Choke Point

The call from the real estate agent is anything but reassuring. The woman has found a couple of properties that Grace “should see.” Given that Grace has pressured the vendor, Marta, for a list of possible girls, has hacked Kreiger’s laptop, and has downloaded the vitals from the computer that hacked hers. She’s aware it could be a trap.

Knox sends the text message:

sit tight. on way

She has a decision to make. Knox’s situation is radically different from her own; in the world of Rutherford Risk, initiative is capital. If she’s to be rewarded with future fieldwork—with or without Knox—it will be because she has taken initiative while remaining part of a group. It’s a fine line to walk. Dulwich’s impressions and recommendation are critical. The very nature of Knox’s text implies urgency; she can feel him about to influence the direction of the assignment.

The sleeping tiger never eats.

“We have an appointment,” she tells Dulwich over her mobile. Like an obedient driver, he spends much of his time behind the seat of a rented Audi or Mercedes in the hotel’s parking lot while on his BlackBerry. She explains the realtor’s call.

“I’ll pull around front.”

She saw no indication the text had been sent to both of them. Dulwich’s failure to mention it can mean several things, none of which matters to her once he agrees to drive her. Dulwich has his own master plan.

“What about the computers?” he asks from behind the wheel.

“I have enough to attempt to hack them. Kamat narrowed down the router location to a ten-block area.”

“Still too big.”

“Yes, but the smallest yet. We’re closing in. If I ping the router, we will have it much narrower, but a ping would be detected. No way around that. We would have a matter of minutes. No more.”

It has been the worry since the firewall breach from the hotel lobby. Any attempt on her part to reconnect could scare the rats from the den. It is a time for prudent decision-making.

“That could play into our favor.”

“Agreed.”

“The photos? The porn?”

“Carry a digital ID, yes, but unfortunately not a phone. Taken with a Canon PowerShot. Kamat is working a long shot.”

“Which is?”

“Both photos were taken with the same camera—same digital tag in the code. If the camera happens to be under warranty . . .”

“Seriously? The camera is hot. Count on it.”

“If Canon will cooperate, or if Hong Kong can hack their warranty database, we might come away with his full contact info.”

“I wouldn’t count on it meaning anything.”

“I register all my gear.”

“As do I.”

“Something to think about from now on.”

“If I go into the porn business,” Dulwich says.

They’re a good ten minutes from the hotel when she says, “John just texted for us to ‘sit tight.’” She pauses to see if he calls her out. “He is en route to the hotel, I believe.”

“Tell him to sit tight himself. We’ll be, what? An hour? Two, at most.” Dulwich reconsiders. “Better yet, text him the address of the meet. Tell him I need him as backup, ASAP.”

“Yes.” She doesn’t dare go counter to Dulwich’s instructions, though for a moment her fingers hover over the phone’s screen without touching it.

The invitation to view the real estate could be an attempt on her life, an attempt to steal her laptop, an attempt to raid her hotel room while she’s away. It might be used as a chance to photograph her, or the car, or Dulwich.

Her driver pops gum into his mouth and begins chewing furiously. She doesn’t often see Dulwich nervous.

“Do you want to walk through this?” she asks.

“You keep your phone on and the line open so I can hear. What more is there to discuss? If we can wait for Knox we improve our odds—and then some.” Dulwich has on several occasions referred to Knox by the name of a popular sitcom: Two and a Half Men. There’s a seed of truth behind the jab, and all three know it.

“I doubt that will be possible.” She would rather do this herself. Knox has a way of sucking the air out of a room.

“You can stall her. Ask long-winded questions that demand long-winded answers. Realtors love to sell. Let her do her job.”

“I refuse to believe this woman could in any way be tied to our principals.”

“She doesn’t have to be. It could be a coworker. Another realtor who’s heard what you’re looking for. You did everything but tell this woman you were setting up a sweatshop. It won’t take a genius.”

“I suppose.”

“Your street market pal could have gotten the ball rolling. Your beating the shit out of that guy may come back to haunt us. If you’re looking for child labor, you need a place to use it. It’s all a piece of the same pie.” He adds, “Remember, by your own admission, these mothers, people in these neighborhoods, rely on the knot shop. If you go into this meeting expecting trouble, you might just come out of it.”

She didn’t need that. She wants to tell him so. Maybe her silence does.

—

THE PLUS-SIZED REALTOR WEARS a matronly wool outfit again despite the fact that the day doesn’t demand it. A warm front has moved in; it’s bearable outside and in. One look at the woman’s clammy complexion and darting eyes puts Grace on alert and wishing she could send Dulwich a warning without invoking the safe word.

There are too many possibilities: from the benign to the overt. Grace is out on the ice and hears it cracking.

“Impressive,” Grace says, after the usual pleasantries.

The cellar space is large, supported by steel posts. The glow is from tube lighting; there’s no natural light. Grace walks the perimeter of the room while the realtor babbles, exactly as Dulwich anticipated. Grace is looking for the best defensive positions. No natural light means no windows; no escape routes beyond the two doors, one on either end. She’s trapped, and judging from the realtor’s anxiety, it’s to be more than a photo or eavesdropping session.

“Only the two doors,” she says, for Dulwich’s ears.

“I understood you were looking for privacy.”

“Absolutely. And where does this second door lead?”

“You expressed interest in access away from busy streets. This door leads to a common parking area behind the building.”

“Excellent!”

“Yes, I thought it fit your needs quite nicely.”

“Proximity to a tram line is a potential problem,” Grace says. “But more to the point is the apparent absence of toilets, running water and heating. I am not running a sweatshop, you know? It’s to be an artists’ workspace. It must be habitable.”

On the off chance she’s being listened to by people other than Dulwich, she has thrown out this treat.

“The landlord is amenable to negotiate improvements providing—”

“He is aware it is to be month-to-month?”

“Well . . . I thought, perhaps . . . That is . . . allow me to show you around before we discuss too much detail.”

If she had any sense, she would mop her brow. It’s not the wool suit or hormones causing her to overheat.

“Very well.”

“The parking. Please.” She motions to the second door.

Grace holds her ground studying the exposed ceiling with its pipes and conduits. “You have to admit it’s chilly in here.”

“I find it quite pleasant,” the realtor answers.

“If I may say so,” Grace says, “you look warm. Are you not feeling well?”

She has given Dulwich as much as possible. She allows the realtor to open the door, revealing concrete steps leading up into darkness. The realtor nervously tries a light switch.

“Oh, I am terribly sorry!” the woman says. “The light appears to be out. I will lead the way. Please follow me.”

The woman could not be a worse actor. It doesn’t merit a high school performance.

“That is all right. I would like to see the exterior of the building anyway. I will meet you around back.”

Grace moves with deceptive speed toward the original entrance. It’s impossible to predict Dulwich’s reaction to her having spoken the safe word. He might be about to come through that same door, or he may have pulled the car into the back lot. As she’s five strides from the door, she hears them coming for her. Two or three of them, she thinks, not looking back. Stealthy, and well trained, already fanning out to surround her. Two, she decides. She recognizes this as her “be careful what you wish for” moment: her chance to earn herself a field promotion, to be considered more Knox’s equal, but it’s fraught with risk. She didn’t wish this upon herself, but doesn’t shy from the knock of opportunity.

The two have closed in on her quickly, both approaching from her blind spots behind. If she turns to see one, she invites assault from the other. They are anticipating her going for the door. The idea is to use their strength and advantage as weakness and vulnerability. Never moving her head, she bounds three strides straight back, splitting them and forcing them to turn.

Her target is the nerve running from the knee, up the thigh and into the lower back. She uses her hips, not her leg muscles, to thrust her upraised knee into the sweet spot on one attacker’s thigh. Cupping her left hand, she smacks his right ear, disorienting him, then drives the outside of her left elbow into his jaw. His right leg won’t move; he’s semi-conscious and immobilized, though still standing.

Her right hand goes out like a two-fingered claw. She misses his collarbone, connecting instead with the powerful chest of the assailant to the right.

He’s fast. Bats her arm away while simultaneously digging his fingers into the flesh of her forearm. She screams involuntarily and drops to her knees, succumbing to the pain.

Grace head-butts his kneecap, cups her right hand and swats his groin.

He curses, knees her in the face, and the lights go out.

The Indonesian in the parking lot jumps back as Knox, aware he’s late to the party, hollers in Dutch for him to get out of the way. Up until that moment, the man had been changing a tire on his Nissan. But Knox scares him back, hip-checks the Nissan and knocks it off its jack. Knox grabs the jack like it’s a drumstick and marches for the unmarked, black metal door.

He’s through the door. Shoves some librarian in a wool suit so hard she flies to the concrete floor a good distance from where she started. She won’t be getting up soon.

Grace is over a goon’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The other one is on his knees doing an imitation of Jerry Lewis seeing stars.

“Stop! Or I kill her.”

Knox stops.

“Seriously?” Knox returns in Dutch. “I’m supposed to care? Who the hell is she?” He looks between the two men. “I didn’t come for her, asshole. I came for you.”

The man dumps Grace off his shoulder while reaching for his back and a concealed weapon. Grace hits hard, head first, which results in Knox going all primal. He uses his core to launch the car jack javelin-style, a two-foot spear of Japan’s best steel. It flies on a frozen rope and strikes with so much force that Knox hears a crack and a pop. That would be the ribs and the lung. The handgun discharges.

Grace’s body elevates off the floor two inches like someone lit her up with 220 volts.

The jack clatters to the floor. It has torn a hole in the guy’s chest.

His partner tries to stand, but tilts to his right on a numb leg and falls over. Starts crawling toward the back door while going for his own handgun. Knox has the punctured guy’s gun. He shoots the crawler twice—two taps, chest and head.

Knox pistol-whips the coughing mess, dropping him. Then kneels next to Grace, his chest tighter than the fallen man’s. Feels for a pulse. Strong. Her face is a bloody mess, but wiping it off, it’s nothing more than a broken nose. He feels down her chest and abdomen for an entrance wound.

“Pervert,” she gags.

He hears himself exhale.

“Left leg,” she says, her attempt at a smile wiped away before it materializes.

“Another couple inches, you woulda been a nun,” Knox says.

The wound is a through-and-through on the inner thigh of her left leg, four inches below her crotch. The bullet is flat on the concrete in an island of flesh and tissue. Not much blood: it missed the femoral artery, which is something of a miracle given how little there is of Grace. He tears open her pants. She tries for modesty, but he slaps her hand away.

“Easy,” he says.

The exit wound isn’t pretty. The size of a quarter, it’s taken a plug out of her.

Dulwich comes through the street-side door, prepared to finish what Knox started. He has the entire picture with one look.

“Can she be moved?”

“Yes,” Knox answers.

Dulwich drags the unconscious realtor to inside the darkened stairwell leading to the parking lot.

“There’s a guy out back changing a tire,” Knox hollers. “Or he was.”

“Got it.”

Dulwich leaves the realtor in a pile. She’ll awaken soon and take off—won’t dare head back inside.

Dulwich crosses back and hoists Grace into his arms. He stands.

“Brower?” Knox says. “The shots could have been heard.”

“Doubtful. I didn’t hear them,” Dulwich says. “A big no to Brower. Grace and I are wanted for questioning. Don’t worry about Grace. We have friends who can help her.” He turns Grace toward the door he came through. “Put the prints on this guy when you’re done with him. Wipe down the jack.” By not speaking what is on both their minds, Dulwich has given Knox carte blanche to interrogate the one who shot Grace.

“Thanks,” Knox says.

—

“WHERE AM I?” She speaks Chinese. Corrects herself to English, repeating the question.

Knox answers in Shanghainese. “You will heal.”

“Smells like a dentist’s office,” Grace says.

“She knows what she’s doing. Sarge arranged it. She’s a legitimate surgeon. And yes, it is a dentist’s office. Two to three weeks, you’re on your feet again.”

“So long?”

“You were very lucky. Could have been far worse.”

“We do not have three weeks.”

“Not your problem. You need to rest.”

“You waited for me to awake,” she says. It just comes out of her; she attributes it to the medication.

Knox says nothing at first. He looks at her and smiles. “Wanted to see if you’d cry.”

“Sure,” she says.

“You didn’t,” Knox says in the warmest voice he’s ever used with her.

“You should go. With all that happened . . . They could pack up and move.”

“It’s Fahiz.” He explains it to her. “They don’t know what happened. Not yet. At best they have a pair of men missing.”

“What about Ms. Pangarkar?”

Knox winces. She sees deadness in his eyes, a mixture of grief and regret. She wants to ask him to explain, but lacks the strength. “That’s a disconnect,” he says.

“You must get me my computer. I can help you.”

“You need to rest.”

She repeats herself. “I am close. More information will be coming from Hong Kong. Between Kreiger and the attack on my laptop . . . You were told of the camera registration?”

“Sarge caught me up.”

“I can help. From the bed. As I am.”

“We’ll move you to a houseboat.”

“By now Marta—the street vendor—will have completed her list for me. One of the mothers on that list will take cash for information.”

“Good to know.”

Knox is not about to go door-to-door. She can hear it, see it. He shot a man. She doesn’t dare ask what happened to the man who shot her.

“He was muscle,” Knox says. She feels a chill at the coincidence of thought. “The one I shot was a driver. The other guy mentioned a van. A white van. He rode in the back with the girls. They move the girls to a safe house each night. It’s on a canal. He didn’t know which canal. He was useless.”

“Not entirely.”

“No, not entirely. He was inside the shop daily. Gave me a decent description. That could help.”

She doesn’t ask about the outcome of the man he interrogated. She doesn’t want to know. As much as she wants the fieldwork, there are places people like Dulwich and Knox will go that she will not. If that disqualifies her, then so be it.

“Is it Pangarkar? What is troubling you?”

He smirks. “What could possibly be troubling me?”

“What is her status, John?”

“AWOL,” he says.

“You have every right to be worried.”

She has upset him. Whether the drugs, the shock or exhaustion, she feels something she can’t decipher.

“My computer,” she says.

“Yeah, I got that.”

“They will not kill a journalist,” she says, the devil’s ventriloquist. “We know them to be smart, John.” She adds, “She is also smart, eh? This is not to be overlooked.”

Dulwich enters. He has been on the phone with Hong Kong continuously.

“We’re done here,” Dulwich announces.

Knox stands there, paralyzed.

“How can they do that?” Grace asks like a defense attorney.

“The client is satisfied with Brian’s decision to turn it over to the Dutch. Given all the data we’ve collected and our collateral losses,” he says, looking down at Grace, “it’s the right call.”

“Bullshit,” Knox says, spittle flying off his lips.

“Of course it’s bullshit,” Dulwich says, aiming at disarming Knox. “It’s the bullshit I’m paid to say, and the bullshit you’re paid to do. Happy clients mean more business. This is over. Brian wants us out of here before he has to explain your death to Tommy.”

“And you?” Knox says. “What do you want?”

“Don’t push it.”

“Sonia’s in the wind.”

“And no one saw that coming.”

“Stop.” Grace can see the fight about to erupt. She manages to sit up, but the pain is excruciating. The two men face each other like wild boars, paws scraping the dirt. “Time line?”

“Less than twenty-four,” Dulwich says, never taking his eyes off Knox. “They’re sending the jet. Coming up from Istanbul. Late afternoon. Early evening at the latest.”

“We make use of this time,” Grace says, concentrating on Knox. “We do not waste it having such arguments.”

Knox reminds Dulwich of the promise of backup teams if the case progressed.

Dulwich responds, “What case? The client is satisfied.”

“Will he be satisfied when the journalist who started all this is found floating in a canal?”

“She’s smarter than that. She’ll attack with words.”

“Which will require an interview.”

“Which he won’t give,” Dulwich says. “Collaring a guy like this is going to take the Dutch . . . Interpol . . . who the hell knows?”

“She will press this. She has a number he checks.”

“We have most of a day,” Grace interjects. “We should be planning, not arguing! You two are idiots.”

“You don’t know her,” Knox tells Dulwich, who can barely contain himself.

“Not like you do.”

“Will someone please get me my laptop?” Grace hesitates. “Now!”

It breaks the mesmerism. The two men stop the staring contest.

“Late afternoon, early evening,” Dulwich repeats.

“We’ll see.”