CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

4:55 P.M.:

The cardboard box that the Werewolves had sent to Phillip Chen was on Roger Crosse’s desk. Beside the box was the ransom note, key ring, driver’s license, pen, even the crumpled pieces of torn newspaper that had been used for packing. The little plastic bag was there, and the mottled rag. Only its contents were missing.

Everything had been tagged.

Roger Crosse was alone in the room and he stared at the objects, fascinated. He picked up a piece of the newspaper. Each had been carefully smoothed out, most were tagged with a date and the name of the Chinese newspaper it had come from. He turned it over, seeking hidden information, a hidden clue, something that might have been missed. Finding nothing, he put it back neatly and leaned on his hands, lost in thought.

Alan Medford Grant’s report was also on his desk, near the intercom. It was very quiet in the room. Small windows overlooked Wanchai and part of the harbor toward Glessing’s Point.

His phone jangled. “Yes?”

“Mr. Rosemont, CIA, and Mr. Langan, FBI, sir.”

“Good.” Roger Crosse replaced his phone. He unlocked his top desk drawer and carefully put the AMG file on top of the decoded telex and relocked it. The middle drawer contained a high-quality tape recorder. He checked it and touched a hidden switch. Silently the reels began to turn. The intercom on his desk contained a powerful microphone. Satisfied, he relocked this drawer. Another hidden desk switch slid a bolt open on the door soundlessly. He got up and opened the door.

“Hello, you two, please come in,” he said affably. He closed the door behind the two Americans and shook hands with them. Unnoticed, he slid the bolt home again. “Take a seat. Tea?”

“No thanks,” the CIA man said.

“What can I do for you?”

Both men were carrying manila envelopes. Rosemont opened his and took out a sheaf of good-quality eight-by-ten photos, clipped into two sections. “Here,” he said, passing over the top section.

They were various shots of Voranski running across the wharf, on the streets of Kowloon, getting into and out of taxis, phoning, and many more of his Chinese assassins. One photograph showed the two Chinese leaving the phone booth with a clear glimpse of the crumpled body in the background.

Only Crosse’s superb discipline kept him from showing astonishment, then blinding rage. “Good, very good,” he said gently, putting them on the desk, very conscious of the ones Rosemont had retained in his hand. “So?”

Rosemont and Ed Langan frowned. “You were tailing him too?”

“Of course,” Crosse said, lying with his marvelous sincerity. “My dear fellow, this is Hong Kong. But I do wish you’d let us do our job and not interfere.”

“Rog, we, er, we don’t want to interfere, just want to backstop you.”

“Perhaps we don’t need backstopping.” There was a sharpness to his voice now.

“Sure.” Rosemont took out a cigarette and lit it. He was tall and thin with gray crew-cut hair and good features. His hands were strong, like all of him. “We know where the two killers’re holed up. We think we know,” he said. “One of our guys thinks he’s pegged them.”

“How many men have you got watching the ship?”

“Ten. Our guys didn’t notice any of yours tailing this one. The diversion almost spooked us too.”

“Very dicey,” Crosse said agreeably, wondering what diversion.

“Our guys never got to go through his pockets—we know he made two calls from the booth….” Rosemont noted Crosse’s eyes narrow slightly. That’s curious, he thought. Crosse didn’t know that. If he doesn’t know that, maybe his operators weren’t tailing the target either. Maybe he’s lying and the Commie was loose in Hong Kong until he was knifed. “We radioed a mug shot back home—we’ll get a call back fast. Who was he?”

“His papers said, Igor Voranski, seaman first class, Soviet merchant marine.”

“You have a file on him, Rog?”

“It’s rather unusual for you two to call together, isn’t it? I mean, in the movies, we’re always led to believe the FBI and CIA are always at odds.”

Ed Langan smiled. “Sure we are—like you and MI-5—like the KGB, GRU and fifty other Soviet operations. But sometimes our cases cross—we’re internal U.S., Stan’s external, but we’re both out for the same thing: security. We thought … we’re asking if we could all cooperate. This could be a big one, and we’re … Stan and I’re out of our depth.”

“That’s right,” Rosemont said, not believing it.

“All right,” Crosse said, needing their information. “But you first.”

Rosemont sighed. “Okay, Rog. We’ve had a buzz for some time there’s something hotting up in Hong Kong—we don’t know what—but it sure as hell’s got tie-ins to the States. I figure the AMG file’s the link. Lookit: take Banastasio—he’s Mafia. Big-time. Narcotics, the lot. Now take Bartlett and the guns. Guns—”

“Is Bartlett tied into Banastasio?”

“We’re not sure. We’re checking. We are sure the guns were put aboard in L.A.—Los Angeles—where the airplane’s based. Guns! Guns, narcotics and our growing interest in Vietnam. Where do narcotics come from? The Golden Triangle. Vietnam, Laos and the Yunnan Province of China. Now we’re into Vietnam and—”

“Yes, and you’re ill-advised to be there, old chum—I’ve pointed that out fifty times.”

“We don’t make policy, Rog, any more than you do. Next: Our nuclear carrier’s here and the goddamn Sovetsky Ivanov arrives last night. That’s too convenient, maybe the leak came from here. Then Ed tips you off and we get AMG’s wild-assed letters from London and now there’s Sevrin! Turns out the KGB’ve plants all over Asia and you’ve a high-placed hostile somewheres.”

“That’s not yet proved.”

“Right. But I know about AMG. He’s nobody’s fool. If he says Sevrin’s in place and you’ve a mole, you’ve a mole. Sure we’ve got hostiles in the CIA too, so’ve the KGB. I’m sure Ed has in the FBI—”

“That’s doubtful,” Ed Langan interrupted sharply. “Our guys are handpicked and trained. You get your firemen from all over.”

“Sure,” Rosemont said, then added to Crosse, “Back to narcotics. Red China’s our big enemy and—”

“Again, you’re wrong, Stanley. The PRC’s not the big enemy anywhere. Russia is.”

“China’s Commie. Commies’re the enemy. Now, it’d be real smart to flood the States with cheap narcotics and Red China … okay the People’s Republic of China can open the dam gates.”

“But they haven’t. Our Narcotics Branch’s the best in Asia—they’ve never come up with anything to support your misguided official theory that they’re behind the trade. Nothing. The PRC are as anti-drug traffic as the rest of us.”

“Have it your way,” Rosemont said. “Rog, you got a file on this agent? He’s KGB, isn’t he?”

Crosse lit a cigarette. “Voranski was here last year. That time he went under the cover name of Sergei Kudryov, again seaman first class, again off the same ship—they’re not very inventive, are they?” Neither of the two men smiled. “His real name’s Major Yuri Bakyan, First Directorate, KGB, Department 6.”

Rosemont sighed heavily.

The FBI man glanced at him. “Then you’re right. It all ties in.”

“Maybe.” The tall man thought a moment. “Rog, what about his contacts from last year?”

“He acted like a tourist, staying at the Nine Dragons in Kowloon….”

“That’s in AMG’s report, that hotel’s mentioned,” Langan said.

“Yes. We’ve been covering it for a year or so. We’ve found nothing. Bakyan—Voranski—did ordinary tourist activities. We had him on twenty-four-hour surveillance. He stayed a couple of weeks, then, just before the ship sailed, sneaked back aboard.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No. Not a regular one. He used to hang out at the Good Luck Dance Hall in Wanchai. Quite a cocksman, apparently, but he asked no questions and met no one out of the ordinary.”

“He ever visit Sinclair Towers?”

“No.”

“Pity,” Langan said, “that’d’ve been dandy. Tsu-yan’s got a place there. Tsu-yan knows Banastasio, John Chen knows Banastasio, and we’re back to guns, narcotics, AMG and Sevrin.”

“Yeah,” Rosemont said, then added, “Have you caught up with Tsu-yan yet?”

“No. He got to Taipei safely, then vanished.”

“You think he’s holed up there?”

“I would imagine so,” Crosse said. But inside he believed him dead, already eliminated by Nationalist, Communist, Mafia or triad. I wonder if he could have been a double agent—or the supreme devil of all intelligence services, a triple agent?

“You’ll find him—or we will—or the Taiwan boys will.”

“Roger, did Voranski lead you anywhere?” Langan asked.

“No. Nowhere, even though we’ve had tabs on him for years. He’s been attached to the Soviet Trade Commission in Bangkok, he spent time in Hanoi, and Seoul, but no covert activities we know of. Once the cheeky bugger even applied for a British passport and almost got one. Luckily our fellows vet all applications and spotted flaws in his cover. I’m sorry he’s dead—you know how hard it is to identify nasties. Waste of a lot of time and effort.” Crosse paused and lit a cigarette. “His major’s rank is quite senior which suggests something very smelly. Perhaps he was just another of their specials who was ordered to cruise Asia and get into deep cover for twenty or thirty years.”

“Those bastards have had their game plan set for so long it stinks!” Rosemont sighed. “What’re you going to do with the corpse?”

Crosse smiled. “I got one of my Russian-speaking fellows to call the captain of the ship—Gregor Suslev. He’s a Party member, of course, but fairly harmless. Has a sporadic girlfriend with a flat in Mong Kok—a bar girl who gets a modest allowance from him and entertains him when he’s here. He goes to the races, theater, Macao gambling a couple of times, speaks good English. Suslev’s under surveillance. I don’t want any of your hotshots ponging on one of our known hostiles.”

“So Suslev’s regular here then?”

“Yes, he’s been plying these waters for years, based out of Vladivostok—he’s an ex-submarine commander by the way. He wanders around the fringe here, mostly under the weather.”

“What do you mean?”

“Drunk, but not badly so. Cavorts with a few of our British pinkos like Sam and Molly Finn.”

“The ones who’re always writing letters to the papers?”

“Yes. They’re more of a nuisance than a security risk. Anyway, under instructions, my Russian-speaking fellow told Captain Suslev we were frightfully sorry but it seemed that one of his seamen had had a heart attack in a phone booth at Golden Ferry Terminal. Suslev was suitably shocked and quite reasonable. In Voranski’s pocket there ‘happened’ to be an accurate, verbatim report of the assassin’s phone conversation. We put it in Russian as a further sign of our displeasure. They’re all professionals aboard that ship, and sophisticated enough to know we don’t remove their agents without very great cause and provocation. They know we just watch the ones we know about and, if we’re really very irritated, we deport them.” Crosse looked across at Rosemont, his eyes hard though his voice stayed matter-of-fact. “We find our methods more effective than the knife, garrotte, poison or bullet.”

The CIA man nodded. “But who would want to kill him?”

Crosse glanced at the photos again. He did not recognize the two Chinese, but their faces were clear and the body in the background unbelievable evidence. “We’ll find them. Whoever they are. The one who phoned our police station claimed they were 14K. But he only spoke Shanghainese with a Ningpo dialect, so that’s unlikely. Probably he was a triad of some sort. He could be Green Pang. He was certainly a trained professional—the knife was used perfectly, with great precision—one moment alive, the next dead and no sound. Could be one of your CIA’s trainees in Chiang Kai-shek’s intelligence agency. Or perhaps the Korean CIA, more of your trainees—they’re anti-Soviet too, aren’t they? Possibly PRC agents, but that’s improbable. Their agents don’t usually go in for quai loh murder, and certainly not in Hong Kong.”

Rosemont nodded and let the censure pass. He gave Crosse the remaining photos, wanting the Englishman’s cooperation and needing it. “These’re shots of the house they went into. And the street sign. Our guy couldn’t read characters but it translates, ‘Street of the First Season, Number 14.’ It’s a rotten little alley in back of the bus depot in North Point.”

Crosse began to examine them with equal care. Rosemont glanced at his watch, then got up and went to the single window that faced part of the harbor. “Look!” he said proudly.

The other two went over to him. The great nuclear carrier was just rounding North Point heading for the navy yard, Hong Kong side. She was dressed overall, all her obligatory flags stiff in the breeze, crowds of white-clothed sailors on her vast deck, with neat lines of her vicious fighter jet airplanes. Almost 84,000 tons. No smokestack, just a vast, ominous bridge complex, with an eleven-hundred-foot angled runway that could retrieve and launch jets simultaneously. The first of a generation.

“That’s some ship,” Crosse said enviously. This was the first time the colossus had entered Hong Kong since her commissioning in 1960. “Pretty,” he said, hating the fact she was American and not British. “What’s her top speed?”

“I don’t know—that’s classified along with most everything else.” Rosemont turned to watch him. “Can’t you send that goddamn Soviet spy ship to hell out of port?”

“Yes, and we could blow it up, but that would be equally foolish. Stanley, relax, you have to be a little civilized about these things. Repairing their ships—and some of them really do need it—is a good source of revenue, and intelligence, and they pay their bills promptly. Our ways have been tried and tested over the years.”

Yes, Rosemont was thinking without rancor, but your ways don’t work anymore. The British Empire’s no more, the British raj no more and we’ve a different enemy now, smarter rougher dedicated totalitarian fanatic, with no Queensberry rules and a worldwide plan that’s lavishly funded by whatever it takes. You British’ve no dough now, no clout, no navy, no army, no air force, and your goddamn government’s filled with socialist and enemy pus, and we think they sold you out. You’ve been screwed from within, your security’s the pits from Klaus Fuchs and Philby on down. Jesus, we won both goddamn wars for you, paid for most of it and both times you’ve screwed up the peace. And if it wasn’t for our Strategic Air Command, our missiles, our nuclear strike force, our navy, our army, our air force our taxpayers our dough, you’d all be dead or in goddamn Siberia. Meanwhile, like it or not I got to deal with you. We need Hong Kong as a window and right now your cops to guard the carrier.

“Rog, thanks for the extra men,” he said. “We sure appreciate it.”

“We wouldn’t want any trouble while she’s here either. Pretty ship. I envy you having her.”

“Her captain’ll have the ship and crew under tight wraps—the shore parties’ll all be briefed, and warned, and we’ll cooperate a hundred percent.”

“I’ll see you get a copy of the list of bars I’ve suggested your sailors stay out of—some’re known Communist hangouts, and some are frequented by our lads off H.M.S. Dart.” Crosse smiled. “There’ll still be the odd brawl.”

“Sure. Rog, this Voranski killing’s too much of a coincidence. Can I send a Shanghai speaker to assist the interrogation?”

“I’ll let you know if we need help.”

“Can we have our copies of the tai-pan’s other AMG reports now? Then we can get out of your hair.”

Crosse stared back at him twisting uneasily, even though he was prepared for the question. “I’ll have to get approval from Whitehall.”

Rosemont was surprised. “Our top man in England’s been onto your Great White Father and it’s approved. You should have had it an hour ago.”

“Oh?”

“Sure. Hell, we’d no idea AMG was on the tai-pan’s payroll let alone passing classified stuff for chrissake! The wires’ve been red hot since Ed got the top copy of AMG’s last will and testament. We got an all-points from Washington on getting copies of the other reports and we’re trying to trace the call to Switzerland but—”

“Say again?”

“Kiernan’s call. The second call he made.”

“I don’t follow you.”

Rosemont explained.

Crosse frowned. “My people didn’t tell me about that. Nor did Dunross. Now why should Dunross lie—or avoid telling me that?” He related to them exactly what Dunross had told him. “There was no reason for him to hide that, was there?”

“No. All right, Rog: Is the tai-pan kosher?”

Crosse laughed. “If you mean is he a one hundred percent British Royalist freebooter whose allegiance is to his House, himself and the Queen—not necessarily in that order—the answer’s an emphatic yes.”

“Then if we can have our copies now, Rog, we’ll be on our way.”

“When I’ve got Whitehall’s approval.”

“If you’ll check your decoding room—it’s a Priority 1–4a. It says to let us have copies on receipt.”

1–4a’s were very rare. They called for immediate clearance and immediate action.

Crosse hesitated, wanting to avoid the trap he was in. He dared not tell them he did not yet have possession of the AMG reports. He picked up the phone and dialed. “This is Mr. Crosse. Is their anything for me from Source? A 1–4a?”

“No sir. Other than the one we sent up an hour ago—that you signed for,” the SI woman said.

“Thank you.” Crosse put the phone down. “Nothing yet,” he said.

“Shit,” Rosemont muttered, then added, “They swore they’d already beamed it out and you’d have it before we got here. It’s got to be here any second. If you don’t mind we’ll wait.”

“I’ve an appointment in Central shortly. Perhaps later this evening?”

Both men shook their heads. Langan said, “We’ll wait. We’ve been ordered to send ’em back instantly by hand with a twenty-four-hour guard. An army transport’s due now at Kai Tak to carry the courier—we can’t even copy them here.”

“Aren’t you overreacting?”

“You could answer that. What’s in them?”

Crosse toyed with his lighter. It had Cambridge University emblazoned on it. He had owned it since his undergraduate days. “Is it true what AMG said about the CIA and the Mafia?”

Rosemont stared back at him. “I don’t know. You guys used all sort of crooks during World War Two. We learned from you to take advantage of what we’ve got—that was your first rule. Besides,” Rosemont added with utter conviction, “this war’s our war and whatever it takes we’re going to win.”

“Yes, yes we must,” Langan echoed, equally sure. “Because if we lose this one, the whole world’s gone and we’ll never get another chance.”

On the closed-in bridge of the Sovetsky Ivanov three men had binoculars trained on the nuclear carrier. One of the men was a civilian and he wore a throat mike that fed into a tape recorder. He was giving an expert, technical running commentary of what he saw. From time to time the other two would add a comment. Both wore light naval uniform. One was Captain Gregor Suslev, the other his first officer.

The carrier was coming up the roads nicely, tugs in attendance, but no tug ropes. Ferries and freighters tooted a jaunty welcome. A marine band played on her aft deck. White-clad sailors waved at passing ships. The day was very humid and the afternoon sun cast long shadows.

“The captain’s expert,” the first officer said.

“Yes. But with all that radar even a child could handle her,” Captain Suslev replied. He was a heavy-shouldered, bearded man, his Slavic brown eyes deepset in a friendly face. “Those sweepers aloft look like the new GEs for very long-range radar. Are they, Vassili?”

The technical expert broke off his transmission momentarily. “Yes, Comrade Captain. But look aft! They’ve four F5 interceptors parked on the right flight deck.”

Suslev whistled tonelessly. “They’re not supposed to be in service till next year.”

“No,” the civilian said.

“Report that separately as soon as she docks. That news alone pays for our voyage.”

“Yes.”

Suslev fine-tuned his focus now as the ship turned slightly. He could see the airplanes’ bomb racks. “How many more F5’s does she carry in her guts, and how many atomic warheads for them?”

They all watched the carrier for a moment.

“Perhaps we’ll get lucky this time, Comrade Captain,” the first officer said.

“Let’s hope so. Then Voranski’s death won’t be so expensive.”

“The Americans are fools to bring her here—don’t they know every agent in Asia’ll be tempted by her?”

“It’s lucky for us they are. It makes our job so much easier.” Once more Suslev concentrated on the F5’s that looked like soldier hornets among other hornets.

Around him the bridge was massed with advanced surveillance equipment. One radar was sweeping the harbor. A gray-haired impassive sailor watched the screen, the carrier a large clear blip among the myriad of blips.

Suslev’s binoculars moved to the carrier’s ominous bridge complex, then wandered the length of the ship. In spite of himself he shivered at her size and power. “They say she’s never refueled—not since she was launched in 1960.”

Behind him the door to the radio room that adjoined the bridge opened and a radio operator came up to him and saluted, offering the cable. “Urgent from Center, Comrade Captain.”

Suslev took the cable and signed for it. It was a meaningless jumble of words. A last look at the carrier and he let the binoculars rest on his chest and strode off the bridge. His sea cabin was just aft on the same deck. The door was guarded, like both entrances to the bridge.

He relocked his cabin door behind him and opened the small, concealed safe. His cipher book was secreted in a false wall. He sat at his desk. Quickly he decoded the message. He read it carefully, then stared into space for a moment.

He read it a second time, then replaced the cipher book, closed the safe and burned the original of the cable in an ashtray. He picked up his phone. “Bridge? Send Comrade Metkin to my cabin!” While he waited he stood by the porthole lost in thought. His cabin was untidy. Photographs of a heavyset woman, smiling self-consciously, were on his desk in a frame. Another of a good-looking youth in naval uniform, and a girl in her teens. Books, a tennis racket and a newspaper on the half-made bunk.

A knock. He unlocked the door. The sailor who had been staring at the radar screen stood there.

“Come in, Dimitri.” Suslev motioned at the decoded cable and re-locked the door after him.

The sailor was short and squat, with graying hair and a good face. He was, officially, political commissar and therefore senior officer on the ship. He picked up the decoded message. It read: “Priority One. Gregor Suslev. You will assume Voranski’s duties and responsibilities at once. London reports optimum CIA and MI-6 interest in information contained in blue-covered files leaked to Ian Dunross of Struan’s by the British Intelligence coordinator, AMG. Order Arthur to obtain copies immediately. If Dunross has destroyed the copies, cable feasibility plan to detain him for chemical debriefing in depth.” The sailor’s face closed. He looked across at Captain Suslev. “AMG? Alan Medford Grant?”

“Yes.”

“May that one burn in hell for a thousand years.”

“He will, if there’s any justice in this world or the next.” Suslev smiled grimly. He went to a sideboard and took out a half-full vodka bottle and two glasses. “Listen, Dimitri, if I fail or don’t return, you take command.” He held up the key. “Unlock the safe. There’re instructions about decoding and everything else.”

“Let me go tonight in your place. You’re more impor—”

“No. Thank you, old friend.” Suslev clapped him warmly on the shoulders. “In case of an accident you assume command and carry out our mission. That’s what we’ve been trained for.” He touched glasses with him. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” he said, glad he could do as he wished and very content with his job and his position in life. He was, secretly, deputy controller in Asia for the KGB’s First Directorate, Department 6, that was responsible for all covert activities in China, North Korea and Vietnam; a senior lecturer in Vladivostok University’s Department of Foreign Affairs, 2A—Counterintelligence; a colonel in the KGB; and, most important of all, a senior Party member in the Far East. “Center’s given the order. You must guard our tails here. Eh?”

“Of course. You needn’t worry about that, Gregor. I can do everything. But I worry about you,” Metkin said. They had sailed together for several years and he respected Suslev very much though he did not know from where his overriding authority came. Sometimes he was tempted to try to find out. You’re getting on, he told himself. You retire next year and you may need powerful friends and the only way to have the help of powerful friends is to know their skeletons. But Suslev or no Suslev your well-earned retirement will be honorable, quiet and at home in the Crimea. Metkin’s heart beat faster at the thought of all that lovely countryside and grand climate on the Black Sea, dreaming the rest of his life away with his wife and sometimes seeing his son, an up-and-coming KGB officer presently in Washington, no longer at risk and in danger from within or without.

Oh God protect my son from betrayal or making a mistake, he prayed fervently, then at once felt a wave of nausea, as always, in case his superiors knew that he was a secret believer and that his parents, peasants, had brought him up in the Church. If they knew there would be no retirement in the Crimea, only some icy backwater and no real home ever again.

“Voranski,” he said, as always cautiously hiding his hatred of the man. “He was a top operator, eh? Where did he slip?”

“He was betrayed, that was his problem,” Suslev said darkly. “We will find his murderers and they will pay. If my name is on the next knife …” The big man shrugged, then poured more vodka with a sudden laugh. “So what, eh? It’s in the name of the cause, the Party and Mother Russia!”

They touched glasses and drained them.

“When’re you going ashore?”

Suslev bit on the raw liquor. Then, thankfully, he felt the great good warmth begin inside and his anxieties and terrors seemed less real. He motioned out of the porthole. “As soon as she’s moored and safe,” he said with his rolling laugh. “Ah, but she’s a pretty ship, eh?”

“We’ve got nothing to touch that bastard, Captain, have we? Or those fighters. Nothing.”

Suslev smiled as he poured again. “No, comrade. But if the enemy has no real will to resist they can have a hundred of those carriers and it doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, but Americans’re erratic, one general can go off at half-cock, and they can smash us off the face of the earth.”

“I agree, now they can, but they won’t. They’ve no balls.” Suslev drank again. “And soon? Just a little more time and we’ll stick their noses up their asses!” He sighed. “It will be good when we begin.”

“It’ll be terrible.”

“No, a short, almost bloodless war against America and then the rest’ll collapse like the pus-infected corpse it is.”

“Bloodless? What about their atom bombs? Hydrogen bombs?”

“They’ll never use atomics or missiles against us, they’re too scared, even now, of ours! Because they’re sure we’ll use them.”

“Will we?”

“I don’t know. Some commanders would. I don’t know. We’ll certainly use them back. But first? I don’t know. The threat will always be enough. I’m sure we’ll never need a fighting war.” He lit a corner of the decoded message and put it in the ashtray. “Another twenty years of détente—ah what Russian genius invented that—we’ll have a navy bigger and better than theirs, an air force bigger and better than theirs. We’ve got more tanks now and more soldiers, but without ships and airplanes we must wait. Twenty years is not long to wait for Mother Russia to rule the earth.”

“And China? What about China?”

Suslev gulped the vodka and refilled both glasses again. The bottle was empty now and he tossed it onto his bunk. His eyes saw the burning paper in the ashtray twist and crackle, dying. “Perhaps China’s the one place to use our atomics,” he said matter-of-factly. “There’s nothing there we need. Nothing. That’d solve our China problem once and for all. How many men of military age did they have at last estimate?”

“116 million between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five.”

“Think of that! 116 million yellow devils sharing 5,000 miles of our frontiers … and then foreigners call us paranoiac about China!” He sipped the vodka, this time making it last. “Atomics’d solve our China problem once and for all. Quick, simple and permanent.”

The other man nodded. “And this Dunross? The papers of AMG?”

“We’ll get them from him. After all, Dimitri, one of our people is family, another one of his partners, another’s in Special Intelligence, there’s Arthur and Sevrin everywhere he turns, and then we’ve a dozen decadents to call on in his parliament, some in his government.” They both began laughing.

“And if he’s destroyed the papers?”

Suslev shrugged. “They say he’s got a photographic memory.”

“You’d do the interrogation here?”

“It’d be dangerous to do an in-depth chemic quickly. I’ve never done one. Have you?”

“No.”

The captain frowned. “When you report tonight, get Center to ready an expert in case we need one—Koronski from Vladivostok if he’s available.”

Dimitri nodded, lost in thought. This morning’s Guardian, lying half-crumpled on the captain’s bunk, caught his eye. He went over and picked it up, his eyes alight. “Gregor—if we have to detain Dunross, why not blame them, then you’ve all the time you’ll need?” The screaming headline read, SUSPECTS IN WEREWOLVES KIDNAP CASE. “If Dunross doesn’t return … perhaps our man’d become tai-pan! Eh?”

Suslev began to chuckle. “Dimitri, you’re a genius.”

Rosemont glanced at his watch. He had waited long enough. “Rog, can I use your phone?”

“Certainly,” Crosse said.

The CIA man stubbed out his cigarette and dialed the central CIA exchange in the consulate.

“This is Rosemont—give me 2022.” That was the CIA communications center.

“2022. Chapman—who’s this?”

“Rosemont. Hi, Phil, anything new?”

“No, excepting Marty Povitz reports a lot of activity on the bridge of the Ivanov, high-powered binoculars. Three guys, Stan. One’s a civilian, others’re the captain and the first officer. One of their short-range radar sweep’s working overtime. You want us to notify the Corregidor’s captain?”

“Hell no, no need to make his tail wriggle more than needs be. Say, Phil, we get a confirm on our 40–41?”

“Sure Stan. It came in at … stand by one … it came in at 1603 local.”

“Thanks, Phil, see you.”

Rosemont lit another cigarette. Sourly Langan, a nonsmoker, watched him but said nothing as Crosse was smoking too.

“Rog, what are you pulling?” Rosemont asked harshly, to Langan’s shock. “You got your Priority 1–4a at 1603, same time as we did. Why the stall?”

“I find it presently convenient,” Crosse replied, his voice pleasant.

Rosemont flushed, so did Langan. “Well I don’t and we’ve instructions, official instructions, to pick up our copies right now.”

“So sorry, Stanley.”

Rosemont’s neck was now very red but he kept his temper. “You’re not going to obey the 1–4a?”

“Not at the moment.”

Rosemont got up and headed for the door. “Okay, Rog, but they’ll throw the book at you.” He ripped the bolt back, jerked the door open and left. Langan was on his feet, his face also set.

“What’s the reason, Roger?” he asked.

Crosse stared back at him calmly. “Reason for what?”

Ed Langan began to get angry but stopped, suddenly appalled. “Jesus, Roger, you haven’t got them yet? Is that it?”

“Come now, Ed,” Crosse said easily, “you of all people should know we’re efficient.”

“That’s no answer, Roger. Have you or haven’t you?” The FBI man’s level eyes stayed on Crosse, and did not faze Crosse at all. Then he walked out, closing the door after him. At once Crosse touched the hidden switch. The bolt slid home. Another hidden switch turned off his tape recorder. He picked up his phone and dialed. “Brian? Have you heard from Dunross?”

“No sir.”

“Meet me downstairs at once. With Armstrong.”

“Yes sir.”

Crosse hung up. He took out the formal arrest document that was headed DETAINMENT ORDER UNDER THE OFFICIAL SECRETS ACT. Quickly he filled in “Ian Struan Dunross” and signed both copies. The top copy he kept, the other he locked in his drawer. His eyes roamed his office, checking it. Satisfied, he delicately positioned a sliver of paper in the crack of his drawer so that he alone would know if anyone had opened it or tampered with it. He walked out. Heavy security locks slid home after him.