"Yes." Crosse was suddenly gentle. "What's really bothering you, Stanley?"

Rosemont's hostility left him. "We lost one of our best setups in East Berlin, last night, a lot of good guys. A buddy of mine got hit crossing back to us, and we're sure it's tied into AMG."

"Oh, sorry about that. It wasn't Tom Owen, was it?"

"No. He left Berlin last month. It was Frank O'Connell."

"Don't think I ever met him. Sad."

"Listen, Rog, this mole thing's the shits." He got up and went to the map. He stared at it a long time. "You know about Iman?"

"Sorry?"

Rosemont's stubby finger stabbed a point on the map. The city was inland, 180 miles north of Vladivostok at a rail junction. "It's an industrial center, railways, lots of factories."

"So?" Crosse asked.

"You know about the airfield there?"

"What airfield?"

"It's underground, whole goddamn thing, just out of town, built into a gigantic maze of natural caves. It's got to be one of the wonders of the world. It's atomic capable, Rog. The whole base was constructed by Japanese and Nazi slave labor in '45, '6 and '7. A hundred thousand men they say. It's all underground, Rog, with space for 2500 airplanes, air crews and support personnel. It's bombproof even atomic proof with eighty runways that lead out onto a gigantic airstrip that circles eighteen low hills. It took one of our guys nine hours to drive around it. That was back in '46 so what's it like now?"

"Improved if it exists."

"It's operational now. A few guys, intelligence, ours and yours, even a few of the better newspaper guys, knew about it even in '46. So why the silence now? That base alone's a massive threat to all of us and no one screams a shit. Even China, and she sure as hell's got to know about Iman."

"I can't answer that."

"I can. I think that info's being buried, deliberately, along with a lot of other things." The American got up and stretched. "Jesus, the whole world's falling apart and I got a backache. You know a good chiropractor?"

"Have you tried Doc Thomas on Pedder Street? I use him all the time."

"I can't stand him. He makes you wait in line won't give you an appointment. Thank God for chiropractors! Trying to get my son to be one instead of an M.D."

The phone rang and Crosse answered it.

"Yes Brian?" Rosemont watched Crosse as he listened. "Just a minute, Brian. Stanley, are we through now?"

"Sure. Just a couple of open, routine things."

"Right. Brian, come in with Robert as soon as you come up." Crosse put the phone down. "We couldn't establish contact with Fong-fong. You're probably correct. They'll be MPD'd or MPC'd in forty-eight hours."

"I don't understand."

"Missing Presumed Dead or Missing Presumed Captured."

"Rough. Sorry to bring bad news."

"Joss."

"With Dry Run and AMG, how about pulling Dunross into protective custody?"

"Out of the question."

"You have the Official Secrets Act."

"Out of the question."

"I'm going to recommend it. By the way, Ed Langan's FBI boys tied Banastasio in with Bartlett. He's a big shareholder in Par-Con. They say he supplied the dough for the last merger that put Par-Con into the big time."

"Anything on the Moscow visas for Bartlett and Tcholok?"

"Best we can find is that they went as tourists. Maybe they did, maybe it was a cover."

"Anything on the guns?" This morning Armstrong had told Crosse of Peter Marlowe's theory and he had ordered an immediate watch on Four Finger Wu and offered a great reward for informa- tion.

"The FBI're sure they were put aboard in L.A. It'd be easy Par-Con's hangar's got no security. They also checked on the serial numbers you gave us. They were all out of a batch that had gotten 'mislaid' en route from the factory to Camp Pendleton that's the Marine depot in southern California. Could be we've stumbled onto a big arms-smuggling racket. Over seven hundred M14's have gotten mislaid in the last six months. Talking about thata" He stopped at the discreet knock. He saw Crosse touch the switch. The door opened and Brian Kwok and Armstrong came back in. Crosse motioned them to sit. "Talking about that, you remember the CARE case?"

"The suspected corruption here in Hong Kong?"

"That's the one. We might have a lead for you."

"Good. Robert, you were handling that at one time, weren't you?"

"Yes sir." Robert Armstrong sighed. Three months ago one of the vice-consuls at the U.S. Consulate had asked the CID to investigate the~handling of the charity to see whether some light-fingered administrators were involved in a little take-away for personal profit. The digging and interviewing was still proceeding. "What've you got, Stanley?"

Rosemont searched in his pockets then pulled out a typed note. It contained three names and an address: Thomas K. K. Lim (Fo- reigner Lim), Mr. Tak Chou-lan (Big Hands Tak), Mr. Lo Tup-lin (Bucktooth Lo), Room 720, Princes Building, Central. "Thomas K. K. Lim is American, well heeled and well connected in Washington, Vietnam and South America. He's in business with the other two jokers at that address. We got a tip that he's mixed up in a couple of shady deals with AID and that Big Hands Tak is heavy in CARE. It's not in our bailiwick so it's over to you." Rosemont shrugged and stretched again. "Maybe it's something. The whole world's on fire but we still gotta deal with crooks! Crazy! I'll keep in touch. Sorry about Fong-fong and your people."

He left.

Crosse told Armstrong and Brian Kwok briefly what he had been told about Operation Dry Run.

Brian Kwok said sourly, "One day one of those Yankee madmentre going to make a mistake. It's stupid putting atomics into hair-trigger situations."

Crosse looked at them and their guards came up. "I want that mole. I want him before the CIA uncover him. If they get him firsta" The thin-faced man was clearly very angry. "Brian, go and see Dunross. Tell him AMG was no accident and not to go out without our people nearby. Under any circumstances. Say I would prefer him to give us the papers early, confidentially. Then he has nothing to fear."

"Yes sir." Brian Kwok knew that Dunross would do exactly as he wanted but he kept his mouth shut.

"Our normal riot planning will cover any by-product of the Iran problem and from Dry Run. However, you'd better alert CID an " He stopped. Robert Armstrong was frowning at the piece of paper Rosemont had given him. "What is it, Robert?"

"Didn't Tsu-yan have an office at Princes Building?"

"Brian?"

"We've followed him there several times, sir. He visited a business acquaintancea" Brian Kwok searched his memory. "a Shipping. Name of Ng, Vee Cee Ng, nicknamed Photographer Ng. Room 721. We checked him out but everything was above board. Vee Cee Ng runs Asian and China Shipping and about fifty other small allied businesses. Why?"

"This address's 720. Tsu-yan could tie in with John Chen, the guns, Banastasio, Bartlett even the Werewolves," Armstrong said.

Crosse took the paper. After a pause he said, "Robert, take a team and check 720 and 721 right now."

"It's not in my area, sir."

"How right you are!" Crosse said at once, heavy with sarcasm. "Yes. I know. You're CID Kowloon, Robert, not Central. However, I authorize the raid. Go and do it. Now."

"Yes sir." Armstrong left, red-faced.

The silence gathered.

Brian Kwok waited, staring stoically at the desk top. Crosse selected a cigarette with care, lit it, then leaned back in his chair. "Brian. I think Robert's the mole."

29 - 1:38 P.M.:.

Robert Armstrong and a uniformed police sergeant got out of the squad car and headed through the crowds into the vast maw of the Princes Arcade with its jewelry and curio shops, camera shops and radio shops stuffed with the latest electronic miracles, that was on the ground floor of the old-fashioned, high-rise office building in Central. They eased their way toward a bank of elevators, joining the swarm of waiting people. Eventually he and the sergeant squeezed into an elevator. The air was heavy and fetid and nervous. The Chinese passengers watched them obliquely and uncomfortably.

On the seventh floor Armstrong and the sergeant got out. The corridor was dingy and narrow with nondescript office doors on either side. He stood for a moment looking at the board. Room 720 was billed as "Ping-sing Wah Developments," 721 as "Asian and China Shipping." He walked ponderously down the corridor, Sergeant Yat alongside.

As they turned the corner a middle-aged Chinese wearing a white shirt and dark trousers was coming out of room 720. He saw them, blanched, and ducked back in. When Armstrong got to the door he expected it to be locked but it wasn't and he jerked it open just in time to see the man in the white shirt disappearing out of the back door, another man almost jamming him in equal haste to flee. The back door slammed closed.

Armstrong sighed. There were two rumpled secretaries in the sleazy, untidy office suite of three cramped rooms, and they were gawking at him, one with her chopsticks poised in midair over a bowl of chicken and noodles. The noodles slid off her chopsticks and fell back into the soup.

"Afternoon," Armstrong said.

The two women gaped at him, then looked at the sergeant and back to him again.

"Where are Mr. Lim, Mr. Tak and Mr. Lo, pleased"

One of the girls shrugged and the other, unconcerned, began to eat again. Noisily. The office suite was untidy and unkempt. There were two phones, papers strewn around, plastic cups, dirty plates and bowls and used chopsticks. A teapot and tea cups. Full garbage cans.

Armstrong took out the search warrant and showed it to them.

The girls stared at him.

Irritably Armstrong harshened his voice. "You speak English?"

Both girls jumped. "Yes sir," they chorused.

"Good. Give your names to the sergeant and answer his questions. Th " At that moment the back door opened again and the two men were herded back into the room by two hard-faced uni- formed policemen who had been waiting in ambush. "Ah, good. Well done. Thank you, Corporal. Now, where were you two going?"

At once the two men began protesting their innocence in voluble Cantonese.

"Shut upl" Armstrong snarled. They stopped. "Give me your names!" They stared at him. In Cantonese he said, "Give me your names and you'd better not lie or I will become very fornicating angry."

"He's Tak Chou-lan," the one with pronounced buck teeth said, pointing at the other.

"What's your name?"

"Er, Lo Tup-sop, Lord. But I haven't done anyt"

"Lo Tup-sop? Not Lo Tup-lin?"

"Oh no, Lord Superintendent, that's my brother."

"Where is he?"

The buck-toothed man shrugged. "I don't know. Please what's go"

"Where were you going in such a hurry, Bucktooth Lo?"

"I'd forgotten an appointment, Lord. Oh it was very important. It's urgent and I will lose a fortune, sir, if I don't go immediately. May I now please go, Honored Lo"

"No! Here's my search warrant. We're going to search and take away any papers th"

At once both men began to protest strenuously. Again Armstrong cut them short. "Do you want to be taken to the border right now?" Both men blanched and shook their heads. "Good. Now, where's Thomas K. K. Lim?" Neither answered so Armstrong stabbed his finger at the younger of the two men. "You, Mr. Bucktooth Lo! Where's Thomas K. K. Lim?"

"In South America, Lord," Lo said nervously.

"Where?"

"I don't know, sir, he just shares the office. That's his fornicating desk." Bucktooth Lo waved a nervous hand at the far corner. There was a messy desk and a filing cabinet and a phone there. "I've done nothing wrong, Lord. Foreigner Lim's a stranger from the Golden Mountain. Fourth Cousin Tak here just rents him space, Lord. Foreigner Lim just comes and goes as it pleases him and is nothing to do with me. Is he a foul criminal? If there's anything wrong I don't know anything about it!"

"Then what do you know about the thieving of funds from the CARE program?"

"Eh?" Both men gaped at him.

"Informers have given us proof you're all thieving charity money that belongs to starving women and children!"

At once both began protesting their innocence.

"Enough! The judge will decide! You will go to headquarters and give statements." Then he switched back into English once more. "Sergeant, take them back to headquarters. Corporal, let's st"

"Honored sir," Bucktooth Lo began in halting, nervous English, "if I may to talk, in office, plees?" He pointed at the inner, equally untidy and cluttered office.

"All right."

Armstrong followed Lo, towering over him. The man closed the door nervously and began talking Cantonese quickly and very qui- etly. "I don't know anything about anything criminal, Lord. If something's amiss it's those other two fornicators, I'm just an honest businessman who wants to make money and send his children to university in America an"

"Yes. Of course. What did you want to say to me privately before you go down to police headquarters?"

The man smiled nervously and went to the desk and began to unlock a drawer. "If anyone's guilty it's not me, Lord. I don't know anything about anything." He opened the drawer. It was filled with used, red, 100 dollar notes. They were clipped into thousands. "If you'll let me go, Lorda" He grinned up at him, fingering the notes. Armstrong's foot lashed out and the drawer slammed and caught Lo's fingertips and he let out a howl of pain. He tore the drawer open with his good hand. "Oh oh oh my fornic"

Armstrong shoved his face close to the petrified Chinese. "Listen, you dogmeat turd, it's against the law to try to bribe a policeman and if you claim your fingerstre police brutality I'll personally grind your fornicating Secret Sack to mincemeat!"

He leaned back against the desk, his heart pounding, sickness in his throat, enraged at the temptation and sight of all that money. How easy it would be to take it and pay his debts and have more than enough over to gamble on the market and at the races, and then to leave Hong Kong before it was too late.