Ridley Pearson - The Risk Agent

“He sounded Mongolian,” Knox said. “Looked it, too. But maybe he’s Chinese?”

“Possible. We get our share across the border.”

Knox had never thought of people wanting to get into China before. “He was trained in close quarters combat. Sambo. You know sambo?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Waiguoren,” he said in Mandarin. Foreigner. It made Knox think back to the guard at Danner’s apartment building mentioning a foreigner.

The beer was half gone. Knox ordered them both another drink. She didn’t object. He liked that.

“I’m going to overnight the SIM card to Dulwich. But first, tonight, I’ll hope for an incoming call. Or maybe we should call some of its recently called numbers?”

“Patience.”

“My contact at the U.S. Consulate might run the national registration card for me. He’s a good man. And if he’s who took Danner’s laptop, he might be willing to share.”

“What about Lu Hao’s motorcycle?” she asked.

“What about it?”

“Mr. Danner and Lu Hao were both on motorcycles when they were taken, correct?”

“Correct.”

“So what happened to the motorcycles? Where did they end up?”

Danner’s missing Garmin GPS, Knox was thinking. “You’re brilliant.”

She averted her eyes to the tabletop and reached out for the second drink as it arrived. Chinese had trouble taking compliments. Not him.

“Since the police do not yet officially recognize the kidnapping,” she said, “perhaps neither motorcycle has been processed as evidence?”

Knox said brightly, “Lady Grace, you should drink more often.”

“Excuse me?”

“Another compliment.”

“Accepted.”

Progress. He hoisted his beer and they clinked glasses.

A waitress passed. Knox’s eyes strayed to her. He said, “Do you know the term “handi-capable”?”

“Afraid not.”

“A person who’s challenged, physically or mentally, but the challenge is viewed more as opportunity than limitation.”

“That is nice.”

“That is my brother,” he said. “My business partner.” The beer was wrestling with his tongue.

She sipped the vodka, looking across the rim of the glass at him curiously.

“Just thought I’d get that out of the way,” he said, upending the beer.

She stared across, studying him.

“I actually would like you to review our books,” he said.

“Then I will.”

“Lu Hao?” he tested. “What’s the family connection?”

“Not yet,” she said, her lips opening to welcome the liquor.

9:40 A.M.

LUWAN DISTRICT

SHANGHAI

The U.S. Consulate occupied a former private residence on four acres at a prestigious corner in the heart of what had once been the French Concession. Having already copied and overnighted the SIM card from the Mongolian’s phone to Rutherford Risk in Hong Kong, Knox walked in the shade beneath the plane trees, a warm breeze on his face. To his right rose the twelve-foot wall topped with razor wire that encircled the consulate. Phone booth-sized security booths stood at regular intervals manned by rigid, uniformed officers of China’s Ministry of State Security. There had to be dozens of security cameras trained on the area. The Chinese captured and identified every face that entered.

Knox had originally met Steve Kozlowski through the man’s wife, Liz, a statuesque blonde who served as an immigration lawyer at the consulate. Her love of all things Chinese had inevitably led her to Knox, whose reputation for procuring the best antiques and collectibles made him popular with the “trailing spouses.”

He and Kozlowski discovered a shared love of American football, and with the consulate receiving the U.S. Armed Forces television feed, Knox had joined the ranks of corporate executives, university professors and a few select government workers handpicked by Kozlowski to watch live games with him and a few Marines, exactly twelve hours off the U.S. air time.

Over time, he’d developed a cautious friendship with Kozlowski, who, by reputation, got close to no one. Knox often wondered if the man were a spy.

Knox passed through the thorough security check and was greeted by Kozlowski. Tall and strikingly handsome, he had a receding hairline disguised by a nearly shaved head. Dressed in a tailored dark gray suit, a bright blue tie and with a consulate ID lanyard around his neck, Kozlowski looked more like James Bond than a bureaucrat responsible for the welfare of every American citizen in southern China.

Walking toward the century-old mansion converted thirty years earlier into consulate headquarters, the two discussed the NFL season. Knox asked after Liz. They passed sumptuous gardens where Chinese workers in blue coveralls toiled bent over in the shade.

They passed through an interior security desk. Knox was led into a large common area of pool secretaries and assistants that had once been a spacious sitting room. Kozlowski had the center office.

Knox immediately spotted an open folder on the desk: a gruesome color photograph of a-man’s-severed right hand. On Kozlowski’s desk, he reminded himself. He read the date upside down: nine days earlier. A ring with “OSU” running at an angle. He committed the design to memory, believing it either Oklahoma or Oregon or Ohio State. A dead American. Correction, he thought-a butchered American. Too far back to be Danner’s, thank God. Knox felt a rush of relief.

Kozlowski must have seen him snooping. He shut the file folder and gave Knox an eye-fuck.

“So, what’s up?”

Kozlowski moved like a piece of Claymation, all sharp movements; Knox had never seen the man fully relax.

“On the phone you said you had an offer I couldn’t refuse,” Kozlowski said. “Which, by the way, is not terribly original, you realize?”

Knox lifted his hands in mock defense. “The offer’s legit.”

“So talk,” said Kozlowski, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m looking into exporting CJ750s,” Knox said. “M1s, M1Ms and MISupers. Pre-World War Two, BMW R71s. If it goes well, maybe even some tuo la ji.” He referred to three-wheel tractors common in the farms.

Kozlowski, who adored anything with two or three wheels and a motor, leaned forward now. “Yeah? So?”

“So, the baby boomers are moving away from the Harleys and into some of the vintage bikes. There’s a market there. The recession has pushed more boomers into early retirement, but they’re far from broke and they’ve got time on their hands.”

“I drive the Chinese equivalent of a Vespa,” Kozlowski said. “You’re trying to get me to upgrade? Liz is the shopper in our family, not me.”

“Here’s what I think: the Chinese police must impound hundreds of bikes a week. The bikes then sit there and gather dust. Now, I could go around putting up posters in noodle shops with my phone number on tear tabs advertising I’ll buy junker 750s. Or, I could talk to the boys at the impound about the timing of their next auction.”

“Who says they have auctions?”

“You know otherwise?”

“You want to pay off a cop to walk them out of the door right now. I know you, Knox. I cannot, will not, be part of that.”

Knox didn’t deny it. “All you do is make the introductions, Koz. We look over the inventory. If I return another day, I return another day. No dealing with you in the room, I promise. And for the introduction you get the pick of the litter.”

“I don’t accept gifts.”

Righteous motherfucker, Knox thought. “At cost, then.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You know what you’ll think?” Knox asked. “You’ll think you died and went to heaven when you see it buffed out and rebuilt. The 750 has a sidecar, Koz. Think of you and Liz on a Sunday afternoon humming down Changle Lu. It’s a thing of beauty.”