I went straight back to the bureau. I wanted to begin making my own calls to Asia before Gaspard and his friends in Paris did. It was 4:00 P.M. when I got there—5:00 A.M. the next morning in Hong Kong. I dialed the number Rubino had given me for Wu Laozi, the oldest of the three brothers. A sleepy voice answered. I asked several times for Mr. Wu, but the man started screaming at me in Chinese, and I gave up. One of the brothers had to speak English. I tried the next number, for Wu Pufeng; I let it ring for a long time, but there was no answer.

The third number, for Wu Yewin, also rang a long time. I was about to give up when a voice answered. He said something in Chinese, then dropped the phone, picked it up and repeated himself.

“Mr. Wu Yewin?” I asked. I held my breath. If this number didn’t work, I was out of options. The old man in Beijing would never say anything. The voice on the other end spoke again in Chinese. I repeated: “Mr. Wu Yewin, please.”

“Yes,” said the sleepy voice. “This is Wu Yewin. Who is calling?”

“Mr. Wu?” I was so surprised it took me a moment to think what I should say to him. “I’m very sorry to bother you so early in the morning. I work for a newspaper in America called The New York Mirror. I’m writing a story about companies in Asia. My records show that you are the secretary of a company called NADC Ventures. Is that right?”

There was a long pause. It was 5:00 A.M.; he had been dead asleep; some American was calling with a silly question. “Yes,” he said in the soft, distant voice of someone who has just awakened. “NADC Ventures.”

“My records show that your company has received investment from a company called New Asia Development Corp. Is that correct?”

“Yes, New Asia Development. Who are you?” He was waking up.

“My name is Eric Truell. I am a reporter for The New York Mirror. Can I ask you one more question, Mr. Wu? What does NADC Ventures do?”

“Investments. Family investment business. Thank you. I must go now.”

“How much money has your company received from New Asia Development?”

“What?” he asked, a sudden sharpness in his voice.

As I was repeating the question he hung up. I called back, but the line was busy. It remained busy the rest of the afternoon and evening. By the following day all three Wu brothers had disconnected their telephones.

“You are a fool, sir.” The voice was unmistakably Rupert Cohen’s. He sounded very calm and utterly sincere. He was calling me at home, two nights after my visit to Langley. I was lying on my couch watching television when he called. “I am profoundly disappointed in you.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” I asked.