Ridley Pearson - The Risk Agent

He wasted no time getting into Lu Hao’s bedroom. He grabbed the digital frame.

In and out of the apartment in less than a minute, he rode the elevator down, willing it to fall faster.

6:42 P.M.

Grace took the supervisor’s hands, allowing him to help her up from the bed. As she came to her feet, she spun him and threw a chokehold, silencing him until he went slack and unconscious-the man’s wife less than ten feet away. Grace eased him to the floor.

She hit Eject on both VCRs and they discharged their cassettes. They could not afford to be identified; Knox had been adamant about this. She took these as well as other cartridges from a neatly ordered stack and filled the tote.

The wife came from around the curtain, pulled by the sound. As her face filled with horror, Grace slapped a hand over her mouth from behind.

“He is fine. You do not move. No police. This never happened.”

Knox’s plan counted on the couple not wanting another report against them.

“The problem upstairs was drunken tenants. The usual youngsters. Do you understand?”

The woman first shook her head, then nodded, tears running onto Grace’s hand.

“I regret the intrusion,” Grace said. “Please accept my apologies.”

She was back up the stairs in a matter of seconds.

6:44 P.M.

Knox wheeled himself out of the elevator, counting down the seconds. He would give her another minute, no more; then, he would go after her.

Grace arrived with her shirttails crossed and tucked in at the waist, her torn skirt rotated so that the slit ran all the way up her leg revealing the thin black band of her bikini underwear. She said nothing, only nodded at him before pushing his chair out the doors.

Knox reached over and deposited the digital picture frame and power supply into her bag.

Two blocks later, an empty wheelchair and a damp blanket collecting rain won the attention of the occasional pedestrian. It looked sad, as if it held a disheartening story.

Fifteen minutes later, it was gone.

An hour later, it had already been resold, twice.

4:00 A.M.

HUASHAN HOSPITAL

SHANGHAI

“Can you hear me?” The rugged-faced man standing by the hospital bed cupped his hand, shielding the patient’s eyes from the overhead tube lighting. “My name is Kozlowski. U.S. Consulate.”

David Dulwich looked around the hospital room without moving his head or neck, which was held in a foam collar. He wanted a way out. There were slings and weights and pulleys attached to him; he felt stretched.

“You happen to be in luck,” Kozlowski said, a little too cheerily. “Believe it or not, you have Formula One racing to thank for it. Ten years ago, the city wanted to bring in Formula One for a sanctified event. But event organizers require the availability of top-shelf Western medicine before authorizing an event. The result is this,” he said, sweeping his hand, “umpteen millions of dollars spent on a state-of-the-art, fully staffed hospital ward for expats. You, my friend, are the beneficiary. From what I’m told you’re lucky to be alive. If you’d been wearing a seatbelt, maybe you’d have walked away from it, but then again show me one Shanghai cab in which you can find the back-seat seatbelts. Am I right?”

He walked slowly around the bed. “In case you’re wondering: it was the pins in your ankle that stamped you ‘Made in U.S.A.’ Though don’t ask me how.”

In a convincing Australian accent, Dulwich said, “They got the work right, mate, but not my country of origin. I’m Aussie. And it’s ‘sanctioned event,’ not ‘sanctified.’”

Kozlowski didn’t look like a man who tolerated correction. “There was a time in my career when a guy like you would have confused me, or maybe even fooled me completely.” Kozlowski held up a small white 4 × 6 card with boxes across the top. Each box contained a fingerprint.

“The Australian passport is good,” Kozlowski continued. “Very good. Too good. Maybe even authentic. That tells me more than you want, believe me.”

Kozlowski moved to the end of the bed, hoping for eye contact. Dulwich wouldn’t give him any.

“Both drivers walked. One car was stolen. The nephew of the registered cabbie drove the taxi. On the outside, it looks like a U.S. citizen in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the passport; and iPhone the likes of which my tech guys have never seen; a plane ticket from Hong Kong booked an hour before takeoff yesterday morning; a first-class train ticket to Guangzhou?”

“Yesterday?” Dulwich said, trying to sit up. No use. “The date?”

“It’s September thirtieth.” Kozlowski pulled up a chair. “Mean something to you?”

“I never like losing track of time.”

“By the end of the day I’ll have confirmed your identity. I’m not going to get all Law and Order on you and tell you you’re better off talking to me now than later. We both know that’s bullshit. You’re better off not talking to me at all. You’re better off walking the hell out of here when no one’s looking. But in your condition, I don’t think that’s even possible. Maybe you could crawl. Honestly, I probably don’t want to know why you’re here. You smack of a ton of paperwork just waiting to happen.”

Dulwich winced painfully again as he tried to sit up.

“There are plenty of individuals like you in this city. Don’t think you’re all that special. Trouble is, Americans like you are my responsibility. I’m supposed to keep your nose clean. Or at least mop up the snot after it’s spilled. Maybe you’re here stealing somebody else’s secrets, keeping track of his sins, looking for a missing person, or trying to lead a revolution. I don’t care. I need you gone. There is only one way you can gain my favor.” Kozlowski withdrew and unfolded some photocopies. He held the first in front of Dulwich’s face.

“No,” Dulwich croaked out, seeing a photo of Lu Hao.

“Strike one. Him?” Kozlowski said, producing a second photo from under the first. Clete Danner.

Dulwich swallowed dryly. “No.”

The medication belied his intentions.

Kozlowski noted the twitch, but said, “Strike two.” He proffered the third of three: a security photo of a Chinese man. “And?”

Dulwich said, “He looks nasty, mate.”

“You think you’re going to outsmart the Chinese?” Kozlowski asked. “They’re all over this.”

“All over what?”

“Really?”

Dulwich had the twitch under control, giving away nothing. He was thinking: the Iron Hand. The missing cameraman. Kozlowski could easily be part of that investigation, could easily believe Dulwich was involved in that investigation.

“You’d better have some serious support in play, friend. Because from what the doctors tell me, you’re not going anywhere soon. You’re a sitting duck here-that’s an American expression, but I think you’ll figure it out. If you want help-protection, maybe a transfer, that’s all there for the asking. If there’s a bone in your body that isn’t broken, they haven’t found it.” He waited. “Nothing? Seriously?” Kozlowski took a deep breath and stepped back. “Enjoy Chinese prison. I hope you like rice.”

9:20 A.M.

CHANGNING DISTRICT

Knox and Grace spent the night working in the safe house. Grace reviewed Berthold’s financials with special attention given to Marquardt’s travel expensing, while security video of Lu Hao’s apartment building ran in the background. If the Mongolians had a prior relationship with Lu, maybe they’d be seen. Or if the kidnappers had returned for Lu Hao’s medication and laptop, perhaps they could be identified.