26
4:39 P.M.
HONGKOU DISTRICT
SHANGHAI
Knox towered over Lu Hao, his foot raised and ready to break the man’s rib cage, sternum and all. The mix of surprise and anger was toxic. Lu Hao, hostage and kidnapper, all in one.
Lu Hao dropped the knife, threw it to the side like a person waking from a dream. A bad dream at that.
“You?” Knox said. “You piece of shit.”
“I must explain!” Lu Hao said, his voice quavering as he pushed away from Knox.
“Damned right. And you will.”
Knox surveyed the damage he’d done. Took in Danner.
“You okay over there?”
The gagged Danner nodded slightly.
Knox took up the knife. Kept it where Lu Hao could see its tip twisting toward his eyes. Used shoelaces to tie hands behind the backs of the three men who were on the floor. Stuck banded bunches of hundred-dollar bills in their mouths as gags. Instructed Lu Hao onto his stomach and patted the man down.
Found two mobile phones on the man and pocketed them. Worked his way carefully over to Danner and cut him loose, never taking his eyes off Lu Hao. Handed Danner the knife and then took out his own so they were both armed.
Danner tried to stand and fell over.
Knox reached an ice cooler where some chips and cold pizza had to be moved to open it. He handed Danner bottled water and a red Powerade.
“Seriously,” Knox said. “You okay?”
“Go easy on him,” Danner said, meaning Lu. “He’s an asshole, but he treated me good. Wait until you hear his story. The guy’s fucked six ways to Sunday.”
Knox noticed the bloody bandage on Danner’s hand.
“Seven,” he said, not taking his eyes off the man.
“It’s complicated,” Danner said.
“I’ve been getting a lot of that. You sound like a Stockholm Syndrome victim to me, Danny. You’re free now. We’re out of here.”
“The three of us,” Danner said.
“Yeah, I suppose. But only because I owe someone…”
“They fed me. They kept me bound but moved me. It could have been a lot worse. I’m telling you: it’s better than it looks.”
“They cut your finger off. He would have killed you.”
“No…no!” cried Lu Hao. “Never!”
“Shut it!” Knox said, lunging for the man. Lu Hao scooted backward, eyes wide in terror.
Knox felt like those first few moments in a fun house when the lights are dim and mirrors distort your own image. Danny defending Lu; Lu Hao not a hostage; all the money spread around the floor. “Shit,” he said, lit by adrenaline and wanting to destroy Lu Hao. He kicked the overturned table. It skidded across the floor and slammed into one of the downed men, who groaned.
Danner had cut the duct tape and was peeling it from his wrists.
“Just do me a favor,” Danner said, “and wait to kill him. It’s not like I forgive him or anything.”
Knox breathed loudly. “That’s better.” He looked back at Danner and allowed the shadow of a smile.
“If you want to kill him after you’ve heard his story,” Danner said, “I’m first in line. This is not coming down on you. Not after all you’ve done.”
“I think you’d better shut up, too,” Knox said, dismissing Danner suddenly with a heated glance. It hadn’t been 44 that Danner had scratched into the arm of the first chair he’d occupied; it had been initials: LH.
His brain was set to a high boil. He couldn’t make sense of things. The fatigue. The wound. The risks. Lu Hao had kidnapped himself. Knox still wanted to pulverize him, punish him. He thought of Grace. He wondered what came next, knowing the answer: Dulwich. He couldn’t leave Dulwich behind.
“Repack that bag,” Knox said. “The money comes with us.”
27
5:07 P.M.
HUANGPU DISTRICT
To the right of the number 3 entrance of the Nanjing Road East Metro station was an unmarked, oversized black metal door pasted with stickers for music albums, American guitar and amplifier manufacturers, and posters for local rock bands, a door easily overlooked.
Grace knocked and the door was opened by a bald, middle-aged man with a crooked but flat nose and clear eyes. From behind him came the muted but grating strains of heavy-metal rock and roll being played grossly out of tune. The man recognized her from earlier when she and Knox had rented the underground practice room. He swung open the heavy door, admitting her to a landing and a set of dimly lit metal stairs.
She was sixty feet underground by the time she reached a long concrete corridor, passing through a pair of blast doors hung on heavy hinges. An overhead tube light flickered with each pulse of the music, not one band, but two or three.
This was but one of the dozens of such bomb shelters built under Mao to house city residents and his army in fear of a Soviet missile strike. The memory of the Japanese occupation and slaughter had never left the Chinese consciousness and never would. Some of the bunkers were now open as mini-museums around the city. Others, like this, had been taken over by squatters and were open for commerce-rehearsal space for wannabe rock stars.
She reached bunker number 4 and opened another heavy metal door-appropriate to the music thumping down the hallway. She moved inside and shut it behind herself.
The room smelled foully of sweat, cigarettes and stale hefan. Eggshell foam rubber was glued to the gray concrete walls. Carpet samples covered the floor. Electric conduit and outlets had been crudely retrofitted. Two dim compact fluorescent lightbulbs hung from the ceiling.
It had come to this, she thought: hiding out in a hole dug underground like some kind of animal. Reduced to lie and bribe one’s way into a small, dismal room, all because of another’s lying and bribing. Evil begets evil. She felt a shudder of release swell within her-grief, sorrow, the aftershock of the adrenaline that had built up during the ransom run; her failure of having moved around the city with nothing but newspaper inside the duffel. How would that affect Knox and his efforts at extraction?
Wet and shivering, she glanced over at the closed door, wondering when Knox might arrive, or if, by losing track of the money, she’d compromised their mission.
5:26 P.M.
Knox delivered Lu Hao and Danner to the subterranean music rooms, arranging for Grace to care for Danner and keep a close eye on the turncoat, Lu Hao.
Few words passed between him and Grace. The contrition with which she’d met him at the bunker door told him she knew Lu Hao’s story-a realization that sucked Knox’s lungs dry. He couldn’t make sense of her expression, couldn’t reason his way to how she might possibly know; but she didn’t so much as flinch at the sight of Lu’s hands bound, and she treated him like a wet dog as she dragged him inside.
“Later,” Knox said, patting the duffel bag containing one hundred thousand dollars.
“Where are you going?” she called out.
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” he returned.
Knox arrived at the Muslim quarter dressed in the pale blue jumpsuit worn by city sweepers and trash collectors. He carried a Nike duffel bag. His face was covered with the ubiquitous surgical mask worn against smog. Along with the brim of a ball cap pulled down low, he hid his race as best as possible.
The duffel was somewhat out of place on a street sweeper. But with the start of the National Day holiday, no one paid attention to anyone else: it was every man for himself.
He splashed through the rain-flooded lane, the full force of the approaching typhoon yet to arrive, moving toward the Mongolian’s small apartment.
He was less concerned with the Mongolian, and far more with the police or whoever Kozlowski had likely already sold him out to, for he knew he’d been thrown under the bus. He’d traded Kozlowski the Mongolian’s address for a chance to leave the country-and had filled Danner in on the details of the contact in case he didn’t make it back to the bomb shelter. But the final piece of the frame was worth the risk. If the kidnapping and ransom collection fell onto the Mongolian, neither he nor Grace-nor Lu Hao!-would be accused of involvement. Furthermore, Kozlowski seemed the only one powerful enough to get Dulwich out of the country in one piece.