Ridley Pearson - The Risk Agent

Knox answered. “Without Guangzhou, we’re a little light on funds, and it occurred to us with the hostage’s accounts turned over, the value of the hostages diminishes. Substantially.”

“We’re contracted to make the drop.”

“You are, yes,” Knox said. “We’re committed to extraction and we’re a little short-handed here. Sarge’s situation, our own situation…we’re improvising.”

“Marquardt can raise forty.”

“It’s not nearly enough,” Knox said.

“You will not auction off the accounts.”

“I’m afraid we will honor whichever bid comes in higher. But more importantly, we can now eliminate Yang Cheng from our suspect list for the kidnapping. If he had Lu Hao, he wouldn’t need to pay for the accounts. He’d have beaten it out of him.”

Primer’s breathing could be heard. “I can see that.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

“Grace,” Primer said. “Turn the accounts over to Allan. You know the drill.”

She looked into Knox’s eyes. “I am afraid I…that is, we, must accept the highest bid.”

Knox relaxed noticeably, and smiled at her.

“Shit.” Primer had tried to keep it from being heard.

Knox said, “The plan is for extraction. By the time the drop is made, I should have them back.”

“Don’t be a fool. You’ll get them killed. Wait! You know their location?”

Knox reached over and ended the call.

Grace suppressed a smile. “I should have taken Yang’s offer of employment.”

At 8:45, Grace’s personal phone rang and she clapped it up, answering immediately.

“Ms. Wu,” she said, so that Knox understood it was Yang’s assistant, Katherine Wu. She listened. “Yes. Thank you. I will call you right back.”

She disconnected the call.

“Two hundred thousand, U.S.”

“Impressive on such short notice,” Knox allowed.

“But I am afraid we must not accept it,” she said.

“Because?”

“Mr. Primer. The Berthold Group is the client. We do not know the repercussions of turning that information over to Yang. He could use it so many ways. No matter what, he is certain to use it to destroy The Berthold Group. This is our client. Much face would be lost. An American firm accused of bribing officials? This is not good for anyone.”

“First, the kidnapper is our client. We serve the kidnapper. Second, they are expecting a hundred thousand. Do you want to deliver Marquardt’s forty? We take forty from Marquardt and sixty from Yang. We’re up front about it: we let them both know the other guy is getting Lu’s accounts. We give Marquardt an unencrypted version. It’ll take Yang days or weeks to decrypt. That gives Marquardt time to be ready for whatever Yang throws at him. It’s the best we can do.”

“We promised it to the highest bidder.”

He shrugged.

“It is an interesting compromise,” she said.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Knox had been unable to raise Amy; his concern for her compounded with each passing hour. But he’d hired Randy to consult on the proof-of-life’s delivery to a storefront.

“We’re good? You and me?” he asked Grace.

She nodded. “We are good.”

11:00 A.M.

ZHABEI DISTRICT

A blue Buick minivan pulled to the curb, cutting through a thick column of bikes and scooters and motorcycles, all burdened with extra passengers and belongings. Knox threw open the side door. A duffel bag was strapped by seatbelt into the captain’s chair.

Knox unclipped it and swung the door shut. The van sped off.

He and Grace met three blocks to the east. She arrived carrying a similar duffel. They sat side by side on a park bench, the hundred thousand U.S. on their laps.

Knox kept a constant watch, his eyes shielded by a pair of knock-off Ray-Bans.

Grace said nervously, “The Metro station. I am expected there for the drop.”

“It’s a runaround,” Knox said.

“I heard Mr. Primer refer to this. I do not understand, exactly.”

“It’s Dirty Harry.” He could see her disconnect. “A movie-a character in a movie-a cop. Inspector Harry Callahan. He had to make a drop. He’s forced to run pay phone to pay phone to separate him from his backup.”

She inhaled sharply, as if she’d been punched.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Scared?”

“Maybe a little.” But her eyes said differently. He saw concentration, heated thought. Anything but fear.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?” she said.

He nodded. Whatever had shook her up, she’d quickly recovered and did not want to discuss it.

But the question remained.

Melschoi rubbed the stubs of his two fingers lost to frostbite over eighteen months earlier, warding off the shooting pain that foretold an impending storm. He praised the gods for his good fortune, grateful to be moving on his motorcycle instead of caught in traffic. As he headed toward the intersection, he’d received a call from Feng Qi’s man, his Yang Cheng insider. It was the fourth such call he’d received from the man.

“Authorities intercepted communication from a Berthold Group executive,” the man reported. “A woman, Chu, is handling the ransom drop. She is to go to a store along Nanjing Road to receive proof the hostages live.”

“What store?”

“Is unknown.”

“Your team will be watching?”

“Nanjing Road is long. Many stores.”

“Here is how it will work: if your team spots her, you will call me immediately. If I should call you, you will report seeing the woman where I tell you.”

The line remained open.

“I have your wallet. Your address. The address of your family,” Melschoi said, reminding the man, not appreciating his hesitancy. “Do not think. Just do.”

“Feng has given police a video of the woman.”

“Why?”

“Figure it out.”

The man disconnected the call.

The ransom drop was set. Feng wanted the Chu woman arrested before the ransom could be paid.

Melschoi felt poised on the verge of a great success. The bee would not be far from the honey. He could nearly taste the air of the steppes. Could see his children’s smiles.

1:00 P.M.

LUWAN DISTRICT

U.S. CONSULATE

The massive blob of forest green and blood red jerked rhythmically across Steve Kozlowski’s computer screen, indicating the steady advance of the approaching typhoon. Kozlowski’s eyes narrowed. His daughter, Tucker, enjoying a holiday from the Shanghai Community International School, was at a play date with a friend. He was considering calling their driver, Peng, and having Tucker picked up before the storm hit. At that moment, his phone rang.

“Kozlowski,” he answered.

“I’m close to making a deal on the bike,” the voice on the other end said.

He heard a series of soft clicks and a change in the voice quality as Knox said, “You still there?”

Kozlowski slid open his desk drawer and glanced at the white iPhone taken from the hospitalized imposter. He’d placed a call on the phone to test it. He recognized the sound of the service-shifting sound quality that made the call impossible to trace or eavesdrop. That Knox possessed such a phone surprised him.

“I warned you there might come a time I couldn’t help you. That time has arrived.” He eased the drawer shut.

“Don’t hang up! Please. Is this line secure?”

“What do you think? How about on your end?” he said knowingly.

Knox didn’t answer.

“I was shown some video of a Westerner putting the hurt on some locals. Not once, but twice. I don’t take kindly to being called to task by the city police.”

Knox wasn’t going to lie to him, so he said nothing.

“Word to the wise: the Chinese have the most advanced face recognition system out there. On your way out of the country, stay away from the airports and train stations and keep your head down when out on the streets. You’re a marked man, Knox. I would get the hell out of Dodge while the getting’s good.”