“Then humor me,” Inspector Shen said. “What was the purpose of this laying of the asphalt?”
“A man does what he is paid to do.”
“Why kill a man over something so mundane?” Inspector Shen asked.
“I do as I am told.”
“But who orders such a thing?”
“My payments were left in the back of taxicabs, or placed into sacks with take-away food orders. It was never the same. And don’t think I haven’t tried to find out! I met the man and still do not know his name. The fruit falls not far from the tree. He is located in Beijing. This, I know. He is someone very powerful, obviously. His car carried Shanghai plates, but the car was loaned to him for certain.”
Shen Deshi licked his chops. If he could only identify the man, he could use him to leverage his own situation.
“The phone number, then.”
“The fucking eBpon-the foreigner-took my phone.”
The waiguoren would most definitely have to be found and dealt with. Shen owed the police captain another call.
“Certainly you must have memorized it.”
“My wrists and ankles. Then, once ashore, we will talk. At a distance.”
Inspector Shen grinned. “I should know better than to try to question a former policeman.” He crossed his arms to make his point. But by doing so, he lost his balance and staggered forward.
Melschoi rocked and head-butted the man’s knees.
Inspector Shen went over backward. Melschoi aimed for another head butt; he took a shoe in the face, his nose bent and bleeding.
Shen Deshi seized him by his hair and dragged him to the opening in the rail.
“No!” Melschoi screamed, kicking out.
“The phone number!” Shen Deshi thundered.
“Yours, if you free me!”
“I’ll free you forever, if you’re not forthcoming.”
Shen Deshi repeatedly kicked him in the chest and belly. Behind him, the car groaned and cried on its chains. The boat lurched side to side.
“The fucking number!” Shen Deshi roared.
Melschoi opened his mouth to answer, but the ship rocked heavily and Shen Deshi’s next kick caught Melschoi in the throat, crushing his trachea and collapsing his larynx. Melschoi sucked for wind.
The boat rose and shifted again. Shen Deshi lunged to stop him, but Melschoi slid off the wet deck and out through the open rail, swallowed by the black waters of the Huangpu.
SATURDAY
31
12:00 A.M.
THE BUND
By midnight, the brunt of the storm had passed. Riot police had contained, arrested and dispersed pieces of the mob. Knox monitored it all from the window while Grace snored gently from the bed. As the rain subsided, the streets quickly drained and recovered from the flooding. And then-only in Shanghai-the city sprang back to life as if nothing had happened. Detritus was cleared. Traffic began moving again. People appeared on the streets from all directions. Taxis were running. It was like kicking an anthill, only to see the ants swarm back to work minutes later and begin rebuilding the hill.
He never woke Grace for her shift. He let her sleep. When morning finally came, and they’d eaten and Knox had drunk multiple cups of black tea, they spoke.
“So, here we are.”
“Indeed,” she said. “I take it you have a plan.”
“The island,” he said.
She nodded.
“Your friend.”
She eyed him furtively. “I know that I suggested this, but I would rather not. My preference is to start with Marquardt’s hired driver or the hotel where he and Song stayed.”
“You still love him,” he said.
“Westerners think in terms of love beginning and ending. It is not so for the Chinese.”
“The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Whatever the driver can tell us is good. You’ll call him and arrange a time to meet. But the brother will know more than anyone. I know about brothers. Time is critical. Sarge will be jailed, if he hasn’t been already.”
“I do not believe Mr. Primer will allow him to be in such trouble,” she said.
“Even his reach only extends so far.”
She shook her head in disbelief.
“A single day in a Chinese jail is one too many,” he said.
“You will have no disagreement from me.”
“The brother, then. But call the driver first and arrange for him to drive us.”
Again, that put-upon look of hers.
“Please,” he said.
“I believe that is the first time I have heard you use this word,” she said.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
Knox hot-wired a Toyota in the Indigo’s parking garage. He wore a pair of sunglasses to hide his eyes and a headband that covered his ears, and makeup applied by Grace that widened his cheekbones and narrowed his chin-all in hopes of avoiding the prying eyes of computerized face recognition.
Grace drove, Knox in the back seat, so only a Chinese face could be seen through the windshield.
The city had already emptied out by half. Traffic was lighter than usual. They drove the tunnel to Pudong, headed for the ring road and eventually the Hushan Expressway toward Chongming Island.
The wind had died down. The rain continued at a drizzle; dark clouds threatened. The farm roads of Chongming Island were debris-strewn and partially flooded. Residents milled about, looking dazed.
They reached the town of Chongming, for which the island was named, thirty minutes later. Grace pulled the Toyota into a semicircular driveway of a five-story apartment building and parked.
She reached for the door handle.
“Be careful.”
She paused to look back at him. He saw sadness bordering on grief. She said, “Do not leave the car, John. You will stand out in this city. This is not Shanghai.”
“So Marquardt would have stood out here as well,” he said, knowing she exaggerated. Hotels and private car companies didn’t exist for the pleasure of the locals. Much of the island was soon to be urbanized. “I can be less memorable than you might think.”
“There are closed-circuit cameras here as well,” she reminded.
She left the car. Knox looked around at the plain buildings that were a holdover of the Mao era.
The gray skies. The litter.
He wanted outside.
