Ridley Pearson - The Risk Agent

Kozlowski admonished him with a look. But it wasn’t a full dismissal. Knox’s eyes wandered, searching for what might be Lu Hao’s laptop. He saw nothing that qualified.

“So,” Kozlowski said, “you arrive in Hong Kong from Cambodia on a private jet leased to Rutherford Risk, and reenter the country commercial the same day. And you’re telling me that kind of urgency is all about antique bikes gathering dust?”

Knox fought for composure, surprised by the man’s knowledge. “Do I look urgent? I’m flattered you looked me up.” Neither Knox nor Dulwich had considered the ramifications of Dulwich having flown on the Rutherford jet into Cambodia. If Kozlowski could uncover such records, so could the Chinese.

“You’ve entered China six times in the past year and a half. You’re constantly on the road in South America, Europe and Eastern Europe. A man busy building a company. Or a corporate spy.”

The two men remained locked eye to eye.

“Wouldn’t a guy like you,” Knox said, “know if a guy like me was a spy?”

“You aren’t a U.S. spy, but there are all sort of spies these days, Knox. What we see the most here is privatized industrial espionage. It’s rampant.”

“I thought the shoe was on the other foot,” Knox said. “Consulate employee. Head of Security.”

“Not hardly,” Kozlowski said.

“Listen, I’m in the Laotian jungle bidding on hammered bronze and swatting mosquitoes the size of sparrows and the lightbulb goes on in my head: motorcycles! Picture this: Liz with a scarf tied on tightly, the wind ruffling her shirt. You with your sleeves rolled up. A trip to Suzhou on a warm, late fall afternoon. Tell me that isn’t perfect.”

“So you call Rutherford Risk for a ride.”

“Ran into a friend.”

“In Cambodia?”

“That’s right. David Dulwich, an old buddy of mine. We both worked for a private contractor that served Rumsfeld and George the Second. He was my paycheck for two years. A good paycheck. He pops up in Ban Lung, sightseeing for all I know, and offers me a ride as far as Hong Kong on the company G5. What would you have done?” He didn’t dare lie about the details; Kozlowski could know anything.

“You would have thought up a better story if you’d had the time.”

“If it were a story, believe me, I could have done better.” Knox waited. “Tell me you’ll help me with gaining access to the impound. Like today, for instance.”

“I’ll consider it. But I’m warning you: no business discussed in my presence, and I want no gifts, no deals.”

“I’ll be a Boy Scout, promise.”

“Uh-huh. Right.”

Knox lowered his voice. “One other favor?”

Kozlowski’s eyes hardened. “I doubt it.”

“What if a friend of mine lost something-something important-and I came up with a SIM card, some phone numbers, that might help him find it?”

“I can’t help.”

“I can’t believe you’d want the Chinese looking for my friend’s lost package. An American package. That’s bad for everyone.”

Kozlowski’s eyes found the folder containing the severed hand. He slid back his chair and stood. “That’s it. That’s all the time I have.”

They walked out together. Knox took his time, letting Kozlowski digest his Rutherford Risk connection, and hoping they might get around to talking about Danner’s missing laptop, as Knox had tried to instigate. But it had to come from Kozlowski.

Not wanting to push any harder on the Danner front, he slipped Kozlowski the national registration card carried by the Mongolian. “Run this past your boys and see if it’s legit.”

Kozlowski accepted the card and pocketed it. “Don’t overestimate our relationship, Knox. I can’t work miracles.”

“Who’s asking for miracles?”

“You go down that road, you may need a miracle.”

“Which road is that?” Knox slowed to a stop, sensing they were close to actual trust.

“Rutherford Risk is forbidden from doing their kind of business here, just as my office is. Has it occurred to you they’re using you?”

“It was a plane ride, nothing more.” He hesitated. “But my friend’s laptop would help.” It just came out. He wished he could have it back.

Kozlowski’s nostrils flared, but he maintained his composure. “Remember what I said.”

“Vehicle impound,” Knox reminded, wearing his disappointment openly.

“I heard you the first time.”

10:15 A.M.

Knox walked up Huaihai Middle Road, rather than take a bus or taxi. He marveled at the traffic sorting itself out, the birdsong in the middle of such a large urban landscape and the beauty of its women. He stopped on a wide-open plaza in front of a bank, took a look around and placed a call using the secure iPhone.

Dulwich answered before the second ring. “Go ahead.”

“You got my package?”

“I did. I’d have called if we had anything. Goddamn labs.”

Knox said, “Were any body parts included with the ransom demand?”

“Negative. There’s a video. A proof of life.”

“Why didn’t I see it?” Knox asked.

“It arrived at Berthold today. We haven’t seen it either.”

“I need to see it.”

“We’re on it.”

Knox said, “I saw a photo of a hand just now. I was in the U.S. Consulate. It was not pretty.”

“None of our business that I know of, but I’ll look into it.”

“A college ring: OSU.”

“Got it.”

“Turns out your jet comes back registered to Rutherford Risk, LLC.”

“It’s Flight Options. So what?”

“So, I’m made.”

Silence. “My bad.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have someone keeping an eye on me?”

More silence. The phone made subtle sounds each time it switched carriers. Knox wondered why Dulwich was taking so long to answer.

“Negative,” Dulwich said.

“A Chinese or Mongolian the size of a Sub-Zero?”

“Same answer.”

“I’ve sent you a second package. A SIM card. I could use the three Ws on caller-ID coming and going.”

“We’ll try. No promises.”

“I’m getting a lot of that.”

“So see a doctor,” Dulwich said. “You’ve met the girl?”

“Piece of work.”

“I know it’s against your nature, but trust her.”

“There are a lot of moving parts,” Knox said. “We’re after his records. We get that, maybe it tells us who did this. We get that, then extraction.”

“Keep it simple.”

“TIC.” This is China.

“That all? I’ve gotta be someplace.”

Knox laughed. “The girl mentioned some competitors. We’re going to look at them as well.”

“Makes sense.”

“The Mongolian, or whoever he is, is troubling,” Knox said. “There was one guy trying to look undercover by pushing a trinket cart around. A cop for sure. But a Mongolian? Is this thing international? Is he private muscle for one of the competitors?”

“We’ll look at the SIM card and tell you what we find out.”

“Any more contact?”

“These things are fluid, Knox. We know what we’re doing.”

“We need more to go on.”

“There’s a surprise.”

Knox ended the call, frustrated. Dulwich, with all his resources, and no one seemed to know anything.

Sichuan Citizen, only a few blocks from the MW Building, served a mixed clientele of Chinese and expats in a hip, urban atmosphere that included canvas paddle fans and a long-legged hostess in a form-fitting black silk pantsuit. The aroma was a pleasing combination of hot peppers, exotic spices and sesame oil. Mandarin mixed with English in a singsong of language, interrupted by French and Dutch.

Knox, who’d entered by the back door, sat down across from Grace at a small table for two. He laid down spreadsheets in front of her and anchored the corners with steaming black bowls of rice noodles, eggplant and ginger-glazed pork.