—what they need. The airline goes to Bangkok, India, Vietnam, Cambodia, Japan—wherever!"
"And connects here with Pan-Am, TWA, JAL and all places east, west, north and south! And if we help Gornt to smash Struan's, the two companies together give them everything."
"So, back to the sixty-four-dollar question: what do we do?" Bartlett asked.
"Couldn't we play a waiting game? The Struan-Gornt contest will be solved next week at the latest."
"For this skirmish, we need information—and the right counter-forces. Different guns, big guns, guns we don't have." He sipped his beer, even more thoughtful. "We'd better get some top-level advice. And help. Fast. It's Armstrong and the English cops—or Rosemont and the CIA."
"Or both?"
"Or both."
Dunross got out of the Daimler and hurried into police headquarters. "Evening, sir," the young Australian duty inspector on the desk said. "Sorry you lost the fifth—I heard Bluey White was carpeted for interference. Can't trust a bloody Aussie, eh?"
Dunross smiled. "He won, Inspector. The stewards ruled the race was won fair and square. I've an appointment with Mr. Crosse."
"Yes sir, square but not fair dinkum. Top floor, third on the left. Good luck next Saturday, sir."
Crosse met him on the top floor. "Evening. Come on in. Drink?"
"No thanks. Good of you to see me at once. Evening, Mr. Sind-ers." They shook hands. Dunross had never been in Crosse's office before. The walls seemed as drab as the man and when the door was shut on the three of them the atmosphere seemed to close in even more.
"Please sit down," Crosse said. "Pity about Noble Star—we were both on her."
"She'll be worth another flutter on Saturday."
"You're going to ride her?"
"Wouldn't you?"
Both men smiled.
"What can we do for you?" Crosse asked.
Dunross put his full attention on Sinders. "I can't give you new files—the impossible I can't do. But I can give you something—I don't know what, yet, but I've just received a package from AMG." Both men were startled. Sinders said, "Hand-delivered?" Dunross hesitated. "Hand-delivered. Now, please, no more questions till I've finished."
Sinders lit his pipe and chuckled. "Just like AMG to have a bolt-hole, Roger. He always was clever, damn him. Sorry, please go on."
"The message from AMG said the information was of very special importance and to be passed on to the prime minister personally or the current head of MI-6, Edward Sinders, at my convenience— and if I considered it politic." In the dead silence, Dunross took a deep breath. "Since you understand barter, I'll trade you—you directly, in secret, in the presence of the governor alone—whatever the hell 'it' is. In return Brian Kwok is allowed out and over the border, if he wants to go, so we can deal with Tiptop."
The silence deepened. Sinders puffed his pipe. He glanced at Crosse. "Roger?"
Roger Crosse was thinking about it—and what information was so special that it was for Sinders or the P.M. only. "I think you could consider lan's proposal," he said smoothly. "At leisure."