The Risk Agent

by Ridley Pearson

  “This model, and ones like it, interest me greatly,” Knox said.

  The superintendent wandered the lines, searching out other antiques.

  Knox meanwhile moved closer to Danner’s Honda.

  An agitated Kozlowski, hands in his pockets, didn’t know what to do with himself.

  “It would be impolite to leave the captain alone,” Knox told Kozlowski, who glared back at him.

  Knox reached Danner’s bike. Its right side was badly scarred. It had been dumped and had skidded a good distance.

  Reaching it, he called out, “Hen hao!”-very good!-so that his spending time with it could be explained.

  The superintendent hoisted a thumbs-up from across the yard-he could smell the yuan flowing.

  Knox observed a bracket attached to the handlebars, its black plastic stamped GARMIN. He checked over his shoulder. The superintendent was busy searching for a similar prize.

  Kozlowski watched Knox from a distance, like a worried parent.

  Knox screened his opening of the motorcycle seat’s storage, and he rummaged its contents: a pair of foam earplugs, leather gloves, a cable lock, a small plastic funnel, bungee cords. And a black, faux-leather drawstring bag. He lifted the bag-the weight and shape making sense for a GPS-and he zipped it into one of the ScotteVest’s lower pockets.

  The superintendent shouted as Knox was zipping up the jacket. “Do not make a mistake!”

  Knox’s blood ran hot. It was too late to return the GPS. He got the seat compartment closed, believing he’d been caught in the act.

  “That one may look pretty,” the superintendent said in blistering Shanghainese, “but the older ones run far better.”

  Knox shouted at the superintendent. “I do not doubt! The young, pretty girl has nothing on the older, experienced woman!”

  The superintendent howled. Kozlowski bristled. The superintendent indicated a beat-up 750 that lacked its sidecar. Knox moved in that direction, passing what looked like a vintage BMW or a good Russian copy of one.

  They identified six bikes, including Lu Hao’s. The superintendent wrote down the plate numbers. Gao would talk to his men and be back in touch.

  Out on the street, Kozlowski said, “If you’re lucky, they put you in a six-by-six-foot cell and slowly starve you. Within a week, you’ll say anything into the video camera they want you to say, and it won’t help you one bit to say it. If you’re unlucky, you never get as far as the cell.”

  “He liked me,” Knox said.

  “You do not want to get into this.”

  “I’m buying a couple motorcycles.”

  “Listen, I know who lives in the apartment building in Zhabei where the man was beaten-a man, by the way, who has not been seen since. He should have visited a hospital; he did not.”

  “Health care these days.”

  “I also know which private security companies are contracted to which U.S.-based corporations with offices here. I know whose jet carried you into Hong Kong. I will say this, Knox: I’m very careful about running background checks on the people I drink beer with. Break bread with. The people I admit into the consulate for Monday Night Football. Extremely careful. So either I missed something-unlikely-or you’re a sleeper-also unlikely-or you’re into something you shouldn’t be. But I’d gotten to like you, and that opinion is quickly changing.” He waited a moment for people to pass them on the sidewalk. “I help people I like. But not the stupid ones.”

  Knox considered entering full denial mode-his knee-jerk reaction to such lectures. He caught himself and said, “I need the laptop or its contents. I need a heads-up if the heat joins the game. And I need some slack from you.”

  Kozlowski said, “You think? Really?”

  “Time’s against us here,” Knox said. “I’m staying at-”

  “The Jin Jiang, room five-forty-seven. I know that. Shit, Knox, what do you think I do all day?”

  Knox swallowed dryly. He didn’t like the thought that Kozlowski was keeping tabs on him. He wondered if Kozlowski knew about the room at Fay’s as well.

  Knox shook the man’s hand and thanked him. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “Whatever you took out of there,” Kozlowski said, “I wouldn’t mind it landing on my doorstep in a basket with no note. This street is two-way or it’s shut down,” Kozlowski said.

  “Understood.”

  Knox looked up in time to spot the distinct shape of a face among the hundreds of Chinese looking his way. A man on a green motorcycle, nearly the color of Danner’s.

  A Mongolian.

  10:45 A.M.

  Up the street, a wide-shouldered man loitered on his motorcycle by a cart that sold cong you bing-green onion pancake. He watched the two Caucasians leaving a nondescript entrance.

  The man’s parents had created his name, Melschoi, by way of a cruel acronym: Marx, Engels, Lenin, Stalin and Choibalsan. He’d taken heat for it in the schoolyard, but by the time he’d signed with the police in Ulan Bator, no one murmured a critical word in his company. Melschoi had developed into an imposing force: physically oversized, mentally resilient and morally strong.

  After six years, on a police force fueled by corruption, Melschoi’s attempt to stay clean proved his ruin. In failing to bring down a cabal of officers, he and six police loyal to him-four of whom were with him now in Shanghai-had been betrayed. Two of his team, including his younger brother, had been abducted, tortured and brutally killed. He and his remaining four officers had been forced to run, stowing away beneath a winter train bound for Beijing, an experience that accounted for the two missing fingers on Melschoi’s left hand.

  Disgrace had left him disfigured. He and his men planned to return to Ulan Bator with enough money to move and protect their families before finishing what they’d begun.

  Now he’d lost two of his men to injury at the hand of an eBpon-a foreigner. He’d witnessed this same eBpon visiting the Sherpa’s driver. Now he was with Cold Eyes-the U.S. Consulate’s security chief. As far as he was concerned, it confirmed the eBpon was a spy, a foreign agent. This discovery irritated him, because it meant that the man was hands-off. His client would not tolerate an act against the U.S. government.

  Melschoi understood the guidelines imposed. But he understood the rules of a street fight better. The foreigner would pay for cutting his team in half, though the man’s ability to take out two of his men did not go disrespected. Melschoi had long since proved himself to be a patient and careful adversary. Accidents happened.

  He left the motorcycle and hailed a taxi, prepared to switch cabs several times if necessary.

  The eBpon would never know what hit him.

  11

  7:06 P.M.

  HUANGPU DISTRICT

  THE BUND

  SHANGHAI

  Heading up Guangdong Road toward the Huangpu River, the buildings grew older and more imposing. Some of them dated back to the nineteenth century, when this area was an enclave of foreign privilege, and Shanghai thrived on trade in tea, silk and opium. Where once the flags of many countries flew from these rooftops, now hung the distinctive scarlet Chinese flag.

  The wide avenue paralleling the Huangpu fronted a river walk that held ten thousand or more Chinese tourists on a given night. Weekend nights, there were even more. There was a European grandeur to the Bund, like Grand-Place in Brussels, or the Champs-Élysées in Paris, an architectural nobility. The air buzzed with an intoxicating mix of human excitement, ships’ horns and the whine of vehicles.

  Arriving at a group of valets, Knox had a glimpse of the teeming quay and beyond it, the neon- and LCD-charged Pudong skyline. The Pearl Tower flashed pink and turquoise through the evening darkness. Ten-story screens on the sides of high-rises played advertisements for Coke and KFC. Tens of thousands of tourists jammed the elevated quay, all jostling for a piece of the famous view.

  Grace waited on the steps, pushed back against a handrail while watching guests being dropped off by their drivers. Mercedes, Lexus, BMW, the ubiqu
itous chauffeured blue Buick minivan, a symbol of the corporate expatriate life.

  She looked ravishing in a short purple raw silk jacket over a black tea dress with a high neckline. A string of turquoise and red coral complimented her long neck. Her hair, not a strand out of place, was pulled back into a bun stabbed into place by a length of tortoiseshell.

  She leaned to kiss Knox on the cheek, ever the role player. “You will find, unlike our American counterparts, Chinese women are always on time.”

  Knox checked his watch. Five minutes late.

  “You look…lovely,” he said.

  “And I would take this as a compliment if I heard conviction over surprise.”

  He took her arm, his grip strong on her elbow, and guided her up the marble steps.

  Grace resisted. “I would prefer a drink, alone, before we go up.” She seemed hyperaware that anything and everything said between them might be heard. She angled her head across the street.

  “Your wish-” he said, escorting her through a break in traffic.

  They rode the elevator to New Heights, a seventh-floor restaurant and bar that also overlooked the river. They had a view across Guangdong Road and through the windows into the Glamour Bar where Yang Cheng’s party was already underway.

  The bar itself was made of thick, frosted slab glass, the liquor bottles reflected off shiny shelves of black lacquer. He ordered a beer, and she a glass of Champagne. With no seats to be found, they stood at a chest-high drink counter.

  “So?” Knox said.

  “Before we go upstairs and into that,” Grace said, pointing toward the Glamour Bar, “where honestly we must play our roles to perfection-I wanted to know when you were going to tell me about what you are carrying in your coat pocket?”

  Knox leaned away.

  “I felt it when you kissed me on the steps. You don’t smoke. It is not a cigarette case. It is too heavy, and too big for a phone. Too light for a handgun, too bulky for another kind of weapon-a knife, for instance. It is in your right pocket-you are right-handed, so you obviously wanted it close.”

  “Obviously.” He swallowed dryly and looked for the beer.

  “A video camera?” she asked.

  He glanced into the reflection off the glass, admiring her. Small, but beautiful. Fiercely put together into a showcase of fashion and femininity, giving no hint of the physical power she no doubt contained from her army training. Her focus. Most of all: her control. Lowering his voice, he said, “My friend’s GPS.”

  “Ayee!” she let slip.

  “It was your suggestion: the impound.”

  Grace snarled. She clearly didn’t want compliments or small talk.

  “I can follow its moving map. But I don’t know the city well enough to know if a waiguoren will stick out. And as much as I don’t care who’s there to greet me, I don’t want to put Danner at risk. We can’t afford mistakes. Not with only a couple days to go. We know they’ve moved at least once. I don’t want them moving again.”

  He passed it across to her. “There are seven saved locations. It’s got to be Lu’s payout route. Danner follows Lu Hao and marks each location where he leaves a bribe. It’s better for us than his accounts.”

  “We do not know what these locations are.”

  “I know how Danner is,” he said. “Trust me: this is the money trail.”

  Grace said, “It could be nothing but his favorite restaurants or massage parlors.”

  “Then let’s go get a bite and a rub and see what kind of tastes he has.”

  She turned on the GPS and scrolled through the saved locations.

  “It is an interesting mix of neighborhoods,” she said.

  “I’m listening.”

  She looked across at him as if she considered this a rarity.

  “Some are poor,” Grace said. “Others, upscale.”

  “Both fit for kickbacks,” he said, “depending who’s on the take.”

  “The riverfront compound across in Pudong,” she said. “Luxury condominiums for Chinese. Party officials. Businessmen.”

  “You see?”

  She softened and then said, “We do not want to accuse such people. We must leave this to others. Very powerful. Very connected, such people.”

  “I have no intention of accusing anyone. I want to have a nice, quiet sit-down with them all.”

  Grace flashed her disapproval.

  “You want to involve accusations and lawyers?” Knox asked. “We have two days.”

  “I want Lu Hao’s accounts,” she countered.

  He threw up his hands. “I’m open to ideas, but this,” he said, tapping the GPS in her hands, “this is the closest thing we have to a lead.”

  “This is not a good idea.”

  “Help me with the neighborhoods, please. Danner bookmarked these locations. I need to have a look.”

  Grace switched off the device and slipped it into her purse.

  “Give me that!” Knox drew some looks.

  “You must trust me,” she said.

  “You’re not working real hard to earn it. Give it back, please. Or I’ll take it from you.”

  “It is no good at night, this kind of thing. You must trust me. You ask for my advice on Shanghai. This is my advice. We must plan double egress for each location. Establish rendezvous. We will meet early tomorrow morning, at six A.M. First light. We will do this together. Early morning, the traffic is not as bad. This is a good time for us, John Knox.”

  He attempted to cool himself down with the beer. He failed. His attention remained on her purse and the GPS it contained, but his eyes did not. He didn’t want her playing defense.

  “To absent friends,” he said, hoisting the bottle and waiting for her Champagne glass.

  7:30 P.M.

  THE BUND

  The Glamour Bar’s lavish Art Deco interior was a throwback to the heyday of Shanghai in the 1930s, when commerce, intrigue and opium conspired to form the most unique and magnificent city in all of Asia.

  Knox and Grace were checked against a guest list and then welcomed by a gorgeous twenty-something hostess. The bar was a black granite island in a central room off which hung two sitting rooms and an elevated lounge that overlooked the Huangpu River. Pudong’s neon-trimmed high-rises flashed colorfully. River tour boats, tricked-out in neon and more video screens, slipped between coal-laden barges. It was Times Square times ten, with Broadway a quarter-mile-wide black water river.

  The bar crowd was a mixture of Chinese and expatriates, the Asian women breathtaking, the men overconfident. The Euro waitstaff circulated with trays carrying Champagne, sparkling mineral water and pineapple juice. Big Band music fought against the din of voices. Knox choked on the cigarette smoke.

  He caught Grace appraising the other women. “You needn’t worry,” he said. “They’re all eating your dust.”

  She looked down. “Dust?”

  “You look fine.”

  “Fine?”

  Before Knox could rectify the moment, the two of them were interrupted by a young Chuppy-a Chinese upwardly mobile professional-bulging out of a low-cut bustier and wrapped in a dark gray jacket and skirt. Her chic eyeglasses reflected the glow of an iPad she carried with authority.

  The woman introduced herself by her English name, Katherine Wu, and her position as Yang Cheng’s executive assistant. Grace introduced Knox as a business client. The hostess had greeted Knox with an openly coquettish expression, though it turned quickly churlish: import/export was regarded as unglamorous and “last century.”

  “Allow me to introduce you to our host,” she said as she led them through a choking crowd around the bar and up three small stairs to the view lounge.

  The lounge consisted of clusters of well-heeled guests randomly grouped. Yang Cheng stood at the top of the steps welcoming and chatting. Slightly balding and of an indistinguishable age, Yang wore a tailored suit, Italian leather shoes and a red tie. His wide-set eyes suggested a man overly pleased with himself.

 
Knox identified the fit man in the cheap suit as the bodyguard or security man. This man lingered a little too long on Grace for a complete stranger. There was something smarmy about the look. He then took in Knox like a full body scanner. Knox distilled this man’s reaction and quickly analyzed it: he knew Grace; he didn’t want to forget Knox.

  Then something strange happened as Yang spotted Grace. He offered a smarmy look at his security man. It was a locker room exchange: one man to another, a look Knox knew well and had trouble processing for its content. It went beyond “She’s hot” to something more licentious. It was, in particular, personal, not simply suggestive. Knox was right on the edge of understanding it when he was jarred by introductions. The meaning escaped him.

  The provocative young assistant introduced them. Yang had the enviable ability and grace to make them both feel it was only the three of them in the room. Knox caught a tick to Yang’s eye and Katherine Wu gently took Knox by the arm, following an obvious script. For now, Knox agreed to play his part.

  “Please, Mr. Knox, allow me to show you the view.” She eased Knox away from Grace and toward the windows. Grace and Yang Cheng descended into the bar area.

  “You have been to the Glamour Bar before?”

  “Many, many times,” Knox replied. “One of my two favorite views in all Shanghai.”

  “And the other?” she inquired.

  He turned his gaze onto her. “Why, you, of course.”

  “Ah!” She blushed involuntarily.

  “But alas, views are only for looking. You’ll please excuse me, Ms. Wu,” he said cordially, wanting to keep track of Grace. “I’ll be right back. I just need a beer.”

  Her grip tightened on his elbow. She lifted her other hand and miraculously, a waiter appeared like he’d come through a trap door. He took Knox’s order.

  His hostess said something, but Knox didn’t hear. He’d lost sight of Grace.

  7:48 P.M.

  Being led by Yang Cheng into the main bar, Grace couldn’t help but see eyes following them. Yang demonstrated his knowledge of her, reciting pieces of her CV. Thankfully, he referred to her most recent employment as an independent accountant based in Hong Kong; there was no reference or insinuation of any work being performed for Rutherford Risk. The take-away for her was that she was a person of interest to him. This, in turn, made him more interesting to her. Was he calculating enough to have had Lu Hao kidnapped? Was her invitation to the party related to the kidnapping?