The Risk Agent (19 page)

A choke point.

“How many?”

“Five, all told.”

That left three in good health. “The reason I ask,” Grace said, “is that I would rather not be seen by the one that owes me. He is not pleasant.”

“All rough men.”

“Yes,” Grace said. “Mongolians are rough.”

The woman did not contradict her. “In pairs,” she said. “Roommates. The leader lives by himself.”

“Leader?”

“They travel like a pack of dogs.”

“Yes.” Grace assembled the data, wondering how far to push it. “Two rooms,” she proposed.

The woman’s icy stare was difficult to read.

Grace sensed she’d overstayed her welcome. “You have been generous with me, dear lady.”

“Not at all,” the woman said.

Grace backed away. The woman stopped her.

“Again. My advice? Forgive the debt. Do not deal with these dogs. We—those of us in the lane—leave them to themselves.”

Grace nodded. “Peace be with you.”

“And you.”

The woman pushed the door shut.

The lane guard had lit a cigarette and sat himself down on a stool by a pair of potted plants and smoked. He’d been watching, but out of earshot.

Grace moved on, a moment later leaving the lane and entering onto a busy street. She walked a block before crossing and joining Knox on the scooter.

“Well?” Knox said.

“Drive,” she ordered. “I’ll tell you as we go.”

Knox pulled out into traffic and Grace wrapped her arms around him. She let go, jerked back and cried out softly.

“Knox! Knox!” Her left hand was smeared with his blood. She held it out to his side on display for him.

“I’ll be damned!” he said.

“You are bleeding.”

“I know that.”

“You did not tell me!” She shouted to be heard over the engine.

“Adrenaline,” he said, as if that explained anything.

“We go to your place at once.”

“We can’t,” he said. “Our visitors. Remember? In the lane? They know that location now. Eight-oh-eight is out. I cannot return. And we can’t go to your place either. You were compromised when we fought them. They followed you, possibly from the party, but you went back to your place.” She didn’t contradict him. “So they have your apartment. They have the guesthouse. They want us, or they wouldn’t have come after us like that. Neither of us is going home.”

She considered what he said for several long seconds. “I know a place,” she said. “We can go there and decide what to do later.”

“It can’t be a friend.”

“It’s a service apartment rental. But not with the best reputation.”

“But you know it, first hand?”

“I know it. I have stayed there.” She thought back to Lu Jian.

Service apartments, with kitchens and maid service, were used for long-term stays by traveling businessmen in lieu of more expensive hotel rooms.

“That could work,” he said.

“We must hurry,” she said, panic rising in her voice. “You are bleeding badly.”

He had her trigger now: the sight of blood. Everyone had one. His was abuse: the strong taking advantage of the weak. It left him sick.

“Honestly,” he said, leaning back to call out to her, “I didn’t even know it was there. I’m fine.”

“You are bleeding, John. Bleeding badly. Pull over. I will make a call. Then I drive.”

She’d called him by his given name for the first time. He smiled through an unexpected wince of pain as she held to him tightly while he pulled the scooter to the side of the road.

8:00 A.M.

JING AN TEMPLE

JING AN DISTRICT

SHANGHAI

Melschoi paid a sorry-looking vendor seven yuan for a bundle of incense, cursing the amount under his breath, and entered the dimly lit temple. The cross-legged, gold-leafed Buddha rose thirty feet high, surrounded at the knees by pomelo fruit and fresh flowers. The fragrant smoke hung heavily in the air, wrapping the idol’s shoulders like a scarf.

Melschoi was not there to worship, but because one of his two remaining uninjured men was assigned to survey Yang Construction’s security man, No Nuts Feng. His man had followed Feng into an alley behind Quintet and had watched as a woman and an American had pummeled both Feng and another man.

Melschoi’s spy had held back but had subsequently lost the two in traffic—in Melschoi’s mind a punishable offense. That left him Quintet, and the night watchman Melschoi had just followed to the temple.

There was probably a Chinese proverb about there being more than one way to skin a cat, but Melschoi didn’t want to hear it.

His Beijing boss was so well connected that he had ears in every keyhole. How long until he learned of the compounded mistakes Melschoi and his men were making? How long until he cut bait? And what then? A bone crusher sent for him in the night? Police? Arrest? Melschoi had no leverage over his Beijing employer—knew nothing but that the money was good and it kept coming.

Despite his agnosticism, Melschoi took a moment to pray for the opportunity and funds to return to his homeland and make things right for his family.

The subsequent talk with the night watchman came down to what everything in this city came down to: money. Melschoi offered five hundred yuan and the man was ready to give him his first-born.

The foreigner had had a lady visitor at the guesthouse that same night. The woman had waited for him and had engaged in typical bar conversation with the barmaid. The conversation had centered on jewelry because the guest owned a pearl shop in International Pearl City in Hongqiao.

Melschoi would have words with this woman. He would know all she knew about this American and what the man wanted with Lu Hao. She was all he had. She, not this gold idol, was to be his savior.

And everyone knew the fate of all saviors. They were sacrificed.

9:00 A.M.

CHANGNING DISTRICT

SHANGHAI

“Wo de tian!” Grace led the way into the furnished service apartment, having secured it as easily and nearly as quickly as a hotel room. The biggest threat came from having to show identification; Grace had gotten around this by implying she and Knox were having an affair. For a negotiated price, the landlord had supplied the ID. She carried several shopping bags with her, having made stops along the way.

The floor was a hideous marble tile; the furniture, black leather and aluminum; the lighting, recessed halogen. The view was of another tower across a lane.

Grace pulled the drapes and blinds.

Blood caked his hand as Knox slipped out of the ScotteVest, his shirt damp with it. “I could use your help, if you have the stomach for it.”

She backed up a step, repelled by the sight of his bloody shirt.

He pulled off his sticky T-shirt with some difficulty. Grace stepped up to help him. She turned away at sight of the wound.

“It looks worse than it is.”

“You’ve been stabbed.”

“Yes,” Knox said, fingering it. Two older scars, one on his chest, one across his ribs, looked much worse. “The guy jumped me. He landed one before I reacted. My bad. Can you help?”

Knox moved into the bathroom and she followed, carrying one of the bags. With her looking on, he washed the wound and dried it. He grimaced as he stabbed an antibacterial pad deep into the wound and left it there for a count of thirty. Squeezed a bead of gel into the edges of the wound and turned to Grace. Her color had returned; she didn’t look the least put off.

She snipped the applicator on the end of a tube of Super Glue.

“You hold it closed for me,” he suggested.

“I will apply the glue,” she said. “You hold it closed. You need stitches.”

“This will work.” He pointed out his two scars. “Stitches. No stitches, only glue.” The glued scar was gnarly and thick.

He pinched the skin together as tight as he could get it. “Go.” He held it as still as possible for five minutes. Some of the two-inch wound held shut; some pulled back open. Three applications later, he was sealed shut.

“How did you get these scars?” she asked.

“Most are shrapnel. Dulwich and I…we were in convoy when an IED, a bomb, took out the road. Sarge’s vehicle took the brunt of it. I caught some metal.”

“You went after him.” She made it a statement.

“Those two years…that’s most of my scars. You start out that kind of work thinking you’re bulletproof. You end up waiting for your contract to expire.”

“So Mr. Dulwich owes you.”

“It doesn’t work like that. Americans don’t think like that.”

“Everyone thinks like that.”

“Tell me about the Mongolians,” he said.

She seemed tempted not to change the subject, but relented. “Five, all living in the lane.”

“And Lu Hao paid a visit to one of them.”

“So it would seem,” she said.

“For a large payoff, according to Danny.”

“No way around needing Lu Hao’s books,” she said. “We must not lose focus.”

“It’s a work in progress. Danny’s hard drive may help us there. But the Mongolians mean something. Are they just after their share? Could it be that simple?”

“Why not?”

“Or are they working for the police? Or State Security? Someone who could obtain the proper documents for them.”

“Freelance? It is possible. In that case, for what you’ve done to them…”

“It would explain their watching Lu’s apartment,” Knox said. “They’re keeping tabs on you and me because we showed up there. Maybe they think you’re the next Lu Hao and they want to make sure you know they’re due their share.”

“It would be easier to speak with me. No need to follow.”

“Yeah, I know,” Knox said. He didn’t like it either.

She’d already told him about the green motorcycle.

“So they beat the crap out of the Sherpa.”

“Hoping to find Lu Hao.”

“But like us, it’s just an empty warehouse. So they keep an eye on the Sherpa and we come along. By now they know an American has taken out two of them. That makes us persons of interest to them.”

“Or targets.”

Knox moved only slightly and winced with the pain.

“The incentive budget would have increased to account for the Mongolian payment. Your Mr. Danner said it was a recent addition. That money must be accounted for. The Berthold EOY records should account for it.”

“There’s always just asking Marquardt about it.”

“He would not know such details. He is insulated from the particulars. Preston Song, perhaps.”

“Can you talk to Song?”

“I would prefer to see the company financials first. The more I know, the more hard information I have, the more leverage.”

He heard the frustration in her voice.

“Lu’s books,” Knox said.

“Yes. His accounting of the incentives should answer many of our questions. His accounting is currency. Whoever has that information, whoever controls it, has the real power.”

“So, if nothing else, we get it for that reason: to protect it.”

“To keep it from others,” Grace said.

“Works for me.”

“Mr. Marquardt has yet to provide me the end-of-year accounting. I do not know if this is intentional or simply neglect. Perhaps it is significant. Perhaps not.”

“Above my pay grade,” he said, feeling his wound. He wanted sleep. “If I had to bet, Danny got himself a copy of Lu’s payouts within the first week of his covering Lu. It’s how he rolls.”

“So it makes sense for me to do a thorough study of the hard drive’s contents,” Grace said. “I am an expert with such data. But, unfortunately, I’m not finding the data on the hard drive in the first place.”

“We can find somebody to help.”

“Your friend,” she said, disgustedly.

Knox remained motionless to allow the Super Glue to set.

“Did you get beer?”

She returned with two open beers. They drank together.

“I must attempt to engage Preston Song. Also, Mr. Marquardt, if possible.”

“You must take every precaution,” he said.

“Yes. Of course. Off site, if I can manage.”

“We have three known groups we’re dealing with: the Mongolians; Yang’s boys; and this government cop, Shen. That’s a lot of possible eyeballs on you.”

“Understood.”

He liked the way her throat moved as she drank.

He said, “And only one of me watching your entrance and exit. Our best and only real shot at identifying your surveillants.”

“I will arrange off site,” she repeated. “Away from the office. I arrive early, leave late.”

He was going to point out that her earlier mistake had led to the attack in the alley, but she didn’t strike him as a person who wanted or needed such reminders. Still, as he pieced it together, he couldn’t help himself.

“Yang’s men must have overheard your ranting about me taking the GPS from you,” he said.

She looked struck. “I had not considered.”

“Nor I. But that’s why they hit us with force: they knew we had Danny’s GPS.”

“My apartment,” she said.

“There’s something I haven’t mentioned,” he said. “A guy thing. The way Yang Cheng and his bodyguard looked at you at the cocktail party. It wasn’t casual. It was…all-knowing.”

She stared at him. “I do not understand.”

“There’s checking out a woman, and then there’s the X-ray vision thing. The full body scan. The snicker. Boys in the treehouse. These two had seen you.”

“Of course. They were looking at me.”

“Had seen you in…private. Your apartment, I’m thinking.”

She pursed her lips.

“Listen. They were ogling you.”

He saw her shiver.

“We might be able to use that,” Knox said.

Her eyes pleaded for him to stop.

“I need to call Sarge and let him know we’re blown,” Knox said.

“And injured.”

“He can inform Marquardt.”

“I will take care of that when I see him and Preston Song. John, I am sorry for this. It is my fault.”

He didn’t disagree with her. “The assault. After the hurt we put on Yang Cheng’s guys…even though they won’t report it to the police, there’s a good chance the police will hear about it. Way too many eyes in this city. So we can add the police to the list of people to avoid.”

He chugged down half his beer. “Face recognition.” He burped. “Sarge warned me. We need to take care.”