“I was astonished to read your brother-in-law’s comments about the Middle Kingdom.”
“Yes. So was I. My wife and her brother have been estranged for years. His views are alien, enemy and totally misguided.” Dunross hesitated. “I hope to neutralize him.”
“Yes. Yes I agree. Thank you. Good night.” The phone went dead.
Dunross hung up. Christ! Brian Kwok! And I’d almost given him the AMG papers. Christ!
Collecting his wits with a great effort, he went back into the foyer. Armstrong and Sinders were still there. “Evening, may I join you a moment?”
“Of course, Mr. Dunross. This is a pleasant surprise. May I offer you a drink?”
“Tea, Chinese tea. Thanks.”
Their table was away from others and when it was safe Dunross leaned forward. “Robert, I hear you’ve arrested Brian Kwok,” he said still hoping it wasn’t true. The two men stared at him.
“Who told you that?” Armstrong asked.
Dunross recounted his conversation. Both men listened noncommittally though from time to time he saw them glance at one another. “Obviously it’s a trade,” he told them. “Him for the cash.”
Sinders sipped his hot chocolate. “How important’s the money?”
“Completely important, urgent and the sooner the better.” Dunross mopped his brow. “The cash will completely stop the bank runs, Mr. Sinders. We’ve got t—” He stopped, aghast.
“What is it?” Sinders asked.
“I—I suddenly remembered what AMG wrote in the intercepted report. That the ‘… police mole may or may not be part of Sevrin.’ Is he?”
“Who?”
“For chrissake, don’t play with me,” Dunross said angrily, “this’s serious. You think I’m a bloody fool? There’s a Sevrin plant in Struan’s. If Brian’s part of Sevrin I’ve a right to know.”
“I quite agree,” Sinders said calmly though his eyes had become very flinty. “The moment the traitor’s uncovered you may rest assured you’ll be informed. Have you any idea who it could be yet?”
Dunross shook his head, controlling his anger.
Sinders watched him. “You were saying? ‘We’ve got to …’ Got to what, Mr. Dunross?”
“We’ve got to get that cash at once. What’s Brian done?”
After a moment Sinders said, “Banks don’t open till Monday. So Monday’s D Day?”
“I imagine the banks will have to get the money before then—to open and have the money in the tills. What the devil’s Brian done?”
Sinders lit a cigarette for himself and for Armstrong. “If this person Brian actually has been arrested I don’t think that’s really a very discreet question, Mr. Dunross.”
“I’d’ve bet anything,” the tai-pan said helplessly, “anything, but Tiptop’d never suggest a trade unless it was true. Never. Brian must be bloody important but Christ, what’s the world coming to? Will you handle the trade or will Mr. Crosse—I suppose the governor’s approval will be needed.”
Thoughtfully the chief of MI-6 blew the tip of his cigarette. “I doubt if there will be a trade, Mr. Dunross.”
“Why not? The money’s more impor—”
“That’s a matter of opinion, Mr. Dunross, if this Brian Kwok actually is under arrest. In any event. Her Majesty’s Government could hardly be subject to blackmail. Very poor taste.”
“Quite. But Sir Geoffrey will agree at once.”
“I doubt it. He impressed me as being much too clever to do that. As to trading, Mr. Dunross, I thought you were going to give us the AMG files.”
Dunross felt an ice pick in his stomach. “I did, this evening.”
“For chrissake, don’t play with me, this’s serious! You think I’m a bloody fool?” Sinders said in exactly the same tone that Dunross had used. Abruptly he laughed dryly and continued with the same chilling calm, “You certainly gave us a version of them but unfortunately they just don’t compare in quality with the one intercepted.” The rumpled man’s eyes became even more flinty and curiously menacing though his face did not change. “Mr. Dunross, your subterfuge was deft, commendable but unnecessary. We really do want those files, the originals.”
“If those don’t satisfy you, why not go through AMG’s papers?”
“I did.” Sinders smiled without humor. “Well, it’s like the old highwayman saying, ‘The money or your life.’ Possession of those files may be lethal to you. You agree, Robert?”
“Yes sir.”
Sinders puffed his cigarette. “So, Mr. Dunross, your Mr. Tiptop wants to trade, eh? Everyone in Hong Kong wants to trade. It’s in the air. Eh? But to trade you have to give value for value. I imagine if you want concessions to get concessions from the enemy … well, all’s fair in love and war, they say. Isn’t it?”
Dunross kept his face guileless. “So they say. I’ll talk to the governor first thing. Let’s keep this strictly confidential for the moment until I’ve talked to him. Night.”
They watched him walk through the swing doors and disappear.
“What do you think, Robert? Did Dunross switch the files on us?”
Armstrong sighed. “I don’t know. His face said nothing. I was watching closely. Nothing. But he’s as sharp as a tack.”
“Yes.” Sinders pondered a moment. “So the enemy want a trade, eh? I’d say we have possession of this particular client for twenty-four hours at the most. When do you do his next interrogation?”
“6:30 A.M.”
“Oh! Well if you’ve an early start we’d better be going.” Sinders called for the check. “I’ll consult with Mr. Crosse but I know what he’ll say—what in fact London has ordered.”
“Sir?”
“They’re very concerned because the client’s been party to too many secrets, the General Staff Course, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.” Sinders hesitated again. “On second thought, Robert, now irrespective of what Mr. Dunross does our only course is to step up the debriefing. Yes. We’ll cancel the 6:30 interrogation, continue with the hourly schedule, providing he’s medically fit, and into the Red Room.”
Armstrong blanched. “But si…”
“I’m sorry,” Sinders said, his voice gentle. “I know he’s a friend, was a friend, but now your Mr. Tiptop and your Mr. Dunross have taken away our time.”
Saturday
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
9:32 A.M.:
The JAL jet from Tokyo came in low over the sea and touched down perfectly at Kai Tak with a puff of smoke from its wheels. At once its engines went into reverse thrust and it howled toward the airport complex, decelerating.
Passengers, aircrew and visitors were milling in the busy terminal, Customs and Immigration and waiting areas. Outward-bound was easy. Incoming was mostly easy. Except for Japanese nationals. Chinese have long memories. The years of the Japanese war occupation of China and Hong Kong were too near, too strong, too vicious to forget. Or to forgive. So Japanese nationals were checked more thoroughly. Even members of the JAL crew now going through, even the pert, pretty, polite air hostesses, some of whom were hardly alive when that occupation had ended, they too were given back their travel documents with a frigid stare.
Next to them in line was an American. “’Morning,” he said handing his passport to the official.
“’Morning.” The young Chinese flipped the book open and glanced at the photograph and at the man and leafed through to find the visa. Unnoticed, his foot touched a hidden switch. This alerted Crosse and Sinders who were in a nearby observation office. They went to the one-way mirror and looked at the man waiting at immigration in front of one of the six crowded lines of passengers.
The passport, a year old, said, “Vincenzo Banastasio, male, born New York City, August 16, 1910. Hair gray, eyes brown.” Casually the official checked the other visas and stamps: England, Spain, Italy, Holland, Mexico, Venezuela, Japan. He stamped the dull gray book, handed it back noncommittally.
Banastasio walked through to Customs, an expensive crocodile bri
efcase under his arm, carrying duty-free liquor in a gaudy plastic carrier, camera swinging off his shoulder.
“Good-looking fellow,” Sinders said. “He takes care of himself.” They saw him disappear into the crowds. Crosse clicked on the portable CB. “Do you have him covered?” he asked into it.
“Yes sir,” came the instant answer.
“I’ll keep monitoring this frequency. Keep me advised.”
“Yes sir.”
To Sinders, Crosse said, “We’ll have no problem tailing him.”
“No. Glad I’ve seen him. I always like to see an enemy in the flesh.”
“Is he? Enemy?”
“Mr. Rosemont thinks so. Don’t you?”
“I meant our enemy. I’m sure he’s a crook—I meant I’m not sure he’s tied into Intelligence.”
Sinders sighed. “You’ve checked the bugs?”
“Yes.” Late last night a team of SI experts had secretly put bugs into the bedroom Banastasio had booked at the Hilton. Also the office and private suite of Photographer Ng, Vee Cee Ng.
They waited patiently. On the table the CB hissed and crackled slightly.
After a pause Sinders said absently, “What about our other client?”
“Who? Kwok?”
“Yes. How long do you think it’ll take?”
“Not long.” Crosse smiled to himself.
“When do you put him into the Red Room?”
“I thought noon might be rather apt. Before if he’s ready.”
“Armstrong’ll do the interrogation?”
“Yes.”
“Armstrong’s a good man. He handled himself very well at the Ivanov.”
“Next time would you mind keeping me advised? After all, this is my area.”
“Certainly, Roger. It was a sudden decision by London.”
“What’s the idea? About the Sunday summons.”
“The minister is sending special instructions.” Sinders frowned. “Brian Kwok’s records say he’s strong. We don’t have too much time. He’ll’ve been well indoctrinated to be hidden so deep, so long.”
“Oh yes. But I’m quite confident. Since I had the room built I’ve experimented on myself three times. The most I’ve ever stayed was five minutes and each time I was sick as a dog—and that was without any disorientation scheduling. I’m confident we’ll have no problem.” Crosse stubbed out his cigarette. “It’s very effective—an exact pattern of the KGB prototype.”
After a moment Sinders said, “Pity these methods have to be used. Very dicey. Disgusting really. I preferred it when … well, even then, I suppose our profession was never really clean.”
“You mean during the war?”
“Yes. I must say I preferred it then. Then there was no hypocrisy on the part of some of our leaders—or the media. Everyone understood we were at war. But today when our very survival’s threatened we—” Sinders stopped, then pointed. “Look, Roger, isn’t that Rosemont?” The American was standing with another man by the exit door.
“Yes, yes it is. That’s Langan with him. The FBI man,” Crosse said. “Last night I agreed to a joint effort with him on Banastasio though I do wish those bloody CIA’d leave us alone to do our job.”
“Yes. They really are becoming quite difficult.”
Crosse picked up the CB and led the way outside. “Stanley, we’ve got him well covered. We agreed last night that on this operation we handle this part, you handle the hotel. Right?”
“Sure, sure, Rog. ’Morning, Mr. Sinders.” Grim-faced, Rosemont introduced Langan who was equally taut. “We’re not interfering, Rog, though that bum is one of our nationals. That’s not the reason we’re here. I’m just seeing Ed off.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” Langan said. He was as tired and gaunt as Rosemont. “It’s those photocopies, Rog. Thomas K. K. Lim’s papers. I’ve got to deliver them personally. To the Bureau. I read part to my chief and his pots blew and he began to come apart at the seams.”
“I can imagine.”
“There’s a request on your desk to let us have the originals and th—”
“No chance,” Sinders said for Crosse.
Langan shrugged. “There’s a request on your desk, Rog. Guess your brass’ll send orders from heaven if ours really need them. I’d better get on board. Listen, Rog, we can’t thank you enough. We—I owe you one. Those bastards … yeah we owe you one.” They shook hands and he hurried off onto the tarmac.
“Which piece of information blew the seams, Mr. Rosemont?”
“They’re all lethal, Mr. Sinders. It’s a coup for us, for us and the Bureau, mostly the Bureau. Ed said his folk went into hysterics. The political implications for Democrats and Republicans are immense. You were right. If Senator Tillman—the presidential hopeful who’s in town right now—if he got hold of those papers, there’s no telling what he’d do.” Rosemont was no longer his usual good-humored self. “My brass telexed our South American contacts to put an all-points on Thomas K. K. Lim so we’ll be interviewing him pretty damn soon—you’ll get a copy, don’t worry. Rog, was there anything else?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“With these choice pieces, were there others we could use?”
Crosse smiled without humor. “Of course. How about a blueprint for financing a private revolution in Indonesia?”
“Oh Jesus …”
“Yes. How about photostats of arrangements for payments into a French bank account of a very important Vietnamese lady and gentleman—for specific favors granted?”
Rosemont had gone chalky. “What else?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Is there more?”
“For chrissake, Stanley, of course there’s more, you know it, we know it. There’ll always be more.”
“Can we have them now?”
Sinders said, “What can you do for us?”
Rosemont stared at them. “Over lunch we’ll ta—”
The CB crackled into life. “The target’s got his bags now and he’s walking out of Customs, heading for the taxi rank … Now he’s … Now he’s … ah, someone’s meeting him, a Chinese, good-looking man, expensive clothes, don’t recognize him … They’re going over to a Rolls, registration HK … ah, that’s the hotel limousine. Both men’re getting in.”
Into the sender Crosse said, “Stay on this frequency.” He switched frequencies. Static and muffled traffic and noise.
Rosemont brightened. “You bugged the limo?” Crosse nodded. “Great, Rog. I’d’ve missed that!”
They listened, then clearly, “… good of you to meet me, Vee Cee,” Banastasio was saying. “Hell you shouldn’t’ve come all this wa—”
“Oh it’s my pleasure,” the cultured voice replied. “We can chat in the car, perhaps that’ll save you coming to the office and then in Ma—”
“Sure … sure,” the American voice overrode the other man. “Listen, I got something for you, Vee Cee …” Muffled sounds then a sudden high-pitched whine that totally dominated the airwave, completely obliterating the clarity and voices. At once Crosse switched frequencies but the others were operating perfectly.
“Shit, he’s using a portable shaver to block us,” Rosemont said disgustedly. “That bastard’s a pro! Fifty to a blown cent they block all the bugs we got, hundred says when they come back on this channel it’ll all be goddamn chitchat. I told you Banastasio was cream.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
10:52 A.M.:
“Tai-pan, Dr. Samson calling from London. He’s on line three.”
“Oh thank you, Claudia.” Dunross punched the button. “Hello, Doctor. You’re up late.”
“I’ve just come back from the hospital—sorry not to call before. You were calling about your sister, Mrs. Gavallan?”
“Yes. How is she?”
“Well, sir, we’ve begun another stringent series of tests. Mentally, I must say she’s in very good shape. I’m afraid physically not so good….”
Dunross listened w
ith a sinking heart as the doctor went into detail about multiple sclerosis, how no one really knew much about it, that there was no known cure and that the disease went in descending plateaus—once some deterioration of the nerve structure had taken place it was not possible with present medications to climb back to the previous level. “I’ve taken the liberty of calling in Professor Klienberg from the clinic at UCLA in Los Angeles for a consultation—he’s the world expert on the disease. Please rest assured we will do everything we can for Mrs. Gavallan.”
“It doesn’t sound as if you can do anything at all.”
“Well, it’s not quite as bad as that, sir. If Mrs. Gavallan takes care, rests, and is sensible, she can have a normal life for many years.”
“How long is many years?” Dunross heard the long hesitation. Oh Kathy, poor Kathy!
“I don’t know. Many times this sort of problem’s in the hands of God, Mr. Dunross. Patients do not follow the same time patterns. In Mrs. Gavallan’s case I could answer you better in six months, perhaps by Christmas. Meanwhile, I have taken her on as a National Health patient so then—”
“No. She should be a private patient, Dr. Samson. Please send all bills to my office.”
“Mr. Dunross, there’s no difference in the quality of service I give to her. She just has to wait a little while in my waiting room and be in a ward, not a private room at the hospital.”
“Please make her a private patient. I would prefer it, so would her husband.”
Dunross heard the sigh and hated it. “Very well,” the doctor was saying. “I have all your numbers and I’ll call you the instant Professor Klienberg has made his examination and the tests are concluded.”
Dunross thanked him and replaced the phone. Oh Kathy, poor dear Kathy.
Earlier when he had got up at dawn he had talked to her and to Penelope. Kathy had said how much better she felt and how Samson was most encouraging. Penn had told him later that Kathy was looking very tired. “It doesn’t seem very good, Ian. Is there any chance you could come here for a week or two before October 10?”
“Not at the moment, Penn, but you never know.”
“I’m going to take Kathy to Avisyard as soon as she gets out of the hospital. Next week at the latest. She’ll be better there. The land will make her better, don’t worry, Ian.”
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