The Risk Agent (32 page)

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.

28

5:40 P.M.

LUWAN DISTRICT

Danner was asleep on the floor by the time Grace finally overcame her anger. She sat down next to Lu Hao, his hands and ankles bound by plastic ties.

Concealing her true emotions, something every Chinese child learns at a young age, she said calmly, “What have you done, Lu Hao?”

“A thousand pardons, Chu Youya. I beg your forgiveness. I have made a mess of everything, my family’s honor most of all. I deserve whatever punishment you wish to bring upon me.” He kept his head down, staring at the stained carpet squares.

“Explain yourself before I turn you over to the American and allow him to do to you what I, too, feel you deserve.”

“It was a matter of bad luck, nothing more. Happenstance. I saw a face—a man I knew from my deliveries for Mr. Song, for The Berthold Group. The employment you offered me. I should have left it at that.”

“You paid out large sums to the Mongolian.”

Lu’s eyes went wide, impressed with her. He nodded. “Yes. All for the envelope that is now in my back pocket. Four hundred thousand U.S. All for a number.”

“A number?”

“I swear. All that money for a single envelope. A number, nothing more.”

Grace fished the red envelope from the man’s pocket, refusing to believe the events of the past week could have their origin in nothing more than a number. She examined the envelope.

“You opened it,” she said.

“Fourteen billion, seven hundred million. What does it mean? What was I to do? Once inside the building, he beat a man. Beat him until he fell. Killed him, I assure you. While the other one watched—the government man.”

“What government man?”

“He arrived in a government car. I saw the plate—the number six. Nothing more. A high-ranking government official. I was scared! Terrified! I trusted no one. I called you, Chu Youya. Who else? You got me this work. You of all people must know. Did you not get my call?”

She remained silent.

His eyes pleaded with her for an explanation.

She had none.

“The second delivery—two hundred thousand—I was told to accept an envelope. But this man…the look he gave me during the exchange. I must have betrayed myself. I swear he knew I’d witnessed him and the other man and the killing. Don’t ask me how.”

The video, she was thinking. Just as she and Knox had identified Lu.

Lu Hao sounded on the verge of crying. Little Lu Hao. Always depending on his brother or father to pull him along. “I envisioned a story. I would be kidnapped. The envelope’s contents would give me great value to my employer, certainly in excess of four hundred thousand U.S. I would demand a ransom and my father would be returned the money
I owe him. Then, of course tragedy would strike. I would be believed killed, my body never found.” He paused. “My parents regain their future and our family, face. I vanish. Australia. America, perhaps. It was a plan not without sacrifice.” He looked over at the sleeping Danner. “Then…him.”

Grace looked over as well. “Slow down!” she said. “A number?” Staring at the envelope.