James clavell

Decoded from Director, Washington, to Rosemont, Deputy Director Station Hong Kong: Sinders MI-6 brings orders from Source, London, that you are to go with him Friday to witness the handover of the papers and get an immediate photocopy.

"You'll get your copy in today's mail, Rog," the American said. "I can keep this?" Crosse asked.

"Sure. By the way, we have a tail on Dunross too. W—" Crosse said angrily, "Would you kindly not interfere in our jurisdiction!"

"I told you you were in Shitsville, Rog!" Tautly Rosemont placed another cable on the table.

Rosemont, Hong Kong. You will hand this cable to Chief of SI personally. Until further orders Rosemont is authorised to proceed independently to assist in the uncovering of the hostile in any way he chooses. He is, however, required to stay within the law and keep you advised personally of what he is doing. Source 8-98/3.

Rosemont saw Crosse bite back an explosion. "What else've you authorised?" Crosse asked.

"Nothing. Yet. Next: We'll be at the bank on Fri—"

"You know where Dunross's put the files?" "It's all over town—among the community. I told you your mole's been working overtime. " Abruptly Rosemont flared, "Come on for chrissake. Rog, you know if you tell a hot item to someone in London, it's all over town! We've all got security problems but yours're worse!" With an effort the American simmered down. "You could've levelled with me about the Dunross screw-up—it would've save us all a lot of heartache and a lotta face."

Crosse lit a cigarette. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. I was trying to maintain security."

"Remember me? I'm on our side!"

"Are you?"

"You bet your ass!" Rosemont said it very angrily. "And if it was up to me I'd have every safety deposit box open before sundown—and the hell with the consequences."

"Thank God you can't do that."

"For chrissake we're at war and God only knows what's in those other files. Maybe they'll finger your goddamn mole and then we can get the bastard and give him his!"

"Yes," Crosse said, his voice a whiplash, "or maybe there's nothing in the papers at all!"

"What do you mean?"

"Dunross agreed to hand the files over to Sinders on Friday.

What if there's nothing in them? Or what if he burned the pages and gives us just the covers? What the hell do we do then?"

Rosemont gaped at him. "Jesus—is that a possibility?"

"Of course it's a possibility! Dunross's clever. Perhaps they're not there at all, or the vault ones are false or nonexistent. We don't know he put them there, he just says he put them there. Jesus Christ, there're fifty possibilities. You're so smart, you CIA fellows, you tell me which deposit box and I'll open it myself."

"Get the key from the governor. Give me and some of my boys private access for five hours an—"

"Out of the question!" Crosse snarled, suddenly red-faced, and Armstrong felt the violence strongly. Poor Stanley, you're the target today. He suppressed a shudder, remembering the times he had had to face Crosse. He had soon learned that it was easier to tell the man the truth, to tell everything at once. If Crosse ever really went after him in an interrogation, he knew beyond doubt he would be broken. Thank God he's never yet had reason to try, he thought thankfully, then turned his eyes on Rosemont who was flushed with rage. I wonder who Rosemont's informants are, and how he knows for certain that Fong-fong and his team have been obliterated.

"Out of the question," Crosse said again.

"Then what the hell do we do? Sit on our goddamn lard till Friday?"

"Yes. We wait. We've been ordered to wait. Even if Dunross has torn out pages, or sections, or disposed of whole files, we can't put him in prison—or force him to remember or tell us anything."

"If the director or Source decide he should be leaned on, there're ways. That's what the enemy'd do."

Crosse and Armstrong stared at Rosemont. At length Armstrong said coldly, "But that doesn't make it right."

"That doesn't make it wrong either. Next: For your ears only, Rog."

At once Armstrong got up but Crosse motioned him to stay. "Robert's my ears." Armstrong hid the laughter that permeated him at so ridiculous a statement "No. Sorry, Rog, orders—your brass and mine."

Armstrong saw Crosse hesitate perfectly. "Robert, wait outside. When I buzz come back in. Check on Brian."

"Yes sir." Armstrong went out and closed the door, sorry that he would not be present for the kill.

"Well?"

The American lit another cigarette. "Top secret. At 0400 today the whole Ninety-second Airborne dropped into Azerbaijan supported by large units of Delta Force and they've fanned out all along the Iran-Soviet border." Crosse's eyes widened. "This was at the direct request of the Shah, in response to massive Soviet military preparations just over the border and the usual Soviet-sponsored riots all over Iran. Jesus, Rog, can't you get some air conditioning in here?" Rosemont mopped his brow. "There's a security blanket all over Iran now. At 0600 support units landed at Teheran airport. Our Seventh Fleet's heading for the Gulf, the Sixth—that's the Mediterranean—is already at battle stations off Israel, the Second, Atlantic, is heading for the Baltic, NORAD's alerted, NATO's alerted, and all Poseidons are one step from Red."

"Khrushchev is making another real play for Iran—always an optimum Soviet target right? He figures he has the advantage. It's right on his own border where his own lines of communication're short and ours huge. Yesterday the Shah's security people uncovered a 'democratic socialist' insurrection scheduled to explode in the next few days in Azerbaijan. So the Pentagon's reacting like mashed cats. If Iran goes so does the whole Persian Gulf, then Saudi Arabia and that wraps up Europe's oil and that wraps up Europe."

"The Shah's been in trouble before. Isn't this more of your overreacting?"

The American hardened. "Khrushchev backed down over Cuba—first goddamn time there's been a Soviet backoff—because JFK wasn't bluffing and the only thing Commies understand is force. Big-massive-honest-to-goddamn force! The Big K better back off this time too or we'll hand him his head."

"You'll risk blowing up the whole bloody world over some illiterate, rioting, fanatic nutheads who've probably got some right on their side anyway?"

"I'm not into politics, Rog, only into winning. Iran oil, Persian Gulf oil, Saudi oil're the West's jugular. We're not gonna let the enemy get it."

"If they want it they'll take it."

"Not this time, they won't. We're calling the operation Dry Run. The idea's to go in heavy, frighten 'em off and get out fast, quietly, so no one's the wiser except the enemy, and particularly no goddamn liberal fellow-traveller congressman or journalist. The Pentagon figures the Soviets don't believe we could possibly respond so fast, so massively from so far away, so they'll go into shock and run for cover and close everything down—until next time."

The silence thickened.

Crosse's fingers drummed. "What am I supposed to do? Why're you telling me this?"

"Because the brass ordered me to. They want all allied chief Sis to know because if the stuff hits the fan there'll be sympathy riots all over, as usual, well-coordinated rent-a-mob riots, and you'll have to be prepared. AMG's papers said that Sevrin had been activated here—maybe there's a tie-in. Besides, you here in Hong Kong are vital to us. You're the back door to China, the back door to Vladivostok and the whole of east Russia—and our best shortcut to their Pacific naval and atomic-sub bases." Rosemont took out another cigarette, his fingers shaking. "Listen, Rog," he said, controlling his grumbling anger, "let's forget all the interoffice shit, huh? Maybe we can help each other."

"What atomic subs?" Crosse said with a deliberate sneer, baiting him. "They haven't got atomic subs yet an—"

"Jesus Christ!" Rosemont flared. "You guys've got your heads up your asses and you won't listen. You spout detente and try to muzzle us and they're laughing their goddamn heads off. They got nuclear subs and missile sites and naval bases all over the Sea of Okhotsk!" Rosemont got up and went to the huge map of China and Asia that dominated one wall and stabbed the Kamchatka peninsula, north of Japan. "... Petropavlovsk, Vladivostok... they've giant operations all along this whole Siberian coast, here at Komsomolsk at the mouth of the Amur and on Sakhalin. But Petropav-lovsk's the big one. In ten years, that'll be the greatest war-port in Asia with support airfields, atomic-protected subpens and atomic-safe fighter strips and missile silos. And from there they threaten all Asia—Japan, Korea, China, the Philippines—not forgetting Hawaii and our West Coast."

"U. S. forces are preponderant and always will be. You're overreacting again."

Rosemont's face closed. "People call me a hawk. I'm not. Just a realist. They're on a war footing. Our Midas III's have pinpointed all kinds of crap, our..." He stopped and almost kicked himself for letting his mouth run on. "Well, we know a lot of what they're doing right now, and they're not making goddamn ploughshares."

"I think you're wrong. They don't want war any more than we do."

"You want proof? You'll get it tomorrow, soon as I've clearance!" the American said, stung. "If it's proved, can we cooperate better?"

"I thought we were cooperating well now."

"Will you?"

"Whatever you want. Does Source want me to react in any specific way?"

"No, just to be prepared. I guess this'll all filter down through channels today."

"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?"

"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 labour in '45, '6 and '7. A hundred thousand men they say. It's all underground, Rog, with space for 2500 aeroplanes, 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?"

"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 information.

"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 that..." 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 (Foreigner 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.

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

Crosse looked at them and their guards came up. "1 want that mole. I want him before the CIA uncover him. If they get him first..." 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 acquaintance...." Brian Kwok searched his memory. "... 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, / authorise 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 PM
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 jewellery 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 foetid 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, please?"

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 uniformed 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 up!" 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, Honoured 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—"

"Honoured 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 quietly. "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, Lord..." 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 fingers're police brutality I'll personally grind your fornicating Secret Sack to mincemeat!"