The Risk Agent (23 page)

1 day until the ransom

15

4:00 A.M.

HUASHAN HOSPITAL

SHANGHAI

“Can you hear me?” The rugged-faced man standing by the hospital bed cupped his hand, shielding the patient’s eyes from the overhead tube lighting. “My name is Kozlowski. U.S. Consulate.”

David Dulwich looked around the hospital room without moving his head or neck, which was held in a foam collar. He wanted a way out. There were slings and weights and pulleys attached to him; he felt stretched.

“You happen to be in luck,” Kozlowski said, a little too cheerily. “Believe it or not, you have Formula One racing to thank for it. Ten years ago, the city wanted to bring in Formula One for a sanctified event. But event organizers require the availability of top-shelf Western medicine before authorizing an event. The result is this,” he said, sweeping his hand, “umpteen millions of dollars spent on a state-of-the-art, fully staffed
hospital ward for expats. You, my friend, are the beneficiary. From what I’m told you’re lucky to be alive. If you’d been wearing a seatbelt, maybe you’d have walked away from it, but then again show me one Shanghai cab in which you can find the back-seat seatbelts. Am I right?”

He walked slowly around the bed. “In case you’re wondering: it was the pins in your ankle that stamped you ‘Made in U.S.A.’ Though don’t ask me how.”

In a convincing Australian accent, Dulwich said, “They got the work right, mate, but not my country of origin. I’m Aussie. And it’s ‘sanctioned event,’ not ‘sanctified.’”

Kozlowski didn’t look like a man who tolerated correction. “There was a time in my career when a guy like you would have confused me, or maybe even fooled me completely.” Kozlowski held up a small white 4 × 6 card with boxes across the top. Each box contained a fingerprint.

“The Australian passport is good,” Kozlowski continued. “Very good. Too good. Maybe even authentic. That tells me more than you want, believe me.”

Kozlowski moved to the end of the bed, hoping for eye contact. Dulwich wouldn’t give him any.

“Both drivers walked. One car was stolen. The nephew of the registered cabbie drove the taxi. On the outside, it looks like a U.S. citizen in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the passport; and iPhone the likes of which my tech guys have never seen; a plane ticket from Hong Kong booked an hour before takeoff yesterday morning; a first-class train ticket to Guangzhou?”

“Yesterday?” Dulwich said, trying to sit up. No use. “The date?”

“It’s September thirtieth.” Kozlowski pulled up a chair. “Mean something to you?”

“I never like losing track of time.”

“By the end of the day I’ll have confirmed your identity. I’m not going to get all Law and Order on you and tell you you’re better off talking to me now than later. We both know that’s bullshit. You’re better off not talking to me at all. You’re better off walking the hell out of here when no one’s looking. But in your condition, I don’t think that’s even possible.
Maybe you could crawl. Honestly, I probably don’t want to know why you’re here. You smack of a ton of paperwork just waiting to happen.”

Dulwich winced painfully again as he tried to sit up.

“There are plenty of individuals like you in this city. Don’t think you’re all that special. Trouble is, Americans like you are my responsibility. I’m supposed to keep your nose clean. Or at least mop up the snot after it’s spilled. Maybe you’re here stealing somebody else’s secrets, keeping track of his sins, looking for a missing person, or trying to lead a revolution. I don’t care. I need you gone. There is only one way you can gain my favor.” Kozlowski withdrew and unfolded some photocopies. He held the first in front of Dulwich’s face.

“No,” Dulwich croaked out, seeing a photo of Lu Hao.

“Strike one. Him?” Kozlowski said, producing a second photo from under the first. Clete Danner.

Dulwich swallowed dryly. “No.”

The medication belied his intentions.

Kozlowski noted the twitch, but said, “Strike two.” He proffered the third of three: a security photo of a Chinese man. “And?”

Dulwich said, “He looks nasty, mate.”

“You think you’re going to outsmart the Chinese?” Kozlowski asked. “They’re all over this.”

“All over what?”

“Really?”

Dulwich had the twitch under control, giving away nothing. He was thinking: the Iron Hand. The missing cameraman. Kozlowski could easily be part of that investigation, could easily believe Dulwich was involved in that investigation.

“You’d better have some serious support in play, friend. Because from what the doctors tell me, you’re not going anywhere soon. You’re a sitting duck here—that’s an American expression, but I think you’ll figure it out. If you want help—protection, maybe a transfer, that’s all there for the asking. If there’s a bone in your body that isn’t broken, they haven’t found it.” He waited. “Nothing? Seriously?” Kozlowski took a deep breath and stepped back. “Enjoy Chinese prison. I hope you like rice.”

9:20 A.M.

CHANGNING DISTRICT

Knox and Grace spent the night working in the safe house. Grace reviewed Berthold’s financials with special attention given to Marquardt’s travel expensing, while security video of Lu Hao’s apartment building ran in the background. If the Mongolians had a prior relationship with Lu, maybe they’d be seen. Or if the kidnappers had returned for Lu Hao’s medication and laptop, perhaps they could be identified.

Knox confounded himself attempting to find any hidden files in the memory of Lu Hao’s digital frame, a process well above his pay grade. He determined that the frame’s memory was partitioned into two virtual drives—like two separate file cabinets. He’d been able to retrieve the images from one of the virtual drives, but as far as he could tell, the other was blocked by a password.

“If anything’s on this frame other than the photos, we’re going to need an expert,” Knox finally confessed.

Grace said nothing.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you.”

He glanced up at the fast-forwarding security footage. They shared this task.

“Anything?” he asked. She had the two volumes of endless spreadsheet pages in front of her. She’d placed bookmarks of torn napkin throughout both, making the printouts look feathered.

“I put Selena at risk,” she said, not looking up.

“You had no idea she was going to guilt-trip off her boss going to some island and start blabbing about it.”

“I have made her an unknowing accomplice.”

“Sometimes you sound so cold-hearted,” he said. “Not today.”

“And nearly all the time you sound pig-headed.”

“I think we could both use some sleep,” he said.

“I need Lu Hao’s records.”

“I think we’ve established that.”

Grace looked up at him, her face lined with fatigue.

“The Berthold Group’s accountants consolidated the payments to Lu Hao’s consulting firm in the GA—general accounting. Trying, I suppose, to make the payments appear like business as usual, when they know otherwise. The problem with that practice is that when those payments change substantially, as is the case recently, it is a red flag.” She showed Knox the pages of numbers; he pretended to follow along. “In this case, an additional two hundred thousand U.S. was paid out to Lu Hao’s consulting firm. The timing is significant, John. First, the added two hundred thousand,” she switched volumes and drew her finger down a column, “then, less than a week later, Marquardt’s redacted trip to Chongming Island,” back to the original ledger, “then a second overpayment of two hundred thousand U.S., the same day Lu Hao went missing.”

Knox whistled. “Four hundred grand. Which is why they didn’t want you getting hold of their books. It took you only a matter of hours to connect it.”

“There are a hundred ways to hide such things. They are either arrogant or ignorant. Both are crimes when it comes to accounting.”

“So they made a couple balloon payments, probably to the Mongolian. Thanks to Sarge, we know the Mongolian has connections to Beijing. So the payments went north. But that doesn’t get us any closer to extraction? To finding them. I mean, this is all well and good—and fascinating,” he mocked, “but we’ve already established the Mongolian is as interested in finding Lu Hao as we are. So he’s a…distraction.”

“Selena claimed that Marquardt and Preston Song would never travel together unless for due diligence on a future project.” Grace lowered her voice. “Connect that to Beijing, where the government decides all the biggest construction projects. Lu Hao wasn’t paying off the Mongolian to aid the Xuan Tower. He was paying for information on a new government project. Such projects can be worth billions.”

“Speculation.”

“A logical deduction based on research and information. We must act!”

“So, Lu Hao makes the second payoff. Why does the Mongolian give a damn about him after that?”

“Protect the Beijing superior,” Grace said. “If Lu Hao talks, heads roll.”

Executions of corrupt officials were not uncommon in China. It had been a while since the last.

“Interesting,” Knox said. “But again: it doesn’t get us any closer to extraction.”

“Listen,” she said, “Marquardt hired us to get Lu Hao out. But he could be as panicked as the Beijing contact. If The Berthold Group is seen to be involved in influencing a government official, they, he could be imprisoned. The Australians were given twelve years.” She was referring to a recent trial that had made international headlines. “Maybe they could negotiate their way out of criminal charges on the Xuan payments. But not something of this size tied directly to Beijing.”

Knox wasn’t going to repeat himself.

“Perhaps Lu Hao’s records confirm this.”

“Not to be rude, but who cares?” Knox said. “Honestly, I don’t care who’s paying whom at this point. I want an address. I want extraction.”

She was silent for some time. “Lu Hao’s records are our only source of possible information.”

Knox closed his eyes and tried to work it out. The money trail was apparently fascinating to an accountant, but he’d grown tired of it. The big payments to the Mongolians and on to Beijing were clearly significant. “Yang Cheng could be behind the kidnappings,” he said. “It was his men in the alley behind Quintet. He knew about your hire at Berthold, so he obviously has an insider there. He wanted you to abandon Marquardt. Make things more difficult for Marquardt. Maybe we can trade for the hostages.”

“If Yang had Lu Hao he would have Lu Hao’s information. Yang is not the kidnapper.”

“You know what? Who gives a shit? What’s important to us is that with Sarge down, there’s no ransom money.”

“Yes.”

“We won’t want to trade the accounts until we know what we’re giving away.”

“Again, I do not follow.”

“Lu’s accounts may reveal who has the most to fear, who has the most to lose. Therefore, who will pay the most.”

“John, are you talking to me?”

“The accounts are the prize—it explains all the attention on Lu’s apartment. The attack on us.”

“You and I want the same thing, if for different reasons,” she said. “Lu Hao’s books.”

“You sound like a marriage counselor.”

“Do not get your hopes up.”

“Ha! Regardless,” he said, “once we have Lu’s books we can start dealing. Yang Cheng, the Mongolians, maybe Marquardt as well.”

“You want to sell the information for cash. To raise money needed to pay the ransom,” she said.

“I thought you said you weren’t following.” He paused. “Amy knows this guy—I’ve met him a couple of times. Sells counterfeit video games. A computer brainiac. He can help us.”

“So call this person,” she said reluctantly. “Selena owes me a copy of Marquardt’s redacted credit card statement. I will ask her again. This may help as well.”

“You don’t have to sound so excited about Amy helping us,” Knox said.

“This has nothing to do with you. It is Chinese. You would not understand.”

“Face? I understand face.”

“Westerners intellectualize face. Chinese live it. It is very different.”

5:40 P.M.

Knox did not like the idea of putting them all in the same room together—pigs for the slaughter—but saw little choice. Carrying a black backpack containing Lu Hao’s digital photo frame, he checked the street for surveillants at every opportunity. Changed his look every few blocks with baseball caps and sunglasses.

He arrived early at the rendezvous, a dismal-looking beauty salon with a white, pink and blue barber pole outside. Walked past and continued for another block. Crossed through traffic. Cut back at the next light and approached the salon for a second time.

He paused by a curbside dice game being played on an inverted cardboard box in the shade of a plane tree. Cigarettes dangled from wet lips. Spitting tobacco bits, and sipping cold tea, rheumy-eyed men competed fiercely.

Amy arrived at the salon first, taking no security precautions whatsoever. Grace followed, also performing a walk-by before entering. Selena had e-mailed Marquardt’s electronic AMEX statement; Knox had left her studying it, unsure if she’d pry herself away for this meeting; glad she had.

He awaited a city bus to screen himself from the opposing sidewalk and, as the bus passed, slipped into the salon.

Amy occupied the third of three chairs to the right, her hair foaming, her attendant shooting a stream of water from a squirt bottle onto her head while working up the suds. Despite the wet application, it was referred to as a “dry” shampoo. Grace, in the middle chair, was being prepared.

Knox greeted the owner, a fit man in his early forties with a cataract film covering his left eye. The man checked with Amy in the mirror. Amy nodded.

“You wait, few minutes, please,” the man said in passable English. He pointed. “Waiting area in back, past curtain.”

Knox and Grace exchanged a meaningful look. He wondered if she, too, had spotted the Mongolian following Amy.

Knox wondered how the Mongolian had possibly made the connection to Amy—the cocktail party? Quintet?

The curtain was a Simpsons bedsheet thumbtacked into the doorjamb beyond which was a tiny sink and stool. Knox was forced to turn sideways to slip past the sink and into a narrow hallway that led to a back door. He inspected the door, checking the lock. The door opened on to a sublane where laundry was in bloom. Clear both directions. He turned. Homer and Marge laughed at him in faded glory.