Ridley Pearson - The Risk Agent

“Might I suggest,” Grace said, awaiting a faint nod from Primer, “that I file a complaint with HR within hours of my taking my position? Nothing sexual, not harassment. But something of a financial origin. Breach of contract, perhaps? Dissatisfaction with whatever lodging has been arranged? Mr. Marquardt, anxious to keep me, could request an audience with me to settle the complaint. Following this initial meeting, he will then upgrade my housing, and we might have reason to follow up on occasion.”

Primer checked with Dulwich, then Marquardt.

“I like a woman who can think on her feet,” Marquardt said.

“Better on my feet than the alternative,” Grace said.

For a moment it appeared Primer might reprimand her. Instead, he laughed.

“Grace did service with the PRC’s army for two years. Was assigned to Intelligence for her final eleven months. She’s trained in surveillance, hand-to-hand combat, small munitions and communications.” He smiled at her. “In the workplace, you’ll find her passive and demure. One-on-one, well, let’s just say she’s no shrinking violet.”

“You’re a welcome addition, Ms. Chu,” Marquardt said.

“When next we meet,” Grace said, “remember, it is for the first time. You may or may not be taken with my appearance, as you wish, but you will be in no mood to accommodate my accusations of breach of contract. It’s best if I have to fight you at least somewhat for that victory.”

“Understood.”

She stood and they shook hands again. He held on to hers a little too long, but she made no attempt to separate. Instead, she hung her head slightly, suddenly a different woman. “Pleasure’s mine.”

She backed up a step, pivoted smartly-a hint of sandalwood and cinnamon-and waited for Dulwich to open the door for her before leaving.

4:05 P.M.

BAN LUNG

CAMBODIA

Accompanied by a local guide and driver, a mosquito-bitten John Knox had been traveling for nine days through the jungles of Cambodia on a buying trip. He had packed the back of his Land Rover to the ceiling with tribal arts and crafts, primarily hand-carved stone boxes and some hammered bronze. He had spent the past two days in Virachey National Park, the most direct route to Ban Lung.

Knox checked his appearance in the Land Rover’s rearview mirror before climbing out. He’d run out of soap three days earlier and his beard had grown in quickly, the dark stubble contrasting sharply with dark blue eyes that shone richly in the afternoon light. His hair was oily, his shirt sweat-stained and soiled. He ran his tongue over teeth, cleaning up some of the gorp that had sustained him over the last forty miles, and washed it down with a swig of warm water from a plastic bottle.

His driver spoke some Thai, the one language common between them. “Unpack car?”

“Find yourself a room,” Knox said, handing him a considerable amount of cash, knowing the man would keep it and sleep in the car. “Unload everything into my hotel this evening. We’ll ship it in the morning.”

The village was a mix of aging concrete blocks and palm-frond-roofed huts on stilts. Knox refocused on the front porch of the small hotel and a line of chairs beneath water-stained sailcloth paddle fans turning lazily against the heat. He met eyes with the man occupying one of the chairs. A grin swept painfully across his chapped lips. He licked them.

David Dulwich lifted his sweating beer bottle and gestured to an unoccupied chair.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” said Knox, mounting the steps.

“You look like shit.” Dulwich, a former army sergeant, had as a civilian managed the trucking contractor that had hired a young John Knox as a driver to convoy supplies from Kuwait into Iraq. The runs paid eighty thousand dollars a month, hazard pay that Knox had banked to cover his brother’s long-term medical expenses back home.

The two men shook hands and slapped each other on the back. Dulwich signaled a waiter for two beers.

Knox simply stared, waiting him out.

“What? I was in the neighborhood.”

“Uh-huh. Sure you were, Sarge.”

“I wanted first dibs on the teapots, or prayer wheels, or nose flutes, or whatever the hell it is you’ve stolen off the unsuspecting locals.”

“Only Tommy knew I was coming to Ban Lung,” Knox said. “You took unfair advantage.”

Knox had lived his entire life protecting and defending Tommy, about whom many jokes had been cracked. “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.” “Room temperature IQ.” Knox had heard them all; had broken a few faces over them.

His brother suffered from bouts of epilepsy-controllable by medication-migraines and moderate learning disabilities. With proper oversight, Tommy could function as Knox’s business partner, but he also possessed a savant-like ability in math and computer sciences. He displayed remarkable processing speed and bandwidth, while often proving himself socially immature and inept despite his thirty-one years. Tommy was the one and only absolute in Knox’s life. The two were joined at the hip, the wallet, by blood, and by telephone and Skype.

Dulwich shrugged. “Tommy sounded great. Told me he’s running the online sales.”

“Which he’s good at, as it happens.”

The beers arrived. Knox was tired and hungry. He cautioned himself about drinking the beer too quickly. He needed to remain on his toes given his present company. He pledged to sip, not gulp.

Now it was Dulwich’s turn to stare. Cutting. Penetrating.

“I’m not interested,” Knox said, the bottle finding its way to his lips a little too quickly. It didn’t take a giant leap for Knox to understand what was at play. He’d turned down the offer of joining civilian convoys in Afghanistan more than once. He’d been lucky to get out of Kuwait intact-he realized that now. Others, including Dulwich, had injuries that had nearly taken their lives. Now he and Tommy had a business up and running. With their parents both gone-or as good as gone-it was important that Knox stay alive and the import/export business continue to succeed. But it was also paramount to keep Tommy supervised, something that required a constant stream of money. At present, things were decent. Not great, but decent. No doubt the man sitting across from him had run a credit check. Dulwich did due diligence. No doubt he knew of Knox’s desire to set up a fund to cover his brother’s medical costs. No doubt he knew he and Tommy were walking a knife’s edge, that an infusion of capital was exactly what the doctor ordered. Shithead.

Dulwich showed him a photo and told him a long story about a kidnapping in China that had involved someone named Lu Hao. The story ended with, “I had a guy shadowing Lu. He got caught up in it. They took him hostage along with Lu. It’s Danner.” Dulwich unfolded a photocopy of the ransom demand and passed it across to Knox. “This was part of a lunchtime take-out order delivered by a Sherpa’s guy to the construction company’s CEO, a man named Marquardt. Runs a construction firm called Berthold.”

Knox glanced at the note, then back at Dulwich. Sherpa was a popular food service delivery company that delivered from dozens of city restaurants.

“Not interested,” he lied. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“DNA swab accompanied the ransom note, along with a photo. We need a comparison sample.”

“Danny’s DNA,” Knox said.

“Yes.”

“Try Peggy.”

“We don’t involve spouses until we have confirmation.”

“Is that common? A DNA swab?”

“No. First time for us.”

“Young.”

“Yes,” Dulwich said.

“You have a photo,” Knox reminded.

“Ever heard of Photoshop? We need a DNA sample. This is Danner.”