Frantic movements awoke me. I rolled onto my back and saw a suitcase open on the floor. Clothing was piled haphazardly inside. The curtains were open, but light wasn’t pouring in; great black clouds crowded overhead, although the storm’s fury had yet to break.

"I’m going to miss my bloody flight!" The Redhead shouted from the bathroom, stuffing bottles and tubes into a plastic bag.

"Get up! Get up!" She slammed the door.

It was 9:30am on Monday. I would have liked to stay longer and perhaps order breakfast and bloody marys from room service, but I stirred myself and dressed in the outfit I’d worn for the last two days, intending to wash and lounge at home before getting a fresh start to the week the following day. I found a hotel laundry bag and into it dumped the little bottles in the mini-bar, the beers in the fridge, and the whisky. I then crept from the room.

Beer in right hand and bag in left, relieved at my escape, I emerged from the hotel and made for the Wanchai MTR station. Halfway there, I remembered Inksy flushing my keys down the toilet. I called home standing in a building’s dark entrance while businesspeople marched by on the sidewalk. The phone rang and rang, but nobody picked up. I tried both Inksy and Thomas’s mobiles; they didn’t pick up either, and then my phone’s battery died. I would need to go to the office for my spare keys.

In spite of the dark, glowering sky and the strong wind I opted to walk along Gloucester Road rather than contend with the suited mob on Immigration walk. If I was quick I could outrun the rain and probably save time. But a few minutes later, still some distance from shelter, the rain crashed down, forcing me to run the last 50 meters to the Sun Hung Kai Tower’s covered safety.

I walked into the office dripping wet. The techies stared at me with unusual curiosity. I glared to make them stop, but it didn’t work. In any case I forgot them when I entered my cubicle, for sitting at my desk, slouching over a battered laptop, was a man I didn’t recognize. He had opened some of the packets from my window sill; green and white computer printouts covered my desk.

"Uh, dude, this is my desk. You’ll have to sit somewhere else."

The bastard swiveled slowly to look up at me. He was thin and his hunching back collapsed his torso into a concave arc from his legs to his long, acne-ridden neck. His shirt was shabby, wrinkled, and unbuttoned far enough to reveal a pale, hairless chest; a pair of plastic spectacles, a patina of grime covering the lenses, dominated his thin face beneath an unkempt tuft of brown hair. From his mouth jutted a plastic pen. He gnawed it so fiercely that the muscles in his face bulged with the effort, much like those of a hyena gnawing the bones of some long-dead carcass.

"Comprende amigo?" I said. "Speaka the ingles muchacho?"

He drew the pen from his mouth (a saliva string hung momentarily between lips and pen before snapping) and dropped it on my desk. "Is it your custom to open the week’s business in this fashion?" He said in a cold, British accent.

"What difference does that fucking make?"

"It makes a great deal of fucking difference, Mr. Stratton, because I am your new manager, and it’s apparent this…this lack of discipline is most unacceptable. Most unacceptable indeed."

"So you’re…"

"Peter Axewell," he said, lifting the chewed pen from its drool puddle and inserting it back in his mouth. "Look at you. Worse than my greatest fears, and drinking during business hours. I knew I was right to oppose your appointment."

"Oh, this," I said, holding up the beer, which I’d quite forgotten. "I found it in the elevator, I always collect litter you know." I threw it towards the waste basket. My aim was off and it spilled on the floor.

"Ugh!" He spat. "And what on earth is in that bag?"

"Just a few odds and ends. Actually I’m sick with the flu today, I was just coming in to collect some work for home. Nice to meet you, by the way."

He regarded me angrily, chewing his pen from side to side. "Good," he said. "If you can work at home than you can spend the day working with me. How many sales prospects are you meeting in the next two days?"

"Quite a few, got a really busy week," I replied, although there were none.

"Who are they? Are they programmed into your sales forecast?"

"Well, not yet…I’ll need to check with Dickie and Carsolita at our distributor-"

"Ah! All Asia News Base."

"Yes, I’ll call and-"

"We needn't worry about them, for their throats will soon be feeling good, cold Hootens steel." He threw his pen onto the desk again.

"What do you mean?"

"All Asia has been an annoyance to us for years. You can’t imagine my delight when I learned of the suspicions your U.S. office harbors towards them - and towards you."

"Suspicions? News to me," I said, thinking of Janie Chandler’s emails.

"Well, we’ll know by the close of business today. Oh yes…we’ll know all by the close of business today."

"Know what?"

"You seem to have a hard time listening, Stratton. We’ll know by the end of today if you and this bloody distributor are embezzling funds – obviously."

A chill fell over me: He was right about embezzlement, of course, but how much could he possibly know? "Peter, they have their share of problems, but I don’t think they’re embezzling, and they usually do a pretty good job. In fact, they’re just about to do a big deal with BCCI."

Axewell waved his hand dismissively. "I’ve been over Card Wainright’s internal numbers very, very carefully, Stratton," he said. "I spent the weekend in conference calls with the local AST analyzing how much information your U.S. office sends to Hong Kong, against the pitiful revenue you generate here. I spent the whole weekend engaged in detailed analysis. I even downloaded the information to my laptop so I could review it on the flight from Tokyo this morning."

He chewed his pen for a moment. "And then I checked the Hootens competitor database. I was amazed, amazed, at the number of accounts you seem to bill here that don’t show up as billing accounts in Card Wainright’s U.S. records. What do you have to say for yourself, Stratton? Well?"

"Uh, I’m sure there must be an explanation. I’ve worked here for years and I know - well, I’m pretty sure anyway - that nothing illegal is going on. I run a pretty a tight ship, you know."

"That’s obvious, Stratton. That’s obvious. Is that because of your Ebbers MBA?"

"Yes, my MBA certainly helps"

"These American MBA schools – Ebbers, Harvard, Wharton – are all overrated in my opinion. You wouldn’t have this job if bloody Kit Matthews hadn’t gone to Ebbers, too."

"Kit’s an old pal of mine."

Axewell grimaced and looked at his watch. Outside, rain lashed down between the buildings. "We’ll see how long that lasts," he said. "Anyway, I’m glad you arrived, we need to leave shortly."

"Where are we going?"

"All Asia News Base, of course."

"Why don’t I just call Orson so we can meet for a drink?"

"A drink? A drink did you say? Drinking and business don’t under any circumstances mix – is that clear? As for All Asia, clause sixteen of the distributor agreement between them and Card Wainright stipulates that Card Wainright can audit All Asia at any time with no advance notice. Now that I’m in charge of the joint venture, I’ve exercised this right, and dispatched a Hootens AST. It should reach All Asia any minute now."

Clause 16? AST? "What’s an AST?"

"Audit Strike Team, and if we peg it, we can participate in the raid," he said with relish, rising from my chair and seizing the handle of a wheeled flight-attendant suitcase sitting in the corner. He dragged this past me heading to the elevator. I stood frozen for a moment before rushing after him.

The cab queue was long. To keep dry passengers were forced to wait on a narrow strip of sheltered sidewalk and then race through a ten yard wall of water to get to the cabs. On the other side of the queue was a bus terminal where yellow diesel mini-buses raced noisily by, belching clouds of black exhaust. Cabs, however, were arriving with brisk frequency and the line moved quickly.

"Hang on a sec," I said. Before he could protest I dashed around a concrete pillar and up an escalator.

On the second level I turned on my mobile. It sounded the battery warning but connected to the network. I called Orson’s mobile, it rang and rang but no response; same at his office and his apartment’s phone didn’t pick up either. Frantic, I tried his mobile again. Just before I gave up he answered. "Hallo Jakey," Orson said.

"Dude, we’ve got a serious fucking…"

The battery warning pierced my ear and the phone died. I stood there among the army of businesspeople, crushing the plastic buttons with trembling fingers, only to see the message: "Battery Dead, Please Recharge Immediately." Somehow I resisted the temptation to hurl the thing against the wall and returned to the cab queue.

"Where have you been?" Axewell demanded.

I could only shake my head, as a ball of hot needles had started pulsing somewhere behind my eyes. I raised my hand to massage my temples. Rain crashed down on one side, fume-belching buses roared by on the other.

When our turn came Axewell jogged to the cab, climbed in, and slammed the door, forcing me to run around to the driver’s side. "You were already wet," he said as I got in.

Fuck you very much. My headache pulsed as if electrically-charged.

"Pek Ching Lane," Axewell told the driver.

"Wah?"

"Pek Ching Lane."

"Wah? Kowloon taxi, Kowloon taxi…you show ah?"

"Bloody Pek Ching Lane! Not bloody fucking Kowloon, Pek Ching Lane! This used to be a British colony. Why can’t any of the locals speak bloody English?"

"Wanchai," I told the driver.

"Okay, okay…you show?" He smiled back nervously, avoiding Axewell’s pale blue eyes bulging behind grime-covered glasses.

"Yeah, yeah, no problem."

"Disgraceful how this city has gone downhill," said Axewell. "We should never have given it to the bloody Chinese."

"You had no choice."

"Bollocks."

The rain had slowed to a persistent drizzle by the time we arrived in Wanchai. Rather than guide the driver to Orson’s office – which I was in no great hurry to get to - I had him stop at a 7-11 so I could get something for my headache.

"Is this it?" Axewell asked.

"Don’t worry, we’re close."

In the store I washed a strip of Panadol down with a can of Red bull. I exited to find Axewell seething on the sidewalk: "Let’s get a bloody move on! Which way is it?"

Unconsciously I started off in the wrong direction; Axewell, dragging his suitcase, followed a few feet behind. The Chinese signs and shop awnings above channeled torrents of filthy water onto the sidewalk and Axewell was soon as drenched as I. It seemed everybody on the sidewalk had an umbrella; I was constantly brushing these aside with my forearm. I led him quite aimlessly along garbage strewn streets, around random corners, across busy intersections, and past construction sites whose noise was just barely muffled by the traffic and falling rain. Before long he was muttering things such as: "Damn these bloody umbrellas…the manners of these people are atrocious," "We’re going in bloody circles!" "I’ll be bloody cheesed if these potholes ruin my new suitcase," and "Where can one buy a bloody brolly?" etc.

After about twenty of minutes of this Axewell shouted for me to stop.

I ignored him and kept walking.

"Bloody Pek Ching lane is right here, you deliberately passed it."

I slowly turned to face him. He pointed accusingly up to a barely visible street sign on the side of an apartment block at narrow lane’s entrance. In my dazed state it took me a moment to recognize the place; with horror I realized I’d inadvertently led him to Pek Ching Lane. Right there was the news vendor I’d used for years smiling from under the tarp that sheltered his magazines and papers. He seemed surprised I’d passed without greeting him or buying anything.

"Out of the way," Axewell snapped at the vendor - who didn’t move - and shoved his way under the tarp, where he withdrew a leather-bound personal organizer from his suitcase. He flipped through the pages and found what he was looking for.

"Number 17 Pek Ching Lane," he said. "I’ve got you now."

He replaced the organizer in the suitcase and started down the alley, peering at each door. I walked up behind him and grabbed his arm. He tore it away and leapt back, the pen falling from his mouth into a puddle.

"I’ll show you," I said. There was no point delaying anymore.

In the elevator Axewell stood close to the door, eager to rush out. I shrank in a back corner, paranoid as hell from all the drugs and acutely aware of my failure to warn Orson. When we got to the tenth floor we didn’t find the gun-toting SWAT team I’d half-feared, but rather a group of tired-looking Chinese people. Clear plastic rain smocks covered their suits; they looked more like harried commuters at a bus stop than anything that could be called a "strike team."

Axewell slouched into the lobby with me in tow. I counted six of them in the dim, humid space. They were all unremarkable except for a large woman with heavy jowls whose hair was cut in a harsh crew cut - clearly their leader. She stood right by All Asia’s steel gate door, which I was relieved to see was chained and padlocked.

"Meet Fanny Ma," Axewell said, gesturing to the large one. "She’s the AST leader for this audit. See that red folder she’s holding? As is Hootens custom, she’ll put the most interesting evidence in that folder for review and detailed analysis. You should know, Stratton, that she receives commissions for uncovering wrong doing, so you can be sure her investigation will be most thorough, most thorough indeed. Are we making any progress Fanny?"

Fanny slapped the padlock with the folder. Thick silver rings encased her short fingers, and what looked like a spiked dog collar stuck out from the sleeve of her austere suit jacket. She regarded me with the focused man-hatred of the bull lesbian. I stared back with no small amount of fear and revulsion. Axewell, grinning, added: "If were you, Stratton, I’d be worried, most worried indeed."

"Key," Fanny grunted, thrusting her jaw at me.

"I don’t have it, I work for Card Wainright, totally different company."

She rolled her eyes. The rest of the team giggled nervously.

"Can’t we find some way to break the lock?" Axewell said.

"Cannot," said Fanny. "I need court approval to break lock."

"But I thought we could get in…what a pile of wank this is! Where the bloody hell are they, Stratton? It’s well after the open of business. Where could they possibly be? I just don’t understand."

I fought to hide the cautious sense of hope growing in me. "Why don’t I go downstairs and call Orson’s mobile?" I said. "He’s probably just delayed by a client call or something."

Muttering angrily, Axewell shook his head and kept looking between me, Fanny and the lock. He even went and held the lock in his hand, perhaps hoping to find it open although it was clearly sealed against us, or rather against them and for me.

The elevator dinged, and Axewell scurried over to it. The doors slid open and standing inside, shaking his wet umbrella, was Orson. "Hallo Jakey. I say, this bloody rain...who the hell are these people?"

"Orson Crane!" Snapped Axewell, grabbing the elevator door.

"Why, yes…who are you matey?"

"Peter Axewell from Hootens. Jake Stratton has told us about your embezzlement of Card Wainright funds."

Orson blinked at Axewell before his eyes swiveled to rest on me. I shook my head but Orson’s varicose veins were brightening with rage. "You bloody fucking cunt, Stratton!" He waved his umbrella like a truncheon. "You’ll bloody pay for this you fucking cunt!"

He jabbed the close button but Axewell’s hand prevented the doors from shutting.

"Release the bloody door!" Orson bellowed. "I’m getting me some bloody fucking legal advice!"

"No," said Axewell. "Clause sixteen of the agreement states that…"

Orson’s umbrella smashed down on his knuckles. Axewell shrieked and pulled his hand to his chest.

"You’ll bloody pay for this, you cunt Stratton!" Orson yelled.

"Orson, listen…" I yelled, but it was too late; the doors closed.

The strike team stared between Axewell – bent over and clutching his hand – myself and the monstrous Fanny, who was wrapping a bright silver chain that resembled a dog’s leash around her fist. When about a foot dangled freely, she swung it about a few times as though flailing imaginary opponents.

"Is everybody okay?" Axewell said. "Are we okay? Stay together people, stay together."

I had to speak to Orson, so hoping to beat the lift I raced down the stairs. On the ground floor I discovered I was too late, for in both directions bobbed a anonymous river of umbrellas with not a trace of Orson. I would have gone to his apartment, but I’d never been to the place. I only knew it existed in some building among the thousands served by Wanchai’s twisting roads and winding alleys. Pursuit was hopeless; besides, the run down the stairs had started my head hurting again and asthma was tightening my lungs.

I looked about again but Orson was gone. My career had entered a new, darker phase.

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