“True!” Plumm hardened. “Maybe he’s a real berk. I know I wasn’t followed to Sinclair Towers. And as to the decoded cable—God stone the crows!”
“What?”
“The decoded cable—the one he dropped and Armstrong picked off the Ivanov’s deck. We’ve got to decide about that.”
Crosse turned away to hide his shock and fought for control, appalled that neither Armstrong nor Sinders had mentioned any cable. He pretended to stifle a yawn to cover. “Sorry, I was up most of the night,” he said, making a major effort to keep his voice matter-of-fact. “Did he tell you what was in it?”
“Of course. I insisted.”
Crosse saw Plumm watching him. “Exactly what did he tell you was in it?”
“Oh? You mean he might be lying?” Plumm’s anxiety showed. “It went something like: ‘Inform Arthur that following his request for a Priority One on the traitor Metkin an immediate intercept was ordered for Bombay. Second, the meeting with the American is brought forward to Sunday. Third and final: The AMG files continue to be Priority One. Maximum effort must be made by Sevrin to achieve success. Center.’” Plumm licked his lips. “Is it correct?”
“Yes,” Crosse said, gambling, almost wet with relief. He began weighing odds on Armstrong and Sinders. Now why, deliberately, why didn’t they tell me that?
“Terrible, eh?” Plumm said.
“Yes, but not serious.”
“I don’t agree,” Plumm said irritably. “It absolutely ties the KGB to Sevrin, absolutely confirms Arthur’s existence and Sevrin’s existence.”
“Yes, but the AMG files have already done that. Calm down, Jason, we’re quite safe.”
“Are we? There’ve been too many leaks for my liking: Far too many. Perhaps we should close down for a time.”
“We are closed down. It’s only those bloody AMG files that are causing us any grief.”
“Yes. At least that bugger Grant wasn’t completely accurate.”
“You mean about Banastasio?”
“Yes. I still wonder where the hell he fits in.”
“Yes.” In AMG’s intercepted file Banastasio had been named erroneously as Sevrin’s American connection. It was only after the file that Crosse had learned from Rosemont who Banastasio actually was.
“The fellow who met him was Vee Cee Ng,” Crosse said.
Plumm’s eyebrows soared. “Photographer Ng? How does he connect?”
“I don’t know. Shipping, ships, smuggling. He’s into all kinds of shady deals.” Crosse shrugged.
“Could that writer fellow’s theory work? What’s his name? Marlowe. Could the KGB be doing an op in our territory without telling us?”
“Possible. Or it could be an utterly different department, perhaps GRU, instigated in America by the KGB or GRU there. Or just a coincidence.” Crosse was back in control now, the fright of the cable wearing off. He was thinking much clearer. “What’s Suslev want that’s so urgent?”
“Our cooperation. Koronski arrives by the afternoon plane.”
Crosse whistled. “Center?”
“Yes. There was a message this morning. Now that the Ivanov’s equipment is wrecked I’m the go-between.”
“Good. What’s his cover name?”
“Hans Meikker, West German. He’s to stay at the Seven Dragons.” Plumm’s anxiety increased. “Listen, Suslev said Center’s ordered us to prepare to snatch Ian an—”
“They’ve gone mad!” Crosse exploded.
“I agree but Suslev says it’s the only way to find out quickly if the files are counterfeit or not, and if so, where they’re hidden. He claims Koronski can do it. In a chemical debriefing, well, Ian’s memory can be … can be emptied.”
“That’s madness,” Crosse said. “We’re not even sure if the files are counterfeit. That’s a complete supposition for God’s sake!”
“Suslev says Center told him we can blame it on the Werewolves—those buggers snatched John Chen so why wouldn’t they go after the big money, the tai-pan?”
“No. Too dangerous.”
Plumm wiped his hands. “To snatch Ian now’d put the tai-pans and Hong Kong into a furor. It could be a perfect time, Roger.”
“Why?”
“The Noble House would be in total disarray and with all the bank runs and the stock market disaster, Hong Kong’d be down the sewer and that’d send all China into shock. We’d jump the Cause forward ten years and immeasurably assist international communism and the workers of the world. Christ, Roger, aren’t you sick of just sitting and being a messenger? Now we can fulfill Sevrin with hardly any risk. Then we close everything down for a time.”
Crosse lit a cigarette. He had heard the tension in Plumm’s voice. “I’ll think about it,” he said at length. “Leave it for the moment. I’ll call you tonight. Did Suslev say who the American in the cable was?”
“No. He just said it wasn’t anything to do with us.”
Crosse’s voice hardened. “Everything here’s to do with us.”
“I agree.” Plumm watched him. “It could also be a code word, a code for anyone.”
“Possible.”
“I have a wild one for you. Banastasio.”
“Why him?” Crosse asked, having jumped to the same conclusion.
“I don’t know why, but I’ll bet that whole scam, if it is a scam, has to be KGB inspired, or assisted. It’s classic Sun Tzu: using the enemy’s strength against himself—both enemies, the U.S. and China. A strong unified Vietnam’s guaranteed militantly anti-Chinese. Eh?”
“Possible. Yes, it all fits,” Crosse agreed. Except one thing, he thought: Vee Cee Ng. Until Brian Kwok had blurted out, “Vee Cee’s one of us,” he had had no inkling that the man was anything other than a swinging photographer and trader-shipping capitalist. “If Banastasio’s the American, we’ll know.” He finished his cigarette. “Was there anything else?”
“No. Roger, consider Dunross. Please. The Werewolves make it possible.”
“It’s considered.”
“This weekend would be perfect, Roger.”
“I know.”
Orlanda was watching the horses through her high-powered binoculars as they broke out of the starting gate for the fourth race. She stood in a corner of the members’ balcony, Bartlett happily beside her, everyone watching the horses except him. He was watching her, the curve of her breasts under the silk, the angle of her cheekbones and the intensity of her excitement. “Come on, Crossfire,” she muttered, “come on! He’s lying fifth, Linc, oh come on, you beauty, come on …”
He chuckled, Orlanda oblivious. They had arranged to meet here between the third and fourth race. “Are you a voting member?” he had asked her last night.
“Oh no, my darling, I’m just going with friends. Old friends of my family. Another drink?”
“No, no thanks—I’d better go.”
They had kissed and again he had felt her overpowering welcome. It had kept him unsettled and on edge all the way back across the harbor home and most of the night. Much as he tried, he found the wanting of her difficult to contain and to keep in perspective.
You’re hooked, old buddy, he told himself, watching her, the tip of her tongue touching her lips, her eyes concentrating, everything forgotten but her $50 on the nose of the big gray, the favorite.
“Come on … come … oh he’s moving up, Linc … oh he’s second….”
Bartlett looked at the pack galloping now into the last stretch: Crossfire, the big gray well placed to Western Scot, a brown gelding who was slightly in the lead, the going very slow—one horse had fallen in the third race. Now a contender made his dash, Winwell Stag, a gelding belonging to Havergill that Peter Marlowe had tipped to win, and he was coming up strong on the outside with Crossfire and Western Scot neck and neck just ahead, all whips out now in the gathering roar.
“Oh come on come on come on Crossfire … oh he’s won, he’s won!”
Bartlett laughed in the pandemonium as Orlanda’s glee burst out and she
hugged him. “Oh Linc, how wonderful!”
In a moment there was another roar as the winning numbers were flashed up on the tote board, confirming their order. Now everyone waited for the final odds. Another great cheer. Crossfire paid 5 to 2.
“That’s not much,” he said.
“Oh but it is it is it is!” Orlanda had never looked prettier to him, her hat cute, much better than Casey’s—he’d noticed it at once and complimented her on it. She moved forward and leaned on the railing and looked down at the winner’s circle. “There’s the owner, Vee Cee Ng, he’s one of our Shanghainese trader-shipping millionaires. My father knew him quite well.” She gave him the glasses.
Bartlett focused. The man leading the garlanded horse into the winner’s circle was expensively dressed, a beaming, well-set Chinese in his fifties. Then Bartlett recognized Havergill leading in his Winwell Stag, second, defeated by a nose. In the paddock he saw Gornt, Plumm, Pugmire and many of the stewards. Dunross was near the rails talking to a smaller man. The governor was walking from group to group with his wife and aide. Bartlett watched them, envying them a little, the owners standing there with their caps and raincoats and shooting sticks and expensive women and girlfriends, greeting one another, all members of the inner club, the powerhouse of Hong Kong, there and in the boxes above. All very British, he thought, all very clever. Will I fit in better than Biltzmann? Sure. Unless they want me out as much as they wanted him out. I’ll be a voting member easy. Ian said as much. Would Orlanda fit there? Of course. As wife or girlfriend, it’s all the same.
“Who’s that?” he asked. “The man talking to Ian?”
“Oh that’s Alexi Travkin, he’s the tai-pan’s trainer….” She stopped as Robert Armstrong came up to them.
“Afternoon, Mr. Bartlett,” he said politely. “Did you back the winner too?”
“No, no I lost this one. May I introduce Miss Ramos, Orlanda Ramos, Superintendent Robert Armstrong, CID.”
“Hello.” She smiled back at Armstrong, and he saw her immediate caution. Why are they all frightened of us, the innocent as well as the guilty? he asked himself, when all we do is try to enforce their laws, try to protect them from villains and the ungodly. It’s because everyone breaks some law, even a little one, every day, most days, because a lot of laws are stupid—like our betting laws here. So everyone’s guilty, even you, pretty lady with the oh so sensual walk and oh so promising smile. For Bartlett. What crime have you committed today, to snare this poor innocent? Sardonically he smiled to himself. Not so innocent in most things. But against someone trained by Quillan Gornt? A beautiful, hungry Eurasian girl with no place to go but down? Ayeeyah! But oh how I’d like to swap places! Yes, you with your guns, money, birds like Casey and this one and meetings with the offal of the world like Banastasio, oh yes—I’d give ten years of my life, more, because today I swear to God I loathe what I have to do, what only I can do for good old England.
“Did you back the favorite too?” she was asking.
“No, no unfortunately.”
“This’s her second winner,” Bartlett said proudly.
“Ah, if you’re on a winning streak, who do you fancy in the fifth?”
“I’ve been trying to decide, Superintendent. I’ve no tips—it’s wide open. What’s yours?”
“Winning Billy’s tipped, I hear. I can’t make up my mind either. Well, good luck.” Armstrong left them, heading for the betting windows. He had put 500 on the third-placed horse, covering his other bets. He always chose a main bet and then he hedged it with others, hoping to come out ahead. Most times he did. This afternoon he was a little behind, but he still hadn’t touched the 40,000.
In the corridor he hesitated. The Snake, Chief Inspector Donald C. C. Smyth, was turning away from one of the crowded winning windows, a roll of money in his hand. “Hello, Robert. How’re you doing?”
“So-so. You’re in the big time again?”
“I try.” The Snake bent closer. “How is everything?”
“Proceeding.” Once more Armstrong felt nauseated at the thought of more of the Red Room, then sitting there, letting Brian Kwok’s mind spill out his most secret secrets, working against the clock that was ticking away—all of them aware that the governor was asking London for permission to trade.
“You’re not looking so good, Robert.”
“I don’t feel so good. Who’s going to win the fifth?”
“I leaned on your friend Clubfoot at the Para. The word is Pilot Fish. He did tip Buccaneer in the first, though with this going anything could happen.”
“Yes. Anything on the Werewolves?”
“Nothing. It’s a dead end. I’m having the whole area combed but with this rain it’s almost hopeless. I did interview Dianne Chen this morning—and John Chen’s wife Barbara. They gave me sweet talk. I’d lay a fiver to a bent hatpin they know more than they’re telling. I had a brief talk with Phillip Chen but he was equally uncooperative. Poor bugger’s pretty shook.” The Snake looked up at him. “By chance did Mary have any clue about John?”
Armstrong looked back at him. “I haven’t had a chance to ask her. Tonight—if they give me any peace.”
“They won’t.” Smyth’s face crinkled with a twisted smile. “Put your 40 on Pilot Fish.”
“What 40?”
“A dickie bird twittered that a certain golden nest egg has flown your coop—to mix metaphors.” The smaller man shrugged. “Don’t worry, Robert, have a flutter. There’s plenty more where that came from. Good luck.” He went away. Armstrong stared after him, hating him.
The bugger’s right though, he thought, his chest hurting. There’s plenty more but once you take the first, what about the second and though you give nothing, admit nothing, guarantee nothing, there will come a time. As sure as God made little apples there’s always a return payment.
Mary. She needs that holiday, needs it so much and there’s the stockbroker’s bill and all the other bills and oh Christ, with this market gone crazy I’m almost wiped out. God curse money—or the lack of it.
40 on a winning quinella’d solve everything. Or do I put it all on Pilot Fish? All or half or none. If it’s all, there’s plenty of time to place bets at other windows.
His feet took him to one of the betting lines. Many recognized him and those who did, feeling their instant internal fear, wished the police had their own box and own windows and did not mix with honest citizens. Four Finger Wu was one of these. Hastily he put 50,000 on a quinella of Pilot Fish and Butterscotch Lass and fled back to the members’ room, gratefully to sip his brandy and soda. Dirty dogmeat police to frighten honest citizens, he thought, waiting for Venus Poon to return. Eeeee, he chortled, her Golden Gulley’s worth every carat of the diamond I promised her last night. Two Clouds and Rain before dawn and a promise of another bout on Sunday when the yang recovers his ju—
A sudden roar from outside diverted his mind. At once he shoved his way through the crowds packing the balcony. The names of the fifth racehorses and their jockeys were coming up on the board, one by one. Pilot Fish, number one, got a full-bellied cheer; then Street Vendor, an outsider, two; Golden Lady, three and a ripple of excitement went through her many backers. When Noble Star, seven, flashed up there was a great roar and when the last, number eight, the favorite, Butterscotch Lass, there was an even greater roar.
Down by the rail Dunross and Travkin were grimly inspecting the turf. It was torn and slippery. The nearer the rail, the worse it was. Above, the sky was blacker and lowering. A sprinkle started and a nervous groan slipped from fifty thousand throats.
“It’s rotten, tai-pan,” Travkin said, “the going’s rotten.”
“It’s the same for everyone.” Dunross let his mind reestimate the odds a last time. If I ride and win, the omen will be immense. If I ride and lose, the omen will be very bad. To be beaten by Pilot Fish would be even worse. I could be hurt easily. I can’t afford … the Noble House can’t afford to be headless today, tomorrow or Monday. If Travkin rides
and loses or finishes behind Pilot Fish that would be bad but not as bad. That would be joss.
But I won’t get hurt. I’ll win. I want this race more than anything in the world. I won’t fail. I’m not sure about Alexi. I can win—if the gods are with me. Yes but how much are you prepared to gamble on the gods?
“Eeee, young Ian,” Old Chen-chen had told him many times, “beware of expecting help from the gods, however much you petition them with gold or promises. Gods are gods and gods go out to lunch and sleep and get bored and turn their eyes away. Gods are the same as people: good and bad, lazy and strong, sweet and sour, stupid and wise! Why else are they gods, heya?”
Dunross could feel his heart thumping and could smell the warm, acrid, sweet-sour horse sweat, could sense the mind-blinding, spirit-curdling motioning, hands gripping the whip, bunched in the corner, now into the far straight, now into the last corner, the aching, grand sweet terror of speed, wielding the whip, jamming your heels in, outstretched now, carefully bumping Pilot Fish into the rails, putting him off his stride, and now into the straight, ripping into the straight, Pilot Fish behind, winning post ahead … come on come on … winning….
“We have to decide, tai-pan. It’s time.”
Dunross came back slowly, bile in his mouth. “Yes. You ride,” he said, putting the House before himself.
And now that he had said it he put the rest aside and clapped Travkin warmly on the shoulders. “Win, Alexi, win by God.”
The older man, gnarled and leathery, peered up at him. He nodded once, then walked off to change. As he went he noticed Suslev in the stands watching him through binoculars. A tremor went through him. Suslev had promised that this Christmas Nestorova would come to Hong Kong, she would be allowed to join him in Hong Kong—and stay in Hong Kong—at Christmas. If he cooperated. If he cooperated and did what was asked.
Do you believe that? No. No, not at all, those matyeryebyets are liars and betrayers but maybe this time … Christ Jesus why should I be ordered to meet Dunross at Sinclair Towers by night, late at night? Why? Christ Jesus, what should I do? Don’t think, old man. You’re old and soon you’ll be dead but your first duty is to win. If you win, the tai-pan will do your bidding. If you lose? If you win or lose, how can you live with the shame of betraying the man who befriended you and trusts you?
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