The Red Room (32 page)

G
race holds the business card in her left hand, a butane cigarette lighter in her right. She steadily brings the two closer. The two agents are out of the car and pushing their palms at her in a rush of bodies and limbs.

“No . . . no . . . no!” they say, nearly in unison.

The taxi driver seizes the moment and backs up the Hyundai, leaving an unsuspecting Grace standing alone. The taxi continues backing up at an alarming rate all the way to the intersection. Then it’s gone.

“The card for him,” Grace says, “or I burn it.”

Besim climbs out from behind the wheel, and Knox watches Grace’s emotions get the better of her. Betrayal burnishes her face angry red.

“Release him!” Grace hollers, the flame now precariously close to the lower corner of the card.

“We do not wish to possess the card, ma’am,” Besim says, “but it must not be burned.” He checks with the man originally on Knox’s left, who nods. “It is truly the only chance for the two of you. We
have promised to do everything in our power to get you out alive. The loss of this card will be our failure. Your failure.”

“Get him out of the car, now!” Grace is having none of it.

Besim checks with the agent for a second time. They speak in Hebrew. The three move away from the vehicle. Their hands remain in plain sight.

Grace is unable to keep the confusion from her face.

“The card!” she says again.

Knox comes out of the backseat, grinning appreciatively. He moves around the open door to the front, where he assesses the agents and Besim.

“Grace! Get in,” he says, indicating the passenger door. “And don’t for a moment take that flame away from the card.”

Besim and the others back away slowly.

“In!” Knox says, pulling his own door shut.

Grace climbs in. The flame steadies. Knox glances out his window at the men.

“What the hell?” she says.

Knox shifts into gear. Halfway down the block, he tells her to extinguish the lighter. She doesn’t seem to hear him. He repeats himself and she quiets the flame.

“That took balls,” he says.

“Always so vulgar.”

Knox waits until the car is on Kennedy Avenue, airport bound. He explains his theory that Besim vandalized the SUV and paid off the bellmen to keep their mouths shut, reiterates the likelihood of two Israeli payrolls; one set, Dulwich’s, surprising and replacing his hotel captors. His phone buzzes repeatedly, as does Grace’s. Neither answers.

“The card?” she says.

Knox answers. “In order for things to remain status quo, they need the dead drop to go as planned. If it fails, it will call for internal review by whatever party of whatever government is supposed to get it, and maybe someone figures out what’s really going on.”

“Tracking Dr. Okle.”

“Sarge spit-balled it for us. Did he lie? Of course. But maybe less than we think. More like he omitted facts.”

“You would defend him?”

“Bloodlines. He and I share history.” Again, he wonders if he’s sabotaged Grace. Feels shitty about it.

“The airport.”

“Yeah.”

She speculates, “The Israelis had a plane for you.” Her voice quavers. “I interrupted . . .”

“Grace . . . we don’t know anything. Not a damned thing. These guys are all spooks. Sarge should have known better. Out of our league.”

“Railway,” she suggests.

“By now, the Israelis dumped out of the car will have called it in. The hawks are not going to roll over for anyone. They’ll make the charge of cultural theft against me, play anything they can so I don’t get out. The train is too slow. Gives them too long to get their shit together.” He can’t take the time to switch out SIM cards. “The Turks will have to weigh the claim, put out a Be On Lookout for me. The Israelis supporting the thorium research know you and I have a shot at getting through Immigration or they wouldn’t have been aiming for the airport in the first place.”

“Or they paid a bribe.”

“Or that.”

Knox follows the airport signage. They can see it now to their
left, and beyond it, the Bosphorus. On the opposite shore starts the Asian half of the city.

“May be a strait, but it certainly looks like a river,” she says. “What is it with us and rivers?”

She watches him smile. With more planning, more knowledge, they might have left by the Bosphorus. Always water. Bloodlines.

“We go through security in separate lines.”

“Of course.”

“If I’m detained . . .”

“I will notify David.” It’s the best they can hope for. She would gladly make a sacrifice to take this off of him. Has no idea where that thought comes from. Sacrilege. Her career path is entirely singular.

She speaks abruptly. “Everything I do or have done, it is to prove my father wrong.”

Knox glances over at her curiously.

“Deepest apology,” she says, sounding entirely too Chinese. She hangs her head.

“Well, that’s awkward,” Knox says.

She starts to laugh, but it borders on tears and she bottles it up as she has learned to do so well in the time they’ve spent working together.

“My shit’s always been about protecting Tommy,” he says, adding, “at least that’s what I tell myself.”

“We never know if we will see the other again,” she says wistfully.

“True story.”

Her heart races. She’s unsure why. “I have feelings for you, John Knox.”

The car enters the Departures ramp.

“Yeah,” he says.

She waits. The car slows toward the curb. “That is all? ‘Yeah’?”

Knox parks. “Yeah.” His smile conceals a deeper message; concern for her? Attraction? Whether he means it as such, that smile floods her with warmth.

Knox says, “Check your phone. Find us the first flight out of the country.”

F
ollow me, please.” The immigration officer is soft and in his mid-forties, probably nearing the end of his career. The uniform stretches tight across his belly. His pant legs bunch at his ankles as he steps out of his booth to block Knox’s exit. The irregular beeping of the magnetometers in the distance is reminiscent of hospital sounds.

All of Knox’s worlds are spinning into one, like water down a drain. And he’s running down with them. His being detained could be the result of his passport being tagged, but he doubts it. More likely it’s the result of face recognition software or vigilant eyes behind one-way glass on the other side of a CCTV camera’s video monitor.

Cause and effect matter to him. He can only hope it’s the passport.

When two more security men arrive to escort him, that hope is dashed. With his guards the product of steroids and workout videos, Knox knows the depth of the trouble he’s in. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Grace, from the back, as she hesitates a fraction of a second before joining a screening line. He wills her to stay out of this.

The walk is longer than he expects. With a guard on either side, he feels like a death-row inmate, a dead man walking. With airports better manned, better guarded than prisons, there’s nowhere to go. The thought of Turkish prison stirs his imagination. He’s not going down without a fight. The only question is when to start it.

The key is knowing at what point to play his card: too early and it may be ignored; too late, and its significance may be missed. He curses himself for allowing Dulwich to move him into the world of spooks. No one ever accused Knox of being subtle, and this is a game of shades, not colors.

He’s treated respectfully. Placed in a chair at a desk alone. The room is undoubtedly locked. Both guards remain on the other side of the door. A ceiling-corner camera stares at him unflinchingly.

The uniformed supervisor who enters five minutes later carries the fatigued eyes of an overworked bureaucrat. His mustache is neatly trimmed above poor teeth. The man’s attention is on the paperwork in front of him. He makes no real effort to connect with Knox.

“Name.”

“John Knox.”

“Nationality?”

“What’s this about?” Knox knows the questions to ask in order to appear Joe Normal.

“Nationality?”

“USA. American.” The redundancy causes the supervisor to issue a look of complaint: he doesn’t want his time wasted. “What have I done? I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“Last country visited?” The man flips through the passport.

“Jordan. Last week. Amman.”

Another disapproving look.

But Knox is not about to act the professional. He won’t be lured into it. “I have a plane to catch!”

The man continues working the passport. Knox doesn’t like that camera staring at him. Passing Mashe’s business card could be construed as an attempted bribe. He has little idea of how Turkish law works. Or doesn’t work. Perhaps he’s supposed to offer money. He should have studied up in all his free time.

“Purpose of your trip? Business or pleasure?”

The man has set the bear trap; he now invites Knox to put his foot inside. If his being detained has to do with the sale of the Harmodius, a lie could entrap him. If, however, this guy is fishing, the claim of business invites more questions, more chances to answer incorrectly. Knox’s position is to lessen the depth of the interest in him.

“It depends if you consider a woman business or pleasure,” Knox replies. He wins a slight twist of the man’s mustache, like a cat flicking its tail against the cold. “There was the business of a lover of hers in Amman, you see. But the pleasure was all mine once we got to Istanbul.” Knox hopes his timing is good. “Victoria Momani, if you need her name. She’s returning by train to Amman. Left this afternoon.”

Detail, especially unsolicited detail, has a way of authenticating a statement. It can’t be forced, can only be used when the opportunity is presented. Knox prides himself on timing, whether in lovemaking or Immigration interrogations.

The man excuses himself and leaves the room. Returns several long minutes later.

This isn’t the guy to approach, Knox decides. He’s made no attempt at eye contact, has offered not the slightest of signals. He’s following up on Knox’s statements, moving information from point A to point B. Stalling, Knox hopes.

Knox checks his watch. “My plane . . .”

“This is an airport,” the man replies. “Plenty of planes.” His teeth look like old patio bricks.

“We stayed at the Alzer Hotel,” Knox says. “Separate rooms in case her lover checked up on her.” He adds, “My room did not get a lot of use.”

The man is clearly titillated. Knox can keep him occupied if need be, but he’s supplying information the man already has. He allows himself the fantasy of wondering whether his detention could possibly be random. Such thoughts are dangerous; they allow him to lower his guard. He warns himself to remain alert. Shades, not colors.

The hand-off comes abruptly. A square-jawed man in a worn brown suit and no tie takes the place of Knox’s interrogator. Musical chairs. This guy could shave every hour and it wouldn’t make any difference. He has the black, infinite stare of a character from a zombie film. He meets eyes with Knox and holds the gaze for a long time.

So this is the guy, and this is the place, and they are both extremely aware of the camera, given that the guy looks over his shoulder, right into it, to make sure it doesn’t escape Knox.

Knox’s vitals shift into overdrive. The man represents two doors. Monty Hall. Maybe, just maybe, the Israelis or Dulwich could get him out of Turkish prison, but it’s a hell of a gamble. Maybe, just maybe, this is the moment that Mashe Okle was referencing when he passed Knox his business card. The Turks have learned to get along with most of their neighbors and the West. The only question for Knox is if he’s reading this man correctly.

The man runs Knox through the same questions. Knox responds with the same content, worded differently so as not to sound rehearsed. There are so many traps laid for him that it feels more like a minefield. Is Dulwich going to show up and extract him? Is he on his own?

The fucking camera doesn’t so much as blink.

The repetition of the questions grows tedious. Knox expertly
extracts the card from his pocket under the pretense of fidgeting. This bastard shows no emotion; he’s the Mount Rushmore of Turkish interrogators. Knox wants one more sign, something to convince him. But it’s not going to happen. This guy is going to run out of questions and leave the room.

Knox slaps his hands down on the table. “I have a plane to catch!” He shifts his eyes to take in his left hand; nothing more than a twitch and impossible for the camera to see, given the angle.

Knox rises from his chair. “You people—”

“Sit down!” The man places his hands atop Knox’s. With his left, he grabs Knox’s wrist. His right hand waits for Knox to move, and covers the card fluidly.

Knox sits back down and apologizes. “I . . . I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I’m . . . I have the plane to catch. I have a ticket, you see? I miss that flight—”

“You will not miss your flight.”

Knox never sees the man pocket the card. He could run the tables in Vegas.

“I have a schedule to keep,” Knox says, pitching his voice to sound disappointed.

“Allow me to conclude some paperwork,” the man says. “Always the paperwork.”

He leaves, replaced by the first man.

Five minutes later, Knox is beginning to worry. Ten minutes in, he’s beginning to sweat. The passing of the card wasn’t enough. Someone is inspecting it. His plane began boarding five minutes ago. Knox has no idea if the card contains anything or not, has no idea how information would be coded on it. Magnetic? Something in the ink? The supposed microdot? How is it he’s allowed his fate to rest in the hands of a man he’s met for all of five minutes?

He’s released unceremoniously. He wants to shout out that he
saved the world the equivalent of cold fusion. Decades of research would have gone up in smoke.

Instead, he’s shown to a door and sent back out, bypassing the security lines. The door clunks shut behind him, and for a moment Knox stands, taking in the sounds of the Istanbul international airport. Indians. Africans. Europeans. The crowd swirls around him.

He phones Dulwich from the concourse. Is not worried about revealing his location. Typical of this op, Dulwich doesn’t answer. Voice mail.

Knox speaks carefully, using no names. “No one will ever see the objet d’art again. We both know that. Once again lost to history. Your client traded it to preserve what he wanted to preserve. That’s his business. But this is our business: there’s the matter of the cash, some of which, I suppose, is going to me and my friend. That leaves a bunch left over. There’s a family of a recently deceased cabbie—first name, Ali—that deserves the rest. You hear me? Do your homework. Every dime. I’m going to follow up on this.”

He ends the call. Steps into the melee, battling his way to beneath a sign indicating his concourse, his sore legs straining to pause. Something tugs at him, urges him to look back at that nondescript door he just passed through, but he won’t give in. Aware of the preponderance of CCTV cameras, he doesn’t have to act like a disgusted man in a hurry to make his gate; he is.

They couldn’t arrange seats next to each other, but maybe someone will move to allow it.

Knowing Grace, she’s already arranged it herself.