"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 Ill'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 center, railways, lots of factories.""So?" Crosse asked."You know about the airfield there?""What airfield?""It's underground, whole goddamn thing, just out of town, built into a gigantic maze of natural caves. It's got to be one of the wonders of the world. It's atomic capable, Rog. The whole base was constructed by Japanese and Nazi slave labor in '45, '6 and '7. A hundred thousand men they say. It's all underground, Rog, with space for 2500 airplanes, air crews and support personnel. It's bombproof—even atomic proof—with eighty runways that lead out onto a gigantic airstrip that circles eighteen low hills. It took one of our guys nine hours to drive around it. That was back in '46— so what's it like now?""Improved—if it exists.""It's operational now. A few guys, intelligence, ours and yours, even a few of the better newspaper guys, knew about it even in '46. So why the silence now? That base alone's a massive threat to all of us and no one screams a shit. Even China, and she sure as hell's got to know about Iman.""I can't answer that.""I can. I think that info's being buried, deliberately, along with a lot of other things." The American got up and stretched. "Jesus, the whole world's falling apart and I got a backache. You know a good chiropractor?""Have you tried Doc Thomas on Pedder Street? I use him all the time.""I can't stand him. He makes you wait in line—won't give you an appointment. Thank God for chiropractors! Trying to get my son to be one instead of an M.D."The phone rang and Crosse answered it."Yes Brian?" Rosemont watched Crosse as he listened. "Just a minute, Brian. Stanley, are we through now?""Sure. Just a couple of open, routine things.""Right. Brian, come in with Robert as soon as you come up." Crosse put the phone down. "We couldn't establish contact with Fong-fong. You're probably correct. They'll be MPD'd or MPC'd in forty-eight hours.""I don't understand.""Missing Presumed Dead or Missing Presumed Captured.""Rough. Sorry to bring bad news.""Joss.""With Dry Run and AMG, how about pulling Dunross into protective custody?""Out of the question.""You have the Official Secrets Act.""Out of the question.""I'm going to recommend it. By the way, Ed Langan's FBI boys tied Banastasio in with Bartlett. He's a big shareholder in Par-Con. They say he supplied the dough for the last merger that put Par-Con into the big time.""Anything on the Moscow visas for Bartlett and Tcholok?""Best we can find is that they went as tourists. Maybe they did, maybe it was a cover.""Anything on the guns?" This morning Armstrong had told Crosse of Peter Marlowe's theory and he had ordered an immediate watch on Four Finger Wu and offered a great reward for 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?"