Noble House

"Come off it, for God's sake, Robert."

"Christ, you're only thirty-nine, you've done the special bigwig Staff College course and you're a super already. A hundred to ten says you'll end up with that rank."

"Done."

"I should have made it a hundred thousand," Armstrong said, pretending sourness. "Then you wouldn't have taken it."

"Try me."

"I won't. I can't afford to lose that amount of tootie—you might get killed or something, this year or next, or resign—but if you don't you're in for the big slot before you retire, presuming you want to go the distance."

"Both of us."

"Not me—I'm too mad dog English." Armstrong clapped him on the back happily. "That'll be a great day. But you won't close down the Dragons either—even if you'll be able to prove it, which I doubt."

"No?"

"No. I don't care about the gambling. All Chinese want to gamble and if some Chinese police sergeants run illegal street gambling it'll be mostly clean and mostly fair though bloody illegal. If they don't run it, triads will, and then the splinter groups of rotten little bastards we so carefully keep apart will join together again into one big long and then we'll really have a real problem. You know me, lad, I'm not one to rock any boats, that's why I won't make assistant commissioner. I like the status quo. The Dragons run the gambling so we keep the triads splintered—and just so long as the police always stick together and are absolutely the strongest triad in Hong Kong, we'll always have peace in the streets, a well-ordered population and almost no crime, violent crime."

Brian Kwok studied him. "You really believe that, don't you?"

"Yes. In a funny sort of a way, right now the Dragons are one of our strongest supports. Let's face it, Brian, only Chinese can govern Chinese. The status quo's good for them too—violent crime's bad for them. So we get help when we need it—sometimes, probably—help that we foreign devils couldn't get any other way. I'm not in favor of their corruption or of breaking the law, not at all—or bribery or all the other shitty things we have to do, or informers, but what police force in the world could operate without dirty hands sometimes and snotty little bastard informers? So the evil the Dragons represent fills a need here, I think. Hong Kong's China and China's a special case. Just so long as it's just illegal gambling I don't care never mind. Me, if it was left up to me I'd make gambling legal tonight but I'd break anyone for any protection racket, any dance hall protection or girls or whatever. I can't stand pimps as you know. Gambling's different. How can you stop a Chinese gambling? You can't. So make it legal and everyone's happy. How many years have the Hong Kong police been advising that and every year we're turned down. Twenty that I know of. But oh no and why? Macao! Simple as that. Dear old Portuguese Macao feeds off illegal gambling and gold smuggling and that's what keeps them alive and we can't afford, we, the UK, we can't afford to have our old ally go down the spout."

"Robert Armstrong for prime minister!"

"Up yours! But it's true. The take on illegal gambling's our only slush fund—a lot of it goes to pay our ring of informers. Where else can we get quick money? From our grateful government? Don't make me laugh! From a few extra tax dollars from the grateful population we protect? Ha!"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not, Robert. But it's certainly going to backfire one day. The payoffs—the loose and uncounted money that 'happens' to be in a station drawer? Isn't it?"

"Yes, but not on me 'cause I'm not in on it, or a taker, and the vast majority aren't either. British or Chinese. Meanwhile how do we three hundred and twenty-seven poor foreign devil police officers control eight odd thousand civilized junior officers and coppers, and another three and a half million civilized little bastards who hate our guts never mind."

Brian Kwok laughed. It was an infectious laugh and Armstrong laughed with him and added, "Up yours again for getting me going."

"Likewise. Meanwhile are you going to read that first or am I?"

Armstrong looked down at the file he held in his hand. It was thin and contained twelve closely typewritten pages and seemed to be more of a newsletter with topics under different headings. The contents page read: Part One: The Political and Business Forecast of the United Kingdom. Part Two: The KGB in Asia. Part Three: Gold. Part Four: Recent CIA Developments.

Wearily Armstrong put his feet on the desk and eased himself more comfortably in his chair. Then he changed his mind and passed the file over. "Here, you can read it. You read faster than I do anyway. I'm tired of reading about disaster."

Brian Kwok took it, his impatience barely contained, his heart thumping heavily. He opened it and began to read.

Armstrong watched him. He saw his friend's face change immediately and lose color. That troubled him greatly. Brian Kwok was not easily shocked. He saw him read through to the end without comment, then flick back to check a paragraph here and there. He closed the file slowly.

"It's that bad," Armstrong said.

"It's worse. Some of it—well, if it wasn't signed by A. Medford Grant, I'd say he was off his rocker. He claims the CIA have a serious connection with the Mafia, that they're plotting and have plotted to knock off Castro, they're into Vietnam in strength, into drugs and Christ knows what else—here—read it for yourself."

"What about the mole?"

"We've a mole all right." Brian reopened the file and found the paragraph. "Listen: There's no doubt that presently there is a high-level Communist agent in the Hong Kong police. Top-secret documents brought to our side by General Hans Richter—second-in-command of the East German Department of Internal Security —when he defected to us in March of this year clearly state the agent's code name is "Our Friend," that he has been in situ for at least ten, probably fifteen years. His contact is probably a KGB officer in Hong Kong posing as a visiting friendly businessman from the Iron Curtain countries, possibly as a banker or journalist, or posing as a seaman off one of the Soviet freighters visiting or being repaired in Hong Kong. Among other documented information we now know "Our Friend" has provided the enemy with are: All restricted radio channels, all restricted private phone numbers of the governor, chief of police and top echelon of the Hong Kong Government, along with very private dossiers on most of them . . .' "

"Dossiers?" Armstrong interrupted. "Are they included?"

"No."

"Shit! Go on, Brian."

" '. . . most of them; the classified police battle plans against a Communist-provoked insurrection, or a recurrence of the Kowloon riots; copies of all private dossiers of all police officers above the rank of inspector; the names of the chief six Nationalist undercover agents of the Kuomintang operating in Hong Kong under the present authority of General Jen Tang-wa (Appendix A); a detailed list of Hong Kong's Special Intelligence agents in Kwantung under the general authority of Senior Agent Wu Fong Fong (Appendix B).'"

"Jesus!" Armstrong gasped. "We'd better get old Fong Fong and his lads out right smartly."

"Yes."

"Is Wu Tat-sing on the list?"

Kwok checked the appendix. "Yes. Listen, this section ends: '. . . It is the conclusion of your committee that until this traitor is eliminated, the internal security of Hong Kong is hazardous. Why this information has not yet been passed on to the police themselves we do not yet know. We presume this ties in with the current political Soviet infiltration of UK administration on all levels which enables the Philbys to exist, and permits such information as this to be buried, or toned down, or misrepresented (which was the material for Study 4/1962). We would suggest this report—or portions of it, should be leaked at once to the governor or the commissioner of police, Hong Kong, if you consider them trustworthy,'" Brian Kwok looked up, his mind rocking. "There's a couple of other pieces here, Christ, the political situation in the UK and then there's Sevrin…. Read it." He shook his head helplessly. "Christ, if this's true . . . we're in it up to our necks. God in Heaven!"

Armstrong swore softly. "Who? Who could the spy be? Got to be high up. Who?"

After a great silence, Brian said, "The only one … the only one who could know all of this's Crosse himself."

"Oh come on for chrissake!"

"Think about it, Robert. He knew Philby. Didn't he go to Cambridge also? Both have similar backgrounds, they're the same age group, both were in Intelligence during the war—like Burgess and Maclean. If Philby could get away with it for all those years, why not Crosse?"

"Impossible!"

"Who else but him? Hasn't he been in MI-6 all his life? Didn't he do a tour here in the early fifties and wasn't he brought back here to set up our SI as a separate branch of SB five years ago? Hasn't he been director ever since?"

"That proves nothing."

"Oh?"

There was a long silence. Armstrong was watching his friend closely. He knew him too well not to know when he was serious. "What've you got?" he asked uneasily.

"Say Crosse is homosexual."

"You're plain bonkers," Armstrong exploded. "He's married and . . . and he may be an evil son of a bitch but there's never been a smell of anything like that, never."

"Yes, but he's got no children, his wife's almost permanently in England and when she's here they have separate rooms."

"How do you know?"

"The amah would know so if I wanted to know it'd be easy to find out."

"That proves nothing. Lots of people have separate rooms. You're wrong about Crosse."

"Say I could give you proof?"

"What proof?"

"Where does he always go for part of his leave? The Cameron Highlands in Malaya. Say he had a friend there, a young Malayan, a known deviate."

"I'd need photos and we both know photos can be easily doctored," Armstrong said harshly. "I'd need tape recordings and we both know those can be doctored too. The youth himself? That proves nothing—it's the oldest trick in the book to produce false testimony and false witnesses. There's never been a hint… and even if he's AC-DC, that proves nothing—not all deviates are traitors."

"No. But all deviates lay themselves open to blackmail. And if he is, he'd be highly suspect. Highly suspect. Right note 1 ?"

Armstrong looked around uneasily. "I don't even like talking about it here, he could have this place tapped."

"And if he has?"

"If he has and if it's true he can fry us so quickly your head would spin. He can fry us anyway."

"Perhaps—but if he is the one then he'll know we're on to him and if he's not he'll laugh at us and I'm out of SI. In any event, Robert, he can't fry every Chinese in the force."

Armstrong stared at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Perhaps there's a file on him. Perhaps every Chinese above the rank of corporal's read it."

"What?"

"Come on, Robert, you know Chinese are great joiners. Perhaps there's a file, per—"

"You mean you're all organized into a brotherhood? A long, a secret society? A triad within the force?"

"I said perhaps. This is all surmise, Robert. I said perhaps and maybe."

"Who's the High Dragon? You?"

"I never said there was such a grouping. I said perhaps."

"Are there other files? On me, for instance?"

"Perhaps."

"And?"

"And if there was, Robert," Brian Kwok said gently, "it'd say you were a fine policeman, uncorrupted, that you had gambled heavily on the stock market and gambled wrong and needed twenty-odd thousand to clean up some pressing debts—and a few other things." «

"What other things?"

"This is China, old chum. We know almost everything that goes on with quai loh here. We have to, to survive, don't we?"

Armstrong looked at him strangely. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I haven't told you anything now. Nothing. I said perhaps and I repeat perhaps. But if this's all true . .." He passed over the file and wiped the sweat off his upper lip. "Read it yourself. If it's true we're up the creek without a paddle and we'll need to work very quickly. What I said was all surmise. But not about Crosse. Listen Robert, I'll bet you a thousand… a thousand to one, he's the mole."

10

7:43 P.M.:

Dunross finished reading the blue-covered file for the third time. He had read it as soon as it had arrived—as always—then again on the way to the Governor's Palace. He closed the blue cover and set it onto his lap for a moment, his mind possessed. Now he was in his study on the second floor of the Great House that sat on a knoll on the upper levels of the Peak, the leaded bay windows overlooking floodlit gardens, and then far below, the city and the immensity of the harbor.

The ancient grandfather clock chimed a quarter to eight.

Fifteen minutes to go, he thought. Then our guests arrive and the party begins and we all take part in a new charade. Or perhaps we just continue the same one.

The room had high ceilings and old oak paneling, dark green velvet curtains and Chinese silk rugs. It was a man's room, comfortable, old, a little worn and very cherished. He heard the muted voices of the servants below. A car came up the hill and passed by.

The phone rang. "Yes? Oh hello, Claudia."

"I haven't reached Tsu-yan yet, tai-pan. He wasn't in his office. Has he called?"

"No. No not yet. You keep trying."

"Yes. See you in a little while. 'Bye."

He was sitting in a deep, high-winged chair and wore a dinner jacket, his tie not yet tied. Absently he stared out of the windows, the view ever pleasing. But tonight he was filled with foreboding, thinking about Sevrin and the traitor and all the other evil things the report had foretold.

What to do?

"Laugh," he said out loud. "And fight."

He got up and went with his easy stride to the oil painting of Dirk Struan that was on the wall over the mantelpiece. Its frame was heavy and carved gilt and old, the gilt chipped off here and there, and it was secretly hinged on one side. He moved it away from the wall and opened the safe the painting covered. In the safe were many papers, some neatly tied with scarlet ribbons, some ancient, some new, a few small boxes, a neat, well-oiled, loaded Mauser in a clip attached to one of the sides, a box of ammunition, a vast old Bible with the Struan arms etched into the fine old leather and seven blue-covered files similar to the one he had in his hand.

Thoughtfully he slid the file alongside the others in sequence. He stared at them a moment, began to close the safe but changed his mind as his eyes fell on the ancient Bible. His fingers caressed it, then he lifted it out and opened-it. Affixed to the thick flyleaf with old sealing wax were halves of two old Chinese bronze coins, crudely broken. Clearly, once upon a time, there had been four such half-coins for there was still the imprint of the missing two and the remains of the same red sealing wax attached to the ancient paper. The handwriting heading the page was beautiful copperplate: "I swear by the Lord God that whomsoever produces the other half of any of these coins, I will grant him whatsoever he asks." It was signed Dirk Struan, June 10, 1841, and below his signature was Culum Struan's and all the other tai-pans and the last name was Ian Dunross.

Alongside the first space where once a coin had been was written: "Wu Fang Choi, paid in part, August 16, Year of our Lord 1841," and signed again by Dirk Struan and cosigned below by Culum Struan and dated 18 June 1845 "paid in full." Alongside the second: "Sun Chen-yat, paid in full, October 10, 1911," and signed boldly, Hag Struan.

Ah, Dunross told himself, bemused, what lovely arrogance—to be so secure to be able to sign the book thus and not Tess Struan, for future generations to see.

How many more generations? he asked himself. How many more tai-pans will have to sign blindly and swear the Holy Oath to do the bidding of a man dead almost a century and a half?

Thoughtfully he ran his finger over the jagged edges of the two remaining half-coins. After a moment he closed the Bible firmly, put it into its place again, touched it once for luck and locked the safe. He swung the painting back into its place and stared up at the portrait, standing now with his hands deep in his pockets in front of the mantelpiece, the heavy old oak carved with the Struan arms, chipped and broken here and there, an old Chinese fire screen in front of the huge fireplace.

This oil of Dirk Struan was his favorite and he had taken it out of the long gallery when he became tai-pan and had hung it here in the place of honor—instead of the portrait of Hag Struan that had been over the mantelpiece in the tai-pan's study ever since there was a Great House. Both had been painted by Aristotle Quance. In this one, Dirk Struan was standing in front of a crimson curtain, broad-shouldered and arrogant, his high-cut coat black and his waistcoat and cravat and ruffled shirt white and high-cut. Heavy eyebrows and strong nose and clean-shaven, with reddish hair and mutton-chop sideburns, lips curled and sensual and you could feel the eyes boring into you, their green enhanced by the black and white and crimson.

Dunross half-smiled, not afraid, not envious, more calmed than anything by his ancestor's gaze—knowing he was possessed, partially possessed by him. He raised his glass of champagne to the painting in half-mocking jest as he had done many times before: "Health!"

The eyes stared back at him.

What would you do, Dirk—Dirk o' the will o' the wisp, he thought.

"You'd probably say just find the traitors and kill them," he mused aloud, "and you'd probably be right."

The problem of the traitor in the police did not shatter him as much as the information about the Sevrin spy ring, its U.S. connections and the astonishing, secret gains made by the Communists in Britain. Where the hell does Grant get all his info? he asked himself for the hundredth time.

He remembered their first meeting. Alan Medford Grant was a short, elflike, balding man with large eyes and large teeth, in his neat pin-striped suit and bowler hat and he liked him immediately.

"Don't you worry, Mr. Dunross," Grant had said when Dunross had hired him in 1960, the moment he became tai-pan. "I assure you there'll be no conflict of interest with Her Majesty's Government if I chair your research committee on the nonexclusive basis we've discussed. I've already cleared it with them in fact. I'll only give you —confidentially of course, for you personally of course, and absolutely not for publication—I'll only give you classified material that does not, in my opinion, jeopardize the national interest. After all, our interests are the same there, aren't they?"

"I think so."

"May I ask how you heard of me?"

"We have friends in high places, Mr. Grant. In certain circles your name is quite famous. Perhaps even a foreign secretary would recommend you," he had added delicately.

"Ah yes."

"Our arrangement is satisfactory?"

"Yes—one year initially, extended to five if everything goes well. After five?"

"Another five," Dunross said. "If we achieve the results I want, your retainer will be doubled."

"Ah. That's very generous. But may I ask why you're being so generous—perhaps extravagant would be the word—with me and this projected committee?"

"Sun Tzu said: 'What enables a wise sovereign or good general to strike and to conquer and to achieve things beyond the reach of normal men is foreknowledge. Foreknowledge comes only through spies. Nothing is of more importance to the state than the quality of its spies. // is ten thousand times cheaper to pay the best spies lavishly than even a tiny army poorly.' "

Alan Medford Grant beamed. "Quite right! My 8,500 pounds a year is lavish indeed, Mr. Dunross. Oh yes. Yes indeed."

"Can you think of a better investment for me?"

"Not if I perform correctly, if I and the ones I choose are the best to be had. Even so, 30-odd thousand pounds a year in salaries—a fund of up to 100,000 pounds to draw on for… for informants and information, all secret monies . . . well, I hope you will be satisfied with your investment."

"If you're the best I'll recoup a thousandfold. I expect to recoup a thousandfold," he had said, meaning it.

"I'll do everything in my power of course. Now, specifically what sort of information do you want?"

"Anything and everything, commercial, political, that'd help Struan's plan ahead, with accent on the Pacific Rim, on Russian, American and Japanese thinking. We'd probably know more about Chinese attitudes ourselves. Please give me more rather than less. Actually anything could be valuable because I want to take Struan's out of the China trade—more specifically I want the company international and want to diversify out of our present dependence on China trade."

"Very well. First: I would not like to trust our reports to the mails."

"I'll arrange a personal courier."

"Thank you. Second: I must have free range to select, appoint and remove the other members of the committee—and spend the money as I see fit?"

"Agreed."

"Five members will be sufficient."

"How much do you want to pay them?"

"5,000 pounds a year for a nonexclusive retainer each would be excellent. I can get top men for that. Yes. I'll appoint associate members for special studies as I need them. As, er, as most of our contacts will be abroad, many in Switzerland, could funds be available there?"

"Say I deposit the full amount we've agreed quarterly in a numbered Swiss account. You can draw funds as you need them—your signature or mine only. You account to me solely, quarterly in arrears. If you want to erect a code that's fine with me."

"Excellent. I won't be able to name anyone—I can't account to whom I give money."

After a pause Dunross had said, "All right."

"Thank you. We understand one another, I think. Can you give me an example of what you want?"

"For example, I don't want to get caught like my predecessor was over Suez."

"Oh! You mean the 1956 fiasco when Eisenhower betrayed us again and caused the failure of the British-French-Israeli attack on Egypt—because Nasser had nationalized the canal?"

"Yes. That cost us a fortune—it wrecked our Middle East interests, almost ruined us. If the previous tai-pan'd known about a possible closure of Suez we could have made a fortune booking cargo space—increasing our fleet … or if we'd had an advanced insight into American thinking, particularly that Eisenhower would side again with Soviet Russia against us, we could certainly have cut our losses."

The little man had said sadly, "You know he threatened to freeze all British, French and Israeli assets in the States instantly if we did not at once withdraw from Egypt when we were a few hours from victory? I think all our present problems in the Middle East stem from that U.S. decision. Yes. Inadvertently the U.S. approved international piracy for the first time and set a pattern for future piracies. Nationalization. What a joke! Theft is a better word—or piracy. Yes. Eisenhower was ill-advised. And very ill-advised to go along with the fatuous political Yalta agreement of an ailing Roosevelt, the incompetent Attlee to allow Stalin to gorge most of Europe, when it was militarily clear to even the most stupid politician or hidebound general that it was contrary to our absolute national interest, ours and the United States to hold back. I think Roosevelt hated us really, and our British Empire."

The little man steepled his fingers and beamed. "I'm afraid there's one big disadvantage in employing me, Mr. Dunross. I'm entirely pro-British, anti-Communist, and particularly anti-KGB, which is the main instrument of Soviet foreign note 2 policy, which is openly and forever committed to our destruction, so some of my more peppery forecasts you can discount, if you wish. I'm entirely against a left-wing dominated Labour Party and I will constantly remind anyone who will listen that the anthem of the Labour Party's 'The Red Flag.' " Alan Medford Grant smiled in his pixy way. "It's best you know where you stand in the beginning. I'm royalist, loyalist and believe in the British parliamentary way. I'll never knowingly give you false information though my evaluations will be slanted. May I ask what your politics are?"

"We have none in Hong Kong, Mr. Grant. We don't vote; there are no elections—we're a colony, particularly a free-port colony, not a democracy. The Crown rules—actually the governor rules despotically for the Crown. He has a legislative council but it's a rubber-stamp council and the historic policy is laissez-faire. Wisely he leaves things alone. He listens to the business community, makes social changes very cautiously and leaves everyone to make money or not make money, to build, expand, go broke, to go or to come, to dream or to stay awake, to live or to die as best you can. And the maximum tax is 15 percent but only on money earned in Hong Kong. We don't have politics here, don't want politics here—neither does China want us to have any here. They're for the status quo too. My personal politics? I'm royalist, I'm for freedom, for free-booting and free trade. I'm a Scotsman, I'm for Struan's, I'm for laissez-faire in Hong Kong and freedom throughout the world."

"I think we understand one another. Good. I've never worked for an individual before—only the government. This will be a new experience for me. I hope I will satisfy you." Grant paused and thought a moment. "Like Suez in '56?" The lines beside the little man's eyes crinkled. "Very well, plan that the Panama Canal will be lost to America."

"That's ridiculous!"

"Oh don't look so shocked, Mr. Dunross! It's too easy. Give it ten or fifteen years of enemy spadework and lots of liberal talk in America, ably assisted by do-gooders who believe in the benevolence of human nature, add to all this a modest amount of calculated Panamanian agitation, students and so on—preferably, ah, always students—artfully and secretly assisted by a few highly trained, patient, professional agitators and oh so secret KGB expertise, finance and a long-range plan—ergo, in due course the canal could be out of U.S. hands into the enemy's."

"They'd never stand for it."

"You're right, Mr. Dunross, but they will sit for it. What could be a better garrotte in time of hostilities, or even crisis, against your main, openly stated capitalistic enemy than to be able to inhibit the Panama Canal or rock it a little? One ship sunk in any one of a hundred spots, or a lock wrecked, could dam up the canal for years."

Dunross remembered how he had poured two more drinks before answering, and then he had said, "You're seriously suggesting we should make contingency plans against that."

"Yes," the little man said with his extraordinary innocence. "I'm very serious about my job, Mr. Dunross. My job, the one I've chosen for me, is to seek out, to uncover and evaluate enemy moves. I'm not anti-Russian or anti-Chinese or anti-East German or anti any of that bloc—on the absolute contrary I want desperately to help them. I'm convinced that we're in a state of war, that the enemy of all the people is the Communist Party member, whether British, Soviet, Chinese, Hungarian, American, Irish . . . even Martian , . . and all are linked in one way or another; that the KGB, like it or not, is in the center of their web." He sipped the drink Dunross had just refilled for him. "This is marvelous whiskey, Mr. Dunross."

"It's Loch Vey—it comes from a small distillery near our homelands in Ayr. It's a Struan company."

"Marvelous!" Another appreciative sip of the whiskey and Dunross reminded himself to send Alan Medford Grant a case for Christmas—if the initial reports proved interesting.

"I'm not a fanatic, Mr. Dunross, nor a rabble-rouser. Just a sort of reporter and forecaster. Some people collect stamps, I collect secrets. …"

The lights of a car rounding the half-hidden curve of the road below distracted Dunross momentarily. He wandered over to the window and watched the car until it had gone, enjoying the sound of the highly tuned engine. Then he sat in a high-winged chair and let his mind drift again. Yes, Mr. Grant, you certainly collect secrets, he thought, staggered as usual by the scope of the little man's knowledge.

Sevrin—Christ almighty! If that's true . . .

How accurate are you this time? How far do I trust you this time —how far do I gamble?

In previous reports Grant had given two projections that, so far, could be proved. A year in advance, Grant had predicted that de Gaulle would veto Britain's effort to join the EEC, that the French general's posture would be increasingly anti-British, anti-American and pro-Soviet, and that de Gaulle would, prompted by outside influences and encouraged by one of his closest advisors—an immensely secret, covert KGB mole—mount a long-term attack on the U.S. economy by speculation in gold. Dunross had dismissed this as farfetched and so had lost a potential fortune.

Recently, six months in advance, Grant had forecast the missile crisis in Cuba, that Kennedy would slam down the gauntlet, blockade Cuba and exert the necessary pressure and not buckle under the strain of brinkmanship, that Khrushchev would back off under pressure. Gambling that Grant was correct this time—though a Cuban missile crisis had seemed highly unlikely at the time forecast —Dunross had made Struan's half a million pounds by buying Hawaiian sugar futures, another 600,000 on the stock market, plus 600,000 for the tai-pan's secret fund—and cemented a long-range plan to invest in Hawaiian sugar plantations as soon as he could find the financial tool. And you've got it now, he told himself gleefully. Par-Con.

"You've almost got it," he muttered, correcting himself.

How far do I trust this report? Thus far AMG's committee's been a gigantic investment for all his meanderings, he thought. Yes. But it's almost like having your own astrologer. A few accurate forecasts don't mean they'll all be. Hitler had his own forecaster. So did Julius Caesar. Be wise, be cautious, he reminded himself.

What to do? It's now or never.

Sevrin. Alan Medford Grant had written: "Documents brought to us and substantiated by the French spy Marie d'Orleans caught by the Surete June 16 indicate that the KGB Department V (Disinformation—FAR EAST) have in situ a hitherto unknown, deep-cover espionage network throughout the Far East, code name Sevrin. The purpose of Sevrin is clearly stated in the stolen Head Document:

"Aim: To cripple revisionist China—formally acknowledged by the Central Committee of the USSR as the main enemy, second only to capitalist U.S.A.

"Procedure: The permanent obliteration of Hong Kong as the bastion of capitalism in the Far East and China's preeminent source of all foreign currency, foreign assistance and all technical and manufactured assistance of every kind.

"Method: Long-term infiltration of the press and media, the government, police, business and education with friendly aliens controlled by Center—but only in accordance with most special procedures throughout Asia.

"Initiation date: Immediate.

"Duration of operation: Provisionally thirty years.

"Target date: 1980-83.

"Classification: Red One.

"Funding: Maximum.

"Approval: L.B. March 14, 1950.

"It's interesting to note," Grant had continued, "that the document is signed in 1950 by L.B.—presumed to be Lavrenti Beria— when Soviet Russia was openly allied with Communist China, and that, even in those days, China was secretly considered their Number Two enemy. (Our previous report 3/1962, Russia versus China refers.)

"China, historically, is the great prize that always was—and ever will be—sought by imperialistic and hegemonic Russia. Possession of China, or its mutilation into balkanized subject states, is the perpetual keystone of Russian foreign policy. First is, of course, the obliteration of Western Europe, for then, Russia believes, China can be swallowed at will.

"The documents reveal that the Hong Kong cell of Sevrin consists of a resident controller, code name Arthur, and six agents. We know nothing about Arthur, other than that he has been a KGB agent since recruitment in England in the thirties (it's not known if he was born in England, or if his parents are English, but he would be in his late forties or early fifties). His mission is, of course, a long-term, deep-cover operation.

"Supporting top-secret intelligence documents stolen from the Czechoslovak STB (State Secret Security) dated April 6, 1959, translate in part, '. . . between 1946 and 1959 six key, deep-cover agents have been recruited through information supplied by the controller, Arthur: one each in the Hong Kong Colonial Office (code name Charles), Treasury (code name Mason), Naval Base (John), the Bank of London and China (Vincent), the Hong Kong Telephone Company (William), and Struan and Company (Frederick). According to normal procedures only the controller knows the true identity of the others. Seven safe houses have been established. Among them are Sinclair Towers on Hong Kong Island and the Nine Dragons Hotel in Kowloon. Sevrin's New York contact, has the code name Guillio. He is very important to us because of his Mafia and CIA connections.' "

Grant had continued, Guillio is believed to be Vincenzo Banas-tasio, a substantial racketeer and the present don of the Sallapione family. This is being checked through our U.S. sources. We don't know if the deep-cover enemy agent in the police (covered in detail in another section) is part of Sevrin or not but presume he is.

"In our opinion, China will be forced to seek ever-increasing amounts of trade with the West to counterbalance imperialist Soviet hegemony and to fill the void and chaos created by the sudden withdrawal in 1960 of all Soviet funding and technicians. China's armed forces badly need modernizing. Harvests have been bad. Therefore all forms of strategic materials and military hardware will find a ready market for many years to come, and food, basic foodstuffs. The long-range purchase of American rice futures is recommended.

"I have the honor to be, sir, your obedient servant, AMG, London, August 15, 1963."

Jets and tanks and nuts and bolts and rockets and engines and trucks and petrol and tires and electronics and food, Dunross thought, his mind soaring. A limitless spectrum of trade goods, easy to obtain, easy to ship, and nothing on earth like a war for profit if you can trade. But China's not buying now, whatever they need, whatever Grant says.

Who could Arthur be?

Who in Struan's? Jesus Christ! John Chen and Tsu-yan and smuggled guns and now a KGB agent within. Who? What about . . .

There was a gentle knock on the door.

"Come in," he said, recognizing his wife's knock.

"Ian, it's almost eight," Penelope, his wife, said, "I thought I'd better tell you. You know how you are."

"Yes."

"How did it go today? Awful about John Chen, isn't it? I suppose you read the papers? Are you coming down?"

"Yes. Champagne?"

"Thanks."

He poured for her and replenished his glass. "Oh by the way, Penn, I invited a fellow I met this afternoon, an ex-RAF type. He seemed a decent fellow—Peter Marlowe."

"Fighters?"

"Yes. But Hurricanes—not Spits. Is that a new dress?"

"Yes."

"You look pretty," he said.

"Thank you but I'm not. I feel so old, but thank you." She sat in the other winged chair, her perfume as delicate as her features. "Peter Marlowe, you said?"

"Yes. Poor bugger got caught in Java in '42. He was a POW for three and a half years."

"Oh, poor man. He was shot down?"

"No, the Japanese plastered the 'drome before he could scramble. Perhaps he was lucky. The Zeros got two on the ground and the last two just after they were airborne—the pilots flamed in. Seems those four Hurricanes were the last of the Few—the last of the whole air defense of the Far East. What a balls-up that was!"

"Terrible."

"Yes. Thank God our war was in Europe." Dunross watched her. "He said he was a year in Java, then the Japanese sent him to Singapore on a work party."

"To Changi?" she asked, her voice different.

"Yes."

"Oh!"

"He was there for two and a half years." Changi in Malay meant

"clinging vine," and Changi was the name of the jail in Singapore that was used by the Japanese in World War II for one of their infamous prisoner-of-war camps.

She thought a moment, then smiled a little nervously. "Did he know Robin there?" Robin Grey was her brother, her only living relative: her parents had been killed in an air raid in London in 1943, just before she and Dunross were married.

"Marlowe said yes, he seemed to remember him, but clearly he didn't want to talk about those days so I let it drop."

"I can imagine. Did you tell him Robin was my brother?"

"No."

"When's Robin due back here?"

"I don't know exactly. In a few days. This afternoon the governor told me the delegation's in Peking now." A British Parliamentary Trade Delegation drawn from MPs of the three parties—Conservative, Liberal and Labour—had been invited out from London by Peking to discuss all manner of trade. The delegation had arrived in Hong Kong two weeks ago and had gone directly on to Canton where all trade negotiations were conducted. It was very rare for anyone to get an invitation, let alone a parliamentary delegation— and even rarer to be invited on to Peking. Robin Grey was one of the members—representative of the Labour Party. "Penn darling, don't you think we should acknowledge Robin, give a reception for him? After all, we haven't seen him for years, this's the first time he's been to Asia—isn't it time you buried the hatchet and made peace?"

"He's not invited to my house. Any of my houses."

"Isn't it time you relaxed a little, let bygones be bygones?"

"No, I know him, you don't. Robin has his life and we have ours, that's what he and I agreed years ago. No, I've no wish to see him ever again. He's awful, dangerous, foul-mouthed and a bloody bore."

Dunross laughed. "I agree he's obnoxious and I detest his politics —but he's only one of a half dozen MPs. This delegation's important. I should do something to entertain them, Penn."

"Please do, Ian. But preferably not here—or else tell me in good time so I can have the vapors and see that the children do the same. It's a matter of face and that's the end of it." Penelope tossed her head and shook off her mood. "God! Let's not let him spoil this evening! What's this Marlowe doing in Hong Kong?"

"He's a writer. Wants to do a book on Hong Kong, he said. He lives in America now. His wife's coming too. Oh, by the way, I also invited the Americans, Line Bartlett and Casey Tcholok."

"Oh!" Penelope Dunross laughed. "Oh well, four or forty extra won't make any difference at all—I won't know most of them anyway, and Claudia's organized everything with her usual efficiency." She arched an eyebrow. "So! A gun-runner amongst the pirates! That won't even cause a ripple."

"Is he?"

"Everyone says so. Did you see the piece in this afternoon's Mirror, Ian? Ah Tat's convinced the American is bad joss—she informed the whole staff, the children and me—so that makes it official. Ah Tat told Adryon that her astrologer insisted she tell you to watch out for bad influence from the East. Ah Tat's sure that means the Yanks. Hasn't she bent your ear yet?"

"Not yet."

"God, I wish I could chatter Cantonese like you and the children. I'd tell that old harpy to keep her superstitions and opinions to herself—she's a bad influence."

"She'd give her life for the children."

"I know she's your gan sun and almost brought you up and thinks she's God's gift to the Dunross clan. But as far as I'm concerned she's a cantankerous, loathsome old bitch and I hate her." Penelope smiled sweetly. "I hear the American girl's pretty."

"Attractive—not pretty. She's giving Andrew a bad time."

"I can imagine. A lady talking business! What are we coming to in this great world of ours? Is she any good?"

"Too soon to tell. But she's very smart. She's—she'll make things awkward certainly."

"Have you seen Adryon tonight?"

"No—what's up?" he asked, instantly recognizing the tone of voice.

"She's been into my wardrobe again—half my best nylons are gone, the rest are scattered, my scarves are all jumbled up, my new blouse's missing and my new belt's disappeared. She's even whipped my best Hermes . . . that child's the end!"

"Nineteen's hardly a child," he said wearily.

"She's the end! The number of times I've told her!"

"I'll talk to her again."

"That won't do a bit of good."

"I know."

She laughed with him. "She's such a pill."

"Here." He handed her a slim box. "Happy twentieth!"

"Oh thank you, Ian. Yours is downstairs. You'll…" She stopped and opened the box. It contained a carved jade bracelet, the jade inset into silver filigree, very fine, very old—a collector's piece. "Oh how lovely, thank you, Ian." She put it on her wrist over the thin gold chain she was wearing and he heard neither real pleasure nor real disappointment under her voice, his ears tuned to her. "It's beautiful," she said and leaned forward and brushed her lips against his cheek. "Thank you, darling. Where did you get it? Taiwan?"

"No, here on Cat Street. At Wong Chun Kit's, he ga—"

The door flew open and a girl barreled in. She was tall and slim and oh so fair and she said in a breathless rush, "I hope it's all right I invited a date tonight and I just had the call that he's coming and he'll be late but I thought it'd be okay. He's cool. And very trick."

"For the love of God, Adryon," Dunross said mildly, "how many times do I have to ask you to knock before you charge in here and would you kindly talk English? What the hell's trick?"

"Good, great, cool, trick. Sorry, Father, but you really are rather square because cool and trick are very in, even in Hong Kong. See you soon, have to dash, after the party I'm going out—I'll be late so don't—"

"Wait a min—"

"That's my blouse, my new blouse," Penelope burst out. "Adryon, you take it off this minute! I've told you fifty times to stay the hell out of my wardrobe."

"Oh, Mother," Adryon said as sharply, "you don't need it, can't I borrow it for this evening?" Her tone changed. "Please? Pretty please? Father, talk to her." She switched to perfect amah Cantonese, "Honorable Father . . . please help your Number One Daughter to achieve the unachievable or I shall weep weep weep oh ko . . ." Then back into English in the same breath, "Mother . . . you don't need it and I'll look after it, truly. Please?"

"No."

"Come on, pretty please, I'll look after it, I promise."

"No."

"Mother!"

"Well if you pr—"

"Oh thanks." The girl beamed and turned and rushed out and the door slammed behind her.

"Jesus bloody Christ," Dunross said sourly, "why the hell does a door always happen to slam behind her!"

"Well at least it's not deliberate now." Penelope sighed. "I don't think I could go through that siege again."

"Nor me. Thank God Glenna's reasonable."

"It's purely temporary, Ian. She takes after her father, that one, like Adryon."

"Huh! I don't have a filthy temper," he said sharply. "And since we're on the subject I hope to God Adryon has found someone decent to date instead of the usual shower! Who is this she's bringing?"

"I don't know, Ian. This is the first I've heard of it too."

"They're always bloody awful! Her taste in men's appalling. … Remember that melon-headed berk with the neolithic arms that she was 'madly in love with'? Christ Jesus, she was barely fifteen an—"

"She was almost sixteen."

"What was his name? Ah yes, Byron. Byron for chrissake!"

"You really shouldn't have threatened to blow his head off, Ian. It was just puppy love."

"It was gorilla bloody love, by God," Dunross said even more sourly. "He was a bloody gorilla…. You remember that other one, the one before bloody Byron—the psychiatric bastard … what was his name?"

"Victor. Yes, Victor Hopper. He was the one … oh yes, I remember, he was the one who asked if it was all right if he slept with Adryon."

"He what?"

"Oh yes." She smiled up at him so innocently. "I didn't tell you at the time . . . thought I'd better not."

"He what?"

"Don't get yourself all worked up, Ian. That's at least four years ago. I told him no, not at the moment, Adryon's only fourteen, but yes, certainly, when she was twenty-one. That was another that died on the vine."

"Jesus Christ! He asked you if he co—"

"At least he asked, Ian! That was something. It's all so very ordinary." She got up and poured more champagne into his glass, and some for herself. "You've only got another ten years or so of purgatory, then there'll be the grandchildren. Happy anniversary and the best of British to you!" She laughed and touched his glass and drank and smiled at him.

"You're right again," he said and smiled back, liking her very much. So many years, good years. I've been lucky, he thought. Yes. I was blessed that first day. It was at his RAF station at Biggin Hill, a warm, sunny August morning in 1940 during the Battle of Britain and she was a WAAF and newly posted there. It was his eighth day at war, his third mission that day and first kill. His Spitfire was latticed with bullet holes, parts of his wing gone, his tail section tattooed. By all the rules of joss, he should be dead but he wasn't and the Messerschmitt was and her pilot was and he was home and safe and blood raging, drunk with fear and shame and relief that he had come back and the youth he had seen in the other cockpit, the enemy, had burned screaming as he spiraled.

"Hello, sir," Penelope Grey had said. "Welcome home sir. Here." She had given him a cup of hot sweet tea and she had said nothing else though she should have begun debriefing him at once—she was in Signals. She said nothing but smiled and gave him time to come out of the skies of death into life again. He had not thanked her, just drank the tea and it was the best he had ever had.

"I got a Messerschmitt," he had said when he could talk, his voice trembling like his knees. He could not remember unsnapping his harness or getting out of his cockpit or climbing into the truck with the other survivors. "It was a 109."

"Yes sir, Squadron Leader Miller has already confirmed the kill and he says to please get ready, you're to scramble any minute again. You're to take Poppa Mike Kilo this time. Thank you for the kill, sir, that's one less of those devils … oh how I wish I could go up with you to help you all kill those monsters. . . ."

But they weren't monsters, he thought, at least the first pilot and first plane that he had killed had not been—just a youth like himself, perhaps the same age, who had burned screaming, died screaming, a flaming falling leaf, and this afternoon or tomorrow or soon it would be his turn—too many of them, the enemy, too few of us.

"Did Tommy get back, Tom Lane?"

"No sir, sorry sir. He… the squadron leader said Flight Lieutenant Lane was jumped over Dover."

"I'm petrified of burning, going down," he had said.

"Oh you won't, sir, not you. They won't shoot you down. I know. You won't, sir, no, not you. They'll never get you, never never never," she had said, pale blue eyes, fair hair and fair of face, not quite eighteen but strong, very strong and very confident.

He had believed her and her faith had carried him through four more months of missions—sometimes five missions each day—and more kills and though she was wrong and later he was blown out of the sky, he lived and burned only a little. And then, when he came out of the hospital, grounded forever, they had married.

"Doesn't seem like twenty years," he said, holding in his happiness.

"Plus two before," she said, holding in her happiness.

"Plus two be—"

The door opened. Penelope sighed as Ah Tat stalked into the room, talking Cantonese fifty to the dozen, "Ayeeyah, my Son, but aren't you ready yet, our honored guests will be here any moment and your tie's not tied and that motherless foreigner from North Kwantung brought unnecessarily into our house to cook tonight . . . that smelly offspring of a one-dollar strumpet from North Kwantung where all the best thieves and worst whores come from who fancies himself a cook … ha! … This man and his equally despicable foreign staff is befouling our kitchen and stealing our peace. Oh ko," the tiny wizened old woman continued without a breath as her clawlike fingers reached up automatically and deftly tied his tie, "and that's not all! Number Two Daughter … Number Two Daughter just won't put on the dress that Honorable First Wife has chosen for her and her rage is flying to Java! Eeeee, this family! Here, my Son," she took the telex envelope out of her pocket and handed it to Dunross, "here's another barbarian message bringing more congratulations for this happy day that your poor old Mother had to carry up the stairs herself on her poor old legs because the other good-for-nothing servants are good for nothing and bone idle. . . ." She paused momentarily for breath.

"Thank you, Mother," he said politely.

"In your Honorable Father's day, the servants worked and knew what to do and your old Mother didn't have to endure dirty strangers in our Great House!" She walked out muttering more curses on the caterers. "Now don't you be late, my Son, otherwise . . ." She was still talking after she'd closed the door.

"What's up with her?" Penelope asked wearily.

"She's rattling on about the caterers, doesn't like strangers—you know what she's like." He opened the envelope. In it was the folded telex.

"What was she saying about Glenna?" his wife asked, having recognized yee-chat, Second Daughter, though her Cantonese was minimal.

"Just that she was having a fit about the dress you picked for her."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Ah Tat didn't say. Look, Penn, perhaps Glenna should just go to bed—it's almost past her bedtime now and sh—"

"Dreamer! No chance till hell freezes over. Even Hag Struan wouldn't keep Glenna from her first grown-up as she calls it! You did agree Ian, you agreed, I didn't, you did!"

"Yes, but don't you th—"

"No. She's quite old enough. After all she's thirteen going on thirty." Penelope calmly finished her champagne. "Even so I shall now deal with that young lady never mind." She got up. Then she saw his face. He was staring at the telex.

"What's the matter?"

"One of our people's been killed. In London. Grant. Alan Med-ford Grant."

"Oh. I don't know him, do I?"

"I think you met him once in Ayrshire. He was a small, pixyish man. He was at one of our parties at Castle Avisyard—it was on our last leave."

She frowned. "Don't remember." She took the offered telex. It read: "Regret to inform you A. M. Grant was killed in motorcycle accident this morning. Details will follow when I have them. Sorry. Regards, Kiernan." "Who's Kiernan?"

"His assistant"

"Grant's … he was a friend?"

"In a way."

"He's important to you?"

"Yes."

"Oh, sorry."

Dunross forced himself to shrug and keep his voice level. But in his mind he was cursing obscenely. "Just one of those things. Joss."

She wanted to commiserate with him, recognizing at once the depth of his shock. She knew he was greatly perturbed, trying to hide it—and she wanted to know immediately the who and the why of this unknown man. But she held her peace.

That's my job, she reminded herself. Not to ask questions, to be calm and to be there—to pick up the pieces, but only when I'm allowed to. "Are you coming down?"

"In a moment."

"Don't be long, Ian."

"Yes."

"Thanks again for my bracelet," she said, liking it very much and he said, "It's nothing," but she knew he had not really heard her. He was already at the phone asking for long distance. She walked out and closed the door quietly and stood miserably in the long corridor that led to the east and west wings, her heart thumping. Curse all telexes and all telephones and curse Struan's and curse Hong Kong and curse all parties and all hangers-on and oh how I wish we could leave forever and forget Hong Kong and forget work and the Noble House and Big Business and the Pacific Rim and the stock market and all curs—

"Motherrrrr!"

She heard Glenna's voice screeching from the depths of her room around the far corner in the east wing and at once all her senses concentrated. There was frustrated rage in Glenna's voice, but no danger, so she did not hurry, just called back, "I'm coming… what is it, Glenna?"

"Where are youuuuu?"

"I'm coming, darling," she called out, her mind now on important things. Glenna will look pretty in that dress, she thought. Oh I know, she told herself happily, I'll lend her my little rope of pearls. That'll make it perfect.

Her pace quickened.

Across the harbor in Kowloon, Divisional Staff Sergeant Tang-po, CID, the High Dragon, climbed the rickety stairs and went into the room. The inner core of his secret triad was already there. "Get this through that bone some of you carry between your ears: the Dragons want Noble House Chen found and these pox-dripping, dung-eating Werewolves caught so fast even gods will blink!"

"Yes, Lord," his underlings chorused, shocked at the quality of his voice.

They were in Tang-po's safe house, a small, drab three-room apartment behind a drab front door on the fifth floor of an equally drab apartment building over very modest shops in a dirty alley just three blocks from their police headquarters of Tsim Sha Tsui District that faced the harbor and the Peak on the tip of Kowloon Peninsula. There were nine of them: one sergeant, two corporals, the rest constables—all plainclothes detectives of the CID, all Cantonese, all handpicked and sworn with blood oaths to loyalty and secrecy. They were Tang-po's secret long or Brotherhood, which protected all street gambling in Tsim Sha Tsui District.

"Look everywhere, talk to everyone. We have three days," Tang-po said. He was a strongly built man of fifty-five with slightly graying hair and heavy eyebrows and his rank was the highest he could have and not be an officer. "This is the order of me—all my Brother Dragons—and the High One himself. Apart from that," he added sourly, "Big Mountain of Dung has promised to demote and post us to the border or other places, all of us, if we fail, and that's the first time he's ever threatened that. All gods piss from a great height on all foreign devils, particularly those motherless fornica-tors who won't accept their rightful squeeze and behave like civilized persons!"

"Amen!" Sergeant Lee said with great fervor. He was a sometimes Catholic because in his youth he had gone to a Catholic school.

"Big Mountain of Dung made it quite clear this afternoon: results, or off to the border where there's not a pot to piss in and no squeeze within twenty miles. Ayeeyah, all gods protect us from failure!"

"Yes," Corporal Ho said for all of them, making a note in his book. He was a sharp-featured man who was studying at night school to become an accountant, and it was he who kept the Brotherhood's books and minutes of their meetings.

"Elder Brother," Sergeant Lee began politely, "is there a fixed reward we can offer our informers? Is there a minimum or a maximum?"

"Yes," Tang-po told them, then added carefully, "The High Dragon has said 100,000 HK if within three days . . ." The room was suddenly silent at the vastness of the reward. ". . . half for finding Noble House Chen, half for finding the kidnappers. And a bonus of 10,000 to the Brother whose informer produces either—and promotion."

"One 10,000 for Chen and one ten for the kidnappers?" the corporal asked. O gods grant me the prize, he prayed, as they all were praying. "Is that right, Elder Brother?"

"Dew neh loh moh that's what I said," Tang-po replied sharply, puffing his cigarette. "Are your ears filled with pus?"

"Oh no, sorry Honorable Sir. Please excuse me."

All their minds were on the prize. Sergeant Lee was thinking, Eeee, 10,000 and—and promotion if in three days! Ah, if within three days then it will be in time for Race Day and then … O all gods great and small bless me this once and a second time on Saturday's double quinella.

Tang-po was referring to his notes. "Now to other business. Through the cooperation of Daytime Chang and the Honorable Song, the Brotherhood can use their showers daily at the V and A between 8:00 A.M. and 9:00 A.M., not 7:00 A.M. to 8:00 A.M. as before. Wives and concubines on a roster basis. Corporal Ho, you rearrange the roster."

"Hey, Honored Lord," one of the young detectives called out, "did you hear about Golden Pubics?"

"Eh?"

The youth related what Daytime Chang had told him this morning when he went to the hotel kitchens for breakfast. They all guffawed.

"Ayeeyah, imagine that! Like gold, heya?"

"Have you ever pillowed a foreign devil, Honorable Lord?"

"No never. No. Ayeeyah, the very thought . . . ugh!"

"I'd like one," Lee said with a laugh, "just to see what was what!"

They laughed with him and one called out, "A Jade Gate's a Jade Gate but they say some foreign devils are lopsided!"

"I heard they were cleft sideways!"

"Honored Sir, there was another thing," the young detective said when the laughter had died down. "Daytime Chang told me to tell you Golden Pubics has a miniature transmitter-receiver—best he'd ever seen, better than anything we've got, even in Special Branch. She carries it around with her."

Tang-po stared at him. "That's curious. Now why should a foreign devil woman want a thing like that?"

Lee said, "Something to do with the guns?"

"I don't know, Younger Brother. Women with transceivers? Interesting. It wasn't in her luggage when our people went through it last night, so it must've been in her handbag. Good, very good Corporal Ho, after our meeting leave a gift for Daytime Chang— a couple of reds." A red note was 100 HK. "I'd certainly like to know who those guns were for," he added thoughtfully. "Make sure all our informers know I'm very interested in that too."

"Is Noble House Chen tied into the guns and these two foreign devils?" Lee asked.

"I think so, Younger Brother. I think so. Yes. Another curiosity —to send an ear is not civilized—not so soon. Not civilized at all."

"Ah, then you think the Werewolves're foreign devils? Or fornicating half-persons? Or Portuguese?"

"I don't know," Tang-po said sourly. "But it happened in our district, so it's a matter of face for all of us. Big Mountain of Dung is very enraged. His face is in the mangle too."

"Eeee," Lee said, "that fornicator has such a very filthy temper."

"Yes. Perhaps the information about the transceiver will appease him. I think I'll ask all my Brothers to put surveillance on Golden Pubics and her gun-running friend just in case. Now, there was something else.. .." Again Tang-po referred to his notes. "Ah yes, why is our contribution from the Happy Hostess Night Club down 30 percent?"

"A new ownership's just taken over, Honored Sir," Sergeant Lee, in whose area the dance hall was, said. "One Eye Pok sold out to a Shanghainese fornicator called Wang—Happy Wang. Happy Wang says the Fragrant Grease's too high, business is bad, very bad."

"Dew neh loh moh on all Shanghainese. Is it?"

"It's down, but not much."

"That's right, Honored Sir," Corporal Ho said. "I was there at midnight to collect the fornicating week's advance—the stink fornicating place was about half full."

"Any foreign devils there?"

"Two or three, Honored Lord. No one of importance."

"Give Honorable Happy Wang a message from me: He has three weeks to improve his business. Then we'll reconsider. Corporal Ho, tell some of the girls at the Great New Oriental to recommend the Happy Hostess for a month or so—they've plenty of foreign devil customers . . . and tell Wang that there's a nuclear aircraft carrier —the Corregidor—coming in the day after tomorrow for R and R . . ." He used the English letters, everyone understanding rest and recreation from the Korean War days. "I'll ask my Brother Dragon in Wanchai and the dock area if Happy Wang can send some visiting cards over there. A thousand or so Golden Country barbarians will certainly be a help! They're here for eight days."

"Honored Sir, I'll do that tonight," Corporal Ho promised.

"My friend in marine police told me that there are going to be lots of visiting warships soon—the American Seventh Fleet is being increased." Tang-po frowned. "Doubled, so he says. The talk from the Mainland is that American soldiers are going to go into Vietnam in strength—they already run an airline there—at least," he added, "their triad CIA does."

"Eeee, that's good for business! We'll have to repair their ships. And entertain their men. Good! Very good for us."

"Yes. Very good. But very stupid for them. Honorable Chou En-lai's sent them warnings, politely, for months that China doesn't want them there! Why won't they listen? Vietnam's our outer barbarian sphere! Stupid to pick that foul jungle and those detestable barbarians to fight against. If China couldn't subdue those outer barbarians for centuries, how can they?" Tang-po laughed and lit another cigarette. "Where's old One Eye Pok gone?"

"That old fox's permanent visa came through and he was off on the next airplane to San Francisco—him, his wife and eight kids."

Tang-po turned to his accountant. "Did he owe us any money?"

"Oh no Honored Sir. He was fully paid up-to-date, Sergeant Lee saw to that."

"How much did it cost that old fornicator? To get the visa?"

"His exit was smoothed by a gift of 3,000 HK to Corporal Sek Pun So in Immigration on our recommendation—our percentage was paid—we also assisted him to find the right diamond merchant to convert his wealth into the best blue whites available." Ho referred to his books. "Our 2 percent commission came to 8,960 HK."

"Good old One Eye!" Tang-po said, pleased for him. "He's done very well for himself. What was his 'unique services' job for his visa?"

Sergeant Lee said, "A cook in a restaurant in Chinatown—the Good Eating Place it's called. Oh ko, I've tasted his home cooking and old One Eye is very bad indeed."

"He'll hire another to take his place while he goes into real estate, or gambling and a nightclub," someone said. "Eeee, what joss!"

"But what did his U.S. visa cost him?"

"Ah, the golden gift to Paradise!" Ho sighed. "I heard he paid 5,000 U.S. to jump to the head of the list."

"Ayeeyah, that's more than usual! Why?"

"It seems there's also a promise of a U.S. passport as soon as the five years are up and not too much harassment about his English —old One Eye doesn't talk English as you know. . . ."

"Those fornicators from the Golden Country—they squeeze but they aren't organized. They've no style, none at all," Tang-po said scornfully. "One or two visas here and there—when everyone here knows you can buy one if you're at the right time with the right squeeze. So why don't they do it properly in a civilized way? Twenty visas a week—even forty—they're all mad these foreign devils!"

"Dew neh loh moh but you're right," Sergeant Lee said, his mind boggled at the potential amount of squeeze he could make if he were a vice-consul in the U.S. Consulate of Hong Kong in the Visa Department. "Eeeeee!"

"We should have a civilized person in that position, then we'd soon be set up like Mandarins and policing San Francisco!" Tang-po said, and they all guffawed with him. Then he added disgustedly, "At least they should have a man there, not one who likes a Steaming Stalk in his Ghastly Gulley, or his in another's!"

They laughed even more. "Hey," one of them called out, "I heard his partner's young Foreign Devil Stinknose Pork Belly in the Public Works—you know, the one who's selling building permits that shouldn't be!"

"That's old news, Chan, very old. They've both moved on to unwiser pastures. The latest rumor is our vice-consul devil's connected with a youth. . . ." Tang-po added delicately, "Son of a prominent accountant who's also a prominent Communist."

"Eeeee, that's not good," Sergeant Lee said, knowing at once who the man was.

"No," Tang-po agreed. "Particularly as I heard yesterday the youth has a secret flat around the corner. In my district! And my district has the least crime of any."

"That's right," they all said proudly.

"Should he be spoken to, Elder Brother?" Lee asked.

"No, just put under special surveillance. I want to know all about these two. Everything. Even if they belch." Tang-po sighed. He gave Sergeant Lee the address and made the work assignments. "Since you're all here, I've decided to bring payday forward from tomorrow." He opened the large bag that contained bank notes. Each man received the equivalent of his police pay plus authorized expenses.

HK a month salary with no expenses was not enough for a constable to feed even a small family and have a small flat, not even a two-room apartment with one tap and no sanitation, and to send one child to school; or enough to be able to send a little back to the home village in the Kwantung to needy fathers and grandmothers and mothers and uncles and grandfathers, many of whom, years upon years ago, had given their life's saving to help launch him on the broken road to Hong Kong.

Tang-po had been one of these. He was very proud that he had survived the journey as a six-year-old, alone, and had found his relations and then, when he was eighteen, had joined the police— thirty-six years ago. He had served the Queen well, the police force impeccably, the Japanese enemy during their occupation not at all and now was in charge of a key division in the Colony of Hong Kong. Respected, rich, with one son in college in San Francisco, another owning half a restaurant in Vancouver, Canada, his family in Kwantung supported—and, most important, his Division of Tsim Sha Tsui with less unsolved robberies, less unsolved wound-ings and maimings and triad wars than any other district—and only three murders in four years and all solved and the culprits caught and sentenced, and one of those a foreign devil seaman who'd killed another over a dance-hall girl. And almost no petty theft and never a tourist foreign devil harassed by beggars or sneak thieves and this the largest tourist area with upward of also 300,000 civilized persons to police and protect from evildoers and from themselves.

Ayeeyah, yes, Tang-po told himself. If it wasn't for us those bone-headed fornicating peasants'd be at each other's throats, raging, looting, killing, and then the inevitable mob cry would go up: Kill the foreign devils! And they would try and then we would be back in the riots again. Fornicate disgustingly all wrongdoers and unpeaceful persons!

"Now," he said affably, "we'll meet in three days. I've ordered a ten-course feast from Great Food Chang's. Until then, let everyone put an eye to the orifice of the gods and get me the answers. I want the Werewolves—and I want John Chen back. Sergeant Lee, you stay a moment. Corporal Ho, write up the minutes and let me have the accounts tomorrow at five."

"Yes, Honored Lord."

They all trooped out. Tang-po lit another cigarette. So did Sergeant Lee. Tang-po coughed.

"You should quit smoking, Elder Brother."

"So should you!" Tang-po shrugged. "Joss! If I'm to go, I'm to go. Joss. Even so, for peace I've told my Chief Wife I've stopped. She nags and nags and nags."

"Show me one that doesn't and she'll turn out to be a he with a ghastly gulley."

They laughed together.

"That's the truth, ffeya, last week she insisted I see a doctor and you know what that motherless fornicator said? He said, you'd better give up smoking, old friend, or you'll be nothing but a few cinders in a burial jar before you're twenty moons older and then I guarantee your Chief Wife'll be spending all your money on loose boys and your concubine'll be tasting another's fruits!"

"The swine! Oh the swine!"

"Yes. He really frightened me—I felt his words right down in my secret sack! But maybe he was speaking the truth."

He took out a handkerchief, blew his nose, his breath wheezing, cleared his throat noisily and spat into the spittoon. "Listen, Younger Brother, our High Dragon says the time has come to organize Smuggler Yuen, White Powder Lee, and his cousin Four Finger Wu."

Sergeant Lee stared at him in shock. These three men were believed to be the High Tigers of the opium trade in Hong Kong. Importers and exporters. For local use and also, rumor had it, for export to the Golden Country where the great money was. Opium brought in secretly and converted into morphine and then into heroin. "Bad, very bad. We've never touched that trade before."

"Yes," Tang-po said delicately.

"That'd be very dangerous. Narcotics Branch are very serious against it. Big Mountain of Dung himself is very seriously interested in catching those three—very fornicating serious."

Tang-po stared at the ceiling. Then he said, 'The High Dragon explained it this way: A ton of opium in the Golden Triangle costs 67,000 U.S. Changed into fornicating morphine and then into fornicating heroin and the pure heroin diluted to 5 percent, the usual strength on the streets of the Golden Country, delivered there you have almost 680 million worth in American dollars. From one ton of opium." Tang-po coughed and lit another cigarette.

The sweat began on Lee's back. "How many tons could go through those three fornicators?"

"We don't know. But he's been told about 380 tons a year are grown in the whole Golden Triangle—Yunnan, Burma, Laos and Thailand. Much of it comes here. They'd handle 50 tons, he said. He's certain of 50 tons." "Oh kof"

"Yes." Tang-po was sweating too. "Our High Dragon says we should invest in the trade now. It's going to grow and grow. He has a plan to get Marine with us. …"

"Dew neh loh moh, you can't trust those seagoing bastards." "That's what I said, but he said we need the seagoing bastards and we can trust a selected few, who else can snatch and intercept a token 20 percent—even 50 percent to appease Mountain of Dung himself at prearranged moments?" Tang-po spat deftly again. "If we could get Marine, Narcotics Branch, and the Gang of Three, our present h'eungyau would be like an infant's piddle in the harbor." There was a serious silence in the room. "We would have to recruit new members and that's always dangerous." "Yes."

Lee helped himself to the teapot and poured some jasmine tea, sweat running down his back now, the smoke-ladened air sultry and overbearing. He waited. "What do you think, Younger Brother?" These two men were not related but used the Chinese politeness between themselves because they had trusted each other for more than fifteen years. Lee had saved his superior's life in the riots of 1956. He was thirty-five now and his heroism in the riots had earned him a police medal. He was married and had three children. He had served sixteen years in the force and his whole pay was 843 HK a month. He took the tram to work. Without supplementing his income through the Brotherhood, like all of them, he would have had to walk or bicycle, most days. The tram took two hours.

"I think the idea is very bad," he said. "Drugs, any drugs, that's fornicating bad—yes, very bad. Opium, that's bad though it's good for old people—the white powder, cocaine, that's bad, but not as bad as the death squirts. It'd be bad joss to deal in the death squirts." "I told him the same." "Are you going to obey him?"

"What's good for one Brother should be good for all," Tang-po said thoughtfully, avoiding an answer.

Again Lee waited. He did not know how a Dragon was elected, or exactly how many there were, or who the High Dragon was. He only knew that his Dragon was Tang-po who was a wise and cautious man who had their interests at heart.

"He also said one or two of our foreign devil superiors are getting itchy piles about their fornicating slice of the gambling money."

Lee spat disgustedly. "What do those fornicators do for their share? Nothing. Just close their fornicating eyes. Except the Snake," This was the nickname of Chief Inspector Donald C. C. Smyth who openly organized his district of East Aberdeen and sold favors and protection on all levels, in front of his Chinese underlings.

"Ah him! He should be stuffed down the sewer, that fornicator. Soon those who he pays off above him won't be able to hide his stink anymore. And his stench'll spread over all of us."

"He's due to retire in a couple of years," Lee said darkly. "Perhaps he'll finger his rear to all those high-ups until he leaves and there won't be a thing they can do. His friends are very high, so they say."

"Meanwhile?" Tang-po asked.

Lee sighed. "My advice, Elder Brother, is to be cautious, not to do it if you can avoid it. If you can't . . ." he shrugged. "Joss. Is it decided?"

"No, not yet. It was mentioned at our weekly meeting. For consideration."

"Has an approach been made to the Gang of Three?"

"I understand White Powder Lee made the approach, Younger Brother. It seems the three are going to join together."

Lee gasped. "With blood oaths?"

"It seems so."

"They're going to work together? Those devils?"

"So they said. I'll bet old Four Finger Wu will be the Highest Tiger."

"Ayeeyah, that one? They say he's murdered fifty men himself," Lee said darkly. He shivered at the danger. "They must have three hundred fighters in their pay. It'd be better for all of us if those three were dead—or behind bars."

"Yes. But meanwhile White Powder Lee says they're ready to expand, and for a little cooperation from us they can guarantee a giant return." Tang-po mopped his brow and coughed and lit another cigarette. "Listen, Little Brother," he said softly. "He swears they've been offered a very large source of American money, cash money and bank money, and a very large retail outlet for their goods there, based in this place called Manhattan."

Lee felt the sweat on his forehead. "A retail outlet there . . . ayeeyah, that means millions. They will guarantee?"

"Yes. With very little for us to do. Except close our eyes and make sure Marine and Narcotics Branch seize only the correct shipments and close their eyes when they're supposed to. Isn't it written in the Ancient Books: If you don't squeeze, lightning will strike you?"

Again a silence. "When does the decision . .. when's it going to be decided?"

"Next week. If it's decided yes, well, the flow of trade will take months to organize, perhaps a year." Tang-po glanced at the clock and got up. "Time for our shower. Nighttime Song has arranged dinner for us afterwards."

"Eeeee, very good." Uneasily Lee turned out the single overhead light. "And if the decision is no?"

Tang-po stubbed out his cigarette and coughed. "If no . . ." He shrugged. "We only have one life, gods notwithstanding, so it is our duty to think of our families. One of my relations is a captain with Four Finger Wu. . . ."

11

8:30 P.M. :

"Hello, Brian," Dunross said. "Welcome."

"Evening, tai-pan—congratulations—great night for a party," Brian Kwok said. A liveried waiter appeared out of nowhere and he accepted a glass of champagne in fine crystal. "Thanks for inviting me."

"You're very welcome." Dunross was standing beside the door of the ballroom in the Great House, tall and debonair, Penelope a few paces away greeting other guests. The half-full ballroom was open to crowded floodlit terraces and gardens where the majority of brightly dressed ladies and dinner-jacketed men stood in groups or sat at round tables. A cool breeze had come with nightfall.

"Penelope darling," Dunross called out, "you remember Superintendent Brian Kwok."

"Oh of course," she said, threading her way over to them with her happy smile, not remembering at all. "How're you?"

"Fine thanks—congratulations!"

"Thank you—make yourself at home. Dinner's at nine fifteen, Claudia has the seating lists if you've lost your card. Oh excuse me a moment…." She turned away to intercept some other guests, her eyes trying to watch everywhere to see that everything was going well and that no one stood alone—knowing in her secret heart that if there was a disaster there was nothing for her to do, that others would make everything well again.

"You're very lucky, Ian," Brian Kwok said. "She gets younger every year."

"Yes."

"So. Here's to twenty more years! Health!" They touched glasses. They had been friends since the early fifties when they had met at the first racing hill climb and had been friendly rivals ever since— and founding members of the Hong Kong Sports Car and Rally Club.

"But you, Brian, no special girl friend? You arrive alone?" "I'm playing the field." Brian Kwok dropped his voice. "Actually I'm staying single permanently."

"Dreamer! This's your year—you're the catch of Hong Kong. Even Claudia's got her eyes on you. You're a dead duck, old chap." "Oh Christ!" Brian dropped the banter for a moment. "Say, tai-pan, could I have a couple of private minutes this evening?" "John Chen?" Dunross asked at once.

"No. We've got every man looking, but nothing yet. It's something else." "Business?" "Yes."

"How private?" "Private."

"All right," Dunross said, "I'll find you after dinner. What ab—"

A burst of laughter caused them to look around. Casey was standing in the center of an admiring group of men—Linbar Struan and Andrew Gavallan and Jacques deVille among them—just outside one of the tall French doors that led to the terrace. "Eeeee," Brian Kwok muttered. "Quite," Dunross said and grinned.

She was dressed in a floor-length sheath of emerald silk, molded just enough and sheer just enough. "Christ, is she or isn't she?" "What?"

"Wearing anything underneath?" "Seek and ye shall find." "I'd like to. She's stunning."

"I thought so too," Dunross said agreeably, "though I'd say 100 percent of the other ladies don't." "Her breasts are perfect, you can see that." "Actually you can't. Just. It's all in your mind." "I'll bet there isn't a pair in Hong Kong to touch them." "Fifty dollars to a copper cash says you're wrong—provided we include Eurasians." "How can we prove who wins?"

"We can't. Actually I'm an ankle man myself."

"What?"

"Old Uncle Chen-Chen used to say, 'First look at the ankles, my son, then you tell her breeding, how she'll behave, how she'll ride, how she'll… like any filly. But remember, all crows under heaven are black!'"

Brian Kwok grinned with him then waved at someone in friendly style. Across the room a tall man with a lived-in face was waving back. Beside him was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, tall, fair, with gray eyes. She waved happily too.

"Now there's an English beauty at her best!"

"Who? Oh, Fleur Marlowe? Yes, yes she is. I didn't know you knew the Marlowes, tai-pan."

"Likewise! I met him this afternoon, Brian. You've known him long?"

"Oh a couple of months-odd. He's persona grata with us."

"Oh?"

"Yes. We're showing him the ropes."

"Oh? Why?"

"Some months ago he wrote to the commissioner, said he was coming to Hong Kong to research a novel and asked for our cooperation. Seems the Old Man happened to have read his first novel and had seen some of his films. Of course we checked him out and he appears all right." Brian Kwok's eyes went back to Casey. "The Old Man thought we could do with an improved image so he sent word down that, within limits, Peter was approved and to show him around." He glanced back at Dunross and smiled thinly. "Ours not to reason why!"

"What was his book?"

"Called Changi, about his POW days. The Old Man's brother died there, so I suppose it hit home."

"Have you read it?"

"Not me—I've too many mountains to climb! I did skim a few pages. Peter says it's fiction but I don't believe him." Brian Kwok laughed. "He can drink beer though. Robert had him on a couple of his Hundred Pinters and he held his end up." A Hundred Pinter was a police stag party to which the officers contributed a barrel of a hundred pints of beer. When the beer was gone, the party ended.

Brian Kwok's eyes were feasting on Casey, and Dunross wondered for the millionth time why Asians favored Anglo-Saxons and Anglo-Saxons favored Asians.

"Why the smile, tai-pan?"

"No reason. But Casey's not bad at all, is she?"

"Fifty dollars says she's bat jam gai, heya?"

Dunross thought a moment, weighing the bet carefully. Bat jam gai meant, literally, white chicken meat. This was the way Cantonese referred to ladies who shaved off their pubic hair. "Taken! You're wrong, Brian, she's see you gai, " which meant soya chicken, "or in her case red, tender and nicely spicy. I have it on the highest authority!"

Brian laughed. "Introduce me."

"Introduce yourself. You're over twenty-one."

"I'll let you win the hill climb on Sunday!"

"Dreamer! Off you go and a thousand says you won't."

"What odds'll you give me?"

"You must be joking!"

"No harm in asking. Christ, I'd like to carry the book on that one. Where's the lucky Mr. Bartlett?"

"I think he's in the garden—I told Adryon to chaperone him. Excuse me a moment. . . ." Dunross turned away to greet someone Brian Kwok did not recognize.

Upward of 150 guests had already arrived and been greeted personally. Dinner was for 217, each carefully seated according to face and custom at round tables that were already set and candlelit on the lawns. Candles and candelabra in the halls, liveried waiters offering champagne in cut glass crystal, or smoked salmon and caviar from silver trays and tureens.

A small band was playing on the dais and Brian Kwok saw a few uniforms among the dinner jackets, American and British, army, navy and air force. It was no surprise that Europeans were dominant. This party was strictly for the British inner circle that ruled Central District and were the power block of the Colony, their Caucasian friends, and a few very special Eurasians, Chinese and Indians. Brian Kwok recognized most of the guests: Paul Havergill of the Victoria Bank of Hong Kong, old Sir Samuel Samuels, multimillionaire, tai-pan of twenty real estate, banking, ferry and stock-broking companies; Christian Toxe, editor of the China Guardian, talking to Richard Kwang, chairman of the Ho-Pak Bank; multimillionaire shipowner V. K. Lam talking to Phillip and Dianne Chen, their son Kevin with them; the American Zeb Cooper, inheritor of the oldest American trading company, Cooper-Tillman, having his ear bent by Sir Dunstan Barre, tai-pan of Hong Kong and Lan Tao Farms, He noticed Ed Langan, the FBI man, among the guests and this surprised him. He had not known that Langan or the man he was talking to, Stanley Rosemont, a deputy director of the China-watching CIA contingent, were friends of Dunross. He let his eyes drift over the chattering group of men, and the mostly separate groups of their wives.

They're all here, he thought, all the tai-pans except Gornt and Plumm, all the pirates, all here in incestuous hatred to pay homage to the tai-pan.

Which one is the spy, the traitor, controller of Sevrin, Arthur?

He's got to be European.

I'll bet he's here. And I'll catch him. Yes. I'll catch him, soon, now that I know about him. We'll catch him and catch them all, he thought grimly. And we'll catch these crooks with their hands in their tills, we'll stamp out their piracies for the common good.

"Champagne, Honored Sir?" the waiter asked in Cantonese with a toothy smile.

Brian accepted a full glass. "Thank you."

The waiter bowed to hide his lips. "The tai-pan had a blue-covered file among his papers when he came in tonight," he whispered quickly.

"Is there a safe, a secret hiding place here?" Brian asked equally cautiously in the same dialect.

"The servants say in his office on the next floor," the man said His name was Wine Waiter Feng, and he was one of Si's undercover network of intelligence agents. His cover as a waiter for the company that catered all Hong Kong's best and most exclusive parties gave him great value. "Perhaps it's behind the painting, I heard. …" He stopped suddenly and switched to pidgin English. "Champ-igy-nee Missee?" he asked toothily, offering the tray to the tiny old Eurasian lady who was coming up to them. "Wery wery first class."

"Don't you Missee me, you impertinent young puppy," she rapped haughtily in Cantonese.

"Yes, Honored Great-Aunt, sorry, Honored Great-Aunt." He beamed and fled.

"So, young Brian Kwok," the old lady said, peering up at him.

She was eighty-eight, Sarah Chen, Phillip Chen's aunt, a tiny bird-like person with pale white skin and Asian eyes that darted this way and that. And though she appeared frail her back was upright and her spirit very strong. "I'm glad to see you. Where's John Chen? Where's my poor grand-nephew?"

"I don't know, Great Lady," he said politely.

"When are you going to get my Number One Grand-nephew back?"

"Soon. We're doing everything we can."

"Good. And don't you interfere with young Phillip if he wants to pay John's ransom privately. You see to it."

"Yes. I'll do what I can. Is John's wife here?"

"Eh? Who? Speak up, boy!"

"Is Barbara Chen here?"

"No. She came earlier but as soon as that woman arrived she 'got a headache' and left. Huh, I don't blame her at all!" Her old rheumy eyes were watching Dianne Chen across the room. "Huh, that woman! Did you see her entrance?"

"No, Great Lady."

"Huh, like Dame Nellie Melba herself. She swept in, handkerchief to her eyes, her eldest son Kevin in tow—I don't like that boy —and my poor nephew Phillip like a second-class cook boy in the rear. Huh! The only time Dianne Chen ever wept was in the crash of '56 when her stocks went down and she lost a fortune and wet her drawers. Ha! Look at her now, preening herself! Pretending to be upset when everyone knows she's acting as though she's already Dowager Empress! I could pinch her cheeks! Disgusting!" She looked back at Brian Kwok. "You find my grand-nephew John— I don't want that woman or her brat loh-pan of our house."

"But he can be tai-pan?"

They laughed together. Very few Europeans knew that though tai-pan meant great leader, in the old days in China a tai-pan was the colloquial title of a man in charge of a whorehouse or public toilet. So no Chinese would ever call himself tai-pan, only loh-pan —which also meant great leader or head leader. Chinese and Eurasians were greatly amused that Europeans enjoyed calling themselves tai-pan, stupidly passing over the correct title.

"Yes. If he's the right pan," the old woman said and they chuckled. "You find my John Chen, young Brian Kwok!"

"Yes. Yes we'll find him."

"Good. Now, what do you think of Golden Lady's chances on Saturday?"

"Good, if the going's dry. At three to one she's worth a bundle. Watch Noble Star—she's got a chance too."

"Good. After dinner come and find me. I want to talk to you."

"Yes, Great Lady." He smiled and watched her go off and knew that all she wanted was to try to act the marriage broker for some great-niece. Ayeeyah, I'll have to do something about that soon, he thought.

His eyes strayed back to Casey. He was delighted by the disapproving looks from all the women—and the cautious covert admiration from all their escorts. Then Casey glanced up and saw him watching her across the room and she stared back at him briefly with equal frank appraisal.

Dew neh loh moh, he thought uneasily, feeling somehow undressed. I'd like to possess that one. Then he noticed Roger Crosse with Armstrong beside him. He put his mind together and headed for them.

"Evening, sir."

"Evening, Brian. You're looking very distinguished."

"Thank you, sir." He knew better than to volunteer anything pleasant in return. "I'm seeing the tai-pan after dinner."

"Good. As soon as you've seen him, find me."

"Yes sir."

"So you think the American girl stunning?"

"Yes sir." Brian sighed inwardly. He had forgotten that Crosse could lip-read English, French and some Arabic—he spoke no Chinese dialects—and that his eyesight was exceptional.

"Actually she's rather obvious," Crosse said.

"Yes sir." He saw Crosse concentrating on her lips and knew that he was overhearing her conversation from across the room and he was furious with himself that he had not developed the talent.

"She seems to have a passion for computers." Crosse turned his eyes back on them. "Curious, what?"

"Yes sir."

"What did Wine Waiter Feng say?"

Brian told him.

"Good. I'll see Feng gets a bonus. I didn't expect to see Langan and Rosemont here."

"It could be a coincidence, sir," Brian Kwok volunteered.

"They're both keen punters. They've both been to the tai-pan's box."

"I don't trust coincidences," Crosse said. "As far as Langan's concerned, of course you know nothing, either of you."

"Yes sir."

"Good. Perhaps you'd both better be about our business."

"Yes sir." Thankfully the two men turned to leave but stopped as there was a sudden hush. All eyes went to the doorway. Quillan Gornt stood there, black-browed, black-bearded, conscious that he had been noticed. The other guests hastily picked up their conversations and kept their eyes averted but their ears concentrated.

Crosse whistled softly. "Now.why is he here?"

"Fifty to one says he's up to no good," Brian Kwok said, equally astounded.

They watched Gornt come into the ballroom and put out his hand to Dunross and Penelope beside him. Claudia Chen who was nearby was in shock, wondering how she could reorganize Dunross's table at such short notice because of course Gornt would have to be seated there.

"I hope you don't mind my changing my mind at the last moment." Gornt was saying, his mouth smiling.

"Not at all," Dunross replied, his mouth smiling.

"Good evening, Penelope. I felt I had to give you my congratulations personally."

"Oh, thank you," she said. Her smile was intact but her heart was beating very fast now. "I, I was sorry to hear about your wife."

"Thank you." Emelda Gornt had been arthritic and confined to a wheelchair for some years. Early in the year she had caught pneumonia and had died. "She was very unlucky," Gornt said. He looked at Dunross. "Bad joss about John Chen too."

"Very."

"I suppose you read the afternoon Gazette?"

Dunross nodded and Penelope said, "Enough to frighten everyone out of their wits." All the afternoon papers had had huge headlines and dwelt at length on the mutilated ear and the Werewolves. There was a slight pause. She rushed to fill it. "Your children are well?"

"Yes. Annagrey's going to the University of California in September—Michael is here on his summer holiday. They're all in very good shape I'm glad to say. And yours?"

"They're fine. I do wish Adryon would go to university though. Dear me, children are very difficult these days, aren't they?"

"I think they always were." Gornt smiled thinly. "My father was always pointing out how difficult I was." He looked at Dunross again.

"Yes. How is your father?"

"Hale and hearty I'm glad to say. The English climate suits him, he says. He's coming out for Christmas." Gornt accepted a proffered glass of champagne. The waiter quailed under his look, and fled. He raised his glass. "A happy life and many congratulations."

Dunross toasted him in return, still astonished that Gornt had arrived. It was only for politeness and for face that Gornt and other enemies had been sent formal invitations. A polite refusal was all that was expected—and Gornt had already refused.

Why's he here?

He's come to gloat, Dunross thought. Like his bloody father. That must be the reason. But why? What devilment has he done to us? Bartlett? Is it through Bartlett?

"This's a lovely room, beautiful proportions," Gornt was saying. "And a lovely house. I've always envied you this house."

Yes, you bastard, I know, Dunross thought furiously, remembering the last time any of the Gornts had been in the Great House. Ten years ago, in 1953, when lan's father, Colin Dunross, was still the tai-pan. It was during Struan's Christmas party, traditionally the biggest of the season, and Quillan Gornt had arrived with his father, William, then tai-pan of Rothwell-Gornt, again unexpectedly. After dinner there had been a bitter, public clash between the two tai-pans in the billiard room where a dozen or so of the men had gathered for a game. That was when Struan's had just been blocked by the Gornts and their Shanghainese friends in their attempt to take over South Orient Airways, which, because of the Communist conquest of the Mainland, had just become available. This feeder airline monopolized all air traffic in and out of Shanghai from Hong Kong, Singapore, Taipei, Tokyo and Bangkok, and if merged with Air Struan, their fledgling airline, Struan's would have virtual feeder monopoly in the Far East based out of Hong Kong. Both men had accused the other of underhand practices—both accusations were true.

Yes, Ian Dunross told himself, both men went to the brink that time. William Gornt had tried every way to become established in

Hong Kong after Rothwell-Gornt's huge losses in Shanghai. And when Colin Dunross knew Struan's could not prevail, he had snatched South Orient out of William Gornt's grasp by throwing his weight to a safe Cantonese group.

"And so you did, Colin Dunross, so you did. You fell into the trap and you'll never stop us now," William Gornt had gloated. "We're here to stay. We'll hound you out of Asia, you and your god-cursed Noble House. South Orient's just the beginning. We've won!"

"The hell you have! The Yan-Wong-Sun group's associated with us. We have a contract."

"It's hereby canceled." William Gornt had motioned to Quillan, his eldest son and heir apparent, who took out the copy of an agreement. "This contract's between the Yan-Wong-Sun group who're nominees of the Tso-Wa-Feng group," he said happily, "who're nominees of Ta-Weng-Sap who sells control of South Orient to Rothwell-Gornt for one dollar more than the original cost!" Quillan Gornt had laid it on the billiard table with a flourish. "South Orient's ours!" "I don't believe it!"

"You can. Happy Christmas!" William Gornt had given a great, scorn-filled laugh, and walked out. Quillan had replaced his billiard cue, laughing too. Ian Dunross had been near the door.

"One day I'll own this house," Quillan Gornt had hissed at him, then turned and called out to the others, "If any of you want jobs, come to us. Soon you'll all be out of work. Your Noble House won't be noble much longer." Andrew Gavallan had been there, Jacques deVille, Alastair Struan, Lechie and David MacStruan, Phillip Chen, even John Chen.

Dunross remembered how his father had raged that night, and blamed treachery and nominees and bad joss, knowing all the time that he himself had warned him, many times, and that his warnings had been shoved aside. Christ, how we lost face! All Hong Kong laughed at us that time—the Noble House peed on from a great height by the Gornts and their Shanghainese interlopers.

Yes. But that night finalized Colin Dunross's downfall. That was the night I decided that he had to go before the Noble House was lost forever. I used Alastair Struan. I helped him to shove my father aside. Alastair Struan had to become tai-pan. Until I was wise enough and strong enough to shove him aside. Am I wise enough now?

I don't know, Dunross thought, concentrating on Quillan Gornt now, listening to his pleasantries, hearing himself react with equal charm, while his mind said, I haven't forgotten South Orient, or that we had to merge our airline with yours at a fire-sale price and lose control of the new line renamed All Asia Airways. Nothing's forgotten. We lost that time but this time we'll win. We'll win everything, by God.

Casey was watching both men with fascination. She had noticed Quillan Gornt from the first moment, recognizing him from the photographs of the dossier. She had sensed his strength and masculinity even from across the room and had been uneasily excited by him. As she watched, she could almost touch the tension between the two men squaring off—two bulls in challenge.

Andrew Gavallan had told her at once who Gornt was. She had volunteered nothing, just asked Gavallan and Linbar Struan why they were so shocked at Gornt's arrival. And then, as they were alone now, the four of them—Casey, Gavallan, deVille and Linbar Struan—they told her about the "Happy Christmas" and "One day I'll own this house."

"What did the tai-pan . . . what did Ian do?" she asked.

Gavallan said, "He just looked at Gornt. You knew if he had a gun or a knife or a cudgel he'd've used it, you just knew it, and as he hadn't a weapon you knew any moment he was going to use his hands or teeth…. He just stood rock still and looked at Gornt and Gornt went back a pace, out of range—literally. But that bugger Gornt's got cojones. He sort of gathered himself together and stared back at Ian for a moment. Then, without saying a word he went around him slowly, very cautiously, his eyes never leaving Ian, and he left."

"What's that bastard doing here tonight?" Linbar muttered.

Gavallan said, "It's got to be important."

"Which one?" Linbar asked. "Which important?"

Casey looked at him and at the edge of her peripheral vision she saw Jacques deVille shake his head warningly and at once the shades came down on Linbar and on Gavallan. Even so she asked, "What is Gornt doing here?"

"I don't know," Gavallan told her, and she believed him.

"Have they met since that Christmas?"

"Oh yes, many times, all the time," Gavallan told her. "Socially of course. Then, too, they're on the boards of companies, committees, councils together." Uneasily he added, "But.. . well I'm sure they're both just waiting."

She saw their eyes wander back to the two enemies and her eyes followed. Her heart was beating strongly. They saw Penelope move away to talk to Claudia Chen. In a moment, Dunross glanced across at them. She knew he was signaling Gavallan in some way. Then his eyes were on her. Gornt followed his glance. Now both men were looking at her. She felt their magnetism. It intoxicated her. A devil in her pushed her feet toward them. She was glad now that she had dressed as she had, more provocatively than she had planned, but Line had told her this was a night to be less businesslike.

As she walked she felt the brush of the silk, and her nipples hardened. She felt their eyes flow over her, undressing her, and this time, strangely, she did not mind. Her walk became imperceptibly more feline.

"Hello, tai-pan," she said with pretended innocence. "You wanted me to join you?"

"Yes," he replied at once. "I believe you two know each other."

She shook her head and smiled at both of them, not noticing the trap. "No. We've never met. But of course I know who Mr. Gornt is. Andrew told me."

"Ah, then let me introduce you formally. Mr. Quillan Gornt, tai-pan of Rothwell-Gornt. Miss Tcholok—Ciranoush Tcholok— from America."

She held out her hand, knowing the danger of getting between the two men, half her mind warmed by the danger, the other half shouting, Jesus, what're you doing here.

"I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Gornt," she said, pleased that her voice was controlled, pleased by the touch of his hand—different from Dunross's, rougher and not as strong. "I believe the rivalry of your firms goes back generations?"

"Only three. It was my grandfather who first felt the not so tender mercies of the Struans," Gornt said easily. "One day I'd enjoy telling you our side of the legends."

"Perhaps you two should smoke a pipe of peace," she said. "Surely Asia's wide enough for both of you."

"The whole world isn't," Dunross said affably.

"No," Gornt agreed, and if she had not heard the real story she would have presumed from their tone and manner they were just friendly rivals.

"In the States we've many huge companies—and they live together peacefully. In competition."

"This isn't America," Gornt said calmly. "How long will you be here, Miss Tcholok?"

"That depends on Line—Line Bartlett—I'm with Par-Con Industries."

"Yes, yes I know. Didn't he tell you we're having dinner on Tuesday?"

The danger signals poured through her. "Tuesday?"

"Yes. We arranged it this morning. At our meeting. Didn't he mention it?"

"No," she said, momentarily in shock. Both men were watching her intently and she wished she could back off and come back in five minutes when she had thought this through. Jesus, she thought and fought to retain her poise as all the implications swamped her. "No," she said again, "Line didn't mention any meeting. What did you arrange?"

Gornt glanced at Dunross who still listened expressionlessly. "Just to have dinner next Tuesday. Mr. Bartlett and yourself—if you're free."

"That would be nice—thank you."

"Where's your Mr. Bartlett now?" he asked.

"In—in the garden, I think."

Dunross said, "Last time I saw him he was on the terrace. Ad-ryon was with him. Why?"

Gornt took out a gold cigarette case and offered it to her.

"No thank you," she said. "I don't smoke."

"Does it bother you if I do?"

She shook her head.

Gornt lit a cigarette and looked at Dunross. "I'd just like to say hello to him, before I leave," he said pleasantly. "I hope you don't mind me coming for just a few minutes—if you'll excuse me I won't stay for dinner. I have some pressing business to attend to … you understand."

"Of course." Dunross added, "Sorry you can't stay."

Neither man showed anything in his face. Except the eyes. It was in their eyes. Hatred. Fury. The depth shocked her. "Ask Ian

Dunross to show you the Long Gallery," Gornt was saying to her. "I hear there're some fine portraits there. I've never been in the Long Gallery—only the billiard room." A chill went down her spine as he looked again at Dunross who watched him back.

"This meeting this morning," Casey said, thinking clearly now, judging it wise to bring everything out in front of Dunross at once. "When was it arranged?"

"About three weeks ago," Gornt said. "I thought you were his chief executive, I'm surprised he didn't mention it to you."

"Line's our tai-pan, Mr. Gornt. I work for him. He doesn't have to tell me everything," she said, calmer now. "Should he have told me, Mr. Gornt? I mean, was it important?"

"It could be. Yes. I confirmed, formally, that we can better any offer Struan's can make. Any offer." Gornt glanced back at the tai-pan. His voice hardened a fraction. "Ian, I wanted to tell you, personally, that we're in the same marketplace."

"Is that why you came?"

"One reason."

"The other?"

"Pleasure."

"How long have you known Mr. Bartlett?"

"Six months or so. Why?"

Dunross shrugged, then looked at Casey and she could read nothing from his voice or face or manner other than friendliness. "You didn't know of any Rothwell-Gornt negotiations?"

Truthfully she shook her head, awed by Bartlett's skillful long-range planning. "No. Are negotiations in progress, Mr. Gornt?"

"I would say yes." Gornt smiled.

"Then we shall see, won't we," Dunross said. "We shall see who makes the best deal. Thank you for telling me personally, though there was no need. I knew, of course, that you'd be interested too. There's no need to belabor that."

"Actually there's a very good reason," Gornt said sharply. "Neither Mr. Bartlett nor this lady may realize how vital Par-Con is to you. I felt obliged to make the point personally to them. And to you. And of course to offer my congratulations."

"Why vital, Mr. Gornt?" Casey asked, committed now.

"Without your Par-Con deal and the cash flow it will generate, Struan's will go under, could easily go under in a few months."

Dunross laughed and those few who listened covertly shuddered and moved their own conversations up a decibel, aghast at the thought of Struan's failing, at the same time thinking, What deal? Par-Con? Should we sell or buy? Struan's or Rothwell-Gornt?

"No chance of that," Dunross said. "Not a chance in hell!"

"I think there's a very good chance." Gornt's tone changed. "In any event, as you say, we shall see."

"Yes, we will—meanwhile . . ." Dunross stopped as he saw Claudia approaching uneasily.

"Excuse me, tai-pan," she said, "your personal call to London's on the line."

"Oh thank you." Dunross turned and beckoned Penelope. She came over at once. "Penelope, would you entertain Quillan and Miss Tcholok for a moment. I've got a phone call—Quillan's not staying for dinner—he has pressing business." He waved cheerily and left them. Casey noticed the animal grace to his walk.

"You're not staying for dinner?" Penelope was saying, her relief evident though she tried to cover it.

"No. I'm sorry to inconvenience you—arriving so abruptly, after declining your kind invitation. Unfortunately I can't stay."

"Oh. Then . . . would you excuse me a moment, I'll be back in a second."

"There's no need to worry about us," Gornt said gently. "We can look after ourselves. Again, sorry to be a nuisance—you're looking marvelous, Penelope. You never change." She thanked him and he willed her away. Gratefully she went over to Claudia Chen who was waiting nearby.

"You're a curious man," Casey said. "One moment war, the next great charm."

"We have rules, we English, in peace and war. Just because you loathe someone, that's no reason to curse him, spit in his eye or abuse his lady." Gornt smiled down at her. "Shall we find your Mr. Bartlett? Then I really should go."

"Why did you do that? To the tai-pan? The battle challenge—the 'vital' bit. That was the formal gauntlet, wasn't it? In public."

"Life's a game," he said. "All life's a game and we English play it with different rules from you Americans. Yes. And life's to be enjoyed. Ciranoush—what a lovely name you have. May I use it?"

"Yes," she said after a pause. "But why the challenge now?"

"Now was the time. I didn't exaggerate about your importance to Struan's. Shall we go and find your Mr. Bartlett?"

That's the third time he's said your Mr. Bartlett, she thought. Is that to probe, or to needle? "Sure, why not?" She turned for the garden, conscious of the looks, overt and covert, of the other guests, feeling the danger pleasantly. "Do you always make dramatic entrances like this?"

Gornt laughed. "No. Sorry if I was abrupt, Ciranoush—if I distressed you."

"You mean about your private meeting with Line? You didn't. It was very shrewd of Line to approach the opposition without my knowledge. That gave me a freedom of action that otherwise I'd not have had this morning."

"Ah, then you're not irritated that he didn't trust you in this?"

"It has nothing to do with trust. I often withhold information from Line, until the time's ripe, to protect him. He was obviously doing the same for me. Line and I understand one another. At least I think I understand him."

"Then tell me how to finalize a deal."

"First I have to know what you want. Apart from Dunross's head."

"I don't want his head, or death or anything like that—just an early demise of their Noble House. Once Struan's is obliterated we become the Noble House." His face hardened. "Then all sorts of ghosts can sleep."

"Tell me about them."

"Now's not the time, Ciranoush, oh no. Too many hostile ears. That'd be for your ears only." They were out in the garden now, the gentle breeze grand, a fine night sky overhead, star filled. Line Bartlett was not on this terrace so they went down the wide stone steps through other guests to the lower one, toward the paths that threaded the lawns. Then they were intercepted.

"Hello, Quillan, this's a pleasant surprise."

"Hello, Paul. Miss Tcholok, may I introduce you to Paul Haver-gill? Paul's presently in charge of the Victoria Bank."

"I'm afraid that's very temporary, Miss Tcholok, and only because our chief manager's on sick leave. I'm retiring in a few months."

"To our regret," Gornt said, then introduced Casey to the rest of this group: Lady Joanna Temple-Smith, a tall, stretched-faced woman in her fifties, and Richard Kwang and his wife Mai-ling.

"Richard Kwang's chairman of the Ho-Pak, one of our finest Chinese banks."

"In banking we're all friendly competitors, Miss, er, Miss, except of course for Blacs," Havergill said.

"Sir?" Casey said.

"Blacs? Oh that's a nickname for the Bank of London, Canton and Shanghai. They may be bigger than we are, a month or so older, but we're the best bank here, Miss, er . . ."

"Blacs're my bankers," Gornt said to Casey. "They do me very well. They're first-class bankers."

"Second-class, Quillan."

Gornt turned back to Casey. "We've a saying here that Blacs consists of gentlemen trying to be bankers, and those at the Victoria are bankers trying to be gentlemen."

Casey laughed. The others smiled politely.

"You're all just friendly competition, Mr. Kwang?" she asked

"Oh yes. We wouldn't dare oppose Blacs or the Victoria," Richard Kwang said amiably. He was short and stocky and middle-aged with gray-flecked black hair and an easy smile, his English perfect. "I hear Par-Con's going to invest in Hong Kong, Miss Tchelek."

"We're here to look around, Mr. Kwang. Nothing's firm yet." She passed over his mispronunciation.

Gornt lowered his voice. "Just between ourselves, I've formally told both Bartlett and Miss Tcholok that I will better any offer Struan's might make. Blacs are supporting me one hundred percent, And I've friendly bankers elsewhere. I'm hoping Par-Con will consider all possibilities before making any commitment."

"I imagine that would be very wise," Havergill said. "Of course Struan's does have the inside track."

"Blacs and most of Hong Kong would hardly agree with you," Gornt said.

"I hope it won't come to a clash, Quillan," Havergill said. "Struan's is our major customer."

Richard Kwang said, "Either way, Miss Tchelek, it would be good to have such a great American company as Par-Con here. Good for you, good for us. Let's hope that a deal can be found that suits Par-Con. If Mr. Bartlett would like any assistance . . ." The banker produced his business card. She took it, opened her silk handbag and offered hers with equal dexterity, having come prepared for the immediate card exchanging that is good manners and obligatory in Asia. The Chinese banker glanced at it then his eyes narrowed.

"Sorry I haven't had it translated into characters yet," she said. "Our bankers in the States are First Central New York and the California Merchant Bank and Trust Company." Casey mentioned them proudly, sure the combined assets of these banking giants were in excess of 6 billions. "I'd be gl—" She stopped, startled at the sudden chill surrounding her. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes and no," Gornt said after a moment. "It's just that the First Central New York Bank's not at all popular here."

"Why?"

Havergill said disdainfully, "They turned out to be a shower— that's, er, English for a bad lot, Miss, er, Miss. The First Central New York did some business here before the war, then expanded in the mid-forties while we at the Victoria and other British institutions were picking ourselves off the floor. In '49 when Chairman Mao threw Chiang Kai-shek off the Mainland to Taiwan, Mao's troops were massed on our border just a few miles north in the New Territories. It was touch and go whether or not the hordes would spill over and overrun the Colony. A lot of people cut and ran, none of us of course, but all the Chinese who could got out. Without any warning, the First Central New York called in all their loans, paid off their depositors, closed their doors and fled—all in the space of one week."

"I didn't know," Casey said, aghast.

"They were a bunch of yellow bastards, my dear, if you'll excuse the expression," Lady Joanna said with open contempt. "Of course, they were the only bank that scarpered—ran away. But then they were . . . well, what can you expect, my dear?"

"Probably better, Lady Joanna," Casey said, furious with the VP in charge of their account for not warning them. "Perhaps there were mitigating circumstances. Mr. Havergill, were the loans substantial?"

"At that time, very, I'm afraid. Yes. That bank ruined quite a lot of important businesses and people, caused an enormous amount of grief and loss of face. Still," he said with a smile, "we all benefited by their leaving. A couple of years ago they had the effrontery to apply to the financial secretary for a new charter!"

Richard Kwang added jovially, "That's one charter that'll never be renewed! You see, Miss Tchelek, all foreign banks operate on a renewable yearly charter. Certainly we can do very well without that one, or for that matter any other American bank. They're such … well, you'll find the Victoria, Blacs or the Ho-Pak, perhaps all three Miss K.C., can fulfill all Par-Con's needs perfectly. If you and Mr. Harriett would like to chat …"

"I'd be glad to visit with you, Mr. Kwang. Say tomorrow? Initially I handle most of our banking needs. Maybe sometime in the morning?"

"Yes, yes of course. You'll find us competitive," Richard Kwang said without a flicker. "At ten?"

"Great. We're at the V and A, Kowloon. If ten's not good for you just let me know," she said. "I'm pleased to meet you personally too, Mr. Havergill. I presume our appointment for tomorrow is still in order?"

"Of course. At four, isn't it? I look forward to chatting at length with Mr. Bartlett. .. and you, of course, my dear." He was a tall, lean man and she noticed his eyes rise from her cleavage. She dismissed her immediate dislike. I may need him, she thought, and his bank.

"Thank you," she said with the right amount of deference and turned her charm on Lady Joanna. "What a pretty dress, Lady Joanna," she said, loathing it and the row of small pearls that circled the woman's scrawny neck.

"Oh, thank you, my dear. Is yours from Paris too?"

"Indirectly. It's a Balmain but I got it in New York." She smiled down at Richard Kwang's wife, a solid, well-preserved Cantonese lady with an elaborate coiifure, very pale skin and narrow eyes. She was wearing an immense imperial jade pendant and a seven-carat diamond ring. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Kwang," she said, awed by the wealth that the jewelry represented. "We were looking for Line Bartlett. Have you seen him?"

"Not for a while," Havergill volunteered. "I think he went into the east wing. Believe there's a bar there. He was with Adryon— Dunross's daughter."

"Adryon's turned out to be such a pretty girl," Lady Joanna said "They make such a nice couple together. Charming man, Mr. Bartlett. He's not married, is he, dear?"

"No," Casey said, equally pleasantly, adding Lady Joanna Temple-Smith to her private list of loathsome people. "Line's not married."

"He'll be gobbled up soon, mark my words. I really believe Adryon's quite smitten. Perhaps you'd like to come to tea on Thursday, my dear? I'd love you to meet some of the girls. That's the day of our Over Thirty Club."

"Thank you," Casey said. "I don't qualify—but I'd love to come anyway."

"Oh I'm sorry, dear! I'd presumed . . . I'll send a car for you. Quillan, are you staying for dinner?"

"No, can't. Got pressing business."

"Pity." Lady Joanna smiled and showed her bad teeth.

"If you'll excuse us—just want to find Bartlett and then I have to leave. See you Saturday." Gornt took Casey's arm and guided her away.

They watched them leave. "She's quite attractive in a common sort of way, isn't she?" Lady Joanna said. "Chuluk. That's Middle European, isn't it?"

"Possibly. It could be Mideastern, Joanna, you know, Turkish, something like that, possibly the Balkans. . . ." Havergill stopped. "Oh, I see what you mean. No, I don't think so. She certainly doesn't look Jewish."

"One really can't tell these days, can one? She might have had her nose fixed—they do marvelous things these days, don't they?"

"Never occurred to me to look. Hum! Do you think so?"

Richard Kwang passed Casey's card over to his wife who read it instantly and got the same message instantly. "Paul, her card says treasurer and executive VP of the holding company . . . that's quite impressive, isn't it? Par-Con's a big company."

"Oh my dear fellow, but they're American. They do extraordinary things in America. Surely it's just a title—that's all."

"Giving his mistress face?" Joanna asked.

12

9:00 P.M. :

The billiard cue struck the white ball and it shot across the green table and slashed the red into a far pocket and stopped perfectly behind another red.

Adryon clapped gleefully. "Oh Line, that was super! I was sure you were just boasting. Oh do it again!"

Line Bartlett grinned. "For one dollar that red around the table and into that pocket and the white here." He marked the spot with a flick of chalk.

"Done!"

He leaned over the table and sighted and the white stopped within a millimeter of his mark, the red sunk with marvelous inevitability.

"Ayeeyah! I haven't got a dollar with me. Damn! Can I owe it to you?"

"A lady—however beautiful—has to pay her gambling debts at once."

"I know. Father says the same. Can I pay you tomorrow?"

He watched her, enjoying her, pleased that his skill pleased her. She was wearing a knee-length black skirt and the lovely silk blouse. Her legs were long, very long, and perfect "Nope!" He pretended ill humor and then they laughed together in the huge room, the vast lights low over the full-size billiard table, the rest of the room dark and intimate but for the shaft of light from the open door.

"You play incredibly well," she said.

"Don't tell anyone but I made my living in the Army playing pool."

"In Europe?"

"No. Pacific."

"My father was a fighter pilot. He got six planes before he was shot down and grounded."

"I guess that made him an ace, didn't it?"

"Were you part of those awful landings against the Japs?"

"No. I was in construction. We came in when everything was secured."

"Oh."

"We built bases, airfields in Guadalcanal, and islands all over the Pacific. My war was easy—nothing like your dad's." As he went over to the cue rack, he was sorry for the first time that he had not been in the Marines. Her expression when he had said construction made him feel unmanned. "We should go look for your boyfriend. Maybe he's here by now."

"Oh he's not important! He's not a real boyfriend, I just met him a week or so ago at a friend's party. Martin's a journalist on the China Guardian. He's not a lover."

"Are all young English ladies so open about their lovers?"

"It's the pill. It's released us from masculine servitude forever. Now we're equal."

"Are you?"

"I am."

"Then you're lucky."

"Yes I know I'm very lucky." She watched him. "How old are you, Line?"

"Old." He snapped the cue into its rack. It was the first time in his life that he had not wanted to tell his age. Goddamn, he thought, curiously unsettled. What's your problem?

None. There's no problem. Is there?

"I'm nineteen," she was saying.

"When's your birthday?"

"October 27—I'm a Scorpio. When's yours?"

"October 1."

"Oh it's not! Tell me honestly!"

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

She clapped her hands with delight. "Oh that's marvelous! Father's the tenth. That's marvelous—a good omen."

"Why?"

"You'll see." Happily she opened her handbag and found a crumpled cigarette package and a battered gold lighter. He took the lighter and flicked it for her but it did not light. A second anda third time but nothing.

"Bloody thing," she said. "Bloody thing's never worked properly but Father gave it to me. I love it. Of course I dropped it a couple of times."

He peered at it, blew the wick and fiddled a moment. "You shouldn't smoke anyway."

"That's what Father always says."

"He's right."

"Yes. But I like smoking for the time being. How old are you, Line?"

"Forty."

"Oh!" He saw the surprise. "Then you're the same age as Father! Well, almost. He's forty-one."

"Both were great years," Line said dryly, and he thought, Whichever way you figure it, Adryon, I really am old enough to be your father.

Another frown creased her brow. "It's funny, you don't seem the same age at all." Then she added in a rush, "In two years I'll be twenty-one and that's practically over the hill, I just can't imagine being twenty-five let alone thirty and as to forty . . . God, I think I'd rather be pushing up daisies."

"Twenty-one's old—yes ma'am, mighty old," he said. And he thought, It's a long time since you spent time with such a young one. Watch yourself. This one's dynamite. He flicked the lighter and it lit. "What d'you know!"

"Thanks," she said and puffed her cigarette alight. "You don't smoke?" she asked.

"No, not now. Used to but Casey sent me illustrated pamphlets on cancer and smoking every hour on the hour until I got the message. Didn't faze me a bit to stop—once I'd decided. It sure as hell improved my golf and tennis and…" he smiled. "And all forms of sports."

"Casey is gorgeous. Is she really your executive vice-president?"

"Yes."

"She's going to … it'll be very difficult for her here. The men won't like dealing with her at all."

"Same in the States. But they're getting used to it. We built Par-Con in six years. Casey can work with the best of them. She's a winner."

"Is she your mistress?"

He sipped his beer. "Are all young English ladies so blunt?"

"No." She laughed. "I was just curious. Everyone says … everyone presumes she is."

"That a fact?"

"Yes. You're the talk of Hong Kong society, and tonight will cap everything. You both made rather a grand entrance, what with your private jet, the smuggled guns and Casey being the last European to see John Chen, so the papers said. I liked your interview."

"Eh, those bas—those press guys were waiting on the doorstep this afternoon. I tried to keep it short and sharp."

"Par-Con's really worth half a billion dollars?"

"No. About 300 million—but it'll be a billion-dollar company soon. Yes, it'll be soon now."

He saw her looking at him with those frank, gray-green eyes of hers, so adult yet so young. "You're a very interesting man, Mr. Line Bartlett. I like talking to you. I like you too. Didn't at first. I screamed bloody murder when Father told me I had to chaperone you, introduce you around for a while. I haven't done a very good job, have I?"

"It's been super."

"Oh come on." She grinned too. "I've totally monopolized you."

"Not true. I met Christian Toxe the editor, Richard Kwang and those two Americans from the consulate. Lannan wasn't it?"

"Langan, Edward Langan. He's nice. I didn't catch the other one's name—I don't know them really, they've just been racing with us. Christian's nice and his wife's super. She's Chinese so she's not here tonight."

Bartlett frowned. "Because she's Chinese?"

"Oh, she was invited but she wouldn't come. It's face. To save her husband's face. The nobs don't approve of mixed marriages."

"Marrying the natives?"

"Something like that." She shrugged. "You'll see. I'd better introduce you to some more guests or I'll get hell!"

"How about to Havergill the banker? What about him?"

"Father thinks Havergill's a berk."

"Then by God he's a twenty-two-carat berk from here on in!"

"Good," she said and they laughed together.

"Line?"

They looked around at the two figures silhouetted in the shaft of light from the doorway. He recognized Casey's voice and shape at once but not the man. It was not possible from where they were to see against the light.

"Hi, Casey! How's it going?"

He took Adryon's arm casually and propelled her toward the silhouette. "I've been teaching Adryon the finer points of pool."

Adryon laughed. "That's the understatement of the year, Casey. He's super at it, isn't he?"

"Yes. Oh Line, Quillan Gornt wanted to say hi before he left."

Abruptly Adryon jerked to a stop and the color left her face. Line stopped, startled. "What's wrong?" he asked her.

"Evening, Mr. Bartlett," Gornt said, moving toward them into the light. "Hello, Adryon."

"What're you doing here?" she said in a tiny voice.

"I just came for a few minutes," Gornt said.

"Have you seen Father?"

"Yes."

"Then get out. Get out and leave this house alone." Adryon said it in the same small voice.

Bartlett stared at her. "What the hell's up?"

Gornt said calmly, "It's a long story. It can wait until tomorrow —or next week. I just wanted to confirm our dinner on Tuesday— and if you're free over the weekend, perhaps you two would like to come out on my boat for the day. Sunday if the weather's good."

"Thanks, I think so, but may we confirm tomorrow?" Bartlett asked, still nonplussed by Adryon.

"Adryon," Gornt said gently, "Annagrey's leaving next week, she asked me to ask you to give her a call." Adryon did not answer, just stared at him, and Gornt added to the other two, "Annagrey's my daughter. They're good friends—they've both gone to the same schools most of their lives. She's off to university in California."

"Oh—then if there's anything we could do for her . . ." Casey said.

"That's very kind of you," he said. "You'll meet her Tuesday. Perhaps we can talk about it then. I'll say g—"

The door at the far end of the billiard room swung open and Dunross stood there.

Gornt smiled and turned his attention back to them. "Good night, Mr. Bartlett—Ciranoush. See you both on Tuesday. Good night, Adryon." He bowed slightly to them and walked the length of the room and stopped. "Good night, Ian," he said politely. "Thank you for your hospitality."

" 'Night," Dunross said, as politely, and stood aside, a slight smile twisting his lips.

He watched Gornt walk out of the front door and then turned his attention back to the billiard room. "Almost time for dinner," he said, his voice calm. And warm. "You must all be starving. I am."

"What . . . what did he want?" Adryon said shakily.

Dunross came up to her with a smile, gentling her. "Nothing. Nothing important, my pet. Quillan's mellowing in his old age."

"You're sure?"

"Sure." He put his arm around her and gave her a little hug. "No need to worry your pretty head."

"Has he gone?"

"Yes."

Bartlett started to say something but stopped instantly as he caught Dunross's eye over Adryon's head.

"Yes. Everything's grand, my darling," Dunross was saying as he gave her another little hug, and Bartlett saw Adryon gather herself within the warmth. "Nothing to worry about."

"Line was showing me how he played pool and then … It was just so sudden. He was like an apparition."

"You could have knocked me down with a feather too when he appeared like the Bad Fairy." Dunross laughed, then added to Bartlett and Casey, "Quillan goes in for dramatics." Then to Bartlett alone, "We'll chat about that after dinner, you and I."

"Sure," Bartlett said, noticing the eyes weren't smiling.

The dinner gong sounded. "Ah, thank God!" Dunross said. "Come along, everyone, food at long last. Casey, you're at my table." He kept his arm around Adryon, loving her, and guided her out into the light.

Casey and Bartlett followed.

Gornt got into the driver's seat of the black Silver Cloud Rolls that he had parked just outside the Great House. The night was good, though the humidity had increased again. He was very pleased with himself. And now for dinner and Jason Plumm, he thought. Once that bugger's committed, Ian Dunross's as good as finished and I own this house and Struan's and the whole kit and caboodle!

It couldn't have been better: first Casey and Ian almost at once, and everything laid out in front of him and in front of her. Then Havergill and Richard Kwang together. Then Bartlett in the billiard room and then Ian himself again.

Perfect!

Now lan's called, Bartlett's called, Casey, Havergill, Richard Kwang and so's Plumm. Ha! If they only knew.

Everything's perfect. Except for Adryon. Pity about her, pity that children have to inherit the feuds of the fathers. But that's life. Joss. Pity she won't go out into the world and leave Hong Kong, like Annagrey—at least until Ian Dunross and I have settled our differences, finally. Better she's not here to see him smashed—nor Penelope too. Joss if they're here, joss if they're not. I'd like him here when I take possession of his box at the races, the permanent seat on all boards, all the sinecures, the legislature—oh yes. Soon they'll all be mine. Along with the envy of all Asia.

He laughed. Yes. And about time. Then all the ghosts will sleep. God curse all ghosts!

He switched on the ignition and started the engine, enjoying the luxury of real leather and fine wood, the smell rich and exclusive. Then he put the car into gear and swung down the driveway, past the carpark where all the other cars were, down to the huge wrought-ircn main gates with the Struan arms entwined. He stopped for passing traffic and caught sight of the Great House in his rear mirror. Tall, vast, the windows ablaze, welcoming.

Soon I really will own you, he thought. I'll throw parties there that Asia's never seen before and never will again. I suppose I should have a hostess.

What about the American girl?

He chuckled. "Ah, Ciranoush, what a lovely name," he said out loud with the same, perfect amount of husky charm that he had used previously. That one's a pushover, he told himself confidently. You just use old world charm and great wine, light but excellent food and patience—along with the very best of upper-class English, masculine sophistication and no swear words and she'll fall where and when you want her to. And then, if you choose the correct moment, you can use gutter English and a little judicious roughness, and you'll unlock all her pent-up passion like no man ever has done.

If I read her correctly she needs an expert pillowing rather badly.

So either Bartlett's inadequate or they're really not lovers as the confidential report suggested. Interesting.

But do you want her? As a toy—perhaps. As a tool—of course. As a hostess no, much too pushy.

Now the road was clear so he pulled out and went down to the junction and turned left and soon he was on Peak Road going downhill toward Magazine Gap where Plumm's penthouse apartment was. After dinner with him he was going to a meeting, then to Wanchai, to one of his private apartments and the welcoming embrace of Mona Leung. His pulse quickened at the thought of her violent lovemaking, her barely hidden hatred for him and all quai loh that was ever in perpetual conflict with her love of luxury, the apartment that was on loan to her and the modest amount of money he gave her monthly.

"Never give 'em enough money," his father William had told him early on. "Clothes, jewelry, holidays—that's fine. But not too much money. Control them with dollar bills. And never think they love you for you. They don't. It's only your money, only your money and always will be. Just under the surface they'll despise you, always will. That's fair enough if you think about it—we're not Chinese and never will be."

"There's never an exception?"

"I don't think so. Not for a quai loh, my son. I don't think so. Never has been with me and I've known a few. Oh she'll give you her body, her children, even her life, but she'll always despise you. She has to, she's Chinese and we're quai loh!"

Ayeeyah, Gornt thought. That advice's proved itself time and time again. And saved me so much anguish. It'll be good to see the Old Man, he told himself. This year I'll give him a fine Christmas present: Struan's.

He was driving carefully down the left side of the winding road hugging the mountainside, the night good, the surface fine and the traffic light. Normally he would have been chauffeur-driven but tonight he wanted no witnesses to his meeting with Plumm.

No, he thought. Nor any witnesses when I meet Four Finger Wu. What the hell does that pirate want? Nothing good. Bound to be dangerous. Yes. But during the Korean War Wu did you a very large favor and perhaps now is the time he wants the favor repaid. There's always a reckoning sooner or later, and that's fair and that's

Chinese law. You get a present, you give one back a little more valuable. You have a favor done . . .

In 1950 when the Chinese Communist armies in Korea were battering and bleeding their way south from the Yalu with monstrous losses, they were desperately short of all strategic supplies and very willing to pay mightily those who could slip through the blockade with the supplies they needed. At that time, Rothwell-Gornt was also in desperate straits because of their huge losses at Shanghai the previous year thanks to the conquest by Mao. So in December of 1950, he and his father had borrowed heavily and secretly bought a huge shipment of penicillin, morphine, sulfanala-mides and other medical supplies in the Philippines, avoiding the obligatory export license. These they smuggled onto a hired oceangoing junk with one of their trusted crews and sent it to Wampoa, a bleak island in the Pearl River near Canton. Payment was to be in gold on delivery, but en route, in the secret backwaters of the Pearl River Estuary, their junk had been intercepted by river pirates favoring Chiang Kai-shek's Nationalists and a ransom demanded. They had no money to ransom the cargo, and if the Nationalists found out that Rothwell-Gornt was dealing with their hated Communist enemy, their own future in Asia was lost forever.

Through his compradore Gornt had arranged a meeting in Aberdeen Harbor with Four Finger Wu, supposedly one of the biggest smugglers in the Pearl River Estuary.

"Where ship now?" Four Finger Wu had asked in execrable pidgin English.

Gornt had told him as best he could, conversing in pidgin, not being able to speak Haklo, Wu's dialect.

"Perhaps, perhaps not!" Four Finger Wu smiled. "I phone three day. Nee choh wah password. Three day, heya?"

On the third day he phoned. "Bad, good, don' know. Meet two day Aberdeen. Begin Hour of Monkey." That hour was ten o'clock at night. Chinese split the day into twelve, two-hour segments, each with a name, always in the same sequence, beginning at 4:00 A.M. with the Cock, then at 6:00 A.M. with the Dog, and so on; Boar, Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon, Snake, Monkey, Horse and Sheep.

At the Hour of the Monkey on Wu's junk at Aberdeen two days later, he had been given the full payment for his shipment in gold plus an extra 40 percent. A staggering 500 percent profit.

Four Finger Wu had grinned. "Make better trade than quai loh, never mind. 28,000 taels of gold." A tael was a little more than an ounce. "Next time me ship. Yes?"

"Yes."

"You buy, me ship, me sell, 40 percent mine, sale price."

"Yes." Gornt had thankfully tried to press a much larger percentage on him this time but Wu had refused.

"40 percent only, sale price." But Gornt had understood that now he was in the smuggler's debt.

The gold was in five-tael smuggler bars. It was valued at the official rate of $35 U.S. an ounce. But on the black market, smuggled into Indonesia, India or back into China, it was worth two or three times as much… sometimes more. On this one shipment again with Wu's help, Rothwell-Gornt had made a million and a half U.S. and were on the road to recovery.

After that there had been three more shipments, immensely profitable to both sides. Then the war had ceased and so had their relationship.

Never a word since then, Gornt thought. Until the phone call this afternoon.

"Ah, old friend, can see? Tonight?" Four Finger Wu had said. "Can do? Anytime—I wait. Same place as old days. Yes?"

So now the favor's to be returned. Good.

Gornt switched on the radio. Chopin. He was driving the winding road automatically, his mind on the meetings ahead, the engine almost silent. He slowed for an advancing truck, then swung out and accelerated on the short straight to overtake a slow-moving taxi. Going quite fast now he braked sharply in good time nearing the blind corner, then something seemed to snap in the innards of the engine, his foot sank to the floorboards, his stomach turned over and he went into the hairpin too fast

In panic he jammed his foot on the brake again and again but nothing happened, his hands whirling the wheel around. He took the first corner badly, swerving drunkenly as he came out of it onto the wrong side of the road. Fortunately there was nothing coming at him but he overcorrected and lurched for the mountainside, his stomach twisting with nausea, overcorrected again, going very fast now and the next corner leapt at him. Here the grade was steeper, the road more winding and narrow. Again he cornered badly but once through he had a split second to grab the hand brake and this slowed him only a little, the new corner was on him, and he came out of it way out of his lane, oncoming headlights blinding him.

The taxi skittered in panic to the shoulder and almost went over the side, its horn blaring but he was passed by a fraction of an inch, lurching petrified for the correct side, and then went on down the hill out of control. A moment of straight road and he managed to jerk the gear lever into low as he hurtled into another blind corner, the engine howling now. The sudden slowing would have pitched him through the windshield but for his seat belt, his hands almost frozen to the wheel.

He got around this corner but again he was out too far and he missed the oncoming car by a millimeter, skidded back to his side once more, swerved, overcorrecting, slowing a little now but there was no letup in the grade or twisting road ahead. He was still going too fast into the new hairpin and coming out of the first part he was too far over. The heavily laden truck grinding up the hill was helpless.

Panic-stricken he tore the wheel left and just managed to get around the truck with a glancing blow. He tried to jerk the gear lever into reverse but it wouldn't go, the cogs shrieking in protest. Then, aghast, he saw slow traffic ahead in his lane, oncoming traffic in the other and the road vanish around the next bend. He was lost so he turned left into the mountainside, trying to ricochet and stop that way.

There was a howl of protesting metal, the back side window shattered and he bounced away. The oncoming car lurched for the far shoulder, its horn blaring. He closed his eyes and braced for the head-on collision but somehow it didn't happen and he was past and just had enough strength to jerk the wheel hard over again and went into the mountainside. He hit with a glancing blow. The front left fender ripped away. The car ploughed into the shrub and earth, then slammed into a rock outcrop, reared up throwing Gornt aside, but as the car fell back the near-side wheel went into the storm drain and held, and, just before smashing into the paralyzed little Mini ahead, it stopped.

Gornt weakly pulled himself up. The car was still half upright. Sweat was pouring off him and his heart was pounding. He found it hard to breathe or to think. Traffic both ways was stopped, snarled. He heard some horns hooting impatiently below and above, then hurried footsteps.

"You all right, old chap?" the stranger asked.

"Yes, yes I think so. My, my brakes went." Gornt wiped the sweat off his forehead, trying to get his brain to work. He felt his chest, then moved his feet and there was no pain. "I … the brakes went … I was turning a corner and . . . and then everything . . ."

"Brakes, eh? Not like a Rolls. I thought you were pretending to be Stirling Moss. You were very lucky. I thought you'd had it twenty times. If I were you I'd switch off the engine."

"What?" Then Gornt realized the engine was still gently purring and the radio playing so he turned the ignition off and, after a moment, pulled the keys out.

"Nice car," the stranger said, "but it's a right proper mess now. Always liked this model. '62, isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes it is."

"You want me to call the police?"

Gornt made the effort and thought a moment, his pulse still pounding in his ears. Weakly he unsnapped the seat belt. "No. There's a police station just back up the hill. If you'd give me a lift to there?"

"Delighted, old chap." The stranger was short and rotund. He looked around at the other cars and taxis and trucks that were stopped in both directions, their Chinese drivers and Chinese passengers gawking at them from their windows. "Bloody people," he muttered sourly. "You could be dying in the street and you'd be lucky if they stepped over you." He opened the door and helped Gornt out.

"Thanks." Gornt felt his knees shaking. For a moment he could not dominate his knees and he leaned against the car.

"You sure you're all right?"

"Oh yes. It's . . . that frightened me to death!" He looked at the damage, the nose buried into earth and shrub, a huge score down the right side, the car jammed well into the inside curve. "What a bloody mess!"

"Yes, but it hasn't telescoped a sausage! You were bloody lucky you were in a good car, old chap." The stranger let the door swing and it closed with a muted click. "Great workmanship. Well, you can leave it here. No one's likely to steal it." The stranger laughed, leading the way to his own car which was parked, its blinker lights on, just behind. "Hop in, won't take a jiffy."

It was then Gornt remembered the mocking half-smile on Dunross's face that he had taken for bravado as he left. His mind cleared. Would there have been time for Dunross to tamper . . . with his knowledge of engines . . . surely he wouldn't . . . ?

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, aghast.

"Not to worry, old chap," the stranger said, as he eased past the wreck, making the turn. "The police'll make all the arrangements for you."

Gornt's face closed. "Yes. Yes they will."

13

10:25 P.M. :

"Grand dinner, Ian, better than last year's," Sir Dunstan Barre said expansively from across the table.

"Thank you." Dunross raised his glass politely and took a sip of the fine cognac from the brandy snifter.

Barre gulped his port then refilled his glass, more florid than usual. "Ate too much, as usual, by God! Eh Phillip? Phillip!"

"Yes … oh yes . . . much better . . ." Phillip Chen muttered.

"Are you all right, old chap?"

"Oh yes … it's just … oh yes."

Dunross frowned, then let his eyes rove the other tables, hardly listening to them.

There were just the three of them now at this round table that had seated twelve comfortably. At the other tables spread across the terraces and lawns, men were lounging over their cognac, port and cigars, or standing in clusters, all the ladies now inside the house. He saw Bartlett standing over near the buffet tables that an hour ago had been groaning under the weight of roast legs of lamb, salads, sides of rare beef, vast hot steak-and-kidney pies, roast potatoes and vegetables of various kinds, and the pastries and cakes and ice cream sculptures. A small army of servants was cleaning away the debris. Bartlett was in deep conversation with Chief Superintendent Roger Crosse and the American Ed Langan. In a little while I'll deal with him, he told himself grimly—but first Brian Kwok. He looked around. Brian Kwok was not at his table, the one that Adryon had hosted, or at any of the others, so he sat back patiently, sipped his cognac and let himself drift.

Secret files, MI-6, Special Intelligence, Bartlett, Casey, Gornt, no Tsu-yan and now Alan Medford Grant very dead. His phone call before dinner to Kiernan, Alan Medford Grant's assistant in London, had been a shocker. "It was sometime this morning, Mr. Dunross," Kiernan had said. "It was raining, very slippery and he was a motorcycle enthusiast as you know. He was coming up to town as usual. As far as we know now there were no witnesses. The fellow who found him on the country road near Esher and the A3 highway, just said he was driving along in the rain and then there in front of him was the bike on its side and a man sprawled in a heap on the edge of the road. He said as far as he could tell, AMG was dead when he reached him. He called the police and they've begun inquiries but… well, what can I say? He's a great loss to all of us."

"Yes. Did he have any family?"

"Not that I know of, sir. Of course I informed MI-6 at once."

"Oh?"

"Yes sir."

"Why?"

There was heavy static on the line. "He'd left instructions with me, sir. If anything happened to him I was to call two numbers at once and cable you, which I did. Neither number meant anything to me. The first turned out to be the private number of a high-up official in MI-6—he arrived within half an hour with some of his people and they went through AMG's desk and private papers. They took most of them when they left. When he saw the copy of the last report, the one we'd just sent you, he just about hit the roof, and when he asked for copies of all the others and I told him, following AMG's instructions—I always destroyed the office copy once we'd heard you had received yours—he just about had a hemorrhage. It seems AMG didn't really have Her Majesty's Government's permission to work for you."

"But I have Grant's assurance in writing he'd got clearance from HMG in advance."

"Yes sir. You've done nothing illegal but this MI-6 fellow just about went bonkers."

"Who was he? What was his name?"

"I was told, told, sir, not to mention any names. He was very pompous and mumbled something about the Official Secrets Act."

"You said two numbers?"

"Yes sir. The other was in Switzerland. A woman answered and after I'd told her, she just said, oh, so sorry, and hung up. She was foreign, sir. One interesting thing, in AMG's final instructions he had said not to tell either number about the other but, as this gentleman from MI-6 was, to put it lightly, incensed, I told him. He called at once but got a busy line and it was busy for a very long time and then the exchange said it had been temporarily disconnected. He was bloody furious, sir."

"Can you carry on AMG's reports?"

"No sir. I was just a feeder—I collated information that he got. I just wrote the reports for him, answered the phone when he was away, paid office bills. He spent a good part of the time on the Continent but he never said where he'd been, or volunteered anything. He was … well, he played his cards close to his nose. I don't know who gave him anything—I don't even know his office number in Whitehall. As I said, he was very secretive. . . ."

Dunross sighed and sipped his brandy. Bloody shame, he thought. Was it an accident—or was he murdered? And when do MI-6 fall on my neck? The numbered account in Switzerland? That's not illegal either, and no one's business but mine and his.

What to do? There must be a substitute somewhere.

Was it an accident? Or was he killed?

"Sorry?" he asked, not catching what Barre had said.

"I was just saying it was bloody funny when Casey didn't want to go and you threw her out." The big man laughed. "You've got balls, old boy."

At the end of the dinner just before the port and cognac and cigars had arrived, Penelope had got up from her table where Line Bartlett was deep in conversation with Havergill and the ladies had left with her, and then Adryon at her table, and then, all over the terraces, ladies had begun trickling away after her. Lady Joanna, who was sitting on Dunross's right, had said, "Come on girls, time to powder."

Obediently the other women got up with her and the men politely pretended not to be relieved by their exodus.

"Come along, dear," Joanna had said to Casey, who had remained seated.

"Oh I'm fine, thanks."

"I'm sure you are but, er, come along anyway."

Then Casey had seen everyone staring. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, dear," Lady Joanna had said. "It's custom that the ladies leave the men alone for a while with the port and cigars. So come along."

Casey had stared at her blankly. "You mean we're sent off while the men discuss affairs of state and the price of tea in China?"

"It's just good manners, dear. When in Rome .. ." Lady Joanna had watched her, a slight, contemptuous smile on her lips, enjoying the embarrassed silence and the shocked looks of most of the men. All eyes went back to the American girl.

"You can't be serious. That custom went out before the Civil War," Casey said.

"In America I'm sure it did." Joanna smiled her twisted smile. "Here it's different; this is part of England. It's a matter of manners. Do come along, dear."

"I will—dear," Casey said as sweetly. "Later."

Joanna had sighed and shrugged and raised an eyebrow at Dun-ross and smiled crookedly and gone off with the other ladies. There was a stunned silence at the table.

"Tai-pan, you don't mind if I stay, do you?" Casey had said with a laugh.

"Yes, I'm sorry but I do," he had told her gently. "It's just a custom, nothing important. It's really so the ladies can get first crack at the loo and the pails of water."

Her smile faded and her chin began to jut. "And if I prefer not to go?"

"It's just our custom, Ciranoush. In America it's custom to call someone you've just met by his first name, it's not here. Even so …" Dunross stared back calmly, but just as inflexibly. "There's no loss of face in it."

"I think there is."

"Sorry about that—I can assure you there isn't."

The others had waited, watching him and watching her, enjoying the confrontation, at the same time appalled by her. Except Ed Langan who was totally embarrassed for her. "Hell, Casey," he said, trying to make a joke of it, "you can't fight City Hall."

"I've been trying all my life," she had said sharply—clearly furious. Then, abruptly, she had smiled gloriously. Her fingers drummed momentarily on the tablecloth and she got up. "If you gentlemen will excuse me…" she had said sweetly and sailed away, an astonished silence in her wake.

"I hardly threw her out," Dunross said.

"It was bloody funny, even so," Barre said. "I wonder what changed her mind? Eh Phillip?"

"What?" Phillip Chen asked absently.

"For a moment I thought she was going to belt poor old Ian, didn't you? But something she thought of changed her mind. What?"

Dunross smiled. "I'll bet it's no good. That one's as touchy as a pocketful of scorpions."

"Great knockers, though," Barre said.

They laughed. Phillip Chen didn't. Dunross's concern for him increased. He had tried to cheer him up all evening but nothing had drawn the curtain away. All through dinner Phillip had been dulled and monosyllabic. Barre got up with a belch. "Think I'll take a leak while there's space." He lurched off into the garden.

"Don't pee on the camellias," Ian called after him absently, then forced himself to concentrate. "Phillip, not to worry," he said, now that they were alone. "They'll find John soon."

"Yes, I'm sure they will," Phillip Chen said dully, his mind not so much swamped by the kidnapping as appalled by what he had discovered in his son's safety deposit box this afternoon. He had opened it with the key that he had taken from the shoebox.

"Go on, Phillip, take it, don't be a fool," his wife Dianne had hissed. "Take it—if we don't the tai-pan will!"

"Yes, yes I know." Thank all gods I did, he thought, still in shock, remembering what he had found when he'd rifled through the contents. Manila envelopes of various sizes, mostly itemized, a diary and phone book. In the envelope marked "debts" betting slips for 97,000 HK for current debts to illegal, off-course gamblers in Hong Kong. A note in favor of Miser Sing, a notorious moneylender, for 30,000 HK at 3 percent per month interest; a long overdue sight demand note from the Ho-Pak Bank for $20,000 U.S. and a letter from Richard Kwang dated last week saying unless John Chen made some arrangements soon he would have to talk to his father. Then there were letters which documented a growing friendship between his son and an American gambler, Vincenzo Banastasio, who assured John Chen that his debts were not pressing: "… take your time, John, your credit's the best, anytime this year's fine . . ." and, attached, was the photocopy of a perfectly legal, notarized promissory note binding his son, his heirs or assignees, to pay Banastasio, on demand, $485,000 U.S., plus interest.

Stupid, stupid, he had raged, knowing his son had not more than a fifth of those assets, so he himself would have to pay the debt eventually.

Then a thick envelope marked "Par-Con" had caught his attention.

This contained a Par-Con employment contract signed by K. C. Tcholok, three months ago, hiring John Chen as a private consultant to Par-Con for "… $100,000 down ($50,000 of which is hereby acknowledged as already paid) and, once a satisfactory deal is signed between Par-Con and Struan's, Rothwell-Gornt or any other Hong Kong company of Par-Con's choosing, a further one million dollars spread over a five-year period in equal installments; and within thirty days of the signing of the above said contract, a debt to Mr. Vincenzo Banastasio of 85 Orchard Road, Las Vegas, Nevada, of $485,000 paid off, the first year's installment of $200,-000, along with the balance of $50,000 . . .."

"In return for what," Phillip Chen had gasped helplessly in the bank vault.

But the long contract spelled out nothing further except that John Chen was to be a "private consultant in Asia." There were no notes or papers attached to it.

Hastily he had rechecked the envelope in case he had missed anything but it was empty. A quick leafing through the other envelopes produced nothing. Then he happened to notice a thin airmail envelope half stuck to another. It was marked "Par-Con II." It contained photocopies of handwritten notes from his son to Line Bartlett.

The first was dated six months ago and confirmed that he, John Chen, would and could supply Par-Con with the most intimate knowledge of the innermost workings of the whole Struan complex of companies, ". . . of course this has to be kept totally secret, but for example, Mr. Bartlett, you can see from the enclosed Struan balance sheets for 1954 through 1961 (when Struan's went public) what I advise is perfectly feasible. If you look at the chart of Struan's corporate structure, and the list of some of the important stockholders of Struan's and their secret holdings, including my father's, you should have no trouble in any takeover bid Par-Con cares to mount. Add to these photocopies the other thing I told you about—I swear to God that you can believe me—I guarantee success. I'm putting my life on the line, that should be collateral enough, but if you'll advance me fifty of the first hundred now, I'll agree to let you have possession on arrival—on your undertaking to return it to me once your deal's set—or for use against Struan's. I guarantee to use it against Struan's. In the end Dunross has to do anything you want. Please reply to the usual post box and destroy this as we have agreed."

"Possession of what?" Phillip Chen had muttered, beside himself with anxiety. His hands were shaking now as he read the second letter. It was dated three weeks ago. "Dear Mr. Bartlett. This will confirm your arrival dates. Everything's prepared. I look forward to seeing you again and meeting Mr. K. C. Tcholok. Thanks for the fifty cash which arrived safely—all future monies are to go to a numbered account in Zurich—I'll give you the bank details when you arrive. Thank you also for agreeing to our unwritten understanding that if I can assist you in the way I've claimed I can, then I'm in for 3 percent of the action of the new Par-Con (Asia) Trading Company.

"I enclose a few more things of interest: note the date that Struan's demand notes (countersigned by my father) become due to pay Toda Shipping for their new super container ships—September 1, 11 and 15. There's not enough money in Struan's till to meet them.

"Next: to answer Mr. Tcholok's question about my father's position in any takeover or proxy fight. He can be neutralized. Enclosed photocopies are a sample of many that I have. These show a very close relationship with White Powder Lee and his cousin, Wu Sang Fang who's also known as Four Finger Wu, from the early fifties, and secret ownership with them—even today—of a property company, two shipping companies and Bangkok trading interests. Though outwardly, now, both pose as respectable businessmen, property developers and shipping millionaires, it's common knowledge they have been successful pirates and smugglers for years—and there's a very strong rumor in Chinese circles that they are the High Dragons of the opium trade. If my father's connection with them was made public it would take his face away forever, would sever the very close links he has with Struan's, and all the other hongs that exist today, and most important, would destroy forever his chance for a knighthood, the one thing he wants above all. Just the threat of doing this would be enough to neutralize him—even make him an ally. Of course I realize these papers and the others I have need further documentation to stick in a court of law but I have this already in abundance in a safe place. . . ."

Phillip Chen remembered how, panic-stricken, he had searched frantically for the further documentation, his mind shrieking that it was impossible for his son to have so much secret knowledge, impossible for him to have Struan's balance sheets of the prepublic days, impossible to know about Four Finger Wu and those secret things.

Oh gods that's almost everything I know—even Dianne doesn't know half of that! What else does John know—what else has he told the American?

Beside himself with anxiety he had searched every envelope but there was nothing more.

"He must have another box somewhere—or safe," he had muttered aloud, hardly able to think.

Furiously he had scooped everything into his briefcase, hoping that a more careful examination would answer his questions—and slammed the box shut and locked it. At a sudden thought, he had reopened it. He had pulled the slim tray out and turned it upside down. Taped to the underside were two keys. One was a safety deposit box key with the number carefully filed off. He stared at the other, paralyzed. He recognized it at once. It was the key to his own safe in his house on the crest. He would have bet his life that the only key in existence was the one that he always wore around his neck, that had never been out of his possession—ever since his father had given it to him on his deathbed sixteen years ago.

"Oh ko," he said aloud, once more consumed with rage.

Dunross said, "You all right? How about a brandy?"

"No, no thank you," Phillip Chen said shakily, back in the present now. With an effort he pulled his mind together and stared at the tai-pan, knowing he should tell him everything. But he dare not. He dare not until he knew the extent of the secrets stolen. Even then he dare not. Apart from many transactions the authorities could easily misconstrue, and others that could be highly embarrassing and lead to all sorts of court cases, civil if not criminal—stupid English law, he thought furiously, stupid to have one law for everyone, stupid not to have one law for the rich and another for the poor, why else work and slave and gamble and scheme to be rich—apart from all this he would still have had to admit to Dunross that he had been documenting Struan secrets for years, that his father had done so before him—balance sheets, stockholdings and other secret, very very private personal family things, smugglings and payoffs— and he knew it would be no good saying I did it just for protection, to protect the House, because the tai-pan would rightly say, yes but it was to protect the House of Chen and not the Noble House, and he would rightly turn on him, turn his full wrath on him and his brood, and in the holocaust of a fight against Struan's he was bound to lose—Dirk Struan's will had provided for that—and everything that almost a century and a half had built up would vanish.

Thank all gods that everything was not in the safe, he thought fervently. Thank all gods the other things are buried deep.

Then, suddenly, some words from his son's first letter ripped to the forefront of his mind, ". . . Add to these photocopies the other thing I told you about . . ."

He paled and staggered to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, tai-pan … I, er, I'll say good night. I'll just fetch Dianne and I … I'll .. . thank you, good night." He hurried off toward the house.

Dunross stared after him, shocked.

"Oh, Casey," Penelope was saying, "may I introduce Kathren Gavallan—Kathren's lan's sister."

"Hi!" Casey smiled at her, liking her at once. They were in one of the antechambers on the ground floor among other ladies who were talking or fixing their makeup or standing in line, waiting their turn to visit the adjoining powder room. The room was large, comfortable and mirrored. "You both have the same eyes—I'd recognize the resemblance anywhere," she said. "He's quite a man, isn't he?"

"We think so," Kathren replied with a ready smile. She was thirty-eight, attractive, her Scots accent pleasing, her flowered silk dress long and cool. "This water shortage's a bore, isn't it?"

"Yes. Must be very difficult with children."

"No, cherie, the children, they just love it," Susanne deVille called out. She was in her late forties, chic, her French accent slight. "How can you insist they bathe every night?"

"My two are the same." Kathren smiled. "It bothers us parents, but it doesn't seem to bother them. It's a bore though, trying to run a house."

Penelope said, "God, I hate it! This summer's been ghastly. You're lucky tonight, usually we'd be dripping!" She was checking her makeup in the mirror. "I can't wait till next month. Kathren, did I tell you we're going home for a couple of weeks leave—at least I am. lan's promised to come too but you never know with him."

"He needs a holiday," Kathren said and Casey noticed shadows in her eyes and care rings under her makeup. "Are you going to Ayr?"

"Yes, and London for a week."

"Lucky you. How long are you staying in Hong Kong, Casey?"

"I don't know. It all depends on what Par-Con does."

"Yes. Andrew said you had a meeting all day with them."

"I don't think they went much for having to talk business with a woman."

"That is the understatement," Susanne deVille said with a laugh, lifting her skirts to pull down her blouse. "Of course my Jacques is half French so he understands that women are in the business. But the English …" Her eyebrows soared.

"The tai-pan didn't seem to mind," Casey said, "but then I haven't had any real dealings with him yet."

"But you have with Quillan Gornt," Kathren said, and Casey, very much on guard even in the privacy of the ladies' room, heard the undercurrent in her voice.

"No," she replied. "I haven't—not before tonight—but my boss has."

Just before dinner she had had time to tell Bartlett the story of Gornt's father and Colin Dunross.

"Jesus! No wonder Adryon went cross-eyed!" Bartlett had said. "And in the billiard room too." He had thought a moment then he had shrugged. "But all that means is that this puts more pressure on Dunross."

"Maybe. But their enmity goes deeper than anything I've experienced, Line. It could easily backfire."

"I don't see how—yet. Gornt was just opening up a flank like a good general should. If we hadn't had John Chen's advance information, what Gornt said could've been vital to us. Gornt's got no way of knowing we're ahead of him. So he's stepping up the tempo. We haven't even got our big guns out yet and they're both wooing us already."

"Have you decided yet which one to go with?"

"No. What's your hunch?"

"I haven't got one. Yet. They're both formidable. Line, do you think John Chen was kidnapped because he was feeding us information?"

"I don't know. Why?" "Before Gornt arrived I was intercepted by Superintendent Armstrong. He questioned me about what John Chen had said last night, what we'd talked about, exactly what was said. I told him everything I could remember—except I never mentioned I was to take delivery of 'it.' Since I still don't know what 'it' is."

"It's nothing illegal, Casey."

"I don't like not knowing. Not now. It's getting . . . I'm getting out of my depth, the guns, this brutal kidnapping and the police so insistent."

"It's nothing illegal. Leave it at that. Did Armstrong say there was a connection?"

"He volunteered nothing. He's a strong, silent English gentleman police officer and as smart and well trained as anything I've seen in the movies. I'm sure he was sure I was hiding something." She hesitated. "Line, what's John Chen got that's so important to us?"

She remembered how he had studied her, his eyes deep and blue and quizzical and laughing.

"A coin," he had said calmly.

"What?" she had asked, astounded.

"Yes. Actually half a coin."

"But Line, what's a coi—"

"That's all I'm telling you now, Casey, but you tell me does Armstrong figure there's some connection between Chen's kidnapping and the guns?"

"I don't know." She had shrugged. "I don't think so, Line. I couldn't even give you odds. He's too cagey that one." Again she had hesitated. "Line, have you made a deal, any deal with Gornt?"

"No. Nothing firm. Gornt just wants Struan out and wants to join with us to smash them. I said we'd discuss it Tuesday. Over dinner."

"What're you going to tell the tai-pan after dinner?"

"Depends on his questions. He'll know it's good strategy to probe enemy defenses."

Casey had begun to wonder who's the enemy, feeling very alien even here among all the other ladies. She had felt only hostility except from these two, Penelope and Kathren Gavallan—and a woman she had met earlier in the line for the toilet.

"Hello," the woman had said softly. "I hear you're a stranger here too."

"Yes, yes I am," Casey had said, awed by her beauty. "I'm Fleur Marlowe. Peter Marlowe's my husband. He's a writer. I think you look super!" "Thanks. So do you. Have you just arrived too?"

"No. We've been here for three months and two days but this is the first really English party we've been to," Fleur said, her English not as clipped as the others. "Most of the time we're with Chinese or by ourselves. We've a flat in the Old V and A annex. God," she added, looking at the toilet door ahead. "I wish she'd hurry up— my back teeth are floating."

"We're staying at the V and A too."

"Yes, I know. You two are rather famous." Fleur Marlowe laughed.

"Infamous! I didn't know they had apartments there."

"They're not, really. Just two tiny bedrooms and a sitting room. The kitchen's a cupboard. Still, it's home. We've got a bath, running water, and the loos flush." Fleur Marlowe had big gray eyes that tilted pleasingly and long fair hair and Casey thought she was about her age.

"Your husband's a journalist?"

"Author. Just one book. He mostly writes and directs films in Hollywood. That's what pays the rent."

"Why're you with Chinese?"

"Oh, Peter's interested in them." Fleur Marlowe had smiled and whispered conspiratorially, looking around at the rest of the women, "They're rather overpowering aren't they—more English than the English. The old school tie and all that balls."

Casey frowned. "But you're English too."

"Yes and no. I'm English but I come from Vancouver, B.C. We live in the States, Peter and I and the kids, in good old Hollywood, California. I really don't know what I am, half of one, half of the other."

"We live in L.A. too, Line and I."

"I think he's smashing. You're lucky."

"How old are your kids?"

"Four and eight—thank God we're not water rationed yet."

"How do you like Hong Kong?"

"It's fascinating, Casey. Peter's researching a book here so it's marvelous for him. My God, if half the legends are true … the Struans and Dunrosses and all the others, and your Quillan Gornt."

"He's not mine. I just met him this evening."

"You created a minor earthquake by walking across the room with him." Fleur laughed. "If you're going to stay here, talk to Peter, he'll fill you in on all sorts of scandals." She nodded at Dianne

Chen who was powdering her nose at one of the mirrors. "That's John Chen's stepmother, Phillip Chen's wife. She's wife number two —his first wife died. She's Eurasian and hated by almost everyone, but she's one of the kindest persons I've ever known."

"Why's she hated?"

"They're jealous, most of them. After all, she's wife of the com-pradore of the Noble House. We met her early on and she was terrific to me. It's … it's difficult living in Hong Kong for a woman, particularly an outsider. Don't really know why but she treated me like family. She's been grand."

"She's Eurasian? She looks Chinese."

"Sometimes it's hard to tell. Her maiden name's T'Chung, so Peter says, her mother's Sung. The TChungs come from one of Dirk Struan's mistresses and the Sung line's equally illegitimate from the famous painter, Aristotle Quance. Have you heard of him?"

"Oh yes."

"Lots of, er, our best Hong Kong families are, well, old Aristotle spawned four branches . . ."

At that moment the toilet door opened and a woman came out and Fleur said, "Thank God!"

While Casey was waiting her turn she had listened to the conversations of the others with half an ear. It was always the same: clothes, the heat, the water shortages, complaints about amahs and other servants, how expensive everything was or the children or schools. Then it was her turn and afterward, when she came out, Fleur Marlowe had vanished and Penelope had come up to her. "Oh I just heard about your not wanting to leave. Don't pay any attention to Joanna," Penelope had said quietly. "She's a pill and always has been."

"It was my fault—I'm not used to your customs yet."

"It's all very silly but in the long run it's much easier to let the men have their way. Personally I'm glad to leave. I must say I find most of their conversation boring."

"Yes, it is, sometimes. But it's the principle. We should be treated as equals."

"We'll never be equal, dear. Not here. This is the Crown Colony of Hong Kong."

"That's what everyone tells me. How long are we expected to stay away?"

"Oh, half an hour or so. There's no set time. Have you known Quillan Gornt long?"

"Tonight was the first time I'd met him," Casey said.

"He's—he's not welcome in this house," Penelope said.

"Yes, I know. I was told about the Christmas party."

"What were you told?"

She related what she knew.

There was a sharp silence. Then Penelope said, "It's not good for strangers to be involved in family squabbles, is it?"

"No." Casey added, "but then all families squabble. We're here, Line and I, to start a business—we're hoping to start a business with one of your big companies. We're outsiders here, we know that— that's why we're looking for a partner."

"Well, dear, I'm sure you'll make up your mind. Be patient and be cautious. Don't you agree, Kathren?" she asked her sister-in-law.

"Yes, Penelope..Yes I do." Kathren looked at Casey with the same level gaze that Dunross had. "I hope you choose correctly, Casey. Everyone here's pretty vengeful."

"Why?"

"One reason's because we're such a closely knit society, very interrelated, and everyone knows everyone else—and almost all their secrets. Another's because hatreds here go back generations and have been nurtured for generations. When you hate you hate with all your heart. Another's because this is a piratical society with very few curbs so you can get away with all sorts of vengeances. Oh yes. Another's because here the stakes are high—if you make a pile of gold you can keep it legally even if it's made outside the law. Hong Kong's a place of transit—no one ever comes here to stay, even Chinese, just to make money and leave. It's the most different place on earth."

"But the Struans and Dunrosses and Gornts have been here for generations," Casey said.

"Yes, but individually they came here for one reason only: money. Money's our god here. And as soon as you have it, you vanish, European, American—and certainly the Chinese." "You exaggerate, Kathy dear," Penelope said. "Yes. It's still the truth. Another reason's that we live on the edge of catastrophe all the time: fire, flood, plague, landslide, riots. Half our population is Communist, half Nationalist, and they hate each other in a way no European can ever understand. And China—

China can swallow us any moment. So you live for today and to hell with everything, grab what you can because tomorrow, who knows? Don't get in the way! People are rougher here because everything really is precarious, and nothing lasts in Hong Kong."

"Except the Peak," Penelope said. "And the Chinese."

"Even the Chinese want to get rich quickly to get out quickly— them more than most. You wait, Casey, you'll see. Hong Kong will work its magic on you—or evil, depending how you see it. For business it's the most exciting place on earth and soon you'll feel you're at the center of the earth. It's wild and exciting for a man, my God, it's marvelous for a man but for us it's awful and every woman, every wife, hates Hong Kong with a passion however much they pretend otherwise."

"Come on, Kathren," Penelope began, "again you exaggerate."

"No. No I don't. We're all threatened here, Penny, you know it! We women fight a losing battle . . ." Kathren stopped and forced a weary smile. "Sorry, I was getting quite worked up. Penn, I think I'll find Andrew and if he wants to stay I'll slip off if you don't mind."

"Are you feeling all right, Kathy?"

"Oh yes, just tired. The young one's a bit of a trial but next year he'll be off to boarding school."

"How was your checkup?"

"Fine." Kathy smiled wearily at Casey. "When you've the inclination give me a call. I'm in the book. Don't choose Gornt. That'd be fatal. 'Bye, darling," she added to Penelope and left.

"She's such a dear," Penelope said. "But she does work herself into a tizzy."

"Do you feel threatened?"

"I'm very content with my children and my husband."

"She asked whether you feel threatened, Penelope." Susanne de-Ville deftly powdered her nose and studied her reflection. "Do you?"

"No. I'm overwhelmed at times. But. . . but I'm not threatened any more than you are."

"Ah, cherie, but I am Parisienne, how can I be threatened? You've been to Paris, m'selle?"

"Yes," Casey said. "It's beautiful."

"It is the world," Susanne said with Gallic modesty. "Ugh, I look at least thirty-six."

"Nonsense, Susanne." Penelope glanced at her watch. "I think we can start going back now. Excuse me a second. . . ."

Susanne watched her go then turned her attention back to Casey. "Jacques and I came out to Hong Kong in 1946."

"You're family too?"

"Jacques's father married a Dunross in the First World War— an aunt of the tai-pan's." She leaned forward to the mirror and touched a fleck of powder away. "In Struan's it is important to be family."

Casey saw the shrewd Gallic eyes watching her in the mirror. "Of course, I agree with you that it is nonsense for the ladies to leave after dinner, for clearly, when we have gone, the heat she has left too, no?"

Casey smiled. "I think so. Why did Kathren say 'threatened'? Threatened by what?"

"By youth, of course by youth! Here there are tens of thousands of chic, sensible, lovely young Chinoise with long black hair and pretty, saucy derrieres and golden skins who really understand men and treat sex for what it is: food, and often, barter. It is the gauche English puritan who has twisted the minds of their ladies, poor creatures. Thank God I was born French! Poor Kathy!"

"Oh," Casey said, understanding at once. "She's found out that Andrew's having an affair?"

Susanne smiled and did not answer, just stared at her reflection. Then she said, "My Jacques … of course he has affairs, of course all the men have affairs, and so do we if we're sensible. But we French, we understand that such transgressions should not interfere with a good marriage. We put correctly the amount of importance on to it, non?" Her dark brown eyes changed a little. "Oui!"

"That's tough, isn't it? Tough for a woman to live with?"

"Everything is tough for a woman, cherie, because men are such cretins." Susanne deVille smoothed a crease away then touched perfume behind her ears and between her breasts. "You will fail here if you try to play the game according to masculine rules and not according to feminine rules. You have a rare chance here, mademoiselle, if you are woman enough. And if you remember that the Gornts are all poisonous. Watch your Line Bartlett, Ciranoush, already there are ladies here who would like to possess him, and humble you."

14

10:42 P.M. :

Upstairs on the second floor the man came cautiously out of the shadows of the long balcony and slipped through the open French windows into the deeper darkness of Dunross's study. He hesitated, listening, his black clothes making him almost invisible. The distant sounds of the party drifted into the room making the silence and the waiting more heavy. He switched on a small flashlight.

The circle of light fell on the picture over the mantelpiece. He went closer. Dirk Struan seemed to be watching him, the slight smile taunting. Now the light moved to the edges of the frame. His hand reached out delicately and he tried it, first one side and then the other. Silently the picture moved away from the wall.

The man sighed.

He peered at the lock closely then took out a small bunch of skeleton keys. He selected one and tried it but it would not turn. Another. Another failure. Another and another, then there was a slight click and the key almost turned, almost but not quite. The rest of the keys failed too.

Irritably he tried the almost-key again but it would not work the lock.

Expertly his fingers traced the edges of the safe but he could find no secret catch or switch. Again he tried the almost-key, this way and that, gently or firmly, but it would not turn.

Again he hesitated. After a moment he pushed the painting carefully back into place, the eyes mocking him now, and went to the desk. There were two phones on it. He picked up the phone that he knew had no other extensions within the house and dialed.

The ringing tone went on monotonously, then stopped. "Yes?" a man's voice said in English.

"Mr. Lop-sing please," he said softly, beginning the code.

"There's no Lop-ting here. Sorry, you have a wrong number."

This code response was what he wanted to hear. He continued, "I want to leave a message."

"Sorry, you have a wrong number. Look in your phone book."

Again the correct response, the final one. "This is Lim," he whispered, using his cover name. "Arthur please. Urgent."

"Just a moment."

He heard the phone being passed and the dry cough he recognized at once. "Yes, Lim? Did you find the safe?"

"Yes," he said. "It's behind the painting over the fireplace but none of the keys fit. I'll need special equip—" He stopped suddenly. Voices were approaching. He hung up gently. A quick, nervous check that everything was in place and he switched oif the flashlight and hurried for the balcony that ran the length of the north face. The moonlight illuminated him for an instant. It was Wine Waiter Feng. Then he vanished, his black waiter's clothes melding perfectly with the darkness.

The door opened. Dunross came in followed by Brian Kwok. He switched on the lights. At once the room became warm and friendly. "We won't be disturbed here," he said. "Make yourself at home."

"Thanks." This was the first time Brian Kwok had been invited upstairs.

Both men were carrying brandy snifters and they went over to the cool of the windows, the slight breeze moving the gossamer curtains, and sat in the high-backed easy chairs facing one another. Brian Kwok was looking at the painting, its own light perfectly placed. "Smashing portrait."

"Yes." Dunross glanced over and froze. The painting was imperceptibly out of place. No one else would have noticed it.

"Something's the matter, Ian?"

"No. No nothing," Dunross said, recovering his senses that had instinctively reached out, probing the room for an alien presence. Now he turned his full attention back to the Chinese superintendent, but he wondered deeply who had touched the painting and why. "What's on your mind?"

"Two things. First, your freighter, Eastern Cloud."

Dunross was startled. "Oh?" This was one of Struan's many coastal tramps that plied the trade routes of Asia. Eastern Cloud was a ten thousand tonner on the highly lucrative Hong Kong, Bangkok, Singapore, Calcutta, Madras, Bombay route, with a sometimes stop at Rangoon in Burma—all manner of Hong Kong manufactured goods outward bound, and all manner of Indian, Malayan, Thai and Burmese raw materials, silks, gems, teak, jute, foodstuffs, inbound. Six months ago she had been impounded by Indian authorities in Calcutta after a sudden customs search had discovered 36,000 taels of smugglers' gold in one of the bunkers. A little over one ton.

"The gold's one thing, your Excellency, that's nothing to do with us," Dunross had said to the consul general of India in Hong Kong, "but to impound our ship's something else!"

"Ah, very so sorry, Mr. Dunross sah. The law is the law and the smuggling of gold into India very serious indeed sah and the law says any ship with smuggled goods aboard may be impounded and sold."

"Yes, may be. Perhaps, Excellency, in this instance you could prevail on the authorities . . ." But all of his entreaties had been shuttled aside and attempted high-level intercessions over the months, here, in India, even in London, had not helped. Indian and Hong Kong police inquiries had produced no evidence against any member of his crew but, even so, Eastern Cloud was still tied up in Calcutta harbor.

"What about Eastern Cloud?" he asked.

"We think we can persuade the Indian authorities to let her go."

"In return for what?" Dunross asked suspiciously.

Brian Kwok laughed. "Nothing. We don't know who the smugglers are, but we know who did the informing."

"Who?"

"Seven odd months ago you changed your crewing policy. Up to that time Struan's had used exclusively Cantonese crew on their ships, then, for some reason you decided to employ Shanghainese. Right?"

"Yes." Dunross remembered that Tsu-yan, also Shanghainese, had suggested it, saying that it would do Struan's a lot of good to extend help to some of their northern refugees. "After all, tai-pan, they're just as good mariners," Tsu-yan had said, "and their wages are very competitive."

"So Struan's signed on a Shanghainese crew into Eastern Cloud —this was the first I believe—-and the Cantonese crew that wasn't hired lost all face so they complained to their triad Red Rod leader wh—"

"Come off it for God's sake, our crews aren't triads!"

"I've said many times the Chinese are great joiners, Ian. All right, let's call the triad with Red Rod rank their union representative— though I know you don't have unions either—but this bugger said in no uncertain terms, oh ko we really have lost face because of those northern louts, I'll fix the bastards, and he tipped an Indian informer here who, for a large part of the reward, agreed of course in advance, and passed on the info to the Indian consulate."

"What?"

Brian Kwok beamed: "Yes. The reward was split twenty-eighty between the Indian and the Cantonese crew of the Eastern Cloud that should have been—Cantonese face was regained and the despised Shanghainese northern trash put into a stinking Indian pokey and their face lost instead."

"Oh Christ!"

"Yes."

"You have proof?"

"Oh yes! But let's just say that our Indian friend is helping us with future inquiries, in return for, er, services rendered, so we'd prefer not to name him. Your 'union shop steward'? Ah, one of his names was Big Mouth Tuk and he was a stoker on Eastern Cloud for three odd years. Was because, alas, we won't see him again. We caught him in full 14K regalia last week—in very senior Red Rod regalia —courtesy of a friendly Shanghainese informer, the brother of one of your crew that languished in said stinky Indian pokey."

"He's been deported?"

"Oh yes, quick as a wink. We really don't approve of triads. They are criminal gangs nowadays and into all sorts of vile occupations. He was off to Taiwan where I believe he won't be welcome at all —seeing as how the northern Shanghainese Green Pang triad society and the southern Cantonese 14K triad society are still fighting for control of Hong Kong. Big Mouth Tuk was a 426 all right—"

"What's a 426?"

"Oh, thought you might know. All officials of triads are known by numbers as well as symbolic titles—the numbers always divisible by the mystical number three. A leader's a 489, which also adds up to twenty-one, which adds up to three, and twenty-one's also a multiple of three, representing creation, times seven, death, signifying rebirth. A second rank's a White Fan, 438, a Red Rod's a 426. The lowest's a 49."

"That's not divisible by three, for God's sake!"

"Yes. But four times nine is thirty-six, the number of the secret blood oaths." Brian Kwok shrugged. "You know how potty we Chinese are over numbers and numerology. He was a Red Rod, a 426, Ian. We caught him. So triads exist, or existed, on one of your ships at least. Didn't they?"

"So it seems." Dunross was cursing himself for not prethinking that of course Shanghainese and Cantonese face would be involved so of course there'd be trouble. And now he knew he was in another trap. Now he had seven ships with Shanghainese crews against fifty-odd Cantonese.

"Christ, I can't fire the Shanghainese crews I've already hired and if I don't there'll be more of the same and loss efface on both sides. What's the solution to that one?" he asked.

"Assign certain routes exclusively to the Shanghainese, but only after consulting with their 426 Red Rod . . . sorry, with their shop stewards, and of course their Cantonese counterparts—only after consulting with a well-known soothsayer who suggested to you it would be fantastic joss to both sides to do this. How about Old Blind Tung?"

"Old Blind Tung?" Dunross laughed. "Perfect! Brian you're a genius! One good turn deserves another. For your ears only?"

"All right."

"Guaranteed?"

"Yes."

"Buy Struan's first thing tomorrow morning."

"How many shares?"

"As many as you can afford."

"How long do I hold them?"

"How are your cojones?"

Brian whistled tonelessly. "Thanks." He thought a moment, then forced his mind once more onto the matters in hand. "Back to Eastern Cloud. Now we come to one of the interesting bits, Ian. 36,000 taels of gold is legally worth $1,514,520 U.S. But melted down into the smugglers' five-tael bars and secretly delivered on shore in Calcutta, that shipment'd be worth two, perhaps three times that amount to private buyers—say 4.5 million U.S., right?"

"I don't know. Exactly."

"Oh, but I do. The lost profit's over 3 million—the lost investment about one and a half."

"So?"

"So we all know Shanghainese are as secretive and cliquey as Cantonese, or Chu Chow or Fukenese or any other tiny groupings of Chinese. So of course the Shanghainese crew were the smugglers —have to be, Ian, though we can't prove it, yet. So you can bet your bottom dollar that Shanghainese also smuggled the gold out of Macao to Hong Kong and onto Eastern Cloud, that Shanghainese money bought the gold originally in Macao, and that therefore certainly part of that money was Green Pang funds."

"That doesn't follow."

"Have you heard from Tsu-yan yet?"

Dunross watched him. "No. Have you?"

"Not yet but we're making inquiries." Brian watched him back. "My first point is that the Green Pang has been mauled and criminals loathe losing their hard-earned money, so Struan's can expect lots of trouble unless you nip the trouble in the bud as I've suggested."

"Not all Green Pang are criminals."

"That's a matter of opinion, Ian. Second point, for your ears only: We're sure Tsu-yan's in the gold-smuggling racket. My third and last point is that if a certain company doesn't want its ships impounded for smuggling gold, it could easily lessen the risk by reducing its gold imports into Macao."

"Come again?" Dunross said, pleasantly surprised to hear that he had managed to keep his voice sounding calm, wondering how much Special Intelligence knew and how much they were guessing.

Brian Kwok sighed and continued to lay out the information that Roger Crosse had given him. "Nelson Trading."

With a great effort, Dunross kept his face impassive. "Nelson Trading?"

"Yes. Nelson Trading Company Limited of London. As you know, Nelson Trading has the Hong Kong Government's exclusive license for the purchase of gold bullion on the international market for Hong Kong's jewelers, and, vastly more important, the equally exclusive monopoly for transshipment of gold bullion in bond, through Hong Kong to Macao—along with a minor second company, Saul Feinheimer Bullion Company, also of London. Nelson Trading and Feinheimer's have several things in common. Several directors for example, the same solicitors for example."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I believe you're also on the board."

"I'm on the board of almost seventy companies," Dunross said.

"True and not all of those are wholly or even partially owned by Struan's. Of course, some could be wholly owned through nominees, secretly, couldn't they?"

"Yes, of course."

"It's fortunate in Hong Kong we don't have to list directors—or holdings, isn't it?"

"What's your point, Brian?"

"Another coincidence: Nelson Trading's registered head offices in the city of London are in the same building as your British subsidiary, Struan London Limited."

"That's a big building, Brian, one of the best locations in the city. There must be a hundred companies there."

"Many thousands if you include all the companies registered with solicitors there—all the holding companies that hold other companies with nominee directors that hide all sorts of skeletons."

"So?" Dunross was thinking quite clearly now, pondering where Brian had got ail this information, wondering too where in the hell all this was leading. Nelson Trading had been a secret, wholly owned subsidiary through nominees ever since it was formed in 1953 specifically for the Macao gold trade—Macao being the only country in Asia where gold importation was legal.

"By the way, Ian, have you met that Portuguese genius from Macao, Signore Lando Mata?"

"Yes. Yes I have. Charming man."

"Yes he is—and so well connected. The rumor is that some fifteen years ago he persuaded the Macao authorities to create a monopoly for the importation of gold, then to sell the monopoly to him, and a couple of friends, for a modest yearly tax: about one U.S. dollar an ounce. He's the same fellow, Ian, who first got the Macao authorities to legalize gambling . . . and curiously, to grant him and a couple of friends the same monopoly. All very cosy, what?"

Dunross did not answer, just stared back at the smile and at the eyes that did not smile.

"So everything went smoothly for a few years," Brian continued, "then in '54 he was approached by some Hong Kong gold enthusiasts—our Hong Kong gold law was changed in '54—who offered a now legal improvement on the scheme: their company buys the gold bullion legally in the world bullion markets on behalf of this Macao syndicate at the legal $35 an ounce and brings it to Hong

Kong openly by plane or by ship. On arrival, our own Hong Kong customs fellows legally guard and supervise the transshipment from Kai Tak or the dock to the Macao ferry or the Catalina flying boat. When the ferry or flying boat arrives in Macao it's met by Portuguese Customs officials and the bullion, all in regulation four-hundred-ounce bars, is transshipped under guard to cars, taxis actually, and taken to the bank. It's a grotty, ugly little building that does no ordinary banking, has no known customers—except the syndicate—never opens its door—except for the gold—and doesn't like visitors at all. Guess who owns it? Mr. Mata and his syndicate. Once inside their bank the gold vanishes!" Brian Kwok beamed like a magician doing his greatest trick. "Fifty-three tons this year so far. Forty-eight tons last year! Same the year before and the year before that and so on."

"That's a lot of gold," Dunross said helpfully.

"Yes it is. Very strangely the Macao authorities or the Hong Kong ones don't seem to care that what goes in never seems to come out. You with me still?"

"Yes."

"Of course, what really happens is that once inside the bank the gold's melted down from the regulation four-hundred-ounce bars into little pieces, into two, or the more usual five-tael bars which are much more easily carried, and smuggled. Now we come to the only illegal part of the whole marvelous chain: getting the gold out of Macao and smuggling it into Hong Kong. Of course, it's not illegal to remove it from Macao, only to smuggle it into Hong Kong. But you know and I know that it's relatively easy to smuggle anything into Hong Kong. And the incredible beauty of it all is that once in Hong Kong, however the gold gets there—it's perfectly legal for anyone to own it and no questions asked. Unlike say in the States or Britain where no citizen is ever allowed to own any gold bullion privately. Once legally owned, it can be legally exported."

"Where's all this leading to, Brian?" Dunross sipped his brandy.

Brian Kwok swilled the ancient, aromatic spirit in the huge glass and let the silence gather. At length he said, "We'd like some help."

"We? You mean Special Intelligence?" Dunross was startled.

"Yes."

"Who in SI? You?"

Brian Kwok hesitated. "Mr. Crosse himself."

"What help?"

"He'd like to read all your Alan Medford Grant reports."

"Come again?" Dunross said to give himself time to think, not expecting this at all.

Brian Kwok took out a photocopy of the first and last page of the intercepted report and offered it. "A copy of this has just come into our possession." Dunross glanced at the pages. Clearly they were genuine. "We'd like a quick look at all the others."

"I don't follow you."

"I didn't bring the whole report, just for convenience, but if you want it you can have it tomorrow," Brian said and his eyes didn't waver. "We'd appreciate it—Mr. Crosse said he'd appreciate the help."

The enormity of the implications of the request paralyzed Dunross for a moment.

"This report—and the others if they still exist—are private," he heard himself say carefully. "At least all the information in them is private to me personally, and to the Government. Surely you can get everything you want through your own intelligence channels."

"Yes. Meanwhile, Superintendent Crosse'd really appreciate it, Ian, if you'd let us have a quick look."

Dunross took a sip of his brandy, his mind in shock. He knew he could easily deny that the others existed and burn them or hide them or just leave them where they were, but he did not wish to avoid helping Special Intelligence. It was his duty to assist them. Special Intelligence was a vital part of Special Branch and the Colony's security and he was convinced that, without them, the Colony and their whole position in Asia would be untenable. And without a marvelous counterintelligence, if a twentieth of AMG's reports were true, all their days were numbered.

Christ Jesus, in the wrong hands . . .

His chest felt tight as he tried to reason out his dilemma. Part of that last report had leapt into his mind: about the traitor in the police. Then he remembered that Kiernan had told him that his back copies were the only ones in existence. How much was private to him and how much was known to British Intelligence? Why the secrecy? Why didn't Grant get permission? Christ, say I was wrong about some things being farfetched! In the wrong hands, in enemy hands, much of the information would be lethal.

With an effort he calmed his mind and concentrated. "I'll consider what you said and talk to you tomorrow. First thing."

"Sorry, Ian. I was told to in—to impress upon you the urgency."

"Were you going to say insist?"

"Yes. Sorry. We wish to ask for your assistance. This is a formal request for your cooperation."

"And Eastern Cloud and Nelson Trading are barter?"

"Eastern Cloud's a gift. The information was also a gift. Nelson Trading is no concern of ours, except for passing interest. Everything said was confidential. To my knowledge, we have no records."

Dunross studied his friend, the high cheekbones and wide, heavy-lidded eyes, straight and unblinking, the face good-looking and well proportioned with thick black eyebrows.

"Did you read this report, Brian?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll understand my dilemma," he said, testing him.

"Ah, you mean the bit about a police traitor?"

"What was that?"

"You're right to be cautious. Yes, very correct. You're referring to the bit about a hostile being possibly at superintendent level?"

"Yes. Do you know who he is?"

"No. Not yet."

"Do you suspect anyone?"

"Yes. He's under surveillance now. There's no need to worry about that, Ian, the back copies'll just be seen by me and Mr. Crosse. They'll have top classification never mind."

"Just a moment, Brian—I haven't said they exist," Dunross told him, pretending irritation, and at once he noticed a flash in the eyes that could have been anger or could have been disappointment. The face had remained impassive. "Put yourself in my position, a layman," he said, his senses fine-honed, continuing the same line, "I'd be pretty bloody foolish to keep such info around, wouldn't I? Much wiser to destroy it—once the pertinent bits have been acted on. Wouldn't I?"

"Yes."

"Let's leave it at that for tonight. Until say ten in the morning."

Brian Kwok hesitated. Then his face hardened. "We're not playing parlor games, Ian. It's not for a few tons of gold, or some stock market shenanigans or a few gray area deals with the PRC however many millions're involved. This game's deadly and the millions involved are people and unborn generations and the Communist plague. Sevrin's bad news. The KGB's very bad news—and even our friends in the CIA and KMT can be equally vicious if need be. You'd better put a heavy guard on your files here tonight."

Dunross stared at his friend impassively. "Then your official position is that this report's accurate?"

"Crosse thinks it could be. Might be wise for us to have a man here just in case, don't you think?"

"Please yourself, Brian."

"Should we put a man out at Shek-O?"

"Please yourself, Brian."

"You're not being very cooperative, are you?"

"You're wrong, old chum. I'm taking your points very seriously," Dunross said sharply. "When did you get the copy and how?"

Brian Kwok hesitated. "I don't know, and if I knew I don't know if I should tell you."

Dunross got up. "Come on then, let's go and find Crosse."

"But why do the Gornts and the Rothwells hate the Struans and Dunrosses so much, Peter?" Casey asked. She and Bartlett were strolling the beautiful gardens in the cool of the evening with Peter Marlowe and his wife, Fleur.

"I don't know all the reasons yet," the Englishman said. He was a tall man of thirty-nine with fair hair, a patrician accent and a strange intensity behind his blue-gray eyes. "The rumor is that it goes back to the Brocks—that there's some connection, some family connection between the Gornt family and the Brock family. Perhaps to old Tyler Brock himself. You've heard of him?"

"Sure," Bartlett said. "How did it start, the feud?"

"When Dirk Struan was a boy he'd been an apprentice seaman on one of Tyler Brock's armed merchantmen. Life at sea was pretty brutal then, life anywhere really, but my God in those days at sea … Anyway, Tyler Brock flogged young Struan unmercifully for an imagined slight, then left him for dead somewhere on the China coast. Dirk Struan was fourteen then, and he swore before God and the devil that when he was a man he'd smash the House of Brock and Sons and come after Tyler with a cat-o'-nine-tails. As far as I know he never did though there's a story he beat Tyler's eldest son to death with a Chinese fighting iron."

"What's that?" Casey asked uneasily.

"It's like a mace, Casey, three or four short links of iron with a spiked ball on one end and a handle on the other."

"He killed him for revenge on his father?" she said, shocked.

"That's another bit I don't know yet, but I'll bet he had a good reason." Peter Marlowe smiled strangely. "Dirk Struan, old Tyler and all the other men who made the British Empire, conquered India, opened up China. Christ, they were giants! Did I mention Tyler was one-eyed? One of his eyes was torn out by a whipping halyard in a storm in the 1830's when he was racing his three-masted clipper, the White Witch, after Struan with a full cargo of opium aboard. Struan was a day ahead in his clipper, China Cloud, in the race from the British opium fields of India to the markets of China. They say Tyler just poured brandy into the socket and cursed his sailors aloft to put on more canvas." Peter Marlowe hesitated, then he continued, "Dirk was killed in a typhoon in Happy Valley in 1841 and Tyler died penniless, bankrupt, in "63."

"Why penniless, Peter?" Casey asked.

"The legend is that Tess, his eldest daughter—Hag Struan to be —had plotted her father's downfall for years—you know she married Culum, Dirk's only son? Well, Hag Struan secretly plotted with the Victoria Bank, which Tyler had started in the 1840's and with Cooper-Tillman, Tyler's partners in the States. They trapped him and brought down the great house of Brock and Sons in one gigantic crash. He lost everything—his shipping line, opium hulks, property, warehouses, stocks, everything. He was wiped out."

"What happened to him?"

"I don't know, no one does for certain, but the story is that that same night, October thirty-first, 1863, old Tyler went to Aberdeen —that's a harbor on the other side of Hong Kong—with his grandson, Tom, who was then twenty-five, and six sailors, and they pirated an oceangoing lorcha—that's a ship with a Chinese hull but European rigged—and put out to sea. He was mad with rage, so they say, and he hauled up the Brock pennant to the masthead and he had pistols in his belt and a bloody cutlass in his hand—they'd killed four men to pirate the ship. At the neck of the harbor a cutter came after him and he blew it out of the water—in those days almost all boats were armed with cannon because of pirates—these seas have always been infested with pirates since time immemorial. So old Tyler put to sea, a good wind blowing from the east and a storm coming. At the mouth of Aberdeen he started bellowing out curses. He cursed Hag Struan and cursed the island, and cursed the Victoria Bank that had betrayed him, and the Coopers of Cooper-Tillman, but most of all he cursed the tai-pan who'd been dead more than twenty years. And old Tyler Brock swore revenge. They say he screamed out that he was going north to plunder and he was going to start again. He was going to build his House again and then, '… and then I be back by God. . . I be back and I be venged and then I be Noble House by God. . . . I be back. …"

Bartlett and Casey felt a chill go down their backs as Peter Marlowe coarsened his voice. Then he continued, "Tyler went north and was never heard of again, no trace of him or the lorcha or his crew, ever. Even so, his presence is still here—like Dirk Struan's. You'd better remember, in any dealing with the Noble House you've got to deal with those two as well, or their ghosts. The night Ian Dunross took over as tai-pan, Struan's lost their freighter flagship, Lasting Cloud, in a typhoon. It was a gigantic financial disaster. She foundered off Formosa—Taiwan—and was lost with all hands except one seaman, a young English deckhand. He'd been on the bridge and he swore that they'd been lured onto the rocks by false lights and that he heard a maniac laughing as they went down."

Casey shivered involuntarily.

Bartlett noticed it and slipped his arm casually through hers and she smiled at him.

He said, "Peter, people here talk about people who've been dead a hundred years as though they're in the next room."

"Old Chinese habit," Peter Marlowe replied at once. "Chinese believe the past controls the future and explains the present. Of course Hong Kong's only a hundred and twenty years old so a man of eighty today'd . . . Take Phillip Chen, the present compradore, for example. He's sixty-five now—his grandfather was the famous Sir Gordon Chen, Dirk Struan's illegitimate son who died in 1907 at the age of eighty-six. So Phillip Chen would have been nine then. A sharp boy of nine'd remember all sorts of stories his revered grandfather would have told him about his father, the tai-pan, and May-may, his famous mistress. The story is that old Sir Gordon Chen was one hell of a character, truly an ancestor. He had two official wives, eight concubines of various ages, and left the sprawling Chen family rich, powerful and into everything. Ask Dunross to show you his portraits—I've only seen copies but, my, he was a handsome man. There're dozens of people alive here today who knew him—one of the original great founders. And my God, Hag Struan died only forty-six years ago. Look over there. . . ." He nodded at a wizened little man, thin as a bamboo and just as strong, talking volubly to a young woman. "That's Vincent McGore, tai-pan of the fifth great hong, International Asian Trading. He worked for Sir Gordon for years and then the Noble House." He grinned suddenly. "Legend says he was Hag Struan's lover when he was eighteen and just off the cattle boat from some Middle Eastern port —he's not really Scots at all."

"Come off it, Peter," Fleur said. "You just made that up!"

"Do you mind," he said, but his grin never left him. "She was only seventy-five at the time."

They all laughed.

"That's the truth?" Casey asked. "For real?"

"Who knows what's truth and what's fiction, Casey? That's what I was told."

"I don't believe it," Fleur said confidently. "Peter makes up stories."

"Where'd you find out all this, Peter?" Bartlett asked.

"I read some of it. There are copies of newspapers that go back to 1870 in the Law Court library. Then there's the History of the Law Courts of Hong Kong. It's as seamy a great book as you'll ever want if you're interested in Hong Kong. Christ, the things they used to get up to, so-called judges and colonial secretaries, governors and policemen, and the tai-pans, the highborn and the lowborn. Graft, murder, corruption, adultery, piracy, bribery . . . it's all there!

"And I asked questions. There are dozens of old China hands who love to reminisce about the old days and who know a huge amount about Asia and Shanghai. Then there are lots of people who hate, or are jealous and can't wait to pour a little poison on a good reputation or a bad one. Of course, you sift, you try to sift the true from the false and that's very hard, if not impossible."

For a moment Casey was lost in thought. Then she said, "Peter, what was Changi like? Really like?"

His face did not change but his eyes did. "Changi was genesis, the place of beginning again." His tone made them all chilled and she saw Fleur slip her hand into his and in a moment he came back. "I'm fine, darling," he said. Silently, somewhat embarrassed, they walked out of the path onto the lower terrace, Casey knowing she had intruded. "We should have a drink. Eh, Casey?" Peter Marlowe said kindly and made it all right again.

"Yes. Thank you, Peter."

"Line," Peter Marlowe said, "there's a marvelous strain of violence that passes from generation to generation in these buccaneers —because that's what they are. This is a very special place—it breeds very special people." After a pause, he added thoughtfully, "I understand you may be going into business here. If I were you I'd be very, very careful."

15

11:05 P.M. :

Dunross, with Brian Kwok in tow, was heading for Roger Crosse, chief of Special Intelligence, who was on the terrace chatting amiably with Armstrong and the three Americans, Ed Langan, Commander John Mishauer the uniformed naval officer, and Stanley Rosemont, a tall man in his fifties. Dunross did not know that Langan was FBI, or that Mishauer was U.S. Naval Intelligence, only that they were at the consulate. But he did know that Rosemont was CIA though not his seniority. Ladies were still drifting back to their tables, or chattering away on the terraces and in the garden. Men were lounging over drinks, and the party was mellow like the night. Some couples were dancing in the ballroom to sweet and slow music. Adryon was among them, and he saw Penelope stoically coping with Havergill. He noticed Casey and Bartlett in deep conversation with Peter and Fleur Marlowe, and he would have dearly loved to be overhearing what was being said. That fellow Marlowe could easily become a bloody nuisance, he thought in passing. He knows too many secrets already and if he was to read our book … No way, he thought. Not till hell freezes! That's one book he'll never read. How Alastair could be so stupid!

Some years ago Alastair Struan had commissioned a well-known writer to write the history of Struan's to celebrate their 125 years of trading and had passed over old ledgers and trunks of old papers to him unread and unsifted. Within the year the writer had produced an inflammatory tapestry that documented many happenings and transactions that were thought to have been buried forever. In shock they had thanked the writer and paid him off with a handsome bonus and the book, the only two copies, put in the tai-pan's safe.

Dunross had considered destroying them. But then, he thought, life is life, joss is joss and providing only we read them, there's no harm.

"Hello, Roger," he said, grimly amused. "Can we join you?"

"Of course, tai-pan." Crosse greeted him warmly, as did the others. "Make yourself at home."

The Americans smiled politely at the joke. They chatted for a moment about inconsequential things and Saturday's races and then Langan, Rosemont and Commander Mishauer, sensing that the others wanted to converse privately, politely excused themselves. When they were alone, Brian Kwok summarized exactly what Dunross had told him.

"We will certainly appreciate your help, Ian," Crosse said, his pale eyes penetrating. "Brian's right about it possibly being quite dicey—if of course AMG's other reports exist. Even if they don't, some nasties might want to investigate."

"Just exactly how and when did you get the copy of my latest one?"

"Why?"

"Did you get it yourselves—or from a third party?"

"Why?"

Dunross's voice hardened. "Because it's important."

"Why?"

The tai-pan stared at him and the three men felt the power of his personality. But Crosse was equally willful.

"I can partially answer your question, Ian," he said coolly. "If I do, will you answer mine?"

"Yes."

"We acquired a copy of your report this morning. An intelligence agent—I presume in England—tipped a friendly amateur here that a courier was en route to you with something that'd interest us. This Hong Kong contact asked us if we'd be interested in having a look at it—for a fee of course." Crosse was so convincing that the other two policemen who remembered the real story were doubly impressed. "This morning, the photocopy was delivered to my home by a Chinese I'd never met before. He was paid—of course you understand in these things you don't ask for a name. Now, why?"

"When this morning?"

"At 6:04 if you want an exact time. But why is this important to you?"

"Because Alan Medford Gr—"

"Oh, Father, sorry to interrupt," Adryon said, rushing up breathlessly, a tall, good-looking young man in tow, his crumpled sacklike dinner jacket and twisted tie and scruffy brown-black shoes out of place in all this elegance. "Sorry to interrupt but can I do something about the music?"

Dunross was looking at the young man. He knew Martin Haply and his reputation. The English-trained Canadian journalist was twenty-five, and had been in the Colony for two years and was now the scourge of the business community. His biting sarcasm and penetrating exposes of personalities and of business practices that were legitimate in Hong Kong but nowhere else in the Western world were a constant irritation.

"The music, Father," Adryon repeated, running on, "it's ghastly. Mother said I had to ask you. Can I tell them to play something different, please?"

"All right, but don't turn my party into a happening."

She laughed and he turned his attention back to Martin Haply. "Evening."

"Evening, tai-pan," the young man said with a confident, challenging grin. "Adryon invited me. I hope it was all right to come after dinner?"

"Of course. Have fun," Dunross said, and he added dryly, "There are a lot of your friends here."

Haply laughed. "I missed dinner because I was on the scent of a dilly."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Seems that certain interests in conjunction with a certain great bank have been spreading nasty rumors about a certain Chinese bank's solvency."

"You mean the Ho-Pak?"

"It's all nonsense though. The rumors. Just more Hong Kong shenanigans."

"Oh?" All day Dunross had heard rumors about Richard Kwang's Ho-Pak Bank being overextended. "Are you sure?"

"Have a column on it in tomorrow's Guardian. Talking about the Ho-Pak though," Martin Haply added breezily, "did you hear that upwards of a hundred people took all their money out of the Aberdeen branch this afternoon? Could be the beginning of a run and—"

"Sorry, Father… come on Martin, can't you see Father's busy."

She leaned up and kissed Dunross lightly and his hand automatically went around her and hugged her.

"Have fun, darling." He watched her rush off, Haply following. Cocky son of a bitch, Dunross thought absently, wanting tomorrow's column now, knowing Haply to be painstaking, unbribable and very good at his job. Could Richard be overextended?

"You were saying, Ian? Alan Medford Grant?" broke into his thoughts.

"Oh, sorry, yes." Dunross sat back at the table, compartmentalizing those problems. "AMG's dead," he said quietly.

The three policemen gaped at him. "What?"

"I got a cable at one minute to eight this evening, and talked to his assistant in London at 9:11." Dunross watched them. "I wanted to know your 'when' because it's obvious there'd be plenty of time for your KGB spy—if he exists—to have called London and had poor old AMG murdered. Wouldn't there?"

"Yes." Crosse's face was solemn. "What time did he die?"

Dunross told them the whole of his conversation with Kiernan but he withheld the part about the call to Switzerland. Some intuition warned him not to tell. "Now, the question is: was it accident, coincidence or murder?"

"I don't know," Crosse said. "But I don't believe in coincidences."

"Nor do I."

"Christ," Armstrong said through his teeth, "if AMG hadn't had clearance … Christ only knows what's in those reports, Christ and you, Ian. If you've got the only existing copies this makes them potentially more explosive than ever."

"If they exist," Dunross said.

"Do they?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow. At 10 o'clock." Dunross got up. "Will you excuse me, please," he said politely with his easy charm. "I must see to my other guests now. Oh, one last thing. What about Eastern Cloud?"

Roger Crosse said, "She'll be released tomorrow."

"One way or the other?"

Crosse appeared shocked. "Good Lord, tai-pan, we weren't bartering! Brian, didn't you say we were just trying to help out?"

"Yes sir."

"Friends should always help out friends, shouldn't they, tai-pan?"

"Yes. Absolutely. Thank you."

They watched him walk away until he was lost.

"Do they or don't they?" Brian Kwok muttered.

"Exist? I'd say yes," Armstrong said.

"Of course they exist," Crosse said irritably. "But where?" He thought a moment, then added more irritably and both men's hearts skipped a beat, "Brian, while you were with Ian, Wine Waiter Feng told me none of his keys would fit."

"Oh, that's bad, sir," Brian Kwok said cautiously.

"Yes. The safe here won't be easy."

Armstrong said, "Perhaps we should look at Shek-O, sir, just in case."

"Would you keep such documents there—if they exist?"

"I don't know, sir. Dunross's unpredictable. I'd say they were in his penthouse at Struan's, that'd be the safest place."

"Have you been there?"

"No sir."

"Brian?"

"No sir."

"Neither have I." Crosse shook his head. "Bloody nuisance!"

Brian Kwok said thoughtfully, "We'd only be able to send in a team at night, sir. There's a private lift to that floor but you need a special key. Also there's supposed to be another lift from the garage basement, nonstop."

"There's been one hell of a slipup in London," Crosse said. "I can't understand why those bloody fools weren't on the job. Nor why AMG didn't ask for clearance."

"Perhaps he didn't want insiders to know he was dealing with an outsider."

"If there was one outsider, there could have been others." Crosse sighed, and, lost in thought, lit a cigarette. Armstrong felt the smoke hunger pangs. He took a swallow of his brandy but that did not ease the ache.

"Did Langan pass on his copy, sir?"

"Yes, to Rosemont here and in the diplomatic bag to his FBI HQ in Washington."

"Christ," Brian Kwok said sourly, "then it'll be all over Hong Kong by morning."

"Rosemont assured me it would not." Crosse's smile was humorless. "However, we'd better be prepared."

"Perhaps lan'd be more cooperative if he knew, sir."

"No, much better to keep that to ourselves. He's up to something though."

Armstrong said, "What about getting Superintendent Foxwell to talk to him, sir, they're old friends."

"If Brian couldn't persuade him, no one can."

"The governor, sir?"

Crosse shook his head. "No reason to involve him. Brian, you take care of Shek-O."

"Find and open his safe, sir?"

"No. Just take a team out there and make sure no one else moves in. Robert, go to HQ, get on to London. Call Pensely at MI-5 and Sinders at MI-6. Find out exact times on AMG, everything you can, check the tai-pan's story. Check everything—perhaps other copies exist. Next, send back a team of three agents here to watch this place tonight, particularly to guard Dunross, without his knowledge of course. I'll meet the senior man at the junction of Peak Road and Culum's Way in an hour, that'll give you enough time. Send another team to watch Struan's building. Put one man in the garage—just in case. Leave me your car, Robert. I'll see you in my office in an hour and a half. Off you both go."

The two men sought out their host and made their apologies and gave their thanks and went to Brian Kwok's car. Going down Peak Road in the old Porsche, Armstrong said what they both had been thinking ever since Dunross had told them. "If Crosse's the spy he'd have had plenty of time to phone London, or to pass the word to Sevrin, the KGB or who the hell ever."

"Yes."

"We left his office at 6:10—that'd be 11:00 A.M. London time-so it couldn't've been us, not enough time." Armstrong shifted to ease the ache in his back. "Shit, I'd like a cigarette."

"There's a packet in the glove compartment, old chum."

"Tomorrow—I'll smoke tomorrow. Just like AA, like a bloody addict!" Armstrong laughed but there was no humor in it. He glanced across at his friend. "Find out quietly who else's read the AMG file today—apart from Crosse—quick as you can."

"My thought too."

"If he's the only one who read it … well, it's another piece of evidence. It's not proof but we'd be getting there." He stifled a nervous yawn, feeling very tired. "If it's him we really are up shit's creek."

Brian was driving very fast and very well. "Did he say when he gave the copy to Langan?"

"Yes. At noon. They had lunch."

"The leak could be from them, from the consulate—that place's like a sieve."

"It's possible but my nose says no. Rosemont's all right, Brian— and Langan. They're professionals."

"I don't trust them."

"You don't trust anyone. They've both asked their HQs to check the Bartlett and Casey Moscow frankings."

"Good. I think I'll send a telex to a friend in Ottawa. They might have something on file on them also. That Casey's a bird amongst birds, isn't she though? Was she wearing anything underneath that sheath?"

"Ten dollars to a penny you never find out."

"Done."

As they turned a corner, Armstrong looked at the city below and the harbor, the American cruiser lit all over tied up at the dockyard, Hong Kong side. "In the old days we'd have had half a dozen warships here of our own," he said sadly. "Good old Royal Navy!" He had been in destroyers during the war, lieutenant R.N. Sunk twice, once at Dunkirk, the second time on D-Day plus three, off Cherbourg.

"Yes. Pity about the Navy, but, well, time marches on."

"Not for the better, Brian. Pity the whole bloody Empire's up the spout! It was better when it wasn't. The whole bloody world was better off! Bloody war! Bloody Germans, bloody Japs …"

"Yes. Talking about Navy, how was Mishauer?"

"The U.S. Naval Intelligence fellow? He was okay," Armstrong said wearily. "He talked a lot of shop. He whispered to the Old Man that the U.S.'re going to double their Seventh Fleet. It's so superse-cret he didn't even want to trust the phone. There's going to be a big land expansion in Vietnam."

"Bloody fools—they'll get chewed up like the French. Don't they read the papers, let alone intelligence reports?"

"Mishauer whispered also their nuclear carrier's coming in the day after tomorrow for an eight-day R and R visit. Another top secret. He asked us to double up on security—and wet-nurse all Yankees ashore."

"More bloody trouble."

"Yes." Armstrong added thinly, "Particularly as the Old Man mentioned a Soviet freighter 'limped in" for repairs on the evening tide."

"Oh Christ!" Brian corrected an involuntary swerve.

"That's what I thought. Mishauer almost had a coronary and Rosemont swore for two minutes flat. The Old Man assured them of course none of the Russian seamen'll be allowed ashore without special permission, as usual, and we'll tail them all, as usual, but a couple'll manage to need a doctor or whatever, suddenly, and may-haps escape the net."

"Yes." After a pause Brian Kwok said, "I hope we get those AMG files, Robert. Sevrin is a knife in the guts of China."

"Yes."

They drove in silence a while.

"We're losing our war, aren't we?" Armstrong said.

"Yes."

16

11:25 P.M. :

The Soviet freighter, Sovetsky Ivanov note 3 , was tied up alongside in the vast Wampoa Dockyard that was built on reclaimed land on the eastern side of Kowloon. Floodlights washed her. She was a twenty-thousand tonner that plied the Asian trade routes out of Vladivostok, far to the north. Atop her bridge were many aerials and modern radar equipment. Russian seamen lounged at the foot of the fore and the aft gangways. Nearby, a uniformed policeman, a youthful Chinese, in neat regulation khaki drills, short pants, high socks, black belt and shoes, was at each gangway. A shore-going seaman had his pass checked by his shipmates and then by the constable, and then, as he walked toward the dockyard gates, two Chinese in civilian clothes came out of the shadows and began to dog his footsteps— openly.

Another seaman went down the aft gangway. He was checked through and then, soon, more silent Chinese plainclothes police began to follow him.

Unnoticed, a rowing boat eased silently from the blind side of the ship's stern and ducked into the shadows of the wharf. It slid quietly along the high wall toward a flight of dank sea steps half a hundred yards away. There were two men in the boat and the rowlocks were muffled. At the foot of the sea steps the boat stopped. Both men began listening intently.

At the forward gangway a third seaman going ashore reeled raucously down the slippery steps. At the foot he was intercepted and his pass checked and an argument began. He was refused permission by the shore guard and he was clearly drunk, so, cursing loudly, he let fly at one of them, but this man sidestepped and gave him a haymaker which was returned in kind. Both policemen's attention zeroed on the one-sided brawl. The tousled, thickset man who sat in the aft of the rowing boat ran up the sea steps, across the floodlit wharf and railway tracks, and vanished into the alleyways of the dockyard without being seen. Leisurely the rowing boat began to return the way it had come, and in a moment, the brawl ceased. The helpless drunk was carried back aboard, not unkindly.

Deep in the dockyard's byways, the tousled man sauntered now. From time to time, casually and expertly, he glanced behind to ensure he was not being followed. He wore dark tropicals and neat rubber-soled shoes. His ship's papers documented him as Igor Voranski, seaman first class, Soviet Merchant Marine.

He avoided the dock gates and the policeman who watched them and followed the wall for a hundred yards or so to a side door. The door opened onto an alley in the Tai-wan Shan resettlement area— a maze of corrugated iron, plywood and cardboard hovels. His pace quickened. Soon he was out of the area and into brightly lighted streets of shops and stalls and crowds that eventually led him to Chatham Road. There he hailed a taxi.

"Mong Kok, quick as you can," he said in English. "Yaumati Ferry."

The driver stared at him insolently. "Eh?"

"Ayeeyah!" Voranski replied at once and added in harsh, perfect Cantonese, "Mong Kok! Are you deaf! Have you been sniffing the White Powder? Do you take me for a foreign devil tourist from the Golden Mountain—me who is clearly a Hong Kong person who has lived here twenty years? Ayeeyahl Yaumati Ferry on the other side of Kowloon. Do you need directions? Are you from Outer Mongolia? Are you a stranger, eh?"

The driver sullenly pulled the flag down and sped off, heading south and then west. The man in the back of the car watched the street behind. He could see no trailing car but he still did not relax.

They're too clever here, he thought. Be cautious!

At Yaumati Ferry station he paid off the taxi and gave the man barely the correct tip then went into the crowds and slid out of them and nailed another taxi. "Golden Ferry."

The driver nodded sleepily, yawned and headed south.

At the ferry terminal he paid off the driver almost before he had stopped and joined the crowds that were hurrying for the turnstiles of the Hong Kong ferries. But once through the turnstiles he did not go to the ferry gate but instead went to the men's room and then, out once more, he opened the door of a phone booth and went in. Very sure now that he had not been followed he was more relaxed.

He put in a coin and dialed.

"Yes?" a man's voice answered in English.

"Mr. Lop-sing please."

"I don't know that name. There's no Mr. Lop-ting here. You have a wrong number."

"I want to leave a message."

"Sorry you have a wrong number. Look in your phone book!"

Voranski relaxed, his heart slowing a little. "I want to speak to Arthur," he said, his English perfect.

"Sorry, he's not here yet."

"He was told to be there, to wait my call," he said curtly. "Why is there a change?"

"Who is this please?"

"Brown," he snapped, using his cover name.

He was somewhat mollified as he heard the other voice instantly take on just deference. "Ah, Mr. Brown, welcome back to Hong Kong. Arthur's phoned to tell me to expect your call. He asked me to welcome you and to say everything's prepared for the meeting tomorrow."

"When do you expect him?"

"Any moment, sir."

Voranski cursed silently for he was obliged to report back to the ship by phone within the hour. He did not like divergences in any plan.

"Very well," he said. "Tell him to call me at 32. " This was the code name for their safe apartment in Sinclair Towers."Has the American arrived yet?"

"Yes."

"Good. He was accompanied?"

"Yes."

"Good. And?"

"Arthur told me nothing more."

"Have you met her yet?"

"No."

"Has Arthur?"

"I don't know."

"Has contact been made yet with either of them?"

"Sorry, I don't know. Arthur didn't tell me."

"And the tai-pan? What about him?"

"Everything's arranged."

"Good. How long would it take you to get to 32, if necessary?"

"Ten to fifteen minutes. Did you want us to meet you there?"

"I'll decide that later."

"Oh Mr. Brown, Arthur thought you might like a little company after such a voyage. Her name's Koh, Maureen Koh."

"That was thoughtful of him—very thoughtful."

"Her phone number's beside the phone at 32. Just ring and she'll arrive within half an hour. Arthur wanted to know if your superior was with you tonight—if he'd need companionship also."

"No. He'll join us as planned tomorrow. But tomorrow evening he will expect hospitality. Good night." Voranski hung up arrogantly, conscious of his KGB seniority. At that instant the booth door swung open and the Chinese barged in and another blocked the outside. "What the—"

The words died as he did. The stiletto was long and thin. It came out easily. The Chinese let the body fall. He stared down at the inert heap for a moment then cleaned the knife on the corpse and slid it back into its sheath in his sleeve. He grinned at-the heavyset Chinese who still blocked the glass windows in the upper part of the booth as though he were the next customer, then put a coin in and dialed.

On the third ring a polite voice said, "Tsim Sha Tsui Police Station, good evening."

The man smiled sardonically and said rudely in Shanghainese, "You speak Shanghainese?"

A hesitation, a click, and now another voice in Shanghainese said, "This is Divisional Sergeant Tang-po. What is it, caller?"

"A Soviet pig slipped through your mother-fornicating net tonight as easily as a bullock shits, but now he's joined his ancestors. Do we of the 14K have to do all your manure-infected work for you?"

"What Sovie—"

"Hold your mouth and listen! His turtle-dung corpse's in a phone booth at Golden Ferry, Kowloonside. Just tell your mother-fornicating superiors to keep their eyes on enemies of China and not up their fornicating stink holes!"

At once he hung up and eased out of the box. He turned back momentarily and spat on the body, then shut the door and he and his companion joined the streams of passengers heading for the Hong Kong ferry.

They did not notice the man trailing them. He was a short, tubby American dressed like all the other tourists with the inevitable camera around his neck. Now he was leaning against the starboard gunnel melding into the crowd perfectly, pointing his camera this way and that as the ferry scuttled toward Hong Kong Island. But unlike other tourists his film was very special, so was his lens, and his camera.

"Hello, friend," another tourist said with a beam, wandering up to him. "You having yourself a time?"

"Sure," the man said. "Hong Kong's a great place, huh?"

"You can say that again." He turned and looked at the view. "Beats the hell outta Minneapolis."

The first man turned also but kept his peripheral vision locked onto the two Chinese, then dropped his voice. "We got problems."

The other tourist blanched. "Did we lose him? He didn't double back, Tom, I'm certain. I covered both exits. I thought you had him pegged in the booth."

"You bet your ass he was pegged. Look back there, center row —the Chinese joker with the white shirt and the one next to him. Those two sons of bitches knocked him off."

"Jesus!" Marty Povitz, one of the team of CIA agents assigned to cover the Sovetsky Ivanov, carefully looked at the two Chinese. "Kuomintang? Nationalists? Or Commies?"

"Shit, I don't know. But the stiff's still in a phone booth back there. Where's Rosemont?"

"He's g—" Povitz stopped then raised his voice and became an affable tourist again as passengers began to crowd nearer the exit. "Lookit there," he said, pointing to the crest of the Peak. The apartment buildings were tall and well lit and so were the houses that dotted the slopes, one particularly, one very high, the highest private mansion in Hong Kong. It was floodlit and sparkled like a jewel. "Say, whoever lives there's just about on top of the world, huh?"

Tom Connochie, the senior of the two, sighed. "Gotta be a tai-pan's house." Thoughtfully he lit a cigarette and let the match spiral into the black waters. Then, openly chatting tourist-style, he took a shot of the house and casually finished the roll of film, taking several more of the two Chinese. He reloaded his camera and, unobserved, passed the roll of exposed film to his partner. Hardly Using his lips, he said, "Call Rosemont up there, soon as we dock —tell him we got problems—then go get these processed tonight. I'll phone you when these two've bedded down."

"You crazy?" Povitz said. "You're not tailing them alone."

"Have to, Marty, the film might be important. We're not risking that."

"No."

"Goddamnit, Marty, I'm tai-pan of this operation."

"Orders says two g—"

"Screw orders!" Connochie hissed. "Just call Rosemont and don't foul up the film." Then he raised his voice and said breezily, "Great night for a sail, huh?"

"Sure."

He nodded at the sparkle of light on the crest of the Peak, then focused on it through his super-powered telescopic lens viewfinder. "You live up there, you got it made, huh?"

Dunross and Bartlett were facing each other in the Long Gallery at the head of the staircase. Alone.

"Have you made a deal with Gornt?" Dunross asked.

"No," Bartlett said. "Not yet." He was as crisp and tough as Dunross and his dinner jacket fitted as elegantly.

"Neither you nor Casey?" Dunross asked.

"No."

"But you have examined possibilities?"

"We're in business to make money, Ian—as are you!"

"Yes. But there're ethics involved."

"Hong Kong ethics?"

"May I ask how long you have been dealing with Gornt?"

"About six months. Are you agreeing to our proposal today?"

Dunross tried to put away his tiredness. He had not wanted to seek out Bartlett tonight but it had been necessary. He felt the eyes from all the portraits on the walls watching him. "You said Tuesday. I'll tell you Tuesday."

"Then until then, if I want to deal with Gornt or anyone else, that's my right. If you accept our offer now, it's a deal. I'm told you're the best, the Noble House, so I'd rather deal with you than him—providing I get top dollar with all the necessary safeguards.

I'm cash heavy, you're not. You're Asian heavy, I'm not. So we should deal."

Yes, Bartlett told himself, covering his foreboding, though delighted that his diversion this morning with Gornt had produced the confrontation so quickly and brought his opponent to bay—at the moment, Ian, you're just that, an opponent, until we finalize, if we finalize.

Is now the time to blitzkrieg?

He had been studying Dunross all evening, fascinated by him and the undercurrents and everything about Hong Kong—so totally alien to anything he had ever experienced before. New jungle, new rules, new dangers. Sure, he thought grimly, with both Dunross and Gornt as dangerous as a swamp full of rattlers and no yardstick to judge them by. I've got to be cautious like never before.

He felt his tension strongly, conscious of the eyes that watched from the walls. How far dare I push you, Ian? How far do I gamble? The profit potential's huge, the prize huge, but one mistake and you'll eat us up, Casey and me. You're a man after my own heart but even so still an opponent and governed by ghosts. Oh yes, I think Peter Marlowe was right in that though not in everything.

Jesus! Ghosts and the extent of the hatreds! Dunross, Gornt, Penelope, young Struan, Adryon . . . Adryon so brave after her initial fright.

He looked back at the cold blue eyes watching him. What would I do now, Ian, if I were you, you with your wild-ass heritage standing there so outwardly confident?

I don't know. But I know me and I know what Sun Tzu said about battlefields: only bring your opponent to battle at a time and a place of your own choosing. Well it's chosen and it's here and now.

"Tell me, Ian, before we decide, how are you going to pay off your three September notes to Toda Shipping?"

Dunross was shocked. "I beg your pardon?"

"You haven't got a charter yet and your bank won't pay without one, so it's up to you, isn't it?"

"The bank . . . there's no problem."

"But I understand you've already overextended your line of credit 20 percent. Doesn't that mean you'll have to find a new line of credit?"

"I'll have one if I need it," Dunross said, his voice edgy, and Bartlett knew he had gotten under his guard.

"12 million to Toda's a lot of cash when you add it to your other indebtedness."

"What other indebtedness?"

"The installment of $6,800,000 U.S. due September 8 on your Orlin International Banking loan of 30 million unsecured; you've 4.2 million in consolidated corporate losses so far this year against a written-up paper profit of seven and a half last year; and 12 million from the loss of Eastern Cloud and all those contraband engines."

The color was out of Dunross's face. "You seem to be particularly well informed."

"I am. Sun Tzu said that you've got to be well informed about your allies."

The small vein in Dunross's forehead was pulsating. "You mean enemies."

"Allies sometimes become enemies, Ian."

"Yes. Sun Tzu also hammered about spies. Your spy can only be one of seven men."

Bartlett replied as harshly, "Why should I have a spy? That information's available from banks—all you've got to do is dig a little. Toda's bank's the Yokohama National of Japan—and they're tied in with Orlin in a lot of deals—so're we, Stateside."

"Whoever your spy is, he's wrong. Orlin will extend. They always have."

"Don't bet on it this time. I know those bastards and if they smell a killing, they'll have your ass so fast you'll never know what happened."

"A killing of Struan's?" Dunross laughed sardonically. "There's no way Orlin or any god-cursed bank could—or would want us wrecked."

"Maybe Gornt's got a deal cooking with them."

"Christ Jesus…." Dunross held on to his temper with an effort. "Has he or hasn't he?"

"Ask him."

"I will. Meanwhile if you know anything, tell me now!"

"You've got enemies every which way."

"So have you."

"Yes. Does that make us good or bad partners?" Bartlett stared back at Dunross. Then his eyes fell on a portrait at the far end of the gallery. Ian Dunross was staring down at him from the wall, the likeness marvelous, part of a three-masted clipper in the background.

"Is that . . . Jesus, that's gotta be Dirk, Dirk Struan!"

Dunross turned and looked at the painting. "Yes."

Bartlett walked over and studied it. Now that he looked closer he could see that the sea captain was not Dunross, but even so, there was a curious similarity. "Jacques was right," he said.

"No."

"He's right." He turned and studied Dunross as though the man was a picture, comparing them back and forth. At length he said, "It's the eyes and the line of the jaw. And the taunting look in the eyes which says, 'You'd better believe I can kick the shit out of you anytime I want to.' "

The mouth smiled at him. "Does it now?"

"Yes."

"There's no problem on a line of credit, new or old."

"I think there is."

"The Victoria's our bank—we're big stockholders."

"How big?"

"We've alternate sources of credit if need be. But we'll get everything we want from the Vic. They're cash heavy too."

"Your Richard Kwang doesn't think so."

Dunross looked back from the portrait sharply. "Why?"

"He didn't say, Ian. He didn't say anything, but Casey knows bankers and she read the bottom line and that's what she thinks he thinks. I don't think she's much taken by Havergill either."

After a pause, Dunross said, "What else does she think?"

"That maybe we should go with Gornt."

"Be my guest."

"I may. What about Taipei?" Bartlett asked, wanting to keep Dunross off balance.

"What about it?"

"I'm still invited?"

"Yes, yes of course. That reminds me, you're released into my custody by kind permission of the assistant commissioner of police. Armstrong will be so informed tomorrow. You'll have to sign a piece of paper that you guarantee you'll return when I do."

"Thanks for arranging it. Casey is still not invited?"

"I thought we settled that this morning."

"Just asking. What about my airplane?"

Dunross frowned, off balance. "I suppose it's still impounded. Did you want to use it for the Taipei trip?"

"It'd be convenient, wouldn't it; then we could leave to suit ourselves."

"I'll see what I can do." Dunross watched him. "And your offer's firm until Tuesday?"

"Firm, just as Casey said. Until close of business Tuesday."

"Midnight Tuesday," Dunross countered.

"Do you always barter whatever the hell someone says?"

"Don't you?"

"Okay, midnight Tuesday. Then one minute into Wednesday all debts and friendships are canceled." Bartlett needed to keep the pressure on Dunross, needed the counteroffer now and not Tuesday so he could use it with or against Gornt. "The guy from Blacs, the chairman, what was his name?"

"Compton Southerby."

"Yes, Southerby. I was talking to him after dinner. He said they were all the way in back of Gornt. He implied Gornt also has a lot of Eurodollars on call if he ever needed them." Again Bartlett saw the piece of information slam home. "So I still don't know how you're going to pay Toda Shipping," he said.

Dunross didn't answer at once. He was still trying to find a way out of the maze. Each time he came back to the beginning: the spy must be Gavallan, deVille, Linbar Struan, Phillip Chen, Alastair Struan, David MacStruan, or his father, Colin Dunross. Some of Bartlett's information the banks would know—but not their corporate losses this year. That figure had been too accurate. That was the shocker. And the ". . . written-up paper profit."

He was looking at the American, wondering how much more inside knowledge the man had, feeling the trap closing on him with no way to maneuver, yet knowing he could not concede too much or he would lose everything.

What to do?

He glanced at Dirk Struan on the wall and saw the twisted half-smile and the look that said to him, Gamble laddie, where are thy balls?

Very well.

"Don't worry about Struan's. If you decide to join us, I want a two-year deal—-20 million next year too," he said, going for broke. "I'd like 7 on signing the contract."

Bartlett kept the joy off his face. "Okay on the two-year deal. As to the cash flow, Casey offered 2 million down and then one and a half per month on the first of each month. Gavallan said that would be acceptable."

"It's not. I'd like 7 down, the rest spread monthly."

"If I agree to that I want title to your new Toda ships as a guarantee this year."

"What the hell do you want guarantees for?" Dunross snapped. "The whole point of the deal is that we'd be partners, partners in an immense expansion into Asia."

"Yes. But our 7 million cash covers your September payments to Toda Shipping, takes you off the Orlin hook and we get nothing in return."

"Why should I give you any concession? I can discount your contract immediately and get an advance of 18 of the 20 million you provide with no trouble at all."

Yes, you can, Bartlett thought—once the contract's signed. But before that you've got nothing. "I'll agree to change the down payment, Ian. But in return for what?" Casually he glanced at a painting opposite him, but he did not see it, for all of his senses were concentrating on Dunross, knowing they were getting down to the short strokes. Title to the huge Toda bulk-cargo ships would cover all of Par-Con's risk whatever Dunross did.

"Don't forget," he added, "your 21 percent of the Victoria Bank stock is already in hock, signed over as collateral against your indebtedness to them. If you fail on the Toda payment or the Orlin, your old pal Havergill'll jerk the floor out. I would."

Dunross knew he was beaten. If Bartlett knew the exact amount of their secret bank holdings, Chen's secret holdings, together with their open holdings, there was no telling what other power the American had over him. "All right," he said. "I'll give you title to my ships for three months, providing first, you guarantee to keep it secret between the two of us; second, that our contracts are signed within seven days from today; third, that you agree to the cash flow I've suggested. Last, you guarantee not to leak one word of this until I make the announcement."

"When do you want to do that?"

"Sometime between Friday and Monday."

"I'd want to know in advance," Bartlett said.

"Of course. Twenty-four hours."

"I want title to the ships for six months, contracts within ten days,"

"No."

"Then no deal," Bartlett said.

"Very well," Dunross said immediately. "Then let's return to the party." He turned at once and calmly headed for the stairs.

Bartlett was startled with the abrupt ending of the negotiations. "Wait," he said, his heart skipping a beat.

Dunross stopped at the balustrade and faced him, one hand casually on the bannister.

Grimly Bartlett tried to gauge Dunross, his stomach twisting uneasily. He read finality in the eyes. "All right, title till January first, that's four months-odd, secret to you, me and Casey, contracts next Tuesday—that gives me time to get my tax people here—the cash flow as you laid it out subject to … when's our meeting tomorrow?"

"It was at ten. Can we make it eleven?"

"Sure. Then it's a deal, subject to confirmation tomorrow at eleven."

"No. You've no need for more time. I might have but you haven't." Again the thin smile. "Yes or no?"

Bartlett hesitated, all his instincts saying close now, stick out your hand and close, you've everything you wanted. Yes—but what about Casey? "This's Casey's deal. She can commit up to 20 million. You mind shaking with her?"

"A tai-pan deals with a tai-pan on a closing, it's an old Chinese custom. Is she tai-pan of Par-Con?"

"No," Bartlett said evenly. "I am."

"Good." Dunross came back and put out his hand, calling him, playing with him, reading his mind. "Then it's a deal?"

Bartlett looked at the hand then into the cold blue eyes, his heart pounding heavily. "It's a deal—but I want her to close it with you."

Dunross let his hand fall. "I repeat, who's tai-pan of Par-Con?"

Bartlett looked back levelly. "A promise is a promise, Ian. It's important to her, and I promised she had the ball up to 20 million."

He saw Dunross begin to turn away, so he said firmly, "Ian, if I have to choose between the deal and Casey, my promise to Casey, then that's no contest. None. I'd consider it a fav—" He stopped. Both their heads jerked around as there was a slight, involuntary noise from an eavesdropper in the shadows at the far end of the gallery where there was a group of high-backed settees and tall winged chairs. Instantly, Dunross spun on his heel and, catlike, hurtled silently to the attack. Bartlett's reactions were almost as fast. He, too, went quickly in support.

Dunross stopped at the green velvet settee. He sighed. It was no eavesdropper but his thirteen-year-old daughter, Glenna, fast asleep, curled up, all legs and arms like a young filly, angelic in her crumpled party dress, his wife's thin rope of pearls around her neck.

Bartlett's heart slowed and he whispered, "Jesus, for a moment . . . Hey, she's as cute as a button!"

"Do you have any children?"

"Boy and two girls. Brett's sixteen, Jenny's fourteen and Mary is thirteen. Unfortunately I don't see them very often." Bartlett, gaining his breath again, continued quietly, "They're on the East Coast now. Afraid I'm not very popular. Their mother … we, we were divorced seven years ago. She's remarried now but . . ." Bartlett shrugged, then looked down at the child. "She's a doll! You're lucky."

Dunross leaned over and gently picked up his child. She hardly stirred, just nestled closer to him, contentedly. He looked at the American thoughtfully. Then he said, "Bring Casey back here in ten minutes. I'll do what you ask—as much as I disapprove of it— because you wish to honor your promise." He walked away, surefooted, and disappeared into the east wing where Glenna's bedroom was.

After a pause, Bartlett glanced up at the portrait of Dirk Struan. The smile mocked him. "Go screw yourself," he muttered, feeling that Dunross had outsmarted him somehow. Then he grinned. "Eh, what the hell! Your boy's doing all right, Dirk old buddy!"

He went for the stairs. Then he noticed an unlit portrait in a half-hidden alcove. He stopped. The oil painting was of an old gray-bearded sea captain with one eye, hook-nosed and arrogant, his face scarred, a cutlass on the table beside him.

Bartlett gasped as he saw that the canvas was slashed and coun-terslashed, with a short knife buried in the man's heart, impaling the painting to the wall.

Casey was staring at the knife. She tried to hide her shock. She was alone in the gallery, waiting uneasily. Dance music wafted up from below—rhythm and blues music. A short wind tugged the curtains and moved a strand of her hair. A mosquito droned.

"That's Tyler Brock."

Casey spun around, startled. Dunross was watching her. "Oh, I didn't hear you come back," she said.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to make you jump."

"Oh, that's all right."

She looked back at the painting. "Peter Marlowe was telling us about him."

"He knows a lot about Hong Kong, but not everything, and not all his information's accurate. Some of it's quite wrong."

After a moment she said, "It's . . . it's a bit melodramatic, isn't it, leaving the knife like that?"

"Hag Struan did it. She ordered it left that way."

"Why?"

"It pleased her. She was tai-pan."

"Seriously, why?"

"I was serious." Dunross shrugged. "She hated her father and wanted us all to be reminded about our heritage."

Casey frowned, then motioned at a portrait on the opposite wall. "That's her?"

"Yes. It was done just after she was married." The girl in the painting was slim, about seventeen, pale blue eyes, fair hair. She wore a low-cut ball gown—tiny waist, budding bosom—an ornate green necklace encircling her throat.

They stood there looking at the picture for a moment. There was no name on the little brass plaque on the bottom of the ornate gilt frame, just the years, 1825-1917. Casey said, "It's an ordinary face, pretty but ordinary, except for the lips. They're thin and tight and disapproving—and tough. The artist captured a lot of strength there. It's a Quance?"

"No. We don't know who painted it. It was supposed to be her favorite portrait. There's a Quance of her in the Struan penthouse, painted about the same time. It's quite different, yet very much the same."

"Did she ever have a portrait done in later life?"

"Three. She destroyed them all, the moment they were finished."

"Are there any photos of her?"

"Not to my knowledge. She hated cameras—wouldn't have one in the house." Dunross laughed and she saw the tiredness in him. "Once a reporter for the China Guardian took her picture, just before the Great War. Within an hour she sent an armed crew from one of our merchantmen into their offices with orders to burn the place if she didn't get the negative and all copies back, and if the editor didn't promise to 'cease and desist from harassing her.' He promised."

"Surely you can't do that and get away with it?"

"No, you can't—unless you're tai-pan of the Noble House. Besides, everyone knew that Hag Struan didn't want her picture taken and this cocky young bastard had broken the rule. She was like the Chinese. She believed every time your picture's taken you lose part of your soul."

Casey peered at the necklace. "Is that jade?" she asked.

"Emeralds."

She gasped. "That must have been worth a fortune."

"Dirk Struan willed the necklace to her—it was never to leave Asia—it was to belong to the wife of each tai-pan of the Noble House, an heirloom to be passed on from lady to lady." He smiled oddly. "Hag Struan kept the necklace all her life, and, when she died, she ordered it burned with her."

"Jesus! Was it?"

"Yes."

"What a waste!"

Dunross looked back at the portrait. "No," he said, his voice different. "She kept Struan's the Noble House of Asia for almost seventy-five years. She was the tai-pan, the real tai-pan, though others had the title. Hag Struan fought off enemies and catastrophes and kept faith with Dirk's legacy and smashed the Brocks and did whatever was necessary. So what's a pretty bauble that probably cost nothing in the first place? It was probably pirated from the treasury of some Mandarin who stole it from someone else, whose peasants paid for it with sweat."

Casey watched him staring at the face, almost past it into another dimension. "I only hope I can do as well," he muttered absently, and it seemed to Casey he was saying it to her, to the girl in the picture.

Her eyes strayed beyond Dunross to the portrait of Dirk Struan and she saw again the marvelous likeness. There was a strong family resemblance in all the ten large portraits—nine men and the girl– that hung on the walls amid landscapes of all sizes of Hong Kong and Shanghai and Tiensin and many seascapes of the elegant Struan clipper ships and some of their merchantmen. Below the portrait of each tai-pan was a small brass plaque with his name and the years of his life: "Dirk Dunross, 4th Tai-pan, 1852-1894, lost at sea in the India Ocean with all hands in Sunset Cloud" . . . "Sir Lochlin Struan, 3rd Tai-pan, 1841-1915" … "Alastair Struan, 9th Tai-pan, 1900-" … "Dirk Struan, 1798-1841" … "Ross Lechie Struan, 7th Tai-pan, 1887-1915, Captain Royal Scots Regiment, killed in action at Ypres" . . .

"So much history," she said, judging it time to break his thought pattern.

"Yes. Yes it is," he said, looking at her now.

"You're the 10th tai-pan?"

"Yes."

"Have you had your portrait done yet?"

"No."

"You'll have to, won't you?"

"Yes, yes in due course. There's no hurry."

"How do you become tai-pan, Ian?"

"You have to be chosen by the previous one. It's his decision."

"Have you chosen who'll follow you?"

"No," he said, but Casey thought that he had. Why should he tell me, she asked herself. And why are you asking him so many questions?

She looked away from him. A small portrait caught her attention. "Who's that?" she asked, disquieted. The man was misshapen, a hunchbacked dwarf, his eyes curious and his smile sardonic. "Was he a tai-pan too?"

"No. That's Stride Orlov, he was Dirk's chief captain. After the tai-pan was killed in the great typhoon and Culum took over, Stride Orlov became master of our clipper fleet. Legend has it he was a great seaman."

After a 'pause she said, "Sorry but there's something about him that gives me the creeps." There were pistols in Orlov's belt and a clipper ship in the background. "It's a frightening face," she said.

"He had that effect on everyone—except the tai-pan and Hag Struan—even Culum was supposed to have hated him." Dunross turned and studied her and she felt his probing. It made her feel warm and at the same time unsettled.

"Why did she like him?" she asked.

"The story is that right after the great typhoon when everyone in Hong Kong was picking up the pieces, Culum included, Devil Tyler started to take over the Noble House. He gave orders, assumed control, treated Culum and Tess like children … he sent Tess aboard his ship, the White Witch, and told Culum to be aboard by sunset or else. As far as Tyler was concerned the Noble House was now Brock-Struan and he was the tai-pan! Somehow or other —no one knows why or how Culum got the courage—my God, Culum was only twenty then and Tess barely sixteen—but Culum ordered Orlov to go aboard the White Witch and fetch his wife ashore. Orlov went alone, at once—Tyler was still ashore at the time. Orlov brought her back and in his wake left one man dead and another half a dozen with broken heads or limbs." Dunross was looking at her and she recognized the same half-mocking, half-violent, half-devilish smile that was on the tai-pan's face. "Ever afterwards, Tess—Hag Struan to be—loved him, so they say. Orlov served our fleet well until he vanished. He was a fine man, and a great seaman, for all his ugliness."

"He vanished? He was lost at sea?"

"No. Hag Struan said he went ashore one day in Singapore and never returned. He was always threatening to leave and go home to Norway. So perhaps he went home. Perhaps he was knifed. Who knows, Asia's a violent place, though Hag Struan swore no man could kill Stride Orlov and that it must have been a woman. Perhaps Tyler ambushed him. Who knows?"

Inexorably her eyes went back to Tyler Brock. She was fascinated by the face and the implications of the knife. "Why did she do that to her father's image?"

"One day I'll tell you but not tonight, except to say that she hammered the knife into the wall with my grandfather's cricket bat and cursed before God and the devil anyone who took her knife out of her wall." He smiled at Casey and again she noticed an extraordinary tiredness in him and was glad because her own tiredness was creeping up on her and she did not want to make any mistakes now. He put out his hand. "We have to shake on a deal."

"No," Casey said calmly, glad to begin. "Sorry, I have to cancel out."

His smile evaporated. "What?"

"Yes. Line told me the changes you want. It's a two-year deal— that ups our ante so I can't approve it."

"Oh?"

"No." She continued in the same flat but pleasant tone, "Sorry, 20 million's my limit so you'll have to close with Line. He's waiting in the bar."

Understanding flashed over his face for an instant—and relief, she thought—and then he was calm again. "Is he now?" he said softly, watching her.

"Yes." She felt a wave of heat go through her, her cheeks began to burn and she wondered if the color showed.

"So we can't shake, you and I. It has to be Line Bartlett?"

With an effort she kept her eyes unwavering. "A tai-pan should deal with a tai-pan."

"That's a basic rule, even in America?" His voice was soft and gentle.

"Yes."

"Is this your idea or his?"

"Does it matter?"

"Very much."

"If I say it's Line's, he loses face, and if I say it's mine, he still loses face, though in a different way."

Dunross shook his head slightly and smiled. The warmth of it increased her inner warmth. Although she was very much in charge of herself, she felt herself responding to his unadulterated masculinity.

"We're all bound by face, aren't we, in some way or another," he said.

She did not answer, just glanced away to give herself time. Her eyes saw the portrait of the girl. How could such a pretty girl become known as the Hag, she wondered. It must be hateful to become old in face and body when you're young at heart and still strong and tough—so unfair for a woman. Will I be known one day as Hag Tcholok? Or "that old dyke Tcholok" if I'm still alone, unmarried, in the business world, the man's world, still working for the same things they work for—identity, power and money—and hated for being as good or better than they are at it? I don't care so long as we win, Line and I. So play the part you've chosen tonight, she told herself, and thank the French lady for her advice. "Remember, child," her father had drummed into her, "remember that advice, good advice, comes from unexpected places at unexpected times." Yes, Casey thought happily, but for Susanne's reminder about how a lady should operate in this man's world, Ian, perhaps I wouldn't have given you that face-saving formula. But don't be mistaken, Ian Struan Dunross. This is my deal, and in this I'm tai-pan of Par-Con.

Casey felt an untoward glow as another current went through her. Never before had she articulated her actual position in Par-Con to herself. Yes, she thought, very satisfied, that's what I am.

She looked at the girl in the portrait critically and she saw, now, how wrong she had been before and how very special the girl was. Wasn't she the tai-pan, in embryo, even then?

"You're very generous," Dunross said, breaking into her thoughts.

"No," she replied at once, prepared, and glanced back at him, and she was thinking, If you want the truth, tai-pan, I'm not generous at all. I'm merely being demure and sweet and gentle because it makes you feel more at home. But she said none of this to him, only dropped her eyes and murmured with the right amount of softness, "It's you who're generous."

He took her hand and bowed over it and kissed it with old-fashioned gallantry.

She was startled and tried to cover it. No one had ever done that to her before. In spite of her resolve she was moved.

"Ah Ciranoush," he said with mock gravity, "any time you need a champion, send for me." Then he grinned suddenly. "I'll probably make a bog of it but never mind."

She laughed, all tension gone now, liking him very much. "You've got yourself a deal."

Casually he put his arm around her waist and gently propelled her toward the stairs. The contact with him felt good—too good, she thought. This one's no child. Be cautious.

17

11:58 P.M. :

Phillip Chen's Rolls screeched to a halt in the driveway of his house. He got out of the backseat, flushed with rage, Dianne nervously in tow. The night was dark, the lights of the city and ships and high rises blazing far below. "Bolt the gates, then you come inside too," he snapped to his equally nervous chauffeur, then hurried for the front door.

"Hurry up, Dianne," he said, irritably shoving his key into the lock.

"Phillip, what on earth's the matter with you? Why can't you tell me? Wh—"

"Shut up!" he shouted, his temper snapping, and she jerked to a halt, shocked. "Just shut up and do what you're told!" He ripped the front door open. "Get the servants here!"

"But Phi—"

"Ah Sun! Ah Tak!"

The two tousled, sleepy amahs appeared hastily out of the kitchen and gaped at him, shocked at his untoward rage. "Yes Father? Yes Mother?" they chorused in Cantonese. "What in the name of all gods ha—"

"Hold your tongues!" Phillip Chen roared, his neck red and now his face more red. "Go into that room and stay there until I tell you all to come out!" He pulled the door open. It was their dining room and the windows faced the road north. "All of you stay there until I tell you to come out and if any of you moves or looks out of the windows before I come back I'll . . . I'll have some friends put weights on you and get you all thrown into the harbor!"

The two amahs began wailing but everyone hurriedly obeyed him and he slammed the door shut.

"Stop it both of you!" Dianne Chen screeched at the amahs, then reached over and pinched one sharply on the cheek. This stopped the old woman's wailing and she gasped, her eyes rolling, "What's got into everyone? What's got into Father? Oh oh oh, his rage's gone to Java … oh oh oh. .. ."

"Shut up, Ah Tak!" Dianne fanned herself, seething, beside herself with fury. What in the name of all gods has got into him? Doesn't he trust me—me, his only true wife and the love of his life? In all my life .. . And to rush off like that from the tai-pan's party when everything was going so fine—us the talk of Hong Kong and everyone admiring my darling Kevin, fawning on him, now surely the new heir of the House of Chen, for everyone agrees John Chen would certainly have died of shock when his ear was cut off. Anyone would! I certainly would.

She shivered, feeling her own ear being cut again and being kidnapped as in her dream this afternoon when she had awoken in a cold sweat from her nap.

"Ayeeyah," she muttered to no one in particular. "Has he gone mad?"

"Yes, Mother," her chauffeur said confidently, "I think he has. It's the result of the kidnapping. I've never seen Father like this in all my yea—"

"Who asked you?" Dianne shrieked. "It's all your fault anyway! If you'd brought my poor John home instead of leaving him to his mealy-mouthed whores this would never have happened!"

Again the two amahs began whimpering at her fury and she turned her spleen on them for a moment, adding, "And as to you two, while I think of it, the quality of service in this house's enough to give anyone loose bowels. Have you asked me if I need a physic or aspirins? Or tea? Or a cold towel?"

"Mother," one of them said placatingly, hopefully pointing at the lacquered sideboard, "I can't make tea but would you like some brandy?"

'Wat? Ah, very good. Yes, yes, Ah Tak."

At once the old woman bustled over to the sideboard and opened it, brought out some cognac that she knew her mistress liked, poured it into a glass. "Poor Mother, to have Father in such a rage! Terrible! What's possessed him and why doesn't he want us to look out of the window?"

Because he doesn't want you turtle-dung thieves to see him dig up his secret safe in the garden, Dianne was thinking. Or even me. She smiled grimly to herself, sipping the fine smooth liquor, calmer in the knowledge that she knew where the iron box was buried. It was only right that she should have protected him by secretly watching him bury it, in case, God forbid, the gods took him from this earth before he could tell her where the secret hiding place was. It had been her duty to break her promise not to watch him that night during the Japanese Occupation when he had wisely scooped up all their valuables and hidden them.

She did not know what was in the box now. She did not care. It had been opened and closed many times, all in secret, as far as he was concerned. She did not care so long as she knew where her husband was, where all his deposit boxes of various kinds were, their keys, just in case.

After all, she told herself confidently, if he dies, without me the House of Chen will crumble. "Stop sniveling, Ah Sun!" She got up and closed the long drapes. Outside the night was dark and she could see nothing of the garden, only the driveway, the tall iron gates and the road beyond.

"More drink, Mother?" the old amah asked.

"Thank you, little oily mouth," she replied affectionately, the warmth of the spirit soothing her anger away. "And then you can massage my neck. I've got a headache. You two sit down, hold your tongues and don't make a sound till Father gets back!"

Phillip Chen was hurrying down the garden path, a flashlight in one hand, a shovel in the other. The path curled downward through well-tended gardens that meandered into a grove of trees and shrubs. He stopped a moment, getting his bearings, then found the place he sought. He hesitated and glanced back, even though he knew he was well hidden from the house now. Reassured that he could not be watched he switched on the flashlight. The circle of light wandered over the undergrowth and stopped at the foot of a tree. The spot appeared to be untouched. Carefully he pushed aside the natural mulch. When he saw the earth below had been disturbed he cursed obscenely. "Oh the swine . . . my own son!" Collecting himself with difficulty he began to dig. The earth was soft.

Ever since he had left the party he had been trying to remember exactly when he had last dug up the box. Now he was sure it had been in the spring when he needed the deeds to a row of slum dwellings in Wanchai that he had sold for fifty times cost to Donald McBride for one of his great new developments.

"Where was John then?" he muttered. "Was he in the house?"

As he dug he tried to recall but he could not. He knew that he would never have dug up the box when it was dangerous or when there were strangers in the house and that he would always have been circumspect. But John? Never would I have thought.. . John must have followed me somehow.

The shovel struck the metal. Carefully he cleaned off the earth and pulled the protective cloth away from the box and heavy lock and opened it. The hinges of the lid were well greased. His fingers shaking, he held the flashlight over the open box. All his papers and deeds and private balance sheets seemed to be in order and undisturbed, but he knew they must all have been taken out and read— and copied or memorized. Some of the information in his son's safety deposit box could only have come from here.

All the jewel boxes, big and small, were there. Nervously he reached out for the one he sought and opened it. The half-coin had vanished and the document explaining about the coin had vanished.

Tears of rage seeped down his cheeks. He felt his heart pounding and smelled the damp earth and knew if his son was there he would happily have strangled him with his own hands.

"Oh my son my son … all gods curse you to hell!"

His knees were weak. Shakily he sat on a rock and tried to collect his wits. He could hear his father on his deathbed cautioning him: "Never lose the coin my son—it's our key to ultimate survival and power over the Noble House."

That was in 1937 and the first time he had learned the innermost secrets of the House of Chen: that he who became compradore became the ranking leader in Hong Kong of the Hung Mun—the great secret triad society of China that, under Sun Yat-sen, had become the 14K, originally formed to spearhead China's revolt against their hated Manchu overlords; that the compradore was the main, legitimate link between the Chinese hierarchy on the Island and the inheritors of the 14K on the Mainland; that because of Chen-tse Jin Arn, known as Jin-qua, the legendary chief merchant of the co-hong that had possessed the Emperor's monopoly on all foreign trade, the House of Chen was perpetually interlinked with the Noble House by ownership and by blood.

"Listen carefully, my son," the dying man had whispered. "The tai-pan, Great-Grandfather Dirk Struan, was Jin-qua's creation, as was the Noble House. Jin-qua nurtured it, formed it and Dirk Struan. The tai-pan had two concubines. The first was Kai-sung, one of Jin-qua's daughters by a fifth wife. Their son was Gordon Chen, my father, your grandfather. The tai-pan's second concubine was T'Chung Jin May-may, his mistress for six years whom he married in secret just before the great typhoon that killed them both. She was twenty-three then, a brilliant, favored granddaughter of Jin-qua, sold to the tai-pan when she was seventeen to teach him civilized ways without his knowing he was being taught. From them came Duncan and Kate who took the surname T'Chung and were brought up in my father's house. Father married off Kate to a Shanghai China Trader called Peter Gavallan—Andrew Gavallan is also a cousin though he doesn't know it. … So many stories to tell and now so little time to tell them. Never mind, all the family trees are in the safe. There are so many. We're all related, the Wu, Kwang, Sung, Kau, Kwok, Ng—all the old families. Use the knowledge carefully. Here's the key to the safe.

"Another secret, Phillip, my son. Our line comes from my father's second wife. Father married her when he was fifty-three and she sixteen. She was the daughter of John Yuan, the illegitimate son of the great American Trader Jeff Cooper, and a Eurasian lady, Isobel Yau. Isobel Yau was the oh-so-secret Eurasian daughter of Robb Struan, the tai-pan's half-brother and cofounder of the Noble House, so we have blood from both sides of the Struans. Alastair Struan is a cousin and Colin Dunross is a cousin—the MacStruans are not; their history's in Grandfather's diaries. My son, the English and Scots barbarians came to China and they never married those whom they adored and most times abandoned when they returned to the gray island of mist and rain and overcast. My God how I hate the English weather and loathe the past!

"Yes, Phillip, we're Eurasian, not of one side or the other. I've never been able to come to terms with it. It is our curse and our cross but it is up to all of us to make it a blessing. I pass our House on to you rich and strong like Jin-qua wished—do so to your son and make sure he does it to his. Jin-qua birthed us, in a way, gave us wealth, secret knowledge, continuity and power—and he gave us one of the coins. Here, Phillip, read about the coin."

The calligraphy of the ancient scroll was exquisite: "On this eighth day of the sixth month of the year 1841 by barbarian count,

I, Chen-tse Jin Arn of Canton, Chief Merchant of the co-hong, have this day loaned to Green-Eyed Devil the tai-pan of the Noble House, chief pirate of all foreign devils who have made war on the Heavenly Kingdom and have stolen our island Hong Kong, forty lacs of silver . . . one million sterling in their specie . . . and have, with this bullion, saved him from being swallowed by One-Eye, his arch-enemy and rival. In return, the tai-pan grants us special trade advantages for the next twenty years, promises that one of the House of Chen will forever be compradore to the Noble House, and swears that he or his descendents will honor all debts and the debt of the coins. There are four of them. The coins are broken into halves. I have given the tai-pan four halves. Whenever one of the other halves is presented to him, or to a following tai-pan, he has sworn whatever favor is asked will be granted . . . whether within their law, or ours, or outside it.

"One coin I keep; one I give to the warlord Wu Fang Choi, my cousin; one will be given to my grandson Gordon Chen; and the last recipient I keep secret. Remember, he who reads this in the future, do not use the coin lightly, for the tai-pan of the Noble House must grant anything—but only once. And remember that though the Green-Eyed Devil himself will honor his promise and so will his descendents, he is still a mad-dog barbarian, cunning as a filthy Manchu because of our training, and as dangerous always as a nest of vipers."

Phillip Chen shuddered involuntarily, remembering the violence that was always ready to explode in Ian Dunross. He's a descendent of Green-Eyed Devil all right, he thought. Yes, him and his father.

Goddamn John! What possessed him? What devilment has he planned with Line Bartlett? Has Bartlett got the coin now? Or does John still have it with him and now perhaps the kidnappers have it.

While his tired brain swept over the possibilities, his fingers checked the jewel boxes, one by one. Nothing was missing. The big one he left till last. There was a tightness in his throat as he opened it but the necklace was still there. A great sigh of relief went through him. The beauty of the emeralds in the flashlight gave him enormous pleasure and took away some of his anxiety. How stupid of Hag Struan to order them to be burned with her body. What an arrogant, awful, unholy waste that would have been! How wise of Father to intercept the coffin before the fire and remove them.

Reluctantly he put the necklace away and began to close up the safe. What to do about the coin? I almost used it the time the tai-pan took away our bank stock—and most of our power. Yes. But I decided to give him time to prove himself and this is the third year and nothing is yet proved, and though the American deal seems grand it is not yet signed. And now the coin is gone.

He groaned aloud, distraught, his back aching like his head. Below was all the city, ships tied up at Glessing's Point and others in the roads. Kowloon was equally brilliant and he could see a jetliner taking off from Kai Tak, another turning to make a landing, another whining high overhead, its lights blinking.

What to do? he asked himself exhaustedly. Does Bartlett have the coin? Or John? Or the Werewolves?

In the wrong hands it could destroy us all note 4 .

TUESDAY

18

12:36 A.M. :

Gornt said, "Of course Dunross could have buggered my brakes, Jason!"

"Oh come on, for God's sake! Climbing under your car during a party with two hundred guests around? lan's not that stupid."

They were in Jason Plumm's penthouse above Happy Valley, the midnight air good though the humidity had increased again. Plumm got up and threw his cigar butt away, took a fresh one and lit it. The tai-pan of Asian Properties, the third largest hong, was taller than Gornt, in his late fifties, thin-faced and elegant, his smoking jacket red velvet. "Even Ian bloody Dunross's not that much of a bloody berk."

"You're wrong. For all his Scots cunning, he's an animal of sudden action, unpremeditated action, that's his failing. I think he did it."

Plumm steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "What did the police say?"

"All I told them was that my brakes had failed. There was no need to involve those nosy buggers, at least not yet. But Rolls brakes just don't go wrong by themselves for God's sake. Well, never mind. Tomorrow I'll make sure Tom Nikklin gets me an answer, an absolute answer, if there is one. Time enough for the police then."

"I agree." Plumm smiled thinly. "We don't need police to wash our various linens however droll—do we?"

"No." Both men laughed.

"You were very lucky. The Peak's no road to lose your brakes on. Must have been very unpleasant."

"For a moment it was, Jason, but then it was no problem, once I was over the initial shock." Gornt stretched the truth and sipped his whiskey and soda. They had eaten an elegant dinner on the terrace overlooking Happy Valley, the racecourse and city and sea beyond, just the two of them—Plumm's wife was in England on vacation and their children grown up and no longer in Hong Kong. Now they were sitting over cigars in great easy chairs in Plumm's book-lined study, the room luxurious though subdued, in perfect taste like the rest of the ten-room penthouse. "Tom Nikklin'll find out if my car was tampered with if anyone can," he said with finality.

"Yes." Plumm sipped a glass of iced Perrier water. "Are you going to wind up young Nikklin again about Macao?"

"Me? You must be joking!"

"No. I'm not, actually," Plumm said with his mocking well-bred chuckle. "Didn't Dunross's engine blow up during the race three years ago and he bloody nearly killed himself?"

"Racing cars are always going wrong."

"Yes, yes they do frequently, though they're not always helped by the opposition." Plumm smiled.

Gornt kept his smile but inside he was not smiling. "Meaning?"

"Nothing, dear boy. Just rumors." The older man leaned over and poured more whiskey for Gornt, then used the soda syphon. "Rumor has it that a certain Chinese mechanic, for a small fee, put . . . put, as we say, a small spanner in the works."

"I doubt if that'd be true."

"I doubt if it could be proved. One way or another. It's disgusting, but some people will do anything for quite a small amount of money."

"Yes. Fortunately we're in the big-money market."

"My whole point, dear boy. Now." Plumm tapped the ash off his cigar. "What's the scheme?"

"It's very simple: providing Bartlett does not actually sign a deal with Struan's in the next ten days we can pluck the Noble House like a dead duck."

"Lot's of people have thought that before and Struan's is still the Noble House."

"Yes. But at the moment, they're vulnerable."

"How?"

"The Toda Shipping notes, and the Orlin installment."

"Not true. Struan's credit is excellent—oh, they're stretched, but no more than anyone else. They'll just increase their line of credit —or Ian will go to Richard Kwang—or Blacs."

"Say Blacs won't help—they won't—and say Richard Kwang's neutralized. That leaves only the Victoria."

"Then Dunross'll ask the bank for more credit and we'll have to give it to him. Paul Havergill will put it to a vote of the board. We all know we can't outvote the Struan's block so we'll go along with it and save face, pretending we're very happy to oblige, as usual."

"Yes. But this time I'm happy to say Richard Kwang will vote against Struan's. That will tie up the board, the credit request will be delayed—he won't be able to make his payments, so Dunross goes under."

"For God's sake, Richard Kwang's not even on the board! Have you gone bonkers?"

Gornt puffed his cigar. "No, you've forgotten my game plan. The one called Competition. It was started a couple of days ago."

"Against Richard?"

"Yes."

"Poor old Richard!"

"Yes. He'll be our deciding vote. And Dunross'll never expect an attack from there."

Plumm stared at him. "Richard and Dunross are great friends."

"But Richard's in trouble. The run's started on the Ho-Pak. He'll do anything to save himself."

"I see. How much Ho-Pak stock did you sell short?"

"Lots."

"Are you sure Richard hasn't got the resources to stave off the run—that he can't pull in extra funds?"

"If he does, we can always abort, you and I."

"Yes, yes we can." Jason Plumm watched his cigar smoke spiral. "But just because Dunross won't meet those payments doesn't mean he's finished."

"I agree. But after the Ho-Pak 'disaster,' the news that Struan's have defaulted will send his stock plummeting. The market'll be very nervous, there'll be all the signs of a crash looming which we fuel by selling short. There's no board meeting scheduled for a couple of weeks unless Paul Havergill calls a special meeting. And he won't. Why should he? He wants their chunk of stock back more than anything else in the world. So everything will be fixed beforehand. He'll set the ground rules for rescuing Richard Kwang, and voting as Paul decides will be one of them. So the board lets Ian stew for a few days, then offers to extend credit and restore confidence —in return for Struan's piece of the bank stock—it's pledged against the credit anyway."

"Dunross'll never agree—neither he nor Phillip Chen, nor Tsu-yan."

"It's that or Struan's goes under—providing you hold tight and you've voting control. Once the bank gets his block of stock away from him … if you control the board, and therefore the Victoria Bank, then he's finished."

"Yes. But say he gets a new line of credit?"

"Then he's only badly mauled, maybe permanently weakened, Jason, but we make a killing either way. It's all a matter of timing, you know that."

"And Bartlett?"

"Bartlett and Par-Con are mine. He'll never go with Struan's sinking ship. I'll see to that."

After a pause Plumm said, "It's possible. Yes, it's possible."

"Are you in then?"

"After Struan's, how are you going to gobble up Par-Con?"

"I'm not. But we could—possibly." Gornt stubbed out his cigar. "Par-Con's a long-term effort and a whole different set of problems. First Struan's. Well?"

"If I get Struan's Hong Kong property division—35 percent of their landholdings in Thailand and Singapore and we're fifty-fifty on their Kai Tak operation?"

"Yes, everything except Kai Tak—I need that to round off All Asia Airways. I'm sure you'll understand, old boy. But you've a seat on the board of the new company, ten percent of the stock at par, seats on Struan's of course, and all their subsidiaries."

"15 percent. And chairmanship of Struan's, alternate years with you?"

"Agreed, but I'm first." Gornt lit a cigarette. Why not? he thought expansively. By this time next year Struan's will be dismembered so your chairmanship is really academic, Jason old boy. "So everything's agreed? We'll put it in a joint memo if you like, one copy for each of us."

Plumm shook his head and smiled. "Don't need a memo, perish the thought! Here." He held out his hand. "I agree!"

The two men shook hands firmly. "Down with the Noble House!" They both laughed, very content with the deal they had made. Acquisition of Struan's landholdings would make Asian Properties the largest land company in Hong Kong. Gornt would acquire almost a total monopoly of all Hong Kong's air cargo, sea freighting and factoring—and preeminence in Asia.

Good, Gornt thought. Now for Four Finger Wu. "If you'll call me a taxi I'll be off."

"Take my car, my chauffeur will—"

"Thanks but no, I'd rather take a taxi. Really, Jason, thanks anyway."

So Plumm phoned down to the concierge of the twenty-story apartment building which was owned and operated by his Asian Properties. While they waited, they toasted each other and the destruction of Struan's and the profits they were going to make. A phone rang in the adjoining room.

"Excuse me a moment, old chap." Plumm went through the door and half-closed it behind him. This was his private bedroom which he used sometimes when he was working late. It was a small, very neat room, soundproofed, fitted up like a ship's cabin with a built-in bunk, hi-fi speakers that piped in the music, a small self-contained hot plate and refrigerator. And, on one side, was a huge bank of elaborate, shortwave, ham radio transceiver equipment which had been Jason Plumm's abiding hobby since his childhood.

He picked up the phone. "Yes?"

"Mr. Lop-sing please?" the woman's voice said.

"There's no Mr. Lop-ting here," he said easily. "Sorry, you have a wrong number."

"I want to leave a message."

"You have a wrong number. Look in your phone book."

"An urgent message for Arthur: Center radioed that the meeting's postponed until the day after tomorrow. Standby for urgent instructions at 0600." The line went dead. Again a dial tone.

Plumm frowned as he put the phone back on its cradle.

Four Finger Wu stood at the gunnel of his junk with Good-weather Poon watching Gornt get into the sampan that he had sent for him.

"He hasn't changed much in all this time, has he?" Wu said absently, his narrowed eyes glittering.

"Foreign devils all look alike to me, never mind. How many years is it? Ten?" Poon asked, scratching his piles.

"No, it's nearer twelve now. Good times then, heya," Wu said. "Lots of profit. Very good, slipping upstream toward Canton, evading the foreign devils and their lackeys, Chairman Mao's people welcoming us. Yes. Our own people in charge and not a foreign devil anywhere—nor a fat official wanting his hand touched with fragrant grease. You could visit all your family and friends then and no trouble, heya? Not like now, heya?"

"The Reds're getting tough, very clever and very tough—worse than the Mandarins."

Wu turned as his seventh son came on deck. Now the young man wore a neat white shirt and gray trousers and good shoes. "Be careful," he called out brusquely. "You're sure you know what to do?"

"Yes, Father."

"Good," Four Fingers said, hiding his pride. "I don't want any mistakes."

He watched him head awkwardly for the haphazard gangway of planks that joined this junk to the next and thence across other junks to a makeshift landing eight boats away.

"Does Seventh Son know anything yet?" Poon asked softly.

"No, no not yet," Wu said sourly. "Those dogmeat fools to be caught with my guns! Without the guns, all our work will be for nothing."

"Evening, Mr. Gornt. I'm Paul Choy—my uncle Wu sent me to show you the way," the young man said in perfect English, repeating the lie that was now almost the real truth to him.

Gornt stopped, startled, then continued up the rickety stairs, his sea legs better than the young man's. "Evening," he said. "You're American? Or did you just go to school there, Mr. Choy?"

"Both." Paul Choy smiled. "You know how it is. Watch your head on the ropes—and it's slippery as hell." He turned and began to lead the way back. His real name was Wu Fang Choi and he was his father's seventh son by his third wife, but, when he was born, his father Four Finger Wu had sought a Hong Kong birth certificate for him, an unusual act for a boat dweller, put his mother's maiden name on the birth certificate, added Paul and got one of his cousins to pose as the real father.

"Listen, my son," Four Finger Wu had said, as soon as Paul could understand, "when speaking Haklo aboard my ship, you can call me Father—but never in front of a foreign devil, even in Haklo. All other times I'm 'Uncle,' just one of many uncles. Understand?"

"Yes. But why, Father? Have I done something wrong? I'm sorry if I've offended you."

"You haven't. You're a good boy and you work hard. It's just better for the family for you to have another name."

"But why, Father?"

"When it's time you will be told." Then, when he was twelve and trained and had proved his value, his father had sent him to the States. "Now you're to learn the ways of the foreign devil. You must begin to speak like one, sleep like one, become one outwardly but never forget who you are, who your people are, or that all foreign devils are inferior, hardly human beings, and certainly not fornicating civilized."

Paul Choy laughed to himself. If Americans only knew—from tai-pan to meathead—and British, Iranians, Germans, Russians, every race and color, if they all really knew what even the lousiest coolie thought of them, they'd hemorrhage, he told himself for the millionth time. It's not that all the races of China despise foreigners, it's just that foreigners're just beneath any consideration. Of course we're wrong, he told himself. Foreigners are human and some are civilized—in their way—and far ahead of us technically. But we are better. . . .

"Why the smile?" Gornt asked, ducking under ropes, avoiding rubbish that scattered all the decks.

"Oh, I was just thinking how crazy life is. This time last month I was surfing at Malibu Colony, California. Boy, Aberdeen's something else, isn't it?"

"You mean the smell?"

"Sure."

"Yes it is."

"It's not much better at high tide. No one but me seems to smell the stench!"

"When were you last here?"

"Couple of years back—for ten days—after I graduated, B.A. in business, but I never seem to get used to it." Choy laughed. "New England it ain't!"

"Where did you go to school?"

"Seattle first. Then undergraduate school, University of Washington at Seattle. Then I got a master's at Harvard, Harvard Busi ness School."

Gornt stopped. "Harvard?"

"Sure. I got an assist, a scholarship."

"That's very good. When did you graduate?"

"June last year. It was like getting out of prison! Boy, they really put your ass on the block if you don't keep up your grades. Two years of hell! After I got out I headed for California with a buddy, doing odd jobs here and there to make enough to keep surfing, having ourselves a time after sweating out so much school. Then . . ." Choy grinned. ". . . then a couple of months back Uncle Wu caught up with me and said it's time you went to work so here I am! After all, he paid for my education. My parents died years ago."

"Were you top of your class at Harvard?"

"Third."

"That's very good."

"Thank you. It's not far now, ours is the end junk."

They negotiated a precarious gangway, Gornt watched suspiciously by silent boat dwellers as they crossed from floating home to floating home, the families dozing or cooking or eating or playing mah-jong, some still repairing fishing nets, some children night fishing.

"This bit's slippery, Mr. Gornt." He jumped onto the tacky deck. "We made it! Home sweet home!" He tousled the hair of the sleepy little boy who was the lookout and said in Haklo, which he knew Gornt did not understand, "Keep awake, Little Brother, or the devils will get us."

"Yes, yes I will," the boy piped, his suspicious eyes on Gornt.

Paul Choy led the way below. The old junk smelled of tar and teak, rotting fish and sea salt and a thousand storms. Below decks the midship gangway opened on to the normal single large cabin for'ard that went the breadth of the ship and the length to the bow. An open charcoal fire burned in a careless brick fireplace with a sooty kettle singing over it. Smoke curled upward and found its way to the outside through a rough flue cut in the deck. A few old rattan chairs, tables and tiers of rough bunks lined one side.

Four Finger Wu was alone and he waved at one of the chairs and beamed, "ffeya, good see," he said in halting, hardly understand able English. "Whiskey?"

"Thanks," Gornt said. "Good to see you too."

Paul Choy poured the good Scotch into two semiclean glasses.

"You want water, Mr. Gornt?" he asked.

"No, straight's fine. Not too much please."

"Sure."

Wu accepted his glass and toasted Gornt. "Good see you, heya?"

"Yes. Health!"

They watched Gornt sip his whiskey.

"Good," Gornt said. "Very good whiskey."

Wu beamed again and motioned at Paul. "Him sister son."

"Yes."

"Good school—Golden Country."

"Yes. Yes, he told me. You should be very proud."

"Wat?"

Paul Choy translated for the old man. "Ah thank, thank you. He talk good, heya?"

"Yes." Gornt smiled. "Very good."

"Ah, good never mind. Smoke?"

"Thank you." They watched Gornt take a cigarette. Then Wu took one and Paul Choy lit both of them. Another silence.

"Good with old frien'?"

"Yes. And you?"

"Good." Another silence. "Him sister son," the old seaman said again and saw Gornt nod and say nothing, waiting. It pleased him that Gornt just sat there, waiting patiently for him to come to the point as a civilized person should.

Some of these pink devils are learning at long last. Yes, but some have learned too fornicating well—the tai-pan for instance, him with those cold, ugly blue fish-eyes that most foreign devils have, that stare at you like a dead shark—the one who can even speak a little Haklo dialect. Yes, the tai-pan's too cunning and too civilized, but then he's had generations before him and his ancestors had the Evil Eye before him. Yes, but old Devil Green Eyes, the first of his line, who made a pact with my ancestor the great sea warlord, Wu Fang Choi and his son, Wu Kwok, and kept it, and saw that his sons kept it—and their sons. So this present tai-pan must be considered an old friend even though he's the most deadly of the line.

The old man suppressed a shudder and hawked and spat to scare away the evil spit god that lurked in all men's throats. He studied Gornt. Eeeee, he told himself, it must be vile to have to look at that pink face in every mirror—all that face hair like a monkey and a pallid white toad's belly skin elsewhere! Ugh!

He put a smile on his face to cover his embarrassment and tried to read Gornt's face, what was beneath it, but he could not. Never mind, he told himself gleefully, that's why all the time and money's been spent to prepare Number Seven Son—he'll know. .

"Maybe ask favor?" he said tentatively.

The beams of the ship creaked pleasantly as she wallowed at her moorings.

"Yes. What favor, old friend?"

"Sister son—time go work—give job?" He saw astonishment on Gornt's face and this annoyed him but he hid it. " "Splain," he said in English then added to Paul Choy in guttural Haklo, "Explain to this Eater of Turtle Shit what I want. Just as I told you."

"My uncle apologizes that he can't speak directly to you so he's asked me to explain, Mr. Gornt," Paul Choy said politely. "He wants to ask if you'd give me a job—as a sort of trainee—in your airplane and shipping division."

Gornt sipped his whiskey. "Why those, Mr. Choy?"

"My uncle has substantial shipping interests, as you know, and he wants me to modernize his operation. I can give you chapter and verse on my background, if you'd consider me, sir—my second year at Harvard was directed to those areas—my major interest was transportation of all types. I'd been accepted in the International Division of the Bank of Ohio before my uncle jer—pulled me back." Paul Choy hesitated. "Anyway that's what he asks."

"What dialects do you speak, other than Haklo?"

"Mandarin."

"How many characters can you write?"

"About four thousand."

"Can you take shorthand?"

"Speedwriting only, sir. I can type about eighty words a minute but not clean."

"Wat?" Wu asked.

Gornt watched Paul Choy as the young man translated what had been said for his uncle, weighing him—and Four Finger Wu. Then he said, "What sort of trainee do you want to be?"

"He wants me to learn all there is to know about running shipping and airlines, the broking and freighting business also, the practical operation, and of course to be a profitable cog for you in your machine. Maybe my Yankee expertise, theoretical expertise, could help you somehow. I'm twenty-six. I've a master's. I'm into all the new computer theory. Of course I can program one. At Harvard I backgrounded in conglomerates, cash flows."

"And if you don't perform, or there's, how would you put it, a personality conflict?"

The young man said firmly, "There won't be, Mr. Gornt—leastways I'll work my can off to prevent that."

"Wat? What did he say? Exactly?" Four Fingers asked sharply in Haklo, noticing a change in inflection, his eyes and ears highly tuned.

His son explained, exactly.

"Good," Wu said, his voice a rasp. "Tell him exactly, if you don't do all your tasks to his satisfaction you'll be cast out of the family and my wrath will waste your days."

Paul Choy hesitated, hiding his shock, all his American training screaming to tell his father to go screw, that he was a Harvard graduate, that he was an American and had an American passport that he 'd earned, whatever goddamn sampan or goddamn family he came from. But he kept his eyes averted and his anger off his face.

Don't be ungrateful, he ordered himself. You're not American, truly American. You're Chinese, and the head of your family has the right to rule. But for him you could be running a floating cathouse here in Aberdeen.

Paul Choy sighed. He knew that he was more fortunate than his eleven brothers. Four were junk captains here in Aberdeen, one lived in Bangkok and plied the Mekong River, one had a ferryboat in Singapore, another ran an import/export shipwright business in Indonesia, two had been lost at sea, one brother was in England— doing what he didn't know—and the last, the eldest, ruled the dozen feeder sampans in Aberdeen Harbor that were floating kitchens— and also three pleasure boats and eight ladies of the night.

After a pause Gornt asked, "What did he say? Exactly?"

Paul Choy hesitated, then decided to tell him, exactly.

"Thank you for being honest with me, Mr. Choy. That was wise. You're a very impressive young man," Gornt said. "I understand perfectly." Now for the first time since Wu had asked the original question he turned his eyes to the old seaman and smiled. "Of course. Glad to give nephew job."

Wu beamed and Paul Choy tried to keep the relief off his face.

"I won't let you down, Mr. Gornt."

"Yes, I know you won't."

Wu motioned at the bottle. "Whiskey?"

"No thank you. This is fine," Gornt said.

"When start job?"

Gornt looked at Paul Choy. "When would you like to start?"

"Tomorrow? Whenever's good for you, sir."

"Tomorrow. Wednesday."

"Gee, thanks. Eight o'clock?"

"Nine, eight thereafter. A six-day week of course. You'll have long hours and I'll push you. It'll be up to you how much you can learn and how fast I can increase your responsibilities."

"Thanks, Mr. Gornt." Happily Paul Choy translated for his father. Wu sipped his whiskey without hurrying. "What money?" he asked.

Gornt hesitated. He knew it had to be just the right sum, not too much, not too little, to give Paul Choy face and his uncle face. "1,000 HK a month for the first three months, then I'll review."

The young man kept his gloom off his face. That was hardly 200 U.S. but he translated it into Haklo.

"Maybe 2,000?" Wu said, hiding his pleasure. A thousand was the perfect figure but he was bargaining merely to give the foreign devil face and his son face.

"If he's to be trained, many valuable managers will have to take time away from their other duties," Gomt said politely. "It's expensive to train anyone."

"Much money Golden Mountain," Wu said firmly. "Two?"

"1,000 first month, 1,250 next two months?"

Wu frowned and added, "Month three, 1,500?"

"Very well. Months three and four at 1,500. And I'll review his salary after four months. And Paul Choy guarantees to work for Rothwell-Gornt for at least two years."

"Wat?"

Paul Choy translated again. Shit, he was thinking, how'm I going to vacation in the States on 50 bucks a week, even 60. Shit! And where the hell'm I gonna live? On a goddamn sampan? Then he heard Gornt say something and his brain twisted.

"Sir?"

"I said because you've been so honest with me, we'll give you free accommodation in one of our company houses—The Gables. That's where we put all our managerial trainees who come out from England. If you're going to be part of a foreign devil hong then you'd better mix with its future leaders."

"Yes sir!" Paul Choy could not stop the beam. "Yes sir, thank you sir."

Four Finger Wu asked something in Haklo.

"He wants to know where's the house, sir?"

"It's on the Peak. It's really very nice, Mr. Choy. I'm sure you'll be more than satisfied."

"You can bet your . . . yes sir."

"Tomorrow night be prepared to move in."

"Yes sir."

After Wu had understood what Gornt had said, he nodded his agreement. "All agree. Two year then see. Maybe more, heya?"

"Yes."

"Good. Thank old frien'." Then in Haklo, "Now ask him what you wanted to know . . . about the bank."

Gornt was getting up to go but Paul Choy said, "There's something else my uncle wanted to ask you, sir, if you can spare the time."

"Of course." Gornt settled back in his chair and Paul Choy noticed that the man seemed sharper now, more on guard.

"My uncle'd like to ask your opinion about the run on the Aberdeen branch of the Ho-Pak Bank today."

Gornt stared back at him, his eyes steady. "What about it?"

"There're all sorts of rumors," Paul Choy said. "My uncle's got a lot of money there, so've most of his friends. A run on that bank'd be real bad news."

"I think it would be a good idea to get his money out," Gornt said, delighted with the unexpected opportunity to feed the flames.

"Jesus," Paul Choy muttered, aghast. He had been gauging Gornt very carefully and he had noticed sudden tension and now equally sudden pleasure which surprised him. He pondered a moment, then decided to change tactics and probe. "He wanted to know if you were selling short."

Gornt said wryly, "He or you, Mr. Choy?"

"Both of us, sir. He's got quite a portfolio of stocks which he wants me to manage eventually," the young man said, which was a complete exaggeration. "I was explaining the mechanics of modern banking and the stock market to him—how it ticks and how

Hong Kong's different from Stateside. He gets the message very fast, sir." Another exaggeration. Paul Choy had found it impossible to break through his father's prejudices. "He asks if he should sell short?"

"Yes. I think he should. There have been lots of rumors that Ho-Pak's overextended—borrowing short and cheap, lending long and expensive, mostly on property, the classic way any bank would get into serious difficulties. For safety he should get all his money out and sell short."

"Next question, sir: Will Blacs, or the Victoria Bank do a bailout?"

With an effort Gornt kept his face impassive. The old junk dipped slightly as waves from another chugging past lapped her sides. "Why should other banks do that?"

I'm trapped, Gornt was thinking, aghast. I can't tell the truth to them—there is no telling who else will get the information. At the same time, I daren't not tell the old bastard and his god-cursed whelp. He's asking for the return of the favor and I have to pay, that's a matter of face.

Paul Choy leaned forward in his chair, his excitement showing. "My theory's that if there's a real run on the Ho-Pak the others won't let it crash—not like the East India and Canton Bank disaster last year because it'd create shock waves that the market, the big operators in the market, wouldn't like. Everyone's waiting for a boom, and I bet the biggies here won't let a catastrophe wreck that chance. Since Blacs and the Victoria're the top bananas it figures they'd be the ones to do a bail-out."

"What's your point, Mr. Choy?"

"If someone knew in advance when Ho-Pak stock'd bottom out and either bank, or both, were launching a bail-out operation, that person could make a fortune."

Gornt was trying to decide what to do but he was tired now and not as sharp as he should be. That accident must have taken more out of me than I thought, he told himself. Was it Dunross? Was that bastard trying to even the score, repay me for the Christmas night or the Pacific Orient victory or fifty other victories—perhaps even the old Macao sore.

Gornt felt a sudden glow as he remembered the white hot thrill he had felt watching the road race, knowing that any moment the tai-pan's engine would seize up—watching the cars howl past lap after lap, and then Dunross, the leader, not coming in his turn— then waiting and hoping and then the news that he had spun out at Melco Hairpin in a metal screaming crash when his engine went. Waiting again, his stomach churning. Then the news that the whole racing car had exploded in a ball of fire but Dunross had scrambled out unscathed. He was both very sorry and very glad.

He didn't want Dunross dead. He wanted him alive and destroyed, alive to realize it.

He chuckled to himself. Oh it wasn't me who pressed the button that put that ploy into operation. Of course I did nudge young Donald Nikklin a little and suggest all sorts of ways and means that a little h 'eung you in the right hands . . .

His eyes saw Paul Choy and the old seaman waiting, watching him, and all of his good humor vanished. He pushed away his vagrant thoughts and concentrated.

"Yes, you're right of course, Mr. Choy. But your premise is wrong. Of course this is all theoretical, the Ho-Pak hasn't failed yet. Perhaps it won't. But there's no reason why any bank should do what you suggest, it never has in the past. Each bank stands or falls on its own merits, that's the joy of our free enterprise system. Such a scheme as you propose would set a dangerous precedent. It would certainly be impossible to prop up every bank that was mismanaged. Neither bank needs the Ho-Pak, Mr. Choy. Both have more than enough customers of their own. Neither has ever acquired other banking interests here and I doubt whether either would ever need to."

Horseshit, Paul Choy was thinking. A bank's committed to growth like any other business and Blacs and the Victoria are the mpst rapacious of all—except Struan's and Rothwell-Gornt. Shit, and Asian Properties and all the other hongs.

"I'm sure you're right, sir. But my uncle Wu'd appreciate it if you heard anything, one way or another."

He turned to his father and said in Haklo, "I'm finished now, Honored Uncle. This barbarian agrees the bank may be in trouble."

Wu's face lost color. "Eh? How bad?"

"I'll be the first in line tomorrow. You should take all your money out quickly."

"Ayeeyah! By all the gods!" Wu said, his voice raw, "I'll personally slit Banker Kwang's throat if I lose a single fornicating cash piece, even though he's my nephew!"

Paul Choy stared at him. "He is?"

"Banks are just fornicating inventions of foreign devils to steal honest people's wealth," Wu raged. "I'll get back every copper cash or his blood will flow! Tell me what he said about the bank!"

"Please be patient, Honored Uncle. It is polite, according to barbarian custom, not to keep this barbarian waiting."

Wu bottled his rage and said to Gornt in his execrable pidgin, "Bank bad, heya? Thank tell true. Bank bad custom, heya?"

"Sometimes," Gornt said cautiously.

Four Finger Wu unknotted his bony fists and forced calmness. "Thank for favor … yes … also want like sister son say heya?"

"Sorry, I don't understand. What does your uncle mean, Mr. Choy?"

After chatting with his father a moment for appearances, the young man said, "My uncle would consider it a real favor if he could hear privately, in advance, of any raid, takeover attempt or bail-out —of course it'd be kept completely confidential."

Wu nodded, only his mouth smiling now. "Yes. Favor." He put out his hand and shook with Gornt in friendly style, knowing that barbarians liked the custom though he found it uncivilized and distasteful, and contrary to correct manners from time immemorial. But he wanted his son trained quickly and it had to be with Second Great Company and he needed Gornt's information. He understood the importance of advance knowledge. Eeeee, he thought, without my friends in the Marine Police forces of Asia my fleets would be powerless.

"Go ashore with him, Nephew. See him into a taxi then wait for me. Fetch Two Hatchet Tok and wait for me, there, by the taxi stand."

He thanked Gornt again, then followed them to the deck and watched them go. His ferry sampan was waiting and he saw them get into it and head for the shore.

It was a good night and he tasted the wind. There was moisture on it. Rain? At once he studied the stars and the night sky, all his years of experience concentrating. Rain would come only with storm. Storm could mean typhoon. It was late in the season for summer rains but rains could come late and be sudden and very heavy and typhoon as late as November, as early as May, and if the gods willed, any season of the year.

We could use rain, he thought. But not typhoon.

He shuddered. Now we're almost into Ninth Month.

Ninth Month had bad memories for him. Over the years of his life, typhoon had savaged him nineteen times in that month, seven times since his father had died in 1937 and he had become Head of the House of the Seaborne Wu and Captain of the Fleets.

Of these seven times the first was that year. Winds of 115 knots tore out of the north/northwest and sank one whole fleet of a hundred junks in the Pearl River Estuary. Over a thousand drowned that time—his eldest son with all his family. In '49 when he had ordered all his Pearl River-based armada to flee the Communist Mainland and settle permanently into Hong Kong waters, he had been caught at sea and sunk along with ninety junks and three hundred sampans. He and his family were saved but he had lost 817 of his people. Those winds came out of the east. Twelve years ago from the east/northeast again and seventy junks lost. Ten years ago Typhoon Susan with her eighty-knot gales from the northeast, veering to east/southeast, had decimated his Taiwan-based fleet and cost another five hundred lives there, and another two hundred as far south as Singapore and another son with all his family. Typhoon Gloria in '57, one-hundred-knot gales, another multitude drowned. Last year Typhoon Wanda came and wrecked Aberdeen and most of the Haklo sea villages in the New Territories. Those winds came from the north/northwest and backed to northwest then veered south.

Wu knew the winds well and the number of the days well. September second, eighth, second again, eighteenth, twenty-second, tenth, and Typhoon Wanda first day. Yes, he thought, and those numbers add up to sixty-three, which is divisible by the magic number three, which then makes twenty-one which is three again. Will typhoon come on the third day of the Ninth Month this year? It never has before, never in all memory, but will it this year? Sixty-three is also nine. Will it come on the ninth day?

He tasted the wind again. There was more moisture in it. Rain was coming. The wind had freshened slightly. It came from north/ northeast now.

The old seaman hawked and spat. Joss! If it's the third or ninth or second it's joss never mind. The only certain thing is that typhoon will come from some quarter or other and it will come in the Ninth Month—or this month which is equally bad.

He was watching the sampan now and he could see his son sitting amidships, alongside the barbarian, and he wondered how far he could trust him. The lad's smart and knows the foreign devil ways very well, he thought, filled with pride. Yes, but how far has he been converted to their evils? I'll soon find out never mind. Once the lad's part of the chain he'll be obedient. Or dead. In the past the House of Wu always traded in opium with or for the Noble House, and sometimes for ourselves. Once opium was honorable.

It still is for some. Me, Smuggler Mo, White Powder Lee, ah, what about them? Should we join into a Brotherhood, or not?

But the White Powders? Are they so different? Aren't they just stronger opium—like spirit is to beer?

What's the trading difference between the White Powders and salt? None. Except that now stupid foreign devil law says one's contraband and the other isn't! Ayeeyah, up to twenty-odd years ago when the barbarians lost their fornicating war to the fiends from the Eastern Sea, the government monopolized the trade here.

Wasn't Hong Kong trade with China built on opium, greased only by opium grown in barbarian India?

But now that they've destroyed their own producing fields, they're trying to pretend the trade never happened, that it's immoral and a terrible crime worth twenty years in prison!

Ayeeyah, how can a civilized person understand a barbarian?

Disgustedly he went below.

Eeeee, he thought wearily. This has been a difficult day. First John Chen vanishes. Then those two Cantonese dogmeat fornicaters are caught at the airport and my shipment of guns is stolen by the fornicating police. Then this afternoon the tai-pan's letter arrived by hand: "Greetings Honored Old Friend. On reflection I suggest you put Number Seven Son with the enemy—better for him, better for us. Ask Black Beard to see you tonight. Telephone me afterwards." It was signed with the tai-pan's chop and "Old Friend."

"Old Friend" to a Chinese was a particular person or company who had done you an extreme favor in the past, or someone in business who had proved trustworthy and profitable over the years. Sometimes the years went over generations.

Yes, Wu thought, this tai-pan's an old friend. It was he who had suggested the birth certificate and the new name for his Seventh Son, who suggested sending him to the Golden Country and had smoothed the waters there and the waters into the great university, and had watched over him there without his knowledge—the subterfuge solving his dilemma of how to have one of his sons trained in America without the taint of the opium connection.

What fools barbarians are! Yes, but even so, this tai-pan is not. He's truly an old friend—and so is the Noble House.

Wu remembered all the profits he and his family had made secretly over the generations, with or without the help of the Noble House, in peace and war, trading where barbarian ships could not: contraband, gold, gasoline, opium, rubber, machinery, medical drugs, anything and everything in short supply. Even people, helping them escape from the Mainland or to the Mainland, their passage money considerable. With and without but mostly with the assistance of the Noble House, with this tai-pan and before him Old Hawk Nose, his old cousin, and before him, Mad Dog, his father, and before him the cousin's father, the Wu clan had prospered.

Now Four Finger Wu had 6 percent of the Noble House, purchased over the years and hidden with their help in a maze of nominees but still in his sole control, the largest share of their gold transmittal business, along with heavy investments here, in Macao, Singapore and Indonesia and in property, shipping, banking.

Banking, he thought grimly. I'll cut my nephew's throat after I've fed him his Secret Sack if I lose one copper cash!

He was below now and he went into the seamy, littered main cabin where he and his wife slept. She was in the big straw-filled bunk and she turned over in half-sleep. "Are you finished now? Are you coming to bed?"

"No. Go to sleep," he said kindly. "I've work to do."

Obediently she did as she was told. She was his tai-tai, his chief wife, and they had been married for forty-seven years.

He took off his clothes and changed. He put on a clean white shirt and clean socks and shoes, and the creases of his gray trousers were sharp. He closed the cabin door quietly behind him and came nimbly on deck feeling very uncomfortable and tied in by the clothes. "I'll be back before dawn, Fourth Grandson," he said.

"Yes, Grandfather."

"You stay awake now!"

"Yes, Grandfather."

He cuffed the boy gently then went across the gangways and stopped at the third junk.

"Goodweather Poon?" he called out.

"Yes . . . yes?" the sleepy voice said. The old man was curled up on old sacking, dozing.

"Assemble all the captains. I'll be back within two hours."

Poon was immediately alert. "We sail?" he asked.

"No. I'll be back in two hours. Assemble the captains!"

Wu continued on his way and was bowed into his personal ferry sampan. He peered at the shore. His son was standing beside his big black Rolls with the good luck number plate—the single number 8— that he had purchased for 150,000 HK in the government auction, his uniformed chauffeur and his bodyguard, Two Hatchet Tok, waiting deferentially beside him. As always he felt pleasure seeing his great machine and this overrode his growing concern. Of course, he was not the only dweller in the sea villages who owned a Rolls. But, by custom, his was always the largest and the newest. 8, boat, was the luckiest number because it rhymed wiihfaat which meant "expanding prosperity."

He felt the wind shift a point and his anxiety increased. Eeeee, this has been a bad day but tomorrow will be worse.

Has that lump of dogmeat John Chen escaped to the Golden Country or is he truly kidnapped? Without that piece of dung I'm still the tai-pan's running dog. I'm tired of being a running dog. The 100,000 reward for John Chen is money well invested. I'd pay twelve times that for John Chen and his fornicating coin. Thank all gods I put spies in Noble House Chen's household.

He stabbed his hand shoreward. "Be quick, old man," he ordered the boatman, his face grim. "I've a lot to do before dawn!"

19

2:23 P.M. :

The day was hot and very humid, the sky sultry, clouds beginning a buildup. Since the opening this morning there had been no letup in the milling, noisy, sweating crowds inside and outside the small Aberdeen branch of the Ho-Pak Bank.

"I've no more money to pay out, Honorable Sung," the frightened teller whispered, sweat marking her neat chong-sam.

"How much do you need?"

"$7,457 for customer Tok-sing but there must be fifty more people waiting."

"Go back to your window," the equally nervous manager replied. "Delay. Pretend to check the account further—Head Office swore another consignment left their office an hour ago . . . perhaps the traffic . . . Go back to your window, Miss Pang." Hastily he shut the door of his office after her and, sweating, once more got on the phone. "The Honorable Richard Kwang please. Hurry. . . ."

Since the bank had opened promptly at ten o'clock, four or five hundred people had squirmed their way up to one of the three windows and demanded their money in full and their savings in full and then, blessing their joss, had shoved and pushed their way out into the world again.

Those with safety deposit boxes had demanded access. One by one, accompanied by an official, they had gone below to the vault, ecstatic or faint with relief. There the official had used his key and the client his key and then the official had left. Alone in the musty air the sweating client had blessed the gods that his joss had allowed him to be one of the lucky ones. Then his shaking hands had scooped the securities or cash or bullion or jewels and all the other secret things into a briefcase or suitcase or paper bag—or stuffed them into bulging pockets, already full with bank notes. Then, suddenly frightened to have so much wealth, so open and vulnerable, all the wealth of their individual world, their happiness had evaporated and they had slunk away to let another take their place, equally nervous, and, initially, equally ecstatic.

The line had started to form long before dawn. Four Finger Wu's people took the first thirty places. This news had rushed around the harbor, so others had joined instantly, then others, then everyone with any account whatsoever as the news spread, swelling the throng. By ten, the nervous, anxious gathering was of riot proportions. Now a few uniformed police were strolling among them, silent and watchful, their presence calming. More came as the day grew, their numbers quietly and carefully orchestrated by East Aberdeen police station. By noon a couple of Black Maria police vans were in one of the nearby alleys with a specially trained riot platoon in support. And European officers.

Most of the crowd were simple fisherfolk and locals, Haklos and Cantonese. Perhaps one in ten was born in Hong Kong. The rest were recent migrants from the People's Republic of China, the Middle Kingdom, as they called their land. They had poured into the Hong Kong sanctuary fleeing the Communists or fleeing the Nationalists, or famine, or just simple poverty as their forebears had done for more than a century. Ninety-eight of every hundred of Hong Kong's population were Chinese and this proportion had been the same ever since the Colony began.

Each person who came out of the bank told anyone who asked that they had been paid in full. Even so, the others who waited were sick with apprehension. All were remembering the crash of last year, and a lifetime in their home villages of other crashes and failures, frauds, rapacious money lenders, embezzlements and corruptions and how easy it was for a life's savings to evaporate through no fault of your own, whatever the government, Communist, Nationalist or warlord. For four thousand years it had always been the same.

And all loathed their dependence on banks—but they had to put their cash somewhere safe, life being what it was and robbers as plentiful as fleas. Dew neh loh moh on all banks, most were thinking, they're inventions of the devil—of the foreign devils! Yes. Before foreign devils came to the Middle Kingdom there was no paper money, just real money, silver or gold or copper—mostly silver and copper—that they could feel and hide, that would never evaporate. Not like filthy paper. Rats can eat paper, and men. Paper money's another invention of the foreign devil. Before they came to the Middle Kingdom life was good. Now? Dew neh loh moh on all foreign devils!

At eight o'clock this morning, the anxious bank manager had called Richard Kwang. "But Honored Lord, there must be five hundred people already and the queue goes from here all along the waterfront."

"Never mind, Honorable Sung! Pay those who want their cash. Don't worry! Just talk to them, they're mostly just superstitious fisherfolk. Talk them out of withdrawing. But those who insist— pay! The Ho-Pak's as strong as Blacs or the Victoria! It's a malicious lie that we're overstretched! Pay! Check their savings books carefully and don't hurry with each client. Be methodical."

So the bank manager and the tellers had tried to persuade their clients that there was really no need for any anxiety, that false rumors were being spread by malicious people.

"Of course you can have your money, but don't you think . . ."

"Ayeeyah, give her the money," the next in line said irritably, "she wants her money, I want mine, and there's my wife's brother behind me who wants his and my auntie's somewhere outside. Ayeeyah, I haven't got all day! I've got to put to sea. With this wind there'll be a storm in a few days and I have to make a catch. . . ."

And the bank had begun to pay out. In full.

Like all banks, the Ho-Pak used its deposits to service loans to others—all sorts of loans. In Hong Kong there were few regulations and few laws. Some banks lent as much as 80 percent of their cash assets because they were sure their clients would never require back all their money at the same time.

Except today at Aberdeen. But, fortunately, this was only one of eighteen branches throughout the Colony. The Ho-Pak was not yet threatened.

Three times during the day the manager had had to call for extra cash from Head Office in Central. And twice for advice.

At one minute past ten this morning Four Finger Wu was grimly sitting beside the manager's desk with Paul Choy, and Two Hatchet Tok standing behind him.

"You want to close all your Ho-Pak accounts?" Mr. Sung gasped shakily.

"Yes. Now," Wu said and Paul Choy nodded.

The manager said weakly, "But we haven't en—"

Wu hissed, "I want all my money now. Cash or bullion. Now! Don't you understand?"

Mr. Sung winced. He dialed Richard Kwang and explained quickly. "Yes, yes, Lord." He offered the phone. "Honorable Kwang wants to speak to you, Honorable Wu."

But no amount of persuasion would sway the old seaman. "No. Now. My money, and the money of my people now. And also from those other accounts, the, er, those special ones wherever they are."

"But there isn't that amount of cash in that branch, Honored Uncle," Richard Kwang said soothingly. "I'd be glad to give you a cashier's check."

Wu exploded. "I don't want checks I want money! Don't you understand? Money!" He did not understand what a cashier's check was so the frightened Mr. Sung began to explain. Paul Choy brightened. "That'll be all right, Honored Uncle," he said. "A cashier's check's . . ."

The old man roared, "How can a piece of paper be like cash money? I want money, my money now!"

"Please let me talk to the Honorable Kwang, Great Uncle," Paul Choy said placatingly, understanding the dilemma. "Perhaps I can help."

Wu nodded sourly. "All right, talk, but get my cash money."

Paul Choy introduced himself on the telephone and said, "Perhaps it'd be easier in English, sir." He talked a few moments then nodded, satisfied. "Just a moment, sir." Then in Haklo, "Great Uncle," he said, explaining, "the Honorable Kwang will give you payment in full in government securities, gold or silver at his Head Office, and a piece of paper which you can take to Blacs, or the Victoria for the remainder. But, if I may suggest, because you've no safe to put all that bullion in, perhaps you'll accept Honorable Kwang's cashier's check—with which I can open accounts at either bank for you. Immediately."

"Banks! Banks are foreign devil lobster-pot traps for civilized lobsters!"

It had taken Paul Choy half an hour to convince him. Then they had gone to the Ho-Pak's Head Office but Wu had left Two Hatchet

Tok with the quaking Mr. Sung. "You stay here, Tok. If I don't get my money you will take it out of this branch!"

"Yes, Lord."

So they had gone to Central and by noon Four Finger Wu had new accounts, half at Blacs, half at the Victoria. Paul Choy had been staggered by the number of separate accounts that had had to be closed and opened afresh. And the amount of cash.

Twenty-odd million HK.

In spite of all his pleading and explaining the old seaman had refused to invest some of his money in selling Ho-Pak short, saying that that was a game for quai loh thieves. So Paul had slipped away and gone to every stockbroker he could find, trying to sell short on his own account. "But, my dear fellow, you've no credit. Of course, if you'll give me your uncle's chop, or assurance in writing, of course. . . ."

He discovered that stockbrokering firms were European, almost exclusively, the vast majority British. Not one was Chinese. All the seats on the stock exchange were European held, again the vast majority British. "That just doesn't seem right, Mr. Smith," Paul Choy said.

"Oh, I'm afraid our locals, Mr., Mr. … Mr. Chee was it?"

"Choy, Paul Choy."

"Ah yes. I'm afraid all our locals aren't really interested in complicated, modern practices like broking and stock markets—of course you know our locals are all immigrants? When we came here Hong Kong was just a barren rock."

"Yes. But I'm interested, Mr. Smith. In the States a stockbr—"

"Ah yes, America! I'm sure they do things differently in America, Mr. Chee. Now if you'll excuse me … good afternoon."

Seething, Paul Choy had gone from broker to broker but it was always the same. No one would back him without his father's chop.

Now he sat on a bench in Memorial Square near the Law Courts and the Struan's highrise and Rothwell-Gornt's, and looked out at the harbor, and thought. Then he went to the Law Court library and talked his way past the pedantic librarian. "I'm from Sims, Dawson and Dick," he said airily. "I'm their new attorney from the States. They want some quick information on stock markets and stock-broking."

"Government regulations, sir?" the elderly Eurasian asked helpfully.

"Yes."

"There aren't any, sir."

"Eh?"

"Well, practically none." The librarian went to the shelves. The requisite section was just a few paragraphs in a giant tome.

Paul Choy gaped at him. "This's all of it?"

"Yes sir."

Paul Choy's head reeled. "But then it's wide open, the market's wide open!"

The librarian was gently amused. "Yes, compared to London, or New York, As to stockbroking, well, anyone can set up as a broker, sir, providing someone wants them to sell shares and there's someone who wants them to buy and both are prepared to pay commission. The problem is that the, er, the existing firms control the market completely."

"How do you bust this monopoly?"

"Oh I wouldn't want to, sir. We're really for the status quo in Hong Kong."

"How do you break in then? Get a piece of the action?"

"I doubt if you could, sir. The, the British control everything very carefully," he said delicately.

"That doesn't seem right."

The elderly man shook his head and smiled gently. He steepled his fingers, liking the young Chinese he saw in front of him, envying him his purity—and his American education. "I presume you want to play the market on your own account?" he asked softly.

"Yeah . . ." Paul Choy tried to cover his mistake and stuttered, "At least . . . Dawson said for me—"

"Come now, Mr. Choy, you're not from Sims, Dawson and Dick," he said, chiding him politely. "If they'd hired an American —an unheard-of innovation—oh I would have heard of it along with a hundred others, long before you even arrived here. You must be Mr. Paul Choy, the great Wu Sang Fang's nephew, who has just come back from Harvard in America."

Paul Choy gaped at him. "How'd you know?" "This is Hong Kong, Mr. Choy. It's a very tiny place. We have to know what's going on. That's how we survive. You do want to play the market?" "Yes. Mr>?"

"Manuel Perriera. I'm Portuguese from Macao." The librarian took out a fountain pen and wrote in beautiful copybook writing an introduction on the back of one of his visiting cards. "Here. Ishwar Soorjani's an old friend. His place of business is just off the Nathan Road in Kowloon. He's a Parsee from India and deals in money and foreign exchange and buys and sells stocks from time to time. He might help you—but remember if he loans money, or credit, it will be expensive so you should not make any mistakes."

"Gee thanks, Mr. Perriera." Paul Choy stuck out his hand. Surprised, Perriera took it. Paul Choy shook warmly then began to rush off but stopped. "Say, Mr. Perriera … the stock market. Is there a long shot? Anything? Any way to get a piece of the action?"

Manuel Perriera had silver-gray hair and long, beautiful hands, and pronounced Chinese features. He considered the youth in front of him. Then he said softly, "There's nothing to prevent you from forming a company to set up your own stock market, a Chinese stock market. That's quite within Hong Kong law—or lack of it." The old eyes glittered. "All you need is money, contacts, knowledge and telephones. . . ."

"My money please," the old amah whispered hoarsely. "Here's my savings book." Her face was flushed from the heat within the Ho-Pak branch at Aberdeen. It was ten minutes to three now and she had been waiting since dawn. Sweat streaked her old white blouse and black pants. A long graying ratty queue hung down her back. "Ayeeyah, don't shove," she called out to those behind her. "You'll get your turn soon!"

Wearily the young teller took the book and glanced again at the clock. Ayeeyah! Thank all gods we close at three, she thought, and wondered anxiously through her grinding headache how they were going to close the doors with so many irritable people crammed in front of the grilles, pressed forward by those outside.

The amount in the savings book was 323.42 HK. Following Mr. Sung's instructions to take time and be accurate she went to the files trying to shut her ears to the stream of impatient, muttered obscenities that had gone on for hours. She made sure the amount was correct, then checked the clock again as she came back to her high stool and unlocked her cash drawer and opened it '"'^ere was not enough money in her till so she locked the drawer in and went to the manager's office. An undercurrent of rage went through the waiting people. She was a short clumsy woman. Eyes followed her, then went anxiously to the clock and back to her again.

She knocked on his door and closed it after her. "I can't pay Old Ah Tarn," she said helplessly. "I've only 100 HK, I've delayed as much . . ."

Manager Sung wiped the sweat off his upper lip. "It's almost three so make her your last customer, Miss Cho." He took her through a side door to the vault. The safe door was ponderous. She gasped as she saw the empty shelves. At this time of the day usually the shelves were filled with neat stacks of notes and paper tubes of silver, the notes clipped together in their hundreds and thousands and tens of thousands. Sorting the money after closing was the job she liked best, that and touching the sensuous bundles of new, crisp, fresh bills.

"Oh this is terrible, Honorable Sung," she said near to tears. Her thick glasses were misted and her hair askew.

"It's just temporary, just temporary, Miss Cho. Remember what the Honorable Haply wrote in today's Guardian!" He cleared the last shelf, committing his final reserves, cursing the consignment that had not yet arrived. "Here." He gave her 15,000 for show, made her sign for it, and took 15 for each of the other two tellers. Now the vault was empty.

When he came into the main room there was a sudden electric, exciting hush at the apparently large amount of money, cash money.

He gave the money to the other two tellers, then vanished into his office again.

Miss Cho was stacking the money neatly in her drawer, all eyes watching her and the other tellers. One packet of 1,000 she left on the desk. She broke the seal and methodically counted out 320, and three ones and the change, recounted it and slid it across the counter. The old woman stuffed it into a paper bag, and the next in line irritably shoved forward, and thrust his savings book into Miss Cho's face. "Here, by all the gods. I want seven thous—"

At that moment, the three o'clock bell went and Mr. Sung appeared instantly and said in a loud voice, "Sorry, we have to close now. All tellers close your—" The rest of his words were drowned by the angry roar.

"By all gods I've waited since dawn . . ."

"Dew neh loh moh but I've been here eight hours. . . ."

"Ayeeyah, just pay me, you've enough . . ."

"Oh please please please please . . ."

Normally the bank would just have shut its doors and served those within, but this time, obediently, the three frightened tellers locked their tills in the uproar, put up their CLOSED signs and backed away from the outstretched hands.

Suddenly the crowd within the bank became a mob.

Those in front were shoved against the counter as others fought to get into the bank. A girl shrieked as she was slammed against the counter. Hands reached out for the grilles that were more for decoration than protection. Everyone was enraged now. One old seaman who had been next in line reached over to try to jerk the till drawer open. The old amah was jammed in the seething mass of a hundred or more people and she fought to get to one side, her money clasped tightly in her scrawny hands. A young woman lost her footing and was trampled on. She tried to get up but the milling legs defied her so, in desperation, she bit into one leg and got enough respite to scramble up, stockings ripped, chong-sam torn and now in panic. Her panic whipped the mob further then someone shouted, "Kill the motherless whore's son . . ." and the shout was taken up, "Killllllll!"

There was a split second of hesitation, then, as one, they surged forward.

"Stop!"

The word blasted through the atmosphere in English and then in Haklo and then in Cantonese and then in English again.

The silence was sudden and vast.

The uniformed chief inspector stood before them, unarmed and calm, an electric megaphone in his hand. He had come through the back door into an inner office and now he was looking at them.

"It's three o'clock," he said softly in Haklo. "The law says banks close at three o'clock. This bank is now closed. Please turn around and go home! Quietly!"

Another silence, angrier this time, then the beginning of a violent swell and one man muttered sullenly, "What about my fornicating money . . ." and others almost took up the shout but the police officer moved fast, very fast, directly at the man, fearlessly lifted the countertop and went straight at him into the mob. The mob backed off.

"Tomorrow," the police officer said gently, towering over him.

"You'll get all your money tomorrow." The man dropped his eyes, hating the cold blue fish-eyes and the nearness of a foreign devil. Sullenly he moved back a pace.

The policeman looked at the rest of them, into their eyes. "You at the back," he ordered, instantly selecting the man with unerring care, his voice commanding yet with the same quiet confidence, "Turn around and make way for the others."

Obediently the man did as he was ordered. The mob became a crowd again. A moment's hesitation then another turned and began to push for the door. "Dew neh loh moh I haven't got all day, hurry up," he said sourly.

They all began to leave, muttering, furious—but individually, not as a mob. Sung and the tellers wiped the sweat off their brows, then sat trembling behind the safety of the counter.

The chief inspector helped the old amah up. A fleck of blood was at the corner of her mouth. "Are you all right, Old Lady?" he asked in Haklo.

She stared at him without understanding. He repeated it in Cantonese.

"Ah, yes … yes," she said hoarsely, still clasping her paper bag tight against her chest. "Thank you, Honored Lord." She scuttled away into the crowd and vanished. The room emptied. The Englishman went out to the sidewalk after the last person and stood in the doorway, whistling tonelessly as he watched them stream away.

"Sergeant!"

"Yes sir."

"You can dismiss the men now. Have a detail here at nine tomorrow. Put up barriers and let the buggers into the bank just three at a time. Yourself and four men'll be more than enough."

"Yes sir." The sergeant saluted. The chief inspector turned back into the bank. He locked the front door and smiled at Manager Sung. "Rather humid this afternoon, isn't it?" he said in English to give Sung face—all educated Chinese in Hong Kong prided themselves in speaking the international language.

"Yes sir," Sung replied nervously. Normally he liked him and admired this chief inspector greatly. Yes, he thought. But this was the first time he had actually seen a quai loh with the Evil Eye, daring a mob, standing alone like a malevolent god in front of the mob, daring it to move, to give him the opportunity to spit fire and brimstone.

Sung shuddered again. "Thank you, Chief Inspector."

"Let's go into your office and I can take a statement."

"Yes, please." Sung puffed himself up in front of his staff, taking command again. "The rest of you make up your books and tidy up."

He led the way into his office and sat down and beamed. "Tea, Chief Inspector?"

"No thank you." Chief Inspector Donald C. C. Smyth was about five foot ten and well built, fair hair and blue eyes and a taut sunburned face. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and put them on the desk. "These are the accounts of my men. At nine tomorrow, you will close their accounts and pay them. They'll come to the back door."

"Yes of course. I would be honored. But I will lose face if so many valuable accounts leave me. The bank is as sound as it was yesterday, Chief Inspector."

"Of course. Meanwhile tomorrow at nine. In cash please." He handed him some more papers. And four savings books. "I'll take a cashier's check for all of these. Now."

"But Chief Inspector, today was extraordinary. There's no problem with the Ho-Pak. Surely you could . . ."

"Now." Smyth smiled sweetly. "Withdrawal slips are all signed and ready."

Sung glanced at them. All were Chinese names that he knew were nominees of nominees of this man whose nickname was the Snake. The accounts totaled nearly 850,000 HK. And that's just in this branch alone, he thought, very impressed with the Snake's acumen. What about the Victoria and Blacs and all the other branches in Aberdeen?

"Very well," he said wearily. "But I'll be very sorry to see so many accounts leave the bank."

Smyth smiled again. "The whole of the Ho-Pak's not broke yet, is it?"

"Oh no, Chief Inspector," Sung said, shocked. "We have published assets worth a billion HK and cash reserves of many tens of millions. It's just these simple people, a temporary problem of confidence. Did you see Mr. Haply's column in the Guardian?"

"Yes."

"Ah." Sung's face darkened. "Malicious rumors spread by jealous tai-pans and other banks! If Haply claims that, of course it's true."

"Of course! Meanwhile I am a little busy this afternoon."

"Yes. Of course. I'll do it at once. I, er, I see in the paper you've caught one of those evil Werewolves."

"We've a triad suspect, Mr. Sung, just a suspect."

Sung shuddered. "Devils! But you'll catch them all … devils, sending an ear! They must be foreigners. I'll wager they're foreigners never mind. Here, sir, I've made the checks …"

There was a knock on the door. A corporal came in and saluted. "Excuse me, sir, a bank truck's outside. They say they're from Ho-Pak's Head Office."

"Ayeeyah," Sung said, greatly relieved, "and about time. They promised the delivery at two. It's more money."

"How much?" Smyth asked.

"Half a million," the corporal volunteered at once, handing over the manifest. He was a short, bright man with dancing eyes.

"Good," Smyth said. "Well, Mr. Sung, that'll take the pressure off you, won't it."

"Yes. Yes it will." Sung saw the two men looking at him and he said at once, expansively, "If it wasn't for you, and your men … With your permission I'd like to call Mr. Richard Kwang now. I feel sure he would be honored, as I would be, to make a modest contribution to your police benevolent fund as a token of our thanks."

"That's very thoughtful, but it's not necessary, Mr. Sung."

"But I will lose terrible face if you won't accept, Chief Inspector."

"You're very kind," Smyth said, knowing truly that without his presence in the bank and that of his men outside, Sung and the tellers and many others would be dead. "Thank you but that's not necessary." He accepted the cashier's checks and left.

Mr. Sung pleaded with the corporal who, at length, sent for his superior. Divisional Sergeant Mok declined also. "Twenty thousand times," he said.

But Mr. Sung insisted. Wisely. And Richard Kwang was equally delighted and equally honored to approve the unsolicited gift. 20,-000 HK. In immediate cash. "With the bank's great appreciation, Divisional Sergeant Mok."

"Thank you, Honorable Manager Sung," Mok said politely, pocketing it, pleased to be in the Snake's division and totally impressed that 20,000 was the exact fair market figure the Snake had considered their afternoon's work was worth. "I hope your great bank stays solvent and you weather this storm with your usual cleverness. Tomorrow will be orderly, of course. We will be here at nine A.M. promptly for our cash. . . ."

The old amah still sat on the bench on the harbor wall, catching her breath. Her ribs hurt but then they always hurt, she thought wearily. Joss. Her name was Ah Tarn and she began to get up but a youth sauntered up to her and said, "Sit down, Old Woman, I want to talk to you." He was short and squat and twenty-one, his face pitted with smallpox scars. "What's in that bag?"

"What? What bag?"

"The paper bag you clutch to your stinking old rags."

"This? Nothing, Honored Lord. It's just my poor shopping that—"

He sat on the bench beside her and leaned closer and hissed, "Shut up, Old Hag! I saw you come out of the fornicating bank. How much have you got there?"

The old woman held on to the bag desperately, her eyes closed in terror and she gasped, "It's all my savings, Hon—"

He pulled the bag out of her grasp and opened it. "Ayeeyah!" The notes were old and he counted them. "$323!" he said scornfully. "Who are you amah to—a beggar? You haven't been very clever in this life."

"Oh yes, you're right, Lord!" she said, her little black eyes watching him now.

"My h'eungyau's 20 percent," he said and began to count the notes.

"But Honored Sir," she said, her voice whining now, "20 is too high, but I'd be honored if you'd accept 5 with a poor old woman's thanks."

"15."

"6!"

"10 and that's my final offer. I haven't got all day!"

"But sir, you are young and strong, clearly a 489. The strong must protect the old and weak."

"True, true." He thought a moment, wanting to be fair. "Very well, 7 percent."

"Oh how generous you are, sir. Thank you, thank you." Happily she watched him count 22 dollars, then reach into his jeans pocket and count out 61 cents. "Here." He gave her the change and the remainder of her money back.

She thanked him profusely, delighted with the bargain she had made. By all the gods, she thought ecstatically, 7 percent instead of, well, at least 15 would be fair. "Have you also money in the Ho-Pak, Honored Lord?" she asked politely.

"Of course," the youth said importantly as though it were true. "My Brotherhood's account has been there for years. We have …" He doubled the amount he first thought of. ".. . we have over 25,000 in this branch alone."

"Eeeee," the old woman crooned. "To be so rich! The moment I saw you I knew you were 14K … and surely an Honorable 489."

"I'm better than that," the youth said proudly at once, filled with bravado. "I'm . . ." But he stopped, remembering their leader's admonition to be cautious, and so did not say, I'm Kin Sop-ming, Smallpox Kin, and I'm one of the famous Werewolves and there are four of us. "Run along, old woman," he said, tiring of her. "I've more important things to do than talk with you."

She got up and bowed and then her old eyes spotted the man who had been in the line in front of her. The man was Cantonese, like her. He was a rotund shopkeeper she knew who had a poultry street stall in one of Aberdeen's teeming marketplaces. "Yes," she said hoarsely, "but if you want another customer I see an easy one. He was in the queue before me. Over $8,000 he withdrew."

"Oh, where? Where is he?" the youth asked at once.

"For a 15 percent share?"

"7—and that's final. 7!"

"All right. 7. Look, over there!" she whispered. "The fat man, plump as a Mandarin, in the white shirt—the one who's sweating like he's just enjoyed the Clouds and the Rain!"

"I see him." The youth got up and walked quickly away to intercept the man. He caught up with him at the corner. The man froze and bartered for a while, paid 16 percent and hurried off, blessing his own acumen. The youth sauntered back to her.

"Here, Old Woman," he said. "The fornicator had $8,162. 16 percent is . . ."

"$1305.92 and my 7 percent of that is $91.41," she said at once.

He paid her exactly and she agreed to come tomorrow to spot for him.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Ah Su, Lord," she said, giving a false name. "And yours?"

"Mo Wu-fang," he said, using a friend's name.

"Until tomorrow," she said happily. Thanking him again she waddled off, delighted with her day's profit.

His profit had been good too. Now he had over 3,000 in his pockets where this morning he had had only enough for the bus. And it was all windfall for he had come to Aberdeen from Glessing's Point to post another ransom note to Noble House Chen.

"It's for safety," his father, their leader, had said. "To put out a false scent for the fornicating police."

"But it will bring no money," he had said to him and to the others disgustedly. "How can we produce the fornicating son if he's dead and buried? Would you pay off without some proof that he was alive? Of course not! It was a mistake to hit him with the shovel."

"But the fellow was trying to escape!" his brother said.

"True, Younger Brother. But the first blow didn't kill him, only bent his head a little. You should have left it at that!"

"I would have but the evil spirits got into me so I hit him again. I only hit him four times! Eeeee, but these highborn fellows have soft skulls!"

"Yes, you're right," his father had said. He was short and balding with many gold teeth, his name Kin Min-ta, Baldhead Kin. "Dew neh loh moh but it's done so there's no point in remembering it. Joss. It was his own fault for trying to escape! Have you seen the early edition of The Times?"

"No—not yet, Father," he had replied.

"Here, let me read it to you: 'The Chief of all the Police said today that they have arrested a triad who they suspect is one of the Werewolves, the dangerous gang of criminals who kidnapped John Chen. The authorities expect to have the case solved any moment.' "

They all laughed, he, his younger brother, his father and the last member, his very good friend, Dog-eared Chen—Pun Po Chen—for they knew it was all lies. Not one of them was a triad or had triad connections, and none had ever been caught for any crime before, though they had formed their own Brotherhood and his father had, from time to time, run a small gambling syndicate in North Point. It was his father who had proposed the first kidnapping. Eeee, that was very clever, he thought, remembering. And when John Chen had, unfortunately, had himself killed because he stupidly tried to escape, his father had also suggested cutting off the ear and sending it. "We will turn his bad joss into our good. 'Kill one to terrify ten thousand!' Sending the ear will terrify all Hong Kong, make us famous and make us rich!"

Yes, he thought, sitting in the sun at Aberdeen. But we haven't made our riches yet. Didn't I tell father this morning: "I don't mind going all the way to post the letter, Father, that's sensible and what Humphrey Bogart would order. But I still don't think it will bring us any ransom."

"Never mind and listen! I've a new plan worthy of Al Capone himself. We wait a few days. Then we phone Noble House Chen. If we don't get immediate cash, then we snatch the compradore himself! Great Miser Chen himself!"

They had all stared at him in awe.

"Yes, and if you don't think he'll pay up quickly after seeing his son's ear—of course we'll tell him it was his son's ear . . . perhaps we'll even dig up the body and show him, heya?"

Smallpox Kin beamed, recalling how they had all chortled. Oh how they had chortled, holding their bellies, almost rolling on the floor of their tenement apartment.

"Now to business. Dog-eared Chen, we need your advice again."

Dog-eared Chen was a distant cousin of John Chen and worked for him as a manager of one of the multitudinous Chen companies. "Your information about the son was perfect. Perhaps you can supply us with the father's movements too?"

"Of course, Honored Leader, that's easy," Dog-eared Chen had said. "He's a man of habit—and easily frightened. So is his tai-tai —ayeeyah, that mealy-mouthed whore knows which side of the bed she sleeps in! She'll pay up very quickly to get him back. Yes, I'm sure he'll be very cooperative now. But we'll have to ask double what we would settle for because he's an accomplished negotiator. I've worked for the fornicating House of Chen all my working life so I know what a miser he is."

"Excellent. Now, by all the gods, how and when should we kidnap Noble House Chen himself?"

20

4:01 P.M. :

Sir Dunstan Barre was ushered into Richard Kwang's office with the deference he considered his due. The Ho-Pak Building was small and unpretentious, off Ice House Street in Central, and the office was like most Chinese offices, small, cluttered and drab, a place for working and not for show. Most times two or three people would share a single office, running two or three separate businesses there, using the same telephone and same secretary for all. And why not, a wise man would say? A third of the overhead means more profit for the same amount of labor.

But Richard Kwang did not share his office. He knew it did not please his quai loh customers—and the few that he had were important to his bank and to him for face and for the highly sought after peripheral benefits they could bring. Like the possible, oh so important election as a voting member to the super-exclusive Turf Club, or membership in the Hong Kong Golf Club or Cricket Club—or even the Club itself—or any of the other minor though equally exclusive clubs that were tightly controlled by the British tai-pans of great hongs where all the really big business was conducted.

"Hello, Dunstan," he said affably. "How are things going?"

"Fine. And you?"

"Very good. My horse had a great workout this morning."

"Yes. I was at the track myself."

"Oh, I didn't see you!"

"Just popped in for a minute or two. My gelding's got a temperature—we may have to scratch him on Saturday. But Butterscotch Lass was really flying this morning."

"She almost pipped the track record. She'll definitely be trying on Saturday."

Barre chuckled. "I'll check with you just before race time and you can tell me the inside story then! You can never trust trainers and jockeys, can you—yours or mine or anyone's!"

They chatted inconsequentially, then Barre came to the point.

Richard Kwang tried to cover his shock. "Close all your corporate accounts?"

"Yes, old boy. Today. Sorry and all that but my board thinks it wise for the moment, until you weath—"

"But surely you don't think we're in trouble?" Richard Kwang laughed. "Didn't you see Haply's article in the Guardian? '. . . malicious lies spread by certain tai-pans and a certain big bank>'"

"Oh yes, I saw that. More of his poppycock, I*d say. Ridiculous! Spread rumors? Why should anyone do that? Huh, I talked to both Paul Havergill and Southerby this morning and they said Haply better watch out this time if he implies it's them or he'll get a libel suit. That young man deserves a horsewhipping! However … I'd like a cashier's check now—sorry, but you know how boards are."

"Yes, yes I do." Richard Kwang kept his smile on the surface of his face but he hated the big florid man even more than usual. He knew that the board was a rubber stamp for Barre's decisions. "We've no problems. We're a billion-dollar bank. As to the Aberdeen branch, they're just a lot of superstitious locals."

"Yes, I know." Barre watched him. "I heard you had a few problems at your Mong Kok branch this afternoon too, also at Tsim Sha Tsui… at Sha Tin in the New Territories, even, God help us, on Lan Tao." Lan Tao Island was half a dozen miles east of Hong Kong, the biggest island in the whole archipelago of almost three hundred islands that made up the Colony—but almost unpopulated because it was waterless.

"A few customers withdrew their savings," Richard Kwang said with a scoff. "There's no trouble."

But there was trouble. He knew it and he was afraid everyone knew it. At first it was just at Aberdeen. Then, during the day, his other managers had begun to call with ever increasing anxiety. He had eighteen branches throughout the Colony. At four of them, withdrawals were untoward and heavy. At Mong Kok, a bustling hive within the teeming city of Kowloon, a line had formed in early afternoon. Everyone had wanted all their money. It was nothing like the frightening proportions at Aberdeen, but enough to show a clear indication of failing confidence. Richard Kwang could understand that the sea villages would hear about Four Finger Wu's withdrawals quickly, and would rush to follow his lead—but what about Mong Kok? Why there? And why Lan Tao? Why at Tsim Sha Tsui, his most profitable branch, which was almost beside the busy Golden Ferry Terminal where 150,000 persons passed by daily, to and from Hong Kong?

It must be a plot!

Is my enemy and arch-rival Smiler Ching behind it? Is it those fornicators, those jealous fornicators at Blacs or the Victoria?

Is Thin Tube of Dung Havergill masterminding the attack? Or is it Compton Southerby of Blacs—he's always hated me. These filthy quai loh! But why should they attack me? Of course I'm a much better banker than them and they're jealous but my business is with civilized people and hardly touches them. Why? Or has it leaked somehow that against my better judgment, over my objections, my partners who control the bank have been insisting that I borrow short and cheap and lend long and high on property deals, and now, through their stupidity, we are temporarily overextended and cannot sustain a run?

Richard Kwang wanted to shout and scream and tear his hair out. His secret partners were Lando Mata and Tightfist Tung, major shareholders of Macao's gambling and gold syndicate, along with Smuggler Mo, who had helped him form and finance the Ho-Pak ten years ago. "Did you see Old Blind Tung's predictions this morning?" he asked, the smile still on his face.

"No. What'd he say?"

Richard Kwang found the paper and passed it over. "All the portents show we're ready for boom. The lucky eight is everywhere in the heavens and we're in the eighth month, my birthday is the eighth of the eighth month. . . ."

Barre read the column. In spite of his disbelief in soothsayers, he had been too long in Asia to dismiss them totally. His heart quickened. Old Blind Tung had a vast reputation in Hong Kong. "If you believe him we're in for the biggest boom in the history of the world," he said.

"He's usually much more cautious. Ayeeyah, that would be good, heya?"

"Better than good. Meanwhile Richard old boy, let's finish our business, shall we?"

"Certainly. It's all a typhoon in an oyster shell, Dunstan. We're stronger than ever—our stock's hardly a point off." When the market had opened, there had been a mass of small offerings to sell, which, if not reacted to at once would have sent their stock plummeting. Richard Kwang had instantly ordered his brokers to buy and to keep buying. This had stabilized the stock. During the day, to maintain the position, he had had to buy almost five million shares, an unheard of number to be traded in one day. None of his experts could pinpoint who was selling big. There was no reason for a lack of confidence, other than Four Finger Wu's withdrawals. All gods curse that old devil and his fornicating, too smart Harvard-trained nephew! "Why not le—"

The phone rang. " 'Scuse me," then curtly into the phone, "I said no interruptions!"

"It's Mr. Haply from the Guardian, he says it's important," his secretary, his niece, Mary Yok said. "And the tai-pan's secretary called. The Nelson Trading board meeting's brought forward to this afternoon at five o'clock. Mr. Mata called to say he would be there too."

Richard Kwang's heart skipped three beats. Why? he asked himself, aghast. Dew neh loh moh it was supposed to be postponed to next week. Oh ko why? Then quickly he put aside that question to consider Haply. He decided that to answer now in front of Barre was too dangerous. "I'll call him back in a few minutes." He smiled at the red-faced man in front of him. "Leave everything for a day or two, Dunstan, we've no problems."

"Can't, old boy. Sorry. There was a special meeting, have to settle it today. The board insisted."

"We've been generous in the past—you've forty million of our money unsecured now—we're joint venturing another seventy million with you on your new building program."

"Yes, indeed you are, Richard, and your profit will be substantial. But they're another matter and those loans were negotiated in good faith months ago and will be settled in good faith when they're due. We've never defaulted on a payment to the Ho-Pak or anyone else." Barre passed the newspaper back and with it, signed documents imprinted with his corporate seal. "The accounts are consolidated so one check will suffice."

The amount was a little over nine and a half million.

Richard Kwang signed the cashier's check and smiled Sir Dunstan Barre out, then, when it was safe, cursed everyone in sight and went back into his office, slamming the door behind him. He kicked his desk then picked up the phone and shouted at his niece to get Haply and almost broke the phone as he slammed it back onto its cradle.

"Dew neh loh moh on all filthy quai loh," he shrieked to the ceiling and felt much better. That lump of dogmeat! I wonder … oh, I wonder if I could prevail on the Snake to forbid any lines at all tomorrow? Perhaps he and his men could break a few arms.

Gloomily Richard Kwang let his mind drift. It had been a rotten day. It had begun badly at the track. He was sure his trainer—or jockey—was feeding Butterscotch Lass pep pills to make her run faster to shorten her odds—she'd be favorite now—then Saturday they'd stop the pills and back an outsider and clean up without him being in on the profit-making. Dirty dog bones, all of them! Liars! Do they think I own a racehorse to lose money?

The banker hawked and spat into the spittoon.

Maggot-mouthed Barre and dog bone Uncle Wu! Those withdrawals will take most of my cash. Never mind, with Lando Mata, Smuggler Mo, Tightfist Tung and the tai-pan I'm quite safe. Oh I'll have to shout and scream and curse and weep but nothing can really touch me or the Ho-Pak. I'm too important to them.

Yes, it had been a rotten day. The only bright spot had been his meeting this morning with Casey. He had enjoyed looking at her, enjoyed her clean-smelling, smart, crisp Americanness of the great outdoors. They had fenced pleasantly about financing and he felt sure he could get all or certainly part of their business. Clearly the pickings would be huge. She's so naive, he thought. Her knowledge of banking and finance's impressive but of the Asian world, nil! She's so naive to be so open with their plans. Thank all gods for Americans.

"I love America, Miss Casey. Yes. Twice a year I go there, to eat good steaks and go to Vegas—and to do business of course."

Eeeee, he thought happily, the whores of the Golden Country are the best and most available quai loh in the world, and quai Ms're so cheap compared to Hong Kong girls! Oh oh oh! I get such a good feeling pillowing them, with their great deodorized armpits, their great tits and thighs and rears. But in Vegas it's the best. Remember the golden-haired beauty that towered over me but lying down she . . .

His private phone rang. He picked it up, irritated as always that he had had to install it. But he had had no option. When his previous secretary of many years had left to get married, his wife had planted her favorite niece firmly in her place, of course to spy on me, he thought sourly. Eeeee, what can a man do?

"Yes?" he asked, wondering what his wife wanted now.

"You didn't call me all day. . . . I've been waiting for hours!"

His heart leapt at the unexpected sound of the girl's voice. He dismissed the petulance, her Cantonese sweet like her Jade Gate. "Listen, Little Treasure," he said, his voice placating. "Your poor Father's been very busy today. I've—"

"You just don't want your poor Daughter anymore. I'll have to throw myself in the harbor or find another person to cherish me oh oh oh>"

His blood pressure soared at the sound of her tears. "Listen, Little Oily Mouth, I'll see you this evening at ten. We'll have an eight-course feast at Wanchai at my fav—"

"Ten's too late and I don't want a feast I want a steak and I want to go to the penthouse at the V and A and drink champagne!"

His spirit groaned at the danger of being seen and reported secretly to his tai-tai. Oh oh oh! But, in front of his friends and his enemies and all Hong Kong he would gain enormous face to escort his new mistress there, the young exotic rising star in TV's firmament, Venus Poon.

"At ten I'll call f—"

"Ten's too late. Nine."

Rapidly he tried to sort out all his meetings tonight to see how he could accommodate her. "Listen, Little Treasure, I'll se—"

"Ten's too late. Nine. I think I will die now that you don't care anymore."

"Listen. Your Father has three meetings and I th—"

"Oh my head hurts to think you don't want me anymore oh oh oh. This abject person will have to slit her wrists, or…." He heard the change in her voice and his stomach twisted at the threat, "Or answer the phone calls of others, lesser than her revered Father of course, but just as rich nonetheless and m—"

"All right, Little Treasure. At nine!"

"Oh you do love me don't you!" Though she was speaking Cantonese Venus Poon used the English word and his heart flipped. English was the language of love for modern Chinese, there were no romantic words in their own language. "Tell me!" she said imperiously. "Tell me you love me!"

He told her, abjectly, then hung up. The mealy-mouthed little whore, he thought irritably. But then, at nineteen she's a right to be demanding and petulant and difficult if you're almost sixty and she makes you feel twenty and the Imperial Yang blissful. Eeeee, but Venus Poon's the best I've ever had. Expensive but, eeee, she's got muscles in her Golden Gulley that only the legendary Emperor Kung wrote about!

He felt his yang stir and scratched pleasantly. I'll give that little baggage what for tonight. I'll buy an extra specially large device, ah yes, a ring with bells on it. Oh oh oh! That'll make her wriggle!

Yes, but meanwhile think about tomorrow. How to prepare for tomorrow?

Call your High Dragon friend, Divisional Sergeant Tang-po at Tsim Sha Tsui and enlist his help to see that his branch and all branches in Kowloon are well policed. Phone Blacs and Cousin Tung of the huge Tung Po Bank and Cousin Smiler Ching and Havergill to arrange extra cash against the Ho-Pak's securities and holdings. Ah yes, phone your very good friend Joe Jacobson, VP of the Chicago Federal and International Merchant Bank—his bank's got assets of four billion and he owes you lots of favors. Lots. There're lots of quai loh who're deeply in your debt, and civilized people. Call them all!

Abruptly Richard Kwang came out of his reverie as he remembered the tai-pan's summons. His soul twisted. Nelson Trading's deposits in bullion and cash were huge. Oh ko if Nels—

The phone jangled irritably. "Uncle, Mr. Haply's on the line."

"Hello, Mr. Haply, how nice to talk to you. Sorry I was engaged before."

"That's all right, Mr. Kwang. I just wanted to check a couple of facts if I may. First, the riot at Aberdeen. The police w—"

"Hardly a riot, Mr. Haply. A few noisy, impatient people, that's all," he said, despising Haply's Canadian-American accent, and the need to be polite.

"I'm looking at some photos right now, Mr. Kwang, the ones that're in this afternoon's Times—it looks like a riot all right."

The banker squirmed in his chair and fought to keep his voice calm. "Oh—oh well I wasn't there so … I'll have to talk to Mr. Sung."

"I did, Mr. Kwang. At 3:30. Spent half an hour with him. He said if it hadn't been for the police they'd've torn the place apart." There was a hesitation. "You're right to play it down, but, say, I'm trying to help, and I can't without the facts, so if you'll level with me . . . How many folks wanted their money out at Lan Tao?"

Richard Kwang said, "18," halving the real figure.

"Our guy said 36. 82 at Sha Tin. How about Mong Kok?"

"A cupful."

"My guy said 48, and there was a good 100 left at closing. How about Tsim Sha Tsui?"

"I haven't got the figures yet, Mr. Haply," Richard Kwang said smoothly, consumed with anxiety, hating the staccato questioning.

"All the evening editions're heavy with the Ho-Pak run. Some're even using the word."

"Oh ko. …"

"Yeah, I'd say you'd better get ready for a real hot day tomorrow, Mr. Kwang. I'd say your opposition's very well organized. Everything's too pat to be a coincidence."

"I certainly appreciate your interest." Then Richard Kwang added delicately, "If there's anything I can do . . ."

Again the irritating laugh. "Have any of your big depositors pulled out today?"

Richard Kwang hesitated a fraction of a moment and he heard Haply jump into the breach. "Of course I know about Four Finger Wu. I meant the big British hongs. "

"No, Mr. Haply, not yet."

"There's a strong rumor that Hong Kong and Lan Tao Farms's going to change banks."

Richard Kwang felt that barb in his Secret Sack. "Let's hope it's not true, Mr. Haply. Who're the tai-pans and what big bank or banks? Is it the Victoria or Blacs?"

"Perhaps it's Chinese. Sorry, I can't divulge a news source. But you'd better get organized—it sure as hell looks as though the big guys are after you."

21

4:25 P.M. :

"They don't sleep together, tai-pan," Claudia Chen said.

"Eh?" Dunross looked up absently from the stack of papers he was going through.

"No. At least they didn't last night."

"Who?"

"Bartlett and your Cirrannousshee."

Dunross stopped working. "Oh?"

"Yes. Separate rooms, separate beds, breakfast together in the main room—both neat and tidy and dressed in modest robes which is interesting because neither wears anything in bed."

"They don't?"

"No, at least they didn't last night."

Dunross grinned and she was glad that her news pleased him. It was his first real smile of the day. Since she had arrived at 8:00 A.M. he had been working like a man possessed, rushing out for meetings, hurrying back again: the police, Phillip Chen, the governor, twice to the bank, once to the penthouse to meet whom she did not know. No time for lunch and, so the doorman had told her, the tai-pan had arrived with the dawn.

She had seen the weight on his spirit today, the weight that sooner or later bowed all tai-pans—and sometimes broke them. She had seen lan's father withered away by the enormous shipping losses of the war years, the catastrophic loss of Hong Kong, of his sons and nephews—bad joss piling on bad joss. It was the loss of Mainland China that had finally crushed him. She had seen how Suez had broken Alastair Struan, how that tai-pan had never recovered from that debacle and how bad joss had piled on bad joss for him until the Gornt-mounted run on their stock had shattered him.

It must be a terrible strain, she thought. All our people to worry about and our House, all our enemies, all the unexpected catastrophes of nature and of man that seem to be ever present—and all the sins and piracies and devil's work of the past that are waiting to burst forth from our own Pandora's box as they do from time to time. It's a pity the tai-pans aren't Chinese, she thought. Then the sins of the past would be so much gossamer.

"What makes you sure, Claudia?"

"No sleep things for either—pajamas or filmy things." She beamed.

"How do you know?"

"Please, tai-pan, I can't divulge my sources!"

"What else do you know?"

"Ah!" she said, then blandly changed the conversation. "The Nelson Trading board meeting's in half an hour. You wanted to be reminded. Can I have a few minutes beforehand?"

"Yes. In a quarter of an hour. Now," he said with a finality she knew too well. "What else do you know?"

She sighed, then importantly consulted her notepad. "She's never been married. Oh, lots of suitors but none have lasted, tai-pan. In fact, according to rumors, none have …"

Dunross's eyebrows shot up. "You mean she's a virgin?"

"Of that we're not sure—only that she has no reputation for staying out late, or overnight, with a gentleman. No. The only gentleman she goes out socially with is Mr. Bartlett and that's infrequently. Except on business trips. He, by the way, tai-pan, he's quite a gadabout—swinger was the term used. No one lady bu—"

"Used by whom?"

"Ah! Mr. Handsome Bartlett doesn't have one special girl friend, tai-pan. Nothing steady as they say. He was divorced in 1956, the same year that your Cirrrannnousshee joined his firm."

"She's not my Ciranoush," he said.

Claudia beamed more broadly. "She's twenty-six. She's Sagittarius."

"You got someone to snitch her passport—or got someone to take a peek?"

"Very good gracious no, tai-pan." Claudia pretended to be shocked. "I don't spy on people. I just ask questions. But 100 says she and Mr. Bartlett have been lovers at some time or another."

"That's no bet, I'd be astounded if they weren't. He's certainly in love with her—and she with him. You saw how they danced together. That's no bet at all."

The lines around her eyes crinkled. "Then what odds will you give me they've never been lovers?"

"Eh? What d'you know?" he asked suspiciously.

"Odds, tai-pan?"

He watched her. Then he said, "A thousand to … I'll give you ten to one."

"Done! A hundred. Thank you tai-pan. Now, about the Nels—"

"Where'd you get all this information? Eh?"

She extracted a telex from the papers she was carrying. The rest she put into his in tray. "You telexed our people in New York the night before last for information on her and to recheck Bartlett's dossier. This's just arrived."

He took it and scanned it. His reading was very fast and his memory almost photographic. The telex gave the information Claudia had related in bald terms without her embroidered interpretation and added that K. C. Tcholok had no known police record, $46,000 in a savings account at the San Fernando Savings and Loan, and $8,700 in her checking account at the Los Angeles and California Bank.

"It's shocking how easy it is in the States to find out how much you've got in the bank, isn't it, Claudia?"

"Shocking. I'd never use one, tai-pan."

He grinned. "Except to borrow from! Claudia, just give me the telex next time."

"Yes, tai-pan. But isn't my way of telling certain things more exciting?"

"Yes. But where's it say about the nakedness? You made that up!"

"Oh no, that's from my own source here. Third Toiletma—" Claudia stopped just too late to avoid falling into his trap.

His smile was seraphic. "So! A spy in the V and A! Third Toilet-maid! Who? Which one, Claudia?"

To give him face she pretended to be annoyed. "Ayeeyah! A spymaster may reveal nothing, heya?" Her smile was kindly. "Here's a list of your calls. I've put off as many as I can till tomorrow—I'll buzz you in good time for the meeting."

He nodded but she saw that his smile had vanished and now he was lost in thought again. She went out and he did not hear the door close. He was thinking about spymasters and AMG and his meeting with Brian Kwok and Roger Crosse this morning at ten, and the one coming at six o'clock.

The meeting this morning had been short, sharp and angry. "First, is there anything new on AMG?" he had asked.

Roger Crosse had replied at once, "It was, apparently, an accident. No suspicious marks on the body. No one was seen nearby, no car marks, impact marks or skid marks—other than the motorcycle. Now, the files, Ian—oh by the way we know now you've got the only copies existent."

"Sorry but I can't do what you asked."

"Why?" There had been a sour edge to the policeman's voice.

"I'm still not admitting one way or the other that they exist but y—"

"Oh for chrissake, Ian, don't be ridiculous! Of course the copies exist. Do you take us for bloody fools? If they didn't, you'd've come out with it last night and that would have been that. I strongly advise you to let us copy them."

"And I strongly advise you to have a tighter hold on your temper."

"If you think I've lost my temper, Ian, then you know very little about me. I formally ask you to produce those documents. If you refuse I'll invoke my powers under the Official Secrets Act at six o'clock this evening and tai-pan or not, of the Noble House or not, friend or not, by one minute past six, you'll be under arrest. You'll be held incommunicado and we'll go through all your papers, safes, deposit boxes until we've found them! Now kindly produce the files!"

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."

"Congratulations, my dear fellow. Heartiest congratulations! And the down payment?"

"Seven."

"That's marvelous! That covers everything nicely. It'll be marvelous to have the Toda specter away from the balance sheet—and with another million for Orlin, well, perhaps they'll give you more time, then at long last you can forget all the bad years and look forward to a very profitable future."

"Yes."

"Have you got your ships chartered yet?"

"No. But I'll have charterers in time to service our loan."

"I noticed your stock's jumped two points."

"It's on the way now. It's going to double, within thirty days."

"Oh? What makes you think so?"

"The boom."

"Eh?"

"All the signs point that way, Paul. Confidence's up. Our Par-Con deal will lead the boom. It's long overdue."

"That would be marvelous! When do you make the initial announcement about Par-Con?"

"Friday, after the market closes."

"Excellent. My thought entirely. By Monday everyone will be on the bandwagon!"

"But let's keep everything in the family until then."

"Of course. Oh, did you hear Quillan almost killed himself last night? It was just after your party. His brakes failed on the Peak Road."

"Yes I heard. He should have killed himself—that would have sent Second Great Company's stock skyrocketing with happiness!"

I "Come now, Ian! A boom eh? You really think so?" "Enough to want to buy heavily. How about a million credit— to buy Struan's?"

"Personal—or for the House?"

"Personal."

"We would hold the stock?"

"Of course."

"And if the stock goes down?"

"It won't."

"Say it does, Ian?"

"What do you suggest?"

"Well, it's all in the family so why don't we say if it goes two points below market at today's closing, we can sell and debit your account with the loss?"

"Three. Struan's is going to double."

"Yes. Meanwhile, let's say two until you sign the Par-Con deal. The House is rather a lot over on its revolving credit already. Let's say two, eh?"

"All right."

I'm safe at two, Dunross thought again, reassuring himself. I think.

Before he had left the bank he had gone by Johnjohn's office. Bruce Johnjohn, second deputy chief manager and heir apparent to Havergill, was a stocky, gentle man with a hummingbird's vitality. Dunross had given him the same news. Johnjohn had been equally pleased. But he had advised caution on projecting a boom and, contrary to Havergill, was greatly concerned with the Ho-Pak run.

"I don't like it at all, Ian. It's very smelly."

"Yes. What about Haply's article?"

"Oh, it's all nonsense. We don't go in for those sort of shenanigans. Blacs? Equally foolish. Why should we want to eliminate a major Chinese bank, even if we could. The Ching Bank might be the culprit. Perhaps. Perhaps old Smiler Ching would—he and Richard have been rivals for years. It could be a combination of half a dozen banks, Ching included. It might even be that Richard's depositors are really scared. I've heard all sorts of rumors for three months or so. They're in deep with dozens of dubious property schemes. Anyway, if he goes under it'll affect us all. Be bloody careful, Ian!"

"I'll be glad when you're upstairs, Bruce."

"Don't sell Paul short—he's very clever and he's been awfully good for Hong Kong and the bank. But we're in for some hairy times in Asia, Ian. I must say I think you're very wise to try to diversify into South America—it's a huge market and untapped by us. Have you considered South Africa?"

"What about it?"

"Let's have lunch next week. Wednesday? Good. I've an idea for you."

"Oh? What?"

"It'll wait, old chum. You heard about Gornt?"

"Yes."

"Very unusual for a Rolls, what?"

"Yes."

"He's very sure he can take Par-Con away from you."

"He won't."

"Have you seen Phillip today?"

"Phillip Chen? No, why?"

"Nothing."

"Wh^y?"

"Bumped into him at the track. He seemed . . . well, he looked awful and very distraught. He's taking John's . . . he's taking the kidnapping very badly."

"Wouldn't you?"

"Yes. Yes I would. But I didn't think he and his Number One Son were that close."

Dunross thought about Adryon and Glenna and his son Duncan who was fifteen and on holiday on a friend's sheep station in Australia. What would I do if one of them were kidnapped? What would I do if a mutilated ear came through the mails at me like that?

I'd go mad.

I'd go mad with rage. I'd forget everything else and I'd hunt down the kidnappers and then, and then my vengeance would last a thousand years. I'd …

There was a knock on the door. "Yes? Oh hello, Kathy," he said, happy as always to see his younger sister.

"Sorry to interrupt, Ian dear," Kathy Gavallan said in a rush from the door to his office, "but Claudia said you had a few minutes before your next appointment. Is it all right?"

" 'Course it's all right," he said with a laugh, and put aside the memo he was working on.

"Oh good, thanks." She closed the door and sat in the high chair that was near the window.

He stretched to ease the ache in his back and grinned at her. "Hey, I like your hat." It was pale straw with a yellow band that matched her cool-looking silk dress. "What's up?"

"I've got multiple sclerosis."

He stared at her blankly. "What?"

"That's what the tests say. The doctor told me yesterday but yesterday I couldn't tell you or … Today he checked the tests with another specialist and there's no mistake." Her voice was calm and her face calm and she sat upright in the chair, looking prettier than he had ever seen her. "I had to tell someone. Sorry to say it so suddenly. I thought you could help me make a plan, not today, but when you've time, perhaps over the weekend. . . ." She saw his expression and she laughed nervously. "It's not as bad as that. I think."

Dunross sat back in his big leather chair and fought to get his shocked mind working. "Multiple . . . that's dicey, isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes it is. Apparently it's something that attacks your nervous system that they can't cure yet. They don't know what it is or where or how you . . . how you get it."

"We'll get other specialists. No, even better, you go to England with Penn. There'd be specialists there or in Europe. There's got to be some form of cure, Kathy, got to be!"

"There isn't, dear. But England is a good idea. I'm … Dr. Tooley said he'd like me to see a Harley Street specialist for treatment. I'd love to go with Penn. I'm not too advanced and there's nothing to be too concerned about, if I'm careful."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that if I take care of myself, take their medication, nap in the afternoon to stop getting tired, I'll still be able to take care of Andrew and the house and the children and play a. little tennis and golf occasionally, but only one round in the mornings. You see, they can arrest the disease but they can't repair the damage already done so far. He said if I don't take care of myself and rest—it's rest mostly he said—if I don't rest, it will start up again and then each time you go down a plateau. Yes. And then you can never get back up again. Do you see, dear?"

He stared at her, keeping his agony for her bottled. His heart was grinding in his chest and he had eight plans for her and he thought

Oh Christ poor Kathy! "Yes. Well, thank God you can rest all you want," he said, keeping his voice calm like hers. "Do you mind if I talk to Tooley?"

"I think that would be all right. There's no need to be alarmed, Ian. He said I'd be all right if I took care of myself, and I told him I'd be ever so good so he needn't have any worries on that score." Kathy was surprised that her voice was calm and her hands and fingers rested in her lap so easily, betraying none of the horror she felt within. She could almost feel the disease bugs or microbes or viruses seeping through her system, feeding on her nerves, eating them away oh so slowly, second by second hour by hour until there would be more tingling and more numbness in her fingers and her toes, then her wrists and ankles and legs and and and and and Jesus Christ God almighty . . .

She took a little tissue out of her purse and gently dabbed beside her nose and forehead. "It's awfully humid today, isn't it?"

"Yes. Kathy, why is it so sudden?"

"Well it isn't dear, not really. They just couldn't diagnose it. That's what all the tests were for." It had begun as a slight dizziness and headaches about six months ago. She'd noticed it most when she was playing golf. She would be standing over her ball, steadying herself, but her eyes would go dizzy and she could not focus and the ball would split and become two and three and two again and they would never stay still. Andrew had laughed and told her to see an optician. But it wasn't glasses, and aspirins did not help, nor stronger pills. Then dear old Tooley, their family doctor forever, had sent her to Matilda Hospital on the Peak for tests and more tests and brain scans in case there was a tumor but they had shown nothing, nor had all the other tests. Only the awful spinal tap gave a clue. Other tests confirmed it. Yesterday. Oh sweet Jesus was it only yesterday they condemned me to the wheelchair, at length to become a helpless slobbering thing?

"You've told Andrew?"

"No dear," she said, pulled once more back from the brink. "I haven't told him yet. I couldn't, not yet. Poor dear Andrew does get into a tizzy so easily. I'll tell him tonight. I couldn't tell him before I told you. I had to tell you first. We always used to tell you everything first, didn't we? Lechie, Scotty and I? You always used to know first…." She was remembering when they were all young, all the lovely happy times here in Hong Kong and in Ayr at Castle

Avisyard, at their lovely old rambling house on the crest of the hill amid the heather, overlooking the sea—Christmas and Easter and the long summer holidays, she and Ian—and Lechie, the oldest, and Scott, her twin brother—such happy days when Father wasn't there, all of them terrified of their father except Ian who was always their spokesman, always their protector, who always took the punishments—no supper tonight, and write five hundred times I will not argue anymore, a child's place is to be seen and not heard—who took all the beatings and never complained. Oh poor Lechie and Scotty . . .

"Oh Ian," she said, her tears welling suddenly, "I'm so sorry." Then she felt his arms wrap around her and she felt safe at last and the nightmare softened. But she knew it would never go away. Not now. Never. Nor would her brothers come back, except in her dreams, nor would her darling Johnny. "It's all right, Ian," she said through her tears. "It's not for me, not me really. I was just thinking about Lechie and Scotty and home at Ayr when we were small, and my Johnny, and I was oh ever so sad for all of them. …"

Lechie was the first to die. Second Lieutenant, Highland Light Infantry. He was lost in 1940 in France. Nothing was ever found of him. One moment he had been there beside the road, and then he was gone, the air filled with acrid smoke from the barrage that the Nazi panzers had laid down on the little stone bridge over the stream on the way to Dunkirk. For all the war years they had all lived in the hope that Lechie was now a POW in some good prison camp—not one of those terrible ones. And after the war, the months of searching but never a sign, never a witness, not even the littlest sign and then they, the family, and at length Father had laid Le-chie's ghost to rest.

Scott had been sixteen in '39 and he'd gone to Canada for safety, there to finish schooling, and then, already a pilot, the day he was eighteen, in spite of Father's howling protests, he had joined the Canadian Air Force, wanting blood vengeance for Lechie. And he had got his wings at once and joined a bomber squadron and had come over well in time for D Day. Gleefully he had blown many a town to pieces and many a city to pieces until February 14, 1945, now Squadron Leader, DFC and Bar, coming home from the supreme holocaust of Dresden, his Lancaster had been jumped by a Messerschmitt and though his copilot had brought the crippled plane to rest in England, Scotty was dead in the left seat.

Kathy had been at his funeral and Ian had been there—in uniform, come home on leave from Chungking where he had been attached to Chiang Kai-shek's air force after he was shot down and grounded. She had wept on lan's shoulder, wept for Lechie and wept for Scotty and wept for her Johnny. She was a widow then. Flight Lieutenant John Selkirk, DFC, another happy god of war, inviolate, invincible, had been blown out of the sky, torched out of the sky, the debris burning on the way to earth.

Johnny had had no funeral. There was nothing to bury. Like Lechie. Just a telegram came. One for each of them.

Oh Johnny my darling my darling my darling . . .

"What an awful waste, Ian dear, all of them. And for what?"

"I don't know, little Kathy," he said, still holding her. "I don't know. And I don't know why I made it and why they didn't."

"Oh I'm ever so glad you did!" She gave him a little hug and gathered herself. Somehow she put away her sadness for all of them. Then she dried her tears, took out a small mirror and looked at herself. "God, I look a mess! Sorry." His private bathroom was concealed behind a bookcase and she went there and repaired her makeup.

When she came back he was still staring out of the window. "Andrew's out of the office at the moment but the moment he comes back I'll tell him," he said.

"Oh no dear, that's my job. I must do that. I must. That's only fair." She smiled up at him and touched him. "I love you, Ian."

"I love you, Kathy."

22

4:55 P.M. :

The cardboard box that the Werewolves had sent to Phillip Chen was on Roger Crosse's desk. Beside the box was the ransom note, key ring, driver's license, pen, even the crumpled pieces of torn newspaper that had been used for packing. The little plastic bag was there, and the mottled rag. Only its contents were missing.

Everything had been tagged.

Roger Crosse was alone in the room and he stared at the objects, fascinated. He picked up a piece of the newspaper. Each had been carefully smoothed out, most were tagged with a date and the name of the Chinese newspaper it had come from. He turned it over, seeking hidden information, a hidden clue, something that might have been missed. Finding nothing, he put it back neatly and leaned on his hands, lost in thought.

Alan Medford Grant's report was also on his desk, near the intercom. It was very quiet in the room. Small windows overlooked Wanchai and part of the harbor toward Glessing's Point.

His phone jangled. "Yes?"

"Mr. Rosemont, CIA, and Mr. Langan, FBI, sir."

"Good." Roger Crosse replaced his phone. He unlocked his top desk drawer and carefully put the AMG file on top of the decoded telex and relocked it. The middle drawer contained a high-quality tape recorder. He checked it and touched a hidden switch. Silently the reels began to turn. The intercom on his desk contained a powerful microphone. Satisfied, he relocked this drawer. Another hidden desk switch slid a bolt open on the door soundlessly. He got up and opened the door.

"Hello, you two, please come in," he said affably. He closed the door behind the two Americans and shook hands with them. Unnoticed, he slid the bolt home again. "Take a seat. Tea?" "No thanks," the CIA man said. "What can I do for you?"

Both men were carrying manila envelopes. Rosemont opened his and took out a sheaf of good-quality eight-by-ten photos, clipped into two sections. "Here," he said, passing over the top section. They were various shots of Voranski running across the wharf, on the streets of Kowloon, getting into and out of taxis, phoning, and many more of his Chinese assassins. One photograph showed the two Chinese leaving the phone booth with a clear glimpse of the crumpled body in the background.

Only Crosse's superb discipline kept him from showing astonishment, then blinding rage. "Good, very good," he said gently, putting them on the desk, very conscious of the ones Rosemont had retained in his hand. "So?"

Rosemont and Ed Langan frowned. "You were tailing him too?" "Of course," Crosse said, lying with his marvelous sincerity. "My dear fellow, this is Hong Kong. But I do wish you'd let us do our job and not interfere."

"Rog, we, er, we don't want to interfere, just want to backstop you."

"Perhaps we don't need backstopping." There was a sharpness to his voice now.

"Sure." Rosemont took out a cigarette and lit it. He was tall and thin with gray crew-cut hair and good features. His hands were strong, like all of him. "We know where the two killers're holed up. We think we know," he said. "One of our guys thinks he's pegged them."

"How many men have you got watching the ship?" "Ten. Our guys didn't notice any of yours tailing this one. The diversion almost spooked us too."

"Very dicey," Crosse said agreeably, wondering what diversion. "Our guys never got to go through his pockets—we know he made two calls from the booth…." Rosemont noted Crosse's eyes narrow slightly. That's curious, he thought. Crosse didn't know that. If he doesn't know that, maybe his operators weren't tailing the target either. Maybe he's lying and the Commie was loose in Hong Kong until he was knifed. "We radioed a mug shot back home —we'll get a call back fast. Who was he?"

"His papers said, Igor Voranski, seaman first class, Soviet merchant marine."

"You have a file on him, Rog?"

"It's rather unusual for you two to call together, isn't it? I mean, in the movies, we're always led to believe the FBI and CIA are always at odds."

Ed Langan smiled. "Sure we are—like you and MI-5—like the KGB, GRU and fifty other Soviet operations. But sometimes our cases cross—we're internal U.S., Stan's external, but we're both out for the same thing: security. We thought… we're asking if we could all cooperate. This could be a big one, and we're . . . Stan and I're out of our depth."

"That's right," Rosemont said, not believing it.

"All right," Crosse said, needing their information. "But you first."

Rosemont sighed. "Okay, Rog. We've had a buzz for some time there's something hotting up in Hong Kong—we don't know what —but it sure as hell's got tie-ins to the States. I figure the AMG file's the link. Lookit: take Banastasio—he's Mafia. Big-time. Narcotics, the lot. Now take Bartlett and the guns. Guns—"

"Is Bartlett tied into Banastasio?"

"We're not sure. We're checking. We are sure the guns were put aboard in L.A.—Los Angeles—where the airplane's based. Guns! Guns, narcotics and our growing interest in Vietnam. Where do narcotics come from? The Golden Triangle. Vietnam, Laos and the Yunnan Province of China. Now we're into Vietnam and—"

"Yes, and you're ill-advised to be there, old chum—I've pointed that out fifty times."

"We don't make policy, Rog, any more than you do. Next: Our nuclear carrier's here and the goddamn Sovetsky Ivanov arrives last night. That's too convenient, maybe the leak came from here. Then Ed tips you off and we get AMG's wild-assed letters from London and now there's Sevrin! Turns out the KGB've plants all over Asia and you've a high-placed hostile'somewheres."

"That's not yet proved."

"Right. But I know about AMG. He's nobody's fool. If he says Sevrin's in place and you've a mole, you've a mole. Sure we've got hostiles in the CIA too, so've the KGB. I'm sure Ed has in the FBI—"

"That's doubtful," Ed Langan interrupted sharply. "Our guys are handpicked and trained. You get your firemen from all over."

"Sure," Rosemont said, then added to Crosse, "Back to narcotics. Red China's our big enemy and—"

"Again, you're wrong, Stanley. The PRC's not the big enemy anywhere. Russia is."

"China's Commie. Commies're the enemy. Now, it'd be real smart to flood the States with cheap narcotics and Red China . . . okay the People's Republic of China can open the dam gates."

"But they haven't. Our Narcotics Branch's the best in Asia— they've never come up with anything to support your misguided official theory that they're behind the trade. Nothing. The PRC are as anti-drug traffic as the rest of us."

"Have it your way," Rosemont said. "Rog, you got a file on this agent? He's KGB, isn't he?"

Crosse lit a cigarette. "Voranski was here last year. That time he went under the cover name of Sergei Kudryov, again seaman first class, again off the same ship—they're not very inventive, are they?" Neither of the two men smiled. "His real name's Major Yuri Bakyan, First Directorate, KGB, Department 6."

Rosemont sighed heavily.

The FBI man glanced at him. "Then you're right. It all ties in."

"Maybe." The tall man thought a moment. "Rog, what about his contacts from last year?"

"He acted like a tourist, staying at the Nine Dragons in Kow-loon. . . ."

"That's in AMG's report, that hotel's mentioned," Langan said.

"Yes. We've been covering it for a year or so. We've found nothing. Bakyan—Voranski—did ordinary tourist activities. We had him on twenty-four-hour surveillance. He stayed a couple of weeks, then, just before the ship sailed, sneaked back aboard."

"Girl friend?"

"No. Not a regular one. He used to hang out at the Good Luck Dance Hall in Wanchai. Quite a cocksman, apparently, but he asked no questions and met no one out of the ordinary."

"He ever visit Sinclair Towers?"

"No."

"Pity," Langan said, "that'd've been dandy. Tsu-yan's got a place there. Tsu-yan knows Banastasio, John Chen knows Banastasio, and we're back to guns, narcotics, AMG and Sevrin."

"Yeah," Rosemont said, then added, "Have you caught up with Tsu-yan yet?"

"No. He got to Taipei safely, then vanished."

"You think he's holed up there?"

"I would imagine so," Crosse said. But inside he believed him dead, already eliminated by Nationalist, Communist, Mafia or triad. I wonder if he could have been a double agent—or the supreme devil of all intelligence services, a triple agent?

"You'll find him—or we will—or the Taiwan boys will."

"Roger, did Voranski lead you anywhere?" Langan asked.

"No. Nowhere, even though we've had tabs on him for years. He's been attached to the Soviet Trade Commission in Bangkok, he spent time in Hanoi, and Seoul, but no covert activities we know of. Once the cheeky bugger even applied for a British passport and almost got one. Luckily our fellows vet all applications and spotted flaws in his cover. I'm sorry he's dead—you know how hard it is to identify nasties. Waste of a lot of time and effort." Crosse paused and lit a cigarette. "His major's rank is quite senior which suggests something very smelly. Perhaps he was just another of their specials who was ordered to cruise Asia and get into deep cover for twenty or thirty years."

"Those bastards have had their game plan set for so long it stinks!" Rosemont sighed. "What're you going to do with the corpse?"

Crosse smiled. "I got one of my Russian-speaking fellows to call the captain of the ship—Gregor Suslev. He's a Party member, of course, but fairly harmless. Has a sporadic girl friend with a flat in Mong Kok—a bar girl who gets a modest allowance from him and entertains him when he's here. He goes to the races, theater, Macao gambling a couple of times, speaks good English. Suslev's under surveillance. I don't want any of your hotshots ponging on one of our known hostiles."

"So Suslev's regular here then?"

"Yes, he's been plying these waters for years, based out of Vladivostok—he's an ex-submarine commander by the way. He wanders around the fringe here, mostly under the weather."

"What do you mean?"

"Drunk, but not badly so. Cavorts with a few of our British pinkos like Sam and Molly Finn."

"The ones who're always writing letters to the papers?"

"Yes. They're more of a nuisance than a security risk. Anyway, under instructions, my Russian-speaking fellow told Captain Suslev we were frightfully sorry but it seemed that one of his seamen had had a heart attack in a phone booth at Golden Ferry Terminal. Suslev was suitably shocked and quite reasonable. In Voranski's pocket there 'happened' to be an accurate, verbatim report of the assassin's phone conversation. We put it in Russian as a further sign of our displeasure. They're all professionals aboard that ship, and sophisticated enough to know we don't remove their agents without very great cause and provocation. They know we just watch the ones we know about and, if we're really very irritated, we deport them." Crosse looked across at Rosemont, his eyes hard though his voice stayed matter-of-fact. "We find our methods more effective than the knife, garrotte, poison or bullet."

The CIA man nodded. "But who would want to kill him?"

Crosse glanced at the photos again. He did not recognize the two Chinese, but their faces were clear and the body in the background unbelievable evidence. "We'll find them. Whoever they are. The one who phoned our police station claimed they were 14K. But he only spoke Shanghainese with a Ningpo dialect, so that's unlikely. Probably he was a triad of some sort. He could be Green Pang. He was certainly a trained professional—the knife was used perfectly, with great precision—one moment alive, the next dead and no sound. Could be one of your CIA's trainees in Chiang Kai-shek's intelligence agency. Or perhaps the Korean CIA, more of your trainees —they're anti-Soviet too, aren't they? Possibly PRC agents, but that's improbable. Their agents don't usually go in for quai loh murder, and certainly not in Hong Kong."

Rosemont nodded and let the censure pass. He gave Crosse the remaining photos, wanting the Englishman's cooperation and needing it. "These're shots of the house they went into. And the street sign. Our guy couldn't read characters but it translates, 'Street of the First Season, Number 14.' It's a rotten little alley in back of the bus depot in North Point."

Crosse began to examine them with equal care. Rosemont glanced at his watch, then got up and went to the single window that faced part of the harbor. "Look!" he said proudly.

The other two went over to him. The great nuclear carrier was just rounding North Point heading for the navy yard, Hong Kong side. She was dressed overall, all her obligatory flags stiff in the breeze, crowds of white-clothed sailors on her vast deck, with neat lines of her vicious fighter jet airplanes. Almost 84,000 tons. No smokestack, just a vast, ominous bridge complex, with an eleven-hundred-foot angled runway that could retrieve and launch jets simultaneously. The first of a generation.

"That's some ship," Crosse said enviously. This was the first time the colossus had entered Hong Kong since her commissioning in 1960. "Pretty," he said, hating the fact she was American and not British. "What's her top speed?"

"I don't know—that's classified along with most everything else." Rosemont turned to watch him. "Can't you send that goddamn Soviet spy ship to hell out of port?"

"Yes, and we could blow it up, but that would be equally foolish. Stanley, relax, you have to be a little civilized about these things. Repairing their ships—and some of them really do need it—is a good source of revenue, and intelligence, and they pay their bills promptly. Our ways have been tried and tested over the years."

Yes, Rosemont was thinking without rancor, but your ways don't work anymore. The British Empire's no more, the British raj no more and we've a different enemy now, smarter rougher dedicated totalitarian fanatic, with no Queensberry rules and a worldwide plan that's lavishly funded by whatever it takes. You British've no dough now, no clout, no navy, no army, no air force, and your goddamn government's filled with socialist and enemy pus, and we think they sold you out. You've been screwed from within, your security's the pits from Klaus Fuchs and Philby on down. Jesus, we won both goddamn wars for you, paid for most of it and both times you've screwed up the peace. And if it wasn't for our Strategic Air Command, our missiles, our nuclear strike force, our navy, our army, our air force our taxpayers our dough, you'd all be dead or in goddamn Siberia. Meanwhile, like it or not I got to deal with you. We need Hong Kong as a window and right now your cops to guard the carrier.

"Rog, thanks for the extra men," he said. "We sure appreciate it."

"We wouldn't want any trouble while she's here either. Pretty ship. I envy you having her."

"Her captain'll have the ship and crew under tight wraps—the shore parties'll all be briefed, and warned, and we'll cooperate a hundred percent."

"I'll see you get a copy of the list of bars I've suggested your sailors stay out of—some're known Communist hangouts, and some are frequented by our lads off H.M.S. Dart." Crosse smiled. "There'll still be the odd brawl."

"Sure. Rog, this Voranski killing's too much of a coincidence. Can I send a Shanghai speaker to assist the interrogation?"

"I'll let you know if we need help."

"Can we have our copies of the tai-pan's other AMG reports now? Then we can get out of your hair."

Crosse stared back at him twisting uneasily, even though he was prepared for the question. "I'll have to get approval from Whitehall."

Rosemont was surprised. "Our top man in England's been on to your Great White Father and it's approved. You should have had it an hour ago."

"Oh?"

"Sure. Hell, we'd no idea AMG was on the tai-pan's payroll let alone passing classified stuff for chrissake! The wires've been red hot sine* Ed got the top copy of AMG's last will and testament. We got an all-points from Washington on getting copies of the other reports and we're trying to trace the call to Switzerland but—"

"Say again?"

"Kiernan's call. The second call he made."

"I don't follow you."

Rosemont explained.

Crosse frowned. "My people didn't tell me about that. Nor did Dunross. Now why should Dunross lie—or avoid telling me that?" He related to them exactly what Dunross had told him. "There was no reason for him to hide that, was there?"

"No. All right, Rog: Is the tai-pan kosher?"

Crosse laughed. "If you mean is he a one hundred percent British Royalist freebooter whose allegiance is to his House, himself and the Queen—not necessarily in that order—the answer's an emphatic yes."

"Then if we can have our copies now, Rog, we'll be on our way."

"When I've got Whitehall's approval."

"If you'll check your decoding room—it's a Priority l-4a. It says to let us have copies on receipt." l-4a's were very rare. They called for immediate clearance and immediate action.

Crosse hesitated, wanting to avoid the trap he was in. He dared not tell them he did not yet have possession of the AMG reports. He picked up the phone and dialed. "This is Mr. Crosse. Is their anything for me from Source? A l-4a?"

"No sir. Other than the one we sent up an hour ago—that you signed for," the SI woman said.

"Thank you." Crosse put the phone down. "Nothing yet," he said.

"Shit," Rosemont muttered, then added, "They swore they'd already beamed it out and you'd have it before we got here. It's got to be here any second. If you don't mind we'll wait."

"I've an appointment in Central shortly. Perhaps later this evening?"

Both men shook their heads. Langan said, "We'll wait. We've been ordered to send 'em back instantly by hand with a twenty-four-hour guard. An army transport's due now at Kai Tak to carry the courier—we can't even copy them here."

"Aren't you overreacting?"

"You could answer that. What's in them?"

Crosse toyed with his lighter. It had Cambridge University emblazoned on it. He had owned it since his undergraduate days. "Is it true what AMG said about the CIA and the Mafia?"

Rosemont stared back at him. "I don't know. You guys used all sort of crooks during World War Two. We learned from you to take advantage of what we've got—that was your first rule. Besides," Rosemont added with utter conviction, "this war's our war and whatever it takes we're going to win."

"Yes, yes we must," Langan echoed, equally sure. "Because if we lose this one, the whole world's gone and we'll never get another chance."

On the closed-in bridge of the Sovetsky Ivanov three men had binoculars trained on the nuclear carrier. One of the men was a civilian and he wore a throat mike that fed into a tape recorder. He was giving an expert, technical running commentary of what he saw. From time to time the other two would add a comment. Both wore light naval uniform. One was Captain Gregor Suslev, the other his first officer.

The carrier was coming up the roads nicely, tugs in attendance, but no tug ropes. Ferries and freighters tooted a jaunty welcome. A marine band played on her aft deck. White-clad sailors waved at passing ships. The day was very humid and the afternoon sun cast long shadows.

"The captain's expert," the first officer said. "Yes. But with all that radar even a child could handle her," Captain Suslev replied. He was a heavy-shouldered, bearded man, his Slavic brown eyes deepset in a friendly face. "Those sweepers aloft look like the new GEs for very long-range radar. Are they, Vassili?"

The technical expert broke off his transmission momentarily. "Yes, Comrade Captain. But look aft! They've four F5 interceptors parked on the right flight deck."

Suslev whistled tonelessly. "They're not supposed to be in service till next year." "No," the civilian said.

"Report that separately as soon as she docks. That news alone pays for our voyage." "Yes."

Suslev fine-tuned his focus now as the ship turned slightly. He could see the airplanes' bomb racks. "How many more F5's does she carry in her guts, and how many atomic warheads for them?" They all watched the carrier for a moment. "Perhaps we'll get lucky this time, Comrade Captain," the first officer said.

"Let's hope so. Then Voranski's death won't be so expensive." "The Americans are fools to bring her here—don't they know every agent in Asia'll be tempted by her?"

"It's lucky for us they are. It makes our job so much easier." Once more Suslev concentrated on the F5's that looked like soldier hornets among other hornets.

Around him the bridge was massed with advanced surveillance equipment. One radar was sweeping the harbor. A gray-haired impassive sailor watched the screen, the carrier a large clear blip among the myriad of blips.

Suslev's binoculars moved to the carrier's ominous bridge complex, then wandered the length of the ship. In spite of himself he shivered at her size and power. "They say she's never refueled—not since she was launched in 1960." Behind him the door to the radio room that adjoined the bridge opened and a radio operator came up to him and saluted, offering the cable. "Urgent from Center, Comrade Captain."

Suslev took the cable and signed for it. It was a meaningless jumble of words. A last look at the carrier and he let the binoculars rest on his chest and strode off the Bridge. His sea cabin was just aft on the same deck. The door was guarded, like both entrances to the bridge.

He relocked his cabin door behind him and opened the small, concealed safe. His cipher book was secreted in a false wall. He sat at his desk. Quickly he decoded the message. He read it carefully, then stared into space for a moment.

He read it a second time, then replaced the cipher book, closed the safe and burned the original of the cable in an ashtray. He picked up his phone. "Bridge? Send Comrade Metkin to my cabin!" While he waited he stood by the porthole lost in thought. His cabin was untidy. Photographs of a heavyset woman, smiling self-consciously, were on his desk in a frame. Another of a good-looking youth in naval uniform, and a girl in her teens. Books, a tennis racket and a newspaper on the half-made bunk.

A knock. He unlocked the door. The sailor who had been staring at the radar screen stood there.

"Come in, Dimitri." Suslev motioned at the decoded cable and relocked the door after him.

The sailor was short and squat, with graying hair and a good face. He was, officially, political commissar and therefore senior officer on the ship. He picked up the decoded message. It read: "Priority One. Gregor Suslev. You will assume Voranski's duties and responsibilities at once. London reports optimum CIA and MI-6 interest in information contained in blue-covered files leaked to Ian Dunross of Struan's by the British Intelligence coordinator, AMG. Order Arthur to obtain copies immediately. If Dunross has destroyed the copies, cable feasibility plan to detain him for chemical debriefing in depth." The sailor's face closed. He looked across at Captain Suslev. "AMG? Alan Medford Grant?"

"Yes."

"May that one burn in hell for a thousand years."

"He will, if there's any justice in this world or the next." Suslev smiled grimly. He went to a sideboard and took out a half-full vodka bottle and two glasses. "Listen, Dimitri, if I fail or don't return, you take command." He held up the key. "Unlock the safe. There're instructions about decoding and everything else."

"Let me go tonight in your place. You're more impor—"

"No. Thank you, old friend." Suslev clapped him warmly on the shoulders. "In case of an accident you assume command and carry out our mission. That's what we've been trained for." He touched glasses with him. "Don't worry. Everything will be fine," he said, glad he could do as he wished and very content with his job and his position in life. He was, secretly, deputy controller in Asia for the KGB's First Directorate, Department 6, that was responsible for all covert activities in China, North Korea and Vietnam; a senior lecturer in Vladivostok University's Department of Foreign Affairs, 2A-Counterintelligence; a colonel in the KGB; and, most important of all, a senior Party member in the Far East. "Center's given the order. You must guard our tails here. Eh?"

"Of course. You needn't worry about that, Gregor. I can do everything. But I worry about you," Metkin said. They had sailed together for several years and he respected Suslev very much though he did not know from where his overriding authority came. Sometimes he was tempted to try to find out. You're getting on, he told himself. You retire next year and you may need powerful friends and the only way to have the help of powerful friends is to know their skeletons. But Suslev or no Suslev your well-earned retirement will be honorable, quiet and at home in the Crimea. Metkin's heart beat faster at the thought of all that lovely countryside and grand climate on the Black Sea, dreaming the rest of his life away with his wife and sometimes seeing his son, an up-and-coming KGB officer presently in Washington, no longer at risk and in danger from within or without.

Oh God protect my son from betrayal or making a mistake, he prayed fervently, then at once felt a wave of nausea, as always, in case his superiors knew that he was a secret believer and that his parents, peasants, had brought him up in the Church. If they knew there would be no retirement in the Crimea, only some icy backwater and no real home ever again.

"Voranski," he said, as always cautiously hiding his hatred of the man. "He was a top operator, eh? Where did he slip?"

"He was betrayed, that was his problem," Suslev said darkly. "We will find his murderers and they will pay. If my name is on the next knife …" The big man shrugged, then poured more vodka with a sudden laugh. "So what, eh? It's in the name of the cause, the Party and Mother Russia!"

They touched glasses and drained them.

"When're you going ashore?"

Suslev bit on the raw liquor. Then, thankfully, he felt the great good warmth begin inside and his anxieties and terrors seemed less real. He motioned out of the porthole. "As soon as she's moored and safe," he said with his rolling laugh. "Ah, but she's a pretty ship, eh?"

"We've got nothing to touch that bastard, Captain, have we? Or those fighters. Nothing."

Suslev smiled as he poured again. "No, comrade. But if the enemy has no real will to resist they can have a hundred of those carriers and it doesn't matter."

"Yes, but Americans're erratic, one general can go off at half-cock, and they can smash us off the face of the earth."

"I agree, now they can, but they won't. They've no balls." Suslev drank again. "And soon? Just a little more time and we'll stick their noses up their asses!" He sighed. "It will be good when we begin."

"It'll be terrible."

"No, a short, almost bloodless war against America and then the rest'll collapse like the pus-infected corpse it is."

"Bloodless? What about their atom bombs? Hydrogen bombs?"

"They'll never use atomics or missiles against us, they're too scared, even now, of ours! Because they're sure we'll use them."

"Will we?"

"I don't know. Some commanders would. I don't know. We'll certainly use them back. But first? I don't know. The threat will always be enough. I'm sure we'll never need a fighting war." He lit a corner of the decoded message and put it in the ashtray. "Another twenty years of detente—ah what Russian genius invented that— we'll have a navy bigger and better than theirs, an air force bigger and better than theirs. We've got more tanks now and more soldiers, but without ships and airplanes we must wait. Twenty years is not long to wait for Mother Russia to rule the earth."

"And China? What about China?"

Suslev gulped the vodka and refilled both glasses again. The bottle was empty now and he tossed it onto his bunk. His eyes saw the burning paper in the ashtray twist and crackle, dying. "Perhaps China's the one place to use our atomics," he said matter-of-factly.

"There's nothing there we need. Nothing. That'd solve our China problem once and for all. How many men of military age did they have at last estimate?"

"116 million between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five."

"Think of that! 116 million yellow devils sharing 5,000 miles of our frontiers … and then foreigners call us paranoiac about China!" He sipped the vodka, this time making it last. "Atomics'd solve our China problem once and for all. Quick, simple and permanent."

The other man nodded. "And this Dunross? The papers of AMG?"

"We'll get them from him. After all, Dimitri, one of our people is family, another one of his partners, another's in Special Intelligence, there's Arthur and Sevrin everywhere he turns, and then we've a dozen decadents to call on in his parliament, some in his government." They both began laughing.

"And if he's destroyed the papers?"

Suslev shrugged. "They say he's got a photographic memory."

"You'd do the interrogation here?"

"It'd be dangerous to do an in-depth chemic quickly. I've never done one. Have you?"

"No."

The captain frowned. "When you report tonight, get Center to ready an expert in case we need one—Koronski from Vladivostok if he's available."

Dimitri nodded, lost in thought. This morning's Guardian, lying half-crumpled on the captain's bunk, caught his eye. He went over and picked it up, his eyes alight. "Gregor—if we have to detain Dunross, why not blame them, then you've all the time you'll need?" The screaming headline read, SUSPECTS IN WEREWOLVES KIDNAP CASE. "If Dunross doesn't return … perhaps our man'd become tai-pan! Eh?"

Suslev began to chuckle. "Dimitri, you're a genius."

Rosemont glanced at his watch. He had waited long enough. "Rog, can I use your phone?"

"Certainly," Crosse said.

The CIA man stubbed out his cigarette and dialed the central CIA exchange in the consulate.

"This is Rosemont—give me 2022." That was the CIA communications center.

"2022. Chapman—who's this?"

"Rosemont. Hi, Phil, anything new?"

"No, excepting Marty Povitz reports a lot of activity on the bridge of the Ivanov, high-powered binoculars. Three guys, Stan. One's a civilian, others're the captain and the first officer. One of their short-range radar sweep's working overtime. You want us to notify the Corregidor's captain?"

"Hell no, no need to make his tail wriggle more than needs be. Say, Phil, we get a confirm on our 40-41?"

"Sure Stan. It came in at… stand by one … it came in at 1603 local."

"Thanks, Phil, see you."

Rosemont lit another cigarette. Sourly Langan, a nonsmoker, watched him but said nothing as Crosse was smoking too.

"Rog, what are you pulling?" Rosemont asked harshly, to Lan-gan's shock. "You got your Priority l-4a at 1603, same time as we did. Why the stall?"

"I find it presently convenient," Crosse replied, his voice pleasant.

Rosemont flushed, so did Langan. "Well I don't and we've instructions, official instructions, to pick up our copies right now."

"So sorry, Stanley."

Rosemont's neck was now very red but he kept his temper. "You're not going to obey the l-4a?"

"Not at the moment."

Rosemont got up and headed for the door. "Okay, Rog, but they'll throw the book at you." He ripped the bolt back, jerked the door open and left. Langan was on his feet, his face also set.

"What's the reason, Roger?" he asked.

Crosse stared back at him calmly. "Reason for what?"

Ed Langan began to get angry but stopped, suddenly appalled. "Jesus, Roger, you haven't got them yet? Is that it?"

"Come now, Ed," Crosse said easily, "you of all people should know we're efficient."

"That's no answer, Roger. Have you or haven't you?" The FBI man's level eyes stayed on Crosse, and did not faze Crosse at all. Then he walked out, closing the door after him. At once Crosse touched the hidden switch. The bolt slid home. Another hidden switch turned off his tape recorder. He picked up his phone and dialed. "Brian? Have you heard from Dunross?"

"No sir."

"Meet me downstairs at once. With Armstrong."

"Yes sir."

Crosse hung up. He took out the formal arrest document that was headed DETAINMENT ORDER UNDER THE OFFICIAL SECRETS ACT. Quickly he filled in "Ian Struan Dunross" and signed both copies. The top copy he kept, the other he locked in his drawer. His eyes roamed his office, checking it. Satisfied, he delicately positioned a sliver of paper in the crack of his drawer so that he alone would know if anyone had opened it or tampered with it. He walked out. Heavy security locks slid home after him.

23

5:45 P.M. :

Dunross was in the Struan boardroom with the other directors of Nelson Trading, looking at Richard Kwang. "No, Richard. Sorry, I can't wait till after closing tomorrow."

"It'll make no difference to you, tai-pan. It will to me." Richard Kwang was sweating. The others watched him—Phillip Chen, Lando Mata and Zeppelin Tung.

"I disagree, Richard," Lando Mata said sharply. "Madonna, you don't seem to realize the seriousness of the run!"

"Yes," Zeppelin Tung said, his face shaking with suppressed rage.

Dunross sighed. If it wasn't for his presence he knew they would all be raving and screaming at each other, the obscenities flying back and forth as they do at any formal negotiation between Chinese, let alone one as serious as this. But it was a Noble House law that all board meetings were to be conducted in English, and English inhibited Chinese swearing and also unsettled Chinese which was of course the whole idea. "The matter has to be dealt with now, Richard."

"I agree." Lando Mata was a handsome, sharp-featured Portuguese in his fifties, his mother's Chinese blood clear in his dark eyes and dark hair and golden complexion. His long fine fingers drummed continuously on the conference table and he knew Richard Kwang would never dare disclose that he, Tightfist Tung and Smuggler Mo controlled the bank. Our bank's one enterprise, he thought angrily, but our bullion's something else. "We can't have our bullion, or our cash, in jeopardy!"

"Never," Zeppelin Tung said nervously. "My father wanted me to make that clear too. He wants his gold!"

"Madre de Dios, we've almost fifty tons of gold in your vaults."

"Actually it's over fifty tons," Zeppelin Tung said, the sweat beading his forehead. "My old man gave me the figures—it's 1,-792,668 ounces in 298,778 five-tael bars." The air in the large room was warm and humid, the windows open. Zeppelin Tung was a well-dressed, heavyset man of forty with small narrow eyes, the eldest son of Tightfist Tung, and his accent was upper-class British. His nickname came from a movie that Tightfist had seen the day of his birth. "Richard, isn't that right?"

Richard Kwang shifted the agenda paper in front of him which listed the quantity of gold and Nelson Trading's current balance. If he had to give up the bullion and cash tonight it would severely hurt the bank's liquidity and, when the news leaked, as of course it would, that would rock their whole edifice.

"What're you going to do, you dumbhead dog bone!" his wife had screamed at him just before he had left his office.

"Delay, delay and hope th—"

"No! Pretend to be sick! If you're sick you can't give them our money. You can't go to the meeting! Rush home and we'll pretend—"

"I can't, the tai-pan called personally. And so did that dog bone Mata! I daren't not go! Oh oh oh!"

"Then find out who's hounding us and pay him off! Where's your head? Who have you offended? You must have offended one of those dirty quai lohs. Find the man and pay him off or we'll lose the bank, lose our membership in the Turf Club, lose the horses, lose the Rolls and lose face forever! Ayeeyahl If the bank goes you'll never be Sir Richard Kwang, not that being Lady Kwang matters to me oh no! Do something! Find the . . ."

Richard Kwang felt the sweat running down his back but he kept his composure and tried to find a way out of the maze. "The gold's as safe as it could be and so's your cash. We've been Nelson Trading's bankers since the beginning, we've never had a sniff of trouble. We gambled heavily with you in the beginning—"

"Come now, Richard," Mata said, keeping his loathing hidden. "You don't gamble on gold. Certainly not on our gold." The gold belonged to the Great Good Luck Company of Macao which had also owned the gambling monopoly for almost thirty years. The present worth of the company was in excess of two billion U.S. Tightfist Tung owned 30 percent, personally, Lando Mata 40 percent personally—and the descendents of Smuggler Mo, who had died last year, the other 30 percent.

And between us, Mata was thinking, we own 50 percent of the Ho-Pak which you, you stupid lump of dog turd, have somehow put into jeopardy. "So sorry, Richard, but I vote Nelson Trading changes its bank—at least temporarily. Tightfist Tung is really very upset . . . and I have the Chin family's proxy."

"But Lando," Richard Kwang began, "there's nothing to worry about." His finger stabbed at the half-opened newspaper, the China Guardian, that lay on the table. "Haply's new article says again that we're sound—that it's all a storm in an oyster shell, all started by malicious ban—"

"That's possible. But Chinese believe rumors, and the run's a fact," Mata said sharply.

"My old man believes rumors," Zeppelin Tung said fervently. "He also believes Four Finger Wu. Four Fingers phoned him this afternoon telling him he'd taken out all his money and suggested he do the same, and within the hour we, Lando and I, we were in our Catalina and heading here and you know how I hate flying. Richard, you know jolly well if the old man wants something done now, it's done now."

Yes, Richard Kwang thought disgustedly, that filthy old miser would climb out of his grave for fifty cents cash. "I suggest we wait a day or so . . ."

Dunross was letting them talk for face. He had already decided what to do. Nelson Trading was a wholly owned subsidiary of Struan's so the other directors really had little say. But even though Nelson Trading had the Hong Kong Government's exclusive gold-importing license, without the Great Good Luck Company's gold business—which meant without Tightfist Tung and Lando Mata's favor—Nelson Trading's profits would be almost zero.

Nelson Trading got a commission of one dollar an ounce on every ounce imported for the company, delivered to the jetty at Macao, a further one dollar an ounce on exports from Hong Kong. As a further consideration for suggesting the overall Hong Kong scheme to the company, Nelson Trading had been granted 10 percent of the real profit. This year the Japanese Government had arbitrarily fixed their official rate of gold at 55 dollars an ounce—a profit of 15 dollars an ounce. On the black market it would be more. In India it would be almost 98 dollars.

Dunross glanced at his watch. In a few minutes Crosse would arrive.

"We've assets over a billion, Lando," Richard Kwang repeated.

"Good," Dunross said crisply jumping in, finalizing the meeting. "Then, Richard, it really makes no difference one way or another. There's no point in waiting. I've made certain arrangements, Our transfer truck will be at your side door at eight o'clock precisely."

"But—"

"Why so late, tai-pan?" Mata asked. "It's not six o'clock yet."

"It'll be dark then, Lando. I wouldn't want to shift 50 tons of gold in daylight. There might be a few villains around. You never know. Eh?"

"My God, you think . . . triads?" Zeppelin Tung was shocked. "I'll phone my father. He'll have some extra guards."

"Yes," Mata said, "call at once."

"No need for that," Dunross told him. "The police suggested that we don't make too much of a show. They said they'll be there in depth."

Mata hesitated. "Well if you say so, tai-pan. You're responsible."

"Of course," Dunross said politely.

"How do we know the Victoria's safe?"

"If the Victoria fails we might as well not be in China." Dunross picked up the phone and dialed Johnjohn's private number at the bank. "Bruce? Ian. We'll need the vault—8:30 on the dot."

"Very well. Our security people will be there to assist. Use the side door—the one on Dirk's Street."

"Yes."

"Have the police been informed?"

"Yes."

"Good. By the way, Ian, about … is Richard still with you?"

"Yes."

"Give me a call when you can—I'm at home this evening. I've been checking and things don't look very good at all for him. My Chinese banking friends are all very nervous—even the Mok-tung had a mini-run out at Aberdeen, so did we. Of course we'll advance Richard all the money he needs against his securities, bankable securities, but if I were you I'd get any cash you control out. Get Blacs to deal with your check first at clearing tonight." All bank clearing of checks and bank loans was done in the basement of the Bank of London, Canton and Shanghai at midnight, five days a week.

"Thanks, Bruce. See you later." Then to the others, "That's all taken care of. Of course the transfer should be kept quiet. Richard, I'll need a cashier's check for Nelson Trading balance."

"And I'll have one for my father's balance!" Zeppelin echoed.

Richard Kwang said, "I'll send the checks over first thing in the morning."

"Tonight," Mata said, "then they can clear tonight." His eyes lidded even more. "And, of course, another for my personal balance."

"There isn't enough cash to cover those three checks—no bank could have that amount," Richard Kwang exploded. "Not even the Bank of England."

"Of course. Please call whomever you wish to pledge some of your securities. Or Havergill, or Southerby." Mata's fingers stopped drumming. "They're expecting your call."

"What?"

"Yes. I talked to both of them this afternoon."

Richard Kwang said nothing. He had to find a way to avoid giving the money over tonight. If not tonight, he would gain a day's interest and by tomorrow perhaps it would not be necessary to pay. Dew neh loh moh on all filthy quai loh and half quai loh, who're worse! His smile was as sweet as Mata's. "Well, as you wish. If you'll both meet me at the bank in an hour …"

"Even better," Dunross said. "Phillip will go with you now. You can give him all the checks. Is that all right with you, Phillip?"

"Oh, oh yes, yes, tai-pan."

"Good, thank you. Then if you'll take them right over to Blacs, they'll clear at midnight. Richard, that gives you plenty of time. Doesn't it?"

"Oh yes, tai-pan," Richard Kwang said, brightening. He had just thought of a brilliant answer. A pretended heart attack! I'll do it in the car going back to the bank and then . . .

Then he saw the coldness in Dunross's eyes and his stomach twisted and he changed his mind. Why should they have so much of my money? he thought as he got up. "You don't need me for anything more at the moment? Good, come along, Phillip." They walked out. There was a vast silence.

"Poor Phillip, he looks ghastly," Mata said.

"Yes. It's no wonder."

"Dirty triads," Zeppelin Tung said with a shudder. "The Werewolves must be foreigners to send his ear like that!" Another shudder. "I hope they don't come to Macao. There's a strong rumor Phillip's dealing with them already, negotiating with the Werewolves in Macao."

"There's no truth to that," Dunross said.

"He wouldn't tell you if he was, tai-pan. I'd keep that secret from everyone too." Zeppelin Tung stared gloomily at the phone. "Dew neh loh moh on all filthy kidnappers."

"Is the Ho-Pak finished?" Mata asked.

"Unless Richard Kwang can stay liquid, yes. This afternoon Dunstan closed all his accounts."

"Ah, so once again a rumor's correct!"

"Afraid so!" Dunross was sorry for Richard Kwang and the Ho-Pak but tomorrow he would sell short. "His stock's going to plummet."

"How will that affect the boom you've forecast?"

"Have I?"

"You're buying Struan's heavily, so I hear." Mata smiled thinly. "So has Phillip, and his tai-tai, and her family."

"Anyone's wise to buy our stock, Lando, at any time. It's very underpriced."

Zeppelin Tung was listening very carefully. His heart quickened. He too had heard rumors about the Noble House Chens buying today. "Did you see Old Blind Tung's column today? About the coming boom? He was very serious."

"Yes," Dunross said gravely. When he had read it this morning he had chortled, and his opinion of Dianne Chen's influence had soared. In spite of himself Dunross had reread it and had wondered briefly if the soothsayer had really been forecasting his own opinion.

"Is Old Blind Tung a relation, Zep?" he asked.

"No, tai-pan, no, not that I know of. Dew neh loh moh but it's hot today. I'll be glad to get back to Macao—the weather's much better in Macao. Are you in the motor race this year, tai-pan?"

"Yes, I hope so."

"Good! Damn the Ho-Pak! Richard will give us our checks, won't he? My old man will bust a blood vessel if one penny cash is missing."

"Yes," Dunross said, then noticed a strangeness in Mata's eyes. What's up?"

"Nothing." Mata glanced at Zeppelin. "Zep, it's really important we have your father's approval quickly. Why don't you and Claudia track him down."

"Good idea." Obediently the Chinese got to his feet and walked out, closing the door. Dunross turned his attention to Mata. "And?"

Mata hesitated. Then he said quietly, "Ian, I'm considering taking all my funds out of Macao and Hong Kong and putting them in New York."

Dunross stared at him, perturbed. "If you did that you'd rattle our whole system. If you withdraw, Tightfist will too, and the Chins, Four Fingers . . . and all the others."

"Which is more important, tai-pan, the system or your own money?"

"I wouldn't want the system shaken like that."

"You've closed with Par-Con?"

Dunross watched him. "Verbally yes. Contracts in seven days. Withdrawing will hurt us all, Lando. Badly. What's bad for us will be very bad for you and very very bad for Macao."

"I'll consider what you say. So Par-Con's coming into Hong Kong. Very good—and if American Superfoods' takeover of the H.K. General Stores goes through, that'll add another boost to the market. Perhaps Old Blind Tung wasn't exaggerating again. Perhaps we'll be lucky. Has he ever been wrong before?"

"I don't know. Personally I don't think he has a private connection with the Almighty, though a lot of people do."

"A boom would be very good, very good indeed. Perfect timing. Yes," Mata added strangely, "we could add a little fuel to the greatest boom in our history. Eh?"

"Would you assist?"

"Ten million U.S., between myself and the Chins-—Tightfist won't be interested, I know. You suggest where and when."

"Half a million into Struan's last thing Thursday, the rest spread over Rothwell-Gornt, Asian Properties, Hong Kong Wharf, Hong Kong Power, Golden Ferries, Kowloon Investments and H. K. General Stores."

"Why Thursday? Why not tomorrow?"

"The Ho-Pak will bring the market down. If we buy in quantity Thursday just before closing, we'll make a fortune."

"When do you announce the Par-Con deal?"

Dunross hesitated. Then he said, "Friday, after the market closes."

"Good. I'm with you, Ian. Fifteen million. Fifteen instead often. You'll sell the Ho-Pak short tomorrow?"

"Of course. Lando, do you know who's behind the run on the Ho-Pak?"

"No. But Richard is overextended, and he hasn't been too wise. People talk, Chinese always distrust any bank, and they react to rumors. I think the bank will crash."

"Christ!"

"Joss." Mata's fingers stopped drumming. "I want to triple our gold imports."

Dunross stared at him. "Why? You're up to capacity now. If you push them too fast they'll make mistakes and your seizure rate will go up. At the moment you've balanced everything perfectly."

"Yes, but Four Fingers and others assure us they can make some substantial bulk shipments safely."

"No need to push them—or your market. No need at all."

"Ian, listen to me a moment. There's trouble in Indonesia, trouble in China, India, Tibet, Malaya, Singapore, ferment in the Philippines and now the Americans are going into Southeast Asia which will be marvelous for us and dreadful for them. Inflation will soar and then, as usual, every sensible businessman in Asia, particularly Chinese businessmen, will want to get out of paper money and into gold. We should be ready to service that demand."

"What've you heard, Lando?"

"Lots of curious things, tai-pan. For example, that certain top U.S. generals want a full-scale confrontation with the Communists. Vietnam's chosen."

"But the Americans'll never win there. China can't let them, any more than they could in Korea. Any history book will tell them China always crosses her borders to protect her buffer zones when any invader approaches."

"Even so, the confrontation will take place."

Dunross studied Lando Mata whose enormous wealth and longtime involvement in the honorable profession of trading, as he described it, gave him vast entree into the most secretive of places. "What else have you heard, Lando?"

"The CIA has had its budget doubled."

"That has to be classified. No one could know that."

"Yes. But I know. Their security's appalling. Ian, the CIA's into everything in Southeast Asia. I believe some of their misguided zealots are even trying to wheedle into the opium trade in the Golden Triangle for the benefit of their friendly Mekong hill tribes —to encourage them to fight the Viet Cong."

"Christ!"

"Yes. Our brethren in Taiwan are furious. And there's a growing abundance of U.S. Government money pouring into airfields, harbors, roads. In Okinawa, Taiwan and particularly in South Vietnam. Certain highly connected political families are helping to supply the cement and steel on very favorable terms."

"Who?"

"Who makes cement? Perhaps in … say in New England?"

"Good sweet Christ, are you sure?"

Mata smiled humorlessly. "I even heard that part of a very large government loan to South Vietnam was expended on a nonexistent airfield that's still impenetrable jungle. Oh yes, Ian, the pickings are already huge. So please order triple shipments from tomorrow. We institute our new hydrofoil services next month—that'll cut the time to Macao from three hours to seventy-five minutes."

"Wouldn't the Catalina still be safer?"

"No. I don't think so. The hydrofoils can carry much more gold and can outrun anything in these waters—we'll have constant radar communications, the best, so we can outrun any pirates." . After a pause, Dunross said, "So much gold could attract all sorts of villains. Perhaps even international crooks."

Mata smiled his thin smile. "Let them come. They'll never leave. We've long arms in Asia." His fingers began drumming again. "Ian, we're old friends, I would like some advice."

"Glad to—anything."

"Do you believe in change?"

"Business change?"

"Yes."

"It depends, Lando," Dunross answered at once. "The Noble House's changed little in almost a century and a half, in other ways it's changed vastly." He watched the older man, and he waited.

At length Mata said, "In a few weeks the Macao Government is obliged to put the gambling concession up for bids again. . . ." Instantly Dunross's attention zeroed. All big business in Macao was conducted on monopoly lines, the monopoly going to the person or company that offered the most taxes per year for the privilege. ". . . This's the fifth year. Every five years our department asks for closed bids. The auction's open to anyone but, in practice, we scrutinize very particularly those who are invited to bid." The silence hung a moment, then Mata continued, "My old associate, Smuggler Mo's already dead. His offspring're mostly profligate or more interested in the Western world, gambling in southern France or playing golf, than in the health and future of the syndicate. For the Mo it's the age-old destiny: one-in-ten-thousand coolie strikes gold, harbors money, invests in land, saves money, becomes rich, buys young concubines who use him up quickly. Second generation discontented, spend money, mortgage land to buy face and ladies' favors. Third generation sell land, go bankrupt for same favors. Fourth generation coolie." His voice was calm, even gentle. "My old friend's dead and I've no feeling for his sons, or their sons. They're rich, hugely rich because of me, and they'll find their own level, good, bad or very bad. As to Tightfist…" Again his fingers stopped. "Tightfist's dying."

Dunross was startled. "But I saw him only a week or so ago and he looked healthy, frail as always, but full of his usual piss and vinegar."

"He's dying, Ian. I know because I was his interpreter with the Portuguese specialists. He didn't want to trust any of his sons— that's what he told me. It took me months to get him to go to see them but both doctors were quite sure: cancer of the colon. His system's riddled with it. They gave him a month, two months . . . this was a week ago." Mata smiled. "Old Tightfist just swore at them, told them they were wrong and fools and that he'd never pay for a wrong diagnosis." The lithe Portuguese laughed without-humor. "He's worth over 600 million U.S. but he'll never pay that doctor bill, or do anything but continue to drink foul-smelling, foul-tasting Chinese herbal brews and smoke his occasional opium pipe. He just won't accept a Western, a quai loh diagnosis—you know him. You know him very well, eh?"

"Yes." When Dunross was on his school holidays his father would send him to work for certain old friends. Tightfist Tung had been one of them and Dunross remembered the hideous summer he had spent sweating in the filthy basement of the syndicate bank in Macao, trying to please his mentor and not to weep with rage at the thought of what he had to endure while all his friends were out playing. But now he was glad for that summer. Tightfist had taught him much about money—the value of it, how to make it, hold on to it, about usury, greed and the normal Chinese lending rate, in good times, of 2 percent a month.

"Take twice as much collateral as you need but if he has none then look at the eyes of the borrower!" Tightfist would scream at him. "No collateral, then of course charge a bigger interest. Now think, can you trust him? Can he repay the money? Is he a worker or a drone? Look at him, fool, he's your collateral! How much of my hard-earned money does he want? Is he a hard worker? If he is, what's 2 percent a month to him—or 4? Nothing. But it's my money that'll make the fornicator rich if it's his joss to be rich. The man himselfs all the collateral you ever need! Lend a rich man's son anything if he's borrowing against his heritage and you have the father's chop—it'll all be thrown away on singsong girls but never mind, it's his money not yours! How do you become rich? You save! You save money, buy land with one third, lend one third and keep one third in cash. Lend only to civilized persons and never trust a quai loh …" he would cackle.

Dunross remembered well the old man with his stony eyes, hardly any teeth—an illiterate who could read but three characters and could write but three characters, those of his name—who had a mind like a computer, who knew to the nearest copper cash who owed him what and when it was due. No one had ever defaulted on one of his loans. It wasn't worth the incessant hounding.

That summer he had been thirteen and Lando Mata had befriended him. Then, as now, Mata was almost a wraith, a mysterious presence who moved in and out of Macao's government spheres as he wished, always in the background, hardly seen, barely known, a strange Asian who came and went at whim, gathered what he liked, harvesting unbelievable riches as and when it pleased him. Even today there were but a handful of people who knew his name, let alone the man himself. Even Dunross had never been to his villa on the Street of the Broken Fountain, the low sprawling building hidden behind the iron gates and the huge stone encircling walls, or knew anything about him really—where he came from, who his parents were or how he had managed to acquire those two monopolies of limitless wealth.

"I'm sorry to hear about old Tightfist," Dunross said. "He was always a rough old bastard, but no rougher to me than to any of his own sons."

"Yes. He's dying. Joss. And I've no feeling for any of his heirs. Like the Chins, they'll be rich, all of them. Even Zeppelin," Lando Mata said with a sneer. "Even Zeppelin'll get 50 to 75 million U.S."

"Christ, when you think of all the money gambling makes . .."

Mata's eyes lidded. "Should I make a change?"

"If you want to leave a monument, yes. At the moment the syndicate only allows Chinese gambling games: fan-tan, dominoes and dice. If the new group was modern, far-seeing, and they modernized … if they built a grand new casino, with tables for roulette, vingt-et-un, chemin de fer, even American craps you'd have all Asia flocking to Macao."

"What're the chances of Hong Kong legalizing gambling?"

"None—you know better than I do that without gambling and gold Macao'd drift into the sea and it's a cornerstone of British and Hong Kong business policy never to let that happen. We have our horse racing—you've the tables. But with modern ownership, new hotels, new games, new hydrofoils you'd have so much revenue you'd have to open your own bank."

Lando Mata took out a slip of paper, glanced at it, then handed it over. "Here are four groups of three names of people who might be allowed to bid. I'd like your opinion."

Dunross did not look at the list. "You'd like me to choose the group of three you've already decided on?"

Mata laughed. "Ah, Ian, you know too much about me! Yes, I've chosen the group that should be successful, if their bid is substantial enough."

"Do any of the groups know now that you might take them as partners?"

"No."

"What about Tightfist—and the Chins? They won't lose their monopoly lightly."

"If Tightfist dies before the auction, a new syndicate will come to pass. If not, the change will be made but differently."

Dunross glanced at the list. And gasped. All the names were well-known Hong Kong and Macao Chinese, all substantial people, some with curious pasts. "Well, they're certainly all famous, Lando."

"Yes. To earn such great wealth, to run a gambling empire needs men of vision." Dunross smiled with him. "I agree. Then why is it I'm not on the list?"

"Resign from the Noble House within the month and you can form your own syndicate. I guarantee your bid will be successful. I take 40 percent."

"Sorry, that's not possible, Lando."

"You could have a personal fortune of 500 million to a billion dollars within ten years."

Dunross shrugged. "What's money?"

"Moh cfting moh meng!" No money no life.

"Yes, but there's not enough money in the world to make me resign. Still, I'll make a deal with you. Struan's'll run the gambling for you, through nominees."

"Sorry, no. It has to be all or nothing."

"We could do it better and cheaper than anyone, with more flair."

"If you resign. All or none, tai-pan."

Dunross's head hurt at the thought of so much money, but he heard Lando Mata's finality. "Fair enough. Sorry, I'm not available," he said.

"I'm sure you'd, you personally, would be welcomed as a … as a consultant."

"If I choose the correct group?"

"Perhaps." The Portuguese smiled. "Well?"

Dunross was wondering whether or not he could risk such an association. To be part of the Macao gambling syndicate was not like being a steward of the Turf Club. "I'll think about that and let you know."

"Good, Ian. Give me your opinion within the next two days, eh?"

"All right. Will you tell me what the successful bid is—if you decide to change?"

"An associate or consultant should have that knowledge. Now a last item and I must go. I don't think you'll ever see your friend Tsu-yan again."

Dunross stared at him. "What?"

"He called me from Taipei, yesterday morning, in quite a state. He asked if I'd send the Catalina for him, to pick him up privately. It was urgent he said, he'd explain when he saw me. He'd come straight to my home, the moment he arrived." Mata shrugged and examined his perfectly manicured nails. "Tsu-yan's an old friend, I've accommodated old friends before, so I authorized the flight. He never appeared, Ian. Oh he came with the flying boat—my chauffeur was on the jetty to meet him." Mata looked up. "It's all rather unbelievable. Tsu-yan was dressed in filthy coolie rags with a straw hat. He mumbled something about seeing me later that night and jumped into the first taxi and took off as though all the devils from hell were at his heels. My driver was stunned."

"There's no mistake? You're sure it was he?"

"Oh yes, Tsu-yan's well known—fortunately my driver's Portuguese and can take some initiative. He charged in pursuit. He says Tsu-yan's taxi headed north. Near the Barrier Gate the taxi stopped and then Tsu-yan fled on foot, as fast as he could run, through the Barrier Gate into China. My man watched him run all the way up to the soldiers on the PRC's side and then he vanished into the guardhouse."

Dunross stared at Mata in disbelief. Tsu-yan was one of the best-known capitalists and anti-Communists in Hong Kong and Taiwan. Before the fall of the Mainland he had been almost a minor warlord in the Shanghai area. "Tsu-yan'd never be welcome in the PRC," he said. "Never! He must be top of their shit list."

Mata hesitated. "Unless he was working for them."

"It's just not possible."

"Anything's possible in China."

Twenty stories below, Roger Crosse and Brian Kwok were getting out of the police car, followed by Robert Armstrong. A plain-clothes SI man met them. "Dunross's still in his office, sir."

"Good." Robert Armstrong stayed at the entrance and the other two went for the elevator. On the twentieth floor they got out.

"Ah good evening, sir," Claudia said and smiled at Brian Kwok. Zeppelin Tung was waiting by the phone. He stared at the policemen in sudden shock, obviously recognizing them.

Roger Crosse said, "Mr. Dunross's expecting me."

"Yes sir." She pressed the boardroom button and, in a moment, spoke into her phone. "Mr. Crosse's here, tai-pan."

Dunross said, "Give me a minute, then show him in, Claudia." He replaced his phone and turned to Mata. "Crosse's here. If I miss you at the bank tonight, I'll catch up with you tomorrow morning."

"Yes. I'm … please call me, Ian. Yes. I want a few minutes with you privately. Tonight or tomorrow."

"At nine tonight," Dunross said at once. "Or anytime tomorrow."

"Call me at nine. Or tomorrow. Thank you." Mata walked across the room and opened a hardly noticeable door that was camouflaged as part of the bookshelves. This opened onto a private corridor which led to the floor below. He closed the door behind him.

Dunross stared after him thoughtfully. I wonder what's on his mind? He put the agenda papers in a drawer and locked it, then leaned back at the head of the table trying to collect his wits, his eyes on the door, his heart beating a little quicker. The phone rang and he jumped.

"Yes?"

"Father," Adryon said in her usual rush, "sorry to interrupt but Mother wanted to know what time you'd be in for dinner."

"I'll be late. Ask her to go ahead. I'll get something on the run. What time did you get in last night?" he asked, remembering that he had heard her car return just before dawn.

"Early," she said, and he was going to give her both barrels but he heard unhappiness under her voice.

"What's up, pet?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"What's up?"

"Nothing really. I had a grand day, had lunch with your Line Harriett—we went shopping but that twit Martin stood me up."

"What?"

"Yes. I waited a bloody hour for him. We had a date to go to the V and A for tea but he never showed up. Rotten twit!"

Dunross beamed. "You just can't rely on some people, can you, Adryon? Fancy! Standing you up! What cheek!" he told her, suitably grave, delighted that Haply was going to get what for.

"He's a creep! A twenty-four-carat creep!"

The door opened. Crosse and Brian Kwok came in. He nodded to them, beckoned them. Claudia shut the door after them.

"Got to go, darling. Hey pet, love you! 'Bye!" He put the phone down. "Evening," he said, no longer perturbed.

"The files please, Ian."

"Certainly, but first we've got to see the governor."

"First I want those files." Crosse pulled out the warrant as Dunross picked up the phone and dialed. He waited only a moment. "Evening, sir. Superintendent Crosse's here… yes sir." He held out the phone. "For you."

Crosse hesitated, hard-faced, then took it. "Superintendent Crosse," he said into the phone. He listened a moment. "Yes sir. Very well, sir." He replaced the phone. "Now, what the hell shenanigans are you up to?"

"None. Just being careful."

Crosse held up the warrant. "If I don't get the files, I've clearance from London to serve this on you at six P.M. today, governor or no."

Dunross stared back at him, just as hard. "Please go ahead."

"You're served, Ian Struan Dunross! Sorry, but you're under arrest!"

Dunross's jaw jutted a little. "All right. But first by God we will see the governor!"

24

6:20 P.M. :

The tai-pan and Roger Crosse were walking across the white pebbles toward the front door of the Governor's Palace. Brian Kwok waited beside the police car. The front door opened and the young equerry in Royal Navy uniform greeted them politely, then ushered them into an exquisite antechamber.

His Excellency, Sir Geoffrey Allison, D.S.O., O.B.E., was a sandy-haired man in his late fifties, neat, soft-spoken and very tough. He sat at an antique desk and watched them. "Evening," he said easily and waved them to seats. His equerry closed the door, leaving them. "It seems we have a problem, Roger. Ian has some rather private property that he legally owns and is reluctant to give you—that you want."

"Legally want, sir. I've London's authority under the Official Secrets Act."

"Yes, I know that, Roger. I talked to the minister an hour ago. He said, and I agree, we can hardly arrest Ian and go through the Noble House like a dose of salts. That really wouldn't be very proper, or very sensible, however serious we are in obtaining the AMG files. And, equally, it wouldn't be very proper or sensible to acquire them with cloaks and daggers—that sort of thing. Would it?"

Crosse said, "With lan's cooperation none of that would be necessary. I've pointed out to him that Her Majesty's Government was completely involved. He just doesn't seem to get the message, sir. He should cooperate."

"I quite agree. The minister said the same. Of course when Ian came here this morning he did explain his reasons for being so, so cautious… quite proper reasons if I may say so! The minister agrees too." The gray eyes became piercing. "Just exactly who is the deep-cover Communist agent in my police? Who are the Sevrin plants?"

There was a vast silence. "I don't know, sir."

"Then would you be kind enough to find out very quickly. Ian was kind enough to let me read the AMG report you rightly intercepted." The governor's face mottled, quoting from it, " '. . . this information should be leaked privately to the police commissioner or governor should they be considered loyal. . .' Bless my soul! What's going on in the world?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Well you're supposed to, Roger. Yes." The governor watched them. "Now. What about the mole? What sort of man would he be?"

"You, me, Dunross, Havergill, Armstrong—anyone," Crosse said at once. "But with one characteristic: I think this one's so deep that he's probably almost forgotten who he really is, or where his real political interest and loyalty lie. He'd be very special—like all of Sevrin." The thin-faced man stared at Dunross. "They must be special—Si's checks and balances are really very good, and the CIA's, but we've never had a whiff of Sevrin before, not a jot or a tittle."

Dunross said, "How're you going to catch him?"

"How're you going to catch your plant in Struan's?"

"I've no idea." Would the Sevrin spy be the same as the one who betrayed our secrets to Bartlett? Dunross was asking himself uneasily. "If he's top echelon, he's one of seven—all unthinkable."

"There you have it," Crosse said. "All unthinkable, but one's a spy. If we get one, we can probably break the others out of him if he knows them." Both the other men felt icy at the calm viciousness in his voice. "But to get the one, someone has to make a slip, or we have to get a little luck."

The governor thought a moment. Then he said, "Ian assures me there's nothing in the previous reports that names anyone—or gives any clues. So the other reports wouldn't help us immediately."

"They could, sir, in other areas, sir."

"I know." The words were quietly spoken but they said Shut up, sit down and wait till I've finished. Sir Geoffrey let the silence hang for a while. "So our problem seems to be simply a matter of asking Ian for his cooperation. I repeat, I agree that his caution is justified."

His face tightened. "Philby, Burgess and Maclean taught us all a fine lesson. I must confess every time I make a call to London I wonder if I'm talking to another bloody traitor." He blew his nose in a handkerchief. "Well, enough of that. Ian, kindly tell Roger the circumstances under which you'll hand over the AMG copies."

"I'll hand them, personally, to the head or deputy head of MI-6 or MI-5, providing I have his Excellency's guarantee in writing that the man I give them to is who he purports to be."

"The minister agrees to this, sir?"

"If you agree, Roger." Again it was said politely but the undercurrent said You'd better agree, Roger.

"Very well, sir. Has Mr. Sinders agreed to the plan?"

"He will be here on Friday, BOAC willing."

"Yes sir." Roger Crosse glanced at Dunross. "I'd better keep the files then until then. You can give me a sealed pa—"

Dunross shook his head. "They're safe until I deliver them."

Crosse shook his head. "No. If we know, others'd know. The others're not so clean-handed as we are. We must know where they are—we'd better have a guard, around the clock."

Sir Geoffrey nodded. "That's fair enough, Ian?"

Dunross thought a moment. "Very well. I've put them in a vault at the Victoria Bank." Crosse's neck became pink as Dunross produced a key and laid it on the desk. The numbers were carefully defaced. "There're about a thousand safety deposit boxes. I alone know the number. This's the only key. If you'll keep it, Sir Geoffrey. Then . . . well, that's about the best I can do to avoid risks."

"Roger?"

"Yes sir. If you agree."

"They're certainly safe there. Certainly not possible to break open all of them. Good, then that's all settled. Ian, the warrant's canceled. You do promise, Ian, to deliver them to Sinders the moment he arrives?" Again the eyes became piercing. "I have really gone to a lot of trouble over this."

"Yes sir."

"Good. Then that's settled. Nothing yet on poor John Chen, Roger?"

"No sir, we're trying everything."

"Terrible business. Ian, what's all this about the Ho-Pak? Are they really in trouble?"

"Yes sir."

"Will they go under?"

"I don't know. The word seems to be they will."

"Damnable! I don't like that at all. Very bad for our image. And the Par-Con deal?"

"It looks good. I hope to have a favorable report for you next week, sir."

"Excellent. We could use some big American firms here." He smiled. "I understand the girl's a stunner! By the way, the Parliamentary Trade Delegation's due from Peking tomorrow. I'll entertain them Thursday—you'll come of course."

"Yes sir. Will the dinner be stag?"

"Yes, good idea."

"I'll invite them to the races Saturday—the overflow can go into the bank's box, sir."

"Good. Thank you, Ian. Roger, if you'll spare me a moment."

Dunross got up and shook hands and left. Though he had come with Crosse in the police car, his own Rolls was waiting for him. Brian Kwok intercepted him. "What's the poop, Ian?"

"I was asked to let your boss tell you," he said.

"Fair enough. Is he going to be long?"

"I don't know. Everything's all right, Brian. No need to worry. I think I dealt with the dilemma correctly."

"Hope so. Sorry—bloody business."

"Yes." Dunross got into the back of the Silver Cloud. "Golden Ferry," he said crisply.

Sir Geoffrey was pouring the fine sherry into two exquisite, eggshell porcelain cups. "This AMG business is quite frightening, Roger," he said. "I'm afraid I'm still not inured to treachery, betrayal and the rotten lengths the enemy will go to—even after all this time." Sir Geoffrey had been in the Diplomatic Corps all of his working life, except for the war years when he was a staff officer in the British Army. He spoke Russian, Mandarin, French and Italian. "Dreadful."

"Yes sir." Crosse watched him. "You're sure you can trust Ian?"

"On Friday you won't need London's clearance to proceed. You have an Order in Council. On Friday we take possession."

"Yes sir." Crosse accepted the porcelain cup, its fragility bothering him. "Thank you, sir."

"I suggest you have two men in the bank vaults at all times, one

SI, one CID for safety, and a plainclothes guard on the tai-pan— quietly, of course."

"I'll arrange about the bank before I leave. I've already put him under blanket surveillance."

"You've already done it?"

"On him? Yes sir. I presumed he'd manipulate the situation to suit his purposes. lan's a very tricky fellow. After all, the tai-pan of the Noble House is never a fool."

"No. Health!" They touched glasses delicately. The ring of the pottery was beautiful. "This tai-pan's the best I've dealt with."

"Did Ian mention if he'd reread all the files recently, sir? Last night, for instance?"

Sir Geoffrey frowned, rethinking their conversation this morning. "I don't think so. Wait a minute, he did say . . . exactly he said, 'When I first read the reports I thought some of AMG's ideas were too farfetched. But now—and now that he's dead, I've changed my mind . . .' That could imply he's reread them recently. Why?"

Crosse was examining the paper-thin porcelain cup against the light. "I've often heard he's got a remarkable memory. If the files in the vaults are untouchable . . . well, I wouldn't want the KGB tempted to snatch him."

"Good God, you don't think they'd be that stupid, do you? The tai-pan?"

"It depends what importance they put on the reports, sir," Crosse said dispassionately. "Perhaps our surveillance should be relatively open—that should scare them off if they happen to have that in mind. Would you mention it to him, sir?"

"Certainly." Sir Geoffrey made a note on his pad. "Good idea. Damnable business. Could the Werewolves … could there be a link between the smuggled guns and the John Chen kidnapping?"

"I don't know, sir. Yet. I've put Armstrong and Brian Kwok on to the case. If there's a connection they'll find it." He watched the dying sunlight on the pale, powder blue translucence of the porcelain that seemed to enhance the golden sheen of the dry La Ina sherry. "Interesting, the play of colors."

"Yes. They're T'ang Ying—named after the director of the Emperor's factory in 1736. Emperor Ch'en Leung actually." Sir Geoffrey looked up at Crosse. "A deep-cover spy in my police, in my Colonial Office, my Treasury Department, the naval base, the Victoria, telephone company, and even the Noble House. They could paralyze us and create untold mischief between us and the PRC."

"Yes sir." Crosse peered at the cup. "Seems impossible that it should be so thin. I've never seen such a cup before."

"You're a collector?"

"No sir. Afraid I don't know anything about them."

"These're my favorites, Roger, quite rare. They're called t'o t'ai —without body. They're so thin that the glazes, inside and out, seem to touch."

"I'm almost afraid to hold it."

"Oh, they're quite strong. Delicate of course but strong. Who could be Arthur?"

Crosse sighed. "There's no clue in this report. None. I've read it fifty times. There must be something in the others, whatever Dun-ross thinks."

"Possibly."

The delicate cup seemed to fascinate Crosse. "Porcelain's a clay, isn't it?"

"Yes. But this type is actually made from a mixture of two clays, Roger, kaolin—after the hilly district of Kingtehchen where it's found—and pan tun tse, the so-called little white blocks. Chinese call these the flesh and the bones of porcelain." Sir Geoffrey walked over to the ornate leather-topped table that served as a bar and brought back the decanter. It was about eight inches high and quite translucent, almost transparent. "The blue's remarkable too. When the body's quite dry, cobalt in powder form's blown onto the porcelain with a bamboo pipe. Actually the color's thousands of individual tiny specks of blue. Then it's glazed and fired—at about 1300 degrees." He put it back on the bar, the touch of the workmanship and the sight of it pleasing him.

"Remarkable."

"There was always an Imperial Edict against their export. We quai loh were only entitled to articles made out ofhua shih, slippery stone, or tun ni— brick mud." He looked at his cup again, as a connoisseur. "The genius who made this probably earned 100 dollars a year."

"Perhaps he was overpaid," Crosse said and the two men smiled with one another.

"Perhaps."

"I'll find Arthur, sir, and the others. You can depend on it."

"I'm afraid I have to, Roger. Both the minister and I agree. He fwill have to inform the Prime Minister—and the Chiefs of Staff." "Then the information has to go through all sorts of hands and tongues and the enemy'll be bound to find out that we may be on to them."

"Yes. So we'll have to work fast. I bought you four days' grace, Roger. The minister won't pass anything on for that time."

"Bought, sir?"

"Figuratively speaking. In life one acquires and gives lOUs— even in the Diplomatic Corps."

"Yes sir. Thank you."

"Nothing on Bartlett and Miss Casey?"

"No sir. Rosemont and Langan have asked for up-to-date dossiers. There seems to be some connection between Bartlett and Banastasio—we're not sure yet what it is. Both he and Miss Tcholok were in Moscow last month."

"Ah!" Sir Geoffrey replenished the cups. "What did you do about that poor fellow Voranski?"

"I sent the body back to his ship, sir." Crosse told him the gist of his meeting with Rosemont and Langan and about the photographs.

"That's a stroke of luck! Our cousins are getting quite smart," the governor said. "You'd better find those assassins before the KGB do—or the CIA, eh?"

"I have teams around the house now. As soon as they appear we'll grab them. We'll hold them incommunicado of course. I've tightened security all around the Ivanov. No one else'll slip through the net, I promise you. No one."

"Good. The police commissioner said he'd ordered CID to be more alert too." Sir Geoffrey thought a moment. "I'll send a minute to the secretary about your not complying with the l-4a. American liaison in London's sure to be very upset, but under the circumstances, how could you obey?"

"If I might suggest, it might be better to ask him not to mention we haven't got the files yet, sir. That information might also get into the wrong hands. Leave well alone, as long as we can."

"Yes, I agree." The governor sipped his sherry. "There's lots of wisdom in laissez-faire, isn't there?"

"Yes sir."

Sir Geoffrey glanced at his watch. "I'll phone him in a few minutes, catch him before lunch. Good. But there's one problem I can't leave alone: the Ivanov. This morning I heard from our unofficial intermediary that Peking views that ship's presence here with the greatest concern." The quite unofficial spokesman for the PRC in Hong Kong and the ranking Communist appointment was believed to be, presently, one of the deputy chairmen of the Bank of China, China's central bank through which passed all foreign exchange and all the billion U.S. dollars earned by supplying consumer goods and almost all Hong Kong's food and water. Britain had always maintained, bluntly, that Hong Kong was British soil, a Crown Colony. In all of Hong Kong's history, since 1841, Britain had never allowed any official Chinese representative to reside in the Colony. None.

"He went out of his way to jiggle me about the Ivanov," Sir Geoffrey continued, "and he wanted to register Peking's extreme displeasure that a Soviet spy ship was here. He even suggested I might think it wise to expel it. … After all, he said, we hear one of the Soviet KGB spies posing as a seaman had actually got himself killed on our soil. I thanked him for his interest and told him I'd advise my superiors—in due course." Sir Geoffrey sipped some sherry. "Curiously, he didn't appear irritated that the nuclear carrier was here."

"That's strange!" Crosse was equally surprised.

"Does that indicate another policy shift—a distinct significant foreign-policy change, a desire for peace with the U.S.? I can't believe that. Everything indicates pathological hatred of the U.S.A."

The governor sighed and refilled the cups. "If it leaked that Sevrin's in existence, that we're undermined here… God almighty, they'd go into convulsions, and rightly so!"

"We'll find the traitors, sir, don't worry. We'll find them!"

"Will we? I wonder." Sir Geoffrey sat down at the window seat and stared out at the manicured lawns and English garden, shrubs, flower beds surrounded by the high white wall, the sunset good. His wife was cutting flowers, wandering among the beds at the far end of the gardens, followed by a sour-faced, disapproving Chinese gardener. Sir Geoffrey watched her a moment. They had been married thirty years and had three children, all married now, and they were content and at peace with each other. "Always traitors," he said sadly. "The Soviets are past masters in their use. So easy for the Sevrin traitors to agitate, to spread a little poison here and there, so easy to get China upset, poor China who's xenophobic anyway!

Oh how easy it is to rock our boat here! Worst of all, who's your spy? The police spy? He must be at least a chief inspector to have access to that information."

"I've no idea. If I had, he'd've been neutralized long since."

"What are you going to do about General Jen and his Nationalist undercover agents?"

"I'm going to leave them alone—they've been pegged for months. Much better to leave known enemy agents in situ than to have to ferret out their replacements."

"I agree—they'd certainly all be replaced. Theirs, and ours. Sad, so sad! We do it and they do it. So sad and so stupid—this world's such a paradise, could be such a paradise."

A bee hummed in the bay windows then flew back to the garden again as Sir Geoffrey eased the curtain aside. "The minister asked me to make sure our visiting MPs—our trade delegation to China that returns tomorrow—to make sure their security was optimum, judicious, though totally discreet."

"Yes sir. I understand."

"It appears that one or two of them might be future cabinet ministers if the Labour Party get in. It'd be good for the Colony to create a fine impression on them."

"Do you think they've a chance next time? The Labour Party?"

"I don't comment on those sort of questions, Roger." The governor's voice was flat, and reproving. "I'm not concerned with party politics-—I represent Her Majesty the Queen—but personally I really do wish some of their extremists would go away and leave us to our own devices for clearly much of their left wing socialist philosophy is alien to our English way of life." Sir Geoffrey hardened. "It's quite obvious some of them do assist the enemy, willingly —or as dupes. Since we're on the subject, are any of our guests security risks?"

"It depends what you mean, sir. Two are left-wing trades unionists back-benchers, fire-eaters—Robin Grey and Lochin Donald McLean. McLean openly flaunts his B.C.P.—British Communist Party—affiliations. He's fairly high on our S-list. All the other Socialists are moderates. The Conservative members are moderate, middle-class, all ex-service. One's rather imperialist, the Liberal Party representative, Hugh Guthrie."

"And the fire-eaters? They're ex-service?"

"McLean was a miner, at least his father was. Most of his Communist life's been as a shop steward and unionist in the Scottish coalfields. Robin Grey was army, a captain, infantry."

Sir Geoffrey looked up. "You don't usually associate ex-captains with being fire-eating trades unionists, do you?"

"No sir." Crosse sipped his sherry, appreciating it, savoring his knowledge more. "Nor with being related to a tai-pan."

"Eh?"

"Robin Grey's sister is Penelope Dunross."

"Good God!" Sir Geoffrey stared at him, astounded. "Are you sure?"

"Yes sir."

"But why hasn't, why hasn't Ian mentioned it before?"

"I don't know, sir. Perhaps he's ashamed of him. Mr. Grey is certainly the complete opposite of Mrs. Dunross."

"But . . . Bless my soul, you're sure?"

"Yes sir. Actually, it was Brian Kwok who spotted the connection. Just by chance. The MPs had to furnish the usual personal information to the PRC to get their visas, date of birth, profession, next of kin, etcetera. Brian was doing a routine check to make sure all the visas were in order to avoid any problem at the border. Brian happened to notice Mr. Grey had put 'sister, Penelope Grey' as his next of kin, with an address, Castle Avisyard in Ayr. Brian remembered that that was the Dunross family home address." Crosse pulled out his silver cigarette case. "Do you mind if I smoke, sir?"

"No, please go ahead."

"Thank you. That was a month or so ago. I thought it important enough for him to follow up the information. It took us relatively little time to establish that Mrs. Dunross really was his sister and next of kin. As far as we know now, Mrs. Dunross quarreled with her brother just after the war. Captain Grey was a POW in Changi, caught in Singapore in 1942. He got home in the later part of 1945 —by the way their parents were killed in the London blitz in '43. At that time she was already married to Dunross—they'd married in 1943, sir, just after he was shot down—she was a WAAF. We know brother and sister met when Grey was released. As far as we can tell now, they've never met again. Of course it's none of our affair anyway, but the quarrel must have been—"

Crosse stopped as there was a discreet knock and Sir Geoffrey called out testily, "Yes?"

The door opened. "Excuse me, sir," his aide said politely, "Lady Allison asked me to tell you that the water's just gone on."

"Oh, marvelous! Thank you." The door closed. At once Crosse got up but the governor waved him back to his seat. "No, please finish, Roger. A few minutes won't matter, though I must confess I can hardly wait. Would you like to shower before you go?"

"Thank you, sir, but we've our own water tanks at police HQ."

"Oh yes. I forgot. Go on. You were saying—the quarrel?"

"The quarrel must have been pretty serious because it seems to have been final. A close friend of Grey told one of our people a few days ago that as far as he knew, Robin Grey had no living relatives. They really must hate each other."

Sir Geoffrey stared at his cup, not seeing it. Suddenly he was remembering his own rotten childhood and how he had hated his father, hated him so much that for thirty years he had never called him, or written to him, and, when he was dying last year, had not bothered to go to him, to make peace with the man who had given him life. "People are terrible to each other," he muttered sadly. "I know. Yes. Family quarrels are too easy. And then, when it's too late, you regret it, yes, you really regret it. People are terrible to each other . . ."

Crosse watched and waited, letting him ramble, letting him reveal himself, cautious not to make the slightest movement to distract him, wanting to know the man's secrets, and skeletons. Like Alan Medford Grant, Crosse collected secrets. Goddamn that bastard and his god-cursed files! God curse Dunross and his devilry! How in the name of Christ can I get those files before Sinders?

Sir Geoffrey was staring into space. Then the water gurgled delightedly in the pipes somewhere in the walls and he came back into himself. He saw Crosse watching him. "Hmmm, thinking aloud! Bad habit for a governor, eh?"

Crosse smiled and did not fall into the trap. "Sir?"

"Well. As you said, it's really none of our business." The governor finished his drink with finality and Crosse knew that he was dismissed. He got up. "Thank you, sir."

When he was alone the governor sighed. He thought a moment then picked up the special phone and gave the operator the minister's private number in London.

"This is Geoffrey Allison. Is he in please?"

"Hello, Geoffrey!"

"Hello, sir. I've just seen Roger. He assures me that the hiding place and Dunross will be completely guarded. Is Mr. Sinders en route?"

"He'll be there on Friday. I presume there have been no repercussions from that seaman's unfortunate accident?"

"No sir. Everything seems to be under control."

"The P.M. was most concerned."

"Yes sir." The governor added, "About the l-4a .. . perhaps we shouldn't mention anything to our friends, yet."

"I've already heard from them. They were distressingly irritated. So were our fellows. All right, Geoffrey. Fortunately it's a long weekend this week so I'll inform them Monday and draft his reprimand then."

"Thank you, sir."

"Geoffrey, that American senator you have with you at the moment. I think he should be guided."

The governor frowned. Guided was a code word between them, meaning "watched very carefully." Senator Wilf Tillman, a presidential hopeful, was visiting Hong Kong en route to Saigon for a well-publicized fact-finding mission.

"I'll take care of it as soon as I'm off the phone. Was there anything else, sir?" he asked, impatient now to bathe.

"No, just give me a private minute on what the senator's program has been." Program was another code which meant to furnish the Colonial Office with detailed information. "When you've time."

"I'll have it on your desk Friday."

"Thank you, Geoffrey. We'll chat at the usual time tomorrow." The line went dead.

The governor replaced the phone thoughtfully. Their conversation would have been electronically scrambled and, at either end, unscrambled. Even so, they were guarded. They knew the enemy had the most advanced and sophisticated eavesdropping equipment in the world. For any really classified conversation or meeting he would go to the permanently guarded, concrete, cell-like room in the basement that was meticulously rechecked by security experts for possible electronic bugs every week.

Bloody nuisance, Sir Geoffrey thought. Bloody nuisance all this cloak-and-dagger stuff! Roger? Unthinkable, even so, once there was Philby.

25

6:20 P.M. :

Captain Gregor Suslev waved jauntily to the police at the dockyard gates in Kowloon, his two plainclothes detectives fifty yards in tow. He was dressed in well-cut civilians and he stood by the curb a moment watching the traffic, then hailed a passing taxi. The taxi took off and a small gray Jaguar with Sergeant Lee, CID, and another plainclothes CID man driving, followed smartly.

The taxi went along Chatham Road in the usual heavy traffic, southward, skirting the railway line, then turned west along Salisbury Road on the southmost tip of Kowloon, passing the railway terminus, near the Golden Ferry Terminal. There it stopped. Suslev paid it off and ran up the steps of the Victoria and Albert Hotel. Sergeant Lee followed him as the other detective parked the police Jag.

Suslev walked with an easy stride and he stood for a moment in the immense, crowded foyer with its high ceilings, lovely and ornate, and old-fashioned electric fans overhead, and looked for an empty table among the multitude of tables. The whole room was alive with the clink of ice in cocktail glasses and conversation. Mostly Europeans. A few Chinese couples. Suslev wandered through the people, found a table, loudly ordered a double vodka, sat and began to read his paper. Then the girl was standing near him.

"Hello," she said.

"Ginny, doragaya!" he said with a great beam and hugged her, lifting her off her little feet to the shocked disapproval of every woman in the place and the covert envy of every man. "It's been a long time, golubchik. "

"Ayeeyah," she said with a toss of her head, her short hair dancing, and sat down, conscious of the stares, enjoying them, hating them. "You late. Wat for you keep me wait? A lady no like wait in Victoria by her self, heya?"

"You're right, golubchik!" Suslev pulled out a slim package and gave it to her with another beam. "Here, all the way from Vladivostok!"

"Oh! How thank you?" Ginny Fu was twenty-eight and most nights she worked at the Happy Drinkers Bar in an alley off Mong Kok, half a mile or so to the north. Some nights she went to the Good Luck Ballroom. Most days she would pinch-hit for her friends behind the counter of tiny shops within shops when they were with a client. White teeth and jet eyes and jet hair and golden skin, her gaudy chong-sam slit high on her long, stockinged thighs. She looked at the present excitedly. "Oh thank, Gregor, thank very much!" She put it in her large purse and grinned at him. Then her eyes went to the waiter who was strolling up with Suslev's vodka, along with the smug, open contempt reserved by all Chinese for all young Chinese women who sat with quai loh. They must of course be third-class whores—who else would sit with a quai loh in a public place, particularly in the foyer of the Vic? He set down the drink with practiced insolence and stared back at her.

"Dew neh loh moh on all your pig-swill ancestors," she hissed in gutter Cantonese. "My husband here is a 489 in the police and if I say the word he'll have those insignificant peanuts you call your balls crushed off your loathsome body an hour after you leave work tonight!"

The waiter blanched. "Eh?"

"Hot tea! Bring me fornicating hot tea and if you spit in it I'll get my husband to put a knot in that straw you call your stalk!"

The waiter fled.

"What did you say to him?" Suslev asked, understanding only a few words of Cantonese, though his English was very good.

Ginny Fu smiled sweetly. "I just ask him bring tea." She knew the waiter would automatically spit in her tea now, or more probably, for safety, get a friend to do it for him, so she would not drink it and thus cause him to lose even more face. Dirty dog bone! "Next time no like meet here, lotsa nasty peoples," she said imperiously, looking around, then crinkled her nose at a group of middle-aged Englishwomen who were staring at her. "Too much body stinky," she added loudly, tossing her hair again, and chortled to herself seeing them flush and look away. "This gift, Gregy. Thank so very!"

"Nothing," Suslev said. He knew she would not open the gift now —or in front of him—which was very good, sensible Chinese manners. Then, if she did not like the gift or was disappointed or cursed aloud that what was given was the wrong size, or wrong color, or at the miserliness of the giver or bad taste or whatever, then he could not lose face and she could not lose face. "Very sensible!"

"Wat?"

"Nothing."

"You looks good."

"You too." It was three months since his last visit and though his mistress in Vladivostok was a Eurasian with a White Russian mother and Chinese father, he enjoyed Ginny Fu.

"Gregy," she said, then dropped her voice, her smile saucy. "Finish drink. We begin holiday! I got vodka … I got other things!"

He smiled back at her. "That you have, golubchikl"

"How many day you got?"

"At least three but . . ."

"Oh!" She tried to hide her disappointment.

". . . I'm back and forth to my ship. We've tonight, most of it, and tomorrow and all tomorrow night. And the stars will shine!" . "Three month long time, Gregy."

"I'll be back soon."

"Yes." Ginny Fu put away her disappointment and became pragmatic again. "Finish drink and we begin!" She saw the waiter hurrying with her tea. Her eyes ground into the man as he put it down. "Huh! Clearly it's cold and not fresh!" she said disgustedly. "Who am I! A dirty lump of foreign devil dogmeat? No, I'm a civilized person from the Four Provinces who, because her rich father gambled away all his money, was sold by him into concubinage to become Number Two Wife for this chief of police of the foreign devils! So go piss in your hat!" She got up.

The waiter backed off a foot.

"What's up?" Suslev asked.

"Don't pay for teas, Gregy. Not hot!" she said imperiously. "No give tip!"

Nonetheless Suslev paid and she took his arm and they walked out together, eyes following them. Her head was high, but inside she hated the looks from all the Chinese, even the young, starched bellboy who opened the door—the image of her youngest brother whose life and schooling she paid for.

Dunross was coming up the steps. He waited for them to pass by, an amused glint in his eyes, then he was bowed in politely by the beaming bellboy. He headed through the throng for the house phone. Many noticed him at once and eyes followed him. He walked around a group of tourists, camera bedecked, and noticed Jacques deVille and his wife Susanne at a corner table. Both were set-faced, staring at their drinks. He shook his head, wearily amused. Poor old Jacques has been caught again and she's twisting his infidelity in its well-worn wound. Joss! He could almost hear old Chen-chen laugh. "Man's life is to suffer, young Ian! Yes, it's the eternal yin warring on our oh so vulnerable yang. . . ."

Normally Dunross would have pretended not to notice them, leaving them to their privacy, but some instinct told him otherwise.

"Hello, Jacques—Susanne. How're things?"

"Oh hello, hello, tai-pan." Jacques deVille got up politely. "Would you care to join us?"

"No thanks, can't." Then he saw the depth of his friend's agony and he remembered the car accident in France. Jacques's daughter Avril and her husband! "What's happened? Exactly!" Dunross said it as a leader would say it, requiring an instant answer.

Jacques hesitated. Then he said, "Exactly, tai-pan: I heard from Avril. She phoned from Cannes just as I was leaving the office. She, she said, 'Daddy , . . Daddy, Borge's dead. . . . Can you hear me? I've been trying to reach you for two days … it was head-on, and the, the other man was . . . My Borge's dead . . . can you hear me. . . .'" Jacques's voice was flat. "Then the line went dead. We know she's in the hospital at Cannes. I thought it best for Susanne to go at once. Her, her flight's delayed so … so we're just waiting here. They're trying to get a call through to Cannes but I don't hope for much."

"Christ, I'm so sorry," Dunross said, trying to dismiss the twinge that had rushed through him as his mind had substituted Adryon for Avril. Avril was just twenty and Borge Escary a fine young man. They had been married just a year and a half and this was their first holiday after the birth of a son. "What time's the flight?"

"Eight o'clock now."

"Susanne, would you like us to look after the baby? Jacques, why not get on the flight—I'll take care of everything here."

"No," Jacques said. "Thanks but no. It's best that Susanne go. She'll bring Avril home."

"Yes," Susanne said, and Dunross noticed that she seemed to have sagged. "We have the amahs . . . it's best just me, tai-pan. Merci, but no, this way is best." A spill of tears went down her cheeks. "It's not fair is it? Borge was so nice a boy!"

"Yes. Susanne, I'll get Penn to go over daily so don't worry, we'll make sure the babe's fine and Jacques too." Dunross weighed them both. He was confident that Jacques was well in control. Good, he thought. Then he said as an order, "Jacques, when Susanne's safely on the flight go back to the office. Telex our man in Marseilles. Get him to arrange a suite at the Capitol, to meet her with a car and ten thousand dollars worth of francs. Tell him from me he's to be at her beck and call as long as she's there. He's to call me tomorrow with a complete report on Avril, the accident, who was driving and who the other driver was."

"Yes, tai-pan."

"You sure you're all right?"

Jacques forced a smile. "Oui. Merci, mon ami. "

"Rien. I'm so sorry, Susanne—call collect if we can do anything." He walked away. Our man in Marseilles is good, he thought. He'll take care of everything. And Jacques's a man of iron. Have I covered everything? Yes, I think so. It's dealt with for the moment.

God protect Adryon and Glenna and Duncan and Penn, he thought. And Kathy, and all the others. And me—until the Noble House is inviolate. He glanced at his watch. It was exactly 6:30. He picked up a house phone. "Mr. Bartlett, please." A moment, then he heard Casey's voice.

"Hello?"

"Ah, hello, Ciranoush," Dunross said. "Would you tell him I'm in the lobby."

"Oh hello, sure! Would you like to come up? We're—"

"Why don't you come down? I thought, if you're not too busy I'd take you on my next appointment—it might be interesting for you. We could eat afterwards, if you're free."

"I'd love that. Let me check."

He heard her repeat what he had said and he wondered, very much, about his bet with Claudia. Impossible that those two aren't lovers, he thought, or haven't been lovers, living so close together. Wouldn't be natural!

"We'll be right down, tai-pan!" He heard the smile in her voice as he hung up.

The Most High Headwaiter was hovering beside him now, waiting for the rare honor of seating the tai-pan. He had been summoned by the Second Headwaiter the moment the news had arrived that Dunross had been seen approaching the front door. His name was Afternoon Pok and he was gray-haired, majestic, and ruled this shift with a bamboo whip.

"Ah Honored Lord, this is a pleasure," the old man said in Cantonese with a deferential bow. "Have you eaten rice today?" This was the polite way of saying good-day or good evening or how are you in Chinese.

"Yes, thank you, Elder Brother," Dunross replied. He had known Afternoon Pok most of his life. As long as he could remember, Afternoon Pok had been the headwaiter in the foyer from noon till six, and many times when Dunross was young, sent on an errand here, sore from a whipping or cuffing, the old man would seat him in a corner table, slip him a pastry, tap him kindly on the head and never give him a bill. "You're looking prosperous!"

"Thank you, tai-pan. Oh, you are looking very healthy too! But you've still only one son! Don't you think it's time your revered Chief Wife found you a second wife?"

They smiled together. "Please follow me," the old man said importantly and led the way to the choice table that had miraculously appeared in a spacious, favored place acquired by four energetic waiters who had squeezed other guests and the tables out of the way. Now they stood, almost at attention, all beaming.

"Your usual, sir?" the wine waiter asked. "I've a bottle of the '52."

"Perfect," Dunross said, knowing this would be the La Doucette that he enjoyed so much. He would have preferred tea but it was a matter of face to accept the wine. The bottle was already there, in an ice bucket. "I'm expecting Mr. Bartlett and Miss Tcholok." Another waiter went at once to wait for them at the elevator.

"If there's anything you need, please call me." Afternoon Pok bowed and walked off, every waiter in the foyer nervously conscious of him. Dunross sat down and noticed Peter and Fleur Marlowe trying to control two pretty, boisterous girls of four and eight and he sighed and thanked God his daughters were past that age. As he sipped the wine approvingly, he saw old Willie Tusk look over at him and wave. He waved back.

When he was a boy he used to come over from Hong Kong three or four times a week with business orders for Tusk from old Sir Ross Struan, Alastair's father—or, more likely, they were orders from his own father who, for years, had run the foreign division of the Noble House. Occasionally Tusk would service the Noble House in areas of his expertise—anything to do with getting anything out of Thailand, Burma or Malaya and shipping it anywhere, with just a little h'eung you and his standard trading fee of 7VЈ percent.

"What's the half percent for, Uncle Tusk?" he remembered asking one day, peering up at the man he now towered over.

"That's what I call my dollymoney, young Ian."

"What's dollymoney?"

"That's a little extra for your pocket to give away to dollies, to ladies of your choice."

"But why do you give money to ladies?"

"Well that's a long story, laddie."

Dunross smiled to himself. Yes, a very long story. That part of his education had had various teachers, some good, some very good and some bad. Old Uncle Chen-chen had arranged for his first mistress when he was fourteen.

"Oh do you really mean it, Uncle Chen-chen?"

"Yes, but you're not to tell anyone or your father will have my guts for garters! Huh," the lovely old man had continued, "your father should have arranged it, or asked me to arrange it but never mind. Now wh—"

"But when do I, when do I… oh are you sure? I mean how, how much do I pay and when, Uncle Chen-chen? When? I mean before or, or after or when? That's what I don't know."

"You don't know lots! You still don't know when to talk and when not to talk! How can I instruct you if you talk? Have I all day?"

"No sir."

"Eeeee," old Chen-chen had said with that huge smile of his, "eeeee, but how lucky you are! Your first time in a Gorgeous Gorge! It will be the first time, won't it? Tell the truth!"

"Er . . . well er er well … . er, yes."

"Good!"

It wasn't till years after that Dunross had discovered that some of the most famous houses in Hong Kong and Macao had secretly bid for the privilege of servicing the first pillow time of a future tai-pan and the great-great-grandson of Green-Eyed Devil himself. Apart from the face the house would gain for generations to be the one chosen by the compradore of the Noble House, it would also be enormous joss for the lady herself. First Time Essence of even the meanest personage was an elixir of marvelous value—just as, in Chinese lore, for the elderly man, the yin juices of the virgin were equally prized and sought after to rejuvenate the yang.

"Good sweet Christ, Uncle Chen-chen!" he had exploded. "It's true? You actually sold me? You mean to tell me you sold me to a bloody house! Me?"

"Of course." The old man had peered up at him, and chuckled and chuckled, bedridden now in the great house of the Chens on the ridge of Struan's Lookout, almost blind now and near death but sweetly unresisting and content. "Who told you, who, eh? Eh, young Ian?"

It was Tusk, a widower, a great frequenter of Kowloon's dance halls and bars and houses who had been told it as a legend by one of the mama-sans who had heard that it was a custom in the Noble House that the compradore had to arrange the first pillow time for the progeny of Green-Eyed Devil Struan. "Yes, old boy," Tusk had told him. "Dirk Struan said to Sir Gordon Chen, old Chen-chen's father, he'd put his Evil Eye on the House of Chen if they didn't choose correctly."

"Balls," Dunross had said to Tusk, who had continued, pained, that he was just passing on a legend which was now part of Hong Kong's folklore and, balls or not Ian old chum, your first bang-ditty-bang-bang was worth thousands Hong Kong to that old rake!

"I think that's pretty bloody awful, Uncle Chen-chen!"

"But why? It was a most profitable auction. It cost you nothing but gave you enormous pleasure. It cost me nothing but gave me 20,000 HK. The girl's house gained vast face and so did the girl. It cost her nothing but gave her years of a huge clientele who would want to share the specialness of your Number One choice!"

Elegant Jade had been the only name he knew her by. She had been twenty-two and very practiced, a professional since she had been sold to the house by her parents when she was twelve. Her house was called the House of a Thousand Pleasures. Elegant Jade was sweet and gentle—when it pleased her and a total dragon when it pleased her. He had been madly in love with her and their affair had lasted over two summer holidays from boarding school in England, which was the contract time that Chen-chen had arranged. The moment he had returned on the first day of the third summer he had hurried to the house, but she had vanished.

Even today Dunross could remember how distraught he had been, how he had tried to find her. But the girl had left no trace in her wake.

"What happened to her, Uncle Chen-chen? Really happened?"

The old man sighed, lying back in his huge bed, tired now. "It was time for her to go. It is always too easy for a young man to give too much to a girl, too much time, too much thought. It was time for her to go … after her you could choose for yourself and you needed to put your mind on the House and not on her…. Oh don't try to hide your desire, I understand, oh, how I understand! Don't worry, she was well paid, my son, you had no child by her . . ."

"Where is she now?"

"She went to Taiwan. I made sure she had enough money to begin her own house, she said that's what she wanted to do and . . . and part of my arrangement was that I bought her out of her contract. That cost me, was it 5 … or 10,000…. I can't remember…. Please excuse me, I'm tired now. I must sleep a little. Please come back tomorrow, my son. . . ."

Dunross sipped his wine, remembering. That was the only time that old Chen-chen ever called me my son, he thought. What a grand old man! If only I could be so wise, so kind and so wise, and worthy of him.

Chen-chen had died a week later. His funeral was the greatest Hong Kong had ever seen, with a thousand professional waiters and drums following the coffin to its burial place. The white-clad women had been paid to follow the coffin, wailing loudly to the Heavens, petitioning the gods to grease the way of this great man's spirit to the Void or rebirth or to whatever happens to the spirit of the dead. Chen-chen was a nominal Christian so he had had two services for safety, one Christian, the other Buddhist. . . .

"Hello, tai-pan!"

Casey was there with Line Bartlett beside her. Both were smiling though both were looking a little tired.

He greeted them and Casey ordered a Scotch and soda and Line a beer.

"How's your day been?" Casey asked.

"Up and down," he said after a pause. "How was yours?"

"Busy, but we're getting there," she said. "Your attorney, Daw-son, canceled our date this morning—that's on again for tomorrow at noon. The rest of my day was on the phone and the telex to the States, getting things organized. Service is good here, this is a great hotel. We're all set to complete our side of the agreement."

"Good. I think I'll attend the meeting with Dawson," Dunross said. "That'll expedite matters. I'll get him to come over to our offices. I'll send a car for you at 11:10."

"No need for that, tai-pan. I know my way on the ferry," she said. "I went back and forth this afternoon. Best five cents American I've ever spent. How'd you keep the fares so low?"

"We carried forty-seven million passengers last year." Dunross glanced at Bartlett. "Will you be at the meeting tomorrow?"

"Not unless you want me for something special," he said easily. "Casey handles the legals initially. She knows what we want, and we've got Seymour Steigler III coming in on Pan Am's flight Thursday—he's our head counsel and tax attorney. He'll keep everything smooth with your attorneys so we can close in seven days, easy."

"Excellent." A smiling obsequious waiter brought their drinks and topped up Dunross's glass. When they were alone again Casey said quietly, "Tai-pan, your ships. You want them as a separate agreement? If the attorneys draw it up it won't be private. How do we keep it private?"

"I'll draw up the document and put our chop on it. That'll make it legal and binding. Then the agreement stays secret between the three of us, eh?"

"What's a chop, Ian?" Bartlett asked.

"It's the equivalent of a seal." Dunross took out a slim, oblong bamboo container, perhaps two inches long and half an inch square, and slid back the tight-fitting top. He took out the chop, which fitted the scarlet silk-lined box, and showed it to them. It was made of ivory. Some Chinese characters were carved in relief on the bottom. "This is my personal chop—it's hand-carved so almost impossible to forge. You stick this end in the ink . . ." The ink was red and almost solid, neatly in its compartment in one end of the box. ". . . and imprint the paper. Quite often in Hong Kong you don't sign papers, you just chop them. Most aren't legal without a chop. The company seal's the same as this, only a little bigger."

"What do the characters mean?" Casey asked.

"They're a pun on my name, and ancestor. Literally they mean 'illustrious, razor sharp, throughout the noble green seas.' The pun's on Green-Eyed Devil, as Dirk was called, the Noble House, and a dirk or knife." Dunross smiled and put it away. "It has other meanings—the surface one's 'tai-pan of the Noble House.' In Chinese . . ." He glanced around at the sound of a bicycle bell. The young bellhop was walking through the crowds carrying a small paging board aloft on a pole that bore the scrawled name of the person wanted. The page was not for them so he continued, "With Chinese writing, there are always various levels of meanings. That's what makes it complex, and interesting."

Casey was fanning herself with a menu. It was warm in the foyer though the ceiling fans were creating a gentle breeze. She took out a tissue and pressed it beside her nose. "Is it always this humid?" she asked.

Dunross smiled. "It's relatively dry today. Sometimes it's ninety degrees and ninety-five humidity for weeks on end. Autumn and spring are the best times to be here. July, August, September are hot and wet. Actually, though, they're forecasting rain. We might even get a typhoon. I heard on the wireless there's a tropical depression gathering southeast of us. Yes. If we're lucky it'll rain. There's no water rationing in the V and A yet, is there?"

"No," Bartlett said, "but after seeing the pails in your house last night, I don't think I'll ever take water for granted again."

"Nor me," Casey said. "It must be terribly hard."

"Oh, you get used to it. By the way my suggestion about the document is satisfactory?" Dunross asked Bartlett, wanting it settled and irritated with himself that he was trapped into having to ask. He was grimly amused to notice that Bartlett hesitated a fraction of a second and glanced imperceptibly at Casey before saying, "Sure."

"Ian," Bartlett continued, "I've got Forrester—the head of our foam division—coming in on the same flight. I thought we might as well get the show on the road. There's no reason to wait until we have papers, is there?"

"No." Dunross thought a moment and decided to test his theory. "How expert is he?"

"Expert."

Casey added, "Charlie Forrester knows everything there is to know about polyurethane foam—manufacturing, distribution and sales."

"Good." Dunross turned to Bartlett and said innocently, "Would you like to bring him to Taipei?" He saw a flash behind the American's eyes and knew that he had been correct. Squirm, you bastard, he thought, you haven't told her yet! I haven't forgotten the rough time you gave me last night, with all your secret information. Squirm out of this one with face! "While we're golfing or whatever, I'll put Forrester with my experts—he can check out possible sites and set that in motion."

"Good idea," Bartlett said, not squirming at all, and Dunross's opinion of him went up.

"Taipei? Taipei in Taiwan?" Casey asked excitedly. "We're going to Taipei? When?"

"Sunday afternoon," Bartlett said, his voice calm. "We're going for a couple of days, Ian an—"

"Perfect, Line," she said with a smile. "While you're golfing, I can check things out with Charlie. Let me play next time around. What's your handicap, tai-pan?"

"Ten," Dunross answered, "and since Line Bartlett knows I'm sure you do too."

She laughed. "I'd forgotten that vital statistic. Mine's fourteen on a very good day."

"Give or take a stroke or two?"

"Sure. Women cheat in golf as much as men."

"Oh?"

"Yes. But unlike men they cheat to lower their handicap. A handicap's a status symbol, right? The lower the score, the more the status! Women don't usually bet more than a few dollars so a low handicap's not that vital except for face. But men? I've seen them hit one deliberately into the rough to pick up two extra strokes if they were on a dynamite round that would drop their handicap a notch. Of course that was only if they weren't playing that particular round for money. What's the stake between your pairs?"

"500 HK."

She whistled. "A hole?"

"Hell, no," Bartlett said. "The game."

"Even so, I think I'd better kibitz this one."

Dunross said, "What's that mean?"

"To watch. If I'm not careful, Line will put my end of Par-Con on the line." Her smile warmed both of them, and then, because Dunross had deliberately dropped Bartlett into the trap, he decided to extract him.

"That's a fine idea, Casey," he said, watching her carefully. "But on second thought, perhaps it would be better for you and Forrester to check out Hong Kong before Taipei—this will be our biggest market. And if your lawyer arrives Thursday you might wish to spend time with him here." He looked at Bartlett directly, the picture of innocence. "If you want to cancel our trip, that's all right too, you've plenty of time to go to Taipei. But I must go."

"No," Bartlett said. "Casey, you cover this end. Seymour will need all the help you can give him. I'll make a preliminary tour this time and we can do it together later."

She sipped her drink and kept her face clear. So I'm not invited, huh? she thought with a flash of irritation. "You're off Sunday?"

"Yes," Dunross said, sure that the finesse had worked, detecting no change in her. "Sunday afternoon I may be doing a hill climb in the morning, so that's the earliest I can make it."

"Hill climb? Mountain climbing, tai-pan?"

"Oh no. Just with a motorcar—in the New Territories. You're both welcome if you're interested." He added to Bartlett, "We could go directly to the airport. If I can clear your aircraft, I will. I'll ask about that tomorrow."

"Line," Casey said, "what about Armstrong and the police? You're grounded here."

"I arranged that today," Dunross said, "he's paroled into my custody."

She laughed. "Fantastic! Just don't jump bail!"

"I won't."

"You're off Sunday, tai-pan? Back when?"

"Tuesday, in time for dinner."

"Tuesday's when we sign?"

"Yes."

"Line, isn't that cutting it tight?"

"No. I'll be in constant touch. The deal's set. All we need is to put it on paper."

"Whatever you say, Line. Everything will be ready for signature when you two get back. Tai-pan, I'm to deal with Andrew if there's any problem?"

"Yes. Or Jacques." Dunross glanced at the far corner. Now their table was occupied by others. Never mind, he told himself. Everything was done that could be done. "The phone service is good to Taipei so there's no need to worry. Now, are you free for dinner?"

"We certainly are," Bartlett said.

"What sort of food would you like?"

"How about Chinese?"

"Sorry, but you've got to be more specific," Dunross said. "That's like saying you want European cooking—which could run the gamut from Italian to boiled English."

"Line, shouldn't we leave it to the tai-pan?" Casey said, and added, "Tai-pan, I have to confess, I like sweet and sour, egg rolls, chop suey and fried rice. I'm not much on anything far out."

"Nor am I," Bartlett agreed. "No snake, dog or anything exotic."

"Snake's very good in season," Dunross said. "Especially the bile —mixed with tea. It's very invigorating, a great pick-me-up! And little young chow dog stewed in oyster sauce is just perfect."

"You've tried it? You've tried dog?" She was shocked.

"I was told it was chicken. It tasted a lot like chicken. But never eat dog and drink whiskey at the same time, Casey. They say it turns the meat into lumps of iron that'll give you a very hard time indeed. . . ."

He was listening to himself make jokes and inconsequential small talk while he was watching Jacques and Susanne getting into a taxi. His heart went out to them and to Kathy and to all the others and he wanted to get on the plane himself, to rush there and bring Avril back safely—such a nice girl, part of his family. . . .

How in the name of Christ do you live as a man, rule the Noble House and stay sane? How do you help the family and make deals and live with all the rest of it?

"That's the joy and the hurt of being tai-pan," Dirk Struan had said to him in his dreams, many times.

Yes, but there's very little joy.

You're wrong and Dirk's right and you're being far too serious, he told himself. The only serious problems are Par-Con, the boom, Kathy, AMG's papers, Crosse, John Chen, Toda Shipping, and the fact that you turned down Lando Mata's offer, not necessarily in that order. So much money.

What is it I want out of life? Money? Power? Or all China? He saw Casey and Bartlett watching him. Since these two've arrived, he thought, I've had nothing but trouble. He looked back at them. She was certainly worth looking at with her tight pants and clinging blouse. "Leave it to me," he said, deciding that tonight he would like some Cantonese food.

They heard the page bell and saw the paging board and the name was "Miss K. C. Shuluk." Dunross beckoned the youth. "He'll show you to the phone, Casey."

"Thanks." She got up. Eyes followed the long, elegant legs and her sensuous walk—the women jealous, hating her. "You're a son of a bitch," Bartlett said calmly. "Oh?"

"Yes." He grinned and that took the curse off everything. "20 to 1 says Taipei was a probe—but I'm not calling you on it, Ian. No. I was rough last night—had to be, so maybe I deserved a roasting. But don't do that a second time with Casey or I'll hand you your head."

"Will you now?"

"Yes. She's off limits." Bartlett's eyes went back to Casey. He saw her pass the Marlowe table, stop a second and greet them and their children, then go on again. "She knows she wasn't invited."

Dunross was perturbed. "Are you sure? I thought … I didn't cover properly? The moment I realized you hadn't told her yet . . . Sorry, thought I'd covered."

"Hell, you were perfect! But five'll still get you ten she knows she wasn't invited." Bartlett smiled again, and, once more, Dunross wondered what was under the smile. I'll have ts watch this bugger more closely, he thought. So Casey's off limits, is she? I wonder what he really meant by that?

Dunross had chosen the foyer deliberately, wanting to be seen with the now famous—or infamous Bartlett and his lady. He knew it would fuel rumors of their impending deal and that would further agitate the stock market and put the punters off balance. If the Ho-Pak crashed, provided it did not bring other banks down with it, the boom could still happen. If Bartlett and Casey would bend a little, he thought, and if I could really trust them, I could make a killing of killings. So many ifs. Too many. I'm out of control of this battle at the moment. Bartlett and Casey have all the momentum. How far will they cooperate?

Then something Superintendent Armstrong and Brian Kwok had said triggered a vagrant thought and his anxiety increased.

"What do you think of that fellow Banastasio?" he asked, keeping his voice matter-of-fact.

"Vincenzo?" Bartlett said at once. "Interesting guy. Why?"

"Just wondering," Dunross said, outwardly calm but inwardly shocked that he had been right. "Have you known him long?"

"Three or four years. Casey an' I have gone to the track with him a few times—to Del Mar. He's a big-time gambler there and in Vegas. He'll bet 50,000 on a race—so he told us. He and John Chen are quite friendly. Is he a friend of yours?"

"No. I've never met him but I heard John mention him once or twice," he said, "and Tsu-yan."

"How is Tsu-yan? He's another gambler. When I saw him in L.A., he couldn't wait to get to Vegas. He was at the track the last time we were there with John Chen. Nothing yet on John or the kidnappers?"

"No."

"Rotten luck."

Dunross was hardly listening. The dossier he had had prepared on Bartlett had given no indication of any Mafia connections—but Banastasio linked everything. The guns, John Chen, Tsu-yan and Bartlett.

Mafia meant dirty money and narcotics, with a constant search for legitimate fronts for the laundering of money. Tsu-yan used to deal heavily in medical supplies during Korea—and now, so the story went, he was heavily into gold smuggling in Taipei, Indonesia and Malaya with Four Finger Wu. Could Banastasio be shipping guns to … to whom? Had poor John Chen stumbled onto something and was he kidnapped for that reason?

Does that mean part of Par-Con's money is Mafia money—is Par-Con Mafia-dominated or controlled by Mafia?

"I seem to remember John saying Banastasio was one of your major stockholders," he said, stabbing into the dark again.

"Vincenzo's got a big chunk of stock. But he's not an officer or director. Why?"

Dunross saw that now Bartlett's blue eyes were concentrated and he could almost feel the mind waves reaching out, wondering about this line of questioning. So he ended it. "It's curious how small the world really is, isn't it?"

Casey picked up the phone, inwardly seething. "Operator, this is Miss Tcholok. You've a call for me?"

"Ah one moment plees."

So I'm not invited to Taipei, she was thinking furiously. Why didn't the tai-pan just come out and say it and not twist things around and why didn't Line tell me about it too? Jesus, is he under the tai-pan's spell like I was last night? Why the secret? What else are they cooking?

Taipei, eh? Well I've heard it's a man's place so if all they're after's a dirty weekend it's fine with me. But not if it's business. Why didn't Line say? What's there to hide?

Casey's fury began to grow, then she remembered what the Frenchwoman had said about beautiful Chinoise so readily available and her fury turned to an untoward anxiety for Line.

Goddamn men!

Goddamn men and the world they've made exclusively to fit themselves. And it's worse here than anywhere I've ever been.

Goddamn the English! They're all so smooth and smart and their manners great and they say please and thank you and get up when you come in and hold your chair for you but, just under the surface, they're just as rotten as any others. They're worse. They're hypocrites, that's what they are! Well I'll get even. One day we'll play golf, Mr. Tai-pan Dunross and you'd better be good because I can play down to ten on a good day—I learned about golf in a man's world early—so I'll rub your nose in it. Yes. Or maybe a game of pool—or billiards. Sure, and I know what reverse English is too.

Casey thought of her father with a sudden shaft of joy, and how he had taught her the rudiments of both games. But it was Line who taught her how to stab low on the left side with the cue to give the ball a twist to the right to swerve around the eight ball—showed her when, foolishly, she had challenged him to a game. He had slaughtered her before he gave her any lessons.

"Casey, you'd better make sure you know all a man's weak points before you battle with him. I wiped the board with you to prove a point. I don't play games for pleasure—just to win. I'm not playing games with you. I want you, nothing else matters. Let's forget the deal we made and get married and …"

That was just a few months after she had started working for Line Bartlett. She was just twenty and already in love with him. But she still wanted revenge on the other man more, and independent wealth more and to find herself more, so she had said, "No, Line, we agreed seven years. We agreed up front, as equals. I'll help you get rich and I'll get mine on the way to your millions, and neither of us owes the other anything. You can fire me anytime for any reason, and I can leave for any reason. We're equals. I won't deny that I love you with all my heart but I still won't change our deal. But if you're still willing to ask me to marry you when I reach my twenty-seventh birthday, then I will. I'll marry you, live with you, leave you—whatever you want. But not now. Yes I love you but if we become lovers now I'll… I'll never be able to … I just can't, Line, not now. There's too much I have to find out about myself." Casey sighed. What a twisted crazy deal it is. Has all the power and dealing and wheeling—and all the years and tears and loneliness been worth it?

I just don't know. I just don't know. And Par-Con? Can I ever reach my goal: Par-Con and Line, or will I have to choose between them?

"Ciranoush?" came through the earpiece. "Oh! Hello, Mr. Gornt!" She felt a surge of warmth. "This is a pleasant surprise," she added, collecting her wits. "I hope I'm not disturbing you?" "Not at all. What can I do for you?"

"I wondered if you are able to confirm this Sunday yet, if you and Mr. Bartlett are available? I want to plan my boat party and I'd like the two of you as my honored guests."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Gornt, but Line can't make it. He's all tied up."

She heard the hesitation and then the covered pleasure in his voice. "Would you care to come without him? I was thinking of having a few business friends. I'm sure you'd find it interesting."

It might be very good for Par-Con if I went, she thought. Besides, if Line and the tai-pan are going to Taipei without me, why can't I go boating without them? "I'd love to," she said, warmth in her voice, "if you're sure I won't be in the way."

"Of course not. We'll pick you up at the wharf, just opposite the hotel, near the Golden Ferry. Ten o'clock—casual. Do you swim?" "Sure."

"Good—the water's refreshing. Water-ski?" "Love it!" "Very good!"

"Can I bring anything? Food or wine or anything?"

"No. I think we'll have everything aboard. We'll go to one of the outer islands and picnic, water-ski—be back just after sunset."

"Mr. Gornt, I'd like to keep this excursion to ourselves. I'm told Confucius said, 'A closed mouth catches no flies.' "

"Confucius said many things. He once likened a lady to a moonbeam."

She hesitated, the danger signals up. But then she heard herself say lightly, "Should I bring a chaperone?"

"Perhaps you should," he said and she heard his smile.

"How about Dunross?"

"He'd hardly be a chaperone—merely the destruction of what could perhaps be a perfect day."

"I look forward to Sunday, Mr. Gornt."

"Thank you." The phone clicked off instantly.

You arrogant bastard! she almost said aloud. How much are you taking for granted? Just thank you and click and no good-bye.

I'm Line's and not up for grabs.

Then why did you play the coquette on the phone and at the party? she asked herself. And why did you want that bastard to keep your Sunday date quiet?

Women like secrets too, she told herself grimly. Women like a lot of things men like.

26

8:35 P.M. :

The coolie was in the dingy gold vaults of the Ho-Pak Bank. He was a small, old man who wore a tattered grimy undershirt and ragged shorts. As the two porters lifted the canvas sack onto his bent back, he adjusted the forehead halter and leaned against it, taking the strain with his neck muscles, his hands grasping the two worn straps. Now that he had the full weight, he felt his overtaxed heart pumping against the load, his joints shrieking for relief.

The sack weighed just over ninety pounds—almost more than his own weight. The tally clerks had just sealed it. It contained exactly 250 of the little gold smuggler bars, each of five taels—a little over six ounces—just one of which would have kept him and his family secure for months. But the old man had no thought of trying to steal even one of them. All of his being was concentrated on how to dominate the agony, how to keep his feet moving, how to do his share of the work, to get his pay at the end of his shift, and then to rest.

"Hurry up," the foreman said sourly, "we've still more than twenty fornicating tons to load. Next!"

The old man did not reply. To do so would take more of his precious energy. He had to guard his strength zealously tonight if he was to finish. With an effort he set his feet into motion, his calves knotted and varicosed and scarred from so many years of labor.

Another coolie took his place as he shuffled slowly out of the dank concrete room, the shelves ladened with a seemingly never-ending supply of meticulous stacks of little gold bars that waited under the watchful eyes of the two neat bank clerks-—waited to be loaded into the next canvas sack, to be counted and recounted, then sealed with a flourish.

On the narrow stairway the old man faltered. He regained his balance with difficulty, then lifted a foot to climb another step—only twenty-eight more now—and then another and he had just made the landing when his calves gave out. He tottered against the wall, leaning against it to ease the weight, his heart grinding, both hands grasping the straps, knowing he could never resettle the load if he stepped out of the harness, terrified lest the foreman or a subfore-man would pass by. Through the spectrum of pain he heard footsteps coming toward him and he fought the sack higher onto his back and into motion once more. He almost toppled over.

"Hey, Nine Carat Chu, are you all right?" the other coolie asked in Shantung dialect, steadying the sack for him.

"Yes… yes…" He gasped with relief, thankful it was his friend from his village far to the north and the leader of his gang of ten. "Fornicate all gods, I … I just slipped. . . ."

The other man peered at him in the coarse light from the single bare light overhead. He saw the tortured, rheumy old eyes and the stretched muscles. "I'll take this one, you rest a moment," he said. Skillfully he eased off the weight and swung the sack to the floorboards. "I'll tell that motherless foreigner who thinks he's got brains enough to be a foreman that .you've gone to relieve yourself." He reached into his ragged, torn pants pocket and handed the old man one of his small, screwed-up pieces of cigarette foil. "Take it. I'll deduct it from your pay tonight."

The old man mumbled his thanks. He was all pain now, barely thinking. The other man swung the sack onto his back, grunting with the effort, leaned against the head band, then, his calves knotted, slowly went back up the stairs, pleased with the deal he had made.

The old man slunk off the landing into a dusty alcove and squatted down. His fingers trembled as he smoothed out the cigarette foil with its pinch of white powder. He lit a match'and held it carefully under the foil to heat it. The powder began to blacken and smoke. Carefully he held the smoking powder under his nostrils and inhaled deeply, again and again, until every grain had vanished into the smoke that he pulled oh so gratefully into his lungs.

He leaned back against the wall. Soon the pain vanished and left euphoria. It was all-pervading. He felt young again and strong again and now he knew that he would finish his shift perfectly and this Saturday, when he went to the races, he would win the double quinella. Yes, this would be his lucky week and he would put most of his winnings down on a piece of property, yes, a small piece of property at first but with the boom my property will go up and up and up and then I'll sell that piece and make a fortune and buy more and more and then I'll be an ancestor, my grandchildren flocking around my knees . . .

He got up and stood tall then went back down the stairs again and stood in line, waiting his turn impatiently. "Dew neh loh moh hurry up," he said in his lilting Shantung dialect, "I haven't all night! I've another job at midnight."

The other job was on a construction site in Central, not far from the Ho-Pak and he knew he was blessed to have two bonus jobs in one night on top of his regular day job as a construction laborer. He knew, too, that it was the expensive white powder that had transformed him and taken his fatigue and pain away. Of course, he knew the white powder was dangerous. But he was sensible and cautious and only took it when he was at the limit of strength. That he took it most days now, twice a day most days now, did not worry him. Joss, he told himself with a shrug, taking the new canvas sack on his back.

Once he had been a farmer and the eldest son of landowning farmers in the northern province of Shantung, in the fertile, shifting delta of the Yellow River where, for centuries, they had grown fruit and grain and soybeans, peanuts, tobacco and all the vegetables they could eat.

Ah, our lovely fields, he thought happily, climbing the stairs now, oblivious of his pounding heart, our lovely fields rich with growing crops. So beautiful! Yes. But then the Bad Times began thirty years ago. The Devils from the Eastern Sea came with their guns and their tanks and raped our earth, and then, after warlord Mao Tse-tung and warlord Chiang Kai-shek beat them off, they fought among themselves and again the land was laid waste. So we fled the famine, me and my young wife and my two sons and came to this place, Fragrant Harbor, to live among strangers, southern barbarians and foreign devils. We walked all the way. We survived. I carried my sons most of the way and now my sons are sixteen and fourteen and we have two daughters and they all eat rice once a day and this year will be my lucky year. Yes. I'll win the quinella or the daily double and one day we'll go home to my village and I'll take our lands back and plant them again and Chairman Mao will welcome us home and let us take our lands back and we'll live so happily, so rich and so happy. . . .

He was out of the building now, in the night, standing beside the truck. Other hands lifted the sack and stacked it with all the other sacks of gold, more clerks checking and rechecking the numbers. There were two trucks in the side street. One was already filled and waiting under its guards. A single unarmed policeman was watching idly as the traffic passed. The night was warm.

The old man turned to go. Then he noticed the three Europeans, two men and a woman, approaching. They stopped near the far truck, watching him. His mouth dropped open.

"Dew neh loh moh! Look at that whore—the monster with the straw hair," he said to no one in particular.

"Unbelievable!" another replied.

"Yes," he said.

"It's revolting the way their whores dress in public, isn't it?" a wizened old loader said disgustedly. "Flaunting their loins with those tight trousers. You can see every fornicating wrinkle in her lower lips."

"I'll bet you could put your whole fist and whole arm in it and never reach bottom!" another said with a laugh.

"Who'd want to?" Nine Carat Chu asked and hawked loudly and spat and let his mind drift pleasantly to Saturday as he went below again. "I wish they wouldn't spit like that. It's disgusting!" Casey said queasily.

"It's an old Chinese custom," Dunross said. "They believe there's an evil god-spirit in your throat which you've got to get rid of constantly or it will choke you. Of course spitting's against the law but that's meaningless to them."

"What'd that old man say?" Casey asked, watching him plod back into the side door of the bank, now over her anger and very glad to be going to dinner with them both.

"I don't know—I didn't understand his dialect."

"I'll bet it wasn't a compliment."

Dunross laughed. "You'd win that one, Casey. They don't think much of us at all."

"That old man must be eighty if he's a day and he's carried his load as though it was a feather. How'd they stay so fit?"

Dunross shrugged and said nothing. He knew.

Another coolie heaved his burden into the truck, stared at her, hawked, spat and plodded away again. "Up yours too," Casey muttered and then parodied an awful hawk and a twenty-foot spit and they laughed with her. The Chinese just stared.

"Ian, what's this all about? What're we here for?" Bartlett asked.

"I thought you might like to see fifty tons of gold."

Casey gasped. "Those sacks're filled with gold?"

"Yes. Come along." Dunross led the way down the dingy stairs into the gold vault. The bank officials greeted him politely and the unarmed guards and loaders stared. Both Americans felt disquieted under the stares. But their disquiet was swamped by the gold. Neat stacks of gold bars on the steel shelves that surrounded them—ten to a layer, each stack ten layers high.

"Can I pick one up?" Casey asked.

"Help yourself," Dunross told them, watching them, trying to test the extent of their greed. I'm gambling for high stakes, he thought again. I have to know the measure of these two.

Casey had never touched so much gold in her life. Nor had Bartlett. Their fingers trembled. She caressed one of the little bars, her eyes wide, before she lifted it. "It's so heavy for its size," she muttered.

"These're called smuggler bars because they're easy to hide and to transport," Dunross said, choosing his words deliberately. "Smugglers wear a sort of canvas waistcoat with little pockets in it that hold the bars snugly. They say a good courier can carry as much as eighty pounds a trip—that's almost 1,300 ounces. Of course they have to be fit and well trained."

Bartlett was hefting two in each hand, fascinated by them. "How many make up eighty pounds?"

"About two hundred, give or take a little."

Casey looked at him, her hazel eyes bigger than usual. "Are these yours, tai-pan?"

"Good God, no! They belong to a Macao company. They're shifting it from here to the Victoria Bank. Americans or English aren't allowed by law to own even one of these. But I thought you might be interested because it's not often you see fifty tons all in one place."

"I never realized what real money was like before," Casey said. "Now I can understand why my dad's and uncle's eyes used to light up when they talked about gold."

Dunross was watching her. He could see no greed in her. Just wonder. "Do banks make many shipments like this?" Bartlett asked, his voice throaty.

"Yes, all the time," Dunross said and he wondered if Bartlett had taken the bait and was considering a Mafioso-style hijack with his friend Banastasio. "We've a very large shipment coming in in about three weeks," he said, increasing the lure.

"What's fifty tons worth?" Bartlett asked.

Dunross smiled to himself remembering Zeppelin Tung with his exactitude of figures. As if it mattered! "63 million dollars legally, give or take a few thousand."

"And you're moving it just with a bunch of old men, two trucks that're not even armored and no guards?"

"Of course. That's no problem in Hong Kong, which's one of the reasons our police are so sensitive about guns here. If they've the only guns in the Colony, well, what can the crooks and nasties do except curse?" "But where're the police? I didn't see but one and he wasn't armed."

"Oh, they're around, I suppose," Dunross said, deliberately underplaying it.

Casey peered at the gold bar, enjoying the touch of the metal. "It feels so cool and so permanent. Tai-pan, if it's 63 million legal, what's it worth on the black market?"

Dunross noticed tiny beads of perspiration now on her upper lip. "However much someone's prepared to pay. At the moment, I hear the best market's India. They'd pay about $80 to $90 an ounce, U.S., delivered into India."

Bartlett smiled crookedly and reluctantly put his four bars back onto their pile. "That's a lot of profit."

They watched in silence as another canvas bag was sealed, the bars checked and rechecked by both clerks. Again the two loaders lifted the sack onto a bent back and the man plodded out.

"What're those?" Casey asked, pointing to some much bigger bars that were in another part of the vault.

"They're the regulation four-hundred-ounce bars," Dunross said. "They weigh around twenty-five pounds apiece." The bar was stamped with a hammer and sickle and 99,999. "This's Russian. It's 99.99 percent pure. South African gold is usually 99.98 percent pure so the Russian's sought after. Of course both're easy to buy in the London gold market." He let them look awhile longer, then said, "Shall we go now?"

On the street there was still only one policeman and the sloppy, unarmed bank guards, the two truck drivers smoking in their cabins. Traffic eased past from time to time. A few pedestrians.

Dunross was glad to get out of the close confinement of the vault. He had hated cellars and dungeons ever since his father had locked him in a cupboard when he was very small, for a crime he could not now remember. But he remembered old Ah Tat, his amah, rescuing him and standing up for him—him staring up at his father, trying to hold back the terror tears that would not be held back.

"It's good to be out in the air again," Casey said. She used a tissue. Inexorably her eyes were dragged to the sacks in the nearly full truck. "That's real money," she muttered, almost to herself. A small shudder wracked her and Dunross knew at once that he had found her jugular.

"I could use a bottle of beer," Bartlett said. "So much money makes me thirsty."

"I could use a Scotch and soda!" she said, and the spell was broken.

"We'll stroll over to the Victoria and see the delivery begin, then we'll eat—" Dunross stopped. He saw the two men chatting near the trucks, partially in shadow. He stiffened slightly.

The two men saw him. Martin Haply of the China Guardian and Peter Marlowe.

"Oh, hello, tai-pan," young Martin Haply said, coming up to him with his confident grin. "I didn't expect to see you here. Evening, Miss Casey, Mr. Bartlett. Tai-pan, would you care to comment on the Ho-Pak matter?"

"What Ho-Pak matter?"

"The run on the bank, sir."

"I didn't know there was one."

"Did you happen to read my column about the various branches and the rumo—"

"My dear Haply," Dunross said with his easy charm, "you know I don't seek interviews or give them lightly . . . and never on street corners."

"Yes sir." Haply nodded at the sacks. "Transferring all this gold out's kinda rough for the Ho-Pak, isn't it? That'll put the kiss of death on the bank when all this leaks."

Dunross sighed. "Forget the Ho-Pak, Mr. Haply. Can I have a word in private?" He took the young man's elbow and guided him away with velvet firmness. When they were alone, half covered by one of the trucks, he let go of the arm. His voice dropped. Involuntarily, Haply flinched and moved back half a pace. "Since you are going out with my daughter, I just want you to know that I'm very fond of her and among gentlemen there are certain rules. I'm presuming you're a gentleman. If you're not, God help you. You'll answer to me personally, immediately and without mercy." Dunross turned and went back to the others, full of sudden bonhomie. "Evening, Marlowe, how're things?"

"Fine, thank you, tai-pan." The tall man nodded at the trucks. "Astonishing, all this wealth!"

"Where did you hear about the transfer?"

"A journalist friend mentioned it about an hour ago. He said that some fifty tons of gold were being moved from here to the Victoria. I thought it'd be interesting to see how it was done. Hope it's not .. . hope I'm not treading on any corns."

"Not at all." Dunross turned to Casey and Bartlett. "There, you see, I told you Hong Kong was just like a village—you can never keep any secrets here for long. But all this"—he waved at the sacks —"this is all lead—fool's gold. The real shipment was completed an hour ago. It wasn't fifty tons, only a few thousand ounces. The majority of the Ho-Pak's bullion's still intact." He smiled at Haply who was not smiling but listening, his face set.

"This's all fake after all?" Casey gasped.

Peter Marlowe laughed. "I must confess I did think this whole operation was a bit haphazard!"

"Well, good night you two," Dunross said breezily to Marlowe and Martin Haply. He took Casey's arm momentarily. "Come on, it's time for dinner." They started down the street, Bartlett beside them.

"But tai-pan, the ones we saw," Casey said, "the one I picked up, that was fake? I'd've bet my life, wouldn't you have, Line?"

"Yes," Bartlett agreed. "But the diversion was wise. That's what I'd've done."

They turned the comer, heading along toward the huge Victoria Bank building, the air warm and sticky.

Casey laughed nervously. "That golden metal was getting to me —and it was fake all the time!"

"Actually it was all real," Dunross said quietly and she stopped.

"Sorry to confuse you, Casey. I only said that for Haply and Marlowe's benefit, to pour suspicion on their source. They could hardly prove it one way or another. I was asked to make the arrangements for the transfer little more than an hour ago—which I did, obviously, with great caution." His heart quickened. He wondered how many other people knew about the AMG papers and the vault and the box number in the vault.

Bartlett watched him. "I bought what you said, so I guess they did," he said, but he was thinking, Why did you bring us to see the gold? That's what I'd like to know.

"It's curious, tai-pan," Casey said with a little nervous laugh. "I knew, I just knew the gold was real to begin with. Then I believed you when you said it was fake, and now I believe you back again. Is it that easy to fake?"

"Yes and no. You only know for certain if you put acid on it— you've got to put it to the acid test. That's the only real test for gold. Isn't it?" he added to Bartlett and saw the half-smile and he wondered if the American understood.

"Guess that's right, Ian. For gold—or for people."

Dunross smiled back. Good, he thought grimly, we understand each other perfectly.

It was quite late now. Golden Ferries had stopped running and Casey and Line Bartlett were in a small private hire-launch chugging across the harbor, the night grand, a good sea smell on the wind, the sea calm. They were sitting on one of the thwarts facing Hong Kong, arm in arm. Dinner had been the best they had ever eaten, the conversation filled with lots of laughter, Dunross charming. They'd ended with cognac atop the Hilton. Both were feeling marvelously at peace with the world and with themselves.

Casey felt the light pressure of his arm and she leaned against him slightly. "It's romantic, isn't it, Line? Look at the Peak, and all the lights. Unbelievable. It's the most beautiful and exciting place I've ever been."

"Better than the south of France?"

"That was so different." They had had a holiday on the Cote d'Azur two "years ago. It was the first time they had holidayed together. And the last. It had been too much of a strain on both of them to stay apart. "lan's fantastic, isn't he?"

"Yes. And so are you."

:

"Thank you, kind sir, and so are you." They laughed, happy together.

At the wharf, Kowloon side, Line paid the boat off and they strolled to the hotel, arm in arm. A few waiters were still on duty in the lobby.

"Evening, sir, evening, missee," the old elevator man said sibi-lantly, and, on their floor, Nighttime Chang scurried ahead of them to open the door of the suite. Automatically Line gave him a dollar and they were bowed in. Nighttime Chang closed the door.

She bolted it.

"Drink?" he asked.

"No thanks. It'd spoil that brandy."

She saw him looking at her. They were standing in the center of the living room, the huge picture window displaying all of Hong Kong behind him, his bedroom to the right, hers to the left. She could feel the vein in her neck pulsing, her loins seemed liquid and he looked so handsome to her.

"Well, it's . . . thanks for a lovely evening, Line. I'll . . . I'll see you tomorrow," she said. But she did not move.

"It's three months to your birthday, Casey."

"Thirteen weeks and six days."

"Why don't we finesse them and get married now. Tomorrow?"

"You've . . . you've been so wonderful to me, Line, so good to be patient and put up with my … my craziness." She smiled at him. It was a tentative smile. "It's not long now. Let's do it as we agreed. Please?"

He stood there and watched her, wanting her. Then he said, "Sure." At his door he stopped. "Casey, you're right about this place. It is romantic and exciting. It's got to me too. Maybe, maybe you'd better get another room."

His door closed.

That night she cried herself to sleep.

WEDNESDAY

27

5:45 A.M. :

The two racehorses came out of the turn into the final stretch going very fast. It was false dawn, the sky still dark to the west, and the Happy Valley Racecourse was spotted with people at the morning workout.

Dunross was up on Buccaneer, the big bay gelding, and he was neck and neck with Noble Star, ridden by his chief jockey, Tom Leung. Noble Star was on the rails and both horses were going well with plenty in reserve. Then Dunross saw the winning post ahead and he had that sudden urge to jam in his heels and best the other horse. The other jockey sensed the challenge and looked across at him. But both riders knew they were there just to exercise and not to race, there to confuse the opposition, so Dunross bottled his almost blinding desire.

Both horses had their ears down now. Their flanks were wet with sweat. Both felt the bit in between their teeth. And now, well into the stretch, they pounded toward the winning post excitedly, the inner training sand track not as fast as the encircling grass, making them work harder. Both riders stood high in the stirrups, leaning forward, reins tight.

Noble Star was carrying less weight. She began to pull away. Dunross automatically used his heels and cursed Buccaneer. The pace quickened. The gap began to close. His exhilaration soared. This gallop was barely half a lap so he thought he would be safe. No opposing trainer could get an accurate timing on them so he kicked harder and the race was on. Both horses knew. Their strides lengthened. Noble Star had her nose ahead and then, feeling Buccaneer coming up fast, she took the bit, laid to and charged forward on her own account and drew away and beat Dunross by half a length.

Now the riders slackened speed and, standing easily, continued around the lovely course—a patch of green surrounded by massed buildings and tiers of high rises that dotted the mountainsides. When Dunross had cantered up the final stretch again, he broke off the exercising, reined in beside where the winner's circle would normally be and dismounted. He slapped the filly affectionately on the neck, threw the reins to a stable hand. The man swung into the saddle and continued her exercise.

Dunross eased his shoulders, his heart beating nicely, the taste of blood in his mouth. He felt very good, his stretched muscles aching pleasantly. He had ridden all of his life. Horse racing was still officially all amateur in Hong Kong. When he was young he had raced two seasons and he would have continued, but he had been warned off the course by his father, then tai-pan and chief steward, and again by Alastair Struan when he took over both jobs, and ordered to quit racing on pain of instant dismissal. So he had stopped racing though he continued to exercise the Struan stable at his whim. And he raced in the dawn when the mood was on him. It was the getting up when most of the world slept, to gallop in half light—the exercise and excitement, the speed, and the danger that cleared his head.

Dunross spat the sweet sick taste of not winning out of his mouth. That's better, he thought. I could have taken Noble Star today, but I'd've done it in the turn, not in the stretch.

Other horses were exercising on the sand track, more joining the circuit or leaving it. Knots of owners and trainers and jockeys were conferring, ma-foos—stable hands—walking horses in their blankets. He saw Butterscotch Lass, Richard Kwang's great mare, canter past, a white star on her forehead, neat fetlocks, her jockey riding her tightly, looking very good. Over on the far side Pilot Fish, Gornt's prize stallion, broke into a controlled gallop, chasing another of the Struan string, Impatience, a new, young, untried filly, recently acquired in the first balloting of this season. Dunross watched her critically and thought she lacked stamina. Give her a season or two and then we'll see, he thought. Then Pilot Fish ripped past her and she skittered in momentary fright, then charged in pursuit until her jockey pulled her in, teaching her to gallop at his whim and not at hers.

"So, tai-pan!" his trainer said. He was a leather-faced, iron-hard Russian emigre in his late sixties with graying hair and this was his third season with Struan's. "So, Alexi?"

"So the devil got into you and you gave him your heel and did you see Noble Star surge ahead?"

"She's a trier. Noble Star's a trier, everyone knows that," Dunross replied calmly.

"Yes, but I'd've preferred only you and I to be reminded of it today and not"—the small man jerked a calloused thumb at the onlookers and grinned—". . . and not every viblyadok in Asia."

Dunross grinned back. "You notice too much."

"I'm paid to notice too much."

Alexi Travkin could outride, outdrink, outwork and outstay a man half his age. He was a loner among the other trainers. Over the years he had told various stories about his past—like most of those who had been caught in the great turmoils of Russia and her revolutions, China and her revolutions, and now drifted the byways of Asia seeking a peace they could never find.

Alexi Ivanovitch Travkin had come out of Russia to Harbin in Manchuria in 1919, then worked his way south to the International Settlement of Shanghai. There he began to ride winners. Because he was very good and knew more about horses than most men know about themselves, he soon became a trainer. When the exodus happened again in '49 he fled south, this time to Hong Kong where he stayed a few years then drifted south again to Australia and the circuits there. But Asia beckoned him so he returned. Dunross was trainerless at that time and offered him the stable of the Noble House.

"I'll take it, tai-pan," he had said at once.

"We haven't discussed money," Dunross had said.

"You're a gentleman, so am I. You'll pay me the best for face— and because I'm the best."

"Are you?"

"Why else do you offer me the post? You don't like to lose either."

Last season had been good for both of them. The first not so good. Both knew this coming season would be the real test.

Noble Star was walking past, settling down nicely.

"What about Saturday?" Dunross asked.

"She'll be trying."

"And Butterscotch Lass?"

"She'll be trying. So will Pilot Fish. So will all the others—in all eight races. This's a very special meeting. We'll have to watch our entries very carefully."

Dunross nodded. He caught sight of Gornt talking with Sir Dun-stan Barre by the winner's circle. "I'll be very peed off if I lose to Pilot Fish."

Alexi laughed. Then added wryly, "In that case perhaps you'd better ride Noble Star yourself, tai-pan. Then you can shove Pilot Fish into the rails in the turn if he looks like a threat, or put the whip across his jockey's eyes. Eh?" The old man looked up at him. "Isn't that what you'd've done with Noble Star today if it'd been a race?"

Dunross smiled back. "As it wasn't a race you'll never know— will you?"

A ma-foo came up and saluted Travkin, handing him a note. "Message, sir. Mr. Choi'd like you to look at Chardistan's bindings when you've a moment."

"I'll be there shortly. Tell him to put extra bran in Buccaneer's feed today and tomorrow." Travkin glanced back at Dunross, who was watching Noble Star closely. He frowned. "You're not considering riding Saturday?"

"Not at the moment."

"I wouldn't advise it."

Dunross laughed. "I know. See you tomorrow, Alexi. Tomorrow I'll work Impatience." He clapped him in friendly style and left.

Alexi Travkin stared after him; his eyes strayed to the horses that were in his charge, and their opposition that he could see. He knew this Saturday would be vicious and that Noble Star would have to be guarded. He smiled to himself, pleased to be in a game where the stakes were very high.

He opened the note that was in his hand. It was short and in Russian: "Greetings from Kurgan, Highness. I have news of Nes-torova . . ." Alexi gasped. The color drained from his face. By the blood of Christ, he wanted to shout. No one in Asia knows my home was in Kurgan, in the flatlands on the banks of the River Tobol, nor that my father was Prince of Kurgan and Tobol, nor that my darling Nestorova, my child-wife of a thousand lifetimes ago, swallowed up in the revolution while I was with my regiment

… I swear to God I've never mentioned her name to anyone, not even to myself. . . .

In shock he reread the note. Is this more of their devilment, the Soviets—the enemy of all the Russians? Or is it a friend? Oh Christ Jesus let it be a friend.

After "Nestorova" the note had ended, "Please meet me at the Green Dragon Restaurant, in the alley just off 189 Nathan Road, the back room at three this afternoon." There was no signature.

Across the paddock, near the winning post, Richard Kwang was walking toward his trainer when he saw his sixth cousin, Smiler Ching, chairman of the huge Ching Prosperity Bank, in the stands, his binoculars trained on Pilot Fish.

"Hello, Sixth Cousin," he said affably in Cantonese, "have you eaten rice today?"

The sly old man was instantly on guard. "You won't get any money out of me," he said coarsely, his lips sliding back from protruding teeth that gave him a perpetual smiling grimace.

"Why not?" Richard Kwang said equally rudely. "I've got 17 fornicating millions on loan to you an—"

"Yes but that's on ninety-day call and well invested. We've always paid the 40 percent interest," the old man snarled.

"You miserable old dog bone, I helped you when you needed money! Now it's time to repay!"

"Repay what? What?" Smiler Ching spat. "I've repaid you a fortune over the years. I've taken the risks and you've reaped the profit. This whole disaster couldn't happen at a worse time! I've every copper cash out—every one! I'm not like some bankers. My money's always put to good use."

The good use was narcotics, so legend went. Of course Richard Kwang had never asked, and no one knew for certain, but everyone believed that Smiler Ching's bank was secretly one of the main clearinghouses for the trade, the vast majority of which emanated from Bangkok. "Listen, Cousin, think of the family," Richard Kwang began. "It's only a temporary problem. The fornicating foreign devils are attacking us. When that happens civilized people have to stick together!"

"I agree. But you're the cause of the run on the Ho-Pak. You are. It's on you—not on my bank. You've offended the fornicators somehow! They're after you—don't you read the papers? Yes, and you've got all your cash out on some very bad deals so I hear. You, Cousin, you've put your own head into the cangue. Get money out of that evil son of a Malayan whore half-caste partner of yours. He's got billions—or out of Tightflst. . . ." The old man suddenly cackled. "I'll give you 10 for every 1 that old fornicator loans you!"

"If I go down the toilet the Ching Prosperity Bank won't be far behind."

"Don't threaten me!" the old man said angrily. His lips had a flick of saliva permanently in the corners and then they worked over his teeth once and fell apart again in his grimace. "If you go down it won't be my fault—why wish your rotten joss on family? I've done nothing to hurt you—why try and pass your bad joss on to me? If today .. . ayeeyah, if today your bad joss spills over and those dog bone depositors start a run on me I won't last the day!"

Richard Kwang momentarily felt better that the Ching empire was equally threatened. Good, very good. I could use all his business —particularly the Bangkok connection. Then he saw the big clock over the totalizator and groaned. It was just past six now and at ten, banks would open and the stock market would open and though arrangements had been made with Blacs, the Victoria and the Bombay and Eastern Bank of Kowloon to pledge securities that should cover everything and to spare, he was still nervous. And enraged. He had had to make some very tough deals that he had no wish to honor. "Come on, Cousin, just 50 million for ten days—I'll extend the 17 million for two years and add another 20 in thirty days."

"50 million for three days at 10 percent interest a day, your present loan to be collateral and I'll also take deed to your property in Central as further collateral!"

"Go fornicate in your mother's ear! That property's worth four times that."

Smiler Ching shrugged and turned his binoculars back on Pilot Fish. "Is the big black going to beat Butterscotch Lass too?"

Richard Kwang looked at Gornt's horse sourly. "Not unless my weevil-mouthed trainer and jockey join together to pull her or dope her!"

"Filthy thieves! You can't trust one of them! My horse's never come in the money once. Never. Not even third. Disgusting!"

"50 million for one week—2 percent a day?"

"5. Plus the Central pro—"

"Never!"

"I'll take a 50 percent share of the property."

"6 percent," Richard Kwang said.

Smiler Ching estimated his risk. And his potential profit. The profit was huge if. If the Ho-Pak didn't fail. But even if it did, the loan would be well covered by the property. Yes, the profit would be huge, provided there wasn't a real run on himself. Perhaps I could gamble and pledge some future shipments and raise the 50 million.

"15 percent and that's final," he said knowing that he would withdraw or change by noon once he saw how the market was, and the run was—and he would continue to sell Ho-Pak short to great profit. "And also you can throw in Butterscotch Lass."

Richard Kwang swore obscenely and they bargained back and forth then agreed that the 50 million was on call at two o'clock. In cash. He would also pledge Smiler Ching 39 percent of the Central property as added collateral, and a quarter share in his mare. Butterscotch Lass was the clincher.

"What about Saturday?"

"Eh?" Richard Kwang said, loathing the grimace and buck teeth.

"Our horse's in the fifth race, heya? Listen, Sixth Cousin, perhaps we'd better make an accommodation with Pilot Fish's jockey. We pull our horse—she'll be favorite—and back Pilot Fish and Noble Star for safety!"

"Good idea. We'll decide Saturday morning."

"Better to eliminate Golden Lady too, eh?"

"John Chen's trainer suggested that."

"Eeeee, that fool, to get himself kidnapped. I'll expect you to give me the real information on who's going to win. I want the winner too!" Smiler hawked and spat.

"All gods defecate, don't we all! Those filthy trainers and jockeys! Disgusting the way they puppet us owners. Who pays their salaries, heya?"

"The Turf Club, the owners, but most the punters who aren't in the know. I hear you were at the Old Vic last night for foreign devil food."

Richard Kwang beamed. His dinner with Venus Poon had been an enormous success. She had worn the new knee-length Christian Dior he had bought for her, black clinging silk and gossamer underneath. When he had seen her get out of his Rolls and come up the steps of the Old Vic his heart had turned over and his Secret Sack had jiggled.

She had been all smiles at the effect her entrance had on the entire foyer, her chunky gold bracelets glittering, and had insisted on walking up the grand staircase instead of using the elevator. His chest had been tight with suppressed glee and terror. They had walked through the formal, well-groomed diners, European and Chinese, many in evening dress—husbands and wives, tourists and locals, men at business dinners, lovers and would-be lovers of all ages and nationalities. He was wearing a new, Savile Row dark suit of the most expensive lightweight cashmere wool. As they moved toward the choice table that had cost him a red—100 dollars—he had waved to many friends, and groaned inwardly four times as he saw four of his Chinese intimates with their wives, bouffant and overjeweled. The wives had stared at him glassily.

Richard Kwang shuddered. Wives really are dragons and all the same, he thought. Oh oh oh! And your lies sound false to them even before you've spoken them. He had not gone home yet to face Mai-ling who would have already been told by at least three very good friends about Venus Poon. He would let her rant and scream and weep and tear her hair for a while to release her devil wind and would say that enemies had filled her head with bile—how can she listen to such evil women?—and then he would meekly tell her about the full-length mink that he had ordered three weeks ago, that he was to collect today in time for her to wear to the races Saturday. Then there would be peace in the house—until the next time.

He chortled at his acumen in ordering the mink. That he had ordered it for Venus Poon and had, this morning, just an hour ago in the warmth of her embrace, promised it to her tonight so she would wear it to the races on Saturday did not bother him at all. It's much too good for the strumpet anyway, he was thinking. That coat cost 40,000 HK. I'll get her another one. Ah, perhaps I could find a secondhand one. . . .

He saw Smiler Ching leering at him. "What?"

"Venus Poon, heya?"

"I'm thinking of going into film production and making her a star," he said grandly, proud of the cover story he had invented as part of his excuse to his wife.

Smiler Ching was impressed. "Eeee, but that's a risky business, heya?"

"Yes, but there are ways to … to insure your risk." He winked knowingly.

"Ayeeyah, you mean a nudie film? Oh! Let me know when you set the production, I might take a point or two. Venus Poon naked! Ayeeyah, all Asia'd pay to see that! What's she like at the pillow?"

"Perfect! Now that I've educated her. She was a virgin when

I fir—" "What joss!" Smiler Ching said, then added, "How many times did you scale the Ramparts?"

"Last night? Three times—each time stronger than before!" Richard Kwang leaned forward. "Her Flower Heart's the best I've ever seen. Yes. And her triangle! Lovely silken hair and her inner lips pink and delicate. Eeeee, and her Jade Gate . . . her Jade Gate's really heart-shaped and her 'one square inch' is a perfect oval, pink, fragrant, and the Pearl on the Step also pink.. . ." Richard Kwang felt himself beginning to sweat as he remembered how she had spread herself on the sofa and handed him a big magnifying glass. "Here," she had said proudly. "Examine the goddess your bald-headed monk's about to worship." And he had. Meticulously.

"The best pillow partner I've ever had," Richard Kwang continued expansively, stretching the truth. "I was thinking about buying her a large diamond ring. Poor Little Mealy Mouth wept this morning when I left the apartment I've given her. She was swearing suicide because she's so in love with me." He used the English word.

"Eeeee, you're a lucky man!" Smiler Ching spoke no English except the words of love. He felt eyes on his back and he glanced around. In the next section of the stands, fifty yards away, slightly above him, was the foreign devil policeman Big Mountain of Dung, the hated chief of the CID Kowloon. The cold fish-eyes were staring at him, binoculars hanging from the man's neck. Ayeeyah, Ching muttered to himself, his mind darting over the various checks and traps and balances that guarded his main source of revenue.

"Eh? What? What's the matter with you, Smiler Ching?"

"Nothing. I want to piss, that's all. Send the papers over at two o'clock if you want my money." Sourly he turned away to go to the toilet, wondering if the police were aware of the imminent arrival of the foreign devil from the Golden Mountain, a High Tiger of the White Powders with the outlandish name of Vincenzo Banastasio.

He hawked and spat loudly. Joss if they do, joss if they don't. They can't touch me, I'm only a banker.

Robert Armstrong had noted that Smiler Ching was talking to Banker Kwang and knew surely that the pair of them were up to no good. The police were well aware of the whispers about Ching and his Prosperity Bank and the narcotics trade but so far had no real evidence implicating him or his bank, not even enough circumstantial evidence to merit SB detention, interrogation and summary deportation.

Well, he'll slip sometime, Robert Armstrong thought calmly, and turned his binoculars back on to Pilot Fish, then to Noble Star, then to Butterscotch Lass, and then to Golden Lady, John Chen's mare. Which one's got the form?

He yawned and stretched wearily. It had been another long night and he had not yet been to bed. Just as he was leaving Kowloon Police HQ last night there had been a flurry of excitement as another anonymous caller phoned to say that John Chen had been seen out in the New Territories, in the tiny fishing village of Sha Tau Kwok which bisected the eastern tip of the border.

He had rushed out there with a team and searched the village, hovel by hovel. His search had had to be done very cautiously for the whole border area was extremely sensitive, particularly at the village where there was one of the three border checkpoints. The villagers were a hardy, tough, uncompromising bellicose lot that wanted to be left alone. Particularly by foreign devil police. The search had proved to be just another false alarm though they had uncovered two illegal stills, a small heroin factory that converted raw opium into morphine and thence into heroin, and had broken up six illegal gambling dens.

When Armstrong had got back to Kowloon HQ there was another call about John Chen, this time Hong Kong side in Wanchai, down near Glessing's Point in the dock area. Apparently John Chen had been seen being bundled into a tenement house, a dirty bandage over his right ear. This time the caller had given his name and driver's license number so that he could claim the reward of 50,000 HK, offered by Struan's and Noble House Chen. Again Armstrong had brought units to surround the area and had led the meticulous search. It was already five o'clock in the morning by the time he called off the operation and dismissed his men.

"Brian, it's me for bed," he said. "Waste of another fang-pi night."

Brian Kwok yawned too. "Yes. But while we're this side, how about breakfast at the Para and then, then let's go and look at the morning workouts?"

At once most of Robert Armstrong's tiredness fell away. "Great idea!"

The Para Restaurant in Wanchai Road near Happy Valley Racecourse was always open. The food was excellent, cheap and it was a well-known meeting place for triads and their girls. When the two policemen strode into the large, noisy, bustling, plate-clattering room a sudden silence fell. The proprietor, One Foot Ko, limped over to them and beamed them to the best table in the place.

"Dew neh loh moh on you too, Old Friend," Armstrong said grimly and added some choice obscenities in gutter Cantonese, staring back pointedly at the nearest group of gaping young thugs who nervously turned away.

One Foot Ko laughed and showed his bad teeth. "Ah, Lords, you honor my poor establishment. Dim sum?"

"Why not?" Dim sum—small chow or small foods—were bite-sized dough envelopes packed with minced shrimps or vegetables or various meats then steamed or deep-fried and eaten with a touch of soya, or saucers of chicken and other meats in various sauces or pastries of all kinds.

"Your Worships are going to the track?"

Brian Kwok nodded, sipping his jasmine tea, his eyes roving the diners, making many of them very nervous. "Who's going to win the fifth?" he asked.

The restaurateur hesitated, knowing he'd better tell the truth. He said carefully in Cantonese, "They say that neither Golden Lady, Noble Star, Pilot Fish or Butterscotch Lass has … has yet been touted as having an edge." He saw the cold black-brown eyes come to rest on him and he tried not to shudder. "By all the gods, that's what they say."

"Good. I'll come here Saturday morning. Or I'll send my sergeant. Then you can whisper in his ear if some foul play's contemplated. Yes. And if it turns out one of those are doped or cut and I don't know about it on Saturday morning … perhaps your soups will addle for fifty years."

One Foot smiled nervously. "Yes, Lord. Let me see to your food no—" "Before you go, what's the latest gossip on John Chen?"

"None. Oh very none, Honored Lord," the man said, a little perspiration on his upper lip. "Fragrant Harbor's as clean of information on him as a virgin's treasure. Nothing, Lord. Not a dog's fart of a real rumor though everyone's looking. I hear there's an extra great reward."

"What? How much?"

"100,000 extra dollars if within three days."

Both policemen whistled. "Offered by whom?" Armstrong asked,

One Foot shrugged, his eyes hard. "No one knows, Sire. They say by one of the Dragons—or all the Dragons. 100,000 and promotion if within three days—if he's recovered alive. Please, now let me see about your food."

They watched him go. "Why did you lean on One Foot?" Armstrong asked.

"I'm tired of his mealy-mouthed hypocrisy—and all these rotten little thugs. The cat-o'-nine-tails'd solve our triad problems."

Armstrong called for a beer. "When I leaned on Sergeant Tang-po I didn't think I'd get such action so fast. 100,000's a lot of money! This can't be just a simple kidnapping. Jesus Christ that's a lot of reward! There's got to be something special about John."

"Yes. If it's true."

But they had arrived at no conclusions and when they came to the track, Brian Kwok had gone to check in with HQ and now Armstrong had his binoculars trained on the mare. Butterscotch Lass was leaving the track to walk back up the hill to the stables. She looks in great fettle, he thought. They all do. Shit, which one?

"Robert?"

"Oh hello, Peter."

Peter Marlowe smiled at him. "Are you up early or going to bed late?"

"Late."

"Did you notice the way Noble Star charged without her jockey doing a thing?"

"You've sharp eyes."

Peter Marlowe smiled and shook his head. He pointed at a group of men around one of the horses. "Donald McBride told me."

"Ah!" McBride was an immensely popular racing steward, a Eurasian property developer who had come to Hong Kong from Shanghai in '49. "Has he given you the winner? He'll know if anyone does."

"No, but he invited me to his box on Saturday. Are you racing?" "Do you mind! I'll steyou in the members' box—/ don't cavort with the nobs!" They both watched the horses for a while. "Golden Lady looks good."

"They all do."

"Nothing on John Chen yet?"

"Nothing." Armstrong caught sight of Dunross in his binoculars, talking to some stewards. Not far away was the SI guard that Crosse had assigned to him. Roll on Friday, the policeman thought. The sooner we see those AMG files the better. He felt slightly sick and he could not decide if it was apprehension about the papers, or Sevrin, or if it was just fatigue. He began to reach for a cigarette— stopped. You don't need a smoke, he ordered himself. "You should give up smoking, Peter. It's very bad for you."

"Yes. Yes I should. How's it going with you?"

"No trouble. Which reminds me, Peter, the Old Man approved your trip around the border road. Day after tomorrow, Friday, 6:00 A.M. on the dot at Kowloon HQ. That all right?"

Peter Marlowe's heart leaped. At long last he could look into Mainland China, into the unknown. In all the borderland of the New Territories there was only one accessible lookout that tourists could use to see into China, but the hill was so far away you could not see much at all. Even with binoculars. "How terrific!" he said, elated. At Armstrong's suggestion he had written to the commissioner and applied for this permission. The border road meandered from shore to shore. It was forbidden to all traffic and all persons —except locals in certain areas. It ran in a wide stretch of no-man's-land between the Colony and China. Once a day it was patrolled under very controlled circumstances. The Hong Kong Government had no wish to rock any PRC boats.

"One condition, Peter: You don't mention it or talk about it for a year or so."

"My word on it."

Armstrong suppressed another yawn. "You'll be the only Yank who's ever gone along it, perhaps ever will."

"Terrific! Thanks."

"Why did you become a citizen?"

After a pause Peter Marlowe said, "I'm a writer. All my income comes from there, almost all of it. Now people are beginning to read what I write. Perhaps I'd like the right to criticize." "Have you ever been to any Iron Curtain countries?" "Oh yes. I went to Moscow in July for the film festival. One of the films I wrote was the American entry. Why?"

"Nothing," Armstrong said, remembering Bartlett's and Casey's Moscow franks. He smiled. "No reason."

"One good turn deserves another. I heard a buzz about Bartlett's guns."

"Oh?" Armstrong was instantly attentive. Peter Marlowe was very rare in Hong Kong inasmuch as he crossed social strata and was accepted as a friend by many normally hostile groups. "It's just talk probably but some friends have a theory— "Chinese friends?"

"Yes. They think the guns were a sample shipment, bound for one of our piratical Chinese citizens—at least, one with a history of smuggling—for shipment to one of the guerrilla bands operating in South Vietnam, called Viet Cong."

Armstrong grunted. "That's farfetched, Peter, Hong Kong's not the place to transit guns."

"Yes. But this shipment was special, the first, and it was asked for in a hurry and was to be delivered in a hurry. You've heard of Delta Force?"

"No," Armstrong said, staggered that Peter Marlowe had already heard of what Rosemont, CIA, had assured them in great secrecy was a very classified operation.

"I understand it's a group of specially trained U.S. combat soldiers, Robert, a special force who're operating in Vietnam in small units under the control of the American Technical Group, which's a cover name for the CIA. It seems they're succeeding so well that the Viet Cong need modern weapons fast and in great quantity and are prepared to pay handsomely. So these were rushed here on Bartlett's plane." "Is he involved?"

"My friends doubt it," he said after a pause. "Anyway, the guns're U.S. Army issue, Robert, right? Well, once this shipment was approved, delivery in quantity was going to be easy." "Oh, how?"

"The U.S. is going to supply the arms." "What?"

"Sure." Peter Marlowe's face settled. "It's really very simple: Say these Viet Cong guerrillas were provided in advance with all exact U.S. shipment dates, exact destinations, quantities and types of arms —small arms to rockets—when they arrived in Vietnam?"

"Christ!"

"Yes. You know Asia. A little h'eung you here and there and constant hijacking'd be simple."

"It'd be like them having their own stockpile!" Armstrong said, appalled. "How're the guns going to be paid for? A bank here?"

Peter Marlowe looked at him. "Bulk opium. Delivered here. One of our banks here supplies the financing."

The police officer sighed. The beauty of it fell into place. "Flawless," he said.

"Yes. Some rotten bastard traitor in the States just passes over schedules. That gives the enemy all the guns and ammunition they need to kill off our own soldiers. The enemy pays for the guns with a poison that costs them nothing—I imagine it's about the only salable commodity they've got in bulk and can easily acquire. The opium's delivered here by the Chinese smuggler and converted to heroin because this's where the expertise is. The traitors in the States make a deal with the Mafia who sell the heroin at enormous profit to more kids and so subvert and destroy the most important bloody asset we have; youth."

"As I said, flawless. What some buggers'll do for money!" Armstrong sighed again and eased his shoulders. He thought a moment. The theory tied in everything very neatly. "Does the name Banas-tasio mean anything?"

"Sounds Italian." Peter Marlowe kept his face guileless. His informants were two Portuguese Eurasian journalists who detested the police. When he had asked them if he could pass on the theory, da Vega had said, "Of course, but the police'll never believe it. Don't quote us and don't mention any names, not Four Finger Wu, Smuggler Pa, the Ching Prosperity, or Banastasio or anyone."

After a pause, Armstrong said, "What else have you heard?"

"Lots, but that's enough for today—it's my turn to get the kids up, cook breakfast and get them toddling off to school." Peter Marlowe lit a cigarette and again Armstrong achingly felt the smoke need in his own lungs. "Except one thing, Robert. I was asked by a friendly member of the press to tell you he'd heard there's to be a big narcotics meeting soon in Macao."

The blue eyes narrowed. "When?"

"I don't know."

"What sort of meeting?"

"Principals. 'Suppliers, importers, exporters, distributors' was the way he put it."

"Where in Macao?"

"He didn't say."

"Names?"

"None. He did add that the meeting'll include a visiting VIP from the States."

"Bartlett?"

"Christ, Robert, I don't know and he didn't say that. Line Bartlett seems a jolly nice fellow, and straight as an arrow. I think it's all gossip and jealousy, trying to implicate him."

Armstrong smiled his jaundiced smile. "I'm just a suspicious copper. Villains exist in very high places, as well as in the boghole. Peter, old fellow, give your friendly journalist a message: If he wants to give me information, phone me direct."

"He's frightened of you. So am I!"

"In my hat you are." Armstrong smiled back at him, liking him, very glad for the information and that Peter Marlowe was a safe go-between who could keep his mouth shut. "Peter, ask him where in Macao and when and who and—" At a sudden thought, Armstrong said, stabbing into the unknown, "Peter, if you were to choose the best place in the Colony to smuggle in and out, where'd you pick?"

"Aberdeen or Mirs Bay. Any fool knows that—they're just the places that've always been used first, ever since there was a Hong Kong."

Armstrong sighed. "I agree." Aberdeen, he thought. What Aberdeen smuggler? Any one of two hundred. Four Finger Wu'd be first choice. Four Fingers with his big black Rolls and lucky 8 number plate, that bloody thug Two Hatchet Tok and that young nephew of his, the one with the Yankee passport, the one from Yale, was it Yale? Four Fingers would be first choice. Then Goodweather Poon, Smuggler Pa, Ta Sap-fok, Fisherman Pok … Christ, the list's endless, just of the ones we know about. In Mirs Bay, northeast beside the New Territories? The Pa Brothers, Big Mouth Fang and a thousand others . . . "Well," he said, very very glad now for the information—something tweaking him about Four Finger Wu though there had never been any rumor that he was in the heroin trade. "One good turn deserves another: Tell your journalist friend our visiting members of Parliament, the trade delegation, come in today from Peking .. . What's up?"

"Nothing," Peter Marlowe said, trying to keep his face clear. "You were saying?"

Armstrong watched him keenly, then added, "The delegation arrives on the afternoon train from Canton. They'll be at the border, transferring trains at 4:32—we just heard of the change of plan last night so perhaps your friend could get an exclusive interview. Seems they've made very good progress."

"Thanks. On my friend's behalf. Yes thanks. I'll pass it on at once. Well, I must be off. . . ."

Brian Kwok came hurrying toward them. "Hello, Peter." He was breathing quite hard. "Robert, sorry but Crosse wants to see us right now."

"Bloody hell!" Armstrong said wearily. "I told you it'd be better to wait before checking in. That bugger never sleeps." He rubbed his face to clear his tiredness away, his eyes red-rimmed. "You get the car, Brian, and I'll meet you at the front entrance."

"Good." Brian Kwok hurried away. Perturbed, Armstrong watched him go.

Peter Marlowe said as a joke, "The Town Hall's on fire?"

"In our business the Town Hall's always on fire, lad, somewhere." The policeman studied Peter Marlowe. "Before I leave, Peter, I'd like to know what's so important about the trade delegation to you."

After a pause the man with the curious eyes said, "I used to know one of them during the war. Lieutenant Robin Grey. He was provost marshal of Changi for the last two years." His voice was flat now, more flat and more icy than Armstrong had imagined possible. "I hated him and he hated me. I hope I don't meet him, that's all."

Across the winner's circle Gornt had his binoculars trained on Armstrong as he walked after Brian Kwok. Then, thoughtfully, he turned them back on Peter Marlowe who was wandering toward a group of trainers and jockeys.

"Nosy bugger!" Gornt said.

"Eh? Who? Oh Marlowe?" Sir Dunstan Barre chuckled. "He's not nosy, just wants to know everything about Hong Kong. It's your murky past that fascinates him, old boy, yours and the tai-pan's."

"You've no skeletons, Dunstan?" Gornt asked softly. "You're saying you and your family're lily white?"

"God forbid!" Barre was hastily affable, wanting to turn Gornt's sudden venom into honey. "Good God no! Scratch an Englishman find a pirate. We're all suspect! That's life, what?"

Gornt said nothing. He despised Barre but needed him. "I'm having a bash on my yacht on Sunday, Dunstan. Would you care to come—you'll find it interesting."

"Oh? Who's the honored guest?"

"I thought of making it stag only—no wives, eh?"

"Ah! Count me in," Barre said at once, brightening. "I could bring a lady friend?"

"Bring two if you like, old chap, the more the merrier. It'll be a small, select, safe group. Plumm, he's a good sort and his girl friend's lots of fun." Gornt saw Marlowe change direction as he was called over to a group of stewards dominated by Donald McBride. Then, at a sudden thought, he added, "I think I'll invite Marlowe too."

"Why if you think he's nosy?"

"He might be interested in the real stories about the Struans, our founding pirates and the present-day ones." Gornt smiled with the front of his face and Barre wondered what devilment Gornt was planning.

The red-faced man mopped his brow. "Christ, I wish it would rain. Did you know Marlowe was in the Hurricanes—he got three of the bloody Boche in the Battle of Britain before he got sent out to Singapore and that bloody mess. I'll never forgive those bloody Japs for what they did to our lads there, here, or in China."

"Nor will I," Gornt agreed darkly. "Did you know my old man was in Nanking in '37, during the rape of Nanking?"

"No, Christ, how did he get out?"

"Some of our people hid him for a few days—we'd had associates there for generations. Then he pretended to the Japs that he was a friendly correspondent for the London Times and talked his way back to Shanghai. He still has nightmares about it."

"Talking about nightmares, old chap, were you trying to give Ian one last night by going to his party?"

"You think he got even by taking care of my car?"

"Eh?" Barre was appalled. "Good God! You mean your car was tampered with?"

"The master cylinder was ruptured by a blow of some kind. The mechanic said it could've been done by a rock thrown up against it."

Barre stared at him and shook his head. "lan's not a fool. He's wild, yes, but he's no fool. That'd be attempted murder."

"It wouldn't be the first time."

"If I were you I'd not say that sort of thing publicly, old chap."

"You're not public, old chap. Are you?"

"No. Of cour—"

"Good." Gornt turned his dark eyes on him. "This is going to be a time when friends should stick together."

"Oh?" Barre was instantly on guard.

"Yes. The market's very nervous. This Ho-Pak mess could foul up a lot of all our plans."

"My Hong Kong and Lan Tao Farms's as solid as the Peak."

"You are, providing your Swiss bankers continue to grant you your new line of credit."

Barre's florid face whitened. "Eh?"

"Without their loan you can't take over Hong Kong Docks and Wharves, Royal Insurance of Hong Kong and Malaya, expand into Singapore or complete a lot of other tricky little deals you've on your agenda—you and your newfound friend, Mason Loft, the whiz kid of Threadneedle Street. Right?"

Barre watched him, cold sweat running down his back, shocked that Gornt was privy to his secrets. "Where'd you hear about those?"

Gornt laughed. "I've friends in high places, old chap. Don't worry, your Achilles' heel's safe with me."

"We're . . . we're in no danger."

"Of course not." Gornt turned his binoculars back on his horse. "Oh by the way, Dunstan, I might need your vote at the next meeting of the bank."

"On what?"

"I don't know yet." Gornt looked down at him. "I just need to know that I can count on you."

"Yes, Yes of course." Barre was wondering nervously what Gornt had in mind and where the leak was. "Always happy to oblige, old chap."

"Thank you. You're selling Ho-Pak short?"

"Of course. I got all my money out yesterday, thank God. Why?"

"I heard Dunross's Par-Con deal won't go through. I'm considering selling him short too."

"Oh? The deal's not on? Why?"

Gornt smiled sardonically. "Because, Dunstan—"

"Hello, Quillan, Dunstan, sorry to interrupt," Donald McBride said, bustling up to them, two men in tow. "May I introduce Mr. Charles Biltzmann, vice-president of American Superfoods. He'll be heading up the new General Stores-Superfoods merger and based in the Colony from now on. Mr. Gornt and Sir Dunstan Barre."

The tall, sandy-haired American wore a gray suit and tie and rimless glasses. He stuck out his hand affably. "Glad to meet you. This's a nice little track you've got here."

Gornt shook hands without enthusiasm. Next to Biltzmann was Richard Hamilton Pugmire, the present tai-pan of H.K. General Stores, a steward of the Turf Club, a short arrogant man in his late forties who carried his smallness as a constant challenge. "Hello, you two! Well, who's the winner of the fifth?"

Gornt towered over him. "I'll tell you after the race."

"Oh come on, Quillan, you know it'll be fixed before the horses even parade."

"If you can prove that I'm sure we'd all like to know. I certainly would, wouldn't you, Donald?"

"I'm sure Richard was just joking," Donald McBride replied. He was in his sixties, his Eurasian features pleasing, and the warmth of his smile pervaded him. He added to Biltzmann, "There're always these rumors about race fixing but we do what we can and when we catch anyone—off with his head! At least off the course he goes."

"Hell, races get fixed in the States too but I guess here where it's all amateur and wide open, it's got to be easier," Biltzmann said breezily. "That stallion you have, Quillan. He's Australian, partial pedigree, isn't he?"

"Yes," Gornt said abruptly, detesting his familiarity.

"Don here was explaining some of the rules of your racing. I'd sure like to be part of your racing fraternity—hope I can get to be a voting member too."

The Turf Club was very exclusive and very tightly controlled. There were two hundred voting members and four thousand non-voting members. Only voting members could get into the members' box. Only voting members could own horses. Only voting members could propose two persons a year to be nonvoting members—the stewards' decision, approval or nonapproval being final, their voting secret. And only voting members could become a steward.

"Yes," Biltzmann repeated, "that'd be just great."

"I'm sure that could be arranged," McBride said with a smile. "The club's always looking for new blood—and new horses."

"Do you plan to stay in Hong Kong, Mr. Biltzmann?" Gornt asked.

"Call me Chuck. I'm here for the duration," the American replied. "I suppose I'm Superfoods of Asia's new tai-pan. Sounds great, doesn't it?"

"Marvelous!" Barre said, witheringly.

Biltzmann continued happily, not yet tuned to English sarcasm, "I'm the fall guy for our board in New York. As the man from Missouri said, the buck stops here." He smiled but no one smiled with him. "I'll be here at least a couple of years and I'm looking forward to every minute. We're getting ready to settle in right now. My bride arrives tomorrow an—"

"You're just married, Mr. Biltzmann?"

"Oh no, that's just a, an American expression. We've been married twenty years. Soon as our new place's fixed the way she wants it, we'd be happy for you to come to dinner. Maybe a barbecue? We got the steaks organized, all prime, T-bones and New Yorks, being flown over once a month. And Idaho potatoes," he added proudly.

"I'm glad about the potatoes," Gornt said and the others settled back, waiting, knowing that he despised American cooking—particularly charcoaled steaks and hamburgers and "gooped-up baked potatoes," as he called them. "When does the merger finalize?"

"End of the month. Our bid's accepted. Everything's agreed. I certainly hope our American know-how'll fit into this great little island."

"I presume you'll build a mansion?"

"No sir. Dickie here," Biltzmann continued, and everyone winced, "Dickie's got us the penthouse of the company's apartment building on Blore Street, so we're in fat city."

"That's convenient," Gornt said. The others bit back their laughter. The oldest and most famous of the Colony's Houses of Easy Virtue had always been on Blore Street at Number One. Number One, Blore Street, had been started by one of Mrs. Fotheringill's

"young ladies," Nellie Blore, in the 1860's, with money reportedly given her by Culum Struan, and was still operating under its original rules—European or Australian ladies only and no foreign gentlemen or natives allowed.

"Very convenient," Gornt said again. "But I wonder if you'd qualify."

"Sir?"

"Nothing. I'm sure Blore Street is most apt."

"Great view, but the plumbing's no good," Biltzmann said. "My bride'll soon fix that."

"She's a plumber too?" Gornt asked.

The American laughed. "Hell no, but she's mighty handy around the house."

"If you'll excuse me I have to see my trainer." Gornt nodded to the others and turned away with, "Donald, have you a moment? It's about Saturday."

"Of course, see you in a moment, Mr. Biltzmann."

"Sure. But call me Chuck. Have a nice day."

McBride fell into step beside Gornt. When they were alone Gornt said, "You're surely not seriously suggesting he should be a voting member?"

"Well, yes." McBride looked uncomfortable. "It's the first time a big American company's made a bid to come into Hong Kong. He'd be quite important to us."

"That's no reason to let him in here, is it? Make him a nonvoting member. Then he can get into the stands. And if you want to invite him to your box, that's your affair. But a voting member? Good God, he'll probably have 'Superfoods' as his racing colors!"

"He's just new and out of his depth, Quillan. I'm sure he'll learn. He's decent enough even though he does make a few gaffes. He's quite well off an—"

"Since when has money been an open sesame to the Turf Club? Good God, Donald, if that was the case, every upstart Chinese property gambler or stock market gambler who'd made a killing on our market'd swamp us. We wouldn't have room to fart."

"I don't agree. Perhaps the answer's to increase the voting membership."

"No. Absolutely not. Of course you stewards will do what you like. But I suggest you reconsider." Gornt was a voting member but not a steward. The two hundred voting members elected the twelve stewards annually by secret ballot. Each year Gornt's name was put on the open list of nominees for steward and each year he failed to get enough votes. Most stewards were reelected by the membership automatically until they retired, though from time to time there was lobbying.

"Very well," McBride said, "when his name's proposed I'll mention your opposition."

Gornt smiled thinly. "That'll be tantamount to getting him elected."

McBride chuckled. "I don't think so, Quillan, not this time. Pug asked me to introduce him around. I must admit he gets off on the wrong foot every time. I introduced him to Paul Havergill and Biltzmann immediately started comparing banking procedures here with those in the States, and not very pleasantly either. And with the tai-pan . . ." McBride's graying eyebrows soared. ". . . he said he was sure glad to meet him as he wanted to learn about Hag Struan and Dirk Struan and all the other pirates and opium smugglers in his past!" He sighed. "Ian and Paul'll certainly blackball him for you, so I don't think you've much to worry about. I really don't understand why Pug sold out to them anyway."

"Because he's not his father. Since old Sir Thomas died General Stores've been slipping. Still, Pug makes 6 million U.S. personally and has a five-year unbreakable contract—so he has all the pleasure and none of the headaches and the family's taken care of. He wants to retire to England, Ascot and all that."

"Ah! That's a very good deal for old Pug!" McBride became more serious. "Quillan, the fifth race—the interest's enormous. I'm worried there'll be interference. We're going to increase surveillance on all the horses. There're rumors th—"

"About doping?"

"Yes."

"There're always rumors and someone will always try. I think the stewards do a very good job."

"The stewards agreed last night that we'd institute a new rule: in future we'll have an obligatory chemical analysis before and after each race, as they do at the major tracks in England or America."

"In time for Saturday? How're you going to arrange that?"

"Dr. Meng, the police pathologist, has agreed to be responsible —until we have an expert arranged."

"Good idea," Gornt said.

McBride sighed. "Yes, but the Mighty Dragon's no match for the Local Serpent." He turned and left.

Oornt hesitated, then went to his trainer who stood beside Pilot Fish talking with the jockey, another Australian, Bluey White. Bluey White was ostensibly a manager of one of Gornt's shipping divisions—the title given to him to preserve his amateur status.

"G'day, Mr. Gornt," they said. The jockey touched his forelock.

"Morning." Gornt looked at them a moment and then he said quietly, "Bluey, if you win, you've a 5,000 bonus. If you finish behind Noble Star, you're fired."

The tough little man whitened. "Yes, guv!"

"You'd better get changed now," Gornt said, dismissing him.

"I'll win," Bluey White said as he left.

The trainer said uneasily, "Pilot Fish's in very good fettle, Mr. Gornt. He'll be try—"

"If Noble Star wins you're fired. If Noble Star finishes ahead of Pilot Fish you're fired."

"My oath, Mr. Gornt." The man wiped the sudden sweat off his mouth. "I don't fix who ge—"

"I'm not suggesting you do anything. I'm just telling you what's going to happen to you." Gornt nodded pleasantly and strode off. He went to the club restaurant, which overlooked the course, and ordered his favorite breakfast, eggs Benedict with his own special hollandaise that they kept for his exclusive use, and Javanese coffee that he also supplied.

On his third cup of coffee the waiter came over. "Excuse me, sir, you're wanted on the telephone."

He went to the phone. "Gornt."

"Hello, Mr. Gornt, this's Paul Choy … Mr. Wu's nephew. … I hope I'm not disturbing you."

Gornt covered his surprise. "You're calling rather early, Mr. Choy."

"Yes sir, but I wanted to be in early the first day," the young man said in a rush, "so I was the only one here a couple of minutes ago when the phone rang. It was Mr. Bartlett, Line Bartlett, you know, the guy with the smuggled guns, the millionaire."

Gornt was startled. "Bartlett?"

"Yes sir. He said he wanted to get hold of you, implied it was kinda urgent, said he'd tried your home. I put two and two together and came up with you might be at the workout and I'd better get off my butt. I hope I'm not disturbing you?"

"No. What did he say?" Gornt asked.

"Just that he wanted to talk to you, and were you in town? I said I didn't know, but I'd check around and leave a message and give him a call back."

"Where was he calling from?"

"The Vic and Albert. Kowloon side 662233, extension 773— that's his office extension, not his suite."

Gornt was very impressed. "A closed mouth catches no flies, Mr.

Choy."

"Jesus, Mr. Gornt, that's one thing you never need worry about," Paul Choy said fervently. "My old Uncle Wu wopped that into us all like there was no tomorrow."

"Good. Thanks, Mr. Choy. I'll see you shortly."

"Yes sir."

Gornt hung up, thought a moment, then dialed the hotel. "773 please."

"Line Bartlett." "Good morning Mr. Bartlett, this's Mr. Gornt. What can I do for you?"

"Hey, thanks for returning my call. I've had disturbing news which sort of ties in with what we were discussing."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Does Toda Shipping mean anything to you?"

Gornt's interest soared. "Toda Shipping's a huge Japanese conglomerate, shipyards, steel mills, heavy engineering. Struan's have a two-ship deal with them, bulk vessels I believe. Why?"

"It seems Toda have some notes due from Struan's, $6 million in three installments—on the first, eleventh, and fifteenth of next month—and another $6 million in 90 days. Then there's another 6.8 million due on the eighth to Orlin International Bank—you know them?"

With a great effort Gornt kept his voice matter-of-fact. "I've, I've heard of them," he said, astounded that the American would have such details of the debts. "So?" he asked.

"So I heard Struan's have only 1.3 million in cash, with no cash reserves and not enough cash flow to make payment. They're not expecting a significant block of income until they get 17 million as their share of one of Kowloon Investments' property deals, not due until November, and they're 20 percent overextended at the Victoria Bank."

"That's . . . that's very intimate knowledge," Gornt gasped, his heart thumping in his chest, his collar feeling tight. He knew about the 20 percent overdraft—Plumm had told him—all the directors of the bank would know. But not the details of their cash, or their cash flow.

"Why're you telling me this, Mr. Bartlett?"

"How liquid are you?"

"I've already told you, I'm twenty times stronger than Struan's," he said automatically, the lie coming easily, his mind churning the marvelous opportunities all this information unlocked. "Why?"

"If I go through with the Struan deal he'll be using my cash down payment to get off the Toda and Orlin hooks—if his bank doesn't extend his credit."

"Yes."

"Will the Vic support him?"

"They always have. Why?"

"If they don't, then he's in big trouble."

"Struan's are substantial stockholders. The bank is obliged to support them."

"But he's overdrawn there and Havergill hates him. Between

Chen's stock, Struan's and their nominees, they've 21 percent. ,»

Gornt almost dropped the phone. "Where the hell did you get that information? No outsider could possibly know that!"

"That's right," he heard the American say calmly, "but that's a fact. Could you muster the other 79 percent?"

"What?"

"If I had a partner who could put the bank against him just this once and he couldn't get credit elsewhere . . . bluntly: it's a matter of timing. Dunross's mortally overextended and that means he's vulnerable. If his bank won't give him credit, he's got to sell something—or get a new line of credit. In either case he's wide open for an attack and ripe for a takeover at a fire-sale price."

Gornt mopped his brow, his brain reeling. "Where the hell did you get all this information?"

"Later, not now."

"When?"

"When we're down to the short strokes."

"How . . . how sure are you your figures are correct?"

"Very. We've his balance sheets for the last seven years."

In spite of his resolve Gornt gasped. "That's impossible!"

"Want to bet?"

Gornt was really shaken now and he tried to get his mind working. Be cautious, he admonished himself. For chrissake control yourself. "If… if you've all that, if you know that and get one last thing… their interlocking corporate structure, if you knew that we could do anything we want with Struan's."

"We've got that too. You want in?"

Gornt heard himself say calmly, not feeling calm at all, "Of course. When could we meet? Lunch?"

"How about now? But not here, and not at your office. This has to be kept very quiet."

Gornt's heart hurt in his chest. There was a rotten taste in his mouth and he wondered very much how far he could trust Bartlett. "I'll . . . I'll send a car for you. We could chat in the car."

"Good idea, but why don't I meet you Hong Kong side. The Golden Ferry Terminal in an hour."

"Excellent. My car's a Jag—license's 8888. I'll be by the taxi rank." He hung up and stared at the phone a moment, then went back to his table.

"Not bad news I hope, Mr. Gornt?"

"Er, no, no not at all. Thank you."

"Some more of your special coffee? It's freshly made."

"No, no thank you. I'd like a half bottle of the Taittinger Blanc de Blancs. The "55." He sat back feeling very strange. His enemy was almost in his grasp—if the American's facts were true and if the American was to be trusted and not in some devious plot with

Dunross.

The wine came but he hardly tasted it. His whole being was concentrated, sifting, preparing.

Gornt saw the tall American come through the crowds and, for a moment, he envied him his lean, trim figure and the easy, careless dress—jeans, open-neck shirt, sports coat—and his obvious confidence. He saw the elaborate camera, smiled sardonically, then looked for Casey. When it was obvious Bartlett was alone he was disappointed. But this disappointment did not touch the glorious anticipation that had possessed him ever since he had put the phone down.

Gornt leaned over and opened the side door. "Welcome Hong Kong side, Mr. Bartlett," he said with forced joviality, starting the engine. He drove off along Gloucester Road toward Glessing's Point and the Yacht Club. "Your inside information's astonishing."

"Without spies you can't operate, can you?"

"You can, but then that's amateur. How's Miss Casey? I thought she'd be with you."

"She's not in this. Not yet."

"Oh?"

"No. No, she's not in on the initial attack. She's more valuable if she knows nothing."

"She knows nothing of this? Not even your call to me?"

"No. Nothing at all."

After a pause he said, "I thought she was your executive VP . . . your right arm you called her."

"She is, but I'm boss of Par-Con, Mr. Gornt."

Gornt saw the level eyes and, for the first time, felt that that was true and that his original estimation was wrong. "I've never doubted it," he said, waiting, his senses honed, waiting him out.

Then Bartlett said, "Is there somewhere we can park—I've got something I want to show you."

"Certainly." Gornt was driving along the sea front on Gloucester Road in the usual heavy traffic. In a moment he found a parking place near Causeway Bay typhoon shelter with its massed, floating islands of boats of all sizes.

"Here." Bartlett handed him a typed folder. It was a detailed copy of Struan's balance sheet for the year before the company went public. Gornt's eyes raced over the figures. "Christ," he muttered. "So Lasting Cloud's cost them 12 million?"

"It almost broke them. Seems they had all sorts of wild-assed cargo aboard. Jet engines for China, uninsured."

"Of course they'd be uninsured—how the hell can you insure contraband?" Gornt was trying to take in all the complicated figures. His mind was dazed. "If I'd known half of this I'd've got them the last time. Can I keep it?"

"When we've made a deal I'll give you a copy." Bartlett took the folder back and gave him a paper. "Try this one on for size." It showed, graphically, Struan's stockholdings in Kowloon Investments and detailed how, through nominee companies, the tai-pan of Struan's exercised complete control over the huge insurance-property-wharfing company that was supposedly a completely separate company and quoted as such on the stock exchange.

"Marvelous," Gornt said with a sigh, awed by the beauty of it. "Struan's have only a tiny proportion of the stock publicly held but retain 100 percent control, and perpetual secrecy."

"In the States whoever figured this out'd be in jail."

"Thank God Hong Kong laws aren't the same, and that this's all perfectly legal, if a trifle devious." The two men laughed.

Bartlett pocketed the paper. "I've got similar details of the rest of their holdings."

"Bluntly, what have you in mind, Mr. Bartlett?"

"A joint attack on Struan's, starting today. A blitzkrieg. We go 50-50 on all spoils. You get the Great House on the Peak, the prestige, his yacht—and 100 percent of the box at the Turf Club including his stewardship."

Gornt glanced at him keenly. Bartlett smiled. "We know that's kind of special to you. But everything else right down the middle."

"Except their Kai Tak operations. I need that for my airline."

"All right. But then I want Kowloon Investments."

"No," Gornt said, immediately on guard. "We should split that 50-50, and everything 50-50."

"No. You need Kai Tak, I need Kowloon Investments. It'll be a great nucleus for Par-Con's jump into Asia."

"Why?"

"Because all great fortunes in Hong Kong are based on property. K. I. will give me a perfect base."

"For further raids?"

"Sure," Bartlett said easily. "Your friend Jason Plumm's next on the list. We could swallow his Asian Properties easy. 50-50. Right?"

Gornt said nothing for a long time. "And after him?"

"Hong Kong and Lan Tao Farms."

Again Gornt's heart leapt. He had always hated Dunstan Barre and that hatred was tripled last year when Barre had been given a knighthood in the Queen's Birthday Honors List—an honor maneuvered, Gornt was sure, with judicious contributions to the Conservative Party fund. "And how would you swallow him?"

"There's always a time when any army, any country, any company's vulnerable. Every general or company president has to take chances, sometime, to stay ahead. You've got to, to stay ahead. There's always some enemy snapping at your heels, wanting yours, wanting your place in the sun, wanting your territory. You've got to be careful when you're vulnerable."

"Are you vulnerable now?"

"No. I was two years ago but not now. Now I've the muscle I need—we need. If you're in."

A flock of seabirds were dipping and weaving and cawing overhead. "What do you want me to do?"

"You're the pathfinder, the spearhead. I defend the rear. Once you've punched a hole through his defense, I'll deliver the knockout. We sell Struan's short—I guess you've already taken a position on the Ho-Pak?"

"I've sold short, yes. Modestly." Gornt told the lie easily.

"Good. In the States you could get their own accountants to leak the cash flow facts to the right big mouth. That'd soon be all over town. Could the same ploy work here?"

"Probably. But you'd never get their accountants to do that."

"Not for the right fee?"

"No. But rumors could be started." Gornt smiled grimly. "It's very bad of Dunross to hide his inept position from his shareholders. Yes. That's possible. And then?"

"You sell Struan's short, as soon as the market opens. Big."

Gornt lit a cigarette. "I sell short, and what do you do?"

"Nothing openly. That's our ace in the hole."

"Perhaps it really is, and I'm being set up," Gornt said.

"What if I cover all losses? Would that be proof enough I'm with you?"

"What?"

"I pay all losses and take half the profit for today, tomorrow and Friday. If we haven't got him on the run by Friday afternoon you buy back in, just before closing, and we've failed. If it looks like we've got him, we sell heavily, to the limit, just before closing. That'll sweat him out over the weekend. Monday I jerk the rug and our blitzkrieg's on. It's infallible."

"Yes. If you're to be trusted."

"I'll put $2 million in any Swiss bank you name by ten o'clock today. That's 10 million HK which sure as hell's enough to cover any shorting losses you might have. $2 million with no strings, no paper, no promissory note, just your word it's to cover any losses, that if we win we split profits and the rest of the deal as it's been laid out—50-50 except Kowloon Investments for me, Struan's at Kai Tak Airport for you, and for Casey and me, voting membership at the Turf Club. We'll put it to paper Tuesday—after he's crashed."

"You'll put up 2 million U.S., and it's my decision as to when I buy to cover any losses?" Gornt was incredulous.

"Yes. 2 million's the extent of my gamble. So how can you get hurt? You can't. And because he knows how you feel about him, if you mount the attack he won't be suspicious, won't be prepared for a flanking blitz from me."

"This all depends on whether your figures are correct—the amounts and the dates."

"Check them out. There must be a way you can do that—enough to convince yourself."

"Why the sudden change, Mr. Bartlett? You said you'd wait till Tuesday—perhaps later."

"We've done some checking and I don't like the figures I've come up with. We owe Dunross nothing. We'd be crazy to go with him when he's so weak. As it is, what I'm offering you is a great gamble, great odds: the Noble House against 2 lousy million. If we win that'd be parlayed into hundreds of millions."

"And if we fail?"

Bartlett shrugged. "Maybe I'll go home. Maybe we'll work out a Rothwell-Gornt-Par-Con deal. You win sometimes and you lose a lot more times. But this raid's too good not to try it. Without you it'd never work. I've seen enough of Hong Kong to know it has its own special rules. I've no time to learn them. Why should I—when I've got you."

"Or Dunross?"

Bartlett laughed and Gornt read no guile in him. "You're not stretche'd, you're not vulnerable, he is—that's his bad luck. What d'you say? Is the raid on?"

"I'd say you're very persuasive. Who gave you the information —and the document?"

"Tuesday I'll tell you. When Struan's have crashed."

"Ah, there's a payoff to Mister X?"

"There's always a payoff. It'll come off the top, but no more than 5 percent—any more comes out of my share."

"Two o'clock Friday, Mr. Bartlett? That's when I decide to buy back in and perhaps lose your 2 million—or we confer and continue the surge?"

"Friday at two."

"If we continue over the weekend you'll cover any further risk with further funds?"

"No. You won't need any more. 2 million's tops. By Friday afternoon either his stock will be way down and we'll have him running scared, or not. This's no long-term, well-organized raid. It's a once, er, a onetime attempt to fool's mate an opponent." Bartlett grinned happily. "I risk 2 lousy million for a game that will go down in history books. In less than a week we knock off the Noble House of Asia!"

Gornt nodded, torn. How far can I trust you, Mr. Bloody Raider, you with the key to Devil Dunross? He glanced out of the window and watched a child skulling a boat among the junks, the sea as safe and familiar to her as dry land. "I'll think about what you said."

"How long?"

"Till eleven."

"Sorry, this's a raid, not a business deal. It's now—or not at all!"

"Why?"

"There's a lot to do, Mr. Gornt. I want this settled now or not at all."

Gornt glanced at his watch. There was plenty of time. A call to the right Chinese newspaper and whatever he told them would be on the stands in an hour. He smiled grimly to himself. His own ace in the hole was Havergill. Everything dovetailed perfectly.

A seabird cawed and flew inland, riding some thermals toward the Peak. He watched it. Then his eyes noticed the Great House on the crest, white against the green of the slopes.

"It's a deal," he said and stuck out his hand.

Bartlett shook. "Great. This is strictly between us?"

"Yes."

"Where d'you want the 2 million?"

"The Bank of Switzerland and Zurich, in Zurich, account number 181819." Gornt reached into his pocket, noticing his fingers were trembling. "I'll write it down for you."

"No need. The account's in your name?"

"Good God, no! Canberra Limited."

"Canberra Limited's 2 million richer! And in three days with any luck, you'll be tai-pan of the Noble House. How about that!" Bartlett opened the door and got out. "See you."

"Wait," Gornt said, startled, "I'll drop you wh—"

"No thanks. I've got to get to a phone. Then at 9:15 I've an interview with your friend Orlanda, Miss Ramos—thought there was no harm in it. After that maybe I'll take a few pictures." He waved cheerily and walked off.

Gornt wiped the sweat off his hands. Before leaving the club he had phoned Orlanda to phone Bartlett and make the date. That's very good, he thought, still in shock. She'll keep an eye on him once they're lovers, and they will be, Casey or not. Orlanda has too much to gain.

He watched Bartlett, envying him. In a few moments the American had vanished into the crowds of Wanchai.

Suddenly he was very tired. It's all too pat, too fine, too easy, he told himself. And yet… and yet! Shakily he lit a cigarette. Where did Bartlett get those papers?

Inexorably his eyes went back to the Great House on the Peak. He was possessed by it and by a hatred so vast that it swept his mind back to his ancestors, to Sir Morgan Brock whom the Struans broke, to Gorth Brock whom Dirk Struan murdered, to Tyler Brock whom his daughter betrayed. Without wishing it, he renewed the oath of vengeance that he had sworn to his father, that his father had sworn to his—back to Sir Morgan Brock who, penniless, destroyed by his sister, Hag Struan, paralyzed, a shell of a man, had begged for vengeance on behalf of all the Brock ghosts on the Noble House and all the descendents of the most evil man who had ever lived.

Oh gods give me strength, Quillan Gornt prayed. Let the American be telling the truth. I will have vengeance.

28

10:50 A.M. :

The sun bore down on Aberdeen through a slight overcast. The air was sultry, ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit with ninety percent humidity. It was low tide. The smell of rotting kelp and offal and exposed mudflats added to the oppressive weight of the day.

There were five hundred or more sullen impatient people jamming against one another, trying to surge through the bottleneck of barriers ahead that the police had erected outside this branch of Ho-Pak. The barriers allowed only one person through at a time. Men and women of all ages, some with infants, were constantly jostling each other, no one waiting a turn, everyone trying to inch forward to get to the head of the line.

"Look at the bloody fools," Chief Inspector Donald C.C. Smyth said. "If they'd stretch out and not crowd they'd all get through quicker, and we could leave one copper here to keep order and the rest of us could go to lunch instead of getting the riot squad ready. Do it!"

"Yes sir," Divisional Sergeant Mok said politely. Ayeeyah, he was thinking as he walked over to the squad car, the poor fool still doesn't understand that we Chinese are not stupid foreign devils— or devils from the Eastern Sea—who'll line up patiently for hours. Oh no, we civilized persons understand life and it's every man for himself. He clicked on the police transmitter. "Divisional Sergeant Mok! The chief inspector wants a riot squad here on the double. Park just behind the fish market but keep in contact!"

"Yes sir."

Mok sighed and lit a cigarette. More barriers had been erected across the street, outside Blacs and the Victoria Aberdeen branches, and more at the Ching Prosperity Bank around the corner. His khaki uniform was ironed sharp on the creases and there were big sweat rings under his arms. He was very concerned. This crowd was very dangerous and he did not want a repetition of yesterday. If the bank shut its doors before three he was sure the crowd would tear the place apart. He knew that if he still had any money in there, he would be the first to tear the door open to get his money. Ayeeyah, he thought, very thankful for the Snake's authority that had unlocked all their money this morning to the last penny.

"Piss on all banks!" Mok muttered to no one. "All gods, let the Ho-Pak pay all customers today! Let it fail tomorrow! Tomorrow's my day off so let it fail tomorrow." He stubbed out his cigarette.

"Sergeant Major?"

"Yes?"

"Look over there!" the eager young plainclothes detective said, hurrying up to him. He wore spectacles and was in his early twenties. "By the Victoria Bank. The old woman. The old amah. "

"Where? Oh yes, I see her." Mok watched her for a while but detected nothing untoward. Then he saw her scuttle through the crowd and whisper to a young tough, wearing jeans, who was leaning against a railing. She pointed to an old man who had just come out of the bank. At once the young tough sauntered after him and the old amah squeezed and squirmed and cursed her way back to the head of the barrier where she could see those who entered and those who came out.

"That's the third time, sir," the young detective said. "The old amah points out someone who's just come out of the bank to the tough, then off he goes. In a few minutes he comes back again. That's the third time. I'm sure I saw him slip her something once. I think it was money."

"Good! Very good, Spectacles Wu. It's bound to be a triad shakedown. The old hag's probably his mother. You follow the young bastard and I'll intercept him the other way. Keep out of sight!"

Divisional Sergeant Mok slipped around the corner, down a busy alley lined with stalls and street hawkers and open shops, moving carefully through the crowds. He turned into another alley just in time to catch a glimpse of some money being passed over by the old man. He waited until Wu had blocked the other end of the alley, then he walked ponderously forward.

"What's going on here?"

"What? Eh? Nothing, nothing at all," the old man said nervously, sweat running down his face. "What's the matter? I've done noth-ing!"

"Why did you give this young man money, heya? I saw you give him money!" The young thug stared back at Mok insolently, unafraid, knowing he was Smallpox Kin, one of the Werewolves who had all Hong Kong petrified. "Is he accosting you? Trying to squeeze you? He looks like a triad!"

"Oh! I … I … I owed him 500 dollars. I've just got it out of the bank and I paid him." The old man was clearly terrified but he blustered on, "He's my cousin." A crowd began to collect. Someone hawked and spat.

"Why're you sweating so much?"

"All gods fornicate all pigs! It's hot! Everyone's sweating. Everyone!"

"That's fornicating right," someone called out.

Mok turned his attention on the youth who waited truculently. "What's your name?"

"Sixth Son Wong!"

"Liar! Turn out your pockets!"

"Me, I've done nothing! I know the law. You can't search people without a warran—"

Mok's iron fist snapped out and twisted the youth's arm and he squealed. The crowd laughed. They fell silent as Spectacles Wu came out of nowhere to search him. Mok held Smallpox Kin in a vise. Another uneasy undercurrent swept through the onlookers as they saw the rolls of money, and change. "Where'd you get all this?" Mok snarled.

"It's mine. I'm . . . I'm a moneylender and I'm collecting forn—"

"Where's your place of business?"

"It's . . . it's in Third Alley, off Aberdeen Road."

"Come on, we'll go and look."

Mok released the young man who, unafraid, still stared back angrily. "First give me my money!" He turned to the crowd and appealed to them. "You saw him take it! I'm an honest moneylender! These're servants of the foreign devils and you all know them! Foreign devil law forbids honest citizens being searched!"

"Give him back his fornicating money!" someone shouted.

"If he's a moneylender …"

The crowd began to argue back and forth and then Smallpox Kin saw a small opening in the crowd and he darted for it. The crowd let him pass and he fled up the alley, vanishing into the traffic, but when Spectacles Wu charged in pursuit they closed up and jostled him and became a little uglier. Mok called him back. In the momentary melee the old man had disappeared. Wearily Mok said, "Let the motherless turd go! He was just a triad—another triad turd who preys on law-abiding people."

"What1 re you going to do with his fornicating money?" someone called out from the back of the crowd.

"I'm going to give it to an old woman's rest home," Mok shouted back equally rudely. "Go defecate in your grandmother's ear!"

Someone laughed and the crowd began to break up and then they all went about their business. In a moment Mok and Spectacles Wu were standing like stones in a river, the passersby eddying around them. Once back on the main street, Mok wiped his brow. "Dew neh loh moh!"

"Yes. Why're they like that, Sergeant Major?" the young detective asked. "We're only trying to help them. Why didn't the old man just admit that triad bastard was squeezing him?"

"You don't learn about mobs of people in schoolbooks," Mok said kindly, knowing the anxiety of the youth to succeed. Spectacles Wu was new, one of the recent university graduates to join the force. He was not one of Mok's private unit. "Be patient. Neither of them wanted anything to do with us because we're police and they all still believe we'll never help them, only ourselves. It's been the same in China since the first policeman."

"But this is Hong Kong," the youth said proudly. "We're different. We're British police."

"Yes." Mok felt a sudden chill. He did not wish to disillusion the youth. I used to be loyal too, loyal to the Queen and to the quai loh flag. I learned differently. When I needed help and protection and security I got none. Never once. The British used to be rich and powerful but they lost the war to those Eastern Sea Devils. The war took all their face away and humbled them and put the great tai-pans into Stanley Prison like common thieves—even the tai-pans of the Noble House and Great Bank and even the great high governor himself—put them away like common criminals, into Stanley with all their women and all the children and treated them like turds! And then after the war, even though they had humbled the Eastern Devils, they never regained their power, or their face.

Now in Hong Kong and in all Asia, now it's not the same and never will be as before. Now every year the British get poorer and poorer and less powerful and how can they protect me and my family from evildoers if they're not rich and powerful? They pay me nothing and treat me like dogmeat! Now my only protection is money, money in gold so that we can flee if need be—or money in land or houses if we do not need to flee. How can I educate my sons in England or America without money? Will the grateful Government pay? Not a fornicating brass cash, and yet I'm supposed to risk my life to keep the streets clean of fornicating triads and pickpockets and rioting lumps of leper turd!

Mok shivered. The only safety for my family is in my own hands as always. Oh how wise the teachings of our ancestors are! Was the police commissioner loyal to me when I needed money, even steerage money, for my son to go to school in America? No. But the Snake was. He loaned me 10,000 dollars at only 10 percent interest so my son went like a Mandarin by Pan American aircraft, with three years of school money, and now he's a qualified architect with a Green Card and next month he'll have an American passport and then he can come back and no one will be able to touch him. He can help protect my generation and will protect his own and his son's and his son's sons!

Yes, the Snake gave me the money, long since paid back with full interest out of money he helped me earn. I shall be loyal to the Snake —until he turns. One day he'll turn, all quai loh do, all snakes do, but now I'm a High Dragon and neither gods nor devils nor the Snake himself can hurt my family or my bank accounts in Switzerland and Canada.

"Come along, we'd better go back, young Spectacles Wu," he said kindly and when he got back to the barriers he told Chief Inspector Smyth what had happened.

"Put the money in our kitty, "Major," Smyth said. "Order a grand banquet for our lads tonight."

"Yes sir."

"It was Detective Constable Wu? The one who wants to join SI?"

"Yes sir. Spectacles is very keen."

Smyth sent for Wu, commended him. "Now, where's that old amah?"

Wu pointed her out. They saw her looking at the corner the thug had gone around, waiting impatiently. After a minute she squirmed out of the swarm and hobbled away, muttering obscenities.

"Wu," Smyth ordered, "follow her. Don't let yourself be seen. She'll lead you to the rotten little bugger who fled. Be careful, and when she goes to ground, phone the "major."

"Yes sir."

"Do not take any risks—perhaps we can catch the whole gang, there's bound to be a gang."

"Yes sir."

"Off you go." They watched him following her. "That lad's going to be good. But not for us, 'Major, eh?"

"No sir."

"I think I'll recommend him to SI. Perhaps—"

Suddenly there was an ominous silence, then shouts and an angry roar. The two policemen rushed back around the corner. In their absence the crowd had shoved aside parts of the barricade, overpowering the four policemen, and now were surging into the bank. Manager Sung and his assistant were vainly trying to close the doors against the shouting, cursing throng. The barricades began to buckle.

"Get the riot squad!"

Mok raced for the squad car. Fearlessly Smyth rushed to the head of the line with his bullhorn. The tumult drowned his order to stop fighting. More reinforcements came running from across the street. Quickly and efficiently they charged to Smyth's support, but the mob was gathering strength. Sung and his tellers slammed the door shut but it was forced open again. Then a brick came out of the crowd and smashed one of the plate-glass windows. There was a roar of approval. The people in front were trying to get out of the way and those at the back were trying to get to the door. More bricks were hurtled at the building, then pieces of wood grabbed from a building site nearby. Another stone went through the glass and it totally shattered. Roaring, the mob surged forward. A girl fell and was crushed.

"Come on," Smyth shouted, "give me a hand!" He grabbed one of the barriers and, with four other policemen, used it as a shield and shoved it against the front of the mob, forcing them back. Above the uproar he shouted for them to use their shoulders and they fought the frenzied crowd. Other policemen followed his lead. More bricks went into the bank and then the shout went up, "Kill the fornicating bank thieves, kill them, they've stolen our money …"

"Kill the fornicators …"

"I want my money …" "Kill the foreign devils …"

Smyth saw the mood of those near him change and his heart stopped as they took up the shout and forgot the bank and their hands reached out for him. He had seen that look before and knew he was a dead man. That other time was during the riots of'56 when 200,000 Chinese suddenly went on a senseless rampage in Kowloon. He would have been killed then if he had not had a Sten gun. He had killed four men and blasted a path to safety. Now he had no gun and he was fighting for his life. His hat was ripped away, someone grabbed his Sam Browne belt and a fist went into his groin, another into his face and talons clawed at his eyes. Fearlessly, Mok and others charged into the milling mess to rescue him. Someone hacked at Mok with a brick, another with a piece of wood that tore a great gash in his cheek. Smyth was engulfed, his hands and arms desperately trying to protect his head. Then the riot squad's Black Maria, siren screaming, skidded around the corner. The ten-man team fell on the crowd roughly and pulled Smyth away. Blood seeped from his mouth, his left arm dangled uselessly.

"You all right, sir?"

"Yes, for chrissake get those sodding barriers up! Get those bastards away from the bank—fire hoses!"

But the fire hose& weren't necessary. At the first violent charge of the riot squad the front of the mob had wilted and now the rest had retreated to a safe distance and stood there watching sullenly, some of them still shouting obscenities. Smyth grabbed the bullhorn. In Cantonese he said, "If anyone comes within twenty yards, he'll be arrested and deported!" He tried to catch his breath. "If anyone wants to visit the Ho-Pak, line up a hundred yards away."

The scowling crowd hesitated, then as Mok and the riot squad came forward fast, they retreated hastily and began to move away, treading on each other.

"I think my bloody shoulder's dislocated," Smyth said and cursed obscenely.

"What do we do about those bastards, sir?" Mok asked, in great pain, breathing hard, his cheek raw and bleeding, his uniform ripped.

Smyth held his arm to take the growing pain away and looked across the street at the sullen, gawking crowd. "Keep the riot squad here. Get another from West Aberdeen, inform Central. Where's my bloody hat? If I catch the bas—"

"Sir!" one of his men called out. He was kneeling beside the girl who had been trampled on. She was a bar girl or a dance hall girl: she had that sad, sweet oh so hard, young-old look. Blood was dribbling from her mouth, her breathing coming in hacking gasps.

"Christ, get an ambulance!"

As Smyth watched helplessly, the girl choked in her own blood and died.

Christian Toxe, editor of the Guardian, was scribbling notes, the phone jammed against his ear. "What was her name, Dan?" he asked over the hubbub of the newsroom.

"I'm not sure. One savings book said Su Tzee-Ian," Dan Yap the reporter on the other end of the phone at Aberdeen told him. "There was $4,360 in it—the other was in the name . . . Hang on a second, the ambulance's just leaving now. Can you hear all right, Chris, the traffic's heavy here."

"Yes. Go on. The second savings book?"

"The second book was in the name of Tak H'eung fah. Exactly 3,000 in that one."

Tak H'eung fah seemed to touch a memory. "Do any of the names mean anything?" Toxe asked. He was a tall rumpled man in his untidy cubbyhole of an office.

"No. Except one means Wisteria Su and the other Fragrant Flower Tak. She was pretty, Chris. Might have been Eurasian.

Toxe felt a sudden ice shaft in his stomach as he remembered his own three daughters, six and seven and eight, and his lovely Chinese wife. He tried to push that perpetual cross back into the recess of his mind, the secret worry of was it right to mix East and West, and what does the future hold for them, my darlings, in this lousy rotten bigoted world?

With an effort he concentrated again. "That's quite a lot of money for a dance hall girl, isn't it?"

"Yes. I'd say she had a patron. One interesting bit: in her purse was a crumpled envelope dated a couple of weeks ago with a mushy love letter in it. It was addressed to … hang on … to Tak H'eung fah, apartment 14, Fifth Alley, Tsung-pan Street in Aberdeen. It was soppy, swearing eternal love. Educated writing though."

"English?" Toxe asked surprised, writing swiftly.

"No. Characters. There was something about the writing—could be a quai loh. "

"Did you get a copy?"

"The police wouldn't le—"

"Get a photocopy. Beg borrow or steal a photocopy in time for the afternoon edition. A week's bonus if you do it."

"Cash this afternoon?"

"All right."

"You have it."

"Any signature?"

' 'Your only love.' The love was in English."

"Mr. Toxe! Mrs. Publisher's on line two!" The English secretary called out through the open door, her desk just outside the glass partition.

"Oh Christ, I'll.. . I'll call her back. Tell her I've got a big story breaking." Then into the phone again, "Dan, keep on this story— keep close to the police, go with them to the dead girl's flat—if it's her flat. Find out who owns it—who her people are, where they live. Call me back!" Toxe hung up and called out to his assistant editor, "Hey, Mac!"

The lean, dour, gray-haired man got up from his desk and wandered in. "Aye?"

"I think we should put out an extra. Headline . . ." He scrawled on a piece of paper, "Mob Kills Fragrant Flower!"

"How about 'Mob Murders Fragrant Flower'?"

"Or, 'First Death at Aberdeen'?"

" 'Mob Murders' is better."

"That's it then. Martin!" Toxe called out. Martin Haply looked up from his desk and came over. Toxe ran his fingers through his hair as he told them both what Dan Yap had related. "Martin, do a follow-up: 'The beautiful young girl was crushed by the feet of the mob—but who were the real killers? Is it an incompetent government who refuses to regulate our outdated banking system? Are the killers those who started the rumors? Is the run on the Ho-Pak as simple as it sounds . . .' etcetera."

"Got it." Haply grinned and went back to his desk in the main office. He gulped a cold cup of coffee out of a plastic cup and started to type, his desk piled high with reference books, Chinese newspapers and stock market reports. Teletypes chattered in the background. A few silent copy boys and trainees delivered or picked up copy.

"Hey, Martin! What's the latest from the stock market?"

Martin Haply dialed a number without looking at the phone, then called back to the editor. "Ho-Pak's down to 24.60, four points from yesterday. Struan's are down a point though there's been some heavy buying. Hong Kong Lan Tao up three points—the story's just been confirmed. Dunstan Barre took their money out yesterday."

"They did? Then you were right again! Shit!"

"Victoria's off half a point—all banks are edgy and no buyers. There's a rumor a line's forming outside Blacs and the Victoria's head office in Central." Both men gasped.

"Send someone to check the Vic!" Mac hurried out. Jesus Christ, Toxe thought, his stomach churning, Jesus Christ if a run starts on the Vic the whole sodding island'll collapse and my sodding savings with it.

He leaned bacltin his old chair and put his feet on the desk, loving his job, loving/he pressure and immediacy.

"Do you want me to call her?" his secretary asked. She was round and unflappable.

"Who? Oh shit, Peg, I'd forgotten. Yes—call the Dragon."

The Dragon was the wife of the publisher, Mong Pa-tok, the present head of the sprawling Mong family who owned this paper and three Chinese newspapers and five magazines, whose antecedents went back to the earliest days. The Mongs were supposed to have descended from the first editor-owner-publisher of the paper, Morley Skinner. The story was that Dirk Struan had given Skinner control of the paper in return for helping him against Tyler Brock and his son Gorth by hushing up the killing of Gorth in Macao. It was said Dirk Struan had provoked the duel. Both men had used fighting irons. Once, some years ago, Toxe had heard old Sarah Chen in her cups relate that when the Brocks came to collect Gorth's body they did not recognize him. The old woman had added that her father, Sir Gordon Chen, had had to mobilize most of Chinatown to prevent the Brocks from setting afire the Struan warehouses. Tyler Brock had set Tai-ping Shan alight instead. Only the great typhoon that came that night stopped the whole city from going up in flames—the same holocaust that had destroyed Dirk Struan's Great House and him and his secret Chinese wife, May-may.

"She's on line two."

"Eh? Oh! All right, Peg." Toxe sighed.

"Ah Mr. Toxe, I was waiting your call, heya?"

"What can I do for you, or Mr. Mong?"

"Your pieces on the Ho-Pak Bank, yesterday and today, that the adverse rumors about the Ho-Pak are untrue and started by tai-pans and another big bank. I see more today."

"Yes. Haply's quite sure."

"My husband and I hear this not true. No tai-pans or banks are putting out rumors or have put out rumors. Perhaps wise to drop this attack."

"It's not an attack, Mrs. Mong, just an attitude. You know how susceptible Chinese are to rumors. The Ho-Pak's as strong as any bank in the Colony. We feel sure the rumors were started by a bi—"

"Not by tai-pans and not big bank. My husband and I not like this attitude never mind. Please to change," she said and he heard the granite in her voice.

"That's editorial policy and I have control over editorial policy," he said grimly.

" We are publisher. It is our newspaper. We tell you to stop so you will stop."

"You're ordering me to stop?"

"Of course it is order."

"Very well. As you order it, it's stopped."

"Good!" The phone went dead. Christian Toxe snapped his pencil and threw it against the wall and began to curse. His secretary sighed and discreetly closed the door and when he was done Toxe opened the door. "Peg, how about some coffee? Mac! Martin!"

Toxe sat back at his desk. The chair creaked. He mopped the sweat off his cheeks and lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

"Yes, Chris?" Haply asked.

"Martin, cancel the piece I asked for and do another on Hong Kong banking and the need to have some form of banking insurance. …"

Both men gaped at him.

"Our publisher doesn't like the rumors approach." Martin Haply flushed. "Well screw him! You heard the guys yourself at the tai-pan's party!"

"That proves nothing. You've no proof. We're stopping that approach. It's not proven so I can't take a stand." "But, lo—" Toxe's neck went purple. "It's bloody well stopped," he roared.

"Understand?"

Haply began to say something but changed his mind. Choked with rage he turned on his heel and left. He walked across the big room and jerked the front door open and slammed it behind him.

Christian Toxe exhaled. "He's got a lousy bloody temper that lad!"

He stubbed his cigarette out and lit another. "Christ, I'm smoking too much!" Still seething, his brown eyes watched the older man. "Someone must have called her, Mac. Now what would you like as a return favor if you were Mrs. Dragon Mong?"

Suddenly Mac beamed. "Na a voting membership of the Turf Club!"

"Go to the head of the class!"

Singh, the Indian reporter, came in with a foot of teletype. "You might need this for the extra, Chris."

It was a series of Reuters reports from the Middle East. "Teheran 0832 hours: High-level diplomatic sources in Iran report sudden extensive Soviet military maneuvers have begun close to their north border near the oil-rich border area of Azerbaijan where more rioting took place. Washington is reported to have asked permission to send observers to the area."

The next paragraph was: "Tel Aviv 0600 hours: The Knesset confirmed late last night that another huge irrigation project had been funded to further divert the waters of the River Jordan into the southern Negev Desert. There was immediate adverse and hostile reaction from Jordan, Egypt and Syria."

"Negev? Isn't Israel's brand spanking new atomic plant in the Negev?" Toxe asked.

"Aye. Now there's another splendid addition to the peace conference tables. Would the water be for that?"

"I don't know Mac, but this's certainly going to parch a few Jordanian and Palestinian throats. Water water everywhere but not a drop to shower in. I wish to Christ it would rain. Singh, tidy up these reports and we'll put them on the back page. They won't sell a single bloody paper. Do a follow-up piece on the Werewolves for the front page: The police have a vast dragnet out but the vicious kidnappers of Mr. John Chen continue to elude them. According to sources close to the family of his father, compradore of Struan's, no ransom note has yet been received but one is expected imminently. The China Guardian asks all its readers to assist in the capture of these fiends . . .' That sort of thing."

At Aberdeen Spectacles Wu saw the old woman come out of the tenement building, a shopping basket in her hand, and join the noisy crowds in the narrow alley. He followed cautiously feeling very pleased with himself. While he had waited for her to reappear he had struck up a conversation with a street hawker whose permanent place of business was a patch of broken pavement opposite. The hawker sold tea and small bowls of hot congee—rice gruel. Wu had ordered a bowl, and during his meal, the hawker had told him about the old woman, Ah Tarn, who had been in the neighborhood since last year. She'd come to the Colony from a village near Canton with the huge waves of immigrants who had flooded over the border last summer. She didn't have any family of her own and the people she worked for had no sons around twenty, though he had seen her with a young man early this morning. "She says her village was Ning-tok. . . ."

It was then that Wu had felt a glow at this stroke of luck. Ning-tok was the same village his own parents had come from and he spoke that dialect.

Now he was twenty paces behind her and he watched her haggle brilliantly for vegetables, selecting only the very best onions and greens, all just a few hours fresh from the fields in the New Territories. She bought very little so he knew that the family she worked for was poor. Then she was standing in front of the poultry stall with its layers of barely alive, scrawny chickens crammed helplessly into cages, their legs tied. The rotund stall owner bartered with her, both sides enjoying the foul language, insults, choosing this bird, then that, then another, prodding them, discarding them, until the bargain was made. Because she was a good, salty trader, the man allowed his profit to be shaved. Then he strangled the bird deftly without thought, tossing the carcass to his five-year-old daughter, who squatted in a pile of feathers and offal, for plucking and cleaning.

"Hey, Mr. Poultryman," Wu called out, "I'd like a bird at the same price. That one!" He pointed at a good choice and paid no attention to the man's grumbling. "Elder Sister," he said to her politely, "clearly you have saved me a great deal of cash. Would you like to have a cup of tea while we wait for our birds to be cleaned?"

"Ah thank you, yes, these old bones are tired. We'll go there!" Her gnarled finger pointed to a stall opposite. "Then we can watch to make sure we get what we paid for." The poultry man muttered an obscenity and they laughed.

She shoved her way across the street, sat down on a bench, ordered tea and a cake and was soon telling Wu how she hated Hong Kong and living among strangers. It was easy for him to butter her up by using the odd word of Ning-tok patois; then pretending to be equally surprised when she switched to that dialect and told him she came from the same village and oh how wonderful it was to find a neighbor after all these months among foreigners! She told him trial she had worked for the same family in Ning-tok ever since she was seven. But, sadly, three years ago her mistress—the child that she had brought up, now an old lady like herself—had died. "I stayed in the house but it had fallen on hard times. Then last year the famine was bad. Many in the village decided to come to this place. Chairman Mao's people didn't mind, in fact they encouraged us— 'Useless Mouths' as they called us. Somehow we got split up and I managed to get over the border and found my way to this place here, penniless, hungry, with no family, no friends, nowhere to turn. At length I got a job and now I work as a cook-amah for the family Ch'ung who're street cleaners. The dog bones pay me nothing but my keep and my food and chief wife Ch'ung's a maggot-mouthed hag but soon I'll be rid of all of them! You said your father came here with his family ten years ago?"

"Yes. We owned a field near the bamboo glade beside the river. His name was Wu Cho-tam an—"

"Ah, yes I think I remember the family. Yes, I think so. Yes, and I know the field. My family was Wu Ting-top and their family owned the pharmacy at the crossroads for more than a hundred years."

"Ah, Honorable Pharmacy Wu? Oh yes of course!" Spectacles Wu did remember the family well. Pharmacy Wu had always been a Maoist sympathizer. Once he had had to flee the Nationalists. In this village of a thousand souls he had been well liked and trusted and he had kept life in the village as calm and as protected from outsiders as he could.

"So, you're one of Wu Cho-tam's sons, Younger Brother!" Ah Tarn was saying. "Eeeee, in the early days it was so wonderful in Ning-tok but for the last years . . . terrible."

"Yes. We were lucky. Our field was fertile and we tilled the soil like always but after a few years outsiders came and accused all the landowners—as if we were exploiters! We only tilled our own field. Even so, from time to time some landowners were taken away, some shot, so one night ten years ago my father fled with all of us. Now my father is dead but I live with my mother not far away."

"There were many fleeings and famines in the early days. I hear that now it is better. Did you hear too? Outsiders came, wasn't it? They would come and they would leave. The village is not so bad again, Younger Brother, oh no! Outsiders leave us alone. Yes, they left my mistress and us alone because Father was important and one of Chairman Mao's supporters from the beginning. My mistress's name was Fang-ling, she's dead now. There's no collective near us so life is like it's always been, though we all have to study Chairman Mao's Red Book. The village isn't so bad, all my friends are there. … Hong Kong is a foul place and my village is home. Life without family is nothing. But now . . ." Then the old woman dropped her voice and chortled, carried away with pleasure. "But now the gods have favored me. In a month or two I'm going home, home forever. I'll have enough money to retire on and I'll buy the small house at the end of my street and perhaps a little field and …"

"Retire?" Wu said, leading her on. "Who has that sort of money, Elder Sister? You said you were paid nothing th—"

"Ah," the old woman replied, puffed up. "I've an important friend."

"What sort of friend?"

"A very important business friend who needs my help! Because I've been so useful he's promised to give me a huge amount of money—"

"You're making this all up, Elder Sister," he scoffed. "Am I a foolish stranger wh—"

"I tell you my friend's so important he can hold the whole island in thrall!"

"There are no such persons!"

"Oh yes there are!" She dropped her voice and whispered hoarsely, "What about the Werewolves!"

Spectacles Wu gaped at her. "What?"

She chortled again, delighted with the impact of her confidence. "Yes."

The young man took hold of his blown mind and put the pieces quickly back together; if this were true he would get the reward and the promotion and maybe an invitation to join Special Intelligence. "You're making this up!"

"Would I lie to someone from my own village? My friend's one of them I tell you. He's also a 489 and his Brotherhood's going to be the richest in all Hong Kong."

"Eeeee, how lucky you are, Elder Sister! And when you see him again please ask if perhaps he can use someone like me. I'm a street fighter by trade though my triad's poor and the leader stupid and a stranger. Is he from Ning-tok?"

"No. He's . . . he's my nephew," she said, and the young man knew it was a lie. "I'm seeing him later. Yes, he's coming later. He owes me some money."

"Eeeee, that's good, but don't put it in a bank and certainly not in the Ho-Pak or y—"

"Ho-Pak?" she said suspiciously, her little eyes narrowing suddenly in the creases of her face. "Why do you mention the Ho-Pak? What has the Ho-Pak to do with me?"

"Nothing, Elder Sister," Wu said, cursing himself for the slip, knowing her guard was now up. "I saw the queues this morning, that's all."

She nodded, not convinced, then saw that her chicken was packaged and ready so she thanked him for the tea and cake and scuttled off, muttering to herself. Most carefully he followed her. From time to time she would look back but she did not see him. Reassured, she went home.

The CIA man got out of his car and walked quickly into police headquarters. The uniformed sergeant at the information desk greeted him. "Afternoon, Mr. Rosemont."

"I've an appointment with Mr. Crosse."

"Yes sir. He's expecting you."

Sourly Rosemont went to the elevator. This whole goddamn-piss-poor island makes me want to shit, and the goddamn British along with it.

"Hello, Stanley," Armstrong said. "What're you doing here?"

"Oh hi, Robert. Gotta meeting with your chief."

"I've already had that displeasure once today. At 7:01 precisely." The elevator opened. Rosemont went in and Armstrong followed.

"I hope you've got some good news for Crosse," Armstrong said with a yawn. "He's really in a foul mood."

"Oh? You in this meeting too?"

"Afraid so."

Rosemont flushed. "Shit, I asked for a private meeting."

"I'm private."

"You sure are, Robert. And Brian, and everyone else. But some bastard isn't."

Armstrong's humor vanished. "Oh?"

"No." Rosemont said nothing more. He knew he had hurt the Englishman but he didn't care. It's the truth, he thought bitterly. The sooner these goddamn limeys open their goddamn eyes the better.

The elevator stopped. They walked down the corridor and were ushered into Crosse's room by Brian Kwok. Rosemont felt the bolts slide home behind him and he thought how goddamn foolish and useless and unnecessary; the man's a knucklehead.

"I asked for a private meeting, Rog."

"It's private. Robert's very private, Brian is. What can I do for you, Stanley?" Crosse was politely cool.

"Okay, Rog, today I got a long list for you: first, you're personally 100 percent in the creek with me, my whole department, up to the director in Washington himself. I'm told to tell you—among other things—your mole's surpassed himself this time."

"Oh?"

Rosemont's voice was grating now. "For starters, we just heard from one of our sources in Canton that Fong-fong and all your lads were hit last night. Their cover's gone—they're blown." Armstrong and Brian Kwok looked shocked. Crosse was staring back at him and he read nothing in his face. "Got to be your mole, Rog. Got to be fingered from the tai-pan's AMG papers."

Crosse looked across at Brian Kwok. "Use the emergency wireless code. Check it!"

As Brian Kwok hurried out, Rosemont said again, "They're blown, the poor bastards." "We'll check it anyway. Next?" Rosemont smiled mirthlessly. "Next: Almost everything that was in the tai-pan's AMG papers's spread around the intelligence community in London—on the wrong side."

"God curse all traitors," Armstrong muttered.

"Yeah, that's what I thought, Robert. Next, another little gem— AMG was no accident."

"What?"

"No one knows the who, but we all know the why. The bike was hit by an auto. No make, no serial number, no witnesses, no nothing yet, but he was hit—and of course, fingered from here."

"Then why haven't I been informed by Source? Why's the information coming from you?" Crosse asked.

Rosemont's voice sharpened. "I just got off the phone to London. It's just past 5:00 A.M. there so maybe your people plan to let you know when they get to the office after a nice leisurely bacon and eggs and a goddamn cup of tea!"

Armstrong shot a quick glance at Crosse and winced at the look on his face.

"Your… your point's well taken, Stanley," Crosse said. "Next?"

"The photos we gave you of the guys who knocked off Voranski . . . what happened?"

"We had their place covered. The two men never reappeared, so I raided the place in the early hours. We went through that whole tenement, room by room, but found no one who looked anything like the photographs. We searched for a couple of hours and there were no secret doors or anything like that. They weren't there. Perhaps your fellow made a mistake. . . ."

"Not this time. Marty Povitz was sure. We had the place staked out soon as we deciphered the address but there was a time when it wasn't all covered, front and back. I think they were tipped, again by your mole." Rosemont took out a copy of a telex and passed it over. Crosse read it, reddened and passed it over to Armstrong.

Decoded from Director, Washington, to Rosemont, Deputy Director Station Hong Kong: Sinders MI-6 brings orders from Source, London, that you are to go with him Friday to witness the handover of the papers and get an immediate photocopy.

"You'll get your copy in today's mail, Rog," the American said. "I can keep this?" Crosse asked.

"Sure. By the way, we have a tail on Dunross too. W—" Crosse said angrily, "Would you kindly not interfere in our jurisdiction!"

"I told you you were in Shitsville, Rog!" Tautly Rosemont placed another cable on the table.

Rosemont, Hong Kong. You will hand this cable to Chief of SI personally. Until further orders Rosemont is authorized to proceed independently to assist in the uncovering of the hostile in any way he chooses. He is, however, required to stay within the law and keep you advised personally of what he is doing. Source 8-98/3.

Rosemont saw Crosse bite back an explosion. "What else've you authorized?" Crosse asked.

"Nothing. Yet. Next: We'll be at the bank on Fri—"

"You know where Dunross's put the files?" *,

"It's all over town—among the community. I told you your mole's been working overtime." Abruptly Rosemont flared, "Come on for chrissake.Rog, you know if you tell a hot item to someone in London, it's all over town! We've all got security problems but yours're worse!" With an effort the American simmered down. "You could've leveled with me about the Dunross screw-up—it would've save us all a lot of heartache and a lotta face."

Crosse lit a cigarette. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. I was trying to maintain security."

"Remember me? I'm on our side!"

"Are you?"

"You bet your ass!" Rosemont said it very angrily. "And if it was up to me I'd have every safety deposit box open before sundown— and the hell with the consequences."

"Thank God you can't do that."

"For chrissake we're at war and God only knows what's in those other files. Maybe they'll finger your goddamn mole and then we can get the bastard and give him his!"

"Yes," Crosse said, his voice a whiplash, "or maybe there's nothing in the papers at all!"

"What do you mean?"

"Dunross agreed to hand the files over to Sinders on Friday.

What if there's nothing in them? Or what if he burned the pages and gives us just the covers? What the hell do we do then?"

Rosemont gaped at him. "Jesus—is that a possibility?"

"Of course it's a possibility! Dunross's clever. Perhaps they're not there at all, or the vault ones are false or nonexistent. We don't know he put them there, he just says he put them there. Jesus Christ, there're fifty possibilities. You're so smart, you CIA fellows, you tell me which deposit box and I'll open it myself."

"Get the key from the governor. Give me and some of my boys private access for five hours an—"

"Out of the question!" Crosse snarled, suddenly red-faced, and Armstrong felt the violence strongly. Poor Stanley, you're the target today. He suppressed a shudder, remembering the times he had had to face Crosse. He had soon learned that it was easier to tell the man the truth, to tell everything at once. If Crosse ever really went after him in an interrogation, he knew beyond doubt he would be broken. Thank God he's never yet had reason to try, he thought thankfully, then turned his eyes on Rosemont who was flushed with rage. I wonder who Rosemont's informants are, and how he knows for certain that Fong-fong and his team have been obliterated.

"Out of the question," Crosse said again.

"Then what the hell do we do? Sit on our goddamn lard till Friday?"

"Yes. We wait. We've been ordered to wait. Even if Dunross has torn out pages, or sections, or disposed of whole files, we can't put him in prison—or force him to remember or tell us anything."

"If the director or Source decide he should be leaned on, there're ways. That's what the enemy'd do."

Crosse and Armstrong stared at Rosemont. At length Armstrong said coldly, "But that doesn't make it right."

"That doesn't make it wrong either. Next: For your ears only, Rog."

At once Armstrong got up but Crosse motioned him to stay. "Robert's my ears." Armstrong hid the laughter that permeated him at so ridiculous a statement

"No. Sorry, Rog, orders—your brass and mine."

Armstrong saw Crosse hesitate perfectly. "Robert, wait outside. When I buzz come back in. Check on Brian."

"Yes sir." Armstrong went out and closed the door, sorry that he would not be present for the kill.

•Well?"

The American lit another cigarette. "Top secret. At 0400 today the whole Ninety-second Airborne dropped into Azerbaijan supported by large units of Delta Force and they've fanned out all along the Iran-Soviet border." Crosse's eyes widened. "This was at the direct request of the Shah, in response to massive Soviet military preparations just over the border and the usual Soviet-sponsored riots all over Iran. Jesus, Rog, can't you get some air conditioning in here?" Rosemont mopped his brow. "There's a security blanket all over Iran now. At 0600 support units landed at Teheran airport. Our Seventh Fleet's heading for the Gulf, the Sixth—that's the Mediterranean—is already at battle stations off Israel, the Second, Atlantic, is heading for the Baltic, NORAD's alerted, NATO's alerted, and all Poseidons are one step from Red."

"Jesus Christ, what the hell's going on?"

"Khrushchev is making another real play for Iran—always an optimum Soviet target right? He figures he has the advantage. It's right on his own border where his own lines of communication're short and ours huge. Yesterday the Shah's security people uncovered a 'democratic socialist' insurrection scheduled to explode in the next few days in Azerbaijan. So the Pentagon's reacting like mashed cats. If Iran goes so does the whole Persian Gulf, then Saudi Arabia and that wraps up Europe's oil and that wraps up Europe."

"The Shah's been in trouble before. Isn't this more of your overreacting?"

The American hardened. "Khrushchev backed down over Cuba —first goddamn time there's been a Soviet backoff—because JFK wasn't bluffing and the only thing Commies understand is force. Big-massive-honest-to-goddamn force! The Big K better back off this time too or we'll hand him his head."

"You'll risk blowing up the whole bloody world over some illiterate, rioting, fanatic nutheads who've probably got some right on their side anyway?"

"I'm not into politics, Rog, only into winning. Iran oil, Persian Gulf oil, Saudi oil're the West's jugular. We're not gonna let the enemy get it."

"If they want it they'll take it."

"Not this time, they won't. We're calling the operation Dry Run. The idea's to go in heavy, frighten 'em off and get out fast, quietly, so no one's the wiser except the enemy, and particularly no goddamn liberal fellow-traveler congressman or journalist. The Pentagon figures the Soviets don't believe we could possibly respond so fast, so massively from so far away, so they'll go into shock and run for cover and close everything down—until next time."

The silence thickened.

Crosse's fingers drummed. "What am I supposed to do? Why're you telling me this?"

"Because the brass ordered me to. They want all allied chief Sis to know because if the stuff hits the fan there'll be sympathy riots all over, as usual, well-coordinated rent-a-mob riots, and you'll have to be prepared. AMG's papers said that Sevrin had been activated here—maybe there's a tie-in. Besides, you here in Hong Kong are vital to us. You're the back door to China, the back door to Vladivostok and the whole of east Russia—and our best shortcut to their Pacific naval and atomic-sub bases." Rosemont took out another cigarette, his fingers shaking. "Listen, Rog," he said, controlling his grumbling anger, "let's forget all the interoffice shit, huh? Maybe we can help each other."

"What atomic subs?" Crosse said with a deliberate sneer, baiting him. "They haven't got atomic subs yet an—"

"Jesus Christ!" Rosemont flared. "You guys've got your heads up your asses and you won't listen. You spout detente and try to muzzle us and they're laughing their goddamn heads off. They got nuclear subs and missile sites and naval bases all over the Sea of Okhotsk!" Rosemont got up and went to the huge map of China and Asia that dominated one wall and stabbed the Kamchatka peninsula, north of Japan. ". . . Petropavlovsk, Vladivostok . . . they've giant operations all along this whole Siberian coast, here at Kom-somolsk at the mouth of the Amur and on Sakhalin. But Petropav-lovsk's the big one. In ten years, that'll be the greatest war-port in Asia with support airfields, atomic-protected subpens and atomic-safe fighter strips and missile silos. And from there they threaten all Asia—Japan, Korea, China, the Philippines—not forgetting Hawaii and our West Coast."

"U.S. forces are preponderant and always will be. You're overreacting again."

Rosemont's face closed. "People call me a hawk. I'm not. Just a realist. They're on a war footing. Our Midas Ill's have pinpointed all kinds of crap, our . . ." He stopped and almost kicked himself for letting his mouth run on. "Well, we know a lot of what they're doing right now, and they're not making goddamn ploughshares."

"I think you're wrong. They don't want war any more than we do."

"You want proof? You'll get it tomorrow, soon as I've clearance!" the American said, stung. "If it's proved, can we cooperate better?"

"I thought we were cooperating well now."

"Will you?"

"Whatever you want. Does Source want me to react in any specific way?"

"No, just to be prepared. I guess this'll all filter down through channels today."

"Yes." Crosse was suddenly gentle. "What's really bothering you, Stanley?"

Rosemont's hostility left him. "We lost one of our best setups in East Berlin, last night, a lot of good guys. A buddy of mine got hit crossing back to us, and we're sure it's tied into AMG."

"Oh, sorry about that. It wasn't Tom Owen, was it?"

"No. He left Berlin last month. It was Frank O'Connell."

"Don't think I ever met him. Sad."

"Listen, Rog, this mole thing's the shits." He got up and went to the map. He stared at it a long time. "You know about Iman?"

"Sorry?"

Rosemont's stubby finger stabbed a point on the map. The city was inland, 180 miles north of Vladivostok at a rail junction. "It's an industrial center, railways, lots of factories."

"So?" Crosse asked.

"You know about the airfield there?"

"What airfield?"

"It's underground, whole goddamn thing, just out of town, built into a gigantic maze of natural caves. It's got to be one of the wonders of the world. It's atomic capable, Rog. The whole base was constructed by Japanese and Nazi slave labor in '45, '6 and '7. A hundred thousand men they say. It's all underground, Rog, with space for 2500 airplanes, air crews and support personnel. It's bombproof—even atomic proof—with eighty runways that lead out onto a gigantic airstrip that circles eighteen low hills. It took one of our guys nine hours to drive around it. That was back in '46— so what's it like now?"

"Improved—if it exists."

"It's operational now. A few guys, intelligence, ours and yours, even a few of the better newspaper guys, knew about it even in '46. So why the silence now? That base alone's a massive threat to all of us and no one screams a shit. Even China, and she sure as hell's got to know about Iman."

"I can't answer that."

"I can. I think that info's being buried, deliberately, along with a lot of other things." The American got up and stretched. "Jesus, the whole world's falling apart and I got a backache. You know a good chiropractor?"

"Have you tried Doc Thomas on Pedder Street? I use him all the time."

"I can't stand him. He makes you wait in line—won't give you an appointment. Thank God for chiropractors! Trying to get my son to be one instead of an M.D."

The phone rang and Crosse answered it.

"Yes Brian?" Rosemont watched Crosse as he listened. "Just a minute, Brian. Stanley, are we through now?"

"Sure. Just a couple of open, routine things."

"Right. Brian, come in with Robert as soon as you come up." Crosse put the phone down. "We couldn't establish contact with Fong-fong. You're probably correct. They'll be MPD'd or MPC'd in forty-eight hours."

"I don't understand."

"Missing Presumed Dead or Missing Presumed Captured."

"Rough. Sorry to bring bad news."

"Joss."

"With Dry Run and AMG, how about pulling Dunross into protective custody?"

"Out of the question."

"You have the Official Secrets Act."

"Out of the question."

"I'm going to recommend it. By the way, Ed Langan's FBI boys tied Banastasio in with Bartlett. He's a big shareholder in Par-Con. They say he supplied the dough for the last merger that put Par-Con into the big time."

"Anything on the Moscow visas for Bartlett and Tcholok?"

"Best we can find is that they went as tourists. Maybe they did, maybe it was a cover."

"Anything on the guns?" This morning Armstrong had told Crosse of Peter Marlowe's theory and he had ordered an immediate watch on Four Finger Wu and offered a great reward for information.

"The FBI're sure they were put aboard in L.A. It'd be easy— Par-Con's hangar's got no security. They also checked on the serial numbers you gave us. They were all out of a batch that had gotten 'mislaid' en route from the factory to Camp Pendleton—that's the Marine depot in southern California. Could be we've stumbled onto a big arms-smuggling racket. Over seven hundred M14's have gotten mislaid in the last six months. Talking about that . . ." He stopped at the discreet knock. He saw Crosse touch the switch. The door opened and Brian Kwok and Armstrong came back in. Crosse motioned them to sit. "Talking about that, you remember the CARE case?"

"The suspected corruption here in Hong Kong?"

"That's the one. We might have a lead for you."

"Good. Robert, you were handling that at one time, weren't you?"

"Yes sir." Robert Armstrong sighed. Three months ago one of the vice-consuls at the U.S. Consulate had asked the CID to investigate the handling of the charity to see whether some light-fingered administrators were involved in a little take-away for personal profit. The digging and interviewing was still proceeding. "What've you got, Stanley?"

Rosemont-searched in his pockets then pulled out a typed note. It contained three names and an address: Thomas K. K. Lim (Foreigner Lim), Mr. Tak Chou-lan (Big Hands Tak), Mr. Lo Tup-lin (Bucktooth Lo), Room 720, Princes Building, Central. "Thomas K. K. Lim is American, well heeled and well connected in Washington, Vietnam and South America. He's in business with the other two jokers at that address. We got a tip that he's mixed up in a couple of shady deals with AID and that Big Hands Tak is heavy in CARE. It's not in our bailiwick so it's over to you." Rosemont shrugged and stretched again. "Maybe it's something. The whole world's on fire but we still gotta deal with crooks! Crazy! I'll keep in touch. Sorry about Fong-fong and your people."

He left.

Crosse told Armstrong and Brian Kwok briefly what he had been told about Operation Dry Run.

Brian Kwok said sourly, "One day one of those Yankee mad-men're going to make a mistake. It's stupid putting atomics into hair-trigger situations."

Crosse looked at them and their guards came up. "1 want that mole. I want him before the CIA uncover him. If they get him first …" The thin-faced man was clearly very angry. "Brian, go and see Dunross. Tell him AMG was no accident and not to go out without our people nearby. Under any circumstances. Say I would prefer him to give us the papers early, confidentially. Then he has nothing to fear."

"Yes sir." Brian Kwok knew that Dunross would do exactly as he wanted but he kept his mouth shut.

"Our normal riot planning will cover any by-product of the Iran problem and from Dry Run. However, you'd better alert CID an—" He stopped. Robert Armstrong was frowning at the piece of paper Rosemont had given him. "What is it, Robert?"

"Didn't Tsu-yan have an office at Princes Building?"

"Brian?"

"We've followed him there several times, sir. He visited a business acquaintance. . . ." Brian Kwok searched his memory. ". . . Shipping. Name of Ng, Vee Cee Ng, nicknamed Photographer Ng. Room 721. We checked him out but everything was above board. Vee Cee Ng runs Asian and China Shipping and about fifty other small allied businesses. Why?"

"This address's 720. Tsu-yan could tie in with John Chen, the guns, Banastasio, Bartlett—even the Werewolves," Armstrong said.

Crosse took the paper. After a pause he said, "Robert, take a team and check 720 and 721 right now."

"It's not in my area, sir."

"How right you are!" Crosse said at once, heavy with sarcasm. "Yes. I know. You're CID Kowloon, Robert, not Central. However, / authorize the raid. Go and do it. Now."

"Yes sir." Armstrong left, red-faced.

The silence gathered.

Brian Kwok waited, staring stoically at the desk top. Crosse selected a cigarette with care, lit it, then leaned back in his chair. "Brian. I think Robert's the mole."

29

1:38 P.M. :

Robert Armstrong and a uniformed police sergeant got out of the squad car and headed through the crowds into the vast maw of the Princes Arcade with its jewelry and curio shops, camera shops and radio shops stuffed with the latest electronic miracles, that was on the ground floor of the old-fashioned, high-rise office building in Central. They eased their way toward a bank of elevators, joining the swarm of waiting people. Eventually he and the sergeant squeezed into an elevator. The air was heavy and fetid and nervous. The Chinese passengers watched them obliquely and uncomfortably.

On the seventh floor Armstrong and the sergeant got out. The corridor was dingy and narrow with nondescript office doors on either side. He stood for a moment looking at the board. Room 720 was billed as "Ping-sing Wah Developments," 721 as "Asian and China Shipping." He walked ponderously down the corridor, Sergeant Yat alongside.

As they turned the corner a middle-aged Chinese wearing a white shirt and dark trousers was coming out of room 720. He saw them, blanched, and ducked back in. When Armstrong got to the door he expected it to be locked but it wasn't and he jerked it open just in time to see the man in the white shirt disappearing out of the back door, another man almost jamming him in equal haste to flee. The back door slammed closed.

Armstrong sighed. There were two rumpled secretaries in the sleazy, untidy office suite of three cramped rooms, and they were gawking at him, one with her chopsticks poised in midair over a bowl of chicken and noodles. The noodles slid off her chopsticks and fell back into the soup.

"Afternoon," Armstrong said.

The two women gaped at him, then looked at the sergeant and back to him again.

"Where are Mr. Lim, Mr. Tak and Mr. Lo, please?"

One of the girls shrugged and the other, unconcerned, began to eat again. Noisily. The office suite was untidy and unkempt. There were two phones, papers strewn around, plastic cups, dirty plates and bowls and used chopsticks. A teapot and tea cups. Full garbage cans.

Armstrong took out the search warrant and showed it to them.

The girls stared at him.

Irritably Armstrong harshened his voice. "You speak English?"

Both girls jumped. "Yes sir," they chorused.

"Good. Give your names to the sergeant and answer his questions. Th—" At that moment the back door opened again and the two men were herded back into the room by two hard-faced uniformed policemen who had been waiting in ambush. "Ah, good. Well done. Thank you, Corporal. Now, where were you two going?"

At once the two men began protesting their innocence in voluble Cantonese.

"Shut up!" Armstrong snarled. They stopped. "Give me your names!" They stared at him. In Cantonese he said, "Give me your names and you'd better not lie or I will become very fornicating angry."

"He's Tak Chou-lan," the one with pronounced buck teeth said, pointing at the other.

"What's your name?"

"Er, Lo Tup-sop, Lord. But I haven't done anyt—"

"Lo Tup-sop? Not Lo Tup-lin?"

"Oh no, Lord Superintendent, that's my brother."

"Where is he?"

The buck-toothed man shrugged. "I don't know. Please what's go—"

"Where were you going in such a hurry, Bucktooth Lo?"

"I'd forgotten an appointment, Lord. Oh it was very important. It's urgent and I will lose a fortune, sir, if I don't go immediately. May I now please go, Honored Lo—"

"No! Here's my search warrant. We're going to search and take away any papers th—"

At once both men began to protest strenuously. Again Armstrong cut them short. "Do you want to be taken to the border right now?" Both men blanched and shook their heads. "Good. Now, where's Thomas K. K. Lim?" Neither answered so Armstrong stabbed his finger at the younger of the two men. "You, Mr. Bucktooth Lo! Where's Thomas K. K. Lim?" "In South America, Lord," Lo said nervously. "Where?"

"I don't know, sir, he just shares the office. That's his fornicating desk." Bucktooth Lo waved a nervous hand at the far corner. There was a messy desk and a filing cabinet and a phone there. "I've done nothing wrong, Lord. Foreigner Lim's a stranger from the Golden Mountain. Fourth Cousin Tak here just rents him space, Lord. Foreigner Lim just comes and goes as it pleases him and is nothing to do with me. Is he a foul criminal? If there's anything wrong I don't know anything about it!"

"Then what do you know about the thieving of funds from the CARE program?" "Eh?" Both men gaped at him.

"Informers have given us proof you're all thieving charity money that belongs to starving women and children!" At once both began protesting their innocence. "Enough! The judge will decide! You will go to headquarters and give statements." Then he switched back into English once more. "Sergeant, take them back to headquarters. Corporal, let's st—" "Honored sir," Bucktooth Lo began in halting, nervous English, "if I may to talk, in office, plees?" He pointed at the inner, equally untidy and cluttered office. "All right."

Armstrong followed Lo, towering over him. The man closed the door nervously and began talking Cantonese quickly and very quietly. "I don't know anything about anything criminal, Lord. If something's amiss it's those other two fornicators, I'm just an honest businessman who wants to make money and send his children to university in America an—"

"Yes. Of course. What did you want to say to me privately before you go down to police headquarters?"

The man smiled nervously and went to the desk and began to unlock a drawer. "If anyone's guilty it's not me, Lord. I don't know anything about anything." He opened the drawer. It was filled with used, red, 100-dollar notes. They were clipped into thousands. "If you'll let me go, Lord…" He grinned up at him, fingering the notes. Armstrong's foot lashed out and the drawer slammed and caught Lo's fingertips and he let out a howl of pain. He tore the drawer open with his good hand. "Oh oh oh my fornic—"

Armstrong shoved his face close to the petrified Chinese. "Listen, you dogmeat turd, it's against the law to try to bribe a policeman and if you claim your fingers're police brutality I'll personally grind your fornicating Secret Sack to mincemeat!"

He leaned back against the desk, his heart pounding, sickness in his throat, enraged at the temptation and sight of all that money. How easy it would be to take it and pay his debts and have more than enough over to gamble on the market and at the races, and then to leave Hong Kong before it was too late.

So easy. So much more easy to take than to resist—this time or all the other thousand times. There must be 30, 40,000 in that drawer alone. And if there's one drawer full there must be others and if I lean on this bastard he'll cough up ten times this amount.

Roughly he reached out and grabbed the man's hand. Again the man cried out. One fingertip was mashed and Armstrong thought Lo would lose a couple of fingernails and have plenty of pain but that was all. He was angry with himself that he had lost his temper but he was tired and knew it was not just tiredness. "What do you know about Tsu-yan?"

"Wat? Me? Nothing. Tsu-yan who?"

Armstrong grabbed him and shook him. "Tsu-yan! The gunrunner Tsu-yan!"

"Nothing, Lord!"

"Liar! The Tsu-yan who visits Mr. Ng next door!"

"Tsu-yan? Oh him? Gun-runner? I didn't know he's a gun-runner! I always thought he was a businessman. He's another Northerner like Photographer Ng—"

"Who?"

"Photographer Ng, Lord. Vee Cee Ng from next door. He and this Tsu-yan never come in here or talk to us…. Oh I need a doctor … oh my han—"

"Where's Tsu-yan now?"

"I don't know, Lord … oh my fornicating hand, oh oh oh. … I swear by all the gods I don't know him. … oh oh oh>"

Irritably Armstrong shoved him in a chair and jerked open the door. The three policemen and two secretaries stared at him silently. "Sergeant, take this bugger to HQ and charge him with trying to bribe a policeman. Look at this. . . ." He beckoned him in and pointed at the drawer.

Sergeant Yat's eyes widened. "Dew neh loh moh!" "Count it and get both men to sign the amount as correct and take it to HQ with them and turn it in." "Yes sir."

"Corporal, you start going through the files. I'm going next door. I'll be back shortly." "Yes sir."

Armstrong strode out. He knew that this money would be counted quickly, and any other money in the offices—if this drawer was full others would be—then the amount to be turned in would be quickly negotiated by the principals, Sergeant Yat and Lo and Tak, and the rest split among them. Lo and Tak would believe him to be in for a major share and his own men would consider him mad not to be. Never mind. He didn't care. The money was stolen, and Sergeant Yat and his men were all good policemen and their pay totally inadequate for their responsibilities. A little h'eung yau wouldn't do them any harm, it would be a godsend.

Won't it?

In China you have to be pragmatic, he told himself grimly as he knocked on the door of 721 and went in. A good-looking secretary looked up from her lunch—a bowl of pure white rice and slivers of roast pork and jet green broccoli steaming nicely.

"Afternoon." Armstrong flashed his ID card. "I'd like to see Mr. Vee Cee Ng, please."

"Sorry, sir," the girl said, her English good and her eyes blank. "He's out. Out for lunch."

"Where?"

"At his club, I think. He—he won't be back today until five."

"Which club?"

She told him. He had never heard of it but that meant nothing as there were hundreds of private Chinese lunching or dining or at mah-jong clubs.

"What's your name?"

"Virginia Tong. Sir," she added as an afterthought.

"Do you mind if I look around?" He saw her eyes flash nervously. "Here's my search warrant."

She took it and read it and he thought, full marks, young lady. "Do you think you could wait, wait till five o'clock?" she asked.

"I'll take a short look now."

She shrugged and got up and opened the inner office. It was small and empty but for untidy desks, phones, filing cabinets, shipping posters and sailing schedules. Two inner doors let off it and a back door. He opened one door on the 720 side but it was a dank, evil-smelling toilet and dirty washbasin. The back door was bolted. He slid the bolts back and went onto the dingy back-stairs landing that served as a makeshift fire escape and alternate means of exit. He rebolted it, watched all the time by Virginia Tong. The last door, on the far side, was locked.

"Would you open it please?"

"Mr. Vee Cee has the only key, sir."

Armstrong sighed. "I do have a search warrant, Miss Tong, and the right to kick the door in, if necessary."

She stared back at him so he shrugged and stood away from the door and readied to kick it in. Truly.

"Just. . . just a moment, sir," she stammered. "I … I'll see if there … if he left his key before he went out."

"Good. Thank you." Armstrong watched her open a desk drawer and pretend to search, then another drawer and another and then, sensing his impatience, she found a key under a money box. "Ah, here it is!" she said as though a miracle had happened. He noticed she was perspiring now. Good, he thought. She unlocked the door and stood back. This door opened directly onto another. Armstrong opened it and whistled involuntarily. The room beyond was large, luxurious, thick-carpeted with elegant suede leather sofas and rosewood furniture and fine paintings. He wandered in. Virginia Tong watched from the doorway. The fine antique rosewood, tooled leather desk was bare and clean and polished, a bowl of flowers on it, and some framed photographs, all of a beaming Chinese leading in a garlanded racehorse, and one of the same Chinese in dinner jacket shaking hands with the governor, Dunross nearby.

"That's Mr. Ng?"

"Yes sir."

Top-quality hi-fi and record player were to one side, and a tall cocktail cabinet. Another doorway let off this room. He pushed the half-opened door aside. An elegant, very feminine bedroom with a huge, unmade king-sized bed, mirror-lined ceiling and a decorator's bathroom off it, with perfumes, aftershave lotions, gleaming modern fittings and many buckets of water.

"Interesting," he said and looked at her.

She said nothing, just waited.

Armstrong saw that she had nylon-clad legs and was very trim with well-groomed nails and hair. I'll bet she's a dragon, and expensive. He turned away from her and looked around thoughtfully. Clearly this self-contained apartment had been made out of the adjoining suite. Well, he told himself with a touch of envy, if you're rich and you want a private, secret flat for an afternoon's nooky behind your office there's no law against that. None. And none against having an attractive secretary. Lucky bastard. I wouldn't mind having one of these places myself.

Absently he opened a desk drawer. It was empty. All the drawers were empty. Then he went through the bedroom drawers but found nothing of interest. One cupboard contained a fine camera and some portable lighting equipment and cleaning equipment but nothing suspicious.

He came back into the main room satisfied that he had missed nothing. She was still watching him, and though she tried to hide it, he could sense a nervousness.

That's understandable, he told himself. If I were her and my boss was out and some rotten quai loh came prying I'd be nervous too. No harm in having a private place like this. Lots of rich people have them in Hong Kong. His eye was caught by the rosewood cocktail cabinet. The key in the lock beckoned him. He opened it. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then his sharp, well-trained eyes noticed the untoward width of the doors. A moment's inspection and he opened the false doors. His mouth dropped open.

The side walls of the cabinet were covered with dozens of photographs of Jade Gates in all their glory. Each photograph was neatly framed and tagged with a typed name and a date. Involuntarily he let out a bellow of embarrassed laughter, then glanced around. Virginia Tong had vanished. Quickly he scanned the names. Hers was third from the last.

Another paroxysm of laughter was barely contained. The policeman shook his head helplessly. What some buggers'll do for fun— and I suppose some ladies for money! I thought I'd seen it all but this . . . Photographer Ng, eh? So that's where the nickname came from.

Now over his initial shock, he studied the photographs. Each of them had been taken with the same lens from the same distance.

Good God, he thought after a minute, astounded, there's really quite a lot of difference between … I mean if you can forget what you're looking at and just look, well, there's a fantastic amount of difference in the shape and size of the whole, the position and protuberance of the Pearl on the Step, the quality and quantity of pubicity and . . . ayeeyah there's one piece bat jam gai. He looked at the name. Mona Leung—now where have I heard that name before? That's curious—Chinese usually consider lack of pubicity unlucky. Now why … oh my God! He peered at the next name tag to make sure. There was no mistake. Venus Poon. Ayeeyah, he thought elatedly, so that's hers, that's what she really looks like, the darling of the telly who daily projects such sweet, virginal innocence so beautifully!

He concentrated on her, his senses bemused. I suppose if you compare hers with, say, say Virginia Tong's, well she does have a certain delicacy. Yes, but if you want my considered opinion I'd still rather have had the mystery and not seen these at all. None of them.

Idly his eyes went from name to name. "Bloody hell," he said, recognizing one: Elizabeth Mithy. She was once a secretary at Struan's, one of the band of wanderers from the small towns in Australia and New Zealand, girls who aimlessly found their way to Hong Kong for a few weeks, to stay for months, perhaps years, to fill minor jobs until they married or vanished forever. I'll be damned. Liz Mithy!

Armstrong was trying to be dispassionate but he could not help comparing Caucasian with Chinese and he found no difference. Thank God for that, he told himself, and chuckled. Even so he was glad the photographs were black and white and not in color.

"Well," he said out loud, still very embarrassed, "there's no law against taking photos that I know of, and sticking them in your own cabinet. The young ladies must've cooperated. . . ." He grunted, amused and at the same time disgusted. Damned if I'll ever understand the Chinese! "Liz Mithy, eh?" he muttered. He had known her slightly when she was in the Colony, knew that she was quite wild, but what could have possessed her to pose for Ng? If her old man knew, he'd hemorrhage. Thank God we don't have children, Mary and I.

Be honest, you bleed for sons and daughters but you can't have them, at least Mary can't, so the doctors say—so you can't.

With an effort Armstrong buried that everlasting curse again and relocked the cabinet and walked out, closing the doors after him.

In the outer office Virginia Tong was polishing her nails, clearly furious.

"Can you get Mr. Ng on the phone, please?"

"No, not until four," she said sullenly without looking at him.

"Then please call Mr. Tsu-yan instead," Armstrong told her, stabbing in the dark.

Without looking up the number, she dialed, waited impatiently, chatted gutturally for a moment in Cantonese and slammed the phone down. "He's away. He's out of town and his office doesn't know where he is."

"When did you last see him?"

"Three or four days ago." Irritably she opened her appointments calendar and checked it. "It was Friday."

"Can I look at that please?"

She hesitated, shrugged and passed it over, then went back to polishing her nails.

Quickly he scanned the weeks and the months. Lots of names he knew: Richard Kwang, Jason Plumm, Dunross—Dunross several times—Thomas K. K. Lim—the mysterious American Chinese from next door—Johnjohn from the Victoria Bank, Donald McBride, Mata several times. Now who's Mata? he asked himself, never having heard the name before. He was about to give the calendar back to her then he flipped forward. "Saturday 10:00 A.M. —V. Banastasio." His heart twisted. This coming Saturday.

He said nothing, just put the appointment calendar back on her desk, and leaned back against one of the files, lost in thought. She paid no attention to him. The door opened.

"Excuse me, sir, phone for you!" Sergeant Yat said. He was looking much happier so Armstrong knew the negotiation must have been fruitful. He would have liked to know how much, exactly, but then, face would be involved and he would have to take action, one way or another.

"All right, Sergeant, stay here till I get back," he said, wanting to make sure no secret phone calls were made. Virginia Tong did not look up as he left.

In the other office Bucktooth Lo was still moaning, nursing his hand, and the other man, Big Hands Tak, was pretending to be nonchalant, going through some papers, loudly berating his secretary for her inefficiency. As he came in both men started loudly protesting their continued innocence and Lo groaned with increasing vigor.

"Quiet! Why did you jam your fingers in the drawer?" Armstrong asked and added without waiting for a reply, "People who try to bribe honest policemen deserve to be deported at once." In the aghast silence he picked up the phone. "Armstrong." "Hello, Robert, this is Don, Don Smyth at East Aberdeen . . ." "Oh, hello!" Armstrong was startled, not expecting to hear from the Snake, but he kept his voice polite though he loathed him and loathed what he was suspected of doing within his jurisdiction. It was one thing for constables and the lower ranks of Chinese police to supplement their income from illicit gambling. It was another for a British officer to sell influence, and to squeeze like an old-fashioned Mandarin. But though almost everyone believed Smyth was on the make, there was no proof, he had never been caught, and had never been investigated. Rumor had it that he was protected by certain VIP individuals who were deeply involved with him as well as in their own graft. "What's up?" he asked.

"Had a bit of luck. I think. You're heading up the John Chen kidnapping, aren't you?"

"That's right." Armstrong's interest soared. Smyth's graft had nothing to do with the quality of his police work—East Aberdeen had the lowest crime rate in the Colony. "Yes. What've you got?"

Smyth told him about the old amah and what had happened with Sergeant Mok and Spectacles Wu, then added, "He's a bright young chap, that, Robert. I'd recommend him for SI if you want to pass it on. Wu followed the old bird back to her fairly filthy lair, then called us. He obeys orders too, which is rare these days. On a hunch I told him to wait around and if she came out, to follow her. What do you think?"

"A twenty-four-carat lead!"

"What's your pleasure? Wait, or pull her in for real questioning?"

"Wait. I'll bet the Werewolf never comes back but it's worth waiting until tomorrow. Keep the place under surveillance and keep me posted."

"Good. Oh very good!"

Armstrong heard Smyth chortle down the phone and he could not think why he was so happy. Then he remembered the huge reward that the High Dragons had offered. "How's your arm?"

"It's my shoulder. Bloody thing's dislocated and I lost my favorite sodding hat. Apart from that everything's fine. Sergeant Mok's going through all our mug shots now and I've got one of my lads doing an Identi-Kit on him—I think I even saw the sod myself. His face is quite pockmarked. If we've got him on file we'll have him nailed by sundown."

"Excellent. How's it going down there?"

"Everything under control but it's bad. The Ho-Pak's still paying out but too slowly—everyone knows they're stalling. I hear it's the same all over the Colony. They're finished, Robert. The queue'll go on till every last cent's out. There's another run on the Vic here and no letup in the crowds. …"

Armstrong gasped. "The Vic?"

"Yes, they're handing out cash by the bagful and taking nothing in. Triads are swarming … the pickings must be huge. We arrested eight pickpockets and busted up twenty-odd fights. I'd say it's very bad."

"Surely the Vic's okay?"

"Not in Aberdeen it isn't, old lad. Me, I'm liquid. I've closed all my accounts. I took every cent out. I'm all right. If I were you I'd do the same."

Armstrong felt queasy. His life's savings were in the Victoria. "The Vic's got to be all right. All the government funds're in it."

"Right you are. But nothing in their constitution says your money's protected too. Well, I've got to get back to work."

"Yes. Thanks for the info. Sorry about your shoulder."

"I thought I was going to have my bloody head bashed in. The sods'd just started the old 'kill the quai loh' bit. I thought I was a goner."

Armstrong shivered in spite of himself. Ever since the '56 riots it was a recurring nightmare of his that he was back in that insane, screaming mob again. It was in Kowloon. The mob had just overturned the car with the Swiss consul and his wife in it and set it afire. He and other policemen had charged through the mob to rescue them. When they got to the car the man was already dead and the young wife afire. By the time they'd dragged her out, all her clothes had burned off her and her skin came away like a pelt. And all around, men, women and young people were raving, "Kill the guai

He shivered again, his nostrils still smelling burned flesh. "Christ, what a bastard!"

"Yes but all in the day's work. I'll keep you posted. If that bloody Werewolf comes back to Aberdeen he'll be in a net tighter than a gnat's arsehole."

30

2:20 P.M. :

Phillip Chen stopped flipping through his mail, his face suddenly ashen. The envelope was marked, "Mr. Phillip Chen to open personally."

"What is it?" his wife asked.

"It's from them." Shakily he showed it to her. "The Werewolves."

"Oh!" They were at their lunch table that was set haphazardly in a corner of the living room of the house far up on the crest of Struan's Lookout. Nervously she put down her coffee cup. "Open it, Phillip. But, but better use your handkerchief in … in case of fingerprints," she added uneasily.

"Yes, yes of course, Dianne, how stupid of me!" Phillip Chen was looking very old. His coat was over his chair and his shirt damp. There was a slight breeze from the open window behind him but it was hot and humid and a brooding afternoon haze had settled over the Island. Carefully he used an ivory paper knife and unfolded the paper. "Yes, it's … it's from the Werewolves. It's … it's about the ransom."

"Read it out."

"All right: 'To Phillip Chen, compradore of the Noble House, greetings. I beg to inform you now how the ransom money is to be paid. 500,000 to you is as meaningless as a pig's scream in a slaughterhouse but to us poor farmers would be a heritage for our star—'"

"Liars!" Dianne hissed, her lovely gold and jade necklace glittering in a shaft of muted sunlight. "As if farmers would kidnap John or mutikte him like that. Dirty stinky foreign triads! Go on, Phil-lip."

" '. . . would be a heritage for our starving grandchildren. That you have already consulted the police is to us like pissing in the ocean. But now you will not consult. No. Now you will keep secret or the safety of your son will be endangered and he will not return and everything bad will be your own fault. Beware, our eyes are everywhere. If you try to betray us, the worst will happen and everything will be your own fault. Tonight at six o'clock I will phone you. Tell no one, not even your wife. Meanw—' "

"Dirty triads! Dirty whores' sons to try to spread trouble between husband and wife," Dianne said angrily.

" '. . . meanwhile prepare the ransom money in used 100-dollar notes. . . .'" Irritably Phillip Chen glanced at his watch. "I don't have much time to get to the bank. I'll have—"

"Finish the letter!"

"All right, be patient, my dear," he said placatingly, his overtaxed heart skipping a beat as he recognized the edge to her voice. "Where was I? Ah yes,'… notes. If you obey my instructions faithfully, you may have your son back tonight. …" Oh God I hope so," he said, breaking off momentarily, then continued, " 'Do not consult the police or try to trap us. Our eyes are watching you even now. Written by the Werewolf.' " He took off his glasses. His eyes were red-rimmed and tired. Sweat was on his brow. " 'Watching you even now'? Could one of the servants … or the chauffeur be in their pay?"

"No, no of course not. They've all been with us for years."

He wiped the sweat off, feeling dreadful, wanting John back, wanting him safe, wanting to strangle him. "That means nothing. I'd … I'd better call the police."

"Forget them! Forget them until we know what you have to do. Go to the bank. Get 200,000 only—you should be able to settle for that. If you get more you might be tempted to give it all to them if tonight … if they really mean what they say."

"Yes . . . very wise. If we could settle for that. . ." He hesitated. "What about the tai-pan? Do you think I should tell the tai-pan, Dianne? He, he might be able to help."

"Huh!" she said scornfully. "What help can he give us? We're dealing with dog-bone triads not foreign devil crooks. If we need help we have to stay with our own." Her eyes began boring into him. "And now you'd better tell me what's really the matter, why you were so angry the night before last and why you've been like a spiteful cat with a thorn in its rump ever since and not attending to business!"

"I've been attending to business," he said defensively. "How many shares have you bought? Eh? Struan shares? Have you taken advantage of what the tai-pan told us about the coming boom? Do you remember what Old Blind Tung forecast?"

"Of course, of course I remember!" he stuttered. "I've, I've secretly doubled our holdings and have equally secret orders out with various brokers for half as much again."

Dianne Chen's abacus mind glowed at the thought of that vast profit, and all the private profit she would be making on all the shares she had bought on her own behalf, pledging her entire portfolio. But she kept her face cold and her voice icy. "And how much did you pay?"

"They averaged out at 28.90."

"Huh! According to today's paper Noble House opened at 28.-80," she said with a disapproving sniff, furious that he had paid five cents less a share than she had. "You should have been at the market this morning instead of moping around here, sleeping your life away."

"I wasn't feeling very well, dear."

"It all goes back to the night before last. What sent you into that unbelievable rage? Heya?"

"It was nothing." He got up, hoping to flee. "Noth—" "Sit down! Nothing that you shouted at me, me your faithful wife in front of the servants? Nothing that I was ordered into my own dining room like a common whore? Heya?" Her voice began rising and she let herself go, knowing instinctively that this was the perfect time, now that they were alone in the house, knowing that he was defenseless and she could press her advantage. "You think it's nothing that you abuse me, me who has given you the best years of her life, working and slaving and guarding you for twenty-three years? Me, Dianne Mai-wei T'Chung who has the blood of the great Dirk Struan in her veins, who came to you virgin, with property in Wanchai, North Point and even on Lan Tao, with stocks and shares and the best schooling in England? Me who never complains about your snoring and whoring or about the brat you sired out of that dance-hall girl you've sent to school in America!" "Eh?" "Oh I know all about you and her and all the others and all the other nasty things you do, and that you never loved me but just wanted my property and a perfect decoration to your drab life"

Phillip Chen was trying to close his ears but he could not. His heart was pounding. He hated rows and hated the shriek to her voice that, somehow, was perfectly tuned to set his teeth on edge, his brain oscillating and his bowels in turmoil. He tried to interrupt her but she overrode him, battering him, accusing him of all sorts of dalliances and mistakes and private matters that he was shocked she knew about.

". . . and what about your club?"

"Eh, what club?"

"The private Chinese lunch club with forty-three members called the 74 in a block off Pedder Street that contains a gourmet chef from Shanghai, teen-age hostesses and bedrooms and saunas and devices that dirty old men need to raise their Steamless Stalks? Eh?"

"It's nothing like that at all," Phillip Chen spluttered, aghast that she knew. "It's a pi—"

"Don't lie to me! You put up 87,000 good U.S. greenbacks as the down payment with Shitee T'Chung and those two mealy-mouthed friends of yours and even now pay 4,000 HK-a-month fees. Fees for what? You'd better . . . Where do you think you're going?"

Meekly he sat down again. "I—I was—I want to go to the bathroom."

"Huh! Whenever we have a discussion you want the bathroom! You're just ashamed of the way you treat me and guilty…." Then, seeing him about to explode back at her, she switched abruptly, her voice crooningly gentle. "Poor Phillip! Poor boy! Why were you so angry? Who's hurt you?"

So he told her, and once he began the telling he felt better and his anguish and fear and fury started to melt away. Women are clever and cunning in these things, he told himself confidently, rushing on. He told her about opening John's safety deposit in the bank, about the letters to Line Bartlett and about finding a duplicate key to his own safe in their bedroom. "I brought all the letters back," he said, almost in tears, "they're upstairs, you can read them for yourself. My own son! He's betrayed us!"

"My God, Phillip," she gasped, "if the tai-pan found out you and Father Chen-chen were keeping … if he knew he'd ruin us!"

"Yes, yes I know! That's why I've been so upset! By the rules of

Dirk's legacy he has the right and the means. We'd be ruined. But, but that's not all. John knew where our secret safe was in the garden an—" 'Wat?"

"Yes, and he dug it up." He told her about the coin.

"Ayeeyah!" She stared at him in absolute shock, half her mind filled with terror, the other half with ecstasy, for now, whether John came back or not, he had destroyed himself. John would never inherit now! My Kevin's Number One Son now and future com-pradore to the Noble House! Then her fears drowned her excitement and she muttered, aghast, "If there's still a House of Chen."

"What? What did you say?"

"Nothing, never mind. Wait a moment, Phillip, let me think. Oh the rotten boy! How could John do this to us, we who have cherished him all his life! You . . . you'd better go to the bank. Get 300,000 out—in case you need to barter more. We must get John back at all costs. Would he keep the coin with him, on him, or would it be in his other safety deposit box?"

"It'd be in the box—or hidden at his flat in Sinclair Towers."

Her face closed. "How can we search that place with her in residence? That wife of his? That strumpet Barbara! If she suspects we're after something …" Her mind caught a vagrant thread. "Phillip, does it mean, whoever presents the coin gets whatever they want?"

"Yes."

"Eeeeee! What power!"

"Yes."

Now her mind was working cleanly. "Phillip," she said, in control again, everything else forgotten, "we need all the help we can get. Phone your cousin Four Fingers…" He looked at her, startled, then began to smile. "… arrange with him to have some of his street fighters follow you secretly to protect you when you pay over the ransom, then to follow the Werewolf to his lair and to rescue John . whatever the cost. Whatever you do don't tell him about the coin —just that you want help to rescue poor John. That's it. We must get poor John back at all costs."

"Yes," he replied, much happier now. "Four Fingers is the perfect choice. He owes us a favor or two. I know where I can reach him this afternoon."

"Good. Off you go to the bank, but give me the key to the safe.

I'll cancel my hairdressing appointment and I'll read John's papers at once."

"Very good." He got up immediately. "The key's upstairs," he said, lying, and hurried out, not wanting her prying into the safe. There were a number of things there he did not want her to know about. I'd better hide them somewhere else, he thought uneasily, just in case. His euphoria evaporated and his overwhelming anxiety returned. Oh my poor son, he told himself near tears. Whatever possessed you? I was a good father to you and you'll always be my heir and I've loved you like I loved your mother. Poor Jennifer, poor little thing, dying birthing my first-born son. O all gods: let me get my poor son back again, safe again, whatever he's done, let us extract ourselves from all this madness, and I'll endow a new temple for all of you equally!

The safe was behind the brass bedstead. He pulled it away from the wall, opened the safe and took out all of John's papers, then his very private deeds, letters and promissory notes which he stuffed into his coat pocket and went downstairs again.

"Here are John's letters," he said. "I thought I'd save you the trouble of moving the bed."

She noticed the bulge in his coat pocket but said nothing.

"I'll be back by 5:30 P.M. sharp."

"Good. Drive carefully," she said absently, her whole being concentrated on a single problem—how to get the coin for Kevin and herself. Secretly.

The phone rang. Phillip Chen stopped at the front door as she picked it up. 'Weyyyy?" Her eyes glazed. "Oh hello, tai-pan, how're you today?" Phillip Chen blanched.

"Just fine thank you," Dunross said. "Is Phillip there?"

"Yes, yes just a minute." She could hear many voices behind Dunross's voice and she thought she heard an undercurrent of covered urgency which increased her dread. "Phillip, it's for you," she said, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice. "The tai-pan!" She held up the phone, motioning him silently to keep the earpiece a little away from his ear so she could hear too.

"Yes, tai-pan?"

"Hello, Phillip. What're your plans this afternoon?"

"Nothing particular. I was just leaving to go to the bank, why?"

"Before you do that, drop by the exchange. The market's gone mad. The run on the Ho-Pak's Colony-wide now and the stock's teetering even though Richard's supporting it for all he's worth. Any moment it'll crash. The run's spilling over to lots of other banks, I hear—the Ching Prosperity, even the Vic …" Phillip Chen and his wife glanced at each other, perturbed. "I heard the Vic's got problems at Aberdeen and at Central. Everything's down, all our blue chips: the V and A, Kowloon Investments, Hong Kong Power, Rothwell-Gornt, Asian Properties, H.K.L.F., Zong Securities, Solomon Textiles, us … everyone."

"How many points are we off?"

"From this morning? Three points."

Phillip Chen gasped and almost dropped the phone. "What?"

"Yes," Dunross agreed pleasantly. "Someone's started rumors about us. It's all over the market that we're in trouble, that we can't pay Toda Shipping next week—nor the Orlin installment. I think now we're being sold short."

31

2:45 P.M. :

Gornt was sitting beside his stockbroker, Joseph Stern, in the exchange watching the big board delightedly. It was warm and very humid in the large room that was packed and noisy, phones ringing, sweating brokers, Chinese clerks and runners. Normally the exchange was calm and leisurely. Today it was not. Everyone was tense and concentrating. And uneasy. Many had their coats off.

Gornt's own stock was off a point but that did not bother him a bit. Struan's was down 3.50 now and Ho-Pak tottering. Time's running out for Struan's, he thought, everything's primed, everything's begun. Bartlett's money had been put into his Swiss bank within the hour, no strings—just 2 million transferred from an unknown account into his. Seven phone calls began the rumors. Another call to Japan confirmed the accuracy of the Struan payment dates. Yes, he thought, the attack's begun.

His attention went to the Ho-Pak listing on the board as some more sell offerings were written up by a broker. There were no immediate buyers.

Since he had secretly started selling Ho-Pak short on Monday just before the market closed at three o'clock—long before the run had started in earnest—he was millions ahead. On Monday the stock had sold at 28.60, and now, even with all the support Richard Kwang was giving it, it was down to 24.30—off more points than the stock had moved ever since the bank was formed eleven years ago.

4.30 times 500,000 makes 2,150,000, Gornt was thinking happily, all in honest-to-God HK currency if I wanted to buy back in right now which isn't bad for forty-eight hours of labor. But I won't buy back in yet, oh dear no. Not yet. I'm sure now that the stock will crash, if not today, tomorrow, Thursday. If not then, Friday-Monday at the latest, for no bank in the world can sustain such a run. Then, when the crash comes I'll buy back in at a few cents on the dollar and make twenty times half a million.

"Sell 200,000," he said, beginning to sell short openly now—the other shares hidden carefully among his secret nominees.

"Good God, Mr. Gornt," his stockbroker gasped. "The Ho-Pak'll have to put up almost 5 million to cover. That'll rock the whole market."

"Yes," he said jovially.

"We'll have a hell of a time borrowing the stock."

"Then do it."

Reluctantly his stockbroker began to leave but one of the phones rang. "Yes? Oh hello, Daytime Chang," he said in passable Cantonese. "What can I do for you?"

"I hope you can save all my money, Honorable Middleman. What is Noble House selling for?"

"25.30."

There was a screech of dismay. "Woe woe woe, there's barely half a dog-bone hour of trading left, woe woe woe! Please sell! Please sell all Noble House companies at once, Noble House, Good Luck Properties and Golden Ferry, also . . . what's Second Great Company selling at?"

"23.30."

"Ayeeyah, one point off from this morning? All gods bear witness to foul joss! Sell. Please to sell everything at once!"

"But Daytime Chang, the market's really quite sound an—"

"At once! Haven't you heard the rumors? Noble House will crash! Eeeee, sell, waste not a minute! Hold a moment, my associate Fung-tat wants to talk to you too."

"Yes, Third Toiletmaid Fung?"

"Just like Daytime Chang, Honorable Middleman! Sell! Before I'm lost! Sell and call us back with prices oh oh oh! Please hurry!"

He put the phone down. This was the fifth panic call he had had from old customers and he did not like it at all. Stupid to panic, he thought, checking his stock book. Between the two of them, Daytime Chang and Third Toiletmaid Fung had invested over 40,000 HK in various stocks. If he sold now they would be ahead, well ahead, but for the Struan losses today which would shave off most of their profit.

Joseph Stern was head of the firm of Stern and Jones that had been in Hong Kong for fifty years. They had become stockbrokers only since the war. Before that they were moneylenders, dealers in foreign exchange and ship's chandlers. He was a small, dark-haired man, mostly bald, in his sixties, and many people thought he had Chinese blood in him a few generations back.

He walked to the front of the board and stopped beside the column that listed Golden Ferry. He wrote down the combined Chang and Fung holdings in the sell column. It was a minor offering.

"I'll buy at 30 cents off listing," a broker said.

"There's no run on Golden Ferry," he said sharply.

"No, but it's a Struan company. Yes or no?"

"You know very well Golden Ferry's profits are up this quarter."

"Tough titty! Christ, isn't it bloody hot? Don't you think we could afford air conditioning in the exchange? Is it yes or no, old chap?"

Joseph Stern thought a moment. He did not want to fuel the nervousness. Only yesterday Golden Ferry had soared a dollar because all the business world knew their annual meeting was next week, it had been a good year and it was rumored there was going to be a stock split. But he knew the first rule of all exchanges: yesterday has nothing to do with today. The client had said, Sell.

"20 cents off market?" he asked.

"30. Last offer. What the hell do you care, you still get paid. Is it 30 off?"

"All right." Stern worked his way down the board, selling most of their stocks without trouble though each time he had to concede on price. With difficulty he borrowed the Ho-Pak stock. Now he stopped at the column listing the bank. There were many sell orders. Most of them were small figures. He wrote 200,000 at the bottom of the list in the sell column. A shock wave went through the room. He paid no attention, just looked at Forsythe, who was Richard Kwang's broker. Today he was the only buyer of Ho-Pak.

"Is Quillan trying to wreck the Ho-Pak?" a broker asked. "It's already under siege. Do you want to buy the shares?" "Not on your bloody life! Are you selling Struan short too?" "No. No I'm not." "Christ, I don't like this at all."

"Keep calm, Harry," someone else said. "The market's come alive for once, that's all that counts."

"Great day, what?" another broker said to him. "Is the crash on? I'm totally liquid myself, sold out this morning. Is it going to be a crash?"

"I don't know."

"Shocking about Struan's, isn't it?"

"Do you believe all the rumors?"

"No, of course not, but one word to the wise is sufficient they say, what?"

"I don't believe it."

"Struan's off 3!

"That's in the hands of. . ." Joseph Stern was going to say God but he knew that Richard Kwang's future was in the hands of his depositors and that they had already decided. "Joss," he said sadly.

"Yes. Thank God we get our commissions either way, feast or famine, jolly good, what?"

"Jolly good," Stern echoed, privately loathing, the smug, self-satisfied upper-class English accent of the exclusive British public schools, schools that, because he was Jewish, he had never been able to attend. He saw Forsythe put the phone down and look at the board. Once more he tapped his offering. Forsythe beckoned him. He walked through the throng, eyes watching him.

"Are you buying?" he asked.

"In due course, Joseph, old boy!" Forsythe added softly. "Between you and me, can't you get Quillan off our backs? I've reason to believe he's in cahoots with that berk Southerby."

"Is that a public accusation?"

"Oh come on, it's a private opinion, for chrissake! Haven't you read Haply's column? Tai-pans and a big bank spreading rumors? You know Richard's sound. Richard's as sound as … as the Rothschilds! You know Richard's got over a billion in res—"

"I saw the crash of '29, old chap. There were trillions in reserve then but even so everyone went broke. It's a matter of cash, credit and liquidity. And confidence. You'll buy our offering, yes or no?" "Probably." "How long can you keep this up?"

Forsythe looked at him. "Forever. I'm just a stockbroker. I just follow orders. Buy or sell I make a quarter of one percent."

"If the client pays."

"He has to. We have his stock, eh? We have rules. But while I think of it, go to hell."

Stern laughed. "I'm British, I'm going to heaven, didn't you know." Uneasily, he walked back to his desk. "I think he'll buy before the market closes."

It was a quarter to three. "Good," Gornt said. "Now I wa—" He stopped. They both looked back as there was an undercurrent. Dunross was escorting Casey and Line Bartlett to the desk of Alan Holdbrook—Struan's in-house broker—on the other side of the hall.

"I thought he'd left for the day," Gornt said with a sneer.

"The tai-pan never runs away from trouble. It's not in his nature." Stern watched them thoughtfully. "They look pretty friendly. Perhaps the rumors are all wrong and lan'll make the Par-Con deal and make the payments."

"He can't. That deal's going to fall through," Gornt said. "Bart-lett's no fool. Bartlett'd be mad to throw in with that tottering empire."

"I didn't even know until a few hours ago that Struan's were indebted to the Orlin Bank. Or that the Toda payments were due in a week or so. Or the even more nonsensical rumor that the Vic won't support the Noble House. Lot of nonsense. I called Havergill and that's what he said."

"What else would he say?"

After a pause, Stern said, "Curious that all that news surfaced today."

"Very. Sell 200,000 Struan's."

Stern's eyes widened and he plucked at his bushy eyebrows. "Mr. Gornt, don't you think th—"

"No. Please do as I ask."

"I think you're wrong this time. The tai-pan's too clever. He'll get all the support he needs. You'll get burned."

"Times change. People change. If Struan's have extended themselves and can't pay . . . Well, my dear fellow, this's Hong Kong and I hope the buggers go to the wall. Make it 300,000."

"Sell at what figure, Mr. Gornt?"

"At market."

"It'll take time to borrow the shares. I'll have to sell in much smaller lots. I'll hav—"

"Are you suggesting my credit's not good enough or you can't perform normal stockbroking functions?"

"No. No of course not," Stern replied, not wanting to offend his biggest customer.

"Good, then sell Struan's short. Now."

Gornt watched him walk away. His heart was beating nicely.

Stern went to Sir Luis Basilic of the old stockbroking firm of Basilio and Sons, who had a great block of Struan's personally, as well as many substantial clients with more. He borrowed the stock then walked to the board and wrote the huge offering in the sell column. The chalk scraped loudly. Gradually the room fell silent. Eyes switched to Dunross and Alan Holdbrook and the Americans, then to Gornt and back to Dunross again. Gornt saw Line Bartlett and Casey watching him and he was glad she was there. Casey was wearing a yellow silk skirt and blouse, very Californian, a green scarf tying her golden hair back. Why is she so sexual, Gornt asked himself absently. A strange invitation seemed to surround her. Why? Is it because no man yet has ever satisfied her?

He smiled at her, nodding slightly. She half-smiled back and he thought he noticed a shadow there. His greeting to Bartlett was polite and returned equally politely. His eyes held Dunross and the two men stared at each other.

The silence mounted. Someone coughed nervously. Everyone was conscious of the immensity of the offering and the implications of it.

Stern tapped his offering again. Holdbrook leaned forward and consulted with Dunross who half shrugged and shook his head, then began talking quietly to Bartlett and Casey.

Joseph Stern waited. Then someone offered to buy a portion and they haggled back and forth. Soon 50,000 shares had changed hands and the new market price was 24.90. He changed the 300,000 to 250,000 and again waited. He sold a few more but the bulk remained. Then, as there were no takers, he came back to his seat. He was sweating.

"If that number stays there overnight it'll do Struan's no good at all." "Yes." Gornt still watched Casey. She was listening intently to Dunross. He sat back and thought a moment. "Sell another 100,000 Ho-Pak—and 200,000 Struan's."

"Good God, Mr. Gornt, if Struan's gets brought down the whole market'll totter, even your own company'll lose." "There'll be an adjustment, lots of adjustments, certainly." "There'll be a bloodbath. If Struan's go, so will other companies, thousands of investors'll be wiped out an—"

"I really don't need a lecture on Hong Kong economics, Mr. Stern," Gornt said coldly. "If you don't want to follow instructions I'll take my business elsewhere."

Stern flushed. "I'll… I'll have to round up the shares first. That number … to get that sum …"

"Then I suggest you hurry up! I want that on the board today!" Gornt watched him go, enjoying the moment immensely. Cocky bastard, he was thinking. Stockbrokers are just parasites, every one of them. He felt quite safe. Bartlett's money was in his account. He could buy back Ho-Pak and Struan's even now and be millions ahead. Contentedly his eyes strayed back to Casey. She was watching him. He could read nothing in her expression.

Joseph Stern was weaving through the brokers. Again he stopped at the Basilio desk. Sir Luis Basilio looked away from the board and smiled up at him. "So, Joseph? You want to borrow more Noble House shares?"

"Yes, please."

"For Quillan?" Sir Luis asked. He was a fine old man, small, elegant, very thin, and in his seventies—this year's chairman of the committee that ran the exchange.

"Yes."

"Come, sit down, let's talk a moment, old friend. How many do you want now?"

"200,000."

Sir Luis frowned, "300,000 on the board—another 2? Is this an all-out attack?"

"He … he didn't say that but I think it is."

"It's a great pity those two can't make peace with one another."

"Yes."

The older man thought a moment, then said even more quietly, "I'm considering suspending dealing in Ho-Pak shares, and, since lunch, Noble House shares. I'm very worried. At this precise moment a Ho-Pak crash, coupled with a Noble House crash, could wreck the whole market. Madonna, it's unthinkable for the Noble House to crash, it would pull down hundreds of us, perhaps all Hong Kong, unthinkable!"

"Perhaps the Noble House needs overhauling. Can I borrow 200,000 shares?"

"First answer me this, yes or no, and if yes when: Should we suspend the Ho-Pak? Should we suspend Struan's? I've polled all the other members of the committee except you. They're divided almost equally."

"Neither have ever been suspended. It would be bad to suspend either. This's a free society—in its best sense, I think. You should let it work itself out, let them sort themselves out, the Struans, and the Gornts and all the rest, let the best get to the top and the worst . . ." Stern shook his head wearily. "Ah but it's easy for me to say that, Luis, I'm not a big investor in either." "Where's your money?"

"Diamonds. All Jews need small things, things you can carry and things you can hide, things you can convert easily."

"There's no need for you to be afraid here, Joseph. How many years has your family been here and prospered? Look at Solomon —surely he and his family are the richest in all Asia." "For Jews fear is a way of life. And being hated." Again the old man sighed. "Ah this world, this lovely world, how lovely it should be." A phone rang and he picked it up delicately, his hands tiny, his Portuguese sounding sweet and liquid to Stern though he understood none of it. He only caught "Senor Mata" said deferentially several times but the name meant nothing to him. In a moment Sir Luis replaced the receiver very thoughtfully. "The financial secretary called just after lunch, greatly perturbed. There's a deputation from Parliament here and a bank crash would look extremely bad for all of us," he said. He smiled a pixyish smile. "I suggested he introduce legislation for the governor's signature to govern banks like they had in England and the poor fellow almost had a fit. I really mustn't pull his leg so much." Stern smiled with him. "As if we need government interference here!" The eyes sharpened. "So Joseph, do you vote to let well alone—or suspend either or both of the stocks, if so when?"

Stern glanced at the clock. If he went to the board now he would have plenty of time to write up both sell offerings and still be able to challenge Forsythe. It was a good feeling to know that he held the fate of both houses in his hands, if only temporarily. "Perhaps it would be very good, perhaps bad. What's the voting so far?"

"I said, almost equal." There was another burst of excitement and both men looked up. Some more Struan shares were changing hands. The new market price dropped to 24.70. Now Phillip Chen was leaning over Holdbrook's desk.

"Poor Phillip, he doesn't look well at all," Sir Luis said compassionately.

"No. Pity about John. I liked him. What about the Werewolves? Do you think the papers are overplaying it?"

"No. No, I don't." The old eyes twinkled. "No more than you, Joseph."

"What?"

"You've decided to pass. You want to let today's time run out, don't you? That's what you want, isn't it?"

"What better solution could there be?"

"If I wasn't so old I'd agree with you. But being so old and not knowing about tomorrow, or if I shall live to see tomorrow, I prefer my drama today. Very well. I'll discount your vote this time and now the committee's deadlocked so I will decide, as I'm allowed to do. You can borrow 200,000 Noble House shares until Friday, Friday at two. Then I may ask for them back—I have to think of my own House, eh?" The sharp but kindly eyes in the lined face urged Stern to his feet. "What are you going to do now, my friend?"

Joseph Stern smiled sadly. "I'm a stockbroker."

He went to the board and wrote in the Ho-Pak sell column with a firm hand. Then in the new silence he went to the Struan column and wrote the figure clearly, conscious that he was on center stage now. He could feel the hate and the envy. More than 500,000 Noble House shares were now on offer, more than at any one time in the history of the exchange. He waited, wanting the clock to run out. There was a flurry of interest as Soorjani, the Parsee, bought some blocks of shares but it was well known he was nominee for many of the Struan and Dunross family and supporters. And though he bought 150,000, it made little difference to the enormity of Gornt's offering. The quiet was hurting. One minute to go now.

"We buy!" The tai-pan's voice shattered the silence.

"All my shares?" Stern asked hoarsely, his heart racing.

"Yes. Yours and all the rest. At market!"

Gornt was on his feet. "With what?" he asked sardonically. "That's almost 9 million cash."

Dunross was on his feet too, a taunting half-smile on his face. "The Noble House is good for that—and millions more. Has anyone ever doubted it?"

"I doubt it—and I sell short tomorrow!"

At that moment the finish bell sounded shrilly, the tension broke and there was a roar of approval.

"Christ what a day. . . ."

"Good old tai-pan. . . ."

"Couldn't stand much more of that . . ."

"Is Gornt going to beat him this time . . . ?"

"Maybe those rumors are all nonsense . . ."

"Christ I made a bloody fortune in commissions . . ."

"I think lan's running scared. . . ."

"Don't forget he's got five days to pay for the shares …"

"He can't buy like that tomorrow . . ."

"Christ, tomorrow! What's going to happen tomorrow . . ."

Casey shifted in her seat, her heart thumping. She pried her eyes off Gornt and Dunross and looked back at Bartlett, who sat staring at the board, whistling tonelessly. She was awed—awed and a little frightened.

Just before coming here to meet Dunross, Line Bartlett had told her his plan, about his call to Gornt and all about the meeting with him. "Now you know it all, Casey," he had said softly, grinning at her. "Now they're both set up and we control the battlefield, all for 2 million. Both're at each other's throats, both going for the jugular, each ready to cannibalize the other. Now we wait. Monday's D Day. If Gornt wins, we win. If Dunross wins, we win. Either way we become the Noble House."

32

3:03 P.M. :

Alexi Travkin who trained the racehorses of the Noble House went up the busy alley off Nathan Road in Kowloon and into the Green Dragon Restaurant. He wore a small .38 under his left arm and his walk was light for a man of his age.

The restaurant was small, ordinary and drab, with no tablecloths on the dozen or so tables. At one of them, four Chinese were noisily eating soup and noodles, and, as he came in, a bored waiter by the cash register looked up from his racing form and began to get up with a menu. Travkin shook his head and walked through the archway that led to the back.

The little room contained four tables. It was empty but for one man.

"Zdrastvuytye," Suslev said lazily, his light clothes well cut.

"Zdrastvuytye," Travkin replied, his Slavic eyes narrowing even more. Then he continued in Russian, "Who're you?"

"A friend, Highness."

"Please don't call me that, I'm not a highness. Who're you?"

"Still a friend. Once you were a prince. Will you join me?" Suslev politely motioned to a chair. There was an opened bottle of vodka on his table and two glasses. "Your father Nicoli Petrovitch was a prince too, like his father and back for generations, Prince of Kurgan and even Tobol."

"You talk in ciphers, friend," Travkin said, outwardly calm, and sat opposite him. The feel of the .38 took away some of his apprehension. "From your accent you're Muscovite—and Georgian."

Suslev laughed. "Your ear is very good, Prince Kurgan. Yes I'm Muscovite but I was born in Georgia. My name's unimportant but I'm a friend wh—"

"Of me, Russia or the Soviets?"

"Of all three. Vodka?" Suslev asked, lifting the bottle.

"Why not?" Travkin watched the other man pour the two glasses, then without hesitation he picked up the wrong glass, the one farthest from him, and lifted it. "Health!"

Without hesitation Suslev picked up the other, touched glasses, drained it and poured again. "Health!"

"You're the man who wrote to me?"

"I have news of your wife."

"I have no wife. What do you want from me, friend?" The way Travkin used the word it was an insult. He saw the flash of anger as Suslev looked up from his glass and he readied.

"I excuse your rudeness this once, Alexi Ivanovitch," Suslev said with dignity. "You've no cause to be rude to me. None. Have I insulted you?"

"Who are you?"

"Your wife's name is Nestorova Mikail and her father was Prince Anotoli Zergeyev whose lands straddle Karaganda, which is not so far away from your own family lands east of the Urals. He was a Kazaki, wasn't he, a great prince of the Kazaki, whom some people call Cossacks?"

Travkin kept his gnarled hands still and his face impassive, but he could not keep the blood from draining from his face. He reached out and poured two more glasses, the bottle still half full. He sipped the spirit. "This's good vodka, not like the piss in Hong Kong. Where did you get it?"

"Vladivostok."

"Ah. Once I was there. It's a flat dirty town but the vodka's good. Now, what's your real name and what do you want?"

"You know Ian Dunross well?"

Travkin was startled. "I train his horses . . . I've . . . this is my third year, why?"

"Would you like to see the Princess Nestor—"

"Good sweet Christ Jesus whoever you are, I told you I have no wife. Now, for the last time, what do you want from me?"

Suslev filled his glass and his voice was even more kindly. "Alexi Ivanovitch Travkin, your wife the princess today is sixty-three. She lives in Yakutsk on th—"

"On the Lena? In Siberia?" Travkin felt his heart about to explode. "What gulag is that, you turd?"

Through the archway in the other room, which was empty now, the waiter looked up momentarily, then yawned and went on reading.

"It's not a gulag, why should it be a gulag?" Suslev said, his voice hardening. "The princess went there of her own accord. She's lived there since she left Kurgan. Her . . ." Suslev's hand went into his pocket and he brought out his wallet. "This is her dacha in Yakutsk," he said, putting down a photograph. "It belonged to her family, I believe." The cottage was snowbound, within a nice glade of trees, the fences well kept, and it was pretty with good smoke coming out of the chimney. A tiny bundled-up figure waved gaily at the camera—too far away for the face to be seen clearly.

"And that's my wife?" Travkin said, his voice raw.

"Yes."

"I don't believe you!"

Suslev put down a new snapshot. A portrait. The lady was white-haired and in her fifties or sixties and though the cares of a whole world marked her, her face was still elegant, still patrician. The warmth of her smile reached out and broke him.

"You . . . you KGB turd," he said hoarsely, sure that he recognized her. "You filthy rotten mother-eating . . ."

"To have found her?" Suslev said angrily. "To have seen that she was looked after and left in peace and not troubled and not sent to … to the correction places she and your whole class deserved?" Irritably he poured himself another drink. "I'm Russian and proud of it—you're emigre and you left. My father and his were owned by one of your class. My father died at the barricades in 1916, and my mother—and before they died they were starving. They …" With an effort he stopped. Then he said in a different voice, "I agree there's much to forgive and much to forget on both sides, and that's all past now but I tell you we Soviets, we're not all animals—not all of us. We're not all like Bloody Beria and the murdering archfiend Stalin…. Not everyone." He found his pack of cigarettes. "Do you smoke?"

"No. Are you KGB or GRU?" KGB stood for the Committee for State Security; GRU for the Chief Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff. This was not the first time Travkin had been approached by one of them. Before, he had always been able to slough them off with his drab, unimportant cover story. But now he was trapped. This one knew too much about him, too much truth. Who are you, bastard? And what do you really want? he thought as he watched Suslev light a cigarette.

"Your wife knows you're alive."

"Impossible. She's dead. She was murdered by mobs when our pal—when our house in Kurgan was sacked, put to the torch, torn apart—the prettiest, most unarmed mansion within a hundred miles."

"The masses had the right t—"

"Those weren't my people and they were led by imported Trots-kyites who afterwards murdered my peasants by the thousands— until they themselves were all purged by more of their own vermin."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Suslev said coldly. "Even so, Prince of Kurgan and Tobol, she escaped with one old servant and fled east thinking she could find you, could escape after you through Siberia to Manchuria. The servant came originally from Austria. Pavchen was her name."

The breath seemed to have vanished from Travkin's lungs. "More lies," he heard himself say, no longer believing it, his spirit ripped apart by her lovely smile. "My wife's dead. She'd never go so far north."

"Ah but she did. Her escape train was diverted northwards. It was autumn. Already the first snows had come so she decided to wait the winter out in Yakutsk. She had to. . . ." Suslev put down another snapshot. ".. . she was with child. This is your son and his family. It was taken last year." The man was good-looking, in his forties, wearing a Soviet major's air force uniform, self-consciously smiling at the camera, his arm around a fine woman in her thirties with three happy children, a babe, a beaming girl of six or seven missing front teeth, a boy of about ten trying to be serious. "Your wife called him Pietor Ivanovitch after your grandfather."

Travkin did not touch the photo. He just stared at it, his face chalky. Then he pried his eyes away and poured a drink for himself, and as an afterthought, one for Suslev. "It's . . . it's all a brilliant reconstruction," he said, trying to sound convincing. "Brilliant."

"The child's name is Victoria, the girl is Nichola after your grandmother. The boy is Alexi. Major Ivanovitch is a bomber pilot."

Travkin said nothing. His eyes went back to the portrait of the beautiful old lady and he was near tears but his voice was still controlled. "She knows I'm alive, eh?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Three months. About three months ago. One of our people told her."

"Who're they?"

"Do you want to see her?"

"Why only three months—why not a year—three years?"

"It was only six months ago we discovered who you were."

"How did you do that?"

"Did you expect to remain anonymous forever?"

"If she knows I'm alive and one of your people told her then she'd've written. . . . Yes. They would have asked her to do that if . . ." Travkin's voice was strange. He felt out of himself, in a nightmare, as he tried to think clearly. "She would have written a letter."

"She has. I will give it to you within the next few days. Do you want to see her?"

Travkin forced his agony down. He motioned at the family portrait. "And . . . and he knows I'm alive too?"

"No. None of them do. That was not at our suggestion, Alexi Ivanovitch. It was your wife's idea. For safety—to protect him, she thought. As if we would wreak vengeance for the sins of the fathers on the sons! She waited out two winters in Yakutsk. By that time peace had come to Russia so she stayed. By that time she presumed you dead, though she hoped you were alive. The boy was brought up believing you dead, and knew nothing of you. He still doesn't. As you can see, he's a credit to you both. He was head of his local school, then went to university as all gifted children do nowadays. … Do you know, Alexi Ivanovitch, in my day I was the first of my whole province ever to get to a university, the very first, ever from a peasant family. We're fair in Russia today."

"How many corpses have you made to become what you are now?"

"A few," Suslev said darkly, "all of them criminals or enemies of Russia."

"Tell me about them."

"I will. One day."

"Did you fight the last war—or were you a commissar?"

"Sixteenth Tank Corp, Forty-fifth Army. I was at Sebastopol … and at Berlin. Tank commander. Do you want to see your wife?"

"More than my whole life is worth, if this really is my wife and if she's alive."

"She is. I can arrange it."

"Where?"

"Vladivostok."

"No, here in Hong Kong."

"Sorry, that's impossible."

"Of course." Travkin laughed without mirth. "Of course, friend. Drink?" He poured the last of the vodka, splitting it equally. "Health!"

Suslev stared at him. Then he looked down at the portrait and the snapshot of the air force major and his family and picked them up, lost in thought. The silence grew. He scratched his beard. Then he said decisively, "All right. Here in Hong Kong," and Travkin's heart leapt.

"In return for what?"

Suslev stubbed his cigarette out. "Information. And cooperation."

"What?"

"I want to know everything you know about the tai-pan of the Noble House, everything you did in China, who you know, who you met."

"And the cooperation?"

"I will tell you later."

"And in return you'll bring my wife to Hong Kong?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"By Christmas."

"How can I trust you?"

"You can't. But if you cooperate she will be here at Christmas." Travkin was watching the two photos Suslev toyed with in his fingers, then he saw the look in his eyes and his stomach twisted. "Either way, you must be honest with me. With or without your wife, Prince Kurgan, we always have your son and your grandchildren hostage."

Travkin sipped his drink, making it last. "Now I believe you are what you are. Where do you want to start?"

"The tai-pan. But first I want to piss." Suslev got up and asked the waiter where the toilet was and went out through the kitchen.

Now that Travkin was alone despair gripped him. He picked up the snapshot of the cottage that was still on the table and peered at it. Tears filled his eyes. He brushed them away and felt the gun that nestled beneath his shoulder but that did not help him now. With all his inner strength he resolved to be wise and not believe, but in his heart he knew he had seen her picture and that he would do anything, risk anything to see her.

For years he had tried to avoid these hunters, knowing that he was always pursued. He had been the leader of the Whites in his area across the Trans-Siberian Railroad and he had killed many Reds. At length he had wearied of the killing and in 1919 had left for Shanghai and a new home until the Japanese armies came, escaping them to join Chinese guerrillas, fighting his way south and west to Chungking, there to join other marauders, English, French, Australian, Chinese—anyone who would pay—until the Japanese unconditionally surrendered, and so back to Shanghai again, soon to flee once more. Always fleeing, he thought.

By the blood of Christ, my darling, I know you're dead. I know it. I was told by someone who saw the mob sack our palace, saw them swarm over you. . . .

But now?

Are you really alive?

Travkin looked at the kitchen door with hatred, knowing he would forever be haunted until he was certain about her. Who is that shit eater? he thought. How did they find me?

Grimly he waited and waited and then in sudden panic went to find him. The toilet was empty. He rushed into the street but it was filled with other people. The man had vanished.

There was a vile taste in Travkin's mouth now and he was sick with apprehension. In the name of God, what does he want with the tai-pan?

33

5:50 P.M. :

"Hello, Ian," Penelope said. "You're home early! How was your day?"

"Fine, fine," Dunross said absently. Apart from all the disasters, just before he left the office he had had a call from Brian Kwok saying, among other things, that AMG was probably murdered and warned him to take serious precautions.

"Oh, it was one of those, was it?" she said at once. "How about a drink? Yes. How about champagne?"

"Good idea." Then he noticed her smile and smiled back and felt much better. "Penn, you're a mind reader!" He tossed his briefcase onto a sideboard and followed her into one of the sitting rooms of the Great House. The champagne was already in an ice bucket, opened, with two glasses partially filled and another waiting for him in the ice.

"Kathy's upstairs. She's reading Glenna a bedtime story," Penelope said, pouring for him. "She… she's just told me about… about the, about the disease."

"Oh." He accepted the glass. "Thanks. How's Andrew taking it? He didn't mention anything today."

"She's going to tell him tonight. The champagne was to give her some courage." Penelope looked up at him, anguished. "She's going to be all right, isn't she, Ian?"

"I think so. I had a long talk with Doc Tooley. He was encouraging, gave me the names of the top three experts in England and another three in America. I've cabled for appointments with the three in England and Doc Ferguson's air-mailing them case histories—they'll be there when you arrive."

She sipped her wine. A light breeze made the sultry day much better. The French doors were open to the garden. It was near six o'clock. "Do you think we should go at once? Will a few days make any difference?"

"I don't think so."

"But we should go?"

"If it were you, Penn, we'd've been on the first plane the very first moment."

"Yes. If I'd told you."

"You would have told me."

"Yes. I suppose I would. I've made reservations for tomorrow. Kathy thought it a good idea too. The BOAC flight."

He was startled. "Claudia never mentioned it."

She smiled. "I made them myself. I'm really quite capable. I've reservations for Glenna, me and Kathy. We could take the case histories with us. I thought Kathy should go without any of her children. They'll be perfectly all right with the amahs."

"Yes, that's much the best. Doc Tooley was adamant about her taking it easy. That's the main thing he said, lots of rest." Dunross smiled at her. "Thanks, Penn."

She was staring at the beads of condensation on the outside of the bottle and the ice bucket. "Bloody awful, isn't it?"

"Worse, Penn. There's no cure. He thinks … he thinks the medication will arrest it." He finished his glass and poured for both of them. "Any messages?"

"Oh, sorry! Yes, they're on the sideboard. There was a longdistance call from Marseilles a moment ago."

"Susanne?"

"No. A Mr. Deland."

"He's our agent there."

"Rotten about young Borge."

"Yes." Dunross skimmed the messages. Johnjohn at the bank, Holdbrook, Phillip Chen, and the inevitable catchall "please call Claudia." He sighed. It was only half an hour since he left the office and he was going to call her anyway. No rest for the wicked, he thought, and smiled to himself.

He had enjoyed besting Gornt at the exchange. That he did not have the money at the moment to pay did not worry him. There's five days of grace, he thought. Everything's covered—with joss. Ah yes, joss!

Since his stockbroker had called him in panic at a few minutes past ten about the rumors sweeping the exchange and how their stock was shifting, he had been bolstering his defenses against the sudden, unexpected attack. With Phillip Chen, Holdbrook, Gaval-lan and deVille he had marshaled all the major stockholders they could reach and told them that the rumors Struan's couldn't meet their obligations were nonsense and suggested they refuse to lend Gornt any big blocks of Struan stock but to keep him dangling, letting him have a few shares here and there. He told the selected few in the strictest confidence that the Par-Con deal was signed, sealed and about to be chopped, and that this was a marvelous opportunity to smash Rothwell-Gornt once and for all.

"If Gornt sells short, let him. We pretend to be vulnerable but support the stock. Then Friday we announce, our stock'll soar and he'll lose his shirt, tie and trousers," he had told them all. "We get back our airline along with his, and with his ships and ours together, we'll dominate all air and surface inbound and outbound trade in Asia."

If we could really smash Gornt, he thought fervently, we'd be safe for generations. And we could, given joss, Par-Con and more joss. Christ, but it's going to be very dicey!

He had exuded confidence all day, not feeling confident at all. Many of his big stockholders had called nervously but he had quieted them. Both Tightfist Tung and Four Finger Wu owned major blocks of stock through devious nominees. He had phoned both this afternoon to get their agreement not to loan or sell their major holdings for the next week or so. Both had agreed but it had not been easy with either of them.

All in all, Dunross thought, I've fought off the initial onslaught. Tomorrow will tell the real story—or Friday: is Bartlett enemy, friend or Judas?

He felt his anger rising but he pushed it back. Be calm, he told himself, think calmly. I will but it's bloody curious that everything Bartlett said the night of the party—all those very secret things he had so readily and suddenly produced to shatter my defenses— miraculously went through the market today like a typhoon. Who's the spy? Who gave him the info? Is he the Sevrin spy too? Well, never mind for the moment, everything's covered. I think.

Dunross went to the phone and asked the operator to get Mr. Deland, person to person, and to call him back. "Would Susanne be there yet?" Penelope asked.

"I think so. If her plane's on time. It's about eleven, Marseilles time, so it shouldn't be an emergency. Bloody shame about Borge! I liked him."

"What's Avril going to do?"

"She's going to be all right. Avril's going to come home to bring up the child and soon she'll meet a Prince Charming, a new one, and her son'll join Struan's and meanwhile she'll be protected and cherished."

"Do you believe that, Ian—about the Prince Charming?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "I believe everything will be all right. It's going to be all right, Penn, for her, for Kathy, for … for everyone."

"You can't carry everyone, Ian."

"I know. But no one, no one in the family will ever need for anything while I'm alive and that's going to be forever."

His wife looked at him and remembered the first time she had seen him, a godlike youth sitting in his shattered fighter that should have crashed but somehow miraculously hadn't. Ian, just sitting there, then getting out, holding the terror down, she seeing in his eyes for the first time what death was like but him dominating it and coming back and just accepting the cup of tea saying, "Oh, jolly good, thanks. You're new, aren't you?" in his lovely patrician accent that was so far from her own background.

Such a long time ago, a thousand years ago, another lifetime, she thought. Such wonderful ghastly terrible beautiful agonizing days: will he die today or come back today? Will I die today, in the morning bombing or in the evening one? Where's Dad and Mum and is the phone just bombed out of service as usual or has the rotten little terraced house in Streatham vanished along with all the other thousands like it?

One day it had and then she had no past. Just Ian and his arms and strength and confidence, and she terrified that he would go like all the others. That was the worst part, she told herself. The waiting and anticipating and knowing how mortal the Few were and we all are. My God how quickly we had to grow up!

"I hope it is forever, darling," she said in her cool, flat voice, wanting to hide the immensity of her love. "Yes. I want you to be immortal!"

He grinned at her, loving her. "I'm immortal, Penn, never mind. After I'm dead I'll still be watching over you and Glenna and Duncan and Adryon and all the rest."

She watched him. "Like Dirk Struan does?" "No," he said serious now. "He's a presence I'll never match. He's perpetual—I'm temporary." His eyes were watching hers. "You're rather serious tonight, aren't you?" "You're rather serious tonight, aren't you?"

They laughed.

She said, "I was just thinking how transient life is, how violent, unexpected, how cruel. First John Chen and now Borge, Kathy …" A little shiver went through her, ever petrified she would lose him. "Who's next?"

"Any one of us. Meanwhile be Chinese. Remember under heaven all crows are black. Life is good. Gods make mistakes and go to sleep so we do the best we can and never trust a guai loh!"

She laughed, at peace again. "There are times, Ian Struan Dun-ross, when I quite like you. Do you th—" The phone rang and she stopped and thought, God curse that bloody phone. If I was omnipotent I'd outlaw all phones after 6:00 P.M. but then poor lan'd go rnad, and the bloody Noble House'd crumble and that's poor lan's life. I'm second, so are the children and that's as it should be. Isn't it?

"Oh hello, Lando," Dunross was saying, "what's new?"

"Hope I'm not disturbing you, tai-pan."

"Not at all," he replied, all his energy concentrated. "I've just got in. What can I do for you?"

"Sorry, but I'm withdrawing the 15 million support I promised for tomorrow. Temporarily. The market makes me nervous."

"Nothing to worry about," Dunross said, his stomach churning. "Gornt's up to his tricks. That's all."

"I'm really very worried. It's not just Gornt. It's the Ho-Pak and the way the whole market's reacting," Mata said. "With the bank run seeping over to the Ching Prosperity and even the Vic … all the signs are very bad so I want to wait and see."

"Tomorrow's the day, Lando. Tomorrow. I was counting on you."

"Have you tripled our next gold consignment as I asked?"

"Yes, I did that personally. I've Zurich's telexed confirms in the usual code."

"Excellent, excellent!"

"I'll need your letter of credit tomorrow."

"Of course. If you'll send a messenger to my home now I'll give you my check for the full amount."

"Personal check?" Dunross held on to his astonishment. "On which bank, Lando?"

"The Victoria."

"Christ, that's a lot of money to remove just now."

"I'm not removing it, I'm just paying for some gold. I'd rather have some of my funds in gold outside Hong Kong for the next week or so, and this's an ideal moment to do it. You can get them to telex it first thing tomorrow. First thing. Yes. I'm not withdrawing funds, Ian, just paying for gold. If I were you I'd try to get liquid too."

Again his stomach fell over. "What have you heard?" he asked, his voice controlled.

"You know me, I'm just more cautious than you, tai-pan. The cost of my money comes very high."

"No more than mine."

"Yes. We'll consult tomorrow, then we'll see. But don't count on our 15 million. Sorry."

"You've heard something. I know you too well. What is it? Chi pao pu chu huo." Literally, Paper cannot wrap up a fire, meaning a secret cannot be kept forever.

There was a long pause, then Mata said in a lower voice, "Confidentially, Ian, old Tightfist's selling heavily. He's getting ready to unload all his holdings. That old devil may be dying but his nose is as sensitive to the loss of a brass cash as ever and I've never known him to be wrong."

"All his holdings?" Dunross asked sharply. "When did you talk to him?"

"We've been in contact all day. Why?"

"I reached him after lunch and he promised he wouldn't sell or loan any Struan's. Has he changed his mind?"

"No. I'm sure he hasn't. He can't. He hasn't any Struan stock."

"He has 400,000 shares!"

"He did have, tai-pan, though actually the number was nearer 600,000—Sir Luis had very few shares of his own, he's one of Tightfist's many nominees. He's unloaded all 600,000 shares. Today."

Dunross bit back an obscenity. "Oh?"

"Listen, my young friend, this is all in the strictest confidence but you should be prepared: Tightfist ordered Sir Luis to sell or loan all his Noble House stock the moment the rumors started this morning. 100,000 was spread throughout the brokers and sold immediately, the remainder. … the half million shares you bought from Gornt were Tightfist's. The moment it was evident there was a major assault on the House and Gornt was selling short, Tightfist told Sir Luis to go ahead and loan it all, except for a token 1,000 shares, which he's kept. For face. Yours. When the exchange closed, Tightfist was very pleased. On the day he's almost 2 million ahead." Dunross was standing rock still. He heard that his voice was matter-of-fact and level and controlled and that pleased him, but he was in shock. If Tightfist had sold, the Chins would sell and a dozen other friends would follow his lead and that meant chaos. "The old bugger!" he said, bearing him no grudge. It was his own fault, he had not reached Tightfist in time. "Lando, what about your 300,000 shares—plus?"

He heard the Portuguese hesitate and his stomach twisted again, "I've still got them. I bought at 16 when you first went public so I'm not worried yet. Perhaps Alastair Struan was right when he advised against going public—the Noble House's only vulnerable because of that."

"Our growth rate's five times Gornt's and without going public we could never have weathered the disasters I inherited. We're supported by the Victoria. We've still got our bank stock and a majority vote on the board so they have to support us. We're really very strong and once this temporary situation's over we'll be the biggest conglomerate in Asia."

"Perhaps. But perhaps you'd have been wiser to accept our proposal instead of leaving yourself constantly open to the risk of takeovers or market disasters."

"I couldn't then. I can't now. Nothing's changed." Dunross smiled grimly. Lando Mata, Tightfist Tung and Gambler Chin collectively had offered him 20 percent of their gold and gambling syndicate revenue for 50 percent of Struan's—if he kept it as a wholly private-owned company.

"Come, tai-pan, be sensible! Tightfist and I will give you 100 million cash today for 50 percent ownership. U.S. dollars. Your position as tai-pan will not be touched, you will head the new syndicate and manage our gold and gambling monopolies, secretly or openly—with 10 percent of all profit as a personal fee."

"Who appoints the next tai-pan?"

"You do—in consultation."

"There, you see! It's impossible. A 50 percent control gives you power over Struan's and that I'm not allowed to give. That would negate Dirk's legacy, make my oath invalid and give away absolute control. Sorry, it's not possible."

"Because of an oath to an unknown, unknowable god in which you don't believe—on behalf of a murdering pirate who's been dead over a hundred years?"

"For whatever reason the answer is, thank you, no."

"You could easily lose the whole company."

"No. Between the Struans and the Dunrosses we have 60 percent voting control and I alone vote all the stock. What I'd lose is everything material we own, and cease to be the Noble House, and that by the Lord God, is not going to happen either."

There was a long silence. Then Mata said, his voice friendly as always, "Our offer is good for two weeks. If joss is against you and you fail, the offer to head the new syndicate stands. I shall sell or lend my stock at 21."

"Below 20—not at 21."

"It will go that low?"

"No. Just a habit I have. 20 is better than 21."

"Yes. Good. Then let us see what tomorrow brings. I wish you good joss. Good night, tai-pan."

Dunross put down the phone and sipped the last of his champagne. He was up the creek without a paddle. That old bugger Tightfist, he thought again, admiring his cleverness—to agree so reluctantly not to sell or barter any Struan shares, knowing that only 1,000 remained, knowing the revenue from almost 600,000 was already safe—that old bastard's a great negotiator. It's so very clever of both Lando and Tightfist to make the new offer now. 100 million! Jesus Christ, that'd stop Gornt farting in church! I could use that to smash him to pieces, and in short order take over Asian Properties and put Dunstan into an early retirement. Then I could pass the House over to Jacques or Andrew in great shape and

And then what? What would I do then? Retire to the moors and shoot grouse? Throw vast parties in London? Or go into Parliament and sleep in the Back Bench while the bloody Socialists give the country to the Communists? Christ, I'd be bored to bloody death! I'd . . .

"What?" He was startled. "Oh sorry, Penn, what did you say?"

"I just said that all sounded like bad news!"

"Yes. Yes it was." Then Dunross grinned and all his anxiety dropped away. "It's joss! I'm tai-pan," he said happily. "You've got to expect it." He picked up the bottle. It was empty. "I think we deserve another . . . No, pet, I'll get it." He went to the concealed refrigerator that was set into a vast old Chinese scarlet, lacquered sideboard.

"How do you cope, Ian?" she asked. "I mean, it always seems to be something bad, ever since you took over—and there's always some disaster, every phone call, you work all the time, never take a holiday . . . ever since we came back to Hong Kong. First your father and then Alastair and then . . . Isn't it ever going to stop pouring cats and dogs?"

"Of course not—that's the job."

"Is it worth it?"

He concentrated on the cork, knowing there was no future in this conversation. "Of course."

To you it is, Ian, she thought. But not to me. After a moment she said, "Then it's all right for me to go?"

"Yes, yes of course. I'll watch Adryon and don't worry about Duncan. You just have a great time and hurry back."

"Are you going to do the hill climb Sunday?"

"Yes. Then I'm going to Taipei, back Tuesday. I'm taking Bart-lett."

She thought about Taipei and wondered if there was a girl there, a special girl, a Chinese girl, half her age, with lovely soft skin and warmth, not much warmer than herself or softer or trimmer but half her age, with a ready smile, without the years of survival bowing her —the rotten growing-up years, the good and terrible war years, and childbearing years and child-rearing years and the exhausting reality of marriage, even to a good man.

I wonder I wonder I wonder. If I was a man … there're so many beauties here, so anxious to please, so readily available. If you believe a tenth of what the others say.

She watched him pour the fine wine, the bubbles and froth good, his face strong and craggy and greatly pleasing, and she wondered, Does any woman possess any man for more than a few years?

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said, loving him. She touched his glass. "Be careful on the hill climb."

"Of course."

"How do you cope with being tai-pan, Ian?"

"How do you cope with running a home, bringing up the kids, getting up at all hours, year after year, keeping the peace, and all the other things you've had to do? I couldn't do that. Never could. I'd've given up the ghost long ago. It's part training and part what you're born to do."

"A woman's place is in the home?"

"I don't know about others, Penn, but so long as you're in my home all's good in my world." He popped the cork neatly.

"Thank you, dear," she said and smiled. Then she frowned. "But I'm afraid I don't have much option and never had. Of course it's different now and the next generation's lucky, they're going to change things, turn things around and give men their comeuppance once and for all."

"Oh?" he said, most of his mind back on Lando Mata and tomorrow and how to get the 100 million without conceding control.

"Oh yes. The girls of the next generation aren't going to put up with the boring 'a woman's place is by the sink.' God how I hate housework, how every woman hates housework. Our daughters are going to change all that! Adryon for one. My God I'd hate to be her husband."

"Every generation thinks they're going to change the world," Dunross said, pouring. "This's great champagne. Remember how we did? Remember how we used to bitch, still do, about our parents' attitudes?"

"True. But our daughters have the pill and that's a whole new kettle of fish an—"

"Eh?" Dunross stared at her, shocked. "You mean Adryon's on the pill? Jesus Christ how long … do you mean sh—"

"Calm down, Ian, and listen. That little pill's unlocked womanhood from fear forever—men too, in a way. I think very few people realize what an enormous social revolution it's going to create. Now women can all make love without fear of having a child, they can use their bodies as men use their bodies, for gratification, for pleasure, and without shame." She looked at him keenly. "As to Adryon, she's had access to the pill since she was seventeen."

"What?"

"Of course. Would you prefer her to have a child?"

"Jesus Christ, Penn, of course not," Dunross spluttered, "but Jesus Christ who? You . . . you mean she's having an affair, had affairs or. . . ."

"I sent her to Dr. Tooley. I thought it best she should see him."

"You what?"

"Yes. When she was seventeen, she asked me what to do, said most of her friends were on the pill. As there are various types I wanted her to have expert advice. Dr. Too— What are you so red about, Ian? Adryon's nineteen now, twenty next month, it's all very ordinary."

"It isn't by God. It just isn't!"

"Och laddie but it is," she said, aping the broad Scots accent of Granny Dunross whom he had adored, "and my whole point is that the lassies of today know what they're aboot and dinna ye dare mention it to Adryon that I've told ye or I'll take my stick to your britches!"

He stared at her.

"Health!" Smugly she raised her glass. "Did you see the Guardian Extra this afternoon?"

"Don't change the subject, Penn. Don't you think I should talk to her?"

"Absolutely not. No. It's a… it's a very private matter. It's really her body and her life and whatever you say, Ian, she has the right to do with her life what she pleases and really nothing you say will make any difference. It'll all be very embarrassing for both of you. There's face involved," she added and was pleased with her cleverness. "Oh of course Adryon'll listen and take your views to heart but you really must be adult and modern for your own sake, as well as hers."

Suddenly an uncontrollable wave of heat went through his face. "What is it?" she asked. "I was thinking about … I was just thinking." "About who was, is or could be her lover?" "Yes."

Penelope Dunross sighed. "For your own sanity, Ian, don't! She's very sensible, over nineteen . . . well, quite sensible. Come to think of it I haven't seen her all day. The little rotter rushed out with my new scarf before I could catch her. You remember the blouse I lent her? I found it scrumpled up on her bathroom floor! I shall be very glad to see her off on her own and in her own apartment." "She's too young for God's sake!"

"I don't agree, dear. As I was saying, there's really nothing you can do about progress, and the pill is a marvelous fantastic unbelievable leap forward. You really must be more sensible. Please?"

"It's . . . Christ, it's a bit sudden, that's all."

She laughed outright. "If we were talking about Glenna I could unders—Oh for God's sake, Ian, I'm only joking! It never really occurred to me that you wouldn't have presumed Adryon was a very healthy, well-adjusted though foul-tempered, infuriating, very frustrated young lady, most of whose frustrations spring from trying to please us with our old-fashioned ideas."

"You're right." He tried to sound convincing but he wasn't and he said sourly, "You're right even so … you're right."

"Laddie, dinna ye think ye'd better visit our Shrieking Tree?" she asked with a smile. It was an ancient clan custom in the old country that somewhere near the dwelling of the oldest woman of the laird's family would be the Shrieking Tree. When Ian was young, Granny Dunross was the oldest, and her cottage was in a glade in the hills behind Kilmarnock in Ayrshire where the Struan lands were. The tree was a great oak. It was the tree that you went out to when the deevil—as old Granny Dunross called it—when the deevil was with you, and alone, you shrieked whatever curses you liked. ". . . and then, lassie," the lovely old woman had told her the first night, ".. . and then, lassie, there would be peace in the home and never a body has need to really curse a husband or wife or lover or child. Aye, just a wee tree and the tree can bear all the curse words that the deevil himself invented. . . ."

Penelope was remembering how old Granny Dunross had taken her into her heart and into the clan from the first moment. That was just after she and Ian were married and visiting for the second time, Ian on sick leave, still on crutches, his legs badly burned but healing, the rest of him untouched in the flaming crash-landing but for his mad, all-consuming anger at being grounded forever, she so pleased secretly, thanking God for the reprieve.

"But whisht, lassie," Granny Dunross had added with a chuckle that night when the winter winds were whining off the moors, sleet outside, and they all warm and toasty in front of the great fire, safe from the bombing, well fed and never a care except that Ian should get well quickly, ". . . there was a time when this Dunross was six and, och aye, he had a terrible temper even then and his father Colin was off in those heathen foreign parts as always, so this Dunross would come to Ayr on holiday from boarding school. Aye, and sometimes he would come to see me and I'd tell him tales o' the clan and his grandfather and great-grandfather but this time nothing would take away the deevil that possessed him. It was a night like this and I sent him out, the poor wee bairn, aye I sent him out to the Shrieking Tree>" The old woman had chuckled and chuckled and sipped whiskey and continued, "Aye and the young deevil went out, cock of the walk, the gale under his kilt, and he cursed the tree. Och aye, surely the wee beasties in the forest fled before his wrath and then he came back. 'Have you given it a good drubbing,' I asked him. 'Aye,' he said in his wee voice. 'Aye, Grandma, I gave it a good drubbing, the very best ever.'

" 'Good,' I said. 'And now you're at peace!' " 'Well, not really, Grandmother, but I am tired.' And then, lassie, at that moment, there was an almighty crash and the whole house shook and I thought it was the end of the world but the wee little bairn ran out to see what had happened and a lightning bolt had blasted the Shrieking Tree to pieces. 'Och aye, Granny,' he said in his piping little voice when he came back, his eyes wide, 'that really was the very best I ever did. Can I do it again!' "

Ian had laughed. "That's all a story, I don't remember that at all. You're making it up, Granny!"

"Whisht on you! You were five or six and the next day we went into the glade and picked the new tree, the one you'll see tomorrow, lassie, and blessed it in the clan's name and I told young Ian to be a mite more careful next time!"

They had laughed together and then, later that night, she had woken up to find Ian gone and his crutches gone. She had watched and waited. When he came back he was soaked but tired and at peace. She pretended sleep until he was in bed again. Then she turned to him and gave him all the warmth she had.

"Remember, lassie," Granny Dunross had said to her privately the day they left, "if ye want to keep your marriage sweet, make sure this Dunross always has a Shrieking Tree nearby. Dinna be afeared. Pick one, always pick one wherever you go. This Dunross needs a Shrieking Tree close by though he'll never admit it and will never use it but rarely. He's like the Dirk. He's too strong. . . ."

So wherever they had gone they had had one. Penelope had insisted. Once, in Chungking, where Dunross had been sent to be an Allied liaison officer after he was well again, she had made a bamboo their Shrieking Tree. Here in Hong Kong it was a huge jacaranda that dominated the whole garden. "Don't you think you should pay her a wee visit?" The tree was always a her for him and a him for her. Everyone should have a Shrieking Tree, Penelope thought. Everyone.

"Thanks," he said. "I'm okay now."

"How did Granny Dunross have so much wisdom and stay so marvelous after so much tragedy in her life?"

"I don't know. Perhaps they built them stronger in those days."

"I miss her." Granny Dunross was eighty-five when she died. She was Agnes Struan when she married her cousin Dirk Dunross— Dirk McCloud Dunross, whom his mother Winifred, Dirk Struan's only daughter, had named after her father in remembrance. Dirk Dunross had been fourth tai-pan and he had been lost at sea in Sunset Cloud driving her homeward. He was only forty-two when he was lost, she thirty-one. She never married again. They had had three sons and one daughter. Two of her sons were killed in World War I, the eldest at Gallipoli at twenty-one, the other gassed at Ypres in Flanders, nineteen. Her daughter Anne had married Gas-ton deVille, Jacques's father. Anne had died in the London bombing where all the deVilles had fled except Jacques who had stayed in France and fought the Nazis with the Maquis. Colin, the last of her sons, lan's father, also had three sons and a daughter, Kathren. Two sons also were killed in World War II. Kathren's first husband, lan's squadron leader, was killed in the Battle of Britain. "So many deaths, violent deaths," Penelope said sadly. "To see them all born and all die… terrible. Poor Granny! Yet when she died she seemed to go so peacefully with that lovely smile of hers."

"Perhaps it was joss. But the others, that was joss too. They only did what they had to, Penn. After all, our family history's ordinary in that. We're British. War's been a way of life for centuries. Look at your family—one of your uncles was lost at sea in the navy in the Great War, another in the last at El Alamein, your parents killed in the blitz… all very ordinary." His voice hardened. "It's not easy to explain to any outsider, is it?"

"No. We all had to grow up so quickly, didn't we, Ian?" He nodded and after a moment she said, "You'd better dress for dinner, dear, you'll be late."

"Come on, Penn, for God's sake, you take an hour longer than me. We'll put in a quick appearance and leave directly after chow. Wh—" The phone rang and he picked it up. "Yes? Oh hello, Mr. Deland."

"Good evening, tai-pan. I wish to report about Mme. deVille's daughter and son-in-law, M. Escary." "Yes, please go ahead."

"I am sad to have the dishonor of bringing such bad tidings. The accident was a, how do you say, sideswipe on the upper Corniche just outside Eze. The driver of the other car was drunk. It was at two in the morning about, and when the police arrived, M. Escary was already dead and his wife unconscious. The doctor says she will mend, very well, but he is afraid that her, her internal organs, her childbearing organs may have permanent hurt. She may require an operation. He—"

"Does she know this?"

"No, m'sieu, not yet, but Mme. deVille was told, the doctor told her. I met her as you ordered and have taken care of everything. I have asked for a specialist in these things from Paris to consult with the Nice Hospital and he arrives this afternoon." "Is there any other damage?"

"Externally, non. A broken wrist, a few cuts, nothing. But . .. the poor lady is distraught. It was glad … I was glad that her mother came, that helped, has helped. She stays at the Metropole in a suite and I met her airplane. Of course I will be in the constant touch."

"Who was driving?" "Mme. Escary." "And the other driver?"

There was a hesitation. "His name is Charles Sessonne. He's a baker in Eze and he was coming home after cards and an evening with some friends. The police have … Mme. Escary swears his car was on the wrong side of the road. He cannot remember. Of course he is very sorry and the police have charged him with drunk driving an—"

"Is this the first time?"

"Non. Non, once before he was stopped and fined." "What'll happen under French law?"

"There will be a court and then … I do not know, m'sieu. There were no other witnesses. Perhaps a fine, perhaps jail; I do not know. Perhaps he will remember he was on the right side, who knows? I'm sorry."

Dunross thought a moment. "Where does this man live?" "Rue de Verte 14, Eze."

Dunross remembered the village well, not far from Monte Carlo, high above, and the whole of the Cote d'Azur below and you could see beyond Monte Carlo into Italy, and beyond Cap Ferrat to Nice. "Thank you, Mr. Deland. I've telexed you 10,000 U.S. for Mme. deVille's expenses and anything else. Whatever's necessary please do it. Call me at once if there's anything… yes and ask the specialist to call me immediately after he's examined Mme. Escary. Have you talked with Mr. Jacques deVille?"

"No, tai-pan. You did not instruct this. Should I phone?"

"No. I'll call him. Thank you again." Dunross hung up and told Penelope everything, except about the internal injuries.

"How awful! How . . . how senseless!"

Dunross was looking out at the sunset. It was at his suggestion the young couple had gone to Nice and Monte Carlo where he and Penelope had had so much fun, and marvelous food, marvelous wine and a little gambling. Joss, he thought, then added, Christ all bloody mighty!

He dialed Jacques deVille's house but he was not there. He left a message for him to return the call. "I'll see him at the dinner tonight," he said, the champagne now tasteless. "Well, we'd better get changed."

"I'm not going, dear."

"Oh but . . ."

"I've lots to do to get ready for tomorrow. You can make an excuse for me—of course you have to go. I'll be ever so busy. There's Glenna's school things—and Duncan gets back on Monday and his school things have to be sorted. You'll have to put him on the aircraft, make sure he has his passport. .. You can easily make an excuse for me tonight as I'm leaving."

He smiled faintly. "Of course, Penn, but what's the real reason?"

"It's going to be a big do. Robin's bound to be there."

"They're not back till tomorrow!"

"No, it was in the Guardian's Extra. They arrived this afternoon. The whole delegation. They're sure to be invited." The banquet was being given by a multimillionaire property developer, Sir Shi-teh T'Chung, partially to celebrate the knighthood he had received in the last Honors List, but mostly to launch his latest charity drive for the new wing of the new Elizabeth Hospital. "I've really no wish to go, and so long as you're there, everything'll be all right. I really want an early night too. Please."

"All right. I'll deal with these calls, then I'll be off. I'll see you though before I go." Dunross walked upstairs and went into his study. Lim was waiting there, on guard. He wore a white tunic and black pants and soft shoes. "Evening, Lim," Dunross said in Cantonese.

"Good evening, tai-pan." Quietly the old man motioned him to the window. Dunross could see two men, Chinese, loitering across the street outside the high wall that surrounded the Great House, near the tall, open iron gates. "They've been there some time, tai-pan."

Dunross watched them a moment, disquieted. His own guard had just been dismissed and Brian Kwok, who was also a guest at Sir Shi-teh's tonight, would come by shortly and go with him, acting as a substitute. "If they don't go away by dusk call Superintendent Crosse's office." He wrote the number down, then added in Cantonese, his voice abruptly hard, "While I think of it, Lim, if I want any foreign devil car interfered with, / will order it." He saw the old eyes staring back at him impassively. Lim Chu had been with the family since he was seven, like his father before him, and his father, the first of his line who, in the very old days, before Hong Kong had existed, had been Number One Boy and looked after the Struan mansion in Macao.

"I don't understand, tai-pan."

"You cannot wrap fire in paper. The police are clever and old Black Beard's a great supporter of police. Experts can examine brakes and deduce all sorts of information."

"I know nothing of police." The old man shrugged then beamed. "Tai-pan, I do not climb trees to find a fish. Nor do you. May 1 mention that in the night I could not sleep and I came here. There was a shadow on the veranda balcony. The moment I opened the study door the shadow slid down the drainpipe and vanished into the shrubs." The old man took out a torn piece of cloth. "This was on the drainpipe." The cloth was nondescript.

Dunross studied it, perturbed. He glanced at Dirk Struan's oil painting over the fireplace. It was perfectly in position. He moved it away and saw that the hair he had delicately balanced on a hinge of the safe was untouched. Satisfied, he replaced the picture, then checked the locks on the French windows. The two men were still loitering. For the first time Dunross was very glad that he had an SI guard.

34

7:58 P.M. :

It was hot and humid in Phillip Chen's study and he was sitting beside the phone staring at it nervously. The door swung open and he jumped. Dianne sailed in.

"There's no point in waiting anymore, Phillip," she said irritably. "You'd better go and change. That devil Werewolf won't call tonight. Something must have happened. Do come along!" She wore an evening chong-sam in the latest, most expensive fashion, her hair bouffant, and she was bejeweled like a Christmas tree. "Yes. Something must have happened. Perhaps the police… huh, it's too much to expect they caught him. More likely that fang pi devil's playing with us. You'd better change or we'll be late. If you hurr—"

"I really don't want to go," he snapped back at her. "Shitee T'Chung's a bore and now that he's Sir Shitee he's a double one." Years ago Shi-teh had adulterated down to become the nickname Shitee to his intimate friends. "Anyway, it's hardly eight o'clock and dinner's not till 9:30 and he's always late, his banquets are always at least an hour late. For God's sake, you go!"

"Ayeeyah you've got to come. It's a matter of face," she replied, equally ill-tempered. "My God, after today at the stock market … if we don't go we'll lose terrible face and it's sure to push the stock down further! All Hong Kong will laugh at us. They can't wait. They'll say we're so ashamed the House can't pay its bills that we won't show our face in public. Huh! And as for Shitee's new wife, Constance, that mealy-mouthed whore can't wait to see me humbled!" She was near screeching. Her losses on the day exceeded 100,000 of her own secret private dollars. When Phillip had called her from the stock market just after three to relate what had happened she had almost fainted. "Oh ko you have to come or we'll be ruined!"

Miserably her husband nodded. He knew what gossips and rumormongers would be at the banquet. All day he had been inundated with questions, moans and panic. "I suppose you're right." He was down almost a million dollars on the day and if the run continued and Gornt won he knew he would be wiped out. Oh oh oh why did I trust Dunross and buy so heavily? he was thinking, so angry that he wanted to kick someone. He looked up at his wife. His heart sank as he recognized the signs of her awesome displeasure at the world in general, and him in particular. He quaked inside. "All right," he said meekly. "I won't be a moment."

When he got to the door the phone rang. Once more his heart twisted and he felt sick. There had been four calls since around six. Each had been a business call decrying the fate of the stock, and were the rumors true and oh ko, Phillip, I'd better sell—each time worse than the last. "Weyyyy?" he asked angrily.

There was a short pause, then an equally rude voice said in crude Cantonese, "You're in a foul temper whoever you are! Where are your fornicating manners?"

"Who's this? Eh, who's calling?" he asked in Cantonese.

"This is the Werewolf. The Chief Werewolf, by all the gods! Who're you?"

"Oh!" The blood drained from Phillip Chen's face. In panic he beckoned his wife. She rushed forward and bent to listen too, everything else forgotten except the safety of the House. "This . . . this is Honorable Chen," he said cautiously. "Please, what's .. . what's your name?"

"Are your ears filled with wax? I said I was the Werewolf. Am I so stupid to give you my name?"

"I'm . . . I'm sorry but how do I know you're . . . you're telling me the truth?"

"How do I know who you are? Perhaps you're a dung-eating policeman. Who are you?"

"I'm Noble House Chen. I swear it!"

"Good. Then I wrote you a letter saying I'd call about 6:00 P.M. today. Didn't you get the letter?"

"Yes, yes I got the letter," Phillip Chen said, trying to control a relief that was mixed with rage and frustration and terror. "Let me talk to my Number One Son, please."

"That's not possible, no, not possible! Can a frog think of eating a swan? Your son's in another part of the Island . . . actually he's in the New Territories, not near a telephone but quite safe, Noble House Chen, oh yes, quite safe. He lacks for nothing. Do you have the ransom money?"

"Yes … at least I could only raise 100,000. Th—"

"All gods bear witness to my fornicating patience!" the man said angrily. "You know very well we asked for 500,000! 5 or 10 it's still like one hair on ten oxen to you!"

"Lies!" Phillip Chen shrieked. "That's all lies and rumors spread by my enemies! I'm not that rich. . . . Didn't you hear about the stock market today?" Phillip Chen groped for a chair, his heart pounding, and sat down still holding the phone so she could listen too.

"Ayeeyah, stock market! We poor farmers don't deal on the stock market! Do you want his other ear?"

Phillip Chen blanched. "No. But we must negotiate. Five is too much. One and a half I can manage."

"If I settle for one and a half I will be the laughingstock of all China! Are you accusing me of displaying a lamb's head but selling dogmeat? One and a half for the Number One Son of Noble House Chen? Impossible! It's face! Surely you can see that."

Phillip Chen hesitated. "Well," he said reasonably, "you have a point. First I want to know when I get my son back."

"As soon as the ransom's paid! I promise on the bones of my ancestors! Within a few hours of getting the money he'll be put on the main Sha Tin Road."

"Ah, he's in Sha Tin now?"

"Ayeeyah, you can't trap me, Noble House Chen. I smell dung in this conversation. Are the fornicating police listening? Is the dog acting fierce because his master's listening? Have you called the police?"

"No, I swear it. I haven't called the police and I'm not trying to trap you, but please, I need assurances, reasonable assurances." Phillip Chen was beaded with sweat. "You're quite safe, you have my oath, I haven't called the police. Why should I? If I call them how can we negotiate?"

There was another long hesitation, then the man said, somewhat mollified, "I agree. But we'have your son so any trouble that happens is your fault and not ours. All right, I'll be reasonable too. I will accept 400,000, but it must be tonight!"

"That's impossible! You ask me to fish in the sea to catch a tiger!

I didn't get your letter till after the banks were closed but I've got 100,000 cash, in small bills. . . ." Dianne nudged him and held up two fingers. "Listen, Honorable Werewolf, perhaps I can borrow more tonight. Perhaps . . . listen, I will give you two tonight. I'm sure I can raise that within the hour. 200,000!"

"May all gods smite me dead if I sell out for such a fornicating pittance. 350,000!"

"200,000 within the hour!"

"His other ear within two days or 300,000 tonight!"

Phillip Chen wailed and pleaded and flattered and cursed and they negotiated back and forth. Both men were adept. Soon both were caught up in the battle of wits, each using all his powers, the kidnapper using threats, Phillip Chen using guile, flattery and promises. At length, Phillip Chen said, "You are too good for me, too good a negotiator. I will pay 200,000 tonight and a further 100,000 within four months."

"Within one month!"

"Three!" Phillip Chen was aghast at the flow of obscenities that followed and he wondered if he had misjudged his adversary.

"Two!"

Dianne nudged him again, nodding agreement. "Very well," he said, "I agree. Another 100,000 in two months."

"Good!" The man sounded satisfied, then he added, "I will consider what you say and call you back."

"But wait a moment, Honorable Werewolf. When wil—"

"Within the hour."

"Bu—" The line went dead. Phillip Chen cursed, then mopped his brow again. "I thought I had him. God curse the motherless dog turd!"

"Yes." Dianne was elated. "You did very well, Phillip! Only two now and another hundred in two months! Perfect! Anything can happen in two months. Perhaps the dirty police will catch them and then we won't have to pay the hundred!" Happily she took out a tissue and blotted the perspiration off her upper lip. Then her smile faded. "What about Shitee T'Chung? We've got to go but you'll have to wait."

"Ah, I have it! Take Kevin, I'll come later. There'll be plenty of space for me whenever I get there. I'll . . . I'll wait for him to call back."

"Excellent! How clever you are! We've got to get our coin back.

Oh very good! Perhaps our joss has changed and the boom will happen like Old Blind Tung forecast. Kevin's so concerned for you, Phillip. The poor boy's so upset that you have all these troubles. He's very concerned for your health." She hurried out, thanking the gods, knowing she would be back long before John Chen returned safely. Perfect, she was thinking, Kevin can wear his new white sharkskin dinner jacket. It's time he began to live up to his new position. "Kevinnnnn!"

The door closed. Phillip Chen sighed. When he had gathered his strength, he went to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. After Dianne and Kevin had left, he poured himself another. At a quarter to nine the phone rang again.

"Noble House Chen?"

"Yes . . . yes, Honorable Werewolf?"

"We accept. But it has to be tonight!"

Phillip Chen sighed. "Very well. Now wh—"

"You can get all the money?"

"Yes."

"The notes will be hundreds as I asked?"

"Yes. I have 100,000 and can get another hundred from a friend …"

"You have rich friends," the man said suspiciously. "Mandarins."

"He's a bookmaker," Phillip Chen said quickly, cursing himself for his slip. "When you hung up I … I made the arrangements. Fortunately this happened to be one of his big nights."

"All right. Listen, take a taxi—"

"Oh but I have a car an—"

"I know you have a fornicating car and I know the license number," the man said rudely, "and we know all about you and if you try to betray us to the police you will never see your son again and you will be next on our list! Understand?"

"Yes … yes, of course, Honorable Werewolf," Phillip Chen said placatingly. "I'm to take a taxi—where to?"

"The triangle garden at Kowloon Tong. There's a road called Essex Road. There's a wall fence there and a hole in the wall. An arrow drawn on the pavement of the road has its arrowhead pointing at the hole. You put your hand in this hole and you'll get a letter. You read it then our street fighters will approach you and say 'Tin koon chifook' and you hand the bag over."

"Oh! Isn't it possible I can hand it to the wrong man?"

"You won't. You understand the password and everything?"

"Yes . . . yes."

"How long will it take you to get there?"

"I can come at once. I'll … I can get the other money on the way, I can come at once."

"Then come immediately. Come alone, you cannot come with anyone else. You will be watched the moment you leave the door."

Phillip Chen mopped his brow. "And my son? When do I ge-—"

"Obey instructions! Beware and come alone."

Again the phone went dead. His fingers were shaking as he picked up the glass and drained the brandy. He felt the warm afterglow but it took away none of his apprehension. When he had collected himself, he dialed a very private number. "I want to speak to Four Finger Wu," he said in Wu's dialect.

"One moment please." There were some muffled Haklo voices, and then, "Is this Mr. Chen, Mr. Phillip Chen?" the voice asked in American English.

"Oh!" he said, startled, then added cautiously, "Who's this?"

"This's Paul Choy, Mr. Chen. Mr. Wu's nephew. My uncle had to go out but he left instructions for me to wait until you called. He's made some arrangements for you. This is Mr. Chen?"

"Yes, yes, it is."

"Ah, great. Have you heard from the kidnappers?"

"Yes, yes I have." Phillip Chen was uneasy talking to a stranger but now he had no option. He told Paul Choy the instructions he had been given.

"Just a moment, sir."

He heard a hand being put over the phone and again muffled, indistinct talking in Haklo dialect for a moment. "Everything's set, sir. We'll send a cab to your house — you're phoning from Struan's Lookout?"

"Yes — yes, I'm home."

"The driver'll be one of our guys. There'll be more of my uncle's, er, people scattered over Kowloon Tong so not to worry, you'll be covered every foot of the way. Just hand over the money and, er, and they'll take care of everything. My uncle's chief lieut — er, his aide, says not to worry, they'll have the whole area swarming … Mr. Chen?"

"Yes, I'm still here. Thank you."

"The cab'll be there in twenty minutes."

Paul Choy put down the phone. "Noble House Chen says thank you, Honorable Father," he told Four Finger Wu placatingly in their dialect, quaking under the stony eyes. Sweat was beading his face. He tried unsuccessfully to hide his fear of the others. It was hot and stuffy in the crowded main cabin of this ancient junk that was tied up in a permanent berth to an equally ancient dock in one of Aberdeen's multitude of estuaries. "Can I go with your fighters, too?"

"Do you send a rabbit against a dragon?" Four Finger Wu snarled. "Are you trained as a street fighter? Am I a fool like you? Treacherous like you?" He jerked a horny thumb at Goodweather Poon. "Lead the fighters!" The man hurried out. The others followed.

Now the two of them were alone in the cabin.

The old man was sitting on an upturned keg. He lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply, coughed and spat loudly on the deck floor. Paul Choy watched him, the sweat running down his back, more from fear than from the heat. Around them were some old desks, filing cabinets, rickety chairs and two phones, and this was Four Fingers's office and communications center. It was mostly from here that he sent messages to his fleets. Much of his business was regular freighting but wherever the Silver Lotus flag flew, his order to his captains was: Anything, shipped anywhere, at any time—at the right price.

The tough old man coughed again and glared at him under shaggy eyebrows. "They teach you curious ways in the Golden Mountain, heya?"

Paul Choy held his tongue and waited, his heart thumping, and wished he had never come back to Hong Kong, that he was still Stateside, or even better in Honolulu surfing in the Great Waves or lying on the beach with his girl friend. His spirit twisted at the thought of her.

"They teach you to bite the hand that feeds you, heya?"

"No, Honored Father, sorr—"

"They teach that my money is yours, my wealth yours and my chop yours to use as you wish, heya?"

"No, Honored Lord. I'm sorry to displease you," Paul Choy muttered, wilting under the weight of his fear.

This morning, early, when Gornt had jauntily come into the office from the meeting with Bartlett, it was still before the secretaries were due so Paul Choy had asked if he could help him. Gornt had told him to get several people on the phone. Others he had dialed himself on his private line. Paul Choy had thought nothing of it at the time until he happened to overhear part of what was, obviously, inside information about Struan's being whispered confidentially over the phone. Remembering the Bartlett call earlier, deducing that Gornt and Bartlett had had a meeting—a successful one judging by Gornt's good humor—and realizing Gornt was relating the same confidences over and over, his curiosity peaked. Later, he happened to hear Gornt saying to his solicitor, ". . . selling short … No, don't worry, nothing's going to happen till I'm covered, not till about eleven…. Certainly. I'll send the order, chopped, as soon as . . ."

The next call he was asked to make was long distance to the manager of the Bank of Switzerland and Zurich that, discreetly, he listened to. ". . . I'm expecting a large draft of U.S. dollars this morning, before eleven. Phone me the instant, the very instant it's in my account . . ."

So, bemused, he had put the various pieces of the equation together and come up with a theory: If Bartlett has arranged a sudden secret partnership with Gornt, Struan's known enemy, to launch one of his raids, if Bartlett also takes part of the risk, or most of it —by secretly putting large sums in one of Gornt's numbered Swiss accounts to cover any sell-short losses—and lastly, if he's talked Gornt into being the front guy while he sits on the fence, the stuff is going to hit the fan in the exchange and Struan's stock has got to go down.

This precipitated an immediate business decision: Jump in quickly and sell Struan's short before the big guys and we'll make a bundle.

He remembered how he had almost groaned aloud because he had no money, no credit, no shares and no means to borrow any. Then he recalled what one of his instructors at Harvard Business School had kept drumming into them: A faint heart never laid a lovely lady. So he'd gone into a private office and phoned his newfound friend, Ishwar Soorjani, the moneylender and dealer in foreign exchange whom he had met through the old Eurasian at the library. "Say, Ishwar, your brother's head of Soorjani Stockbrokers, isn't he?"

"No, Young Master. Arjan is my very first cousin. Why?"

"If I wanted to sell a stock short would you back me?"

"Certainly, as I told you before, buying or selling I support you to the holster, if you have reasonable cash to cover any losses … or the equivalent. No cash or equivalent so sorry."

"Say I had some red-hot information?"

"The road to hell and debtor's prison is flooded to drowning with red-hot information, Young Master. I advise against red-hot informations."

"Boy," Paul Choy said unhappily, "I could make us a few 100,-000 before three."

"Oh? Would you care to whisper the illustrious name of the stock?"

"Would you back me for … for 20,000 U.S.?"

"Ah, so sorry, Young Master, I'm a moneylender not a money giver. My ancestors forbid it!"

"20,000 HK?"

"Not even 10 dollars in your Rebel Dixie redbacks."

"Gee, Ishwar, you're not much help."

"Why not ask your illustrious uncle? His chop . . . and I would instantly go to half a million. HK."

Paul Choy knew that among his father's cash and assets transferred from the Ho-Pak to the Victoria had been many stock certificates and a list of securities held by various stockbrokers. One was for 150,000 Struan shares. Jesus, he thought, if I'm right the old man might get dumped. If Gornt presses the raid the old man could get caught.

"Good idea, Ishwar. I'll call you back!" At once he had phoned his father but he could not reach him. He left messages wherever he could and began to wait. His anxiety grew. Just before ten he heard Gornt's secretary answer the phone. "Yes? . . . Oh, one moment please. . . . Mr. Gornt? A person-to-person call from Zurich. . . . You're through."

Once more he had tried to reach his father, wanting to give him the urgent news. Then Gornt had sent for him. "Mr. Choy, would you please run this over to my solicitor at once." He handed over a sealed envelope. "Give it to him personally."

"Yes sir."

So he had left the office. At every phone he had stopped and tried to reach his father. Then he had delivered the note, personally, watching the solicitor's face carefully. He saw glee. "Is there a reply, sir?" he asked politely.

"Just say everything will be done as ordered." It was a few minutes past ten.

Outside the office door and going down in the elevator Paul Choy had weighed the pluses and the minuses. His stomach twisting uneasily, he stopped at the nearest phone. "Ishwar? Say, I've an urgent order from my uncle. He wants to sell his Struan stock. 150,000 shares."

"Ah, wise wise, there are terrible rumors speeding around."

"I suggested you and Soorjani's should do it for him. 150,000 shares. He asks can you do it instantly? Can you do that?"

"Like a bird on the wing. For the Esteemed Four Fingers we will go forth like Rothschilds! Where are the shares?"

"In the vault."

"I will need his chop at once."

"I'm going to get it now but he said to sell at once. He said to sell in small blocks so as not to shock the market. He wants the very best price. You'll sell at once?"

"Yes, never fear, at once. And we will get the best price!"

"Good. And most important, he said to keep this secret."

"Verily, Young Master, you may trust us implicitly. And the stock that you yourself wished to sell short?"

"Oh that… well that'll have to wait. . . until I've credit heya?"

"Wise very wise."

Paul Choy shivered. His heart was pounding now in the silence and he watched his father's cigarette, not the angry face, knowing those cold black eyes were boring into him, deciding his fate. He remembered how he had almost shouted with excitement when the stock had begun to fall almost immediately, monitoring it moment by moment, then ordering Soorjani to buy back in just before close and feeling light-headed and in euphoria. At once he had phoned his girl, spending nearly 30 of his valuable U.S. dollars telling her how fantastic his day had been and how much he missed her. She said how much she missed him too and when was he coming back to Honolulu? Her name was Mika Kasunari and she was sansei, third-generation American of Japanese descent. Her parents hated him because he was Chinese, as he knew his father would hate her because she was Japanese except they were both American, both of them, and they had met and fallen in love at school.

"Very soon, honey," he had promised her ecstatically, "guaranteed by Christmas! After today my uncle'll surely give me a bonus. . . ."

The work that Gornt gave him for the rest of the day he breezed through. Late in the afternoon Goodweather Poon had phoned to say his father would see him in Aberdeen at 7:30 P.M. Before he went there he had collected Soorjani's check made out to his father. 615,000 HK less brokerage.

Elated, he had come to Aberdeen and given him the check, and when he told him what he had done he was aghast at the extent of his father's rage. The tirade had been interrupted by Phillip Chen's phone call.

"I'm deeply sorry I've offended you, Hon—"

"So my chop is yours, my wealth is yours heya?" Four Finger Wu shouted suddenly.

"No, Honored Father," he gasped, "but the information was so good and I wanted to protect your stock as well as make money for you."

"But not for you heya?"

"No, Honored Father. It was for you. To make you money, and help repay all the money you invested in me … they were your shares and it's your money. I tried to ca—"

"That's no fornicating excuse! You come with me!"

Shakily Paul Choy got up and followed the old man onto the deck. Four Finger Wu cursed his bodyguard away and pointed a stubby finger at the befouled muddy waters in the harbor. "If you weren't my son," he hissed, "if you weren't my son you'd be feeding the fish there, your feet in a chain, this-very moment."

"Yes, Father."

"If you ever again use my name, my chop, my anything without my approval you're a dead man."

"Yes, Father," Paul Choy muttered, petrified, realizing that his father had the means, the will and the authority to put that threat into effect without fear of retaliation. "Sorry, Father. I swear I'll never do that again."

"Good. If you'd lost one bronze cash you'd be there now. It's only because you fornicating won that you're alive now."

"Yes, Father."

Four Finger Wu glared at his son and continued to hide his delight at the huge windfall. 615,000 HK less a few dollars. Unbelievable! All with a few phone calls and inside knowledge, he was thinking. That's as miraculous as having ten tons of opium leap ashore over the heads of the Customs boat! The boy's paid for his education twenty times over and he's here hardly three weeks. How clever . . . but also how dangerous!

He shivered at the thought of other minions making decisions themselves. Dew neh loh moh then I would be in their power and surely in jail for their mistakes and not my own. And yet, he told himself helplessly, this is the way barbarians act in business. Number Seven Son is trained as a barbarian. All gods bear witness, I did not wish to create a viper!

He looked at his son, not understanding him, hating his direct way of speaking, the barbarian way and not in innuendo and obliquely like a civilized person.

And yet… and yet better than 600,000 HK in one day. If I had talked to him beforehand I would never have agreed and I would have lost all that profit! Ayeeyah! Yes, my stock would be down all that fortune in one day … oh oh oh!

He groped for a box and sat down, his heart thumping at that awful thought.

His eyes were watching his son. What to do about him? he asked himself. He could feel the weight of the check in his pocket. It seemed unbelievable that his son could make that amount of money for him in a few hours, without moving the stock from its hiding place.

"Explain to me why that black-faced foreign devil with the foul name owes me so much money!"

Paul Choy explained the mechanics patiently, desperate to please.

The old man thought about that. "Then tomorrow I should do the same and make the same?"

"No, Honored Father. You take your gains and keep them. Today was almost a certainty. It was a sudden attack, a raid. We do not know how the Noble House will react tomorrow, or if Gornt really intends to continue the raid. He can buy back in and be way ahead too. It would be dangerous to follow Gornt tomorrow, very dangerous."

Four Finger Wu threw his cigarette away. "Then what should I do tomorrow?"

"Wait. The foreign devil market's nervous and in the hands of foreign devils. I counsel you to wait and see what happens with the Ho-Pak and the Victoria. May I use your name to ask the foreign devil Gomt about the Ho-Pak?"

"What?"

Patiently Paul Choy refreshed his father's memory about the bank run and possible stock manipulation.

"Ah, yes, I understand," the old man said loftily. Paul Choy said nothing, knowing he did not. "Then we … then I just wait?"

"Yes, Honored Father."

Four Fingers pulled out the check distastefully. "And this fornicating piece of paper? What about this?"

"Convert it into gold, Honored Father. The price hardly varies at all. I could talk to Ishwar Soorjani, if you wish. He deals in foreign exchange."

"And where would I keep the gold?" It was one thing to smuggle other people's gold but quite another to have to worry about your own.

Paul Choy explained that physical possession of the gold was not necessary to own it.

"But I don't trust banks," the old man said angrily. "If it's my gold it's my gold and not a bank's!"

"Yes, Father. But this would be a Swiss bank, not in Hong Kong, and completely safe."

"You guarantee it with your life?"

"Yes, Father."

"Good." The old man took out a pen and signed his name on the back with instructions to Soorjani to convert it at once into gold. He gave it to his son. "On your head, my son. And we wait tomorrow? We don't make money tomorrow?"

"There might be an opportunity for further profit but I could not guarantee it. I might know around noon."

"Call me here at noon."

"Yes, Father. Of course if we had our own exchange we could manipulate a hundred stocks . . ." Paul Choy let the idea hang in the air.

"What?"

Carefully the young man began to explain how easy it would be for them to form their own exchange, a Chinese-dominated exchange, and the limitless opportunities for profit their own exchange would give. He talked for an hour, gaining confidence with the minutes, explaining as simply as he could.

"If it's so easy, my son, why hasn't Tightfist Tung done it—or Big Noise Sung—or Moneybags Ng—or that half-barbarian gold-smuggler from Macao—or Banker Kwang or dozens of others, heya?"

"Perhaps they've never had the idea, or courage. Perhaps they want to work within the foreign devil system—the Turf Club, Cricket Club, knighthoods, and all that English foolishness. Perhaps they are afraid to go against the tide or they haven't got the knowledge. We have the knowledge and expertise. Yes. And I've a friend in the Golden Mountain, a good friend, who was at school with me who co—"

"What friend?"

"He's Shanghainese and a dragon in stocks, a broker in New York now. Together, with the cash support, we could do it. I know we could."

"Ayeeyah! With a northern barbarian?" Four Finger Wu scoffed. "How could you trust him?"

"I think you could trust him, Honored Father—of course you'd set boundaries against weeds like a good market gardener does."

"But all business power in Hong Kong is in the hands of foreign devils. Civilized persons couldn't support an opposition exchange."

"You may be right, Honored Father," Paul Choy agreed cautiously, keeping his excitement off his face and out of his voice. "But all Chinese love to gamble. Yet at the moment there's not one civilized person stockbroker! Why do foreign devils keep us out? Because we'd outplay them. For us the stock market's the greatest profession in the world. Once our people in Hong Kong see our market is wide open to civilized persons and their companies, they'll flock to us. Foreign devils will be forced to open up their own exchange to us as well. We're better gamblers than they are. After all, Honorable Father"—he waved his hand at the shore, at the tall high rises and the boats and junks and floating restaurants—"this could be all yours! It's in stocks and shares and the stock market that the modern man owns the might of his world."

Four Fingers smoked leisurely. "How much would your stock market cost, Number Seven Son?"

"A year of time. An initial investment of … I don't know exactly." The young man's heart was grinding. He could sense his father's avarice. The implications of forming a Chinese stock exchange in this unregulated capitalistic society were so far-reaching to him that he felt faint. It would be so easy given time and … and how much? "I could give you an estimate within a week."

Four Fingers turned his shrewd old eyes on his son and he could read his son's excitement, and his greed. Is it for money, or for power? he asked himself.

It's for both, he decided. The young fool doesn't know that they're both the same. He thought about Phillip Chen's power and the power of the Noble House and the power of the half-coin that John Chen had stolen. Phillip Chen and his wife are fools too, he told himself. They should remember that there are always ears on the other side of walls and once a jealous mother knows a secret it is a secret no longer. Nor can secrets be kept in hotels, among foreign devils, who always presume servants cannot speak the barbarian tongue, nor have long ears and sharp eyes.

Ah sons, he mused. Sons are certainly the wealth of a father— but sometimes also cause the death of the father.

A man's a fool to trust a son. Completely. Heya?

"Very well, my son," he said easily. "Give me your plan, written down, and the amount. And I will decide."

Phillip Chen got out of the taxi at the grass triangle in Kowloon Tong, the attache case clutched to his chest. The driver turned the meter off and looked at him. The meter read 17.80 HK. If it had been left up to Phillip he would not have taken the same taxi all the way from Struan's Lookout, which meant using the taxi ferry, the meter running all the time. No. He would have crossed the harbor by the Golden Ferry for 15 cents, and got another taxi in Kowloon and saved at least 8 dollars. Terrible waste of money, he thought.

Carefully he counted out 18 dollars. As an afterthought he added a thirty-cent tip, feeling generous. The man drove off and left him standing near the grassy triangle.

Kowloon Tong was just another suburb of Kowloon, a multitudinous nest of buildings, slums, alleys, people and traffic. He found Essex Road, that skirted the garden, and walked around the road. The attache case seemed to be getting heavier and he felt sure everyone knew it contained 200,000 HK. His nervousness increased. In an area like this you could buy the death of a man for a few hundred if you knew whom to ask—and for this amount, you could hire an army. His eyes were on the broken pavement. When he had gone almost all the way around the triangle he saw the arrow on the pavement pointing at the wall. His heart was weighty in his chest, hurting him. It was quite dark here, with few streetlights. The hole was formed by some bricks that had fallen away. He could see what looked like a crumpled-up newspaper within the hole. He hastily took it out, made sure there was nothing else left, then went over to a seat under a lamp and sat down. When his heart had slowed and his breathing become more calm he opened the newspaper. In it was an envelope. The envelope was flat and some of his anxiety left him. He had been petrified that he was going to get the other ear.

The note said: "Walk to Waterloo Road. Go north toward the army camp, staying on the west side of the road. Beware, we are watching you now."

A shiver went through him and he looked around. No one seemed to be watching him. Neither friend nor foe. But he could feel eyes. His attache case became even more leaden.

All gods protect me, he prayed fervently, trying to gather his courage to continue. Where the the devil are Four Finger Wu's men?

Waterloo Road was nearby, a busy main thoroughfare. He paid the crowds no attention, just plodded north feeling naked, seeing no one in particular. The shops were all open, restaurants bustling, the alleyways more crowded. In the nearby embankment a goods train whistled mournfully, going north, mixing with the blaring horns that all traffic used indiscriminately. The night was bleak, the sky overcast and very humid.

Wearily he walked half a mile, crossing side streets and alleys. In a knot of people he stopped to let a truck pass, then went across the mouth of another narrow alleyway, moving this way and that as oncomers jostled him. Suddenly two young men were in front of him, barring his path, and one hissed, "Tin koon chifook!" "Eh?"

Both wore caps pulled down low, both wore dark glasses, their faces similar. "Tin koon chifook/" Smallpox Kin repeated malevolently. "Dew neh loh moh give me the bag!"

"Oh!" Blankly Phillip Chen handed it to him. Smallpox Kin grabbed it. "Don't look around, and keep on walking north!" "All right, but please keep your prom—" Phillip Chen stopped.

The two youths were gone. It seemed that they had only been in front of him a split second. Still in shock he forced his feet into motion, trying to etch the little he had seen of their faces on his memory. Then an oncoming woman shoved him rudely and he swore, their faces fading. Then someone grabbed him roughly.

"Where's the fornicating bag?"

"What?" he gasped, staring down at the evil-looking thug who was Goodweather Poon.

"Your bag—where's it gone?"

"Two young men …" Helplessly he pointed backward. The man cursed and hurried past, weaving in and out of the crowd, put his fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly. Few people paid any attention to him. Other toughs began to converge, then Goodweather Poon caught sight of the two youths with the attache case as they turned off the well-lit main road into an alley. He broke into a run, others following him.

Smallpox Kin and his younger brother went into the crowds without hurrying, the alley unlit except for the bare bulbs of the dingy stalls and stores. They grinned, one to another. Completely confident now, they took off their glasses and caps and stuffed them into their pockets. Both were very similar—almost twins—and now they melted even more into the raucous shoppers.

"Dew neh loh moh that old bastard looked frightened to death!" Smallpox Kin chortled. "In one step we have reached heaven!"

"Yes. And next week when we snatch him he'll pay up as easily as an old dog farts!"

They laughed and stopped a moment in the light of a stall and peeked into the bag. When they both saw the bundle of notes both sighed. "Ayeeyah, truly we've reached heaven with one step, Elder Brother. Pity the son is dead and buried."

Smallpox Kin shrugged as they went on, turning into a smaller alley, then another, surefooted in the darkening maze. "Honorable Father's right. We have turned ill luck into good. It wasn't your fault that bastard's head was soft! Not at all! When we dig him up and leave him on the Sha Tin Road with the note on his fornicating chest. . . ." He stopped a moment and they stepped aside in the bustling, jostling crowds to allow a laden, broken-down truck to squeeze past. As they waited he happened to glance back. At the far end of this alley he saw three men change direction, seeing him, then begin to hurry toward him.

"Dew neh loh moh we're betrayed," he gasped then shoved his way forward and took to his heels, his brother close behind.

The two youths were very fast. Terror lent cunning to their feet as they rushed through the cursing crowd, maneuvering around the inevitable potholes and small stalls, the darkness helping them. Smallpox Kin led the charge. He ducked between some stalls and fled down the narrow unlit passageway, the attache case clutched tightly. "Go home a different way, Young Brother," he gasped.

At the next corner he rushed left and his brother went directly on. Their three pursuers split up as well, two following him. It was almost impossible to see now in the darkness and the alleys twisted and turned and never a dead end. His chest was heaving but he was well ahead of his pursuers. He fled into a shortcut and at once turned into a bedraggled store that, like all the rest, served as a dwelling. Careless of the family huddled around a screeching television he rushed through them and out the back door, then doubled back to the end of the alley. He peered around the corner with great caution. A few people watched him curiously but continued on their way without stopping, wanting no part of what clearly was trouble.

Then, hoping he was safe, he slid into the crowds and walked away quietly, his head down. His breath was still labored and his head was filled with obscenities and he swore vengeance on Phillip Chen for betraying them. All gods bear witness, he thought furiously, when we kidnap him next week, before we let him go I'll slice off his nose! How dare he betray us to the police! Hey, wait a moment, were those police?

He thought about that as he wandered along in the stream, cautiously doubling back from time to time, just in case. But now he was sure he was not followed. He let his mind consider the money and he beamed. Let's see, what will I do with my 50,000! I'll put 40 down on an apartment and rent it out at once. Ayeeyah, I'm a property owner! I'll buy a Rolex and a revolver and a new throwing knife. I'll give my wife a bracelet or two, and a couple to White Rose at the Thousand Pleasure Whorehouse. Tonight we'll have a feast.

Happily he continued on his way. At a street stall he bought a small cheap suitcase and, in an alley, secretly transferred the money into it. Farther down the street in another side alley he sold Phillip Chen's good leather attache case to a hawker for a handsome sum after haggling for five minutes. Now, very pleased with himself, he caught a bus for Kowloon City where his father had rented a small apartment in an assumed name as one of their havens, far away from their real home in Wanchai near Glessing's Point. He did not notice Goodweather Poon board the bus, nor the other two men, nor the taxi that followed the bus.

Kowloon City was a festering mess of slums and open drains and squalid dwellings. Smallpox Kin knew he was safe here. No police ever came, except in great strength. When China had leased the New Territories for ninety-nine years in 1898 it had maintained suzerainty over Kowloon City in perpetuity. In theory the ten square acres were Chinese territory. The British authorities left the area alone provided it remained quiet. It was a seething mass of opium dens, illegal gambling schools, triad headquarters, and a sanctuary for the criminal. From time to time the police would sweep through. The next day the Kowloon City would become as it had always been.

The stairs to the fifth-floor apartment in the tenement building were rickety and messy, the plaster cracked and mildewed. He was tired now. He knocked on the door, in their secret code. The door opened.

"Hello, Father, hello, Dog-eared Chen," he said happily. "Here's the cash!" Then he saw his younger brother. "Oh good, you escaped too?"

"Of course! Dung-eating police in civilian clothes! We ought to kill one or two for their impertinence." Kin Pak waved a .38. "We ought to have vengeance!"

"Perhaps you're right, now that we've got the first money," Father Kin said.

"I don't think we should kill any police, that would send them mad," Dog-eared Chen said shakily.

"Dew neh loh moh on all police!" young Kin Pak said and pocketed the gun.

Smallpox Kin shrugged. "We've got the cash th—"

At that moment the door burst open. Goodweather Poon and three of his men were in the room, knives out. Everyone froze. Abruptly Father Kin slid a knife out of his sleeve and ducked left but before he could throw it Goodweather Poon's knife was flailing through the air and it thwanged into his throat. He clawed at it as he fell backward. Neither Dog-eared Chen nor the brothers had moved. They watched him die. The body twitched, the muscles spasmed for a moment, then was still.

"Where's Number One Son Chen?" Goodweather Poon said, a second knife in his hand.

"We don't know any Num—"

Two of the men fell on Smallpox Kin, slammed his hands outstretched on the table and held them there. Goodweather Poon leaned forward and sliced off his index finger. Smallpox Kin went gray. The other two were paralyzed with fear.

"Where's Number One Son Chen?"

Smallpox Kin was staring blankly at his severed finger and the blood that was pulsing onto the table. He cried out as Goodweather Poon lunged again. "Don't don't," he begged, "he's dead . . . dead and we've buried him I swear it!"

"Where?"

"Near the Sha … the Sha Tin Road. Listen," he screeched desperately, "we'll split the money with you. We'll—" He froze as Goodweather Poon put the tip of his knife into his mouth.

"Just answer questions, you fornicating whore's turd, or I'll slit your tongue. Where's Number One Son's things? The things he had on him?"

"We, we sent everything to Noble House Chen, everything except the money he had. I swear it." He whimpered at the pain. Suddenly the two men put pressure on one of his elbows and he cried out, "All gods bear witness it's the truth!" He screamed as the joint went, and fainted. Across the room Dog-eared Chen groaned with fear. He started to cry out but one of the men smashed him in the face, his head crashed against the wall and he collapsed, unconscious.

Now all their eyes went to Kin Pak. "It's true," Kin Pak gasped in terror at the suddenness of everything. "Everything he told you. It's true!"

Goodweather Poon cursed him. Then he said, "Did you search Noble House Chen before you buried him?"

"Yes, Lord, at least I didn't, he . . ." Shakily he pointed at his father's body. "He did."

"You were there?"

The youth hesitated. Instantly Poon darted at him, moving with incredible speed for such an old man. His knife knicked Kin Pak's cheek a deliberate fraction below his eyes and stayed there. "Liar!"

"I was there," the youth choked out, "I was going to tell you, Lord, I was, there. I won't lie to you I swear it!"

"The next time you lie it will be your left eye. You were there, heya?"

"Yes . . . yes, Lord!"

"Was he there?" he said pointing at Smallpox Kin.

"No, Lord."

"Him?"

"Yes. Dog-eared was there!"

"Did you search the body?"

"Yes, Lord, yes I helped our father."

"All his pockets, everything?"

"Yes yes everything."

"Any papers? Notebook, diary? Jewelry?"

The youth hesitated, frantic, trying to think, the knife never moving away from his face. "Nothing, Lord, that I remember. We sent all his things to Noble House Chen, except, except the money. We kept the money. And his watch—I'd forgotten his watch! It's, it's that one!" He pointed at the watch on his father's outstretched wrist.

Goodweather Poon swore again. Four Finger Wu had told him to recapture John Chen, to get any of his possessions the kidnappers still had, particularly any coins or parts of coins, and then, equally anonymously, to dispose of the kidnappers. I'd better phone him in a moment, he thought. I'd better get further instructions. I don't want to make a mistake.

"What did you do with the money?"

"We spent it, Lord. There were only a few hundred dollars and some change. It's gone."

One of the men said, "I think he's lying!"

"I'm not, Lord, I swear it!" Kin Pak almost burst into tears. "I'm not. PI—"

"Shut up! Shall I cut this one's throat?" the man said genially, motioning at Smallpox Kin who was still unconscious, sprawled across the table, the pool of blood thickening.

"No, no, not yet. Hold him there." Goodweather Poon scratched his piles while he thought a moment. "We'll go and dig up Number One Son Chen. Yes that's what we'll do. Now, Little Turd, who killed him?"

At once Kin Pak pointed at his father's body. "He did. It was terrible. He's our father and he hit him with a shovel… he hit him with a shovel when he tried to escape the night… the night we got him." The youth shuddered, his face chalky, his fear of the knife under his eye consuming him. "It, it wasn't my fault, Lord."

"What's your name?"

"Soo Tak-gai, Lord," he said instantly, using their prearranged emergency names.

"Him?" The finger pointed at his brother.

"Soo Tak-tong."

"Him?"

"Wu-tip Sup."

"And him?"

The youth looked at his father's body. "He was Goldtooth Soo, Lord. He was very bad but we … we, we had to obey. We had to obey him, he was our, our father."

"Where did you take Number One Son Chen before you killed him?"

"To Sha Tin, Lord, but I didn't kill him. We snatched him Hong Kong side then put him in the back of a car we stole and went to Sha Tin. There's an old shack our father rented, just outside the village … he planned everything. We had to obey him."

Poon grunted and nodded at his men. "We'll search here first." At once they released Smallpox Kin, the unconscious youth who slumped to the floor, leaving a trail of blood. "You, bind up his finger!" Hastily Kin Pak grabbed an old dishcloth and, near vomiting, began to tie a rough tourniquet around the stump.

Poon sighed, not knowing what to do first. After a moment he opened the suitcase. All their eyes went to the mountain of notes. They all felt the greed. Poon shifted the knife into his other hand and closed the suitcase. He left it in the center of the table and started to search the dingy apartment. There was just a table, a few chairs and an old iron bedstead with a soiled mattress. Paper was peeling off the walls, the windows mostly boarded up and glassless. He turned the mattress over, then searched it but it concealed nothing. He went into the filthy, almost empty kitchen and switched on the light. Then into the foul-smelling toilet. Smallpox Kin whimpered, coming around.

In a drawer Ooodweather Poon found some papers, ink and writing brushes. "What's this for?" he asked, holding up one of the papers. On it was written in bold characters: "This Number One Son Chen had the stupidity to try to escape us. No one can escape the Werewolves! Let all Hong Kong beware. Our eyes are everywhere!" "What's this for, heya?"

Kin Pak looked up from the floor, desperate to please. "We couldn't return him alive to Noble House Chen so our father ordered that… that tonight we were to dig Number One Son up and put that on his chest and put him beside the Sha Tin Road."

Goodweather Poon looked at him. "When you start to dig you'd better find him quickly, the first time," he said malevolently. "Yes. Or your eyes, Little Turd, won't be anywhere."

35

9:30 P.M. :

Orlanda Ramos came up the wide staircase of the vast Floating Dragon restaurant at Aberdeen and moved through the noisy, chattering guests at Sir Shi-teh T'Chung's banquet looking for Line Bartlett—and Casey.

The two hours that she had spent with Line this morning for the newspaper interview had been revealing, particularly about Casey. Her instincts had told her the sooner she brought the enemy to battle the better. It had been easy to have them both invited tonight —Shi-teh was an old associate of Gornt and an old friend. Gornt had been pleased with her idea.

They were on the top deck. There was a nice smell of the sea coming through the large windows, the night good though humid, overcast, and all around were the lights of the high rises and the township of Aberdeen. Out in the harbor, nearby, were the brooding islands of junks, partially lit, where 150,000 boat people lived their lives.

The room they were in, scarlet and gold and green, stretched half the length and the whole breadth of the boat, off the central staircase. Ornate wood and plaster gargoyles and unicorns and dragons were everywhere throughout the three soaring decks of the restaurant ablaze with lights and packed with diners. Below decks, the cramped kitchens held twenty-eight cooks, an army of helpers, a dozen huge cauldrons—steam, sweat and smoke. Eighty-two waiters serviced the Floating Dragon. There were seats for four hundred on each of the first two decks and two hundred on the third. Sir Shi-teh had taken over the whole top deck and now it was well filled with his guests, standing in impatient groups amid the round tables that seated twelve.

Orlanda felt fine tonight and very confident. She had again dressed meticulously for Bartlett. This morning when she had had the interview with him she had worn casual American clothes and little makeup, and the loose, silk blouse that she had selected so carefully did not flaunt her bralessness, merely suggested it. This daring new fashion pleased her greatly, making her even more aware of her femininity. Tonight she wore delicate white silk. She knew her figure was perfect, that she was envied for her open, unconscious sensuality.

That's what Quillan did for me, she thought, her lovely head high and the curious half-smile lighting her face—one of the many things. He made me understand sensuality.

Havergill and his wife were in front of her and she saw their eyes on her breasts. She laughed to herself, well aware that, even discreetly, she would be the only woman in the room who had dared to be so modern, to emulate the fashion that had begun the year before in Swinging London.

"Evening, Mr. Havergill, Mrs. Havergill," she said politely, moving around them in the crush. She knew him well. Many times he had been invited onto Gornt's yacht. Sometimes Gornt's yacht would steam out from the Yacht Club, Hong Kong side, with just her and Quillan and his men friends aboard and go over to Kow-loon, to the sea-washed steps beside the Golden Ferry where the girls would be waiting, dressed in sun clothes or boating clothes.

In her early days with Quillan she too had had to wait Kowloon side, honoring the golden rule in the Colony that discretion was all important and when you live Hong Kong side you play Kowloon side, live Kowloon side, play Hong Kong side.

In the days when Quillan's wife was bedridden and Orlanda was openly, though still most discreetly, Quillan's mistress, Quillan would take her with him to Japan and Singapore and Taiwan but never Bangkok. In those days Paul Havergill was Paul or more likely, Horny—Horny Hav-a-girl, as he was known to most of his intimates. But even then, whenever she would meet him in public, like tonight, it would always be Mr. Havergill. He's not a bad man, she told herself, remembering that though most of his girls never liked him, they fawned on him for he was reasonably generous and could always arrange a sudden loan at low interest for a friend through one of his banking associates, but never at the Vic.

Wise, she thought, amused, and a matter of face. Ah, but I could write such a book about them all if I wanted to. I never will—I don't think I ever will. Why should I, there's no reason. Even after Macao I've always kept the secrets. That's another thing Quillan taught me —discretion.

Macao. What a waste! I can hardly remember what that young man looked like now, only that he was awful at the pillow and, because of him, my life was destroyed. The fool was only a sudden, passing fancy, the very first. It was only loneliness because Quillan was away a month and everyone away, and it was lust for youth— just the youth-filled body that had attracted me and proved to be so useless. Fool! What a fool I was!

Her heart began fluttering at the thought of all those nightmares: being caught, being sent to England, having to fight the youth off, desperate to please Quillan, then coming back and Quillan so cool and never pillowing with him again. And then the greater nightmare of adjusting to a life without him.

Terrifying days. That awful unquenchable desire. Being alone. Being excluded. All the tears and the misery then trying to begin again but cautiously, always hoping he would relent if I was patient. Never anyone in Hong Kong, always alone in Hong Kong, but when the urge was too much, going away and trying but never satisfied. Oh Quillan, what a lover you were!

Not long ago his wife had died and then, when the time was right, Orlanda had gone to see him. To seduce him back to her. That night she had thought that she had succeeded but he had only been toying with her. "Put your clothes on, Orlanda. I was just curious about your body, I wanted to see if it was still as exquisite as it was in my day. I'm delighted to tell you it is—you're still perfection. But, so sorry, I don't desire you." And all her frantic weepings and pleadings made no difference. He just listened and smoked a cigarette then stubbed it out. "Orlanda, please don't ever come here again uninvited," he had said so quietly. "You chose Macao."

And he was right, I did, I took his face away. Why does he still support me? she asked herself, her eyes wandering the guests, seeking Bartlett. Do you have to lose something before you find its true value? Is that what life is?

"Orlanda!"

She stopped, startled, as someone stepped in her way. Her eyes focused. It was Richard Hamilton Pugmire. He was slightly shorter than she was. "May I introduce Charles Biltzmann from America," he was saying with a leer, his nearness making her skin crawl. "Charles's going to be, the, er, the new tai-pan of General Stores. Chuck, this's Orlanda Ramos!"

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am!"

"How are you?" she said politely, instantly disliking him. "I'm sorry—"

"Call me Chuck. It's Orlanda? Say, that's a mighty pretty name, mighty pretty dress!" Biltzmann produced his visiting card with a flourish. "Old Chinese custom!"

She accepted it but did not reciprocate. "Thank you. Sorry, Mr. Biltzmann, would you excuse me? I have to join my friends an—" Before she could prevent it, Pugmire took her arm, led her aside a pace and whispered throatily, "How about dinner? You look fantas

She jerked her arm away trying not to be obvious. "Go away, Pug."

"Listen, Orlan—"

"I've told you politely fifty times to leave me alone! Now dew neh loh moh on you and all your line!" she said and Pugmire flushed. She had always detested him, even in the old days. He was always looking at her behind Quillan's back, leching, and when she had been discarded, Pugmire had pestered her and tried every way to get her into bed—still did. "If you ever call or talk to me again I'll tell all Hong Kong about you and your peculiar habits." She nodded politely to Biltzmann, let his card drop unnoticed and walked off. After a moment, Pugmire went back to the American.

"What a body!" Biltzmann said, his eyes still following her.

"She's—she's one of our well-known whores," Pugmire said with a sneer. "I wish to Christ they'd hurry up with the food. I'm starving."

"She's a tramp?" Biltzmann gaped at him.

"You can never tell here." Pugmire added, keeping his voice down, "I'm surprised Shitee T'Chung invited her. Still, I don't suppose he gives a shit now that his knighthood's dubbed and paid for. Years ago, Orlanda used to be a girlfriend of a friend but she was up to her old tricks of selling it on the side. He caught her at it and gave her the Big E."

"The Big E?"

"The Elbow—the shove."

Biltzmann could not take his eyes off her. "Jesus," he muttered,

"I don't know about the Big E but I'd sure as hell like to give her the Big One."

"That's just a matter of money but I can assure you, old chap, she's not worth it. Orlanda's dreadful in the sack, I know, and nowadays you can never tell who's been there before, eh?" Pugmire laughed at the American's expression. "Never fancied her myself after the first time, but if you dip your wick there you'd better use precautions."

Dunross had just arrived and he was listening with half an ear to Richard Kwang who was talking grandly about the deals he had made to stave off the run, and how foul certain people were to spread such rumors.

"I quite agree, Richard," Dunross said, wanting to join the visiting MPs, who were at the far end of the room. "There really are a lot of bastards around. If you'll excuse me …"

"Of course, tai-pan." Richard Kwang dropped his voice but could not prevent some of his anxiety showing. "I might need a hand."

"Anything, of course, except money."

"You could talk to Johnjohn at the Vic for me. He'd—"

"He won't, you know that, Richard. Your only chance is one of your Chinese friends. What about Smiler Ching?"

"Huh, that old crook—wouldn't ask him for any of his dirty money!" Richard Kwang said with a sneer. Smiler Ching had reneged on their deal and had refused to lend him money—or credit. "That old crook deserves prison! There's a run on him too, but that's what he deserves! I think it's all started by the Communists, they're trying to ruin us all. The Bank of China! Did you hear about the queues at the Vic in Central? There're more at Blacs. Old Big Belly Tok's Bank of East Asia and Japan's gone under. They won't open their doors tomorrow."

"Christ, are you sure?"

"He called me tonight asking for 20 million. Dew neh loh moh, tai-pan, unless we all get help Hong Kong's going under. We've . .." Then he saw Venus Poon in the doorway on the arm of Four Finger Wu and his heart skipped eight beats. This evening she had been furious when he did not arrive with the mink coat that he had promised her. She had wept and shouted and her amah had wailed and they would not accept his excuse that his furrier had let him down and they both had gone on and on until he promised without fail that before the races he would bring her the gift that he had promised.

"Are you taking me to Shi-ten's?"

"My wife changed her mind and now she's going, so I can't, but afterwards we'll go—"

"Afterwards I'll be tired! First no present and now I can't go to the party! Where's the aquamarine pendant you promised me last month? Where did my mink go? On your wife's back I'll bet! Ayeeyah, my hairdresser and her hairdresser are friends so I'll find out if it did. Oh woe woe woe you don't really love your Daughter anymore. I'll have to kill myself or accept Four Finger Wu's invitation."

"Wat?"

Richard Kwang remembered how he had almost had a hemorrhage then and there, and he had ranted and raved and screamed that her apartment cost him a fortune and her clothes cost thousands a week and she had ranted and raved and screamed back. "And what about the run on the bank? Are you solvent? What about my savings? Are they safe heya?"

"Ayeeyah you miserable whore, what savings? The savings I am going to put there for you? Huh! Of course they're safe, safe as the Bank of England!"

"Woe woe woe I'm penniless now. Your poor destitute Daughter! I'll have to sell myself or commit suicide. Yes, that's it! Poison … that's it! I think I'll take an overdose of… of aspirins. Ah Pool Bring me an overdose of aspirins!"

So he had begged and pleaded and eventually she had relented and allowed him to take away the aspirins and he had promised to rush back to the apartment the very moment the banquet was over and now his eyes were almost staring out of his head because there, at the doorway, was Venus Poon on the arm of Four Finger Wu, both resplendent, he puffed with pride, and she demure and innocent, wearing the dress he'd just paid for.

"What's up, Richard?" Dunross asked, concerned.

Richard Kwang tried to speak, couldn't, just tottered away toward his wife who tore her baleful eyes off Venus Poon and put them back on him.

"Hello, dear," he said, his backbone jelly.

"Hello, dear," Mai-ling Kwang replied sweetly. "Who's that whore?"

"Which one?"

"That one."

"Isn't that the . . . what's her name . . . the TV starlet?"

"Isn't her name Itch-in-her-drawers Poon, the VD starlet?"

He pretended to laugh with her but he wanted to tear all his hair out. The fact that his latest mistress had come with someone else would not be lost on all Hong Kong. Everyone would interpret it as an infallible sign that he was in absolute financial trouble and that she had, wisely, left the sinking junk for a safer haven. And coming with his uncle, Four Finger Wu, was even worse. That would confirm that all Wu's wealth had been removed from the Ho-Pak, and therefore most probably Lando Mata and the gold syndicate had done the same. All the civilized population that counted were sure that Wu was the syndicate's prime smuggler now that Smuggler Mo was dead. Woe woe woe! Troubles never come singly.

"Eh?" he asked wearily. "What did you say?"

"I said, is the tai-pan going to approach the Victoria for us?"

He switched into Cantonese as Europeans were nearby. "Regretfully that son of a whore's in trouble himself. No, he won't help us. We're in great trouble which is not our fault. The day has been terrible, except for one thing: we made a fine profit today. I sold all our Noble House stock."

"Excellent. At what price?"

"We made 2.70 a share. It's all in gold now in Zurich. I'm putting it all in our joint account," he added carefully, twisting the truth, all the while trying to figure out a ploy to get his wife out of the room so he could go over to Four Finger Wu and Venus Poon to pretend to everyone that everything was fine.

"Good. Very good. That's better." Mai-ling was toying with her huge aquamarine pendant. Suddenly Richard Kwang's testicles chilled. This was the pendant he had promised Venus Poon. Oh woe woe woe . . .

"Are you feeling all right?" Mai-ling asked.

"I, er, I must have eaten some bad fish. I think I need to go to the bathroom."

"You'd better go now. I suppose we'll eat soon. Shitee's always so late!" She noticed him take a nervous sidelong look at Venus Poon and Uncle Wu and her eyes turned baleful again. "That whore's really quite fascinating. I'm going to watch her until you get back."

"Why don't we go together?" He took her arm and guided her down the stairs to the door that led to the bathrooms, greeting friends here and there, trying to exude confidence. The moment she was launched into the ladies' room he rushed back up, walked over to Zeppelin Tung who was near them. He chatted a moment, then pretended to see Four Fingers. "Oh hello, Honored Uncle," he said expansively. "Thank you for bringing her here. Hello, little oily mouth."

"What?" the old man said suspiciously. "I brought her for me not for you."

"Yes, and don't you oily mouth me," Venus Poon hissed and deliberately took the old man's arm and Richard Kwang almost spat blood. "I talked to my hairdresser tonight! My mink on her back! And isn't that my aquamarine pendant too, the one she's wearing right now! To think I almost committed suicide tonight because I thought I'd displeased my Honored Father … and all the time it was lies lies lies. Oh I almost want to commit suicide again."

"Eh, don't do that yet, Little Mealy Mouth," Four Finger Wu whispered anxiously, having already negotiated a deal in excess of Smiler Ching's offer. "Go away, Nephew, you're giving her indigestion. She won't be able to perform!"

Richard Kwang forced a glazed smile, muttered a few pleasantries and went off shakily. He headed for the staircase to wait for his wife, and someone said, "I see a certain filly's left the paddock for more manured grass!"

"What nonsense!" he replied at once. "Of course I asked the old fool to bring her since my wife is here. Why else would she be with him? Is that old fool hung like a bullock? Or even a bantam cock? No. Ayeeyah, not even Venus Poon with all the technique I taught her can get up what has no thread! It's good for his face to pretend otherwise, heya? Of course, and she wanted to see her Old Father and to be seen too!"

"Eeeee, that's clever, Banker Kwang!" the man said, and turned away and whispered it to another, who said caustically, "Huh, you'd swallow a bucket of shit if someone said it was stewed beef with black bean sauce! Don't you know old Four Fingers's Stalk's nurtured by the most expensive salves and ointments and ginseng that money can buy? Why only last month his Number Six Concubine gave birth to a son! Eeeee, don't worry about him. Before he's through tonight, Venus Poon's in for a drubbing that'll make her Golden Gulley cry out for mercy in eight dialects. …"

"Are you staying for dinner, tai-pan?" Brian Kwok asked, intercepting him. "When and if it arrives."

"Yes. Why?"

"Sorry I've got to go back to work. But there'll be someone else to chaperone you home."

"For God's sake, Brian, aren't you overreacting?" Dunross said as quietly.

Brian Kwok kept his voice down. "I don't think so. I've just phoned Crosse to see what happened about those two loiterers outside your house. The moment our fellows arrived they took to their heels."

"Perhaps they were just thugs who don't like police."

Brian Kwok shook his head. "Crosse asked again that you give us the AMG papers right now."

"Friday."

"He told me to tell you there's a Soviet spy ship in port. There's already been one killing—one of their agents, knifed."

Dunross was shocked. "What's that got to do with me?"

"You know that better than we do. You know what's in those reports. Must be quite serious or you wouldn't be so difficult—or careful—yourself. Crosse said . . . Never mind him! Ian, look, we're old friends. I'm really very worried." Brian Kwok switched to Cantonese. "Even the wise can fall into thorns—poisoned thorns."

"In two days the police Mandarin arrives. Two days is not long."

"True. But in two days the spy may hurt us very much. Why tempt the gods? It is my ask."

"No. Sorry."

Brian Kwok hardened. In English he said, "Our American friends have asked us to take you into protective custody."

"What nonsense!"

"Not such nonsense, Ian. It's very well known you've a photographic memory. The sooner you turn the papers over the better. Even afterwards you should be careful. Why not tell me where they are and we'll take care of everything?"

Dunross was equally set-faced. "Everything's taken care of now, Brian. Everything stays as planned."

The tall Chinese signed. Then he shrugged. "Very well. Sorry, but don't say you weren't warned. Are Gavallan and Jacques staying for dinner too?"

"No, I don't think so. I asked them just to put in an appearance. Why?"

"They could've gone home with you. Please don't go anywhere alone for a while, don't try to lose your guard. For the time being, if you have any, er, private dates call me."

"Me, a private date? Here in Hong Kong? Really, what a suggestion!"

"Does the name Jen mean anything?"

Dunross's eyes became stony. "You buggers can be too nosy."

"And you don't seem to realize you're in a very dirty game without Queensberry rules."

"I've got that message, by God."

"'Night, tai-pan."

'"Night, Brian." Dunross went over to the MPs who were in a group in one corner talking with Jacques deVille. There were only four of them now, the rest were resting after their long journey. Jacques deVille introduced him. Sir Charles Pennyworth, Conservative; Hugh Guthrie, Liberal; Julian Broadhurst and Robin Grey, both Labour. "Hello, Robin," he said.

"Hello, Ian. It's been a long time."

"Yes."

"If you'll excuse me, I'll be off," deVille said, his face careworn. "My wife's away and we've a young grandchild staying with us."

"Did you talk to Susanne in France?" Dunross asked.

"Yes, tai-pan. She's . . . she'll be all right. Thank you for calling Deland. See you tomorrow. Good night, gentlemen." He walked off.

Dunross glanced back at Robin Grey. "You haven't changed at all."

"Nor have you," Grey said, then turned to Pennyworth. "Ian and I met in London some years ago, Sir Charles. It was just after the war. I'd just become a shop steward." He was a lean man with thin lips, thin graying hair and sharp features.

"Yes, it was some years ago," Dunross said politely, continuing the pattern that Penelope and her brother had agreed to so many years ago—that neither side was blood kin to the other. "So, Robin, are you staying long?"

"Just a few days," Grey said. His smile was as thin as his lips. "I've never been in this workers' paradise before so I want to visit a few unions, see how the other ninety-nine percent live."

Sir Charles Pennyworth, leader of the delegation, laughed. He was a florid, well-covered man, an ex-colonel of the London Scottish Regiment, D.S.O. and Bar. "Don't think they go much on unions here, Robin. Do they, tai-pan?"

"Our labor force does very well without them," Dunross said.

"Sweated labor, tai-pan," Grey said at once. "According to some of your own statistics, government statistics."

"Not our statistics, Robin, merely your statisticians," Dunross said. "Our people are the highest paid in Asia after the Japanese and this is a free society."

"Free? Come off it!" Grey jeered. "You mean free to exploit the workers. Well, never mind, when Labour gets in at the next election we'll change all that."

"Come now, Robin," Sir Charles said. "Labour hasn't a prayer at the next election."

Grey smiled. "Don't bet on it, Sir Charles. The people of England want change. We didn't all go to war to keep up the rotten old ways. Labour's for social change—and getting the workers a fair share of the profits they create."

Dunross said, "I've always thought it rather unfair that Socialists talk about the 'workers' as though they do all the work and we do none. We're workers too. We work as hard if not harder with longer hours an—"

"Ah, but you're a tai-pan and you live in a great big house that was handed down, along with your power. All that capital came from some poor fellow's sweat, and I won't even mention the opium trade that started it all. It's fair that capital should be spread around, fair that everyone should have the same start. The rich should be taxed more. There should be a capital tax. The sooner the great fortunes are broken up the better for all Englishmen, eh, Julian?"

Julian Broadhurst was a tall, distinguished man in his mid-forties, a strong supporter of the Fabian Society, which was the intellectual brain trust of the socialist movement. "Well, Robin," he said with his lazy, almost diffident voice, "I certainly don't advocate as you do that we take to the barricades but I do think, Mr. Dunross, that here in Hong Kong you could do with a Trades Union Council, a minimum wage scale, elected legislature, proper unions and safeguards, socialized medicine, workman's compensation and all the modern British innovations."

"Totally wrong, Mr. Broadhurst. China would never agree to a change in our colonial status, they would never allow any form of city-state on her border. As to the rest, who pays for them?" Dunross asked. "Our unfettered system here's outperforming Britain twenty times and—"

"You pay for it out of all your profits, Ian," Robin Grey said with a laugh. "You pay a fair tax, not 15 percent. You pay the same as we do in Britain and—"

"God forbid!" Dunross said, hard put to keep his temper. "You're taxing yourself out of business and out of c—"

"Profit?" the last MP, the Liberal, Hugh Guthrie interrupted caustically. "The last bloody Labour Government wiped out our profits years ago with bloody stupid profligate spending, ridiculous nationalization, giving the Empire away piecemeal with fatuous stupid abandon, disrupting the Commonwealth and shoving poor old England's face in the bloody mud. Bloody ridiculous! Attlee and all that shower!"

Robin Grey said placatingly, "Come on, Hugh, the Labour Government did what the people wanted, what the masses wanted."

"Nonsense! The enemy wanted it. The Communists! In barely eighteen years you gave away the greatest empire the world's ever seen, made us a second-class power and allowed the sodding Soviet enemy to eat up most of Europe. Bloody ridiculous!"

"I agree wholeheartedly that communism's dreadful. But as to 'giving' away our empire, it was the wind of change, Hugh," Broadhurst said, calming him. "Colonialism had run its course. You really must take the long-term view."

"I do. I think we're up the creek without a paddle. Churchill's right, always was."

"The people didn't think so," Grey said grimly. "That's why he was voted out. The armed service vote did that, they'd had enough of him. As to the Empire, sorry Hugh old chap, but it was just an excuse to exploit natives who didn't know any better." Robin Grey saw their faces and read them. He was used to the hatred that surrounded him. He hated them more and always had. After the war he had wanted to stay in the Regular Army but he had been rejected—captains were two a penny then with decorations and great war service, while he spent the war a POW at Changi. So, filled with anger and resentment, he had joined Crawley's, a huge car manufacturer, as a mechanic. Quickly he had become a shop steward and union organizer, then into the lower ranks of the Trades

Union General Council. Five years ago, he had become a Labour MP where he was now, a cutting, angry, hostile back-bencher and protege of the late left-wing Socialist Aneurin Bevan. "Yes, we got rid of Churchill and when we get in next year we'll sweep out a lot more of the old tired ways and upper-class infections back where they belong. We'll nationalize every industry an—"

"Really, Robin," Sir Charles said, "this is a banquet not a soapbox in Hyde Park. We all agreed to cut out politics while we were on the trip."

"You're right, Sir Charles. It was just that the tai-pan of the Noble House asked me." Grey turned to Dunross. "How is the Noble House?"

"Fine. Very fine."

"According to this afternoon's paper there's a run on your stock?"

"One of our competitors is playing silly buggers, that's all."

"And the bank runs? They're not serious either?"

"They're serious." Dunross was choosing his words carefully. He knew the anti-Hong Kong lobby in Parliament was strong and many members of all three parties were against its colonial status, against its nonvoting status and freewheeling nature—and most of all envious of its almost tax-free basis. Never mind, he thought. Since 1841 we've survived hostile Parliaments, fire, typhoon, pestilence, plague, embargo, depression, occupation and the periodic convulsions that China goes through, and somehow we always will.

"The run's on the Ho-Pak, one of our Chinese banks," Dunross said.

"It's the largest, isn't it?" Grey said.

"No. But it's large. We're all hoping it'll weather the problem."

"If it goes broke, what about all the depositors' money?"

"Unfortunately they lose it," Dunross said, backed into a corner.

"You need English banking laws."

"No, we've found our system operates very well. How did you find China?" Dunross asked.

Before Sir Charles could answer, Grey said, "Our majority view is that they're dangerous, hostile, should be locked up and the Hong Kong border sealed. They're openly committed to becoming a world irritant and their brand of communism is merely an excuse for dictatorship and exploitation of their masses."

Dunross and the other Hong Kong>>a« blanched as Sir Charles said sharply, "Come now, Robin, that's only your view and the Comm—the, er, and McLean's. I found just the opposite. I think China's very sincere in trying to deal with the problems of China, which are hideous, monumental and I think insoluble."

"Thank God there's going to be big trouble there," Grey said with a sneer. "Even the Russians knew it, why else would they get out?"

"Because they're enemies, they share a common five thousand miles of border," Dunross said trying to hold in his anger. "They've always distrusted each other. Because China's invader has always come out of the West, and Russia's always out of the East. Possession of China's always been Russia's obsession and preoccupation."

"Come now, Mr. Dunross," Broadhurst began. "You exaggerate, surely."

"It's to Russia's advantage to have China weak and divided, and Hong Kong disrupted. Russia requires China weak as a cornerstone of its foreign policy."

"At least Russia's civilized," Grey said. "Red China's fanatic, dangerous and heathen and should be cut off, particularly from here."

"Ridiculous!" Dunross said tightly. "China has the oldest civilization on earth. China desperately wants to be friends with the West. China's Chinese first and Communist second."

"Hong Kong and you 'traders' are keeping the Communists in power."

"Rubbish! Mao Tse-tung and Chou En-lai don't need us or the Soviets to stay in Peking!"

Hugh Guthrie said, "As far as I'm concerned Red China and Soviet Russia're equally dangerous."

"There's no comparison!" Grey said. "In Moscow they eat with knives and forks and understand food! In China we had nothing but rotten food, rotten hotels and lots of double-talk."

"I really don't understand you at all, old boy," Sir Charles said irritably. "You fought like hell to get on this committee, you're supposed to be interested in Asian affairs and you've done nothing but complain."

"Being critical's not complaining, Sir Charles. Bluntly, I'm for giving Red China no help at all. None. And when I get back I'm offering a motion to change Hong Kong's status entirely: to embargo everything from and to Communist China, to hold immediate and proper elections here, introduce proper taxes, proper unionism and proper British social justice!"

Dunross's chin jutted. "Then you'll destroy our position in Asia!"

"Of all the tai-pans, yes, the people no! Russia was right about China."

"I'm talking about the Free World! Christ almighty, it should be clear to everyone—Soviet Russia's committed to hegemony, to world domination and our destruction. China isn't," Dunross said.

"You're wrong, Ian. You can't see the wood for the trees," Grey said,

"Listen! If Russia . . ."

Broadhurst interrupted smoothly. "Russia's just trying to solve her own problems, Mr. Dunross, one of them's the U.S. containment policy. They just want to be left alone and not surrounded by highly emotional Americans with their overfed hands on nuclear triggers."

"Balls! The Yanks're the only friends we've got," Hugh Guthrie said angrily. "As to the Soviets, what about the Cold War? Berlin? Hungary? Cuba, Egypt . . . they're swallowing us piecemeal."

Sir Charles Pennyworth sighed. "Life's strange and memories are so short. In '45, May second it was, in the evening, we joined up with the Russians at Wismar in northern Germany. I'd never been so proud or happy in my life, yes, proud. We sang and drank and cheered and toasted each other. Then my division and all of us in Europe, all the Allies had been held back for weeks to let the Russkies sweep into Germany all through the Balkans, Czechoslovakia and Poland and all the other places. At the time I didn't think much about it, I was so thankful that the war was almost over at long last and so proud of our Russian allies, but you know, looking back, now I know we were betrayed, we soldiers were betrayed—Russian soldiers included. We got buggered. I don't really know how it happened, still don't, but I truly believe we were betrayed, Julian, by our own leaders, your bloody Socialists, along with Eisenhower, Roosevelt and his misguided advisors. I swear to God I still don't know how it happened but we lost the war, we won but we lost."

"Come now, Charles, you're quite wrong. We all won," Broad-hurst said. "The people of the world won when Nazi Germany was sma—" He stopped, startled, as he saw the look on Grey's face. "What's the matter, Robin?"

Grey was staring at the other side of the room. "Ian! That man over there talking to the Chinese … do you know him? The tall bugger in the blazer."

Equally astonished, Dunross glanced at the other side of the room. "The sandy-haired fellow? You mean Marlowe, Pete—"

"Peter bloody Marlowe!" Grey muttered. "What's .. . what's he doing in Hong Kong?"

"He's just visiting. From the States. He's a writer. I believe he's writing or researching a book on Hong Kong."

"Writer, eh? Curious. Is he a friend of yours?"

"I met him a few days ago. Why?"

"That's his wife—the girl next to him?"

"Yes. That's Fleur Marlowe, why?"

Grey did not answer. There was a fleck of saliva at the corner of his lips.

"What's his connection with you, Robin?" Broadhurst asked, strangely perturbed.

With an effort Grey tore his eyes off Marlowe. "We were in Changi together, Julian, the Jap POW camp. I was provost marshal for the last couple of years, in charge of camp discipline." He wiped the sweat off his top lip. "Marlowe was one of the black marketeers there."

"Marlowe?" Dunross was astounded.

"Oh yes, Flight Lieutenant Marlowe, the great English gentleman," Grey said, his voice raw with bitterness. "Yes. He and his pal, an American called King, Corporal King, were the main ones. Then there was a fellow called Timsen, an Aussie… . But the American was the biggest, he was the King all right. A Texan. He had colonels on his payroll, English gentlemen all—colonels, majors, captains. Marlowe was his interpreter with the Jap and Korean guards … we mostly had Korean guards. They were the worst… ." Grey coughed. "Christ, it's such a short time ago. Marlowe and the King lived off the fat of the land—those two buggers ate at least one egg a day, while the rest of us starved. You can't imagine how . . ." Again Grey wiped the sweat off his lip without noticing it.

"How long were you a POW?" Sir Charles asked compassionately.

"Three and a half years."

"Terrible," Hugh Guthrie said. "My cousin bought it on the Burma railroad. Terrible!"

"It was all terrible," Grey said. "But it wasn't so terrible for those who sold out. On the Road or at Changi!" He looked at Sir Charles and his eyes were strange and bloodshot. "It's the Marlowes of the world who betrayed us, the ordinary people without privileges of birth." His voice became even more bitter. "No offense but now you're all getting your comeuppance and about time. Christ, I need a drink. Excuse me a moment." He stalked off, heading for the bar that was set up to one side.

"Extraordinary," Sir Charles said.

Guthrie said with a slight, nervous laugh, "For a moment I thought he was going for Marlowe."

They all watched him, then Broadhurst noticed Dunross frowning after Grey, his face set and cold. "Don't pay any attention to him, Mr. Dunross. I'm afraid Grey's very tiresome and a rather vulgar bore. He's… well he's not at all representative of the Labour echelon, thank God. You'd like our new leader, Harold Wilson, you'd approve of him. Next time you're in London I'd be glad to introduce you if you've time."

"Thank you. Actually I was thinking about Marlowe. It's hard to believe he 'sold out' or betrayed anyone."

"You never know about people, do you?"

Grey got a whiskey and soda and turned and went across the room. "Well, if it isn't Flight Lieutenant Marlowe!"

Peter Marlowe turned, startled. His smile vanished and the two men stared at one another. Fleur Marlowe froze.

"Hello, Grey," Marlowe said, his voice flat. "I heard you were in Hong Kong. In fact, I read your interview in the afternoon paper." He turned to his wife. "Darling, this is Robin Grey, MP." He introduced him to the Chinese, one of whom was Sir Shi-teh T'Chung.

"Ah, Mr. Grey, it's an honor to have you here," Shi-teh said with an Oxford English accent. He was tall, dark, good-looking, slightly Chinese and mostly European. "We hope your stay in Hong Kong will be good. If there's anything I can do, just say the word!"

"Ta," Grey said carelessly. They all noticed his rudeness. "So, Marlowe! You haven't changed much."

"Nor have you. You've done well for yourself." Marlowe added to the others, "We were in the war together. I haven't seen Grey since '45."

"We were POWs, Marlowe and I," Grey said, then added, "We're on opposite sides of the political blanket." He stopped and stepped out of the way to allow Orlanda Ramos to pass. She greeted Shi-teh with a smile and continued on. Grey watched her briefly, then turned back. "Marlowe old chap, are you still in trade?" It was a private English insult. "Trade" to someone like Marlowe who came from a long line of English officers meant everything common and lower class.

"I'm a writer," Marlowe said. His eyes went to his wife and his eyes smiled at her.

"I thought you'd still be in the RAF, regular officer like your illustrious forebears."

"I was invalided out, malaria and all that. Rather boring," Marlowe said, deliberately lengthening his patrician accent knowing that it would infuriate Grey. "And you're in Parliament? How very clever of you. You represent Streatham East? Wasn't that where you were born?"

Grey flushed. "Yes, yes it was . . ."

Shi-teh covered his embarrassment at the undercurrents between them. "I must, er, see about dinner." He hurried off. The other Chinese excused themselves and turned away.

Fleur Marlowe fanned herself. "Perhaps we should find our table, Peter," she said.

"A good idea, Mrs. Marlowe," Grey said. He was in as tight control as Peter Marlowe. "How's the King?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen him since Changi." Marlowe looked down on Grey.

"But you're in touch with him?"

"No. No, actually I'm not."

"You don't know where he is?"

"No."

"That's strange, seeing how close you two were." Grey ripped his eyes away and glanced at Fleur Marlowe and thought she was the prettiest woman he had ever seen. So pretty and fine and English and fair, just like his ex-wife Trina who went off with an American barely a month after he was reported missing in action. Barely a month. "Did you know we were enemies in Changi, Mrs. Marlowe?" he said with a gentleness that she found frightening.

"Peter's never discussed Changi with me, Mr. Grey. Or anyone that I know of."

"Curious. It was an awesome experience, Mrs. Marlowe. I've forgotten none of it. I… well, sorry to interrupt. . ." He glanced up at Marlowe. He began to say something but changed his mind and turned away.

"Oh, Peter, what an awful man!" Fleur said. "He gave me the creeps."

"Nothing to bother about, my darling."

"Why were you enemies?"

"Not now, my pet, later." Marlowe smiled at her, loving her. "Grey's nothing to us."

36

9:45 P.M. :

Line Bartlett saw Orlanda before she saw him and she took his breath away. He couldn't help comparing her with Casey who was beside him talking to Andrew Gavallan. Orlanda was wearing white silk, floor-length, backless with a halter neck that, discreetly, somehow, seemed to offer her golden body. Casey wore her green that he had seen many times, her tawny hair cascading.

"Would you both like to come to Shi-teh's tonight?" Orlanda had asked him this morning. "It could be important for you and your Casey to be there."

"Why?"

"Because almost all business that counts in Hong Kong is done at this type of function, Mr. Bartlett. It could be very important for you to become involved with people like Shi-teh—and in the Turf Club, Cricket Club, even the Club itself, though that'd be impossible."

"Because I'm American?"

"Because someone has to die to create an opening—an English or Scotsman." She had laughed. "The waiting list's as long as Queen's Road! It's men only, very stuffy, old leather chairs, old men sleeping off their three-hour and ten-gin lunches, The Times and all that."

"Hell, that sounds exciting!"

She had laughed again. Her teeth were white and he could see no blemish in her. They had talked over breakfast and he had found her more than easy to talk to. And to be with. Her perfume was enticing. Casey rarely wore perfume—she said that she'd found it just another distraction to the businessmen she had to deal with. With Orlanda, breakfast had been coffee and toast and eggs and crisp bacon, American style, at a brand-new hotel she suggested, called the Mandarin. Casey didn't eat breakfast. Just coffee and toast sometimes, or croissants.

The interview had passed easily and the time too fast. He had never been in the company of a woman with such open and confident femininity. Casey was always so strong, efficient and cool and not feminine. By choice, her choice and my agreement, he reminded himself.

"That's Orlanda?" Casey was looking at him, one eyebrow arched.

"Yes," he replied, trying unsuccessfully to read her. "What do you think?"

"I think she's dynamite."

"Which way?"

Casey laughed. She turned to Gavallan who was trying to concentrate and be polite but whose mind was taken up with Kathy. After Kathy had told him this evening, he had not wanted to leave her but she had insisted, saying that it was important for him to be there. "Do you know her, Andrew?"

"Who?"

"The girl in white."

"Where? Oh! Oh yes, but only by reputation."

"Is it good or bad?"

"That, er, depends on your point of view, Casey. She's, she's Portuguese, Eurasian, of course. Orlanda was Gornt's friend for quite a few years."

"You mean his mistress?"

"Yes, I suppose that's the word," he told her politely, disliking Casey's directness intensely. "But it was all very discreet."

"Gornt's got taste. Did you know she was his steady, Line?"

"She told me this morning. I met her at Gornt's a couple of days ago. He said they were still friends."

"Gornt's not to be trusted," Gavallan said.

Casey said, "He's got heavy backers, in and outside Hong Kong, I was told. Far as I know he's not stretched at the moment, as you are. You must have heard he wants us to deal with him, not you."

"We're not stretched," Gavallan said. He looked at Bartlett. "We do have a deal?"

"We sign Tuesday. If you're ready," Bartlett said.

"We're ready now."

"Ian wants us to keep it quiet till Saturday and that's fine with us," Casey said. "Isn't it, Line?"

"Sure." Bartlett glanced back at Orlanda. Casey followed his eyes.

She had noticed her the first moment the girl had hesitated in the doorway. "Who's she talking to, Andrew?" The man was interesting-looking, lithe, elegant and in his fifties.

"That's Lando Mata. He's also Portuguese, from Macao." Gavallan wondered achingly if Dunross would manage to persuade Mata to come to their rescue with all his millions. What would I do if I was tai-pan? he asked himself wearily. Would I buy tomorrow, or make a deal with Mata and Tightfist tonight? With their money, the Noble House would be safe for generations, though out of our control. No point in worrying now. Wait till you're tai-pan. Then he saw Mata smiling at Orlanda and then both of them looked over and began to thread their way toward them. His eyes watched her firm breasts, free under the silk. Taut nipples. Good God, he thought, awed, even Venus Poon wouldn't dare do that. When they came up he introduced them and stood back, odd man out, wanting to watch them.

"Hello," Orlanda said warmly to Casey. "Line told me so much about you and how important you are to him."

"And I've heard about you too," Casey said as warmly. But not enough. You're much more lovely than Line indicated, she thought. Very much more. So you're Orlanda Ramos. Beautiful and soft-spoken and feminine and a bitch piranha who has set her sights on my Line. Jesus, what do I do now?

She heard herself making small talk but her mind was still thinking Orlanda Ramos through. On the one hand it would be good for Line to have an affair, she thought. It would take the heat out of him. Last night was as lousy for him as it was for me. He was right about me moving out. But once this one's magic surrounds him could I extract him? Would she be just another girl like the others that were nothing to me and after a week or so, nothing to him either?

Not this one, Casey decided with finality. I've got two choices. I either stick to thirteen weeks and four days and do battle, or don't and do battle.

She smiled. "Orlanda, your dress is fantastic."

"Thanks. May I call you Casey?"

Both women knew the war had begun.

Bartlett was delighted that Casey obviously liked Orlanda. Gaval-lan watched, fascinated by the four of them. There was a strange warmth among them all. Particularly between Bartlett and Orlanda,

He turned his attention to Mata and Casey. Mata was suave, filled with old world charm, concentrating on Casey, playing her like a fish. I wonder how far he'll get with this one. Curious that Casey doesn't seem to mind Orlanda at all. Surely she's noticed that her boyfriend's smitten? Perhaps she hasn't. Or perhaps she couldn't care less and she and Bartlett are just business partners and nothing else. Perhaps she's a dyke after all. Or maybe she's just frigid like a lot of them. How sad!

"How do you like Hong Kong, Miss Casey?" Mata asked, wondering what she would be like in bed.

"Afraid I haven't seen much of it yet though I did go out to the New Territories on the hotel tour and peek into China."

"Would you like to go? I mean really go into China? Say to Canton? I could arrange for you to be invited."

She was shocked. "But we're forbidden to go into China … our passports aren't valid."

"Oh, you wouldn't have to use your passport. The PRC doesn't bother with passports. So few quai loh go into China there's no problem. They give you a written visa and they stamp that."

"But our State Department… I don't think I'd risk it right now."

Bartlett nodded. "We're not even supposed to go into the Communist store here. The department store."

"Yes, your government really is very strange," Mata said. "As if going into a store is subversive! Did you hear the rumor about the Hilton?"

"What about it?"

"The story is that they bought a marvelous collection of Chinese antiques for the new hotel, of course all locally." Mata smiled. "It seems that now the U.S. has decided they can't use any of it, even here in Hong Kong. It's all in storage. At least that's the story."

"It figures. If you can't make it in the States, you join the government," Bartlett said sourly.

"Casey, you should decide for yourself," Mata said. "Visit the store. It's called China Arts and Crafts on Queen's Road. The prices are very reasonable and the Communists really don't have horns and barbed tails."

"It's nothing like what I expected," Bartlett said. "Casey, you'd freak out at some of the things."

"You've been?" she asked, surprised.

"Sure."

"I took Mr. Bartlett this morning," Orlanda explained. "We happened to be passing. I'd be glad to go shopping with you if you wish."

"Thanks, I'd like that," Casey said as nicely, all her danger signals up. "But we were told in L.A. the CIA monitors Americans who go in and out because they're sure it's a Communist meeting place."

"It looked like an ordinary store to me, Casey," Bartlett said. "I didn't see anything except a few posters of Mao. You can't bargain though. All prices're written out. Some of the biggest bargains you ever did see. Pity we can't take them back home." There was a total embargo on all goods of Chinese origin into the States, even antiques that had been in Hong Kong a hundred years.

"That's no problem," Mata said at once, wondering how much he would make as a middleman. "If there's anything you want I'd be happy to purchase it."

"But we still can't get it into the States, Mr. Mata," Casey said.

"Oh that's easy too. I do it for American friends all the time. I just send their purchases to a company I have in Singapore or Manila. For a tiny fee they send it to you in the States with a certificate of origin, Malaya or the Philippines, whichever you'd prefer."

"But that'd be cheating. Smuggling."

Mata, Gavallan and Orlanda laughed outright and Gavallan said, "Trade's the grease of the world. Embargoed goods from the U.S. or Taiwan find their way to the PRC, PRC goods go to Taiwan and the U.S.—if they're sought after. Of course they do!"

"I know," Casey said, "but I don't think that's right."

"Soviet Russia's committed to your destruction but you still trade with her," Gavallan said to Bartlett.

"We don't ourselves," Casey said. "Not Par-Con, though we've been approached to sell computers. Much as we like profits they're a no-no. The government does, but only on very carefully controlled goods. Wheat, things like that."

"Wherever there's a willing buyer of anything, there'll always be a seller," Gavallan said, irritated by her. He glanced out of the windows and wished he was back in Shanghai. "Take Vietnam, your Algiers."

"Sir?" Casey said.

Gavallan glanced back at her. "I mean that Vietnam will bleed your economy to death as it did to France and as Algiers also did to France."

"We'll never go into Vietnam," Bartlett said confidently. "Why should we? Vietnam's nothing to do with us."

"I agree," Mata said, "but nevertheless the States is having a growing involvement there. In fact, Mr. Bartlett, I think you're being sucked into the abyss."

"In what way?" Casey asked.

"I think the Soviets have deliberately enticed you into Vietnam. You'll send in troops but they won't. You'll be fighting Viets and the jungle, and the Soviets will be the winners. Your CIA's already there in strength. They're running an airline. Even now airfields are being constructed with U.S. money, U.S. arms are pouring in. You've soldiers fighting there already."

"I don't believe it,!' Casey said.

"You can. They're called Special Forces, sometimes Delta Force. So sorry but Vietnam's going to be a big problem for your government unless it's very smart."

Bartlett said confidently, "Thank God it is. JFK handled Cuba. He'll handle Vietnam too. He made the Big K back off there and he can do it again. We won that time. The Soviets took their missiles out."

Gavallan was grimly amused. "You should talk to Ian about Cuba, old chap, that really gets him going. He says, and I agree, you lost. The Soviets sucked you into another trap. A fool's mate. He believes they built their sites almost openly—wanting you to detect them and you did and then there was a lot of saber-rattling, the whole world's frightened to death, and in exchange for the Soviet agreement to take the missiles out of Cuba your President tore up your Monroe Doctrine, the cornerstone of your whole security system." "What?"

"Certainly. Didn't JFK give Khrushchev a written promise not to invade Cuba, not to permit an invasion from American territory —or from any other place in the Western Hemisphere? Written, by God! So now, a hostile European power, Soviet Russia, totally against your Monroe Doctrine, is openly established ninety miles off your coast, the borders of which are guaranteed in writing by your own President and ratified by your own Congress. The Big K pulled off a colossal coup never duplicated in your whole history. And all for nothing!" Gavallan's voice harshened. "Now Cuba's nicely safe, thank you very much, where it'll grow, expand and eventually infect all South America. Safe for Soviet subs, ships, aircraft. . . . Christ almighty that's certainly a marvelous victory!"

Casey looked at Bartlett, shocked. "But surely, Line, surely that's not right."

Bartlett was as shocked. "I guess … if you think about it, Casey, I guess. … It sure as hell cost them nothing."

"lan's convinced of it," Gavallan said. "Talk to him. As to Vietnam, no one here thinks President Kennedy can handle that either, much as we admire him personally. Asia's not like Europe, or the Americas. They think differently here, act differently and have different values."

There was a sudden silence. Bartlett broke it. "You think there'll be war then?"

Gavallan glanced at him. "Nothing for you to worry about. Par-Con should do very well. You've heavy industry, computers, poly-urethane foam, government contracts into aerospace, petrochemicals, sonics, wireless equipment . . . With your goods and our expertise if there's a war, well, the sky's the limit."

"I don't think I'd like to profit that way," Casey said, irritated by him. "That's a lousy way to earn a buck."

Gavallan turned on her. "A lot of things on this earth are lousy, and wrong and unfair. . . ." He was going to give her both barrels, infuriated with the way she kept interrupting his conversation with Bartlett but he decided that now was not the time, nor the place, so he said pleasantly, "But of course you're right. No one wants to profit from death. If you'll excuse me I'll be going. . . . You know everyone has place cards? Dinner'll start any moment. Matter of face."

He walked off.

Casey said, "I don't think he likes me at all."

They laughed at the way she said it. "What you said was right, Casey," Orlanda told her. "You were right. War is terrible."

"You were here during it?" Casey asked innocently.

"Yes, but in Macao. I'm Portuguese. My mother told me it wasn't too bad there. The Japanese didn't trouble Macao because Portugal was neutral." Orlanda added sweetly, "Of course I'm only twenty-five now so I hardly remember any of it. I was not quite seven when the war ended. Macao's nice, Casey. So different from Hong Kong. You and Line might like to go there. It's worth seeing. I'd love to be your guide."

I'll bet, Casey thought, feeling her twenty-six was old against Orlanda who had the skin of a seventeen-year-old. "That'd be great. But Lando, what's with Andrew? Why was he so teed off? Because I'm a woman VP and all that?"

"I doubt that. I'm sure you exaggerate," Mata said. "It's just that he's not very pro-American and it drives him mad that the British Empire's no more, that the U.S. is arbiter of the world's fate and making obvious mistakes, he thinks. Most British people agree with him, I'm afraid! It's part jealousy of course. But you must be patient with Andrew. After all, your government did give away Hong Kong in '45 to Chiang—only the British navy stopped that. America did side with Soviet Russia against them over Suez, did support the Jews against them in Palestine—there are dozens of examples. It's also true lots of us here think your present hostility to China's ill-advised."

"But they're as Communist as Russia. They went to war against us when we were only trying to protect freedom in South Korea. We weren't going to attack them."

"But historically, China's always crossed the Yalu when any foreign invader approached that border. Always. Your MacArthur was supposed to be a historian," Mata said patiently, wondering if she was as naive in bed, "he should have known. He—or your President—forced China into a path it did not want to take. I'm absolutely sure of that."

"But we weren't invaders. North Korea invaded the South. We just wanted to help a people be free. We'd nothing to gain from South Korea. We spend billions trying to help people stay free. Look what China did to Tibet—to India last year. Seems to me we're always the fall guy and all we want is to protect freedom." She stopped as a murmur of relief went through the room and people began heading for their tables. Waiters bearing silver-domed platters were trooping in. "Thank God! I'm starving!"

"Me too," Bartlett said.

"Shitee's early tonight," Mata said with a laugh. "Orlanda, you should have warned them it's an old custom always to have a snack before any of Shitee's banquets."

Orlanda just smiled her lovely smile and Casey said, "Orlanda warned Line, who told me, but I figured I could last." She looked at her enemy who was almost half a head shorter, about five foot three. For the first time in her life she felt big and oafish. Be honest, she reminded herself, ever since you walked out of the hotel into the streets and saw all the Chinese girls and women with their tiny hands and feet and bodies and smallness, all dark-eyed and dark-haired, you've felt huge and alien. Yes. Now I can understand why they all gape at us so much. And as for the ordinary tourist, loud, overweight, waddling along . . .

Even so, Orlanda Ramos, as pretty as you are and as clever as you think you are, you're not the girl for Line Bartlett. So you can blow it all out of your ass! "Next time, Orlanda," she said so nicely, "I'll remember to be very cautious about what you recommend."

"I recommend we eat, Casey. I'm hungry too."

Mata said, "I do believe we're all at the same table. I must confess I arranged it." Happily he led the way, more than ever excited by the challenge of getting Casey into bed. The moment he had seen her he had decided. Part of it was her beauty and tallness and beautiful breasts, such a welcome contrast to the smallness and sameness of the normal Asian girl. Part was because of the clues Orlanda had given him. But the biggest part had been his sudden thought that by breaking the Bartlett-Casey connection he might wreck Par-Con's probe into Asia note 5 . far better to keep americans and their hypocritical, impractical morality and meddling out of our area as long as we can, he had told himself. And if Dunross doesn't have the Par-Con deal, then he will have to sell me the control I want. Then, at long last, / become the tai-pan of the Noble House, all the Dunrosses and Struans notwithstanding.

Madonna, life is really very good. Curious that this woman could be the key to the best lock in Asia, he thought. Then he added contentedly, Clearly she can be bought. It's only a matter of how much.

37

11:01 P.M. :

Dinner was twelve courses. Braised abalone with green sprouts, chicken livers and sliced partridge sauce, shark's fin soup, barbecued chicken, Chinese greens and peapods and broccoli and fifty other vegetables with crab meat, the skin of roast Peking duck with plum sauce and sliced spring onions and paper-thin pancakes, double-boiled mushrooms and fish maw, smoked pomfret fish with salad, rice Yangchow style, home sweet home noodles—then happiness dessert, sweetened lotus seeds and lily in rice gruel. And tea continuously.

Mata and Orlanda helped Casey and Bartlett. Fleur and Peter Marlowe were the only other Europeans at their table. The Chinese presented their visiting cards and received others in exchange. "Oh you can eat with chopsticks!" All the Chinese were openly astonished, then slid comfortably back into Cantonese, the bejeweled women clearly discussing Casey and Bartlett and the Marlowes. Their comments were slightly guarded only because of Lando Mata and Orlanda.

"What're they saying, Orlanda?" Bartlett asked quietly amid the noisy exuberance particularly of the Chinese.

"They're just wondering about you and Miss Casey," she said as cautiously, not translating the lewd remarks about the size of Casey's chest, the wondering where her clothes came from, how much they cost, why she didn't wear any jewelry, and what it must be like to be so tall. They were saying little about Bartlett other than wondering out loud if he was really Mafia as one of the Chinese papers had suggested.

Orlanda was sure he wasn't. But she was sure also that she would have to be very circumspect in front of Casey, neither too forward nor too slow, and never to touch him. And to be sweet to her, to try to throw her off her stride.

Fresh plates for each course were laid with a clatter, the used ones whisked away. Waiters hurried to the dumbwaiters in the central section by the staircase to dispose of the old and grab steaming platters of the new.

The kitchens, three decks below, were an inferno with the huge four-feet-wide iron woks fired with gas that was piped aboard. Some woks for steaming, some for quick frying, some for deep frying, some for stewing, and many for the pure white rice. An open, wood-fired barbecue. An army of helpers for the twenty-eight cooks were preparing the meats and vegetables, plucking chickens, killing fresh fish and lobsters and crabs and cleaning them, doing the thousand tasks that Chinese food requires—as each dish is cooked freshly for each customer.

The restaurant opened at 10:00 A.M. and the kitchen closed at 10:45 P.M.—sometimes later when a special party was arranged. There could be dancing and a floor show if the host was rich enough. Tonight, though there was no late shift or floor show or dancing, they all knew that their share of the tip from Shitee T'Chung's banquet would be very good. Shitee T'Chung was an expansive host, though most of them believed that much of the charity money he collected went into his stomach or those of his guests or onto the backs of his lady friends. He also had the reputation of being ruthless to his detractors, a miser to his family, and vengeful to his enemies.

Never mind, the head chef thought. A man needs soft lips and hard teeth in this world and everyone knows which will last the longer. "Hurry up!" he shouted. "Can I wait all manure-infested night? Prawns! Bring the prawns!" A sweating helper in ragged pants and ancient, sweaty undershirt rushed up with a bamboo platter of the freshly caught and freshly peeled prawns. The chef cast them into the vast wok, added a handful of monosodium gluta-mate, whisked them twice and scooped them out, put a handful of steaming peapods on two platters and divided up the pink, glistening succulent prawns on top equally.

"All gods urinate on all prawns!" he said sourly, his stomach ulcer paining him, his feet and calves leaden from his ten-hour shift. "Send those upstairs before they spoil! Dew neh loh moh hurry . . . that's my last order. It's time to go home!"

Other cooks were shouting last orders and cursing as they cooked. They were all impatient to be gone. "Hurry it up!" Then one young helper carrying a pot of used fat stumbled and the fat sprayed onto one of the gas fires, caught with a whoosh and there was sudden pandemonium. A cook screamed as the fire surrounded him and he beat at it, his face and hair singed. Someone threw a bucket of water on the fire and spread it violently. Flames soared to the rafters, billowing smoke. Shouting, shoving cooks moving out of the fire were causing a bottleneck. The acrid, black, oil smoke began to fill the air.

The man nearest the single narrow staircase to the first deck grabbed one of the two fire extinguishers and slammed the plunger down and pointed the nozzle at the fire. Nothing happened. He did it again then someone else grabbed it from him with a curse, tried unsuccessfully to make it work, and cast it aside. The other extinguisher was also a dud. The staff had never bothered to test them.

"All gods defecate on these motherless foreign devil inventions!" a cook wailed and prepared to flee if the fire approached him. A frightened coolie choking on the smoke at the other end of the kitchen backed away from a shaft of flame into some jars and toppled them. Some contained thousand-year-old eggs and others sesame oil. The oil flooded the floor and caught fire. The coolie vanished in the sudden sheet of flame. Now the fire owned half the kitchen.

It was well past eleven o'clock and most diners had already left. The top deck of the Floating Dragon was still partially filled. Most of the Chinese, Four Finger Wu and Venus Poon among them, were walking out or had already left as the last course had already been served long since and it was polite Chinese custom to leave as soon as the last dish was finished, table by table. Only the Europeans were lingering over Cognac or port, and cigars.

Throughout the boat, tables of mah-jong were being set up by Chinese, and the clitter-clatter of the ivory tiles banging on the tables began to dominate.

"Do you play mah-jong, Mr. Bartlett?" Mata asked.

"No. Please call me Line."

"You should learn—it's better than bridge. Do you play bridge, Casey?"

Line Bartlett laughed. "She's a wiz, Lando. Don't play her for money."

"Perhaps we can have a game sometime. You play, don't you, Orlanda?" Mata said, remembering Gornt was an accomplished player. "Yes, a little," Orlanda said softly and Casey thought grimly, I'll bet the bitch's a wiz too. "I'd love a game," Casey said sweetly.

"Good," Mata said. "One day next week … oh, hello, tai-pan!" Dunross greeted them all with his smile. "How did you enjoy the food?"

"It was fantastic!" Casey said, happy to see him and greatly aware of how handsome he looked in his tuxedo. "Would you like to join us?"

"Thanks bu—"

"Good night, tai-pan," Dianne Chen said, coming up to him, her son Kevin—a short, heavyset youth with dark curly hair and full lips—in tow.

Dunross introduced them. "Where's Phillip?"

"He was going to come but he phoned to say he was delayed. Well, good night . . ." Dianne smiled and so did Kevin and they headed for the door, Casey and Orlanda wide-eyed at Dianne's jewelry.

"Well, I must be off too," Dunross said.

"How was your table?"

"Rather trying," Dunross said with his infectious laugh. He had eaten with the MPs—with Gornt, Shi-ten and his wife at the Number One table—and there had been sporadic angry outbursts above the clatter of plates. "Robin Grey's rather outspoken, and ill-informed, and some of us were having at him. For once Gornt and I were on the same side. I must confess our table got served first so poor old Shi-teh and his wife could flee. He took off like a dose of salts fifteen minutes ago."

They all laughed with him. Dunross was watching Marlowe. He wondered if Marlowe knew that Grey was his brother-in-law. "Grey seems to know you quite well, Mr. Marlowe."

"He has a good memory, tai-pan, though his manners are off."

"I don't know about that, but if he has his way in Parliament God help Hong Kong. Well, I just wanted to say hello to all of you." He smiled at Bartlett and Casey. "How about lunch tomorrow?"

"Fine," Casey said. "How about coming to the V and A?" She noticed Gornt get up to leave on the opposite side of the room and she wondered again who would win. "Just before dinner Andrew was say—"

Then, with all of them, she heard faint screams. There was a sudden hush, everyone listening. "Fire!"

"Christ, look!" They all stared at the dumbwaiter. Smoke was pouring out. Then a small tongue of flame.

A split second of disbelief, then every one jumped up. Those nearest the main staircase rushed for the doorway, crowding it, as others took up the shout. Bartlett leapt to his feet and dragged Casey with him. Mata and some of the guests began to run for the bottleneck. "Hold it!" Dunross roared above the noise. Everyone stopped. "There's plenty of time. Don't hurry!" he ordered. "There's no need to run, take your time! There's no danger yet!" His admonition helped those who were overly frightened. They started easing out of the crammed doorway. But below, on the staircases, the snouts and hysteria had increased.

Not everyone had run at the first cry of danger. Gornt hadn't moved. He puffed his cigar, all his senses concentrated. Havergill and his wife had walked over to the windows to look out. Others joined them. They could see crowds milling around the main entrance two decks below. "I don't think we need to worry, my dear," Havergill said. "Once the main lot are out we can follow at leisure."

Lady Joanna, beside them, said, "Did you see Biltzmann rush off? What a berk!" She looked around and saw Bartlett and Casey across the room, waiting beside Dunross. "Oh, I'd've thought they'd've fled too."

Havergill said, "Oh come on, Joanna, not all Yankees are cowards!"

A sudden shaft of flame and thick black smoke poured out of the dumbwaiter. The shouting to hurry up began again.

On the far side of the room nearer the fire, Bartlett said hastily, "Ian, is there another exit?"

"I don't know," Dunross said. "Take a look outside. I'll hold the fort here." Bartlett took off quickly for the exit door to the half deck and Dunross turned to the rest of them. "Nothing to worry about," he said, calming them and gauging them quickly. Fleur Marlowe was white but in control, Casey stared in shock at the people jamming the doorway, Orlanda petrified, near breaking. "Orlanda! It's all right," he said, "there's no danger . . ."

On the other side of the room Gornt got up and went nearer to the door. He could see the crush and knew that the stairs below would be jammed. Shrieks and some screams added to the fear here but Sir Charles Pennyworth was beside the doorway trying to get an orderly withdrawal down the stairs. More smoke billowed out and Gornt thought, Christ almighty, a bloody fire, half a hundred people and one exit. Then he noticed the unattended bar. He went to it and, outwardly calm, poured himself a whiskey and soda, but the sweat was running down his back.

Below on the crowded second-deck landing Lando Mata stumbled and brought a whole group down, Dianne Chen and Kevin with them, creating a blockage in this, the only escape route. Men and women shrieked impotently, crushed against the floor as others fell or stumbled over them in a headlong dash for safety. Above on the staircase, Pugmire held on to the bannister and just managed to keep his feet, using his great strength to shove his back against the people and prevent more from falling. Julian Broadhurst was beside him, frightened too but equally controlled, using his height and weight with Pugmire. Together they held the breach momentarily, but gradually the weight of those behind overcame them. Pugmire felt his grip slipping. Ten steps below, Mata fought to his feet, trampled on a few people in his haste, then shoved on downstairs, his coat half torn from him. Dianne Chen clawed her way to her feet, dragging Kevin with her. In the shoving, milling mass of humanity she did not notice a woman grab her diamond pendant neatly and pocket it, then jostle away down the stairs. Smoke billowing up from the lower deck added to the horror. Pugmire's hold was broken. He was half-shoved into the wall by the human flood and Broadhurst missed his footing. Another small avalanche of people began. Now the stairs on both levels were clogged.

Four Finger Wu with Venus Poon had been on the first landing when the shout had gone up and he had darted down the last staircase and shoved his way out onto the drawbridge that led to the wharf, Venus Poon a few terrorized steps behind him. Safe on the wharf, he turned and looked back, his heart pounding, his breathing heavy. Men and women were stumbling out of the huge ornate doorway onto the jetty, some flames coming out of portholes near the waterline. A policeman who had been patrolling nearby ran up, watched aghast for a moment, then took to his heels for the nearest telephone. Wu was still trying to catch his breath when he saw

Richard Kwang and his wife rush out pell-mell. He began to laugh and felt much better. Venus Poon thought the people looked very funny too. Onlookers were collecting in safety, no one doing anything to help, just gawking—which is only right, Wu thought in passing. One must never interfere with the decisions of the gods. The gods have their own rules and they decide a human's joss. It's my joss to escape and to enjoy this whore tonight. All gods help me to maintain my Imperial Iron until she screams for mercy.

"Come along, Little Mealy Mouth," Four Fingers said with a cackle, "we can safely leave them to their joss. Time's wasting." "No, Father," she said quickly. "Any moment the TV cameras and press will arrive—we must think of our image, heya?" "Image? It's the pillow and the Gorgeous G—" "Later!" she said imperiously and he bit back the curse he was going to add. "Don't you want to be hailed as a hero?" she said sharply. "Perhaps even a knighthood like Shitee, heya?" Quickly she dirtied her hands and her face and carefully ripped one of the straps above her breast and went near to the gangway where she could see and be seen. Four Fingers watched her blankly. A quai loh honor like Shitee? he thought astounded. Eeeeee, why not! He followed her warily, taking great care not to get too close to any danger.

They saw a tongue of flame sweep out of the chimney on the top deck and frightened people looking down from the three decks of windows. People were collecting on the wharf. Others were stumbling out to safety in hysterics, many coughing from the smoke that was beginning to possess the whole restaurant. There was another shouting crush in the doorway, a few went down and some scuttled from under the milling feet, those behind shrieking at those in front to hurry, and again Four Fingers and other onlookers laughed.

On the top deck Bartlett leaned over the railings and looked down at the hull and the jetty below. He could see crowds on the wharf and milling, hysterical people fighting out of the entrance. There was no other staircase, ladder or escape possibility on either side. His heart was hammering but he was not afraid. There's no real danger, yet, he thought. We can jump into the water below. Easy. It's what, thirty, forty feet—no sweat if you dqn't belly flop. He ran back along the deck that used up half the length of the boat. Black smoke, sparks and a little flame surged out of the funnels. He opened the top-deck door and closed it quickly in order not to create any added draft. The smoke was much worse and the flames coming out of the dumbwaiter were continuous now. The smoke smell on the air was acrid and carried the stench of burning meat. Almost everyone was crowded around the far doorway. Gornt was standing apart by himself watching them, sipping a drink. Bartlett thought, Jesus, there's one cold-blooded bastard! He skirted the dumbwaiter carefully, his eyes smarting from the smoke, and almost knocked over Christian Toxe who was hunched over the telephone shouting into it above the noise, "… I don't give a shit, get a photographer out here right now, and then phone the fire department!" Angrily Toxe slammed down the phone and muttering, "Stupid bastards," went back to his wife, a matronly Chinese woman who stared at him blankly. Bartlett hurried toward Dun-ross. The tai-pan stood motionless beside Peter and Fleur Marlowe, Orlanda and Casey, whistling tonelessly.

"Nothing, Ian," he said quietly, noticing his voice sounded strange, "not a goddamn thing. No ladders, nothing. But we can jump, easy, if necessary."

"Yes. We're lucky being on this deck. The others may not be so lucky." Dunross watched the smoke and fire spurting from the dumbwaiter that was near the exit door. "We'll have to decide pretty soon which way to go," he said gently. "That fire could cut us off from the outside. If we go out we may never get back in and we'll have to jump. If we stay in, we can only use the stairs."

"Jesus," Casey muttered. She was trying to calm her racing heart and the feeling of claustrophobia that was welling up. Her skin felt clammy and her eyes were darting from the exit to the doorway and back again. Bartlett put an arm around her. "It's no sweat, we can jump anytime."

"Yes, sure, Line." Casey was holding on grimly. "You can swim, Casey?" Dunross asked. "Yes. I … was caught in a fire once. Ever since then I've been frightened to death of them." It was a few years before when her little house in the Hollywood Hills of Los Angeles was in the path of one of the sudden summer conflagrations and she had been bottled in, the winding canyon road already burning below. She had turned on all the water sprinklers and begun to hose the roof. The clawing heat of the fire had reached out at her. Then the fire had crested, jumping from the top of one valley to the opposite side, to begin burning down both sides toward the valley floor, whipped by hundred-mile-an-hour gusts self-generated by the fire. The roaring flames obliterated trees and houses, came closer and there was no way out. In terror, she kept the hose on her roof. Cats and dogs from the homes above fled past her and one wild-eyed Alsatian cowered in the lee of her house. The heat and the smoke and the terror surrounded her and it went on and on but this part of the fire stopped fifty feet from her boundary. For no reason. Above, all the houses on her street had gone. Most of the canyon. A swath almost half a mile wide and two long burned for three days in the hills that bisected the city of Los Angeles.

"I'm all right, Line," she said shakily. "I … I think I'd rather be outside than here. Let's get the hell out of here. A swim'd be great."

"I can't swim!" Orlanda was trembling. Then her control snapped and she got up to rush for the stairs.

Bartlett grabbed her. "Everything's going to be all right. Jesus, you'll never make it that way. Listen to the poor bastards down there, they're in real trouble. Stay put, huh? The stairs're no good." She hung on to him, petrified. "You'll be all right," Casey said compassionately. "Yes," Dunross said, his eyes on the fire and billowing smoke. Marlowe said, "We, er, we're really in very good shape, tai-pan, aren't we? Yes. The fire's got to be from the kitchens. They'll get it under control. Fleur, pet, there'll be no need to go over the side." "It's no sweat," Bartlett assured him. "There's plenty of sampans to pick us up!"

"Oh yes, but she can't swim either."

Fleur put her hand on her husband's arm. "You always said I should learn, Peter."

Dunross wasn't listening. He was consumed with fear and trying to dominate it. His nostrils were filled with the stench of burning meat that he knew oh so well and he was near vomiting. He was back in his burning Spitfire, shot out of the sky by a Messerschmitt 109 over the Channel, the cliffs of Dover too far away, and he knew the fire would consume him before he could tear the jammed and damaged cockpit canopy free and bail out, the horror-smell of scorching flesh, his own, surrounding him. In terror he smashed his fist impotently against the Perspex, his other beating at the flames around his feet and knees, choking from the acrid smoke in his lungs, half blinded. Then there was a sudden frantic roar as the cowl ripped away, an inferno of flames surged up and surrounded him and somehow he was out and falling away from the flames, not knowing if his face was gone, the skin of his hands and feet, his boots and flying overalls still smoking. Then the shuddering nauseating jerk as his chute opened, then the dark silhouette of the enemy plane hurtled toward him out of the sun and he saw the machine guns sparking and a tracer blew part of his calf away. He remembered none of the rest except the smell of burning flesh that was the same then as now.

"What do you think, tai-pan?"

"What?"

"Shall we stay or leave?" Marlowe repeated.

"We'll stay, for the moment," Dunross said and they all wondered how he could sound so calm and look so calm. "When the stairs clear we can walk out. No reason to get wet if we don't have to."

Casey smiled at him hesitantly. "These fires happen often?" "Not here, but they do in Hong Kong, I'm afraid. Our Chinese friends don't care much about fire regulations . . ."

It was still only a few minutes since the first violent gust of fire had swirled up in the kitchen but now the fire had a full hold there and, through the access of the dumbwaiter, a strong hold on the central sections of the three decks above. The fire in the kitchen blocked half the room from the only staircase. Twenty terrified men were trapped on the wrong side. The rest of the staff had fled long since to join the heaving mass of people on the deck above. There were half a dozen portholes but these were small and rusted up. In panic one of the cooks rushed at the flaming barrier, screamed as the flames engulfed him, almost made it through but slipped and kept on screaming for a long while. A petrified moan burst from the others. There was no other escape possibility.

The head chef was trapped too. He was a portly man and he had been in many kitchen fires so he was not panicked. His mind ranged all the other fires, desperately seeking a clue. Then he remembered. "Hurry," he shouted, "get bags of rice flour . . . rice . . . hurry!" The others stared at him without moving, their terror numbing them, so he lashed out and smashed some of them into the storeroom, grabbed a fifty-pound sack himself and tore the top off. "Fornicate all fires hurry but wait till I tell you," he gasped, the smoke choking and almost blinding him. One of the portholes shattered and the sudden draft whooshed the flames at them. Terrified they grabbed a sack each, coughing as the smoke billowed.

"Now!" the head chef roared and hurled the sack at the flaming corridor between the stoves. The sack burst open and the clouds of flour doused some of the flames. Other sacks followed in the same area and more flames were swallowed. Another barrage of flour went over the flaming benches, snuffing them out. The passage was momentarily clear. At once the head chef led the charge through the remaining flames and they all followed him pell-mell, leaping over the two charred bodies, and gained the stairs at the far side before the flames gushed back and closed the path. The men fought their way up the narrow staircase and into the partial air of the landing, joining the milling mob that pushed and shoved and screamed and coughed their way through the black smoke into the open.

Tears streamed from most faces. The smoke was very heavy now in the lower levels. Then the wall behind the first landing where the shaft of the dumbwaiter was began to twist and blacken. Abruptly it burst open, scattering gargoyles, and flames gushed out. Those on the stairs below shoved forward in panic and those on the landing reeled back. Then, seeing they were so close to safety, the first ranks darted forward, skirting the inferno, jumping the stairs two at a time. Hugh Guthrie, one of the MPs, saw a woman fall. He held on to the bannister and stopped to help her but those behind toppled him and he fell with others. He picked himself up, cursing, and fought a path clear for just enough time to drag the woman up before he was engulfed again and shoved down the last few stairs to gain the entrance safely.

Half the landing between the lower deck and the second deck was still free of flames though the fire had an unassailable hold and was fueling itself. The crowds were thinning now though more than a hundred still clogged the upper staircases and doorways. Those above were milling and cursing, not being able to see ahead.

"What's the holdup for chrissake. . . ."

"Are the stairs still clear . . . ?"

"For chrissake get on with it. . . ."

"It's getting bloody hot up here . . ."

"What a sodding carve-up. . . ."

Grey was one of those trapped on the second-deck staircase. He could see the flames gushing out of the wall ahead and knew the nearby wall would go any moment. He could not decide whether to retreat or to advance. Then he saw a child cowering against the steps under the banister. He managed to pull the little boy into his arms then pressed on, cursing those in front, darted around the fire, the way to safety below still jammed.

On the top deck Gornt and others were listening to the pandemonium below. There were only thirty or so people still here. He finished his drink, set the glass down and walked over to the group surrounding Dunross—Orlanda was still sitting, twisting her handkerchief in her hands, Fleur and Peter Marlowe still outwardly calm, and Dunross, as always, in control. Good, he thought, blessing his own heritage and training. It was part of British tradition that in danger, however petrified you are, you lose face by showing it. Then, too, he reminded himself, most of us have been bombed most of our lives, shot at, sunk, slammed into POW jails or been in the Services. Gornt's sister had been in the Women's Royal Naval Service—his mother an air raid warden, his father in the army, his uncle killed at Monte Cassino, and he himself had served with the Australians in New Guinea after escaping from Shanghai, and had fought his way into and through Burma to Singapore.

"Ian," he said, keeping his voice suitably nonchalant, "it sounds as though the fire's on the first landing now. I suggest a swim."

Dunross glanced back at the fire near the exit door. "Some of the ladies don't swim. Let's give it a couple of minutes."

"Very well. I think those who don't mind jumping should go on deck. That particular fire's really very boring."

Casey said, "I don't find it very boring at all."

They all laughed. "It's just an expression," Peter Marlowe explained.

An explosion below decks rocked the boat slightly. The momentary silence was eerie.

In the kitchen the fire had spread to the storage rooms and was surrounding the four remaining hundred-gallon drums of oil. The one that had blown up had torn a gaping hole in the floor and buckled the side of the boat. Burning embers and burning oil and some seawater poured into the scuppers. The force of the explosion had ruptured some of the great timbers of the flat-bottomed hull and water was seeping through the seams. Hordes of rats scrambled out of the way seeking an escape route.

Another of the thick metal drums blew up and ripped a vast hole in the side of the boat just below the waterline, scattering fire in all directions. The people on the wharf gasped and some reeled back though there was no danger. Others laughed nervously. Still another drum exploded and another shaft of flames sprayed everywhere. The ceiling supports and joists were seriously weakened and, oil soaked, began to burn. Above on the first deck, the feet of the frenzied escapees pounded dangerously.

Just above the first landing Grey still had the child in his arms. He held on to the bannister with one hand, frightened, shoving people behind and in front of him. He waited his turn, then shielding the child as best he could, ducked around the flames on the landing and darted down the stairs, the way mostly clear. The carpet by the threshold was beginning to smoke and one heavyset man stumbled, the whole floor shaky.

"Come on," Grey shouted desperately to those behind. He made the threshold, others close behind and in front. Just as he reached the drawbridge the last two drums exploded, the whole floor behind him disappeared and he and the child and others were hurled forward like so much chaff.

Hugh Guthrie rushed out of the onlookers and pulled them to safety. "You all right, old chap?" he gasped.

Grey was half stunned, gasping for breath, his clothes smoldering, and Guthrie helped beat them out. "Yes . . . yes I think so . . ." he said half out of himself.

Guthrie gently lifted the unconscious child and peered at him. "Poor little bastard!"

"Is he dead?"

"I don't think so. Here . . ." Guthrie gave the little Chinese boy to an onlooker and both men charged back to the gateway to help the others who were still numbed by the explosion and helpless. "Christ all bloody mighty," he gasped as he saw that now the whole entrance was impassable. Above the uproar, they heard the wail of approaching sirens.

The fire on the top deck near the exit was building nastily. Frightened, coughing people were streaming back into the room, forced back up the stairs by the fire that now owned the lower deck. Pandemonium and the stench of fear were heavy on the air.

"Ian, we'd better get the hell out of here," Bartlett said.

"Yes. Quillan, would you please lead the way and take charge of the deck," Dunross said. "I'll hold this end."

Gornt turned and roared, "Everyone this way! You'll be safe on deck . . . one at a time. . . ." He opened the door and positioned himself by it and tried to bring order to the hasty retreat—a few Chinese, the remainder mostly British. Once in the open everyone was much less frightened and grateful to be away from the smoke.

Bartlett, waiting in the room, felt excitement but still no fear for he knew he could smash any one of the windows and get Casey and himself out and into the sea. People stumbled past. Flames from the dumbwaiter increased and there was a dull explosion below.

"How you doing, Casey?"

"Okay."

"Out you go!"

"When you go."

"Sure." Bartlett grinned at her. The room was thinning. He helped Lady Joanna through the doorway, then Havergill, who was limping, and his wife.

Casey saw that Orlanda was still frozen to her chair. Poor girl, she thought compassionately, remembering her own absolute terror in her own fire. She went over to her. "Come on," she said gently and helped her up. The girl's knees were trembling. Casey kept her arm around her.

"I … I've lost … my purse," Orlanda muttered.

"No, here it is." Casey picked it up from the chair and kept her arm around her as she half-pushed her past the flames into the open. The deck was crowded but once outside Casey felt enormously better.

"Everything's fine," Casey said encouragingly. She guided her to the railing. Orlanda held on tightly. .Casey turned back to look for Bartlett and saw both him and Gornt watching her from inside the room. Bartlett waved at her and she waved back, wishing he were outside with her.

Peter Marlowe herded his wife onto the deck and came up to her. "You all right, Casey?"

"Sure. How you doing, Fleur?"

"Fine. Fine. It's . . . it's rather pleasant outside, isn't it?" Fleur Marlowe said, feeling faint and awful, petrified at the idea of jumping from this great height. "Do you think it's going to rain?"

"The sooner the better." Casey looked over the side. In the murky waters, thirty feet below, sampans were beginning to collect. All boatmen knew that those on the top would have to jump soon. From their vantage they could see that the fire possessed most of the firs! and second decks. A few people were trapped there, then one man hurled a chair through one of the windows, broke the glass away, scrambled through and fell into the sea. A sampan darted forward and threw him a line. Others who were trapped followed. One woman never came up.

The night was dark though the flames lit everything nearby, casting eerie shadows. The crowds on the wharf parted as the screaming fire engines pulled up. Immediately Chinese firemen and British officers dragged out the hoses. Another detachment joined up to the nearby fire hydrant and the first jet of water played onto the fire and there was a cheer. In seconds six hoses were in operation and two masked firemen with asbestos clothing and breathing equipment strapped to their backs rushed the entrance and began to drag those who were lying unconscious out of danger. Another huge explosion sprayed them with burning embers. One of the firemen doused everyone with water then directed the hose back on the entrance again.

The top deck was empty now except for Bartlett, Dunross and Gornt. They felt the deck sway under them and almost lost their footing. "Jesus Christ," Bartlett gasped, "we going to sink?"

"Those explosions could've blown her bottom out," Gornt said urgently. "Come on!" He went through the door quickly, Bartlett followed.

Now Dunross was alone. The smoke was very bad, the heat and stench revolting him. He made a conscious effort not to flee, dominating his terror. At a sudden thought he ran back across the room to the doorway of the main staircase to make sure there was no one there. Then he saw the inert figure of a man on the staircase. Flames were everywhere. He felt his own fear surging again but once more he held it down, darted forward and began to drag the man back up the stairs. The Chinese was heavy and he did not know if the man was alive or dead. The heat was scorching and again he smelt burning flesh and felt his bile rising. Then Bartlett was beside him and together they half-dragged, half-carried the man across the room out onto the deck.

"Thanks," Dunross gasped.

Quillan Gornt came over to them, bent down and turned the man over. The face was partially burned. "You could have saved yourself the heroics. He's dead."

"Who is he?" Bartlett asked.

Gornt shrugged. "I don't know. Do you know him, Ian?"

Dunross was staring at the body. "Yes. It's Zep . . . Zeppelin Tung."

"Tightfist's son?" Gornt was surprised. "My God, he's put on weight. I'd never have recognized him." He got to his feet. "We'd better get everyone ready to jump. This boat's a graveyard." He saw Casey standing by the railing. "Are you all right?" he asked, going over to her.

"Yes, thanks. You?"

"Oh yes."

Orlanda was still beside her, staring blankly at the water below. People were milling around the deck. "I'd better help get them organized," Gornt said. "I'll be back in a second." He walked off.

Another explosion jarred the boat again. The list began to increase. Several people climbed over the side and jumped. Sampans went in to rescue them.

Christian Toxe had his arm around his Chinese wife and he was staring sourly overboard.

"You're going to have to jump, Christian," Dunross said.

"Into Aberdeen Harbor? You must be bloody joking old chap! If you don't bounce off all the bloody effluvia you'll catch the bloody plague."

"It's that or a red-hot tail," someone called out with a laugh.

At the end of the deck Sir Charles Pennyworth was holding on to the railing as he worked his way down the boat encouraging everyone. "Come on, young lady," he said to Orlanda, "it's an easy jump."

She shook her head, petrified. "No … no not yet … I can t swim."

Fleur Marlowe put her arm around her. "Don't worry, I can't swim either. I'm staying too."

Bartlett said, "Peter, you can hold her hand, she'll be safe. All you have to do, Fleur, is hold your breath!"

"She's not going to jump," Marlowe said quietly. "At least, not till the last second."

"It's safe."

"Yes, but it's not safe for her. She's enceinte. "

"What?"

"Fleur's with child. About three months."

"Oh Jesus."

Flames roared skyward out of one of the flues. Inside the top deck restaurant tables were afire and the great carved temple screens at the far end were burning merrily. There was a great gust of sparks as the inner central staircase collapsed. "Jesus, this whole boat's a firetrap. What about the folk below?" Casey asked.

"They're all out long ago," Dunross said, not believing it. Now that he was in the open he felt fine. His successful domination of his fear made him light-headed. "The view here is quite splendid, don't you think?"

Pennyworth called out jovially, "We're in luck! The ship's listing this way so when she goes down we'll be safe enough. Unless she capsizes. Just like old times," he added. "I was sunk three times in the Med."

"So was I," Marlowe said, "but it was in the Bangka Strait off Sumatra."

"I didn't know that, Peter," Fleur said.

"It was nothing."

"How deep's the water here?" Bartlett asked.

"It must be twenty feet or more," Dunross said.

"That'll be en—" There was a whoopwhoopwhoop of sirens as the police launch came bustling through the narrow byways between the islands of boats, its searchlight darting here and there. When it was almost alongside the Floating Dragon, the megaphone sounded loudly, first in Chinese, "All sampans clear the area, clear the area . . ." Then in English, "Those on the top deck prepare to abandon ship! The hull's holed, prepare to abandon ship!"

Christian Toxe muttered sourly to no one, "Buggered if I'm going to ruin my only dinner jacket."

His wife tugged at his arm. "You never liked it anyway, Chris."

"I like it now, old girl." He tried to smile. "You can't bloody swim either."

She shrugged. "I'll bet you fifty dollar you and me we swim like a one hundred percent eel."

"Mrs. Toxe, you have a bet. But it's only fitting we're the last to go. After all, I want an eyewitness account." He reached into his pocket and found his cigarettes, gave her one, trying to feel brave, frightened for her safety. He searched for a match, couldn't find one. She reached into her purse and rummaged around. Eventually she found her lighter. It lit on the third go. Both were oblivious of the flames that were ten feet behind them.

Dunross said, "You smoke too much, Christian."

The deck twisted sickeningly. The boat began to settle. Water was pouring through the great hole in her side. Firemen used their hoses with great bravery but they had little effect on the conflagration. A murmur went through the crowd as the whole boat shuddered. Two of the mooring guys snapped.

Pennyworth was leaning against the gunnel, helping others to jump clear. Quite a few were jumping now. Lady Joanna fell awkwardly. Paul Havergill helped his wife over the side. When he saw she had surfaced he leaped too. The police launch was still blaring in Cantonese to clear the area. Sailors threw life jackets over the side as others launched a cutter. Then, led by a young marine inspector, half a dozen sailors dived over the side to help those in trouble, men, women and a few children. A sampan darted in to help Lady Joanna, Havergill and his wife. Gratefully they clambered aboard the rickety craft. Others from the top deck plunged into the water.

The Floating Dragon was listing badly. Someone slipped on the top deck and knocked Pennyworth off balance. He half-jumped, half-fell backward before he could catch himself and fell like a stone. His head smashed into the stern of the sampan, snapping his neck, and he slithered into the water and sank. In the pandemonium no one noticed him.

Casey was hanging on to the railings with Bartlett, Dunross, Gornt, Orlanda and the Marlowes. Nearby, Toxe was puffing away, trying to summon his courage. His wife stubbed her cigarette out carefully. Flames were surging from the air vents, skylights and exit door, then the ship grounded heavily and lurched as another of her anchoring cables snapped. Gornt's hold was torn away and he crashed headfirst into the railing, stunning himself. Toxe and his wife lost their balance and went over the side, badly. Peter Marlowe held on to his wife and just managed to prevent her being smashed into a bulkhead as Bartlett and Casey half-tumbled, half-stumbled past and fell in a heap at the railing, Bartlett protecting her as best he could, her high heels dangerous.

Below, in the water, sailors were helping people to the rescue boat. One saw Toxe and his wife rise to the surface for an instant fifteen yards away, both gasping and spluttering, before they choked, and, flailing, went down again. At once he dived for them and after a seeming eternity, grabbed her clothing and shoved her, half-drowned, to the surface. The young lieutenant swam over to where he had seen Toxe and dived but missed him in the darkness. He came up for air and dived once more into the blackness, groping helplessly. When his lungs were bursting, his outstretched fingers touched some clothing and he grabbed and kicked for the surface. Toxe clung on in panic, retching and choking from all the seawater he had swallowed. The young man broke his hold, turned Toxe over and hauled him to the cutter.

Above them, the boat was tilted dangerously and Dunross picked himself up. He saw Gornt inert in a heap and he stumbled over to him. He tried to lift him, couldn't.

"I'm … I'm all right," Gornt gasped, coming around, then he shook his head like a dog. "Christ, thanks. . ." He looked up and saw it was Dunross. "Thanks," he said, smiled grimly as he got up shakily. "I'm still selling tomorrow and by next week you'll have had it."

Dunross laughed. "Jolly good luck! The idea of burning to death or drowning with you fills me with equal dismay."

Ten yards away, Bartlett was lifting Casey up. The angle of the deck was bad now, the fire worse. "This whole goddamn tub could capsize any second."

"What about them?" she asked quietly, nodding at Fleur and Orlanda.

He thought a second, then said decisively, "You go first, wait below!"

"Got it!" At once she gave him her small purse. He stuffed it into a pocket and hurried away as she kicked off her shoes, unzipped her long dress and stepped out of it. At once she gathered up the light silk material into a rope, tied it around her waist, swung neatly over the railing and stood there poised on the edge a moment, gauged her impact point carefully, and leapt out into a perfect swan dive. Gornt and Dunross watched her go, their immediate danger forgotten.

Bartlett was beside Orlanda now. He saw Casey break the surface cleanly and before Orlanda could do anything he lifted her over the railing and said, "Hold your breath, honey," and dropped her carefully. They all watched her fall. She plummeted down feet first and went into the water a few yards from Casey who had already anticipated the spot and had swum down below the surface. She caught Orlanda easily, kicked for the surface, and Orlanda was breathing almost before she realized she was off the deck. Casey held her safely and swam strongly for the cutter, in perfect control.

Gornt and Dunross cheered lustily. The boat lurched again and they almost lost their footing as Bartlett stumbled over to the Mar-lowes.

"Peter, how's your swimming?" Bartlett asked.

"Average."

"Trust me with her? I was a lifeguard, beach bum, for years."

Before Marlowe could say no, Bartlett lifted Fleur into his arms and stepped over the railing onto the ledge and poised himself for a second. "Just hold your breath!" She put one arm around his neck and held her nose then he stepped into space, Fleur tightly and safely in his arms. He plunged into the sea cleanly, protecting her from the shock with his own legs and body, and kicked smoothly for the surface. Her head was hardly under a few seconds and she was not even spluttering though her heart was racing. In seconds she was at the cutter. She hung on to the side and they looked back.

When Peter Marlowe saw she was safe his heart began again. "Oh, jolly good," he muttered.

"Did you see Casey go?" Dunross asked. "Fantastic!"

"What? Oh, no, tai-pan."

"Just bra and pants with stockings attached and no ironworks and a dream dive. Christ, what a figure!"

"Oh those're pantyhose," Marlowe said absently, looking at the water below, gathering his courage. "They've just come out in the States, they're all the rage . . ."

Dunross was hardly listening. "Christ Agnes, what a figure." "Ah yes," Gornt echoed. "And what cojones."

The boat shrieked as the last of its mooring guys snapped. The deck toppled nauseatingly.

As one, the last three men went overboard. Dunross and Gornt dived, Peter Marlowe jumped. The dives were good but both men knew they were not as good as Casey's.

38

11:30 P.M. :

On the other side of the island the old taxi was grinding up the narrow street high above West Point in Mid Levels, Suslev sprawled drunkenly in the backseat. The night was dark and he was singing a sad Russian ballad to the sweating driver, his tie askew, coat off, his shirt streaked with sweat. The overcast had thickened and lowered, the humidity was worse, the air stifling.

"Matyeryebyetsl" he muttered, cursing the heat, then smiled, the twisted obscenity pleasing him. He looked out the window. The city and harbor lights far below were misted by wisps of clouds, Kow-loon mostly obscured. "It'll rain soon, comrade," he said to the driver, his English slurred, not caring if the man understood or not.

The ancient taxi was wheezing. The engine coughed suddenly and that reminded him of Arthur's cough and their coming meeting. His excitement quickened.

The taxi had picked him up at the Golden Ferry Terminal, then climbed to Mid Levels on the Peak, turned west, skirting Government House where the governor lived, and the Botanical Gardens. Passing the palace, Suslev had wondered absently when the Hammer and Sickle would fly atop the empty flagpole. Soon, he had thought contentedly. With Arthur's help and Sevrin's—very soon. Just a few more years.

He peered at his watch. He would be a little late but that did not worry him. Arthur was always late, never less than ten minutes, never more than twenty. Dangerous to be a man of habit in our profession, he thought. But dangerous or not, Arthur's an enormous asset and Sevrin, his creation, a brilliant, vital tool in our KGB armament, buried so deep, waiting so patiently, like all the other Sevrins throughout the world. Only ninety-odd thousands of us

KGB officers and yet we almost rule the world. We've already changed it, changed it permanently, already we own half . . . and in such a short time, only since 1917.

So few of us, so many of them. But now our tentacles reach out into every corner. Our armies of assistants—informers, fools, parasites, traitors, the twisted self-deluders and misshapen, misbegotten believers we so deliberately recruit are in every land, feeding off one another like the vermin they all are, fueled by their own selfish wants and fears, all expendable sooner or later. And everywhere one of us, one of the elite, the KGB officers, in the center of each web, controlling guiding eliminating. Webs within webs up to the Presidium of all the Soviets and now so tightly woven into the fabric of Mother Russia as to be indestructible. We are modern Russia, he thought proudly. We're Lenin's spearhead. Without us and our techniques and our orchestrated use of terror there would be no Soviet Russia, no Soviet Empire, no driving force to keep the rulers of the Party all powerful—and nowhere on earth would there be a Communist state. Yes, we're the elite.

His smile deepened.

It was hot and sultry inside the taxi even though the windows were open as it curled upward through this residential area with its ribbons of great gardenless apartment blocks that sat on small pads chewed out of the mountainside. A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek and he wiped it off, his whole body feeling clammy.

I'd love a shower, he thought, letting his mind wander. A shower with cool sweet Georgian water, not this saline filth they put through Hong Kong's pipes. I'd love to be in the dacha near Tiflis, oh that would be grand! Yes, back in the dacha with Father and Mother and I'd swim in the stream running through our land and dry off in the sun, a great Georgian wine cooling in the stream and the mountains nearby. That's Eden if there ever was an Eden. Mountains and pastures, grapes and harvest and the air so clean.

He chuckled as he remembered the fabrication about his past he had told Travkin. That parasite! Just another fool, another tool to be used and, when blunt, discarded.

His father had been a Communist since the very early days—first in the Cheka, secretly, and then, since its inception in 1917, in the KGB. Now in his late seventies, still tall and upright and in honored retirement, he lived like an old-fashioned prince with servants and horses and bodyguards. Suslev was sure that he would inherit the same dacha, the same land, the same honor in due course. So would his son, a fledgling in the KGB, if his service continued to be excellent. His own work merited it, his record was impressive and he was only fifty-two.

Yes, he told himself confidently, in thirteen years I'm due for retirement. Thirteen great more years, helping the attack move forward, never easing up whatever the enemy does.

And who is the enemy, the real enemy?

All those who disobey us, all those who refuse our eminence-Russians most of all.

He laughed out loud.

The weary sour-faced young driver glanced up briefly at the rear mirror then went back to his driving, hoping his passenger was drunk enough to misread the meter and give him a great tip. He pulled up at the address he had been given.

Rose Court on Kotewall Road was a modern fourteen-story apartment block. Below were three floors of garage space and around it a small ribbon of concrete and below that, down a slight concrete embankment, was Sinclair Road and Sinclair Towers and more apartment blocks that nestled into the mountainside. This was a choice area to live. The view was grand, the apartments were below the clouds that frequently shrouded the upper reaches of the Peak where walls would sweat, linens would mildew and everything would seem to be perpetually damp.

The meter read 8.70 HK. Suslev peered at a bunch of notes, gave the driver 100 instead of a 10 and got out heavily. A Chinese woman was fanning herself impatiently. He lurched toward the apartment intercom. She told the driver to wait for her husband and looked after Suslev disgustedly.

His feet were unsteady. He found the button he sought and pressed it: Ernest Clinker, Esq., Manager.

"Yes?"

"Ernie, it's me, Gregor," he said thickly with a belch. "Are you in?"

The cockney voice laughed. "Not on your nelly! 'Course I'm in, mate! You're late! You sound as though you've been on a pub crawl! Beer's up, vodka's up, and me'n Mabel's here to greet you!"

Suslev headed for the elevator. He pressed the down button. On the lowest level he got out into the open garage and went to the far side. The apartment door was already open and a ruddy-faced, ugly little man in his sixties held out his hand. "Stone the bloody crows," Clinker said, a grin showing cheap false teeth, "you're a bit under the weather, ain'cher?" Suslev gave him a bear hug which was returned and they went inside.

The apartment was two tiny bedrooms, living room, kitchen, bathroom. The rooms were poorly furnished but pleasant, and the only real luxury a small tape deck that was playing opera loudly.

"Beer or vodka?"

Suslev beamed and belched. "First a piss, then vodka, then . . . then another and then . . . then bed." He belched hugely, lurching for the toilet.

"Right you are, Cap'n me old sport! Hey, Mabel, say hello to the Cap'n!" The sleepy old bulldog on her well-chewed mat opened one eye briefly, barked once and was almost instantly wheezily asleep again. Clinker beamed and went to the table and poured a stiff vodka and a glass of water. No ice. He drank some Guinness then called out, "How long you staying, Gregor?"

"Just tonight, tovarich. Perhaps tomorrow night. Tomorrow . . . tomorrow I've got to be back aboard. But tomorrow night . . . perhaps, eh?"

"What about Ginny? She throw you out again . . . ?"

In the nondescript van that was parked down the road, Roger Crosse, Brian Kwok and the police radio technician were listening to this conversation through a loudspeaker, the quality of the bug good with little static, the van packed with radio surveillance equipment. They heard Clinker chuckle and say again, "She threw you out, eh?"

"All evening we jig-jig and she . . . she says go stay with Ernie and leave me . . . leave me sleep!"

"You're a lucky bugger. She's a princess that one. Bring her over tomorrer."

"Yes … yes I … will. Yes she's the best."

They heard Suslev pour a bucket of water into the toilet and come back.

"Here, old chum!"

"Thank you." The sound of thirsty drinking. "I … I think … I think I want to lie down for … lie down. A few minutes . . ."

"A few hours more like! Don't you fret, I'll cook breakfast. Here, wanta 'nother drink. . . ."

The policemen in the van were listening carefully. Crosse had ordered the bug put into Clinker's apartment two years ago. Periodically it was monitored, always when Suslev was there. Suslev, always under loose surveillance, had met Clinker in a bar. Both men were submariners and they had struck up a friendship. Clinker had invited him to stay and from time to time Suslev did. At once Crosse had instituted a security check on Clinker but nothing untoward had been discovered. For twenty years Clinker had been a sailor with the Royal Navy. After the war he had drifted from job to job in the Merchant Marine, throughout Asia to Hong Kong, where he had settled when he retired. He was a quiet, easygoing man who lived alone and had been Rose Court's caretaker-janitor for five years now. Suslev and Clinker were a matched pair who drank a lot, caroused a lot and swapped stories. None of their hours of talk had produced anything considered valuable.

"He's had his usual tankful, Brian," Crosse said.

"Yes sir." Brian Kwok was bored and tried not to show it.

In the small living room Clinker gave Suslev his shoulder. "Come on, it's you for a kip." He stepped over the glass and helped Suslev into the small bedroom. Suslev lay down heavily and sighed.

Clinker closed the drapes then went over to another small tape deck and turned it on. In a moment heavy breathing and the beginnings of a snore came from the tape. Suslev got up soundlessly, his pretended drunkenness gone. Clinker was already on his hands and knees. He pulled away a mat and opened the trapdoor. Noiselessly, Suslev went down into it. Clinker grinned, slapped him on the back and closed the well-greased door after him. The trapdoor steps led to a rough tunnel that quickly joined the large, dry, subterranean culvert storm drain. Suslev picked his way carefully, using the flashlight that was in a bracket at the bottom of the steps. In a moment he heard a car grinding over Sinclair Road just above his head. A few more steps and he was below Sinclair Towers. Another trapdoor led to a janitor's closet. This let out onto some disused back stairs. He began to climb.

Roger Crosse was still listening to the heavy breathing, mixed with opera. The van was cramped and close, their shirts sweaty. Crosse was smoking. "Sounds like he's bedded down for the night," he said. They could hear Clinker humming and his movements as he cleared up the broken glass. A red warning light on the radio panel started winking. The operator clicked on the sender. "Patrol car 1423, yes?"

"Headquarters for Superintendent Crosse. Urgent."

"This's Crosse."

"Duty Office, sir. A report's just come in that the Floating Dragon restaurant's on fire . . ." Brian Kwok gasped. ". . . Fire engines're already there, and the constable said that as many as twenty may be dead or drowned. It seems the boat caught fire from the kitchen, sir. There were several explosions. They blew out most of the hull and . . . Just a moment sir, there's another report coming in from Marine."

They waited. Brian Kwok broke the silence. "Dunross?"

"The party was on the top deck?" Crosse asked.

"Yes sir."

"He's much too smart to get burned to death—or drowned," Crosse said softly. "Was the fire an accident, or deliberate?"

Brian Kwok did not answer.

The HQ voice came in again. "Marine reports that the boat's capsized. They say it's a proper carve-up and it looks like a few got sucked under."

"Was our agent with our VIP?"

"No sir, he was waiting on the wharf near his car. There was no time to get to him."

"What about the people caught on the top deck?"

"Hang on a moment, I'll ask. . . ."

Again a silence. Brian Kwok wiped the sweat off.

". . . They say, twenty or thirty up there jumped, sir. Unfortunately most of them abandoned ship a bit late, just before the boat capsized. Marine doesn't know how maay were swamped."

"Stand by." Crosse thought a moment. Then he spoke into the mike again. "I'm sending Superintendent Kwok there at once in this transport. Send a team of frogmen to meet him. Ask the navy to assist, Priority One. I'll be at home if I'm needed." He clicked off the mike. Then to Brian Kwok, "I'll walk from here. Call me the moment you know about Dunross. If he's dead we'll visit the bank vaults at once and to hell with the consequences. Fast as you can now!"

He got out. The van took off up the hill. Aberdeen was over the spine of mountains and due south. He glanced at Rose Court a moment, then down across the street below to Sinclair Towers. One of his teams was still watching the entrance, waiting patiently for Tsu-yan's return. Where is that bastard? he asked himself irritably.

Very concerned, he walked off down the hill. Rain began to splatter him. His footsteps quickened.

Suslev took an ice-cold beer from the modern refrigerator and opened it. He drank gratefully. 32 Sinclair Towers was spacious, rich, clean and well furnished, with three bedrooms and a large living room. It was on the eleventh floor. There were three apartments to each floor around two cramped elevators and exit steps. Mr. and Mrs. John Chen owned 31. 33 belonged to a Mr. K. V. Lee. Arthur had told Suslev that K. V. Lee was a cover name for Ian Dunross who, following the pattern of his predecessors, had sole access to three or four private apartments spread around the Colony. Suslev had never met either John Chen or Dunross though he had seen them at the races and elsewhere many times.

If we have to interview the tai-pan what could be more convenient? he thought grimly. And with Travkin as an alternate bait. . . .

A sudden squall whipped the curtains that were drawn over open windows and he heard the rain. He shut the windows carefully and looked out. Great drops were streaking the windows. Streets and rooftops were already wet. Lightning went across the sky. The rumble of thunder followed. Already the temperature had dropped a few degrees. This'll be a good storm, he told himself gratefully, pleased to be out of Ginny Fu's tiny, sleazy fifth-floor walkup in Mong Kok, and equally happy not to be at Clinker's.

Arthur had arranged everything: Clinker, Ginny Fu, this safe house, the tunnel, certainly as well as he himself could have done in Vladivostok. Clinker was a submariner and cockney and everything he was supposed to be except that he had always detested the officer class. Arthur had said it had been easy to subvert Clinker to the cause, using the man's built-in suspicions, hatreds and secretive-ness. "Ugly Ernie knows only a little about you, Gregor—of course that you're Russian and captain of the Ivanov. As to the tunnel, I told him you're having an affair with a married woman in Sinclair Towers, the wife of one of the Establishment tai-pans. I told him the tape-recorded snores and secrecy are because the rotten Peelers are after you and they've sneaked in and bugged his flat."

"Peelers?"

"That's the cockney nickname for police. It came from Sir Robert Peel, Prime Minister of England, who founded the first police force.

Cockneys've always hated Peelers and Ugly Ernie would delight in outwitting them. Just be pro-Royal Navy and he's your dog until death. . . ."

Suslev smiled. Clinker's not a bad man, he thought, just a bore.

He sipped his beer as he wandered back into the living room. The afternoon paper was there. It was the Guardian Extra, the headlines screaming, MOB MURDERS FRAGRANT FLOWER, and a good photograph of the riot. He sat in an armchair and read quickly.

Then his sharp ears heard the elevator stop. He went to the table beside the door and slid the loaded automatic with its silencer from under it. He pocketed the gun and peered through the spy hole.

The doorbell was muted. He opened it and smiled. "Come in, old friend." He embraced Jacques deVille warmly. "It's been a long time."

"Yes, yes it has, comrade," deVille said as warmly. The last time he had seen Suslev was in Singapore, five years before, at a secret meeting arranged by Arthur just after deVille had been induced to join Sevrin. He and Suslev had met just as secretly the first time in the great port of Lyons in France in June '41, just days before Nazi Germany invaded Soviet Russia when the two countries were outwardly still allies. At that time deVille was in the Maquis and Suslev second-in-command and secret political commissar of a Soviet submarine that was ostensibly in for a refit from patrol in the Atlantic. It was then that deVille was asked if he would like to carry on the real war, the war against the capitalist enemy as a secret agent after the fascists had been destroyed.

He had agreed with all his heart.

It had been easy for Suslev to subvert him. Because of deVille's potential after the war, the KGB had secretly had him betrayed to the Gestapo, then rescued from a Gestapo prison death by Communist guerrillas. The guerrillas had given him false proof that he had been betrayed by one of his own men for money. DeVille was thirty-two then and, like many, infatuated with socialism and with some of the teachings of Marx and Lenin. He had never joined the French Communist Party but now, because of Sevrin, he was an honorary captain in the KGB Soviet Security Force.

"You seem tired, Frederick," Suslev said, using deVille's cover name. "Tell me what's wrong,"

"Just a family problem."

"Tell me."

Suslev listened intently to deVilla's sad story about his son-in-law and daughter. Since their meeting in 1941 Suslev had been deVille's controller. In 1947 he had ordered him out to Hong Kong to join Struan's. Before the war deVille and his father had owned a highly successful import-export business with close ties to Struan's—as well as family ties—so the change had been easy and welcome. DeVille's secret assignment was to become a member of the Inner Court and, at length, tai-pan.

"Where's your daughter now?" he asked compassionately.

DeVille told him.

"And the driver of the other car?" Suslev committed the name and address to memory. "I'll see that he's dealt with."

"No," deVille said at once. "It… it was an accident. We cannot punish a man for an accident."

"He was drunk. There is no excuse for drunk driving. In any event you are important to us. We take care of our own. I will deal with him."

DeVille knew there was no point in arguing. A gust of rain battered the windows. "Merde, but the rain's good. The temperature must be down five degrees. Will it last?"

"The storm front's reported to be big."

DeVille watched globules running down the pane, wondering why he had been summoned. "How are things with you?"

"Very good. Drink?" Suslev went to the mirrored bar. "There's good vodka."

"Vodka's fine, please. But a short one."

"If Dunross retired are you the next tai-pan?"

"I would think it's between four of us: Gavallan, David Mac-Struan, myself and Linbar Struan."

"In that order?"

"I don't know. Except Linbar's probably last. Thanks." DeVille accepted his drink. They toasted each other. "I'd bet on Gavallan."

"Who's this MacStruan?"

"A distant cousin. He's done his five years as a China Trader. At the moment he's heading up our expansion into Canada—we're trying to diversify and get into wood fibers, copper, all the Canadian minerals, mostly out of British Columbia."

"How good is he?"

"Very good. Very tough. A very dirty fighter. Forty-one, ex-lieutenant, Paratroopers. His left hand was almost ripped off over

Burma by a tangle in the shrouds of his parachute. He just tied a tourniquet around it and carried on fighting. That earned him a Military Cross. If I was tai-pan I'd choose him." DeVille shrugged. "By our company law only the tai-pan can appoint his successor. He can do it anytime, even in his will if he wants. Whatever way it's done it's binding on the Noble House."

Suslev watched him. "Has Dunross made a will?"

"lan's very efficient."

A silence gathered.

"Another vodka?"

"Non, merci, I'll stay with this one. Is Arthur joining us?"

"Yes. How could we tip the scales for you?"

DeVille hesitated, then shrugged.

Suslev poured himself another drink. "It would be easy to discredit this MacStruan and the others. Yes. Easy to eliminate them." Suslev turned and looked at him. "Even Dunross."

"No. That's not the solution."

"Is there another one?"

"Being patient." DeVille smiled but his eyes were very tired and shadows lurked there. "I would not like to be the cause of … of his removal or that of the others."

Suslev laughed. "It's not necessary to kill to eliminate! Are we barbarians? Of course not." He was watching his protege closely. DeVille needs toughening, he was thinking. "Tell me about the American, Bartlett, and the Struan-Par-Con deal."

DeVille told him all he knew. "Bartlett's money will give us everything we need."

"Can this Gornt effect a takeover?"

"Yes and no. And possibly. He's tough and he truly hates us. It's a long-term rival—"

"Yes, I know." Suslev was surprised deVille kept repeating information he already had been given. It's a bad sign, he thought, and glanced at his watch. "Our friend's twenty-five minutes late. That's unusual." Both men were too seasoned to worry. Meetings such as this could never be completely firm because no one could ever control the unexpected happening.

"Did you hear about the fire in Aberdeen?" deVille asked at the sudden thought.

"What fire?"

"There was a bulletin over the wireless just before I came up."

DeVille and his wife had apartment 20 on the sixth floor. "The Floating Dragon restaurant at Aberdeen burned down. Perhaps Arthur was there."

"Did you see him?" Suslev was suddenly concerned. "No. But I could easily have missed him. I left well before dinner."

Suslev sipped his vodka thoughtfully. "Has he told you yet who the others are in Sevrin?"

"No. I asked him, judiciously, as you ordered, but he nev—" "Order? I don't order you, tovarich, I just suggest." "Of course. All he said was, 'We'll all meet in due course.'" "We'll both know soon. He's perfectly correct to be cautious." Suslev had wanted to test deVille and test Arthur. It was one of the most basic rules in the KGB that you can never be too cautious about your spies however important they are. He remembered his instructor hammering into them another direct quote from Sun Tzu's The Art of War, which was obligatory reading for all Soviet military: "There are five classes of spies—local spies, inward spies, converted spies, doomed spies and surviving spies. When all five categories are working in concert, the state will be secure and the army inviolate. Local spies are those who are local inhabitants. Inward spies are officials of the enemy. Converted spies are the enemies' spies you have converted. Doomed spies are those fed false information and reported to the enemy who will torture this false information from them and so be deceived. Surviving spies are those who bring back news from the enemy camp. Remember, in the whole army, none should more liberally be rewarded. But if a secret piece of news is divulged by a spy before the time is ripe, he or she must be put to death, together with the person to whom the secret is told."

If the other AMG reports are like the one already discovered, Suslev thought dispassionately, then Dunross is doomed.

He was watching deVUle, measuring him, liking him, glad that again he had passed that test—and Arthur. The last paragraph of The Art of War—so important a book to the Soviet elite that many knew the slim volume by heart—sprang into his mind: "It is only the enlightened ruler and wise general who will use the highest intelligence of the army for the purposes of spying. Spies are the most important element in war because upon them depends an army's ability to move." That's what the KGB does, he thought contentedly. We try for the best talent in all the Soviets. We are the elite. We need spies of all five categories. We need these men, Jacques and Arthur and all the others.

Yes, we need them very much.

"Arthur's never given any clue who the others are. Nothing," deVille was saying, "only that there are seven of us."

"We must be patient," Suslev said, relieved that Arthur was correctly cautious too, for part of the plan was that the seven should never know each other, should never know that Suslev was Sevrin's controller and Arthur's superior. Suslev knew the identities of all the Sevrin moles. With Arthur he had approved all of them over the years, continually testing them all, honing their loyalties, eliminating some, substituting others. You always test, and the moment a spy wavers that's the time to neutralize or eliminate him—before he neutralizes or eliminates you. Even Ginny Fu, he thought, though she's not a spy and knows nothing. You can never be sure of anyone except yourself—that's what our Soviet system teaches. Yes. It's time I took her on the trip I've always promised. A short voyage next week. To Vladivostok. Once she's there she can be cleansed and rehabilitated and made useful, never to return here.

He sipped his vodka, rolling the fiery liquid around his tongue. "We'll give Arthur half an hour. Please," he said, motioning to a chair.

DeVille moved the newspaper out of the way and sat in the armchair. "Did you read about the bank runs?"

Suslev beamed. "Yes, tovarich. Marvelous."

"Is it a KGB operation?"

"Not to my knowledge," Suslev said jovially. "If it is there's promotion for someone." It was a key Leninistic policy to pay particular attention to Western banks that were at the core of Western strength, to infiltrate them to the highest level, to encourage and assist others to foment disaster against Western currencies but at the same time to borrow capital from them to the utter maximum, whatever the interest, the longer the loan the better, making sure that no Soviet ever defaulted on any repayment, whatsoever the cost. "The crash of the Ho-Pak will certainly bring down others. The papers say there might even be a run on the Victoria, eh?"

DeVille shivered in spite of himself and Suslev noticed it. His concern deepened. "Merde, but that would wreck Hong Kong," deVille said. "Oh, I know the sooner the better but . . . but being buried so deep, sometimes you forget who you really are."

"That's nothing to worry about. It happens to all of us. You're in turmoil because of your daughter. What father wouldn't be? It will pass."

"When can we do something? I'm tired, so tired of waiting."

"Soon. Listen," Suslev said to encourage him. "In January I was at a top echelon meeting in Moscow. Banking was high on our list. At our last count we're indebted to the capitalists nearly 30 billions in loans—most of that to America."

DeVille gasped. "Madonna, I had no idea you'd been so successful."

Suslev's smile broadened. "That's just Soviet Russia! Our satellites are in for another 6.3 billions. East Germany's just got another 1.3 billion to purchase capitalist rolling mills, computer technology and a lot of things we need." He laughed, drained his glass and poured another, the liquor oiling his tongue. "I really don't understand them, the capitalists. They delude themselves. We're openly committed to consume them but they give us the means to do it. They're astonishing. If we have time, twenty years—at the most twenty—by that time our debt will be 60, 70 billions and as far as they're concerned we'll still be a triple-A risk, never having defaulted on a payment ever … in war, peace or depression." He let out a sudden burst of laughter. "What was it the Swiss banker said? 'Lend a little and you have a debtor—lend a lot and you have a partner!' 70 billions, Jacques old friend, and we own them. 70 and we can twist their policies to suit ourselves and then at any moment of our own choosing the final ploy: 'So sorry, Mr. Capitalist Zionist Banker, we regret we're broke! Oh very sorry but we can no longer repay the loans, not even the interest on the loans. Very sorry but from this moment all our present currency's valueless. Our new currency's a red ruble, one red ruble's worth a hundred of your capitalist dollars. . . .' "

Suslev laughed, feeling very happy. ". . . and however rich the banks are collectively they'll never be able to write off 70 billions. Never. 70 plus by that time with all the Eastern Bloc billions! And if the sudden announcement's timed to one of their inevitable capitalistic recessions as it will be … they'll be up to their Hebrew bankers' noses in their own panic shit, begging us to save their rotten skins." He added contemptuously, "The stupid bastards deserve to lose! Why should we fight them when their own greed and stupidity's destroying them. Eh?" DeVille nodded uneasily. Suslev frightened him. I must be getting old, he thought. In the early days it was so easy to believe in the cause of the masses. The cries of the downtrodden were so loud and clear then. But now? Now they're not so clear. I'm still committed, deeply committed. I regret nothing. France will be better Communist.

Will it?

I don't know anymore, not for certain, not as I used to. It's a pity for all people that there must be some "ism" or other, he told himself, trying to cover his anguish. Better if there were no "isms," just my beloved Cote d'Azur basking in the sun.

"I tell you, old friend, Stalin and Beria were geniuses," Suslev was saying. "They're the greatest Russians that have ever been."

DeVille just managed to keep the shock off his face. He was remembering the horror of the German occupation, the humbling of France, all the villages and hamlets and vineyards, remembering that Hitler would never have dared attack Poland and start it all without Stalin's nonaggression pact to protect his back. Without Stalin there would have been no war, no holocaust and we would all be better off. "Twenty million Russians? Countless millions of others," he said.

"A modest cost." Suslev poured again, his zeal and the vodka taking him. "Because of Stalin and Beria we have all Eastern Europe from the Baltic to the Balkans—Estonia, Lithuania, Latvia, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Rumania, Bulgaria, all Poland, Prussia, half of Germany, Outer Mongolia." Suslev belched happily. "North Korea, and footholds everywhere else. Their Operation Lion smashed the British Empire. Because of their support the United Nations was birthed to give us our greatest weapon in our arsenal of many weapons. And then there's Israel." He began to laugh. "My father was one of the controllers of that program."

DeVille felt the hackles of his neck rise. "What?"

"Israel was a Stalin-Beria coup of monumental proportions! Who helped it, overt and covert, come into being? Who gave it immediate recognition? We did, and why?" Suslev belched again, "To cement into the guts of Arabia a perpetual cancer that will suppurate and destroy both sides and, along with them, bring down the industrial might of the West. Jew against Mohammedan against Christian. Those fanatics'll never live at peace with one another even though they could, easily. They will never bury their differences even if it costs them their stupid lives." He laughed and stared at his glass Wearily, swirling the liquid around. DeVille watched him, hating him, wanting to give him the lie back, afraid to, knowing himself totally in Suslev's power. Once, some years ago, he had balked over sending some routine Struan figures to a box number in Berlin. Within a day, a stranger had phoned him at home. Such a call had never happened before. It was friendly. But he knew.

DeVille suppressed a shudder and kept his face clear as Suslev glanced up at him.

"Don't you agree, tovarich?" the KGB man said, beaming. "I swear I'll never understand the capitalists. They make enemies of four hundred million Arabs who have all the world's real oil reserves one day they will need so desperately. And soon we'll have Iran and the Gulf and the Strait of Hormuz. Then we'll have a hand on the West's tap, then they're ours and no need for war—just execution." Suslev drained his vodka and poured another.

DeVille watched him, loathing him now, wondering frantically about his own role. Is it for this that I have been almost a perfect mole, for sixteen years keeping myself prepared and ready, with no suspicion against me? Even Susanne suspects nothing and everyone believes I'm anti-Communist, pro-Struan's which is the arch-capitalistic creation in all Asia. Dirk Struan's thoughts permeate us. Profit. Profit for the tai-pan and the Noble House and then Hong Kong in that order and the hell with everyone except the Crown, England and China. And even if I don't become tai-pan, I can still make Sevrin the wrecker of China that Suslev and Arthur want it to be. But do I want to now? Now that, for the first time, I've really seen into this . . . this monster and all their hypocrisy?

"Stalin," he said, almost wincing under Suslev's gaze. "Did . . . you ever meet him?"

"I was near him once. Ten feet away. He was tiny but you could feel his power. That was in 1953 at a party Beria gave for some senior KGB officers. My father was invited and I was allowed to go with him." Suslev took another vodka, hardly seeing him, swept by the past and by his family's involvement in the movement. "Stalin was there, Beria, Malenkov . . . Did you know Stalin's real name was losif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili? He was the son of a shoemaker, in Tiflis, my home, destined for the priesthood but expelled from the seminary there. Strange strange strange!"

They touched glasses.

"No need for you to be so solemn, comrade," he said, misreading deVille. "Whatever your personal loss. You're part of the future, part of the march to victory!" Suslev drained his glass. "Stalin must have died a happy man. We should be so lucky, eh?"

"And Beria?"

"Beria tried to take power too late. He failed. We in the KGB are like Japanese in that we too agree the only sin is failure. But Stalin . . . There's a story my father tells that when at Yalta, for no concession, Roosevelt agreed to give Stalin Manchuria and the Kuriles which guaranteed us dominance over China and Japan and all Asian waters, Stalin had a hemorrhage choking back his laughter and almost died!"

After a pause, deVille said, "And Solzhenitsyn and the gulags?"

"We're at war, my friend, there are traitors within. Without terror how can the few rule the many? Stalin knew that. He was a truly great man. Even his death served us. It was brilliant of Khrushchev to use him to 'humanize' the USSR."

"That was just another ploy?" deVille asked, shaken.

"That would be a state secret." Suslev swallowed a belch. "It doesn't matter, Stalin will be returned to his glory soon. Now, what about Ottawa?"

"Oh. I've been in contact with Jean-Charles an—" The phone rang abruptly. A single ring. Their eyes went to it, their breathing almost stopped. After twenty-odd seconds there was a second single ring. Both men relaxed slightly. Another twenty-odd seconds and the third ring became continuous. One ring meant "Danger leave immediately"; two, that the meeting was canceled; three that whoever was calling would be there shortly; three becoming continuous, that it was safe to talk. Suslev picked up the phone. He heard breathing, then Arthur asked in his curious accent, "Is Mr. Lop-sing there?"

"There's no Lop-ting here, you have a wrong number," Suslev said in a different voice, concentrating with an effort.

They went through the code carefully, Suslev further reassured by Arthur's slight, dry cough. Then Arthur said, "I cannot meet tonight. Would Friday at three be convenient?" Friday meant Thursday—tomorrow—Wednesday meant Tuesday, and so on. The three was a code for a meeting place: the Happy Valley Racecourse at the dawn workout.

Tomorrow at dawn!

"Yes."

The phone clicked off. Only the dial tone remained.

THURSDAY

39

4:50 A.M. :

About an hour before dawn in the pouring rain Goodweather Poon looked down at the half-naked body of John Chen and cursed. He had been through his clothes carefully and sifted through endless pounds of mud from the grave that the two youths, Kin Pak and Dog-eared Chen, had dug. But he had found nothing—no coins or parts of coins or jewelry, nothing. And Four Finger Wu had said earlier, "You find that half-coin, Goodweather Poon!" Then the old man had given him further instructions and Goodweather Poon was very pleased because that relieved him of any responsibility and he could then make no mistake.

He had ordered Dog-eared Chen and Kin Pak to carry the body downstairs and had threatened Smallpox Kin, who nursed his mutilated hand, that if the youth moaned once more he would slice out his tongue. They had left Father Kin's body in an alley. Then Goodweather Poon had sought out the King of the Beggars of Kowloon City who was a distant cousin of Four Finger Wu. All beggars were members of the Beggars' Guild and there was one king in Hong Kong, one in Kowloon and one in Kowloon City. In olden days begging was a lucrative profession, but now, due to stiff prison sentences and fines and plenty of well-paying jobs, it was not.

"You see, Honored Beggar King, this acquaintance of ours has just died," Goodweather Poon explained patiently to the distinguished old man. "He has no relations, so he's been put out in Flowersellers' Alley. My High Dragon would certainly appreciate a little help. Perhaps you could arrange a quiet burial?" He negotiated politely then paid the agreed price and went off to their taxi and car that waited outside the city limits, happy that now the body would vanish forever without a trace. Kin Pak was already in the taxi's front seat. He got in beside him. "Guide us to John Chen," he ordered. "And be quick!"

"Take the Sha Tin Road," Kin Pak said importantly to the driver. Dog-eared Chen was cowering in the backseat with more of Good-weather Poon's fighters. Smallpox Kin and the others followed in the car.

The two vehicles went northwest into the New Territories on the Sha Tin-Tai Po road that curled through villages and resettlement areas and shantytowns of squatters, through the mountain pass, skirting the railway that headed north for the border, past rich market gardens heavy with the smell of dung. Just before the fishing village of Sha Tin with the sea on their right, they turned left off the main road onto a side road, the surface broken and puddled. In a glade of trees they stopped and got out.

It was warm in the rain, the land sweet-smelling. Kin Pak took the shovel and led the way into the undergrowth. Goodweather Poon held the flashlight as Kin Pak, Dog-eared Chen and Smallpox Kin searched. It was difficult in the darkness for them to find the exact place. Twice they had begun to dig, before Kin Pak remembered their father had marked the spot with a crescent rock. Cursing and soaked, at length they found the rock and began to dig. The earth was parched under the surface. Soon they had unearthed the corpse which was wrapped in a blanket. The smell was heavy. Though Goodweather Poon had made them strip the body and had searched diligently, nothing was to be found.

"You sent everything else to Noble House Chen?" he asked again, rain on his face, his clothes soaking.

"Yes," the young Kin Pak said truculently. "How many fornicating times do I have to tell you?" He was very weary, his clothes sodden, and he was sure he was going to die.

"All of you take your manure-infested clothes off. Shoes socks everything. I want to go through your pockets."

They obeyed. Kin Pak wore a string around his neck with a cheap circle of jade on it. Almost everyone in China wore a piece of jade for good luck, because everyone knew if an evil god caused you to stumble, the spirit of jade would get between you and the evil and take the brunt of the fall from you and shatter, saving you from shattering. And if it didn't, then the Jade God was regretfully sleeping and that was your joss never mind. Goodweather Poon found nothing in Kin Pak's pockets. He threw the clothes back at him. By now he was soaked too and very irritable. "You can dress, and dress the corpse again. And hurry it up!"

Dog-eared Chen had almost 400 HK and a jade bracelet of good quality. One of the men took the jade and Poon pocketed the money and turned on Smallpox Kin. All their eyes popped as they saw the big roll of notes he found in the youth's pants pocket.

Goodweather Poon shielded it carefully from the rain. "Where in the name of Heavenly Whore did you get all this?"

He told them about shaking down the lucky ones outside the Ho-Pak and they laughed and complimented him on his sagacity. "Very good, very clever," Poon said. "You're a good businessman. Put your clothes on. What was the old woman's name?"

"She called herself Ah Tarn." Smallpox Kin wiped the rain out of his eyes, his toes twisting into the mud, his mutilated hand on fire now and aching very much. "I'll take you to her if you want."

"Hey, I need the fornicating light here!" Kin Pak called out. He was on his hands and knees, fighting John Chen's clothes into place. "Can't someone give me a hand?"

"Help him!"

Dog-eared Chen and Smallpox Kin hurried to help as Good-weather Poon directed the circle of light back on the corpse. The body was swollen and puffy, the rain washing the dirt away. The back of John Chen's head was blood-matted and crushed but his face was still recognizable.

"Ayeeyah," one of his men said, "let's get on with it. I feel evil spirits lurking hereabouts."

"Just his trousers and shirt'll do," Goodweather Poon said sourly. He waited until the body was partially dressed. Then he turned his eyes on them. "Now which one of you motherless whores helped the old man kill this poor fornicator?"

Kin Pak said, "I already t—" He stopped as he saw the other two point at him and say in unison, "He did," and back away from him.

"I suspected it all along!" Goodweather Poon was pleased that he had at last got to the bottom of the mystery. He pointed his stubby forefinger at Kin Pak. "Get in the trench and lie down."

"We have an easy plan how to kidnap Noble House Chen himself that'll bring us all twice, three times what this fornicator brought. I'll tell you how, heya?" Kin Pak said.

Goodweather Poon hesitated a moment at this new thought.

Then he remembered Four Fingers's instructions. "Put your face in the dirt in the trench!"

Kin Pak looked at the inflexible eyes and knew he was dead. He shrugged. Joss. "I piss on all your generations," he said and got into the grave and lay down.

He put his head on his arms in the dirt and began to shut out the light of his life. From nothing into nothing, always part of the Kin family, of all its generations, living forever in its perpetual stream, from generation to generation, down through history into the everlasting future.

Goodweather Poon took up one of the shovels and because of the youth's courage he dispatched him instantly by putting the sharp edge of the blade between his vertebrae and shoving downward. Kin Pak died without knowing it.

"Fill up the grave!"

Dog-eared Chen was petrified but he rushed to obey. Good-weather Poon laughed and tripped him and gave him a savage kick for his cowardice. The man half-fell into the trench. At once the shovel in Poon's hands whirled in an arc and crunched into the back of Dog-eared Chen's head and he collapsed with a sigh on top of Kin Pak. The others laughed and one said, "Eeeee, you used that like a foreign devil cricket bat! Good. Is he dead?"

Goodweather Poon did not answer, just looked at the last Werewolf, Smallpox Kin. All their eyes went to him. He stood rigid in the rain. It was then that Goodweather Poon noticed the string tight around his neck. He took up the flashlight and went over to him and saw that the other end was dangling down his back. Weighing it down was a broken half-coin, a hole bored carefully into it. It was a copper cash and seemed ancient.

"All gods fart in Tsao Tsao's face! Where did you get this?" he asked, beginning to beam.

"My father gave it to me."

"Where did he get it, little turd?"

"He didn't tell me."

"Could he have got it from Number One Son Chen?"

Another shrug. "I don't know. I wasn't here when they killed him. I'm innocent on my mother's head!"

With a sudden movement Goodweather Poon ripped the necklace off. "Take him to the car," he said to two of his fighters. "Watch him very carefully. We'll take him back with us. Yes, we'll take him back. The rest of you fill up the grave and camouflage it carefully." Then he ordered the last two of his men to pick up the blanket containing John Chen and to follow him. They did so awkwardly in the darkness.

He trudged off toward the Sha Tin Road, skirting the puddles. Nearby was a broken-down bus shelter. When the road was clear he motioned to his men and they quickly unwrapped the blanket and propped the body in a corner. Then he took out the sign that the Werewolves had made previously and stuck it carefully on the body.

"Why're you doing that, Goodweather Poon, heya? Why're you do—"

"Because Four Fingers told me to! How do I know? Keep your fornicating mouth sh—"

Headlights from an approaching car rounding the bend washed them suddenly. They froze and turned their faces away, pretending to be waiting passengers. Once the car was safely past they took to their heels. Dawn was streaking the sky, the rain lessening.

The phone jangled and Armstrong came out of sleep heavily. In the half-darkness he groped for the receiver and picked it up. His wife stirred uneasily and awoke.

"Divisional Sergeant Major Tang-po, sir, sorry to wake you, sir, but we've found John Chen. The Were—"

Armstrong was instantly awake. "Alive?"

"Dew neh loh moh no sir, his body was found near Sha Tin at a bus stop, a bus shelter, sir, and those fornicating Werewolves've left a note on his chest, sir: This Number One Son Chen had the stupidity to try to escape us. No one can escape the Werewolves! Let all Hong Kong beware. Our eyes are everywhere!' He w—"

Armstrong listened, appalled, while the excited man told how police at Sha Tin had been summoned by an early-morning bus passenger. At once they had cordoned off the area and phoned CID Kowloon. "What should we do, sir?"

"Send a car for me at once."

Armstrong hung up and rubbed the tiredness out of his eyes. He wore a sarong and it looked well on his muscular body.

"Trouble?" Mary stifled a yawn and stretched. She was just forty, two years younger than he, brown-haired, taut, her face friendly though lined.

He told her, watching her.

"Oh." The color had left her face. "How terrible. Oh, how terrible. Poor John!"

"I'll make the tea," Armstrong said.

"No, no I'll do that." She got out of bed, her body firm. "Will you have time?"

"Just a cuppa. Listen to the rain . . . about bloody time!" Thoughtfully Armstrong went off to the bathroom and shaved and dressed quickly as only a policeman or doctor can. Two gulps of the hot sweet tea and just before the toast the doorbell rang. "I'll call you later. How about curry tonight? We can go to Singh's."

"Yes," she said. "Yes, if you'd like."

The door closed behind him.

Mary Armstrong stared at the door. Tomorrow is our fifteenth anniversary, she thought. I wonder if he'll remember. Probably not. In fourteen times, he's been out on a case eight, once I was in hospital and the rest … the rest, were all right, I suppose.

She went to the window and pulled the curtains back. Torrents of rain streaked the windows in the half-light, but now it was cool and pleasant. The apartment had two bedrooms and it was their furniture though the apartment belonged to the government and went with the job.

Christ, what a job!

Rotten for a policeman's wife. You spend your life waiting for him to come home, waiting for some rotten villain to knife him, or shoot him or hurt him—most nights you sleep alone or you're being woken up at all rotten hours with some more rotten disasters and off he goes again. Overworked and underpaid. Or you go to the Police Club and sit around with other wives while the men get smashed and you swap lies with the wives and drink too many pink gins. At least they have children. Children! Oh God … I wish we had children. But then, most of the wives complain about how tired they are, how exhausting children are, and about amahs and school and the expense … and everything. What the hell does this life mean? What a rotten waste! What a perfectly rotten—

The phone rang. "Shut up!" she shrieked at it, then laughed nervously. "Mary Mary quite contrary where did your temper go?" she chided herself and picked the phone up. "Hello?" "Mary, Brian Kwok, sorry to wake you but is Rob—"

"Oh hello, dear. No, sorry, he's just left. Something about the Werewolves."

"Yes, I just heard, that's what I was calling about. He's gone to Sha Tin?"

"Yes. Are you going too?"

"No. I'm with the Old Man."

"Poor you." She heard him laugh. They chatted for a moment then he rang off.

She sighed and poured herself another cup of tea, added milk and sugar and thought about John Chen. Once upon a time she had been madly in love with him. They had been lovers for more than two years and he had been her first. This was in the Japanese Internment Camp in Stanley Prison on the south part of the island.

In 1940 she had passed the Civil Service exam in England with honors and after a few months had been sent out to Hong Kong, around the Cape. She had arrived late in '41, just nineteen, and just in time to be interned with all European civilians, there to stay until 1945.

I was twenty-two when I got out and the last two years, we were lovers, John and I. Poor John, nagged constantly by his rotten father, and his sick mother, with no way to escape them and almost no privacy in the camp, cooped up with families, children, babes, husbands, wives, hatred hunger envy and little laughter all those years. Loving him made the camp bearable. . . .

I don't want to think about those rotten times.

Or the rotten time after the camp when he married his father's choice, a rotten little harpy but someone with money and influence and Hong Kong family connections. I had none. I should have gone home but I didn't want home—what was there to go home to? So I stayed and worked in the Colonial Office and had a good time, good enough. And then I met Robert.

Ah, Robert. You were a good man and good to me and we had fun and I was a good wife to you, still try to be. But I can't have children and you … we both want children and one day a few years ago, you found out about John Chen. You never asked me about him but I know you know and ever since then you've hated him. It all happened long before I met you and you knew about the camp but not about my lover. Remember how before we got married I said, Do you want to know about the past, my darling? And you said, No, old girl.

You used to call me old girl all the time. Now you don't call me anything. Just Mary sometimes.

Poor Robert! How I must have disappointed you!

Poor John! How you disappointed me, once upon a time so fine, now so very dead.

I wish I was dead too.

She began to cry.

40

7:15 A.M. :

"It's going to continue to rain, Alexi," Dunross said, the track already sodden, heavy overcast and the day gloomy.

"I agree, tai-pan. If it rains even part of tomorrow too, the going will be foul on Saturday."

"Jacques? What do you think?"

"I agree," deVille said. "Thank God for the rain but merde it would be a pity if the races were canceled."

Dunross nodded.

They were standing on the grass near the winner's circle at the Happy Valley Racecourse, the three men dressed in raincoats and hats. There was a bad weal across Dunross's face, and bruises, but his eyes were steady and clear and he stood with his easy confidence, watching the cloud cover, the rain still falling but not as strongly as in the night, other trainers and owners and bystanders scattered about the paddock and stands, equally pensive. A few horses were exercising, among them Noble Star, Buccaneer Lass with a stable jockey up and Gornt's Pilot Fish. All of the horses were being exercised gingerly with very tight reins: the track and the approach to the track were very slippery. But Pilot Fish was prancing, enjoying the rain.

"This morning's weather report said the storm was huge." Trav-kin's sloe eyes were red-rimmed with tiredness and he watched Dunross. "If the rain stops tomorrow, the going'll still be soft on Saturday."

"Does that help or hurt Noble Star's chances, Alexi?" Jacques asked.

"As God wills, Jacques. She's never run in the wet." It was hard for Travkin to concentrate. Last evening the phone had rung and it was the KGB stranger again and the man had rudely cut through his questions of why he had vanished so suddenly. "It's not your privilege to question, Prince Kurgan. Just tell me everything you know about Dunross. Now. Everything. His habits, rumors about him, everything."

Travkin had obeyed. He knew that he was in a vise, knew that the stranger who must be KGB would be taping what he said to check the truth of what he related, the slightest variation of the truth perhaps a death knell for his wife or son or his son's wife or son's children—if they truly existed. Do they? he asked himself again, agonized. "What's the matter, Alexi?"

"Nothing, tai-pan," Travkin replied, feeling unclean. "I was thinking of what you went through last night." The news of the fire at Aberdeen had flooded the airwaves, particularly Venus Poon's harrowing eyewitness account which had been the focus of the reports. "Terrible about the others, wasn't it?"

"Yes." So far the known death count was fifteen burned and drowned, including two children. "It'll take days to find out really how many were lost."

"Terrible," Jacques said. "When I heard about it… if Susanne had been here we would have been caught in it. She . . . Curious how life is sometimes."

"Bloody firetrap! Never occurred to me before," Dunross said. "We've all eaten there dozens of times—I'm going to talk to the governor this morning about all those floating restaurants." "But you're all right, you yourself?" Travkin asked. "Oh yes. No problem." Dunross smiled grimly. "Not unless we all get the croup from swimming in that cesspit."

When the Floating Dragon had suddenly capsized, Dunross, Gornt and Peter Marlowe had been in the water right below. The megaphone on the police launch had shouted a frantic warning and they had all kicked out desperately. Dunross was a strong swimmer and he and Gornt had just got clear though the surge of water sucked them backward. As his head went under he saw the half-full cutter pulled into the maelstrom and capsized and Marlowe in trouble. He let himself go with the boiling torrent as the ship settled onto her side and lunged for Marlowe. His fingers found his shirt and held on and they swirled together for a moment, drawn a few fathoms down, smashing against the deck. The blow almost stunned him but he held onto Marlowe and when the drag lessened he kicked for the surface. Their heads came out of the water together. Marlowe gasped his thanks and struck out for Fleur who was hanging onto the side of the overturned cutter with others. Around them was chaos, people gasping and drowning and being rescued by sailors and by the strong. Dunross saw Casey diving for someone. Gornt was nowhere to be seen. Bartlett came up with Christian Toxe and kicked for a life belt. He made sure that Toxe had hold of the life ring securely before he shouted to Dunross, "I think Gornt got sucked down and there was a woman . . ." and at once dived again.

Dunross looked around. The Floating Dragon was almost on her side now. He felt a slight underwater explosion and water boiled around him for a moment. Casey came up for air, filled her lungs and slid under the surface again. Dunross dived too. It was almost impossible to see but he groped his way down along the top deck that was now almost vertical in the water. He swam around the wreck, searching, and stayed below as long as he could, then surfaced carefully for there were many swimmers still thrashing around. Toxe was choking out seawater, precariously hanging onto the life ring. Dunross swam over and paddled him toward a sailor, knowing Toxe could not swim.

"Hang on, Christian . . . you're okay now."

Desperately Toxe tried to talk through his retching. "My … my wife's . . . she's down th . . . down there . . . down . . ."

The sailor swam over. "I've got him, sir, you all right?"

"Yes . . . yes … he says his wife was sucked down."

"Christ! I didn't see anyone . . . I'll get some help!" The sailor turned and shouted at the police launch for assistance. At once several sailors dived overboard and began the search. Dunross looked for Gornt and could not see him. Casey came up panting and held onto the upturned cutter to catch her breath.

"You all right?"

"Yes … yes … thank God you're okay …" she gasped, her chest heaving. "There's a woman down there, Chinese I think, I saw her sucked down."

"Have you seen Gornt?"

"No. . . . Maybe he's . . ." She motioned at the launch. People were clambering up the gangway, others huddling on the deck. Bartlett surfaced for an instant and dived again. Casey took another great breath and slid into the depths. Dunross went after her slightly to her right.

They searched, the three of them, until everyone else was safe on the launch or in sampans. They never found the woman.

When Dunross had got home Penelope was deep asleep. She awoke momentarily. "Ian?"

"Yes. Go back to sleep, darling."

"Did you have a nice time?" she asked, not really awake.

"Yes, go back to sleep."

This morning, an hour ago, he had not awakened her when he left the Great House.

"You heard that Gornt made it, Alexi?" he said.

"Yes, yes I did, tai-pan. As God wills."

"Meaning?" '

"After yesterday's stock market it would have been very convenient if he hadn't made it."

Dunross grinned and eased an ache in his back. "Ah, but then I would have been very put out, very put out indeed, for I'd not have had the pleasure of smashing Rothwell-Gornt myself, eh?"

After a pause deVille said, "It's astonishing more didn't die." They watched Pilot Fish as the stallion cantered past looking very good. DeVille's eyes ranged the course.

"Is it true that Bartlett saved Peter Marlowe's wife?" Travkin asked.

"He jumped with her. Yes. Both Line and Casey did a great job. Wonderful."

"Will you excuse me, tai-pan?" Jacques deVille nodded at the stands. "There's Jason Plumm—I'm supposed to be playing bridge with him tonight."

"See you at Prayers, Jacques." Dunross smiled at him and deVille walked off. He sighed, sad for his friend. "I'm off to the office, Alexi. Call me at six."

"Tai-pan . . ."

"What?"

Travkin hesitated. Then he said simply, "I just want you to know I … I admire you greatly."

Dunross was nonplussed at the suddenness and at the open, curious melancholy that emanated from the other man. "Thanks," he said warmly and clapped him on the shoulder. He had never touched him as a friend before. "You're not so bad yourself."

Travkin watched him walk off, his chest hurting him, tears of shame adding to the rain. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and went back to watching Noble Star, trying to concentrate.

In the periphery of his vision he saw someone and he turned, startled. The KGB man was in a corner of the stands, another man joining him now. The man was old and gnarled and well known as a punter in Hong Kong. Travkin searched his mind for the name. Clinker. That's it! Clinker!

He watched them blankly for a moment. Jason Plumm was in the stands just behind the KGB man and he saw Plumm get up to return Jacques deVille's wave and walk down the steps to meet him. Just then the KGB man glanced in his direction and he turned carefully, trying not to be sudden again. The KGB man had lifted binoculars to his eyes and Travkin did not know if he had been noticed or not. His skin crawled at the thought of those high-powered binoculars focused on him. Perhaps the man can lip-read, he thought, aghast. Christ Jesus and Mother of God, thank God I didn't blurt out the truth to the tai-pan.

His heart was grinding nastily and he felt sick. A flicker of lightning went across the eastern sky. Rain was puddling the concrete and the open, lower section of the stands. He tried to calm himself and looked around helplessly not knowing what to do, wanting very much to find out who the KGB man was. Absently he noticed Pilot Fish was finishing his workout in fine form. Beyond him Richard Kwang was talking intently to a group of other Chinese he did not know. Linbar Struan and Andrew Gavallan were leaning on the rails with the American Rosemont and others from the consulate he knew by sight. They were watching the horses, oblivious of the rain. Near the changing rooms, under cover, Donald McBride was talking to other stewards, Sir Shi-teh T'Chung, Pugmire and Roger Crosse among them. He saw McBride glance over to Dunross, wave and beckon him to join them. Brian Kwok was waiting for Roger Crosse on the outskirts of the stewards. Travkin knew both of them but not that they were in SI.

Involuntarily his feet began to move toward them. The foul taste of bile rose into his mouth. He dominated his urge to rush up to them and blurt out the truth. Instead he called over his chief ma-foo. "Send our string home. All of them. Make sure they're dry before they're fed."

"Yes sir."

Unhappily Travkin trudged for the changing rooms. From the corner of his eye he saw that the KGB man had his binoculars trained on him. Rain trickled down his neck and mixed with the fear-sweat.

"Ah, Ian, we were thinking that if it rains tomorrow, we'd better cancel the meet. Say at 6:00 P.M. tomorrow," McBride said. "Don't you agree?"

"No, actually I don't. I suggest we make a final decision at ten Saturday morning."

"Isn't that a little late, old boy?" Pugmire asked.

"Not if the stewards alert the wireless and television fellows. It'll add to the excitement. Particularly if you release that news today."

"Good idea," Crosse said.

"Then that's settled," Dunross said. "Was there anything else?"

"Don't you think… it's a matter of the turf," McBride said. "We don't want to ruin it."

"I quite agree, Donald. We'll make a final decision Saturday at ten. All in favor?" There were no dissenters. "Good! Nothing else? Sorry, but I've got a meeting in half an hour."

Shi-teh said uncomfortably, "Oh, tai-pan, I was terribly sorry about last night . . . terrible."

"Yes. Shitee, when we meet the governor in Council at noon we should suggest he implants new, very severe fire regulations on Aberdeen."

"Agreed," Crosse said. "It's a miracle more weren't lost."

"You mean close the restaurants down, old boy?" Pugmire was shocked. His company had an interest in two of them. "That'll hurt the tourist business badly. You can't put in more exits. . . . You'd have to start from scratch!"

Dunross glanced back at Shi-teh. "Why don't you suggest to the governor that he order all kitchens at once be put on barges that can be moored alongside their mother ship? He could order that fire trucks be kept nearby until the changes have been made. The cost'd be modest, it would be easy to operate and the fire hazard would be solved once and for all."

They all stared at him. Shi-teh beamed. "Ian, you're a genius!"

"No. I'm only sorry we didn't think of it before. Never occurred to me. Rotten about Zep … and Christian's wife, isn't it? Have they found her body yet?"

"I don't think so."

"God knows how many others went. Did the MPs get out, Pug?"

"Yes, old chap. Except Sir Charles Pennyworth. Poor sod got his head bashed in on a sampan when he fell."

Dunross was shocked. "I liked him! What bloody bad joss!"

"There were a couple of the others near me at ontji stage. That bloody radical bastard, what's his name? Grey, ah yes, Grey that's it. And the other one, the other bloody Socialist berk, Broadhurst. Both behaved rather well I thought."

"I hear your Superfoods got out too, Pug. Wasn't our 'Call me Chuck' first ashore?"

Pugmire shrugged uneasily. "I really don't know." Then he beamed. "I … er … I hear Casey and Bartlett did a very good job, what? Perhaps they should have a medal."

"Why don't you suggest it?" Dunross said, anxious to leave. "If there's nothing else . . ."

Crosse said, "Ian, if I were you I'd get a shot. There must be bugs in that bay that haven't been invented yet."

They all laughed with him.

"Actually I've done better than that. After we got out of the water I grabbed Line Bartlett and Casey and we fled to Doc Tooley." Dunross smiled faintly. "When we told him we'd been swimming in Aberdeen Harbor he almost had a hemorrhage. He said, 'Drink this,' and like bloody berks we did and before we knew what was happening we were retching our hearts out. If I'd had any strength I'd've belted him but we were all on our hands and knees fighting for the loo not knowing which end was first. Then Casey started laughing between heaves and then we were rolling on the bloody floor!" He added with pretended sadness, "Then, before we knew what was happening, Old Sawbones was shoving pills down our throats by the barrel and Bartlett said, 'For chrissake, Doc, how about a suppository and then you've a hole in one!' " They laughed again.

"Is it true about Casey? That she stripped and dived like an Olympic star?" Pugmire asked.

"Better! Stark bollock naked, old boy," Dunross exaggerated airily. "Like Venus de Milo! Probably the best . . . everything . . . I've ever seen." "Oh?" Their eyes popped. "Yes."

"My God, but swimming in Aberdeen Harbor! That sewer!" McBride said, eyebrows soaring. "If you all live it'll be a miracle!"

"Doc Tooley said the very least'll be gastroenteritis, dysentery or the plague." Dunross rolled his eyes. "Well, here today gone tomorrow. Anything else?"

"Tai-pan," Shi-ten said, "I … hope you don't mind but I've … I'd like to start a fund for the victims' families."

"Good idea! The Turf Club should contribute too. Donald, would you canvass the other stewards today and get their approval? How about 100,000?"

"That's a bit generous, isn't it?" Pugmire said.

Dunross's chin jutted. "No. Then let's make it 150,000 instead. The Noble House will contribute the same." Pugmire flushed. No one said anything. "Meeting adjourned? Good. Morning." Dunross raised his hat politely and walked off.

"Excuse me a moment." Crosse motioned Brian Kwok to follow him. "Ian!"

"Yes, Roger?"

When Crosse came up to Dunross he said quietly, "Ian, we've a report that Sinders is confirmed on the BOAC flight tomorrow. We'll go straight to the bank from the airport if that's convenient."

"The governor will be there too?"

"I'll ask him. We should be there about six."

"If the plane's on time." Dunross smiled.

"Did you get Eastern Cloud's formal release yet?"

"Yes, thanks. It was telexed yesterday from Delhi. I ordered her back here at once and she sailed on the tide. Brian, you remember the bet you wanted—the one about Casey. About her knockers— fifty dollars to a copper cash they're the best in Hong Kong?"

Brian Kwok reddened, conscious of Crosse's bleak stare. "Er, yes, why?"

"I don't know about the best, but like the judgment of Paris, you'd have one helluva problem if it—they—were put to the test!"

"Then it's true, she was starkers?"

"She was Lady Godiva to the rescue." Dunross nodded to both of them pleasantly and walked off with, "See you tomorrow."

They watched him go. At the exit an SI agent was waiting to follow him.

Crosse said, "He's got something cooking."

"I agree, sir."

Crosse tore his eyes off Dunross and looked at Brian Kowk. "Do you usually bet on a lady's mammary glands?"

"No sir, sorry sir."

"Good. Fortunately women aren't the only source of beauty, are they?"

"No sir."

"There're hounds, paintings, music, even a killing. Eh?"

"Yes sir."

"Wait here please." Crosse went back to the other stewards.

Brian Kwok sighed. He was bored and tired. The team of frogmen had met him at Aberdeen and though he had found out almost at once that Dunross was safe and had already gone home, he had had to wait most of the night helping to organize the search for bodies. It had been a ghoulish task. Then when he was about to go home Crosse had caHed him to be at Happy Valley at dawn so there had been no point in going to bed. Instead he had gone to the Para Restaurant and glowered at the triads and One Foot Ko.

Now he was watching Dunross. What's that bugger got in the reaches of his mind? he asked himself, a twinge of envy soaring through him. What couldn't I do with his power and his money!

He saw Dunross change direction for the nearby stand, then noticed Adryon sitting beside Martin Haply, both staring at the horses, oblivious of Dunross. Dew neh loh moh, he thought, surprised. Curious that they'd be together. Christ, what a beauty! Thank God I'm not father to that one. I'd go out of my mind.

Crosse and the others had also noticed Adryon and Martin Haply with astonishment. "What's that bastard doing with the tai-pan's daughter?" Pugmire asked, his voice sour.

"No good, that's certain," someone said.

"Blasted fellow creates nothing but trouble!" Pugmire muttered and the others nodded agreement. "Can't understand why Toxe keeps him on!"

"Bloody man's a Socialist that's why! He should be blackballed too."

"Oh come off it, Pug. Toxe's all right—so're some Socialists," Shi-teh said. "But he should fire Haply, and we'd all be better off!" They had all been subject to Haply's attacks. A few weeks ago he had written a series of scathing exposes of some of Shi-teh's trading deals within his huge conglomeration of companies and implied that all sorts of dubious contributions were being made to various VIPs in the Hong Kong Government for favors.

"I agree," Pugmire said, hating him too. Haply, with his accuracy, had reported the private details of Pugmire's forthcoming merger with Superfoods and had made it abundantly clear Pugmire benefited far more than his shareholders in General Stores who were barely consulted on the terms of the merger. "Rotten bastard! I'd certainly like to know where he gets his information."

"Curious Haply should be with her," Crosse said, watching their lips, waiting for them to speak. "The only major company he hasn't gone after yet is Struan's."

"You think it's Struan's turn and Haply's pumping Adryon?" one of the others asked. "Wouldn't that be smashing!"

Excitedly they watched Dunross go into the stands, the two young people still not having noticed him.

"Maybe he'll whip him like he did the other bastard," Pugmire said gleefully.

"Eh?" Shi-teh said. "Who? What was that?"

"Oh, I thought you knew. About two years ago one of the Vic's junior execs straight out from England started pursuing Adryon. She was sixteen, perhaps seventeen—he was twenty-two, as big as a house, bigger than Ian, his name was Byron. He thought he was Lord Byron on the rampage and he mounted a campaign. The poor girl was bowled over. Ian warned him a last time. The creep kept calling, so Ian invited him out to his gym at Shek-O, put on gloves —he knew the bugger fancied himself as a boxer—and proceeded to pulp him." The others laughed. "Within the week the bank had sent him packing."

"Did you see it?" Shi-teh asked.

"Of course not. They were aione for God's sake, but the bloody fool was really in a bad way. I wouldn't like to go against the tai-pan —not when his temper's up."

Shi-teh looked back at Dunross. "Perhaps he'll do the same to that little rotter," he said happily.

They watched. Hopefully. Crosse wandered off with Brian Kwok, going closer.

Dunross was running up the steps in the stands now with his easy strength and he stopped beside them. "Hello, darling, you're up early," he said.

"Oh hello, Dad," Adryon said, startled. "I didn't se— What happened to your face?"

"I ran into the back end of a bus. Morning, Haply."

"Morning, sir." Haply half got up and sat down again.

"A bus?" she said, then suddenly, "Did you prang the Jag? Oh, did you get a ticket?" she asked hopefully, having had three this year herself.

"No. You're up early aren't you?" he said, sitting beside her.

"Actually we're late. We've been up all night."

"Oh?" He held on to forty-eight immediate questions and said instead, "You must be tired."

"No. No, actually I'm not."

"What's this all about, a celebration?"

"No. Actually it's poor Martin." She put a gentle hand on the youth's shoulder. With an effort Dunross kept his smile as gentle as her hand. He turned his attention to the young Canadian. "What's the problem?"

Haply hesitated, then told him what had happened at the paper when the publisher had called and Christian Toxe, his editor, had canceled his rumor series. "That bastard's sold us out. He's allowed the publisher to censor us. I know I'm right. I know I'm right."

"How?" Dunross asked, thinking, What a callous little bastard you are!

"Sorry, I can't reveal my source."

"He really can't, Dad, that's an infringement of freedom of the press," Adryon said defensively.

Haply was bunching his fists, then absently he put his hand on Adryon's knee. She covered it with one of her own. "The Ho-Pak's being shoved into the ground for nothing."

"Why?"

"I don't know. But Gor—but tai-pans are behind the raid and it doesn't make sense."

"Gornt's behind it?" Dunross frowned at this new thought.

"I didn't say Gornt, sir. No I didn't say that."

"He didn't, Father," Adryon said. "What should Martin do? Should he resign or just swallow his pride an—"

"I just can't, Adryon," Martin Haply said.

"Let Father talk, he'll know."

Dunross saw her turn her lovely eyes back on him and he felt a glow at her confident innocence that he had never felt before. "Two things: First you go back at once. Christian will need all the help he can get. Second, y—"

"Help?"

"Haven't you heard about his wife?"

"What about her?"

"Don't you know she's dead?"

They stared at him blankly.

Quickly he told them about Aberdeen. Both of them were shocked and Haply stuttered, "Jesus, we … we didn't listen to a radio or anything … we were just dancing and talking. . . ."He jumped up and started to leave then came back. "I … I'd better go at once. Jesus!"

Adryon was on her feet. "I'll drop you."

Dunross said, "Haply, would you ask Christian to emphasize in bold type that anyone who got dunked or went swimming should see their doctors right smartly—very important."

"Got it!"

Adryon said anxiously, "Father, did you see Doc Too—"

"Oh yes," Dunross said. "Cleansed inside and out. Off you go!"

"What was the second thing, tai-pan?" Haply asked.

"Second was that you should remember it's the publisher's money, therefore his newspaper and he can do what he likes. But publishers can be persuaded. I wonder, for instance, who got to him or her and why he and she agreed to call Christian. … if you're so sure your story's true."

Haply beamed suddenly. "Come on, honey," he said and shouted thanks. They ran off hand-in-hand.

Dunross stayed sitting in the stands for the moment. He sighed deeply, then got up and went away.

Roger Crosse was with Brian Kwok under cover near the jockeys' changing rooms and he had been lip-reading the tai-pan's conversation. He watched him leave, the SI guard following him. "No need to waste any more time here, Brian. Come along." He headed for the far exit. "I wonder if Robert found anything at Sha Tin."

"Those bloody Werewolves are going to have a field day. All Hong Kong'll be frightened to death. I'll bet we . . ." Brian Kwok stopped suddenly. "Sir! Look!" He nodded at the stands, noticing Suslev and Clinker among the scattered groups who watched out of the rain. "I wouldn't've thought he'd be up yet!" Crosse's eyes narrowed. "Yes. That's curious. Yes." He hesitated, then changed direction, watching their lips carefully. "Since he's honored us we might as well have a little chat. Ah … they've seen us. Clinker really doesn't like us at all." Leisurely he led the way into the stands.

The big Russian put a smile on his face and slid out a thin flask and took a sip. He offered it to Clinker.

"No thanks, mate, I just drink beer." Clinker's cold eyes were on the approaching policemen. "Proper niffy around here, ain't it?" he said loudly.

"Morning, Clinker," Crosse said, equally coldly. Then he smiled at Suslev. "Morning, Captain. Filthy day, what?"

"We're alive, tovarich, alive, so how can a day be filthy, eh?" Suslev was filled with outward bonhomie, continuing his cover as a hail-fellow-well-met. "Will there be racing Saturday, Superintendent?"

"Probably. The final decision'll be made Saturday morning. How long will you be in port?"

"Not long, Superintendent. The repairs to the rudder go slowly."

"Not too slowly I hope. We all get very nervous if our VIP harbor guests don't get very rapid service." Crosse's voice was crisp. "I'll talk to the harbor master."

"Thank you, that's … that's very thoughtful of you. And it was thoughtful of your department . . ." Suslev hesitated, then turned to Clinker. "Old friend, do you mind?"

"Not on your nelly," Clinker said. "Narks make me nervous." Brian Kwok looked at him. Clinker looked back unafraid. "I'll be in me car." He wandered off.

Suslev's voice hardened. "It was thoughtful of your department to send back the body of our poor comrade Voranski. Have you found the murderers?"

"Unfortunately no. They could be hired assassins—from any point of the compass. Of course if he hadn't slipped ashore mysteriously he'd still be a useful operative of the … of whatever department he served."

"He was just a seaman and a good man. I thought Hong Kong was safe."

"Did you pass on the assassins' photographs and information about their phone call to your KGB superiors?"

"I'm not KGB, piss on KGB! Yes, the information was passed on … by my superior," Suslev said irritably. "You know how it is, Superintendent, for God's sake. But Voranski was a good man and his murderers must be caught."

"We'll find them soon enough," Crosse said easily. "Did you know Voranski was in reality Major Yuri Bakyan, First Directorate, Department 6, KGB?"

They saw shock on Suslev's face. "He was… he was just a friend to me and he came with us from time to time."

"Who arranges that, Captain?" Crosse said.

Suslev looked at Brian Kwok who stared back at him with unconcealed distaste. "Why're you so angry? What have I done to you?"

"Why's the Russian empire so greedy, particularly when it comes to Chinese soil?"

"Politics!" Suslev said sourly then added to Crosse, "I don't interfere in politics."

"You buggers interfere all the time! What's your KGB rank?"

"I don't have one."

Crosse said, "A little cooperation could go a long way. Who arranges your crews, Captain Suslev?"

Suslev glanced at him. Then he said, "A word in private, eh?"

"Certainly," Crosse said. "Wait here, Brian."

Suslev turned his back on Brian Kwok and led the way down the exit stairs onto the grass. Crosse followed. "What do you think of Noble Star's chances?" Suslev asked genially.

"Good. But she's never raced in the wet."

"Pilot Fish?"

"Look at him—you can see for yourself. He loves the wet. He'll be the favorite. You plan to be here Saturday?"

Suslev leaned on the railings. And smiled. "Why not?"

Crosse laughed softly. "Why not indeed?" He was sure they were quite alone now. "You're a good actor, Gregor, very good."

"So're you, comrade."

"You're taking a hell of a risk, aren't you?" Crosse said, his lips hardly moving now as he talked.

"Yes, but then all life's a risk. Center told me to take over until Voranski's replacement arrives—there are too many important contacts and decisions to be made on this trip. Not the least, Sevrin. And anyway, as you know, Arthur wanted it this way."

"Sometimes I wonder if he's wise."

"He's wise." The lines around Suslev's eyes crinkled with his smile. "Oh yes. Very wise. I'm pleased to see you. Center's very very pleased with your year's work. I've much to tell you."

"Who's the bastard who leaked Sevrin to AMG?"

"I don't know. It was a defector. As soon as we know, he's a dead man."

"Someone's betrayed a group of my people to the PRC. The leak had to come from the AMG file. You read my copy. Who else on your ship did? Someone's infiltrated your operation here!"

Suslev blanched. "I'll activate a security check immediately. It could have come from London, or Washington."

"I doubt it. Not in time. I think it came from here. And then there's Voranski. You're infiltrated."

"If the PRC . . . yes, it will be done. But who? I'd bet my life there's no spy aboard."

Crosse was equally grim. "There's always someone who can be subverted."

"You have an escape plan?"

"Several."

"I'm ordered to assist in any way. Do you want a berth on the Ivanov?"

Crosse hesitated. "I'll wait until I've read the AMG files. It would be a pity after such a long time . . ."

"I agree."

"It's easy for you to agree. If you're caught you just get deported and asked politely, please don't come back. Me? I wouldn't want to be caught alive."

"Of course." Suslev lit a cigarette. "You won't get caught, Roger. You're much too clever. You have something for me?"

"Look down there, along the rails. The tall man."

Casually Suslev put his binoculars to his eyes. He took his time about centering the man indicated, then looked away.

"That's Stanley Rosemont, CIA. You know they're tailing you?"

"Oh yes. I can lose them if I wish to."

"The man next to him's Ed Langan, FBI. The bearded fellow's Mishauer, American Naval Intelligence."

"Mishauer? That sounds familiar. Do you have files on them?"

"Not yet but there's a deviate in the consulate who's having a jolly affair with the son of one of our prominent Chinese solicitors. By the time you're back on your next trip he'll be happy to oblige your slightest wish."

Suslev smiled grimly. "Good." Again, casually, he glanced at Rosemont and the others, cementing their faces into his memory. "What's his job?"

"Deputy chief of station. CIA for fifteen years. OSS and all that. They've a dozen more cover businesses here and safe houses everywhere. I've sent a list in microdots to 32."

"Good. Center wants increased surveillance of all CIA movements."

"No problem. They're careless but their funding's big and growing."

"Vietnam?"

"Of course Vietnam."

Suslev chuckled. "Those poor fools don't know what they've been sucked into. They still think they can fight a jungle war with Korean or World War Two tactics."

"They're not all fools," Crosse said. "Rosemont's good, very good. By the way, they know about the Iman Air Base."

Suslev cursed softly and leaned on one hand, casually keeping it near his mouth to prevent any lip-reading.

"… Iman and almost all about Petropavlovsk, the new sub base at Korsakov on Sakhalin. . . ."

Suslev cursed again. "How do they do it?"

"Traitors." Crosse smiled thinly.

"Why are you a double agent, Roger?"

"Why do you ask me that every time we meet?"

Suslev sighed. He had specific orders not to probe Crosse and to help him every way he could. And although he was KGB controller of all Far Eastern espionage activities, it was only last year that even he had been allowed into the secret of Crosse's identity. Crosse, in KGB files, had the highest secret classification, an importance on the level of a Philby. But even Philby didn't know that Crosse had been working for the KGB for the last seven years.

"I ask because I'm curious," he said.

"Aren't your orders not to be curious, comrade?"

Suslev laughed. "Neither of us obeys orders all the time, no? Center enjoyed your last report so much I've been told to tell you your Swiss account will be credited with an extra bonus of $50,000 on the fifteenth of next month."

"Good. Thank you. But it's not a bonus, it's payment for value received."

"What does SI know about the visiting delegation of Parliament?"

Crosse told him what he had told the governor. "Why the question?"

"Routine check. Three are potentially very influential—Guthrie, Broadhurst and Grey." Suslev offered a cigarette. "We're maneuvering Grey and Broadhurst into our World Peace Council. Their anti-Chinese sentiments help us. Roger, would you please put a tail on Guthrie. Perhaps he has some bad habits. If he was compromised, perhaps photographed with a Wanchai girl, it might be useful later, eh?"

Crosse nodded. "I'll see what can be done."

"Can you find the scum who murdered poor Voranski?"

"Eventually." Crosse watched him. "He must have been marked for some time. And that's ominous for all of us."

"Were they Kuomintang? Or Mao's bandits?"

"I don't know." Crosse smiled sardonically. "Russia isn't very popular with any Chinese."

"Their leaders are traitors to communism. We should smash them before they get too strong."

"Is that policy?"

"Since Genghis Khan." Suslev laughed. "But now . . . now we have to be a little patient. You needn't be." He jerked a thumb backward at Brian Kwok. "Why not discredit that matyeryebyels note 6 ! i don't like him at all."

"Young Brian's very good. I need good people. Inform Center that Sinders, of MI-6, arrives tomorrow from London to take delivery of the AMG papers. Both MI-6 and the CIA suspect AMG was murdered. Was he?"

"I don't know. He should have been, years ago. How will you get a copy?"

"I don't know. I'm fairly certain Sinders'll let me read them before he goes back."

"And if he doesn't?"

Crosse shrugged. "We'll get to look at them one way or another."

"Dunross?"

"Only as a last resort. He's too valuable where he is and I'd rather have him where I can see him. What about Travkin?"

"Your information was invaluable. Everything checked." Suslev told him the substance of their meeting, adding, "Now he'll be our dog forever. He'll do anything we want. Anything. I think he'd kill Dunross if necessary."

"Good. How much of what you told him was true?"

Suslev smiled. "Not much."

"Is his wife alive?"

"Oh yes, tovarich, she's alive."

"But not in her own dacha?"

"Now she is."

"And before?"

Suslev shrugged. "I told him what I was told to tell him."

Crosse lit a cigarette. "What do you know about Iran?"

Again Suslev looked at him sharply. "Quite a lot. It's one of our eight remaining great targets and there's a big operation going on right now."

"The Ninety-second U.S. Airborne's on the Soviet-Iranian border right now!"

Suslev gaped at him. "What?"

Crosse related all that Rosemont had told him about Dry Run and when he came to the part about the U.S. forces having nuclear arms Suslev whitened palpably. "Mother of God! Those god-cursed Americans'll make a mistake one day and then we'll never be able to extricate ourselves! They're fools to deploy such weapons."

"Can you combat them?"

"Of course not, not yet," Suslev said irritably. "The core of our strategy's never to have a direct clash until America's totally isolated and there's no doubt about final victory. A direct clash would be suicide now. I'll get on to Center at once."

"Impress on them the Americans consider it just a dry run. Get Center to take your forces away and cool everything. Do it at once or there will be trouble. Don't give the U.S. forces any provocation. In a few days the Americans will go away. Don't leak the invasion to your inward spies in Washington. Let it come first from your people in the CIA."

"The Ninety-second's really there? That seems impossible."

"You'd better get your armies more airborne, more mobile with more firepower."

Suslev grunted. "The energies and resources of three hundred million Russians are channeled to solve that problem, tovarich. If we have twenty years . . . just twenty more years."

"Then?"

"In the eighties we rule the world."

"I'll be dead long since."

"Not you. You'll rule whatever province or country you want. England?"

"Sorry, the weather there's dreadful. Except for one or two days a year, most years, when it's the most beautiful place on earth."

"Ah, you should see my home in Georgia and the country around Tiflis." Suslev's eyes were sparkling. "That's Eden."

Crosse was watching everywhere as they talked. He knew they could not be overheard. Brian Kwok was sitting in the stand waiting, half-asleep. Rosemont and the others were studying him covertly. Down by the winner's circle Jacques deVille was strolling casually with Jason Plumm.

"Have you talked to Jason yet?"

"Of course, while we were in the stands."

"Good."

"What did he say about deVille?"

"That he doubted, too, if Jacques'd ever be chosen as tai-pan. After my meeting last night I agree—he's obviously too weak, or his resolve's softened." Suslev added, "It often happens with deep-cover assets who have nothing active to do but wait. That's the hardest of all jobs."

"Yes."

"He's a good man but I'm afraid he won't achieve his assignment."

"What do you plan for him?"

"I haven't decided."

"Convert him from an inward spy to a doomed spy?"

"Only if you or the others of Sevrin are threatened." For the benefit of any watchers Suslev tipped the flask to his lips and offered it to Crosse who shook his head. Both knew the flask contained only water. Suslev dropped his voice. "I have an idea. We're increasing our effort in Canada. Clearly the French Separatist Movement is a tremendous opportunity for us. If Quebec was to split from Canada it would send the whole North American continent reeling into a completely new power structure. I was thinking that it would be perfect if deVille took over Struan's in Canada. Eh?"

Crosse smiled. "Very good. Very very good. I like Jacques too. It would be a pity to waste him. Yes, that would be very clever."

"It's even better than that, Roger. He has some very important

French-Canadian friends from his Paris days just after the war, all openly separatist, all left-wing inclined. A few of them are becoming a prominent national political force in Canada." "You'd get him to drop his deep cover?" "No. Jacques could give the separatist issue a push without jeopardizing himself. As head of an important branch of Struan's … and if one of his special friends became foreign minister or prime minister, eh?"

"Is that possible?" "It's possible."

Crosse whistled. "If Canada swung away from the U.S. that would be a coup of coups."

"Yes."

After a pause, Crosse said, "Once upon a time a Chinese sage was asked by a friend to bless his newly born son. His benediction was, 'Let's pray he lives in interesting times.' Well, Gregor Petrovitch Suslev whose real name is Petr Oleg Mzytryk, we certainly live in interesting times. Don't we?"

Suslev was staring at him in shock, "Who told you my name?"

"Your superiors." Crosse watched him, his eyes suddenly pitiless. "You know me, I know you. That's fair, isn't it?"

"Of… of course. I…" The man's laugh was forced. "I haven't used that name for so long I'd … I'd almost forgotten it." He looked back at the eyes, fighting for control. "What's the matter? Why are you so edgy, eh?"

"AMG. I think we should close this meeting for now. Our cover's that I tried to subvert you but you refused. Let's meet tomorrow at seven." Seven was the code number for the apartment next to Ginny Fu's in Mong Kok. "Late. Eleven o'clock."

"Ten is better."

Crosse motioned carefully toward Rosemont and the others. "Before you go I need something for them."

"All right. Tomorrow I'll ha—"

"It must be now." Crosse hardened. "Something special—in case I can't get a look at Sinders's copy, I'll have to barter with them!"

"You divulge to no one the source. No one."

"All right."

"Never?"

"Never."

Suslev thought a moment, weighing possibilities. "Tonight one of our agents takes delivery of some top-secret material from the carrier. Eh?" The Englishman's face lit up. "Perfect! Is that why you came?"

"One reason."

"When and where's the drop?"

Suslev told him, then added, "But I still want copies of everything."

"Of course. Good, that'll do just fine. Rosemont will be really in my debt. How long's your asset been aboard?"

"Two years, at least that's when he was first subverted."

"Does he give you good stuff?"

"Anything off that whore's valuable."

"What's his fee?"

"For this? $2,000. He's not expensive, none of our assets are, except you."

Crosse smiled equally mirthlessly. "Ah, but I'm the best you have in Asia and I've proved my quality fifty times. Up to now I've been doing it practically for love, old chap."

"Your costs, old chap, are the highest we have! We buy the entire NATO battle plan, codes, everything, yearly for less than $8,000."

"Those amateur bastards are ruining our business. It is a business, isn't it?"

"Not to us."

"Balls! You KGB folk are more than well rewarded. Dachas, places in Tiflis, special stores to shop in. Mistresses. But I have to tell you, squeezing money out of your company gets worse yearly. I'll expect a rather large increase for Dry Run and for the AMG matter when it's concluded."

"Talk to them direct. I've no jurisdiction over money."

"Liar."

Suslev laughed. "It's good—and safe—dealing with a professional. Prosit!" He raised his flask and drained it.

Crosse said abruptly, "Please leave angrily. I can feel binoculars!"

At once Suslev began cursing him in Russian, softly but vehemently, then shook a fist in the policeman's face and walked off.

Crosse stared after him.

On the Sha Tin Road Robert Armstrong was looking down at the corpse of John Chen as raincoated police rewrapped it in its blanket, then carried it through the gawking crowds to the waiting ambulance. Fingerprint experts and others were all around, searching for clues. The rain was falling more heavily now and there was a great deal of mud everywhere.

"Everything's messed up, sir," Sergeant Lee said sourly, "There're footprints but they could be anyone's."

Armstrong nodded and used a handkerchief to dry his face. Many onlookers were behind the crude barriers that had been erected around the area. Passing traffic on the narrow road was slowed and almost jammed, everyone honking irritably. "Keep the men sweeping within a hundred-yard area. Get someone out to the nearest village, someone might have seen something." He left Lee and went over to the police car. He got in, closing the door, and picked up the communicator. "This is Armstrong. Give me Chief Inspector Donald Smyth at East Aberdeen, please." He began to wait, feeling dreadful.

The driver was young and smart and still dry. "The rain's wonderful, isn't it, sir?"

Armstrong looked across sourly. The young man blanched. "Do you smoke?"

"Yes sir." The young man took out his pack and offered it, Armstrong took the pack. "Why don't you join the others? They need a nice smart fellow like yourself to help. Find some clues. Eh?"

"Yes sir." The young man fled into the rain.

Carefully Armstrong took out a cigarette. He contemplated it Grimly he put it back and the pack into a side pocket. Hunching down into his seat, he muttered, "Sod all cigarettes, sod the rain, sod that smart arse and most of all sod the sodding Werewolves!"

In time the intercom came on crackling, "Chief Inspector Donalc Smyth."

"Morning. I'm out at Sha Tin," Armstrong began, and told him what had happened and about finding the body. "We're covering the area but in this rain I don't expect to find anything. When the papers hear about the corpse and the message we'll be swamped. I think we'd better pick up the old amah right now. She's the only lead we have. Do your fellows still have her under surveillance?"

"Oh yes."

"Good. Wait for me, then we'll move in. I want to search her place. Have a team stand by."

"How long will you be?"

Armstrong said, "It'll take me a couple of hours to get there. Traffic's sodded up from here all the way back to the ferry."

"It is here too. All over Aberdeen. But it's not just the rain, old lad. There's about a thousand ghouls gawking at the wreck, then there're more bloody mobs already at the Ho-Pak, the Victoria … in fact every bloody bank in the vicinity, and I hear there's already about five hundred collecting outside the Vic in Central."

"Christ! My whole miserable bloody life savings're there."

"I told you yesterday to get liquid, old boy!" Armstrong heard the Snake's laugh. "And by the way, if you've any spare cash, sell Struan's short—I hear the Noble House is going to crash."

41

8:29 A.M. :

Claudia picked up a mass of notes and letters and replies from Dunross's out tray and began to leaf through them. Rain and low clouds obscured the view but the temperature was down and very comfortable after the heavy humidity of the last weeks. The antique clock set into a silver gimbal on the mantel chimed 8:30.

One of the phones jangled. She watched it but made no attempt to answer it. It rang on and on then ceased. Sandra Yi, Dunross's secretary, came in with a new batch of documents and mail and refilled the in tray. "The draft of the Par-Con contract's on the top, Elder Sister. Here's his appointments list for today, at least, the ones I know about. Superintendent Kwok called ten minutes ago." She blushed under Claudia's gaze, her chong-sam slit high and tight, her neck collar fashionably high. "He called for the tai-pan, not me, Elder Sister. Would the tai-pan please return his call."

"But I hope you talked to Honorable Young Stallion at length, Younger Sister, and swooned and sighed marvelously?" Claudia replied in Cantonese, then switched to English without noticing it, still leafing through all the notes as she talked, stacking them into two different piles. "After all, he really should be gobbled up and safely in the family before some Mealy Mouth from another clan catches him."

"Oh yes. I've also lit five candles in five different temples." "I hope on your time and not company's time." "Oh very yes." They laughed. "But we do have a date—tomorrow for dinner."

"Excellent! Be demure, dress conservatively, but go without a bra —like Orlanda."

"Oh, then it was true! Oh oh do you think I should?" Sandra Yi was shocked.

"For young Brian, yes." Claudia chuckled. "He has a nose that one!"

"My fortune-teller said this was going to be a wonderful year for me. Terrible about the fire wasn't it?"

"Yes." Claudia checked the appointment list. Linbar in a few minutes, Sir Luis Basilio at 8:45. "When Sir Luis arrives p—"

"Sir Luis's waiting in my office now. He knows he's early—I've given him coffee and the morning papers." Sandra Yi's face became apprehensive. "What's going to happen at ten?"

"The stock market opens," Claudia told her crisply and handed her the larger stack. "You deal with this lot, Sandra. Oh and here, he's canceled a couple of board meetings and lunch but I'll deal with those." Both looked up as Dunross came in.

"Morning," he said. His face was graver than before, the bruises enhancing his ruggedness.

Sandra Yi said prettily, "Everyone's so happy you weren't hurt, tai-pan."

"Thank you."

She left. He noticed her walk, then Claudia's look. Some of his gravity left him. "Nothing like a pretty bird. Is there?"

Claudia laughed. "While you were out your private phone rang twice." This was his unlisted phone that, by rule, he alone picked up, the number given only to family and a handful of special people.

"Oh, thank you. Cancel everything between now and noon except Linbar, old Sir Luis Basilio and the bank. Make sure everything's VIP for Penn and Miss Kathy. Gavallan's taking her to the airport. First get Tightfist Tung on the phone. Also Lando Mata—ask if I can see him today, preferably at 10:20 at the Coffee Place. You saw my note about Zep?"

"Yes, terrible. I'll take care of everything. The governor's aide called: will you be at the noon meeting?"

"Yes." Dunross picked up a phone and dialed as Claudia left, closing the door behind her.

"Penn? You wanted me?"

"Oh Ian, yes, but I didn't phone, is that what you mean?"

"I thought it was you on the private line."

"No, but oh I'm ever so pleased you called. I heard about the fire on the early news and I … I wasn't sure if I'd dreamed it or not that you'd come back last night. I … I was quite worried, sorry. Ah Tat said you'd left early but I don't trust that old hag—she wanders sometimes. Sorry. Was it awful?"

"No. Not bad actually." He told her about it briefly. Now that he knew everything was all right with her he wanted to get off the phone. "I'll give you a blow-by-blow when I pick you up for the airport. I checked on the flight and it'll leave on time . . ." His intercom buzzed. "Hang on a moment, Penn . . . Yes, Claudia?"

"Superintendent Kwok on line two. He says it's important."

"All right. Sorry, Penn, got to go, I'll pick you up in good time for your flight. 'Bye, darling. . . . Anything else, Claudia?"

"Bill Foster's plane from Sydney's delayed another hour. Mr. Havergill and Johnjohn will see you at 9:30. I called to confirm. I hear they've been at the bank since six this morning."

Dunross's uneasiness grew. He had been trying to talk to Haver-gill since 3:00 P.M. yesterday but the deputy chairman had not been available and last night was not the time. "That's not good. There was a crowd already outside the bank when I came in at 7:30."

"The Vic won't fail, will it?"

He heard the anxiety in her voice. "If they do we're all up the spout." He stabbed line two. "Hi, Brian, what's up?" Brian Kwok told him about John Chen.

"Jesus Christ, poor John! After giving them the ransom money last night I thought… what bastards! He's been dead some days?"

"Yes. At least three."

"The bastards! Have you told Phillip or Dianne?"

"No, not yet. I wanted to tell you first."

"You want me to call them? Phillip's at home now. After the payoff last night I told him to miss the eight o'clock morning meeting. I'll call him now."

"No, Ian, that's my job. Sorry to bring bad news but I thought you should know about John."

"Yes… yes, old chum, thanks. Listen, I've a do at the governor's around seven but that'll be through by 10:30. Would you like a drink or a late snack?"

"Yes. Good idea. How about the Quance Bar at the Mandarin?"

"10:45?"

"Good. By the way, I've left word for your tai-tai to go straight through Immigration. Sorry to bring bad news. "Bye."

Dunross put down the phone, got up and stared out of the window. The intercom buzzed but he did not hear it. "Poor bugger!" he muttered. "What a bloody waste!"

There was a discreet knock, then the door opened a fraction. Claudia said, "Excuse me, tai-pan, Lando Mata on line two."

Dunross sat on the edge of his desk. "Hello Lando, can we meet at 10:20?"

"Yes, yes of course. I heard about Zeppelin. Awful! I just got out with my own life! Damned fire! Still, we got out, eh? Joss!"

"Have you been in touch with Tightfist yet?"

"Yes. He's arriving on the next ferry."

"Good. Lando, I may need you to back me today."

"But Ian, we went through that last night. I thought I ma—"

"Yes. But I want your backing today." Dunross's voice had hardened.

There was a long pause. "I'll . . . I'll talk to Tightfist."

"I'll talk to Tightfist too. Meanwhile I'd like to know I have your backing now."

"You've reconsidered our offer?"

"Do I have your backing, Lando? Or not."

Another pause. Mata's voice was more nervous. "I'll. . . I'll tell you when I see you at 10:20. Sorry, Ian, but I really must talk to Tightfist first. See you for coffee. 'Bye!"

The phone clicked off. Dunross replaced his receiver gently and muttered sweetly, "Dew neh loh moh, Lando old friend."

He thought a moment then dialed. "Mr. Bartlett please."

"No answer his phone. You want message?" the operator said.

"Please transfer me to Miss K. C. Tcholok."

"Wat?"

"Casey . . . Miss Casey!"

The call tone rang and Casey answered sleepily, "Hello?"

"Oh sorry, I'll call you back later. . . ."

"Oh, Ian? No … no, that's all right, I should . . . should have been up hours ago . .." He heard her stifle a yawn. ". .. Jesus, I'm tired. I didn't dream that fire did I?"

"No. Ciranoush, I just wanted to make sure you were both all right. How're you feeling?"

"Not so hot. I think I must have stretched a few muscles… don't know if it was the laughing or throwing up. You all right?"

"Yes. So far. You haven't a temperature or anything? That's what Doc Tooley said to watch out for."

"Don't think so. I haven't seen Line yet. Did you talk to him?"

"No—there's no reply. Listen, I wanted to ask you two to cocktails, at six."

"That's lovely with me." Another yawn. "I'm glad you're okay."

"I'll call you back later to . . ."

Again the intercom. "The governor's on line two, tai-pan. I told him you'd be at the morning meeting."

"All right. Listen, Ciranoush, cocktails at six, if not cocktails maybe late supper. I'll call later to confirm."

"Sure, Ian. And Ian, thanks for calling."

"Nothing. 'Bye." Dunross stabbed line two. "Morning, sir."

"Sorry to disturb you, Ian, but I need to talk to you about that awful fire," Sir Geoffrey said. "It's a miracle that more weren't lost, the minister's hopping mad about poor Sir Charles Pennyworth's death and quite furious that our security procedures allowed that to happen. The Cabinet have been informed so we can expect high-level repercussions."

Dunross told him his idea about the kitchens for Aberdeen, pretending it was Shi-teh T'Chung's.

"Excellent. Shitee's clever! That's a start. Meanwhile Robin Grey and Julian Broadhurst and the other MPs have already phoned for a meeting to protest our incompetent fire regulations. My aide said Grey was quite incensed." Sir Geoffrey sighed. "Rightly so, perhaps. In any event that gentleman's going to stir things up nastily, if he can. I hear he's scheduled a press conference for tomorrow with Broadhurst. Now that poor Sir Charles's dead Broadhurst becomes the senior member and God only knows what'll happen if those two get on their high horse about China."

"Ask the minister to muzzle them, sir."

"I did and he said, 'Good God, Geoffrey, muzzle an MP? That'd be worse than trying to set fire to Parliament itself.' It's all really very trying. My thought was that you might be able to cool Mr. Grey down. I'll seat him next to you tonight."

"I don't think that's a good idea at all, sir. The man's a lunatic."

"I quite agree, Ian, but I really would appreciate it if you tried. You're the only one I'd trust. Quillan would hit him. Quillan's already phoned in a formal refusal purely because of Grey. Perhaps you could invite the fellow to the races on Saturday also?"

Dunross remembered Peter Marlowe. "Why not invite Grey and the others to your box and I'll take him over part of the time." Thank God Penn won't be here, he thought.

"Very well. Next: Roger asked me to meet you at the bank at six o'clock tomorrow."

Dunross let the silence hang.

"Ian?"

"Yes sir?"

"At six. Sinders should be there by then."

"Do you know him, sir? Personally?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I just wanted to be sure." Dunross heard the governor's silence. His tension increased.

"Good. At six. Next: Did you hear about poor John Chen?"

"Yes sir, just a few minutes ago. Rotten luck."

"I agree. Poor fellow! This Werewolf mess couldn't've come at a worse time. It will surely become a cause celebre for all opponents of Hong Kong. Damned nuisance, apart from the tragedy so far. Dear me, well, at least we live in interesting times with nothing but problems."

"Yes sir. Is the Victoria in trouble?" Dunross asked the question casually but he was listening intently and he heard the slightest hesitation before Sir Geoffrey said lightly, "Good Lord no! My dear fellow, what an astonishing idea! Well, thank you, Ian, everything else can wait till our meeting at noon."

"Yes sir." Dunross put the phone down and mopped his brow. That hesitation was bloody ominous, he told himself. If anyone'd know how bad things are it'd be Sir Geoffrey.

A rain squall battered the windows. So much to do. His eyes went to the clock. Linbar due now, then Sir Luis. He already decided what he wanted from the head of the stock exchange, what he must have from him. He had not mentioned it at the meeting of the Inner Court this morning. The others had soured him. All of them— Jacques, Gavallan, Linbar—were convinced the Victoria would support Struan's to the limit. "And if they don't?" he had asked.

"We've the Par-Con deal. It's inconceivable the Victoria won't help!"

"If they don't?"

"Perhaps after last night Gornt won't continue to sell."

"He'll sell. What do we do?"

"Unless we can stop him or put off the Toda and Orlin payments we're in very great trouble."

We can't put off the payments, he thought again. Without the bank or Mata or Tightfist—even the Par-Con deal won't stop Quil-lan. Quillan knows he's got all day today and all Friday to sell and sell and sell and I can't buy ev—

"Master Linbar, tai-pan."

"Show him in, please." He glanced at the clock. The younger man came in and closed the door. "You're almost two minutes late."

"Oh? Sorry."

"I don't seem to be able to get through to you about punctuality. It's impossible to run sixty-three companies without executive punctuality. If it happens one more time you lose your yearly bonus."

Linbar flushed. "Sorry."

"I want you to take over our Sydney operation from Bill Foster."

Linbar Struan brightened. "Yes certainly. I'd like that. I've wanted an operation of my own for some time."

"Good. I'd like you to be on the Qantas flight tomorrow an—"

"Tomorrow? Impossible!" Linbar burst out, his happiness evaporating. "It'll take me a couple of weeks to get ev—"

Dunross's voice became so gentle but so slashing that Linbar Struan blanched. "I realize that, Linbar. But I want you to go there tomorrow. Stay two weeks and then come back and report to me. Understand?"

"Yes, I understand. But … but what about Saturday? What about the races? I want to watch Noble Star run."

Dunross just looked at him. "I want you in Australia. Tomorrow. Foster's failed to get possession of Woolara Properties. Without Woolara we've no charterer for our ships. Without the charterer our present banking arrangements are null and void. You've two weeks to correct that fiasco and report back."

"And if I don't?" Linbar said, enraged.

"For chrissake don't waste time! You know the answer to that. If you fail you'll no longer be in the Inner Court. And if you're not on that plane tomorrow you're out of Struan's as long as I'm tai-pan."

Linbar Struan started to say something but changed his mind.

"Good," Dunross said. "If you succeed with Woolara your salary's doubled."

Linbar Struan just stared back at him. "Anything else? Sir?"

"No. Good morning, Linbar."

Linbar nodded and strode out. When the door was closed Dunross allowed himself the shadow of a smile. "Cocky young bastard," he muttered and got up and went to the window again, feeling closed in, wanting to be out in a speedboat or, better, in his car, racing the corners just too fast, pushing the car and himself just a little harder each lap to cleanse his head. Absently he straightened a picture and watched the raindrops, deep in thought, saddened by John Chen.

A globulet fell a wet obstacle course and vanished to be replaced by another and another. There was still no view and the rain pelted down.

His private phone jangled into life.

"Yes, Penn?" he said.

A strange voice said, "Mr. Dunross?"

"Yes. Who's this?" he asked, startled, unable to place the man's voice or his accent.

"My name is Kirk, Jamie Kirk, Mr. Dunross. I'm, er, I'm a friend of Mr. Grant, Mr. Alan Medford Grant. . . ." Dunross almost dropped the phone. ". . . Hello? Mr. Dunross?"

"Yes, please go on." Dunross was over his shock now. AMG was one of the few who had been given this number and he had known it was to be used only in emergencies and never passed on except for a very special reason. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm, er, from London; Scotland actually. Alan told me to call you as soon as I got to Hong Kong. He, er, gave me your number. I hope I'm not disturbing you?"

"No, not at all, Mr. Kirk."

"Alan gave me a package for you, and he also wanted me to talk to you. My, er, my wife and I are in Hong Kong for three days so I, er, I wondered if we could meet."

"Of course. Where are you staying?" he asked calmly, though his heart was racing.

"At the Nine Dragons in Kowloon, room 455."

"When did you last see Alan, Mr. Kirk?"

"When we left London. That was, er, two weeks ago now. Yes, two weeks to the day. We've, er, we've been to Singapore and Indonesia. Why?"

"Would after lunch be convenient? Sorry but I'm jammed till 3:20. I could see you then if that would be satisfactory."

"3:20 will be fine."

"I'll send a car for you an—"

"Oh there's, er, there's no need for that. We can find our way to your office."

"It's no trouble. A car will call for you at 2:30."

Dunross replaced the phone, lost in thought.

The clock chimed 8:45. A knock. Claudia opened the door. "Sir Luis Basilic, tai-pan."

Johnjohn at the Victoria Bank was shouting into the phone. "… I don't give a sod what you bastards in London think, I'm telling you we've got the beginnings of a run here and it looks very smelly indeed. I … What? Speak up, man! We've got a rotten connection. . . . What? … I couldn't care less that it's 1:30 in the morning—where the hell were you anyway—I've been trying to get you for four hours! . . . What? . . . Whose birthday? Christ almighty . . ." His sandy eyebrows soared and he held on to his temper. "Listen, just get down to the City and the Mint very first bloody thing and tell them . . . Hello? . . . Yes, tell them this whole bloody island may run out of money and . . . Hello? . . . Hello? … Oh for chrissake!" He started jiggling the plunger up and down. "Hello!" Then he slammed the receiver onto its cradle, cursed for a moment, then prodded the intercom button. "Miss Mills, I was cut off, please get him back quickly as you can."

"Certainly," the cool, very English voice said. "Mr. Dunross's here."

Johnjohn glanced at his watch and whitened. It was 9:33. "Oh Christ! Hold . . . yes, hold the call. I'll …" Hurriedly he put the phone down, rushed to the door, composed himself and opened it with forced nonchalance. "My dear Ian, so sorry to keep you waiting. How're things?"

"Fine. And with you?"

"Marvelous!"

"Marvelous? That's interesting. There must be six or seven hundred impatient customers queuing up outside already and you're half an hour to opening time. There're even a few outside Blacs."

"More than a few . . ." Johnjohn just caught himself in time. "Nothing to worry about, Ian. Would you like coffee or shall we go straight up to Paul's office."

"Paul's office."

"Good." Johnjohn led the way along the thickly carpeted corridor. "No, there's no problem at all, just a few superstitious Chinese —you know how they are, rumors and all that. Rotten about the fire. I hear Casey stripped and dived to the rescue. Were you at the track this morning? This rain's grand, isn't it?"

Dunross's unease increased. "Yes. I hear there're queues outside almost every bank in the Colony. Except the Bank of China."

Johnjohn's laugh sounded hollow. "Our Communist friends wouldn't take kindly to a run on them at all. They'd send in the troops!"

"So the run's on?"

"On the Ho-Pak, yes. On us? No. In any event we're nowhere near as extended as Richard Kwang. I understand he really has made some very dangerous loans. I'm afraid the Ching Prosperity's not in good shape either. Still, Smiler Ching deserves to take a drubbing after all his fiddling over the years in such dubious enterprises."

"Drugs?"

"I really couldn't say, Ian. Not officially. But the rumor's strong."

"But you say the run won't spread to you?"

"Not really. If it does . . . well I'm sure everything will be quite all right." Johnjohn went on down the wide paneled corridor, everything rich, solid and safe. He nodded at the elderly English secretary, went past her and opened the door marked PAUL HAVERGILL, DEPUTY CHAIRMAN. The office was large, oak paneled, the desk huge and clear of papers. The windows faced the square.

"Ian, my dear fellow." Havergill got up and extended his hand. "So sorry I couldn't see you yesterday, and the party last night was hardly the place for business, eh? How're you feeling?"

"All right. I think. So far. You?"

"I've got the trots slightly but Constance's fine, thank God. Soon as we got home I gave us both a good dollop of good old Dr. Colicos's Remedy." It was an elixir invented during the Crimean War by Dr. Colicos to cure stomach disorders when tens of thousands of British soldiers were dying of typhoid and cholera and dysentery. The formula was still a guarded secret.

"Terrific stuff! Dr. Tooley gave us some too."

"Damnable about the others, what? Toxe's wife, eh?"

Johnjohn said gravely, "I heard they found her body under some pilings this morning. If I hadn't had a pink ticket Mary and I'd've been there too." A pink ticket meant that you had your wife's permission to be out in the evening without her, out playing cards with friends, or at the Club, or on the town with visiting guests or wherever—but with her benevolent permission.

"Oh?" Havergill smiled. "Who was the lucky lady?"

"I was playing bridge with McBride at the Club."

Havergill laughed. "Well, discretion's the better part of valor and we have the reputation of the bank to think of."

Dunross felt the tension in the room between the two men. He smiled politely, waiting.

"What can I do for you Ian?" Havergill asked.

"I want an extra 100 million credit for thirty days."

There was a dead silence. Both men stared at him. Dunross thought he saw the flicker of a smile rush behind Havergill's eyes. "Impossible!" he heard him say.

"Gornt's mounting an attack on us, that's clear to anyone. You both know we're solid, safe and in good shape. I need your open, massive backing, then he won't dare proceed and I won't actually need the money. But I do need the commitment. Now."

Another silence. Johnjohn waited and watched. Havergill lit a cigarette. "What's the situation with the Par-Con deal, Ian?"

Dunross told them. "Tuesday we sign."

"Can you trust the American?"

"We've made a deal."

Another silence. Uneasily, Johnjohn broke it. "It's a very good deal, Ian."

"Yes. With your open backing, Gornt and Blacs will withdraw their attack."

"But 100 million?" Havergill said. "That's beyond possibility."

"I said I won't need the full amount."

"That's surmise, my dear fellow. We could become involved in a very big power play against our wish. I've heard rumors Quillan has outside financing, German backing. We couldn't risk getting into a fight with a consortium of German banks. You are already over the limit of your revolving credit. And there's the 500,000 shares you bought today which have to be paid for on Monday. Sorry no."

"Put it to the board." Dunross knew that he had enough votes to carry it over Havergill's opposition.

Another silence. "Very well. I'll certainly do that—at the next board meeting."

"No. That's not for three weeks. Please call an emergency meeting."

"Sorry no."

"Why?"

"I don't have to explain my reasons to you, Ian," Havergill said crisply. "Struan's doesn't own or control this institution, though you do have a large interest in us, as we have in you, and you are our valued customer. I'll be glad to put it up at the next board meeting. Calling emergency meetings is within my control. Solely."

"I agree. So is the granting of the credit. You don't need a meeting. You could do that now."

"I will be glad to put the request to the board at the next meeting. Was there anything else?"

Dunross controlled his urge to wipe the barely concealed smugness off his enemy's face. "I need the credit to support my stock. Now."

"Of course, and Bruce and I really do understand that the Par-Con down payment will give you the financing to complete your ship transactions and make a partial Orlin payment." Havergill puffed his cigarette. "By the way, I understand Orlin won't renew —you'll have to pay them off totally within thirty days as per the contract."

Dunross flushed. "Where did you hear that?"

"From the chairman, of course. I called him last night to ask if the—"

"You what?"

"Of course. My dear chap," Havergill said, now openly enjoying Dunross's and Johnjohn's shock. "We have every right to inquire. After all, we're Struan's bankers and we need to know. Our equity's also at risk if you are to fail, isn't it?"

"And you'll help that happen?"

Havergill stubbed out his cigarette with vast enjoyment. "It's not to our interest for any big business to fail in the Colony, let alone the Noble House. Oh dear no! You needn't worry. At the right time we'll step in and buy your shares. We'll never allow the Noble House to fail."

"When's the right time?"

"When the shares are at a value we consider correct."

"What's that?"

"I'd have to look into it, Ian."

Dunross knew he was beaten but he showed none of it. "You'll allow the stock to go down until they're at giveaway prices and then you'll buy control."

"Struan's is a public company now, however the various companies interlock," Havergill said. "Perhaps it would have been wise to follow Alastair's advice, and mine—we did point out the risks you'd take as a public company. And perhaps you should have consulted us before buying that massive quantity of shares. Clearly Quillan thinks he has you and you really are stretched a bit, old boy. Well, never fear, Ian, we will not allow the Noble House to fail."

Dunross laughed. He got up. "The Colony will be a much better place with you out of it."

"Oh?" Havergill snapped. "My term of office lasts until November 23. You may be out of the Colony before me!"

"Don't you think…" Johnjohn began, aghast at Havergill's fury, but stopped as the deputy chairman turned on him.

"Your term of office begins November 24. Providing the annual general meeting confirms the appointment. Until that time I run the Victoria."

Dunross laughed again. "Don't be too sure of that." He walked out.

Angrily Johnjohn broke the silence. "You could easily call an emergency meeting. You could eas—"

"The matter is closed! Do you understand? Closed!" Furiously Havergill lit another cigarette. "We've got problems of our own that have to be solved first. But if that bastard squeezes out of the vise this time I shall be very surprised. He's in a dangerous position, very dangerous. We know nothing about this damned American and his girl friend. We do know lan's recalcitrant, arrogant and out of his depth. He's the wrong man for the job." "That's not t—"

"We're a profit-making institution, not a charity, and the Dun-rosses and Struans have had too much say in our affairs for too many years. If we can get control we become the Noble House of Asia—we do note 7 ! we get his block of our stock back. We fire all the directors and put in new management at once, we double our money and I'd leave a lasting legacy to the bank forever. That's what we're here for—to make money for our bank and for our shareholders! I've always considered your friend Dunross a very high risk and now he's going to the wall. And if I can help hang him I will!"

The doctor was counting Fleur Marlowe's pulse beats against his old-fashioned, gold fob watch. One hundred and three. Too many, he thought sadly. Her wrist was delicate. He laid it back on the bedcovers, his sensitive fingers aware of the fever. Peter Marlowe came out of the small bathroom of their apartment.

"Not good, eh?" Tooley said gruffly.

Peter Marlowe's smile was weary. "Rather tedious actually. Just cramps and not much coming out, just a little liquid." His eyes rested on his wife who lay wanly in the small double bed. "How're you, pet?"

"Fine," she said. "Fine thank you, Peter."

The doctor reached for his old-fashioned bag and put his stethoscope away. "Was, er, was there any blood, Mr. Marlowe?"

Peter Marlowe shook his head and sat tiredly. Neither he nor his wife had slept much. Their cramps had begun about 4:00 A.M. and had continued since then with ever-increasing strain. "No, at least not yet," he said. "It feels rather like an ordinary bout of dysentery —cramps, a lot of palaver and very little to show for it."

"Ordinary? You've had dysentery? When? What kind of dysentery?"

"I think it was enteric. I, I was a POW in Changi in '45—actually between '42 and '45, partially in Java but mostly in Changi."

"Oh. Oh I see. Sorry about that." Dr. Tooley remembered all the horror stories that came out of Asia after the war about the treatment of British and American troops by the Japanese Army. "I always felt betrayed in a curious way," the doctor said sadly. "The Japanese'd always been our ally . . . they're an island nation, so're we. Good fighters. I was a doctor with the Chindits. Went in with Wingate twice." Wingate was an eccentric British general who had devised a completely unorthodox battle plan to send highly mobile columns of marauding British soldiers, code name Chindits, from India into the jungles of Burma deep behind Japanese lines, supplying them by airdrop. "I was lucky—the whole Chindit operation was rather dicey," he said. As he talked he was watching Fleur, weighing clues, sending his experience into her, trying to detect the disease now, trying to isolate the enemy among a myriad of possibilities before it harmed the fetus. "Bloody planes kept missing our drops."

"I met a couple of your fellows at Changi." The younger man searched his memory. "In '43 or '44, I can't remember when exactly. Or any names. They'd been sent down to Changi after they were captured."

"That'd be '43." The doctor was somber. "One whole column got caught and ambushed early on. Those jungles are unbelievable if you've never been in one. We didn't know what the devil we were doing most of the time. Afraid not many of the lads survived to get to Changi." Dr. Tooley was a fine old man with a big nose and sparse hair and warm hands, and he smiled down at Fleur. "So, young lady," he said with his kind, gruff voice. "You've a slight fev—"

"Oh . . . sorry, Doctor," she said quickly, interrupting him, suddenly white, "I, I think . . ." She got out of bed and hurried awkwardly for the bathroom. The door closed behind her. There was a fleck of blood on the back of her nightdress.

"Is she all right?" Marlowe asked, his face stark.

"Temperature's a hundred and three, heartbeat's up. It could just be gastroenteritis. . . ." The doctor looked at him.

"Could it be hepatitis?"

"No. Not this quickly. The incubation period's six weeks to two months. I'm afraid that specter's hanging over everyone's head. Sorry." A rain squall battered the windows. He glanced at them and frowned, remembering that he had not told Dunross and the Americans about the danger of hepatitis. Perhaps it'll be better just to wait and see and be patient. Joss, he thought. "Two months, to be safe. You've both had all your shots so there shouldn't be any problem about typhoid."

"And the baby?"

"If the cramps get worse she may miscarry, Mr. Marlowe," the doctor said softly. "Sorry, but it's best to know. Either way it won't be easy for her—God only knows what viruses and bacteria're at Aberdeen. The place's a public sewer and has been for a century. Shocking, but nothing we can do about it." He rummaged in his pocket for his prescription pad. "You can't change the Chinese or habits of centuries. Sorry."

"Joss," Peter Marlowe said, feeling rotten. "Will everyone get sick? There must have been forty or fifty of us thrashing around in the water—impossible not to drink some of that muck."

The doctor hesitated. "Of fifty, perhaps five'll be very sick, five'll be untouched and the rest'll be in between. Hong Kong van—that's Hong Kongites—they should be less affected than visitors. But, as you say, a lot of it's joss." He found his pad. "I'll give you a prescription for a rather newfangled intestinal antibiotic but continue with good old Dr. Colicos's Remedy—that will settle your tummies. Watch her very carefully. Do you have a thermometer?"

"Oh yes. With …" A spasm went through Peter Marlowe, shook him and went away. "Traveling with young kids you have to have a survival kit." Both men were trying not to watch the bathroom door. They could half-hear her as her pain waxed and waned.

"How old are your children?" Dr. Tooley asked absently, keeping the concern from his voice as he wrote. When he had come in he had noticed the happy chaos of the tiny second bedroom off the small drab living room—barely big enough for its two-tiered bunk, the toys scattered. "Mine are grown up now. I've three daughters."

"What? Oh, ours are four and eight. They're . . . they're both girls."

"Do you have an amah?"

"Oh yes. Yes. With all the rain this morning she took the kids to school. They go across the harbor and pick up a bo-pi " A bo-pi was an unlicensed taxi that was quite illegal but most everyone used them from time to time. "The school's off Garden Road. Most days they insist on toddling off themselves. They're perfectly safe."

"Oh yes. Yes of course."

Their ears were fine-tuned now to her torment. Each muted strain went through both men.

"Well, don't worry," the doctor said hesitantly. "I'll have the drugs sent up—there's a pharmacy in the hotel. I'll have it put on your bill. I'll come back this evening at six, as near to six as I can. If there's any problem . . ." He offered a prescription blank gently. "My phone number's on this. Don't hesitate to call, eh?"

"Thanks. Now about your bill . . ."

"No need to worry about that, Mr. Marlowe. The first order of business is to get you well." Dr. Tooley was concentrating on the door. He was afraid to leave. "Were you army?"

"No. Air force."

"Ah! My brother was one of the Few. He pranged in . . ." He stopped.

Fleur Marlowe was calling out hesitantly through the door, "Doctor . . . cou . . . could you . . . please . . ."

Tooley went to the door. "Yes, Mrs. Marlowe? Are you all right?"

"Cou . . . could you please . . ." He opened the door and closed it after him. The sour sweet stench in the tiny bathroom was heavy but he paid it no attention.

"I … it .. ." Another spasm twisted her. "Now don't worry," he said, calming her, and put one hand on her back and the other on her stomach, helping to support her tormented abdominal muscles. His hands massaged gently and with great knowledge. "There, there! Just let yourself go, I won't let you fall." He felt the knotting under his fingers and willed his warmth and strength into her. "You're just about my daughter's age, my youngest. I've three and the eldest has two children…. There, just let yourself relax, just think the pains away, soon you'll feel nice and warm. . . ." In time the cramps passed.

"I … God, sorr . . . sorry." The young woman groped for the toilet roll but another cramp took her and another. It was awkward for him in the small room but he tended her and kept his strong hands supporting her as best he could. An ache leapt into his back. "I'm . . . I'm all right now," she said. "Thank you." He knew she was not. The sweat had soaked her. He sponged off her face and dried it for her. Then he helped her stand, taking her weight, gentling her all the time. He cleaned her. The paper showed traces of blood and the bowl traces of blood mucus among the discolored water but she was not hemorrhaging yet and he sighed with relief. "You're going to be fine," he said. "Here, hold on a second. Don't be afraid!" He guided her hands to the sink. Quickly he folded a dry towel lengthwise and wrapped it tightly around her stomach, tucking the ends in to hold it. "This's the best for gippy tummy, the very best. It supports your turn and keeps it warm. My grandfather was a doctor too, in the Indian Army, and he swore this was the best." He looked at her keenly. "You're a fine brave young lady. You're going to be fine. Ready?" "Yes. Sorr—sorry about . . ."

He opened the door. Peter Marlowe rushed to help. They put her to bed. She lay there exhausted, a thread of damp hair on her forehead.

Dr. Tooley brushed it away and stared down at her thoughtfully. "I think, young lady, that we'll put you into a nursing home for a day or two."

"Oh but … but . . ."

"Nothing to worry about. But we'd better give the baby-to-be every chance, eh? And with two small children here to fret over. Two days of rest will be enough." His gruff voice touched both of them, calming them. "I'll make the arrangements and be back in a quarter of an hour." He looked at Peter Marlowe under his great bushy eyebrows. "The nursing home's in Kowloon so it'll save any long journey to the Island. A lot of us use it and it's good, clean and equipped for any emergency. Perhaps you'd pack a small bag for her?" He wrote the address and phone number. "So, young lady, I'll be back in a few minutes. It'll be best, then you won't have to worry about the children. I know what a trial that can be if you're sick." He smiled at both of them. "Don't worry about a thing, Mr. Marlowe, eh? I'll talk to your houseboy and ask him to help make things shipshape here. And don't worry about the money." The deep lines around his eyes deepened even more. "We're very philanthropic here in Hong Kong with our young guests."

He went out. Peter Marlowe sat on the bed. Disconsolate.

"I hope the kids got to school all right," she said.

"Oh yes. Ah Sop's fine."

"How will you manage?"

"Easy. I'll be like Old Mother Hubbard. It'll only be a day or two."

She moved wearily, leaning on a hand and watching the rain, and beyond it, the flat gray of the hotel across the narrow street that she hated so much because it cut off the sky. "I… I hope it's not going .. . going to cost too much," she said, her voice weightless.

"Don't worry about it, Fleur. We'll be all right. The Writers Guild'll pay."

"Will they? I bet they won't, Peter, not in time. Blast! We … we're so tight on our budget already."

"I can always borrow against next year's drop dead check. Don—"

"Oh no! No we won't do that, Peter. We mustn't. We agreed. Other . . . otherwise you're trapped ag . . . again."

"Something'll turn up," he said confidently. "Next month we've got a Friday the thirteenth and that's always been lucky for us." His novel was published on a thirteenth and went on to the best-seller list on a thirteenth. When he and his wife were at bottom, three years ago, on another thirteenth he had made a fine screenwriting deal that had carried them again. His first directing assignment had been confirmed on a thirteenth. And last April, Friday the thirteenth, one of the studios in Hollywood had bought the film rights to his novel for $157,000. The agent had taken 10 percent and then Peter Marlowe had spread the remainder over five years—in advance. Five years of family drop dead money. 25,000 per year every January. Enough, with care, for school and medical expenses and mortgage and car and other payments—five glorious years of freedom from all the usual worries. And freedom to turn down a directing-screenwriting job to come to Hong Kong for a year, unpaid, but free to look for the second book. Oh Christ, Peter Marlowe thought, suddenly petrified. What the hell am I looking for anyway? What the hell am I doing here? "Christ," he said miserably, "if I hadn't insisted on us going to that party this would never have happened."

"Joss." She smiled faintly. "Joss, Peter. Remember what you're . . . you're always saying to me. Joss. It's joss, just joss, Peter. Oh Christ I feel awful."

42

10:01 A.M. :

Orlanda Ramos opened the door of her apartment and put her sodden umbrella into a stand. "Come in, Line," she said radiantly. "Minha casa e vossa cam. My house is yours."

Line smiled. "You're sure?"

She laughed and said lightly, "Ah! That remains to be seen. It's just an old Portuguese custom … to offer one's house." She was taking off her shiny, very fashionable raincoat. In the corridor he was doing the same to a soaked, well-used raincoat.

"Here, let me hang it up," she said. "Oh, don't mind about the wet, my amah will mop it up. Come on in."

He noticed how neat and tidy the living room was, feminine, in very good taste and welcoming. She shut the door behind him and hung his coat on a peg. He went over to the French windows that let out onto a small balcony. Her apartment was on the eighth floor of Rose Court in Kotewall Road.

"Is the rain always this heavy?" he asked.

"In a real typhoon it's much worse. Perhaps twelve to eighteen inches in a day. Then there are mud slides and the resettlement areas get washed away."

He was looking down through the overcast. Most of the view was blocked by high rises, ribbon-built on the winding roads that were cut into the mountainside. From time to time he could see glimpses of Central and the shoreline far below. "It's like being in an airplane, Orlanda. On a balmy night it must be terrific."

"Yes. Yes it is. I love it. You can see all of Kowloon. Before Sinclair Towers was built—that's the block straight ahead—we had the best view in Hong Kong. Did you know Struan's own Sinclair Towers? I think Ian Dunross helped have it built to spite Quillan.

Quillan has the penthouse apartment here … at least he did."

"It spoiled his view?"

"Ruined it."

"That's an expensive attack."

"No. Both blocks are immensely profitable. Quillan told me everything in Hong Kong's amortized over three years. Everything. Property's the thing to own. You could make . . ." She laughed. "You could improve your fortune if you wanted to."

"If I stay, where should I live?"

"Here in Mid Levels. Farther up the Peak you're always very damp, the walls sweat and everything mildews." She took off her headscarf and shook her hair free, then sat on the arm of a chair, looking at his back, waiting patiently.

"How long have you been here?" he asked.

"Five, almost six years. Since the block was built."

He turned and leaned against the window. "It's great," he said. "And so are you."

"Thank you, kind sir. Would you like coffee?"

"Please." Line Bartlett ran his fingers through his hair, peering at an oil painting. "This a Quance?"

"Yes. Yes it is. Quillan gave it to me. Espresso?"

"Yes. Black, please. Wish I knew more about paintings . . ." He was going to add, Casey does, but he stopped himself and watched her open one of the doors. The kitchen was large, modern and very well equipped. "That's like something out of House and Garden^

"This was all Quillan's idea. He loves food and loves cooking. This's all his design, the rest… the rest is mine though he taught me good from kitsch."

"You sorry you broke up with him?"

"Yes and no. It's joss, karma. He … that was joss. The time had come." Her quietness touched him. "It could never have lasted. Never. Not here." He saw a sadness go over her momentarily but she brushed it aside and busied herself with the sparkling espresso maker. All the shelves were spotless. "Quillan was a stickler for tidiness, thank God it rubbed off on me. My amah, Ah Fat, she drives me insane."

"Does she live here?"

"Oh yes, yes of course, but she's shopping now—her room's at the end of the corridor. Look around if you like. I won't be a minute."

Filled with curiosity he wandered off. A good dining room with a round table to seat eight. Her bedroom was white and pink, light and airy with soft pink drapes hung from the ceiling that fell around the huge bed making it into a vast four-poster. There were flowers in a delicate arrangement. A modern bathroom, tiled and perfect, with matching towels. A second bedroom with books and phone and hi-fi and smaller bed, again everything neat and tasteful.

Casey's outclassed, he told himself, remembering the easy, careless untidiness of her little house in the Los Angeles canyon, red brick, piles of books everywhere, barbecue, phones, duplicators and electric typewriters. Troubled at his thought and the way he automatically seemed to be comparing them, he strolled back to the kitchen, bypassing the amah's room, his walk soundless. Orlanda was concentrating on the coffee maker, unaware that now he was watching her. He enjoyed watching her.

This morning he had phoned her early, very concerned, waking her, wanting to remind her to see a doctor, just in case. In the melee last night, by the time he and Casey and Dunross had got ashore she had already gone home.

"Oh, thank you, Line, how thoughtful of you to phone! No, I'm fine," she had said in a happy rush. "At least I am now. Are you all right? Is Casey all right? Oh I can't thank you enough, I was petrified . . . You saved my life, you and Casey . . ."

They had chatted happily on the phone and she had promised to see her doctor anyway, and then he had asked if she'd like breakfast. At once she had said yes and he had gone Hong Kong side, enjoying the downpour, the temperature nice. Breakfast atop the Mandarin, eggs Benedict and toast and coffee, feeling grand, Orlanda sparkling and so appreciative of him and of Casey.

"I thought I was dead. I knew I'd drown, Line, but I was too frightened to scream. If you hadn't done it all so quickly I'd never … The .moment I was under, dear Casey was there and I was alive again and safe before I knew it. . . ."

It was the best breakfast he had ever had. She had ministered to him, small things, passing him toast and pouring coffee without having to ask for it, picking up his serviette when it fell, entertaining and being entertained, assured and feminine, making him feel masculine and strong. And she reached out once and put her hand on his arm, long fingers and exquisite nails, and the feel of that touch still lingered. Then he had escorted her home and inveigled an invitation up to her apartment and now he was here, watching her concentrate in the kitchen, silk skirt and Russian-style rain boots, loose blouse that was tight to her tiny waist, letting his eyes flow over her.

Jesus, he thought, I'd better be careful.

"Oh, I didn't see you, Line. You walk quietly for a man of your height!"

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Line!" The steam hissed to a crescendo. Jet droplets began to fill the cups. "A twist of lemon?"

"Thanks. You?"

"No. I prefer cappuccino." She heated the milk, the sound fine and the smell of the coffee grand, then carried the tray to the breakfast area. Silver spoons and good porcelain, both of them aware of the currents in the room but pretending there were none.

Bartlett sipped his coffee. "It's wonderful, Orlanda! The best I've ever had. But it's different."

"It's the dash of chocolate."

"You like cooking?"

"Oh yes! Very much. Quillan said I was a good pupil. I love keeping house and organizing parties, and Quillan always . . ."A small frown was on her face now. She looked at him directly. "I seem to be always mentioning him. Sorry but it's still . . . it's still automatic. He was the first man in my life—the only man—so he's a part of me that's indelible."

"You don't have to explain, Orlanda, I und—"

"I know, but I'd like to. I've no real friends, I've never talked about him to anyone, never wanted to, but somehow . . . somehow well, I like being with you and …" A sudden, vast smile went across her. "Of course! I'd forgotten! Now I'm your responsibility!" She laughed and clapped her tiny hands.

"What do you mean?"

"According to Chinese custom you've interfered with joss or fate. Oh yes. You interfered with the gods. You saved my life because without you I'd surely have died—probably would have died—but that would have been up to the gods. But because you interfered you took over their responsibility, so now you have to look after me forever! That's good wise Chinese custom!" Her eyes were dancing and he had never seen whites as white or dark brown pupils so limpid, or a face so pleasing. "Forever!"

"You're on!" He laughed with her, the strength of her joy surrounding him.

"Oh good!" she said, then became a little serious and touched him on the arm. "I was only joking, Line. You're so gallant—I'm not used to such gallantry. I formally release you—my Chinese half releases you."

"Perhaps I don't want to be released," At once he saw her eyes widen. His chest was feeling tight, his heart quickening. Her perfume tantalized him. Abruptly the force between them surged. His hand reached out and touched her hair, so silky and fine and sensuous. First touch. Caressing her. A little shiver and then they were kissing. He felt her lips soft and, in a moment, welcoming, just a little moist, without lipstick, the taste so clean and good.

Their passion grew. His hand moved to her breast and the heat came through the silk. Again she shivered and weakly tried to back off but he held her firmly, his heart racing, fondling her, then her hands went to his chest and stayed a while, touching him, then pressed against him and she broke the kiss but stayed close, gathering her breath, her heart racing, as intoxicated as he was.

"Line . . . you . . ."

"You feel so good," he said softly, holding her close. He bent to kiss her again but she avoided his kiss.

"Wait, Line. First …"

He kissed her neck and tried again, sensing her want.

"Line, wait . . . first . . ."

"First kiss, then wait!"

She laughed. The tension broke. He cursed himself for making the mistake, his desire strong, whipped by hers. Now the moment had passed and they were fencing again. His anger began to flood but before it possessed him she reached up and kissed him perfectly. At once his anger vanished. Only warmth remained.

"You're too strong for me, Line," she said, her voice throaty, arms around his neck but cautiously. "Too strong and too attractive and too nice and truly, truly I do owe you a life." Her hand caressed his neck and he felt it in his loins as she looked up at him, all her defenses settled, strong yet inviolate. Perhaps, he thought.

"First talk," she said, moving away, "then perhaps we will kiss again."

"Good." At once he went to her but, both of them in good humor now, she put her finger on his lips, preventing him.

"Mr. Bartlett! Are all Americans like you?"

"No," he said immediately but she would not take the bait.

"Yes, I know." Her voice was serious. "I know. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Coffee?"

"Sure," he said, waiting, wondering how to proceed, gauging her, wanting her, not sure of this jungle, fascinated by it and by her.

Carefully she poured the coffee. It tasted as good as the first. He was in control though the ache remained.

"Let's go into the living room," she said. "I'll bring your cup."

He got up and kept a hand around her waist. She did not object and he felt that she liked his touch too. He sat in one of the deep armchairs. "Sit here," he said, patting the arm. "Please."

"Later. First I want to talk." She smiled a little shyly and sat on the sofa opposite. It was dark blue velvet and matched the Chinese rug on shiny parquet floors. "Line, I've only known you a few days and I… I'm not a good-time girl." Orlanda reddened as she said it and carried on a rush over what he was going to say. "Sorry but I'm not. Quillan was the first and only one and I don't want an affair. I don't want a frantic or friendly tumble and a shy or aching good-bye. I've learned to live without love, I just cannot go through that all again. I did love Quillan, I don't now. I was seventeen when we … when we began and now I'm twenty-five.We've been apart for almost three years. Everything's been finished for three years and I don't love him anymore. I don't love anyone and I'm sorry, I'm sorry but I'm not a good-time girl."

"I never thought you were," he said and knew in his heart it was a lie and cursed his luck. "Hell, what do you think I am?"

"I think you're a fine man," she said at once, sincerely, "but in Asia a girl, any girl, finds out very quickly that men want to pillow and that's really all they want. Sorry, Line, casual pillowing's not my thing. Perhaps it will be one day but not now. Yes I'm Eurasian but I'm not… you know what I'm saying?"

"Sure," he said and added before he could stop himself, "you're saying you're off limits."

Her smile vanished and she stared at him. His heart twisted at her sadness. "Yes," she said, slowly getting up, near tears. "Yes, I suppose I am."

"Jesus, Orlanda." He went over to her and held her. "I didn't mean it that way. I didn't mean it rotten." "Line, I'm not trying to tease or play games or be difflc—"

"I understand. Hell, I'm not a child and I'm not pushing or .. . I'm not either."

"Oh, oh I'm so glad. For a moment. . ." She looked up and her innocence melted him. "You're not mad at me, Line? I mean I … I didn't ask you up, you really insisted on coming."

"I know," he said, holding her in his arms, and he was thinking, It's the truth, and also the truth that I want you now and I don't know what you are, who you are but I want you. But what do I want from you? What do I really want? Do I want magic? Or just a lay? Are you the magic I've been seeking forever or just another broad? How do you stack against Casey? Do I measure loyalty against the silk of your skin? Remember how Casey said once, "Love consists of many things, Line, only one part of love's sex. Only one. Think of all the other parts. Judge a woman by her love, yes, but understand what a woman is." But her warmth was going through him, her face against his chest and once more he felt himself stirring. He kissed her neck, not wanting to withhold his passion.

"What are you, Orlanda?"

"I'm … I can only tell you what I'm not," she said in her tiny voice. "I'm not a tease. I don't want you to think that I'm trying to tease you. I like you, like you very much but I'm not a … I'm not a one-night stand."

"I know. Jesus, what put that into your head?" He saw her eyes were glistening. "No need for tears. None. Okay?"

"Yes." She moved away and opened her purse and took out a tissue and used it. "Ayeeyah, I'm acting like a teen-ager or a vestal virgin. Sorry, but it was rather sudden and I wasn't prepared for … I felt myself going." She took a deep breath. "Abject apologies."

He laughed. "Refused."

"Thank God!" She watched him. "Actually, Line, I can usually handle the strong, the meek, and the cunning—even the very cunning—without too much trouble. I guess I've known every kind of pass it's possible for a girl to have and I've always figured I've an automatic game plan to counter them almost before they begin. But with you . . ." She hesitated, then added, "Sorry, but almost every man I meet, well, it's always the same."

"That's wrong?"

"No, but it's trying to walk into a room or a restaurant and feel those leering eyes. I wonder how men would handle it. You're young and handsome. What would you do if women did it to you everywhere you went. Say when you walked through the lobby of the V and A this morning you saw every woman of every age, from false-toothed old grannies, bewigged harpies, the fat, the ugly, the coarse, all of them, all openly leering at you, undressing you mentally, openly trying to get close, trying to stroke your behind, openly ogling your chest or crotch, most of them with bad breath, most of them sweating and foul-smelling, and you know they're imagining you in their bed, enthusiastically and happily doing the most intimate things to them.''

"I wouldn't like it at all. Casey said the same thing in different words when she first joined me. I know what you mean, Orlanda. At least I can imagine it. But that's the way the world's made." "Yes, and sometimes it's awful. Oh I don't want to be a man, Line, I'm very happy to be a woman, but it's really quite awful sometimes. To know you're thought of as just a receptacle that can be bought, and that after it all you're to say thank you very much to the corpulent old lecher with the bad breath and accept your twenty-dollar bill and sneak off like a thief in the night." He frowned. "How did we get on this kick?" She laughed. "You kissed me."

He grinned, glad they were happy together. "That's right. So maybe I deserved the lecture. I'm guilty as charged. Now, about that kiss you promised me…." But he did not move. He was feeling his way, probing. Everything's changed now, he thought. Sure I wanted to—what did she call it? To pillow. Sure. Still do, more than before. But now we're changed. Now we're in a different game. I don't know if I want in. The rules've changed. Before it was simple. Now maybe it's more simple. "You're pretty. Did I mention you were pretty?" he said, avoiding the issue that she wanted out in the open.

"I was going to talk about that kiss. You see, Line, the truth is I just wasn't prepared for the way, to be honest, the way I, I was swamped, I guess that's the word." He let the word linger. "Is that good or bad?" "Both." Her eyes crinkled with her smile. "Yes, swamped with my own desire. You're something else, Mr. Bartlett, and that's also very bad, or very good. I, I enjoyed your kiss." "So did I." Again he grinned at her. "You can call me Line." After a pause she said, "I've never felt so wanting and swamped, and because of that very frightened."

"No need to be frightened," he said. But he was wondering what to do. His instincts said leave. His instincts said stay. Wisdom told him to say nothing and wait. He could hear his heart beating and the rain hammering the windows. Better to go, he thought. "Orlanda, guess it's ab—"

"Do you have time to talk? Just a little?" she asked, sensing his indecision.

"Sure. Sure, of course."

Her fingers brushed her hair from her face. "I wanted to tell you about me. Quillan was my father's boss in Shanghai and I seem to have known him all my life. He helped pay for my education, particularly in the States and he was always very kind to me and my family—I've four sisters and a brother and I'm the oldest and they're all in Portugal now. When I came back to Shanghai from San Francisco after I'd graduated, I was seventeen, almost eighteen and .. . Well he's an attractive man, to me he is, though very cruel sometimes. Very."

"How?"

"He believes in personal vengeance, that vengeance is a man's right, if he's a man. Quillan's very much a man. He was always good to me, still is." She studied him. "Quillan still gives me an allowance, still pays for this apartment."

"You don't have to tell me anything."

"I know. But I'd like to—if you want to listen. Then you can decide."

He studied her. "All right."

"You see, part of it's because I'm Eurasian. Most Europeans despise us, openly or secretly, particularly the British here—Line, just hear me out. Most Europeans despise Eurasians. All Chinese do. So we're always on the defensive, almost always suspect, almost always presumed to be illegitimate, and certainly an easy lay. God how I loathe that Americanism! How rotten and vulgar and cheap it really is. And revealing about the American male—though, strangely, it was in the States that I gained my self-respect and got over my Eurasian guilt. Quillan taught me lots and formed me in lots of ways. I'm beholden to him. But I don't love him. That's what I wanted to say. Would you like more coffee?"

"Sure, thanks."

"I'll make some fresh." She got up, her walk unconsciously sensuous and again he cursed his luck.

"Why'd you bust up with him?"

Gravely she told him about Macao. "I allowed myself to be persuaded into the fellow's bed and I slept there though nothing happened, nothing—the poor man was drunk and useless. The next day I pretended that he'd been fine." Her voice was outwardly calm and matter-of-fact but he could feel the anguish. "Nothing happened but someone told Quillan. Rightly, he was furious. I have no defense. It was . . . Quillan had been away. I know that's no excuse but I'd learned to enjoy pillowing and…" A shadow went over her. She shrugged. "Joss. Karma." In the same small voice she told him about Quillan's revenge. "That's his way, Line. But he was right to be furious with me, I was wrong." The steam hissed and the coifee began to drip. Her hands were finding clean cups and fresh home-baked cookies and new starched linen as she talked but their minds were concentrating on the man-woman triangle.

"I still see him once in a while. Just to talk. We're just friends now and he's good to me and I do what I want, see who I want." She turned the steam off and looked up at him. "We … we had a child four years ago. I wanted it, he didn't. He said I could have the child but I should have it in England. She's in Portugal now with my parents—my father's retired and she lives with them." A tear rolled down her cheek.

"Was that his idea, to keep the child there?"

"Yes. But he is right. Once a year I go there. My parents .. . my mother wanted the child, begged to have it. Quillan's generous to them too." The tears were rolling down her face now but there was no sound to her crying. "So now you know it all, Line. I've never told anyone but you and now you know I'm, I wasn't a faithful mistress and I'm, I'm not a good mother and and . . ."

He went to her and held her very close and he felt her melt against him, trying to hold back the sobs, holding on, taking his warmth and his strength. He gentled her, holding her, the length of her against him, warm, tender, everything fitting.

When she was whole again she reached up on tiptoe and kissed him lightly but with great tenderness and looked at him.

He returned the kiss equally.

They looked at each other searchingly, then kissed again. Their passion grew and it seemed forever but it was not and both heard the key in the lock at the same time. They broke away, trying to catch their breath, listening to their hearts and hearing the coarse voice of the amah from the hall. "Weyyyyy?"

Weakly Orlanda brushed her hair straighter, half-shrugged to him in apology. "I'm in the kitchen," she called out in Shang-hainese. "Please go to your room until I call you."

"Oh? Oh the foreign devil's still here is he? What about my shopping? I did some shopping!"

"Leave it by the door!"

"Oh, oh very well, Young Mistress," the amah called back and went off grumbling. The door banged loudly behind her.

"They always slam doors?" Line asked, his heart still thumping.

"Yes, yes it seems so." Her hand went back to his shoulder, the nails caressing his neck. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. How about dinner?"

She hesitated. "If you bring Casey."

"No. Just you."

"Line, I think it's best no," she told him. "We're not in danger now. Let's just say good-bye now."

"Dinner. Eight. I'll call for you. You pick the restaurant. Shanghai food."

She shook her head. "No. It's too heady already. Sorry."

"I'll call for you at eight." Bartlett kissed her lightly, then went to the door. She took down his raincoat and held it out for him. "Thanks," he said gently. "No danger, Orlanda. Everything's going to come up roses. See you at eight. Okay?"

"It's best not."

"Maybe." He smiled down at her strangely. "That'd be joss— karma. We must remember the gods, huh?" She did not answer. "I'll be here at eight."

She closed the door behind him, went slowly to the chair and sat, deep in thought, wondering if she had scared him off, petrified that she had. Wondering if he really would be back at eight and if he did, how to keep him off, how to puppet him until he was mad with desire, mad enough to marry her.

Her stomach twisted uneasily. I have to be fast, she thought. Casey holds him in thrall, she's wrapped her coils around him and my only way is good cooking and home and loving, loving loving loving and everything that Casey is not. But no pillow. That's the way Casey's trapped him. I have to do the same.

Then he'll be mine.

Orlanda felt weak. Everything had gone perfectly, she decided. Then again she remembered what Gornt had said. "It's the law of the ages that every man has to be trapped into marriage, trapped by his own lust or possessiveness or avarice or money or fear or laziness or whatever but trapped. And no man ever willingly marries his mistress."

Yes. Quillan's right again, she thought. But he's wrong about me. I'm not going to settle for half the prize. I'm going to try for all of it. I'm going to have not only the Jag and this apartment and all it contains but a house in California and, most of all, American wealth, away from Asia, where I'll no longer be Eurasian but a woman like any other, beautiful, carefree and loving.

Oh I'll make him the best wife a man could ever have. I'll minister to his every need, whatever he wants I'll do for him. I felt his strength and I'll be good for him, wonderful for him.

"He's gone?" Ah Fat wandered noiselessly into the room, automatically tidying as she talked the Shanghai dialect. "Good, very good. Shall I make some tea? You must be tired. Some tea, heya?"

"No. Yes, yes make some, Ah Fat."

"Make some tea! Work work work!" The old woman shuffled to the kitchen. She wore black baggy pants and white smock and her hair was in a single long braid that hung down her back. She had looked after Orlanda ever since she was born. "I took a good look at him downstairs, when you and he arrived. For an uncivilized person he's quite presentable," she said speculatively.

"Oh? I didn't see you. Where were you?"

"Down by the stairs," Ah Fat cackled. "Eeeee, I took good care to hide but I wanted to look at him. Huh! You send your poor old slave out into the wet with my poor old bones when what does it matter if I'm here or not? Who's going to get you sweetmeats and tea or drinks in bed when you've finished your labors, heya?"

"Oh shut up! Shut up!"

"Don't shut up your poor old Mother! She knows how to look after you! Ah yes, Little Empress, but it was quite clear on both of you the yang and the yin were ready to join battle. You two looked as happy as cats in a barrel of fish! But there was no need for me to leave!"

"Foreign devils are different, Ah Fat. I wanted him here alone.

Foreign devils are shy. Now make the tea and keep quiet or I'll send you out again!"

"Is he going to be the new Master?" Ah Fat called out hopefully. "It's about time you had a Master, not good for a person not to have a Steaming Stalk at the Jade Gate. Your Gate'll shrivel up and become as dry as dust from the little use it gets! Oh, I forgot to tell you two pieces of news. The Werewolves are supposed to be Macao foreigners; they'll strike again before the new moon. That's what the rumor is. Everyone swears it's the truth. And the other's that, well, Old Cougher Tok at the fish stall says this foreign devil from the Golden Mountain's got more gold than Eunuch Tung!" Tung was a legendary eunuch at the Imperial Court in the Forbidden City of Peking whose lust for gold was so immense that all China could not satisfy it; he was hated so much that the next emperor heaped his ill-gotten gains on him until the weight of the gold crushed him to death. "You're not getting younger, Little Mother! We should be serious. Is he going to be the one?"

"I hope so," Orlanda said slowly.

Oh yes, she thought fervently, faint with anxiety, knowing that Line Bartlett was the single most important opportunity of her life. Abruptly she was petrified again that she had overplayed her game and that he would not come back. She burst into tears.

Eight floors below, Bartlett crossed the small foyer and went outside to join the half a dozen people waiting impatiently for a taxi. The torrent was steady now and it gushed off the concrete overhang to join the flood that swirled in a small river down Kotewall Road, overflowing the gutters, the storm drains long since choked, carrying with it stones and mud and vegetation that came off the high banks and slopes above. Cars and trucks grinding cautiously up or down the steep road splashed through the whirlpools and eddies, windshield wipers clicking, windows fogged.

Across the road the land rose steeply and Bartlett saw the multitude of rivulets cascading down the high concrete embankments that held the earth in. Weeds grew out of cracks. Part of a sodden clump fell away to join more debris and stones and mud. One side of the embankment was a walled garage and, up the slope, a half-hidden ornate Chinese mansion with a green tiled roof and dragons on its gables. Beside it was scaffolding of a building site and excavations for a high rise. Beside that was another apartment block that vanished into the overcast.

So much building, Bartlett told himself critically. Maybe we should get into construction here. Too many people chasing too little land means profit, huge profit. And amortized over three years —Jesusl

A taxi swirled up, careless of the puddles. Passengers got out and others, grumbling, got in. A Chinese couple came out of the entrance, shoved past him and the others to the head of the line—a loud chattering matron with a huge umbrella, an expensive raincoat over her chong-sam, her husband meek and mild alongside her. Screw you, baby, Bartlett thought, you're not going to take my turn. He moved into a better position. His watch read 10:35.

What next, he asked himself. Don't let Orlanda distract you!

Struan's or Gornt?

Today's skirmish day, tomorrow—Friday—tomorrow's the ball-breaker, the weekend's for regrouping, Monday's the final assault and by 3:00 P.M. we should have a victor.

Whom do I want to win? Dunross or Gornt?

That Gornt's a lucky man—was a lucky man, he thought, bemused. Jesus, Orlanda's something else. Would I have quit her if I'd been him? Sure. Sure I would. Well maybe not—nothing happened. But I'd've married her the moment I could and not sent our child packing to Portugal—that Gornt's a no-good son of a bitch. Or goddamn clever. Which?

She laid it out nice and clean—just like Casey did but different though the result's the same. Now everything's complicated, or simple. Which?

Do I want to marry her? No.

Do I want to let her drop? No.

Do I want to bed her? Sure. So mount a campaign, maneuver her into bed without commitments. Don't play the game of life according to female rules, all's fair in war and war. What's love anyway? It's like Casey said, sex's only a part of it.

Casey. What about her? Not long to wait for Casey now. And then, is it bed or marriage bells or good-bye or what? Goddamned if I want to get married again. The one time turned out lousy. That's strange, I haven't thought about her in a long time.

When Bartlett had returned from the Pacific in '45 he had met her in San Diego and married within a week, full of love and ambition and had hurled himself into beginning a construction business in southern California. The time was ripe in California, all forms of building booming. The first child had arrived within ten months and the second a year later and a third ten months after that, and all the while working Saturdays and Sundays, enjoying the work and being young and strong and succeeding hugely, but drifting apart. Then the quarreling began and the whining and the "you never spend any time with us anymore and screw the business I don't care about the business I want to go to France and Rome and why don't you come home early have you a girl friend I know you have a girl friend. …"

But there was no girl friend, just work. Then one day the attorney's letter. Just through the mail.

Shit, Bartlett thought angrily, it still hurting. But then I'm only one of millions and it's happened before and it'll happen again. Even so your letter or your phone call hurts. It hurts and it costs you. It costs you plenty and the attorneys get most, get a good part and they cleverly fan the fire between you for their own goddamn gain. Sure. You're their meal ticket, we all are! From the cradle to the goddamn grave, attorneys kite trouble and feed off your blood. Shit. Attor-neys're the real plague of the good old U.S. of A. I've only met four good ones in all my life, but the rest? They parasite all of us. Not one of us's safe!

Yes. That bastard Stone! He made a killing out of me, turned her into a goddamn fiend, put her and the kids against me forever and nearly broke me and the business. I hope the bastard rots for all eternity!

With an effort Bartlett took his mind off that gaping sore and looked at the rain and remembered that it was only money and that he was free, free and that made him feel marvelous.

Jesus! I'm free and there's Casey and Orlanda.

Orlanda.

Jesus, he thought, the ache still in his loins, I was really going back there. So was Orlanda. Goddamn, it's bad enough with Casey but now I've two of them.

He had not been with a girl for a couple of months. The last time was in London, a casual meeting and casual dinner then into bed. She was staying at the same hotel, divorced and no trouble. What was it Orlanda said? A friendly tumble and a shy good-bye? Yes. That's it. But that one wasn't shy.

He stood in line happily, feeling greatly alive and watching the torrents, the smell of the rain on the earth grand, the road messed with stones and mud, the flood swirling over a long wide crack in the tarmac to dance into the air like rapids of a stream.

The rain's going to bring lots of trouble, he thought. And Or-landa's lots of trouble, old buddy. Sure. Even so, there must be a way to bed her. What is it about her that blows your mind? Part's her face, part's her figure, part's the look in her eye, part's … Jesus, face it, she's all woman and all trouble. Better forget Orlanda. Be wise, be wise, old buddy. As Casey said, that broad's dynamite!

43

10:50 A.M. :

It had been raining now for almost twelve hours and the surface of the Colony was soaked though the empty reservoirs were barely touched. The parched earth welcomed the wet. Most of the rain ran off the baked surface to flood the lower levels, turning dirt roads into morasses, and building sites into lakes. Some of the water went deep. In the resettlement areas that dotted the mountainsides the downpour was a disaster.

Shantytowns of rickety hovels built of any scraps, cardboard, planks, corrugated iron, fencing, canvas, sidings, three-ply walls and roofs for the well-to-do, all leaning against one another, attached to one another, on top of one another, layer on layer, up and down the mountains—all with dirt floors and dark alleys that were now awash and mucked and puddled and potholed and dangerous. Rain pouring through roofs soaking bedding, clothes and the other remnants of a lifetime, people packed on people surrounded by people who stoically shrugged and waited for the rain to stop. Tin alleys wandered higgledy-piggledy with no plan except to squeeze another space for another family of refugees and illegal aliens but not really aliens for this was China and, once past the border, any Chinese became legal settlers to stay as long as they wanted by ancient Hong Kong Government approval.

The strength of the Colony had always been its cheap, abundant and strife-free labor force. The Colony provided a permanent sanctuary and asked only peaceful labor in return at whatever the going rate of the day was. Hong Kong never sought immigrants but the people of China always came. They came by day and by night, by ship, by foot, by stretcher. They came across the border whenever famine or a convulsion racked China, families of men, women and children came to stay, to be absorbed, in time to go back home because China was always home, even after ten generations.

But refugees were not always welcomed. Last year the Colony was almost swamped by a human flood. For some still unknown reason and without warning, the PRC border guards relaxed the tight control of their side and within a week thousands were pouring across daily. Mostly they came by night, over and through the token, single six-strand fence that separated the New Territories from the Kwantung, the neighboring province. The police were powerless to stem the tide. The army had to be called out. In one night in May almost six thousand of the illegal horde were arrested, fed and the next day sent back over the border—but more thousands had escaped the border net to become legal. The catastrophe went on night after night, day after day. Tens of thousands of newcomers. Soon mobs of angry sympathetic Chinese were at the border trying to disrupt the deportations. The deportations were necessary because the Colony was becoming buried in illegals and it was impossible to feed, house and absorb such a sudden, vast increase in new population. Already there were the four-plus million to worry about, all but a tiny percent illegals at one time.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the human gusher ceased and the border closed. Again for no apparent reason.

In the six-week period almost 70,000 had been arrested and returned. Between 100,000 and 200,000 escaped the net to stay, no one knew for certain how many. Spectacles Wu's grandparents and four uncles and their families were some of these, seventeen souls in all, and since they had arrived they had been living in a resettlement area high above Aberdeen. Spectacles Wu had arranged everything for them. This was more of the land that the Noble House Chen family had owned since the beginning that, until recently, had been without value. Now it had value. The Chens rented it, foot by foot, to any who wished to pay. Spectacles Wu had gratefully rented twenty feet by twelve feet at 1.00 HK per foot per month and, over the months, had helped the family scavenge the makings for two dwellings that, until this rain, were dry. There was one water tap per hundred families, no sewers, no electric light, but the city of these squatters thrived and was mostly well ordered. Already one uncle had a small plastic flower factory in a hovel he had rented at 1.50 HK per foot per month lower down the slopes, another had rented a stall in the market area selling tangy rice cakes and rice gruel in their Ning-tok village style. All seventeen were working— now eighteen mouths to feed with a newborn babe, born last week. Even the two-year-olds were given simple tasks, sorting plastic petals for the plastic flowers the young and old made that gave many of the hill dwellers money to buy food and money to gamble with.

Yes, Spectacles Wu thought fervently, all gods help me to get some of the reward money for the capture of the Werewolves in time for Saturday's races to put on Pilot Fish, the black stallion who, according to all the portents, is definitely going to win.

He stifled a yawn as he plodded on barefoot down one of the narrow twisting alleys in the resettlement area, his six-year-old niece beside him. She was barefoot too. The rain kept misting his thick glasses. Both picked their way cautiously, not wanting to step on any broken glass or rusting debris that was ever present. Sometimes the mud was ankle-deep. Both wore their trousers well rolled up and she had a vast straw coolie hat that dwarfed her. His hat was ordinary and secondhand like his clothes and not police regulation. These were the only clothes he possessed except for the shoes he carried in a plastic bag under his raincoat to protect them. Stepping over a foul pothole he almost lost his footing. "Fornicate all hazards," he cursed, glad that he did not live here and that the rented room he shared with his mother near the East Aberdeen police station was dry and not subject to quirks of the weather gods like those here. And thank all gods I don't have to make this journey every day. My clothes would be ruined and then my whole future would be in jeopardy because Special Intelligence admires neatness and punctuality. Oh gods let this be my great day!

Tiredness wafted over him. His head was hunched down and he felt the rain trickling down his neck. He had been on duty all night. When he was leaving the station early this morning he had been told that there was to be a raid on the old amah, Ah Tarn, the one connected with the Werewolves, whom he had found and tracked to her lair. So he had said that he would hurry with his visit to his grandfather who had been taken ill and was near death and hurry back in good time.

He glanced at his watch. There was still time enough to walk the mile to the station. Reassured, he went on again, eased past a pile of garbage into a bigger alley that skirted the storm drain. The storm drain was five feet deep and served normally for sewer, laundry or sink, depending on the amount of water therein. Now it was overflowing, the swirling runoff adding to the misery of those below.

"Be careful, Fifth Niece," he said.

"Yes. Oh yes, Sixth Uncle. Can I come all the way?" the little girl asked happily.

"Only to the candy stall. Now be careful! Look, there's another piece of glass!"

"Is Honorable Grandfather going to die?"

"That's up to the gods. The time of dying is up to the gods, not to us, so why should we worry, heya?"

"Yes," she agreed importantly. "Yes, gods are gods."

All gods cherish Honorable Grandfather and make the rest of his life sweet, he prayed, then added carefully, for safety, "Hail Mary Mother and Joseph, bless old Grandfather." Who knows whether the Christian God or even the real gods exist? he thought. Better to try to placate them all, if you can. It costs nothing. Perhaps they'll help. Perhaps they're sleeping or out to lunch but never mind. Life is life, gods are gods, money is money, laws must be obeyed and today I must be very sharp.

Last night he had been out with Divisional Sergeant Mok and the Snake. This was the first time he had been taken with them on one of their special raids. They had raided three gambling joints but had, curiously, left five much more prosperous ones untouched even though they were on the same floor of the same tenement and he could hear the click of mah-jong tiles and the cries of the fan-tan croupiers.

Dew neh loh moh I wish I could get part of the squeeze, he told himself then added, Get thee behind me, Satan! I want much more to be in Special Intelligence because then I will have a safe, important job for life, I will know all manner of secrets, the secrets will protect me, and then, when I retire, the secrets will make me rich.

They turned a corner and reached the candy stall. He bartered with the old toothless woman for a minute or two, then paid her two copper cash and she gave the little girl a sweet rice cake and a good pinch of the bits of oh so chewy and tangy bittersweet sun-dried orange peel in a twist of newspaper.

"Thank you, Sixth Uncle," the little girl said, beaming up at him from under her hat.

"I hope you enjoy them, Fifth Niece," he replied, loving her, glad that she was pretty. If the gods favor us she will grow up to be very pretty, he thought contentedly, then we can sell her maidenhead for a vast amount of money, and her later services profitably for the good of the family.

Spectacles Wu was very proud that he had been able to do so much for this part of his family in their hour of need. Everyone safe and fed and now my percentage of Ninth Uncle's plastic flower factory, negotiated so patiently, will, with joss, pay my rent in a year or two, and I can eat good Ning-tok rice gruel three times a week free which helps eke out my money so that I needn't take the squeeze that is so easy to obtain but would ruin my future.

No. All gods bear witness! I will not take the squeeze while there's a chance for SI but it's not sensible to pay us so little. Me, 320 HK a month, after two years of service. Ayeeyah, barbarians are impossible to understand!

"You run along now and I'll be back tomorrow," he said. "Be careful as you go."

"Oh yes!"

He bent down and she hugged him. He hugged her back and left. She headed up the hill, part of the rice cake already in her mouth, the cloying tacky sweetness oh so delicious.

The rain was monotonous and heavy. Flooding from the storm drain carried debris against the shacks in its path but she climbed the path carefully, skirting it, fascinated by the rushing water. The overflow was deep in parts and here where the way was steeper, almost like rapids. Without warning a jagged five-gallon can came swirling down the drain and hurled itself at her, narrowly missing her, to smash through a cardboard wall.

She stood stock-still, frightened.

"Get on, there's nothing to steal here!" a furious householder called out at her. "Go home! You shouldn't be here. Go home!"

"Yes . . . yes," she said and began to hurry, the climb more difficult now. At that moment the earth just below her gave way and the slide began. Hundreds of tons of sludge and rock and earth surged downward burying everything in its path. It went on for fifty yards or more in seconds, tearing the flimsy structures apart, scattering men, women and children, burying some, maiming others, cutting an oozing swath where once was village.

Then it stopped. As suddenly as it began.

On all the mountainside there was a great silence broken only by the sound of rain. Abruptly the silence ceased. Shouts and cries for help began. Men and women and children rushed out of untouched hovels, blessing the gods for their own safety, adding to the pandemonium and wails for help. Friends helped friends, neighbors helped neighbors, mothers searched for children, children for parents, but the great majority nearby just stood there in the rain and blessed their joss that this slide had passed them by.

The little girl was still teetering on the brink of the chasm where the earth had fallen away. She stared down into it with disbelief. Eleven feet below her now were fangs of rocks and sludge and death where seconds ago was solid ground. The lip was crumbling and small avalanches of mud and stones cascaded into the abyss, aided by the flooding from the storm drain. She felt her feet slipping so she took a tentative step backward but more of the earth gave way so she stopped, petrified, the remains of the rice cake still firmly in her hands. Her toes dug into the soft earth to try to keep her balance.

"Don't move," an old man called out.

"Get away from the edge," another shouted and the rest watched and waited and held their breath to see what the gods would decide.

Then a ten-foot slice of the lip collapsed and toppled into the maw carrying the little girl with it. She was buried just a little. Up to her knees. She made sure her rice cake was safe then burst into tears.

44

11:30 A.M. :

Superintendent Armstrong's police car eased its way through the milling angry crowds that had spilled over into the road outside the Ho-Pak Bank, heading for the East Aberdeen police station. Mobs were also clogging the streets outside all the other banks in the area, big and small—even the Victoria which was across the street from the Ho-Pak—everyone impatiently waiting to get in to get their money out.

Everywhere the mood was volatile and dangerous, the downpour adding to the tension. Barricades erected to channel people into and out of the banks were manned in strength by equally anxious and irritable police—twenty per thousand, unarmed but for truncheons.

"Thank God for the rain," Armstrong muttered.

"Sir?" the driver asked, the irritating screech of ill-adjusted windshield wipers drowning his voice.

Armstrong repeated it louder and added, "If it was hot and humid, this whole bloody place'd be up in arms. The rain's a godsend."

"Yes sir. Yes it is."

In time the police car stopped outside the station. He hurried in. Chief Inspector Donald C.C. Smyth was waiting for him. His left arm was in a sling.

"Sorry to be so long," Armstrong said. "Bloody traffic's jammed for bloody miles."

"Never mind. Sorry but I'm a bit shorthanded, old chap. West Aberdeen's cooperating and so is Central, but they've problems too. Bloody banks! We'll have to do with one copper in the back—he's already in position in case we flush one of the villains—and us up front with Spectacles Wu." Smyth told Armstrong his plan.

"Good."

"Shall we go now? I don't want to be away too long." "Of course. It looks pretty dicey outside." "I hope the bloody rain lasts until the bloody banks close their doors or pay out the last penny. Did you go liquid yourself?"

"You must be joking! My pittance makes no difference!" Armstrong stretched, his back aching. "Ah Tarn in the flat?"

"As far as we know. The family she works for is called Ch'ung. He's a dustman. One of the villains might be there too so we'll have to get in quickly. I've the commissioner's authority to carry a revolver. Do you want one too?" "No. No thanks. Let's go, shall we?"

Smyth was shorter than Armstrong but well built and his uniform suited him. Awkwardly, because of his arm, he picked up his raincoat and began to lead the way, then stopped. "Bugger, I forgot! Sorry, SI, Brian Kwok called, would you call him? Want to use my office?"

"Thanks. Is there any coffee? I could use a cuppa." "Coming up."

The office was neat, efficient and drab, though Armstrong noticed the expensive chairs and desk and radio and accoutrements. "Gifts from grateful customers," Smyth said airily. "I'll leave you for a couple of minutes."

Armstrong nodded and dialed. "Yes, Brian?" "Oh hello, Robert! How's it going? The Old Man says you should bring her to HQ and not investigate her at East Aberdeen." "All right. We're just about to leave. HQ eh? What's the reason?" "He didn't tell me, but he's in a good mood today. It seems we've a 16/2 tonight."

Armstrong's interest peaked. A 16/2 in SI terms meant they had broken an enemy cover and were going to take the spy or spies into custody. "Anything to do with our problem?" he asked cautiously, meaning Sevrin.

"Perhaps." There was a pause. "Remember what I was saying about our mole? I'm more convinced than ever I'm right." Brian Kwok switched to Cantonese, using oblique phrases and innuendoes in case he was overheard. Armstrong listened with growing concern as his best friend told him what had happened at the track, the long private meeting between Crosse and Suslev.

"But that means nothing. Crosse knows the bugger. Even I've drunk with him once or twice, feeling him out."

"Perhaps. But if Crosse's our mole it'd be just like him to do an exchange in public. Heya?"

Armstrong felt sick with apprehension. "Now's not the time, old chum," he said. "Soon as I get to HQ we should have a chat. Maybe lunch and talk."

Another pause. "The Old Man wants you to report to him as soon as you bring the amah in."

"All right. See you soon."

Armstrong put down the phone. Smyth came back in. Thoughtfully he handed him a coffee. "Bad news?"

"Nothing but bloody trouble," Armstrong said sourly. "Always bloody trouble." He sipped his coffee. The cup was excellent porcelain and the coffee fresh, expensive and delicious. "This's good coffee! Very good. Crosse wants me to bring her to HQ directly, not here."

Smyth's eyebrows soared. "Christ, what's so important about an old hag amah?" he asked sharply. "She's in my jurisdic—"

"Christ I don't know! I don't give the f—" The bigger man stopped his explosion. "Sorry, I haven't been getting much sleep the last few days. I don't give the orders. Crosse said to bring her to HQ. No explanation. He can override anyone. SI overrides everyone, you know how it is!"

"Arrogant bastard!" Smyth finished his coffee. "Thank God I'm not in SI. I'd hate to deal with that bugger every day."

"I'm not in SI and he still gives me trouble."

"Was it about our mole?"

Armstrong glanced up at him. "What mole?"

Smyth laughed. "Come on for chrissake! There's a rumor among the Dragons that our fearless leaders have been advised to find the bugger very quickly. It seems that the minister's even roasting the governor! London's so pissed off they're sending out the head of MI-6—presume you know Sinders arrives tomorrow on the BO AC flight."

Armstrong sighed. "Where the hell do they get all their information?"

"Telephone operators, amahs, street cleaners—who cares. But you can bet, old lad, at least one of them knows everything. You know Sinders?"

"No, never met him." Armstrong sipped his coffee, enjoying the excellence, the rich, nutty flavor that was giving him new strength. "If they know everything, who's the mole?"

After a pause, Smyth said, "That sort of info'd be expensive. Shall I ask the price?"

"Yes. Please." The big man put his cup down. "The mole doesn't bother you, does he?"

"No, not at all. I'm doing my job thank you very much and it's not my job to worry about moles or to try to catch them. The moment you catch and snatch the bugger there'll be another bugger subverted or put into place and we'll do the same to them, whoever the them are. Meanwhile if it wasn't for this bloody Ho-Pak mess this station'd still be the best run and my East Aberdeen area the quietest in the Colony and that's all I'm concerned about." Smyth offered a cigarette from an expensive gold case. "Smoke?" "No thanks, I quit."

"Good for you. No, so long as I'm left alone until I retire in four years all's well in the world." He lit the cigarette with a gold lighter and Armstrong hated him a little more. "By the way, I think you're foolish not to take the envelope that's left in your desk monthly." "Do you now?" Armstrong's face hardened. "Yes. You don't have to do anything for it. Nothing at all. Guaranteed."

"But once you've taken one you're up the creek without a paddle."

"No. This's China and not the same." Smyth's blue eyes hardened too. "But then you know that better than I." "One of your 'friends' asked you to give me the message?" Smyth shrugged. "I heard another rumor. Your share of the Dragons reward for finding John Chen comes to 40,000 HK an—"

"I didn't find him!" Armstrong's voice grated. "Even so, that'll be in an envelope in your desk this evening. So I hear, old chap. Just a rumor, of course."

Armstrong's mind was sifting this information. 40,000 HK covered exactly and beautifully his most pressing, long overdue debt that he had to clear by Monday, losses on the stock market that, "Well really, old boy, you should pay up. It has been over a year and we do have rules. Though I'm not pressing I really must have the matter settled. …"

Smyth's right again, he thought without bitterness, the bastards know everything and it'd be so easy to find out what debts I have. So am 1 going to take it or not?

"Only forty?" he asked with a twisted smile.

"I imagine that's enough to cover your most pressing problem," Smyth said with the same hard eyes. "Isn't it?"

Armstrong was not angry that the Snake knew so much about his private life. I know just as much about his, though not how much he has or where it's stacked away. But it'd be easy to find out, easy to break him if I wanted to. Very easy. "Thanks for the coffee. Best I've had in years. Shall we go?"

Awkwardly, Smyth put on his regulation raincoat over his well-cut uniform, adjusted the sling for his arm and put his cap to the usual jaunty angle and led the way. As they went, Armstrong made Wu repeat what had happened and what had been said by the youth who claimed to be one of the Werewolves and later by the old amah. "Very good, Wu," Armstrong said when the young man had finished. "An excellent piece of surveillance and investigation. Excellent. Chief Inspector Smyth tells me you want to get into SI?"

"Yes sir."

"Why?"

"It's important, an important branch of SB, sir. I've always been interested in security and how to keep our enemies out and the Colony safe and I feel it would be very interesting and important. I'd like to help if I could, sir."

Momentarily their ears focused on the distant wail of fire engines that came from the hillside above.

"Some stupid bastard's kicked over another stove," Smyth said sourly. "Christ, thank God for the rain!"

"Yes," Armstrong said, then added to Wu, "If this turns out as you've reported, I'll put in a word with SB or SI."

Spectacles Wu could not stop the beam. "Yes sir, thank you, sir. Ah Tarn is really from my village. Yes sir."

They turned into the alley. Crowds of shoppers and stall keepers and shopkeepers under umbrellas or under the canvas overhangs watched them sullenly and suspiciously, Smyth the most well known and feared quai loh in Aberdeen.

"That's the one, sir," Wu whispered. By prearrangement Smyth casually stopped at a stall, this side of the doorway, ostensibly to look at some vegetables, the owner at once in shock. Armstrong and Wu walked past the entrance then turned abruptly and the three of them converged. They went up the stairs quickly as two uniformed policemen who had been trailing from a safe distance materialized to bottle up the front. Once the narrow passageway was secure one of them hurried up an even smaller alley and around the back to make sure the plainclothes detective was still in position guarding the single exit there, then he rushed back to reinforce the undermanned barricades in front of the Victoria.

The inside of the tenement was as dingy and filthy as the outside with mess and debris on every landing. Smyth was leading and he stopped on the third landing, unbuttoned his revolver holster and stepped aside. Without hesitation Armstrong leaned against the flimsy door, burst the lock and went in quickly. Smyth followed at once, Spectacles Wu nervously staying to guard the entrance. The room was drab with old sofas and old chairs and old grimy curtains, the sweet-rank smell of opium and cooking oil on the air. A heavy-set, middle-aged matron gaped at them and dropped her newspaper. Both men went for the inner doors. Smyth pulled one open to find a scruffy bedroom, the next revealed a messy toilet and bathroom, a third another bedroom crammed with unmade bunks for four. Armstrong had the last door open. It let into a cluttered, filthy, tiny kitchen, where Ah Tam bent over a pile of wash in the grimy sink. She stared at him blankly. Behind her was another door. At once he shoved past and jerked it open. It was empty too, more of a closet than a room, windowless with a vent cut in the wall and just enough space to fit the small string mattressless bunk and a broken-down chest of drawers.

He came back into the living room, Ah Tam shuffling after him, his breathing good and his heart settling down. It had taken them only seconds and Smyth took out the papers and said sweetly, "Sorry to interrupt, madam, but we've a search warrant."

'Wat?"

"Translate for us, Wu," Smyth ordered and at once the young constable repeated what had been said and, as previously arranged, began to act as though he was the interpreter for two dullard quai loh policemen who did not speak Cantonese.

The woman's mouth dropped open. "Search!" she shrieked. "Search what? We obey the law here! My husband works for the government and has important friends and if you're looking for the gambling school it's nothing to do with us but it's on the fourth floor at the back and we know nothing about the smelly whores in 16 who set up shop and work till all hours making the rest of us civ—"

"Enough," Wu said sharply, "we are police on important matters! These Lords of the police are important! You're the wife of Ch'ung the dustman?"

"Yes," she replied sullenly. "What do you want with us? We've done noth—"

"Enough!" Armstrong interrupted in English with deliberate arrogance. "Is that Ah Tam?"

"You! You're Ah Tam?"

"Eh, me? Wat?" The old amah tugged at her apron nervously, not recognizing Wu.

"So you're Ah Tam! You're under arrest."

Ah Tam went white and the middle-aged woman cursed and said in a rush, "Ah! So it's you they're after! Huh, we know nothing about her except we picked her off the street a few months ago and gave her a home and sal—"

"Wu, tell her to shut up!"

He told her impolitely. She obeyed even more sullenly. "These Lords want to know is there anyone else here?"

"Of course there isn't. Are they blind? Haven't they raped my house like assassins and seen for themselves?" the shrew said truculently. "I know nothing about nothing."

"Ah Tam! These Lords want to know where your room is."

The amah found her voice and began to bluster, "What do you want with me, Honorable Policeman? I've done nothing, I'm not an illegal, I've papers since last year. I've done nothing, I'm a law-abiding civilized person who's worked all her li—"

"Where's your room?"

The younger woman pointed. "There," she said in her screeching, irritating voice, "where else would her room be? Of course it's there off the kitchen! Are these foreign devils senseless? Where else do maids live? And you, you old maggot! Getting honest people into trouble! What's she done? If it's stolen vegetables it's nothing to do with me!"

"Quiet or we shall take you to our headquarters and surely the judge will want you kept in custody! Quiet!"

The woman started to curse but bit it back.

Armstrong said, "Now, what . . ." Then he noticed that several curious Chinese were peering into the room from the landing. He stared back, took a sudden pace toward them. They vanished. He closed the door, hiding his amusement. "Now, ask both of them what they know about the Werewolves."

The woman gaped at Wu. Ah Tarn went a little grayer. "Eh, me? Werewolves? Nothing! Why should I know about those foul kidnappers. What have they to do with me? Nothing nothing at all!"

"What about you, Ah Tarn?"

"Me? Nothing at all," she said querulously, "I'm a respectable amah who does her work and nothing else!"

Wu translated their answers. Both men noticed that his translation was accurate, fast and easy. Both were patient and they continued to play the game they had played so many times before. "Tell her she'd better tell the truth quickly." Armstrong glowered down at her. He bore her no ill feeling; neither did Smyth. They just wanted the truth. The truth might lead to the identity of the Werewolves and the sooner those villains were hung for murder the easier it would be to control Hong Kong and the sooner law-abiding citizens, including themselves, could go about their own business or hobbies—making money or racing or whoring. Yes, Armstrong thought, sorry for the old woman. Twenty dollars to a broken hatpin the shrew knows nothing but Ah Tam knows more than she'll ever tell us.

"I want the truth. Tell her!" he said.

"Truth? What truth, Honorable Lord? How could this poor old body be anyth—"

Armstrong put up his hand dramatically. "Enough!" This was another prearranged signal. At once Spectacles Wu switched to Ning-tok dialect which he knew neither of them understood. "Elder Sister, I suggest you talk quickly and openly. We know everything already!"

Ah Tam gaped at him. She had only two twisted teeth in a lower gum. "Eh, Younger Brother?" she replied in the same dialect, caught off guard. "What do you want with me?" "The truth! I know all about you!"

She peered at him without recognition. "What truth? I've never seen you before in my life!"

"Don't you remember me? In the poultry market? You helped me buy a chicken and then we had tea. Yesterday. Don't you remember? You told me about the Werewolves, how they were going to give you a huge reward . . ."

All three saw the momentary flash behind her eyes. "Werewolves?" she began querulously. "Impossible! It was someone else! You accuse me falsely. Tell the Noble Lords I've never seen y—"

"Quiet you old baggage!" Wu said sharply and cursed her roundly. "You worked for Wu Ting-top and your mistress's name was Fan-ling and she died three years ago and they owned the pharmacy at the crossroads! I know the place well myself!"

"Lies . . . lies . . ."

"She says it's all lies, sir."

"Good. Tell her we'll take her to the station. She'll talk there."

Ah Tam began shaking. "Torture? You'll torture an old woman? Oh oh oh . . ."

"When does this Werewolf come back? This afternoon?"

"Oh oh oh … I don't know … he said he would see me but the thief never came back. I lent him five dollars to get home an—"

"Where was his home?"

"Eh? Who? Oh him, he … he said he was a relation of a relation and … I don't remember. I think he said North Point… I don't remember anything . . ."

Armstrong and Smyth waited and probed and soon it was apparent that the old woman knew little though she ducked and twisted the probing, her lies becoming ever more flowery.

"We'll take her in anyway," Armstrong said.

Smyth nodded. "Can you handle it till I can send a couple of men? I really think I ought to be getting back."

"Certainly. Thanks."

He left. Armstrong told Wu to order the two women to sit down and be silent while he searched. They obeyed, frightened. He went into the kitchen and closed the door. At once Ah Tam pulled at her long ratty queue. "Young Brother," she whispered slyly, knowing her mistress did not understand Ning-tok, "I'm guilty of nothing. I just met that young devil like I met you. I did nothing. People of the same village should stick together, heya? A handsome man like you needs money—for girls or his wife. Are you married, Honorable Younger Brother?"

"No, Elder Sister," Wu said politely, leading her on as he had been told to do.

Armstrong was standing in the doorway of Ah Tarn's tiny bedroom and he wondered for the millionth time why it was that Chinese treated their servants so badly, why servants would work in such miserable and foul conditions, why they would sleep and live and give loyal service for a lifetime in return for a pittance, little respect and no love.

He remembered asking his teacher. The old policeman had said, "I don't know, laddie, but I think it's because they become family. Usually it's a job for life. Usually their own family becomes part also. The servant belongs, and the how chew, the good points of the job are many. It goes without saying all servants cream off a proportion of all housekeeping money, all foods, all drinks, all cleaning materials, all everything, however rich or poor, of course with the employers' full knowledge and approval providing it's kept to the customary level—how else can he pay them so little if they can't make extra on the side?"

Maybe that's the answer, Armstrong thought. It's true that before a Chinese takes a job, any job, he or she will have considered the how chew of the job very carefully indeed, the value of the how chew always being the deciding factor.

The room stank and he tried to close his nose to the smell. Sprays of rainwater were coming through the vent, the sound of the rain still pelting down, the whole wall mildewed and water-stained from a thousand storms. He searched methodically and carefully, all his senses tuned. There was little space to hide anything. The bed and bedding were relatively clean though there were many bedbugs in the corners of the bunk. Nothing under the bed but a chipped and stinking chamber pot and an empty suitcase. A few old bags and a tote bag produced nothing. The chest of drawers contained a few clothes, some cheap jewelry, a poor quality jade bracelet. Hidden under some clothes was an embroidered handbag of much better quality. In it were some old letters. A news cutting. And two photographs.

His heart seemed to stop.

After a moment he went into the better light of the kitchen and peered at the photographs again but he had not been mistaken. He read the news cutting, his mind reeling. There was a date on the cutting and a date on one of the photographs.

In the honeycombed basement of Police Headquarters, Ah Tarn sat on a hard, backless chair in the center of a large soundproofed room that was brightly lit and painted white, white walls and white ceiling and white floors and a single, flush white door that was almost part of the wall. Even the chair was white. She was alone, petrified, and she was talking freely now.

"Now what do you know about the barbarian in the background of the photograph?" Wu's flat, metallic Ning-tok voice asked from a hidden speaker.

"I've told and told and there isn't… I don't know, Lord," she whimpered. "I want to go home…. I've told you, I barely saw the foreign devil… he only visited us this once that I know of, Lord. … I don't remember, it was years ago, oh can I go now I've told you everything, everything. . . ."

Armstrong was watching her through the one-sided mirror in the darkened observation room, Wu beside him. Both men were set-faced and ill-at-ease. Sweat beaded Wu's forehead even though the room was pleasantly air conditioned. A tape recorder turned noiselessly. There were microphones and a bank of electronic equipment behind them.

"I think she's told us everything we need," Armstrong said, sorry for her.

"Yes sir." Wu kept his nervousness out of his voice. This was the first time that he had ever been part of an SI interrogation. He was frightened and excited and his head ached.

"Ask her again where she got the purse."

Wu did as he was ordered. His voice was calm and authoritative.

"But I've told you again and again," the old woman whimpered. "Please can I g—"

"Tell us again and then you can go."

"All right… all right . . . I'll tell you again. … It belonged to my Mistress who gave it to me on her deathbed, she gave it to me, I swear it and—"

"The last time you said it was given to you the day before she died. Now which is the truth?"

Anxiously Ah Tarn plucked at her ratty queue. "I … I don't remember, Lord. It was on her … it was when she died … I don't remember." The old woman's mouth worked and no sound came out and then said in a querulous rush, "I took it and hid it after she died and there were those old photos . . . I've no picture of my Mistress so I took them too and there was one tael of silver too and this paid for part of my journey to Hong Kong during the famine. I took it because none of her rotten sons or daughters or family who hated her and hated me would give me anything so I took it when no one was . . . she gave it to me before she died and I just hid it it's mine, she gave it to me. . . ."

They listened while the old woman went on and on and they let her talk herself out. The wall clock read 1:45. They had been questioning her for half an hour. "That's enough for now, Wu. We'll repeat it in three hours just for safety but I think she's told us everything." Wearily Armstrong picked up a phone, dialed. "Armstrong—you can take her back to her cell now," he said into the phone. "Make sure she's comfortable and well looked after and have the doctor reexamine her." It was normal SI procedure to give prisoners an examination before and after each interrogation. The doctor had said that Ah Tam had the heart and the blood pressure of a twenty-year-old.

In a moment they saw the white, almost hidden door open. A uniformed SI policewoman beckoned Ah Tam kindly. Ah Tam hobbled out. Armstrong dipped the lights, switched the tape recorder to rewind. Wu mopped his brow.

"You did very well, Wu. You learn quickly."

"Thank you, sir."

The high-pitched whine of the tape recorder grew. Armstrong watched it silently, still in shock. The sound ceased and the big man took the reel out of the machine. "We always mark the date, exact time and exact duration of the interrogation and use a code name for the suspect. For safety and secrecy." He looked up a number in a book, marked the tape, then began to make out a form. "We cross-check with this form. We sign it as interrogators and put Ah Tarn's code down here—V-ll-3. This's top secret and filed in the safe." His eyes became very hard. Wu almost quailed. "I repeat: You'd better believe that a closed mouth catches no flies and that everything in SI, everything that you have been party to today is top secret."

"Yes sir. Yes, you can count on me, sir."

"You'd better also remember that Si's a law unto itself, the governor and the minister in London. Only. Good old English law and fair play and normal police codes do not apply to SB or SI— habeas corpus, open trials and appeal. In an SI case there's no trial, no appeal and it's a deportation order to the PRC or Taiwan, whichever's worse. Understand?" "Yes sir. I want to be part of SI, sir, so you can believe me. I'm not one to slake my thirst on poison," Wu assured him, sick with hope.

"Good. For the next few days you're confined to this HQ."

Wu's mouth dropped open. "But sir, my … yes sir."

Armstrong led the way out and locked the door after him. He gave the key and the form to an SI agent who was on guard at the main desk. "I'll keep the reel for the moment. I've signed the receipt."

"Yes sir."

"You'll take care of Constable Wu? He's our guest for a couple of days. Start getting his particulars—he's been very very very helpful. I'm recommending him for SI."

"Yes sir."

He left them and went to the elevator and got out on his floor, a sick-sweet-sour taste of apprehension in his mouth. SI interrogations were anathema to him. He hated them though they were fast, efficient and always obtained results. He preferred to have an old-fashioned battle of wits, to use patience and not these new, modern psychological tools. "It's all bloody dangerous if you ask me," he muttered, walking along his corridor, the faint musty smell of headquarters in his nostrils, hating Crosse and SI and everything it stood for, hating the knowledge he had unearthed. His door was open. "Oh hi, Brian," he said, closing it, his face grim. Brian Kwok had his feet up on the desk and was idly reading one of the Communist Chinese morning papers, the windows rain-streaked behind him. "What's new?"

"There's quite a big piece on Iran," his friend said, engrossed in what he was reading. "It says 'capitalist CIA overlords in conjunction with the tyrant Shah have put down a people's revolutionary war in Azerbaijan, thousands have been killed' and so on. I don't believe all that but it looks as though the CIA and the Ninety-second Airborne have defused that area and the Yanks have done right for once."

"Lot of bloody good that'll do!"

Brian Kwok looked up. His smile faded. "What's up?"

"I feel rotten." Armstrong hesitated. "I sent for a couple of beers, then we'll have lunch. How about a curry? All right?"

"Fine, but if you're feeling rotten let's skip lunch."

"No, it's not that sort of rotten. I … I just hate doing white interrogations . . . gives me the creeps."

Brian Kwok stared at him. "You did the old amah there? What the hell for?"

"It was Crosse's order. He's a bastard!"

Brian Kwok put his paper down. "Yes he is, and I'm sure I'm right about him," he said softly.

"Not now, Brian, over lunch maybe but not now. Christ, I need a drink! Bloody Crosse, and bloody SI! I'm not SI and yet he acts like I'm one of his."

"Oh? But you're coming on the 16/2 this evening. I thought you'd been seconded."

"He didn't mention it. What's on?"

"If he didn't mention it, I'd better not."

"Of course." It was normal SI procedure, for security, to minimize the spread of information so that even highly trustworthy agents working on the same case might not be given all the facts. "I'm bloody not going to be seconded," Armstrong said grimly, knowing that if Crosse ordered it there was nothing he could do to prevent it. "Is the intercept to do with Sevrin?"

"I don't know. I hope so." Brian Kwok studied him then smiled. "Cheer up, Robert, I've some good news for you," he said and Armstrong noticed again how handsome his friend was, strong white teeth, golden skin, firm jaw, dancing eyes with that devil-may-care confidence about him.

"You're a good-looking sod," he said. "What good news? You leaned on friend One Foot at the Para Restaurant and he's given you the first four winners for Saturday?"

"Dreamer! No, it's about those files you snatched yesterday at Bucktooth Lo's and passed over to Anti-Corruption. Remember? From Photographer Ng?"

"Oh? Oh yes."

"It seems our fair-weather American-Chinese guest, Thomas K. K. Lim, who's 'somewhere in Brazil,' is quite a character. His files were golden. Very golden indeed! And in English, so our Anti-Corruption fellows went through them like a dose of salts. You came up with treasure!"

"He's connected with Tsu-yan?" Armstrong asked, his mind diverted immediately.

"Yes. And a lot of other people. Very important people, ve—" "Banastasio?"

Brian Kwok smiled with his mouth. "Vincenzo Banastasio himself. That ties John Chen, the guns, Tsu-yan, Banastasio and Peter Marlowe's theory nicely."

"Bartlett?"

"Not yet. But Marlowe knows someone who knows too much that we don't know. I think we should investigate him. Will you?"

"Oh yes. What else about the papers?"

"Thomas K. K. Lim's a Catholic, a third-generation American-Chinese who's a magpie. He collects all sorts of inflammatory correspondence, letters, notes, memos, etcetera." Brian Kwok smiled his humorless smile again. "Our Yankee friends are worse than we thought."

"For instance?"

"For instance, a certain well-known, well-connected New England family's involved with certain generals, U.S. and Vietnamese, in building several very large, very unnecessary U.S.A.F. bases in Vietnam—very profitably—for them."

"Hallelujah! Names?"

"Names, ranks and serial numbers. If the principals knew friend Thomas had it documented, it would send a shudder of horror down the Hallowed Halls of Fame, the Pentagon and various expensive smoke-filled rooms."

Armstrong grunted. "He's the middle man?"

"Entrepreneur he calls himself. Oh he's on very good terms with lots of notables. American, Italian, Vietnamese, Chinese, both sides of the fence. The papers document the whole fraud. Another scheme's to channel millions of U.S. funds into another phony Vietnam aid program. 8 million to be exact—one is already paid over to them. Friend Lim even discussed how the one million h 'eung yau's to be diverted to Switzerland."

"Could we make it stick?"

"Oh yes, if we catch Thomas K. K. Lim and if we wanted to make it stick. I asked Crosse but he just shrugged and said it wasn't our affair, that if Yanks wanted to cheat their government, that's up to them." Brian Kwok smiled but his eyes didn't. "It's powerful info, Robert. If even part became common knowledge it'd create one helluva stinky stink right up to the top."

"Is he going to pass it on to Rosemont? Leak it?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. In one way he's right. It's nothing to do with us. Bloody stupid to put it all down! Stupid! They deserve to get chopped! When you've a minute read the papers, they're juicy."

"Any connection between Lim and those other villains? Buck-tooth Lo and the other man? Are they stealing CARE funds?"

"Oh yes, must be, but all their files're in Chinese so it'll take longer to pin them." Brian Kwok added strangely, "Curious that Crosse sniffed that one out, almost as though he knew there'd be a connection." He dropped his voice. "I know I'm right about him."

The silence gathered. Armstrong's mouth felt parched and tasted bad. He pried his eyes off the rain and looked at Brian Kwok.

"What've you got?"

"You know that vice-consul in the U.S. Consulate—the homo, the one who's selling visas?"

"What about him?"

"Last month Crosse had dinner with him. In his flat."

Armstrong rubbed his face nervously. "That proves nothing. Listen, tomorrow, tomorrow we get the files. Tomorrow Sind—"

"Perhaps we won't get to read them."

"Personally I don't give a shit. That's SI business and I'm CID and that's wh—"

A knock stopped him. The door opened. A Chinese waiter came in with a tray and two tankards of cold beer and beamed toothily. "Afternoon, sah," he said, offering one to Brian Kwok. He gave the other to Armstrong and went out.

"Good luck," Armstrong said, hating himself. He drank deeply then went to his safe to lock the tape away.

Brian Kwok studied him. "You sure you're all right, old chum?"

"Yes, yes of course."

"What did the old woman say?"

"In the beginning she told lots of lies, lots of them. And then the truth. All of it. I'll tell you over lunch, Brian. You know how it is —you catch the lies eventually, if you're patient. I'm fed up with lies." Armstrong finished his beer. "Christ, I needed that."

"Do you want mine too? Here."

"No, no thanks, but it's me for a whiskey and soda before curry and maybe another one. Drink up and let's get the show on the road."

Brian Kwok put his half-empty tankard down. "That's enough for me." He lit a cigarette. "How's the nonsmoking going?"

"Rough." Armstrong watched him inhale deeply. "Anything on Voranski? Or his assassins?"

"They vanished into thin air. We've got their photos so we'll catch them, unless they're over the border."

"Or in Taiwan."

After a pause, Brian Kwok nodded. "Or Macao or North Korea, Vietnam or wherever. The minister's hopping mad with Crosse over Voranski, so's MI-6, so's the CIA. The CIA top echelon in London have been chewing the minister's tail so he's passing it on. We'd better get those buggers before Rosemont or we'll lose all face. Rosemont's under fire too to come up with their heads. I hear he's got every man out looking, thinking it's to do with Sevrin, and the carrier. He's petrified there's going to be an incident involving the nuclear carrier." Brian Kwok added, his voice hardening, "Bloody stupid to offend the PRC by bringing her here. That monster's an open invitation to every agent in Asia."

"If I was Soviet I'd try to infiltrate her. Si's probably trying right now. Crosse'd love to have a plant aboard. Why not?" The big man watched the smoke curling. "If I was Nationalist perhaps I'd plant a few mines and blame the PRC—or vice versa and blame Chiang Kai-shek."

"That's what the CIA'd do to get everyone hopping mad at China."

"Come off it, Brian!"

Brian Kwok took a last sip then got up. "That's enough for me. Come on."

"Just a moment." Armstrong dialed. "This's Armstrong, set up another session at 1700 hours for V-l 1-3. I'll want…" He stopped, seeing his friend's eyes flutter, then glaze and he caught him easily as he fell and let him slump back in the chair. Out of himself, almost watching himself, he put the phone back on its cradle. Now there was nothing for him to do but wait.

I've done my job, he thought.

The door opened. Crosse came in. Behind him were three plain-clothed SI agents, all British, all senior agents, all taut-faced and tense. Quickly one of the men put a thick black hood over Brian Kwok's head, picked him up easily and went out, the others following.

Now that it was done Robert Armstrong felt nothing, no remorse or shock or anger. Nothing. His head told him that there was no mistake though his head still told him equally that his friend of almost twenty years could not possibly be a Communist mole. But he was. The proof was irrefutable. The evidence he had found proved conclusively that Brian Kwok was the son of Fang-ling Wu, Ah Tarn's old employer, when according to his birth certificate and personal records his mother and father were supposed to have been surnamed Kwok and murdered by Communists in Canton in '43. One of the photographs had showed Brian Kwok standing beside a tiny Chinese lady in front of a pharmacy at a crossroads in a village. The quality was poor but more than good enough to read the characters of the shop sign and to recognize a face, his face. In the background was an ancient car. Behind it stood a European, his face half turned away. Spectacles Wu had identified the store as the pharmacy at the crossroads in Ning-tok, the property of the Tok-ling Wu family. Ah Tarn had identified the woman as her mistress.

"And the man? Who's the man standing beside her?"

"Oh that's her son, Lord. I've told you. He's Second Son Chu-toy. Now he lives with the foreign devils across the sea in the north, the north of the Land of the Golden Mountains," the old woman had whimpered from the white room.

"You're lying again."

"Oh no, Lord, he's her son, Chu-toy. He's her Second Son and he was born in Ning-tok and I helped deliver him with my own hands. He was Mother's second born who went away as a child. …"

"He went away? He went where?"

"To … to the Rain Country, then to the Golden Mountains. Now he has a restaurant and two sons. . . . He's a businessman there and he came to see Father. . . . Father was dying then and he came as a dutiful son should come but then he went away and Mother wept and wept. . . ."

"How often did he visit his parents?"

"Oh, it was only once, Lord, only that once. Now he lives so far away, in such a far place, such a far place but he came as a dutiful son should and then he left. It was just by chance I saw him, Lord. Mother had sent me to visit some relations in the next village but I was lonely and I came back early and saw him. … It was just before he left. The young Master left in a foreign devil car. . . ."

"Where did he get the motorcar? It was his?"

"I don't know, Lord. There was no car in Ning-tok. Even the village committee did not possess one, even Father who was the pharmacist in our village. Poor Father who died in such pain. He was a member of the committee. . . . They left us alone, Chairman Mao's people, the Outsiders. . . . Yes they did because though Father was an intellectual and pharmacist he was always a secret Mao supporter though I never knew, Lord, I swear I never knew. Chairman Mao's people left us alone, Lord."

"What was his name, the son of your Mistress? The man in the photo?" he had repeated, trying to shake her.

"Chu-toy Wu, Lord, he was her second born. … I remember when he was sent from Ning-tok to … to this foul place, this Fragrant Harbor. He was five or six and he was sent to an uncle here and—"

"What was the uncle's name?"

"I don't know, Lord, I was never told, I only remember Mother weeping and weeping when Father sent him away to school…. Can I go home please now, I'm tired, please. . . ."

"When you tell us what we want to know. If you tell us the truth."

"Oh I tell you the truth, anything anything. . . ."

"He was sent to school in Hong Kong? Where?"

"I don't know, Lord, my Mistress never said, only to school and then she put him out of her mind and so did I, oh yes, it was better, because he was gone forever, you know always second sons must leave. . . ."

"When did Chu-toy Wu return to Ning-tok?"

"It was some years ago when Father was dying. He only returned that once, it was only once, Lord, don't you remember me saying, I remember saying that. Yes it was the once of the photo. Mother insisted on the photo and wept and begged him to have one taken with her. . . . Surely she felt the hand of death on her now that Father had gone and she was truly alone .. . Oh she wept and wept so Chu-toy let her have her way as a dutiful son should and my Mistress was so pleased. . . ."

"And the barbarian in the photo, who is he?" The man was half turned around, in the background, not easy to recognize if you did not know him, standing beside the car that was parked beside the pharmacy. He was a tall man, European, crumpled clothes and nondescript.

"I don't know, Lord. He was the driver and he drove Chu-toy away but the committee of the village and Chu-toy himself bowed many times to him and it was said he was very important. He was the first foreign devil I had ever seen, Lord. . . ."

"And the people in the other photograph? Who're they?" This photograph was ancient, almost sepia and showed a self-conscious couple in ill-fitting wedding clothes staring bleakly at the camera. "Oh of course they're Father and Mother, Lord. Don't you remember me saying that? I told you many times. That's Mother and Father. His name was Ting-top Wu and his tai-tai my Mistress was Fang-ling. . . ." "And the cutting?"

"I don't know, Lord, it was just stuck to the photo so I left it there. Mother had stuck it there so I left it. What should I want with foreign devil nonsense or writing. . . ."

Robert Armstrong sighed. The yellowed clipping was from a Chinese newspaper of Hong Kong, dated July 16, 1937, that told of three Chinese youths who had done so well in their term examinations that they had been granted scholarships by the Hong Kong Government to an English public school. Kar-shun Kwok was the first named. Kar-shun was Brian Kwok's formal Chinese name. "You did very well, Robert," Crosse said, watching him. "Did I?" he replied through the fog of his misery. "Yes, very well. You came to me at once with the evidence, you've followed instructions perfectly and now our mole is safely asleep." Crosse lit a cigarette and sat at the desk. "I'm glad you drank the right beer. Did he suspect anything?"

"No. No I don't think so." Armstrong tried to get a hold on himself. "Would you excuse me, sir, please. I feel filthy. I've .. . I've got to get a shower. Sorry."

"Sit down a minute, please. Yes, you must be tired. Very tiring, these sort of things."

Christ, Armstrong wanted to shout in anguish, it's all impossible! Impossible for Brian to be a deep-cover agent but it all fits. Why else would he have a completely different name, different birth certificate? Why else such a carefully constructed cover story—that his parents were killed in Canton during the war, murdered by Communists? Why else would he risk sneaking secretly back to Ning-tok, risking everything so carefully constructed over thirty years unless his own father was really dying? And if those facts are true then others automatically follow: That he must have been in continual contact with the Mainland to know about his father's approaching death, that as a superintendent of H.K. Police he must be totally persona grata with the PRC to be allowed in secretly and allowed out secretly again. And if he was persona grata then he must be one of them, groomed over the years, nurtured over the years. "Christ," he muttered, "he'd've become assistant commissioner easily, perhaps even commissioner . . . !"

"What do you suggest now, Robert?" Crosse asked, his voice soft.

Armstrong tore his mind into the present, his training overcoming his anguish. "Check backwards. We'll find the link. Yes. His father was a tiny Commie cog but a Ning-tok cog nonetheless, so the Hong Kong relation he was sent to would be also. They'd've kept a tight rein on Brian in England, in Canada, here, wherever— so easy to do that, so easy to feed a hatred for quai lohs, so easy for a Chinese to hide such a hatred. Aren't they the most patient and secretive people on earth? Yes, you check back and eventually you find the link and find the truth."

"Robert, you're right again. But first you begin his interrogation."

Armstrong felt a chill of horror rush into his stomach. "Yes," he said.

"I'm delighted to tell you that that's your honor."

"No."

"You'll oversee the interrogation. No Chinese in this, just senior British agents. Except Wu, Spectacles Wu. Yes, he'll be a help—just him, he's good that fellow."

"I can't … I won't."

Crosse sighed and opened the large manila envelope he had brought with him. "What do you think of this?"

Shakily Armstrong took the photograph. It was an eight-by-ten blowup of a tiny section of the Ning-tok photograph, the European's head that was part of the background beside the car. The man's face was half turned and blurred, the grain from the magnification dense. "I… I'd say he saw the camera and turned or was turning to avoid being photographed."

"My thought too. Do you recognize him?"

Armstrong peered at the face, trying to clear his head. "No."

"Voranski? Our dead Soviet friend?"

"Perhaps. No, no I don't think so."

"How about Dunross, Ian Dunross?"

More shaken, Armstrong took it to the light. "Possible but . . . improbable. If… if it's Dunross then . . . you think he's the Sevrin plant? Impossible."

"Improbable, not impossible. He's very good friends with Brian." Crosse took the photo back and looked at it. "Whoever he is he's familiar, what you can see of him, but I can't place the man or where I've seen him. Yet. Well, never mind. Brian will remember. Yes." His voice became silky. "Oh, don't worry, Robert, I'll set Brian up for you but you're the one for the coup de grace. I want to know who this fellow is very quickly, in fact I want to know everything Brian knows very, very quickly."

"No. Get someone els—"

"Oh Robert, don't be so bloody boring! Chu-toy Wu, alias Brian Kar-shun Kwok, is an enemy mole who's eluded us for years, that's all." Crosse's voice cut into Armstrong. "By the way, you're on the 16/2 tonight at 6:30 and you're also seconded to SI. I've already talked to the commissioner."

"No, and I can't interrog—"

"Oh but my dear fellow you can and you will. You're the only one who can, Brian's far too clever to be caught like an amateur. Of course I'm as astounded he's the mole as you are, as the governor was!"

"Please. I don—"

"He betrayed Fong-fong, another friend of yours, eh? He must have leaked the AMG papers. It must be he who's furnished all our dossiers to the enemy and all the other information. God knows what knowledge he's had access to on the General Staff Course and all the other courses." Crosse puffed his cigarette, his face ordinary. "In SI he has the highest security clearances and I certainly agree he was being groomed for high office—I was even going to make him my number two! So we'd better find out very quickly everything about him. Curious, we were looking for a Soviet mole and it turns out we have a PRC one instead." He stubbed out the cigarette. "I've ordered a Classification One interrogation on him to begin at once." The color drained out of Armstrong's face and he stared at Crosse, hating him openly. "You're a bastard, a fucking rotten bastard."

Crosse laughed gently. "True." "Are you a fag too?" "Perhaps. Perhaps only occasionally and only when it pleases me.

Perhaps." Crosse watched him calmly. "Come now, Robert, do you really think I could be blackmailed? Me? Blackmailed? Really, Robert, don't you understand life? I hear homosexuality is quite normal, even in high places."

"Is it?"

"Nowadays, yes, quite normal, almost fashionable, for some. Oh yes, yes it is, my dear fellow, and it's practiced, from time to time, by a most catholic grouping of VIPs everywhere. Even in Moscow." Crosse lit another cigarette. "Of course, one should be discreet, selective and preferably uncommitted, but a penchant for the peculiar could have all sorts of advantages in our profession. Couldn't it?"

"So you justify any sort of evil, any sort of shit, murder, cheating, lying in the name of the bloody SI—is that it?"

"Robert, I justify nothing, I know you're distraught but I think that's enough of that."

"You can't force me into SI. I'll resign."

Crosse laughed scornfully. "But my dear fellow, what about all your debts? What about the 40,000 by Monday?" He got up, his eyes granite. His voice was hardly changed but now there was a vicious edge to it. "We're both over twenty-one, Robert. Break him, and do it very quickly."

45

3:00 P.M. :

The closing bell of the Stock Exchange rang but the sound was drowned in the fetid pandemonium of massed brokers desperately trying to complete their final transactions.

For Struan's, the day had been disastrous. Huge amounts of stock had been shoved onto the market to be bought tentatively, then hurjed back again as rumors fed on more rumors and more stock was offered. The share price plummeted from 24.70 to 17.50 and there were still 300,000 shares on oifer in the sell column. All bank shares were down, the market was reeling. Everyone expected the Ho-Pak to fail tomorrow—only Sir Luis Basilio suspending trading in bank shares at noon had saved the bank from going under then.

"Jesus Christ, what a stinker!" someone said. "Screwed by the sodding bell."

"Look at the tai-pan!" another burst out. "Christ almighty, you'd think it was just another day and not the death knell of the Noble House!"

"He's got balls has our Ian, no doubt about that. Look at that smile on him. Christ, his stock goes from 24.70 to 17.50 in one day when it's never been below 25 since the poor bugger went public and it's as though nothing's happened. Tomorrow Gornt has to get control!"

"I agree—or the bank."

"The Vic? No, they've troubles of their own," another said, joining the excited, sweating group.

"Holy mackerel, you really think Gornt will do it? Gornt tai-pan of the new Noble House?"

"Can't imagine it!" another shouted over the din.

"Better get used to it, old boy. But I agree, you'd never know lan's world's crashing about his testicles . . ."

"About bloody time!" someone else called out.

"Oh come on, the tai-pan's a good fellow, Gornt's an arrogant bastard."

"They're both bastards!" another said.

"Oh I don't know. But I agree lan's cold all right. lan's as cold as charity and that's pretty chilly. . . ."

"But not as cold as poor old Willy, he's dead poor bastard!"

"Willy? Willy who?" someone asked amid the laughter. "Eh?"

"Oh for chrissake, Charlie, it's just a ditty, a poem! Willy rhymes with chilly, that's all. How did you do on the day?"

"I made a pile in commissions."

"I made a pile too."

"Fantastic. I unloaded 100 percent of all my own shares. I'm liquid now, thank God! It'll be tough on some of my clients but easy come easy go and they can afford it!"

"I'm still holding 58,000 Struan's and no takers. . . ."

"Jesusschriiist!"

"What's up?"

"The Ho-Pak's finished! They've closed their doors."

"What!"

"Every last bloody branch!"

"Christ almighty are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure and they say the Vic won't open tomorrow either, that the governor'll declare tomorrow a bank holiday! I have it on the highest authority, old boy!"

"Good sweet Christ, the Vic's closing?"

"Oh Christ we're all ruined. . . ."

"Listen, I've just talked to Johnjohn. The run's spread to them but he says they'll be all right—not to worry. . . ."

"Thank God!"

"He says there was a riot at Aberdeen half an hour ago when the Ho-Pak branch there failed but Richard Kwang's just put out a press release. He's 'temporarily closed' all their branches except Head Office in Central. There's no need to worry, he's got plenty of money and . . ."

"Lying bastard!"

". . . and anyone with Ho-Pak funds has to go there with their passbook and they'll get paid."

"What about their shares? When they liquidate how much do you think they'll pay? Ten cents on the dollar?"

"God knows! But thousands are going to lose their knickers in this crash!"

"Hey, tai-pan! Are you going to let your stock plummet or are you going to buy?"

"The Noble House's strong as it ever was, old boy," Dunross said easily. "My advice to you is to buy!"

"How long can you wait, tai-pan?"

"We'll weather this slight problem, don't worry." Dunross continued to push through the crowd, heading for the exit, Line Bartlett and Casey following, questions being fired at him. Most of them he dismissed with a pleasantry, a few he answered, then Gornt was in front of him and the two of them were in the middle of a great silence.

"Ah, Quillan, how did you do on the day?" he asked politely.

"Very good, thank you, Ian, very good. My partners and I are 3 or 4 million ahead."

"You have partners?"

"Of course. One doesn't mount an attack on Struan's lightly—of course one must have very substantial financial backing." Gornt smiled. "Fortunately, Struan's're roundly detested by lots of good people and have been for a century or more. I'm delighted to tell you I've just acquired another 300,000 shares for sale first thing. That should just about bring your house atumbling down."

"We're not Humpty-Dumpty. We're the Noble House."

"Until tomorrow. Yes. Or perhaps the next day. Monday at the latest." Gornt looked back at Bartlett. "Tuesday for dinner is still on?"

"Yes."

Dunross smiled. "Quillan, a man can get burned selling short in such a volatile market." He turned to Bartlett and Casey and said pleasantly, "Don't you agree?"

"It sure as hell isn't like our New York exchange," Bartlett replied to a general laugh. "What's happening here today'd blow our whole economy to hell. Eh Casey?"

"Yes," Casey replied uneasily, feeling Gornt's scrutiny. "Hello," she said, glancing at him.

"We're honored to have you here," Gornt said with great charm. "May I compliment you on your courage last night—both of you."

"I did nothing special," Bartlett said.

"Nor did I," Casey said uncomfortably, very aware she was the only woman in the room and now the center of so much attention. "If it hadn't been for Line and Ian … for the tai-pan and you and the others, I'd've panicked."

"Ah, but you didn't. Your dive was perfection," Gornt said, to cheers.

She said nothing but she was warmed by that thought, not for the first time. Somehow life had been different since she had taken off her clothes without thinking. Gavallan had called this morning to ask how she was. So had others. At the exchange she had felt the looks strongly. There had been lots of compliments. Many from strangers. She felt that Dunross and Gornt and Bartlett remembered because she had not failed them. Or herself. Yes, she thought, you gained great face before all the men. And increased the jealousy of all their women. Curious.

"Are you selling short, Mr. Bartlett?" Gornt was saying.

"Not personally," Bartlett told him with a small smile. "Not yet."

"You should," Gornt said agreeably. "There's a great deal of money to be made in a falling market, as I'm sure you know. A great deal of money will change hands with control of Struan's." He put his eyes back onto Casey, excited by her courage and her body and by the thought that she would be coming sailing on Sunday alone. "And you, Ciranoush, are you in the market?" he asked.

Casey heard her name and the way he said it. A thrill took her. Beware, she cautioned herself. This man's dangerous. Yes. And so is Dunross and so is Line.

Which?

I think I want all three of them, she thought, heat rushing into her.

The day had been exciting and grand from the first moment when Dunross had phoned her so solicitously. Then getting up, feeling no ill effects from the fire or the emetics of Dr. Tooley. Then working away happily all morning on all the cables and telexes and phone calls to the States, tidying business problems of Par-Con's far-flung conglomerate, cementing a merger that had been on their agenda for months, selling off another company very profitably to acquire one that would further enhance Par-Con's stab into Asia—whomever they were in business with. Then, unexpectedly, being invited for lunch by Line. . . . Dear handsome confident attractive Line, she thought, remembering the lunch they had had atop the Victoria and Albert in the great, green dining room overlooking the harbor, Line so attentive, Hong Kong Island and the sea roads obscured by the driving rain. Half a grapefruit, a small salad, Perrier, all perfectly served, just what she wanted. Then coffee.

"How about going to the Stock Exchange, Casey? Say 2:30?" he had said. "Ian invited us."

"I've still got lots to do, Line, an—"

"But that place is something else and the things those guys get away with's unbelievable. Insider trading's a way of life here and quite legal. Jesus, it's fantastic—wonderful—a great system! What they do here legally every day'd get you twenty years in the States."

"That doesn't make it right, Line."

"No, but this is Hong Kong and their rules please them and it is their country and they support themselves and their government only creams off 15 percent tax," he had said. "I tell you, Casey, if you want drop dead money it's here for the taking."

"Let's hope! You go, Line, I've really got a pile of stuff to get through."

"It can wait. Today might be the clincher. We should be in at the kill."

"Gornt's going to win?"

"Sure, unless Ian gets massive financing. I hear the Victoria won't support him. And Orlin won't renew his loan, just as I forecast!"

"Gornt told you?"

"Just before lunch—but everyone knows everything in this place. Never known anything like it."

"Then maybe Ian knows you put up the 2 million to start Gornt off."

"Maybe. It doesn't matter, so long as they don't know Par-Con's on the way to become the new Noble House. How 'bout Tai-pan Bartlett?"

Casey remembered his sudden grin and the warmth flooding out at her and she felt it now, standing on the floor of the Stock Exchange, watching him, crowds of men around her, only three important—Quillan, Ian and Line—the most vital and exciting of all the men she had ever met. She smiled back at them equally, then said to Gornt, "No, I'm not in the market, not personally. I don't like gambling—the cost of my money comes too high."

Someone muttered, "What a rotten thing to say!"

Gornt paid no attention and kept his eyes on her. "Wise, very wise. Of course, sometimes there's a sure thing, sometimes you can make a killing." He looked at Dunross who was watching with his curious smile. "Figuratively, of course."

"Of course. Well, Quillan, see you tomorrow."

"Hey, Mr. Bartlett," someone called out, "have you made a deal with Struan's or not?"

"Yes," another said, "and what does Raider Bartlett think of a raid Hong Kong style?"

Another silence fell. Bartlett shrugged. "A raid is a raid wherever," he said carefully, "and I'd say this one's mounted and launched. But you never know you've won until you've won and all the votes are counted. I agree with Mr. Dunross. You can get burned." He grinned again, his eyes dancing. "I also agree with Mr. Gornt. Sometimes you can make a killing, figuratively."

There was another burst of laughter. Dunross used it to push through to the door. Bartlett and Casey followed. At his chauf-feured Rolls below, Dunross said, "Come on, get in—sorry, I've got to hurry, but the car'll take you home."

"No, that's all right, we'll take a cab. . . ."

"No, get in. In this rain you'll have to wait half an hour."

"The ferry'll do fine, tai-pan," Casey said. "He can drop us there." They got in and drove off, the traffic snarled.

"What're you going to do about Gornt?" Bartlett asked.

Dunross laughed and Casey and Bartlett tried to gauge the strength of it. "I'm going to wait," he said. "It's an old Chinese custom: Patience. Everything comes to him who waits. Thanks for keeping mum about our deal. You handled that rather well."

"You'll announce tomorrow after the market closes, as planned?" Bartlett asked.

"I'd like to leave my options open. I know this market, you don't. Perhaps tomorrow." Dunross looked at them both clearly. "Perhaps not until Tuesday when we've actually signed. I presume we still have a deal? Until Tuesday at midnight?"

"Sure," Casey said.

"Can the announcement time be left to me? I'll tell you beforehand but I may need the timing to … to maneuver."

"Certainly."

"Thank you. Of course, if we're down the pipe then, it's no deal. I understand quite clearly."

"Gornt can get control?" Casey asked. Both of them saw the change in the Scotsman's eyes. The smile was still there but it was only on the surface.

"No, not actually, but of course with enough stock he can force his way immediately onto the board and appoint other directors. Once on the board he will be party to most of our secrets and he'll disrupt and destroy." Dunross glanced back at Casey. "His purpose is to destroy."

"Because of the past?"

"Partially." Dunross smiled, but this time they saw a deep-seated tiredness within it. "The stakes are high, face is involved, huge face, and this's Hong Kong. Here the strong survive and the weak perish but en route the government doesn't steal from you, or protect you. If you don't want to be free and don't like our rules, or lack of them, don't come. You've come for profit, heya?" He watched Bartlett. "And profit you will have, one way or another."

"Yes," Bartlett agreed blandly, and Casey wondered how much Dunross knew about the arrangement with Gornt. The thought disquieted her.

"Profit's our motive, yes," she said. "But not to destroy."

"That's wise," he said. "It's better to create than to destroy. Oh, by the way, Jacques asked if you'd both like to dine with him tonight, 8:30-ish. I can't, I've an official do with the governor but I might see you for a drink later."

"Thanks, but I can't tonight," Bartlett said easily, not feeling easy at the sudden thought of Orlanda. "How about you, Casey?"

"No, no thanks. I've a stack to get through, tai-pan, maybe we could take a rain check?" she asked him happily and thought that he was wise to be close-mouthed and Line Bartlett equally wise to cool it with Struan's for a while. Yes, she told herself, her mind diverted, and it'll be lovely to have dinner with Line, just the two of us, like lunch. Maybe we can even take in a movie.

Dunross went into his office.

"Oh … oh hello, tai-pan," Claudia said. "Mr. and Mrs. Kirk are in the downstairs reception room. Bill Foster's resignation's in your in tray."

"Good. Claudia, make sure I see Linbar before he goes." He was watching her carefully and though she was consummate at hiding her feelings, he could sense her fear. He sensed it in the whole building. Everyone pretended otherwise but confidence was tottering. "Without confidence in the general," Sun Tzu had written, "no battle can be won by however many troops and with however many weapons."

Uneasily Dunross rethought his plan and position. He knew he had very few moves, that the only true defense was attack and he could not attack without massive funds. This morning when he had met Lando Mata, he had got only a reluctant perhaps. "… I told you I have to consult with Tightfist Tung first. I've left messages but I just can't get hold of him."

"He's in Macao?"

"Yes, yes I think so. He said he was arriving today but I don't know on which ferry. I really don't know, tai-pan. If he's not on the last inbound, I'll go back to Macao and see him at once—if he's available. I'll call you this evening, the moment I've talked to him. By the way, have you reconsidered either of our offers?"

"Yes. I can't sell you control of Struan's. And I can't leave Struan's and run the gambling in Macao."

"With our money you'll smash Gornt, you co—"

"I can't pass over control."

"Perhaps we could combine both offers. We support you against Gornt in return for control of Struan's and you run our gambling syndicate, secretly if you wish. Yes, it could be secret. . . ."

Dunross shifted in his easy chair, certain that Lando Mata and Tightfist were using the trap that he was in to further their own interests. Just like Bartlett and Casey, he thought without anger. Now that's an interesting woman. Beautiful, courageous and loyal —to Bartlett. I wonder if she knows he breakfasted with Orlanda this morning, then visited her flat. I wonder if they know I know about the 2 million from Switzerland. Bartlett's smart, very smart, and making all the correct moves, but he's wide open to attack because he's predictablenote 8 and his jugular's an asian girl. Perhaps Orlanda, perhaps not, but certainly a youth-filled Golden Skin. Quillan was clever to bait the trap with her. Yes. Orlanda's a perfect bait, he thought, then put his mind back to Lando Mata and his millions. To get those millions I'd have to break my Holy Oath and that I will not do.

"What calls do I have, Claudia?" he asked, a sudden ice shaft in his stomach. Mata and Tightfist had been his ace, the only one left.

She hesitated, glanced at the list. "Hiro Toda called from Tokyo, person to person. Please return the call when you've a moment. Alastair Struan the same from Edinburgh. . . . David MacStruan from Toronto… your father from Ayr… old Sir Ross Struan from Nice . . ."

"Uncle Trussler from London," he said, interrupting her, "Uncle Kelly from Dublin . . . Cousin Cooper from Atlanta, cous—"

"From New York," Claudia said.

"From New York. Bad news travels fast," he told her calmly.

"Yes. Then there was . . ." Her eyes filled with tears. "What're we going to do?"

"Absolutely not cry," he said, knowing that a large proportion of her savings was in Struan stock.

"Yes! Oh yes." She sniffed and used a handkerchief, sad for him but thanking the gods she had had the foresight to sell at the top of the market and not buy when the Head of the House of Chen had whispered for all the clan to buy heavily. "Ayeeyah, tai-pan, sorry, so sorry, please excuse me … yes. But it's very bad, isn't it?"

"Och aye, lassie," he said, aping a broad Scots accent, "but only when you're deaded. Isn't that what the old tai-pan used to say?" The old tai-pan was Sir Ross Struan, Alastair's father, the first tai-pan he could remember. "Go on with the calls."

"Cousin Kern from Houston and Cousin Decks from Sydney. That's the last of the family."

"That's all of them." Dunross exhaled. Control of the Noble House rested with those families. Each had blocks of shares that had been handed down to them, though by House law he alone voted all the stock—while he was tai-pan. The family holdings of the Dunrosses, descended from Dirk Struan's daughter Winifred, were 10 percent; the Struans from Robb Struan, Dirk's half-brother, 5 percent; the Trusslers and Kellys from Culum and Hag Struan's youngest daughter, each 5 percent; the Coopers, Kerns and Derbys, descended from the American trader, Jeff Cooper of Cooper-Till-man, Dirk's lifetime friend who had married Hag Struan's eldest daughter, each 5 percent; the MacStruans, believed illegitimate from Dirk, 2l/2. percent; and the Chens 1V2 percent. The bulk of the stock, 50 percent, the personal property and legacy of Hag Struan, was left in a perpetual trust, to be voted by the tai-pan "whoever he or she may be, and the profit therefrom shall be divided yearly, 50 percent to the tai-pan, the remainder in proportion to family holdings—but only if the tai-pan so decides," she had written in her firm, bold hand. "If he decides to withhold profit from my shares from the family for any reason he may, then that increment shall go into the tai-pan's private fund for whatever use he deems fit. But let all following tai-pans beware: the Noble House shall pass from safe Hand to safe Hand and the clans from safe Harbor to safe Harbor as the tai-pan himself decreed or I shall add my curse, before God, to his, on him or her who fails us. . . ."

Dunross felt a chill go through him as he remembered the first time he had read her will—as dominating as the legacy of Dirk Struan. Why are we so possessed by these two? he asked himself again. Why can't we be done with the past, why should we be at the beck and call of ghosts, not very good ghosts at that?

I'm not, he told himself firmly. I'm only trying to measure up to their standards.

He looked back at Claudia, matronly, tough and very together but now scared, scared for the first time. He had known her all his life and she had served old Sir Ross, then his father, then Alastair, and now himself with a fanatical loyalty, as had Phillip Chen.

Ah Phillip, poor Phillip.

"Did Phillip call?" he asked.

"Yes, tai-pan. And Dianne. She called four times."

"Who else?"

"A dozen or more. The more important ones are Johnjohn at the bank, General Jen from Taiwan, Gavallan pere from Paris, Four Finger Wu, Pug—"

"Four Fingers?" Dunross's hope peaked. "When did he call?"

She referred to her list. "2:56."

I wonder if the old pirate has changed his mind, Dunross thought, his excitement growing.

Yesterday afternoon late he had gone to Aberdeen to see Wu to seek his help but, as with Lando Mata, he had got only vague promises.

"Listen, Old Friend," he had told him in halting Haklo, "I've never sought a favor from you before."

"A long line of your tai-pan ancestors have sought plenty favors and made great profits from my ancestors," the old man had answered, his cunning eyes darting. "Favors? Fornicate all dogs, tai-pan, I have not that amount of money. 20 millions? How could a poor old fisherman like me have that cash?"

"More came out of the Ho-Pak yesterday, old friend."

"Ayeeyah, fornicate all those who whisper wrong informations! Perhaps I withdrew my money safely but it all has gone, gone to pay for goods, goods I owed money for."

"I hope not for the White Powder," he had told him grimly. "The White Powder is terrible joss. Rumor has it you are interested in it. I advise against it as a friend. My ancestors, Old Green-Eyed Devil and Hag Struan of the Evil Eye and Dragon's Teeth, they both put a curse on those who deal in the White Powder, not on opium but on all White Powders and those who deal in them," he had said stretching the truth, knowing how superstitious the old man was. "I advise against the Killing Powder. Surely your gold business is more than profitable?"

"I know nothing of White Powder." The old man had forced a smile, showing his gums and a few twisted teeth. "And I don't fear curses, even from them!"

"Good," Dunross had said, knowing it to be a lie. "Meanwhile help me to get credit. 50 million for three days is all I want!"

"I will ask among my friends, tai-pan. Perhaps they can help, perhaps we can help together. But don't expect water from an empty well. At what interest?" "High interest, if it's tomorrow." "Not possible, tai-pan."

"Persuade Tightfist, you're an associate and old friend." "Tightfist is the only fornicating friend of Tightfist," the old man had said sullenly and nothing Dunross could say would change the old man's attitudes.

He reached for the phone. "What other calls were there, Claudia?" he asked as he dialed.

"Johnjohn at the bank, Phillip and Dianne… oh I told you about them. . . . Superintendent Crosse, then every major stockholder we have and every managing director of every subsidiary, most of the Turf Club . . . Travkin, your trainer, it's endless. . . ."

"Just a moment, Claudia." Dunross held onto his anxiety and said into the phone, in Haklo, "This is the tai-pan. Is my Old Friend there?"

"Sure, sure, Mr. Dunross," the American voice said politely in English. "Thanks for returning the call. He'll be right with you, sir." "Mr. Choy, Mr. Paul Choy?" "Yes sir." "Your uncle told me all about you. Welcome to Hong Kong."

"I … here he is sir."

"Thank you." Dunross concentrated. He had been asking himself why Paul Choy was with Four Fingers now and not busily engaged in worming his way into Gornt's affairs and why Crosse called and why Johnjohn.

"Tai-pan?"

"Yes, Old Friend. You wanted to speak to me?"

"Yes. Can . . . can we meet this evening?"

Dunross wanted to shout, Have you changed your mind? But good manners forbade it and Chinese did not like phones, always preferring to meet face-to-face. "Of course. About eight bells, in the middle watch," he said casually. Near midnight. "As near as I can," he added, remembering he was to meet Brian Kwok at 10:45 P.M.

"Good. My wharf. There will be a sampan waiting."

Dunross replaced the phone, his heart thumping. "First Crosse, Claudia, then bring in the Kirks. Then we'll go through the list. Set up a conference call with my father, Alastair and Sir Ross, make it for five, that's nine their time and ten in Nice. I'll call David and the others in the States this evening. No need to wake them in the middle of their night."

"Yes, tai-pan." Claudia was already dialing. She got Crosse, handed him the phone and left, closing the door after her.

"Yes, Roger?"

"How many times have you been into China?"

The unexpected question startled Dunross for a moment. "That's all a matter of record," he said. "It's easy for you to check."

"Yes, Ian, but could you recall now? Please."

"Four times to Canton, to the fair, every year for the last four years. And once to Peking with a trade commission, last year."

"Did you ever manage to get outside Canton—or Peking?"

"Why?"

"Did you?"

Dunross hesitated. The Noble House had many associations of long standing in China, and many old and trusted friends. Some were now committed Communists. Some were outwardly communists but inwardly totally Chinese and therefore far-seeing, secretive, cautious and nonpolitical. These men ranged in importance up to one in the Presidium. And all of these men, being Chinese, knew that history repeated itself, that eras could change so quickly and the Emperor of this morning could become the running dog of this afternoon, that dynasty followed dynasty at the whim of the gods, that the first of any dynasty inevitably mounted the Dragon throne with bloodstained hands, that an escape route was always to be sought after—and that certain barbarians were Old Friends and to be trusted.

But he knew most all of that Chinese were a practical people. China needed goods and help. Without goods and help they were defenseless against their historic and only real enemy, Russia.

So many times, because of the special trust in which the Noble House was held, Dunross had been approached officially and unofficially, but always secretly. He had many private potential deals simmering for all kinds of machinery and goods in short supply, including the fleet of jet airliners. Oftentimes he had gone where others could not go. Once he had gone to a meeting in Hangchow, the most beautiful part of China. This was to greet other members of the 49 Club privately, to be wined and dined as honored guests of China. The 49 Club consisted of those companies that had continued to trade with the PRC after 1949, mostly British firms. Britain had recognized Mao Tse-tung's government as the government of China shortly after Chiang Kai-shek abandoned the Mainland and fled to Taiwan. Even so, relations between the two governments had always been strained. But, by definition, relations between Old Friends were not, unless an Old Friend betrayed a confidence, or cheated.

"Oh I went on a few side trips," Dunross said airily, not wanting to lie to the chief of SI. "Nothing to write home about. Why?"

"Could you tell me where, please."

"If you're more specific, Roger, certainly," he replied, his voice hardening. "We're traders and not politicians and not spies and the Noble House has a special position in Asia. We've been here quite a few years and it's because of traders the Union Jack flies over … used to fly over half the earth. What had you in mind, old chap?"

There was a long pause. "Nothing, nothing in particular. Very well, Ian, I'll wait till we've had the pleasure of reading the papers, then I'll be specific. Thanks, so sorry to trouble you. 'Bye."

Dunross stared at the phone, troubled. What does Crosse want to know? he asked himself. Many of the deals he had made and would be making certainly would not conform to official government policy in London, or, even more, in Washington. His shortterm and long-term attitude toward China clearly was opposed to theirs. What they would consider contraband he did not.

Well, as long as I'm tai-pan, he told himself firmly, come hell or typhoon, our links with China will remain our links with China and that's the end of that. Most politicians in London and Washington just won't realize Chinese are Chinese first and Communist second. And Hong Kong's vital to the peace of Asia.

"Mr. and Mrs. Jamie Kirk, sir."

Jamie Kirk was a pedantic little man with a pink face and pink hands and a pleasing Scots accent. His wife was tall, big and American.

"Oh so pleased to m—" Kirk began.

"Yes we are, Mr. Dunross," his wife boomed good-naturedly over him. "Get to the point, Jamie, honey, Mr. Dunross's a very busy man and we've shopping to do. My husband's got a package for you, sir."

"Yes, it's from Alan Medford G—"

"He knows it's from Alan Medford Grant, honey," she said happily, talking over him again. "Give him the package."

"Oh. Oh yes and there's a—"

"A letter from him too," she said. "Mr. Dunross's very busy so give them to him and we can go shopping."

"Oh. Yes, well . . ." Kirk handed Dunross the package. It was about fourteen inches by nine and an inch thick. Brown, nondescript and heavily taped. The envelope was sealed with red sealing wax. Dunross recognized the seal. "Alan said to—"

"To give it to you personally and give you his best wishes," she said with another laugh. She got up. "You're so slow, sweetness. Well, thank you, Mr. Dunross, come along, hon—"

She stopped, startled as Dunross held up an imperious hand and said with polite though absolute authority, "What shopping do you want to do, Mrs. Kirk?"

"Eh? Oh. Oh some clothes, er, I want some clothes made and honey needs some shirts an—"

Dunross held up his hand again and punched a button and Claudia was there. "Take Mrs. Kirk to Sandra Lee at once. She's to take her at once to Lee Foo Tap downstairs and by the Lord God tell him to give Mrs. Kirk the best possible price or I'll have him deported! Mr. Kirk will join her there in a moment!" He took Mrs. Kirk by the arm and before she knew it she was contentedly out of the room, Claudia solicitously listening to what she wanted to buy.

Kirk sighed in the silence. It was a deep, long-suffering sigh. "I wish I could do that," he said gloomily, then beamed. "Och aye, tai-pan, you're everything Alan said you were."

"Oh? I didn't do anything. Your wife wanted to go shopping didn't she?"

"Yes but . . ." After a pause Kirk added, "Alan said that you should, er, you should read the letter while I'm here. I… I didn't tell her that. Do you think I should have?"

"No," Dunross said kindly. "Look, Mr. Kirk, I'm sorry to tell you bad news but I'm afraid AMG was killed in a motorcycle accident last Monday."

Kirk's mouth dropped. "What?"

"Sorry to have to tell you but I thought you'd better know."

Kirk stared at the rain streaks, lost in thought. "How terrible," he said at length. "Bloody motorbikes, they're death traps. He was run down?"

"No. He was just found in the road, beside the bike. Sorry."

"Terrible! Poor old Alan. Dear oh dear! I'm glad you didn't mention it in front of Frances, she's, she was fond of him too. I, er, I… perhaps you'd better read this letter then . . . Frances wasn't a great friend so I don't. . . poor old Alan!" He stared down at his hands. The nails were bitten and disfigured. "Poor old Alan!"

To give Kirk time, Dunross opened the letter. It read: "My dear Mr. Dunross: This will introduce an old schoolfriend, Jamie Kirk, and his wife Frances. The package he brings, please open in private. I wanted it safely in your hands and Jamie agreed to stop over in Hong Kong. He's to be trusted, as much as one can trust anyone these days. And, please, don't mind about Frances, she's a good sort really, good to my old friend and quite well oif from previous husbands which gives Jamie the freedom he requires to sit and to think—a rare, very rare privilege these days. By the way, they're not in my line of work though they know I'm an amateur historian with private means." Dunross would have smiled but for the fact that he was reading a letter from a dead man. The letter concluded, "Jamie's a geologist, a marine geologist, one of the best in the world. Ask him about his work, the last years, preferably not with Frances there—not that she's not party to everything he knows but she does carry on a bit. He has some interesting theories that could perhaps benefit the Noble House and your contingency planning. Kindest regards, AMG."

Dunross looked up. "AMG says you're old school friends?"

"Oh yes. Yes, we were at school together. Charterhouse actually. Then I went on to Cambridge, he to Oxford. Yes. We've, er, kept in contact over the years, haphazardly, of course. Yes. Have you, er, known him long?"

"About three years. I liked him too. Perhaps you don't want to talk now?"

"Oh. Oh no, that's all right. I'm . . . it's a shock of course but well, life must go on. Old Alan . . . he's a funny sort of laddie isn't he, with all his papers and books and pipe and ash and carpet slippers." Kirk sadly steepled his fingers. "I suppose I should say he was. It doesn't seem right yet to talk about him in the past tense .. . but I suppose we should. Yes. He always wore carpet slippers. I dinna think I've ever been to his chambers when he wasn't wearing carpet slippers."

"You mean his flat? I've never been there. We always met in my London office though he did come to Ayr once." Dunross searched his memory. "I don't remember him wearing carpet slippers there."

"Ah, yes, he told me about Ayr, Mr. Dunross. Yes, he told me. It was, er, a high point in his life. You're . . . you're very lucky to have such an estate."

"Castle Avisyard's not mine, Mr. Kirk, though it's been in the family for more than a hundred years. Dirk Struan bought it for his wife and family—a country seat so to speak." As always, Dunross felt a sudden glow at the thought of all that loveliness, gentle rolling hills, lakes, moors, forests, glades, six thousand acres or more, good shooting, good hunting and Scotland at its best. "It's tradition that the current tai-pan's always laird of Avisyard—while he's tai-pan. But, of course, all the families, particularly children of the various families, know it well. Summer holidays… Christmas at Avisyard's a wonderful tradition. Whole sheep and sides of beef, haggis at New Year, whiskey and huge roaring fires, the pipes sounding. It's a bonnie place. And a working farm, cattle, milk, butter—and not forgetting the Loch Vey distillery! I wish I could spend more time there—my wife just left today to get things ready for the Christmas vacation. Do you know that part of the world?"

"A wee bit. Mostly I know the Highlands. I know the Highlands better. My family came from Inverness."

"Ah, then you must visit us when we're in Ayr, Mr. Kirk. AMG says in his letter you're a geologist, one of the best in the world?"

"Oh. Oh he's too kind—was too kind. My, er, my speciality's marine. Yes. With particular emph—" He stopped abruptly.

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, er, nothing, nothing really, but do you think Frances will be all right?"

"Absolutely. Would you like me to tell her about AMG?"

"No. No I can do that later. No, I… I, on second thought I think I'm going to pretend he's not dead, Mr. Dunross. You need not have told me, then I won't have to spoil her holiday. Yes. That's best, don't you think?" Kirk brightened a little. "Then we can discover the bad news when we get home."

"Whatever you wish. You were saying? With particular emphasis on?"

"Oh yes … petrology, which is, of course, the broad study of rocks including their interpretation and description. Within petrology my field has been narrowed down more recently to sedimentary rocks. I've, er, I've been on a research project for the last few years as a consultant on Paleozoic sedimentaries, porous ones. Yes. The study concentrated on the eastern coastal shelf of Scotland. AMG thought you might like to hear about it."

"Of course." Dunross curbed his impatience. His eyes were looking at the package on his desk. He wanted to open it and call Johnjohn and do a dozen other pressing things. There was so much to do and he did not yet understand the AMG connection between the Noble House and Kirk. "It sounds very interesting," he said. "What was the study for?"

"Eh?" Kirk stared at him, startled. "Hydrocarbons." At Dun-ross's blank look he added hastily, "Hydrocarbons are only found in porous sedimentary rocks of the Paleozoic era. Oil, Mr. Dunross, crude oil."

"Oh! You were exploring for oil?"

"Oh no! It was a research project to determine the possibility of hydrocarbons being present offshore. Off Scotland. I'm happy to say I think they'll be there abundantly. Not close in but out in the North Sea." The small man's pink face became pinker and he mopped his brow. "Yes. Yes, I think there'll be quite a number of good fields out there." Dunross was perplexed, still not seeing the connection. "Well, I know a little about offshore drilling in the Middle East and the Texas Gulf but out in the North Sea? Good God, Mr. Kirk, that sea's the worst in the world, probably the most fickle in the world, almost always in storm with mountainous seas. How could you drill there? How could you make the rigs safe, how would you supply the rigs, how could you possibly get the oil in bulk ashore, even if you found it? And if you got it ashore, my God, the cost'd be prohibitive."

"Oh quite right, Mr. Dunross," Kirk agreed. "Everything you say's quite right, but then it's not my job to be commercial, just to find our elusive, supremely valuable hydrocarbons." He added proudly, "This is the first time we've ever thought they could exist there. Of course, it's still only a theory, my theory—you never know for certain until you drill—but part of my expertise's in seismic interpretation, that's the study of waves resulting from induced explosions, and my approach to the latest findings was a wee bitty unorthodox. . . ."

Dunross listened now with only the surface of his brain, still trying to puzzle out why AMG should consider this important. He allowed Kirk to continue for a while then politely brought him back. "You've convinced me, Mr. Kirk. I congratulate you. How long are you staying in Hong Kong?"

"Oh. Oh just till Monday. Then, er, then we're going to New Guinea."

Dunross concentrated, very concerned. "Where in New

Guinea?"

"To a place called Sukanapura, on the north coast, that's in the new Indonesian part. I've been . . ." Kirk smiled. "Sorry, of course you'd know President Sukarno took over Dutch New Guinea in, May."

"Stolen might be another way of putting it. If it hadn't been for more ill-advised U.S. pressure, Dutch New Guinea'd still be Dutch and far better off, I think. I don't believe it'd be a good idea at all for you and Mrs. Kirk to go there for a while. It's very dicey, the political situation's very unstable and President Sukarno's hostile. The insurrection in Sarawak is Indonesian-sponsored and supported —he's very antagonistic to the West, to all Malaysia, and pro his Marxists. Besides Sukanapura is a hot, rotten, spooky port with lots of disease on top of all the other troubles."

"Oh you don't have to worry, I have a Scots constitution, and we're invited by the government."

"My point is that, presently, there's very little government influence."

"Ah, but there're some very interesting sedimentaries they want me to look at. You don't have to worry, Mr. Dunross, we!re geologists, not political. Everything's arranged—this was the whole purpose of our trip—no need to worry. Well, I should be going."

"There's .. . I'm having a small cocktail party on Saturday from 7:30 to 9:00 P.M.," he said. "Perhaps you and your wife would like to come? Then we can talk further about New Guinea."

"Oh, oh that's awfully kind of you. I, er, we'd love to. Where wo—"

"I'll send a car for you. Now, perhaps you'd like to join Mrs. Kirk —I won't mention AMG if you're sure that's what you want."

"Oh! Oh yes. Poor Alan. For a moment, discussing sedimentaries, I'd forgotten about him. Curious, isn't it, how soon one can forget."

Dunross sent him off with another assistant and closed the door. Carefully he broke the seals of AMG's package. Inside there was an envelope and an inner package. The envelope was addressed: "Ian Dunross, private and confidential." Unlike the other letter, which was neatly handwritten, this was typed: "Dear Mr. Dunross, This comes in haste to you through my old friend Jamie. I've just had some very disquieting news. There is another very serious security leak somewhere in our system, British or American, and it's quite clear our adversaries are stepping up their clandestine attacks. Some of this might even spill over onto me, even to you, hence my anxiety. To you because it could be the existence of our highly classified series of papers has been discovered. Should anything untoward happen to me please call 871-65-65 in Geneva. Ask for Mrs. Riko Gresserhoff. To her, my name is Hans Gresserhoff. Her real name is Riko Anjin. She speaks German, Japanese and English—a little French—and if I'm owed any money please assign it to her. There are certain papers she will give you, some for transmission. Please deliver them personally when convenient. As I said, it's rare to find someone to trust. I trust you. You're the only one on earth who knows about her and her real name. Remember, it is vita! that neither this letter nor my previous papers go out of your hands to anyone.

"First, to explain about Kirk: Within ten years or so I believe the

Arab nations will bury their differences and use the real power they have, not against Israel directly but against the Western world— forcing us into an intolerable position: Do we abandon Israel . . . or do we starve? They use their oil as a weapon of war.

"If they ever manage to work together, a handful of sheiks and feudal kings in Saudi Arabia, Iran, the Persian Gulf States, Iraq, Libya, can, at their whim, cut off Western and Japanese supplies of the one raw material that is indispensable. They have an even more sophisticated opportunity: to raise the price to unprecedented heights and hold our economies to ransom. Oil is the ultimate weapon for Arabia. Unbeatable so long as we're dependent on their oil. Hence my immediate interest in Kirk's theory.

"Nowadays it costs about eight cents American to get one barrel of oil to the surface of an Arabian desert. From the North Sea it would cost seven dollars to bring one barrel ashore, in bulk, to Scotland. If Arabian oil jumped from its present three dollars a barrel on the world market to nine . . . I'm sure you get the point immediately. At once North Sea becomes immensely possible, and a British national treasure.

"Jamie says the fields are to the north and east of Scotland. The port of Aberdeen would be the logical place to bring it ashore. A wise man would start looking at wharfing, real estate, airfields, in Aberdeen. Don't worry about bad weather, helicopters will be the connecting links to the rigs. Expensive yes, but viable. Further, if you will accept my forecast that Labour will win the next election because of the Profumo scandal . . ."

The case had filled the newspapers. Six months before, in March, the Secretary of State for War, John Profumo, had formally denied that he had ever had an affair with a notorious call girl, Christine Keeler, one of several girls who had suddenly sprung to international prominence with their procurer, Stephen Ward—up to that time just a well-known osteopath in London's high society. Unsubstantiated rumors began to circulate that the girl had also been having an affair with one of the Soviet attaches, a well-known KGB agent, Commander Yevgeny Ivanov, who had been recalled to Russia the previous December. In the uproar that followed, Profumo resigned, and Stephen Ward committed suicide.

"It is curious that the affair was revealed to the press at the perfect time for the Soviets," Grant continued. "I have no proof, yet, but it's not just a coincidence in my opinion. Remember it is Soviet doctrine to fragment countries—North Korea and South, East Germany and West, and so on—then to let their indoctrinated underlings do their work for them. So I think the pro-Soviet Socialists will help fragment Britain into England, Scotland, Wales and south and north Ireland (watch Eire and Northern Ireland which is a ready-made arena for Soviet merrymaking).

"Now for my suggested Contingency Plan One for the Noble House: To be circumspect about England and to concentrate on Scotland as a base. North Sea oil would make Scotland abundantly self-sufficient. The population is small, hardy and nationalistic. As an entity, Scotland would be practical now, and defensible—with an abundant exportable oil supply. A strong Scotland could perhaps help tip the scales and help a tottering England . . . our poor country, Mr. Dunross! I fear greatly for England.

"Perhaps this is another of my farfetched theories. But reconsider Scotland, Aberdeen, in the light of a new North Sea."

"Ridiculous!" Dunross exploded and he stopped reading for a moment, his mind swept, then cautioned himself, don't go off at half cock! AMG's farfetched sometimes, given to exaggeration, he's a right-wing imperialist who sees fifteen Reds under every bed. But what he says could be possible. If it's possible, then it must be considered. If there were a vast worldwide oil shortage and we were prepared, we could make a fortune, he told himself, his excitement growing. It'd be easy to buy into Aberdeen now, easy to begin a calculated retreat from London without hurting anything—Edinburgh has all the modern amenities of banking, communications, ports, airfields, that we'd need to operate efficiently. Scotland for the Scots, with abundant oil for export? Completely viable, but not separate, somehow within a strong Britain. But if the city of London, Parliament and Threadneedle Street become left-wing choked

The hair on the nape of his neck twisted at the thought of Britain being buried under a shroud of left-wing socialism. What about Robin Grey? Or Julian Broadhurst? he asked himself, chilled. Certainly they'd nationalize everything, they'd grab North Sea oil, if any, and put Hong Kong on the block—they've already said they would.

With an effort he tabled that thought for later, turned the page and read on. "Next, I think I've identified three of your Sevrin moles. The information was expensive—I may need extra money before Christmas—and I am not certain of the accuracy (I'm trying to cross-check at once, realizing the importance to you). The moles are believed to be: Jason Plumm of a company called Asian Properties; Lionel Tuke in the telephone company; and Jacques deVille in Struan's . . ."

"Impossible!" Dunross burst out loud. "AMG's gone mad! Plumm's as impossible as Jacques, totally absolutely impossible. There's no way they co—"

His private phone began ringing. Automatically he picked it up. "Yes?"

'This is the overseas operator calling Mr. Dunross."

"Who's calling him please?" he snapped.

"Will Mr. Dunross accept a collect call from Sydney, Australia, from a Mr. Duncan Dunross?"

The tai-pan's heart missed a beat. "Of course! Hello, Duncan . . . Duncan?"

"Father?"

"Hello, my son, are you all right?"

"Oh yes, sir, absolutely!" he heard his son say and his anxiety fled. "I'm sorry to call you during the working day, Father, but my Monday flight's overbooked an—"

"Damnit, you have a confirmed booking, laddie. I'll get p—"

"No, Father, thank you, that's perfectly all right. Now I'm on an earlier one. I'm on Singapore Airlines Flight 6 which arrives Hong Kong at noon. Don't bother to meet me, I'll get a taxi an—"

"Look for the car, Duncan. Lee Choy will be there. But come to the office before you go home, eh?"

"All right. I've validated my tickets and everything."

Dunross heard the pride in his son's voice and it warmed him. "Good. Well done. By the way, cousin Linbar will be arriving tomorrow on Qantas at 8:00 P.M. your time. He'll be staying at the house too." Struan's had had a company house in Sydney since 1900 and a permanent office there since the eighties. Hag Struan had gone into partnership with an immensely wealthy wheat farmer named Bill Scragger and their company had flourished until the crash of 1929. "Did you have a good holiday?"

"Oh smashing! Smashing, yes, I want to come back next year. I met a smashing girl, Father."

"Oh?" Half of Dunross wanted to smile, the other half was still locked into the nightmare possibility that Jacques was a traitor, and