Noble House

"Yes, yes I know. No need to be sorry."
"The first time I met you at Aberdeen, the night of the fire," Orlanda said, rushing on, "I thought how foolish Line was, perhaps you were for not. . ." She sighed. "Perhaps it's as you said, Casey, there's nothing to talk about. Now most of all." The tears began again. And her tears, the reality of them, brought tears from Casey.
For a moment they sat there, the two women. Then Casey found a tissue, dried her eyes, feeling awful, nothing resolved, wanting now to finish quickly what she had begun. She took out an envelope. "Here's a check. It's for $10,000 U.S. I th—"
Orlanda gasped. "I don't want your money! I don't want anything fr—
"It's not from me. It's Line's. Listen a moment." Casey told her what Dunross had said about Bartlett. All of it. The repeating of it tearing her anew. "That's what Line said. I think it was you he wanted to marry. Maybe I'm wrong. I don't know. Even so, he'd want you to have some drop . . . some protection."
Orlanda felt her heart about to burst at the irony of it all. "Line said 'best man'? Truly?"
"Yes."
"And to be friends? He wanted us to be friends?"
"Yes," Casey told her, not knowing if she was doing the right thing, what Line would have wanted. But sitting here now, seeing the tender youthful beauty, the wide eyes, exquisite skin that needed no makeup, perfect figure, again she could not blame her or blame Line. It was my fault, not his and not hers. And I know Line wouldn't have left her destitute. So I can't. For him. He wanted us to be friends. Maybe we can be. "Why don't we try?" she said. "Listen, Hong Kong's no place for you. Why not try some other place?"
"I can't. I'm locked in here, Casey. I've no training. I'm nothing. My B.S. means nothing." The tears began again. "I'm just … I'd go mad punching a clock."
On a sudden impulse Casey said, "Why not try the States? Maybe I could help you find a job." "What?"
"Yes. Perhaps in fashion—I don't know what exactly but I'll try."
Orlanda was staring at her incredulously. "You'd help me, really help me?"
"Yes." Casey put the envelope and her card on the table and got up, her whole body aching. "I'll try."
Orlanda went to her and put her arms around her. "Oh thank you, Casey, thank you."
Casey hugged her back, their tears mixing.
The night was dark now with little light from the small moon that came through the high clouds from time to time. Roger Crosse walked silently up to the half-hidden gate in the tall walls that surrounded Government House and used his key. He locked the gate behind him, walked quickly along the path, keeping to the shadows. Near the house he detoured and went to the east side, down some steps to a basement door and took out another key.
This door swung open, equally quietly. The armed sentry, a Gurkha, held his rifle ready. "Password, sir!"
Crosse gave it. The sentry saluted and stepped aside. At the far end of the corridor Crosse knocked. The door was opened by the governor's aide. "Evening, Superintendent." "I hope I haven't kept you waiting?"
"No, not at all." This man led the way through communicating cellars to a thick iron door set into a concrete box that was crudely constructed in the middle of the big main cellar, wine racks nearby.
He took out the single key and unlocked it. The door was very heavy. Crosse went inside alone and closed the door after him. Once inside, the door barred, he relaxed. Now he was totally safe from prying eyes and prying ears. This was the Holy of Holies, a conference room for very private conversations, the concrete room and communications center laboriously built by trusted SI officers, British only, to ensure against enemy listening devices being inserted into the walls—the whole structure tested weekly by Special Branch experts—in case some were somehow infiltrated.
In one corner was the complicated, highly sophisticated transmitter that fed signals into the unbreachable code scrambler, thence to the complex of antenna atop Government House, thence to the stratosphere, and thence to Whitehall.
Crosse switched it on. There was a comforting hum. "The minister, please. This is Asian One." It gave him great pleasure to use his inner code name.
"Yes, Asian One?"
"Tsu-yan was one of the persons meeting the spy, Brian Kwok."
"Ah! So we can strike him off the list."
"Both of them, sir. They're isolated now. On Saturday, the defector Joseph Yu was seen crossing the border."
"Damn! You'd better have a team assigned to monitor him. Do we have fellows at their atomic center at Siankiang?"
"No sir. However there's a rumor Dunross is going to meet Mr. Yu in Canton in a month."
"Ah, what about Dunross?"
"He's loyal—but he'll never work for us."
"What about Sinders?"
"He performed well. I do not consider him a security risk."
"Good. What about the Ivanov?"
"She sailed at noon. We haven't found Suslev's body—it'll take weeks to sift and dig out that wreckage. I'm afraid we may never find him in one piece. With Plumm gone too we'll have to rethink Sevrin."
"It's too good a ploy not to have in existence, Roger."
"Yes, sir. The other side will think so too. When Suslev's replacement arrives I'll see what they have in mind, then we can formulate a plan."
"Good. What about deVille?"
"He is to be transferred to Toronto. Please inform the RCMP.
Next, about the nuclear carrier: Her complement is 5,500 officers and men, 83,350 tons, eight reactors, top speed sixty-two knots, forty-two F-4 Phantom IPs each with nuclear capability, two Hawks Mark V. Curiously her only defense against an attack is one bank of SAMs on her starboard side …"
Crosse continued to give his report, very pleased with himself, loving his work, loving being on both sides, on three, he reminded himself. Yes, triple agent, with money to spare, both sides not trusting him completely yet needing him, praying he was on their side—not theirs.
Sometimes I almost wonder myself, he thought with a smile.
In the terminal building at Kai Tak, Armstrong was leaning heavily against the information counter, watching the door, feeling rotten. Crowds were milling as usual. To his surprise, he saw Peter Marlowe come in with Fleur Marlowe and their two children, dolls and small suitcases in their hands. Fleur was pale and drawn. Marlowe too. He was laden with suitcases. "Hello, Peter," Armstrong said. "Hello, Robert. You're working late."
"No, I've, er, I've just seen Mary off. She's off on a vacation to England for a month. Evening, Mrs. Marlowe. I was sorry to hear." "Oh, thank you, Superintendent. I'm qu—" "We're going to Binkok," the four-year-old interrupted gravely. "That's in Minland."
"Oh come along, silly," her sister said. "It's Bunkok in Mainland. That's China," she added importantly to Armstrong. "We're on vacation too. Mummy's been sick."
Peter Marlowe smiled tiredly, his face creased. "Bangkok for a week, Robert. A holiday for Fleur. Old Doc Tooley said it was important for her to get a rest." He stopped as the two children began to squabble. "Quiet, you two! Darling," he said to his wife, "you check us in. I'll catch you up."
"Of course. Come along. Oh do behave, both of you!" She walked off, the two children skittering ahead.
"Won't be much of a holiday for her, I'm afraid," Peter Marlowe said. Then he dropped his voice. "One of my friends told me to pass on that the meeting in Macao of the narcotics villains is this Thursday."
"Do you know where?"
"No. But White Powder Lee's supposed to be one of them. And an American. Banastasio. That's the rumor."
"Thanks. And?"
"That's all."
"Thanks, Peter. Have a good trip. Listen, there's a fellow in the Bangkok police you should look up. Inspector Samanthajal—tell him I said so."
"Thanks. Rotten about Line Bartlett and the others, wasn't it? Christ, I was invited to that party too."
"Joss."
"Yes. But that doesn't help him or them, does it? Poor buggers! See you next week."
Armstrong watched the tall man walk away, then went back to the information counter and leaned against it, continuing to wait, sick at heart.
His mind inexorably turned to Mary. Last night they had had a grinding row, mostly over John Chen, but more because of his last few days, Brian and the Red Room and borrowing the money, betting it all on Pilot Fish, waiting in agony, then winning and putting all the $40,000 back in his desk drawer—never a need to touch another penny—paying off his debts and buying her a ticket home but another row tonight and her saying, "You forgot our anniversary! That's not much to remember is it? Oh I hate this bloody place and bloody Werewolves and bloody everything. Don't expect me back!"
Dully he lit a cigarette, loathing the taste yet liking it. The air was humid again, sour. Then he saw Casey come in. He stubbed out his cigarette and went to intercept her, the heaviness in her walk saddening him. "Evening," he said, feeling very tired.
"Oh, oh hello, Superintendent. How, how're things?"
"Fine. I'll see you through."
"Oh that's kind of you."
"I was damned sorry to hear about Mr. Bartlett."
"Yes. Yes, thank you."
They walked on. He knew better than to talk. What was there to say? Pity, he thought, liking her, admiring her courage, proved at the fire, proved on the slope, proved now, keeping her voice firm when all of her is torn up.
There were no customs outwardbound. The Immigration officer stamped her passport and handed it back with untoward politeness.
"Please have a safe journey and return soon." The death of Bartlett had been headlines, among the sixty-seven.
Along corridors to the VIP lounge. Armstrong opened the door for her. To his surprise and her astonishment Dunross was there. The glass door to Gate 16 and the tarmac was open, Yankee 2 just beyond.
"Oh. Oh hello, Ian," she said. "But I didn't want you to s—"
"Had to, Casey. Sorry. I've a little unfinished business with you and I had to meet a plane. My cousin's coming back from Taiwan