all the lights. Unbelievable. It’s the most beautiful and exciting place I’ve ever been.”
“Better than the south of France?”
“That was so different.” They had had a holiday on the Côte d’Azur two years ago. It was the first time they had holidayed together. And the last. It had been too much of a strain on both of them to stay apart. “Ian’s fantastic, isn’t he?”
“Yes. And
so are you.”
“Thank you, kind sir, and so are you.” They laughed, happy together.
At the wharf, Kowloon side, Linc paid the boat off and they strolled to the hotel, arm in arm. A few waiters were still on duty in the lobby.
“Evening, sir, evening, missee,” the old elevator man said sibilantly, and, on their floor, Nighttime Chang scurried ahead of them to open the door of the suite. Automatically Linc gave him a dollar and they were bowed in. Nighttime Chang closed the door.
She bolted it.
“Drink?” he asked.
“No thanks. It’d spoil that brandy.”
She saw him looking at her. They were standing in the center of the living room, the huge picture window displaying all of Hong Kong behind him, his bedroom to the right, hers to the left. She could feel the vein in her neck pulsing, her loins seemed liquid and he looked so handsome to her.
“Well, it’s … thanks for a lovely evening, Linc. I’ll … I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. But she did not move.
“It’s three months to your birthday, Casey.”
“Thirteen weeks and six days.”
“Why don’t we finesse them and get married now. Tomorrow?”
“You’ve … you’ve been so wonderful to me, Linc, so good to be patient and put up with my … my craziness.” She smiled at him. It was a tentative smile. “It’s not long now. Let’s do it as we agreed. Please?”
He stood there and watched her, wanting her. Then he said, “Sure.” At his door he stopped. “Casey, you’re right about this place. It is romantic and exciting. It’s got to me too. Maybe, maybe you’d better get another room.”
His door closed.
That night she cried herself to sleep.
Wednesday
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN