Noble House

Line had laughed with her. "Correction. We're here to make a deal with Struan's, and to look around."
"Then the plan's changed?"
"Tactically yes. The strategy's the same."
"Why the change, Line?"
"Charlie called last night. We bought another 200,000 shares of Rothwell-Gornt."
"Then the bid for Struan's is just a blind and our real target's Rothwell-Gornt?"
"We still have three targets: Struan's, Rothwell-Gornt and Asian Properties. We look around and we wait. If things look good we attack. If not, we can make 5, maybe 8 million this year on our straight deal with Struan's. That's cream."
"You're not here for 5 or 8 million. What's the real reason?"
"Pleasure."
The Rolls gained a few yards then stopped again, the traffic heavier now as they approached Central District. Ah Line, she thought, your pleasure covers a multitude of piracies.
"This first visit to Hong Kong, Missee?" broke into her thoughts.
"Yes, yes it is. I arrived last night," she said.
"Ah very good. Weather very bad never mind. Very smelly, very humid. Always humid in summer. First day very pretty, heya?"
First day had started with the sharp buzz of her citizens band transceiver jerking her out of sleep. And "Geronimo."
It was their code word for danger—beware. She had showered and dressed quickly, not knowing where the danger was coming from. She had just put in her contact lenses when the phone rang. "This is Superintendent Armstrong. Sorry to bother you so early, Miss Tcholok, but could I see you for a moment?"
"Certainly, Superintendent." She had hesitated. "Give me five minutes—I'll meet you in the restaurant?"
They had met and he had questioned her, telling her only that contraband had been found aboard the airplane.
"How long have you worked for Mr. Bartlett?"
"Directly, six years."
"Have there ever been any police problems before? Of any sort?"
"You mean with him—or with me?"
"With him. Or with you."
"None. What's been found aboard, Superintendent?"
"You don't seem unduly worried, Miss Tcholok."
"Why should I be? I've done nothing illegal, neither has Line. As to the crew, they're carefully picked professionals, so I'd doubt they have anything to do with smuggling. It's drugs, isn't it? What sort of drugs?"
"Why should it be drugs?"
"Isn't that what people smuggle in here?"
"It was a very large shipment of guns."
"What?"
There had been more questions, most of which she had answered, and then Armstrong was gone. She had finished her coffee and refused, for the fourth time, the home-baked, warm hard French rolls offered by a starched and smiling boy-waiter. They reminded her of those she had had in the south of France three years ago.
Ah, Nice and Cap D'Ail and the vin de Provence. And dear Line, she had thought, going back to the suite to wait for him to phone.
"Casey? Listen, th—"
"Ah Line, I'm glad you called," she had said at once, deliberately interrupting him. "Superintendent Armstrong was here a few minutes ago—and I forgot to remind you last night to call Martin about the shares." Martin was also a code word, meaning, "I think this conversation's being overheard."
"I'd thought about him too. That's not important now. Tell me exactly what happened."
So she told him. He related briefly what had occurred. "I'll fill in the rest when I get there. I'm heading for the hotel right now. How's the suite?"
"Fantastic! Yours's called Fragrant Spring, my room's adjoining, guess it's normally part of it. Seems like there are ten houseboys per suite. I called room service for coffee and it arrived on a silver tray before I'd put the phone down. The bathrooms're big enough for a cocktail party for twenty with a three-piece combo."
"Good. Wait for me."
She sat in one of the deep leather sofas in the luxurious sitting room and began to wait, enjoying the quality that surrounded her. Beautiful Chinese lacquered chests, a well-stocked bar in a mirrored alcove, discreet flower arrangements and a bottle of monogrammed Scotch—Lincoln Bartlett—with the compliments of the chief manager. Her bedroom suite through an interlocking door was one side, his, the master suite, the other. Both were the biggest she had ever seen, with king-size beds.
Why were guns put on our airplane and by whom?
Lost in thought she glanced out of the wall-to-wall window and faced Hong Kong Island and the dominating Peak, the tallest mountain on the island. The city, called Victoria after Queen Victoria, began at the shoreline, then rose, tier on tier, on the skirts of the sharply rising mountain, lessening as the slopes soared, but there were apartment buildings near the crest. She could see one just above the terminal of the Peak's funicular. The view from there must be fantastic, she thought absently.
The blue water was sparkling nicely, the harbor as traffic-bound as the streets of Kowloon below. Liners and freighters were anchored or tied up alongside the wharves of Kowloon or steaming out or in, their sirens sounding merrily. Over at the dockyard Hong Kong side was a Royal Navy destroyer and, nearby at anchor, a dark-gray U.S. Navy frigate. There were hundreds of junks of every size and age—fishing vessels mostly—some powered, some ponderously sailing this way and that. Crammed double-decker ferries darted in and out of the traffic like so many dragonflies, and everywhere tiny sampans, oared or powered, scurried unafraid across the ordered sea-lanes.
Where do all these people live? she asked herself, appalled. And how do they support themselves?
A room boy opened the door with his passkey, without knocking, and Line Bartlett strode in. "You look great, Casey," he said, shutting the door behind him.
"So do you. This gun thing's bad, isn't it?"
"Anyone here? Any maids in the rooms?"
"We're alone, but the houseboys seem to come in and out as they please."
"This one had his key out before I reached the door." Line told her what had happened at the airport. Then he dropped his voice. "What about John Chen?"
"Nothing. He just made nervous, light conversation. He didn't want to talk shop. I don't think he'd recovered from the fact that I'd turned out to be a woman. He dropped me at the hotel and said they'd send a car at 9:15."
"So the plan worked fine?"
"Very fine."
"Good. Did you get it?"
"No. I said I was authorized by you to take delivery and offered the initial sight draft. But he pretended to be surprised and said he'd talk to you privately when he drives you back after the lunch. He seemed very nervous."
"Doesn't matter. Your car'll be here in a few minutes. I'll see you at lunch."
"Should I mention the guns to Struan's? To Dunross?"
"No. Let's wait and see who brings it up."
"You think it might be them?"
"Easily. They knew our flight plan, and they've a motive."
"What?"
"To discredit us."
"But why?"
"Maybe they think they know our battle plan."
"But then wouldn't it have been much wiser for them not to do anything—to sucker us in?"
"Maybe. But this way they've made the opening move. Day One: Knight to King Bishop 3. The attack's launched on us."
"Yes. But by whom—and are we playing White or Black?"
His eyes hardened and lost their friendliness. "I don't care, Casey, as long as we win." He left.
Something's up, she told herself. Something dangerous he's not telling me about.
"Secrecy's vital, Casey," he had said back in the early days. "Napoleon, Caesar, Patton—any of the great generals—often hid their real plan from their staff. Just to keep them—and therefore enemy spies—off balance. If I withhold from you it's not mistrust, Casey. But you must never withhold from me."