The Red Room Page 28

  Like Knox, she has a role to play; unlike Knox, she does not ad-lib. She recites her lines, considers her strategies and steadies him by holding him around the waist, impressed by the sense of physical power that comes with the contact—even a wounded John Knox would prove a formidable foe.

  The sparsely furnished apartment is a safe house. Not lived in, judging by the lack of personal touches. Drawn drapes lend a sense of claustrophobia to the scant items of furniture: imitation leather couch; a glass-topped stainless-steel coffee table, badly scratched. Several of the floor tiles have been cracked and reglued.

  Akram looks nervous. Mashe does not. He’s smaller than his brother, wiry but with a big head, his black hair trimmed over the ears but fashionably long on his neck. He wears heavy-rimmed glasses with thick lenses. Gray suit trousers, a collarless pressed white shirt. The matching suit coat hangs over a ladder-back dining chair at a table that may have never seen a meal. He carries an air of aloof overconfidence, no doubt perpetually aware that he is the smartest man in any room.

  Knox sits down on an orange-cushioned chair that hisses under his weight. It’s positioned facing the coffee table at a right angle to the couch. The chair is too small for him; his knees stick up high. He’s chosen it because due to a jog in the wall there’s no way anyone can come up from behind him. It’s a defensive position. Across the room, Grace takes note of his choice.

  Mashe Okle shakes their hands and introduces himself as “Akram’s brother.” He then approaches his two handlers and stands by, awaiting the unpacking of the Harmodius. It’s an ordeal. Grace is wondering if Knox is thinking what she is: they’re halfway to their five-minute deadline already. This is made more evident by Mashe’s twisting of his wristwatch.

  She believes her phone is directly connected to the overheating wristwatches, though the mechanics make no sense. She has shut off her phone on multiple nights with no odd consequences. How would powering off a device or removing a SIM card create such an effect in the first place? More to the point, her phone has never been out of her possession. Who could have rigged it, and when?

  But the empirical evidence contradicts all her arguments.

  Three minutes . . .

  If he’s defecting, why is he continuing to act out the role of art collector?

  “Out,” Mashe Okle instructs his two security men, one of whom takes in Knox warily. Knox grins for the man, ever the wiseass.

  The guards leave the apartment though their conversation carries through the door; they want Knox to know they aren’t going anywhere.

  Mashe Okle studies the Harmodius with deep reverence. He dons a pair of white cotton gloves and touches the piece sensually. “Akram and I have discussed the results of the preliminary lab work. I must say: it sounds promising.”

  “There is the matter of the financing,” Grace says, firmly embedded in her role.

  “If I were part of a cultural police force, Ms. Chu,” he says, making it known he’s researched her at least to the point of knowing her name, “you two would have been arrested upon entering this apartment.”

  “Such investigations take months, even years. We both know that.” She’s wondering if he considers her a midlevel bureaucrat with the United Nations or a freelance accountant in Hong Kong. The man gives off an intimidating presence, especially for a person so small and thin.

  “Point taken,” he concedes.

  “The recent deposits into your investment account require adequate explanation and sourcing, or I am afraid this transaction cannot go forward.”

  Everyone knows that Mashe holds the cards in terms of the transaction going forward. They are in his safe house, with no idea what part of the city they are in. It’s his goons outside, and his brother standing to Knox’s left.

  The sounding of a ship horn in that instant works against the Okle brothers. Its proximity and clarity reveal that the apartment is located no more than ten blocks from the Bosphorus. Rain clatters against the windows on the other side of the mauve drapes. The sound is metallic, suggesting a fire escape. Grace assumes Knox has catalogued this and more, though she doesn’t appreciate the faraway look in his eyes. That, coupled with his shit-eating grin, is reason for concern.

  “Fellow investors,” Mashe Okle says.

  “I tried to—” Akram says.

  His older brother lifts a hand, silencing him.

  That demonstration of control liquefies Grace’s bowels. She wants out of here. Now. The sound is of rain on metal gutters.

  Strength demands strength. It is the rule behind all escalation.

  “I will require documentation of the source of those deposits. Canceled checks, copies of wire transfers. And I caution you: I must source the origin of each deposit, the originating accounts.”

  “I respect such thoroughness.”

  “I will need a computer and time. Such work is not easy, nor is it without risk.”

  He purses his lips. “I am under the impression that you, Mr. Knox, require the transaction to take place today. Now. That you have a plane to catch.”

  “My accountant is quite capable, Mr. Okle. An hour or two is all.” Knox looks to Grace for confirmation.

  She nods. “It would be a start.”

  Mashe Okle draws close the ladder-back chair that holds his suit jacket and sits. He speaks more softly. “I am afraid we lack the computer you require. I am also sorry to say neither of you will leave this apartment until the transaction is completed. You see, I have the same concerns as you, Ms. Chu. Mr. Knox is not known to trade in such rare artifacts. Now we are to believe he has come across one of the rarer treasures in the history of Western civilization. A treasure carrying traces of Israeli soil.”

  He blinks rapidly, revealing a deep-seated fatigue. Grace needs no reminder from Knox that this apparent change in his behavior comes after the five-minute mark, though she lacks an explanation for it.

  She’s distracted by the recollection of her admittance to the Red Room. She and Dulwich surrendered their phones to shelving outside the secure space. Other than the two abductions, it was the last time she can remember being separated from her iPhone. She knows Knox was briefed in the Red Room as well. Her throat, already dry, is parched.

  Their phones were tampered with, perhaps cloned and replaced during their briefings. Dulwich’s choice of the Red Room had little or nothing to do with secrecy, and everything to do with separating them from their devices. The degree of the conspiracy expands exponentially—she and Knox have been carefully manipulated from the start. Everything Dulwich has put them through is part of a well-crafted plan. Knox’s paranoia is justified.

  Mashe Okle has gone pale, perspiration covering his face with a sweaty glaze. The room is hot, and Grace says so. Akram, also sweating, agrees. He disappears behind the drawn drapes and the street sounds intensify as fresh air flows across the space, the wind billowing the curtains. Akram reappears.

  “Brother?” he inquires, focusing on the man’s sallow skin tone.

  “Tired is all.”

  Has Mashe been anticipating this? Is it part of his plan to defect? He must not seem ill; he must be ill. Is Akram privy to any of it?

  Knox stands. He speaks, sounding sleepy. “You’re in possession of the lab results. You’ve seen the piece in person. You will either bring a laptop and some food and coffee or release us and the Harmodius until such time as my associate can complete her due diligence.”

  Mashe looks like he’s had enough. His body language shows weakness. He shakes his head as if disappointed.

  “Brother?” Akram’s concern comes across as nerves.

  “I am fine.” To Knox, Mashe says, “I doubt these men have been terribly accommodating, and for this I would like to apologize. I suspect the present arrangements have made you and your colleague uncomfortable. Again, I apologize. While I respect your desire to leave, I believe you will find m
y security personnel less agreeable.” He addresses Grace. “I will request a computer, as you wish. I must caution you: they are likely to decline the request, as any Internet access could, I presume, locate the three of us in ways I doubt I must elaborate upon. Therefore, I will suggest we are in something of a stalemate. I seriously doubt, Ms. Chu, you will be availed of your desire to vet my accounts and, while I understand the desire for such verification, it simply may not be possible given the present circumstances.

  “This leaves us with two choices: I can transfer one half of the funds to any account you choose, the balance to remain in escrow, or I can direct these men to make sure the two of you are in no condition to follow me and take the sculpture without compensation.”

  He allows the silence to settle.

  “I am not a thief. I have no desire to make a reputation as one. Nor do I desire to threaten or aggravate the two of you to the point at which you might consider exposing the Harmodius, no matter that once I leave here, no one will ever find it. My brother is a man of honor. I am, as well. However, if you force my hand . . .”

  47

  Knox is painfully aware that they have passed the five-minute mark. As far as Dulwich is concerned, he and Grace are free to go. Knox has been waiting for a wink and nod to indicate Mashe Okle’s plan to defect, but it hasn’t come. The only thing he’s witnessed is a marked decline in the man’s color and his decaying demeanor. It looks as if the air is leaking out of him.

  This fits with Knox’s earlier theory that the defection might be related to a medical complication. Whatever the intended end game, Knox wants out before anyone accuses him and Grace of causing whatever’s about to happen. A Glock in the small of his back would help matters, but he’s clean. The op is complete. They have served the required five-minute sentence. It’s Dulwich’s mess to sort out from here.

  Mashe Okle appears to be going south. Grace can see it; Akram, too. The man is unaware of his own condition, making it all the more pitiful and painful to observe.

  “As soon as the source of the funds is confirmed, the Harmodius is yours,” Knox says, staying stubborn. He can’t give in too easily.

  Mashe nods solemnly, a benched athlete. “I am sorry, but this is unacceptable.”

  “Brother?” Akram says.

  Mashe’s eyes roll to the top of his sockets, his head unmoving. “Give me a minute.”

  “You do not look well, brother.”

  Surprisingly, several minutes of sitting quietly return color to his face. His shoulders square, his posture elongates. He’s like a flower set out in sunlight. Mashe says with surprising confidence, “One half of funds to remain in escrow until additional testing confirms authenticity.”

  “The only testing—done by your man—is behind us now.” Knox straightens his back, plays his role. He watches Akram for any change in body language.

  Knox stands with difficulty and limps toward the bust. There’s no need to verbalize the threat. If he were to throw the bust through the window to the pavement below, it would be rendered worthless.

  Mashe’s skin turns the same awful yellow it was only minutes earlier. Noticing the change, Knox understands the nature of the op in a sickening rush—though he has no idea how Dulwich pulled it off.

  “My phone,” she had said. Our phones, he’s thinking.

  Grace moves toward Mashe Okle. Simultaneously, Akram moves protectively to his brother’s side. No one has spoken. One of the guards in the hall coughs; he’s smoking a cigarette. The smell of tobacco smoke seeps into the apartment.

  “Let us forget this for now, brother,” Akram says. “Let us visit Mother.”

  He’s trying to convince his brother to let him take him to the hospital.

  “You had your chance,” Knox says brusquely.

  “You see?” Grace says to Knox. Her acting is impressive. “The situation so often alters when the money becomes real.”

  “Salim!” Mashe shouts.

  The door opens with alarming speed. Knox grabs hold of the Harmodius, but his legs betray him. Salim has taken a cue from Mashe and runs interference; Knox doesn’t make it to the window fast enough. Salim passes and comes at him from the direction of the windows, driving a stumbling Knox back into the room. Knox could smash the heavy bust to the floor, but it would likely only hurt the floor; the thing’s as solid as a piece of armament. Still, the threat of it, as Knox struggles to press the Harmodius overhead, brings Mashe to his feet.

  Knox’s arms tremble. He can’t hold it much longer. “All, or nothing!” he says once again. “I . . . don’t . . . trust . . . you.” Sweating now, he manages to look Akram in the eye. “Apologies, friend. You, I trust.”

  Mashe acquiesces. “Agreed! Agreed! Now, help him!”

  The guard assists Knox in lowering the Harmodius. It’s returned to the table where it previously perched.

  Knox aches. He sizes up the guard who stands closer; decides he’d go down quickly. It’s the man at the open door holding a Makarov PPM that concerns him.

  Mashe Okle makes a phone call, holding up a finger to request silence in the room. Knox’s pained breathing competes with the sounds from the street. The man talks in clipped Persian. Ending the short call, he works his phone and passes it to Grace.

  “Internet connection. Do what you must.” Mashe Okle sits back down as if he’s just run a marathon.

  “I’m with Akram,” Knox says casually. “You don’t look so hot.”

  Mashe addresses his brother. “It is nothing. Fatigue is all.” He reaches into the side pocket of his suit coat where it hangs on the back of the chair. He withdraws a business card. Extends it toward Knox. Knox avoids glancing at Grace, who is certainly processing the offer as Knox is: the exchange. If Knox accepts the card, he is a cutout. If he does not, he and Grace may lose their value for Mashe Okle and his guards.

  Mashe waits for Knox. The moment borders on awkward. Knox accepts it and thanks him.

  Mashe says, “If you or your colleague should have any questions or complications when attempting to leave the country, you will please present my card and ask them to call number on back.” He pauses. “You will find I am extremely well connected, Mr. Knox. In your game of Monopoly, this is same as ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card. City police, MIT, it makes no difference. Do not misplace it.”

  Grace works the phone she was given. She must go through sourcing the funds to make their story credible and convincing.

  Knox flicks the card’s edge, and then pockets it. Everything he and Grace have theorized whirs through him, arriving back at the idea of his being used to unwittingly courier intel. The man’s business card feels as though it weighs several pounds. He figures he’s supposed to encounter trouble along the way, is supposed to offer up the card. In doing so, he, Knox, passes along Iranian intel. A piece of old-school spycraft. As he thought.

  “You have your information?” Mashe says to Grace.

  She meets eyes with Knox. “Because of time, I chose one of the six accounts at random. It checks out.”

  She returns the phone to Mashe Okle.

  “It is a treasure,” Mashe says, his voice filled with gratitude. “I want you to know it will be treated as such, its beauty and historical significance enjoyed by many.”

  Knox winces a smile. He doesn’t give a shit. He resents being used. Assumes he is part of a dead drop, with the emphasis on dead.

  If he gets rid of the card, he’ll be tortured and torn to pieces to find it; if he keeps it, he’s got a target on his back. A target with two bad legs and a busted shoulder and head wounds that need weeks to heal.

  Mashe Okle is fading once again. His eyes are shut, his face pallid.

  “We’re good,” Knox says, wanting out, wanting to separate himself from Grace. By accepting the business card, he’s been made radioactive.

  “Perhaps,” Mashe says to his brother in Persi
an, “a visit to Mother is not such a bad idea.” To Knox, he speaks English. “I am sorry to say that you must suffer the indignity of secrecy in leaving here today. My men will accompany you to a location that offers many forms of public transportation. I trust you will forgive me this precaution. It is not to be avoided.”

  “I would prefer to name the destination myself,” Knox says, not wanting to be delivered anywhere on a platter, “once we are in the vehicle.”

  “As long as it is within reason, it shall be as you wish,” Mashe says, surprising Knox with his agreement. He speaks to his men.

  “Remember,” Mashe says, rising to show them out and pointing to Knox’s pocket. “Any kind of trouble. This card is your passport. Use it.”

  “It is kind of you,” Grace says.

  “Pleasure is mine.” He bows for her and extends his hand to Knox. “I thank you, sir, for this opportunity. You do me and my brother a great honor.”

  Knox wonders if he means the sale of the Harmodius or the involuntary sacrifice of carrying the business card. If Dulwich’s hysteria is to be believed, the fate of the world now rests in his pocket. Knox is caught in the middle.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the hoods are readministered. There is a pause, as perhaps the guards allow the sidewalk to clear. Then Knox and Grace are rushed outside through the rain and into the van and driven off.

  Ten minutes of abrupt stops and poor driving, and the hoods come off. The door slides open and the two are politely pushed out into the wet as the van drives away.

  “Bastards!” Knox hisses. They’ve been dropped in front of a nondescript building—a sign reveals that it’s the city’s naval museum. It’s miles from the Metro stop he requested.