The door opened and the girl came in. She was twenty-five and stunning with short black hair and sloe eyes, clearly Eurasian, casually dressed in tight, American washed jeans and a shirt. "Hello, Quillan," she said with a smile that warmed the room, her English slightly American accented. "Sorry to interrupt but I've just got back from Bangkok and wanted to say hello."

"Glad you did, Orlanda." Gornt smiled at Bartlett who was staring at her. "This is Linc Bartlett, from America. Orlanda Ramos."

"Hello," Bartlett said.

"Hia oh, Line Bartlett? The American millionaire gun-runner?" she said and laughed.

"What?"

"Oh don't look so shocked, Mr. Bartlett. Everyone in Hong Kong knows Hong Kong's just a village."

"Seriously how did you know?"

"I read it in my morning paper."

"Impossible! It only happened at 5:30 this morning."

"It was in the Fai Pa~the Press in the Stop Press column at nine o'clock. It's a Chinese paper and the Chinese know everything that's going on here. Don't worry, the English papers won't pick it up till the afternoon editions, but you can expect the press on your doorstep around the happy hour."

"Thanks." The last thing I want's the goddamn press after me, Bartlett thought sourly.

"Don't worry, Mr. Bartlett, I won't ask you for an interview, even though I am a free-lance reporter for the Chinese press. I'm really very discreet," she said. "Am I not, Quillan?"

"Absolutely. I'll vouch for that," Gornt said. "Orlanda's absolutely trustworthy."

"Of course if you want to offer an interview I'll accept. Tomorrow."

"I'll consider it."

"I'll guarantee to make you look marvelous!"

"The Chinese really know everything here?"

"Of course," she said at once. "But quad lob foreigners don't read the Chinese papers, except for a handful of old China hands like Quillan."

"And the whole of Special Intelligence, Special Branch and the police in general," Gornt said.

"And Ian Dunross," she added, the tip of her tongue touching her teeth.

"He's that sharp?" Bartlett asked.

"Oh yes. He's got Devil Struan's blood in him."

"I don't understand."

"You will, if you stay here long enough."

Bartlett thought about that, then frowned. "You knew about the guns too, Mr. Gornt?"

"Only that the police had intercepted contraband arms aboard'the millionaire American's private jet which arrived last night.' It was in my Chinese paper this morning too. The Sing Pan " Gornt's smile was sardonic. "That's The Times in Cantonese. It was in their Stop Press column too. But, unlike Orlanda, I am surprised you haven't been intercepted by members of our English press already. They're very diligent here in Hong Kong. More diligent than Orlanda gives them credit for being."

Bartlett caught her perfume but persisted. "I'm surprised you didn't mention it, Mr. Gornt."

"Why should I? What do guns have to do with our possible future association?" Gornt chuckled. "If worst comes to worst we'll visit you in jail, Orlanda and I."

She laughed. "Yes indeed."

"Thanks a lot!" Again her perfume. Bartlett put aside the guns and concentrated on her. "Ramos that's Spanish?"

"Portuguese. From Macao. My father worked for RothwellGornt in Shanghai my mother's Shanghainese. I was brought up in Shanghai until '49, then went to the States for a few years, to high school in San Francisco."

"Did you? L.A.'s my hometown I went to high school in the Valley."

"I love California," she said. "How d'you like Hong Kong?"

"I've just arrived." Bartlett grinned. "Seems I made an explosive entrance."

She laughed. Lovely white teeth. "Hong Kong's all right provided you can leave every month or so. You should visit Macao for a weekend it's old worldly, very pretty, only forty miles away with good ferries. It's very different from Hong Kong." She turned back to Gornt. "Again, I'm sorry to interrupt, Quillan, just wanted to say helloa" She started to leave.

"No, we're through I was just going," Bartlett said, interrupting her. "Thanks again, Mr. Gornt. See you Tuesday if not beforea Hope to see you again, Miss Ramos."

"Yes, that would be nice. Here's my card if you'll grant the interview I guarantee a good press." She held out her hand and he touched it and felt her warmth.

Gornt saw him to the door and then closed it and came back to his desk and took a cigarette. She lit the match for him and blew out the flame, then sat in the chair Bartlett had used.

"Nice-looking man," she said.

"Yes. But he's American, naive, and a very cocky bastard who may need taking down a peg."

"That's what you want me to do?"

"Perhaps. Did you read his dossier?"

"Oh yes. Very interesting." Orlanda smiled.

"You're not to ask him for money," Gornt said sharply.

"Ayeeyah, Quillan, am I that dumb?" she said as abrasively, her eyes flashing.

"Good."

"Why would he smuggle guns into Hong Kong?"

"Why indeed, my dear? Perhaps someone was just using him."

"That must be the answer. If I had all his money I wouldn't try something as stupid as that."

"No," Gornt said.

"Oh, did you like that bit about my being a free-lance reporter? I thought I did that very well."

"Yes, but don't underestimate him. He's no fool. He's very sharp. Very." He told her about the Casale. "That's too much of a coinci dence. He must have a dossier on me too, a detailed one. Not many know of my liking for that place."

"Maybe I'm in it too."

"Perhaps. Don't let him catch you out. About the free lancing."

"Oh, come on, Quillan, who of the tai-pans except you and Dunross read the Chinese papers and even then you can't read all of them. I've already done a column or twoa 'by a Special Correspondent.' If he grants me an interview I can write it. Don't worry." She moved the ashtray closer for him. "It went all right, didn't it? With Bartlett?"

"Perfectly. You're wasted. You should be in the movies."

"Then talk to your friend about me, please, please, Quillan dear. Charlie Wang's the biggest producer in Hong Kong and owes you lots of favors. Charlie Wang has so many movies going thata just one chance is all I needa I could become a star! Please?"

"Why not?" he asked dryly. "But I don't think you're his type."

"I can adapt. Didn't I act exactly as you wanted with Bartlett. Am I not dressed perfectly, American style?"

"Yes, yes you are." Gornt looked at her, then said delicately, "You could be perfect for him. I was thinking you could perhaps have something more permanent than an affaira"

All her attention concentrated. "What?"

"You and he could fit together like a perfect Chinese puzzle. You're good-humored, the right age, beautiful, clever, educated, marvelous at the pillow, very smart in the head, with enough of an American patina to put him at ease." Gornt exhaled smoke and added, "And of all the ladies I know, you could really spend his money. Yes, you two could fit perfectlya he'd be very good for you and you'd brighten his life considerably. Wouldn't you?"

"Oh yes," she said at once. "Oh yes I would." She smiled then frowned. "But what about the woman he has with him? They're sharing a suite at the Vic. I heard she's gorgeous. What about her, Quillan?"

Gornt smiled thinly. "My spies say they don't sleep together though they're better than friends."

Her face fell. "He's not queer, is he?"

Gornt laughed. It was a good rich laugh. "I wouldn't do that to you, Orlanda! NO, I'm sure he's not. He's just got a strange arrangement with Casey."

"What is it?"

Gornt shrugged.

After a moment she said, "What do I do about her?"

"If Casey Tcholok's in your way, remove her. You've got claws."

"You'rea Sometimes I don't like you at all."

"We're both realists, you and I. Aren't we." He said it very flat.

She recognized the undercurrent of violence. At once she got up and leaned across the desk and kissed him lightly. "You're a devil," she said, placating him. "That's for old times."

His hand strayed to her breast and he sighed, remembering, enjoying the warmth that came through the thin material. "Ayeeyah, Orlanda, we had some good times, didn't we?"

She had been his mistress when she was seventeen. He was her first and he had kept her for almost five years and would have continued but she went with a youth to Macao when he was away and he had been told about it. Arid so he had stopped. At once. Even though they had a daughter then, he and she, one year old.

"Orlanda," he had told her as she had begged for forgiveness "there's nothing to forgive. I've told you a dozen times that youth needs youth, and there'd come a daya Dry your tears, marry the lad I'll give you a dowry and my blessinga" And throughout all her weepings he had remained firm. "We'll be friends," he had assured her, "and I'll take care of you when you need ita"

The next day he had turned the heat of his covert fury on the youth, an Englishman, a minor executive in Asian Properties and, within the month, he had broken him.

"It's a matter of face," he had told her calmly.

"Oh I know, I understand buta what shall I do now?" she had wailed. "He's leaving tomorrow for England and he wants me to go with him and marry him but I can't marry now, he's got no money or future or job or moneya"

"Dry your tears, then go shopping."

"What?"

"Yes. Here's a present." He had given her a first-class, return ticket to London on the same airplane that the youth was traveling tourist. And a thousand pounds in crisp, new ten-pound notes. "Buy lots of pretty clothes, and go to the theater. You're booked into the Connaught for eleven days just sign the bill and your return's confirmed, so have a happy time and come back fresh and without problems!"

"Oh thank you, Quillan darling, oh thank youa I'm so sorry. You forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive. But if you ever talk to him again, or see him privatelya I won't be friendly to you or your family ever again."

She had thanked him profusely through her tears, cursing herself for her stupidity, begging for the wrath of heaven to descend upon whoever had betrayed her. The next day the youth had tried to speak to her at the airport and on the plane and in London but she just cursed him away. She knew where her rice bowl rested. The day she left London he committed suicide.

When Gornt heard about it, he lit a fine cigar and took her out to a dinner atop the Victoria and Albert with candelabra and fine linen and fine silver, and then, after he had had his Napoleon brandy and she her creme de menthe, he had sent her home, alone, to the apartment he still paid for. He had ordered another brandy and stayed, watching the lights of the harbor, and the Peak, feeling the glory of vengeance, the majesty of life, his face regained.

"Ayeeyah, we had some good times," Gornt said again now, still desiring her, though he had not pillowed with her from the time he had heard about Macao.

"Quillana" she began, his hand warming her too.

"No."

Her eyes strayed to the inner door. "Please. It's three years, there's never been anyonea"

"Thank you but no." He held her away from him, his hands now firm on her arms but gentle. "We've already had the best," he said as a connoisseur would. "I don't like second best."

She sat back on the edge of the desk, watching him sullenly. "You always win, don't you."

"The day you become lovers with Bartlett I'll give you a present," he said calmly. "If he takes you to Macao and you stay openly with him for three days I'll give you a new Jag. If he asks you to marry him you get the apartment and everything in it, and a house in California as a wedding present."

She gasped, then smiled gloriously. "An XK-E, a black one, Quillan, oh that would be perfect!" Then her happiness evaporated. "What's so important about him? Why is he so important to you?"

He just stared at her.

"Sorry," she said, "sorry, I shouldn't have asked." Thoughtfully she reached for a cigarette and lit it and leaned over and gave it to him.

"Thanks," he said, seeing the curve of her breast, enjoying it, yet a little saddened that such beauty was so transient. "Oh, by the way, I wouldn't like Bartlett to know of our arrangement."

"Nor would I." She sighed and forced a smile. Then she got up and shrugged. "Ayeeyah, it would never have lasted with us anyway. Macaoor not Macao. You would have changed you'd have become bored, men always do."

She checked her makeup and her shirt and blew him a kiss and left him. He stared at the closed door then smiled and stubbed out the cigarette she had given him, never having puffed on it, not wanting the taint of her lips. He lit a fresh one and hummed a little tune.

Excellent, he thought happily. Now we'll see, Mr. Bloody Cocky Confident Yankee Bartlett, now we'll see how you handle that knife. Pasta with beer indeed!