The Red Room Read online

Grace’s descent of the stairs is controlled but hurried. She moves quietly and stays close to the wall; she will not be seen nor heard by someone peering down into the narrow slit separating railings. She moves landing to landing like a wraith. Arrives at the street level and walks out into the cool air.

  A taxi waits, a dark figure looming in the backseat.

  Knox throws open the door. She climbs in. Knox says, “Go!” in Turkish. The cab rolls.

  “Well?” Knox says.

  Grace looks straight ahead as she shakes her head.

  “Nothing?”

  She repeats the gesture.

  “No procedure scheduled?”

  She looks into his gray-green eyes, chameleon eyes, sometimes blue, sometimes nearly brown. Lets him know that she’s as puzzled as he.

  “Then why? Why the package?”

  She has no answer that will satisfy. She can run them in circles, but imagines he’s already there with her, coming back around in an endless loop that will begin to ring like feedback in his ears. No easy explanation. No concise meaning or rationale for a probable agent tracking the movement of a shipment of medical supplies, but too many coincidences to discount.

  Knox is taking them in the direction of his hotel. The cab leaves the busy streets for back alleys. The Chinese know how to keep their cities clean and free of litter. The Turks could learn a thing or two from them, Grace thinks.

  “The package could be something pertaining to an earlier procedure,” she suggests. “The pieces must fit. They are not random.”

  “Sarge knows,” he says accusingly. Emphatically.

  “We are expected to operate blind.”

  “Because he knew we might have questions,” he says. “Questions he doesn’t want to answer. So the real question is: why doesn’t he want to answer them?”

  The cab pulls over. They stand on the sidewalk across from the Alzer Hotel.

  “The client sent the package,” Knox speculates. “There’s a courier in the hospital who’s supposed to get something from the package to Mashe. It can all happen inside the mother’s hospital room—a controlled environment.”

  “Protected by bodyguards,” she said. “They were afraid maybe I was planting a listening device, a camera. Just now. At the hospital.”

  “But if this is about an exchange, then why the Harmodius and my five minutes with Mashe? What’s the point?”

  “Electronics hidden in the sculpture?”

  “No. They’ll X-ray it as part of the authentication. It has to be clean. Even so, what could be gained? Why do they need those five minutes?”

  “I agree. I do not see the purpose of our involvement.”

  “You need to contact Sarge.”

  Her neck makes a pop, she spins her head so quickly.

  “Use Xin to track him. I won’t contact him electronically. I understand how that could compromise us all. But in person? In the right setting? That’s different. If he fires us, he fires us. We need answers.”

  “It is a mistake, John. We need first to know who Mashe is. My trail, the electronic trail, is nonexistent. But the brother . . .”

  “Will never tell me anything,” Knox says. “And to ask . . .”

  “There must be someone who knows this man!”

  In his mind’s eye, Knox sees a woman opening a door for him. Sees her plaintive expression as she realizes she has betrayed him to the Jordanian police.

  “Maybe there is,” he says.

  21

  When Knox picks up the voice mail, he extends the iPhone to arm’s length, studying it as if it’s from another planet. He’s so nonplussed he doesn’t hear the message clearly the first time, only the woman’s voice; he has to start it again. Takes it off speakerphone and puts it to his ear. The SIM chip in the device is the phone number he uses for op contacts. He routinely checks it for text and voice messages.

  He considers himself calm and rational, avoids emotional response and drama as much as possible when on the job. But he knows he can’t keep his heart out of his decisions or his head out of his motives. He doesn’t take kindly to coincidence; he’s programmed toward paranoia when it rears its head.

  Years ago, inside a hotel room in a distant province of China, he complained to his roommate that hotel housekeeping had failed to leave complimentary bottles of filtered water; less than three minutes later, there was a knock, and the water was delivered. Coincidence? Only if the word is spelled “eavesdropping.”

  But how could anyone have eavesdropped on his thoughts? He didn’t actually tell Grace that gallery owner Victoria Momani might be able to shed light on Mashe Okle. Yet it is her voice speaking cryptically from his phone.

  “Orhan’s minis. Before fourteen.”

  She is in Istanbul. His stomach turns.

  This is an in-and-out, a week tops.

  Knox didn’t give her his number, but her phone trapped his original incoming call. This shows him she is facile and a quick study. But what does she want?

  He’s overreacting; he was going to have to contact her anyway; she has done him the favor.

  But he thinks back to the water bottles in the hotel regardless.

  Shit!

  The cryptic message can be taken one of two ways: she doesn’t want others to quickly or easily know the location of their meet; or she wants Knox to take her precautions as an indication that this is between the two of them when she’s actually leading him into a trap. As she’s betrayed him once already, she doesn’t have history on her side.

  Quickly he switches SIM chips, starts walking while searching the midday traffic for an available taxi. He never uses the op SIM chip anywhere near his lodging in case callers intend to trace his location through a GPS fix. He’s up near Vatan Lisesi, a high school well away from the Alzer Hotel, when he dials.

  Grace answers on the second ring.

  He says, “‘Orhan’s minis.’ Mean anything to you?” He only has twenty minutes to make the rendezvous. He’s counting on Grace.

  “Orhan Pamuk,” she says. The name resonates with Knox, but he can’t place it so he stays quiet.

  Knox has it. “The writer.”

  “The Nobel laureate. Correct.” She sounds as if she is barely tolerating him. “Dr. Pamuk has said his novel My Name Is Red was inspired by Islamic miniatures.”

  “Orhan’s minis,” Knox says. “Where do I find them?”

  “Stand by,” she says. He hears her nails spiriting along a plastic keyboard. “Turkish and Islamic Arts Museum. Down by—”

  “The Topkapi.”

  “Terzihane Square, more accurately.”

  “I know the museum.”

  “What do I need to know?” she asks.

  A dozen wisecracks fill his head. He says instead, “Making progress. Might have Xin track this number for the next two hours.”

  “John?”

  “Just as insurance.”

  He ends the call before Grace becomes all motherly.

  —

  ENTERING THE PALACE GROUNDS, Knox proceeds through immaculate landscaping over grouted stone, gets the impression of a cloister or an Oxford garden. With the sounds of the city reduced to a distant hum, he hears a bird sing brightly and marvels at the age of the massive tree that leans in an ungainly fashion against the sign directing him to the museum entrance. A four-foot-tall pottery urn rests against ground cover. The interior courtyard housing the museum has the feel of a monastery. A confluence of architectural devices and methods causes Knox to think Turkish Tudor.

  Once inside, the museum is warm colors, tapestries and dioramas. Dark wood posts support the ceilings. The smell of lanolin is in the air. He passes ancient brass bells, stone sundials and Asian armor.

  “The Turks must have had superior eyesight to do such intricate work,” Knox says, speaking over the shoulder of Victoria Moma
ni. If she’s a spy, she’s not a very good one; she’s more interested in the displays than Knox’s arrival.

  And he answers himself: perhaps a very clever one.

  He has taken his time. He questions if the man with the newspaper tucked under his arm, a man currently studying a tin incense burner, is in fact listening to the recorded guided tour. Has the audio player been replaced with a two-way radio? Maybe Victoria isn’t paying attention to him because the others surrounding him are.

  Having located two security camera bubbles, he keeps a post between himself and one camera while using Victoria to partially block the other.

  “The first writings of magnifying lenses date back to a play by Aristophanes. Four hundred years before Christ,” she says, continuing to study the details of a hanging rug.

  One cool woman, he thinks. It’s as if they’d rehearsed the meeting.

  “On vacation?” he asks. “You should have told me ahead of time.”

  She moves to the next hanging rug, Knox following like an obedient dog. He knows of only one alternative exit, and it’s not close by.

  “I meet you in courtyard, ten minutes. I am not finished with gallery.”

  He suppresses a flash of anger; it’s not easy, given his fatigue. Wants to wring Dulwich’s neck for not being more up-front with him and Grace.

  Outside, he doesn’t know if he has the right courtyard. Finds the building as beautiful as the artifacts it contains. It’s a Muslim Frick on steroids, possibly the most architecturally stunning museum he’s ever been inside.

  He sits outside at a two-person table in the shadow of plane trees. She approaches with a model’s gait, a confident swagger that puts him back on his heels. A yellow head scarf frames her face; her brown cardigan hangs open over a yellow and green floral top, flared white linen pants. She wears the scarf for fashion, not out of religious obligation; many Muslim women are Westernized here. Gold and silver bangles rattle. A beaded metal necklace bounces against her chest.

  Once she reaches him, she hesitates. Knox stands and draws back the chair; she sits. She places a gray leather clutch in her lap. Waits for him to take his seat across from her.

  “I have not seen man move as you did when we last met.”

  “I was a gymnast in college.”

  “Yes?”

  “No,” he says. “I majored in Budweiser.”

  Her condescending expression says: If you are trying for charming, it is not working. She doesn’t speak.

  His eyes reply: When I try for charming, you’ll be the first to know.

  She frowns.

  “I’m tired,” he says, apologizing. “Sleeping with one eye open has that effect on me.”

  “Afraid? You? I think not.”

  “Cautious. I’m not a fan of surprises. Though I make exceptions for a phone call from a beautiful woman.”

  “So quick with flattery,” Victoria Momani says.

  “I’m hoping this is a social call.”

  “After your escape,” she says, “I was detained by authorities.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” He looks around. “And now? Are you working with them?”

  “I was questioned by Ministry of Culture,” she says. Her dark eyes catch the sky and go pewter. She looks alien. “I believed your VAT explanation,” she adds. “Stupid of me. When Ministry of Culture is involved I think to myself, What is Obama hiding? Why would ministry make such involvement?”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I am an art dealer.” Victoria considers him. “You? You are government agent? Working for Mashe? Who else? You are selling to Akram. Yes? This puts him at great risk. All for the older brother. Of this, I have little doubt. Mashe gets whatever he wants. Always. He runs Akram around like his slave. I will take twenty percent of whatever deal you are making, or I report you to Turkish and Jordanian authorities. At very least, they interrupt your sale and detain you. Make business difficult for you.”

  “You think?”

  “Perhaps ministry discover you hide stolen art—I am guessing an antiquity—and they put you in jail for long time. I come out hero. Paid reward.”

  His chest tightens like stepping into bitterly cold air. “Extortion?”

  “It would be mistake to doubt me,” she says.

  “Seven-point-five percent,” Knox says. “Even this will make you rich.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Seven-point-five.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Ten is final,” he says. “And I get everything you know or have ever heard about Mashe Okle.”

  “You are government agent,” Victoria claims.

  “I am not. We’ve done this before, you and I. Make the call. Turn me in. They’ll never find the piece. You’ll have ten percent of nothing. And I’ll walk.”

  “Why Mashe?”

  “Because he’s the buyer, according to you. Possibly for the other pieces I’ve sold to Akram as well.”

  “Definitely. Mashe is collector. Mashe will go to great lengths to acquire. It is maybe disease for him. Like drugs to addicted.”

  “I make a point of knowing my buyers better than they know themselves. Keeps me out of trouble.”

  “This, I understand,” Victoria says.

  “The full download on Mashe. You know ‘download’?”

  “Yes!” She’s insulted. He reminds himself: don’t talk down to her.

  “And ten percent.” Knox adds, “Rich. Very rich.”

  She eyes him cautiously. He knows how the rugs inside must have felt. “I will be present at appraisal.”

  “Not going to happen.” He adds, “Understand?’”

  “Akram will trust appraisal one hundred percent more with me in room.”

  “I am not involving you.”

  “In this way I know true value of sale and ensure I am not cheated.”

  “What will Akram think of that?” he says testily.

  “I just explain. You will propose me as person in middle. Akram remains in love with me. You will see.”

  I don’t doubt it, Knox thinks. “Middleman,” he quips.

  She nods faintly. “That, or Turkish cultural ministry. You make choice.”

  Reaching inside his jacket and searching among the many zippers, he pulls out a small journal. Raises it. Shows her the pen he intends to write with.

  “I won’t agree until I see how much detail you can provide.”

  “The start? The first time I meet Akram?”

  “Why not? I’m a good listener,” Knox says.

  The story she tells plays out as a tale of promise and expectation. Victoria and Akram—Knox starts thinking of them as Victoria and Albert—met at one of her gallery openings during a Saturday-night gallery walk in the former embassy district, now the artsy, chic neighborhood of Jabal al-Weibdeh.

  She knows his restaurant, has eaten there and is impressed by his humility, his knowledge of art. He’s ruggedly handsome yet soft-spoken. She spends more time than usual with him, while she knows she should be spreading herself around the crowded gallery. He buys two pieces, both from her back room, regional artists he collects, pieces she would have liked to own.

  He charms her without outwardly trying. Avoids flirting. They talk history and architecture and film. Tells her to call ahead if she’s planning on coming to his restaurant—especially if she’s coming alone.

  She sees it as an irresistible offer, puts an anxious week between the gallery walk and the dinner. He has held a window table for her. It’s set for two. The meal lasts three hours. He gives her a ride home on the back of his vintage American motorcycle and never once fishes for an invitation upstairs.

  For their next date, he flies her to Istanbul, where he owns another restaurant. They gallery-hop, feast and spend the night in a two-bedroom hotel suite. Victoria blushes. Skips ahe
ad.

  Akram travels a good deal between Irbid, Amman, Istanbul and Ankara, where, at the time, he was starting a fourth restaurant. The courtship is romantic, undemanding, the best months of her life. She imagines giving him a family and knows he, too, is thinking about it.

  On a trip to Istanbul, Victoria is introduced to his vacationing older brother and family elder, Mashe.

  “Akram was different around Mashe. Weak. No spine.” Her voice tightens. “Mashe . . . how would you say? . . . He asserts himself. We fight over something unimportant. Imagine how I feel when Akram takes brother’s side.”

  “A fight?”

  “As territorial as dog is Mashe. I needed hair dryer. This is all!”

  “He got angry over a hair dryer? You’ve lost me,” Knox says.

  It pains her to talk about it. “I went into his room, you see? This is where hair dryer was to be found. On bed is ring. Stupid plastic ring. I look at this ring. It is blue. Has different family name. I ask him about this ring with different name. He makes explosion. Yes?”

  “What kind of blue ring? Turquoise? A gem stone?”

  “I tell you! Plastic ring! Worthless. Ugly. Very big,” she says, spinning several of her own rings on her fingers.

  “His name was engraved?” Knox’s interest is heightened.

  “Labeled. Like hospital bracelet. Not decorative ring. Functional. Not his name. Different last name. No big thing. Correct? Just on bed with keys. Wallet.”

  “A blue plastic ring.”

  “Are you listening?”

  “I am,” Knox says. “It was big. It had a name on it. He was upset you had seen it.”

  “Upset? He did not mention the ring, but he grabbed it up like a gambler with the die. Pocketed it. Exploded, shouting about how a man’s room is private, about how I had no permission to intrude upon his privacy. It is cultural.” Her expression changes to astonishment. “I am telling you these things, but I do not know your name. Is it Knox or Chambers?”

  “Chambers” was the name he used on the FedEx package. He assumes she has discussed him with Akram, that the use of two names won’t surprise her given the fact that he was trying to smuggle out art. They’ve reached a tipping point. The ring, the argument with Mashe—it holds significance. His skin prickled with sweat tells him so. Close.