The policemen in the van were listening carefully. Crosse had ordered the bug put into Clinker's apartment two years ago. Periodically it was monitored, always when Suslev was there. Suslev, always under loose surveillance, had met Clinker in a bar. Both men were submariners and they had struck up a friendship. Clinker had invited him to stay and from time to time Suslev did. At once Crosse had instituted a security check on Clinker but nothing untoward had been discovered. For twenty years Clinker had been a sailor with the Royal Navy. After the war he had drifted from job to job in the Merchant Marine, throughout Asia to Hong Kong, where he had settled when he retired. He was a quiet, easygoing man who lived alone and had been Rose Court's caretaker-janitor for five years now. Suslev and Clinker were a matched pair who drank a lot, caroused a lot and swapped stories. None of their hours of talk had produced anything considered valuable."He's had his usual tankful, Brian," Crosse said."Yes sir." Brian Kwok was bored and tried not to show it.In the small living room Clinker gave Suslev his shoulder. "Come on, it's you for a kip." He stepped over the glass and helped Suslev into the small bedroom. Suslev lay down heavily and sighed.Clinker closed the drapes then went over to another small tape deck and turned it on. In a moment heavy breathing and the beginnings of a snore came from the tape. Suslev got up soundlessly, his pretended drunkenness gone. Clinker was already on his hands and knees. He pulled away a mat and opened the trapdoor. Noiselessly, Suslev went down into it. Clinker grinned, slapped him on the back and closed the well-greased door after him. The trapdoor steps led to a rough tunnel that quickly joined the large, dry, subterranean culvert storm drain. Suslev picked his way carefully, using the flashlight that was in a bracket at the bottom of the steps. In a moment he heard a car grinding over Sinclair Road just above his head. A few more steps and he was below Sinclair Towers. Another trapdoor led to a janitor's closet. This let out onto some disused back stairs. He began to climb.Roger Crosse was still listening to the heavy breathing, mixed with opera. The van was cramped and close, their shirts sweaty. Crosse was smoking. "Sounds like he's bedded down for the night," he said. They could hear Clinker humming and his movements as he cleared up the broken glass. A red warning light on the radio panel started winking. The operator clicked on the sender. "Patrol car 1423, yes?""Headquarters for Superintendent Crosse. Urgent.""This's Crosse.""Duty Office, sir. A report's just come in that the Floating Dragon restaurant's on fire . . ." Brian Kwok gasped. ". . . Fire engines're already there, and the constable said that as many as twenty may be dead or drowned. It seems the boat caught fire from the kitchen, sir. There were several explosions. They blew out most of the hull and . . . Just a moment sir, there's another report coming in from Marine."They waited. Brian Kwok broke the silence. "Dunross?""The party was on the top deck?" Crosse asked."Yes sir.""He's much too smart to get burned to death—or drowned," Crosse said softly. "Was the fire an accident, or deliberate?"Brian Kwok did not answer.The HQ voice came in again. "Marine reports that the boat's capsized. They say it's a proper carve-up and it looks like a few got sucked under.""Was our agent with our VIP?""No sir, he was waiting on the wharf near his car. There was no time to get to him.""What about the people caught on the top deck?""Hang on a moment, I'll ask. . . ."Again a silence. Brian Kwok wiped the sweat off.". . . They say, twenty or thirty up there jumped, sir. Unfortunately most of them abandoned ship a bit late, just before the boat capsized. Marine doesn't know how maay were swamped.""Stand by." Crosse thought a moment. Then he spoke into the mike again. "I'm sending Superintendent Kwok there at once in this transport. Send a team of frogmen to meet him. Ask the navy to assist, Priority One. I'll be at home if I'm needed." He clicked off the mike. Then to Brian Kwok, "I'll walk from here. Call me the moment you know about Dunross. If he's dead we'll visit the bank vaults at once and to hell with the consequences. Fast as you can now!"He got out. The van took off up the hill. Aberdeen was over the spine of mountains and due south. He glanced at Rose Court a moment, then down across the street below to Sinclair Towers. One of his teams was still watching the entrance, waiting patiently for Tsu-yan's return. Where is that bastard? he asked himself irritably.Very concerned, he walked off down the hill. Rain began to splatter him. His footsteps quickened.Suslev took an ice-cold beer from the modern refrigerator and opened it. He drank gratefully. 32 Sinclair Towers was spacious, rich, clean and well furnished, with three bedrooms and a large living room. It was on the eleventh floor. There were three apartments to each floor around two cramped elevators and exit steps. Mr. and Mrs. John Chen owned 31. 33 belonged to a Mr. K. V. Lee. Arthur had told Suslev that K. V. Lee was a cover name for Ian Dunross who, following the pattern of his predecessors, had sole access to three or four private apartments spread around the Colony. Suslev had never met either John Chen or Dunross though he had seen them at the races and elsewhere many times.If we have to interview the tai-pan what could be more convenient? he thought grimly. And with Travkin as an alternate bait. . . .A sudden squall whipped the curtains that were drawn over open windows and he heard the rain. He shut the windows carefully and looked out. Great drops were streaking the windows. Streets and rooftops were already wet. Lightning went across the sky. The rumble of thunder followed. Already the temperature had dropped a few degrees. This'll be a good storm, he told himself gratefully, pleased to be out of Ginny Fu's tiny, sleazy fifth-floor walkup in Mong Kok, and equally happy not to be at Clinker's.Arthur had arranged everything: Clinker, Ginny Fu, this safe house, the tunnel, certainly as well as he himself could have done in Vladivostok. Clinker was a submariner and cockney and everything he was supposed to be except that he had always detested the officer class. Arthur had said it had been easy to subvert Clinker to the cause, using the man's built-in suspicions, hatreds and secretive-ness. "Ugly Ernie knows only a little about you, Gregor—of course that you're Russian and captain of the Ivanov. As to the tunnel, I told him you're having an affair with a married woman in Sinclair Towers, the wife of one of the Establishment tai-pans. I told him the tape-recorded snores and secrecy are because the rotten Peelers are after you and they've sneaked in and bugged his flat.""Peelers?""That's the cockney nickname for police. It came from Sir Robert Peel, Prime Minister of England, who founded the first police force.Cockneys've always hated Peelers and Ugly Ernie would delight in outwitting them. Just be pro-Royal Navy and he's your dog until death. . . ."Suslev smiled. Clinker's not a bad man, he thought, just a bore.He sipped his beer as he wandered back into the living room. The afternoon paper was there. It was the Guardian Extra, the headlines screaming, MOB MURDERS FRAGRANT FLOWER, and a good photograph of the riot. He sat in an armchair and read quickly.Then his sharp ears heard the elevator stop. He went to the table beside the door and slid the loaded automatic with its silencer from under it. He pocketed the gun and peered through the spy hole.The doorbell was muted. He opened it and smiled. "Come in, old friend." He embraced Jacques deVille warmly. "It's been a long time.""Yes, yes it has, comrade," deVille said as warmly. The last time he had seen Suslev was in Singapore, five years before, at a secret meeting arranged by Arthur just after deVille had been induced to join Sevrin. He and Suslev had met just as secretly the first time in the great port of Lyons in France in June '41, just days before Nazi Germany invaded Soviet Russia when the two countries were outwardly still allies. At that time deVille was in the Maquis and Suslev second-in-command and secret political commissar of a Soviet submarine that was ostensibly in for a refit from patrol in the Atlantic. It was then that deVille was asked if he would like to carry on the real war, the war against the capitalist enemy as a secret agent after the fascists had been destroyed.