Ridley Pearson - The Risk Agent

Knox edged along the rail, and Grace followed. He steered them toward the police line and, reaching it, cried out in Shanghainese to be allowed through. To his surprise, two of the policemen parted. He and Grace and the children pushed through, Knox knowing his skin color had saved them.

They placed the children into the care of the hotel staff and then headed for the upstairs room.

Grace was toweling off her hair.

“You’re a fool to have stayed,” Knox said.

“You are welcome,” she said, continuing with the towel.

“We’ll stay here for the night,” he said. “I’ll take first watch. I’ll wake you in three hours.”

Grace said, “A Chinese woman traveling during National Day holiday is no problem. But with a waiguoren? And one wanted by police!”

“Thank you,” he said, turning his back, allowing her to change out of her wet clothing.

9:30 P.M.

THE BUND

Just beyond the Dongmen Lu Ferry Terminal, barges plowed through the white-capped Huangpu River despite the storm. Passing between them was a four-car flatbed ferry with only one car on deck. It was tossed like a toy as it crossed from the western banks of the Bund toward the eastern banks of Pudong.

Inspector Shen Deshi had remained behind the wheel of the vehicle, but only briefly. He hadn’t wanted to be separated from the duffel bag, presently hidden beneath the back seat. But the strain of the chains binding the car to the deck as the small ferry was tossed proved too terrifying for him. He’d paid the pilot a small fortune for the ten-minute crossing, but had no desire to show him the Mongolian’s face. He led his hostage out onto the stern amid the downpour. It felt far safer out here.

For twelve years, Inspector Shen had served the Ministry of State Security while carrying a People’s Armed Police ID as cover. Twelve years of a pathetic salary, of skillfully sidestepping trouble-the protection rackets, the small-time scams and back-room payoffs that complicated a career. Twelve years of watching his fellow agents prosper around him. For the past four years, he’d been one of a very few officers trusted to pursue corruption at all levels. During that time, he had uncovered tens of millions of yuan-some of which had been offered to him as hush money. He’d never taken a fen.

Now, the decision of his career. Of a lifetime. One he made without hesitation. A hundred thousand U.S. dollars. Another hundred and forty thousand yuan the Mongol had carefully stacked into plastic bags and hidden in his wall. All counted, more than twenty years of salary. Finally, an amount that could not be passed up. He would be rich for the rest of his life, provided he came up with an exit strategy that would not arouse suspicion. He thought he knew just the man to approach about this.

But at present, he had some tidying up to do. He accepted the complications that came with such a decision. Some lives would be lost by his hand, starting with the Mongolian and the ferry pilot; evidence would be destroyed. Lies would need to be carefully crafted. Throughout his career he’d been required to beat suspects. Nothing new there. No doubt some of them had died. This wasn’t so very different.

By now the waiguoren should be in jail, or beaten at the hands of the precinct captain. He would have to follow through with that. The waiguoren would need silencing, along with his companion. Simple enough.

If other obstacles surfaced, they would be handled. Opportunity knocked. He intended to answer.

“I need for you to pay attention,” he said to the Mongolian over the roar of the rain and the steady grind of the boat engine. He unhooked a linchpin and opened the boat’s railing.

“This ferry is going to Pudong. It is up to you whether one or two of us get off.”

Melschoi glowered, searching for a way out of this. He tested his wrists and ankles; bound so tightly they were never coming off.

His only possible advantage in this impossible situation was that the cop was clearly uncomfortable on a boat. He looked about to puke.

“Where was the video shot?” Inspector Shen hollered.

“Chongming Island,” Melschoi hollered back. As a cop himself, he knew this was no time to play coy.

“Who hired you?”

“I met the man only once. No names. A pig civil servant was threatening blackmail. I took care of him.”

“A waiguoren?”

“No. Chinese. A surveyor. I killed the man. A waiguoren was spotted. He was making a video. He did not belong. Killed him, too.”

“You severed his hand?”

“I severed it all. Fucking journalists,” Melschoi said.

“Excellent!”

“I dumped him like fish chum into the river.”

Inspector Shen delighted in what he was hearing. “You are winning much favor with me. Neh? And as to what he was filming?”

“I believe you must know.”

“Then humor me,” Inspector Shen said. “What was the purpose of this laying of the asphalt?”

“A man does what he is paid to do.”

“Why kill a man over something so mundane?” Inspector Shen asked.

“I do as I am told.”

“But who orders such a thing?”

“My payments were left in the back of taxicabs, or placed into sacks with take-away food orders. It was never the same. And don’t think I haven’t tried to find out! I met the man and still do not know his name. The fruit falls not far from the tree. He is located in Beijing. This, I know. He is someone very powerful, obviously. His car carried Shanghai plates, but the car was loaned to him for certain.”

Shen Deshi licked his chops. If he could only identify the man, he could use him to leverage his own situation.

“The phone number, then.”

“The fucking eBpon-the foreigner-took my phone.”

The waiguoren would most definitely have to be found and dealt with. Shen owed the police captain another call.

“Certainly you must have memorized it.”

“My wrists and ankles. Then, once ashore, we will talk. At a distance.”

Inspector Shen grinned. “I should know better than to try to question a former policeman.” He crossed his arms to make his point. But by doing so, he lost his balance and staggered forward.

Melschoi rocked and head-butted the man’s knees.

Inspector Shen went over backward. Melschoi aimed for another head butt; he took a shoe in the face, his nose bent and bleeding.

Shen Deshi seized him by his hair and dragged him to the opening in the rail.

“No!” Melschoi screamed, kicking out.

“The phone number!” Shen Deshi thundered.

“Yours, if you free me!”

“I’ll free you forever, if you’re not forthcoming.”

Shen Deshi repeatedly kicked him in the chest and belly. Behind him, the car groaned and cried on its chains. The boat lurched side to side.

“The fucking number!” Shen Deshi roared.

Melschoi opened his mouth to answer, but the ship rocked heavily and Shen Deshi’s next kick caught Melschoi in the throat, crushing his trachea and collapsing his larynx. Melschoi sucked for wind.

The boat rose and shifted again. Shen Deshi lunged to stop him, but Melschoi slid off the wet deck and out through the open rail, swallowed by the black waters of the Huangpu.

12:00 A.M.

THE BUND

By midnight, the brunt of the storm had passed. Riot police had contained, arrested and dispersed pieces of the mob. Knox monitored it all from the window while Grace snored gently from the bed. As the rain subsided, the streets quickly drained and recovered from the flooding. And then-only in Shanghai-the city sprang back to life as if nothing had happened. Detritus was cleared. Traffic began moving again. People appeared on the streets from all directions. Taxis were running. It was like kicking an anthill, only to see the ants swarm back to work minutes later and begin rebuilding the hill.