Dunross’s mind reached out for the missing piece. “So you’ll take care of Steigler and everything stands as before?”
“You’ll have to work out title to the ships as we agreed but that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“No. I can handle that.”
“You’ll personally guarantee everything?”
“Oh, yes,” Dunross said carelessly. “Dirk did all the time. That’s the taipan’s privilege. Listen, Ciranoush, I—”
“Will you call me Casey, tai-pan? Ciranoush is for a different era.”
“All right. Casey, whether this works or not, you’re an Old Friend and I owe you a thank you for your bravery, your personal bravery at the fire.”
“I’m not brave. It must have been glands.” She laughed. “Don’t forget we’ve still got the hepatitis over our heads.”
“Oh. You thought of that too.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes were watching him and he could not gauge her. “I’ll help you with drop dead money,” he said. “How much do you need?”
“2 million, tax free.”
“Your tax laws are rigid and tough. Are you prepared to stretch laws?”
She hesitated. “It’s the right of every red-blooded American to avoid taxes, but not evade them.”
“Got it. So at your bracket you might need 4?”
“My bracket’s low, though my capital’s high.”
“$46,000 at the San Fernando Savings and Loan’s not very much,” he said, grimly amused to see her blanch. “$8,700 in your checking account at the Los Angeles and California’s not too much either.”
“You’re a bastard.”
He smiled. “I merely have friends in high places. Like you.” Casually he opened the trap. “Will you and Linc Bartlett have dinner with me tonight?”
“Linc’s busy,” she said.
“Will you have dinner then? Eight? Let’s meet in the lobby of the Mandarin.” He had heard the undercurrent and the giveaway and he could almost see her mind waves churning. So Linc’s busy! he thought. And what would Linc Bartlett be busy with in that tone of voice? Orlanda Ramos? Has to be, he told himself, delighted he had flushed out the real reason—the real why of her help. Orlanda! Orlanda leading to Linc Bartlett leading to Gornt. Casey’s petrified of Orlanda. Is she petrified that Gornt’s behind Orlanda’s onslaught on Bartlett—or is she just frantic with jealousy and ready to bring Bartlett atumbling down?
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
5:35 P.M.:
Casey joined the packed lines going through the turnstiles at Golden Ferry. People were shoving and pushing and hurrying along the corridor for the next ferry. As the warning bell sounded shrilly, those in front broke into a frantic run. Involuntarily her feet quickened. The noisy, heated crush of humanity carried her along onto the ferry. She found a seat and stared out at the harbor gloomily, wondering if she had pulled off her side of the deal.
“Jesus, Casey,” Murtagh had burst out, “head office’ll never go for it in a million years!”
“If they don’t they’ll miss the greatest opportunity of their lives. And so will you. This is your big chance—grab it! If you help Struan’s now think how much face everyone gets. When Dunross comes to see you th—”
“If he comes!”
“He’ll come. I’ll get him to come see you! And when he does, tell him this’s all your idea, not mine, and that y—”
“But, Casey, don—”
“No. It’s got to be your idea. I’ll back you a thousand percent with New York. And when Dunross comes to you, tell him you want Old Friend status too.”
“Jesus, Casey, I’ve got enough troubles without having to explain to those meatheads back home about Old Friend and ‘face’!”
“So don’t explain that part to them. You pull this off and you’ll be the most important American banker in Asia.”
Yes, Casey told herself, sick with hope, and I’ll have extricated Linc from Gornt’s trap. I know I’m right about Gornt.
“The hell you are, Casey!” Bartlett had said angrily this morning, the first time in their life together he had ever flared at her.
“It’s obvious, Linc,” she had slammed back. “I’m not trying to interfere i—”
“The hell you’re not!”
“You brought Orlanda up, I didn’t! You’re going overboard about—about her great cooking and great dancing and great outfit and great company! All I said was, did you have a nice time?”
“Sure, but you said it with a real crappy harpy jealous tone and I know you meant: I hope you had a lousy time!”
Linc was right, Casey thought in misery. If he wants to be out all night that’s up to him. I should have buttoned up like the other times and not made a big deal of it. But this isn’t like the other times. He’s in danger and won’t see it!
“For chrissake, Linc, that woman’s after your money and power and that’s all! How long have you known her? A couple of days. Where did you meet her? Gornt! She’s got to be Gornt’s puppet! That guy’s as smart as they come! I’ve done some checking, Linc, her apartment’s paid by him, her bills. Sh—”
“She told me all that and all about him and her and that’s the past! You can forget Orlanda! Get it? Just don’t bad-mouth her anymore. Understand?”
“Par-Con’s got a lot riding on whether it’s Struan’s or Gornt and they’ll both use any tactic to undermine you or lay you open to att—”
“And lay the operative word? C’mon, Casey, for chrissake! You’ve never been jealous before—admit you’re fit to be tied. She’s everything a man could want and you’re …”
She remembered how he had stopped just before he’d said it. Tears filled her eyes. He’s right, goddamnit! I’m not. I’m a goddamn business machine, not feminine like her, not an easy lay and not interested in being a housewife, at least not yet, and I could never do what she’s done. Orlanda’s soft, pliant, golden, a great cook, he says, feminine, great body great legs great taste, trained and beddable, Jesus, how beddable. And with no thought in her goddamn head but how to catch a rich husband. The Frenchwoman was right: Linc’s a patsy for any no-account, harpy, Asian gold digger, and Orlanda’s the cream of the Hong Kong crop.
Shit!
But whatever Linc says, I’m still right about her and right about Gornt.
Or am I?
Let’s face it, I’ve nothing to go on but a few rumors, and my own intuition. Orlanda’s got me on the run, I’m running scared. I made a goddamn mistake letting myself go at Linc. Remember what he said before he left the suite. “From here on in you stay the hell out of my private life!”
Oh God!
There was a fine wind blowing as the ferry skittered across the harbor, engines pounding, sampans and other boats moving nimbly out of the way, the sky brooding and overcast. Oblivious, she dabbed her tears away, took out her mirror and checked that her mascara was not running. A huge freighter sounded its horn, flags fluttering, and moved majestically past, but she did not see it, nor the immensity of the nuclear carrier tied up alongside the Admiralty Wharf, Hong Kong side. “Get hold of yourself,” she muttered in misery to her mirror image. “Jesus, you look forty.”
The cramped wooden benches were crowded and she shifted uncomfortably, jammed between other passengers, most of whom were Chinese, though here and there were camera-heavy tourists and other Europeans. There was not an inch of free space, all gangways clogged, seats clogged, and already blocks of passengers crowded the ramp exit on both decks. The Chinese beside her were awkwardly reading their newspapers as people would on any subway except that, from time to time, they would hawk noisily to clear their throats. One spat. On the bulkhead right in front of him was a large sign in Chinese and English: NO SPITTING—FINE TWENTY DOLLARS. He hawked again and Casey wanted to take his newspaper and thump him with it. The tai-pan’s remark flooded her memory: “We’ve been trying to change them for a hundred and twenty-odd years, but Chinese don’t change easily.”
It’s not just th
em, she thought, her head aching. It’s everyone and everything in this man’s world. The tai-pan’s right.
So what am I going to do? About Linc? Change the rules or not?
I have already. I’ve gone over his head with the bail-out scheme. That’s a first. Am I going to tell him about it or not? Dunross won’t give me away and Murtagh’ll take all the credit, has to, if First Central’ll buy it. I’ll have to tell Linc sometime.
But whether the bail-out works or not, what about Linc and me?
Her eyes were fixed ahead, unseeing, as she tried to decide.
The ferry was nearing the Kowloon Terminal berth now. Two other ferries leaving for Hong Kong side swirled out of the way for the incomers. Everyone got up and began to jostle for position at the port exit ramp. The ship heeled slightly, unbalanced. Jesus, she thought uneasily, jerked out of her reverie, there must be five hundred of us on each deck. Then she winced as an impatient Chinese matron squeezed past, stomped carelessly on her foot and pushed on through the throng to the head of the line. Casey got up, her foot hurting, wanting to belt the woman with her umbrella.
“They’re something else, eh?” the tall American behind her said with grim good humor.
“What? Oh yes, yes … something else, some of them.” People surrounded her, crowding her, pressing too close. Suddenly she felt claustrophobic and sickened. The man sensed it and used his bulk to force a little room. Those who were pushed aside gave way with ill humor. “Thanks,” she said, relieved, the nausea gone. “Yes, thanks.”
“I’m Rosemont, Stanley Rosemont. We met at the tai-pan’s.”
Casey turned, startled. “Oh, sorry, I guess … I guess I was a million miles away, I didn’t … sorry. How’s it going?” she asked, not remembering him.
“More of the same, Casey.” Rosemont looked down at her. “Not so good with you, huh?” he asked kindly.
“Oh I’m fine. Sure, very fine.” She turned away, self-conscious that he’d noticed. Sailors were fore and aft and they tossed out guy lines which were instantly caught and dropped over stanchions. The thick ropes screeched under the tension, setting her teeth on edge. As the ferry eased perfectly into its berth, the drawbridge gate began to lower but before it was down completely the crowd was surging off the boat, Casey carried with it. After a few yards the pressure eased and she walked up the ramp at her own pace, other passengers flooding down the other ramp opposite to board for Hong Kong side. Rosemont caught up with her. “You at the V and A?”
“Yes,” she said. “You?”
“Oh no! We’ve an apartment Hong Kong side—the consulate owns it.”
“Have you been here long?”
“Two years. It’s interesting, Casey. After a month or so you feel locked in—no place to go, so many people, seeing the same friends day after day. But soon it’s great. Soon you get to feel you’re at the center of the action, the center of Asia where all the action is today. Sure, Hong Kong’s the center of Asia—papers’re good, you’ve great food, good golf, racing, boating and it’s easy to go to Taipei, Bangkok or wherever. Hong Kong’s okay—course it’s nothing like Japan. Japan’s something else. That’s like out of Oz.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Great—if you’re a man. Tough for wives, very tough, and for kids. Your helplessness, your alienness is shoved back at you—you can’t even read a street sign. I was there for a two-year tour. I liked it a lot. Athena, my wife, she got to hate it.” Rosemont laughed. “She hates Hong Kong and wants to go back to Indochina, to Vietnam or Cambodia. She was a nurse there some years back with the French Army.”
Through the fog of her own problems Casey heard an undercurrent and she began to listen. “She’s French?”
“American. Her father was ambassador for a tour during the French war.”
“You have kids?” she asked.
“Two. Both sons. Athena was married before.”
Another undercurrent. “Your sons were from her first marriage?”
“One was. She was married to a Vietnamese. He was killed just before Dien Bien Phu, that was when the French ran the country or were getting run out. Poor guy was killed before young Vien was born. He’s like my own son. Yes, both my boys are great. You staying long?”
“Depends on my boss and our deal. Guess you know we’re hoping to tie in with Struan’s.”
“It’s the talk of the town—apart from the fire at Aberdeen, the flooding, all the mud slides, the storm, Struan’s stock crash, the bank runs and the market falling apart—one thing about Hong Kong: it’s never dull. You think he’ll make it?”
“The tai-pan? I’ve just left him. I hope so. He’s confident, yes very confident. I like him.”
“Yes. I like Bartlett too. You been with him long?”
“Seven years, almost.”
They were out of the terminal now, the road just as crowded. On the right was the harbor and they chatted, heading east for the pedestrian underpass that would take them to the V and A. Rosemont pointed at a small shop, the Rice Bowl. “Athena works there from time to time. It’s a charity shop, run by Americans. All the profit goes to refugees. Lot of the wives put in a day or two there, keeps them busy. I guess you’re busy all the time.”
“Only seven days a week.”
“I heard Linc say that you were taking off over the weekend for Taipei. Will that be your first visit?”
“Yes—but I’m not going, just Linc and the tai-pan.” Casey tried to stop the immediate thought welling but she could not: Is he going to take Orlanda? He’s right, it’s none of my affair. But Par-Con is. And since Linc’s hooked, lined and sinkered by the enemy, the less he knows about the First Central ploy the better.
Pleased that she could come to the decision dispassionately, she continued to talk with Rosemont, answering his questions, not really concentrating, pleased to converse with a friendly soul who was as informative as he was interested. “… and Taipei’s different, more easygoing, less hard-nosed, but a comer,” he was saying. “We’re popular in Taiwan which’s a change. So you’re really going to spread? On a big deal like this I guess you’ve a dozen execs on hand?”
“No. There’s just the two of us at the moment, and Forrester—he’s head of our foam division—and our attorney.” Mentioning him, Casey hardened. Damn him for trying to stymie us. “Linc’s got Par-Con organized very well. I handle the day-to-day and he fixes policy.”
“You’re a public company?”
“Oh sure, but that’s okay too. Linc has control and our directors and stockholders don’t give us a hassle. Dividends’re on the rise, and if the Struan deal goes through they’ll skyrocket.”
“We could use more U.S. firms in Asia. Trade is what made the Empire great for the British. I wish you luck, Casey. Hey, that reminds me,” he added casually, “you remember Ed, Ed Langan, my buddy, who was with me at the tai-pan’s party? He knows one of your stockholders. A guy called Bestacio, some name like that.”
Casey was startled. “Banastasio? Vincenzo Banastasio?”
“Yes, I think that was it,” he told her, lying easily, watching her, and at her look added, “Did I say something?”
“No, it’s just a coincidence. Banastasio arrives tomorrow. Tomorrow morning.”
“What?”
Casey saw him staring at her and she laughed. “You can tell your friend he’s staying at the Hilton.”
Rosemont’s mind buzzed. “Tomorrow? I’ll be goddamned.”
Casey said carefully, “He’s a good friend of Langan’s?”
“No, but he knows him. He says Banastasio’s quite a guy. A gambler, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t like him?”
“I’ve only met him a couple of times. At the races. He’s big at Del Mar. I’m not much on gamblers or gambling.”
They were weaving through the crowds. People jostled from behind and oncoming hordes jostled from the front. The underpass stank of mildew and bodies. She was very glad to get back int
o the air once more and looking forward to a shower and an aspirin and a rest before 8:00 P.M. Beyond the buildings ahead was the whole of the eastern harbor. A departing jet barreled into the overcast. Rosemont caught sight of the tall deck derricks of the Sovetsky Ivanov tied up alongside. Involuntarily he glanced Hong Kong side and saw how easy it would be for high-powered binoculars to rake the U.S. carrier and almost count her rivets.
“Makes you proud to be an American, doesn’t it?” Casey said happily, following his look. “If you’re consulate, you’ll get to go aboard her?”
“Sure. Guided tour!”
“Lucky you.”
“I was there yesterday. The captain had a shindig for locals. I tagged along.” Again Rosemont told the lie easily. He had gone aboard late last night and again this morning. His initial interview with the admiral, captain and security chief had been stormy. It was not until he produced photocopies of the secret manifest of the ship’s armaments and the guidance systems manual that they had truly believed there had been a vast security leak. Now the traitor was under tight surveillance in the ship’s brig, guarded by his own CIA people, twenty-four hours a day. Soon the man would break. Yes, Rosemont thought, and after that, jail for twenty years. If it was up to me I’d drop the bastard in the goddamn harbor. Shit, I’ve got nothing against the Metkins and the KGB. Those bastards’re just doing their job for their side—however wrong they are. But our own Joes?
“Okay, fella, you’re caught! First tell us why you did it.”
“Money.”
Jesus H. Christ! The sailor’s dossier had shown that he had come from a small town in the Middle West, his work exemplary with nothing in his past or present to indicate a potential security risk. He was a quiet man, good at computer programming, liked by his compatriots and trusted by his superiors. No left-wing indications, no homosexuality, no problem of blackmail, no nothing. “Then why?” he had asked him.
“This guy came up to me in San Diego and said he’d like to know all about the Corregidor and he’d pay.”
“But don’t you understand about treason? About betraying your country?”
“Hell, all he wanted was a few facts and figures. So what? What’s the difference? We can blast the hell outta the goddamn Commies anytime we like. The Corregidor’s the greatest carrier afloat! It was a caper and I wanted to see if I could do it and they paid on the dot….”
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