"They all do."

"Nothing on John Chen yet?"

"Nothing." Armstrong caught sight of Dunross in his binoculars, talking to some stewards. Not far away was the SI guard that Crosse had assigned to him. Roll on Friday, the policeman thought. The sooner we see those AMG files the better. He felt slightly sick and he could not decide if it was apprehension about the papers, or Sevrin, or if it was just fatigue. He began to reach for a cigarette stopped. You don't need a smoke, he ordered himself. "You should give up smoking, Peter. It's very bad for you."

"Yes. Yes I should. How's it going with you?"

"No trouble. Which reminds me, Peter, the Old Man approved your trip around the border road. Day after tomorrow, Friday, 6:00 A.M. on the dot at Kowloon HQ. That all right?"

Peter Marlowe's heart leaped. At long last he could look into Mainland China, into the unknown. In all the borderland of the New Territories there was only one accessible lookout that tourists could use to see into China, but the hill was so far away you could not see much at all. Even with binoculars. "How terrific!" he said, elated. At Armstrong's suggestion he had written to the commissioner and applied for this permission. The border road meandered from shore to shore. It was forbidden to all traffic and all persons except locals in certain areas. It ran in a wide stretch of no-man'sland between the Colony and China. Once a day it was patrolled under very controlled circumstances. The Hong Kong Government had no wish to rock any PRC boats.

"One condition, Peter: You don't mention it or talk about it for a year or so."

"My word on it."

Armstrong suppressed another yawn. "You'll be the only Yank who's ever gone along it, perhaps ever will."

"Terrific! Thanks."

"Why did you become a citizen?"

After a pause Peter Marlowe said, "I'm a writer. All my income comes from there, almost all of it. Now people are beginning to read what I write. Perhaps I'd like the right to criticize."

"Have you ever been to any Iron Curtain countries?"

"Oh yes. I went to Moscow in July for the film festival. One of the films I wrote was the American entry. Why?"

"Nothing," Armstrong said, remembering Bartlett's and Casey's Moscow franks. He smiled. "No reason."

"One good turn deserves another. I heard a buzz about Bartlett's guns."

"Oh?" Armstrong was instantly attentive. Peter Marlowe was very rare in Hong Kong inasmuch as he crossed social strata and was accepted as a friend by many normally hostile groups.

"It's just talk probably but some friends have a theory"

"Chinese friends?"

"Yes. They think the guns were a sample shipment, bound for one of our piratical Chinese citizens at least, one with a history of smuggling for shipment to one of the guerrilla bands operating in South Vietnam, called Viet Cong."

Armstrong grunted. "That's farfetched, Peter, Hong Kong's not the place to transit guns."

"Yes. But this shipment was special, the first, and it was asked for in a hurry and was to be delivered in a hurry. You've heard of Delta Force?"

"No," Armstrong said, staggered that Peter Marlowe had already heard of what Rosemont, CIA, had assured them in great secrecy was a very classified operation.

"I understand it's a group of specially trained U.S. combat soldiers, Robert, a special force who're operating in Vietnam in small units under the control of the American Technical Group, which's a cover name for the CIA. It seems they're succeeding so well that the Viet Cong need modern weapons fast and in great quantity and are prepared to pay handsomely. So these were rushed here on Bartlett's plane."

"Is he involved?"

"My friends doubt it," he said after a pause. "Anyway, the gunstre U.S. Army issue. Robert, right? Well, once this shipment was approved, delivery in quantity was going to be easy."

"Oh, how?"

"The U.S. is going to supply the arms."

"What?"

"Sure." Peter Marlowe's face settled. "It's really very simple: Say these Viet Cong guerrillas were provided in advance with all exact U.S. shipment dates, exact destinations, quantities and types of arms small arms to rockets when they arrived in Vietnam?"

"Christ!"

"Yes. You know Asia. A little h'eung yau here and there and constant hijacking'd be simple."

"It'd be like them having their own stockpile!" Armstrong said, appalled. "How're the guns going to be paid for? A bank here?"

Peter Marlowe looked at him. "Bulk opium. Delivered here. One of our banks here supplies the financing."

The police officer sighed. The beauty of it fell into place. "Flawless," he said.

"Yes. Some rotten bastard traitor in the States just passes over schedules. That gives the enemy all the guns and ammunition they need to kill off our own soldiers. The enemy pays for the guns with a poison that costs them nothing I imagine it's about the only salable commodity they've got in bulk and can easily acquire. The opium's delivered here by the Chinese smuggler and converted to heroin because this's where the expertise is. The traitors in the States make a deal with the Mafia who sell the heroin at enormous profit to more kids and so subvert and destroy the most important bloody asset we have: youth."

"As I said, flawless. What some buggers'll do for money!" Arm- strong sighed again and eased his shoulders. He thought a moment. The theory tied in everything very neatly. "Does the name Banas- tasio mean anything?"

"Sounds Italian." Peter Marlowe kept his face guileless. His informants were two Portuguese Eurasian journalists who detested the police. When he had asked them if he could pass on the theory, da Vega had said, "Of course, but the police'll never believe it. Don't quote us and don't mention any names, not Four Finger Wu, Smuggler Pa, the Ching Prosperity, or Banastasio or anyone."

After a pause, Armstrong said, "What else have you heard?"

"Lots, but that's enough for today it's my turn to get the kids up, cook breakfast and get them toddling off to school." Peter Marlowe lit a cigarette and again Armstrong achingly felt the smoke need in his own lungs. "Except one thing, Robert. I was asked by a friendly member of the press to tell you he'd heard there's to be a big narcotics meeting soon in Macao."

The blue eyes narrowed. "When?"

"I don't know."

"What sort of meeting?"

"Principals. 'Suppliers, importers, exporters, distributors' was the way he put it."

"Where in Macao?"

"He didn't say."

"Names?"

"None. He did add that the meeting'll include a visiting VIP from the States."

"Bartlett?"

"Christ, Robert, I don't know and he didn't say that. Linc Bartlett seems a jolly nice fellow, and straight as an arrow. I think it's all gossip and jealousy, trying to implicate him."

Armstrong smiled his jaundiced smile. "I'm just a suspicious copper. Villains exist in very high places, as well as in the boghole. Peter, old fellow, give your friendly journalist a message: If he wants to give me information, phone me direct."

"He's frightened of you. So am I!"

"In my hat you are." Armstrong smiled back at him, liking him, very glad for the information and that Peter Marlowe was a safe go-between who could keep his mouth shut. "Peter, ask him where in Macao and when and who and " At a sudden thought, Armstrong said, stabbing into the unknown, "Peter, if you were to choose the best place in the Colony to smuggle in and out, where'd you pick?"

"Aberdeen or Mirs Bay. Any fool knows that they're just the places that've always been used first, ever since there was a Hong Kong."

Armstrong sighed. "I agree." Aberdeen, he thought. What Aberdeen smuggler? Any one of two hundred. Four Finger Wu'd be first choice. Four Fingers with his big black Rolls and lucky 8 number plate, that bloody thug Two Hatchet Tok and that young nephew of his, the one with the Yankee passport, the one from Yale, was it Yale? Four Fingers would be first choice. Then Goodweather Poon, Smuggler Pa, Ta Sap-fok, Fisherman Poka Christ, the list's endless, just of the ones we know about. In Mirs Bay, northeast beside the New Territories? The Pa Brothers, Big Mouth Fang and a thousand othersa "Well," he said, very very glad now for the information some thing tweaking him about Four Finger Wu though there had never been any rumor that he was in the heroin trade. "One good turn deserves another: Tell your journalist friend our visiting members of Parliament, the trade delegation, come in today from Pekinga What's up?"

"Nothing," Peter Marlowe said, trying to keep his face clear. "You were saying?"

Armstrong watched him keenly, then added, "The delegation arrives on the afternoon train from Canton. They'll be at the border, transferring trains at 4:32 we just heard of the change of plan last night so perhaps your friend could get an exclusive interview. Seems they've made very good progress."

"Thanks. On my friend's behalf. Yes thanks. I'll pass it on at once. Well, I must be offa"

Brian Kwok came hurrying toward them. "Hello, Peter." He was breathing quite hard. "Robert, sorry but Crosse wants to see us right now."

''Bloody hell!" Armstrong said wearily. "I told you it'd be better to wait before checking in. That bugger never sleeps." He rubbed his face to clear his tiredness away, his eyes red-rimmed. "You get the car, Brian, and I'll meet you at the front entrance."

"Good." Brian Kwok hurried away. Perturbed, Armstrong watched him go.

Peter Marlowe said as a joke, "The Town Hall's on fire?"

"In our business the Town Hall's always on fire, lad, some- where." The policeman studied Peter Marlowe. "Before I leave, Peter, I'd like to know what's so important about the trade delegation to you."

After a pause the man with the curious eyes said, "I used to know one of them during the war. Lieutenant Robin Grey. He was provost marshal of Changi for the last two years." His voice was flat now, more flat and more icy than Armstrong had imagined possible. "I hated him and he hated me. I hope I don't meet him, that's all."

Across the winner's circle Gornt had his binoculars trained on Armstrong as he walked after Brian Kwok. Then, thoughtfully, he turned them back on Peter Marlowe who was wandering toward a group of trainers and jockeys.

"Nosy bugger!" Gornt said.

"Eh? Who? Oh Marlowe?" Sir Dlmstan Barre chuckled. "He's not nosy, just wants to know everything about Hong Kong. It's your murky past that fascinates him, old boy, yours and the tai-pan's."

"You've no skeletons, Dunstan?" Gornt asked softly. "You're saying you and your family're lily white?"

"God forbid!" Barre was hastily affable, wanting to turn Gornt's sudden venom into honey. "Good God no! Scratch an Englishman find a pirate. We're all suspect! That's life, what?"

Gornt said nothing. He despised Barre but needed him. "I'm having a bash on my yacht on Sunday, Dunstan. Would you care to come you'll find it interesting."

"Oh? Who's the honored guest?"

"I thought of making it stag only no wives, eh7"

"Ah! Count me in," Barre said at once, brightening. "I could bring a lady friend?"

"Bring two if you like, old chap, the more the merrier. It'll be a small, select, safe group. Plumm, he's a good sort and his girl friend's lots of fun." Gornt saw Marlowe change direction as he was called over to a group of stewards dominated by Donald McBride Then, at a sudden thought, he added, "I think I'll invite Marlowe too."

"Why if you think he's nosy?"

"He might be interested in the real stories about the Struans, our founding pirates and the present-day ones." Gornt smiled with the front of his face and Barre wondered what devilment Gornt was planning.

The red-faced man mopped his brow. "Christ, I wish it would rain. Did you know Marlowe was in the Hurricanes he got three of the bloody Boche in the Battle of Britain before he got sent out to Singapore and that bloody mess. I'll never forgive those bloody Japs for what they did to our lads there, here, or in China."

"Nor will I," Gornt agreed darkly. "Did you know my old man was in Nanking in '37, during the rape of Nanking?"

"No, Christ, how did he get out?"

"Some of our people hid him for a few days we'd had associates there for generations. Then he pretended to the Japs that he was a friendly correspondent for the London Times and talked his way back to Shanghai. He still has nightmares about it."

"Talking about nightmares, old chap, were you trying to give Ian one last night by going to his party?"

"You think he got even by taking care of my car?"

"Eh?" Barre was appalled. "Good God! You mean your car was tampered with?"

"The master cylinder was ruptured by a blow of some kind. The mechanic said it could've been done by a rock thrown up against it."

Barre stared at him and shook his head. "Ian's not a fool. He's wild, yes, but he's no fool. That'd be attempted murder."

"It wouldn't be the first time."

"If I were you I'd not say that sort of thing publicly, old chap."

"You're not public, old chap. Are you?"

"No. Of cour"

"Good." Gornt turned his dark eyes on him. "This is going to be a time when friends should stick together."

"Oh?" Barre was instantly on guard.

"Yes. The market's very nervous. This Ho-Pak mess could foul up a lot of all our plans."

"My Hong Kong and Lan Tao Farms's as solid as the Peak."

"You are, providing your Swiss bankers continue to grant you your new line of credit."

Barre's florid face whitened. "Eh?"

"Without their loan you can't take over Hong Kong Docks and Wharves, Royal Insurance of Hong Kong and Malaya, expand into Singapore or complete a lot of other tricky little deals you've on your agenda you and your newfound friend, Mason Loft, the whiz kid of Threadneedle Street. Right?"

Barre watched him, cold sweat running down his back, shocked that Gornt was privy to his secrets. "Where'd you hear about those?"

Gornt laughed. "I've friends in high places, old chap. Don't worry, your Achilles' heel's safe with me."

"We'rea we're in no danger."

"Of course not." Gornt turned his binoculars back on his horse. "Oh by the way, Dunstan, I might need your vote at the next meeting of the bank."