coming and going.”
“We’ll try. No promises.”
“I’m getting a lot of that.”
“So see a doctor,” Dulwich said. “You’ve met the girl?”
“Piece of work.”
“I know it’s against your nature, but trust her.”
“There are a lot of moving parts,” Knox said. “We’re after his records. We get that, maybe it tells us who did this. We get that, then extraction.”
“Keep it simple.”
“TIC.”
This is China.
“That all? I’ve gotta be someplace.”
Knox laughed. “The girl mentioned some competitors. We’re going to look at them as well.”
“Makes sense.”
“The Mongolian, or whoever he is, is troubling,” Knox said. “There was one guy trying to look undercover by pushing a trinket cart around. A cop for sure. But a Mongolian? Is this thing international? Is he private muscle for one of the competitors?”
“We’ll look at the SIM card and tell you what we find out.”
“Any more contact?”
“These things are fluid, Knox. We know what we’re doing.”
“We need more to go on.”
“There’s a surprise.”
Knox ended the call, frustrated. Dulwich, with all his resources, and no one seemed to know anything.
S ichuan Citizen, only a few blocks from the MW Building, served a mixed clientele of Chinese and expats in a hip, urban atmosphere that included canvas paddle fans and a long-legged hostess in a form-fitting black silk pantsuit. The aroma was a pleasing combination of hot peppers, exotic spices and sesame oil. Mandarin mixed with English in a singsong of language, interrupted by French and Dutch.
Knox, who’d entered by the back door, sat down across from Grace at a small table for two. He laid down spreadsheets in front of her and anchored the corners with steaming black bowls of rice noodles, eggplant and ginger-glazed pork.
“You were followed,” he said.
“By a Chinese. Late twenties. Scooter. Neatly dressed.”
“That’s him, yes.” Impressed she knew of the tail, Knox said, “Certainly not Mongolian.”
“Han,” she said, naming the race of Chinese that accounted for over ninety percent of the population.
“You allowed him to follow you?”
“Of course. That way, when I need to lose him, he won’t be ready for it.”
“I copied and mailed the SIM,” he said, speaking quietly. “One number was called six times in a row.”
“To the intellectual,” she said. She answered his curious look: “Our term for the leader.”
He nodded. “Yes. The brains. You see the Chinese and Americans aren’t so different.”
“You want to call the number,” she said. A statement.
“Of course I do. But once we make that connection, he won’t answerit again. The phone will be tossed. We lose any chance of any contact or tracking. I think we keep that one in our back pocket.”
“Agreed,” she said.
He was about to point out he didn’t require her approval when she spoke, interrupting his thought.
“Some interesting leads in Lu Hao’s receipts,” she said, lowering her voice. “I found these in his apartment.” She passed a stack of receipts across the small table.
He studied the receipts. “Sherpa’s?” he said. “What’s so strange about that? Half the city orders from Sherpa’s.” The Sherpa catalog of restaurants participating in take-out service was in the kitchen drawer of every expat in Shanghai.
“You have not seen photographs of the ransom demand?”
He remembered Dulwich sitting across from him in Ban Lung. “The letter. The ransom demand. Yes.”
“They were delivered by a Sherpa’s delivery man to Allan Marquardt at The Berthold Group. Please notice the chop,” she said.
Chinese used chops as their personal signatures: small, individualized stamps. Knox had one. He examined the square red stamp at the bottom of the receipts. “They’re identical.”
“All nine receipts, the same chop,” she said. “The same Sherpa’s
delivery man
.”
“Nice catch.”
“This cannot be coincidence. Impossible
“We’ll try. No promises.”
“I’m getting a lot of that.”
“So see a doctor,” Dulwich said. “You’ve met the girl?”
“Piece of work.”
“I know it’s against your nature, but trust her.”
“There are a lot of moving parts,” Knox said. “We’re after his records. We get that, maybe it tells us who did this. We get that, then extraction.”
“Keep it simple.”
“TIC.”
This is China.
“That all? I’ve gotta be someplace.”
Knox laughed. “The girl mentioned some competitors. We’re going to look at them as well.”
“Makes sense.”
“The Mongolian, or whoever he is, is troubling,” Knox said. “There was one guy trying to look undercover by pushing a trinket cart around. A cop for sure. But a Mongolian? Is this thing international? Is he private muscle for one of the competitors?”
“We’ll look at the SIM card and tell you what we find out.”
“Any more contact?”
“These things are fluid, Knox. We know what we’re doing.”
“We need more to go on.”
“There’s a surprise.”
Knox ended the call, frustrated. Dulwich, with all his resources, and no one seemed to know anything.
S ichuan Citizen, only a few blocks from the MW Building, served a mixed clientele of Chinese and expats in a hip, urban atmosphere that included canvas paddle fans and a long-legged hostess in a form-fitting black silk pantsuit. The aroma was a pleasing combination of hot peppers, exotic spices and sesame oil. Mandarin mixed with English in a singsong of language, interrupted by French and Dutch.
Knox, who’d entered by the back door, sat down across from Grace at a small table for two. He laid down spreadsheets in front of her and anchored the corners with steaming black bowls of rice noodles, eggplant and ginger-glazed pork.
“You were followed,” he said.
“By a Chinese. Late twenties. Scooter. Neatly dressed.”
“That’s him, yes.” Impressed she knew of the tail, Knox said, “Certainly not Mongolian.”
“Han,” she said, naming the race of Chinese that accounted for over ninety percent of the population.
“You allowed him to follow you?”
“Of course. That way, when I need to lose him, he won’t be ready for it.”
“I copied and mailed the SIM,” he said, speaking quietly. “One number was called six times in a row.”
“To the intellectual,” she said. She answered his curious look: “Our term for the leader.”
He nodded. “Yes. The brains. You see the Chinese and Americans aren’t so different.”
“You want to call the number,” she said. A statement.
“Of course I do. But once we make that connection, he won’t answerit again. The phone will be tossed. We lose any chance of any contact or tracking. I think we keep that one in our back pocket.”
“Agreed,” she said.
He was about to point out he didn’t require her approval when she spoke, interrupting his thought.
“Some interesting leads in Lu Hao’s receipts,” she said, lowering her voice. “I found these in his apartment.” She passed a stack of receipts across the small table.
He studied the receipts. “Sherpa’s?” he said. “What’s so strange about that? Half the city orders from Sherpa’s.” The Sherpa catalog of restaurants participating in take-out service was in the kitchen drawer of every expat in Shanghai.
“You have not seen photographs of the ransom demand?”
He remembered Dulwich sitting across from him in Ban Lung. “The letter. The ransom demand. Yes.”
“They were delivered by a Sherpa’s delivery man to Allan Marquardt at The Berthold Group. Please notice the chop,” she said.
Chinese used chops as their personal signatures: small, individualized stamps. Knox had one. He examined the square red stamp at the bottom of the receipts. “They’re identical.”
“All nine receipts, the same chop,” she said. “The same Sherpa’s
delivery man
.”
“Nice catch.”
“This cannot be coincidence. Impossible
Similar Books
