The Risk Agent

20

3:43 P.M.

LUWAN DISTRICT

SHANGHAI

The KFC franchise on Huaihai Middle Road was well over its legal seating limit by the time Steve Kozlowski pushed his way inside.

Inspector Shen stood at a counter along the wall, eschewing the window area. He had shoulders as wide as a vending machine.

Kozlowski abandoned the idea of waiting in any of the lines, all thirty people long, simply for the sake of appearances. He cut through the crowd, making directly for the man. He was not easily intimidated. He’d spent his career in remote outposts of the world managing others and learning to put the fear of God into them. But the presence of Inspector Shen raised his hackles. The People’s Armed Police was a department unto itself, reporting to no one. Its officers wielded too much power, often worked unsupervised and were known to hide their deeds. The closer he got to the man, the more he felt his intensity.

They acknowledged each other with a nod. The din in the place covered their low voices.

Kozlowski said, “The video camera’s been found.”

Shen looked him in the eye. Kozlowski saw nothing in there, like squinting into an empty steel pipe.

“I have an address, but am not free to turn it over for at least a few more hours. I wanted to give you time to pull your men together.”

“No men,” Inspector Shen said. “Only me.”

Kozlowski had never heard of People’s Armed Police officers working solo. It caused him to wonder if he weren’t speaking to an MSS agent-Ministry of State Security, the Chinese equivalent of the CIA.

“First the hand, now the camera-found in bad condition, by the way,” Kozlowski said. “It does not bode well for the camera’s operator. We would like to find him as much as you would.”

“For different reasons,” Shen said. “I will expect your cooperation in this matter.”

Both men knew that was unlikely. Volunteering the camera was as close as Kozlowski would go. Pursuing such evidence in the name of the U.S. government was impossible without serious repercussions. As much as he might have wanted to, his hands were tied by embassy protocol.

“I will pass along location the moment I can. If he’s found dead, I request a thorough investigation that includes my people.”

“As agreed previously. Yes.”

It had long since occurred to Kozlowski that Shen had killed the man himself and was in the process of unofficially cleaning up his own evidence. Such a scenario prevented Kozlowski from getting too knowledgeable about the case without the risk of his scooter being hit by an army truck.

“How certain are you the camera is his?”

“I have not seen it,” Kozlowski clarified. “However, from what I’ve been told, it could be no other.”

Shen shot the man a look. “He has violated the terms of his visa,” the man said. His use of present tense made it sound as if a man with no hand and no camera might still be alive. If the cameraman was already in custody and the Chinese were seeking evidence to bring charges, then Kozlowski was playing directly into their hands. The smell of the deep-fat fryers was getting to his stomach. He coughed up some bile. His fucking stomach had been a wreck since a bout with dysentery four months earlier. Jokes about bowel movements were more common in the consulate than blonde jokes.

“Only lies put us in this situation,” Shen said.

“Lies and secrets,” Kozlowski said. They could agree on something.

“You will write down the location for me,” he said. “Please.”

“When I have confirmation,” Kozlowski vamped.

“Now, please. I will not act until I receive your call. My word to you on this.”

Kozlowski understood the fragility of the moment. This man’s word was as reliable as the FBI warning on a bootleg DVD. But cooperation between governments and departments of those governments transcended individual need. It was the same whether in Somalia or Athens. Or Shanghai: he could get more from creating long-term good relations with the PAP than he ever could from saving the hide of John Knox. He was gaining guanxi, the most elusive and important aspect of any Chinese business relationship.

Kozlowski hesitated only briefly as he took out his pen and wrote down the address on a KFC napkin. He hoped he had not just signed Knox’s death warrant.