Noble House

Bartlett repeated his denial of any knowledge. "I don't believe any of my crew or any of my people are involved in any way. None of them has ever been involved with the law as far as I know. And I would know."
"How long has Captain Jannelli been with you?"
"Four years. O'Rourke two. Svensen since I got the airplane in '58."
"And Miss Tcholok?"
After a pause Bartlett said, "Six—almost seven years."
"She's a senior executive in your company?"
"Yes. Very senior."
"That's unusual, isn't it, Mr. Bartlett?"
"Yes. But that has nothing to do with this problem."
"You're the owner of this aircraft?"
"My company is. Par-Con Industries Incorporated."
"Do you have any enemies—anyone who'd want to embarrass you seriously?"
Bartlett laughed. "Does a dog have fleas? You don't get to head a half-billion-dollar company by making friendships."
"No enemy in particular?"
"You tell me. Running guns is a special operation—this has to have been done by a professional."
"Who knew about your flight plan to Hong Kong?"
"The visit's been scheduled for a couple of months. My board knew. And my planning staff." Bartlett frowned. "It was no real secret. No reason to be." Then he added, "Of course Struan's knew —exactly. For at least two weeks. In fact we confirmed the date on the 12th by telex, exact ETD and ETA. I wanted it sooner but Dunross said Monday the 19th'd suit him better, which is today. Maybe you should ask him."
"I will, Mr. Bartlett. Thank you, sir. That will do for the moment."
"I've got some questions, Superintendent, if you don't mind. What's the penalty for smuggling guns?"
"Ten years without parole."
"What's the value of this cargo?"
"Priceless, to the right buyer, because no guns—absolutely none —are available to anyone."
"Who's the right buyer?"
"Anyone who wants to start a riot, insurrection, or commit mass murder, bank robbery, or some crime of whatever magnitude."
"Communists?"
Armstrong smiled and shook his head. "They don't have to shoot at us to take over the Colony, or smuggle M14's—they've got guns a-plenty of their own."
"Nationalists? Chiang Kai-shek's men?"
"They're more than well supplied with all sorts of armaments by the U.S. Government, Mr. Bartlett. Aren't they? So they don't need to smuggle this way either."
"A gang war maybe?"
"Good God, Mr. Bartlett, our gangs don't shoot each other. Our gangs—triads as we call them—our triads settle their differences in sensible, civilized Chinese fashion, with knives and axes and fighting irons and anonymous calls to the police."
"I'll bet it was someone in Struan's. That's where you'll find the answer to the riddle."
"Perhaps." Armstrong laughed strangely, then said again, "Perhaps. Now if you'll excuse me …"
"Of course." Bartlett turned off the recorder, took out the two cassettes and handed one over.
"Thank you, Mr. Bartlett."
"How long will this search go on?"
"That depends. Perhaps an hour. We may wish to bring in some experts. We'll try to make it as easy as possible. You'll be off the plane before lunch?"
"Yes."
"If you want access please check with my office. The number's 88-77-33. There'll be a permanent police guard here for the time being. You'll be staying at the Vic?"
"Yes. Am I free to go into town now, do what I like?"
"Yes sir, provided you don't leave the Colony, pending our inquiries."
Bartlett grinned. "I've got that message already, loud and clear."
Armstrong left Bartlett showered and dressed and waited until all the police went away except the one who was guarding the gangway. Then he went back into his office suite and closed the door. Quite alone now he checked his watch. It was 7:37. He went over to his communications center and clicked on two micro switches and pressed the sending button.
In a moment there was a crackle of static and Casey's sleepy voice. "Yes, Line?"
"Geronimo," he said clearly, into the mike.
There was a long pause. "Got it," she said. The loudspeaker went dead.
4
9:40 A.M. :
The Rolls came off the car ferry that linked Kowloon to Hong Kong Island and turned east along Connaught Road, joining the heavy traffic. The morning was very warm, humid and cloudless under a nice sun. Casey settled deeper into the back cushions. She glanced at her watch, her excitement growing.
"Plenty time, Missee," the sharp-eyed chauffeur said. "Noble House down street, tall building, ten, fifteen minutes never mind."
"Good."
This is the life, she told herself. One day I'll have a Rolls of my very own and a neat, polite quiet Chinese chauffeur and I'll not have to worry about the price of gas. Not ever. Maybe—at long last— this is where I'm going to get my drop dead money. She smiled to herself. Line was the first one who had explained about drop dead money. He had called it screw you money. Enough to say screw you to anybody or anything. "Screw you money's the most valuable in the world . . . but the most expensive," he had said. "If you work for me—with me but for me—I'll help you get your screw you money. But Casey, I don't know if you'll want to pay the cost."
"What's the cost?"
"I don't know. I only know it varies, person to person—and always costs you more than you're prepared to pay."
"Has yours?"
"Oh yes."
Well, she thought, the price hasn't been too high yet. I make $52,000 a year, my expense account is good and my job stretches my brain. But the government takes too much and there's not enough left to be drop dead money. "Drop dead money comes from a killing," Line had said. "Not from cash flow."
How much do I need?
She had never asked herself the question before.
$500,000? At 7 percent that'll bring $35,000 a year forever but that's taxable. What about the Mexican Government guarantee of 11 percent, less 1 for them for their trouble? Still taxable. In tax free bonds at 4 percent it's $20,000 but bonds are dangerous and you don't gamble your drop dead money.
"That's the first rule, Casey," Line had said. "You never risk it. Never." Then he had laughed that lovely laugh of his which disarmed her as always. "You never risk your screw you money except the once or twice you decide to."
A million? Two? Three?
Get your mind on the meeting and don't dream, she told herself. I won't but my price is 2 million cash in the bank. Tax free. That's what I want. 2 million at 5i4 percent tax free will bring $105,000 a year. And that will give me and the family everything I want with enough to spare forever. And I could better 5V4 percent on my money.
But how to get 2 million tax free?
I don't know. But somehow I know this's the place.
The Rolls stopped suddenly as a mass of pedestrians dodged through the tightly packed lines of cars and double-decker buses and taxis and trucks and carts and lorries and bicycles and handcarts and some rickshaws. Thousands of people scurried this way and that, pouring out of or into the alleys and side roads, spilling off the pavements onto the roadway in the morning rush hour. Rivers of human ants.
Casey had researched Hong Kong well, but she was still not prepared for the impact that the incredible overcrowding had made upon her.
"I never saw anything like it, Line," she had said this morning when he had arrived at the hotel just before she left for the meeting. "It was after ten when we drove here from the airport, but there were thousands of people out—including kids—and everything— restaurants, markets, shops—were still 'open."
"People mean profit—why else're we here?"
"We're here to usurp the Noble House of Asia with the secret help and collusion of a Judas Iscariot, John Chen."