The Risk Agent (29 page)

As she dressed—no underwear, no bra—she found a travel card in the pocket of the workout pants. They had her in an orange tank top. She juggled to get into it while keeping the phone in place. The bright color
would make her easy to track in the suffocating crowds she was certain to encounter in the Metro. A pair of ill-fitting rubber sandals would make it difficult for her to run.

“Keep the phone close. Now you go to the Metro.”

She left the boutique, weakened somewhat by the embarrassment of disrobing, but regained her strength quickly. She was more determined than ever to defeat these people and yet fully aware she would need Knox for that.

3:15 P.M.

Melschoi’s man, whose Mongolian nickname was Rabbit for the six children he’d sired, spotted the electronics store on Nanjing Road and immediately recognized its significance.

“An electronics store,” he told Melschoi over their phones.

“What of it?”

“What better place to send proof of the hostages’ condition? There are dozens of computer and television screens in the window. You see?”

Melschoi didn’t enjoy being beaten to the punch. “Yes. It does seem a strong candidate. Okay. You stay with that.”

“And if I see her?”

“Follow her. What else, you fool? But whatever you do, watch out for the eBpon. He’s nothing but trouble.”

3:20 P.M.

From the window of a second-floor Cantonese restaurant, Knox watched Grace through a pair of ten-dollar binoculars as she emerged from the Robert De Niro boutique. She raised her arm and scratched her head—their signal that she still had the money, a surprise given the switch of duffel bags. She now carried a black duffel, a knock-off, given that the Nike Swoosh was absurdly oversized and its tail smudged, making it look
like a plucked eyebrow. He hurried downstairs and battled the tsunami of human flesh cramming the sidewalks in order to stay ahead of her, putting himself between her and the Metro station entrance. Knox wore blue jeans, wrap-around sunglasses and running shoes—looking like any other waiguoren.

They were a few minutes into the play and he and Grace had already been outsmarted—an end-around that had her in new clothes and carrying a new duffel. Her iPhone would be turned off. Her private phone didn’t answer. If he lost sight of her, he lost her; and yet his back was to her.

Aware that the kidnappers, the Mongolians and possibly the Chinese police might have her under surveillance, Knox maintained his lead, a fifty-yard bumper, and entered the station first.

He traveled through a crowded corridor, loud and smelling of human sweat. He held his phone in his right hand, watching its reception bars reduce the deeper he penetrated. He needed the message from Randy—needed to know if the kid had managed to trap and trace any data flow involving the electronics shop at the time of Grace’s standing at its window.

Knox had no intention of disrupting the drop, but he intended to protect Grace through the process or for as long as possible, and to make any observations he could.

He queued up in the rapidly moving security line. All purses, totes and bags were placed onto an X-ray conveyor. The process involved nearly everyone, given it was the start of the National holiday, and the security was lax. The magnetometer sounded its warning beep with each person, yet no one was stopped. The X-ray conveyor ran constantly—its operator giving only a passing attempt to pretend he was studying the monitor.

Knox funneled into a single file with the others and, with nothing to X-ray, slipped through the magnetometer, causing it to sound. He carried three phones and a Mongolian switchblade in Dulwich’s gray jacket. If they patted him down it was going to get ugly. No one blinked.

He continued toward the turnstiles, waited in line and swiped his
travel card. He was in. He checked his phone which now read in Chinese: NO SERVICE. No Randy. He couldn’t stay down in the bowels of Shanghai for long.

He waited and watched the security check.

Finally, an orange tank top appeared.

Grace arrived at the longer security line, awaiting the conveyor, a hundred thousand dollars strapped over her shoulder.

3:40 P.M.

Rabbit followed the woman to the Metro station entrance, allowing her to descend the stairs a good distance before following. He would try to time it so that he passed through the turnstiles ahead of her. People rarely looked in front of them for tails—they were always craning their heads to look back.

20

3:43 P.M.

LUWAN DISTRICT

SHANGHAI

The KFC franchise on Huaihai Middle Road was well over its legal seating limit by the time Steve Kozlowski pushed his way inside.

Inspector Shen stood at a counter along the wall, eschewing the window area. He had shoulders as wide as a vending machine.

Kozlowski abandoned the idea of waiting in any of the lines, all thirty people long, simply for the sake of appearances. He cut through the crowd, making directly for the man. He was not easily intimidated. He’d spent his career in remote outposts of the world managing others and learning to put the fear of God into them. But the presence of Inspector Shen raised his hackles. The People’s Armed Police was a department unto itself, reporting to no one. Its officers wielded too much power, often worked unsupervised and were known to hide their deeds. The closer he got to the man, the more he felt his intensity.

They acknowledged each other with a nod. The din in the place covered their low voices.

Kozlowski said, “The video camera’s been found.”

Shen looked him in the eye. Kozlowski saw nothing in there, like squinting into an empty steel pipe.

“I have an address, but am not free to turn it over for at least a few more hours. I wanted to give you time to pull your men together.”

“No men,” Inspector Shen said. “Only me.”

Kozlowski had never heard of People’s Armed Police officers working solo. It caused him to wonder if he weren’t speaking to an MSS agent—Ministry of State Security, the Chinese equivalent of the CIA.

“First the hand, now the camera—found in bad condition, by the way,” Kozlowski said. “It does not bode well for the camera’s operator. We would like to find him as much as you would.”

“For different reasons,” Shen said. “I will expect your cooperation in this matter.”

Both men knew that was unlikely. Volunteering the camera was as close as Kozlowski would go. Pursuing such evidence in the name of the U.S. government was impossible without serious repercussions. As much as he might have wanted to, his hands were tied by embassy protocol.

“I will pass along location the moment I can. If he’s found dead, I request a thorough investigation that includes my people.”

“As agreed previously. Yes.”

It had long since occurred to Kozlowski that Shen had killed the man himself and was in the process of unofficially cleaning up his own evidence. Such a scenario prevented Kozlowski from getting too knowledgeable about the case without the risk of his scooter being hit by an army truck.

“How certain are you the camera is his?”

“I have not seen it,” Kozlowski clarified. “However, from what I’ve been told, it could be no other.”

Shen shot the man a look. “He has violated the terms of his visa,” the man said. His use of present tense made it sound as if a man with no hand and no camera might still be alive. If the cameraman was already
in custody and the Chinese were seeking evidence to bring charges, then Kozlowski was playing directly into their hands. The smell of the deep-fat fryers was getting to his stomach. He coughed up some bile. His fucking stomach had been a wreck since a bout with dysentery four months earlier. Jokes about bowel movements were more common in the consulate than blonde jokes.

“Only lies put us in this situation,” Shen said.

“Lies and secrets,” Kozlowski said. They could agree on something.

“You will write down the location for me,” he said. “Please.”

“When I have confirmation,” Kozlowski vamped.

“Now, please. I will not act until I receive your call. My word to you on this.”

Kozlowski understood the fragility of the moment. This man’s word was as reliable as the FBI warning on a bootleg DVD. But cooperation between governments and departments of those governments transcended individual need. It was the same whether in Somalia or Athens. Or Shanghai: he could get more from creating long-term good relations with the PAP than he ever could from saving the hide of John Knox. He was gaining guanxi, the most elusive and important aspect of any Chinese business relationship.

Kozlowski hesitated only briefly as he took out his pen and wrote down the address on a KFC napkin. He hoped he had not just signed Knox’s death warrant.

21

3:45 P.M.

LUWAN DISTRICT

Amid the sweltering crush of thousands of people hell-bent on cramming their way onto an arriving Metro car, Knox kept his back planted against a cylindrical post, like clutching a fallen tree in a spring flood. Any of these people could be kidnappers. The choice of this particular day and time was brilliant. Millions of people released from work and determined to leave the city as quickly as possible. With the slightest spark, the chaos would turn into pandemonium. He checked his watch for the tenth time.

He had to get back into cell phone range—awaiting a second call from Randy—if he were to have any chance of extraction. Randy had picked up a test video signal and had been data-mining it, hoping to give Knox a location fix. But if Grace were abducted, all was lost. Danner would be executed and Grace along with him. The ransom would be gone. Knox would be found and imprisoned. He wanted to keep an eye on Grace at least through the drop.

Very much aware of the ceiling-mounted security cameras, he kept the bill of his hat low, heeding Kozlowski’s warning of the sophistication of China’s face recognition capability. The last thing he could afford was the police bearing down on him.

He maintained his position, flashes of Grace’s orange shirt jumping from the horde, while keeping an eye on the man who’d entered ahead of Grace. Of average height but sturdily built, the man had stopped at a support post, using it to separate him from the crowd, while taking a look back. Then he’d made a brief call. Too brief. The kind of call reporting one’s position. Right or wrong, Knox tagged him as one of the Mongolian’s men and added him to his list of complications.

Grace moved through the turnstiles, instantly swallowed up by the crowd. Wary of the Mongolian, Knox cut against the flow, following the occasional flash of orange. When a khaki security cap appeared behind him at the same post where Knox had just been standing, Knox took note. They were onto him incredibly quickly.

A wink of orange. Grace headed for a stairwell down to the Line 2 platform. Knox kept the Mongolian between him and Grace.

His cell phone vibrated—he’d been in and out of coverage. He viewed the small screen:

Hongkou

Randy had narrowed the origin of the proof-of-life video signal down to a neighborhood north of Suzhou Creek that included the new cruise-ship port as well as the former Jewish ghetto—an area home to more than a quarter million people.

Knox returned a text:

more specific

Moments later his phone buzzed a second time:

need more time

Knox:

no more time

Then, nothing.

Knox faced the choice of abandoning Grace in favor of the hostages. It would take ten or fifteen minutes to reach the Hongkou District by taxi—more, given the congestion. His feet told him it was a race for Danner’s life; his head, that he couldn’t abandon one partner in favor of another, that he couldn’t leave her with the Mongolian tailing her.

Consumed by the phone, he’d lost sight of her. Searching frantically, he spun around and came eye-to-eye with the security guard standing where Knox had been only a minute before. There was no mistaking the flash of recognition on the guard’s face as he saw Knox.

A wall of human impatience separated them. Again Knox lowered his shoulders to blend in. He joined the flow, overhearing the guard shouting for people to move aside. Knox knew it wouldn’t happen; on a Chinese holiday break it was every man for himself.

Another speck of orange up ahead.

Grace spotted him too, her face wormed with anxiety. Knox pushed people aside and gained on her. He endured elbowing and cursing, but drew close enough as the subway car arrived at the platform. A thick wall of people, the Mongolian among them, separated them.

“Xintiandi is next! Ice cream parlor!” she called out to him in English, caught in the flow of bodies.

Knox shook his head, trying to stop her from saying any more.

The Mongolian spun his head around and spotted Knox, and the two locked eyes.

“On the video…a bedsheet behind them. Broken glass! Broken glass behind the sheet. Both alive!”

Knox shoved ahead to reach the Mongolian, but the crowd was practiced at stopping line jumpers. The collective would not allow him forward progress.

The train pulled in and stopped. A river of passengers disgorged, coming directly at Knox. Grace and her tail were carried onto the train car by the crush. Grace held to the duffel tightly, tugging its strap higher onto her shoulder. The bag briefly jumped into view.

The Nike Swoosh was the correct size, and unsmudged.

Knox stood frozen on the platform, trying to process this change as the doors closed.

The Mongolian looked back at Knox, cocky with his achievement.

Knox had lost sight of Grace. He grabbed his phone but there was no signal.

He looked to his right: the security guard pushed closer to him, a walkie-talkie held to his mouth.

His memory replayed like film: her leaving the boutique carrying a knock-off duffel; beating her through the turnstiles and watching her go through security; following her to the platform…

He rewound the film: the boutique, the knock-off duffel, the platform, a different knock-off duffel.

It hit him: Security.

His mind replayed that part of his visual memory: his attention had been on Grace and her orange shirt. She’d deposited the duffel onto the X-ray machine’s black rubber conveyor belt.