"Sergeant, get the Black Maria."

"Yes sir." Another agent went off quickly as Armstrong went closer. The Russian was gray-haired, a squat man with small, angry eyes. He was held perfectly with no chance of escape and no chance to put a hand into a pocket or into his mouth to destroy evidence, or himself.

Armstrong searched him expertly. No manual or roll of film. "Where did you put it?" he asked.

"I no understand!"

The man's hatred did not bother Armstrong. He bore him no malice, the man was just a target who had been trapped. I wonder who shopped this poor bugger who's frightened to death, rightly, who's now ruined with the KGB and with his own people forever and might as well be a dead man. I wonder why it's our coup and not old Rosemont's and his CIA boys? How is it we're the ones who knew about the drop and not the Yanks? How is it Crosse got to know about this? All Crosse had told him was the where and the how and that the drop was going to be made by a sailor from the carrier and intercepted by someone off the Ivanov.

"You're in charge, Robert, and please, don't make a balls up."

"I won't. But please get someone else for Brian K"

"For the last time, Robert, you're doing the Kwok interrogation and you're seconded to SI until I release you. And if you bitch once more I'll have you out of the force, out of Hong Kong, out of your pension and I hardly need remind you SI's reach is very long. I doubt if you'd work again, unless you go criminal, and then God help you. Is that finally clear?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Brian will be ready for you at six tomorrow morning."

Armstrong shivered. How impossibly lucky we were to catch himl If Spectacles Wu hadn't come from Ning-tok if the old amah hadn't talked to the Werewolf if the run on the bank Christ, so many ifs. But then that's how you catch a fish, a big fish. Pure, bloody, unadulterated luck most times. Jesus Christ, Brian Kwok! You poor bugger!

He shivered again.

"You all right, sir?" Malcolm Sun asked.

"Yes." Armstrong looked back at the Russian. "Where did you put the film, the roll of film?"

The man stared back at him defiantly. "Don't understand!"

Armstrong sighed. "You do, too well." The big black van came through the gawking crowd and stopped. More SIs got out. "Put him in and don't let go of him," Armstrong said to those holding him. The crowd watched and chattered and jeered as the man was frog-marched into the van. Armstrong and Sun got in after him and closed the door.

"Off you go, driver," Armstrong ordered.

"Yes sir." The driver let in his clutch easing through the crowds and joined the snarled traffic heading for Central HQ.

"All right, Malcolm. You can begin."

The Chinese agent took out a razor-sharp knife. The Soviet man blanched.

"What's your name?" Armstrong asked, sitting on a bench opposite him.

Malcolm Sun repeated the question in Russian.

"Da Dimitri Metkin," the man muttered, still held viselike by the four men and unable to move a finger or a toe. "Seaman, first class."

"Liar," Armstrong said easily. "Go ahead, Malcolm."

Malcolm Sun put the knife under the man's left eye and the man almost fainted. "That comes later, spy," Sun said in Russian with a chilling smile. Expertly, with a deliberate malevolent viciousness, Sun rapidly sliced the raincoat away. Armstrong searched it very carefully as Sun used the knife deftly to cut away the man's seaman's jersey and the rest of his clothes until he was naked. The knife had not cut or even nicked him once. A careful search and re-search revealed nothing. Nor his shoes, the heels or the soles.

"Unless it's a microdot transfer and we've missed it so far, it must be in him," Armstrong said.

At once the men holding the Russian bent him over and Sun got out the surgical gloves and surgical salve and probed deeply. The man flinched and moaned and tears of pain seeped from his eyes.

"Dew neh lob mob," Sun said happily. His fingers drew out a small tube of cellophane wrapping.

"Don't let go of him!" Armstrong rapped.

When he was sure the man was secure he peered at the cylindrical package. Inside he could see the double-ended circles of a film cartridge. "Looks like a Minolta," he said absently.

Using some tissues he wrapped the cellophane carefully and sat down opposite the man again. "Mr. Metkin, you're charged under the Official Secrets Act for taking part in an espionage act against Her Majesty's Government and her allies. Anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence against you. Now, sir," he continued gently, "you're caught. We're all Special Intelligence and not subject to normal laws, any more than your own KGB is. We don't want to hurt you but we can hold you forever if we want, in solitary if we want. We would like a little cooperation. Just the answers to a few questions. If you refuse we will extract the information we require. We use a lot of your KGB techniques and we can, sometimes, go a little better." He saw a flash of terror behind the man's eyes but something told him this man would be hard to crack.

"What's your real name? Your official KGB name?"

The man stared at him.

"What's your KGB rank?"

The man still stared.

Armstrong sighed. "I can let my Chinese friends have at you, old chum, if you prefer. They really don't like you at all. Your Soviet armies ran all over Malcolm Sun's village in Manchuria and wiped it out and his family. Sorry, but I really must have your official KGB name, your rank on the Swetsky Ivanov and official position."

Another hostile silence.

Armstrong shrugged. "Go ahead, Malcolm."

Sun reached up and jerked the ugly-looking crowbar from its clip and as the four men turned Metkin roughly onto his stomach and spread-eagled him, Sun inserted the tip. The man screamed. "Waita waita" he gasped in guttural English, "waita I'm Dimitria" Another scream. "Nicoli Leonov, major, political commissaaaara"

"That's enough, Malcolm," Armstrong said, astonished by the importance of their catch.

"But sira"

"That's enough," Armstrong said harshly, deliberately protective as Sun was deliberately hostile and angrily slammed the crowbar back into its clips. "Pull him up," he ordered, sorry for the man, the indignity of it. But he had never known the trick to fail to produce a real name and rank, if done at once. It was a trick because they would never probe deeply and the first scream was always from panic and not from pain. Unless the enemy agent broke at once they would always stop and then, at headquarters, put him through a proper monitored interrogation. Torture wasn't necessary though some zealots used it against orders. This is a dangerous profession, he thought grimly. KGB methods are rougher, and Chinese have a different attitude to life and death, victor and vanquished, pain and pleasure and the value of a scream.

"Don't take it badly, Major Leonov," he said kindly when the others had pulled him up and sat him back on the bench, still holding him tightly. "We don't want to harm you or let you harm yourself."

Metkin spat at him and began to curse, tears of terror and rage and frustration running down his face. Armstrong nodded at Mal- colm Sun who took out the prepared pad and held it firmly over Metkin's nose and mouth.

The heavy, sick-sweet stench of chloroform filled the stuffy atmosphere. Metkin struggled impotently for a moment, then subsided. Armstrong checked his eyes and his pulse to make sure he was not feigning unconsciousness. "You can let him go now," he told them. "You all did very well. I'll see a commendation goes on all your records. Malcolm, we'd better take good care of him. He might suicide."

"Yes." Sun sat back with the others in the swaying van. It was grinding along in the heavy traffic irritatingly, stopping and starting. Later he said what was in all their minds. "Dimitri Metkin, alias Nicoli Leonov, major, KGB, off the Ivanov, and her political commissar. What's a big fish like that doing on a small job like this?"

48 - 7:05 P.M.:.

Linc Bartlett chose his tie carefully. He was wearing a pale blue shirt and light tan suit and the tie was tan with a red stripe. A beer was open on the chest of drawers, the can pearled from the cold. All day he had debated with himself whether he should call for Orlanda or not call for her, whether he should tell Casey or not tell Casey.

The day had been fine for him. First, breakfast with Orlanda and then out to Kai Tak to check his airplane and make sure he could use it, for the flight with Dunross to Taipei. Lunch with Casey, then the excitement of the exchange. After the exchange had closed he and Casey had caught the ferry to Kowloon. Canvas storm shades lashed against the rain shut out the view and made the deck claustrophobic and the crossing not pleasant. But it was pleasant with Casey, his awareness of her heightened by the knowledge of Orlanda, and the dilemma.

"Ian's had it, hasn't he, Linc?"

"I'd think so, sure. But he's smart, the battle's not over yet, only the first attack."

"How can he get back? His stock's at bargain prices."

"Compared to last week, sure, but we don't know his earning ratio. This exchange's like a yo-yo you said so yourself and dangerous. Ian was right in that."

"I'll bet he knows about the 2 million you put up with Gornt."

"Maybe. It's nothing he wouldn't do if he had the chance. You meeting Seymour and Charlie Forrester?"

"Yes. The Pan Am flight's on time and I've a limo coming. I'll leave soon as we get back. You think they'll want dinner?"

"No. They'll be jet-lagged to hell." He had grinned. "I hope." Both Seymour Steigler 111, their attorney, and Charlie Forrester, the head of their foam division, were socially very hard going. "What time's their flight in?"

"4:50. We'll be back around six."

At six they had had a meeting with Seymour Steigler Forrester was unwell and had gone straight to bed.

Their attorney was a New Yorker, a handsome man with wavy black-gray hair and dark eyes and dark rings under his eyes. "Casey filled me in on the details, Linc," he said. "Looks like we're in great shape."

By prior arrangement, Bartlett and Casey had laid out the whole deal to their attorney, excluding the secret arrangement with Dunross about his ships.

"There're a couple of clauses I'd want in, to protect us, Line," Steigler said.

"All right. But I don't want the deal renegotiated. We want a wrap by Tuesday, just as we've laid it out."

"What about Rothwell-Gornt? Best I should feel them out, huh? We can kite Struan's."

"No," Casey had said. "You leave Gornt and Dunross alone, Seymour." They had not told Steigler about Bartlett's private deal with Gornt either. "Hong Kong's more complicated than we thought. Best leave it as it is."

"That's right," Bartlett said. "Leave Gornt and Dunross to Casey and me. You just deal with their attorneys."

"Whattre they like?"

"English. Very proper," Casey said. "I met with John Dawson at noon he's their senior partner. Dunross was supposed to be there but he sent Jacques deVille instead. He's one of Struan's directors, deals with all their corporate affairs, and some financing. Jacques is very good but Dunross runs everything and decides everything. That's the bottom line."

"How about getting this, er, Dawson on the phone right now? I'll meet with him over breakfast, say here at eight."

Bartlett and Casey had laughed. "No way, Seymour!" she had said. "It'll be a leisurely in by ten and a two-hour lunch. They eat and drink like there's no tomorrow, and everything's the 'old boy' bit."

"Then I'll meet him after lunch when he's mellow and maybe we can teach him a trick or two," Seymour Steigler had said, his eyes hardening. He stifled a yawn. "I've got to call New York before I hit the sack. Hey, I've got all the papers on the GXR merger an"

"I'll take those, Seymour," Casey said.

"And I bought the 200,000 block of Rothwell-Gornt at 23.5() what're they today?"

"21.".

"Jesus, Line, you're down 300 grand," Casey said, perturbed. "Why not sell and buy back7 If and when."

"No. We'll hold the stock." Bartlett was not worried about the Rothwell stock loss for he was well ahead on his share of Gornt's selling-short ploy. "Why don't you quit for the night, Seymour? If you're up we'll have breakfast the three of us say about eight?"

"Good idea. Casey, you'll fix me with Dawson?"

"First thing. They'll see you in the morning sometime. The taipana Ian Dunross's told them our deal's top priority."

"It should be," Steigler said. "Our down payment gets Dunross off the hook."

"If he survives," Casey said.

"Here today, gone tomorrow so let's enjoy!"

It was one of Steigler's standard sayings and the phrase was still ringing in Bartlett's head. Here today, gone tomorrowa like the fire last night. That could've been bad. I could've bashed my head in the way that poor bastard Pennyworth did. You never know when it's your turn, your accident, your bullet or your act of God. From outside or inside. Like Dad! Jesus bronzed and healthy, hardly sick a day in his life, then the doc says he's got the big C and in three months he's wasted away and stinking and dying in great pain.

Bartlett felt a sudden sweat on his forehead. It had been a bad time then, during his divorce, burying his father, his mother distraught and everything falling apart. Then finalizing the divorce. The settlement had been vicious but he had just managed to retain control of the companies, to pay her off without having to sell out. He was still paying even though she'd remarried along with an escalating maintenance for his children as well as future settlements every cent still hurting, not the money itself but the unfairness of California law, the attorney in for a third until death us do part, screwed by my attorney and hers. One day I'll have vengeance on them, Bartlett grimly promised himself again. On them and all the other goddamn parasites.

With an effort he thrust them aside. For today.

Here today, gone tomorrow, so let's enjoy, he repeated as he sipped his beer, tied his tie and looked at himself in the mirror. Without vanity. He liked living within himself and he had made his peace with himself, knowing who he was and what he was about. The war had helped him do that. And surviving the divorce, surviving her, finding out about her and living with it Casey the only decent thing that whole year.

Casey.

What about Casey?

Our rules are quite clear, always have been. She set them: If I have a date or she has a date, we have dates and no questions and no recammabons.

Then why is it I'm all uptight now that I've decided to see Orlanda without telling Casey?

He glanced at his watch. Almost time to go.

There was a half-hearted knock on the door and instantly it opened and Nighttime Song beamed at him. "Missee," the old man announced and stepped aside. Casey was approaching down the corridor, a sheaf of papers and a notebook in her hand.

"Oh hi, Casey," Bartlett said. "I was just going to phone you."

"Hi, Line," she called out and then said, "Doh jeh, " in Cantonese to the old man as she passed. Her walk was happy as she came into the two-bedroom suite. "Got some stuff for you." She handed him a sheaf of telexes and letters and went to the cocktail bar to pour herself a dry martini. She wore casual, slim-fitting gray pants and flat gray shoes with a gray silk open-necked shirt. Her hair was tied back and a pencil left there was her only decoration. Tonight she was wearing glasses, not her usual contacts. "The first couple deal with the GXR merger. It's all signed, sealed and delivered, and we take possession September 2. There's a board meeting confirmed at 3:00 P.M. in L.A. that gives us plenty of time to get back. I've ask"

"Turn down bed, Master?" Nighttime Song interrupted importantly from the door.

Bartlett started to say no, but Casey was already shaking her head. "Um ho, " she said pleasantly in Cantonese, pronouncing the words well and with care. "Cha o'er. doh jeh. " No thank you, please do it later.

Nighttime Song stared at her blankly. "Mat?"

Casey repeated it. The old man snorted, irritated that Golden Pubics had the bad manners to address him in his own language. "Turn down bed, heya7 Now heya?" he asked in bad English.

Casey repeated the Cantonese, again with no reaction, began again then stopped and said wearily in English, "Oh never mind! Not now. You can do it later."