The Concubine's Daughter (69 page)

“I think you must be mistaken, Mr. Ching,” Toby said briskly. “You and I have met, but Miss Devereaux is quite new to the colony.”

Toby was so convincing that Sing could almost believe he had not witnessed her humiliation at the Tavern of Cascading Jewels. Taking heart from his steadfast gaze, Sing recognized there was nothing to do but play Ching’s game and see where it led.

Ching had been drinking, brandy fumes strong on his breath. He did not seem to hear Toby’s remark. Taking a wallet from his breast pocket, he selected a card of compressed gold leaf that he presented to Sing with a smirk.

“Hong Kong streets are not always as gentle as those of old Macao. Allow me to put my office at your disposal. I hope you will find time to visit me… . I am sure there must be something we can assist you with while you are here. If you call this number at any time, I will send a car to pick you up.”

The roof gardens of the Ho-Ching Asia complex in the North Point district of Hong Kong Island had been designed to J. T. Ching’s precise requirements. The place he called the Cloud Garden was a private retreat that few had been privileged to see.

In a city where extravagance was the hallmark of success, the three HCA towers dominated all other landmarks. Rising from the docklands like mammoth blades of steel and glass, the angles of its shadow were designed to cast
shar-chi
—the arrows of darkness—upon surrounding competitors. The superstitious called its creeping menace the “sundial of destruction,” some believing that the colossal foundations were laid in the configuration of the triad symbol.

Several days after the Flood Relief Ball, Sing had telephoned the number on J. T. Ching’s business card. Toby had been hastily called back to his regiment, and though he had begged her not to do anything rash, Sing thought that the time had come when the most dangerous course was inaction. She had no illusions about the ruthlessness of the man who believed he owned her. By presenting his card without revealing their past connection, he had issued both a warning and a summons.

Wearing an austere Western-style business costume of charcoal gray, her hair severely dressed, Sing wore no makeup or adornment of any kind. She had left the Villa Formosa satisfied that she bore as little resemblance as possible to the apprentice pipe-maker from Macao.

As the limousine sent to fetch her sped smoothly along, Sing did not notice the sweep of open water that had always beguiled her. Her mind was on the challenge she was about to face, and the contents of the slim aluminum briefcase she held in her lap.

A uniformed security guard escorted her from the car into the opulent foyer of the Executive Tower, across a wide expanse of marble to a private elevator. A young woman, smartly dressed in a white cheongsam, accompanied her silently on the smooth ride up to the pent house. She led the way through a whisper-quiet anteroom to the base of a wide staircase lined with priceless artwork, then bowed and departed.

At the top of the stairs stood a pair of gigantic doors of burnished steel, guarded by two standing Buddhas on the same enormous scale, resplendent in a coating of gold leaf. More gold leaf, in delicate, postage-stamp squares, stood in a crystal bowl on a gold plinth in front of each statue. She did not need to be told that to be admitted, she must first pay homage to Siddhartha Guatama, the Most High. She took a square from each bowl, adding them to the thin crust of pure gold that gave the Buddhas their shining glory. The doors parted with barely a whisper, revealing the astonishing vista of the Cloud Garden.

It was as if she had stepped onto a different planet. Cool, iridescent mists from sprinklers drifted across pockets of verdant lawn, giving the air a mountain freshness; the chuckle of moving water subdued a distant clamor from the waterfront far below.

Seeming to float in the midst of these spectacular gardens was a teahouse belonging to the age of the Han. Dazzled by her surroundings, she followed a pebbled pathway through banks of white chrysanthemums, to where ancient statuary guarded the entrance.

J. T. Ching waited there in a black silk robe that gave him a priestly appearance. “Welcome to my garden in the clouds. I did not think you would come so soon,” he said, waving her to a comfortable seat.

“I do not need to sit for what I have to say.”

“Nonsense,” he said, “even an occasion such as this requires good manners.” He gave a sharp clap of his hands, and a young Chinese boy appeared, bowing, to sit in the lotus position behind a small table set with many tiny cups, bowls, and teapots. A row of gleaming samovars were arranged on a sideboard within his reach.

“You may know that I have an interest in fine teas, as did our fathers
and their fathers before them. It is a passion I once shared with your father. Is what you have to say so important that it cannot wait for the drinking of tea?”

Sing was almost disarmed by his engaging manner. “Forgive me if I appear less than cordial, but if our conversation is to be a civilized one, then I accept gladly.”

He nodded agreeably. “This boy can neither hear nor speak, but he has a nose for blending tea. May I suggest he choose a blend according to his perception of you? He is rather good at it.”

The boy looked at Sing with large, intrusive eyes, then began the intricacies of the ancient tea ceremony.

“I admire the great ones of the past, both Chinese and Japanese.” He turned to a narrow altar stand of black lacquer, backed by a latticed screen of great beauty that housed a magnificent samurai sword.

“For many generations the House of Ching has imported fine tea and lacquerware from Suruga Bay on the island of Honshu.” He was speaking as though to himself. “It is the home of the last shogunate, the family that ruled Japan for three hundred years through the knights of Bushido—the way of the warrior.”

Ching removed the sword with great reverence, admiring its double-handed hilt of gold and ivory, its scarlet scabbard exquisitely inlaid with gold. When he slowly drew the blade from its sheath, it made no sound but seemed to slice the air. “This sword was given to me by General Hideki Tojo, the finest military mind in the world, who is soon to be the greatest leader under the Rising Sun.” He ran a finger lovingly along the back of the blade, which suddenly flashed in an arc so close to Sing’s head that she could feel her hair move from its force.

“A little demonstration in case you think me old and slow.” He sheathed the sword with practiced ease, bowing to her. “You did not blink an eye. I am impressed.”

The tea was served in tiny thimble-size cups from a black lacquered tray. The boy’s eyes looked directly into hers for the second it took to offer it; she could not be sure if it was with impertinence or warning.

“This is a tea so rare it must be served in cups of pure gold,” Ching
boasted. “Battles were fought over the mountain where this bush is grown.” The aroma alone threatened Sing’s resolve. She remembered the nectar of the golden persimmon. It hastened the words she had come to say.

“We both know that I am here because you have found me. I expected this to happen, but had no way of knowing where or when. Hearing you speak of my father makes my purpose easier. It means that you know who I am.”

“Devereaux is a name of greatness,” he replied with absolute sincerity. “Respected in many parts of China open to the river trade, and feared in some.” He bowed with an exaggerated sweep. “It pleases me to know that Topaz, my choice of jewel, was born to one of such great taste in all things rare and pleasing to the senses.”

When Sing ignored his clumsy flattery, he went on. “You are the only person to have taken tea in the Cloud Palace other than my sons, certainly the only woman. But then, you are a member of my family, are you not?”

“You know that I am not. You had no right to possess me. I do not believe that money and power can buy a human life.”

“Sadly, it can. This was a business transaction. In good faith, I entered into a contract with a procuress of the highest esteem. No law has been broken. It is you who dishonored this agreement, not I.”

Sing fought to keep anger from her voice.
The warrior’s greatest enemy is rage … the crane sees the tiger’s rage but she remains calm.

“My family name is as respected as the name of Ching—I am no one’s slave. You judged my value by the services I rendered for your comfort and pleasure, an accompaniment to your borrowed dreams. I withdrew those services. I am here as the only child of a great taipan, to repay my debt to you and to end the blood feud between our two families.”

Sing placed the briefcase on the table before him and sprang the twin locks with her thumbs, revealing neatly arranged documents bound in place with red tapes. She removed several packs of new banknotes and stacked them neatly before him.

Keeping the level of reason in her voice, she slid the opened case
across the table. “I keep my own counsel on matters of my value—not in the eyes of others but in my own. But you are right, money and power can change the world of others … even buy and sell another’s life and honor. I have come to take back my own and that of my family.”

He listened to her, his face impassive. “You are here at my bidding, because at this moment you are my property. You are fortunate that I did not have you thrashed and dragged here.”

“By whose law? I have discovered many things now that I have claimed my name. I do not recognize the
sung-tip
of the Golden One. Hers is a world that is past: The buying and selling of children is no longer permitted; neither is the smoking of opium.”

He laughed at her presumption. “There is no price to be put upon my honor. What is this that you offer me?”

“The money is my only debt to you. It is three times that which you paid to Tamiko-san.”

She paused for a moment. “I also have something more powerful than money—the truth. The case before you contains the private journals of my father, Captain Benjamin Devereaux, along with the journals of my grandfather. As you know, they both did business with the House of Ching. Our grandfathers became rich in the opium trade and shared many ventures together. But your father and mine became enemies, and a blood oath was sworn to destroy the male lineage of the Devereaux name. These journals were kept as protection against treachery.”

The smile had left his face. Sing met his eyes squarely. “I have made it my business to learn what I can of Hong Kong’s rule of law, though it is nothing to the law of the black society. But it might serve you to see what these documents contain.”

He looked suddenly thoughtful. “What do you think you have discovered that could harm my name or my company?”

Sing sat forward in her seat, demanding his attention. “Your grandfather forced my grandfather, Jean-Paul Devereaux, to flee Shanghai with nothing but his infant son, my father. His wife, my grandmother, was Chinese of noble Manchu birth, but that did not save her from the revenge
of the Yellow Dragon. My mother, Li-Xia, also died most hideously by the hand of a Boxer brave.”

She stood up with the face and voice of a warrior. “So, tell me … why should I be afraid of you? What more could you do except to kill me too, and I am not afraid of that.”

“Do you accuse me of involvement in the crimes you speak of?” Ching asked coldly.

She looked past the threat in his voice. “Of course not; my word would be nothing against the word of the taipan Ching. In this case are copies of the Devereaux family’s records of its dealings with the House of Ho-Ching and the secret society of the Yellow Dragon triad. They expose the society’s heritage as the family Ching, and its dragon heads as the eldest son of each generation. They prove without question that you are now the dragon head, overlord of the society’s lodges all over the world.”

Leaving the tea untouched, she rose from her chair. “I ask only that you read these pages and consider their value to you. The originals are held in my lawyer’s safe, with copies in places even you will never find. If anything happens to me, my friends, or my future family, they will be delivered to the governor’s office. If they are, the name of Jack Teagarden Ching will no longer be respected as a pillar of society and a public benefactor. You will be revealed as the traitor who tried to blackmail Colonel Pelham into a cowardly betrayal of his country. You will go to prison for a long time, and your ancestors will cry with shame.”

He ignored the open case. “If I should agree to release you from the
sung-tip
and guarantee to end the blood oath, will the original documents be delivered to me with nothing withheld?”

“You have my word on it … but I can never be certain that another copy could have been made without my knowledge and used without my approval. There are many who care what happens to me.” Sing placed the documents beside the banknotes, closing the case in readiness to leave. “Accept this payment or not … but I owe you nothing.”

“You have overlooked one important thing, Topaz. In a matter of
weeks this island will no longer be a British colony, but a possession of the Imperial Japanese Empire. The golden idols that allowed you to pass are Diabutsu, the Buddhas of Japan. I am well prepared. What good will your documents be then?”