Ridley Pearson - The Risk Agent

The Range Rover pulled back into traffic.

10:00 A.M.

LUWAN DISTRICT

SHANGHAI

The rain had begun falling heavily again an hour earlier. Knox, Grace and Kozlowski stood on the mansion steps, under the cover of an awning.

Just beyond the consulate gates, still in Chinese territory, an ambulance waited, a single red light spinning above the windshield.

The gates opened and the security blocks lowered. The ambulance did not move.

“Come on…” Knox said, willing it to cross onto American soil.

Grace held Knox’s iPhone to her ear. “Katherine, please,” she said. “The ambulance is at the gate.” She rolled her eyes at Knox. They had been waiting for Yang Cheng to pick up.

She covered the phone with her palm and whispered, “He is not going to do this over the phone. He is too careful.”

“Then, what? Here?” Knox said. “Where?”

“I believe it is more a question of how,” Grace said. “Yang will not risk being seen or overheard taking a name of a Chinese official from an American, and then later turning this same man over to authorities. He obviously understands we could be playing him, that it all could be an elaborate trick of U.S. Intelligence.”

“And of course he’d be right,” Kozlowski allowed. “Given that U.S. Intelligence was smart enough to dream up such a ploy. To remove a top official by rumor and innuendo would be a coup.”

Grace cradled the phone to her cheek. “Katherine? Please inform Mr. Yang the offer is good for forty minutes. I will be waiting at the front gate at the U.S. Consulate on Wulumuqi. I will turn over the information to either you or Mr. Yang. No one else.” She ended the call.

The red light pulsed across their faces.

“Why?” Knox said, imploring her.

She answered. “If they send someone from the Ministry, for instance, there is no guarantee the deal for Mr. Dulwich will be honored.”

“But Yang will honor it?” Knox asked sarcastically.

“Of course.”

“Because?”

“Face,” she answered absolutely. “He will not go back on his word. This, I promise.”

Knox carried an umbrella for Grace as he escorted her to the front entrance security check and then stood at the gate to get a better look at the ambulance. The music of U2 escaped from a Humvee, manned by a lone Marine who guarded the gate. The wipers of the Humvee were out of sync with the music; the engine was not running.

It was one of the longer walks of Knox’s life. Careful to remain on the consulate side, he craned to peer through the ambulance windshield, its wipers thumping. The ambulance driver, believing Knox was looking at him, pointed to a cutout of Kobe Bryant hanging from a mirror and, pointing to it, offered his index finger to signify “Number 1.” Knox was looking past the spinning Kobe at the man on a side bench in the back. A paramedic, a woman, sat next to him while the knees of a dark blue uniform could be seen, sitting across. Police. Dulwich held his arm in a sling and was wearing gauze on his head like a yarmulke. He looked like shit. Knox nodded faintly at him and Dulwich squinted back, either not seeing him or choosing not to acknowledge him.

Behind and alongside the ambulance were two police cars, each with four officers inside. Knox considered an extraction, but eight-against-one, nine, counting the cop inside, were not the best odds. Still, if the ambulance backed up-if the brokered deal fell through, he didn’t rule it out.

He looked both ways down the unusually quiet street, searching for Yang’s black Bentley he’d seen at the Bund. A few cars and taxis moved in both directions, along with a few dozen bikes, but no Bentley.

He cursed the Chinese for erecting walls within walls of honor and shame, defenses to rival an Umbrian hill town. Rules within rules. Codes within codes. They seemed to shift according to need; despite his claims, he did not understand it.

Ten minutes passed more like forty and he was still standing in the same spot, rain drumming on the umbrella. He was still looking when a taxi pulled to the curb. A woman climbed out, shielding her hair. From a distance she could easily have been Katherine, if memory served. But his memory was crippled by fatigue and he couldn’t be sure. The woman went through to security.

Knox waited. The taxi idled.

She couldn’t have been inside more than thirty seconds before she reappeared on the sidewalk and climbed back into the waiting taxi, which then drove off. Knox looked to the ambulance, expecting it to move. It did not.

Grace came out of security and hurried across the carefully manicured pebble walk and atop the close-cut grass-like a putting green-and joined Knox under the umbrella.

“It is done,” she said.

“So?”

“Now it is up to Yang Cheng to judge and value the information, perhaps verify, even partially, that Zhimin could be culpable. To determine if he is important enough for Yang to risk his reputation and the expenditure of guanxi.”

“Perfect.”

“You are considering a move on the ambulance,” she said.

Knox stewed. He didn’t appreciate being read like that.

“It is all well and good. That is the expression, is it not?”

“It is the expression. It’s not the case.”

“If the ambulance leaves, then we know we have failed.” Said so calmly.

“If the ambulance backs up, it won’t make it ten feet.”

“John.”

“Grace.”

She placed her hand on his upper arm and stood close to him, out of the rain. “There has not been a minister to fall in many years. The government will gain great value from it. The Party, no. But the number one grievance of the Chinese people is corruption. The government cannot possibly resist such a trophy as Chairman Zhimin.”

“But bringing down a politician…” Knox said.

“You will see.”

But the ambulance did not move, forward or back. The driver toyed with Kobe Bryant, while Dulwich hung his head, looking defeated.

Another five minutes passed.

“Yang is not going to do it,” Knox said.

“Give it time,” Grace said.

Through beating wipers, Knox saw one of the policemen respond to a dashboard radio call, and watched as a heated discussion ensued between him and the driver, who pointed back, clearly explaining they were boxed in.

The cop who’d taken the radio call climbed out of the police car and headed for the second cop car, the one blocking the ambulance. This man shot a smug look in Knox’s direction. In that look was confidence and spiteful victory. Knox saw it in slow motion-malicious superiority.

Knox looked back through the gray toward the mansion, where Kozlowski stood keeping his distance. Back at the ambulance. Then to the Marine behind the wheel of the Humvee. And finally, to the winch mounted on the front of the Humvee.

Knox jogged to the winch, slammed down the release lever and spooled off fifteen feet of steel cable. He walked the hook on the end of the cable toward the gate.

“Knox…” Grace called out anxiously.

The Marine was out of the vehicle. “Hey!”

Knox slid through a puddle across the threshold into Chinese territory, where he was a wanted criminal, and partially under the ambulance, as beneath the vehicle he saw the police car to the rear backing up. He hooked the ambulance’s tow bar, and scrambled back out as the sound of car doors signaled the police coming for him. He crawled and dove back across the gate line, a border defining the consulate property, and rushed to the winch, opening a plastic box and throwing a switch. The Chinese police had missed him by inches.

“You can’t do that!” the Marine said to Knox. But the man was clearly more engaged with the two Chinese policemen whose toes were nearly touching the consulate boundary. The Marine marched toward them and stood nose to nose.