Ridley Pearson - The Risk Agent

“No,” Knox said. “You won’t. Not unless you plan on robbing banks.”

“I’d be good at it.”

“You probably would be.”

“Bank on it.” Danner grinned. He noticed Knox staring at his bandage. “This is not your fault. Don’t go there.”

“The initials in the chair,” Knox said. “We thought it was forty-four. We lost a lot of time reading that wrong.”

“I’m telling you: don’t go there.”

“The GPS paid off.”

“My bike?”

Knox nodded.

“You found my bike?”

“Grace’s idea.”

“She’s a keeper.”

“No doubt.”

“Small price to pay,” Danner said. “At least I won’t be flipping anyone off.”

“You’re going to joke about it?”

“Any other ideas?”

Knox coughed.

“I owe you, man.”

“Bullshit.”

“Big time.”

“Not true.”

“You say jump,” Danner said, “I’ll ask how high.”

“No one’s going to do any jumping.”

“I’m staying with Berthold. Just so you know. Peggy will give me shit, but I love the life, and the money’s incredible.”

“The baby will change your mind,” Knox said.

“The baby will change everything,” Danner said. “They always do.”

Knox lifted the beer can. “Here’s to its health.”

They were both thinking of Tommy.

The cans clunked dully.

“I wouldn’t have done the same,” Danner confessed. “But I will now.”

“Understood,” Knox said. “Let’s hope I never need it.”

“Yeah, let’s hope.”

3:03 P.M.

HONG KONG

The Signature terminal at Chek Lap Kok airport was obscenely plush and comfortable. Gorgeous flight attendants offered Knox drinks and finger food while CNN International played on a flat screen. He’d asked to file a flight plan back to Cambodia. He had business there to tidy up. But the thought of it troubled him. The lure of selling bronze statuettes wasn’t exactly calling out to him.

The skyline was. The distant shimmer of a few million people competing for the same few square miles of land, the same few tons of rice and fish and tea. There was something narcissistic and primitive about the drive for survival that appealed to him. More to the point, he wasn’t thrilled to be alone. He barely recognized himself.

His phone rang, and he hoped it would be her, but he recognized his brother’s voice immediately.

“Johnny? She…I screwed up.”

“Tommy. Easy!”

“Evelyn. That bitch!”

Their accountant, Evelyn Ritter.

“Tommy?”

“She jacked all the accounts.”

“Tommy? Chill! Breathe! Start from the…whaddaya mean all the accounts?”

“She didn’t show up this morning. I thought she was sick. What the fuck do I know?”

“She doesn’t have access to all the accounts,” Knox said, feeling relief. His brother could be mistaken about so much. “Only the checking, and there’s never much in it. You’re saying she drained the checking? Have you called the police? Who the hell do you call? FBI?” he was thinking aloud.

The resulting silence grew intense. Knox thought briefly about the Nike duffel bag and closed his eyes, deciding he would never think about it again.

“Tommy?”

“She said she had to move a bunch of stuff around. Said you usually did that but that you weren’t around.”

“You did not give her those passwords.” He made it a statement. The company did their banking online.

“It can’t just vanish, right? I mean, that kind of thing…there’s ways to follow it, right? That’s a shitload of money we’re talking about, bro.”

“You gave her the passwords.”

“She said it had to be done, that you usually did it. I screwed up, didn’t I? I screwed it all up! Don’t get mad at me, Johnny. Please don’t get mad at me!”

Knox held the phone away from his ringing ear and shut his eyes. Took several deep breaths.

“You are going to need my help.”

Knox returned the phone to his ear. “I’m not mad at you, Tommy. Okay? It’s going to be okay.”

“We’re broke, man. Cleaned out. It’s not going to be okay. We, like, owe a shitload to a lot of people. But we can find it, right? Get it back? There’re people who do that, right?”

Knox felt the check in his back pocket. It had seemed like so much money a few hours ago. The pilot came through the door looking for him.

“Ready when you are, sir.”

“Hang on, Tommy.” Knox cupped the phone. He asked the pilot, “Mr. Primer said anywhere…anywhere I wanted to go. Does that offer still hold?”

“You want to file another flight plan?”

“Can that plane reach the U.S.?”

“With a refuel in Hawaii, yes, sir.”

Knox returned to the phone. Tommy was running at the mouth, working himself into a frenzy. Stumbling over apology after apology. He sounded about ready to cry. Knox didn’t want him going down this road. He worked for five minutes to talk him down.

Tommy said, “The Pearl Lady sent an e-mail.”

“Amy?”

“She said all business with us is over. She sounded really pissed off at you.”

“We’ll see.”

“Said bad things came out of her friendship with you. What does that mean?”

“It’s been a busy week here, Tommy. I’ll sort it out.” It’s what I do, he thought.

“I like the Pearl Lady.”

“So do I.”

A silence formed between them. Then Tommy spoke.

“There’re people who do that,” he said, repeating it like a mantra. “…people who do that.”

“It’s okay, Tommy. We’ll find the money.” But if they didn’t? Tommy’s monthly health care costs alone would sink them. “There are people who do that.” To bring his brother back, one had to snap the tape loops in the kid’s head. He repeated what he’d just said. Tommy’s breathing calmed.

“I know someone,” Knox said. “She does this kind of thing.”

“Seriously?” Knox heard a ray of hope in his brother’s voice. “Do I know her?”

“No. But you’ll like her,” Knox said.

On a cold November day, wet with rain and sharp with wind, Steve Kozlowski rose from the couch and his DVR’ed Eagles game to answer a knock on the front door. The events of a month before were all but forgotten, swept aside by more urgent matters-an impending state visit by the vice president, chief among them.

Liz came out from the kitchen, not realizing her husband could be broken from the spell of football. She was driven in equal parts by a sense of responsibility, and a curiosity what neighbor might be calling on them. If the knock was an outside visitor, the compound’s gate guards would have notified them by telephone.

As she saw her husband approach the door, she stopped. But she didn’t turn back. She wanted to see who this was, anticipating that her husband would want nothing to do with any of their neighbors.

Kozlowski opened the door and just stood there.

“Sweetheart?” Liz called out. “Who is it?”

Her husband did not move, silhouetted by the pale gray air and the pale gray security wall in the distance that surrounded the compound.

She tried for a second time. “Steve?”

“A friend,” he answered.

Determined to see whatever was going on, she approached.

“Get a scarf,” he said.

“It’s raining!” she complained.

“That’s why you’ll need a scarf,” he said, still not turning toward her. “And grab a ball cap for me.”

“I’m not going out there.”

“Yes. We both are. We’re going to get wet, and we’re going to enjoy it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Her patience with him was sapped.

Kozlowski stepped through the door and out into the drizzle, and as he did, Liz could finally see beyond him to the object in the front yard. It was a spit-shined, black motorcycle and sidecar, an antique, with polished chrome and new leather. Steve circled, admiring it from every angle.