The Risk Agent

by Ridley Pearson

  “You are dressed in all black,” she said. “You have been sweating and your eyes are dilated from adrenaline.”

  “As are yours,” he said.

  “Did you confront him?” she asked. “The Mongolian? Was he there?”

  “Tell me about Marquardt. Yang Cheng?”

  They both sipped their beer.

  She said, “I am waiting.”

  “As am I?”

  “This is childish,” she said.

  “I paid a visit to the Mongolian’s room as we discussed. And, yes: I made sure he wasn’t there,” Knox said. “I had a look around.”

  “And?”

  “If you crossed a monk with a Marine you’d have this guy nailed. Neat and tidy, and very few possessions, if you discount the false wall behind the prayer rug,” he said.

  “Please explain,” she said.

  “Four screws in a false panel. The man’s a pack rat.” Knox’s wound made him wince. “There was a video camera hidden in there. A professional camera. Pretty beat up. Two handguns-both Russian. And a considerable amount of yuan. Maybe eighty or a hundred thousand.”

  “The missing cameraman,” she said. “The one the Iron Hand seeks.”

  “Yes. And if he’s as damaged as his camera, we can cross him off the list of the living.”

  “Any footage on the camera?”

  He passed her his iPhone. “Excuse the quality. I videotaped the little monitor on the side of the thing.” He upended his beer and drank loudly.

  “Asphalt crew?” she said. “I do not understand.”

  “Neither did I. But keep watching.”

  Her eyes flared. “Who are they?”

  “Too small to see. We need a much bigger monitor and a better copy. But the guy on the left is big enough to be our Mongolian. And the other guy is fat enough and well dressed enough to be rich.”

  “You brought the tape.” She made it a statement.

  “It’s a disk. But no. I left it in the camera.”

  She glanced at him, frustrated. “But why?”

  “We know where to find it. And if it goes missing, we’ve played our hand. You need to keep watching.”

  She returned her eyes to the phone’s video.

  “An asphalt crew at night,” he said, “in what looks like a light industrial area.” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing Chinese characters written in pen on his forearm. “This character is seen on a sign on the building in the background.”

  “Chong,” she said. “This means ‘honor, esteem.’ Chongming Island…”

  “Yeah. That occurred to me. Keep watching. It’s coming up any second.”

  “Why film asphalt being laid?” she asked.

  “Why hold on to a camera if this guy is dead? And if he’s missing a hand, he’s likely dead,” he said. “If the Mongolian’s working for the police, for this inspector, then I can see it. Cops retain evidence in order to convict or to-”

  “Extort.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Or as insurance. Agreed.”

  “And if that fat guy with the Mongolian is a Beijing party member…”

  She gasped loudly.

  “You’ve got good eyes,” Knox said. “I didn’t see him until the second time I watched.”

  She rewound the video and paused when a man’s head appeared on the far left of the frame-a man hanging on to the wall and peering over into the compound. The frame then moved to encompass the spy and the lens zoomed to capture his face in close-up.

  “I recognized him from the pictures in the digital frame,” Knox said.

  A pixilated Lu Hao stared into the camera lens looking like a deer caught in headlights.

  She’d gone a pasty color. “Oh, Lu Hao.”

  “Whoever laid that asphalt did not want it being seen.”

  “In China,” she said, angry with him, “we work all hours. This is nothing.”

  “They’re hiding something,” he said. “Count on it.”

  “And Lu Hao saw it.”

  “And the fat dude,” Knox said. “He saw the fat dude. And whoever that other guy was.”

  “This is why he called me.” She went suddenly very quiet.

  “You can’t beat yourself up over it.”

  She had tears in her eyes when she looked up at him.

  Knox felt fatigue drag him down over the next several minutes of her brooding silence. For his part, Knox was celebrating that the video he’d shot was clear enough to make out some detail. He thought that on a bigger and better screen he might be able to make out faces.

  He touched her arm. “Seriously. There’s nothing you can do about it now except fix it. We’re going to fix it.”

  She filled him in on her meeting with Yang Cheng and Marquardt.

  “One of them will come through,” he said. “If not, we’ll drop a duffel of newsprint and improvise.”

  “They will kill them.”

  “They won’t get the chance. You’ll see.”

  “There is only the two of us. Marquardt should not have made that call. By now the Chinese know we have Lu’s records. We are marked.”

  “We knew there’d be speed bumps. You do what you have to do.”

  She eyed him curiously.

  “An American proverb,” he said.

  “What now, John?”

  He wanted another beer. Maybe five.

  “I need to call Randy,” he said.

  “For the encryption code? I thought he gave it to you.” She sounded defeated.

  “He did. Yes. Not the encryption code. The new proof of life,” he said. “Primer will demand a final proof of life before making the drop. That’s our chance.”

  18

  7:00 A.M.

  SHANGHAI

  The Friday start of National Celebration Day coincided with the Mid-Autumn Festival, resulting in a migration involving over three hundred million Chinese. Nearly a hundred million round-trip train tickets would be purchased, accounting for one hundred eighty million passengers in less than three days. Two hundred million others would travel to their family homes by bus, car, bike, motorcycle, boat or by foot. Flights would be added to every route, and every plane was overbooked. Ferries would be jammed, their passenger count well exceeding the posted limits. Chinese citizens were duty bound to return to their ancestral homes. Expats seized the week-long celebrations as opportunities for vacation travel in and out of the country. China would effectively shut down. First was the celebration in honor of the founding of the People’s Republic; then, the autumnal equinox-a holiday dating back three thousand years. The human exodus would empty the streets and sidewalks of Shanghai, and the city’s population of twenty million would be drained to less than half that.

  Among those not going anywhere were Knox and Grace.

  With Knox having contacted Primer, they slept in shifts awaiting a return call, waiting for bids for the Lu Hao accounts from Marquardt or Yang Cheng.

  At seven, they showered, ate baozi from a street vendor and drank Starbucks coffee. The sun shone brilliantly though Knox had read the forecast-the receding edge of typhoon Duan, a storm that had devastated the Philippines three days earlier, was on track to sweep onto the mainland by afternoon and stall, dumping rain amid hurricane-force winds.

  For construction projects like the Xuan Tower, the timing of the storm couldn’t have been worse. With no manpower due to the holiday exodus, there was no labor force to secure the hundreds of sites, to batten down equipment or secure scaffolding. The government put out a call over the radio and television for all workers to return to the city. It would go largely ignored.

  Grace’s iPhone rang. She and Knox stared at it briefly before she answered.

  “Hello? Wait please…I will put it on speakerphone.”

  “…you out of your mind?” Primer’s voice was tight. “Extorting a client? Pitting him against his competition?”

  Knox heard the man’s venting, but thought only of Dulwich holding out an identical phone and showing him the tracking locat
ion of the Mongolian.

  Without introduction or apology, Knox said, “You got my text about demanding a final proof of life?”

  “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

  “Any progress with push-back?” Knox asked calmly.

  A long pause on Primer’s end. “I don’t deal with rogues.”

  “If we’d gone rogue, we wouldn’t have recommended you require a final proof of life and we wouldn’t have answered your call. Ask Marquardt about Chongming Island. He’s been withholding on us. We’re fucked here. We could use someone with some spine. We need the deets of the drop.”

  A long pause. Then, “Time is clearly their bugaboo. They’re in a hurry. We negotiated it down to a hundred K. It’s to be Grace only. She arrives fifteen-thirty with the money and no one following. People’s Square Metro station. It’s a Dirty Harry. A run and drop. The proof of life will be a storefront video with real-time tags. Hostages to be released within twenty-four to forty-eight hours following a successful drop. It works for us.”

  Knox scribbled out the details. The storefront proof-of-life intrigued him.

  “What the hell were you two thinking?” Primer asked.

  Knox answered. “Without Guangzhou, we’re a little light on funds, and it occurred to us with the hostage’s accounts turned over, the value of the hostages diminishes. Substantially.”

  “We’re contracted to make the drop.”

  “You are, yes,” Knox said. “We’re committed to extraction and we’re a little short-handed here. Sarge’s situation, our own situation…we’re improvising.”

  “Marquardt can raise forty.”

  “It’s not nearly enough,” Knox said.

  “You will not auction off the accounts.”

  “I’m afraid we will honor whichever bid comes in higher. But more importantly, we can now eliminate Yang Cheng from our suspect list for the kidnapping. If he had Lu Hao, he wouldn’t need to pay for the accounts. He’d have beaten it out of him.”

  Primer’s breathing could be heard. “I can see that.”

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  “Grace,” Primer said. “Turn the accounts over to Allan. You know the drill.”

  She looked into Knox’s eyes. “I am afraid I…that is, we, must accept the highest bid.”

  Knox relaxed noticeably, and smiled at her.

  “Shit.” Primer had tried to keep it from being heard.

  Knox said, “The plan is for extraction. By the time the drop is made, I should have them back.”

  “Don’t be a fool. You’ll get them killed. Wait! You know their location?”

  Knox reached over and ended the call.

  Grace suppressed a smile. “I should have taken Yang’s offer of employment.”

  At 8:45, Grace’s personal phone rang and she clapped it up, answering immediately.

  “Ms. Wu,” she said, so that Knox understood it was Yang’s assistant, Katherine Wu. She listened. “Yes. Thank you. I will call you right back.”

  She disconnected the call.

  “Two hundred thousand, U.S.”

  “Impressive on such short notice,” Knox allowed.

  “But I am afraid we must not accept it,” she said.

  “Because?”

  “Mr. Primer. The Berthold Group is the client. We do not know the repercussions of turning that information over to Yang. He could use it so many ways. No matter what, he is certain to use it to destroy The Berthold Group. This is our client. Much face would be lost. An American firm accused of bribing officials? This is not good for anyone.”

  “First, the kidnapper is our client. We serve the kidnapper. Second, they are expecting a hundred thousand. Do you want to deliver Marquardt’s forty? We take forty from Marquardt and sixty from Yang. We’re up front about it: we let them both know the other guy is getting Lu’s accounts. We give Marquardt an unencrypted version. It’ll take Yang days or weeks to decrypt. That gives Marquardt time to be ready for whatever Yang throws at him. It’s the best we can do.”

  “We promised it to the highest bidder.”

  He shrugged.

  “It is an interesting compromise,” she said.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Knox had been unable to raise Amy; his concern for her compounded with each passing hour. But he’d hired Randy to consult on the proof-of-life’s delivery to a storefront.

  “We’re good? You and me?” he asked Grace.

  She nodded. “We are good.”

  11:00 A.M.

  ZHABEI DISTRICT

  A blue Buick minivan pulled to the curb, cutting through a thick column of bikes and scooters and motorcycles, all burdened with extra passengers and belongings. Knox threw open the side door. A duffel bag was strapped by seatbelt into the captain’s chair.

  Knox unclipped it and swung the door shut. The van sped off.

  He and Grace met three blocks to the east. She arrived carrying a similar duffel. They sat side by side on a park bench, the hundred thousand U.S. on their laps.

  Knox kept a constant watch, his eyes shielded by a pair of knock-off Ray-Bans.

  Grace said nervously, “The Metro station. I am expected there for the drop.”

  “It’s a runaround,” Knox said.

  “I heard Mr. Primer refer to this. I do not understand, exactly.”

  “It’s Dirty Harry.” He could see her disconnect. “A movie-a character in a movie-a cop. Inspector Harry Callahan. He had to make a drop. He’s forced to run pay phone to pay phone to separate him from his backup.”

  She inhaled sharply, as if she’d been punched.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Scared?”

  “Maybe a little.” But her eyes said differently. He saw concentration, heated thought. Anything but fear.

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?” she said.

  He nodded. Whatever had shook her up, she’d quickly recovered and did not want to discuss it.

  But the question remained.

  Melschoi rubbed the stubs of his two fingers lost to frostbite over eighteen months earlier, warding off the shooting pain that foretold an impending storm. He praised the gods for his good fortune, grateful to be moving on his motorcycle instead of caught in traffic. As he headed toward the intersection, he’d received a call from Feng Qi’s man, his Yang Cheng insider. It was the fourth such call he’d received from the man.

  “Authorities intercepted communication from a Berthold Group executive,” the man reported. “A woman, Chu, is handling the ransom drop. She is to go to a store along Nanjing Road to receive proof the hostages live.”

  “What store?”

  “Is unknown.”

  “Your team will be watching?”

  “Nanjing Road is long. Many stores.”

  “Here is how it will work: if your team spots her, you will call me immediately. If I should call you, you will report seeing the woman where I tell you.”

  The line remained open.

  “I have your wallet. Your address. The address of your family,” Melschoi said, reminding the man, not appreciating his hesitancy. “Do not think. Just do.”

  “Feng has given police a video of the woman.”

  “Why?”

  “Figure it out.”

  The man disconnected the call.

  The ransom drop was set. Feng wanted the Chu woman arrested before the ransom could be paid.

  Melschoi felt poised on the verge of a great success. The bee would not be far from the honey. He could nearly taste the air of the steppes. Could see his children’s smiles.

  1:00 P.M.

  LUWAN DISTRICT

  U.S. CONSULATE

  The massive blob of forest green and blood red jerked rhythmically across Steve Kozlowski’s computer screen, indicating the steady advance of the approaching typhoon. Kozlowski’s eyes narrowed. His daughter, Tucker, enjoying a holiday from the Shanghai Community International
School, was at a play date with a friend. He was considering calling their driver, Peng, and having Tucker picked up before the storm hit. At that moment, his phone rang.

  “Kozlowski,” he answered.

  “I’m close to making a deal on the bike,” the voice on the other end said.

  He heard a series of soft clicks and a change in the voice quality as Knox said, “You still there?”

  Kozlowski slid open his desk drawer and glanced at the white iPhone taken from the hospitalized imposter. He’d placed a call on the phone to test it. He recognized the sound of the service-shifting sound quality that made the call impossible to trace or eavesdrop. That Knox possessed such a phone surprised him.

  “I warned you there might come a time I couldn’t help you. That time has arrived.” He eased the drawer shut.

  “Don’t hang up! Please. Is this line secure?”

  “What do you think? How about on your end?” he said knowingly.

  Knox didn’t answer.

  “I was shown some video of a Westerner putting the hurt on some locals. Not once, but twice. I don’t take kindly to being called to task by the city police.”

  Knox wasn’t going to lie to him, so he said nothing.

  “Word to the wise: the Chinese have the most advanced face recognition system out there. On your way out of the country, stay away from the airports and train stations and keep your head down when out on the streets. You’re a marked man, Knox. I would get the hell out of Dodge while the getting’s good.”

  “The guys were Mongolians, not Chinese,” Knox said, wondering if the face recognition explained his being tracked to the wet market. “Hired muscle working for a Beijing big with unusual financial ties to The Berthold Group. One of these goons has a commercial quality hi-def video camera hidden in his wall. Ring any bells?”

  Kozlowski held the phone away while attempting to calm himself. He returned the phone to his ear. Knox was still talking.

  “-interest you.”

  “Say again.”

  “A video camera. Expensive, though banged up and still able to play its contents. I thought maybe that might interest you. It’s engraved-‘property of Road Worthy Film and Video Supply in Glendale, California.’”