FEARLESS FINN'S MURDEROUS ADVENTURE

by Mike Coony

  ———

  “Finn, let me give you a potted history of Clarrion and its illustrious founder, Mister G. Han. But first, let’s order a true colonist’s afternoon tea…watercress and smoked salmon finger sandwiches, followed by freshly baked scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam, served with Victoria blend tea. How does that sound to you?”

  “Very British, if you really want to know.”

  “Excellent, that’s exactly the reaction I’m looking for…cricket on the green, all’s well within the Empire, and everyone’s a decent chap goes without saying.”

  Now he has me really puzzled. Is he having me on, or is he a bit soft in the head? There’s been no British Empire for over fifty years – thanks be to God.

  Proceedings were temporarily halted while our afternoon tea was laid out before us by two smiling girls; they’re wearing black silken tunics, white lace-bordered aprons and little starched white hats. They double-checked everything and retreated with coordinated bobbed curtseys. Very 1920s, I thought.

  “I’ll play mother then Finn, if that’s all right with you,” announced Fran, as he poured tea into two bone china cups and pushed the sterling silver creamer closer to me.

  Jaysus, Somerset Maugham eat your heart out. This is like something out of a Noël Coward play…and I wonder what role I’ve been given – probably the bloody butler!

  “You’re looking puzzled Finn…don’t be. All this is by way of setting the scene that allowed one of the biggest financial scams in Hong Kong to get under way. The heads of the main banks and the regulators of financial services in the Colony are all ex-public school boys, steeped in the traditions of fair play. In other words, don’t be rude to new people, or too suspicious or intrusive, and give a chap the benefit of the doubt.

  “It was in this context, back in 1972, that the newly arrived Mister G. Han decided to exploit these very British attitudes to investment and banking, and to create a classic bubble company using naught but smoke, mirrors and boxes of very expensive Cuban cigars. Oh yes…and what I’ve just been discovering, which is that he’s had the cooperation of some decidedly dodgy financial fellows in Kuala Lumpur all along. You see, everyone had confidence in Han because he spread rumours that his main backer was a filthy rich sultan. I think that’s just more smoke and mirrors though – to cover up the shady Malay investments – but I have to do some more digging before I know for sure.”

  I’ve had my fill of watercress and strawberry jam, but Fran’s managed to keep my attention – mostly by the mention of Cuban cigars and a filthy rich sultan. I already know about smoke and mirrors to create an illusion. So, with my curiosity intact, he continued.

  “As I mentioned, G. Han arrived in Hong Kong’s New Territories in 1972. He began working as a civil engineer, mostly in small holdings and duck-breeding farms in poor, subsistence farming districts along the border with China.”

  Now I’m getting a bit impatient, and I egged Fran along with his story. I want him to get to the part where G. Han became a billionaire and controller of a vast commercial empire.

  “Patience Finn, I’m coming to that. Things actually moved very rapidly for G. Han, even by Hong Kong standards. Apart from his civil engineering duties, Han opened a small pest control business under the name of an off the shelf company called Clarrion. Then, using his salary, the income from his pest control operation, and the shady investments from Malaysia, he began snapping up small parcels of cheap New Territories land.

  “Within a few short years he made his big move and offered a billion dollars for Gammon House, which is in the district squashed between the traditional business district of Central and the less glamorous Wan Chai…home to Susie Wong, strip clubs, sex and gambling parlours. Then, less than a year later, Han turned around and sold Gammon House for about one point seven billion.

  “The Hong Kong investment market was in the doldrums at the time. This was brought on, as always, by the banks becoming concerned about their over-exposure to property, so they’d turned off the money taps. But following the Gammon House deal, which G. Han claimed made him a seven hundred million dollar paper profit, the money taps were on again. And the banks began loaning vast sums of money to property companies and land speculators.”

  OK, so now Fran has my total attention. I know nothing about property development, but I know what seven hundred million Hong Kong dollars comes to in real money. That’s around seventy million Irish punts – enough to support a small army for years.

  “All land in Hong Kong is leased to developers by government, and they encourage competitive bidding on the leases. But after Han’s coup with Gammon House the public land auctions became huge entertainment.

  “The auctions are held at City Hall, better known as the venue for philharmonic concerts, and they began drawing crowds of enthusiastic onlookers from the general public and the media. People were excited to watch these auctions that were now turning into full-blown bidding wars for prime sites…and even for what appeared to be almost worthless land. Crash barriers had to be erected outside City Hall just to manage the crowds of onlookers.

  “The atmosphere in the fifteen hundred seat City Hall became absolutely electric during these auctions. Property developers who just happened to be sitting next to each other formed on the spot consortia to make higher and higher bids, only to be gazumped by Inchcape, Hong Kong Land or Clarrion. Everyone was always anxious to see Han’s representatives try to outbid K.S. Li’s people…whenever a matter of face surfaces between a Malay and a Fukien Chinese all common sense goes out the window. If Sir Y.K. Poi, the recently knighted shipping magnate, bid against K.S. Li, the sky was the limit. Truth is…there was no limit. Normally content to outdo each other on the Deep Water Bay golf course, these two magnates slugged it out in City Hall over the right to build more and more apartment towers.

  “Every dog in the street knew that if a Chinese consortium got a site they’d fling up as many tiny high-rise apartments as they could fit on the land. This was in order to get their money back quickly and show a profit to their shareholders…and more importantly to their banks. And of course, their banks would then offer expensive mortgages to the luckless buyers of these grossly over-priced, undersized units.

  “During one remarkable auction the audience burst into spontaneous cheers when Swire Brothers bought the old military site in Queensway, a forgotten part of the city-state wedged between Central and seedy Wan Chai. Everyone in the know knew that Swire planned on building Pacific Place…a world-class development of retail, commercial, hotel and residential units…and that it would raise the profile of Queensway. So anyone living within walking distance of Pacific Place would see their property soar in value…which is exactly what’s happened.

  “With the proceeds of these outrageous auctions pouring into government coffers, the government maintained a low-tax economy. This left money in people’s pockets to speculate on the stock market and in property, or to bet on the turn of a roulette wheel or the speed of a thoroughbred race horse.

  “It wasn’t long before a secondary market developed for the sale of deposit receipts on apartments that would be sold off the plans. Crowds queued for days outside developers’ offices to put down a few dollars as booking deposits on apartments that weren’t due to be built for months, or even years. In return for their few dollars, they were given receipts identifying the units they’d booked. Those people then walked to the back of the queue they’d been waiting in and sold their receipts on at huge profits. The receipts could change hands many times in the same queue, at ever increasing prices…and certainly long before the development was even off the drawing board, or a real deposit was paid to the developer.”

  Talk about information overload…my head is buzzing, and it must show on my face. Fran stopped for a breath and grinned like a bold schoolboy.

  “Sorry Finn, I get carried away whenever I start on about Mister G. Han. It just makes my Church of England blood boil when I think of what he’s done. I
shouldn’t be so rude, but between you, me and our half million readers, the story has taken over my life.

  “The other thing is that, lately, my managers are talking to me about the risk of reprisals against me and mine. If the bottom falls out of the Hong Kong Stock Exchange, angry investors could view a drop in the value of their shareholdings as my doing. And if Clarrion goes belly up, well the Malay investors won’t be too happy with me either.

  “You’ve met my wife Susie of course. She speaks highly of you. She’s actually been more intimately involved than me in getting the inside information on G. Han and Clarrion. Her banker and lawyer pals at Plume’s and the FCC are whispering in her ear all the time.

  “Do you feel I ought to warn her about the mention of the risk of reprisals? I’m not saying that there are any real or substantiated threats…yet. Under those circumstances, I’d sit Susie down and explain everything to her. We could get help arranged by my employers…if we needed it, you know. So, I realise we’ve only just met, but my brother Gary also speaks very highly of you…and I’d appreciate your opinion if you don’t mind.”

  I never got to give Fran my opinion. A floor manager arrived at our table and said Fran was wanted on the phone. He rushed back to the table and grabbed his note pad. “There have been developments Finn, I must get to TST in a hurry. Order more tea if you wish…the bill goes to the SCMT office. I’ll be in touch, soon as I can. Cheers,” he said, before darting out the door.

  I didn’t hear from Fran after our first meeting, so I never got to give him my opinion. I would’ve said to him: Jaysus, of course you’ve got to warn Susie. She could be in danger, if not today, then in the future. She’s your wife for God’s sake…talk to her today…right now!

  ———

  During one of my brief get-togethers with Uncle Sui I told him about my meeting with Fran Cooke. I began to re-tell the Clarrion story from what I thought was the inside, and he gave me one of his do you think I don’t know already? looks.

  Five years ago Uncle Sui met a Triad Mountain Master from Malaysia who filled him in on G. Han and his so-called backer. Uncle’s Malaysian counterpart was none too pleased that Han hadn’t allowed the Malaysia-based Triads to wet their beaks in his pool of good fortune. Anyway, Han’s backer was rumoured to be the Sultan of Brunei, but he is in fact a senior executive in a Malaysian finance company – which is what Fran Cooke is only just finding out about now.

  “We knew all about Mister George Han…the cigar-smoking, quick-talking salesman…and his friendly backer,” said Uncle Sui, as he reached across the table to take another sip of his Château Pétrus.

  ———

  What Fran told me about the booking receipts for apartments came in handy when I met a Scottish accountant called Hamish. Hamish works in Hong Kong Electric Company which is controlled by K.S. Li, the biggest of the big Chinese property developers.

  Without queuing anywhere, Hamish can put booking deposits on apartments being developed by Hutchison Whampoa, another company owned by K.S. Li. Hamish offered to place booking deposits for me and my friends for free, and of course I made sure that Uncle Sui is included in this profitable little arrangement.

  In return, I asked Gerry to get Nico to look after Hamish during weekends in Macau, ‘to ensure that Hamish’s command of the Russian language and culture grow exponentially during his executive getaways.’ Hamish likes management jargon, and I see no harm in humouring him with it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he carries out a time and motion study while on the job with his Russian hooker. That’s a Scottish accountant for you.

  ———

  Things are starting to unravel in the Hong Kong property market, and some developers are facing cash flow trouble. In other words, the banks, as usual, are beginning to panic and won’t lend any more money. No one starts a false bubble or an economic downturn quicker than a banker, and when the shite hits the fan no one is quicker to point the finger of blame elsewhere.

  The bubble hasn’t burst yet; it’s springing little leaks. But any leaks are enough to put pressure on Clarrion Holdings and its hundreds of subsidiary companies. They can no longer get their hands on enough cash to meet their commitments.

  Fran’s latest Clarrion piece in the SCMT is accompanied by a photograph of a dismal field in the New Territories. Fran claims that the weed-infested field is G. Han’s only unencumbered asset, and the real foundation of his multi-billion dollar property empire. The article has inevitably sparked rumours that are spreading like wildfire through the hongs of Hong Kong, and any association with Clarrion now means ensuing fallout.

  Clarrion was involved in a massive joint venture with the mighty Hong Kong Land, a Jardine Matheson subsidiary. Jardine Matheson employs more people than the government in Hong Kong, and a shaky Jardine Matheson is unthinkable. Hong Kong Land was forced to sell off Hong Kong Telephone Company and other long-held assets – to support their own shares, as well as those of the all-powerful Jardine Matheson Group. But Jardine Matheson was still forced to sell the South China Morning Times newspaper…to raise more rescue capital.

  Under severe pressure, the Hong Kong Stock Exchange had no choice but to take action. They suspended share trading in Clarrion, and the ICAC will soon begin a criminal investigation.

  19

  HONG KONG

  It’s after eight p.m., and I’ve had a long day. I couldn’t get Earl and Gerry out of the office, and my mobile’s been going off non-stop since I left Tivoli Mansion. I can’t be bothered checking to see who’s calling.

  I’ve had enough of those Yanks for today; I’m turning off my phone. I want to grab dinner at a café before I go back to the Ritz-Carlton, and I’ve no intention of doing any more business…at least not until I’ve had a nice quiet dinner.

  ———

  I’m just after getting out of the elevator in the Ritz-Carlton, and I can’t believe it – the bleeding phone is ringing in my suite. It’s after ten. What’s so urgent that it can’t wait?

  “Yes?” I said, making sure I sound none too pleased.

  “Oh THANK GOD Finn….Something’s happened. I…I don’t know if he’s dead or run away or what, but it’s bad Finn, it’s really, really bad. I know it, I just know….”

  “Susie…Susie…calm down pet…now take a deep breath and tell me what’s happened,” I said, feeling more than a bit guilty for turning off my mobile.

  “I DON’T KNOW what’s happened Finn!! That’s the bloody problem…sorry, sorry for screaming at you.”

  “Don’t worry…it’s OK. Just tell me as best you can what’s going on,” I said, trying to reassure the poor woman.

  “No one’s heard from Fran since yesterday morning. He’s a creature of habit and he wasn’t in the FCC for his lunch. He was down to play in the squash league finals last night but he didn’t turn up for that either…there’s no way he’d let down his mates at the Cricket Club. And I knew there was something wrong when he didn’t come home last night.”

  “Have you phoned the SCMT? Maybe he was sent off on a last-minute assignment and hasn’t been able to contact you yet.”

  “I have…but they were utterly useless, the bloody bastards. You know the paper was sold, and Fran is sort of persona non grata there at the moment. Everyone blames him, and he’s been worried about his job. Anyway, they wouldn’t confirm or deny anything. Then I rang all the airlines and I can’t get any information out of them either.”

  “OK, where are you now?”

  “In my office.”

  “Why don’t you get a taxi over here and I’ll make some calls…see what I can find out.”

  “Oh thank you Finn…thank you…that would be brilliant. I’m leaving now.”

  I got Mac on the phone at the safe house in Sussex Gardens and explained everything using our amadán code – just in case this is somehow viewed by the authorities as a security matter. He said he’d make some enquiries and ring me back.

  Half an hour later Susie arrived at the door of my suite…and sh
e certainly looks better than she sounded on the phone.

  “Finn, you darling, darling man! I can’t thank you enough. I feel much better now…sorry for all the panic. The way I was going on you’d think we were newly-weds…rather than an old married couple who can’t be bothered sleeping together anymore,” she said, as she walked into the lounge and flung herself down on the couch.

  “Not to worry pet. Will you have a drink for the day that’s been in it?”

  “That would be perfect…whiskey on the rocks, light on the rocks, please,” she said.

  “There you go, get that into you,” I said, as I handed her the drink. “I’ve phoned a pal of mine, he’ll be ringing back as soon as he has any information on the whereabouts of your missing husband.”

  “Thank you…it’s just that, I don’t know if you know, but I helped Fran with that damn Clarrion story. I gave him any information I got from my contacts, and I’ll feel terribly guilty if anything’s happened to the old bugger because of the Clarrion mess. I’ve always thought that something bad could happen to Fran since he started poking around Han, and now he’s done more than ruffle a lot of feathers…if you know what I mean.”

  “I do, of course. But Susie, if you’re that worried, maybe you should contact the police.”

  “There’s no point in contacting the Hong Kong Police. Fran’s pieces in the SCMT have upset a lot of people, and the police certainly won’t help if any of the mighty hongs are involved. Anyway, I’ve phoned all the hospitals and we don’t have a body yet, so…oh I shouldn’t be so flippant Finn, but you know what I mean.”

  “Indeed,” I said, just as the phone rang. “Susie, that’s probably your man. I’m going to take the call in the other room…if you don’t mind.”