No mention of an individual. No exact apartment. Of greater concern, and explaining Danner’s lack of specificity, was his categorizing it as a choke point-a funnel with limited access, making anyone who entered vulnerable.
“This one is not good,” Knox said at a stoplight as they followed the GPS track. “Not enough information. Danner didn’t like it.”
“Latest addition to Lu Hao’s stops,” she said, reminding him of Danner’s voice memo. “If we had an exact date this could help me with the Berthold financials.”
“If I ever get you Lu’s books.”
“We will get them.”
The Muslim neighborhood was small but heavily populated. Dress changed, as did the smells of the street food.
Once again, Knox studied the entrance to the narrow alley off Ping Wang Jie Road. Once again, from a distance. Danner’s description was accurate: a choke point.
“Let me walk it,” she said. “Alone.”
“No.”
“I will not stop, will not ask questions. Just a walk-through.” She handed him the GPS indicating the lane, which appeared on the virtual map as a shortcut between two parallel streets. “A waiguoren cannot do this, Knox.”
At that moment Knox spotted an expressionless man coming out of the alley and looking toward them. Civi guard took off, he recalled Danner saying. A lane guard, a Party employee assigned to a neighborhood as a security detail. Not police, but someone gaining experience ahead of the application process; typically, a person eager to prove himself. Knox knew Grace was right.
“Go,” he said. “I’ll meet you around the other side. But if I don’t see you in five, I’m coming in after you.”
“Please. I will be fine.”
She slid off the scooter, handed him her helmet and disappeared through the traffic.
Grace noticed the lane guard turning to follow her. She kept up a brisk but unhurried pace. She would not give him anything to feed on. Behind her, she heard the scooter head off.
The lane was nearly narrow enough to touch walls with her arms extended. Stucco walls raised three stories overhead, interrupted by rusted wrought-iron balconies. It felt cloistered; the air smelled stale. She passed a series of doorways on her right and then caught herself staring at a green motorcycle. It was the combination of the unusual deep green color and the basket on the back fender. She’d seen it in the lane outside the Sherpa’s apartment. The Mongolians had been watching him. That, in turn, meant they’d seen her and Knox enter the residence.
The guard followed down the lane behind her.
A choke point, she recalled.
She walked past the motorcycle, committing its tag to memory. Stole a glance toward the small window by the door to her right: curtained shut. Passing the next apartment, its door hung open. She absorbed the layout: a single room of perhaps nine square meters. In this case, limited furnishings-a pair of bamboo mats on the floor and some stacked aluminum bowls. A slightly larger window in the back wall.
The footfalls of the guard suggested he’d closed the distance with her, now only a few meters behind. She continued walking, neither fast nor slow, knowing that had it been Knox in this lane the guard would have confronted him.
Two doors down, she saw another open door. Despite what she’d told Knox, she stopped and called inside, in part as an act for the security man. A Muslim woman met her. Grace lowered her voice, taking a chance.
“Hello,” she said in Mandarin. “You are familiar with the northerner two doors down?”
The woman nodded. “A Mongolian. And not the only one!”
Grace nearly cried out with the confirmation.
“One of his friends owes me money,” Grace said.
The woman’s eyes hardened. “I would forgive the debt, cousin.”
“Do you see his friends often?”
Another slight nod. “Yes,” the resident said, in an even softer voice than Grace was using. Her voice brought chills up Grace’s arms.
“Do they live with him, these other men?”
“Down the lane,” the woman answered. “Two to a room.”
A choke point.
“How many?”
“Five, all told.”
That left three in good health. “The reason I ask,” Grace said, “is that I would rather not be seen by the one that owes me. He is not pleasant.”
“All rough men.”
“Yes,” Grace said. “Mongolians are rough.”
The woman did not contradict her. “In pairs,” she said. “Roommates. The leader lives by himself.”
“Leader?”
“They travel like a pack of dogs.”
“Yes.” Grace assembled the data, wondering how far to push it. “Two rooms,” she proposed.
The woman’s icy stare was difficult to read.
Grace sensed she’d overstayed her welcome. “You have been generous with me, dear lady.”
“Not at all,” the woman said.
Grace backed away. The woman stopped her.
“Again. My advice? Forgive the debt. Do not deal with these dogs. We-those of us in the lane-leave them to themselves.”
Grace nodded. “Peace be with you.”
“And you.”
The woman pushed the door shut.
The lane guard had lit a cigarette and sat himself down on a stool by a pair of potted plants and smoked. He’d been watching, but out of earshot.
Grace moved on, a moment later leaving the lane and entering onto a busy street. She walked a block before crossing and joining Knox on the scooter.
“Well?” Knox said.
“Drive,” she ordered. “I’ll tell you as we go.”
Knox pulled out into traffic and Grace wrapped her arms around him. She let go, jerked back and cried out softly.
“Knox! Knox!” Her left hand was smeared with his blood. She held it out to his side on display for him.
“I’ll be damned!” he said.
“You are bleeding.”
“I know that.”
“You did not tell me!” She shouted to be heard over the engine.
“Adrenaline,” he said, as if that explained anything.
“We go to your place at once.”
“We can’t,” he said. “Our visitors. Remember? In the lane? They know that location now. Eight-oh-eight is out. I cannot return. And we can’t go to your place either. You were compromised when we fought them. They followed you, possibly from the party, but you went back to your place.” She didn’t contradict him. “So they have your apartment. They have the guesthouse. They want us, or they wouldn’t have come after us like that. Neither of us is going home.”
She considered what he said for several long seconds. “I know a place,” she said. “We can go there and decide what to do later.”
“It can’t be a friend.”
“It’s a service apartment rental. But not with the best reputation.”
“But you know it, first hand?”
“I know it. I have stayed there.” She thought back to Lu Jian.
Service apartments, with kitchens and maid service, were used for long-term stays by traveling businessmen in lieu of more expensive hotel rooms.
“That could work,” he said.
“We must hurry,” she said, panic rising in her voice. “You are bleeding badly.”
He had her trigger now: the sight of blood. Everyone had one. His was abuse: the strong taking advantage of the weak. It left him sick.
“Honestly,” he said, leaning back to call out to her, “I didn’t even know it was there. I’m fine.”
“You are bleeding, John. Bleeding badly. Pull over. I will make a call. Then I drive.”
She’d called him by his given name for the first time. He smiled through an unexpected wince of pain as she held to him tightly while he pulled the scooter to the side of the road.
8:00 A.M.
JING AN TEMPLE
JING AN DISTRICT
SHANGHAI
Melschoi paid a sorry-looking vendor seven yuan for a bundle of incense, cursing the amount under his breath, and entered the dimly lit temple. The cross-legged, gold-leafed Buddha rose thirty feet high, surrounded at the knees by pomelo fruit and fresh flowers. The fragrant smoke hung heavily in the air, wrapping the idol’s shoulders like a scarf.