The Risk Agent

18

7:00 A.M.

SHANGHAI

The Friday start of National Celebration Day coincided with the Mid-Autumn Festival, resulting in a migration involving over three hundred million Chinese. Nearly a hundred million round-trip train tickets would be purchased, accounting for one hundred eighty million passengers in less than three days. Two hundred million others would travel to their family homes by bus, car, bike, motorcycle, boat or by foot. Flights would be added to every route, and every plane was overbooked. Ferries would be jammed, their passenger count well exceeding the posted limits. Chinese citizens were duty bound to return to their ancestral homes. Expats seized the week-long celebrations as opportunities for vacation travel in and out of the country. China would effectively shut down. First was the celebration in honor of the founding of the People’s Republic; then, the autumnal equinox-a holiday dating back three thousand years. The human exodus would empty the streets and sidewalks of Shanghai, and the city’s population of twenty million would be drained to less than half that.

Among those not going anywhere were Knox and Grace.

With Knox having contacted Primer, they slept in shifts awaiting a return call, waiting for bids for the Lu Hao accounts from Marquardt or Yang Cheng.

At seven, they showered, ate baozi from a street vendor and drank Starbucks coffee. The sun shone brilliantly though Knox had read the forecast-the receding edge of typhoon Duan, a storm that had devastated the Philippines three days earlier, was on track to sweep onto the mainland by afternoon and stall, dumping rain amid hurricane-force winds.

For construction projects like the Xuan Tower, the timing of the storm couldn’t have been worse. With no manpower due to the holiday exodus, there was no labor force to secure the hundreds of sites, to batten down equipment or secure scaffolding. The government put out a call over the radio and television for all workers to return to the city. It would go largely ignored.

Grace’s iPhone rang. She and Knox stared at it briefly before she answered.

“Hello? Wait please…I will put it on speakerphone.”

“…you out of your mind?” Primer’s voice was tight. “Extorting a client? Pitting him against his competition?”

Knox heard the man’s venting, but thought only of Dulwich holding out an identical phone and showing him the tracking location of the Mongolian.

Without introduction or apology, Knox said, “You got my text about demanding a final proof of life?”

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

“Any progress with push-back?” Knox asked calmly.

A long pause on Primer’s end. “I don’t deal with rogues.”

“If we’d gone rogue, we wouldn’t have recommended you require a final proof of life and we wouldn’t have answered your call. Ask Marquardt about Chongming Island. He’s been withholding on us. We’re fucked here. We could use someone with some spine. We need the deets of the drop.”

A long pause. Then, “Time is clearly their bugaboo. They’re in a hurry. We negotiated it down to a hundred K. It’s to be Grace only. She arrives fifteen-thirty with the money and no one following. People’s Square Metro station. It’s a Dirty Harry. A run and drop. The proof of life will be a storefront video with real-time tags. Hostages to be released within twenty-four to forty-eight hours following a successful drop. It works for us.”

Knox scribbled out the details. The storefront proof-of-life intrigued him.

“What the hell were you two thinking?” Primer asked.

Knox answered. “Without Guangzhou, we’re a little light on funds, and it occurred to us with the hostage’s accounts turned over, the value of the hostages diminishes. Substantially.”

“We’re contracted to make the drop.”

“You are, yes,” Knox said. “We’re committed to extraction and we’re a little short-handed here. Sarge’s situation, our own situation…we’re improvising.”

“Marquardt can raise forty.”

“It’s not nearly enough,” Knox said.

“You will not auction off the accounts.”

“I’m afraid we will honor whichever bid comes in higher. But more importantly, we can now eliminate Yang Cheng from our suspect list for the kidnapping. If he had Lu Hao, he wouldn’t need to pay for the accounts. He’d have beaten it out of him.”

Primer’s breathing could be heard. “I can see that.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

“Grace,” Primer said. “Turn the accounts over to Allan. You know the drill.”

She looked into Knox’s eyes. “I am afraid I…that is, we, must accept the highest bid.”

Knox relaxed noticeably, and smiled at her.

“Shit.” Primer had tried to keep it from being heard.

Knox said, “The plan is for extraction. By the time the drop is made, I should have them back.”

“Don’t be a fool. You’ll get them killed. Wait! You know their location?”

Knox reached over and ended the call.

Grace suppressed a smile. “I should have taken Yang’s offer of employment.”

At 8:45, Grace’s personal phone rang and she clapped it up, answering immediately.

“Ms. Wu,” she said, so that Knox understood it was Yang’s assistant, Katherine Wu. She listened. “Yes. Thank you. I will call you right back.”

She disconnected the call.

“Two hundred thousand, U.S.”

“Impressive on such short notice,” Knox allowed.

“But I am afraid we must not accept it,” she said.

“Because?”

“Mr. Primer. The Berthold Group is the client. We do not know the repercussions of turning that information over to Yang. He could use it so many ways. No matter what, he is certain to use it to destroy The Berthold Group. This is our client. Much face would be lost. An American firm accused of bribing officials? This is not good for anyone.”

“First, the kidnapper is our client. We serve the kidnapper. Second, they are expecting a hundred thousand. Do you want to deliver Marquardt’s forty? We take forty from Marquardt and sixty from Yang. We’re up front about it: we let them both know the other guy is getting Lu’s accounts. We give Marquardt an unencrypted version. It’ll take Yang days or weeks to decrypt. That gives Marquardt time to be ready for whatever Yang throws at him. It’s the best we can do.”

“We promised it to the highest bidder.”

He shrugged.

“It is an interesting compromise,” she said.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Knox had been unable to raise Amy; his concern for her compounded with each passing hour. But he’d hired Randy to consult on the proof-of-life’s delivery to a storefront.

“We’re good? You and me?” he asked Grace.

She nodded. “We are good.”

11:00 A.M.

ZHABEI DISTRICT

A blue Buick minivan pulled to the curb, cutting through a thick column of bikes and scooters and motorcycles, all burdened with extra passengers and belongings. Knox threw open the side door. A duffel bag was strapped by seatbelt into the captain’s chair.

Knox unclipped it and swung the door shut. The van sped off.

He and Grace met three blocks to the east. She arrived carrying a similar duffel. They sat side by side on a park bench, the hundred thousand U.S. on their laps.

Knox kept a constant watch, his eyes shielded by a pair of knock-off Ray-Bans.

Grace said nervously, “The Metro station. I am expected there for the drop.”

“It’s a runaround,” Knox said.

“I heard Mr. Primer refer to this. I do not understand, exactly.”

“It’s Dirty Harry.” He could see her disconnect. “A movie-a character in a movie-a cop. Inspector Harry Callahan. He had to make a drop. He’s forced to run pay phone to pay phone to separate him from his backup.”

She inhaled sharply, as if she’d been punched.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Scared?”

“Maybe a little.” But her eyes said differently. He saw concentration, heated thought. Anything but fear.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?” she said.

He nodded. Whatever had shook her up, she’d quickly recovered and did not want to discuss it.

But the question remained.

Melschoi rubbed the stubs of his two fingers lost to frostbite over eighteen months earlier, warding off the shooting pain that foretold an impending storm. He praised the gods for his good fortune, grateful to be moving on his motorcycle instead of caught in traffic. As he headed toward the intersection, he’d received a call from Feng Qi’s man, his Yang Cheng insider. It was the fourth such call he’d received from the man.

“Authorities intercepted communication from a Berthold Group executive,” the man reported. “A woman, Chu, is handling the ransom drop. She is to go to a store along Nanjing Road to receive proof the hostages live.”

“What store?”

“Is unknown.”

“Your team will be watching?”

“Nanjing Road is long. Many stores.”

“Here is how it will work: if your team spots her, you will call me immediately. If I should call you, you will report seeing the woman where I tell you.”

The line remained open.

“I have your wallet. Your address. The address of your family,” Melschoi said, reminding the man, not appreciating his hesitancy. “Do not think. Just do.”

“Feng has given police a video of the woman.”

“Why?”

“Figure it out.”

The man disconnected the call.

The ransom drop was set. Feng wanted the Chu woman arrested before the ransom could be paid.

Melschoi felt poised on the verge of a great success. The bee would not be far from the honey. He could nearly taste the air of the steppes. Could see his children’s smiles.

1:00 P.M.

LUWAN DISTRICT

U.S. CONSULATE

The massive blob of forest green and blood red jerked rhythmically across Steve Kozlowski’s computer screen, indicating the steady advance of the approaching typhoon. Kozlowski’s eyes narrowed. His daughter, Tucker, enjoying a holiday from the Shanghai Community International School, was at a play date with a friend. He was considering calling their driver, Peng, and having Tucker picked up before the storm hit. At that moment, his phone rang.

“Kozlowski,” he answered.

“I’m close to making a deal on the bike,” the voice on the other end said.

He heard a series of soft clicks and a change in the voice quality as Knox said, “You still there?”

Kozlowski slid open his desk drawer and glanced at the white iPhone taken from the hospitalized imposter. He’d placed a call on the phone to test it. He recognized the sound of the service-shifting sound quality that made the call impossible to trace or eavesdrop. That Knox possessed such a phone surprised him.

“I warned you there might come a time I couldn’t help you. That time has arrived.” He eased the drawer shut.

“Don’t hang up! Please. Is this line secure?”

“What do you think? How about on your end?” he said knowingly.

Knox didn’t answer.

“I was shown some video of a Westerner putting the hurt on some locals. Not once, but twice. I don’t take kindly to being called to task by the city police.”

Knox wasn’t going to lie to him, so he said nothing.

“Word to the wise: the Chinese have the most advanced face recognition system out there. On your way out of the country, stay away from the airports and train stations and keep your head down when out on the streets. You’re a marked man, Knox. I would get the hell out of Dodge while the getting’s good.”

“The guys were Mongolians, not Chinese,” Knox said, wondering if the face recognition explained his being tracked to the wet market. “Hired muscle working for a Beijing big with unusual financial ties to The Berthold Group. One of these goons has a commercial quality hi-def video camera hidden in his wall. Ring any bells?”

Kozlowski held the phone away while attempting to calm himself. He returned the phone to his ear. Knox was still talking.

“-interest you.”

“Say again.”

“A video camera. Expensive, though banged up and still able to play its contents. I thought maybe that might interest you. It’s engraved-‘property of Road Worthy Film and Video Supply in Glendale, California.’”

“I am aware of the stolen property. Yes.”

“This being China, I thought we might negotiate.”

“I’m listening.”

“I need safe passage for four.”

A long hesitation. “The U.S. government is not in the practice of-”

“You’re either interested or not. It’ll be later today. Evening. Maybe into the night. You can, or can’t?”

Kozlowski had worked hard through a career that currently involved paperwork and e-mails where once it had meant working the backstreets of Nairobi or Delhi. God, how he’d loved the work as an operative. That marriage and a child had made him more cautious, more career-motivated, was a personal tragedy of sorts. He envied Knox his predicament, understood the importance of his own role, yet had no desire to annul all the tedious hours that had led to this moment: four years from retirement at the age of forty-nine. A lifetime ahead. But the video camera and what it represented was a gold ring. Solving the disappearance of the cameraman was paramount.

“I’ll evaluate the video camera,” Kozlowski said.

“After my friends and I are safely out of here.”

A pause. “If you get yourself arrested, I’m left with nothing. No deal. The camera. Then I’ll do what I can.”

The subtle shifting of tone punctuated the line.

“Can it be done?” Knox asked.

“A contact could be arranged. How it works out…well, no promises. This is China.”

“What kind of contact?”

“I give you a company number to dial. It’s a real estate front. I can walk you through it.”

Company number. CIA, Knox realized. “So start walking,” he said.

“First the location of the camera. I’ll sit on it until I hear from you, or I hear you’ve been taken into custody. But I must have it in advance. Those are the terms.”

Knox described the narrow lane in the Muslim quarter. He told Kozlowski it would be easier to lead him there in person.

“This is my city, Knox.” He took several minutes to walk Knox through making contact with the company.

“You still owe me a motorcycle,” Kozlowski said, ending the call.

2:30 P.M.

“I e-mailed product inquiry to store,” Randy said over the phone in his chopped English. “The store e-mailed me back. This gives IP address and routing in the source code.”

“Which means?” Knox said, his patience taxed.

“It was your idea to track possible video transmission to source.”

“What’s that got to do with e-mail?”

“Technical matter only. This helps me. You. No problem for you. Tracing video back to source will take time. Maybe quarter hour. Maybe half.”

“That’s too long,” Knox said. He could picture himself arriving to find Danner and Lu Hao ten minutes dead. “The minute they send that video-providing they do at all-I’ll have less than thirty minutes to arrive at the location.”

“It is possible…”

“Go on,” Knox encouraged when Randy failed to say more.

“You see, if I am this person I would test bandwidth ahead of time. Maybe one hour. Maybe thirty minutes ahead. Be certain transmission goes successful.”

“Which gives me the time I need.”

“Yes. It is true.”

It was a hell of a risk to take.

“And if they e-mail a video instead of a live transmission?” Knox asked.

“File size very large. But e-mail moves in packets. This piece here. That piece there. All pieces join and arrive to your computer. Make problem for us.”

Knox had surveyed the electronics store to be used for POL. In the front window was a television and camera setup that showed the window shopper standing on the sidewalk looking in. The moment he’d spotted the arrangement, he’d pictured the hostages being shown on that same television. The kidnappers could have a second camera, or a team watching the streets making sure Grace was alone. It struck him as a quick and efficient way to deliver the proof-of-life. They’d used video twice before. People stuck to what they were comfortable with.

“Maybe I make suggestion?”

“Go ahead,” Knox said.

“I could crash the store’s e-mail server. This would then force them to use live video.”

Knox worried the effort might tip their hand and told Randy so. Better to leave them believing it was business as usual.