"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."
"Jesus Christ, what the hell's going on?"
"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?"
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 centre, 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 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?"
"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 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.
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 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."
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!"
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.
So easy. So much more easy to take than to resist—this time or all the other thousand times. There must be 30, 40,000 in that drawer alone. And if there's one drawer full there must be others and if I lean on this bastard he'll cough up ten times this amount.
Roughly he reached out and grabbed the man's hand. Again the man cried out. One fingertip was mashed and Armstrong thought Lo would lose a couple of fingernails and have plenty of pain but that was all. He was angry with himself that he had lost his temper but he was tired and knew it was not just tiredness. "What do you know about Tsu-yan?"
"Wat? Me? Nothing. Tsu-yan who?"
Armstrong grabbed him and shook him. "Tsu-yan! The gunrunner Tsu-yan!"
"Nothing, Lord!"
"Liar! The Tsu-yan who visits Mr. Ng next door!"
"Tsu-yan? Oh him? Gun-runner? I didn't know he's a gun-runner! I always thought he was a businessman. He's another Northerner like Photographer Ng—"
"Who?"
"Photographer Ng, Lord. Vee Cee Ng from next door. He and this Tsu-yan never come in here or talk to us.... Oh I need a doctor... oh my han—"
"Where's Tsu-yan now?"
"I don't know, Lord... oh my fornicating hand, oh oh oh.... I swear by all the gods I don't know him.... oh oh oh____"
Irritably Armstrong shoved him in a chair and jerked open the door. The three policemen and two secretaries stared at him silently. "Sergeant, take this bugger to HQ and charge him with trying to bribe a policeman. Look at this...." He beckoned him in and pointed at the drawer.
Sergeant Yat's eyes widened. "Dew neh loh moh!"
"Count it and get both men to sign the amount as correct and take it to HQ with them and turn it in."
"Yes sir."
"Corporal, you start going through the files. I'm going next door. I'll be back shortly."
"Yes sir."
Armstrong strode out. He knew that this money would be counted quickly, and any other money in the offices—if this drawer was full others would be—then the amount to be turned in would be quickly negotiated by the principals, Sergeant Yat and Lo and Tak, and the rest split among them. Lo and Tak would believe him to be in for a major share and his own men would consider him mad not to be. Never mind. He didn't care. The money was stolen, and Sergeant Yat and his men were all good policemen and their pay totally inadequate for their responsibilities. A little h'eung yau wouldn't do them any harm, it would be a godsend.
Won't it?
In China you have to be pragmatic, he told himself grimly as he knocked on the door of 721 and went in. A good-looking secretary looked up from her lunch—a bowl of pure white rice and slivers of roast pork and jet green broccoli steaming nicely.
"Afternoon." Armstrong flashed his ID card. "I'd like to see Mr. Vee Cee Ng, please."
"Sorry, sir," the girl said, her English good and her eyes blank. "He's out. Out for lunch."
"Where?"
"At his club, I think. He—he won't be back today until five."
"Which club?"
She told him. He had never heard of it but that meant nothing as there were hundreds of private Chinese lunching or dining or at mah-jong clubs.
"What's your name?"
"Virginia Tong. Sir," she added as an afterthought.
"Do you mind if I look around?" He saw her eyes flash nervously. "Here's my search warrant."
She took it and read it and he thought, full marks, young lady. "Do you think you could wait, wait till five o'clock?" she asked.
"I'll take a short look now."
She shrugged and got up and opened the inner office. It was small and empty but for untidy desks, phones, filing cabinets, shipping posters and sailing schedules. Two inner doors let off it and a back door. He opened one door on the 720 side but it was a dank, evil-smelling toilet and dirty washbasin. The back door was bolted. He slid the bolts back and went onto the dingy back-stairs landing that served as a makeshift fire escape and alternate means of exit. He rebolted it, watched all the time by Virginia Tong. The last door, on the far side, was locked.
"Would you open it please?"
"Mr. Vee Cee has the only key, sir."
Armstrong sighed. "I do have a search warrant, Miss Tong, and the right to kick the door in, if necessary."
She stared back at him so he shrugged and stood away from the door and readied to kick it in. Truly.
"Just... just a moment, sir," she stammered. "I... I'll see if there... if he left his key before he went out."
"Good. Thank you." Armstrong watched her open a desk drawer and pretend to search, then another drawer and another and then, sensing his impatience, she found a key under a money box. "Ah, here it is!" she said as though a miracle had happened. He noticed she was perspiring now. Good, he thought. She unlocked the door and stood back. This door opened directly onto another. Armstrong opened it and whistled involuntarily. The room beyond was large, luxurious, thick-carpeted with elegant suede leather sofas and rosewood furniture and fine paintings. He wandered in. Virginia Tong watched from the doorway. The fine antique rosewood, tooled leather desk was bare and clean and polished, a bowl of flowers on it, and some framed photographs, all of a beaming Chinese leading in a garlanded racehorse, and one of the same Chinese in dinner jacket shaking hands with the governor, Dunross nearby.
"That's Mr. Ng?"
"Yes sir."
Top-quality hi-fi and record player were to one side, and a tall cocktail cabinet. Another doorway let off this room. He pushed the half-opened door aside. An elegant, very feminine bedroom with a huge, unmade king-sized bed, mirror-lined ceiling and a decorator's bathroom off it, with perfumes, aftershave lotions, gleaming modern fittings and many buckets of water.
"Interesting," he said and looked at her.
She said nothing, just waited.
Armstrong saw that she had nylon-clad legs and was very trim with well-groomed nails and hair. I'll bet she's a dragon, and expensive. He turned away from her and looked around thoughtfully. Clearly this self-contained apartment had been made out of the adjoining suite. Well, he told himself with a touch of envy, if you're rich and you want a private, secret flat for an afternoon's nooky behind your office there's no law against that. None. And none against having an attractive secretary. Lucky bastard. I wouldn't mind having one of these places myself.
Absently he opened a desk drawer. It was empty. All the drawers were empty. Then he went through the bedroom drawers but found nothing of interest. One cupboard contained a fine camera and some portable lighting equipment and cleaning equipment but nothing suspicious.
He came back into the main room satisfied that he had missed nothing. She was still watching him, and though she tried to hide it, he could sense a nervousness.
That's understandable, he told himself. If I were her and my boss was out and some rotten quai loh came prying I'd be nervous too. No harm in having a private place like this. Lots of rich people have them in Hong Kong. His eye was caught by the rosewood cocktail cabinet. The key in the lock beckoned him. He opened it. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then his sharp, well-trained eyes noticed the untoward width of the doors. A moment's inspection and he opened the false doors. His mouth dropped open.
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