"Any moment, sir."

Voranski cursed silently for he was obliged to report back to the ship by phone within the hour. He did not like divergences in any plan.

"Very well," he said. "Tell him to call me at 32 " This was the code name for their safe apartment in Sinclair Towers."Has the American arrived yet?"

"Yes."

"Good. He was accompanied?"

"Yes."

"Good. And?"

"Arthur told me nothing more."

"Have you met her yet?"

"No."

"Has Arthur?"

"I don't know."

"Has contact been made yet with either of them?"

"Sorry, I don't know. Arthur didn't tell me."

"And the tai-pan? What about him?"

"Everything's arranged."

"Good. How long would it take you to get to 32, if necessary?"

"Ten to fifteen minutes. Did you want us to meet you there?"

"I'll decide that later."

"Oh Mr. Brown, Arthur thought you might like a little company after such a voyage. Her name's Koh, Maureen Kohl"

"That was thoughtful of him very thoughtful."

"Her phone number's beside the phone at 32. Just ring and she'll arrive within half an hour. Arthur wanted to know if your superior was with you tonight if he'd need companionship also."

"No. He'll join us as planned tomorrow. But tomorrow evening he will expect hospitality. Good night." Voranski-hung up arrogantly, conscious of his KGB seniority. At that instant the booth door swung open and the Chinese barged in and another blocked the outside. "What the"

The words died as he did. The stiletto was long and thin. It came out easily. The Chinese let the body fall. He stared down at the inert heap for a moment then cleaned the knife on the corpse and slid-it back into its sheath in his sleeve. He grinned at the heavyset Chinese who still blocked the glass windows in the upper part of the booth as though he were the next customer, then put a coin in and dialed.

Ori the third ring a polite voice said, "Tsim Sha Tsui Police Station, good evening."

The man smiled sardonically and said rudely in Shanghainese, "You speak Shanghainese?" ~ A hesitation, a click, and now another voice in Shanghainese said, "This is Divisional Sergeant Tang-po. What is it, caller?"

"A Soviet pig slipped through your mother-fornicating net to" night as easily as a bullock shits, but now he's joined his ancestors. Do we of the 14K have to do all your manure-infected work for you?"

"What Sovie"

"Hold your mouth and listen! His turtle-dung corpse's in a phone booth at Golden Ferry, Kowloonside. Just tell your mother.fornicating superiors to keep their eyes on enemies of China and not up their fornicating stink holes!"

At once he hung up and eased out of the box. He turned back momentarily and spat on the body, then shut the door and he and his companion joined the streams of passengers heading for the Hong Kong ferry.

They did not notice the man trailing them. He was a short, tubby American dressed like all the other tourists with the inevitable camera around his neck. Now he was leaning against the starboard gunnel melding into the crowd perfectly, pointing his camera this way and that as the ferry scuttled toward Hong Kong Island. But unlike other tourists his film was very special, so was his lens, and his camera.

"Hello, friend," another tourist said with a beam, wandering up to him. "You having yourself a time?"

"Sure," the man said. "Hong Kong's a great place, huh?"

"You can say that again." He turned and looked at the view. "Beats the hell outta Minneapolis."

The first man turned also but kept his peripheral vision locked onto the two Chinese, then dropped his voice. "We got problems."

The other tourist blanched. "Did we lose him? He didn't double back, Tom, I'm certain. I covered both exits. I thought you had him pegged in the booth."

"You bet your ass he was pegged. Look back there, center row the Chinese joker with the white shirt and the one next to him. Those two sons of bitches knocked him off."

"Jesus!" Marty Povitz, one of the team of CIA agents assigned to cover the Sovetsky Ivanov, carefully looked at the two Chinese. "Kuomintang? Nationalists? Or Commies?"

"Shit, I don't know. But the stiff's still in a phone booth back there. Where's Rosemont?"

"He's g " Povitz stopped then raised his voice and became an affable tourist again as passengers began to crowd nearer the exit. "Lookit there," he said, pointing to the crest of the Peak. The apartment buildings were tall and well lit and so were the houses that dotted the slopes, one particularly, one very high, the highest private mansion in Hong Kong. It was floodlit and sparkled like a jewel. "Say, whoever lives there's just about on top of the world, huh?"

Tom Connochie, the senior of the two, sighed. "Gotta be a tai- pan's house." Thoughtfully he lit a cigarette and let the match spiral into the black waters. Then, openly chatting tourist-style, he took a shot of the house and casually finished the roll of film, taking several more of the two Chinese. He reloaded his camera and, unobserved, passed the roll of exposed film to his partner. Hardly using his lips, he said, "Call Rosemont up there, soon as we dock tell him we got problems then go get these processed tonight. I'll phone you when these two've bedded down."

"You crazy?" Povitz said. "You're not tailing them alone."

"Have to, Marty, the film might be important. We're not risking that."

"No."

"Goddamnit, Marty, I'm tai-pan of this operation."

"Orders says two g"

"Screw orders!" Connochie hissed. "Just call Rosemont and don't foul up the film." Then he raised his voice and said breezily, "Great night for a sail, huh?"

"Sure."

He nodded at the sparkle of light on the crest of the Peak, then focused on it through his super-powered telescopic lens viewfinder. "You live up there, you got it made, huh?"

Dunross and Bartlett were facing each other in the Long Gallery at the head of the staircase. Alone.

"Have you made a deal with Gornt?" Dunross asked.

"No," Bartlett said. "Not yet." He was as crisp and tough as Dunross and his dinner jacket fitted as elegantly.

"Neither you nor Casey?" Dunross asked "No."

"But you have examined possibilities?"

"We're in business to make money, Ian as are you!"

"Yes. But there're ethics involved."

"Hong Kong ethics?"

"May I ask how long you have been dealing with (}ornt?"

"About six months. Are you agreeing to our proposal today?"

Dunross tried to put away his tiredness. He had not wanted to seek out Bartlett tonight but it had been necessary. He felt the eyes from all the portraits on the walls watching him. "You said Tuesday. I'll tell you Tuesday."

"Then until then, if I want to deal with Gornt or anyone else, that's my right. If you accept our offer now, it's a deal. I'm told you're the best, the Noble House, so I'd rather deal with you than him providing I get top dollar with all the necessary safeguards.

I'm cash heavy, you're not. You're Asian heavy, I'm not. So we should deal."

Yes, Bartlett told himself, covering his foreboding, though delighted that his diversion this morning with Gornt had produced the confrontation so quickly and brought his opponent to bay at the moment, Ian, you're just that, an opponent, until we finalize, if we finalize.

Is now the time to blitzkrieg?

He had been studying Dunross all evening, fascinated by him and the undercurrents and everything about Hong Kong so totally alien to anything he had ever experienced before. New jungle, new rules, new dangers. Sure, he thought grimly, with both Dunross and Gornt as dangerous as a swamp full of rattlers and no yardstick to judge them by. I've got to be cautious like never before.

He felt his tension strongly, conscious of the eyes that watched from the walls. How far dare I push you, Ian? How far do I gamble? The profit potential's huge, the prize huge, but one mistake and you'll eat us up, Casey and me. You're a man after my own heart but even so still an opponent and governed by ghosts. Oh yes, I think Peter Marlowe was right in that though not in everything.

Jesus! Ghosts and the extent of the hatreds! Dunross, Gornt, Penelope, young Struan, Adryona Adryon so brave after her initial fright.

He looked back at the cold blue eyes watching him. What would I do now, Ian, if I were you, you with your wild-ass heritage standing there so outwardly confident?

I don't know. But I know me and I know what Sun Tzu said about battlefields: only bring your opponent to battle at a time and a place of your own choosing. Well it's chosen and it's here and now.

"Tell me, Ian, before we decide, how are you going to pay off your three September notes to Toda Shipping?"

Dunross was shocked. "I beg your pardon?"

"You haven't got a charter yet and your bank won't pay without one, so it's up to you, isn't it?"

"The banka there's no problem."

"But I understand you've already overextended your line of credit 20 percent. Doesn't that mean you'll have to find a new line of credit?"

"I'll have one if I need it," Dunross said, his voice edgy, and Bartlett knew he had gotten under his guard.

"12 million to Toda's a lot of cash when you add it to your other indebtedness."

"What other indebtedness?"

"The installment of $6,800,000 U.S. due September 8 on your Orlin International Banking loan of 30 million unsecured; you've 4.2 million in consolidated corporate losses so far this year against a written-up paper profit of seven and a half last year; and 12 million from the loss of Eastern Cloud and all those contraband engines."

The color was out of Dunross's face. "You seem to be particularly well informed."

"I am. Sun Tzu said that you've got to be well informed about your allies."

The small vein in Dunross's forehead was pulsating. "You mean enemies."

"Allies sometimes become enemies, Ian."

"Yes. Sun Tzu also hammered about spies. Your spy can only be one of seven men."

Bartlett replied as harshly, "Why should I have a spy? That information's available from banks all you've got to do is dig a little. Toda's bank's the Yokohama National of Japan and they're tied in with Orlin in a lot of deals eotre we, Stateside."

"Whoever your spy is, he's wrong. Orlin will extend. They always uave."

"Don't bet on it this time. I know those bastards and if they smell a killing, they'll have your ass so fast you'll never know what happened."

"A killing of Struan's?" Dunross laughed sardonically. "There's no way Orlin or any god-cursed bank could or would want us wrecked."

"Maybe Gornt's got a deal cooking with them." .

"Christ Jesusa" Dunross held on to his temper with an effort. "Has he or hasn't he?"

"Ask him."

"I will. Meanwhile if you know anything, tell me nowI"

"You've got enemies every which way.".

"So have you."

"Yes. Does that make us good or bad partners?" Bartlett stared back at Dunross. Then his eyes fell on a portrait at the far end of the gallery. Ian Dunross was staring down at him from the wall, the likeness marvelous, part of a three-masted clipper in the back- ground.

"Is thata Jesus, that's gotta be Dirk, Dirk Struan!"

Dunross turned and looked at the painting. "Yes."

Bartlett walked over and studied it. Now that he looked closer he could see that the sea captain was not Dunross, but even so, there was a curious similarity. "Jacques was right," he said.

"No."

"He's right." He turned and studied Dunross as though the man was a picture, comparing them back and forth. At length he said, "It's the eyes and the line of the jaw. And the taunting look in the eyes which says, 'You'd better believe I can kick the shit out of you anytime I want to.'"

The mouth smiled at him. "Does it now?"