Orlanda was still beside her, staring blankly at the water below. People were milling around the deck. “I’d better help get them organized,” Gornt said. “I’ll be back in a second.” He walked off.
Another explosion jarred the boat again. The list began to increase. Several people climbed over the side and jumped. Sampans went in to rescue them.
Christian Toxe had his arm around his Chinese wife and he was staring sourly overboard.
“You’re going to have to jump, Christian,” Dunross said.
“Into Aberdeen Harbor? You must be bloody joking old chap! If you don’t bounce off all the bloody effluvia you’ll catch the bloody plague.”
“It’s that or a red-hot tail,” someone called out with a laugh.
At the end of the deck Sir Charles Pennyworth was holding on to the railing as he worked his way down the boat encouraging everyone. “Come on, young lady,” he said to Orlanda, “it’s an easy jump.”
She shook her head, petrified. “No … no not yet … I can’t swim.”
Fleur Marlowe put her arm around her. “Don’t worry, I can’t swim either. I’m staying too.”
Bartlett said, “Peter, you can hold her hand, she’ll be safe. All you have to do, Fleur, is hold your breath!”
“She’s not going to jump,” Marlowe said quietly. “At least, not till the last second.”
“It’s safe.”
“Yes, but it’s not safe for her. She’s enceinte.”
“What?”
“Fleur’s with child. About three months.”
“Oh Jesus.”
Flames roared skyward out of one of the flues. Inside the top deck restaurant tables were afire and the great carved temple screens at the far end were burning merrily. There was a great gust of sparks as the inner central staircase collapsed. “Jesus, this whole boat’s a firetrap. What about the folk below?” Casey asked.
“They’re all out long ago,” Dunross said, not believing it. Now that he was in the open he felt fine. His successful domination of his fear made him light-headed. “The view here is quite splendid, don’t you think?”
Pennyworth called out jovially, “We’re in luck! The ship’s listing this way so when she goes down we’ll be safe enough. Unless she capsizes. Just like old times,” he added. “I was sunk three times in the Med.”
“So was I,” Marlowe said, “but it was in the Bangka Strait off Sumatra.”
“I didn’t know that, Peter,” Fleur said.
“It was nothing.”
“How deep’s the water here?” Bartlett asked.
“It must be twenty feet or more,” Dunross said.
“That’ll be en—” There was a whoopwhoopwhoop of sirens as the police launch came bustling through the narrow byways between the islands of boats, its searchlight darting here and there. When it was almost alongside the Floating Dragon, the megaphone sounded loudly, first in Chinese, “All sampans clear the area, clear the area …” Then in English, “Those on the top deck prepare to abandon ship! The hull’s holed, prepare to abandon ship!”
Christian Toxe muttered sourly to no one, “Buggered if I’m going to ruin my only dinner jacket.”
His wife tugged at his arm. “You never liked it anyway, Chris.”
“I like it now, old girl.” He tried to smile. “You can’t bloody swim either.”
She shrugged. “I’ll bet you fifty dollar you and me we swim like a one hundred percent eel.”
“Mrs. Toxe, you have a bet. But it’s only fitting we’re the last to go. After all, I want an eyewitness account.” He reached into his pocket and found his cigarettes, gave her one, trying to feel brave, frightened for her safety. He searched for a match, couldn’t find one. She reached into her purse and rummaged around. Eventually she found her lighter. It lit on the third go. Both were oblivious of the flames that were ten feet behind them.
Dunross said, “You smoke too much, Christian.”
The deck twisted sickeningly The boat began to settle. Water was pouring through the great hole in her side. Firemen used their hoses with great bravery but they had little effect on the conflagration. A murmur went through the crowd as the whole boat shuddered. Two of the mooring guys snapped.
Pennyworth was leaning against the gunnel, helping others to jump clear. Quite a few were jumping now. Lady Joanna fell awkwardly. Paul Havergill helped his wife over the side. When he saw she had surfaced he leaped too. The police launch was still blaring in Cantonese to clear the area. Sailors threw life jackets over the side as others launched a cutter. Then, led by a young marine inspector, half a dozen sailors dived over the side to help those in trouble, men, women and a few children. A sampan darted in to help Lady Joanna, Havergill and his wife. Gratefully they clambered aboard the rickety craft. Others from the top deck plunged into the water.
The Floating Dragon was listing badly. Someone slipped on the top deck and knocked Pennyworth off balance. He half-jumped, half-fell backward before he could catch himself and fell like a stone. His head smashed into the stern of the sampan, snapping his neck, and he slithered into the water and sank. In the pandemonium no one noticed him.
Casey was hanging on to the railings with Bartlett, Dunross, Gornt, Orlanda and the Marlowes. Nearby, Toxe was puffing away, trying to summon his courage. His wife stubbed her cigarette out carefully. Flames were surging from the air vents, skylights and exit door, then the ship grounded heavily and lurched as another of her anchoring cables snapped. Gornt’s hold was torn away and he crashed headfirst into the railing, stunning himself. Toxe and his wife lost their balance and went over the side, badly. Peter Marlowe held on to his wife and just managed to prevent her being smashed into a bulkhead as Bartlett and Casey half-tumbled, half-stumbled past and fell in a heap at the railing, Bartlett protecting her as best he could, her high heels dangerous.
Below, in the water, sailors were helping people to the rescue boat. One saw Toxe and his wife rise to the surface for an instant fifteen yards away, both gasping and spluttering, before they choked, and, flailing, went down again. At once he dived for them and after a seeming eternity, grabbed her clothing and shoved her, half-drowned, to the surface. The young lieutenant swam over to where he had seen Toxe and dived but missed him in the darkness. He came up for air and dived once more into the blackness, groping helplessly. When his lungs were bursting, his outstretched fingers touched some clothing and he grabbed and kicked for the surface. Toxe clung on in panic, retching and choking from all the seawater he had swallowed. The young man broke his hold, turned Toxe over and hauled him to the cutter.
Above them, the boat was tilted dangerously and Dunross picked himself up. He saw Gornt inert in a heap and he stumbled over to him. He tried to lift him, couldn’t.
“I’m … I’m all right,” Gornt gasped, coming around, then he shook his head like a dog. “Christ, thanks …” He looked up and saw it was Dunross. “Thanks,” he said, smiled grimly as he got up shakily. “I’m still selling tomorrow and by next week you’ll have had it.”
Dunross laughed. “Jolly good luck! The idea of burning to death or drowning with you fills me with equal dismay.”
Ten yards away, Bartlett was lifting Casey up. The angle of the deck was bad now, the fire worse. “This whole goddamn tub could capsize any second.”
“What about them?” she asked quietly, nodding at Fleur and Orlanda.
He thought a second, then said decisively, “You go first, wait below!”
“Got it!” At once she gave him her small purse. He stuffed it into a pocket and hurried away as she kicked off her shoes, unzipped her long dress and stepped out of it. At once she gathered up the light silk material into a rope, tied it around her waist, swung neatly over the railing and stood there poised on the edge a moment, gauged her impact point carefully, and leapt out into a perfect swan dive. Gornt and Dunross watched her go, their immediate danger forgotten.
Bartlett was beside Orlanda now. He saw Casey break the surface cleanly and before Orlanda cou
ld do anything he lifted her over the railing and said, “Hold your breath, honey,” and dropped her carefully. They all watched her fall. She plummeted down feet first and went into the water a few yards from Casey who had already anticipated the spot and had swum down below the surface. She caught Orlanda easily, kicked for the surface, and Orlanda was breathing almost before she realized she was off the deck. Casey held her safely and swam strongly for the cutter, in perfect control.
Gornt and Dunross cheered lustily. The boat lurched again and they almost lost their footing as Bartlett stumbled over to the Marlowes.
“Peter, how’s your swimming?” Bartlett asked.
“Average.”
“Trust me with her? I was a lifeguard, beach bum, for years.”
Before Marlowe could say no, Bartlett lifted Fleur into his arms and stepped over the railing onto the ledge and poised himself for a second. “Just hold your breath!” She put one arm around his neck and held her nose then he stepped into space, Fleur tightly and safely in his arms. He plunged into the sea cleanly, protecting her from the shock with his own legs and body, and kicked smoothly for the surface. Her head was hardly under a few seconds and she was not even spluttering though her heart was racing. In seconds she was at the cutter. She hung on to the side and they looked back.
When Peter Marlowe saw she was safe his heart began again. “Oh, jolly good,” he muttered.
“Did you see Casey go?” Dunross asked. “Fantastic!”
“What? Oh, no, tai-pan.”
“Just bra and pants with stockings attached and no ironworks and a dream dive. Christ, what a figure!”
“Oh those’re pantyhose,” Marlowe said absently, looking at the water below, gathering his courage. “They’ve just come out in the States, they’re all the rage …”
Dunross was hardly listening. “Christ Agnes, what a figure.”
“Ah yes,” Gornt echoed. “And what cojones.”
The boat shrieked as the last of its mooring guys snapped. The deck toppled nauseatingly.
As one, the last three men went overboard. Dunross and Gornt dived, Peter Marlowe jumped. The dives were good but both men knew they were not as good as Casey’s.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
11:30 P.M.:
On the other side of the island the old taxi was grinding up the narrow street high above West Point in Mid Levels, Suslev sprawled drunkenly in the backseat. The night was dark and he was singing a sad Russian ballad to the sweating driver, his tie askew, coat off, his shirt streaked with sweat. The overcast had thickened and lowered, the humidity was worse, the air stifling.
“Matyeryebyets!” he muttered, cursing the heat, then smiled, the twisted obscenity pleasing him. He looked out the window. The city and harbor lights far below were misted by wisps of clouds, Kowloon mostly obscured. “It’ll rain soon, comrade,” he said to the driver, his English slurred, not caring if the man understood or not.
The ancient taxi was wheezing. The engine coughed suddenly and that reminded him of Arthur’s cough and their coming meeting. His excitement quickened.
The taxi had picked him up at the Golden Ferry Terminal, then climbed to Mid Levels on the Peak, turned west, skirting Government House where the governor lived, and the Botanical Gardens. Passing the palace, Suslev had wondered absently when the Hammer and Sickle would fly atop the empty flagpole. Soon, he had thought contentedly. With Arthur’s help and Sevrin’s—very soon. Just a few more years.
He peered at his watch. He would be a little late but that did not worry him. Arthur was always late, never less than ten minutes, never more than twenty. Dangerous to be a man of habit in our profession, he thought. But dangerous or not, Arthur’s an enormous asset and Sevrin, his creation, a brilliant, vital tool in our KGB armament, buried so deep, waiting so patiently, like all the other Sevrins throughout the world. Only ninety-odd thousands of us KGB officers and yet we almost rule the world. We’ve already changed it, changed it permanently, already we own half … and in such a short time, only since 1917.
So few of us, so many of them. But now our tentacles reach out into every corner. Our armies of assistants—informers, fools, parasites, traitors, the twisted self-deluders and misshapen, misbegotten believers we so deliberately recruit are in every land, feeding off one another like the vermin they all are, fueled by their own selfish wants and fears, all expendable sooner or later. And everywhere one of us, one of the elite, the KGB officers, in the center of each web, controlling guiding eliminating. Webs within webs up to the Presidium of all the Soviets and now so tightly woven into the fabric of Mother Russia as to be indestructible. We are modern Russia, he thought proudly. We’re Lenin’s spearhead. Without us and our techniques and our orchestrated use of terror there would be no Soviet Russia, no Soviet Empire, no driving force to keep the rulers of the Party all powerful—and nowhere on earth would there be a Communist state. Yes, we’re the elite.
His smile deepened.
It was hot and sultry inside the taxi even though the windows were open as it curled upward through this residential area with its ribbons of great gardenless apartment blocks that sat on small pads chewed out of the mountainside. A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek and he wiped it off, his whole body feeling clammy.
I’d love a shower, he thought, letting his mind wander. A shower with cool sweet Georgian water, not this saline filth they put through Hong Kong’s pipes. I’d love to be in the dacha near Tiflis, oh that would be grand! Yes, back in the dacha with Father and Mother and I’d swim in the stream running through our land and dry off in the sun, a great Georgian wine cooling in the stream and the mountains nearby. That’s Eden if there ever was an Eden. Mountains and pastures, grapes and harvest and the air so clean.
He chuckled as he remembered the fabrication about his past he had told Travkin. That parasite! Just another fool, another tool to be used and, when blunt, discarded.
His father had been a Communist since the very early days—first in the Cheka, secretly, and then, since its inception in 1917, in the KGB. Now in his late seventies, still tall and upright and in honored retirement, he lived like an old-fashioned prince with servants and horses and bodyguards. Suslev was sure that he would inherit the same dacha, the same land, the same honor in due course. So would his son, a fledgling in the KGB, if his service continued to be excellent. His own work merited it, his record was impressive and he was only fifty-two.
Yes, he told himself confidently, in thirteen years I’m due for retirement. Thirteen great more years, helping the attack move forward, never easing up whatever the enemy does.
And who is the enemy, the real enemy?
All those who disobey us, all those who refuse our eminence—Russians most of all.
He laughed out loud.
The weary sour-faced young driver glanced up briefly at the rear mirror then went back to his driving, hoping his passenger was drunk enough to misread the meter and give him a great tip. He pulled up at the address he had been given.
Rose Court on Kotewall Road was a modern fourteen-story apartment block. Below were three floors of garage space and around it a small ribbon of concrete and below that, down a slight concrete embankment, was Sinclair Road and Sinclair Towers and more apartment blocks that nestled into the mountainside. This was a choice area to live. The view was grand, the apartments were below the clouds that frequently shrouded the upper reaches of the Peak where walls would sweat, linens would mildew and everything would seem to be perpetually damp.
The meter read 8.70 HK. Suslev peered at a bunch of notes, gave the driver 100 instead of a 10 and got out heavily. A Chinese woman was fanning herself impatiently. He lurched toward the apartment intercom. She told the driver to wait for her husband and looked after Suslev disgustedly.
His feet were unsteady. He found the button he sought and pressed it: Ernest Clinker, Esq., Manager.
“Yes?”
“Ernie, it’s me, Gregor,” he said thickly with a belch. “Are you in?”
/> The cockney voice laughed. “Not on your nelly! ’Course I’m in, mate! You’re late! You sound as though you’ve been on a pub crawl! Beer’s up, vodka’s up, and me’n Mabel’s here to greet you!”
Suslev headed for the elevator. He pressed the down button. On the lowest level he got out into the open garage and went to the far side. The apartment door was already open and a ruddy-faced, ugly little man in his sixties held out his hand. “Stone the bloody crows,” Clinker said, a grin showing cheap false teeth, “you’re a bit under the weather, ain’cher?” Suslev gave him a bear hug which was returned and they went inside.
The apartment was two tiny bedrooms, living room, kitchen, bathroom. The rooms were poorly furnished but pleasant, and the only real luxury a small tape deck that was playing opera loudly.
“Beer or vodka?”
Suslev beamed and belched. “First a piss, then vodka, then … then another and then … then bed.” He belched hugely, lurching for the toilet.
“Right you are, Cap’n me old sport! Hey, Mabel, say hello to the Cap’n!” The sleepy old bulldog on her well-chewed mat opened one eye briefly, barked once and was almost instantly wheezily asleep again. Clinker beamed and went to the table and poured a stiff vodka and a glass of water. No ice. He drank some Guinness then called out, “How long you staying, Gregor?”
“Just tonight, tovarich. Perhaps tomorrow night. Tomorrow … tomorrow I’ve got to be back aboard. But tomorrow night … perhaps, eh?”
“What about Ginny? She throw you out again …?”
In the nondescript van that was parked down the road, Roger Crosse, Brian Kwok and the police radio technician were listening to this conversation through a loudspeaker, the quality of the bug good with little static, the van packed with radio surveillance equipment. They heard Clinker chuckle and say again, “She threw you out, eh?”
“All evening we jig-jig and she … she says go stay with Ernie and leave me … leave me sleep!”
“You’re a lucky bugger. She’s a princess that one. Bring her over tomorrer.”
Noble House Page 73
