Noble House

He heard the hesitancy, then his son said in a run, trying to sound manly, "Is it all right for a fellow to have a girl friend a little older than himself?"

Dunross smiled gently and started to dismiss the thought as his son was only just fifteen, but then he remembered Elegant Jade when he himself was not quite fifteen, surely more of a man than Duncan. Not necessarily, he thought honestly. Duncan's tall and growing and just as much a man. And didn't I love her to madness that year and the next year and didn't I almost die the next year when she vanished? "Well," he said as an equal, "it really depends on who the girl is, how old the man is and how old the girl is." "Oh." There was a long pause. "She's eighteen." Dunross was greatly relieved. That means she's old enough to know better, he thought. "I'd say that would be perfect," he told Duncan in the same voice, "particularly if the fellow was about sixteen, tall, strong and knew the facts of life." "Oh. Oh I didn't … oh! I wouldn't . . ." "I wasn't being critical, laddie, just answering your question. A man has to be careful in this world, and girl friends should be chosen carefully. Where did you meet her?"

"She was on the station. Her name's Sheila." Duncan suppressed a smile. Girls in Australia were referred to as sheilas just as in England they were called birds. "That's a nice name," he said. "Sheila what?"

"Sheila Scragger. She's a niece of old Mr. Tom and she's on a visit from England. She's training to be a nurse at Guy's Hospital. She was ever so super to me and Paldoon's super too. I really can't thank you enough for arranging such a super holiday." Paldoon, the Scragger ranch, or station as it was called in Australia, was the only property they had managed to save from the crash. Paldoon was five hundred miles southwest of Sydney near the Murray River in Australia's rice lands, sixty thousand acres—thirty thousand head of sheep, two thousand acres of wheat and a thousand head of cattle —and the greatest place for a youth to holiday, working all day from dawn to dusk, mustering the sheep or cattle on horseback, galloping twenty miles in any direction and still on your own property.

"Give Tom Scragger my regards and make sure you send him a bottle of whiskey before you leave."

"Oh I sent him a case, is that all right?"

Dunross laughed. "Well laddie, a bottle would have done just as well, but a case is perfect. Call me if there's any change in your flight. You did very well to get it organized yourself, very good. Oh by the way, Mama and Glenna went to London today, with Aunt Kathy, so you'll have to go back to school alone an—"

"Oh jolly good, Father," his son said happily. "After all, I'm a man now and almost at university!"

"Yes, yes you are." A small sweet sadness touched Dunross as he sat in his high chair, AMG's letter in his hand but forgotten. "Are you all right for money?"

"Oh yes. I hardly spent anything on the station except for a beer or two. Father, don't tell Mother about my girl."

"All right. Or Adryon," he said and at once his chest tightened at the thought of Martin Haply together with Adryon and how they went off hand-in-hand. "You should tell Adryon yourself."

"Oh super, I'd forgotten her. How is she?"

"She's in good shape," Dunross said, ordering himself to be adult, wise, and not to worry and it was all quite normal for boys and girls to be boys and girls. Yes, but Christ it's difficult if you're the father. "Well, Duncan, see you Monday! Thanks for calling."

"Oh yes, and Father, Sheila drove me up to Sydney. She … she's staying the weekend with friends and going to see me off! Tonight we're going to a movie, Lawrence of Arabia, have you seen it?"

"Yes, it's just come to Hong Kong, you'll enjoy that."

"Oh super! Well, good-bye, Father, have to run . . . love you!"

"Love you," he said but the connection was already dead.

How lucky I am with my family, my wife and kids, Dunross thought, and at once added, Please God let nothing happen to them!

With an effort he looked back at the letter. It's impossible for Jason Plumm or Jacques to be Communist spies, he told himself. Nothing they've ever said or done would indicate that. Lionel Tuke? No, not him either. I only know him casually. He's an ugly, unpopular fellow who keeps to himself but he's on the cricket team, a member of the Turf Club and he's been out here since the thirties.

Wasn't he even interned at Stanley between '42 and '45? Maybe him, but the other two? Impossible!

I'm sorry AMG's dead. I'd call him right now about Jacques and . . .

First finish the letter, then consider the parts, he ordered himself. Be correct, be efficient. Good God! Duncan and an eighteen-year-old sheila! Thank God it wasn't Tom Scragger's youngest. How old is Priscilla now? Fourteen, pretty, built much older. Girls seem to mature early Down Under.

He exhaled. I wonder if I should do for Duncan what Chen-chen did for me.

The letter continued, ". . . As I've said, I'm not completely sure but my source is usually impeccable.

"I'm sorry to say the espionage war has hotted up since we uncovered and caught the spies Blake, Vassal—the Admiralty cipher clerk—and Philby, Burgess and Maclean all defected. They've all been seen in Moscow by the way. Expect spying to increase radically in Asia. (We were able to peg First Secretary Skripov of the Soviet Embassy in Canberra, Australia, and order him out of the country in February. This broke his Australian ring which was, I believe, tied to your Sevrin and further involved in Borneo and Indonesia.)

"The free world is abundantly infiltrated now. MI-5 and MI-6 are tainted. Even the CIA. While we've been naive and trusting, our opponents realized early that the future balance would depend on economic power as well as military power, and so they set out to acquire—steal—our industrial secrets.

"Curiously our free-world media fail dismally to point out that all Soviet advances are based originally on one of our stolen inventions or techniques, that without our grain they starve, and without our vast and ever-growing financial assistance and credits to buy our grains and technology they cannot fuel and refuel their whole military-industrial infrastructure which keeps their empire and people enthralled.

"I recommend you use your contacts in China to cement them to you further. The Soviets increasingly view China as their number one enemy. Equally strangely, they no longer seem to have that paranoiac fear of the U.S. which is, without doubt, now the strongest military and economic power in the world. China, which is economically and militarily weak, except in numbers of available soldiers, really presents no military threat to them. Even so China petrifies them.

"One reason is the five thousand miles of border they share. Another is national guilt over the vast areas of historic Chinese territory Soviet Russia has swallowed over the centuries; another is the knowledge that the Chinese are a patient people with long memories. One day the Chinese will take back their lands. They have always taken back their lands when it was militarily feasible to do so. I've pointed out many times that the cornerstone of Soviet (Imperialist) politics is to isolate and fragment China to keep her weak. Their great bugaboo is a tripartite alliance between China, Japan and the U.S. Your Noble House should work to promote that. (Also a Common Market among the U.S., Mexico and Canada, totally essential, in my opinion, to a stable American continent.) Where else but through Hong Kong—and therefore your hands— will all the inward wealth to China go?

"Last, back to Sevrin: I have taken a major risk and approached our most priceless asset in the inner core of the KGB's ultra-secret Department 5. I have just heard back today that the identity of Arthur, Sevrin's leader, is Classification One, beyond even his grasp. The only clue he could give was that the man was English and one of his initials is R. Not much to go on I'm afraid.

"I look forward to seeing you. Remember, my papers must never pass into the hands of anyone else. Regards, AMG."

Dunross committed the Geneva phone number to memory, encoded it in his address book and lit a match. He watched the airmail paper curl and begin to burn.

R. Robert Ralph Richard Robin Rod Roy Rex Rupert Red Rodney and always back to Roger. And Robert. Robert Armstrong or Roger Crosse or—or who?

Holy Christ, Dunross thought, feeling weak.

"Geneva 871-65-65, station to station," he said into his private phone. Tiredness engulfed him. His sleep last night had been disturbed, his dreams dragging him back to war, back to his flaming cockpit, the smell of burning in his nostrils, then waking, chilled, listening to the rain, soon to get up silently, Penn sleeping soundly, the Great House quiet except for old Ah Tat who, as always, had his tea made. Then to the track and chased all day, his enemies closing in and nothing but bad news. Poor old John Chen, he thought, then made the effort to push his weariness away. Perhaps

I can kip for an hour between five and six. I'll need all my wits tonight.

The operator made the connections and he heard the number ringing.

"Ja?" the gentle voice said.

"Hierist Herr Dunross im Hong Kong. Frau Gresserhoff bine," he said in good German.

"Oh!" There was a long pause. "Ich bin Frau Gresserhoff. Tai-pan?"

"Ah so desu! Ohayo gozaimasu. Anata wa An/in Riko-san?" he asked, his Japanese accent excellent. Good morning. Your name is also Riko Anjin?

"HaL Hai, dozo. Ah, nihongo wajotzu desu. " Yes. Oh you speak Japanese very well.

"lye, sukoshi, gomen nasai. " No, sorry, only a little. As part of his training, he had spent two years in their Tokyo office. "Ah, so sorry," he continued in Japanese, "but I'm calling about Mr. Gresserhoff. Have you heard?"

"Yes." He could hear the sadness. "Yes. I heard on Monday."

"I've just received a letter from him. He said you have some, some things for me?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes, tai-pan. Yes I have."

"Would it be possible for you to bring them here? So sorry, but I cannot come to you."

"Yes. Yes of course," she said hesitantly, her Japanese soft and pleasing. "When should I come?"

"As soon as possible. If you go to our office on Avenue Bern in a couple of hours, say at noon, there will be tickets and money for you. I believe there's a Swissair connection that leaves this afternoon —if that were possible."

Again the hesitation. He waited patiently. AMG's letter writhed in the ashtray as it burned. "Yes," she said. "That would be possible."

"I'll make all the arrangements for you. Would you like someone to travel with you?"

"No, no thank you," she said, her voice so quiet that he had to cup one hand over his ear to hear better. "Please excuse me for causing all this trouble. I can make the arrangements."

"Truly, it's no trouble," he said, pleased that his Japanese was flowing and colloquial. "Please go to my office at noon. … By the way, the weather here is warm and wet. Ah, so sorry, please excuse me for asking but is your passport Swiss or Japanese, and under what name would you travel?"

An even longer pause. "I would … I think I should … It would be Swiss, my travel name should be Riko Gresserhoff."

"Thank you Mrs. Gresserhoff. I look forward to seeing you. Kiyoskette, " he ended. Have a safe journey.

Thoughtfully he put the phone back onto its cradle. The last of AMG's letter twisted and died with a thread of smoke. Carefully he crumbled the ashes into powder.

Now what about Jacques?

46

5:45 P.M. :

Jacques deVille plodded up the marble stairs of the Mandarin Hotel to the mezzanine floor, packed with people having late tea.

He took off his raincoat and went through the crowds, feeling very old. He had just talked to his wife, Susanne, in Nice. The specialist from Paris had made another examination of Avril and thought that her internal injuries might not be as bad as first thought.

"He says we have to be patient," Susanne had told him in her gushing Parisienne French. "But Mother of God, how can we be? The poor child's distraught and losing her mind. She keeps saying, 'But I was the driver, it was me, Mumma, me, but for me my Borge would be alive, but for me. …" I fear for her, cheri!" "Does she know yet that her . . . about her inside?" "No, not yet. The doctor says not to tell her until he's sure." Susanne had begun to cry.

In agony he had calmed her as best he could and said he would call her back in an hour. For a while he had considered what he should do, then he had made arrangements and had left his office and come here.

The public phone booth near the newsstand was occupied so he bought an afternoon paper and glanced at the headlines. Twenty killed in resettlement mud slides above Aberdeen . . . Rain to continue … Will Saturday's Great Race Day be canceled? . .. JFK warns Soviets not to interfere in Vietnam … Atom Test Ban Treaty signed in Moscow by Dean Rusk, Andrei Gromyko and Sir Alec Douglas-Home, rejected by France and China . . . Malayan Communists step up offensive . . . Kennedy's second son, born prematurely, dies . . . Manhunt for the British Great Train Robbers continues . . . Profumo scandal damages Conservative Party . . .

"Excuse me, sir, are you waiting for the phone?" an American woman asked from behind him.

"Oh, oh yes, thank you, sorry! I didn't see that it was empty." He went into the booth, closed the door, put in the coin and dialed. The ringing tone began. He felt his anxiety rising.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Lop-sing please," he said, not sure of the voice yet.

"There's no Mr. Lop-ting here. Sorry, you have a wrong number."

"I want to leave a message," he said, relieved to recognize Sus-lev's voice.

"You have a wrong number. Look in your phone book."

When the code was completed correctly, he began, "Sorry to c—"

"What is your number?" interrupted him harshly.

Jacques gave it at once.

"Is it a phone booth?"

"Yes." Immediately the phone clicked off. As he hung up he felt a sudden sweat on his hands. Suslev's number was only to be used in an emergency but this was an emergency. He stared at the phone.

"Excuse me, sir," the American woman called out through the glass doors. "Can I use the phone? I won't be a moment."

"Oh! Oh I'm—I won't be a second," Jacques said, momentarily flustered. He saw that three Chinese were waiting impatiently behind her now. They stared at him balefully. "I'm . . . I'll just be a second." He reclosed the door, sweat on his back. He waited and waited and waited and then the phone rang. "Hello?"

"What's the emergency?"

"I … I just heard from Nice." Carefully Jacques told Suslev about his conversation with his wife without mentioning any names. "I'm going there at once on the evening flight—and I thought I'd better tell you personally so the—"

"No, this evening's too soon. Book tomorrow, on the evening flight."

Jacques felt his world collapse. "But I talked to the tai-pan a few minutes ago and he said it was all right for me to go tonight. I'm booked. I can be back in three days, she really sounded awful on the phone. Don't you th—"

"No!" Suslev told him more sharply. "I will call you tonight as arranged. This could all have waited till then. Don't use this number again unless there's a real emergency!"

Jacques opened his mouth to answer hotly but the phone was already dead. He had heard the anger. But this is an emergency, he told himself, enraged, beginning to redial. Susanne needs me there and so does Avril. And the tai-pan was all for it.

"Good idea, Jacques," Dunross had said at once. "Take all the time you need. Andrew can cover for you."

And now . . . Merde, what do I do? Suslev's not my keeper!

Isn't he?

DeVille stopped dialing, his sweat chilling, and hung up.

"Are you finished, sir?" the American woman called out with her insistent smile. She was in her fifties, her hair fashionably blue. "There's a line waiting."

"Oh … oh yes, sorry." He fought the door open.

"You forgot your paper, sir," she said politely.

"Oh, oh thank you." Jacques deVille reached back for it and came out in misery. At once all the Chinese, three men and a woman, surged forward, elbowing him and the American lady out of the way. A heavyset matron got to the door first and slammed it shut behind her, the others crowding to be next.

"Hey … it was my turn," the American woman began angrily but they paid no attention to her except to curse her and her antecedents openly and with great vulgarity.

Suslev was standing in the sleazy Kowloon apartment that was one of Arthur's safe houses, his heart still thumping from the suddenness of the call. There was a damp, musky, soiled smell of ancient cooking in the room and he stared down at the phone, furious with Jacques deVille. Stupid motherless turd. Jacques is becoming a liability. Tonight I'll tell Arthur what should be done with him. The sooner the better! Yes, and the sooner you calm down yourself the better, he cautioned himself. Angry people make mistakes. Put away your anger!

With an effort, he did just that and went out onto the dim, paint-peeled landing, locking the door behind him. Another key unlocked Ginny Fu's door next to his.

"You want vodka?" she asked with her saucy smile.

"Yes." He grinned back, pleased to look at her. She was sitting cross-legged on the old sofa and wore only a smile. They had been kissing when his phone had rung the first time. There were two phones in her apartment. Hers and the other one, the secret one in the cupboard that only he used and answered. Arthur had told him it was safe, bootlegged, unlisted and impossible to bug. Even so, Suslev only used the other apartment and its phone for emergencies.

Matyeryebyets, Jacques, he thought, still edgy from the sudden shrilling of his private phone.

"Drink, tovarich," Ginny said, offering the glass. "Then drink me, heya?"

He grinned back, took the vodka and ran an appreciative hand over her cute little rump. "Ginny, golubushka, you're a good girl."

"You bet! I best girl for you." She reached up and fondled his earlobe. "We jig-jig heya?"

"Why not?" He drank the fiery liquid sparingly, wanting it to last. Her tiny nimble fingers were undoing his shirt. He stopped her for a moment and kissed her, she welcoming his kiss and returning it equally. "Wait till clothes off, heya?" she chuckled.

"Next week I go, eh?" he said, holding her in his bear hug. "How about you coming too, eh? The holiday I've always promised you?"

"Oh? Oh truly?" Her smile was immense. "Wen? Wen? You no tease?"

"You can come with me. We'll stop in Manila, our first stop's Manila, then north and back here in a month."

"Oh a real month … oh Gregy!" She hugged him with all her might. "I make best ship's captain girl all China!"

"Yes, yes you will."

"Wen go … wen we go?"

"Next week. I'll tell you when."

"Good. Tomorrow I go get passport th—"

"No, no passport, Ginny. They'll never give it to you. Those viblyadoks'\\ stop you. They won't ever let you come with me … oh no, golubushka, those dirty police will never let you come with me."

"Then wat I do, heya?"

"I'll smuggle you aboard in a chest!" His laugh was rich. "Or perhaps on a magic carpet. Eh?"

She peered up at him, her dark eyes wide and brimming and anxious. "True you take me? True? One month on your ship, heya?"

"At least a month. But don't tell anyone. The police watch me all the time and if they know, you won't be able to come with me. Understand?"

"All gods bear witness not tell a weevil, not even my mother," Ginny swore vehemently, then hugged him again with the vastness of her happiness. "Eeeee, I get huge face as captain's lady!" Another hug and then she let her fingers stray and he jerked involuntarily. She laughed and began to undress him again. "I give you best time, best."

She used her fingers and her lips expertly, probing and touching and withdrawing and moving against him, concentrating on her task until he cried out and became one with the gods in the Clouds and the Rain. Her hands and lips stayed on him, not leaving while the last tiny fraction of pleasure remained. Then she ceased and curled against him and listened to the deepness of his breathing, very contented that she had done her job well. She, herself, she had not experienced the Clouds and the Rain though she had pretended to several times, to increase his pleasure. Only twice in all the times that they had pillowed had she reached the zenith and both times she had been very drunk and not really sure if she had or if she had not. It was only with Third Nighttime Sandwich Cook Tok at the Victoria and Albert that she would zenith every time. All gods bless my joss, she thought happily. With one month holiday and the extra money Gregor will give me, and, with joss, one more year with him, we'll have enough money to open our own restaurant and I can have sons and grandsons and become one with the gods. Oh how lucky I am!

She was tired now for she had had to work hard, so she curled more comfortably against him, closed her eyes, liking him, thankful to the gods that they had helped her to overcome her distaste for his size and his white, toadlike skin and his rancid body smell. Thank all gods, she thought happily as she wafted into sleep.

Suslev was not sleeping. He was just drifting, his mind and his body at peace. The day had been good and a little very bad. After meeting with Crosse at the racetrack he had returned to his ship, appalled that there could be a security leak from the Ivanov. He had encoded Crosse's information about Operation Dry Run and all the other things and sent it off in the privacy of his cabin. Incoming messages told him that Voranski would not be replaced until the next visit of the Sovetsky Ivanov, that the special psychochemical expert, Koronski, was available to arrive from Bangkok at twelve hours' notice, and that he, Suslev, was to assume direction of Sevrin and liaise with Arthur directly. "Do not fail to obtain copies of the AMG files."

He remembered how a chill had gone through him at that "do not fail." So few failures, so many successes, but only the failures remembered. Where was the security leak aboard? Who read the AMG file apart from me? Only Dimitri Metkin, my second-in-command. It could not be him. The leak must be from elsewhere.

How far to trust Crosse?

Not far, but that man's clearly the most priceless asset we have in the capitalistic camp of Asia and must be protected at all costs.

The feel of Ginny against him was pleasing. She was breathing softly, a tiny jerk from time to time, her breast rising and falling. His eyes went through the doorway to the old-fashioned clock that stood in a niche of one of the untidy kitchen shelves among all the half-used bottles and tins and containers. The kitchen was in an alcove off the living room. Here in the only bedroom, the bed was huge and almost filled the room. He had bought it for her when he had begun with her two, almost three years ago. It was a good bed, clean, soft but not too soft, a welcome change from his bunk aboard.

And Ginny, she was welcome too. Pliant, easygoing, no trouble. Her blue-black hair was cut short and straight across her high forehead, the way he liked it—such a contrast to Vertinskaya, his mistress in Vladivostok, her with her sloe, hazel eyes, long wavy dark brown hair and the temper of a wildcat, her mother a true Princess Zergeyev and her father an insignificant half-caste Chinese shopkeeper who had bought the mother at an auction when she was thirteen. She had been on one of the cattle trucks of children fleeing Russia after the holocaust of '17.

Liberation, not holocaust, he told himself happily. Ah, but it's good to bed the daughter of a Princess Zergeyev when you're the grandson of a peasant off Zergeyev lands.

Thinking of the Zergeyevs reminded him of Alexi Travkin. He smiled to himself. Poor Travkin, such a fool! Would they really release the Princess Nestorova, his wife, to Hong Kong at Christmas? I doubt it. Perhaps they will and then poor Travkin will die of shock to see that little old hag of the snows, toothless, wrinkled and arthritic. Better to spare him that agony, he thought compassionately. Travkin's Russian and not a bad man.

Again he looked at the clock. Now it read 6:20. He smiled to himself. Nothing to do for a few hours but sleep and eat and think and plan. Then the oh so careful meeting with the English MP and, late tonight, seeing Arthur again. He chuckled. It amused him very much to know secrets Arthur did not know. But then Arthur holds back secrets too, he thought without anger. Perhaps he already knows about the MPs. He's smart, very smart, and doesn't trust me either.

That's the great law: Never trust another—man, woman or child —if you want to stay alive and safe and out of enemy clutches.

I'm safe because I know people, know how to keep a closed mouth and know how to further State policy purely as part of my own life plan.

So many wonderful plans to effect. So many exciting coups to precipitate and be part of. And then there's Sevrin . . .

Again he chuckled and Ginny stirred. "Go to sleep, little princess," he whispered soothingly as to a child. "Go to sleep."

Obediently she did not truly awaken, just brushed her hair out of her eyes and snuggled more comfortably.

Suslev let his eyes close, her body sweet against him. He let his arm rest across her loins. The rain had lessened during the afternoon. Now he noticed it had stopped. He yawned as he went into sleep, knowing the storm had not yet ended its work.

47

6:25 P.M.:

Robert Armstrong drained his beer. "Another," he called out Wearily, feigning drunkenness. He was in the Good Luck Girlfriend, a crowded, noisy Wanchai bar on the waterfront, filled with American sailors from the nuclear carrier. Chinese hostesses plied the customers with drink and accepted banter and touch and watered drinks in return at high cost. Occasionally one of them would order a real whiskey and show it to her partner to prove that this was a good bar and they were not being cheated.

Above the bar were rooms but it was not wise for sailors to go to them. Not all of the girls were clean or careful, not from choice just from ignorance. And, late at night, you could be rolled though only the very drunk were robbed. After all, there was no need: sailors were ready to spend everything they had.

"You want jig-jig?" the overpainted child asked him.

Dew neh loh moh on all your ancestors, he wanted to tell her. You should be home in bed with some schoolbooks. But he did not say it. That would do no good. In all probability her parents had gratefully arranged this job for her so that all the family could survive just a little better. "You want drink?" he said instead, hiding that he could speak Cantonese.

"Scottish, Scottish," the child called out imperiously.

"Why not get tea and I'll give you the money anyway," he said sourly.

"Fornicate all gods and the mothers of gods I not a cheater!" Haughtily the child offered the grimy glass the waiter had slapped down. It did contain cheap but real whiskey. She drained it without a grimace. "Waiter! Another Scottish and another beer! You drink, I drink, then we jig-jig."

Armstrong looked at her. "What's your name?"

"Lily. Lily Chop. Twenty-five dollars short time."

"How old are you?"

"Old. How old you?"

"Nineteen."

"Huh, coppers always lie!"

"How'd you know I'm a copper?"

"Boss tell me. Only twenty dollar, heya?"

"Who's the boss? Which one's he?"

"She. Behind the bar. She mama-sa«. "

Armstrong peered through the smoke. The woman was lean and scrawny and in her fifties, sweating and working hard, keeping up a running vulgar banter with the sailors as she filled the orders. "How'd she know I was a copper?"

Again Lily shrugged. "Listen, she tell me keep you happy or I out in street. We go upstairs now, heya? On house, no twenty dollar." The child got up. He could see her fear now.

"Sit down," he ordered.

She sat, even more afraid. "If I not pleeze she throw m—"

"You please me." Armstrong sighed. It was an old ploy. If you went, you paid, if you didn't go, you paid and the boss always sent a young one. He passed over fifty dollars. "Here. Go and give it to the mama-sen with my thanks. Tell her I can't jig-jig now because I've got my monthly! Honorable Red's with me."

Lily gawked at him then cackled like an old woman. "Eeeee, fornicate all gods that's a good one!" She went off, hard put to walk on her high heels, her brassy chong-sam slit very high, showing her thin, very thin legs and buttocks.

Armstrong finished his beer, paid his bill and got to his feet. At once his table was claimed and he pushed through the sweating, shouting sailors for the door.

"You welcome anytime," the mama-san called out as he passed her.

"Sure," he called back without malice.

The rain was just a thin drizzle now and the day growing dark. On the street were many more raucous sailors, all of them American —British sailors had been ordered out of this area for the first few days by their captains. His skin felt wet and hot under his raincoat. In a moment he left Gloucester Road and the waterfront and strolled through the crowds up O'Brien Road, splashing through the puddles, the city smelling good and clean and washed. At the corner he turned into Lochart Road and at length found the alley he sought. It was busy, as usual, with street stalls and shops and scrawny dogs, chickens packed into cages, dried fried ducks and meats hanging from hooks, vegetables and fruits. Just inside the mouth of the alley was a small stall with stools under a canvas overhang to keep off the drizzle. He nodded at the owner, chose a shadowed corner, ordered a bowl of Singapore noodles—fine, lightly fried vermicelli-like noodles, dry, with chili and spices and chopped shrimps and fresh vegetables—and began to wait.

Brian Kwok.

Always back to Brian Kwok.

And always back to the 40,000 in used notes that he had found in his desk drawer, the one he always kept locked.

Concentrate, he told himself, or you'll slip. You'll make a mistake. You can't afford a mistake!

He was weary and felt an overpowering dirtiness that soap and hot water would not cleanse away. With an effort he forced his eyes to seek his prey, his ears to hear the street sounds, and his nose to enjoy the food.

He had just finished the bowl when he saw the American sailor. The man was thin and wore glasses and he towered over the Chinese pedestrians even though he walked with a slight stoop. His arm was around a street girl. She held an umbrella over them and was tugging at him.

"No, not this way, baby," she pleaded. "My room other way .. . unnerstan'?"

"Sure, honey, but first we go this way then we'll go your way. Huh? Come on, darlin'."

Armstrong hunched deeper into the shadows. He watched them approach, wondering if this was the one. The man's accent was Southern and sweet-sounding and he was in his late twenties. As he strolled along the busy street he looked this way and that, seeking his bearings. Then Armstrong saw him spot the tailor's shop on one corner of the alley that was called Pop-ting's Handmade Suits, and, opposite it, a small, open-faced restaurant lit with bare bulbs and with a crudely written sign nailed to a post: WELCOME TO AMERICAN SAILORS. The bold column of Chinese characters over the door read: "A Thousand Years' Health to Mao Tse-tung Restaurant."

"C'mon, honey," the sailor said, brightening. "Let's have a beer here."

"No good place, baby, better come my bar, heya? Belt—"

"Goddamnit we're having a beer here." He went into the open shop and sat at one of the plastic tables, bulky in his raincoat. Sullenly she followed. "Beer. Two beers! San Miguel, huh? You savvy huh?"

From where he sat, Armstrong could see them both clearly. One of the tables was filled with four coolies who noisily sucked noodles and soup into their mouths. They glanced at the sailor and the girl briefly. One made an obscene remark and the others laughed. The girl blushed, turning her back to them. The sailor hummed as he looked around carefully, sipping his beer, then stood up. "I gotta use the can." Unerringly he went to the back through the flyblown string curtain, the counterman watching him sourly. Armstrong sighed and relaxed. The trap was sprung.

In a moment the sailor returned. "C'mon," he said, "let's get outta here." He drained his glass, paid, and they went off arm in arm again the way they had come.

"You want more S'pore noodles?" the stall keeper asked Armstrong rudely, his hostile eyes just slits in his high-boned face.

"No thanks. Just another beer."

"No beer."

"Fornicate you and all your line," Armstrong hissed in perfect gutter Cantonese. "Am I a fool from the Golden Mountain? No, I'm a guest in your fornicating restaurant. Get me a fornicating beer or I'll have my men slit your Secret Sack and feed those peanuts you call your treasure to the nearest dog!"

The man said nothing. Sullenly he went to the next street stall and got a San Miguel and brought it back and set it on the counter, opening it. The other diners were still gaping at Armstrong. Abruptly he hawked loudly and spat and put his cold blue eyes on the man nearest him. He saw him shiver and look away. Uneasily the others went back to their bowls too, uncomfortable to be in the presence of a barbarian policeman who had the bad manners to swear so colloquially in their tongue.

Armstrong eased more comfortably on the stool, then let his eyes range the road and the alley, waiting patiently.

He did not have long to wait before he saw the small, squat chunky European coming up the alley, keeping to the side, stopping and peering into the storefront of a cheap shoe shop behind the street stalls that crowded the narrow roadway.

Ah, he's a professional, Armstrong thought, very pleased, knowing the man was using the glass as a mirror to case the restaurant. The man took his time. He wore a shapeless plastic raincoat and hat and appeared nondescript. His body was hidden for a moment as a coolie swayed past him with huge bundles on either end of the bamboo pole on his shoulders. Armstrong noticed his knotted calves, varicose-veined, as he watched the feet of the other man. They moved and he walked out of the alley, covered by the coolie, and did not stop, just continued up the road.

He's very good, the policeman thought admiringly, still having him in sight. This bugger's done this before. Must be KGB to be this smart. Well, it won't be long now, my fine fellow, before you're hooked, he told himself without rancor, as a fisherman would seeing a fat trout teasing the bait.

The man was shop-watching again. Come along, little fish.

The man was acting just like a trout. He made several passes and went away and came back but always very carefully and without attracting attention. At last he went into the open-faced restaurant and sat down and ordered a beer. Armstrong sighed again, happy now.

It seemed to take the man an interminable time before he, too, got up, asked where the toilet was, walked through the few diners and went under the bead curtain. In time he reappeared and went for his table. At once the four coolie diners fell on him from behind, pinioning his arms and holding him helpless, while another strapped a stiff high collar around his neck. Other diners, real customers, and not undercover SI police, gaped, one dropped his chopsticks, a couple fled and the others froze.

Armstrong got up from his stool leisurely and walked over. He saw the tough-looking Chinese behind the counter take off his apron. "Shut up, you bastard," the fellow said in Russian to the man who cursed and struggled impotently. "Evening, Superintendent," he added to Armstrong with a sly grin. His name was Malcolm Sun, he was a senior agent, SI, and ranking Chinese on this 16/2. It was he who had organized the intercept and had paid off the cook who usually worked this shift and had taken his place.

"Evening, Malcolm. You did very well." Armstrong turned his attention to the enemy agent. "What's your name?" he asked pleasantly.

"Who you? Let me go… let go!" the man said in heavily accented English.

"All yours, Malcolm," Armstrong said.

At once, Sun said in Russian, "Listen you mother-eater, we know you're off the Ivanov, we know you're a courier and you've just picked up a drop from the American off the nuclear carrier. We've already got the bastard in custody and you'd bet—"

"Lies! You've made a mistake," the man blustered in Russian. "1 know nothing of any American. Let me go!"

"What's your name?"

"You've made a mistake. Let me go!" A crowd of gaping, gawking onlookers was now surrounding the store.

Malcolm Sun turned to Armstrong. "He's a ripe one, sir. Doesn't understand very good Russian. I'm afraid we'll have to take him in," he said with a twisted smile.

"Sergeant, get the Black Maria."

"Yes sir." Another agent went off quickly as Armstrong went closer. The Russian was gray-haired, a squat man with small, angry eyes. He was held perfectly with no chance of escape and no chance to put a hand into a pocket or into his mouth to destroy evidence, or himself.

Armstrong searched him expertly. No manual or roll of film. "Where did you put it?" he asked.

"I no understand!"

The man's hatred did not bother Armstrong. He bore him no malice, the man was just a target who had been trapped. I wonder who shopped this poor bugger who's frightened to death, rightly, who's now ruined with the KGB and with his own people forever and might as well be a dead man. I wonder why it's our coup and not old Rosemont's and his CIA boys? How is it we're the ones who knew about the drop and not the Yanks? How is it Crosse got to know about this? All Crosse had told him was the where and the how and that the drop was going to be made by a sailor from the carrier and intercepted by someone off the Ivanov.

"You're in charge, Robert, and please, don't make a balls up."

"I won't. But please get someone else for Brian K—"

"For the last time, Robert, you're doing the Kwok interrogation and you're seconded to SI until I release you. And if you bitch once more I'll have you out of the force, out of Hong Kong, out of your pension and I hardly need remind you Si's reach is very long. I doubt if you'd work again, unless you go criminal, and then God help you. Is that finally clear?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Brian will be ready for you at six tomorrow morning."

Armstrong shivered. How impossibly lucky we were to catch him! If Spectacles Wu hadn't come from Ning-tok—-if the old amah hadn't talked to the Werewolf—if the run on the bank—Christ, so many ifs. But then that's how you catch a fish, a big fish. Pure, bloody, unadulterated luck most times. Jesus Christ, Brian Kwok! You poor bugger!

He shivered again.

"You all right, sir?" Malcolm Sun asked.

"Yes." Armstrong looked back at the Russian. "Where did you put the film, the roll of film?"

The man stared back at him defiantly. "Don't understand!"

Armstrong sighed. "You do, too well." The big black van came through the gawking crowd and stopped. More Sis got out. "Put him in and don't let go of him," Armstrong said to those holding him. The crowd watched and chattered and jeered as the man was frog-marched into the van. Armstrong and Sun got in after him and closed the door.

"Off you go, driver," Armstrong ordered.

"Yes sir." The driver let in his clutch easing through the crowds and joined the snarled traffic heading for Central HQ.

"All right, Malcolm. You can begin."

The Chinese agent took out a razor-sharp knife. The Soviet man blanched.

"What's your name?" Armstrong asked, sitting on a bench opposite him.

Malcolm Sun repeated the question in Russian.

"D . . . Dimitri Metkin," the man muttered, still held viselike by the four men and unable to move a finger or a toe. "Seaman, first class."

"Liar," Armstrong said easily. "Go ahead, Malcolm."

Malcolm Sun put the knife under the man's left eye and the man almost fainted. "That comes later, spy," Sun said in Russian with a chilling smile. Expertly, with a deliberate malevolent viciousness, Sun rapidly sliced the raincoat away. Armstrong searched it very carefully as Sun used the knife deftly to cut away the man's seaman's jersey and the rest of his clothes until he was naked. The knife had not cut or even nicked him once. A careful search and re-search revealed nothing. Nor his shoes, the heels or the soles.

"Unless it's a microdot transfer and we've missed it so far, it must be in him," Armstrong said.

At once the men holding the Russian bent him over and Sun got out the surgical gloves and surgical salve and probed deeply. The man flinched and moaned and tears of pain seeped from his eyes.

"Dew neh loh moh," Sun said happily. His fingers drew out a small tube of cellophane wrapping.

"Don't let go of him!" Armstrong rapped.

When he was sure the man was secure he peered at the cylindrical package. Inside he could see the double-ended circles of a film cartridge. "Looks like a Minolta," he said absently.

Using some tissues he wrapped the cellophane carefully and sat down opposite the man again. "Mr. Metkin, you're charged under the Official Secrets Act for taking part in an espionage act against Her Majesty's Government and her allies. Anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence against you. Now, sir," he continued gently, "you're caught. We're all Special Intelligence and not subject to normal laws, any more than your own KGB is. We don't want to hurt you but we can hold you forever if we want, in solitary if we want. We would like a little cooperation. Just the answers to a few questions. If you refuse we will extract the information we require. We use a lot of your KGB techniques and we can, sometimes, go a little better." He saw a flash of terror behind the man's eyes but something told him this man would be hard to crack.

"What's your real name? Your official KGB name?"

The man stared at him.

"What's your KGB rank?"

The man still stared.

Armstrong sighed. "I can let my Chinese friends have at you, old chum, if you prefer. They really don't like you at all. Your Soviet armies ran all over Malcolm Sun's village in Manchuria and wiped it out and his family. Sorry, but I really must have your official KGB name, your rank on the Sovetsky Ivanov and official position."

Another hostile silence.

Armstrong shrugged. "Go ahead, Malcolm."

Sun reached up and jerked the ugly-looking crowbar from its clip and as the four men turned Metkin roughly onto his stomach and spread-eagled him, Sun inserted the tip. The man screamed. "Wait . . . wait . . ." he gasped in guttural English, "wait . . . I'm Dimitri . . ." Another scream. "Nicoli Leonov, major, political commis-saaaar …"

"That's enough, Malcolm," Armstrong said, astonished by the importance of their catch.

"But sir . . ."

"That's enough," Armstrong said harshly, deliberately protective as Sun was deliberately hostile and angrily slammed the crowbar back into its clips. "Pull him up," he ordered, sorry for the man, the indignity of it. But he had never known the trick to fail to produce a real name and rank, if done at once. It was a trick because they would never probe deeply and the first scream was always from panic and not from pain. Unless the enemy agent broke at once they would always stop and then, at headquarters, put him through a proper monitored interrogation. Torture wasn't necessary though some zealots used it against orders. This is a dangerous profession, he thought grimly. KGB methods are rougher, and Chinese have a different attitude to life and death, victor and vanquished, pain and pleasure—and the value of a scream.

"Don't take it badly, Major Leonov," he said kindly when the others had pulled him up and sat him back on the bench, still holding him tightly. "We don't want to harm you—or let you harm yourself."

Metkin spat at him and began to curse, tears of terror and rage and frustration running down his face. Armstrong nodded at Malcolm Sun who took out the prepared pad and held it firmly over Metkin's nose and mouth.

The heavy, sick-sweet stench of chloroform filled the stuffy atmosphere. Metkin struggled impotently for a moment, then subsided. Armstrong checked his eyes and his pulse to make sure he was not feigning unconsciousness. "You can let him go now," he told them. "You all did very well. I'll see a commendation goes on all your records. Malcolm, we'd better take good care of him. He might suicide."

"Yes." Sun sat back with the others in the swaying van. It was grinding along in the heavy traffic irritatingly, stopping and starting. Later he said what was in all their minds. "Dimitri Metkin, alias Nicoli Leonov, major, KGB, off the Ivanov, and her political commissar. What's a big fish like that doing on a small job like this?"

48

7:05 P.M. :

Line Bartlett chose his tie carefully. He was wearing a pale blue shin and light tan suit and the tie was tan with a red stripe. A beer was open on the chest of drawers, the can pearled from the cold. All day he had debated with himself whether he should call for Orlanda or not call for her, whether he should tell Casey or not tell Casey.

The day had been fine for him. First, breakfast with Orlanda and then out to Kai Tak to check his airplane and make sure he could use it, for the flight with Dunross to Taipei. Lunch with Casey, then the excitement of the exchange. After the exchange had closed he and Casey had caught the ferry to Kowloon. Canvas storm shades lashed against the rain shut out the view and made the deck claustrophobic and the crossing not pleasant. But it was pleasant with Casey, his awareness of her heightened by the knowledge of Orlanda, and the dilemma.

"lan's had it, hasn't he, Line?"

"I'd think so, sure. But he's smart, the battle's not over yet, only the first attack."

"How can he get back? His stock's at bargain prices."

"Compared to last week, sure, but we don't know his earning ratio. This exchange's like a yo-yo—you said so yourself—and dangerous. Ian was right in that."

"I'll bet he knows about the 2 million you put up with Gornt."

"Maybe. It's nothing he wouldn't do if he had the chance. You meeting Seymour and Charlie Forrester?"

"Yes. The Pan Am flight's on time and I've a limo coming. I'll leave soon as we get back. You think they'll want dinner?"

"No. They'll be jet-lagged to hell." He had grinned. "I hope." Both Seymour Steigler III, their attorney, and Charlie Forrester, the head of their foam division, were socially very hard going. "What time's their flight in?"

"4:50. We'll be back around six."

At six they had had a meeting with Seymour Steigler—Forrester was unwell and had gone straight to bed.

Their attorney was a New Yorker, a handsome man with wavy black-gray hair and dark eyes and dark rings under his eyes. "Casey filled me in on the details, Line," he said. "Looks like we're in great shape."

By prior arrangement, Bartlett and Casey had laid out the whole deal to their attorney, excluding the secret arrangement with Dunross about his ships.

"There're a couple of clauses I'd want in, to protect us, Line," Steigler said.

"All right. But I don't want the deal renegotiated. We want a wrap by Tuesday, just as we've laid it out."

"What about Rothwell-Gornt? Best I should feel them out, huh? We can kite Struan's."

"No," Casey had said. "You leave Gornt and Dunross alone, Seymour." They had not told Steigler about Bartlett's private deal with Gornt either. "Hong Kong's more complicated than we thought. Best leave it as it is."

"That's right," Bartlett said. "Leave Gornt and Dunross to Casey and me. You just deal with their attorneys."

"What're they like?"

"English. Very proper," Casey said. "I met with John Dawson at noon—he's their senior partner. Dunross was supposed to be there but he sent Jacques deVille instead. He's one of Struan's directors, deals with all their corporate affairs, and some financing. Jacques is very good but Dunross runs everything and decides everything. That's the bottom line."

"How about getting this, er, Dawson on the phone right now? I'll meet with him over breakfast, say here at eight."

Bartlett and Casey had laughed. "No way, Seymour!" she had said. "It'll be a leisurely in by ten and a two-hour lunch. They eat and drink like there's no tomorrow, and everything's the 'old boy' bit."

"Then I'll meet him after lunch when he's mellow and maybe we can teach him a trick or two," Seymour Steigler had said, his eyes hardening. He stifled a yawn. "I've got to call New York before I hit the sack. Hey, I've got all the papers on the GXR merger an—"

"I'll take those, Seymour," Casey said.

"And I bought the 200,000 block of Rothwell-Gornt at 23.50-what're they today?"

"21."

"Jesus, Line, you're down 300 grand," Casey said, perturbed. "Why not sell and buy back? If and when."

"No. We'll hold the stock." Bartlett was not worried about the Rothwell stock loss for he was well ahead on his share of Gornt's selling-short ploy. "Why don't you quit for the night, Seymour? If you're up we'll have breakfast—the three of us—say about eight?"

"Good idea. Casey, you'll fix me with Dawson?"

"First thing. They'll see you in the morning sometime. The tai-pan . . . Ian Dunross's told them our deal's top priority."

"It should be," Steigler said. "Our down payment gets Dunross off the hook."

"If he survives," Casey said.

"Here today, gone tomorrow so let's enjoy!"

It was one of Steigler's standard sayings and the phrase was still ringing in Bartlett's head. Here today, gone tomorrow . . . like the fire last night. That could've been bad. I could've bashed my head in the way that poor bastard Pennyworth did. You never know when it's your turn, your accident, your bullet or your act of God. From outside or inside. Like Dad! Jesus—bronzed and healthy, hardly sick a day in his life, then the doc says he's got the big C and in three months he's wasted away and stinking and dying in great pain.

Bartlett felt a sudden sweat on his forehead. It had been a bad time then, during his divorce, burying his father, his mother distraught and everything falling apart. Then finalizing the divorce. The settlement had been vicious but he had just managed to retain control of the companies, to pay her off without having to sell out. He was still paying even though she'd remarried—along with an escalating maintenance for his children as well as future settlements —every cent still hurting, not the money itself but the unfairness of California law, the attorney in for a third until death us do part, screwed by my attorney and hers. One day I'll have vengeance on them, Bartlett grimly promised himself again. On them and all the other goddamn parasites. With an effort he thrust them aside. For today. Here today, gone tomorrow, so let's enjoy, he repeated as he sipped his beer, tied his tie and looked at himself in the mirror. Without vanity. He liked living within himself and he had made his peace with himself, knowing who he was and what he was about. The war had helped him do that. And surviving the divorce, surviving her, finding out about her and living with it—Casey the only decent thing that whole year.

Casey.

What about Casey?

Our rules are quite clear, always have been. She set them: If I have a date or she has a date, we have dates and no questions and no recriminations.

Then why is it I'm all uptight now that I've decided to see Orlanda without telling Casey?

He glanced at his watch. Almost time to go.

There was a half-hearted knock on the door and instantly it opened and Nighttime Song beamed at him. "Missee," the old man announced and stepped aside. Casey was approaching down the corridor, a sheaf of papers and a notebook in her hand.

"Oh hi, Casey," Bartlett said. "I was just going to phone you."

"Hi, Line," she called out and then said, "Dohjeh," in Cantonese to the old man as she passed. Her walk was happy as she came into the two-bedroom suite. "Got some stuff for you." She handed him a sheaf of telexes and letters and went to the cocktail bar to pour herself a dry martini. She wore casual, slim-fitting gray pants and flat gray shoes with a gray silk open-necked shirt. Her hair was tied back and a pencil left there was her only decoration. Tonight she was wearing glasses, not her usual contacts. "The first couple deal with the GXR merger. It's all signed, sealed and delivered, and we take possession September 2. There's a board meeting confirmed at 3:00 P.M. in L.A.—that gives us plenty of time to get back. I've ask—"

"Turn down bed, Master?" Nighttime Song interrupted importantly from the door.

Bartlett started to say no, but Casey was already shaking her head. "Urn ho, " she said pleasantly in Cantonese, pronouncing the words well and with care. "Chaz'er, dohjeh. " No thank you, please do it later.

Nighttime Song stared at her blankly. "Wat?"

Casey repeated it. The old man snorted, irritated that Golden Pubics had the bad manners to address him in his own language. "Turn down bed, heya? Now heya?" he asked in bad English.

Casey repeated the Cantonese, again with no reaction, began again then stopped and said wearily in English, "Oh never mind! Not now. You can do it later."

Nighttime Song beamed, having made her lose face. "Yes, Mis-see." He closed the door with just enough of a slam to make his point.

"Asshole," she muttered. "He had to understand me, I know I said it right, Line. Why is it they insist on not understanding? I tried it on my maid and all she said was Va?' too." She laughed in spite of herself as she aped the coarse guttural, "Wat you say, heya?"

Bartlett laughed. "They're just ornery. But where'd you learn Chinese?"

"It's Cantonese. I got a teacher—fitted in an hour this morning —thought I should at least be able to say, Hi, Good morning, Give me the bill please . . . ordinary things. Goddamn but it's complicated. All the tones. In Cantonese there are seven tones—seven ways of saying the same word. You ask for the check, it's mai dan, but if you say it just a little wrong, it means fried eggs, they're mai dan too, and one'll get you fifty the waiter'll bring you the fried eggs just to put you down." She sipped her martini and added an extra olive. "I needed that. You want another beer?"

Bartlett shook his head. "This's fine." He had read all the telexes.

Casey sat on the sofa and opened her notepad. "Vincenzo Banas-tasio's secretary phoned and asked me to confirm his suite for Saturday an—"

"I didn't know he was due in Hong Kong. You?"

"I think I remember him saying something about going to Asia the last time we saw him … at the track last month—at Del Mar —the time John Chen was there. Terrible about John, isn't it?"

"I hope they get those Werewolves. Bastards to murder him and put that sign on him like that."

"I wrote a condolence note for us to his father and to his wife Dianne—you remember we met her at lan's and at Aberdeen-Jesus, that seems like a million years ago."

"Yes." Bartlett frowned. "I still don't remember Vincenzo saying anything. He staying here?"

"No, he wants to be Hong Kong side. I confirmed the booking at the Hilton by phone and I'll do it in person tomorrow. He's on JAL's Saturday morning flight from Tokyo." Casey peered at him over her glasses. "You want me to schedule a meeting?"

"How long's he staying?"

"Over the weekend. A few days. You know how vague he is. How about Saturday after the races? We'll be Hong Kong side and it's an easy walk from Happy Valley if we can't get a ride."

Bartlett was going to say, Let's make it Sunday, but then he remembered Taipei on Sunday. "Sure, Saturday after the races." Then he saw her look. "What?"

"I was just wondering what Banastasio's about."

"When he bought 4 percent of our Par-Con stock," he said, "we ran it through Seymour, the SEC and a few others and they're all satisfied his money was clean. He's never been arrested or charged, though there're a lot of rumors. He's never given us any trouble, never wanted in on any board, never turns up for any shareholder meetings, always gives me his proxy, and he came through with the money when we needed it." He stared at her. "So?"

"So nothing, Line. You know my opinion of him. I agree we can't take the stock back. He bought it free and clear and asked first, and we sure as hell needed his money and put it to great use." She adjusted her glasses and made a note. "I'll fix the meeting and be polite as always. Next: Our company account at the Victoria Bank's operating. I put in 25,000 and here's your checkbook. We've established a revolving fund and First Central's ready to transfer the initial 7 million to the account whenever we say so. There's a confirm telex there. I also opened a personal account for you at the same bank—here's your checkbook with another 25 grand—-20 in an HK treasury bill on a daily rollover." She grinned. "That should buy a couple of bowls of chop suey and a good piece of jade though 1 hear the phonies are hard to tell from the real ones."

"No jade." Bartlett wanted to look at his watch but he did not, just sipped his beer. "Next?"

"Next: Clive Bersky called and asked a favor."

"You told him to blow it out of his muffler?"

She laughed. Clive Bersky was chief executive of their branch of the First Central of New York. He was very meticulous, pedantic and drove Bartlett crazy with his need for perfect documentation. "He asks that if the Struan deal goes through, we put our funds through the . . ." She referred to her pad. ". . . the Royal Belgium and Far East Bank here."

"Why them?"

"I don't know. I'm checking them out. We've a date for a drink with the local chief exec at eight. The First Central's just bought his bank—it's got branches here, Singapore, Tokyo."

"You deal with him, Casey."

"Sure. I can drink and run. You want to eat afterwards? We could go down to the Escoffier or up to the Seven Dragons or maybe walk up Nathan Road for some Chinese chow. Somewhere close—the weatherman says more rain's expected."

"Thanks but not tonight. I'm going Hong Kong side."

"Oh? Wh—" Casey stopped. "Fine. When are you leaving?"

"About now. No hurry." Bartlett saw the same easy smile on her face as her eyes went down the list but he was sure she had instantly realized where he was going and suddenly he was furious. He kept his voice calm. "What else do you have?"

"Nothing that won't wait," she said in the same nice voice. "I've an early meeting with Captain Jannelli about your Taipei trip-Armstrong's office sent over the documentation temporarily lifting the impounding on the airplane. All you have to do is sign the form agreeing to come back to H.K. I put Tuesday on it. Is that right?"

"Sure. Tuesday's D Day."

She got up. "That's it for tonight, Line. I'll deal with the banker and the rest of this stuff." She finished her martini and put the glass back on the mirrored cabinet. "Hey that tie, Line! Your blue one'd go better. See you at breakfast." She blew him her usual kiss and walked off as she usually did and closed the door with her usual, "Sweet dreams, Line!"

"Why the hell'm I so goddamn mad?" he muttered angrily, out loud. "Casey's done nothing. Son of a bitch!" Unaware, he had crushed his empty beer can. Son of a bitch! Now what? Do I forget it and go or what?

Casey was walking up the corridor toward her own room, seething. I'll bet my life he's going out with that goddamn tramp. I should've drowned her while I had the chance.

Then she noticed that Nighttime Song had opened her door for her and was holding it wide with a smile she read as a smirk.

"Andyoucanblowitoutofyourasstoo!" she snarled at him before she could stop herself, then slammed the door and threw her papers and pad on the bed and was about to cry. "You're not to cry," she ordered herself out loud, tears on the words. "No goddamn man is going to get you down no way. No way!" She stared down at her fingers, which were trembling with the rage that possessed her.

"Oh shit on all men!"

49

7:40 P.M. :

"Excuse me, your Excellency, you're wanted on the phone."

"Thank you, John." Sir Geoffrey Allison turned back to Dunross and the others. "If you'll excuse me a moment, gentlemen?"

They were in Government House, the governor's official residence above Central, the French doors open to the cool of the evening, the air fresh and washed, trees and shrubs dripping nicely, and the governor walked across the crowded anteroom where pre-dinner cocktails and snacks were being served, very pleased with the way the evening had gone so far. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. There was banter and good conversation, some laughter and no friction yet between the Hong Kong tai-pans and the MPs. At his request, Dunross had gone out of his way to soothe Grey and Broadhurst, and even Grey seemed to have mellowed.

The aide closed the door of his study, leaving him alone with the telephone. The study was dark green and pleasing, with blue flock wallpaper, fine Persian carpets from his two-year sojourn in the Teheran embassy, cherished crystal and silver and more showcases with fine Chinese porcelains. "Hello?"

"Sorry to bother you, sir," Crosse said.

"Oh hello, Roger." The governor felt his chest tighten. "No bother," he said.

"Two rather good pieces of information, sir. Somewhat important. I wonder if I might drop by?"

Sir Geoffrey glanced at the porcelain clock on the mantel over the fireplace. "Dinner's served in fifteen minutes, Roger. Where are you now?"

"Just three minutes away from you, sir. I won't delay your dinner. But, if you prefer, I could make it afterwards."

"Come now, I could use some good news. With this whole banking affair and the stock market… Use the garden door if you wish. John will meet you."

"Thank you, sir." The phone clicked off. By custom, the head of SI had a key to the iron garden gate which was set into the high surrounding walls.

In exactly three minutes Crosse was crossing the terrace, walking lightly. The ground was very wet. He dried his feet carefully before he came through the French windows. "We've caught a rather big fish, sir, an enemy agent, caught him with his hands in the honey pot," he said softly. "He's a major, KGB, off the Ivanov, and her political commissar. We caught him in the middle of an espionage act with an American computer expert off the nuclear carrier."

The governor's face had gone red. "That blasted Ivanov/ Good God, Roger, a major? Have you any idea of the diplomatic and political storm this will precipitate with the USSR, the U.S. and London?"

"Yes sir. That's why I thought I'd better consult at once."

"What the devil was the fellow doing?"

Crosse gave him the broad facts. He ended, "Both of them are sedated now and very safe."

"What was on the film?"

"It was blank, sir, fogged. Wh—"

"What?"

"Yes. Of course both men denied any espionage was involved. The sailor denied there was a drop, denied everything, said he'd won the $2,000 U.S. we found on him playing poker. Childish to lie once you're caught, childish to make things difficult, we always get the truth eventually. I thought we'd either missed the real film or it was a microdot transfer. We re-searched their clothing and I ordered immediate emetics and stool examinations. Major … the KGB agent passed the real negative film an hour ago." Crosse offered the big manila envelope. "These're eight-by-ten prints, sir, frame by frame."

The governor did not open the envelope. "What are they of? In general?"

"One set shows part of the ship's radar guidance system manual." Crosse hesitated. "The other set's a photocopy of a complete manifest of the carrier's arsenal, ammunition, missiles and warheads. Quantities, qualities, their numbers and where stored in the ship."

"Jesus Christ! Including nuclear warheads? No, please don't answer that." Sir Geoffrey stared at Crosse. After a pause he said, "Well, Roger, it's marvelous that the information didn't get into enemy hands. You're to be congratulated. Our American friends will be equally relieved, and they'll owe you a number of very great favors. Good God, in expert hands that knowledge would lay bare the ship's entire strike capability!"

"Yes sir." Crosse smiled thinly.

Sir Geoffrey studied him.

"But what to do about this major of yours?"

"I would send the major to London with a special escort by RAF transport at once. I think they should do the debriefing there even though we're better equipped, more practiced, and more efficient here. My worry is that his superiors will surely know within an hour or so and might attempt to rescue him or to render him useless. They might even use extreme diplomatic pressure to force us to release him to the Ivanov. Besides, when the PRC and Nationalists hear we've caught such an official, they might try to acquire him themselves."

"What about the American sailor?"

"It might be politic to turn him over to the CIA at once, with the negative of the film and these—they're the only prints I made. I developed and made them myself for obvious security reasons. I suspect Rosemont would be the best person."

"Ah yes, Rosemont. He's here now."

"Yes sir."

Sir Geoffrey's eyes hardened. "You have copies of all my guest lists, Roger?"

"No sir. Half an hour ago I called the consulate to find out where he was. They told me."

Sir Geoffrey looked back at him under his shaggy eyebrows, disbelieving him, sure that the chief of SI did know whom he invited and when. Never mind, he thought testily, that's his job. And I'll bet a golden guinea to a doughnut that these prints aren't the only copies Roger made, for he knows our Admiralty would love to see them too and it's his duty to provide them. "Could this have any connection with the AMG business?"

"No. No not at all," Crosse said and the governor thought he heard the momentary nutter in Crosse's voice. "I don't think there's any connection."

Sir Geoffrey got out of the tall chair and paced for a moment, his mind sifting possibilities. Roger's right. Chinese Intelligence on both sides of the bamboo fence are bound to find out quickly, as every one of our Chinese police has PRC or Nationalist sympathies. So it's far better to have the spy out of reach. Then no one will be tempted—at least, not here. "I think I should chat with the minister at once."

"Perhaps, under the circumstances, sir, you could inform the minister what I've done about the major—sending him to London under es—" "He's already gone?"

"No sir. But it's well within my authority to expedite that—if you agree."

Thoughtfully Sir Geoffrey glanced again at the clock. At length he said with a small smile, "Very well. It's lunchtime now in London, I'll inform him in an hour or so. Is that sufficient time?" "Oh yes, thank you, sir. Everything's arranged." "I presumed it was."

"I'll breathe a lot easier when the fellow's en route home, sir. Thank you." "Yes. And the sailor?"

"Perhaps you could ask the minister to approve our handing him over to Rosemont, sir."

There were a dozen questions Sir Geoffrey would like to have asked but he asked none of them. From long experience he knew he was not a good liar, so the less he knew the better. "Very well. Now, what's the second piece of 'good* news. I trust this will be better."

"We've caught the mole, sir." "Ah! Good. Excellent! Very good. Who?" "Senior Superintendent Kwok." "Impossible!"

Crosse kept the pleasure off his face. "I agree, sir. Even so, Superintendent Kwok's a Communist mole and spy for the PRC." Crosse related how Brian Kwok's cover had been penetrated. "I suggest Superintendent Armstrong should get a commendation— also Spectacles Wu. I'm taking him into SI, sir."

Sir Geoffrey was staring out of the window, stunned. "Bless my soul! Young Brian! Why? He would have been an assistant commissioner in a year or two. … I suppose there's no mistake?"

"No sir. As I said, the proof is irrefutable. Of course, we don't know the how or the why yet but we soon will."

Sir Geoffrey heard the finality and he saw the thin, hard face and cold eyes and he felt very sorry for Brian Kwok, whom he had liked for many years. "Keep me advised about him. Perhaps we can discover what makes a man like that do such a thing. Good God, such a charming chap and a first-class cricketer too. Yes, keep me advised."

"Certainly, sir." Crosse got up. "Interesting. I could never understand why he was always so anti-American—it was his only flaw. Now it's obvious. I should have spotted that. Sorry sir, and sorry to interrupt your evening."

"You're to be congratulated, Roger. If the Soviet agent's being sent to London perhaps Brian Kwok should go too? The same reasons would apply to him?"

"No sir. No I don't think so. We can deal with Kwok here much quicker and better. We're the ones who need to know what he knows—London wouldn't understand. Kwok's a threat to Hong Kong, not to Britain. He's a PRC asset—the other man's Soviet. The two don't parallel."

Sir Geoffrey sighed heavily, knowing Crosse was right. "I agree. This has really been a quite dreadful day, Roger. First the bank runs, then the stock market … the deaths last night, poor Sir Charles Pennyworth and Toxe's wife . . . and this morning the Aberdeen mud-slide deaths … the Noble House's tottering … it looks as though this storm front's developing into a blasted typhoon which will probably wreck Saturday's racing . . . and now all your news, an American sailor betrays his country and ship and honor for a paltry $2,000?"

Crosse smiled his thin smile again. "Perhaps $2,000 wasn't paltry to him."

We live in terrible times, Sir Geoffrey was going to say, but he knew it was not the times. It was merely that people were people, that greed pride lust avarice jealousy gluttony anger and the bigger lust for power or money ruled people and would rule them forever. Most of them.

"Thank you for coming, Roger. Again, you're to be congratulated. I will so inform the minister. Good night."

He watched Crosse walk off, tall, confident and deadly. When the iron door in the high wall had been bolted behind him by his aide,

Sir Geoffrey Allison allowed the real unasked question to surface once more.

Who's the mole in my police?

AMG's paper was quite clear. The traitor's a Soviet asset, not from the PRC. Brian Kwok has been flushed out by chance. Why didn't Roger point out the obvious?

Sir Geoffrey shuddered. If Brian could be a mole anyone could. Anyone.

50

8:17 P.M. :

Almost before he took his finger off the bell the door swung open.

"Oh, Line," Orlanda said breathlessly, her happiness spilling over, "I'd given you up. Please come in!"

"Sorry to be late," Bartlett said, taken aback by her beauty and marvelous warmth. "The traffic's snarled to hell and the ferries jammed and I couldn't get to a phone."

"You're here so you're not late, not at all. I was just afraid that .. ." Then she added in a rush, "I was afraid you wouldn't come back tonight and then I'd've been shattered. There, I've said it and all my defenses are down but I'm so happy to see you I don't care." She stood on tiptoe and kissed him a swift happy kiss, took his arm and shut the door behind them.

Her perfume was delicate and barely there but he felt it as a physical presence. The dress she wore was knee-length white chiffon that sighed as she moved, close at the wrists and neck. It showed but somehow didn't quite show her golden skin. "I'm so happy you're here," she said again and took his umbrella and put it into a rack.

"So am I."

The room was prettier by night, mostly candlelit, the tall glass doors of the terrace open to the air. They were just below the overcast and the city sprawled down the mountain to the sea, the lights misting from time to time as whiskers of the low clouds passed by. Sea level was seven hundred feet below. Kowloon was dim and the harbor dim but he knew the ships were there and he could see the huge carrier at the wharf, her great angled deck floodlit, the needle-nosed jets floodlit, her battle-gray bridge reaching for the sky —the Stars and Stripes hanging damp and listless.

"Hey," he said, leaning on the terrace railing, "what a great night, Orlanda."

"Oh yes, yes it is. Come and sit down."

"I'd rather look at the view, if it's okay."

"Of course, anything you want's fine, anything. That suit's great on you, Line, and I love your tie." She said it happily, wanting to compliment him even though she did not think the tie matched too well. Never mind, she thought, he's just not color conscious like Quillan, and needs helping. I'll do what Quillan taught me to do, not criticize but go out and buy one I like and give it to him. If he likes it, marvelous, if not never mind, for what does it matter—he's the one who's wearing it. Blue, blue would match Line's eyes and go better with that shirt. "You dress very well."

"Thanks, so do you." He was remembering what Casey had said about his tie and how furious he had been with her tonight all the way across the ferry, all the time waiting for a cab, and the old woman who had trod on his foot shoving past to usurp his cab but he had foiled her and cursed her back.

It was only now that his rage-temperature had vanished. It was Orlanda's pleasure at seeing me that did it, he told himself. It's years since Casey lit up like a Christmas tree or said anything when I … the hdl with that. I'm not going to worry about Casey tonight. "The view's fantastic and you're as pretty as a picture!"

She laughed. "So're you and . . . oh your drink, sorry …" She whirled away for the kitchen, her skirt flying. "I don't know why but you make me feel like a schoolgirl," she called out. In a moment she came back. On the tray was an earthenware pot of pate and rounds of fresh toast and a bottle of iced beer. "I hope this's right."

It was Anweiser. "How did you know my brand?"

"You told me this morning, don't you remember?" Her warmth flooded over again at his obvious pleasure. "Also that you like drinking it out of the bottle."

He took it and grinned at her. "Is that going to be in the article too?"

"No. No, I've decided not to write about you."

He saw her sudden seriousness. "Why?"

She was pouring herself a glass of white wine. "I decided I could never do you justice in an article so I won't write one. Besides, I don't think you'd like that hanging over you." Her hand went to her heart. "Cross my heart and hope to die, no article, everything private. No article, no journalism, I swear by the Madonna," she added, meaning it.

"Hey, no need to be dramatic!"

She was leaning with her back against the railing, an eighty-foot drop to the concrete below. He saw the sincerity in her face and he believed her completely. He was relieved. The article had been the only flaw, the only danger point for him—that and her being a journalist. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly, deliberately lightly. "Sealed with a kiss. Thanks."

"Yes."

They watched the view for a moment.

"Is the rain over for good?"

"I hope not, Line. We need a good series of storms to fill the reservoirs. Keeping clean's so hard and we still only get water one day in four." She smiled mischievously as a child would. "Last night during the torrent I stripped and bathed here. It was fantastic. The rain was even heavy enough to wash my hair."

The thought of her naked, here, in the night, touched him. "You'd better be careful," he said. "The railing's not that high. I wouldn't want you to slip."

"Strange, I'm frightened to death of the sea but heights don't bother me a bit. You certainly saved my life."

"C'mon! You would have made it without me."

"Perhaps, but you certainly saved my face. Without you there I would surely have disgraced myself. So thanks for my face."

"And that's more important than life out here, isn't it?"

"Sometimes, yes, yes it is. Why do you say that?"

"I was just thinking about Dunross and Quillan Gornt. Those two're having at each other, mostly over face."

"Yes. You're right, of course." She added thoughtfully, "They're both fine men, in one way, both devils in another."

"How do you mean?"

"They're both ruthless, both very very strong, very hard, adept and … and well conversed with life." As she talked she heaped one of the rounds of toast with pate and offered it to him, her nails long and perfect. "The Chinese have a saying: 'Chan ts'ao, chu ken'— when pulling weeds make sure you get rid of the roots. The roots of those two go deep in Asia, very deep, too deep. It would be hard to get rid of those roots." She sipped her wine and smiled a little smile. "And probably not a good idea, not for Hong Kong. Some more pate?"

"Please. It's wonderful. You make it?" "Yes. It's an old English recipe." "Why wouldn't it be good for Hong Kong?" "Oh, perhaps because they balance each other. If one destroys the other—oh I don't mean just Quillan or Dunross, I mean the hongs themselves, the companies, Struan's and Rothwell-Gornt. If one eats up the other, perhaps the remaining one would be too strong, there would certainly be no competition, then perhaps the tai-pan would become too greedy, perhaps he'd decide to dump Hong Kong." She smiled hesitantly. "Sorry … I'm talking too much. It's just an idea. Another beer?"

"Sure, in a moment, thanks, but that's an interesting thought." Yes, Bartlett was thinking, and one that hadn't occurred to me— or to Casey. Are those two necessary to each other? And Casey and I? Are we necessary to each other? He saw her watching him and he smiled back. "Orlanda, it's no secret I'm thinking about making a deal with one of them. If you were me, which one would you go with?" "Neither," she said at once and laughed. "Why?"

"You're not British, not one of the 'old boys,' not a hereditary member of any of the clubs, and however much your money and power here, it's the Old Boy network that will finally decide what is to be." She took his empty bottle and went and brought another. "You think I couldn't make a go of it?" "Oh I didn't mean that, Line. You asked about Struan's or Rothwell-Gornt, about going into business with one of them. If you do, they'll be the winners in the end." "They're that smart?"

"No. But they're Asian, they belong here. Here the saying is, 'T'ien hsia wu ya i pan hei'—aU crows under heaven are black— meaning that all the tai-pans are the same and they'll all stick together to destroy the outsider."

"So neither Ian nor Quillan would welcome a partner?" She hesitated. "I think I'm getting out of my depth, Line. I don't know about business things. It's just that I've never heard of an American who's come here and made it big."

"What about Biltzmann, Superfoods and their takeover of H.K. General Stores? "

"Biltzmann's a joke. Everyone hates him and hopes he'll fall on his face, even Pug . . . Pugmire. Quillan's sure he will. No, even Cooper and Tillman didn't make it. They were Yankee traders in the first days, Line, opium traders—they were even under Dirk Struan's protection. They're even related, the Struans and the Coopers. Hag Struan married her eldest daughter, Emma, to old Jeff Cooper; Old Hook Nose was his nickname when he was in his dotage. The story is that the marriage was payment for his helping her destroy Tyler Brock. Have you heard about them, Line? The Brocks, Sir Morgan and his father Tyler, and the Hag?"

"Peter Marlowe told us some of the stories."

"If you want to know about the real Hong Kong, you should talk to Auntie Bright Eyes—that's Sarah Chen, Phillip Chen's maiden aunt! She's a great character, Line, and sharp as a needle. She says she's eighty-eight. I think she's older. Her father was Sir Gordon Chen, Dirk Struan's illegitimate son by his mistress Kai-Sung, and her mother was the famous beauty Karen Yuan."

"Who's she?"

"Karen Yuan was Robb Struan's granddaughter. Robb was Dirk's half-brother and he had a mistress called Yau Ming Soo with whom he had a daughter Isobel. Isobel married John Yuan, an illegitimate son of Jeff Cooper. John Yuan became a well-known pirate and opium smuggler, and Isobel died quite notorious as an enormous gambler who had lost two of her husbands' fortunes playing mah-jong. So it was Isobel and John's daughter, Karen, who married Sir Gordon Chen—actually she was his second wife, more like a concubine really, though it was a perfectly legal marriage. Here, even today, if you're Chinese you can legally have as many wives as you like."

"That's convenient!"

"For a man!" Orlanda smiled. "So this tiny branch of the Yuans are Cooper descendents—the T'Chungs and Chens are from Dirk Struan, the Sungs, Tups and Tongs from Aristotle Quance the painter—here in Hong Kong it's the custom for the children to take the name of their mother, usually an insignificant girl who was sold to the pillow by her parents."

"By the parents?"

"Almost always," she told him casually. " 'T'ung t'ien yu ming'

"How come you know so much about the Struans and Coopers and mistresses and so on?"

"This is a small place and we all love secrets but there are no real secrets in Hong Kong. Insiders—true insiders—know almost everything about the others. As I said, our roots go deep here. And don't forget that the Chens, Yuans and Sungs are Eurasian. As I told you, Eurasians marry Eurasians, so we should know who we're from. We're not desired by British or Chinese as wives or husbands, only as mistresses or lovers." She sipped her wine and he was awed by the delicacy of her movements, her grace. "It's custom for Chinese families to have their genealogy written down in the village book, that's the only legality they have—that gives them continuity, they've never had birth certificates." She smiled up at him. "To go back to your question. Both Ian Dunross and Quillan would welcome your money and your inside track into the U.S. market. And with either one you'd make a profit here—if you were content to be a silent partner."

Thoughtfully Bartlett let his eyes stray to the view.

She waited patiently, allowing him his thoughts, staying motionless. I'm very glad Quillan was such a good teacher and such a clever man, she thought. And oh so wise. He was right again.

This morning she had called him in tears on his private line to report what had happened and, "Oh Quillan, I think I've ruined everything. . . ."

"What did you say and what did he say?"

She had told him exactly and he had reassured her. "I don't think you've any need to worry, Orlanda. He'll come back. If not tonight, tomorrow."

"Oh are you sure?" she had said so gratefully.

"Yes. Now dry those tears and listen." Then he had told her what to do and what to wear and above all to be a woman.

Ah how happy I am to be a woman, she thought, and remembered with sadness now the old days when they were happy together, she and Quillan, she nineteen, already his mistress for two years and no longer shy or afraid—of the pillow or him or of herself —how sometimes they would go on his yacht for a midnight cruise, just the two of them and he would lecture her. "You're a woman and Hong Kong yan so if you want to have a good life and pretty things, to be cherished and loved and pillowed and safe in this world be female."

"How, my darling?"

"Think only of my satisfaction and pleasure. Give me passion when I need it, quiet when I need it, privacy when I need it, and happiness and discretion all the time. Cook as a gourmet, know great wine, be discreet always, protect my face always and never nag."

"But Quillan, you make it sound all so one-sided."

"Yes. It is, of course it is. In return I do my part with equal passion. But that's what I want from you, nothing less. You wanted to be my mistress. I put it to you before we began and you agreed."

"I know I did and I love being your mistress but . . . but sometimes I'm worried about the future."

"Ah, my pet, you have nothing to worry about. You know our rules were set in advance. We will renew our arrangement yearly, providing you want to until you're twenty-four, and then, if you choose to leave me I will give you the flat, money enough for reasonable needs and a handsome dowry for a suitable husband. We agreed and your parents approved. . . ."

Yes they did. Orlanda remembered how her mother and father had enthusiastically approved the liaison—had even suggested it to her when she had just come back from school in America when they told her that Quillan had asked if he might approach her, saying that he had fallen in love with her. "He's a good man," her father had said, "and he's promised to provide well for you, if you agree. It's your choice, Orlanda. We think we would recommend it."

"But Father, I won't be eighteen until next month, and besides I want to go back to the States to live. I'm sure I can get a Green Card to remain there."

"Yes, you can go, child," her mother had said, "but you will be poor. We can give you nothing, no help. What job will you get? Who will support you? This way in a little while you can go with an income, with property here to support you."

"But he's so old. He's . . ."

"A man doesn't wear age like a woman," both had told her. "He's strong and respected and he's been good to us for years. He's promised to cherish you and the financial arrangements are generous, however long you stay with him."

"But I don't love him."

"You talk nonsense in eight directions! Without the protection of the lips the teeth grow cold!" her mother had said angrily. "This opportunity you are being offered is like the hair of the phoenix and the heart of the dragon! What do you have to do in return? Just be a woman and honor and obey a good man for a few years—renewable yearly—and even after that there's no end to the years if you choose and are faithful and clever. Who knows? His wife is an invalid and wasting. If you satisfy him and cherish him enough why wouldn't he marry you?"

"Marry a Eurasian? Quillan Gornt?" she had burst out.

"Why not? You're not just Eurasian, you're Portuguese. He has British sons and daughters already, heya? Times are changing, even here in Hong Kong. If you do your best, who knows? Bear him a son, in a year or two, with his permission, and who knows? Gods are gods and if they want they can make thunder from a clear sky. Don't be stupid! Love? What is that word to you?"

Orlanda Ramos was staring down at the city now, not seeing it. How stupid and naive I was then, she thought. Naive and very stupid. But now I know better. Quillan taught me very well.

She glanced up at Line Bartlett, moving just her eyes, not wanting to disturb him.

Yes, I'm trained very well, she told herself. I'm trained to be the bes,t wife any man could ever have, that Bartlett will ever have. No mistakes this time. Oh no, no mistakes. Quillan will guide me. He will help remove Casey. I will be Mrs. Line Bartlett. All gods and all devils bear witness; that is what must happen. . . .

Soon he took his eyes off the city, having thought through what she had said. She was watching him, wearing a little smile that he could not read. "What is it?"

"I was thinking how lucky I was to meet you."

"Do you always compliment a man?"

"No, just the ones who please me—and they're as rare as the hair of the phoenix or the heart of a dragon. Pate?"

"Thanks." He accepted it. "You're not eating?"

"I'm saving for dinner. I have to watch my diet, I'm not like you."

"I work out daily. Tennis when I can, golf. You?"

"I play a little tennis, I'm a good walker but I'm still taking golf lessons." Yes, she thought, I try very hard to be the best at everything I do and I'm the best for you, Line Bartlett, in the whole wide world. Her tennis was very good and golf quite good because Quillan had insisted she be adept at both—because he enjoyed them. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

"You said Chinese food. Is that what you really want?"

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter to me. Whatever you want."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Why, what would you like?"

"Come in a moment."

He followed her. She opened the dining room door. The table was set exquisitely for two. Flowers, and a bottle of Verdicchio on ice. "Line, I haven't cooked for anyone for such a long time," she said in her breathless rush that he found so pleasing. "But I wanted to cook for you. If you'd like it, I have an Italian dinner all set to go. Fresh pasta aglio e olio—garlic and oil—vealpiccata, a green salad, zabaglione, espresso, and brandy. How does that sound? It will only take me twenty minutes and you can read the paper while you wait. Then afterwards we can leave everything for when the amah comes back and go dancing or drive. What do you say?"

"Italian's my favorite food, Orlanda!" he told her enthusiastically. Then a vagrant memory surfaced, and for a moment he wondered whom he had told about Italian being his favorite. Was it Casey—or was it Orlanda this morning?

51

8:32 P.M. :

Brian Kwok jerked out of sleep. One moment he was in a nightmare, the next awake but somehow still in the deep dark pit of sleep, his heart pounding, his mind disordered and no change between sleep and awake. Panic swamped him. Then he realized he was naked and still in the same warm darkness of the cell and remembered who he was and where he was.

They must have drugged me, he thought. His mouth was parched, his head ached, and he lay back on the mattress that was slimy to his touch and tried to collect himself. Vaguely he remembered being in Armstrong's office and before that with Crosse discussing the 16/2 but after that not much, just waking in this darkness, groping for the walls to get his bearings, feeling them close by, biting back the terror of knowing he was betrayed and defenseless in the bowels of Central Police HQ within a box with no windows and a door somewhere. Then, exhaustedly sleeping and waking and angry voices—or did I dream that—and then sleeping again … no, eating first, didn't I eat first… yes, slop they called dinner and cold tea … Come on, think! It's important to think and to remember … Yes, I remember, it was bedraggled stew and cold tea then, later, breakfast. Eggs. Was it eggs first or the stew first and . . . yes the lights came'on for a moment each time I ate, just enough time to eat… no, the lights went off and each time I finished in darkness, I remember finishing in darkness and hating to eat in darkness and then I peed in the pail in darkness, got back onto the mattress and lay down again.

How long have I been here? Must count the days.

Wearily he swung his legs off the cot and stumbled to a wall, his limbs aching to match his head. Got to exercise, he thought, got to help work the drugs out of my system and get my head clear and ready for the interrogation. Must get my mind ready for when they go at me, really begin—when they think I've softened up—then they'll keep me awake until they break me.

No, they won't break me. I'm strong and prepared and I know some of the pitfalls.

Who gave me away?

The effort to solve that was too much for him so he mustered his strength and did a few weak knee bends. Then he heard muffled footsteps approaching. Hastily he groped back for the cot and lay down, pretending sleep, his heart hurting in his chest as he held down his terror.

The footsteps stopped. A sudden bolt clanged back and a trapdoor opened. A shaft of light came into the cell and a half-seen hand put down a metal plate and a metal cup.

"Eat your breakfast and hurry up," the voice said in Cantonese. "You're due for more interrogation shortly."

"Listen, I want…" Brian Kwok called out but the trapdoor had already clanged back and he was alone in the darkness with the echo of his own words.

Keep calm, he ordered himself. Calm yourself and think.

Abruptly the cell flooded with light. The light hurt his eyes. When he had adjusted he saw that the light came from fixtures in the ceiling high above, and he remembered seeing them before. The walls were dark, almost black, and seemed to be pressing inward on him. Don't worry about them, he thought. You've seen the dark cells before and though you've never been part of an in-depth interrogation you know the principles and some of the tricks.

A surge of nausea came into his mouth at the thought of the ordeal ahead.

The door was hardly discernible and the trapdoor equally hidden. He could feel eyes though he could see no spyholes. On the plate were two fried eggs and a thick piece of rough bread. The bread was a little toasted. The eggs were cold and greasy and unappetizing. In the cup was cold tea. There were no utensils.

He drank the tea thirstily, trying to make it last, but it was finished before he knew it and the small amount had not quenched his thirst. Dew neh loh moh what I wouldn't give for a toothbrush and a bottle of beer an—

The lights went out as suddenly as they had come on. It took him much time to adjust again to the darkness. Be calm, it's just darkness and light, light and darkness. It's just to confuse and disorient. Be calm. Take each day as it conies, each interrogation as it comes. His terror returned. He knew he was not really prepared, not experienced enough, though he had had some survival training against capture, what to do if the enemy captured you, the PRC Communist enemy. But the PRC's not the enemy. The real enemy are the British and Canadians who've pretended to be friend and teacher, they're the real enemy.

Don't think about that, don't try to convince yourself, just try to convince them.

I have to hold fast. Have to pretend it's a mistake for as long as I can and then, then I tell the story I've woven over the years and confuse them. That's duty. His thirst was overpowering. And his hunger. Brian Kwok wanted to hurl the empty cup against the wall and the plate against the wall and shout and call for help but that would be a mistake. He knew he must have great control and keep every particle of strength he could muster to fight back.

Use your head. Use your training. Put theory into practice. Think about the survival course last year in England. Now what do I do? He remembered that part of the survival theory was that you must eat and drink and sleep whenever you can for you never know when they will cut off food and drink and sleep from you. And to use your eyes and nose and touch and intelligence to keep track of time in the dark and remember that your captors will always make a mistake sometime, and if you can catch the mistake you can relate to time, and if you can relate to time then you can keep in balance and then you can twist them and not divulge that which must not be divulged—exact names and real contacts. Pit your mind against them was the rule. Keep active, force yourself to observe.

Have they made any mistakes? Have these devil barbarian British slipped yet? Only once, he thought excitedly. The eggs! The stupid British and their eggs for breakfast!

Feeling better now and wide awake, he eased off the cot and groped his way to the metal plate and put the cup down gently beside it. The eggs were cold and the grease congealed but he chewed them and finished the bread and felt a little better for the food. Eating with his fingers in darkness was strange and uncomfortable especially with nothing to wipe his fingers on except his own nakedness.

A shudder went through him. He felt abandoned and unclean. His bladder was uncomfortable and he felt his way to the pail that was attached to the wall. The pail stank.

With an index finger he deftly measured the level in the pail. It was partially full. He emptied himself into it and measured the new level. His mind calculated the difference. If they haven't added to it to confuse me, I've peed three or four times. Twice a day? Or four times a day?

He rubbed his soiled finger against his chest and that made him feel dirtier but it was important to use everything and anything to keep balanced and time related. He lay down again. Out of touch with light or dark or day or night was nauseating. A wave of sickness came from his stomach but he dominated it and forced himself to remember the Brian Kwok who they, the enemy, thought was Brian Kar-shun Kwok and not the other man, the almost forgotten man whose parentage was Wu, his generation name Pah and his adult name Chu-toy.

He remembered Ning-tok and his father and mother and being sent to school to Hong Kong on his sixth birthday, wanting to learn and to grow up to become a patriot like his parents and the uncle he had seen flogged to death in his village square for being a patriot. He had learned from his Hong Kong relations that patriot and Communist were the same and not enemies of the State. That the Kuomintang overlords were just as evil as the foreign devils who had forced the unequal treaties on China, and the only true patriot was he who followed the teachings of Mao Tse-tung. Being sworn into the first of many secret Brotherhoods, working to be the best for the cause of China and Mao which was the cause of China, learning from secret teachers, knowing he was part of the new great wave of revolution that would take back control of China from foreign devils and their lackeys, and sweep them into the sea forever.

Winning that scholarship! At twelve!

Oh how proud his secret teachers had been. Then going to barbarian lands, now perfect in their language and safe against their evil thoughts and ways, going to London, the capital of the greatest empire the world has ever seen, knowing it was going to be humbled and laid waste someday, but then in 1937, still in its last flowering.

Two years there. Hating the English school and the English boys . . . Chinkee Chinkee Chinaman sitting on his tail . . . but hiding it and hiding his tears, his new Brotherhood teachers helping him, guiding him, putting questions and answers into context, showing him the wonder of dialectic, of being part of the true real unquestioned revolution. Never questioning, never a need to question.

Then the German war and being evacuated with all the other school boys and girls to safety in Canada, all that wonderful time in Vancouver, British Columbia, on the Pacific shore, all that immensity, mountains and sea and a thriving Chinatown with good Ning-tok cooking—and a new branch of the world Brotherhood and more teachers, always someone wise to talk to, always someone ready to explain and advise … not accepted by his schoolmates but still beating them scholastically, in the gym with gloves and at their sports, being a prefect, playing cricket well and tennis well—part of his training. "Excel, Chu-toy, my son, excel and be patient for the glory of the Party, for the glory of Mao Tse-tung who is China," the last words his father had said to him, secret words engraved since he was six—and repeated on his deathbed.

Joining the Royal Canadian Mounted Police had been part of the plan. It was easy to excel in the RCMP, assigned to Chinatown and the wharves and the byways, speaking English and Mandarin and Cantonese—his Ning-tok dialect buried deep—easy to become a fine policeman in that sprawling beautiful city port. Soon he became unique, Vancouver's Chinese expert, trusted, excelling and implacably against the crimes that the triad gangsters of Chinatown fed off —opium, morphine, heroin, prostitution and the ever-constant illegal gambling.

His work had been commended by his superiors and by Brotherhood leaders alike—they equally against gang rule and drug traffic and crime, assisting him to arrest and uncover, their only secret interest the inner workings of the RCMP, how the RCMP hire and fire and promote and collate and investigate and watch, and who controls what, where and how. Sent from Vancouver to Ottawa for six months, loaned by a grateful chief of police to assist in an undercover investigation of a Chinese drug ring there, making new important Canadian contacts and Brotherhood contacts, learning more and more and breaking the ring and getting promotion. Easy to control crime and get promotion if you work and if you have secret friends by the hundreds, with secret eyes everywhere.

Then the war ending and applying for a transfer for the Hong Kong Police—the final part of the plan.

But not wanting to go, not wanting to leave, loving Canada, and loving her. Jeannette. Jeannette deBois. She was nineteen, French-Canadian from Montreal, speaking French and English, her parents French-Canadians of many generations and them liking him and not disapproving, not against him because he was the Chinois, as they jokingly called him. He was twenty-one then, already known as commandant material with a great career ahead of him, marriage ahead, a year or so ahead . . .

Brian Kwok shifted on the mattress in misery. His skin felt clammy and the dark was pressing down. He closed his leaden eyelids and let his mind roam back to her and that time, that bad time in his life. He remembered how he had argued with the Brotherhood, the leader, saying he could serve better in Canada than in Hong Kong where he would be only one of many. Here in Canada he was unique. In a few years he would be in Vancouver's police hierarchy.

But all his arguments had failed. Sadly he knew that they were right. He knew that if he had stayed, eventually he would have gone over to the other side, would have broken with the Party. There were too many unanswered questions now, thanks to reading RMCQ reports on the Soviets, the KGB, the gulags, too many friends, Canadian and Nationalist, now. Hong Kong and China were remote, his past remote. Jeannette was here, loving her and their life, his souped-up car and prestige among his peers, seeing them as equals, no longer barbarians.

The leader had reminded him of his past, that barbarians are only barbarians, that he was needed in Hong Kong where the battle was just beginning, where Mao was still not yet Chairman Mao, not yet victorious, still embattled with Chiang Kai-shek.

Bitterly he had obeyed, hating being forced, knowing he was in their power and obeying because of their power. But then the heady four years till 1949, and Mao's incredible, unbelievable total victory. Then burrowing deep again, using his brilliant skills to fight the crime that was anathema to him and a disgrace to Hong Kong and a blot on the face of China.

Life was very good again now. He was picked for high promotion, the British bound to him, respecting him because he was from a fine

English public school with a fine upper-class English accent and an English sportsman like the elite of the Empire before him.

And now it's 1963 and I'm thirty-nine and tomorrow … no, not tomorrow, on Sunday, on Sunday it's the hill climb and on Saturday there are the races and Noble Star—will it be Noble Star or Gornt's Pilot Fish or Richard Kwok's, no Richard Kwang's Butterscotch Lass or John Chen's outsider, Golden Lady? I think I'd put my money on Golden Lady—every penny I have, yes, all my life's savings and I'm also gambling the Porsche as well even though that's stupid but I have to. I have to because Crosse said so and Robert agrees and they both said I've got to put up my life as well but Jesus Christ now Golden Lady's limping in the paddock but the gamble's settled and now they're off and running, come on Golden Lady, come on for the love of Mao, don't mind the storm clouds and the lightning come on, all my savings and my life's riding on your rotten lousy god-cursed oh Jesus Chairman don't fail me. . . .

He was deep in dreams now, bad dreams, drug-assisted dreams, and Happy Valley was the Valley of Death. His eyes did not feel the lights come up gently nor the door swing open.

It was time to begin again.

Armstrong looked down at his friend, pitying him. The lights were carefully dimmed. Beside him was Senior Agent Malcolm Sun, an SI guard and the SI doctor. Dr. Dorn was a small, dapper, slightly bald specialist with an animated, birdlike intensity. He took Brian Kwok's pulse and measured his blood pressure and listened to his heartbeat.

"The client's in fine shape, Superintendent, physically," he said with a faint smile. "His blood pressure and heart beat're nicely up but that's to be expected." He noted his readings on the chart, handed it to Armstrong, who glanced at his watch, wrote down the time and signed the chart also.

"You can carry on," he said.

The doctor filled the syringe carefully. With great care he gave Brian Kwok the injection in the rump with a new needle. There was almost no mark, just a tiny spot of blood that he wiped away. "Dinner time whenever you want," he said with a smile.

Armstrong just nodded. The SI guard had added a measure of urine to the pail and that was noted on the chart as well. "Very smart of him to measure the level, didn't think he'd do that,"

Malcolm Sun commented. Infrared rays made it easy to monitor a client's most tiny movement from spyholes set into the ceiling lights. "Dew neh loh moh, who'd've imagined he'd be the mole? Smart, he always was so fornicating smart."

"Let's hope the poor bugger's not too fornicating smart," Armstrong told him sourly. "The sooner he talks the better. The Old Man won't give up on him."

The others looked at him. The young SI guard shivered.

Dr. Dorn broke the uneasy silence. "Should we still maintain the two-hour cycle, sir?"

Armstrong glanced at his friend. The first drug in the beer had been about 1:30 this afternoon. Since then, Brian Kwok had been on a Classification Two—a chemical sleep-wake-sleep-wake schedule. Every two hours. Wake up injections just before 4:30 P.M., 6:30, 8:30, and this would continue until 6:30 A.M. when the first serious interrogation would begin. Within ten minutes of each injection the client would be artificially pulled out of sleep, his thirst and his hunger increased by the drugs. Food would be wolfed and the cold tea gulped and the drugs therein would quickly take effect. Deep sleep, very deep very quick assisted by another injection. Darkness and harsh light alternated, metallic voices and silence alternated. Then wake-up. Breakfast. And two hours later, dinner, and two hours later breakfast. To an increasingly disoriented mind twelve hours would become six days—more if the client could stand it, twelve days, every hour on the hour. No need for physical torture, just darkness and disorientation, enough to discover that which you wish to discover from the enemy client, or to make your enemy client sign what you want him to sign, soon believing your truth to be his truth.

Anyone.

Anyone after a week of sleep-wake-sleep followed by two or three days of no sleep.

Anyone.

Oh Christ almighty, Armstrong thought, you poor bloody bastard, you'll try to hold out and it won't do you a bit of good. None.

But then most of Armstrong's mind shouted back, but he's not your friend but an enemy agent, just a "client" and enemy who has betrayed you and everything and everyone for years. It was probably him who shopped Fong-fong and his lads who're now in some lousy stinking cell having the same but without doctors and monitoring and care. Still, can you be proud of this type of treatment-can any civilized person?

No. Is it necessary to stuff lousy chemicals into a helpless body?

No . . . yes, yes it is, yes it is sometimes, and killing's necessary sometimes, mad dogs, people—oh yes some people are evil and mad dogs are evil. Yes. You've got to use these modern psychic techniques, developed by Pavlov and other Soviets, developed by Communists under a KGB regime. Ah but do you have to follow them?

Christ I don't know but I do know the KGB're trying to destroy us all and bring us all down to their level an—

Armstrong's eyes focused and he saw them all staring at him. "What?"

"Shall we maintain the two-hour cycle, sir?" the doctor repeated, disquieted.

"Yes. Yes, and at 6:30 we'll begin the first interview."

"Are you doing that yourself?"

"It's on the orders, for chrissake," Armstrong snarled. "Can't you bloody read?"

"Oh sorry," the doctor replied at once. They all knew of Armstrong's friendship for the client and of Crosse's ordering him to do the interrogation. "Would you like a sedative, old chap?" Dr. Dorn asked solicitously.

Armstrong cursed him obscenely and left, angry that he had allowed the doctor to needle him into losing his temper. He went to the top floor, to the officers' mess.

"Barman!"

"Coming up, sir!"

His usual tankard of beer came quickly but tonight the smooth dark liquid he loved, malt heavy and bitter, did not quench his thirst or cleanse his mouth. A thousand times he had worried what he would do if he was caught by them and put naked into such a cell, knowing most techniques and practices and being on guard. Better than poor bloody Brian, he thought grimly. Poor bugger knows so little. Yes, but does more knowledge help when you're the client?

His skin felt clammy with fear-sweat as he thought of what was ahead of Brian Kwok.

"Barman!"

"Yes sir, coming up!"

"Evening Robert, can I join you?" Chief Inspector Donald C. C. Smyth asked.

"Oh, hello. Yes … sit down," he told the younger man unenthusiastically.

Smyth sat on the bar stool beside him and eased his arm that was in a sling more comfortably. "How's it going?"

"Routine." Armstrong saw Smyth nod and he thought how apt his nickname was. The Snake. Smyth was good-looking, smooth, sinuous like a snake with the same deadly quality of danger there, and the same habit of licking his lips from time to time with the tip of his tongue.

"Christ! It's still impossible to believe it's Brian." Smyth was one of the few in the know about Brian. "Shocking."

"Yes."

"Robert, I've been ordered by the DCID"—Director of Criminal Investigation, Armstrong's ultimate boss—"to take over the Werewolf case from you while you're occupied. And any others you might want me to cover."

"Everything's in the files. Sergeant Major Tang-po's my Number Two . . . he's a good detective, very good in fact." Armstrong quaffed some beer and added cynically, "He's well connected."

Smyth smiled with his mouth. "Good, that's a help."

"Just don't organize my bloody district."

"Perish the thought, old chum. East Aberdeen takes all of my skill. Now, what about the Werewolves? Continue surveillance on Phillip Chen?"

"Yes. And his wife."

"Interesting that before Dianne married that old miser she was Mai-wei T'Chung, eh? Interesting too that one of her cousins was Hummingbird Sung."

Armstrong stared at him. "You've been doing your homework."

"All part of the service!" Smyth added grimly, "I'd like to get those Werewolves right smartly. We've already had three panic calls in East Aberdeen from people who have had phone calls from the Werewolves demanding h'eungyau, 'velly quicklee' or else a kidnapping. I hear it's the same all over the Colony. If three frightened citizens called us, you can bet three hundred haven't had the courage." Smyth sipped his whiskey and soda. "That's not good for business, not good at all. There's only so much fat on the cow. If we don't get the Werewolves quickly the buggers'll have their own mint—a few quick phone calls and money'll be in the mail, the poor bloody victims happy to pay off to escape their attention—and every other bloody villain here with a sense of larceny will have a field day too."

"I agree." Armstrong finished his beer. "You want another?"

"Let me. Barman!"

Armstrong watched his beer being drawn. "You think there's a connection between John Chen and Hummingbird Sung?" He remembered Sung, the wealthy shipping magnate with the oral reputation, kidnapped six years ago, and smiled wryly. "Christ, I haven't thought about him in years."

"Nor me. The cases don't parallel and we put his kidnappers into pokey for twenty years and they'll rot there but you never know. Perhaps there's a connection." Smyth shrugged. "Dianne Chen must have hated John Chen and I'm sure he hated her back, everyone knows that. Same with old Hummingbird." He laughed. "Hummingbird's other nickname, in the trade so to speak, is Nosy-nosy."

Armstrong grunted. He rubbed the tiredness out of his eyes. "Might be worth going to see John's wife, Barbara. I was going to do that tomorrow but . . . well, it might be worthwhile."

"I've already got an appointment. And I'm going out to Sha Tin first thing. Maybe those local buggers missed something in the rain."

"Good idea." Uneasily Armstrong watched the Snake sipping his whiskey. "What's on your mind?" he asked, knowing there was something.

Smyth looked up at him directly. "There're a lot of things I don't understand about this kidnapping. For instance, why was such a huge reward offered by the High Dragons for John's recapture, curiously, dead or alive?"

"Ask them."

"I have. At least, I asked someone who knows one of them." The Snake shrugged. "Nothing. Nothing at all." He hesitated. "We'll have to go back into John's past."

Armstrong felt a shaft of cold that he kept buried. "Good idea."

"Did you know Mary knew him? In the POW camp at Stanley?"

"Yes." Armstrong drank some beer without tasting it.

"She might give us a lead—if John was, say, connected with black market in the camp." His pale blue eyes held Armstrong's pale blue eyes. "Might be worth asking."

"I'll think about that. Yes, I'll think about that." The big man bore the Snake no malice. If he had been the Snake he would have asked too. The Werewolves were very bad news and the first wave of terror had already rushed through Chinese society. How many more people know about Mary and John Chen? he asked himself. Or about the 40,000 that's still burning a hole in my desk, still burning a hole in my soul. "It was a long time ago."

"Yes."

Armstrong lifted his beer. "You've got your 'friends' helping you?"

"Let's just say very substantial rewards and payments are being made—paid gratefully, I hasten to add, by our gambling fraternity." The sardonic smile left Smyth's face. And the banter. "We've got to get those sodding Werewolves very fast or they'll really upset our applecart."

52

9:15 P.M. :

Four Finger Wu was on the tall poop of the motorized junk that was wallowing in the chop at the rendezvous well out to sea, all lights doused. "Listen, Werewolf turd," he hissed irritably at Smallpox Kin who lay quivering on the deck at his feet, mindless with pain, trussed with rope and heavy chain. "I want to know who else is in your fornicating gang and where you got the coin from, the half-coin." There was no answer. "Wake the fornicator up!"

Obligingly Goodweather Poon poured another bucket of seawa-ter over the prostrate youth. When this had no effect, he leaned down with his knife. At once Smallpox Kin screamed and came out of his stupor. "What, what is it, Lord?" he shrieked. "No more . . . what is it, what do you want?"

Four Finger Wu repeated what he had said. The youth shrieked again as Goodweather Poon probed. "I've told you everything . . . everything …" Desperately, never believing that there could be so much pain in the universe, beyond caring, he babbled again who were the members of the gang, all their real names and addresses, even about the old amah in Aberdeen. "… my father gave me the coin … I don't know where… he gave it to me never saying wh … he got it I swearrrrrr-" His voice trailed away. Once more he fainted.

Four Fingers spat disgustedly. "The youth of today have no fortitude!"

The night was dark and an ill-tempered wind gusted from time to time under a lowering overcast, the powerful and well-tuned engine purring nicely, making just enough way to lessen the junk's inevitable corkscrewing—the rolling pitch and toss. They were a few miles southwest of Hong Kong, just out of the sea-lanes, PRC waters and the vast mouth of the Pearl River just to port, open sea to starboard. All sails were furled.

He lit a cigarette and coughed. "All gods curse all fornicating triad turds!"

"Shall I wake him again?" Goodweather Poon asked.

"No. No, the fornicator's told the truth as much as he knows." Wu's calloused fingers reached up and nervously touched the half-coin that he wore now around his neck under his ragged sweat shirt, making sure it was still there. A knot of anxiety welled at the thought that the coin might be genuine, might be Phillip Chen's missing treasure. "You did very well, Goodweather Poon. Tonight you'll get a bonus." His eyes went to the southeast, seeking the signal. It was overdue but he was not yet worried. Automatically his nose sniffed the wind and his tongue tasted it, tangy and heavy with salt. His eyes ranged the sky and the sea and the horizon. "More rain soon," he muttered.

Poon lit another cigarette from his butt and ground the butt into the deck with his horny bare foot. "Will it ruin the races on Saturday?"

The old man shrugged. "If the gods will it. I think it will be piss heavy again tomorrow. Unless the wind veers. Unless the wind veers we could have the Devil Winds, the Supreme Winds, and those fornicators could scatter us to the Four Seas. Piss on the Supreme Winds!"

"I'll piss on them if there are no races. My nose tells me it's Banker Kwang's horse."

"Huh! That stinky, mealy-mouth nephew of mine certainly needs a change of joss! The fool's lost his bank!"

Poon hawked and spat for luck. "Thank all gods for Profitable Choy!"

Since Four Fingers and his captains and his people had all successfully extracted all their monies from the Ho-Pak, thanks to information from Paul Choy—and since he himself was still enjoying vast profits from his son's illicit manipulation of Struan stock, Wu had dubbed him Profitable Choy. Because of the profit, he had forgiven his son the transgression. But only in his heart. Being prudent, the old man had showed none of it outwardly except to his friend and confidant, Goodweather Poon.

"Bring him on deck."

"What about this Werewolf fornicator?" Poon's horny toe stabbed Kin. "Young Profitable didn't like him or this matter at all, heya?"

"Time he grew up, time he knew how to treat enemies, time he knew real values, not ill-omened, stink-wind, fatuous Golden Mountain values." The old man spat on the deck. "He's forgotten who he is and where his interests lie."

"You said yourself you don't send a rabbit against a dragon. Or a minnow against a shark. You've your investment to consider and don't forget Profitable Choy's returned everything he cost you over fifteen years twenty times over. In the money market he's a High Dragon and only twenty-six. Leave him where he's best, best for you and best for him. Heya?"

"Tonight he's best here."

The old seaman scratched his ear. "I don't know about that, Four Fingers. That the gods will decide. Me, I'd have left him ashore." Now Goodweather Poon was watching the southeast. His peripheral vision had caught something. "You see it?"

After a moment Four Fingers shook his head. "There's plenty of time, plenty of time."

"Yes." The old seaman glanced back at the body trussed with chains like a plucked chicken. His face split into a grin. "Eeeee, but when Profitable Choy turned white like a jellyfish at this fornicator's first scream and first blood, I had to break wind to release my laughter to save his face!"

"The young today have no fortitude," Wu repeated, then lit a new cigarette and nodded. "But you're right. After tonight Profitable's going to be left where he belongs to become even more profitable." He glanced down at Smallpox Kin. "Is he dead?"

"Not yet. What a dirty motherless whore to hit Number One Son Noble House Chen with a shovel and then lie about it to us, heya? And to cut off Chen's ear and blame his father and brothers and lie about that too! And then taking the ransom even though they couldn't deliver the goods! Terrible!"

"Disgusting!" The old man guffawed. "Even more terrible to get caught. But then you showed the fornicator the error of his rotten ways, Goodweather Poon."

They both laughed, happy together.

"Shall I cut off his other ear, Four Fingers?"

"Not yet. Soon, yes, very soon."

Again Poon scratched his head. "One thing I don't understand.

I don't understand why you told me to put their sign on Number One Son and leave him as they planned to leave him." He frowned at Four Fingers. "When this fornicator's dead that's all the Werewolves dead, heya? So what good is the sign?"

Four Fingers cackled. "All comes clear to he who waits. Patience," he said, very pleased with himself. The sign implied the Werewolves were very much alive. If only he and Poon knew that they were all dead, he could at any time resurrect them, or the threat of them. At his whim. Yes, he thought happily, kill one to terrify ten thousand! The "Werewolves" can easily become a continuous source of extra revenue at very little cost. A few phone calls, a judicious kidnapping or two, perhaps another ear. "Patience, Good-weather Poon. Soon you'll un—" He stopped. Both men had centered their eyes on the same spot in the darkness. A small, dimly lit freighter was just nosing into sight. In a moment two lights flashed at her masthead. At once Wu went to the conn and flashed an answering signal. The freighter flashed the confirm. "Good," Wu said happily, flashing his reconfirm. The deck crew had also seen the lights. One hurried below to fetch the rest of the seamen and the others went to their action stations. Wu's eyes fell on Smallpox Kin. "First him," he said malevolently. "Fetch my son here."

Weakly Paul Choy groped his way on deck. He gulped the fresh air gratefully, the stench from below decks overpowering. He climbed the gangway to the poop. When he saw the red mess on the deck and the partial person on the deck, his stomach revolted and once more he threw up over the side.

Four Finger Wu said, "Give Goodweather Poon a hand."

"What?"

"Are your ears filled with vomit?" the old man shouted. "Give him a hand."

Frightened, Paul Choy reeled over to the old seaman, the helmsman watching interestedly. "What do you … you want me to do?"

"Take his legs!"

Paul Choy tried to dominate his nausea. He closed his eyes. His nostrils were filled with the smell of vomit and blood. He reached down, took the legs and part of the heavy chain and staggered, half falling, to the side. Goodweather Poon was carrying most of the weight and he could easily have carried it all and Paul Choy too if need be. Effortlessly he balanced Smallpox Kin on the gunnel.

"Hold him there!" By prearrangement with Four Fingers, the old seaman backed away, leaving Paul Choy on his own, the unconscious, mutilated face and body slumped precariously against him.

"Put him overboard!" Wu ordered.

"But Father . . . please . .. he's . . . he's not de .. . not dead yet. PI—"

"Put him over the side!"

Beside himself with fear and loathing, Paul Choy tried to pull the body back aboard but the wind squalled and heeled the junk and the last of the Werewolves toppled into the sea and sank without a trace. Helplessly Paul Choy stared at the waves slopping against the teak. He saw that there was blood on his shirt and on his hands. Another wave of nausea racked him, tormenting him.

"Here!" Gruffly Wu handed his son a flask. It contained whiskey, good whiskey. Paul Choy choked a little but his stomach held the whiskey. Wu turned back to the conn, waved the helmsman toward the freighter, the throttle opened to full ahead. Paul Choy almost fell but managed to grab the gunnel and stay on his feet, unprepared for the suddenness of the deep-throated roar and burst of speed. When he had his sea legs he looked at his father. Now the old man was near the tiller, Goodweather Poon nearby, and both were peering into the darkness. He could see the small ship and his stomach reeled, and he hated his father afresh, hated being on board and being involved in what obviously was smuggling—on top of the horror of the Werewolf.

Whatever that poor son of a bitch did, he thought, enraged, it doesn't merit taking the law into your own hands. He should've been handed over to the police to be hanged or imprisoned or whatever.

Wu felt the eyes on him and he glanced back. His face did not change. "Come here," he ordered, his thumbless hand stabbing the gunnel in front of him. "Stand here."

Numbly Paul Choy obeyed. He was much taller than his father and Goodweather Poon but he was a piece of chaff against either of them.

The junk sped through the darkness on an intercept course, the sea black and the night black with just a little moonlight sifting through the overcast. Soon they were just aft of the vessel and a little to starboard, closing fast. She was small, slow and quite old and she dipped uneasily in the gathering swell. "She's a coastal freighter," Goodweather Poon volunteered, "a Thai trawler we call them.

There's dozens of the fornicators in all Asian waters. They're the lice of the seas, Profitable Choy, crewed by scum, captained by scum, and they leak like lobster pots. Most ply the Bangkok, Singapore, Manila, Hong Kong route, and wherever else they've a cargo for. This one's out of Bangkok." He hawked and spat, revolting the young man again. "I wouldn't want to voyage on one of those stinking whores. Th—"

He stopped. There was another brief flashing signal. Wu answered it. Then all on deck saw the splash on her starboard side as something heavy went overboard. At once Four Fingers rang up "all engines stop." The sudden quiet was deafening. Bow lookouts peered into the darkness, the junk wallowing and swerving as she slowed.

Then one of the bow lookouts signaled with a flag. At once Wu gave a little engine and made the correction. Another silent signal and another change of direction and then a sharper, more excited movement of the flag.

Immediately Wu reversed engines. The props bit the sea heavily. Then he killed the thrust, the junk swerving closer to the line of bobbing buoys. The gnarled old man seemed to be part of the ship as Paul Choy watched him with his eyes fixed into the sea ahead. Nimbly Wu maneuvered the ponderous junk into the course of the buoys. In a few moments a seaman with a long, hooked boarding pole leaned out from the main deck and hooked the line. The rough cork buoys were brought aboard deftly, other seamen helping, and the line attached securely to a stanchion. With practiced skill the chief deckhand cut away the buoys and cast them overboard while more seamen made sure that the bales attached to the other end of the line below the surface were safe and secure. Paul Choy could see the bales clearly now. There were two of them, perhaps six foot by three foot by three foot, roped together heavily underwater, their sinking weight keeping the thick line taut. As soon as all was tight and safe, the cargo secure alongside though still five or six feet beneath the surface of the sea, the chief deckhand signaled. At once Four Fingers brought the junk to cruising speed and they sped away on a different tack.

The whole operation had been done in silence, effortlessly and in seconds. In moments the weak riding lights of the Thai trawler had vanished into the darkness and they were alone on the sea once more.

Wu and Goodweather Poon lit cigarettes. "Very good," Good-weather Poon said. Four Fingers did not reply, his ears listening to the pleasing note of the engines. No trouble there, he thought. His senses tested the wind. No trouble there. His eyes ranged the darkness. Nothing there either, he told himself. Then why are you uneasy? Is it Seventh Son?

He glanced at Paul Choy who was at the port side, his back toward him. No. No danger there either.

Paul Choy was watching the bales. They kicked up a small wake. His curiosity peaked and he was feeling a little better, the whiskey warming and the salt smelling good now, that and the excitement of the rendezvous and being away and safe. "Why don't you bring them aboard, Father? You could lose them."

Wu motioned Poon to answer.

"Better to leave the harvest of the sea to the sea, Profitable Choy, until it's quite safe to bring it ashore. Heya?"

"My name's Paul, not Profitable." The young man looked back at his father and shivered. "There was no need to murder that fornicator!"

"The captain didn't," Goodweather Poon said with a grin, answering for the old man. "You did, Profitable Choy. You did, you threw him overboard. I saw it clearly. I was within half a pace of you."

"Lies! I tried to pull him back! And anyway he ordered me to. He threatened me."

The old seaman shrugged. "Tell that to a fine, foreign devil judge, Profitable Choy, and that won't be fornicating profitable at all!"

"My name's not Pro—"

"The Captain of the Fleets has called you Profitable so by all the gods Profitable you are forever. Heya?" he added, grinning at Four Fingers.

The old man said nothing, just smiled and showed his few broken teeth and that made his grimace even more frightening. His bald head and weathered face nodded his agreement. Then he put his eyes on his son. Paul Choy shivered in spite of his resolve.

"Your secret's safe with me, my son. Never fear. No one aboard this boat saw anything. Did they, Goodweather Poon?"

"No, nothing. By all gods great and small! No one saw anything!"

Paul Choy stared back sullenly. "You can't wrap paper in fire!"

Goodweather Poon guffawed. "On this boat you can!"

"Yes," Wu said, his voice a rasp. "On this boat you can keep a secret forever." He lit another cigarette, hawked and spat. "Don't you want to know what's in those bales?"

"No."

"It's opium. Delivered on shore this night's work will bring a 200,000 profit, just to me, with plenty in bonuses for my crew."

"That profit's not worth the risk, not to me. I made you th—" Paul Choy stopped.

Four Finger Wu looked at him. He spat on the deck and passed the conn to Goodweather Poon and went to the great cushioned seats aft that ringed the poop. "Come here, Profitable Choy," he commanded.

Frightened, Paul Choy sat at the point indicated. Now they were more alone.

"Profit is profit," Wu said, very angry. "10,000 is your profit. That's enough to buy an air ticket to Honolulu and back to Hong Kong and have ten days of holiday together." He saw the momentary flash of joy wash across his son's face and he smiled inside.

"I'll never come back," Paul Choy said bravely. "Never."

"Oh yes you will. You will now. You've fished in fornicating dangerous waters."

"I'll never come back. I've a U.S. passport and a—"

"And a Jap whore, heya?"

Paul Choy stared at his father, aghast that his father knew, then rage possessed him and he sprang up and bunched his fists. "She's not a whore by all gods! She's great, she's a lady and her folks're th—"

"Quiet!" Wu bit back the expletive carefully. "Very well, she's not a whore, even though to me all women are whores. She's not a whore but an empress. But she's still a fornicating devil from the Eastern Sea, one of those who raped China."

"She's American, she's American like me," Paul Choy flared, his fists clenched tighter, ready to spring. The helmsman and Good-weather Poon readied to interfere without seeming to. A knife slid into Poon's fist. "I'm American, she's American nisei and her father was with the 442 in Italy an—"

"You're Haklo, you're one of the Seaborne Wu, the ship people, and you'll obey me! You will, Profitable Choy, oh yes you will obey! Heya?"

Paul Choy stood in front of him shaking with equal fury, trying to keep up his courage, for, in rage, the old man was formidable and he could feel Goodweather Poon and the other men behind his back. "Don't call her names! Don't!"

"You dare bunch your fists at me? Me who's given you life, given you everything? Every chance, even the chance of meeting this . . . this Eastern Sea Empress? Heya?"

Paul Choy felt himself spun around as though by a great wind. Goodweather Poon was peering up at him. 'This is the Captain of the Fleets. You will respect him!" The seaman's iron hand shoved him back to the seats. "The captain said sit. Sit I"

After a moment, Paul Choy said sullenly, "How did you know about her?"

Exasperated, the old man sputtered, "All gods bear witness to this country person I sired, this monkey with the brains and manners of a country person. Do you think I didn't have you watched? Guarded? Do I send a mole among snakes or a civilized whelp among foreign devils unprotected? You're the son of Wu Sang Fang, Head of the Seaborne Wu, and I protect my own against all enemies. You think we don't have enemies enough who would slit your Secret Sack and send me the contents just to spite me? Heya?"

"I don't know."

"Well know it very well now, my son!" Four Finger Wu was aware this was a clash to the death and he had to be wise as a father must be when his son finally calls him. He was not afraid. He had done this with many sons and only lost one. But he was grateful to the tai-pan who had given him the information about the girl and about her parentage. That's the key, he thought, the key to this impudent child from a Third Wife whose Golden Gulley was as sweet and as tender as fresh bonefish as long as she lived. Perhaps I'll let him bring the whore here. The poor fool needs a whore whatever he calls her. Lady? Ha! I've heard the Eastern Sea Devils have no pubics! Disgusting! Next month he can bring the strumpet here. If her parents let her come alone that proves she's a whore. If they don't, then that's the end of her. Meanwhile I'll find him a wife. Yes. Who? One of Tightfist's granddaughters? Or Lando Mata's or … Ah, wasn't that half-caste's youngest brat trained in the Golden Mountain too, at a school for girls, a famous school for girls? What's the difference to this fool, pure blood or not?

I have many sons, he thought, feeling nothing for him. I gave them life. Their duty is to me and when I'm dead, to the clan. f Perhaps a good broad-hipped, hard-footed Haklo boat-girl'd be the right one for him, he thought grimly. Yes, but eeeee, there's no need to cut your Stalk to spite a weakness in your bladder, however rude and ill-mannered the fornicating dumblehead is! "In a month Black Beard will grant you a holiday," he said with finality. "I will see to it. With your 10,000 profit you can take a passage on a flying machine . . . No! Better to bring her here," he added as though it were a fresh thought. "You will bring her here. You should see Manila and Singapore and Bangkok and visit our captains there. Yes, bring her here in a month, your 10,000 will pay for the ticket and pay for everyth—"

"No. I won't. I won't do it. And I don't want drug money! I'll never take drug money and I counsel you to get out of the drug trade immed—"

The whole junk was suddenly floodlit. Everyone was momentarily blinded. The searchlight was to starboard.

"Haul to!" came the order in English over the loud-hailer, then repeated in Haklo, then in Cantonese.

Wu and Goodweather Poon were the first to react and in a split second they were in motion. Wu swung the tiller hard to port away from the Marine Police patrol boat and gunned both the engines to full ahead. Poon had leapt down the gangway to the main deck and now he sliced the cargo line and the wake of bales vanished as the bales sank into the deep.

"Haul to for boarding!" The metallic words ripped through Paul Choy who stood paralyzed with fright. He watched his father reach into a nearby sea locker and bring out some crumpled PRC peaked soldiers' hats and shove one on. "Quick," he ordered, throwing one to him. Petrified, he obeyed and crammed it onto his head. Miraculously all the crew were now wearing the same kind of hat and a few were struggling into equally drab and crumpled army tunics.

His heart stopped. Others were reaching into sea lockers and bringing out PRC army rifles and submachine guns as still others went to the side nearest the police boat and began shouting obscenities. The boat was sleek and battle gray with a deck gun, two searchlights now and her riding lights on. She lay a hundred yards to starboard, her engines growling, keeping pace with them easily. They could see the neat, white-clad sailors and, on the bridge, the peaked British officers' caps.

Four Fingers had a loud-hailer horn now and he went to the side, his hat pulled well down, and he roared, "Go fornicate yourselves, barbarians! Look at our colors!" His hand stabbed toward his masthead. The PRC marine flag fluttered there. Aft on the stern was a fake Canton PRC registration number. "Leave a peaceful patrol alone . . . you're in our waters!"

Poon's face was split into a malevolent grin. A PRC automatic pistol was in his hands and he stood at the gunnel silhouetted in the light, the cap pulled well down to preclude identification by the binoculars he knew were raking the ship. His heart was racing too and there was a sick-sweet-sour bile in his mouth. They were in international waters. Safety and PRC waters were fifteen minutes away. He cocked the gun. Orders were quite clear. No one was boarding tonight.

"Haul to! We're coming aboard!"

They all saw the patrol boat slow and the cutter splash into the sea and many aboard lost their initial confidence. Four Fingers squeezed the throttle forward to get the last fraction of power. He cursed himself for not seeing the police boat or sensing their presence earlier but he knew that they had electronic devices to see in the dark whereas he had to rely on eyes and nose and the sixth sense that so far had kept him and most of his people alive.

It was rare to find a patrol boat so close to Chinese waters. Even so, the boat was there and though his cargo was gone, there were guns aboard and so was Paul Choy. Joss! All gods defecate on that patrol boat! Goodweather Poon was partially right, he told himself. The gods will decide if it was wise or not to bring the youth aboard.

"Go fornicate yourselves! No foreign devil comes aboard a patrol boat of the People's Republic of China!" All the crew cheered enthusiastically, adding their obscenities to the din.

"Haul to!"

The old man paid no attention. The junk was headed toward the Pearl River estuary at maximum speed and he and all aboard prayed that there were no PRC patrols nearby. In the searchlight they could see the cutter with ten armed sailors on an intercept course but it was not fast enough to overtake them.

"For the last time, haul tooooo!"

"For the fornicating last time leave peaceful PRC patrol to their own waters. . . ."

Suddenly the patrol's sirens started whoopwhoopwhooping and she seemed to jump forward from the violent thrust of her engines, a high churning wake astern. The searchlight still kept them centered as she charged ahead and cut across the junk's bow and stayed there, her engines growling malevolently, barring the path to safety.

Paul Choy was still staring at the battle gray, sharp-nosed craft with its deck gun manned and machine guns manned, big, with four times the power they had, the gap closing fast with no room to maneuver. They could see the uniformed sailors on her deck and the officers on the bridge, radar aerials sweeping.

"Get your head down," Wu warned Paul Choy who obeyed instantly. Then Wu ran forward to the bow, Goodweather Poon beside him. Both had automatic machine guns.

"Now!"

Carefully he and his friend sprayed the sea toward the patrol boat that was almost on them, taking extreme care that none of the bullets splashed the deck. Instantly the searchlight went out and at once, in the blinding darkness, the helmsman put the junk hard to starboard and prayed that Wu had chosen correctly. The junk slid around the other ship with a few yards leeway as the other craft gunned ahead to get out of the way of the bullets. The helmsman heaved her back on her course and her dash for safety.

"Good," Wu muttered, knowing he had gained another hundred yards. His mind carried the chart of these waters. Now they were in the gray area between Hong Kong and PRC waters, a few hundred yards from real safety. In the darkness all on deck had kept their eyes tightly shut. The moment they felt the searchlight again, they opened their eyes and adjusted more quickly. The attacker was ahead and to port out of machine gun range but still ahead and still in the way. Wu smiled grimly. "Big Nose Lee!" His chief deckhand came promptly, and he handed him the machine gun. "Don't use it till I order it and don't hit one of those fornicators!"

Suddenly the darkness split and the parrang of the deck gun deafened them. A split second and a vast spout of water burst from the sea near their bow. Wu was shocked and he shook his fist at the ship. "Fornicate you and all your mothers! Leave us alone or Chairman Mao will sink all Hong Kong!"

He hurried aft. "I'll take the tiller!"

The helmsman was frightened. So was Paul Choy, but at the same time he was curiously excited and vastly impressed with the way his father commanded and the way everyone aboard reacted with discipline instead of as the motley ragtag bunch of pirates he had imagined them to be.

"Haul to!"

Again the gap began closing but the patrol boat kept out of machine gun range and the cutter kept out of range aft. Stoically Wu held his course. Another flash then another and par-rang par-rannng. Two shells straddled the junk rocking her.

"Fornicate all mothers," Wu gasped, "all gods keep those gunners accurate!" He knew that the shots were only to frighten. His friend the Snake had given him assurances that all patrols were ordered never to hit or sink a fleeing junk carrying PRC colors in case the colors were real, never to forcibly board unless one of their own seamen was killed or wounded. "Give them a burst," he called out.

Obediently but with great care, the two men on the bow sprayed the waters. The searchlight never wavered, but suddenly it went out.

Wu kept his course firm. Now what? he asked himself desperately. Where's that fornicator going? He searched the darkness, his eyes straining to see the patrol boat and the promontory he knew was nearby. Then he saw the silhouette to port aft. She was bearing down fast in a swirling rush to come up alongside with grappling hooks. Safety was a hundred yards ahead. If he turned from the new danger he would parallel safety and stay in international waters and then the ship would do the same again and shepherd him into open seas until his ammunition was gone or the dawn came and he was lost. He dare not make a real battle for he knew British law had a long arm and the killing of one of their seamen was punished with hanging, and no money or high friends would prevent it. If he held his course the ship could grapple him and he knew how adept and well trained these Cantonese seamen were and how they hated Haklos.

His face split into a grimace. He waited until the patrol boat was fifty yards astern, coming up very fast, the siren whooping deafen-ingly, then grimly he turned the tiller into her and prayed the captain was awake. For a moment the two ships hung in the balance. Then the patrol boat swung away to avoid the collision, the wash from her props spraying them. Wu wheeled starboard and slammed all throttles forward even though they were already as far forward as they could go. A few more yards were gained. He saw the patrol boat recover quickly. She roared around in a circle and came back at them on a different tack. They were just within Chinese waters. Without hope Four Fingers left the tiller and picked up another submachine gun and sprayed the darkness, the barking thwack thwack thwack and the smell of cordite making his fear more intense. Abruptly the searchlight splashed him, its light vicious. He turned his head, blinded, and blinked, keeping his head and cap well down. When he could see again he pointed the automatic directly at the light and cursed obscenely, frightened that they would grapple him and tow him from safety. The hot barrel shook as he aimed for the light, his finger on the trigger. It would be death if he fired and prison if he didn't. Fear spread through him and throughout his ship.

But the light did not swoop down as he expected. It remained aft and now he saw her bow wave lessening and her wake waves lessening and his heart began to beat again. The patrol boat was letting him go. The Snake had been right!

Shakily he put down the gun. The loud-hailer was nearby. He brought it to his mouth.

"Victory to Chairman Mao!" he bellowed with all his might. "Stay out of our waters, you fornicating foreign devilllls!" The joy-filled words echoed across the waters. His crew jeered, shaking their fists at the light. Even Paul Choy was caught up in the excitement and shouted too as they all realized the patrol boat would not venture into Chinese waters.

The searchlight vanished. When their eyes had adjusted they saw the patrol boat broadside, making hardly any way, her riding lights on now.

"She'll have us on their radar," Paul Choy muttered in English.

"Wat?"

He repeated it in Haklo, using the English word, radar, but explaining it as a magic eye. Both Poon and Four Fingers knew about radar in principle though they had never seen one. "What does that matter?" Wu scoffed. "Their magic screens or magic eyes won't help them now. We can lose them easily in the channels near Lan Tao. There's no evidence against us, no contraband aboard, no nothing!"

"What about the guns?"

"We can lose them overboard, or we can lose those mad dogs and keep our guns! Eeeee, Goodweather Poon, when those shells straddled us I thought my anus was jammed shut forever!"

"Yes," Poon agreed happily, "and when we fired into the darkness at the fornicators … all gods fornicate! I've always wanted to use those guns!"

Wu laughed too until the tears were running down his face. "Yes, yes, Old Friend." Then he explained to Paul Choy the strategy that the Snake had worked out for them. "Good, heya?"

"Who's the Snake?" Paul Choy asked.

Wu hesitated, his small eyes glittering. "An employee, a police employee you might say, Profitable Choy."

"With the cargo gone the night's not profitable at all," Poon said sourly.

"Yes," Wu agreed, equally sourly. He had already promised Venus Poon a diamond ring that he had planned to pay for from tonight's transactions. Now he would have to dip into his savings, which was against all his principles. You pay for whores out of current earnings, never out of savings, so piss on that police boat! he thought. Without the diamond present… Eeeee, but her Beauteous Box is everything Richard Kwang claimed, and the wriggle of her rump everything rumor had promised. And tonight.. . tonight after the TV station closes, her Gorgeous Gate is due to open once more!

"Filthy joss, that sharp-nosed bandit finding us tonight," he said, his manhood stirring at the thought of Venus Poon. "All that money gone and our expenses heavy!"

'The cargo's lost?" Paul Choy asked, greatly surprised.

"Of course lost, gone to the bottom," the old man said irritably.

"You haven't got a marker on it, or a beeper?" Paul Choy used the English word. He explained it to them. "I presumed it would have one—or a float that would release itself in a day or two, chemically—so you could recover it or send frogmen to fetch it when it was safe to do so." The two men were gaping at him. "What's the matter?"

"It is easy to find these 'beepers' or to arrange a delayed float for a day or two?" Wu asked.

"Or a week or two weeks if you want, Father."

"Would you write all this down, how to do it? Or you could arrange it?"

"Of course. But why don't you also have a magic eye, like theirs?"

"What do we need with them—and who could work them?" The old man scoffed again. "We have noses and ears and eyes."

"But you got caught tonight."

"Watch your tongue!" Wu said angrily. "That was joss, joss, a joke of the gods. We're safe and that's all that matters!"

"I disagree, Captain," Paul Choy said, without fear now as everything fell into place. "It would be easy to equip this boat with a magic eye—then you can see them as soon or sooner than they can see you. They can't surprise you. So you can thumb your noses at them without fear and never lose a cargo. Heya?" He smiled inwardly, seeing them hooked. "Never a mistake, not even a Little one. And never danger. And never a lost cargo. And cargo with beepers. You don't even need to be anywhere near the drop. Only a week later, heya?"

"That would be perfect," Poon said fervently. "But if the gods are against you, Profitable Choy, even magic eyes won't help. It was close tonight. That whore wasn't supposed to be here."

They all looked at the ship, just lying aft. Waiting. A few hundred yards aft. Wu set the engine to slow ahead. "We don't want to go too deep into PRC waters," he said uneasily. "Those civilized fornicators are not so polite or so law-abiding." A shiver went through him. "We could use a magic eye, Goodweather Poon."

"Why don't you own one of those patrol boats?" Paul Choy said, baiting the hook again. "Or one a little faster. Then you could outrun them."

"One of those? Are you mad?"

"Who would sell us one?" Wu asked impatiently.

"Japanese."

"Fornicate all Eastern Sea Devils," Poon said.

"Perhaps, but they'd build you something like that, radar equipped. They—"

He stopped as the police patrol boat cut in her deep growling engines, and, with her siren whoopwhoopwhooping, hurtled off into the night, her wake churning.

"Look at her go," Paul Choy said admiringly in English. "Classy son of a bitch!"

He repeated it in Haklo. "I'll bet she's still got the Thai trawler in her magic eye. They can see everything, every junk, every ship and cove and promontory for miles—even a storm."

Thoughtfully Four Finger Wu gave a new course to the helmsman that kept them just in PRC waters heading north for the islands and reefs around Lan Tao Island where he would be safe to make for the next rendezvous. There they would transfer to another junk with real registrations—PRC and Hong Kong—to slide back into Aberdeen. Aberdeen! His fingers nervously touched the half-coin again. He had forgotten the coin in the excitement. Now his fingers trembled and his anxiety was rekindled as he thought about his meeting with the tai-pan tonight. There was plenty of time. He would not be late. Even so he increased speed.

"Come," he ordered, motioning Poon and Paul Choy to join him on the cushions aft where they would be more private.

"Perhaps we'd be wise to stay with our junks, and not get one of those whores, my son." Wu's finger stabbed the darkness where the patrol boat had been. "The foreign devils would become even madder if I had one of those in my fleet. But this magic eye of yours . . . you could install it and show us how to use it?"

"I could get experts to do that. People from the Eastern Sea-it would be better to use them—not British or German."

Wu looked at his old friend. "Heya?"

"I don't want one of those turds or their magic eyes on my ship. Soon we'd rely on the fornicators and we'd lose our treasures along with our heads," the other man grumbled.

"But to see when others can't?" Wu puffed on his cigarette. "Is there another seller, Profitable Choy?"

"They would be the best. And cheapest, Father."

"Cheapest, heya? How much will this cost?"

"I don't know. 20,000 U.S., perhaps 40—"

The old man exploded. "40,000 U.S.? Am I made of gold? I have to work for my money! Am I Emperor Wu?"

Paul Choy let the old man rave. He was feeling nothing for him anymore, not after all the night's horror and killing and entrapment and cruelty and blackmail, and most of all because of his father's words against his girl. He would respect his father for his seamanship, for his courage and his command. And as Head of the House. Nothing more. And from now on he would treat him like any other man.

When he felt the old man had raved enough, he said, "I can have the first magic eye installed and two men trained at no cost to you, if you want."

Wu and Poon stared at him. Wu was instantly on guard. "How at no cost?"

"I will pay for it for you."

Poon started to guffaw but Wu hissed, "Shut up, fool, and listen. Profitable Choy knows things you don't know!" His eyes were glittering even more. If a magic eye, why not a diamond too? And if a diamond, why not a mink coat and all the necessary plunder that that mealy-mouthed whore will require to sustain her enthusiastic cleft, hands and mouth.

"How will you pay for it, my son?"

"Out of profit."

"Profit on what?"

"I want control, for one month, of your money in the Victoria."

"Impossible!"

"We opened accounts for 22,423,000. Control for one month."

"To do what with?"

"The stock market."

"Ah, gamble? Gamble with my money? My hard-earned cash? Never."

"One month. We split the profit, Father."

"Oh, we split? It is my fornicating money but you want half. Half of what?"

"Perhaps another 20 million." Paul Choy let the sum hang. He saw the avarice on his father's face and knew that though the negotiation would be heated, they would make a deal. It was only a matter of time.

"Ayeeyah, that's impossible, out of the question!"

The old man felt an itch below and he scratched the itch. His manhood stirred. Instantly he thought of Venus Poon who had made him stand as he had not stood for years and of their coming bout tonight. "Perhaps I shall just pay for this magic eye," he said, testing the young man's resolve.

Paul Choy took his spirit completely into his own hands. "Yes, yes you can, but then I'm leaving Hong Kong."

Wu's tongue darted spitefully. "You will leave when I tell you to leave."

"But if I can't be profitable and put my expensive training to work, why should I stay? Did you pay all that money for me to be a pimp on one of your Pleasure Boats? A deckhand on a junk that can be raped at will by the nearest foreign devil cutter? No, better I leave! Better I become profitable to someone else so that I can begin to repay your investment in me. I will give Black Beard a month's notice and leave then."

"You will leave when I tell you to leave!" Wu added malevolently. "You have fished in dangerous waters."

"Yes." And so have you, Paul Choy wanted to add, unafraid. If you think you can blackmail me, that I'm on your hook, you're on mine and you've more to lose. Haven't you heard of Queen's evidence, turning Queen's evidence—or plea bargaining? But he kept this future ploy secret, to be used when necessary, and kept his face polite and bland. "All waters are dangerous if the gods decide they're dangerous," he said cryptically.

Wu took a long deep drag of his cigarette, feeling the smoke deep within him. He had noticed the change in this young man before him. He had seen many such changes in many men. In many sons and many daughters. The experience of his kmg years screamed caution. This whelp's dangerous, very dangerous, he thought. I think Goodweather Poon was right: it was a mistake to bring Profitable Choy aboard tonight. Now he knows too much about us.

Yes. But that's easy to rectify, when I need to, he reminded himself. Any day or any night.

53

10:03 P.M. :

"Well, what the devil are you going to do, Paul?" the governor asked Havergill. Johnjohn was with them and they were on the terrace of Government House after dinner, leaning against the low balustrade. "Good God! If the Victoria runs out of money too, this whole Island's ruined, eh?"

Havergill looked around to make sure they were not being overheard, and dropped his voice. "We've been in touch with the Bank of England, sir. By midnight tomorrow night, London time, there'll be an RAF transport at Heathrow stuffed full of five– and ten-pound notes." His usual confidence returned. "As I said, the Victoria is perfectly sound, completely liquid and our assets here and in England substantial enough to cover any eventuality, well almost any eventuality."

"Meanwhile you may not have enough Hong Kong dollars to weather the run?"

"Not if the, er, the problem continues but I'm sure all will be well, sir."

Sir Geoffrey stared at him. "How the devil did we get into this mess?"

"Joss," Johnjohn said wearily. "Unfortunately the mint can't print enough Hong Kong dollar notes for us in time. It'd take weeks to print and to ship the amount we'd need, and it wouldn't be healthy to have all those extra notes in our economy. The British currency's stopgap, sir. We can just announce that the, er, that the mint is working overtime to supply our needs."

"How much do we actually need?" The governor saw Paul Havergill and Johnjohn look at each other and his disquiet increased.

"We don't know, sir," Johnjohn said. "Colony-wide, apart from ourselves, every other bank will also need to pledge its securities-just as we've pledged ours temporarily to the Bank of England—to obtain the cash they need. If every depositor on the Colony wants every dollar back…" The sweat was beading the banker's face now. "We've no way of knowing how extended the other banks are, or the amount of their deposits. No one knows."

"Is one RAF transport enough?" Sir Geoffrey tried not to sound sarcastic. "I mean, well, a billion pounds in fives and tens? How in the hell are they going to collect that number of notes?"

Havergill mopped his brow. "We don't know, sir, but they've promised a first shipment will arrive Monday night at the latest." "Not till then?"

"No sir. It's impossible before then." "There's nothing else we can do?"

Johnjohn swallowed. "We considered asking you to declare a bank holiday to stem the tide but, er, we concluded—and the Bank of England agreed—if you did that it might blow the top off the Island."

"No need to worry, sir." Havergill tried to sound convincing. "By the end of next week it will all be forgotten."

"I won't forget it, Paul. And I doubt if China will—or our friends the Labour MPs will. They may have a point about some form of bank controls."

Both bankers bridled and Paul Havergill said deprecatingly, "Those two berks don't know their rears from a hole in the wall! Everything's in control."

Sir Geoffrey would have argued that point but he had just seen Rosemont, the CIA deputy director, and Ed Langan, the FBI man, wander out onto the terrace. "Keep me advised. I want a full report at noon. Would you excuse me a moment? Please help yourself to another drink."

He went off to intercept Rosemont and Langan. "How're you two?"

"Great, thank you, sir. Great evening." Both Americans watched Havergill and Johnjohn going back inside. "How're our banker friends?" Rosemont asked. "Fine, perfectly fine."

"That MP, the Socialist guy, Grey, was sure as hell getting under Havergill's skin!" "And the tai-pan's," Ed Langan added with a laugh.

"Oh I don't know," the governor said lightly. "A little opposition's a good thing, what? Isn't that democracy at its best?"

"How's the Vic, sir? How's the run?"

"No problems that can't be solved," Sir Geoffrey replied with his easy charm. "No need to worry. Would you give me a moment, Mr. Langan?"

"Certainly, sir." The American smiled. "I was just leaving."

1 "Not my party, I trust! Just to replenish your drink?"

"Yes sir."

Sir Geoffrey led the way into the garden, Rosemont beside him. The trees were still dripping and the night dark. He kept to a path that was puddled and muddy. "We've a slight problem, Stanley. Si's just caught one of your sailors from the carrier passing secrets to a KGB fellow. Bo—"

Rosemont stopped, aghast. "Off the Ivanov?"

"Yes."

"Was it Suslev? Captain Suslev?"

"No. No, it wasn't that name. May I suggest you get on to Roger at once. Both men are in custody, both have been charged under the Official Secrets Act but I've cleared it with the minister in London and he agrees you should take charge of your fellow at once … a little less embarrassing, what? He's, er, he's a computer chap I believe."

"Son of a bitch!" Rosemont muttered, then wiped the sudden sweat off his face with his hand. "What did he pass over?"

"I don't know exactly. Roger will be able to fill you in on the details."

"Do we get to interrogate … to interview the KGB guy too?"

"Why not discuss that with Roger? The minister's in direct touch with him, too." Sir Geoffrey hesitated. "I, er, I'm sure you'll appreciate . . ."

"Yes, of course, sorry, sir. I'd … I'd better get going at once." Rosemont's face was chalky and he went off quickly, collecting Ed Langan with him.

Sir Geoffrey sighed. Bloody spies, bloody banks, bloody moles and bloody Socialist idiots who know nothing about Hong Kong. He glanced at his watch. Time to close the party down.

Johnjohn was walking into the anteroom. Dunross was near the bar. "Ian?" "Oh hello? One for the road?" Dunross said.

"No, thanks. Can I have a word in private?"

"Of course. It'll have to be quick, I was just leaving. I said I'd drop our friendly MPs at the ferry."

"You're on a pink ticket too?"

Dunross smiled faintly. "Actually, old boy, I have one whenever I want it, whether Penn's here or not."

"Yes. You're lucky, you always did have your life well organized," Johnjohn said gloomily.

"Joss."

"I know." Johnjohn led the way out of the room onto the balcony. "Rotten about John Chen, what?"

"Yes. Phillip's taking it very badly. Where's Havergill?"

"He left a few minutes ago."

"Ah, that's why you mentioned 'pink ticket'! He's on the town?"

"I don't know."

"How about Lily Su of Kowloon?"

Johnjohn stared at him.

"I hear Paul's quite enamored."

"How do you do it, know so much?"

Dunross shrugged. He was feeling tired and uneasy and had been hard put not to lose his temper several times tonight when Grey was in the center of another heated argument with some of the tai-pans.

"By the way, Ian, I tried to get Paul to call a board meeting but it's not in my bailiwick."

"Of course." They were in a smaller anteroom. Good Chinese silk paintings and more fine Persian carpets and silver. Dunross noticed the paint was peeling in the corners of the room and off the fine moldings of the ceiling, and this offended him. This is the British raj and the paint shouldn't be peeling.

The silence hung. Dunross pretended to examine some of the exquisite snuff bottles that were on a shelf.

"Ian . . ." Johnjohn stopped and changed his mind. He began again. "This is off the record. You know Tiptop Toe quite well, don't you?"

Dunross stared at him. Tiptop Toe was their nickname for Tip Tok-toh, a middle-aged man from Hunan, Mao Tse-tung's home province, who had arrived during the exodus in 1950. No one seemed to know anything about him, he bothered no one, had a small office in Princes Building, and lived well. Over the years it was evident that he had very particular contacts within the Bank of

China and it came to be presumed that he was an official unofficial contact of the bank. No one knew his position in the hierarchy but rumor had it that he was very high. The Bank of China was the only commercial arm of the PRC outside of China, so all of its appointments and contacts were tightly controlled by the ruling hierarchy in Peking.

"What about Tiptop?" Dunross asked, on guard, liking Tiptop— a charming, quiet-spoken man who enjoyed Cognac and spoke excellent English, though, following a usual pattern, nearly always he used an interpreter. His clothes were well cut, though most times he wore a Maoist jacket, looked a little like Chou En-lai and was just as clever. The last time Dunross had dealt with him was about some civilian aircraft the PRC had wanted. Tip Tok-toh had arranged the letters of credit and financing through various Swiss and foreign banks within twenty-four hours. "Tiptop's canny, Ian," Alastair Struan had said many times. "You have to watch yourself but he's the man to deal with. I'd say he was very high up in the Party in Peking. Very."

Dunross watched Johnjohn, curbing his impatience. The smaller man had picked up one of the snuff bottles. The bottles were tiny, ornate ceramic or jade or glass bottles—many of them beautifully painted inside, within the glass: landscapes, dancing girls, flowers, birds, seascapes, even poems in incredibly delicate calligraphy. "How do they do that, Ian? Paint on the inside like that?"

"Oh they use a very fine brush. The stem of the brush's bent ninety degrees. In Mandarin they call it //' myan huai, 'inside face painting.' " Dunross lifted up an elliptical one that had a landscape on one side, a spray of camellias on the other and tiny calligraphy on the paintings.

"Astonishing! What patience! What's the writing say?"

Dunross peered at the tiny column of characters. "Ah, it's one of Mao's sayings: 'Know yourself, know your enemy; a hundred battles, a hundred victories.' Actually the Chairman took it out of Sun Tzu."

Thoughtfully Johnjohn examined it. The windows beyond him were open. A small breeze twisted the neat curtains. "Would you talk to Tiptop for us?"

"About what?"

"We want to borrow the Bank of China's cash."

Dunross gaped at him. "Eh?"

"Yes, for a week or so. They're full to the gills with Hong Kong dollars and there's no run on them. No Chinese'd dare line up outside the Bank of China. They carry Hong Kong dollars as part of their foreign exchange. We'd pay good interest for the loan and put up whatever collateral they'd need."

"This is a formal request by the Victoria?"

"No. It can't be formal. This's my idea, I haven't even discussed it with Paul—only with you. Would you?"

Dunross's excitement crested. "Do I get my 100 million loan tomorrow by 10:00 A.M.?"

"Sorry, I can't do that."

"But Havergill can."

"He can but he won't."

"So why should I help you?"

"Ian, if the bank doesn't stand as solid as the Peak, the market'll crash, and so will the Noble House."

"If I don't get some financing right smartly I'm in the shit anyway."

"I'll do what I can but will you talk to Tiptop at once? Ask him. I can't approach him … no one can officially. You'd be doing the Colony a great service."

"Guarantee my loan and I'll talk to him tonight. An eye for an eye and a loan for a loan."

"If you can deliver his promise of a credit up to half a billion in cash by 2:00 P.M. tomorrow, I'll get you the backing you need."

"How?"

"I don't know!"

"Give that to me in writing by 10:00 A.M. signed by you, Haver-gill and the majority of the board and I'll go and see him."

"That's not possible."

"Tough. An eye for an eye and a loan for a loan." Dunross got up. "Why should the Bank of China bale out the Victoria?"

"We're Hong Kong," Johnjohn said with great confidence. "We are. We're the Victoria Bank of Hong Kong and China! We're old friends of China. Without us there's nothing—the Colony'd fall apart and so would Struan's and therefore so would most of Asia."

"Don't bet on that!"

"Without banking, particularly us, China's in bad shape. We've been partners for years with China."

"Then ask Tiptop yourself."

"I can't." Johnjohn's jaw was jutting. "Did you know the Trade

Bank of Moscow note 9 has again asked for a license to trade in Hong Kong?" Dunross gasped. "Once they're in we're all on the merry-go– rougd." "We've been offered, privately, substantial Hong Kong dollars immediately."

"The board'll vote against it."

"The point is, my dear chap, if you're no longer on the board, the new board can do what the hell it likes," Johnjohn said simply. "If the 'new' board agrees, the governor and the Colonial Office can easily be persuaded. That'd be a small price to pay—to save our dollar. Once an official Soviet bank's here what other devilment could they get up to, eh?"

"You're worse than bloody Havergill!"

"No old chum, better!" The jesting left the banker's face. "Any major change and we become the Noble House, like it or not. Many of our directors would prefer you gone, aj; any price. I'm just asking you to do Hong Kong and therefore yourself a favor. Don't forget, Ian, the Victoria won't go under, we'll be hurt but not ruined." He touched a bead of sweat away. "No threats, Ian, but I'm asking for a favor. One day I may be chairman and I won't forget."

"Either way."

"Of course, old chum," Johnjohn said sweetly and went to the sideboard. "How about one for the road now? Brandy?"

Robin Grey was seated in the back of Dunross's Rolls with Hugh Guthrie and Julian Broadhurst, Dunross in the front beside his uniformed chauffeur. The windows were fogged. Idly Grey streaked the mist away, enjoying the deep luxury of the sweet-smelling leather.

Soon I'm going to have one of these, he thought. A Rolls of my very own. With a chauffeur. And soon all these bastards'll be crawling, Ian bloody Dunross included. And Penn! Oh yes, my dear sweet sneering sister's going to see the mighty humbled.

"Is it going to rain again?" Broadhurst was asking.

"Yes," Dunross replied. "They think this storm's developing into a full-scale typhoon—at least that's what the Met Office said. This evening I got a report from Eastern Cloud, one of our inbound freighters just off Singapore. She said that the seas were heavy even that far south."

"Will the typhoon hit here, tai-pan?" Guthrie, the Liberal MP asked.

"You never know for certain. They can head for you then veer off at the last minute. Or the reverse."

"I remember reading about Wanda, Typhoon Wanda last year. That was a dilly, wasn't it?"

"The worst I've been in. Over two hundred dead, thousands injured, tens of thousands made homeless." Dunross had his arm across the seat and he was half turned around. "Tai-fun, the Supreme Winds, were gusting to 170 mph at the Royal Observatory, 190 at Tate's Cairn. The eye of the storm came over us at high tide so our tides in places were twenty-three feet over normal." "Christ!"

"Yes. At Sha Tin in the New Territories these gusts blew the tidal surge up the channel and breached the storm shelter and shoved fishing boats half a mile inland onto the main street and drowned most of the village. A thousand known fishing boats vanished, eight freighters aground, millions of dollars in damage, most of our squatters' areas blown into the sea." Dunross shrugged. "Joss! But considering the enormity of the storm, the seaborne damage here was incredibly small." His fingers touched the leather seat. Grey noticed the heavy gold and bloodstone signet ring with the Dunross crest. "A real typhoon shows you how really insignificant you are," Dunross said.

"Pity we don't have typhoons every day in that case," Grey said before he could stop himself. "We could use having the mighty in Whitehall humbled twice a day."

"You really are a bore, Robin," Guthrie said. "Do you have to make a sour remark every time?"

Grey went back to his brooding and shut his ears to their conversation. To hell with all of them, he thought.

Soon the car pulled up outside the Mandarin. Dunross got out. "The car'll take you home to the V and A. See you all Saturday if not before. Night."

The car drove off. It circled the huge hotel then headed for the car ferry which was slightly east of the Golden Ferry Terminal along Connaught Road. At the terminal a haphazard line of cars and trucks waited. Grey got out. "I think I'll stretch my legs, walk back to the Golden Ferry and go across in one of them," he said with forced bonhomie. "I need the exercise. Night."

He walked along the Connaught Road waterfront, quickly, relieved that it had been so easy to get away from them. Bloody fools, he thought, his excitement rising. Well, it won't be long before they all get their comeuppance, Broadhurst particularly.

When he was sure he was clear he stopped under a streetlamp, creating an eddy in the massed stream of pedestrians hurrying both ways, and flagged a taxi. "Here," he said and gave the driver a typed address on a piece of paper.

The driver took it, stared at it and scratched his head sullenly.

"It's in Chinese. It's in Chinese on the back," Grey said helpfully.

The driver paid him no attention, just stared blankly at the English address. Grey reached over and turned the characters toward him. "Here!"

At once the driver insolently turned the paper back and glared at the English again. Then he belched, let in his clutch with a jerk and eased into the honking traffic.

Rude sod, Grey thought, suddenly enraged.

The cab ground its gears continually as it went into the city, doubling back down one-way streets and narrow alleys to get back into Connaught Road.

At length they stopped outside a dingy old apartment building on a dingy street. The pavement was broken and narrow and puddled, the traffic honking irritably at the parked cab. There was no number that Grey could see. He got out and told the driver to wait and walked back a little to what seemed to be a side door. An old man was sitting on a battered chair, smoking and reading a racing paper under a bare bulb.

"Is this 68 Kwan Yik Street in Kennedy Town?" Grey asked politely.

The old man stared at him as though he was a monster from outer space, then let out a stream of querulous Cantonese.

"68 Kwan Yik Street," Grey repeated, slower and louder, "Ken-ned-dy Town?"

Another flood of guttural Cantonese and an insolent wave toward a small door. The old man hawked and spat and went back to his paper with a yawn.

"Sodding bastard," Grey muttered, his temperature soaring. He opened the door. Inside was a tiny, grimy foyer with peeling paint, a sorry row of mailboxes with names on the boxes. With great relief he saw the name he sought.

At the cab he took out his wallet and carefully looked at the amount on the meter twice before he paid the man.

The elevator was tiny, claustrophobic, filthy and it squeaked as it rose. At the fourth floor he got off and pressed the button of number 44. The door opened.

"Mr. Grey, sir, this's an honor! Molly, his nibs's arrived!" Sam Finn beamed at him. He was a big beefy Yorkshireman, florid, with pale blue eyes, an ex-coal miner and shop steward with important friends in the Labour Party and Trades Union Council. His face was deeply lined and pitted, the pores ingrained with specks of coal dust. "By gum, 'tis a pleasure!"

"Thank you, Mr. Finn. I'm glad to meet you too. I've heard a lot about you." Grey took off his raincoat and gratefully accepted a beer.

"Sit thee down."

The apartment was small, spotlessly clean, the furniture inexpensive. It smelt of fried sausages and fried potatoes and fried bread. Molly Finn came out of the kitchen, her hands and arms red from years of scrubbing and washing up. She was short and rotund, from the same mining town as her husband, the same age, sixty-five, and just as strong. "By Harry," she said warmly, "thee could've knocked us'n down with feather when we heard thee'd be a-visiting

"Our mutual friends wanted to hear firsthand how you were doing."

"Grand. We're doing grand," Finn said. '"Course it's not like home in Yorkshire and we miss our friends and the Union Hall but we've a bed and a bit of board." There was the sound of a toilet flushing. "We've a friend we thought thee'd like to meet," Finn said and smiled again.

"Oh?"

"Aye." Finn said.

The toilet door opened. The big bearded man stuck out his hand warmly. "Sam's told me a lot about you, Mr. Grey. I'm Captain Gregor Suslev of the Soviet Marine. My ship's the Ivanov—we're having a small refit in this capitalist haven."

Grey shook his hand formally. "Pleased to meet you."

"We have some mutual friends, Mr. Grey."

"Oh?"

"Yes, Zdenek Hanzolova of Prague."

"Oh! Oh yes!" Grey smiled. "I met him on a Parliamentary Trade Delegation to Czechoslovakia last year."

"How did you like Prague?"

"Very interesting. Very. I didn't like the repression though … or the Soviet presence."

Suslev laughed. "We're invited there, by them. We like to look after our friends. But much goes on I don't approve of either. There, in Europe. Even in Mother Russia."

Sam Finn said, "Sit thee down, please sit thee down."

They sat around the dining room table in the living room that now had a neat white tablecloth with a potted aspidistra on it.

"Of course, you know I'm not a Communist, and never have been one," Grey said. "I don't approve of a police state. I'm totally convinced our British democratic socialism's the way of the future —Parliament, elected officials and all that it stands for—though a lot of Marxist-Leninist ideas are very worthwhile."

"Politics!" Gregor Suslev said deprecatingly. "We should leave politics to politics."

"Mr. Grey's one of our best spokesmen in Parliament, Gregor." Molly Finn turned to Grey. "Gregor's a good lad too, Mr. Grey. He's not one of them nasties." She sipped her tea. "Gregor's a good lad."

"That's right, lass," Finn said.

"Not too good, I hope," Grey said and they all laughed. "What made you take up residence here, Sam?"

"When we retired, Mrs. Finn and me, we wanted to see a bit of the world. We'd put a bit of brass aside and we cashed in a wee coop insurance policy we had, and got a berth on a freighter . . ."

"Oh, my, we did have a good time," Molly Finn broke in. "We went to so many foreign parts. It were proper lovely. But when we cum here Sam was a bit poorly, so we got off and were to pick up a freighter when she cum back."

"That's right, lass," Sam said. "Then I met a right proper nice man and he offered me a job." He beamed and rubbed the black pits in his face. "I was to be consultant to some mines he was superintendent for, in some place called Formosa. We went there once but no need to stay so we cum back here. That's all there is to it, Mr. Grey. We make a little brass, the beer's good, so Mrs. Finn and me we thought we'd stay. The kids are all growed up. . . ." He beamed again, showing his obviously false teeth. "We're Hong Kongers now.

They chatted pleasantly. Grey would have been totally convinced by the Finns' cover story if he had not read his very private dossier before he left London. It was known only to very few that for years Finn had been a card-carrying member of the BCP, the British Communist Party. On his retirement he had been sent out to Hong Kong by one of their secret inner committees, his mission to be a fountain of information about anything to do with the Hong Kong bureaucracy and legislature.

In a few minutes Molly Finn stifled a yawn. "My my, I'm that tired! If thee will excuse me I think I'll go to bed."

Sam said, "Off thee go, lass."

They talked a little more about inconsequential affairs then he too yawned. "If thee'll excuse me, I think I'll go too," adding hastily, "Now don't thee move, chat to thy heart's content. We'll see thee before thee leaves Hong Kong, Mr. Grey . . . Gregor."

He shook hands with them and closed the bedroom door behind him. Suslev went over to the television and turned it on with a laugh. "Have you seen Hong Kong TV? The commercials are very funny."

He adjusted the sound high enough so they could talk yet not be overheard. "One can't be too careful, eh?"

"I bring you fraternal greetings from London," Grey said, his voice as soft. Since 1947 he had been an inner-core Communist, even more secretly than Finn, his identity only known to half a dozen people in England.

"And I send them back." Suslev jerked his thumb at the closed door. "How much do they know?"

"Only that I'm left-wing and potential Party material."

"Excellent." Suslev relaxed. Center had been very clever to arrange this private meeting so neatly. Roger Crosse, who knew nothing of his connection with Grey, had already told him there were no SI tails on the MPs. "We're quite safe here. Sam's very good. We get copies of his reports too. And he asks no questions. You British are very close-mouthed and very efficient, Mr. Grey. I congratulate you."

"Thank you."

"How was your meeting in Peking?"

Grey took out a sheaf of papers. "This's a copy of our private and public reports to Parliament. Read it before I go—you'll get the full report through channels. Briefly, I think the Chinese are totally hostile and revisionist. Madman Mao and his henchman Chou En-lai are implacable enemies to international communism. China is weak in everything except the will to fight, and they will fight to protect their land to the last. The longer you wait the harder it will be to contain them, but so long as they don't get nuclear weapons and long-range delivery systems they'll never be a threat."

"Yes. What about trade? What did they want?"

"Heavy industries, oil cracking plants, oil rigs, chemical plants, steel mills."

"How are they going to pay?"

"They said they've plenty of foreign exchange. Hong Kong supplies much of it."

"Did they ask for arms?"

"No. Not directly. They're clever and we didn't always talk or meet as a group. They were well briefed about me and Broadhurst and we weren't liked—or trusted. Perhaps they talked privately to Pennyworth or one of the other Tories—though that won't've helped them. You heard he died?"

"Yes."

"Good riddance. He was an enemy." Grey sipped his beer. "The PRC want arms, of that I'm sure. They're a secretive lot and rotten."

"What's Julian Broadhurst like?"

"An intellectual who thinks he's a Socialist. He's the dregs but useful at the moment. Patrician, old school tie," Grey said with a sneer. "Because of that he'll be a power in the next Labour government."

"Labour will get in next time, Mr. Grey?"

"No, I don't think so, even though we're working very hard to help Labour and the Liberals."

Suslev frowned. "Why support Liberals? They're capitalists."

Grey laughed sardonically. "You don't understand our British system, Captain Suslev. We're very lucky, we've a three-party vote with a two-party system. The Liberals split the vote in our favor. We have to encourage them." Happily he finished his beer and got two more from the refrigerator. "If it wasn't for the Liberals, Labour would have never got in, not never! And never will again."

"I don't understand."

"At the best of times the vote for Labour's only about 45 percent of the population, a little under 45 percent. Tory—Conservatives-are about the same, usually a little more. Most of the other 10-odd percent vote Liberal. If there was no Liberal candidate the majori-ty'd vote with the Conservatives. They're all fools," he said smugly. "The British are stupid, comrade, the Liberal Party's Labour's permanent passport to power—therefore ours. Soon the BCP'll control the TUC, and so Labour completely—secretly of course." He drank deeply. "The great British unwashed are stupid, the middle , class stupid, the upper class stupid—it's almost no challenge anymore. They're all lemmings. Only a very few believe in democratic socialism. Even so," he added with great satisfaction, "we pulled down their rotten Empire and pissed all over them with Operation Lion." Operation Lion was formulated as soon as the Bolsheviks had come to power. Its purpose, the destruction of the British Empire. "In just eighteen years, since 1945, the greatest empire the world has ever seen's become nonexistent." "Except for Hong Kong." "Soon that will go too." "I cannot tell you how important my superiors consider your work," Suslev said with pretended open admiration. "You and all our fraternal British brothers." His orders were to be deferential to this man, to debrief him on his Chinese mission, to pass on instructions as requests. And to flatter him. He had read Grey's dossier and the Finns'. Robin Grey had a Beria-KGB classification 4/22/a: "An important British traitor paying lip service to Marxist-Leninist ideals. He is to be used but never trusted, and, should the British Communist Party ever reach power, is subject to immediate liquidation."

Suslev watched Grey. Neither Grey nor the Finns knew his real position, only that he was a minor member of the Vladivostok Communist Party—which was also on his SI dossier. "You have some information for me?" Grey asked. "Yes, tovarich, and also, with your permission, a few questions. I was told to ask about your implementation of Directive 72/Prague." This highly secret directive put top priority on infiltrating covert, hard-core experts into positions as shop stewards, in every car-manufacturing plant throughout the U.S. and the West— the motor industry, because of its countless allied industries, being the core of any capitalist society.

"We're full speed ahead," Grey told him enthusiastically. "Wildcat strikes are the way of the future. With wildcats we can get around union hierarchies without disrupting existing unionism. Our unions're fragmented. Deliberately. Fifty men can be a separate union and that union can dominate thousands—and so long as there's never a secret ballot, the few will always rule the many!" He laughed. "We're ahead of schedule, and now we've fraternal brothers in Canada, New Zealand, Rhodesia, Australia—particularly Australia. Within a few years we'll have trained agitators in every key machine-shop union in the English-speaking world. A Brit will lead the workers wherever there's a strike—Sydney, Vancouver, Johannesburg, Wellington. It'll be a Brit!"

"And you're one of the leaders, tovarich! How marvelousl" Suslev let him continue, leading him on, disgusted that it was so easy to flatter him. How dreadful traitors are, he told himself. "Soon you'll have the democratic paradise you seek and there'll be peace on earth."

"It won't be long," Grey said fervently. "We've cut the armed services and we'll cut them even more next year. War's over forever. The bomb's done that. It's only the rotten Americans and their arms race who stand in the way but soon we'll force even them to lay down their arms and we'll all be equal."

"Did you know America's secretly arming the Japanese?"

"Eh?" Grey stared at him.

"Oh, didn't you know?" Suslev was well aware of Grey's three and a half years in Japanese POW camps. "Didn't you know the U.S. has a military mission there right now asking them if they'd accept nuclear weapons?"

"They'd never dare."

"But they have, Mr. Grey," Suslev said, the lie coming so easily. "Of course it's all totally secret."

"Can you give me details I could use in Parliament?"

"Well, I'll certainly ask my superiors to furnish that to you if you think it'd be of value."

"Please, as soon as possible. Nuclear bombs . . . Christ!"

"Are your people, your trained experts, in British nuclear plants too?" "Eh?" Grey concentrated with an effort, heaving his mind off

Japan. "Nuclear plants?"

"Yes. Are you getting your Brits?"

"Well, no, there's only one or two plants in the U.K. and they're unimportant. The Yanks're really arming the Japs?"

"Isn't Japan capitalist? Isn't Japan a U.S. protege? Aren't they building nuclear plants too? If it wasn't for America . . ."

"Those American sods! Thank God you've the bombs too or we'd all have to kowtow!"

"Perhaps you should concentrate some effort on your nuclear plants, eh?" Suslev said smoothly, astounded that Grey could be so gullible. "Why?"

"There's a new study out, by one of your countrymen. Philby."

"Philby?" Grey remembered how shocked and frightened he had been at Philby's discovery and flight, then how relieved he was that

Philby and the others had escaped without giving lists of the inner core of the BCP that they must have had. "How is he?"

"I understand he's very well. He's working in Moscow. Did you know him?"

"No. He was Foreign Office, stratosphere. None of us knew he was one of us."

"He points out in this study that a nuclear plant is self-sustaining, that one plant can generate fuel for itself and for others. Once a nuclear plant is operating, in effect it is almost perpetual, it requires only a few highly skilled, highly educated technicians to operate it, no workers, unlike oil or coal. At the moment all industry in the West's dependent on coal or oil. He suggests it should be our policy to encourage use of oil, not coal, and completely discourage nuclear power. Eh?"

"Ah, I see his point!" Grey's face hardened. "I shall get myself on the parliamentary committee to study atomic energy." "Will that be easy?"

"Too easy, comrade! Brits are lazy, they want no problems, they just want to work as little as possible for as much money as possible, to go to the pub and football on Saturdays—and no unpaid work, no tedious committees after hours, no arguments. It's too easy— when we have a plan and they don't."

Suslev sighed, very satisfied, his work almost done. "Another beer? No, let me get it, it's my honor, Mr. Grey. Do you happen to know a writer who's here at the moment, a U.S. citizen, Peter Marlowe?"

Grey's head snapped up. "Marlowe? I know him very well, didn't know he was a U.S. citizen though. Why?" Suslev kept his interest hidden and shrugged. "I was just asked to ask you, since you are English and he originally was English." "He's a rotten upper-class sod with the morals of a barrow boy. Hadn't seen him for years, not since '45, until he turned up here. He was in Changi too. I didn't know he was a writer until yesterday, or one of those film people. What's important about him?"

"He's a writer," Suslev said at once. "He makes films. With television, writers can reach millions. Center keeps track of Western writers as a matter of policy. Oh yes, we know about writers in Mother Russia, how important they are. Our writers have always pointed the way for us, Mr. Grey, they've formed our thinking and feeling, Tolstoy, Dostoevski, Chekhov, Bunin . . ." He added with pride, "Writers with us are pathfinders. That's why nowadays we must guide them in their formation and control their work or bury it." He looked at Grey. "You should do the same."

"We support friendly writers, Captain, and damn the other shower whichever way we can, publicly and privately. When I get home, I'll put Marlowe on our formal BCP media shit list. It'll be easy to do him some harm—we've lots of friends in our media." Suslev lit a cigarette. "Have you read his book?" "The one about Changi? No, no I haven't. I'd never heard of it until I got here. It probably wasn't published in England. Besides, 1 don't have much time to read fiction and if he did it, it's got to be upper-class shit and a penny-dreadful and . . . well Changi's Changi and best forgotten." A shudder went through him that he did not notice. "Yes, best forgotten."

But I can't, he wanted to shout. I can't forget and it's still a never-ending nightmare, those days of the camp, year after year, the tens of thousands dying, trying to enforce the law, trying to protect the weak against black market filth feeding off the weak, everyone starving and no hope of ever getting out, my body rotting away and only twenty-one with no women and no laughter and no food and no drink, twenty-one when I was caught in Singapore in 1942 and twenty-four, almost twenty-five when the miracle happened and I survived and got back to England—home gone, parents gone, world gone and my only sister sold out to the enemy, now talking like the enemy, eating like them, living like them, married to one, ashamed of our past, wanting the past dead, me dead, nobody caring and oh Christ, the change. Coming back to life after the no-life of Changi, all the nightmares and the no sleeping in the night, terrified of life, unable to talk about it, weeping and not knowing why I was weeping, trying to adjust to what fools called normal. Adjusting at length. But at what cost, oh dear sweet Jesus at what a cost… Stop it!

With an effort Grey pulled himself off the descending spiral of Changi.

Enough of Changi! Changi's dead. Let Changi stay dead. It's dead —Changi's got to stay dead. But Ch—

"What?" he said, jerked into the present again.

"I just said, your present government is completely vulnerable now."

"Oh? Why?"

"You remember the Profumo scandal? Your minister of war?"

"Of course. Why?"

"Some months ago, MI-5 began a very secret, very searching investigation into the alleged connection between the now famous call girl, Christine Keeler, and Commander Yevgeny Ivanov, our naval attache, and other London social figures."

"Is it finished?" Grey asked, suddenly attentive.

"Yes. It documents conversations the woman had with Commander Ivanov. Ivanov had asked her to find out from Profumo when nuclear weapons would be delivered to Germany. It claims," Suslev said, deliberately lying now to excite Grey, "that Profumo had been given security warnings by MI-5 about Ivanov some months before the scandal broke—that Commander Ivanov was KGB and also her lover."

"Oh Christ! Will Commander Ivanov substantiate it?"

"Oh no. Absolutely not. That would not be correct—or necessary. But MI-5's report tells the facts accurately," Suslev lied smoothly. "The report's true!"

Grey let out a shout of laughter. "Oh Christ, this'll blow the government off the front bench and bring about a general election!" "And Labour in!"

"Yes! For five wonderful years! Oh yes and once we're in … oh my God!" Grey let out another bellow of laughter. "First he lied about Keeler! And now you say he knew about Ivanov all the time!

Oh bloody Christ, yes, that'll cause the government to fall! This'll be worth all the years of taking the shit from those middle-class sods. You're sure?" he asked with sudden anxiety. "It's really true?"

"Would I lie to you?" Suslev laughed to himself.

"I'll use it. Oh God will I use it." Grey was beside himself with joy. "You're absolutely sure? But Ivanov. What happened to him?"

"Promotion of course for a brilliantly executed maneuver to discredit an enemy government. If his work helps to bring it down, he'll be decorated. He's presently in Moscow waiting for reassignment. By the way, at your press conference tomorrow, do you plan to mention your brother-in-law?"

Grey was suddenly on guard. "How did you know about him?"

Suslev stared back calmly. "My superiors know everything. I was told to suggest you might consider mentioning your connection at the press conference, Mr. Grey."

"Why?"

"To enhance your position, Mr. Grey. Such a close association with the tai-pan of the Noble House would make your words have much greater impact here. Wouldn't they?"

"But if you know about him," Grey said, his voice hard, "you also know about my sister and me, that we've an agreement not to mention it. It's a family matter."

"Matters to do with the State take preference over family matters, Mr. Grey."

"Who are you?" Grey was suddenly suspicious. "Who are you really?"

"Just a messenger, Mr. Grey, really." Suslev put his great hands on Grey's shoulders and held him warmly. "Tovarick, you know how we must use everything in our power to push the cause. I'm sure my superiors were only thinking of your future. A close family connection with such a capitalist family would help you in Parliament. Wouldn't it? When you and your Labour Party get in next year they'll need well-connected men and women, eh? For cabinet rank you need connections, you said so yourself. You'll be the Hong Kong expert, with special connections. You can help us tremendously to contain China, put her back on the right track, and put Hong Kong and all Hong Kong people where they belong—in the sewer. Eh?"

Grey thought about that, his heart thumping. "We could obliterate Hong Kong?"

"Oh yes." Suslev smiled. The smile broadened. "There is no need to worry, you wouldn't have to volunteer anything about the tai-pan or break your word to your sister. I can arrange for you to be asked a question. Eh?"

54

11:05 P.M. :

Dunross was waiting for Brian Kwok in the Quance Bar of the Mandarin, sipping a long brandy and Perrier. The bar was men only and almost empty. Brian Kwok had never been late before but he was late now.

Too easy to have an emergency in his job, Dunross thought, unperturbed. I'll give him a couple more minutes.

Tonight Dunross did not mind waiting. He had plenty of time to get to Aberdeen and Four Finger Wu and as Penn was safely en route to England, there was no pressure to get back.

The trip will be good for her, he told himself. London, the theater, and then Castle Avisyard. It will be grand there. Soon autumn and crisp mornings, your breath visible, the grouse season, and then Christmas. It will be grand to be home for Christmas in the snow. I wonder what this Christmas will bring and what I'll think when looking back to this time, this bad time. Too many problems now. The plan working but creaking already, everything bad and not in control, my control. Bartlett, Casey, Gornt, Four Fingers, Mata, Tightfist, Havergill, Johnjohn, Kirk, Crosse, Sinders, AMG, his Riko, all moths around the flame—and now a new one, Tiptop, and Hiro Toda arriving tomorrow instead of Saturday.

This afternoon he had talked at length to his Japanese friend and shipbuilding partner. Toda had asked about the stock market and about Struan's, not directly English style but obliquely, politely Japanese style. Even so, he had asked. Dunross had heard the gravity under the smooth, American-tinged voice—the product of two years postgraduate school at Harvard.

"Everything's going to be fine, Hiro," Dunross had told him. "It's a temporary attack. We take delivery of the ships as planned." 864

Will we?

Yes. Some way or another. Linbar goes to Sydney tomorrow to try to resurrect the Woolara deal and renegotiate the charter. A long shot.

Inexorably his mind turned back to Jacques. Is Jacques truly a Communist traitor? And Jason Plumm and Tuke? And R. Is he Roger Crosse or Robert Armstrong? Surely neither of them and surely not Jacques! For God's sake I've known Jacques most of my life—I've known the deVilles for most of my life. It's true Jacques could have given Bartlett some of the information about our inner workings, but not all of it. Not the company part, that's tai-pan knowledge only. That means Alastair, Father, me or old Sir Ross. All unthinkable.

Yes.

But someone's a traitor and it isn't me. And then there's Sevrin.

Dunross looked around. The bar was still almost empty. It was a small, pleasing, comfortable room with dark-green leather chairs and old polished oak tables, the walls lined with Quance paintings. They were all prints. Many of the originals were in the long gallery in the Great House, most of the remainder in the corridors of the Victoria and Blacs banks. A few were privately owned elsewhere. He leaned back in the alcove, at ease, glad to be surrounded by so much of his own past, feeling protected by it. Just above his head was a portrait of a Haklo boat-girl with a fair-haired boy in her arms, his hair in a queue. Quance was supposed to have painted this as a birthday present for Dirk Struan from the girl in the picture, May-may T'Chung, the child in her arms supposed to be their son, Duncan.

His eyes went across the room to the portraits of Dirk and his half-brother Robb beside another painting of the American trader Jeff Cooper, and landscapes of the Peak and the pray a in 1841. I wonder what Dirk would say if he could see his creation now. Thriving, building, reclaiming, still the center of the world, the Asian world which is the only world. "Another, tai-pan?" "No thanks, Feng," he said to the Chinese barman. "Just a

Perrier, please."

A phone was nearby. He dialed. "Police headquarters," the woman's voice said. "Superintendent Kwok please."

"Just a moment, sir."

As Dunross waited he tried to decide about Jacques. Impossible, he thought achingly, not without help. Sending him to France to pick up Susanne and Avril isolates him for a week or so. Perhaps I'll talk to Sinders, perhaps they already know. Christ almighty, if AMG hadn't put the R down I'd've gone directly to Crosse. Is it possible that he could be Arthur?

Remember Philby of the Foreign Office, he told himself, revolted that an Englishman of that background and in such a high position of trust could be a traitor. And the other two equally, Burgess and Maclean. And Blake. How far to believe AMG? Poor bugger. How far to trust Jamie Kirk?

"Who's calling Superintendent Kwok please?" a man's voice asked on the phone.

"Mr. Dunross of Struan's."

"Just a moment please." A short wait then a man's voice that he recognized at once. "Evening, tai-pan. Robert Armstrong … sorry but Brian's not available. Was it anything important?"

"No. We just had a date for a drink now and he's late."

"Oh, he never mentioned it—he's usually spot on about something like that. When did you make the date?"

"This morning. He called to tell me about John Chen. Anything new on those bastards?"

"No. Sorry. Brian had to go out of town—a quick trip, you know how it is."

"Oh of course. If you talk to him tell him I'll see him Sunday at the hill climb, if not before."

"Do you still intend to go to Taiwan?"

"Yes. With Bartlett. Sunday, back Tuesday. I hear we can use his plane."

"Yes. Please make sure he comes back on Tuesday."

"If not before."

"Nothing I can do for you?"

"No thank you, Robert."

"Tai-pan, we've, we've had another rather disturbing encounter, here in Hong Kong. Not to worry you but take it easy until tomorrow with Sinders, eh?"

"Of course. Brian said the same. And Roger. Thanks, Robert. Night." Dunross hung up. He had forgotten that he had an SI bodyguard following him. The fellow must be better than the others.

I didn't notice him at all. Now what to do about him? He's certainly unwelcome with Four Fingers.

"I'll be back in a moment," he said.

"Yes, tai-pan," the barman said.

Dunross went out and strolled to the men's room, watching without watching. No one followed him. When he had finished he went into the noisy crowded mezzanine, across and down the main staircase to the newsstand in the foyer to buy an evening paper. There were crowds everywhere. Coming back, he zeroed in on a slight, bespectacled Chinese who was watching him over a magazine from a chair in the foyer. Dunross hesitated, went back to the foyer and saw the eyes following him. Satisfied, he went back up the crowded stairs. "Oh hello, Marlowe," he said, almost bumping into him.

"Oh hello, tai-pan."

At once Dunross saw the great weariness in the other man's face. "What's up?" he asked, instantly sensing trouble, stepping out of the way of the crowds.

"Oh nothing . . . nothing at all."

"Something's up." Dunross smiled gently.

Peter Marlowe hesitated. "It's, it's Fleur." He told him about her.

Dunross was greatly concerned. "Old Tooley's a good doctor so that's one thing." He related to Marlowe how Tooley had filled him, Bartlett and Casey full of antibiotics. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Just a touch of the runs. Nothing to worry about for a month or so." Peter Marlowe told him what Tooley had said about hepatitis. "That doesn't worry me, it's Fleur and the baby, that's the worry."

"Do you have an amah?"

"Oh yes. And the hotel's marvelous, the room boys are all pitching in."

"Have you time for a drink?"

"No, no thanks, I'd better be getting back. The amah's not … there's no room for her so she's just baby-sitting. I've got to drop by the nursing home on the way back, just to check."

"Oh, then another time. Please give your wife my regards. How's the research going?"

"Fine, thank you."

"How many more of our skeletons have you wheedled out of our Hong Kong yan?"

"Lots. But they're all good." Peter Marlowe smiled faintly. "Dirk Struan was one helluva man. Everyone says you are too and they all hope you'll best Gornt, that you'll win again."

Dunross looked at him, liking him. "Do you mind questions about Changi?" He saw the shadow pass across the rugged used face that was young-old. "That depends."

"Robin Grey said you were a black marketeer in the camp. With an American. A corporal."

There was a long pause and Peter Marlowe's face did not change. "I was a trader, Mr. Dunross, or actually, an interpreter for my friend who was a trader. He was an American corporal. He saved my life and the life of my friends. There were four of us, a major, a group captain, a rubber planter and me. He saved dozens of others too. His name was King and he was a king, King of Changi in a way." Again the faint smile. "Trading was against Japanese law— and camp law."

"You said Japanese, not Jap. That's interesting," Dunross said at once. "After all those horrors at Changi, you don't detest them?"

After a pause Peter Marlowe shook his head. "I don't detest anyone. Even Grey. It takes all of my mind and energy to appreciate that I'm alive. Night!" He turned to go.

"Oh, Marlowe, one last thing," Dunross said quickly, making a decision. "Would you like to go to the races Saturday? My box? There'll be a few interesting people … if you're researching Hong Kong you might as well do it in style, eh?"

"Thank you. Thank you very much but Donald McBride's invited me. I'd like to stop by for a drink though, if I may. Any luck on the book?" "Sorry?"

"The book on the history of Struan's, the one you're going to let me read."

"Oh yes, of course. I'm having it retyped," Dunross said. "It seems there's only one copy. If you'll bear with me?"

"Of course. Thanks."

"Give my best to Fleur." Dunross watched him go, glad that Marlowe understood the difference between trading and black mar-keteering. His eyes fell on the Chinese SI man who still watched him over the magazine. He walked slowly back to the bar as though lost in thought. When he was safe inside he said quickly, "Feng, there's a bloody newsman downstairs I don't want to see."

At once the barman opened the countertop. "It's a pleasure, tai-pan," he said, smiling, not believing the excuse at all. His customers frequently used the servants' exit behind the bar. As women were not allowed inside the bat, it was usual that it was a woman who was to be avoided outside. Now what whore would the tai-pan want to avoid? he asked himself, bemused, watching him leave a generous tip and hurry away through the exit.

Once on the street in the side alley Dunross walked quickly around the corner and got a taxi, hunching down into the back.

"Aberdeen," he ordered and gave directions in Cantonese.

"Ayeeyah, like an arrow, tai-pan," the driver said at once, brightening as he recognized him. "May I ask what are the chances for Saturday? Rain or no rain?"

"No rain, by all the gods."

"Eeeee, and the winner of the fifth?"

"The gods haven't whispered it to me, nor the foul High Tigers who bribe jockeys or drug horses to cheat honest people out of an honest gamble. But Noble Star will be trying."

"All the fornicators'll be trying," the driver said sourly, "but who's the one chosen by the gods and by the High Tiger of Happy Valley Racetrack? What about Pilot Fish?"

"The stallion's good."

"Butterscotch Lass? Banker Kwang needs a change of luck."

"Yes. The Lass's good too."

"Will the market go down more, tai-pan?"

"Yes, but buy Noble House at a quarter to three on Friday."

"At what price?"

"Use your head, Venerable Brother. Am I Old Blind Tung?"

Orlanda and Line Bartlett were dancing very close in the semi-darkness of the nightclub, feeling the length of each other. The music was soft and sensual, the beat good, the band Filipino, and the great mirrored luxurious room was deftly pool lit, with private alcoves and low deep chaises around low tables and tuxedoed waiters with pencil flashlights like so many fireflies. Many girls in colorful evening dresses sat together chatting or watching the few dancers. From time to time singly or in pairs they would join a man or men at the tables to ply them with laughter and conversation and drinks and, after a quarter of an hour or so, move on, their movements delicately orchestrated by the ever-watchful mama-san and her helpers. The mama-san here was a lithe attractive Shanghainese woman in her fifties, well dressed and discreet. She spoke six languages and was responsible to the owner for the girls. On her depended the success or failure of the business. The girls obeyed her totally. So did the bouncers and waiters. She was the nucleus, the queen of her domain, and as such, fawned upon.

It was rare for a man to bring a date though it was not resented —providing the tip was generous and the drinks continuous. Dozens of these pleasure places of the night were spread about the Colony, a few private, most open, catering to men—tourists, visitors or Hong Kong yan. All were well stocked with dancing partners of all races. You paid them to sit with you, to chat or to laugh or to listen. Prices varied, quality varied with your choice of place, the purpose always the same. Pleasure for the guest. Money for the house.

Line Bartlett and Orlanda were closer now, swaying more than dancing, her head soft against his chest. One of her hands was gently on his shoulder, the other held by his, cool to his touch. He had one arm almost around her, his hand resting on her waist. She felt his warmth deep in her loins and almost absently, her fingers caressed the nape of his neck and she eased a little closer, drawn by the music. Her feet followed his perfectly, so did her body. In a moment she felt his stirring and then his length.

How do I deal with him tonight? she asked herself dreamily, loving the night and how perfect it had been. Do I or don't I? Oh how I want . . .

Her body seemed to be moving of its own volition, now even closer, her back slightly arched, loins forward. A wave of heat swept her.

Too much heat, she thought. With an effort she pulled herself back.

Bartlett sensed her leaving him. His hand stayed on her waist and he held her against him, feeling nothing but her body under his hand, no undergarment. So rare. Just flesh under the gossamer chiffon . . . and more warmth than flesh. Jesus!

"Let's sit for a moment," she said throatily.

"When the dance ends," he muttered.

"No, no, Line, my legs feel weak." With an effort she put both hands around his neck and leaned back a little, keeping herself against him but letting him take some of her weight. Her smile was vast. "I may fall. You wouldn't want me to fall, would you?"

"You can't fall," he said, smiling back. "No way."

"Please , . ."

"You wouldn't want me to fall would you?"

She laughed and her laugh thrilled him. Jesus, he thought, slow down, she's got you going.

For a moment they danced, but apart, and that cooled him a little. Then he turned her and followed her close and they sat down at their table, lounging on their sofa, still aware of their closeness. Their legs touched.

"The same, sir?" the dinner-jacketed waiter asked.

"Not for me, Line," she said, wanting to curse the waiter for his ineptness, their drinks not yet finished.

"Another creme de menthe?" Bartlett said.

"Not for me, truly, thanks. But you have one."

The waiter vanished. Bartlett would have preferred a beer but he didn't want that smell on his breath and, even more, he did not want to spoil the most perfect meal he had ever had. The pasta had been wonderful, the veal tender and juicy with a lemon and wine sauce that was mouth tingling, the salad perfect. Then zabaglione, mixed in front of him, eggs and Marsala and magic. And always her radiance, the touch of her perfume.

"This is the best evening I've had in years."

She raised her glass with mock solemnity. "Here's to many more," she said. Yes, here's to many many more but after we're married, or at least engaged. You're too heady, Line Bartlett, too tuned in to my psyche, too strong. "I'm glad you've enjoyed it. So have I. Oh yes, so have I!" She saw his eyes slide off her as a hostess brushed by, her gown low cut. The girl was lovely, barely twenty, and she joined a group of boisterous Japanese businessmen with many girls at a corner table. At once another girl got up and excused herself and went away. Orlanda watched him watching them, her mind now crystal clear.

"Are they all for hire?" he asked involuntarily. "For pillowing?"

His heart missed a beat and he glanced back at her, all attention. "Yes, I suppose that's what I meant," he said cautiously.

"The answer's no, and yes." She kept her smile gentle, her voice soft. "That's like most things in Asia, Line. Nothing's ever really no or yes. It's always maybe. It depends on the availability of a hostess. It depends on the man, the money and the amount she's in debt." Her smile was mischievous. "Perhaps I shall just point you in the right direction but then you'd be up to no good—because you fascinate all pretty ladies, big strong man like you heya?"

"Come on, Orlanda!" he said with a laugh as she aped a coolie accent.

"I saw you notice her. I don't blame you, she's lovely," she said, envying the girl her youth but not her life. "What did you mean about debts?"

"When a girl first comes to work here she has to look pretty. Clothes are expensive, hairdressing expensive, stockings, makeup, everything expensive, so the mama-san—that's the woman who looks after the girls—or the nightclub owner will advance the girl enough to buy all the things she needs. Of course in the beginning all the girls are young and frivolous, fresh like a first rose of summer, so they buy and buy and then they have to pay back. Most have nothing when they begin, just themselves—unless they've been a hostess in another club and have a following. Girls change nightclubs, Line, naturally, once they're out of debt. Sometimes an owner will pay the debts of a girl to acquire her and her followers—many girls are very popular and sought after. For a girl it can be well paying, if you can dance, converse and speak several languages." "Their debts're heavy then?"

"Perpetual. The longer they stay the harder it is to look pretty so the more the cost. Interest on the debt is 20 percent at the very least. In the first months the girl can earn much to pay back much but never enough." A shadow passed over her face. "Interest builds up, the debt builds up. Not all patrons are patient. So the girl has to seek other forms of financing. Sometimes she has to borrow from loan sharks to pay back the patron. Inevitably she seeks help. Then one night the mama-san points out a man. 'He wants to buy you out,' she'll say. An—" "What does that mean, to buy a girl out?" "Oh that's just a nightclub custom here. All the girls have to be here promptly, say eight, when the club opens, neat and groomed. They have to stay till 1:00 P.M. or they'll be fined—and fined also if they are absent or if they're late or not neat and not groomed and not pleasant to the customers. If a man wants to take a girl out by himself, for dinner or whatever, and many customers just take the girls for dinner—many even take a couple of girls for dinner, mostly to impress their friends—he buys the girl out of the club, he pays the club a fee, the amount depends on the time left before closing. I don't know how much she gets of the fee, I think it's 30 percent, but what she makes outside is all hers, unless the mama-san negotiates for her before she leaves. Then the house gets a fee." "Always a fee?"

"It's a matter of face, Line. In this place, which is one of the best, to buy a girl out it would cost you about 80 HK an hour, about $16 U.S."

"That's not much," he said absently.

"Not much to a millionaire, my dear. But for thousands here, 80 HK has to last a family for a week."

Bartlett was watching her, wondering about her, wanting her, so glad that he didn't have to buy her out. Shit, that'd be terrible. Or would it? he asked himself. At least that way it'd be a few bucks, then in the sack and move on again. Is that what I want? "What?" she asked.

"I was just thinking what a rotten life these girls have." "Oh not rotten, not rotten at all," she said with the immense innocence he found shattering. "This is probably the best time in their lives, certainly the first time in their lives they've ever worn anything pretty, been flattered and sought after. What other kind of job can they get if you're a girl without a great education? Secretarial if you're lucky, or else in a factory, twelve to fourteen hours a day for 10 HK a day. You should go to one, Line, see the conditions. I'll take you. Please? You must see how people work, then you'll understand about us here. I'd love to be your guide. Now that you're staying you should know everything, Line, experience everything. Oh no, they think themselves lucky. At least for a short time in their lives they live well and eat well and laugh a lot." "No tears?"

"Always tears. But tears is a way of life for a girl." "Not for you."

She sighed and put her hand on his arm. "I've had my share. But you make me forget all the tears I've ever had." A sudden burst of laughter made them look up. The four Japanese businessmen were hunched down with six girls, their table loaded with drinks and more arriving. "I'm so happy I don't have to … have to serve the Japanese," she said simply, "I bless my joss for that. But they are the biggest spenders, Line, much more than any other tourists. They spend even more than the Shanghainese, so they get the best service even though they're hated and they know they're hated. They don't seem to care that their spending buys them nothing except falsehoods. Perhaps they know it, they're clever, very clever. Certainly they have a different attitude to pillowing and to Ladies of the Night, different from other people." Another burst of laughter. "Chinese call them long syin goufei in Mandarin, literally 'wolfs heart, dog's lungs,' meaning men without conscience." He frowned. "That doesn't make sense." "Oh but it does! You see Chinese cook and eat every part of fish, fowl or animal except for a wolfs heart and a dog's lungs. They're the only two things that you cannot flavor—they always stink whatever you do to them." She looked back at the other table. "To Chinese, Japanese men're long syin goufei. So is money. Money has no conscience either." She smiled a strange smile and sipped her liqueur. "Nowadays many mama-saws or owners will advance money to a girl to help her learn Japanese. To entertain, of course you have to communicate, no?"

Another bevy of girls went past and she saw them look at Bartlett and then at her speculatively and look away again. Orlanda knew they despised her because she was Eurasian and with a quai loh customer. They joined another table. The club was filling up. "Which one do you want?" she asked. "What?"

She laughed at his shock. "Oh come now, Line Bartlett, I saw your wandering eye. Is—"

"Stop it, Orlanda!" he said uncomfortably, a sudden edge to his voice. "In this place it's impossible not to notice."

"Of course, that's why I suggested it," she said immediately, forcing her smile steady, her reactions very fast and again she touched him, her hand tender on his knee. "I picked this place for you so you could feast your eyes." She note 10 snapped her fingers. instantly the maitre d' was there, kneeling politely beside their low table. "Give me your card," she said imperiously in Shanghainese, almost sick with an apprehension that she hid perfectly.

At once the man produced what looked like a playbill. "Leave me your flashlight. I'll call you when I need you."

The man went away. Like a conspirator she moved closer. Now their legs were touching. Line put his arm around her. She directed the pencil light at the playbill. There were photographs, portraits of twenty or thirty girls. Underneath each were rows of Chinese characters. "Not all these girls will be here tonight, but if you see one you like we'll bring her over."

He stared at her. "Are you serious?"

"Very serious, Line. You don't have to worry, I'll negotiate for you, if you like her, after you've met her and talked to her."

"I don't want one of these, I want you."

"Yes. Yes I know, my darling, and .. . but for tonight, bear with me, please. Play a little game, let me design your night."

"Jesus, you're something else!"

"And you're the most marvelous man I've ever known and I want to make your night perfect. I can't give you me now, much as I want to, so we'll find a temporary substitute. What do you say?"

Bartlett was still staring at her. He finished his drink and did not taste it. Another appeared out of nowhere. He drank half of it.

Orlanda knew the chance she was taking but felt that either way she would draw him tighter to her. If he accepted he would be beholden to her for an exciting night, a night that Casey or any quai loh woman would never in a thousand years have offered to him. If he refused, then he would still be grateful for her generosity. "Line, this is Asia. Here sex is not Anglo-Saxon mumbo-jumbo and guilt-ridden. It's a pleasure to be sought like great food or great wine. What's the value of one night to a man, a real man, with one of these Pleasure Ladies? A moment of pleasure. A memory. Nothing more. What has that to do with love, real love? Nothing. I'm not for one night or for hire. I felt your yang…. No please, Line," she added quickly as she saw him bridle. "About yang and yin things we cannot lie or tell falsehoods, that would destroy us. I felt you and I was filled with joy. Didn't you feel me? You're strong and a man, yang, and I'm a woman, yin, and when the music is soft and … Oh, Line." She put her hand around his and looked up at him beseechingly. "I beg you, don't be bound by Anglo-American nonsense. This is Asia and I —I want to be everything a woman could be for you."

"Jesus, you really mean it?"

"Of course. By the Madonna, I would like to be everything that you could desire in a woman," she said. "Everything. And I also swear that when I'm old or you no longer desire me I will help arrange that part of your life to be joyous, openly, freely. All that I would ask is to be tai-tai, to be part of your life." Orlanda kissed him lightly. And then she saw the sudden change in him. She saw the awe and his defenselessness and she knew she had won. Her glee almost swamped her. Oh Quillan, you're a genius, she wanted to shout. I never believed, truly believed, that your suggestion would be so perfect, I never believed that you were so wise, oh thank you thank you.

But her face showed none of this and she waited patiently, motionless.

"What does tai-tai mean?" he asked throatily. Tai-tai meant "supreme of the supreme," wife. By ancient Chinese custom, in the home the wife was supreme, all powerful. "To be part of your life," she said softly, her whole being shouting caution.

Again she waited. Bartiett leaned down and she felt his lips brush hers. But his kiss was different and she knew that from now on their relationship would be on a different plane. Her excitement soared. She broke the spell. "Now," she said as though to a naughty child, "now, Mr. Line Bartiett, which one do you choose?" "You."

"And I choose you, but meanwhile we have to decide which one you're going to consider. If these aren't to your liking we'll go to another club." Deliberately she kept her voice matter-of-fact. "Now what about her?" The girl was lovely, the one he had looked at. Orlanda had already decided against her and had chosen the one that she would prefer but, she thought contentedly, very sure of herself, the poor boy's entitled to an opinion. Oh I'm going to be such a perfect wife for you! "Her resume says she's Lily Tee—all the girls have working names they choose themselves. She's twenty, from Shanghai, speaks Shanghainese and Cantonese and her hobbies are dancing, boating and . . ." Orlanda peered at the tiny characters and he saw the lovely curve of her neck. "… and hiking. What about her?"

His eyes went to the picture. "Listen, Orlanda, I haven't been with a whore for years, not since I was in the army. I've never been much on them."

"I understand completely and you're right," she told him patiently, "but these aren't whores, not in the American sense. There's nothing vulgar or secret about them or what I propose. These are Pleasure Ladies who may offer you their youth which has great wine, in exchange for some of your money which has almost none. It's a fair exchange, given and received with face on both sides. For instance, you should know in advance how much she should receive and you must never give her the money directly, you must only put it into her handbag. That's important, and it's very important to me that your first encounter be perfect. I've got to protect your face too, an—"

"Come on, Orlan—"

"But I'm serious, Line. This choosing, this gift from me to you has nothing to do with you and me, nothing. What happens with us is joss. It's just important to me for you to enjoy life, to know what Asia is, really is, not what Americans think it is. Please?"

Bartiett was floundering now, all his well-tested signposts and guides shattered and useless against this woman who fascinated and astounded him.

He was drunk with her warmth and tenderness. All of him believed her.

Then, suddenly, he remembered and his inner self screamed caution. His euphoria fled. He had just remembered to whom he had mentioned how much he loved Italian food. Gornt. Gornt, a couple of days ago. Talking about the best meal he had ever had. Italian food with beer. Gornt. Jesus are these two in cahoots? Can't be, just can't be! Maybe I told her about the same meal. Did I?

He searched his mind but could not remember exactly, all of him rocked but his eyes kept seeing her waiting there, smiling at him, loving him. Gornt and Orlanda? They can't be in cahoots! No way! Even so, be cautious. You know almost nothing about her, so watch out for chrissake, you're in a web, her web. Is it a Gornt web too?

Test her, the devil in him shouted. Test her. If she means what she says then that's something else and she's from outer space and just as rare and you'll have to decide about her—you'll only have her on her terms.

Test her while you've the chance—you've nothing to lose.

"What?" she asked, sensing a change.

"I was just thinking about what you said, Orlanda. Shall I choose now?"

55

11:35 P.M. :

Suslev was sitting in the half-dark of their safe house at 32 Sinclair Towers. Because of his meeting with Grey he had changed the rendezvous with Arthur to here.

He sipped his drink in the dark. Beside him on the side table was a bottle of vodka, two glasses and the telephone. His heart thumped heavily as it always did when he was waiting for a clandestine meeting. Will I never get used to them? he asked himself. No. Tonight I'm tired though everything has gone beautifully. Grey's programmed now. That poor fool, driven by hatred and envy and jealousy! Center must further caution the leadership of the BCP about him—the trend's too vulnerable. And Travkin, once a prince, now nothing, and Jacques deVille—that impetuous incompetent— and all the others.

Never mind! Everything goes excellently. Everything's prepared against tomorrow and the arrival of the man Sinders. An involuntary shudder went through Suslev. I wouldn't want to be trapped by them. MI-6 are dangerous, committed and fanatic against us, like the CIA, but much worse. If the CIA and MI-6 plan, code name Anubis, to join Japan, China, England, Canada and America together ever comes to pass, Mother Russia will be ruined forever. Ah my country my country! How I miss Georgia, so beautiful and gentle and verdant.

The songs of his childhood, the folk songs of Georgia, welled up and took him back. He wiped away a small tear at the thought of so much beauty, so far away. Never mind, my leave's due soon. Then I'll be home. And my son will be home on leave at the same time from Washington with his young wife and their infant son, born so wisely in America. No trouble about a passport for him. He'll be our fourth generation to serve. We advance.

The darkness was pressing down on him. At Arthur's request, for further safety he had drawn the curtains and kept the windows closed though there was no possibility they could be seen. The apartment had air conditioning but again for safety he had been asked to leave it off, as well as the lights. It had been wise to leave the Finns' apartment before Grey in case there had been a change of plan and there was an SI tail on him. Crosse had told him there would be none tonight, though tomorrow another man would be assigned to him.

He had caught a taxi and stopped at Golden Ferry for the evening papers, pretending to lurch drunkenly in case he was being observed, then went to Rose Court and Clinker's and down the tunnel and then here. There was an SI man stationed outside Rose Court. The man was still outside and would stay there or not stay there. It made no difference.

The phone jangled. The sound made him jump even though the bell was carefully muted. Three rings, then silence. His heart picked up a beat. Arthur would be here shortly.

He touched the automatic that was secreted behind one of the cushions. Orders from Center. It was one of many orders he disapproved of. Suslev did not like guns, handguns. Guns could make mistakes, poison never. His fingers touched the tiny phial that was buried in his lapel close enough for his mouth to reach it. What would it be like to live without instant death so close?

Deliberately he relaxed and concentrated his senses like radar, wanting to sense Arthur's presence before it was actually there. Would Arthur use the front door or the back?

From where he was sitting he could see both doors. His ears searched carefully, mouth slightly open to increase their sensitivity. The whine of the elevator. His eyes went to the front door but the whine ceased floors below. He waited. The back door opened before he sensed anything. His insides fell over as he failed to recognize the dark shape. For a moment he was paralyzed. Then the shape straightened one shoulder and the slight stoop vanished.

"Kristosl" Suslev muttered. "You gave me a fright."

"All part of the service, old boy." The soft, clipped words were mixed with the dry, hacking, put-on cough. "Are you alone?"

"Of course!"

The shape moved noiselessly into the living room. Suslev saw the automatic being put away and he relaxed the hold on his but left it ready in hiding. He got up and stretched out his hand warmly. "You're on time for once."

They shook hands. Jason Plumm did not remove his gloves, "I very nearly didn't arrive," he said in his normal voice, the smile on the surface of his face only.

"What's wrong?" the Russian asked, reading the quality of the smile. "And why all the 'pull the curtains and keep the windows closed'?"

"I think this place may be under surveillance." "Eh?" Suslev's disquiet soared. "Why didn't you mention it before?"

"I said, I think it may be. I'm not sure. We've gone to a lot of trouble to make this a safe house and I don't want it blown for any reason." The tall Englishman's voice had a raw edge to it. "Listen, comrade, all hell's broken loose. Si's caught a fellow called Metkin off your ship. He—"

"What?" Suslev stared at him with pretended shock. "Metkin. He's supposed to be political comm—" "But that's impossible," Suslev said shakily, his acting consummate, hiding his delight that Metkin had fallen into his trap. "Metkin would never make a pickup himself!"

"Even so, SI have him! Armstrong got him and an American off the carrier. They caught them in the act. Does Metkin know about Sevrin?"

"No, absolutely not." "You're sure?"

"Yes. Even I didn't know until a few days ago when Center told me to take over from Voranski," Suslev said, the twisted truth coming easily.

"You're sure? Roger almost hit the roof! Metkin's supposed to be your political commissar, and a major, KGB. Is he?" "Yes, but it's ridic—"

"Why the devil didn't he or you or someone tell us you've an operation going so we could have been prepared in case of a foul-up! I'm head of Sevrin and now you're operating here without liaising or keeping me advised. It was always agreed. Voranski always told us in advance." "But, comrade," Suslev said placatingly, "I didn't know anything about a pickup. Metkin does what he wants. He's the chief, the senior man on the ship. I'm not party to everything—you know that!" Suslev was suitably apologetic and irritable, keeping up his perpetual cover that he was not the real arbiter of Sevrin. "I can't think what possessed Metkin to have made a pickup himself. Stupid! He must've been mad! Thank God he's a dedicated man and his lapel's poisoned so there's no n—"

"They got him intact."

Suslev gasped, now in real shock. He'd expected Metkin to be long since dead. "You're sure?"

"They got him intact. They got his real name, rank and serial number and right now he's on an RAF transport under heavy guard heading for London."

Suslev's mind blanked out for a moment. He had cunningly set up Metkin to take over from the agent who should have made the pickup. For months now he had found Metkin increasingly critical of him and nosy and therefore dangerous. Three times in the last year he had intercepted private reports to Center, written by his number two, criticizing the easy way he ran his ship and his job, and his liaison with Ginny Fu. Suslev was sure Metkin was preparing a trap for him, maybe even trying to guarantee his retirement to the Crimea—a plum posting—by pulling off some coup, like, for example, whispering to Center that he suspected there was a security leak aboard the Ivanov and that it must be Suslev.

Suslev shuddered. Neither Metkin, nor Center nor any of the others would need proof, just suspicion would damn him.

"It's definite Metkin's alive?" he asked, thinking through this new problem.

"Yes. You're absolutely sure he knows nothing about Sevrin?"

"Yes. Yes, I've already told you." Suslev sharpened his voice. "You're the only one who knows all the members of Sevrin, eh? Even Crosse doesn't know them all, does he?"

"No." Plumm went to the refrigerator and took out the bottle of water. Suslev poured himself a vodka, delighted that Sevrin had so many important safety valves within it: Plumm not aware that Roger Crosse was a KGB informer on the side . . . Crosse alone knowing Suslev's own real position in Asia but neither Crosse nor Plumm knowing his longtime connection with deVille . . . none of the other members knowing each other … and none of them aware of Banastasio and the guns or of the real extent of the Soviet thrust into the Far East.

Wheels within wheels within wheels and now Metkin, one of the faulty wheels, gone forever. It had been so easy to drop the honey to Metkin that safe acquisition of the carrier's armament manifest would guarantee promotion for the agent involved. "I'm surprised they caught him alive," he said, meaning it.

"Roger told me they had the poor bugger pinioned and a neck collar on him before he could get his teeth into the lapel." "Did they find any evidence on him?"

"Roger didn't say. He had to work so damned fast. We thought the best thing to do was to whisk Metkin out of Hong Kong as quickly as possible. We were petrified he knew about us, being so senior. It'll be easier to deal with him in London." Plumm's voice was grave.

"Crosse will resolve Metkin."

"Perhaps." Uneasily Plumm drank some more water. "How did SI get to know about the pickup?" Suslev asked, wanting to find out how much Plumm knew. "There must be a traitor aboard my ship."

"No. Roger said the leak came through an informer MI-6 has aboard the carrier. Even tlu. CIA didn't know."

"Kristos! Why the hell did Roger have to be so efficient?" "It was Armstrong. SI has checks and balances. But so long as Metkin knows nothing there's no harm!"

Suslev felt the Englishman's scrutiny. He kept his face guileless. Plumm was no fool. The man was strong, cunning, ruthless, a secret protege and selectee of Philby's. "I'm certain Metkin knows nothing that could damage us. Even so, Center should be informed at once. They can deal with it."

"I've already done that. I asked for Priority One help." "Good," Suslev said. "You've done very well, comrade. You and Crosse. Acquiring Crosse for the cause was a brilliant coup. I must congratulate you again." Suslev meant the compliment. Roger Crosse was a professional and not an amateur like this man and all the others of Sevrin.

"Perhaps I acquired him, perhaps he acquired me. I'm not sure sometimes," Plumm said thoughtfully. "Or about you, comrade. Voranski I knew. We'd done business over the years but you, you're a new, untried quantity."

"Yes. It must be difficult for you."

"You don't seem too upset about the loss of your superior."

"I'm not. I must confess I'm not. Metkin was mad to put himself in such danger. That was totally against orders. To be frank … I think there have been security leaks from the Ivanov. Metkin was the only long-term member of the crew, apart from Voranski, who had access ashore. He was considered to be beyond reproach but you never know. Perhaps he made other mistakes, a loose tongue in a bar, eh?"

"Christ protect us from fools and traitors. Where did AMG get his information?"

"We don't know. As soon as we do, that leak will be plugged."

"Are you going to be Voranski's permanent replacement?"

"I don't know. I have not been told."

"I don't like change. Change is dangerous. Who killed him?"

"Ask Crosse. I want to know too." Suslev watched Plumm back. He saw him nod, apparently satisfied. "What about Sinders and the AMG papers?" he asked.

"Roger's covered everything. No need to worry. He's sure we'll get to look at them. You'll have your copy tomorrow." Again Plumm watched him. "What if we're named in the reports?"

"Impossible! Dunross would have told Roger at once—or one of his friends in the police, probably Chop Suey Kwok," Suslev said with a sneer. "If not him, the governor. Automatically it would get back to Roger. You're all safe."

"Perhaps, perhaps not." Plumm went to the window and looked at the brooding sky. "Nothing's ever safe. Take Jacques. He's a risk now. He'll never make tai-pan."

Suslev let himself frown and then, as though it was a sudden idea, he said, "Why not guide him out of Hong Kong? Suggest to Jacques he ask to be posted to … say Struan's in Canada. He could use his recent tragedy as an excuse. In Canada he'll be in a backwater and he'll die on the vine there. Eh?"

"Very good idea. Yes, that should be easy. He has a number of good contacts there which might be useful." Plumm nodded. "I'll be a lot happier when we've read those files, and even happier when you find out how the hell AMG discovered us."

"He discovered Sevrin, not you. Listen, comrade, I assure you you're safe to continue your vital work. Please continue to do everything you can to agitate the banking crisis and the stock market crash."

"No need to worry. We all want that to happen."

The phone came to life. Both men stared at it. It only sounded once. One ring. The code, danger, leaped into their heads. Aghast

Suslev grabbed the hidden gun, remembering his fingerprints were on it as he hurtled through the kitchen for the back door, Plumm close behind him. He ripped open the door, letting Plumm through first onto the exit landing. At that moment there was the pounding of approaching feet and a crash against the front door behind them which held but buckled slightly. Suslev closed the back door silently, easing a bar into place. Another crash. He peered through a crack. Another crash. The front locks shattered. For an instant he saw the silhouettes of four men against the hall light, then he fled. Plumm was already down the stairs, covering him from the next landing, automatic out, and Suslev went down the steps three at a time past him to the next landing, then turned to cover in his turn. Above him the back door buckled nauseatingly. Silently Plumm ran past him and again covered him as they fled downward to the next landing. Then Plumm pulled away some camouflaging crates from the false door exit that branched off the main one. Footsteps noisily raced up toward them from downstairs. Another crash against the back door above. Suslev guarded as Plumm squeezed through the opening into the dark and he followed, pulling the partial door closed after him. Already Plumm had found the flashlight that was waiting in a clip. Footsteps raced closer. Cautiously Plumm led the way downward, both men moving well and silently. The footsteps passed with the sound of muffled voices. Both men stopped momentarily, trying to hear what was being said. But the sound was too indistinct and muted and they could not even tell if it was English or Chinese.

Plumm turned again and led the way downward. They hurried but with great caution, not wanting to make any unnecessary noise. Soon they were near the secret exit. Without hesitation the two men lifted the false floor and went below into the cool wet of the culvert. Once they were there and safe, they stopped for breath, their hearts pounding with the suddenness of it all. When he could talk, Suslev whispered, "Kuomintang?" Plumm just shrugged. He wiped the sweat off. A car rumbled overhead. He directed his light to the dripping ceiling. There were many cracks and another avalanche of stones and mud cascaded. The floor was awash with half a foot of water that covered their shoes.

"Best we part, old chap," Plumm said softly and Suslev noticed that though the man was sweating, his voice was icy calm and the light never wavered. "I'll get Roger to deal with whatever shower that was at once. Very bloody boring."

Suslev's heart was slowing. He still found it difficult to speak. "Where do we meet tomorrow?"

"I'll let you know." The Englishman's face was stark. "First Voranski, then Metkin and now this. Too many leaks." He jerked a thumb upward. "That was too close. Maybe your Metkin knew more than you think he did."

"No. I tell you he knew nothing about Sevrin, nothing, or about that apartment or Clinker or any of it. Only Voranski and me, we're the only ones who knew. There's no leak from our side."

"I hope you're right." Plumm added grimly, "We'll find out, Roger'll find out one way or another, one day, and then God help the traitor!"

"Good. I want him too."

After a pause Plumm said, "Call me every half an hour from various phone booths, from 7:30 P.M. tomorrow."

"All right. If for any reason there's a problem I'll be at Ginny's from eleven onwards. One last thing. If we don't get to look at the AMG papers, what's your opinion about Dunross?"

"His memory's incredible."

"Then we isolate him for a chemical interrogation?"

"Why not?"

"Good, tovarich. I'll make all the preparations."

"No. We'll snatch him and we'll deliver him. To the Ivanov?"

Suslev nodded and told him Metkin's suggestion of blaming the Werewolves, not saying it was Metkin's idea. "Eh?"

Plumm smiled. "Clever! See you tomorrow." He handed Suslev the flashlight, took out a pencil light and turned, going down the culvert, his feet still under water. Suslev watched until the tall man had turned the corner and vanished. He had never followed the culvert below. Plumm had told him not to, that it was dangerous and subject to rockfalls.

He took a deep breath, now over his fright. Another car rumbled heavily overhead. That's probably a truck, he thought absently. More mud and a piece of the concrete fell with a splash, startling him. Suslev waited, then began to pick his way carefully up the slope. Another tiny avalanche. Suddenly Suslev hated the subterranean tube. It made him feel insecure and doom ridden.

56

11:59 P.M.:

Dunross was looking at the sad hulk of the burned-out Floating Dragon restaurant that lay on her side in twenty feet of Aberdeen water. The other multistoried eating palaces that floated nearby were still blazing with lights, gaudy and noisy, filled to capacity, their new, hastily erected, temporary kitchens on barges beside their mother ships, cauldrons smoking, fires under the cauldrons, and a mass of cooks and helpers like so many bees. Waiters hurried up and down precarious gangways with trays and dishes. Sampans sailed nearby, tourists staring, Hong Kong yan gaping, the hulk a great attraction.

Part of the hulk's superstructure jutted out of the water. Salvage crews were already working on her under floodlights, salvaging her, readying to float what remained of her. On her part of the wharf and parking lot temporary roofing and kitchens were set up. Vendors were busily selling photographs of the blaze, souvenirs, foods of a hundred kinds, and a huge floodlit sign in Chinese and English proudly proclaimed that the new, ONLY TOTALLY MODERN AND FIREPROOF FLOATING RESTAURANT, THE FLOATING DRAGON would soon be in business, bigger than ever, better than ever… meanwhile sample the foods of our famous chefs. It was business as usual except that temporarily the restaurant was on land and not on the sea.

Dunross walked along the wharf toward one of the sea steps. There were clusters of sampans nearby, big and small. Most of these were for hire, each small craft with one sculler, a man, woman or child of any age, each craft with a hooped canvas covering that sheltered half of the boat from sun or rain or prying eyes. Some of the sampans were more elaborate. Those were the nighttime Pleasure Boats. Inside were reclining pillows and low tables, the better craft luxurious with plenty of room for two to eat and drink and then to pillow, the single oarsman discreetly not part of the cabin. You could hire one for an hour or a night and the boat would lazily float the byways. Other sampans would come with all manner of drinks and foods, fresh foods served piping hot, served delicately, and you and your lady could dream the night away in perfect privacy.

You could go alone if you wished. Then, out near one of the vast islands of boats, your sampans would rendezvous with Ladies of the Night and you could choose and barter and then drift. In the harbor you could satisfy any wish, any thirst, any desire—at little cost, the price fair whoever you were—if you could pay and were a man. Opium, cocaine, heroin, whatever you wanted.

Sometimes the food was bad or the singsong girl bad, but this was just joss, a regretted mistake and not deliberate. Sometimes you could lose your wallet but then only a simpleton would come among such prideful poverty to flaunt his wealth.

Dunross smiled, seeing a heavyset tourist nervously ease himself into one of the craft, helped by a chong-samed girl. You're in good hands, he thought, very glad with the hustle and bustle of business all around him, buying, selling, bartering. Yes, he told himself, Chinese are the real capitalists of the world.

What about Tiptop and Johnjohn's request? What about Lando Mata and Tightfist and Par-Con? And Gornt? And AMG and Riko Anjin and Sinders and . . .

Don't think about them now. Get your wits about you! Four Finger Wu hasn't summoned you to discuss the weather.

He passed the first sea steps and headed along the wharf to the main ones, the light from the streetlamps casting strong shadows. At once all the sampans there began to jostle for position, their owners calling out, beckoning. When he got to the top of the steps the commotion stopped.

"Tai-pan!"

A well-set Pleasure Boat with a Silver Lotus flag aft eased directly through them. The boatman was short, squat with many gold teeth. He wore torn khaki pants and a sweat shirt.

Dunross whistled to himself, recognizing Four Finger Wu's eldest son, the loh-pan, the head of Wu's fleet of Pleasure Boats. No wonder the other boats gave him leeway, he thought, impressed that

Goldtooth Wu met him personally. Nimbly he went aboard, greeting him. Goldtooth sculled swiftly away.

"Make yourself at home, tai-pan," Goldtooth said easily in perfect English-accented English. He had a B.Sc. from London University and had wanted to remain in England. But Four Fingers had ordered him home. He was a gentle, quiet, kind man whom Dunross liked.

"Thank you."

On the lacquered table was fresh tea and whiskey and glasses, brandy and bottled water. Dunross looked around carefully. The cabin was neat and lit with little lights, clean, soft and expensive. A small radio played good music. This must be Goldtooth's flagship, he thought, amused and very much on guard.

There was no need to ask where Goldtooth was taking him. He poured himself a little brandy, adding soda water. There was no ice. In Asia he never used ice.

"Christ," he muttered suddenly, remembering what Peter Marlowe had said about the possibility of infectious hepatitis. Fifty or sixty people have that hanging over their heads now, if they know it or not. Gornt's one of them too. Yes, but that sod's got the constitution of a meat ax. The bugger hasn't even had a touch of the runs. What to do about him? What's his permanent solution?

It was cool and pleasant in the cabin, half open to the breeze, the sky dark. A huge junk moved past, chugging throatily, and he lay back enjoying the tensions he felt, the anticipation. His heart was steady. He sipped the brandy, drifting, being patient.

The side of the sampan scraped another. His ears focused. Bare feet padded aboard. Two sets of feet, one nimble the other not. "Halloa, tai-pan!" Four Fingers said, grinning toothlessly. He ducked under the canopy and sat down. "How you okay?" he said in dreadful English.

"Fine and you?" Dunross stared at him, trying to hide his astonishment. Four Finger Wu was dressed in a good suit with a clean white shirt and gaudy tie and carried shoes and socks. The last time Dunross had seen him like this was the night of the fire and before that, the only other time years ago, at Shitee T'Chung's immense wedding.

More feet approached. Awkwardly Paul Choy sat down. "Evening, sir. I'm Paul Choy."

"Are you all right?" he asked, sensing great discomfort, and fear.

"Sure, yes, thank you, sir."

Dunross frowned. "Well this's a pleasure," he said, letting it pass. "You're working for your uncle now?" he asked, knowing all about Paul Choy, keeping up the pretense he and Four Fingers had agreed to, and very impressed with the young man. He had heard of his stock market coup through his old friend Soorjani.

"No sir. I'm with Rothwell-Gornt's. I just started a couple of days ago. I'm here to interpret … if you need me." Paul Choy turned to his father and explained what had been said.

Four Fingers nodded. "Blandeee?"

"It's fine, thank you." Dunross raised his glass. "Good you see, heya," he continued in English, waiting for the old man to begin in Haklo. It was a matter of face and, with the presence of Paul Choy, Dunross's latent caution had increased a thousandfold.

The old seaman chatted inconsequentially for a while, drinking whiskey. Paul Choy was not offered a drink, nor did he take one. He sat in the shadows, listening, frightened, not knowing what to expect. His father had sworn him to perpetual secrecy with hair-raising blood oaths.

Finally Wu gave up waiting the tai-pan out and started in Haklo. "Our families have been Old Friends for many years," he said, speaking slowly and carefully, aware that Dunross's Haklo was not perfect. "Very many years."

"Yes. Seaborne Wu and Struan's like brothers," the tai-pan replied cautiously.

Four Fingers grunted. "The present is like the past and the past the present. Heya?"

"Old Blind Tung says past and present same. Heya?"

"What does the name Wu Kwok mean to the tai-pan of the Noble House?"

Dunross's stomach twisted. "He your great-grandfather, heya? Your illustrious forebear. Son and chief admiral of even more illustrious sea warlord, Wu Fang Choi, whose flag, the Silver Lotus, flew all four seas."

"The very one!" Four Fingers leaned closer and Dunross's caution doubled. "What was the connection between Green-Eyed Devil … between the first tai-pan of the Noble House and the illustrious Wu Kwok?"

"They meet at sea. They meet in Pearl River Estuary off Wh—"

"It was near here, off Pok Liu Chau, between Pok Liu Chau and Aplichau." The old man's eyes were slits in his face.

"Then they meet off Hong Kong. The tai-pan went aboard Wu Kwok's flagship. He went alone and …" Dunross searched for the word. ". . . and he negotiate a, a bargain with him."

"Was the bargain written onto paper and chopped?"

"No."

"Was the bargain honored?"

"It is fornicating ill-mannered to ask such question from Old Friend when Old Friend opposite knows answer!"

Paul Choy jerked involuntarily at the sudden venom and slashing cut of the words. Neither man paid any attention to him.

"True, true, tai-pan," the old man said, as unafraid as Dunross. "Yes, the bargain was honored, though twisted, part was twisted. Do you know the bargain?"

"No, not all," Dunross said truthfully. "Why?"

"The bargain was that on each of your twenty clippers we put one man to train as a captain—my grandfather was one of these. Next, Green-Eyed Devil agreed to take three of Wu Kwok's boys and send them to his land to train them as foreign devils in the best schools, everything like his own sons would be trained. Next the tai—"

Dunross's eyes widened. "What? Who? Who are these boys? Who did they become?"

Four Finger Wu just smiled crookedly. "Next, Green-Eyed Devil agreed to get for the illustrious Wu Fang Choi a foreign devil clipper ship, armed and rigged and beautiful. Wu Fang Choi paid for her but the tai-pan arranged for her and called her Lotus Cloud. But when Culum the Weak delivered her, almost two years later, your fornicating chief admiral, Stride Orlov, the Hunchback, came out of the east like an assassin in the night and murdered our ship and Wu Kwok with her."

Dunross sipped his brandy, waiting, outwardly at ease, inwardly his brain shocked. Who could those boys be? Was that truly part of the bargain? There's nothing in Dirk's diary or testament about Wu Kwok's sons. Nothing. Who co—

"Heya?"

"I know about Lotus Cloud. Yes. And about men, captains. I think it was nineteen and not twenty clippers. But I know nothing about three boys. About Lotus Cloud, did my ancestor promise not to fight ship after he had give ship?"

"No. Oh no, tai-pan, no he did not promise that. Green-Eyed Devil was clever, very clever. Wu Kwok's death? Joss. We must all die. Joss. No, Green-Eyed Devil kept his bargain. Culum the Weak kept the bargain too. Will you keep his bargain?" Four Finger Wu opened his fist.

In it was the half-coin.

Dunross took it carefully, his heart grinding. They watched him like snakes, both of them, and he felt the strength of their eyes. His fingers shook imperceptibly. It was like the other half-coins that were still in Dirk's Bible, in the safe in the Great House, two still left, two gone, already redeemed, Wu Kwok's one of them. Fighting to control the trembling of his fingers, he handed the coin back. Wu took it, careless that his hand shook.

"Perhaps real," Dunross said, his voice sounding strange. "Must check. Where get it?"

"It's genuine, of course it's fornicating genuine. You acknowledge it as genuine?"

"No. Where get it?"

Four Fingers lit a cigarette and coughed. He cleared his throat and spat. "How many coins were there at first? How many did the illustrious Mandarin Jin-qua give Green-Eyed Devil?"

"I not sure."

"Four. There were four."

"Ah, one to your illustrious ancestor, Wu Kwok, paid and honored. Why would great Jin-qua give him two? Not possible—so this stolen. From whom?"

The old man flushed and Dunross wondered if he had gone too far.

"Stolen or not," the old man spat, "you grant favor. Heya?" Dunross just stared at him. "Heya? Or is the face of Green-Eyed Devil no longer the face of the Noble House?"

"Where get it?"

Wu stared at him. He stubbed out the cigarette on the carpet. "Why should Green-Eyed Devil agree to four coins? Why? And why would he swear by his gods that he and all his heirs would honor his word, heya?"

"For another favor."

"Ah, tai-pan, yes for a favor. Do you know what favor?"

Dunross stared back at him. "Honorable Jin-qua loaned the tai-pan, my great-great-grandfather, forty lacs of silver."

"Forty lac—$4 million. One hundred twenty years ago." The old man signed. His eyes slitted even more. Paul Choy was breathless, motionless. "Was a paper asked for? A debt paper chopped by your illustrious forebear—on the chop of the Noble House?"

"No."

"Forty lacs of silver. No paper no chop just trust! The bargain was just a bargain between Old Friends, no chop, just trust, heya?"

"Yes."

The old man's thumbless hand snaked out palm upward and held the half-coin under Dunross's face. "One coin, grant favor. Whoever asks. I ask."

Dunross sighed. At length he broke the silence. "First I fit half to half. Next make sure metal here same metal there. Then you say favor." He went to pick up the half-coin but the fist snapped closed and withdrew and Four Fingers jerked his good thumb at Paul Choy. "Explain," he said.

"Excuse me, tai-pan," Paul Choy said in English, very uneasily, hating the closeness of the cabin and the devil-borne currents in the cabin, all because of a promise given twelve decades ago by one pirate to another, both murdering cutthroats if half the stories were true, he thought. "My uncle wants me to explain how he wants to do this." He tried to keep his voice level. "Of course he understands you'll have reservations and want to be a thousand percent sure. At the same time he doesn't want to give up possession, just at this time. Until he's sure, one way or the other, he'd pr—"

"You're saying he doesn't trust me?"

Paul Choy flinched at the viciousness of the words. "Oh no, sir," he said quickly and translated what Dunross had said.

"Of course I trust you," Wu said. His smile was crooked. "But do you trust me?"

"Oh yes, Old Friend. I trust very much. Give me coin. If real, I tai-pan of Noble House will grant your ask—if possible."

"Whatever ask, whatever, is granted!" the old man flared.

"If possible. Yes. If real coin I grant favor, if not real, I give back the coin. Finish."

"Not finish." Wu waved his hand at Paul Choy. "You finish, quickly!"

"My … my uncle suggests the following compromise. You take this." The young man brought out a flat piece of beeswax. Three separate imprints of the half-coin had been pressed into it. "You'll be able to fit the other half to these, sir. The edges're sharp enough for you to be sure, almost sure. This's step one. If you're reasonably satisfied, step two's we go together to a government assayer or the curator of a museum and get him to test both coins in front of us. Then we'll both know at the same time." Paul Choy was dripping with sweat. "That's what my uncle says."

"One side could easily bribe the assayist."

"Sure. But before we see him we mix up the two halves. We'd know ours, you'd know yours—but he wouldn't, huh?"

"He could be got at."

"Sure. But if we … if we do this tomorrow and if Wu Sang gives you his word and you give him your word not to try a setup, it'd work." The young man wiped the sweat off his face. "Jesus, it's close in here!"

Dunross thought a moment. Then he turned his cold eyes on Four Fingers. "Yesterday I ask favor, you said no."

"That favor was different, tai-pan," the old man replied at once, his tongue darting like a snake's. "That was not the same as an ancient promise collecting an ancient debt."

"You ask your friends concerning my ask, heya?"

Wu lit another cigarette. His voice sharpened. "Yes. My friends are worried about the Noble House."

"If no Noble House, no noble favor, heya?"

The silence thickened. Dunross saw the cunning old eyes dart at Paul Choy and then back to him again. He knew he was entrapped by the coin. He would have to pay. If it was genuine he would have to pay, whether stolen or not. Stolen from whom, his mind was shouting. Who here would have had one? Dirk Struan never knew who the others had been given to. In his testament he had written that he suspected one went to his mistress May-may but there was no reason for such a gift by Jin-qua. If to May-may, Dunross reasoned, then it would have passed down to Shitee T'Chung, who was presently the head of the T'Chung line, May-may's line. Maybe it was stolen from him.

Who else in Hong Kong?

If the tai-pan or the Hag couldn't answer that one, I can't. There's no family connection back to Jin-qua!

In the heavy silence Dunross watched and waited. Another bead of sweat dropped off Paul Choy's chin as he looked at his father, then back at the table again. Dunross sensed the hate and that interested him. Then he saw Wu sizing up Paul Choy strangely. Instantly his mind leaped forward. "I'm the arbiter of Hong Kong," he said in English. "Support me and within a week huge profits can be made."

"Heya?"

Dunross had been watching Paul Choy. He had seen him look up, startled. "Please translate, Mr. Choy," he said.

Paul Choy obeyed. Dunross sighed, satisfied. Paul Choy had not translated "I'm the arbiter of Hong Kong." Again a silence. He relaxed, more at ease now, sensing both men had taken the bait.

"Tai-pan, my suggestion, about the coin, you agree?" the old man said.

"About my ask, my ask for money support, you agree?"

Wu said angrily, "The two are not interwoven like rain in a fornicating storm. Yes or no on the coin?"

"I agree on the coin. But not tomorrow. Next week. Fifth day."

"Tomorrow."

Paul Choy carefully interjected, "Honored Uncle, perhaps you could ask your friends again tomorrow. Tomorrow morning. Perhaps they could help the tai-pan." His shrewd eyes turned to Dunross. "Tomorrow's Friday," he said in English, "how about Monday at … at 4:00 P.M. for the coin?" He repeated it in Haklo.

"Why that time?" Wu asked irritably.

"The foreign devil money market closes at the third hour of the afternoon, Honored Uncle. By that time the Noble House will be noble or not."

"We will always be the Noble House, Mr. Choy," Dunross said politely in English, impressed with the man's skill—and shrewdness to take an oblique hint. "I agree."

"Heya?"

When Paul Choy had finished the old man grunted. "First I will check the Heaven-Earth currents to see if that is an auspicious day. If it is, then I agree." He jerked his thumb at Paul Choy. "Go aboard the other boat."

Paul Choy got up. "Thank you, tai-pan. Good night."

"See you soon, Mr. Choy," Dunross replied, expecting him the next day.

When they were quite alone, the old man said softly, "Thank you, Old Friend. Soon we'll do much closer business."

"Remember, Old Friend, what my forebears say," Dunross said ominously. "Both Green-Eyed Devil and her of Evil Eye and Dragon's Teeth—how they put a great curse and Evil Eye on White Powders and those who profit from White Powders."

The gnarled old seaman in the nice clothes shrugged nervously. "What's that to me? I know nothing of White Powders. Fornicate all White Powders. I know nothing of them."

Then he was gone.

Shakily Dunross poured a long drink. He felt the new motion of the sampan being sculled again. His fingers brought out the waxen imprints. A thousand to one the coin's genuine. Christ almighty, what will that devil ask? Drugs, I'll bet it's something to do with drugs! That about the curse and the Evil Eye was made up—not part of Dirk's bargain at all. Even so, I won't agree to drugs.

But he was ill-at-ease. He could see Dirk Struan's writing in the Bible that he had signed and endorsed, agreeing before God "to grant to whomsoever shall present one of the half-coins, whatsoever he shall ask, if it is in the tai-pan's power to give. …"

His ears sensed the alien presence before the sound arrived. Another boat scraped his gently. The pad of feet. He readied, not knowing the danger.

The girl was young, beautiful and joyous. "My name is Snow Jade, tai-pan, I'm eighteen years and Honorable Wu Sang's personal gift for the night!" Lilting Cantonese, neat chong-sam, high collar, long stockinged legs and high heels. She smiled, showing her lovely white teeth. "He thought you might be in need of sustenance."

"Is that so?" he muttered, trying to collect himself.

She laughed and sat down. "Oh yes, that's what he said and I'd like your sustenance also—I'm starving, aren't you? Honorable Goldtooth has ordered a morsel or two to whet your appetite: quick fried prawns with peapods, shredded beef in black bean sauce, some deep-fried dumplings Shanghai style, quick fried vegetables spiced with Szechuan cabbage and tangy Ch'iang Pao chicken." She beamed. "I'm dessert!"

FRIDAY

57

12:35 A.M. :

Irritably, Banker Kwang stabbed the doorbell again and again. The door swung open and Venus Poon screeched in Cantonese, "How dare you come here at this time of night without an invitation!" Her chin jutted and she stood with one hand on the door, the other imperiously on her hip, her low-cut evening dress devastating.

"Quiet, you mealy-mouthed whore!" Banker Kwang shouted back at her and shoved past into her apartment. "Who's paying the rent? Who bought all this furniture? Who paid for that dress? Why aren't you ready for bed? Wh—"

"Quiet!" Her voice was piercing and easily drowned out his. "You were paying the rent, but today's the day when the rent was due and where is it, heyaheyaheyaheya?"

"Here!" Banker Kwang ripped the check out of his pocket and waved it under her nose. "Do I forget my fornicating promises— no! Do you forget your fornicating promises—yes!"

Venus Poon blinked. Her rage disappeared, her face changed, her voice became laden with honey. "Oh did Father remember? Oh I was told you'd forsaken your poor lonely Daughter and gone back to the whores of 1 Blore Street."

"Lies!" Banker Kwang gasped, almost apoplectic even though it was the truth. "Why aren't you dressed for bed? Why are you wear—"

"But I was called by three different people who said you'd been there this afternoon at 4:15. Oh how terrible people are," she said crooningly, knowing that he was there though he only went to introduce Banker Ching from whom he was trying to borrow funds. "Oh poor Father, how dreadful people are." As she talked placat-ingly, she moved closer. Suddenly her hand snaked out and she snatched the check before he could withdraw it though her voice continued to be sweet. "Oh thank you, Father, from the bottom of my heart… oh kol" Her eyes crossed, her voice hardened and the screech returned. "The check is not signed, you dirty old dogmeat! It's another of your banker tricks! Oh oh oh I think I shall kill myself on your doorstep … no, better I shall do it in front of the TV camera, telling all Hong Kong how you … Oh oh oh. .. ." Her amah was in the living room now, joining in, wailing and caterwauling, both women swamping him in a swelter of invective, challenges and accusations.

Impotently he cursed them both back but that only made them increase their volume. He stood his ground for a moment, then, vanquished, pulled out a fountain pen with a flourish, grabbed the check and signed it. The noise ceased. Venus Poon took it and examined it carefully. Very very carefully. It vanished into her purse.

"Oh thank you, Honorable Father," she said meekly and abruptly whirled on her amah. "How dare you interfere in a discussion between the love of my life and your mistress, you lump of festering dogmeat. It's all your fault for spreading other people's cruel lies about Father's infidelity! Out! Fetch tea and food! Out! Father needs a brandy . . . fetch a brandy, hurry!"

The old woman pretended to buckle under the assumed rage and scuttled out in pretended tears. Venus Poon cooed and bustled and her hands were soft on Richard Kwang's neck.

At length, under their magic, he allowed himself to be mollified and helped to drink, groaning aloud all the time at his ill joss and how his subordinates, friends, allies and debtors had maliciously forsaken him, after he alone in the whole Ho-Pak empire had worked his fingers to their tendons, his feet to the flesh, worrying over all of them.

"Oh you poor man," Venus Poon said soothingly, her mind darting while her fingers were tender and deft. She had barely half an hour to reach her rendezvous with Four Finger Wu, and while she knew it would be wise to keep him waiting, she did not want to keep him waiting too long in case his ardor lagged. Their last encounter had excited him so much he had promised her a diamond if the performance was repeated.

"I guarantee it, Lord," she had gasped weakly, her skin clammy with sweat from two hours of concentrated labor, feeling herself afloat with the immensity of his at long last explosion.

Her eyes crossed as she remembered Four Finger Wu's prodigious efforts, his size, conformity and undoubted technique. Ayeeyah, she thought, still massaging the neck of her former lover, I will need every tael of energy and every measure of juice the yin can muster to dominate that old reprobate's yowling yang. "How is your neck, my dearest love?" she crooned.

"Better, better," Richard Kwang said reluctantly. His head had cleared and he was well aware that her fingers were as skilled as her mouth and her peerless parts.

He pulled her down onto his knee and confidently slipped his hand into the low-cut black silk evening dress that he had bought for her last week and fondled her breasts. When she did not resist, he slipped one strap off and complimented her on the size, texture, taste and shape of the whole. Her warmth shafted him and he stirred. At once his other hand went for the yin but before he knew it she had neatly squirmed out of his grasp. "Oh no, Father! Honorable Red's visiting me and as much as I wa—

"Eh?" Banker Kwang said suspiciously. "Honorable Red? Honorable Red's not due till the day after tomorrow!"

"Oh no, he arrived with storm th—"

"Eh? He's due the day after tomorrow. I know. I looked at my calendar and made sure before I came here! Am I a fool? Do I fish for a tiger in a stream? We have a long-standing date tonight, all night. Why else am I supposed to be in Taiwan? You're never early and ne—"

"Oh no it was this morning—the shock of the fire and the greater shock that you had forsaken me, br—"

"Come here, you little baggage—"

"Oh no, Father, Honorable R—"

Before she could avoid him, his hands darted out and he sat her back on his knees and began to lift her dress but Venus Poon was an old stager in this kind of warfare and champion of a hundred jousts, even though she was only nineteen. She fought him not, just pressed closer, twisted and got one hand on him, caressingly, and whispered throatily, "Oh but Father, it's very bad joss to interfere with Honorable Red and as much as I desire your immensity within, we both know there are other ways for the yin to titillate the vital vortex."

"But first I wan—"

"First? First?" Pleased with herself, she felt him strengthening. "Ah, how strong you are! It's easy to see why all the weevil-mouthed baggages want my old Father, ayeeyah, such a strong, violent, marvelous man."

Deftly she revealed the yang. Deftly she dominated it and left him gasping. "Bed, dearest love," he croaked. "First a brandy then a little sleep an—"

"Quite right, but not here oh no!" she said firmly, helping him up.

"Eh? But I'm supposed to be in Tai—"

"Yes, so you'd better go to your club!"

"But I—"

"Oh but you've exhausted your poor Daughter." She feigned weakness as she tidied him and had him up and at the door before he really knew what was happening. There, she kissed him passionately, swore eternal love, promised that she would see him tomorrow and closed the door behind him.

Shakily he stared at the door, his knees gone, his skin clammy, wanting to hammer on it to demand rest in the bed he had paid for. But he didn't. He had no strength and tottered to the elevator.

Going down, he suddenly beamed, delighted with himself. The check he had given her was for one month's rent only. She had forgotten he had agreed the month before to increase the amount by $500 a month. Eeeee, Little Marvelous Mouth, he chortled, the yang outsmarted the yin after all! Oh what a good drubbing I gave you tonight, and oh that Clouds and the Rain! Tonight it was truly the Small Death and the Great Birth and certainly cheap at twice one month's rent even with the increase!

Venus Poon finished brushing her teeth and began to repair her makeup. She spotted her amah in the bathroom mirror. "Ah Poo," she called shrilly, "fetch my raincoat, the old black one, and phone for a taxi . . . and hurry or I'll pinch both your cheeks!"

The old woman scurried to obey, delighted that her mistress was out of her foul mood. "I've already phoned for a taxi," she wheezed. "He'll be downstairs, waiting at the side entrance as soon as Mother gets there but you'd better give Father a few minutes in case he suspects something!"

. "Huh, that old Turtle Top's good for nothing now! All he has strength for is to fall into the back of his car and be driven to his club!"

Venus Poon put the finishing touches to her lips and smiled at herself in the mirror, admiring herself greatly. Now for the diamond, she thought excitedly.

"When see again, Paw'll?" Lily Su asked.

"Soon. Next week." Havergill finished dressing and reluctantly picked up his raincoat. The room they were in was small but clean and pleasant, and had a bathroom with hot and cold running water that the hotel management had had installed privately, at great cost, with the clandestine help of some experts in the water board. "I'll call you, as usual."

"Why sad, Paw'll?"

He turned and looked at her. He had not told her that soon he would be leaving Hong Kong. From the bed, she watched him back, her skin shiny and youth-filled. She had been his friend for almost four months now, not his exclusive friend since he did not pay her rent or other expenses. She was a hostess in the Happy Hostess Dance Hall that was his favorite nighttime meeting place, Kowloon side. The owner there, One Eye Pok, was an old and valued client of the bank over many years, and the mama-sa« a clever woman who appreciated his custom. He had had many Happy Hostess friends over the years, most for a few hours, some for a month, very few for longer, and only one bad experience in fifteen years—a girl had tried blackmail. At once he had seen the mama-saw. The girl had left that very night. Neither she nor her triad pimp was ever seen again.

"Why sad, heya?"

Because I'm leaving Hong Kong soon, he wanted to tell her. Because I want an exclusivity I can't have, mustn't have, dare not have—and have never wanted with any before. Dear God in Heaven how I want you.

"Not sad, Lily. Just tired," he said instead, the bank troubles adding to the weight upon him.

"Everything be all good," she said reassuringly. "Call soon, heya?"

"Yes. Yes I will." His arrangement with her was simple: a phone call. If he could not reach her directly he would call the mama-san and that night he would come to the dance hall, alone or with friends, and he and Lily would dance a few dances for face and drink some drinks and then she would leave. After half an hour he would pay his bill and come here—everything paid for in advance. They did not walk together to this private and exclusive meeting place because she did not wish to be seen on the streets or by neighbors with a foreign devil. It would be disastrous for a girl's reputation to be seen alone with a barbarian. In public. Outside of her place of work. Any girl of beddable age would at once be presumed to be the lowest type of harlot, a foreign devil's harlot and despised as such, sneered at openly, and her value diminished.

Havergill knew this. It did not bother him. In Hong Kong it was a fact of life. "Doh jeh, " he said, thank you—loving her, wanting to stay, or to take her with him. "Doh jeh, " he just said and left. Once alone she allowed the yawn that had almost possessed her many times this evening to overwhelm her and she lay back on the bed and stretched luxuriously. The bed was rumpled but a thousand times better than the cot in the room she rented in Tai-ping Shan. A soft knock. "Honored Lady?" "Ah Chun?"

"Yes." The door opened and the old woman padded in. She brought clean towels. "How long will you be here?"

Lily Su hesitated. By custom the client in this place of assignation paid for the room for the whole night. Also by custom, if the room was vacated early, the management returned part of the fee to the girl. "All night," she said wanting to enjoy the luxury, not knowing when she would have the opportunity again. Perhaps this client will have lost his bank and everything by next week. "Joss," she said, then. "Please put on the bath." Grumbling the old woman did as she was told then went away. Again Lily Su yawned, happily listening to the water gurgling. She was tired too. The day had been exhausting. And tonight her client had talked more than usual as she had rested against him, trying to sleep, not listening, understanding only a word here and there but quite content for him to talk. She knew from long experience that this was a form of release, particularly for an old barbarian. Very odd, she thought, all that work and noise and tears and money to achieve nothing but more pain, more talk and more tears. "Never mind if the yang is weak or if they talk or mumble or mutter their foul-sounding language or weep in your arms. Barbarians do that," her mama-san had explained. "Close your ears. And close your nostrils to the foreign devil smell and the old man smell and help this one enjoy a moment of pleasure. He's Hong Kong yan, an old friend, also he pays well, promptly, he's getting you quickly out of debt, and it's good face to have such a pillow patron. So be enthusiastic, pretend that he's virile and give value for his money." Lily Su knew she gave value for money received. Yes, my joss is very good and oh so much better than my poor sister and her patron. Poor Fragrant Flower and Noble House Chen Number One Son. What tragedy! What cruelty!

She shivered. Oh those terrible Werewolves! Terrible to cut off his ear, terrible to murder him and threaten all Hong Kong, terrible for my poor elder sister to be crushed to death by those smelly rotten dogmeat fishermen at Aberdeen. Oh what joss!

It was only this morning that she had seen a newspaper that had printed a copy of John Chen's love letter, recognizing it at once. For weeks they had laughed over it, she and Fragrant Flower, that and the other two letters that Fragrant Flower had left with her for safekeeping. "Such a funny man, with almost no yang at all and almost never even a little upstanding," her elder sister had told her. "He pays me just to lie there for him to kiss, sometimes to dance without clothes, and always promise to tell others how strong he is! Eeeee, he gives me money like water! For eleven weeks I have been his 'own true love'! If this continues for another eleven weeks . . . perhaps an apartment bought and paid for!"

This afternoon, fearfully, she had gone with her father to East Aberdeen Police Station to identify the body. They said nothing about knowing who the patron was. Wisely her father had said to keep that secret. "Noble House Chen will surely prefer that secret. His face is involved too—and the face of the new heir, what's his name, the young one with the foreign devil name. In a day or two I'll phone Noble House Chen and sound him out. We must wait a little. After today's news of what the Werewolves've done to Number One Son, no father'd want to negotiate."

Yes, Father's smart, she thought. It isn't for nothing that his fellow workers call him Nine Carat Chu. Thank all gods I have those other two letters.

After they had identified her sister's body, they had filled out forms with their real names and real family name Chu to claim her money, 4,360 HK in the name of Wisteria Su, 3,000 HK under Fragrant Flower Tak, all money earned outside the Good Luck Dance Hall. But the police sergeant had been inflexible. "Sorry, but now that we know her real name we have to announce it so that all her debtors can claim against her estate." Even a very generous offer of 25 percent of the money for immediate possession could not get through his rough manner. So they had left.

The rotten dogmeat foreign devil slave, she thought disgustedly.

Nothing will be left after the dance hall collects their debts. Nothing. Ayeeyah!

But never mind, she told herself as she lay down in the bath with glorious contentment. Never mind, the secret of the letters will be worth a fortune to Noble House Chen.

And Noble House Chen has more red notes than a cat has hairs.

Casey was curled up in the window of her bedroom, the lights out except for a small reading lamp over the bed. She was staring gloomily down at the street five stories below. Even this late, almost 1:30 A.M., the street was still snarled with traffic. The sky was low and misty, no moon, making the lights from the huge neon signs and columns of Chinese characters more dazzling, reds and blues and greens that reflected in the puddles and turned ugliness into fairyland. The window was open, the air cool and she could see couples darting between buses and trucks and taxis. Many of the couples were heading for the foyer of the new Royal Netherlands Hotel and a late-night snack at the European coffee shop where she had had a nightcap coffee with Captain Jannelli, their pilot.

Everyone eats so much here, she thought idly. Jesus, and so many people here, so much work to provide, so few jobs, so few at the top, one at the top of each, pile, always a man, everyone struggling to get there, to stay there . . . but for what? The new car the new house the new ensemble the new refrigerator the new gimmick or whatever.

Life's one long bill. Never enough of the green stuff to cope with the everyday bills let alone a private yacht or private condo on the shores of Acapulco or the Cote d'Azur, and the means to get there —even tourist.

I hate going tourist. First's worth it, worth it to me. Private jet's better, much better but I won't think about Line. . . .

She had taken Seymour Steigler to dinner upstairs and they had settled all the business problems, most of them legal problems he kept bringing up.

"We gotta make it watertight. Can't be too cautious with foreigners, Casey," he kept on saying. "They don't play the game according to good old Yankee rules."

As soon as dinner was finished she had feigned a load of work and left him. Her work was all done so she curled up in a chair and began to read, speed-read. Fortune, Business Week, The Wall Street Journal and several specialized business magazines. Then she had studied another Cantonese lesson, leaving the book till last. The book was Peter Marlowe's novel, Changi. She had found the dog-eared paperback in one of the dozens of street bookstalls in an alley just north of the hotel yesterday morning. It had given her great pleasure bargaining for it. The first asking price was 22 HK. Casey had bargained her down to 7.55 HK, barely $1.50 U.S. Delighted with herself and with her find she had continued window-shopping. Nearby was a modern bookshop, the windows stuffed with picture books on Hong Kong and China. Inside on a rack were three more paperbacks of Changi. New, they cost 5.75 HK.

At once Casey had cursed the old woman street seller for cheating her. But then the old hag wasn't cheating you at all, she had reminded herself. She outtraded you. After all, only a moment ago you were chortling because you'd trimmed her profit to nothing and God knows these people need profit.

Casey watched the street and the traffic on Nathan Road below. This morning she had walked up Nathan Road to Boundary Road, a mile and a half or so. It was on her list of things to see. It was a road like any other, snarled, busy, gaudy with street signs, except that everything north of Boundary Road to the border would revert to China in 1997. Everything. In 1898 the British had taken a ninety-nine-year lease on the land that extended from Boundary Road to the Sham Chun River where the new border was to be, along with a number of nearby islands. "Wasn't that stupid, Peter?" she had asked Marlowe, meeting him by chance in the hotel foyer at teatime.

"Now it is," he said thoughtfully. "Then? Well, who knows? It must have been sensible then or they wouldn't have done it."

"Yes, but God, Peter, ninety-nine years is so short. What possessed them to make it so short? Their heads must've been . . . must've been elsewhere!"

"Yes. You'd think so. Now. But in those days when all the British prime minister had to do was belch to send a shock wave around the world? World power makes the difference. In those days the British Lion was still the Lion. What's a small piece of land to the owners of a quarter of the earth?" She remembered how he had smiled. "Even so, in the New Territories there was armed opposition from the locals. Of course it fizzled. The then governor, Sir Henry Blake, took care of it. He didn't war on them, just talked to them. Eventually the village elders agreed to turn the other cheek, providing their laws and customs remained in effect, providing they could be tried under Chinese law if they wished and that Kowloon City remained Chinese."

"The locals here are still tried under Chinese law?"

"Yes, historic law—not PRC law—so you have to have British magistrates skilled in Confucian law. It's really quite different. For instance, Chinese law presumes that all witnesses will naturally lie, that it's their duty to lie and cover up, and it's up to the magistrate to find out the truth. He has to be a sort of legal Charlie Chan. Civilized people don't go in for swearing to tell the truth, all that sort of barbarism—they consider us mad to do that, and I'm not sure they're wrong. They've all kinds of crazy or sensible customs, depending how you look at it. Did you know it's quite legal here, throughout the Colony, to have more than one wife—if you're Chinese."

"Bully for them!"

"Having more than one wife really does have certain advantages."

"Now listen, Peter," she had begun hotly, then realized he was merely teasing her. "You don't need more than one. You've got Fleur. How are you both doing? How's the research? Would she like lunch tomorrow if you're busy?"

"Sorry to say but she's in the hospital."

"Oh God, what's the matter?"

He had told her about this morning and Doc Tooley. "I've just seen her. She's . . . she's not too good."

"Oh I am sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"No thanks. I don't think so."

"Just ask if there is. Okay?"

"Thanks."

"Line was right to jump into the water with her, Peter. Honestly."

"Oh of course, Casey. Please don't think for a moment. . . Line did what I… he did it better than I could. You too. And I think you both saved that other girl from lots of trouble. Orlanda, Or-landa Ramos."

"Yes."

"She should thank you forever. Both of you. She was panicked