The Risk Agent

27

5:07 P.M.

HUANGPU DISTRICT

To the right of the number 3 entrance of the Nanjing Road East Metro station was an unmarked, oversized black metal door pasted with stickers for music albums, American guitar and amplifier manufacturers, and posters for local rock bands, a door easily overlooked.

Grace knocked and the door was opened by a bald, middle-aged man with a crooked but flat nose and clear eyes. From behind him came the muted but grating strains of heavy-metal rock and roll being played grossly out of tune. The man recognized her from earlier when she and Knox had rented the underground practice room. He swung open the heavy door, admitting her to a landing and a set of dimly lit metal stairs.

She was sixty feet underground by the time she reached a long concrete corridor, passing through a pair of blast doors hung on heavy hinges. An overhead tube light flickered with each pulse of the music, not one band, but two or three.

This was but one of the dozens of such bomb shelters built under Mao to house city residents and his army in fear of a Soviet missile strike. The memory of the Japanese occupation and slaughter had never left the Chinese consciousness and never would. Some of the bunkers were now open as mini-museums around the city. Others, like this, had been taken over by squatters and were open for commerce-rehearsal space for wannabe rock stars.

She reached bunker number 4 and opened another heavy metal door-appropriate to the music thumping down the hallway. She moved inside and shut it behind herself.

The room smelled foully of sweat, cigarettes and stale hefan. Eggshell foam rubber was glued to the gray concrete walls. Carpet samples covered the floor. Electric conduit and outlets had been crudely retrofitted. Two dim compact fluorescent lightbulbs hung from the ceiling.

It had come to this, she thought: hiding out in a hole dug underground like some kind of animal. Reduced to lie and bribe one’s way into a small, dismal room, all because of another’s lying and bribing. Evil begets evil. She felt a shudder of release swell within her-grief, sorrow, the aftershock of the adrenaline that had built up during the ransom run; her failure of having moved around the city with nothing but newspaper inside the duffel. How would that affect Knox and his efforts at extraction?

Wet and shivering, she glanced over at the closed door, wondering when Knox might arrive, or if, by losing track of the money, she’d compromised their mission.

5:26 P.M.

Knox delivered Lu Hao and Danner to the subterranean music rooms, arranging for Grace to care for Danner and keep a close eye on the turncoat, Lu Hao.

Few words passed between him and Grace. The contrition with which she’d met him at the bunker door told him she knew Lu Hao’s story-a realization that sucked Knox’s lungs dry. He couldn’t make sense of her expression, couldn’t reason his way to how she might possibly know; but she didn’t so much as flinch at the sight of Lu’s hands bound, and she treated him like a wet dog as she dragged him inside.

“Later,” Knox said, patting the duffel bag containing one hundred thousand dollars.

“Where are you going?” she called out.

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” he returned.

Knox arrived at the Muslim quarter dressed in the pale blue jumpsuit worn by city sweepers and trash collectors. He carried a Nike duffel bag. His face was covered with the ubiquitous surgical mask worn against smog. Along with the brim of a ball cap pulled down low, he hid his race as best as possible.

The duffel was somewhat out of place on a street sweeper. But with the start of the National Day holiday, no one paid attention to anyone else: it was every man for himself.

He splashed through the rain-flooded lane, the full force of the approaching typhoon yet to arrive, moving toward the Mongolian’s small apartment.

He was less concerned with the Mongolian, and far more with the police or whoever Kozlowski had likely already sold him out to, for he knew he’d been thrown under the bus. He’d traded Kozlowski the Mongolian’s address for a chance to leave the country-and had filled Danner in on the details of the contact in case he didn’t make it back to the bomb shelter. But the final piece of the frame was worth the risk. If the kidnapping and ransom collection fell onto the Mongolian, neither he nor Grace-nor Lu Hao!-would be accused of involvement. Furthermore, Kozlowski seemed the only one powerful enough to get Dulwich out of the country in one piece.

He moved down the narrow lane quickly now, feeling eyes boring into his back.

Knox broke off the tip of the switchblade, jimmying the Mongolian’s lock and getting the door open, but was inside without too much telltale damage to the jamb. He relocked it behind himself, and made quick work of opening the wall panel that hid the video camera and Chinese currency he’d seen here before. He removed the disk from the video camera-evidence that might come in handy-and pocketed four 10,000-yuan packs of currency, enough cash to buy favor. The space was too small to accept the full duffel, leaving Knox no choice but to take the time to unpack the dollars and stack them into the available space in an orderly fashion. When completed, it looked as if the wall was insulated with hundred-dollar bills. He folded and stuffed the empty duffel into the remaining space inside. Neat and tidy.

He was tightening the panel’s last screw when he heard the splash of footfalls in the alley. They came to a stop by the door to the room.

Knox grabbed a pair of socks and rubbed out his wet tracks that led to the wall panel. No matter what, the Mongolian must not discover the cash ahead of the police. The lock rattled. Knox slid open a dresser drawer and messed up the contents to give the impression he’d been rummaging.

The door swung open. Rain blew in from behind the Mongolian. The man withdrew a blade.

Knox wrapped his left hand in a T-shirt from the drawer.

“Do you know why I’m here?” Knox asked in Mandarin.

“I think you wish to negotiate. But you have nothing I want. Except your life, of course. I want to end that. Badly,” the Mongolian answered.

“I have Lu Hao and his accounts,” Knox said, dropping it like a bombshell.

“I think otherwise.”

“I can make a call.”

“Why buy what I can take?” the man said.

“Because you don’t know where he is,” Knox answered.

“Oh, but I will in a matter of minutes. That, or you will be dead. Either way it is satisfactory to me. You have been a pain in the ass, eBpon. I will be glad to be rid of you, if that is your choice.”

“You will kill him,” Knox said.

The Mongolian laughed a legitimate laugh. He shrugged.

“But not until you have his accounts.”

“You are less stupid than you look, Round Eyes.”

Knox did not speak as the Mongolian shut and locked the door behind himself, his manner relaxed, his demeanor calm. The man understood strategy-he made no move toward Knox. Instead, he blocked the only way out. Knox would have to come to him, giving the Mongolian a formidable advantage.

Knox backed up a step; a man that size would have a hell of a reach. The room felt impossibly small.

“We have interests in common,” Knox said. “You want Lu Hao gone. I want Lu Hao out of the country. Tonight, if possible.”

“You have caused me much trouble,” the Mongolian said.

“You exaggerate. I am but one man up against many.”

The Mongolian huffed. “Your math amuses me. I counted four at the hair salon. And then there is the one you put in the hospital by making that stupid switch.”

“You put him in the hospital,” Knox said. “I owe you for that.”

“I am standing right here,” the Mongolian said.

Knox charged, his left hand outstretched to take the blade that winked as the big man wielded it. Knox struck him with his shoulder and drove him into the door. The knife flashed, nicking Knox’s cheek. He blocked the second swipe, but was cut on the arm.

A flurry of knife thrusts, blocks and counterpunches. They were well matched-Knox’s speed and agility against the Mongolian’s power.

Knox had fought such men. He appreciated the challenge at hand; he wasn’t often the underdog. He understood the punch he had to land had to be effective. The Mongolian would expect the jaw. All fighters expected the blow to the jaw, and worked to defend against it. But Knox would break his fingers and hand on a jaw like that, all for winning a few loose teeth. The routine required of him was like a physical chess game; he had to work the abdomen and the groin, trying to pull the man’s arms down in defense, trying to open the jaw and make the man focus on its defense as well, all of it a ruse to gain an opening to the heart punch. You didn’t stop a truck by smashing its windshield or even popping its tires-you killed the engine.

Like his colleagues, the Mongolian had been trained as a wrestler. Knox had the advantage of that knowledge. A big man, he was also likely accustomed to throwing people around at will. By blocking the doorway, he trapped himself in the corner of the ring-up against the ropes. Knox used this against him, throwing punches, dancing back and trying to tease the man out into the more open space of the room. He dodged well-delivered knife thrusts, wincing with two more cuts, both on his wrists.

Knox landed a good blow just inside the man’s hip joint. It had to hurt. The Mongolian’s face went scarlet and he craned forward, unable to stand straight. He’d pee blood for that one. He swung out with the knife a little clumsily, still trying to catch his breath.

Knox took advantage of the opening and punished his lower ribs, feeling one crack.

The Mongolian roared, and Knox knew he’d scored. He’d ticked him off as well; lost composure was a lost fight. Knox landed a third straight blow, low on the man’s abdomen, just above the lower pelvic bone. The Mongolian, understanding his vulnerability bent over as he was, overreacted and stood up too quickly.

Knox finally had his opening. He stepped forward, risking the close quarters, and delivered the heart punch as if trying to put his fist out the man’s back.

The Mongolian’s eyes rolled back in their sockets as his heart skipped a beat. He went down like the air had been let out of him.

Knox stole the man’s phone but left his ID for the police to find. He pulled the door shut behind him. He tried to run, but he was spent. He crossed his arms to hide the blood and walked briskly.

He texted Kozlowski, believing it an act of futility. But a promise was a promise, and he needed Kozlowski’s connections to get Dulwich free.

the camera is yours

5:30 P.M.

Shen Deshi spotted the waiguoren, still wearing the same street sweeper’s blue coveralls that he’d worn on the way in. He came out of the lane and joined the horde.

He’d spotted him on the way in, not because of the sanitation worker coveralls, but because of his height and the spring to his step.

Shen understood the importance of criminal informers, knew this man was significant to Kozlowski. The police and secret police thrived off information gleaned from such sources. The waiguoren matched the description of a man they were looking for. To collar him would be a credit to all other Iron Hands and would put Shen in good favor with his superiors. But ultimately, his department’s relationship with the Americans superseded any one arrest. He had given his word he would not move until contacted. He did not move.

When, only minutes later, he received the highly anticipated call from Kozlowski, Shen referenced the police captain’s business card and phoned him. He reported to the captain that he’d seen the wanted waiguoren only minutes earlier. He provided cross streets.

“Once he is arrested, I would appreciate the sharing of any information the suspect may volunteer.”

“Yes, of course, sir. Any such information will be immediately forthcoming.” The captain sounded like a man given a second chance at life.

A favorite credo of Inspector Shen’s: why do the dirty work when others will do it for you? He’d let the worried captain beat the shit out of the foreigner and keep the blood off his own hands.

Now he moved with deliberate haste down the crumbling lane to the Mongolian’s door. He never considered knocking; he threw the sole of his shoe into the door and it exploded inward.

The Mongolian sat on the edge of the floor mat that served as his bed. He raised his head defensively, hands out in front, but the fight had been beaten out of him. Shen could see it in his eyes.

“Special Police,” he said slowly in Mandarin. “You understand?” He displayed his ID. “If you strike me-”

The Mongolian swung his right leg deceptively fast. Shen blocked it and undercut the effort by hooking the man’s leg. He threw the Mongolian over backward. Shen placed his foot into the man’s crotch and kneeled, pinning the arm holding the knife. With his free hand, he seized the man by the throat. “If you strike me,” he began again, “you will face charges and serious jail time, you yak-fucking Mongol piece of shit. You understand?”

The Mongolian glared.

Shen could feel his opponent’s strength returning.

He rolled the man over and cuffed him, facedown.

“You so much as twitch,” Shen said, “and I’ll use your own knife to castrate you.”

He searched the small room methodically and quickly, coming across the panel in no time. He used the Mongol’s knife as a screwdriver and loosened the screws. U.S. currency fell out as the panel gave way.

“What the fuck?” the Mongol moaned.

Shen complimented the waiguoren. He’d underestimated the man’s resourcefulness. An excellent strategy! He’d have to compliment the man once the police captain had had the snot beaten out of him.

His day was looking up.

There, behind all the money, he located his prize: the video camera. He smiled privately. Nearly a week of gumshoe work and worry, and now this. He took a photograph of it in the secreted hole with his phone’s camera. Several more as he emptied the cash into a duffel lying there. The Mongol was screwed: the duffel would no doubt show up on one or more surveillance tapes involving the ransom drop. The waiguoren had framed this guy well.

“This is not mine!” the Mongolian shouted.

“Shut your hole!” Shen hollered. “Fuck but it’s a lot of money.”

Shen considered the amount. It had to be fifty, sixty, seventy thousand U.S. dollars. A fortune. Retirement passing through his hands. He had carefully navigated a career prone to bribery, had turned it down, waiting his turn. Instead, he’d worked the system using guanxi and favor. But this amount…his throat went dry at the thought. He regarded the piece of shit on the floor. Temptation plagued him.

Even more currency in yuan: perhaps two hundred thousand.

He discovered a plastic bag containing a Mongolian passport, some family photographs and a small amount of Mongolian currency. Alongside the passport was a policeman’s ID wallet.

The sight of it stopped him briefly.

“Ah ha!” he said. “I see we are brothers.” He sat down on the mat, surrounded by money-drugged by it-the Mongol’s head at his feet. “So let me ask you this, brother: put yourself in my position. All this cash. You are alone with a suspect who is a spineless kidnapper, an illegal foreigner, and, by the existence of this camera, more than likely a murderer. Huh? Do you wait for the long arm of justice, or take matters into you own hands?”

The Mongol shook his head and squirmed.

“For the sake of conversation,” Shen said. “Humor me. What’s your next move?” He eyed the money. Five years salary? Ten? Twenty? He’d avoided the penny-ante stuff all these years, but now the jackpot. Was he supposed to turn it over to someone only to have them make it disappear, and maybe him along with it, just to tidy things up? He could strike a compromise: share it with a superior and ensure no one questioned his sudden retirement.

“Actionable intelligence,” Shen said. “You tell me all you know and then we take a drive, you and me. Okay, brother? A small ferry on the Huangpu. A man I know. If I am happy with your cooperation, I deliver you to the police over in Pudong. If I am not happy…then no one can save you.”

“I have someone I have to call,” the Mongolian said. “One call and we are both rich, and you promoted. This, I promise.”

“A call?”

“To Beijing.”

Shen Deshi’s blood flowed hot. What had he walked into? Beijing?

He eyed the money, and then regarded his hostage, wondering what to believe.