Noble House

"I don't agree! You hate young Nikklin because he beat you." Angrily Alastair Struan stabbed a finger at Dunross. "It's time you gave up car racing. Leave all the hill climbs and Macao Grand Prix to the semiprofessionals. The Nikklins have more time to spend on their cars, it's their life, and now you've other races to run, more important ones."
"Macao's amateur and those bastards cheated last year."
"That was never proved—your engine blew up. A lot of engines blow up, Ian. That was just joss!"
"My car was tampered with."
"And that was never proved either! For Christ's sake, you talk about bad blood? You're as stupid about some things as Devil Struan himself!"
"Oh?"
"Yes, and—"
Phillip Chen interrupted quickly, wanting an end to the violence in the room. "If it's so important, please let me see if I can find out the truth. I've sources not available to either of you. My Chinese friends will know, should know, if either Tom or young Donald Nikklin were involved. Of course," he added delicately, "if the tai-pan wishes to race, then that's up to the tai-pan. Isn't it, Alastair?"
The older man controlled his rage though his neck was still choleric. "Yes, yes you're right. Still, Ian, my advice is you cease. They'll be after you even more because they detest you equally."
"Are there others I should know about—on the list?"
After a pause, Struan said, "No, not now." He opened the second bottle and poured as he talked. "Well, now it's all yours—all the fun and all the sweat. I'm glad to pass everything over to you. After you've been through the safe you'll know the best, and the worst." He gave them each a glass and sipped his. "By the Lord Jesus, that's as fine a wine as ever came out of France."
"Yes," Phillip Chen said.
Dunross thought Dom Perignon overpriced and overrated and knew the year, '54, was not a particularly good one. But he held his peace.
Struan went over to the barometer. It read 979.2. "We're in for a bad one. Well, never mind that. Ian, Claudia Chen has a file for you on important matters, and a complete list of our stockholdings —with names of the nominees. Any questions, have them for me before the day after tomorrow—I'm booked for London then. You'll keep Claudia on, of course."
"Of course." Claudia Chen was the second link from tai-pan to tai-pan after Phillip Chen. She was executive secretary to the tai-pan, a distant cousin to Phillip Chen.
"What about our bank—the Victoria Bank of Hong Kong and China?" Dunross asked, savoring the question. "I don't know our exact holdings."
"That's always been tai-pan knowledge only."
Dunross turned to Phillip Chen. "What's your holding, openly or through nominees?"
The compradore hesitated, shocked.
"In future I'm going to vote your holdings as a block with ours." Dunross kept his eyes on the compradore's. "I want to know now and I'll expect a formal transfer of perpetual voting power, in writing, to me and following tai-pans, tomorrow by noon, and first refusal on the shares should you ever decide to sell."
The silence grew.
"Ian," Phillip Chen began, "those shares . . ." But his resolve wavered under the power of Dunross's will. "6 percent… a little over 6 percent. I … you'll have it as you wish."
"You won't regret it." Dunross put his attention on Alastair Struan and the older man's heart missed a beat. "How much stock have we? How much's held by nominees?"
Alastair hesitated. "That's tai-pan knowledge only."
"Of course. But our compradore is to be trusted, absolutely," Dunross said, giving the old man face, knowing how much it had hurt to be dominated in front of Alastair Struan. "How much?"
Struan said, "15 percent."
Dunross gasped and so did Phillip Chen and he wanted to shout, Jesus bloody Christ, we have 15 percent and Phillip another 6 percent and you haven't had the sodding intelligence to use what's got to be a major interest to get us major funding when we're almost bankrupt?
But instead he reached forward and poured the remains of the bottle into the three glasses and this gave him time to stop the pounding of his heart.
"Good," he said with his flat unemotional voice. "I was hoping together we'd make it better than ever." He sipped his wine. "I'm bringing forward the Special Meeting. To next week."
Both men looked up sharply. Since 1880, the tai-pans of Struan's, Rothwell-Gornt and the Victoria Bank had, despite their rivalry, met annually in secret to discuss matters that affected the future of Hong Kong and Asia.
'They may not agree to bring the meeting forward," Alastair said.
"I phoned everyone this morning. It's set for Monday next at 9 A.M. here."
"Who's coming from the bank?"
"Deputy Chief Manager Havergill—the old man's in Japan then England on leave." Dunross's face hardened. "I'll have to make do."
"Paul's all right," Alastair said. "He'll be the next chief."
"Not if I can help it," Dunross said.
"You've never liked Paul Havergill, have you, Ian?" Phillip Chen said.
"No. He's too insular, too Hong Kong, too out of date and too pompous."
"And he supported your father against you."
"Yes. But that's not the reason he should go, Phillip. He should go because he's in the way of the Noble House. He's too conservative, far too generous to Asian Properties and I think he's a secret ally of Rothwell-Gornt."
"I don't agree," Alastair said.
"I know. But we need money to expand and I intend to get the money. So I intend to use my 21 percent very seriously."
The storm outside had intensified but they did not seem to notice.
"I don't advise you to set your cap against the Victoria," Phillip Chen said gravely.
"I agree," Alastair Struan said.
"I won't. Provided my bank cooperates." Dunross watched the rain streaks for a moment. "By the way, I've also invited Jason Plumm to the meeting."
"What the hell for?" Struan asked, his neck reddening again.
"Between us and his Asian Properties we—"
"Plumm's on Dirk Struan's oblit list, as you call it, and absolutely opposed to us."
"Between the four of us we have a majority say in Hong Kong —" Dunross broke off as the phone rang loudly. They all looked at it.
Alastair Struan said sourly, "It's your phone now, not mine." Dunross picked it up. "Dunross!" He listened for a moment then said, "No, Mr. Alastair Struan has retired, I'm tai-pan of Struan's now. Yes. Ian Dunross. What's the telex say?" Again he listened. "Yes, thank you."
He put down the phone. At length he broke the silence. "It was from our office in Taipei. Lasting Cloud has foundered off the north coast of Formosa. They think she's gone down with all hands. . . ."
SUNDAY,
August 18,1963
1
8:45 P.M. :
The police officer was leaning against one corner of the information counter watching the tall Eurasian without watching him. He wore a light tropical suit and a police tie and white shirt, and it was hot within the brightly lit terminal building, the air humid and smell-laden, milling noisy Chinese as always. Men, women, children, babes. An abundance of Cantonese, some Asians, a few Europeans.
' 'Superintendent?"
One of the information girls was offering him a phone. "It's for you, sir," she said and smiled prettily, white teeth, dark hair, dark sloe eyes, lovely golden skin.
"Thanks," he said, noticing that she was Cantonese and new, and did not mind that the reality of her smile was empty, with nothing behind it but a Cantonese obscenity. "Yes?" he said into the phone.
"Superintendent Armstrong? This is the tower—Yankee 2's just landed. On time."
"Still Gate 16?"
"Yes. She'll be there in six minutes."
"Thanks." Robert Armstrong was a big man and he leaned across the counter and replaced the phone. He noticed her long legs and the curve of her rump in the sleek, just too tight, uniformed chong-sam and he wondered briefly what she would be like in bed. "What's your name?" he asked, knowing that any Chinese hated to be named to any policeman, let alone a European.