JAMES CLAVELL'S

JAMES CLAVELL'S
NOBLE HOUSE
NOBLE HOUSE
THE CHILDREN'S STORY
NOBLE HOUSE
is the fourth novel in the Asian Saga that so far consists of:
A.D. 1600…………….. Shogun
A.D. 1841…………….. Tai-Pan
A.D. 1945……………. King Rat
A.D. 1963………….. Noble House
James Clavell's
NOBLE HOUSE
A Novel of Contemporary Hong Kong
A DELL BOOK
Published by Dell Publishing Co., Inc. 1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza New York, New York 10017
Copyright© 1981 by James Clavell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address Delacorte Press, New York, New York.
Dell® TM 681510, Dell Publishing Co., Inc. ISBN: 0-440-16483-4
Reprinted by arrangement with Delacorte Press Printed in the United States of America
First Dell printing-March 1982
I would like to offer this work as a tribute to Her Britannic Majesty, Elizabeth II, to the people of Her Crown Colony of Hong Kong—and perdition to their enemies.
Of course this is a novel. It is peopled with imaginary persons and companies and no reference to any person or company that was, or is, part of Hong Kong or Asia is intended.
I would also like to apologize at once to all Hong Kong yan—all Hong Kong persons—for rearranging their beautiful city, for taking incidents out of context, for inventing people and places and streets and companies and incidents that, hopefully, may appear to have existed but have never existed, for this, truly, is a story. . . .
June 8,1960
PROLOGUE
11:45 P.M. :
His name was Ian Dunross and in the torrential rain he drove his old MG sports car cautiously around the corner into Dirk's Street that skirted the Struan Building on the waterfront of Hong Kong. The night was dark and foul. Throughout the Colony—here on Hong Kong Island, across the harbour in Kowloon and the New Territories that were part of the China Mainland—streets were almost totally deserted, everyone and everything battened down, waiting for Typhoon Mary. The number nine storm warning had been hoisted at dusk and already eighty– to a hundred-knot gusts came out of the tempest that stretched a thousand miles southward to send the rain horizontal against the roofs and hillsides where tens of thousands of squatters huddled defenseless in their shantytowns of makeshift hovels.
Dunross slowed, blinded, the wipers unable to cope with the quantity of rain, the wind tearing at the canvas roof and side screens. Then the windshield cleared momentarily. At the end of Dirk's Street, directly ahead, was Connaught Road and the praya, then sea walls and the squat bulk of the Golden Ferry Terminal. Beyond in the vast, well-protected harbor, half a thousand ships were snug with all anchors out.
Ahead on the praya, he saw an abandoned street stall ripped bodily off the ground by a gust and hurled at a parked car, wrecking it. Then the car and the stall were sent skittering out of sight. His wrists were very strong and he held the wheel against the eddies that trembled his car violently. The car was old but well kept, the souped-up engine and brakes perfect. He waited, his heart beating nicely, loving storm, then eased up onto the sidewalk to park in the lee, well against the building, and got out.

He was fair-haired with blue eyes, in his early forties, lean and trim and he wore an old raincoat and cap. Rain drenched him as he hurried along the side street then ducked around the corner to hurry for the main entrance of the twenty-two-story building. Over the huge doorway was the Struan crest—the Red Lion of Scotland entwined with the Green Dragon of China. Gathering himself he strode up the broad steps and went in.
"Evening, Mr. Dunross," the Chinese concierge said.
"The tai-pan sent for me."
"Yes sir." The man pressed the elevator button for him.
When the elevator stopped, Dunross walked across the small hall, knocked and went into the penthouse living room. "Evening, tai-pan," he said with cold formality.
Alastair Struan was leaning against the fine fireplace. He was a big, ruddy, well-kept Scotsman with a slight paunch and white hair, in his sixties, and he had ruled Struan's for eleven years. "Drink?" He waved a hand at the Dom Perignon in the silver bucket.
"Thank you." Dunross had never been in the tai-pan's private quarters before. The room was spacious and well furnished, with Chinese lacquer and good carpets, old oils of their early clipper ships and steamers on the walls. The big picture windows that would normally overlook all Hong Kong, the harbor and Kowloon across the harbor were now black and rain streaked.
He poured. "Health," he said formally.
Alastair Struan nodded and, equally coldly, raised his glass in return. "You're early."
"Five minutes early is on time, tai-pan. Isn't that what Father hammered into me? Is it important that we meet at midnight?"
"Yes. It's part of our custom. Dirk's custom."
Dunross sipped his wine, waiting in silence. The antique ship's clock ticked loudly. His excitement increased, not knowing what to expect. Over the fireplace was a marriage portrait of a young girl. This was Tess Struan who had married Culum, second tai-pan and son of their founder Dirk Struan, when she was sixteen.
Dunross studied it. A squall dashed the windows. "Filthy night," he said.
The older man just looked at him, hating him. The silence grew. Then the old clock chimed eight bells, midnight.
There was a knock on the door.
"Come in," Alastair Struan said with relief, glad that now they could begin.
The door was opened by Lim Chu, the tai-pan's personal servant. He stepped aside to admit Phillip Chen, compradore of Struan's, then closed the door after him.
"Ah, Phillip, you're on time as usual," Alastair Struan said, trying to sound jovial. "Champagne?"
"Thank you, tai-pan. Yes, thank you. Good evening, Ian Struan Dunross," Phillip Chen said to the younger man with unusual formality, his English very upper-class British. He was Eurasian, in his late sixties, spare, rather more Chinese than European, a very handsome man with gray hair and high cheekbones, fair skin, and dark, very dark Chinese eyes. "Dreadful night, what?"
"Yes, it is indeed, Uncle Chen," Dunross replied, using the polite Chinese form of address for Phillip, liking him and respecting him as much as he despised his cousin Alastair.
"They say this typhoon's going to be a bastard." Alastair Struan was pouring the champagne into fine glasses. He handed Phillip Chen a glass first, then Dunross. "Health!"
They drank. A rain squall rattled the windows. "Glad I'm not afloat tonight," Alastair Struan said thoughtfully. "So, Phillip, here you are again."
"Yes, tai-pan. I'm honored. Yes, very honored." He sensed the violence between the two men but dismissed it. Violence is a pattern, he thought, when a tai-pan of the Noble House hands over power.
Alastair Struan sipped again, enjoying the wine. At length he said, "Ian, it's our custom that there be a witness to a handing over from tai-pan to tai-pan. It's always—and only—our current compradore. Phillip, how many times does this make?"
"I've been witness four times, tai-pan."
"Phillip has known almost all of us. He knows too many of our secrets. Eh, old friend?" Phillip Chen just smiled. "Trust him, Ian. His counsel's wise. You can trust him."
As much as any tai-pan should trust anyone, Dunross thought grimly. "Yes sir."
Alastair Struan set down his glass. "First: Ian Struan Dunross, I ask you formally, do you want to be tai-pan of Struan's?"
"Yes sir."