The Red Room (4 page)

A
rriving at Atatürk International, Istanbul’s primary airport, Grace is both tired and hungry. She doesn’t want to do the math to determine how tired, but doesn’t require calculations to know how hungry. She has an hour and seven minutes before Mashe Okle, traveling as Mashe Melemet, is scheduled to land. She sits down with a salad at Greenfields, carrying a soy mocha from Starbucks. She calls her driver, tells him to wait. Kills forty-five minutes eating slowly while catching up on iPhone e-mails.

Grace does not do well with free time. Her brain gets ahead of itself and starts tripping over discarded thoughts like a lost hiker stumbling over fallen limbs in the forest. Even at a meal, as tired as she is, she can’t help herself.

She embedded code in the Emirates Airline’s server to alert her to any outside IP addresses searching the manifest for flight numbers 975 and 123. She built a trap to catch others like herself as a security measure, something Emirates should have done in the first place. Having received no such alerts, she has every reason to believe she’s alone in having identified the Melemet alias and flight schedule. But her mind won’t let it be.

Ten minutes.

Immigration desks are the fly strips of terrorism pest control. Face recognition software has improved exponentially in the past five years, to the point at which X-ray imaging in an airport’s full-body scanner can utilize an individual’s skull features to overcome attempts at disguise like glasses and wigs. If the man Grace is set to follow has tripped a list in Tehran or the UAE or is identified passing through Immigration here in Turkey, airport security will follow him. Turkish agents might arrest him. Where does that leave Dulwich’s plan? Why weren’t contingencies made?

A Knox rule she’s absorbed: you can’t win the game if you don’t know all the players.

Dulwich has either been told Okle is not in the international database of persons of interest, or Dulwich’s mystery client is none other than the Turkish government or one of its agencies—meaning the man can enter the country without being stopped. Atatürk Airport offers Grace an opportunity to identify such players if they exist. She notices a series of mirrored windows angled down toward the busy concourse from the mezzanine level. Despite her fatigue, she smiles at the advantage she has just discovered.

She assumes Dulwich will follow Okle once he’s out of the terminal, but it’s nothing but an educated guess. She begins plotting.

An agent or investigator wanting to follow Okle/Melemet out of the terminal would be far wiser to do so from a chair in a security office than with boots on the floor. Every square inch of the airport is monitored. Once the mark reaches Immigration Control and leaves, through a succession of cameras one would be able to follow him to a taxi, bus, passenger vehicle, rental or parked car.

One agent in the security room, another in a car parked somewhere along the airport exit route. The mark has no way of identifying his surveillance team.

But she does.

She’s filled with a sudden burst of energy, defying her fatigue. Her mathematical mind is well suited to strategic planning; she’s capable of linear thinking, of laying down stepping-stones on the fly, rarely having to backtrack and correct a step.

Abandoning the salad, she pulls her roll-aboard into the concourse and rides an escalator to the mezzanine and its pair of higher-end restaurants, administration offices and the secured entrance leading into the mirrored window area. She phones her car service, is patched through and informs the dispatcher she will be at the curb in twenty minutes—ten for the plane to land; ten, or more, for Okle to get through Customs and Immigration.

She kneels by a trash can and makes a point of unzipping her bag and rearranging some clothing. She needs the cover.

In the process, she places her iPhone slightly behind the trash can, lens pointing out, difficult if not impossible to see. The beauty of the device is that it allows still or video photography to be shot without having to unlock the phone. Its contents are Cloud-based; if the phone is confiscated, she will be able to access those via another identical phone in a matter of hours. Apple sells well in both Dubai and Istanbul. For now, it’s recording live video. She repacks, zips up the bag and leaves, returning to the concourse via the escalator.

Six minutes.

She repositions herself with a view of International Arrivals. A crowd of weary drivers and enthusiastic relatives has formed on her side of a restraining tape, a gauntlet past which she can’t see. Despite the heels, she’s forced to a stretch as she tries to balance against a spinning rack of tourist pamphlets. As arrivals reach the open end of the roped-off gauntlet, people rush to meet them, further obscuring her view.

She overhears a woman ask an arriving passenger in English the flight’s origin. Delhi.

One minute.

The crowd ebbs and flows, sorting itself out. There’s a lull. She has a chance to secure a place at the tape, but decides against it. Mashe Okle must not see her; she is supporting Knox and may meet the man face-to-face. Her interest is less in Okle than in who’s watching him. That, along with his entourage, if any.

She’s also monitoring the elevators and escalators for people like her—those who keep their distance and yet imply an interest in new arrivals.

She sends Dulwich a secure text:

mark on point

He made it clear she won’t hear from him over the course of the op, but that only serves to excite her: he’s trusting her, solo. Until she and Knox confab, she’s independent.

He expects her to fail at following Okle single-handed. Told her she can pick him up again at the hospital. But she has other ideas.

Dulwich’s penchant for secretiveness has a chilling effect on Grace. His methods, his need-to-know exclusivity, protects the chain of knowledge, secures the intelligence. Her first field op for Dulwich, in Shanghai, she felt expendable. Recently, she’s been led to believe she’s not simply secure with her outsource work for Rutherford Risk, but is a highly valued asset/provider. Brian Primer has invested in her cyber intelligence training. He must see big things ahead for her.

Knox knows Dulwich better than she, rarely believes everything Dulwich tells him. She often finds herself defending Dulwich only
to wonder why later. She blames her ingrained sense of loyalty to her employer, her Chinese-ness, an inescapable connection to her heritage that she often wears like an albatross.

Time is suddenly impossible to measure. The minute hand of her watch won’t advance. It isn’t the adrenaline-induced special effect of time slowing, a phenomenon that can be mesmerizing and addicting. Instead it’s her anticipation and expectation, which feed her impatience. She wants the curtain to rise.

As so often happens in surveillance, when the logjam finally breaks with the arrival of Mashe past security and into the terminal, Grace finds herself in a perfect storm. She counts two other men traveling with him, possibly bodyguards; they aren’t making it obvious, but they aren’t hiding, either. They follow a step behind, emotionless and alert.

She sees a Middle Eastern male, wearing blue jeans and a leather jacket, walking down the moving escalator. The rubber rail guides his hand, his eyes on the arriving passengers. It’s his practiced scan of his surroundings that cues her: in a second or two he’s taken in the surroundings, including egress. He’s spotted a uniformed airport security team with a K9, as well as an undercover woman that Grace had missed.

He’s wearing iPhone earbuds, the undercover equivalent of the flesh-colored curly “pigtails” bodyguards wear emerging from their shirt collars. His lips move. Could be a phone call, but Grace knows better—he’s with a team. Private security? Police? Domestic intelligence? Foreign? Friendlies?

She calls Dulwich to pass along the intel of the extra set of eyes. He doesn’t answer the call, pissing her off. She assumes he must be nearby. Providing information like this should help solidify her stature as an effective field operative. There are a limited number of such opportunities on any op. The cream rises to the top because it
separates; she must separate herself from the nose-to-the-ground types who can’t think for themselves.

For now, she sends Dulwich a text, “company,” and leaves it at that. She avoids the man from the escalator. She’ll determine his role later. As he reaches the bottom floor, she locates and rides an elevator up one flight. She retrieves her phone, grateful it’s still there, and enters two passwords in order to unlock it and view the video. Back on the lower concourse, she replays the video a total of three times: she watches a man emerge from the secure area of the mirrored windows. He comes straight for the camera. Videoed from floor level, the perspective lends drama to his approach. When he’s three meters away, she pauses on a clean image of his face. It’s the same Middle Eastern man—the agent, the cop—who came down the escalator. A man who has been monitoring Melemet from inside airport security. Such access suggests Turkish law enforcement or an agent.

Like her, this man—
and his team?
she wonders—are surveilling Melemet.

Dulwich is going to love her.

She calls her driver for a second time.

“I’m coming out now,” she says. “Please be ready.”

K
nox wears a damp strip of torn hotel towel over his nose and mouth, sunglasses, the spaces against his face stuffed with wet toilet paper. The dishwasher introduces himself as Shamir. He wears a sweat-stained kerchief around his neck. The sidewalks are cleared of all but the stupidest, a category into which Knox puts himself, given the conditions. He now knows what a pork cutlet or tilapia filet feels like when it’s dredged through a bag of cornmeal.

Knox is sandblasted from all sides. Cars choke and die, windshield wipers swat at the dust like horsetails, car horns honk at double-parked vehicles blocking traffic. The leaves of the roadside plane trees rattle like the inside of a rainstick. Knox coughs. Shamir spits as he attempts in vain to screen his eyes.

Hunched forward, they stumble up the sidewalk, battling a directionless wind, caught in vortexes that suck all the oxygen out of the air. Knox chops at a wall of swirling sand, hoping to part the curtain.

Instead, it envelops him in an airless cocoon with a dust so fine it seeps through even the wet fabric to be ground between his teeth.
It tickles his nostrils; stains his taste buds with a foul mixture of street grime, desert sand and the dung heap of humanity crushed into a fine powder and snorted. He tastes tobacco, rubber and motor oil, all behind a tinge of latex he doesn’t want to think about.

Shamir points across the street. They cut through a line of motionless traffic. Nothing is moving but the air and the street signs, many of which are losing their coats of paint as if in slow-motion animation.

They take shelter against a wall. The wind quiets. Coils of sand swirl at their feet. Plant life clings to crevices, whistling as if crying to hold on.

The sudden peace is shocking. He and Shamir hesitate before charging back into the stinging roar. Knox clears his sunglasses, pockets of trapped sand cascading down his cheeks.

“Not good,” Shamir says.

Knox understands him perfectly.

“Bad,” Knox says.

By now Knox is wondering about his choice. He might have fought harder to hold his ground at the hotel. The truth is: he loves this shit. The more difficult an op, the more he has to celebrate. But he worries he’s come off as soft to Shamir, that the man will report back to Akram how easily Knox was convinced to battle the elements for a meeting or a phone call. Due to the language barrier, Knox is still not convinced which it is to be.

It isn’t weather for standing around, and the man’s movement catches Knox’s eyes. He’s off to Knox’s right somewhere, sometimes visible, sometimes not. Knox’s first glimpse of him was from across the street as he and Shamir left the hotel. At the time, he stood out as an anomaly. Who hangs around outside in such conditions? Survival dictates taking shelter.

Initially, Knox assumed the man was awaiting a ride. But now,
the same man is huddled against the sting of the sand, facing away from Knox and into the skin-shredding torrent. But Knox feels the eyes in the back of the man’s head. He considers the value of the Harmodius. Is there a group of art thieves after the treasure, too?

Knox signals Shamir back into the sandblaster. They push ahead for a block, Knox not looking back.

As they round a corner, Shamir again extends a finger, this time pointing to a swinging shingle sign at the bottom of which, below the Arabic, says in English:
INTERNET
!
WI
-
FI
!

Knox waves the man on ahead. Shamir hesitates, encouraging Knox forward. Knox speaks some of the few Arabic words he can command: “Go! Wait.”

Shamir doesn’t like it, but he trudges ahead anyway, entering the café.

The man following Knox is made careless by the storm. He’s blind, head down and craned forward in a determined stride. A thick wave of airborne grit envelops the street. The man is a step off his game. Knox hits him from behind. He’s good: he manages to drag Knox down with him. It isn’t instinct. It’s training that allows a move like that. It’s like trying to fight on ice. Knox fails to land an effective blow; he is slow to dodge a fist that catches his shoulder. They wrestle and roll. Knox’s glasses are dislodged; he can’t see a thing. Feels like he took a spoonful of salt in both eyes.

He wipes the grit from his eyes while clenching a fist. Deflects a blow and lands a sharp jab to his opponent’s kidney, buckling him. The guy lands an elbow to Knox’s head; damn near dislocates Knox’s jaw.

Knox’s spine is a Twizzler. The whining of the wind covers his howl as numbness fills his fingers and toes; he can’t feel anything past his elbows and knees. Tries to block the next blow, but can’t lift his arms. Deadweight.

He goes over backward, opening himself to a world of hurt. Prepares himself abstractly for a boot toe to the temple. Thinks of Tommy. Feels the fool.

Nothing happens.

Squinting, he rolls over painfully.

Nothing but the smoky, coarse air—sand and dust traveling horizontally at thirty miles per hour. Ancient rock walls surround him. His world is gray and hard. Pain arrives to his limbs like venom.

The man appears as a specter, fleeing from him, quickly absorbed by the sandstorm.

Running away.

But why?

—

T
HE
CAFÉ
, crowded with refugees from the storm, has the feel of a downtown Detroit bar during a power outage. The air might be cleaner outside, given the interior gray haze of tobacco smoke. Knox finds the bittersweet coffee aroma intoxicating, the loud conversation soothing. It’s a mixture of young and old, women and men, and probably the biggest crowd the café has ever seen.

It’s clearly not what Shamir expected. He prepays for time; they wait uncomfortably for a computer to come available. Shamir buys Knox an espresso.

“Who were these men?” Shamir asks in surprisingly decent English.

“I thought you were going to tell me,” Knox says, trying to play naive. Knox doesn’t have the looks for naive. Shamir isn’t buying it.

Hell, neither is Knox. Why did the man retreat when he clearly had the advantage? Who does that? Which of them had he followed: Shamir or Knox? All questions that need answering.

“You were followed,” Knox says, trying to put this at Shamir’s feet and keep suspicion off himself. “From the restaurant? Why?”

“It was you that is attacked.”

Knox was hoping the man might have missed that part. “Because I’m a Westerner? Robbery?”

“In this storm?” He doesn’t say what they both know: the man was dressed as a Westerner.

Knox takes note of what Shamir chooses not to say. It’s as important as what they do discuss.

They both realize they’re lying to each other and stop talking. Knox finds the café’s atmosphere entertaining; he keeps an eye on the entrance. So far, so good.

When their time comes, Knox is guided to the bar stool by Shamir, who pulls a pair of tangled earbuds from his pocket and plugs them into an older model Mac laptop crudely secured to the wall counter. The name on the Skype account is not Shamir’s, but of a woman named Victoria Momani. Knox wants badly to “slip” and open her contact information, which will come up if he can click on her name. Clearly Akram has no suspicions: he instructed Shamir to set Knox up on this account for the call, assuming Knox to be the import/export businessman Akram knows. Knox feels ugly about his true intentions.

“Mr. John?” Akram’s voice sounds thin through the earbuds. Knox can’t say for sure that it’s Akram he’s speaking with.

“Akram.”

“Shamir tells me you wish to speak to me.”

Knox can hear he’s confused about Knox’s involving Shamir. “The waitress said she knew nothing about how I might reach you. This is time sensitive.”

“Please tell me.”

“I am sorry, my friend. This connection is not so good . . . I
must confirm . . . Let me ask you this, please. In Irbid, you and I once spent a nice hour in the shadow of a mosque as we talked. What is the museum near that mosque?”

There is an outside chance that an agent might be able to answer this, but it would take his team several minutes to collect the information. The timing by the man who says he’s Akram is the tell-all. Knox can’t believe he has to go to this kind of extreme; he wonders what must be running through Akram’s head, given Knox taking this kind of precaution.

“You exaggerate, my friend. The mosque was several blocks south of the museum. It was adjacent to a school.”

Knox collects his thoughts. “Listen carefully, my friend. I have a head for puzzles. A woman who tips the scale—think earth-shaking—restored this man’s arm.”

The line hisses intermittently. “Once again, please.”

Knox begins with having a head for puzzles, and continues to the end.

Another long silence intervenes, broken by Akram’s surprised voice. “This is not possible. Out of your wheelhouse.”

Knox is amused by Akram’s use of current vernacular. He reminds himself that this guy is smarter than he lets on. The piece is indeed well out of anyone’s wheelhouse. It’s so buried in myth as to seem fantastic. Knox has done eight or nine small middleman deals in the past two years. Three have been to Akram. None has been for over two hundred thousand dollars.

“I kind of fell into it.”
Keep it light,
he tells himself.

“A nice hole to fall into, if only it were true. I am afraid you have been conned.”

Akram’s distrust plays into Knox’s hand: Akram can now understand Knox’s use of Shamir and the secretiveness.

The Skype connection sparkles.

“You have a number in mind for this fantasy,” Akram says.

“Mid-sixes, U.S. dollars,” Knox says.

Akram coughs as he laughs. “Perhaps another time would have suited us both better.”

Knox’s heart sinks. He mustn’t beg. “As you wish.”

“You have other clients, I assume.”

“With patience, one can turn water into wine. Not to worry.”

“My problem, you see, Mr. John, is that I am not to return to my beloved Jordan for an undetermined amount of time. An illness in my family.”

“As-salaamu ‘alaykum.”
Knox waits, hoping he hasn’t mispronounced it.
Peace be upon you.

“If you were to have plans to visit Istanbul anytime soon . . .”

“Plans can change,” Knox says.

Shamir turns toward a ruckus in the far corner. Knox quickly opens the contact information for Victoria Momani, copies it. Closes it. Five seconds, tops.

“How shall I contact you?” Knox asks.

“My friend Shamir will take care of it.”

“Very well. Until then.” Knox ends the call. Opens the word processor. Pastes in Victoria Momani’s contact information. Hits Print. Ten seconds.

Shamir is turning back toward him as the print menu still hovers on the screen. Knox loses his balance intentionally, slips off the chair and shoves Shamir aside.

The print menu is off the screen by the time they both recover.

Knox apologizes. Says he has to take a piss. He’ll meet Shamir up front.

Shamir tells him he’s not going anywhere in this weather. Knox pays the man another twenty. “You may be hearing from me again.”

“It is my pleasure.” They are best friends.

On his way to the back, Knox places a coin down surreptitiously on the bar and manages to say, “Paper,” not knowing the word for “print.” He doesn’t wait for change, doesn’t want Shamir seeing this.

Knox snags the sheet from one of two beat-up printers on his way to the washroom. He folds and tucks the sheet into his pocket.

He doesn’t yet see a use for Victoria Momani. But the night is young.