Noble House

"And connects here with Pan-Am, TWA, JAL and all places east, west, north and south! And if we help Gornt to smash Struan's, the two companies together give them everything."

"So, back to the sixty-four-dollar question: what do we do?" Bartlett asked.

"Couldn't we play a waiting game? The Struan-Gornt contest will be solved next week at the latest."

"For this skirmish, we need information—and the right counter-forces. Different guns, big guns, guns we don't have." He sipped his beer, even more thoughtful. "We'd better get some top-level advice. And help. Fast. It's Armstrong and the English cops—or Rosemont and the CIA."

"Or both?"

"Or both."

Dunross got out of the Daimler and hurried into police headquarters. "Evening, sir," the young Australian duty inspector on the desk said. "Sorry you lost the fifth—I heard Bluey White was carpeted for interference. Can't trust a bloody Aussie, eh?"

Dunross smiled. "He won, Inspector. The stewards ruled the race was won fair and square. I've an appointment with Mr. Crosse."

"Yes sir, square but not fair dinkum. Top floor, third on the left. Good luck next Saturday, sir."

Crosse met him on the top floor. "Evening. Come on in. Drink?"

"No thanks. Good of you to see me at once. Evening, Mr. Sind-ers." They shook hands. Dunross had never been in Crosse's office before. The walls seemed as drab as the man and when the door was shut on the three of them the atmosphere seemed to close in even more.

"Please sit down," Crosse said. "Pity about Noble Star—we were both on her."

"She'll be worth another flutter on Saturday."

"You're going to ride her?"

"Wouldn't you?"

Both men smiled.

"What can we do for you?" Crosse asked.

Dunross put his full attention on Sinders. "I can't give you new files—the impossible I can't do. But I can give you something—I don't know what, yet, but I've just received a package from AMG." Both men were startled. Sinders said, "Hand-delivered?" Dunross hesitated. "Hand-delivered. Now, please, no more questions till I've finished."

Sinders lit his pipe and chuckled. "Just like AMG to have a bolt-hole, Roger. He always was clever, damn him. Sorry, please go on."

"The message from AMG said the information was of very special importance and to be passed on to the prime minister personally or the current head of MI-6, Edward Sinders, at my convenience— and if I considered it politic." In the dead silence, Dunross took a deep breath. "Since you understand barter, I'll trade you—you directly, in secret, in the presence of the governor alone—whatever the hell 'it' is. In return Brian Kwok is allowed out and over the border, if he wants to go, so we can deal with Tiptop."

The silence deepened. Sinders puffed his pipe. He glanced at Crosse. "Roger?"

Roger Crosse was thinking about it—and what information was so special that it was for Sinders or the P.M. only. "I think you could consider lan's proposal," he said smoothly. "At leisure."

"No leisure," Dunross said sharply. "The money's urgent, and the release is clearly considered urgent. We can't delay past Monday at 10:00 A.M. when the ban—"

"Perhaps Tiptop and money don't come into the equation at all," Sinders interrupted, his voice deliberately brittle. "It doesn't matter a jot or a tittle to SI or MI-6 if all Hong Kong rots. Have you any idea the sort of value a senior superintendent in SI—especially a man with Brian Kwok's qualifications and experience—could have to the enemy, if in fact Brian Kwok is under arrest as you think and this Tiptop claims? Have you also considered that such an enemy traitor's information to us about his contacts and them could be of great importance to the whole realm? Eh?"

"Is that your answer?"

"Did Mrs. Gresserhoff hand-deliver the package?"

"Are you prepared to barter?"

Crosse said irritably, "Who's Gresserhoff?"

"I don't know," Sinders told him. "Other than that she's the vanished recipient of the second phone call from AMG's assistant,

Kiernan. We're tracing her with the help of the Swiss police." His mouth smiled at Dunross. "Mrs. Gresserhoff delivered the package to you?"

"No," Dunross said. That's not a real lie, he assured himself. It was Riko Anjin.

"Who did?"

"I'm prepared to tell you that after we have concluded our deal."

"No deal," Crosse said.

Dunross began to get up.

"Just a moment, Roger," Sinders said and Dunross sat back. The MI-6 man tapped the pipe stem against his tobacco-discolored teeth. Dunross kept his face guileless, knowing he was in the hands of experts.

At length Sinders said, "Mr. Dunross, are you prepared to swear formally under the perjury conditions of the Official Secrets Act that you do not have possession of the original AMG files?"

"Yes," Dunross said at once, quite prepared to twist the truth now—AMG had always had the originals, he had always been sent the top copy. If and when it came to a formal moment under oath, that would be another matter entirely. "Next?"

"Monday would be impossible."

Dunross kept his eyes on Sinders. "Impossible because Brian's being interrogated?"

"Any captured enemy asset would immediately be questioned, of course."

"And Brian will be a very hard nut to take apart."

"If he's the asset, you'd know that better than us. You've been friends a long time."

"Yes, and I swear to God I still think it's impossible. Never once has Brian been anything other than an upright, staunch British policeman. How is it possible?"

"How were Philby, Klaus Fuchs, Sorge, Rudolf Abel, Blake and all the others possible?"

"How long would you need?"

Sinders shrugged, watching him.

Dunross watched him back. The silence became aching.

"You destroyed the originals?"

"No, and I must tell you I also noticed the difference between all the copies I gave you and the one you intercepted. I'd planned to call AMG to ask him why the difference."

"How often were you in contact with him?"

"Once or twice a year."

"What did you know about him? Who suggested him to you?"

"Mr. Sinders, I'm quite prepared to answer your questions, I realize it's my duty to answer them, but the time's not appropriate tonight be—"

"Perhaps it is, Mr. Dunross. We're in no rush."

"Ah, I agree. But unfortunately I've got guests waiting and my association with AMG has nothing to do with my proposal. My proposal requires a simple yes or no."

"Or a maybe."

Dunross studied him. "Or a maybe."

"I'll consider what you've said."

Dunross smiled to himself, liking the cat-and-mouse of the negotiation, aware he was dealing with masters. Again he let the silence hang until exactly the right moment. "Very well. AMG said at my discretion. At the moment I don't know what 'it' is. I realize I'm quite out of my depth and should not be involved in SI or MI-6 matters. It's not of my choosing. You intercepted my private mail. My understanding with AMG was quite clear: I had his assurance in writing that he was allowed to be in my employ and that he would clear everything with the government in advance. I'll give you copies of our correspondence if you wish, through the correct channels, with the correct secrecy provisions. My enthusiasm for my offer diminishes, minute by minute." He hardened his voice. "Perhaps it doesn't matter to SI or MI-6 if all Hong Kong rots but it does to me, so I'm making the offer a last time." He got up. "The offer's good to 8:30 P.M."

Neither of the other men moved. "Why 8:30, Mr. Dunross? Why not midnight or midday tomorrow?" Sinders asked, unperturbed. He continued to puff his pipe but Dunross noticed that the tempo had been interrupted the moment he laid down the challenge. That's a good sign, he thought.

"I have to call Tiptop then. Thanks for seeing me." Dunross turned for the door.

Crosse, sitting behind the desk, glanced at Sinders. The older man nodded. Obediently Crosse touched the switch. The bolts sneaked back silently. Dunross jerked to a stop, startled, but recovered quickly, opened the door and went out without a comment, closing it after him.

"Cool bugger," Crosse said, admiring him.

"Too cool."

"Not too cool. He's tai-pan of the Noble House."

"And a liar, but a clever one and quite prepared to finesse us. Would he obliterate 'it'?"

"Yes. But I don't know if H hour's 8:30 P.M." Crosse lit a cigarette. "I'm inclined to think it is. They'd put immense pressure on him—they have to presume we'd thrust the client into interrogation. They've had plenty of time to study Soviet techniques and they've got a few twists of their own. They must presume we're fairly efficient too."

"I'm inclined to think he hasn't got any more files and 'it' is genuine. If 'it' comes from AMG it must have special value. What's your counsel?"

"I repeat what I said to the governor: If we have possession of the client until Monday at noon we'll have everything of importance out of him."

"But what about them? What can he tell them about us when he recovers?"

"We know most of that now. Concerning Hong Kong, we can certainly cover every security problem from today. It's standard SI policy never to let any one person know master plans an—"

"Except you."

Crosse smiled. "Except me. And you in the UK of course. The client knows a lot, but not everything. We can cover everything here, change codes and so on. Don't forget, most of what he passed on's routine. His real danger's over. He's uncovered, fortunately in time. Sure as God made little apples, he'd've been the first Chinese commissioner, and probably head of SI en route. That would have been catastrophic. We can't recover the private dossiers, Fong-fong and others, or the riot and counterinsurrection plans. A riot is a riot and there are only so many contingency plans. As to Sevrin, he knows no more than we knew before we caught him. Perhaps the 'it' could provide keys, possibly keys to questions we should put to him."

"That occurred to me instantly too. As I said, Mr. Dunross is too bloody cool." Sinders lit another match, smoked the match a mo-ment, then tamped the used-up tobacco. "You believe him?"

"About the files, I don't know. I certainly believe he has an 'it' and that AMG came back from the dead. Sorry I never met him. Yes. The 'it' could easily be more important than this client—after Monday at noon. He's mostly a husk now."

Since they had returned, the interrogation of Brian Kwok had continued, most of it rambling and incoherent but details here and there of value. More about atomics and names and addresses of contacts in Hong Kong and Canton, security risks here and patterns of information about the Royal Mounted Police, along with an immensely interesting reiteration of vast Soviet infiltration into Canada.

"Why Canada, Brian?" Armstrong had asked.

"Northern border, Robert . . . the weakest fence in the world, there isn't any. Such great riches in Canada … ah I wish . .. there was this girl I almost married, they said my duty … if Soviets can disrupt Canadians . . . they're so gullible, and wonderful up there. . . . Can I have a cigarette … oh thanks . . . Can I have a drink my … So we have counterespionage cells everywhere to disrupt Soviet cells and find out . . . then there's Mexico . . . The Soviets are making a big push there too… Yes they have plants everywhere . . . did you know Philby …"

An hour had been enough.

"Curious he should break so quickly," Sinders said.

Crosse was shocked. "I guarantee that he's not controlled, not lying, that he's telling absolutely everything he believes, what has happened and will continue to do so un—"

"Yes of course," Sinders said somewhat testily. "I meant curious that a man of his quality should crumble so soon. I'd say he'd been wavering for years, that his dedication was now nonexistent or very small and he was probably ready to come over to us but somehow couldn't extract himself. Pity. He could have been very valuable to us." The older man sighed and lit another match. "After a time it always happens to their deep-cover moles in our societies. There's always some kindness, or girl or man friend or freedom or happiness that turns their whole world upside down, poor buggers. That's why we'll win, in the end. Even in Russia the tables'll be turned and the KGB'll get their comeuppance—from Russians—that's why the pressure now. No Soviet on earth can survive without dictatorship, secret police, injustice and terror." He tapped out his pipe into the ashtray. The dottle was wet at the base. "Don't you agree, Roger?"

Crosse nodded and stared back at the intense, pale blue eyes, wondering what was behind them. "You'll phone the minister for instructions?"

"No. I can take the responsibility for this one. We'll decide at 8:30." Binders glanced at his watch. "Let's get back to Robert. It's almost time to begin again. Good fellow that, very good. Did you hear that he was a big winner?"

69

8:05 P.M. :

"Ian? Sorry to interrupt," Bartlett said.

"Oh hello!" Dunross turned back from the other guests he was chatting with. Bartlett was alone. "You two aren't leaving, I hope —this'll go on till at least 9:30."

"Casey's staying awhile. I've a date."

Dunross grinned. "I hope she's suitably pretty."

"She is, but that comes later. First a business meeting. Do you have a minute?"

"Certainly, of course. Excuse me a moment," Dunross said to the others and led the way out of the crowded anteroom to one of the terraces. The rain had lessened in strength but continued implacably. "The General Stores takeover's almost certain at our figure, without any overbid from Superfoods. We really will make the proverbial bundle—if I can stop Gornt."

"Yes. Monday will tell."

Dunross looked at him keenly. "I'm very confident."

Bartlett smiled, tiredness and concern behind the smile. "I noticed. But I wanted to ask, are we still on for Taipei tomorrow?"

"I was going to suggest we'should postpone it till next week, next weekend? Tomorrow and Monday are rather important for both of us. Is that all right?"

Bartlett nodded, hiding his relief. "Fine with me." And that solves my problem about Orlanda, he thought. "Well then, I think I'll be off."

"Take the car. Just send Lim back when you're through with him. You're going to the hill climb if it's on? That's at 10:00 A.M. till about noon."

"Where is it?"

"New Territories. I'll send the car for you, weather permitting. Casey too if she wants."

"Thanks."

"Don't worry about Casey tonight—I'll see she gets back safely. Is she free afterwards?"

"I think so."

"Good, then I'll ask her to join us—a few of us are going for a Chinese supper." Dunross studied him. "No problem?"

"No. Nothing that can't be handled." Bartlett grinned and walked away, girding himself for the next onslaught—Armstrong. He had cornered Rosemont a few moments ago and told him about the meeting with Banastasio.

"Best leave it with us, Line," Rosemont had said. "As far as you're concerned we're informed officially. The consulate. I'll pass it on to whomever. Leave it all lie—tell Casey, okay? If Banastasio calls either of you, stall him, call us and we'll work out a scam. Here's my card—it's good twenty-four hours a day."

Bartlett was outside the front door now and he joined the others watting impatiently for their cars.

"Oh hi, Line," Murtagh said, hurriedly getting out of a cab, almost knocking him over. "Sorry! Party still going on?"

"Sure it is, Dave. What's the rush?"

"Got to see the tai-pan!" Murtagh dropped his voice, his excitement showing. "There's a chance that head office'll go for it, if lan'll concede a little! Casey still here?"

"Sure," Bartlett said at once and all his senses focused, everything else forgotten. "What concessions?" he asked warily.

"Double the foreign exchange period and he's to deal direct with First Central, giving us first option on all future loans for five years."

"That's not much," Bartlett said, hiding his perplexity. "What's the whole deal now?"

"Can't stop, Line, gotta get the tai-pan's okay. They're waiting, but it's just as Casey and me laid it out. Hell, if we pull this off the tai-pan'll owe us favors till hell freezes!" Murtagh rushed off.

Bartlett stared after him blankly. His feet began to take him back into the house but he stopped and returned to his place in the line. There's plenty of time, he told himself. No need to ask her yet. Think it out.

Casey had told him about the Royal Belgium's connection with First Central, and Murtagh had elaborated this afternoon, adding how hard it was to get an in here with the Establishment but that was all. Bartlett had noted the Texan's nervousness and Casey's nervousness. At the time he'd put it down to the races.

But now? he asked himself suspiciously. Casey and Murtagh and the tai-pan! "First Central'll go for the deal if" and "the tai-pan'll owe us favors till hell freezes. . .." and "just as Casey and me laid it out." She's the go-between? Casey'd run rings around that joker and she's no messenger. Hell, Casey has to lead him by the nose. He's no match for her. So probably she put him up to—to what? What does the tai-pan need most?

Credit, fast, in millions by Monday.

Jesus, First Central's going to back him! That's got to be it. If. If he makes concessions, and he's got to make some to get out from under . . .

"You want the car, sir?"

"Oh. Yes, Lim, sure. Police headquarters in Wanchai. Thanks." He got into the back, his mind buzzing.

So Casey's got a private game going. It must've been in the works a day or so but she hasn't told me. Why? If I'm right and the scam succeeds, lan's got the wherewithal to fight off Gornt, even cream him. She's gone out of her way to help hint against Gornt. Without my okay. Why? And in return for what?

Drop dead money! Is the 50-50 a payoff—my 2 mill but she shares 50-50?

Sure. That's one possibility—one that I know about now. What're the others? Jesus! Casey independent, maybe going with the enemy? They're still both enemy, Ian and Gornt.

His excitement increased.

What to do?

The money at risk with Gornt is covered every which way. The 2 mill with Struan's is covered too, and stays. I'd never planned to jerk it—that was just testing Casey. The Struan deal's good either way. The Gornt deal's good, either way. So my plan's still good— I can still jump either way, though the timing's critical.

But now there's Orlanda.

If it's Orlanda, it's the States or somewhere else but not here. It's quite clear she'd never be welcome in Happy Valley's winner's circle. Or in the cliques and clubs. She'd never be freely invited into the great houses, except maybe by Ian. And Gornt, but that'd be to taunt, to jerk the reins, to remind her of the past—like last night when that other girl came on deck. I saw Orlanda's face. Oh she covered, better than anyone could have covered except maybe Casey. She hated that the other girl had been below, in the master suite that was once hers.

Maybe Gornt didn't do that deliberately? Maybe the girl came up on her own. She went back below almost at once. Maybe she wasn't supposed to come up at all. Maybe.

Shit! There's too much going on I can't figure: like the General Stores and the Ho-Pak rescue—too much agreed by a couple of guys on a Saturday—a couple of whiskeys here and a phone call there. It's all dynamite if you're in the club but Jesus watch out if you're not. Here you've got to be British or Chinese to belong.

I'm just as much an outsider as Orlanda.

Still, I could be happy here, for a time. And I could even handle it here with Orlanda, for a short time, on visits. I could handle the Pacific Rim and having Par-Con as a Noble House but for it to be accepted as the Noble House by British and Chinese, it'll still have to be Struan-Par-Con with our name in small letters, or Rothwell-Gornt-Par-Con the same.

Casey?

With Casey, Par-Con could be a Noble House, easily. But is Casey still to be trusted? Why didn't she tell me? Is she sucked in by Hong Kong and beginning to play her own game for Number One?

You'd better choose, old buddy, while you're still tai-pan.

"Yes, Phillip?"

They were in the study under the portrait of Dirk Struan, and Dunross had chosen the place deliberately. Phillip Chen sat opposite him. Very formal, very correct and very weary. "How is Alexi?"

"Still unconscious. Doc Tooley says he'll be all right if he comes out of it in a couple of hours."

"Tiptop?"

"I'm to call him at 9:00 P.M."

"Still no approval of his offer from . . . from the authorities?"

Dunross's eyes narrowed. "You know the arrangement he suggested?"

"Oh yes, tai-pan. I … I was asked. I still find it hard to believe . . . Brian Kwok? God help us, but yes . . . my opinion was asked before the suggestion was put to you."

"Why the devil didn't you tell me?" Dunross snapped.

"Rightly you no longer consider me compradore of the Noble House and favor me with your trust."

"You consider yourself trustworthy?"

"Yes. I've proved it in the past many times, so did my father— and his. Even so, if I were you and sitting where you are sitting, I would not be having this meeting, I would not have you in my house and I would already have decided the ways and means of your destruction."

"Perhaps I have."

"Not you." Phillip Chen pointed at the portrait. "He would have, but not you, Ian Struan Dunross."

"Don't bet on it."

"I do."

Dunross said nothing, just waited.

"First the coin: Wait until the favor is asked. I will endeavor to find out what it is in advance. If it is too much th—"

"It will be too much."

"What will he ask for?"

"Something to do with narcotics. There's a strong rumor Four Fingers, Smuggler Yuen and White Powder Lee are in partnership, smuggling heroin."

"It's under consideration. They're not actually partners yet," Phillip Chen said.

"Again, why didn't you tell me? It's your duty as compradore to keep me informed, not to write down intimate details of our secrets and then lose them to enemies."

"Again, I ask forgiveness. But now is the time to talk."

"Because you're finished?"

"Because I might be finished—if once more I cannot prove my worth." The old man looked at Dunross bleakly, seeing the face of many tai-pans in the face of the man opposite him, not liking the face or that of the man above the fireplace whose eyes bored into him—the foreign devil pirate who had forsaken his great-grandfather because of mixed blood, half of which was his own.

Ayeeyah, he thought, curbing his anger. These barbarians and their intolerance! Five generations of tai-pans we've served and now this one threatens to change Dirk's legacy for one mistake?

"About the ask: even if it's connected with heroin or narcotics, it will concern some future performance or action. Agree to it, tai-pan, and I promise I will deal with Four Fingers long before the ask has to be granted."

"How?"

"This is China. I will deal with it in Chinese fashion. I swear it by the blood of my ancestors." Phillip Chen pointed at the portrait. "I will continue to protect the Noble House as I have sworn to do."

"What other trickeries did you have in your safe? I've been through all the documents and balance sheets you gave Andrew. With that information in the wrong hands we're naked."

"Yes, but only in front of Bartlett and Par-Con, providing he keeps them to himself and doesn't pass them over to Gornt or another enemy here. Tai-pan, Bartlett doesn't strike me as a malicious person. Perhaps we can deal with him to get what he has back and ask him to agree to keep the information secret."

"To do that you have to barter with a secret he doesn't want let out. Do you have one?"

"Not yet. As partners to us he should protect us."

"Yes. But he's already dealing with Gornt and advanced $2 million U.S. to cover Gornt selling us short."

Phillip Chen whitened. "Eeeee, I didn't know that." He thought a moment. "So Bartlett will withdraw from us on Monday and go over to the enemy?"

"I don't know. At the moment I think he's fence-sitting. I would if I were him."

Phillip Chen shifted in his chair. "He's very fond of Orlanda, tai-pan."

"Yes, she could be a key. Gornt's got to have arranged that, or pushed her toward Bartlett."

"Are you going to tell him?"

"No, not unless there's a reason. He's over twenty-one." Dunross hardened even more. "What do you propose?"

"Are you agreeing to the new concessions First Central wants?"

"So you know about that too?"

"You must have wanted everyone to know that you're seeking support from them, tai-pan. Why else invite Murtagh to your box at the races, why else invite him here? It was easy to put two and two together, even if one hasn't copies of his telexes y—"

"Have you?"

"Some of them." Phillip Chen took out a handkerchief and wiped his hands. "Will you concede?"

"No. I told him I'd think about it—he's waiting downstairs for my answer but it's got to be no. I can't guarantee to give them first option on all future loans. I can't because the Victoria has so much power here and so much of our paper and they'd squeeze us to death. In any event I can't replace them with an American bank that's already proved to be politically unreliable. They're fine as a backup and fantastic if they'll get us out of this mess but I'm not sure about them long-term. They have to prove themselves."

"They must be ready to compromise too. After all, giving us 2 million to cement the General Stores takeover's a great vote of confidence, heya?"

Dunross let that pass. "What had you in mind?"

"May I suggest you counter by making a specific offer: all Canadian, U.S., Australian and South American loans for five years— that covers our expansion in those territories—plus the immediate loan for two giant oil tankers to be purchased through Toda, on the lease-back scheme, and, for an associate, firm orders for a further seven."

"Christ Jesus, who's got that type of operation?" Dunross exploded.

"Vee Cee Ng."

"Photographer Ng? Impossible."

"Within twenty years Vee Cee will have a fleet bigger than Onas-sis."

"Impossible."

"Very probably, tai-pan."

"How do you know?"

"I've been asked to help finance and arrange a huge extension to his fleet. If we put the first seven tankers into our package with the promise of more, and I can, lean, that should satisfy First Central." Phillip Chen wiped the perspiration off his forehead. "Heya?"

"Christ, that'd satisfy the Chase Manhattan and the Bank of America jointly! Vee Cee?" Then Dunross's boggled mind jerked into top efficiency. "Ah! Vee Cee plus thoriums plus Old Friends plus all sorts of delicate hardware plus oil plus Old Friends. Eh?"

Phillip smiled tentatively. "All crows under heaven are black."

"Yes." After a pause, he said, "First Central might go for it. But what about Bartlett?"

"With First Central you don't need Par-Con. First Central will be happy to help us get an alternate backer or partner in the States.

It'd take a little time, but with Jacques in Canada, David MacStruan here, Andrew in Scotland … Tai-pan, I don't know what's in your mind about Andrew and this man Kirk but the theories he's been sporting strike me as farfetched, very farfetched."

"You were saying about Bartlett?"

"I suggest we pray that First Central takes the bait, that Tiptop gives us the money, that I can cover First Central with a syndicate of Mata, Tightfist and Four Fingers. Then you, David MacStruan and I can easily find an alternate to Par-Con. I suggest we open an immediate office in New York. Put David in charge for three months with . . . perhaps Kevin as his assistant." Phillip Chen let that set a moment in the air and rushed on. "Within three months we should know if young Kevin has any value-^I think you'll be very impressed, tai-pan, in fact I guarantee it. In three months we'll know what young George Trussler feels about Rhodesia and South Africa. When he has that office set up we could send him to New York. Or we could perhaps tempt your other cousin, the Virginian, Mason Kern, out of Cooper-Tillman and put him in charge of our New York office. After six months Kevin should go to Salisbury and Johannesburg—I have a great feeling that the thorium and precious metal trade will go from strength to strength."

"Meanwhile, we still have our immediate problems. Bartlett, Gornt and the run on our stock?"

"To ensure Bartlett's silence we have to split him totally from Gornt and make him an ally, a complete ally."

"How do you do that, Phillip?"

"Leave that with me. There are … there are possibilities."

Dunross kept his eyes on Phillip Chen but the old man did not look up from the desk. What possibilities? Orlanda? Has to be. "All right," he said. "Next?"

"About the market. With the Bank of China supporting us, the bank runs are over. With the General Stores takeover and massive financial backing, the run on our stock has to cease. Everyone will rush to buy and the boom will be on. Now," Phillip Chen said, "I know you didn't want to before, but say we can get Sir Luis to withdraw our stock from trading till Monday at noon we ea—"

"What?"

"Yes. Say no one can trade Struan's officially until noon, say we set the price where it was on Wednesday last—28.80. Gornt is trapped. He has to buy at whatever price he can to cover. If no one offers enough stock below that figure all his profits go out of the window, he might even be mauled."

Dunross felt weak. The idea of jerking the stock now had not occurred to him. "Christ, but Sir Luis'd never go for it."

Phillip Chen was very pale, beads of sweat on his forehead. "If the stock exchange committee agreed that it was necessary 'to stabilize the market' . . . and if the great broking firms of Joseph Stern and Arjan Soorjani also agree not to offer any stock, any bulk stock below 28.80, what can Gornt do?" He wiped his forehead shakily. "That's my plan."

"Why should Sir Luis cooperate?"

"I think … I think he will, and Stern and Soorjani owe us many favors." The old man's fingers were twitching nervously. "Between Sir Luis, Stern, Soorjani, you and me, we control most of the major blocks of stock Gornt sold short."

"Stern is Gornt's broker."

"True, but he's Hong K.ongyan and he needs goodwill more than one client." Phillip Chen shifted more into the light. Dunross noticed the pallor and was greatly concerned. He got up and went to the liquor cabinet and fetched two brandy and sodas. "Here."

"Thank you." Phillip Chen drank his quickly. "Thank God for brandy."

"You think we can line them all up by Monday's opening? By the way, I've canceled my trip to Taipei."

"Good, yes that's wise. Will you be going to Jason Plumm's cocktail party now?"

"Yes. Yes, I said I would."

"Good, we can talk more then. About Sir Luis. There's a good chance, tai-pan. Even if the stock isn't withdrawn, the price has to skyrocket, it must—if we get the support we need."

That's obvious to anyone, Dunross thought sourly. If. He glanced at his watch. It was 8:35. Sinders was to call by 8:30. He had given him half an hour leeway before his call to Tiptop. His stomach seemed to fall apart but he dominated it. Christ, I can't call him, he thought irritably. "What?" he asked, not having heard Phillip Chen.

"The deadline you gave me to have my resignation on your desk —Sunday midnight if Mata and Tightfist or—may I ask that it be extended a week?"

Dunross picked up Phillip Chen's glass to replenish it, liking the

Asian subtlety of the request, to extend it to a time when it would have no value, for, in a week's time, the crisis would be long resolved. The way the request was put saved face on both sides. Yes, but he has to make a major effort. Can his health stand it? That's my only real consideration. As he poured the brandy he thought about Phillip Chen, Kevin Chen, Claudia Chen and old Chen-chen and what he would do without them. I need cooperation and service and no more betrayal or treachery. "I'll consider that, Phillip. Let's discuss it just after Prayers on Monday." Then he added carefully, "Perhaps extensions would be justified."

Gratefully Phillip Chen accepted the brandy and took a big swallow, his color better. He had heard the deft plural and was greatly relieved. All I have to do is deliver. That's all. He got up to go. "Thank y—"

The phone jangled irritatingly and he almost jumped. So did Dunross.

"Hello? Oh hello, Mr. Sinders." Dunross could hear the beating of his heart over the rain. "What's new?"

"Very little I'm afraid. I've discussed your suggestion with the governor. If 'it' is in my possession by noon tomorrow, I have reason to believe your friend could be delivered to the Lo Wu border terminal by sunset Monday. I cannot guarantee, of course, that he will wish to cross the border into Red China."

Dunross got his voice going. "There's a lot of 'reason to believe' and 'could be' in that, Mr. Sinders."

"That's the best I can do, officially."

"What guarantees do I have?"

"None, I'm afraid, from Mr. Crosse or myself. It would seem there has to be trust on both sides."

Bastards, Dunross thought furiously, they know I'm trapped. "Thank you, I'll consider what you've said. Noon tomorrow? I'm in the hill climb tomorrow if it's on—ten to noon. I'll come to police headquarters as soon as I can afterwards."

"No need to worry, Mr. Dunross. If it's on, I'll be there too. Noon can be a deadline here or there. All right?"

"All right. Good night." Grimly Dunross put the phone down. "It's a maybe, Phillip. Maybe, by Monday sunset."

Phillip Chen sat down, aghast. His pallor increased. "That's too late."

"We'll find out." He picked up the phone and dialed again.

"Hello, good evening. Is the governor there, please? Ian Dunross." He sipped his brandy. "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but Mr. Sinders just called. He said, in effect: perhaps. Perhaps by sunset Monday. May I ask, could you guarantee that?"

"No, Ian, no I can't. I don't have jurisdiction over this matter. Sorry. You have to make any arrangements direct. Sinders struck me as a reasonable man though. Didn't you think so?"

"He seemed very unreasonable," Dunross said with a hard smile. "Thanks. Never mind. Sorry to disturb you, sir. Oh, by the way if this can be resolved, Tiptop said your chop would be required, with the bank's and mine. Would you be available tomorrow, if need be?"

"Of course. And Ian, good luck."

Dunross replaced the phone. After a moment, he said, "Would they agree, the money tomorrow for the fellow Monday sunset?"

"I wouldn't," Phillip Chen said helplessly. "Tiptop was clear. 'Whenever the correct procedures are entered into.' The exchange would be simultaneous."

Dunross sat back in the high chair, sipped his brandy and let his mind roam.

At 9:00 P.M. he dialed Tiptop, and chatted inconsequentially until the moment had come. "I hear the police underling will surely be fired for making such a mistake and that the wronged party could be at Lo Wu at noon Tuesday."

There was a great silence. The voice was colder than ever. "I hardly think that's immediate."

"I agree. Perhaps I might be able to persuade them to bring it forward to Monday. Perhaps your friends could be a little patient. I would consider it a very great favor." He used the word deliberately and let it hang.

"I will pass your message on. Thank you, tai-pan. Please call me at seven o'clock tomorrow evening. Good night."

"Night."

Phillip Chen broke the silence, very concerned. "That's an expensive word, tai-pan."

"I know. But I have no option," he said, his voice hard. "Certainly there'll be a return favor asked in payment someday." Dunross brushed his hair away from his eyes and added, "Perhaps it'll be with Joseph Yu, who knows? But I had to say it."

"Yes. You're very wise. Wise beyond your years, much wiser than Alastair and your father, not as wise as the Hag." A small shiver went through him. "You were wise to barter the time, and wise not to mention the money, the bank money, very wise. He's much too smart not to know we need that tomorrow—I'd imagine by evening at the latest."

"Somehow we'll get it. That'll take the Victoria pressure off us. Paul's got to call a board meeting soon," Dunross added darkly. "With Richard on the board, well, Richard owes us many favors. The new board will vote to increase our revolving fund, then we won't need Bartlett, First Central or Mata's god-cursed syndicate."

Phillip Chen hesitated, then he blurted out, "I hate to be the bearer of more bad tidings but I've heard that part of Richard Kwang's arrangement with Havergill included his signed, undated resignation from the Victoria board and a promise to vote exactly as Havergill wishes."

Dunross sighed. Everything fell into place. If Richard Kwang voted with the opposition it would neutralize his dominating position. "Now all we have to do is lose one more supporter and Paul and his opposition will squeeze us to death." He looked up at Phillip Chen. "You'd better nobble Richard."

"I… I'll try, but he's nobbled already. What about P. B. White? Do you think he'd help?"

"Not against Havergill, or the bank. With Tiptop he might," Dunross said heavily. "He's next—and last—on the list."

70

10:55 P.M. :

The six people piled out of the two taxis at the private entrance of the Victoria Bank building on the side street. Casey, Riko Gresser-hoif, Gavallan, Peter Marlowe, Dunross and P. B. White, a spare, spritely Englishman of seventy-five. The rain had stopped, though the poorly lit street was heavily puddled.

"Sure you won't join us for a nightcap, Peter?" P. B.'White asked.

"No thanks, P. B., I'd better be getting home. Night and thanks for supper, tai-pan!"

He walked off into the night, heading for the ferry terminal that was just across the square. Neither he nor the others noticed the car pull up and stop down the street. In it was Malcolm Sun, senior agent, SI, and Povitz, the CIA man. Sun was driving.

"This the only way in and out?" Povitz asked.

"Yes."

They watched P. B. White press the door button. "Lucky bastards. Those two broads are the best I've ever seen."

"Casey's okay but the other? There are prettier girls in any dance hall. …" Sun stopped. A taxi went past.

"Another tail?"

"No, no I don't think so, but if we're watching the tai-pan you can bet others are."

"Yes."

They saw P. B. White press the button again. The door opened and the sleepy Sikh night guard greeted him, "Evening, sahs, mem-sahs," then went to the elevator, pressed the button and closed the front door.

"The elevator's rather slow. Antiquated, like me. Sorry," P. B. White said.

"How long have you lived here, P. B.?" Casey asked, knowing there was nothing ancient about him, given the dance in his step or the twinkle in his eyes.

"About five years, my dear," he replied taking her arm. "I'm very lucky."

Sure, she thought, and you've got to be very important to the bank and powerful, must be to have one of the only three apartments in the whole vast building. He had told them one of the others belonged to the chief manager who was presently on sick leave. The last one was staffed but kept vacant. "It's for visiting HRHs, the governor of the Bank of England, prime ministers, those sort of luminaries," P. B. White had said grandly during the light spicy Szechuan food. "I'm rather like a janitor, an unpaid caretaker. They let me in to look after the place."

"I'll bet!"

"Oh it's true! Fortunately there's no connection between this part of the building and the bank proper, otherwise I'd have my hand in the till!"

Casey was feeling very happy, replete with good food and good wine and fine, witty conversation and much attention from the four men, particularly Dunross—and very content that she had held her own with Riko—everything in her life seemingly in place again, Line so much more her Line once more, even though he was out with the enemy. How to deal with her? she asked herself for the billionth time.

The elevator door opened. They went into it, crowding into the small area. P. B. White pressed the lowest of three buttons. "God lives on the top floor," he chuckled. "When he's in town."

Dunross said, "When's he due back?"

"In three weeks, Ian, but it's just as well he's out of touch with Hong Kong—he'd be back on the next plane. Casey, our chief manager's a marvelous fellow. Unfortunately he's been quite sick for almost a year and now he's retiring in three months. I persuaded him to take some leave and go to Kashmir, to a little place I know on the banks of the Jehlum River, north of Srinagar. The floor of the valley's about six thousand feet and, up there amongst the «$| If' greatest mountains on earth, it's paradise. They have houseboats on the rivers and lakes and you drift, no phones, no mail, just you and the Infinite, wonderful people, wonderful air, wonderful food, stupendous mountains." His eyes twinkled. "You have to go there very sick, or with someone you love very much."

They laughed. "Is that what you did, P.B.?" Gavallan asked.

"Of course, my dear fellow. It was in 1915, that was the first time I was there. I was twenty-seven, on leave from the Third Bengal Lancers." He sighed, parodying a lovesick youth. "She was Georgian, a princess."

They chuckled with him. "What were you really in Kashmir for?" Dunross asked.

"I'd been seconded for two years from the Indian General Staff. That whole area, the Hindu Kush, Afghanistan and what's now called Pakistan, on the borders of Russia and China's always been dicey, always will be. Then I was sent up to Moscow—that was late in '17." His face tightened a little. "I was there during the putsch when the real government of Kerenski was tossed out by Lenin, Trotsky and their Bolsheviks. .. ." The elevator stopped. They got out. The front door of his apartment was open, his Number One Boy

Shu waiting.

"Come on in and make yourself at home," P.B. said jovially. "The ladies' bathroom's on the left, gentlemen on the right, champagne in the anteroom . . . I'll show you all around in a moment. Oh, Ian, you wanted to phone?"

"Yes."

"Come along, you can use my study." He led the way down a corridor lined with fine oils and a rare collection of icons. The apartment was spacious, four bedrooms, three anterooms, a dining room to seat twenty. His study was at the far end. Books lined three walls. Old leather, smell of good cigars, a fireplace. Brandy, whiskey and vodka in cut-glass decanters. And port. Once the door closed his concern deepened.

"How long will you be?" he asked.

"As quick as I can."

"Don't worry, I'll entertain them—if you're not back in time I'll make your excuses. Is there anything else I can do?"

"Lean on Tiptop." Dunross had told him earlier about the possible deal to exchange Brian Kwok, though nothing about the AMG papers and his problems with Sinders.

"Tomorrow I'll call some friends in Peking and some more in Shanghai. Perhaps they would see the value in helping us."

Dunross had been acquainted with P. B. White for many years though, along with everyone else, he knew very little about his real past, his family, whether he had been married and had children, where his money came from or his real involvement with the Victoria. "I'm just a sort of legal advisor though I retired years ago," he would say vaguely and leave it at that. But Dunross knew him as a man of great charm with many equally discreet lady friends. "Casey's quite a woman, P.B.," he said with a grin. "I think you're smitten."

"I think so too. Yes. Ah, if I was only thirty years younger! And as for Riko!" P.B.'s eyebrows soared. "Delectable. Are you certain she's a widow?"

"Pretty sure."

"I would like three of those please, tai-pan." He chuckled and went over to the bookcase and pressed a switch. Part of the bookcase swung open. A staircase led upward. Dunross had used it before to have private talks with the chief manager. As far as he knew he was the only outsider privy to the secret access—another of the many secrets that he could pass on only to his succeeding tai-pan. "The Hag arranged it," Alastair Struan had told him the night he took over. "Along with this." He had handed him the master passkey to the safety deposit boxes in the vaults. "It's bank policy that Ch'ung Lien Loh Locksmiths Ltd. change locks. Only our tai-pans know we own that company."

Dunross smiled back at P.B., praying that he could be so young when he was so old. 'Thanks."

"Take your time, Ian." P. B. White handed him a key.

Dunross ran up the stairs softly to the chief manager's landing. He unlocked a door which led to an elevator. The same key unlocked the elevator. There was only one button. He relocked the outside door and pressed the button. The machinery was well oiled and silent. At length it stopped and the inner door slid open. He pushed the outer door. He was in the chief manager's office. John-John got up wearily. "Now what the hell is all this about, Ian?"

Dunross shut the false door that fitted perfectly into the bookcase. "Didn't P.B. tell you?" he asked, his voice mild, none of his tension showing.

"He said you had to get to the vaults tonight to fetch some papers, that I should please let you in and there was no need to bother Havergill. But why the cloak-and-dagger bit? Why not use the front door?"

"Now give over, Bruce. We both know you've got the necessary authority to open the vault for me."

Johnjohn began to say something but changed his mind. The chief manager had said before he left, "Be kind enough to react favorably to whatever P.B. suggests, eh?" P.B. was on first-name terms with the governor, most of the visiting VVIPs and shared the chief manager's direct line to their skeleton staff in the bank offices still operating in Shanghai and Peking.

"All right," he said.

Their footsteps echoed on the vast, dimly lit main floor of the bank. Johnjohn nodded to one of the night watchmen making his rounds, then pressed the button for the elevator to the vaults, stifling a nervous yawn. "Christ, I'm bushed."

"You architected the Ho-Pak takeover, didn't you?" , "Yes, yes I did, but if it hadn't been for your smashing coup with General Stores, I don't think Paul'd … well, that certainly helped. Smashing coup, Ian, if you can pull it off."

"It's in the bag."

"What Japanese bank's backing you with the 2 million?"

"Why did you force Richard Kwang's advance resignation?"

"Eh?" Johnjohn stared at him blankly! The elevator arrived. They got into it. "What?"

Dunross explained what Phillip Chen had told him. "That's not exactly cricket. A director of the Victoria being made to sign an undated resignation like a two-cent operation? Eh?"

Johnjohn shook his head slowly. "No, that wasn't part of my plan." His tiredness had vanished. "I can see why you'd be concerned."

"Pissed off would be the correct words."

"Paul must have planned just a holding situation till the chief comes back. This whole operation's precedent-setting so you c—"

"If I get Tiptop's money for you, I want that torn up and a free vote guaranteed to Richard Kwang."

After a pause, Johnjohn said, "I'll support you on everything reasonable—till the chief comes back. Then he can decide."

"Fair enough."

"How much is the Royal Belgium-First Central backing you for?"

"I thought you said a Japanese bank?"

"Oh come on, old chum, everyone knows. How much?"

"Enough, enough for everything."

"We still own most of your paper, Ian."

Dunross shrugged. "It makes no difference. We still have a major say in the Victoria."

"If we don't get China's money, First Central won't save you from a crash."

Again Dunross shrugged.

The elevator doors opened. Dim lights in the vaults cast hard shadows. The huge grille in front of them seemed like a cell door to Dunross. Johnjohn unlocked it.

"I'll be about ten minutes," Dunross said, a sheen to his forehead. "I've got to find a particular paper."

"All right. I'll unlock your box for y—" Johnjohn stopped, his face etched in the overhead light. "Oh, I forgot, you've your own master key."

"I'll be as quick as I can. Thanks." Dunross walked into the gloom, turned the corner and went unerringly to the far bank of boxes. Once there he made sure he was not being followed. All his senses were honed now. He put the two keys into their locks. The locks clicked back.

His fingers reached into his pocket and he took out AMG's letter that gave the numbers of the special pages spread throughout the files, then a flashlight, scissors and a butane Dunhill cigarette lighter that Penelope had given him when he still smoked. Quickly he lifted the false bottom of the box away and slid out the files.

I wish to Christ there was some way I could destroy them now and have done with it, he thought. I know everything that's in them, everything important, but I have to be patient and wait. Sometime soon, they—whoever they are, along with SI, the CIA and the PRC —they won't be following me. Then I can safely fetch the files and destroy them.

Following AMG's instructions with great care, he flicked the lighter and waved it back and forth just under the bottom right quadrant of the first special page. In a moment, a meaningless jumble of symbols, letters and numbers began to appear. As the heat brought them forth, the type in this quadrant began to vanish. Soon all the lettering had gone, leaving just the code. With the scissors he cut off this quarter neatly and put that file aside. AMG had written: "The paper cannot be traced to the files, tai-pan, nor I believe, the information read by any but the highest in the land."

A slight noise startled him and he looked off. His heart was thumping in his ears. A rat scurried around a wall of boxes and vanished. He waited but there was no more danger.

In a moment he was calm again. Now the next file. Again ciphers appeared and the lettering vanished.

Dunross worked steadily and efficiently. When the flame began to fade he was prepared. He refilled the lighter and continued. Now the last file. He cut out the quarter carefully and pocketed the eleven pieces of paper, then slid the files back into their hiding place.

Before he relocked the box he took out a deed for camouflage and laid it beside AMG's letter. Another hesitation, then, shielding AMG's letter with his body, he put the flame to it. The paper twisted as it flared and burned.

"What're you doing?"

Dunross jerked around and stared at the silhouette. "Oh, it's you." He began breathing again. "Nothing, Bruce. Actually it's just an ancient love letter that shouldn't have been kept." The flame died and Dunross pounded the ash to dust and scattered the remains.

"Ian, are you in trouble? Bad trouble?" Johnjohn asked gently.

"No, old chum. It's just the Tiptop mess."

"You're sure?"

"Oh yes." Wearily Dunross smiled back and took out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead and hands. "Sorry to put you to all this trouble."

He walked off firmly, Johnjohn following. The gate clanged after them. In a moment the elevator sighed open and sighed closed and now there was silence but for the scurry of the rats and the slight hiss of the air conditioner. A shadow moved. Silently Roger Crosse came from behind a tall bank of boxes and stood in front of the tai-pan's section. Unhurried, he took out a tiny Minox camera, a flashlight and a bunch of skeleton keys. In a moment, Dunross's box was open. His long fingers reached into it, found the false compartment and brought out the files. Very satisfied he put them in a tidy pile, clipped the flashlight into its socket and, with practiced skill, began to photograph the files, page by page. When he came to one of the special pages he peered at it and the missing section. A grim smile flickered over him. Then he continued, making no sound.

SUNDAY

71

6:30 A.M. :

Koronski came out of the foyer of the Nine Dragons Hotel and hailed a taxi, giving the driver directions in passable Cantonese. He lit a cigarette and slouched back in the seat, keeping a professional watch behind him in the unlikely chance that he was being followed. There was no real risk. His papers as Hans Meikker were flawless, his cover as a sporadic foreign journalist for a West German magazine syndicate real, and he visited Hong Kong frequently as a routine. His eyes reassured him, then he turned to watch the multitudes, wondering who was to be chemically debriefed, and where. He was a short, well-fed, nondescript man, his glasses rimless.

Behind him, fifty yards or so, ducking in and out of the traffic was a small, battered Mini. Tom Connochie, the senior CIA agent, was in the back, one of his assistants, Roy Wong, driving.

"He's going left."

"Sure. I see him. Relax, Tom, you're making me nervous for chrissake." Roy Wong was third-generation American, a B.A. Lit., and CIA for four years, assigned to Hong Kong. He drove expertly, Connochie watching carefully—crumpled and very tired. He had been up most of the night with Rosemont trying to sort out the flood of top-secret instructions, requests and orders that the intercepted Thomas K. K. Lim's letters had generated. Just after midnight they'd been tipped by one of their hotel informants that Hans Meikker had just checked in for two days from Bangkok. He had been on their list for years as a possible security risk.

"Son of a bitch!" Roy Wong said as a traffic jam blossomed in the narrow, screeching street near the bustling intersections of Mong Kok.

Connochie craned out of the side window. "He's screwed too, Roy. About twenty cars ahead."

In a moment the jam began to ease, then closed in again as an overladen truck stalled. By the time it had cranked up again, their prey had vanished.

"Shit!"

"Cruise. Maybe we'll get lucky and pick him up."

Two blocks ahead, Koronski got out of the taxi and went down a swarming alley, heading for another swarming road and another alley and Ginny Fu's tenement. He went up the soiled stairs to the top floor. He knocked three times on a drab door. Suslev beckoned him in and locked the door behind him. "Welcome," he said quietly in Russian. "Good trip?"

"Yes, Comrade Captain, very good," Koronski replied, also keeping his voice down by habit.

"Come and sit down." Suslev waved at the table that had coffee and two cups. The room was drab with little furniture. Dirty blinds covered the windows.

"Coffee's good," Koronski said politely, thinking it was hideous, nothing to compare with the French-style coffee of exquisite Bangkok, Saigon and Phnom Penh.

"It's the whiskey," Suslev said, his face hard.

"Center said I was to put myself at your disposal, Comrade Captain. What is it you want me to do?"

"A man here has a photographic memory. We need to know what's in it."

"Where is the client to be interrogated? Here?"

Suslev shook his head. "Aboard my ship."

"How much time do we have?"

"All the time you need. We will take him with us to Vladivostok."

"How important is it to get quality information?"

"Very."

"In that case I would prefer to do the investigation in Vladivostok —I can give you special sedatives and instructions that will keep the client docile during the voyage there and begin the softening-up process."

Suslev rethought the problem. He needed Dunross's information before he arrived in Vladivostok. "Can't you come with me on my ship? We leave at midnight, on the tide."

Koronski hesitated. "My orders from Center are to assist you, so long as I do not jeopardize my cover. Going on your ship would certainly do that—the ship's sure to be under surveillance. If I vanish from the hotel, eh?"

Suslev nodded. "I agree." Never mind, he thought. I'm as well trained an interrogator as Koronski though I've never done an in-depth chemical. "How do you conduct a chemical debriefing?"

"It's quite simple. Intravenous injections of a chemical agent we call Pentothal-V6, twice a day for ten days at twelve-hour intervals —once the client has been put into a suitably frightened, disoriented frame of mind, by the usual sleep-wake method, followed by four days of sleeplessness."

"We've a doctor on the ship. Could he make the injections?"

"Oh yes, yes of course. May I suggest I write down the procedure and supply you with all the necessary chemicals. You will do the investigation?"

"Yes."

"If you follow the procedure you should have no trouble. The only serious thing to remember is that once the Pentothal-V6 is administered the client's mind is like a wet sponge. It requires great tenderness and even greater care to extract just the right amount of water, the information, at just the right tempo or the mind will be permanently damaged and all other information lost forever." Koronski puffed at a cigarette. "It's easy to lose a client."

"It's always easy to lose a client," Suslev said. "How effective is this Pentothal-V6?"

"We've had great success, and some failures, Comrade Captain," Koronski replied with care. "If the client is well prepared and initially healthy I'm sure you will be successful."

Suslev did not answer, just let his mind reexamine the plan presented so enthusiastically by Plumm late last night, and agreed to reluctantly by Crosse. "It's a cinch, Gregor, everything's falling into place. Now that Dunross's not going to Taipei he's coming to my party. I'll give him a doctored drink that'll make him as sick as a dog—it'll be easy to get him to lie down in one of the bedrooms— the same drug'll put him to sleep. Once the others have left—and I'm keeping the party short and sweet, six to eight—I'll put him in a trunk and have the trunk brought to the car through the side entrance. When he's reported missing I'll say I just left him there sleeping and have no idea what time he left. Now, how are we going to get the trunk aboard?"

"That's no trouble," he had said. "Have it delivered to go-down 7 in the Kowloon Dockyard. We're taking on all kinds of bulk supplies and stores, since our departure's been speeded up, and outward bound there's hardly any check." Suslev had added with grim amusement, "There is even a coffin if we need it. Voranski's body is coming from the morgue at 11:00 P.M., a special delivery. Bastards! Why hasn't our friend caught the bastards who murdered him?"

"He's doing what he can. He is, Gregor. I promise you. He'll catch them soon—but more important, this plan will work!"

Suslev nodded to himself. Yes, it's workable. And if the tai-pan's intercepted and discovered? I know nothing, Boradinov knows nothing, though he's responsible and I shall just sail away, leaving Boradinov to blame, if necessary. Roger will cover everything. Oh yes, he told himself grimly, this time it's Roger's neck on the British block if I'm not covered. Plumm's right. The Werewolf kidnapping of the tai-pan will help to create complete chaos for a time, certainly for almost no risk—enough time to cover the Metkin disaster and the intercept of the guns.

He had called Banastasio tonight to make sure the Par-Con ploy was in operation and was shocked to hear of Bartlett's response. "But, Mr. Banastasio, you guaranteed you'd be in control. What do you intend to do?"

"Pressure, Mr. Marshall," Banastasio had told him placatingly, using the alias by which Banastasio knew him. "Pressure all the way. I'll do my part, you do yours."

"Good. Then proceed with your meeting in Macao. I guarantee a substitute shipment will be in Saigon within a week."

"But these jokers here have already said they won't deal without a shipment in their hands."

"It'll be delivered direct to our Viet Cong friends in Saigon. Just you make whatever arrangements you want for payment."

"Sure sure, Mr. Marshall. Where you staying in Macao? Where do I get in touch?"

"I'll be at the same hotel," he had told him, having no intention to make contact. In Macao another controller with the same alias would monitor that end of the operation.

He smiled to himself. Just before he had left Vladivostok, Center had ordered him to be the controller of this independent operation, code name King Kong, that had been mounted by one of the Washington KGB cells. All he knew of the plan was that they were sending highly classified advance-arms delivery schedules to the V.C. in Saigon through diplomatic pouch. In exchange and payment for the information, opium would be delivered FOB Hong Kong— the quantity depending on the numbers of arms hijacked. "Whoever thought of this one deserves immediate promotion," he had told Center delightedly, and had chosen the alias Marshall after General Marshall and his plan that they all knew had ruined the immediate and total Soviet takeover of Europe in the late forties. This is revenge, our Marshall Plan in reverse, he thought.

Abruptly he laughed out loud. Koronski waited attentively, far too practiced to ask what had been so amusing. But without thinking he had analyzed the laugh. There was fear in it. Fear was infectious. Frightened people make mistakes. Mistakes ensnare innocents.

Yes, he thought uneasily, this man smells of cowardice. I shall mention this in my next report, but delicately, in case he's important.

He looked up and saw Suslev watching him and queasily wondered if the man had read his thoughts. "Yes, Comrade Captain?"

"How long will the instructions take to write?"

"A few minutes. I can do it now if you wish, but I will have to go back to the hotel for the chemicals."

"How many different chemicals are to be used?"

"Three: one for sleep, one for wake-up and the last, the Pentothal-V6. By the way, it should be kept cool until used."

"Only the last intravenously?"

"Yes."

"Good, then write it all down. Now. You have paper?"

Koronski nodded and pulled out a small notebook from his hip pocket. "Would you prefer Russian, English or shorthand?"

"Russian. There's no need to describe the wake-sleep-wake pattern. I've used that many times. Just the last phase and don't name Pentothal-V6, just call it medicine. Understand?"

"Perfectly."

"Good. When it's written, put it there." He pointed to a small pile of used newspapers on the moth-eaten sofa. "Put it in the second one from the top. I'll collect it later. As to the chemicals there's a men's room on the ground floor of the Nine Dragons Hotel. Tape them to the underside of the lid, the last booth on the right—and please be in your room at nine o'clock tonight in case I need some clarification. Everything clear?"

"Certainly."

Suslev got up. At once Koronski did the same, offered his hand. "Good luck, Comrade Captain."

Suslev nodded politely as to an inferior and walked out. He went to the end of the corridor and through a bent door up a staircase to the roof. He felt better in the air on the roof. The room smell and Koronski's smell had displeased him. The sea beckoned him, the wide clean ocean and salt-kelp smell. It will be good to be at sea again, away from the land. The sea and the ocean and the ship keep you sane.

Like most roofs in Hong Kong this one was packed with a polyglot of makeshift dwellings, the space rented—the only alternative to the crude, packed mud slopes of the squatter settlements that were far in the New Territories or in the hills of Kowloon or Hong Kong. Every inch of space in the city had long since been taken by the vast influx of immigrants. Most squatters' areas were illegal, like all roof dwellings, and as much as the authorities forbade it and deplored it, wisely they ignored these transgressions for where else were these unfortunates to go? There was no sanitation, no water, not even simple hygiene, but it was still better than on the streets. From the rooftops, the method of disposal was just to hurl it below. Hong Kong^a« always walked in the center of the street and never on the sidewalk, even if there was one.

Suslev ducked under clotheslines, stepped over the flotsam and jetsam of lifetimes, oblivious of the automatic obscenities that followed him, amused by the urchins who ran before him shrieking, "Quailoh… quailoh!", laughing together, holding out their hands. He was too Hong Kong yan to give them any money though he was touched by them, their poverty and good humor, so he just cursed them genially and tousled a few crew-cut heads.

On the far side of the roof the entrance to Ginny Fu's tenement jutted like an ancient funnel. The door was ajar. He went down.

"Halloa, Gregy," Ginny Fu said, breathlessly opening her front door for him. She was dressed as he had ordered in a drab coolie outfit with a big straw conical hat hanging down her back, her face and hands dirtied. "How I look? Like film star, heya?"

"Greta Garbo herself," he said with a laugh as she ran into his arms and gave him a great hug.

"You want jig-jig more 'fore go, heya?"

"Nyet. Plenty of time in the next weeks. Plenty, heya?" He set her down. He had pillowed with her at dawn, more to prove his manhood than out of desire. That's the problem, he thought. No desire. She's boring. "Now, you understand plan, heya?"

"Oh yes," she said grandly. "I find go-down 7 and join coolies, carry bales to ship. Once on ship I go door opposite stairway, go in and give paper." She pulled it out of her pocket to show that she had it safely. On the paper was written in Russian, "Cabin 3." Boradinov would be expecting her. "In 3 cabin, can use bath, change to clothes you buy and wait." Another big smile. "Heya?"

"Excellent." The clothes had cost little and the buying saved any baggage. Much more simple without baggage. Baggage would be noticed. Nothing about her should be noticed.

"Sure no need bring anything, Gregy?" she asked anxiously.

"No, only makeup things, woman things. Everything in pocket, understand?"

"Of course," she said haughtily. "Am I fool?"

"Good. Then off you go."

Once more she embraced him. "Oh thanks holiday, Gregy—I be bestest ever." She left.

The meeting with Koronski had made him hungry. He went to the battered refrigerator and found the chocolates he sought. He munched on one, then lit the gas stove and began to fry some eggs. His anxiety began to return. Don't worry, he ordered himself. The plan will work, you will get possession of the tai-pan and it will be routine at police headquarters.

Put those things aside. Think of Ginny. Perhaps at sea she won't be boring. She'll divert the nights, some of the nights, the tai-pan the days until we dock. By then he'll be empty and she'll vanish into a new life and that danger will be gone forever and I'll go to my dacha where the Zergeyev hellcat'll be waiting and we'll fight, she calling me every obscenity until I lose my temper and tear her clothes off, maybe use the whip again and she'll fight back and fight back until I fight into her and explode, explode taking her with me sometimes, Kristos how I wish it was every time. Then sleeping, never knowing when she'll kill me in my sleep. But she's been warned. If anything happens to me my men will give her to lepers on the east side of Vladivostok with the rest of her family.

The radio announced the seven o'clock news in English. "Good morning. This is Radio Hong Kong. More heavy rain is expected. The Victoria Bank has confirmed officially that it will assume all depositor debts of the Ho-Pak and asks depositors to line up peacefully if they require their money on Monday.

"During the night there were numerous land and mud slides throughout the Colony. Worst hit were the squatters' settlement area above Aberdeen, Sau Ming Ping, and Sui Fai Terrace in Wan-chai where six major landslips affected buildings in the area. In all, thirty-three persons are known to have lost their lives and many are feared still buried in the slides.

"There are no new developments in the foul murder and kidnapping of Mr. John Chen by the Werewolf gang. Rewards of $100,000 for information leading to their capture have been posted.

"Reports from London confirm that this year's harvest in the USSR has again failed. . . ."

Suslev didn't hear the rest of the broadcast. He knew the report from London was true. Top-secret KGB forecasts had predicted the harvest would once more be below even that necessary for subsistence.

Kristos, why the hell can't we feed ourselves? he wanted to shout, knowing famine, knowing the bloatedness and pains in his own lifetime let alone the ghastly tales his father and mother would tell.

So there's to be famine once more, tightening the belt once more, having to buy wheat from abroad, using up our hard-earned foreign currency, our future in danger, terrible danger, food our Achilles' heel. Never enough. Never enough skill or tractors or fertilizers or wealth, all the real wealth going for arms and armies and airplanes and ships first, far more important to become strong enough to protect ourselves from capitalist swine and revisionist Chinese swine and carry the war to them and smash them before they smash us, but never enough food for us and our buffer lands—the Balkans, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Poland, East Germany, the Baltic lands. Why is it those bastards could feed themselves most times? Why is it they falsify their harvests and cheat us and lie and steal from us? We protect them and what do they do? Brood and hate us and yet without our armies and the KGB to keep the filthy scum revisionist dissidents in thrall, they'll foment rebellion—like East Germany and Hungary—and turn the stupid masses against us.

But famine causes revolution. Always. Famine will always make the masses rise up against their government. So what can we do?

Keep them chained—all of them—until we smash America and Canada and take their wheatlands for ourselves. Then our system will double their harvest.

Don't fool yourself, he thought, agonized. Our agricultural system doesn't work. It never has. One day it will. Meanwhile we cannot feed ourselves. Those motherless turd farmers should . . .

"Stop it," Suslev muttered aloud, "you're not responsible, it's not your problem. Deal with your own problems, have faith in the Party and Marxist-Leninism!"

The eggs were done now and he made toast. Rain spattered the open windows. An hour ago the all-night torrent had ceased, but across the street and above the opposite tenement there were the dark clouds. More rain there, he thought, lots more. It's either god-cursed drought or' god-cursed flood in this cesspit! A gust caught one of the sodden, cardboard makeshift lean-tos on the roof and collapsed it. At once stoic repairs began, children barely old enough to walk helping.

With deft hands, liking neatness, he laid himself a place at the table, humming in time with the radio music. Everything's fine, he reassured himself. Dunross will go to the party, Koronski will supply the means, Plumm the client, Roger the protection, and all I have to do is go to police headquarters for an hour or so, then leisurely board my ship. On the midnight tide I kiss my arse to Hong Kong, leaving the Werewolves to bury the dead. . . .

The hackles of his neck rose as he heard the screech of an approaching police siren. He stood, paralyzed. But the siren whined past and went away. Stoically he sat and began to eat. Then the secret phone rang.

72

7:30 A.M. :

The small Bell helicopter swung in over the city, just below the overcast, and continued climbing the slopes to ease past the Peak funicular and the multiple high rises that dotted the steepness. Now the chopper was almost in the bottom layer of cloud.

Warily the pilot climbed another hundred feet, slowed and hovered, then saw the misted helipad in the grounds of the Great House near a great jacaranda tree. Immediately he swooped to the landing. Dunross was already waiting there. He ducked low to avoid the swirling blades, got into the left side of the bubble and buckled on his safety belts and headphones. "Morning, Duncan," he said into the mouth mike. "Didn't think you'd make it."

"Nor me," the older man said, and Dunross adjusted the headphone volume to hear better. "Doubt if we'll be able to get back, tai-pan. The overcast's dropping too fast again. Best leave if we're leaving. You have control."

"Here we go."

Gently Dunross's left hand twisted the throttle grip and increased the revs smoothly and eased the lever up, while his right hand moved the control stick right, left, forward, back, inching it in a gentle tiny circle, seeking and feeling for the air cushion that was building nicely—his left hand controlling speed, climbing or descending, his right hand direction, his feet on the rudder pedals keeping the whole unstable aircraft straight, preventing torque. Dunross loved to fly choppers. It was so much more of a challenge than fixed-wing flying. It required so much concentration and skill that he forgot his problems, the flying cleansing him.note 17 but he rarely flew alone. the sky was for professionals or for those who flew daily, so he would always have a pilot-instructor along with him, the presence of the other man not detracting from his pleasure.

His hands felt the cushion building and then the craft was an inch airborne. Instantly he corrected the slight slide to the right as a wind gusted. He checked his instruments, feeling for dangers, eyes outside, ears tuned to the music of the engine. When all was stable, he increased revs as he raised the left lever, eased the stick forward and left an inch, feet compensating, and went into a skidding left turn, gaining altitude and speed to drop away down the mountainside.

Once he was steady he pushed the transmit button on the stick, reporting in to Air Traffic Control at Kai Tak.

"Watch your revs," Mac said.

"Got it. Sorry." Dunross corrected just a fraction too hastily and cursed himself, then got the helicopter trimmed nicely, cruising sweetly, everything in the green, a thousand feet above sea level heading out across the harbor toward Kowloon, the New Territories and the hill-climb area.

"You really going to do the hill climb, tai-pan?"

"Doubt it, Duncan," he said through the mike. "But I wanted our ride anyway. I've been looking forward to it all week." Duncan Maclver ran this small helicopter business from the airport. Most of his business was local, most from government for surveys. The police hired him sometimes, the fire department, Customs. He was a short man, ex-RAF, with a lined face, very wide, sharp eyes that raked constantly.

Once Dunross was settled and trimmed, Maclver leaned forward and put circles of cardboard over the instruments to force Dunross to fly by feel and sound only, to listen to the pitch and tone; slowing meant the engine was working harder so they were climbing— watch for stalling—and faster, that it was diving, losing altitude.

"Tai-pan, look down there." Maclver pointed at the scar on one of the mountainsides just outside Kowloon; it scored a path through one of the vast squatter hovel slums. "There're mud slides all over. Did you hear the seven o'clock news?"

"Yes, yes I did."

"Let me take her a minute." Dunross took his hands and feet off the controls. Maclver went into a lovely diving turn to swoop nearer the settlement to examine the damage. The damage was great. Perhaps two hundred of the hovels were scattered and buried. Others near the slide were now even more precarious than before. Smoke from the fires that came with every slide still hung like a pall.

"Christ! It looks terrible."

"I was up at dawn this morning. The fire department asked me to help them on Hill Three, over above Aberdeen. They had a slide there a couple of days ago, a child almost got buried. Last night there was another slip in the same area. Very dicey. The slip's about two hundred feet by fifty. Two or three hundred hovels gone but only ten dead—bloody lucky!" Maclver circled for a moment, made a note on a pad, then gunned the ship back to altitude and to course. Once she was steady, level and trimmed he said, "She's all yours." Dunross took control.

Sha Tin was coming up on their right-side horizon. When they were close, Maclver took off the cardboard instrument covers. "Good," he said checking the readings. "Spot on."

"Had any interesting jobs recently?"

"Just more of the same. Got a charter for Macao, weather permitting, tomorrow morning."

"Lando Mata?"

"No, some American called Banastasio. Watch your revs! Oh, there's your landfall."

The fishing village at Sha Tin was near tracks that led back into the hills where the hill climb was to be held. The course consisted of a crude dirt road bulldozed out of the mountainside. At the foot of the slopes were a few cars, some on trailers and trailer rigs, but almost no spectators. Normally there would be hundreds, Europeans mostly. It was the only car-racing event in the Colony. British law forbade using any part of the public road system for racing, and this was the reason that the annual amateur Grand Prix race at Macao had been organized under the joint banner of the Sportscar and Rally Club of Hong Kong and the Portuguese Municipal Council. Last year Guillo Rodriguez of the Hong Kong Police had won the sixty-lap race in three hours twenty-six minutes at an average speed of 72 mph, and Dunross, driving a Lotus, and Brian Kwok in a borrowed E-Type Jag had been neck and neck for second place until Dunross blew a tire, flat out, going into Fisherman's Bend and nearly killed himself at the same spot where his engine blew in '59, the year before he became tai-pan.

Dunross was concentrating on his landing now, knowing that they would be watched.

The chopper was lined up, revs correct for descent, wind ahead and to the right, swirling a little as they came closer to the ground. Dunross held her meticulously. At the exact spot, he corrected and stopped, hovering, in total control, then, keeping everything coordinated, eased off the throttle oh so gently, raising the left lever to change the pitch of the blades to cushion the landing. The landing skids touched the earth. Dunross took off the remaining throttle and smoothly lowered the lever to bottom. The landing was as good as he had ever done.

Maclver said nothing, paying him a fine compliment by pretending to take it for granted, and watched while Dunross began the shutdown drill. "Tai-pan, why don't you let me finish it for you," he said. "Those fellows look somewhat anxious."

"Thanks."

Dunross kept his head down and went to the rain-coated group, his feet squelching in the mud. "Morning."

"It's bloody awful, tai-pan," George T'Chung, Shitee T'Chung's eldest son, said. "I tried my bus out and she stuck on the first bend." He pointed at the track. The E-Type was bogged down with one of its fenders bent. "I'll have to get a tractor." A spatter of rain washed them.

"Bloody waste of time," Don Nikklin said sourly. He was a short, bellicose man in his late twenties. "We should have canceled it yesterday."

Quite true, Dunross thought contentedly, but then I wouldn't have had the excuse to fly, and the extreme pleasure of seeing you here, your morning wasted. "The consensus was to try for today. Everyone agreed it was a long shot," Dunross said sweetly. "You were there. So was your father. Eh?"

McBride said hastily, "I formally suggest we postpone."

"Approved." Nikklin went off back to his brand-new four-wheel-drive truck with its souped-up Porsche under a neat tarp.

"Friendly fellow," someone said.

They watched as Nikklin got his rig into motion and swirled away with great skill on the treacherous dirt road, past the chopper, its engine dying and the rotors slowing down.

"Pity he's such a shit," someone else said. "He's an awfully good driver."

"Roll on Macao, eh, tai-pan?" George T'Chung said with a laugh, his voice patrician and English public school.

"Yes," Dunross said, his voice sharpening, looking forward to November, to beating Nikklin again. He had beaten him three out of six tries but he had never won the Grand Prix, his cars never strong enough to sustain his heavy right foot. "This time I'll win, by God."

"Oh no you won't, tai-pan. This's my year! I've a Lotus 22, the works, my old man sprung for the lot. You'll see my tail for all sixty laps!"

"Not on your nelly! My new E-Type'll. . ." Dunross stopped. A police car was skidding and slipping in the quagmire, approaching him. Why's Sinders here so early? he asked himself, his stomach tightening. He had said noon. Involuntarily his hand moved to check that the envelope was safe in his buttoned-down hip pocket. His fingers reassured him.

Last night when he had returned to P.B. White's study he had taken out the eleven pieces of paper and examined them again under the light. The ciphers were meaningless. I'm glad, he had thought. Then he had gone to the photocopier that was beside the leather-topped desk and made two copies of each page. He put each set into a separate envelope and sealed them. One he marked: "P. B. White —please hand this to the tai-pan of Struan's unopened." That one he put into a book that he chose at random from the bookshelves, replacing it with equal care. Following AMG's instructions, he marked the second with a G for Riko Gresserhoff and pocketed it. The originals he sealed in a last envelope and pocketed that too. With a final check that the secret door was back in place, he unlocked the door and went out. In a few minutes he and Gavallan had left with Casey and Riko and though there was plenty of opportunity to give Riko her set privately, he had decided it was better to wait until the originals were delivered.

Should I give Sinders the originals now or at noon? he asked himself, watching the police car. The car stopped. Chief Inspector Donald C. C. Smyth got out. Neither Sinders nor Crosse was with him.

"Morning," Smyth said politely, touching his peaked cap with his swagger stick, his other arm still in a sling. "Excuse me, Mr. Dunross, is the chopper your charter?"

"Yes, yes it is, Chief Inspector," Dunross said. "What's up?"

"I've a small show on down the road and saw you coming in. Wonder if we could borrow Maclver and the bird for an hour—or if you're going back at once, perhaps we could take her on after?"

"Certainly. I'll be off in a second. The hill climb's canceled."

Smyth glanced at the mountain track and the sky and grunted. "I'd say that was wise, sir. Someone would've been hurt, sure as shooting. If it's all right, I'll talk to Maclver?"

"Of course. Nothing serious I hope?"

"No, no, not at all. Interesting though. The rain's uncovered a couple of bodies that'd been buried in the same area where John Chen's body was found."

The others came closer. "The Werewolves?" George T'Chung asked, shocked. "More kidnap victims?"

"We presume so. They were both young. One had his head bashed in and the other poor bugger half his head cut off, looks like with a spade. Both were Chinese."

"Christ!" Young George T'Chung had gone white.

Smyth nodded sourly. "You haven't heard of any rich sons being kidnapped, have you?"

Everyone shook their heads.

"Not surprised," Smyth said. "Stupid for the families of victims to deal with kidnappers and keep quiet about it. Unfortunately the bodies were discovered by locals so it'll be headlines by tonight from here to Peking!"

"You want to fly the bodies back?"

"Oh no, tai-pan. The hurry's to get some CID experts here to search the area before the rain comes again. We need to try to identify the poor buggers. Can you leave at once?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Thanks. Sorry to bother you. Sorry about Noble Star, but my bundle'll be on you on Saturday." Smyth nodded politely and walked off.

George T'Chung was openly upset. "We're all targets for those bastards, the Werewolves. You, me, my old man, anyone! Christ, how can we protect ourselves against them?"

No one answered him.

Then Dunross said with a laugh, "No need to worry, old chap, we're inviolate, we're all inviolate."

73

10:01 A.M. :

The phone rang in the semidarkness of the bedroom. Bartlett scrambled out of sleep. "Hello?"

"Good morning, Mr. Bartlett, this is Claudia Chen. The tai-pan asked if you'd need the car today anyway?"

"No, no thanks." Bartlett glanced at his watch. "Jesus," he muttered aloud, astounded he had slept so long. "Er, thanks, thanks, Claudia."

"The Taipei trip's rescheduled for next Friday, Friday back Monday noon. Is that convenient?"

"Yes, er yes, sure."

"Thank you."

Bartlett hung up and lay back a moment, collecting his wits. He stretched luxuriously, glad that there was no rush for anything, enjoying the rare pleasantness of being just a little lazy.

It had been four o'clock this morning when he had hung up a "do not disturb," cut off the phones till 10:00 A.M. and had gone to bed. Last night Orlanda had taken him to Aberdeen where she had hired a Pleasure Boat. They had drifted the channels, the rain making the hooped cabin more cozy, the brazier warming, the food hot and spicy.

"In Shanghai we cook with garlic and chilies and peppers and all manner of spices," she had told him, serving him, her chopsticks a delicate extension of her fingers. "The farther north you go the hotter the food, the less rice is eaten, more breads and noodles. The north's wheat-eating, only the southern part of China's rice-eating, Line. More?"

He had eaten well and drunk the beer she had brought with her. The night had been happy for him, the time going unnoticed as she regaled him with stories of Asia and Shanghai, her mind deft and darting. Then, afterward, the rain pattering on the canvas, the dishes taken away and they reclining side-by-side on the cushions, fingers entwined, she had said, "Line, I'm sorry, but I love you."

It had taken him by surprise.

"No need to be sorry," he had said, not ready yet to reply in kind.

"Oh but I am. It complicates things, oh yes, it complicates things very much."

Yes, he thought. It's so easy for a woman to say I love you, so hard for a man, unwise for a man, for then you're stuck. Is that the right word? Again the answer did not present itself.

As he lay now in bed, his head cradled on his arms, he rethought the night. Touching and leaving alone, then hands searching, his and hers, but not finalizing. Not that she prevented him or stopped him. He just held back. Finally.

"You've never done that before," he muttered out loud. "Once you had a girl going, you went all the way," and he wished he had, remembering how heavy the desire had been upon them. "I'm not a one-night stand or Eurasian tramp" had rung in his ears.

In the taxi to her home they had not spoken, just held hands. That's the goddamnedest part, he thought, feeling foolish, childish, just holding hands. If anyone had told me a month ago, a week ago that I'd settle for that, I'd've said he was a meathead and bet big money.

Money. I have more than enough for Orlanda and me. But what about Casey? And Par-Con? First things first. Let's see if Casey tells me about Murtagh and why she's been sitting on that hot potato. Gornt? Gornt or Dunross? Dunross has style and if Banastasio's against him that's one great vote of confidence.

After he had told Armstrong their theory about Banastasio, Armstrong had said, "We'll see what we can come up with, though Mr. Gornt's credentials are as impeccable as any in the Colony. You can rest assured Vincenzo Banastasio will be high up on our shit list, but isn't his real threat in the States?"

"Oh yes. But I told Rosemont an—"

"Ah, good! That was wise. He's a good man. Did you see Ed Langan?"

"No. Is he CIA too?"

"I don't even know, officially, if Rosemont is, Mr. Bartlett. Leave it with me. Did he have any suggestion about the guns?"

"No."

"Well, never mind. I'll pass on your information and liaise with him—he's very good by the way."

A small tremor went through Bartlett. He'll have to be very good to clobber Mafia, if Banastasio really is Mafia.

He reached over and dialed Casey's room number. No answer, so he called down for his messages. The receptionist told him everything was already under his door. "Would you like your cables and telexes sent up?"

"Sure, thanks. Any message from Casey Tcholok?"

"No sir."

"Thanks."

He jumped out of bed and went to the door. Among the phone messages was an envelope. He recognized her writing. The messages were all business calls except one: "Mr. Banastasio called. Please return his call." Bartlett put that aside. He opened Casey's envelope. The note was timed 9:45 A.M. and read: "Hi, Line! Didn't want to disturb your beauty sleep—back sixish. Have fun!"

Where's she off to? he asked himself absently.

He picked up the phone to call Rosemont but changed his mind and dialed Orlanda. No answer. He redialed the number. The calling tone droned on and on.

"Shit!" He pushed away his discontent.

You've a date for lunch so what's so tough? Sunday brunch here atop the V and A and lots of time, Sunday brunch where "all the best people go for lunch, Line. Oh it's super, the hot and cold buffet's the talk of Asia. The very best!"

"Jesus, all this food, by next week I'll weigh a ton!"

"Not you, never never never. If you like, we'll go for a long walk or when the rain stops we'll play tennis. Whatever you want we'll do! Oh Line, I love you so. . . ."

Casey was leaning on the balustrade at the Kowloon wharf among the crowds. She wore khaki pants and a yellow silk shirt that showed her figure without flaunting it, a matching cashmere sweater tied casually around her neck, sneakers, and in her big handbag was a swimsuit—not that I'll need it today, she told herself, the Peak shrouded to Mid Levels with cloud, black-dark sky to the east and a heavy line of rain squall already touching the Island. A small helicopter putt-putted overhead to go out across the harbor on course for Central. She saw it land on one of the buildings. Isn't that the Struan Building? Sure, sure it is. Wonder if lan's in it?

Wonder if the hill climb's back on again? Last night he had said it was off but that some of them might do it anyway.

Then her eyes saw the approaching motor cruiser. It was big, expensive, the lines sleek, a Red Ensign aft, a colorful pennant on the stubby mast. She picked out Gornt at the helm. He was dressed casually, shirt-sleeves rolled up, canvas pants, his black hair ruffled by the sea breeze. He waved and she waved back. There were others on the bridge main deck: Jason Plumm she had met at the races, Sir Dunstan Barre at the tai-pan's—he was wearing a smart blue blazer and white pants, Pugmire was equally nautical.

Gornt put the cumbersome craft alongside skillfully, fende/s out, two deckhands with hooked fending poles. She headed along the quay toward the wet slippery steps. Five Chinese girls were already waiting on the landing, gaily dressed in boating clothes, laughing and chattering and waving. As she watched, they jumped awkwardly aboard helped by a deckhand, kicked their high heels off. One went to Barre, another to Pugmire, another to Plumm as old friends would and the other two went cheerfully below.

I'll be goddamned, she thought disgustedly. It's one of those parties. She began to turn to leave but she saw Gornt leaning over the side, watching her. "Hello, Casey, sorry about the rain, come aboard!"

The craft was dipping and twisting in the swell, waves slapping the steps and the hull. "Come aboard, it's quite safe," he called out. Reacting at once to what she interpreted as a taunt, she came down the steps quickly, refused the proffered help of the deckhand, waited for the correct moment and jumped. "You did that as though you've been aboard a yacht before," Gornt said with admiration, coming to meet her. "Welcome aboard the Sea Witch. "

"I like sailing, Quillan, though I think maybe I'm out of my depth here."

"Oh?" Gornt frowned and she could read no taunt or challenge there. "You mean the girls?"

"Yes."

"They're just guests of my guests." His eyes bored into her. "I understood you wanted to be treated with equality."

"What?"

"I thought you wanted to be treated equally in a masculine world, in business and pleasure? To be accepted, eh?"

"I do," she said coldly.

His warmth did not change. "Are you upset because the others are married and you've met some of their wives?"

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"Isn't that rather unfair?"

"No, I don't think it is," she said uncomfortably.

"You 're my guest, my guest, the others are my guests' guests. If you want equality, perhaps you should be prepared to accept equality."

"This isn't equality."

"I'm certainly putting you in a position of trust. As an equal. I must tell you the others didn't think you as trustworthy as I consider you." The smile hardened. "I told them they could leave or stay. I do what I like on my ship and I stood surety for your discretion and good manners. This is Hong Kong, our customs are different. This isn't a puritan society though we have very serious rules. You're alone. Unmarried. Very attractive and very welcome. As an equal. If you were married to Line, you would not have been asked, together or by yourself, though he might have been and what he told you when he came back would be his own affair."

"You're saying this is regular Hong Kong custom—the boys out with "the girls bit on a Sunday afternoon?"

"No, not at all. I'm saying my guests asked if they could invite some guests who'd brighten what might otherwise be a dull luncheon for them." Gornt's eyes were level.

The Sea Witch heeled under another wave and Barre and his girl friend stumbled and almost lost their footing. She dropped her glass of champagne. Gornt had not moved. Nor did Casey. She didn't even need to hoid on.

"You've done lots of sailing?" he said with admiration.

"I've an eighteen-footer, fiberglass, Olympic class, sloop-rigged, on a trailer. I sail some weekends."

"Alone?"

"Mostly. Sometimes Line comes along."

"He's at the hill climb?"

"No. I heard it was canceled."

"He's going to Taipei this afternoon?"

"No. I heard that was canceled too."

Gornt nodded. "Wise. A lot to do tomorrow." His eyes were kindly. "I'm sorry you're offended. I thought you different from the usual. I'm sorry the others came now."

Casey heard the strange gentleness. "Yes, I'm sorry too."

"Would you still like to stay? I hope so, though I will expect your discretion—I did guarantee it."

"I'll stay," she said simply. "Thanks for trusting me."

"Come on the bridge. There's champagne and I think lunch'll please you."

Having chosen, Casey put away her reservations and decided to enjoy the day. "Where're we going?"

"Up by Sha Tin. The sea'll be calm there."

"Say, Quillan, this is a wonderful boat."

"I'll show you around in a moment." There was a spatter of rain and they moved into the lee of the overhanging deck. Gornt glanced at the clock tower. It was 10:10. He was about to order their castoff when Peter Marlowe hurried down the steps and came aboard. His eyes widened as he noticed Casey.

"Sorry I'm late, Mr. Gornt."

"That's all right, Mr. Marlowe. I was going to give you a couple of minutes—I know how it is with young children. Excuse me a second, I believe you know each other. Oh, Casey's my guest—her discretion's guaranteed." He smiled at her. "Isn't it?"

"Of course."

He turned and left them, going to the bridge to take the conn. They watched a moment, both embarrassed, the sea breeze freshening the rain that slanted down.

"I didn't expect to see you, Peter," she said.

"I didn't expect to see you either."

She studied him, her hazel eyes level. "Is one of the, the others yours? Give it to me straight."

His smile was curious. "Even if one was I'd say it wasn't any of your business. Discretion and all that. By the way, are you Gornt's girl friend?"

She stared at him. "No. No, of course not!"

"Then why're you here?"

"I don't know. He … he just said I was invited as an equal."

"Oh. Oh I see." Peter Marlowe was equally relieved. "He's got a strange sense of humor. Well, I did warn you. To answer your question, at least eight are part of the Marlowe harem!" She laughed with him and he added more seriously, "You don't have to worry about Fleur. She's very wise."

"I wish I was, Peter. This's all rather new to me. Sorry about . . . yes, sorry."

"It's new to me too. I've never been on a Sunday cruise before. Why did y—" His smile vanished. She followed his glance. Robin Grey had come up from below and was pouring himself a glass of champagne, one of the girls holding out her glass too. Casey turned and stared up at Gornt, watching him glance from man to man, then at her.

"Come aloft," Gornt called out. "There's wine, champagne, Bloody Marys or, if you prefer, coffee." He kept his face expressionless but inside he was vastly amused.

74

11:15 A.M. :

"I repeat, Mr. Sinders, I know nothing of any cable, any Arthur, any files, any American and I know no Major Yuri Bakyan—the man was Igor Voranski, seaman first class." Susiev kept a firm hold on his temper. Sinders sat opposite him, behind the desk in the drab interview room at police headquarters. Suslev had expected Roger Crosse to be there, to help. But he had not seen him since he arrived.

Be careful, he cautioned himself, you're on your own. You'll get no help from Roger. Rightly. That spy has to be protected. And as to Boradinov, he's no help either. He glanced at his first officer who sat beside him, stiff, upright in his chair and greatly ill-at-ease.

"And you still insist this spy Dimitri Metkin's name was not Leonov—Nicoli Leonov—also a major in the KGB?"

"It's nonsense, all nonsense. I shall report this whole incident to my government, I sh—"

"Are your repairs completed?"

"Yes, at least they will be by midnight. We bring good money into Hong Kong and pay our bi—"

"Yes and create nothing but curious troubles. Like Major Leonov, like Bakyan?"

"You mean Metkin?" Suslev glared at Boradinov to take off some of the heat. "Did you know any Leonov?"

"No, Comrade Captain," Boradinov stuttered. "We didn't know anything."

"What a lot of cobblers!" Sinders sighed. "Fortunately Leonov told us quite a lot about you and the Ivanov before you murdered him. Yes, your Major Leonov was very cooperative." Suddenly his voice became a whiplash. "First Officer Boradinov, please wait outside!"

The younger man was on his feet before he knew it, white-faced. He opened the door. Outside a hostile Chinese SI agent motioned him to a chair, closing the door once more.

Sinders put his pipe aside, took out a package of cigarettes and leisurely lit one. Rain battered the windows. Suslev waited, his heart grinding. He watched his enemy from under his bushy eyebrows, wondering what Roger Crosse had for him that was so urgent. This morning when the secret phone had rung it was Arthur asking if Suslev would meet Roger Crosse around eight o'clock tonight at Sinclair Towers. "What's so urgent? I should be on my ship and mak—"

"I don't know. Roger said it was urgent. There was no time to discuss anything. Did you see Koronski?"

"Yes. Everything's arranged. Can you deliver?"

"Oh yes. Long before midnight."

"Don't fail, Center's counting on you now," he had added, lying. "Tell our friend it's ordered."

"Excellent. We won't fail."

Suslev had heard the excitement. Some of his dread had left him. Now it was returning. He did not like being here, so near to staying permanently. Sinders's reputation was well known in the KGB: dedicated, smart and given to great leaps of insight. "I'm very tired of these questions, Mr. Sinders," he said, astonished that the head of MI-6 had personally come to Hong Kong and could appear to be so unimportant. He stood up, testing him. "I'm leaving."

"Tell me about Sevrin."

"Severin? What is Severin? I do not have to stay to answer your questions, I do n—"

"I agree, Comrade Captain, normally, but one of your men has been caught spying and our American friends really want possession of you."

"Eh?"

"Oh yes and I'm afraid they're not as patient as we are."

Suslev's dread swooped back. "More threats! Why threaten me?" he flustered. "We are law-abiding. I'm not responsible for troubles! I demand to be allowed to go back to my ship! Now!"

Sinders just looked at him. "All right. Please leave," he said quietly.

"I can go?"

"Yes, yes of course. Good morning."

Astonished, Suslev stared at him a moment, then turned and went for the door.

"Of course we will certainly leak it to your superiors that you gave us Leonov."

Suslev stopped, ashen. "What, what did you say?"

"Leonov told us, among other things, that you encouraged him to make the intercept. Then you leaked the exchange."

"Lies . . . lies," he said, suddenly aghast that perhaps Roger Crosse had been caught as Metkin was caught.

"Didn't you also leak to North Korean agents about Bakyan?"

"No, no I did not," Suslev stuttered, enormously relieved to discover Sinders was kiting him, probably without any real information. Some of his confidence returned. "That's more nonsense. I know no North Koreans."

"I believe you, but I'm sure the First Directorate won't. Good morning."

"What do you mean?"

"Tell me about the cable."

"I know nothing about it. Your superintendent was mistaken, I did not drop it."

"Oh but you did. What American?"

"I know nothing about an American."

"Tell me about Sevrin."

"I know nothing of this Severin. What is it, who is it?"

"I'm sure you know your superiors in the KGB are impatient with leaks and very untrusting. If you manage to sail, I suggest you, your first officer, your ship and your entire crew do not come back into these waters again—"

"You threaten me again? This will become an international incident. I will inform my government and yours an—"

"Yes, and so will we, officially and privately. Very privately." Sinders's eyes were freezing though his lips wore a smile.

"I … I can go now?"

"Yes. For information."

"What?"

"Who is the American, and who is 'Arthur'?"

"I don't know any Arthur. Arthur who?"

"I will wait till midnight. If you sail without telling me, when I return to London I will make sure information gets to the ears of your naval attache in London that you leaked Leonov whom you call Metkin, and you leaked Bakyan whom you call Voranski in return for SI favors."

"That's lies, all lies, you know it's lies."

"Five hundred people saw you at the racetrack with Superintendent Crosse. That's when you gave him Metkin."

"All lies." Suslev tried to hide his terror.

Sinders chuckled. "We'll see, won't we? Your new naval attache in London will clutch at any straws to ingratiate himself with his superiors. Eh?"

"I don't understand," Suslev said, understanding very well. He was trapped.

Sinders leaned forward to tap out his pipe. "Listen to me clearly," he said with absolute finality. "I'll swap you your life for the American and Arthur."

"I don't know any Arthur."

"This will be a secret between you and me only. I'll tell no one. I give you my word."

"I know no Arthur."

"You pinpoint him and you're safe. You and I are professionals, we understand barter-—and safety—and an occasional private, very secret deal. You're caught, this time, so you have to deliver. If you sail without telling me who Arthur is, as sure as God made little apples and the KGB exists, I will shop you." The eyes bored into him. "Good morning, Comrade Captain."

Suslev got up and left. When he and Boradinov were in the air once more, in the reality of Hong Kong, both began to breathe. Silently Suslev led the way across the street to the nearest bar. He ordered two double vodkas.

Suslev's mind was ripped. Kristos, he wanted to shout, I'm dead if I do and dead if I don't. That goddamned cable! If I finger Banastasio and Arthur, I admit I know Sevrin and I'm in their power forever. And if I don't, my life will surely be finished. One way or another it will be dangerous to return home now, and equally dangerous to come back. One way or another now I need those AMG files or Dunross, or both, for protection. One way or an—

"Comrade Cap—"

He whirled on Boradinov and cursed him in Russian. The younger man whitened and stopped, petrified.

"Vodka! Two more," he called. "Please."

The bar girl brought them. "My name Sally, what your, heya?"

"Piss off," Boradinov snarled.

"Dew neh loh moh on your piss off, heya? You Mr. Pissoff? I no like your face Mr. Pissoff so piss off without swearings." She picked up the vodka bottle and prepared to carry the battle forward.

"Apologize to her,1" Suslev snapped, wanting no trouble, not sure that she wasn't a plant, the bar being so close to police headquarters.

Boradinov was shocked. "What?"

"Apologize to her, you motherless turd!"

"Sorry," Boradinov muttered, his face flushed.

The girl laughed. "Hey, big man, you want jig-jig?"

"No," Suslev said. "Just more vodka."

Crosse got out of the police car and hurried through the light rain into the Struan Building. Behind him the streets were crowded with umbrellas and snarled traffic, the sidewalks massed, people going to and from work, Sunday not a general holiday. On the twentieth floor he got out.

"Good morning, Superintendent Crosse. I'm Sandra Yi, Mr. Dunross's secretary. This way please."

Crosse followed her down the corridor, his eyes noticing her chong-samed rump. She opened a door for him. He went in.

"Hello, Edward," he said to Sinders.

"You're early too, as usual." Sinders was sipping a beer. "Old army habit, eh, five minutes early's on time?" Behind him in the lavish boardroom was a well-stocked bar. And coffee.

"Would you care for something, sir? Bloody Marys are mixed," Sandra Yi said.

"Thank you, just coffee. Black."

She served him and went out.

"How did it go?" Crosse asked.

"Our visitor? Fine, just fine. I'd say his sphincter's out of whack." Sinders smiled. "I taped the session. You can listen to it after lunch. Ah, yes, lunch. Roger, can you get fish and chips in Hong Kong?"

"Certainly. Fish and chips it is." Crosse stifled a yawn. He had been up most of the night developing and printing the roll of film he had taken in the vault. This morning he had read and reread AMG's real pages with enormous interest, privately agreeing with Dunross that the tai-pan had been perfectly correct to be so circumspect. AMG gave value for money whatever he cost, he thought. There's no doubt these files're worth a fortune.

The gimbaled clock struck the hour nicely. Noon. The door opened and Dunross strode in. " 'Morning. Thanks for coming here."

Politely the other two got up and shook hands.

"More coffee?"

"No thank you, Mr. Dunross."

As Crosse watched closely Dunross took a sealed envelope out of his pocket and offered it to Sinders. The older man took it, weighing it in his hand. Crosse noticed his fingers were trembling slightly. "Of course you've read the contents, Mr. Dunross?"

"Yes, Mr. Sinders."

"And?"

"And nothing. See for yourself."

Sinders opened the envelope. He stared at the first page, then leafed through all eleven sheets. From where Crosse stood he could not see what was on the pieces of paper. Silently Sinders handed him the top one. The letters and numbers and symbols of the code were meaningless. "Looks like they've been cut from something." Crosse looked at Dunross. "Eh?"

"What about Brian?"

"Where did you get them, Ian?" Crosse saw Dunross's eyes change a little.

"I've kept my side of the trade, are you going to keep yours?"

Sinders sat down. "I did not agree to a trade, Mr. Dunross. I only agreed that it was possible that your request might be complied with."

"Then you won't release Brian Kwok?"

"It's possible that he will be where you want him, when you want him."

"It has to be left like that?"

"Sorry."

There was a long silence. The tick of the clock filled the room. Except for the rain. Another squall came and went. Rain had been falling sporadically since this morning. Weather reports forecast that the storm would be over soon and that the reservoirs, for all the rain, were hardly touched.

Dunross said, "Will you give me the odds? Accurately. Please?"

"First three questions: Did you cut these out of something yourself?"

"Yes."

"From what and how?"

"AMG had written instructions. I was to use a cigarette lighter under the bottom right quadrant of some pages he'd sent—it was an innocuous typed report. When I heated the pages the type disappeared and what you see was left. When I'd finished, again following his instructions, I cut out the pertinent pieces and destroyed the remainder. And his letter."

"Have you kept a copy?"

"Of the eleven pieces? Yes."

"I must ask you for them."

"You may have them when you complete the bargain," Dunross said, his voice pleasant. "Now, what are the odds?"

"Please give me the copies."

"I will, when you complete. Monday at sunset."

Sinders's eyes were even colder. "The copies, now, if you please."

"When you complete. That's a decision. Now, odds please."

"50-50," Sinders said, testing him.

"Good. Thank you. I've arranged that on Tuesday morning all eleven pages will be published in the China Guardian and two Chinese papers, one Nationalist and one Communist."

"Then you do so at your peril. Her Majesty's Government does not enjoy coercion."

"Have I threatened you? No, not at all. Those letters and figures are a meaningless mumble-jumble, except perhaps—perhaps to some code cipher expert. Perhaps. Perhaps this's all a joke from a dead man."

"I can stop it under the Official Secrets Act."

"You can certainly try." Dunross nodded. "But come hell or the Official Secrets Act, if I choose, those pages will be published somewhere on earth this week. That's a decision too. The matter was left to my discretion by AMG. Was there anything else, Mr. Sinders?"

Sinders hesitated. "No. No, thank you, Mr. Dunross."

Equally politely Dunross turned and opened the door. "Sorry, I've got to get back to work. Thank you for coming."

Crosse let Sinders go first and followed him to the elevator. Sandra Yi, at the reception desk, had already pressed the button for them.

"Oh excuse me, sir," she said to Crosse, "do you know when Superintendent Kwok will be back in the Colony?"

Crosse stared at her. "I'm not sure. I could inquire if you like. Why?"

"We were going to have dinner Friday evening and neither his housekeeper nor his office seems to know."

"I'd be glad to inquire."

The phone buzzer on the switchboard went. "Oh, thank you, sir. Hello, Struan's," she said into the phone. "Just a moment." She began to make the connection. Crosse offered a cigarette to Sinders as they waited, watching the elevator numbers approaching. "Your call to Mr. Alastair, tai-pan," Sandra Yi said into the phone. Again the phone buzzer on the switchboard went.

"Hello," Sandra Yi said. "Just a moment, madam, I'll check." She referred to a typed appointment list as the elevator doors opened. Sinders went in and Crosse began to follow.

"It's for 1:00 P.M., Mrs. Gresserhoff."

At once Crosse stopped and bent down as though to tie his shoelace and Sinders, as efficiently and as casually, held the door.

"Oh that's all right, madam, it's easy to mistake a time. The table's booked in the tai-pan's name. The Skyline at the Mandarin at 1:00 P.M."

Crosse got up.

"All right?" Sinders asked.

"Oh yes." The doors closed on them. Both smiled.

"Everything comes to him who waits," Crosse said.

"Yes. We'll have fish and chips for dinner instead."

"No. You can have them for lunch. We shouldn't eat at the Mandarin. I suggest we just peg her secretly ourselves. Meanwhile, I'll assign surveillance to find out where she's staying, eh?"

"Excellent." Sinders's face hardened. "Gresserhoff, eh? Hans Gresserhoff was the cover name of an East German spy we've been trying to catch for years."

"Oh?" Crosse kept his interest off his face.

"Yes. He was partners with another right rotten bastard, a trained assassin. One of his names was Viktor Grunwald, another Simeon Tzerak. Gresserhoff, eh?" Sinders was silent a moment. "Roger, that publishing business, Dunross's threat. That could be very dicey."

"Can you read the code?"

"Good God, no."

"What could it be?"

"Anything. The pages are for me or the P.M. so they're probably names and addresses of contacts." Sinders added gravely, "I daren't trust them to cables, however coded. I think I'd better return to London at once."

"Today?"

"Tomorrow. I should finish this business first and I'd very much like to identify this Mrs. Gresserhoff. Will Dunross do what he said?"

"Absolutely."

Sinders pulled at his eyebrows, his washed-out blue eyes even more colorless than usual. "What about the client?"

"I'd say …" The elevator door opened. They got out and walked across the foyer. The uniformed doorman opened the door of Crosse's car for him.

Crosse cut into the snarled traffic, the harbor misted and the rain stopped for a moment. "I'd say one more session, then Armstrong can begin rebuilding. Monday sunset is too fast but . . ." He shrugged. "I wouldn't suggest any more of the Red Room."

"No. I agree, Roger. Thank God the fellow's got a strong constitution."

"Yes."

"I think Armstrong's ready to crack, poor fellow."

"He can conduct one more. Safely."

"I hope so. My God we've been very lucky. Unbelievable!" The session, at 6:00 this morning, had brought forth nothing. But just as they were about to quit, Armstrong's probing produced gold: at long last, the who and the why and the what of Professor Joseph Yu. Of Cal Tech, Princeton, Stanford. Rocket expert par excellence and NASA consultant.

"When's he due in Hong Kong, Brian?" Armstrong had asked, the whole SI team in the control room breathless.

"I … I don't … let me think, let me think … ah, I can't remember … ah yes, it, it's in a we … at the end of… of this month … what is this month? I can't rem … remember … which day it is. He was to arrive . . . and then go on."

"Where from and where to?"

"Oh I don't know, oh no they didn't tell me … except… except someone said he… he was sailing in Guam on holiday from Hawaii and due here ten days … I think it's ten days after . . . after Race Day."

And when Crosse had called in Rosemont and told him—though not where the information had come from—the American was speechless and in panic. At once he had ordered the Guam area scoured to prevent the defection.

"I wonder if they'll catch him," Crosse muttered.

"Who?"

"Joseph Yu."

"I jolly well hope so," Sinders said. "Why the devil do these scientists defect? Damnable! The only good point is he'll launch China's rocketry into the stratosphere and send shivers of horror down all Soviet spines. Bloody good if you ask me. If those two fall out it could help us all immensely." He eased more comfortably in the seat of the car, his back aching. "Roger, I can't risk Dunross publishing those ciphers or keeping a copy."

"Yes."

"He's too damned clever for his own boots is your tai-pan. If it leaks that AMG sent us a ciphered message and if Dunross has the memory he's supposed to have, he's a marked man. Eh?"

"Yes."

They reached the Skyline penthouse restaurant in good time. Crosse was instantly recognized and at once a discreet table was empty at the bar. As Sinders ordered a drink and more coffee Crosse phoned for two agents, one British and one Chinese. They arrived very fast.

At a few minutes to one o'clock Dunross walked in and they watched him go to the best table, maitre d' in advance, waiters in tow, champagne already in a silver bucket.

"The bugger's got everyone well trained, eh?"

"Wouldn't you?" Crosse said. His eyes ranged the room, then stopped. "There's Rosemont! Is that a coincidence?"

"What do you think?"

"Ah, look over there. In the far corner. That's Vincenzo Banas-tasio. The Chinese he's with is Vee Cee Ng. Perhaps that's who they're watching."

"Perhaps."

"Rosemont's clever," Crosse said. "Bartlett went to see him too. It could be Banastasio they're watching." Armstrong had reported Bartlett's conversation about Banastasio to them. Surveillance on the man had been increased. "By the way, I heard he's chartered a helicopter for Macao on Monday."

"We should cancel that."

"It's already done. Engine trouble."

"Good. I suppose Bartlett reporting Banastasio rather clears him, what?"

"Perhaps."

"I still think I'd better go Monday. Yes. Interesting, ah, that Dunross's receptionist had a date with the client. Good God, there's a smasher," Sinders said.

The girl was following the maitre d'. Both men were taken by surprise when she stopped at the tai-pan's table, smiled, bowed and sat down. "Christ! Mrs. Gresserhoff s Chinese?" Sinders gasped.

Crosse was concentrating on their lips. "No Chinese'd bow like that. She's Japanese."

"How in the hell does she fit?"

"Perhaps there's more than one guest. Per—oh Christ!"

"What?"

"They're not speaking English. Must be Japanese."

"Dunross speaks Jap?"

Crosse looked at him. "Yes, Japanese. And German, French, three dialects of Chinese and passable Italian."

Sinders stared back. "You needn't be so disapproving, Roger. I lost a son on HMS Prince of Wales, my brother starved to death on the Burma Road, so don't give me any sanctimonious bullshit, though I still think she's a smasher."

"At least that shows a certain amount of tolerance." Crosse turned back to study Dunross and the girl.

"Your war was in Europe, eh?"

"My war, Edward, is never ending." Crosse smiled, liking the sound of that. "World War Two's ancient history. Sorry about your kin but now Japan's not the enemy, they're our allies, the only real ones we've got in Asia."

For half an hour they waited. He could not read their lips at all.

"She must be Gresserhorf," Sinders said.

Crosse nodded. "Then shall we go? No point in waiting. Shall we fish and chip?"

They went out. The British and Chinese SI agents stayed, waiting patiently, unable to overhear what was being said, envying Dunross, as many did in the room—because he was the tai-pan and because of her.

"Gehen Sie?" she asked in German. Are you going?

"To Japan, Riko-san? Oh yes," he answered in the same language, "the week after next. We take delivery of a new super-cargo ship from Toda Shipping. Did you chat with Hiro Toda yesterday?"

"Yes, yes I had that honor. The Toda family is famous in Japan. Before the Restoration when the samurai class was abolished, my family served the Toda."

"Your family was samurai?"

"Yes, but of low degree. I, I did not mention about my family to him. Those were ancient days. I would not like him to know."

"As you wish," he said, his curiosity piqued. "Hiro Toda's an interesting man," he added, leading her on.

"Toda-sama is very wise, very strong, very famous." The waiter brought their salad and when he had left she said, "Struan's are famous in Japan too."

"Not really."

"Oh yes. We remember Prince Yoshi."

"Ah. I didn't know you knew."

In 1854 when Perry forced the Shogun Yoshimitsu Toranaga to open up Japan to trade, the Hag had sailed north from Hong Kong, her father and enemy, Tyler Brock, in pursuit. Thanks to her, Struan's was the first into Japan, first to buy land for a trading post and the first outsider to trade. Over the years and many voyages, she made Japan a cornerstone of Struan policy.

During the early years she met a young prince, Prince Yoshi, a relation of the Emperor and cousin to the Shogun—without whose permission nothing happened in Japan. At her suggestion and with her help, this prince went to England on a Struan clipper to learn about the might of the British Empire. When he returned home a few years later, it was in another Struan ship, and that year some of the feudal barons—daimyo— hating the incursion of foreigners, revolted against the Shogun whose family, the Toranaga, had exclusively ruled Japan for two and a half centuries in an unbroken line back to the great general Yoshi Toranaga. The revolt of the daimyo succeeded and power was restored to the Emperor but the land was riven. "Without Prince Yoshi, who became one of the Emperor's chief ministers," she said, unconsciously turning to English, "Japan would still be trembling and torn apart in civil war."

"Why so?" he asked, wanting to keep her talking, her lilting accent pleasing him.

"Without his help, the Emperor could not have succeeded, could not have abolished the Shogunate, abolished feudal law, the daimyo, the whole samurai class, and forced them to accept a modern constitution. It was Prince Yoshi who negotiated a peace among the daimyo, and then invited English experts to Japan to build our navy, our banks and our civil service, and help us into the modern world." A small shadow went across her face. "My father told me much about those times, tai-pan, not yet a hundred years ago. Transition from samurai rule to democracy was often bloody. But the Emperor had decreed an ending so there was an ending and all the daimyo and samurai dragged themselves painfully into a new life." She toyed with her glass, watching the bubbles. "The Toda were Lords of Izu and Sagami where Yokohama is. For centuries they had had shipyards. It was easy for them and their allies, the Kasigi, to come into this modern age. For us…" She stopped. "Oh, but you already know this, so sorry."

"Only about Prince Yoshi. What happened to your family?"

"My great-grandfather became a very minor member of Prince Yoshi's staff, as a civil servant. He was sent to Nagasaki where my family have lived since. He found it difficult not to wear the two swords. My grandfather was also a civil servant, like my father, but only very tiny." She looked up and smiled at him. "The wine is too good. It makes my tongue run away."

"No, not at all," he said, then conscious of the eyes watching them, he added in Japanese, "Let us talk Japanese for a while."

"It is my honor, tai-pan-san."

Later, over coffee, he said, "Where should I deposit the money owing to you, Riko-san?"

"If you could give me a cashier's check or bank draft"—she used the English words for there was no Japanese equivalent—"before I leave that would be perfect."

"On Monday morning I will have it sent to you. There's Ј10,625, and a further Ј8,500 payable in January, and the same the following year," he told her, knowing her good manners would not permit to ask outright He saw the flash of relief and was glad he had decided to give her two extra years of salary—AMG's information about oil alone was more than worth it. "Would eleven o'clock be convenient for the 'sight draft'?" Again Dunross used the English word.

"Whatever pleases you. I do not wish to put you to any trouble."

Dunross noticed how she was speaking slowly and distinctly to help him. "What will be your travel plans?"

"On Monday I think I will go to Japan, then . . . then I don't know. Perhaps back to Switzerland though I have no real reason to return. I have no relations there, the house was a rented house and the garden not mine. My Gresserhoff life ended with his death. Now I think I should be Riko Anjin again. Karma is karma."

"Yes," he told her, "karma is karma." He reached into his pocket and brought out a gift-wrapped package. "This is a present from the Noble House to thank you for taking so much trouble and such a tiring trip on our behalf."

"Oh. Oh thank you, but it was my honor and pleasure." She bowed. "Thank you. May I open it now?"

"Perhaps later. It is just a simple jade pendant but the box also contains a confidential envelope that your husband wanted you to have, for your eyes only and not for the eyes that surround us."

"Ah. I understand. Of course." She bowed again. "So sorry, please excuse my stupidity."

Dunross smiled back at her. "No stupidity, never, only beauty."

Color came into her face and she sipped coffee to cover. "The envelope is sealed, tai-pan-san?"

"Yes, as he instructed. Do you know what's in it?"

"No. Only that… only that Mr. Gresserhoff said that you would give me a sealed envelope."

"Did he say why? Or what you were supposed to do with it?"

"One day someone would come to claim it."

"By name?"

"Yes, but my husband told me I was never to divulge the name, not even to you. Never. Everything else I could tell you but not the . . . the name. So sorry, please excuse me."

Dunross frowned. "You're just to give it to him?"

"Or her," she said pleasantly. "Yes, when I am asked, not before. After it has been digested, Mr. Gresserhoff said the person would repay a debt. Thank you for the gift, tai-pan-san. I will cherish it."

The waiter came and poured the last of the champagne for him then went away again. "How do I reach you in the future, Riko-san?"

"I will give you three addresses and phone numbers that will find me, one in Switzerland, two in Japan."

After a pause he said, "Will you be in Japan the week after next?"

Riko looked up at him and his spirit twisted at such beauty. "Yes. If you wish it," she said.

"I wish it."

75

2:30 P.M. :

The Sea Witch was tied just offshore beside Sha Tin boat harbor where they had moored for lunch. As soon as they had arrived, the cook, Casey and Peter Marlowe, had gone ashore with Gornt in command to select the prawns and shrimps and fish that were still swimming in sea tanks, then on to the bustling market for morning-fresh vegetables. Lunch had been quick-fried prawns with crunchy broccoli, then fish rubbed with garlic and pan-fried, served with mixed Chinese greens, again al dente.

The lunch had been laughter filled, the Chinese girls entertaining and happy, all of them speaking varying degrees of salty English, Dunstan Barre choleric and outrageously funny, the others joining in, and Casey thought how different the men were. How much more unrestrained and boyish, and she thought that sad. The talk had turned to business, and in the few short hours she had learned more about Hong Kong techniques than through all the reading she had done. More and more it was clear that unless you were on the inside, real power and real riches would escape you.

"Oh, you'll do very well here, Casey, you and Bartlett," Barre had said. "If you play the game according to Hong Kong rules, Hong Kong tax structures and not U.S. rules, right, Quillan?"

"Up to a point. If you go with Dunross and Struan's—if Struan's and Dunross exist as an entity by next Friday—you'll get some milk but none of the cream."

"With you we'll do better?" she had asked.

Barre had laughed. "Very much better, Casey, but it'll still be milk and very little cream!"

"Let's say, Casey, with us the milk'll be homogenized," Gornt had said amiably.

Now the wonderful smell of freshly roasted coffee, freshly ground, was wafting up from the galley. Conversation was general around the table, banter back and forth, mostly for her benefit, about trading in Asia, supply and demand and the Asian attitude to smuggling, the Chinese girls chattering among themselves.

Abruptly, Grey's voice, a biting rasp to it, cut through. "You'd better ask Marlowe about that, Mr. Gornt. He knows everything about smuggling and blackmailing from our Changi days."

"Come on, Grey," Peter Marlowe said in the sudden silence. "Give over!"

"I thought you were proud of it, you and your Yankee blackmailer mate. Weren't you?"

"Let's leave it, Grey," Marlowe said, his face set.

"Whatever you say, old lad." Grey turned to Casey. "Ask him."

Gornt said, "This is hardly the time to rehash old quarrels, Mr. Grey." He kept his voice calm and the enjoyment off his face, outwardly the perfect host.

"Oh, I wasn't, Mr. Gornt. You were talking about smuggling and black marketeering. Marlowe's an expert, that's all."

"Shall we have coffee on deck?" Gornt got up.

"Good idea. A cuppa coffee's ever so good after grub." Grey used the word deliberately, knowing it would offend them, not caring now, suddenly tired of the banter, hating them and what they represented, hating being the odd-man out here, wanting one of the girls, any one. "Marlowe and his Yankee friend used to roast beans in the camp when the rest of us were starving," he said, his face stark. "Used to drive us mad." He looked at Peter Marlowe, his hate open now. "Didn't you?"

After a pause, Peter Marlowe said, "Everyone had coffee some of the time. Everyone roasted coffee beans."

"Not like you two." Grey turned to Casey. "They had coffee every day, him and his Yankee friend. Me, I was provost marshal and I had it once a month if I was lucky." He glanced back. "How did you get coffee and food while the rest of us starved?"

Casey noticed the vein in Peter Marlowe's forehead knotting and she realized, aghast, that no answer was also an answer. "Robin . . ." she began, but Grey overrode her, his voice taunting.

"Why don't you answer, Marlowe?"

In the silence they all looked from Grey to Peter Marlowe, staring at each other, even the girls tense and on guard, feeling the sudden violence in the cabin.

"My dear fellow," Gornt interrupted, deliberately using that slight nuance of accent he knew would goad Grey, "surely those are ancient times and rather unimportant now. It is Sunday afternoon and we're all friends."

"I think 'em rather important, Sunday afternoon or not and Marlowe and I aren't friends, never have been! He's a toff, I'm not." Grey aped the long a he loathed and broadened his accent. "Yes. But the war changed everything and us workers'll never forget!"

"You consider yourself a worker and me not?" Peter Marlowe asked, his voice grating.

"We're the exploited, you're the exploiters. Like in Changi."

"Get off that old broken record, Grey! Changi was another world, another place and other time an—"

"It was the same as everywhere. There was bosses and the bossed, workers and them that fed off the workers. Like you and the King."

"Stuff and nonsense!"

Casey was near to Grey and she reached out and took his arm. "Let's have coffee, okay?"

"Of course," Grey said. "But first ask him, Casey." Grimly Grey stood his ground, well aware he had, at long last, brought his enemy to bay in front of his peers. "Mr. Gornt, ask him, eh? Any of you . . ."

They all stood there in silence, embarrassed for Peter Marlowe and shocked with the implied accusations—Gornt and Plumm privately amused and fascinated. Then one of the girls turned for the gangway and left quietly, the others following. Casey would have liked to have gone too but she did not.

"Now is not the time, Mr. Grey," she heard Gornt say gently and she was glad he was there to break it up. "Would you kindly leave this matter alone. Please?"

Grey looked at them all, his eyes ending up on his adversary. "You see, Casey, not one's got the guts to ask—they're all his class, so-called upper class and they look after their own."

Barre flushed. "I say, old chap, don't you th—"

Peter Marlowe said, his voice flat, "It's easy to stop this nonsense. You can't equate Changi—or Dachau or Buchenwald with normality. You just can't. There were different rules, different patterns. We were soldiers, war prisoners, teen-agers most of us. Changi was genesis, everything new, upside down, ev—"

"Were you a black marketeer?"

"No. I was an interpreter in Malay for a friend who was a trader and there's a lot of difference between trading and black marketing an—"

"But it was against camp rules, camp law, and that makes it black marketing, right?"

"Trading with the guards was against enemy rules, Japanese rules."

"And tell them how the King'd buy some poor bugger's watch or ring or fountain pen for a pittance, the last bloody thing he had in the world, and sell it high and never tell and cheat on the price, cheat, always cheat. Eh?"

Peter Marlowe stared back. "Read my book. In it th—"

"Book?" Again Grey laughed, goading him. "Tell 'em on your honor as a gent, your father's honor and your family's honor you're so bloody proud of—did the King cheat or didn't he? On your honor! Eh?"

Almost paralyzed, Casey saw Peter Marlowe make a fist. "If we weren't guests here," he hissed, "I'd tell them what a shower you really were!"

"You can rot in hell. . . ."

"Now that's enough," Gornt said as a command and Casey began to breathe again. "For the last time, kindly leave this all alone!"

Grey tore his eyes off Marlowe. "I will. Now, can I get a taxi in the village? I think I'd rather get home meself by meself if you don't mind."

"Of course," Gornt said, his face suitably grave, delighted that Grey had asked so that he did not have to finesse the suggestion into the open. "But surely," he added, delivering the coup de grace, "surely you and Marlowe could shake hands like gentlemen and forget about th—"

"Gentlemen? Ta, but no. No, I've had gentlemen like Marlowe forever. Gentlemen? Thank God England's changing and soon'll be in proper hands again—and the very British Oxford accent won't be a permanent passport to gentry and power, not ever again. We'll reform the Lords and if I have my way . . ."

"Let's hope you don't!" Pugmire said.

Gornt said firmly, "Pug! It's coffee and port time!" Affably he took Grey's arm. "If you'll excuse Mr. Grey and myself a moment . . ."

They went on deck. The chatter of the Chinese girls stopped a moment. Secretly very pleased with himself, Gornt led the way to the gangway and went ashore onto the wharf. Everything was turning out far better than he had thought.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Grey," he said. "I had no idea that Marlowe . . . Disgusting! Well, you never know, do you?"

"He's a bastard, always was, always will be—him and his filthy Yank friend. Hate Yanks too! About time we broke up with that shower!"

Gornt found a taxi easily.

"Are you sure, Mr. Grey, you won't change your mind?"

"Ta, but no thanks."

"Sorry about Marlowe. Clearly you were provoked. When are you and your trade commission off?"

"In the morning, early."

"If there's anything I can do for you here, just let me know."

"Ta. When you come home give me a tinkle."

"Thank you. I will, and thanks for coming." He paid the fare in advance and waved politely as the taxi drove off. Grey did not look around.

Gornt smiled. That revolting bastard's going to be a useful ally in the years to come, he chortled as he walked back.

Most of the others were on deck, drinking coffee and liqueurs, Casey and Peter Marlowe to one side.

"What a bloody berk!" Gornt called out to general agreement. "Frightfully sorry about that, Marlowe, the bugger pr—"

"No, it was my fault," Peter Marlowe said, clearly very upset. "Sorry. I feel terrible that he left."

"No need to apologize. I should never have invited him—thanks for being such a gentleman about it, he clearly provoked you."

"Quite right," Pugmire said to more agreement. "If I'd been you I'd've given him one. Whatever happened is in the past."

"Oh yes," Casey said quickly, "what an awful man! If you hadn't stopped it, Quilian, Grey wou—

"Enough of that berk," Gornt said warmly, wanting the specter laid to rest. "Let's forget him, let's not allow him to spoil a wonderful afternoon." He put his arm around Casey and gave her a hug. "Eh?" He saw the admiration in her eyes and he knew, gleefully, he was getting there fast. "It's too cold for a swim. Shall we just cruise leisurely home?"

"Good idea!" Dunstan Barre said. "I think I'm going to have a siesta."

"Smashing idea!" someone said to laughter. The girls joined in but the laughter was forced. Everyone was still unsettled and Gornt felt it strongly. "First some brandy! Marlowe?"

"No thank you, Mr. Gornt."

Gornt studied him. "Listen to me, Marlowe," he said with real compassion and everyone fell silent. "We've all seen too much of life, too much of Asia, not to know that whatever you did, you did for good and not evil. What you said was right. Changi was special with special problems. Pug was locked up in Stanley Prison—that's on Hong Kong Island, Casey—for three and a half years. I got out of Shanghai barely with my skin, and blood on my hands. Jason was grabbed by the Nazis after Dunkirk and had a couple of dicey years with them, Dunstan operated in China—Dunstan's been in Asia forever and he knows too. Eh?"

"Oh yes," Dunstan Barre said sadly. "Casey, in war to survive you have to stretch things a bit sometimes. As to trading, Marlowe, I agree, most times you have to equate the problem to the time and place. I thank God I was never caught. Don't think I'd've survived, know I wouldn't." He refilled his port from the decanter, embarrassed to be speaking real truths.

"What was Changi really like, Peter?" Casey asked for all of them.

"It's hard to talk about," he said. "It was the nearest to no-life that you could get. We were issued a quarter of a pound of dry rice a day, some vegetables, one egg a week. Sometimes meat was . . . was waved over the soup. It was different, that's all I can say about it. Most of us had never seen a jungle before, let alone Chinese and Japanese and to lose a war … I was just eighteen when Changi began."

"Christ, I can't stand Japs, just can't!" Pugmire said and the others nodded.

"But that's not fair, really. They were just playing the game according to their rules," Peter Marlowe said. "That was fair from the Japanese point of view. Look what wonderful soldiers they were, look how they fought and almost never allowed themselves to be captured. We were dishonored according to their standards by surrendering." Peter Marlowe shivered. "I felt dishonored, still feel dishonored."

"That's not right, Marlowe," Gornt said. "There's no dishonor in that. None."

Casey, standing beside Gornt, put her hand on his arm lightly. "Oh yes. He's right, Peter. He really is."

"Yes." Dunstan Barre said. "But Grey, what the devil got Grey all teed off? Eh?"

"Nothing and everything. He became fanatical about enforcing camp rules—which were Japanese rules—stupidly, a lot of us thought. As I said, Changi was different, officers and men were locked up together, no'letters from home, no food, two thousand miles of enemy-occupied territory in every direction, malaria, dysentery, and the death rate terrible. He hated this American friend of mine, the King. It was true the King was a cunning businessman and he ate well when others didn't and drank coifee and smoked tailor-made cigarettes. But he kept a lot of us alive with his skill Even Grey– He even kept Grey alive. Grey's hatred kept him alive, I'm sure. The King fed almost the whole American contingent— there were about thirty of them, officers and men. Oh they worked for it, American style, but even so, without him they would have died. I would have. I know." Peter Marlowe shuddered. "Joss. Karma. Life. I think I'll have that brandy now, Mr. Gornt."

Gornt poured. "Whatever happened to this man, this fellow you call the King? After the war?"

Pugmire interrupted with a laugh, "One of the buggers in our camp who was a trader became a bloody millionaire afterwards. Is it the same with this King?"

"I don't know," Peter Marlowe said.

"You never saw him again, Peter?" Casey asked, surprised. "You didn't see him back in the States?"

"No, no I never did. I tried to find him but never could."

"That's often the rule, Casey," Gornt said casually. "When you leave a regiment all debts and friendships are canceled." He was very content. Everything's perfect, he told himself, thinking of the double bed in his cabin, and smiled at her across the deck. She smiled back.

Riko Anjin Gresserhoff went into the foyer of the V and A. It was crowded with those having early-afternoon tea or late lunches. As she walked to the elevator a tremor went through her, the eyes bothering her—not the usual lusting eyes of European men or the dislike in the eyes of their women—but Chinese and Eurasian eyes. She had never experienced so much general hatred. It was a strange feeling. This was her first time outside of Switzerland, other than school trips to Germany and two journeys to Rome with her mother. Her husband had taken her abroad only once, to Vienna for a week.

I don't like Asia, she thought, suppressing another shudder. But then it's not Asia, it's Hong Kong, surely it's just here, the people here. And surely, there is right on their side to be antagonistic. I wonder if I'll like Japan? Will I be alien, even there?

The elevator came and she went to her suite on the sixth floor, the room boy not opening her door for her. Alone and with the door bolted, she felt better. The red message light on the phone was blinking but she paid it no attention, quickly taking off her shoes, hat, gloves and coat, putting them at once in a vast closet, the clothes already there neat and organized, like her three pairs of shoes. The suite was small but delicate, a living room, bedroom and bath. Flowers from Struan's were on the table and a bowl of fruit from the hotel.

Her fingers slid the gift wrapping away neatly. Inside was a rectangular black plush box and she opened it. Warmth went through her. The pendant was on a thin gold chain, the jade green with flecks of lighter green, carved like a cornucopia. Light shimmered off the polished surface. At once she put it on, studying it in the mirror, admiring the stone as it lay against her breast. She had never been given jade before.

Underneath the black, plush-covered cardboard was the envelope. It was a plain envelope, not Struan's, the seal equally plain, made of ordinary red sealing wax. With great care she slid a paper knife under the seal and studied the pages, one by one, a small frown on her forehead. Just a jumble of numbers and letters and an occasional symbol. A tiny, satisfied smile touched her lips. She found the hotel letter-writing folder and, settling herself comfortably at the desk, began to copy the pages, one by one.

When she had finished she checked them. She put the copies into a hotel envelope and sealed it, the originals in another envelope, a plain one she took out of her bag. Next she found the new stick of red sealing wax, lit a match and daubed the melting wax on both envelopes, sealing them, making sure the seal on the envelope of the originals was a pattern of the one Dunross had made. The phone rang, startling her. She watched it, her heart thumping, until it stopped. Once more at ease, she went back to her labor, ensuring there were no telltale indentations left on the pad that she had used, examining it under the light. As soon as she was satisfied, she stamped the envelope containing the copies, addressed it to: R. Anjin, Box 154, General Post Office, Sydney, Australia. This and the other envelope with the originals she put into her handbag.

Carefully she rechecked that nothing had been missed, then went to a small refrigerator near the stocked bar and took out a bottle of sparkling mineral water and drank some.

Again the phone rang. She watched it, sipping the soda water, her mind checking and rechecking, thinking about her lunch with Dunross, wondering if she had been wise to accept his invitation to cocktails tonight and, later, to dinner with him and his friends. I wonder if there will be friends or if we will be alone. Would I like to be alone with that man?

Her thoughts went back to the small, untidy, slightly balding Hans Gresserhoff, and the four years of life that she had led with him, weeks alone, sleeping alone, waking alone, walking alone, no real friends, rarely going out, her husband strangely secretive, cautioning her about making friends, wanting her to be alone and always safe and calm and patient. That was the hardest part to bear, she thought. Patience. Patience alone, patience together, asleep or awake. Patience and outwardly calm. When all the time she was like a volcano, desperate to erupt.

That he loved her was beyond doubt. All she felt for him was giri, duty. He gave her money and her life was smooth, neither rich nor poor—even, like the country of their choice. His arrivals and departures had no pattern. When he was with her he always wanted her, wanted to be near her. Their pillowing satisfied him but not her, though she pretended, for his pleasure. But then, she told herself, you have had no other man to judge by.

He was a good man and it was as I told the tai-pan. I tried to be a good wife to him, to obey him in everything, to honor my mother's wish, to fulfill my giri to her, and to him. And now?

She looked down at her wedding ring and twisted it on her finger. For the first time since she had married she took it off and looked at it closely in the palm of her hand. Small, empty and uninteresting.

So many lonely nights, tears in the nights, waiting waiting waiting. Waiting for what? Children forbidden, friends forbidden, travel forbidden. Not forbidden as a Japanese would: Kin jiru! But, "Don't you think, my dear," he would say, "don't you think it would be better if you didn't go to Paris while I'm away? We can go the next time I'm here …" both of them knowing they would never go.

The time in Vienna had been terrible. It was the first year. They went for a week. "I have to go out tonight," he had told her the first night. "Please stay in the room, eat in the room till I get back." Two days passed and when he came back he was sallow-faced and drawn, frightened, and then at once, in the darkest part of the night, they had got into their hired car and fled back to Switzerland, going the long way, the wrong way, up through the Tyrolian mountains, his eyes constantly on the rear mirrors in case they were being followed, not talking to her until they were safe across the border once more.

"But why, why, Hans?"

"Because nothing! Please. You're not to ask questions, Riko. That was your agreement… our agreement. I'm sorry about the holiday. We'll go to Wengen or Biarritz, it will be grand, it will be grand there. Please remember your giri and that I love you with all my heart."

Love!

I do not understand that word, she thought, standing there at the window, looking at the harbor, sullen clouds, the light bad. Strange that in Japanese we do not have such a word. Only duty and shades of duty, affection and shades of affection. Not lieben. Ai? Ai really means respect though some use it for lieben.

Riko caught herself thinking in German and she smiled. Most times she thought in German though today, with the tai-pan, she had thought in Japanese. It's such a long time since I spoke my own language. What is my own language? Japanese? That's the language my parents and I spoke. German? That's the language of our part of Switzerland. English? That's the language of my husband even though he claimed that German was his first tongue.

Was he English?

She had asked herself that question many times. It was not that his German was not fluent, it was just attitudes. His attitudes were not German, like mine are not Japanese. Or are they?

I don't know. But now, now I can find out.

He had never told her what his work was and she had never asked. After Vienna it had been very easy to predict that it was clandestine and connected somehow to international crime or espionage. Hans was not the type to be in crime.

So from then on she had been even more cautious. Once or twice she had thought that they were under surveillance in Zurich and when they went skiing, but he had dismissed it and told her not to worry about him. "But be prepared in case of accidents. Keep all your valuables and private papers, passport and birth certificate in your traveling bag, Ri-chan," he had said, using her nickname. "Just in case, just in case."

With the death of her husband and his instructions almost all carried out, the money and the tai-pan's phone call and summons, everything had become new. Now she could start again. She was twenty-four. The past was past and karma was karma. The tai-pan's money would be more than enough for her needs for years.

On their wedding night, her husband had told her, "If anything happens to me, you will get a call from a man called Kiernan. Cut the phone wires as I will show you and leave Zurich instantly. Leave everything except the clothes you wear and your travel bag. Drive to Geneva. Here is a key. This key will open a safety deposit box in the Swiss Bank of Geneva on Rue Charles. In it there's money and some letters. Follow the instructions exactly, my darling, oh how I love you. Leave everything. Do exactly as I've said. . . ."

And she had. Exactly. It was her giri.

She had cut the phone wires with the wire snips as he had shown her, just behind the box that was attached to the wall so that the cut was hardly noticeable. In Geneva in the bank there had been a letter of instructions, $10,000 U.S. in cash in the safety deposit box, a new Swiss passport, stamped, with her photograph but a new name and new birthday and new birth certificate that documented she was born in the city of Berne twenty-three years ago. She had liked the new name he had chosen for her and she remembered how, in the safety of her hotel room overlooking the lovely lake, she had wept for him.

Also in the safety deposit box had been a savings book in her new name for $20,000 U.S. in this same bank, and a key, an address and a deed. The deed was for a small chalet on the lake, private and furnished and paid for, with a caretaker who knew her only by her new name and that she was a widow who had been abroad—the deed registered in her new name though purchased four years before, a few days prior to her marriage.

"Ah, mistress, I am so happy you have come home at long last. Traveling in all those foreign places must be very tiring," the pleasant, though simple old lady had said in greeting. "Oh, for the last year or so, your home has been rented to such a charming, quiet Englishman. He paid promptly every month, here are the accounts. Perhaps he will come back this year, he said, perhaps not. Your agent is on Avenue Firmet. . . ."

Later, wandering around the lovely house, the lake vast and clean in the bowl of mountains, the house clean like the mountains, pictures on the walls, flowers in vases, three bedrooms and a living room and verandas, tiny but perfect for her, the garden cherished, she had gone into the main bedroom. Among a kaleidoscope of small pictures of various shapes and sizes on one of the walls was what seemed to be part of an old letter in a glass-covered frame, the paper already yellowing. She recognized his writing. It was in English. "So many happy hours in your arms, Ri-chan, so many happy days in your company, how do I say that I love you? Forget me, I will never forget you. How do I beg God to grant you ten thousand days for every one of mine, my darling, my darling, my darling."

The huge double bed was almost convex with its thick eiderdown quilt, multicolored, the windows opened to the tender air, late summer perfumes within it, snow dusting the mountaintops. She had wept again, the chalet taking her to itself.

Within a few hours of being there Dunross had called and she had boarded the first jet and now she was here, most of her work completed, never a need to return, the past obliterated—if she wished it. The new passport was genuine as far as she could tell, and the birth certificate. No reason ever to return to Switzerland— except for the chalet. And the picture.

She had left it on the wall undisturbed. And she had resolved, as long as she owned the house, the picture would stay where he had placed it. Always.

76

5:10 P.M. :

Orlanda was driving her small car, Bartlett beside her, his hand resting lightly across her shoulders. They had just come over the pass from Aberdeen and now, still in cloud, were heading down the mountainside in Mid Levels toward her home in Rose Court. They were happy together, aware and filled with expectation. After lunch they had crossed to Hong Kong and she had driven to Shek-O on the southeastern tip of the Island to show him where some of the tai-pans had weekend houses. The countryside was rolling and sparsely populated, hills, ravines, the sea always near, sheer cliffs and rocks.

From Shek-O they had slid along the southern road that curled and twisted until they got to Repulse Bay where she had stopped at the wonderful hotel for tea and cakes on the veranda, looking out at the sea, then on again, past Deepwater Cove to Discovery Bay where she stopped again at a lookout. "Look over there, Line, that's Castle Tok!" Castle Tok was a vast, incongruous house that looked like a Norman castle and was perched on the cliffside high over the water. "During the war the Canadians—Canadian soldiers—were defending this part of the Island against the invading Japanese and they all retreated to Castle Tok for a last stand. When they were overwhelmed and surrendered there were about two hundred and fifty of them left alive. The Japanese herded them all onto the terrace of Castle Tok and drove them by bayonet over the terrace wall to the rocks below."

"Jesus." The drop was a hundred feet or more.

"Everyone. The wounded, the … the others, everyone." He had seen her shiver and at once had reached out to touch her.

"Don't, Orlanda, that's such a long time ago."

"It's not, no, not at all. I'm afraid history and the war's still very much with us, Line. It always will be. Ghosts walk those terraces by night."

"You believe that?"

"Yes. Oh yes."

He remembered looking back at the brooding house, the surf crashing against the rocks below, her perfume surrounding him as she leaned back against him, feeling her heat, glad to be alive and not one of those soldiers. "Your Castle Tok looks like something out of the movies. You ever been inside?"

"No. But they say there are suits of armor and dungeons and it's a copy of a real castle in France. The owner was old Sir Cha-sen Tok, Builder Tok. He was a multimillionaire who made his money in tin. They say that when he was fifty a soothsayer told him to begin building a 'big mansion' or he would die. So he began to build and he built dozens of places, all mansions, three in Hong Kong, one near Sha Tin and many in Malaya. Castle Tok was the last one he built. He was eighty-nine but hale and hearty and like a middle-aged man. But after Castle Tok the story is he said enough, and quit building. Within a month he was dead and the soothsayer's prophecy came true."

"You're making it all up, Orlanda!"

"Oh no, Line, I wouldn't, not without telling. But what's true and what's false? Who really knows, eh, my darling?"

"I know I'm mad about you."

"Oh Line, you must know I feel the same."

They had driven on past Aberdeen, warm and together, his hand on her shoulder, her hair brushing his hand. From time to time she would point out houses and places and the hours went by imperceptibly, delightfully for both of them. Now, as they came down from the pass through the clouds and broke out of them, they could see most of the city below. Lights were not on yet, though here and there the huge colored neon signs down by the water's edge were beginning to brighten.

The traffic was heavy and on the steep mountain roads water still ran in the gutters with piles of fresh mud and rocks and vegetation here and there. She drove deftly, without taking chances, and he felt safe with her though driving on the wrong side of the road had been hair-raising on the bends.

"But we're on the correct side," she said. "You drive on the wrong side!"

"The hell we do. It's only the English who drive on the left. You're as American as I am, Orlanda."

"I wish I were, Line, oh so very much."

"You are. You sound American and you dress American."

"Ah, but I know what I am, my darling."

He let himself just watch her. I've never enjoyed watching anyone so much, he thought. Not Casey, not anyone in my whole life. Then his mind took him again to Biltzmann and he wished he had that man's neck in his hands.

Put him away, old buddy, away with the shit of the world. That's what he is—he and Banastasio. Bartlett felt another twinge go through him. He had had a phone call just before lunch, and an apology that was really an added threat.

"Let's break bread, baby, you'n me? Hell, Line, it's shitsville with you'n me hollerin'. How about steaks tonight? There's a great steak house off Nathan Road, the San Francisco."

"No thanks. I've got a date," he had said coldly. "Anyway, you made your point yesterday. Let's leave it at that, okay? We'll get together at the annual board meeting, if you attend."

"Hey Line, this is me, your old buddy. Remember we came through for you when you needed the cash. Didn't we give you cash up front?"

"Cash up front in return for shares which have been the best investment—the best regular investment you ever had. You've doubled your money in five years."

"Sure we have. Now we want a little of the say-so, that's only fair, isn't it?"

"No. Not after yesterday. What about the guns?" he had asked on a sudden hunch.

There was a pause. "What guns?"

"The ones aboard my airplane. The hijacked M14's and grenades."

"It's news to me, baby."

"My name's Line. Baby. Got it?"

Another pause. The voice grated now. "I got it. About our deal. You gonna change your mind?"

"No. No way."

"Not now, not later?"

"No."

There had been the silence on the other end of the line and then a click and the endless dial tone began. At once he had called Rosemont.

"Don't worry, Line. Banastasio's a top target of ours and we have lots of help in these parts."

"Anything on the guns?"

"You're in the clear. The Hong Kong brass here've withdrawn the lien on you. You'll hear that officially tomorrow."

"They found something?"

"No. We did. We checked out your hangar in L.A. One of the night watchmen remembered seeing a couple of jokers fiddling around in your landing bay. He thought nothing about it till we asked."

"Jesus. You catch anybody?"

"No. Maybe never will. No sweat. About Banastasio, he'll be off your back soon enough. Don't worry."

Now, thinking about it, Bartlett felt chilled again.

"What's the matter, darling?" Orlanda asked. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

"I was just thinking that fear's lousy and can destroy you if you don't watch out."

"Oh yes I know, I know so very well." She took her eyes off the road a second and smiled hesitantly and put her hand on his knee. "But you're strong, my darling. You're afraid of nothing."

He laughed. "I wish that were true."

"Oh but it is. I know. " She slowed to go around a pile of slush, the road steeper here, water swirling in a minor flood in and out of the gutters. The car was hugging the tall retaining wall as she turned down into Kotewall Road and around the corner to Rose Court. When she came alongside he held his breath as she hesitated a moment, then firmly bypassed the foyer and turned into the steep down-path that led to the garage. "It's cocktail time," she said.

"Great," he said, his voice throaty. He did not look at her. When they stopped he got out and went to her side and opened the door. She locked the car and they went to the elevator. Bartlett felt the pulse in his neck throbbing.

Two Chinese caterers carrying trays of canapes got in with them and asked for the Asian Properties flat. "It's on the fifth floor," she said, and after the caterers had got out Bartlett said, "Asian Proper-ties're the landlords here?"

"Yes," she said. "They're also the original builders." She hesitated. "Jason Plumm and Quillan are good friends. Quillan still owns the penthouse though he sublet it when we broke up."

Bartlett put his arm around her. "I'm glad you did."

"So'm I." Her smile was tender and her wide-eyed innocence tore at him. "Now I am."

They reached the eighth floor and he noticed her fingers tremble slightly as she put the key into her lock. "Come in, Line. Tea, coffee, beer or a cocktail?" She slipped off her shoes and looked up at him. His heart was pounding and his senses reached out to feel whether the apartment was empty. "We're alone," she said simply.

"How do you know what I'm thinking?"

She shrugged a little shrug. "It's only some things."

He put his hands on her waist. "Orlanda . . ."

"I know, my darling."

Her voice was husky and it sent a tremor through him. When he kissed her, her lips welcomed him, her loins soft and unresisting. His hands traced her. He felt her nipples harden and the throb of her heart equal his. Then her hands left his neck and pressed against his chest but this time he held her against him, his kiss more urgent. The pressure of her hands ceased and once more the hands slid around his neck, her loins closer now. They broke from the kiss but held each other.

"I love you, Line."

"I love you, Orlanda," he replied, and the sudden truth of it consumed him. Again they kissed, her hands tender but strong, his own hands wandering and in their wake, fire. For him and for her. More of her weight rested on his arms as her knees weakened and he lifted her easily and carried her through the open door into the bedroom. The gossamer curtains that hung from the ceiling to form the four-poster moved gently in the cool sweet breeze from the open windows.

The coverlet was soft and down-filled.

"Be kind to me, my darling," she whispered huskily. "Oh how I love you."

From the stern of the Sea Witch, Casey waved good-bye to Dun-stan Barre, Plumm and Pugmire who stood on the wharf, Hong Kong side, where they had just been dropped, the late afternoon pleasant but still overcast. The boat was heading back across the harbor again—Peter Marlowe and the girls had already been dropped off at Kowloon—Gornt having persuaded her to stay on board for the extra trip. "I've got to come back to Kowloon again," he had told her. "I've an appointment at the Nine Dragons. Keep me company. Please?"

"Why not?" she had agreed happily, in no hurry, still in plenty of time to change for the cocktail party to which Plumm had invited her this afternoon. She had decided to postpone her dinner with Lando Mata for one day next week.

On the way back from Sha Tin this afternoon she had dozed part of the time, wrapped up warm against a stiff breeze, curled up on the wide, comfortable cushions that circled the stem, the other guests scattered, sometimes Gornt there at the conn, tall, strong and captain of the ship, Peter Marlowe alone in a deck chair dozing at the bow. Later they had had tea and cakes, he and Casey and Barre. During tea, Pugmire and Plumm had appeared, tousled and content, their girls in tow.

"Sleep well?" Gornt had asked with a smile.

"Very," Plumm had said.

I'll bet, she had thought, watching him and his girl, liking her— big, dark eyes, svelte, a happy soul called Wei-wei who stayed with him like his shadow.

Earlier, when she and Gornt had been alone on deck, he had told her that none of these were casual friends, all of them special.

"Does everyone here have a mistress?"

"Good lord no. But, well, sorry, but men and women age differently and after a certain age it's difficult. Bluntly, pillowing and love and marriage aren't the same."

"There's no such thing as faithfulness?"

"Of course. Absolutely. For a woman it means one thing, for a man another."

Casey had sighed. "That's terrible. Terrible and so unfair."

"Yes. But only if you wish it to be."

"That's not right! Think .of the millions of women who work and slave all their lives, looking after the man, scrubbing and cleaning and nowadays helping to support their children, to be shoved aside just because they're old."

"You can't blame men, that's the way society is."

"And who runs society? Men! Jesus, Quillan, you've got to admit men are responsible!"

"I already agree it's unfair, but it's unfair on men too. What about the millions of men who work themselves to death to provide—that jolly word—to provide the money for others to spend, mostly women. Face it, Ciranoush, men have to go on working until they are dead, to support others, and more than frequently at the end of their lives, a hacking, shrewish wife—look at Pug's wife for God's sake! I could point out fifty who are unnecessarily fat, ugly and stink —literally. Then there's the other neat little female trick of the women who use their sex to trap, get pregnant to ensnare, then cry havoc and scream for a highly paid divorce. What about Line Bartlett, eh? What sort of a wringer did that wonderful wife of his put him through, eh?"

"You know about that?"

"Of course. You ran a tape on me, I ran one on both of you. Are your divorce laws fair? Fifty percent of everything and then the poor bloody American male has to go to court to decide what proportion of his fifty percent he can retain."

"It's true Line's wife and her attorney almost put him away. But not every wife's like that. But God, we're not chattel and most women need protection. Women throughout the world still get a raw deal."

"I've never known a real woman to get a raw deal," he said. "I mean a woman like you or Orlanda who understands what femininity means." Suddenly he had beamed at her. "Of course, en route she has to give us poor weak bastards what we want to stay healthy."

She had laughed with him, also wanting to change the subject— too difficult to solve now.

"Ah, Quillan, you're one of the bad ones all right."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

He had turned away to search the sky ahead. She watched him and he looked fine to her, standing there, swaying slightly, the wind ruffling the hairs on his strong forearms, his sea cap jaunty. I'm glad he trusts me and considers me a woman, she had thought, lulled by the wine and the food and by his desire. Ever since she had come aboard she had felt it strongly and she had wondered again how she would deal with it when it manifested itself, as it would, inevitably. Would it be yes or no? Or maybe? Or maybe next week?

Will there be a next week?

"What's going to happen tomorrow, Quillan? At the stock market?"

"Tomorrow can take care of tomorrow," he had said, the wind whipping him.

"Seriously?"

"I will win or I will not win." Gornt shrugged. "Either way I'm covered. Tomorrow I buy. With joss I have him by the shorts."

"And then?"

He had laughed. "Have you any doubt? I take him over, lock, stock and box at the races."

"Ah, you really want that, don't you?"

"Oh yes. Oh yes, that represents victory. He and his forebears have kept me and mine out. Of course I want that."

I wonder if I could make a deal with Ian, she had thought absently. Wonder if I could get the tai-pan to allow Quillan a box, his own box, and help make him a steward. Crazy for these two to be like bulls in a china shop-—there's more than enough room for both. Ian owes me a favor if Murtagh delivers.

Her heart fluttered and she wondered what had happened with Murtagh and the bank, and if the answer was yes, what Quillan would do.

And where is Line? Is he with Orlanda, in her arms, dreaming the afternoon away?

She curled up again on the stern and closed her eyes. The salt air and the throb of the engines and the motion through the sea put her to sleep. Her sleep was dreamless, womblike, and in a few minutes she awoke refreshed. Gornt was sitting opposite her now, watching her. They were alone again, the Cantonese captain at the wheel.

"You have a nice sleeping face," he said.

"Thank you." She moved and rested on one elbow. "You're a strange man. Part devil, part prince, compassionate one minute, ruthless the next. That was a wonderful thing you did for Peter."

He just smiled and waited, his eyes strangely and pleasantly challenging.

"Line's… I think Line's smitten with Orlanda," she said without thinking and saw a shadow go over him.

"Oh?"

"Yes." She waited but he said nothing, just watched her. Pushed by the silence, she added involuntarily, "I think she's smitten with him." Again a long silence. "Quillan, is that part of a plan?"

He laughed softly and she felt his dominance. "Ah, Ciranoush, you're the strange one. I don—"

"Will you call me Casey? Please? Ciranoush is not right."

"But I don't like Casey. May I use Kamalian?"

"Casey."

"What about Ciranoush today, Casey tomorrow, Kamalian for Tuesday dinner? That's when we close the deal. Eh?"

Her guards came up without thinking. "That's up to Line."

"You're not tai-pan of Par-Con?"

"No. No, I'll never be that."

He laughed. Then he said, "Then let's make it Ciranoush today, Casey tomorrow and the hell with Tuesday?"

"All right!" she said, warmed by him.

"Good. Now as to Orlanda and Line," he said, his voice gentle. "That's up to them and I never discuss the affairs of others with others, even a lady. Never. That's not playing the game. If you're asking if I've some devious plot, using her against Line or you and Par-Con, that's ridiculous." Again he smiled. "I've always noticed that ladies manipulate men, not the other way around."

"Dreamer!"

"One question deserves another: Are you and Line lovers?"

"No. Not in the conventional sense, but yes I love him."

"Ah, then are you going to marry?"

"Perhaps." Again she shifted and she saw his eyes move over her. Her hands pulled the blanket closer around her, her heart beating nicely, very conscious of him as she knew he was conscious of her. "But I don't discuss my affairs with another man," she said with a smile. "That's not playing the game either."

Gornt reached out and touched her lightly. "I agree, Ciranoush."

The Sea Witch came out of the breakwater into the harbor waves, Kowloon ahead. She sat up and turned to watch the Island and the Peak, most of it cloud covered. "It's so beautiful."

"The south coast of Hong Kong's grand around Shek-O, Repulse Bay. I've a place at Shek-O. Would you like to see the boat now?"

"Yes, yes I'd like that."

He took her forward first. The cabins were neat, no sign of having been used. Each had shower stalls and a toilet. A small general cabin served them all. "We're rather popular with ladies at the moment because they can shower to their hearts content. The water shortage does have advantages."

"I'll bet," she said, carried along by his joviality.

Aft, separate from the rest of the boat, was the master cabin. Big double bed. Neat, tidy and inviting.

Her heart was sounding loud in her ears now, and when he casually closed the cabin door and put his hand on her waist she did not back off. He came closer. She had never kissed a man with a beard before. Gornt's body was hard against hers and it felt good to her, her breath picking up tempo, his lips firm and cigar tasting. Most of her whispered: Go, let go, and most of her said, No, don't, and all of her felt sensual in his arms, too good.

What about Line?

The question barreled into her mind like never before and all at once her mind cleared and, carried along by his sensuality, she knew for the first time with absolute clarity that it was Line she wanted, not Par-Con or power if that had to be the choice. Yes, it's Line, just Line, and tonight I'll cancel our deal. Tonight I'll offer to cancel.

"Now's not the time," she whispered, her voice throaty.

"What?"

"No, not now. We can't, sorry. " She reached up and kissed him lightly on the lips, talking through the kisses, "Not now, my dear, sorry, but we can't, not now. Tuesday, perhaps Tuesday . . ."

He held her away from him and she saw his dark eyes searching her. She held her gaze as long as she could, then buried her head against his chest and held him tenderly, still enjoying the closeness, sure that she was safe now, and that he was convinced. That was a close one, she thought weakly, her knees feeling strange, all of her pulsating. I was almost gone then and that wouldn't have been good, good for me or Line or him.

It would have been good for him, she thought strangely.

Her heart was pounding as she rested against him, waiting, re-couping, confident in a moment—with warmth and gentleness and the promise of next week—he would say, "Let's go back on deck."

Then all at once she felt his arms tighten around her and before she knew what was happening she was on the bed, his kisses strong and his hands wandering. She began to fight back but he caught her hands expertly and stretched her out with his great strength and lay across her, his loins pinioning her, making her helpless. At leisure he kissed her and his passion and her heat mingled with her fury and fear and want. As much as she struggled, she could not move.

The heat grew. In a moment he shifted his grip. Instantly she swept to the attack, wanting more though now she was preparing to fight seriously. Again his grip on her hands tightened. She felt herself swamped, wanting to be overpowered, not wanting it, his passion strong, loins hard, the bed soft. And then, as abruptly as he had begun, he released her and rolled away with a laugh.

"Let's have a drink!" he said without rancor.

She was gasping for breath. "You bastard!"

"I'm not actually. I'm very legitimate." Gornt propped himself on an elbow, his eyes crinkling. "But you, Ciranoush, you're a liar."

"Go to hell!"

His voice was calm and genially taunting. "I will, soon enough. Far be it for me to ask a lady to prove such a thing."

She threw herself at him, her nails hacking for his face, furious that he was so controlled when she was not. Easily he caught her hands and held her. "Gently gently catchee monkeeee," he said even more genially. "Calm down, Ciranoush. Remember, we're both over twenty-one, I've already seen you almost naked, and if I really wanted to rape you I'm afraid it wouldn't be much of a contest. You could scream bloody murder and my crew wouldn't hear a thing."

"You're a goddamn lou—"

"Stop!" Gornt kept his smile but she stopped, sensing danger. "The tumble was not to frighten, just to amuse," he said gently. "A prank, nothing more. Truly." He released her and she scrambled off the bed, her breathing still heavy.

Angrily she walked over to the mirror and pushed her hair back into place, then saw him in the mirror, still lying casually on the bed watching her, and she whirled, "You're a black-eyed bastard!"

Gornt let out a bellow of laughter, infectious, belly-shaking, and, all at once, seeing the foolishness of it all, she began to laugh too. In a moment they were both aching with laughter, he spread out on the bed and Casey leaning against the sea chest.

On deck, as good friends, they drank some champagne that was already opened in a silver bucket, the silent, obsequious steward serving them, then going away.

At the dock in Kowloon, she kissed him again. "Thanks for a lovely time. Tuesday, if not before!" She went ashore and waved the ship good-bye a long time, then hurried home.

Spectacles Wu was also hurrying home. He was tired and anxious and filled with dread. The way up through the maze of dwellings and hovels in the resettlement area high above Aberdeen was difficult, slippery and dangerous, mud and mess everywhere, and he was breathing hard from the climb. The runoff in the concrete storm drain had overflowed its banks many times in many places, the flood shoving structures aside and spreading more havoc. Smoke hung over many of the wrecked dwellings, some still smoldering from the fires that had spread so quickly when the slides began. He skirted the deep slide where Fifth Niece had almost perished the day before yesterday, a hundred or more hovels wrecked by new slides in the same area.

The candy shop had vanished and the old woman with it. "Where is she?" he asked.

The scavenger shrugged and continued to sift through wreckage, seeking good wood or good cardboard or corrugated iron.

"How is it above?" he asked.

"As below," the man said in halting Cantonese. "Some good, some bad. Joss."

Wu thanked him. He was barefoot, carrying his shoes to protect them and now he left the storm drain and forced his way over some of the debris wreckage to find the path that meandered upward. From where he was he could not see his area though it seemed there were no slides there. Armstrong had allowed him to come home to check when the radio news had again reported bad slides in this part of the resettlement area. "But be back as quickly as you can. Another interrogation's scheduled for seven o'clock."

"Oh yes, I'll be back," he muttered out loud.

The sessions had been very tiring but for him good, with much praise from Armstrong and the chief of SI, his place in SI assured now, transfer and training to begin next week. He had had little sleep, partially because the session hours bore no relationship to day or night, and partially because of his wish to succeed. The client was shifting from English to Ning-tok dialect to Cantonese and back again and it had been hard to follow all the ramblings. It was only when his fingers had touched the wonderful, rare roll of bills in his pocket, his winnings at the races, that a lightness had taken hold and carried him through the difficult hours. Again he touched them to reassure himself, blessing his joss, as he climbed the narrow pathway, the path at times a rickety bridge over small ravines, climbing steadily. People passed by, going down, and others were following going up, the noise of hammers and rebuilding, reroofing all over the mountainside.

His area was a hundred yards ahead now, around this corner, and he turned it and stopped. His area was no more, just a deep scar in the earth, the piled-up avalanche of mud and debris two hundred feet below. No dwellings where there had been hundreds.

Numbly he climbed, skirting the treacherous slide, and went to the nearest hovel, banging on the door. An old woman opened it suspiciously.

"Excuse me, Honored Lady, I'm Wu Cho-tam's son from Ning-tok>"

The woman, One Tooth Yang, stared at him blankly, then started speaking but Wu did not understand her language so he thanked her and went off, remembering that this was one of the areas settled by the Yang, some of the northern foreigners who came from Shanghai.

Closer to the top of the slide he stopped and knocked on another door.

"Excuse me, Honored Sir, but what happened? I'm Wu Cho-tam's son from Ning-tok and my family were there." He pointed at the scar.

"It happened in the night, Honorable Wu," the man told him, speaking a Cantonese dialect he could understand. "It was like the sound of the old Canton express train and then a rumbling from the earth, then screams then some fires came. It happened the same last year over there. Ah yes, the fires began quickly but the rains doused them. Dew neh loh moh but the night was very bad." The neighbor was an old man with no teeth and his mouth split into a grimace. "Bless all gods you weren't sleeping there, heya?" He shut the door.

Wu looked back at the scar, then picked his way down the hill. At length he found one of the elders of his area who was also from Ning-tok.

"Ah, Spectacles Wu, Policeman Wu! Several of your family are there." His gnarled old finger pointed above. "There, in the house of your cousin, Wu Wam-pak."

"How many were lost, Honorable Sir?"

"Fornicate all mud slides how do I know? Am I keeper of the mountainside? There are dozens missing."

Spectacles Wu thanked him. When he found the hut, Ninth Uncle was there, Grandmother, Sixth Uncle's wife and their four children, Third Uncle's wife and baby. Fifth Uncle had a broken arm, now in a crude splint.

"And the rest of us?" he asked. Seven were missing.

"In the earth," grandmother said. "Here's tea, Spectacles Wu."

"Thank you, Honored Grandmother. And Grandfather?"

"He went to the Void before the slide. He went to the Void in the night, before the slide."

"Joss. And Fifth Niece."

"Gone. Vanished, somewhere."

"Could she still be alive?"

"Perhaps. Sixth Uncle's searching for her now, below, and the others, even though she's a useless mouth. But what about my sons, and their sons, and theirs?"

"Joss," Wu said sadly, not cursing the gods or blessing them. Gods make mistakes. "We will light joss sticks for them that they may be reborn safely, if there is rebirth. Joss." He sat down on a broken crate. "Ninth Uncle, our factory, was the factory damaged?"

"No, thank all gods." The man was numbed. He had lost his wife and three children, somehow scrambling out of the sea of mud that had swallowed them all. "The factory is undamaged."

"Good." All the papers and research materials for Freedom Fighter were there—along with the old typewriter and ancient Ges-tetner copying machine. "Very good. Now, Fifth Uncle, tomorrow you will buy a plastic-making machine. From now on we'll make our own flowers. Sixth Uncle will help you and we will begin again."

The man spat disgustedly, "How can we pay, eh? How can we start? How can we . . ." He stopped and stared. They all gasped, Spectacles Wu had brought out the roll of bills. "Ayeeyah, Honored Younger Brother, I can see that at long last you have seen the wisdom of joining the Snake!"

"How wise!" the others chorused proudly. "All gods bless Younger Brother!"

The young man said nothing. He knew they would not believe him if he said otherwise, so he let them believe. "Tomorrow begin looking for a good secondhand machine. You can pay only $900," he told the older man, knowing that 1,500 was available if necessary. Then he went outside and arranged with their cousin, the owner of this hut, to lease them a corner until they could rebuild, haggling over the price until it was correct. Satisfied that he had done what he could for the Wu clan, he left them and plodded downhill back to headquarters, his heart weeping, his whole soul wanting to shriek at the gods for their unfairness, or carelessness, for taking so many of them away, taking Fifth Niece who but a day or so ago was given back her life in another slide.

Don't be a fool, he ordered himself. Joss is joss. You have wealth in your pocket, a vast future with SI, Freedom Fighter to manufacture, and the time of dying is up to the gods.

Poor little Fifth Niece. So pretty, so sweet.

"Gods are gods," he muttered wearily, echoing the last words he remembered her ever saying, then put her out of his mind.

77

6:30 P.M. :

Ah Tat hobbled up the wide staircase in the Great House, her old joints creaking, muttering to herself, and went along the Long Gallery, hating the gallery and the faces that seemed ever to be watching her. Too many ghosts here, she thought with superstitious dread, knowing too many of the faces in life, growing up in this house, born in this house eighty-five years ago. Uncivilized to hold their spirits in thrall by hanging their likenesses on the wall. Better to act civilized and cast them into memory where spirits belong.

As always when she saw the Hag's knife stuck through the heart of her father's portrait a shudder went through her. Dew neh loh moh, she thought, now there was a wild one, her with the unquenchable demon in her Jade Gate, ever secretly bemoaning the loss of the tai-pan, her husband's father, bemoaning her fate that she had married the weakling son and not the father, never to be bedded by the father, her Jade Gate unquenchable because of that.

Ayeeyah, and all the strangers that climbed these stairs over the years to enter her bed, barbarians of all nations, of all ages, shapes and sizes, to be cast aside like so much chaff once their essence had been taken and used up, the fire never touched.

Ah Tat shuddered again. All gods bear witness! The Jade Gate and the One-Eyed Monk are truly yin and yang, truly everlasting, truly godlike, both insatiable however much one consumes the other. Thank all gods my parents allowed me to take the vow of chastity, to devote my life to bringing up children, never to be split by a Steaming Stalk, never to be the same ever after. Thank all gods all women do not need men to elevate them to be one with the gods. Thank all gods some women wisely prefer women to cuddle and touch and kiss and enjoy. The Hag had had women too, many, when she was old, finding in their youth-filled arms pleasure but never satisfaction, not like me. Curious she would pillow with a civilized girl but not a civilized man who would surely have put out her fire, one way or another, with pillow tools or without. All gods bear witness, how many times did I tell her? Me the only one she would talk to about such things!

Poor fool, her with her twisted dreams of power, twisted dreams of lust, just like the old dowager empress—nightmares of a lifetime that no shaft could allay.

Ah Tat pulled her eyes off the knife and plodded onward. The House will never be whole until someone pulls out the knife and casts it into the sea—curse or no curse.

The old woman did not knock on the bedroom door but went in noiselessly so as not to wake him and stood over the vast double bed and looked down. This was the time she enjoyed the most, when her man-child was still sleeping, alone, and she could see his sleeping face and study it and not have to worry about Chief Wife's spleen and ill-temper over her comings and goings.

Silly woman, she thought gravely, seeing the lines in his face. Why doesn't she do her duty as Chief Wife and provide my son with another wife, young, child bearing, a civilized person, like old Green-Eyed Devil had. Then this house would be bright again. Yes, the house needs more sons—stupid to risk posterity on the shoulders of one son. And stupid to leave this bull alone, stupid to leave this bed empty, stupid to leave him to be tempted by some mealy-mouthed whore to waste his essence in alien pastures. Why doesn't she realize we have the house to protect! Barbarians.

She saw his eyes open and focus and then he stretched luxuriously. "Time to get up, my son," she said, trying to sound harsh and commanding. "You have to bathe and get dressed and make more phone calls, heya, and leave your poor old Mother with more chores and more work, heya?"

"Yes, Mother," Dunross mumbled through a yawn in Cantonese, then shook himself like a dog, stretched once more and got out of bed and strode naked for the bathroom.

She studied his tall body critically, the crinkled, savage scars of the old burns from his airplane crash covering most of his legs. But the legs were strong, the flanks strong and the yang resolute and healthy. Good, she thought. I'm glad to see all's well. Even so, she was concerned at his perpetual leanness, with no substantial belly that his wealth and position merited. "You're not eating enough, my son!"

"More than enough!"

"There's hot water in the bucket. Don't forget to wash your teeth."

Contentedly she began to remake the bed. "He needed that rest," she muttered, not realizing she was talking aloud. "He's been like a man possessed for the last week, working all hours, fear in his face and over him. Such fear can kill." When she had finished the bed she called out, "Now don't stay out late tonight. You must take care of yourself and if you go with a whore bring her here like a sensible person, heya?"

She heard him laugh and she was glad for it. There hasn't been enough laughter from him the last few days, she thought. "A man needs laughter and youthful yin to nourish the yang. Eh what, what did you say?"

"I said, where's Number One Daughter?"

"In, out, always out, out with that new barbarian," she said going to the bathroom door and peering at him as he doused water over himself. "The one with long hair and crumpled clothes who works for the China Guardian. I don't approve of him, my son. No, not at all!"

"Where are they 'out,' Ah Tat?"

The old woman shrugged, chomping her gums. "The sooner Number One Daughter's married the better. Better for her to be another man's problem than yours. Or you should give her a good whip to her rump." He laughed again and she wondered why he laughed this time. "He's getting simple in the head," she muttered, then turned away. At the far door, remembering, she called out, "There's small chow for you before you leave."

"Don't worry about food .. ." Dunross stopped, knowing it was a waste of time. He heard her go off mumbling, closing the door after her.

He was standing in the bath and bailed more cold water over himself. Christ, I wish this bloody water shortage'd cease, he thought. I could use a really long hot shower, his mind inexorably zeroing in on Adryon. At once he heard Penelope's admonition, "Do grow up, Ian! It really is her own life, do grow up!"

"I'm trying," he muttered, toweling himself vigorously. Just before he had slept he had called Penelope. She was already at Castle

Avisyard, Kathy still in the London clinic for more tests. "She'll be coming up next week. I do so hope everything will be all right."

"I'm in touch with the doctors, Penn." He told her about sending Gavallan to Scotland. "He's always wanted to be there, Kathy too, it'll be better for both of them, eh?"

"Oh, that's marvelous, Ian. That'll be a marvelous tonic."

"They can take over the whole east wing."

"Oh yes. Ian, the weather's wonderful today, wonderful, and the house so lovely. No chance you can come for a few days I suppose?"

"I'm up to my nose in it, Penn! You heard about the market?"

He had heard the momentary silence and he could see her face change and within her head hear her impotent raging against the market and Hong Kong and business, as much as she tried to cast it away.

"Yes. It must be terrible," she had said, still a thread in her voice. "Poor you. Alastair was carrying on a bit last night. It'll be all right, won't it?"

"Oh yes," he said with great confidence, wondering what she would say if he told her that he would have to guarantee personally the Murtagh loan if it came through. Oh Christ let it come through. He gave her all the news, then told her that AMG had sent him a very interesting message that he would tell her about when he saw her, adding that the messenger was a Japanese-Swiss woman. "She's quite a bird!"

"I hope not too much!"

"Oh no! How's Glenna and how're you?"

"Just fine. Have you heard from Duncan?"

"Yes. He arrives tomorrow—I'll get him to phone you the moment he's home. That's about it, Penn, love you!"

"I love you too and wish you were here. Oh, how's Adryon?"

"More of the same. She and that Haply fellow seem to be inseparable!"

"Do remember she's very grown up, darling, and don't worry about her. Just try to grow up yourself."

He finished drying himself and looked at his reflection in the mirror, wondering if he was old for his years or young, not feeling any different from when he was nineteen—at university or at war. After a moment, he said, "You're lucky to be alive, old chum. You're oh so lucky." His sleep had been heavy and he had been dreaming about Tiptop and, just at waking, someone had said in his dream, "What're you going to do?" I don't know, he thought. How far do I trust that bugger Sinders? Not far. But I got under his guard with my threat… no, my promise to publish the eleven pieces of paper. And I will, by God! I'd better call Tiptop before I leave for Plumm's. I'd better

His ears heard the bedroom door swing open again and Ah Tat padded back across the room to stand at the bathroom door. "Ah, my son, I forgot to tell you, there's a barbarian waiting for you downstairs."

"Oh? Who?"

She shrugged. "A barbarian. Not as tall as you. He has a strange name, and he's more ugly than usual with hair of straw!" She searched in her pocket and found the card. "Here."

The card read, Dave Murtagh III, Royal Belgium and Far East Bank. Dunross's stomach twisted. "How long's he been waiting?"

"An hour, perhaps more."

"What? Fornicate all gods. Why didn't you wake me?"

"Eh? Why didn't I wake you?" she asked caustically. "Why? Why do you think? Am I a fool? A foreign devil? Ayeeyah, what is more important, him waiting or your rest? Ayeeyah!" she added disdainfully and stalked off, grumbling, "As if I didn't know what was best for you."

Dunross dressed hurriedly and rushed downstairs. Murtagh was sprawled out in an easy chair. He awoke with a start as the door opened. "Oh, hi!"

"I'm terribly sorry, I was having a kip and didn't know you were here."

"That's all right, tai-pan." Dave Murtagh was haggard. "The old biddy threatened the hell out of me if I so much as murmured but it didn't matter, I dropped off." He stretched wearily, stifling a yawn and shook his head to try to clear it. "Jesus, sorry to come uninvited but it's better than on the phone."

Dunross held his aching disappointment off his face. It must be a turndown, he thought. "Whiskey?"

"Sure, with soda. Thanks. Jesus I'm tired."

Dunross went to the decanter and poured, and a brandy and soda for himself. "Health," he said, resisting the urge to ask.

They touched glasses.

"Health. And you got your deal!" The young man's face cracked into an enormous grin. "We did it!" he almost shouted. "They screamed and they hollered but an hour ago they agreed. We got everything! 120 percent of the ships and a $50 million U.S. revolving fund, cash's up Wednesday, but you can commit Monday at 10:00 AM., the offer of the tanker deals was the clincher. Jesus, we did it for chrissake!"

It took all of Dunross's training to hold in his bellow of triumph and keep the joy off his face and say calmly, "Oh, jolly good," and take another sip of his brandy. "What's the matter?" he asked, seeing the shock on the younger man's face.

Murtagh shook his head and slumped down exhaustedly. "You limeys're something else! I'll never understand you. I give you a hundred percent parole with the sweetest deal God ever gave man and all you say is 'Oh jolly good.' "

Dunross laughed. It was a great bellow of laughter and all his happiness spilled out. He pummeled Murtagh's hand and thanked him. "How's that?" he asked, beaming.

"That's better!" He grabbed his briefcase and opened it and pulled out a sheaf of contracts and papers. "These're just as we agreed. I was up all night drafting them. Here's the main loan agreement, this's your personal guarantee, these're for the corporate seal, ten copies of everything."

"I'll initial one set now which you keep, you initial one which I'll keep and then we'll sign formally tomorrow morning. Can you meet me in my office tomorrow morning, say at 7:30? We'll chop all the documents an—"

The young man let out an involuntary moan. "How 'bout 8:00, tai-pan, or 8:30? I just gotta catch up on some sleep."

"7:30. You can sleep all day." Dunross added at a sudden thought, "Tomorrow night your evening's reserved."

"It is?"

"Yes. You best get all the rest you can, your evening will be busy."

"Doing what?"

"You're not married, you're not attached, so an entertaining evening wouldn't be bad. Eh?"

"Gee." Murtagh brightened perceptibly. "It'd be terrific."

"Good. I'll send you to a friend of mine at Aberdeen. Goldtooth Wu."

"Who?"

"An old friend of the family. Perfectly safe. While I think of it, lunch at the races next week?"

"Oh Jesus, thanks. Yesterday Casey gave me a hot tip and I won a bundle. The rumor is you're going to ride Noble Star Saturday. Are you?"

"Perhaps." Dunross kept his eyes on him. "The deal's really through? No chance of a foul-up?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die! Oh here I forgot." He handed him the confirming telex. "It's as we agreed." Murtagh glanced at his watch. "It's 6:00 A.M. New York time now but you're to call S. J. Beverly, our chairman of the board, in an hour—he's expecting your call. Here's his number." The young man beamed. "They made me VP in charge of all Asia."

"Congratulations."

Dunross saw the time. He would have to leave soon or he would be late and he did not want to keep Riko waiting. His heart picked up a beat. "Let's initial now, shall we?"

Murtagh was already sorting the papers. "Just one thing, tai-pan, S.J. said we got to keep this secret."

"That's going to be difficult. Who typed these?"

"My secretary—but she's American, she's as tight as a clam."

Dunross nodded but inside he was unconvinced. The telex operator—didn't Phillip Chen say he had already had copies of some of the telexes?—or cleaners, or phone operators, it would be impossible to gauge who but the news would be common knowledge soon, whatever he or Murtagh did. Now, how to use everything to the best advantage while it's still secret? he was asking himself, hard put not to dance with joy, the fact of the deal unprecedented and almost impossible to believe. He began to initial his set of papers, Murtagh another. He stopped as he heard the front door open and slam. Adryon shrieked, "Ah Tat!" and followed up with a flood of amah Cantonese ending, ". . . and did you iron my new blouse by all the gods?"

"Blouse? What blouse, Young Miss with the piercing voice and no patience? The red one? The red one belonging to Chief Wife who told y—"

"Oh, it's mine now, Ah Tat! I told you very seriously to iron it."

Murtagh had stopped too, listening to the stream of screeching Cantonese from both of them. "Jesus," he said tiredly. "I'll never get used to the way the servants go on, no matter what you tell 'em!"

Dunross laughed and beckoned him, opening the door softly. Murtagh gasped. Adryon had her hands on her hips and she was going at Ah Tat who gave it back to her, both of them raucous, both talking over the other and neither listening.

"Quiet!" Dunross said. Both stopped. "Thank you. You really do go on a bit, Adryon!" he said mildly.

•She beamed. "Oh hello, Father. Do you th—" She stopped, seeing Murtagh. Dunross noticed the instant change. A warning shaft soared through him.

"Oh, Adryon, may I introduce Dave Murtagh, Vice-President for Asia of the Royal Belgium and Far East Bank?" He looked at Murtagh and saw the stunned expression on his face. "This is my daughter, Adryon."

"You, er, speak Chinese, Miss, er, Dunross?"

"Oh yes, yes of course, Cantonese. Of course. You're new in Hong Kong?"

"Oh no, ma'am, no, I've, er, I've been here half a year or more."

Dunross was watching both of them with growing amusement, knowing that for the moment he was totally forgotten. Ah, boy meets girl, girl meets boy and maybe this one'd be the perfect foil to throw into Haply's works. "Would you like to join us for a drink, Adryon?" he asked casually, the moment their conversation lapsed and she prepared to leave.

"Oh. Oh thank you, Father, but I don't want to disturb you."

"We're just finishing. Come along. How're things?"

"Oh fine, fine." Adryon turned back to Ah Tat who still stood there solidly—she too had noticed the instant mutual attraction. "You'll iron my blouse! Please," she said imperiously in Cantonese. "I have to leave in fifteen minutes."

"Ayeeyah on your fifteen minutes, Young Empress." Ah Tat huffed, and went back into the kitchen, grumbling.

Adryon focused on Murtagh who blossomed noticeably, his fatigue vanished. "What part of the States are you from?"

"Texas, ma'am, though I've spent time in Los Angeles, New York and New Orleans. You play tennis?"

"Oh, yes, I do."

"We've some good courts at the American Club. You, maybe you'd like a game next week?"

"I'd love that. I've played there before. Are you good?"

"Oh no, ma'am, er, Miss Dunross, just college class."

"College class could mean very good. Why don't you call me Adryon?"

Dunross gave her the glass of sherry he had poured and she thanked him with a smile though still concentrating on Murtagh. You'd better be top of your class, young fellow, he thought, knowing how competitive she was, or you're in for a drubbing. Carefully keeping his amusement private, he went back to the papers. When he finished initialing his set, he watched the two of them critically, his daughter sitting casually on the edge of the sofa, beautiful and so assured, very much a woman, and Murtagh tall and well mannered, a little shy, but holding his own very well.

Could I stand a banker in the family? I'd better check up on him! God help us, an American? Well he's Texan, and that's not the same, is it? I wish Penn were back here.

". . . oh no, Adryon," Murtagh was saying. "I've a company apartment over at West Point. It's a little bitty place but great."

"That makes such a difference, doesn't it? I live here but I'm going to have my own apartment soon." She added pointedly, "Aren't I, Father?"

"Of course." Dunross added at once, "After university! Here's my set, Mr. Murtagh, do you think you could sign yours?"

"Oh yes … oh sorry!" Murtagh almost ran over, hurriedly initialed his set with a flourish. "Here you are, sir. You, er, you said 7:30 at your office tomorrow morning, huh?"

Adryon arched an eyebrow. "You'd better be punctual, Dave, the tai-pan's uncomfortably ornery at unpunctuality."

"Rubbish," Dunross said.

"I love you, Father, but that's not rubbish!"

They chatted for a minute then Dunross glanced at his watch, pretending to be concerned. "Damn! I've got to make a phone call then rush." At once Murtagh picked up his briefcase but Dunross added blandly, "Adryon, you said you were leaving in a few minutes. I wonder, would you have time to drop Mr. Murtagh?"

The young man said at once, "Oh, I can get a cab, there's no need to trouble yoursel—"

"Oh it's no trouble," she said happily, "no trouble at all. West Point's on my way."

Dunross said good night and left them. They hardly noticed his going. He went to his study and closed the door and with the closing of the door, shut out everything else but Tiptop. From the fireplace Dirk Struan watched him. Dunross stared back a moment.

"I've plan A, B or C," he said aloud. "They all add up to disaster if Sinders doesn't perform."

The eyes just smiled in their curious way.

"It was easy for you," Dunross muttered. "When someone got in your way you could kill them, even the Hag."

Earlier he had discussed the plans with Phillip Chen. "They're all fraught with danger," his compradore had said, very concerned.

"Which do you advise?"

"The choice must be yours, tai-pan. You will have to make personal guarantees. It's face too, though I'd support you in everything, and you did ask for a favor as an Old Friend."

"What about Sir Luis?"

"I've arranged to see him tonight, tai-pan. I hope for cooperation." Phillip Chen had seemed grayer and older than ever. "It's a pity there's nothing we can give Tiptop in case Sinders reneges."

"What about bartering the tanker fleet? Can we lean on Vee Cee? What about thoriums—or Joseph Yu?"

"Tiptop needs something to barter with, not a threat, tai-pan. Did P.B. say he'd help?"

"He promised to phone Tiptop this afternoon—he said he'd also try one of his friends in Peking."

At exactly seven o'clock Dunross dialed. "Mr. Tip, please. Ian Dunross."

"Good evening, tai-pan. How are you? I hear you may be riding Noble Star next Saturday?"

"That's possible." They talked about inconsequential matters, then Tiptop said, "And that unfortunate person? At the latest, when is he going to be released?"

Dunross held on to himself, then committed his future. "Sunset tomorrow, at Lo Wu."

"Do you personally guarantee he will be there?"

"I personally guarantee I've done everything in my power to persuade the authorities to release him."

"That's not the same as saying the man will be there. Is it?"

"No. But he'll be there. I'm …" Dunross stopped. He was going to say, "almost certain" and then he knew he would surely fail— not daring to guarantee it because a failure to perform would take away his face, his credulity, forever—but he remembered something Phillip Chen had said about Tiptop having something to barter with and all at once he had an opening. "Listen, Mr. Tip," he began, his sudden excitement almost nauseating. "These are foul times. Old

Friends need Old Friends like never before. Privately, very privately, I hear that our Special Branch in the last two days discovered there's a major Soviet spy ring here, a deep-cover ring, the code name of the operation Sevrin. The purpose of Sevrin's the destruction of the Middle Kingdom's link with the rest of the world."

"That's nothing new, tai-pan. Hegemonists will always be hegemonists, Tsarist Russia or Soviet Russia, there's no difference. For four hundred years it's been that way. Four hundred years since their first incursions and theft of our lands. But please go on."

"It's my belief Hong Kong and the Middle Kingdom are equal targets. We're your only window on the world. Old Green-Eyed Devil was the first to see that and it's true. Any interruption here and only the hegemonists will gain. Some documentation, part of the Special Branch documentation has come into my hands." With complete accuracy Dunross began to quote verbatim from the stolen head documents in AMG's report, his mind seeming to read from the pages that effortlessly appeared from his memory. He gave Tiptop all the pertinent details of Sevrin, the spies, and about the police mole.

There was a shocked silence. "What's the date on the Sevrin head document, tai-pan?"

"It was approved by an 'L.B.' on March 14, 1950."

A long sigh. Very long. "Lavrenti Beria?"

"I don't know." The more Dunross thought about this new ploy the more excited he became, certain now that this information and proof positive in the right Peking hands would cause a tidal wave in Soviet-Chinese relations.

"Is it possible to see this document?"

"Yes. Yes it would be possible," Dunross said, sweat on his back, thanking his foresight in photocopying the Sevrin sections of AMG's report.

"And the Czechoslovak STB document you referred to?"

"Yes. The part I have."

"When was that dated?"

"April 6, 1959."

"So our so-called allies were always wolfs heart and dog's lungs?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Why is it Europe and those capitalists in America don't understand who the real enemy in the world is? Heya?"

"It's difficult to understand," Dunross said, playing a waiting game now.

After a pause, controlled once more, Tiptop said, "I'm sure my friends would like a copy of this, this Sevrin paper, and any supporting documents."

Dunross wiped the sweat off his forehead but kept his voice calm. "As an Old Friend, it's my privilege to assist in any way I can."

Another silence. "A mutual friend called to offer his support to your request for the Bank of China's cash and a few minutes ago I was told that a very important person called from Peking to suggest any help that could be given in your need would be merited." Another silence and Dunross could almost feel Tiptop and the others who were probably listening on the phone weighing, nodding or shaking their heads. "Could you excuse me a moment, tai-pan, there's someone at the door."

"Would you like me to call you back?" he said at once to give them time to consider.

"No, that won't be necessary—if you don't mind waiting a moment."

Dunross heard the phone put down. A radio was playing in the background. Indeterminate sounds that might be muffled voices. His heart was racing. The waiting seemed to go on forever. Then the phone was picked up again.

"Sorry, tai-pan. Please send those copies early—would after your morning meeting be convenient?"

"Yes, yes certainly."

"Please give Mr. David MacStruan my best wishes when he arrives."

Dunross almost dropped the phone but recovered in time. "I'm sure he would wish me to return them. How is Mr. Yu?" he asked, stabbing in the dark, wanting to scream down the phone "What about the money?" But he was heavily engaged in a Chinese negotiation. His caution increased.

Another silence. "Fine," Tiptop said but Dunross had heard a different tone. "Oh, that reminds me," Tiptop was saying, "Mr. Yu phoned from Canton this afternoon. He would like to bring the date of your meeting forward, if that's possible. To two weeks tomorrow, Monday."

Dunross thought a moment. That was the week he would be in Japan with Toda Shipping negotiating his whole buy-lease-back scheme that, now that First Central was backing him, would have an enormous chance of success. "That Monday's difficult. The following one would be better for me. Could I confirm to you by Friday?"

"Yes, certainly. Well, I won't keep you anymore, tai-pan."

Dunross's tension became almost unbearable now that the final stage had been reached. He listened intently to the pleasant, friendly voice.

"Thank you for your information. I presume that that poor fellow will be at Lo Wu border by sunset. Oh, by the way, if the necessary bank papers are brought in person by Mr. Havergill, yourself and the governor at 9:00 A.M. tomorrow, a half a billion dollars of cash can be transferred to the Victoria immediately."

Instantly Dunross saw through the ploy. "Thank you," he said easily, avoiding the trap. "Mr. Havergill and I will be there. Unfortunately I understand the governor has been ordered by the prime minister's office to remain at Government House until noon, for consultations. But I will bring his authority and chop, guaranteeing the loan," he added, for of course, it would be impossible for the governor to go personally, cap in hand, like a common debtor and so create an unacceptable precedent. "I presume that will be satisfactory."

Tiptop's voice was almost a purr. "I'm sure the bank would be prepared to delay until noon to accommodate the governor's duty."

"Before and after noon he will be on the streets with the riot police, Mr. Tip, and the army, directing possible procedures against misguided riots stirred up by hegemonists. He is of course com-mander-in-chief, Hong Kong."

Tiptop's voice sharpened. "Surely even a commander-in-chief can take a few precious moments for what is obviously such an important matter?"

"It would be his pleasure, I'm sure," Dunross said, unafraid, knowing the art of Asian negotiation, prepared for rage, honey and everything in between. "But the protection of the Middle Kingdom's interest as well as that of the Colony would be uppermost in his mind. I'm sure, regretfully, he would have to refuse until the emergency was over."

There was a hostile silence. "Then what would you suggest?"

Again Dunross sidestepped the trap, leaping to the next level. "Oh, by the way, his aide-de-camp asked me to mention that his

Excellency is having a party for a few of our most important Chinese citizens at the races next Saturday and he wondered if you would happen to be in the Colony so he could send you an invitation?" He held on to his hope. Putting it that way gave Tiptop the option of accepting or refusing without loss of face—and, at the same time, protected the face of the governor who would thus avoid sending such a politically important invitation that might be refused. Dunross smiled to himself, since the governor knew nothing yet about this important party he would be giving.

Another silence while Tiptop considered the political implications. "Please thank him for his consideration. I believe I will be here. May I confirm it Tuesday?"

"I will be glad to pass your message on." Dunross considered mentioning Brian Kwok but decided to leave that in limbo. "Will you be at the bank at 9:00 A.M., Mr. Tip?"

"Oh no. It is really nothing to do with me. I'm merely an interested bystander." Another silence. "Your representatives should see the chief manager."

Dunross sighed, all his senses honed. No mention of the governor's physical presence. Have I won? "I wonder if someone could confirm to Radio Hong Kong, in time for tonight's nine o'clock news, that the Bank of China is extending the Colony an immediate credit of one half a billion dollars of cash."

Another silence. "Oh I'm sure that's not necessary, Mr. Dunross," Tiptop said and now, for the first time, there was a chuckle in his voice. "Surely the word of the tai-pan of the Noble House is sufficient for a simple capitalist radio station. Good night."

Dunross put down the phone. His fingers were trembling. There was an ache in his back and his heart was pounding. "Half a billion dollars!" he muttered, his mind blown. "No paper, no chop, no handshake, a few phone calls, a little negotiation and one half a billion dollars will be available for transfer by truck at 9:00 A.M.r

We've won! Murtagh's money and now China's! Yes. But how to use this knowledge to the best advantage? How? he asked himself helplessly. No point in going to Plumm's now. What to do? What to do?

His knees felt weak, his mind was buzzing with plan and counter-plan. Then his pent-up excitement erupted in a huge bellow that ricocheted off his study walls, and he jumped up and down and let out another war cry that melted into a laugh. He went into the bathroom to splash water on his face. He ripped off his soaking shirt, not bothering about the buttons and threw it into a trash can. The study door whirled open. Adryon rushed in, white-faced and anxious. "Father!"

"Good God what s up?" Dunross said, aghast.

"What's up with you? I heard you shout like a mad bull. Are you all right?"

"Oh, oh yes I'm, I, er, I just stubbed my toe!" Dunross's happiness exploded again and he caught her up, lifting her easily. "Thank you, my darling, everything's fine! Oh very fine!"

"Oh, thank God," she said and at once added, "Then I can have my own flat starting next month?"

"Ye—" He caught himself just in time. "Oh no you don't, Miss Smarty Pants. Just because I'm happy th—"

"But Father, do—"

"No. Thank you, Adryon, but no. Off you go!"

She glared at him then burst out laughing. "I almost caught you that time!"

"Yes, yes you did! Don't forget Duncan's in tomorrow on the Qantas noon flight."

"I won't, don't worry. I'll meet him. It'll be fun to have Dune back, haven't had a good game of billiards since he left. Where're you off to now?"

"I was going to Plumm's at Rose Court to celebrate the General Foods takeover but I don't th—"

"Martin thought that was a wonderful coup! If the stock market doesn't crash. I told the silly man you were bound to arrange everything."

All at once Dunross realized that Plumm's party would be the ideal place. Gornt would be there, Phillip Chen and all the others. Gornt! Now I can put that bugger away for all time, he told himself, his heart racing. "Is Murtagh still downstairs?"

"Oh yes. We were just leaving. He's dreamy."

Dunross turned away to hide a smile and grabbed a clean silk shirt. "Could you hang on a second? I've got some rather good news for him."

"All right." She came over to him, big blue eyes. "My own flat for a Christmas present, pretty please?"

"After university, if you qualify, off you go!"

"Christmas. I'll love you forever."

He sighed, remembering how upset and frightened she had been seeing Gornt in the billiards room. Perhaps I can give you a present of his head tomorrow, he thought. "Not this Christmas, next!"

She hurled her arms around his neck. "Oh thank you Daddy darling but this Christmas, please please please."

"No, because yo—"

"Please please please!"

"All right. But don't tell your mother I agreed for God's sake! She'll skin me alive!"

78

7:15 P.M. :

The curtains around Orlanda's bed moved gently, touched by the night breeze, the air clean and salt tasting. She was in his arms as they slept, a pervading warmth between them, and then, as her hand moved, Bartlett awoke. For a moment he wondered where he was and who he was, and then everything came back and his heart picked up a beat. Their lovemaking had been wonderful. He remembered how she had responded, cresting again and again, lifting him to heights he had never experienced before. And then the after. She had got out of bed and walked to the kitchen and warmed water and brought back a hot, wet towel and toweled the sweat off him. "I'm so sorry there's no bath or shower, my darling, that's such a shame, but if you're patient I can make everything nice."

A new clean towel and feeling grand, never before knowing the wonder of a real afterward—her gentle ministrations, tender, loving, unself-conscious, the tiny crucifix around her neck her only adornment. He had noticed it glinting in the half-light. Its implications had begun to seep into his brain but somehow, all at once, she was caressing the alien thoughts away with magic hands and touch and lips until, in time, they had both become one with the gods again and, through their generosity, slid into euphoria—and thence into sleep again.

Idly he watched the curtains that fell from the ceiling waver in the air currents, their surrounding embrace making the bed more intimate, the patterns against the light of the window pleasing, everything pleasing. He lay still, not wishing to move to awaken her, not wanting to break the spell, her breath soft against his chest, her sleep face blemishless.

What to do, what to do, what to do?

Nothing, for the moment, he answered himself. The airplane's free, you're free, she's unbelievable and no woman's ever pleased you more. Never. But can it last, could it last—and then there's Casey.

Bartlett sighed. Orlanda moved again in her sleep. He waited but she did not awaken.

His eyes were mesmerized by the patterns, his spirit at rest. It was neither hot nor cold in the room; everything was perfect, her weight imperceptible. What is it about her? he asked himself. What causes the spell, because sure as death and taxes you're under a spell, enchanted. We've pillowed, that's all, I've made no promises and yet . . . You're enchanted, old buddy.

Yes. And it's wonderful.

He closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.

When Orlanda awoke she was careful not to move. She did not want to awaken him, both for his pleasure and for hers. And she wanted time to think. Sometimes she would do that in Gornt's arms but she knew it was not the same, would never be the same. Always she had been afraid of Quillan, on guard, desperately wanting to please, wondering if she had forgotten anything. No, she thought in ecstasy, this pillowing was better than I ever remember it with Quillan, oh so much better. Line's so clean and no smoke taste, just clean and wonderful and I promise by the Madonna I will make him a perfect wife, I'll be the best that ever was. I will use my mind and hands and lips and body to please and to satisfy and there will be nothing he needs that I will not do. Nothing. Everything that Quillan taught me I will do for Line, even the things I did not enjoy, I will enjoy now with Line. My body and soul will be an instrument for his pleasure, and for mine, when he's learned.

She smiled to herself, curled up in his arms. Line's technique is nothing in comparison with Quillan's but what my darling lacks in skill he more than makes up with strength and vigor. And tenderness. He has magic hands and lips for me. Never never never before was it ever like this.

"Pillowing's just the beginning of sex, Orlanda," Gornt had said. "You can become an enchantress. You can fill a man with such an unquenchable longing that, through you, he will understand all life." But to reach ecstasy you have to seek it and work for it.

Oh I will seek it for Line. By the Madonna I will put my mind and my heart and my soul to his life. When he's angry I will turn it into calm. Didn't I stop Quillan's anger a thousand times by being gentle? Isn't it wonderful to have so much power, and oh so easy once I had learned, so very easy and perfect and satisfying.

I will read all the best papers and train my mind, and after the Clouds and the Rain I will not speak, just caress, not to arouse but just for pleasure and I'll never say, "Tell me you love me!" but say only, "Line I love you." And long before the bloom is off my skin I will have sons to excite him and daughters to delight him and then, long before I'm no longer exciting to him, I will very carefully arrange another for his pleasure, a dullard with beautiful breasts and tight rump and I will be suitably amused and benign—and compassionate when he fails, for, by then he will be much older and less virile and my hands will control the money and I will be ever more essential. And when he tires of the first I will find another, and we will live out our lives, yang and yin, the yin ever dominating the yang!

Yes. I will be tai-tai.

And one day he will ask to go to Portugal to see my daughter and I will refuse the first time and the second and the third and then we will go—if I have our son in my arms. Then he will see her and love her too, and that specter will be laid to rest forever.

Orlanda sighed, feeling wonderful, weightless, with his head resting comfortably against her chest. Pillowing without precautions is so much more glorious, she thought. Ecstasy. Oh so wonderful to feel the surge, knowing you're young and fertile and ready, giving yourself totally, deliberately, praying to create a new life—his life and yours joined forever. Oh yes.

Yes but have you been wise? Have you? Say he leaves you? The only other time in your life you deliberately left yourself free was that single month with Quillan. But that was with permission. This time you have none.

Say Line leaves you. Perhaps he'll be furious and tell you to stop the child!

He won't, she told herself with complete confidence. Line's not Quillan. There's nothing to worry about. Nothing. Madonna, please help me! All gods help me! Let his seed grow, oh please please please, I beg you with all my heart.

Bartlett stirred and half awoke. "Orlanda?"

"Yes, my darling, I'm here. Oh how wonderful you are!" She cradled him happily, so glad that she had given her amah the day and the night away. "Go back to sleep, we've all the time in the world, sleep."

"Yes but . . ."

"Sleep. In a little while I'm going to fetch some Chinese food an—"

"Maybe you'd like t—"

"Sleep, my darling. Everything's arranged."

79

7:30 P.M. :

Three stories below on the other side of the building, facing the mountainside, Four Finger Wu was watching television. He was in Venus Poon's apartment, in front of her set, his shoes off, his tie loose, sprawled in the easy chair. The old amah was sitting on a stiff chair beside him and they both guffawed at the antics of Laurel and Hardy.

"Eeeeee, the Fat One's going to catch his fornicating foot in the scaffolding," he chortled, "and the—"

"And the Thin One's going to hit him with the plank! Eeeeee."

They both laughed at the routine they had seen a hundred times in a hundred re-re-reruns of the old black-and-white movies. Then the film ended and Venus Poon reappeared to announce the next program and he sighed. She was looking directly at him from the box and he—along with every other male viewer—was certain that her smile was for him alone, and though he did not understand her English, he understood her very well. His eyes were glued to her breasts that had fascinated him for hours, examining them closely, never seeing or feeling a sign of the surgical interference that all Hong Kong whispered about.

"I attest your tits are blemishless, certainly the biggest and best I've ever touched," he had volunteered importantly, still mounted, the night before last.

"You're just saying that to please your poor impoverished Daughter oh oh oh!"

"Impoverished? Ha! Didn't Banker Kwang give you that miserable fur yesterday and I hear he added an extra 1,000 to his monthly check! And me, didn't I supply the winner of the first, third and the runner-up in the fifth? 30,000 those brought you minus 15 percent for my informant—for less effort than it takes me to fart!"

"P'shaw! That 25,800 HK's not worth talking about, I have to buy my own wardrobe, a new costume every day! My public demands it, I have my public to think of."

They had argued back and forth until, feeling the moment of truth approaching, he had asked her to move her buttocks more vigorously. She had obliged with such enthusiasm that he was left a husk. When at length he had miraculously recovered his spirit from the Void he choked out, "Ayeeyah, Little Strumpet, if you can do that one more time I'll give you a diamond ring the—no, no, not now by all the gods! Am I a god? Not now, Little Mealy Mouth, no, not now and not tomorrow but the next day. …"

And now it was the next day. Elated and filled with anticipation he watched her on television, all smiles and dimples as she said good night and the new program began. Tonight was her early night and in his mind he could almost see her hurry out of the TV station to his waiting Rolls, sure that she would be just as anxious. He had sent Paul Choy with the Rolls to escort her to the station tonight, to talk English with her, to ensure she arrived safely and returned quickly. And then, after their new bout, the Rolls would take them to the barbarian eating palace in the barbarian hotel with its foul barbarian food and foul smells but one of the places where all the tai-pans go, and all important, civilized persons go with their wives —and, when their wives were busy, with their whores—so he could show off his mistress and how rich he was to all Hong Kong, and she could show off the diamond.

"Ayeeyah, " he chortled out loud.

"Eh, Honored Lord?" the amah asked suspiciously. "What's amiss?"

"Nothing, nothing. Please give me some brandy."

"My mistress doesn't like the brandy smell!"

"Huh, old woman, give me brandy. Am I a fool? Am I a barbarian from the Outer Provinces? Of course I have fragrant tea leaves to chew before our bout. Brandy!"

She went off grumbling but he paid her no attention—she was just trying to protect her mistress's interests and that was perfectly correct.

His fingers touched the small box in his pocket. He had purchased the ring this morning, wholesale, from a first cousin who owed him a favor. The stone was worth 48,000 at least though the real cost was barely half that amount, the quality blue-white and excellent, the carats substantial.

Another bout like the last one will be well worth it, he thought ecstatically, though a little uneasily. Oh yes. Eeee, that last time I thought my spirit was truly gone forever into the Void, taken by the gods at the height of all life! Eeee, how lucky I would be to go thence, at that exact moment! Yes, but more wonderful to come back to storm the Jade Gate again and again and once more!

He laughed out loud, daring the gods, very content. Today had been excellent for him. He had met secretly with Smuggler Yuen and White Powder Lee and they had elected him chief of their new Brotherhood, which was only right, he thought. Hadn't he supplied the link to the marketplace through the foreign devil Ban—whatever his name was—because he had lent money to Number One Son Chen who, in return for such favors, had proposed the gun into opium scheme to him but had had the stupidity to be kidnapped and now murdered? Oh yes. And wasn't he meeting with the same foreign devil in Macao next week to arrange finances, payments, to set into motion the whole vast operation? Of course he should be High Tiger, of course he should have the most profit! With their combined expertise—and Profitable Choy's modern techniques—he could revolutionize the smuggling of the opium into Hong Kong, and once here, revolutionize the conversion of the raw narcotic into the immensely profitable White Powders, and finally, the means of export to the markets of the world. Now that Paul Choy was already in the shipping and air freighting department of Second Big Company and two grandsons of Yuen, also American trained, in their customs broking operation—and another four English university-trained relations of White Powder Lee placed within Noble House's Kai Tak go-down operations and All Asia Air's loading and unloading division, imports and exports would be ever safer, easier and ever more profitable.

They had discussed whom they would co-opt in the police, particularly Marine.

"None of the barbarians, never one of those fornicators," White Powder Lee had said hotly. "They won't support us, never. Not in drugs. We must use only the Dragons."

"Agreed. All the Dragons have all been approached and all will cooperate. All except Tang-po of Kowloon."

"We must have Kowloon, he's senior and Marine operates from there. Is he holding out for a better deal personally? Or is he against us?"

"I don't know. At the moment." Four Fingers had shrugged. "Tang-po is up to the High Dragon to solve. The High Dragon has agreed, so it is agreed."

Yes, Four Fingers thought, I outsmarted them to make me High Tiger and I outsmarted Profitable Choy on my money. I didn't give the young fornicator control of my fortune to gamble with as he thought I would. Oh no! I'm not that much of a fool! I only let him have 2 million and promised him 17 percent of all profit—let's see what he can do with that. Yes. Let's see what he can do with that!

The old man's heart picked up and he scratched himself. I'll bet the cunning young man'll triple it within the week, he told himself gleefully, not a little awed—the diamond paid for by his son's wits from the first profit on the stock sale, and a year of Venus Poon already allocated from the same source and not a copper cash of his own capital to lay out! Eeeee! And the cunning schemes Profitable comes up with! Like the one to deal with the tai-pan tomorrow when we meet.

Anxiously his fingers reached up and touched the half-coin that was on the heavy thong around his neck under his shirt, a coin like that his illustrious ancestor, Wu Fang Choi, had called upon to claim a clipper ship to rival the finest in Dirk Struan's fleet. But Wu Fang Choi, he thought grimly, had been the fool—he had never demanded safe passage for the ship as part of his favor and so had been outsmarted by the Green-Eyed Devil, the tai-pan.

Yes, by all the gods, it was Wu Fang Choi's own fault he lost. But he didn't lose everything. He hunted down that hunchback called Stride Orlov who ruled the ships of the Noble House for Culum the Weak. His men caught Orlov ashore in Singapore and brought him in chains to Taiwan where his headquarters were. There he tied him to a post, just at high-water mark, and drowned him very slowly.

I won't be foolish like Wu Fang Choi. No. I will make sure my ask from this tai-pan is watertight.

Tomorrow, the tai-pan will agree to open his ships to my cargoes —secretly of course; will agree to open some of the Noble House accounts for me to hide in—secretly of course, though to his great profit; will agree, equally secretly, to finance with me the vast new pharmaceutical plant that, oh ko, Profitable Choy says will be the perfect, legitimate undetectable narcotic smoke screen for me and mine forever; and last, the tai-pan will intercede with the half-person, Lando Mata, and choose my name and my suggested syndicate to replace the existing Macao gold and gambling syndicate of Tightfist Tung and the Chin, and he, the tai-pan, he will promise to be part of it.

Four Finger Wu was filled with ecstasy. The tai-pan will have to agree to everything. Everything. And everything is within his fief.

"Here's the brandy."

Four Finger Wu took it from the amah and sipped it dreamily, with vast enjoyment. All gods bear witness: For seventy-six years, I, Four Finger Wu, Head of the Seaborne Wu, have lived life to the full and if you gods will take my spirit during the Clouds and the Rain, I will sing your praises in heaven—if there is a heaven— forever more. And if you don't . . .

The old man shrugged to himself and beamed and curled his toes. He yawned and closed his eyes, warm and toasty and very happy. Gods are gods and gods sleep and make mistakes but as sure as the great storms will come this year and next, Little Strumpet will earn her diamond tonight. Now which way should it be, he asked himself, going to sleep.

The taxi stopped at the foyer below. Suslev got out drunkenly and paid the man, then, reeling slightly, stepped over the rainwater swirling in the gutters and went in.

There was a crowd of people chattering and waiting at the elevator and he recognized Casey and Jacques deVille among them. Unsteadily he belched his way down the stairs to the lower level, crossed the garage and banged on Clinker's door.

"Hello, matey," Clinker said.

"Tovarich!" Suslev gave him a bear hug.

"Vodka's up! Beer's up. Mabel, say hello to the captain!" The sleepy old bulldog just opened one eye, chomped her gums and farted loudly.

Clinker sighed and shut the door. "Poor old Mabel! Wish to Christ she wouldn't do that, the place gets proper niffy! Here." He handed Suslev a full glass of water with a wink. "It's your favorite, old mate. 120 proof."

Suslev winked back and slurped the water loudly. "Thanks, old shipmate. Another of these'n I'll sail away from this capitalist paradise happily!"

"Another of those," Clinker guffawed, keeping up the pretense, "an' you'll slip out'uv Hong Kong harbor on your knees!" He refilled the glass. "How long you staying tonight?"

"Just had to have some last drinks with you, eh? So long as I leave here by ten I'm fine. Drink up!" he roared with forced bonhomie. "Let's have some music, eh?"

Happily Clinker turned on the tape recorder, loud. The sad Russian ballad filled the room.

Suslev put his lips close to Clinker's ear. "Thanks, Ernie. I'll be back in good time."

"All right." Clinker winked, still believing Suslev's cover that he had an assignation with a married woman in Sinclair Towers. "Who is she, eh?" He had never asked before.

"No names, no pack drill," Suslev whispered with a broad grin. "But her husband's a nob, a capitalist swine and on the legislature!"

Clinker beamed. "Smashing! Give her one for me, eh?"

Suslev went down the trapdoor and found the flashlight. Water dripped from the cracked concrete roof of the tunnel, the cracks bigger than before. Small avalanches of rubble made the floor precarious and slippery. His nervousness increased, not liking the closeness, nor the necessity to go to meet Crosse, wanting to be far away, safe on his ship with a complete alibi when Dunross was drugged and snatched. But Crosse had been adamant.

"Goddamn it, Gregor, you have to be there! I've got to see you in person and I'm certainly not going aboard the Ivanov. It's perfectly safe, I guarantee it!"

Guarantee? Suslev thought angrily again. How can one guarantee anything? He took out the snub-nosed automatic with the silencer, checked it and clicked off the safety catch. Then he continued again, picking his way carefully, and climbed the ladder to the false cupboard. Once on the stairs, he stopped and listened, holding his breath, all his concentration seeking danger. Finding none, he began to breathe easier, went up the stairs silently and into the apartment. Light from the high rise just below and from the city came through the windows and illuminated everything well enough for him to see. He checked the apartment thoroughly. When he had finished he went to the refrigerator and opened a bottle of beer. Absently he stared out of the windows. From where he was he could not see his ship but he knew where she would be and that thought gave him another good feeling. I'll be glad to leave, he thought. And sorry. I want to come back—Hong Kong's too good—but can I?

What about Sinders? Dare I trust him?

Suslev's heart hurt in his chest. Without a doubt, his future was in the balance. It would be easy for his own KGB people to prove he had fingered Metkin. Center could get that out of Roger Crosse by a simple phone call—-if they hadn't already come to the same conclusion themselves.

May Sinders rot in hell! I know he'll shop me—I would if I was him. Will Roger know the secret deal Sinders put to me? No. Sinders would keep that secret, secret even from Roger. It doesn't matter. Once I've passed anything over to the other side I'm in his power forever.

The minutes ticked by. There was the sound of an elevator. At once he went into a defensive position. His finger slid the safety catch off: a key turned in the lock. The door opened and closed quickly.

"Hello, Gregor," Crosse said softly. "I wish you wouldn't point that bloody thing at me."

Suslev put the safety catch on. "What's so important? What about that turd Sinders? What'd he—"

"Calm down and listen." Crosse took out a roll of microfilm, his pale blue eyes unusually excited. "Here's a gift. It's expensive but all the real AMG files're on that film."

"Eh?" Suslev stared at him. "But how?" He listened as Crosse told him about the vault, ending, "and after Dunross left I photographed the files and put them back."

"Is the film developed?"

"Oh yes. I made one print which I read and at once destroyed. That's safer than giving it to you and risk your being stopped and searched—Sinders is on the warpath. What the devil happened between you and him?"

"First tell me about the files, Roger."

"Sorry, but they're the same as the other ones, word for word. No difference."

"What?"

"Yes. Dunross was telling us the truth. The copies he gave us are exact patterns."

Suslev was shocked. "But we were sure, you were sure!"

Crosse shrugged and passed over the film. "Here's your proof."

Suslev swore obscenely.

Crosse watched him and kept his face grave, hiding his amusement. The real files are far too valuable to pass over—yet—he told himself again. Oh yes. Now's not the time. In due course, Gregor old chap, parts will bring a very great price. And all that knowledge will have to be sifted and offered very carefully indeed. And as to the eleven pieces of code—whatever the devil they mean—they should be worth a fortune, in due course. "I'm afraid this time we've drawn a blank, Gregor."

"But what about Dunross?" Suslev was ashen. He looked at his watch. "Perhaps he's already in the crate?" He saw Crosse shrug, the lean face etched in the half-light.

"There's no need to interrupt that plan," Crosse said. "I've considered that whole operation very carefully. I agree with Jason it'll be good to shake up Hong Kong. Dunross's kidnapping will create all sorts of waves. With the bank runs and the stock market crash —yes it would help us very much. I'm rather worried. Sinders is sniffing around too closely and asking me all sorts of wrong questions. Then there's the Metkin affair, Voranski, the AMG papers, you—too many mistakes. Pressure needs to be taken off Sevrin. Dunross'll do that admirably."

"You're sure?" Suslev asked, needing reassurance.

"Yes. Oh yes, Dunross will do very nicely thank you. He's the decoy. I'll need all the help I can get. You're going to shop Arthur. Aren't you?"

Suslev saw the eyes boring into him and his heart almost stopped but he kept his shock off his face. Just. "I'm glad Sinders told you about our meeting. That saves me the trouble. How can I get out of his trap?"

"How're you going to avoid it?"

"I don't know, Roger. Will Sinders do what he threatened?"

Crosse snapped, "Come on, for God's sake! Wouldn't you?"

"What can I do?"

"It's your neck or Arthur's. If it's Arthur's, then the next neck could be mine." There was a long, violent pause and Suslev felt the hair on the nape of his neck twist. "So long as it's not mine—and I know what's going on in advance—I don't care."

Suslev looked back at him. "You want a drink?"

"You know I don't drink."

"I meant water—or soda." The big man went to the refrigerator and took out the vodka bottle and drank from the bottle. "I'm glad Sinders told you."

"For chrissake, Gregor, where've your brains gone? Of course he didn't tell me—the fool still thinks it was a secret, private deal, just you and him, of course he does! Good sweet Christ, this's my bailiwick! I maneuvered him into a room that I'd bugged. Am I a simpleton?" The eyes hardened even more and Suslev felt his chest tighten unbearably. "So it's a simple choice, Gregor. It's you or Arthur. If you shop him I'm in danger and so's everyone else. If you don't concede to Sinders you're finished. Of the two choices I'd prefer you dead—and me, Arthur and Sevrin safe."

"The best solution's that I betray Arthur," Suslev said. "But that before they catch him he flees. He can come aboard the Ivanov. Eh?"

"Sinders'll be ahead of you and he'll stop you in Hong Kong waters."

"That's possible. Not probable. I'd resist a boarding at sea." Suslev watched him, the bile in his mouth. "It's that or Arthur commits suicide—or is eliminated."

Crosse stared at him. "You must be joking! You want me to send Jason into the Great Hereafter?"

"You said yourself, it's someone's neck. Listen, at the moment we're just examining possibilities. But it's a fact you're not expendable. Arthur is. The others. I am," Suslev said, meaning it. "So whatever happens it mustn't be you—and preferably not me. I never did like the idea of dying." He took another swig of the vodka and felt the lovely, stomach-warming sensation, then turned his eyes back on his ally. "You are an ally, aren't you?"

"Yes. Oh yes. So long as the money keeps up and I enjoy the game."

"If you believed, you would live a longer and better life, tovarich."

"The only thing that keeps me alive is that I don't. You and your KGB friends can try and take over the world, infiltrate capitalism and any other ism you like, for whatever purpose you admit, or enjoy, and meanwhile, I shall jolly you along."

"What does that mean?"

"It's an old English expression that means to help," Crosse said dryly. "So you're going to shop Arthur?"

"I don't know. Could you lay a false trail to the airport to give us time to escape Hong Kong waters?"

"Yes, but Sinders has already doubled surveillance there."

"What about Macao?"

"I could do that. I don't like it. What about the others of Sevrin?"

"Let them burrow deeper, we close everything down. You take over Sevrin and we activate again once the storm subsides. Could deVille become tai-pan after Dunross?"

"I don't know. I think it'll be Gavallan. Incidentally, two more Werewolf victims were discovered out at Sha Tin this morning."

Suslev's hope quickened and some of his dread left him. "What happened?"

Crosse told him how they were found. "We're still trying to identify the poor buggers. Gregor, shopping Arthur's dicey, whatever happens. It might spill back to me. Perhaps with the stock market crashing, the banks all messed up and Dunross vanishing, it might be cover enough. It might."

Suslev nodded. His nausea increased. The decision had to be made. "Roger, I'm going to do nothing. I'm just going to leave and take the chance. I'll, I'll make a private report to forestall Sinders and tell Center what happened. Whatever Sinders does, well, that's up to the future. I've got friends in high places too. Perhaps the Hong Kong disaster and having Dunross—I'll do the chemical debrief myself anyway, just in case he's cheating us and is as clever as you say he is … what is it?"

"Nothing. What about Koronski?"

"He left this morning after I got all the chemicals. I rescheduled the debrief to be on the Ivanov, not ashore. Why?" "Nothing. Go on."

"Perhaps the Hong Kong debacle'll placate my superiors." Now that Suslev had made the decision he felt a little better. "Send an urgent report to Center through the usual channels to Berlin. Get Arthur to do the same by radio tonight. Make the report very pro-me, eh? Blame the Metkin affair on the CIA here, the carrier leak, Voranski. Eh? Blame the CIA and the Kuomintang."

"Certainly. For a double fee. By the way, Gregor, if I were you I'd clean my prints off that bottle." "Eh?" Sardonically Crosse told him about Rosemont filching the glass in the raid and how, months ago, to protect Suslev he had extracted his prints from his dossier.

The Russian was white. "The CIA have my prints on file?"

"Only if they've a better dossier than ours. I doubt that."

"Roger, I expect you to cover my back."

"Don't worry, I'll make the report so lily-white they'll promote you. In return you recommend my bonus's 100,000 dol—"

"That's too much!"

"That's the fee! I'm getting you out of one helluva mess." The mouth smiled, the eyes did not. "It's fortunate we're professionals. Isn't it?"

"I'll—I'll try."

"Good. Wait here. Clinker's phone's bugged. I'll phone from Jason's flat the moment I know about Dunross." Crosse put out his hand. "Good luck, I'll do what I can with Sinders."

"Thanks." Suslev gave him a bear hug. "Good luck to you too, Roger. Don't fail me on Dunross."

"We won't fail."

"And keep up the good work, eh?"

"Tell your friends to keep up the money. Eh?"

"Yes." Suslev closed the door behind Crosse, then wiped the palms of his hands on his trousers and took out the roll of film. Quietly he cursed it and Dunross and Hong Kong and Sinders, the specter of the KGB questioning him about Metkin swamping him. Somehow I've got to avoid that, he told himself, the cold sweat running down his back. Perhaps I should shop Arthur after all. How to do it, and keep Roger in the clear? There must be a way.

Outside on the landing, Roger Crosse got into the elevator and pressed the ground-floor button. Alone now he leaned exhaustedly against the rickety walls and shook his head to try to get the fear out. "Stop it!" he muttered. With an effort he dominated himself and lit a cigarette, noticing his fingers were trembling. If that bugger chemical debriefs Dunross, he told himself, I'm up the creek. And I'll bet fifty dollars to a pile of dung Suslev still hasn't ruled out the possibility of shopping Plumm. And if he does that, Christ my whole pack of cards can come tumbling down about my ears. One mistake, one tiny slip and I'm finished.

The elevator stopped. Some Chinese got in noisily but he did not notice them.

On the ground floor, Rosemont was waiting.

"And?"

"Nothing, Stanley."

"You and your hunches, Rog."

"You never know, Stanley, there might have been something," Crosse said, trying to get his mind working. He had invented the hunch and invited Rosemont along—to wait below—the ruse just to throw off Rosemont's CIA men he knew were still watching the foyer.

"You all right, Rog?"

"Oh yes. Yes, thanks. Why?"

Rosemont shrugged. "You want a coifee or a beer?" They walked out into the night. Rosemont's car was waiting, outside.

"No thanks. I'm going there." Crosse pointed to Rose Court, the highrise that loomed over them on the road above. "It's a cocktail party obligation." He felt his fear welling again. What the hell do I do now?

"What's up, Rog?"

"Nothing."

"Rose Court, huh? Maybe I should get me an apartment there. Rosemont of Rose Court."

"Yes." Crosse mustered his strength. "Do you want to come down to the dock to see the Ivanov off?"

"Sure, why not? I'm glad you sent that mother packing." Rosemont stifled a yawn. "We broke that computer bastard tonight. Seems he had all sorts of secrets stacked away."

"What?"

"Bits and pieces about the Corregidor, her top speed, where her nukes come from, their arming codes, things like that. I'll give you a rundown tonight. You pick me. up at midnight, okay?"

"Yes, yes all right." Crosse turned and hurried off. Rosemont frowned after him, then looked up at Rose Court. Lights blazed from all of the twelve floors. Again the American put his eyes back on Crosse, a small figure now in the dark as he turned the corner, climbing the steep curling roadway.

What's with Rog? he asked himself thoughtfully. Something's wrong.

80

8:10 P.M.:

Roger Crosse got out of the elevator on the fifth floor, his face taut, and went through the open door into the Asian Properties apartment. The large room was crowded and noisy. He stood at the doorway, his eyes ranging the guests, seeking Plumm or Dunross. At once he noticed that there was little happiness here, an air of gloom over most of the guests, and this added to his disquiet. Few wives were present—the few that were stood uneasily grouped together at the far end. Everywhere conversation was heated about the coming debacle of the stock market crash and bank runs.

"Oh come on for chrissake, it's all very well for the Victoria to announce a multimillion takeover of the Ho-Pak but where's the cash to keep us all afloat?"

"It was a merger, not a takeover, Dunstan," Richard Kwang began, "the Ho-Pak's n—"

Barre's face was suddenly choleric. "For chrissake, Richard, we're all friends here and we all know there's more in it than a bail-out, for God's sake. Are we children? My point," Barre said, raising his voice louder to drown Richard Kwang and Johnjohn out, "my point, old boy, is that merger or not, we the businessmen of Hong Kong, can't stay afloat if all you bloody banks have stupidly run out of cash. Eh?"

"It's not our fault, for God's sake," Johnjohn rapped. "It's just a temporary loss of confidence."

"Bloody mismanagement if you ask me," Barre replied sourly to general agreement, then noticed Crosse trying to pass. "Oh, oh hello, Roger!" he said with a pasty smile.

Roger Crosse saw the immediate caution that was normal whenever he caught anyone unawares. "Is Ian here?"

"No. No, not yet," Johnjohn said and Crosse exhaled, wet with relief. "You're sure?"

"Oh yes. Soon as he arrives I'm leaving," Dunstan said sourly. "Bloody banks! If it wasn't—"

Johnjohn interrupted, "What about those bloody Werewolves, Roger?" The discovery of the two bodies had been the lead item of Radio Hong Kong and all Chinese newspapers—there being no afternoon English Sunday papers.

"I know nothing more than you do," Crosse told them. "We're still trying to identify the victims." His eyes zeroed in on Richard Kwang, who quailed. "You don't know of any sons or nephews, missing or kidnapped, do you, Richard?" "No, no sorry, Roger, no."

"If you'll excuse me, I'd better see our host." Crosse pushed his way through the crush. "Hello, Christian," he said, easing past the tall, thin editor of the Guardian. He saw the desolation the man desperately tried to hide. "Sorry about your wife."

"Joss," Christian Toxe said, attempting to sound calm, and stood in his way. "Joss, Roger. She, well, she'd… life has to go on, doesn't it?" His forced smile was almost grotesque. "The Guardian has to do its work, eh?" "Yes."

"Can I have a word later?" "Certainly—off the record, as always?" "Of course."

He went on, passing Pugmire and Sir Luis deep in conversation about the General Stores-Struan takeover and noticed Casey in the center of a group on the wide balcony overlooking the harbor, deVille among them, Gornt also part of the group, looking benign, which Crosse found strange. "Hello, Jason," he said coming up behind Plumm who was talking with Joseph Stern and Phillip Chen. "Thanks for inviting me." "Oh. Oh hello, Roger. Glad you could come." "Evening," he said to the others. "Jason, where's your guest of honor?"

"Ian phoned to say he'd been delayed but was on his way. He'll be here any moment." Plumm's tension was evident. "The, er, the champagne's ready, and my little speech. Everything's ready," he said, watching him. "Come along, Roger, let me get you a drink. It's Perrier, isn't it? I've got some on ice."

Crosse followed him, equally glad for the opportunity to talk privately but just as they reached the kitchen door there was a momentary hush. Dunross was at the door with Riko, Gavallan beside them. All three were beaming.

"Listen, Jason, I—" Crosse stopped. Plumm had already turned back to the bar and if he hadn't been watching very carefully he would never have seen Plumm's left hand deftly break the tiny vial over one of the filled champagne glasses, then palm the shreds back into his pocket, pick up the tray with four glasses on it and head for the door. Fascinated, he watched Plumm come up to Dunross and offer the champagne.

Dunross let Riko take a glass, then Gavallan. Without any apparent prompting Dunross took the doctored glass. Plumm took the last, giving the tray to an embarrassed waiter. "Welcome, Ian, and congratulations on the coup," Plumm said, casually toasting him, not making a big thing of it. Those nearby politely followed suit. Dunross of course did not drink his own toast.

"Now, perhaps you should toast Richard Kwang and Johnjohn and their merger?" Plumm said, his voice sounding strange.

"Why not?" Dunross replied with a laugh and glanced across the room at Johnjohn. "Bruce," he called out, raising his glass, and there was a small hole in the general level of noise. "Here's to the Victoria!" His voice picked up power and cut through neatly. Others glanced over and stopped in midsentence. "Perhaps everyone should share the toast. I've just heard the Bank of China's agreed to lend you and the other banks half a billion in cash in good time for Monday's opening."

There was a sudden vast silence. Those on the balcony came into the room, Gornt to the fore. "What?"

"I've just heard the Bank of China's lending Hong Kong—lending the Vic to lend to other banks—half a billion in cash and as much more as you want. All bank runs're over!" Dunross raised his glass. "To the Victoria!"

As pandemonium broke out and everyone started asking questions, Crosse got his feet into motion and the moment before Dunross could drink, appeared to stumble and collided with him, knocking the glass out of his hand. It shattered as it hit the parquet flooring. "Oh Christ, I'm sorry," he said apologetically. Plumm stared at him appalled. "For chrissa—" "Ah, Jason, I'm so sorry," Crosse overrode him, adding more quickly as a waiter hastily retrieved the pieces, "Perhaps you'd get Ian another glass."

"Er, yes, but. . ." Numbly Plumm went to obey but stopped as Riko said, "Oh, here, tai-pan, please to take mine." Then Johnjohn shouted over the uproar, "Quiet, quiet a moment!" and pushed over to Dunross. "Ian," he said in the utter silence, "You're sure? Sure about the cash?"

"Oh yes," Dunross replied leisurely, sipping Riko's drink, enjoying the moment. "Tiptop called me personally. It'll be on the nine o'clock news."

There was a sudden great cheer and more questions and answers and Dunross saw Gornt staring at him from across the room. His smile hardened and he raised his glass, paying no attention to the barrage of questions. "Your health, Quillan!" he called out, mocking him. Quickly conversation died again. Everyone's attention zeroed on them.

Gornt toasted him back, equally mocking. "Your health, Ian. We've really got China's money?"

"Yes, and by the way, I've just arranged a new revolving fund of 50 million U.S. Now the Noble House's the soundest hong in the Colony."

"Secured by what?" Gornt's voice slashed through the abrupt silence.

"The honor of the Noble House!" With a nonchalance he did not feel, Dunross turned on Johnjohn. "The loan's from the Royal Belgium, a subsidiary of First Central of New York and backed by them." Deliberately he did not look back at Gornt as he repeated, enjoying greatly the sound, "50 million U.S. Oh by the way, Bruce, tomorrow I'm retiring your loans on both my ships. I no longer need the Vic loan—Royal Belgium's given me better terms."

Johnjohn just stared at him.

"You're joking note 18 !"

"No. I've just talked to Paul." Momentarily Dunross glanced at Plumm. "Sorry, Jason, that was why I was late. Naturally I had to see him. Bruce, old fellow, Paul's already down at the bank making arrangements for the transfer of China's cash in time for opening —he asked if you'd go there, at once."

"Eh?"

"At once. Sorry."

Johnjohn stared at him blankly, started to talk, stopped, then erupted with a cheer that everyone took up, and rushed out, cheers following him.

"Christ, tai-pan, but did you . . ."

"Tiptop? That means it's real! Don't you think . . ."

"First Central of New York? Aren't they the berks who . . ."

"Christ, I've been selling short . . ."

"Me too! Shit, I'd better buy first thing or . . ."

"Or I'll be wiped out and . . ."

Dunross saw that Sir Luis, Joseph Stern and Phillip Chen had their heads together, Gornt still staring at him, his face frozen. Then he saw Casey smiling at him so happily and he raised his glass and toasted her. She toasted him back. Gornt saw this and he went over to her and those nearby shivered and fell silent. "First Central's Par-Con's bank. Isn't it?"

"Yes, yes it is, Quillan," she said, her voice sounding small but it went through the room and once more all attention surrounded them.

"You and Bartlett, you did this?" Gornt asked, towering over her.

Dunross said quickly, "I arrange our loans."

Gornt paid no attention to him, just watched her. "You and Bartlett. You helped him?"

She looked back at him, her heart thumping. "I've no control over that bank, Quillan."

"Ah but your fingers're in that pie somewhere," Gornt said coldly. "Aren't they?"

"Murtagh asked me if I thought Struan's a good risk," she said, her voice controlled. "I told him, yes, that Struan's was an admirable risk."

"Struan's is on the rocks," Gornt said.

Dunross came up to them. "The whole point is, we're not. By the way, Quillan, Sir Luis has agreed to withdraw Struan's from trading until noon."

All eyes went to Sir Luis who stood stoically, Phillip Chen beside him, then went back to Dunross and Gornt again.

"Why?"

"To give the market time to adjust to the boom."

"What boom?"

"The boom we all deserve, the boom Old Blind Tung forecast." A wave of electricity went through everyone, even Casey. "Also to adjust our stock value," Dunross's voice rasped. "We open at 30."

"Impossible," someone gasped, and Gornt snarled, "You can't! You closed at 9.50 by God! Your stock closed at 9.50!"

"So we offer stock at 30 by God!" Dunross snarled back.

Gornt whirled on Sir Luis. "You're going along with this highway robbery?"

"There isn't any, Quillan," Sir Luis said calmly. "I've agreed, with the committee's unanimous approval, that it's the best for all, for the safety of all investors, that there should be a quiescent period —so that everyone could prepare for the boom. Till noon seemed fair."

"Fair eh?" Gornt grated. "You've got lots of stock I've sold short. Now I buy it all back. What price?"

Sir Luis shrugged. "I'll deal at noon tomorrow, on the floor, not away from the market."

"I'll deal with you right now, Quillan," Dunross said harshly. "How many shares've you sold short? 700,000? 8? I'll let you buy back in at 18 if you will sell the controlling interest in All Asia Air at 15."

"All Asia Air's not for sale," Gornt said, enraged, his mind shouting that at 30 he would be wiped out.

"The offer's good till opening tomorrow."

"The pox on you, tomorrow, and your 30!" Gornt whirled on Joseph Stern. "Buy Struan's! Now, in the morning or at noon! You're responsible!"

"At, at what price, Mr. Gornt?"

"Just buy!" Gornt's face closed and he turned on Casey. "Thanks," he said to her and stomped off, slamming the door behind him. Then conversation exploded, and Dunross was surrounded, people pounding him on the back, swamping him with questions. She stayed alone at the doorway of the veranda, shocked by the violence that had been. Absently, in turmoil, she saw Plumm hurry off, Roger Crosse following, but she paid them little attention, just watched Dunross, Riko now beside him.

In the small back bedroom Plumm reached into the drawer of a bureau that was near the big iron-bound sea trunk. The door swung open and he spun around and when he saw it was Roger Crosse his face twisted. "What the shit're you doing? You deliberately f—"

With catlike speed Crosse was across the room and he belted the man open-handed before Plumm knew what was happening. Plumm gasped and blindly readied to leap at Crosse but again Crosse belted him and Plumm stumbled backward against the bed and fell onto it. "What the f—"

"Shut up and listen!" Crosse hissed. "Suslev's going to shop you!" Plumm gaped at him, the weal from the blows scarlet. At once his anger vanished. "What?"

"Suslev's going to shop you to Sinders, and that means all of us." Crosse's eyes narrowed. "You all right now? For chrissake keep your voice'down." "What? Yes … yes. I … yes." "Sorry, Jason, it was the only thing to do." "That's, that's all right. What the hell's going on, Roger?" Plumm scrambled off the bed, rubbing his face, a thin trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, now totally controlled. Outside was the rise and fall of indistinct conversation.

"We've got to make a plan," Crosse said grimly and recapped his conversation with Suslev. "I think I've got him convinced, but that bugger's slippery and there's no telling what he'll do. Sinders'll shop him, I'm sure of that, if Suslev doesn't finger Arthur—and if Sinders shops him, Suslev won't come back to Hong Kong. They'll keep him and break him. Then wh—"

"But what about Dunross?" Plumm asked helplessly. "Surely Dunross could've got him out of the mess. Now Gregor's bound to talk. Why stop me?"

"I had to. There was no time to tell you. Listen, after I left Suslev I checked with HQ. They told me Tiptop'd helped those bastards squeeze out of the trap with China's money. Earlier I'd heard that lan'd arranged his loan," Crosse added, lying. "So the runs're over, the stock market's got to boom, Dunross or not. But worse than that, Jason, I got a whisper from an informant in Special Branch that Sinders has tripled security on Kai Tak, the same on the Ivanov wharf, and that, right now, they're opening every crate, every bag, searching every piece of equipment, checking every coolie that goes aboard. If they'd intercepted Dunross, and they would—Si's too smart—we'd be trapped."

Plumm's nervousness increased. A tremor went through him. "What, what about.. . Say we give Sinders Gregor?" he burst out. "What if we gi—"

"Keep your voice down! You're not thinking clearly, for God's sake! Gregor knows all of us. Sinders'd shove him on a sleep-wake-sleep regimen and into the Red Room and he'd tell everything! That'd wreck us, wreck Sevrin and put the Soviets back ten years in Asia."

Plumm shivered and wiped his face. "Then what're we going to do?"

"Let Gregor go aboard and out of Hong Kong, and hope to God he convinces his bosses. Even if he leaks your name to Sinders I think we're buried so deep we can squeeze out of that. You're British, not a foreign national. Thank God we've laws to protect us —even under the Official Secrets Act. Don't worry, nothing'll happen without me knowing and if anything happens I'll know at once. There'll always be time enough for Plan Three." Plan Three was an elaborate escape that Plumm had erected against such an eventuality—with false passports, valid air tickets, ready luggage, clothes, disguises and covers, even including passkeys to airplane waiting areas without going through Immigration—that had a ninety-five percent chance of success given an hour's notice.

"Christ!" Plumm looked down at the waiting trunk. "Christ," he said again, then went to the mirror to look at his face. The redness was going. He doused some water on it.

Crosse watched him, wondering if Plumm was convinced. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. He hated improvisation, but in this case he had little option. What a life we lead! Every one expendable except yourself: Suslev, Plumm, Sinders, Kwok, Armstrong, even the governor.

"What?" Plumm asked, looking at him in the mirror.

"I was just thinking we're in a rough business."

"The Cause makes it worthwhile. That's the only part that counts."

Crosse hid his contempt. I really think you've outlived your usefulness, Jason old fellow, he thought, then went over to the phone. There were no extensions on this line and he knew it was not bugged. He dialed.

"Yes?" He recognized Suslev and coughed Arthur's dry cough. "Mr. Lop-sing please," continuing the code in a perfect imitation of Plumm's voice, then said urgently, "There's been a foul-up. The target did not appear. Be careful at the dock. Surveillance is tripled.

We cannot deliver the trunk. Good luck." He hung up. The silence gathered.

"That's his death knell, isn't it?" Plumm said sadly.

Crosse hesitated. He smiled thinly. "Better his death than yours. Eh?"

81

8:25 P.M. :

In the noise-filled living room at the other end of the hall, Casey finished her drink and set it down. She was feeling unsettled and very strange. Part of her was joyous at Dunross's reprieve and the other part sad that Gornt was now entrapped. It was quite clear to her with the wheeling and dealing now going on around her that Struan's opening price would be very high. Poor Quillan, she thought. If he doesn't cover his position he'll be in shitsville—and let's face it, I put him there. Didn't I?

Sure, but I had to bail out Dunross because, without him, Gornt would have squeezed us dry—and maybe everyone else. And don't forget, I didn't start the raid on Struan's. That was Line's raid, not mine. Hasn't Line always said business and pleasure should never mix? Haven't we both always gone along with that?

Line. Always back to Line.

Casey had not seen him all day, nor even heard from him. They were supposed to have met for breakfast but there was a "do not disturb" on his door and a "do not disturb" on his phone so she left him and pushed away the thought of Orlanda—was Orlanda there too? And tonight, when she had returned from the day's sailing, there was a message: "Hi, have fun." So she had showered and changed and bottled her impatience and had come here tonight. It had been no fun in the beginning, everyone gloom and doom-filled, then after the news and Gornt slamming out, no fun again. Shortly afterward Dunross had forced his way over and thanked her again but almost at once he had been surrounded by excited men discussing deals and chances. She watched them, feeling very lonely. Perhaps Line's back at the hotel now, she thought. I wish . . . never mind, but it is time to go home. No one noticed her slip out.

Roger Crosse was standing at the elevator. He held the door for her then pressed the down button.

"Thanks. Nice party, wasn't it?" she said.

"Yes, yes it was," he replied absently.

On the ground floor Crosse let her get out first then strode off out the front door and down the hill. What's his hurry? she asked herself, heading for the group that waited for taxis, glad that it was not raining again. She jerked to a stop. Orlanda Ramos, with packages in her arms, was coming into the foyer. Each woman saw the other at the same instant. Orlanda was the first to recover. "Evening, Casey," she said with her best smile. "How pretty you look."

"So do you," Casey replied. Her enemy did. The pale blue skirt and blouse were perfectly matched.

Orlanda poured a stream of impatient Cantonese over the crumpled concierge who was lounging nearby. At once he took her packages, mumbling.

"Sorry, Casey," she said nicely, a thread of nervousness to her voice, "but there's been a small landslide just down the hill and I had to leave my car there. You're, you're visiting here?"

"No, just leaving. You live here?"

"Yes. Yes I do."

Another silence between them, both readying. Then Casey nodded a polite good night and began to leave.

"Perhaps we should talk," Orlanda said and Casey stopped.

"Certainly, Orlanda, whenever you wish."

"Do you have time now?"

"I think so."

"Would you like to walk with me back to my car? I've got to get the rest of my packages. You won't be able to get a taxi here anyway. Below will be easy."

"Sure."

The two women went out. The night was cool but Casey was burning and so was Orlanda, each knowing what was coming, each fearful of the other. Their feet picked a way carefully. The street was wet from the water that rushed downward. There was a promise of more rain soon from the heavy nimbus overcast. Ahead, fifty yards away, Casey could see where the embankment had partially given way, sending a mess of earth and rocks and shrubs and rubble across the road. There was no sidewalk. On the other side of the slip, a line of cars were stopped, impatiently maneuvering to turn around. A few pedestrians scrambled over the embankment.

"Have you lived in Rose Court long?" Casey asked.

"A few years. It's very pleasant. I th— Oh! Were you at Jason Plumm's party, the Asian Properties party?"

"Yes." Casey saw the relief on Orlanda's face and it angered her but she contained the anger and stopped and said quietly, "Orlanda, there's nothing really for us to talk about, is there? Let's say good night."

Orlanda looked up at her. "Line's with me. He's with me in my apartment. At the moment."

"I presumed that."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"It bothers me very much. But that's up to Line. We're not married, as you know, not even engaged, as you know—you have your way, I have mine, so th—"

"What do you mean by that?" Orlanda asked.

"I mean that I've known Line for seven years, you haven't known him for seven days."

"That doesn't matter," Orlanda said defiantly. "I love him and he loves me."

"That's y—" Casey was almost shoved aside by some Chinese who barreled past, chattering noisily. Others were approaching up the incline. Then some of the party guests walked around them, heading down the slope. One of the women was Lady Joanna, and she eyed them curiously but went on.

When they were alone again, Casey said, "That's yet to be proved. Good night, Orlanda," she said, wanting to scream at her, You make your money on your back, I work for mine, and all the love you protest is spelled money. Men are such jerks.

"Curiously I don't blame Line," she muttered out loud seeing the firm jaw, the flashing determined eyes, the perfect, voluptuous yet trim body. "Good night."

She walked on. Now my plan has to change, she was thinking, all her being concentrated. Tonight I was going to love Line properly, but now everything has to change. If he's in her bed he's under her spell. Jesus, I'm glad I found that out. God, if I'd offered he would have had to say no and then…. Now I can…. what should I do?

Shit on the Orlandas of the world! It's so easy for them. They have a game plan from day one. But the rest of us?

What do I do? Stick to November 25 and gamble Orlanda will bore the hell out of him by that time?

Not that lady. That one's dynamite and she knows Line's her passport to eternity.

Her heart picked up a beat. I'm a match for her, she told herself confidently. Maybe not in bed or in the kitchen, but I can learn.

She stepped up and over a boulder, cursing the mud that fouled her shoes, and jumped down the other side of the earth barrier. Dunross's Rolls and his chauffeur were at the head of the line.

"Excuse, Missee, is the tai-pan still there?"

"Yes, yes he is."

"Ah, thank you." The driver locked the car and hurried over the roadblock back up the hill. Casey turned and watched him. Her eyes centered on Orlanda who was approaching and she looked at her, wanting to shove her into the mud. The thought amused her and she stood there, letting her enemy approach, letting her wonder what she would do. She saw the eyes harden and there was no fear on Orlanda's face, just a very confident half-smile. Orlanda passed her fearlessly, and a tremor of apprehension went through Casey that she managed to dominate. Maybe you're just as afraid of me and my power as I am of yours, she thought, her eyes now on Rose Court, a brilliant tower of light, wondering which light surrounded Line or which darkened window. . . .

When Orlanda had first seen Casey, she had immediately jumped to the conclusion that Casey had been to her apartment and confronted Bartlett—that's what I would have done, she told herself. And, even though she knew now where Casey had been, fear again swept through her at the sight of her rival. Has she power over him through Par-Con? she asked herself, trembling. Can she control Line through stocks or shares? If Line's first wife nearly destroyed him financially and Casey saved him as many times as he said, she's bound to have him tied up. I would if I were she, of course I would.

Involuntarily Orlanda glanced back. Casey was still watching Rose Court. Beyond her, Dunross and others—Riko, Toxe, Phillip and Dianne Chen among them—came out of the foyer and started down the hill. She dismissed them and everything except the question of how to deal with Line when she returned. Should she tell him about meeting Casey or not? Numbly she took the remainder of her packages from her car. I know one thing, she told herself over and over again. Line's mine, and Casey or no Casey I'll marry him, whatever the cost.

Casey had seen Dunross come out of the foyer and she watched him, enjoying the sight of him, tall, debonair, ten years younger than when she first saw him, and it pleased her very much that she had helped him. Then, just as she turned away, she heard him call out, "Casey! Casey! Hang on a moment!" She glanced back. "How about joining us for dinner?" he called out to her.

She shook her head, not in the mood, and called out, "Thanks but I've a date! See you tomorr—"

At that moment the earth fell away.

82

8:56 P.M.:

The landslide had begun further up the mountain on the other side of Po Shan Road, and it swept across the road, smashing into a two-story garage, its mass and velocity so vast that the garage building rotated and toppled off the garden terrace, slid down for a short distance, then fell over. The slide gathered momentum and rushed past a darkened high rise, crossed Conduit Road and smashed into Richard Kwang's two-story house, obliterating it. Then, together with these buildings, the slip, now nine hundred feet long and two hundred feet wide—fifty thousand tons of earth and rock—continued on its downward path across Kotewall Road and struck Rose Court.

The landslide had taken seven seconds.

When Rose Court was struck, it appeared to shudder, and then the building came away from its foundations and moved forward in the direction of the harbor, toppled over and broke up near the middle like a man kneeling then falling.

As it fell, the upper stories struck and ripped off a corner of the upper stories of Sinclair Towers below, then crumpled and disintegrated into rubble. Part of the slide and the demolished building continued on and fell into a construction site farther down the mountain, then stopped. The lights went out as the building collapsed in a cloud of dust. And now over all Mid Levels there was a stunned, vast silence.

Then the screams began. . . .

In the tunnel under Sinclair Road, Suslev was choking, half-buried in rubble. Part of the tunnel roof was torn off, water gushing in now from fractured mains and drains, the tunnel filling rapidly.

He scrambled and fought up into the open, his confused mind helpless, not knowing what was happening, what had happened, only that somehow he must have been captured and drugged and now he was in a wake-sleep nightmare from the Red Room. He looked around, panic-stricken. All buildings were dark, power gone, a monstrous pile of shrieking, shifting wreckage surrounding him. Then his glands overpowered him and he fled pell-mell down Sinclair Road. . . .

Far above on Kotewall Road, those on the other side of the barrage were safe though paralyzed with shock. The few still on their feet, Casey among them, could not believe what they had witnessed. The vast slide had torn away all of the roadway as far as they could see. Most of the mountainside that a moment ago was terraced was now an undulating, ugly mud-earth-rock slope—roads vanished, buildings gone, and Dunross and his party carried away somewhere down the slope.

Casey tried to scream but she had no voice. Then, "Oh Jesus Christ! Line!" tore from her mouth and her feet moved and before she knew what was happening she was scrambling, falling, groping her way toward the wreckage. The darkness was awful now, the screams awful, voices beginning, shouts for help from everywhere, the unbelievable twisted pile of debris still moving here and there, bits still falling and being crushed. All at once the night was lit by power lines exploding, sending cascades of fireballs into the air among the wreckage.

Frantically she rushed to where the foyer once had been. Extended below, far below, the darkness obscuring almost everything, was the twisted mass of rubble, concrete blocks, girders, shoes, toys, pots pans sofas chairs beds radios TVs clothes limbs books, three cars that had been parked outside, and more screams. Then in the light of the exploding power lines she saw the mashed wreckage that was once the elevator down the slope, broken arms and legs jutting from its carcass.

"Line!" she shrieked at the top of her voice, again and again, not knowing she was crying, the tears streaming down her face. But there was no answer. Desperately she clambered and half fell and groped her way into and over the dangerous rubble. Around her, men and women were shouting, screaming. Then she heard a faint wail of terror nearby and part of the rubble moved. She was on her knees now, stockings torn, dress torn, knees bruised and she pulled away some bricks and found a small cavity, and there was a Chinese child of three or four, beyond terror, coughing, almost choking, trapped under a vast, groaning pile of debris in the rubble dust. "Oh Jesus you poor darling." Casey looked around frantically but there was no one to help. Part of the rubble shifted, screaming and groaning, a big chunk of concrete with its imbedded, reinforcing iron almost hanging loose. Careless of her safety, Casey fought the debris away, fingers bleeding. Again the wreckage twisted over her as some of it slid farther down the slope. Desperately she clawed a crawlspace and grabbed the child's arm, helping her to squeeze out, then caught her in her arms and darted back to safety as this part of the wreckage collapsed and she stood alone, the trembling child safe and unhurt in her arms, clutching her tightly. . . .

When the avalanche toppled the high rise and tore up most of the roadway and parapet, Dunross and the others on its edge were hurtled down the steep slope, head over heels, brush and vegetation breaking part of their fall. The tai-pan picked himself up in the semidarkness, felt himself blankly, dazed, astonished to find he could stand and was unhurt. From near him came whimpers of agony. The slope was steep and everywhere muddy and sodden as he groped up to Dianne Chen. She was semiconscious, groaning, one leg twisted brutally underneath her. Part of her shinbone jutted through the skin but as far as he could see, no arteries were severed and there was no dangerous bleeding. As carefully as he could he straightened her and her limb, but she let out a howl of pain and fainted. He felt someone nearby and glanced up. Riko was standing there, her dress ripped, her shoes gone, her hair akimbo, a small trickle of blood from her nose.

"Christ, you all right?"

"Yes .. . yes," she said shakily. "It's . . . was it an earthquake?"

At that moment there was another crackling explosion of power cables short-circuiting, and momentarily fireballs lit up the area. "Oh my God!" he gasped. "It's like London in the blitz." Then he caught sight of Phillip Chen in an inert heap around a sapling, sprawled headfirst down the slope. "Stay here with Dianne," he ordered and scrambled down the slope. Hanging onto his dread, he turned Phillip over. His compradore was still breathing. Dunross shook with relief. He settled him as best he could and looked around in the gloom. Others were picking themselves up. Nearby, Christian Toxe was shaking his head, trying to clear it.

"Bloody sodding Christ," he was muttering over and over. "There must be a couple of hundred people living there." He reeled to his feet then slipped in the mud and cursed again. "I've . . . I've got to get to a phone. Give me, give me a hand will you?" Toxe swore as he slipped again. "It's my ankle, the bloody thing's twisted a bit."

Dunross helped him stand and then, with Riko on Toxe's other side, they climbed awkwardly back to the remains of the roadway. People were still standing paralyzed, others clambering over the first slide to see if they could help, a few of the tenants frantic and moaning. One mother was being held back, her husband already running falling clambering toward the wreckage, their three children and amah somewhere there.

The moment they were on level ground, Toxe hobbled off down Kotewall Road and Dunross rushed for his car to fetch his flashlight and emergency medical pack.

Lim was nowhere to be seen. Then Dunross remembered his chauffeur had been with them when the avalanche hit. As he found the keys to unlock the trunk he searched his memory. Who was with us? Toxe, Riko, Jacques—no, Jacques had left—Phillip and Dianne Chen, Barre … no we left Barre at the party. Jesus Christ! The party! I'd forgotten the party! Who was still there? Richard Kwang and his wife, Plumm, Johnjohn, no he'd gone earlier, Roger Crosse, no wait a minute, didn't he leave?

Dunross jerked open the trunk and found two flashlights and the medical kit, a length of rope. He ran back to Riko, his back hurting him now. "Will you go back and look after Dianne and Phillip till I can get help?" His voice was deliberately firm. "Here." He gave her a flashlight, some bandages and a bottle of aspirin. "Off you go. Dianne's broken her leg. I don't know about Phillip. Do what you can and stay with them till an ambulance comes or I come back. All right?"

"Yes, yes, all right." Her eyes flickered with fear as she looked above. "Will there … is there any danger from another slide?"

"No. You'll be quite safe. Go quickly!" His will took away her fear and she started down the slope with the flashlight, picking her way carefully. It was only then he noticed that she was barefoot. Then he remembered Dianne had been barefoot too and Phillip. He stretched to ease his back. His clothes were ripped, but he paid them no attention and rushed for the barrier. In the distance he heard police sirens. His relief became almost nauseating as he broke into a run.

Then he noticed Orlanda at the head of the line of cars. She was staring fixedly at where Rose Court had been, her mouth moving, tiny spasms trembling her face and body, and he remembered the night of the fire when she had been equally petrified and near snapping. Quickly he went to her and shook her hard, hoping to jerk her out of the panic breakdown that he had witnessed so many times during the war. "Orlanda!"

She came out of her almost trance. "Oh … oh … what, what . . ."

Greatly relieved, he saw her eyes were normal now and the agony normal, the spilling tears normal. "You're all right. Nothing to worry about. Get hold now, you're all right, Orlanda!" he said, his voice kind though very firm, and leaned her against the hood of a car and left her.

Her eyes focused. "Oh my God! Line!" Then she shrieked after him through her tears, "Line . . . Line's there!"

He jerked to a stop, turned back. "Where? Where was he?"

"He's … in my, my apartment. It's on the eighth floor . .. it's on the eighth floor!"

Dunross ran off again, his flashlight the only moving speck of light on the morass.

Here and there people were groping blindly, ankle-deep in the soaking earth, their hands cupped around matches, heading for the ruins. As he came nearer the catastrophe, his heart twisted. He could smell gas. Every second the smell became stronger.

"Put out the matches, for chrissake!" he roared. "You 'II blow us all to helllll!"

Then he saw Casey . . .

The police car following the fire truck roared up the hill, sirens howling, the traffic heavy here and no one getting out of the way. Inside the car Armstrong was monitoring the radio calls: "All police units and fire trucks converge on Kotewall Road. Emergency, emergency emergency! There's a new landslip in the vicinity of Po Shan and Sinclair Road! Callers say Rose Court and two other twelve-story buildings've collapsed."

"Bloody ridiculous!" Armstrong muttered, then, "Watch out for chrissake!" he shouted at the driver who had cut across the road to the wrong side, narrowly missing a truck. "Turn right here, then cut up Castle into Robinson and into Sinclair that way," he ordered. He had been going home from another rebuild session with Brian Kwok, his head aching and exhausted, when he had heard the emergency call. Remembering that Crosse lived on Sinclair Road and that he'd said he would be going to Jason Plumm's party after he'd followed a lead with Rosemont, he had decided to check it out. Christ, he thought grimly, if he's been clobbered who'll take over SI? And do we still let Brian go or hold him or what?

A new voice came on, firm, unhurried, the static on the radio heavy. "This is Deputy Fire Chief Soames. Emergency One!" Armstrong and the driver gasped. "I'm at the junction of Sinclair, Robinson and Kotewall Road where I have set up a command post. Emergency One repeat One! Inform the commissioner and the governor at once, this is a disaster of very great proportions. Inform all hospitals on the Island to be on standby. Order every ambulance and all paramedics to the area. We will require immediate and heavy army assistance. All power is out so we require generators, cables and lights. . . ."

"Jesus Christ," Armstrong muttered. Then sharply, "Get the lead out for chrissake, and hurry it up!"

The police car increased speed. . . .

"Oh, Ian," Casey said beyond tears, the petrified child still in her arms. "Line's somewhere down there."

"Yes, yes I know," he said above the insane bedlam of screams and cries for help that came through the ominous grinding of the wreckage as it still settled. People wandered around blindly, not knowing where to look, where to start, how to help. "You all right?"

"Oh yes but… but Line. I don—" She stopped. Just ahead, down the slope near the remains of the elevator, a vast pile of twisted beams and shattered fragments of concrete subsided deafeningly, starting a chain reaction all down the slope and as he focused his flashlight on it they saw a loosened mass of debris smash against the elevator, claw it loose and send it reeling, leaving bodies in its wake.

"Oh Jesus," she whimpered. The child clutched her in panic.

"Go back to the car, you'll be saf—" At that moment a man crazed with anxiety rushed up to them, peered at the child in her arms, then grabbed her, clutching her to him, mumbling his thanks to God and to her. "Where, where did you find her?"

Casey pointed numbly.

The man peered at the spot blankly then went off into the night, weeping openly with relief.

"Stay here, Casey," Dunross said urgently, sirens approaching from every direction. "I'll take a quick look."

"Do be careful. Jesus, do you smell gas?"

"Yes, lots of it." Using the flashlight he began to thread his way over and under and through the wreckage, slipping and sliding. It was treacherous, the whole mass uneasy and creaking. The first crumpled body was a Chinese woman he did not know. Ten yards below was a European man, his head mashed and almost obliterated. Quickly he scoured the way ahead with his light but could not see Bartlett among the other dead. Farther below were two broken bodies, both Chinese. Swallowing his nausea, he worked his way under a dangerous overhang toward the European, then, holding the flashlight carefully, reached into the dead man's pockets. The driver's license said: Richard Pugmire.

"Christ!" Dunross muttered. The smell of gas was heavy. His stomach turned over as, far below, more power lines gushed sparks. We'll all go to kingdom come if those bloody sparks reach up here, he thought. Carefully he eased out of the debris and stood at his full height, breathing easier now. A last look at Pugmire's body and he started down the slope again. A few steps later he heard a faint moan. It took a little time to find the source but he centered on it and climbed down, his heart beating heavily. With great care he squirmed into the depths under a monstrous overhang of beams and rubble. His fingers took hold. Using all his strength he tilted the broken concrete and shoved it aside. A man's head was below. "Help," Clinker said weakly. "God love you, mate. . . ."

"Hang on a second." Dunross could see the man was wedged down by a huge rafter but the rafter was also keeping the debris above from crushing him. With the flashlight he searched until he found a broken piece of pipe. With this as a lever he tried to raise the rafter. A pyramid of rubble shifted ominously. "Can you move?" he gasped.

"It's . . . it's me legs, I hurt proper bad, but I can try." Clinker reached out and gripped an imbedded piece of iron. "Ready when you are."

"What's your name?"

"Clinker, Ernie Clinker. Wot's yorn?"

"Dunross. Ian Dunross."

"Oh!" Clinker moved his head painfully and peered upward, his face and head bleeding, hair matted and lips raw. "Thanks, tai-pan," he said. "Ready, ready when you are."

Dunross put his weight and strength onto his makeshift lever. The beam raised an inch. Clinker squirmed but could not dislodge himself. "Bit more, mate," he gasped, in great pain. Again Dunross bore down. He felt the sinews of his arms and legs cry out under the strain. The beam came up a fraction. A trickle of rubble cascaded into the cavity. Higher still. "Now!" he said urgently. "I can't hold it. . . ."

The old man's grip on the iron tightened and he dragged himself out inch by inch. More rubble moved as he shifted his grip. Now he was halfway out. Once his trunk was free, Dunross let the rafter settle back, oh so gently, and when it was completely at rest he grabbed the old man and wrenched him free. It was then that he saw the trail of blood, the left foot missing. "Don't move, old fellow," he said compassionately as Clinker lay panting, half unconscious, trying to stop the whimpers of pain. Dunross tore open a bandage, tying a rough tourniquet just under the knee.

Then he stood up in the small space and looked at the vicious overhang above him, trying to decide what to do next. Next I get the poor bugger out, he thought, loathing the closeness. Then he heard the rumble and shriek of shifting debris. The earth lurched and he ducked, his arms protecting his head. A new avalanche began. . . .

83

9:13 P.M. :

It was just sixteen minutes since Rose Court was struck, but all over the vast area of destruction people were moving. Some had fought themselves out of the rubble. Others were rescuers and down below, near the command post set up at the junction, police cars, four fire trucks and rescue units were there, their mobile lights washing the slope, firemen and police frantically working their way through the wreckage. A small fire flickered and it was quickly doused, everyone aware of the gas danger. An ambulance with wounded or dying had already been dispatched, more were converging.

It was chaotic in the darkness, all streetlighting failed, the rain beginning again. The senior divisional fire officer had arrived a moment ago and had sent for gas company engineers and organized other experts to inspect the foundations of the other high rises and buildings nearby in case they should be evacuated—the whole three tiers of Kotewall, Conduit and Po Shan Roads suspect. "Christ," he muttered, appalled, "this's going to take weeks to dig out and clean up." But he stood in the open, an outward picture of calm. Another patrol car whined to a halt. "Oh hello, Robert," he said as Armstrong joined him. "Yes," he said, seeing his shock, "Christ knows how many're buried th—"

"Look out!" someone shouted and everyone ran for cpver as a huge lump of reinforced concrete came crashing down from the mutilated top stories of Sinclair Towers. One of the police cars turned its light upward. Now they could see the shreds of rooms open to the skies. A tiny figure was teetering on the brink. "Get someone up there and see what the hell's going on!" A fireman took to his heels. . . .

In the darkness at the roadblock up on Kotewall Road, onlookers from nearby buildings had been collecting, everyone petrified that there would be another slide, tenants frantic, not knowing whether to evacuate or not. Orlanda was still leaning numbly against the car, the rain on her face mixing with her tears. Another group of police reinforcements poured over the barrier onto the morass and fanned out with heavy-duty flashlights searching the terrain. One heard a call for help from below and directed his light into the brush, then changed direction quickly as he saw Riko waving and shouting, two figures inert beside her.

Down Kotewall Road at the fork, Gornt's car skidded to a halt. Brushing aside orders from the harassed policeman there, he pressed the keys into his hand and rushed off up the hill. When he got near to the barrier and saw the extent of the disaster he was stunned. Only moments ago he had been there, drinking and flirting with Casey, everything settled, Orlanda settled, then his whole victory upside down and raging at Dunross, but some miracle had sent him away in time and now perhaps all the others were dead and buried and gone forever. Christ! Dunross Orlanda Casey Jason Bar—

"Keep out of the way!" the policeman shouted. More ambulance bearers hurried past, firemen with axes following, up and over the mess of mud and boulders and trees toward the ruins. "Sorry, but you can't stay there, sir."

Gornt moved aside, breathing heavily from his run. "Did anyone get out?"

"Oh yes, of course, I'm sure th—"

"Have you seen Dunross, Ian Dunross?"

"Who?"

"The tai-pan, Dunross?"

"No, no sorry I haven't." The policeman turned away to intercept and calm some disheveled parents.

Gornt's eyes went back to the disaster, still appalled by its immensity.

"Jesus," an American voice muttered.

Gornt turned. Paul Choy and Venus Poon were crammed in a new group who were straggling up. Everyone stared, dumbfounded, into the darkness. "Jesus!"

"What're you doing here, Paul?"

"Oh hello, Mr. Gornt! My … my uncle's in there," Paul Choy said, hardly able to talk. "Jesus Christ, lookit!"

"Four Fingers?"

"Yes. He . . ."

Venus Poon overrode him grandly. "Mr. Wu's waiting for me to discuss a movie contract. He's going to be a film producer."

Gornt dismissed the patent fabrication as his mind raced. If he could save Four Fingers, perhaps the old man would help extricate him from the looming stock market debacle. "What floor was he on?"

"The fifth," Venus Poon said.

"Paul, cut around to Sinclair Road and work your way up this side of the slope. I'll work down to meet you! Off you go!"

The young man raced off before Venus Poon could stop him. The policeman was still distracted. Without hesitation Gornt darted for the barrier. He knew Plumm's fifth-floor apartment well—Four Fingers should be nearby. In the darkness he did not notice Orlanda on the other side of the road.

Once over the barrier he moved as fast as he could, his feet sinking into the earth. From time to time he stumbled. "Heya, Honored Sir!" he called out in Cantonese to a nearby stretcher bearer. "Do you have a spare flashlight?"

"Yes, yes, here you are!" the man said. "But beware, the path is treacherous. There are many ghosts here."

Gornt thanked him and hurried off, making better time. Nearing where the foyer would have been he stopped. Up the mountainside as far as he could see was the ugly sloping gash of the slide, a hundred yards wide. On the edges of all three tiers were other buildings and high rises, one under construction, and the thought of being caught in one of those nauseated him. All of Conduit Road had gone, trees torn up, parapets gone. When he looked below he shuddered. "It's impossible," he muttered, remembering the size and strength of the high rise and the joy of Rose Court over the years. Then he saw the lights skeetering over the top of Sinclair Towers, the building that he had always hated—had hated Dunross even more for financing and owning—for destroying his wonderful view. When he noticed the upper corner missing, a flash of pleasure went through him, but it quickly turned to bile as he remembered his own penthouse apartment that had been on the twelfth floor of Rose Court, and all the good times he had had with Orlanda, there and on the eighth floor, now rubble and death filled. "Christ," he said out loud, blessing his joss. Then he went onward. . . .

Casey was sitting on a pile of rubble, waiting and in misery. Rescuers were all over the slope working in semidarkness, picking their way over the dangerous surfaces, alternatively calling and listening for calls from those who were trapped. Here and there a few were digging desperately, moving rubble away as another unfortunate was found.

Nervously she got up and peered down the slope, seeking Dunross. He had quickly disappeared from her line of sight into the wreckage, but from time to time she had caught a glint from his flashlight. Now for some minutes she had seen nothing. Her anxiety increased, the minutes hanging, and whenever the wreck settled more fear had whipped her. Line, Line's somewhere there, was pounding on her brain. I've got to do something, I can't just sit, better to sit and wait and pray and wait, wait for Ian to come back. He'll find him …

In a sudden fright she leapt to her feet. A great section halfway down the slope had broken free, scattering rescuers who ran for their lives. In a moment the chain reaction ceased and it was quiet again but her heart kept up its pounding. There was no moving glint of Dunross's light to reassure her. "Oh Jesus let him be all right!"

"Casey? Casey, is that you?" Gornt came out of the darkness and scrambled up to her.

"Oh Quillan," she began pathetically and he held her in his arms, his strength giving her strength. "Please help Lin—"

"I came as soon as I heard," he told her quickly, overriding her. "It was on the wireless. Christ, I was petrified you were … I never expected . . . Hold on, Casey!"

"I'm . . . I'm all right. Line's in … he's in there somewhere, Quillan."

"What? But how? Did he an—"

"He was in Or … Orlanda's apartment and la—"

"Perhaps you're wrong, Casey. Lis—"

"No. Orlanda told me."

"Eh? She got out too?" Gornt gasped. "Orlanda got out?"

"Yes. She was with me, near me, back there, I saw it all happen, Quillan, I saw the whole terrible avalanche and the whole building collapse and then I ran here, Ian came to help and Line's d—"

"Dunross? He got out too?" he asked, bile in his mouth.

"Oh yes. Yes, he's down there now. Some of the building shifted and the elevator, the elevator was full of bodies. He's down there somewhere, looking . . . looking in case …" Her voice died away.

She saw Gornt shift his attention to the slope. "Who else got out?"

"Jacques, the Chens, that newspaperman, I don't know …" She could not see his face so she could not read him. "You're sorry that . . . that lan's alive?"

"No. On the contrary. Where did he go?"

"Down there." She took his flashlight and directed it. "There, where that outcrop is. He, I haven't seen him for a while but just there. You see the remains of the elevator? Near there." Now she could see his face better, dark eyes, the bearded chiseled face, but it told her nothing.

"Stay here," he said. "You're safe here." He took the flashlight and moved into the wreckage, soon to be swallowed by it.

The rain was heavier now, warm like the night was warm, and Gornt spat the bile out of his mouth, glad that his enemy was alive, hating that he was alive, but wanting him alive more.

It was very slippery as he worked his way down. A slab teetered and gave way. He stumbled, barked his shin and cursed, then moved onward, his flashlight seeking safety where he knew there was none. So Ian bloody tai-pan Dunross got out before it collapsed, he was thinking. That bugger's got a charmed life! Christ! But don't forget, the gods were on your side too. Don't forget th—

He stopped. Faint calls for help from somewhere near. Intently he listened again but he could not identify the direction. He called out, "Where are you, where are you?" listening again. Nothing. Hesitating, he reexamined the way ahead. This whole god-cursed mess can slide down a hundred feet or more at the drop of a hat, he thought. "Where are you?" Still nothing, so cautiously he went on, the gas smell heavy.

When he got nearer to the remains of the elevator he looked at the bodies, not recognizing any of them, went on and eased around a corner, ducking under an overhang. Suddenly a flashlight blinded him.

"What the hell're you doing here, Quillan?" Dunross asked.

"Looking for you," Gornt said grimly, putting the light on him. "Casey told me you were playing hide and seek."

Dunross was resting on some rubble, catching his breath, his arms ripped and bloody, clothes in tatters. When this part of the wreckage had shifted, the way in had shrieked closed. As he had darted for safety the flashlight had been knocked out of his hand and when the avalanche subsided he was trapped with Clinker. It had taken him all his will not to panic in the darkness. Patiently he worked the area, his fingers groping, seeking the flashlight. Inch by inch. And when he was almost ready to give up, his fingers locked on it. In the light once more, fear had left him. The light had pointed a new way out. He stared back at Gornt, then smiled with the skin of his face. "Sorry I'm not dead?"

Gornt shrugged and smiled the same rotten smile. "Yes. Joss. But it'll happen soon enough." The overhang creaked and shifted slightly and his light swung upward. Both men held their breath. It settled back with a sigh. "Sooner if we don't get to hell out of here."

Dunross got up, grunted as a stab of pain went up his back.

"You're not hurt, I hope?" Gornt asked.

Dunross laughed and felt better, the fright of entombment wearing off. "No. Give me a hand will you?"

"What?"

Dunross pointed into the wreckage with his light. Now Gornt could see the old man. "I got trapped down there trying to get him out." At once Gornt moved to help, squatting down, moving what rubble they could to increase the crawlspace.

"His name's Clinker. His legs're a mess and he's lost a foot."

"Christ! Here, let me do that." Gornt got a better grip on the slab, shifted it away, then jumped down into the cavity. In a moment he turned back and peered up at Dunross. "Sorry, the bugger's dead."

"Oh Christ! You're sure?"

Gornt lifted the old man like a doll and ,uey put him into the open.

"Poor bugger."

"Joss. Did he say where he was in the building? What floor? Was anyone with him?"

"He muttered something about caretaker, and being underneath the building, and something about, I think he said Mabel."

Gornt put the flash all around. "Did you hear anything or anyone?" "No."

"Let's get him out of here," Gornt said with finality. They picked him up. When they were in the open and relatively safe they stopped to get their breath. Some stretcher bearers were nearby. Dunross beckoned them. "We will take him away, Honored Lord," one said. They bundled the body onto a stretcher and hurried off.

"Quillan, before we get back to Casey. She sai—" "About Bartlett? Yes, she told me he was in Orlanda's place." Gornt watched him. "Her flat was on the eighth floor."

Dunross looked down the slope. There were more lights than before. "Where would that have ended up?" "He's got to be dead. The eighth floor?" "Yes. But whereabouts?"

Gornt searched the hillside. "I can't see from here. I might recognize something, but I doubt it. It'd be, it'd be down there, almost at Sinclair Road."

"He could be alive, in a pocket. Let's go and look." Gornt's face twisted with a curious smile. "You need him and his deal, don't you?" "No, no not now."

"Bullshit." Gornt clambered onto an outcrop. "Casey!" he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. "We're going below! Go back to the barrier and wait there!"

They heard her call back faintly, "Okay, be careful!" Then Gornt said sourly, "All right, Gunga Din, if we're going to play hero, we'd better do it right. I lead." He moved off.

Equally sourly, but needing him, Dunross followed, his anger gathering. The two men worked their way out. Once clear, they scrambled down the slope. From time to time they would see a body or a part of a body but no one they recognized. They passed a few frantic survivors or relatives of those missing, pathetically digging or trying to dig with their hands, a broken piece of wood—anything they could find.

Down at the bottom of the slope Gornt stopped, his flashlight examining the wreckage carefully. "Anything?" Dunross asked. "No." Gornt caught sight of some bedraggled curtains that might have been Orlanda's but it had been almost two years since he was in her apartment. His light hesitated.

"What is it?"

"Nothing." Gornt began climbing, seeking clues to her apartment or to the Asian Properties apartment on the fifth floor. "That could be part of Plumm's furniture," he said. The sofa was torn in half, the springs akimbo.

"Help! Help in the name of all gods!" The faint Cantonese cry came from somewhere in the middle of this section. At once Gornt scrambled toward the sound, thinking he recognized Four Fingers, Dunross close behind, up and over and under. In the center of a mass of debris was an old Chinese man, bedraggled, covered with rubble dust. He was sitting in the wreckage, looking around perplexed, seemingly unhurt. When Gornt and Dunross came up to him he grimaced at them, squinting in their light.

At once they recognized him and now he recognized them. It was Smiler Ching, the banker. "What happened, Honored Sirs?" he asked, his Cantonese heavy-accented, his teeth protruding.

Gornt told him briefly and the man gasped. "By all the gods, that's impossible! Am I alive? Truly alive?"

"Yes. What floor were you on, Smiler Ching?"

"The twelfth—I was in my living room. I was watching television." Smiler Ching searched his memory and his lips opened into another grimace. "I'd just seen Little Mealy Mouth, Venus Poon, and then . . . then there was a thunderous noise from the direction of Conduit Road. The next thing I remember is waking up here, just a few minutes ago, waking up here."

"Who was in the flat with you?"

"My amah. First Wife is out playing mah-jong!" The small old man got up cautiously, felt all his limbs and let out a cackle. "Ayeeyah, by all the gods, it's a fornicating miracle, tai-pan and second tai-pan! Obviously the gods favor me, obviously I shall recover my bank and become rich again and a steward at the Turf Club! Ayeeyah! What joss!" Again he tested his feet and legs then clambered off, heading for safety.

"If this mess was part of the twelfth floor, the eighth should be back there," Dunross said, his light pointing.

Gornt nodded, his face taut.

"If that old bastard can survive, so could Bartlett."

"Perhaps. Let's look."

84

11:05 P.M. :

An army truck swirled up in the heavy rain, spattering mud, and stopped near the command posts. Irish guardsmen in fatigues and raincoats, some with fire axes, jumped down. An officer was waiting for them. "Go up there, Sergeant! Work alongside R.S.M. O'Connor!" He was a young man and he pointed with a swagger stick to the right of the slide, his uniform raincoat, boots and trousers mud filthy. "No smoking, there's still a bloody gas leak, and get the lead out!"

"Where's Alpha Company, sir?"

"Up at Po Shan. Delta's halfway. We've an aid station on Kote-wall. I'm monitoring Channel 4. Off you go!"

The men stared at the devastation. "Glory be to God," someone muttered. They charged off, following their sergeant. The officer went back to his command post and picked up the field telephone. "Delta Company, this is Command. Give me a report."

"We've recovered four bodies, sir, and two injured up here. We're halfway across the slope now. One's a Chinese woman called Kwang, multiple fractures but all right, and her husband, he's just shook up a bit."

"What part of the building were they in?"

"Fifth floor. We think the heavy-duty girders protected them. Both casualties're on their way to our aid station at Kotewall. We can hear someone buried deep but, glory be, sir, we can't get at him —the firemen can't use their oxy-acetylene cutters. The gas's too heavy. Nothing else in our area, sir."

"Keep it up." The officer turned around and snapped at an orderly, "Go and chase up those gas board fellows and see what the hell's holding them up! TeU'em to get their fingers out!"

"Yes sir."

He switched channels. "Kotewall Aid Station, this is Command. What's the score?"

"Fourteen bodies so far, Captain, and nineteen injured, some very bad. We're getting their names as quick as we can. Sir Dunstan Barre, we dug him out, he just has a broken wrist."

"Keep up the good work! The police've set up a missing persons station on Channel 16. Get them all the names, dead, injured, everyone, quick as you can. We've some pretty anxious people down here."

"Yes sir. The rumor's we're going to evacuate the whole area."

"The governor, commissioner and the fire chief 're deciding that right now." The officer rubbed his face tiredly, then rushed out to intercept another incoming truck with Gurkhas from the Engineers Corps, passing the governor, commissioner and senior fire officer who stood at the central command post under the foyer overhang of Sinclair Towers. A white-haired engineer-surveyor from the Public Works Department got out of a car and hurried over to them.

"Evening, sir," he said anxiously. "We've been all through all the buildings now, from Po Shan down to here. I recommend we evacuate nineteen buildings."

"Good God," Sir Geoffrey exploded. "You mean the whole bloody mountainside's going to collapse?"

"No sir. But if this rain keeps up another slip could start. This whole area's got a history of them." He pointed into the darkness. "In '41 and '50 it was along Bonham, '59 was the major disaster on Robertson, Lytton Road, the lists's endless, sir. I recommend evacuation."

"Which buildings?"

The man handed the governor a list then waved into the dark at the three levels. "I'm afraid it'll affect more than two thousand people."

Everyone gasped. All eyes went to the governor. He read the list, glanced up at the hillside. The slide dominated everything, the mass of the mountain looming above. Then he said, "Very well, do it. But for God's sake tell your fellows to make it an orderly withdrawal, we don't want a panic."

"Yes sir." The man hurried away.

"Can't we get more men and equipment, Donald?"

"Sorry, not at the moment, sir," the police commissioner replied.

He was a strong-faced man in his fifties. "We're spread rather thinly, I'm afraid. There's the massive slip over in Kowloon, another at Kwun Tong—eighty squatters huts've been swamped, we've already forty-four dead in that one so far, twenty children."

Sir Geoffrey stared out at the hillside. "Christ!" he muttered. "With Dunross getting us Tiptop's cooperation I thought our troubles were over, at least for tonight."

The fire chief shook his head, his face drawn. "I'm afraid they're just beginning, sir. Our estimates suggest there may be a hundred or more still buried in that mess." He added heavily, "It'll take us weeks to sift through that lot, if ever."

"Yes." Again the governor hesitated, then he said firmly, "I'm going to go up to Kotewall, I'll monitor Channel 5." He went to his car. His aide opened the door but Sir Geoffrey stopped. Roger Crosse and Sinders were coming back from the great gash across Sinclair Road where the roof of the tunnel culvert had been ripped off. "Any luck?"

"No sir. We managed to get into the culvert but it's collapsed fifty yards in. We could never get into Rose Court that way," Crosse said.

When Rose Court had collapsed and had torn the side from the top four stories of Sinclair Towers, Crosse had been near his own apartment block, seventy yards away. Once he had recovered his wits, his first thought had been for Plumm, the second Suslev. Suslev was closer. By the time he had got to the darkened Sinclair Towers foyer, terrified tenants were already pouring out. Shoving them aside he had pushed and cursed his way up the stairs to the top floor, lighting his way with a pencil flashlight. Apartment 32 had almost vanished, the adjoining back staircase carried away for three stories. As Crosse gaped down into the darkness, it was obvious that if Suslev had been caught here, or caught with Clinker, he was dead —the only possible escape place was the tunnel-culvert.

Back on the ground floor once more, he had gone around the back and slipped into the secret tunnel entrance. The water was a boiling torrent below. Quickly he had hurried to the roadway where the roof of the tunnel had been carried away. The gash was overflowing. More than a little satisfied, for he was certain now that Suslev was dead, he had gone to the nearest phone, called in the alarm, then asked for Sinders.

"Yes? Oh hello, Roger."

He had told Sinders where he was and what had happened, adding, "Suslev was with Clinker. My people know he hasn't come out, so he's buried. Both of them must be buried. No chance they could be alive."

"Damn!" A long pause. "I'll come right away."

Crosse had gone outside again and begun to organize the evacuation of Sinclair Towers and rescue attempts. Three families had been lost when the corner top stories went. By the time uniformed police and fire chiefs had arrived, the dead count was seven including two children and four others dying. When the governor and Sinders had arrived, they had gone back to the open part of the tunnel to see if they could obtain access.

"There's no way we can get in from there, Sir Geoffrey. The whole culvert's collapsed, I'd say gone forever, sir." Crosse was suitably grave, though inwardly delighted with the divine solution that had presented itself.

Sinders was very sour. "Great pity! Yes, very bad luck indeed. We've lost a valuable asset."

"Do you really think he'd've told you who this devil Arthur is?" Sir Geoffrey asked.

"Oh yes." Sinders was very confident. "Don't you agree, Roger?"

"Yes." Crosse was hard put not to smile. "Yes, I'm sure of it."

Sir Geoffrey sighed. "There'll be the devil to pay on a diplomatic level when he doesn't return to the Ivanov."

"Not our fault, sir," Sinders said. "That's an act of God."

"I agree, but you know how xenophobic the Soviets are. I'll bet any money they'll believe we have him locked up and under investigation. We'd better find him or his body rather quickly."

"Yes sir." Sinders turned his collar higher against the rain. "What about the departure of the Ivanov?"

"What do you suggest?"

"Roger?"

"I suggest we call them at once, sir, tell Boradinov what's happened and that we'll postpone their departure if they wish. I'll send a car for him and whoever he wants to bring to help in the search."

"Good. I'll be up at Kotewall for a while."

They watched Sir Geoffrey go, then went to the lee of the building. Sinders stared at the organized confusion. "No chance he'd still be alive, is there?"

"None."

A harassed policeman hurried up. "Here's the latest list, sir, dead and rescued." The young man gave Crosse the paper and added quickly, "Radio Hong Kong's got Venus Poon coming on any moment, sir. She's up at Kotewall."

"All right, thank you." Rapidly Crosse scanned the list. "Christ!"

"They found Suslev?"

"No. Just a lot of old acquaintances're dead." He handed him the list. "I'll take care of Boradinov then I'm going back to the Clinker area."

Sinders nodded, looked at the paper. Twenty-eight rescued, seventeen dead, the names meaningless to him. Among the dead was Jason Plumm. . . .

At the wharf in Kowloon where the Ivanov was tied up, coolies were trudging up and down the gangplanks, laden with last-minute cargo and equipment. Because of the emergency, police surveillance had been cut to a minimum and now there were only two police on each gangway. Suslev, disguised under a huge coolie hat and wearing a coolie smock and trousers, barefoot like the others, went past them unnoticed and up on deck. When Boradinov saw him, he hastily guided the way to Suslev's cabin. Once the cabin door was shut, he burst out, "Kristos, Comrade Captain, I'd almost given you up for lost. We're due to le—"

"Shut up and listen." Suslev was panting, still very shaken. He tipped the vodka bottle and gulped the spirit, choking a little. "Is our radio equipment repaired?"

"Yes some of it, yes it is, except the top-security scrambler."

"Good." Shakily he related what had happened. "I don't know how I got out, but the next thing I remember was I was halfway down the hill. I found a taxi and made my way here." He took another swallow, the liquor helping him, the wonder of his escape from death and from Sinders enveloping him. "Listen, as far as everyone else is concerned, I'm still there, at Rose Court! I'm dead or missing presumed dead," he said, the plan leaping into his head.

Boradinov stared at him. "But Com—"

"Get on to police headquarters and say that I've not returned— ask if you can delay departure. If they say no, good, we leave. If they say yes we can stay, we'll stay for a token day, then regretfully leave. Understand?"

"Yes, Comrade Captain, but why?"

"Later. Meanwhile make sure everyone else aboard thinks I'm missing. Understand?"

"Yes."

"No one is to come into this cabin until we're safe in international waters. The girl's aboard?"

"Yes, in the other cabin as you ordered."

"Good." Suslev considered her. He could put her back ashore, as he was "missing" and would stay missing. Or keep with his plan. "We stay with that plan. Safer. When the police report I'm missing —I had my usual SI followers so they'll know I'm with Clinker— just tell her our departure's delayed, to stay in the cabin 'until I arrive.' Off you go."

Suslev locked the door, his relief almost overpowering, and switched on the radio. Now he could vanish. Sinders could never betray a dead man. Now he could easily persuade Center to allow him to pass over his duties in Asia to another and assume a different identity and get a different assignment. He could say that the various European security leaks documented in the AMG papers made it necessary for someone new to begin with Crosse and Plumm— if either of them is still alive, he thought. Better they're both dead. No, not Roger. Roger's too valuable.

Happier and more confident than he had been in years he went into the bathroom, found a razor and shaving brushY humming a Beatles tune along with the radio. Perhaps I should request a posting to Canada. Isn't Canada one of our most vital and important posts—on a par with Mexico in importance?

He beamed at himself in the mirror. New places to go to, new assignments to achieve, with a new name and promotion, where a few hours ago there was only disaster ahead. Perhaps I'll take Vertinskaya with me to Ottawa.

He began shaving. When Boradinov returned with police permission to delay their departure, he hardly recognized Gregor Suslev without his mustache and beard.

85

11:40 P.M. :

Bartlett was twenty feet down under a cat's cradle of girders that kept the wreckage from crushing him. When the avalanche had hit almost three hours ago he had been standing in the kitchen doorway sipping an ice-cold beer, staring out at the city. He was bathed, dressed and feeling wonderful, waiting for Orlanda to return. Then he was falling, the whole world wrong, unearthly, the floor coming up, the stars below, the city above. There had been a blinding, monstrous, soundless explosion and all air had rushed out of him and he had fallen into the upward pit forever.

Coming back to consciousness was a long process for him. It was dark within his tomb and he hurt everywhere. He could not grasp what had happened or where he was. When he truly awoke, he stared around trying to see where he was, his hands touching things he could not understand. The closed darkness nauseated him and he reeled in panic to his feet, smashing his head against a jutting chunk of concrete that was once part of the outside wall and fell back stunned, his fall protected by the debris of an easy chair. In a little while his mind cleared, but his head ached, arms ached, body ached. The phosphorescent figures on his watch attracted his attention. He peered at them. The time was 11:41.

I remember . . . what do I remember?

"Come on for chrissake," he muttered, "get with it! Get yourself together. Where the hell was I?" His eyes traced the darkness with growing horror. Vague shapes of girders, broken concrete and the remains of a room. He could see little and recognized nothing. Light from somewhere glistened off a shiny surface. It was a wrecked oven. All at once his memory flooded back.

"I was standing in the kitchen," he gasped out loud. "That's it, and Orlanda had just left, about an hour, no less'n that, half an hour. That'd make it around nine when . . . when whatever happened happened. Was it an earthquake? What?"

Carefully he felt his limbs and face, a stab of pain from his right shoulder every time he moved. "Shit," he muttered, knowing it was dislocated. His face and nose were burning and bruised. It was hard to breathe. Everything else seemed to be working, though every joint felt as though he had been racked and his head ached terribly. "You're okay, you can breathe, you can see, you can . . ."

He stopped, then groped around and found a small piece of rubble, carefully raised his hand, then dropped it. He heard the sound the rubble made and his heart picked up. "And you can hear. Now, what the hell happened? Jesus, it's like that time on Iwo Jima."

He lay back to conserve his strength. "That's the thing to do," the old top sergeant had told them, "you lay back and use your goddamn loaf if you're caught in an excavation or buried by a bomb. First make sure you can breathe safe. Then burrow a hole, do anything, but breathe any way you can, that's first, then test your limbs and hearing, you'll sure as hell know you can see but then lay back and get your goddamn head together and don't panic. Panic'll kill you. I've dug out guys after four days'n they've been like a pig in shit. So long's you can breathe and see and hear, you can live a week easy. Shit, four days's a piece of cake. But other guys we got to within'n hour'd drowned themselves in mud or crap or their own fear vomit or beaten their goddamn heads unconscious against a goddamn piece of iron when we was within a few feet of the knuckle-heads an' if they'd just been lying there like I told you, nice'n easy, quiet like, they'd've heard us and they could've shouted. Shit! Any you bastards panic when you're buried you'd better believe you're dead men. Sure. Me I been buried fifty times. No panic!"

"No panic. No sir," Bartlett said aloud and felt better, blessing that man. Once during the bad time on Iwo Jima, the hangar he had been building was bombed and blown up and he had been buried. When he had dug the earth out of his eyes and mouth and ears, panic had taken him and he had hurled himself at the tomb and then he had remembered, Don'tpanic, and forced himself to stop. He had discovered himself shivering like a cowed dog under the threat of a lash but he had dominated the terror. Once over the terror and whole, he had looked around carefully. The bombing had been during the day so he could see well enough and noticed the beginning of a way out. But he had waited, cautiously, remembering instructions. Very soon he heard voices. He called out, conserving his voice.

"That's another goddamn obvious thing, conserve your voice, huh? You don't shout yourself hoarse the first time you hear help near. Be patient. Shit, some guys I know shouted themselves so goddamn hoarse they was goddamn dumb when we was within easy distance and we lost 'em. Get it through your goddamn heads, we gotta have help to find you. Don't panic! If you can't shout, tap, use anything, make a noise somehow, but give us a sign and we'll get you out, so long's you can breathe—a week's easy, no sweat. You bastards should go on a diet anyways …"

Now Bartlett was using all his faculties. He could hear the wreckage shifting. Water was dripping nearby but no sounds of humans. Then, faintly, a police siren which died away. Reassured that help was on the way, he waited. His heart was controlled. He lay back and blessed that old top sergeant. His name was Spurgeon, Spur-geon Roach, and he was black.

It must've been an earthquake, he thought. Has the whole building collapsed or was it just our floor and the next above? Maybe an airplane crashed into … Hell, no, I'd've heard the incoming noise. Impossible for a building to collapse, not with building regs, but hey, this's Hong Kong and we heard some contractors don't always obey regulations, cheat a little, don't use first-grade steel or concrete. Jesus if I get, no, when I get out . . .

That was another inviolate rule of the old man. "Never forget, so long's you can breathe, you will get out, you will. …"

Sure. When I get out I'm going to find old Spurgeon and thank him properly and I'm going to sue the ass out of someone. Casey's sure to … ah Casey, I'm sure as hell glad she's not in this shit, nor Orlanda. They're both . . . Jesus, could Orlanda have been caught wh—

The wreckage began to settle again. He waited, his heart pounding. Now he could see just a little better. Above him was a twisted mass of steel beams, and pipes half imbedded in broken jagged concrete, pots and pans and broken furniture. The floor he was lying on was equally broken. His tomb was small, barely enough space to stand. Reaching up above with his good arm he could not touch the makeshift ceiling. On his knees now he reached again, then stood, feeling his way, the tiny space claustrophobic. "Don't panic," he said out loud. Groping and bumping into outcrops he circumnavigated the space he was in. "About six feet by five feet," he said out loud, the sound of his voice encouraging. "Don't be afraid to talk out loud," Spurgeon Roach had said.

Again the light glinting off the oven attracted him. If I'm near that, I'm still in the kitchen. Now where was the oven in relation to anything else? He sat down and tried to reconstruct the apartment in his mind. The oven had been set into a wall opposite the big cutting table, opposite the window, near the door, and the big refrigerator was beside the door and across the w—

Shit, if I'm in the kitchen there's food and beer and I can last out the week easy! Jesus, if I could only get some light. Was there a flash? Matches? Matches and a candle? Hey, wait a minute, sure, there was a flash on the wall near the refrigerator! She said they were always blowing fuses and sometimes the power failed and . . . and sure, there were matches in the kitchen drawer, lots of them, when she lit the gas. Gas.

Bartlett stopped and sniffed the air. His nose was bruised and stuffed and he tried to clear it. Again he sniffed. No smell of gas. Good, good he thought, reassured. Getting his bearings from the oven he groped around, inch by inch. He found nothing. After another half an hour his fingers touched some cans of food, then some beer. Soon he had four cans. They were still chilled. Opening one, he felt oh so much better, sipping it, conserving it—knowing that he might have to wait days, finding it eerie down there in the dark, the building creaking, not knowing exactly where he was, rubble falling from time to time, sirens from time to time, water dripping, strange chilling sounds everywhere. Abruptly a nearby tie-beam shrieked, tormented by the thousands of tons above. It settled an inch. Bartlett held his breath. Movement stopped. He sipped his beer again.

Now do I wait or try to get out? he asked himself uneasily. Remember how old Spurgeon'd always duck that one. "It depends, man. It depends," he'd always say.

More creaking above. Panic began to well but he shoved it back. "Let's recap," he said aloud to reassure himself. "I got provisions now for two, three days easy. I'm in good shape an' I can last three, four days easy but you, you bastard," he said to the wreckage above, "what're you going to do?"

The tomb did not answer him.

Another spine-chilling screech. Then a faint voice, far overhead and to the right. He lay back and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Helllp!" he shouted carefully and listened. The voices were still there. "Helllp!"

He waited but now there was a vast emptiness. He waited. Nothing. His disappointment began to engulf him. "Stop it and wait!" The minutes dragged heavily. There was more water dripping, much more than before. Must be raining again, he thought. Jesus! I'll bet there was a landslide. Sure, don't you remember the cracks in the roads? Goddamn son of a bitching landslide! Wonder who all else got caught? Jesus what a goddamn mess!

He tore off a strip of his shirt and tied a knot in it. Now he could tell, the days. One knot for each day. His watch had read 10:16 when his head had first cleared, now it was 11:58.

Again all his attention zeroed. Faint voices, but nearer now. Chinese voices. "Helllp!"

The voices stopped. Then, "Where you arrrr, heya?" came back faintly.

"Down here! Can you hear meeeeee?" Silence, then more faintly, "Where youuuuarrrrre?" Bartlett cursed and picked up the empty beer can and began to bang it against a girder. Again he stopped and listened. Nothing. He sat back. "Maybe they've gone for help." His fingers reached out and touched another can of beer. He dominated his overpowering urge to break it open. "Don't panic and be patient. Help's near. The best I can do's wait an—" At that moment the whole earth twisted and rose up under the strain with an ear-dulling cacophony of noise, the protective girders above grinding out of safety, rubble avalanching down. Protecting his head with his arms, he cowered back, covering himself as best he could. The shrieking movement seemed to go on for an eternity. Then it ceased. More or less. His heart was thumping heavily now, his chest tight and dust bile in his mouth. He spat it out and sought a beer can. They had vanished. And all the other cans. He cursed, then, cautiously, raised his head and almost banged it against the shifted ceiling of the tomb. Now he could touch the ceiling and the walls without moving. Easily. Then he heard the hissing sound. His stomach twisted. His hand reached out and he felt the slight draft. Now he could smell the gas.

"You'd better get the hell out of here, old buddy," he muttered, aghast.

Getting his bearings as best he could, he eased out of the space. Now that he was on the move, in action, he felt better.

The dark was oppressive and it was very hard to make progress upward. There was no straight line. Sometimes he had to make a diversion and go down again, left then right, up a little, down again under the remains of a bathtub, over a body or part of a body, moans and one time voices far away. "Whereareyouuuu?" he shouted and waited then crawled on, inch by inch, being patient, not panicking. After a while he came into a space where he could stand. But he did not stand, just lay there for a moment, panting, exhausted. There was more light here. When his breathing had slowed he looked at his watch. He gathered his strength and continued but again his upward path was blocked. Another way but still blocked. He slid under a broken pier and, once through, began to squirm onward. Another impasse. With difficulty he retreated and tried another way. And another, never enough space to stand, his bearings lost now, not knowing if he was going deeper into the wreckage. Then he stopped to rest and lay in the wet of his tomb, his chest pounding, head pounding, fingers bleeding, shins bleeding, elbows bleeding.

"No sweat, old buddy," he said out loud. "You rest, then you start again . . ."

MONDAY

86

12:45 A.M. :

Gurkha soldiers with flashlights were patiently picking their way over this part of the dangerous, sloping, broken surface calling out, "Anyone there?" then listening. Beyond and all around, up and down the slope, soldiers, police, firemen and distraught people were doing the same.

It was very dark, the arcs set up below not touching this area halfway up the wreckage.

"Anyone there?" a soldier called, listened again, then moved on a few feet. Over to the left of the line one of them stumbled and fell into a crevice. This soldier was very tired but he laughed to himself and lay there a moment, then called down into the earth, "Anyone there?" He began to get up then froze, listening. Once more he lay down and shouted into the wreckage, "Can you hear me?" and listened intently.

"Yesss! . . ." came back faintly, very faintly.

Excitedly the soldier scrambled up. "Sergeant! Sergeant Sah!"

Fifty yards away, on the edge of the wreckage, Gornt was with the young lieutenant who had been directing rescue operations in this section. They were listening to a news broadcast on a small transistor: "… slips all over the Colony. And now here is another report direct from Kotewall Road." There was a short silence then the well-known voice came on and the young man smiled to himself. "Good evening. This is Venus Poon reporting live on the single worst disaster to hit the Colony." There was a wonderful throb to her voice, and, remembering the brave, harrowing way she had described the Aberdeen fire disaster that she also had been involved in, his excitement quickened. "Rose Court on Kotewall Road is no more. The great twelve-story tower of light that all Hong Kong could see as a landmark has vanished into an awesome pyre of rubble. My home is no more. Tonight, the finger of the Almighty struck down the tower and those who lived there, amongst them my devoted gan sun who raised me from birth. . . ."

"Sir," the sergeant called out from the middle of the slip, "there's one over here!"

At once the officer and Gornt began hurrying toward him. "Is it a man or woman?"

"Man, sah! I think he said his name was Barter or something like that. …"

Up at the Kotewall Road barrier Venus Poon was enjoying herself, the center of all attention in the lights of mobile radio and television teams. She continued to read the script that had been thrust into her hand, changing it here and there, dropping her voice a little, raising it, letting the tears flow—though not enough to spoil her makeup—describing the holocaust so that all her listeners felt they were there with her on the slope, felt chills of horror, and thanked their joss that death had passed them by this time, and that they and theirs were safe.

"The rain is still falling," she whispered into the microphone. "Where Rose Court tore away part of the upper stories of Sinclair Towers, seven dead already counted, four children, three Chinese, one English, more still buried. . . ." The tears were seeping out of her eyes now. She stopped and those watching caught their breath too.

In the beginning she had almost torn her hair out at the thought of her apartment gone and all her clothes and all her jewelry and her new mink. But then she had remembered that all her real jewelry was safely in the jewelers being reset—a present of her old suitor, Banker Kwang—and her mink was being altered at the tailor's. And as to her clothes, pshaw, Four Fingers will be happy to replace them!

Four Fingers! Oh oh I hope that old goat got out and will be saved like Smiler Ching, she had prayed fervently. Eeeee, what a miracle! If one, why not another? And surely no building falling can kill old Ah Poo. She'll survive! Of course she will! And Banker Kwang saved! Didn't I weep with happiness that he was saved? Oh lucky lucky day! And now Profitable Choy, such a smart, good-looking interesting fellow. Now if he had money, real money, he would be the one for me. No more of these old bags of fart with their putty yangs for delectable yin, the most delectable . . .

The producer could not wait anymore. He leaped for the mike and said urgently, "We will continue the report as soon as Miss Yen—"

Instantly she came out of her reverie. "No, no," she said bravely, "the show must go on!" Dramatically she wiped her tears away and continued reading and improvising, "Down the slope members of our glorious Gurkha and Irish Guards, heroically risking their lives, are digging out our Brothers and Sisters. …"

"My God," an Englishman muttered. "What courage! She deserves a medal, don't you think so, old boy?" He turned to his neighbor and was embarrassed to see the man was Chinese. "Oh, oh sorry."

Paul Choy hardly heard him, his attention on the stretchers that were coming back from the wreckage, the bearers slipping and sliding under the arc lamps that had been erected a few minutes ago. He had just come back from the aid station that was set up at the fork of Kotewall Road under a makeshift overhang where frantic relations like himself were trying to identify the dead or injured or report the names of those who were missing and believed still buried. All evening he had been going back and forth in case Four Fingers had been found somewhere else and was coming in from another direction. Half an hour ago one of the firemen had broken through a mass of wreckage to reach into the area of the collapsed fifth floor. That was when Richard and Mai-ling Kwang had been pulled out, then Jason Plumm with half his head missing, then others, more dead than living.

Paul Choy counted the stretchers. Four of them. Three had blankets covering the bodies, two very small. He shuddered, thinking how fleeting life was, wondering again what would now happen at the stock exchange tomorrow. Would they keep it closed as a mark of respect? Jesus, if they keep it closed all Monday, Struan's is sure to be at 30 by Tuesday opening—gotta be! His stomach churned and he felt faint. Friday, just before closing, he had gambled five times every penny that Four Fingers had reluctantly loaned him, buying on margin. Five times 2 million HK. He had bought Struan's, Blacs, Victoria Bank and the Ho-Pak, gambling that somehow this weekend the tai-pan would turn disaster into victory, that the rumors of China being approached for cash were true, and Blacs or the Victoria had a scam going. Ever since the meeting with Gornt at Aberdeen when he had put his theory of a bail-out by Blacs or the Victoria of the Ho-Pak to Gornt and had seen a flicker behind those cunning eyes, he had wondered if he had sniffed out a scam of the Big Boys. Oh sure, they're Big Boys all right. They've got Hong Kong by the shorts, Jesus, have they got an inside track! And Jesus, oh Jesus when at the races Richard Kwang asked him to buy Ho-Pak and, almost at once, Havergill had announced his takeover, he had gone to the men's room and vomited. 10 million in Ho-Pak, Blacs, Victoria and Struan's, bought at the bottom of the market. And then, tonight, when the nine o'clock news announced that China was advancing half a billion cash so all bank runs were finished, he knew he was a multimillionaire, a multi-multimillionaire.

The young man could not hold his stomach together and rushed off to the bushes by the side of the road and retched till he thought he would die.

The English bystander turned his back on him and said quietly to a friend, "These Chinese fellows really don't have much of a stiff upper lip, do they, old boy?"

Paul Choy wiped his mouth, feeling terrible, the thought of all his maybe money, so near now, too much for him.

The stretchers were passing. Numbly he followed them to the aid station. In the background under the makeshift overhang, Dr. Meng was doing emergency surgery. Paul Choy watched Dr. Tooley turn back the blankets. A European woman. Her eyes were open and staring. Dr. Tooley sighed and closed them. The next was an English boy often. Dead too. Then a Chinese child. The last stretcher was a Chinese man, bleeding and in pain. Quickly the doctor gave him a morphia injection.

Paul Choy turned aside and was sick again. When he came back Dr. Tooley said kindly, "Nothing you can do here, Mr. Choy. Here, this'll settle your stomach." He gave him two aspirins and some water. "Why don't you wait in one of the cars? We'll tell you the instant we hear anything about your uncle." "Yes, thanks."

More stretchers were arriving. An ambulance pulled up. Stretcher bearers got the tagged injured aboard and the ambulance took off into the drizzle. Outside, away from the stench of blood and death, the young man felt better.

"Hello, Paul, how're things going?"

"Oh. Oh hello, tai-pan. Fine, thanks." He had encountered the tai-pan earlier and told him about Four Fingers. Dunross had been shocked and very concerned.

"Nothing yet, Paul?"

"No sir."

Dunross hesitated. "No news is good news perhaps. If Smiler Ching could survive, let's hope for the best, eh?"

"Yes sir." Paul Choy had watched Dunross hurry off up the road toward the barrier, his mind rehashing all the permutations he had worked out. With the tai-pan's fantastic takeover of General Stores —that was so smart, oh so smart—and now sliding out of Gornt's trap, his stock's gotta go to 30. And with Ho-Pak pegged at 12.50, the moment that's back on the board it's gotta go back to 20. Now, figure it, 17.5 percent of 10 million times 50 is—

"Mr. Choy! Mr. Choy!"

It was Dr. Tooley beckoning him from the aid station. His heart stopped. He ran back as fast as he could.

"I'm not sure but follow me, please."

There was no mistake. It was Four Finger Wu. He was dead, seemingly unharmed. On his face was a wonderful calmness and a strange, seraphic smile.

Tears spilled down Paul Choy's cheeks. He squatted beside the stretcher, his grief possessing him. Compassionately Dr. Tooley left him and hurried over to the other stretchers, someone screaming now, another distraught mother clutching the broken body of a child in her arms.

Paul Choy stared at the face, a good face in death, hardly seeing it.

Now what? he asked himself, wiping away his tears, not really feeling he had lost a father but rather the head of the family, which in Chinese families is worse than losing your own father. Jesus, now what? I'm not the eldest son so I don't have to make the arrangements. But even so, what do I do now?

Sobbing distracted him. It was an old man sobbing over an old woman, lying on a nearby stretcher. So much death here, too much, Paul Choy thought. Yes. But the dead must bury the dead, the living must go on. I'm no longer bound to him. And I'm American.

He lifted the blanket as though to cover Four Finger Wu's face and deftly slipped off the thong necklace with its half-coin and pocketed it. Again making sure no one was watching, he went through the pockets. Money in a billfold, a bunch of keys, the personal pocket chop. And the diamond ring in its little box.

He got up and went to Dr. Tooley. "Excuse me, Doc. Would you, would you please leave the old man there? I'll be back with a car. The family, we'd … Is that okay?"

"Of course. Inform the police before you take him away, their Missing Persons is set up at the roadblock. I'll sign the death certificate tomorrow. Sorry there's no ti—" Again the kind man was distracted and he went over to Dr. Meng. "Here, let me help. It's like Korea, eh?"

Paul Choy walked down the hill, careless of the drizzle, his heart light, stomach settled, future settled. The coin's mine now, he told himself, certain that Four Fingers would have told no one else, keeping to his usual pattern of secrecy, only trusting those he had to.

Now that I've possession of his personal chop I can chop whatever I like, do whatever I like, but I'm not going to do that. That's cheating. Why should I cheat when I'm ahead? I'm smarter than any of his other sons. They know it, I know it and that's not being crazy. I am better. It's only fair I keep the coin and all the profits on the 2 mill. I'll set the family up, modernize everything, equip the ships, anything they want. But with my profit I'm going to start my own empire. Sure. But first I'm going to Hawaii. . . .

At the head of the line of cars near the first slip Dunross stopped beside his car and opened the door to the backseat. Casey jerked out of a reverie and the color drained out of her face. "Line?"

"No, nothing yet. Quillan's fairly sure he's pinpointed the area. Gurkhas are combing that part right now. I'm going back to relieve him." Dunross tried to sound confident. "The experts say there's a very good chance he'll be okay. Not to worry. You all right?"

"Yes. Yes thanks."

When he had returned from their first search, he had sent Lim for coffee, sandwiches and a bottle of brandy, knowing the night would be very long. He had wanted Casey to leave with Riko but she had refused. So Riko had gone back to her hotel in the other car with Lim.

"You want a brandy, Ian?" Casey said.

"Thanks." He watched her pour for him, noticing her fingers were steady. The brandy tasted good. "I'll take Quillan a sandwich. Why not put a good slug of brandy into the coffee, eh? I'll take that."

"Sure," she said, glad for something to do. "Have any others been rescued?"

"Donald McBride—he's all right, just shaken. Both he and his wife."

"Oh good. Any, any bodies?"

"None that I know of," he said, deciding not to tell her about Plumm or his old friend Southerby, chairman of Blacs. At that moment Adryon and Martin Haply hurtled up and Adryon threw her arms around him, sobbing with relief. "Oh, Father we just heard, oh, Father, I was petrified."

"There, there," he said, gentling her. "I'm fine. Good God, Adryon, no bloody landslip will ever touch the tai-pan of the Noble Ho—"

"Oh don't say that," she begged him with a shiver of superstitious dread. "Don't ever say that! This's China, gods listen, don't say that!"

"All right, my love!" Dunross hugged her and smiled at Martin Haply who was also wet with relief. "Everything all right?"

"Oh yes sir, we were over in Kowloon, I was covering the other slide when we heard the news." The youth was so relieved. "Goddamn I'm pleased to see you, tai-pan. We … afraid we bashed up the car a little getting up here."

"Never mind." Dunross held Adryon away from him. "All right, pet?"

Again she hugged him. "Oh yes." Then she saw Casey. "Oh. Oh hello, Casey I was, er, so—"

"Oh don't be silly. Come on out of the rain. Both of you."

Adryon obeyed. Martin Haply hesitated then said to Dunross, "If you don't mind, sir, I'll just look around."

"Christian got out," Dunross said quickly. "He ph—"

"Yes sir. I called the office. Thanks. Won't be long, honey," he said to Adryon and went off toward the barrier. Dunross watched him go, young, tough and very assured, then caught sight of Gornt hurrying down the hill. Gornt stopped, well away from the car and beckoned him anxiously.

Dunross glanced at Casey, his heart thumping uneasily. From where she was she could not see Gornt. "I'll be back soon as I can."

"Take care!"

Dunross came up to Gornt. The older man was filthy, clothes torn, beard matted and his face set.

"We've pegged him," Gornt said. "Bartlett."

"He's dead?"

"No. We've found him but we can't get at him." Gornt motioned at the thermos. "Is that tea?"

"Coffee with brandy."

Gornt took it, drank gratefully. "Casey's still in the car?"

"Yes. How deep is he?"

"We don't know. Deep. Perhaps it's best not to say anything about him to her, not yet."

Dunross hesitated.

"Better to leave it," the other man said again. "It looks dicey."

"All right." Dunross was weary of all the death and suffering. "All right."

Rain made the night more filthy and the morass even more dangerous. Ahead, past the slide area, Kotewall Road ran almost straight for seventy yards, climbing steeply, then curled up and away around the mountainside. Already tenants were streaming out of buildings, evacuating.

"There's no mistake about Tiptop and the money?" Gornt said, picking his way carefully with the flashlight.

"None. The bank runs're over."

"Good. What did you have to barter?"

Dunross did not answer him, just shrugged. "We'll open at 30."

"That remains to be seen." Gornt added sardonically, "Even at 30 I'm safe."

"Oh?"

"I'll be about $2 million U.S. down. That's what Bartlett advanced."

Dunross felt a glow. That'll teach Bartlett to try a heist on me, he thought. "I knew about that. It was a good idea—but at 30 you'll be down about $4 million, Quillan, his 2 and 2 of yours. But I'll settle for All Asia Air."

"Never." Gornt stopped and faced him. "Never. My airline's still not for sale."

"Please yourself. The deal's on offer until the market opens."

"The pox on your deals."

They plodded onward on the top of the slope, now nearing the foyer area. They passed a stretcher returning. The injured woman was no one either of them knew. If Dunross were on one of those, Gornt thought grimly, it'd solve all my problems neatly . . .

87

1:20 A.M. :

The Gurkha sergeant had his flashlight directed downward. Around him were other soldiers, the young lieutenant, firemen hurrying up with one of the fire chiefs.

"Where is he?" Fire Chief Harry Hooks asked.

"There, somewhere down there. His name's Bartlett, Line Bartlett." Hooks saw the light seep down a few feet then stop, blocked by the maze. He lay down on the ground. Close to the ground the gas smell was heavier. "Down there, Mr. Bartlett! Can you hear me?" he shouted into the wreckage.

They all listened intently. "Yes," came back faintly.

"Are you hurt?"

"No!"

"Can you see our light?"

"No!"

Hooks cursed, then shouted, "Stay where you are for the moment!"

"All right, but the gas is heavy!"

He got up. The officer said, "A Mr. Gornt was here and he's gone to get more help."

"Good. Everyone spread out, see if you can find a passage down to him, or where we can get closer." They did as he ordered. In a moment one of the Gurkhas let out a shout. "Over here!"

It was a small space between ugly broken slabs of concrete, broken timbers and joists and some steel H-beams, perhaps enough for a man to crawl down into. Hooks hesitated then took off his heavy equipment. "No," the officer said. "We'd better try." He looked at his men. "Eh?"

At once they grinned and all moved for the hole. "No," the officer ordered. "Sangri, you're the smallest."

"Thank you, sah," the little man said with a great beam, his teeth white in his dark face. They all watched him squirm underground headfirst like an eel.

Twenty-odd feet below, Bartlett was craning around in the darkness. He was in a small crawlspace, his way up blocked by a big slab of flooring, the smell of gas strong. Then his eyes caught a flicker of light ahead off to one side and he got a quick look at his surroundings. He could hear nothing except the drip of water and the creaking wreckage. With great care he squirmed off toward where he had seen the light. A small avalanche began as he shoved some boards aside. Soon it stopped. Above was another small space. He wormed his way up and along this space and reached a dead end. Another way, dead end. Above he felt some loosened boards in the crumpled flooring. He lay on his back and fought the boards away, coughing and choking in the dust. Abruptly light doused him. Not much, very little, but when his eyes adjusted it was enough for him to see a few yards. His elation vanished as he realized the extent of the tomb. In every direction he was blocked.

"Hello above!"

Faintly, "We hear youuuuu!"

"I'm in the light now!"

After a moment, "Which light?"

"How the hell do I know for chrissake?" Bartlett said. Don't panic, think and wait, he almost heard Spurgeon say. Holding on, he waited, then the light he was in moved a little. "That one!" he shouted.

Instantly the light stopped.

"We have you positioned! Stay where you are!"

Bartlett looked around, quartering the area very carefully. A second time with still the same result: there was no way out.

None.

"They'll have to dig me out," he muttered, his fear gathering

Sangri, the young Gurkha, was down about ten feet under the surface but well away to the right from Bartlett. He could go no farther. His way was blocked. He squirmed around and got a purchase on a j'agged concrete slab and moved it slightly. At once this part of the wreckage began to shift. He froze, let the slab rest again. But there was no other way to go, so, gritting his teeth and praying that everything would not collapse on him and whoever was below, he pulled the slab aside. The wreckage held. Panting, he put his flash into the cavity, then his head, peering around.

Another dead end. Impossible to go farther. Reluctantly, he pulled back. "Sergeant," he shouted in Nepalese, "I can go no farther."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh yes sah, very sure!"

"Come back!"

Before he left he shouted down into the darkness, "Hello down there!"

"I hear you!" Bartlett called back.

"We're not far away! We'll get you out, sah! Don't worry!" "Okay!"

With great difficulty Sangri began to back out, retracing his way painfully. A small avalanche pelted him with rubble. Grimly he continued climbing.

Dunross and Gornt clambered over the wreckage to join the clusters of men who were in a chain, removing rubble and beams where they could.

"Evening, tai-pan, Mr. Gornt. We've pegged him but we're not close." Hooks pointed at the man who was holding the flash steady. "That's his direction."

"How far down is he?"

"By the sound of his voice about twenty feet."

"Christ!"

"Aye, Christ it is. The poor bugger's in a pickle. Look't those!" Heavy steel H-beams were blocking the way down. "We daren't use cutters, too much gas."

"There must be another way? From the side?" Dunross asked.

"We're looking. Best we can do's get more men and clear what we can away." Hooks glanced off at an encouraging shout. They all hurried toward the excited soldiers. Below a mess of torn-up flooring that the men had taken away was a rough passageway that seemed to lead downward, twisting out of sight. They saw one of the small men jump into the cavity, then vanish. Others watched, shouting encouragement. The way was easy for six feet, very hard for the next ten feet, twisting and turning, then he was blocked. "Hello down there, sah, can you see my light?"

"Yes!" Bartlett's voice was louder. There was almost no need to shout.

"I'm going to move the light around, sah. Please if it gets near, please give me right or left, up or down, sah."

"Okay." Bartlett could see a tiny part of light up and to his right through a mass of the beams, girders and joists and broken rooms. Directly above him was an impenetrable mess of flooring and girders. Once he lost the light beam but soon picked it up again. "Right a bit," he called, his voice already a little hoarse. Obediently the light moved. "Down! Stop there! Now up a fraction." It seemed to take an age but the light centered on him. "That's it!"

The soldier held the flash steadily, made a cradle for it with rubble, then took his hand away. "All right, sah?" he shouted.

"Yesss! You're on the money!"

"I'm going back for more help."

"All right."

The soldier retreated. In ten minutes he had guided Hooks back. The fire chief gauged the path of the beam and meticulously examined the obstacle course ahead. "Stone the crows, it'll take a month of Sundays," he muttered. Then, containing his dread, he took out his compass and measured the angle carefully.

"Don't you worry, mate," he called down. "We'll get you out nice and easy. Can you get closer to the light?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Just stay where you are and rest. Are you hurt?"

"No, no but I can smell gas."

"Don't worry, lad, we're not far away." Hooks clambered out of the passage. On the surface again, he measured the line on the compass and then paced out over the tilted surface. "He's below this spot, tai-pan, Mr. Gornt, within five feet or so, about twenty feet down." They were two thirds of the way down the slope, closer to Sinclair Road than to Kotewall. There was no way in from the sides that they could see, mud and earth of the slide heavier to the right than to the left.

"The only thing we can do's dig," he said with finality. "We can't get a crane here, so it's elbow grease. We'll try here first." Hooks indicated an area that seemed promising, ten feet away, close to the hole the soldiers had discovered.

"Why there?"

"Safer, tai-pan, in case we start the whole mess a-shifting. Come on, mates, lend a hand. But take care!"

So they began to dig and to carry away everything removable. It was very hard work. All surfaces were wet and treacherous, the wreckage itself unbalanced. Beams, joists, flooring, planks, concrete, plaster, pots, radios, TV sets, bureaus, clothes, all in an untidy impossible jumble. Work stopped as they uncovered another body. "Get a medic up here!" Hooks shouted. "She's alive?"

"In a manner of speaking." The woman was old, her once white smock and black trousers tattered and mud-colored, her long hair tied in a ratty queue. It was Ah Poo. "Someone's gan sun, " Dunross said.

Gornt was staring incredulously at the place she had been found, a tiny hole within an ugly, almost solid, jagged mess of broken and reinforced concrete. "How the hell do people survive?"

Hooks's face split with his grin, his broken teeth brown and tobacco stained. "Joss, Mr. Gornt. There's always hope so long as a body can breathe. Joss." Then he bellowed below. "Send a stretcher up here, Charlie! On the double!"

It came quickly. The stretcher bearers carried her away. Work continued. The pit deepened. An hour later, four or five feet lower they were blocked by tons of steel beams. "We'll have to detour," Hooks said. Patiently they began again. A few feet later again blocked. "Detour over there." "Can't we saw through this mess?"

"Oh yes, tai-pan, but one spark and we're all bloody angels. Come on, lads. Here. Let's try here." Men rushed to obey . . .

88

4:10 A.M. :

Bartlett could hear them loudly now. From time to time dust and dirt would cascade, sodden rubble in its wake, as timbers and beams and mess above were removed. His rescuers seemed to be about ten yards away as far as he could judge, still five or six feet above him, the trickle of light making the waiting easier. His own escape was blocked all around. Earlier he had considered going back, down under this flooring, then down again to try to find another route and seek better safety that way.

"Better wait, Mr. Bartlett!" Hooks had shouted to him. "We knows where you be!"

So he had stayed. He was rain soaked, lying on some boards, not too uncomfortably and well protected by heavy beams. Most of his line of sight was blocked a few feet away. Above was more twisted flooring. There was just enough room to lie down or, with care, to sit up. The smell of gas was strong but he had no headache yet and felt he was safe enough, the air good enough to last forever. He was tired, very tired. Even so, he forced himself to stay awake. From his vantage point he knew it would take them the rest of the night, perhaps part of the day, to work a shaft to him. That did not worry him at all. They were there. And he had made contact. An hour ago he had heard Dunross nearby. "Line? Line, it's Ian!"

"What the hell're you doing here?" he had called back happily.

"Looking for you. Don't worry, we're not far away."

"Sure. Say, Ian," he had begun, his anxiety almost overwhelming, "Orlanda, Orlanda Ramos, you know her? I was wai—"

"Yes. Yes I saw her just after the slip hit the building. She's fine. She's waiting up at Kotewall. She's fine. How about you?"

"Hell, no sweat," he had said, almost light-headed now, knowing she was safe. And when Dunross had told him about his own miraculous escape and that Casey had seen the whole catastrophe happen, he was appalled at the thought of how close the others had all been to disaster. "Jesus! A couple of minutes either way and you'd all've been clobbered." "Joss!"

They had chatted for a while then Dunross had moved out of the way so the rescue could continue.

Thinking about Orlanda now, another tremor shook him and again he thanked God that she was safe and Casey was safe. Orlan-da'd never make it underground, he thought. Casey maybe, but not Orlanda. Never. But that's no loss of face either.

He eased himself more comfortably, his soaking clothes making his skin crawl, the shouts and noises of the approaching rescue comforting. To pass the time, he continued his reverie about the two women. I've never known a body like Orlanda's or a woman like her. It's almost as though I've known her for years, not a couple of days. That's a fact. She's exciting, unknown, female, wonderfully dangerous. Casey's no danger. She'd make a great wife, a great partner but she's not female like Orlanda is. Sure Orlanda likes pretty clothes, expensive presents, and if what people here say is true she'll spend money like there's no tomorrow. But isn't that what most of it's for? My ex's taken care of, so're the kids. Shouldn't I have some fun? And be able to protect her from the Biltzmanns of the world?

Sure. But I still don't know what it is about her—or Hong Kong —that's got to me. It's the best place I've ever been and I feel more at home here than back home. "Maybe, Line, you've been here in a previous lifetime," Orlanda had said.

"You believe in reincarnation?"

"Oh yes."

Wouldn't that be wonderful, he thought in his reverie, not noticing the gas or that now the gas was touching him a little. To have more than one lifetime would be the best luck in all the world an—

"Line!"

"Hey! Hi, Ian, what's cooking?" Bartlett's happiness picked up. Dunross's voice was quite close. Very close. "Nothing. We're just going to take a short break. It's heavy going.

We've got to detour again but we're only a few yards away. Thought I'd chat. As far as we can judge we're about five feet above you, coming in from the west. Can you see us yet?"

"No. There's a floor above me, all busted up, and beams, but I'm okay. I can last out easy. Hey, you know something?"

"What?"

"Tonight's the first time you called me Line."

"Oh? I hadn't noticed."

Bullshit, Bartlett thought and grinned to himself. "What y—" A sudden chill took both men as the wreckage began groaning, twisting here and there. In a moment the noise ceased, most of it. Bartlett began to breathe easier. "What you going to do tomorrow?"

"What about?"

"The stock market. How are you going to beat Gornt?" He listened with growing awe as Dunross told him about the Bank of China's money, Plumm's party and his challenge to Gornt, backed by his new 50 million revolving fund.

"Fantastic! Who's supporting you, Ian?"

"Father Christmas!"

Bartlett laughed. "So Murtagh came through, huh?" He heard the silence and smiled again.

"Casey told you?"

"No. No, I had that figured. I told you Casey's as smart as a whip. So you're home free. Congratulations," he said with a grin, meaning it. "I thought I had you, Ian." Bartlett laughed. "You really think your stock'll open at 30?"

"I'm hoping."

"If you're hoping, that means you and your pals have fixed it. But Gornt's smart. You won't get him."

"Oh yes I will."

"No you won't! How about our deal?"

"Par-Con? That stands of course. I thought that was all arranged?"

Bartlett heard the dry innocence. "Quillan must be fit to be tied."

"He is! He's just above. He's helping too."

Bartlett was surprised. "Why?"

There was a pause. "Quillan's a first-class, twenty-four-carat berk but… I don't know. Maybe he likes you!"

"Screw you too!" Bartlett was equally good-natured. "What're you going to do about Quillan?"

"I've made him a proposal." Dunross told it to him.

Bartlett grunted. "So my 2 mill's down the sewer?"

"Of course. That 2 million is. But your share of the General Stores takeover'll bring you 5, perhaps more, our Struan-Par-Con deal much more."

"You really figure 5?"

"Yes. You 5, Casey 5."

"Great! I always wanted her to get her drop dead money." I wonder what she'll do now? he asked himself. "She's always wanted to be independent and now she is. Great! What?" he asked, missing what Dunross had said.

"I just said, would you like to talk to her? It's dicey but safe enough."

"No," Bartlett said firmly. "Just say hi, I can say it better when I'm out."

"Casey's said she's not moving till you are." There was a slight pause. "Orlanda too. How about her? You want to say hello or anything?"

"No thanks. Plenty of time later. Tell them both to go home." "They won't. I'm afraid you're rather popular." Bartlett laughed and sat up and bumped his head. A pain snaked down his back and he grunted, then moved more comfortably, his head almost touching the roof.

Dunross was cramped in a small space not far away at the bottom of the twisting passage, hating the closeness, his claustrophobia nauseating, a chill cold sweat soaking him because of it. He could see no sign of Bartlett but he had noted his voice sounded strong and confident. Hooks had asked him to keep Bartlett talking while they rested, in case the gas was enveloping him. "You never know, tai-pan, gas can sneak up on you. We need him alert. We'll be needing his help soon now."

The tai-pan squirmed around uneasily, sensing danger. Someone was climbing down, rubble cascading with him. It was Hooks. He stopped a few feet above.

"All right, tai-pan. Best come out now, we'll get some of my lads back in."

"Right away. Line! Stay awake. We're starting again." "Okay, no sweat. Say, Ian, would you consider being a best man?"

"Certainly," he said at once, his brain shouting, Which one? "It'd be an honor."

"Thanks," he heard Bartlett say and as much as he wanted to know, he knew he could never ask. He was sure Bartlett would volunteer the who. But all Bartlett said was, "Thanks. Yes, thanks very much." He smiled, surprised. Line's learning, he told himself. It'll be good to have him as a partner—and a voting member of the Turf Club. Casey too— "We'll have you out in a jiify!"

Just as he was leaving he heard: "Wouldn't it be great if they could be friends? Guess that's too much to hope for?"

Dunross was not sure if it had been meant for him. "What?" he called out.

"Nothing," Bartlett replied. "Say, Ian, we've got lots to do this week! Hey, I'm glad you won over Gornt!" Yes, he told himself happily. It'll be good maneuvering with you, watching you carefully, building our Noble House.

About eight yards away, a few feet up, Dunross turned awkwardly and began to climb back.

Sixteen feet above him, Gornt and the others were waiting beside the greatly widened mouth of the pit. Dawn was lightening the east, a patch of sky now among the enveloping clouds. All over the slope tired men were still digging, searching, calling and listening. Wearily Hooks clambered out of the deepening pit. At that moment there was a tremendous noise from up near Po Shan Road. All heads jerked around. Then far above and to the left they saw part of the slope moving. The noise increased, then a wall of water and mud surged from behind the curve of the hillside up Kotewall Road and, gathering speed, rushed at them. Men began to flee as the sludge crest swept down to where the foyer had been and poured over the slope and wreckage, inundating it, the enormous mass of the sludge pressing the crest forward and down. Gornt saw it coming and hung on to an H-beam, the others hanging on as best they could. The foul, stinking murk swept up to them and passed, Gornt buried to his knees but his grip firm against the suction. The wave surged onward leaving inches of slush over everything, Hooks and the others pulling themselves out, everything else momentarily forgotten.

Gornt had not forgotten.

From where he was he could see down into the pit. He saw Dunross's hands and head appear out of the sludge. The hands grabbed a hold. More sludge was sweeping downward into the pit, finding a level, filling it. Dunross's grip slipped and he was sucked under but he fought out again and hung on precariously.

Gornt watched. And waited. And did not move. The mud poured down. The level rose more.

Dunross felt himself falling, the suction very great. He was choking in the slime, but his fingers held, he forced his toes into a crevice and began to climb. Somehow he tore himself out of the suction and now he was safe, hugging the side, half out of the mud, his chest heaving, heart pounding, retching. Still half in shock, his knees trembling, he wiped the mud from his eyes and mouth and stared around blankly. Then he saw Gornt ten feet above, watching him, resting easily against an outcrop . . .

For an instant his whole being concentrated, seeing the sardonic twisted smile, the hate open and disappointment vast, and he knew that if he had been above and Gornt trapped as he had been trapped, he would have watched and waited too.

Would I?

I'd've watched and waited equally and never never a helping hand. Not for Gornt. And then, at long last, Dirk Struan's curse would be ended, be laid to rest, and those who follow me never bedeviled again.

Then the instant was over. His head cleared. He remembered Bartlett and he stared downward in horror. Where the crawlspace had been was now only a slimy pool.

"Oh Christ! Helllp!" he cried out. Then there was sudden pandemonium and others were in the pit, Hooks and firemen and soldiers, and they hurled themselves impotently at the slime with shovels and with hands.

Dunross pulled himself out. Shakily he stood on the edge. In anguish. Gornt had already gone. In a little while all attempts ceased. The puddle remained.

TUESDAY

89

5:39 P.M. :

Dunross stood at the bay window of his penthouse atop the Struan Building, watching the harbor. The sunset was wonderful, visibility unlimited, the sky clear except for a few tinged cumulus westward over Mainland China, reddish there, darkness touching the eastern horizon. Below, the harbor was busy as usual, ordinary as usual, Kowloon glowing in the falling sun.

Claudia knocked and opened the door. Casey came in. Her face was stark, her tawny hair like the sunset. Her grief made her ethereal.

"Hello, Casey."

"Hello, Ian."

There was no need to say any more. Everything about Bartlett had been said already. It had taken until late last night to get his body out. Casey had waited on the slope for him. Then she had gone back to the hotel. This morning she had called and now she was here.

"Drink? Tea? Coffee? There's wine. I made martinis."

"A martini. Thanks, Ian," she said, her voice flat, the hurt in it tearing him. "Yes, I'd like that."

She sat on the sofa. He poured and put in an olive. "Everything can wait, Casey," he said compassionately. "There's no hurry."

"Yes, yes I know. But we agreed. Thanks." She accepted the chilled glass and raised it. "Joss."

"Joss."

She sipped the ice-cold liquor, all her movements studied, almost apart from herself, then opened her briefcase and put a manila envelope on his desk. "This contains all the John Chen papers about Struan's and everything he offered or told us. These're all the copies

I have here. The ones in the States I'll shred." Casey hesitated. "You're sure to have made changes by now but, well, it's all there." "Thanks. Did Line give anything to Gornt?" "No, I don't think so." Again the hesitation. "For safety I'd consider part of the information leaked." "Yes."

"Next, our Par-Con-Struan deal." The sheaf of documents she gave him was quite thick. "All six copies are signed and sealed with the corporate seal. I've the executive power to sign." She hesitated. "We had a deal, Line and I. I willed him voting power of all my stock for ten years, he did the same for me. So I'm head of Par-Con."

Dunross's eyes widened slightly. "For ten years?" "Yes," she said without emotion, feeling nothing, wanting nothing except to weep and to die.

Later I can be weak, she thought. Now I must be strong and wise. "For ten years. Line . . . Line had voting control. I'll send you a formal verification when it's official."

Dunross nodded. From the lacquer desk he brought back an equivalent set of papers. "These are the same. I've chopped them formally. This"—he put an envelope onto the pile—"this's our private agreement giving Par-Con title to my ships as collateral." "Thanks. But with your revolving fund that's not necessary." "Even so, it was part of our agreement." Dunross watched her, admiring her courage. There had been no tears at the new beginning on the slope, just a numbed nod and, "I'll wait. I'll wait until . . . I'll wait." Orlanda had broken at once. He had sent her to a hotel and, later, a doctor to succor her. "It was part of our deal." "All right. Thanks. But it's not necessary." "Next: Here is the letter of agreement on our deal on General Stores. I'll get you the formal documents within ten days. I'll nee—

"But Line never put up the 2 million." "Oh but he did. He did it by cable Saturday night. My Swiss bank confirmed the transaction yesterday and the money was duly passed over to the board of General Stores. They accepted so that deal's accomplished now." "Even though Pug's dead?"

"Yes. His widow agreed to the board's recommendation. It's a very good deal by the way. Far better than the Superfoods tender."

"I don't want that, any part of that."

"When I was down in the pit, chatting with Line, he said how happy he was that the General Stores deal was going through. His exact words were, 'Great! 5 mill? I always wanted her to get her drop dead money. She always wanted to be independent, and now, she is. Great!'"

"But at what a cost," she told him, her misery welling. "Line always warned me that drop dead money costs more than you're prepared to pay. It has. I don't want it."

"Money is money. You're not thinking clearly. It was his to give and he gave it to you. Freely."

"You gave it to me."

"You're wrong, he did. I just helped you as you helped me." He sipped his drink. "I'll need to know where to send his profits. You'll remember there were no voting rights included. Who's his trustee?"

"It's a bank. First Central. I'm his executor, along with a man from the bank." She hesitated. "I guess his mother's his heir. She's the only one named in his will—Line, Line was open about that, to me. His ex-wife and their kids are well taken care of and specifically excluded from his will. There's just the voting control to me and the rest goes, the rest to his ma."

"Then she'll be very rich."

"That won't help her." Casey was trying very hard to keep her voice level and the tears away. "I talked to her last night and she broke up, poor lady. She's… she's in her sixties, nice woman, Line's her only son." A tear seeped in spite of her resolve. "She, she asked me to bring him back. His will says he's to be cremated."

"Look, Casey," Dunross said quickly, "perhaps I could make the arr—"

"No. Oh no, thanks, Ian. Everything's done. I've done it. I wanted to do it. The airplane's cleared and all the paper work done."

"When do you leave?"

"At ten tonight."

"Oh." Dunross was surprised. "I'll be there to see you off."

"No, no thanks. The car's fine but there's no ne—"

"I insist."

"No. Please?" She looked at him, begging him.

After a moment he said, "What's your plan?"

"Nothing very much. I'm going to … I'm going to make sure

' all his wishes are taken care of, papers, his will, and wind up his affairs. Then I'll reorganize Par-Con—I'll try to reorganize it as he'd want, and then, then I don't know. All that'll take me thirty days. Maybe I'll be back in thirty days to begin, maybe I'll send Forrester or someone else. I don't know. I'll let you know in thirty days. Everything's covered till then. You've got my numbers. Please call me anytime if there's a problem." She started to get up but he stopped her.

"Before you go there's something I should tell you. I didn't last night because the time wasn't right. Perhaps now is, I'm not sure, but just before I left Line he asked me if I'd consider being a best man." He saw Casey go white and rushed on. "I told him it would be an honor."

"He said me? He wanted to marry me?" she asked incredulously. "We'd been talking about you. Doesn't that follow?" "He never mentioned Orlanda?"

"Not at that time. No. Earlier on he'd been very concerned about her because he was in her flat and didn't know what had happened to her." Dunross watched her. "When I told him she was safe he was very relieved, naturally. When I told him you'd almost been caught in the landslide he almost had a heart attack. Then, just as I was leaving I heard him say softly, 'Guess it'd be too much to hope for those two to be friends.' I wasn't sure if I was meant to hear that —while we were digging he'd been talking to himself a lot." He finished his drink. "I'm sure he meant you, Casey." She shook her head. "It's a good try, Ian. I'll bet it was Orlanda." "I think you're wrong."

Again a silence. "Maybe. Friends?" She looked at him. "Are you going to be friends with Quillan?"

"No. Never. But that's not the same. Orlanda's a nice person. Truly."

"I'm sure." Casey stared at her drink, sipped but did not taste it. "What about Quillan? What happened today? I'm afraid I didn't hear. What did you do about him? I saw you closed at 30.01 but I … I really didn't notice much else."

Dunross felt a sudden glow. Because of the Kotewall catastrophe the governor had ordered the stock market to remain closed all Monday. And the banks, as a sign of mourning. By ten this morning, the Bank of China's cash was on hand in every branch of every bank, throughout the Colony. The bank runs fizzled. By three o'clock many customers were lined up returning to deposit their cash once more. Just before the market opened at ten o'clock this morning Gornt had called him,

"I accept," he had said.

"You don't want to bargain?"

"I want no quarter from you, just as you expect none from me. The papers are on their way." The phone had gone dead.

"What about Quillan?" she asked again.

"We made a deal. We opened at 28 but I let him buy back in at

18."

She gaped at him. Without thinking she made the quick calculation. "That'd cost him just about 2 million. But that's Line's 2 million. So Quillan's off the hook!"

"I told Line the deal and that it'd cost him the 2 million and he laughed. I did point out that with General Stores and the Par-Con deal, his capital loss of 2 is set off against a capital gain of 20 or more." Dunross watched her, gauging her. "I think it's fair that the

2 was forfeit."

"You're not telling me you let Gornt off the hook for nothing?"

"No. I've got my airline back. The control of All Asia Air."

"Ah." Casey shivered remembering the story of that Christmas night when Gornt and his father went unexpectedly to the Great House. Her sadness was brimming. "Do me a favor?"

"Of course. Providing it's not for Quillan."

She had been going to ask Dunross to let Gornt in as a steward, to let him have a box. But now she did not. She knew it would have been a waste of time.

"What favor?"

"Nothing. Nothing now. I'll be off, Ian." Weary, so weary, she got up. Her knees were trembling. All of her was aching monstrously. She held out her hand. He took it and kissed it with the same grace-filled gesture she remembered from the night of the party, the first night in the Long Gallery when, frightened, she had seen the knife buried in the heart of the portrait. All at once her agony crested and she wanted to scream out her hatred of Hong Kong and the people of Hong Kong who had somehow caused the death of her Line. But she did not.

Later, she ordered herself, holding on to the limit of her strength.

Don't break. Don't let go. Be self-contained. You have to, now. Line's gone forever.

"See you soon, Casey."

" 'Bye, Ian," she said and left.

He stared at the closed door a long time, then sighed and pressed a buzzer.

In a moment Claudia came in. "Evening, tai-pan," she said with her enormous warmth. "There're a few calls that should be dealt with—most important, Master Duncan wants to borrow 1,000 HK."

"What the devil for?"

"It seems he wants to buy a diamond ring for a 'lady.' I tried to pry her name out of him but he wouldn't tell."

Oh God, the sheila, Dunross thought as the memory rushed back of what his son had said about his "girl." Sheila Scragger, the nurse from England, on holiday with Duncan at the Australian station called Paldoon. "Well, he's not going to buy much for 1,000. Tell him he has to ask me. No, wait!" He thought a moment. "Give him 1,000 out of petty cash—offer it to him at 3 percent interest per month against his written guarantee that you can stop it from his pocket money at the rate of 100 a month. If he falls for that it'll teach him a fine lesson. If he doesn't I'll give him the 1,000, but not till next Easter."

She nodded, then added sadly, "Poor Miss Casey. She's dying inside."

"Yes."

"Here are your calls, tai-pan. Master Linbar called from Sydney, please call him back when you have a moment. He thinks he's got Woolara back in line."

Dunross stared at her. "I'll be damned!"

"Mr. Alastair called with congratulations, and your father, and most members of the family. Please call Master Trussler in Jo'burg, it's about thoriums." She sniffed. "Mrs. Gresserhoff called to say good-bye."

"When's she off?" Dunross asked noncommittally, knowing the flight.

"Tomorrow, JAL's early flight. Isn't it awful about Travkin? Oh I'm so sad about him."

"Yes." Travkin had died in the night. Dunross had visited him at the Matilda Hospital several times but his trainer had never recovered consciousness since the Saturday accident. "Have we tracked down any next of kin?"

"No. He had no special girl friend or, or anyone. Master Jacques has made the burial arrangements."

"Good. Yes. That's the least we can do for him."

"Are you going to ride Saturday?"

"I don't know." Dunross hesitated. "Remind me to talk to the stewards about making the fifth the Travkin Stakes—a way of thanking him."

"Yes. Oh, that would be wonderful. I did so like him, yes that would be wonderful."

Dunross glanced at his watch. "Is my next appointment downstairs yet?"

"Yes."

"Good," the tai-pan said, his face closing.

He went down to the next floor, to his office. "Afternoon, Mr. Choy, what can I do for you?" He had already sent condolences about Four Finger Wu.

When the door was shut, Paul Choy wiped his hands without noticing it. "I've come about step one, sir. Sorry we had to put it off from yesterday, but, er, the wax impressions—they fitted one of your two remaining half-coins?"

"First I would ask who has the other half, now that Four Fingers is an ancestor."

"The family Wu, sir."

"Who in the family Wu?" Dunross asked harshly, deliberately rough. "The coin was given to an individual who would pass it on to an individual. Who?"

"Me. Sir." Paul Choy stared back at the tai-pan, unafraid, even though his heart was beating faster than it had ever beaten—even more than when he was on the junk a lifetime ago—the young Werewolf s blood on his hands, the half-dead, mutilated body leaning against him, and his father shouting at him to throw the man overboard.

"You'll have to prove Four Fingers gave it to you."

"Sorry, tai-pan, I don't have to prove anything," Paul Choy replied confidently. "I just have to present the coin and ask the favor. In secret. Everything secret, that's the deal. If it's the real coin your honor and the face of the Noble House is at stake and the fa—"

"I know what I have at stake." Dunross made his voice grate. "Do you?" "Sir?"

"This is China. Lots of curious things happen in China. You think I'm a fool to be bamboozled by an ancient legend?"

The young man shook his head, his throat tight. "No. You're absolutely no fool, tai-pan. But if I present the coin, you will grant the favor."

"What's your favor?"

"First I guess I'd like to know if you're … if you're satisfied it's one of the four. I'm satisfied." "Are you now?" "Yes sir."

"You know this coin was stolen from Phillip Chen?" Paul Choy stared at him, then recovered quickly. "This coin's from Four Finger Wu. I know of no theft. It came from my father, that's all I know. It was my father's." "You should give it back to Phillip Chen." "Did you ever see it, this particular one, in his possession, sir?" Dunross had already talked to Phillip Chen about the coin. "Is there no way to prove it's yours, Phillip?" he had asked him. "None, tai-pan. None," the old man had said, wringing his hands. Dunross kept his eyes boring into the youth. "It's Phillip Chen's." Paul Choy shifted uneasily. "There were four coins, tai-pan. Mr. Chen's coin must be one of the others. This one belongs, belonged to my father. You remember what he said at Aberdeen?"

Dunross stared at him silently, trying to shake him, dealing with him Western style. Paul Choy wavered but held his gaze steady. Interesting, Dunross thought. You're a tough little bastard and good. Now, are you an emissary of Goldtooth Wu, the eldest son, or a thief and here on your own account? He left the silence hanging, using it to undermine his opponent while he rethought his position. The moment Paul Choy had called yesterday to ask for an appointment he had known the reason. But how to handle it? Four Fingers barely dead and now I've a new enemy, he thought, strong, well trained with lots of balls. Even so, he's got weak links like anyone. Like you have. Gornt's one of them. Riko could be another. Ah, Riko! What is it about her that moves you so much? Forget that! How do you recover the half-coin before the favor?

"I presume you have your half with you. Let's go to the assayist right now." He got up, testing Paul Choy.

"No sir, sorry but no." Paul Choy felt his heart about to burst, the thong around his neck suddenly a noose, the half-coin burning into his flesh. "Sorry, but I don't think that's a good idea."

"I think it's a very good idea," Dunross continued brusquely, pressuring him. "We'll go and fetch it. Come along!"

"No. No thanks, tai-pan." Paul Choy said it with a polite firmness Dunross recognized. "Could we please do it next week? Say a week Friday? There's no hurry now." "I won't be in Hong Kong on Friday." "Yes sir. You'll be in Japan. Could you put aside an hour during your stay there? Anytime to suit you. To go visit an assayist?" Dunross's eyes narrowed. "You seem to know a lot, Mr. Choy." "It's easy to find out anything here, sir. Japan would be better for both of us. Less chance of a, a foul-up and in Japan we're both equal."

"You're suggesting you won't be here?" "No, no, tai-pan. But as you said, this is China, strange things happen in China. Four Fingers and his group're well connected too. The coin's a one shot—person to person—and should be handled that way. That's the way I figure it."

Paul Choy was sweating now, thanking God that part of the "favor" was that everything was to be secret. Ever since he had brought back the body of Four Fingers he had been maneuvering for power in the family. At length he had achieved exactly what he wanted, the very special position—in Mafia terms—of consigliere, chief advisor to Goldtooth Wu, the eldest son, now titular head of the Seaborne Wu. That's what we are, he thought, his fear rising again. We're Chinese mafioso. Isn't there blood on me too? I was aboard with the opium. What does Goldtooth know that I don't? "You can trust me implicitly, Goldtooth," he had said to his brother, fighting for his future.

"I'm afraid I have little choice. I'm in uncharted waters. I need all the help I can get. Your expertise will be very valuable," Gold-tooth had said in his clipped English English when they were in the final stages of negotiation. "I figure we can work together." "Let's be blunt, Brother. We're both university trained, the rest aren't. We need each other and the Seaborne Wu must be modernized. I can't do it. I need serious help—my years running his Pleasure Boats hardly fit me for command. I kept asking but, well, you know our father. Good God, I couldn't even change a girl's hourly rate without getting his approval. His four fingers were on every ship, in every transaction in the fleet."

"Sure, but now if his captains'll go along with change, in a year you'll have the best-run Chinese operation in Asia."

"That's exactly what I want. Exactly."

"What about opium?"

"The Seaborne Wu have always carried that cargo."

"What about guns?"

"What guns?"

"I heard whispers Four Fingers was going into gun-running." "I know nothing about guns."

"Let's get rid of the opium-heroin racket. Let's stay to hell out of narcotics. Isn't it true he was joining up with those two jokers, Smuggler Yuen and White Powder Lee?"

"Rumors. I'll consider what you suggest. But let me say I'm captain of the fleets and head of the Seaborne Wu now. My decision is final. We'll consult. You'll be consigliere with all that means, but if I make a decision it's final. For instance, I heard about the coup, the stock market coup, that you pulled off without his permission. It was brilliant, yes, but there's to be no more of that—I must be consulted and must know in advance."

"Agreed. But from here on in, I'm also in business on my own account. I've resigned from Gornt's. Next, any private dealings I began with Four Fingers are mine to continue." "What are they?"

"Friday he advanced me 2 million to play the market. My deal was 17.5 percent of the profits. I want all the profits." "50 percent."

"90. As of right now, there's nothing to keep me in Hong Kong. Even at 50 percent, if I sell the present holdings—and only I know what they are by the way—I'm worth around 3 million U.S."

They had haggled and settled at 70 percent, Goldtooth's 30 percent to be deposited in a Swiss bank, a numbered account.

"I figure the market'll be on the come for two more days, then I off-load. My decision, okay?"

"Yes. Profitable suits you, Younger Brother, better than Paul. I'd like to stay with Profitable. What else were you doing with Four Fingers?"

"There was one last scam. He swore me to secrecy, forever. Forever, with blood oaths. I have to honor his wish."

Reluctantly Goldtooth Wu had agreed and now, waiting for the tai-pan to answer him about Japan, the young man's confidence was brimming. I'm rich. I've all Goldtooth's power if I need it, and I've a U.S. passport and I'm going to Hawaii. In Japan there's a chance I can outsmart Dunross—no, not outsmart him, he's far too good for that, but maybe there I can get a safe, fair shake to prove, once and for all, my coin's real. "Would Japan suit you, tai-pan?" he repeated. "I hear you made a killing on the market?" The youth beamed, not expecting the non sequitur. "Yes sir. I'm about 5.5 million U.S. ahead."

Dunross whistled. "That's not bad for a couple of weeks work, Profitable Choy. At 15 percent tax," he added innocently.

The youth winced and fell into the trap. "Hell, I'm a U.S. citizen, so subject to U.S. taxes every which way." He hesitated. "I've a couple of ideas that'd … say, tai-pan, we might make a deal that'd be good for you and good for me."

Dunross saw Paul Choy's eyes flatten and his caution increase. "My Old Man trusted you," the youth said. "You and he were Old Friends. Maybe I could inherit that—be worth that, one day." "Return the coin freely and I'll grant all sorts of favors." "First things first, tai-pan. First we find out if my coin's real. Japan, okay?"

"No. Here, or not at all!" Dunross snapped, deciding to gamble.

Paul.Choy's eyes slitted even more. Abruptly he decided too and reached under his shirt and took out the coin and laid it on the desk.

"I ask a favor in Jin-qua's name from the tai-pan of the Noble

House."

In the silence Dunross stared at the coin. "Well?" "First, I want Old Friend status, equal to Four Fingers with all that that implies. Second: I want to be appointed a director of Struan's for a four-year period at a salary equal to other directors —for face I'll buy a block of shares at market bringing my holdings to 100,000 shares." He felt a bead of sweat drop off his chin in the silence. "Next: I want to joint venture, 50-50 partners, a pharmaceutical plant with Struan's, capitalized at 6 million U.S.—I put up half within 30 days."

Dunross stared at him, perplexed. "To do what?"-

"The market for Pharmaceuticals throughout Asia is vast. We could make a bundle, given your expertise in manufacturing, mine in marketing. Agreed?"

"Is that all? All the favor?"

"Three more things. Th—"

"Only three?" Dunross asked witheringly.

"Three. First, next year I'm going to start another stock exchange. I'll—"

"You'll what?" Dunross gaped at him, thrown.

Profitable Choy grinned and wiped the sweat off his face. "Sure. A stock exchange for Chinese, run by Chinese."

Dunross laughed suddenly, "You've got balls, Profitable Choy. Oh yes. Incidentally, that's not a bad idea at all. What about it, the new exchange?"

"Just your benevolent Old Friend assistance to get started, to stop the big guys from blocking me."

"For 50 percent."

"For very favorable inside terms. Very favorable, guaranteed. Next," the youth held on to his hope, "I want you to introduce me to Lando Mata and tell him you're backing me as part of my father's group to bid for the gambling and gold syndicate monopoly. All right?"

"You said three things. What's last?"

"In three years a stewardship of the Turf Club. In that time I'll guarantee to donate a million U.S. to any charity or charities you name, I'll back all worthy causes and swear by God I'll make it as easy for you as I can." The young man wiped the sweat off. "I'm finished."

Dunross hesitated. "If the coin's real I'll agree to everything except the part about Lando Mata." "No. That's part of the deal." "I don't agree."

"I've asked for nothing illegal, nothing you can't gr—" "Lando Mata's out!"

The young man sighed. He took the coin off the desk, stared at it. "If that's out, then the whole deal's off and I'll put Four Finger

Wu's ask in place. It's still the same coin," he said, readying to play his last card.

"And?"

"And that'll make you party to narcotics, guns and everything you detest but will have to honor. Sorry, tai-pan, but I'm bucking to be an ancestor." He tossed the coin back on the table. "You choose."

Dunross was suddenly perturbed. The favor was cleverly couched. Nothing illegal, nothing extravagant. Paul Choy had done very well against him. Too well. Four Fingers was a known quantity. But this one, this devil's spawn? I can't risk narcotics—he knows that.

To give himself time Dunross reached into his pocket and found the little silk pouch and put his coin on the table. He moved his half into the other. The fit was perfect.

Without knowing it both men exhaled, staring at the now-joined coin that would lock them immutably together. Dunross knew it was a waste of time but he would go to the assayist anyway. For a moment he held the two halves in his hand. What to do about this cocky young bugger, he asked himself. Ah, now there's a good thought! Phillip Chen should be given the problem!

"All right, Profitable Choy," he said putting him very high on his private Suspected Persons list. "I'll agree to grant your favor—if your halfs real—except I'll ask Lando, I can't tell him anything. All right?"

"Thank you, tai-pan, you won't regret it." Wet with relief Profitable Choy took out a list of names. "Here's all the expert assayists in Hong Kong. You like to choose one? I, er, I checked and they're all open to seven o'clock."

Dunross smiled faintly. "You're very sure of yourself, Profitable Choy."

"Just try to keep ahead of the game, sir."

Casey came out of the Struan Building and went to the waiting Rolls. At once Lim opened the door for her. She sank back into the deep cushions feeling nothing, knowing nothing except that her anguish was consuming her and any moment she would break, not even noticing Lim ease the car into the heavy traffic to head for the vehicular ferry.

Tears were very near. So much time before we leave, she thought.

Everything packed and sent to the airplane. I'm checked out, all bills paid, but so much time still left.

For a moment she considered just stopping the car and walking off but that would have been worse, no privacy, no protection and she felt so terrible. Yet I've got to get out, be by myself. I've got to. Oh Jesus, Line poor Line. "Lim," she said on an impulse, "go to the Peak."

"Missee?"

"Just drive to the top of the Peak, to the lookout. Please?" she said, desperately trying to keep her voice ordinary. "I've, I haven't been there. I want to see it before I go. Please."

"Yes, Missee."

Casey leaned back and closed her eyes against the tears that poured out silently.

90

6:45 P.M. :

It was almost sunset.

Up at Lo Wu, the central border village between the Colony and China, the usual crowds of Chinese were crossing the bridge in both directions. The bridge was barely fifty yards long and spanned a trickling muddy stream and yet those fifty yards, for some, were a million miles. At both ends were guard posts and immigration checkpoints and customs, and in the middle, a small removable barrier. Two Hong Kong police stood there and two PRC soldiers. Two train tracks went across the bridge.

In the old days trains came from Canton to Hong Kong and back again, nonstop, but now passenger trains stopped on either side and passengers crossed on foot. And the trains themselves went back the way they came. Freight trains from China went through without problem. Most days.

Each day hundreds of locals crossed the border as they would cross any road. Their fields or work was on both sides of the border and had been so for generations. These border people were a hardy, suspicious lot, hating change, hating interference, hating uniforms, hating police particularly and foreigners of every kind. A foreigner to them, as to most Chinese, was anyone not of their village. To them there was no border, could never be a border.

The Lo Wu bridge was one of the most sensitive single spots in all China—it and the other two crossing points. Of these, one was at Mau Kam Toh where cattle and vegetables came daily over a rickety bridge across this same stream that marked most of the border. The last, at the very eastern tip of the border, was at the fishing village of Tau Kok. Here the border was not marked but, by common consent, was said 10 run down the middle of the single village street.

These were China's only contact points witn the West. Everything was meticulously controlled and monitored—by both sides. The tension and manner of the guards was a barometer.

Today the guards on the PRC side of Lo Wu had been jittery. Because of that, the Hong Kong side was nervous too, not knowing what to expect—perhaps a sudden closure, perhaps a sudden invasion like last year, the Colony existing at the whim of China. "And that's a fact of life," Chief Inspector Smyth muttered. Today he had been assigned here for special duty and he was standing uneasily near the police station that was discreetly set back a hundred yards from the real border so as not to offend or create waves. Christ, he thought, waves? One fart in London could start millions of refugees marching here—if the powers across the border decided that that tiny piece of wind was an affront to the dignity of China.

"Come on, for chrissake," he said impatiently, his khaki shirt sticking to his back, his eyes on the road back to Hong Kong. The road was puddled. It curled away. Then, in the distance, he saw the police car approaching. Greatly relieved, he went to meet it. Armstrong got out. Then Brian Kwok. Smyth saluted Robert Armstrong with his swagger stick to cover his shock. Brian Kwok was in civilian clothes. There was a curious, vacant, petrified look in his eyes. "Hello, Robert," Smyth said. "Hello. Sorry to be late," Armstrong said. "It's only a couple of minutes. Actually I was told sunset." Smyth squinted westward. The sun was not yet down. He turned his attention back to Brian Kwok. It was hard to keep the contempt out of his face.

The tall, handsome Chinese took out a pack of cigarettes. His fingers trembled as he offered it to Smyth.

"No thanks," Smyth said coldly. Armstrong took one. "I thought you'd given up smoking?"

"I did. I started again."

Brian Kwok laughed nervously. "Afraid it's me. Robert's been trying to keep … to keep Crosse and his angels off my back."

Neither man laughed.

"Is anyone coming? Anyone else?" Smyth asked.

"I don't think so. Not officially." Armstrong looked around. There were the usual gaping bystanders but they appeared haphazard. "They're here though. Somewhere." Both men felt the hackles on their necks rising. "You can get on with it."

Smyth took out a formal document. "Wu Chu-toy, alias Brian Kar-shun Kwok, you are formally charged with espionage against Her Majesty's Government on behalf of a foreign power. Under the authority of the Deportation Order of Hong Kong you are formally ordered out of the Crown Colony. If you return you are formally warned you do so at your peril and are liable for arraignment and imprisonment at Her Majesty's pleasure." Grimly Smyth handed him the paper.

Brian Kwok took it. It seemed to take him time to see and to hear, his senses dulled. "Now . . . now what happens?"

Smyth said, "You walk over that bloody bridge and go back to your pals."

"Eh? You think I'm a fool? You think I believe you're, you're letting me go?" Brian Kwok spun on Armstrong. "Robert, I keep telling you they're playing with me, with you, they'll never let me go free! You know that!"

"You're free, Brian."

"No … no, I know what's happening. The moment I, the moment I'm almost there they'll pull me back, the torture of hope, that's it, isn't it?" There was a shrillness creeping into his voice, a fleck of foam at the corner of his lips. "Of course! The torture of hope."

"For chrissake, I've told you you're free! You're free to go," Armstrong said, his voice hard, wanting to end it. "Go for chrissake! Don't ask me why they're letting you go but they are. Go!"

Filled with disbelief, Brian Kwok wiped his mouth, started to speak, stopped. "You're . . . it's a … it's a lie, has to be!"

"Go!"

"All right, I'll …" Brian Kwok went off a pace then stopped. They had not moved. "You're, you really mean it?"

"Yes."

Shakily Brian Kwok put out his hand to Smyth. Smyth looked at it, then into his face. "If it was up to me I'd have you shot."

A flash of hatred went over Kwok's face. "What about you and graft? What about you selling police pro—"

"Don't let's get into that! fTeung you's part of China!" Smyth snarled and Armstrong nodded uneasily, remembering the first 40,-000 gambled on Saturday.

"A little feathering's an old Chinese custom," Smyth continued, shaking with rage. "Treason isn't. Fong-fong was one of my lads before he went to SI. Go get stuffed and get the hell across the bridge or I'll whip you across it!"

Brian Kwok began to speak, stopped. Bleakly he offered his hand to Armstrong. Armstrong shook it without friendship. "That's just for old times' sake, for the Brian I used to know. I don't approve of traitors either."

"I, I know I was drugged but thanks." Brian Kwok backed away, still suspecting a trick, then turned. Every few seconds he looked back, petrified that they were coming after him. When his halting feet reached the bridge he broke into a frantic run. Tension skyrocketed. Police at the barrier did not stop him. Neither did the soldiers. Both sides, forewarned, pretended not to notice him. The crowds streaming across either side of the tracks, bicycles, pedestrians, carts, mostly laden, paid him no attention at all. At the other side of the barrier, Brian Kwok skidded to a stop and turned back.

"We'll win, we'll, we'll win you know," he called back to them, his chest heaving. "We will!" Then still suspecting a trick, he hunched down and fled into China. Near the train they saw a nondescript group of people intercept him but now it was too far away to see clearly. Tension on the bridge subsided. The sun began to set.

In the small observation tower atop the police station, Roger Crosse watched with high-powered binoculars. He was well con. cealed. Beside him was an SI operator with a telescopic camera, equally concealed. His face closed. One of the men meeting Brian Kwok was Tsu-yan, the missing millionaire.

The sun was almost under the western seas. Casey was at the Peak lookout, all Hong Kong spread below, lights on in the gloaming, part of the city and Kowloon blood-colored, part already dark with deep shadows and blazing highlights. The sun vanished and night, true night, began.

But she saw none of the beauty of it. Her face was wet with the tears that still coursed. She was leaning on the railing at a far corner, oblivious. The other sightseers and people waiting at the nearby bus stops left her alone—too interested in their own affairs.

"By all the gods I made a fortune today. …"

"I bought in first thing and doubled my fornicating money. . . ."

"Ayeeyah so did I, and I spent most of the day negotiating a loan from Best Bank against my portfolio. . . ."

"Thank all gods the Middle Kingdom bailed out those stupid foreign devils . . ."

"I bought Noble House at 20. . . ."

"Did you hear they dug out two more bodies at Kotewall and now the count's sixty-seven dead. . . ."

"Joss! Isn't it wonderful about the market! Old Blind Tung's prediction came true again. . . ."

"Did you hear about my sister, Third Toiletmaid Fung from Great Hotel? She and her syndicate bought at the darkest time and now she's a millionaire. . . ."

Casey heard nothing, saw nothing, misery overwhelming her. People came and went, a few lovers. The only Europeans were tourists with their cameras. Casey hid from them as best she could.

"Say, can I help?" one of them said.

"No, no thank you," she replied, her voice flat, not looking at him, helpless to stop the tears.

I have to stop, she thought. I have to stop. I have to begin again. I have to begin again and be strong and live, for me and for Line. I've got to guard him and his, I've got to be strong, be strong.

But how?

"I won't let go," she told herself aloud. I won't. I have to think.

I have to think about what the tai-pan said. Not about marriage, oh Line, not about that. I have to think about Orlanda.

"Is it too much to hope they'd be friends?" Did he really say that?

What to do about her?

Bury her. She took Line away from me. Yes. But that was within my rules, the rules I set down. lan's right. She's not like Quillan and it was Line—he fell for her, he went out with her. She's not like Quillan Gornt.

Quillan. What about him? He had come to the hotel this afternoon, again offering her whatever help she needed. She had thanked him and refused. "I'm okay, Quillan. I have to work this out myself. No, please don't see me off. Please. I'll be back in thirty days, maybe. Then I'll be more sensible."

"You're signing with Struan's?"

"Yes. Yes, that's what I want to do. Sorry." "No need to be sorry. You've been warned. But that doesn't preclude dinner the first night you're back. Yes?" "Yes."

Oh Quillan, what to do about you?

Nothing for thirty days. Line must have the next thirty days. Totally. I have to protect him against the vultures.

Seymour Steigler for one. This morning he had come to her suite. "Hey Casey, I'll get the coffin arranged and—" "It's done, everything's done."

"That a fact? Great. Listen, I'm all packed. Jannelli can take my bags and I'll be at the airplane in good time so we c—" "No. I'm taking Line home alone."

"But hell, Casey, we've got a lot to talk about. There's his will, there's the Par-Con deal, we got time now to figure it good. We can delay and maybe get us a few extra points. We—"

"It can all wait. I'll see you back in L.A. Take offa couple of days, Seymour. Be back next Monday."

"Monday? For chrissake there's a million things to do! Line's affairs'll take a year to untangle. We gotta get counsel fast. Sure, the best in town. I'll do that first thing, the best. Don't forget there's his widow and his kids. She'll sue on their behalf, of course she'll sue—and then there's you! For chrissake you're entitled to a fat share. We'll sue too, haven't you been like a wife to him for seven ye—"

"Seymour, you're fired! Get your ass out of here an—" "What the hell's with you? I'm only thinking of your legal rights an—"

"Don't you hear, Seymour? You're fired!" "You can't fire me. I've got rights. I got a contract!" "You're a son of a bitch. You'll get top dollar to settle your contract but if you take after me or Line or Line's affairs I'll see to it you get nothing. Nothing. Now get the hell out of here!"

Casey wiped away her tears, remembering her exploding rage. Well he is a son of a bitch. I was never sure before but I am now. I'm glad I fired him. I'll bet any money he'll come sniffing around like a hyena. Sure. I'll bet he'll go see the ex-Mrs. Bartlett if he hasn't already called her and work her into a frenzy, to represent her brood to attack Par-Con and Line. Sure, I'll bet any money I'll see him in court, one way or another.

1361

Well, God help me, I swear he won't beat me. I'll protect Line whatever.

Forget that bastard, Casey. Forget the battles you're going to fight, concentrate on the now. What about Orlanda? Line, Line liked her—loved her maybe. Did he? I don't know for sure. And never will, not now.

Orlanda.

Should I go see her?

91

8:05 P.M. :

Orlanda was sitting in the dark of her room at the Mandarin Hotel staring out at the night. Her grief was spent.

Joss about Line, she told herself for the ten thousandth time. Joss. Now everything's as before. Everything has to start again. The gods laughed at me again. Perhaps there'll be another chance—of course there'll be another chance. There are other men … Oh God! Don't worry, everything will be as it was. Quillan said not to worry, my allowance would contin—

The phone jangled, startling her. "Hello?"

"Orlanda? It's Casey." Orlanda sat bolt upright, astonished. "I'm leaving tonight but I wanted to see you before I go. Is that possible? I'm downstairs."

Her enemy calling her? Why? To gloat? But they'd both lost. "Yes, Casey," she said hesitantly. "Would you like to come up? It's more private here. 363." "Sure. 363."

Orlanda switched on a light and hurried to the bathroom to check her face. She saw sadness and recent tears—but no age. Not yet. But age is coming, she thought, a shiver of apprehension taking her. A comb to her hair and a little makeup on her eyes. Nothing else needed. Not yet.

Stop it! Age is inevitable. Be Asian! Be aware.

She slipped on her shoes. The waiting seemed long. Her heart was grinding. The bell rang. The door opened. Each saw the desolation of the other.

"Come in, Casey."

"Thanks."

The room was small. Casey noticed two small cases standing 1362 neatly beside the bed. "You leaving too?" Her voice sounded far away to her.

"Yes. Yes I'm moving in with friends of my parents. The hotel's a, it's a bit expensive. My friends said I could stay with them until I can find another apartment. Please sit down."

"But you're covered by insurance?"

Orlanda blinked. "Insurance? No, no I don't think so. I never … no, I don't think so."

Casey sighed. "So you've lost everything?"

"Joss." Orlanda half-shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I have a little money in the bank and .. . I'm fine." She saw the misery in Casey's face, and her compassion reached out. "Casey," she said quickly, "about Line. I wasn't trying to trap him, not for anything bad. Oh yes, I loved him and yes, I'd've done anything to marry him, but that's only fair, and honestly I believe I'd've been a wonderful wife for him, I'd've tried so very hard to be the best, honestly. I did love him and . . ." Again Orlanda shrugged her tiny shrug. "You know. Sorry."

"Yes, yes I know. No need to be sorry."

"The first time I met you at Aberdeen, the night of the fire," Orlanda said, rushing on, "I thought how foolish Line was, perhaps you were for not. . ." She sighed. "Perhaps it's as you said, Casey, there's nothing to talk about. Now most of all." The tears began again. And her tears, the reality of them, brought tears from Casey.

For a moment they sat there, the two women. Then Casey found a tissue, dried her eyes, feeling awful, nothing resolved, wanting now to finish quickly what she had begun. She took out an envelope. "Here's a check. It's for $10,000 U.S. I th—"

Orlanda gasped. "I don't want your money! I don't want anything fr—

"It's not from me. It's Line's. Listen a moment." Casey told her what Dunross had said about Bartlett. All of it. The repeating of it tearing her anew. "That's what Line said. I think it was you he wanted to marry. Maybe I'm wrong. I don't know. Even so, he'd want you to have some drop . . . some protection."

Orlanda felt her heart about to burst at the irony of it all. "Line said 'best man'? Truly?"

"Yes."

"And to be friends? He wanted us to be friends?"

"Yes," Casey told her, not knowing if she was doing the right thing, what Line would have wanted. But sitting here now, seeing the tender youthful beauty, the wide eyes, exquisite skin that needed no makeup, perfect figure, again she could not blame her or blame Line. It was my fault, not his and not hers. And I know Line wouldn't have left her destitute. So I can't. For him. He wanted us to be friends. Maybe we can be. "Why don't we try?" she said. "Listen, Hong Kong's no place for you. Why not try some other place?"

"I can't. I'm locked in here, Casey. I've no training. I'm nothing. My B.S. means nothing." The tears began again. "I'm just … I'd go mad punching a clock."

On a sudden impulse Casey said, "Why not try the States? Maybe I could help you find a job." "What?"

"Yes. Perhaps in fashion—I don't know what exactly but I'll try."

Orlanda was staring at her incredulously. "You'd help me, really help me?"

"Yes." Casey put the envelope and her card on the table and got up, her whole body aching. "I'll try."

Orlanda went to her and put her arms around her. "Oh thank you, Casey, thank you."

Casey hugged her back, their tears mixing.

The night was dark now with little light from the small moon that came through the high clouds from time to time. Roger Crosse walked silently up to the half-hidden gate in the tall walls that surrounded Government House and used his key. He locked the gate behind him, walked quickly along the path, keeping to the shadows. Near the house he detoured and went to the east side, down some steps to a basement door and took out another key.

This door swung open, equally quietly. The armed sentry, a Gurkha, held his rifle ready. "Password, sir!"

Crosse gave it. The sentry saluted and stepped aside. At the far end of the corridor Crosse knocked. The door was opened by the governor's aide. "Evening, Superintendent." "I hope I haven't kept you waiting?"

"No, not at all." This man led the way through communicating cellars to a thick iron door set into a concrete box that was crudely constructed in the middle of the big main cellar, wine racks nearby.

He took out the single key and unlocked it. The door was very heavy. Crosse went inside alone and closed the door after him. Once inside, the door barred, he relaxed. Now he was totally safe from prying eyes and prying ears. This was the Holy of Holies, a conference room for very private conversations, the concrete room and communications center laboriously built by trusted SI officers, British only, to ensure against enemy listening devices being inserted into the walls—the whole structure tested weekly by Special Branch experts—in case some were somehow infiltrated.

In one corner was the complicated, highly sophisticated transmitter that fed signals into the unbreachable code scrambler, thence to the complex of antenna atop Government House, thence to the stratosphere, and thence to Whitehall.

Crosse switched it on. There was a comforting hum. "The minister, please. This is Asian One." It gave him great pleasure to use his inner code name.

"Yes, Asian One?"

"Tsu-yan was one of the persons meeting the spy, Brian Kwok."

"Ah! So we can strike him off the list."

"Both of them, sir. They're isolated now. On Saturday, the defector Joseph Yu was seen crossing the border."

"Damn! You'd better have a team assigned to monitor him. Do we have fellows at their atomic center at Siankiang?"

"No sir. However there's a rumor Dunross is going to meet Mr. Yu in Canton in a month."

"Ah, what about Dunross?"

"He's loyal—but he'll never work for us."

"What about Sinders?"

"He performed well. I do not consider him a security risk."

"Good. What about the Ivanov?"

"She sailed at noon. We haven't found Suslev's body—it'll take weeks to sift and dig out that wreckage. I'm afraid we may never find him in one piece. With Plumm gone too we'll have to rethink Sevrin."

"It's too good a ploy not to have in existence, Roger."

"Yes, sir. The other side will think so too. When Suslev's replacement arrives I'll see what they have in mind, then we can formulate a plan."

"Good. What about deVille?"

"He is to be transferred to Toronto. Please inform the RCMP.

Next, about the nuclear carrier: Her complement is 5,500 officers and men, 83,350 tons, eight reactors, top speed sixty-two knots, forty-two F-4 Phantom IPs each with nuclear capability, two Hawks Mark V. Curiously her only defense against an attack is one bank of SAMs on her starboard side …"

Crosse continued to give his report, very pleased with himself, loving his work, loving being on both sides, on three, he reminded himself. Yes, triple agent, with money to spare, both sides not trusting him completely yet needing him, praying he was on their side—not theirs.

Sometimes I almost wonder myself, he thought with a smile.

In the terminal building at Kai Tak, Armstrong was leaning heavily against the information counter, watching the door, feeling rotten. Crowds were milling as usual. To his surprise, he saw Peter Marlowe come in with Fleur Marlowe and their two children, dolls and small suitcases in their hands. Fleur was pale and drawn. Marlowe too. He was laden with suitcases. "Hello, Peter," Armstrong said. "Hello, Robert. You're working late."

"No, I've, er, I've just seen Mary off. She's off on a vacation to England for a month. Evening, Mrs. Marlowe. I was sorry to hear." "Oh, thank you, Superintendent. I'm qu—" "We're going to Binkok," the four-year-old interrupted gravely. "That's in Minland."

"Oh come along, silly," her sister said. "It's Bunkok in Mainland. That's China," she added importantly to Armstrong. "We're on vacation too. Mummy's been sick."

Peter Marlowe smiled tiredly, his face creased. "Bangkok for a week, Robert. A holiday for Fleur. Old Doc Tooley said it was important for her to get a rest." He stopped as the two children began to squabble. "Quiet, you two! Darling," he said to his wife, "you check us in. I'll catch you up."

"Of course. Come along. Oh do behave, both of you!" She walked off, the two children skittering ahead.

"Won't be much of a holiday for her, I'm afraid," Peter Marlowe said. Then he dropped his voice. "One of my friends told me to pass on that the meeting in Macao of the narcotics villains is this Thursday."

"Do you know where?"

"No. But White Powder Lee's supposed to be one of them. And an American. Banastasio. That's the rumor."

"Thanks. And?"

"That's all."

"Thanks, Peter. Have a good trip. Listen, there's a fellow in the Bangkok police you should look up. Inspector Samanthajal—tell him I said so."

"Thanks. Rotten about Line Bartlett and the others, wasn't it? Christ, I was invited to that party too."

"Joss."

"Yes. But that doesn't help him or them, does it? Poor buggers! See you next week."

Armstrong watched the tall man walk away, then went back to the information counter and leaned against it, continuing to wait, sick at heart.

His mind inexorably turned to Mary. Last night they had had a grinding row, mostly over John Chen, but more because of his last few days, Brian and the Red Room and borrowing the money, betting it all on Pilot Fish, waiting in agony, then winning and putting all the $40,000 back in his desk drawer—never a need to touch another penny—paying off his debts and buying her a ticket home but another row tonight and her saying, "You forgot our anniversary! That's not much to remember is it? Oh I hate this bloody place and bloody Werewolves and bloody everything. Don't expect me back!"

Dully he lit a cigarette, loathing the taste yet liking it. The air was humid again, sour. Then he saw Casey come in. He stubbed out his cigarette and went to intercept her, the heaviness in her walk saddening him. "Evening," he said, feeling very tired.

"Oh, oh hello, Superintendent. How, how're things?"

"Fine. I'll see you through."

"Oh that's kind of you."

"I was damned sorry to hear about Mr. Bartlett."

"Yes. Yes, thank you."

They walked on. He knew better than to talk. What was there to say? Pity, he thought, liking her, admiring her courage, proved at the fire, proved on the slope, proved now, keeping her voice firm when all of her is torn up.

There were no customs outwardbound. The Immigration officer stamped her passport and handed it back with untoward politeness.

"Please have a safe journey and return soon." The death of Bartlett had been headlines, among the sixty-seven.

Along corridors to the VIP lounge. Armstrong opened the door for her. To his surprise and her astonishment Dunross was there. The glass door to Gate 16 and the tarmac was open, Yankee 2 just beyond.

"Oh. Oh hello, Ian," she said. "But I didn't want you to s—"

"Had to, Casey. Sorry. I've a little unfinished business with you and I had to meet a plane. My cousin's coming back from Taiwan