The Red Room (5 page)

Y
ou speak English, Besim?” Grace asks of her driver behind the wheel of a Mercedes. Her eyes never leave Melemet, his two bodyguards and the man following them. She has some Turkish, though her Arabic is stronger. She’d rather not show her cards to a driver; such men are known to talk.

One of the bodyguards takes the front seat of the Audi. A moment later he signals. Melemet is in, followed by the trailing guard. Traffic is intense. No one is going anywhere just yet.

The agent crosses to an island, waits and is met by a Land Rover. It stays at the curb, much to the disdain of a policeman who is waving it away.

“Some,” her driver responds. Balding, and with a short-cropped beard, he wears a black suit that brings out a caramel tone in his dark skin. She has yet to see his full face.

“Have you ever followed another vehicle?”

“Jealous wife. Jealous husband.” The beard puckers. He is smiling.

“I am—was—mistress to this man.” She points to the Audi. “We are going to follow him. He is not alone. He owes people money.
Much money. You understand?” She points left to the Land Rover. “You see?”

“I understand.”

“I would rather not be noticed.”

“Not easy to follow during nighttime.”

She passes a good deal of cash into the front seat. He won’t want to touch her. She drops it.

“Let us make it as easy as possible,” she says, avoiding the use of confusing contractions. “Our problem is: the ones following are very good. They will be watching for people like us. They do not wish to share.”

“This, not easy, ma’am.”

No,
she thinks.

“I tell you,” he says, pulling out now, five vehicles behind the Audi, already on the job, “I know this car company.” He motions with his head. “My brothel’s nephew”—she doesn’t correct his mistake—“the brothel to his wife’s sister, he is, how do you say, radio man, this company.”

“Dispatcher.” Grace appreciates his sense of extended family, the intermarrying of cousins, the generations of business relationships between families the size of clans. Tribes. Not so very different from her native China.

“Precisely. Drivers, we together.”

“I am sure.”

“I call my brothel?” he asks. “He call nephew?”

“How much?” She doesn’t mind paying but doesn’t want to come up short when the time comes.

“I am your driver throughout stay in Istanbul. No need for these monies, ma’am.”

She presses. “I may need an ATM.”

Another smile. More a lascivious grin.

“I make call,” he says.

—

H
ER
DRIVER
makes three calls. She picks up more of the conversations than she thought she might. Pats herself on the back.

“Is okay,” he says, backing off the pedal a bit. “Destination, Florence Nightingale Hospital. Forty kilometers.”

Given Dulwich’s briefing about the sick mother, Grace has assumed the hospital would be an early stop. The location doesn’t help her. She works to keep the irritation from her voice. “After that? His final destination?”

He catches her eye in the rearview mirror, his mental gears clearly grinding. She’s following a man, her supposed former lover, who just landed and is heading straight to a hospital; her tone suggests she knows all this and yet somehow knows the hospital is not his final stop.

“His mother is ill, Besim,” Grace explains in a more intimate and caring tone, trying to stay a step ahead of her savvy driver. “Of course the hospital must come first. If I am to speak to him, it must follow.”

“I have address,” he says. “You desire I should drive you this place?”

“Yes. Please. Tell me, Besim, can we arrive at the hospital ahead of him?”

“It is doubtful—possible, but doubtful. Very fast driver, as you see.”

The Audi has sped out of sight since Besim’s initial backing off.

“I would like that,” she says. “No matter, I must arrive to his final destination ahead of him. I must be waiting.”

His dark eyes slide into the mirror and out again.

“He has wronged me,” she explains.

Besim keeps his thoughts to himself, but he’s an open book: she needs a good backhand to the face. A little tune-up. Eye-tunes.

“The money he gambled was mine. The money he lost. The money these other men want.” The invented story comes with surprising ease. She’s not a natural born storyteller; she’s a number cruncher.

The true story reads differently: she has left her first and one true love behind in China, both disallowed by their families from pursuing the relationship. She was eager to do so; he refused, held tightly by the family reins. Besim doesn’t need to hear this. For him she is translating the language of the heart to the language of money.
Stories are so interchangeable,
she thinks, wondering why lives are not.

“He has taken my heart,” she says honestly. “I want my money back.”

Besim’s chipped teeth sparkle white. He wants to say something about her being Chinese, to sting her for entering a relationship with an Arab. She knows that look and resents it. Objectified. Reduced to what’s between her shoulders and legs. So easy to choke or garrote a man from the backseat. Her emotions swing with every lane change of the car. Besim knows his stuff; they are stitching their way through the congested traffic.

She doesn’t want to follow, would rather leapfrog.

“His final destination, please. You will drop me there, then wait with my bags at my apartment. It is okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her decision made, she sits back. Her thought process is linear, mathematical. If A equals B and B equals C, then . . . Were the agents waiting for Melemet, aka Mashe Okle, as they appear to have been? The “why” isn’t important to the equation, but the “how” definitely is. They must have been aware of his cover identity prior to his booking the ticket. If a known arms dealer, why not arrest
him on the spot? Okle is in Istanbul to be at the bedside of his dying mother. Why put off his arrest? No matter how she manipulates the variables, the equation won’t yield a result. It’s an unsolvable proof. Unacceptable.

What is Dulwich not telling her, and why? This is the parenthetical product she’s lacking, the value that is throwing off the result.

When her phone vibrates and a sixty-four-character string of symbols and alphanumeric characters appears in the Messaging balloon, she knows it’s the password she’s been waiting for, the one she needs to raid Okle’s investment portfolio. She stares at the phone as if it belongs to someone else. The message doesn’t come from Rutherford’s Data Sciences division, but from Dulwich himself, the most digitally challenged man she knows. It’s a small inconsistency, but she’s trained to identify such variables.

She drums her fingers on her knee.
What is Dulwich up to?

Outside the vehicle, the sparkle of the Istanbul lights emerges.

“You like?” Besim asks. He’s caught her look of awe in the mirror.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, admiring the twinkling hills, the dozens of mosque spires, and the sparkling vessels on the Bosphorus Strait. She doesn’t want to get her driver talking. She needs time to think.

The illuminated minarets of the mosques look like chalky fingers pointing to heaven.

Besim nods thoughtfully. “You will like this place.”

Grace is not so sure.

T
he storm has turned the streets of Amman into a beach parking lot. The grit beneath Knox’s shoes gives him shivers; it’s like biting into a dry Popsicle. The air quality sucks, but at least he doesn’t feel as if he’s standing in front of the nozzle of a sandblaster anymore. It’s tolerable, and people return cautiously to the sidewalks and streets, their faces protectively covered. Some cars are moving. Many hoods are open, the driver leaning in to deal with a clogged air filter. There is little sense of irritation; such storms are an accepted occurrence here. Knox marvels at the universal adaptability of humans.

A text from Dulwich: Shepard Fairey’s Obama Hope poster and an address. A parenthetical: eight
P
.
M
. It’s coming up on seven. Knox knows not to put this off. A possible rendezvous, though the Obama reference eludes him. Dulwich’s cryptic messages can be frustrating. Knox returns to his thought about spooks, wondering what Dulwich and Primer have gotten him into. Rutherford Risk rarely discriminates against its clients. Knox is allowed that luxury. He picks and chooses, though Dulwich has his number, quite literally. Anything in six figures and Knox can’t seem to keep his fingers off it.

The corporation is in the business of problem-solving those problems that can’t be solved by conventional means. Over half their business is international kidnapping resolution. Knox can’t yet figure the client on this job, but assumes it’s a government wanting to block an arms sale, one that lacks a security division as capable as Rutherford Risk. Many countries fall into this category, leaving Knox to marvel at the power of Primer’s corporation and the leniency it is afforded. He is a small part of that, and often wonders if it’s a blessing or a curse. He understands this: the further down the food chain, the more expendable the individual. Working with Grace has taught him as much. In Amsterdam, it became clear that Brian Primer and Dulwich would protect Grace over him, making Knox feel like the team veteran about to be replaced by the rookie. As he does more jobs for Dulwich, does he become more of an asset, or a liability? Again: what the hell has he gotten himself into?

He flags down a share taxi, a white Volkswagen minibus. The driver sits on a backing of wood rollerballs. Talismans dangle from the rearview mirror. Knox crams in with eight others, the smell of body odor overpowering. He feels like Gulliver next to the two women on his bench. Eyes stare at him from headscarves arranged to limit his view. The passengers have gone quiet. The ride through the recovering city is treacherous; the driver does his best to control the skidding. They detour several times because of breakdowns blocking the road. Knox’s command of the Jordanian dialect is too pathetic to attempt conversation. He sits uncomfortably, banging his head on the ceiling with every bump. Someone lights a cigarette. No one complains. Knox is close to losing his temper by the time the van pulls over. The driver has to point at him to let Knox know they’re at his stop.

Merchants have come downstairs from their second-story apartments to sweep the sidewalk in front of shuttered stores. Women in
abaya
s worn from the shoulders and colorful headscarves move silently and efficiently while men gather in small clusters, smoking. Knox dodges cardboard boxes, discarded appliances and a pair of worn shoes as he passes some unhappy shop clerks who were caught by the storm, unable to salvage their wares ahead of time. Discouragement weighs down their bent backs and slows their movement. The struggle of daily life hangs in the air as thickly as the residual dust left behind by the storm.

Knox’s iPhone mapping app reveals that the van dropped him at the wrong intersection. Maybe they got sick of him. Maybe they’re all laughing at dumping the American. He walks a winding kilometer uphill to reach Ali Ben Abi Taleb. Walks east and locates the address Dulwich sent.

The art gallery is called “brilliant.” All lowercase English. No name offered in Arabic. In the window to the left stands a sandstone egret; to the right, a collage of newsprint, pieces of lingerie and tufts of human hair, all covered in a thick layer of clear-coat. Knox double-checks the address.

He knows what he’s doing here: Dulwich has figured out how to pass him the Harmodius. No need for a courier. No black-market transaction. David Dulwich can be a real pain in the ass. As Sarge hinted, getting the bust from here to Istanbul is going to fall on Knox.

He pushes inside. An antique bell chimes. The sandstorm has been good for business—a dozen or more people are milling about. Three bottles of white wine are open on a side table, two empty. Plastic cups. Knox pours himself one. A young woman, nearly six feet tall, greets him. Australian. Nice calves. Fierce eyes. She welcomes him. They small-talk. Knox searches the wall for the Obama poster.

“I’ve had a recent interest in Shepard Fairey.” He laughs at himself. “I’m behind the times.”

“Not at all! He’s an interesting artist. Began as a skateboarder. Did you know that?”

“A digital Warhol,” Knox says, doing his best. “Though that’s taking it a little far.” He indicates a great distance with his large, scarred hands.

“They say you can tell a great deal about a person by his hands,” she murmurs.

“The most difficult part of the body to paint or sculpt,” Knox says.

“You have impeccable timing.” It sounds loaded. Hers are not eyes he could face when waking.

“How so?”

“We had a bust come in just today—very much like Fairey.”

“Not interested in sculpture.” He wants to make her sell him. Can’t seem eager.

“You should at least take a look.”

“I don’t think so. Wall art’s my interest.”

He allows her to steer him deeper into the gallery. It’s like a UN conference in here: Indian, Asian, African and Caucasian. The scent of incense intensifies.

He spots it atop a white pedestal. An oversized bust of Obama made from a hideous rainbow swirl of what appears to be bowling-ball plastic. The chins of the other gallery patrons lift; the eyes gaze up at the acoustic tile. Knox is forced to cover his smirk with his hand, as if considering the piece.

“Not exactly what I was looking for.”

“One of a kind,” she says.

“With good reason.”

“As close to Fairey as you’ll find in Amman.” She adds, “Which is why my owner chose to represent it.”

He shakes his head. He wants to be begged.

“Art is so personal, is it not? I cannot begin to suggest taste. But strictly as an investment—and I typically discourage clients from thinking this way—these political pieces, especially those tied to Fairey’s influence, are certain to gain in value. Politics is a fleeting business. As you know.”

It’s selling for six hundred U.S. dollars. Its plastic conceals a piece worth millions.

“Given my tastes, if I bought art as an investment I’d be a poor man.”

“I think you underrate yourself.”

If not for those eyes, he could play along. A body like hers can tumble. It would be a pleasant way to pass a lonely evening in Amman.

“I’ll think on it,” he says, wanting to sink the hook. He thanks her and studies a gaudy airbrush of a white horse in the desert. It reminds him of romance-novel cover art. Slim pickings in Amman. The rest is not much better.

He’s careful to get a look at everyone in the gallery. Dulwich didn’t put the ugly plastic over the Harmodius; he didn’t pack and deliver and convince the dealer to display it. There are too many intermediaries, no matter how trustworthy. The bust feels more like chum, and Knox does not want to feed too quickly.

To his surprise, of those who notice Knox, none seem particularly interested. If he’s being monitored, he’s once again reminded that it’s by people so good at their jobs.

Dulwich has handed him a way to take possession of the Harmodius, but moving it into Turkey remains the challenge. Dulwich has his reasons for passing it to Knox here: if the Harmodius “coincidentally” shows up in Istanbul the week the Okle brothers are there,
the op could appear forced. If there’s a paper trail, no matter how obscure, that shows Knox shipping it from Amman to Turkey, the attempted sale to Akram Okle will seem all the more authentic. But accomplishing the task, given the earlier encounter and the questions it raises, makes things more complicated.

Knox spends a good deal of his time in front of some horrible art, thinking it through. Studying a nude who’s offering herself to a man’s head on an ape’s body, it dawns on him: Victoria Momani, whose contact information he got from his Skype with Akram. With the proper manipulation, she can be used to ship the Harmodius from Jordan to Istanbul with Knox’s name nowhere on it. The pieces stitch together better than they do on the fabric art by the window.

He approaches the woman docent.

“The wine must be getting to my head,” he says. “In a moment of weakness, I’ll buy it. But sadly, I can’t leave it behind on show. You won’t want me to, anyway, because by the sober light of day I know I’m going to regret this purchase. So it’s your call. If I buy it, I’m taking it with me, which I’m already beginning to think is a bad idea.”

“I think it will live better on its own.”

“It’s iconic. An archetype. For that, and that alone, I will find a place for it.”

“It’s heavy.”

“Since it appears to be a melted-down bowling ball, I assumed as much.”

He gets a rise out of her, though her eyes are prohibited from showing mirth. It’s the depth of the sockets and the smallness of the eyes themselves; she’d do better with Lady Gaga–sized sunglasses. He suggests she call a taxi, owning up to the fact that the storm congestion may delay it.

“More time to get to know each other,” she says cunningly, even hopefully.

Knox knows better. He hates to disappoint.

—

D
ESPITE
THE
FACT
that the bust is packed and crated, by morning light Knox feels like his X-ray vision can penetrate the box to reveal the hideous rainbow Obama bust. If he’d had the gallery ship it to Istanbul, he’d have left a means to tie him to a missing historical artifact. He can’t use a brick-and-mortar express shipping counter for fear of security cameras; he needs to ship it anonymously from a residential address. It could be picked up out front, leaving no face attached to the air bill. But for that, he needs a valid residential address.

In Amman, Jordan.

Victoria Momani answers his call speaking Arabic.

Knox speaks English. “Victoria? It’s John Knox, a friend of Akram’s.”

His introduction is met with silence.

“He suggested I . . . that we . . . that I should call you for a drink if I was ever in Amman.”

“I see.” Understandably skeptical of a stranger’s call.

“I’m in import/export. I’ve sold Akram some artwork.”

“John. Yes,” she says, making no effort to disguise her relief.

“Coffee? A drink? Do you have a spot?”

She names a teahouse and address, suggests lunch. One
P
.
M
.

“I will try for one. I may be a few minutes late. See you there.” He hangs up.

He calls FedEx and supplies Victoria Momani’s address and a pickup time of one-thirty
P
.
M
. He can’t count on her being perfectly on time. He asks the hotel concierge to help with the air bill
so his handwriting can’t be traced. Lugs the crate into the taxi at twelve-forty-five; arrives at her apartment building at the top of the hour. The teahouse is a twenty-minute walk, a five-minute cab. He waits outside for five minutes and, seeing no woman leave the building, decides she’s a walker. He takes a chance, his system charged with the elixir of adrenaline.

He carries the boxed bust up two flights of stairs rather than risk being seen in the elevator. It’s like lugging a small car in his arms. He puts it down outside apartment 222 with the air bill on top. He hurries down the stairs, leaving an unguarded fortune in the hallway. Arrives back to the waiting taxi and is off.

He’s only minutes late to the Turtle Green Teahouse.

Jordanian women don’t need the cosmetics they use. Knox finds most of the over-forty faces severe. Like the Italians, it’s the skin of the younger women he finds attractive.

The only woman willing to meet his eyes is sitting alone. Victoria Momani does not cover her hair. Her shoulders are square, her posture perfect. There’s no indication of smile lines.

They shake hands. Knox sits across from her and asks for recommendations, then requests she order for the two of them. He wants her to feel in control, to lessen any defenses she may have in place. His primary concern is to keep her here long enough to ensure the package is picked up with her name on the air bill. If he can stretch this to forty minutes, he’s in the clear. FedEx is reliable.

Knox orders an espresso for himself. She asks for hot tea.

“Here on business?” she asks. Her English is tinged with a delightful lilt that makes it poetic.

“What else? I’m a slave to it, I’m afraid.”

“Trade.”

He shrugs. “Too kind a word. You might say I’m an arbitrageur. Move a piece of art or craftwork from one country to another where
it’s more valued, or where the currency conversion is favorable. Sell it; convert. Purchase. Resale. It’s less supply and demand than catching the idiosyncrasies of artistic taste.”

“You take advantage of people.”

He mugs.

“And me? Do you plan to take advantage of me?”

He might think she’s flirting, but her tone is accusatory bordering on angry.

“I beg your pardon.” He has already taken advantage of her. He wishes he could feel remorse over it, but does not.

“Why do you lie to me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Akram would never recommend a drink with me. This is your mistake. So you are testing me, yes? A Westerner, no less. Bravo! An interesting twist, to be sure. But I still know nothing. You are wasting your time.”

To the contrary,
Knox thinks, suddenly interested in how Akram might be testing her.

“You may have me mistaken for—” he says.