“Sorry, mate,” Tristan said.
“Don’t speak Chinese. How about a cup pa tea. Any kind. You choose.”
The man looked at Tristan without comprehension. Tristan mimed tea drinking, then pointed to the other customers. Apparently understanding, the man disappeared through a back doorway covered with strings of beads matching those that hung in the entrance from the street.
“Convenient there were no police around,” Marissa said sarcastically, her chest still heaving.
“We’ve been in Hong Kong for less than twenty-four hours and we’ve had to run for our lives twice. Neither time have we seen a single policeman.”
“I warned you that this trip wouldn’t be a proper holiday, Tristan said.
“Should we go to the police now?” Marissa asked.
“I don’t know what we’d tell them,” Tristan said.
“Besides, they certainly wouldn’t be apt to help us find the Wing Sin.”
“Maybe we’re in over our heads,” Marissa said.
“That’s obvious.” Tristan turned around and looked for the proprietor.
“Where in blazes is our tea?”
Marissa wasn’t concerned. She didn’t care about the tea particularly.
Tristan stood up.
“Hong Kong is a place of extremes,” he said.
“Orders come instantly or take forever.” He walked toward the curtain the proprietor had disappeared through. Parting the beads he looked within. Then he returned to the table and sat down.
“There’s a bevy of scraggly old guys in there smoking pipes,” he said.
“I think we’ve stumbled onto one of the old-fashioned opium dens the authorities tolerate for the sake of a handful of aged addicts. Opium is one of the grimiest and most despicable legacies of British colonial history, yet it provided the basis for the founding of Hong Kong.”
“Should we go?” Marissa asked. At the moment she wasn’t interested in history.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“How are we going to get out of here?” Marissa asked.
“We’ll skirt around through these back streets,” Tristan said.
“When we get to that large thoroughfare we ran across, we’ll snag a taxi.”
“Let’s do it,” Marissa said.
“The sooner I get back to the hotel the better I’ll feel.”
Tristan pulled the table back for Marissa to stand. Getting to her feet, she stretched each of her aching legs, then walked stiff legged to the door and ducked through the beads. When Tristan did the same he bumped into her. Marissa was frozen. Directly in front of the tea house was a black limousine.
The three men in dark blue suits who had been chasing them earlier were casually lounging around the car in various states of repose. Spotting Tristan and Marissa, the man near the front of the car straightened up. Marissa recognized him as the one who’d posed as Freddie. His snub-nosed revolver wasn’t in evidence.
Instead, he had a more serious-looking machine pistol dangling at his side.
Tristan grabbed Marissa’s wrist and turned back into the restaurant only to see its heavy wooden door slam shut in his face.
He was about to try to force it open when he heard the locks on the other side slide into place.
With resignation, Tristan turned back to the street.
“Please,” the man with the machine pistol said. He motioned toward the back of the car. Tristan saw a large tear at the elbow of the man’s suit. He guessed it happened when he’d knocked him down.
At first neither Tristan nor Marissa moved. But the man with the gun would no longer tolerate delay. A short burst of fire from his machine pistol against the pavement was a forceful persuader.
Bullets ricocheted haphazardly down the street, forcing the MahJongg players to dive for cover. This was a man who could be casual about killing.
After that display, Marissa and Tristan complied with his wish.
They approached the car’s rear door, but the man with the gun shook his head. With his gun, he motioned toward the back of the car. One of the other men unlocked the trunk and lifted the hood.
“You want us in the boot?” Tristan asked.
“Please,” the man with the gun said.
“This should be cozy,” Tristan said is he climbed into the small space and curled up. Marissa hesitated, but followed suit, curling up against Tristan.