The Red Room (8 page)

S
tanding in Sisli Square, Grace can understand why a person would return to this place multiple times. Worn like a cocked cap, morning sunlight the color of candle flame catches the top of the minaret. There are more pigeons than people, more cars than pigeons. The mosque’s three gray-roofed domes rise above the rectangular entrance wall, trees lurching up from within an unseen courtyard. It’s all in the middle of a bustling neighborhood awaking for the day.

She’s arrived early, having sneaked out of the apartment and snagged a cab, leaving Besim to sip his morning tea out front for the sake of anyone watching.

There is an answer here, some reason the man following her has repeatedly visited the square. She watches for it, expects it. Awaits its jumping out at her. This added depth of knowledge is exactly what Dulwich will treasure: not just the fact that she’s being surveilled, but by whom and possibly why.

Dulwich has failed to answer calls she’s made from one of several anonymous pay-as-you-call SIM chips she carries. He had warned her that she and Knox would be on their own. Nonetheless she holds
out hope she’ll hear from him. She has provided him this place and time. She waits, and then spins once, slowly, holding her head scarf in place.

It reminds her of a Parisian avenue but with Turkish spices in the air and overseen by a towering minaret. Sisli was countryside in the late nineteenth century, transformed into a residential neighborhood at the end of the Ottoman Empire in the early years of the Turkish Republic, when French culture was au courant—wide avenues edged with wrought-iron balconies. It was an area of trade, soon taken over by Greek and Balkan immigrants. There isn’t a parking space to be had. The streets and even the newer buildings seem poised to be pushed over by the crush of pedestrians.

On her iPhone, she once again reads the data pertinent to Sisli Square. The man she and Besim identified as watching her the night before, the man from the airport, visited this place four times in three days. His phone’s GPS data reveals that he’s been in Istanbul but six days. Other than a discount hotel across town, this is the only place he has frequented.

Why? Beauty alone cannot account for it. Given that each visit was between four and five o’clock, it’s possible he performed afternoon prayers at this mosque, but it’s unlikely given the absence of any other repeated visit in the city. Grace decides to return at that hour if possible.

Her phone vibrates; the caller is listed as “Hopper 1.” Dulwich. The “hopper” designation assures her that the line is secure; Grace checks around her to ensure the area is as well. That’s when she sees him, sitting on a bench in the shade closer to the mosque, his back to the avenue.

“So?” Dulwich says.

“My apartment is being watched.”

“Then you were careless.”

“The GPS data from this man’s phone reveals a pay-as-you-go SIM chip initiated six days ago,” Grace says.

“You have tracked his phone?”

She thrills at the sound of his voice: shock and awe. “He has since visited this place where I sit four times in the past three days.” Grace waits. “Hello?”

“I’m listening.”

“A policeman, perhaps agent, is most likely to use a pay-as-you-go SIM chip like this. Same way we do. Let us assume, therefore, that this man arrived in-country six days ago. He buys the pay-as-you-go and sets up his phone. From what country he comes, we don’t know. You received my text, yes? This man had access to the airport’s security room. He tagged the mark upon landing. Access to Turkish security. I later identify a similarly dressed man watching the mark’s residence. Could be same agent. He was paired.”

“And is that the same—”

“Unlikely, no. The mobile unit surveilling my apartment was a solo. Who are all these people, sir? It is a crowded field.” Grace takes in her present surroundings of pigeons, pedestrians with white iPhone wires hanging from their ears and a sea of colorful scarves.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Dulwich says. “What you’re seeing is likely protection. The mark is an important man.”

It’s her turn to be unintentionally quiet. Wouldn’t worry? Since when? She collects more data from Dulwich’s body language than the conversation. His posture has tightened with her every revelation.

Grace says, “So why would a man protecting the mark spend extended time on a bench in front of a mosque three out of the six days he has been in-country?”

“He’s religious? Do we care?” Dulwich doesn’t have to try to sound offensive.

Red flag. A rule of the game is to know more about your adversary than he knows about you. “I am not comfortable with such surprises. Such unknowns.”

“You understand the op?”

He’s insulting her. She regrets bringing him in without more information. He doesn’t want to be offered half a meal. She accepts the mistake as a learning moment. It’s all or nothing; he doesn’t appreciate being teased.

“Understood,” she says.

“Well, then . . .” Dulwich stands and puts his phone away, offers his back and is swallowed by the tumult a few seconds later.

W
hat the hell?” Knox sits by himself in a waiting lounge in Queen Alia International Airport. A white wire runs to his left ear; his right remains unplugged so he can overhear the activity in the terminal. He keeps his hand over his mouth to prevent lip reading. He makes the seat look small, like an adult in a preschool parent-teacher conference.

“That would depend,” Dulwich says.

The line is secure. But Knox is in public, so he will dance around specifics.

“If we’d wanted help, we’d have asked for it.”

“Elaborate.”

“I was followed. Lost a step. Right when the guy could have cold-cocked me, he walks. What’s with that?”

Dulwich tells Knox more than he intends with his silence. This is new information; the man was not his.

“We may lose the . . . trophy,” Knox says.

“You had better not.”

“My lady friend is helping with that.”

“Your lady friend and I had a chat earlier.”

“Bully for you. I’m beginning to think we could use a couple boys from the old team.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Because?”

“It’s an in-and-out. Don’t overcomplicate it.”

“You said I’d be lying in bed with my feet up watching pay-per-view. That isn’t happening.”

“So complain to HR.”

“You said you and I wouldn’t have contact—that you don’t exist.”

Dulwich teases him by leaving only silence on the line.

“Friendlies? Is that why he walked?”

“Don’t overcomplicate it,” Dulwich repeats.

“It’s doing that by itself. Six months ago, Obama convinces Netanyahu to apologize to the Turkish prime minister for Israeli commandos killing ten Turkish protesters attempting to cross the Gaza blockade. Relations between Israel and Turkey immediately thaw; embassies are reopened. Now, wouldn’t you know, Rutherford Risk has an op in Turkey—complete with a priceless piece of art being given away for nothing and spooks that appear out of dust storms and then vanish. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.”

“You’re hallucinating. These are small speed bumps. They happen—especially early on. It’ll sort itself out. Don’t go all double-oh-seven on me.”

“If I’m being shadowed by a bunch of spooks, I could use a heads-up.”

“So here’s your heads-up: it’s not a can-do, it’s a must-do. That’s why the paycheck is so big. Ask fewer questions, keep your fists in your pockets, and it’ll sort itself out.”

“He followed me through a sandstorm.”

“I read about that. Sounded nasty.”

“Who does that? Who goes out in a sandstorm?”

“You, apparently.”

“Now you’re just being rude.”

“Yeah, funny how that feels on the receiving end.”

Knox ends the call unceremoniously. His blood pressure lessens. He trusts Sarge with his life, yet he wouldn’t trust him to walk his dog if he had one. Knows he would never be wholly lied to by the man, but isn’t sure he ever gets the truth.

This operation has started poorly. He’d like to blame it all on the sandstorm. Takes it as an omen. Knox thinks of Tommy back in Michigan, and there’s a nagging ache in his chest telling him to abort. He worries he’s working for the department of defense, Rutherford Risk’s biggest client. Dulwich’s emphasis on importance has Knox convinced a government is behind the op.

But there are so many governments, and Rutherford Risk isn’t particular. Government work gets people killed. That’s why it’s contracted out. Knox has wandered off-trail in search of an extravagant paycheck, knowing all along there’s no philanthropy in his line of work. He’s being overpaid for a reason. Five minutes in the room with the mark, Dulwich said. He made it sound so small, but five minutes can be an eternity.

Knox’s flight is called. He has eyes in the back of his head as he boards.

—

E
VERY
STUDENT
of history should start with a school trip to Istanbul, Knox thinks. It’s the Kevin Bacon of history—everything’s connected. Throw a rock; dig a hole and try to miss. Turkey’s significance over three thousand years of Western civilization cannot be overstated. Knox is no academic, but his import business and knowledge of art history have given him a crash course in Western and Eastern civilization, an unintended consequence he appreciates, even cultivates.
Spends far more time in museums now than he did a few years ago. Beds down with books he’d be embarrassed to be caught reading.

The Demirtas neighborhood of the Eminönü district is a tight tangle of short streets that compress in width the closer one gets to the Golden Horn inlet. Smog-stained Roman columns adorn corner buildings adjacent to the remnants of ancient city walls, all of it surrounded by tasteless two-story apartment buildings that make Knox think of the highway views driving by Detroit. Istanbul has been conquered and occupied by the Crusaders, Ottoman sultans, Romans and the original founders, the Greeks. Built on seven hills, the Golden Horn and the Sea of Marmara, it was made into a fortress of palaces, golden domes, parks and towers. It has been sacked, nearly emptied of its population and rebuilt numerous times. In the middle of the seventeenth century, it was the largest city on earth.

It is currently the home to every ethnicity, culture, religion and sect, a kaleidoscope of the human species. Every scent. Every color of glass, clothing and skin can be found. Every culinary treat. The city’s Grand Bazaar, an endless warren of booths and shops, is all this diversity boiled down to commercialism. Knox walks the unbearably crowded bazaar first, just to remind himself of where he is and whose company he keeps. Overpowered by sweat, cinnamon, ginger and cardamom, incense, blue jeans and hammered brass lanterns, Knox roams the concourses in a herd of tourists and locals alike, content and comforted by how some things, some places, never change. Squint your eyes, and it could be 200
B
.
C
.

He keeps the Tigers cap pulled low as he settles himself onto a stone step across town. Doesn’t want his height and physique drawing undue attention. He wears his important belongings on his person, thanks to the Scottevest. Needs a stop at a department store for a change of clothing.

He continues his surveillance of the Yurtiçi Kargo storefront. Satisfied he’s spotting nothing out of the ordinary at the shipping center, but wary nonetheless, he crosses the street, lengthening his strides to reduce his height. He was with Victoria Momani when she called FedEx and requested an alternate delivery. He trusts that between the hand-off to Turkish authorities by the Jordanians—if such a hand-off ever took place, which is unlikely given the reluctant, sluggish nature of overly possessive international security divisions—any live monitoring of the bust’s movements is unlikely. More credible is that its air bill destination might have been shared or be under surveillance. He can’t imagine Victoria’s redirect to this branch office being picked up on. Bureaucracy has its blessings.

Inside, he presents false ID in the name of one of three covers he carries, John Chambers. The delivery is efficient, no tell apparent from the woman behind the counter. The bulk and weight of the crate creates problems, or would for most. Knox carries it like a hatbox in one hand, stunning the woman, who struggled to move it from cart to scale.

An instant later, he’s out in the street, eyes alert for those alert to him. It’s a strange and disconcerting element of this work; he imagines it being akin to the weight of celebrity. Knox is rarely indifferent to his surroundings, is perpetually preoccupied with survival. It’s a condition shared with animals in the wild—fight or flight, the underlying awareness that every moment is kill or be killed. Some will claim they can feel it, that they possess a prescience that can alert them to surveillance. Knox is not so lucky; he needs some sign. And although he has trained his senses well beyond those of the “average man,” spotting group surveillance continues to elude him. His only hope is to identify one of many and expand from there.

This is the task he puts himself to as he climbs into a taxi. His eyes roam, searching for faces he saw during his curbside vigil. He makes comments about how beautiful the city is to satisfy his driver’s curiosity. Knox makes an excuse of forgetting something, directing the driver to circle a block to return to the pickup—an attempt to spot mobile surveillance. Feigns discovery of the missing item on his person and redirects the cab once again. It’s a familiar routine, but far from comfortable. He’s crawling out of his skin within minutes.

He checks into the Alzer Hotel as himself. Is a returning guest and, as such, is treated like royalty. He declines an upgrade in order to remain on the first floor, one above street level. He looks down on the hotel’s café seating, has a view across an open plaza and a mosque beyond. Its spires and walls suggest an exotic fortress, a world secreted from prying eyes like his. Such treasures await the unsuspecting visitor on nearly every corner: a Roman bath, a Greek column and a mosque.

He keeps the Obama bust in its crate in the bottom of the armoire, displacing a pair of courtesy terry-cloth slippers and a shoeshine kit. Thinks back to Dulwich’s description of the op and wonders if things will settle down now.

They need no introduction when he makes the call, as the caller ID on her end has identified him as Hopper 7.

“We need to get together and go over the books,” she says. Her use of their cover, Grace as his bookkeeper, tells him she’s speaking somewhere she doesn’t believe is secure. He finds it easy to slip into his role.

“Indeed. Work up a budget for me, please, with an eye toward the improving climate.”

“My pleasure.”

There’s something about the way she says it that takes his mind off the job at hand. “Why don’t you pick the location, as I’ve just arrived?”

“I am somewhat . . . preoccupied,” she says, choosing the word carefully, “with other clients. I could fit you in around drinks.”

She’s suggesting she’s being watched or followed. Knox mulls this over, compares it to his own situation in Amman. He should have pushed Sarge for more details about his “chat” with Grace; sometimes his wisecracking banter is a detriment, though he’s loath to admit it.

“Name it.”

She picks a Starbucks near the Firuz Aga Mosque in the old city. Knox knows the adjoining park well: its handcarts selling fresh melon and bananas, the vegetation an unexpected mix of tropical and temperate. The choice of Starbucks disappoints him but is so in character he should have thought of it first. The time is set for three-thirty.

He gets a shower and a much needed nap. Buys two sets of clothes, head-to-toe, and puts them into the hotel express wash. Where once there was adrenaline and urgency, there is routine, a condition he cautions himself against.

—

G
RACE
’
S
FACE
REMAINS
PASSIVE
, but her eyes light up at his entrance. They kiss cheeks and he sits across a small table from her. Before anyone else has a chance to enter the coffee shop, she reviews her arrival to the airport and the tail she collected, speaking quietly and fast.

“If I had to guess, I’d say Dulwich is a lying sack of shit,” Knox says.

Grace bites back a smile, chastising him with her expressive eyes,
and opens her laptop to actual spreadsheets of Knox’s import business. They sit closer and she traces lines on the screen with a blue fingernail.

“You do not think this,” she says.

“No. I think he’s into something big—we’re into something big—that has political ramifications, and is likely another attempt to improve something that will never be fixed. He knows I’m a sucker for lost causes. He uses that. And even knowing that, I fall into it, so it’s on me.”

“This common interest in Mashe Melemet is shared by others,” she says.

“Who?”

“The mother is Melemet. Hospital records,” Grace says. “Oldest son, Mashe. Younger son, Akram. The spying is on Mashe.”

“You’ve had company,” he says.

She nods.

“Me, too. You ID them?”

She shakes her head.

“Me, neither.” He never stops checking out the other occupants. Has them memorized by face and clothing. “So tell me about him—the brother.”

“He is quite well off. Income is paid through Iran’s Ministry of Industry and Mines.” Grace answers before he asks. “Regulation of industry, including mining. Promotion of export of mining products, including engineering and technology.”

“A cover for military research?”

“Possibly, though his investments suggest an academic. Sciences. Pharmas. Aviation. Space exploration. He could indeed be a researcher. And get this: all listings are on the NASDAQ and the NYSE.”

He smirks.

“I thought you would like that.”

“So, a scientific academic in Iran,” Knox says, leaving it in the air between them.

“He liquidated investments ahead of your previous sales to Akram.”

“He’s my collector.”

“Indeed.”

“And Brian Primer wants us both in a room with him for five minutes, but he swears it’s not a hit.”

He sees surprise.

“What?” he asks.

“The request is from David,
neh
, not Mr. Primer?”

Ever the realist,
Knox thinks.

“My immediate role is to ensure the meet between you and Mashe.”

“You do that how?”

Her eyes say,
please
. Her voice says, “You like things clean.”

“Cleaner than this. We don’t know who we’re working for. We don’t know who we’re working against.”

“I . . . in the airport. It’s government, or someone who can buy his way into the Turkish equivalent of your TSA.”

“Well, that certainly clarifies things.”

“Have you made the call?” she asks.

“Tomorrow. I don’t want to appear overeager.”

“You are flirting. No wonder Mr. Dulwich selected you for this job.”

He almost finds it in himself to smile at her.

Checking her watch, she says, “Would you help me with something?”

“Shopping for a new watch, I hope.” She wears a Michael Kors
aviator, platinum ringed, hinge-snap clasp. Its masculinity has no place on her delicate wrist.