"Of course." Her frown deepened as she opened her handbag and handed her U.S. passport over.

Years of experience made his inspection very detailed indeed. "Born Providence, Rhode Island, November 25, 1936, height 5 feet 8 inches, hair blond, eyes hazel." Passport's valid with two years left to run. Twenty-six, eh? I'dtve guessed younger, though there's a strangeness to her eyes if you look closely.

With apparent haphazardness he flipped carelessly through the pages. Her three month Hong Kong visa was current and in order. A dozen immigration visa stamps, all England, France, Italy or South American. Except one. USSR, dated July this year. A sevenday visit. He recognized the Moscow frank. "Sergeant Lee!"

"Yes sir?"

"Get it stamped for her," he said casually, and smiled down at her. "You're all cleared. You may stay more or less as long as you like. Towards the end of three months just go to the nearest police station and we'll extend your visa for you."

"Thanks very much."

"You'll be with us for a while?"

"That depends on our business deal," Casey said after a pause. She smiled at John Chen. "We hope to be in business for a long time."

John Chen said, "Yes. Er, we hope so too." He was still nonplussed, his mind churning. It's surely not possible for Casey Tcholok to be a woman, he thought.

Behind them the steward, Sven Svensen, came bouncing down the stairs, carrying two air suitcases. "Here you are, Casey. You're sure this's enough for tonight?"

"Yes. Sure. Thanks, Sven."

"Line said for you to go on. You need a hand through Customs?"

"No thanks. Mr. John Chen kindly met us. Also, Superintendent Armstrong, head of Kowloon CID."

"Okay." Sven studied the policeman thoughtfully for a moment. "I'd better get back."

"Everything all right?" she asked.

"I think so." Sven Svensen grinned. "Customs're just checking our stocks of booze and cigarettes." Only four things were subject to any import license or customs duty in the Colony gold, liquor, tobacco and gasoline and only one contraband apart from narcotics and totally forbidden: all forms of firearms and ammunition.

Casey smiled up at Armstrong. "We've no rice aboard, Superintendent. Linc doesn't eat it."

"Then he's in for a bad time here."

She laughed then turned back to Svensen. "See you tomorrow. Thanks."

"9 A.M. on the dot!" Svensen went back to the airplane and Casey turned to John Chen.

"Line said for us not to wait for him. Hope that's all right," she stud.

"Ah?"

"Shall we go? We're booked into the Victoria and Albert Hotel, Kowloon." She began to pick up her bags but a porter materialized out of the darkness and took them from her. "Linc'll come latera or tomorrow."

John Chen gawked at her. "Mr. Bartlett's not coming?"

"No. He's going to stay in the airplane overnight if he can get permission. If not, he'll follow us by cab. In any event he'll join us tomorrow for lunch as arranged. Lunch is still on, isn't it?"

"Oh yes, buta" John Chen was trying to get his mind working. "Then you'll want to cancel the 10 A.M. meeting?"

"Oh no. I'll attend that as arranged. Linc wasn't expected at that meeting. That's just financing not policy. I'm sure you understand. Linc's very tired, Mr. Chen," she said. "He just got back yesterday from Europe." She looked back at Armstrong. "The captain asked the tower if Linc could sleep in, Superintendent. They checked with Immigration who said they'd get back to us but I presume our request'll come through channels to you. We'd certainly appreciate it if you'd approve. He's really been on the jet lag trail for too long."

Armstrong found himself saying, "I'll chat with him about it."

"Oh thanks. Thanks very much," she said, and then to John Chen, "Sorry for all this trouble, Mr. Chen. Shall we go?" She began to head for Gate 16, the porter following, but John Chen pointed to his Rolls. "No, this way, Miss Tchu er, Casey."

Her eyes widened. "No Customs?"

"Not tonight," Armstrong said, liking her. "A present from Her Majesty's Government."

"I feel like visiting royalty."

"All part of the service."

She got into the car. Lovely smell of leather. And luxury. Then she saw the porter hurrying through the gate into the terminal building. "But what about my bags?"

"No need to worry about those," John Chen said irritably. "They'll be in your suite before you are."

Armstrong held on to the door for a moment. "John came with two cars. One for you and Mr. Bartlett the other for luggage."

"Two cars?"

"Of course. Don't forget you're in Hong Kong now."

He.watched the car drive off. Linc Bartlett's a lucky man, he thought, and wondered absently why Special Intelligence was interested in her.

"Just meet the airplane and go through her passport personally," the director of SI had told him this morning. "And Mr. Lincoln Bartlett's."

"May I ask why, sir?"

"No, Robert, you may not ask why. You're no longer in this branch you're in a nice cushy job at Kowloon. A positive sinecure, what?"

"Yes sir."

"And Robert, kindly don't balls up this operation tonight there may be a lot of very big names involved. We go to a great deal of t~wbk to keep you fellows abreast of what the pasties are doing."

"Yes sir."

Armstrong sighed as he walked up the gangway followed by Sergeant Lee. Dew neh lob mob on all senior officers, particularly the director of SI.

One of the Customs officials was waiting at the top of the gangway with Svensen. "Evening, sir," he said. "Everything's shipshape aboard. There's a .38 with a box of a hundred shells unopened as part of ship's stores. A Verey Light pistol. Also three hunting rifles and a twelve-bore with ammo belonging to Mr. Bartlett. They're all listed on the manifest and I inspected them. There's a locked gun cabinet in the main cabin. Captain has the key."

"Good."

"You need me anymore, sir?"

"No, thanks." Armstrong took the airplane's manifest and began to check it. Lots of wine, cigarettes, tobacco, beer and spirits. Ten cases of Dom Perignon '59, fifteen Puligny Montrachet '53, nine Chateau HautBrion '53. "No Lafite Rothschild 1916, Mr. Svensen?" he said with a small smile.

"No sir." Svensen grinned. "'16 was a very bad year. But there's half a case of the 1923. It's on the next page."

Armstrong flipped the page. More wines and the cigars were listed. "Good," he said. "Of course all this is in bond while you're on the ground."

"Yes sir. I'd already locked it your man's tagged it. He said it was okay to leave a twelve-pack of beer in the cooler."

"If the owner wants to import any of the wines, just let me know. There's no fuss and just a modest contribution to Her Majesty's bottom drawer."

"Sir?" Svensen was perplexed.

"Eh? Oh, just an English pun. Refers to a lady's bottom drawer in a chest of drawers where she puts away the things she needs in the future. Sorry. Your passport please." Svensen's passport was Canadian. "Thanks."

"May I introduce you to Mr. Bartlett? He's waiting for you."

Svensen led the way into the airplane. The interior was elegant and simple. Right off the small hallway was a sitting area with half a dozen deep leather chairs and a sofa. A central door closed off the rest of the airplane, aft. In one of the chairs a stewardess was half asleep, her travel bags beside her. Left was the cockpit door. It was open.

The captain and first officer/copilot were in their seats, still going through their paper work.

"Excuse me, Captain. This is Superintendent Armstrong," Svensen said, and stepped aside.

"Evening, Superintendent," the captain said. "I'm Captain Jannelli and this's my copilot, Bill O'Rourke."

"Evening. May I see your passports please?"

Both pilots had massed international visas and immigration stamps. No Iron Curtain countries. Armstrong handed them to Sergeant Lee for stamping. "Thank you, Captain. Is this your first visit to Hong Kong?"

"No sir. I was here a couple of times for R and R during Korea. And I had a six-month tour with Far Eastern as first officer on their round-the-world route in '56, during the riots."

"What riots?" O'Rourke asked.

"The whole of Kowloon blew apart. Couple hundred thousand Chinese went on a sudden rampage, rioting, burning. The cops sorry, the police tried to settle it with patience, then the mobs started killing so the cops, police, they got out a couple of Stenguns and killed half a dozen jokers and everything calmed down very gist. Only police have guns here which is a great idea." To Armstrong he said, "I think your guys did a hell of a job."

"Thank you, Captain Jannelli. Where did this flight emanate?"

"L.A. Los Angeles. Linc's Mr. Bartlett's head offlce's there."

"Your route was Honolulu, Tokyo, Hong Kong?"

"Yes sir."

"How long did you stop in Tokyo?"

Bill O'Rourke turned up the flight log at once. "Two hours and seventeen minutes. lust a refueling stop, sir."

"Just enough time to stretch your legs?"

Jannelli said, "I was the only one who got out. I always check my gear, the landing gear, and do an exterior inspection whenever we land."

"Yhat's a good habit," the policeman said politely. "How long are you staying?"

"Don't know, that's up to Linc. Certainly overnight. We couldn't leave before 1400. Our orders're just to be ready to go anywhere at any time."

"You've a fine aircraft, Captain. You're approved to stay here till 1400. If you want an extension, call Ground Control before that time. When you're ready, just clear Customs through that gate. And would you clear all your crew together, please."

"Sure Soon as we're refueled."

"You and all your crew know the importing of any firearms into the Colony is absolutely forbidden? We're very nervous about firearms in Hong Kong."

"So am I, Superintendent anywhere. That's why I've the only Icey to the gun cabinet."

"Good. Any problems, please check with my office."." Armstrong left and went into the anteroom, Svensen just ahead.

Jannelli watched him inspect the air hostess's passport. She was pretty, Jenny Pollard. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, then added quietly, "Something stinks around here."

"Huh?"

"Since when does CID brass check goddamn passports for chrissake? You sure we're not carrying anything curious?"

"Hell no. I always check everything. Including Sven'sstores. Of course I don't go through Linc's stuff or Casey's but they wouldn't do anything stupid."

"I've flown him for four years and never oncea Even so, something sure as hell stinks." Jannelli wearily twisted and settled himself in his pilot's seat more comfortably. "Jesus, I could use a massage and a week off."

In the anteroom Armstrong was handing the passport to Sergeant Lee who stamped it. "Thank you, Miss Pollard."

"Thank you."

"That's all the crew, sir," Svensen said. "Now Mr. Bartlett."

"Yes, please."

Svensen knocked on the central door and opened it without waiting. "Line, this's Superintendent Armstrong," he said with easy informality.

"Hi," Linc Bartlett said, getting up from his desk. He put out his hand. "May I offer you a drink? Beer?"

"No thanks. Perhaps a cup of coffee."

Svensen turned for the galley at once. "Coming up," he said.

"Make yourself at home. Here's my passport," Bartlett said. "Won't be a moment." He went back to the typewriter and continued tapping the keys with two fingers.

Armstrong studied him leisurely. Bartlett was sandy haired with gray-flecked blue eyes, a strong good-looking face. Trim. Sports shirt and jeans. He checked the passport. Born Los Angeles, October 1, 1922. He looks young for forty, he thought. Moscow franking, same as Casey Tcholok, no other Iron Curtain visits.

His eyes wandered the room. It was spacious, the whole width of the airplane. There was a short central corridor aft with two cabins offit and two toilets. And at the end a final door which he presumed was the master suite.

The cabin was fitted as if it were a communications center. Teletype, international telephone capability, built-in typewriters. An illuminated world time clock on a bulkhead. Filing cabinets, duplicator and a built-in leather-topped desk strewn with papers. Shelves of books. Tax books. A few paperbacks. The rest were war books and books on generals or by generals. Dozens of them. Wellington and Napoleon and Patton, Eisenhower's Crusade in Europe, Sun Tzu's The Art of Wara "Here you are, sir," broke into Armstrong's inspection.

"Oh, thank you, Svensen." He took the coffee cup and added a little cream.

Svensen put a fresh, opened can of chilled beer beside Bartlett, picked up the empty, then went back to the galley, closing the door after him. Bartlett sipped the beer from the can, rereading what he had written, then pressed a buzzer. Svensen came at once. "Tell Jannelli to ask the tower to send this off." Svensen nodded and left. Bartlett eased his shoulders and swung around in the swivel chair. "Sorry I had to get that right off."