Noble House

"Why not?" Dunross said at once. "But here we don't normally bet money, just balls."
"I'm goddamned if I'm betting mine on a golf match."
Dunross laughed. "Maybe you will, one day. We usually bet half a dozen golf balls here—something like that."
"It's a bad British custom to bet money, Ian?"
"No. How about five hundred a side, winning team take all?"
"U.S. or Hong Kong?"
"Hong Kong. Among friends it should be Hong Kong. Initially."
Lunch was served in the directors' private dining room on the nineteenth floor. It was an L-shaped corner room, with a high ceiling and blue drapes, mottled blue Chinese carpets and large windows from which they could see Kowloon and the airplanes taking off and landing at Kai Tak and as far west as Stonecutters Island and Tsing Yi Island, and, beyond, part of the New Territories. The great, antique oak dining table which could seat twenty easily was laid with placemats and fine silver, and Waterfbrd's best crystal. For the six of them, there were four silent, very well-trained waiters in black trousers and white tunics embroidered with the Struan emblem.
Cocktails had been started before Bartlett and Dunross arrived. Casey was having a dry vodka martini with the others—except for Gavallan who had a double pink gin. Bartlett, without being asked, was served an ice-cold can of Anweiser, on a Georgian silver tray.
"Who told you?" Bartlett said, delighted.
"Compliments of Struan and Company," Dunross said. "We heard that's the way you like it." He introduced him to Gavallan, deVille and Linbar Struan, and accepted a glass of iced Chablis, then smiled at Casey. "How are you?"
"Fine, thanks."
"Excuse me," Bartlett said to the others, "but I have to give Casey a message before I forget. Casey, will you call Johnston in Washington tomorrow—find out who our best contact'd be at the consulate here."
"Certainly. If I can't get him I'll ask Tim Diller."
Anything to do with Johnston was code for: how's the deal progressing? In answer: Diller meant good, Tim Diller very good, Jones bad, George Jones very bad.
"Good idea," Bartlett said and smiled back, then to Dunross, "This is a beautiful room."
"It's adequate," Dunross said.
Casey laughed, getting the underplay. "The meeting went very well, Mr. Dunross," she said. "We came up with a proposal for your consideration."
How American to come out with it like that—no finesse! Doesn't she know business is for after lunch, not before. "Yes. Andrew gave me the outline," Dunross replied. "Would you care for another drink?"
"No thanks. I think the proposal covers everything, sir. Are there any points you'd like me to clarify?"
"I'm sure there will be, in due course," Dunross said, privately amused, as always, by the sir that many American women used conversationally, and often, incongruously, to waiters. "As soon as I've studied it I'll get back to you. A beer for Mr. Bartlett," he added, once more trying to divert business until later. Then to Jacques, "fa va?"
Out merci. A rien." Nothing yet.
"Not to worry," Dunross said. Yesterday Jacques's adored daughter and her husband had had a bad car accident while on holiday in France—how bad he was still waiting to hear. "Not to worry."
"No." Again the Gallic shrug, hiding the vastness of his concern.
Jacques was Dunross's first cousin and he had joined Struan's in '45. His war had been rotten. In 1940 he had sent his wife and two infants to England and had stayed in France. For the duration. Maquis and prison and condemned and escaped and Maquis again. Now he was fifty-four, a strong, quiet man but vicious when provoked, with a heavy chest and brown eyes and rough hands and many scars.
"In principle does the deal sound okay?" Casey asked.
Dunross sighed inwardly and put his full concentration on her. "I may have a counterproposal on a couple of minor points. Meanwhile," he added decisively, "you can proceed on the assumption that, in general terms, it's acceptable."
"Oh fine," Casey said happily.
"Great," Bartlett said, equally pleased, and raised his can of beer. "Here's to a successful conclusion and big profits—for you and for us."
They drank the toast, the others reading the danger signs in Dunross, wondering what the tai-pan's counterproposal would be.
"Will it take you long to finalize, Ian?" Bartlett asked, and all of them heard the Ian. Linbar Struan winced openly.
To their astonishment, Dunross just said, "No," as though the familiarity was quite ordinary, adding, "I doubt if the solicitors will come up with anything insurmountable."
"We're seeing them tomorrow at eleven o'clock," Casey said. "Mr, deVille, John Chen and I. We've already gotten their advance go-through … no problems there."
"Dawson's very good—particularly on U.S. tax law."
"Casey, maybe we should bring out our tax guy from New York," Bartlett said.
"Sure, Line, soon as we're set. And Forrester." To Dunross she said, "He's head of our foam division."
"Good. And that's enough shoptalk before lunch," Dunross said. "House rules, Miss Casey: no shop with food, it's very bad for the digestion." He beckoned Lim. "We won't wait for Master John."
Instantly waiters materialized and chairs were held out and there were typed place names in silver holders and the soup was ladled.
The menu said sherry with the soup, Chablis with the fish—or claret with the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding if you preferred it—boiled string beans and boiled potatoes and boiled carrots. Sherry trifle as dessert. Port with the cheese tray.
"How long will you be staying, Mr. Bartlett?" Gavallan asked.
"As long as it takes. But Mr. Gavallan, since it looks as though we're going to be in business together a long time, how about you dropping the 'Mr.' Bartlett and the 'Miss' Casey and calling us Line and Casey."
Gavallan kept his eyes on Bartlett. He would have liked to have said, Well Mr. Bartlett, we prefer to work up to these things around here—it's one of the few ways you tell your friends from your acquaintances. For us first names are a private thing. But as the tai-pan hasn't objected to the astonishing "Ian" there's not a thing I can do. "Why not, Mr. Bartlett?" he said blandly. "No need to stand on ceremony. Is there?"
Jacques deVille and Struan and Dunross chuckled inside at the "Mr. Bartlett," and the way Gavallan had neatly turned the unwanted acceptance into a put-down and a loss of face that neither of the Americans would ever understand.
"Thanks, Andrew," Bartlett said. Then he added, "Ian, may I bend the rules and ask one more question before lunch: Can you finalize by next Tuesday, one way or another?"
Instantly the currents in the room reversed. Lim and the other servants hesitated, shocked. All eyes went to Dunross. Bartlett thought he had gone too far and Casey was sure of it. She had been watching Dunross. His expression had not changed but his eyes had. Everyone in the room knew that the tai-pan had been called as a man will call another in a poker game. Put up or shut up. By next Tuesday.
They waited. The silence seemed to hang. And hang.
Then Dunross broke it. "I'll let you know tomorrow," he said, his voice calm, and the moment passed and everyone sighed inwardly and the waiters continued and everyone relaxed. Except Linbar. He could still feel the sweat on his hands because he alone of them knew the thread that went through all of the descendents of Dirk Struan—a strange, almost primeval, sudden urge to violence —and he had seen it almost surface then, almost but not quite. This time it had gone away. But the knowledge of it and its closeness terrified him.
His own line was descended from Robb Struan, Dirk Struan's half-brother and partner, so he had none of Dirk Struan's blood in his veins. He bitterly regretted it and loathed Dunross even more for making him sick with envy.