The Risk Agent (24 page)

The tiny storage room’s shelves were crowded with hand towels, hair product, a rice cooker, a cutting board and a plastic pail of green vegetables. Near the far wall, half a wooden door on rusting file cabinets served as a desk. At the desk, his back to Knox, sat a twenty-something Chinese boy with a lousy haircut. If he stabbed the laptop’s keys any harder he was going to break it.

He spun to face Knox. A poor attempt at facial hair. He was chewing purple gum. He spoke English. “Ready when you are, professor.”

“Tom,” Knox said, introducing himself.

“Randy.”

As if.

Amy came through wearing a towel on her shoulders and her hair spiked punk rock by shampoo.

“You two make introductions?” she said.

“Yes,” Knox said.

Grace entered next, crowding the space. Her eyes tightened, dancing between Amy and Knox.

“Let’s have a look,” Randy said. It sounded rehearsed. The kind of guy to practice lines in front of a mirror.

Knox provided him the digital frame. Amy had made all the arrangements; she carried the anxious concern of a worried hostess.

Grace seemed more interested in Amy than the laptop. “It is crowded here. We will give you room.”

Knox stayed. He wasn’t leaving a stranger in possession of the frame and its possible contents. Randy connected the frame to the laptop by wire, and began typing. Ten minutes passed, feeling like thirty.

“Memory is partitioned,” he said. “One side encrypted. You care about frame?”

“Only its contents,” Knox said.

Randy pried the frame open with a screwdriver, startling Knox.

He spoke as he continued disassembling the device. “Common mistake is try to break encryption.” He exposed a small circuit board. Using a magnifying loupe, he studied the board as his hand blindly searched the desktop for the screwdriver.

“But that’s what we want,” Knox said. “We want the data from the encrypted partition.”

“I understand,” Randy said. “Breaking such code can take days. Weeks.”

“We don’t have days or weeks.”

“No. But we have this,” he said, holding up the screwdriver, his attention still trained onto the loupe and the circuit board.

“The CMOS battery is soldered,” he said.

He sat up and addressed Knox.

“Just like laptop, the board uses small watch battery to hold password. Dead battery, no password. Sometimes battery is soldered to keep it from separating. That is case here. Screwdriver too big. Need paperclip.”

“How about a bobby pin?”

The man looked at him, confused. “Bobby?”

“Hair clip? We’re in the right place for hair clips.”

“Excellent!”

Minutes later, Randy had used a metal bobby pin to short the board and drain the small battery’s charge. The full directory of the partitioned side of the frame’s memory now appeared on his connected laptop.

The women rejoined Knox.

“Contents?” Knox asked.

“A dot-xls file. Microsoft Excel. Also some small audio files. Photos. I will download for you.” He handed Knox a thumb drive.

“Give us a minute please,” Knox said, eyeing Amy and indicating for Randy to leave the room.

“The upper back massage is most pleasant,” Amy said, escorting Randy out of the small room. “Only takes ten minutes. You will try now.”

Grace opened the spreadsheet. Five minutes passed, Knox standing behind her, impatient. Anxious. The spreadsheet notes were all in Chinese characters. He could read some, but not all of them.

When she spoke, she spoke English.

“It is everything,” she said. “Lu Hao used full names. Phone numbers. He recorded all payments. Very much money, John. More than is accounted for by The Berthold Group of course. Over past six months, nine million yuan. Over a million, U.S.

“With this kind of inside information,” she continued, “any construction company would be ensured of success. On the other hand, if the government got hold of this list, they would jail every one of them. The inherent value of this is astronomical.”

“How many contacts? How many getting payments?”

“The same. No new locations.”

“The Mongolians?”

“No sign of the most recent payments.”

Knox mulled this over. “Seriously?”

She nodded. “The four hundred thousand is unaccounted for.”

“Why so much detail? How stupid could he be?”

“Lu Hao is not stupid. Ambitious? Overconfident? Yes. But not stupid. It is doubtful keeping records was his idea,” she said. “Someone must have required it.”

“But then why’s it incomplete?”

She shrugged.

Knox attempted to clarify. “You’re saying Berthold wanted this accounting.”

“It is far too much money to entrust without some form of accountability. A person could embezzle a small fortune.”

“Do you think that’s what happened? Lu Hao put his finger in the pie?” That would explain kidnapping and holding the man.

“Not Lu Hao,” she said.

“Who would he have reported to? Marquardt?”

“Certainly not! This would put him at a direct risk of prosecution. Someone Marquardt trusts. Preston Song, I think, maybe. My immediate
boss, Gail Bunchkin, is also possible. But I think Song. His being Chinese helps the company if it is investigated—keeps the charges off a foreign executive, which would look very bad. It is most likely Marquardt would have received only a verbal report on anything to do with Lu Hao’s activities.”

“Okay,” he said, compartmentalizing. “So as soon as we turn this over, the bribes will likely begin again.”

“Without a doubt. This will allow the Xuan Tower project to get back on schedule.”

Sensing a change in her, he said, “What is it, Grace?”

“As we have discussed: if The Berthold Group is working against us, then the moment they have Lu Hao’s accounts they no longer need Lu Hao. With all the attention being paid to him, it might be more convenient if he disappeared. The police will want to speak to Lu Hao. Maybe others in the government.”

“Yes,” Knox said. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. And now, with Sarge out of the equation, maybe there’s no ransom money anyway.”

“I remind you of Marquardt’s trip to Chongming Island. Again, I suggest this trip had nothing to do with the Xuan Tower, yet possibly everything to do with Lu Hao’s disappearance.”

“Explain.”

“My mother claims Lu Hao was on Chongming Island on the sixteenth for a four-day fete. The seventeenth he left me the voice mail.”

“You’re beating yourself up over that call.”

“He was on Chongming Island on the seventeenth! The bribes,” she said, pointing to the laptop, “are for favors. Inspectors. Suppliers. There is a banker on here.”

Knox nodded. He knew the participants—up close and personal—from his earlier visits.

“I suggest,” she said, “the two payments of two hundred thousand U.S. had something to do with Chongming Island. My home. Lu Hao’s home. I believe the payments were made through an intermediary—the Mongolians. Lu Hao’s phone call to me…he was frantic. Maybe he got
stupid and pushed too hard. Got himself into trouble. My point is that he had seen something. My mother confirmed he was on Chongming Island the day he phoned me, only days behind Mr. Marquardt’s trip.”

Knox liked this as a possible motive for the man’s kidnapping, and said so. “That has teeth.”

“I have the name of the driver Marquardt hired on Chongming Island,” she said. “Marquardt’s credit card statement,” she supplied. “We can follow his trail. We need to determine the purpose of this trip of his. Perhaps it leads to Lu Hao and Mr. Danner.”

“It’s beyond our purview,” he cautioned.

“You talk about the power this accounting holds,” she said. “And of course, you are right.” This was her first such concession—that possession of the information, more than even the information itself, gave them leverage with which to negotiate. “But knowledge of whatever secret exists, whatever secret they wanted hidden, would give us far more understanding and possible leverage.”

“Marquardt is not the enemy. He’s who hired us. Did he play it close to the vest? Of course! But we can use this trip of his without knowing the exact details. It’s called ‘finesse.’”

“Once I deliver the accounts,” she said, “there may be no Lu Hao. No Danner. Finesse that! What if Marquardt’s—Berthold Group’s—only interest in working through Rutherford Risk is to find out how much, if any, of this malfeasance can be discovered by third-party investigators?”

Knox had already considered this same idea—that he and Grace were being used as proxy investigators. Expendable investigators.

“Sarge wouldn’t do that to me,” he said. “Marquardt wouldn’t do that to Rutherford Risk. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Please, John. We must find out how Marquardt’s visit to Chongming Island fits into this. I believe this is the key to the kidnapping.”

“No time,” he said. “The accounts give us all the leverage we need. A bird in the hand. We go with what we have. We’re going to dangle the accounts. I promise that neither Lu Hao nor Danner will suffer for it.”

“To suffer, one must be alive,” she reminded.

“We need Randy to make two copies,” he said. “Encrypted copies on thumb drives. You will see to that. When he’s finished, Amy and Randy will leave separately, Randy by the back, Amy out front. We must make it abundantly clear to them that they need to leave the city immediately. No returning to work or their apartments. They must go, now.”

“The Mongolian,” she said. She, too, had spotted the surveillance.

“Yes. I’ll handle him. But that’s why they must leave now.”

“Understood.”

Five minutes later, with everyone in place and briefed, Knox left by the back door, taking the sublane behind the shop to a dead end where he climbed a wall and up into a tangle of bamboo scaffolding. He moved through a work crew repairing a tile roof to where he had a view of the street, including the Mongolian, who hadn’t moved from his post. Knox searched the street carefully for others, eventually spotting a second Mongolian at some distance.

The closest Mongolian carried a policeman’s arrogance, almost daring his mark not to spot him. The intimidation factor. Had the Mongolian relocated over the course of the past hour, Knox might have missed him. So why make Knox’s job so easy? What could the man hope to win?

Knox texted Amy, and a minute later she left the salon’s front door, walking confidently. Neither Mongolian moved.

Knox sent a second text and Grace left, screening herself with an umbrella. Surprising him, she stood at the curb attempting to hail a taxi, scarce because of the light rain. They had agreed to avoid taxis following the Dulwich setup. But, as it turned out, the ruse was simply to give the Mongolian a good long look at her, as she turned and hurried toward a bus stop. The Mongolian slipped onto his motorcycle.

Knox sent a third and final text, this time to Randy’s mobile:

go

6:45 P.M.

For Melschoi, staying with a bus was child’s play. The simplicity of the exercise lulled him into complacency—it was like trying to spot an aircraft carrier amid the barges on the Yangtze River.

The flow of bikes and scooters maintained its usual controlled chaos. Melschoi’s attention remained divided between the bus and his rearview mirror.

When a helmeted rider closed from behind him, Melschoi slowed, testing. Had this man been watching the hair salon as well?

The bus gained, pulling away in the flow of vehicles to his left. The helmet behind him kept coming—it did not slow with him as a surveillant would. Melschoi jockeyed for position in order to stay with the bus, knowing the move would also give him a better view of the approaching helmet. He checked his outside mirror: nothing. The rider must have turned or pulled over.

He happened to glance over to his inside mirror. Too late. The helmeted rider had jumped the sidewalk to pass the slow mass of bikes. The rider reentered the bike lane now only feet from Melschoi, who instinctively swerved right toward the curb, knocking some bikes out of his way. The resulting crash worked against him—he gave the scooter a virtually empty space to navigate. Impressively, the scooter rider leaned heavily to his right and came alongside of Melschoi, avoiding any collision. But Melschoi had the advantage: a slight nudge from him and the scooter would be thrown into the traffic.

Only then did he catch sight of the construction barricade blocking the bike lane. The rider had distracted him, and had boxed him in. The bike lane was narrowing and being forced into the traffic.

That split-second of realization cost him. The rider raised his leg like a dog pissing on a hydrant and kicked out.

Melschoi attempted to block the effort, but lost control as his front wheel tangled with a bike. He went down hard, wheels forward. His front rim caught the curb, catapulting him and the bike airborne. The last thing he saw was a plywood barricade.

7:35 P.M.

HONGQIAO DISTRICT

SHANGHAI

Amy Xue climbed the concrete back stairs of the International Pearl City market, navigating past the litter abandoned by lunchtime employees. Knox be damned! There was no way she could leave the city without some money. She cursed the trouble Knox brought her, though did not dismiss his warning entirely: she’d entered through the back of the mall. Her jewelry store was one of only two that had stair access.

She surprised Li-Shu and Mih-Ho, two of her best stringers, at work knotting custom-designed necklaces. Unaccustomed to their boss using the back stairway, they sat up. Amy greeted them and headed directly to the safe.

Her back to them, Amy said, “Has anyone asked after me?”

Mih-Ho answered, “Some regular customers, of course.”

“Strangers?”

“No.”

“If they should, you have not seen me. Understand?” The safe opened. She slipped off a necklace and used the two keys hanging from it to open an inner door.

“Yes,” both girls answered.

“You will text me immediately if you see anyone suspicious or asking after me. Is that clear?”

“Yes. Certainly,” Mih-Ho answered for them both. “Is everything okay?”

“Does it look like everything is okay? I am not kidding around.”