Ridley Pearson - The Risk Agent

7:48 P.M.

Being led by Yang Cheng into the main bar, Grace couldn’t help but see eyes following them. Yang demonstrated his knowledge of her, reciting pieces of her CV. Thankfully, he referred to her most recent employment as an independent accountant based in Hong Kong; there was no reference or insinuation of any work being performed for Rutherford Risk. The take-away for her was that she was a person of interest to him. This, in turn, made him more interesting to her. Was he calculating enough to have had Lu Hao kidnapped? Was her invitation to the party related to the kidnapping?

He continued greeting guests and shaking hands on the way to a table reserved for them. She declined the offer of Champagne, as her head was already spinning.

“My father,” he said, “began this business with a single handcart and a shovel.”

“Yang Construction has a fine reputation as the number-one construction company in all of Shanghai. All of China.”

“You flatter me.”

“I repeat only that which I have heard,” she said.

“We are honored to do business in such a great and charitable nation. We employ over twelve hundred in management positions, and many thousands in the workplace. All Chinese. No foreign blood other than a few consultants for appearances.” When he smiled, his eyes became quiet. “For nearly twenty years now, our chief competition is The Berthold Group, your new employer, Chu Youya. Their presence has grown from consultant to major player. My father first did business with BG in nineteen eighty-two. Now look: they are building the Xuan Tower. Foreign firm, not Chinese. This is not right. I make no secret of my wish to see Xuan Tower completed by a Chinese firm, such as ours.”

“I have just recently arrived in Shanghai,” Grace replied. “I am sorry to hear of your differences with The Berthold Group.”

“It is not your concern. Forgive me.” He paused and offered her a drink for a second time. She declined. “I would like to come straight to the point, Chu Youya,” he said. “I have the burden of many guests I must entertain. So you will please forgive me.”

“Of course,” Grace said, concentrating on keeping her face calm. Yang Cheng would never begin the ransom negotiations himself, but she prepared herself to look behind whatever his point was.

He lowered his voice. “The house of Allan Marquardt is destined to fail, Chu Youya. It is a foreign company, after all. No matter the lip service paid by our great country, a foreign company will never be allowed to attain the position of a Chinese company within her borders. Never! You and I both understand that. When Berthold fails, many people will be seeking employment. Accountants-even brilliant, young accountants-will be like ants after the same sugar. Great challenges present great opportunities,” he continued, as if quoting a proverb. “Such an opportunity now awaits you, Chu Youya. You are Chinese like me, not foreign blood like them. You come work for me now, I will pay twenty-five percent more than Allan Marquardt, I will offer better benefits, and you will honor your family by working for a Chinese company.”

“You do me a great honor, Yang Cheng.” Grace hung her head, wondering if this was indeed the point of her invitation, or was he seeking to explore the possibility of negotiation by erecting the pretense of an employment deal between them? “I am deeply humbled. You will forgive me if I must take time to consider your generous offer.”

“Time is sometimes a blessing, sometimes a curse. Use yours well. I am not the one in a hurry. You…on the other hand.” He paused, tellingly. She thought the implication had to be connected to the ransom situation, but then became confused as he continued. “The Xuan Tower nears completion. Mark my words: it will not bear the name of Berthold Group at the time of its ribbon ceremony. It was never to be.”

“In defense of my current employer,” she said, letting it hang there, “certainly dozens, maybe hundreds of buildings in Shanghai have been financed and built with foreign money, whether in part or in whole. So many Western architects have made our skyline all the more interesting. The French. The Germans. The Arabs. Shanghai is truly metropolitan.”

“Of this there is no doubt. Americans, too. Yes. But Xuan is to be the tallest building in world. A point of great Chinese pride. Chinese pride, not American pride.”

“Yes, of course.”

“There will be no confusion on this point. Do not fool yourself. Allan Marquardt’s reach will stop here in Shanghai, and before the Xuan is open.” His face grew red. The whiskey? She doubted it. Perhaps he’d had a promise from the government from the start. Lu Hao’s kidnapping might be but a single mahjong tile pushed to send others falling. Financial conspiracy was an art form in Asia, practiced by all-from the street sweeper to people like Yang Cheng. He said, “Chinese profits are reinvested. Foreign profits travel across the oceans and never return. Enough is enough.”

…will stop here in Shanghai. The Berthold Group had construction projects in cities all over China. Yang Cheng had slipped up. Was there a bidding war underway for a Shanghai project that Yang Cheng was determined to win? Was confident he’d win? If he knew about Berthold’s secret payments to inspectors and subcontractors he could instigate an investigation and immediately disqualify Berthold from any future bids, ensuring his own success. Lu Hao’s off-record books would play a critical link in any such attempt to paint Berthold as corrupt.

“Please,” he said, signaling a passing waitress. He snatched a glass of Champagne for her and lifted his glass. She took a small sip.

“I await your decision,” he said. “Before the dismissal for the National Holiday, if you please.” He’d named the same deadline as the ransom. Was she to make that connection? Was she supposed to acknowledge it? “Will you be joining your family on Chongming Island for the holiday?”

Every muscle tensed. His knowledge went well past her CV.

“If time permits,” she said, lying. She had no intention of seeing her father.

“Family is everything.”

A threat? Or a simple reminder of her Chinese roots and where her loyalty belonged?

“Country, ideology, family,” she said, reciting priorities established in her early schooling.

Yang Cheng’s eyes went beady as he forced a smile. “Yes. And of all these: family.”

8:00 P.M.

Knox took issue with a person wearing a Bluetooth headset in public. Alone behind the wheel, fine. Around the house, maybe. But it struck him as pretentious, insular and ridiculous looking. If God had intended for man to have a plastic horn protruding from one ear, he’d have put one there.

Katherine Wu kept touching her ear and going off into conversations that didn’t include him. She looked and sounded like a robot while her body sent much different signals.

Knox forced a word in. “I understand The Berthold Group has encountered workforce slowdowns this week.” A stab in the dark, but an educated one. Dulwich had told him as much. “Problems with materials delivery. Some trucking issues.”

She flushed. “I manage Mr. Yang’s schedule, Mr. Knox. You overestimate my position, I am afraid.”

There was that word again; he wished she would stop that.

“Oh, I doubt that,” he said. “It’s all over Shanghai.”

“Is it? And I am the last to hear. So typical. I wouldn’t believe every rumor you hear.”

“I thought that was you!” A Chinese woman’s accented voice from behind Knox. A voice he knew. A voice he’d heard in many incantations, from joy to ecstasy.

Amy Xue, a petite beauty, wore a loose-fitting raw silk off-the-shoulder top and a pair of jeans that threatened her circulation. Her hair was done in an asymmetrical cut, with bangs slanting high to low, right to left. She wore no visible makeup, a gorgeous pair of black pearl earrings and a matching necklace. Her face was girlish-ageless-with long narrow hooded eyes that had first won his attention three years earlier.