The Red Room (16 page)

W
rists crossed and held low in front, protecting the sternum. Chin averted to the side, in case his opponent’s head snaps forward, a rare but painful unintended consequence. A quick step to his left like a defensive tackle in a stunt. Knox plants the block perfectly, lifting the small but sturdy man fully off his feet and laying him back onto the street. His head hits concrete with an audible thud.

Knox drops his right knee into the man’s crotch. There’s no mistaking the parts caught between his patella and the asphalt. A good percentage of his two hundred and twenty-seven pounds are balanced on that knee.

It’s not the wallet that interests him—leatherbound fiction. Nor the 9mm handgun in a belt holster, which Knox removes, ejecting the magazine with one hand and skidding the weapon deeply under a truck that has stopped to allow the pedestrians to cross. The flurry of car horns doesn’t bother him; in truth, his focus is so intense, he barely hears anything but the blood whining in his ears.

It’s the man’s phone he wants, his data. Ones and zeros that connect this man to another, and he to she, and she to it. It’s the “it” he
wants. Needs. The “it” may put this all into perspective, something Dulwich is clearly loath to do. If the data suggest Iranians, so be it. But if Israelis or another faction, it moves the five minutes with Mashe Okle/Nawriz Melemet into far more dangerous territory—the arenas of international politics and national security, a zone in which friends and allies are no more than conveniences. Though he doesn’t want to, Knox must consider the possibility that Dulwich and/or Primer have entered into this op naively, that he and Grace are now in too far to abort but may have been set up, intentionally or not, as scapegoats.

The inside zippered pocket. Knox has the phone practically before the man’s facial skin stops dancing from the contact with the pavement. He’s off him and moving. Elapsed time, seven seconds. Knox continues in the direction, away from Grace, alert for others like this one, who now lies unconscious in a thinning intersection.

He passes a yogurt shop, a jeans store, a window with more discount electronics than anything in Times Square. Crosses at the next intersection, reducing his height by bending his knees and taking longer strides. Same old tricks. Same old circus.

As he nears the far curb, the taxi jerks to a stop. Knox rounds the vehicle and climbs into the back, throwing his arm around her without saying a word. It’s Dulwich driving the cab.

Grace clings to Knox like a child.

W
ho is this?” Victoria Momani comes out of the chair at the small desk in Knox’s hotel room. Her eyes narrow; her shoulders square, lifting her chest and reminding Knox of a tropical bird announcing its claim on territory.

“My accountant,” he answers as if on cue. “She’s been through hell. Give us a minute, a long one.”

Clearly, Victoria considers her options. She and Grace meet eyes, and Victoria nods, more to Grace than to Knox. “I am downstairs.” She collects her purse and cell phone, taking her time. Finally, she leaves.

“You make things so complicated,” Grace says weakly as Knox leads her by the arm into the bathroom and starts the shower, supporting her all the while.

“Sometimes, they make themselves,” Knox says. He unbuttons her shirt and helps her out of it. Unbuttons her pants and unzips them.

“That’s enough, John.” She forces a grin. Her eyes are sad and tired and he thinks he could kiss her. “Thank you,” she says.

“It’s not as if—”

“I need no reminder.”

Knox has seen her naked. Another time. Another op. Little remains about these two that would surprise the other. It’s as unique a relationship with a woman as Knox has ever had; platonic, yet deeply intimate.

“Call me,” he says.

She nods and again he wants to kiss her, to express how pleased he is to have her back.

The shower runs for twenty minutes. Finally, Knox taps on the bathroom door; when there’s no answer, he opens it to find the room a thick cloud of steam. Grace is sitting in a tight ball, arms around her shins in the corner of the shower, the water beating down on her. He opens the shower, takes her hand and leads her from the stall. Wraps her in a towel, the steam swirling magically around her, crosses it in front of her and hugs her. She hesitates, then accepts the embrace, locking her tiny hands around his strong forearms and holding to him, her grip painfully tight.

“It was nothing,” she says finally. The water is still running, the steam enveloping them. “I do not know why I should feel like this.”

Knox closes the embrace, their bodies pressed together, his front to her back. She sags her head against his biceps, her wet hair soaking through to his skin. He feels himself growing aroused and releases her out of embarrassment. He shuts off the water and slips past her. She reaches out for him, her fingers catching his shoulder. He pauses. It’s her way of thanking him.

—

G
RACE
EMERGES
in one of Knox’s long-sleeved T-shirts and a pair of his boxer shorts rolled at the waist. Her black hair is neatly combed.
The room is small. He’s in the desk chair. She tucks her legs beneath her and lies back against the headboard in a riot of pillows.

“What the hell?”

She so rarely curses, Knox has to look over to make sure it’s her.

“You tell me.”

“They knew that I’d called the university and breached their firewalls. They tried to sound like Eastern Europeans speaking English, did a decent job of it, but they swore in Persian.”

“Makes sense. The safe house is Iranian. Phone numbers from the cell I recovered in the street? All Iranian country code.”

“You made contact with David.” She can fill in the blanks; he appreciates this about her.

Knox doesn’t have the heart to punish her for drilling so deeply into Nawriz Melemet, to inform her that Dulwich’s star pupil has gone too far for once. She’s in as fragile a state as he’s seen her.

“He’s being a bigger bastard than usual,” he says, “but played good backup to your rescue; I’ll give him that. Honestly, I think this one is getting the better of him. He doesn’t seem like himself.” He could easily mention Dulwich’s discontent with her efforts; he has teed up his own ball. Elects otherwise.

“All they got from me was that I am your accountant. That I was hired to conduct a background check. Had my escape failed . . . We would be facing a more difficult situation.” Her eyes wander to the door, and he knows what she’s thinking.

“Her name’s Victoria Momani. I used her as a cutout in the shipment of the Harmodius. She . . . It didn’t work out exactly as I planned. She shows up here wanting a cut. Has me in a bind. She’s involved herself—not the way you think; there’s none of that—in a way that I can’t undo. We can’t have her compromising the deal. So, for now she squats. You know the expression?”

She nods.

“Basically, we’re stuck with her.”

“The client may want her killed.”

“Which makes it all the more tricky. That’s not going to happen.”

“What is Mr. Dulwich’s opinion?”

Knox says nothing.

“You withheld this information?”

“Need to know,” Knox says, mocking Dulwich.

Grace shakes her head, mulling it over. “This is a mistake.”

“You’ll stay here with me,” he says. “I’ll put her in another room.”

“She is in this room? With you?”

“She won’t let me out of her sight. Doesn’t trust me.”

“I cannot return to my apartment, but I do not need to stay here, John.”

“You do, and you will. I have the Harmodius in a second room down the hall. I need to move it. If she finds out where . . . She’d as soon steal it as take a cut.” He considers his options. “It can’t be here. At some point, my room will be searched. I’ll think of something.”

“I have inconvenienced you.”

“You have.” He wins a faint smile from her. But she looks scared. “It’ll be over soon.”

“No worries,” she says.

It’s an expression he uses with her; her using it on him gestures to a larger conversation. He tries to find an appropriate retort, but he’s at a loss.

“You are a good man, John Knox.”

“Don’t let that get around.”

She closes her eyes, looking as if she will sleep.

—

K
NOWING
V
ICTORIA
’
S
greed to be the most immediate threat, Knox pays a bellman to move the crated Harmodius to the bell
stand storage. A priceless relic, or a hell of a good copy, now sits in an intermittently locked closet on the lobby level, along with the roll-aboards of guests waiting for rooms to open up.

The conversation with Victoria takes place outside on the sidewalk terrace beneath a string of colorful lights surrounded by dancing bugs. It’s a cosmopolitan crowd drinking exotic martinis. The women are beautiful, the men competitive, the cigar smoke annoying. Victoria holds her own, her posture erect, her lips moist, her eyes alluringly tired. Made peevish by Grace’s intrusion, she taps out a distress code on the sweating cocktail glass with her index finger.

“If you are making lies, you will regret it,” she says.

“That’s not happening. She is necessary to the deal. Akram may have been compromised.”

“I would know this.”

“May be working for the ministry, setting a trap for businessmen such as myself. My partner excels at following money trails. She will ensure the financing is legitimate. I will not walk into a sale where the cash has been supplied by police or the ministry.”

“The cash comes from Mashe. Possibly small consortium of men like Mashe—art lovers not willing to let piece like this escape. It is not entrapment.”

“And for all I know, you’re part of the ruse. Convenient that you showed up here just before the sale, isn’t it?” Knox enjoys twisting the story back on her, watching her squirm as she sees her actions from another point of view. They both know it’s not true, but he pushes her back on her heels, right where he needs her.

“I swear!”

“And so would any woman sent into a sting operation to convince the middleman the deal is safe. You don’t think I know the price I’ll pay if caught? You don’t think every move I make is
motivated by the consequences of failure? You are a variable I hadn’t planned for, and I plan for everything.”

“Do you threaten me?”

“I caution you: the consequences are not mine to bear alone. My reach is longer than you may think. No jail, no morgue will prevent this from coming back on you. You betray me, and neither prayer nor pistol will protect you.”

He’s gotten through. Victoria’s eyes alight with fear, the blue and red bulbs above her head setting off a kaleidoscope of concern. She uses the gin and tonic to busy herself.

Knox thinks his dark rum and tonic has never tasted quite so perfect. He appreciates meeting a challenge head-on, facing a powerful threat. His life with Tommy can’t supply this. He feels on edge, one foot on either side of a self-imposed line.

He would welcome being free of chess sets and tribal reproductions in exchange for gray-market Kandinskys and Bernards. The commissions on such sales would fast-track Tommy’s safety net and grant Knox an independence he hasn’t felt in five years. He cautions himself to not allow his hunger to get ahead of thoughtful precaution.

“She did not look well,” Victoria says from an intended position of authority.

“She’s not. And if I find out you had anything to do with it, you’ll think she looked good.” It’s the booze speaking, but the thing is, he likes it. This is a John Knox he enjoys playing, is comfortable playing. Alcohol could be his downfall.

Victoria tries to contain her surprise.

“You are extorting me,” he says. “Don’t think I don’t know it. For all your beauty and charm, I’m reminded that poisonous snakes are often the most alluring.”

“You think my bite so venomous?”

For two nights, this woman has slept beside him in the same bed. They have lived like a married couple, sharing a bathroom. He has fantasized about her bite. It has been one of the oddest forty-eight hours Knox has spent with any woman, especially one as beguiling as Victoria. Also like an old married couple, they have not touched, have not shared so much as a glimpse of nudity.

But now there is an offer on the table.

Knox brushes it away along with the corpses of brown bugs that have orbited the hot bulbs for the last time. They silently float to the sidewalk, snowflakes of wasted lives.

He takes her in her new room, starting by pinning her to the wall, her long legs wrapped around him and hooked at the ankles. They laugh as he fights to tear loose her thong and it stretches to an absurd size. It’s around her knees as he drops his jeans and together they direct him to the treasure. Then her eyes roll back and she says something in a language he can’t translate but understands. When her eyes come back to him, they say,
You’re kidding me,
and a smile seen only on women creeps across her lips. She laughs, groans and coughs, and drops her hand to join in her deliverance. It’s frantic and awkward, hard core and hard driving. Her eyes are open again and far away.

Knox feeds off that, thrills to it, loves the feel of her bottom in his hands and the spasms of muscles flexing and rippling as she exhales in a rush and shiver that connects to him and sends him over the top. He turns her and lowers her to the bed, her insides contracting and sparking, her throat cries guttural, her chin thrown back.

Later, she is leaning against him, and he against the headboard, both of them half undressed, her underwear now around a single ankle. They are dozing, not saying much. Occasionally she giggles and then holds his arms tightly around her.

He doesn’t tell her that it rarely feels like this. Doesn’t share that it’s hard to share. There’s usually some reserve held in the tank for
the sake of self-preservation and self-respect. But she demanded all of him and she got it and he can’t say that there are no more tricks or secrets held back within him.

He wants to say that it happens so rarely he can count the times on one hand. That it has as much, if not more, to do with the mystery about her, the situation they are in, the hold she has over him, as it does the intangibles of physical perfection and connection. To her credit, she doesn’t press for another throw. Perhaps she’s as surprised as he. How incredible if that were the case, if a man and woman could not only scale and reach their own peaks, but summit the same mountain.

Also to her credit, she hasn’t spoken. They are basking in an afterglow so intense that a single word would spoil it.

Another thirty minutes. He kisses her on the top of her head, and leaves her slumbering but not quite completely out, on the pillow. Pulls up his jeans, covers her and moves toward the door.

As the latch is about to click shut, he hears a faint “thank you.” In English.

—

T
HE
CALL
from Akram comes as Knox is walking down the hall back to his room and Grace. He checks the time. Jesus.

“Yeah?” Knox says, answering.

“Where Itfaiye Caddesi crosses the aqueduct. How long?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Fifteen.” The call ends.

It takes Knox five minutes. A single streetlamp pours yellow light onto brown stones sixteen hundred years old, piled sixty feet high in double-stacked arches. The bottom arch leads through to a tree-lined pedestrian way.

The Turks are not superstitious or afraid of the dark, but Muslims
are devout and wary of displeasing Allah. New Yorkers, certainly a man from Detroit, would think twice about loitering along the aqueduct’s nearly thousand meters of randomly darkened arches at this time of night. The Itfaiye intersection, while busy with street vendors by day, lacks the lighted and noisy cafés and bars that abound near its Atatürk Boulevard crossing. Itfaiye Caddesi looks more like a pedestrian tunnel. Knox peers inside cautiously. The aqueduct is ten meters wide at its base. He sees no one.

While he appreciates the activity, even in the midst of it Knox can’t stop his mind from grinding. He’s not an analyst but an operative. He’s here because he was a truck driver in another life and he saved Sarge’s life. He’s been put in a position of doubting everyone and everything. His only touchstone is Grace, and she’s been through a psychological wringer from which it’s not easy to immediately recover. The setting feels like the Berlin Wall in a Cold War film; he’s a spy who doesn’t know which side he’s on. He took precautions to make sure he wasn’t followed from the hotel, but his efforts feel in vain as he itches under the invasive sense that he’s being watched. His skin crawls. He’s sweating despite the cool night air. He convinces himself he can smell the Bosphorus—a muddy, turgid tang swirling up in faint gusts along the aqueduct’s ancient route.