The Risk Agent (13 page)

Knox had called to nudge Kozlowski once again about making a connection to the police motorcycle impound, while dropping another leaden hint that he needed the contents of Danner’s laptop.

So they waited, the one thing Grace was not particularly good at.

She was sipping a coffee at a bakery/café, when her phone rang—not the iPhone, but her private mobile. She reached for it tentatively, fearing another battle with her mother.

“Ms. Chu? Hello.” A woman, definitely Chinese. She spoke English. “I am calling for Yang Construction at the request of Yang Cheng, our president and CEO.”

“Yes?” she said politely, her chest suddenly tight. Yang Cheng calling her? On this number? How did he even know about her?

“Mr. Yang invites you, and a guest if you like, to a cocktail reception at the Glamour Bar this evening. Seven P.M. Business casual.”

“I am…flattered,” Grace said. “Honored. But—”

Perhaps anticipating her hesitancy, the woman said, “Mr. Yang like to welcome your return to Shanghai.”

“My return?”

“Y…es. This is Chu Youya?”

“Yes. Exactly so.” They’d done their research.

“Can I put you down for a party of two?”

“Thank you.”

“I apologize for such short notice. Entirely my fault, I assure you.”

“No apology necessary.”

“We would be happy to send a car for you if—”

“No need.” So they wanted to know where she lived as well. “Seven. Business casual?”

“As you wish.”

“See you tonight, then, Ms.…”

“Katherine Wu. I so look forward to meeting you,” the woman said. “Should I put you down for plus-one?”

“Yes. I will bring a client with me. Thank you.”

As Grace hung up, a throat cleared behind her. She looked over her shoulder wondering how much Selena Ming, Allan Marquardt’s assistant, had overheard.

An awkward moment, as neither spoke.

“Congratulations on the new apartment,” Selena said.

“A promise is a promise. Certain arrangements were made at the time of my hiring.” Grace knew that only executives of vice president and above were provided such luxury housing. She wondered how this might sit with the other Chinese employees. “Join me?” Grace motioned to an empty chair.

“I could not.”

“Please.”

Selena sat. “It is nice? The apartment?”

“Very nice.” It took Grace a moment to catch on. “Would you like to see it sometime?”

“Oh, please, I do not wish to trouble you.”

“No trouble. In fact, Mr. Marquardt has meant to deliver the EOY—the end-of-year—financials to me. Perhaps you would be so kind as to bring them along?”

“I can check with Mr. Marquardt. But if he clears it, most certainly.”

“Good! Thank you very much.” Grace had hoped to avoid that hurdle, but by putting the request to a third party, it pressured Marquardt to either deliver the accounts or explain to Brian Primer of Rutherford Risk why he would not.

The girl’s face brightened. “Yes. And thank you,” she said. Selena walked off, practically floating.

Grace reread her note about the cocktail party. She needed to reach Knox. Then, a new dress.

10:25 A.M.

HUANGPU DISTRICT

The air was guncotton gray, visibility less than five blocks. Commuters and pedestrians wore surgical masks against the smog.

Kozlowski waited at the entrance to the police impound, a door marked with a small plaque.

“If this works,” Kozlowski said, “I get my pick of the litter. But at your cost. No gifting.”

“Agreed.”

“As to your not so subtle requests. Let me drive home this point: tread lightly, friend.”

“An Inspector Shen shook down Berthold Group’s Allan Marquardt about a film crew and a missing cameraman,” Knox said, relaying what Dulwich had told him in their daily wrap-up conversation the night before. He knew quid pro quo was his best shot at winning favors—possibly Danner’s laptop, if Kozlowski had confiscated it, which Knox suspected.

Kozlowski did not break his cool, did not allow the slightest indication of any kind of knowledge to cross his face. It was new territory for their friendship.

Kozlowski was focused on Knox’s barked knuckles. He could easily have been informed of a Westerner having assaulted a man in an apartment house stairwell, or having dumped a motorcycle in a back lane of a lilong.

Knox said, “Given the restrictions our government faces concerning investigation inside China…If you ever needed an errand boy…”

“Shut up,” Kozlowski said softly. He took Knox firmly by the arm. “I ran that registration card as you asked. It’s legit. Issued in Beijing.”

Knox had been convinced the card would turn out to be a forgery. “Legit?” he said.

“Correct. So he’s either a Chinese, or he’s very well connected,” Kozlowski said. “As in: don’t go there.”

“I’m already there,” Knox said. “Who could get a legit registration card made for his hired muscle?”

“I don’t even want to think about that,” Kozlowski said.

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.” Kozlowski opened the precinct’s door for Knox and they entered. Kozlowski showed the receptionist his U.S. Consulate identification tag. She clearly recognized the name. He showed them into the back where a chisel-faced man in his forties with greasy hands welcomed them. Superintendent First Class Gao.

Following some small talk, all in Mandarin, Kozlowski presented Knox’s wish to be included in any auctions.

“Prior to auction,” the superintendent said, “station officers get first pick of litter.”

Knox recognized an opening. He said, “How many officers might there be in the office?”

“Fifteen, including myself. We each may advance bid on one vehicle per auction.”

“Perhaps one or two might be willing to serve as my proxy?” Knox said.

“I would be most pleased to present your card by way of introduction.” Gao was no stranger to exploiting loopholes. By working with Knox, he could pad his officers’, and his own, pockets; establish valuable guanxi with Kozlowski; and reduce his inventory.

They accepted the offer to tour the back lot, a mud yard surrounded by a rusted cyclone fence. Hundreds of motorcycles, motor scooters and electric bikes were chained together through their front wheels in ungainly lines. Some looked salvageable; a few looked interesting. All were rain-scabbed and filthy.

It took Knox less than a minute to spot a beautifully restored CJ750 and sidecar that matched Grace’s description of what she’d seen in Lu Hao’s apartment. Five bikes farther down the line, he identified a dark green Honda 220 street bike, reminding him of the owner’s manual for a 220 in Danner’s desk drawer.

“Beautiful,” he said in Mandarin, approaching the 750. He rattled off the bike’s specifications and caught Kozlowski staring at him, not the bike.

“A recent addition,” the superintendent said. “This one will not last. Will be reclaimed for certain.”

“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.