Noble House

The captain and first officer/copilot were in their seats, still going through their paper work.
"Excuse me, Captain. This is Superintendent Armstrong," Svensen said, and stepped aside.
"Evening, Superintendent," the captain said. "I'm Captain Jan-nelli and this's my copilot, Bill O'Rourke."
"Evening. May I see your passports please?"
Both pilots had massed international visas and immigration stamps. No Iron Curtain countries. Armstrong handed them to Sergeant Lee for stamping. "Thank you, Captain. Is this your first visit to Hong Kong?"
"No sir. I was here a couple of times for R and R during Korea. And I had a six-month tour with Far Eastern as first officer on their round-the-world route in '56, during the riots."
"What riots?" O'Rourke asked.
"The whole of Kowloon blew apart. Couple hundred thousand
Chinese went on a sudden rampage, rioting, burning. The cops— sorry, the police tried to settle it with patience, then the mobs started killing so the cops, police, they got out a couple of Sten guns and killed half a dozen jokers and everything calmed down very fast. Only police have guns here which is a great idea." To Armstrong he said, "I think your guys did a hell of a job."
'Thank you, Captain Jannelli. Where did this flight emanate?"
"L.A.—Los Angeles. Line's—Mr. Bartlett's head office's there."
"Your route was Honolulu, Tokyo, Hong Kong?"
"Yes sir."
"How long did you stop in Tokyo?"
Bill O'Rourke turned up the flight log at once. "Two hours and seventeen minutes. Just a refueling stop, sir."
"Just enough time to stretch your legs?"
Jannelli said, "I was the only one who got out. I always check my gear, the landing gear, and do an exterior inspection whenever we land."
"That's a good habit," the policeman said politely. "How long are you staying?"
"Don't know, that's up to Line. Certainly overnight. We couldn't leave before 1400. Our orders're just to be ready to go anywhere at any time."
"You've a fine aircraft, Captain. You're approved to stay here till 1400. If you want an extension, call Ground Control before that time. When you're ready, just clear Customs through that gate. And would you clear all your crew together, please."
"Sure. Soon as we're refueled."
"You and all your crew know the importing of any firearms into the Colony is absolutely forbidden? We're very nervous about firearms in Hong Kong."
"So am I, Superintendent—anywhere. That's why I've the only key to the gun cabinet."
"Good. Any problems, please check with my office." Armstrong left and went into the anteroom, Svensen just ahead.
Jannelli watched him inspect the air hostess's passport. She was pretty, Jenny Pollard. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, then added quietly, "Something stinks around here."
"Huh?"
"Since when does CID brass check goddamn passports for chris-sake? You sure we're not carrying anything curious?"
"Hell no. I always check everything. Including Sven's stores. Of course I don't go through Line's stuff—or Casey's—but they wouldn't do anything stupid."
"I've flown him for four years and never once . . . Even so, something sure as hell stinks." Jannelli wearily twisted and settled himself in his pilot's seat more comfortably. "Jesus, I could use a massage and a week off."
In the anteroom Armstrong was handing the passport to Sergeant Lee who stamped it. "Thank you, Miss Pollard."
"Thank you."
"That's all the crew, sir," Svensen said. "Now Mr. Bartlett."
"Yes, please."
Svensen knocked on the central door and opened it without waiting. "Line, this's Superintendent Armstrong," he said with easy informality.
"Hi," Line Bartlett said, getting up from his desk. He put out his hand. "May I offer you a drink? Beer?"
"No thanks. Perhaps a cup of coffee."
Svensen turned for the galley at once. "Coming up," he said.
"Make yourself at home. Here's my passport," Bartlett said. "Won't be a moment." He went back to the typewriter and continued tapping the keys with two fingers.
Armstrong studied him leisurely. Bartlett was sandy haired with gray-flecked blue eyes, a strong good-looking face. Trim. Sports shirt and jeans. He checked the passport. Born Los Angeles, October 1,1922. He looks young for forty, he thought. Moscow franking, same as Casey Tcholok, no other Iron Curtain visits.
His eyes wandered the room. It was spacious, the whole width of the airplane. There was a short central corridor aft with two cabins off it and two toilets. And at the end a final door which he presumed was the master suite.
The cabin was fitted as if it were a communications center. Teletype, international telephone capability, built-in typewriters. An illuminated world time clock on a bulkhead. Filing cabinets, duplicator and a built-in leather-topped desk strewn with papers. Shelves of books. Tax books. A few paperbacks. The rest were war books and books on generals or by generals. Dozens of them. Wellington and Napoleon and Patton, Eisenhower's Crusade in Europe, Sun Tzu's The Art of War. . .
"Here you are, sir," broke into Armstrong's inspection.
"Oh, thank you, Svensen." He took the coffee cup and added a little cream.
Svensen put a fresh, opened can of chilled beer beside Bartlett, picked up the empty, then went back to the galley, closing the door after him. Bartlett sipped the beer from the can, rereading what he had written, then pressed a buzzer. Svensen came at once. "Tell Jannelli to ask the tower to send this off." Svensen nodded and left. Bartlett eased his shoulders and swung around in the swivel chair. "Sorry—I had to get that right off."
"That's all right, Mr. Bartlett. Your request to stay overnight is approved."
"Thanks—thanks very much. Could Svensen stay as well?" Bartlett grinned. "I'm not much of a housekeeper."
"Very well. How long will your aircraft be here?"
"Depends on our meeting tomorrow, Superintendent. We hope to go into business with Struan's. A week, ten days."
"Then you'll need an alternate parking place tomorrow. We've another VIP flight coming in at 1600 hours. I told Captain Jannelli to phone Ground Control before 1400 hours."
"Thanks. Does the head of CID Kowloon usually deal with parking around here?"
Armstrong smiled. "I like to know what's going on in my division. It's a tedious habit but ingrained. We don't often have private aircraft visiting us—or Mr. Chen meeting someone personally. We like to be accommodating if we can. Struan's owns most of the airport and John's a personal friend. He's an old friend of yours?"
"I spent time with him in New York and L.A. and liked him a lot. Say, Superintendent, this airplane's my comm—" One of the phones rang. Bartlett picked it up. "Oh hello Charlie, what's happening in New York? … Jesus, that's great. How much? … Okay Charlie, buy the whole block. . . . Yes, the whole 200,000 shares. . . . Sure, first thing Monday morning, soon as the market opens. Send me a confirm by telex. …" Bartlett put the phone down and turned to Armstrong. "Sorry. Say, Superintendent, this's my communications center and I'll be lost without it. If we park for a week is it okay to come back and forth?"
"I'm afraid that might be dicey, Mr. Bartlett."
"Is that yes or no or maybe?"
"Oh that's slang for difficult. Sorry, but our security at Kai Tak's very particular."
"If you have to put on extra men, I'd be glad to pay."
"It's a matter of security, Mr. Bartlett, not money. You'll find Hong Kong's phone system first class." Also it will be far easier for Special Intelligence to monitor your calls, he thought.
"Well, if you can I'd appreciate it."