Gai-Jin (115 page)

“We’re not trading in it here.”

“Good. If I find any ships carrying opium I intend to confiscate the cargo and the ship.”

“I’d say you do so at your legal peril, Admiral. Has Sir William agreed or approved your intention?”

“Not yet. I would like you and the other trades—other traders to do so willingly. The same with breech-loading rifles, cartridges, cannon and warships.”

“Did Greyforth agree to such an astonishing proposal?”

The neck went crimson. “No.”

Malcolm thought a moment. He and Jamie had reasoned in advance that this was what the Admiral had in mind. Apart from his mother’s letter. “We have a meeting with Sir William in a few days,” he said. “I’d be honored if you’d attend as my personal guest. All traders would hear you out.”

“My views are already well known. You traders of all people should know which side of your bread is buttered, that without the fleet to protect you and your trade routes, you’re helpless. If you supply natives with cannon you threaten the Royal Navy, you’ll be helping to sink your own ships, murder your own countrymen and yourselves to boot!”

“If you take the example of India or any of the oth—”

“My whole point, Mr. Struan!” the Admiral slammed at him. “Without natives having our armaments the Mutiny would never have happened, revolts everywhere would be more quickly contained, savages all over the world could be more easily and properly educated, useful trade would be conducted in peace and world order would flourish in the benevolence of the Pax Britannica. And miserable, fornicating pirates would not have the means to fire on my flagship, by God! And without the Royal Navy ruling the seas, by God, there’s no Pax Britannica, no British Empire, no trade, and we’ll be back in the Dark Ages!”

“Confidentially you’re quite right, Admiral,” Malcolm said with abject, pretended fervor, following Uncle Chen’s advice: “When a mandarin is furious with you, for whatever reason, quickly agree
‘confidentially’
he is right, you can always assassinate him later when he’s asleep.”

Over the years he had been involved in the same argument with Army, Navy and government officials. And witnessed his father and mother quarreling, his father for free trade and his mother for morality, his father raging about the insolvable opium triangle, his mother vehemently against opium even so—and sales of arms—truth on both sides, both inflexible, the quarrel always ending with his father drinking himself into a stupor and his mother smiling with that fixed, infuriating smile that nothing would dislodge, his father’s final barb always: “my old man—and your Prince Charming—the Great Green-eyed Devil Dirk himself started the trade and we’ve flourished on it, so help us God!”

Many’s the time he had wondered—but never dared to ask—if she had
really been in love with the father and not the son, had settled for the son because the father would not. He knew he would never ask and if he did she would just smile that fixed smile of hers and say, “Malcolm, don’t be absurd.”

“Confidentially, you’re right, Admiral,” he repeated.

Ketterer choked on his port and poured some more. “Well, that’s something, by God!” He looked up. “Then you’ll make sure Struan’s does not engage in arms sales here?”

“I will certainly take everything you said under advisement and consult with my fellow traders.”

Ketterer took out a handkerchief and blew his nose, took a pinch of snuff, sneezed and blew his nose again. When his head had cleared his baleful eyes looked at the young man, irritated that he could perceive no weakening. “Then let me put it another way.
Confidentially
, you agree that helping Jappos to acquire cannon, British cannon, any bloody cannon, or British warships is stupid?”

“For them to have a comparable navy would be wr—”

“A disaster, sirrah! Total disaster and stupid!”

“I agree.”

“Good. I would like you to persuade all other traders to your opinion: no arms here, particularly cannon, of course no opium. Confidentially, of course.”

“I’d be glad to put forward those opinions, Admiral.”

Ketterer snorted. Malcolm began to get up, not wanting to be cornered. “A moment, Mr. Struan—another matter, before you go. A private matter.” The Admiral motioned at the envelope and letter on his desk. “This. From Mrs. Struan. You know what it’s about?”

“Yes, yes, I do.”

Ketterer moved the letter to the center of his desk. “Your Noble House is supposed to be first in Asia, though I’m told Brock’s are pulling ahead of you now. Never mind which, you could be a conduit for good. I would like you and your company to assist me in this just cause. Just, Mr. Struan.”

Exasperated, Malcolm said nothing, considering he had answered at length and was not prepared for another lecture.

Pointedly Ketterer said,
“Confidentially
, between you and me, I don’t normally acknowledge such letters from civilians. It goes without saying: Royal Naval rules and regulations belong to the Royal Navy.” A sip of port and a subdued liverish belch. “Young Marlowe has invited you and … and your fiancée aboard
Pearl
during his trials. Tuesday. For the day.” The eyes bored deeper. “Has he not?”

“Yessir,” Struan muttered, his mind in spasm as his ears seemed to have betrayed him.

“Of course, my permission is needed.” The Admiral let this float in the air, then said, “By the way, Mr. Struan, this intended duel is ill-advised, yes indeed.” Malcolm blinked at the non sequitur, and tried to concentrate as the Admiral continued, “As much as that … that Greyforth fellow deserves to pass on as soon as possible, duelling is against the law and ill-advised, and mistakes can happen, bad ones. Clear?”

“Yessir, thank you for the advice, but you were say—”

“Thank you
, Mr. Struan,” the Admiral said smoothly, getting up. “Thank you for coming to see me. Good day.”

In turmoil Malcolm groped to his feet, not sure if he understood correctly. “Do I understand you to mean that I ca—”

“I mean nothing more than what I have said, sir.” The voice was withering, clear and from the quarter-deck. “Just as you have told me, in confidence, you will take what I have said under advisement, in return, I tell you, in confidence, that I will take what you say, and do, under advisement—before Monday, midnight. Good day.”

Outside on the promenade the air smelt good and clean and uncomplicated, and Malcolm took deep breaths until its purity began to take the pounding out of his head and chest. Exhausted and elated, he slumped onto the first bench and stared at the fleet without seeing it.

Have I understood Ketterer correctly, Malcolm asked himself over and over, once again blinded with hope, that Ketterer might, just might be prepared to forget Mother’s letter and give Marlowe permission to have us aboard
and not forbid Marlowe to marry us?

“‘In confidence,’ Ketterer had harped on that,” he muttered, “and ‘between ourselves’ and ‘in return.’” Does that mean he’ll keep quiet if I do my part? he wondered. What in God’s name could I do and say before Monday night to persuade the bugger, because that’s what he is, a blackmailing sod with no morals!

Nonsense! It’s a deal—he’s offered a deal, a quid pro quo—a marvelous deal for me, and not bad for him. I’d have to be careful, the other traders won’t take kindly to any voluntary embargo. I’ll have to be aboveboard because that bugger’s smart and won’t be satisfied with just promises.

Who can I trust with this new twist in the tangle of my life? Heavenly? Jamie? Marlowe? Of course not him. Angel? No. Not her. If Uncle Chen were here he’d be the one, but as he’s not, who? No one. You’d better tell no one!

You have to carry this alone—isn’t that what Mother said Dirk always told Father about being tai-pan: “It’s the being alone and carrying responsibility alone, that’s the joy and the hurt of it.” What can I do about cannon and gu—

“Afternoon, Mr. Struan.”

“Oh! Oh, hello, Mr. Gornt.”

“You looked so sad I just had to interrupt you.”

“No, not sad,” Malcolm said tiredly, “just thinking.”

“Ah, sorry, in that case I’ll leave you, suh.”

“No, please sit down. You said, yesterday, there’s a price?”

Edward Gornt nodded. “I apologize for not seeing you before, suh, but Mr. Greyforth wouldn’t see the … the light. Now he agrees to pistols, double-barrelled duelling pistols, and one shot or two, as you choose, from twenty paces.”

“Good. And?”

“And I tried to talk him out of the duel but he said, ‘Not unless Malcolm Struan publicly apologizes,’ words to that effect.”

“Good. But the other matter, we’ve no walls or doors here.” Malcolm motioned along the almost deserted promenade. “The price?”

“I thought this a perfect place but we can’t spend too much time and have to be careful, Mr. Greyforth could have binoculars on us.”

“Is he watching?”

“I don’t know for sure, suh, but I’d bet on it.”

“Then somewhere else? Later?”

“No, here’s fine, but he’s very wily and I don’t want him to get suspicious. The price: If my information assists you to block Morgan’s plan to sink you and bankrupts Brock’s—”

“You know the details?”

Gornt laughed softly. “Oh yes, and much more, not that Morgan or Old Man Brock know I know, or Mr. Greyforth.” He dropped his voice even more, his lips hardly moving. “This all has to be kept secret between us but the price is you break Morgan Brock, pursue him into bankruptcy, or prison if you can—if it’s necessary to break Tyler it’s all the same to me, but out of the wreckage you guarantee that I get their fifty percent interest in Rothwell’s free and clear; that you assist me with the Victoria Bank to raise what’s necessary to buy out Jeff Cooper’s half; that for ten years you don’t come after me other than a normal competitor, giving me favored nation status on any business dealings—all in a letter contract, written and signed by you. After ten years the gloves are off.”

“Agreed,” Malcolm said at once, expecting harsher conditions. “But the Victoria bastards aren’t our friends, Brock started that bank and have excluded us always, so we won’t be much help there.”

“They soon will be, suh. Soon the whole Board will fart if you say fart. This all must be kept very secret, of course. What do you plan after the duel?”

Malcolm did not hesitate, finding it so strange that he could trust this
man so immediately, telling him about going aboard
Prancing Cloud
. “This presumes I’m the winner and not hurt badly. Once I’m in Hong Kong I can simmer things down,” he said confidentially.

“What about your shooting? I mean having to use sticks?”

“One is fine to balance with, for that amount of time.” Malcolm smiled thinly. “I’ve been practicing.”

“Now, I propose a deception to avoid legal repercussions that worked well in Virginia and should do the same here, in case either of you is killed: you each write the other a letter, dated and delivered the night before the duel, saying that you have mutually agreed to call the duel off ‘at the No Man’s Land rendezvous tomorrow, and you will both accept, as gentlemen, a mutual, simultaneous apology from the other.’” Gornt smiled. “We, the seconds, will testify that tragically, while you were showing each other your pistols, one went off.”

“A fine idea. Has Norbert agreed?”

“Yes. I’ll deliver his letter to you, Tuesday, send him his by Mr. McFay, but best keep it secret, that it’s a device.”

“Tuesday” kept echoing in Malcolm’s head but he forced it aside. Gornt was saying, matter-of-factly, “After the duel—it would be best if you kill him, not wound him—I’ll come out to the clipper with you. In exchange for the written contract, I’ll lay out the details how you can utterly wreck Brock’s financial safety net, with a package of authenticated copies of letters and documents, enough for any court of law, and others that hand you a cudgel to use with the Victoria.”

Malcolm felt the glow deep within him. “Why not now, why wait till Wednesday?”

“Mr. Greyforth might kill you,” Gornt said calmly, “then the knowledge would be wasted and I would have put myself at risk for no reason.”

After a pause Malcolm said, “Say he does, or wounds me badly, how do you get the revenge you seek?”

“I’ll approach Mrs. Struan, suh, at once. I’m gambling that won’t be necessary. I gamble on you, not her.”

“I heard you did not gamble, Mr. Gornt.”

“At cards for money, no suh, never—I saw the futility of that with my stepfather. With life? To the limit.” Gornt felt eyes on him and said softly, “Someone’s watching,” and he glanced around. It was Angelique, coming out of Struan’s, across the street. She waved. Malcolm waved back and got up. The two men watched her approach.

“Hello, Angel,” Malcolm said warmly, the Admiral’s words dancing in his head. “May I introduce Mr. Edward Gornt of Rothwell’s in Shanghai? My fiancée, Mademoiselle Richaud.”

“Ma’am!” Gornt took her hand and kissed it gallantly.

“Mr. Gornt,” she murmured, reading his eyes. There was an abrupt, curious silence among the three of them, then for no apparent reason they burst out laughing.

“What is it?” she asked, her heart picking up beat.

“Joie de vivre,”
Gornt said.

She looked up at him, liking what she saw, warmed by the smile, then took Malcolm’s arm, already relating the encounter in the letter she had interrupted:

“La,
chéri,”
she said, fanning herself against the immediate and pleasing internal heat, a subconscious feline reaction to Gornt’s masculinity. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to interrupt an important conference …”