The Risk Agent

by Ridley Pearson

  They made it past two doormen in the lobby by Grace holding on to Knox’s arm and acting incredibly sexy. She turned it on so quickly it surprised him, which was her intention. She ran her hands all over him, while giggling and purring. She pulled his hand onto her backside and he held it there. The boys-for that’s all they were: boys in gray suits-couldn’t keep their eyes off her and weren’t about to interrupt such a woman with a waiguoren involved.

  They rode the elevator to the twelfth floor with Grace continuing to act her part, well aware the security boys would be attempting to follow them using security video.

  Grace gambled correctly that a maid-the ayi-would answer the door. Taking a cue from Danner’s voice note, she mentioned a teenage boy to the Chinese woman at the door, saying she had important information that could keep the family from embarrassment. The door came open.

  Knox swept inside. Grace pulled the door shut, leaving Knox cupping the unsuspecting maid’s mouth as he dragged her to the telephone and pulled the phone off-hook, engaging the line and ensuring an outgoing call could not be made. The maid went limp, having passed out from fright. He left her on the floor and hurried down the hall. Grace stayed behind to tie her up.

  The first bedroom belonged to a sleeping teenager who didn’t move-wouldn’t move. “Only child, male,” he recalled Danner saying. Next door was an empty guest room, and finally the master suite.

  He moved for the bed, but was jumped from behind-a stupid mistake! he realized. He’d made too much noise with the ayi. A male with a knife, and he knew how to use it. Knox turned, but too slowly. The knife punched for him. Knox blocked the second lunge. He was a fat Chinese man in checkered pajamas, sweating from nerves in the glow of a green nightlight.

  Knox wrestled the knife free and kicked it across the floor. The man kidney-punched him. Knox slumped, surprised by how much it hurt.

  He recovered to block another attempt and then, with an opening, he kneed the man in the groin, and a fist to below the ribcage. The man sank to the floor. The wife came screaming out of bed carrying a sheet. She tripped on the sheet, exposing her nudity, tripped again and fell.

  Knox, now in full control of the man, punished him with a flurry of fists.

  “You have taken money on the Xuan Tower project,” Knox said in steady Mandarin. “Do you deny it?” He clenched the man by the throat.

  “You are wrong!” the man wheezed.

  Knox leaned his weight into the man’s throat.

  The wife tried to hide herself with the sheet, failing miserably. She skidded back on her bottom toward the wall, sobbing.

  “I seek information about the one delivering your money,” Knox said.

  “Fuck you.”

  Knox dragged him toward the French doors. “All men fall at the same speed,” Knox said, “as you are about to find out.”

  “Husband!” the wife called out.

  He heard Grace before he saw her. She was craning over the cowering woman.

  “You keep your tongue in your hole, or I will tear it out,” Grace said. She moved across the room and opened the French doors for Knox.

  Knox’s victim saw he was outnumbered, saw the doors swing open.

  “Shi de!” he cried. Yes! “It is true. All true!”

  Knox squatted and questioned him. Grace crossed the room to gag and tie up the wife. She then took off down the hall.

  The man confessed to accepting the bribes in exchange for “harmony on the construction site,” but claimed to know nothing of Lu Hao’s disappearance or whereabouts.

  Knox told him if he reported their visit, even to security within the building, it would result in news of the bribes going public.

  By arrangement, Knox did not go to the fifth floor, just as Grace would not return to the twelfth. Instead, he left by a stairway door and returned to the scooter, awaiting her. She met him less than five minutes later, her face flushed and shining with perspiration.

  “Anything?” he said.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “One left.”

  “Getting late.”

  “Or early,” he said. “Yes. But worth a try. Is it okay with you?”

  She looked surprised he would ask. “Yes. Okay.”

  The final stop came with an ominous note from Danner: “Recent addition to route. Extremely narrow alley. Ground floor, second or third door. Choke point.”

  No mention of an individual. No exact apartment. Of greater concern, and explaining Danner’s lack of specificity, was his categorizing it as a choke point-a funnel with limited access, making anyone who entered vulnerable.

  “This one is not good,” Knox said at a stoplight as they followed the GPS track. “Not enough information. Danner didn’t like it.”

  “Latest addition to Lu Hao’s stops,” she said, reminding him of Danner’s voice memo. “If we had an exact date this could help me with the Berthold financials.”

  “If I ever get you Lu’s books.”

  “We will get them.”

  The Muslim neighborhood was small but heavily populated. Dress changed, as did the smells of the street food.

  Once again, Knox studied the entrance to the narrow alley off Ping Wang Jie Road. Once again, from a distance. Danner’s description was accurate: a choke point.

  “Let me walk it,” she said. “Alone.”

  “No.”

  “I will not stop, will not ask questions. Just a walk-through.” She handed him the GPS indicating the lane, which appeared on the virtual map as a shortcut between two parallel streets. “A waiguoren cannot do this, Knox.”

  At that moment Knox spotted an expressionless man coming out of the alley and looking toward them. Civi guard took off, he recalled Danner saying. A lane guard, a Party employee assigned to a neighborhood as a security detail. Not police, but someone gaining experience ahead of the application process; typically, a person eager to prove himself. Knox knew Grace was right.

  “Go,” he said. “I’ll meet you around the other side. But if I don’t see you in five, I’m coming in after you.”

  “Please. I will be fine.”

  She slid off the scooter, handed him her helmet and disappeared through the traffic.

  Grace noticed the lane guard turning to follow her. She kept up a brisk but unhurried pace. She would not give him anything to feed on. Behind her, she heard the scooter head off.

  The lane was nearly narrow enough to touch walls with her arms extended. Stucco walls raised three stories overhead, interrupted by rusted wrought-iron balconies. It felt cloistered; the air smelled stale. She passed a series of doorways on her right and then caught herself staring at a green motorcycle. It was the combination of the unusual deep green color and the basket on the back fender. She’d seen it in the lane outside the Sherpa’s apartment. The Mongolians had been watching him. That, in turn, meant they’d seen her and Knox enter the residence.

  The guard followed down the lane behind her.

  A choke point, she recalled.

  She walked past the motorcycle, committing its tag to memory. Stole a glance toward the small window by the door to her right: curtained shut. Passing the next apartment, its door hung open. She absorbed the layout: a single room of perhaps nine square meters. In this case, limited furnishings-a pair of bamboo mats on the floor and some stacked aluminum bowls. A slightly larger window in the back wall.

  The footfalls of the guard suggested he’d closed the distance with her, now only a few meters behind. She continued walking, neither fast nor slow, knowing that had it been Knox in this lane the guard would have confronted him.

  Two doors down, she saw another open door. Despite what she’d told Knox, she stopped and called inside, in part as an act for the security man. A Muslim woman met her. Grace lowered her voice, taking a chance.

  “Hello,” she said in Mandarin. “You are familiar with the northerner two doors down?”

  The woman nodded. “A Mongolian. And not the only one!”

  Grace nearly cried
out with the confirmation.

  “One of his friends owes me money,” Grace said.

  The woman’s eyes hardened. “I would forgive the debt, cousin.”

  “Do you see his friends often?”

  Another slight nod. “Yes,” the resident said, in an even softer voice than Grace was using. Her voice brought chills up Grace’s arms.

  “Do they live with him, these other men?”

  “Down the lane,” the woman answered. “Two to a room.”

  A choke point.

  “How many?”

  “Five, all told.”

  That left three in good health. “The reason I ask,” Grace said, “is that I would rather not be seen by the one that owes me. He is not pleasant.”

  “All rough men.”

  “Yes,” Grace said. “Mongolians are rough.”

  The woman did not contradict her. “In pairs,” she said. “Roommates. The leader lives by himself.”

  “Leader?”

  “They travel like a pack of dogs.”

  “Yes.” Grace assembled the data, wondering how far to push it. “Two rooms,” she proposed.

  The woman’s icy stare was difficult to read.

  Grace sensed she’d overstayed her welcome. “You have been generous with me, dear lady.”

  “Not at all,” the woman said.

  Grace backed away. The woman stopped her.

  “Again. My advice? Forgive the debt. Do not deal with these dogs. We-those of us in the lane-leave them to themselves.”

  Grace nodded. “Peace be with you.”

  “And you.”

  The woman pushed the door shut.

  The lane guard had lit a cigarette and sat himself down on a stool by a pair of potted plants and smoked. He’d been watching, but out of earshot.

  Grace moved on, a moment later leaving the lane and entering onto a busy street. She walked a block before crossing and joining Knox on the scooter.

  “Well?” Knox said.

  “Drive,” she ordered. “I’ll tell you as we go.”

  Knox pulled out into traffic and Grace wrapped her arms around him. She let go, jerked back and cried out softly.

  “Knox! Knox!” Her left hand was smeared with his blood. She held it out to his side on display for him.

  “I’ll be damned!” he said.

  “You are bleeding.”

  “I know that.”

  “You did not tell me!” She shouted to be heard over the engine.

  “Adrenaline,” he said, as if that explained anything.

  “We go to your place at once.”

  “We can’t,” he said. “Our visitors. Remember? In the lane? They know that location now. Eight-oh-eight is out. I cannot return. And we can’t go to your place either. You were compromised when we fought them. They followed you, possibly from the party, but you went back to your place.” She didn’t contradict him. “So they have your apartment. They have the guesthouse. They want us, or they wouldn’t have come after us like that. Neither of us is going home.”

  She considered what he said for several long seconds. “I know a place,” she said. “We can go there and decide what to do later.”

  “It can’t be a friend.”

  “It’s a service apartment rental. But not with the best reputation.”

  “But you know it, first hand?”

  “I know it. I have stayed there.” She thought back to Lu Jian.

  Service apartments, with kitchens and maid service, were used for long-term stays by traveling businessmen in lieu of more expensive hotel rooms.

  “That could work,” he said.

  “We must hurry,” she said, panic rising in her voice. “You are bleeding badly.”

  He had her trigger now: the sight of blood. Everyone had one. His was abuse: the strong taking advantage of the weak. It left him sick.

  “Honestly,” he said, leaning back to call out to her, “I didn’t even know it was there. I’m fine.”

  “You are bleeding, John. Bleeding badly. Pull over. I will make a call. Then I drive.”

  She’d called him by his given name for the first time. He smiled through an unexpected wince of pain as she held to him tightly while he pulled the scooter to the side of the road.

  8:00 A.M.

  JING AN TEMPLE

  JING AN DISTRICT

  SHANGHAI

  Melschoi paid a sorry-looking vendor seven yuan for a bundle of incense, cursing the amount under his breath, and entered the dimly lit temple. The cross-legged, gold-leafed Buddha rose thirty feet high, surrounded at the knees by pomelo fruit and fresh flowers. The fragrant smoke hung heavily in the air, wrapping the idol’s shoulders like a scarf.

  Melschoi was not there to worship, but because one of his two remaining uninjured men was assigned to survey Yang Construction’s security man, No Nuts Feng. His man had followed Feng into an alley behind Quintet and had watched as a woman and an American had pummeled both Feng and another man.

  Melschoi’s spy had held back but had subsequently lost the two in traffic-in Melschoi’s mind a punishable offense. That left him Quintet, and the night watchman Melschoi had just followed to the temple.

  There was probably a Chinese proverb about there being more than one way to skin a cat, but Melschoi didn’t want to hear it.

  His Beijing boss was so well connected that he had ears in every keyhole. How long until he learned of the compounded mistakes Melschoi and his men were making? How long until he cut bait? And what then? A bone crusher sent for him in the night? Police? Arrest? Melschoi had no leverage over his Beijing employer-knew nothing but that the money was good and it kept coming.

  Despite his agnosticism, Melschoi took a moment to pray for the opportunity and funds to return to his homeland and make things right for his family.

  The subsequent talk with the night watchman came down to what everything in this city came down to: money. Melschoi offered five hundred yuan and the man was ready to give him his first-born.

  The foreigner had had a lady visitor at the guesthouse that same night. The woman had waited for him and had engaged in typical bar conversation with the barmaid. The conversation had centered on jewelry because the guest owned a pearl shop in International Pearl City in Hongqiao.

  Melschoi would have words with this woman. He would know all she knew about this American and what the man wanted with Lu Hao. She was all he had. She, not this gold idol, was to be his savior.

  And everyone knew the fate of all saviors. They were sacrificed.

  9:00 A.M.

  CHANGNING DISTRICT

  SHANGHAI

  “Wo de tian!” Grace led the way into the furnished service apartment, having secured it as easily and nearly as quickly as a hotel room. The biggest threat came from having to show identification; Grace had gotten around this by implying she and Knox were having an affair. For a negotiated price, the landlord had supplied the ID. She carried several shopping bags with her, having made stops along the way.

  The floor was a hideous marble tile; the furniture, black leather and aluminum; the lighting, recessed halogen. The view was of another tower across a lane.

  Grace pulled the drapes and blinds.

  Blood caked his hand as Knox slipped out of the ScotteVest, his shirt damp with it. “I could use your help, if you have the stomach for it.”

  She backed up a step, repelled by the sight of his bloody shirt.

  He pulled off his sticky T-shirt with some difficulty. Grace stepped up to help him. She turned away at sight of the wound.

  “It looks worse than it is.”

  “You’ve been stabbed.”

  “Yes,” Knox said, fingering it. Two older scars, one on his chest, one across his ribs, looked much worse. “The guy jumped me. He landed one before I reacted. My bad. Can you help?”

  Knox moved into the bathroom and she followed, carrying one of the bags. With her looking on, he washed the wound and dried it. He grimaced as he stabbed an antibacterial pad deep into the wo
und and left it there for a count of thirty. Squeezed a bead of gel into the edges of the wound and turned to Grace. Her color had returned; she didn’t look the least put off.

  She snipped the applicator on the end of a tube of Super Glue.

  “You hold it closed for me,” he suggested.

  “I will apply the glue,” she said. “You hold it closed. You need stitches.”

  “This will work.” He pointed out his two scars. “Stitches. No stitches, only glue.” The glued scar was gnarly and thick.

  He pinched the skin together as tight as he could get it. “Go.” He held it as still as possible for five minutes. Some of the two-inch wound held shut; some pulled back open. Three applications later, he was sealed shut.

  “How did you get these scars?” she asked.

  “Most are shrapnel. Dulwich and I…we were in convoy when an IED, a bomb, took out the road. Sarge’s vehicle took the brunt of it. I caught some metal.”

  “You went after him.” She made it a statement.

  “Those two years…that’s most of my scars. You start out that kind of work thinking you’re bulletproof. You end up waiting for your contract to expire.”

  “So Mr. Dulwich owes you.”

  “It doesn’t work like that. Americans don’t think like that.”

  “Everyone thinks like that.”

  “Tell me about the Mongolians,” he said.

  She seemed tempted not to change the subject, but relented. “Five, all living in the lane.”

  “And Lu Hao paid a visit to one of them.”

  “So it would seem,” she said.

  “For a large payoff, according to Danny.”

  “No way around needing Lu Hao’s books,” she said. “We must not lose focus.”

  “It’s a work in progress. Danny’s hard drive may help us there. But the Mongolians mean something. Are they just after their share? Could it be that simple?”

  “Why not?”

  “Or are they working for the police? Or State Security? Someone who could obtain the proper documents for them.”

  “Freelance? It is possible. In that case, for what you’ve done to them…”