The Risk Agent Read Free Page B

feet,” Marquardt said.
    “Better on my feet than the alternative,” Grace said.
    For a moment it appeared Primer might reprimand her. Instead, he laughed.
    “Grace did service with the PRC’s army for two years. Was assigned to Intelligence for her final eleven months. She’s trained in surveillance, hand-to-hand combat, small munitions and communications.” He smiled at her. “In the workplace, you’ll find her passive and demure. One-on-one, well, let’s just say she’s no shrinking violet.”
    “You’re a welcome addition, Ms. Chu,” Marquardt said.
    “When next we meet,” Grace said, “remember, it is for the first time. You may or may not be taken with my appearance, as you wish, but you will be in no mood to accommodate my accusations of breach of contract. It’s best if I have to fight you at least somewhat for that victory.”
    “Understood.”
    She stood and they shook hands again. He held on to hers a little too long, but she made no attempt to separate. Instead, she hung her head slightly, suddenly a different woman. “Pleasure’s mine.”
    She backed up a step, pivoted smartly—a hint of sandalwood and cinnamon—and waited for Dulwich to open the door for her before leaving.

3
    4:05 P.M.
    BAN LUNG
    CAMBODIA
    Accompanied by a local guide and driver, a mosquito-bitten John Knox had been traveling for nine days through the jungles of Cambodia on a buying trip. He had packed the back of his Land Rover to the ceiling with tribal arts and crafts, primarily hand-carved stone boxes and some hammered bronze. He had spent the past two days in Virachey National Park, the most direct route to Ban Lung.
    Knox checked his appearance in the Land Rover’s rearview mirror before climbing out. He’d run out of soap three days earlier and his beard had grown in quickly, the dark stubble contrasting sharply with dark blue eyes that shone richly in the afternoon light. His hair was oily, his shirt sweat-stained and soiled. He ran his tongue over teeth, cleaning up some of the gorp that had sustained him over the last forty miles, and washed it down with a swig of warm water from a plastic bottle.
    His driver spoke some Thai, the one language common between them. “Unpack car?”
    “Find yourself a room,” Knox said, handing him a considerable amount of cash, knowing the man would keep it and sleep in the car. “Unload everything into my hotel this evening. We’ll ship it in the morning.”
    The village was a mix of aging concrete blocks and palm-frond-roofed huts on stilts. Knox refocused on the front porch of the small hotel and a line of chairs beneath water-stained sailcloth paddle fans turning lazily against the heat. He met eyes with the man occupying one of the chairs. A grin swept painfully across his chapped lips. He licked them.
    David Dulwich lifted his sweating beer bottle and gestured to an unoccupied chair.
    “Look what the cat dragged in,” said Knox, mounting the steps.
    “You look like shit.” Dulwich, a former army sergeant, had as a civilian managed the trucking contractor that had hired a young John Knox as a driver to convoy supplies from Kuwait into Iraq. The runs paid eighty thousand dollars a month, hazard pay that Knox had banked to cover his brother’s long-term medical expenses back home.
    The two men shook hands and slapped each other on the back. Dulwich signaled a waiter for two beers.
    Knox simply stared, waiting him out.
    “What? I was in the neighborhood.”
    “Uh-huh. Sure you were, Sarge.”
    “I wanted first dibs on the teapots, or prayer wheels, or nose flutes, or whatever the hell it is you’ve stolen off the unsuspecting locals.”
    “Only Tommy knew I was coming to Ban Lung,” Knox said. “You took unfair advantage.”
    Knox had lived his entire life protecting and defending Tommy, about whom many jokes had been cracked. “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer.” “Room temperature IQ.” Knox had heard them all; had broken a few faces over them.
    His