Noble House

"Thank you but no." He held her away from him, his hands now firm on her arms but gentle. "We've already had the best," he said as a connoisseur would. "I don't like second best."
She sat back on the edge of the desk, watching him sullenly. "You always win, don't you."
"The day you become lovers with Bartlett I'll give you a present," he said calmly. "If he takes you to Macao and you stay openly with him for three days I'll give you a new Jag. If he asks you to marry him you get the apartment and everything in it, and a house in California as a wedding present."
She gasped, then smiled gloriously. "An XK-E, a black one, Quillan, oh that would be perfect!" Then her happiness evaporated. "What's so important about him? Why is he so important to you?"
He just stared at her.
"Sorry," she said, "sorry, I shouldn't have asked." Thoughtfully she reached for a cigarette and lit it and leaned over and gave it to him.
"Thanks," he said, seeing the curve of her breast, enjoying it, yet a little saddened that such beauty was so transient. "Oh, by the way, I wouldn't like Bartlett to know of our arrangement."
"Nor would I." She sighed and forced a smile. Then she got up and shrugged. "Ayeeyah, it would never have lasted with us anyway. Macao or not Macao. You would have changed—you'd have become bored, men always do."
She checked her makeup and her shirt and blew him a kiss and left him. He stared at the closed door then smiled and stubbed out the cigarette she had given him, never having puffed on it, not wanting the taint of her lips. He lit a fresh one and hummed a little tune.
Excellent, he thought happily. Now we'll see, Mr. Bloody Cocky Confident Yankee Bartlett, now we'll see how you handle that knife. Pasta with beer indeed!
Then Gornt caught a lingering whiff of her perfume and he was swept back momentarily into memories of their pillowing. When she was young, he reminded himself. Thank God there's no premium on youth or beauty out here, and a substitution's as close as a phone call or a hundred-dollar note.
He reached for the phone and dialed a special private number, glad that Orlanda was more Chinese than European. Chinese are such practical people.
The dial tone stopped and he heard Paul Havergill's crisp voice. "Yes?"
"Paul, Quillan. How're things?"
"Hello, Quillan—of course you know Johnjohn's taking over the bank in November?" "Yes. Sorry about that."
"Damnable. I thought I was going to be confirmed but instead the board chose Johnjohn. It was official last night. It's Dunross again, his clique, and the damned stock they have. How did your meeting go?"
"Our American's chomping at the bit, just as I told you he would be." Gornt took a deep drag of his cigarette and tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. "How would you like a little special action before you retire?" "What had you in mind?" "You're leaving end of November?"
"Yes. After twenty-three years. In some ways I won't be sorry." Nor will I, Gornt thought contentedly. You're out of date and too bloody conservative. The only thing in your favor is that you hate Dunross. "That's almost four months. That'd give us plenty of time. You, me and our American friend."
"What do you have in mind?"
"You remember one of my hypothetical game plans, the one I called 'Competition'?"
Havergill thought a moment. "That was how to take over or eliminate an opposition bank, wasn't it? Why?"
"Say someone dusted off the plan and made a few changes and pushed the go button … two days ago. Say someone knew Dunross and the others would vote you out and wanted some revenge. Competition would work perfectly."
"I don't see why. What's the point of attacking Blacs?" The Bank of London, Canton and Shanghai was the Victoria's main opposition. "Doesn't make sense."
"Ah, but say someone changed the target, Paul."
"To whom?"
"I'll come by at three and explain."
"To whom?"
"Richard." Richard Kwang controlled the Ho-Pak Bank—one of the largest of all the many Chinese banks in Hong Kong.
"Good God! But that's . . ." There was a long pause. "Quillan, you've really begun Competition … to put it into effect?"
"Yes, and no one knows about it except you and me."
"But how is that going to work against Dunross?"
"I'll explain later. Can Ian meet his commitments on his ships?"
There was a pause which Gornt noted. "Yes," he heard Havergill say.
"Yes, but what?"
"But I'm sure he'll be all right."
"What other problems has Dunross got?"
"Sorry, but that wouldn't be ethical."
"Of course." Gornt added thinly, "Let me put it another way: Say their boat was a little rocked. Eh?"
There was a longer pause. "At the right moment, a smallish wave could scuttle them, or any company. Even you."
"But not the Victoria Bank."
"Oh no."
"Good. See you at three." Gornt hung up and mopped his brow again, his excitement vast. He stubbed out his cigarette, made a quick calculation, lit another cigarette, then dialed. "Charles, Quillan. Are you busy?" "No. What can I do for you?"
"I want a balance sheet." A balance sheet was a private signal for the attorney to telephone eight nominees who would buy or sell on the stock market on Gornt's behalf, secretly, to avoid the trading being traced back to him. All shares and all monies would pass solely through the attorney's hands so that neither the nominees nor the brokers would know for whom the transactions were being made.
"A balance sheet it will be. What sort, Quillan?"
"I want to sell short." To sell short meant he sold shares he did not own on the presumption their value would go down. Then, before he had to buy them back—he had a maximum margin of two weeks in Hong Kong—if the stock had indeed gone down, he would pocket the difference. Of course if he gambled wrong and the stock had gone up, he would have to pay the difference.
"What shares and what numbers?"
"A hundred thousand shares of Ho-Pak …"
"Holy Christ . . ."
". . . the same, as soon as the market opens tomorrow, and another 200 during the day. I'll give you further instructions then."
There was a stunned silence. "You did say Ho-Pak?"
"Yes."
"It'll take time to borrow all those shares. Good God, Quillan, four hundred thousand?"
"While you're about it, get another hundred. A round half a million."
"But… but Ho-Pak's as blue a blue chip as we've got. It hasn't gone down in years."
"Yes."
"What've you heard?"
"Rumors," Gornt said gravely and chuckled to himself. "Would you like an early lunch, eat at the club?"
"I'll be there."
Gornt hung up, then dialed another private number.
"Yes?"
"It's me," Gornt said cautiously. "Are you alone?"
"Yes. And?"
"At our meeting, the Yankee suggested a raid."
"Ayeeyah! And?"
"And Paul's in," he said, the exaggeration coming easily. "Absolutely secretly, of course. I've just talked to him."
"Then I'm in. Provided I get control of Struan's ships, their Hong Kong property operation and 40 percent of their landholdings in Thailand and Singapore."
"You must be joking!"
"Nothing's too much to smash them. Is it, old boy?"
Gornt heard the well-bred, mocking laugh and hated Jason Plumm for it. "You despise him just as much as I do," Gornt said.
"Ah, but you'll need me and my special friends. Even with Paul on or off the fence, you and the Yankee can't pull it off, not without me and mine."
"Why else am I talking to you?"
"Listen, don't forget I'm not asking for any piece of the American's pie."
Gornt kept his voice calm. "What's that got to do with anything?"