The Red Room (24 page)

G
race is soaked through, sitting on a raffia-seat chair across from an unreadable, expressionless yet intense David Dulwich. The tobacco haze in the café reminds her of Beijing in winter.

She thinks back to their lunchtime Red Room briefing, their meeting only days ago when she was certain he was condoning her off-the-books digging. She now feels like the schoolgirl about to get an earful. Dulwich’s composure indicates a new level of cold, the kind of cold that turns metal from icy to brittle.

Shifting uncomfortably, she thinks about having a hot bath and warm terry-cloth robe, a double vodka and a man. She wants what she can’t have: to be away from all this. The earlier excitement has been steadily eroded by exhaustion and starvation. She orders falafel and hummus, hoping food will reinvigorate her. In contrast, Dulwich’s engine runs on espresso. He uses this as a pit stop.

“Do you want the download, or would you prefer we—?”

“Please,” Dulwich says.

It’s not a word she often hears from him. It sticks in his mouth, like a dog with peanut butter.

“The POI, aka Mashe Okle, aka Nawriz Melemet, is a nuclear particle physicist,” she says. “The initial funding of the escrow indicates four private investors.” She watches Dulwich’s pupils flare, dilating briefly. “The sourcing of those investments appears legitimate.” She writes names on a napkin from memory and slides it across to him. “I have not had time to trace them out.” Dulwich turns it over, will not accept it. “He is being protected by at least two Iranian bodyguards. John and I believe he and Akram are being surveilled by Israelis—unconfirmed.” The shutters of his eyes react a second time. Grace feels like a prize student arguing her dissertation. She’s impressed him; she finds it impossible to keep from going further. “There could be terminate order on John or me or both of us. Our dealings are complicated by the owner of the gallery in Amman where you placed the Harmodius.” She wants this to sting; sees no sign of it. “Regardless of this, the meet appears on track for later today. We will get our five minutes.”

Dulwich could be partner to the Harmodius, he’s suddenly so still.

“A pacemaker manufactured by the Swiss firm BioLectrics that was headed for Florence Nightingale Hospital, where the Melemet mother is under care, was intercepted and/or substituted by an individual believed to be Israeli, possibly Mossad. I assume you must be aware of this as you were waiting outside the shop Xin directed me to for its analysis.” Unreadable. “John and I theorize the pacemaker is part of a dead drop involving the Iranian nuclear program.” Still no indication he’s even hearing her. She feels anger bubbling up and pushes it back.

“John is clearly compromised. I advocated an abort.” She pauses. “Declined.”

“See it through,” he says, his upper lip holding some of the dark, oily coffee. “There are no surprises—”

“—only opportunities,” she says, finishing the Dulwichism. “In this case, more players than
Henry the Sixth, Part Two
.”

She can’t win a reaction. His stoniness, she will pass on to Knox. Dulwich is not typically without humor, though his jokes are often dark. He has chosen to contact her away from John. Because of the importance of the pacemaker and her curiosity over it, she wonders, or because he doesn’t want to face Knox’s combustibility?

“John’s situation requires continuance,” she says.

Dulwich is clearly amused by her inconsistent vocabulary. There’s no explaining Grace Chu.

Grace is tempted to insult or challenge him; she’s running out of patience. But her pragmatism won’t allow it. Dulwich and Rutherford Risk are a stepping-stone to something entrepreneurial for her; it lacks form but is beginning to reveal itself, a shape emerging from behind a sculptor’s chisel.

After the falafel and hummus are delivered along with a black tea, Grace asks, “If you could share with us the Israeli op, perhaps we could steer clear.” She articulates what Knox would have demanded in far different terms.

Having laid the trap, she eats greedily. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. But it’s a bottomless stomach kind of hunger, one that can’t be satisfied, that has little to do with food.

“Part of our company name, remember? Risk?”

She considers spilling hot tea into his lap. Packs the last falafel into her mouth. Should have taken it in two bites. Stands.

“Sit down.”

Her chewing can’t get ahead of her thoughts to allow her to speak. She collects her purse.

“Now!”

Slings it over her shoulder. Finally swallows.

“Do not make a scene,” he warns.

“It is not I who makes the scene.” Her tension reveals itself too easily. She must work on this.

She leans into him, speaking in a forced whisper. “You have deliberately concealed information vital to our safety. I was kidnapped. John has a pair of fresh wounds. He is being pressured by the gallery owner in a way that could cost him his company. He and I are apparently operating in the dark, unaware of what is or is not fair play. You—purposely, it would seem—avoid communicating with us!”

“Sit . . . down!”

She slumps into her chair as Dulwich looks around. His glance confirms that the waiter and barista are the only ones paying attention, and they are far enough out of earshot.

“I might expect this from Knox,” Dulwich says. “Not you.”

“John wanted to take it to Mr. Primer.”

“No!” The sharpness of his reprimand reminds her of a petulant boy not wanting a teacher to know of his misdeeds. She realizes belatedly that Knox’s suspicion and distrust of Dulwich have taken root, something she’d hoped to avoid.

She whispers, “If this op is off the books, you should have told me. Perhaps not John, but most certainly me.” Tries for eye contact, but Dulwich won’t give it to her.

Primer relies on U.S. government contracts for a large part of the company’s business. She has never heard of Rutherford Risk running a black ops group. John claims he was chosen for the op because of the preexisting relationship with Akram, causing her to wonder if the op is on or off the company books.

“You will complete the op. Do not concern yourself with exigent circumstances. The pacemaker is off limits.”

She arrives at a critical moment. Cannot believe she says what she does. “I will not condone using John as a scapegoat.”

His face is sheened with sweat. The espresso? she wonders.

“Is it so damn difficult?” He spits as he speaks. “You hand over the Harmodius, for Christ’s sake. You spend five minutes in the room. It’s a fucking delivery, Chu.” His eyes roll. “Stop thinking so much and handle the fucking op!”

His voice is so quiet it wouldn’t reach the next table, but his words knock her back as if he has shouted.

“This is not right,” she says, examining him objectively for the first time. It slips out, but she doesn’t regret it. “We are good at this, John, you, me. I think of Amsterdam—it took the three of us to succeed. No difference here. You are the conduit for the intelligence. But where are you? Not to be found. Then you are lurking outside electronics shops like a sexual predator. Keeping your own operatives under surveillance.”

Dulwich drags his hand through his hair, purses his lips and exhales. Frustrated. “Jesus, you two. Do this thing. Do not question it, do it.”

“They will kill John.” She stares him down.

“No one has yet.”

“I do not understand you.”

“And I do not seek your approval.”

The waiter returns, perhaps to referee; perhaps curiosity or a bet with the barista has encouraged him to get close enough to hear. But Dulwich is aware of every movement in the room, as well as those out on the street. Grace tries to learn from him; he knows more than even Knox about such things, and Knox has three times the instincts of anyone else.

Waving the waiter back, Dulwich leans in to Grace. “This isn’t a courier for a construction company. It isn’t a twelve-year-old girl in a sweatshop.” He’s referencing previous ops. “You two play games in the sandbox and give no thought to the playground, much less the school that built the playground in the first place. This thing . . .
what we’re doing . . . Jesus, I don’t owe you this. Carry out the fucking op and stop your whining. No one asked you to play detective. I told you: Need To Know. You misunderstood our last meeting. I would expect this of Knox, not you.”

“Do not attempt to manipulate me.”

“Be careful he doesn’t infect you, Grace. Knox can be a poison.”

“John saved your life. Twice. And, perhaps, mine. I can live with such poison.”

Dulwich is perspiring.

She says, “Outside the Sisli Mosque you asked if I understood the op. You were appreciative of the intel I had—”

“Appreciative? I was—I am!—pissed off at all your unnecessary digging!”

“Of course,” she says, hanging her head like the regretful courtesan, and hating herself for it.

“Here’s your problem, Chu: a little information is a dangerous thing. A lot of information is fatal. Stick to the program. Have a little faith.”

She can’t find the strength to lift her head. The only sound is of the chair sliding back and the rustle of bills.

“Sit down,” she says, head still lowered.

“Say whatever it is you have to say.”

“Sit . . . down.” It’s a matter of pride now. Of face.

He sits. She raises her head, exuding a determination she has never shown him.

“We need an exit strategy,” she says. “For tonight.”

“It can’t look like that,” he says. “You can’t go through this and climb onto a private plane and—”

“Who said anything about a private plane? A strategy. Options. A safe house. This is your side of things. Do what you do. You must.” Unconditional.

He doesn’t speak; merely silences her with the rush of color to his face. All but his lips, which take on an eerie, bloodless pallor.

“What this is,” he speaks slowly and deliberately, “is bigger than stink. How exactly do you think I was able to come up with the Harmodius?”

“We have asked ourselves this same question.”

“You two talk too much. Do your fucking jobs. Go home. Someday—” He cuts himself off, a drunk who knows even the bartender cannot hear what he wants to say.

“What? Someday we will hear the truth? Someday you will explain? You are a storyteller, David. It is your job. Promote the op. Coach up your players.”

She wins a slight grin, some blood returning to his lips. He appreciates her Americanized metaphors. She believes he will always see her as Chinese first, a woman second, an operative last. She can’t forgive him that. He lives the bias she sees on so many faces. Not Knox’s, to his credit. She’s not sure how Knox sees her, or sometimes if he sees her, but he’s not one to label without justification. David is more predictable.

“I can tell you this. I,” he corrects himself immediately, “we were hired—contracted,” another correction, “by an individual. Not a government. There’s a reason for that, a subtext that would be nothing but speculation were I to share it with you. I may have misled you. Maybe I appeared impressed with that early intel you provided. If you’d thought it through, you might have come to the conclusion that it was because I am in the dark on this one. I know less than you do. But I know to keep my nose clean, something you and Knox could use a lesson on. How to stick to the op. You . . . this intel . . . obviously this thing is—”

“Bigger than stink,” she says, quoting him.

“Yes.”

“Big enough to lose John in the process?”

Dulwich answers with inquisitive eyebrows.

Her stomach tightens: he’ll accept whatever losses there are.

“Look, complete the op. Knox understands the risks. He lives for shit like this, and don’t let him convince you otherwise.” Dulwich pauses. “He’s playing you; you’re playing him. I’m playing both of you. It’s what we do.” He repeats somewhat mournfully, “It’s what we do.”

He hoists the espresso to his lips, but the demitasse is empty and the miscalculation embarrasses him. He doesn’t know whether to lift the small cup toward the waiter, calling for another, or return it to the table. It surprises, even troubles Grace, that so small an act can hang so significantly between them.

“I? We? Which is it?”

Here,
she thinks,
is the root of the problem,
but the clanging of the demitasse back into the saucer jolts her and she loses her train of thought.

“I’d be extremely careful if I were you.”

Grace watches Dulwich go. She doesn’t like having her back to the street. She comes around the table and sits down, wanting time to compartmentalize the highlights of the discussion. Still, her wet clothes bother her. The waiter clears the table, a sympathetic look on his face—Dulwich’s open hostility has crossed the room.

She is thinking in the third person, hearing the voice of a Chinese army intelligence officer from her long distant past: what do we know now that we did not know before? What needs to be discarded to clear our heads? Of what we have learned, what could be disinformation? Retain only absolute truths. Do not be swayed by subjectivity or opinion. Hold your source in high regard, regardless of appearance or manner.

She filters the conversation accordingly, only bits and pieces
making their way through the various layers of screens: the Harmodius; limited resources; NTK; his reaction to the mention of the Israelis; his resistance to Brian Primer’s involvement. His confession about the nongovernmental client.

The waiter brings her more tea. She orders a sugary pastry, unable to resist the thought of more food. There was a time when she would have rushed to inform Knox, to involve him in the puzzle. But with experience comes confidence, and with confidence, patience and understanding. Better to present Knox with information he can use than gush out a riot of confusion. Knox has his own filters. She knows better than to edit her information for him.

Grace squints, savoring the pastry. That butter, sugar, salt and flour can combine in so many different ways is a testament to the supremacy of man’s evolution; she pities animals their bland diets. Returning from her revelry, she spots a man in profile on the sidewalk, passing the café. Bile leaks up from her esophagus; she recognizes him from the hospital elevator. Mid-thirties. Nondescript. One of Dulwich’s? She finds herself hoping so. The alternative is less than promising.