The Red Room Read online

  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?

  —

  THE 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.

  9

  You speak English, Besim?” Grace asks of her driver behind the wheel of a Mercedes. Her eyes never leave Melemet, his two bodyguards and the man following them. She has some Turkish, though her Arabic is stronger. She’d rather not show her cards to a driver; such men are known to talk.

  One of the bodyguards takes the fr
ont seat of the Audi. A moment later he signals. Melemet is in, followed by the trailing guard. Traffic is intense. No one is going anywhere just yet.

  The agent crosses to an island, waits and is met by a Land Rover. It stays at the curb, much to the disdain of a policeman who is waving it away.

  “Some,” her driver responds. Balding, and with a short-cropped beard, he wears a black suit that brings out a caramel tone in his dark skin. She has yet to see his full face.

  “Have you ever followed another vehicle?”

  “Jealous wife. Jealous husband.” The beard puckers. He is smiling.

  “I am—was—mistress to this man.” She points to the Audi. “We are going to follow him. He is not alone. He owes people money. Much money. You understand?” She points left to the Land Rover. “You see?”

  “I understand.”

  “I would rather not be noticed.”

  “Not easy to follow during nighttime.”

  She passes a good deal of cash into the front seat. He won’t want to touch her. She drops it.

  “Let us make it as easy as possible,” she says, avoiding the use of confusing contractions. “Our problem is: the ones following are very good. They will be watching for people like us. They do not wish to share.”

  “This, not easy, ma’am.”

  No, she thinks.

  “I tell you,” he says, pulling out now, five vehicles behind the Audi, already on the job, “I know this car company.” He motions with his head. “My brothel’s nephew”—she doesn’t correct his mistake—“the brothel to his wife’s sister, he is, how do you say, radio man, this company.”

  “Dispatcher.” Grace appreciates his sense of extended family, the intermarrying of cousins, the generations of business relationships between families the size of clans. Tribes. Not so very different from her native China.

  “Precisely. Drivers, we together.”

  “I am sure.”

  “I call my brothel?” he asks. “He call nephew?”

  “How much?” She doesn’t mind paying but doesn’t want to come up short when the time comes.

  “I am your driver throughout stay in Istanbul. No need for these monies, ma’am.”

  She presses. “I may need an ATM.”

  Another smile. More a lascivious grin.

  “I make call,” he says.

  —

  HER DRIVER makes three calls. She picks up more of the conversations than she thought she might. Pats herself on the back.

  “Is okay,” he says, backing off the pedal a bit. “Destination, Florence Nightingale Hospital. Forty kilometers.”

  Given Dulwich’s briefing about the sick mother, Grace has assumed the hospital would be an early stop. The location doesn’t help her. She works to keep the irritation from her voice. “After that? His final destination?”

  He catches her eye in the rearview mirror, his mental gears clearly grinding. She’s following a man, her supposed former lover, who just landed and is heading straight to a hospital; her tone suggests she knows all this and yet somehow knows the hospital is not his final stop.

  “His mother is ill, Besim,” Grace explains in a more intimate and caring tone, trying to stay a step ahead of her savvy driver. “Of course the hospital must come first. If I am to speak to him, it must follow.”

  “I have address,” he says. “You desire I should drive you this place?”

  “Yes. Please. Tell me, Besim, can we arrive at the hospital ahead of him?”

  “It is doubtful—possible, but doubtful. Very fast driver, as you see.”

  The Audi has sped out of sight since Besim’s initial backing off.

  “I would like that,” she says. “No matter, I must arrive to his final destination ahead of him. I must be waiting.”

  His dark eyes slide into the mirror and out again.

  “He has wronged me,” she explains.

  Besim keeps his thoughts to himself, but he’s an open book: she needs a good backhand to the face. A little tune-up. Eye-tunes.

  “The money he gambled was mine. The money he lost. The money these other men want.” The invented story comes with surprising ease. She’s not a natural born storyteller; she’s a number cruncher.

  The true story reads differently: she has left her first and one true love behind in China, both disallowed by their families from pursuing the relationship. She was eager to do so; he refused, held tightly by the family reins. Besim doesn’t need to hear this. For him she is translating the language of the heart to the language of money. Stories are so interchangeable, she thinks, wondering why lives are not.

  “He has taken my heart,” she says honestly. “I want my money back.”

  Besim’s chipped teeth sparkle white. He wants to say something about her being Chinese, to sting her for entering a relationship with an Arab. She knows that look and resents it. Objectified. Reduced to what’s between her shoulders and legs. So easy to choke or garrote a man from the backseat. Her emotions swing with every lane change of the car. Besim knows his stuff; they are stitching their way through the congested traffic.

  She doesn’t want to follow, would rather leapfrog.

  “His final destination, please. You will drop me there, then wait with my bags at my apartment. It is okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her decision made, she sits back. Her thought process is linear, mathematical. If A equals B and B equals C, then . . . Were the agents waiting for Melemet, aka Mashe Okle, as they appear to have been? The “why” isn’t important to the equation, but the “how” definitely is. They must have been aware of his cover identity prior to his booking the ticket. If a known arms dealer, why not arrest him on the spot? Okle is in Istanbul to be at the bedside of his dying mother. Why put off his arrest? No matter how she manipulates the variables, the equation won’t yield a result. It’s an unsolvable proof. Unacceptable.

  What is Dulwich not telling her, and why? This is the parenthetical product she’s lacking, the value that is throwing off the result.

  When her phone vibrates and a sixty-four-character string of symbols and alphanumeric characters appears in the Messaging balloon, she knows it’s the password she’s been waiting for, the one she needs to raid Okle’s investment portfolio. She stares at the phone as if it belongs to someone else. The message doesn’t come from Rutherford’s Data Sciences division, but from Dulwich himself, the most digitally challenged man she knows. It’s a small inconsistency, but she’s trained to identify such variables.

  She drums her fingers on her knee. What is Dulwich up to?

  Outside the vehicle, the sparkle of the Istanbul lights emerges.

  “You like?” Besim asks. He’s caught her look of awe in the mirror.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says, admiring the twinkling hills, the dozens of mosque spires, and the sparkling vessels on the Bosphorus Strait. She doesn’t want to get her driver talking. She needs time to think.

  The illuminated minarets of the mosques look like chalky fingers pointing to heaven.

  Besim nods thoughtfully. “You will like this place.”

  Grace is not so sure.

  10

  The storm has turned the streets of Amman into a beach parking lot. The grit beneath Knox’s shoes gives him shivers; it’s like biting into a dry Popsicle. The air quality sucks, but at least he doesn’t feel as if he’s standing in front of the nozzle of a sandblaster anymore. It’s tolerable, and people return cautiously to the sidewalks and streets, their faces protectively covered. Some cars are moving. Many hoods are open, the driver leaning in to deal with a clogged air filter. There is little sense of irritation; such storms are an accepted occurrence here. Knox marvels at the universal adaptability of humans.

  A text from Dulwich: Shepard Fairey’s Obama Hope poster and an address. A parenthetical: eight P.M. It’s coming up on sev
en. Knox knows not to put this off. A possible rendezvous, though the Obama reference eludes him. Dulwich’s cryptic messages can be frustrating. Knox returns to his thought about spooks, wondering what Dulwich and Primer have gotten him into. Rutherford Risk rarely discriminates against its clients. Knox is allowed that luxury. He picks and chooses, though Dulwich has his number, quite literally. Anything in six figures and Knox can’t seem to keep his fingers off it.

  The corporation is in the business of problem-solving those problems that can’t be solved by conventional means. Over half their business is international kidnapping resolution. Knox can’t yet figure the client on this job, but assumes it’s a government wanting to block an arms sale, one that lacks a security division as capable as Rutherford Risk. Many countries fall into this category, leaving Knox to marvel at the power of Primer’s corporation and the leniency it is afforded. He is a small part of that, and often wonders if it’s a blessing or a curse. He understands this: the further down the food chain, the more expendable the individual. Working with Grace has taught him as much. In Amsterdam, it became clear that Brian Primer and Dulwich would protect Grace over him, making Knox feel like the team veteran about to be replaced by the rookie. As he does more jobs for Dulwich, does he become more of an asset, or a liability? Again: what the hell has he gotten himself into?

  He flags down a share taxi, a white Volkswagen minibus. The driver sits on a backing of wood rollerballs. Talismans dangle from the rearview mirror. Knox crams in with eight others, the smell of body odor overpowering. He feels like Gulliver next to the two women on his bench. Eyes stare at him from headscarves arranged to limit his view. The passengers have gone quiet. The ride through the recovering city is treacherous; the driver does his best to control the skidding. They detour several times because of breakdowns blocking the road. Knox’s command of the Jordanian dialect is too pathetic to attempt conversation. He sits uncomfortably, banging his head on the ceiling with every bump. Someone lights a cigarette. No one complains. Knox is close to losing his temper by the time the van pulls over. The driver has to point at him to let Knox know they’re at his stop.