Harold Robbins, the author of five bestsellers, might be called one of The Carpetbaggers of the current literary scene. His standard operating procedure is to raid recent history for figures of distinction and incidents scandalcus and combine them into a hotcake that sells in boards, paper and film even if the characters are all libidinous cardboard. It is fairly dangerous work. There is an outside chance that somebody someday, repelled by what they consider a distortion of themselves or a loved one, might just sue with the result that the offending book would sell even faster. This one is like a stiff test to prove that you've read your Daily News faithfully. The hero is a vaguely negroid diplomat from a banana republic who is very big on the polo field (no play-by-plays) and active in bed (yes, play-by-plays). Among his friends are a no account Russian count turned dressmaker, a set of Harvard friends that include a family of Boston Irish political and financial upstarts, a French banking family, and the daughter of the banana republic's president who is married to our boy. If you can't guess who your way through all this you Just don't deserve to read about the cool young man who spent his days at the very center of violent international activities and his nights in the very middle of somebody's bed (sometimes between a famous but frigid opera star and a nouveau riche nymphomaniac Southern heiress).