Ridley Pearson - The Risk Agent

He never woke Grace for her shift. He let her sleep. When morning finally came, and they’d eaten and Knox had drunk multiple cups of black tea, they spoke.

“So, here we are.”

“Indeed,” she said. “I take it you have a plan.”

“The island,” he said.

She nodded.

“Your friend.”

She eyed him furtively. “I know that I suggested this, but I would rather not. My preference is to start with Marquardt’s hired driver or the hotel where he and Song stayed.”

“You still love him,” he said.

“Westerners think in terms of love beginning and ending. It is not so for the Chinese.”

“The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Whatever the driver can tell us is good. You’ll call him and arrange a time to meet. But the brother will know more than anyone. I know about brothers. Time is critical. Sarge will be jailed, if he hasn’t been already.”

“I do not believe Mr. Primer will allow him to be in such trouble,” she said.

“Even his reach only extends so far.”

She shook her head in disbelief.

“A single day in a Chinese jail is one too many,” he said.

“You will have no disagreement from me.”

“The brother, then. But call the driver first and arrange for him to drive us.”

Again, that put-upon look of hers.

“Please,” he said.

“I believe that is the first time I have heard you use this word,” she said.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

Knox hot-wired a Toyota in the Indigo’s parking garage. He wore a pair of sunglasses to hide his eyes and a headband that covered his ears, and makeup applied by Grace that widened his cheekbones and narrowed his chin-all in hopes of avoiding the prying eyes of computerized face recognition.

Grace drove, Knox in the back seat, so only a Chinese face could be seen through the windshield.

The city had already emptied out by half. Traffic was lighter than usual. They drove the tunnel to Pudong, headed for the ring road and eventually the Hushan Expressway toward Chongming Island.

The wind had died down. The rain continued at a drizzle; dark clouds threatened. The farm roads of Chongming Island were debris-strewn and partially flooded. Residents milled about, looking dazed.

They reached the town of Chongming, for which the island was named, thirty minutes later. Grace pulled the Toyota into a semicircular driveway of a five-story apartment building and parked.

She reached for the door handle.

“Be careful.”

She paused to look back at him. He saw sadness bordering on grief. She said, “Do not leave the car, John. You will stand out in this city. This is not Shanghai.”

“So Marquardt would have stood out here as well,” he said, knowing she exaggerated. Hotels and private car companies didn’t exist for the pleasure of the locals. Much of the island was soon to be urbanized. “I can be less memorable than you might think.”

“There are closed-circuit cameras here as well,” she reminded.

She left the car. Knox looked around at the plain buildings that were a holdover of the Mao era.

The gray skies. The litter.

He wanted outside.

The apartment building wasn’t much to look at, its location nothing special. Chongming was a backwater island that, no matter what amount of funds the government injected into its economy, would never be much more than an outpost of rice paddies and pig farms.

Grace knew all this, had considered it important once, but what she would have given, what she would have changed, in order to possess a key to the door she now faced.

Her heart beating wildly, she raised her hand to knock, only to lower her arm to her side. This was no ordinary door. It opened to her past. She wanted it to open to her future. She’d imagined and dreamed of this moment for six years. Now, it suddenly felt too soon.

The door’s fisheye security lens winked. He’d heard her-or sensed her. Her heart fluttered. She forced a smile for appearance’s sake, and then knocked lightly, wondering what was taking him so long. Hoping the lump in his throat was as big as hers.

The door opened slowly and there he stood before her. Imperiously. Formally. Capable of English or Shanghainese, they would speak their Chongming dialect.

“Jian,” she said. He’d aged hardly at all, though he had always looked older than he was. He wore his hair shorter now, more in keeping with his job as a civil servant. His hands appeared smoother, his nails immaculate. The same quiet confidence showed in his eyes. She felt slightly faint.

“Youya.”

“It warms my heart to see you.”

“You are as lovely as ever.” He sounded more formal than sincere. She read meaning into his every gesture, his every look. He paused and said, “You will please come in?”

She entered, removing her shoes and placing her purse alongside them.

He showed her into a modest living room. “Tea?”

“It would be my pleasure to prepare it,” she said sincerely.

“I will be but a minute.”

His rebuff hit her hard. He wanted no such intimacy. Five minutes passed as he worked in the kitchen, out of sight. She took in the flat-panel television and DVD player; the elliptical workout machine; a rack of free weights. The rain-stained windows looked out on a sea-gray sky.

“That was some storm,” she called out loudly.

“We lost power for most of the night. It has only come back on in the past hour.”

She noted the apartment showed no sign of a woman’s touch. Perhaps the woman she’d seen him with in Lu Hao’s digital frame had been but a fling. On the other hand, if he had married, her mother never would have told her, fearing she might do something drastic. She spotted photographs of his family. Her breath caught, spotting her own image among them. She remembered the exact day at the market together, remembered his smile. She saw no other woman among the photos and took this as a very good sign.

“This is oolong,” he said, placing the tea tray down before her.

“This is uncomfortable,” she said.

He laughed.

“For you as well?” she inquired.

He tried to suppress his smile, and she wondered why. “Yes, I suppose.”

“You never answered my letters,” she blurted out. She had a million things to say, but hated herself for breaking the formality.

“What could I say?” he asked.

“It was my fath-”

“I do not need to hear it again,” he said, cutting her off. “Your father is an honorable man. I respect his wishes.”

Liar! she wanted to shout. You did not respect them at the time, and had you come after me I would have eloped with you.

“Have you seen them?” he asked. “Your parents?”

“No. I came here first.” She paused. “To you.”

He clearly didn’t know what to say. He made himself busy with the tea, pouring it too soon.

“Lu Hao is free,” she said. “He is, by now, out of the country and safe.”

Lu Jian set the teapot down and bent over, throwing his head into his hands, sobbing.

She reached out and tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder, wanting so much more.

Sitting up, wiping tears away, he said, “How could you possibly know this?” Distrustful.

She wondered how much to reveal. “It was I who arranged the job, as you will remember.”

“I have heard nothing. My parents have not been contacted.”

“No. It is not official.”

“But you are certain?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Will you excuse me, please? I will call my parents now and end their grief.”

“No, Jian. Please…there are complications. I need your help.”

With tears brimming in his eyes, he said, “You bring me great joy, Chu Youya! Great joy, indeed.”