The Risk Agent

15

4:00 A.M.

HUASHAN HOSPITAL

SHANGHAI

“Can you hear me?” The rugged-faced man standing by the hospital bed cupped his hand, shielding the patient’s eyes from the overhead tube lighting. “My name is Kozlowski. U.S. Consulate.”

David Dulwich looked around the hospital room without moving his head or neck, which was held in a foam collar. He wanted a way out. There were slings and weights and pulleys attached to him; he felt stretched.

“You happen to be in luck,” Kozlowski said, a little too cheerily. “Believe it or not, you have Formula One racing to thank for it. Ten years ago, the city wanted to bring in Formula One for a sanctified event. But event organizers require the availability of top-shelf Western medicine before authorizing an event. The result is this,” he said, sweeping his hand, “umpteen millions of dollars spent on a state-of-the-art, fully staffed hospital ward for expats. You, my friend, are the beneficiary. From what I’m told you’re lucky to be alive. If you’d been wearing a seatbelt, maybe you’d have walked away from it, but then again show me one Shanghai cab in which you can find the back-seat seatbelts. Am I right?”

He walked slowly around the bed. “In case you’re wondering: it was the pins in your ankle that stamped you ‘Made in U.S.A.’ Though don’t ask me how.”

In a convincing Australian accent, Dulwich said, “They got the work right, mate, but not my country of origin. I’m Aussie. And it’s ‘sanctioned event,’ not ‘sanctified.’”

Kozlowski didn’t look like a man who tolerated correction. “There was a time in my career when a guy like you would have confused me, or maybe even fooled me completely.” Kozlowski held up a small white 4 × 6 card with boxes across the top. Each box contained a fingerprint.

“The Australian passport is good,” Kozlowski continued. “Very good. Too good. Maybe even authentic. That tells me more than you want, believe me.”

Kozlowski moved to the end of the bed, hoping for eye contact. Dulwich wouldn’t give him any.

“Both drivers walked. One car was stolen. The nephew of the registered cabbie drove the taxi. On the outside, it looks like a U.S. citizen in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the passport; and iPhone the likes of which my tech guys have never seen; a plane ticket from Hong Kong booked an hour before takeoff yesterday morning; a first-class train ticket to Guangzhou?”

“Yesterday?” Dulwich said, trying to sit up. No use. “The date?”

“It’s September thirtieth.” Kozlowski pulled up a chair. “Mean something to you?”

“I never like losing track of time.”

“By the end of the day I’ll have confirmed your identity. I’m not going to get all Law and Order on you and tell you you’re better off talking to me now than later. We both know that’s bullshit. You’re better off not talking to me at all. You’re better off walking the hell out of here when no one’s looking. But in your condition, I don’t think that’s even possible. Maybe you could crawl. Honestly, I probably don’t want to know why you’re here. You smack of a ton of paperwork just waiting to happen.”

Dulwich winced painfully again as he tried to sit up.

“There are plenty of individuals like you in this city. Don’t think you’re all that special. Trouble is, Americans like you are my responsibility. I’m supposed to keep your nose clean. Or at least mop up the snot after it’s spilled. Maybe you’re here stealing somebody else’s secrets, keeping track of his sins, looking for a missing person, or trying to lead a revolution. I don’t care. I need you gone. There is only one way you can gain my favor.” Kozlowski withdrew and unfolded some photocopies. He held the first in front of Dulwich’s face.

“No,” Dulwich croaked out, seeing a photo of Lu Hao.

“Strike one. Him?” Kozlowski said, producing a second photo from under the first. Clete Danner.

Dulwich swallowed dryly. “No.”

The medication belied his intentions.

Kozlowski noted the twitch, but said, “Strike two.” He proffered the third of three: a security photo of a Chinese man. “And?”

Dulwich said, “He looks nasty, mate.”

“You think you’re going to outsmart the Chinese?” Kozlowski asked. “They’re all over this.”

“All over what?”

“Really?”

Dulwich had the twitch under control, giving away nothing. He was thinking: the Iron Hand. The missing cameraman. Kozlowski could easily be part of that investigation, could easily believe Dulwich was involved in that investigation.

“You’d better have some serious support in play, friend. Because from what the doctors tell me, you’re not going anywhere soon. You’re a sitting duck here-that’s an American expression, but I think you’ll figure it out. If you want help-protection, maybe a transfer, that’s all there for the asking. If there’s a bone in your body that isn’t broken, they haven’t found it.” He waited. “Nothing? Seriously?” Kozlowski took a deep breath and stepped back. “Enjoy Chinese prison. I hope you like rice.”

9:20 A.M.

CHANGNING DISTRICT

Knox and Grace spent the night working in the safe house. Grace reviewed Berthold’s financials with special attention given to Marquardt’s travel expensing, while security video of Lu Hao’s apartment building ran in the background. If the Mongolians had a prior relationship with Lu, maybe they’d be seen. Or if the kidnappers had returned for Lu Hao’s medication and laptop, perhaps they could be identified.

Knox confounded himself attempting to find any hidden files in the memory of Lu Hao’s digital frame, a process well above his pay grade. He determined that the frame’s memory was partitioned into two virtual drives-like two separate file cabinets. He’d been able to retrieve the images from one of the virtual drives, but as far as he could tell, the other was blocked by a password.

“If anything’s on this frame other than the photos, we’re going to need an expert,” Knox finally confessed.

Grace said nothing.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you.”

He glanced up at the fast-forwarding security footage. They shared this task.

“Anything?” he asked. She had the two volumes of endless spreadsheet pages in front of her. She’d placed bookmarks of torn napkin throughout both, making the printouts look feathered.

“I put Selena at risk,” she said, not looking up.

“You had no idea she was going to guilt-trip off her boss going to some island and start blabbing about it.”

“I have made her an unknowing accomplice.”

“Sometimes you sound so cold-hearted,” he said. “Not today.”

“And nearly all the time you sound pig-headed.”

“I think we could both use some sleep,” he said.

“I need Lu Hao’s records.”

“I think we’ve established that.”

Grace looked up at him, her face lined with fatigue.

“The Berthold Group’s accountants consolidated the payments to Lu Hao’s consulting firm in the GA-general accounting. Trying, I suppose, to make the payments appear like business as usual, when they know otherwise. The problem with that practice is that when those payments change substantially, as is the case recently, it is a red flag.” She showed Knox the pages of numbers; he pretended to follow along. “In this case, an additional two hundred thousand U.S. was paid out to Lu Hao’s consulting firm. The timing is significant, John. First, the added two hundred thousand,” she switched volumes and drew her finger down a column, “then, less than a week later, Marquardt’s redacted trip to Chongming Island,” back to the original ledger, “then a second overpayment of two hundred thousand U.S., the same day Lu Hao went missing.”

Knox whistled. “Four hundred grand. Which is why they didn’t want you getting hold of their books. It took you only a matter of hours to connect it.”

“There are a hundred ways to hide such things. They are either arrogant or ignorant. Both are crimes when it comes to accounting.”

“So they made a couple balloon payments, probably to the Mongolian. Thanks to Sarge, we know the Mongolian has connections to Beijing. So the payments went north. But that doesn’t get us any closer to extraction? To finding them. I mean, this is all well and good-and fascinating,” he mocked, “but we’ve already established the Mongolian is as interested in finding Lu Hao as we are. So he’s a…distraction.”

“Selena claimed that Marquardt and Preston Song would never travel together unless for due diligence on a future project.” Grace lowered her voice. “Connect that to Beijing, where the government decides all the biggest construction projects. Lu Hao wasn’t paying off the Mongolian to aid the Xuan Tower. He was paying for information on a new government project. Such projects can be worth billions.”

“Speculation.”

“A logical deduction based on research and information. We must act!”

“So, Lu Hao makes the second payoff. Why does the Mongolian give a damn about him after that?”

“Protect the Beijing superior,” Grace said. “If Lu Hao talks, heads roll.”

Executions of corrupt officials were not uncommon in China. It had been a while since the last.

“Interesting,” Knox said. “But again: it doesn’t get us any closer to extraction.”

“Listen,” she said, “Marquardt hired us to get Lu Hao out. But he could be as panicked as the Beijing contact. If The Berthold Group is seen to be involved in influencing a government official, they, he could be imprisoned. The Australians were given twelve years.” She was referring to a recent trial that had made international headlines. “Maybe they could negotiate their way out of criminal charges on the Xuan payments. But not something of this size tied directly to Beijing.”

Knox wasn’t going to repeat himself.

“Perhaps Lu Hao’s records confirm this.”

“Not to be rude, but who cares?” Knox said. “Honestly, I don’t care who’s paying whom at this point. I want an address. I want extraction.”

She was silent for some time. “Lu Hao’s records are our only source of possible information.”

Knox closed his eyes and tried to work it out. The money trail was apparently fascinating to an accountant, but he’d grown tired of it. The big payments to the Mongolians and on to Beijing were clearly significant. “Yang Cheng could be behind the kidnappings,” he said. “It was his men in the alley behind Quintet. He knew about your hire at Berthold, so he obviously has an insider there. He wanted you to abandon Marquardt. Make things more difficult for Marquardt. Maybe we can trade for the hostages.”

“If Yang had Lu Hao he would have Lu Hao’s information. Yang is not the kidnapper.”

“You know what? Who gives a shit? What’s important to us is that with Sarge down, there’s no ransom money.”

“Yes.”

“We won’t want to trade the accounts until we know what we’re giving away.”

“Again, I do not follow.”

“Lu’s accounts may reveal who has the most to fear, who has the most to lose. Therefore, who will pay the most.”

“John, are you talking to me?”

“The accounts are the prize-it explains all the attention on Lu’s apartment. The attack on us.”

“You and I want the same thing, if for different reasons,” she said. “Lu Hao’s books.”

“You sound like a marriage counselor.”

“Do not get your hopes up.”

“Ha! Regardless,” he said, “once we have Lu’s books we can start dealing. Yang Cheng, the Mongolians, maybe Marquardt as well.”

“You want to sell the information for cash. To raise money needed to pay the ransom,” she said.

“I thought you said you weren’t following.” He paused. “Amy knows this guy-I’ve met him a couple of times. Sells counterfeit video games. A computer brainiac. He can help us.”

“So call this person,” she said reluctantly. “Selena owes me a copy of Marquardt’s redacted credit card statement. I will ask her again. This may help as well.”

“You don’t have to sound so excited about Amy helping us,” Knox said.

“This has nothing to do with you. It is Chinese. You would not understand.”

“Face? I understand face.”

“Westerners intellectualize face. Chinese live it. It is very different.”

5:40 P.M.

Knox did not like the idea of putting them all in the same room together-pigs for the slaughter-but saw little choice. Carrying a black backpack containing Lu Hao’s digital photo frame, he checked the street for surveillants at every opportunity. Changed his look every few blocks with baseball caps and sunglasses.

He arrived early at the rendezvous, a dismal-looking beauty salon with a white, pink and blue barber pole outside. Walked past and continued for another block. Crossed through traffic. Cut back at the next light and approached the salon for a second time.

He paused by a curbside dice game being played on an inverted cardboard box in the shade of a plane tree. Cigarettes dangled from wet lips. Spitting tobacco bits, and sipping cold tea, rheumy-eyed men competed fiercely.

Amy arrived at the salon first, taking no security precautions whatsoever. Grace followed, also performing a walk-by before entering. Selena had e-mailed Marquardt’s electronic AMEX statement; Knox had left her studying it, unsure if she’d pry herself away for this meeting; glad she had.

He awaited a city bus to screen himself from the opposing sidewalk and, as the bus passed, slipped into the salon.

Amy occupied the third of three chairs to the right, her hair foaming, her attendant shooting a stream of water from a squirt bottle onto her head while working up the suds. Despite the wet application, it was referred to as a “dry” shampoo. Grace, in the middle chair, was being prepared.

Knox greeted the owner, a fit man in his early forties with a cataract film covering his left eye. The man checked with Amy in the mirror. Amy nodded.

“You wait, few minutes, please,” the man said in passable English. He pointed. “Waiting area in back, past curtain.”

Knox and Grace exchanged a meaningful look. He wondered if she, too, had spotted the Mongolian following Amy.

Knox wondered how the Mongolian had possibly made the connection to Amy-the cocktail party? Quintet?

The curtain was a Simpsons bedsheet thumbtacked into the doorjamb beyond which was a tiny sink and stool. Knox was forced to turn sideways to slip past the sink and into a narrow hallway that led to a back door. He inspected the door, checking the lock. The door opened on to a sublane where laundry was in bloom. Clear both directions. He turned. Homer and Marge laughed at him in faded glory.

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.”

“So sorry.”

Neither girl had ever seen their boss in such a fit. Li-Shu caught a glimpse of the stacks of yuan Amy transferred into her purse-forty thousand or more. A fortune!

“Store hours as normal,” Amy instructed, relocking the safe, and then closing and securing its outer door. “If anyone asks, I am with a client appraising an estate collection. You do not know the location. You will offer to call me, only if necessary, and then report that you were unable to reach me. I am gone for the National Day holiday.”

“Very well.”

“Tell the others exactly as I’ve told you.”

“Of course.”

“And no wagging tongues.” She directed this at Li-Shu. “This is not a game, Second-cousin’s Daughter. Lips sealed. Pure mind, pure heart. Your rumor-mongering could do me great harm.”

Li-Shu blushed, embarrassed to be so easily read. “Yes, Auntie. I promise.”

“Lock this door behind me. Why was it not locked? What kind of fools leave this door unlocked? Lock it and leave it locked!”

According to the sign, it was never to be locked. Neither woman said a thing.

Amy slipped out the back of the shop and into the stairway. Hearing the lock turn behind her, she began her descent, her senses on immediate alert. An offensive cologne she hadn’t noticed before now permeated the air. Superstitious by nature, and on edge because of Knox, she hurried down.

Damn the maintenance men for allowing so many lights to be burned out. Had it been so dark a moment ago? she wondered.

Rapid footfalls came from behind her. She arrived at the next stairway landing and encountered a man standing there. She gasped involuntarily.

The man grabbed her wrist, spun her and slapped his hand over her mouth.

She tried to call out, but only groaned. The shop door is shut and locked, she thought. No one will hear me.

She reared back to hit him, but was no match. He lifted her off her feet like a rag doll and carried her down the stairs.

Paralyzed with fright, she fought to keep from passing out. It felt like swimming for the surface when deeply underwater.

Her feet bounced down the steps. Another man caught her legs.

They arrived at the ground level to a set of doors. She kicked free, caught the door as it came open and smacked it into the forehead of the man at her feet. He dropped her. The one behind her let go of her right arm. She elbowed this man in the throat, and fell to the stairs as he dropped her completely. The door to the outside thumped shut. She scrambled to her feet and ran into the building, a grid of aisles and shop stalls.

Amy knocked shoppers aside, trying to distance herself from her pursuers. She had the advantage of familiarity. She knew these shops and their keepers.

The two coming behind her split up, taking parallel aisles. They were attempting to box her in. She hurried, dropped to her hands and knees, and crawled into a clothing stall to her left.

“Cousin!” she called out, moving for the back wall. “Muggers! Thieves! You must help me! The door! The door!”

The woman shopkeeper did not hesitate. She raced to the back wall, slid some dresses aside and popped open the hidden door to the storage room. Most shops had such hidden doors.

“Not a word!” Amy said, still crawling. The door clicked shut behind her.

7:40 P.M.

At the intersection of aisles the two men met with a silent exchange-they’d lost her. The leader waved his partner forward and together they began a search, stall by stall.

They tipped over racks, pulled down shelves and cursed at the top of their lungs.

7:41 P.M.

Amy heard the shopkeeper cry out, followed by the sound of destruction. A smack silenced the woman. Then a rake of hangers.

The door to the hidden room broke open.

Amy struck the first man with the tine of a metal hanger, punching a hole in his chest. He screamed and jumped for her, but she ducked and avoided him, smacking the second man. She ran her nails down his neck and let go.

Squeezing past and out into the shop, she ran. Just as she reached the first intersection of aisles, she was tackled from behind. Her arm was twisted behind her and she found herself being carried out the back.

At the moment she was struck by the fresh air, there came a sound like a melon hitting the kitchen floor. Warmth speckled her face.

Blood.

The men dropped her. One lay on the concrete, out cold and bleeding.

A monster with half his face scraped off-a Mongolian, or northerner-brutalized the second man.

Before she fully came to her feet, someone grabbed her from behind and dragged her into a van. She was thrown inside and her abductor followed in behind her. The door slid shut. The tires squealed.

A flurry of Shanghainese cursing. The driver said something to the man hovering over her about “going back for him.” More cursing. A rag was stuffed down her throat, followed by duct tape across her face.

She blacked out.

7:53 P.M.

Melschoi dragged the man deeper down the alley, already softening him up by kneeing him repeatedly in the chest. The man bounced away from him like a puppet.

“Who do you work for?” Melschoi asked in passable Mandarin.

“Feng Qi.”

“Yang Cheng’s man?” Melschoi said, holding him tightly.

“Dui.”

Melschoi contemplated the angles like a mathematician.

“Where have they taken her, these men?” The road rash on his face had not had time to scab, leaving him looking like he’d made out with a cheese grater.

The man’s eyes rolled back in his head. Melschoi was losing him. Melschoi lifted him off the ground and kneed him in the groin, jolting him awake.

“Where?” Melschoi said, his hand now clenching the man’s throat.

The man volunteered an address on Moganshan Road, a former warehouse district that had been partially gentrified into art galleries.

Melschoi knew the area. He leaned in close to the man. “You work for me now. We always have eye on you. You try to run or double-cross me and I will cut off your manhood.”

Melschoi took the man’s mobile phone one-handed and dialed in his own number in order to save it into the man’s phone.

“Whatever you hear, you will pass along to me immediately,” Melschoi said. “If I do not hear from you regularly, you will hear from me.” He held up the man’s wallet so he’d be sure to remember Melschoi possessed it.

He let him fall. “If you try to warn your associates, I come back for you.”

8:40 P.M.

Amy Xue vaguely recalled swallowing something bitter. Her limbs were numb. She tried to speak, but her words were slurred. She took a moment to place herself in her surroundings. Two men: one bruised and beaten. Her shirt hung open, exposing her breasts and belly. She could see she wasn’t wearing pants, but couldn’t feel anything. Her wrists were held to a bamboo pole with plastic ties, the pole tied between pipes.

A man’s low voice spoke Mandarin close to her ear. “The American and the Chinese woman. Names. Mobile numbers. And where to find them.”

She perceived a need to lie, but surprised herself.

“John Knox,” she answered. “The woman is called Grace.”

“We have your phone. Which are their numbers?”

He held her mobile phone up in front of her, but she couldn’t focus. The room was swirling and fuzzy. She felt physically numb and mentally empty-as if all resistance had been bled out of her. Her tongue had a mind of its own.

“The top number,” she said, finally seeing the screen, though dimly, “is his.”

She considered herself such an expert liar-perhaps the best bargainer in all the pearl market. She didn’t know this woman she heard speaking.

The lighting changed as if a door had come open. A gray hue spread along the ceiling. Whatever it was, it caused the man in front of her to turn around, for which she was extremely grateful.

Do something, she willed her body. But it was gone. All sensation, gone.

Melschoi recognized the minivan from the abduction at the pearl market. Amateurs. It was parked in a muddy lot on the back side of a storage building that, according to the sign, was leased to Yang Construction. Idiots.

Melschoi climbed atop the van and had a look inside. No guns. Three men without so much as a knife between them, he guessed. They’d stripped the woman naked, which offended Melschoi. He thought back to the rape of his dead brother’s wife. He gained a newfound energy.

He kicked in the door, shouted, “Police!” and headed straight for the one whom he’d seen was in charge. The announcement bought him enough time to cross the space without being attacked. Their expressions changed as Melschoi’s torn face caught the lights. Two of them had just met him an hour earlier.

He grabbed an electric drill off the wall and swung it by its cord like a chain mace.

One of the men made for the door. The drill clubbed him at the base of the neck and he fell.

“Next,” he said in Mandarin, moving inexorably toward a man who hoisted an office chair. Melschoi used the flying drill to break his ribs and then club the side of his head.

The third produced a knife.

Melschoi stepped onto the fallen man’s back, using him like a doormat. He swung the drill in a figure eight in front of him.

“Be certain she is worth it,” he said.

His opponent circled to his right.

“Tell your employer he should leave this to others. It is a cemetery for those who stay.” He motioned an invitation toward the open door.

The man backed out of the warehouse slowly. Moments later, the van started and raced away.

Melschoi tied up the fallen pair with electric cords. He faced her, having noted the spilled pills and Gatorade on the desk.

Mandarin did not come naturally when his adrenaline flowed.

“I can leave you here,” he said. “Maybe they return. Maybe someone else comes along. We both know what they will do with you.” He ran his eyes over her. She stared into space, unblinking. “I know you can hear me. It must be agony, not to be able to move. So, where do I find the foreigner?”

He started the drill swinging again.

“I do not know,” she said.

He trusted her answers, knowing the effects of Rohypnol.

“The hair salon,” he said.

“Computer files.”

“What kind of files?” he asked.

“Spreadsheet.”

“The foreigner has the spreadsheet?” he said.

She stared off into space; he was losing her.

“His name?” He stepped closer, knowing she could hear. He raised his voice. “His name?” The words reverberated in the space.

“John Not.”

“‘John Not’?”

He could see the light go out. He closed her eyelids for her. Touched her carotid artery and felt a weak pulse. He picked up her discarded pants and purse from which a pile of money spilled. He took the purse. Cut her down and carried her like a sack over his shoulder to his bike.

He drove her up the road to a bus stop and sat her down on a bench, covering her lap with her pants and buttoning her shirt. He patted her on the cheek, half-tempted to thank her.