"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.