The Risk Agent (7 page)

Together, they entered a corner tea shop with a view of Lu Hao’s apartment building and Knox bought Grace a green tea.

“The intel on the medication,” he said. “Is it from a trustworthy source?”

She blushed.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Lu Hao,” she answered, “is the second son in a family close to my own. I recommended him for the consulting job at Berthold. This information about his medication…it comes from my mother. Unfortunately, I do believe it is reliable. Your mother is alive?”

“Dead.”

“I am sorry.”

“Sarge hosed us,” Knox said, irritated.

“Excuse me?”

“Mr. Dulwich. This op is personal for me, too. Clete Danner, the other hostage, is a close friend of mine. He’s my younger brother’s godfather—his caretaker in the event anything should happen to me.” The news clearly surprised her. “Our personal relationships with the hostages ensure that we will make our best effort at recovery, and—”

“If we are caught by police there is an explanation for our involvement. Yes. Convenient for Rutherford Risk.”

“Very.”

“I assure you, Mr. Knox, I will not allow this to interfere with the execution of my duties.”

She sounded like she was reading it from a manual.

“I’m not worried about you,” Knox said. “The point is, if the stuff hits the fan, Rutherford Risk may not exactly have our backs.”

“I cannot believe that,” she said.

“Good. Let’s hope I’m wrong.”

She hesitated. “There is one thing more.” The skin around her eyes tightened. “I received a message from Lu Hao on the seventeenth of September. A voice mail, to be precise.”

By all means, let’s be precise, he nearly said. Who was this robot?

“He sounded panicked. He said he had seen something. That he was not sure where to turn.” Now, she pleaded with Knox. “The thing is, Lu Hao has an active imagination, and is always looking for others to take care of problems he started. I was not going to get any more involved than I already was. So typical Lu Hao. High drama. I was exceptionally busy at the time, a job for Rutherford Risk. I never returned the call.”

He said, “Don’t beat yourself up over it,” though he could see she was.

Knox changed the subject, detailing his search of Danner’s apartment with mention of the missing laptop and GPS.

“You think the police were there first?” she asked.

“A waiguoren, according to the security guy. I’m thinking it’s a guy I know at the U.S. Consulate. Makes sense for him to chase something like this. I can’t ask him outright, but I can nibble around the edges.”

“Nipple?”

“Nibble. Small bites.”

“Ah…” No blush from her, no embarrassment, he noted. “And us, Mr. Knox? Our cover. Professional, or something more intimate?”

“Meet your new client,” he said. “I operate an import/export company. For real. You just became my Chinese tax advisor and accountant.” He held out his hand and she stared at it. He withdrew his hand.

“Import/export always struck me as a rung above rug merchant.”

“Accountants are the most boring people I know,” Knox countered.

“Which is why I joined the army,” she replied.

“Which explains why I didn’t,” Knox said. “I just supplied them with bottled water and hand lotion.”

“A mercenary, I believe you call it.”

“Not exactly. More of an opportunist.”

She had perfected the air of superiority. “Step one to finding the hostages is Lu Hao’s records. His accounting of the incentives,” she said.

Knox snickered at the use of the euphemism.

“The records may lead us to someone motivated to abduct him. Agreed?”

“I realize that’s Rutherford Risk’s plan, but Danny—Mr. Danner—takes no prisoners. That is, if there was any lead up to this, any planning, any indication it was coming, he’ll have left crumbs for us to follow. I think Danny’s laptop is our most valuable player.”

“We must work together, Mr. Knox.”

“Agreed.”

“So, Lu’s accounts are first. I have my instructions.”

“And I have this timer running down in my head. All things being equal, I’d like to find Danny alive.”

“We must not ignore The Berthold Group’s Chinese competitors. There is bad blood. These companies would gain a great deal from either stopping the incentives or intercepting the list of recipients. A great deal, indeed. Reason enough to kidnap and torture. Mr. Marquardt mentioned Yang Construction. Yang and The Berthold Group have a colorful past. Much competition. I am unclear how to approach this. But perhaps something will present itself.”

“Yeah. Well…I’m still taking Danny and his research.” He paused. “You were given an iPhone?”

“Yes. Secure communications.”

“We can text.”

“Most certainly. As well as voice.”

Despite her two years in California, there were times she still sounded like a language lesson CD.

“The next time we meet, I’ll bring my financials,” he said. “As cover.”

“This is acceptable,” she said in Shanghainese.

“The first forty-eight hours are critical in a kidnapping. No need to tell you that.”

“No.”

He glanced at his TAG Heuer knock-off out of habit. “We’re well past that already. Sarge…Dulwich to you…is convinced Danny’s presence is a game changer.”

“Yes.”

“That they’ll kill him, maybe both of them, because he’s American.”

“Not if we kill them first,” she said.

He hesitated. It didn’t sound right coming from her mouth.

“Agreed,” he said.

“And as to logistics. How we move, when we move. I will handle.”

He opened his mouth to challenge that when she said:

“This is my city, Mr. Knox. Do not forget it.”

6

7:00 P.M.

SHANGHAI

Allan Marquardt waited behind his desk for the People’s Armed Police officer to say something. Instead, the man seemed to be trying to make a point by looking out at the Xuan Tower as the work there continued through the night, illuminated by massive floodlights. The scaffolding crawled with ants—though Marquardt knew it was far fewer ants than the day before, a troubling development.

This meeting had been arranged abruptly, interrupting Marquardt’s Saturday evening at the Shanghai Grand Theater. No great loss. He still had calls to place to headquarters in Boston and an engineering firm in San Francisco. It promised to be a long night.

But one did not turn down a meeting requested by the People’s Armed Police. He thought of them as the Gestapo of China. Marquardt was well familiar with the term “Iron Hand,” and now, looking at this man, understood it more fully. Inspector Shen Deshi was bigger than most Chinese by half, his face unreadable, eyes distant, like a man incapable of feeling. Marquardt had no intention of putting The Berthold Group on his bad side; he had trouble enough.

Having been coached by Brian Primer over the phone on his way here, Marquardt braced himself for mention of the kidnapping, to show no reaction, to deny it, reminded the police wanted such a situation no more than The Berthold Group. If not provoked, the officer would more than likely skirt the issue, giving Marquardt openings but not pressing him to take them. Failure to address the crime would be held against him at a later date, but appreciated in the near term. The complexities of the interwoven social and professional etiquette involving the Chinese required him to rethink his replies. The vaguer, the better.

“Any problems lately?” asked the inspector.

There it was, teed up. Marquardt needed to show respect while demonstrating his understanding of proper etiquette. Speaking adequate, though American-accented, Mandarin, he said, “Shi shang wu nan shi, zhi pa you xin ren.” A Chinese proverb that literally translated: “You must persevere to accomplish seemingly impossible tasks.”

“Yi ke lao shu shi huai le yi guo zhou,” Shen Deshi tested him.

“Again, please? Slowly.”

The inspector repeated his proverb. Marquardt managed to translate it, though searched for the true meaning. The Chinese language had many nuances.

The man spoke passable English. “One mouse dropping ruins the whole pot of rice porridge.”

“Thankfully, no mice around here,” Marquardt said.

“Mice are everywhere.”

“We guard against them.”

“Have you? I am aware that there is some kind of documentary being filmed about your construction project.”

Marquardt felt his tension release by a degree. Had he assumed incorrectly the inspector knew about the kidnapping?

“Ah, yes. It’s a piece for our National Public Television in the States.”

“You must enjoy dogs biting at your feet.”

“We can tolerate it. We’re used to it, actually. A free press is something you learn to tolerate.”

“In China, we have no tolerance for unauthorized investigation.”

Marquardt said nothing. He found it an interesting choice of words.

“Any problem with the film crew?”

“To be honest, I have little to nothing to do with them. You would need to speak with our Director of Communication.”

“I am speaking to you.”

Prick. “My dealings with the film crew have been positive. Nice enough people. We screened the first episode, but I haven’t seen anything since. Why do you ask?”

“Visas for foreign press are quite specific,” the inspector said. “This crew has approval to make film of Xuan Tower as well as your offices.” He hit the arms of the armchair. “Nowhere but this.”

“If they’ve overstepped their bounds, I wouldn’t know. If you want to deport them, be my guest.” Marquardt tried to calculate where all this was leading. It was a Saturday night. An inspector with the People’s Armed Police was in his office. All this because of a visa violation? It didn’t add up. “We are only the subject of the film. This crew does not work for us. Has no affiliation with us. Is there something I should know?”

“I believe you must be aware two of the cameramen have connections with World Life.”

“The environmental group? Certainly not.”

“Extremists. Militants,” Shen Deshi said. “If they do not work for you, then I trust that I can expect your cooperation in this matter.”

“I—ah…first, Detective—”

“Inspector.”

“It must be understood that neither I nor anyone in this company has any knowledge of, nor control over, the visa status or operations of this freelance film crew.” Marquardt was tempted to call in their chief counsel.

“I must account for each member of the film crew,” Shen Deshi said.

“With all respect, sir, as I was saying—”

“And it must be now. Tonight.”

Marquardt felt his temper flare. “Listen here. Tonight is”—out of the question, he thought—“unlikely,” he said. “Our Director of Communication will be in by ten o’clock Monday morning.”

“This is unacceptable,” the inspector said.

“I repeat: The Berthold Group has no professional affiliation or business relationship with the filmmakers beyond an agreement to grant them access to our offices and construction site.”

“You will please make contact with your communication direction tonight,” Shen Deshi said, misspeaking. Marquardt wasn’t about to correct him. “I wish to speak with the entire crew at once. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

Prick on a stick! Barely able to control himself, Marquardt eked out, “Monday morning at ten o’clock.”

Shen Deshi drew himself out of the chair heavily. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a leather wallet, and carefully passed his business card to Marquardt, both hands extended. Marquardt returned his card in similar fashion.

“If you are able to help me in this matter,” Inspector Shen Deshi said gravely, “your present situation will continue to be overlooked. At least for the time being.”

Marquardt swallowed dryly. Your present situation. The kidnapping.

“We believe one of the cameramen is unaccounted for,” Shen Deshi said.

A member of the American press had gone missing? Was this man hinting at his knowledge of the kidnapping, or could there have been another—a second—abduction? A journalist?

Given what he now knew, Marquardt realized the man was on orders from the highest level of his government. The Chinese would want to get in front of the event before they lost face in the international community. Their unforgiving stance on foreign journalists was well documented. Not a pretty track record.

Christ, there must be heads rolling. Marquardt’s next thought was whether he could leverage this to his advantage.

His hand felt small in the other man’s as they said their goodbyes. But it was the determined, hardened look in his visitor’s eyes that stayed with Marquardt.

This man will stop at nothing.

SUNDAY

September 26

5 days until the ransom

7

7:30 P.M.

ZHABEI DISTRICT

SHANGHAI

“The realtor will meet us in thirty minutes,” Grace said, returning her iPhone to her purse.

“I love Shanghai,” Knox said. “You make a call, on Sunday afternoon, no less, and you get a showing two hours later. Entrepreneurship at its best. In the U.S., we’ve become too complacent, too expectant of the good life. Here, everyone still earns it.” His one accomplishment of the day had been walking the crime scene: the backstreet warren from where Danner and Lu Hao had been abducted. Lu Hao had ridden into an ambush, though why he’d turned into the narrow-lane neighborhood in the first place remained unexplained.

“You heard me, yes? Thirty minutes?”

“Yep. You look appropriately slutty, I must say. I, on the other hand, could use a quick makeover.”

Watch your mouth, John Knox.”

“I mean it as a compliment. It’s part of the plan, right?”

Grace was looking past him, across the street. “I spot two possible policemen,” she said.

“The one working the trinket cart and the big guy inside the restaurant over there.”

“Yes.”

“I make the one with the cart as PSB. You?”

“Certainly police of some kind. Yes. We have many such bureaus and ministries here in China.”

“The other, I’m not so sure about.”