“I’ve got to sit down for a moment,” Marissa said. With all her infertility treatments and little or no exercise, she wasn’t in shape for this kind of exertion. Just ahead there was a tea shop with gleaming pots hanging above a beaded doorway. She pointed. “How about something to drink?”

After another look behind them, Tristan reluctantly agreed.

The tea shop occupied a windowless room that looked more like a storeroom than a public space. The tables were worn, unfinished wood. A handful of customers were seated at several. In the usual Chinese tradition, they spoke at a level just below a shout. Combining the loud conversation with the de rigueur Chinese music blaring from a tiny Panasonic, the atmosphere was hardly restful. Even so, Marissa was pleased to sit down. Her legs ached and she had a pain in her side.

The proprietor eyed them suspiciously. He walked over to them and addressed them in guttural Chinese.

“Sorry, mate,” Tristan said. “Don’t speak Chinese. How about a cuppa 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.