Noble House

Plumm shivered and wiped his face. "Then what're we going to do?"
"Let Gregor go aboard and out of Hong Kong, and hope to God he convinces his bosses. Even if he leaks your name to Sinders I think we're buried so deep we can squeeze out of that. You're British, not a foreign national. Thank God we've laws to protect us —even under the Official Secrets Act. Don't worry, nothing'll happen without me knowing and if anything happens I'll know at once. There'll always be time enough for Plan Three." Plan Three was an elaborate escape that Plumm had erected against such an eventuality—with false passports, valid air tickets, ready luggage, clothes, disguises and covers, even including passkeys to airplane waiting areas without going through Immigration—that had a ninety-five percent chance of success given an hour's notice.
"Christ!" Plumm looked down at the waiting trunk. "Christ," he said again, then went to the mirror to look at his face. The redness was going. He doused some water on it.
Crosse watched him, wondering if Plumm was convinced. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. He hated improvisation, but in this case he had little option. What a life we lead! Every one expendable except yourself: Suslev, Plumm, Sinders, Kwok, Armstrong, even the governor.
"What?" Plumm asked, looking at him in the mirror.
"I was just thinking we're in a rough business."
"The Cause makes it worthwhile. That's the only part that counts."
Crosse hid his contempt. I really think you've outlived your usefulness, Jason old fellow, he thought, then went over to the phone. There were no extensions on this line and he knew it was not bugged. He dialed.
"Yes?" He recognized Suslev and coughed Arthur's dry cough. "Mr. Lop-sing please," continuing the code in a perfect imitation of Plumm's voice, then said urgently, "There's been a foul-up. The target did not appear. Be careful at the dock. Surveillance is tripled.
We cannot deliver the trunk. Good luck." He hung up. The silence gathered.
"That's his death knell, isn't it?" Plumm said sadly.
Crosse hesitated. He smiled thinly. "Better his death than yours. Eh?"
81
8:25 P.M. :
In the noise-filled living room at the other end of the hall, Casey finished her drink and set it down. She was feeling unsettled and very strange. Part of her was joyous at Dunross's reprieve and the other part sad that Gornt was now entrapped. It was quite clear to her with the wheeling and dealing now going on around her that Struan's opening price would be very high. Poor Quillan, she thought. If he doesn't cover his position he'll be in shitsville—and let's face it, I put him there. Didn't I?
Sure, but I had to bail out Dunross because, without him, Gornt would have squeezed us dry—and maybe everyone else. And don't forget, I didn't start the raid on Struan's. That was Line's raid, not mine. Hasn't Line always said business and pleasure should never mix? Haven't we both always gone along with that?
Line. Always back to Line.
Casey had not seen him all day, nor even heard from him. They were supposed to have met for breakfast but there was a "do not disturb" on his door and a "do not disturb" on his phone so she left him and pushed away the thought of Orlanda—was Orlanda there too? And tonight, when she had returned from the day's sailing, there was a message: "Hi, have fun." So she had showered and changed and bottled her impatience and had come here tonight. It had been no fun in the beginning, everyone gloom and doom-filled, then after the news and Gornt slamming out, no fun again. Shortly afterward Dunross had forced his way over and thanked her again but almost at once he had been surrounded by excited men discussing deals and chances. She watched them, feeling very lonely. Perhaps Line's back at the hotel now, she thought. I wish . . . never mind, but it is time to go home. No one noticed her slip out.
Roger Crosse was standing at the elevator. He held the door for her then pressed the down button.
"Thanks. Nice party, wasn't it?" she said.
"Yes, yes it was," he replied absently.
On the ground floor Crosse let her get out first then strode off out the front door and down the hill. What's his hurry? she asked herself, heading for the group that waited for taxis, glad that it was not raining again. She jerked to a stop. Orlanda Ramos, with packages in her arms, was coming into the foyer. Each woman saw the other at the same instant. Orlanda was the first to recover. "Evening, Casey," she said with her best smile. "How pretty you look."
"So do you," Casey replied. Her enemy did. The pale blue skirt and blouse were perfectly matched.
Orlanda poured a stream of impatient Cantonese over the crumpled concierge who was lounging nearby. At once he took her packages, mumbling.
"Sorry, Casey," she said nicely, a thread of nervousness to her voice, "but there's been a small landslide just down the hill and I had to leave my car there. You're, you're visiting here?"
"No, just leaving. You live here?"
"Yes. Yes I do."
Another silence between them, both readying. Then Casey nodded a polite good night and began to leave.
"Perhaps we should talk," Orlanda said and Casey stopped.
"Certainly, Orlanda, whenever you wish."
"Do you have time now?"
"I think so."
"Would you like to walk with me back to my car? I've got to get the rest of my packages. You won't be able to get a taxi here anyway. Below will be easy."
"Sure."
The two women went out. The night was cool but Casey was burning and so was Orlanda, each knowing what was coming, each fearful of the other. Their feet picked a way carefully. The street was wet from the water that rushed downward. There was a promise of more rain soon from the heavy nimbus overcast. Ahead, fifty yards away, Casey could see where the embankment had partially given way, sending a mess of earth and rocks and shrubs and rubble across the road. There was no sidewalk. On the other side of the slip, a line of cars were stopped, impatiently maneuvering to turn around. A few pedestrians scrambled over the embankment.
"Have you lived in Rose Court long?" Casey asked.
"A few years. It's very pleasant. I th— Oh! Were you at Jason Plumm's party, the Asian Properties party?"
"Yes." Casey saw the relief on Orlanda's face and it angered her but she contained the anger and stopped and said quietly, "Orlanda, there's nothing really for us to talk about, is there? Let's say good night."
Orlanda looked up at her. "Line's with me. He's with me in my apartment. At the moment."
"I presumed that."
"That doesn't bother you?"
"It bothers me very much. But that's up to Line. We're not married, as you know, not even engaged, as you know—you have your way, I have mine, so th—"
"What do you mean by that?" Orlanda asked.
"I mean that I've known Line for seven years, you haven't known him for seven days."
"That doesn't matter," Orlanda said defiantly. "I love him and he loves me."
"That's y—" Casey was almost shoved aside by some Chinese who barreled past, chattering noisily. Others were approaching up the incline. Then some of the party guests walked around them, heading down the slope. One of the women was Lady Joanna, and she eyed them curiously but went on.
When they were alone again, Casey said, "That's yet to be proved. Good night, Orlanda," she said, wanting to scream at her, You make your money on your back, I work for mine, and all the love you protest is spelled money. Men are such jerks.
"Curiously I don't blame Line," she muttered out loud seeing the firm jaw, the flashing determined eyes, the perfect, voluptuous yet trim body. "Good night."