He snapped one of the caps and looked inside. The two agents behind him edged closer. The Chinese man, waiting in the customs line, craned his neck to get a glimpse.

Dooley showed the inside of the canister to the two agents. Gingerly he probed with his pinky finger; it came out covered with what looked like flour. Dooley tasted it with the tip of his tongue. Then he popped the top back on the container.

"Heroin," he said.

"No!" exclaimed the young Malaysian. "You're kidding."

"High-speed film, all right," one of the agents growled.

The Malaysian was led away, squirming. A third agent appeared and confiscated the Samsonite and the film packages.

"Sorry for the delay, folks," Lance Dooley said to the rest of the passengers.

"We'll move right along now. Next?"

The Chinese man wrestled his huge suitcase to the conveyor belt. Quickly, almost frantically, he opened the latches.

Dooley looked at the passport. "You are returning from the People's Republic of China. Is that right, Dr. Wang?"

"Yes, sir."

"Says here you've got some scrolls and some pottery." Dooley was reading from the customs declaration form.

"That's right."

"Worth about?"

"One hundred dollars. Approximately."

Dooley opened the suitcase. The scrolls were on top-inexpensive but delicately painted wall hangings. You could find them all over the place on Fisherman's Wharf.

The pottery had been carefully wrapped in several layers of Chinese newspaper.

Each piece was packed for protection between stacks of clothing. Dooley unearthed two large parcels.

"Vases."

"I'll be careful with them, Dr. Wang." Dooley peeled the newspaper away, making a lame effort not to rip it.

Cobalt dragons writhed on the body of each vase, beneath a crest of ornate blue scrolling, a field of peonies and, nesting there, a mallard. The vases were identical.

"Very nice," remarked Lance Dooley.

"Imitations, I'm afraid, but lovely bookends. For my office at the university."

"How much did these cost?" Dooley asked.

"Sixty-five dollars. A tourist shop in Peking."

Dooley set the vases on the conveyor belt, next to the suitcase. "Dr. Wang, could I see the sales receipt for these?"

"Certainly, it should be right here." He sorted through a billfold. "That's odd.

I can't find it. See here-the receipt for the scrolls-"

Dooley gave it a cursory glance and handed it back.

"I keep all the receipts in the same place. It must be here… "

"Do you recall the name of the store?"

"No… no, I don't. But it was printed on the receipt."

Dooley's boss shot him another glare from the next aisle. "Lance you got another one?"

"No, sir." Dooley could take a hint. Quickly he rewrapped the vases in their paper cocoons and placed them back in the suitcase.

"Where is your final destination, Dr. Wang?"

"Ohio. Pittsville. My flight doesn't leave until tomorrow. I can search for the receipts this evening… "

"That won't be necessary," Dooley said. "How long were you in China?"

"Three weeks, approximately. Eighteen days, I think."

"Have a good trip home, Dr. Wang. Next, please."

Later, on his lunch break, Dooley sat down at a video display terminal in a small gray office and typed the name and passport number of David Wang into a U.S. government computer. He also typed the port of entry, the date of entry and his own identification number. On the single line allotted for general remarks, Dooley typed: "Queried China pottery/ blue-and-white vases (2)."

Dooley pressed the "store" button, and turned his attention-and the remainder of his lunch hour-to the mountain of paperwork generated by the capture of the Malaysian scag mule.

Danny Bodine stuffed his hands in his pockets as he stood in the doorway of the Dong Fang Hotel. Outside a hard gray rain pelted the city of Canton. Things could be worse, he told himself. It was the typhoon season. Traffic crawled on the slick streets and bicycle riders pedaled at double speed, their heads wrapped in newspaper or crinkly plastic rain hats. Everywhere people clustered in doorways, waiting for a break in the downpour.

Maureen and Pam had scheduled an excursion to White Cloud Mountain. Danny had hired a cab for the trip-but there would be no sightseeing today.

A cargo ship docking on the Pearl River sounded its horn, piercing the shroud of rain. Danny was afraid his wife was about to suggest a trip to another museum.

"Let's go to a teahouse," he said, a preemptory strike.

"For lunch? I'm hungry, Danny."

"Me, too." It was Pam, Maureen's sister, fresh from her morning makeup marathon.

She looked pretty damn good, Danny had to admit.

From somewhere out in the rain, a bedraggled American came bounding up the steps of the Dong Fang. He excused himself as he passed Danny, Maureen and Pam in the doorway. Pam watched him in the lobby, his blond hair matted and dripping. He wore thin, ill-fitting cotton clothes.

"Wonder where he's been," she said.

"One of those swell tailor shops near the river," Danny said.

"Be nice," said Maureen. "Maybe he's with a church group."

As Danny had feared, the three of them wound up at the Guangdong Provincial Museum.

When they returned to the Dong Fang three hours later, the American stranger was still in the lobby. Danny and Maureen paid no attention and went up to the room, but Pam sat down next to him in a high-backed leather chair. "What are you reading?"

"Oh, just travel brochures," said Tom Stratton, smiling. "It's all I could find."

"Are you a tourist, too?"

"Sort of."

"We came from Denver-me, my sister and her husband. He works for an oil company that's got an office in Hong Kong. He'll be there a couple of months, I guess.

Maureen and I are going back to the States day after tomorrow."

"Oh? I am too," Stratton said. "Are you at this hotel?"

Pam nodded. She liked his smile, but he looked-well, like he'd come off a three-day bender. In Denver she'd never approach a man who looked quite so worn out, but this wasn't Denver.

"I'm on the eighth floor," Stratton lied. "Eight twelve."

"We're in seven eighteen," Pam said, then added, for clarification, "It's quite a big suite."

Stratton told her that he taught art history. Predictably, she had never heard of the college. "It's a small place," Stratton explained, "but very peaceful."

"It sounds nice," Pam said. She was thinking about the flight home; maybe they could sit together, she and her new friend, if Maureen wouldn't mind.

"What oil company does your brother-in-law work for?"

"Rocky Mountain Energy Corporation," Pam said. "Danny's a vice-president. I don't think he's too crazy about Asia, though. He's heavy into domestic shale."

"Oh."

"What are you doing for dinner?"

Stratton shrugged. "Nothing special."

"Why don't you join us, Tom? We're all going to the Ban Xi. Have you ever tried quail eggs?"

Stratton shook his head.

"It's supposed to be a beautiful restaurant. You can eat on a houseboat. Danny won't mind if you come-he'd kill for some male company."

"That's very nice. I could use some company, too." Stratton caught her glance after he said it. "What time?"

"We'll meet you here at about seven, okay?"

"How about if I meet you at the restaurant? I'm waiting for a telex. Besides, it'll take me a while to clean up."

"Fine, we'll see you there about seven thirty." Pam stood up and said brightly,

"Maybe the rain'll stop by then."

"Let's hope so," said Stratton, hating himself.

He snuck into the People's Republic's only hotel sauna and baked for ninety minutes. The heat was luxurious, soporific; wisps of steam curled off the tiles.

The grit and dust of Man-ling washed away. Stratton closed his eyes; as exhausted as he was, he could not even doze. Training-that's where the feeling came from. Pack your gun and put your conscience in a drawer.