"Strange that the courier came Pan Am and not BOAC—it's a much better flight," he said, pleased with the oblique way his mind worked."Yes. I thought the same," Crosse said as evenly. "Terribly un-British of him. Of course, Pan Am does land on time whereas you never know with poor old BOAC these days—" He nodded at Brian agreeably. "Full marks again. Go to the head of the class.""Thank you sir.""What else do you deduce?"After a pause Brian Kwok said, "In return for the tip, you agreed to provide Langan with an exact copy of the file.""And?""And you regret having honored that."Crosse sighed. "Why?""I'll know only after I've read the file.""Brian, you really are surpassing yourself this afternoon. Good." Absently the director fingered the file and both men knew he was titillating them, deliberately, but neither knew why. "There are one or two very curious coincidences in other sections of this. Names like Vincenzo Banastasio . . . meeting places like Sinclair Towers . . . Does Nelson Trading mean anything to either of you?"They both shook their heads."All very curious. Commies to the right of us, commies to the left …" His eyes became even stonier. "It seems we even have a nasty in our own ranks, possibly at superintendent level." "Impossible!" Armstrong said involuntarily. "How long were you with us in SI, dear boy?" Armstrong almost flinched. "Two tours, almost five years sir." "The spy Sorge was impossible—Kim Philby was impossible— dear God Philby!" The sudden defection to Soviet Russia in January this year by this Englishman, this onetime top agent of MI-6— British military intelligence for overseas espionage and counterespionage—had sent shock waves throughout the Western world, particularly as, until recently, Philby had been first secretary at the British Embassy in Washington, responsible for liaison with U.S. Defense, State, and the CIA on all security matters at the highest level. "How in the name of all that's holy he could have been a Soviet agent for all those years and remain undetected is impossible, isn't it, Robert?" "Yes sir.""And yet he was, and privy to our innermost secrets for years. Certainly from '42 to '58. And where did he start spying? God save us, at Cambridge in 1931. Recruited into the Party by the other arch-traitor, Burgess, also of Cambridge, and his friend Maclean, may they both toast in hell for all eternity." Some years ago these two highly placed Foreign Office diplomats—both of whom had also been in Intelligence during the war—had abruptly fled to Russia only seconds ahead of British counterespionage agents and the ensuing scandal had rocked Britain and the whole of NATO. "Who else did they recruit?""I don't know, sir," Armstrong said carefully. "But you can bet that now they're all VIP's in government, the Foreign Office, education, the press, particularly the press—and, like Philby, all burrowed very bloody deep.""With people nothing's impossible. Nothing. People are really very dreadful." Crosse sighed and straightened the file slightly. "Yes. But it's a privilege to be in SI, isn't it, Robert?" "Yes sir." "You have to be invited in, don't you? You can't volunteer, can you?" "No sir.""I never did ask why you didn't stay with us, did I?""No sir.""Well?"Armstrong groaned inwardly and took a deep breath. "It's because I like being a policeman, sir, not a cloak-and-dagger man. I like being in CID. I like pitting your wits against the villain, the chase and the capture and then the proving it in court, according to rules—to the law, sir.""Ah but in SI we don't, eh? We're not concerned with courts or laws or anything, only results?""SI and SB have different rules, sir," Armstrong said carefully. "Without them the Colony'd be up the creek without a paddle.""Yes. Yes it would. People are dreadful and fanatics multiply like maggots in a corpse. You were a good undercover man. Now it seems to me it's time to repay all the hours and months of careful training you've had at Her Majesty's expense."Armstrong's heart missed twice but he said nothing, just held his breath and thanked God that even Crosse couldn't transfer him out of CID against his will. He had hated his tours in SI—in the beginning it had been exciting and to be chosen was a great vote of confidence, but quickly it had palled—the sudden swoop on the villain in the dark hours, hearings in camera, no worry about exact proof, just results and a quick, secret deportation order signed by the governor, then off to the border at once, or onto a junk to Taiwan, with no appeal and no return. Ever."It's not the British way, Brian," he had always said to his friend. "I'm for a fair, open trial.""What's it matter? Be practical, Robert. You know the bas-tards're all guilty—that they're the enemy, Commie enemy agents who twist our rules to stay here, to destroy us and our society-aided and abetted by a few bastard lawyers who'd do anything for thirty pieces of silver, or less. The same in Canada. Christ, we had the hell of a time in the RCMP, our own lawyers and politicians were the enemy—and recent Canadians—curiously always British —all socialist trades unionists who were always in the forefront of any agitation. What does it matter so long as you get rid of the parasites?""It matters, that's what I think. And they're not all Commie villains here. There's a lot of Nationalist villains who want to—""The Nationalists want Commies out of Hong Kong, that's all.""Balls! Chiang Kai-shek wanted to grab the Colony after the war. It was only the British navy that stopped him after the Americans gave us away. He still wants sovereignty over us. In that he's no different from Mao Tse-tung!""If SI doesn't have the same freedom as the enemy how are we going to keep us out of the creek?""Brian, lad, I just said 7 don't like being in SI. You're going to enjoy it. I just want to be a copper, not a bloody Bond!"Yes, Armstrong thought grimly, just a copper, in CID until I retire to good old England. Christ, I've enough trouble now with the god-cursed Werewolves. He looked back at Crosse and kept his face carefully noncommittal and waited.Crosse watched him then tapped the file. "According to this we're very much deeper in the mire than even I imagined. Very distressing. Yes." He looked up. "This report refers to previous ones sent to Dunross. I'd certainly like to see them as soon as possible. Quickly and quietly."Armstrong glanced at Brian Kwok. "How about Claudia Chen?""No. No chance. None.""Then what do you suggest, Brian?" Crosse asked. "I imagine my American friend will have the same idea . . . and if he's been misguided enough to pass on the file, a copy of the file, to the director of the CIA here… I really would be very depressed if they were there first again."Brian Kwok thought a moment. "We could send a specialized team into the tai-pan's executive offices and his penthouse, but it'd take time—we just don't know where to look—and it would have to be at night. That one could be hairy, sir. The other reports—if they exist—might be in a safe up at the Great House, or at his place at Shek-O—even at his, er, at his private flat at Sinclair Towers or another one we don't even know about.""Distressing," Crosse agreed. "Our intelligence is getting appallingly lax even in our own bailiwick. Pity. If we were Chinese we'd know everything, wouldn't we, Brian?""No sir, sorry sir.""Well, if you don't know where to look you'll have to ask."