Cameron McIntyre was beginning to wonder if he might have made a fatal blunder.

He sat alone in a paneled library in the heart of his sprawling estate. It was a warm room, lined floor to ceiling with hundreds of books representing the best of modern writing and the classics. McIntyre had read none of them, and had no interest in doing so. His father had told him that every civilized man owned a well-stocked library.

Consequently he had a standing order with a bookseller for every book on the New York Times bestseller lists, which the butler rearranged as required.

McIntyre was in the library for a reason unconnected with books. A cherry corner cabinet held the private stock of Scotch, imported directly from a small Highland distillery, that he reserved exclusively for himself.

The businessman had canceled a previously arranged rendezvous with one of his girlfriends.

He wanted the evening to think, something that would be impossible with the woman's vacant chattering.

Not that she would miss him terribly, he acknowledged in a rare moment of self-honesty. He recognized that all the heaving and moaning during their couplings had more to do with the expensive, glittering baubles he brought than any genuine feeling she had for him.

Her rival was no different, and both were exactly the same as the three grasping, avaricious harpies he had married. All of them wanted a piece of the McIntyre fortune rather than a piece of McIntyre himself. Neither of them was any better than a well-paid hooker.

McIntyre realized that he was verging on self-pity. Much better to think about his problems the quarter-million he owed Davis from his incredible run of bad luck at poker last weekend; his second wife's petition for an increase in alimony payments; that puzzling call from Peru.

The more McIntyre thought about the telephone call, the less he liked it, and the more afraid he became that he had said too much. He should have waited to speak to Carrillo after all, but the assistant had been quite convincing.

As McIntyre stewed, he decided that he could easily dispel any doubts. He refreshed his drink and strolled to the end of the left bookcase.

He withdrew a thick history book from the end of the second shelf and depressed a knot in the paneling. A six-inch piece of the bookcase upright popped out from a seemingly solid panel and swung back on a hinge. McIntyre reached in and withdrew a thin black book.

The first page contained a list of numbers. Moving to an antique model telephone on a low table, McIntyre dialed Peru.

"Buenas noches." The telephone was answered on the third ring.

McIntyre took a moment to compose himself. He had been counting on Carrillo being absent.

"Senor Carrillo, what a pleasure. I thought that you were out of town."

"No. I have not been out of town for some weeks. But why are you calling me?" Carrillo sounded puzzled at the arms dealer's call.

McIntyre's stomach sank. Now he was almost afraid to hear the answers to his other questions, although there was no doubt he had to get to the bottom of whatever scheme was being played out. "I spoke with your assistant this afternoon. I merely wanted to confirm that you now have all the information you need."

"My assistant? Do you mean Senorita Vincenzo?" The Peruvian's voice revealed a tremulous note, and it was obvious that McIntyre's inquiries were making him nervous.

"No, the gentleman. The one who speaks such good English. I don't know his name."

"I have no such assistant. There is only myself and Senorita de Vincenzo. Is something wrong, Senor McIntyre?"

McIntyre was becoming alarmed at Carrillo's responses, but he fought to keep his voice casual. "'My mistake, senor. I am sorry to have bothered you. I see that the gentleman that I am speaking of is an associate of a Mr. Capistro, an Italian business contact of mine. You see, I am in error and have simply called you through a mistake of my own. Please forgive me. Good night." His explanation was weak and he knew it, concocted on the spot so as not to alert Carrillo to any trouble. McIntyre quickly hung up before the Peruvian could question him about his mistake.

He stared at the phone, half expecting it to ring.

When it hadn't rung in ten minutes, McIntyre began to regain his composure. After all, there was nothing concerning the arms shipments that could be tied directly to him. He had made damn sure of that. If the facts ever came out, there were going to be some very unhappy and unpleasantly surprised executives at McIntyre Arms Corporation.

One of the advantages of being the boss, particularly one with a reputation for being harsh and unapproachable, was that subordinates didn't look too closely when they were made to sign piles of forms and contracts.

By the time his high-priced legal beagles got through suing everyone in sight and firing off every writ, stay and affidavit in the legal dictionary, he doubted if he would ever see the inside of a courtroom, let alone a jail.

His only real worry concerned the Sharp killing.

He realized now that Carrillo had maneuvered him into that rash act, with grand speeches about "honor," "treason" and "just vengeance." Mistake or not, there had been a certain horrible satisfaction at the killing. He had been astonished at how calmly he had watched Sharp die.

But now Carrillo had a hammer over him that the Peruvian could use as he chose. Carrillo had begun by insisting on the hasty and rather insecure delivery of the order that was now en route.

McIntyre would bet that this was only a sample of a long and increasingly difficult association with the Latin arms smuggler.

McIntyre began to wonder if he could arrange an accident for Carrillo the next time the two of them met.

The arms dealer pushed the thought aside. Carrillo lived in the dark underworld, while McIntyre had barely put a toe in. Whatever he thought of that might be devious or treacherous, he would bet that Carrillo would have planned a countermove.

He couldn't beat Carrillo at his own game.

McIntyre's anxiety began to return as he reflected on his precarious position.

Finally, turning his attention to the problem at hand, he picked up the phone once more, intending to verify the status of the cargo in San Francisco. He let the phone ring for three minutes.

McIntyre slammed the receiver down and threw himself into an easy chair. Even though the crew guarding the arms shipment were morons, they weren't stupid enough to leave it unattended. If no one was answering the phone, it was because no one was able to do so.

That could only mean serious trouble.

In spite of how well he had distanced himself from his covert deals, McIntyre began to wonder if he was as secure as he imagined. He could only surmise that it was the FBI that was interfering with his secret arms shipment. If the Bureau felt confident enough to seize the arms, it must have some very solid evidence, something that might link him to Sharp's death.

Almost as bad, he would have to repay Carrillo the advance for the weapons, and he had already spent the cash.

It was time to cut his losses and get out of the country before the ax fell.

McIntyre had no confidence in the rent-a-cops manning the front gate. They were fine for scaring delinquent kids and shooing away curious strangers. If there was real trouble they would be as useful as straw scarecrows. He phoned a shady contact of his who had helped him out with the mechanics of the arms deals. They agreed on twenty of the roughest, meanest ex-cons on the streets, every one packing his own hardware. Any one of them would knife you for a U.S. Grant, let alone the Grover Cleveland they were promised for a six-hour shift. His three personal bodyguards would make sure that the hired help didn't get out of hand.