"Yes, all the time," Dunross said and he wondered if Bartlett had taken the bait and was considering a Mafioso-style hijack with his friend Banastasio. "We've a very large shipment coming in in about three weeks," he said, increasing the lure.

"What's fifty tons worth?" Bartlett asked.

Dunross smiled to himself remembering Zeppelin Tung with his exactitude of figures. As if it mattered! "63 million dollars legally, give or take a few thousand."

"And you're moving it just with a bunch of old men, two trucks that're not even armored and no guards?"

"Of course. That's no problem in Hong Kong, which's one of the reasons our police are so sensitive about guns here. If they've the only guns in the Colony, well, what can the crooks and pasties do except curse?"

"But where're the police? I didn't see but one and he wasn't armed."

"Oh, they're around, I suppose," Dunross said, deliberately un- derplaying it.

Casey peered at the gold bar, enjoying the touch of the metal. "It feels so cool and so permanent. Tai-pan, if it's 63 million legal, what's it worth on the black market?"

Dunross noticed tiny beads of perspiration now on her upper lip. "However much someone's prepared to pay. At the moment, I hear the best market's India. They'd pay about $80 to $90 an ounce, U.S., delivered into India."

Bartlett smiled crookedly and reluctantly put his four bars back onto their pile. "That's a lot of profit."

They watched in silence as another canvas bag was sealed, the bars checked and rechecked by both clerks. Again the two loaders lifted the sack onto a bent back and the man plodded out.

"Whattre those?" Casey asked, pointing to some much bigger bars that were in another part of the vault.

"They're the regulation four-hundred-ounce bars," Dunross said. "They weigh around twenty-five pounds apiece." The bar was stamped with a hammer and sickle and 99, 999. "This's Russian. It's 99.99 percent pure. South African gold is usually 99.98 percent pure so the Russian's sought after. Of course both're easy to buy in the London gold market." He let them look awhile longer, then said "Shall we go now?"

On the street there was still only one policeman and the sloppy, unarmed bank guards, the two truck drivers smoking in their cabins. Traffic eased past from time to time. A few pedestrians.

Dunross was glad to get out of the close confinement of the vault. He had hated cellars and dungeons ever since his father had locked him in a cupboard when he was very small, for a crime he could not now remember. But he remembered old Ah Tat, his amah, rescuing him and standing up for him him staring up at his father, trying to hold back the terror tears that would not be held back.

"It's good to be out in the air again," Casey said. She used a tissue. Inexorably her eyes were dragged to the sacks in the nearly full truck. "That's real money," she muttered, almost to herself. A small shudder wracked her and Dunross knew at once that he had found her jugular.

"I could use a bottle of beer," Bartlett said. "So much money makes me thirsty."

"I could use a Scotch and soda!" she said, and the spell was broken.

"We'll stroll over to the Victoria and see the delivery begin, then we'll eat." Dunross stopped. He saw the two men chatting near the trucks, partially in shadow. He stiffened slightly.

The two men saw him. Martin Haply of the China Guardian and Peter Marlowe.

"Oh, hello, tai-pan," young Martin Haply said, coming up to him with his confident grin. "I didn't expect to see you here. Evening, Miss Casey, Mr. Bartlett. Tai-pan, would you care to comment on the Ho-Pak matter?"

"What Ho-Pak matter?"

"The run on the bank, sir."

"I didn't know there was one."

"Did you happen to read my column about the various branches and the rumo"

"My dear Haply," Dunross said with his easy charm, "you know I don't seek interviews or give them lightlya and never on street corners."

"Yes sir." Haply nodded at the sacks. "Transferring all this gold out's Linda rough for the Ho-Pak, isn't it? That'll put the kiss of death on the bank when all this leaks."

Dunross sighed. "Forget the Ho-Pak, Mr. Haply. Can I have a word in private?" He took the young man's elbow and guided him away with velvet firmness. When they were alone, half covered by one of the trucks, he let go of the arm. His voice dropped. Involuntarily, Haply flinched and moved back half a pace. "Since you are going out with my daughter, I just want you to know that I'm very fond of her and among gentlemen there are certain rules. I'm presuming you're a gentleman. If you're not, God help you. You'll answer to me personally, immediately and without mercy." Dunross turned and went back to the others, full of sudden bonhomie. "Evening, Marlowe, how're things?"

"Fine, thank you, tai-pan." The tall man nodded at the trucks. "Astonishing, all this wealth!"

"Where did you hear about the transfer?"

"A journalist friend mentioned it about an hour ago. He said that some fifty tons of gold were being moved from here to the Victoria. I thought it'd be interesting to see how it was done. Hope it's nota hope I'm not treading on any corns."

"Not at all." Dunross turned to Casey and Bartlett. "There, you see, I told you Hong Kong was just like a village you can never keep any secrets here for long. But all this" he waved at the sacks "this is all lead fool's gold. The real shipment was completed an hour ago. It wasn't fifty tons, only a few thousand ounces. The majority of the Ho-Pak's bullion's still intact." He smiled at Haply who was not smiling but listening, his face set.

"This's all Eke after all?" Casey gasped.

Peter Marlowe laughed. "I must confess I did think this whole operation was a bit haphazard!"

"Well, good night you two," Dunross said breezily to Marlowe and Martin Haply. He took Casey's arm momentarily. "Come on, it's time for dinner." They started down the street, Bartlett beside them.

"Hut tai-pan, the ones we saw," Casey said, "the one I picked up, that was fake? I'dtve bet my life, wouldn't you have, Linc?"

"Yes," Bartlett agreed. "But the diversion was wise. That's what I'd've done."

They turned the corner, heading along toward the huge Victoria Bank building, the air warm and sticky.

Casey laughed nervously. "That golden metal was getting to me and it was fake all the time!"

"Actually it was all real," Dunross said quietly and she stopped.

"Sorry to confuse you, Casey. I only said that for Haply and Marlowe's benefit, to pour suspicion on their source. They could hardly prove it one way or another. I was asked to make the arrangements for the transfer little more than an hour ago which I did, obviously, with great caution." His heart quickened. He wondered how many other people knew about the AMG papers and the vault and the box number in the vault.

Bartlett watched him. "I bought what you said, so I guess they did," he said, but he was thinking, Why did you bring us to see the gold? That's what I'd like to know.

"It's curious, tai-pan," Casey said with a little nervous laugh. "I knew, I just knew the gold was real to begin with. Then I believed you when you said it was fake, and now I believe you back again. Is it that easy to fake?"

"Yes and no. You only know for certain if you put acid on it you've got to put it to the acid test. That's the only real test for gold. Isn't it?" he added to Bartlett and saw the half-smile and he wondered if the American understood.

"Guess that's right, fan. For gold or for people."

Dunross smiled back. Good, he thought grimly, we understand each other perfectly.

It was quite late now. Golden Ferries had stopped running and Casey and Linc Bartlett were in a small private hire-launch chugging across the harbor, the night grand, a good sea smell on the wind, the sea calm. They were sitting on one of the thwarts facing Hong Kong, arm in arm. Dinner had been the best they had ever eaten, the conversation filled with lots of laughter, Dunross charrning. They'd ended with cognac atop the Hilton. Both were feeling marvelously at peace with the world and with themselves.

Casey felt the light pressure of his arm and she leaned against him slightly. "It's romantic, isn't it, Linc? Look at the Peak, and all the lights. Unbelievable. It's the most beautiful and exciting place I've ever been."

"Better than the south of France?"

"That was so different." They had had a holiday on the Cote d'Azur two years ago. It was the first time they had holidayed together. And the last. It had been too much of a strain on both of them to stay apart. "lan's fantastic, isn't he?"

"Yes. And so are you."

"Thank you, kind sir, and so are you." They laughed, happy together.

At the wharf, Kowloon side, Linc paid the boat off and they strolled to the hotel, arm in arm. A few waiters were still on duty in the lobby.

"Evening, sir, evening, missee," the old elevator man said sibilantly, and, on their floor, Nighttime Chang scurried ahead of them to open the door of the suite. Automatically Linc gave him a dollar and they were bowed in. Nighttime Chang closed the door.

She bolted it.

"Drink?" he asked.

"No thanks. It'd spoil that brandy."

She saw him looking at her. They were standing in the center of the living room, the huge picture window displaying all of Hong Kong behind him, his bedroom to the right, hers to the left. She could feel the vein in her neck pulsing, her loins seemed liquid and he looked so handsome to her.

"Well, it'sa thanks for a lovely evening, Linc. I'lla I'll see you tomorrow," she said. But she did not move.

"It's three months to your birthday, Casey."

"Thirteen weeks and six days."

"Why don't we finesse them and get married now. Tomorrow?"

"You'vea you've been so wonderful to me, Linc, so good to be patient and put up with mya my craziness." She smiled at him. It was a tentative smile. "It's not long now. Let's do it as we agreed. Please?"

He stood there and watched her, wanting her. Then he said, "Sure." At his door he stopped. "Casey, you're right about this place. It is romantic and exciting. It's got to me too. Maybe, maybe you'd better get another room."

His door closed.

That night she cried herself to sleep.

W E D N E S D A Y.

27 - 5:45 A.M.:.

The two racehorses came out of the turn into the final stretch going very fast. It was false dawn, the sky still dark to the west, and the Happy Valley Racecourse was spotted with people at the morning workout.

Dunross was up on Buccaneer, the big bay gelding, and he was neck and neck with Noble Star, ridden by his chief jockey, Tom Leung. Noble Star was on the rails and both horses were going well with plenty in reserve. Then Dunross saw the winning post ahead and he had that sudden urge to jam in his heels and best the other horse. The other jockey sensed the challenge and looked across at him. But both riders knew they were there just to exercise and not to race, there to confuse the opposition, so Dunross bottled his almost blinding desire.

Both horses had their ears down now. Their flanks were wet with sweat. Both felt the bit in between their teeth. And now, well into the stretch, they pounded toward the winning post excitedly, the inner training sand track not as fast as the encircling grass, making them work harder. Both riders stood high in the stirrups, leaning forward, reins tight.

Noble Star was carrying less weight. She began to pull away. Dunross automatically used his heels and cursed Buccaneer. The pace quickened. The gap began to close. His exhilaration soared. This gallop was barely half a lap so he thought he would be safe. No opposing trainer could get an accurate timing on them so he kicked harder and the race was on. Both horses knew. Their strides lengthened. Noble Star had her nose ahead and then, feeling Buccaneer coming up fast, she took the bit, laid to and charged forward on her own account and drew away and beat Dunross by half a length.

Now the riders slackened speed and, standing easily, continued around the lovely course a patch of green surrounded by massed buildings and tiers of high rises that dotted the mountainsides. When Dunross had cantered up the final stretch again, he broke off the exercising, reined in beside where the winner's circle would normally be and dismounted. He slapped the filly affectionately on the neck, threw the reins to a stable hand. The man swung into the saddle and continued her exercise.

Dunross eased his shoulders, his heart beating nicely, the taste of blood in his mouth. He felt very good, his stretched muscles aching pleasantly. He had ridden all of his life. Horse racing was still officially all amateur in Hong Kong. When he was young he had raced two seasons and he would have continued, but he had been warned off the course by his father, then tai-pan and chief steward, and again by Alastair Struan when he took over both jobs, and ordered to quit racing on pain of instant dismissal. So he had stopped racing though he continued to exercise the Struan stable at his whim. And he raced in the dawn when the mood was on him.

It was the getting up when most of the world slept, to gallop in half light the exercise and excitement, the speed, and the danger that cleared his head.

Dunross spat the sweet sick taste of not winning out of his mouth. That's better, he thought. I could have taken Noble Star today, but I'dtve done it in the turn, not in the stretch.

Other horses were exercising on the sand track, more joining the circuit or leaving it. Knots of owners and trainers and jockeys were conferring, ma-fogs stable hands walking horses in their blankets. He saw Butterscotch Lass, Richard Kwang's great mare, canter past, a white star on her forehead, neat fetlocks, her jockey riding her tightly, looking very good. Over on the far side Pilot Fish, Gornt's prize stallion, broke into a controlled gallop, chasing another of the Struan string, Impatience, a new, young, untried filly, recently acquired in the first balloting of this season. Dunross watched her critically and thought she lacked stamina. Give her a season or two and then we'll see, he thought. Then Pilot Fish ripped past her and she skittered in momentary fright, then charged in pursuit until her jockey pulled her in, teaching her to gallop at his whim and not at hers.

"So, tai-pan!" his trainer said. He was a leather-faced, iron-hard Russian emigre in his late sixties with graying hair and this was his third season with Struan's.

"So, Alexi?"

"So the devil got into you and you gave him your heel and did you see Noble Star surge ahead?"

"She's a trier. Noble Star's a trier, everyone knows that," Dunross replied calmly.

"Yes, but I'dtve preferred only you and I to be reminded of it today and not" the small man jerked a calloused thumb at the onlookers and grinned "a and not every viblyadok in Asia."

Dunross grinned back. "You notice too much."

"I'm paid to notice too much."

Alexi Travkin could outride, outdrink, outwork and outstay a man half his age. He was a loner among the other trainers. Over the years he had told various stories about his past like most of those who had been caught in the great turmoils of Russia and her revolutions, China and her revolutions, and now drifted the byways of Asia seeking a peace they could never find.

Alexi Ivanovitch Travkin had come out of Russia to Harbin in Manchuria in 1919, then worked his way south to the International Settlement of Shanghai. There he began to ride winners.-Because he was very good and knew more about horses than most men know about themselves, he soon became a trainer. When the exodus happened again in '49 he fled south, this time to Hong Kong where he stayed a few years then drifted south again to Australia and the circuits there. But Asia beckoned him so he returned. Dunross was trainerless at that time and offered him the stable of the Noble House.

"I'll take it, tai-pan," he had said at once.

"We haven't discussed money," Dunross had said.

"You're a gentleman, so am I. You'll pay me the best for face and because I'm the best."

"Are you?"

"Why else do you offer me the post? You don't like to lose either."

Last season had been good for both of them. The first not so good. Both knew this coming season would be the real test.

Noble Star was walking past, settling down nicely.

"What about Saturday?" Dunross asked.

'She'll be trying."

"And Butterscotch Lass?"

"She'll be trying. So will Pilot Fish. So will all the others in all eight races. This's a very special meeting. We'll have to watch our entries very carefully."