Noble House

"Yes. How's the research coming?"

"Fine, thanks."

"Sometime I'd like to swap impressions. Hey, by the way, I found your book—I bought it—haven't read it yet but it's on top of the pile."

"Oh!" Casey remembered how he had tried to sound offhand. "Oh. I hope you like it. Well, I've got to be off, it's the kids' teatime too."

"Remember, Peter, if there's anything, just call me. Thanks for tea, and say hi to Fleur. . . ."

Casey stretched, an ache now in her back. She got off her perch and went back to bed. Her room was small and did not have the elegance of their suite—his suite now. He had decided to keep the second bedroom. "We can always use it as an office," he had said to her, "or keep it as a spare. Don't worry, Casey, it's all tax deductible and you never know when we might need a spare."

Orlanda? No, she wouldn't need that bed!

Casey, she ordered herself, don't be bitchy, or stupid. Or jealous. You've never been jealous, so jealous before. You set the rules. Yes, but I'm glad I moved out. That other night was tough, tough on Line and tough on me, worse for him. Orlanda will be good for him … oh shit on Orlanda.

Her mouth felt dry. She went to the refrigerator and got a bottle of iced Perrier and the nice tang of it made her feel better. I wonder how the earth makes those bubbles, she thought idly, getting onto the bed. Earlier, she had tried to sleep but her mind was jumbled and would not stop working, too much of the new—new foods, new smells, air, mores, threats, people, customs, cultures. Dunross. Gornt. Dunross and Gornt. Dunross and Gornt and Line. A new Line. A new you, frightened of a pretty piece of ass … yes, ass if you want to be vulgar and that's new for you too. Before you came here you were assured, dynamic, in charge of your world, and now you're not. All over her, not just over her, over that bitch Lady Joanna too with her so upper-class English accent, "Don't you remember, dear, it's our Over Thirty Club Lunch today. I mentioned it at the tai-pan's dinner. . . ."

Goddamn old bitch. Over thirty! I'm not even twenty-seven!

That's right, Casey. But you are all riled up like a mashed cat and it's not just her or Orlanda, it's also Line and the hundreds of available girls you've already seen and you haven't even looked in the dance halls and bars and houses where they specialize. Didn't Jannelli wind you up too?

"Jesus, Casey," he had said with a great beam, "it's like being back on R and R in my Korean days. It's still only 20 bucks and you're the top banana!"

That evening around ten, Jannelli had called to ask if she'd like to join him and the rest of the crew at the Royal Netherlands for a night snack. Her heart had turned over when the phone rang, thinking it was Line, and when she had found it wasn't she had pretended that she still had lots to do but had gratefully allowed herself to be persuaded. Once there she had had a double order of scrambled eggs and bacon and toast and coffee that she knew she did not want.

As a protest. A protest against Asia, Hong Kong, Joanna and Orlanda, and oh Jesus I wish I'd never got interested in Asia, never suggested to Line we should go international.

Why did you?

Because it's the only way for U.S. business to go—the only way –—the only way for Par-Con. Export. Multinational but export. And Asia's the biggest, most teeming untapped marketplace on earth and this is the century for Asia. Yes. And the Dunrosses and Gornts've got it made—if they go with us—'cause we've the greatest market in the world to back us, all the cash, technology, growth and expertise to do it.

But why did you go for Hong Kong so hot and heavy?

To get my drop dead money and to fill the time between now and my birthday—the end of the seventh year.

The rate you're going, she told herself, soon you'll have no job, no future, no Line to say yes or no to. A sigh took her. Earlier, she had gone to the master suite and had left Bartlett a batch of telexes and letters to sign with a "hope you had a good time" note. When she had come back from her night snack she had gone there again and taken back everything she had left him. "It's Orlanda that's really got you going. Don't fool yourself," she said out loud.

Never mind, tomorrow's another day. You can dump Orlanda easy, she told herself grimly, and now, having zeroed in on her enemy she felt better.

Peter Marlowe's dog-eared paperback caught her eye. She picked it up, plumped the pillows more comfortably and began to read. The pages slid by. Abruptly the phone went. She had been so engrossed she jumped and a sudden, vast happiness flooded her. "Hi, Line, did you have a good time?"

"Casey, it's me, Peter Marlowe, I'm terribly sorry to call so late but I checked and your room boy said your light was still on. … I hope I didn't wake you?"

"Oh, oh no Peter." Casey felt sick with disappointment. "What's up?"

"Sorry to call so late but there's a slight emergency, I've got to go to the hospital and I've . . . you said to call. I ho—"

"What is it?" Casey was completely zeroed in now.

"I don't know. They just asked if I'd come at once. The reason I called was about the kids. There'll be a room boy looking in every so often but I wanted to leave a note for them with your number in case they wake up, just in case they wake up, a friendly face to call so to speak. When we all met yesterday in the foyer, they both thought you a smasher. They probably won't wake but just in case. Could they call you? I'm sor—"

"Of course. Even better, why don't I come right over?"

"Oh no, I wouldn't think of it. If you j—"

"I'm not sleepy and you are right next door. It's no problem, Peter, I'm on my way. So you just go ahead to the hospital."

It took her only a minute to dress in pants and blouse and cashmere sweater. Before she even pressed the elevator button, Nighttime Song was there, wide-eyed and inquisitive. She volunteered nothing.

Downstairs, she crossed the foyer and went out onto Nathan Road, across the side road and into the foyer of the Annex. Peter Marlowe was waiting for her. "This's Miss Tcholok," he said hurriedly to the night porter. "She'll be with the kids till I return."

"Yes sir," the Eurasian said, equally wide-eyed. "The boy'll show you up, miss."

"Hope everything's okay, Peter. . . ." She stopped. He was out the swinging doors, trying to hail a cab.

The apartment was small, on the sixth floor, the front door ajar. The floor boy, Nighttime Po, shrugged and went off muttering, cursing barbarians … as if he couldn't look after two sleeping children who played hide and seek with him every evening.

Casey closed the door and peeked into the tiny second bedroom.

Both children were fast asleep in the bunk, Jane, the little one, in the upper berth and Alexandra sprawled in the lower one. Her heart went out to them. Blond, touseled, angelic, with teddy bears clutched in their arms. Oh how I'd love to have children, she thought. Line's children.

Would you? All the diapers, always locked in, sleepless nights and no freedom.

I don't know. I think so. Oh yes, for two like these, oh yes.

Casey didn't know whether to tuck them up or not. The air was warm so she decided to do nothing lest she wake them. In the refrigerator she found bottled water and this refreshed her and settled her racing heart. Then she sat in the easy chair. After a moment she took Peter's book out of her handbag and, once more, began to read.

Two hours later he returned. She had not noticed the time pass.

"Oh," she said, seeing his face. "She lost the baby?"

He nodded, dulled. "Sorry to be so long. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Sure, hey, Peter, let me d—"

"No. No thank you. I know where everything is. I'm sorry to put you to all this trouble."

"It's no trouble. She's all right though? Fleur?"

"They, they think so. It was the stomach cramps that did it, and the touch of enteric. Too soon to tell but there's no real danger there, that's what they said. The, the miscarriage, they said it's always a bit rough, physically and emotionally."

"I am so sorry."

He glanced back at her and she saw the strong, bent, lived-in face. "Not to worry, Casey. Fleur's all right," he said, holding his voice firm. "The, the Japanese believe that nothing's set until after birth, until after thirty days, thirty days for a boy and thirty-one for a girl, nothing's set, there's no soul, no personality, no person … up to that time there's no person." He turned back in the tiny kitchen and set the kettle to boil, trying to sound convincing. "It's, it's best to believe that, eh? How could it be anything but… but an it. There's no person till then, thirty-odd days after birth, so that doesn't make it so bad. It's still ghastly for the mother but not so bad. Sorry, I'm not making much sense."

"Oh you are. I hope she'll be all right now," Casey said, wanting to touch him, not knowing whether to or not. He looked so dignified in his misery, trying to sound so calm, yet just a little boy to her.

"Chinese and Japanese are really very sensible, Casey. Their … their superstitions make life easier. I suppose their infant mortality rate was so awful in olden days that that made some wise father invent that wisdom to save a mother's grief." He sighed. "Or more likely, some wiser mother invented it to succor a broken father. Eh?" .

"Probably," she said, out of her depth, watching his hands make the tea. First boiling water into the teapot, the pot rinsed carefully, then the water thrown away. Three spoons of tea and one for the pot, the boiling water brought to the pot. "Sorry we've no tea bags, I can't get used to them though Fleur says they're just as good and cleaner. Sorry, tea's all we've got." He brought the tea tray into the living room and set it on the dining table. "Milk and sugar?" he asked.

"Fine," she said, never having had it that way.

It tasted strange. But strong and life-giving. They drank in silence. He smiled faintly. "Christ, without a cuppa, eh?"

"It's great."

His eyes saw his half-opened book. "Oh!"

"I like what I've read so far, Peter. How true is it?"

Absently he poured himself another cup. "As true as any telling about any happening fifteen years after the event. As best as I can remember the incidents are accurate. The people in the book didn't live, though people like them did and said those sort of things and did those deeds."

"It's unbelievable. Unbelievable that people, youths could survive that. How old were you then?"

"Changi began when I was just eighteen and ended when I was twenty-one—twenty-one and a bit."

"Who're you in the book?"

"Perhaps I'm not there at all."

Casey decided to let that pass. For the time being. Until she had finished. "I'd better go. You must be exhausted."

"No, I'm not. Actually, I'm not tired. I've got some notes to write up—I'll sleep after the kids're off to school. But you, you must be. I can't thank you enough, Casey. I owe you a favor."

She smiled and shook her head. After a pause she said, "Peter, you know so much about this place, who would you go with, Dunross or Gornt?"

"In business, Gornt. For the future, Dunross, if he can weather this storm. From what I hear, though, that's not likely."

"Why Dunross for the future?"

"Face. Gornt hasn't the style to be the tai-pan—or the necessary background."

"Is that so important?"

"Totally, here. If Par-Con wants a hundred years of growth, Dunross. If you're in just for a killing, a quick in-and-out raid, go with Gornt."

She finished her tea thoughtfully. "What do you know about Orlanda?"

"Lots," he said at once. "But knowing scandal or gossip about a living person isn't the same as knowing legends or gossip about ancient times. Is it?"

She watched him back. "Even for a favor?"

"That's different." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you asking for a favor?"

She set her teacup down and shook her head. "No, Peter, not now. I might later but not now." She saw his frown deepen. "What?" she asked.

"I was wondering why Orlanda was a threat to you. Why tonight? Obviously, that leads to Line. That leads inevitably to: she's out with him now, which explains why you sounded so ghastly when I called."

"Did I?"

"Yes. Oh, of course, I'd noticed Line looking at her at Aberdeen and you looking at him and her looking at you." He sipped some tea, his face hardening. "That was quite a party. Lots of beginnings at that party, great tensions, big drama. Fascinating, if you can disassociate yourself from it. But you can't, can you?"

"Do you always watch and listen?"

"I try to train myself as an observer. I try to use my ears and eyes and other senses, properly, as they should be used. You're the same. Not much escapes you."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Orlanda's Hong Kong-trained and Gornt-trained and if you plan a clash with her over Line you'd better be prepared for a battle royal—if she's decided to try to grab him, which I don't know yet."

"Would Gornt be using her?"

After a pause, he said, "I'd imagine Orlanda's Orlanda's keeper. Aren't most ladies?"

"Most ladies gear their lives to a man, whether they want to or not."

"From what I know about you, you can take care of any opposition."

"What do you know about me?"

"Lots." Again the faint, easy, gentle smile. "Amongst them, that you're smart, brave and have great face."

"I'm so tired of face, Peter. In the future . . ." Her smile was equally warm. "From here on in, in my book, a person's going to gain ass—or arse as you call it—or lose it."

He laughed with her. "The way you say it sounds more ladylike."

"I'm no lady."

"Oh but you are." He added more gently, "I saw the way Line looked at you at Dunross's party too. He loves you. And he'd be a fool to swap you for her."

"Thank you, Peter." She got up and kissed him and left, at peace. When she got out of the elevator on her floor, Nighttime Song was there. He padded ahead of her and opened her door with a flourish. He saw her eyes go to the door at the end of the corridor.

"Master not home," he volunteered grandly. "Not yet come back."

Casey sighed. "You've just lost more ass, old friend."

"Eh?"

She shut the door, feeling pleased with herself. In bed, she began to read again. With the dawn she finished the book. Then she slept.

58

9:25 A.M. :

Dunross came around the corner in his Jaguar fast, climbing the winding road easily, then turned into a driveway and stopped an inch from the tall gates. The gates were set into high walls. In a moment a Chinese porter peered through the side door. When he recognized the tai-pan he opened the gates wide and waved him through.

The driveway curled and stopped outside an ornate Chinese mansion. Dunross got out. Another servant greeted him silently. The grounds were well kept and down a slope was a tennis court where four Chinese, two men and two women, were playing mixed doubles. They paid no attention to him and Dunross did not recognize any of them.

"Please follow me, tai-pan," the servant said.

Dunross hid his curiosity as he was shown into an anteroom. This was the first time he or anyone that he knew had ever been invited into Tiptop's home. The interior was clean and busy with the strange, careless but usual Chinese mixture of good lacquer antiques and ugly modern bric-a-brac. Walls were paneled and ornate with a few bad prints hanging on them. He sat down. Another servant brought tea and poured.

Dunross could feel that he was being observed but this too was usual. Most of these old houses had spyholes in the walls and doors —there were many even in the Great House.

When he had got back to the Great House this morning near 4:00 A.M. he had gone straight to his study and opened the safe. There was no doubt, with even a cursory glance, that one of the two remaining coins fitted the imprints that were in Four Finger Wu's beeswax matrix. No doubt at all. His fingers were trembling when he broke the half-coin from its restraining sealing wax in Dirk Struan's Bible and cleaned it. It fitted the indentations perfectly.

"Christ," he had muttered. "Now what?" Then he had put the matrix and the coin back into the safe. His eyes saw the loaded automatic and the empty space where AMG's files had been. Uneasily he had relocked the safe and went to bed. There was a message on his pillow: "Father dear: Will you wake me when you leave? We want to watch the tryouts. Love, Adryon. P.S. Can I invite Martin to the races Saturday please please please? P.P.S. I think he's super. P.P.P.S. You're super too. P.P.P.P.S. You're out late, aren't you? Now it's 3:16!!!!"

He had tiptoed to her room and opened her door but she was fast asleep. When he had left this morning he had had to knock twice to awaken her. "Adryon! It's 6:30."

"Oh! Is it raining?" she said sleepily.

"No. Soon will be. Shall I open the blinds?"

"No, Father dear, thank you . . . doesn't matter, Martin won't … won't mind." She had stifled a yawn. Her eyes had closed and, almost instantly, she was deep asleep again.

Amused, he had shaken her lightly but she had not come out of sleep. "Doesn't matter, Father. Martin won't . . ." And now, remembering how lovely she was and what his wife had said about the pill, he decided to make a very serious check on Martin Haply. Just in case.

"Ah, tai-pan, sorry to keep you waiting."

Dunross got up and shook the outstretched hand. "It's good of you to see me, Mr. Tip. Sorry to hear about your cold."

Tip Tok-toh was in his sixties, graying, with a round nice face. He wore a dressing gown and his eyes were red and his nose stuffed, his voice a little hoarse. "It's this rotten climate. Last weekend I went sailing with Shitee T'Chung and I must've caught a chill." His English accent was slightly American, perhaps Canadian. Neither Dunross nor Alastair Struan had ever been able to draw him out about his past, nor had Johnjohn or the other bankers any knowledge of him in banking circles in Nationalist China days, pre-1949. Even Shitee T'Chung and Phillip Chen who entertained him lavishly could not pry anything out of him. The Chinese had nicknamed him the Oyster.

"The weather has been bad," Dunross agreed pleasantly. "Thank God for the rain."

Tiptop motioned to the man beside him. "This is an associate, Mr. L'eung."

The man was nondescript. He wore a drab Maoist jacket and drab trousers. His face was set and cold and guarded. He nodded. Dun-ross nodded back. "Associate" could cover a multitude of positions, from boss to interpreter, from commissar to guard.

"Would you like coffee?"

"Thank you. Have you tried vitamin C to cure your cold?" Patiently Dunross began the formal chitchat that would precede the real reason for the meeting. Last night while he was waiting for Brian Kwok in the Quance Bar he had thought Johnjohn's proposal was worth a try so he had phoned Phillip Chen then and asked him to request an appointment early today. It would have been just as easy to have called Tiptop direct but that was not correct Chinese protocol. The civilized way was to go through a mutually friendly intermediary. Then, if the request was refused, you would not lose face, nor would the other person, nor would the intermediary.

He was listening to Tiptop with only half his head, making polite conversation, surprised they were still speaking English, because of L'eung. This could only mean the man's English was also perfect, and, possibly, that he did not understand either Cantonese or Shanghainese which Tiptop spoke and Dunross was fluent in. He fenced with Tiptop, waiting for the opening that at length the banker would give him. Then it came.

"This stock market crash on your stock must be very worrying for you, tai-pan."

"Yes, yes it is, but it's not a crash, Mr. Tip, just a readjustment. The market ebbs and flows."

"And Mr. Gornt?"

"Quillan Gornt is Quillan Gornt and always snapping at our heels. All crows under heaven are black." Dunross kept his voice matter-of-fact, wondering how much the man knew.

"And the Ho-Pak mess? That's a readjustment too?"

"No, no that's bad. I'm afraid the Ho-Pak's out of luck."

"Yes, Mr. Dunross, but luck hasn't much to do with it. It's the capitalistic system, that and ineptness by Banker Kwang."

Dunross said nothing. His eyes flicked momentarily to L'eung who sat stiffly, immobile and very attentive. His ears were concentrated and so was his mind, seeking the oblique currents under what was said. "I'm not party to Mr. Kwang's business, Mr. Tip. Unfortunately the run on the Ho-Pak's spilling over to other banks and that's very bad for Hong Kong and also, I think, bad for the People's Republic of China."

"Not bad for the People's Republic of China. How can it be bad for us?"

"China is China, the Middle Kingdom. We of the Noble House have always considered China to be the mother and father of our house. Now our base in Hong Kong's under siege, a siege that's actually meaningless—just a temporary lack of confidence and a week or so of cash. Our banks have all the reserves and all of the wealth and strength they need to perform … for old friends, old customers and ourselves."

"Then why don't they print more money if the currency's so strong?"

"It's a matter of time, Mr. Tip. It's not possible for the mint to print enough Hong Kong money." Even more patiently, Dunross answered the questions, knowing now that most were for the benefit of L'eung, which suggested L'eung was senior to Tiptop, a more senior Party member, a nonbanker. "Our interim solution would be to bring in, at once, a few aircraft loads of pounds sterling to cover withdrawals." He saw both men's eyes narrow slightly.

"That would hardly support the Hong Kong dollar."

"Yes, yes our bankers know that. But Blacs, the Victoria and Bank of England decided this would be best in the interim. We just don't have enough Hong Kong cash to satisfy every depositor."

The silence thickened. Dunross waited. Johnjohn had told him he believed the Bank of China did not have substantial reserves of pounds because of the currency restrictions on their movement in and out of Britain but had very substantial amounts of Hong Kong dollars for which there were no export restrictions.

"It would not be at all good for the Hong Kong dollar to be weakened," Tip Tok-toh said. He blew his nose noisily. "Not good for Hong Kong."

"Yes."

Tip Tok-toh's eyes hardened and he leaned forward. "Is it true, tai-pan, that the Orlin Merchant Bank won't renew your revolving fund?"

Dunross's heart picked up a beat. "Yes."

"And true that your fine bank will not cover this loan or advance you enough to stave off the Rothwell-Gornt attack on your stock?"

"Yes." Dunross was very pleased to hear the calm quality of his voice.

"And true that many old friends have refused credit to you?"

"Yes."

"And true that the … the person Hiro Toda arrives this afternoon and requires payment for ships ordered from his Japanese shipyards shortly?"

"Yes."

"And true that Mata and Tung and their Great Good Luck Company of Macao have tripled their normal order for gold bullion but will not help you directly?"

"Yes." Dunross's already fine-tuned concentration increased.

"And true that the running-dog Soviet hegemonists have once more, impudently, very very impudently, applied for a banking charter in Hong Kong?"

"I believe so. Johnjohn told me they had. I'm not sure. I would presume he would not tell me a falsehood."

"What did he tell you?"

Dunross repeated it verbatim, ending, "Certainly the application would be opposed by me, the boards of all British banks, all the tai-pans and the governor. Johnjohn also said the hegemonists had the temerity to offer immediate and substantial amounts of HK dollars to assist them in their present trouble."

Tip Tok-toh finished his coffee. "Would you like some more?"

"Thank you." Dunross noted that L'eung poured and he felt he had achieved a great step forward. Last night he had delicately mentioned the Moscow bank to Phillip Chen, knowing that Phillip would know how to pass the information on, which would of course indicate to such an astute man as Tiptop the real reason for the urgent meeting and so give him the necessary time to contact the decision-maker who would assess its importance and ways to acquiesce or not. Dunross could feel a sheen of sweat on his forehead and prayed that neither of the men opposite him noticed it. His anxiety would push the price up—if a deal was to be made.

"Terrible, terrible," Tiptop said thoughtfully. "Terrible times! Old Friends forsaking Old Friends, enemies being welcomed to the hearth . . . terrible. Oh by the way, tai-pan, one of our old friends asks if you could get him a shipment of goods. Thorium oxide I think it was."

With a great effort Dunross kept his face clean. Thorium oxide was a rare earth, the essential ingredient for old-fashioned gas mantles: it made the mantle emit its brilliant white light. Last year he had happened to hear that Hong Kong had recently become the greatest user after the United States. His curiosity had peaked as Struan's were not in what must clearly be a profitable trade. Quickly he had found out that access to the material was relatively easy and that the trade was prodigious, quite secret, with many small importers, all of them very vague about their business. In nature, thorium occurred in various radioactive isotopes. Some of these were easily converted into fissionable uranium 235, and thorium 232 itself was an enormously valuable breeder material for an atomic pile. Of course, these and many other thorium derivatives were restricted strategic materials but he had been astounded to discover the oxide and nitrate, chemically easily convertible, were not.

He could never find out where the thorium oxides actually went. Of course into China. For a long time, he and others had suspected the PRC of having a crash atomic program, though everyone believed it had to be formulative and at least ten years from fruition. The idea of China nuclear armed filled him with mixed feelings. On the one hand, any nuclear proliferation was dangerous; on the other, as a nuclear power China would instantly become a formidable rival to Soviet Russia, even an equal to Soviet Russia, even a threat, certainly unconquerable—particularly if it also had the means to deliver a retaliatory strike.

Dunross saw both men looking at him. The small vein in L'eung's forehead was pulsing though his face was impassive. "That might be possible, Mr. Tip. How much would be needed and when?"

"I believe immediately, as much as can be obtained. As you know, the PRC is attempting to modernize but much of our lighting is still by gas."

"Of course."

"Where would you obtain the oxides or nitrates?"

"Australia would probably be the quickest, though I've no idea at this moment about quality. Outside of the United States," he added delicately, "it's only found in Tasmania, Brazil, India, South Africa, Rhodesia and the Urals … big deposits there." Neither man smiled. "I imagine Rhodesia and Tasmania'd be best. Is there anyone Phillip or I should deal with?"

"A Mr. Vee Cee Ng, in Princes Building."

Dunross bit back a whistle as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Mr. Vee Cee Ng, Photographer Ng, was a great friend of Tsu-yan, the missing Tsu-yan, his old friend and associate who had mysteriously fled into China over the Macao border. Tsu-yan had been one of the thorium importers. Up to now, the connection had been meaningless. "I know Mr. Ng. By the way, how is my old friend, Tsu-yan?"

L'eung was plainly startled. Bull's-eye, Dunross thought grimly, shocked that he had never once suspected Tsu-yan of being Communist or having Communist leanings.

"Tsu-yan?" Tiptop frowned. "I haven't seen him for a week or more. Why?"

"I heard he was visiting Peking by way of Macao."

"Curious! That's very curious. I wonder why he'd want to do that —an arch-capitalist? Well, wonders will never cease. If you'd be kind enough to contact Mr. Ng direct, I'm sure he will give you the details."

"I'll do that this morning. As soon as I get back to the office."

Dunross waited. There would be other concessions before they would grant what he sought, if it was to be granted. His mind was racing with the implication of their first request, how to get thorium oxides, whether to get them, wanting to know how far along the PRC was with its atomic program, knowing they would never tell him that. L'eung took out a pack of cigarettes and offered it.

"No thanks," he said.

Both men lit up. Tiptop coughed and blew his nose. "It's curious, tai-pan," he said, "very curious that you go out of your way to help the Victoria and Blacs and all your capitalist banks while the strong rumor is that they'll not help you in your need."

"Perhaps they'll see the error of their ways," Dunross said. "Sometimes it's necessary to forget present advantages for the common good. It would be bad for the Middle Kingdom for Hong Kong to falter." He noted the scorn on L'eung's face but it did not bother him. "It's ancient Chinese doctrine not to forget Old Friends, trusted ones, and as long as I'm tai-pan of the Noble House and have power, Mr. Tip, I and those like me—Mr. Johnjohn for one, our governor for another—will give eternal friendship to the Middle Kingdom and will never permit hegemonists to thrive on our barren rock."

Tiptop said sharply, "It is our barren rock, Mr. Dunross, that is presently administered by the British, is it not?"

"Hong Kong is and always was earth of the Middle Kingdom."

"I will let your definition pass for the moment but everything in Kowloon and the New Territories north of Boundary Road reverts to us in thirty-five-odd years doesn't it—even if you accept the Unequal Treaties forced on our forebears which we don't."

"My forebears have always found their Old Friends wise, very wise, and never men to cut off their Stalks to spite a Jade Gate."

Tiptop laughed. L'eung continued to be set-faced and hostile.

"What do you forecast will happen in 1997, Mr. Dunross?"

"I am not Old Blind Tung, nor a soothsayer, Mr. Tip." Dunross shrugged. "1997 can take care of 1997. Old friends will still need old friends. Heya?"

After a pause Tiptop said, "If your bank will not help the Noble House, nor Old Friends, nor Orlin, how will you remain the Noble House?"

"My forebear, Green-Eyed Devil, was asked the same question by the Great and Honorable Jin-qua when he was beset by his enemies, Tyler Brock and his scum, and he just laughed and said, 'Neng che to lao'—an able man has many burdens. As I'm abler than most I have to sweat more than most."

Tip Tok-toh smiled with him. "And you are sweating, Mr. Dunross?"

"Well, let me put it this way," Dunross told him cheerfully, "I'm trying to avoid the eighty-fourth. As you know, Buddha said that all men have eighty-three burdens. If we succeed in eliminating one we automatically acquire another. The secret of life is to adjust to eighty-three and avoid at all costs acquiring the eighty-fourth."

The older man smiled. "Have you considered selling part of your company, perhaps even 51 percent?"

"No, Mr. Tip. Old Green-Eyed Devil forbade that." The lines around Dunross's eyes crinkled. "He wanted us to sweat."

"Let us hope you don't have to sweat too much. Yes." Tiptop stubbed out his cigarette. "In troubled times it would be good for the Bank of China to have a closer liaison with your banking system. Then these crises would not be so continuous."

Instantly Dunross's mind leaped forward. "I wonder if the Bank of China would consider having a permanent contact stationed within the Vic and an equivalent one in yours?" He saw the fleeting smile and knew he had guessed correctly. "That would ensure close monitoring of any crisis, and assist you should you ever need international assistance."

"Chairman Mao advises self-help and that's what we are doing. But your suggestion might be worthwhile. I will be glad to pass it on."

"I'm sure the bank would be grateful if you would recommend someone to be their contact with the great Bank of China."

"I would be glad to pass that on too. Do you think Blacs or the Victoria would advance the necessary foreign exchange for Mr. Ng's imports?"

"I'm sure they'd be delighted to be of service, the Victoria certainly. After all, the Victoria has had a century and more of association with China. Wasn't it instrumental in making most of your foreign loans, railway loans, aircraft loans?"

"To great profit," Tiptop said dryly. His eyes darted at L'eung who was staring intently at Dunross. "Capitalist profit," he added thinly.

"Quite," Dunross said. "You must excuse us capitalists, Mr. Tip. Perhaps our only defense is that many of us are Old Friends of the Middle Kingdom."

L'eung spoke to Tiptop briefly in a dialect Dunross did not understand. Tiptop answered him affirmatively. Both men looked back at him. "I'm sorry but you must excuse me now, Mr. Dunross, I really must get some medication. Perhaps you'd phone me here after lunch, say around 2:30."

Dunross got up and stretched out his hand, not sure if he had succeeded but very sure he had better do something about the thorium very quickly, certainly before 2:30. "Thank you for seeing me."

"What about our fifth race?" The older man peered up at him, walking with him to the door.

"Noble Star's worth a bet. Each way."

"Ah! Butterscotch Lass?"

"Same."

"And Pilot Fish?"

Dunross laughed. "The stallion's good but not in the same class, unless there's an act of God, or the devil."

They were at the front door now and a servant had opened it wide. Again L'eung spoke in the dialect Dunross did not recognize. Again Tiptop answered affirmatively and led the way outside. At once L'eung walked off down toward the tennis court.

"I'd like you to meet a friend, a new friend, Mr. Dunross," Tiptop said. "He could, perhaps, be doing a lot of business with you in the future. If you wish."

Dunross saw the flinty eyes and his good humor vanished.

The Chinese coming back with L'eung was well formed, fit and in his forties. His hair was blue-black and tousled from his game, his tennis clothes modern, smart and American. On the court behind him, the other three waited and watched. All were fit and well dressed.

"May I introduce Dr. Joseph Yu from California? Mr. Ian Dunross."

"Hi, Mr. Dunross," Joseph Yu said with easy American familiarity. "Mr. Tip's filled me in on you and Struan's—happy to meet you. Mr. Tip thought we should meet before I leave—we're going into China tomorrow, Betty 'n' I, my wife and I." He waved a vague hand toward one of the women on the tennis court. "We're not expecting to come back for some time so I'd like to make a date to meet in Canton in a month or so." He glanced back at Tiptop. "No trouble about Mr. Dunross's visa, anything like that?"

"No, Dr. Yu. Oh no. None at all."

"Great. If I give you a call, Mr. Dunross, or Mr. Tip does, can we arrange something at a couple days' notice?"

"Certainly, if all the paper work's done." Dunross kept the smile on his face, noticing the assured hardness in Yu. "What had you in mind?"

"If you'll excuse us," Tiptop said, "we'll leave you two together." He nodded politely and went back inside with L'eung.

"I'm from the States," Yu continued cheerfully, "American born, Sacramento. I'm third-generation California though I was educated, in part, in Canton. My Ph.D. is from Stanford, aerospace engineering, my specialty rocketry and rocket fuels. NASA's where I've spent my best years, best since college." Yu was no longer smiling. "The equipment I'll be ordering will be all manner of sophisticated metallurgy and aerospace hardware. Mr. Tip said you'd be our best bet as the importer. The British, then the French and Germans, maybe Japanese will be the manufacturers. You interested?"

Dunross listened with growing concern that he did not bother to hide.

"If it's not strategic and not restricted," he said.

"It'll be mostly strategic and mostly restricted. You interested?"

"Why're you telling me all this, Dr. Yu?"

Yu's mouth smiled. "I'm going to reorganize China's space program." His eyes slitted even more as he watched Dunross carefully. "You find that surprising?"

"Yes."

"So do I." Yu glanced at his wife, then back to Dunross. "Mr. Tip says you're to be trusted. He feels you're fair and since you owe him one or two, you'll pass on a message for me." Yu's voice hardened. "I'm telling you so that when you read about my demise or kidnapping or some 'while his mind was disturbed' crap, you'll know it's all lies and as a favor will pass back that message to the CIA and from them up the line. The truth!" He took a deep breath. "I'm leaving of my own free will. We both are. For three generations our folk and my people, who're the best goddamn immigrants there are, have been kicked around in the States by Americans. My old man was in the First World War and I helped make the Big Bang, but the last goddamn straw was two months ago. June 16. Betty V I wanted a house in Beverly Hills. Are you familiar with Beverly Hills in Los Angeles?"

"Yes."

"We were turned down because we were Chinese. The son of a bitch came out and said it. 'I'm not selling to goddamn Chinese.' That wasn't the first time, hell no, but the son of a bitch said it in front of Betty and that was it. That was the big one!" Yu's lips twisted with anger. "Can you imagine the stupidity of that bastard? I'm the best there is in my field and that red-neck horse's ass says 'I'm not selling to Chinese.'" He spun his racket in his hands. "You'll tell them?"

"Do you want me to pass this information on privately or publicly? I will quote you verbatim if you wish."

"Privately to the CIA, but not before next Monday at 6:00 P.M. Okay? Then next month, after our Canton meeting, it's public. Okay, Mr. Dunross?"

"Very well. Can you give me the name of the house seller, the date, any details?"

Yu took out a typed slip of paper.

Dunross glanced at it. "Thank you." There were two names and addresses and phone numbers in Beverly Hills. "Both the same refusal?"

"Yes."

"I'll take care of it for you, Dr. Yu."

"You think that's petty, huh?"

"No, I don't think so at all. I'm just so sorry that it happened and happens everywhere—to all sorts of people. It's greatly saddening." Dunross hesitated. "It happens in China, Japan, here all over the world. Chinese and Japanese, Vietnamese, all manner of people, Dr. Yu, are sometimes equally intolerant and bigoted. Most times very much more so. Aren't we all called quai loh?"

"It shouldn't happen Stateside—not Americans to Americans. That's my bitch."

"Do you think once you're inside China, you'll be allowed to go in and out freely?"

"No. But I don't give a damn about that. I'm going freely. I'm not being tempted by money or being blackmailed to go. I'm just going."

"What about NASA? I'm surprised they allowed such nonsense to happen in the first place."

"Oh we had a fine house on offer, but it wasn't where we wanted to live. Betty wanted that goddamn house and we had the money and position to pay for it, but we couldn't get in. It wasn't just that son of a bitch, it was the neighborhood too." Yu wiped a thread of hair out of his eyes. "They didn't want us so I'm going where I am wanted. What about China having a nuclear retaliatory strike force of its own? Like the French, eh? What do you think of that?"

"The idea of anyone having A– or H-bomb tipped rockets fills me with horror."

"They're just the weapons of the day, Mr. Dunross, just the weapons of the day."

"Jesus Christ!" Johnjohn said, aghast.

Havergill was equally shocked. "Dr. Joseph Yu's really top bracket, Ian?"

"Absolutely. I phoned a friend in Washington. Yu's one of two or three in the world—rockets and rocket fuel." It was after lunch. Dunross had just told them what had transpired this morning. "It's also true no one knows he's going over the border, even that he's left Hawaii where he's supposed to be on vacation—he told me he traveled here quite openly."

"Christ," Johnjohn said again. "If China gets experts like him

…" He twisted the paper knife that was on Havergill's desk. "Ian, have you considered telling Roger Crosse, or Rosemont to prevent that?"

"Of course, but I can't do that. I absolutely can't."

"Of course Ian can't! Have you considered what's at stake?" Havergill jerked an angry thumb at the window. Fourteen floors below he could see an impatient, angry mob of people trying to get into the bank, the police stretched very thin now. "Let's not delude ourselves, the run is on, we're getting down to the bottom of the barrel. We barely have enough cash to last the day, barely enough to pay government employees. Thank God it's Saturday tomorrow! If Ian says there's a chance we could get China's cash, of course he can't risk giving away such a confidence! Ian, did you hear the Ho-Pak's closed its doors?"

"No. I've been chasing around like a blue-arsed fly since I left Tiptop."

"The Ching Prosperity closed too, the Far East and India's tottering, Blacs is eking out its reserves and like us, praying they can last the next half an hour to closing." He shoved the phone across his pristine desk. "Ian, please call Tiptop now, it's just 2:30."

Dunross kept his face stony and his voice level. "There're a couple of things to settle first, Paul. What about the thorium imports?" He had told them he had contacted Photographer Ng who had happily given him an immediate firm order for as much of the rare earth as he could obtain. "Will you provide the foreign exchange?"

"Yes, provided the trade is not restricted."

"I'll need that in writing."

"You'll have it before closing tonight. Please call him now."

"In ten minutes. It's a matter of face. You'll agree to having a permanent Bank of China contact in the building?"

"Yes. I'm sure they'll never let one of our people inside their building, but no matter." Havergill glanced at his watch again, then looked at Johnjohn. "The fellow'd have to be monitored and we might have to change a few procedures for security, eh?"

Johnjohn nodded. "Yes, but that shouldn't cause any problem,' Paul. If it was Tiptop himself, that would be perfect. Ian, do you think there's a chance?"

"I don't know. Now, what about the Yu trade?"

Havergill said, "We can't finance any smuggling. You would of necessity be on your own."

"Who said anything about smuggling?"

"Quite. Then let me say we'll have to take a careful look at the Yu trade when and if you are asked to assist them."

"Come on, Paul, you know damn well it's part of the deal—if there's a deal. Why else would they have wanted me to meet him?"

Johnjohn interjected, "Why not table that one, Ian? We'll bend every which way to assist you when the time comes. You told Yu the same thing—that you'd wait and see but no actual commitment, eh?"

"But you agree to help in every way to assist me?"

"Yes, on this and the thorium."

"Then what about my loan?"

Paul Havergill said, "I'm not permitted to grant it, Ian. We've already been through that."

"Then call a board meeting right now."

"I'll consider it. Let's see how things're going, eh?" Paul Havergill pressed a button and spoke into the small speaker. "Stock Exchange, please."

In a moment a voice came over the speaker. Behind the voice they could hear pandemonium. "Yes, Mr. Havergill?"

"Charles, what's the latest?"

"The whole market's off 28 points . . ." Both bankers blanched. The small vein in Dunross's forehead was pulsing. "… and it looks like the beginning of a panic. The bank's off 7 points, Struan's is down to 11.50. . ."

"Christ!" Johnjohn muttered.

"… Rothwell-Gornt off 7, Hong Kong Power off 5, Asian Land 11 … everything's skidding. All bank stocks are tumbling. The Ho-Pak's frozen at 12 and when it gets unfrozen it'll go to a dollar. The Far East and India is only paying out maximum 1,000 a customer."

Havergill's nervousness increased. Far East was one of the biggest in the Colony.

"I hate to be a pessimist but it looks like New York in '29! I th—" The voice was drowned out by a surge of shouting. "Sorry, there's another huge sell offering up on Struan's. 200,000 shares. …"

"Christ, where the hell's all the stock coming from?" Johnjohn asked.

"From every Tom, Dick and Harry in Hong Kong," Dunross said coldly. "Including the Victoria."

"We had to protect our investors," Havergill said, then added into the mike, "Thank you, Charles. Call me back at a quarter to three." He clicked the speaker off. "There's your answer, Ian. I cannot in all conscience recommend to the board we bail you out with another unsecured 100 million loan."

"Are you going to call a board meeting right now or not?"

"Your stock's plunging. You've no assets to pledge to support the run on your stock, your bank holdings are already pledged, the stock in your treasury gets more valueless every minute. On Monday or Tuesday, Gornt will buy back in and then he'll control Struan's."

Dunross watched him. "You'll let Gornt take us over? I don't believe you. You'll buy in before he does. Or have you already made a deal to split up Struan's between you?"

"No deal. Not yet. But if you'll resign from Struan's right now, agree in writing to sell us as much of your treasury stock as we want at market price at Monday's closing, agree to appoint a new tai-pan of our board's choosing, we'll announce that we're supporting Struan's totally."

"When would you make the announcement?"

"Monday at 3:10."

"In other words you'll give me nothing."

"You've always said the best thing about Hong Kong was that it was a free marketplace, where the strong survive and the weak perish. Why didn't you persuade Sir Luis to withdraw your stock from trading?"

"He suggested it. I refused."

"Why?"

"Struan's is as strong as ever."

"Wasn't the real reason face—and your foolish pride? Sorry, there's nothing I can do to prevent the inevitable."

"Balls!" Dunross said and Havergill flushed. "You can call a meeting. You can c—"

"No meeting!"

"Ian." Johnjohn tried to soften the open hostility between the two men. "Listen, Paul, how about a compromise: If, through Ian, we get China's cash, you will call a meeting of the board at once, an extraordinary meeting, today. You could do that—there are enough directors in town, and it's fair. Eh?"

Havergill hesitated. "I'll consider it."

"That's not good enough," Dunross said hotly.

"I'll consider it. Kindly call Tipt—"

"When's the meeting? If?"

"Next week."

"No. Today as Johnjohn suggests."

"I said I'll consider it," Havergill said, flaring. "Now please call Tiptop."

"If you'll guarantee to call the board no later than tomorrow at ten!"

Havergill's voice harshened. "I will not be blackmailed as I was the last time. If you don't want to call Tiptop, I will. I can now. If they want to lend us their money, they'll lend it to us whoever the hell calls. You've agreed to the thorium deal, you've agreed to meet Yu next month, we agree to support that deal whoever controls the Noble House. I am not empowered to grant you any further loans. So take it or leave it. I will consider calling a board meeting before Monday's market opens. That's all I promise."

The silence was heavy and electric.

Dunross shrugged. He picked up the phone and dialed.

"Weyyyyy?" The woman's voice was arrogant.

"The Honorable Tip Tok-toh please," he said in Cantonese. "This is the tai-pan."

"Ah, the tai-pan. Ah, please wait a moment." Dunross waited. A bead of sweat gathered on the bottom of Johnjohn's chin. "Weyyyy? Tai-pan, the doctor's with him, he's very sick. Please call back later!" The phone clicked off before Dunross could say anything. He redialed.

"This's the tai-pan, I wan—"

"This phone is terrible." The amah doubled her volume. "He's sick," she shouted. "Call back later."

Dunross called in ten minutes. Now the line was busy. He kept on trying with no luck.

There was a knock and the harassed chief cashier hurried in. "Sorry, sir, but there's no let up in the queues, we've a quarter of an hour to go. I suggest we limit withdrawals now, say a thou—"

"No," Havergill said at once.

"But sir, we're almost empty. Don't y—"

"No. The Victoria must keep going. We must. No. Keep honoring every penny."

The man hesitated, then went out. Havergill mopped his brow.

Johnjohn too. Dunross dialed again. Still busy. Just before three he tried a last time, then dialed the phone company asking them to check the line. "It's temporarily out of order, sir," the operator said. Dunross put the phone down. "Twenty to a brass farthing it's deliberately off the hook." His watch read 3:01. "Let's find out about the market."

Havergill wiped the palms of his hands. Before he could dial, the phone rang. "Chief cashier, sir. We've … we're all right now. Last customer has been paid. The doors've closed. Blacs just made it too, sir."

"Good. Check the remaining currency in the vault and call me back."

"Thank God it's Friday," Johnjohn said. Havergill dialed. "Charles? What's the latest?" "The market finished off 37 points. Our stock's off 8 points." "Christ," Johnjohn said. The bank had never fallen so much before, even during the '56 riots. "Struan's?" "9.50."

Both bankers looked at Dunross. His face was impassive. He redialed Tiptop as the stockbroker continued to reel off the closing prices. Again a busy signal. "I'll call again from the office," he said. "The moment I get him I'll call you. If no China money, what are you going to do?"

"There are only two solutions. We wait for the pounds, the governor declaring Monday a bank holiday or as long as we need. Or we accept the Moscow trade-bank offer."

"Tiptop was bloody clear that'll backfire. That'll throw a monkey wrench in Hong Kong forever." "Those are the only solutions."

Dunross got up. "There's only one. By the way, did the governor phone you?"

"Yes," Havergill said. "He wants us to open the vaults at 6:00 P.M. for him, you, Roger Crosse and some fellow called Sinders. What's all that about?" "Didn't he tell you?"

"No. Just that it was something covered by the Official Secrets Act."

"See you at six." Dunross walked out. Havergill wiped more sweat off with a handkerchief. "The only good thing about all this is that that arrogant sod's in worse trouble," he muttered angrily. He dialed Tiptop's number. And again. The interoffice phone rang. Johnjohn picked it up for Havergill. "Yes?"

"This is the chief cashier, sir. There's only 716,027 HK in the vault." The man's voice trembled. "We're . . . that's all we've left, sir."

"Thank you." Johnjohn put the phone down and told Havergill. The deputy chairman did not answer, just redialed Tiptop's number. It was still busy. "You'd better open a dialogue with the Soviet contact."

Johnjohn went red. "But that's impossible—"

"Do it! Do it now!" Havergill, equally choleric, redialed Tiptop. Still busy.

Dunross went into his office.

"Mr. Toda's here with the usual entourage, tai-pan." Claudia did not hide her distaste or nervousness.

"Show them in please."

"Mr. Alastair called twice—asked that you call him back the moment you come in. And your father."

"I'll call them later."

"Yes sir. Here's the telex for Nelson Trading from Switzerland confirming that they've purchased triple the regular order of gold for the Great Good Luck Company of Macao."

"Good. Send a copy to Lando at once and request the funds."

"This telex is from Orlin Merchant Bank confirming they regret they cannot renew the loan and require payment."

"Telex them, Thank you.' "

"I checked with Mrs. Dunross and they arrived safely."

"Good. Get Kathy's specialist's home number so I can call him over the weekend."

Claudia made another note. "Master Duncan called from Sydney to say he had a great evening and he's on the Monday Qantas flight. Here's a list of your other calls."

He glanced at the long list, wondering fleetingly if his son was no longer a virgin, or was not even before the lovely Sheila. Thinking of a lovely sheila reminded him again of the exquisite Snow Jade. Curious her name was Snow Jade—she reminded me so much of Elegant Jade who's somewhere in Taipei in charge of a House of Many Pleasures. Perhaps the time's come to find Elegant Jade and thank her. Once more he remembered old Chen-chen's admonition when he was dying. "Listen, my son," old Chen-chen had whispered, his voice failing, "never try to find her. You will take away her face and take away beauty, both from her and from you. Now she'll be old, her Jade Gate withered and her pleasures will come from good food and good brandy. Children of the Pleasure World do not age well, nor do their tempers. Leave her to her joss and to her memories. Be kind. Always be kind to those who give you their youth and their yin to succor your yang. Eeeee, how I wish I was as young as you again. . . ."

Dunross sighed. His evening with Snow Jade had been impeccable. And filled with laughter.

"I don't eat dessert," he had replied at once. "I'm on a diet." "Oh ko, not you, tai-pan. I help you lose weight never mind." "Thank you but no dessert and never in Hong Kong." "Ah! Four Fingers said you'd say that, tai-pan, and for me not to be shamed." She had beamed and poured him a whiskey. "I'm to say, Have passport can travel."

They had laughed together. "What else did Four Fingers say?"

The tip of her tongue touched her lips. "Only that foreign devils are mighty very peculiar in some things. Like saying no dessert! As if it mattered." She watched him. "I've never been with a barbarian before."

"Oh? Some of us are really quite civilized." Dunross smiled to himself, remembering how tempted he was, their banter and the great meal, everything good-humored and satisfying. Yes. But that doesn't forgive that old bastard Four Fingers, nor the half-coin, nor the theft of the half-coin, he thought grimly, nor the trap that he thinks he has me in. But all that comes later. First things come first. Concentrate, there's a lot to do before you sleep tonight!

The list Claudia had given him was long, most of the calls urgent, and two hours of work were ahead of him. Tiptop wasn't on the list, nor Lando Mata, Tightfist Tung, Four Fingers or Paul Choy. Casey and Bartlett were there. Travkin, Robert Armstrong. Jacques de-Ville, Gavallan, Phillip Chen, Dianne Chen, Alan Holdbrook— Struan's in-house stockbroker—Sir Luis, and dozens of others spread throughout the world. "We'll get to them after Hiro Toda, Claudia."

"Yes sir."

"After Toda, I want to see Jacques—then Phillip Chen. Anything on Mrs. Riko Gresserhoff?"

"Her plane's due in at 7:00 P.M. She's booked into the V and A and she'll be met. Flowers are in her room."

"Thank you." Dunross went into his office and stared out of the window. For the time being he had done everything he could for the Nobie House and for Hong Kong. Now it was up to joss. And the next problem. The ships. His excitement picked up.

"Hello, tai-pan."

"Hello, Hiro." Dunross shook the outstretched hand warmly.

Hiro Toda, managing director of Toda Shipping Industries was of an age with Dunross, trim, hard, and much shorter, with wise eyes and a ready smile, his accent slightly American from two years of postgraduate work at UCLA in the late forties. "May I introduce my associates: Mr. Kazunari, Mr. Ebe, Mr. Kasigi."

The three younger men bowed and Dunross bowed back. They were all dressed in dark suits, well cut, with white shirts and subdued ties.

"Please sit down." Airily Dunross waved to the chairs around the small conference table. The door opened and his Japanese interpreter and assistant, Akiko, came in. She brought a tray with green tea, introduced herself, poured the tea delicately, then took her seat near Dunross. Though his Japanese was easily good enough for a business meeting she was necessary for face.

Partially in Japanese, partially in English, he began the polite conversation about inconsequential matters, that by Japanese custom preceded serious discussion. It was also Japanese custom that business meetings were shared by many executives, the more senior the executive, usually the more people who came with him.

Dunross waited patiently. He liked the other man. Hiro Toda was titular head of the great shipping conglomerate that had been founded by his great-grandfather almost a hundred years before. His forebears were daimyos, feudal lords, until feudalism and the samurai class was abolished in 1870 and modern Japan began. His authority in Toda Shipping was outwardly all powerful, but as frequently happened in Japan, all real power was centered in the hands of his seventy-three-year-old father who, ostensibly, was retired.

At length Toda came to the point. "This stock market collapse must be very worrying, tai-pan."

"A temporary loss of confidence. I'm sure everything will work itself out over the weekend."

"Ah yes. I hope so too."

"How long are you staying, Hiro?"

"Till Sunday. Yes Sunday. Then on to Singapore and Sydney. I shall be back for the closing of our business with you next week. I'm glad to tell you your ships are ahead of schedule." Toda put a sheaf of papers on the table. "Here's a detailed report."

"Excellent!" Dunross swung to the attack, blessing the gods and AMG and Kirk. Coming home last night he had suddenly realized the enormity of the key AMG and Kirk had given him to a plan he had been working on for almost a year. "Would you like to bring forward your payment schedule?"

"Ah!" The other man covered his surprise. "Perhaps I could discuss that with my colleagues later but I'm glad to hear that everything is in control then, and the takeover bid contained."

"Didn't Sun Tzu say, 'He who exercises no forethought but makes light of his opponents is sure to be captured by them'? Gornt is certainly snapping at our heels, of course the run on our banks is serious, but the worst is over. Everything's just fine. Don't you think we should expand the amount of business we're doing together?"

Toda smiled. "Two ships, tai-pan? Giants by present standards. In one year? That's not a minor connection."

"It could perhaps be twenty-two ships," he said, outwardly nonchalant, his whole being concentrated. "I have a proposal for you, in fact for all Japanese shipbuilding industrial complexes. At the moment you just build ships and sell them, either to gai-jin— outsiders—to ourselves for example, or to Japanese shippers. If to Japanese shippers, your operating costs with the high cost of Japanese crews—which by your law you have to carry—are already becoming noncompetitive, like American ships with American crews. Soon you won't be able to compete with the Greeks, with others and with us, because our costs will be so much lower."

Dunross saw them all concentrating on Akiko who was translating almost simultaneously and he thought with glee of another Sun Tzu saying: "In all fighting, the direct method may be used for joining battle but indirect methods will be needed to secure victory." Then he continued, "Second point: Japan has to import everything it needs to support its rising economy and standard of living and its industrial complex, and certainly the 95 percent of all energy it needs to sustain it. Oil's the key to your future. Oil has to come to you seaborne, so do all your bulk raw materials—always carried by bulk cargo ships. Always seaborne. You're building the great ships very efficiently, but as shipowners your operating costs and your own internal tax structure are going to drive you out of the marketplace. My proposal for you is simple: You stop trying to own your own uneconomic merchant fleets. You sell your ships abroad on a lease-back basis."

"What?"

Dunross saw them staring at him, astounded. He waited a moment, then continued, "A ship's life is, say fifteen years. You sell your bulk carrier say to us, but as part of the deal lease it back for fifteen years. We supply the captain and crew and operate her. Prior to delivery, you charter the ship to Mitsubishi or another of your own great companies for bulk supplies over fifteen years—coal, iron ore, rice, wheat, oil, whatever you want. This system guarantees Japan a continuous supply of raw material, set up at your whim and controlled by Japanese. Japan Inc. can increase its financing to you, because you yourselves, in effect, are the carriers of your own vital raw materials.

"Your industries can plan ahead. Japan Inc. can afford to assist financially selected buyers of your ships, because the purchase price is easily covered by the fifteen years charter. And since the ships are on long-term charter, our bankers, like Blacs and the Victoria, will also be happy to finance the rest. Everyone gains. You gain most because you ensure a long-term supply line under your control. And I haven't yet mentioned the tax advantages to you, to Toda Industries particularly!"

Dunross got up in a dead silence, the others staring at him, and went to his desk. He brought back some stapled reports. "Here's a tax study done by our people in Japan with specific examples, including methods to depreciate the ship's cost for added profit. Here's a suggested plan for bulk carriers. This one documents various ways Struan's could assist you in charters, should we be one of the foreign shippers chosen. For example, Woolara Mines of Australia are prepared, at our direction, to enter into a contract with Toda Industries to supply 95 percent of their coal output for one hundred years." Toda gasped. So did the others when Akiko had translated.

Woolara Mines was a huge, highly efficient and productive mine. "We could assist you in Australia which is the treasury of Asia —supplying all the copper, wheat, foodstuffs, fruit, iron ore you need. I'm told privately there are new, immense deposits of high-grade iron ore just discovered in Western Australia within easy access of Perth. There's oil, uranium, thorium, and other precious materials you require. Wool. Rice. With my scheme you control your own flow of materials, the foreign shippers get ships and a steady cash flow to finance and order more ships, to lease back, to carry more and more raw materials and more cars, more television sets, more electronic goods, and more goods outward bound to the States—and heavy industry plants and machines to the rest of the world. Last, back to your most vital import of all: oil. Here's a suggested pattern for a new fleet of bulk oil carriers, half a million to a million tons dead weight each."

Toda gasped and abruptly finished the translation himself. Astounded, they all sucked in their breath when he mentioned the half a million to a million tons.

Dunross sat back enjoying the tension. He watched them glance at one another, then at Toda, waiting for him to react.

"I… I think we had better study your proposals, tai-pan," Toda said, trying to keep his voice level. "Obviously they are far-reaching. May we get back to you later?"

"Yes. You're coming to the races tomorrow? Lunch'll be 12:45." "Thank you, yes, if it's not too much trouble," Toda said with sudden nervousness, "but it would be impossible for us to have an answer by that time."

"Of course. You got your invitations and badges?" "Yes, thank you. I, er, I hope everything turns out well for you. Your proposal certainly sounds far-reaching."

They left. For a moment Dunross allowed himself to enjoy the excitement. I've got them, he thought. Christ, in a year we can have the biggest fleet in Asia, all totally financed, with no risks to financier, builder, operator or supplier, with oil tankers, huge tankers as its nucleus—if we can weather this typhoon.

All I need's some luck. Somehow I've got to stave off the crash till Tuesday when we sign with Par-Con. Par-Con pays for our ships, but what about Orlin and what about Gornt?

"Mr. Jacques's on his way up, tai-pan. Mr. Phillip's in his office and'll come up whenever you're ready. Roger Crosse called, your appointment's at 7:00 P.M. instead of 6:00. He said Mr. Sinders's piane was late. He's informed the governor and everyone connected."

"Thank you, Claudia." He glanced at his list of calls. He dialed the V and A and asked for Bartlett. He was out. "Miss Tcholok please."

"Hello?"

"Hello! Ian Dunross returning your call and Line Bartlett's call. How're things?"

There was a slight pause. "Interesting. Tai-pan, can I drop by?"

"Of course. How about cocktails at 6:15 at the Mandarin? That'd give me half an hour-odd before my next appointment. Eh?" A twinge of anxiety went through him at the thought of Crosse, Sind-ers and AMG's admonition about never giving up the files.

"Is it possible for me to come by the office? I could leave now and be there in half to three quarters of an hour? I have something to talk over with you. I'll make it as short as possible."

"All right. I may have to keep you waiting a moment or two but come on over." He put the phone down, frowning. What's up there?

The door opened. Jacques deVille came in. He looked careworn and tired. "You wanted me, tai-pan?"

"Yes, sit down, Jacques. I understood you were going to be on the plane last night."

"We talked, Susanne and I, and she thought it best for Avril if I waited a day or two. . . ."

Dunross listened with fascination as they began to talk, still astounded that Jacques could be a Communist plant. But now he had thought through the possibility. It was easily possible for Jacques, being young, an idealist and in the Maquis during the hated and terrible Nazi occupation of France to have had his idealistic nationalism and anti-Nazi feelings channeled into communism— Christ, wasn't Russia our ally in those days? Wasn't communism fashionable everywhere in those days even in America? Didn't Marx and Lenin seem so sensible then? Then. Before we knew the truth about Stalin, about gulags and KGB and police state and mass murders and mass conquests and never freedom.

But how could all that Communist nonsense last for someone like Jacques? How could someone like Jacques retain such convictions and keep them buried for so long—if indeed he is the Sevrin plant AMG claimed?

"What did you think of Grey?" Dunross asked. "A total cretin, tai-pan. He's far too left-wing for me. Even Broadhurst's a little too left for my taste. As I'm . . . I'm staying now, can I take over Bartlett and Casey again?"

"No, for the time being I'll deal with them, but you take care of the contract."

"It's being drawn up now. I've already been on to our solicitors. One slight problem. Dawson met with Bartlett's lawyer, Mr. Stei-gler, this morning. Mr. Steigler wants to renegotiate the payment schedule and put off signing till next weekend."

A wave of fury rushed through Dunross. He tried to keep it off his face. That's got to be the reason for Casey wanting a meeting, he thought. "I'll deal with that," he said, putting the problem aside for the more pressing one: Jacques deVille, who should be innocent until proven guilty.

He looked at him, liking the craggy, chunky man, remembering all the fine times they had had in Avisyard and in France. He, Penelope, Jacques and Susanne, their children along for Christmas or summer holidays, good food and good wine and good laughter and great plans for the future. Jacques certainly the wisest, the most close-mouthed, and until the AMG accusation, possibly the next in line. But now you're not, not until you've proved yourself and I'm certain. Sorry my friend, but you must be tested.

"I'm making some organizational changes," he said. "Linbar went to Sydney today as you know. I'm going to leave him there for a month to try to get the Woolara merger fixed. I don't hope for much. I want you to take over Australia." He saw Jacques's eyes widen momentarily but could not read if it was concern or happiness. "I've pushed the button on our Toda plan and I w—" "How did he take it?" "Hook, line and bait."

"Merde, but that is great." Dunross saw Jacques beam and read no guile in him. The man had been one of the main planners for the shipping scheme, working out the intricacies of the financing. "What a shame poor John's not alive to know," Jacques said.

"Yes." John Chen had been working closely with Jacques deVille. "Have you seen Phillip?"

"I had dinner with him last night. Poor fellow, he's aged twenty years."

"So have you."

A Gallic shrug. "Life, man ami! But yes, yes I am sad about poor Avril and poor Borge. Please excuse me, I interrupted you."

"I'd like you to take over Australasia—effective today—and be responsible for putting into effect all our Australian and New Zealand plans. Keep this to yourself for the month—I'll tell Andrew only—but get yourself organized and be prepared to leave then."

"Very well." Jacques hesitated.

"What? Susanne never did like Hong Kong—you'll have no problem there, will you?"

"Oh no, tai-pan. Since the accident… frankly I was going to ask you if I could move for a while. Susanne's not been happy here and . . . But I was going to ask if I could take over Canada for a year or so."

Dunross was startled at the new thought. "Oh?"

"Yes. I thought that perhaps I could be useful there. My contacts among French-Canadians are good, very good. Perhaps we could shift Struan's Canadian office from Toronto to Montreal or to Ottawa. I could help very much from there. If our Japanese connection goes through, we'll need wood pulp, woods, copper, wheat, coal and a dozen other Canadian raw materials." He smiled wanly, then rushed onward. "We both know how Cousin David's been chomping to get back out here and I thought, if I moved there, he could return. Actually he's better equipped to be here, to deal with Australasia, non? He speaks Cantonese, a little Japanese and reads and writes Chinese which I don't. But whatever you say, tai-pan. I'll take Australasia if you wish. It is true I would like a change."

Dunross let his mind range. He had decided to isolate Jacques from Hong Kong while he found out the truth. It would be too easy to tell Crosse or Sinders secretly and ask them to use their sources to investigate, to watch and to probe. But Jacques was a member of the Inner Court. As such he was party to all sorts of skeletons and private informations which would be put to risk. No, Dunross thought, much better to deal with our own. Perhaps it will take longer but I will find out the truth if he is or isn't. One way or another, I'll know about Jacques deVille.

But Canada?

Logically Jacques'd be better there. So would Struan's—I should have thought of that myself—there's never been any reason to question his business loyalty, or acumen. Good old David's certainly been screaming for two years to come back. The switch would be easier. Jacques's right. David's better equipped to do Australasia, and Australia and New Zealand are far more important to us than Canada, far more important—they're vital and the treasure house of all Asia. If Jacques's innocent he can help us in Canada. If he's not, he can harm us less there. "I'll think about that," he said, having already decided to make the change. "Keep this all to yourself and we'll finalize it Sunday."

Jacques got up and stuck out his hand. "Thanks, man ami. "

Dunross shook the hand. But in his heart he wondered whether it was the hand of his friend—or his Judas.

Alone once more, the weight of his burdens swamped him. The phone rang and he dealt with that problem, then another and another—Tiptop's phone still engaged—and he asked for Phillip to come up, and all the time it seemed as though he were sinking into a pit. Then his eyes caught the eye of Dirk Struan on the wall, looking out of the oil painting at him, half-smiling, supremely confident, arrogant, master of clipper ships—the loveliest craft ever built by man. As always, he was comforted.

He got up and stood before the tai-pan. "Christ, I don't know what I'd do without you," he said out loud, remembering that Dirk Struan had been beset by far greater burdens and had conquered them. Only to have the tempest, the wrath of nature, kill him at the zenith of his life, just forty-three, undisputed warlord of Hong Kong and Asia.

Is it always "those whom the gods love die young"? he asked himself. Dirk was just my age when the Devil Winds of the Great Typhoon tore our brand-new three-story residence in Happy Valley to pieces and buried him in the rubble. Is that old or young? I don't feel old. Was that the only way for Dirk to die? Violently? In storm? Young? Killed by nature? Or does the expression mean, those whom the gods love die young in heart?

"Never mind," he said to his mentor and friend. "I wish I'd known you. I tell you openly, tai-pan, I hope to God there is a life after death so that in some eon of time, I can thank you personally."

Confident again, he went back to his desk. In his top drawer was Four Finger Wu's matrix. His fingers touched it, caressing it. How do I squeeze out of this one? he asked himself grimly.

There was a knock. Phillip Chen came in. He had aged in the last few days. "Good God, tai-pan, what are we going to do? 9.50!" he said in a rush, a nervous screech in his voice. "I could tear my hair out! Dew neh loh moh because of the boom, you remember I bought in at 28.90, every penny of spare cash and a lot more and Dianne bought at 28.80 and sold at 16.80 and demands I make up the difference. Oh ko what're we going to do?"

"Pray—and do what we can," Dunross said. "Have you got hold of Tiptop?"

"Eh … no, no, tai-pan. I've been trying every few minutes but the phone's still out of order. The phone company says the phone's been left off the hook. I had my cousin in the phone company check it personally. Both lines into his house are off the hook."

"What do you advise?"

"Advise? I don't know, I think we should send a messenger but I didn't want to until I'd consulted with you… what with our stock crash and the bank run and poor John and the reporters pestering … all my stocks are down, all of them!" The old man went into a paroxysm of Cantonese obscenities and curses on Gornt, his ancestors and all his future generations. "If the Vic goes, what are we going to do, tai-pan?"

"The Vic won't go. The governor will certainly declare Monday a bank holiday if Tiptop fails us." Dunross had already apprised his compradore of his conversations with Tiptop, Yu, Johnjohn and Havergill. "Come on, Phillip, think!" he added with pretended anger, deliberately sharpening his voice to help the old man. "I can't just send a god-cursed messenger there to say 'you've deliberately left your bloody phone off the hook'!"

Phillip Chen sat down, the rare anger pulling him a little together. "Sorry, yes, sorry but everything . . . and John, poor John . . ."

"When's the funeral?"

"Tomorrow, tomorrow at ten, the Christian one, Monday's the Chinese one. I was … I was wondering if you'd say a few words, tomorrow."

"Of course, of course I will. Now, what about Tiptop?"

Phillip Chen concentrated, the effort hard for him. At length he said, "Invite him to the races. To your box. He's never been and that would be great face. That's the way. You could say . . . No, sorry, I'm not thinking clearly. Better, much better, tai-pan, I will write. I'll write the note asking him for you. I'll say you wanted to ask personally but unfortunately his phone is out of order—then if he wants to come, or is forbidden by his superiors, his face is saved and so is yours. I could add that 'by the way, the Noble House has already telexed firm orders to Sydney for the thoriums…' " Phillip Chen brightened a little. "That will be a very good trade for us, tai-pan, the price offered…. I've checked prices and we can supply all their needs easily and get very competitive bids from Tasmania, South Africa and Rhodesia. Ah! Why not send young George Trussler from Singapore to Johannesburg and Salisbury on an exploratory mission for thoriums . . ." Phillip Chen hesitated. ". .. and er, certain other vital aerospace metals and materials. I did some quick checking, tai-pan. I was astounded to discover that, outside Russia, almost 90 percent of all the Free World's supply of vanadium, chrome, platinums, manganese, titanium—all vital and essential in aerospace and rocketry—come from the southern part of Rhodesia and South Africa. Think of that! 90 percent outside Russia. I never realized how vastly important that area is to the Free World, with all the gold, diamonds, uranium, thorium and God knows what other essential raw materials. Perhaps Trussler could also investigate the possibility of opening an office there. He's a sharp young man and due for promotion." Now that his mind was fully occupied, the old man was breathing easier. "Yes. This trade and, er, Mr. Yu's, could be immense for us, tai-pan. I'm sure it can be handled delicately." He looked up at Dunross. "I'd also mention to Tiptop about Trussler, that we were sending an executive, one of the family, in preparation."

"Excellent. Do it immediately." Dunross clicked on the intercom. "Claudia, get George Trussler please." He glanced back at Phillip. "Why would Tiptop cut himself off?"

"To bargain, to increase the pressure on us, to get more concessions."

"Should we keep on calling him?"

"No. After the hand-delivered note, he will call us. He knows we're not fools."

"When will he call?"

"When he has permission, tai-pan. Not before. Sometime before Monday at 10:00 A.M. when the banks are due to open. I suggest you tell that lump of dogmeat Havergill and Johnjohn not to call —they'll muddy already dark waters. You don't use a tadpole to catch a shark."

"Good. Don't worry, Phillip," he said compassionately, "we're going to get out of this mess."

"I don't know, tai-pan. I hope so." Phillip Chen rubbed his red-rimmed eyes tiredly. "Dianne . . . those damned shares! I see no way out of the morass. Th—"

Claudia interrupted on the intercom. "Master Trussler on line two."

"Thank you, Claudia." He stabbed line two. "Hello, George, how's Singapore?"

"Afternoon, sir. Fine, sir, hot and rainy," the breezy, enthusiastic voice said. "This's a pleasant surprise, what can I do for you?"

"I want you to get on the next plane to Johannesburg. Leave at once. Telex me your flight and hotel and call me as soon as you arrive at the hotel in Johannesburg. Got it?"

There was a slight hesitation and slightly less breeziness. "Johannesburg, South Africa, tai-pan?"

"Yes. The next plane out."

"I'm on my way. Anything else?"

"No."

"Right you are, tai-pan. I'm on my way. 'Bye!"

Dunross put the phone down. Power's a marvelous device, he thought with great satisfaction, but being tai-pan's better.

Phillip got up. "I'll deal with that letter at once."

"Just a minute, Phillip. I've another problem that I need your advice on." He opened the desk and brought out the matrix. Apart from himself and previous tai-pans who were still alive, only Phillip Chen in all the world knew the secret of the four coins. "Here. This was giv—

Dunross stopped, paralyzed, totally unprepared for the effect the matrix had on his compradore. Phillip Chen was staring at it, his eyes almost popped from their sockets, his lips stretched back from his teeth. As though in a dream, everything in slow motion, Phillip Chen reached out and took the matrix, his fingers trembling, and peered at it closely, mouthing soundlessly.

Then Dunross's brain detonated and he realized the half-coin must have belonged to Phillip Chen, that it had been stolen from him. Of course, Dunross wanted to shout. Sir Gordon Chen must have been given one of the four coins by Jin-qua! But why? What was the connection between the Chen family and a Co-hong Mandarin that would make Jin-qua give the Eurasian son of Dirk Struan so valuable a gift?

Still in slow motion, he saw the old man raise his head to squint up at him. Again the mouth moved. No sound. Then in a strangled gasp, "Bar . . . Bartlett gave this . . . this to you already?"

"Bartlett?" Dunross echoed incredulously. "What in the name of Christ's Bartlett got to d—" He stopped as another explosion seemed to shatter his head and more pieces of the jigsaw slammed into place. Bartlett's secret knowledge! Knowledge that could only come from one of seven men, all of them unthinkable, Phillip Chen the most unthinkable of all!

Phillip Chen's the traitor! Phillip Chen's working in conjunction with Bartlett and Casey … it's Phillip Chen who's sold us out and passed over our secrets and passed over the coin.

A blinding rage overcame him. It took all of his training to hold the fury bottled. He saw himself get up and stride to the window and stare out of it. He did not know how long he stood there. But when he turned, his mind was purged clean and the vast error in his logic now clear to him. "Well?" His voice was chilling.

"Tai-pan … tai-pan .. ." the old man began brokenly, wringing his hands.

"Tell the truth, compradore. Now!" The word frightened Phillip. "It … it was John," he gasped, tears spilling. "It wasn't me I sw—"

"I know that! Hurry up for chrissake!"

Phillip Chen spewed out everything, how he had taken his son's key and opened his son's safety deposit box and discovered the letters to and from Bartlett and the second key and how, at dinner the night of the tai-pan's party, he had suddenly had a premonition about his oh so secret safe buried in the garden and how, after digging it up, he had discovered the worst. He even told the tai-pan about his quarrel with Dianne and how they thought the coin might be on John Chen somehow, and how, when the Werewolf phoned, she suggested calling his cousin, Four Finger Wu, to get his street fighters to follow him, then to follow them. . . .

Dunross gasped but Phillip Chen did not notice it, rambling on in tears, telling how he had lied to the police and had paid over the ransom to the Werewolf youths he would never recognize again and how the street fighters of Four Fingers who were supposed to be guarding him had not intercepted the Werewolves or recaptured John or recaptured his money. "That's the truth, tai-pan, all of it," he whimpered, "there's no more . . . nothing. Nothing until this morning and my poor son's body at Sha Tin with that filthy sign on his chest. . . ."

Helplessly Dunross was trying to collect his wits. He had not known that Four Fingers was Phillip's cousin, nor could he fathom how the old seaman could have got the coin—unless he was the chief Werewolf or in league with them, or in league with John Chen who had masterminded a supposed kidnapping to squeeze money out of the father he hated and then Four Fingers and John Chen had quarreled or … or what? "How did John know our secrets, get all those secrets to pass them over to Bartlett—how the House's structured? Eh?"

"I don't know," the old man lied.

"You must have told John—there's only you, Alastair, my father, Sir Ross, Gavallan, deVille or me who know, and of those, only the first four know the structure!"

"I didn't tell him—I swear I didn't."

Dunross's blinding rage began to swell again but once more he held it into place.

Be logical, he told himself. Phillip's more Chinese than European. Deal with him as a Chinese! Where's the link? The missing part of the jigsaw?

While he was trying to work out the problem, his eyes bored into the old man. He waited, knowing that silence too was a vast weapon, in defense or attack. What's the answer? Phillip would never tell John anything that secret, therefore . . .

"Jesus Christ!" he burst out at the sudden thought. "You've been keeping records! Private records! That's how John found out! From your safe! Eh?"

Petrified by the tai-pan's devil rage, Phillip blurted out before he could stop himself, "Yes … yes … I had to agree…" He stopped, fighting for control.

"Had to? Why? Come on goddamnit!"

"Because… because my father, before he… he passed the House over to me and the coin to me … made me swear to keep … to record the private dealings of… of the Noble House to protect the House of Chen. It was just that, tai-pan, never to use against you or the House, just a protection. . . ."

Dunross stared at him, hating him, hating John Chen for selling Struan's out, hating his mentor Chen-chen for the first time in his life, sick with rage at so many betrayals. Then he remembered one of Chen-chen's admonitions years ago when Dunross was almost weeping with anger at the unfair way his father and Alastair were treating him: "Don't get angry, young Ian, get even. I told Culum the same thing, and the Hag when they were equally young—Culum never listened but the Hag did. That's the civilized way: Don't get angry, get even! "So Bartlett has our structure, our balance sheets. What else's he got?"

Phillip Chen just shivered and stared back blankly.

"Come on for chrissake, Phillip, think! We've all got skeletons, a lot of skeletons! So've you, the Hag, Chen-chen, Shitee T'Chung, Dianne … for chrissake, how much more's documented that John could have passed over?" A wave of nausea went through him as he remembered his theory about the connection between Banas-tasio, Bartlett, Par-Con, the Mafia and the guns. Christ, if our secrets get into the wrong hands! "Eh?"

"I don't know, I don't know . . . What, what did Bartlett ask? For the coin?" Then Phillip cried out, "It's mine, it belongs to me!"

He saw the uncontrollable trembling of Phillip's hands and a sudden tinge of gray in his face. There was brandy and whiskey in decanters on the sideboard and Dunross fetched some brandy and gave it to him. Gratefully the old man drank, choking a little. "Than . . . thank you."

"Go home and fetch everything and th—" Dunross stopped and stabbed an intercom button. "Andrew?"

"Yes, tai-pan?" Gavallan said.

"Would you come up a second? I want you to go home with Phillip, he's not feeling too well and there're some papers to bring back."

"On my way."

Dunross's eyes had never left Phillip's.

"Tai-pan, what did, did Bar—"

"Stay away from them on your life! And give Andrew everything —John's letters, Bartlett's letters, everything," he said, his voice chilling.

"Tai-pan . . ."

"Everything." His head ached, he had so much rage in him. He was going to add, I'll decide about you and the House of Chen over the weekend. But he did not say it. "Don't get mad, get even" kept ringing in his ears.

Casey came in. Dunross met her halfway. She carried an umbrella and was again wearing her pale green dress that set off her hair and eyes perfectly. Dunross noticed the shadows behind her eyes. They made her somehow more desirable. "Sorry to keep you waiting." His smile was warm but he enjoyed none of its warmth. He was still appalled over Phillip Chen.

Casey's hand was cool and pleasant. "Thanks for seeing me," she said. "I know you're busy so I'll come to the point."

"First tea. Or would you like a drink?"

"No liquor thanks, but I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"No trouble, I'm going to have tea anyway. 4:40's tea time." As though by magic the door opened and a liveried houseboy brought in a silver tray with tea for two—with thin buttered toast and hot scones in a silver warmer. The man poured and left. The tea was dark brown and strong. "It's Darjeeling, one of our House blends. We've been trading it since 1830," he said sipping it gratefully, as always thanking the unknown genius Englishman who had invented afternoon tea, which, somehow, always seemed to settle the cares of the day and put the world into perspective. "I hope you like it."

"It's great, maybe a mite too strong for me. I had some around 2:00 A.M., and it certainly woke me up."

"Oh? You still on jet lag?'

She shook her head and told him about Peter Marlowe.

"Oh! What bad joss!" He stabbed the intercom. "Claudia, call the Nathan Nursing Home and see how Mrs. Marlowe is. And send some flowers. Thanks."

Casey frowned. "How'd you know she was at the Nathan?"

"Doc Tooley always uses that place in Kowloon." He was watching her closely, astonished that she seemed so friendly when obviously Par-Con was trying to sabotage their deal. If she's been up most of the night, that accounts for the shadows, he thought. Well, shadows or not, watch out, young lady, we shook on the deal. "Another cup?" he asked solicitously.

"No thanks, this's fine."

"I recommend the scones. We eat them like this: a big dollop of Devonshire clotted cream on top, a teaspoon of homemade strawberry jam in the center of the cream and . . . magic! Here!"

Reluctantly she took it. The scone was just bite-sized. It vanished. "Fantastic," she gasped, wiping a touch of the cream off her mouth.

"But all those calories! No, really, no more, thanks. I've done nothing but eat since I got here."

"It doesn't show."

"It will." He saw her smile back at him. She was sitting in one of the deep high-backed leather chairs, the tea table between them. Again she crossed her legs and Dunross thought once more that Gavallan had been right about her—that her Achilles' heel was impatience. "May I start now?" she asked.

"You're sure you don't want some more tea?" he asked, deliberately to throw her off balance again.

"No thanks."

"Then tea's over. What's cooking?"

Casey took a deep breath. "It seems that Struan's is way out on a limb and about to go under."

"Please don't concern yourself about that. Struan's really is in very fine shape."

"You may be, tai-pan, but it doesn't look that way to us. Or to outsiders. I've checked. Most everyone seems to think Gornt, and or the Victoria, will make the raid stick. It's almost a general thumbs down. Now our deal's—"

"We have a deal till Tuesday. That's what we agreed," he said, his voice sharpening. "Do I understand you want to renege or change it?"

"No. But in the present state you're in, it'd be crazy and bad business to proceed. So we've two alternatives: It's either Rothwell-Gornt, or we've to help you with some kind of bail-out operation."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I've a plan, a partial plan for how you could maybe extricate yourself and make us all a fortune. Okay? You're the best for us—long-term."

"Thank you," he said, not believing her, all attention, well aware that any concession she offered was going to be prohibitively expensive.

"Try this on for size. Our bankers are the First Central New York —the hated bank here. They want back into Hong Kong so much it hurts, but they'll never get a new charter, right?"

Dunross's interest peaked at this new thought. "So?"

"So recently they bought a small foreign bank with branches in Tokyo, Singapore, Bangkok and Hong Kong: the Royal Belgium and Far East Bank. It's a tiny, nothing bank and they paid 3 million for everything. First Central has asked us to put our funds through the Royal Belgium if our deal goes through. Last night I met with Dave Murtagh who's in charge of Royal Belgium and he was moaning and groaning how bad business was, how they're squeezed out of everything by the Establishment here and though they've got the huge dollar resources of First Central behind them, almost no-body'll open accounts and deposit Hong Kong dollars which they need to make loans. You know about the bank?"

"Yes," he said, not understanding what she was leading to, "but I didn't realize the First Central was behind them. I don't think that's common knowledge. When was it bought out?"

"A couple of months ago. Now, what if the Royal Belgium would advance you Monday 120 percent of the purchase price of the two Toda ships?"

Dunross gaped at her, caught off guard. "Secured by what?"

"The ships."

"Impossible! No bank'd do that!"

"The 100 percent is for Toda, the 20 percent to cover all carrying charges, insurances and the first months of operation."

"With no cash flow, no charterer set?" he asked incredulously.

"Could you charter them in sixty days to give you a cash flow to sustain a reasonable repayment schedule?"

"Easily." Jesus Christ, if I can pay Toda at once I can slam my lease-back scheme into operation with the first two ships, without having to wait. He held onto his hope, wondering what the cost, the real cost would be. "Is this a theory or will they really do it?"

"They might."

"In return for what?"

"In return for Struan's depositing 50 percent of all foreign exchange for a five-year period; a promise you'd keep average cash deposits with them of between 5 and 7 million Hong Kong dollars —one and one half million U.S. dollars worth; that you'd use the bank as your second Hong Kong bank and the First Central as your prime lending American bank outside of Hong Kong for a five-year period. What do you say?"

It took all his training not to bellow with joy. "Is this a firm offer?"

"I think it is, tai-pan. I'm a bit out of my depth—I've never been into ships but 120 percent seemed fantastic and the other terms okay. I didn't know how far I should go negotiating terms but I told him he'd better make it all fair or he'd never get to first base."

An ice shaft went into his guts. "The local man would never have the authority to make such an offer."

"That was Murtagh's next point, but he said we've the weekend and if you'll go for the scheme he'll get on the wire."

Dunross sat back, nonplussed. He put aside three vital questions and said, "Let's hold this for the moment. What's your part in all this?"

"In a minute. There's another wrinkle to his offer. I think he's bananas but Murtagh said he'd try to persuade the brass to put up a revolving $50 million U.S. against the value of the unissued shares you got in your treasury. So you're home free. If."

Dunross felt the sweat break out on his back and on his forehead, well aware what a tremendous gamble that would be, however big the bank. With effort he put his brain to work. With the ships paid for and that revolving fund, he could fight off Gornt and smash his attack. And with Gornt bottled, Orlin'd come back meekly because he'd always been a good customer—and wasn't First Central part of the Orlin Merchant Bank consortium? "What about our deal?"

"That stays as is. You announce at the best time for both of us, for you and for Par-Con as we agreed. If, and it's a big if, if First Central'll go for the gamble, you and we could make a killing, a real killing by buying Struan at 9.50 Monday morning—it has to go back up to 28, maybe to 30, doesn't it? The only part I can't figure is how to deal with the bank runs."

Dunross took out his handkerchief and unashamedly wiped his forehead. Then he got up and poured two brandy and sodas. He gave her one and sat back in his chair again, his mind amok, one moment blank, the next crammed with happiness, instantly to be agitated and hurting with all the hope and fear, the questions, answers, plans and counterplans.

Christallbloodymighty, he thought, trying to calm himself. The brandy tasted good. The wanning bite was very good. He noticed she only sipped hers then set it down and watched him. When his brain had cleared and he was ready, he looked at her. "All this in return for what?"

"You'll have to set the parameters with the Royal Belgium— that's up to you. I don't know accurately enough your net cash flow. Interest charges'll be steep, but worth it to get out from under.

You'll have to put up your personal guarantee for every cent."

"Christ!"

"Yes. Plus face." He heard her voice harden. "It'll cost you face to be dealing with the 'yellow bastards.' Wasn't that what Lady Joanna called the First Central people with her big fat sneer and 'But what do you expect, they're…" I guess she meant Americans." He saw Casey's eyes flatten and his danger signals came up. "That's some old bitch, that one."

"She's not really," he said. "She's a bit caustic, and rough, but all right usually. She is anti-American, sorry to say, paranoid I suppose. You see, her husband, Sir Richard, was killed at Monte Cassino in Italy by American bombs, their aircraft mistaking British troops for Nazis."

"Oh," Casey said. "Oh I see."

"What does Par-Con want? And what do you and Line Bartlett want?"

She hesitated, then put Lady Joanna aside for a moment, concentrating again. "Par-Con wants a long-term deal with Struan's—as 'Old Friends.' " He saw the strange smile. "I've discovered what Old Friend means, Chinese style, and that's what I want for Par-Con. Old Friend status as and from the moment the Royal Belgium delivers."

"Next?"

"Is that a yes?"

"I'd like to know all the terms before I agree to one."

She sipped the brandy. "Line wants nothing. He doesn't know about all this."

"I beg your pardon?" Again Dunross was caught off balance.

"Line doesn't know about the Royal Belgium yet," she said, her voice ordinary. "I brainstormed all this with Dave Murtagh today. I don't know if I'm doing you much of a favor because your . . . because you'll be on the line, you personally. But it could get Struan's off the hook. Then our deal can work."

"Don't you think you should consult with your fearless leader?" Dunross said, trying to work out the implications of this unexpected tack.

"I'm executive director and Struan's is my deal. It costs us nothing but our influence to get you out of your trap and that's what influence's for. I want our deal to go through and I don't want Gornt the winner."

"Why?"

"I told you. You're the best for us long-term." "And you, Ciranoush? What do you want? In return for using your influence?"

Her eyes seemed to flatten even more and become more hazel, like a lioness's. "Equality. I want to be treated as an equal, not patronized or scoffed at as a woman who's in business on the coat tails of a man. I want equality with the tai-pan of the Noble House. And I want you to help me get my drop dead money—apart from anything to do with Par-Con."

"The second's easy, if you're prepared to gamble. As to the first, I've never patronized or sloughed you o—" "Gavallan did, and the others."

"… off, and I never will. As to the others, if they don't treat you as you like, then leave the conference table and leave the battleground. Don't force your presence on them. I can't make you equal. You're not and you never will be. You're a woman and like it or not this's a man's world. Particularly in Hong Kong. And while I'm alive I'm going to continue to treat it as it is and treat a woman as a woman whoever the hell she is." "Then screw you!" "When?" He beamed.

Her sudden laugh joined his and the tension fled. "I deserved that," she said. Another laugh. "I really deserved that. Sorry. Guess I lost ass."

"I beg your pardon?"

She explained her version of face. He laughed again. "You didn't. You gained arse."

After a pause she said, "So whatever I do, I can never have equality?"

"Not in business, not on masculine terms, not if you want to be of this world. As I said, like it or not, that's the way it is. And I think you're wrong to try to change it. The Hag was undisputedly more powerful than anyone in Asia. And she got there as a woman, not as a neuter."

Her hand reached out and lifted her brandy and he saw the swell of her breast against the light silk blouse. "How the hell can we treat someone as attractive and smart as you as a non-person? Be fair!" "I'm not asking for fairness, tai-pan, just equality." "Be content you're a woman."

"Oh I am. I really am." Her voice became bitter. "I just don't want to be classed as someone whose only real value is on her back." She took a last sip and got up. "So you'll take it from here? With the Royal Belgium? David Murtagh's expecting a call. It's a long shot, but it's worth a try, isn't it? Maybe you could go see him, instead of sending for him—face, huh? He'll need all the support you can give him."

Dunross had not got up. "Please sit down a second, if you've time. There're still a couple of things."

"Of course. I didn't want to take any more of your time."

"First, what's the problem with your Mr. Steigler?"

"What do you mean?"

He told her what Dawson had related.

"Son of a bitchl" she said, obviously irritated. "I told him to get the papers drawn, that's all. I'll take care of him. Lawyers always think they've the right to negotiate, 'to improve the deal' is the way they put it, trying to put you down, I guess. I've lost more deals because of them than you can imagine. Seymour's not as bad as some. Attorneys're the plague of the United States. Line thinks so too."

"What about Line?" he asked, remembering the 2 million he had advanced to Gornt to attack their stock. "Is he going to be 100 percent behind this new twist?"

"Yes," she said after a pause. "Yes."

Dunross's mind reached out for the missing piece. "So you'll take care of Steigler and everything stands as before?"

"You'll have to work out title to the ships as we agreed but that shouldn't be a problem."

"No. I can handle that."

"You'll personally guarantee everything?"

"Oh, yes," Dunross said carelessly. "Dirk did all the time. That's the tai-pan's privilege. Listen, Ciranoush, I—"

"Will you call me Casey, tai-pan? Ciranoush is for a different era."

"All right. Casey, whether this works or not, you're an Old Friend and I owe you a thank you for your bravery, your personal bravery at the fire."

"I'm not brave. It must have been glands." She laughed. "Don't forget we've still got the hepatitis over our heads."

"Oh. You thought of that too."

"Yes."

Her eyes were watching him and he could not gauge her. "I'll help you with drop dead money," he said. "How much do you need?"

"2 million, tax free."

"Your tax laws are rigid and tough. Are you prepared to stretch laws?"

She hesitated. "It's the right of every red-blooded American to avoid taxes, but not evade them."

"Got it. So at your bracket you might need 4?"

"My bracket's low, though my capital's high."

"$46,000 at the San Fernando Savings and Loan's not very much," he said, grimly amused to see her blanch. "$8,700 in your checking account at the Los Angeles and California's not too much either."

"You're a bastard."

He smiled. "I merely have friends in high places. Like you." Casually he opened the trap. "Will you and Line Bartlett have dinner with me tonight?"

"Line's busy," she said.

"Will you have dinner then? Eight? Let's meet in the lobby of the Mandarin." He had heard the undercurrent and the giveaway and he could almost see her mind waves churning. So Line's busy! he thought. And what would Line Bartlett be busy with in that tone of voice? Orlanda Ramos? Has to be, he told himself, delighted he had flushed out the real reason—the real why of her help. Orlanda! Orlanda leading to Line Bartlett leading to Gornt. Casey's petrified of Orlanda. Is she petrified that Gornt's behind Orlanda's onslaught on Bartlett—or is she just frantic with jealousy and ready to bring Bartlett atumbling down?

59

5:35 P.M. :

Casey joined the packed lines going through the turnstiles at Golden Ferry. People were shoving and pushing and hurrying along the corridor for the next ferry. As the warning bell sounded shrilly, those in front broke into a frantic run. Involuntarily her feet quickened. The noisy, heated crush of humanity carried her along onto the ferry. She found a seat and stared out at the harbor gloomily, wondering if she had pulled off her side of the deal.

"Jesus, Casey," Murtagh had burst out, "head office'll never go for it in a million years!"

"If they don't they'll miss the greatest opportunity of their lives. And so will you. This is your big chance—grab it! If you help Struan's now think how much face everyone gets. When Dunross comes to see you th—"

"If he comes!"

"He'll come. I'll get him to come see you! And when he does, tell him this's all your idea, not mine, and that y—"

"But, Casey, don—"

"No. It's got to be your idea. I'll back you a thousand percent with New York. And when Dunross comes to you, tell him you want Old Friend status too."

"Jesus, Casey, I've got enough troubles without having to explain to those meatheads back home about Old Friend and 'face'!"

"So don't explain that part to them. You pull this oif and you'll be the most important American banker in Asia."

Yes, Casey told herself, sick with hope, and I'll have extricated Line from Gornt's trap. I know I'm right about Gornt.

"The hell you are, Casey!" Bartlett had said angrily this morning, the first time in their life together he had ever flared at her.

"It's obvious, Line," she had slammed back. "I'm not trying to interfere i—"

"The hell you're not!"

"You brought Orlanda up, I didn't! You're going overboard about—about her great cooking and great dancing and great outfit and great company! All I said was, did you have a nice time?"

"Sure, but you said it with a real crappy harpy jealous tone and I know you meant: I hope you had a lousy time!"

Line was right, Casey thought in misery. If he wants to be out all night that's up to him. I should have buttoned up like the other times and not made a big deal of it. But this isn't like the other times. He's in danger and won't see it!

"For chrissake, Line, that woman's after your money and power and that's all! How long have you known her? A couple of days. Where did you meet her? Gornt! She's got to be Gornt's puppet! That guy's as smart as they come! I've done some checking, Line, her apartment's paid by him, her bills. Sh—"

"She told me all that and all about him and her and that's the past! You can forget Orlanda! Get it? Just don't bad-mouth her anymore. Understand?"

"Par-Con's got a lot riding on whether it's Struan's or Gornt and they'll both use any tactic to undermine you or lay you open to att—"

"And lay the operative word? C'mon, Casey, for chrissake! You've never been jealous before—admit you're fit to be tied. She's everything a man could want and you're . . ."

She remembered how he had stopped just before he'd said it. Tears filled her eyes. He's right, goddamnit! I'm not. I'm a goddamn business machine, not feminine like her, not an easy lay and not interested in being a housewife, at least not yet, and I could never do what she's done. Orlanda's soft, pliant, golden, a great cook, he says, feminine, great body great legs great taste, trained and beddable, Jesus, how beddable. And with no thought in her goddamn head but how to catch a rich husband. The Frenchwoman was right: Line's a patsy for any no-account, harpy, Asian gold digger, and Orlanda's the cream of the Hong Kong crop.

Shit!

But whatever Line says, I'm still right about her and right about Gornt. Or am I?

Let's face it, I've nothing to go on but a few rumors, and my own intuition. Orlanda's got me on the run, I'm running scared. I made a goddamn mistake letting myself go at Line. Remember what he said before he left the suite. "From here on in you stay the hell out of my private life!"

Oh God!

There was a fine wind blowing as the ferry skittered across the harbor, engines pounding, sampans and other boats moving nimbly out of the way, the sky brooding and overcast. Oblivious, she dabbed her tears away, took out her mirror and checked that her mascara was not running. A huge freighter sounded its horn, flags fluttering, and moved majestically past, but she did not see it, nor the immensity of the nuclear carrier tied up alongside the Admiralty Wharf, Hong Kong side. "Get hold of yourself," she muttered in misery to her mirror image. "Jesus, you look forty."

The cramped wooden benches were crowded and she shifted uncomfortably, jammed between other passengers, most of whom were Chinese, though here and there were camera-heavy tourists and other Europeans. There was not an inch of free space, all gangways clogged, seats clogged, and already blocks of passengers crowded the ramp exit on both decks. The Chinese beside her were awkwardly reading their newspapers as people would on any subway except that, from time to time, they would hawk noisily to clear their throats. One spat. On the bulkhead right in front of him was a large sign in Chinese and English: NO SPITTING—FINE TWENTY DOLLARS. He hawked again and Casey wanted to take his newspaper and thump him with it. The tai-pan's remark flooded her memory: "We've been trying to change them for a hundred and twenty-odd years, but Chinese don't change easily."

It's not just them, she thought, her head aching. It's everyone and everything in this man's world. The tai-pan's right.

So what am I going to do? About Line? Change the rules or not?

I have already. I've gone over his head with the bail-out scheme. That's a first. Am I going to tell him about it or not? Dunross won't give me away and Murtagh'll take all the credit, has to, if First Central'll buy it. I'll have to tell Line sometime.

But whether the bail-out works or not, what about Line and me?

Her eyes were fixed ahead, unseeing, as she tried to decide.

The ferry was nearing the Kowloon Terminal berth now. Two other ferries leaving for Hong Kong side swirled out of the way for the incomers. Everyone got up and began to jostle for position at the port exit ramp. The ship heeled slightly, unbalanced. Jesus, she thought uneasily, jerked out of her reverie, there must be five hundred of us on each deck. Then she winced as an impatient Chinese matron squeezed past, stomped carelessly on her foot and pushed on through the throng to the head of the line. Casey got up, her foot hurting, wanting to belt the woman with her umbrella.

"They're something else, eh?" the tall American behind her said with grim good humor.

"What? Oh yes, yes … something else, some of them." People surrounded her, crowding her, pressing too close. Suddenly she felt claustrophobic and sickened. The man sensed it and used his bulk to force a little room. Those who were pushed aside gave way with ill humor. "Thanks," she said, relieved, the nausea gone. "Yes, thanks."

"I'm Rosemont, Stanley Rosemont. We met at the tai-pan's."

Casey turned, startled. "Oh, sorry, I guess … I guess I was a million miles away, I didn't. . . sorry. How's it going?" she asked, not remembering him.

"More of the same, Casey." Rosemont looked down at her. "Not so good with you, huh?" he asked kindly.

"Oh I'm fine. Sure, very fine." She turned away, self-conscious that he'd noticed. Sailors were fore and aft and they tossed out guy lines which were instantly caught and dropped over stanchions. The thick ropes screeched under the tension, setting her teeth on edge. As the ferry eased perfectly into its berth, the drawbridge gate began to lower but before it was down completely the crowd was surging off the boat, Casey carried with it. After a few yards the pressure eased and she walked up the ramp at her own pace, other passengers flooding down the other ramp opposite to board for Hong Kong side. Rosemont caught up with her. "You at the V and A?"

"Yes," she said. "You?"

"Oh no! We've an apartment Hong Kong side—the consulate owns it."

"Have you been here long?"

"Two years. It's interesting, Casey. After a month or so you feel locked in—no place to go, so many people, seeing the same friends day after day. But soon it's great. Soon you get to feel you're at the center of the action, the center of Asia where all the action is today. Sure, Hong Kong's the center of Asia—papers're good, you've great food, good golf, racing, boating and it's easy to go to Taipei, Bangkok or wherever. Hong Kong's okay—course it's nothing like Japan. Japan's something else. That's like out of Oz."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Great—if you're a man. Tough for wives, very tough, and for kids. Your helplessness, your alienness is shoved back at you—you can't even read a street sign. I was there for a two-year tour. I liked it a lot. Athena, my wife, she got to hate it." Rosemont laughed. "She hates Hong Kong and wants to go back to Indochina, to Vietnam or Cambodia. She was a nurse there some years back with the French Army."

Through the fog of her own problems Casey heard an undercurrent and she began to listen. "She's French?"

"American. Her father was ambassador for a tour during the French war."

"You have kids?" she asked.

"Two. Both sons. Athena was married before."

Another undercurrent. "Your sons were from her first marriage?"

"One was. She was married to a Vietnamese. He was killed just before Dien Bien Phu, that was when the French ran the country or were getting run out. Poor guy was killed before young Vien was born. He's like my own son. Yes, both my boys are great. You staying long?"

"Depends on my boss and our deal. Guess you know we're hoping to tie in with Struan's."

"It's the talk of the town—apart from the fire at Aberdeen, the flooding, all the mud slides, the storm, Struan's stock crash, the bank runs and the market falling apart—one thing about Hong Kong: it's never dull. You think he'll make it?"

"The tai-pan? I've just left him. I hope so. He's confident, yes very confident. I like him."

"Yes. I like Bartlett too. You been with him long?"

"Seven years, almost."

They were out of the terminal now, the road just as crowded. On the right was the harbor and they chatted, heading east for the pedestrian underpass that would take them to the V and A. Rosemont pointed at a small shop, the Rice Bowl. "Athena works there from time to time. It's a charity shop, run by Americans. All the profit goes to refugees. Lot of the wives put in a day or two there, keeps them busy. I guess you're busy all the time." "Only seven days a week."

"I heard Line say that you were taking 'off over the weekend for Taipei. Will that be your first visit?"

"Yes—but I'm not going, just Line and the tai-pan." Casey tried to stop the immediate thought welling but she could not: Is he going to take Orlanda? He's right, it's none of my affair. But Par-Con is. And since Line's hooked, lined and sinkered by the enemy, the less he knows about the First Central ploy the better.

Pleased that she could come to the decision dispassionately, she continued to talk with Rosemont, answering his questions, not really concentrating, pleased to converse with a friendly soul who was as informative as he was interested. "… and Taipei's different, more easygoing, less hard-nosed, but a comer," he was saying. "We're popular in Taiwan which's a change. So you're really going to spread? On a big deal like this I guess you've a dozen execs on hand?"

"No. There's just the two of us at the moment, and Forrester— he's head of our foam division—and our attorney." Mentioning him, Casey hardened. Damn him for trying to stymie us. "Line's got Par-Con organized very well. I handle the day-to-day and he fixes policy."

"You're a public company?"

"Oh sure, but that's okay too. Line has control and our directors and stockholders don't give us a hassle. Dividends're on the rise, and if the Struan deal goes through they'll skyrocket."

"We could use more U.S. firms in Asia. Trade is what made the Empire great for the British. I wish you luck, Casey. Hey, that reminds me," he added casually, "you remember Ed, Ed Langan, my buddy, who was with me at the tai-pan's party? He knows one of your stockholders. A guy called Bestacio, some name like that."

Casey was startled. "Banastasio? Vincenzo Banastasio?"

"Yes, I think that was it," he told her, lying easily, watching her, and at her look added, "Did I say something?"

"No, it's just a coincidence. Banastasio arrives tomorrow. Tomorrow morning."

"What?"

Casey saw him staring at her and she laughed. "You can tell your friend he's staying at the Hilton."

Rosemont's mind buzzed. "Tomorrow? I'll be goddamned."

Casey said carefully, "He's a good friend of Langan's?"

"No, but he knows him. He says Banastasio's quite a guy. A gambler, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"You don't like him?"

"I've only met him a couple of times. At the races. He's big at Del Mar. I'm not much on gamblers or gambling."

They were weaving through the crowds. People jostled from behind and oncoming hordes jostled from the front. The underpass stank of mildew and bodies. She was very glad to get back into the air once more and looking forward to a shower and an aspirin and a rest before 8:00 P.M. Beyond the buildings ahead was the whole of the eastern harbor. A departing jet barreled into the overcast. Rosemont caught sight of the tall deck derricks of the Sovetsky Ivanov tied up alongside. Involuntarily he glanced Hong Kong side and saw how easy it would be for high-powered binoculars to rake the U.S. carrier and almost count her rivets.

"Makes you proud to be an American, doesn't it?" Casey said happily, following his look. "If you're consulate, you'll get to go aboard her?"

"Sure. Guided tour!"

"Lucky you."

"I was there yesterday. The captain had a shindig for locals. I tagged along." Again Rosemont told the lie easily. He had gone aboard late last night and again this morning. His initial interview with the admiral, captain and security chief had been stormy. It was not until he produced photocopies of the secret manifest of the ship's armaments and the guidance systems manual that they had truly believed there had been a vast security leak. Now the traitor was under tight surveillance in the ship's brig, guarded by his own CIA people, twenty-four hours a day. Soon the man would break. Yes, Rosemont thought, and after that, jail for twenty years. If it was up to me I'd drop the bastard in the goddamn harbor. Shit, I've got nothing against the Metkins and the KGB. Those bastards're just doing their job for their side—however wrong they are. But our own Joes?

"Okay, fella, you're caught! First tell us why you did it."

"Money."

Jesus H. Christ! The sailor's dossier had shown that he had come from a small town in the Middle West, his work exemplary witfc nothing in his past or present to indicate a potential security risk. He was a quiet man, good at computer programming, liked by his compatriots and trusted by his superiors. No left-wing indications, no homosexuality, no problem of blackmail, no nothing. "Then why?" he had asked him.

"This guy came up to me in San Diego and said he'd like to know all about the Corregidor and he'd pay."

"But don't you understand about treason? About betraying your country?"

"Hell, all he wanted was a few facts and figures. So what? What's the difference? We can blast the hell outta the goddamn Commies anytime we like. The Corregidor's the greatest carrier afloat! It was a caper and I wanted to see if I could do it and they paid on the dot. …"

Jesus, how we going to keep security when there are guys like him with their brains in their asses, Rosemont asked himself wearily. He walked along, listening to himself chatting with Casey, probing her, trying to decide what sort of a risk she was and Bartlett was, with their tie-in to Banastasio. Soon they joined other people going up the wide steps to the hotel. A smiling pageboy opened the swing doors. The foyer was bustling. "Casey, I'm early for my appointment. Can I buy you a drink?"

Casey hesitated, then smiled, liking him, enjoying chatting. "Sure, thanks. First let me collect my messages, okay?" She went to the desk. There were a sheaf of telexes, and messages from Jannelli, Steigler and Forrester to please call. And a handwritten note from Bartlett. The note contained routine instructions about Par-Con, all of which she agreed to, and asked her to make sure that the airplane was ready to take off on Sunday. The note ended: "Casey, we're going with Rothwell-Gornt. Let's meet for breakfast in the suite, 9:00 A.M. See you then." She went back to Rosemont. "Can I take a raincheck?" "Bad news?"

"Oh no, just a load of stuff to deal with." "Sure, but maybe you'd like dinner next week, you and Line? I'd like Athena to meet you. She'll give you a call to fix the day, okay?" "Thanks, I'd like that." Casey left him, her whole being more than ever committed to the course she had decided upon. Rosemont watched her go, then ordered a Cutty Sark and soda and began to wait, lost in thought. How much money's Banastasio got in Par-Con and what's he get in return? Jesus H. Christ, Par-Con's hot in defense and space and a lot of secret crap. What's that bum doing here? Thank God I took on Casey today and didn't leave her to one of the guys. He might've missed Banastasio. …

Robert Armstrong arrived.

"Jesus, Robert, you look terrible," the American said. "You better get yourself a vacation or a good night's rest or lay off the broads."

"Get stuffed! You ready? We'd better leave."

"You've time for a quick one. The bank date's been changed to seven, there's plenty of time."

"Yes, but I don't want to be late as we're to meet the governor at his office."

"Okay."

Obediently Rosemont finished his drink, signed the bill and they walked back toward the ferry terminal.

"How's Dry Run?" Armstrong asked.

"They're still there with flags flying. Looks like the Azerbaijan revolt fizzled." Rosemont noticed the heaviness on the Englishman. "What's eating you, Robert?"

"Sometimes I don't like being a copper, that's all." Armstrong took out a cigarette and lit it.

"I thought you gave up smoking."

"I did. Listen, Stanley old friend, I'd better warn you: you're in the proverbial creek without a paddle. Crosse's so mad he's fit to be committed."

"So what else's new? A lot of guys think he's a basket case anyway. Jesus, it was Ed Langan who tipped you off about the AMG files in the first place. We're allies for chrissake!"

"True," Armstrong replied sourly, "but that's no license to mount a totally unauthorized raid on a totally clean flat belonging to the totally clean telephone company!"

"Who me?" Rosemont looked pained. "What flat?"

"Sinclair Towers, flat 32. You and your gorillas knocked down the door in the dead of the night. For what, may I ask?"

"How should I know?" Rosemont knew he had to bluff this one through, but he was still furious that whoever was in the apartment had escaped without identification. His rage over the carrier leak, Metkin's not being available for questioning, the whole Sevrin mess and Crosse's perfidy, had prompted him to order the raid. One of his Chinese informants had picked up a rumor that though the apartment was empty most of the time, sometimes it was used by Communist enemy agents—of gender unknown—and there was a meeting tonight. Connochie, one of his best agents, had led the raid and thought he caught a glimpse of two men going out the back but he wasn't sure, and though he searched diligently, they had vanished and he found nothing in the apartment to prove or disprove the rumor, just two half-empty glasses. The glasses were brought back and tested for fingerprints. One was clean, the other well marked. "I've never been to 32 Sinclair Towers, for chrissake!"

"Maybe, but your Keystone Kops were there. Several tenants reported four tall, meaty Caucasians charging up and down the stairs." Armstrong added even more sourly, "All fat-arsed and fat-headed. Have to be yours." "Not mine. No sir."

"Oh yes they were and that mistake's going to backfire. Crosse's already sent two pretty foul cables to London. The pity of it is you failed to catch anything and we catch hell because of your continual screw-ups!"

Rosemont sighed. "Get off my back. I've got something for you." He told Armstrong of his conversation with Casey about Banas-tasio. "Of course we knew his connection with Par-Con but I didn't know he was arriving tomorrow. What do you think?"

Armstrong had seen the arrival recorded on Photographer Ng's calendar. "Interesting," he said noncommittally. "I'll tell the Old Man. But you'd better have a good explanation for him about Sinclair Towers and don't mention that I told you." His fatigue was almost overwhelming him. This morning at 6:30 A.M. he had begun the first real probe of Brian Kwok.

It was an orchestrated set piece: while still drugged, Brian Kwok had been taken out of his clean white cell and put naked into a filthy dungeon with dank walls and a stinking thin mattress on the mildewed floor. Then, ten minutes after the wake-up drug had jerked him into parched, aching consciousness, the light had blazed on and Armstrong had ripped the door open and cursed the SI jailer. "For chrissake, what're you doing to Superintendent Kwok? Have you gone mad? How dare you treat him like this!" "Superintendent Crosse's orders, sir. This client's b—" "There must be a mistake! I don't give a damn about Crosse!" He had thrown the man out and put his full, kind attention onto his friend. "Here, old chum, do you want a cigarette?"

"Oh Christ. Thank … thanks." Brian Kwok's fingers had trembled as he held the cigarette and drew the smoke deep. "Robert, what . . . what the hell's going on?"

"I don't know. I've just heard, that's why I'm here. I was told you'd been on leave for a few days. Crosse's gone mad. He claims you're a Communist spy."

"Me? For God's sake . . . what's the date today?"

"The thirtieth, Friday," he had said at once, expecting the question, adding seven days.

"Who won the fifth race?"

"Butterscotch Lass," he had said, caught off guard, astonished that Brian Kwok was still functioning so well and not at all certain if his own slight hesitation had been read for the lie it was. "Why?"

"Just wondered . . . just . . . Listen, Robert, this's a mistake. You've got to help me. Don't you s—"

On cue Roger Crosse had come in like the wrath of God. "Listen, spy, I want names and addresses of all your contacts right now. Who's your controller?"

Weakly Brian Kwok had stumbled to his feet. "Sir, it's all a mistake. There's no controller and I'm no spy an—"

Crosse had suddenly shoved blowups of the photos in his face. "Then explain how you were photographed in Ning-tok in front of your family pharmacy with your mother Fang-ling Wu. Explain how your real name's Chu-toy Wu, second son of these parents, Ting-top Wu and Fang-ling Wu . . ."

They had both seen the instant of shock on Brian Kwok's face.

"Lies," he had mumbled, "lies, I'm Brian Kar-shun Kwok and I'm—"

"You're a liar!" Crosse had shouted. "We have witnesses! We have evidence! You are identified by your gan sun, Ah Tarn!"

Another gasp, covered almost brilliantly, then "I … I have no gan sun called Ah Tarn. I h—"

"You'll spend the rest of your life in this cell unless you tell us everything. I'll see you in a week. You'd better answer everything truthfully or I'll put you in chains! Robert!" Crosse had whirled on him. "You're forbidden to come here without permission!" Then he had stalked out of the cell.

In the silence Armstrong remembered how nauseated he had been, having seen the truth written on his friend's face. He was too well trained an observer to be mistaken. "Christ, Brian," he had said, continuing the game, hating his hypocrisy even so. "What possessed you to do it?"

"Do what?" Brian Kwok had said defiantly. "You can't cheat me —or trick me, Robert … It can't be seven days. I'm innocent."

"And the photos?"

"Fake… they're fake, dreamed up by Crosse." Brian Kwok had held onto his arm, a desperate light behind his eyes, and whispered hoarsely, "I told you Crosse's the real mole. He's the mole, Robert . . . he's a homo—he's trying to frame me an—"

On cue, the brittle, officious SI jailer jerked the cell door open. "Sorry, sir, but you've got to leave."

"All right, but first give him some water."

"No water's allowed!"

"Goddamn you, get him some water!"

Reluctantly the jailer obeyed. While they were momentarily alone, Armstrong had slipped the cigarettes under the mattress. "Brian, I'll do what I can …" Then the jailer was back in the room with a battered cup.

"That's all you can have!" he said angrily. "I want the cup back!"

Thankfully Brian Kwok had gulped it and with it the drug. Armstrong left. The door slammed and the bolts shoved home. Abruptly the lights went out, leaving Brian Kwok in darkness. Ten minutes later Armstrong had gone back in with Dr. Dorn. And Crosse. Brian Kwok was unconscious, deeply drugged again and dreaming fitfully. "Robert, you did very well," Crosse had said softly. "Did you see the client's shock?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. So did I. No mistake about that,~or his guilt. Doctor, step up the sleep-wake-up every hour on the hour for the next twenty-four …"

"Christ," Armstrong burst out, "don't you th—"

"Every hour on the hour, Doctor, provided he checks out medically—I don't want him harmed, just pliable—for the next twenty-four. Robert, then you interrogate him again. If that doesn't work, we put him into the Red Room."

Dr. Dorn had flinched and Armstrong recalled how his heart had missed a beat. "No," he said.

"For chrissake, the client's guilty, Robert," Crosse snarled, no longer playacting. "Guilty! The client shopped Fong-fong and our lads and has done us God knows what damage. We're under the gun. The orders come from London! Remember Metkin, our great commissar catch from the Ivanov? I've just heard the RAF transport's vanished. It refueled in Bombay then vanished somewhere over the Indian Ocean."

60

6:58 P.M. :

The governor was in an Olympian rage. He got out of the car and stomped to the side door of the bank where Johnjohn was waiting for him.

"Have you read this?" The governor waved the evening edition of the Guardian in the night air. The huge headline read: MPs ACCUSE PRC. "Bloody incompetent fools, what?"

"Yes sir." Johnjohn was equally choleric. He led the way past the uniformed doorman into a large anteroom. "Can't you hang both of them?"

At their afternoon press conference, Grey and Broadhurst had proclaimed publicly everything that he, Johnjohn, Dunross and the other tai-pans had, at length, patiently condemned as totally against Britain's, Hong Kong's and China's interest. Grey had gone on at length discussing his private and personal opinion that Red China was bent on world conquest and should be treated as the great enemy of world peace. "I've already had one unofficial official scream."

Johnjohn winced. "Oh God, not from Tiptop?"

"Of course from Tiptop. He said, in that calm silky voice of his, 'Your Excellency, when our peers in Peking read how important members of your great English Parliament view the Middle Kingdom, I think they will be really quite angry.' I'd say our chances of getting the temporary use of their money now is nil."

Another wave of anger went over Johnjohn.

"That damned man implied his views were the committee's views, which is totally untrue! Ridiculous to inflame China under any circumstances. Without China's benevolence our position here is totally untenable. Totally! Bloody fool! And we all went out of our way to explain!" The governor took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. "Where are the others?"

"Superintendent Crosse and Mr. Sinders are using my office for a moment. lan's on his way. What about Ian and Grey, sir, Grey being lan's brother-in-law? Eh?"

"Extraordinary." Since Grey had mentioned it in response to a question this afternoon he had had a dozen calls about it. "Astonishing that Ian never mentioned it."

"Or Penelope! Very odd. Do you th—" Johnjohn glanced up and stopped. Dunross was walking toward them.

"Evening, sir."

"Hello, Ian. I put the time back to 7:00 P.M. to give me a chance to see Sinders and Stanley Rosemont." The governor held up the paper. "You've seen this?"

"Yes sir. The Chinese evening papers are so incensed, I'm surprised every edition's not on fire and all of Central with them."

"I'd try them for treason," Johnjohn said, his face sour. "What the devil can we do, Ian?"

"Pray! I've already spoken to Guthrie, the Liberal MP, and some of the Tories. One of the Guardian's top reporters is interviewing them right now and their opposite opinions will be the morning headlines refuting all this poppycock." Dunross wiped his hands. He could feel the sweat on his back as well. The combination of Grey, Tiptop, Jacques, Phillip Chen, the coin and the AMG files was unnerving him. Christ Jesus, he thought, what next? His meeting with Murtagh of the Royal Belgium had been what Casey had forecast—a long shot but a good one. Coming out of that meeting someone had given him the afternoon papers and the bombshell that such ill-advised remarks was going to create had almost knocked him over. "We'll have to just dismiss the whole thing publicly, and privately work like hell to make sure Grey's bill to bring Hong Kong down to Britain's level never gets to a vote, or is voted down, and Labour never gets elected." He felt his bile rising. "Broadhurst was just as bad if not worse."

"Ian, have you talked to Tiptop?"

"No, Bruce. His line's still busy though I did send a message around." He told them what he had arranged with Phillip Chen. Then the governor related Tiptop's complaint. Dunross was aghast. "When did he call, sir?"

"Just before six."

"He would have had our message by then." Dunross felt his heart thumping. "After this . . .this debacle, I'd lay heavy odds there's no chance for Chinese money."

"I agree."

Dunross was acutely aware they had not mentioned Grey's relationship to him. "Robin Grey's worse than a fool," he said, thinking he might just as well bring it out into the open. "My god-cursed brother-in-law could not have done better for the Soviets if he was a member of the Politburo. Broadhurst as well. Stupid!"

After a pause the governor said, "As the Chinese say, The devil gives you your relations, thank all gods you can choose your friends.'"

"You're so right. Fortunately, the committee's due to leave Sunday. With the races tomorrow and all the… all the other problems, perhaps it'll all get lost in the shuffle." Dunross mopped his brow. "It's close in here, isn't it?"

The governor nodded, then added testily, "Is everything ready, Johnjohn?"

"Yes sir. The va—" In the hall the elevator opened and Roger Crosse and Edward Sinders, chief of MI-6, came out.

"Ah, Sinders," the governor said as they both came into the anteroom, "I'd like you to meet Mr. Dunross."

"Pleased to meet you, sir." Sinders shook hands with Dunross. He was a middle-aged, middle height, nondescript man with crumpled clothes. His face was thin and colorless, the stubble of his beard gray. "Please excuse my rumpledness, sir, but I haven't been to the hotel yet."

"Sorry about that," Dunross replied. "This could certainly have waited until tomorrow. Evening, Roger."

"Evening, sir. Evening, Ian," Crosse said crisply. "As we're all here, perhaps we could proceed?"

Obediently Johnjohn began to lead the way but Dunross said, "Just a moment. Sorry, Bruce, could you excuse us a moment?"

"Oh certainly." Johnjohn covered his surprise, wondering what this was all about and who Sinders was, but much too wise to ask. He knew they would tell him if they wanted him to know. The door closed behind him.

Dunross glanced at the governor. "Do you attest, sir, formally, this is Edward Sinders, head of MI-6?"

"I do." The governor handed him an envelope. "I believe you wanted it in writing."

"Thank you, sir." To Sinders, Dunross said, "Sorry, but you understand my reluctance."

"Of course. Good, then that's settled. Shall we go, Mr. Dunross?"

"Who's Mary McFee?"

Sinders was shocked. Crosse and the governor stared at him, perplexed, then at Dunross. "You have friends in high places, Mr. Dunross. May I ask who told you that?"

"Sorry." Dunross kept his gaze on him. Afastair Struan had got the information from some VIP in the Bank of England who had approached someone high up in the government. "All we want to do is to be sure Sinders is who he pretends to be."

"Mary McFee's a friend," Sinders said uneasily.

"Sorry, that's not good enough."

"A girl friend."

"Sorry, neither's that. What's her real name?"

Sinders hesitated, then, his face chalky, he took Dunross by the arm and guided him to the far end of the room. He put his lips very close to Dunross's ear. "Anastasia Kekilova, First Secretary of the Czechoslovak Embassy in London," he whispered, his back to Crosse and the governor.

Dunross nodded, satisfied, but Sinders held on to his arm with surprising strength and whispered even more softly, "You'd better forget that name. If the KGB ever suspect you know they'll get it out of you. Then she's dead, I'm dead and so're you."

Dunross nodded. "Fair enough."

Sinders took a deep breath, then turned and nodded at Crosse. "Now let's have this done with, Roger. Your Excellency?"

Tensely they all followed him. Johnjohn was waiting at the elevator. Three floors below were the vaults. Two plainclothes guards waited in the small hallway in front of the heavy iron gates, one man CID, the other SI. Both saluted. Johnjohn unlocked the gates and let everyone through except the guards, then relocked them. "Just a bank custom."

"Have you ever had a break-in?" Sinders asked.

"No, though the Japanese did force the gates when the keys were, er, lost."

"Were you here then, sir?"

"No. I was lucky." After Hong Kong capitulated, at Christmas

, the two British banks, Blacs and the Victoria, became prime Japanese targets and were ordered to be liquidated. All the executives were separated and kept under guard and forced to assist the process. Over the months and years they were all subjected to extreme pressures. They were forced to issue bank notes illegally. And then the Kampeitai, the hated and feared Japanese secret police, had become involved. "The Kampeitai executed several of our fellows and made the lives of the rest miserable," Johnjohn said. "The usual: no food, beatings, privation, shut up in cages. Some died of malnutrition—starvation's the real word—and both Blacs and we lost our chief execs." Johnjohn unlocked another grille. Beyond were rows and rows of safe deposit boxes in several interconnecting concrete, reinforced cellars. "Ian?"

Dunross took out his passkey. "It's 16.85.94."

Johnjohn led the way. Very uncomfortable, he inserted his bank key in one lock. Dunross did the same with his. They turned both keys. The lock clicked open. Now all eyes were on the box. Johnjohn took out his key. "I'll. . . I'll be waiting at the gate," he said, glad it was over, and left.

Dunross hesitated. "There are other things in here, private papers. Do you mind?"

Crosse did not move. "Sorry but either Mr. Sinders or myself should ensure we get possession of all the files."

Dunross noticed the sweat on both men. His own back was wet. "Your Excellency, would you mind watching?"

"Not at all."

Reluctantly the two other men retreated. Dunross waited until they were well away, then opened the box. It was large. Sir Geoffrey's eyes widened. The box was empty but for the blue covered files. Without comment he accepted them. There were eight. Dunross slammed the box closed and the lock clicked home.

Crosse came forward, his hand out. "Shall I take them for you, sir?"

"No."

Crosse stopped, startled, and bit back a curse. "But, Exce—"

"The minister set up a procedure—approved by our American friends—which I agreed to," Sir Geoffrey said. "We will all go back to my office. We will all witness the photocopying. Two copies only. One for Mr. Sinders, one for Mr. Rosemont. Ian, I have been directly ordered by the Minister to give Mr. Rosemont copies."

Dunross shrugged, desperately hoping that he still appeared unconcerned. "If that's what the minister wants, that's perfectly all right. When you've photocopied the originals, sir, please burn them." He saw them look at him but he was watching Crosse and he thought he saw an instant of pleasure. "If the files're so special then it's better they shouldn't exist—except in the correct hands, MI-6 and the CIA. Certainly I shouldn't have a copy. If they're not special—then never mind. Most of poor old AMG was too farfetched and now that he's dead I must confess I don't consider the files special so long as they're in your hands. Please burn or shred them, Excellency."

"Very well." The governor turned his pale blue eyes on Roger Crosse. "Yes, Roger?"

"Nothing, sir. Shall we go?"

Dunross said, "I've got to get some corporate papers to check while I'm here. No need to wait for me."

"Very well. Thank you, Ian," Sir Geoffrey said and left with the other two men.

When he was quite alone Dunross went to another bank of boxes in the adjoining vault. He took out his key ring and selected two keys, grimly aware that Johnjohn would have a coronary if he knew he had a duplicate master key. The lock sprang back soundlessly. This box was one of dozens the Noble House possessed under different names. Inside were bundles of U.S. $100 notes, ancient deeds and papers. On top was a loaded automatic. As always, Dunross's psyche was unsettled, hating guns, hating Hag Struan, admiring her. In her "Instructions to Tai-pans," note 12 written just before her death in 1917, that was part of her last will and testament and in the tai-pan's safe, she had laid down more rules and one of them was that there should always be substantial amounts of secret cash for the tai-pan's use, on hand, and another that there should be at least four loaded handguns perpetually available in secret places. She wrote: "I abhor guns but I know them to be necessary. On Michaelmas Eve in 1916 when I was infirm and sick, my grandson Kelly O'Gorman, fourth tai-pan (in name only), believing I was on my deathbed, forced me from my bed to the safe in the Great House to fetch the seal-chop of the Noble House—to assign to him absolute power as tai-pan. Instead I took the gun that was secretly in the safe and shot him. He lingered two days then died. I am God-fearing and I abhor guns and some killing, but Kelly became a mad dog and it is the duty of the tai-pan to protect the succession. I regret his death not a jot or tittle. You who read this beware: kith or kin lust for power as others do. Do not be afraid to use any method to protect Dirk Struan's legacy …"

A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek. He remembered the hair on the nape of his neck rising when he had first read her instructions, the night he had taken over as tai-pan. He'd always believed that Cousin Kelly—eldest son of the Hag's last daughter Rose—had died of cholera in one of the great waves that perpetually washed Asia.

There were other monstrosities she had written about: "In 1894, that most terrible of years, the second of Jin-qua's coins was brought to me. That was the year plague had come to Hong Kong, bubonic plague. Amongst our heathen Chinese, tens of thousands were dying. Our own population was equally savaged and the plague took high and low, Cousin Hannah and three children, two of Chen-chen's children, five grandchildren. Legend foretold that bubonic plague was wind-borne. Others thought it was the curse of God or a flux like malaria, the killing 'bad air' of Happy Valley. Then the miracle! The Japanese research doctors Vitasato and Aoyama we brought to Hong Kong isolated the plague bacillus and proved the pest was flea-borne, and rat-borne, and that correct sanitation and the elimination of rats would cast out the curse forever. The eyesore hillside of Tai-ping Shan that Gordon owns—Gordon Chen, son of my beloved tai-pan—where most of our heathen always lived was a stinking, festering, overcrowded, rat-breeding cauldron for all pestilences, and as much as the authorities cajoled, ordered and insisted, the superstitious inhabitants there disbelieved everything and would do nothing to improve their lot, though the deaths continued and continued. Even Gordon, now a toothless old man, could do nothing—tearing his hair at his loss of rents, saving his energy for the four young women in his household.

"In the stench of late summer when it seemed the Colony was once more doomed, with deaths mounting daily, I had Tai-ping Shan put to the torch by night, the whole monstrous stenching mountainside. That some inhabitants were consumed is on my conscience, but without the cleansing fire the Colony was doomed and hundreds of thousands more doomed. I caused Tai-ping Shan to be fired but thereby I kept troth with Hong Kong. I kept troth with the Legacy. And I kept troth with the second of the half coins.

"On the twentieth of April a man called Chiang Wu-tah presented the half coin to my darling young cousin, Dirk Dunross, third tai-pan, who brought it to me, he not knowing the secret of the coins. I sent for the man Chiang who spoke English. The favor he asked was that the Noble House should grant immediate sanctuary and succor to a young, Western-educated Chinese revolutionary named Sun Yat-sen; that we should help this Sun Yat-sen with funds; and that we should help him as long as he lived, to the limits of our power in his fight to overthrow the alien Manchu Dynasty of China. Supporting any revolutionary against China's ruling dynasty with whom we had cordial relations and on whom depended much of our trade and revenues was against my principles, and seemingly against the interests of the House. I said no, I would not assist the overthrow of their emperor. But Chiang Wu-tah said, 'This is the favor required from the Noble House.'

"And so it was done.

"At great risk I provided funds and protection. My darling Dirk Dunross spirited Dr. Sun out of Canton to the Colony and from there abroad to America. I wanted Dr. Sun to accompany young Dirk to England—he was leaving on the tide, Master of our steamer Sunset Cloud. That was the week I wanted to hand over to him as real tai-pan but he said, 'No, not until I return.' But he was never to return. He and all hands were lost at sea somewhere in the Indian Ocean. Oh how terrible my loss, our loss!

"But death is a part of life and we the living have our duty to be done. I do not yet know to whom I should hand over. It should have been Dirk Dunross, who was named for his grandfather. His sons are too young, none of the Coopers are adequate, or deVilles, Dag-lish is possible, none of the MacStruans are yet ready. Alastair Struan perhaps but there's a weakness there that conies down from Robb Struan.

"I don't mind admitting to you, future tai-pan, that I am weary unto death. But I am not yet ready to die. Pray God I am given the strength for a few more years. There is not one of my line or my beloved Dirk Struan's line worthy of his mantle. And now there is this Great War to see through, the House to rebuild, our merchant fleet to refurbish—so far German U-boats have sunk thirty of our ships, almost our whole fleet. Yes, and there is the favor of the second coin still to fulfill. This Dr. Sun Yat-sen must and will be supported until he dies and so retain our face in Asia. . . ."

And we did, Dunross thought. The Noble House supported him in all his troubles, even when he tried to join with Soviet Russia, until he died in 1925 and Chiang Kai-shek, his Soviet-trained lieutenant, assumed his mantle and launched China into the future— until his old ally but ancient enemy, Mao Tse-tung, took the future away from him to mount the Dragon Throne in Peking with bloody hands, first of a new dynasty.

Dunross took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

The air in the vault was dusty and dry and a little caught in his throat and he coughed. His hands were sweaty too and he could still feel the chill on his back. He rummaged carefully to the bottom of the deep metal box and found his corporate chop that he would need over the weekend in case the Royal Belgium-First Central deal came to pass. I certainly owe Casey more than one favor if the deal is made, he told himself.

His heart was thumping again and he could not resist making sure. With great care he lifted the secret false bottom of the safety deposit box a fraction. In the two-inch space beneath were eight blue-covered files. AMG's real files. Those that moments ago he had passed over to Sinders had been in the sealed package that Kirk and his wife had brought yesterday—those eight counterfeit files and a letter: "Tai-pan: I am terribly worried that both you and I are betrayed and that information contained in previous files may fall into the wrong hands. The enclosed substitute files are safe and very similar. They drop vital names and vital information. You may pass these over if you are forced to do it, but only then. As to the originals, you should destroy them after you have seen Riko. Certain pages contain invisible writing. Riko will give you the key. Please excuse all these diversionary tactics but espionage is not for children; it deals in death, actual and in the future. Our lovely Britain is beset with traitors and evil walks the earth. Bluntly, freedom is under siege as never in history. I beg you to emulate your illustrious ancestor. He fought for freedom to trade, to live and to worship. Sorry, but I don't think he died in a storm. We'll never know the truth but I believe he was murdered, as I will be. Not to worry, my young friend. I've done very well in my life. I've put a lot of nails in the enemy coffin, more than my fair share—I ask you to do the same." The letter was signed, "With great respect."

Poor bugger, Dunross thought sadly.

Yesterday he had smuggled the counterfeit files into the vault, replacing the originals in the other box. He would have liked to have destroyed the originals then but there was no way to do that safely and anyway he had to wait for his meeting with the Japanese woman. Better and safer to leave them where they are for the moment, he said to himself. Plenty of ti—

Suddenly he felt eyes. His hand sneaked for the automatic. When his fingers had grasped it, he looked around. His stomach seemed to turn over. Crosse was watching him. And Johnjohn. They were at the entrance to the vault.

After a moment Crosse said, "I just wanted to thank you for your cooperation, Ian. Mr. Sinders and I appreciate it."

Relief poured through Dunross. "That's all right. Glad to help." Trying to be casual he relaxed his hold on the automatic and let it slide away. The false bottom fell silently into place. He saw Crosse's scrutiny but shrugged it off. From where the superintendent stood he did not think it possible for him to have seen the real files. Dunross blessed his joss that had prevented him from taking one of the files out to leaf through it. Carelessly he slammed the box shut and his breathing began again. "It really is quite stuffy in here, isn't it?"

"Yes. Again, Ian, thank you." Crosse left.

"How did you open that box?" Johnjohn asked coldly.

"With a key."

"Two keys, Ian. That's against regulations." Johnjohn held out his hand. "May I have our property please."

"Sorry, old chum," Dunross said calmly, "it's not your property."

Johnjohn hesitated. "We always suspected you had a duplicate master key. Paul is right about one thing: you've too much power, you consider this bank yours, our funds yours and the Colony yours."

"We've had a long and happy association with both, and it's only in the last few years when Paul Havergill's had some measure of power that I've had a hard time, me personally, and my House personally. But worse than that, he's old-fashioned and I voted him out for that reason only. You're not, you're modern. You'll be fairer, far-seeing, less emotional and straighter."

Johnjohn shook his head. "I doubt it. If I ever become tai-pan of the bank I'm going to see it's wholly owned by its stockholders and controlled by directors appointed by them."

"It is now. We just own 21 percent of the bank."

"You used to own 21 percent. That stock's pledged against your revolving fund which you can't and probably never will repay. Besides, 21 percent is not control, thank God."

"It very nearly is."

"My whole point." Johnjohn's voice was metallic. "That's dangerous for the bank, very dangerous."

"I don't think so."

"I do. I want 11 percent back."

"No sale, old lad."

"When I'm tai-pan, old lad, I'll get it by hook or by crook."

"We'll see."

"When I'm tai-pan I'm going to make lots of changes. All these locks for example. No master keys, privately owned."

"We'll see." Dunross smiled.

On Kowloon side, Bartlett jumped from the wharf to the pitching boat, helped Orlanda aboard. Automatically she kicked off her high heels to protect the fine teak deck.

"Welcome aboard the Sea Witch, Mr. Bartlett. Evening, Orlanda," Gornt said with a smile. He was at the helm and at once he motioned to his deckhand who cast off from the wharf that was near the Kowloon ferry terminal. "I'm delighted you accepted my invitation to dinner, Mr. Bartlett."

"I didn't know I had one until Orlanda told me half an hour ago . . . hey, this's a great boat!"

Gornt jovially put the engines into slow astern. "Until an hour ago I didn't know you two were going to dinner by yourselves. I presumed you'd never seen Hong Kong harbor by night so I thought it'd make a change for you. There were a couple of things I wanted to discuss privately so I asked Orlanda if she'd mind if I invited you aboard."

"I hope it was no trouble to come Kowloon side."

"No trouble, Mr. Bartlett. It's routine to pick up guests here." Gornt smiled a secret smile, thinking about Orlanda and all the other guests he had fetched from this Kowloon wharf over the years. Deftly Gornt backed the motor cruiser away from the Kowloon dock near Golden Ferry where the waves slapped the quay dangerously. He put the engine levers into half ahead and swung the tiller starboard to get out into the roads and set a westerly course.

The boat was seventy feet, trim, elegant, sparkling and she handled like a speedboat. They were on the bridge deck, glass-sided, open to the air aft, awnings overhead tight and crackling in the breeze, the wake churning. Gornt wore rough, casual sea clothes, a light reefer jacket and a jaunty peaked cap sporting the Yacht Club emblem. The clothes and his trimmed black, gray-flecked beard suited him. He swayed easily with the motion of the boat, very much at home.

Bartlett was watching him, at home too in sneakers and casual sweat shirt. Orlanda was beside him and he could feel her though they were not touching. She wore a dark evening pants suit and a shawl against the sea cold and she stood swaying easily, the wind in her hair, tiny without shoes.

He looked aft across the harbor at the ferries, junks, liners and the immense bulk of the battle-gray nuclear carrier, her decks floodlit, her flag fluttering bravely. A jet shrieked into the night sky from Kai Tak and incoming jets approaching Kowloon were stacked up.

He could not see the airport or his own airplane from this angle but he knew where it was parked. This afternoon he had visited it with police permission to check and fetch some papers and provisions.

Orlanda, beside him, touched him casually and he looked at her. She smiled back and he was warmed.

"Great, isn't it?"

Happily she nodded. There was no need to answer. Both knew.

"It is," Gornt said, thinking that Bartlett was talking to him and looked around at him. "It's grand to be afloat at night, master of your own craft. We go west, then almost due south around Hong Kong—about three quarters of an hour." He beckoned his captain who was nearby, a silent lithe Shanghainese wearing neat, starched white ducks.

"Shey-shey," thank you, the man said taking the helm.

Gornt waved to the chairs aft around a table. "Shall we?" He glanced at Orlanda. "You're looking very pretty, Orlanda."

"Thank you," she said.

"You're not too cold?"

"Oh no, Quillan, thank you."

A liveried steward came from below. On his tray were hot and cold canapes. In the ice bucket beside the table was an opened bottle of white wine, four glasses, two cans of American beer and some soft drinks. "What can I offer you, Mr. Bartlett?" Gornt asked. "The wine's Frascati but I hear you prefer iced cold beer out of the can?"

"Tonight Frascati—beer later, if I may?"

"Orlanda?"

"Wine please, Quillan," she said calmly, knowing that he knew she preferred Frascati to any other wine. I'll have to be very wise tonight, she thought, very strong and very wise and very clever. She had agreed to Gornt's suggestion at once for she, too, loved the water at night and the restaurant was a favorite though she would have preferred to have been alone with Line Bartlett. But it was clearly an … No, she thought, correcting herself. It wasn't an order, it was a request. Quillan's on my side. And in this, my side and his side have the same aim in common: Line. Oh how I enjoy Line!

When she looked at him she saw he was watching Gornt. Her heart quickened. It was like once when Gornt had taken her to Spain and she had seen a mono a mono. Yes, these two men are like matadors tonight. I know Quillan still desires me whatever he says. She smiled back at him, her excitement in place. "Wine would be fine for me."

It was dark on deck, the lighting comfortable and intimate. The steward poured, this wine as always very good, delicate, dry and enticing. Bartlett opened an air carry bag that he had brought with him. "It's an old American custom to bring a gift the first time you go to a home—I guess this is a home." He put the wine bottle on the table.

"Oh that's very kind of…" Gornt stopped. Delicately he picked up the bottle and stared at it, then got up and looked at it under the binnacle light. He sat down again. "That's not a gift, Mr. Bartlett, that's bottled magic. I thought my eyes were deceiving me." It was a Chateau Margaux, one of the great premier cm clarets from the Medoc in the province of Bordeaux. "I've never had the '49. That was a dream year for clarets. Thank you. Thank you very much." "Orlanda said you liked red better than white but I guessed we might have some fish." Casually he put the second bottle beside the first.

Gornt stared at it. It was a Chateau Haut-Brion. In good years Chateau Haut-Brion red compared with all the great Medocs, but the white—dry, delicate and little known because it was so scarce —was considered one of the finest of all the great Bordeaux whites. The year was '55.

Gornt sighed. "If you know so much about wines, Mr. Bartlett, why do you drink beer?"

"I like beer with pasta, Mr. Gornt,—and beer before lunch. But wine with food." Bartlett grinned. "Come Tuesday, we'll have beer with the pasta, then Frascati or Verdicchio or the Umbrian Casale with . . . with what?"

"Piccata?"

"Great," Bartlett said, not wanting any piccata other than Or-landa's. "That's just about my favorite." He kept his attention on Gornt and did not glance at Orlanda but he knew she knew what he meant. I'm glad I tested her.

"Oh did you have a good time?" she had said when she had called for him this morning at the small hotel on Sunning Road. "Oh I do hope so, Line, darling."

The other girl had been beautiful but there had been no feeling other than lust, the satisfaction of the joining minimal. He had told her.

"Oh then that's my fault. We chose wrong," she had said unhappily. "Tonight we'll have dinner and we'll try somewhere else."

Involuntarily he smiled and looked at her. The sea breeze was making her more beautiful. Then he noticed Gornt watching them. "Are we eating fish tonight?"

"Oh yes. Orlanda, did you tell Mr. Bartlett about Pok Liu Chau?"

"No, Quillan, just that we've been invited for a sail."

"Good. It won't be a banquet but the seafood there's excellent, Mr. Bartlett. You pi—"

"Why don't you call me Line and let me call you Quillan? The 'mister' bit gives me indigestion."

They all laughed. Gornt said, "Line, with your permission we'll not open your gift tonight. Chinese food's not for these great wines, they wouldn't complement each other. I'll keep them, if I may, for our dinner Tuesday?"

"Of course."

There was a small silence within the muted thunder of the diesel engines below. Immediately sensing Gornt wanted privacy, Orlanda got up with a smile. "Excuse me a second, I just want to powder my nose."

"Use the forward cabins, the forward gangway, Orlanda," Gornt said, watching her.

"Thank you," she said and walked off, in one way glad, in another hurt. The forward cabins were for guests. She would have automatically gone down this gangway to the main cabin, to the toilet off the master suite—the suite that once was theirs. Never mind. The past is the past and now there's Line, she thought, going forward.

Bartlett sipped his wine, wondering why Orlanda had seemed to hesitate. He concentrated on Gornt. "How many does this boat sleep?"

"Ten comfortably. There's a regular crew of four—captain-engineer, a deckhand, cook and steward. I'll show you around later if you like." Gornt lit a cigarette. "You don't smoke?"

"No, no thanks."

"We can cruise for a week without refueling. If necessary. We still conclude our deal on Tuesday?"

"That's still D Day."

"Have you changed your mind? About Struan's?"

"Monday'll still decide the battle. Monday at 3:00 P.M. When the market closes, you've got Ian or you haven't and it's a standoff again."

"This time it won't be a standoff. He's ruined."

"It sure as hell looks that way."

"Are you still going to Taipei with him?"

"That's still the plan."

Gornt took a deep drag of his cigarette. His eyes checked the lie of his ship. They were well out into the main channel. Gornt got up and stood beside the captain a moment but the captain had also seen the small unlit junk ahead and he skirted it without danger. "Full ahead," Gornt said and came back. He refilled the glasses, chose one of the deep-fried dim sum and looked at the American. "Line, may I be blunt?"

"Sure."

"Orlanda."

Bartlett's eyes narrowed. "What about her?"

"As you probably know, she and I were very good friends once. Very good. Hong Kong's a very gossipy place and you'll hear all sorts of rumors, but we're still friends though we haven't been together for three years." Gornt looked at him under his shaggy black-gray eyebrows. "I just wanted to say that I wouldn't want her harmed." His teeth glinted with his smile in the gimbaled light over the table. "And she's as fine a person and companion as you could find."

"I agree."

"Sorry, don't want to belabor anything, just wanted to make three points, one man to another. That was the first. The second's that she's as closed-mouthed as any woman I've ever known. The third's that she's nothing to do with business—I'm not using her, she's not a prize, or bait or anything like that."

Bartlett let the silence hang. Then he nodded. "Sure."

"You don't believe me?"

Bartlett laughed. It was a good laugh. "Hell, Quillan, this's Hong Kong! I'm out of my depth in more ways than you can shake a stick at. I don't even know if Pok Liu Chau's the name of the restaurant, a part of Hong Kong or in Red China." He drank the wine, enjoying it. "As to Orlanda, she's great and you've no need to worry. I got the message."

"I hope you don't mind my mentioning it."

Bartlett shook his head. "I'm glad you did." He hesitated, then because the other man was open he decided to get everything into the open. "She told me about the child."

"Good."

"Why the frown?"

"I'm just surprised she'd mention her now. Orlanda must like you very much."

Bartlett felt the power of the eyes watching him and he tried to read if there was envy there. "I hope she does. She said you'd been great to her since you split. And to her folks."

"They're nice people. It's rough in Asia to raise five children, raise them well. It was always our company policy to help families where we could." Gornt sipped his wine. "The first time I saw Orianda was when she was ten. It was a Saturday at the races in Shanghai. In those days everyone would dress up in their best clothes and stroll the paddocks. It was her first formal coming out. Her father was a manager in our shipping division—a good fellow, Eduardo Ramos, third-generation Macao, his wife pure Shang-hainese. But Orlanda …" Gornt sighed. "Orlanda was the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. Her dress was white … I don't remember seeing her after that until she came back from school. She was almost eighteen then and, well, I fell madly in love with her." Gornt looked up from his glass. "I can't tell you how lucky I felt all those years with her." His eyes hardened. "Did she tell you I broke the man who seduced her?" "Yes."

"Good. Then you know it all." Gornt added with great dignity, "I just wanted to mention my three points."

Bartlett felt a sudden warmth toward the other man. "I appreciate them." He leaned forward to accept more wine. "Why don't we leave it this way. Come Tuesday all debts and friendships are canceled and we start fresh. All of us. "

"Meanwhile, which side are you on?" Gornt asked, the front of his face a smile.

"For the raid, yours, one hundred percent!" Bartlett said at once. "For Par-Con's probe into Asia? I'm in the middle. I wait for the winner. I lean toward you and I hope you're the winner, but I'm waiting."

"The two aren't the same?"

"No. I set the ground rules of the raid way back. I said the raid was a onetime operation, a fool's mate." Bartlett smiled. "Sure, Quillan, I'm a hundred percent with you on the raid—didn't I put up the 2 million with no chop, no paper, just a handshake?"

After a pause, Gornt said, "In Hong Kong, sometimes that's more valuable. I haven't the exact figures but on paper we're between 24 and 30 million HK ahead."

Bartlett raised his glass. "Hallelujah! But meanwhile how about the bank run? How will that affect us?"

Gornt frowned. "I don't think it will. Our market's very volatile but Blacs and the Vic are solid, unbreakable, the government has to support both of them. There's a rumor the governor'll declare Monday a bank holiday and close the banks for as long as needed —it's just a matter of time before cash becomes available to stop the loss of confidence. Meanwhile, a lot will get burned and a lot of banks will go to the wall but that shouldn't affect our plan."

"When do you buy back in?"

"That depends on when you dump Struan's."

"How about noon Monday? That gives you plenty of time before closing for you and your secret nominees to buy after the news leaks and the shares go down some more."

"Excellent. Chinese work on rumors, very much, so the market can swing from boom to bust or vice versa very easily. Noon is fine. You'll do that in Taipei?"

"Yes."

"I'll need a telex confirmation."

"Casey'll give it to you."

"She knows? About the plan?"

"Yes. Now she does. How many shares do you need for control?"

"You should have that information."

"That's the only piece missing."

"When we buy in we'll have enough to give us at least three immediate seats on the board and lan's through. Once we're on the board Struan's is in our power, and then, very soon, I merge Struan's with Rothwell-Gornt."

"And you're tai-pan of the Noble House."

"Yes." Gornt's eyes glinted. He refilled the glasses. "Health!"

"Health!"

They drank, content with their deal. But in their secret hearts neither trusted the other, not even a little. Both were very glad they had contingency plans—if need be.

Grim-faced, the three men came out of Government House and got into Crosse's car. Crosse drove. Sinders sat in the front, Rose-mont in the back and both of them held on tightly to their still unread copies of the AMG files. The night was dark, the sky scudding and the traffic heavier than usual.

Rosemont, sitting in the back, said, "You think the guv'll read the originals before he shreds them?"

"I would," Sinders replied without turning to look at him.

"Sir Geoffrey's much too clever to do that," Crosse said. "He won't shred the originals until your copy's safely in the minister's hands, just in case you don't arrive. Even so he's far too shrewd to read something that could be an embarrassment to Her Majesty's plenipotentiary and therefore Her Majesty's Government."

Again there was a silence.

Then, unable to hold back anymore, Rosemont said coldly, "What about Metkin? Eh? Where was the foul-up, Rog?"

"Bombay. The aircraft had to have been sabotaged there, if it was sabotage."

"For chrissake, Rog, gotta be. Of course someone was tipped.

Where was the leak? Your goddamn mole again?" He waited but neither man answered him. "What about the Ivanov, Rog? You going to impound her and make a sudden search?"

"The governor checked with London and they thought it unwise to create an incident."

"What the hell do those meatheads know?" Rosemont said angrily. "She's a spy ship, for chrissake! Betcha fifty to a bent hatpin we'd get current code books, a look at the best surveillance gear in the USSR and five or six KGB experts. Huh?"

"Of course you're right, Mr. Rosemont," Sinders said thinly. "But we can't, not without the necessary approval."

"Let me and my guys d—"

"Absolutely not!" Irritably Sinders took out his cigarettes. The pack was empty. Crosse offered his.

"So you're going to let 'em get away with it?"

"I'm going to invite the captain, Captain Suslev, to HQ tomorrow and ask him for an explanation," Sinders said.

"I'd like to be party to that."

"I'll consider it."

"You'll have an official okay before 9:00 A.M."

Sinders snapped, "Sorry, Mr. Rosemont, but if I wish I can override any directives from your brass while I'm here."

"We're allies for chrissakd"

Crosse said sharply, "Then why did you raid 32 Sinclair Towers, uninvited?"

Rosemont sighed and told them.

Thoughtfully Sinders glanced at Crosse, then back at Rosemont. "Who told you that it was an enemy safe house, Mr. Rosemont?"

"We've a wide network of informers here. It was part of a debriefing. I can't tell you who but I'll give you copies of the sets of fingerprints off the glass we got if you want them."

Sinders said, "That would be very useful. Thank you."

"That still doesn't absolve you from a fatuous, unauthorized raid," Crosse said coldly.

"I said I'm sorry, okay?" Rosemont flared and his chin jutted. "We all make mistakes. Like Philby, Burgess and Maclean! London's so goddamn smart, eh? We've a hot tip you've a fourth guy —higher up, equally well placed and laughing at you."

Crosse and Sinders were startled. They glanced at one another. Then Sinders craned around. "Who?"

"If I knew, he'd be jumped. Philby got away with so much of our stuff it cost us millions to regroup and recede."

Sinders said, "Sorry about Philby. Yes, we all feel very bad about him."

"We all make mistakes and the only sin's failure, right? If I'd caught a couple of enemy agents last night you'd be cheering. So I failed. I said I'm sorry, okay? I'll ask next time, okay?"

Crosse said, "You won't but it would save us all a lot of grief if you did."

"What have you heard about a fourth man?" Sinders asked, his face pale, the stubble of his beard making him appear even more soiled than he was.

"Last month we busted another Commie ring, Stateside. Shit, they're like roaches. This cell was four people, two in New York, two in Washington. The guy in New York was Ivan Egorov, another officer in the UN Secretariat." Rosemont added bitterly, "Jesus, why don't our side wake up that the goddamn UN's riddled with plants, and the best Soviet weapon since they stole our goddamn bomb! We caught Ivan Egorov and his wife Alessandra passing industrial espionage secrets, computers. The guys in Washington, both'd taken American names of real people who were dead: a Roman Catholic priest and a woman from Connecticut. The four bastards were tied in with a joker from the Soviet Embassy, an attache who was their controller. We pounced on him trying to recruit one of our CIA guys to spy for them. Sure. But before we ordered him out of the States, we frightened him enough to blow the cover on the other four. One of them tipped us that Philby wasn't kingpin, that there was a fourth man."

Sinders coughed and lit another cigarette from the stub of the other. "What did he say. Exactly?"

"Only that Philby's cell was four. The fourth's the guy who inducted the others, the controller of the cell and the main link to the Soviets. Rumor was he's up there. VVIP."

"What sort? Political? Foreign Office? Gentry?"

Rosemont shrugged. "Just VVIP."

Sinders stared at him, then went back into his shell. Crosse swung into Sinclair Road, and stopped at his own apartment to let Sinders off, then drove to the consulate that was near Government House. Rosemont got a copy of the fingerprints then guided Crosse to his office. The office was large and well stocked with liquor. "Scotch?"

"Vodka with a dash of Rose's lime juice," Crosse said, eyeing the AMG files that Rosemont had put carelessly on his desk.

"Health." They touched glasses. Rosemont drank his Scotch deeply. "What's on your mind, Rog? You've been like a cat on a hot tin roof all day."

Crosse nodded at the files. "It's them. I want that mole. I want Sevrin smashed."

Rosemont frowned. "Okay," he said after a pause, "let's see what we got."

He picked up the first file, put his feet on the desk and began reading. It took him barely a couple of minutes to finish, then he passed it over to Crosse who read equally fast. Quickly they went through the files one by one. Crosse closed the last page of the last one and handed it back. He lit a cigarette.

"Too much to comment on now," Rosemont muttered absently.

Crosse caught an undercurrent in the American's voice and wondered if he was being tested. "One thing jumps out," he said, watching Rosemont. "These don't compare in quality with the other one, the one we intercepted."

Rosemont nodded. "I got that too, Rog. How do you figure it?"

"These seem flat. All sorts of questions are unanswered. Sevrin's skirted, so's the mole." Crosse toyed with his vodka then finished it. "I'm disappointed."

Rosemont broke the silence. "So either the one we got was unique and different, written differently, or these're phonies or phonied up?"

"Yes."

Rosemont exhaled. "Which leads back to Ian Dunross. If these're phony, he's still got the real ones."

"Either actually, or in his head."

"What do you mean?"

"He's supposed to have a photographic memory. He could have destroyed the real ones and prepared these, but still remember the others."

"Ah, so he could be debriefed if he … if he's cheated us."

Crosse lit another cigarette. "Yes. If the powers-that-be decided it was necessary." He looked up at Rosemont. "Of course, any such debriefing would be highly dangerous and would have to be ordered solely under the Official Secrets Act."

Rosemont's used face became even grimmer. "Should I take the bail and run?"

"No. First we have to be sure. That should be relatively easy." Crosse glanced at the liquor cabinet. "May I?"

"Sure. I'll take another shot of whiskey."

Crosse handed him the refill. "I'll make a deal with you: You really cooperate, completely, you don't do anything without telling me in advance, no secrets, no jumping the gun . . ."

"In return for?"

Crosse smiled his thin smile and took out some photocopies. "How would you like to influence, perhaps even control, certain presidential hopefuls—perhaps even an election?"

"I don't follow you."

Crosse passed over the letters of Thomas K. K. Lim that Armstrong and his team had acquired in the raid on Bucktooth Lo two days before. "It seems that certain very rich, very well-connected U.S. families are in league with certain U.S. generals to build several large but unnecessary airfields in Vietnam, for personal gain. This documents the how, when and who." Crosse told him w.here and how the papers had been found and added, "Isn't Senator Wilf Tillman, the one that's here now, a presidential hopeful? I imagine he'd make you head of the CIA for these goodies—// you wanted to give them to him. These two're even juicier." Crosse put them on the desk. "These document how certain rather well-connected politicians and the same well-connected families have got congressional approval to channel millions into a totally fraudulent aid program in Vietnam. 8 millions have already been paid over."

Rosemont read the letters. His face went chalky. He picked up the phone. "Get me Ed Langan." He waited a moment, then his face went suddenly purple. "I don't give a goddamn!" he rasped. "Get off your goddamn butt and get Ed here right now." He slammed the phone back onto its hook, cursing obscenely, opened his desk, found a bottle of antacid pills and took three. "I'll never make fifty at this rate," he muttered. "Rog, this joker, Thomas K. K. Lim, can we have him?"

"If you can find him, be my guest. He's somewhere in South America." Crosse put down another paper. "This's Anti-Corruption's confidential report. You shouldn't have any trouble tracking him."

Rosemont read it. "Jesus." After a pause he said, "Can we keep this between us? It's liable to blow the roof off a couple of our national monuments."

"Of course. We have a deal? Nothing hidden on either side?" "Okay." Rosemont went to the safe and unlocked it. "One good turn deserves another." He found the file he was looking for, took out some papers, put the file back and relocked the safe. "Here, these're photocopies. You can have "em."

The photocopies were headed "Freedom Fighter" dated this month and last month. Crosse went through them quickly and whistled from time to time. They were espionage reports, their quality excellent. All the items dealt with Canton, happenings in and around that vital capital city of Kwantung Province: troop movements, promotions, appointments to the local presidiums and Communist Party, floods, food shortages, the military, numbers and types of East German and Czechoslovak goods available in the stores. "Where'd you get these?" he asked.

"We've a cell operating in Canton. This's one of their reports, we get them monthly. Shall I give you a copy?"

"Yes. Yes thank you. I'll check it out through our sources for accuracy."

"They're accurate, Rog. Of course top secret, yes? I don't want my guys blown like Fong-fong. We'll keep this between you'n me, okay?" "All right."

The American got up and put out his hand. "And Rog, I'm sorry about the raid." "Yes."

"Good. As to this joker, Lim, we'll find him." Rosemont stretched wearily then went and poured himself another drink. "Rog?"

"No thanks, I'll be off," Crosse said.

Rosemont stabbed a blunt finger at the letters. "About those, thanks. Yeah, thanks but.. ." He stopped a moment, near tears of rage. "Sometimes I'm so sick to my stomach what our own guys'll do for goddamn dough even if it's a goddamn pile of goddamn gold I'd like to die. You know what I mean?"

"Oh yes!" Crosse kept his voice kind and gentle but he was thinking, How naive you are, Stanley! In a moment he left and went to police HQ and checked out the fingerprints in his private files, then got back into his car and headed haphazardly toward West Point. When he was sure that he was not being followed, he stopped at the next phone booth and dialed. In a moment the phone was picked up at the other end. No answer, just breathing. At once Crosse coughed Arthur's dry hacking cough and spoke in a perfect imitation of Arthur's voice. "Mr. Lop-sing please."

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

Contentedly Crosse recognized Suslev. "I want to leave a message," he said continuing the code in the same voice that both he and Jason Plumm used on the telephone, both of them finding it very useful to be able to pretend to be Arthur whenever necessary, thus further covering each other and their real identities.

When the code was complete, Suslev said, "And?"

Crosse smiled thinly, glad to be able to dupe Suslev. "I've read the material. So has Our Friend." Our friend was Arthur's code name for himself, Roger Crosse.

"Ah! And?"

"And we both agree it's excellent." Excellent was a code word meaning counterfeit or false information.

A long pause. "So?"

"Can our friend contact you, Saturday at four?" Can Roger Crosse contact you tonight at 10:00 P.M. at safe phones?

"Yes. Thank you for calling." Yes. Message understood.

Crosse replaced the receiver.

He took out another coin and dialed again.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Jason, this's Roger Crosse," he said affably.

"Oh hello, Superintendent, this's a pleasant surprise," Plumm replied. "Is our bridge game still on for tomorrow?" Did you make the intercept of the AMG files?

"Yes," Crosse said, then added casually, "But instead of six could we make it eight?" Yes, but we're safe, no names were mentioned.

There was a great sigh of relief. Then Plumm said, "Shall I tell the others?" Do we meet tonight as arranged?

"No, no need to disturb them tonight, we can do that tomorrow." No. We'll meet tomorrow.

"Fine. Thank you for calling."

Crosse went back down the crowded street. Very pleased with himself, he got into his car and lit a cigarette. I wonder what Suslev —or his bosses—would think if they knew I was the real Arthur, not Jason Plumm. Secrets within secrets within secrets and Jason the only one who knows who Arthur really is!

He chuckled.

The KGB would be furious. They don't like secrets they're not party to. And they'd be even more furious if they knew it was I who inducted Plumm and formed Sevrin, not the other way around.

It had been easy to arrange. When Crosse was in Military Intelligence in Germany at the tail end of the war, information was whispered to him privately that Plumm, a signals expert, was operating a clandestine transmitter for the Soviets. Within a month he had got to know Plumm and had established the truth of this but almost immediately the war had ended. So he had docketed the information for future use—to barter with, or against a time he might want to switch sides. In espionage you never know when you're being set up, or betrayed, or being sold for something or someone more valuable. You always need secrets to barter with, the more important the secrets the safer you are, because you never know when you or an underling or overling will make the mistake that leaves you as naked and as helpless as a spiked butterfly. Like Voranski. Like Metkin. Like Dunross with his phony files. Like Rosemont with his naive idealism. Like Gregor Suslev, his fingerprints from the glass now on record with the CIA and so in a trap of my own choosing.

Crosse laughed aloud. He let in the clutch, easing out into the traffic. Switching sides and playing them all off against each other makes life exciting, he told himself. Yes, secrets really do make life very exciting indeed.

61

9:45 P.M. :

Pok Liu Chau was a small island southwest of Aberdeen, and dinner the best Chinese food Bartlett had ever had. They were on their eighth course, small bowls of rice. Traditionally rice was the last dish at a banquet.

"You're not really supposed to eat any, Line!" Orlanda laughed. "That sort of dramatizes to your host that you're full to bursting!" "You can say that again, Orlanda! Quillan, it's been fantastic!" "Yes, yes it was, Quillan," she echoed. "You chose beautifully." The restaurant was beside a small wharf near a fishing village— drab and lit with bare bulbs and furnished with oilcloth on the tables and bad chairs and broken tiles on the floor. Behind it was an alley of fish tanks where the daily catch of the island was kept for sale. Under the proprietor's direction they chose from what •was swimming in the tanks: prawns, squid, shrimps, lobster, small crabs and fish of all kinds of shapes and sizes.

Gornt had argued with the proprietor over the menu, settling with what fish they could agree on. Both were experts and Gornt a valued customer. Later they had sat down at a table on the patio. It was cool and they drank beer, happy together, the three of them. All knew that at least during dinner there was a truce and no need for guards.

In moments the first dish had arrived—mounds of succulent quick-fried shrimps, sea-sweet and as delicious as any in the world. Then tiny octopus with garlic and ginger and chili and all the condiments of the East. Then some chicken wings deep fried which they ate with sea salt, then the great fish steamed with soy and slivers of fresh green onions and ginger and laid on a platter, the cheek, the delicacy of the fish, given to Bartlett as the honored guest.

"Jesus, when I saw this dump, sorry, this place, I figured you were putting me on."

"Ah, my dear fellow," Gornt said, "you have to know the Chinese. They aren't concerned with the surroundings, just the food. They'd be vary suspicious of any eating place that wasted money on decoration or tablecloths or candles. They want to see what they eat —hence the harsh light. Chinese are at their best eating. They're like Italians. They love to laugh and eat and drink and belch. . . ."

They all drank beer. "That goes best with Chinese food though Chinese tea's better—it's more digestive and breaks down all the oil."

"Why the smile, Line?" Orlanda asked. She was sitting between them.

"No reason. It's just that you really know how to eat here. Say, what's this?"

She peered at the dish of fried rice mixed with various kinds of fish. "Squid."

"What?"

The others laughed and Gornt said, "The Chinese say if its back faces heaven it's edible. Shall we go?"

As soon as they were back on board and out to sea, away from the wharf, there was coffee and brandy. Gornt said, "Will you excuse me for a while? I've got some paper work to do. If you're cold, use the forward stateroom." He went below.

Thoughtfully Bartlett sipped his brandy. Orlanda was across from him and they were lounging in the deck chairs on the aft deck. Suddenly he wished that this was his boat and they were alone. Her eyes were on him. Without being asked, she moved closer and put her hand on the back of his neck, kneading the muscles gently and expertly.

"That feels great," he said, wanting her.

"Ah," she replied, very pleased, "I'm very good at massage, Line. I took lessons from a Japanese. Do you have a regular massage?"

"No."

"You should. It's very important for your body, very important to keep every muscle tuned. You tune your aircraft, don't you? So why not your body? Tomorrow I'll arrange it for you." Her nails dug into his neck mischievously. "She's a woman, but not to be touched, heya!" "Come on, Orlanda!"

"I was teasing, silly," she told him at once, brightly, taking away the sudden tension easily. "This woman's blind. In olden days in China and even today in Taiwan, blind people are given a monopoly on the art and business of massage, their fingers being their eyes. Oh yes. Of course there are lots of quacks and charlatans who pretend to have knowledge but don't, not really. In Hong Kong you soon know who's real and who isn't. This is a very tiny village." She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his neck. "That's because you're beautiful."

He laughed. "I'm supposed to say that." He put his arm around her, bewitched, and gave her a little hug, very conscious of the captain at the helm ten feet away.

"Would you like to go forward and see the rest of the ship?" she asked.

He stared at her. "You a mind reader too?"

She laughed, her lovely face a mirror of joy. "Isn't it the girl's part to notice if her … if her date's happy or sad or wanting to be alone or whatever? I was taught to use my eyes and senses, Line. Certainly I try to read your mind but if I'm wrong you must tell me so that I can get better. But if I'm correct. .. doesn't that make it grander for you?" And so much easier to ensnare you beyond escape. To control you on a line you can so easily break if you wish, my art being to make the too thin line like a steel mesh.

Oh but that was not easy to learn! Quillan was a cruel teacher, oh so cruel. Much of my education was done in anger, Quillan cursing me, "For chrissake can't you ever learn to use your bloody eyes? It should have been crystal clear when I came here that I was feeling rotten and had a rotten day! Why the hell didn't you get me a drink at once, touch me gently at once and then keep your bloody mouth shut for ten minutes while I recoup—just tender and understanding for ten bloody minutes and then I'd be fine again!"

"But Quillan," she had whimpered through her tears, frightened by his rage, "you came in so angrily you upset me and th—"

"I've told you fifty times not to be upset just because I'm bloody upset! It's your job to take the tension out of me! Use your bloody eyes and ears and sixth sense! All I need's ten minutes and I'm docile again and putty. For chrissake, don't I watch over you all the time? Don't I use my bloody eyes and try to defuse you? Every month at the same time you're always edgy, eh? Don't I take care to be as calm as possible then and keep you calmed? Eh?"

"Yes but d—"

"To hell with but! By God, now I'm in a worse temper than when I came in! It's your bloody fault because you're stupid, unwomanly, and you of all people should know better!"

Orlanda remembered how he had slammed out of the apartment and she had burst into tears, the birthday dinner she had cooked ruined and the evening wrecked. Later, he had come back, calm now, and had taken her into his arms and held her tenderly as she wept, sorry for the row that she agreed was unnecessary and her fault. "Listen, Orlanda," he had said so gently. "I'm not the only man you'll have to control in this life, not the only one on whom you'll depend—it's a basic fact that women depend on some man, however rotten and evil and difficult. It's so easy for a woman to be in control. Oh so easy if you use your eyes, understand that men are children and, from time to time—most of the time—stupid, petulant and awful. But they supply the money and it's hard to do that, very hard. It's very hard to keep supplying the money day after day whoever you are. Moh ching moh meng … no money no life. In return the woman's got to supply the harmony—the man can't, not all the time. But the woman can always cheer her man if she wants to, can always take the poison out of him. Always. Just by being calm and loving and tender and understanding for such a short time. I'll teach you the game of life. You'll have a Ph.D. in survival, as a woman, but you've got to work . . ."

Oh how I worked, Orlanda thought grimly, remembering all her tears. But now I know. Now I can do instinctively what I forced myself to learn. "Come on, let me show you the forward part of the ship." She got up, conscious of the captain's eyes, and led the way confidently.

As they walked she slipped her arm momentarily in Line's, then took the railing of the gangway and went below. The stateroom was big, with comfortable chaises and sofas and deep chairs fixed to the deck. The cocktail cabinet was well stocked. "The galley's forward in the fo'c'sle with the crew quarters," she said. "They're cramped but good for Hong Kong." A small corridor led forward. Four cabins, two with a double bunk, two with bunks one over the other. Neat and shipshape and inviting. "Aft's Quillan's master stateroom and the master suite. It's luxurious." She smiled thoughtfully. "He enjoys the best."

"Yes," Bartlett said. He kissed her and she responded, fully responded. His desire made her limp and liquid and she let herself go into his desire, matching his passion, certain that he would stop and that she would not have to stop him.

The game had been planned that way.

She felt his strength. At once her loins pressed closer, moving slightly. His hands roved her and hers responded. It was glorious in his arms, better than she had ever known with Quillan who was always teacher, always in control, always unsharable. They were on the bunk when Bartlett backed off. Her body cried out for his, but still she exulted.

"Let's go back on deck," she heard him say, his voice throaty.

Gornt crossed the fine stateroom and went into the master suite and locked the door behind him. The girl was sweetly asleep in the huge bed under the light blanket. He stood at the foot of the bed, enjoying the sight of her before he touched her. She came out of sleep slowly. "Ayeeyah, I slept so well, Honored Sir. Your bed is so inviting," she said in Shanghainese with a smile and a yawn and stretched gloriously as a kitten would stretch. "Did you eat well?"

"Excellently," he replied in the same language. "Was yours equally fine?"

"Oh yes, delicious!" she said politely. "Boat Steward Cho brought the same dishes you had. I particularly liked the octopus with black bean and garlic sauce." She sat up in the bed and leaned against the silk pillows, quite naked. "Should I get dressed and come on deck now?"

"No, Little Kitten, not yet." Gornt sat on the bed and reached out and touched her breasts and felt a little shiver run through her. Her Chinese hostess name was Beauty of the Snow and he had hired her for the evening from the Happy Hostess Night Club. He had considered bringing Mona Leung, his present girl friend instead, but she would be far too independent to remain below happily and only come on deck at his whim.

He had chosen Beauty of the Snow very carefully. Her beauty was extraordinary, in face and body and the texture of her skin. She was eighteen, and had been in Hong Kong barely a month. A friend in Taiwan had told him about her rarity and said that she was about to join the Happy Hostess Night Club from the sister club in Taiwan. Two weeks ago he had gone there and made an arrangement that had proved profitable to both of them. Tonight when Orlanda had told him she was dining with Bartlett and he had invited them aboard, at once he had called the Happy Hostess and bought Beauty of the Snow out of the club for the night and hurried her aboard. "I'm playing a game on a friend tonight," he had told her. "I want you to stay here in this cabin, in this place, until I bring you on deck. It may be an hour or two but you are to stay here, quiet as a mouse, until I fetch you."

"Ayeeyah, in this floating palace, I am prepared to stay a week without charge. Just my food and more of the champagne . . . though pillowing would be extra. May I sleep in the bed if I wish?" "Certainly, but please shower first."

"A shower? Bless all gods! Hot and cold water? That will be paradise—this water shortage is very unhygienic."

Gornt had brought her tonight to taunt Orlanda if he decided he wanted to taunt her. Beauty of the Snow was much younger, prettier, and he knew that the sight of her wearing one of the elegant robes that once Orlanda had worn would send her into a spasm. All through dinner, he had chortled to himself, wondering when he should produce her for maximum effect: to excite Bartlett and to remind Orlanda that she was already old by Hong Kong standards, and that without his active help she would never get Bartlett, not the way she wanted.

Do I want her married to Bartlett? he asked himself, bemused.

No. And yet, if Orlanda were Bartlett's wife he would always be in my power because she is and ever will be. So far she hasn't forgotten that. So far she's been obedient and filial. And frightened.

He laughed. Oh revenge will be sweet when I lower the boom on you, my dear. As I will, one day. Oh yes, my dear, I haven't forgotten the snickers of all those smug bastards—Pug, Plumm, Havergill or Ian bloody Dunross—when they heard that you couldn't wait to leap into bed with a stud half my age.

Should I tell you now that you're my mui jai?

When Orlanda was thirteen her Shanghainese mother had come to see him. "Times are very hard, Lord, our debts to the company are huge and your patience and kindness overwhelm us."

"Times are bad for everyone," he had told her.

"Unfortunately, since last week, my husband's department no longer exists. At the end of the month he is to leave, after seventeen years of service, and we cannot pay our debts to you."

"Eduardo Ramos is a good man and will easily find a new and better position."

"Yin ksiao shih ta," she had said: We lose much because of a small thing.

"Joss," he had said, hoping the trap was sprung and all the seeds he had sown would, at long last, bear fruit.

"Joss," she had agreed. "But there is Orlanda."

"What about Orlanda?"

"Perhaps she could be a mui jai." A mui jai was a daughter given by a debtor to a creditor forever, in settlement for debts that could not otherwise be paid—to be brought up as the creditor wished, or used or given away as the creditor wished. It was an ancient Chinese custom, and quite legal.

Gornt remembered the glow he had felt. The negotiations had taken several weeks. Gornt agreed to cancel Ramos's debts—the debts that Gornt had so carefully encouraged, agreed to reinstate Ramos, giving the man a modest guaranteed pension and help in setting up in Portugal, and to pay for Orlanda's schooling in America. In return the Ramoses guaranteed to provide Orlanda to him, virgin and suitably enamored, on or before her eighteenth birthday. There would be no refusal. "This, by all the gods, will be a perpetual secret between us. I think, too, it would be equally better to keep it secret from her, Lord, forever. But we know and she will know where her rice bowl lies."

Gornt beamed. The good years were worth all the patience and planning and the little money involved. Everyone gained, he told himself, and there is enjoyment yet to come.

Yes, he thought and concentrated on Beauty of the Snow. "Life is very good," he said, fondling her.

"I am happy you're happy, Honored Sir. I am happy too. Your shower was a gift of the gods. I washed my hair, everything." She smiled. "If you don't want me to play the prank yet on your friends, would you care to pillow?"

"Yes," he said, delighted as always by the forthrightness of a Chinese pillow partner. His father had explained it early: "You give them money, they give you their youth, the Clouds and the Rain and entertain you. In Asia it's a fair and honorable exchange. The more their youth, the more the laughter and gratification, the more you must pay. That's the bargain, but don't expect romance or real tears—that's not part of their commitment. Just temporary entertainment and pillowing. Don't abuse the fairness!"

Happily Gornt took off his clothes and lay beside her. She ran her hands over his chest, the hair dark, muscles sleek, and began. Soon she was making the small noises of passion, encouraging him. And though she had been told by the mama-san that this quai loh was different and there was no need to pretend, instinctively she was remembering the first rule of being a pillow partner to strangers: "Never let your body become involved with a customer for then you cannot perform with taste or daring. Never forget, when with a quai loh, you must always pretend to enjoy him greatly, always pretend to achieve the Clouds and the Rain, otherwise he'll consider that somehow it's an affront to his masculinity. Quai loh are uncivilized and will never understand that the yin cannot be bought and that your gift of coupling is for the customer's enjoyment solely."

When Gornt was finished and his heart had slowed, Beauty of the Snow got out of bed and went to the bathroom and showered again, singing happily. In euphoria he rested and put his hands under his head. Soon she came back with a towel. "Thank you," he said and dried himself and she slid in beside him once more.

"Oh I feel so clean and marvelous. Shall we pillow again?" "Not now, Beauty of the Snow. Now you can rest and I will let my mind wander. You have settled the yang very favorably. I will inform the mama-san."

"Thank you," she said politely. "I would like you as my special customer."

He nodded, pleasured by her and her warmth and sensuousness. When would it be best for her to come on deck? he asked himself again, quite confident that Bartlett and Orlanda would be there now and not in bed as a civilized person would be. A chuckle went through him.

There was a porthole beside the bed and he could see the lights of Kowloon in the distance, Kowloon and the dockyard of Kow-loon. The engines throbbed sweetly, and in a moment he got out of the bed and went to the cupboard. In it were some very expensive nightdresses and underthings and multicolored robes and rich lounging housecoats that he had bought for Orlanda. It amused him to keep them for others to wear. "Make yourself very pretty and put this on." He gave her a yellow silk, floor-length chong-sam that had been one of Orlanda's favorites. "Wear nothing underneath."

"Yes, certainly. Oh, how beautiful it is!"

He began to dress. "If my prank works you may keep it, as a bonus," he said.

"Oh! Oh, then everything will be as you wish," she said fervently, her open avarice making him laugh.

"We're going to drop my passengers Hong Kong side first." He pointed out of the porthole. "You see that big freighter, the one tied up at the wharf with the Hammer and Sickle flag?"

"Ah yes, Lord. The ship of ill-omen? I see it now!"

"When we are broadside please come on deck."

"I understand. What should I say?"

"Nothing. Just smile sweetly at the man and the woman, then at me and come below again and wait for me here."

Beauty of the Snow laughed. "Is that all?"

"Yes, just be sweet and beautiful and smile—particularly at the woman."

"Ah! Am I to like her or hate her?" she asked at once.

"Neither," he said, impressed with her shrewdness, ecstatically aware that they would both loathe each other on sight.

In the privacy of his cabin aboard the Sovetsky Ivanov, Captain Gregor Suslev finished encoding the urgent message, then sipped some vodka, rechecking the cable. "Ivanov to Center. Arthur reports the files may be counterfeit. His friend will supply me with copies tonight. Delighted to report Arthur's friend also intercepted the carrier information. Recommend he be given an immediate bonus. I have had extra copies sent by mail to Bangkok for the pouch, also London and Berlin for safety."

Satisfied, he put the code books back into the safe and locked it, then picked up the phone. "Send me the duty signalman. And the first officer." He unbolted the cabin door then went back and stared out the porthole at the carrier across the harbor, then saw the passing pleasure cruiser. He recognized the Sea Witch. Idly he picked up his binoculars and focused. He saw Gornt on the aft deck, a girl and another man with his back toward him sitting around a table. His high-powered lenses raked the ship and his envy soared. That bastard knows how to live, he thought. What a beauty! If only I could have one such as her on the Caspian, berthed at Baku!

Not so much to pray for, he told himself, watching the Sea Witch pass, not after so much service, so profitable to the cause. Many commissars do—senior ones.

Again his glasses centered the group. Another girl came up from below, an Asian beauty, and then there was a polite knock on his door.

"Evening, Comrade Captain," the signalman said. He accepted the message and signed for it.

"Send it at once."

"Yes sir."

The first officer arrived. Vassili Boradinov was a tough, good-looking man in his thirties, captain, KGB, graduate of the espionage department of Vladivostok University with a master mariner's ticket. "Yes, Comrade Captain?"

Suslev handed him a decoded cable from the pile on his desk. It read: "First Officer Vassili Boradinov will assume Dimitri Metkin's duties as commissar of the Ivanov but Captain Suslev will be in complete command on all levels until alternate arrangements are made."

"Congratulations," he said.

Boradinov beamed. "Yes sir. Thank you. What do you want me to do?"

Suslev held up the key to the safe. "If I fail to contact you or return by midnight tomorrow, open the safe. Instructions are in the package marked 'Emergency One." They will tell you how to proceed. Next. .." He handed him a sealed envelope. "This gives two phone numbers where I can be reached. Open it only in an emergency."

"Very well." Sweat beaded the younger man's face.

"No need to worry. You're perfectly capable of taking command."

"I hope that will not be necessary."

Gregor Suslev laughed. "So do I, my young friend. Please sit down." He poured two vodkas. "You deserve the promotion."

'Thank you." Boradinov hesitated. "What happened to Met-kin?"

"The first thing is he made a stupid and unnecessary mistake. Next, he was betrayed. Or he betrayed himself. Or the god-cursed SI tailed him and caught him. Or the CIA pegged note 13 him. whatever happened, the poor fool should never have exceeded his authority and put himself into such danger. Stupid to risk himself, to say nothing of our whole security. Stupid!"

The first officer shifted nervously in his chair. "What's our plan?"

"To deny everything. And to do nothing for the moment. We're due to sail on Tuesday at midnight; we keep to that plan."

Boradinov looked out of the porthole at the carrier, his face tight. "Pity. That material could have jumped us forward a quantum."

"What material?" Suslev asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Didn't you know, sir? Before Dimitri left, the poor fellow whispered he'd heard that this time we were to get some incredible information—a copy of the guidance system and a copy of their armament manifest, including atomics—that's why he was going himself. It was too important to trust to an ordinary courier. I must tell you I volunteered to go in his place."

Suslev covered his shock that Metkin had confided in anyone. "Where did he hear that?"

The other man shrugged. "He didn't say. I presume the American sailor told him when Dimitri took the call at the phone box to arrange the drop." He wiped a bead of sweat away. "They'll break him, won't they?"

"Oh yes," Suslev said thinly, wanting his subordinate suitably indoctrinated. "They can break anyone. That's why we have to be prepared." He fingered the slight bulge of the poison capsule in the point of his lapel and Boradinov shuddered. "Better to have it quickly."

"Bastards! They must have been tipped to capture him before he did it. Terrible. They're all animals."

"Did . . . did Dimitri say anything else? Before he left?"

"No, just that he hoped we'd all get a few weeks' leave—he wanted to visit his family in his beloved Crimea."

Satisfied that he was covered, Suslev shrugged. "A great pity. I liked him very much."

"Yes. Such a shame when he was due to retire so soon. He was a good man even though he made such a mistake. What will they do to him?"

Suslev considered showing Boradinov one of the other decoded cables on his desk that said in part: ". . . Advise Arthur that, following his request for a Priority One on the traitor Metkin, an immediate intercept was ordered for Bombay." No need to give away that information, he thought. The less Boradinov knows the better. "He'll just vanish—until we catch a bigger fish of theirs to use as an exchange. The KGB looks after their own," he added piously, not believing it, knowing that the younger man did not believe it either, but the saying of it was obligatory and policy.

They'd have to exchange me, he thought, very satisfied. Yes, and very quickly. I know too many secrets. They're my only protection. If it wasn't for what I know they'd order a Priority One on me as fast as they did on Metkin. So would I if I was them. Would I have bit my lapel as that stupid turd should have done?

A shudder went through him. I don't know.

He sipped his vodka. It tasted very good to him. I don't want to die. This life is too good.

"You're going ashore again, Comrade Captain?"

"Yes." Suslev concentrated. He handed the younger man a note he had typed and signed. "You're in command now. Here's your authority—post it on the bridge."

"Thank you. Tomorr—" Boradinov stopped as the ship's intercom came on and the urgent voice said rapidly: "This's the bridge! There're two police cars converging on the main gangway filled with police…" Both Suslev and Boradinov blanched. "… about a dozen of them. What should we do? Stop them, repel them, what do we do?"

Suslev jerked the sending switch on. "Do nothing!" He hesitated then switched on the ship's intercom. "All hands: Emergency, Red One . . ." This order meant: "Hostile visitors are coming aboard. Radio and radar rooms: arm destructs on all secret equipment." He switched the sender off and hissed at Boradinov, "Go on deck, down the gangway, greet them, delay for five minutes then invite the leaders aboard, only them if you can. Go on!"

"Surely they daren't come aboard to sear—"

"Intercept them—now!"

Boradinov rushed out. Once alone Suslev armed the secret de-struct on his safe. If anyone but him tried to open it now its incendiary napalm would obliterate everything.

He tried to put his panicked mind at ease. Think! Is everything covered against a sudden search? Yes. Yes we've done the Red One drill a dozen times. But God curse Roger Crosse and Arthur! Why the devil didn't we get a warning? Was Arthur caught? Or Roger? Kristos, let it not be Roger! What ab—

His eyes caught the pile of coded and decoded cables. Frantically he scooped them into an ashtray, cursing himself for not doing it earlier, not knowing if there was enough time now. He found his lighter. His fingers were trembling. The lighter flamed as the intercom crackled on: "Two men're coming aboard with Boradinov, two men, the rest're staying below."

"All right, but delay them. I'll come on deck." Suslev doused the flame with a curse and stuffed the cables in his pocket. He grabbed a half-empty vodka bottle, took a deep breath, put a broad beam on his face and went on deck. "Ah, welcome aboard! What's the trouble, eh?" he said, a slight slur now in his voice, keeping up his well-known cover. "One of our sailors has himself in trouble, Superintendent Armstrong?"

"This is Mr. Sun. May we have a word with you?" Armstrong said.

"Of course, of course!" Suslev said with a forced joviality he did not feel. He had never seen the Chinese before. He examined the cold-eyed, sallow, hate-filled face. "Follow me please," he said, then added in Russian to Boradinov who spoke perfect English, "You too," then again to Armstrong with continuing forced good humor, "Who's going to win the fifth race, Superintendent?"

"I wish I knew, sir."

Suslev led the way to the small wardroom that adjoined his cabin. "Sit down, sit down. Can I offer you tea or vodka? Orderly, bring tea and vodka!"

They came quickly. Expansively Suslev poured vodka even though the two policemen refused politely. "Prosit," he said and laughed jovially. "Now what's the trouble?"

"It seems that one of your crew is engaged in espionage against Her Majesty's Government," Armstrong said politely.

"Impossible, tovarich! Why joke with me, eh?"

"We've caught one. Her Majesty's Government is really quite upset."

"This is a peaceful freighter, trading. You've known us for years. Your Superintendent Crosse has watched us for years. We don't deal in espionage."

"How many of your crew are ashore, sir?"

"Six. Now listen, I don't want any trouble. I've had enough cursed trouble this voyage already with one of my innocent seamen murdered by unkn—"

"Ah yes, the late Major Yuri Bakyan of the KGB. Very unfortunate."

Suslev pretended sullen anger. "His name was Voranski. I know nothing of this major you talk about. I know nothing about that, nothing."

"Of course. Now, sir, when are your sailors back from shore leave?"

"Tomorrow, at dusk."

"Where are they staying?"

Suslev laughed. "They're ashore, on leave. Where else should they be but with a girl or in a bar? With a girl, eh, happily, eh?"

"Not all of them are," Armstrong said coldly. "At least one is very miserable right now."

Suslev watched him, glad that he knew Metkin was gone forever and they could not bluff him. "Come now, Superintendent, I know nothing about any espionage."

Armstrong put the eight-by-ten photos on the table. They showed Metkin going into the restaurant, then under guard, then being hustled into the Black Maria, then a mug shot of him, terror in the face.

"Kristosl" Suslev gasped, a consummate actor. "Dimitri? It's impossible! It's another false arrest! I will have my gov—"

"It's already been reported to your government in London. Major Nicoli Leonov admitted espionage."

Now Suslev's shock was real. He had never expected Metkin to break so quickly. "Who? Who did you say?"

Armstrong sighed. "Major Nicoli Leonov of your KGB. That's his real name and rank. He was also political commissar on this ship."

"Yes … yes that is true but his … his name is Metkin, Dimitri Metkin."

"Oh? You have no objection if we search this ship?" Armstrong began to get up. Suslev was aghast, Boradinov equally.

"Oh yes I object," Suslev stuttered. "Yes, Superintendent, so sorry but I formally object, and I mu—"

"If your ship is not engaged in espionage and is a peaceful freighter why should you object?"

"We have international protections. Unless you have a formal search warrant th—" Armstrong's hand went into his pocket and Suslev's stomach turned over. He would have to comply with a formal warrant and then he would be ruined because they would find more evidence than even they could ever hope for. That god-cursed son of a whore bitch Metkin must've told them something vital. He wanted to shout in rage, the decoded and coded messages in his pocket suddenly lethal. His face had gone white. Boradinov was paralyzed. Armstrong's hand came out of his pocket with only a pack of cigarettes. Suslev's heart began again though his nausea still almost overwhelmed him. "Matyeryebyetsf" he muttered.

"Sir?" Armstrong asked innocently. "Is anything the matter?"

"No, no, nothing."

"Would you care for an English cigarette?"

Suslev fought for control, wanting to smash the other man for tricking him. Sweat was on his back and on his face. He took the cigarette shakily. "These things are … are terrible, eh? Espionage and searches and threats of searches."

"Yes. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to leave tomorrow, not Tuesday."

"Impossible! Are we being hounded like rats?" Suslev blustered, not knowing how far he dare go. "I will have to inform my government and th—"

"Please do. Please tell them we have intercepted Major Leonov of the KGB, caught him in an espionage act, and that he has been charged under the Official Secrets Act."

Suslev wiped the sweat off his face, trying to stay calm. Only the knowledge that Metkin was probably dead now kept him in one piece. But what else did he tell them, he was shrieking in his head, what else? He looked at Boradinov who was standing beside him, white-faced.

"Who're you?" Armstrong asked sharply, following his glance.

"First Officer Boradinov," the younger man said, his voice strangled.

"Who's the new commissar, Captain Suslev? Who took over from your Mr. Leonov? Who's the senior Party man aboard?"

Boradinov went ashen and Suslev was thankful that some of the pressure was turned off him.

"Well?"

Suslev said, "He is. First Officer Boradinov."

At once Armstrong put his icy eyes on the younger man. "Your full name please?"

"Vassili Boradinov, first officer," the man stuttered.

"Very well, Mr. Boradinov, you're responsible for getting this ship under way by midnight Sunday at the latest. You are formally warned we have reason to believe there might be an attack on you by triads—by Chinese bandits. The rumor is the attack's planned for the early hours of Monday—just after midnight Sunday. It's a very strong rumor. Very. There are lots of Chinese bandits in Hong Kong, and Russians have stolen lots of Chinese land. We are concerned for your safety and health. I suggest it politic . . . eh?"

Boradinov was ashen. "Yes, yes, I understand."

"But my … my repairs," Suslev began, "if my repai—"

"Please see they're completed, Captain. If you need extra help or a tow outside Hong Kong waters, just ask. Oh yes, and would you be kind enough to appear at police headquarters at 10:00 A.M. Sunday—sorry about the weekend."

Suslev blanched. "Eh?"

"Here's your formal invitation." Armstrong handed him an official letter. Suslev accepted it, began to read as Armstrong took out a second copy, wrote in Boradinov's name. "Here's yours, Commissar Boradinov." He shoved it into his hand. "I suggest you confine the rest of your crew aboard—with the exception of yourselves of course—and bring your shore party back right smartly. I'm sure you'll have lots to do. Good night!" he added with startling suddenness, got up and went out of the wardroom, closing the door behind him.

There was a stunned silence. Suslev saw Malcolm Sun get up and leisurely head for the door. He got up to follow but stopped as the Chinese whirled on them.

"We'll get you, all of you!" Sun said malevolently.

"For what? We've done nothing," Boradinov gasped. "We've d—"

"Espionage. Spying? You KGB think you're so clever, matyerye-byetsl"

"You get to hell off my ship," Suslev snarled.

"We'll get you all—I don't mean us police …" Abruptly Malcolm Sun switched to fluent Russian. "Get out of our lands, hegemonists! China's on the march! We can lose fifty million soldiers, a hundred and still have double that left. Get out while you've time!"

"We'll blast you off the earth!" Suslev bellowed. "We'll atomize all China. We'll ta—" He stopped. Malcolm Sun was laughing at him.

"Your mother's tit in your atomics! We've our own atomics now! You start we finish. Atomics, fists, ploughshares!" Malcolm Sun's voice dropped. "Get out of China while you've the chance. We're coming out of the East like Genghis Khan, all of us, Mao Tse-tung, Chiang Kai-shek, me, my grandsons, their grandsons, we're coming and we'll clean you off the earth and take back all our lands, all of them!"

"Getoffmyship!" Suslev felt his chest hurting. Almost blind with rage, he readied to hurl himself at his tormentor, Boradinov as well.

Unafraid, Malcolm Sun came back a pace. "Yeb tvoyu mat' Turd-head!" Then in English, "Hit me and I'll arrest you for assault and impound your ship!"

With a great effort the two men stopped. Choked with rage, Suslev stuffed his fists into his pockets. "Please, you will… you will leave. Please."

"Dew neh loh moh on you, your mother, your father and the whole of your turd-eating Soviet hegemonists!"

"You—will—leave—now."

Equally enraged, Sun cursed them in Russian and shouted back, "We're coming out of the East like locusts. . . ." Then there was a sudden noisy altercation outside on deck and a slight dull boom. At once he turned and went for the door, the other two rushing after him.

Appalled, Suslev saw that now Armstrong was standing at the doorway of the radio room which was next to his cabin. The door was burst open, the two frightened operators staring at the Englishman, aghast, paralyzed deckhand guards nearby. Already the beginning of smoke was welling from the innards of the radio equipment. Red One ordered the senior radio man to trigger the destruct on the secret scrambling device the instant a hostile opened the door or tried to break the lock.

Armstrong turned to face Suslev. "Ah, Captain, so sorry, I stumbled. So sorry," he said innocently. "I thought this was the loo."

"What?"

"The toilet. I stumbled and the door burst open. So sorry." The policeman glanced back into the radio room. "Good God! It seems there's a fire. I'll call the fire brigade at once. Malcolm, get th—"

"No . . . no!" Suslev said, then snarled in Russian to Boradinov and the deck crew, "Get the fire out!" He jerked a fist out of his pocket and shoved Boradinov into motion. Unnoticed by him his cuff caught one of his decoded cables and it fell onto the deck. Smoke was pouring out from behind one of the complex radio panels. Already one of the deckhands had a fire extinguisher.

"Dear oh dear! What could have happened? You're sure you don't want assistance?" Armstrong asked.

"No, no thank you." Suslev said, his face mottled with rage, "thank you, Superintendent. I'll . . . I'll see you Sunday."

"Good night, sir. Come along, Malcolm." In the growing confusion Armstrong headed for the gangway but stooped and before Suslev realized what was happening picked up the piece of paper and was halfway down the gangway, Malcolm Sun following him.

Appalled, Suslev's hand went to his pocket. Forgetting the fire he rushed into his cabin to check which cable was missing.

Below on the wharf, uniformed police had long since fanned out, covering both gangways. Armstrong was getting into the back of the car beside Sinders. The eyes of the chief of MI-6 were dark-rimmed and his suit a little rumpled but he was icily alert. "Well done, you two! Yes. I imagine that'll interrupt their communications for a day or so."

"Yes sir." Armstrong began rummaging in his pocket for his lighter, his heart pounding. Sinders watched Malcolm Sun get into the driver's seat.

"What's the matter?" he asked thoughtfully, seeing his face.

"Nothing, nothing really, sir." Malcolm Sun craned around, the sweat on his back, his heart hurting and the sick-sweet excitement rage-fear taste still in his mouth. "When … when I was conducting delaying tactics for the superintendent I… they got me going, those two bastards."

"Oh? How?"

"Just… they started cursing, so I… I just cursed them back." Sun faced the front, settled himself, not wanting Sinders's penetrating eyes on his. "Just cursing," he added, trying to sound light.

"Pity one of them didn't hit you."

"Yes, yes I was ready." '

Sinders glanced at Armstrong briefly as the big man clicked the lighter on, lit a cigarette and, under the light of the flame, peered at the paper. Sinders glanced up at the ship above. Once more Suslev was standing at the head of the gangway staring down at them. "He looks very angry indeed. Good." The flicker of a smile went over him. "Very good." With Sir Geoffrey's approval he had ordered the sudden arrival and attempt to disrupt the Ivanov's communications —and complacency—to put pressure on Arthur and the Sevrin moles, hoping to flush them out. "And our police mole," Sir Geoffrey had added grimly. "It's impossible that Brian Kwok's the spy mentioned in the AMG papers. Eh?"

"I agree," he had said.

Armstrong clicked the lighter off. In the semidarkness of the car he hesitated. "You'd better get the detail organized, Malcolm. No need to waste any more time here. All right, Mr. Sinders?"

"Yes. Yes we can go now."

Obediently Malcolm Sun left. Armstrong was watching Suslev on the deck. "You, er, you read Russian, don't you sir?"

"Yes, yes I do. Why?"

Carefully Armstrong passed over the paper, holding it by the edges. "This fell out of Suslev's pocket."

Equally carefully Sinders took the paper but his eyes never left Armstrong's. "You don't trust senior agent, Sun?" he asked softly.

"Yes. Oh yes. But Chinese are Chinese and it's in Russian. I don't read Russian."

Sinders frowned. After a moment he nodded. Armstrong lit the flame for him. The older man scanned the paper twice and sighed. "It's a weather report, Robert. Sorry. Unless it's in code, it's just a meteorological report." Carefully he folded the paper in its original creases. "The fingerprints might be valuable. Perhaps it's code. Just for safety I'll pass it on to our cipher fellows."

Sinders settled back more comfortably in the car. The paper had read: "Advise Arthur that, following his request for a Priority One on the traitor Metkin, an immediate intercept was ordered for Bombay. Second, the meeting with the American is brought forward to Sunday. Third and final, the AMG files continue to be Priority One. Maximum effort must be made by Sevrin to achieve success. Cen-

Now which American! Sinders asked himself patiently, and is it Arthur's meeting or whose? Captain Suslev? Is he as innocent as he appears? Which American? Bartlett, Tcholok, Banastasio or who? Peter Marlowe—Anglo-American-Know-all writer with his curious theories?

Did Bartlett or Tcholok make contact with Center in June in Moscow when they were there, with or without Peter Marlowe, who also happened to be there when a highly secret meeting of foreign agents was taking place?

Or is the American not a visitor at all but someone who lives here in Hong Kong?

Is it Rosemont? Or Langan? Both would be perfect.

So much to wonder about.

Like who's the fourth man? Who's the VVIP above Philby? Where will those threads lead? Into Burke's Peerage? Perhaps to some castle, or even a palace?

Who's this mysterious Mrs. Gresserhoff who took Kiernan's second call and then vanished like a smoke ring?

And what about those bloody files? What about bloody AMG and bloody Dunross trying to be so bloody clever. . . .

It was getting toward midnight and Dunross and Casey were sitting happily side-by-side in the glassed-in forward section of one of the Golden Ferries, which swerved confidently toward its berth Kowloon side. It was a good night though the clouds still scudded low. Canvas storm panels still closed in and protected the open part of the decks, but here where they were, the view was good and a fine sea-salt breeze came through one of the open windows.

"It is going to rain again?" she asked, breaking their comfortable silence.

"Oh yes. But I certainly hope the heavy stuff stays away till late tomorrow afternoon."

"You and your races! Are they that important?" "To all Hong Kong yan, oh yes. To me, yes and no." "I'll put my entire fortune on your Noble Star." "I wouldn't do that," he said. "You should always hedge a bet." Casey glanced across at him. "Some bets you don't hedge." "Some bets you can't hedge," he said, correcting her with a smile. Casually he lifted her arm and linked his with hers and settled his hand back in his lap. The contact pleased both of them. It was their first real touch. All during their stroll from the Mandarin Hotel to the ferry Casey had wanted to take his arm. But she had fought back the impulse and now she pretended not to notice their interlinking though, instinctively, she had moved a fraction closer.

"Casey, you never finished your story of George TofFer—did you fire him?"

"No, no I never did, not as I thought I would. When we'd won control I went to his boardroom. Of course he was fit to be tied but by that time I'd found out he wasn't the hero he claimed to be and a few other things. He just waved one of my letters about the money he owed me in my face and shouted that I'd never get that back, never." She shrugged. "I never did, but I got his company."

"What happened to him?"

"He's still around, still cheating someone. Say, can we stop talking about him, it gives me indigestion."

He laughed. "Perish that thought! Terrific night, isn't it?"

"Yes." They had dined impeccably in the Dragon Room atop the skyscraper hotel. Chateaubriand, a few thread-thin French fries, salad and creme brulee. The wine was Chateau Lafite.

"Celebration?" she had asked.

"Just a thank you for the First Central New York."

"Oh, Ian! They agreed?"

"Murtagh agreed to try."

It had taken just a few seconds to fix the terms based on the bank's

' agreeing to the financing that Casey had laid out as possible: 120 percent of the cost of both ships, a 50 million revolving fund.

"Everything covered by your personal guarantee?" Murtagh had asked.

"Yes," he had said, committing his future and his family's future.

"We, er, I figure with Struan's great management you'll make a profit so our money's secure and … but Mr. Dunross, sir, we gotta keep this secret as hell. Meanwhile, I'll give it the old college try." Murtagh was trying to hide his nervousness.

"Please do, Mr. Murtagh. The very best old college try you can. How about joining me for the races tomorrow? Sorry, I can't invite you to lunch, I'm crammed to the gills and overbooked, but here, here's a pass if you're free to join us from 2:30 on."

"Oh Jesus, tai-pan, you mean it?"

Dunross smiled to himself. In Hong Kong an invitation to a steward's box was like being presented at court, and just as useful.

"Why the smile, tai-pan?" Casey asked, shifting slightly, feeling his warmth.

"Because all's well, at the moment, in the world. At least all the various problems are in their compartments." Going ashore and out of the ferry terminal he explained his theory that the only way to deal with problems was the Asian way: to put them into individual compartments and take them up only when ready for them.

"That's good, if you can do it," she said, walking close beside him but not touching now.

"If you can't you'll go under—ulcers, heart attack, old before your time, your health broken."

"A woman cries, that's her safety valve. She cries and then she feels better. …" Casey had wept earlier, before leaving the V and A to meet him. Because of Line Bartlett. Part rage, part frustration, part longing, and part need—physical need. It was six months since she had had one of her rare, very casual and very short affairs. When the need became too strong she would go away for a few days, skiing or sunning and she would choose whom she would allow into her bed. Then, as quickly, she would forget him.

"But oh, isn't it very bad, Ciran-chek," her mother had once said, "to be so callous?"

"Oh no, Mama darling," she had told her. "It's a fair exchange. I enjoy sex—I mean I enjoy it when I'm in the mood, though I try to keep the mood as infrequent as possible. I love Line and no one else. But I th—"

"How can you love him and go to bed with someone else?" "It's, it's not easy, in fact, it's awful. But Mama, I work hard for Line all hours, weekends and Sundays, I work hard for all of us, for you and Uncle Tashjian and Marian and the kids, I'm the wage earner now that Marian's on her own and I love it, truly I enjoy it, you know I do. But sometimes it all gets too much so I just go away. And that's when I choose a partner. Honestly, Mama, it's just biological, there's no difference that way between us and men, and now that we've the God-blessed pill we can choose. It's not like in your day, thank God, my darling …"

Casey stepped aside to avoid a phalanx of oncoming pedestrians and bumped Dunross slightly. Automatically she took his arm. He did not withdraw.

Since she had asked him for equality this afternoon and had been turned down . . . No, that's not fair, Casey, she told herself. Ian didn't turn me down, he just gave me the truth from his point of view. From mine? I don't know. I'm not sure. But the one thing I'm not is a fool and so tonight I dressed carefully, a little differently, and put on perfume and made my makeup more definite and tonight 1 bit my tongue three to thirty times and held back, not giving measure for measure, playing it more conventionally, saying sweetly, "That's interesting!"

And most times it was. He was attentive, entertaining and receptive and I felt marvelous. lan's certainly one helluva man. Dangerous and oh so tempting.

The wide marble steps up to the V and A were ahead. Discreetly she let go of his arm and felt nearer to him because of her understanding. "Ian, you're a wise man. Do you think it's fair to make love to someone—if you don't love them?"

"Eh?" He was startled out of the pleasantness. Then he said lightly, "Love is a Western word, lady. Me, I'm China-manl"

"Seriously."

He laughed. "I don't think it's time to be serious."

"But do you have an opinion?"

"Always."note 14

They went up the stairs into the foyer, crowded even this late. At once he felt many eyes and recognition which was why he had not left her on the steps. Every little helps, he thought. I must seem calm and confident. The Noble House is inviolate! I will not and cannot allow myself the luxury of normal fear—it would spill over and wreck others and do untold damage.

"Would you like a nightcap?" she asked. "I'm not sleepy. Maybe Linc'll join us if he's in."

"Good idea. Tea with lemon would be fine." The smiling head-waiter appeared miraculously. And an empty table. "Evening, tai-pan."

"Evening, Nighttime Gup."

"Tea and lemon's fine with me too," she said. A waiter scurried away. "I'll just check my messages."

"Of course." Dunross watched her walk away. Tonight, from the first moment in the Mandarin foyer, he had noticed how much more feminine she had seemed, nothing discernible, just a subtle change. Interesting woman. A sexuality that's waiting to explode. How the devil can I help her to get her drop dead money quickly?

Nighttime Gup was bustling around and he said quietly in Cantonese, "Tai-pan, we certainly hope you can deal with the stock market and Second Great House."

"Thank you." Dunross chatted awhile, exuding confidence, then his eyes strayed back to Casey at the front desk.

Nighttime Gup's shrewd old eyes twinkled. "The gun-runner's not in the hotel, tai-pan."

"Eh?"

"No. He left early with a girl. Around 7:00 P.M., I'd just come on duty," the neat old man said airily. "The gun-runner was dressed very casually. For a sail I imagine. A girl was with him."

Dunross concentrated now. "There are many girls in Hong Kong, Nighttime Gup."

"Not like this one, tai-pan." The old man guffawed carefully. "Once she was the mistress of Black Beard."

"Eeeee, old man, you have sharp eyes and a long memory. Are you sure?"

"Oh very sure!" Nighttime Gup was delighted with the way his news was received. "Yes," he added loftily, "since we hear the Americans may be joining the Noble House if you can extricate yourself from all those other fornicators it might be good for you to know that. Also that Golden Pubics has moved her ro—"

"Who?"

Nighttime Gup explained the reason for the nickname. "Can you imagine, tai-pan?"

Dunross sighed, astounded as always at how fast gossip traveled. "She's changed her room?"

"Oh yes, it's along the corridor, 276, on the same floor. Eeeee, tai-pan, I heard she was weeping in the night, two nights ago, and again this evening before she left. Yes. Third Toiletmaid Fung saw her crying tonight."

"They had a row? She and the gun-runner?"

"Oh no, not a row, no shoutings. But, oh ko, if Golden Pubics knows about the Orlanda flower that's cause enough for dragons to belch." Nighttime Gup smiled toothily at Casey as she came back, a sheaf of cables and messages in her hand. Dunross noticed that now there was a shadow in her eyes. No message from Line Bartlett, he surmised, getting up. Nighttime Gup solicitously pulled a chair away for her, poured her tea, continuing in his gutter Cantonese, "Never mind, tai-pan, Golden Pubics or not it's all the same in the dark, heya?" The old man chuckled and left. Dunross glanced at her papers. "Trouble?"

"Oh no, just more of the same." She looked at him directly, "I've got them all compartmentalized for tomorrow. Tonight's mine. Line's not back yet." She sipped her tea, enjoying it. "So I can monopolize you."

"I thought I was doing the monopolizing. Isn't—" He stopped as he noticed Robert Armstrong and Sinders come in through the swing doors. The two men stood at the entrance, looking for a table.

"Your police work overtime," Casey said, and, as the men's gaze fell on them, waved back half-heartedly. The two men hesitated, then went to a vacant table at the other end of the room. "I like Armstrong," she said. "Is the other man police?"

"I imagine so. Where did you meet Robert?"

She told him. "Still nothing on the smuggled guns. Where they came from or whatever."

"Rotten business."

"Would you like a brandy?"

"Why not? One for the road, then I must be going. Waiter!" He ordered the drinks. "The car'll be here tomorrow at twelve sharp to pick you up,"

"Thank you. Ian, the invitation read, 'Ladies Hats and Gloves.' Do you really mean that?"

"Of course." He frowned. "Ladies have always worn hats and gloves at the races. Why?"

"I'll have to buy a hat. I haven't worn one in years."

"Actually, I like ladies in hats." Dunross glanced around the room. Armstrong and Sinders were watching him covertly. Is it a coincidence they're here? he wondered.

"You feel the eyes too, tai-pan? Everyone here seems to know you."

"It's not me, it's just the Noble House and what I represent."

The brandy came. "Healthl" They touched glasses.

"Will you answer my question now?"

"The answer's yes." He swirled the brandy in the glass and inhaled it.

"Yes what?"

Abruptly he grinned. "Yes nothing, yes it's not fair but yes it happens all the time and I'm not going to get into one of those lovely self-analyzing 'Have you stopped beating your wife recently?' things, though I do hear that most ladies like being beaten occasionally but with great care, with or without hats!"

She laughed and most of her shadows vanished. "It depends, does it?"

"It depends!" He watched her, his calm, easy smile on his face and he was thinking and she was thinking it depends on who and when and where and timing, circumstance and need, and right now it would be grand.

He reached out with his glass and touched hers. "Health," he said. "And here's to Tuesday."

She smiled back and lifted her glass, her heart quickening. "Yes." "Everything can wait till then. Can't it?" "Yes. Yes, I hope so, Ian." "Well, I'll be on my way." "I had a lovely time." "So did I."

"Thanks for inviting me. Tomorr—" She stopped as Nighttime Gup bustled up to them. "Excuse me, tai-pan, telephone."

"Oh, thank you. I'll be right there." Dunross sighed. "No peace for the wicked! Casey, shall we?"

"Sure, sure, tai-pan." She got up too, her heart beating strongly, a sad sweet ache possessing her. "I'll take care of the check!"

"Thanks, but that's already done. They'll just send it on to the office." Dunross left a tip and guided her toward the elevator, both of them conscious of the eyes following them. For a second he was tempted to go upstairs with her just to set the tongues wagging. But that'd really be tempting the devil and I've enough devils surrounding me already, he thought. "Good night, Casey, see you tomorrow and don't forget cocktails 7:30 to 9:00 P.M. Give my best to Line!" He waved cheerily and walked for the front desk.

She watched him go, tall, immaculate and confident. The elevator doors closed. If this wasn't Hong Kong you wouldn't escape, not tonight, Ian Dunross. Oh no, tonight we'd make love. Oh yes, yes we would.

Dunross stopped at the front desk and picked up the phone. "Hello, this is Dunross." "Tai-pan?"

"Oh hello, Lim," he said, recognizing his majordomo's voice. "What's up?"

"Mr. Tip Tok-toh just phoned, sir." Dunross's heart picked up tempo. "He asked me to try to reach you and would you please call him back. He said you could call him any time before two o'clock or after 7:00 A.M."

"Thank you. Anything else?"

"Miss Claudia called at eight and said she's settled your guest …" There was a rustle of paper. "… Mrs. Gresserhoff at the hotel and that your appointment in your office at 11:00 A.M.'S confirmed."

"Good. Next?"

"Missee called from London—everything fine there—and a Dr. Samson from London."

"Ah!" Kathy's specialist. "Did he leave a number?" Lim gave it to him and he scribbled it down. "Anything else?"

"No, tai-pan."

"Is Number One Daughter back yet?"

"No, tai-pan. Number One Daughter came in about 7:00 P.M. for a few minutes with a young man and then they left."

"Was it Martin Haply?"

"Yes, yes it was."

"Thanks, Lim. I'll call Tiptop then get a ferry home."

He hung up. Wanting more privacy, he went to the phone booth that was near the stationer's. He dialed.

"Weyyyy?"

He recognized Tiptop's voice. "Good evening, this's Ian Dunross."

"Ah, tai-pan! Just a minute." There was the sound of a hand being put over the mouthpiece and muffled voices. He waited. "Ah, sorry to keep you waiting. I've had some very disquieting news."

"Oh?"

"Yes. It seems your police once again are like dog's lungs and wolfs heart. They have falsely arrested a very good friend of yours, Superintendent Brian Kwok. He—"

"Brian Kwok?" Dunross gasped. "But why?"

"I understand he's been falsely accused of being a spy for the PRC, an—"

"Impossible!"

"I agree. Ridiculous! Chairman Mao has no need of capitalist spies. He should be released at once, at once—and if he wishes to leave Hong Kong he should be permitted to do so and go wherever he wishes to go … at once!"

Dunross tried to get his mind working. If Tiptop said the man called Brian Kwok was to be released at once and permitted to leave Hong Kong if he wished, then Brian was a PRC spy, one of their spies, and that was impossible impossible impossible. "I… I don't know what to say," he said, giving Tiptop the opening he required. "I must point out Old Friends could hardly be expected to consider assisting Old Friends when their police are so errored. HeyaT "I agree," he heard himself saying with the right amount of concern, his mind shouting, Christ almighty, they want to trade Brian for the money! "I'll. . . I'll talk to the authorities first thing torn—"

"Perhaps you could do something tonight." "It's too late to call the governor now but . . ." Then Dunross remembered Sinders and Armstrong and his heart leaped. "I'll try, At once. I'm sure there's some mistake, Mr. Tip. Yes. It must be a mistake. In any event I'm sure the governor will be helpful. And the police. Surely such a … a mistake could be handled satisfactorily—like the Victoria's request for the temporary use of the illustrious bank's cash?"

There was a long silence. "It's possible that could be done. It's possible. Old Friends should assist Old Friends, and help correct mistakes. Yes, it could be possible."

Dunross heard the unsaid when left hanging and automatically continued the negotiation, most of his mind still beset by what he had been told. "Did you happen to get my note, Mr. Tip? I've taken care of everything else. By the way, the Victoria will certainly assist the financing of the thorium." He added delicately, "Also most other further requests—at advantageous terms."

"Ah yes, thank you. Yes, I received your note and your very kind invitation. So sorry that I was unwell. Thank you, tai-pan. How long would your government require the cash loan, if it was possible?"

"I imagine thirty days would be more than enough, perhaps even two weeks. But it's the Victoria, Blacs and the other banks and not the Hong Kong Government. I could tell you that tomorrow. Do we have the privilege of seeing you at the races for lunch?"

"I regret not for lunch but perhaps after lunch, if that's possible."

Dunross smiled grimly. The perfect compromise. "Of course."

"Thank you for calling. By the way, Mr. Yu was most impressed with you, tai-pan."

"Please give him my regards. I look forward to seeing him soon.

In Canton." "I was astonished to read your brother-in-law's comments about the Middle Kingdom."

"Yes. So was I. My wife and her brother have been estranged for years. His views are alien, enemy and totally misguided." Dunross hesitated. "I hope to neutralize him."

"Yes. Yes I agree. Thank you. Good night." The phone went dead. Dunross hung up. Christ! Brian Kwok! And I'd almost given him the AMG papers. Christ!

Collecting his wits with a great effort, he went back into the foyer. Armstrong and Sinders were still there. "Evening, may I join you a moment?"

"Of course, Mr. Dunross. This is a pleasant surprise. May I offer you a drink?"

"Tea, Chinese tea. Thanks."

Their table was away from others and when it was safe Dunross leaned forward. "Robert, I hear you've arrested Brian Kwok," he said still hoping it wasn't true. The two men stared at him.

"Who told you that?" Armstrong asked.

Dunross recounted his conversation. Both men listened noncom-mittally though from time to time he saw them glance at one another. "Obviously it's a trade," he told them. "Him for the cash."

Sinders sipped his hot chocolate. "How important's the money?"

"Completely important, urgent and the sooner the better." Dunross mopped his brow. "The cash will completely stop the bank runs, Mr. Sinders. We've got t—" He stopped, aghast.

"What is it?" Sinders asked.

"I—I suddenly remembered what AMG wrote in the intercepted report. That the '… police mole may or may not be part of Sevrin.' Is he?"

"Who?"

"For chrissake, don't play with me," Dunross said angrily, "this's serious. You think I'm a bloody fool? There's a Sevrin plant in Struan's. If Brian's part of Sevrin I've a right to know."

"I quite agree," Sinders said calmly though his eyes had become very flinty. "The moment the traitor's uncovered you may rest assured you'll be informed. Have you any idea who it could be yet?" Dunross shook his head, controlling his anger.

Binders watched him. "You were saying? 'We've got to …" Got to what, Mr. Dunross?"

"We've got to get that cash at once. What's Brian done?" After a moment Sinders said, "Banks don't open till Monday. So Monday's D Day?"

"I imagine the banks will have to get the money before then— to open and have the money in the tills. What the devil's Brian done?"

Sinders lit a cigarette for himself and for Armstrong. "If this person Brian actually has been arrested I don't think that's really a very discreet question, Mr. Dunross."

"I'd've bet anything," the tai-pan said helplessly, "anything, but Tiptop'd never suggest a trade unless it was true. Never. Brian must be bloody important but Christ, what's the world coming to? Will you handle the trade or will Mr. Crosse—I suppose the governor's approval will be needed."

Thoughtfully the chief of MI-6 blew the tip of his cigarette. "I doubt if there will be a trade, Mr. Dunross." "Why not? The money's more impor—" "That's a matter of opinion, Mr. Dunross, // this Brian Kwok actually is under arrest. In any event, Her Majesty's Government could hardly be subject to blackmail. Very poor taste." "Quite. But Sir Geoffrey will agree at once." "I doubt it. He impressed me as being much too clever to do that. As to trading, Mr. Dunross, I thought you were going to give us the AMG files."

Dunross felt an ice pick in his stomach. "I did, this evening." "For chrissake, don't play with me, this's serious! You think I'm a bloody fool?" Sinders said in exactly the same tone that Dunross had used. Abruptly he laughed dryly and continued with the same chilling calm, "You certainly gave us a version of them but unfortunately they just don't compare in quality with the one intercepted." The rumpled man's eyes became even more flinty and curiously menacing though his face did not change. "Mr. Dunross, your subterfuge was deft, commendable but unnecessary. We really do want those flies, the originals."

"If those don't satisfy you, why not go through AMG's papers?" "I did." Sinders smiled without humor. "Well, it's like the old highwayman saying, 'The money or your life.' Possession of those files may be lethal to you. You agree, Robert?"

"Yes sir."

Sinders puffed his cigarette. "So, Mr. Dunross, your Mr. Tiptop wants to trade, eh? Everyone in Hong Kong wants to trade. It's in the air. Eh? But to trade you have to give value for value. I imagine if you want concessions to get concessions from the enemy … well, all's fair in love and war, they say. Isn't it?"

Dunross kept his face guileless. "So they say. I'll talk to the governor first thing. Let's keep this strictly confidential for the moment until I've talked to him. Night."

They watched him walk through the swing doors and disappear.

"What do you think, Robert? Did Dunross switch the files on us?"

Armstrong sighed. "I don't know. His face said nothing. I was watching closely. Nothing. But he's as sharp as a tack."

"Yes." Sinders pondered a moment. "So the enemy want a trade, eh? I'd say we have possession of this particular client for twenty-four hours at the most. When do you do his next interrogation?"

"6:30 A.M."

"Oh! Well if you've an early start we'd better be going." Sinders called for the check. "I'll consult with Mr. Crosse but I know what he'll say—what in fact London has ordered."

"Sir?"

"They're very concerned because the client's been party to too many secrets, the General Staff Course, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police." Sinders hesitated again. "On second thought, Robert, now irrespective of what Mr. Dunross does our only course is to step up the debriefing. Yes. We'll cancel the 6:30 interrogation, continue with the hourly schedule, providing he's medically fit, and into the Red Room."

Armstrong blanched. "But si . . ."

"I'm sorry," Sinders said, his voice gentle. "I know he's a friend, was a friend, but now your Mr. Tiptop and your Mr. Dunross have taken away our time."

SATURDAY

62

9:32 A.M.:

The J AL jet from Tokyo came in low over the sea and touched down perfectly at Kai Tak with a puff of smoke from its wheels. At once its engines went into reverse thrust and it howled toward the airport complex, decelerating.

Passengers, aircrew and visitors were milling in the busy terminal, Customs and Immigration and waiting areas. Outward-bound was easy. Incoming was mostly easy. Except for Japanese nationals. Chinese have long memories. The years of the Japanese war occupation of China and Hong Kong were too near, too strong, too vicious to forget. Or to forgive. So Japanese nationals were checked more thoroughly. Even members of the JAL crew now going through, even the pert, pretty, polite air hostesses, some of whom were hardly alive when that occupation had ended, they too were given back their travel documents with a frigid stare.

Next to them in line was an American. '"Morning," he said handing his passport to the official.

'"Morning." The young Chinese flipped the book open and glanced at the photograph and at the man and leafed through to find the visa. Unnoticed, his foot touched a hidden switch. This alerted Crosse and Sinders who were in a nearby observation office. They went to the one-way mirror and looked at the man waiting at immigration in front of one of the six crowded lines of passengers.

The passport, a year old, said, "Vincenzo Banastasio, male, born New York City, August 16, 1910. Hair gray, eyes brown." Casually the official checked the other visas and stamps: England, Spain, Italy, Holland, Mexico, Venezuela, Japan. He stamped the dull gray book, handed it back noncommittally.

Banastasio walked through to Customs, an expensive crocodile briefcase under his arm, carrying duty-free liquor in a gaudy plastic carrier, camera swinging off his shoulder.

"Good-looking fellow," Sinders said. "He takes care of himself." They saw him disappear into the crowds. Crosse clicked on the portable CB. "Do you have him covered?" he asked into it.

"Yes sir," came the instant answer.

"I'll keep monitoring this frequency. Keep me advised."

"Yes sir."

To Sinders, Crosse said, "We'll have no problem tailing him."

"No. Glad I've seen him. I always like to see an enemy in the flesh."

"Is he? Enemy?"

"Mr. Rosemont thinks so. Don't you?"

"I meant our enemy. I'm sure he's a crook—I meant I'm not sure he's tied into Intelligence."

Sinders sighed. "You've checked the bugs?"

"Yes." Late last night a team of SI experts had secretly put bugs into the bedroom Banastasio had booked at the Hilton. Also the office and private suite of Photographer Ng, Vee Cee Ng.

They waited patiently. On the table the CB hissed and crackled slightly.

After a pause Sinders said absently, "What about our other client?"

"Who? Kwok?"

"Yes. How long do you think it'll take?" "Not long." Crosse smiled to himself. "When do you put him into the Red Room?" "I thought noon might be rather apt. Before if he's ready." "Armstrong'll do the interrogation?" "Yes."

"Armstrong's a good man. He handled himself very well at the Ivanov."

"Next time would you mind keeping me advised? After all, this is my area."

"Certainly, Roger. It was a sudden decision by London." "What's the idea? About the Sunday summons." "The minister is sending special instructions." Sinders frowned. "Brian Kwok's records say he's strong. We don't have too much time. He'll've been well indoctrinated to be hidden so deep, so long." "Oh yes. But I'm quite confident. Since I had the room built I've experimented on myself three times. The most I've ever stayed was five minutes and each time I was sick as a dog—and that was without any disorientation scheduling. I'm confident we'll have no problem." Crosse stubbed out his cigarette. "It's very effective—an exact pattern of the KGB prototype."

After a moment Sinders said, "Pity these methods have to be used. Very dicey. Disgusting really. I preferred it when . . . well, even then, I suppose our profession was never really clean."

"You mean during the war?"

"Yes. I must say I preferred it then. Then there was no hypocrisy on the part of some of our leaders—or the media. Everyone understood we were at war. But today when our very survival's threatened we—" Sinders stopped, then pointed. "Look, Roger, isn't that Rosemont?" The American was standing with another man by the exit door.

"Yes, yes it is. That's Langan with him. The FBI man," Crosse said. "Last night I agreed to a joint effort with him on Banastasio though I do wish those bloody CIA'd leave us alone to do our job."

"Yes. They really are becoming quite difficult."

Crosse picked up the CB and led the way outside. "Stanley, we've got him well covered. We agreed last night that on this operation we handle this part, you handle the hotel. Right?"

"Sure, sure, Rog. 'Morning, Mr. Sinders." Grim-faced, Rosemont introduced Langan who was equally taut. "We're not interfering, Rog, though that bum is one of our nationals. That's not the reason we're here. I'm just seeing Ed off."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Langan said. He was as tired and gaunt as Rosemont. "It's those photocopies, Rog. Thomas K. K. Lim's papers. I've got to deliver them personally. To the Bureau. I read part to my chief and his pots blew and he began to come apart at the seams."

"I can imagine."

"There's a request on your desk to let us have the originals and th—"

"No chance," Sinders said for Crosse.

Langan shrugged. "There's a request on your desk, Rog. Guess your brass'll send orders from heaven if ours really need them. I'd better get on board. Listen, Rog, we can't thank you enough. We —I owe you one. Those bastards . . . yeah we owe you one." They shook hands and he hurried off onto the tarmac.

"Which piece of information blew the seams, Mr. Rosemont?"

"They're all lethal, Mr. Sinders. It's a coup for us, for us and the Bureau, mostly the Bureau. Ed said his folk went into hysterics. The political implications for Democrats and Republicans are immense. You were right. If Senator Tillman—the presidential hopeful who's in town right now—if he got hold of those papers, there's no telling what he'd do." Rosemont was no longer his usual good-humored self. "My brass telexed our South American contacts to put an all-points on Thomas K. K. Lim so we'll be interviewing him pretty damn soon—you'll get a copy don't worry. Rog, was there anything else?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"With these choice pieces, were there others we could use?"

Crosse smiled without humor. "Of course. How about a blueprint for financing a private revolution in Indonesia?"

"Oh Jesus . . ."

"Yes. How about photostats of arrangements for payments into a French bank account of a very important Vietnamese lady and gentleman—for specific favors granted?"

Rosemont had gone chalky. "What else?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"Is there more?"

"For chrissake, Stanley, of course there's more, you know it, we know it. There'll always be more."

"Can we have them now?"

Sinders said, "What can you do for us?"

Rosemont stared at them. "Over lunch we'll ta—"

The CB crackled into life. "The target's got his bags now and he's walking out of Customs, heading for the taxi rank . . . Now he's . . . Now he's … ah, someone's meeting him, a Chinese, good-looking man, expensive clothes, don't recognize him. . . . They're going over to a Rolls, registration HK. … ah, that's the hotel limousine. Both men're getting in."

Into the sender Crosse said, "Stay– on this frequency." He switched frequencies. Static and muffled traffic and noise.

Rosemont brightened. "You bugged the limo?" Crosse nodded. "Great, Rog. I'd've missed that!"

They listened, then clearly, ". . . good of you to meet me, Vee Cee," Banastasio was saying. "Hell you shouldn't've come all this wa—"

"Oh it's my pleasure," the cultured voice replied. "We can chat in the car, perhaps that'll save you coming to the office and then in Ma—"

"Sure . . . sure," the American voice overrode the other man. "Listen, I got something for you, Vee Cee …" Muffled sounds then a sudden high-pitched whine that totally dominated the airwave, completely obliterating the clarity and voices. At once Crosse switched frequencies but the others were operating perfectly.

"Shit, he's using a portable shaver to block us," Rosemont said disgustedly. "That bastard's a pro! Fifty to a blown cent they block all the bugs we got, hundred says when they come back on this channel it'll all be goddamn chitchat. I told you Banastasio was cream."

63

10:52 A.M.:

"Tai-pan, Dr. Samson calling from London. He's on line three."

"Oh thank you, Claudia." Dunross punched the button. "Hello, Doctor. You're up late."

"I've just come back from the hospital—sorry not to call before. You were calling about your sister, Mrs. Gavallan?"

"Yes. How is she?"

"Well, sir, we've begun another stringent series of tests. Mentally, I must say she's in very good shape. I'm afraid physically not so good>"

Dunross listened with a sinking heart as the doctor went into detail about multiple sclerosis, how no one really knew much about it, that there was no known cure and that the disease went in descending plateaus—once some deterioration of the nerve structure had taken place it was not possible with present medications to climb back to the previous level. "I've taken the liberty of calling in Professor Klienberg from the clinic at UCLA in Los Angeles for a consultation—he's the world expert on the disease. Please rest assured we will do everything we can for Mrs. Gavallan." "It doesn't sound as if you can do anything at all." "Well, it's not quite as bad as that, sir. If Mrs. Gavallan takes care, rests, and is sensible, she can have a normal life for many years."

"How long is many years?" Dunross heard the long hesitation. Oh Kathy, poor Kathy!

"I don't know. Many times this sort of problem's in the hands of God, Mr. Dunross. Patients do not follow the same time patterns. In Mrs. Gavallan's case I could answer you better in six months, perhaps by Christmas. Meanwhile, I have taken her on as a National Health patient so then—"

"No. She should be a private patient, Dr. Samson. Please send all bills to my office."

"Mr. Dunross, there's no difference in the quality of service I give to her. She just has to wait a little while in my waiting room and be in a ward, not a private room at the hospital."

"Please make her a private patient. I would prefer it, so would her husband."

Dunross heard the sigh and hated it. "Very well," the doctor was saying. "I have all your numbers and I'll call you the instant Professor Klienberg has made his examination and the tests are concluded."

Dunross thanked him and replaced the phone. Oh Kathy, poor dear Kathy.

Earlier when he had got up at dawn he had talked to her and to Penelope. Kathy had said how much better she felt and how Samson was most encouraging. Penn had told him later that Kathy was looking very tired. "It doesn't seem very good, Ian. Is there any chance you could come here for a week or two before October 10?"

"Not at the moment, Penn, but you never know."

"I'm going to take Kathy to Avisyard as soon as she gets out of the hospital. Next week at the latest. She'll be better there. The land will make her better, don't worry, Ian."

"Penn, when you get to Avisyard, would you go out to the Shrieking Tree for me?"

"What's the matter?"

He heard the concern in her voice, "Nothing, darling," he told her, thinking about Jacques and Phillip Chen—how can I explain about them? "Nothing particular, just more of the same. I just wanted you to say hello to our real Shrieking Tree."

"Our Jacaranda there's no good?"

"Oh yes, she's fine, but not the same. Perhaps you should bring a cutting back to Hong Kong."

"No. Better we leave it where it is. Then you have to come home, don't you, Ian?"

"Can I make a bet for you this afternoon?"

Again a pause. "Ten dollars on the horse you choose. I'll back your choice. I'll always back your choice. Call me tomorrow. Love you . . . 'bye."

He remembered the first time she had said, I love you, and then, later, when he had asked her to marry him, all the refusals and then eventually, through shattering tears, the real reason: "Oh Christ, Ian, I'm not good enough for you. You're upper class, I'm not. The way I talk now, I acquired. It was because I was evacuated at the beginning of the war to the country—my God I'd only been outside London twice in my whole life till then, just to the seaside. I was evacuated to a wonderful old manor house in Hampshire where all the other girls were from one of your fine upperclass schools, Byculla was its name. There was a mix-up, Ian, my whole school went somewhere else, just me to Byculla, and it was only then that I found I talked different, differently—there, you see I still forget sometimes! Oh God, you've no idea how awful it was to find out so young that . . . that I was common and talked common and that there are such limitless differences in England, the way we talk— the way we talk so important!

"Oh how I worked to imitate the others. They helped me and there was one teacher who was so wonderful to me. I hurled myself into the new life, theirs, and I swore to better myself and never go back, never, never, never, and I won't. But I can't marry you, my darling—let's just stay lovers—I'll never be good enough."

But in time, her time, they had married. Granny Dunross had persuaded her. Penelope had agreed but only after going out to the Shrieking Tree, alone. She had never told him what she had said I'm lucky, Dunross thought. She's the best wife a man could have. Since coming back from the track at dawn he had worked steadily. Half a hundred cables. Dozens of international phone calls. Countless locals. At 9:30 he had called the governor about Tiptop's proposal. "I'll have to consult the minister," Sir Geoffrey had said. "The earliest I could call him would be four this afternoon. This must be kept entirely secret, Ian. Dear oh dear, Brian Kwok must be very important to them!"

"Or perhaps just another convenient concession for the money." "Ian, I don't think the minister will agree to a trade." "Why?"

"Her Majesty's Government might consider it a precedent, a bad one. I would." "The money's vital."

"The money's a temporary problem. Precedents unfortunately last forever. You were at the track?"

"Yes sir."

"How's the form?"

"They all looked in fine fettle. Alexi Travkin says Pilot Fish's our main opposition and the going will be soft. Noble Star's grand though she's never raced in the wet."

"Will it rain?"

"Yes. But perhaps we'll be lucky, sir."

"Let's hope so. Terrible times, Ian. Still, these things are sent to try us, eh? Are you going to John's funeral?"

"Yes sir."

"So am I. Poor fellow . . ."

At the funeral this morning Dunross had said kind words about John Chen for the face of the House of Chen and for all the Chen forebears who had served the Noble House so long and hard.

"Thank you, tai-pan," Phillip Chen had said simply. "Again, I'm sorry."

Later he had said to Phillip Chen privately, "Sorry is sorry but that still doesn't help us extricate ourselves from the trap your son, and you, put us into. Or solve bloody Four Fingers and the third coin."

"I know, I know!" Phillip Chen had said, wringing his hands. "I know, and unless we can get the stock back up we're ruined, we're all ruined! Oh ko, after you'd announced the boom I bought and bought and now we're ruined."

Dunross had said sharply, "We've got the weekend, Phillip. Now listen to me, damnit! You will claim every favor you're owed. I want Lando Mata and Tightfist Tung's backing by Sunday midnight. At least 20 million."

"But, tai-pan, don—"

"If I don't get that by Sunday midnight, have your resignation on my desk by 9:00 A.M., you're no longer compradore, your son Kevin's out and all your branch is out forever and I'll choose a new compradore from another branch."

Now he exhaled heavily, hating that Phillip Chen and John Chen —and probably Jacques deVille—had betrayed their trust. He went to the coffee tray and poured himself some coffee. Today it did not taste good to him. The phones had been incessant, most of the calls about the looming collapse of the market, the banking system. Havergill, Johnjohn, Richard Kwang. Nothing from Tightfist or Lando Mata or Murtagh. The only bright spot had been his call to

David MacStruan in Toronto: "David, I want you here for a conference on Monday. Can you g—" He had been swamped by the bellow of joy.

"Tai-pan, I'm on my way to the airport. Goo—" "Hang on, David!" He had explained his plan about transferring Jacques to Canada.

"Och, laddie, if you do that I'm your slave forever!" "I'm going to need more than slaves, David," he had said carefully.

There was a long pause and the voice on the other end hardened. "Anything you want, tai-pan, you've got. Anything."

Dunross smiled, warmed by the thought of his distant cousin. He let his eyes drift out of the windows. The harbor was misted, the sky low and dark but no rain yet. Good, he thought, so long as it doesn't rain till after the fifth race. After four o'clock it can rain. I want to smash Gornt and Pilot Fish and oh God let First Central come up with my money, or Lando Mata or Tightfist or Par-Con! Your bet's covered, he told himself stoically, every way you can. And Casey? Is she setting me up like Bartlett? And like Gornt? What about . . .

The intercom clicked on. "Tai-pan, your eleven o'clock appointment's here."

"Claudia, come in a second." He took an envelope out of his drawer with the $1,000 in it and gave it to her. "Betting money, as promised."

"Oh thank you, tai-pan." There were care lines in her jolly face and shadows under the smile.

"You're in Phillip's box?"

"Oh yes. Yes, Uncle Phillip invited me. He … he seems very upset," she said.

"It's John." Dunross wasn't sure if she knew. She probably does, he thought, or soon will. There're no secrets in Hong Kong. "What do you fancy?"

"Winner's Delight in the first, Buccaneer in the second."

"Two outsiders?" He stared at her. "You've inside info?"

"Oh no, tai-pan." A little of her normal good humor came back. "It's just the form."

"And in the fifth?"

"I'm not betting the fifth, but all my hopes're on Noble Star." Claudia added worriedly, "Is there anything I can do to help, taipan? Anything? The stock market and … we have to slaughter Gornt somehow."

"I'm rather fond of Gornt—he's such a fang-pi. " The Canton obscenity was picturesque and she laughed. "Now show in Mrs. Gresserhoff."

"Yes, yes tai-pan," Claudia said. "And thanks for the h'eung you!"

In a moment, Dunross got up to greet his guest. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. "Ikaga desu ka?" he asked in shock, his Japanese fluent—How are you?—astounded that she could have been married to Alan Medford Grant whose name, God help us, was also supposed to be Hans Gresserhoff.

"Genki, tai-pan. Domo. Genki desu! Anatawa?" Fine, tai-pan, thank you. And you?

"Genki." He bowed slightly in return and did not shake hands though he noticed her hands and feet were tiny and her legs long. They chatted for a moment then she switched to English with a smile. "Your Japanese is oh very good, tai-pan. My husband, he did not tell me you were so tall."

"Would you care for coffee?"

"Thank you . . . but oh please let me get it for you too." Before he could stop her she had gone to the coffee tray. He watched her pour delicately. She offered him the first cup with a little bow. "Please." Riko Gresserhoff—Riko Anjin—was barely five feet, perfectly proportioned with short hair and lovely smile and she weighed about ninety pounds. Her blouse and skirt were auburn silk, well cut and French. "Thank you for the expense money Miss Claudia gave me."

"It's nothing. We owe your, your husband's estate about 8,000 pounds. I'll have a cashier's check for you tomorrow."

"Thank you."

"You have me at a disadvantage, Mrs. Gresserhoff. You kn—"

"Please call me Riko, tai-pan."

"Very well, Riko-^o/t. You know me but I know nothing about you."

"Yes. My husband said I was to tell you whatever you wanted to know. He told me that, that once I had made sure you were the tai-pan, then I was to give you an envelope I have brought from him to you. May I bring it later?" Again the little interrogative smile. "Please?"

"I'll come back with you now and collect it."

"Oh no, that would be too much trouble. Perhaps I can bring it to you after luncheon. Please."

"How big is it? The envelope?"

Her tiny hands measured the air. "It is an ordinary envelope but not so thick. You could put it easily into your pocket." Again the smile.

"Perhaps you'd like to … I tell you what," he said, charmed by her presence. "In a minute or two I'll send you back by car. You can fetch the envelope and come right back." Then he added, knowing it would ruin the seating arrangements but not caring, "Would you join us for lunch at the races?"

"Oh but . . . but I would have to change and … oh thank you but no, it would be too much trouble for you. Perhaps I could deliver the letter later, or tomorrow? My husband said I was only to put it into your hands."

"No need to change, Riko-san. You look lovely. Oh! Do you have a hat?"

Perplexed she stared at him. "Please?"

"Yes, it's, er, yes, it's our custom that ladies wear hats and gloves to the races. Silly custom but do you? Have a hat?"

"Oh yes. Every lady has a hat. Of course."

A wave of relief went through him. "Good, then that's settled."

"Oh! Then if you say so." She got up. "Shall I go now?"

"No, if you've time, please sit down. How long were you married?"

"Four years. Hans . . ." She hesitated. Then she said firmly, "Hans told me to tell you, but you alone, if ever he was to die and I was to come as I have come, to tell you that our marriage was of convenience."

"What?"

She reddened a little as she continued. "Please excuse me but I was to tell you. It was a convenience to both of us. I obtained a Swiss citizenship and passport and he obtained someone to care for him when he came to Switzerland. I… I did not wish to marry but he asked me many times and he … and he stressed that it would protect me when he died."

Dunross was startled. "He knew he was going to die?"

"I think so. He said the marriage contract was for five years only but that we should have no children. He took me to an advocate in

Zurich who drew up a contract for five years." She opened her purse, her fingers trembling but not her voice, and pulled out an envelope. "Hans told me to give you these. They're copies of the contract, my, my birth and marriage certificate, his will and birth certificate." She took out a tissue and pressed it against her nose. "Please excuse me." Carefully she untied the string around the envelope and took out a letter.

Dunross accepted it. He recognized AMG's handwriting. "Tai-pan: This will confirm my wife, Riko Gresserhoff—Riko Anjin—is who she says she is. I love her with all my heart. She merits and merited far better than me. If she needs help . . . please please please." It was signed Hans Gresserhoff.

"I do not merit better, tai-pan," she said with a sad, small confident voice. "My husband was good to me, very good. And I'm sorry he is dead."

Dunross watched her. "Was he ill? Did he know he was going to die from an illness?"

"I don't know. He never told me. One of his asks before I … before I married him was that I would not question him or question where he went, why, or when he was to return. I was just to accept him as he was." A small shiver went through her. "It was very hard living thus."

"Why did you agree to live like that? Why? Surely it wasn't necessary?"

Again Riko hesitated. "I was born in Japan in 1939 and went as an infant with my parents to Berne—my father was a minor official in the Japanese Embassy there. In 1943 he went back to Japan but left us in Geneva. Our family is—our family comes from Nagasaki. In 1945 my father was lost and all our family was lost. There was nothing to go back to and my mother wanted to stay in Switzerland, so we went to live in Zurich with a good man who died four years ago. He … they paid for my education and kept me and we had a happy family. For many years I knew they were not married though they pretended and I pretended. When he died there was no money, or just a little money. Hans Gresserhoff was an acquaintance of this man, my, my stepfather. His name was Simeon Tzerak. He was a displaced person, tai-pan, a stateless person from Hungary who had taken up residence in Switzerland. Before the war he was an accountant, he said, in Budapest. My mother arranged my marriage to Hans Gresserhoff." Now she looked up from the carpet at him. "It was … it was a good marriage, tai-pan, at least I tried very hard to be whatever my husband wanted and my mother wanted My giri, my duty was to obey my mother, neh?"

"Yes," he said kindly, understanding duty and giri, that most Japanese of words, most important of words that sums up a heritage and a way of life. "You have performed your giri perfectly, I'm sure. What does your mother say is your giri now?"

"My mother is dead, tai-pan. When my stepfather died she did not wish to live. The moment I was married she went up the mountain and skied into a crevasse."

"Terrible."

"Oh no, tai-pan, very good. She died as she wished to die, at a time and place of her choosing. Her man was dead, I was safe, what more was there for her to do?"

"Nothing," he told her, hearing the softness of her voice, the sincerity, and the calm. The Japanese word wa came to his mind: harmony. That's what this girl has, he thought. Harmony. Perhaps that's what's so beautiful about her. Ayeeyah that I could acquire such wa!

One of his phones sounded. "Yes, Claudia?"

"It's Alexi Travkin, tai-pan. Sorry, he said it was important."

"Thank you." To the girl he said, "Excuse me a moment. Yes, Alexi?"

"Sorry to interrupt, tai-pan, but Johnny Moore's sick and he won't be able to ride." Johnny Moore was their chief jockey.

Dunross's voice sharpened. "He seemed all right this morning."

"He's running 103-degree temperature, the doctor said it might be food poisoning."

"You mean he's been tampered with, Alexi?"

"I don't know, tai-pan. I only know he's no good for us today."

Dunross hesitated. He knew he was better than the rest of his jockeys though the extra weight Noble Star would have to carry would load the deck against the horse. Should I or shouldn't I? "Alexi, schedule Tom Wong. We'll decide before the race."

"Yes. Thank you."

Dunross replaced the phone. "Anjin's a curious name," he said. "It means pilot, just pilot, or navigator, doesn't it?"

"The legend in my family is that one of our forebears was an Englishman who became a samurai and advisor to the Shogun Yoshi Toranaga, oh very many years ago, long long ago. We have many stories but they say first he had a fief in Hemi, near Yokohama, then went with his family to Nagasaki as inspector general of all foreigners." Again the smile and the shrug and the tip of her tongue moistened her lips. "It is just legend, tai-pan. He is supposed to have married a highborn lady called Riko." Her chuckle filled the room. "You know Japanese! A gai-jin, a foreigner, marrying a highborn lady—how could that be possible? But anyway, it is a pleasing story and an explanation of a name, neh?" She got up and he got up. "I should go now. Yes?" No, he wanted to say.

The black Daimler pulled up outside the V and A, the Struan arms discreetly on the doors. Casey and Bartlett waited at the top of the stairs, Casey wearing a green dress, self-conscious in a pert green pillbox hat and white gloves, Bartlett broad-shouldered, wearing a blue tie to match his well-cut suit. Both were set-faced.

The chauffeur approached them. "Mr. Bartlett?"

"Yes." They came down the steps to meet him. "You our limo?"

"Yes sir. Excuse me sir, but do you both have your badge tickets, and the invitation card?"

"Yes, here they are," Casey said.

"Ah, good. Sorry but without them … My name's Lim. The, er, the custom is for the gentlemen to tie both badges through the hole in their lapels and the ladies usually have a pin."

"Whatever you say," Bartlett said. Casey got in the back and he followed. They sat far apart. Silently they began to fix the small, individually numbered badges.

Blandly Lim closed the door, noticing the frigidity, and chortled inwardly. He closed the electric glass partition window and switched on his intercom mike. "If you want to talk to me, sir, just use the microphone above you." Through his rear mirror he saw Bartlett use the switch momentarily.

"Sure, thank you, Lim."

Once Lim was in the traffic he reached under the dash and touched a hidden switch. At once Bartlett's voice came through the speaker.

". . . going to rain?"

"I don't know, Line. The radio said it would but everyone's praying." A hesitation, then coldly, "I still think you're wrong."

Lim settled back happily. His trusted older brother Lim Chu, majordomo to the tai-pans of the Noble House, had arranged for another younger brother, an expert radio mechanic, to install this bypass switch so that he could overhear his passengers. It had been done at great cost to protect the tai-pan and older brother Lim had ordered it was never to be used when the tai-pan was in the car. Never never never. It never had been. Yet. Lim felt queasy at the thought of being caught but their wish to know—of course to protect—overcame their anxiety. Oh oh oh, he chortled, Golden Pubics is certainly in a rage!

Casey was seething.

"Let's quit this, Line, huh?" she said. "Since our breakfast meeting you've been like a bear with a sore ass!"

"And what about you?" Bartlett glared at her. "We're going with Gornt—the way I want it."

"This's my deal, you've said that fifty times, you promised, you've always listened before. Jesus, we're on the same side. I'm only trying to protect you. I know you're wrong."

"You think I'm wrong. And it's all because of Orlanda!"

"That's a crock! I went through my reasons fifty times. If Ian gets out of the trap then we're better off to go with him than Gornt."

Bartlett's face was cold. "We've never had a bust before, Casey, but if you want to vote your shares, I'll vote mine and your ass'll be in a vise before you can count to ten!"

Casey's heart was thumping. Ever since their breakfast meeting with Seymour Steigler, the day had been heavy going. Bartlett was adamant that their best course lay with Gornt and nothing she could say would dissuade him. After an hour of trying she had closed the meeting and gone off to deal with a pile of overnight telexes, then, remembering suddenly at the last moment, had rushed out in a panic and bought her hat.

When she had met Bartlett in the foyer with great trepidation, wanting the hat to please him, she had begun to make peace but he had interrupted her. "Forget it," he had said. "So we disagree. So what?"

She had waited and waited but he hadn't even noticed. "What do you think?"

"I told you. Gornt's best for us."

"I meant my hat."

She had seen his blank stare.

"Oh that's what's different! Hey, it's okay."

She had felt like tearing it off and hurling it at him. "It's Parisian," she had said half-heartedly. "It says hats and gloves on the invitation, remember? It's a crock but Ian said that la—"

"What makes you think he can get out of the trap?"

"He's clever. And the tai-pan."

"Gornt's got him on the run."

"It looks that way. So let's forget it for now. Maybe we'd better wait outside. The car's coming at noon promptly."

"Just a minute, Casey. What have you got cooking?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know you better than anyone. What do you have on the burner?"

Casey hesitated, unsure of herself, wondering if she should reveal the First Central ploy. But there's no reason to, she reassured herself. If Ian gets the credit and squeezes out, I'll be the first to know. Ian promised. Then Line can cover his 2 million with Gornt and they can buy back in to cover their selling short and make a huge profit. At the same time Ian, Line and I get in at the bottom of the market and make our own killing. I'll be the first to know after Murtagh and Ian. Ian promised. Yes, yes he did. But can I trust him?

A wave of nausea went through her. Can you trust anyone in business here, or anywhere? Man or woman?

At dinner last night she had trusted him. Influenced by the wine and food she had told him about her relationship with Line, and about the bargain they had made.

"That's a bit rough, isn't it? On both of you?"

"Yes, yes and no. We were both over twenty-one, Ian, and I wanted so much more than being just Mrs. Line Bartlett, a mother-mistress-servant-dishwasher-diaperwasher-slave and a left-at-home. That's the thing that kills off any woman. You're always left. At home. So home becomes a prison in the end, and it drives you mad, being trapped until death do us part! I've seen it too many times."

"Someone has to look after the home and the children. It's the man's job to make the money. It's the wife's j—"

"Yes. Most times. But not for me. I'm not prepared to accept that and I don't think it's wrong to want a different sort of life. I'm the wage earner for my family. My sister's husband died so there's my sister and her kids, and my Ma and uncle are getting on. I'm educated and good and better than most in business. The world's changing, everything's changing, Ian."

"I said before, not here thank God!"

Casey remembered how she had readied to return measure for measure, but had bitten back the old Casey and said instead, "Ian, what about the Hag? How did she do it? What was her secret? How did she become more equal than anyone?"

"She kept her hands on the purse strings. Absolutely. Oh she conceded outward position and face to Culum and following tai-pans but she kept the books, she hired and fired through him—she was the strength of that family. When Culum was dying, it was easy to persuade him to make her tai-pan. He gave her the Struan chop, family chop and all the reins and all the secrets. But, wisely, she kept it all very secret and after Culum she only appointed those she could control, and never once gave any one of them the purse strings, or real power, not until she herself was dying."

"But ruling through others, is that enough?"

"Power is power and I don't think it matters so long as you rule. For a woman—after a certain age—power only comes with control of the purse. But you're right about drop dead money. Hong Kong's the only place on earth you can get it to keep it With money, real money, you can be more equal than anyone. Even Line Bartlett. I like him, by the way. I like him very much."

"I love him. Our partnership's worked, Ian. I think it's been good for Line—oh how I hope so. He's our tai-pan and I'm not trying to become one. I just want to succeed as a woman. He's helped me tremendously, of course he has. Without him I'd never have made it. So we're in business together, until my birthday. November 25 this year. That's D Day. That's when we both decide."

"And?"

"I don't know. I honestly don't know. Oh I love Line, more than ever, but we're not lovers."

Later, coming back on the ferry, she had been sorely tempted to ask him about Orlanda. She had decided not to. "Perhaps I should have," she muttered out loud.

"Eh?"

"OhP" She came out of her reverie, finding herself in the limo on the car ferry en route to Hong Kong. "Sorry, Line, I was daydreaming."

She looked at him and saw that he was as handsome as ever, even though now he stared back coldly. You're more attractive to me than either Ian or Quillan, she thought. And yet, right now, I'd prefer to pillow with either of them than with you. Because you're a bastard.

"Do you want to have at it?" he said. "You want to vote your shares against mine?"

Casey stared back at him, enraged. Tell him to go screw, the devil half of her screamed, he needs you more than you need him, you've got the reins of Par-Con, you know where the bodies are buried, you can take apart what you helped to create. But the other half of her urged caution. She remembered what the tai-pan had said about this man's world, and about power. And about the Hag.

So she dropped her gaze a moment and allowed tears to seep. At once she saw the change in him.

"Jesus, Casey, don't cry, I'm sorry . . ." he was saying and his arms reached out for her. "Jesus, you've never cried before . . . Listen, we've been through the mill a dozen times, hell, fifty times, there's no need to get so uptight. We've got Struan's and Gornt locked into battle. There's no difference in the end. We'll still be the Noble House, but up front, up front Gornt's better, I know I'm right."

Oh no, you're not, she thought contentedly, warm in his embrace.

64

12:32 P.M. :

Brian Kwok was screaming and beyond terror. He knew he was in prison and in hell and it had gone on forever. His whole insane world was an instant of never-ending blinding light, everything blood-colored, the cell walls floor ceiling blood-colored, no doors or windows, and the floor awash with blood, but everything twisted and all upside down for somehow he was lying on the ceiling, his whole being in torment, frantically trying to claw his way down to normality, each time falling back into the mess of his own vomit, then the next instant once more in the blackness, grinding pulsating voices laughing, drowning out his friend, drowning out Robert who pleaded with the devils to stop stop for the love of God stop, then once more the eye-tearing head-exploding bloodlight, seeing the blood waters that would not fall, groping desperately, stretching down for the chairs and table that sat in the blood water but falling back, always falling back, floor meeting ceiling everything wrong upside sideways madness madness the devil's invention . . .

Bloodlight and darkness and laughter and stench and blood again, on and on and on …

He knew he had begun raving years ago, begging them to stop, begging them to let him go, swearing he would do anything but let him go, that he was not the one they sought, not due for hell . .. It's a mistake, it's all a mistake, no it's not a mistake I was the enemy who was the enemy what enemy? Oh please let the world turn right side up and let me lie where I should be lying up there, down there, where oh Jesus Christ Robert Christ help, help meeeeee

"All right, Brian. I'm here. I'm putting everything right. I am. I'm putting everything right!" He heard the compassionate words come soaring out of the maelstrom, drowning the laughter. The enveloping blood went away. He felt his friend's hand, cool and gentle, and he clutched it, terrified lest it was another dream within a dream within a dream, oh Christ Robert don't leave me. . . .

Oh Jesus it's impossible! Look there! The ceiling's there where it should be and I'm here, I'm lying on the bed where I should be and the room's dim but soft where it should be, everything's clean, flowers, blinds drawn but flowers and the water properly in the vase and I'm right side up, I'm right side up. "Oh Christ, Robert . . ."

"Hello, chum," Robert Armstrong said gently.

"Oh Jesus Robert thank you thank you, I'm right side up oh thank you thank you . . ."

It was hard to talk and he felt weak, his strength gone, but it was glorious just to be here, out of the nightmare, his friend's face misted but real. And smoking, am I smoking? Oh yes. Yes I think I remember Robert left me a packet of cigarettes though those devils came and found them and took them away last week . . . thank God for smoke . . . When was it, last month, last week, when? I remember yes but Robert came back again and gave me a secret drag last month, was it last month? "Oh that tastes so good, so good and the peace, no nightmare, Robert, not seeing blood up there, the ceiling awash, not lying up there but down here not in hell oh thank you thank you . . ."

"I must go now."

"Oh Christ don't go they may come back no don't go sit and stay please stay. Look, we'll talk, yes, that's it, talk, you wanted to talk … don't leave. Please talk . . ."

"All right, old friend, then talk. I won't go while we talk. What do you want to tell me, eh? Certainly I'll stay while you talk. Tell me about Ning-tok and your father. Didn't you go back to see him?"

"Oh yes, I went back to see him once, yes, just before he died, my friends helped me, they helped me it only took a day, my friends helped me . . . that, that was so long ago. . . ."

"Did Ian go with you?"

"Ian? No it… was it Ian? I can't remember… Ian, the tai-pan? Someone went with me. Was it you, Robert? Ah, with me in Ning-tok? No it wasn't you or Ian it was John Chancellor from Ottawa. He hates the Soviets too, Robert, they're the great enemy. Even in school, and devil Chiang Kai-shek and his assassins Fong-fong and … and … Oh I'm so tired and so pleased to see you. . . ."

"Tell me about Fong-fong."

"Oh him. He was a bad man, Robert, him and all his spy group they were against us, the PRC, and pro-Chiang, I know; don't worry as soon as I read the . . . What are you asking me, eh? What?"

"It was that rotten Grant, eh?"

"Yes, yes it was and I almost fainted when he knew I was . .. I… where was I oh yes but I stopped Fong-fong at once. … Oh yes."

"Who did you tell?"

"Tsu-yan. I whispered it to Tsu-yan. He's back in Peking now … Oh he was very high up, though he didn't know who I really was, Robert, I was all very hush-hush>Yes then it was in school, my father sent me after old Sh'in was murdered … thugs came and flogged him to death in the village square because he was one of us, one of the people, one of Chairman Mao's people, and when I was in Hong Kong I stayed with . . . with Uncle … I went to school . . . and he schooled me at night. . . . Can I sleep now?"

"Who was your uncle, Kar-shun, and where did he live?"

"I don't . . . don't remember. . . ."

"Then I must go. Next week I'll come ba—"

"No wait, Robert, wait, it was Wu Tsa-flng, on … on Fourth Alley in Aberdeen . . . number 8, lucky 8, fifth floor. There, I can remember! Don't go!"

"Very good, old chum. Very good. Were you at school long in Hong Kong?" Robert Armstrong kept his voice soft and kind and his heart went out to his friend that once was. He was astonished that Brian had broken so easily, so quickly.

The client's mind was open now, ready for him to take apart. He kept his eyes on the shell of the man who lay on the bed, encouraging him to remember so that the others who listened secretly could record all the facts and figures and names and places, the undercover truths and half-truths that were spilling out and would continue to spill out until Brian Kar-shun Kwok was a husk. And he knew that he would continue to probe, to cajole or threaten or become impatient or angry or pretend to want to leave or curse the jailer away who would interrupt, if necessary. With Crosse and Sinders monitoring the in-depth debriefing, he was just a tool like Brian Kwok had been a tool for others who had used his mind and talents for their own purposes. His job was just to be the medium, to keep the client talking, to bring him back when he rambled or became incoherent, to be his sole friend and his sole prop in this unreal universe, the one who brought the truth forth—like John Chancellor of Ottawa, who's he? Where does he fit? I don't know yet.

We'll get everything the client has now, he thought. We'll get all his contacts, his mentors, enemies and friends. Poor old Fong-fong and the lads. We'll never see them again—unless they turn up as agents of the other side. What a rotten filthy business this is, selling out your friends, working with the enemy who, everyone knows, wants you enslaved.

". . . in Vancouver it was wonderful, wonderful, Robert. There was a girl there who … Yes and I almost married her but Sensible Tok, Sensible was my 489, he lived … he lived on … oh yes it was Pedder Street in Chinatown and he owned the Hoho-tok Restaurant … yes Sensible Tok said I should honor Chairman Mao before any quai loh. . . . Oh how I loved her but he said it was the quai lohs who raped China for centuries.. . . You know that's true that's true. . . ."

"Yes that's true," he said, humoring him. "Sensible Tok was your only friend in Canada?"

"Oh no Robert I have dozens. . . ."

Armstrong listened, astounded by the wealth of information about the inner workings of the Canadian Mounted Police, and the extent of Chinese Communist infiltration throughout the Americas and Europe and particularly on the Western seaboard—Vancouver, Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego—wherever a Chinese restaurant or shop or business existed there was the potential of pressure, of funds and most of all of knowledge. "… and the Wo Tuk on Gerrard Street in London's the Center where I … when I was … Oh my head aches I'm so thirsty. . . ."

Armstrong gave him the water that contained stimulant. When he or Crosse considered the moment correct, the client would be given the thirst-quenching, delicately flavored Chinese tea that was his favorite. This contained the soporific.

Then it was up to Crosse and Sinders what happened, whether it was more of the same, more of the Red Room or the end of the exercise and then, carefully, the gradual bringing back of the client to reality, with great care, so that no permanent damage was done.

It's up to them, he thought. Sinders was right to put on the pressure while we've time. The client knows too much. He's too well trained, and if we'd had to give him back without knowing what he knows, well that would have been irresponsible. We've got to keep ahead.

Armstrong lit two cigarettes and inhaled his own deeply. I'll give up smoking for Christmas. I can't now, not with all this horror. It was Brian Kwok's wailing screams so soon, barely twenty minutes after being put into the room for the second time that had shattered him. He had been watching through spyholes with Crosse and Sinders, watching the insanity of trying to reach the ceiling that was the floor that was the ceiling, astonished that someone so strong, so well trained as Brian Kwok would break so quickly. "It's impossible," he had muttered.

"He may be faking," Sinders said.

"No," Crosse had said. "No. It's real, for him. I know."

"I don't believe he'd break so easily."

"You will, Robert." And then when Brian Kwok had been carried out to be brought to this room, clean and nice and the Red Room had been mopped clean, Roger Crosse had said, "All right, Robert, try it, then you'll see."

"No, no thanks. It's like something out of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari," he had muttered, "No thanks!"

"Please try it, just for a minute. It's an important experience for you. You may be caught by them, the other side, some day. You should be prepared. One minute might save your sanity. Test it, for your own safety."

So he had agreed. They had closed the door. The room was totally scarlet, small but everything tilted, the lines all wrong, angles all wrong, the floor meeting the ceiling in one corner, perspectives all wrong, no angles ordinary. The tilted ceiling far above was a sheer sheet of scarlet glass. Above the glass, water washed down to be recycled and come down again. Attached to this tilted glass ceiling surface were scarlet chairs and a table and pens and paper casually on the table, scarlet cushions on the chairs, making it seem the floor, a false door nearby, almost ajar . . .

Sudden blackness. Then the blinding strobe and the stunning impact of the scarlet. Blackness, scarlet, blackness, scarlet. Involuntarily he groped for the reality of the table and chairs and the floor and door and stumbled and fell, unable to get his bearings, water above, the glass vanished, just insane scarlet water on the floor above. Blackness and now voices pounding and again blood-colored he!l. His stomach told him that he was upside down though his mind said it was just a trick and to close your eyes it's a trick it's a trick it's a trick . . .

After an eternity, when at length normal lights came on and the real door opened, he was lying on the real floor, retching. "You bastard," he had snarled at Crosse, barely able to talk. "You said a minute, you lying bastard!" His chest heaved and he fought to his feet, reeling, barely able to stand or to stop vomiting.

"Sorry, but it was only a minute, Robert," Crosse said.

"I don't believe it. . . ."

"Honestly, it was," Sinders said. "I timed it myself. Really! Extraordinary. Most effective."

Again Armstrong felt his chest heave at the thought of the water above and the table and chairs. He put those thoughts away and concentrated on Brian Kwok, feeling that he had let the client ramble enough and it was now time to bring him back. "You were saying? You passed over our dossiers to your friend Bucktooth Lo?"

"Well no, it wasn't . . . I'm tired, Robert, tired . . . what ar—"

"If you're tired I'll leave!" He got up and saw the client blanch. "Next month I'll se—"

"No … no … please don't go … they … no, don't go. Pleassssssse!"

So he sat back, continuing the game, knowing it to be unfair, and that with the client so totally disoriented he could be made to sign anything, say anything at whim. "I'll stay while you talk, old friend. You were saying about Bucktooth Lo—the man in Princes Building? He was the go-between?"

"No … not… yes in a way . .. Dr. Meng . .. Dr. Meng would pick up any package that I left… Meng never knew that I… that it was me … the arrangements were by phone or by letter … he would take them to Lo who was paid . . . Bucktooth Lo was paid to give them to another man, I don't know who … I don't know . . ."

"Oh I think you do, Brian, I don't believe you want me to stay."

"Oh Christ I do… I swear it… Bucktooth … Bucktooth would know … or perhaps Ng, Vee Cee Ng, Photographer Ng, he's on our side, he's on our side Robert . . . Ask him, he'll know … he was with Tsu-yan importing thoriums . . ."

"What're thoriums?"

"Rare earths for … for atomics, for our atomics … oh yes we'll have our own A-bombs and H-bombs in a few months. …" Brian Kwok went into a paroxysm of laughter. "The first in a few weeks . . . our first explosion in just a few weeks now oh of course not perfect but the first and soon an H-bomb, dozens, Robert, soon we'll have ours to defend against those hegemonists who threaten to wipe us out, in a few weeks! Christ, Robert, think of that! Chairman Mao's done it, he has, he's done it … yes and then next year H-bombs and then Joe, yes we'll get back our lands, oh yes, with atomics we cancel out theirs … we will, Joe's going to help, Joe Yu's going to… Oh we'll stop them now, stop them we'll stop them and take our lands back." His hand reached out and he held Robert Armstrong's arm but his grip was weak. "Listen, we're at war already, us and the Soviets, Chung Li told me, he's my emergency . . . em, em contact. . . there's a war, a shooting war going on right now. In the north, divisions, not patrols near the Amur they're they're killing more Chinese and stealing more land but… but not for long." He lay back weakly and began to mumble, his mind wandering.

"Atomics? Next year? I don't believe it," Armstrong said, pretending to scoff, his mind blown as he listened to the continued outpouring that was giving chapter and verse and names. Christ, A-bombs in a few months? A few months? The world's been told that's ten years away. China with A– and H-bombs?

Carefully he let Brian Kwok peter out and then he said casually, "Who's Joe? Joe Yu?"

"Who?"

He saw Brian Kwok turn and stare at him, eyes strange, different, boring into him. Instantly he was on guard and he prepared. "Joe Yu," he said even more offhand.

"Who? I don't know any Joe Yu … no…. What, what… what am I doing here? What is this place? What's happening? Yu? Why . . . why should I know him? Who?"

"No reason," Armstrong said, calming him. "Here, here's some tea, you must be very thirsty, old chum."

"Oh yes … yes I am … where . . . yes . . . Christ what's happ . . . happening?"

Armstrong helped him drink. Then he gave him another cigarette and further calmed him. In a few moments Brian Kwok was again deeply asleep. Armstrong wiped his palms and his forehead, exhausted too.

The door opened. Sinders and Crosse came in.

"Very good, Robert," Sinders said excitedly, "very good indeed!"

"Yes," Crosse said. "I felt he was coming back too. Your timing was perfect."

Armstrong said nothing, feeling soiled.

"My God," Sinders chortled, "this client's gold. The minister will be delighted. Atomics in a few months and a shooting war going on right now! No wonder our Parliamentary Trade Commission made such marvelous progress! Excellent, Robert, just excellent!"

"You believe the client, sir?" Crosse said.

"Absolutely, don't you?"

"I believe he was telling what he knew. Whether it's fact, that's another matter. Joe Yu? Does Joe or Joseph Yu mean anything to you?" The others shook their heads. "John Chancellor?"

"No."

"Chung Li?"

Armstrong said, "There's a Chung Li who's a friend of Br—the client's, a car enthusiast—Shanghainese, big industrialist—could be him."

"Good. But Joe Yu, that triggered something in him. Could be important." Crosse glanced at Sinders. "Proceed?"

"Of course."

65

1:45 P.M. :

A roar of excitement went up from fifty thousand throats as the seven entries for the first race, jockeys up, came up the ramp out from under the stands to prance and skitter to the owners' paddock where trainers and owners waited. The owners and their wives were dressed in their very best, many of the wives laden and over-minked, Mai-ling Kwang and Dianne Chen among them, conscious of the envious stares of the multitude craning to see the horses—and them.

Either side of the soggy grass paddock and winner's circle, the packed mass of the crowds went down to the white sparkling rails and the perfectly kept turf of the encircling track. The winning post was opposite and beside it, on the other side of the track, was the huge totalizator that would carry the names of the horses and jockeys and odds, race by race. The totalizator was owned and operated by the Turf Club, as was the course. There were no legal bookmakers here or outside or any legal off-course betting places. This was the only legal form of betting in the Colony.

The sky was dark and forbidding. Earlier there had been a few sprinkles but now the air was clear.

Behind the paddock and winner's circle, on this level, were the jockeys' changing rooms and the offices of the officials—food concessions and the first banks of betting windows. Above them were the stands, four terraced tiers, each cantilevered floor with its own bank of betting windows. The first tier was for nonvoting members, next for voting members, and the two top floors set aside for the private boxes and radio room. Each box had its own private kitchen. Each of the ten annually elected stewards had a box and then there were some permanent ones: first his Excellency the governor, patron of the club; then the commander-in-chief; one each for

Blacs and the Victoria. And last, Struan's. Struan's was in the best position, exactly opposite the winning post.

"Why's that, tai-pan?" Casey asked.

"Because Dirk Struan began the Turf Club, set the rules, brought out a famous racing expert, Sir Roger Blore, to be the first secretary of the club. He put up all the money for the first meeting, money for the stands, money to import the first batch of horses from India and helped persuade the first plenipotentiary, Sir William Longstaff, to deed the land to the Turf Club in perpetuity."

"Come now, tai-pan," Donald McBride, the track steward for this meeting, said jovially, "tell it as it happened, eh? You say Dirk 'helped persuade'? Didn't Dirk just 'order' Longstaff to do it?"

Dunross laughed with the others still seated at the table he had hosted, Casey, Hiro Toda and McBride, who had just arrived to visit. There was a bar and three round tables in the box, each seating twelve comfortably. "I prefer my version," he said. "In any event, Casey, the legend is that Dirk was voted this position by popular acclaim when the first stands were built."

"That's not true either, Casey," Willie Tusk called out from the next table. "Didn't old Tyler Brock demand the position as the right of Brock and Sons? Didn't he challenge Dirk to put up the position on a race, man to man, at the first meeting?"

"No, that's just a story."

"Did those two race, tai-pan?" Casey asked.

"They were going to. But the typhoon came too soon, so they say. In any event Culum refused to budge so here we are. This's ours while the course exists."

"And quite right too," McBride said, with his happy smile. "The Noble House deserves the best. Since the very first stewards were elected, Miss Casey, the tai-pan of Struan's has always been a steward. Always. By popular acclaim. Well, I must be off." He glanced at his watch, smiled at Dunross. With great formality he said, "Permission to start the first race, tai-pan?"

Dunross grinned back at him. "Permission granted." McBride hurried off.

Casey stared at Dunross. "They have to ask your permission to begin?"

"It's just a custom." Dunross shrugged. "I suppose it's a good idea for someone to say, 'All right, let's begin,' isn't it? I'm afraid that unlike Sir Geoffrey, the governors of Hong Kong in the past haven't been known for their punctuality. Besides, tradition is not a bad thing at all—gives you a sense of continuity, of belonging— and protection." He finished his coffee. "If you'll excuse me a moment, I must do a few things."

"Have fun!" She watched him go, liking him even more than last night. Just then Peter Marlowe came in and Dunross stopped a moment. "Oh hello, Peter, good to see you. How's Fleur?" "Getting better, thank you, tai-pan."

"Come on in! Help yourself to a drink—I'll be back in a moment. Put your money on number five, Excellent Day, in the first! See you later."

"Thanks, tai-pan."

Casey beckoned to Peter Marlowe but he did not see her. His eyes had fixed on Grey who was with Julian Broadhurst out on the balcony, haranguing some of the others. She saw his face close and her heart leaped, remembering their hostility, so she called out, "Peter! Hi, come and sit down." His eyes unglazed. "Oh! Oh hello," he said. "Come sit down. Fleur's going to be fine." "She certainly appreciated your going to see her." "It was a pleasure. Are the kids okay?" "Oh yes. You?" ,

"Fantastic. This is the only way to go to a race!" Lunch in the Struan box for the thirty-six guests had been a lavish buffet of hot Chinese foods or, if they preferred, hot steak-and-kidney pie and vegetables, with plates of smoked salmon, hors d'oeuvres and cold cuts, cheeses and pastries of all kinds and as a topper, a meringue sculpture of the Struan Building—all prepared in their own kitchen. Champagne, with the best red and white wines, liqueurs. "I'm gonna have to diet for fifty years." "Not you. How goes it?" She felt his probing eyes. "Fine. Why?" "Nothing." He glanced off at Grey again, then turned his attention to the others.

"May I introduce Peter Marlowe? Hiro Toda of Toda Shipping Industries of Yokohama. Peter's a novelist-screenwriter from Hollywood." Then all at once his book rushed into her mind and Changi and three and a half years as a prisoner of war and she waited for the explosion. There was a hesitation between both men.

Toda politely offered his business card and Peter Marlowe gave his in return, equally politely. He hesitated a moment then put out his hand. "How're you?"

The Japanese shook it. "This's an honor, Mr. Marlowe."

"Oh?"

"It's not often one meets a famous author."

"I'm not, no, not at all."

"You're too modest. I liked your book very much. Yes."

"You've read it?" Peter Marlowe stared at him. "Really?" He sat and looked at Toda, who was much shorter than he, lithe and well built, more handsome and well dressed in a blue suit, a camera hanging on his chair, his eyes equally level, the two men of an age. "Where did you find it?"

"In Tokyo. We have many English bookshops. Please excuse me, I read the paperback, not the hardback. There was no hardback on sale. Your novel was very illuminating."

"Oh?" Peter Marlowe took out his cigarettes and offered them. Toda took one.

Casey said, "Smoking's not good for you, you both know that!"

They smiled at her. "We'll give them up for Lent," Peter Marlowe said.

"Sure."

Peter Marlowe looked back at Toda. "You were army?"

"No, Mr. Marlowe. Navy. Destroyers. I was at the Battle of the Coral Sea in '42, then at Midway, sub-lieutenant, later at Guadalcanal. I was sunk twice but lucky. Yes, I was lucky, apparently more lucky than you."

"We're both alive, both in one piece, more or less."

"More or less, Mr. Marlowe. I agree. War is a curious way of life." Toda puffed his cigarette. "Sometime, if it would please you and not hurt, I would like to talk about your Changi, about its lessons and our wars. Please?"

"Sure."

"I'm here for a few days," Toda said. "At the Mandarin, back next week. A lunch, or dinner perhaps?"

"Thank you. I'll call. If not this time perhaps next. One day I'll be in Tokyo."

After a pause the Japanese said, "We need not discuss your Changi, if you wish. I would like to know you better. England and Japan have much in common. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I should place my bet." He bowed politely and walked off. Casey sipped her coffee.

"Was that very hard for you? Being polite?"

"Oh no, Casey. No, it wasn't, not at all. Now we're equal, he and I, any Japanese. The Japanese—and Koreans—I hated were the ones with bayonets and bullets when I had none." She saw him wipe the sweat off, noticing his twisted smile. "'Mahlu, I wasn't ready to meet one here."

"'Mahlu? What's that, Cantonese?"

"Malayan. It means 'ashamed.' " He smiled to himself. It was a contraction ofpuki mahlu. Mahlu ashamed, puki a Golden Gulley. Malays grant feelings to that part of a woman: hunger, sadness, kindness, rapaciousness, hesitancy, shame, anger—anything and everything.

"No need to be ashamed, Peter," she said, not understanding. "I'm astonished you'd talk to any of them after all that POW horror. Oh I really liked the book. Isn't it marvelous that he'd read it too?"

"Yes. That threw me."

"May I ask you one question?"

"What?"

"You said Changi was genesis. What did you mean?"

He sighed. "Changi changed everyone, changed values permanently. For instance, it gave you a dullness about death—we saw too much of it to have the same sort of meaning to outsiders, to normal people. We're a generation of dinosaurs, we the few who survived. I suppose anyone who goes to war, any war, sees life with different eyes if they end up in one piece."

"What do you see?"

"A lot of bull that's worshipped as the be-all and end-all of existence. So much of 'normal, civilized' life is bull that you can't imagine it. For us ex-Changi-ites—we're lucky, we're cleansed, we know what life is really all about. What frightens you, doesn't frighten me, what frightens me, you'd laugh at."

"Like what?"

He grinned at her. "That's enough about me and my karma. I've a hot tip for th—" He stopped and stared off. "Good sweet Christ who's that?"

Casey laughed. "Riko Gresserhoff. She's Japanese."

"Which one's Mr. Gresserhoff?"

"She's a widow."

"Hallelujah!" They watched her go across the room, out onto the terrace.

"Don't you dare, Peter!"

His voice became Olympian. "I'm a writer! It's a matter of research!"

"Baloney!"

"You're right."

"Peter, they say all first novels are autobiographical. Who were you in the book?"

"The hero of course."

"The King? The American trader?"

"Oh no. Not him. And that's quite enough of my past. Let's talk about you. You sure you're all right?" His eyes held hers, willing the truth out of her.

"What?"

"There was a rumor that you were in tears last night."

"Nonsense."

"Sure?"

She looked back at him, knowing he saw inside of her. "Of course. I'm fine." A hesitation. "Sometime, sometime I might need a favor."

"Oh?" He frowned. "I'm in McBride's box, two down the hall. It's quite okay to visit if you want." He glanced off at Riko. His pleasure faded. Now she was talking to Robin Grey and Julian Broadhurst, the Labour MPs. "Guess it's not my day," he muttered. "I'll be back later, got to bet. See you, Casey."

"What's your hot tip?"

"Number seven, Winner's Delight."

Winner's Delight, an outsider, won handily by half a length over the favorite, Excellent Day. Hugely pleased with herself, Casey joined the line in front of the winner's pay window clutching her winning tickets, well aware of the envious stares of others who walked along the corridor outside the boxes. Agonized betters were already putting down their money at other windows for the second race that was the first leg of the double quinella. To win a quinella they had to forecast the first and second runners in any order. The double quinella put the second race together with the fifth that was today's big race. The double quinella payout would be huge, the odds against forecasting four horses immense. The minimum bet was 5 HK. There was no maximum. "Why's that, Line?" she had asked just before the race, craning over the balcony watching the horses in the gate, all Hong Kongyan with their binoculars focused.

"Look at the tote." The electronic numbers were flashing and changing as money went onto different horses, narrowing the odds, to freeze just before the off. "Look at the total money invested on this race, Casey! It's better than three and a half million Hong Kong. That's almost a dollar for every man woman and child in Hong Kong and it's only the first race. This's gotta be the richest track in the world! These guys are gambling crazy."

A vast roar went up as the starters' gate opened. She had looked at him and smiled. "You okay?"

"Sure. You?"

"Oh yes."

Yes I am, she thought again, waiting her turn to collect her money. I'm a winner! She laughed out loud.

"Oh hello, Casey! Ah, you won too?"

"Oh! Oh hello, Quillan, yes I did." She moved out of her place back to Gornt, the others in the line all strangers to her. "I only had 10 on her but yes I won."

"The amount doesn't matter, it's the winning." Gornt smiled. "I like your hat." ,

"Thank you." Curious, she thought, both Quillan and Ian had mentioned it immediately. Damn Line!

"It's very lucky ta pick the first winner, first time at the track."

"Oh I didn't. It was a tip. Peter gave it to me. Peter Marlowe."

"Ah yes. Marlowe." She saw his eyes change slightly. "You're still on for tomorrow?"

"Oh. Oh yes. Is it weather permitting?"

"Even if it's raining. Lunch anyway."

"Great. The dock at ten sharp. Which's your box?" She noticed an instant change which he tried to hide.

"I don't have one. I'm not a steward. Yet. I'm a fairly permanent guest at the Blacs box and from time to time I borrow the whole place for a party. It's down the corridor. Would you care to come by? Blacs is an excellent bank an—"

"Ah but not as good as the Vic," Johnjohn called out good-naturedly as he passed. "Don't believe a word he says, Casey. Congratulations! Good joss to get the first. See you both later."

Casey watched him thoughtfully. Then she said, "What about all the bank runs, Quillan? No one seems to care—it's as though they're not happening, the stock market's not crashing, and there's no pending doom."

Gornt laughed, conscious of the ears that were tuned to their conversation. "Today is race day, a rarity, and tomorrow will take care of tomorrow. Joss! The stock market opens 10:00 A.M. Monday and next week will decide a lot of fates. Meanwhile every Chinese who could get his money out, has it in his fist, here today. Casey, it's your turn."

She collected her money. 15 to one. 150 HK. "Hallelujah!" Gornt collected a vast bundle of red notes, 15,000. "Hey, fantastic!"

"Worst race I've ever seen," a sour American voice said. "Hell, it was fantastic they didn't bust the jockey and disallow the win."

"Oh hello, Mr. Biltzmann, Mr. Pugmire." Casey remembered them from the night of the fire. "Bust who?"

Biltzmann stood in the place line. "Stateside there'd be an objection a mile wide. Coming into the straight out of the last bend you could see Excellent Day's jockey puli the bejesus out of her. It was a fix—he wasn't trying."

Those in the know, the very few, smiled to themselves. The whisper in the jockeys' rooms and trainers' rooms had been that Excellent Day wasn't to win but Winner's Delight would.

"Come now, Mr. Biltzmann," Dunross said. Unnoticed, he'd heard the exchange as he was passing and had stopped. "If the jockey wasn't trying, or if there was any tampering, the stewards would be on to it at once."

"Maybe it's okay for amateurs, Ian, and this little track but on any professional track at home, Excellent Day's jockey'd be banned for the rest of his life. I had my glasses on him all the time." Biltzmann sourly collected his place winnings and stomped off.

Dunross said quietly, "Pug, did you see the jockey do anything untoward? I didn't watch the race myself."

"No, no I didn't."

"Anyone?" Those nearby shook their heads.

"Seemed all right to me," someone said. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"None of the stewards queried anything." Then Dunross noticed the large roll of notes in Gornt's hand. He looked up at him. "Quillan?"

"No. But I must tell you frankly I find that berk's manner appalling. I hardly think he'd be a proper addition to the Turf Club." Just then he saw Robin Grey go past to place a bet and smiled at a sudden thought. "Excuse me, will you?" He nodded politely and walked off. Casey saw Dunross watching the roll of notes that Gornt put into a pocket and was inwardly aghast at the momentary look on his face.

"Could Biltzmann . . . could he've been correct?" she asked nervously.

"Of course." Dunross put his full attention on her. "Fixing happens everywhere. That's really not the point. There's been no objection from any of the stewards or jockeys or trainers." His eyes were slate gray. The small vein in his forehead was pulsating. "That's not the real point at issue." No, he was thinking. It's a matter of bloody manners. Even so, calm yourself. You have to be very cool and very calm and very collected this weekend.

All day he had had nothing but trouble. The only bright moment had been Riko Anjin Gresserhoff. But then AMG's last letter had once more filled him with gloom. It was still in his pocket and it had told him that if by chance he had not destroyed the original files, to heat a dozen specified pages that were spread throughout, the secret information written in invisible ink on these pages to be passed privately to the prime minister or the current head of MI-6, Edward Sinders, personally—and a copy given to Riko Anjin in a sealed envelope.

If I do that then I have to admit the files I gave him were false, he thought, weary of AMG, espionage and his instructions. God-damnit, Murtagh doesn't arrive till later, Sir Geoffrey can't call London till 4:00 P.M. about Tiptop and Brian Kwok and, Christ Jesus, now some rude bastard calls us all amateurs . . . which we are. I'll bet a hundred to a bent hatpin Quillan knew before the race.

At a sudden thought he said casually, "How did you pick the winner, Casey? With the proverbial pin?"

"Peter gave it to me. Peter Marlowe." Her face changed. "Oh! Do you think he heard it was fixed?"

"If I thought that for a moment, the race would have been set aside. There's nothing I can do now. Biltzmann . . ." Suddenly he gasped as the idea hit him in all its glory.

"What's the matter?"

Dunross took her arm and led her aside. "To get your drop dead money are you prepared to gamble?" he asked softly.

"Sure, sure, Ian, if it's legal. But gamble what?" she asked, her innate caution uppermost.

"Everything you've got in the bank, your house in Laurel Canyon, your stock in Par-Con against 2 to 4 million within thirty days. How about it?"

Her heart was thumping, his obvious excitement sweeping her. "Okay," she said and then wished she hadn't said it, her stomach fluttering. "Jesus!"

"Good. Stay here a second. I'll go and find Bartlett."

"Wait! Is he part of this? What is this, Ian?"

He beamed. "A modest business opportunity. Yes, Bartlett's essential. Does that make you change your mind?"

"No," she told him uneasily, "but I said I wanted to get my … my stake outside of Par-Con."

"I haven't forgotten. Wait here." Dunross hurried back into his box, found Bartlett and brought him back, led the way down the bustling corridor to the Struan kitchen, greeting people here and there. The kitchen was small, busy and sparkling. The staff paid no attention to them. A door opened into a tiny private room, carefully soundproofed. Four chairs, a table and phone. "My father had this constructed during his tenure—lots of business is done at the races. Sit down please. Now"—he looked at Bartlett—"I've a business proposal for you, for you and Casey as individuals, outside of our Par-Con deal, nothing to do with the Par-Con-Struan proposal. Are you interested?"

"Sure. This a Hong Kong scam?"

"Do you mind?" Dunross beamed. "It's an honest-to-God Hong Kong business proposal."

"Okay, let's have it."

"Before I lay it out there are ground rules: It's my game, you two're bystanders but you're in for 49 percent of the profits, to be shared equally between you two. Okay?"

"What's the full game plan, Ian?" Bartlett asked cautiously.

"Next: You put up $2 million U.S. by Monday 9:00 A.M. into a Swiss bank of my choosing."

Bartlett's eyes narrowed. "Against what?"

"Against 49 percent of the profit."

"What profit?"

"You put up $2 million for Gornt, no paper, no chop, no nothing except against potential profit."

Bartlett grinned. "How long have you known about that?"

Dunross smiled back. "I told you, there're no secrets here. Are you in?" Dunross saw Bartlett glance at Casey and he held his breath.

"Casey, you know what this's all about?"

"No, Line." Casey turned to Dunross. "What is the scam, Ian?"

"First I want to know if I get the 2 million advance free and clear —if you go for this scheme."

"What's the profit potential?" Casey asked.

"$4 to $12 million. Tax free."

Casey blanched. "Tax free?"

"Free of any Hong Kong taxes and we can help you avoid States taxes if you want."

"What's . . . what's the payout period?" Bartlett asked.

"The profit'll be set in thirty days. The payout will take five to six months."

"The $4 to $12 million's the total, or our share only?"

"Your share."

"That's a lot of profit for something completely, twenty-four-carat legal."

There was a great silence. Dunross waited, willing them onward.

"$2 million cash?", Bartlett said. "No security, no nothing?"

"No. But after I've laid it out you can put up or pass."

"What's Gornt to do with this?"

"Absolutely nothing. This venture has nothing to do with Gornt, Rothwell-Gornt, Par-Con, your interest in them or us or the Par-Con deal. This is totally outside, whatever happens—my word on that. And my word before God, that I'll never tell him you've put up this $2 million, that you two are my partners and in for a piece —or, by the way, that I know about the three of you selling me short." He smiled. "That was a very good idea by the way." "The deal's swung by my $2 million?" "No. Greased. I haven't $2 million U.S. cash as you know, otherwise you wouldn't be invited in."

"Why us, Ian? You could raise 2 mill from one of your friends here, easy, if it's so good."

"Yes. But I choose to sweeten the lure to you two. By the way, you are held to Tuesday at midnight." Dunross said it flat. Then his voice changed and the others felt the glee. "But with this—this business venture—I can dramatize how much superior we are to Rothwell-Gornt, how much more exciting it'll be being associated with us than him. You're a gambler, so am I. Raider Bartlett they call you and I'm tai-pan of the Noble House. You gambled a paltry $2 million with Gornt, with no chop, why not with me?"

Bartlett glanced at Casey. She gave him neither a yes or a no though he knew the lure had her in spades.

"Since you're setting the rules, Ian, answer me this: I put up the $2 million. Why should we share equally, Casey and I?"

"I remember what you said over dinner about drop dead money. You've got yours, she hasn't. This could be a device to get her hers."

"Why're you so concerned over Casey? You trying to divide and rule?"

"If that's possible then you shouldn't be in a very special partnership and business relationship. She's your right arm, you told me. She's clearly very important to you and to Par-Con so she's entitled to share."

"What does she risk?"

"She'll put up her house, her savings, her Par-Con stock—that's everything she has—alongside yours. She'll sign it all over for a half share. Right?"

Casey nodded, numb. "Sure."

Sharply Bartlett glanced at Casey. "I thought you said you knew nothing about this?"

She looked at him. "Couple of minutes ago, Ian asked if I'd gamble my all to get some drop dead money, big money." She gulped and added, "I said okay and already wish I hadn't."

Bartlett thought a moment. "Casey, blunt: You want in or you want out?"

"In."

"Okay." Then Bartlett beamed. "Okay, tai-pan, now who do we have to kill?"

Nine Carat Chu, who was a sometime gold coolie for the Victoria Bank and also the father of two sons and two daughters—Lily Su who was HavergilPs occasional friend and Wisteria who was John Chen's mistress, whose joss was to be trampled to death outside the Ho-Pak at Aberdeen—waited his turn at the betting window.

"Yes, old man?" the impatient teller said.

He pulled out a roll of money. It was all the money he had and all the money he could borrow, leaving only enough for three inhalations of the White Powder that he would need to see him through his night shift tonight. "The double quinella, by all the gods! Eight and five in the second race, seven and one in the fifth."

The teller methodically counted out the crumpled bills. 728 HK. He pressed the buttons of those numbers and checked the first ticket. It was correct: five and eight—second race; seven and one— fifth race. Carefully he counted 145 tickets, each of 5 HK, the minimum bet, and gave them to him with 3 HK change. "Hurry up, by all the gods," the next in line called out. "Are your fingers in your Black Hole?"

"Be patient!" the old man muttered, feeling faint, "this is serious business!" Carefully he checked his tickets. The first, three random ones and the last were correct, and the number of tickets correct, so he gave up his place and pushed his way out of the press into the air. Once in the air he felt a little better, still nauseated but better. He had walked all the way from his night shift of work at the construction site of the new high rise up above Kotewall Road in Mid Levels to save the fare.

Again he checked his tickets. Eight and five in this race and seven and one in the fifth, the big race. Good, he thought, putting them carefully into his pocket. I've done the best I can. Now it is up to the gods. .

His chest was hurting him very much so he fought through the crowd to the toilet and there he lit a match and inhaled the smoke from the bubbling White Powder. In time he felt better and went outside again. The second race was already on. Beside himself with anxiety he pushed and shoved his way to the rails, careless of the curses that followed him. The horses were rounding the far bend, galloping toward him into the last straight for the winning post, now past in a thundering blur as he strained his rheumy old eyes to find his numbers.

"Who's leading?" he gasped but no one paid any attention to him, just shouted their own choice on to victory in a growing seething roar that was all possessing, then vanished as the winner won.

"Who won?" Nine Carat Chu gasped, his head exploding.

"Who cares!" someone said with a stream of curses. "It wasn't mine! All gods piss on that jockey forever!"

"I can't read the tote, who won?"

"It was a photo finish, old fool, can't you see! There were three horses bunched together. Fornicate all photo finishes! We must wait."

"But the numbers. . . . what are the numbers?"

"Five and eight and four, Lucky Court, my horse! Come on you son of a whore's left tit! Four and eight for the quinella by all the gods!"

They waited. And waited. The old man thought he would faint so he put his mind on to better things, like his conversation with Noble House Chen this morning. Three times he had called and each time a servant had answered and hung up. It was only when he had said «Werewolf» that Noble House Chen himself had come to the phone.

"Please excuse me for mentioning the terrible slayers of your son," he had said. "It wasn't me, Honored Sir, oh no. I am just the father of your late honorable son's mistress, Wisteria Su, to whom he has written his undying love in the letter that was printed in all the newspapers."

"Eh? Liar! All lies. Do you think I'm a fool to be squeezed by any dogmeat caller? Who are you?"

"My name is Hsi-men Su," he had said, the lie coming easily. "There are two more letters, Honorable Chen. I thought you might wish to have them back even though they're all we have from my poor dead daughter and your poor dead son who I considered like my own son over all the months that he an—"

"More lies! The mealy-mouthed strumpet never had any letters from my son! Our deadly police put forgers in jail, oh yes! Am I a peasant-headed monkey from the Outer Provinces? Beware! Now I suppose you'll produce an infant that you'll claim my son sired? Eh? Eh?"

Nine Carat Chu almost dropped the phone. He had discussed and arranged that very ploy with his wife and his sons and Lily. It had been easy to find a relation who would lend a babe in arms for a fee.

"Eh," he spluttered in shock, "am I a liar? Me who fairly, for modest cash, gave his only virgin daughter to be your son's whore and only love." He used the English words carefully, his daughter Lily having coached him for hours so that he could say it properly. "By all the gods we've protected your great name at no charge! When we went to claim my poor daughter's body we did not tell the deadly police who desire, oh ko, yes, who desire to find out who the writer was to trap the Werewolves! All gods curse those evil sons of whores! Haven't four Chinese papers already offered rewards for the name of the writer, heya? It is only fair I offer the letters to you before collecting the newspapers' reward, heya?"

Patiently he had listened to the stream of invective that had begun the negotiation. Several times both sides had pretended they were going to put the phone down, but neither side broke off the bargaining. At length it was left that if a photocopy of one of the other letters was sent to Noble House Chen as proof that it and the others were no forgery, then "it might be, Honorable Su, the other letters —and this one—might be worth a very modest amount of Fragrant Grease."

Nine Carat Chu chortled to himself now. Oh yes, he thought contentedly, Noble House Chen will pay handsomely, particularly when he reads the parts about himself. Oh if those were printed surely it would hold him up to ridicule before all Hong Kong and take his face away forever. Now, how much should I settle f—

A sudden roar surrounded him and he almost fell over. His heart began pounding, his breath short. He held on to the rails and peered at the distant tote. "Who… what are the numbers?" he asked, then screeched over the noise and tugged at his neighbors. "The numbers, tell me the nurrfbers!"

"The winner's eight, Buccaneer, the gelding of the Noble House. Ayeeyah, can't you see the tai-pan leading him into the winner's circle now? Buccaneer's paying 7 to 1." "The second? Who was the second horse?" "Number five, Winsome Lady, 3 to 1 for a place. . . . What's wrong, old man, have you a palsy?"

"No … no …" Weakly Nine Carat Chu groped away. At length he found a small empty patch of concrete and spread his racing form on the wet concrete and sat down, his head on his knees and arms, his mind sweeping him into the ecstasy of winning the first leg. Oh oh oh! And nothing to do now but wait, and if the time of waiting is too long I will use one more of the White Powders, yes, and that will leave me the last to see me through tonight's work. Now, all gods concentrate! The first leg was won by my own shrewdness. Please concentrate on the fifth! Seven and one! All gods concentrate. . . .

Over by the winner's circle the stewards and owners and officials clustered. Dunross had intercepted his horse and congratulated the jockey. Buccaneer had run a fine race and now as he led the gelding into the winner's circle amid another burst of cheering and congratulations he kept his exuberance deliberately open. He wanted to let the world see his pleasure and confidence, very aware that winning this race was an immense omen, over and above the fact of winning. The omen would be doubled and tripled if he won with Noble Star. Two horses in the double quinella would absolutely set Gornt and his allies back on their heels. And if Murtagh works his magic or if Tiptop keeps his bargain to swap the money for Brian Kwok or if Tightfist or Lando or Four Fingers . . .

"Hey, Mr. Dunross, sir, congratulations!"

Dunross glanced at the crowd on the rails. "Oh hello, Mr. Choy," he said, recognizing Four Finger Wu's Seventh Son and supposed nephew. He went closer and shook hands. "Did you have the winner?"

"Yes sir, sure, I'm with the Noble House all the way! We're on the double quinella, my uncle and me. We just won the first leg five and eight, and we've seven and eight in the fifth. He's got 10,000 riding, me, my whole week's salary!"

"Then let's hope we win, Mr. Choy."

"You can say that again, tai-pan," the young man said with his easy American familiarity.

Dunross smiled and walked over to Travkin. "Are you sure Johnny Moore can't ride Noble Star? I don't want Tom Wong."

"I told you, tai-pan, Johnny's sicker than a drunken cossack."

"I need the win. Noble Star is to win."

Travkin saw Dunross look at Buccaneer speculatively. "No, tai-pan, please don't ride Noble Star. The going's bad, very bad and very dangerous and it'll get worse as they hack up the turf. Kristos! I suppose that'll only make you want to ride her more."

"My future could ride on that race—and the face of the Noble House."

"I know." Angrily the gnarled old Russian slapped the switch he carried perpetually against his ancient jodhpurs, shining with use. "And I know you're better than all the other jockeys but that turfs danger—"

"I don't trust anyone in this, Alexi. I can't afford any mistake." Dunross dropped his voice. "Was the first race fixed?"

Travkin stared back levelly. "They weren't doped, tai-pan. Not to my knowledge. The police doctor has put the fear of God into those who might be tempted." "Good. But was it fixed?"

"It wasn't my race, tai-pan. I'm only interested in my horses and my races. I didn't watch that race."

"That's convenient, Alexi. Seems that none of the other trainers did either."

"Listen, tai-pan. I have a jockey for you. Me. I'll ride Noble Star."

Dunross's eyes narrowed. He glanced at the sky. It was darker than before. There'll be rain soon, he thought and there's much to do before the rain. Me or Alexi? Alexi's legs are good, his hands the best, his experience immense. But he thinks more of the horse than of winning. "I'll consider it," he said. "After the fourth race I'll decide."

"I'll win," the older man said, desperate for the chance to extricate himself from his agreement with Suslev. "I'll win even if I have to kill Noble Star."

"No need to do that, Alexi. I'm rather fond of that horse." "Tai-pan, listen, perhaps a favor? I've a problem. Can I see you tonight or Sunday, Sunday or Monday late, say atSinclair Towers?" "Why there?"

"We made our deal there, I'd like to talk there. But if it's not all right the day after." "You're going to leave us?" "Oh no, no it's not that. If you've time. Please." "All right but it can't be tonight, or Sunday or Monday, I'm going to Taipei. I could see you Tuesday at 10:00 P.M. How's that?" "Fine, Tuesday's fine yes, thank you." "I'll be down after the next race."

Alexi watched the tai-pan walk for the elevators. He was near tears, an overwhelming affection for Dunross possessing him.

His eyes went to Suslev who was in the general stands nearby. Trying to appear casual he held up the prearranged number of fingers: one for tonight, two for Sunday, three Monday, four Tuesday. His eyes were very good and he saw Suslev acknowledge the signal. Matyeryebyets, he thought. Betrayer of Mother Russia and all us Russians, you and all your KGB brethren! I curse you in the name of God, for me and all Russians if the truth be known.

Never mind that! I'm going to ride Noble Star, he told himself grimly, one way or another.

Dunross got into the elevator amid more congratulations and much envy. At the top floor Gavallan and Jacques were waiting for him. "Is everything ready?" he asked.

"Yes," Gavallan replied. "Gornt's there, and the others you wanted. What's cooking?"

"Come along and you'll see. By the way, Andrew, I'm switching Jacques and David MacStruan. Jacques will take over Canada for a year, David—"

Jacques's face lit up. "Oh thank you tai-pan. Yes, thanks very much. I'll make Canada very profitable, I promise."

"What about the changeover?" Gavallan asked. "Do you want Jacques to go there first or will David come here?"

"He arrives Monday. Jacques, you hand over everything to David, then next week you can both go back together for a couple of weeks. You go via France, eh? Pick up Susanne and Avril, she should be well enough by then. There's nothing urgent in Canada at the moment—it's more urgent here."

"Oh yes, ma foil Yes, yes thank you, tai-pan."

Gavallan said thoughtfully, "It'll be good to see old David." He liked David MacStruan very much but he was still wondering why the change, and did this mean that Jacques was out of the running to inherit the tai-pan's mantle and David in and his own position changed, changing or threatened—if there was anything left to inherit after Monday. And what about Kathy?

Joss, he told himself. What is to be will be. Oh goddamn everything!

"You two go on ahead," Dunross said. "I'll get Phillip." He turned into the Chen box. By ancient custom the compradore of the Noble House was automatically a steward. Perhaps for the last year, Dunross thought grimly. If Phillip doesn't deliver help in the form of Four Finger Wu, Lando Mata, Tightfist or something tangible by Sunday at midnight he's blackballed.

"Hello, Phillip," he said, his voice friendly, greeting the other guests in the packed box. "You ready?"

"Oh yes, yes, tai-pan." Phillip Chen was looking older. "Congratulations on the win."

"Yes, tai-pan, a marvelous omen—we're all praying for the fifth!"

Dianne Chen called out, trying equally hard to hide her apprehension, Kevin beside her, echoing her.

"Thank you," Dunross said, sure that Phillip Chen had told her about their meeting. She wore a hat with bird of paradise feathers, and too many jewels.

"Champagne, tai-pan?"

"No thanks, later perhaps. Sorry, Dianne, have to borrow Phillip for a moment or two. Won't be long."

Outside in the corridor he stopped a moment. "Any luck, Phillip?"

"I've . . . I've talked to all the … all of them. They're meeting tomorrow morning."

"Where? Macao?"

"No, here." Phillip Chen dropped his voice even more. "I'm sorry about. . . about all the mess my son's caused . . . yes, very sorry," he said, meaning it.

"I accept your apology. If it hadn't been for your carelessness and treachery, we'd never have become that vulnerable. Christ Jesus, if Gornt gets our balance sheets for the last few years and our interlocking corporate structures, we're up the creek without a paddle."

"I … I had a thought, tai-pan, how to extract our—how to extract the House. After the races, could I… a little time, please?"

"You're coming for drinks tonight? With Dianne?"

"Yes, if… yes please. May I bring Kevin?"

Dunross smiled fleetingly to himself. The heir apparent, officially and so soon. Karma. "Yes. Come along."

"What's this all about, tai-pan?"

"You'll see. Please say nothing, do nothing, just accept—with great confidence—-that you're part of the package, and when I leave follow me, spread the word and good cheer. If we fail, the House of Chen fails first, come hell, high water or typhoon!" He turned into the McBride box. There were more immediate congratulations and many said it was great joss.

"Good God, tai-pan," McBride said, "if Noble Star wins the fifth, wouldn't it be marvelous!"

"Pilot Fish will beat Noble Star," Gornt said confidently. He was at the bar with Jason Plumm getting a drink. "10,000 says he'll finish ahead of your filly."

"Taken," Dunross said at once. There were cheers and hoots of derision from the thirty-odd guests and once more Bartlett and

Casey, who had by arrangement with Dunross ostensibly just wandered in a few minutes ago to visit Peter Marlowe, were inwardly staggered at the festive air and Dunross's high-flying confidence.

"How're you doing, Dunstan?" Dunross asked. He paid Casey and Bartlett no attention, concentrating on the big florid man who was more florid than usual, a double brandy in his hand.

"Very well, thank you, Ian. Got the first, and Buccaneer—made a bundle on Buccaneer, but blew my damned quinella. Lucky Court let me down."

The room was the same size as the Struan box but not as well decorated, though equally well filled with many of the Hong Kong elite, some invited here a moment ago by Gavallan and McBride for Dunross. Lando Mata, Holdbrook—Struan's in-house stockbroker —Sir Luis Basilio—head of the stock exchange—Johnjohn, Haver-gill, Southerby—chairman of Blacs—Richard Kwang, Pugmire, Biltzmann, Sir Dunstan Barre, young Martin Haply of the China Guardian. And Gornt. Dunross looked at him. "Did you get the winner of the last race too?"

"No. I didn't fancy any runner. What's all this about, Ian?" Gornt said, and everyone's attention soared. "You want to make an announcement?''

"Yes, as a courtesy I thought you should know, along with other VIPs." Dunross turned to Pugmire. "Pug, the Noble House is formally contesting the American Superfoods takeover of your H.K. General Stores."

There was a vast silence and everyone stared at him. Pugmire had gone white. "What?"

"We're offering $5 a share more than Superfoods, we'll further improve their bid by making it 30 percent cash and 70 percent stock, everything done within thirty days!"

"You've gone mad," Pugmire burst out. Didn't I sound everyone out first, he wanted to shout, including you? Didn't you and everyone approve or at least not disapprove? Isn't that the way it's done here for God's sake—private chats at the Club, here at the races, over a private dinner or wherever? "You can't do that," he muttered.

"I already have," Dunross said.

Gornt said harshly, "All you've done, Ian, is to make an announcement. How are you going to pay? In thirty or three hundred days."

Dunross just looked at him. "The bid's public. We complete in thirty days. Pug, you'll get the official papers by 9:30 A.M. Monday, with a cash down payment to cement the tender."

Momentarily he was drowned out as others began talking, asking questions, everyone immediately concerned how this astonishing development would affect them personally. No one had ever contested a prearranged takeover before. Johnjohn and Havergill were furious that this had been done without consultation, and the other banker, Southerby of Blacs, who was merchant-banking the Super-foods takeover, was equally upset that he had been caught off balance. But all the bankers, even Richard Kwang, were counting possibilities, for if the stock market was normal and Struan's stock at its normal level, the Struan bid could be very good for both sides. Everyone knew that Struan's management could revitalize the rich but stagnant hong, and the acquisition would strengthen the Noble House immeasurably, put their end-of-year gross up at least 20 percent and of course increase their dividends. On top of all that, the takeover would keep all the profits in Hong Kong, and not have them trickle away to an outsider. Particularly Biltzmann.

Oh my God, Barre was thinking with vast admiration and not a little envy, for Ian to make the tender here, in public, on a Saturday, with never the breath of a rumor that he was contemplating the unthinkable, with nothing to give you an inkling so that you could have bought in quietly last week at bottom to make a fortune with one phone call, was brilliant. Of course Pug's General Stores shares will soar first thing on Monday. But how in the hell did Ian and Havergill keep it quiet? Christ I could've made a bundle if I'd known, perhaps I still can! The rumors about the Victoria not supporting Struan's is obviously a lot of cobblers. . . .

Wait a minute, Sir Luis Basilio was thinking, didn't we buy a huge block of General Stores last week for a nominee buyer? Good God, has the tai-pan outsmarted all of us? But Madonna, wait a minute, what about the run on his stock, what about the market crashing, what about the cash he'll have to put up to fix the tender, what about

Even Gornt was counting, his mind flooded with fury that he had not thought of the ploy first. He knew the bid was good, perfect in fact, that he could not top it, not at the moment. But then, Ian can't complete. There's no wa—

"Can we go to press on this, tai-pan?" Martin Haply's incisive Canadian voice cut through the excited uproar.

"Certainly, Mr. Haply."

"May I ask a few questions?"

"It depends what they are," Dunross said easily. Looking at the penetrating brown eyes, he was grimly amused. We could use a right rotten young bastard in the family—if he could be trusted with Adryon. "What had you in mind?"

"This's the first time a takeover's ever been contested. May I ask why you're doing it at this time?"

"Struan's have always been innovative. As to timing, we considered it perfect."

"Do you consider this Sat—"

Biltzmann interrupted harshly, "We have a deal. It's set. Dickie?" He whirled on Pugmire. "Eh?"

"It was all set, Mr. Biltzmann," Dunross said crisply. "But we're contesting your tender, just as it's done in the States, according to American rules. I presume you don't mind a contest? Of course we are amateurs here but we enjoy trying to learn from our peers. Until the stockholders' meeting nothing's final, that's the law isn't it?"

"Yes, but … but it was set!" The tall gray-haired man turned to Pugmire, hardly able to speak he was so angry. "You said it was all agreed."

"Well, the directors had agreed," Pugmire said uneasily, conscious of everyone listening, particularly Haply, one half of him ecstatic with the vastly improved offer, the other furious that he, too, had had no advance warning so he could have bought in heavily. "But, er, but of course it has to be ratified by the stockholders at the Friday meeting. We had no idea there'd be a … Er, Ian, er, Chuck, don't you think this is hardly the place to dis—"

"I agree," the tai-pan said. "But at the moment there's little to discuss. The offer's made. By the way, Pug, your own deal stands, except that it's extended from five to seven years, with a seat on Struan's board for the same period."

Pugmire's mouth dropped open. "That's part of the tender?"

"We'd need your expertise, of course," Dunross said airily, and everyone knew Pugmire was hooked and landed. "The rest of the package as negotiated by you and Superfoods stands. The papers will be on your desk by 9:30. Perhaps you'll put our tender to your stockholders on Friday." He went over to Biltzmann and put out his hand. "Good luck. I presume you'll be coming back with a counteroffer at once."

"Well, er, I have to check with head office, Mr., er, tai-pan." Biltzmann was flushed and angry. "We … we put our best foot forward and … That's a mighty fine offer you made. Yes. But with the run on your stock, the run on the banks and the market going down, that's going to be kinda hard to close, isn't it?"

"Not at all, Mr. Biltzmann," Dunross said, gambling everything that Bartlett would not renege on the promise of cash, that he would close with Par-Con, extricate himself from Gornt and put his stock back into its rightful place by next weekend. "We can close with no trouble at all."

Biltzmann's voice sharpened. "Dickie, I think you'd better consider our bid carefully. It's good till Tuesday," he said, confident that by Tuesday Struan's would be in a shambles. "Now I'll make me a bet on the next race." He stalked out. Tension in the box went up several decibels.

Everyone began talking but Haply called out, "Tai-pan, may I ask a question?"

Again attention zeroed. "What is it?"

"I understand it's oustomary in takeovers for there to be a down payment, in cash, a measure of good faith. May I ask how much Struan's is putting up?"

Everyone waited breathlessly, watching Dunross. He held the pause as his eyes raked the faces, enjoying the excitement, knowing everyone wanted him humbled, almost everyone, except. . . except who? Casey for one, even though she's in the know. Bartlett? I don't know, not for certain. Claudia? Oh yes, Claudia was staring at him, white-faced. Donald McBride, Gavallan, even Jacques.

His eyes stopped on Martin Haply. "Perhaps Mr. Pugmire would prefer to have that detail in private," he said, leading them on. "Eh, Pug?"

Gornt interrupted Pugmire and said, as a challenge, "Ian, since you've decided to be unorthodox, why not make it all public? How much you put down measures the value of your tender. Doesn't it?"

"No. Not really," Dunross said. He heard the distant muted roar of the off for the third race and was sure, watching the faces, that no one heard it except him. "Oh, very well," he said, matter-of-fact.

"Pug, how about $2 million, U.S., with the papers at 9:30 Monday? In good faith."

A gasp went through the room. Havergill, Johnjohn, Southerby, Gornt, were aghast. Phillip Chen almost fainted. Involuntarily Havergill began, "Ian, don't you think we, er, th—"

Dunross wheeled on him. "Oh, don't you consider it enough, Paul?"

"Oh yes, yes of course, more than enough, but, er…" HavergilPs words trailed off under Dunross's gaze.

"Oh for a moment. . ." Dunross stopped, pretending to have a sudden thought, "Oh, you needn't worry, Paul, I haven't committed you without your approval of course. I have alternate financing for this deal, external financing," he continued with his easy charm. "As you know, Japanese banks and many others are anxious to expand into Asia. I thought it better—to keep everything secret and prevent the usual leaks—to finance this externally until I was ready to announce. Fortunately the Noble House has friends all over the world! See you all later!"

He turned and left. Phillip Chen followed. Martin Haply started for the phone and then everyone was talking and saying I don't believe it, Christ if lan's got that sort of external funds . . .

In the hubbub Havergill asked Johnjohn, "Which Japanese bank?"

"I wish I knew. If lan's got finance for this… my God, $2 million U.S.'s twice as much as he needed to offer."

Southerby, who was alongside them, wiped his palms. "If Ian pulls this off it'll be worth $10 million U.S. the first year at least." He smiled sardonically. "Well, Paul, now it looks as though we're both out of this particular pie."

"Yes, yes it does, but I just don't see how Ian could . . . and to keep it so quiet!"

Southerby bent closer. "Meanwhile," he asked softly, "more important, what about Tiptop?"

"Nothing, nothing yet. He hasn't returned my calls, or John-John's." Havergjll's eyes fell on Gornt who was now talking privately with Plumm. He turned his back on him. "What will Quillan do now?"

"Buy first thing Monday morning. He has to. Has to now, too dangerous to hold on," Southerby said.

"I agree," Sir Luis Basilic added, joining them. "If Ian can toss that sort of cash around, those who've been selling him short better watch out. Come to think of it, we've been buying General Stores for nominees this last week. Probably Ian, eh? He has to have taken a position, lucky devil!"

"Yes," Johnjohn muttered. "For the life of me. I can't figure . . . Good sweet Christ, and now if he wins with Noble Star! With joss like that he could turn his whole mess about, you know what Chinese're like!"

"Yes," Gornt said, butting in, startling them. "But thank God we're not all Chinese. We've yet to see the cash."

"He must have it—must have it," Johnjohn said. "Matter of face."

"Ah, face." Gornt was sardonic. "9:30 A.M., eh? If he'd really been smart he would have said noon, or 3:00 P.M., then we wouldn't know all day and he could've manipulated us all day. As it is now . . ." Gornt shrugged. "I win either way, millions, if not control." He glanced across the noisy box, nodded noncommittally to Bartlett and Casey, then turned away.

Bartlett took Casey's arm and led her on to the balcony. "What do you think?" he asked softly.

"About Gornt?" ,

"About Dunross."

"Fantastic! He's fantastic. 'Japanese bank'—that was a stunning red herring," she said excitedly. "He's put this whole group into a tailspin, you could see that, and if this group, the whole of Hong Kong. You heard what Southerby said?"

"Sure. It looks like we've all got it made—if he can squeeze out of Gornt's trap."

"Let's hope." Then she noticed his smile. "What?"

"You know what we just did, Casey? We just bought the Noble House for the promise of 2 million bucks."

"How?"

"lan's gambling I will put up the 2."

"That's no gamble, Line, that was the deal."

"Sure. But say I don't. His whole pack of cards collapses. If he doesn't get the 2 he's finished. Yesterday I told Gornt I might jerk the rug Monday morning. Say I withdraw lan's 2 before the market opens. lan's down the tube."

She stared at him, appalled. "You wouldn't?"

"We came here to raid and become the Noble House. Look what Ian did to Biltzmann, what they all did to him. That poor bastard didn't know what hit him. Pugmire made a deal but reneged to take lan's better offer. Right?"

"That's different." She looked at him searchingly. "You're going to renege after making a deal?"

Bartlett smiled a strange smile, looked down at the packed crowds and at the tote. "Maybe. Maybe that depends on who does what to whom over the weekend. Gornt or Dunross, it's all the same."

"I don't agree."

"Sure, Casey, I know," he said calmly. "But it's my $2 million and my game."

"Yes, and your word and your face! You shook on the deal."

"Casey, these guys here would eat us for breakfast if they got the chance. You think Dunross wouldn't sell us out if he had to choose between him and us?"

After a pause she said, "You're saying a deal's never a deal, no matter what?"

"You want $4 million tax free?"

"You know the answer to that."

"Say you're in for 49 percent of the new Par-Con-Gornt company, free and clear. It's got to be worth that."

"More," she said, afraid of this line of talk and for the first time in her life suddenly not sure of Bartlett.

"You want that 49 percent?"

"In return for what, Line?"

"In return for getting in back of Gornt-Par-Con 100 percent."

Her stomach felt weak and she looked at him searchingly, trying to read his mind. Normally she could, but not since Orlanda. "Are you offering that?"

He shook his head, his smile the same, his voice the same. "No.

Not yet."

She shivered, afraid she would take the deal if it were really offered. "I'm glad, Raider. I guess, yes, I'm glad."

"The point's straight and simple, Casey: Dunross and Gornt play the game to win but for different stakes. Why this box would mean more to both of them than $2 or $4 million. We came here, you and I, to profit and to win."

They both glanced at the sky as a few raindrops spattered. But it was from the roof overhang and not a new shower. She began to say something, stopped.

"What, Casey?"

"Nothing."

"I'm going to circulate, see what the reaction is. See you back in our box."

"What about the fifth?" she asked.

"Wait for the odds. I'll be back before the start."

"Have fun!" She followed him with her eyes, out of the door, then turned and leaned on the balcony to hide from him and everyone. She had almost blurted out, Are you going to pull the rug and renege?

Jesus, before Orlanda—before Hong Kong—I'd never have needed to ask that question. Line would never go back on a deal before. But now, now I'm not sure.

Again she shivered. What about my tears? I've never pulled that one before, and what about Murtagh? Should I tell Line about Murtagh now—or later—because he must be told, certainly before 9:30 Monday. Oh God, I wish we'd never come here.

The patter of rain splashed the stadium and someone said, "Christ, I hope it doesn't get any worse!" The track was already scarred and muddy and very slippery. Outside the main entrance the road was slicked, puddled, traffic heavy and many late-coming people still hurried through the turnstiles.

Roger Crosse, Sinders and Robert Armstrong got out of the police car and went through the barriers and the checkpoints to the members' elevator, their blue lapel badges fluttering. Crosse had been a voting member for five years, Armstrong for one. Crosse was also a steward "this year. Every year the commissioner of police suggested to the stewards that the police should have their own box and each year the stewards agreed enthusiastically and nothing happened.

In the members' stand Armstrong lit a cigarette. His face was lined, his eyes tired. The huge, crowded room went half the length of the stands. They went to the bar and ordered drinks, greeting other members. "Who's that?" Sinders asked.

Armstrong followed his glance. "That's a little of our local color, Mr. Sinders." His voice was sardonic. "Her name's Venus Poon and she's our top TV starlet."

Venus Poon was wearing a full-length mink and surrounded by an admiring group of Chinese. "The fellow on her left's Charles Wang—he's a film producer, multimillionaire, cinemas, dance halls, nightclubs, bars, girls and a couple of banks in Thailand. The small old man who looks like a bamboo and's just as tough is Four Finger Wu, one of our local pirates—smuggling's his life's work and he's very good."

"Yes," Crosse said. "We almost caught him a couple of days ago. We think he's into heroin now—of course gold."

"Who's the nervous one in the gray suit? The fellow on the outside?"

"That's Richard Kwang of the Ho-Pak disaster," Armstrong said. "The banker. He's her current, or was her current—what's the word—patron?"

"Interesting." Sinders concentrated on Venus Poon. Her dress was low-cut and saucy. "Yes, very. And who's that? Over there— the one with the European."

"Where? Oh. That's Orlanda Ramos, Portuguese which usually means Eurasian here. Once she was Quillan Gornt's mistress. Now, now I don't know. The man's Line Bartlett, the 'gun-runner.'"

"Ah! She's unattached?"

"Perhaps."

"She looks expensive." Sinders sipped his drink and sighed. "Delectable, but expensive."

"I'd say very," Crosse told him distastefully. Orlanda Ramos was with several middle-aged women, all couturier dressed, around Bartlett. "Rather overdone for my taste."

Sinders glanced at him, surprised. "I haven't seen so many smashers in years—or so many jewels. Have you ever had a raid here?"

Crosse's eyes soared. "In the Turf Club? Good God, surely no one'd dare."

Armstrong smiled his hard smile. "Every copper who does duty here, from the high to the low, spends most of the time trying to work out the perfect heist. The final day's take must be 15 million at least. It's baffled us all. Security's too tight, too clever—Mr. Crosse set it up."

"Ah!"

Crosse smiled. "Would you like a snack, Edward? Perhaps a sandwich?"

"Good idea. Thank you."

"Robert?"

"No thank you, sir. If you don't mind I'll study the form and see you later." Armstrong was achingly aware that after the seventh race, they were due to return to HQ where Brian Kwok was scheduled for another session.

"Robert's a serious punter, Edward. Robert, do me a favor, show Mr. Sinders the ropes, where to bet, and order him a sandwich. I'd better see if the governor's free for a moment—I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Glad to," Armstrong said, hating the idea, the envelope with 40,000 h 'eung you dollars that he had taken from his desk on an impulse now a never-ending fire in his pocket. Christ, do I or don't I? he asked himself over and over, grimly trying to decide and all the while trying to push away the horror of his friend Brian and the next session—no, no longer his friend but a committed, highly trained foreign asset and enormously valuable catch that they had by a miracle uncovered.

"Robert," Crosse said, keeping his voice deliberately kind, "you've done a very good job today. Very good."

"Yes," Sinders agreed. "I'll see the minister's aware of your help, and of course the CP."

Crosse went for the elevator. Wherever he went nervous Chinese eyes followed him. On the top floor he bypassed the governor's box and went into Plumm's.

"Hello, Roger!" Plumm greeted him affably. "Drink?"

"Coffee would be fine. How're things?"

"Lost my shirt so far, though a number of us have the first leg of the quinella. You?"

"I've just arrived."

"Oh, then you missed the drama!" Plumm told Crosse about Dunross's takeover bid. "lan's thrown a monkey wrench into Pug."

"Or given him a great offer," someone volunteered.

"True, true."

Plumm's box was as packed as all the others. Lots of chatter and laughter, drinks and good food. "Tea'll be up in half an hour. I'm just going along to the stewards' committee room, Roger. Would you like to stroll with me?"

The committee room was at the end of the corridor, through guarded swing doors. It was small with a table and twelve chairs, a phone, good windows over the track and a tiny balcony. And empty. At once Plumm's easygoing facade vanished. "I talked to Suslev."

"Oh?"

"He's furious about the raid on the Ivanov last night."

"I can imagine. That was ordered by London. I wasn't even told till this morning. Bloody Sinders!"

Plumm became even grimmer. "They couldn't be on to you, could they?"

"Oh no. It's routine. Just Special Branch, MI-6 and Sinders flexing their wings. They're a secretive lot and quite right, nothing to do with SI. Go on."

"He said if you came that he'd be by a phone booth." Plumm handed him a slip of paper. "Here's the number. He'll be there exactly at the off of the next three races. Please call him—he said it was urgent. What the hell was the raid for?"

"Just to frighten all the KGB aboard, to frighten them enough to flush out Sevrin. Pressure. Same as the order for Suslev and the new commissar to appear at HQ on Sunday. It was just to frighten."

"Suslev's frightened all right." A sardonic smile flickered over Plumm's handsome face. "His sphincter's out of joint for ten years at least. They'll all have some explaining to do. When Armstrong 'happened' to bust open the radio room, Red One operated and they dutifully and unnecessarily wrecked all their scramble and decoding equipment, along with their classified radar scanners."

Crosse shrugged. "The Ivanov's leaving and they've got plenty to replace them with. It wasn't Suslev's fault, or ours. We can send a report telling Center what happened. If we want."

Plumm's eyes narrowed. "If?"

"Rosemont and his CIA thugs picked up a glass in their raid on Sinclair Towers. Suslev's prints are all over it."

Plumm went white. "Christ! Now he's on file?"

"Has to be. He's in our files as you know, not as KGB, and I think I've the only copies of his fingerprints existing. I removed them from his dossier years ago. I'd say it's only a matter of time before the CIA are on to him, so the sooner he leaves Hong Kong the better."

"You think we should tell Center?" Plumm asked uneasily. "They'll throw their book at him for being so careless."

"We can decide over the weekend. We knew Voranski over a number of years, knew he was to be trusted. But this man?" Crosse left the word hanging, keeping up the pretense that his contact with Suslev was recent, the same as Plumm's. "After all, isn't he only a minor KGB officer, a jumped-up courier. He's not even Voranski's official replacement and we've ourselves to think of."

"True!" Plumm hardened. "Maybe he's a real berk. I know I wasn't followed to Sinclair Towers. And as to the decoded cable-God stone the crows!"

"What?"

"The decoded cable—the one he dropped and Armstrong picked off the Ivanov's deck. We've got to decide about that."

Crosse turned away to hide his shock and fought for control, appalled that neither Armstrong nor Sinders had mentioned any cable. He pretended to stifle a yawn to cover. "Sorry, I was up most of the night," he said, making a major effort to keep his voice matter-of-fact. "Did he tell you what was in it?"

"Of course. I insisted."

Crosse saw Plumm watching him. "Exactly what did he tell you was in it?"

"Oh? You mean he might be lying?" Plumm's anxiety showed. "It went something like: 'Inform Arthur that following his request for a Priority One on the traitor Metkin an immediate intercept was ordered for Bombay. Second, the meeting with the American is brought forward to Sunday. Third and final: The AMG files continue to be Priority One. Maximum effort must be made by Sevrin to achieve success. Center.' " Plumm licked his lips. "Is it correct?"

"Yes," Crosse said, gambling, almost wet with relief. He began weighing odds on Armstrong and Sinders. Now why, deliberately, why didn't they tell me that?

"Terrible, eh?" Plumm said.

"Yes, but not serious."

"I don't agree," Plumm said irritably. "It absolutely ties the KGB to Sevrin, absolutely confirms Arthur's existence and Sevrin's existence."

"Yes, but the AMG files have already done that. Calm down, Jason, we're quite safe."

"Are we? There've been too many leaks for my liking. Far too many. Perhaps we should close down for a time."

"We are closed down. It's only those bloody AMG files that are causing us any grief."

"Yes. At least that bugger Grant wasn't completely accurate."

"You mean about Banastasio?"

"Yes. I still wonder where the hell he fits in."

"Yes." In AMG's intercepted file Banastasio had been named erroneously as Sevrin's American connection. It was only after the file that Crosse had learned from Rosemont who Banastasio actually was.

"The fellow who met him was Vee Cee Ng," Crosse said.

Plumm's eyebrows soared. "Photographer Ng? How does he connect?"

"I don't know. Shipping, ships, smuggling. He's into all kinds of shady deals." Crosse shrugged.

"Could that writer fellow's theory work? What's his name? Marlowe. Could the KGB be doing an op in our territory without telling us?"

"Possible. Or it could be an utterly different department, perhaps GRU, instigated in America by the KGB or GRU there. Or just a coincidence." Crosse was back in control now, the fright of the cable wearing off. He was thinking much clearer. "What's Suslev want that's so urgent?"

"Our cooperation. Koronski arrives by the afternoon plane."

Crosse whistled. "Center?"

"Yes. There was a message this morning. Now that the Ivanov's equipment is wrecked I'm the go-between."

"Good. What's his cover name?"

"Hans Meikker, West German. He's to stay at the Seven Dragons." Plumm's anxiety increased. "Listen, Suslev said Center's ordered us to prepare to snatch Ian an—"

"They've gone mad!" Crosse exploded.

"I agree but Suslev says it's the only way to find out quickly if the files are counterfeit or not, and if so, where they're hidden. He claims Koronski can do it. In a chemical debriefing, well, lan's memory can be … can be emptied."

"That's madness," Crosse said. "We're not even sure if the files are counterfeit. That's a complete supposition for God's sake!"

"Suslev says Center told him we can blame it on the Werewolves —those buggers snatched John Chen so why wouldn't they go after the big money, the tai-pan?"

"No. Too dangerous."

Plumm wiped his hands. "To snatch Ian now'd put the tai-pans and Hong Kong into a furor. It could be a perfect time, Roger."

"Why?"

"The Noble House would be in total disarray and with all the bank runs and the stock market disaster, Hong Kong'd be down the sewer and that'd send all China into shock. We'd jump the Cause forward ten years and immeasurably assist international communism and the workers of the world. Christ, Roger, aren't you sick of just sitting and being a messenger? Now we can fulfill Sevrin with hardly any risk. Then we close everything down for a time."

Crosse lit a cigarette. He had heard the tension in Plumm's voice. "I'll think about it," he said at length. "Leave it for the moment. I'll call you tonight. Did Suslev say who the American in the cable was?"

"No. He just said it wasn't anything to do with us."

Crosse's voice hardened. "Everything here's to do with us."

"I agree." Plumm watched him. "It could also be a code word, a code for anyone."

"Possible."

"I have a wild one for you. Banastasio."

"Why him?" Crosse asked, having jumped to the same conclusion.

"I don't know why, but I'll bet that whole scam, if it is a scam, has to be KGB inspired, or assisted. It's classic Sun Tzu: using the enemy's strength against himself—both enemies, the U.S. and China. A strong unified Vietnam's guaranteed militantly anti-Chinese. Eh?"

"Possible. Yes, it all fits," Crosse agreed. Except one thing, he thought: Vee Cee Ng. Until Brian Kwok had blurted out, "Vee Cee's one of us," he had had no inkling that the man was anything other than a swinging photographer and trader-shipping capitalist. "If Banastasio's the American, we'll know." He finished his cigarette. "Was there anything else?"

"No. Roger, consider Dunross. Please. The Werewolves make it possible."

"It's considered."

"This weekend would be perfect, Roger."

"I know."

Orlanda was watching the horses through her high-powered binoculars as they broke out of the starting gate for the fourth race. She stood in a corner of the members' balcony, Bartlett happily beside her, everyone watching the horses except him. He was watching her, the curve of her breasts under the silk, the angle of her cheekbones and the intensity of her excitement. "Come on, Crossfire," she muttered, "come on! He's lying fifth, Line, oh come on, you beauty, come on . . ."

He chuckled, Orlanda oblivious. They had arranged to meet here between the third and fourth race. "Are you a voting member?" he had asked her last night.

"Oh no, my darling, I'm just going with friends. Old friends of my family. Another drink?"

"No.^io thanks—I'd better go."

They had kissed and again he had felt her overpowering welcome. It had kept him unsettled and on edge all the way back across the harbor home and most of the night. Much as he tried, he found the wanting of her difficult to contain and to keep in perspective.

You're hooked, old buddy, he told himself, watching her, the tip of her tongue touching her lips, her eyes concentrating, everything forgotten but her $50 on the nose of the big gray, the favorite.

"Come on … come … oh he's moving up, Line … oh he's second. . . ."

Bartlett looked at the pack galloping now into the last stretch: Crossfire, the big gray well placed to Western Scot, a brown gelding who was slightly in the lead, the going very slow—one horse had fallen in the third race. Now a contender made his dash, Winwell Stag, a gelding belonging to Havergill that Peter Marlowe had tipped to win, and he was coming up strong on the outside with Crossfire and Western Scot neck and neck just ahead, all whips out now in the gathering roar.

"Oh come on come on come on Crossfire … oh he's won, he's won!"

Bartlett laughed in the pandemonium as Orlanda's glee burst out and she hugged him. "Oh Line, how wonderful!"

In a moment there was another roar as the winning numbers were flashed up on the tote board, confirming their order. Now everyone waited for the final odds. Another great cheer. Crossfire paid 5 to 2.

"That's not much," he said.

"Oh but it is it is it is!" Orlanda had never looked prettier to him, her hat cute, much better than Casey's—he'd noticed it at once and complimented her on it. She moved forward and leaned on the railing and looked down at the winner's circle. "There's the owner,

Vee Cee Ng, he's one of our Shanghainese trader-shipping millionaires. My father knew him quite well." She gave him the glasses.

Bartlett focused. The man leading the garlanded horse into the winner's circle was expensively dressed, a beaming, well-set Chinese in his fifties. Then Bartlett recognized Havergill leading in his Win-well Stag, second, defeated by a nose. In the paddock he saw Gornt, Plumm, Pugmire and many of the stewards. Dunross was near the rails talking to a smaller man. The governor was walking from group to group with his wife and aide. Bartlett watched them, envying them a little, the owners standing there with their caps and raincoats and shooting sticks and expensive women and girl friends, greeting one another, all members of the inner club, the powerhouse of Hong Kong, there and in the boxes above. All very British, he thought, all very clever. Will I fit in better than Biltzmann? Sure. Unless they want me out as much as they wanted him out. I'll be a voting member easy. Ian said as much. Would Orlanda fit there? Of course. As wife or girl friend, it's all the same.

"Who's that?" he asked. "The man talking to Ian?"

"Oh that's Alexi Travkin, he's the tai-pan's trainer. . . ." She stopped as Robert Armstrong came up to them.

"Afternoon, Mr. Bartlett," he said politely. "Did you back the winner too?"

"No, no I lost this one. May I introduce Miss Ramos, Orlanda Ramos, Superintendent Robert Armstrong, CID."

"Hello." She smiled back at Armstrong, and he saw her immediate caution. Why are they all frightened of us, the innocent as well as the guilty? he asked himself, when all we do is try to enforce their laws, try to protect them from villains and the ungodly. It's because everyone breaks some law, even a little one, every day, most days, because a lot of laws are stupid—like our betting laws here. So everyone's guilty, even you, pretty lady with the oh so sensual walk and oh so promising smile. For Bartlett. What crime have you committed today, to snare this poor innocent? Sardonically he smiled to himself. Not so innocent in most things. But against someone trained by Quillan Gornt? A beautiful, hungry Eurasian girl with no place to go but down? Ayeeyah! But oh how I'd like to swap places! Yes, you with your guns, money, birds like Casey and this one and meetings with the offal of the world like Banas-tasio, oh yes—I'd give ten years of my life, more, because today I swear to God I loathe what I have to do, what only I can do for good old England.

"Did you back the favorite too?" she was asking. "No, no unfortunately."

"This's her second winner," Bartlett said proudly. "Ah, if you're on a winning streak, who do you fancy in the fifth?" "I've been trying to decide, Superintendent. I've no tips—it's wide open. What's yours?"

"Winning Billy's tipped, I hear. I can't make up my mind either. Well, good luck." Armstrong left them, heading for the betting windows. He had put 500 on the third-placed horse, covering his other bets. He always chose a main bet and then hedged it with others, hoping to come out ahead. Most times he did. This afternoon he was a little behind, but he still hadn't touched the 40,000.

In the corridor he hesitated. The Snake, Chief Inspector Donald C. C. Smyth, was turning away from one of the crowded winning windows, a roll of money in his hand. "Hello, Robert. How're you doing?"

"So-so. You're in the big time again?" "I try." The Snake bent closer. "How is everything?" "Proceeding." Once more Armstrong felt nauseated at the thought of more of the Red Room, then sitting there, letting Brian Kwok's mind spill out his most secret secrets, working against the clock that was ticking away—all of them aware that the governor was asking London for permission to trade. "You're not looking so good, Robert." "I don't feel so good. Who's going to win the fifth?" "I leaned on your friend Clubfoot at the Para. The word is Pilot Fish. He did tip Buccaneer in the first, though with this going anything could happen." "Yes. Anything on the Werewolves?"

"Nothing. It's a dead end. I'm having the whole area combed but with this rain it's almost hopeless. I did interview Dianne Chen this morning—and John Chen's wife Barbara. They gave me sweet talk. I'd lay a fiver to a bent hatpin they know more than they're telling. I had a brief talk with Phillip Chen but he was equally uncooperative. Poor bugger's pretty shook." The Snake looked up at him. "By chance did Mary have any clue about John?"

Armstrong looked back at him. "I haven't had a chance to ask her. Tonight—if they give me any peace."

"They won't." Smyth's face crinkled with a twisted smile. "Put your 40 on Pilot Fish." "What 40?"

"A dickie bird twittered that a certain golden nest egg has flown your coop—to mix metaphors." The smaller man shrugged. "Don't worry, Robert, have a flutter. There's plenty more where that came from. Good luck." He went away. Armstrong stared after him, hating him.

The bugger's right though, he thought, his chest hurting. There's plenty more but once you take the first, what about the second and though you give nothing, admit nothing, guarantee nothing, there will come a time. As sure as God made little apples there's always a return payment.

Mary. She needs that holiday, needs it so much and there's the stockbroker's bill and all the other bills and oh Christ, with this market gone crazy I'm almost wiped out. God curse money—or the lack of it.

40 on a winning quinella'd solve everything. Or do I put it all on Pilot Fish? All or half or none. If it's all, there's plenty of time to place bets at other windows.

His feet took him to one of the betting lines. Many recognized him and those who did, feeling their instant internal fear, wished the police had their own box and own windows and did not mix with honest citizens. Four Finger Wu was one of these. Hastily he put 50,000 on a quinella of Pilot Fish and Butterscotch Lass and fled back to the members' room, gratefully to sip his brandy and soda. Dirty dogmeat police to frighten honest citizens, he thought, waiting for Venus Poon to return. Eeeee, he chortled, her Golden Gul-ley's worth every carat of the diamond I promised her last night. Two Clouds and Rain before dawn and a promise of another bout on Sunday when the yang recovers his ju—

A sudden roar from outside diverted his mind. At once he shoved his way through the crowds packing the balcony. The names of the fifth racehorses and their jockeys were coming up on the board, one by one. Pilot Fish, number one, got a full-bellied cheer; then Street Vendor, an outsider, two; Golden Lady, three and a ripple of excitement went through her many backers. When Noble Star, seven, flashed up there was a great roar and when the last, number eight, the favorite, Butterscotch Lass, there was an even greater roar. Down by the rail Dunross and Travkin were grimly inspecting the turf. It was torn and slippery. The nearer the rail, the worse it was. Above, the sky was blacker and lowering. A sprinkle started and a nervous groan slipped from fifty thousand throats.

"It's rotten, tai-pan," Travkin said, "the going's rotten."

"It's the same for everyone." Dunross let his mind reestimate the odds a last time. If I ride and win, the omen will be immense. If I ride and lose, the omen will be very bad. To be beaten by Pilot Fish would be even worse. I could be hurt easily. I can't afford . . . the Noble House can't aiford to be headless today, tomorrow or Monday. If Travkin rides and loses or finishes behind Pilot Fish that would be bad but not as bad. That would be joss.

But I won't get hurt. I'll win. I want this race more than anything in the world. I won't fail. I'm not sure about Alexi. I can win—if the gods are with me. Yes but how much are you prepared to gamble on the gods?

"Eeee, young Ian," Old Chen-chen had told him many times, "beware of expecting help from the gods, however much you petition them with gold or promises. Gods are gods and gods go out to lunch and sleep and get bored and turn their eyes away. Gods are the same as people: good and bad, lazy and strong, sweet and sour, stupid and wisel Why else are they gods, heya?"

Dunross could feel his heart thumping and could smell the warm, acrid, sweet-sour horse sweat, could sense the mind-blinding, spirit-curdling motioning, hands gripping the whip, bunched in the corner, now into the far straight, now into the last corner, the aching, grand sweet terror of speed, wielding the whip, jamming your heels in, outstretched now, carefully bumping Pilot Fish into the rails, putting him off his stride, and now into the straight, ripping into the straight, Pilot Fish behind, winning post ahead . . . come on come on … winning. . . .

"We have to decide, tai-pan. It's time."

Dunross came back slowly, bile in his mouth. "Yes. You ride," he said, putting the House before himself note 15 .

And now that he had said it he put the rest aside and clapped Travkin warmly on the shoulders. "Win, Alexi, win by God."

The older man, gnarled and leathery, peered up at him. He nodded once, then walked off to change. As he went he noticed Suslev in the stands watching him through binoculars, A tremor went through him. Suslev had promised that this Christmas Nestorova would come to Hong Kong, she would be allowed to join him in Hong Kong—and stay in Hong Kong—at Christmas. If he cooperated. If he cooperated and did what was asked.

Do you believe that? No. No, not at all, those matyeryebyets are liars and betrayers but maybe this time … Christ Jesus why should I be ordered to meet Dunross at Sinclair Towers by night, late at night? Why? Christ Jesus, what should I do? Don't think, old man. You're old and soon you'll be dead but your first duty is to win. If you win, the tai-pan will do your bidding. If you lose? If you win or lose, how can you live with the shame of betraying the man who befriended you and trusts you? He went into the jockeys' room.

Behind him Dunross had turned to glance at the tote. The odds had shortened, the total amount at risk already two and a half million. Butterscotch Lass was 3 to 1, Noble Star 7 to 1, still no jockey listed, Pilot Fish 5 to 1, Golden Lady 7 to 1. Early yet, he thought, and so much time left to gamble. Travkin will shorten the odds. A cold shaft took him. I wonder if there's a deal going on right now, a deal among the trainers and jockeys? Christ, we all better be watching this one very carefully indeed. "Ah Ian!"

"Oh hello, sir." Dunross smiled at Sir Geoffrey who came up to him then looked at Havergill who was with the governor. "Pity about Win well Stag, Paul, I thought he ran a grand race." "Joss," Havergill said politely. "Who's riding Noble Star?" "Travkin."

The governor's face lit up. "Ah, very good choice. Yes, he'll make a good race of it. For a moment, Ian, I was afraid you might be tempted."

"I was. Still am, sir." Dunross smiled faintly. "If Alexi gets hit by a bus between now and then, I'm riding her."

"Well, for the sake of all of us and the Noble House, let's hope that doesn't happen. We can't afford to have you hurt. The going looks terrible." Another swirl of rain came and passed by. "We've been very lucky so far. No bad accidents. If the rain starts in earnest, it might be worthwhile considering abandoning."

"We've already discussed it, sir. We're running a little late. The race'll be delayed ten minutes. So long as the weather holds for this race most people will be satisfied."

Sir Geoffrey watched him. "Oh by the way, Ian, I tried the minister a few minutes ago but I'm afraid he was already in meetings. I left word and he'll call back the moment he can. It seems the ramifications of this damned Profumo scandal are once more tearing at the very roots of the Conservative government. The press are screaming, quite rightly, in case there have been breaches of security. Until the Commission of Enquiry comes out next month, settling once and for all security aspects and rumors that others in the government are implicated or not, there'll be no peace."

"Yes," Havergill said. "But surely the worst's over, sir. As to the report, certainly it won't be adverse."

"Adverse or not, this scandal will wreck the Conservatives," Dunross said soberly, remembering AMG's forecast in the last report.

"Good God, I hope not." Havergill was aghast. "Those two twits, Grey and Broadhurst, in power amongst all the other Socialist shower? If their press conference was any indication, we might as well all go home."

"We are home, and it all comes home to roost. Eventually," Sir Geoffrey said sadly. "Anyway, Ian made the correct decision, not to ride." He glanced at Havergill and his gaze sharpened. "As I said, Paul, it's important to make correct decisions. It would be a very poor show if the Ho-Pak's depositors were wiped out, perhaps just because of poor judgment by Richard Kwang and the lack of a benevolent decision by those who could avoid such a disaster if they wished—perhaps to great profit. Eh?"

"Yes sir."

Sir Geoffrey nodded and left them.

Dunross said, "What was that about?"

"The governor thinks we should rescue the Ho-Pak," Havergill said offhandedly.

"Why don't you?"

"Let's talk about the General Stores takeover."

"First let's finish the Ho-Pak. The governor's right, it would benefit all of us, Hong Kong—and the bank."

"You'd be in favor?"

"Yes, of course."

"You'll approve, you and your block will approve making the takeover?" "I don't have a block but certainly I'll support a reasonable takeover."

Paul Havergill smiled thinly. "I was thinking of 20 cents on the dollar on Richard's holdings."

Dunross whistled. "That's not much."

"By Monday night he'll have zero. He'll probably settle for that —his holdings would give the bank control. We could easily stand surety for 100 percent of his depositors."

"He's got that amount of securities?"

"No, but with the normalization of the market and our judicious management, over a year or two it's true the acquisition of the Ho-Pak could greatly benefit us. Oh yes. And there's a desperate need to restore confidence. Such a takeover would help immeasurably."

"This afternoon would be a perfect announcement time."

"I agree. Anything on Tiptop?"

Dunross studied him. "Why the sudden change around, Paul? And why discuss it with me?"

"There's no change around. I've considered the Ho-Pak very carefully. The acquisition would be good bank policy." Havergill watched him. "We'll give him face and offer him a seat on our board."

"So the rumors about the Big Bank are true?"

"Not to my knowledge," the banker said coldly. "As to why discuss it with you? Because you're a director of the bank, presently the most important one, with substantial influence on the board. That's a sensible thing to do, isn't it?"

"Yes, but."

Havergill's eyes became colder. "The interests of the bank have nothing to do with my distaste for you, or your methods. But you were right about Superfoods. You made a good offer at a perfect time and sent a wave of confidence soaring through everyone here. It's bound to spread over all Hong Kong. It was brilliant timing and now if we follow it up and announce we've assumed all the Ho-Pak responsibilities to its depositors, that's another immense vote of confidence. All we need to do is get back confidence. If Tiptop comes to our assistance with his cash, Monday is boom day for Hong Kong. So first thing on Monday morning, Ian, we buy Struan's heavily. By Monday evening we'll assume control. However I'll make you a deal right now: we'll put up the 2 million for General Foods in return for half your bank stock." "No thanks."

"We'll have it all by next weekend. We'll guarantee that 2 million in any event to cover the takeover and guarantee the overall offer you made to Pug—if you fail to avoid your own takeover."

"I won't."

"Of course. But you don't mind if I mention it to him and to that nosy little cretin Haply?"

"You're a bastard, aren't you?"

Havergill's thin lips twisted with his smile. "This is business—I want your block of bank stock. Your forebears bought it for nothing, practically stole it from the Brocks after smashing them. I want to do the same. And I want control of the Noble House. Of course. Like a great number of others. Probably even your American friend Bartlett if the truth were known. Where's the 2 million coming from?"

"It's manna from heaven."

"We'll find out sooner or later. We're your bankers note 16 and you owe us rather a lot of money! Will Tiptop bail us out?"

"I can't be sure but I talked to him last night. He was encouraging. He agreed to come here after lunch but he hasn't arrived yet. That's ominous."

"Yes." Havergill brushed some drizzle off his nose. "We've had a very positive response from the Trade Bank of Moscow."

"Even you're not that fat-headed!"

"It's a last resort, Ian. A serious last resort."

"You'll call an immediate board meeting to discuss the Ho-Pak takeover?"

"Good lord, no." Havergill was sardonic. "You think I'm that much of a fool? If we did that you could table the other directors about an extension of your loan. No, Ian, I propose to ask them individually, like you. With your agreement I have a majority already, the others of course fall into line. I do have your agreement?"

"At 20 cents on the dollar and full payout of investors, yes."

"I might need leeway to go to 30 cents. Agreed?"

"Yes."

"Your word?"

"Oh yes, you have my word."

"Thank you."

"But you'll call a board meeting before Monday's opening?"

"I agreed to consider it. Only. I've considered it and the answer now is no. Hong Kong's a freebooting society where the weak fail and the strong keep the fruits of their labors." Havergill smiled and he glanced at the tote. The odds had shortened. 2 to 1 on Butterscotch Lass, well known for liking the wet. Pilot Fish now 3 to 1. While they watched, Travkin's name flashed up alongside Noble Star and a huge roar accompanied it. "I think the governor was wrong, Ian. You should have ridden. Then I'd've put my modest bet on you. Yes. You'd have gone out in a blaze of glory. Yes, you would have won. I'm not sure about Travkin. Good afternoon." He raised his hat and headed for Richard Kwang who stood with his wife and trainer to one side. "Ah Richard! Can I have a word wi—" He was drowned by a huge roar from the crowd as the first of the eight runners for the fifth race began to trickle out from under the stands. Pilot Fish led the pack, the slight drizzle making his black coat shimmer.

"Yes, Paul?" Richard Kwang asked, following him into an empty space. "I wanted to talk to you but didn't want to interrupt you with the governor and the tai-pan. Now," he said with forced joviality, "I've a plan. Let's lump all the Ho-Pak's securities together and if you'll lend me 50 mill—"

"No thank you, Richard," Havergill said crisply. "But we do have a proposal that's good till five o'clock today. We'll bail out the Ho-Pak and guarantee all your depositors. In return we'll buy your personal holdings at par an—"

"Par? That's a fiftieth of their value!" Richard Kwang screeched. "That's a fiftieth of their worth—"

"Actually it's 5 cents on the dollar which is about all their value. Is it a deal?"

"No of course not. Dew neh loh moh, am I a dogmeat madman?" Richard Kwang's heart was almost bursting. A moment ago he had thought, impossibly, that Havergill was granting him a reprieve from the disaster that by now he was convinced was absolute, however much he pretended otherwise, however much it was not his fault but the work of rumormongers and malicious fools who had led him into inept banking deals. But now he was in the vise. Oh kol Now he would be squeezed and whatever he did he could not escape the tai-pans. Oh oh oh! Disaster on disaster and now that ungrateful strumpet Venus Poon making me lose face in front of Uncle Four Fingers, Charlie Wang and even Photographer Ng and that even after I delivered to her personally the new mink coat that she trails in the mud so carelessly.

"New?" she had flared this morning. "You claim this miserable secondhand coat is new?"

"Of course!" he had shouted. "Do you think I am a monkey? Of course it's new. It cost 50,000 cash oh ko!" The 50,000 was an exaggeration but the cash wasn't and they both were well aware that it would be uncivilized not to exaggerate. The coat had cost him 14,000, through an intermediary, after much bargaining from a quai loh who had fallen on hard times and another 2,000 to the furrier who had overnight shortened and altered it enough to fit and not to be recognized, with a guarantee that the furrier would swear by all the gods that he had sold it under price at 42 even though it was actually worth 63,500.

"Paul," Richard Kwang said importantly. "The Ho-Pak's in better shape th—"

"Kindly shut up and listen," Havergill said overriding him. "The time has come to make a serious decision—for you, not us. You can go under on Monday with nothing. … I understand trading's opening on your stock first thing."

"But Sir Luis assured me th—"

"I heard it was open for trading, so by Monday night you'll have no bank, no stock, no horses, no dollymoney to pay for mink coats for Venus P—"

"Eh?" Richard Kwang blanched, aware his wife was standing not twenty paces away, lugubriously watching them. "What mink coat?"

Havergill sighed. "All right, if you're not interested." He turned away but the banker caught him by the arm.

"5 cents is ridiculous. 80 is nearer what I can get on the open mar—"

"Perhaps I can go to 7."

"7?" The banker began cursing, more to give himself time to think than anything. "I'll agree to a merger. A seat on the bank's board for ten years at a salary of f—"

"For five years, provided you give me your notarized resignation, undated, in advance, that you always vote exactly as / wish and at a salary equal to other directors."

"No resignation in adv—"

"Then so sorry no deal."

"I agree to that clause," Richard Kwang said grandly. "Now as to money. I th—"

"No. As to money, so sorry, Richard, I don't want to enter into a protracted negotiation. The governor, the tai-pan and I agree we should rescue the Ho-Pak. It is decided. I will see you retain face. We guarantee to keep the takeover price secret and are quite prepared to call it a merger—oh by the way, I want to make the announcement at 5:00 P.M., just after the seventh race. Or not at all." HavergilPs face was grim, but inside he was filled with glee. If it hadn't been for Dunross's announcement and the way it was being received he would have never considered doing the same. That bugger's quite right! It is time to be innovative and who better than us? It'll stop Southerby in his tracks and make us equal to Blacs at long last. With Struan's in our pocket next week, by next year

"57 cents and that's a steal," Kwang said.

"I'll go to 10 cents."

Richard Kwang wheedled and twisted and almost wept and inside he was ecstatic with the chance of the bail-out. Dew neh loh moh, he wanted to shout, a few minutes ago I wouldn't be able to pay for Butterscotch Lass's feed next week let alone the diamond ring and now I'm worth at least $3Vi million U.S. and with judicious manipulation much more. "30 by all the gods!"

"11."

"I'll have to commit suicide," he wailed. "My wife will commit suicide, my children will . . ."

"Your pardon, Lord," his Chinese trainer said in Cantonese, coming up to him. "The race's put back ten minutes. Are there any instructions you wa—"

"Can't you see I'm busy, toad-belly! Go away!" Richard Kwang hissed in Cantonese with more obscenities, then said to Havergill, a final abject plea, "30, Mr. Havergill, and you'll have saved a poor man and his fam—"

"18 and that's final!"

"25 and it's a deal."

"My dear fellow, so sorry but I must place a bet. 18. Yes or no?"

Richard Kwang kept up a pathetic patter but he was estimating his chances. He had seen the flash of irritation on his opponent's face. Dirty lump of dogmeat! Is now the time to close? Between now and five o'clock this leper dung could change his mind. If the tai-pan's got all this new financing perhaps I could . . . No, no chance. 18's three times as good as the opening bid! It's clear you are a clever fellow and a good negotiator, he chortled to himself. Has the time come to close?

He thought of Venus Poon, how she had abused his expensive gift and deliberately brushed her exquisite breasts against Four Fin-gers's arm, and tears of rage welled from his eyes.

"Oh oh oh," he said in an abject whisper, delighted that his strategem to produce real tears had worked so well. "20, by all the gods, and I'm your slave forever."

"Good," Havergill said, very contentedly. "Come to my box at quarter to five. I'll have a provisional letter of agreement ready for signature—and your undated resignation. At five we'll announce the merger, and Richard, until that time not a whisper! If the news leaks, the deal is off."

"Of course."

Havergill nodded and left and Richard Kwang walked back to his wife.

"What's going on?"

"Quiet!" he hissed. "I've agreed to a merger with the Victoria."

"At what price for our holdings?"

He lowered his voice even more. "20 cents on the, er, official book value."

Glee lit her eyes. "Ayeeyah!" she said and quickly dropped her gaze for safety. "You did very well."

"Of course. And a directorship for five years an—"

"Eeee, our face will be huge!"

"Yes. Now listen, we've got until five today to make some private deals on Ho-Pak stock. We must buy in today—at fire-sale prices before every dogmeat gambler steals our rightful profits from us. We can't do it ourselves or others'll instantly suspect. Who can we use?"

She thought for a moment. Again her eyes gleamed. "Profitable Choy. Give him 7 percent of anything he makes for us."

"I'll offer 5 to begin with, perhaps I can settle for 6!/4 percent! Excellent! And I'll also use Smiler Ching, he's a pauper now. He lost everything. Between the two of them . . . I'll meet you back at the box." Importantly he turned away and went to his trainer and carefully kicked him in the shin. "Oh so sorry," he said for the . benefit of those nearby who might have seen him, then hissed, "Don't interrupt me when I'm busy, you cheating lump of dogmeat turd! And if you cheat me like you cheated Big Belly Tok I'll—"

"But I told you about that, Lord," the man said sourly. "He knew about it too! Wasn't it his idea? Didn't you both make a fortune?"

"Oh ko, if my horse doesn't win this race I'll ask my Uncle Four

Fingers to send his street fighters and mash your Heavenly Orbs!"

A sprinkle of rain swept the paddock and they all looked anxiously at the sky. In the stands and on the balconies above, everyone was equally anxious. The shower turned into a slight drizzle and on the members' balcony Orlanda quivered, tense with excitement.

"Oh Line, I'm going to bet now."

"You're sure?" he asked with a laugh for she had been agonizing over her decision all afternoon, first Pilot Fish then Noble Star, then a hot tip, the outsider Winning Billy, and back to Butterscotch Lass again. The odds were even on Butterscotch Lass, 3 to 1 on both Pilot Fish and Noble Star—the moment Travkin was announced the money started pouring on—6 to 1 on Golden Lady, the rest hardly in the running. The total amount so far at risk was a staggering 4,700,000 HK. "How much are you going to bet?"

She shut her eyes and said in a rush, "All my winnings and an extra … an extra 100! Won't be a moment, Line!"

"Good luck. I'll see you after the race."

"Oh yes, sorry, in the excitement I forgot. Have fun!" She gave him a glorious smile and rushed off before he could ask her what she was betting. He had«already bet. This race was a quinella, as well as the second leg of the double quinella. 10,000 HK on any combination of Pilot Fish and Butterscotch Lass. That should do it, he thought, his own excitement growing.

He left the balcony and weaved through the tables heading for the elevators that would take him back upstairs. Many people watched him, some greeted him, most envious of the little badges fluttering in his lapel.

"Hi, Line!"

"Oh hello," he said to Biltzmann who had intercepted him. "How's it going?"

"You heard about the foulup? Of course, you were there!" Biltzmann said. "Say, Line, you got a moment?"

"Sure." Bartlett followed him down the corridor, conscious of the curious gazes of passersby.

"Listen," Biltzmann said when they reached a quiet corner, "you'd better watch yourself with these limey bastards. We sure as hell had a deal with General Stores."

"You going to rebid?" Bartlett asked.

"That's up to head office, but me, hell, me I'd let this whole goddamn Island drown."

Bartlett did not reply, aware of glances in their direction.

"Say, Line!" Biltzmann dropped his voice and bent closer with a twisted grin. "You got something special going with that girl?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The broad. The Eurasian. Orlanda, the one you were talking to."

Bartlett felt the blood rush into his face but Biltzmann continued, "Mind if I put my two cents in?" He winked. "Make a date. Ask her for a date?"

"It's . . . it's a free country," Bartlett said, suddenly hating him.

"Thanks. She's got a great ass." Biltzmann beamed and came even closer. "How much does she charge?"

Bartlett gasped, totally unprepared. "She's not a hooker, for chrissake!"

"Didn't you know? Hey it's all over town. But Dickie said she was lousy in bed. That a fact?" Biltzmann misread the look on Bartlett's face. "Oh, you haven't got there yet? Hell, Line, all you gotta do's flash a little of the green st—"

"Listen you son of a bitch," Bartlett hissed, almost blind with rage, "she's no hooker and if you talk to her or go near her I'll stick my fist down your throat. Got it?"

"Listen, take it easy," the other man gasped. "I didn'—"

"You get the message?"

"Sure sure, no need to . . ." Biltzmann backed off. "Take it easy. I asked, didn't I? Dickie . . ." He stopped, frightened, as Bartlett came closer. "For chrissake it's not my fault—take it easy, huh?"

"Shut up!" Bartlett contained his rage with an effort, knowing this was not the time or the place to smash Biltzmann. He glanced around but Orlanda had already disappeared. "Get lost, you son of a bitch," he grated, "and don't go near her or else!"

"Sure, sure take it easy, okay?" Biltzmann backed off another pace, then turned and fled thankfully. Bartlett hesitated, then went into the men's room and splashed a little water on his face to calm himself. The tap water, specially connected for the races, was brackish and seemed unclean. In a moment he found his elevator and walked to Dunross's box. It was tea time. The guests were being served little sandwiches, cakes, cheese and great pots of Indian tea with milk and sugar but he did not notice any of it, numb.

Donald McBride, bustling past, stopped briefly on his way back to his own box. "Ah, Mr. Bartlett, I must tell you how happy we all are that you and Casey are going to be in business here. Pity about Biltzmann but all's fair in business. Your Casey's such a charming person. Sorry, got to dash."

He hurried off. Bartlett hesitated in the doorway.

"Hey, Line," Casey called out joyously from the balcony. "You want tea?" As they met halfway her smile faded. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing, Casey." Bartlett forced a smile. "They at the starting gate?"

"Not yet but any moment now. You sure you're okay?"

"Of course. What did you bet on?"

"Noble Star, what else? Peter's tipping Doc Tooley's outsider, Winning Billy, for a place so I put 50 on him. You don't look well, Line. Not your stomach, is it?"

He shook his head, warmed by her concern. "No. I'm fine. You okay?"

"Sure. I've been having a wonderful time. Peter's in great form and Old Tooley's a gas." Casey hesitated. "I'm glad it's not your stomach. Doc Tooley says we should be safe from those lousy Aberdeen bugs, since we haven't gotten the trots yet. Of course we won't know for sure for twenty days."

"Jesus," Bartlett muttered, trying to force his mind off what Biltzmann had said. "I'd almost forgotten about Aberdeen and the fire and that whole mess. The fire seems a million years ago."

"To me too. Where did the time go?"

Gavallan was nearby. "It's Hong Kong," he said absently.

"How do you mean?"

"It's a Hong Kong characteristic. If you live here there's never enough time, whatever your work. Always too much to do. People are always arriving, leaving, friends, business people. There's always a crisis—flood, fire, mud slide, boom, scandal, business opportunity, funeral, banquet or cocktail party for visiting VIPs—or some disaster." Gavallan shook off his anxieties. "This's a small place and you soon get to know most people in your own circle. Then we're the crossroads of Asia and even if you're not in Struan's you're always on the move, planning, making money, risking money to make more, or you're off to Taiwan, Bangkok, Singapore, Sydney, Tokyo, London or wherever. It's the magic of Asia. Look what happened to you both since you got here: poor John Chen was kidnapped and murdered, guns were found on your aircraft, then there was the fire, the stock market mess, the run on our stock, Gornt after us and we after him. And now the banks may close on Monday or if lan's right, Monday will be boom time. And we're in business together. .. ." He smiled wearily. "What do you think of our tender?"

Casey held back her immediate comment and watched Bartlett.

"Great," Bartlett said, thinking about Orlanda. "You think Ian will be able to turn things around?"

"If anyone can, he can." Gavallan sighed heavily. "Well, let's hope, that's all we can do. Have you put your money on the winner yet?"

Bartlett smiled and Casey felt easier. "Who you backing, Andrew?"

"Noble Star and Winning Billy for the quinella. See you later."

He left them.

"Curious what he was saying about Hong Kong. He's right. It makes the U.S. seem a million miles away."

"Yes, but it isn't, not truly."

"You want to stay here, Casey?"

She looked at him, wondering what was under the question, what he was really asking her. "That's up to you, Line."

He nodded slowly. "Think I'll get me some tea."

"Hey, I'll do that for you," she said, then she saw Murtagh standing nervously at the doorway and her heart missed a beat. "You haven't met our banker, Line. Let me bring him over."

She went through the throng. "Hi, Dave."

"Hi, Casey, have you seen the tai-pan?"

"He's busy till after the race. Is it yes or no?" she whispered urgently, keeping her back to Bartlett.

"It's a maybe." Nervously Murtagh wiped his brow and took off his wet raincoat, his eyes red rimmed. "Couldn't get a goddamn cab for an hour! Jesus!"

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe maybe. I gave them the plan and they told me to haul ass back home because I'd clearly gone mad. Then, after they calmed down, they said they'd get back to me. Those knuckleheads called me at 4:00 A.M., asked me to repeat the whole scheme then S.J. himself came on." His eyes rolled. "S.J. said I was full of sh— I was loco and hung up on me." "But you said 'maybe.' What happened next?"

"I called them back and I've been on the phone five hours in the last ten trying to explain my brilliance to them since your harebrained scheme blew my mind." Murtagh suddenly grinned. "Hey, I'll tell you one thing, Casey. Now S.J. sure as hell knows who Dave Murtagh III is!"

She laughed. "Listen, don't mention it to anyone here. Anyone. Except the tai-pan, okay?"

He looked at her, pained. "You think I'm about to tell everybody my ass's chewed to hamburger?"

There was a burst of cheering and someone in the balcony called out, "They're approaching the gate!"

"Quick," Casey said, "go put your bundle on the quinella. One and seven. Quick while you've time." "Which are they?"

"Never mind. You've no time." She gave him a little shove and he rushed off. She collected herself, picked up a cup of tea and joined Bartlett and all the others crowding the balcony. "Here's your tea, Line." "Thanks. What did you tell him to bet?" "One and seven." "I did one and eight."

Another huge roar distracted them. The horses were cantering past and beginning to mill around the gate. They saw Pilot Fish skeetering and weaving, his jockey well up, knees tight, holding on firmly, guiding him to his post position. But the stallion wasn't ready yet and tossed his mane and neighed. At once the mare and the two fillies, Golden Lady and Noble Star, shivered, nostrils flaring and whinnied back. Pilot Fish brayed stridently, reared and pawed the air and everyone gasped. His jockey, Bluey White, cursed softly, dug his steel-strong hands into his mane, hanging on. "C'mon, sport," he called out with a curse, gentling him. "Let the sheilas have a look at your dingledangle!"

Travkin on Noble Star was nearby. The filly had got the stallion's scent and it had unsettled her. Before Travkin could prevent it she twisted and backed and shoved her rump carelessly into Pilot Fish who swerved, startled, to bump the outsider Winning Billy, a bay gelding moving up to his gate. The gelding skeetered, shook his head angrily and whirled away for a few paces, almost trampling Lochin-var, another brown gelding. "Get that bugger under control, Alexi, for chrissake!"

"Just stay out of my way, ublyudok," Travkin muttered, his knees conscious of the untoward tremors racing through Noble Star. He sat very high, part of his mount, stirrups short, and he wondered, cursing, if Pilot Fish's trainer had smeared some of the stallion's musk onto his chest and flanks to agitate the mare and fillies. It's an old trick, he thought, very old.

"Come on!" the starter called out, his voice stentorian. "Gentlemen, get your mounts into their stalls!"

Several were already there, Butterscotch Lass, the brown mare still heavily the favorite, was pawing the ground, nostrils flared, excitement of the coming race and the nearness of the stallion sending shiver after shiver through her. She had stall eight from the rails, Pilot Fish now entering the stall in post position one. Winning Billy had stall three between Street Vendor and Golden Lady, and the smell of them and the stallion's brazen challenge tore the gelding's mind. Before the gate could close behind him he backed out and, once free, fought the bit and reins, shaking his head violently from side to side, twirling like a dancer on the slippery turf, almost colliding with Noble Star who swerved deftly out of the way.

"Alexi, come along!" the starter called out. "Hurry it up!"

"Yes, certainly," Travkin called back but he was not hurried. He knew Noble Star and he walked the trembling, big brown filly well away from the stallion, letting her prance, the wind under her tail. "Gently, my darling," he crooned in Russian, wanting to delay, wanting to keep the others off balance, now the only one not in the gate. A flash of lightning lit the eastern sky but he paid it no attention, or the ominous roll of thunder. The drizzle became stronger.

His whole being was concentrated. Just after the weigh-in, one of the other jockeys had sidled up to him. "Mr. Travkin," he had said softly, "you're not to win."

"Oh? Who says?"

The jockey shrugged.

"Who's the winner?"

Again the jockey shrugged.

"If the trainers and jockeys have a fix then let them know I'm not part of it. I never have been, not in Hong Kong."

"You'n the tai-pan won with Buccaneer, that should satisfy you."

"It satisfies me but in this race I'm a trier."

"Fair enough, sport. I'll tell them."

"Who's them?"

The jockey had gone away, the crowded changing room noisy and sweat-filled. Travkin was well aware who the ring was, some of them, who fixed races now and then, but he had never been a participant. He knew it was not because he was more honest than the others. Or less dishonest. It was only that his needs were few, a sure thing did not excite him and the touch of money did not please him.

The starter was becoming impatient. "Come along, Alexi! Hurry it up!"

Obediently he jabbed the spurs and walked Noble Star forward into her stall. The gate clanged behind her. A moment's hush. Now the racers were under starter's orders.

66

4:00 P.M.:

In their stalls, jockeys dug their fingers into the horses' manes, all of them nervous, those in the know ready to crowd Noble Star. Then the doors flew open and in a mad instant the eight runners were galloping, packed together along a short part of the straight, now past the winning post, now racing into the first bend. The riders were all crouched high up, side by side, almost touching, some touching, the horses getting their pace, hurtling through the first part of the bend that would take them a quarter of the course into the far straight. Already Pilot Fish was half a length ahead on the rails, Butterscotch Lass in fine position not flat out yet, Winning Billy alongside, back a little from Noble Star on the outside, crowding the others for a better place in the pack, all jockeys knowing that all binoculars were trained on them so any pulling or interference better be clever and cautious. They had all been warned that millions would be won or lost and it would cost each one of them their future to foul up.

They pounded through the turn, mud splattering those behind, the going bad. As they came out of the turn into the straight still together, shoving for position, they lengthened their strides, the sweat-smell and the speed exciting horses and riders alike. Winning Billy took the bit and closed up alongside Butterscotch Lass, now half a length behind Pilot Fish, going well, the rest bunched, all waiting to make their run. Now Butterscotch Lass felt the spurs and she leapt forward and passed Pilot Fish, fell back a little and passed him again, Pilot Fish still hugging the rails carefully.

Travkin was holding the filly well, lying back in the pack, still outside, then he gave her the spurs and she increased speed and he cut closer to the leaders, herding the others, almost bumping Lochinvar. The rain increased. The sting of it was in his eyes, his knees and legs tight and already hurting. There was not a length between them as they galloped out of the stretch into the corner. Going into the far turn they were all packed close to take advantage of the corner when a whip came from nowhere and lashed across Trav-kin's wrists. The suddenness and pain unlocked his grip an instant and almost unbalanced him. A split second later he was in control again. Where the blow came from he did not know, or care, for they were well into the corner, the going dreadful. Abruptly, the gray outsider Kingplay on the rails just behind Pilot Fish slipped and stumbled, his jockey felt the earth twist and they went down smashing into the rails, pulling two horses with them. Everyone in the stadium was on their feet.

"Christ who's down . . ."

"Is it … it's Noble Star . . ."

"No, no it isn't . . . Winning Bill—"

"No he's lying third . . ."

"Come on for Christ's sweet sake . . ."

In the uproar in the stewards' room Dunross, whose binoculars were rock steady, called out, "It was Kingplay who fell . . . King-play, Street Vendor and Golden Lady… Golden Lady's on her feet but Christ the jockey's hurt . . . Kingplay won't get up … he's hurt . . ."

"What's the order, what's the order?"

"Butterscotch Lass by a nose, then Pilot Fish on the rails, Winning Billy, Noble Star, nothing to choose amongst them. Now they're going into the last turn, the Lass's ahead by a neck, the others hacking at her . . ." Dunross watched the horses, his heart almost stopped, excitement possessing him. "Come on, Alexi . . ." His shout added to those of others, Casey as excited, but Bartlett watching, uninvolved, his mind below.

Gornt in the Blacs box had his glasses focused as steadily as the tai-pan, his excitement as controlled. "Come on," he muttered, watching Bluey White give Pilot Fish the whip in the turn, Noble Star well placed on the outside, Winning Billy alongside the Lass who was a neck in front, the angle of the turn making it difficult to see.

Again Travkin felt the lash on his hands but he dismissed it and eased a little closer in the bend, the remaining five horses inches apart, Butterscotch Lass crowding the rails.

Bluey White on Pilot Fish knew it would soon be time to make his dash. Ten yards, five, four three two now! They were coming out of the turn and he gave Pilot Fish the whip. The stallion shot forward, inches from the rails, flat out now as Butterscotch Lass got the spurs and whip an instant later, for all the jockeys knew it was now or never.

Travkin, stretched out parallel to Noble Star's neck, leaned forward and let out a cossack scream near Noble Star's ear and the filly took the primeval call and lengthened her stride, nostrils flared, foam on her mouth. Now the five runners were pounding the stretch, Noble Star on the outside, Winning Billy inching ahead of the Lass, all their withers sweat-foamed, now the Lass, now Pilot Fish ahead, and now the dappled gelding Lochinvar made his bid to conquer and he took the lead from Pilot Fish, taking the post position, all whips out and spurs in and only the winning post ahead. One hundred yards to go.

In the stands and on the balconies and in the boxes, there was but one voice. Even the governor was pounding the balcony rail— "Come on come on Butterscotch Lasssss!"—and down by the winning post Nine Carat Chu was almost crushed against the rails by the press of the crowd craning forward.

Ninety yards, eighty . . . mud scattering, all runners flat out, all caught by the excitement and the crescendoing roar. "The Lass's pulling away . . ." "No, look at Pilot F—" "Christ it's Lochinvarmr . . ." "Winning Billy . . ." "Come on come on come on …"

Travkin saw the winning post bearing down on them. There was another flash of lightning. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Lochinvar ahead by a neck, then the Lass, now Winning Billy, now Pilot Fish easing forward taking the lead, now Winning Billy, Lochinvar crowding him.

Then Bluey White saw the opening he'd been promised and he gave the stallion the final whip. Like an arrow he darted for the opening and swung up alongside Butterscotch Lass, then passed her. He was ahead by a neck. He saw the Lass's jockey, not in the know, give the mare the whip, shouting her onward. Travkin screamed exultantly and Noble Star put out her final effort. The five horses came down the final yards neck and neck, now Pilot Fish ahead, now Winning Billy, Noble Star closing, just a neck behind, just a nose, just a nostril, the crowd a single, mindless raving lunatic, all the runners bunched, Noble Star on the outside, Winning Billy inching away, the Lass closing, Pilot Fish closing, now ahead by a nose.

Forty . . . thirty . . . twenty . . . fifteen . . .

Noble Star was ahead by a nostril, then Pilot Fish, then the Lass then Noble Star . . . Winning Billy . . . and now they were past the winning post not one of them sure who had won—only Travkin sure he had lost. Abruptly he sawed the bit a vicious two inches and held it left in an iron hand, the movement imperceptible but enough to throw her off her stride and she shied. With a shriek she barreled down into the mud and threw her rider at the rails, the Lass almost falling but holding, the other three safe. Travkin felt himself sailing, then there was an impossible chest tearing, head-splitting blackness.

The crowd gasped, the race momentarily forgotten. Another blinding flash of lightning, pandemonium swooped over them, the downpour increased, mixing nicely with the thunder above.

"Pilot Fish by a nose …"

"Balls, it was Noble Star by a hair …"

"You're wrong, old boy, it was Pilot Fish …"

"Dew neh loh moh …"

"Christ what a race . . ."

"Oh Christ! Look! There's the stewards' objection flag . . ."

"Where? Oh my God! Who fouled . . ."

"I didn't see anything, did you . . ."

"No. Difficult in this rain, even with glasses . . ."

"Christ, now what? Those bloody stewards, if they take victory from my winner by Christ . . ."

Dunross had rushed for the elevator the moment he saw Noble Star fall and throw Travkin. He had not seen the cause. Travkin was too clever.

Others were excitedly crowding the corridors waiting for the elevator, everyone talking, no one listening. "We won by a nostril

"What's the objection for chrissake? Noble St—" "What's the objection, tai-pan?"

"That's up to the stewards to announce." In the uproar Dunross stabbed the button again.

Gornt hurried up as the doors opened, everyone packing in, Dunross wanting to bellow with rage at the slowness. "It was Pilot Fish by a nose, Ian," Gornt shouted above the uproar, his face flushed.

"What a race!" someone shouted. "Anyone know what the objection is?"

"Do you, Ian?" Gornt asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"It's against my Pilot Fish?"

"You know the procedure. First the stewards investigate, then they make an announcement." He saw Gornt's flat brown eyes and he knew his enemy was suddenly blind with rage that he wasn't a steward. And you won't become one, you bastard, Dunross thought, enraged. I'll blackball you till I'm dead.

"Is it against Pilot Fish, tai-pan?" someone shouted.

"Good God," he called back. "You know the procedure."

The elevator stopped at every level. More owners and friends crammed in. More shouts about what a great race but what the hell's the objection? At last they reached ground level. Dunross rushed out onto the track where a group of ma-foo and officials surrounded Travkin who lay there crumpled and inert. Noble Star had fought to her feet, unhurt, and was now on the far side galloping riderless around the course, stable hands scattered and waiting to intercept her. Up the track on the last bend, the vet was kneeling beside the agonized roan gelding, Kingplay, his back leg broken, the bone jutting through. The sound of the shot did not penetrate the roars and counter roars of the impatient onlookers, their eyes fixed on the tote, waiting for the stewards' judgment.

Dunross knelt beside Travkin, one of the ma-foo holding an umbrella over the unconscious man. "How is he, Doctor?"

"He didn't slam into the rails, missed them by a miracle. He's not dead, at least not yet, tai-pan," Dr. Meng, the police pathologist, said nervously, used to dead bodies, not live patients. "I can't tell, not until he comes around. There's no apparent hemorrhaging externally. His neck . . . and his back seem all right … I can't tell yet . . ."

Two St. John's ambulance men hurried up with a stretcher. "Where should we take him, sir?" Dunross looked around. "Sammy," he said to one of his stableboys, "go and fetch Doc Tooley. He should be in our box." To the ambulance men he said, "Keep Mr. Travkin in the ambulance till Doc Tooley gets here. What about the other three jockeys?"

"Two are just shook up, sir. One, Captain Pettikin, has a broken leg but he's already in a splint."

Very carefully the men put Travkin on the stretcher. McBride joined them, then Gornt and others. "How is he, Ian?"

"We don't know. Yet. He seems all right." Gently Dunross lifted one of Travkin's hands, examining it. He had thought he had seen a blow in the far turn and Travkin falter. A heavy red weal disfigured the back of his right hand. And the other one. "What could have caused this, Dr. Meng?"

"Oh!" More confidently the little man said, "The reins perhaps. Perhaps a whip, could be a blow . . . perhaps in falling."

Gornt said nothing, just watched, inwardly seething that Bluey White could have been so inept when everything had been so neatly set up beforehand with a word here, a promise there. Half the bloody stadium must have seen him, he thought.

Dunross examined Travkin's ashen face. No marks other than inevitable bruising. A little blood seeped out of the nose.

"It's already coagulating. That's a good sign," Dr. Meng volunteered. •

The governor hurried up. "How is he?"

Dunross repeated what the doctor had said.

"Damned bad luck, Noble Star shying like that."

"Yes."

"What's the stewards' objection, Ian?"

"We're just going to discuss that, sir. Would you care to join us?"

"Oh, no, no thank you. I'll just wait and be patient. I wanted to make sure Travkin was all right." The governor felt the rain running down his back. He looked up at the sky. "Blasted weather—looks like it's here to stay. Are you going to continue the meet?"

"I'm going to recommend we cancel, or postpone."

"Good idea."

"Yes," McBride said. "I agree. We can't afford another accident."

"When you have a moment, Ian," Sir Geoffrey said, "I'll be in my box."

Dunross's attention focused. "Did you talk to the minister, sir?" he asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

"Yes." Sir Geoffrey was equally casual. "Yes, he called on the private line."

Abruptly the tai-pan was conscious of Gornt and the others. "I'll walk you back, sir." To McBride he said, "I'll follow you at once," then turned away and the two of them walked for the elevator.

Once alone Sir Geoffrey muttered, "Hardly the place for a private conversation, what?"

"We could examine the course, sir." Dunross led the way to the rail, praying. "The turfs terrible, isn't it?" he said, pointing.

"Very." Sir Geoffrey also kept his back to the eyes. "The minister was very perturbed. He left the decision about Brian to me, providing Mr. Sinders and Mr. Crosse first agree to the release, pro—"

"Surely they'll agree with you, sir?" Uneasily Dunross recalled his conversation with them last night.

"I can only advise. I will advise them it is necessary providing you assure me it is. You personally."

"Of course," Dunross said slowly. "But surely Havergill, South-erby or the other bankers would carry more weight."

"In banking matters, Ian, yes. But I think I require your personal assurance and cooperation also."

"Sir?"

"This matter will have to be handled very delicately, by you, not by them. Then there's the problem of those files. The AMG files."

"What about them, sir?"

"That's for you to answer. Mr. Sinders told me of his conversation with you last night." Sir Geoffrey lit his pipe, his hands cupping the flame, protecting it from the rain. After the tai-pan's call to him this morning he had at once sent for Crosse and Sinders to discuss the matter of the exchange prior to asking the minister. Sinders had reiterated his concern that the files might have been doctored. He said he might agree to release Kwok if he was sure of those files. Crosse had suggested trading Kwok for Fong-fong and the others.

Now Sir Geoffrey looked at Dunross searchingly. "Well, Ian?"

"Tiptop's due, or was due this afternoon. May I assume that I can say yes to his proposal?"

"Yes, providing you first get Mr. Sinders's agreement. And Mr.

Crosse's."

"Can't you give that to me, sir?"

"No. The minister was quite clear. If you want to ask them now, they are in the members' stands."

"They know the result of your call?"

"Yes. Sorry but the minister made it very clear." Sir Geoffrey was gentle. "It seems the reputation for fairness and honesty of the present tai-pan of the Noble House is known even in those hallowed places. Both the minister and I bank on it." A burst of cheering distracted them. Noble Star had broken through the cordon of ma-foo trying to recapture her, and galloped past them, officials and stableboys scattering. "Perhaps you'd better deal with the race objection first. I'll be in my box. Join me for tea or a cocktail if you wish."

Dunross thanked him then hurried for the stewards' room, his mind in turmoil.

"Ah, Ian," Shitee T'Chung, the nominal chairman called out anxiously as he came in, all the stewards now present. "We really have to decide quickly."

"That's hard without Travkin's evidence," Dunross said. "How many of you saw Bluey White slash at him?"

Only McBride put up his hand.

"That's only two of us out of twelve." Dunross saw Crosse watching him. "I'm certain. And there was a weal across both his hands. Dr. Meng said it could have been made by a whip or the reins in falling. Pug, what's your opinion?"

Pugmire broke an uncomfortable silence. "I saw nothing malicious, personally. I was watching like hell because I was on Noble Star, 1,000 on the nose. Whether there was a blow or not it didn't seem to make much difference. I didn't see her falter, or any of the pack, other than Kingplay. Noble Star was well in the running till the post and everyone had their whips out." He tossed over one of the copies of the photo finish.

Dunross picked it up. The photo was as he had seen it: Pilot Fish by a nose from Noble Star, by a nostril from Butterscotch Lass, by a nose from Winning Billy.

"They've all got their whips out," Pugmire continued, "and they had in the turn, quite rightly. It could easily have been accidental —if there was a blow."

"Shitee?"

"I must confess, old boy, I was watching my Street Vendor and cursing Kingplay. I thought your filly'd pipped Pilot Fish. We, er, we've polled the other trainers and there's, er, no formal complaint. I agree with Pug."

"Roger?"

"I saw nothing untoward."

"Jason?"

To his surprise Plumm shook his head and disagreed and Dunross wondered again about AMG and his astonishing accusation of Plumm and Sevrin. "We all know Bluey White's cunning," Plumm was saying. "We've had to warn him before. If the tai-pan and Donald say they saw it I vote we debar him and disqualify Pilot Fish when it comes to a vote."

Dunross polled the other stewards, the rest wavering.

"Let's call in the jockeys, White last."

They did. All the jockeys muttered permutations of the same thing: they were too busy with their own mounts to notice anything.

Now the stewards looked at Dunross, waiting. He stared back, well aware that if he said, I vote we unanimously debar Bluey White for interference and disqualify Pilot Fish, all in favor say aye! that they would concede and vote as he wished.

I saw him do it, he told himself, so did Donald, and others, and it shook Alexi for that necessary split second. Even so, in all honesty 1 don't think that cost Noble Star the race. I blew the race myself. Alexi was the wrong choice for this race. He should have shoved Pilot Fish into the rails on the second corner when he had the chance, or put his whip across Bluey White's face, not his hands as I'd have done, oh yes, without hesitation. And there are other considerations.

"There's no doubt in my mind there was interference," he said. "But whether by accident or design I doubt if even Alexi will know, I agree it didn't cost Noble Star the race so I suggest we just caution Bluey and let the result stand."

"Excellent." Shitee T'Chung exhaled and beamed and they all relaxed, none of them, least of all Pugmire, wanting a confrontation with the tai-pan. "Anyone against? Good! Let's release the photo finish to the papers and make the announcement over the loudspeakers. Will you do that, tai-pan?"

"Certainly. But what about the rest of the program? Look at the rain." It was pelting down now. "Listen, I've an idea." He told it to them. A whoop of excitement and they all laughed. "Very good, oh very good!" "Grand!" Dunstan Barre exploded.

"That'll give the buggers something to think about!" Pugmire said.

"Great idea, tai-pan!" McBride beamed. "Oh very good."

"I'll go to the control center—perhaps you'd get Bluey back and give him what for, scare him, eh?"

Pugmire said, "A word, Ian?"

"Can we make it later?"

"Of course. Roger, can I have a word?"

"Of course. I'll be down in the members' stand with Sinders."

"Oh, not in your box?"

"No, I let the commissioner have it for a private party."

"Ian?"

"Yes, Jason?"

"Do you think they'll hold the hill climb tomorrow?"

"If this keeps up, no. That whole area'll be a quagmire. Why?"

"Nothing. I was planning a cocktail party early Sunday evening to celebrate your Superfoods coup!"

Shitee T'Chung chortled. "Jolly good idea! Congratulations, Ian! Did you see Biltzmann's face?"

"Ian, would you be free? I won't invite Biltzmann," Plumm added to much laughter. "It'll be at our company flat in Sinclair Towers." <

"Sorry, I'm going to Taipei early afternoon, sorry, at least that's my present plan. Th—-"

Pugmire interrupted with sudden concern, "You won't be here Monday? What about our papers, and everything?"

"No problem, Pug. 9:30 we close." To Plumm Dunross said, "Jason if I cancel or postpone Taipei, I'll accept."

"Good. 7:30 to 9:30 casual."

Dunross walked off, his frown deepening, surprised that Plumm was so friendly. Ordinarily he was the opposition on all the boards they shared, siding with Gornt and Havergill against him, particularly on the Victoria's board.

Outside the stewards' room there were milling clusters of anxious reporters, owners, trainers and bystanders. Dunross brushed aside the barrage of questions all the way to the control room. It was on the top floor.

"Hello, sir," the announcer said, everyone tense in the small glass booth that had the best view of the course. "Marvelous race, pity about. . . Do you have the decision? It's Bluey, isn't it, we all saw the whip. . . ." "May I use the mike?"

"Oh of course." The man hastily moved and Dunross sat in his place. He clicked on the switch. "This is Ian Dunross, the stewards have asked me to make two announcements. . . ."

The silence was vast as his words echoed and re-echoed over the stadium. The fifty thousand held their breaths, careless of the rain, in the stands and on every soaring level. "First, the result of the fifth race." Dead silence but for the sound of the rain. Dunross took a deep breath. "Pilot Fish by a nose from Noble Star by a whisker from Butterscotch Lass…." but the last was drowned by the cheers and counter cheers, happiness and disgust, and everyone throughout the stadium was shouting, arguing, cheering, cursing and, down in the paddock, Gornt was astonished, having been convinced that his jockey had been seen as he had seen him, had been caught and carpeted and the result would be set aside. In the pandemonium the winning numbers flashed on to the tote: one, seven, eight.

Dunross waited a moment and breezily repeated the result in Cantonese, the crowd more docile, their pent-up anxieties allayed, for the stewards' decision was final. "Second, the stewards have decided, due to the weather and bad conditions, to cancel the rest of the meet…" A vast groan went over the crowd. "… actually to postpone until next Saturday for another special meet." A sudden great roar and excitement picked up. "We will have a meet of eight races and the fifth will be the same as today, with the same runners, Pilot Fish, Butterscotch Lass, Winning Billy, Street Vendor, Golden Lady, Lochinvar and Noble Star. A special return challenge with double stakes, 30,000 added. . . ."

Cheers and more cheers, applause and roars and someone in the booth said, "Christ what a great idea, tai-pan! Noble Star'll take that black bastard!"

"Oh no he won't! Butterscotch . . ."

"Great idea, tai-pan."

Into the mike Dunross said, "The stewards appreciate your continued support." He repeated it in Cantonese, adding, "There will be a further special announcement in a few minutes. Thank you!" in both languages.

Another huge cheer and those in the rain scurried for cover or for the winning windows, everyone chattering, groaning, cursing the gods or blessing them, choking the exits, long lines of men, women and children seeking the long way home, a wonderful new happiness possessing them. Only those who possessed the winning double quinella numbers, eight and five in the second, one and seven in the fifth, stood paralyzed, staring at the tote, waiting for the winning odds to be declared.

"Another announcement, tai-pan?" the announcer asked anxiously.

"Yes," Dunross said. "Around five." Havergill had told him that the deal with Richard Kwang had been struck and had asked him to go to the Victoria box as soon as possible. He reached the exit door and went down the steps three at a time to the next level, very pleased with himself. Giving the race to Pilot Fish's got to throw Gornt, he thought. Gornt knew and I knew it was a carve-up and that Alexi was set up whatever he did—which is the major reason I didn't ride. They'd've tried it on me and I would have killed someone. But next Saturday… ah, next Saturday I'll ride and Bluey White won't dare, nor will the other trainers, next Saturday'll be fair game and they'll be on notice by God. His excitement picked up a beat. Then ahead in the crowded corridor he saw Murtagh waiting for him. ,

"Oh tai-pan, can I se—"

"Of course." Dunross led him through the kitchen into his private room.

"That was a great race. I won a bundle," the young man said excitedly, "and great about Saturday."

"Good." Then Dunross noticed the sweat on the man's forehead. Oh Christ, he thought. "Are we in business, Mr. Murtagh?"

"Please call me Dave, the brass said, er, they said maybe. They've scheduled a board meeting for tomorrow, 9:00 A.M. their time. Our time that's . . ."

"10:00 P.M. this evening. Yes. Excellent, Mr. Murtagh, then call me on this number." Dunross wrote it down. "Please don't lose it and don't give it to anyone else."

"Oh, of course, tai-pan, I'll call the very moment . . . How late can I call?"

"The moment you put the phone down to them. Keep calling till you get me." Dunross got up. "Sorry but there's rather a lot to do."

"Oh sure, sure!" Murtagh added uneasily, "Say, tai-pan, I just heard about the 2 million down on the General Stores tender. 2 million from us by 9:30 Monday's gotta be kinda pushing it."

"I rather expected it would be—for your group. Fortunately, Mr. Murtagh, I never planned on that modest amount of cash being your money. I know First Central is inclined to be like the mills of God —they grind slowly—unless they wish to remove themselves from the arena," he added, remembering many friends who had been hurt by their precipitous withdrawal years back. "Not to worry, my new external source of credit's more th—" "What?" Murtagh blanched.

"My new external source of finance reacts at once to any sudden business opportunities, Mr. Murtagh. This took them just eight minutes. They seem to have more confidence than your principals." "Hell, tai-pan, please call me Dave, it's not lack of confidence but, well, they've no idea of Asia. I've got to convince them the General Stores takeover's got to double your gross in three years."

"In one," Dunross interrupted firmly, enjoying himself. "So sorry your group won't share in our huge profits from that minor section of our immense expansion plans. Do have some tea in the box, sorry, I just have to make a phone call." He took Murtagh's elbow and firmly led him out of the door, shutting it after him.

In the kitchen Murtagh was staring at the closed door, the happy clatter of plates and Cantonese obscenities from the twenty cooks and helpers a vast din. "Jesus," he muttered in near panic, "eight minutes? Shit, are the goddamn Swiss horning in on our client?" He tottered away.

Inside the room Dunross was on his private phone, listening to the ringing tone. 'Weyyyyy?"

"Mr. Tip please," he said carefully in Cantonese. "This is Mr. Dunross calling."

He heard the phone put down with a clatter and the amah shriek, "It's the phone! For you, Father!"

"Who is it?"

"A foreign devil."

Dunross smiled.

"Hello?"

"Ian Dunross, Mr. Tip. I was just concerned that your illness wasn't worse."

"Ah, ah, yes, so sorry I could not arrive. Yes. I, I had some pressing business, you understand? Yes. Very pressing. Oh by the way, that was bad joss about Noble Star. I just heard on the wireless that Pilot Fish won by a nose after an objection. What was the objection?"

Patiently Dunross explained and answered questions about his General Stores takeover bid, delighted that that news had already reached him. If Tiptop, then all newspapers. Good, he thought, waiting Tiptop out but Tiptop outsmarted him. "Well, thank you for calling, tai-pan."

At once Dunross said, "It was my pleasure, oh by the way, confidentially, I understand it may well be possible that the police have discovered one of their underlings has made a mistake."

"Ah. I presume the mistake will be corrected immediately?"

"I would presume very soon, if the person concerned wishes to resign and take advantage of permission to travel abroad."

"How soon might very soon be, tai-pan?"

Dunross was picking his words carefully, deliberately vague though formal now. "There are certain formalities, but it is possible that it could be quickly achieved. Unfortunately VIPs have to be consulted elsewhere. I'm sure you understand."

"Certainly. But the mighty dragon is no match for the native serpent, heya? I understand there is one of your VVIPs already in Hong Kong. A Mr, Sinders?"

Dunross blinked at the extent of Tiptop's knowledge. "I have certain approvals already," he said, disquieted.

"I would have thought very few approvals were necessary. True gold fears no fire."

"Yes. Is there somewhere I could call you this evening—to report progress?"

"This number will find me. Please call me at 9:00 P.M." Tiptop's voice became even drier. "I understand it might well be possible that your last suggestion about banking might be serviced. Of course any bank would need proper documentation to secure an immediate half billion Hong Kong dollars in cash, but I hear that the Victoria's chop, the governor's chop and yours would be all that's required to secure the loan for thirty days. This . . . minor amount of cash is ready, for a limited time, whenever the correct procedures are entered into. Until that time this matter is confidential, very strictly confidential."

"Of course."

"Thank you for calling."

Dunross put the phone down and wiped his palms. "For a limited time" was branded on his mind. He knew, and he knew Tiptop knew he understood that the two "procedures" were absolutely interlinked but not necessarily. Christ Jesus I love Asia, he thought happily as he rushed off.

The corridors were filled, many people already crowding the elevators to go home. He peered into his box, caught Gavallan's eye. "Andrew, go down to the members' stand and get hold of Roger Crosse—he's there with a fellow called Sinders. Ask them if they've a moment to join me in my box! Hurry!"

Gavallan took off. Dunross hurried along the corridor past the betting windows.

"Tai-pan!" Casey called out. "Sorry about Noble Star! Did y—"

"Be back in a minute, Casey. Sorry, can't stop!" Dunross called back on the run. He noticed Gornt at the winning window but it did not take away his happiness. First things first, he thought. "How do you want the 10,000? Our bet?"

"Cash will do very nicely, thank you," Gornt said.

"I'll send it around later."

"Monday will do just as well."

"Later tonight. Monday I'll be busy." Dunross walked off with a polite nod.

In the packed Victoria box the uproar was the same as everywhere. Drinks, laughter, excitement and some cursing about Pilot Fish but already wagers were being placed on next Saturday's race. As Dunross came in there were more cheers, condolences and another volley of questions. He fielded them all casually and one from Martin Haply who was jammed beside the door with

Adryon.

"Oh, Father, what rotten luck about Noble Star. I lost my shirt and my month's allowance!"

Dunross grinned. "Young ladies shouldn't bet! Hello, Haply!"

"Can I ask ab—"

"Later. Adryon darling, don't forget cocktails. You're hostess."

"Oh yes, we'll be there. Father, can you advance me my next mon—"

"Certainly," Dunross said to her astonishment, gave her a hug and pushed his way over to Havergill, Richard Kwang nearby.

"Hello, Ian," Havergill said. "Bad luck, but clearly Pilot Fish had the edge."

"Yes, yes he did. Hello, Richard." Dunross gave him the copy of the photo finish. "Damned bad luck for both of us." Others crowded to see it.

"Good God, by a whisker . . ."

"I thought Noble Star . . ."

Taking advantage of the diversion Dunross bent closer to Haver-gill. "Is everything signed?"

"Yes. 20 cents on the dollar. He agreed to and signed the provisional papers. Formal papers by the end of the week. Of course the rotter tried to wheedle but it's all signed."

"Marvelous. You did a terrific deal."

Havergill nodded. "Yes. Yes, I know."

Richard Kwang turned around. "Ah, tai-pan." He dropped his voice and whispered, "Has Paul told you about the merger?"

"Of course. May I offer congratulations."

"Congratulations?" Southerby echoed, coming up to them. "Damned bad luck if you ask me! I had my bundle on Butterscotch Lass!"

The tempo of the room picked up as the governor came in. Havergill went to meet him, Dunross following. "Ah, Paul, Ian. Damned bad luck but an excellent decision! Both of them." His face hardened nicely. "Ne'xt Saturday will certainly be a needle match."

"Yes sir."

"Paul, you wanted to make a formal announcement?"

"Yes sir." Havergill raised his voice. "May I have your attention please …" No one took any notice until Dunross took a spoon and banged it against a teapot. Gradually there was silence. "Your Excellency, ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor to announce, on behalf of the directors of the Victoria Bank of Hong Kong and China, that an immediate merger has been arranged with the great Ho-Pak Bank of Hong Kong …" Martin Haply dropped his glass. ". . . and that the Victoria totally guarantees 100 percent of all Ho-Pak depositors and . . ."

The rest was drowned out with a great cheer. Guests in the nearby boxes craned over the balconies to see what was happening. The news was shouted across as others came in from the corridors and soon there were more cheers.

Havergill was besieged with questions and he held up his hand, delighted with the effect of his announcement. In the silence Sir Geoffrey said quickly, "I must say, on behalf of Her Majesty's

Government, that this is marvelous news, Paul, good for Hong Kong, good for the bank, good for you, Richard, and the Ho-Pak!"

"Oh yes, Sir Geoffrey," Richard Kwang said, jovial and loud, sure that now he was a giant step nearer his knighthood. "I decided—of course with our directors—I decided it would be good for the Victoria to have a major foothold in the Chinese community an—"

Hastily Havergill interrupted and overrode him. "Richard, perhaps I'd better finish the formal announcement and leave the details to our press conference." He glanced at Martin Haply. "We have scheduled a formal press conference for Monday at noon but all details of the, er, merger have been agreed. Isn't that so, Richard?"

Richard Kwang began to make another variation but quickly changed his mind, seeing both Dunross's and Havergill's look. "Er, yes, yes," he said but could not resist adding, "I'm delighted to be partners with the Victoria."

Haply called out quickly, "Excuse me, Mr. Havergill, may I ask a question?"

"Of course," Havergill said affably, well aware of what he would be asked. This bastard Haply has to go, he thought, one way or another.

"May I ask, Mr. Havergill, how you propose to pay out all the Ho-Pak customers and yours, Blacs and all the other banks when there's a run on all of them and not enough cash in the till?"

"Rumors, rumors, Mr. Haply," Havergill replied airily and added to laughter, "Remember: A swarm of mosquitoes can create a noise like thunder! Hong Kong's economy has never been stronger. As to the so-called run on the Ho-Pak, that's over. The Victoria guarantees the Ho-Pak's depositors, guarantees the Struan-General Stores takeover and guarantees to be in business for the next hundred and twenty years."

"But Mr. Havergill, would you ans—"

"Not to worry, Mr. Haply. Let's leave the details of our … our benevolent umbrella for the Ho-Pak till our press conference on Monday." At once he turned to the governor. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll make it public." There were more cheers as he started through the crush toward the door.

Someone began singing, "For he's a jolly good fellow …" Everyone joined in. The noise became deafening. Dunross said to Richard

Kwang in Cantonese, quoting an old expression, " 'When it is enough, stop.' Heya?"

"Ah, ah yes. Yes, tai-pan. Yes indeed." The banker smiled a sickly smile, understanding the threat, reminding himself of his good fortune, that Venus Poon would certainly kowtow now that he was an important director on the board of the Victoria. His smile broadened. "You're right, tai-pan. 'Inside the red doors there is much waste of meat and wine!' My expertise will greatly benefit our bank, heya?" He went off importantly.

"My God, what a day!" Johnjohn muttered.

"Yes, yes, marvelous! Johnjohn, old fellow," McBride said, "you must be very proud of Paul."

"Yes, of course." Johnjohn was watching Havergill leave.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Oh yes, I was just working late." Johnjohn had been up most of the night estimating how they could safely effect the takeover, safely for the bank and for the Ho-Pak depositors. He had been the architect and this morning he had spent more wearisome hours trying to convince Havergill that now was the time to be innovative. "We can do it, Paul, and create such a resurgence of confid—"

"And a very dangerous precedent! I don't think your idea's as important as you imagine!"

It was only when Havergill had seen the enormous and immediate gain in confidence after Dunross's dramatic announcement that he had reconsidered. Never mind, Johnjohn thought wearily, we're all gainers. The bank, Hong Kong, the Ho-Pak. Certainly we'll do very well for their investors, stockholders and backers, far better than Richard! When I'm tai-pan I'll use the Ho-Pak as a pattern for future bail-outs. With our new management the Ho-Pak will be a marvelous asset. Like any one of a dozen enterprises. Even like Struan's!

Johnjohn's tiredness vanished. His smile broadened. Oh hurry up, Monday—when the market opens!

In the Struan box Peter Marlowe was gloomily leaning on the rail, watching the crowds below. Rain cascaded off the jutting overhang protecting the boxes. The three cantilever balconies of the members and nonvoting members were not so protected. Bedraggled horses were being led down the ramps, bedraggled grooms joining the bedraggled thousands streaming away.

"What's up, Peter?" Casey asked.

"Oh nothing."

"Not Fleur, no problem there I hope?"

"No."

"Was it Grey? I saw you both having at it."

"No, no it wasn't Grey, though he's a pain, ill-mannered and stridently anti-everything of value." Marlowe smiled curiously. "We were just discussing the weather."

"Sure. You were looking depressed as hell just then. You lost the fifth?"

"Yes, but it wasn't that. I'm ahead, well ahead on the day." The tall man hesitated then motioned at the boxes and all around. "It's just that I was thinking that there're fifty thousand-odd Chinese here and another three or four million out there, and each one's got a vast heritage, marvelous secrets, and fantastic stories to tell, to say nothing of the twenty-odd thousand Europeans, high and low, the tai-pans, the pirates, freebooters, accountants, shopkeepers, government people here— why did they choose Hong Kong too? And I know that however much I try, however much I read or listen or ask, I'll never really know very much about Hong Kong Chinese or about Hong Kong. Never. I'll only ever scratch the surface."

She laughed. "It's the same everywhere."

"Oh no, no it isn't. This's the potpourri of Asia. Take that guy —the one in the third box over—the rotund Chinese. He's a millionaire many times over. His wife's a kleptomaniac so whenever she goes out he has his people follow her secretly and every time she steals something, his fellows pay for it. All the stores know her and him and it's all very civilized—where else in the world would you do that? His father was a coolie and his father a highwayman and his a Mandarin and his a peasant. One of the men near him's another multimillionaire, opium and illegal stuff into China, and his wife's … ah well, that's another story." "What story?"

He laughed. "Some wives have stories just as fascinating as their husbands, sometimes more so. One of the wives you met today, she's a nympho an—"

"Oh come on, Peter! It's like Fleur says, you're making it all up." "Perhaps. Oh yes, but some Chinese ladies are just as … just as predatory as any ladies on earth, on the quiet." "Chauvinist! You're sure?"

"Rumor has it. . ." They laughed together. "Actually they're so much smarter than we are, the Chinese. I'm told the few Chinese married ladies here who have a wandering eye usually prefer a European for a lover, for safety—Chinese adore gossip, love scandal, and it'd be rare to find a Chinese swinger who'd be able to keep such a secret or protect a lady's honor. Rightly, the lady would be afraid. To be caught would be very bad, very bad indeed. Chinese law's quite strict." He took out a cigarette. "Maybe that makes it all the more exciting."

"To have a lover?"

He watched her, pondering what she would say if he told her her nickname—whispered gleefully to him by four separate Chinese friends. "Oh yes, ladies here get around, some of them. Look over there, in that box—the fellow holding forth wearing a blazer. He wears a green hat—that's a Chinese expression meaning he's a cuckold, that his wife's got a lover, actually in her case it was a Chinese friend of his."

"Green hat?"

"Yes. Chinese are marvelous! They have such a terrific sense of humor. That fellow took out an ad in one of the Chinese papers some months ago that said, 'I know I wear a green hat but the wife of the man who gave it to me had two of his sons by other men!' "

Casey stared at him. "You mean he signed his name to it?"

"Oh yes. It was a pun on one of his names, but everyone of importance knew who it was."

"Was it true?"

Peter Marlowe shrugged. "It doesn't matter. The other fellow's nose was neatly out of joint and his wife got hell."

"That's not fair, not fair at all."

"In her case it was."

"What did she do?"

"Had two sons by anoth—"

"Oh come on, Mr. Storyteller!"

"Hey look, there's Doc Tooley!"

She searched the course below, then saw him. "He doesn't look happy at all."

"I hope Travkin's all right. I heard Tooley went to examine him."

"That was some spill."

"Yes. Terrible."

Both had been subjected to Tooley's searching questions about their health, knowing the specter of typhus, perhaps cholera, and certainly hepatitis still hung over them.

"Joss!" Peter Marlowe had said firmly.

"Joss!" she had echoed, trying not to be worried about Line. It's worse for a man, she thought, remembering what Tooley had said: Hepatitis can mess up your liver—and your life, forever, if you're a man.

After a moment she said, "People here do seem to be more exciting, Peter. Is that because of Asia?"

"Probably. The mores are so different. And here in Hong Kong we collect the cream. I think Asia's the center of the world and Hong Kong the nucleus." Peter Marlowe waved to someone in another box who waved at Casey. "There's another admirer of yours."

"Lando? He is a fascinating man."

Casey had spent time with him between races.

"You must come to Macao, Miss Tcholok. Perhaps we could have dinner tomorrow. Would 7:30 be convenient?" Mata had said with his marvelous old world charm and Casey had got the message very quickly.

During lunch Dunross had warned her a little about him. "He's a good fellow, Casey," the tai-pan had said delicately. "But here, for a quai loh stranger, particularly someone as beautiful as you, on a first trip to Asia, well it's sometimes better to remember that being over eighteen isn't always enough."

"Got you, tai-pan," she had told him with a laugh. But this afternoon she had allowed herself to be mesmerized by Mata, in the safety of the tai-pan's box. Alone, her defenses would be up as she knew they would be tomorrow evening: "It depends, Lando," she had said, "dinner would be fine. It depends what time I get back from the boat trip—I don't know if it's weather permitting or not."

"With whom are you going? The tai-pan?"

"Just friends."

"Ah. Well, if not Sunday, my dear, perhaps we could make it Monday. There are a number of business opportunities for you, here or in Macao, for you and Mr. Bartlett if you wish, and Par-Con. May I call you at seven tomorrow to see if you are free?"

I can deal with him, one way or another, she reassured herself, the thought warming her, though I'll watch the wine and maybe even the water in case of the old Mickey Finn.

"Peter, the men here, the ones on the make—are they into Mickey Finns?"

His eyes narrowed. "You mean Mata?" "No, just generally."

"I doubt if a Chinese or Eurasian would give one to a guai loh if that's what you're asking." A frown creased him. "I'd say you'd have to be fairly circumspect though, with them and with Europeans. Of course, to be blunt, you'd be high on their list. You have what it takes to send most of them into an orgiastic faint."

"Thanks much!" She leaned on the balcony, enjoying the compliment. I wish Line were here. Be patient. "Who's that?" she asked. "The old man leering at the young girl? Down on the first balcony. Look, he's got his hand on her butt!"

"Ah, that's one of our local pirates—Four Finger Wu. The girl's Venus Poon, a local TV star. The youth talking to them is his nephew. Actually the rumor is that he's a son. The fellow's got a Harvard business degree and a U.S. passport and he's as smart as a whip. Old Four Fingers is another multimillionaire, rumored to be a smuggler, gold and anything, with one official wife, three cones of various ages and now he's after Venus Poon. She was Richard Kwang's current. Was. But perhaps now with the Victoria takeover she'll dump Four Fingers and go back to him. Four Fingers lives on a rotten old Aberdeen junk and hoards his enormous wealth. Ah, look there! The wrinkled old man and woman the tai-pan's talking to."

She followed his glance to the next box but one. "That's Shitee T'Chung's box," he said. "Shitee's a direct de-scendent of May-may and Dirk through their son Duncan. Did the tai-pan ever show you Dirk's portraits?"

"Yes." A small shiver touched her as she remembered the Hag's knife jammed through the portrait of her father, Tyler Brock. She considered telling him about it but decided not to. "There's a great likeness," she said.

"There certainly is! Wish I could see the Long Gallery. Anyway, that old couple he's talking to live in a tenement, a two-room, sixth-floor walk-up over in Glessing's Point. They own a huge block of Struan stock. Every year before each annual board meeting, the tai-pan, whoever he is, has to go cap in hand to ask for the right to vote the stock. It's always granted, that was part of the original agreement, but he still has to go personally."

"Why's that?"

"Face. And because of the Hag." A flicker of a smile. "She was a great lady, Casey. Oh how I would like to have met her! During the Boxer revolt in 1899-1900, when China was in another of her conflagrations, the Noble House had all its possessions in Peking, Tiensin, Foochow and Canton wiped out by the Boxer terrorists who were more or less sponsored and certainly encouraged by Tz'u Hsi, the old dowager empress. They called themselves the Righteous Harmonious Fists and their battle cry was 'Protect the Ch'ing and kill all foreign devils!' Let's face it, the European powers and Japan had pretty much partitioned China. Anyway, the Boxers fell on all foreign business houses, settlements, the unprotected areas, and obliterated them. The Noble House was in terrible straits. At that time the nominal tai-pan was again old Sir Lochlin Struan—he was Robb Struan's last son, born with a withered arm. He was tai-pan after Culum. The Hag had appointed him when he was eighteen, just after Culum died—then again after Dirk Dunross—and she'd kept him tied to her apron strings till he died in 1915 at the age of seventy-two."

"Where do you get all this information, Peter?"

"I make it up," he said grandly. "In any event, the Hag needed a lot of money fast. Gornt's grandfather had bought up a lot of Struan's paper and he had lowered the boom. There was no normal source of finance, nowhere she could borrow, for all Asia—all the hongs—were equally in turmoil. But that fellow's father, the father of the one the tai-pan's talking to, was the King of the Beggars in Hong Kong. Begging used to be a huge business here. Anyway, this man came to see her, so the story goes. 'I come to buy a fifth part of the Noble House,' this man said with great dignity, 'is it for sale? I offer 200,000 taels of silver,' which was exactly the amount she needed to redeem her paper. For face they haggled and he settled for a tenth, 10 percent—an incredibly fair deal—both knowing that he could have had 30 or 40 percent for the same amount because by that time the Hag was desperate. He required no contract other than her chop and her promise that once a year she, or the tai-pan, would come to him or his descendents wherever he or they lived, to ask for the vote of the stock. 'So long as the tai-pan asks—the voting power is given.'

" 'But why, Honorable King of the Beggars? Why save me from my enemies?' she asked.

" 'Because your grandfather, old Green-Eyed Devil, once saved my grandfather's face and helped him become the first King of the Beggars of Hong Kong.' " Casey sighed. "Do you believe that, Peter?" "Oh yes." He looked out at Happy Valley. "Once this was all a malarial swamp. Dirk cleaned that up too." He puffed his cigarette. "One day I'll write about Hong Kong." "If you continue to smoke you'll never write anything." "Point well taken. Okay, I'll stop. Now. For today. Because you're pretty." He stubbed the cigarette out. Another smile, different. "Eeeee, but I could tell some stories about lots of the people you met today. I won't, that's not fair, not right. I can never tell the real stories, though I know lots!" She laughed with him, letting her eyes wander from the strange old couple down to the other stands. Involuntarily she gasped. Sitting in the lee of the members' balcony she saw Orlanda. Line was with her. He was very close. Both were very happy together, that was easy to see, even from this distance. "What's th—" Peter Marlowe began, then he saw them too. "Oh! Not to worry."

After a pause she took her eyes away. "Peter, that favor. May I ask for that favor, now?" "What do you want as a favor?" "I want to know about Orlanda." "To destroy her?"

"For protection. Protection for Line against her." "Perhaps he doesn't want to be protected, Casey." "I swear I'll never use it unless I honest to God feel it's necessary."

The tall man sighed. "Sorry," he said with great compassion, "but nothing I could tell you about her would give you or Line protection. Nothing to destroy her or make her lose face. Even if I could I wouldn't, Casey. That really wouldn't be cricket. Would it?"

"No, but I'm still asking." She stared back at him, forcing the issue. "You said a favor. I came when you needed a hand. I need a hand now. Please."

He watched her a long time. "What do you know about her?" She told him what she had learned—about Gornt supporting Orlanda, Macao, about the child.

"Then you know everything I know, except perhaps that you should be sorry for her."

"Why?"

"Because she's Eurasian, alone, Gornt her only support and that's as precarious as anything in the world. She's living on a knife edge. She's young, beautiful and deserves a future. Here there's none for her."

"Except Line?"

"Except Line or someone like him." Peter Marlowe's eyes were slate color. "Perhaps that wouldn't be so bad from his point of view."

"Because she's Asian and I'm not?"

Again the curious smile. "Because she's a woman and so are you but you hold all the cards, and the only real thing you have to decide is if you really want that war."

"Level with me, Peter, please. I'm asking. What's your advice? I'm running scared—there, I'll admit it to you. Please?"

"All right, but this isn't the favor I owe you," he said. "Rumor has it you and Line are not lovers though you obviously love him. Rumor has it you've been together for six or seven years in close proximity but with no … no formal contact. He's a terrific fellow, you're a terrific lady and you'd make a great couple. The key word is couple, Casey. Maybe you want money and power and Par-Con more than you do him. That's your problem. I don't think you can have both."

"Why not?"

"It seems to me you choose Par-Con and power and riches and no Bartlett, other than as a friend—or you become Mrs. Line Bart-lett and behave and love and be the kind of woman there's no doubt in hell Orlanda would be. Either way you have to be a hundred percent—you and Line are both too strong and probably have tested each other too many times to be fooled. He's been divorced once, so he's on guard. You're over the age of a Juliet blindness so you're equally on guard."

"Are you a psychiatrist too?"

He laughed. "No, nor a father-confessor, though I like to know about people and like to listen but not to lecture and never to give advice—that's the most thankless task in the world." "So there's no compromise?"

"I don't think so, but then I'm not you. You have your own karma. Irrespective of Orlanda—if it's not her it'll be another woman, better or worse, prettier though maybe not, because win, lose or draw, Orlanda's quality and has what it takes to make a man content, happy, alive as a man. Sorry, I don't mean to be chauvinistic, but since you asked, I'd advise you to make up your mind quickly."

Gavallan hurried into Shitee PChung's box and joined the tai-pan. "Afternoon," he said politely to the old couple. "Sorry, tai-pan, Crosse and the other fellow you wanted had already left."

"Blast!" Dunross thought a second, then excused himself and walked out with Gavallan. "You're coming to the cocktail party?"

"Yes, if you want me there—afraid I'm not very good company."

"Let's go in here a second." Dunross led the way into his private room. Tea was laid out and a bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket.

"Celebration?" Gavallan asked.

"Yes. Three things: the General Stores takeover, the Ho-Pak rescue and the dawn of the new era."

"Oh?"

"Yes." Dunross began to open the bottle. "For instance you: I want you to leave for London Monday evening with the children." Gavallan's eyes widened but he said nothing. "I want you to check on Kathy, see her specialist, then take her and the kids to Castle Avisyard. I want you to take over Avisyard for six months, perhaps a year or two. Six months certain—take over the whole of the east wing." Gavallan gasped. "You're going to head up a new division, very secret, secret from Alastair, my father, every member of the family including David. Secret from everyone except me."

"What division?" Gavallan's excitement and happiness showed.

"There's a fellow I want you to get close to tonight, Andrew. Jamie Kirk. His wife's a bit of a bore but invite them to Avisyard. I want you to slide into Scotland, particularly Aberdeen. I want you to buy property, but very quietly: factory areas, wharfage, potential airfields, heliports near the docks. Are there docks there?"

"Christ, tai-pan, I don't know. I've never been there."

"Nor have I."

"Eh?"

Dunross laughed at the look on Gavallan's face. "Not to worry. Your initial budget is a million pounds sterling."

"Christ, where the hell's a million coming fr—"

"Never mind!" Dunross twisted the cork and held it, deadening the explosion neatly. He poured the pale, oh so dry wine. "You've a million sterling to commit in the next six months. A further 5 million sterling over the next two years."

Gavallan was gaping at him openly.

"In that time I want the Noble House, oh so quietly, to become the power in Aberdeen, with the best land, best influence on the town councils. I want you laird of Aberdeen—and as far west as Inverness and south to Dundee. In two years. All right?"

"Yes but …" Gavallan stopped helplessly. All his life he had wanted to quit Asia. Kathy and the children too, but it had never been possible or even considered. Now Dunross had given him Utopia and he could not take it all in. "But why?"

"Talk to Kirk, beguile his wife, and remember, laddie, a closed mouth." Dunross gave him a glass and took one for himself. "Here's to Scotland, the new era and our new fief." Then he added in his most secret heart, And here's to the North Sea! All gods bear witness: The Noble House is implementing Contingency Plan One.

67

5:50 P.M. :

The stands were empty now but for the cleaners, most of the boxes dark. Rain cascaded from the sky, a solid sheet of water. It was near twilight. Traffic was snarled all around the racecourse. The thousands plodded homeward, sodden but light of heart. Next Saturday was another race day and another fifth race and oh oh oh, another challenge and this time the tai-pan will surely ride Noble Star and perhaps Black Beard will ride Pilot Fish and those two devil guai loh will kill themselves for our amusement.

A Rolls going out of the members' entrance splashed some of the pedestrians and they shouted a barrage of obscenities but none of the Chinese really minded. One day I'll have one of those, everyone thought. All I need's just a little fornicating joss. Just a little joss next Saturday and I'll have enough to buy some land or an apartment to rent out, to barter against a piece of a high rise, to mortgage against an acre of Central. Eeee, how I'll enjoy riding in my Rolls with a lucky number plate like that one! Did you see who it was? Taximan Tok who seven years ago drove a bo-pi, an illegal taxi, and found 10,000 HK on his backseat one day and hid it for five years till the statute of limitations had passed, then invested it in the stock market in the boom of three years ago to immense profit then took the profit and bought apartments. Eeee, the boom! Remember what Old Blind Tung wrote in his column about the coming boom! But what about the stock market crash and all the bank runs?

Ayeeyah, that's all over! Didn't you hear the astounding news? Great Bank is taking over the Ho-Pak and standing good for all Banker Kwang's debts. Did you hear about the Noble House buying General Stores? Both such good pieces of news announced on race day. That's never happened before! It's odd! Very odd! You don't think . . . Fornicate all Gods! Is it all a foul ploy of those dirty foreign devils to manipulate the market to steal our rightful profits? Oh oh oh, I agree! Yes, it must be a foul plot! It's too much fornicating coincidence! Oh those cunning awful barbarians! Thank all gods I realized it so I can prepare! Now what should I do. . .

As they all headed for home their minds were consumed with growing excitement. Most were poorer than when they came to the track, but a few were much richer. Spectacles Wu, the police constable from the East Aberdeen Police station, was one of those. Crosse had allowed him to go to the races though he had to be back by 6:15 P.M. when the client was due to be interviewed again, Spectacles Wu there as interpreter for the Ning-tok dialect. The young man shivered and his Secret Sack chilled at the thought of how quickly the great Brian Kwok had babbled his innermost secrets.

Ayeeyah, he thought, filled with superstitious dread. These pink barbarians are truly devils who can twist us civilized people as they wish and send us mad. But if I become SI that'll protect me and give me some of their secrets, and with those secrets and other foreign devil secrets I will become an ancestor!

He began to beam. His joss had changed ever since he had caught that old amah. Today the gods had favored him greatly. He had forecast one quinella, the daily double and three place horses, each time reinvesting all his winnings and now he was 5,753 HK richer. His plan for the money was already settled. He would finance Fifth Uncle to buy a used plastic molding machine to begin a plastic flower factory in return for 51 percent, another 1,000 would pay for the construction of two dwellings in the resettlement to be rented and the last 1,000 would be for next Saturday!

A Mercedes sounded its horn deafeningly, making him jump. Spectacles Wu recognized one of the men in the back: the man Rosemont, the CIA barbarian with limitless funds to spend. So naive, they are, the Americans, he thought. Last year when his relations had poured over the border in the exodus, he had sent them all down to the consulate on a roster basis, every month a different name and different story, to join the constant and evergrowing band of rice Christians or, to be more exact, rice non-Communists. It was easy to get free meals and handouts from the U.S. Consulate. All you had to do was to pretend to be frightened and say, nervously, that you had just come over the border, that you were staunchly against Chairman Mao and that in your village the Communists did such and such a terrible thing. The Americans would be happy to hear about PRC troop movements, real or imagined. Oh how quickly they would write it all down and ask for more. Any information, any stupid piece of information you could pick up if you could read a newspaper was to them—if whispered with rolling eyes—very valuable.

Three months ago Spectacles Wu had had a brainstorm. Now, with four members of his clan, one of whom was originally a journalist on a Communist newspaper in Canton, Spectacles Wu had offered—but through trusted intermediaries so he and his relations could not be traced—to supply Rosemont with a monthly undercover report, an intelligence pamphlet, code name "Freedom Fighter," on conditions across the Bamboo Curtain in and around Canton. To prove the espionage quality Spectacles Wu had offered to supply the first two editions free—to catch a mighty tiger it is good business to sacrifice a stolen lamb. If these were considered acceptable to the CIA, the fee would be 1,000 HK each for the next three, and if these were equally valuable, then a new contract would be negotiated for a year of reports.

The first two had been so highly praised that an immediate deal was struck for five reports at 2,000 HK each. Next week they were to get their first fee. Oh how they had congratulated themselves. The content of the reports was culled from thirty Canton newspapers that came down on the daily Canton train that also brought pigs and poultry and foods of all kinds and could be purchased without effort in Wanchai paper shops. All they had had to do was to read them meticulously and copy the articles, after removing the Communist dialectic: articles about crops, building, economics, Party appointments, births, deaths, sentences, extortions and local color—anything they considered of interest. Spectacles Wu translated the stories the others picked.

He felt a huge wave of pleasure. Freedom Fighter had enormous potential. Their costs were almost nil. "But sometimes we must be careful to make a few mistakes," Spectacles Wu had told them, "and occasionally we must miss a month—'we regret our agent in Canton was assassinated for giving away State secrets . . .' " Oh yes. And soon, when I'm a full member of SI and a trained espionage agent, I'll know better how to present the press information to the CIA. Perhaps we'll expand and experiment with a report from Peking, another from Shanghai. We can get day-old Peking and Shanghai papers equally with no trouble and very little investment. Thank all gods for American curiosity!

A taxi honked as it splashed past. He stopped a moment to allow it to pass, then shoved through, careless of the cursing, honking and noise alongside the tall fence that skirted the stadium. He glanced at his watch. He had plenty of time. Headquarters was not far away.

The rain became heavier but he did not feel it, the warmth of winnings in his pocket lightening his footsteps. He squared his shoulders. Be strong, be wise, he ordered himself. Tonight I must be alert. Perhaps they will ask my opinion. I know the Communist Superintendent Brian Kwok is a liar here and there and exaggerating. And as to atomics, what's so important about that? Of course the Middle Kingdom has its own atomics. Any fool knows what's been going on for years in Sinkiang near the shores of Lake Bos-teng-hu. And of course, soon we'll have our own rockets and satellites. Of course! Are we not civilized? Did we not invent gunpowder and rockets but discard them millennia ago as barbaric?

Throughout the stadium on the other side of the fence, women cleaners raked up the sodden leavings of the thousands, patiently sifting the rubbish carefully for a lost coin or ring, fountain pen or bottles that were worth a single copper cash. Crouched beside a pile of garbage cans in the lee of the rain was a man.

"Come on, old fellow, you can't sleep there," a woman cleaner said, not unkindly, shaking him. "It's time to go home!" The old man's eyes fluttered open for an instant, he began to get up but stopped, gave out a great sigh and subsided like a rag doll.

"Ayeeyah," One Tooth Yang muttered. She had seen enough of death throughout her seventy years to recognize its finality. "Hey, Younger Sister," she called out politely to her friend and second member of her team. "Come over here! This old man's dead."

Her friend was sixty-four, bent and lined but equally strong and also Shanghainese. She came out of the rain and peered down. "He looks like a beggar."

"Yes. We'd better tell the foreman." One Tooth Yang knelt and carefully went through his ragged pockets. There were 3 HK in change, nothing else. "That's not much," she said. "Never mind." She divided the coins equally. Over the years they had always divided what they found.

"What's that in his left hand?" the other woman asked. One Tooth bent the clawlike hand open. "Just some tickets." She peered at them, then held them close to her eyes and flicked through them. "It's the double quinella …" she began, then suddenly cackled, "Eeee, the poor fool got the first leg and lost the second … he chose Butterscotch Lass!" Both women laughed hysterically at the mischief of the gods.

"That must have sent the poor old ancient into the seizure—it would me! Ayeeyah, to be so close and yet so far, Elder Sister."

"Joss." One Tooth Yang cackled again and tossed the tickets into a garbage can. "Gods are gods and men are men but eee, I can imagine the old fellow dying. I would have too!" The two old women laughed again, the bad joss hurting them and the older one rubbed her chest to ease the pain. "Ayeeyah, I must get a physic. Go and tell the foreman about him. Younger Sister, eeee, but I'm tired tonight. Such bad joss, he was close to being a millionaire but now? Joss! Go tell the foreman. I'm tired tonight," she said again, leaning on her rake, her voice wavering.

The other woman went off marveling at the gods and how quickly they can give or take away—if they exist at all, she thought in passing. Ah joss!

Wearily One Tooth' Yang continued her work, her head aching, but the moment she was sure she was alone and unobserved she darted for the garbage can and frantically retrieved the tickets, her heart pounding like never in her whole life. Frantically she checked that her eyes had not deceived her and the numbers were correct. But there was no mistake. Each ticket was a winning ticket. Equally frantically she stuffed them in her pocket then made absolutely sure she had not left one carelessly in the rubbish. Quickly she piled more rubbish on top and lifted this can and dumped it into another, all the time her mind shrieking, Tomorrow I can redeem the tickets, I have three days to redeem them! Oh bless all gods, I'm rich I'm rich I'm rich! There must be a hundred or two hundred tickets and each a 5 HK ticket, each ticket pays 265 HK'… if there's a hundred tickets that's 26,500 HK, if two hundred tickets 53,000 HK. . . . Feeling faint, she squatted beside the corpse, leaning against the wall, not noticing it. She knew she dare not count the tickets now, there was no time. Every second was vital. She had to prepare. "Be cautious, old fool," she muttered aloud, then once more almost went into panic. Stop talking aloud! Be careful, you old fool, or Younger

Sister will suspect… Oh oh oh is she now telling the foreman what she suspects? Oh what shall I do? The joss is mine, I found the old man… ayeeyah, what shall I do? Perhaps they'll search me. If they see me in this state they're bound to suspect. . . .

Her head was pounding terribly and a wave of nausea went through her. Nearby were some toilets. She groped to her feet and hobbled over to them. Behind her, other cleaners were sifting and tidying up. Tomorrow they would all come again for there would still be plenty to do. Her own shift was due back at nine in the morning. In the empty toilet room she took out the tickets, her fingers trembling, wrapped them in a piece of rag and found a loose brick in the wall and put them behind the brick.

Once safely outside she began to breathe. When the foreman came back with the other old woman he peered down at the man, went through his pockets with great care and found a twist of silver paper they had missed. Within it was a pinch of White Powder. "It will bring 2 HK," he said, knowing it was worth 6.04 HK. "We will split it, 70 for me and 30 for you two." For face, One Tooth argued and they settled that he would try to get 3.10 HK for it, and would split it 60 to him and 40 to them. Satisfied, he went away.

When they were alone again the younger woman began to sift the garbage.

"What're you doing?" One Tooth asked.

"I just wanted to check those tickets, Elder Sister. Your eyes are not so good."

"Please yourself," One Tooth said with a shrug. "I've picked this lot clean. I'm going over there." Her gnarled finger pointed at an unnoticed new source of virgin rubbish under a row of seats. The other woman hesitated then followed and now One Tooth almost chortled with glee, knowing she was safe. Tomorrow I'll come back complaining of stomach sickness. I can retrieve my fortune and go home. Now what shall I do with my wealth?

First the down payment on two quai loh dancing dresses for Third Granddaughter in return for half her earnings in the first year. She'll make a fine whore in the Good Luck Dance Hall. Next, Second Son will stop being a coolie on the construction site up on Kotewall Road. He and Fifth Nephew and Second Grandson will become builders, and within the week we will put a down payment on a plot of land and begin to build a building . . .

"You seem very happy, Elder Sister."

"Oh yes I am, Younger Sister. My bones ache, the ague is with me as ever, my stomach is upset, but I am alive and that old man is dead. It is a lesson from the gods. All gods bear witness, when I first saw him, the first time, I thought it was my husband who died in our flight from Shanghai fifteen years ago. I thought I was seeing a ghost! My spirit almost left me for that old man was like his twin!"

"Ayeeyah, how horrible! How terrible! Ghosts! All gods protect us from ghosts!"

Oh yes, the old woman thought, ghosts're terrible. Now, where was I? Oh yes … 1,000 will go on the quinella next Saturday. And out of those winnings I will buy … I will buy myself a set of false teeth! Eeeee, how wonderful that will be, she wanted to cry out, almost fainting with suppressed pleasure. All her life, all her life since she was fourteen when a Manchu rifle butt had smashed out her teeth in one of the constant revolutions against the foreign Ch'ing Dynasty, she had been nicknamed One Tooth. Always she had hated her nickname. But now … oh gods bear witness! I will buy a set of teeth from my winnings next Saturday—and also I will buy and light two candles in the nearest temple in return for such good joss.

"I feel faint, Younger Sister," she said, really faint with near ecstasy. "Could you get me some water?"

The other woman went off grumbling. One Tooth sat down a moment and allowed herself a huge grin, her tongue feeling her gums. Eeeee, when I win, if I win heavily enough, I will have one gold tooth, right in the center, to remind me. Gold Tooth Yang, that has a nice sound to it, she thought, far too clever to mutter it aloud, even though she was completely alone. Yes, Honorable Gold Tooth Yang, of the Yang Constructions empire . . .

68

6:15 P.M. :

Suslev was hunched uncomfortably in the front of the small car belonging to Ernie Clinker and they were grinding up the hill. All the windows were steamed up, the rain even heavier. Mud and stones washing down from the steep hillsides made the road surface dangerous. Already they had passed two minor accidents.

"Cor, stone the crows, perhaps you'd better spend the night, old chum," Clinker said, driving with difficulty.

"No, not tonight," Suslev said irritably. "I already told you I promised Ginny and tonight's my last night." Ever since the raid, Suslev had been in a blinding rage, his rage fed by unaccustomed fear—fear of the summons to police HQ in the morning, fear of catastrophic repercussions from the intercepted decoded cable, fear of Center's probable displeasure over the loss of Voranski, being ordered out of Hong Kong, the destruction of their radio equipment, the Metkin affair and now K

"Not to worry, it's a routine request to appear, Gregor. Just a few questions about Voranski,– Metkin and so on," Crosse had said in a disguised voice.

"Kristos, what's the 'and so on'?"

"I don't know, Sinders ordered it, not me."

"You'd better cover me, Roger."

"You're covered. Listen, about this possible kidnapping, it's a very bad idea."

"They want it set up, so help Arthur make the arrangements, eh, please? Unless you can delay my departure, we will implement it when it is ordered."

"I recommend against it. This is my bailiwick and I rec—'

"Center approves and we will do it if it is ordered!" Suslev wanted to order Roger Crosse to shut up or else, but he was careful not to offend their best asset in Asia. "Can we meet tonight?"

"No, but I'll call you. How about four? At 10:30?" Four was their present code for 32 Sinclair Towers. 10:30 meant 9:30 P.M.

"Is that wise?"

He had heard that dry confident laugh. "Very wise. Would those fools come again? Of course it is wise. And I guarantee it!"

"All right. Arthur will be there. We should cement the plan."

Clinker swerved to avoid a taxi cutting in and he cursed, then ground the gears, peering through the windshield ahead, getting into motion again. On his side Suslev rubbed the condensation away. "God-cursed weather," he said, his mind elsewhere. What about Travkin? Stupid motherless turd to fall off after passing the winning post. I thought he'd won. Decadent fool! No real cossack'd ever get caught like that. So he's out now, him and his crippled old crone princess with the broken bones.

Now how do we entice Dunross to the apartment tomorrow instead of Tuesday as .Travkin had signaled. It has to be tonight or tomorrow. At the latest it must be tomorrow night. Arthur must arrange it or Roger. They are the keys to the Dunross plan.

And I must get those files—or Dunross—before I leave. One or the other. They're my only real protection against Center.

Bartlett and Casey got out of the Struan limo at the Hilton, the resplendent, turbaned Si':h doorman holding an unnecessary umbrella—the vast overhang already protecting them from the sheets of water.

"I'll be here, sir, whenever you're ready," Chauffeur Lim said.

"Great. Thanks," Bartlett replied. They went up the steps to the ground floor and took the escalator to the foyer.

"You're very quiet, Casey," he said. All the way from the racetrack they had hardly said a word to each other, both locked into their own thoughts.

"So're you, Line. I thought you didn't want to talk. You seemed distracted." She smiled tentatively. "Maybe it was all the excitement."

"It was a great day."

"You think the tai-pan's going to pull it off? The General Stores takeover?" "Monday will tell." Bartlett went to the reception desk. "Mr.

Banastasio please?"

The handsome Eurasian assistant manager said, "Just a moment please. Oh yes, he changed his room again. Now it's 832." He handed him a house phone. Bartlett dialed.

"Yeah?"

"Vincenzo? Line. I'm downstairs."

"Hey, Line, good to hear your voice. Casey with you?"

"Sure."

"You want to come up?"

"On our way." Bartlett went back to Casey.

"You sure you want me along?"

"He asked for you." Bartlett led the way to the elevator, thinking of Orlanda and their date later, thinking of Biltzmann and Gornt and Taipei tomorrow and whether or not he should ask Dunross if he could take her. Shit, life's complicated suddenly. "It'll only be a few minutes," he said, "then it's cocktails with the tai-pan. The weekend's going to be interesting. And next week."

"You out for dinner tonight?"

"Yes. We should have breakfast though. Seymour needs straightening out and as I'm off for a couple of days we'd better have our signals straight."

They crowded into the elevator. Casey casually avoided being trampled on and ground her heel into her assailant's instep. "Oh so sorry," she said sweetly, then muttered "Dew neh loh moh " which Peter Marlowe had taught her this afternoon, just loud enough for the woman to hear. She saw the sudden flush. Hastily the woman shoved her way out at the mezzanine floor and Casey knew she had won a great victory. Amused, she glanced at Bartlett but he was lost in thought, staring into space, and she wondered very much what the real problem was. Orlanda?

On the eighth floor they got out. She followed Bartlett down the corridor. "You know what this's all about, Line? What Banastasio wants?"

"He said he just wanted to say hi and pass the time of day." Bartlett pressed the button. The door opened.

Banastasio was a good-looking man with iron-gray hair and very dark eyes. He welcomed them cordially. "Hey, Casey, you've lost weight—you're looking great. Drink?" He waved a hand at the bar. It was stocked with everything. Casey fixed herself a martini after opening a can of beer for Bartlett, lost in thought. Peter Marlowe's right. So's the tai-pan. So's Line. All I have to do is decide. By when? Very soon. Today, tomorrow? By Tuesday dinner for sure, Absolutely one hundred percent for sure and meanwhile maybe I'd better begin a few diversionary raids.

"How's it going?" Banastasio was saying.

"Fine. With you?"

"Great." Banastasio sipped a Coke then reached forward and turned on a small tape recorder. Out of it came a confusing mishmash of voices, the sort of background heard at any busy cocktail party.

"Just a habit, Line, Casey, when I want to talk private," Banastasio said quietly.

Bartlett stared at him. "You think this place's bugged?"

"Maybe, maybe not. You never know who could be listening, huh?"

Bartlett glanced at Casey then back at Banastasio. "What's on your mind, Vincenzo?"

Banastasio smiled. "How's Par-Con?" the man asked.

"Same as ever—great," Bartlett said. "Our growth rate will be better'n forecast."

"By 7 percent," Casey added, all her senses equally sharpened.

"You going to deal with Struan's or Rothwell-Gornt?"

"We're working on it." Bartlett covered his surprise. "Isn't this new for you, Vincenzo? Asking about deals before they happen?"

"You going to deal with Struan's or Rothwell-Gornt?"

Bartlett watched the cold eyes and the strangely menacing smile. Casey was equally shocked. "When the deal's done I'll tell you. The same time I tell the other stockholders."

The smile did not change. The eyes got colder. "The boys and I'd like to get invol—"

"What boys?"

Banastasio sighed. "We've got a good piece of change in Par-Con, Line, and now we'd like to figure in some of the up-front decisions. We figure I should have a seat on the board. And on the Finance Committee and the New Acquisitions Committee."

Bartlett and Casey stared at him openly. "That was never part of the stock deal," Bartlett told him. "Up front you said it was just an investment."

"That's right," Casey added, her voice sounding thin to her. "You wrote us you were just an investor an—"

"Times've changed, little lady. Now we want in. Got it?" The man's voice was harsh. "Just one seat, Line. That much stock in General Motors and I'd have two seats."

"We're not General Motors."

"Sure. Sure, we know. But what we want isn't out of line. We want Par-Con to grow faster. Maybe I ca—"

"It's growing just fine. Don't you think it'd be bet—" Again Banastasio turned his bleak gaze on her. Casey stopped. Bartlett's fists began to clench but he held them still. Carefully.

Banastasio said, "It's settled." The smile came back. "I'm on the board from today, right?"

"Wrong. Directors get elected by the stockholders at the annual general meeting," Bartlett said, his voice raw. "Not before. There's no vacancy."

Banastasio laughed. "Maybe there will be."

"Do you want to say that again?"

Abruptly Banastasio hardened. "Listen, Line, that's not a threat, just a possibility. I can be good on the board. I've got connections. And I want to put in my two cents' worth here and there."

"About what?"

"Deals. For instance, Par-Con goes with Gornt."

"And if I don't agree?"

"A little nudge from us and Dunross'll be on the street. Gornt's our boy, Line. We checked and he's better."

Bartlett got up. Casey followed, her knees very weak. Banastasio didn't move. "I'll think about all this," Bartlett said. "As of right now it's a toss-up if we make a deal with either one."

Banastasio's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"I'm not convinced that either's good for us. Right, Casey?"

"Yes, Line."

"My vote says Gornt. Got it?"

"Go screw." Bartlett turned to go.

"Just a minute!" Banastasio stood up and came closer. "No one wants trouble, not me, not the boys, n—"

"What boys?"

Again the other man sighed. "C'mon, Line, you're over twentyone. You've had a good ride. We don't want to make waves, just money."

"We have that in common. We'll buy back your stock and give you a profit of si—"

"No deal. It's not for sale." Another sigh. "We bought in when you needed dough. We paid a fair price and you used our cash to expand. Now we want a piece of the exec action. Got it?"

"I'll put it to the stockholders at the annual gen—"

"Goddamnit, now!"

"Goddamnit no!" Bartlett was ready and very dangerous. "Got it?"

Banastasio looked at Casey, his eyes flat like a reptile's. "That your vote too, Miss Executive Vice-President and Treasurer?"

"Yes," she said, surprised that her voice sounded firm. "No seat on the board, Mr. Banastasio. If it comes to a vote, my stock's against you and totally against Gornt."

"When we get control, you're fired."

"When you get control, I'll already have left." Casey walked toward the door, astonished that her legs worked.

Bartlett stood in front of the other man, on guard. "See you around," he said.

"You'd better change your mind!"

"You'd better stay the hell out of Par-Con." Bartlett turned and followed Casey out of the room.

At the elevator he said, "Jesus!"

"Yes," she muttered as helplessly.

"We'd . . . we'd better talk."

"Sure. I think I need a drink. Jesus, Line, that man petrified me. I've never been so frightened in my whole life." She shook her head, as though trying to clear it. "That was like a goddamn nightmare."

In the bar on the top floor she ordered a martini and he a beer and when the drinks had been silently consumed, he ordered another round. All the while their minds had been sifting, pitting facts against theories, changing the theories.

Bartlett shifted in his chair. She looked across at him. "Ready for what I think?" she asked.

"Sure, sure, Casey. Go ahead."

"There's always been a rumor he's Mafia or connected with Mafia and after our little talk I'd say that's a good bet. Mafia jumps us to narcotics and all sorts of evil. Theory: maybe it also jumps us somehow to the guns?" The tiny lines beside Bartlett's eyes crinkled. "I reached that too.

Next?" "Fact: if Banastasio's scared of being bugged that jumps us to surveillance. That means FBI."

"Or CIA."

"Or CIA. Fact: if he's Mafia and if the CIA or FBI're involved, we're in a game we've no right to be in, with nowhere to go but down. Now, as to what he wan—" Casey stopped. She gasped.

"What?"

"I just… I just remembered Rosemont, you remember him from the party, Stanley Rosemont, the tall, good-looking, gray-haired man from the consulate? We met on the ferry yesterday, yesterday afternoon. By chance. Maybe it's a coincidence, maybe not, but now that I think of it he brought up Banastasio, said his friend Ed someone, also at the consulate, knew him slightly—and when I said he was arriving today he was knocked for a loop." She recapped her conversation. "I never thought much about it at the time . . . but the consulate and what he said adds up: CIA."

"Got to be. Sure. And if . . ." He stopped too. "Come to think of it, Ian brought up Banastasio out of the blue too. Tuesday, in the lobby when you were at the phone, just before we went to the gold vaults."

After a pause she said, "Maybe we're in real deep shit! Fact: we got a murder, kidnapping, guns, Banastasio, Mafia, John Chen. Come to think of it, John Chen and Tsu-yan were very friendly with that bum." Her eyes widened. "Banastasio and John Chen's killing. Does that tie? From what the papers've said, the Werewolves don't sound like Chinese—the ear bit. That's, that's brutal."

Bartlett sipped his beer, lost in thought. "Gornt? What about Gornt? Why did Banastasio go for him and not Struan's?"

"I don't know."

"Try this for size, Casey. Say Banastasio's end play is guns, or narcotics, or both guns and narcotics. Both companies would be good for him. Struan's have ships and a huge complex at the airport that dominates inward and outward cargoes, great for smuggling. Gornt has ships and wharfing too. And Gornt's got All Asia Airways. An in with Asia's major feeder airline would give him—them