Noble House

"Come again?" Dunross said, pleasantly surprised to hear that he had managed to keep his voice sounding calm, wondering how much Special Intelligence knew and how much they were guessing.
Brian Kwok sighed and continued to lay out the information that Roger Crosse had given him. "Nelson Trading."
With a great effort, Dunross kept his face impassive. "Nelson Trading?"
"Yes. Nelson Trading Company Limited of London. As you know, Nelson Trading has the Hong Kong Government's exclusive license for the purchase of gold bullion on the international market for Hong Kong's jewelers, and, vastly more important, the equally exclusive monopoly for transshipment of gold bullion in bond, through Hong Kong to Macao—along with a minor second company, Saul Feinheimer Bullion Company, also of London. Nelson Trading and Feinheimer's have several things in common. Several directors for example, the same solicitors for example."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I believe you're also on the board."
"I'm on the board of almost seventy companies," Dunross said.
"True and not all of those are wholly or even partially owned by Struan's. Of course, some could be wholly owned through nominees, secretly, couldn't they?"
"Yes, of course."
"It's fortunate in Hong Kong we don't have to list directors—or holdings, isn't it?"
"What's your point, Brian?"
"Another coincidence: Nelson Trading's registered head offices in the city of London are in the same building as your British subsidiary, Struan London Limited."
"That's a big building, Brian, one of the best locations in the city. There must be a hundred companies there."
"Many thousands if you include all the companies registered with solicitors there—all the holding companies that hold other companies with nominee directors that hide all sorts of skeletons."
"So?" Dunross was thinking quite clearly now, pondering where Brian had got ail this information, wondering too where in the hell all this was leading. Nelson Trading had been a secret, wholly owned subsidiary through nominees ever since it was formed in 1953 specifically for the Macao gold trade—Macao being the only country in Asia where gold importation was legal.
"By the way, Ian, have you met that Portuguese genius from Macao, Signore Lando Mata?"
"Yes. Yes I have. Charming man."
"Yes he is—and so well connected. The rumor is that some fifteen years ago he persuaded the Macao authorities to create a monopoly for the importation of gold, then to sell the monopoly to him, and a couple of friends, for a modest yearly tax: about one U.S. dollar an ounce. He's the same fellow, Ian, who first got the Macao authorities to legalize gambling . . . and curiously, to grant him and a couple of friends the same monopoly. All very cosy, what?"
Dunross did not answer, just stared back at the smile and at the eyes that did not smile.
"So everything went smoothly for a few years," Brian continued, "then in '54 he was approached by some Hong Kong gold enthusiasts—our Hong Kong gold law was changed in '54—who offered a now legal improvement on the scheme: their company buys the gold bullion legally in the world bullion markets on behalf of this Macao syndicate at the legal $35 an ounce and brings it to Hong
Kong openly by plane or by ship. On arrival, our own Hong Kong customs fellows legally guard and supervise the transshipment from Kai Tak or the dock to the Macao ferry or the Catalina flying boat. When the ferry or flying boat arrives in Macao it's met by Portuguese Customs officials and the bullion, all in regulation four-hundred-ounce bars, is transshipped under guard to cars, taxis actually, and taken to the bank. It's a grotty, ugly little building that does no ordinary banking, has no known customers—except the syndicate—never opens its door—except for the gold—and doesn't like visitors at all. Guess who owns it? Mr. Mata and his syndicate. Once inside their bank the gold vanishes!" Brian Kwok beamed like a magician doing his greatest trick. "Fifty-three tons this year so far. Forty-eight tons last year! Same the year before and the year before that and so on."
"That's a lot of gold," Dunross said helpfully.
"Yes it is. Very strangely the Macao authorities or the Hong Kong ones don't seem to care that what goes in never seems to come out. You with me still?"
"Yes."
"Of course, what really happens is that once inside the bank the gold's melted down from the regulation four-hundred-ounce bars into little pieces, into two, or the more usual five-tael bars which are much more easily carried, and smuggled. Now we come to the only illegal part of the whole marvelous chain: getting the gold out of Macao and smuggling it into Hong Kong. Of course, it's not illegal to remove it from Macao, only to smuggle it into Hong Kong. But you know and I know that it's relatively easy to smuggle anything into Hong Kong. And the incredible beauty of it all is that once in Hong Kong, however the gold gets there—it's perfectly legal for anyone to own it and no questions asked. Unlike say in the States or Britain where no citizen is ever allowed to own any gold bullion privately. Once legally owned, it can be legally exported."
"Where's all this leading to, Brian?" Dunross sipped his brandy.
Brian Kwok swilled the ancient, aromatic spirit in the huge glass and let the silence gather. At length he said, "We'd like some help."
"We? You mean Special Intelligence?" Dunross was startled.
"Yes."
"Who in SI? You?"
Brian Kwok hesitated. "Mr. Crosse himself."
"What help?"
"He'd like to read all your Alan Medford Grant reports."
"Come again?" Dunross said to give himself time to think, not expecting this at all.
Brian Kwok took out a photocopy of the first and last page of the intercepted report and offered it. "A copy of this has just come into our possession." Dunross glanced at the pages. Clearly they were genuine. "We'd like a quick look at all the others."
"I don't follow you."
"I didn't bring the whole report, just for convenience, but if you want it you can have it tomorrow," Brian said and his eyes didn't waver. "We'd appreciate it—Mr. Crosse said he'd appreciate the help."
The enormity of the implications of the request paralyzed Dunross for a moment.
"This report—and the others if they still exist—are private," he heard himself say carefully. "At least all the information in them is private to me personally, and to the Government. Surely you can get everything you want through your own intelligence channels."
"Yes. Meanwhile, Superintendent Crosse'd really appreciate it, Ian, if you'd let us have a quick look."
Dunross took a sip of his brandy, his mind in shock. He knew he could easily deny that the others existed and burn them or hide them or just leave them where they were, but he did not wish to avoid helping Special Intelligence. It was his duty to assist them. Special Intelligence was a vital part of Special Branch and the Colony's security and he was convinced that, without them, the Colony and their whole position in Asia would be untenable. And without a marvelous counterintelligence, if a twentieth of AMG's reports were true, all their days were numbered.
Christ Jesus, in the wrong hands . . .
His chest felt tight as he tried to reason out his dilemma. Part of that last report had leapt into his mind: about the traitor in the police. Then he remembered that Kiernan had told him that his back copies were the only ones in existence. How much was private to him and how much was known to British Intelligence? Why the secrecy? Why didn't Grant get permission? Christ, say I was wrong about some things being farfetched! In the wrong hands, in enemy hands, much of the information would be lethal.
With an effort he calmed his mind and concentrated. "I'll consider what you said and talk to you tomorrow. First thing."
"Sorry, Ian. I was told to in—to impress upon you the urgency."