The Lo Wu bridge was one of the most sensitive single spots in all China—it and the other two crossing points. Of these, one was at Mau Kam Toh where cattle and vegetables came daily over a rickety bridge across this same stream that marked most of the border. The last, at the very eastern tip of the border, was at the fishing village of Tau Kok. Here the border was not marked but, by common consent, was said to run down the middle of the single village street.
These were China’s only contact points with the West. Everything was meticulously controlled and monitored—by both sides. The tension and manner of the guards was a barometer.
Today the guards on the PRC side of Lo Wu had been jittery. Because of that, the Hong Kong side was nervous too, not knowing what to expect—perhaps a sudden closure, perhaps a sudden invasion like last year, the Colony existing at the whim of China: “And that’s a fact of life,” Chief Inspector Smyth muttered. Today he had been assigned here for special duty and he was standing uneasily near the police station that was discreetly set back a hundred yards from the real border so as not to offend or create waves. Christ, he thought, waves? One fart in London could start millions of refugees marching here—if the powers across the border decided that that tiny piece of wind was an affront to the dignity of China.
“Come on, for chrissake,” he said impatiently, his khaki shirt sticking to his back, his eyes on the road back to Hong Kong. The road was puddled. It curled away. Then, in the distance, he saw the police car approaching. Greatly relieved, he went to meet it. Armstrong got out. Then Brian Kwok. Smyth saluted Robert Armstrong with his swagger stick to cover his shock. Brian Kwok was in civilian clothes. There was a curious, vacant, petrified look in his eyes. “Hello, Robert,” Smyth said.
“Hello. Sorry to be late,” Armstrong said.
“It’s only a couple of minutes. Actually I was told sunset.” Smyth squinted westward. The sun was not yet down. He turned his attention back to Brian Kwok. It was hard to keep the contempt out of his face.
The tall, handsome Chinese took out a pack of cigarettes. His fingers trembled as he offered it to Smyth.
“No thanks,” Smyth said coldly. Armstrong took one. “I thought you’d given up smoking?”
“I did. I started again.”
Brian Kwok laughed nervously. “Afraid it’s me. Robert’s been trying to keep … to keep Crosse and his angels off my back.”
Neither man laughed.
“Is anyone coming? Anyone else?” Smyth asked.
“I don’t think so. Not officially.” Armstrong looked around. There were the usual gaping bystanders but they appeared haphazard. “They’re here though. Somewhere.” Both men felt the hackles on their necks rising. “You can get on with it.”
Smyth took out a formal document. “Wu Chu-toy, alias Brian Kar-shun Kwok, you are formally charged with espionage against Her Majesty’s Government on behalf of a foreign power. Under the authority of the Deportation Order of Hong Kong you are formally ordered out of the Crown Colony. If you return you are formally warned you do so at your peril and are liable for arraignment and imprisonment at Her Majesty’s pleasure.” Grimly Smyth handed him the paper.
Brian Kwok took it. It seemed to take him time to see and to hear, his senses dulled. “Now … now what happens?”
Smyth said, “You walk over that bloody bridge and go back to your pals.”
“Eh? You think I’m a fool? You think I believe you’re, you’re letting me go?” Brian Kwok spun on Armstrong. “Robert, I keep telling you they’re playing with me, with you, they’ll never let me go free! You know that!”
“You’re free, Brian.”
“No … no, I know what’s happening. The moment I, the moment I’m almost there they’ll pull me back, the torture of hope, that’s it, isn’t it?” There was a shrillness creeping into his voice, a fleck of foam at the corner of his lips. “Of course! The torture of hope.”
“For chrissake, I’ve told you you’re free! You’re free to go,” Armstrong said, his voice hard, wanting to end it. “Go for chrissake! Don’t ask me why they’re letting you go but they are. Go!”
Filled with disbelief, Brian Kwok wiped his mouth, started to speak, stopped. “You’re … it’s a … it’s a lie, has to be!”
“Go!”
“All right, I’ll…” Brian Kwok went off a pace then stopped. They had not moved. “You’re, you really mean it?”
“Yes.”
Shakily Brian Kwok put out his hand to Smyth. Smyth looked at it, then into his face. “If it was up to me I’d have you shot.”
A flash of hatred went over Kwok’s face. “What about you and graft? What about you selling police pro—”
“Don’t let’s get into that! H’eung yau’s part of China!” Smyth snarled and Armstrong nodded uneasily, remembering the first 40,000 gambled on Saturday.
“A little feathering’s an old Chinese custom,” Smyth continued, shaking with rage. “Treason isn’t. Fong-fong was one of my lads before he went to SI. Go get stuffed and get the hell across the bridge or I’ll whip you across it!”
Brian Kwok began to speak, stopped. Bleakly he offered his hand to Armstrong. Armstrong shook it without friendship. “That’s just for old times’ sake, for the Brian I used to know. I don’t approve of traitors either.”
“I, I know I was drugged but thanks.” Brian Kwok backed away, still suspecting a trick, then turned. Every few seconds he looked back, petrified that they were coming after him. When his halting feet reached the bridge he broke into a frantic run. Tension skyrocketed. Police at the barrier did not stop him. Neither did the soldiers. Both sides, forewarned, pretended not to notice him. The crowds streaming across either side of the tracks, bicycles, pedestrians, carts, mostly laden, paid him no attention at all. At the other side of the barrier, Brian Kwok skidded to a stop and turned back.
“We’ll win, we’ll, we’ll win you know,” he called back to them, his chest heaving. “We will!” Then still suspecting a trick, he hunched down and fled into China. Near the train they saw a nondescript group of people intercept him but now it was too far away to see clearly. Tension on the bridge subsided. The sun began to set.
In the small observation tower atop the police station, Roger Crosse watched with high-powered binoculars. He was well concealed. Beside him was an SI operator with a telescopic camera, equally concealed. His face closed. One of the men meeting Brian Kwok was Tsu-yan, the missing millionaire.
The sun was almost under the western seas. Casey was at the Peak lookout, all Hong Kong spread below, lights on in the gloaming, part of the city and Kowloon blood-colored, part already dark with deep shadows and blazing highlights. The sun vanished and night, true night, began.
But she saw none of the beauty of it. Her face was wet with the tears that still coursed. She was leaning on the railing at a far corner, oblivious. The other sightseers and people waiting at the nearby bus stops left her alone—too interested in their own affairs.
“By all the gods I made a fortune today….”
“I bought in first thing and doubled my fornicating money….”
“Ayeeyah so did I, and I spent most of the day negotiating a loan from Best Bank against my portfolio….”
“Thank all gods the Middle Kingdom bailed out those stupid foreign devils …”
“I bought Noble House at 20.…”
“Did you hear they dug out two more bodies at Kotewall and now the count’s sixty-seven dead….”
“Joss! Isn’t it wonderful about the market! Old Blind Tung’s prediction came true again….”
“Did you hear about my sister, Third Toiletmaid Fung from Great Hotel? She and her syndicate bought at the darkest time and now she’s a millionaire….”
Casey heard nothing, saw nothing, misery overwhelming her. People came and went, a few lovers. The only Europeans were tourists with their cameras. Casey hid from them as best she could.
“Say, can I help?” one of them said.
“No, no thank y
ou,” she replied, her voice flat, not looking at him, helpless to stop the tears.
I have to stop, she thought. I have to stop. I have to begin again. I have to begin again and be strong and live, for me and for Linc. I’ve got to guard him and his, I’ve got to be strong, be strong.
But how?
“I won’t let go,” she told herself aloud. I won’t. I have to think.
I have to think about what the tai-pan said. Not about marriage, oh Linc, not about that. I have to think about Orlanda.
“Is it too much to hope they’d be friends?” Did he really say that?
What to do about her?
Bury her. She took Linc away from me. Yes. But that was within my rules, the rules I set down. Ian’s right. She’s not like Quillan and it was Linc—he fell for her, he went out with her. She’s not like Quillan Gornt.
Quillan. What about him? He had come to the hotel this afternoon, again offering her whatever help she needed. She had thanked him and refused. “I’m okay, Quillan. I have to work this out myself. No, please don’t see me off. Please. I’ll be back in thirty days, maybe. Then I’ll be more sensible.”
“You’re signing with Struan’s?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s what I want to do. Sorry.”
“No need to be sorry. You’ve been warned. But that doesn’t preclude dinner the first night you’re back. Yes?”
“Yes.”
Oh Quillan, what to do about you?
Nothing for thirty days. Linc must have the next thirty days. Totally. I have to protect him against the vultures.
Seymour Steigler for one. This morning he had come to her suite. “Hey Casey, I’ll get the coffin arranged and—”
“It’s done, everything’s done.”
“That a fact? Great. Listen, I’m all packed. Jannelli can take my bags and I’ll be at the airplane in good time so we c—”
“No. I’m taking Linc home alone.”
“But hell, Casey, we’ve got a lot to talk about. There’s his will, there’s the Par-Con deal, we got time now to figure it good. We can delay and maybe get us a few extra points. We—”
“It can all wait. I’ll see you back in L.A. Take off a couple of days, Seymour. Be back next Monday.”
“Monday? For chrissake there’s a million things to do! Linc’s affairs’ll take a year to untangle. We gotta get counsel fast. Sure, the best in town. I’ll do that first thing, the best. Don’t forget there’s his widow and his kids. She’ll sue on their behalf, of course she’ll sue—and then there’s you! For chrissake you’re entitled to a fat share. We’ll sue too, haven’t you been like a wife to him for seven ye—”
“Seymour, you’re fired! Get your ass out of here an—”
“What the hell’s with you? I’m only thinking of your legal rights an—”
“Don’t you hear, Seymour? You’re fired!”
“You can’t fire me. I’ve got rights. I got a contract!”
“You’re a son of a bitch. You’ll get top dollar to settle your contract but if you take after me or Linc or Linc’s affairs I’ll see to it you get nothing. Nothing. Now get the hell out of here!”
Casey wiped away her tears, remembering her exploding rage. Well he is a son of a bitch. I was never sure before but I am now. I’m glad I fired him. I’ll bet any money he’ll come sniffing around like a hyena. Sure. I’ll bet he’ll go see the ex-Mrs. Bartlett if he hasn’t already called her and work her into a frenzy, to represent her brood to attack Par-Con and Linc. Sure, I’ll bet any money I’ll see him in court, one way or another.
Well, God help me, I swear he won’t beat me. I’ll protect Linc whatever.
Forget that bastard, Casey. Forget the battles you’re going to fight, concentrate on the now. What about Orlanda? Linc, Linc liked her—loved her maybe. Did he? I don’t know for sure. And never will, not now.
Orlanda.
Should I go see her?
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
8:05 P.M.:
Orlanda was sitting in the dark of her room at the Mandarin Hotel staring out at the night. Her grief was spent.
Joss about Linc, she told herself for the ten thousandth time. Joss. Now everything’s as before. Everything has to start again. The gods laughed at me again. Perhaps there’ll be another chance—of course there’ll be another chance. There are other men … Oh God! Don’t worry, everything will be as it was. Quillan said not to worry, my allowance would contin—
The phone jangled, startling her. “Hello?”
“Orlanda? It’s Casey.” Orlanda sat bolt upright, astonished. “I’m leaving tonight but I wanted to see you before I go. Is that possible? I’m downstairs.”
Her enemy calling her? Why? To gloat? But they’d both lost. “Yes, Casey,” she said hesitantly. “Would you like to come up? It’s more private here. 363.”
“Sure. 363.”
Orlanda switched on a light and hurried to the bathroom to check her face. She saw sadness and recent tears—but no age. Not yet. But age is coming, she thought, a shiver of apprehension taking her. A comb to her hair and a little makeup on her eyes. Nothing else needed. Not yet.
Stop it! Age is inevitable. Be Asian! Be aware.
She slipped on her shoes. The waiting seemed long. Her heart was grinding. The bell rang. The door opened. Each saw the desolation of the other.
“Come in, Casey.”
“Thanks.”
The room was small. Casey noticed two small cases standing neatly beside the bed. “You leaving too?” Her voice sounded far away to her.
“Yes. Yes I’m moving in with friends of my parents. The hotel’s a, it’s a bit expensive. My friends said I could stay with them until I can find another apartment. Please sit down.”
“But you’re covered by insurance?”
Orlanda blinked. “Insurance? No, no I don’t think so. I never … no, I don’t think so.”
Casey sighed. “So you’ve lost everything?”
“Joss.” Orlanda half-shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I have a little money in the bank and … I’m fine.” She saw the misery in Casey’s face, and her compassion reached out. “Casey,” she said quickly, “about Linc. I wasn’t trying to trap him, not for anything bad. Oh yes, I loved him and yes, I’d’ve done anything to marry him, but that’s only fair, and honestly I believe I’d’ve been a wonderful wife for him, I’d’ve tried so very hard to be the best, honestly. I did love him and …” Again Orlanda shrugged her tiny shrug. “You know. Sorry.”
“Yes, yes I know. No need to be sorry.”
“The first time I met you at Aberdeen, the night of the fire,” Orlanda said, rushing on, “I thought how foolish Linc was, perhaps you were for not…” She sighed. “Perhaps it’s as you said, Casey, there’s nothing to talk about. Now most of all.” The tears began again. And her tears, the reality of them, brought tears from Casey.
For a moment they sat there, the two women. Then Casey found a tissue, dried her eyes, feeling awful, nothing resolved, wanting now to finish quickly what she had begun. She took out an envelope. “Here’s a check. It’s for $10,000 U.S. I th—”
Orlanda gasped. “I don’t want your money! I don’t want anything fr—”
“It’s not from me. It’s Linc’s. Listen a moment.” Casey told her what Dunross had said about Bartlett. All of it. The repeating of it tearing her anew. “That’s what Linc said. I think it was you he wanted to marry. Maybe I’m wrong. I don’t know. Even so, he’d want you to have some drop … some protection.”
Orlanda felt her heart about to burst at the irony of it all. “Linc said ‘best man’? Truly?”
“Yes.”
“And to be friends? He wanted us to be friends?”
“Yes,” Casey told her, not knowing if she was doing the right thing, what Linc would have wanted. But sitting here now, seeing the tender youthful beauty, the wide eyes, exquisite skin that needed no makeup, perfect figure, again she could not blame her or blame Linc. It was my fault, not his and not hers. And I kno
w Linc wouldn’t have left her destitute. So I can’t. For him. He wanted us to be friends. Maybe we can be. “Why don’t we try?” she said. “Listen, Hong Kong’s no place for you. Why not try some other place?”
“I can’t. I’m locked in here, Casey. I’ve no training. I’m nothing. My B.S. means nothing.” The tears began again. “I’m just … I’d go mad punching a clock.”
On a sudden impulse Casey said, “Why not try the States? Maybe I could help you find a job.”
“What?”
“Yes. Perhaps in fashion—I don’t know what exactly but I’ll try.”
Orlanda was staring at her incredulously. “You’d help me, really help me?”
“Yes.” Casey put the envelope and her card on the table and got up, her whole body aching. “I’ll try.”
Orlanda went to her and put her arms around her. “Oh thank you, Casey, thank you.”
Casey hugged her back, their tears mixing.
The night was dark now with little light from the small moon that came through the high clouds from time to time. Roger Crosse walked silently up to the half-hidden gate in the tall walls that surrounded Government House and used his key. He locked the gate behind him, walked quickly along the path, keeping to the shadows. Near the house he detoured and went to the east side, down some steps to a basement door and took out another key.
This door swung open, equally quietly. The armed sentry, a Gurkha, held his rifle ready. “Password, sir!”
Crosse gave it. The sentry saluted and stepped aside. At the far end of the corridor Crosse knocked. The door was opened by the governor’s aide. “Evening, Superintendent.”
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting?”
“No, not at all.” This man led the way through communicating cellars to a thick iron door set into a concrete box that was crudely constructed in the middle of the big main cellar, wine racks nearby. He took out the single key and unlocked it. The door was very heavy. Crosse went inside alone and closed the door after him. Once inside, the door barred, he relaxed. Now he was totally safe from prying eyes and prying ears. This was the Holy of Holies, a conference room for very private conversations, the concrete room and communications center laboriously built by trusted SI officers, British only, to ensure against enemy listening devices being inserted into the walls—the whole structure tested weekly by Special Branch experts—in case some were somehow infiltrated.
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