"No," Gavallan said, suddenly furious that their own firm had not told them of Par-Con's inquiries. He began to scan the letter.
Dew neh loh moh on Casey bloody whatever her names are, Phillip Chen was thinking, enraged at the loss of face. May your
Golden Gulley wither and be ever dry and dust-filled for your foul manners and your fresh, filthy, unfeminine habits!
God protect us from American women!
Ayeeyah, it is going to cost Lincoln Bartlett a pretty penny for daring to stick this . . . this creature upon us, he promised himself. How dare he!
Nevertheless, his mind was estimating the staggering value of the deal they were being offered. It has to be at least 100 million U.S., potentially, over the next few years, he told himself, his head reeling. This will give the Noble House the stability it needs.
Oh happy day, he gloated. And co-financing dollar for dollar! Unbelievable! Stupid to give us that so quickly without even a tiny concession in return. Stupid, but what can you expect from a stupid woman? Ayeeyah, the Pacific Rim will gorge on all the polyurethane foam products we can make—for packaging, building, bedding and insulating. One factory here, one in Taiwan, one in Singapore, one in Kuala Lumpur and a last, initially, in Jakarta. We'll make millions, tens of millions. And as to the computer-leasing agency, why at the rental these fools are oifering us, 10 percent less than IBM's list price, less our IVi percent commission—with just a little haggling we would have been delighted to agree to 5 percent—by next weekend I can sell three in Singapore, one here, one in Kuala Lumpur and one to that shipping pirate in Indonesia for a clear profit of $67,500 each, or $405,000 for six phone calls. And as to China . . .
And as to China . . .
Oh all gods great and small and very small, help this deal to go through and I will endow a new temple, a cathedral, in Tai-ping Shan, he promised, consumed with fervor. If China will drop some controls, or even ease them just a fraction, we can fertilize the paddy fields of Kwantung Province and then of all China and over the next twelve years this deal will mean tens of hundreds of millions of dollars, U.S. dollars not Hong Kong dollars!
The thought of all this profit mollified his rage considerably. "I think this proposal can form the basis for further discussion," he said, finishing reading. "Don't you, Andrew?"
"Yes." Gavallan put the letter down. "I'll call them after lunch. When would it be convenient for Mr. Bartlett… and you of course … to meet?"
"This afternoon—the sooner the better—or anytime tomorrow but Line won't come. I handle all the details, that's my job," Casey said crisply. "He sets policy—and will formally sign the final documents—after I've approved them. That's the function of the com-mander-in-chief, isn't it?" She beamed at them.
"I'll make an appointment and leave a message at your hotel," Gavallan was saying.
"Perhaps we could set it up now—then that's out of the way?"
Sourly Gavallan glanced at his watch. Almost lunch, thank God. "Jacques—how're you fixed tomorrow?"
"Morning's better than the afternoon."
"And for John too," Phillip Chen said.
Gavallan picked up the phone and dialed. "Mary? Call Dawson and make an appointment for eleven tomorrow to include Mr. deVille and Mr. John Chen and Miss Casey At their offices." He put the phone down. "Jacques and John Chen handle all our corporate matters. John's sophisticated on American problems and Daw-son's the expert. I'll send the car for you at 10:30."
"Thanks, but there's no need for you to trouble."
"Just as you wish," he said politely. "Perhaps this is a good time to break for lunch."
Casey said, "We've a quarter of an hour yet. Shall we start on how you'd like our financing? Or if you wish we can send out for a sandwich and work on through."
They stared at her, appalled. "Work through lunch?'
"Why not? It's an old American custom."
"Thank God it's not a custom here," Gavallan said.
"Yes," Phillip Chen snapped.
She felt their disapproval descend like a pall but she did not care. Shit on all of you, she thought irritably, then forced herself to put that attitude away. Listen, idiot, don't let these sons of bitches get you! She smiled sweetly. "If you want to stop now for lunch, that's fine with me."
"Good," Gavallan said at once and the others breathed a sigh of relief. "We begin lunch at 12:40. You'll probably want to powder your nose first."
"Yes, thank you," she said, knowing they wanted her gone so they could discuss her—and then the deal. It should be the other way around, she thought, but it won't be. No. It'll be the same as always: they'll lay bets as to who'll be the first to score. But it'll be none of them, because I don't want any of them at the moment, however attractive they are in their way. These men are like all the others I've met: they don't want love, they just want sex.
Except Line.
Don't think about Line and how much you love him and how rotten these years have been. Rotten and wonderful.
Remember your promise.
I won't think about Line and love.
Not until my birthday which is ninety-eight days from now. The ninety-eighth day ends the seventh year and because of my darling by then I'll have my drop dead money and really be equal, and, God willing, we'll have the Noble House. Will that be my wedding present to him? Or his to me?
Or a good-bye present.
"Where's the ladies' room?" she asked, getting up, and they all stood and towered over her, except Phillip Chen whom she topped by an inch, and Gavallan directed her.
Linbar Struan opened the door for her and closed it behind her. Then he grinned. "A thousand says you'll never make it, Jacques."
"Another thousand," Gavallan said. "And ten that you won't, Linbar."
"You're on," Linbar replied, "provided she's here a month."