Ridley Pearson - The Risk Agent

Interesting bedfellows.

Kozlowski broke his stride to grab a length of pipe as he continued deeper into the facility led by the spray of water.

Maybe not bedfellows.

He arrived to within several meters of the Chinese man. The water ran red into the drain.

“Don’t do that,” Kozlowski said in English. “Step away, now!”

Shen continued his work. “Go away, Mr. Kozlowski. It is no concern of yours.”

“You are destroying physical evidence of a possible homicide of a U.S. citizen. Step away and desist.”

Shen Deshi said coolly, “I advise you to go away now. You are trespassing. You have no authority to be here.”

“I will not have you destroying evidence. You will stop…or I will make you stop.” Kozlowski raised the pipe.

“If you remain here in this place you do not belong, I will bring the charge of industrial espionage. A government spy. Do you really want such trouble?”

“Destroying the blood evidence will not make the case go away. I assume you intercepted the forensic evidence intended for me?”

“I know nothing of what you speak.” Shen Deshi turned around, the hose splashing water onto the concrete floor. “Do not be naïve, Mr. Kozlowski. You have a hand found in the river. No body. You are prohibited from investigating in this country-an act you are currently engaged in. You are inside a facility of a private company, which constitutes industrial espionage. How much trouble do you want for yourself?”

Kozlowski said, “Chemicals and soil samples from the hand link directly to this facility. The hand is Caucasian. The DNA will come back for the missing videographer, an American. I am within my rights to protect evidence.”

The scientific link caused Grace’s heart to flutter. A murder had taken place here. Possibly more than one. Lu Hao would never be safe. His plan to kidnap himself seemed suddenly much more understandable.

“When do you expect the results of a DNA test? Six weeks? Eight weeks? Do you want to spend eight weeks in a Chinese prison? Be my guest. Even if you prove such a connection, this cameraman was far from his assignment. This, too, smells of U.S. spying. You will be tied to him, and him to you. Is this what you want for U.S. Consulate? This is violation of agreements made between our sovereign nations. Very bad for everyone.”

“Step away.”

Shen trained the hose back onto the dressing table. “You must leave now,” he said. “Last chance. I do not wish such trouble on you. Of all blessings, charity is the highest.”

“A U.S. citizen has been murdered-most likely by a Chinese. We both know this,” Kozlowski said. He lowered the pipe, raised his phone and took a photo. “Destroying evidence is also a crime.”

With the flash of the camera phone, Shen Deshi dropped the hose and marched toward Kozlowski, withdrawing his handgun.

“Stupid fool. Drop the pipe. Keep both hands in view.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Your CIA uses a cameraman, a member of the Xuan Tower documentary crew, to attempt to embarrass Chinese government, or to challenge the WTO environmental agreement. Who knows what might be the reason? More American tricks.”

“That’s nonsense!”

“Lower the pipe.”

Kozlowski lay down the pipe. It clattered against the concrete.

“Hands behind your back.” He waved the gun. “Onto your knees.”

“You arrest me, it will be a national incident. Think how that will affect your career?”

“It is already a national incident. Espionage is no game. Do not worry about my career, Mr. Kozlowski. Worry about your health in Chinese prison. How your family will cope.”

“I have diplomatic status.”

Shen Deshi stepped forward with astonishing speed for such a big man. He pistol-whipped Kozlowski, stunning him. He cuffed the man’s hands behind his back. Removed Kozlowski’s cell phone and disassembled it one-handed. He smashed all the parts with an angry foot.

“Up!” Shen said, ordering Kozlowski to move.

Grace used the commotion to cover the sounds of her climbing down from her perch. She hurried toward the open doors, staying low and moving fast. A second car arrived, trapping her. She settled into a tight spot alongside one of the large vats.

The driver of the second car was a young woman wearing a police uniform. She entered and helped Inspector Shen move Kozlowski toward the yard. Shen directed her to drive “the prisoner” into Shanghai and drop him at an address he recited.

“I will call ahead,” he said to her. “Much will be made of your cooperation.”

Kozlowski said to the inspector, “You are bringing a shit storm onto yourself.”

“This foul-mouthed waiguoren will tell you a dozen lies,” Shen told the young woman. “All foreigners have golden tongues. Pay him no mind.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Commendation and promotion must certainly follow on the heels of such loyalty and the expert conduct of one’s duties.” It sounded like a rehearsed speech.

She slipped behind the wheel of the Range Rover.

Shen put Kozlowski into the back seat, tying the seatbelt’s shoulder strap tightly around the man’s neck. The recoil mechanism held Kozlowski upright. If he leaned forward, he choked.

“Beat the damn spy with your flashlight if you have to,” he told her. “He deserves every blow.”

“Gladly,” she answered.

Shen shut the car door, banged on the side of the vehicle and it drove off.

He returned inside, holstering his weapon and then lengthening his stride.

As the second car arrived, Knox slid beneath Kozlowski’s Range Rover and hid. He overheard much of what went on inside, and moved to the second car in hope of stealing its keys or rendering it useless.

If he could get Kozlowski and Grace into the Range Rover…

He quietly opened the sedan’s door. He punched the jamb’s interior switch, preventing the inside light from turning on. The keys were in the ignition.

He banged his head into the rearview mirror, dislodging it. Reached up to try to leave it close to where it had been.

It was aimed into the back seat.

Knox froze as he saw a black strap protruding alongside the center seatbelt clasp: a Nike Swoosh.

From the back seat of the Range Rover, Kozlowski realized his diplomatic plates would work against him. No traffic cop would dare ticket the car or pull it over. She drove around the tannery and aimed for the front gate.

One of his daughter’s puzzle books stuck up from the seat pocket, the sight of which caused a knot in his throat. He’d run out without so much as a goodbye. For all the fairy-tale endings, as a man in service to his country, he knew how the final acts to most such lives played out: a blindfolded and handcuffed body found slumped and collecting flies in a city dump or along a shoreline.

Pleading his case with his driver wasn’t going to cut it. Once he was in Chinese custody, his life was all but over.

The Range Rover slowed to clear the posts defining the compound’s front gate. Kozlowski leaned. The seatbelt tightened around his neck.

The driver-side window exploded. A man’s hand appeared and the cadet’s head rebounded off the steering wheel. The hand tripped the door locks and the driver’s door came open, the car still rolling. The slumped cadet was pulled from the seat and John Knox took her place. Knox must have tried for the clutch, but he hit the brake and the car stalled. Knox reached for the ignition.

A shot rang out, exploding the rear window. Shen Deshi screamed in Mandarin, “Stop or I will shoot!” He was close. He had a good shot at the back of Kozlowski’s head. With his neck held by the seatbelt, Kozlowski wasn’t moving.

“I will shoot him!” Shen called out again, this time in English. “Maybe you make it. Maybe not.”