Soldier of Fortune - akablonded

Notes: This story is set in post World War 2 Hong Kong, before jets, cyberspace, 24/7 news services, when the Far East was exotic, dangerous, and usually shot in Cinemascope.

~~~~~

Peiping - Old name for Beijing

Amah - Servant

Godown - Originally, the term came from a particular style of architecture, i.e., "storehouse" style of building. It was also the term used for night clubs, and, in some cases, bordellos.

Chiang Kai Shek - 1887-1975, Chinese Nationalist leader. After Mainland China was taken over by the Communists, Chiang and the Nationalist government were exiled to the island of Taiwan (Formosa). There, Chiang took firm command and established a virtual dictatorship. He reorganized his military forces with U.S. aid and then instituted limited democratic political reforms. Chiang continued to promise re-conquest of the Chinese mainland, but did not succeed. He died in 1975.

Riding the Dragon -- Using Cocaine

Bofors - Type of mounted machine gun

Lighter - Small boat

Joss Stick - The kind of stick incense burned before a Chinese image, idol, or shrine

Cordite - A smokeless powder used by the British Army and in other services, composed of nitroglycerin, guncotton, and mineral jelly. The ingredients are mixed into a paste with acetone and pressed out into cords resembling brown twine, which are dried and cut to length.

~~~~~

The sun was already scorching the hills when the Pioneer Mail slipped through Sulphur Channel and entered the harbor of Hong Kong. It was cooler on the north side of the vessel, and a few of the passengers stood there, leaning against the rail. Because they were convinced they had seen almost everything else in the world, they stared thoughtfully at the submarine net stretching from Green Island toward the distant blue-iron mountains of China. The men wore white suits, wrinkled in the same places. They occasionally patted at their brows with the same tired look as their women, who looked vacant and entirely bloodless. All smoked relentlessly.

As the ship penetrated further into the main harbor, the vibration which had enlivened the Pioneer Mail all the way from Kobe eased, even as the parade of junks passing her sides began. But the people on the cool side ignored the junks. They looked through and beyond them. When they spoke, which was seldom, the melody of their words was clipped and monotonous; the words, few.

On the hot side, the sun stabbed straight along the short promenade deck. There, the passengers suffered the sun because they were unable to resist the spectacle of Hong Kong. Those who had seen the city before pointed at the steep hills and asked all who would listen if they had ever seen anything so beautiful. There was no setting like Hong Kong's. You might mention Rio or San Francisco or Sydney in the same conversation, but most certainly not in the same breath with Hong Kong. The bills surrounding the harbor formed a perfect bastion against the sea. Hong Kong was the most efficient port in the world. There was labor and energy and, best of all, there was stability thanks to the British. The British knew how to run a colony. Everyone, even the Chinese, sought the protection of the British. Hong Kong might be the last important British Colony in the Far East, but it revived the hopes of every Englishman who had lost hope. It was all nonsense about the Empire being torn apart at the seams. The British would muddle through as they had done for centuries if only the Americans would mind their own bloody business.

First, there were the junks and sampans, so crowded together and intermixed and alive with activity and movement it was difficult to separate them at all. Then Connaught Road which passed just beyond the junks as if to hold back their rude bustle from the imposing business buildings which marked the face of the city. Between the buildings there were narrow slashes into which the sun had yet to penetrate. These rose straight up against the hills twisting off occasionally to reveal themselves as streets solid with people. While a pall of smoke from the morning cooking fires hung over the Chinese sections of West Point and Wanchai, in the area between them known as Victoria, the air was clear.

About halfway up the hills, the streets and masses of buildings became spotted with vegetation; then very suddenly, there were a few scattered villas and apartment buildings. These were perched along the tops of hills and in ravines. From the deck of the Pioneer Mail it was impossible to discover how anyone could reach them.

One man stood back from the rail far enough so that the overhanging boat deck protected all of his fat body from the sun except his stocky legs. Charles Kaplan wore shorts and matching white socks that reached nearly to his knees. Tufts of brown hair protruded from the open neck of his shirt, but the rest of his keg-like body was entirely free of shadow. A tiny moustache seemed a reflection of the shape and color of his eyebrows. All in all, Kaplan had a scalded look, like a pig ready for slaughter, as his small pale eyes made a perfect color combination with the pink of his skin.

Nearby, a fellow passenger pressed himself quietly into the rail. Kaplan followed the traveler's movement as he raised a strong hand to shade incredibly blue eyes against the sun. Kaplan followed the arc of the other man's fingers, which brushed away a wind-swept tangle of long hair from the unseen face.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity of waiting, the man Kaplan was watching turned ever so slightly. The brilliant sun sliced through the white shirt clinging to his body, showing a surprising thatch of auburn chest hair. Kaplan was compelled to wipe his thin lips now, remembering their first meeting and scolding himself for being too forward. From the same position in which he now stood, Charles Kaplan had watched the stranger board the Pioneer Mail in Japan and thought instantly that the voyage down to Hong Kong was not going to he nearly as dull as he had initially anticipated. Charles Kaplan had a penchant for young men -- pretty young men in particular.

And Blair Sandburg was nothing, if not pretty. Kaplan had learned the American's name when he'd given it to the steward who directed him to Stateroom 112. This was surprising since those rare Americans who bothered with a ship like the Pioneer Mail always took the best and most expensive cabins. Kaplan surmised that the young Mr. Sandburg had financial limitations, for 112 was practically next to the engine room.

The rotund, sweating Kaplan had almost moved away before he bothered to look at the face of the passenger who had boarded in Japan. When he did, he was absolutely astounded. This American possessed a rare beauty that transcended sex. The lips were full and pleasing. There was almost a glow to the golden skin on the face, which sported the beginnings of a five-o'clock shadow. The nose was straight and upturned, oddly but attractively dappled by freckles that gave him a distinctly boyish look. The eyes were wide-spaced, blue, fringed with black lashes and evidently weak since he used glasses to search for his boarding ticket in the backpack he carried with him. There was a plain gold wedding band on the third finger, but no other evidence of a wife.

Their first meeting had been so easy. Kaplan chose the late afternoon because he wanted to suggest a few drinks before dinner. "My name is Charles Kaplan," he began. "Mr.?"

"Sandburg. Blair Sandburg. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Kaplan. You're English?"

"Hong Kong English. A colonial. I was born and brought up there."

"That's lucky on my part. You're just the man I've been wanting to talk to." Blair Sandburg accepted the invitation for cocktail hour martinis. During dinner, there was wine, a brandy after dinner followed by laps around the deck, with a final scotch and soda nightcap. Sandburg wanted to know everything about Hong Kong, about the cost of living there, the prominent citizens and what the surrounding Communists meant to the Colony. He wanted to know about Red China, and it required considerable invention and not a little imagination to please the young man, because there was no sense in telling him that no one with round eyes knew very much about China these days.

Then it happened. The young man was turning the key in his stateroom door when the larger man spun him around and pressed the surprised Sandburg tightly against the wall. Kaplan held him there with the bulk of his weight, waiting for the shorter man to raise his mouth or perhaps put up a show of twisting away, which would have been even better. He was just about to cup the front of Sandburg's crisp linen trousers, when he felt an excruciating pain between his legs. The angry young man had brought his knee up hard. Before Kaplan could catch enough breath enough to curse in several different languages, Sandburg was gone, locking the door to his stateroom from the inside.

After that first night, the American barely favored him with a nod as they passed on deck.

Now, watching Blair Sandburg from a precautionary distance as he had done for six days, Kaplan still found this young man's behavior incomprehensible. According to reputation, Americans played fast and loose; they all had easy morals. So, what was all the fuss about? A little harmless flirtation, uncomplicated sex to chase away the boredom of a sea voyage, where was the harm? Even if Sandburg professed fidelity to the ideals of marital bliss, what a man chose to share or not share with his spouse, well that was his own business.

"Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair Sandburg turned his head, the blue eyes cool and lips pressed together in a way that froze his usually lively visage. Kaplan pointed over Blair's shoulder toward the shore. "My office is just there, on Ice House Street. You can always mark the place by bearing on those two tall buildings. The one on the right is the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank. The newer building on the left is the new Bank of China, which you'll notice is just a shade higher. It was deliberately designed that way. Rather strange to think of Communists running a bank, isn't it?"

For a moment he thought Sandburg was going to reply, but the decidedly beautiful young man stood silent, keeping his own counsel, as he watched a launch approach.

At the gangway, the chief steward hailed a water taxi and explained was called a walla-walla as he handed Sandburg's three small bags down to the launchman. "He'll take you to Kowloon Pier."

"Thank you. Thank you very much." Blair swung easily down into the boat. The launch engine obliterated his words, but he was waving his hand and smiling, certain the steward had also said, "Good luck." Blair wondered if there was something in his face that told people about Megan, some indication of the longing and the fear. It didn't much matter.

To find his lost wife, Blair Sandburg would need all the luck he could muster.

***

The Prospect Hotel was a massive structure of stone and concrete that faced Hong Kong across the narrowest part of the harbor. The lobby of the Prospect was enormous, broken only by great marble columns supporting its neoclassic ceiling. The reception desk, the offices of Thai Airways, Cathay Pacific Airways, and the cable office were placed along the far side of the lobby. The bar, at one end of the lobby, was almost always deserted. The patrons of the Prospect were in no apparent hurry and so preferred having their drinks served to them at the tables that stretched from the bar to the other end of the lobby. There were as many white- coated waiters to attend them as there were tables. During moments of inactivity, the waiters vanished, only to magically reappear when summoned. The lobby of the Prospect was indeed a busy place, but the pace was leisurely and the hum of conversation seldom noticed above the remote whine of several overhead fans.

Some of the patrons were seated at their favorite tables by ten o'clock in the morning, remaining there all through the day and well into the night. The Chinese men were sleek and well groomed; their women were of breath-taking beauty in high-necked silk gowns. Those Englishmen who were never commissioned in a regiment or who missed a public school tie also preferred to drink at the Prospect. Here, they mixed without prejudice or rancor, along side the Australians, the Indians, the Siamese, the French and the Eurasians who also maintained outposts here. There was always a smattering of Americans, mostly the crews of airliners that either terminated or passed through Hong Kong.

Though they lived elsewhere, these regulars regarded the Prospect as their true home, their club and their window on the passing world. It was also the news service office for foreigners. In the course of a visit -- be it short or indefinite -- everyone came to the well-known establishment. And if one were patient and alert, one might learn all that was worth knowing.

This eclectic cross section of humanity included the likes of Simon Banks, a formidable Negro of undetermined nationality who worked for anyone with the right amount of money. There was also the exiled Chinese General Po-Lin, who had been driven from his country but dreamt of returning in glory, and who filled his largely empty days by hiring himself out as a guide to whomever expressed the need for his services.

And so it was, each man was in his accustomed seat, reading the daily newspaper, or having tea and sweet cakes, when Blair Sandburg walked into the lobby, and moved toward the registration desk. All eyes lifted and many conversations stopped for a beat, as the regulars took in the sight of so pleasing a young man. Women thought wistfully of how delightful the handsome gentleman might be under the right circumstances. The men attempted to categorize the stranger as he strode by. A new rival in business or for their wives? A Western tourist seeking the wisdom and mysteries of the Orient? Or a student, perhaps, looking to broaden his horizons? Some of the men smiled to themselves knowingly, thinking of the education they could give so pretty a boy, and even more intriguingly, what he might be able teach them.

If Blair Sandburg knew he was the focus of so much speculation, both innocent and prurient, he chose to ignore it. Instead, he quickly signed the registration card, leaving the departure date blank. If the Desk Clerk noticed, he also chose to ignore it.

Sometimes in Hong Kong, ignorance was indeed bliss.

***

The only sound in Blair Sandburg's small room was the murmur of the ceiling fan. Blair tried to ignore it because its spinning was like his own thoughts. It was one thing to make decisions in somewhat familiar surroundings like Japan, where his wife, Megan, had at least a few friends to offer encouragement in the young man's desperate quest. But here, the heavy dark furniture was too oppressive. Maybe it would have been better to spend a few extra dollars and take a more expensive room, just for the boost to Blair's sagging morale. If Megan's rescue party was only going to consist of one - one person willing to fight to bring her back to safety - then he as going to have to do something radical about his dejected, lonely spirit.

This was getting him nowhere. Blair Sandburg shook himself as he sat on the bed with the telephone awkwardly in his lap, then dialed the operator. After what seemed an eternity of waiting, she answered in a clipped British accent. Blair asked for the Hawthorne Hotel. The sound of his own voice broke the stillness of the room so sharply it startled him. This first, insignificant step was somehow terrifying. For an instant as he waited to be connected, he had the wild notion that Megan herself might answer.

"Hawthorne Hotel."

"Hello. I want to speak to the manager."

"One moment, please." It was a long moment - five minutes by his watch - before a man answered.

"Matthew Long here." The connection was a poor one, and Sandburg had to strain to hear.

"This is Mr. Blair Sandburg speaking. My wife, Megan, stayed at your hotel for about three weeks in May and the early part of June. Do you remember her?"

"What was name again, please?" The man was shouting.

"Megan Connor."

"Again, please?"

"Megan Connor Sandburg."

"Sandburg? No. No Sandburg. Connor. Yes! Miss Connor. Leave long time ago."

"But she must have left some things in her room. There should be bags with clothes and maybe one or two cameras. Do you have any of her belongings? And can you speak up? I can hardly hear you!"

"Miss Connor go away. Much trouble. Gone long time now. Not pay bill. Nobody pay bill. Nobody can find Miss Connor--"

"I know. I'll come and pay her bill, but do you have her baggage?"

"Everything all go to police ... everything. Inspector Rafe take everything. I keep receipt. You pay bill, yes?"

"Yes, I said I would. Tomorrow. Give me the inspector's name again so I can write it down."

"Inspector Rafe ... T-Lands Police Station."

"T-Lands?"

"Yes ... yes."

"What time will you be there tomorrow?"

"All the time here. You want room?"

"No, I have a room, thank you, Mr. Long. Goodbye."

Blair hung up the telephone and lay back down on the bed. He closed his eyes tightly because for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. It was like gathering the possessions of a dead woman, asking for a few pitiful things Megan might have left behind. But she wasn't dead. Megan was just too much a part of the living world to die until she was a very old lady.

Living with Megan Connor was like shooting the rapids in a fragile boat. There were jagged rocks and swift currents everywhere. You never knew just what was around the next turn. Not a secure way to live, but Megan always said you could be secure when you were dead.

Life with Megan Connor was nothing, if not was fun. She was a wild, wonderful, slightly crazy whirlwind who led you across mountains and valleys without ever touching the ground. Megan loved life - and men. Men had always returned the favor. They always seemed to laugh louder and stoke their ambitions in their need to impress her. Men would talk about money and power when Megan was around, but she wasn't much interested in either, and openly scoffed at such banal chatter.

It didn't matter. Men loved Megan Connor because she represented a kind of unheard of freedom to them. She moved when she wanted to and thought as she pleased and said things which were sometimes shocking but usually true, and which no one else would dare to say. And, bless her and her fabled "hollow leg." Megan had been schooled by her fourth- estate mentors in the ways of alcohol. She could drink as much as any man Blair Sandburg had ever known.

From her early days as a cub photographer for the San Francisco Herald, Blair's wife had seen a lot and done a lot, but graduated from the School of Hard Knocks without becoming cynical or world-weary.

Just the opposite, in fact. Life constantly amazed and amused her. Megan was a wonderful mate for Blair Sandburg. Their three years as man and wife were as unorthodox as their courtship: it was undeniably exciting, slightly unnerving, and totally unpredictable. Whenever Blair and Megan would arrange to meet, here and there, now and then, it was an incredibly romantic, almost clandestine encounter. There was never much talk of the future, because there never seemed to be enough time. "After we're married 10 years, I'll break down and wear your wedding ring," she'd said more than once. "It'll mean a lot more and give you a bigger kick."

Thinking of Megan this way was no good. Remembering was a waste of precious time, and an exhausting exercise. Someone had to do something about Megan because for the first time in her life she couldn't handle things for herself. That "someone" was her husband, Blair Sandburg.

Blair rose quickly from the bed, went to the mirror and ran his hands through the thick mane of hair, then adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, and took a long, hard look at himself. How had such a quiet academician, a teaching assistant and graduate student of anthropology at a small Western college ever managed to attract, much less, hang onto a world- class photographer and woman like Megan Connor he'd never know. The thought sometimes awed as much as troubled him.

There had been times in his life that Blair thought perhaps his real attraction wasn't to women. And he was the sort, well, that drew attention from many quarters. But Megan was like nobody else he'd ever met.

And she always came back. "You'll be here, waiting for me, won't you, luv?" Megan used the word "luv" instead of "Blair" as she always did when she was in one of her speculative, half-mischievous moods. Then she'd kiss her husband thoroughly and head out the door to the next assignment.

While he worked on his doctoral thesis, Blair Sandburg kept a candle burning in the window and his own gallivanting down to a minimum - much to the chagrin of Dr. Eli Stoddard, the head of the Department of Anthropology at Rainier. Each time Megan went on assignment, Blair secretly dreaded the possibility that one day she might just not return. And then he'd be alone again -- the way he'd been most of his life. Sandburg's only living relative was his mother, Naomi, the quintessential free spirit who had never revealed the name of, much less married, Blair's father. Single, and proud of it, Naomi Sandburg traveled the world, first with her young son, then alone, unafraid, hungry for knowledge and experience, seeking both spiritual and intellectual enlightenment along the way.

During Blair's childhood, Miss Sandburg (as she liked to be called) would send gifts and letters from the four corners to whatever school her only child was attending or relative he was living with. During the summers, Blair would join his gypsy Madonna of a mother wherever the four winds or her whim took them. It had been a surprisingly wonderful life for a boy, and was the reason he often supposed that his tastes were bohemian, his disposition and personality facile, and his view of life different from 99 percent of the rest of the population.

Blair was intelligent and perceptive enough to see many of the best qualities of his mother mirrored in the woman he called "wife." He also had to admit that one or two of other less ... attractive traits were there as well, like stubbornness, and an independence bordering on foolhardiness. As Blair Sandburg set out for the American Consulate's office, he couldn't help but hope that Megan's survival skills were as good as Naomi's.

***

Leaving the hotel, Blair Sandburg hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank Building. On the second floor, he turned down the long hallway to the American Consulate's office. After he knocked, a frail-looking woman came to the door and asked if there were anything she could do to help him. For a moment, Blair had trouble finding his voice; for this was the first step in what must be Megan's return.

"Hello. I'd like to see the consul, please."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No."

"I'm afraid we're in between consuls right now. Mr. Stewart is in charge until the new one is appointed."

"Then I'd like to see Mr. Stewart."

"What is it in relation to?" The woman delicately played with the ruffled collar of her blouse, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as if she were listening to distant music. Blair realized suddenly that she had not really looked at him and he knew instinctively that she wasn't interested in his answer or his problem.

It made the usually mild-mannered Blair Sandburg angry. "I insist on seeing Mr. Stewart."

"I suggest you telephone for an appointment, perhaps later in the week."

"No, I'm going to see Mr. Stewart today." He wanted shake the woman by the shoulders to get her undivided attention, but resisted the impulse. "You take my name in to him. It's Mr. Blair Sandburg, from Washington State. I'm the husband of Megan Connor-Sandburg."

"All right. Have a chair." The woman disappeared into the inner office. She returned almost immediately and there was a marked change in her attitude.

"Mr. Stewart will be happy to see you, Mr. Sandburg. Please follow me." The office was large and air-conditioned. Blair's spirits rose as he shook Mr. Stewart's hand. The acting consul was young, about Sandburg's own age, and somehow Blair knew the man was capable. The warmth in his brown eyes put Sandburg quickly at ease. He was built not unlike Blair himself, stocky and strong. Stewart's voice was deep and resonant and the words came quickly when he spoke, as with a man who believed in himself and what he had to say.

"I hope it's not too cold in here for you, Mr. Sandburg," he said. "I keep it this way to remind me of my last station which happened to be Norway, and where, quite frankly, I wish I were again."

"Actually, it's a relief."

"Hong Kong is always hot before a typhoon. There's one kicking up a fuss off the Philippines now. But it will be up this way sooner rather than later. You can almost depend on it." Ronald Stewart waited, looking at Sandburg while he filled a short, thick pipe. Just before the silence between them became embarrassing, he placed the pipe on his desk without lighting it and began to speak again.

"Hong Kong is a hot place in more ways than one, Mr. Sandburg. Now, what can I do to help you?"

"That's what I came to find out." Then Blair asked the question which had burned in his mind so long. "Where's my wife?"

"I wish we knew."

"But you must know something about her. It's been months since she went missing!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sandburg. You're mistaken. It is not the function of the consular service to investigate the whereabouts of American citizens living abroad. We're in sort of an embarrassing middleman position, and there's really no agency charged with the duty, although I agree that in these times there should be. We ask all new arrivals in Hong Kong to register with us, but except for convenience in notifying relatives in case of ..."

"I know my wife's alive."

"So do I." He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a Manila folder. "On my own, I've gathered the facts I could about your wife. I'm afraid there isn't very much, but some of these things you may not know. Would you like me to read them to you?"

"Please." Blair said gratefully. "Everywhere else I've been, I've run into a stone wall. No one seems to care. I've written to the State Department, cabled our congressmen, I've even contacted the newspapers back home ... " he unconsciously clenched both fists as he spoke, "I'm trying not to be discouraged. They just did nothing."

"We all care, Mr. Sandburg. But you must understand there's so little we can do officially. This is what we have done." He opened the folder and read quickly. "Megan Marie Connor Sandburg ... passport number et cetera, et cetera - you don't care about that - arrived in Hong Kong via Pan American Airways March 2, 1953. Occupation ... freelance photographer ... age thirty-one ... et cetera ... et cetera ... ah ... here it is. Registered Hawthorne Hotel, Kowloon, March 2 ... room 405 ... entry visa applied for - - thirty days. Now ... Megan Connor apparently avoided other Americans residing in Hong Kong or Kowloon with the exception of Tweedie's Place, where she was seen frequently in the company of various unidentified individuals, both Oriental and Caucasian. Do you know Tweedie's Place, Mr. Sandburg?"

"No ... I don't. And Megan didn't mention it in any of her letters."

"She wrote to you often?"

Blair sounded almost embarrassed. "No. Writing was never one of her strong suits."

"Well, Tweedie's isn't a bad place, really. It's sort of a gathering spot for homesick Americans. And they serve rather good food, as a matter of fact. Now ..." He began reading again, "Mrs. Connor - "

"Mrs. Sandburg - " Blair corrected.

"Ah, sorry. Mrs. Sandburg is reported to have stated several times during her visits to Tweedie's that if she could obtain pictures inside Red China, however innocent, they'd sell for a very high price to American news services and greatly enhance her chance of being hired on a regular status by one of the magazines. I suppose you know all this, Mr. Sandburg?"

"Life."

"Pardon?"

"Life Magazine. She wanted to work for them in the worst way."

"I see."

"We discussed it many times. Megan's always set a high standard for herself. She knew this assignment wasn't going to be easy."

"Did she ever indicate to you that she might attempt to photograph things of a military nature?"

"No. She simply wanted to do a picture story on life in Red China as it is today. Behind the Bamboo Curtain was to be the general idea."

Stewart placed his pipe carefully between his teeth and took a long time lighting it. He puffed for a moment, then swung around in his chair and stared out the window. His back was to Blair now, whether deliberately or not, Sandburg couldn't be sure.

"May I ask you one or two rather personal questions, Mr. Sandburg?"

"If it will help Megan."

"Was your wife ever a member of, or associated with, any subversive organization in the United States?"

"What?" Blair sputtered at the notion. "Certainly not. She was a flag- waving Republican and patriot, Mr. Stewart. My wife used to laugh and say that she should have been born on the Fourth of July. She believed that a man or woman could achieve anything, with enough talent and perseverance should make his or her own way independently." Blair stopped for a moment, removed his glasses, and cleaned them furiously with his pocket-handkerchief -- one that Megan had brought back from Ireland as a gift. "She always had the courage to live her life according to that principle."

"That's too bad. Courageous people can find themselves in a great deal of trouble. If your wife had more shall we say, 'left-wing,' friends, it might be possible to contact one of them and eventually find out where she is. As it stands ... well, China is a very big country."

"So what are you saying, Mr. Stewart? That America isn't big enough to do something about its citizens who have been kidnapped by maniacs?"

Stewart swung around in his chair and sighed. His pipe had gone out but he didn't bother to relight it. "Mr. Sandburg, in your understandable concern for your wife's safety, if what I am about to say goes no further than this office, I assure you I will be very promptly drummed out of the foreign service, because I have no right or authorization to discuss such matters with you or anyone else. But I do feel that I must explain our helplessness, to myself as much as to you. Please remember that for the moment, we are like the three monkeys ... you know ... hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil." Stewart attempted a half-hearted imitation. "America does not recognize the existence of Red China. I don't say this is wrong or right. I only want you to understand that until this is changed, or Chiang Kai Shek returns to the mainland, which I very much doubt he will ever be successful in doing, we've diplomatically isolated ourselves from about five hundred million people." Stewart clamped down hard on his pipe and shuffled the papers back into the Manila folder. "That's a lot of people. And so we are, in simple terms, just not talking to them - which is not so good in your wife's case. I never met her, but my guess is she thought that she could talk her way out of anything. I wish she had talked to me before attempting to enter China. I just might have been able to change her mind, although I sense she must be rather stubborn."

Blair's face softened as he smiled in agreement. "She is that."

"Certainly someone in Tweedie's must have tried to discourage Mrs. Connor."

"Mrs. Sandburg."

"Sorry."

"And Megan believed in herself."

"Exactly ... which is a very old-fashioned way of thinking, according to the people just over those mountains." Stewart pointed the end of his pipe at the window over his shoulder and Blair rose a little in his chair to look at the mountains. The peaks were sharply etched against the cloudless blue sky now, and the refraction of brilliant light almost brought tears to his troubled blue eyes. Megan was beyond those mountains, maybe just a few miles beyond them. Yet, she might as well have been on the moon.

"I'm going to get my wife back," he said softly.

If the acting consul heard the comment, he gave no indication. Stewart began to read again from the Manila folder. "On twenty-second March Inspector Rafe, Hong Kong Police, made telephone contact with this office as to one Megan Connor-Sandburg. He advised that the aforesaid was the object of a complaint by Hawthorne Hotel, Kowloon, specifically her room had not been occupied for eight days, and rent including certain food bills had not been paid. We were unable to give inspector any information since aforesaid Megan Connor-Sandburg, who was presumably an American citizen, failed to register upon entry this port."

"Mr. Stewart," Blair Sandburg said evenly, 'I want to know - I need to know - what's being done about my wife."

"I'm coming to that. I apologize for this official language, but I think you may better appreciate the situation if I read directly from the reports we have." He read on, holding up a new paper. "On second May, 1953, Hong Kong Harbor Police advised that an unidentified tall Caucasian woman of slender build, and thought to be an American, unsuccessfully attempted to hire a junk in the Yaumati typhoon shelter. Junk owner stated the woman wanted the junk for transport outside British territorial waters. On second May 1953, Royal Navy Launch number 1323 on routine patrol in the vicinity of Tai Shan Island apprehended small motor-driven junk running without proper display of navigation lights. Said junk was boarded. Routine search revealed two cameras of American manufacture concealed under floorboards port side aft. Junk owner stated he was returning from Canton empty and was afraid to display lights properly for fear of interception by Communist and/or Nationalist vessels. Junk owner claimed a Chinese friend gave cameras to him as passage payment. Junk owner, Lim Chau- wu, was fined three hundred HK dollars for proceeding without light. The cameras were held in bond until further proof of ownership could be established." Stewart paused and set the paper aside. "It is possible those cameras might have been your wife's, Mr. Sandburg."

"Where are they now?"

"I assume the British are still holding them unless the junk owner has obtained some kind of proof. It was early June before any of this information came to our hands. And about that time, the first inquiries came from Washington, which were, I would assume, a result of your own efforts. From then on the record is more precise, if no more encouraging. Here it is. Please listen carefully. Eighth June, 1953 ... inquiry made through British Charge d'Affaires to Chinese Government Peiping as to possible knowledge of whereabouts, one Megan Connor-Sandburg. No reply transmitted. Twentieth June 1953 ... inquiry made through British Charge d'Affaires as to original filing, dated eighth June, regarding Megan Connor-Sandburg. British advised no reply received from Peiping government. Thirtieth June 1953 ... ditto. Fifteenth July ... ditto. First August 1953, similar inquiry forwarded to British Charge d'Affaires, Canton, with further request for any possible information he might have on Megan Connor-Sandburg and/or other American citizens presumably held in this area. Reply stated no information of any kind available. Fifteenth August, 1953 ... formal protest lodged with Peiping government through British Charge d'Affaires insisting on information relative to one Megan Connor-Sandburg and immediate return to New Territories' border if held in custody. No reply received. And I might add, Mr. Sandburg, that I would be very much surprised if we ever receive one." He closed the folder and placed both hands flat on it. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Sandburg. I suspect you came to Hong Kong with the intention of learning much more than I've been able to tell you."

"I came to find my wife, Mr. Stewart. What can I do now? Where can I go to find out more information?"

"I couldn't say. I don't think there's any such place. You just have to wait. I'm only guessing, but I would say your wife is not in any immediate danger -- provided she did not attempt to photograph things which might be considered of military nature."

"Then why would they hold her?"

"Remember we are not even certain that they are holding her, but if they are, she is a hostage, and a diplomatic embarrassment to us. Since the days of Genghis Khan, the Chinese have been old hands at taking hostages. They want recognition and they want Chiang removed as a threat, among many other things. And time means nothing to them."

"It means a lot to me -- and to Megan."

"You'll forgive me if I point out that your wife should have thought of that before she entered their country as an uninvited guest. " He winced as he saw the young man's head go down. It was the first time Sandburg's shoulders had slumped since he'd entered the Stewart's office. " Please, Mr. Sandburg, I'm not trying to be cruel. I admire your determination, but--"

"There has to be an underground ... some kind of way of getting information." Blair Sandburg's head snapped back up and his fists were clenched tightly on the top of the desk. "I have money. Seven thousand dollars. I can't believe the Chinese are so dedicated to their new world order that they wouldn't accept a bribe."

"Do you know anything about Communism, Mr. Sandburg?"

"Not much."

"That's a dangerous mistake so many of us make. Communism is not just a redistribution of wealth, nor an exchange of power. Either one of these things would eventually fall under its own weight. No, Mr. Sandburg, communism is a religion, and those who accept it are as fanatical as the early Christians. No sacrifice is too great. Believe me, when a Chinese gives up 'squeeze' -- that's what bribes have been called out here for centuries -- he's got religion and he's got it bad. I don't think you could bribe your wife out of China for 20 times that amount. If you don't believe me, go talk to the British who must deal with the Reds almost every day. They'll tell you there's a new face on China."

Blair stood up suddenly and looked at the mountains beyond the windows, feeling an almost hatred for them and the country they symbolized. When the small man was finally empty of fury, he turned back to the consul, and tried to smile. "Your lecture's been very interesting, Mr. Stewart, but it doesn't solve my problem. Isn't there anyone you could suggest I might see?"

"Not officially, no. Why don't you come meet my wife and be our guest for dinner tonight?"

"Thank you. You're very kind... but I have another engagement." Blair Sandburg stood, shook hands with Stewart and started for the door.

The acting consul sucked thoughtfully on his pipe. "You wouldn't be going to Tweedie's tonight, would you?"

"Yes, Mr. Stewart. I would."

***

Blair Sandburg walked slowly toward the ferry landing, hardly aware of the hurrying hordes of Chinese who so crowded the sidewalks they sometimes overflowed into the street. The sun had softened with the afternoon and a light breeze brushed against his face. Near the Gloucester House, where the crowds were most concentrated, a beggar clawed at his slacks, even as two Australian sailors barred his passage, asking if he were an American. They were drunk and they were very young, no more than teenagers. When he said, "I am, guys," they smiled, chortled something incomprehensible about loving bloody Yanks, then made elaborately formal bows to let him pass.

But no other person looked at Blair Sandburg, and he thought that if he had ever needed the sound of a familiar voice or the sight of a friendly face, it was now during this lonely moment of first defeat. The small man turned down a narrow lane toward the harbor and saw that it was named Ice House Street. He looked up at the stone buildings and wondered which one contained the fat body of Charles Kaplan.

Blair Sandburg kept walking.

***

Tweedie's Place in Kowloon was almost hidden on a side street that branched off from Nathan Road. A well-polished brass sign beside the glass door set it apart from the curio shops, Chinese food stores and smattering of factories that gave purpose to the neighborhood. Tweedie's Place catered to sailors and fliers and so was known all over the world. To some, it was home; to others it was a cherished place to eat without the risk of dysentery. And for the vast majority of patrons, it was just a place to get drunk and survive to see another day.

For there were never fights in Tweedie's. Those who wanted a brawl could go to the Kowloon Hotel bar and beat each other's brains out all they cared to. Raising a fist in Tweedie's had long been regarded as a sin. In Tweedie's Place, the first time a man rose in anger was the last, because then Tweedie would exile the miscreant from the premises. This was the worst thing that could possibly happen to a sailor or a flier who wanted easy companionship in Hong Kong. Tweedie would ostracize such a person as effectively as if he had leprosy, and so there was no fighting in Tweedie's Place. Tweedie was mother and father, and some said the Holy Ghost, to all white men -- and women -- who found themselves on the loose in Hong Kong. Tweedie's always had been and always would be a safe place. To make sure it stayed that way, he kept a two-by-four behind the bar.

Tweedie's Place was large, and the constantly moving overhead fans created the impression that it was cool. The tile floor was surprisingly clean and there were very few flies. The tables were laid out with checkered table cloths because Tweedie thought they were homier -- and using them cut down on the laundry bill. You could spill a lot on a checkered tablecloth without having to change it.

The door swung open and Blair Sandburg entered the world of Tweedie's. Several dozen pairs of eyes took in the measure of the young man standing near the end of the bar. He cast his eyes down, and moved to an unoccupied table near the window. If Sandburg were trying to look inconspicuous, he failed miserably. Someone possessing Blair's undeniable beauty -- a beauty that would fetch a handsome price in another time - could be a great many things. Unobtrusive was not one of them.

Someone like Blair Sandburg could spell trouble. Trouble was something Tweedie didn't like. He swaggered over to confront this interloper. "Hello, brother. I'm Tweedie. This is my place. Kind of in the wrong place, ain't you?"

The younger man looked surprised and uncomfortable beneath the other man's examination. "No. I don't think so. I'd like to order a drink, please."

"Look, forget the drink. You need to leave. Beat it."

"I'm not leaving until I get --"

"I said, beat it."

"-- some information about Megan Connor."

"Tweedie, give the man a double scotch." A booming voice from behind Blair Sandburg fairly shouted. It belonged to a tall Negro with a decidedly American accent. Blair seemed to recognize him. Perhaps it was from the hotel, but Sandburg couldn't be sure.

"Excuse me, but how do you know who I am?"

"Hong Kong may have a lot of people in it, Mr. Sandburg, but it's essentially a small place. You arrived on the Pioneer Mail from Kobe and you're staying at the Prospect."

"And just who are you?"

"Simon Banks. President of Banks International. I am a ... wait a minute. Did you say Megan Connor?" Banks snapped his fingers as he connected the name with a face. "The American photographer?"

"Yes! Exactly! You know her?"

"I had the pleasure of meeting her. Here, as a matter of fact. A very, very pretty woman. Much too pretty to be on her own in Hong Kong. And why do you want to find her?"

"She's my wife."

"Your wife?"

"Yes, she disappeared a few months ago. I'm afraid she's being held prisoner somewhere in China."

"Oh..." Banks' manner changed instantly and he took a long drink from his glass. "I'm sorry to hear that. I wondered what had happened to her. I told her -- we sat right over there, in fact -- that she was heading for trouble if she tried getting onto the mainland."

"Why? How did you know? Please, Mr. Banks -"

"Simon. Call me Simon."

"Anything you could tell me might help, Simon." Sandburg's earnestness was overwhelming to someone so cynical as Banks, who would normally dole out information only for a price. He thought about taking pity on the young man who, like the great American writer Mark Twain seemed an 'innocent abroad.'

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sandburg. I'm a little fuzzy about the details of that last night. I'd had ... a lot to drink."

"You was drunk as a lord, Simon." Tweedie chortled at the memory.

Simon glared at the bar owner. "But I do recall she was here with Hans Zeller."

"Who's that?"

"A no-good German." Tweedie interjected.

"Please help me. Either of you. Tell me everything you can."

Simon Banks' shrewd look masked whatever he was actually feeling. "What's it worth to you, Mr. Sandburg?"

So much for human decency and finding Good Samaritans in far-off lands. "What do you want?" Blair asked, trying to keep anger out of his voice.

The big Negro was struck with the gutsiness of this American fish out of water. He almost softened to the young man's plight if it weren't against Simon Banks' religion. "Tell you what, Mr. Sandburg, buy me dinner and a drink or two, and I'll tell you what I know. Tweedie, another scotch. Put it on my new friend's tab. And not so much soda this time." Once he'd been obliged, Banks began speaking quietly so that he wouldn't be overheard. "Your wife being with Zeller isn't good. Zeller would sell his own mother for the right price. I give him and his kind a wide berth."

"Are you afraid of this Zeller?"

"No, he's a tinhorn. And I'm afraid of very few people. "

"Then why?"

"Because he sometimes works for Jim Ellison. Now that's one man I stay clear of."

"Hang on. Who's this Jim Ellison?"

"Not so loud!" Banks looked around quickly at the other tables. When he was convinced that no one could possibly have caught Sandburg's question, Simon continued. "Jim Ellison's a man you don't want to get on the wrong side of. Zeller sometimes does odd jobs for him."

"Can you remember anything else about Zeller?"

"He was here with Megan and another woman, Angela Chan."

"So, do you remember what were they talking about?"

"Your wife wanted to hire a junk or something like that. Anyone could have told Mrs. Connor -"

"Her last name's Sandburg."

Banks looked at a loss about the subtle distinction. "Uh, sorry. Mrs. Sandburg wouldn't stand a prayer on a junk unless she went through Jim Ellison. And Zeller was saying that if she was willing to spend few dollars, there was more than one way to get in and out of China. It made me sick listening to him, so I had to leave."

"Why?"

"He was offering to get someone into China, which anyone can do, and standing to make some money on the deal. But he sure as hell couldn't get them out."

Blair Sandburg's anger resurfaced. "Why in God's name didn't you warn my wife?"

"Why should I? I didn't know Megan Connor from Adam - sorry, Eve. We're all trying to make a living out here. Isn't that right, Tweedie?" Tweedie had brought a second round of drinks to the table, but said nothing one way or the other.

Blair looked up at the proprietor and asked, "Maybe you remember an American photographer, Megan Connor? She would have been in here a few months ago."

"I don't allow no single women in my bar."

"She came in with someone named Hans Zeller."

"Megan ... Megan ... long, brown hair? Real pretty? Yeah, I knew her. She's dead."

Blair caught his breath. He pressed his full lips together to hold back any sound until he could be sure of controlling it. "You've got to be wrong." He whispered weakly.

"I ain't often wrong. People keep me posted. The Commies nailed her. Some kind of spy. Taking pictures of military stuff over there. I hate Commies."

"But what makes you think she's dead?" Blair's voice was shaking.

"I don't 'think.' I know."

"Why do you know?"

"Why you so interested? She dump you or something? She the one that got away?"

"I'm Blair Sandburg, Megan's husband."

"Oh, that's too bad." Tweedie shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "Well, you're a good-looking guy. You got your life ahead of you."

Blair grabbed the other man's sleeve. He wasn't too proud to beg where it came to Megan. "Tell me how you know my wife's dead! Please!"

"If I was to tell you how exactly, I'd never learn anything else, and that I can't afford to do."

"But-"

"Why don't you do us all a favor and leave?"

"But -"

"Leave now, Sandburg, while you can still leave on your own two feet."

"I'm going to go talk to the police. Not everybody in Hong Kong can be as stupid as you." Blair Sandburg angrily reeled out of his chair, bumping the table as he left. His untouched drink spilled out toward Simon Banks. Banks shook his large head sadly.

Nobody should waste good liquor like that.

***

As soon as Inspector Brian Rafe of the Hong Kong British Constabulary spied Blair Sandburg in the lobby, he was certain the other man had never been in a police station in his life.

Sunlight came hard through the entrance and splashed across the visitor's face. Standing there in an ill-fitting linen suit, he was almost a head shorter and a great deal younger than the police officer himself. In fact, there was an almost child-like quality the stranger exuded, as though he were a male relative of Alice, but one lost in a horror of a Wonderland from which there was no escape. Rafe walked directly over to the younger man, and with a slight bow, he introduced himself. "Good afternoon. I'm Inspector Brian Rafe. And you are ...?"

"Blair Sandburg from Washington State in the USA." The two shook hands.

"We don't get many Americans here. How can I help you, Mr. Sandburg?"

"I'm not sure." Blair looked around the room uncomfortably, first at the sergeant who sat behind the high booking desk speaking with another officer, then at the two pickpockets waiting in the bail cage. "Is there a place we could talk? In private?"

"There's my office, but the lawn chairs might be more pleasant. Come along." The tall, good-looking British officer led his guest to the wooden chairs that had been placed in the shade beneath a tree. His assistant, who'd been standing next to the seated desk sergeant followed them a little way. "Hang back 'One-Three-One-Three'," Inspector Rafe ordered, using the other's badge number as his appellation. The policeman obeyed, sat down on the entrance steps and began smoking a cigarette. "Now, how may I be of assistance?" Rafe asked.

"A few months ago, you went to the Hawthorne Hotel on a complaint about a Megan Connor. Do you remember?"

"Yes ... yes, I do." Unless his memory failed him, and it seldom did, Rafe was sure the woman in question had skipped out without paying her bill. "I'm a bit vague on some of the details now, but I seem to recall her credit wasn't the best."

"Megan's my wife."

"Oh?"

"I paid her rent this morning. The manager claims she left nothing valuable in her room when she went away. Is that true?"

"There was a duffel bag, I believe, with some clothes in it. There were also some magazines. What does your wife say?"

"I don't know where my wife is. But I'm fairly certain that she's being held prisoner by the Communist Chinese."

"Oh, Lord. That's ... unfortunate. Just how did you determine that?"

Blair Sandburg told the British officer about the first terrible weeks when Megan's friends in the Orient had wired him about her disappearance. At first, Blair had been not too terribly concerned.

But as the days turned to weeks, the weeks into months, and still no word came about his wife, Blair began to panic, and started contacting anyone in the States that might be able to help him. Finally, when he'd exhausted every avenue on the home front, he decided he needed to travel to the East - first to Japan to meet with some of Megan's colleagues there, and then to Hong Kong. Blair took a cleansing breath before he finished his story for Inspector Rafe by telling him about everyone he'd met in Hong Kong over the last 24 hours - Acting Consul Stewart, Simon Banks, Tweedie - and everything he'd learned from them.

"I understand Ronald Stewart's position. There really isn't anything the consul anything can do." Inspector Rafe said, looking down at the grass. "Unfortunately, we are somewhat stuck with the same limitations. Our duties are very definitely laid down."

Blair Sandburg looked pale and defeated. "Could I see those cameras ... the ones that were found on the junk?"

"Certainly, if they haven't been redeemed." He waved his hand at "One- Three-One-Three" and told him to get the cameras if they were still in bond. "Supposing they are your wife's cameras. How would they help?"

"Couldn't you find the captain of the junk and question him? He might know where Megan is."

"We could try, but I wouldn't set too much store by it. There are thousands of junks and they are constantly moving about. Even if we could find him, chances are the chap would never tell us the truth."

"Would you try if my wife were a British subject?"

'We'd try even if she's an American. But it would be like looking for a special grain of sand on a beach, or the proverbial needle in the haystack. It might take months to run across the proper junk fellow. But I'll dig back in the records and send out the information on your wife ... I really will."

"Would you tell me something, Inspector? Who's Jim Ellison?" Sandburg said it suddenly and Rafe frowned. If the American's wife had anything to do with Jim Ellison he was determined to retract his offer and get rid of the young man as soon as possible. Of all the bloody Yanks in the world, Ellison needed to be hung. And Rafe would gladly spring the trap.

"You don't know him personally, Mr. Sandburg?"

"No. That's why I'm asking."

"Did your wife know him?"

"I don't think so, but I can't be sure."

"Very well then. Jim Ellison is a disgrace to your country. If we didn't have so much else to do, we would long ago have run him out of the Colony. I rather think the Governor is simply biding his time, because the rascal would only move up to Macao, and carry on from there. But we'll hang him one day."

"What does this Ellison do, and why do you dislike him so much?"

"Dislike is a mild word, Mr. Sandburg. Some use the term 'soldier of fortune.' I call your Jim Ellison a brigand, a pirate, a smuggler and a traitor. He will do anything to make a dollar - and, over the years, has."

"Then why don't you do something about him?"

"I neglected to say that he is extraordinarily clever. We can't prove a single one of my accusations. And British law, in case you aren't aware of it, has a peculiar way of favoring the criminal."

"So does American law, Inspector. In the long run, maybe it's a good thing."

"Not for policemen."

"And I'm sure you are a very good one."

Rafe looked at Blair Sandburg with a combination of aggravation and admiration. There was a forthrightness about this young American that the British officer couldn't help but like.

"Is Tweedie reliable, Inspector? What I'm trying to find out is would his information be reliable?"

"That depends."

"He said my wife was dead. How could he know that?"

"He wouldn't he tell you?"

"No."

"Tweedie doesn't know everything, but he knows a great many things. He has many sources of information. Tweedie is supposed to have a great many connections in China. What they do or whether they are reliable I couldn't say."

"If Megan were dead ... I'd know."

"How, Mr. Sandburg?" Rafe watched the other man's eyes and saw the life draining out of them. He wished he'd never asked the question.

"I ... I can't explain it." Sandburg spread his hands apart in a helpless gesture. "I'd just ... know it in my bones. So, Inspector, if I can't depend on Tweedie, who can help me?"

"No one is sure what goes on behind those hills. I take that back. Jim Ellison would know."

"Then I have to talk to Jim Ellison."

"That's not an easy thing to arrange."

"Why? Couldn't you put me in touch with him?"

"I would be the last person in the world to set you up with Jim Ellison. He doesn't fancy policemen. Any country's."

"What does he do that's so wrong? Please tell me."

Oh, hell. Rafe thought. Give this Sandburg character the information and be rid of him. Whatever he would say about Jim Ellison could do no harm. With his elbows on his bare knees, the policeman leaned forward in his chair speaking rapidly." Jim Ellison came here right after the war. Seems he'd had some problems while in the American Army. Anyway, he set himself up as a businessman. It's possible that he started in a legitimate fashion at first, but didn't stay that way for long. Ellison calls himself an import-exporter. Before the Communists took over China, we think he confined himself pretty much to gold and artifacts. There were also rumors of drug running. Now he's found another product ... strategic materials ... titanium ... tool steel ... aluminum ... electrical products and just plain arms. He ships them on his flotilla of junks, to your friends and my friends, the Communists."

"Why doesn't someone stop him?"

"Who would you suggest?"

"Your Navy."

"You forget, we're not at war with Communist China. If we fired on every junk we suspected, we might conceivably start one, since Ellison's junks all sail under the Communist flag. And there are so many, it's bloody well impossible to tell which are engaged in authorized trade."

"But how can they? This is British territory."

"A few miles of land ... yes. But just outside the harbor, the waters are Chinese. They can and do stop British vessels when they please. They actually fired on a Royal Navy launch last year, practically in sight of this police station, killing seven fine chaps and wounding all but one of the crew. Protests were made but nothing was done about it. Absolutely nothing." Rafe stopped for a moment, as he relived the sorrow and the infamy of the incident.

"I feel so ignorant and uninformed, but does Great Britain trade with China?"

"Non-strategic materials only. We do it to keep alive, but we're not very proud of it. Without that trade, Hong Kong would become a ghost city."

"What about Chiang Kai Shek? Can't he stop this Ellison?"

"Chiang spends most of his Naval energy pirating British ships. You Yanks supply him with the money and the materials to do it. And then there's a lot of strange goings on in Ellison's past that no one wants to become involved with." The last sentence hung in the air between them. It seemed to pique Sandburg's natural and professional curiosity - not a good thing, considering the situation he was in. Rafe wondered why he had said so much.

At that moment, "One-Three-One-Three" returned across the lawn, and handed the photographic equipment over to Rafe, who in turn, placed it into the American's now visibly shaking hands.

"These are Megan's cameras." Blair Sandburg said. "I was with her when she bought them. I'm sure."

"One of our inspectors was poking about the sampans in Yaumati ... purely routine, but he came across a prostitute who claimed an American woman had recently taken pictures of her in Canton. He said the pictures were extraordinarily good."

"Were they taken recently?" Blair leaned forward anxiously.

"It may have been a month ago, or only a fortnight or less. Those girls move about a good bit, but I'll go have a talk with her -- if she's still there."

"Thank you, Inspector Rafe," Sandburg said quietly. "You're a good police officer and a good man."

"My chief might not feel the same way. But if your wife is still alive, you don't have much time to waste." Looking at a smiling Blair Sandburg, Rafe inwardly curse himself if the hope he'd given the American was false. The inspector's voice was almost inaudible as he said, "And because he is the only person who could really help you, I'm going to tell you how to find Jim Ellison."

***

Questions whirled tumultuously around Blair Sandburg's tired mind. Why did Tweedie say that Megan was dead? How long ago had he received the confirmation, or was it all a lie to begin with? You must go back to Tweedie's and you must find out. And the cameras? How could Megan take pictures when her cameras were stolen in May? There were only those two when she left Japan, so perhaps she'd bought a third camera in Hong Kong.

Even with all the questions, a light had appeared at the end of Blair Sandburg's tunnel. It was a feeble one, true enough, but still it might guide the way to many things. Tweedie. Inspector Rafe. And now, written on a slip of paper, the address of someone who could help Blair find Jim Ellison: Angela Chan, the woman who had been with Megan and Hans Zeller at Tweedie's. Was she involved with Jim Ellison? It didn't matter. One way or another, Ellison must help. If nothing else, seven thousand dollars - three in traveler's checks and a four-thousand dollar letter of credit -- would make a rogue like him help. The bulk of the money was Blair's life savings; the rest had been contributed by Megan's worried friends and colleagues.

Sandburg prayed it was enough. God, what a crime to give the money to a man like Jim Ellison. But if he could bring Megan back to safety, then there was no other alternative.

Blair turned right on Salisbury Road, his pace slowing considerably as he walked toward the ferry landing. The more Sandburg analyzed what he had learned, the more a feeling of dread washed over him. And there wasn't much time. But how much? A chill descended over Blair Sandburg. He felt like fool. He'd taken for granted that Jim Ellison would do anything for money. But, supposing seven thousand dollars was meaningless to a man like Ellison? The thought quickened the young man's step again. He was almost out of breath when he arrived in front of the only curio shop on the block, which faced the broad square of the ferry landing. Blair hardly glanced at its window crammed full with ivory statues, inexpensive silk pajamas, carved elephants, fans and crudely-made models of Chinese junks.

Here, God willing, Blair Sandburg would find Angela Chan.

***

Sandburg entered the doorway and halted a moment to accustom his eyes to the darkness. Out of the shadows at the rear of the store, a soft voice welcomed him.

"Good morning, sir. May I be of assistance?" A Chinese girl emerged, moving almost silently, except for the soft rustle of her long, embroidered dress.

"I'm looking for Angela Chan."

"I am Angela."

"I'm Blair Sandburg. I'm from the U.S."

The Chinese nodded her head toward him in a respectful manner. "Welcome to my establishment, Mr. Sandburg."

"I'm so glad you speak English," he said uncertainly. "It's excellent."

"You are most kind. I went to school in America. In San Francisco. My family has always spoken English. We still do when we are together."

"Well, it's certainly better than my Chinese." A gentle smile graced his handsome face. "I'm trying ... I mean if you have a few minutes, I'd like to ask you some questions about my wife."

"Your ... wife? I am confused. Who is your -" Suddenly, Angela 's voice brightened as though she had remembered an important fact. "You're Megan Connor's husband! She showed me several pictures of the two of you together. One was during a trip to New York City. The Empire State Building, I believe. Another was snapped in front of a pyramid in Mexico, of all places. You were laughing. At the time I thought 'What a handsome couple'." Her voice became even warmer. "Please come to the private room in back of the shop and have tea with me, Mr. Sandburg."

"All right. Thank you."

A few minutes later, the two sat on opposite sides of a low table. Blair drank from the thinnest cup he'd ever seen. Soon, a surprising feeling of well-being came over him because it was obvious Angela had nothing to hide. Megan said you could always tell the bitches a mile away, no matter what their nationality.

Listening to Angela Chan, as she served the tea and talked of her family, and how they had been forced out of China and obliged to make as much of a living as they could from the little curio store, convinced Blair she was a good person with no hidden agendas. She was simply talking to put her guest at ease and she seemed to find more humor than complaint in her situation. Blair put his cup down and then began asking his questions.

"Do you know a Hans Zeller?"

"Yes. He is from Macao. Hans plays the mandolin and sings quite well. He can also be devilishly charming when he wants to be. He joined us the night your wife and I dined together to celebrate her good fortune. A special assignment she had been waiting for, she said."

"Does Zeller do anything else besides play the mandolin?"

"He is also a teacher of language. He runs a small school in Macao, but I don't think he has many pupils."

Then, carefully watching her and what her reaction would be to the news, Blair told Angela about Megan's disappearance. There was a look of genuine surprise and then anger mixed with fear in Angela 's eyes. Blair was satisfied that, at last, he had found a friend in this foreign place.

"I know she wanted to go to China," Angela Chan said. "But I thought she had given up the idea and had left for other parts."

"Not Megan. Once she sets her mind on something, nothing can stop her. Do you think Zeller might have arranged a one-way ticket to the mainland for my wife?"

"Hans Zeller would do anything for money."

"So I've heard. But Megan didn't have more than five hundred dollars."

"Hans would sell his soul for ten."

"Simon Banks said the same thing."

Angela raised an eyebrow "Simon Banks? You know him? You certainly get around in a hurry, Mr. Sandburg."

"I have. And please call me 'Blair.' Now, how can I find this man Zeller?"

"You will have to travel to Macao."

"I'm a little vague about Macao. Where is it and how do I get there?"

"Quite easily. You'll take a ferryboat. There are two a day and it's only a four-hour ride. Macao is a very small place, entirely surrounded by China."

"Miss Chan--"

"Angela."

"Angela ... do you know Jim Ellison?"

"Yes." Was it the way Angela Chan spoke the single word or the way her voice had dropped that startled Blair? As quickly as she said it, her face became an expressionless mask.

"What kind of a man is he?"

Angela took a cigarette from a cloisonné box on the table. Her long, beautifully formed fingers toyed with the cigarette, turning it end over end. Blair saw a box of matches near the end of the table and reached for it. As he struck one, Angela leaned forward to accept the light. Their eyes met.

"I think he is the most wonderful man in the world." The woman spoke so softly, her voice was almost a whisper. And suddenly Blair was fascinated with the look in Angela Chan's eyes, for they were far more telling than her words. Those almond-shaped glories had given her away.

Angela Chan was in love with Jim Ellison.

"Some people are not quite so ... enthusiastic about him," Blair said, choosing his words. Careful, Sandburg. A woman in love can turn on you faster than switching on a light.

"He has many detractors. Whatever you've heard about Jim Ellison is only a part of him," Angela said finally, as she crushed out her cigarette. "He is a most complex man." She added, enigmatically.

"I'm sure you're right." It's okay now. Blair thought. She's not trying to hide her love of Jim Ellison from me. "All I want to know is, do you think he could help me ... or would he? How can I approach Jim Ellison? How can I make him listen to a total stranger?"

"Is that your plan, Blair?"

"Yes. No matter what I have to do, I'm going to make him listen to me. He may be my last hope. And Megan's."

"Then I will tell you a very important thing about Jim. He can never resist a stranger in desperate straights. It brings out ... I believe the most precise word is 'protector' in him. The Chinese have a saying about protectors."

"I know the one you're talking about." The scholar in Blair Sandburg interjected. "Once a man has saved your life, he must continue to do so for the rest of his."

"An excellent interpretation, Blair. And you are quite correct. I know, because I was once a stranger who came to him for protection. My father had escaped from China to Hong Kong with only the coat on his back. My mother, who had never worked with her hands in her life, got the job doing Jim's household laundry. She was his shirt-amah, as they are called out here."

"Servant?"

"Yes, exactly. One day my mother told Jim about our family and how we wanted to start a shop. Jim gave her the money for this shop we are sitting in right then and there. After that, well, I saw him often."

She knows I know there's more than gratitude in the way she speaks about Jim Ellison.

"Jim can never resist a stray," Angela went on more easily. "You'll see. He's got a great big wonderful heart ... as big as his body. To me ... he will always be like the Emperor of China." She surprised Blair when she giggled, almost child-like, and lowered her eyes. "Or your Santa Claus."

"Do you see him very often?"

"No, not so much any more."

Blair instantly regretted asking the question. He had stepped over an imaginary line. Angela 's whole manner had suddenly become distant and cold. He tried to placate the woman by changing the subject. "Is it too early for me to call him?"

"Jim always gets up early. But he may be out. Shall I make the phone call for you?"

"Yes. Thank you, Angela."

Angela rose and went back into the shop. Blair Sandburg waited a long time. He could hear the woman talking on the telephone, but the seemingly endless conversation was all in Chinese. He was certain, though, that at one point in the conversation, the melody of Angela 's voice became more plaintive, as if she were trying to project herself over the wires. Finally, there was silence again and Angela was standing in the doorway. Although her voice was perfectly normal, her poise was undone. She'd been crying.

"Be ready at the Prospect at seven o'clock. He will send a car for you."

"Will you be coming along?"

"No. He did not invite me."

***

It seemed to Blair Sandburg that he had been riding a long time before he recognized the lights of Kai Tak Airport. Now, he became determined to keep track of the chauffeur's changes in direction instead of brooding on what Inspector Rafe had told him. Yes, Rafe had found the girl in the Yaumati junk shelter and her description of the American woman who had taken the pictures matched Megan's exactly. There could be no question about it. But the Inspector had run into a stone wall when he tried to pin down the actual date. "Short time ago ... short time ago," the girl had insisted. "A short time," according to Rafe, could be anywhere from two weeks to two months in Chinese thinking. Or it might be even more. The girl couldn't or, wouldn't, remember. Rafe thought she'd developed the convenient amnesia because she was in the Colony without proper papers and was afraid of being sent back to Canton.

Megan Connor-Sandburg had been in Canton and that was all anyone knew. So the little hope Blair carried about finding his wife quickly had died, and she was as lost to him as ever.

The silver gray Bentley swerved off the broad avenue bordering the airport and turned into a narrow street barely wide enough to accommodate it. The nameless street twisted and inclined up toward the hills behind Kowloon. It was crowded with people who seemed to regard the car as an antagonist to be defied with suicidal indifference. The chauffeur honked continuously, but even the blare of his horn was lost in the boisterous anarchy of sound that possessed the street. Radios from most of the shops screeched full volume. Tinkers and tradesmen beat gongs and sticks on tin to draw customers' attention. All over, the cries and laughter and accusations of a multitude of human beings flowed unevenly. Even the smells -- baskets of dried fish, tubs of rice, drapes of freshly killed mammals and their entrails, sprays of roots and plants and spices - all mixed with the mass of people and became a part of them.

The pavement gave way to a dirt road and the region of shops fell away as if it were sinking into the sea. Only a few people stared into the glare of the headlights as the chauffeur slowed to negotiate the tortuous turns. Then there was near darkness for a time on both sides of the car, until a gate appeared at the summit of the road. The driver turned into the gate and stopped in front of a large Western-style house. A dog barked inside.

Blair Sandburg stepped out of the limousine, and was halfway up the broad steps when a shadow fell across the light from the door and he saw a man descending rapidly toward him. It was a fat man obviously in a great hurry. With no little amount of surprise, Blair recognized Charles Kaplan from the Pioneer Mail. Sandburg bent his head and turned his face away, trying to avoid having to speak with the odious man. He had almost passed Kaplan, when other man paused and called out Blair's name.

"Mr. Sandburg! How delightful to see you again!" Charles Kaplan nervously mopped his florid face with a large handkerchief, puffing for breath like a giant bullfrog, Blair thought.

"I wish I could say the same, Mr. Kaplan."

"And in such an interesting place. I see you're getting well acquainted in Hong Kong. I must congratulate James the next time I see him for succeeding where I failed."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"We are, for lack of a better term, business associates."

"Oh, really?" Blair turned abruptly away and continued up the steps. He heard Kaplan call after him, but didn't turn around.

"Don't forget, Mr. Sandburg. If you need anything ... Ice House Street." Blair could hear open lust in the chuckling voice.

A white-coated amah met Blair Sandburg at the door with a smile. She said, "Please" and indicated with a wave of her thin arm that the young man should seat himself on an enormous couch standing in the middle of the reception room. At one end of the couch, a white Angora cat meowed loudly. From behind the impressive piece of furniture, a tan and black dog of uncertain heritage came to lick at Blair's hand and wag his tail. When Sandburg was seated, the amah smiled and turned away, her slippers hissing softly against the floor. Sandburg looked at the cat and saw only hostility in its wide yellow eyes, but the dog pressed happily against his leg. Blair looked around the magnificent room and tried to forget Charles Kaplan.

There was a wide doorway opposite the couch leading into another room where he could see one end of an ornate dining table. Beyond the table, a bank of flowers was arranged on a buffet. The wall curved away from the dining room entrance and became a huge, round Chinese window, which faced a garden. Stretching the full length of the wall beneath the window were shelves that held rows of magnificent stone statues. Blair could discern horses, Chinese warriors, maidens and bearded old men. He was willing to bet a month's teaching stipend that they were genuine and worth a fortune.

Jim Ellison was an incredibly wealthy man. Or a thief. Or both.

Just beyond the doorway leading to the garden was a staircase with a wrought-iron rail curving gracefully to the floor above. The disagreeable cat hissed and Blair thought of Charles Kaplan. What did he have to do with Jim Ellison? Who was this Jim Ellison anyway? Sandburg thought of the way Simon Banks had spoken of the man, and Inspector Rafe, too. Only Angela Chan attributed to Jim Ellison any positive qualities. But love sometimes clouded the clearest of eyes.

The mongrel now placed his head beseechingly in Sandburg's lap looking for comfort or a bit of food. For a moment, Blair thought he'd found his first real friend in Hong Kong.

Blair was looking at an elaborately inlaid Chinese screen beneath the staircase when, instinctively, he knew that someone was standing behind it. Sandburg heard a footstep, the creak of leather, and then the barrel of a revolver jutted out. Blair was about to yell, when the intruder sprang forward and was now entirely visible. Blair sighed with relief, and just barely managed to contain his laughter. The mystery man wore a complete cowboy outfit.

And he was all of eight years old. "Howdy, stranger," the cowpoke growled, taking a step toward Sandburg and the dog.

"Howdy ... pardner." Blair looked into the boy's serious brown eyes. Because the cowboy outfit was so like the one Sandburg had seen a hundred times back home, it was a second before he realized the little boy was at least half-Chinese.

Still holding the cap pistol, the "cowboy" moved a few steps closer. "I could have clobbered you," he said solemnly.

"I guess you could have."

"But there's no fun in shootin' strangers."

"Not unless they rustle your cattle."

"What's your name?"

"Blair Sandburg. What's yours, pardner?"

"Billy Ellison." He shoved the gun into its holster and extended his hand. "Shake."

Blair took the small hand in his and shook it once vigorously. Young Master Ellison inspected Blair with grave interest.

"Where you come from?" For the first time Sandburg noticed that although his words were entirely familiar, he spoke with a slight accent -- a strange mixture of Chinese tonality and clipped English diction.

"America."

"Killed any Indians?"

"Not lately."

"How many horses you have?"

"None ... that is, not right now."

"Ever ride in a stagecoach? My daddy says if you don't ride a horse, you ride in stagecoaches. It's in the movies, too."

"Well ... sort of." Sandburg thought of a long, uncomfortable bus trip he'd once made across country and decided the lie wasn't too far-fetched.

And it was strange, Blair thought suddenly, he had never considered Jim Ellison as being married.

"You ever been held up?" Billy asked.

"No...."

"You sure you come from America? Your story kind of phony." He looked at the bespeckled Sandburg uncertainly, then confided, as if to reassure himself, "When I go to America I'm going to arrest all the bandits."

"Good."

"I'll hang the very bad ones from the trees."

"Hey, Billy." A voice called from the stairs. "Don't be so bloodthirsty. You'll scare away the company." Blair looked up and saw an incredibly handsome, smiling man descending the staircase. His movements were lithe and powerful, like a large predatory cat's, his appearance was almost exactly the opposite of what Sandburg had expected. But Blair Sandburg knew instantly that he was about to meet Jim Ellison.

And, surprisingly, something rose within Blair's body. It came him over like a swell rolling in from the ocean and he barely had time to recognize it before he heard the other man saying, "I'm Jim Ellison." They shook hands, and it was as though a bolt of lightning had flowed into Blair's unsuspecting body. The young man's mouth turned Mongolian Desert dry as he found himself totally at a loss for anything to say.

Finally, Blair found his among-the-missing tongue. "Blair Sandburg. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice."

Jim Ellison was tall and powerful, but the power in him didn't come from his height. There was something in his carriage that gave Blair the impression of great muscular strength and sturdiness. Jim Ellison's tailored suit underplayed a magnificent body that belonged to Adonis.

There was tantalizing color in Ellison's cheeks and skin, a burnished gold that complemented the short brown hair and made a pair of blue eyes -- bluer than Blair's own -- dominate a truly patrician face. The eyes were frank, intense, and totally unafraid. The square jaw and a small, faded scar over his left eyebrow saved Jim Ellison from being perfect.

Still, Blair Sandburg finally decided that this was just about the best- looking man he'd ever seen in his life. The young American was surprised as how much the thought disturbed him.

Jim Ellison was smiling, and as he talked and laughed, the timbre of his voice echoed richly throughout the house. The cat turned magically kitten- like, purring at Ellison's approach and bounding off the couch to brush up against his ankles. The dog barked joyously as its master first kissed Billy Ellison, then lifted him high above his head, settling the boy on his broad shoulder.

As Jim Ellison navigated gingerly amidst the general chaos of the room, another dog, a sort of odd German Shepherd-Airedale combination, came running full tilt out of the dining room and slid across the polished floor, barking frantically for attention. Ellison put his free hand in the dog's mouth to satisfy it.

"Excuse the family reunion." The tall man apologized. "I've been gone all day."

"Daddy, he comes from America!" Billy yelled, pointing at Blair. "But he says he never killed an Indian or even a bandit!"

"I'm going to buy you a space ship, my boy, so you can get off the cowboy subject."

"But there aren't any Indians in the sky!"

"Okay, then you can shoot some Martians."

"How will I know if I have? They don't have blood!"

Jim Ellison looked down appealingly at Blair. "Can you explain to me how kids know such things?"

"I've often wondered that myself."

"This little guy is nothing. You should hear his sister, Gracie. After I listened to her prayers just now, she asked me why you couldn't take a big balloon and fill it up with dark night air and then let it out when you wanted to sleep in the daytime."

"That's not a bad idea. How many children do you have, Mr. Ellison?"

"Three. Their older brother, Stephen, is going to school in the States. Excuse me while I get rid of this one right now." Ellison swung Billy to the floor and patted his rear end fondly. "Git, little buckaroo. It's way past your bedtime." Jim Ellison kissed him again and shoved him playfully toward the staircase. As Billy moved away Blair tried to find any resemblance between the small face and Jim Ellison's, but was unsuccessful.

"I bet you never been to America." Master William Ellison said as he slowly mounted the stairs reluctantly, looking over his shoulder one last time at the "company."

"Them's fightin' words." Blair called after him "Good night." And then Sandburg was strangely uncomfortable because he was now alone with Jim Ellison.

Ellison stood apart, watching Blair Sandburg, as thought he could sense his visitor's nervousness. Trying to put the younger man at ease, Jim smiled wryly and Blair thought even the half-smile was warm and direct. It might have been Sandburg's imagination, but his host seemed to be scrutinizing him more closely than anyone else ever had, looking intently at ... what?

"You're wondering how I can have a Chinese kid," Ellison said.

"No, I wasn't ... no, not really."

"No race prejudice?"

"No. I'm an anthropologist. I've managed to avoid it."

"Anthropologist, huh? Science type? Really? Then I'll tell you the truth. They're only mine by adoption. The other boy is a kid from the Philippines. Steven's pretty much of a genius. You should see his marks in school."

"You sound like a proud father."

"I am, of all three of them. Steven's almost thirteen, and I really miss him." Jim Ellison paused once more, and their eyes met. Blair Sandburg forced himself to look away.

What was there about this man that made Blair Sandburg feel giddy and unnatural? Something he'd never experienced before was lifting him right out of his reality, the one of surprisingly traditional values and mores. In the space of a quarter hour, Blair Sandburg had become more than mildly interested in Mr. James Ellison.

"It must be hard for you, having someone you love so far away." Even the sound of Blair's own voice seemed to come from another person.

"You're right about that. But you didn't come here to talk about my kids," Ellison was saying. "Come on in the bar and have a drink."

"Thank you, but I really don't -"

"I've got some of the best Spanish sherry you'll ever taste. I stole the manzanilla years ago, so the flavor is extra special." Ellison didn't wait for a refusal, as he took Blair Sandburg by the arm and led him across the garden toward a small pagoda artfully set in the middle of a lily pond. He pointed to a pair of swans gliding passed them. "I had those two brought in especially from England. It was a big mistake. Swans hate everybody." He explained ruefully. "They're worse than camels." The two dogs and the cat had led them across the small arched bridge and were waiting when the two men stepped into the pagoda.

"This bridge can be quite a problem." Jim Ellison said with a rich chuckle. "It's built just the way the old Chinese houses used to have them. But every once in awhile somebody will have too much to drink and fall into the pond. I had the rail built higher and they still manage to wind up in the drink with the lilies."

"And the swans. "Blair joked shyly.

The inside of the pagoda was matted with bamboo cane set in intricate designs. An ebony bar reached across one end. The other walls were mostly large windows with comfortable benches beneath them. Jim Ellison poured him a glass from a bottle wrapped in burlap, and handed it to Blair. He watched intently as the young American sipped the amber-colored aperitif.

"Is it all right, Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair nodded his head. "Yes, it's wonderful."

For himself, the tall man poured a double shot of Irish whisky neat. "The water supply is so critical here in Hong Kong, I don't want to put any added strain on it. Cheers." He raised his glass and drank it down.

For a long time, they studied one another in silence, save for the loud honking of the two swans.

"Would you like to hear Chicago?" Ellison finally said and Blair noticed that his voice had become subdued - almost melancholy.

"Chicago?"

"Sometimes, I sit out here alone and just listen to it. I guess it's bad for me, but I can't help it." Ellison stepped behind the bar and switched on a small record player, and the pagoda filled with sounds of buses, sirens, pneumatic drills, clanging street cars, and newspaper boys calling out their editions. When it was done, Jim Ellison switched off the recording and poured himself another drink. His smile was gone now and he stared moodily at the lilies gently moving in the pond. "I had it made specially. They did a pretty good job but they forgot the 'els'."

"I take it Chicago is your home."

"It used to be. Now, it's Hong Kong."

"You don't seem very happy about it."

"You can't always have what you want."

There were hundreds of questions Blair wanted to ask Jim Ellison, but the other man's easy manner had vanished. Sandburg waited, hoping the hard look on the chiseled face would go away as quickly as it had come. It didn't. In fact, Blair Sandburg felt naked, as though he were caught in Jim Ellison's crosshairs. "Angela told me about your wife." With a shock, Blair realized that he hadn't thought of Megan since the moment Jim Ellison first put his large hand on Sandburg's arm, then the small of his back, and maneuvered him out here. What's more, Blair felt ... excited. It was the lure of the forbidden, combined with the undeniable attractiveness and total maleness of Jim Ellison. Blair Sandburg found himself shivering. He was in trouble and he knew it. Even bringing "Professor Sandburg" into the mix was a failure. He tried taking a step back, and being an observer. This Jim Ellison is the true alpha male in his natural habitat. And Blair saw himself for what he was: another male in foreign territory. It was a dangerous position. To survive, Blair Sandburg needed to present himself submissively to the natural leader of the pack. Zoology in the middle of chaos.

Under any other circumstances, it might have been funny. It wasn't funny now. It was almost immoral. Indecent. Unthinkable. It was also so consuming that Blair Sandburg unconsciously wet his lips and felt his skin burning under the intense scrutiny of those imperious blue eyes.

Disgusted with himself, Blair Sandburg pushed the Waterford away. Resolve stiffened his backbone. Blair took a deep breath and made a decision. He didn't care what he had to do to get Jim Ellison to help him find Megan.

"Can I talk to you about my wife, Mr. Ellison?"

"Call me 'Jim,' please. Sure, you can talk about her if it will make you feel any better. But talk won't get your woman back."

Blair Sandburg needed to have Jim Ellison on his side. He remembered what Angela Chang had said earlier in the day. Maybe he could impose on whatever it was in Jim Ellison that would make this wealthy expatriate feel protective toward a stranger in trouble. "What can I do, Mr. Ellison ... Jim? I've just arrived in Hong Kong. I can count the number of people I know on one hand. And I can't pull Megan out of China myself, can I?"

Ellison studied Blair's open, flushed face, and smiled. "I've got a hunch you'd try it if you thought you had half a chance, wouldn't you?"

"Yes." And once again, the feeling of instability rose in Sandburg's chest as Jim flashed perfect white teeth at him. Ellison's eyes never left the smaller man, and Blair knew he was being judged and examined, but not the way Charles Kaplan had done earlier, with disgusting lust and open lechery. No, the tall man was looking inside Blair Sandburg. It was ... exciting.

Jim Ellison pulled a cigarette box off the bar and opened it. "Do you smoke?"

"Uh, no, thank you. But you go ahead."

"I've pretty much given it up. I used to, but I started having problems with my eyes and my ..." Jim Ellison abruptly stopped his explanation. "Long story short, I don't any more. I stick with chewing gum these days." From his inside jacket pocket, he pulled out a stick of what looked to be Wriggley's Juicy Fruit -- Blair's favorite - unwrapped it and stuck it in his mouth. It was the most provocative thing Blair Sandburg could ever remember seeing. A voice inside him was starting to scream: talk to Ellison about Megan, don't look into his eyes, don't look at his body, don't look at those shoulders, that tapered waist, and further down ...

"I've been looking for someone like you my whole life."

"What did you just say?"

"You heard me, Sandburg. You're not in some parlor back in the States. You're in Hong Kong, and a million miles from whatever the hell your life was. You know what I'm talking about."

"I don't know what you mean."

Jim Ellison leaned forward, dangerously close to Blair and surprised the shorter man by sniffing around him. "Yes, you do. I can 'smell' it."

Sandburg took a step backward. "I came here to get help for my wife, in case you don't remember. The woman I belong to."

"Ownership. Interesting concept."

As if to reinforce what he'd just said, Ellison stroked Sandburg's cheek surprisingly gently with the backs of his long fingers. "And, in case you hadn't heard, I pretty much make up my own rules." Blair Sandburg resisted the urge to lean into the strong hand. Instead, he took a deep breath and tried to change the subject.

"The only thing I've heard about you is that you have a reputation ... for helping people in trouble."

"That depends on who you talk to." Ellison's hand dropped. "My main business is helping Jim Ellison. If I didn't think that way, I'd still be driving a gravel truck in Chicago."

"Is that why you came to Hong Kong? To help Jim Ellison?"

"That, junior, is a damned interesting story. Let's just say if you live long enough - and if you get kicked around hard enough -- you get smart, figure the odds, shove a few people around, and you end up rich and happy."

"And are you?"

"More than most. But start letting people get under your radar screen -- get close and work their way inside you - well, you've had it. So, I have to ask myself what's in it for me, Sandburg? Or should I call you Professor?"

"Call me Megan's husband." Blair tried not to show the anger that was threatening to kill any chance of eliciting the other man's help. "Call me anything you want. Just help me. If you weren't even open to the idea, why did you invite me out here?"

"Because I had a soft spot for Angela once and I can't seem to get out of the habit of listening to hard-luck stories."

"It can't be just that. What about your children?"

"Somebody left Billy lying at my front gate when he was a baby. Gracie was a pal's little 'accident' in Bangkok. And Stevie followed me all around the Philippines, begging the way most street kids did. The little wheeler- dealer kept giving me that old 'no mama, no papa' line until I found out he wasn't lying. He was an orphan. So I brought him along when I came to Hong Kong."

"It's almost ... noble."

"They were lost, and I sort of brought them back into my tribe."

"The tribe, Ellison?"" Blair smiled at the thought in spite of the desperate situation in which he found himself. "So, how long have you Ellisons' been here?"

"Since right after the war when the Army and I parted company."

"You were in the service?" His question had a strain of incredulity in it - and it was a moment before Blair Sandburg realized he'd gone too far with Jim Ellison. He'd asked questions like the observer he was, to make conversation, to satisfy his growing curiosity about this strange, enigmatic man. He'd done it really without thinking.

"Wasn't everybody?" Ellison asked stiffly.

"I wasn't."

"The eyes?"

"Yes."

"That all? Anything else that might have kept you out of the Army?"

Blair felt himself unaccountably flush at the question, because this Ellison character was definitely not one to make idle chit-chat. If he asked something that directly, it was because he wanted to know the answer. Ellison gaze traveled up and down Blair's body, which made the smaller man feel as though he were actually standing in the impressive room stark naked instead of in the slightly wrinkled linen suit he'd bought in Japan for the trip to Hong Kong.

Blair Sandburg might have been naïve in certain areas, but he was smart enough to understand what Jim Ellison was implying. Blair considered the image he projected to the casual observer: a smallish, lean, long-haired, earring-wearing, somewhat unorthodox scientist. Most thought him "pretty" as opposed to handsome. It led many to conclusions about his sexuality that were totally incorrect. It didn't matter that certain types of men found him intriguing. He'd met many of them in the artistic and academic circles he had always traveled in, first as a child with his mother, then on his own in boarding schools and college, and most recently with Megan as his wife.

Blair's sexual preference had always been women. At least until now. "Just the eyes, Mr. Ellison."

Jim took a moment to digest the response before treating Blair to a brilliant smile. "If you say so. And I told you to call me 'Jim. They might have kept you out of the military, but they certainly can't keep you out of trouble." Jim Ellison moved forward and with a sweep of his hand, removed a surprised Blair Sandburg's glasses. "Why don't you take these off?"

Blair Sandburg was struck by the absurdity of the situation. It was so sexually charged and so incongruous to what he was trying to accomplish, he began to laugh.

"What's funny?"

"If someone had told me how this evening was going to unfold, this wouldn't have been it. Here I thought I was going to have to fight for my wife - not my 'virtue.' Hong Kong is certainly an interesting classroom."

"You've got balls. I'll give you that. You're in trouble and you can still make a joke. That takes something special. I like you. Now, how about some dinner, Chief? Sally, my cook, bawls the hell out of me if I'm not at the dinner table on time."

"'Chief?'"

"You mind?"

"No. I'm just surprised. " Blair hadn't thought about food. "As for dinner, I hadn't planned ..."

Jim took Blair's arm at the elbow and squeezed. "Come on. You'll like it. Tonight, it's New England pot roast." Blair Sandburg told himself he couldn't really refuse even if he'd wanted to. And Jim Ellison had a sweeping way, as if the world had to fall into line with his wishes, and join in his enthusiasm. No wonder the people of Hong Kong spoke guardedly of Jim Ellison. This man was like a force of nature. With a twinge of conscience, Blair thought his host was wonderful -- and terrible.

"Thank you for the offer, but I'm not really hungry."

"Thinking about your wife?"

"Yes."

"I could use some of that."

"Some of what?"

"You know, someone who would miss a meal because she ..." Jim paused for a beat to get his visitor's attention, " ... or he was worried about me."

Blair chose to ignore what was beginning to sound like an overture he couldn't handle right now - not if he desperately needed to get his host's help to find Megan. "I think there's someone who fits the bill already. But Angela Chan won't wait forever."

"Angela? You think Angela and I ... you're way off base, Chief. She's not the 'forever' kind. I want a fighter. Someone who'd always be in my corner. I want someone like ... you."

Blair was startled, and becoming alarmed, at the directness. "Don't get panicked." Jim Ellison lowered his voice, knowing he'd scared the other man. "I know you're 'taken.' The only reason you came here to see me is because you thought I might be able to rescue your wife for you."

"Yes. Please ... Jim. I need your help."

"Why should I? Even if I could do anything?''

"I have seven thousand dollars. I'll pay it to you the minute Megan is over the border."

Ellison's eyes narrowed and Blair was certain he saw a look of disappointment behind them. Then the eyes grew hard and indifferent.

"Seven thousand dollars? Is she worth that much? Well, seven thousand means nothing to me."

"It's all I have." He was losing whatever footing he had garnered with Jim Ellison. Blair changed tactics. "Would it mean something to Charles Kaplan?"

"Kaplan? How did you ever get to know him?"

"He came down on the boat with me from Kobe. He's a business associate of yours, isn't he?"

"Stay away from him. You understand what I'm saying? He's no good. I don't want to see you anywhere near that low life."

"Why should you care who I get involved with?"

"The point is that Kaplan can't do anything."

"Then how about Hans Zeller? Or Tweedie? Or Simon Banks? Would they be interested in my seven thousand dollars?"

"You've been here what, less than 48 hours? How did you get mixed up with all of them in such a short space of time? They'll steal you blind, if you're not careful."

"I'm not exactly mixed up with them."

"I think you need someone to watch over you, Chief. You need a protector, among other things." With his preamble finished, Jim Ellison grabbed Blair Sandburg by both arms, and pulled him up into a blistering, wanton kiss. It was hard and fast and almost punishing, and it made Blair Sandburg feel more alive than he'd ever felt. It was wonderful, it was ... no. No! Blair pushed himself away.

"You son of a bitch. Let me go. For a little while tonight, I thought I met ... I should have known better. You're a shell, a blow-hard shell, Ellison. As weak and rotten inside as the rest of them. I should have known that any man who would turn his back on his own his country, especially for profit, wouldn't have an honest bone in his body. You fancy yourself a soldier of fortune and maybe you get away with it because you're in a foreign country. Well, to me, mister, you're just another gangster ... a thug, in any language. Goodbye. I hope you enjoy living with your money and yourself, you miserable, self-serving son-of-a-bitch!" Blair stood up and almost overturned his dining room chair. Jim caught him by his left wrist and held on tightly.

"That was quite a speech, Sandburg." The suggestion of a smile found itself on Jim Ellison's face as he continued to hold fast the smaller, angry man trying to free himself from the iron grip. "What are you like when you really get mad?"

Blair turned away without answering. Jim Ellison released him. Still breathing hard, Sandburg almost ran toward and out the doorway. Standing on the top step, Blair looked out at the driveway. The car and driver were gone. His emotional outburst was subsiding even as he wondered how long the walk back to the hotel was. Too far, the young American decided, but he might make his way down the hill, through the village and perhaps get a taxi on the main road. Anything to get away from Jim Ellison.

As the wind from the approaching storm swirled abound him, Blair knew that the tall man was standing close behind him. When Ellison spoke, the rich voice was somehow different. The rough, bragging quality was gone. "I guess I deserved that little scene back there, Chief. Sometimes, it's hard to keep things straight when you're always alone. Turn around. Look at me." Reluctantly, Blair Sandburg acquiesced and faced Jim Ellison. "You risked a lot by telling me off. You could have risked your wife's life. It wasn't very smart of you. If you're trying to sell a guy a bill of goods, don't get mad at him. Flies and honey, remember? But you did and that shows me one thing, anyway. You're thinking with your heart instead of your head. That's one for you, because I'm tired of people who think with their heads. But for the very same reason, you don't realize what you're asking me to do."

Blair searched the handsome face near his before speaking. "I didn't come to you because I thought it was going to be easy getting Megan back."

"It would be worse than not easy. You can't buy your wife out of China. No one can. The old war lords who had their hands open for anything are all over on Formosa with Chiang, or living in Paris or Washington, DC, counting their money. The people who run China now are telling everybody to go to hell, and that includes the USA. So the only way to get Mrs. Sandburg out is to pull her out ... bodily. And I can't think of anyone who could do that or even how to go about it."

Blair Sandburg felt infuriated and, at the same time, impotent that he'd wasted precious time with this man who was a dead end - time that Megan might not have. "Never mind. I don't need you. I'll get her out myself ... somehow."

Jim Ellison reached down and took Blair's flushed faced in his two big hands. "Then God help the Chinese." He studied the shorter man's blue eyes - eyes deep with worry, yet filled with longing - and then sighed. "Look, Chief, you don't even know where your wife is, or even if she's alive. But I'll find out for you. It'll take me a little while, maybe a few days. So don't get discouraged. Then we'll see what the situation is. If they haven't got her way up in Peiping or back somewhere in Szechwan, maybe we can work something out. I won't make any guarantees, but I'll try to at least find out about her. I'll start tonight as soon as you leave. Okay?" Ellison continued to hold Sandburg's face while he waited for an answer. But Blair made no sound. Instead, his eyes welled up with unshed tears. In embarrassment and unexpected affection, Ellison bent down and kissed Sandburg on the forehead.

"You've had a long, tough day, Sandburg."

"You're right about that." Despite everything, Blair Sandburg felt warm and somehow safe hearing the special nickname on Jim Ellison's lips. No one, not even Megan, had ever given him one.

"I'll call the car around. Go back to your hotel and get some rest. The sooner I get that wife of yours back, the sooner you and I will talk about ... other things."

***

Tweedie was taking his fourth aspirin when he saw Jim Ellison come sweeping through the door and wondered for a moment if the pills had affected his eyesight. Ellison had only been in his place once before, he remembered with displeasure, and that was when he was on his way up. Ellison was no better than a harbor thug then - at least in Tweedie's opinion. He had called on a matter of business to say that if Tweedie didn't keep his god-damned "muscle" away from the godowns and if Tweedie and his hired help didn't leave the younger girls and boys alone, he was going to kill one of them, or hurt them so badly they'd be no good to anyone ever again. The muscle in question happened to be Simon Banks, tall and square enough to stand eye to eye to Ellison. Banks made the unfortunate choice of challenging Ellison at Tweedie's urging. He claimed that those on the street were fair game for anybody who wanted to give them jobs at some of the less reputable houses down by the waterfront. Banks stood up to Ellison for about three minutes, during which time Jim Ellison gave the Negro the beating of his life. Damage to the restaurant amounted to three thousand dollars Hong Kong, the result of the two slugging their way among the tables.

That was bad enough, but Tweedie lost the opportunity of joining Jim Ellison unofficially in what would become a series of promising businesses. No one, not even Big Simon Banks, could be persuaded to go near Jim Ellison's places or near any of the young girls or boys again.

So, with information from the waterfront literally drying up, Tweedie had been rendered helpless. He decided that Jim Ellison was one of those men better left alone. Even the Chinese, who would risk anything for a decent reward, were afraid of Jim Ellison. He seemed to protect any and all of the unfortunate people that drifted through Hong Kong. And those were just the downtrodden ones that an enterprising businessman or woman could turn a profit on.

Warily, Tweedie walked toward Jim Ellison threading his way through the disarray of tables and trying to estimate the expression on Ellison's face before he approached too closely. But the light from the street window was behind him and the brim of his hat partially covered those awful blue eyes of his, so Tweedie stopped several feet away and said as calmly as he could muster, "Hello there, Jim."

"Tweedie."

"It's a little damp outside, I guess."

"Yes." Jim looked around him and saw Simon Banks sleeping on the chairs besides two of Tweedie's other regulars, British expatriates Colonel Grevy and Major Kelso. All looked the worse for wear.

"What struck this place?" Ellison's hands remained jammed down inside the Burberry raincoat and there was no indication of mood on that stone- chiseled face of his.

"We ... uh, had a little celebration. Icky got hisself married."

"That little wharf rat still alive?" Again Jim surveyed the room, as if it was the only thing he had come to see. "What the hell would he do that for?"

"He was lonesome, I guess. A lot of people get that way."

Jim brought out a piece of gum and started chewing. Tweedie began to sweat as thoughts swirled threw his confused mind. I wish Ellison would say something. I wish he would get to talking so I can know which direction things are heading. He looks a little older, so maybe he's not so damn strong. But he's richer and that's just as bad.

"We ain't been near a one of your godowns, Jim," Tweedie said finally.

"I know that."

"And we've left the kids alone."

"I know that, too."

"Then ... how come you happened to drop by?"

"I might want you to do me a favor."

Tweedie took a moment to recover from the shock. Jim Ellison asking him for a favor? And he looked sober, too. Maybe too much money had made Ellison take up drinking for real ... or he had a monkey on his back. Riding the dragon could make you real crazy real fast.

"Why sure, Jim. For Christ's sake! Anything you say. I always did think we ought to understand each other better. Maybe do a little business. Siddown. Have a drink."

"No. I don't want to sit down and I don't want a drink. Are you still swiping money?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Jim."

"The U.S. dollars that are supposed to go to the mainland to help smuggle out some poor dumb bastard's relations?"

"You got it wrong, Jim. I'm doing those people a favor. It's the only way they can get the money in there now. You know that. Sure, I take a little commission. I got to maintain a lot of contacts. But I don't swipe nothing. In a way you might say I'm just being humane."

"Yeah." Ellison snorted. "You're humane, all right. A God-damned prince among men. It's those contacts I came to see you about. You know a woman named Megan Connor."

Tweedie was about to say he had never heard the name in his life when years of training flashed a light in his brain. And the light burned with such sudden intensity it even penetrated his hangover. A jolt of adrenalin acted on his soggy intelligence and told him to be careful how he answered. Not only did he remember Megan Connor, but also he remembered that her husband had come to make inquiries. That part was easy to analyze, but uninteresting. However, when he pieced it together with one of his informant's recent bit of news -- the handsome young American Sandburg was seen to leave the Prospect Hotel in Jim Ellison's car -- it became much, much more interesting. It had been certainly worth the free drinks and occasional dinner it cost Tweedie. Tweedie decided that, at last, he had a hand on the long-sought lever where Jim Ellison was concerned.

"The name sure sounds familiar," he said more slowly that he should have.

"You're damn right it sounds familiar. You told her husband she was dead."

So, Ellison had been talking with the husband. How did those two ever get together? What else did they talk about? "Now that I think back ... maybe I did."

"How come you told him that?"

Watch out now, Tweedie thought. That question was loaded. He decided to stick as close to the truth as he could without saying too much. Jim Ellison wasn't swinging his weight around this morning -- yet. He was asking, and until there was some certain indication of what was on his mind, there was no use making things any easier for Ellison than could be helped.

"I thought he might as well know the facts. Such a nice little guy. I felt sorry for him."

"You never felt sorry for anybody, you dumb bastard. What makes you think the woman's dead?"

"I got some information. Why you so interested, Jim? The woman a friend of yours or something?"

"Yeah. Or something. And I sure wouldn't want anything to happen to her or the husband who's looking for her."

"I didn't have nothing to do with the Connor woman."

"Then how come you got the word she was dead?"

"This is a public place. People come and go. I got ears--"

Tweedie had no time to move back before Jim Ellison's large hand shot from the pocket of his coat and seized his shirt. It was like the strike of a jungle cat. The bar owner had once seen a soldier's arm ripped off by a tiger just that easily.

Ellison's fingers clutched the shirt until it cut into Tweedie's armpits, even as he was lifted at least two inches off the floor. Ellison held him hard, high, and fast, shaking him until his eyes popped.

"Listen, you piece of shit! You're talking to Jim Ellison! You know I know when people lie to me. And I don't like it." Tweedie had always heard that Ellison could tell if you were lying, just by listening to your breathing, or smelling you, or some damned thing like that.

"Lemme down, Jim!"

Ellison just slammed him against the nearby wall until Tweedie's face gradually turned an ugly shade of purple. "Tell me where and how you got the word, or I'll use your sorry carcass for a battering ram and really wreck this place."

"All right!" Tweedie choked. "Lemme down!"

Jim dropped him to the floor so hard the vibration ran up Tweedie's body from his feet to his teeth. It was a moment before he could even see through the red curtain that swam in front of his bloodshot eyes.

"Now, I'm listening. And you'd better tell me the truth. If it isn't, I'll feed your tongue to my dogs."

"The Connor woman come in here last spring," Tweedie gasped, anxiously massaging his bruised throat. "She come in a few times and said she was all hot to go to China. I told her it was a frigging fool thing to do, but she kept at me. She weren't making any progress with anybody. So finally I decided to help her."

"How much did she pay you?"

"A thousand bucks."

"U.S. or HK?"

"Hong Kong. It was reasonable considering what I had to do."

"Keep talking."

"I set her up with a contact of mine and that's all I done. Nothing else. And that's a fact, Jim."

"Who did you set her up with?"

"Lim Chau-wu."

"Who's he?"

"He's got a junk that travels up to Canton now and again. He takes money up for me once in a while."

"Did you guarantee Megan Connor she'd get out of China?"

"No. I never done that."

"If you're lying, start writing your will."

"I ain't lying. Well, maybe I did sort of suggest we could make arrangements about getting her out later. Given time, I could of arranged it, too. But she was eager. Awful eager."

"Who told you she was dead?"

"Lim Chau-wu."

"How do you know he isn't lying? "

"I don't."

"Find out. I'll give you two days."

"How the hell can I find out?"

"That's your problem. You're always bragging about all the contacts you have. I want proof the Connor woman is dead and how she died, every last detail of where and how. Or if she's alive, I want to know where she is exactly, understand? This is Tuesday. You phone me Thursday morning or make a reservation at the morgue."

Watching Jim's cold eyes blast through his being, Tweedie knew that Ellison wasn't talking simply to make noise. The lever just broke off in my hand. But it's still better to have a broke lever than a broke head. He was relieved when Ellison put his hands back in his coat, suddenly turned and walked toward the street door.

Tweedie called after him. "This is gonna cost a lot of money, Jim."

"Use the thousand dollars you got from Megan Sandburg." Ellison yelled.

When Jim Ellison was gone, Tweedie stood, rubbing his still raw neck . As he poured and downed a double bourbon, Tweedie turned his mournful eyes toward the ceiling fans, thinking about what had just happened. People, he decided, could say all they wanted. They could say Jim Ellison was a dumb crook who made his way up because he had a strong arm, which he certainly had. They could say he didn't have a friend in the world, which was probably true. They could say he was a killer and maybe they would be right, although they'd have one hell of a time proving it. They could say Ellison was selling out his country for his own benefit and maybe they were right. But nobody could really say what Jim Ellison was like. Except a smart guy like Tweedie. Tweedie knew.

Jim Ellison, by God, was one hell of a man.

Tweedie walked slowly toward the groups of chairs that served as havens of repose for Simon, Grevy and Kelso. He looked down at them for a long time, studying their collapsed, unconscious faces. These men would never be competition for Jim Ellison. And competition, the bar owner decided, was the only thing left in life that was thoroughly enjoyable. Tweedie drew back one long leg and stood poised like a stork, before kicking Simon Banks soundly in the rump. Without losing rhythm, he turned and brought his foot against Grevy, then Kelso in exactly the same place.

"Get up, you free-loadin' tanks! Go get Icky! We got a lot to do! And keep your eyes and ears open!"

***

Later that morning, typhoon Rita swung away from Hong Kong territory and plunged northwestward in the direction of the Chinese mainland where it became a mere storm. By early afternoon, the cities of Hong Kong and Kowloon were once again linked by ferries, the buses ran, the streets became active, and the rain had turned to a light drizzle. The cloud overcast acted like a shield against the sun, keeping the air relatively cool.

From the window of his cheap hotel on Peking Road, General Charles Po- Lin concluded the time had come for his constitutional. Ever since he could remember, the General had walked at least one hour every day, striding out smartly on his long, muscular legs and swinging a Malacca cane for tempo.

General Po-Lin was seventy-one. In that span of years, he had seen the face of China change far more than his own. He had been born a Manchu in Kalgan, and thus was considerably taller than any of the southern Chinese. Kalgan was a dry, dusty city from which camel caravans still made their way across Mongolia. The General was inordinately proud that the Lin family could accurately trace their genteel ancestors for two thousand years. Some of this pride was evident in the old soldier's carriage as he performed the ritual of his walks. His back was straight, he moved with dignity and assurance though entirely devoid of arrogance. The General always held his head high.

Po-Lin credited his devotion to exercise with his remarkable state of preservation. His skin was smooth and there were only a few wrinkles about his eyes. His teeth were good and his elimination, when there was anything to eliminate these days, was perfect. His mind was active and still capable of guiding his lips through every known Chinese dialect, in addition to French, German, Portuguese and nearly faultless English. The only concession he had made to age was heavy bifocal glasses and these so disguised his eyes that he could, when observed from a distance, easily be mistaken for a lightly tanned Caucasian.

In many ways, the general was old school -- placing value on education and manner -- but he tried not to look back. Looking backward brought memories, and with the memories came hunger, a far more despairing hunger than gnawed at his stomach now.

At Nathan Road he turned south in the direction of the Prospect. He lengthened his strides. I must be there. They will be impatient. I am needed. It is important. By slowing his progress slightly, the General contrived to arrive at the Prospect's front entrance at exactly three o'clock. He mounted the stairs two at a time and nodded at the freckle-faced bellboy who swung open the heavy metal door. He placed the Malacca cane over his arm as he crossed the lobby, eyes straight ahead. Right on time.

It was important to be prompt.

He turned past the registration desk and approached the familiar counter with its blue neon "Tours" sign. He stopped before it, took off his glasses and wiped the steam from them with a white linen handkerchief.

"Good afternoon." Po-Lin greeted the dour-faced Indonesian who looked up at him from a jungle of travel posters.

"Hello, General," the agent replied in English, and the General's confidence melted instantly. It would be the same now, the same as every day. No one wanted a guide. A shrug from the fat shoulders. No one could explain why the tourists were so few and there wouldn't be another cruise ship for - "I've been trying to catch up with you." the other man was saying. "I sent a boy over to your room but you weren't there." Fantasy? Hunger was said to cause hallucinations.

"I . . . I've been extremely busy."

"So? Then maybe you wouldn't be interested. We finally got a job for you. A couple of days anyway." The smile the Indonesian threw him was cruel and knowing. He was enjoying taking his time.

"A few days?"

"Yes. An American wants a reliable person to take him to Macao. I said there was no reason he couldn't go by himself, but he seems to want somebody along who can speak any dialect. I thought you would be just the man."

"Thank you."

"He seems pretty smart. A teacher or something. Set his own price. Fifty dollars Hong Kong per day and you pay your own expenses."

"That isn't very much. Couldn't --"

"Take it or leave it, he said. Maybe I ought to get someone else."

"No. I could arrange my affairs and make myself available. When would he want to leave?"

"Tomorrow, if the boat is running. You'd better telephone him. Mr. Sandburg ... room three-o-seven."

"Very well."

"Of course, there will be our usual commission. You understand that?"

"I understand."

***

Blair paced his room making patterns of diamonds, quadrangles, squares and triangles. He would maintain one design in his pacing for a while and then shift abruptly as his thoughts changed. When he passed the full- length door mirror, he would occasionally catch a glimpse of himself and be surprised. I'm moving around like a caged wolf. I even feel like one. A very scared wolf. Unless the keeper comes soon, I'm going to crawl into the corner of my cage and never find the courage to come out again. Jim was right. I do need a protector. That damned Chinese proverb kept whirling around in his brain. How did it go? If someone saved your life, he was duty-bound to do it the rest of his days. And what if that "someone" were Jim Ellison?

What would a lifetime of being protected by that man be like? Blair shivered involuntarily at the prospect. Somewhat alarmingly, Blair Sandburg began a dangerous game, as his body began reacting viscerally to the scenario he was conjuring up in his mind. He imagined himself on Eli Stoddard's year-long anthropological trip to Peru investigating local cultural phenomena. During the final "chalk-talk" meeting held at the El Conquistador Hotel in Lima, Blair would be introduced to the scout hired as a last-minute addition to their group. Jim Ellison would come swaggering into the room, bronzed from the sun, muscles barely contained in the too-tight tee-shirt he'd be wearing, looking for Dr. Stoddard. The two would speak for a moment, and then Eli would nod in Sandburg's direction, indicating that his grad assistant was the one who would be giving Jim Ellison his orders. Standing there, towering over all the other pale scientific types, the colossus would acknowledge Blair and walk over to meet him.

"Come with me, please, Mr. ... Ellison, is it?" I'd say.

We'd wander down to the extra room where all of the maps and charts were housed. I'd enter the room first. This mystery man would follow me in, and he'd close the door behind us.

Blair found himself dropping the towel and grabbing himself roughly before he continued his forbidden fantasy.

I'd hear the lock snapping shut. The room isn't that big, and there's a table in it, which cuts down on the space even more. My body's pressed against the edge of the table. As I start pointing to certain sections of the map indicating where the Chopec tribe we're going to study is encamped, I feel a coil of anticipation in the pit of my stomach. I can 'smell' the lusty, heady sweat of the tall man behind me. Ellison begins asking questions - intelligent ones - as he moves up closer. I hear Jim's voice whispering suggestively, seductively into my ear.

"What do you really want to show me, Teach?"

I try to turn around but Jim's too strong for me. He reaches around, unzips my pants, and pushes them down my hips.

The young man began to pump his stiff, leaking shaft, swollen almost to the bursting point.

When he begins to touch the side of my face - caress it with his fingertips -- I gasp.

"Mr. Ellison ... "

"Call me Jim. You want this don't you, Chief? I saw the way you watched me in the lobby, those blue eyes of yours burning into me, that mouth of yours calling me to you."

He kisses my back, and then begins to lick down toward my ass using great, wet sweeps of his tongue. It's like being loved by a panther."

Blair gasped, as he anticipated what came next.

"You ever had someone do this to you, Teach?" Jim would push my legs further apart, then dip his large finger into my ...

Sandburg groaned loudly, as he thought of Jim turning him around, leaning in to claim his mouth in a hot, passionate kiss. Then he'd feel Jim's tongue against his lips, probing, wanting entrance. As Blair hesitantly returned the kiss, imitating what Jim had done, the tall man would slide his big hands under Blair's ass, lift him up and hold him against his body. Want and need would make Sandburg wrap his surprisingly strong legs around the older man's hips, his arms around the corded neck.

"Take me, take me please, Jim."

"Sure, Chief, whatever you say.

Then, Ellison would lay the teaching assistant down, spread his legs apart, and drop his mouth onto the glistening cock.

"God, what a gorgeous dick you have."

Blair shuddered, knowing he wanted this more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

"I want to fuck you, Blair, do you want me to do that?"

"Oh, Jesus, yes! I want it, Jim, please! I've never done it before, but I need you so badly --"

"How much, little man? Just how much do you want me to do this?"

And then Blair would feel Ellison's weeping steel rod slam mercilessly into him, over and over. He'd hear himself yell in delirious ecstasy until ...

Blair Sandburg almost frightened himself at the intensity of the orgasm that ripped through him. It was so strong that he nearly fell off the bed. His body had lost all control. The scream that shattered the silence of his room was equally frightening. He now lay there, covered in sweat and ejaculate, recovering from the most intense fantasy and its natural conclusion he had ever given himself. He'd never imagined anything like it. His being bent over a table by a stranger. But it wasn't a stranger. It was Jim Ellison, the man he'd only just met ... the man he ...

Christ, what a God-damned traitor you are, Blair Sandburg. He felt hot tears of shame spilling down his hot cheeks. A traitor to yourself. And a traitor to your wife. The wife who's lost in China. And he had made so little progress. Stewart, the consul -- nothing. Simon Banks -- nothing. Tweedie -- he had to be wrong. Inspector Rafe -- vague interest, nothing more. And Jim Ellison .... Jim Ellison. How often did you meet somebody like Jim Ellison? Maybe once in a lifetime.

And for Blair Sandburg, that "once" was here. Megan had predicted something like this would eventually happen. "Listen to me, luv. I know we'll always love one another in a special way. But things change. If it does - if "the one" who's meant for you comes waltzing into your life - grab for the brass ring. Life's too short not to love somebody with your whole heart and soul." Blair had protested, but his wife would hear none of it. "If you have the sense that God gave you, Blair Jacob Sandburg, you'll do what's best for you -- because that's what you deserve."

"I don't --"

"I'll be happy for you, my darling, because it will mean you're finally living the life you were meant to live."

"Megan, please --"

"You're always on the outside looking in, luv. Always observing, little anthropologist. But you're never in the fray." Then she'd laughed engagingly, so much so, that several men sitting near them looked at the tall brunette woman, with untapped hunger in their collective gaze and undeniable envy of her male companion.

Son of a bitch. She'd been right. How could Megan know then how Blair would feel now? But you're wrong about one thing, Megan. I'm still all yours. True-blue Blair. This isn't "the one." He sat up slowly and looked at himself in the mirror - disheveled, flushed from adrenalin and shame, reeking of his own sex smells. "You're such a God-damned liar. It is. 'He' is." Blair Sandburg said, confessing aloud to the hotel room. With the nearby bath towel, he began wiping his stomach and chest off where the hair was beginning to stick uncomfortably together. Sandburg's mea culpa to the universe was cut short by the ringing phone. He grabbed it quickly. It would be Inspector Rafe. It had to be. Or maybe ... Jim?

"Hello."

"Good afternoon. Is this Mr. Sandburg?"

"Yes, it is."

"General Po-Lin here."

"General ...?"

"You inquired at the tourist office for a guide to Macao?"

"Oh. Oh yes."

"I am at your service."

"Do you know Macao?"

"Very well. I lived there for some years. I speak Portuguese and all the Chinese dialects."

"Good. Did they explain what I am willing to pay?"

"Yes. It will be acceptable."

"Can you leave tomorrow?"

"My time is yours, sir."

"The boat leaves at noon, doesn't it?"

"No. The schedule has been changed. It sails at one o'clock. The S. S. Wo Shan. She is quite comfortable and I think you will find the trip most agreeable. There are many antiquities in Macao, sir. I am experienced in the operation of most cameras and if you wish I will take such pictures as you may desire."

Blair Sandburg grimaced at the thought of cameras. "Where will I meet you?"

"I recommend we leave the hotel an hour before sailing. If it is satisfactory, I will await you at noon in the lobby just by the tour desk."

"I'm sorry. What was your name again?"

"Po-Lin. General Charles Po-Lin."

"All right, General," he said wondering at the title. "I'll meet you at noon."

"Good afternoon, sir."

"Good-bye, General."

Blair Sandburg hung up and the phone rang again almost immediately. The operator said, "I have another call waiting for you."

A click and then a woman's voice, distant and distorted, came through. "Hello. Hello?" It sounded as though the caller were on Mars.

"Hello ... ?"

"Mr. Sandburg? Blair?"

"Yes. Speak louder, please."

"Angela Chan here."

"Oh ... oh, yes. Angela. How are you? I'm really happy you called. I'd been trying to reach you, but your shop didn't answer."

"I always close when there is a typhoon. So much rain scares away business. I wanted to know if there was any news about Megan?"

"Nothing new. But I did meet with Jim Ellison last night --"

"Ah?" There was that plaintive quality in Angela 's voice again. Blair half- wished he had not mentioned the man's name.

"I see what you mean about his being intrigued with strangers." There was a frying noise in the phone. For the rest of his life, Blair would appreciate the telephone system back in the States.

"Will he help you, do you think?"

"I ... I honestly don't know. Tomorrow I'm going to Macao to see Hans Zeller. "

"Please, Blair, don't trust him."

"I won't. But he might know something about Megan's whereabouts and I'm beginning to feel desperate. What's his address, Angela? I forgot to get it from you."

"He has a small office on Rua da Felicidade. It is called Lingua Casa -- the House of Language. The taxi driver will know. But must you go there alone?"

"I've hired a guide. A general, he says. Wait a minute ... here's his name. Charles Po-Lin. Have you ever heard of him? He was recommended by the tour office in the lobby." Blair heard Angela's musical laugh.

"Yes, I've known Uncle Charlie since I was a little baby."

"He's your uncle?"

"Not really. Just a dear friend of my family. And all little Chinese girls call old man family friends 'uncle.' It's sort of honorary, understand? I am very happy he will be going with you. The General is a fine gentleman."

"He isn't too old to make the trip, is he?"

"Uncle Charlie too old?" She almost giggled. "No, don't worry about him. Uncle Charlie will wear you out. And you can count on him."

"I'm glad I can depend on someone. Thanks again, Angela. I'll call you when I get back."

"Good luck, Blair. Remember to be careful with Zeller. See him only in his office. Do not warn him before you come. Offer him money if you think what he has to say is worth it, but don't ever tell him how much you have. Keep Uncle Charlie with you at all times. Even if Hans Zeller offers to take you to services at the Macao cathedral, DON'T GO ALONE."

"Thanks for the advice."

"You are most welcome. And ... and if you should talk to Jim again, please tell him ..."There was silence, and for a moment Blair thought she'd hung up. "... tell him 'Angela said hello.'"

"I will. You can depend on that. Good-bye, Angela."

"Good-bye."

Blair returned the phone to the cradle and was just opening the fasteners of the small knapsack he always carried with him to locate a reference book on China, when the phone rang again.

Blair Sandburg was a very popular person this morning.

"Blair Sandburg."

"Mr. Sandburg, it's Inspector Brian Rafe."

"Hi, Inspector." Blair was almost afraid to ask. "Do you have any news?"

"We've been able to dig up a few more bits of information on your wife, Mr. Sandburg, so I wanted to call you."

"Thank you!" Blair almost shouted with joy. "What have you heard?"

"Nothing too recent, but we did have a bit of luck bagging a chap who took Mrs. Sandburg to China. He admitted it, rather reluctantly, about an hour ago."

"Thank God! And thank you, Inspector!"

"Hang on there, Mr. Sandburg-"

"Blair, please call me Blair."

"Very well, Blair." The inspector's voice sounded cautious. "It's still a bit early for rejoicing. But I think it would be safe to guess that Tweedie was misinformed when he said your wife was dead."

"I knew it! I knew Megan couldn't be dead. I would have 'felt' it, if she had been. What else can you tell me?"

"Tweedie hired a junk master named Lim Chau-wa to transport Mrs. Sandburg to Canton. She paid him two hundred dollars, an amount which apparently did not satisfy our hungry friend Mr. Lim. Fortunately, Lim's been in trouble with my people before and so has a healthy respect for the British Constabulary. He avoided physical violence on your wife's person when temptation got the better of him."

Blair felt relief creep over him. "She's still alive."

"She was alive on Lim's junk. But, there's a Chinese incense called luan. It's entirely odorless and has the remarkable property of putting even the lightest sleeper into such a deep slumber he - or she -- will not awaken for several hours. A few breaths are sufficient. And that's what he used. I had to make a bargain with Lim because we really didn't have a thing on him. I have the two hundred dollars Tweedie paid him. Mrs. Sandburg's cameras are yours, of course, whenever you care to pick them up." Rafe waited for a comment from Blair. When he didn't hear it over the phone, he continued. "But what Lim told us finally might be of much greater value. He informed Tweedie that your wife was dead because he didn't carry out their bargain. It was the best way to avoid any trouble with Tweedie in the future. Also, if Mr. Lim Chau-wa went to Canton and was caught with a Caucasian on board, the Communists might twist things around and make life extremely difficult for him. So Lim used the luan, put your wife in a small sampan and dumped her on the beach close to the village of Luk Ti where he was sure she'd be found in the morning. He left Mrs. Sandburg one small camera to incriminate her. The dates match up with the pictures of the girl your wife took. Lim sailed on to Canton, picked up a few barrels of tung oil and came back. I'm quite sure he's finally told us the truth."

"Is that all he said? I don't see how it can help."

"Don't sound so disappointed, old chap. You started out with an extraordinarily large haystack. It's now much smaller. Two days ago, we didn't know where your wife might have entered China and it's a very big country. Now I'd stake a few quid on her being in Canton."

"What can I do now, Inspector? I can't just let Megan rot in Canton."

"Did you meet Jim Ellison?"

"Yes. He promised he would help."

"Did he?"

"Sort of."

"Then -- most unofficially -- I suggest he is the only person who can help further. Don't tell him how you found it out, but advise him your wife is very likely in Canton. He'll know what to do about it better than anyone. What with all of those odd powers he seems to have. Scares the locals who work for him nearly to death sometimes."

"Powers? What do you mean?"

"What I heard - again through unofficial channels - was that your Mr. Ellison was on Corregidor during the War as a member of an Army elite group. He somehow escaped the Bataan Death March with others in his unit." Blair shuddered, thinking about the thousands of U.S. lives lost during that terrible war-time engagement. "Rumor has it that they joined the Filipino guerilla forces and fought the Japanese for nearly three years."

"He didn't tell me that."

"Nor would he. Now this is the part that's intriguing. It seems that during that time, some of the local witch doctors, I dare say you'd call them, took Ellison under their wing because he seemed to have extraordinary powers."

"What do you mean?"

"Apparently, your Mr. Ellison was born with, for lack of a better term, superior senses. What's more, between his natural abilities and what they taught him -"

"I don't understand. What do you mean 'superior senses'?"

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, it's said your Mr. Ellison can hear and see and smell and taste things normal people can't. I was even told by one of his former associates that Jim Ellison could read old maps and faded navigational charts by feeling them his fingertips."

Blair Sandburg thought back for a moment about his meeting with Jim Ellison, and how he'd been so ... intuitive, always seemingly one step ahead. Supposing Jim Ellison did have heightened senses? The anthropologist was stunned by the implication. After all the years of research, of trying to find someone who could prove his hypothesis, Blair might have just stumbled across his "Holy Grail" - the answer to Sandburg's anthropological quest. Jim Ellison just might be a full-fledged ...

"Of course, it may all be poppycock -a fanciful story told by someone who'd drunk his way from one end of the waterfront to the other ..." Rafe was saying into the phone, "...or not. Take the information and put as much credence in it as you like. What are your plans now, Blair, if I may be so bold to ask?"

Sandburg refocused his attention. "I was going to see Hans Zeller in Macao tomorrow. Do you think it's worth the trip?"

"Possibly. I know the man only by reputation since he stays out of our way. But the village of Luk Ti isn't far from Macao. He might have heard something. Please call me when you return."

"I will, and thanks again for your help - and the information about Jim."

"Good-bye, Blair. And one last thing ..."

"What's that?"

"Be careful."

***

Blair Sandburg sat looking at the silent phone and then turned his troubled gaze out the window to the approaching night. It was dark now and the rain had ceased. One thing was certain: he wasn't going to spend another night alone in his room, particularly with the day he had planned for himself tomorrow in Macao. Black days and empty, lonely rooms were a miserable combination anywhere. In a friendless city, so many miles from anything familiar, they were unbearable. Sandburg donned his suit jacket, made his way down through the lobby and out to the street, determined to learn more about this mysterious, exotic city.

Then Blair saw the Bentley. The tinted window rolled down slowly. "Are you busy for dinner?" Jim Ellison's voice came from the back seat of the limousine.

Blair Sandburg paused for a moment. Seemingly weighing his answer, he walked over to the expensive car. Jim Ellison's clean-shaven, extraordinarily handsome face appeared.

"No."

"Have it with me?"

"Yes."

Jim Ellison studied the other man for a moment, and then he smiled broadly. "I like the way you make decisions, Chief. Do you want to ride, or would you rather walk?"

"Walking would be better."

Ellison got out and joined Blair Sandburg on the sidewalk in front of the Prospect. Smoothing his expensive jacket down, Jim threw an order at the chauffeur in flawless Cantonese. Blair felt a large, warm hand on the small of his back and immediately remembered the other evening. He was awash with the emotions he'd been fighting for the last 24 hours - ones he'd never been exposed to before. Blair Sandburg, a man who as an anthropologist had observed other cultures and lifestyles, was now in danger of "going native." It was the term scientists used when they stopped observing their subjects - and started ... what? Was Megan's prophecy coming true? It was. Blair was a hair's breadth away from falling under the spell of this mysterious man, body and soul.

Try as he might, Blair Sandburg couldn't distance himself, either in actual proximity or in his heart, from this soldier of fortune. Somewhere in the last 72 hours, Blair had lost his heart. He was in love, possibly for the first time in his life, with another man. It was frightening, and arousing, and like nothing else he'd experienced before. He still loved his wife - he knew that for a fact -- but what he'd had with her paled in comparison to this, like trying to compare the warmth of a small candle with the heat of the sun.

They strode along, Blair Sandburg's shorter legs taking two steps for every one of Ellison's. When they finally arrived in front of their destination, the Peacock, the smaller man was almost out of breath. Blair smiled up at the taller man. "Well, that was certainly invigorating."

"Think of it this way, Chief, the walk helped you work up an appetite. But maybe you're not strong enough to walk up to the second floor - that's where the restaurant is. Want me to carry you up there?" Ellison made a swooping gesture with his hands demonstrating the offer.

"Uh, no, thanks. Jim. I think I can handle this mission out on my own." The men laughed good-naturedly together as they climbed two flights of steep, narrow stairs to the impressive dining room. A petite, older woman greeted them warmly at the door and bowed her head to Jim and his companion as they stepped into the foyer.

"Mei Lei. Good to see you again."

"We are honored by your presence, James. It has been too long since you last visited. Our establishment has been the poorer for your absence." With that, she showed them to a table near the back, and Blair guessed that it was Ellison's regular spot. They would be afforded privacy, but Ellison would have an unobstructed view so that he could see the comings and goings of everyone in the large room.

Jim Ellison didn't need to look at the menu as he ordered for both of them. "Mei Lei, my friend and I will have soup, salad, two of your biggest steaks, and baked potatoes with everything on them." Blair Sandburg couldn't have been more surprised if Ellison had ordered two Coney Island Red Hots with "the works."

"Steak? In a Chinese Restaurant?"

"You not a meat eater?"

"Well, sure, but ..."

"Would you rather have some of the local cuisine?"

"No. To tell the truth, I'm so homesick for anything American, a steak sounds just about perfect."

"Want a beer to go along with it?"

"Are you clairvoyant? I'd LOVE a beer."

Jim held up two fingers, nodded toward the maitre d' who acknowledged the order, and then Ellison turned his eyes back to Sandburg, practically pinning the other man to his seat with the intensity of his stare.

"Maybe. Let's see." Jim Ellison sniffed the air around him and then smiled knowingly. "Well, I might be way out of line here, but I sense you've got a million things whirling around that brain of yours."

"Right."

"You're feeling unsettled about everything."

"That isn't too much of a stretch considering what's happened to me and my wife in the last few months."

"So unsettled that if I did this," Ellison continued, as he reached over and grabbed Blair's hand, "your heart rate would shoot through the roof." He pulled it up to his lips, and almost kissed it, but stopped short. Sandburg inhaled sharply, a startled, muffled sound spilled from those full, wet lips. Cornflower blue eyes seemed to darken as Ellison's hot breath tickled the skin mercilessly. "And you'd probably make a little noise, just like that." Jim placed Sandburg's hand back on the linen tablecloth, but kept his own larger one over it, in what might have looked like an intimate gesture between lovers. At least that's what Blair thought, as a waiter came from out of nowhere, discreetly served the two beers in Pilsner glasses, then disappeared seemingly into thin air.

"A penny for them."

"What?"

"Your thoughts, Sandburg. A penny for them. And from the looks of you, I bet they're doozies."

"I ... I ..." Their first course arrived, and a flushed Blair Sandburg was spared having to give Jim Ellison an answer.

"Dig in, Chief. We can talk later."

Blair smiled gratefully at his ... what? Acquaintance? No, more than acquaintance. Friend? No, more than friend. What were they? Just what could be more between the two? Sandburg flushed again, staring down at his soup as if he were seeking divine guidance there.

"Sandburg? Chief?" Jim Ellison was saying. "Eat. You need to keep up your strength."

"Uh. Right. Jim ..."

"Yes?"

"Thanks. For everything. I mean it."

Jim Ellison's face was almost - but not quite -- unguarded as he nodded toward his dinner companion. "You're welcome ... Blair."

Blair. It was as though Sandburg had just heard his name for the first time in his life as it came from Ellison's lips. He was in such trouble here. A little moth being drawn inexorably by a flame that was going to consume him.

This wasn't right, no matter how "right" it felt at the moment. Sandburg's stomach suddenly lurched, and he thought he was going to be physically ill. "Jim, I ... I have to go. This is... isn't going to work." Blair rose unsteadily to his feet, knocking the table just enough to spill some of the beer from his glass.

Ellison grabbed his wrist and held on. "Sit down, Sandburg. You haven't even started your meal and we haven't talked about your wife yet."

Blair tried prying off Ellison's iron-gripped fist with clawing fingers. "Jim, please ..."

"Damnit, sit down!"

A now angry Blair Sandburg practically swore at his blessed tormenter. "Christ, don't you ever take 'no' for an answer?"

"Actually, no." Jim Ellison's smile was both ingratiating and disarming. "C'mon, Sandburg. Settle down." Sandburg hesitated for another minute, and then slipped back into his seat. Ellison relinquished Blair's wrist just as the steaks, baked potatoes and salads arrived.

Slowly sipping his still-cold beer, Jim never took his eyes off the smaller man until Blair finally reached for his fork and stabbed at a piece of lettuce. Ellison seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. "Every time we're together, Chief, you end up going off like a stick of dynamite and chewing me out."

"I'm sorry I'm being such an inconvenience to you -"

"Inconvenience?" Jim's voice turned as cold as ice. "Listen to me, Sandburg. I don't tolerate inconveniences - big or little. I didn't need to louse up my life just now with ... I was a lot happier before you and your damned wife came into the picture."

"This is a mistake. I'm leaving ..." Blair threw his napkin onto the table, and was about to slip out of his chair for a second time, when Jim Ellison smashed his fist down onto the table, tipping both Pilsners over.

"Sit down, pal. Stop acting like a jackass. You need to hear the facts of life according to Jim Ellison. I SAID SIT ... DOWN!" Jim stabbed a finger in the direction of Sandburg's chair. Blair sank back into it, spine stiff, blue eyes muddied. The noise of the restaurant seemed louder than ever.

Jim Ellison watched his dinner partner in silence for a long time. "You're going to listen to me whether you want to or not. I don't think you realize what a hell of a jam your wife's in. This isn't like getting someone off the hook for a speeding ticket. It would be easier and a lot safer trying to spring her out of a place like Sing Sing. Another big problem is that I don't have any real friends in China. No one does --not if your skin's white and your eyes are round. So, your wife's on the mainland for keeps unless somebody can pull off a bona fide miracle. And you might as well know one more thing," Ellison said, looking at Sandburg as though they were the only two people in the world. "I may be rough around the edges. I may have scars and some other ... things you don't know about yet. But here's one thing you need to know. And you can bet your life on it. I'm in love with you, Chief." Blair Sandburg's face flushed and tingled as he listened to the declaration. Ellison went on relentlessly. "If you were free, I'd ask you tonight to stay with me forever. But you're not. And you're not the kind who'd ... anyway, I want your Missus out of China worse than you do, and I'm going to do everything in my power - risk everything I have -- to get her the hell out of there. I wish she were sitting right here now ... so I could stand a fair chance with you. Any questions?"

"No... " Blair's voice was almost inaudible against the sounds of the Peacock. He avoided Jim Ellison's steely blue eyes, as he stuttered a retraction. "Yes ... one thing. Does what you just said include risking ... your life?"

"It does."

"I . . . I'm sorry, Jim. Forgive me. Maybe I didn't want to realize what I've been asking you to do, but I've turned every which way and there's been so little. I found out that Megan's probably in Canton if she's still alive."

"How did you -"

"Does it matter? I was even going to Macao tomorrow to see Hans Zeller ... hoping for more information. You can't know what it's like to be without hope."

Jim Ellison almost laughed. Hope was a vague memory to him. "Why should Zeller know anything?"

"He was with Megan a few nights before she went to China. And I found out that Megan was put ashore near the village of Luk Ti. It's not far from Macao. Zeller just might have heard something. I'm taking a guide with me ... a General Po-Lin. He's an old friend of Angela Chan's. She says 'hello' by the way." Blair looked up, his eyes glistening. "Will you go with us, Jim? Please."

"I can't, Chief." Seeing Blair's hurt eyes, Jim hastily added an almost shameful admission." I don't have a passport."

"What? Why not?"

"Another long story. I'm all right as long as I stay in Hong Kong, but wherever else I go - and that includes back to the States -- it has to be through the back door. I may have to do it again one of these days, but I want to make sure it won't be half -cocked. I'll have the kids with me. And I have to be sure that I can ... control some problems I've had over the years."

"What kind of problems?"

"Well, physical, sort of."

"You're sick?"

"No, nothing like that. It's more of a ... 'condition,' I'd guess you'd call it."

"You want to tell me about it? Maybe I can help."

Ellison considered the offer, as genuine as everything else about Blair Sandburg. "The Army doctors said what had happened to me ... the 'condition' I'd been suffering from was all 'in my head'. They practically accused me of cowardice -"

"Cowardice? You?"

"Leave it to the Army to think I'd have survived the War only to try to get a Section 8 out of the service in '45." Jim Ellison's face turned grim. "Bastards. As though I'd ever do something like that."

"And this was everything that had happened on Corregidor?"

"Who told you about Corregidor? You know about Bataan, too?"

"It doesn't really matter who told me, does it?" Blair leaned forward earnestly, sympathetically. "Don't be angry with me for asking about you and learning about your heightened senses."

"Christ! Who else knows about it?"

"Calm down, Jim. Most of what I heard would have sounded like camp fire stories, if I didn't see the kernel of truth in them. You want to tell me about it from the very beginning?"

"It's just tough for me to talk about with anyone. Particularly when it makes me sound crazy. My kids don't know anything about it. And I've never told any of my ... associates."

"You're not crazy. And the problems you're having with your senses are real ones."

"You said 'your senses' again? How did you know? Just where the hell are you getting your information, Sandburg? You seem awfully well connected for a guy who just blew into town. "

Blair smiled. "Maybe God does protect fools and little children."

"That's supposed to reassure me?"

"Trust me on this."

"Why do those sound like two of the most dangerous words in the English language coming from your mouth, Chief?"

"Jim. I know you. You may be a lot of things, but you're not crazy. You're not a coward. In fact ..." Blair's cheeks reddened. "... you're probably a hero."

"A hero who's crazy. A hero who can't keep his senses under control."

"Tell me more about the problems with your senses."

"Forget it. Let's just enjoy dinner."

"No, I won't. What did you mean you can't keep your senses under control?"

"Okay, Chief, you asked for it. Don't say I didn't warn you." Haltingly, as if he were talking about someone else, Jim Ellison told the story of his sensory problems, which started when he was a kid. His mother. Grace, had run away, and his father didn't want anything to do with the crazy son she'd left behind. So, at age 14, Jim was thrown out of the cold water flat he shared with Bill Ellison and his brother, Steven, and found himself homeless and alone on the street.

Because he was big for his age, Jim got a job driving a truck at Delgado Construction. It didn't take long for a smart guy like Ellison to learn that the company was a front for the Chicago crime syndicate. Jim probably could have made a small fortune - or ended up very dead -- if he'd decided to become an enforcer for Carmine Delgado. But breaking the legs of poor people who couldn't pay their bills because times were hard wasn't something that Jim Ellison cared to do for a living.

Then, in 1941, the decision on what to do with the rest of his life was taken out of Jim Ellison's hands. Uncle Sam sent Jim Ellison a registered 'love note' asking for his attendance at a little something called World War II.

In the Army, Jim Ellison showed surprising intelligence and leadership abilities. He was tagged for a special forces unit that ended up being called the Alamo Scouts. At first, the members of this elite group did simple reconnaissance in the Philippines, but the vagaries of war dictated that the men become an intelligence unit. They performed over 100 missions behind Japanese lines, and never lost a man. That was before 1942.

In May of that year, the Japs pounded the hell out of Corregidor, and led their prisoners on a forced march out of Bataan to waiting P.O.W. camps. Before the "Death March" was over, somewhere between 5,000 and 11,000 captured soldiers never made it. Not everybody was caught in the Japanese net. For Jim Ellison, there was no glory in being a prisoner of war or starving to death in a camp waiting for a rescue by the U.S. military that might not happen. If he was going to die, he wanted to die free. His escape was daring. The road that they were marching on was the main road from Manila which went all the way to Baguio, the summer capital.

Near the town of Guagua, there was a tide river that paralleled the road. The banks were lined with palmetto brush and weeds. Ellison just rolled off the road into it and waited. And as soon as the group marched on past him down the road and out of sight, the big man swam across the river and got out into a cut rice field. There, he saw a shack, and met up with a Filipino family who hid him until they could get Ellison to the guerrilla stronghold nearby. Within the week, he joined other American and Filipino freedom fighters.

Over the next three years, Jim Ellison fought the Japs, using his his covert operations training and the five heightened senses he'd had from birth. But the isolated conditions played havoc with his abilities. Lights were too bright, sounds were too loud, his skin became so sensitive that rain could raise welts on it, smells of humans and animals mixed rotting vegetation and the carnage of war all conspired to drive Jim Ellison out of his mind. When things got too bad, Jim found that he would lose consciousness of everything going on around him. The Army captain would probably have been captured and executed had it not been for the local shamans. While under their tutelage, Jim learned how to harness the gifts he'd been given. The elders kept encouraging the American Army officer to choose one of their younger villagers to become his guide - a partner one who would help him direct and control his abilities. But Ellison was unable to find the right person. Still, even without a partner, Jim Ellison, the guerilla fighter, was a power to be reckoned with.

When the American forces finally returned to retake the Philippines in 1945, Ellison made contact with the Army. But, without the shaman's help - and because Jim had never found the right guide -- his five senses began to become uncontrollable again. The Army sawbones didn't believe the story, and diagnosed his troubles as mental.

Jim Ellison had been a great many things in his life. "Mental" wasn't one of them. That was why it ended so badly. In disgust, Ellison had walked from the Army, but left a great many loose ends, some of which had come back to haunt him.

So after the war, when the world should have been his oyster, Jim Ellison found himself with nowhere to go, and no one to care whether he lived or died. Hong Kong became a de facto sanctuary where he could set up a business with a minimum of questions. In time, Jim Ellison made a lot of money, a lot of enemies, found himself a ready-made family, and never looked back.

"That's an amazing story."

"That's not the word I'd use."

"But it is. It's amazing because ... I may be able to help you."

"Nobody can do that. But thanks." Jim Ellison's eyes shone like diamonds, diamonds polished by the gentle, caring words of the young American seated across from him. Ellison impulsively reached over and patted Sandburg's cheek fondly. "Now, back to your problem."

"So, what should I do next, Jim?"

"You go on to Macao. Keep the General with you. The closer the better. If there's anything to find out there, you'll do it easier than I could. But don't tell anyone what you're after or that you even know me. It might backfire. And as soon as you can do it safely, call me from Macao."

"Then what?"

"And then, we'll see. There's lots of details to be worked out in the meantime. You'll just have to believe in me, Chief. When I go after anything . . . I go after it to win. That includes you."

"Can we just forget that for a while?"

"I won't forget it. But, we'll let it ride. For now." Jim extended his hand across the table again, offering his palm open in the gesture of a handshake. He smiled. And after a moment, Sandburg took it, pressing it tightly.

The men were too caught up in one another and the dangerous dance they were doing to see Mei Lei take out a small camera and quickly snap their photo. The woman smiled to herself, thinking of the beautiful things the money promised by the mainlanders would buy - money that would be hers as soon as she sent the picture to Canton. The first thing would be a new silk dress. In red, perhaps ...

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