Noble House

Dunross remembered the taut face and the iced eyes staring at him, his real friend Brian Kwok in shock. "No."
Crosse had sighed. The threat in the sound had sent a tremor through him. "For the last time, why?"
"Because, in the wrong hands, I think they'd be damaging to Her Maj—"
"Good sweet Christ, I'm head of Special Intelligence!"
"I know."
"Then kindly do as I ask."
"Sorry. I spent most of the night trying to work out a safe way to giv—"
Roger Crosse had got up. "I'll be back at six o'clock for the files. Don't burn them, Ian. I'll know if you try and I'm afraid you'll be stopped. Six o'clock."
Last night while the house slept, Dunross had gone to his study and reread the files. Rereading them now with the new knowledge of AMG's death and possible murder, the involvement of MI-5 and –6, probably the KGB, and Crosse's astounding anxiety; and then the added thought that perhaps some of the material might not yet be available to the Secret Service, together with the possibility that many of the pieces he had dismissed as too farfetched were not— now all the reports took on new importance. Some of them blew his mind.
To hand them over was too risky. To keep them now, impossible.
In the quiet of the night Dunross had considered destroying them. Finally he concluded it was his duty not to. For a moment he had considered leaving them openly on his desk, the French windows wide to the terrace darkness, and going back to sleep. If Crosse was so concerned about the papers then he and his men would be watching now. To lock them in the safe was unsafe. The safe had been touched once. It would be touched again. No safe was proof against an absolute, concerted professional attack.
There in the darkness, his feet perched comfortably, he had felt the excitement welling, the beautiful, intoxicating lovely warmth of danger surrounding him, physical danger. Of enemies nearby. Of being perched on the knife edge between life and void. The only thing that detracted from his pleasure was the knowledge that Struan's was betrayed from within, the same question always grinding: Is the Sevrin spy the same as he who gave their secrets to Bartlett? One of seven? Alastair, Phillip, Andrew, Jacques, Linbar, David MacStruan in Toronto, or his rather. All unthinkable.
His mind had examined each one. Clinically, without passion. All had the opportunity, all the same motive: jealousy, and hatred, in varying degrees. But not one would sell the Noble House to an outsider. Not one. Even so, one of them did.
Who?
The hours passed.
Who? Sevrin, what to do about the files, was AMG murdered, how much of the files're true?
Who?
The night was cool now and the terrace had beckoned him. He stood under the stars. The breeze and the night welcomed him. He had always loved the night. Flying alone above the clouds at night, so much better than the day, the stars so near, eyes always watching for the enemy bomber or enemy night fighter, thumb ready on the trigger … ah, life was so simple then, kill or be killed.
He stood there for a while, then, refreshed, he went back and locked the files away and sat in his great chair facing the French windows, on guard, working out his options, choosing one. Then, satisfied, he had dozed an hour or so and awoke, as usual, just before dawn.
His dressing room was off his study which was next door to their master bedroom. He had dressed casually and left silently. The road was clear. Sixteen seconds were clipped from his record. In his penthouse he bathed and shaved and changed into a tropical suit, then went to his office on the floor below. It was very humid today with a curious look to the sky. A tropical storm's coming, he had thought. Perhaps we'll be lucky and it won't pass us by like all the others and it'll bring rain. He turned away from his windows and concentrated on running the Noble House.
There was a pile of overnight telexes to deal with on all manner of negotiations and enterprises, problems and business opportunities throughout the Colony and the great outside. From all points of the compass. As far north as the Yukon where Struan's had an oil-prospecting joint venture with the Canadian timber and mining giant, McLean-Woodley. Singapore and Malaya and as far south as Tasmania for fruit and minerals to carry to Japan. West to Britain, east to New York, the tentacles of the new international Noble House that Dunross dreamed about were beginning to reach out, still weak, still tentative, and without the sustenance he knew was vital to their growth.
Never mind. Soon they'll be strong. The Par-Con deal will make our web like steel, with Hong Kong the center of the earth and us the nucleus of the center. Thank God for the telex and telephones.
"Mr. Bartlett please."
"Hello?"
"Ian Dunross, good morning, sorry to disturb you so early, could we postpone our meeting till 6:30?"
"Yes. Is there a problem?"
"No. Just business. I've a lot to catch up with."
"Anything on John Chen?"
"Not yet, no. Sorry. I'll keep you posted though. Give my regards to Casey."
"I will. Say, that was some party last night. Your daughter's a charmer!"
"Thanks. I'll come to the hotel at 6:30. Of course Casey's invited. See you then. 'Bye!"
Ah Casey! he thought.
Casey and Bartlett. Casey and Gornt. Gornt and Four Finger Wu.
Early this morning he had heard from Four Finger Wu about his meeting with Gornt. A pleasant current had swept through him on hearing that his enemy had almost died. The Peak Road's no place to lose your brakes, he thought.
Pity the bastard didn't die. That would have saved me lots of anguish. Then he dismissed Gornt and rethought Four Finger Wu.
Between the old seaman's pidgin and his Haklo they could converse quite well. Wu had told him everything he could. Gornt's comment on the Ho-Pak, advising Wu to withdraw his money, was surprising. And cause for concern. That and Haply's article.
Does that bugger Gornt know something I don't?
He had gone to the bank. "Paul, what's going on?"
"About what?"
"The Ho-Pak."
"Oh. The run? Very bad for our banking image, I must say. Poor Richard! We're fairly certain he's got all the reserves he needs to weather his storm but we don't know the extent of his commitments. Of course I called him the moment I read Haply's ridiculous article. I must tell you, Ian, I also called Christian Toxe and told him in no uncertain terms he should control his reporters and that he'd better cease and desist or else."
"I was told there was a queue at Tsim Sha Tsui."
"Oh? I hadn't heard that. I'll check. Even so, surely the Ching Prosperity and the Lo Fat banks will support him. My God, he's built up the Ho-Pak into a major banking institution. If he went broke God knows what'll happen. We even had some withdrawals at Aberdeen ourselves. No, Ian, let's hope it'll all blow over. Talking about that, do you think we'll get some rain? It feels dicey today, don't you think? The news said there might be a storm coming through. Do you think it'll rain?"
"I don't know. Let's hope so. But not on Saturday!"
"My God yes! If the races were rained out that would be terrible. We can't have that. Oh, by the way, Ian, it was a lovely party last night. I enjoyed meeting Bartlett and his girl friend. How're your negotiations with Bartjett proceeding?"
"First class! Listen, Paul . . ."
Dunross smiled to himself, remembering how he had dropped his voice even though in Havergill's office . . . Havergill's office which overlooked the whole of Central District was book-lined and very carefully soundproofed. "I've closed my deal. It's two years initially. We sign the papers within seven days. They're putting up 20 million cash in each of the years, succeeding ones to be negotiated."