“Meanwhile you may not have enough Hong Kong dollars to weather the run?”
“Not if the, er, the problem continues but I’m sure all will be well, sir.”
Sir Geoffrey stared at him. “How the devil did we get into this mess?”
“Joss,” Johnjohn said wearily. “Unfortunately the mint can’t print enough Hong Kong dollar notes for us in time. It’d take weeks to print and to ship the amount we’d need, and it wouldn’t be healthy to have all those extra notes in our economy. The British currency’s stopgap, sir. We can just announce that the, er, that the mint is working overtime to supply our needs.”
“How much do we actually need?” The governor saw Paul Havergill and Johnjohn look at each other and his disquiet increased.
“We don’t know, sir,” Johnjohn said. “Colony-wide, apart from ourselves, every other bank will also need to pledge its securities—just as we’ve pledged ours temporarily to the Bank of England—to obtain the cash they need. If every depositor on the Colony wants every dollar back …” The sweat was beading the banker’s face now. “We’ve no way of knowing how extended the other banks are, or the amount of their deposits. No one knows.”
“Is one RAF transport enough?” Sir Geoffrey tried not to sound sarcastic. “I mean, well, a billion pounds in fives and tens? How in the hell are they going to collect that number of notes?”
Havergill mopped his brow. “We don’t know, sir, but they’ve promised a first shipment will arrive Monday night at the latest.”
“Not till then?”
“No sir. It’s impossible before then.”
“There’s nothing else we can do?”
Johnjohn swallowed. “We considered asking you to declare a bank holiday to stem the tide but, er, we concluded—and the Bank of England agreed—if you did that it might blow the top off the Island.”
“No need to worry, sir.” Havergill tried to sound convincing. “By the end of next week it will all be forgotten.”
“I won’t forget it, Paul. And I doubt if China will—or our friends the Labour MPs will. They may have a point about some form of bank controls.”
Both bankers bridled and Paul Havergill said deprecatingly, “Those two berks don’t know their rears from a hole in the wall! Everything’s in control.”
Sir Geoffrey would have argued that point but he had just seen Rosemont, the CIA deputy director, and Ed Langan, the FBI man, wander out onto the terrace. “Keep me advised. I want a full report at noon. Would you excuse me a moment? Please help yourself to another drink.”
He went off to intercept Rosemont and Langan. “How’re you two?”
“Great, thank you, sir. Great evening.” Both Americans watched Havergill and Johnjohn going back inside. “How’re our banker friends?” Rosemont asked.
“Fine, perfectly fine.”
“That MP, the Socialist guy, Grey, was sure as hell getting under Havergill’s skin!”
“And the tai-pan’s,” Ed Langan added with a laugh.
“Oh I don’t know,” the governor said lightly. “A little opposition’s a good thing, what? Isn’t that democracy at its best?”
“How’s the Vic, sir? How’s the run?”
“No problems that can’t be solved,” Sir Geoffrey replied with his easy charm. “No need to worry. Would you give me a moment, Mr. Langan?”
“Certainly, sir.” The American smiled. “I was just leaving.”
“Not my party, I trust! Just to replenish your drink?”
“Yes sir.”
Sir Geoffrey led the way into the garden, Rosemont beside him. The trees were still dripping and the night dark. He kept to a path that was puddled and muddy. “We’ve a slight problem, Stanley. SI’s just caught one of your sailors from the carrier passing secrets to a KGB fellow. Bo—”
Rosemont stopped, aghast. “Off the Ivanov?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Suslev? Captain Suslev?”
“No. No, it wasn’t that name. May I suggest you get on to Roger at once. Both men are in custody, both have been charged under the Official Secrets Act but I’ve cleared it with the minister in London and he agrees you should take charge of your fellow at once … a little less embarrassing, what? He’s, er, he’s a computer chap I believe.”
“Son of a bitch!” Rosemont muttered, then wiped the sudden sweat off his face with his hand. “What did he pass over?”
“I don’t know exactly. Roger will be able to fill you in on the details.”
“Do we get to interrogate … to interview the KGB guy too?”
“Why not discuss that with Roger? The minister’s in direct touch with him, too.” Sir Geoffrey hesitated. “I, er, I’m sure you’ll appreciate …”
“Yes, of course, sorry, sir. I’d … I’d better get going at once.” Rosemont’s face was chalky and he went off quickly, collecting Ed Langan with him.
Sir Geoffrey sighed. Bloody spies, bloody banks, bloody moles and bloody Socialist idiots who know nothing about Hong Kong. He glanced at his watch. Time to close the party down.
Johnjohn was walking into the anteroom. Dunross was near the bar. “Ian?”
“Oh hello. One for the road?” Dunross said.
“No, thanks. Can I have a word in private?”
“Of course. It’ll have to be quick, I was just leaving. I said I’d drop our friendly MPs at the ferry.”
“You’re on a pink ticket too?”
Dunross smiled faintly. “Actually, old boy, I have one whenever I want it, whether Penn’s here or not.”
“Yes. You’re lucky, you always did have your life well organized,” Johnjohn said gloomily.
“Joss.”
“I know.” Johnjohn led the way out of the room onto the balcony. “Rotten about John Chen, what?”
“Yes. Phillip’s taking it very badly. Where’s Havergill?”
“He left a few minutes ago.”
“Ah, that’s why you mentioned ‘pink ticket’! He’s on the town?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about Lily Su of Kowloon?”
Johnjohn stared at him.
“I hear Paul’s quite enamored.”
“How do you do it, know so much?”
Dunross shrugged. He was feeling tired and uneasy and had been hard put not to lose his temper several times tonight when Grey was in the center of another heated argument with some of the tai-pans.
“By the way, Ian, I tried to get Paul to call a board meeting but it’s not in my bailiwick.”
“Of course.” They were in a smaller anteroom. Good Chinese silk paintings and more fine Persian carpets and silver. Dunross noticed the paint was peeling in the corners of the room and off the fine moldings of the ceiling, and this offended him. This is the British raj and the paint shouldn’t be peeling.
The silence hung. Dunross pretended to examine some of the exquisite snuff bottles that were on a shelf.
“Ian …” Johnjohn stopped and changed his mind. He began again. “This is off the record. You know Tiptop Toe quite well, don’t you?”
Dunross stared at him. Tiptop Toe was their nickname for Tip Tok-toh, a middle-aged man from Hunan, Mao Tse-tung’s home province, who had arrived during the exodus in 1950. No one seemed to know anything about him, he bothered no one, had a small office in Princes Building, and lived well. Over the years it was evident that he had very particular contacts within the Bank of China and it came to be presumed that he was an official unofficial contact of the bank. No one knew his position in the hierarchy but rumor had it that he was very high. The Bank of China was the only commercial arm of the PRC outside of China, so all of its appointments and contacts were tightly controlled by the ruling hierarchy in Peking.
“What about Tiptop?” Dunross asked, on guard, liking Tiptop—a charming, quiet-spoken man who enjoyed Cognac and spoke excellent English, though, following a usual pattern, nearly always he used an interpreter. His clothes were well cut, though most times he wore a Maoist jacket, looked a l
ittle like Chou En-lai and was just as clever. The last time Dunross had dealt with him was about some civilian aircraft the PRC had wanted. Tip Tok-toh had arranged the letters of credit and financing through various Swiss and foreign banks within twenty-four hours. “Tiptop’s canny, Ian,” Alastair Struan had said many times. “You have to watch yourself but he’s the man to deal with. I’d say he was very high up in the Party in Peking. Very.”
Dunross watched Johnjohn, curbing his impatience. The smaller man had picked up one of the snuff bottles. The bottles were tiny, ornate ceramic or jade or glass bottles—many of them beautifully painted inside, within the glass: landscapes, dancing girls, flowers, birds, seascapes, even poems in incredibly delicate calligraphy. “How do they do that, Ian? Paint on the inside like that?”
“Oh they use a very fine brush. The stem of the brush’s bent ninety degrees. In Mandarin they call it li myan huai, ‘inside face painting.’” Dunross lifted up an elliptical one that had a landscape on one side, a spray of camellias on the other and tiny calligraphy on the paintings.
“Astonishing! What patience! What’s the writing say?”
Dunross peered at the tiny column of characters. “Ah, it’s one of Mao’s sayings: ‘Know yourself, know your enemy; a hundred battles, a hundred victories.’ Actually the Chairman took it out of Sun Tzu.”
Thoughtfully Johnjohn examined it. The windows beyond him were open. A small breeze twisted the neat curtains. “Would you talk to Tiptop for us?”
“About what?”
“We want to borrow the Bank of China’s cash.”
Dunross gaped at him. “Eh?”
“Yes, for a week or so. They’re full to the gills with Hong Kong dollars and there’s no run on them. No Chinese’d dare line up outside the Bank of China. They carry Hong Kong dollars as part of their foreign exchange. We’d pay good interest for the loan and put up whatever collateral they’d need.”
“This is a formal request by the Victoria?”
“No. It can’t be formal. This’s my idea, I haven’t even discussed it with Paul—only with you. Would you?”
Dunross’s excitement crested. “Do I get my 100 million loan tomorrow by 10:00 A.M.?”
“Sorry, I can’t do that.”
“But Havergill can.”
“He can but he won’t.”
“So why should I help you?”
“Ian, if the bank doesn’t stand as solid as the Peak, the market’ll crash, and so will the Noble House.”
“If I don’t get some financing right smartly I’m in the shit anyway.”
“I’ll do what I can but will you talk to Tiptop at once? Ask him. I can’t approach him … no one can officially. You’d be doing the Colony a great service.”
“Guarantee my loan and I’ll talk to him tonight. An eye for an eye and a loan for a loan.”
“If you can deliver his promise of a credit up to half a billion in cash by 2:00 P.M. tomorrow, I’ll get you the backing you need.”
“How?”
“I don’t know!”
“Give that to me in writing by 10:00 A.M. signed by you, Havergill and the majority of the board and I’ll go and see him.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Tough. An eye for an eye and a loan for a loan.” Dunross got up. “Why should the Bank of China bale out the Victoria?”
“We’re Hong Kong,” Johnjohn said with great confidence. “We are. We’re the Victoria Bank of Hong Kong and China! We’re old friends of China. Without us there’s nothing—the Colony’d fall apart and so would Struan’s and therefore so would most of Asia.”
“Don’t bet on that!”
“Without banking, particularly us, China’s in bad shape. We’ve been partners for years with China.”
“Then ask Tiptop yourself.”
“I can’t.” Johnjohn’s jaw was jutting. “Did you know the Trade Bank of Moscow has again asked for a license to trade in Hong Kong?”
Dunross gasped. “Once they’re in we’re all on the merry-go-round.”
“We’ve been offered, privately, substantial Hong Kong dollars immediately.”
“The board’ll vote against it.”
“The point is, my dear chap, if you’re no longer on the board, the new board can do what the hell it likes,” Johnjohn said simply. “If the ‘new’ board agrees, the governor and the Colonial Office can easily be persuaded. That’d be a small price to pay—to save our dollar. Once an official Soviet bank’s here what other devilment could they get up to, eh?”
“You’re worse than bloody Havergill!”
“No old chum, better!” The jesting left the banker’s face. “Any major change and we become the Noble House, like it or not. Many of our directors would prefer you gone, at any price. I’m just asking you to do Hong Kong and therefore yourself a favor. Don’t forget, Ian, the Victoria won’t go under, we’ll be hurt but not ruined.” He touched a bead of sweat away. “No threats, Ian, but I’m asking for a favor. One day I may be chairman and I won’t forget.”
“Either way.”
“Of course, old chum,” Johnjohn said sweetly and went to the sideboard. “How about one for the road now? Brandy?”
Robin Grey was seated in the back of Dunross’s Rolls with Hugh Guthrie and Julian Broadhurst, Dunross in the front beside his uniformed chauffeur. The windows were fogged. Idly Grey streaked the mist away, enjoying the deep luxury of the sweet-smelling leather.
Soon I’m going to have one of these, he thought. A Rolls of my very own. With a chauffeur. And soon all these bastards’ll be crawling, Ian bloody Dunross included. And Penn! Oh yes, my dear sweet sneering sister’s going to see the mighty humbled.
“Is it going to rain again?” Broadhurst was asking.
“Yes,” Dunross replied. “They think this storm’s developing into a fullscale typhoon—at least that’s what the Met Office said. This evening I got a report from Eastern Cloud, one of our inbound freighters just off Singapore. She said that the seas were heavy even that far south.”
“Will the typhoon hit here, tai-pan?” Guthrie, the Liberal MP asked.
“You never know for certain. They can head for you then veer off at the last minute. Or the reverse.”
“I remember reading about Wanda, Typhoon Wanda last year. That was a dilly, wasn’t it?”
“The worst I’ve been in. Over two hundred dead, thousands injured, tens of thousands made homeless.” Dunross had his arm across the seat and he was half turned around. “Tai-fun, the Supreme Winds, were gusting to 170 mph at the Royal Observatory, 190 at Tate’s Cairn. The eye of the storm came over us at high tide so our tides in places were twenty-three feet over normal.”
“Christ!”
“Yes. At Sha Tin in the New Territories these gusts blew the tidal surge up the channel and breached the storm shelter and shoved fishing boats half a mile inland onto the main street and drowned most of the village. A thousand known fishing boats vanished, eight freighters aground, millions of dollars in damage, most of our squatters’ areas blown into the sea.” Dunross shrugged. “Joss! But considering the enormity of the storm, the seaborne damage here was incredibly small.” His fingers touched the leather seat. Grey noticed the heavy gold and bloodstone signet ring with the Dunross crest. “A real typhoon shows you how really insignificant you are,” Dunross said.
“Pity we don’t have typhoons every day in that case,” Grey said before he could stop himself. “We could use having the mighty in Whitehall humbled twice a day.”
“You really are a bore, Robin,” Guthrie said. “Do you have to make a sour remark every time?”
Grey went back to his brooding and shut his ears to their conversation. To hell with all of them, he thought.
Soon the car pulled up outside the Mandarin. Dunross got out. “The car’ll take you home to the V and A. See you all Saturday if not before. Night.”
The car drove off. It circled the huge hotel then headed for the car ferry which was slightly east of the Golde
n Ferry Terminal along Connaught Road. At the terminal a haphazard line of cars and trucks waited. Grey got out. “I think I’ll stretch my legs, walk back to the Golden Ferry and go across in one of them,” he said with forced bonhomie. “I need the exercise. Night.”
He walked along the Connaught Road waterfront, quickly, relieved that it had been so easy to get away from them. Bloody fools, he thought, his excitement rising. Well, it won’t be long before they all get their comeuppance, Broadhurst particularly.
When he was sure he was clear he stopped under a streetlamp, creating an eddy in the massed stream of pedestrians hurrying both ways, and flagged a taxi. “Here,” he said and gave the driver a typed address on a piece of paper.
The driver took it, stared at it and scratched his head sullenly.
“It’s in Chinese. It’s in Chinese on the back,” Grey said helpfully.
The driver paid him no attention, just stared blankly at the English address. Grey reached over and turned the characters toward him. “Here!”
At once the driver insolently turned the paper back and glared at the English again. Then he belched, let in his clutch with a jerk and eased into the honking traffic.
Rude sod, Grey thought, suddenly enraged.
The cab ground its gears continually as it went into the city, doubling back down one-way streets and narrow alleys to get back into Connaught Road.
At length they stopped outside a dingy old apartment building on a dingy street. The pavement was broken and narrow and puddled, the traffic honking irritably at the parked cab. There was no number that Grey could see. He got out and told the driver to wait and walked back a little to what seemed to be a side door. An old man was sitting on a battered chair, smoking and reading a racing paper under a bare bulb.
“Is this 68 Kwan Yik Street in Kennedy Town?” Grey asked politely.
The old man stared at him as though he was a monster from outer space, then let out a stream of querulous Cantonese.
“68 Kwan Yik Street,” Grey repeated, slower and louder, “Kenned-dy Town?”
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