“Yes!”
“Very well. You follow me, if you please,” she said, still hoisting her sign.
Knox gently lowered her arm and the sign. “I think it’s best if we don’t advertise.”
Rain coursing down her cheeks, she nodded and grinned. “Very well. This way, please.”
The south line of riot police stretched shoulder to shoulder from the hotel to the river. The crowd moved away from them, leaving a gap between themselves and the brewing mob. Knox steered their tour guide toward that gap, knowing the police would not rough up Westerners. He and the others slipped down the gap nearly unimpeded.
The scuffle now approached a brawl, leading to increased pressure from the line of police nearest the road. With the river as the only release point, the result was catastrophic. Those positioned at the river’s edge of the docks were pushed off. People reached for boat railings and missed. Ferry crews slapped them off. They fell into the water in droves, some caught and crushed between the concrete wharf and the bouncing ferryboat. Bubbling screams cried out, driving an already terrified mob into a frenzy.
The woman led Knox’s group to the southern edge of the wharf, where it wasn’t much better. She calmly placed them on the lee side of a steel containment railing. Chinese rammed into the dock’s final railing and tried to clamber over as they were crushed. More people slipped through the boarding gates in the railing and fell into the water, crying out for help.
The huge ferries, buffeted by gusting winds, banged against their bumpers, crushing more of the fallen.
Among those in the front line, Knox spotted two small kids, terrified and helpless against the power of the crowd. He lunged and snagged the first just before the boy went into the river. He passed him to Grace and grabbed the other-a girl, who clung to him in a vise grip. He and Grace held the children, using the railing to shield them from the crowd.
Raising her voice, their tour guide called out, “We cross deck of last ferry to reach boat! Ferry crew know me-we have arrangement-this could make difficult situation.”
Difficult? Knox was thinking. Try impossible.
“We must act quickly and rely upon crew. Do not pause, please. Must go directly to boat!”
The black water now foamed with the efforts of the fallen and drowning. The sickening sounds of people drowning filled the air, mixed with wind and the drumming of torrential rain on boat decks.
Panic infected the crowd. Violence spread down the quay. Scores more were heaved into the water.
“We go together as group!” the guide cried out, the first sound of frailty in her voice.
Knox, the child holding fast to him, glanced over into Grace’s dark eyes, the rain running down her face like tears. She implored him.
“Two of us are staying!” Knox cried out. “We’ll get these children to safety.”
Happiness flowed from Grace. For a moment it was only the two of them on the dock.
“This was not arrangement!” the guide shouted to be heard.
“It’s the new arrangement. Go! Take these two, and go!” Knox cried. “Get them medical attention as soon as possible.”
The guide looked at Knox and Grace, then out into the sea of violence and chaos. Her look said it all.
“Come with me, please!” she shouted, taking Danner by the arm. Danner, in turn, held the unresponsive Lu Hao.
Danner glanced back over his shoulder at Knox. If he spoke, Knox did not hear it.
With great difficulty, the ferry crew held back the throng with billy clubs while admitting the guide, Danner and Lu Hao to the deck. It was a horrific moment as Chinese were beaten back onto the wharf. Grace looked away. The three scrambled across the deck and were gone.
Knox edged along the rail, and Grace followed. He steered them toward the police line and, reaching it, cried out in Shanghainese to be allowed through. To his surprise, two of the policemen parted. He and Grace and the children pushed through, Knox knowing his skin color had saved them.
They placed the children into the care of the hotel staff and then headed for the upstairs room.
Grace was toweling off her hair.
“You’re a fool to have stayed,” Knox said.
“You are welcome,” she said, continuing with the towel.
“We’ll stay here for the night,” he said. “I’ll take first watch. I’ll wake you in three hours.”
Grace said, “A Chinese woman traveling during National Day holiday is no problem. But with a waiguoren? And one wanted by police!”
“Thank you,” he said, turning his back, allowing her to change out of her wet clothing.
30
9:30 P.M.
THE BUND
Just beyond the Dongmen Lu Ferry Terminal, barges plowed through the white-capped Huangpu River despite the storm. Passing between them was a four-car flatbed ferry with only one car on deck. It was tossed like a toy as it crossed from the western banks of the Bund toward the eastern banks of Pudong.
Inspector Shen Deshi had remained behind the wheel of the vehicle, but only briefly. He hadn’t wanted to be separated from the duffel bag, presently hidden beneath the back seat. But the strain of the chains binding the car to the deck as the small ferry was tossed proved too terrifying for him. He’d paid the pilot a small fortune for the ten-minute crossing, but had no desire to show him the Mongolian’s face. He led his hostage out onto the stern amid the downpour. It felt far safer out here.
For twelve years, Inspector Shen had served the Ministry of State Security while carrying a People’s Armed Police ID as cover. Twelve years of a pathetic salary, of skillfully sidestepping trouble-the protection rackets, the small-time scams and back-room payoffs that complicated a career. Twelve years of watching his fellow agents prosper around him. For the past four years, he’d been one of a very few officers trusted to pursue corruption at all levels. During that time, he had uncovered tens of millions of yuan-some of which had been offered to him as hush money. He’d never taken a fen.
Now, the decision of his career. Of a lifetime. One he made without hesitation. A hundred thousand U.S. dollars. Another hundred and forty thousand yuan the Mongol had carefully stacked into plastic bags and hidden in his wall. All counted, more than twenty years of salary. Finally, an amount that could not be passed up. He would be rich for the rest of his life, provided he came up with an exit strategy that would not arouse suspicion. He thought he knew just the man to approach about this.
But at present, he had some tidying up to do. He accepted the complications that came with such a decision. Some lives would be lost by his hand, starting with the Mongolian and the ferry pilot; evidence would be destroyed. Lies would need to be carefully crafted. Throughout his career he’d been required to beat suspects. Nothing new there. No doubt some of them had died. This wasn’t so very different.
By now the waiguoren should be in jail, or beaten at the hands of the precinct captain. He would have to follow through with that. The waiguoren would need silencing, along with his companion. Simple enough.
If other obstacles surfaced, they would be handled. Opportunity knocked. He intended to answer.
“I need for you to pay attention,” he said to the Mongolian over the roar of the rain and the steady grind of the boat engine. He unhooked a linchpin and opened the boat’s railing.
“This ferry is going to Pudong. It is up to you whether one or two of us get off.”
Melschoi glowered, searching for a way out of this. He tested his wrists and ankles; bound so tightly they were never coming off.
His only possible advantage in this impossible situation was that the cop was clearly uncomfortable on a boat. He looked about to puke.
“Where was the video shot?” Inspector Shen hollered.
“Chongming Island,” Melschoi hollered back. As a cop himself, he knew this was no time to play coy.
“Who hired you?”
“I met the man only once. No names. A pig civil servant was threatening blackmail. I took care of him.”
“A waiguoren?”
“No. Chinese. A surveyor. I killed the man. A waiguoren was spotted. He was making a video. He did not belong. Killed him, too.”
“You severed his hand?”
“I severed it all. Fucking journalists,” Melschoi said.
“Excellent!”
“I dumped him like fish chum into the river.”
Inspector Shen delighted in what he was hearing. “You are winning much favor with me. Neh? And as to what he was filming?”
“I believe you must know.”
“Then humor me,” Inspector Shen said. “What was the purpose of this laying of the asphalt?”
“A man does what he is paid to do.”
“Why kill a man over something so mundane?” Inspector Shen asked.
“I do as I am told.”
“But who orders such a thing?”
“My payments were left in the back of taxicabs, or placed into sacks with take-away food orders. It was never the same. And don’t think I haven’t tried to find out! I met the man and still do not know his name. The fruit falls not far from the tree. He is located in Beijing. This, I know. He is someone very powerful, obviously. His car carried Shanghai plates, but the car was loaned to him for certain.”
Shen Deshi licked his chops. If he could only identify the man, he could use him to leverage his own situation.
“The phone number, then.”
“The fucking eBpon-the foreigner-took my phone.”
The waiguoren would most definitely have to be found and dealt with. Shen owed the police captain another call.
“Certainly you must have memorized it.”
“My wrists and ankles. Then, once ashore, we will talk. At a distance.”
Inspector Shen grinned. “I should know better than to try to question a former policeman.” He crossed his arms to make his point. But by doing so, he lost his balance and staggered forward.
Melschoi rocked and head-butted the man’s knees.
Inspector Shen went over backward. Melschoi aimed for another head butt; he took a shoe in the face, his nose bent and bleeding.
Shen Deshi seized him by his hair and dragged him to the opening in the rail.
“No!” Melschoi screamed, kicking out.
“The phone number!” Shen Deshi thundered.
“Yours, if you free me!”
“I’ll free you forever, if you’re not forthcoming.”
Shen Deshi repeatedly kicked him in the chest and belly. Behind him, the car groaned and cried on its chains. The boat lurched side to side.
“The fucking number!” Shen Deshi roared.
Melschoi opened his mouth to answer, but the ship rocked heavily and Shen Deshi’s next kick caught Melschoi in the throat, crushing his trachea and collapsing his larynx. Melschoi sucked for wind.
The boat rose and shifted again. Shen Deshi lunged to stop him, but Melschoi slid off the wet deck and out through the open rail, swallowed by the black waters of the Huangpu.
SATURDAY
October 2
31
12:00 A.M.
THE BUND
By midnight, the brunt of the storm had passed. Riot police had contained, arrested and dispersed pieces of the mob. Knox monitored it all from the window while Grace snored gently from the bed. As the rain subsided, the streets quickly drained and recovered from the flooding. And then-only in Shanghai-the city sprang back to life as if nothing had happened. Detritus was cleared. Traffic began moving again. People appeared on the streets from all directions. Taxis were running. It was like kicking an anthill, only to see the ants swarm back to work minutes later and begin rebuilding the hill.
He never woke Grace for her shift. He let her sleep. When morning finally came, and they’d eaten and Knox had drunk multiple cups of black tea, they spoke.
“So, here we are.”
“Indeed,” she said. “I take it you have a plan.”
“The island,” he said.
She nodded.
“Your friend.”
She eyed him furtively. “I know that I suggested this, but I would rather not. My preference is to start with Marquardt’s hired driver or the hotel where he and Song stayed.”
“You still love him,” he said.
“Westerners think in terms of love beginning and ending. It is not so for the Chinese.”
“The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Whatever the driver can tell us is good. You’ll call him and arrange a time to meet. But the brother will know more than anyone. I know about brothers. Time is critical. Sarge will be jailed, if he hasn’t been already.”
“I do not believe Mr. Primer will allow him to be in such trouble,” she said.
“Even his reach only extends so far.”
She shook her head in disbelief.
“A single day in a Chinese jail is one too many,” he said.
“You will have no disagreement from me.”
“The brother, then. But call the driver first and arrange for him to drive us.”
Again, that put-upon look of hers.
“Please,” he said.
“I believe that is the first time I have heard you use this word,” she said.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
Knox hot-wired a Toyota in the Indigo’s parking garage. He wore a pair of sunglasses to hide his eyes and a headband that covered his ears, and makeup applied by Grace that widened his cheekbones and narrowed his chin-all in hopes of avoiding the prying eyes of computerized face recognition.
Grace drove, Knox in the back seat, so only a Chinese face could be seen through the windshield.
The city had already emptied out by half. Traffic was lighter than usual. They drove the tunnel to Pudong, headed for the ring road and eventually the Hushan Expressway toward Chongming Island.
The wind had died down. The rain continued at a drizzle; dark clouds threatened. The farm roads of Chongming Island were debris-strewn and partially flooded. Residents milled about, looking dazed.
They reached the town of Chongming, for which the island was named, thirty minutes later. Grace pulled the Toyota into a semicircular driveway of a five-story apartment building and parked.
She reached for the door handle.
“Be careful.”
She paused to look back at him. He saw sadness bordering on grief. She said, “Do not leave the car, John. You will stand out in this city. This is not Shanghai.”
“So Marquardt would have stood out here as well,” he said, knowing she exaggerated. Hotels and private car companies didn’t exist for the pleasure of the locals. Much of the island was soon to be urbanized. “I can be less memorable than you might think.”
“There are closed-circuit cameras here as well,” she reminded.
She left the car. Knox looked around at the plain buildings that were a holdover of the Mao era.
The gray skies. The litter.
He wanted outside.
The apartment building wasn’t much to look at, its location nothing special. Chongming was a backwater island that, no matter what amount of funds the government injected into its economy, would never be much more than an outpost of rice paddies and pig farms.
Grace knew all this, had considered it important once, but what she would have given, what she would have changed, in order to possess a key to the door she now faced.
Her heart beating wildly, she raised her hand to knock, only to lower her arm to her side. This was no ordinary door. It opened to her past. She wanted it to open to her future. She’d imagined and dreamed of this moment for six years. Now, it suddenly felt too soon.
The door’s fisheye security lens winked. He’d heard her-or sensed her. Her heart fluttered. She forced a smile for appearance’s sake, and then knocked lightly, wondering what was taking him so long. Hoping the lump in his throat was as big as hers.
The door opened slowly and there he stood before her. Imperiously. Formally. Capable of English or Shanghainese
, they would speak their Chongming dialect.
“Jian,” she said. He’d aged hardly at all, though he had always looked older than he was. He wore his hair shorter now, more in keeping with his job as a civil servant. His hands appeared smoother, his nails immaculate. The same quiet confidence showed in his eyes. She felt slightly faint.
“Youya.”
“It warms my heart to see you.”
“You are as lovely as ever.” He sounded more formal than sincere. She read meaning into his every gesture, his every look. He paused and said, “You will please come in?”
She entered, removing her shoes and placing her purse alongside them.
He showed her into a modest living room. “Tea?”
“It would be my pleasure to prepare it,” she said sincerely.
“I will be but a minute.”
His rebuff hit her hard. He wanted no such intimacy. Five minutes passed as he worked in the kitchen, out of sight. She took in the flat-panel television and DVD player; the elliptical workout machine; a rack of free weights. The rain-stained windows looked out on a sea-gray sky.
“That was some storm,” she called out loudly.
“We lost power for most of the night. It has only come back on in the past hour.”
She noted the apartment showed no sign of a woman’s touch. Perhaps the woman she’d seen him with in Lu Hao’s digital frame had been but a fling. On the other hand, if he had married, her mother never would have told her, fearing she might do something drastic. She spotted photographs of his family. Her breath caught, spotting her own image among them. She remembered the exact day at the market together, remembered his smile. She saw no other woman among the photos and took this as a very good sign.
“This is oolong,” he said, placing the tea tray down before her.
“This is uncomfortable,” she said.
He laughed.
“For you as well?” she inquired.
He tried to suppress his smile, and she wondered why. “Yes, I suppose.”
“You never answered my letters,” she blurted out. She had a million things to say, but hated herself for breaking the formality.
The Risk Agent Page 28
