The Red Room (6 page)

“I think not, Mr. Knox, if that is in fact your name.”

“Why meet me if you consider me such a liar?”

“To tell you, as I have told all of you before, to back off. What goes on between a man and a woman, it stays between the man and the woman.”

“Rarely,” Knox says. The word he hears is “before.”

“In this case, then.”

He’s caught between wanting to distance himself from whoever she thinks he is and playing the role in order to work the conflict for “incidental findings,” the unintended information she may yet divulge. Judging by her tone, she and Akram were once an item.
Were
—past tense. Akram or his people have tested her since the
collapse of the relationship. She believes these people have now gone to the trouble of hiring a Westerner to do their bidding. Boxes inside boxes—he’s intrigued.

Their drinks arrive. He adds sugar to the espresso, but it’s unnecessary: the bean makes for a smooth and slippery liquor in his throat.

“You like it,” she says.

“I do, very much.”

“You will please pass my message along.”

“I would if I could. Sadly, you mistake me.”

“I think not.”

“Your prerogative.” He pauses. “You recognized my name when I called. Akram has spoken of me.”

“You people . . . people like you . . . you can know any of that far too easily. Did you listen to us at the end? Did you enjoy it?” She can’t look at him, only the reflection in her teacup.

People like you,
Knox hears the echo in his ears. People who eavesdrop. She’s talking about surveillance. She fears she’s been listened in on. Better with every bite. He says, “You mistake me for someone else. No one is keeping you here.”

Her eyes flash darkly.

They share olives, hummus and falafel. Knox could eat all afternoon, the coffee boring a bottomless pit in his stomach. Shredded onions deep-fried in garbanzo flour. The dishes keep coming. The act of sharing food lowers the wall between them; the connection is primitive but palpable. He orders a beer.

“So it was a bad breakup,” he says.

She shakes her head as if to tell him he knows this already.

“I’ve only met him a couple of times, but I like Akram.” He thinks he may be getting through to her, judging by a softening of her dark eyes. But she doesn’t take the bait.

“Leave me alone, please. You tell them: leave me alone.”

“I don’t know who they are.”

“If this is the truth, then there is no harm done, and I apologize for any inconvenience. But I know you are lying, Mr. Knox, and I wish to make the point that I must be left alone.”

“Point taken.” He capitulates for no other reason than laziness and the meal’s imminent end. He signals for the check, pulling receipts, his hotel key card and his thin wallet from his front pocket. He doesn’t want her to see the name on any of the cards. He removes some bills and stuffs everything back.

“These men. Police? Government? Criminals?”

She eyes him warily. Spitefully. Shakes her head in defeat.
You people won’t stop,
her eyes shout. “Is there so much difference?” she asks.

M
ashe Melemet and his two bodyguards take an additional two hours before arriving at the residential address that Besim, Grace’s driver, uncovered. It was likely time spent at the hospital, given that one of his guards is carrying takeaway food; dinner was an afterthought.

Grace has failed to spot anyone else interested in the apartment building, though she assumes that Dulwich could be watching. She expected to see the men from the airport, including the agent who descended the escalator, but she has not.

They interest her, and they will certainly interest Dulwich. The more information she can put together on them, the more thorough her work into who’s tailing Mashe Okle is, the more she’ll impress Dulwich. She has the men pegged as police, immigration officers or possibly Turkey’s National Intelligence Organization. Getting it right will earn her bonus points.

Is the takeaway dinner the result of a long day of travel or Mashe Okle’s—aka Mashe Melemet’s—avoidance of public places? If he’s afraid of restaurants, of being seen in public, it explains why
Dulwich needed a plan—needed her—to put herself and Knox in a room with him.

To that end, she has to black-hat an investment server before she sleeps. Staying with Melemet is a guilty pleasure from which she finds it difficult to pull away. She left Besim and the black Mercedes four blocks back, going on foot, a scarf pulled tight over her head to hide her Asian features. She enjoyed walking the busy Turkish neighborhood for the past two hours. An operative. She continues walking past as the mark arrives. Takes no interest in him at all.

Comes around the block to the north—for the third or fourth time—and spots two men, one wearing the Euro-ubiquitous black leather jacket. Her suspect in the airport wore a jacket just like it. She’s unable to get close enough to see them clearly. They smoke cigarettes while talking, like a million other men in Istanbul.

Their location is significant. From where they stand, they have a view of Okle’s apartment building.
His safe house?
she wonders. A family residence? A rental? Are they protecting him, or pursuing him?

At this moment, she can’t be sure of anything.

S
ipping from an eight-dollar minibar beer for which Dulwich will eventually pay, Knox finds going through e-mails tedious. He can’t keep his mind off the men following him in Amman, or Victoria Momani’s implication that the fallout between her and Akram was related to a team surveilling Mashe. Is there a connection?

He can’t believe it, but he misses having Grace Chu around. Her mathematical mind has ways of cutting through the clutter. More than anything, he trusts her. He tries to never lose sight of the economic leash connecting Dulwich to Brian Primer.

Knox has decided the requirement of spending five minutes with Mashe has something do with tracking. He assumes there must be a device within either the plastic outer mold or the Harmodius Obama covers; a tagging device but, according to Dulwich, not for assassination. Maybe Grace could make sense of it. He can’t. He pushes right to the edge of drawing a conclusion, only to be knocked back by a screwball piece of evidence: Dulwich’s promise of no assassination; the attacker in Amman retreating at the moment of superiority; Akram’s level of secrecy.

Knox doesn’t feel safe. But he doesn’t jump at the sound of knocking. He shuts the laptop and eyeballs the peephole to the hall.

“One second, please,” he says.

He keys open the safe and leaves it ajar. He can have the gun in hand in a second, or less.

He opens the room door, his foot blocking it from the inside. She appears to be alone. He admits her and locks the door, security bar and dead bolt.

“I’m sorry,” he says, taking her by the forearm. “I’m going to need to search you and your purse.”

Victoria Momani’s eyes blink slowly, giving her consent. Knox is gentle but thorough, sparing no contact—up between the legs, under and around her breasts from behind. He dumps her purse on the carpet and inspects the contents as he returns them one by one. He pulls the battery from her cell phone and drops them both into the bag.

“Which agency do you work for?” he asks, still working her belongings. “You had me going with all the complaints. I bought that fair and square. A wonderfully executed diversion. Well done.”

“You cannot be so ignorant.”

“Who but a police officer or agent could find my hotel room in a city this size? And you did not follow me.”

“What kind of import/exporter can track who’s following him?”

He hands her back her purse, motions her to a chair. “The one thing you learn in my business is this: a simple robbery is rarely simple. At any given time, I might be carrying a coin or a stamp, a letter, a photograph worth a small fortune. One learns to protect his assets.”

“Okay.”

“You answered a question with a question,” he says. “So you’re trained at this.”

“No. I am a woman.” She points to the table. Knox does not want her messing with his laptop. “You pulled out your key card when you paid the bill.”

Knox sees his key card on the table next to the laptop. The card’s paper slipcase carries the hotel logo. He can’t believe he made such a freshman mistake.

“A friend’s sister works on the hotel’s event staff. Amman is not such a big place. You . . . you stand out. It wasn’t hard. I was given five rooms to try. This was my third.”

“That’s a lot of effort to go to for a drink.” He’s bent at the minibar.

“White wine,” she says.

He pours it into a water glass. “So?”

“Your arrogance is insulting.”

“Is it?”

“Your ignorance as well.”

“Is that so?”

“Then you knew it’s my gallery? Brilliant?”

Bile stings his throat. He works to mask his confusion with a wry smile. His mind grinds. When the shit flies in your face, you’d better be wearing goggles. He’s rarely forced to deal with bad luck; is something of an amateur at it.

“I am called by my gallery manager. Told we flipped—I believe you call it—a piece. Buy and sell same day. She describes a Westerner who buys piece. Same man meets me for a drink not so long after. I have neighbors, Mr. Knox, neighbors who saw a big man, a Westerner, enter my apartment building with a heavy crate or box, and leave empty-handed.”

He’s assembling his explanation as she continues.

“Shortly thereafter, same box picked up by delivery service. Object is heavy, but what? A bomb? Explosives? Ammunition? Something
sent to Akram, perhaps? With my name and return address on it, his ex-girlfriend, someone to take blame.”

“Too much television.”

“I beg your pardon?” Irate.

“Far too dramatic, Victoria. Have you heard of value-added tax? Not nearly as sexy as bombs or ammunition, but I’m not an arms dealer. I’m in import/export. I just exported a pretty ugly piece of artwork I may find a market for outside of Amman. But if I pay the VAT and fail to recover it, I’m out what slim margin I might have to turn a profit. It shouldn’t take you too long to determine who might be interested in this artwork, eh? How else would I have gotten your contact information?”

She’s visibly upset, and to his surprise, it’s not directed at him. Again, he’s a fraction late in realizing what’s at play.

“You actually thought I was sending a mail bomb? Me?”

She holds a finger to her lips, silencing him. She points to her hairband. The one place he failed to check. It could easily contain a microphone or GPS chip.

Driven by her anger with Akram and Moshe Okle, her mistrust of Knox has resulted in a call to the police. Judging by her pallor—she’s an eerie green—she regrets that now.

Knox grabs the laptop, stuffs it into his messenger bag along with its power cord. His Scottevest jacket’s many pockets contain everything he values. The gun carries his prints. Can’t have that. He retrieves the safe’s contents and stuffs them away in the jacket, vowing to be rid of the gun—possession of a handgun will land him in Jordanian prison. Only shotguns and rifles are allowed, and they are hell to obtain legally. He appreciated being able to defend his castle, but out on the streets, he’ll need to rely on his wits. An art dealer doesn’t carry. He never gives the few clothes and toiletries he leaves behind a second thought.

He picks his hotel rooms carefully. Never takes a room above the third floor for a reason. He’s out on the private balcony in seconds.

To her credit, Victoria Momani is up there, shouting as if Knox is with her. She’s comparing him to a parasite, attempting to keep the police engaged and at bay.

Knox dangles from his balcony, swings and drops to the balcony below. He climbs over and hangs, facing too far a drop to the sidewalk. His only hope to save his legs is to aim for one of the rattan tables on the sidewalk terrace. He pushes off the wall and drops, knees bent to absorb the hit. Crashes dead center, rolls, clutching the bag. A few bruises. A stiff ankle. A crushed table. He hobbles off, staying close to the wall, working the rigid joint back to life.

The rapid footfalls behind him push him faster as he turns the corner. Police or worse. They think him a bomber or an arms dealer. Lovely. The narrow streets twist and turn. If he weren’t being chased, it would be an interesting neighborhood to wander. But whoever’s back there knows them better than he.

Testing the fitness of his pursuers, Knox turns to head uphill. Faces a dead end. Squeezes between two buildings ornately covered in ironwork. He vaults a low fence and finds himself in another narrow winding street.

The hill is terraced with major streets, cul-de-sacs and tighter lanes jammed between them. Knox moves in bursts of speed, gaining ground quickly but preserving endurance. He arrives at another thoroughfare and crosses through heavy traffic. Manages to do so without drawing the peal of a car horn. On the opposite side he reenters the puzzle of steep streets cluttered with parked vehicles. Zippered into the pockets of the Scottevest are the tools necessary to jack a car, but he fears the traffic. It’s faster on foot.

He smells spicy meat and fried bread and his mouth goes wet with
saliva. Hears Jay Z and Justin Timberlake cursing through an open window. Could be Brooklyn.

He pops out onto Khaled Ben Al Waleed and is crossing the wider avenue when a minivan skids to a stop on the skim of windblown sand. The side door slides open.

“In here!” The driver is leaning well out of his seat. Knox can’t place the accent. It’s definitely not Jordanian. The driver rolls a balaclava down over his face.

Knox pauses. He’s not getting into the van.

“Now! Or you’re with GID.” General Intelligence Department. The accent is vaguely Eastern European. Possibly forced. Croatia? Bosnia?

Knox’s efforts have done nothing to slow whoever’s coming up the hill; he knows only too well the training required.

“Shit,” he mumbles as he climbs reluctantly into the tiny van. “Go!” he says.

The van lingers.

“Go!”

Knox reaches to slide the door shut. A hand grabs hold from the other side—Knox assumes it belongs to the man following him, a man also wearing a balaclava. He shoves Knox out of his way as he boards. The van takes off. They don’t cuff him. Don’t speak.

“What the fuck?” Knox says. There are no weapons showing. He can take the man in the balaclava if he has to.

The flashing blue lights of police vehicles coil slowly up the hill. The van is well out ahead and currently in the clear; the police are searching for a man on foot. Knox puts it together: the one following him radioed how and where to intercept Knox. The why of it lingers. Dulwich is the easiest answer: Knox is being driven to Dulwich.

He wants to connect these two to the man who followed him to the Internet café, but it’s too big a leap. The easy answer is never the right one. The Iranian agencies recruit men and women who look like Israelis; the Israelis recruit Palestinians. There’s no
Who’s Who
of black-ops agents. These guys could be on Dulwich’s payroll for all Knox knows.

“Someone going to say something?” Knox says.

The van obeys the modest speed limit as it climbs through a series of turns and then descends, slowing at an intersection.

Knox grabs for the handle, slides open the door and rolls out. He’s on his feet and running.

He hears, “Have it your way, asshole.” The vehicle pulls away.

He assumes the second guy followed him out. Knox has forced their hand: they’re going to kill him.

Or try to.

He glances back to measure his lead.

No one.

Have it your way, asshole!
What kind of an accent was that?

He’s alone, suddenly wrapped in a swirling dust-dog of wind and sand.

“What the fuck?” he shouts, spinning in a full circle to see who, if anyone, he missed. The night air holds only a red glow, remnants of the sandstorm. The haze crystalizes the millions of lights. White diamonds in a ruby haze. He bends over and grabs his knees, his heart racing out of control.