Remo kept his mouth shut as Chiun hectored the driver, who nearly collided with a red-and-cream double-decker bus during the congested ride.
As they passed the junk-littered waterfront, the stink of the harbor invaded Remo's sensitive nostrils. Even Chiun sniffed. Remo suppressed his breathing so that the atmosphere-borne pollution particles didn't trigger his olfactory receptors.
But the stink was stronger than his self-control. The harbor stench mingled with the ever-present odors of rotting cabbages and sweaty human bodies.
Finally Remo could stand it no longer.
"China," he said in a brittle voice, "is definitely out!"
"Did you say something, Remo?" Chiun inquired in a disinterested voice. There was no point in allowing Remo to come out of his funk without having to work at it. A little.
"I said we're not moving to China. It stinks here."
"This is not China. This is Hong Kong."
"I've been to China. It smells exactly like this. It's congested like this. Look at these streets. There are more people than pavement."
"The same as New York," Chiun said coolly.
" I don't want to live in New York either. China is out."
"We could live in the countryside. Inner Mongolia is much like my village of Sinanju."
"Great. A clam flat decorated by barnacle-encrusted rocks. No, thanks."
"Your tone is bitter," Chiun said, not looking at Remo. The sea of Chinese faces passed by like unbaked rolls. "Could it be you are unhappy with me?"
"I'm unhappy with everyone," Remo said.
"Ah," said Chiun.
"Especially you," Remo added. "Smith I can understand. You sandbagged me back in his office." Remo snorted. "I-spoke-for-both-of-us, my foot."
"This is business," Chiun said. "You have no head for business. It is up to me to safeguard our financial security."
"Smith conned you."
"I own an important company. It is my duty to protect it. When this assignment is done, we will be done with Smith."
"Promise?"
"Promise. "
The tension stayed in Remo's face, but he unfolded his arms. Chiun rearranged his skirts. He was wearing a simple gray traveling robe, unadorned but for three red roses across the chest-which for the Master of Sinanju was dressing plainly.
The pedicab pulled up before a modern office building in the heart of Hong Kong's Central District, near the monolithic China Bank with its guardian lions.
The sign outside said "REUTERS NEWS SERVICE."
"This must be the place," Remo said, alighting. Chiun paid the pedicab driver in American dollars.
"Not enough!" the driver protested in English.
Chiun fired back a stream of singsong Chinese. The driver's face broke out into a sick-eyed grin. Remo recognized that grin. It was universal throughout Asia. It masked anger, fear-sometimes hate. The driver tried to protest, but Chiun cut him off in his own language.
Finally the driver mounted his pedicab, stone-faced, and scooted away.
As they entered the glass lobby of Reuters' Hong Kong branch, Remo asked, "What was that all about?"
"He overcharged us."
"How do you know that?"
"I refused to pay his demands and he only protested twice. The certain mark of a cheat. Remember that if we go to China."
"We're never going to China," Remo said flatly.
"Remembering will cost you nothing."
"Forgetting even less," Remo said, looking around.
The Reuters branch was all glass walls and computer-equipped cubicles. It hummed with ringing telephones and men and women scurrying from desk to desk like, it seemed to Remo, mice in a laboratory maze.
Remo grabbed a tweedy British-looking man as he hurried by.
"Excuse me, pal," Remo started to say. "I'm looking for the head of Reuters."
"See the clerk," the man said in a thick British accent, pronouncing it "clark." He pointed back over his shoulder. "And it is pronounced 'Roiters,' not 'Rooters.' " He disappeared through a blank door.
Remo looked back at the beehive of activity. He cupped his hands over his mouth.
"Which one of you is Clark?" he called.
Eighteen out of a possible twenty-seven hands went up.
"Must be a popular name," Remo muttered. He pointed to the nearest upraised hand. "You. Come here."
The man came up to him, saying, "May I be of assistance?"
Remo flashed an ID card. "Remo Farris. SEC. I'm investigating rumors that the stock-market problem started in this office."
"Highly improbable, sir. But you'll have to speak with Mr. Plum about that matter. I'm only a clark."
"What do you mean, only?" Remo asked. "And what does your name have to do with anything?"
Chiun stepped in.
"Please excuse Remo," he said. " I am Chiun, his interpreter. I will translate your words for him."
"What do you mean?" Remo said. " I speak English."
"No," Chiun corrected. "You speak American. It is not the same. This man is a clerk. The British pronounce it 'clark.' It is not his name."
Remo turned to the man. "Is that true?" he asked.
"Quite so, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience. Shall I tell Mr. Plum that you wish to see him?"
"Sure."
"Come this way."
They followed the clerk to a cluttered desk, where he opened a file in a computer.
"State your business," the clerk said to Remo, his fingers poised over the keyboard.
"I already did."
"Again, please. For our records."
Remo sighed. He explained again his SEC cover story, his purpose, and his fictitious name.
"Will there be anything else, then?" the clerk asked.
"Not unless you give out prizes for waiting," Remo said in a bored voice.
"Very good, sir." The clerk pressed a button marked "Send" and waited.
"Where did you send that?" Remo wanted to know.
"To Mr. Plum's office. Naturally."
"Where is that?"
"In the office across the hall."
Remo looked. The clerk was pointing to the office where the tweedy man Remo had first accosted had disappeared.
"This Plum," Remo said. "Is he about six feet tall, sandy hair, and built on the lean side?"
"I believe he is, sir. Ah, here comes the response now."
A block of text appeared on the screen. Remo tried to read it over the clerk's shoulder, but the man had already digested the text and was erasing it by holding down the delete key.
He turned in his swivel chair and expressed his regrets with a pointed smile.
"I'm sorry, sir. But Mr. Plum is not available to callers at this time. If you'd like to leave your name . . ."
"I already did. Remember?"
"I fear I no longer have that particular information on my terminal. I shall have to take it again." His fingers lifted over the keys. "Mere formality. It shan't take long."
"It's already taken too long," Remo grumbled. "Come on, Little Father."
Remo skirted the profusion of desks and went through the unmarked door. Chiun floated after him, serene of face.
Clive Plum, manager of Reuters' Hong Kong branch, was in the middle of a phone conversation, his eyes on the interoffice computer transmission, when the office door opened with a bang. Remo appeared before him as if teleported there.
"My dear man," he said, rising involuntarily. "I don't believe you have a proper appointment."
"The name is Remo," the man said curtly in a rude American accent. "And I'll settle for an improper appointment. Just so long as we get this done."
"I see," Plum said. His eyes went to the phone clutched in his hand.
"I won't be a mo," he said. Into the phone he said, "Knight to Queen's Bishop Three." And then he hung up.
"I play chess by phone," he explained self-consciously.