“You live here?” Knox asked, sticking with intentionally poor Mandarin. “These building?”
The lead woman stared at him through suspicious eyes. In Shanghainese she let him know it was none of his damn business, her language so foul that one of her friends looked to the brick walkway demurely.
In Shanghainese the younger woman said, “Be polite, you old witch. He is guest in our country. He and his kind bring commerce and prosperity.”
“They bring the avian flu and KFC. To hell with them all,” the older said, carrying on the national rhetoric that had pinned the avian flu’s origin on the United States.
“Indeed, we live here,” the younger woman said to Knox, in slow, halting Mandarin spoken so that he might understand.
“Any young men, men my age or younger, recently join you?” he asked her.
In rapid-fire Shanghainese the lead woman said, “Shut your mouth, pretty flower, or I will report you and your tribe as running a brothel and have you imprisoned for generations. Do not test me.”
Her admonishment sobered the others, while telling Knox all he needed to know. He caught the eye of the young woman, who was blushing.
“What floor?” he asked in English, knowing the matrons could not understand him. “Show me with your fingers. I will not betray you.”
“What does he say? What does he say?” snapped the old bitch. “You will not speak! You will not answer him!”
But Knox had already turned away from them having seen the young woman’s left hand, resting on her knee, touch thumb to pinky-the Chinese hand signal for “three.”
He took two steps, stopped and turned, now back in the rain. Addressing the lead woman, speaking perfect Shanghainese, he said, “You are a bitter old cow with the brains of a potato. I had five hundred yuan I was prepared to offer you to help me with the magazine article I am writing. Now it remains in my pocket, and you remain in the chair, poorer for your rudeness.”
He tromped off through the standing puddles. Immediately, the women were on their leader with vicious crude remarks and admonishments. Knox knew the arguing would continue for a good fifteen minutes. With luck, time enough for him to get in and out without detection. Ironically, the only one of them he worried about was the youngest, fearing she might see through to his intentions.
At the end of the compound was a wall shared with a five-story apartment building. Wet to the core, Knox turned at the apartment building and went up and over the wall. He slurped through mud to the far edge of the brick tenement, finding an opening where a door should have been.
He entered a dark hallway, rainwater coursing down the interior wall. The warped floor was littered with trash and broken beams and pieces of brick, all covered in layers of filth. Faded printer’s proofs of posters were held to the wall by rusted thumbtacks. Improvised wiring snaked in tangles up the banister. Knox fingered the tangle. The cleanest of the wires was a phone line-new. The residents of such places weren’t the kind to install phone service. But a gang of kidnappers might pirate the service from a nearby pole in order to have Internet. Knox’s confidence built as he crept silently up the staircase, pausing every few feet to listen. The pounding of the rain covered all sound.
If the money had been delivered, then Danner’s time was up.
At the first-floor hallway, he checked two nearby rooms, their doors missing or open; both were unoccupied and cluttered with construction debris.
The second floor was darker, the result of cardboard blocking a hallway window. The wires separated here and ran like grape tendrils to various rooms. Two, one thick-electricity-the other thin-the phone line-were tied in a pair leading still higher.
Adrenaline charged through his system as he anticipated the action at the end of the wires. The moment he’d come for: Danner. He climbed, following the wires, moving more cautiously now. He was led to a door, third down on the left. A set of wet shoe prints had soaked into the wood floor-a recent arrival.
His eye fixed onto a shiny new brass key lock-an amateur move. Ever so gently, he turned the doorknob and applied the slightest amount of pressure to the door.
Locked.
4:30 P.M.
HONGKOU DISTRICT
Knox heard muted voices in a heated discussion from the other side of the locked door. He leaned his good ear against the wood: muted Shanghainese from at least two, possibly three. Mandarin spoken by at least one. He stared at the footprints saturating the worn wooden floorboards.
As he listened, his fingers involuntarily counted out the number of voices: four. Difficult odds, given that he was armed with only the Mongolian’s switchblade.
He considered using the window at the end of the hall and working from outside the building, increasing his element of surprise. But the building face was sheer, and the old witches at the gate might see him.
He dropped to his knees and peered through the space at the bottom of the door, covering his right eye. Four pairs of feet by table legs; two pairs-scuffed dress shoes so typical of Shanghainese men, standing; one, a pair of Nikes; the sitting man’s feet tapped nervously, his legs dancing-not bound to the chair, Knox noted. The fourth pair of shoes by the table was black and rubber-soled above a cuffed pair of pants. A fifth pair of shoes could be seen to the right, against an exterior wall. What held them closely together, Knox couldn’t see, but they were large, size thirteen or fourteen. Danny! That made five.
Knox sat back against the wall and exhaled. He fought the impulse to kick the door and let adrenaline rule. Think!
But he’d not come here to think. He’d come here for Danny.
He stood and kicked the door alongside the lock, shattering the jamb. The second kick flung the door open.
Three men standing-two to the left of a central table, one at the back. One man sitting, to the right. Danny was blindfolded and duct-taped to a chair to Knox’s right. He looked haggard, but alive.
Knox’s elation at seeing Danner nearly cost him. The man on the far side of the table pulled a knife.
The duffel was open, a stack of bound bills alongside it. One of the three men on the left had his hands in the duffel. Knox took him out first, while hip-checking the table and slamming its edge into the man with the knife. He flopped over.
Knox chopped at this man’s hand, dislodging the knife, while fighting through the next man-a wiry guy who took a punch poorly. But the man possessed sharp, exact movements, and was fast. He landed a blow in Knox’s side-his wound-and Knox’s knees went out from under him.
The one who’d had the knife stood up, now weaponless-it was two-to-one against Knox. Three-to-one, as the man in the chair leaped to his feet.
Knox returned to standing using his back to overturn the table onto the one coming out of the chair. The duffel fell. The cash spilled. He throat-punched the wiry man, causing the man to blanch and grab for his own throat. Knox defended a blow coming from the knife man, countered, and then blocked again.
This man was the most practiced fighter. Knox defended well and managed to make the man take a step back, establishing Knox as the dominant. His opponent kicked for Knox’s right knee and might have broken it had the table not moved, putting a table leg between them. The table leg broke, not Knox’s.
The remaining blows came fast. Knox drove the man back one final step and took him down with a left to the kidney and a right to the heart.
A man jumped onto his back. Knox caught the flash of the fallen knife. He blocked the attempted blow, elbowed the man off of him and turned to finish him.
The man lying on the floor, cowering-the man who’d been sitting in the chair watching the money being counted-was Lu Hao.
26
4:39 P.M.
HONGKOU DISTRICT
SHANGHAI
Knox towered over Lu Hao, his foot raised and ready to break the man’s rib cage, sternum and all. The mix of surprise and anger was toxic. Lu Hao, hostage and kidnapper, all in one.
Lu Hao dropped the knife, threw it to the side like
a person waking from a dream. A bad dream at that.
“You?” Knox said. “You piece of shit.”
“I must explain!” Lu Hao said, his voice quavering as he pushed away from Knox.
“Damned right. And you will.”
Knox surveyed the damage he’d done. Took in Danner.
“You okay over there?”
The gagged Danner nodded slightly.
Knox took up the knife. Kept it where Lu Hao could see its tip twisting toward his eyes. Used shoelaces to tie hands behind the backs of the three men who were on the floor. Stuck banded bunches of hundred-dollar bills in their mouths as gags. Instructed Lu Hao onto his stomach and patted the man down.
Found two mobile phones on the man and pocketed them. Worked his way carefully over to Danner and cut him loose, never taking his eyes off Lu Hao. Handed Danner the knife and then took out his own so they were both armed.
Danner tried to stand and fell over.
Knox reached an ice cooler where some chips and cold pizza had to be moved to open it. He handed Danner bottled water and a red Powerade.
“Seriously,” Knox said. “You okay?”
“Go easy on him,” Danner said, meaning Lu. “He’s an asshole, but he treated me good. Wait until you hear his story. The guy’s fucked six ways to Sunday.”
Knox noticed the bloody bandage on Danner’s hand.
“Seven,” he said, not taking his eyes off the man.
“It’s complicated,” Danner said.
“I’ve been getting a lot of that. You sound like a Stockholm Syndrome victim to me, Danny. You’re free now. We’re out of here.”
“The three of us,” Danner said.
“Yeah, I suppose. But only because I owe someone…”
“They fed me. They kept me bound but moved me. It could have been a lot worse. I’m telling you: it’s better than it looks.”
“They cut your finger off. He would have killed you.”
“No…no!” cried Lu Hao. “Never!”
“Shut it!” Knox said, lunging for the man. Lu Hao scooted backward, eyes wide in terror.
Knox felt like those first few moments in a fun house when the lights are dim and mirrors distort your own image. Danny defending Lu; Lu Hao not a hostage; all the money spread around the floor. “Shit,” he said, lit by adrenaline and wanting to destroy Lu Hao. He kicked the overturned table. It skidded across the floor and slammed into one of the downed men, who groaned.
Danner had cut the duct tape and was peeling it from his wrists.
“Just do me a favor,” Danner said, “and wait to kill him. It’s not like I forgive him or anything.”
Knox breathed loudly. “That’s better.” He looked back at Danner and allowed the shadow of a smile.
“If you want to kill him after you’ve heard his story,” Danner said, “I’m first in line. This is not coming down on you. Not after all you’ve done.”
“I think you’d better shut up, too,” Knox said, dismissing Danner suddenly with a heated glance. It hadn’t been 44 that Danner had scratched into the arm of the first chair he’d occupied; it had been initials: LH.
His brain was set to a high boil. He couldn’t make sense of things. The fatigue. The wound. The risks. Lu Hao had kidnapped himself. Knox still wanted to pulverize him, punish him. He thought of Grace. He wondered what came next, knowing the answer: Dulwich. He couldn’t leave Dulwich behind.
“Repack that bag,” Knox said. “The money comes with us.”
27
5:07 P.M.
HUANGPU DISTRICT
To the right of the number 3 entrance of the Nanjing Road East Metro station was an unmarked, oversized black metal door pasted with stickers for music albums, American guitar and amplifier manufacturers, and posters for local rock bands, a door easily overlooked.
Grace knocked and the door was opened by a bald, middle-aged man with a crooked but flat nose and clear eyes. From behind him came the muted but grating strains of heavy-metal rock and roll being played grossly out of tune. The man recognized her from earlier when she and Knox had rented the underground practice room. He swung open the heavy door, admitting her to a landing and a set of dimly lit metal stairs.
She was sixty feet underground by the time she reached a long concrete corridor, passing through a pair of blast doors hung on heavy hinges. An overhead tube light flickered with each pulse of the music, not one band, but two or three.
This was but one of the dozens of such bomb shelters built under Mao to house city residents and his army in fear of a Soviet missile strike. The memory of the Japanese occupation and slaughter had never left the Chinese consciousness and never would. Some of the bunkers were now open as mini-museums around the city. Others, like this, had been taken over by squatters and were open for commerce-rehearsal space for wannabe rock stars.
She reached bunker number 4 and opened another heavy metal door-appropriate to the music thumping down the hallway. She moved inside and shut it behind herself.
The room smelled foully of sweat, cigarettes and stale hefan. Eggshell foam rubber was glued to the gray concrete walls. Carpet samples covered the floor. Electric conduit and outlets had been crudely retrofitted. Two dim compact fluorescent lightbulbs hung from the ceiling.
It had come to this, she thought: hiding out in a hole dug underground like some kind of animal. Reduced to lie and bribe one’s way into a small, dismal room, all because of another’s lying and bribing. Evil begets evil. She felt a shudder of release swell within her-grief, sorrow, the aftershock of the adrenaline that had built up during the ransom run; her failure of having moved around the city with nothing but newspaper inside the duffel. How would that affect Knox and his efforts at extraction?
Wet and shivering, she glanced over at the closed door, wondering when Knox might arrive, or if, by losing track of the money, she’d compromised their mission.
5:26 P.M.
Knox delivered Lu Hao and Danner to the subterranean music rooms, arranging for Grace to care for Danner and keep a close eye on the turncoat, Lu Hao.
Few words passed between him and Grace. The contrition with which she’d met him at the bunker door told him she knew Lu Hao’s story-a realization that sucked Knox’s lungs dry. He couldn’t make sense of her expression, couldn’t reason his way to how she might possibly know; but she didn’t so much as flinch at the sight of Lu’s hands bound, and she treated him like a wet dog as she dragged him inside.
“Later,” Knox said, patting the duffel bag containing one hundred thousand dollars.
“Where are you going?” she called out.
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” he returned.
Knox arrived at the Muslim quarter dressed in the pale blue jumpsuit worn by city sweepers and trash collectors. He carried a Nike duffel bag. His face was covered with the ubiquitous surgical mask worn against smog. Along with the brim of a ball cap pulled down low, he hid his race as best as possible.
The duffel was somewhat out of place on a street sweeper. But with the start of the National Day holiday, no one paid attention to anyone else: it was every man for himself.
He splashed through the rain-flooded lane, the full force of the approaching typhoon yet to arrive, moving toward the Mongolian’s small apartment.
He was less concerned with the Mongolian, and far more with the police or whoever Kozlowski had likely already sold him out to, for he knew he’d been thrown under the bus. He’d traded Kozlowski the Mongolian’s address for a chance to leave the country-and had filled Danner in on the details of the contact in case he didn’t make it back to the bomb shelter. But the final piece of the frame was worth the risk. If the kidnapping and ransom collection fell onto the Mongolian, neither he nor Grace-nor Lu Hao!-would be accused of involvement. Furthermore, Kozlowski seemed the only one powerful enough to get Dulwich out of the country in one piece.
He moved down the narrow lane quickly now, feeling eyes boring into his back.
Knox broke off the
tip of the switchblade, jimmying the Mongolian’s lock and getting the door open, but was inside without too much telltale damage to the jamb. He relocked it behind himself, and made quick work of opening the wall panel that hid the video camera and Chinese currency he’d seen here before. He removed the disk from the video camera-evidence that might come in handy-and pocketed four 10,000-yuan packs of currency, enough cash to buy favor. The space was too small to accept the full duffel, leaving Knox no choice but to take the time to unpack the dollars and stack them into the available space in an orderly fashion. When completed, it looked as if the wall was insulated with hundred-dollar bills. He folded and stuffed the empty duffel into the remaining space inside. Neat and tidy.
He was tightening the panel’s last screw when he heard the splash of footfalls in the alley. They came to a stop by the door to the room.
Knox grabbed a pair of socks and rubbed out his wet tracks that led to the wall panel. No matter what, the Mongolian must not discover the cash ahead of the police. The lock rattled. Knox slid open a dresser drawer and messed up the contents to give the impression he’d been rummaging.
The door swung open. Rain blew in from behind the Mongolian. The man withdrew a blade.
Knox wrapped his left hand in a T-shirt from the drawer.
“Do you know why I’m here?” Knox asked in Mandarin.
“I think you wish to negotiate. But you have nothing I want. Except your life, of course. I want to end that. Badly,” the Mongolian answered.
“I have Lu Hao and his accounts,” Knox said, dropping it like a bombshell.
“I think otherwise.”
“I can make a call.”
“Why buy what I can take?” the man said.
“Because you don’t know where he is,” Knox answered.
“Oh, but I will in a matter of minutes. That, or you will be dead. Either way it is satisfactory to me. You have been a pain in the ass, eBpon. I will be glad to be rid of you, if that is your choice.”
The Risk Agent Page 25
