The Risk Agent (20 page)

She sipped from the bottle. “When he hears of your injury, Mr. Dulwich will order you back to Hong Kong.”

“So he won’t hear. Besides, I don’t answer to Sarge.”

“We both answer to Mr. Dulwich,” she corrected. “He is our immediate superior.”

“It’s a cultural thing,” he said.

“I believe we will be recalled.”

He scoffed. “Let me ask you this: if they ‘recall’ us, are you going to leave Lu Hao behind?”

She nursed the beer, eyes probing over the curve of the bottle.

“Me neither,” Knox said.

13

12:10 P.M.

TOMORROW SQUARE

SHANGHAI

The White Lotus, located on the twenty-seventh floor of the Marriott Tower in Tomorrow Square, had a dozen private rooms off its central dining room. Each private room had an expansive view of the city. A private waitstaff came and went; only the headwaiter remained in the room, arms behind his back, standing rigidly in the corner.

Allan Marquardt dismissed him. The round table could accommodate ten. Three was somewhat awkward. Preston Song sat slightly closer to Marquardt than to Grace, isolating her from the center of power. A soft forty-something with piggish eyes, Song wore a glorious blue suit, a gold tie pin and a leering look of displeasure.

Grace updated them on the Sherpa’s connection and her possessing Danner’s GPS locations all in an effort to gain the elusive end-of-year accounting.

“From what you’ve told us, you’ve clearly made progress,” Marquardt said. “We’re encouraged by that.”

“I understand you have done well with negotiations,” she said.

“Yes.”

Preston Song studied her distrustfully.

Grace collected her thoughts and sought a professional and confident tone. “In our pursuit of Lu Hao’s accounts, and location, my associate and I have questioned those people on Lu Hao’s route—those receiving incentives. I am afraid none is a candidate for Lu Hao’s kidnapper. During this process, we were made aware of a recent payment added to Lu Hao’s route.” She watched for reaction. Marquardt smirked. Preston Song revealed nothing.

“If we are to be effective, we need to know who these people are, and the purpose of the payment.” She paused, waiting.

Song was too practiced to allow anything to show on his face.

She said, “The first of two payments occurred on or before the tenth of last month,” having gleaned the date from the voice memo on Danner’s GPS.

Song’s eyes were fixed as she imagined him working out what to say.

“My dear girl,” Song said, “as we approach the conclusion of a project the size and scope of the Xuan Tower, it is only natural that unforeseen expenses arise.”

“Additional incentives must be paid. Understandable,” she said, knowing then that Song oversaw the payment of incentives for The Berthold Group, and acted as a buffer, protecting Marquardt.

“The point is,” she continued, “these men have taken an active interest in our efforts to find Mr. Lu. Knowing their exact role is crucial. If I may be direct: we need to know if they are friends or enemies. To date, they are behaving much like enemies.”

A knock on the door interrupted her. Song wore an irritable expression as a wave of servers delivered dim sum. Tea was poured. As quickly as the servers arrived, they were gone. The food moved around on a lazy Susan, propelled by Marquardt’s hand. Plates were filled.

“What was the purpose of these payments?” she asked.

Marquardt rested his chopsticks on the small porcelain lift alongside his fork, his appetite apparently gone.

“Your line of questioning is growing impertinent,” Song said.

“This information is central to our task and to our safety,” Grace said. “Extortion? Blackmail? Might it have to do with the documentary being shot? The missing cameraman?”

Marquardt looked up quickly, his eyes piercing. Song never skipped a beat, eating the dim sum before it went cold.

“The first I heard of the matter was a few days ago,” said Marquardt. “I promise you, we have nothing to do with this.”

“And these most recent payments?”

“As Preston has said: end of project stuff. The usual unforeseen complications.” He paused deliberately for a breath. “We have every hope and intention of getting Mr. Lu back safely. With your help, that is. Certain financial matters need to remain confidential. There are millions of dollars at play, as you can well imagine. If these matters had anything to do with Mr. Lu—anything at all—we would not hesitate for a moment to share them with you. Do you understand? We’re not fools. We want the same thing as you do.”

It occurred to her that Lu Hao might have discovered the film crew. He could not resist anything to do with film. His passion was the reason he—and everyone else—was in this mess. He had put his family on the brink of financial ruin because of his passion.

Song said, “This most recent increase to our subcontractor’s invoice was approved and paid out. Nothing more. The reason we hire such subcontractors is so that someone else handles these complications.”

She knew very well why they hired such subcontractors: so their criminal acts of bribery fell onto others. She bit her tongue.

“Very well. Thank you,” she said.

Marquardt said, “Listen, I’m not going to lie to you: Lu Hao’s accounts of the incentives going public could pose difficulties for us. We want and need to recover those records. But let there be no question about it: first and foremost we want to get Mr. Lu and Mr. Danner back safely, as I’ve said. To that end, we are at your disposal.”

“I would appreciate the end-of-year accounts.”

“I do not see how that will help,” Song said, his mouth full of chewed food, his plate held to his lips.

“I asked for this before,” she said to Marquardt.

“Indeed. I would have expected you to have that by now. Preston, I asked Gail to take care of this. What’s the holdup? You’ll look into this for me, yes?”

“Of course.”

Marquardt sounded legitimately put off. Song worked eagerly on the glass of beer. The man shouldn’t have tried for the shao mai. The tips of his chopsticks shook considerably as he pinched the piece of wonton-wrapped pork and slid it between his wet lips. It was the first sign of cracks in his demeanor.

Grace reveled in the moment. Preston Song had no intention of her seeing the EOY accounts—which made her all the more eager to do so. Marquardt, on the other hand, felt like an ally.

12:50 P.M.

CHANGNING DISTRICT

SHANGHAI

Knox awoke with a start and answered the ringing iPhone.

“Yeah?” he said, looking around for Grace. She’d slept on the couch, where a blanket was now folded. No sign of her. It had to be around noon.

“It’s me.” Dulwich.

“Surprise,” Knox said.

“There’s a wet market on the north side of Julu, east of Xiangyang Road. Bring the hard drive. Ten minutes.”

“More like fifty,” Knox said. “I’m nowhere near there. Had to move.”

“We’ll talk. Bring the hard drive.”

“We?” Knox said. But the call was dead.

A light rain discouraged use of the scooter and made finding a taxi
difficult. Knox was late before he started. An hour after the call, he walked past the wet market on Julu and stole a glance inside. No Caucasians. He wore the ScotteVest, the stain scrubbed clean from around the small slit in its left side. He kept his right hand on a knife in the pocket.

Entering the market, he circulated down aisles of bubbling plastic tubs containing live eel, catfish, perch, jellyfish, minnows, myriad crustaceans; displays of rabbit, pigeon, chickens and carcasses he could not identify.

The market jogged to the right into another, smaller room unseen from the entrance. It appeared empty until Knox spotted a man looming behind a tank thick with a moving coil of fish. The fish spooked and parted. The man’s face appeared.

Dulwich.

He stepped around into the open.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” Knox confessed. “I thought the reason I’m here is because you couldn’t be?” He felt the sting of dread—had Dulwich set him up all along?

“Don’t worry,” Dulwich said. “Technically, it’s not me.” He patted his chest pocket. He was on an alias passport, but still at great risk.

Knox did worry. If Dulwich had been able to enter China, then why recruit him for the job in the first place? As a fall guy, obviously. Someone expendable. So why would Dulwich enter now, when it seemed the risk was heightened over even a few days earlier?

Dulwich took Knox by the arm and led him into a room farther from the street. Gurgling Styrofoam tubs held soft-shelled turtles, frogs and sea urchins. Knox winced with the tug and Dulwich shot him a suspicious look.

“Pulled a muscle,” Knox said.

Dulwich extended his open hand. “The hard drive.”

Knox hesitated. “Seriously: what are you doing here?”

“The drop is still set for the day after tomorrow. We’ve requested a final proof of life just before the drop. You and the girl will make the drop.”

“That’s fine, but it doesn’t explain your being here,” Knox said.

“Since when do I answer to you?” Dulwich said gruffly.

“Since now.”

“I’m here to help you,” Dulwich said.

“You’re here for the hard drive. But last time I checked, you needed me because you couldn’t enter safely.”

“Who said I’m here safely?” Dulwich said. “‘Desperate times, desperate measures,’ and all that shit. I’m here because of Danny. Because of you.”

Knox wasn’t buying it. “Tell me you’ve got my back.”

“I’ve got your back.”

“The Berthold Group doesn’t want a second copy of Lu Hao’s books out there. That’s why the hard drive interests you. Yes?” Knox considered his own comment. “Are you so convinced the hostages will be killed because Danner’s an American, or because The Berthold Group is more interested in getting Lu Hao’s books back than the hostages?”

“Let’s just say I’m playing percentages,” Dulwich said. “Marquardt seems like the real thing to me, but who knows? These fuckers are in it for the money. Right? Danny is not expendable. Not to me. Not to you. That’s why you’re here. Am I right? What do I know? As to why I risked being here? My boss, Primer, raised the ransom cash for Marquardt. The two-fifty USD. It’s coming into Guangzhou by container ship tomorrow. I’m the courier. Primer will not trust freelancers with that kind of cash. Who put the free in freelance?”

“You could have headed straight to Guangzhou,” Knox said.

Dulwich bristled. “Coulda, shoulda. But Danny’s hard drive’s a priority.”

“You got the SIM card I sent?”

Dulwich nodded. “Yeah. Your guy made repeated calls to another pay-as-you-go China Mobile phone. At first, we thought it might be the intellectual fielding those calls.”

“The Mongolians aren’t the kidnappers. They’re on the receiving end of the incentives.”

“Interesting,” Dulwich said.

“Added on late in the game.”

“Well, whatever all that means, the guy taking those calls appears to report daily to someone in Beijing. A Party member? Government? A businessman? Who the fuck knows? But he’s a priority to you and me both.”

“These Mongolians are muscle for some Beijing bureaucrat?”

“Or middlemen for the incentives,” Dulwich proposed.

“That works for me.”

“We’ve been following GPS locators on both phones—the Beijing guy, and the Shanghai phone that apparently reports into him daily.”

Knox thought they were getting closer to the truth of why Dulwich had made the trip.

“You’re tracking them? Nice of you to tell me.”

“I’m telling you now. Right? The Beijing guy is smart enough to turn it off, and leave it off most of the time. Making tracking sporadic. The Shanghai guy, not so smart. You want to meet him?” Dulwich handed Knox his iPhone. “The blue dot. That’s him. He’s up the block from us.”

Knox studied the moving map. “You’ve got a bead on the Mongolian? When exactly were you going to tell me?”

“He came straight here the moment you arrived. I watched the dot cross the city.”

Knox tried to make sense of it. “He must have followed you. Is that possible?”

“You took a cab,” Dulwich stated, as if Knox had committed a crime.

Knox explained, “I was short on time.”

“We know this guy is connected to Beijing, right? You’ve actually helped us out by confirming the level of that connection. He didn’t follow you, Knox. He just headed over here. That tells me this Beijing guy swings a big enough stick to have the Shanghai cabbies looking out for you.”

“The run-ins with the Mongolians,” Knox said. “The cops contacted Kozlowski at the consulate about an American wanted for assault.”

“So they’ve been onto you. Makes sense. They lifted your face off camera footage, fed a photo to city cab drivers, and here you are. I’d keep my hat low from now on.”

An elderly Chinese man entered the small space, scooped up some live eels into a plastic bag and left.

“What about him? I’ve got to lose him,” Knox said, pointing to Dulwich’s phone.

Dulwich grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”

1:20 P.M.

KINGLAND RIVERSIDE LUXURY RESIDENCE

PUDONG DISTRICT

“I wondered if you’d taken your lunch?” Grace said over the secure iPhone, knowing Marquardt’s assistants rarely took a lunch break beyond a baozi from the corner.

She considered her lunch with Marquardt and Song a draw: not a total failure but not the results she had hoped for. With any luck, Selena could be manipulated to correct that discrepancy. Grace had learned from the best: her manipulative mother.

“Not yet,” Selena Ming said. “Quite busy today.”

“I thought you might enjoy a look at my apartment.”

A moment’s hesitation, then Selena replied, “Yes! Very much!”

“I am taking my afternoon here in order to focus on some accounting personally requested by Mr. Marquardt. Do you like sushi?” An extravagant meal for an office worker like Selena was KFC. Because of its price, sushi was considered fine dining—take-away or not.

“My favorite!”

“I will order some take-away.”

“I can pick this up on my way.”

“Would you? How kind of you!” Grace supplied the name of a shop less than a block from her Pudong apartment.