“No, sir, I’m not. My name is Eric Truell. I work for The New York Mirror newspaper. I called earlier on the telephone, but your secretary said you were busy. We’re doing a story on business investment in Asia, and we’re looking at some of the new players, and I wanted to ask you a few questions. It will only take a minute.”

“I’m very busy.” He looked uncomfortable—taken by surprise in his own office—and was obviously wondering what to do. What would be riskier—throwing me out or answering my questions? “I don’t give interviews to the press,” he said.

“Just a few questions, then I’ll be gone.” I took out my notebook. I didn’t want to give him time to think about it. “You’re Mr. Jean-Luc Gaspard, G-a-s-p-a-r-d, the president of the company?”

“Yes, that’s right.” So what? He wasn’t giving anything away; that was a matter of public record.

“What does your company do?”

“Venture capital. We make investments in new business in Asia.” That was easy, too.

“And how much money do you have invested in Asia now?”

“Quite a bit.”

“More than fifty million dollars?”

“Yes, more than that.” These were real questions. He was getting uncomfortable again. I would have to hurry.

“More than a hundred million?”

“No, less than that. You know, I am sorry, what was your name—Truell?—I really must go.”

“Just a few more questions and I’m done. I need some basics. Where does New Asia get its capital? Are you listed on any stock exchanges?” My questions were entirely ordinary; the sorts of things that any normal company would readily volunteer. But they were also the essential building blocks of my story.

“No, we’re privately held. Most of our capital comes from banks.”

“I’ve seen some loan records that say most of your money comes from Banque des Marins. Is that right?”

Now he was suspicious. “Yes, mostly from them. I really must go now.”

“Just one more question. Can you give me the names of any of the companies in which New Asia has invested?”

“No, I really cannot. I’m sorry, but now you must go.” He put his arm on my shoulder and tried to push me gently toward the door. I had the advantage of being bigger than he was. I was hard to move.

“Have you invested in a company called NADC Ventures?”

With that question he lost his composure. “Out, now, please, or I will call the police. This is private property. I insist that you leave.”

“I’m going.” I handed him a business card. “Perhaps we could talk another time, when it’s more convenient.”

“Out,” he repeated. He looked very frazzled. This was a cauchemar, a nightmare, and he didn’t understand why it was happening. “Salaud!” he muttered as he closed the door. Son of a bitch.