The Risk Agent

8

9:40 A.M.

LUWAN DISTRICT

SHANGHAI

The U.S. Consulate occupied a former private residence on four acres at a prestigious corner in the heart of what had once been the French Concession. Having already copied and overnighted the SIM card from the Mongolian’s phone to Rutherford Risk in Hong Kong, Knox walked in the shade beneath the plane trees, a warm breeze on his face. To his right rose the twelve-foot wall topped with razor wire that encircled the consulate. Phone booth-sized security booths stood at regular intervals manned by rigid, uniformed officers of China’s Ministry of State Security. There had to be dozens of security cameras trained on the area. The Chinese captured and identified every face that entered.

Knox had originally met Steve Kozlowski through the man’s wife, Liz, a statuesque blonde who served as an immigration lawyer at the consulate. Her love of all things Chinese had inevitably led her to Knox, whose reputation for procuring the best antiques and collectibles made him popular with the “trailing spouses.”

He and Kozlowski discovered a shared love of American football, and with the consulate receiving the U.S. Armed Forces television feed, Knox had joined the ranks of corporate executives, university professors and a few select government workers handpicked by Kozlowski to watch live games with him and a few Marines, exactly twelve hours off the U.S. air time.

Over time, he’d developed a cautious friendship with Kozlowski, who, by reputation, got close to no one. Knox often wondered if the man were a spy.

Knox passed through the thorough security check and was greeted by Kozlowski. Tall and strikingly handsome, he had a receding hairline disguised by a nearly shaved head. Dressed in a tailored dark gray suit, a bright blue tie and with a consulate ID lanyard around his neck, Kozlowski looked more like James Bond than a bureaucrat responsible for the welfare of every American citizen in southern China.

Walking toward the century-old mansion converted thirty years earlier into consulate headquarters, the two discussed the NFL season. Knox asked after Liz. They passed sumptuous gardens where Chinese workers in blue coveralls toiled bent over in the shade.

They passed through an interior security desk. Knox was led into a large common area of pool secretaries and assistants that had once been a spacious sitting room. Kozlowski had the center office.

Knox immediately spotted an open folder on the desk: a gruesome color photograph of a-man’s-severed right hand. On Kozlowski’s desk, he reminded himself. He read the date upside down: nine days earlier. A ring with “OSU” running at an angle. He committed the design to memory, believing it either Oklahoma or Oregon or Ohio State. A dead American. Correction, he thought-a butchered American. Too far back to be Danner’s, thank God. Knox felt a rush of relief.

Kozlowski must have seen him snooping. He shut the file folder and gave Knox an eye-fuck.

“So, what’s up?”

Kozlowski moved like a piece of Claymation, all sharp movements; Knox had never seen the man fully relax.

“On the phone you said you had an offer I couldn’t refuse,” Kozlowski said. “Which, by the way, is not terribly original, you realize?”

Knox lifted his hands in mock defense. “The offer’s legit.”

“So talk,” said Kozlowski, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m looking into exporting CJ750s,” Knox said. “M1s, M1Ms and MISupers. Pre-World War Two, BMW R71s. If it goes well, maybe even some tuo la ji.” He referred to three-wheel tractors common in the farms.

Kozlowski, who adored anything with two or three wheels and a motor, leaned forward now. “Yeah? So?”

“So, the baby boomers are moving away from the Harleys and into some of the vintage bikes. There’s a market there. The recession has pushed more boomers into early retirement, but they’re far from broke and they’ve got time on their hands.”

“I drive the Chinese equivalent of a Vespa,” Kozlowski said. “You’re trying to get me to upgrade? Liz is the shopper in our family, not me.”

“Here’s what I think: the Chinese police must impound hundreds of bikes a week. The bikes then sit there and gather dust. Now, I could go around putting up posters in noodle shops with my phone number on tear tabs advertising I’ll buy junker 750s. Or, I could talk to the boys at the impound about the timing of their next auction.”

“Who says they have auctions?”

“You know otherwise?”

“You want to pay off a cop to walk them out of the door right now. I know you, Knox. I cannot, will not, be part of that.”

Knox didn’t deny it. “All you do is make the introductions, Koz. We look over the inventory. If I return another day, I return another day. No dealing with you in the room, I promise. And for the introduction you get the pick of the litter.”

“I don’t accept gifts.”

Righteous motherfucker, Knox thought. “At cost, then.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You know what you’ll think?” Knox asked. “You’ll think you died and went to heaven when you see it buffed out and rebuilt. The 750 has a sidecar, Koz. Think of you and Liz on a Sunday afternoon humming down Changle Lu. It’s a thing of beauty.”

Kozlowski admonished him with a look. But it wasn’t a full dismissal. Knox’s eyes wandered, searching for what might be Lu Hao’s laptop. He saw nothing that qualified.

“So,” Kozlowski said, “you arrive in Hong Kong from Cambodia on a private jet leased to Rutherford Risk, and reenter the country commercial the same day. And you’re telling me that kind of urgency is all about antique bikes gathering dust?”

Knox fought for composure, surprised by the man’s knowledge. “Do I look urgent? I’m flattered you looked me up.” Neither Knox nor Dulwich had considered the ramifications of Dulwich having flown on the Rutherford jet into Cambodia. If Kozlowski could uncover such records, so could the Chinese.

“You’ve entered China six times in the past year and a half. You’re constantly on the road in South America, Europe and Eastern Europe. A man busy building a company. Or a corporate spy.”

The two men remained locked eye to eye.

“Wouldn’t a guy like you,” Knox said, “know if a guy like me was a spy?”

“You aren’t a U.S. spy, but there are all sort of spies these days, Knox. What we see the most here is privatized industrial espionage. It’s rampant.”

“I thought the shoe was on the other foot,” Knox said. “Consulate employee. Head of Security.”

“Not hardly,” Kozlowski said.

“Listen, I’m in the Laotian jungle bidding on hammered bronze and swatting mosquitoes the size of sparrows and the lightbulb goes on in my head: motorcycles! Picture this: Liz with a scarf tied on tightly, the wind ruffling her shirt. You with your sleeves rolled up. A trip to Suzhou on a warm, late fall afternoon. Tell me that isn’t perfect.”

“So you call Rutherford Risk for a ride.”

“Ran into a friend.”

“In Cambodia?”

“That’s right. David Dulwich, an old buddy of mine. We both worked for a private contractor that served Rumsfeld and George the Second. He was my paycheck for two years. A good paycheck. He pops up in Ban Lung, sightseeing for all I know, and offers me a ride as far as Hong Kong on the company G5. What would you have done?” He didn’t dare lie about the details; Kozlowski could know anything.

“You would have thought up a better story if you’d had the time.”

“If it were a story, believe me, I could have done better.” Knox waited. “Tell me you’ll help me with gaining access to the impound. Like today, for instance.”

“I’ll consider it. But I’m warning you: no business discussed in my presence, and I want no gifts, no deals.”

“I’ll be a Boy Scout, promise.”

“Uh-huh. Right.”

Knox lowered his voice. “One other favor?”

Kozlowski’s eyes hardened. “I doubt it.”

“What if a friend of mine lost something-something important-and I came up with a SIM card, some phone numbers, that might help him find it?”

“I can’t help.”

“I can’t believe you’d want the Chinese looking for my friend’s lost package. An American package. That’s bad for everyone.”

Kozlowski’s eyes found the folder containing the severed hand. He slid back his chair and stood. “That’s it. That’s all the time I have.”

They walked out together. Knox took his time, letting Kozlowski digest his Rutherford Risk connection, and hoping they might get around to talking about Danner’s missing laptop, as Knox had tried to instigate. But it had to come from Kozlowski.

Not wanting to push any harder on the Danner front, he slipped Kozlowski the national registration card carried by the Mongolian. “Run this past your boys and see if it’s legit.”

Kozlowski accepted the card and pocketed it. “Don’t overestimate our relationship, Knox. I can’t work miracles.”

“Who’s asking for miracles?”

“You go down that road, you may need a miracle.”

“Which road is that?” Knox slowed to a stop, sensing they were close to actual trust.

“Rutherford Risk is forbidden from doing their kind of business here, just as my office is. Has it occurred to you they’re using you?”

“It was a plane ride, nothing more.” He hesitated. “But my friend’s laptop would help.” It just came out. He wished he could have it back.

Kozlowski’s nostrils flared, but he maintained his composure. “Remember what I said.”

“Vehicle impound,” Knox reminded, wearing his disappointment openly.

“I heard you the first time.”

10:15 A.M.

Knox walked up Huaihai Middle Road, rather than take a bus or taxi. He marveled at the traffic sorting itself out, the birdsong in the middle of such a large urban landscape and the beauty of its women. He stopped on a wide-open plaza in front of a bank, took a look around and placed a call using the secure iPhone.

Dulwich answered before the second ring. “Go ahead.”

“You got my package?”

“I did. I’d have called if we had anything. Goddamn labs.”

Knox said, “Were any body parts included with the ransom demand?”

“Negative. There’s a video. A proof of life.”

“Why didn’t I see it?” Knox asked.

“It arrived at Berthold today. We haven’t seen it either.”

“I need to see it.”

“We’re on it.”

Knox said, “I saw a photo of a hand just now. I was in the U.S. Consulate. It was not pretty.”

“None of our business that I know of, but I’ll look into it.”

“A college ring: OSU.”

“Got it.”

“Turns out your jet comes back registered to Rutherford Risk, LLC.”

“It’s Flight Options. So what?”

“So, I’m made.”

Silence. “My bad.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have someone keeping an eye on me?”

More silence. The phone made subtle sounds each time it switched carriers. Knox wondered why Dulwich was taking so long to answer.

“Negative,” Dulwich said.

“A Chinese or Mongolian the size of a Sub-Zero?”

“Same answer.”

“I’ve sent you a second package. A SIM card. I could use the three Ws on caller-ID coming and going.”

“We’ll try. No promises.”

“I’m getting a lot of that.”

“So see a doctor,” Dulwich said. “You’ve met the girl?”

“Piece of work.”

“I know it’s against your nature, but trust her.”

“There are a lot of moving parts,” Knox said. “We’re after his records. We get that, maybe it tells us who did this. We get that, then extraction.”

“Keep it simple.”

“TIC.” This is China.

“That all? I’ve gotta be someplace.”

Knox laughed. “The girl mentioned some competitors. We’re going to look at them as well.”

“Makes sense.”

“The Mongolian, or whoever he is, is troubling,” Knox said. “There was one guy trying to look undercover by pushing a trinket cart around. A cop for sure. But a Mongolian? Is this thing international? Is he private muscle for one of the competitors?”

“We’ll look at the SIM card and tell you what we find out.”

“Any more contact?”

“These things are fluid, Knox. We know what we’re doing.”

“We need more to go on.”

“There’s a surprise.”

Knox ended the call, frustrated. Dulwich, with all his resources, and no one seemed to know anything.

Sichuan Citizen, only a few blocks from the MW Building, served a mixed clientele of Chinese and expats in a hip, urban atmosphere that included canvas paddle fans and a long-legged hostess in a form-fitting black silk pantsuit. The aroma was a pleasing combination of hot peppers, exotic spices and sesame oil. Mandarin mixed with English in a singsong of language, interrupted by French and Dutch.

Knox, who’d entered by the back door, sat down across from Grace at a small table for two. He laid down spreadsheets in front of her and anchored the corners with steaming black bowls of rice noodles, eggplant and ginger-glazed pork.

“You were followed,” he said.

“By a Chinese. Late twenties. Scooter. Neatly dressed.”

“That’s him, yes.” Impressed she knew of the tail, Knox said, “Certainly not Mongolian.”

“Han,” she said, naming the race of Chinese that accounted for over ninety percent of the population.

“You allowed him to follow you?”

“Of course. That way, when I need to lose him, he won’t be ready for it.”

“I copied and mailed the SIM,” he said, speaking quietly. “One number was called six times in a row.”

“To the intellectual,” she said. She answered his curious look: “Our term for the leader.”

He nodded. “Yes. The brains. You see the Chinese and Americans aren’t so different.”

“You want to call the number,” she said. A statement.

“Of course I do. But once we make that connection, he won’t answer it again. The phone will be tossed. We lose any chance of any contact or tracking. I think we keep that one in our back pocket.”

“Agreed,” she said.

He was about to point out he didn’t require her approval when she spoke, interrupting his thought.

“Some interesting leads in Lu Hao’s receipts,” she said, lowering her voice. “I found these in his apartment.” She passed a stack of receipts across the small table.

He studied the receipts. “Sherpa’s?” he said. “What’s so strange about that? Half the city orders from Sherpa’s.” The Sherpa catalog of restaurants participating in take-out service was in the kitchen drawer of every expat in Shanghai.

“You have not seen photographs of the ransom demand?”

He remembered Dulwich sitting across from him in Ban Lung. “The letter. The ransom demand. Yes.”

“They were delivered by a Sherpa’s delivery man to Allan Marquardt at The Berthold Group. Please notice the chop,” she said.

Chinese used chops as their personal signatures: small, individualized stamps. Knox had one. He examined the square red stamp at the bottom of the receipts. “They’re identical.”

“All nine receipts, the same chop,” she said. “The same Sherpa’s delivery man.”

“Nice catch.”

“This cannot be coincidence. Impossible odds.”

“A friend betrayed Lu?” Knox said. “Lu Hao places orders with Sherpa’s so he and a friend who works for them can hang out. Someone gets to the friend?”

“More likely, the Sherpa’s driver is a new friend.”

“That’s more interesting,” Knox said. “This guy befriends Lu, gathers enough information to pull off a kidnapping.” He worked it around in his head. Maybe they didn’t think so much alike. “I like it.”

“We must interview the Sherpa. There were all sorts of take-away food containers in Lu Hao’s apartment. Maybe this man has been back to the apartment since the kidnapping. Maybe he took Lu Hao’s laptop and medication.”

Knox now recalled Dulwich saying something back in Cambodia about the take-out food carton used as the ransom delivery. He fought his fatigue.

“Notice the bigger chop on back of the same receipts,” she instructed.

He flipped over one of the receipts. The chop carried the Sherpa’s logo along with an address. He inspected several more: the same chop and address.

Grace said, “There are a dozen Sherpa’s dispatch offices throughout the city. Yet all these deliveries issued from the same office.”

“This driver is assigned there,” Knox said.

She pursed her lips, staring at Knox.

“It cannot be a waiguoren asking questions at a local Sherpa’s dispatch,” she said. “Therefore, I must do this.”

“I’m going with you. If this guy betrayed Lu, who’s to say there aren’t others there working with him? Maybe a bunch of Sherpa’s guys.”

“I can handle it.”

“I’ll keep my distance. We will be connected by the iPhones so I can listen in to what’s going on.”

Grace said, “I must return to the office. I will change clothes-so I may leave the building undetected. I do not wish to be seen trying to lose someone. Not at this early stage. We must be careful.”

“Agreed.”

“We’ll meet in one hour,” she said, “outside City Shop on Shaanxi Road.”

“Take those with you,” he said, pointing to his company’s accounts. “I’d like you to look them over.”

“As you wish,” she said, gathering the pages.