Ridley Pearson - The Risk Agent

“The guys were Mongolians, not Chinese,” Knox said, wondering if the face recognition explained his being tracked to the wet market. “Hired muscle working for a Beijing big with unusual financial ties to The Berthold Group. One of these goons has a commercial quality hi-def video camera hidden in his wall. Ring any bells?”

Kozlowski held the phone away while attempting to calm himself. He returned the phone to his ear. Knox was still talking.

“-interest you.”

“Say again.”

“A video camera. Expensive, though banged up and still able to play its contents. I thought maybe that might interest you. It’s engraved-‘property of Road Worthy Film and Video Supply in Glendale, California.’”

“I am aware of the stolen property. Yes.”

“This being China, I thought we might negotiate.”

“I’m listening.”

“I need safe passage for four.”

A long hesitation. “The U.S. government is not in the practice of-”

“You’re either interested or not. It’ll be later today. Evening. Maybe into the night. You can, or can’t?”

Kozlowski had worked hard through a career that currently involved paperwork and e-mails where once it had meant working the backstreets of Nairobi or Delhi. God, how he’d loved the work as an operative. That marriage and a child had made him more cautious, more career-motivated, was a personal tragedy of sorts. He envied Knox his predicament, understood the importance of his own role, yet had no desire to annul all the tedious hours that had led to this moment: four years from retirement at the age of forty-nine. A lifetime ahead. But the video camera and what it represented was a gold ring. Solving the disappearance of the cameraman was paramount.

“I’ll evaluate the video camera,” Kozlowski said.

“After my friends and I are safely out of here.”

A pause. “If you get yourself arrested, I’m left with nothing. No deal. The camera. Then I’ll do what I can.”

The subtle shifting of tone punctuated the line.

“Can it be done?” Knox asked.

“A contact could be arranged. How it works out…well, no promises. This is China.”

“What kind of contact?”

“I give you a company number to dial. It’s a real estate front. I can walk you through it.”

Company number. CIA, Knox realized. “So start walking,” he said.

“First the location of the camera. I’ll sit on it until I hear from you, or I hear you’ve been taken into custody. But I must have it in advance. Those are the terms.”

Knox described the narrow lane in the Muslim quarter. He told Kozlowski it would be easier to lead him there in person.

“This is my city, Knox.” He took several minutes to walk Knox through making contact with the company.

“You still owe me a motorcycle,” Kozlowski said, ending the call.

2:30 P.M.

“I e-mailed product inquiry to store,” Randy said over the phone in his chopped English. “The store e-mailed me back. This gives IP address and routing in the source code.”

“Which means?” Knox said, his patience taxed.

“It was your idea to track possible video transmission to source.”

“What’s that got to do with e-mail?”

“Technical matter only. This helps me. You. No problem for you. Tracing video back to source will take time. Maybe quarter hour. Maybe half.”

“That’s too long,” Knox said. He could picture himself arriving to find Danner and Lu Hao ten minutes dead. “The minute they send that video-providing they do at all-I’ll have less than thirty minutes to arrive at the location.”

“It is possible…”

“Go on,” Knox encouraged when Randy failed to say more.

“You see, if I am this person I would test bandwidth ahead of time. Maybe one hour. Maybe thirty minutes ahead. Be certain transmission goes successful.”

“Which gives me the time I need.”

“Yes. It is true.”

It was a hell of a risk to take.

“And if they e-mail a video instead of a live transmission?” Knox asked.

“File size very large. But e-mail moves in packets. This piece here. That piece there. All pieces join and arrive to your computer. Make problem for us.”

Knox had surveyed the electronics store to be used for POL. In the front window was a television and camera setup that showed the window shopper standing on the sidewalk looking in. The moment he’d spotted the arrangement, he’d pictured the hostages being shown on that same television. The kidnappers could have a second camera, or a team watching the streets making sure Grace was alone. It struck him as a quick and efficient way to deliver the proof-of-life. They’d used video twice before. People stuck to what they were comfortable with.

“Maybe I make suggestion?”

“Go ahead,” Knox said.

“I could crash the store’s e-mail server. This would then force them to use live video.”

Knox worried the effort might tip their hand and told Randy so. Better to leave them believing it was business as usual.

2:55 P.M.

LUWAN DISTRICT

NANJING ROAD

Grace had never seen the streets so crowded. With the Friday holiday rush fully underway, the sidewalks and streets remained in their “crush hour” state, as they had all day. Carrying the duffel bag of money, she approached the electronics store named by the kidnappers and fought to remain stationary, flattening herself against the window.

Knox had advised her to keep alert. The proof-of-life might come in the television screen currently reflecting her image, or an image in one of the many digital frames, or in the LCD on the back of one of the many cameras. It might be something presented or shown to her by a clerk beyond the cluttered window display. Perhaps even Lu Hao or Danner himself briefly making an appearance.

She waited there at the window, time moving more slowly, weighed down by her performance over the next hour. She was responsible for a human life. It was no longer drills, or practice, or textbooks, or lecture. She pushed away the credit she might gain with Lu Jian if successful. Until Knox had verbalized it earlier, she hadn’t fully seen her ulterior motives, hadn’t fully acknowledged them. Perhaps there had been hidden motivations for her taking the assignment. So what? Perhaps others-even relative strangers-could see her more clearly than she could see herself.

She took in every camera, every display, her eyes ticking one to the next. She watched for movement or a signal from the clerks inside, all the while jostled and bumped and her feet trodden upon by inconsiderate passers-by. Twice, she was knocked away from her post and had to fight the human stream to reposition herself.

Amid the noise of traffic and pedestrians, no one heard her gasp as the screen of a portable DVD player flickered to life.

“Lu Hao,” she gasped as he and a waiguoren appeared side by side. They sat on scuffed, three-legged wooden stools, their arms at their sides-their hands no doubt bound behind their backs-against a backdrop of a bedsheet. They each had several days’ growth of beard, the waiguoren’s eyes pinched in fatigue. The bedsheet wavered with a breeze-someone entering or leaving the room?-and briefly stuck to the wall behind them, a jagged shape appearing in shadow. A phone was shoved into the frame, covering Lu Hao’s face, the small screen clearly showing the date and time-a website. The phone stayed there long enough to be read and then disappeared. The screen went blank.

Grace breathed again. For a second time, a sickening nausea spread through her-the first having occurred following Knox’s reference to the Dirty Harry ransom delivery. A film reference. The letters scratched into the hostage chair at the empty warehouse were not “44” but initials. She had not shared her suspicion with Knox. Even now, she could not fully admit it to herself, unable to define and articulate what felt like a poison running through her.