Noble House

"In Taiwan but not in Hong Kong."
"Has Tsu-yan ever been involved with Bartlett?" Armstrong asked. "In your negotiations?"
"Yes. He was in New York once and in Los Angeles on our behalf. Both times with John Chen. They initialed the agreement between Struan's and Par-Con Industries which is to be finalized— or abandoned—here this month, and they formally invited Bartlett to Hong Kong on my behalf."
Armstrong glanced at his Chinese partner. Then he said, "When was this?"
"Four months ago. It's taken that time for both sides to prepare all the details."
"John Chen, eh?" Armstrong said. "He certainly could be Noble House Chen."
"You know John's not the type," Dunross said. "There's no reason why he should be mixed up in such a ploy. It must be just coincidence."
"There's another curious coincidence," Brian Kwok said. "Tsu-yan and John Chen both know an American called Banastasio, at least both have been seen in his company. Does that name mean anything?"
"No. Who's he?"
"A big-time gambler and suspected racketeer. He's also supposed to be closely connected with one of the Cosa Nostra families. Vin-cenzo Banastasio."
Dunross's eyes narrowed. "You said, 'seen in his company.' Who did the seeing?"
"The FBI."
The silence thickened a little.
Armstrong reached into his pocket for a cigarette.
Dunross pushed across the silver cigarette box. "Here."
"Oh, thanks. No, I won't—I wasn't thinking. I've stopped for the last couple of weeks. It's a killer." Then he added, trying to curb the desire, "The FBI passed the info on to us because Tsu-yan and Mr. John Chen are so prominent here. They asked us to keep an eye on them."
Then Dunross suddenly remembered Foxwell's remark about a prominent capitalist who was a secret Communist that they were watching in Sinclair Towers. Christ, he thought, Tsu-yan's got a flat there, and so has John Chen. Surely it's impossible either'd be mixed up with Communists.
"Of course heroin's big business," Armstrong was saying, his voice very hard.
"What does that mean, Robert?"
"The drug racket requires huge amounts of money to finance it. That kind of money can only come from banks or bankers, covertly of course. Tsu-yan's on the board of a number of banks—so's Mr. Chen."
"Robert, you'd better go very slow on that sort of remark," Dunross grated. "You are drawing very dangerous conclusions without any proof whatsoever. That's actionable I'd imagine and I won't have it."
"You're right, sorry. I withdraw the coincidence. Even so, the drug trade's big business, and it's here in Hong Kong in abundance, mostly for ultimate U.S. consumption. Somehow I'm going to find out who our nasties are."
"That's commendable. And you'll have all the help you want from Struan's and me. I hate the traffic too."
"Oh I don't hate it, tai-pan, or the traffickers. It's a fact of life. It's just another business—illegal certainly but still a business. I've been given the job of finding out who the tai-pans are. It's a matter of personal satisfaction, that's all."
"If you want help, just ask."
"Thank you." Armstrong got up wearily. "Before we go there're a couple more coincidences for you. When Tsu-yan and Noble House Chen were named this morning we thought we'd like to chat with them right away, but shortly after we ambushed the guns Tsu-yan caught the early flight to Taipei. Curious eh?"
"He's back and forth all the time," Dunross said, his disquiet soaring. Tsu-yan was expected at his party this evening. It would be extraordinary if he did not appear.
Armstrong nodded. "It seems it was a last-minute decision—no reservation, no ticket, no luggage, just a few extra dollars under the counter and someone was bounced off and him on. He was carrying only a briefcase. Strange, eh?"
Brian Kwok said, "We haven't a hope in hell of extraditing him from Taiwan."
Dunross studied him then looked back at Armstrong, his eyes steady and the color of sea ice. "You said there were a couple of coincidences. What's the other?"
"We can't find John Chen."
"What're you talking about?"
"He's not at home, or at his lady friend's, or at any of his usual haunts. We've been watching him and Tsu-yan off and on for months, ever since the FBI tipped us."
The silence gathered. "You've checked his boat?" Dunross asked, sure that they had.
"She's at her moorings, hasn't been out since yesterday. His boat-boy hasn't seen him either."
"Golf course?"
"No, he's not there," Armstrong said. "Nor at the racetrack. He wasn't at the workout, though he was expected, his trainer said. He's gone, vanished, scarpered."
6
11:15 A.M. :
There was a stunned silence in the boardroom.
"What's wrong?" Casey asked. "The figures speak for themselves."
The four men around the table looked at her. Andrew Gavallan, Linbar Struan, Jacques deVille and Phillip Chen, all members of the Inner Court.
Andrew Gavallan was tall and thin and forty-seven. He glanced at the sheaf of papers in front of him. Dew neh loh moh on all women in business, he thought irritably. "Perhaps we should check with Mr. Bartlett," he said uneasily, still very unsettled that they were expected to deal with a woman.
"I've already told you I have authority in all these areas," she said, trying to be patient. "I'm treasurer and executive vice-president of Par-Con Industries and empowered to negotiate with you. We confirmed that in writing last month." Casey held her temper. The meeting had been very heavy going. From their initial shock that she was a woman to their inevitable, overpolite awkwardness, waiting for her to sit, waiting for her to talk, then not sitting until she had asked them to, making small talk, not wanting to get down to business, not wishing to negotiate with her as a person, a business person, at all, saying instead that their wives would be delighted to take her shopping, then gaping because she knew all the intimate details of their projected deal. It was all part of a pattern that, normally, she could deal with. But not today. Jesus, she thought, I've got to succeed. I've got to get through to them.
"It's really quite easy," she had said initially, trying to clear their awkwardness away, using her standard opening. "Forget that I'm a woman—judge me on my ability. Now, there are three subjects on our agenda: the polyurethane factories, our computer-leasing representation and last, general representation of our petrochemical products, fertilizers, pharmaceutical and sports goods throughout Asia. First let's sort out the polyurethane factories, the chemical mix supplies and a projected time schedule for the financing." At once she gave them graphics and prepared documentation, verbally synopsized all the facts, figures and percentages, bank charges and interest charges, simply and very quickly, so that even the slowest brain could grasp the project. And now they were staring at her.
Andrew Gavallan broke the silence. "That's . . . that's very impressive, my dear."
"Actually I'm not your 'dear,' " she said with a laugh. "I'm very hard-nosed for my corporation."
"But mademoiselle," Jacques deVille said with a suave Gallic charm, "your nose is perfect and not hard at all."
"Merci, monsieur," she replied at once, and added lightly in passable French, "but please may we leave the shape of my nose for the moment and discuss the shape of this deal. It's better not to mix the two, don't you think?"
Another silence.
Linbar Struan said, "Would you like some coffee?"
"No thanks, Mr. Struan," Casey said, being careful to conform to their customs and not to call them by their Christian names too early. "May we zero in on this proposal? It's the one we sent you last month. . . . I've tried to cover your problems as well as ours."