6:40 P.M.
CHONGMING ISLAND
An imposing figure took long strides toward the tannery and made no attempt to conceal himself. A cop. He was large-headed but not wide-shouldered enough to be the Mongolian. Not tall enough for Kozlowski.
Knox called Grace for a second and third time. The phone jumped to Chinese voice mail-the building’s superstructure defeating the reception, he thought.
He kept track of the cop as he backed down the conveyor arm, fearful he was silhouetted against the sky.
The cop turned once he made it through the yard’s front gate, carrying something at his side. A gun? A tire iron?
Chinese police were not permitted to carry handguns, although People’s Armed Police officers were. Could this possibly be Kozlowski’s guy?
Knox paused as the man angled toward him, then continued down the rock conveyor as the intruder turned toward the tannery’s doors.
A moment later, a pair of loud metallic pops pierced the air.
Knox vaulted one wall, then the next. He pulled himself up and held his head over the wall of the compound.
The man had pried the lock off the doors.
He was headed inside.
With the loud sounds at the doors, Grace shut off the water and ran for cover. Only as the pulleys whined did she realize it had been the doors coming open. She cowered within the equipment as footfalls-Knox?-moved deeper into the building.
Not Knox. The man trained a small flashlight on the floor. She caught punctuated glimpses of his dark silhouette walking past the vats. Not as tall as Knox, but thick-necked with a head like a caveman.
The Mongolian? she wondered. Police? Security?
She slowed her breathing in an attempt to squelch her adrenaline rush. She used the shifting light to plot her own course out of the building.
Staying low, she inched her way down the aisle, dodging the boxes and tools she’d spilled. Halfway to her freedom, her curiosity got the better of her.
She turned and followed him. Like her, he seemed to be taking inventory of the place-hardly the actions of a man returning to a crime scene or a security man who knew his beat. She knew better than to stay, but was drawn to him. He reached the dressing tables and, like her, studied them long and hard.
A cop, judging by his confidence and his methodical nature.
His flashlight swept the tables and the cutting tools, the drain in the floor. It found the chain and followed the dripping goo to the puddle, then up to the drums.
He removed his leather coat and hung it carefully over a valve, stepping incredibly close to where she hid. She could see a well-worn leather shoulder holster beneath his left arm.
If he was a cop, then maybe he was an officer of the People’s Armed Police. Kozlowski’s Iron Hand?
The man ran a faucet and got a stream of water going from a hose she hadn’t seen. He washed down the soiled dressing table.
She choked back her surprise: he was destroying the very evidence that Kozlowski had told Knox both men wanted. Why not preserve evidence that might work against the Mongolian?
The answer seemed obvious: because there was no Mongolian.
His mobile phone pealed Metallica. He returned to his coat and answered the call, speaking curtly.
Knox hung from the compound wall, peering inside. He didn’t want to jeopardize Grace if she’d managed to hide or escape. He didn’t want to leave her if she’d been discovered and abducted.
He schooled himself to have patience, to let the situation develop. He had just climbed to the top of the wall as a pair of headlights swept the asphalt. He lay down flat.
A Range Rover swung onto the fresh asphalt, aimed at the open doors. The driver climbed out.
Steve Kozlowski.
Knox nearly called out, but stopped himself as he realized Kozlowski was meeting up with some Chinese cop-a bad-ass cop, according to Kozlowski himself-and on a Saturday night on a holiday weekend at a remote location.
Kozlowski, bent?
The consulate man left the Range Rover running and the headlights filling the doors. He entered the tannery with a commanding authority, a take-no-prisoners stride.
Knox rolled and dropped off the wall. He ducked low and ran for the Range Rover.
Headlights lit the tannery’s interior walls as Grace moved to the far aisle and climbed a ladder to an overhead catwalk. She lay down on her belly and watched the man hosing down the dressing table. He worked quickly now in an almost maniacal effort.
A second man appeared in silhouette at the doors. He walked like he owned the place. Turning, she caught him in profile and nearly gasped. He fit Knox’s description of the consulate security chief, Kozlowski.
Interesting bedfellows.
Kozlowski broke his stride to grab a length of pipe as he continued deeper into the facility led by the spray of water.
Maybe not bedfellows.
He arrived to within several meters of the Chinese man. The water ran red into the drain.
“Don’t do that,” Kozlowski said in English. “Step away, now!”
Shen continued his work. “Go away, Mr. Kozlowski. It is no concern of yours.”
“You are destroying physical evidence of a possible homicide of a U.S. citizen. Step away and desist.”
Shen Deshi said coolly, “I advise you to go away now. You are trespassing. You have no authority to be here.”
“I will not have you destroying evidence. You will stop…or I will make you stop.” Kozlowski raised the pipe.
“If you remain here in this place you do not belong, I will bring the charge of industrial espionage. A government spy. Do you really want such trouble?”
“Destroying the blood evidence will not make the case go away. I assume you intercepted the forensic evidence intended for me?”
“I know nothing of what you speak.” Shen Deshi turned around, the hose splashing water onto the concrete floor. “Do not be naive, Mr. Kozlowski. You have a hand found in the river. No body. You are prohibited from investigating in this country-an act you are currently engaged in. You are inside a facility of a private company, which constitutes industrial espionage. How much trouble do you want for yourself?”
Kozlowski said, “Chemicals and soil samples from the hand link directly to this facility. The hand is Caucasian. The DNA will come back for the missing videographer, an American. I am within my rights to protect evidence.”
The scientific link caused Grace’s heart to flutter. A murder had taken place here. Possibly more than one. Lu Hao would never be safe. His plan to kidnap himself seemed suddenly much more understandable.
“When do you expect the results of a DNA test? Six weeks? Eight weeks? Do you want to spend eight weeks in a Chinese prison? Be my guest. Even if you prove such a connection, this cameraman was far from his assignment. This, too, smells of U.S. spying. You will be tied to him, and him to you. Is this what you want for U.S. Consulate? This is violation of agreements made between our sovereign nations. Very bad for everyone.”
“Step away.”
Shen trained the hose back onto the dressing table. “You must leave now,” he said. “Last chance. I do not wish such trouble on you. Of all blessings, charity is the highest.”
“A U.S. citizen has been murdered-most likely by a Chinese. We both know this,” Kozlowski said. He lowered the pipe, raised his phone and took a photo. “Destroying evidence is also a crime.”
With the flash of the camera phone, Shen Deshi dropped the hose and marched toward Kozlowski, withdrawing his handgun.
