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press pass to the security guard. It took some talking and several hundred Hong Kong dollars, but eventually he managed to get into the executive suite on the fourth floor.
    He explained to the receptionist that he wanted to talk to the president of the bank. He gave her his card: "Rip Buck-
    ingham, Managing Editor, China Post" with the China Post lettering in the company's trademarked style.
    The receptionist told him to take a seat.
    He looked at the art on the walls and at the magazines on the table. He really didn't expect to see any bank officer. He thought it would be helpful to see the street in front of the bank again, see it knowing it was an important place, so he could visualize the scene the reporters were describing to him. And he had the time before deadline. So he was surprised when the receptionist appeared in the doorway and said, "Mr. Genda has a few minutes. Come this way, please."
    Saburo Genda had a corner office. Through the window Rip caught a glimpse of the last army truck leaving. Except for a few police guards, the square was empty.
    Genda was slumped in a large stuffed chair beside the desk with his back to the square. He didn't look up as Rip entered, didn't pay any attention to him until the Australian was seated across from him. He had Rip's card in his hand. He glanced at it.
    "So, Mr. Buckingham," Genda said in accented English, "ask your questions."
    The Japanese executive looked, Rip thought, like he had slept in his clothes. He had the fashionably gray hair, the dark power suit and tie, the trim waistline ... and he looked exhausted, worn out.
    "What happened, Mr. Genda?"
    "They killed the bank."
    'They? Who is they?" Rip asked as he wrote down the previous reply in shorthand.
    "The Finance Ministry. They seized our assets in Japan. They refused to let us draw on those assets for the cash we need to operate on a daily basis. The news leaked out, there was a run on the bank ... We are out of business, insolvent. The bank has," Genda took a deep breath and exhaled, "collapsed." He raised his arms and let them fall to the arms of the chair. He looked at his hands as if he had never seen them before.
    "You are saying the Finance Ministry chose to put you out of business?"
    "Yes."
    "Do you know why?"
    "They said it was the bad real estate loans."
    "But I thought they have known about those loans for years."
    'They have."
    "Then..."
    "Someone in Japan made a decision, Mr. Buckingham. Ij don't know who or why. The decision was to make the bank fail."
    "Make it fail? You mean allow it to fail."
    "No, sir. When the Finance Ministry seized our Japanese assets, the Ministry forced the bank to close its doors. There was no way it could stay open. They took a course of action that made the failure of the bank inevitable."
    Rip made a careful note of Genda's exact words.
    "Mr. Genda, I have heard that the Bank of the Orient refused the Chinese government's demands for low-interest loans. If the bank had made those loans, would it have failed today?"
    Genda tried mightily to keep a straight face. He started to answer the question, then thought better of it. He lowered his head. He seemed to be focused inward, no longer aware of Rip's presence.
    Rip tried one more question, then rose and left the office. He pulled the door shut behind him.
    CHAPTER THREE
    'Tell me again about Tiger Cole," Callie Grafton said to her husband. They were eating lunch on the balcony of their hotel room. Jake had related his adventure at the bank square this morning and the fact that Tommy Carmellini had dropped by for breakfast.
    "I remember you and Tiger flew a plane from the carrier into Cubi Point during the final months of the Vietnam War," Callie said, "and I went to the Philippines to meet you. I remember meeting him at the airport when you showed me the plane before you left."
    Jake nodded. He, too, remembered. "A few weeks after mat we were shot down," he said.
    "As I recall," Callie said, "he was tall, silent,