The Red Room

by Ridley Pearson

  Merchants have come downstairs from their second-story apartments to sweep the sidewalk in front of shuttered stores. Women in abayas worn from the shoulders and colorful headscarves move silently and efficiently while men gather in small clusters, smoking. Knox dodges cardboard boxes, discarded appliances and a pair of worn shoes as he passes some unhappy shop clerks who were caught by the storm, unable to salvage their wares ahead of time. Discouragement weighs down their bent backs and slows their movement. The struggle of daily life hangs in the air as thickly as the residual dust left behind by the storm.

  Knox’s iPhone mapping app reveals that the van dropped him at the wrong intersection. Maybe they got sick of him. Maybe they’re all laughing at dumping the American. He walks a winding kilometer uphill to reach Ali Ben Abi Taleb. Walks east and locates the address Dulwich sent.

  The art gallery is called “brilliant.” All lowercase English. No name offered in Arabic. In the window to the left stands a sandstone egret; to the right, a collage of newsprint, pieces of lingerie and tufts of human hair, all covered in a thick layer of clear-coat. Knox double-checks the address.

  He knows what he’s doing here: Dulwich has figured out how to pass him the Harmodius. No need for a courier. No black-market transaction. David Dulwich can be a real pain in the ass. As Sarge hinted, getting the bust from here to Istanbul is going to fall on Knox.

  He pushes inside. An antique bell chimes. The sandstorm has been good for business—a dozen or more people are milling about. Three bottles of white wine are open on a side table, two empty. Plastic cups. Knox pours himself one. A young woman, nearly six feet tall, greets him. Australian. Nice calves. Fierce eyes. She welcomes him. They small-talk. Knox searches the wall for the Obama poster.

  “I’ve had a recent interest in Shepard Fairey.” He laughs at himself. “I’m behind the times.”

  “Not at all! He’s an interesting artist. Began as a skateboarder. Did you know that?”

  “A digital Warhol,” Knox says, doing his best. “Though that’s taking it a little far.” He indicates a great distance with his large, scarred hands.

  “They say you can tell a great deal about a person by his hands,” she murmurs.

  “The most difficult part of the body to paint or sculpt,” Knox says.

  “You have impeccable timing.” It sounds loaded. Hers are not eyes he could face when waking.

  “How so?”

  “We had a bust come in just today—very much like Fairey.”

  “Not interested in sculpture.” He wants to make her sell him. Can’t seem eager.

  “You should at least take a look.”

  “I don’t think so. Wall art’s my interest.”

  He allows her to steer him deeper into the gallery. It’s like a UN conference in here: Indian, Asian, African and Caucasian. The scent of incense intensifies.

  He spots it atop a white pedestal. An oversized bust of Obama made from a hideous rainbow swirl of what appears to be bowling-ball plastic. The chins of the other gallery patrons lift; the eyes gaze up at the acoustic tile. Knox is forced to cover his smirk with his hand, as if considering the piece.

  “Not exactly what I was looking for.”

  “One of a kind,” she says.

  “With good reason.”

  “As close to Fairey as you’ll find in Amman.” She adds, “Which is why my owner chose to represent it.”

  He shakes his head. He wants to be begged.

  “Art is so personal, is it not? I cannot begin to suggest taste. But strictly as an investment—and I typically discourage clients from thinking this way—these political pieces, especially those tied to Fairey’s influence, are certain to gain in value. Politics is a fleeting business. As you know.”

  It’s selling for six hundred U.S. dollars. Its plastic conceals a piece worth millions.

  “Given my tastes, if I bought art as an investment I’d be a poor man.”

  “I think you underrate yourself.”

  If not for those eyes, he could play along. A body like hers can tumble. It would be a pleasant way to pass a lonely evening in Amman.

  “I’ll think on it,” he says, wanting to sink the hook. He thanks her and studies a gaudy airbrush of a white horse in the desert. It reminds him of romance-novel cover art. Slim pickings in Amman. The rest is not much better.

  He’s careful to get a look at everyone in the gallery. Dulwich didn’t put the ugly plastic over the Harmodius; he didn’t pack and deliver and convince the dealer to display it. There are too many intermediaries, no matter how trustworthy. The bust feels more like chum, and Knox does not want to feed too quickly.

  To his surprise, of those who notice Knox, none seem particularly interested. If he’s being monitored, he’s once again reminded that it’s by people so good at their jobs.

  Dulwich has handed him a way to take possession of the Harmodius, but moving it into Turkey remains the challenge. Dulwich has his reasons for passing it to Knox here: if the Harmodius “coincidentally” shows up in Istanbul the week the Okle brothers are there, the op could appear forced. If there’s a paper trail, no matter how obscure, that shows Knox shipping it from Amman to Turkey, the attempted sale to Akram Okle will seem all the more authentic. But accomplishing the task, given the earlier encounter and the questions it raises, makes things more complicated.

  Knox spends a good deal of his time in front of some horrible art, thinking it through. Studying a nude who’s offering herself to a man’s head on an ape’s body, it dawns on him: Victoria Momani, whose contact information he got from his Skype with Akram. With the proper manipulation, she can be used to ship the Harmodius from Jordan to Istanbul with Knox’s name nowhere on it. The pieces stitch together better than they do on the fabric art by the window.

  He approaches the woman docent.

  “The wine must be getting to my head,” he says. “In a moment of weakness, I’ll buy it. But sadly, I can’t leave it behind on show. You won’t want me to, anyway, because by the sober light of day I know I’m going to regret this purchase. So it’s your call. If I buy it, I’m taking it with me, which I’m already beginning to think is a bad idea.”

  “I think it will live better on its own.”

  “It’s iconic. An archetype. For that, and that alone, I will find a place for it.”

  “It’s heavy.”

  “Since it appears to be a melted-down bowling ball, I assumed as much.”

  He gets a rise out of her, though her eyes are prohibited from showing mirth. It’s the depth of the sockets and the smallness of the eyes themselves; she’d do better with Lady Gaga–sized sunglasses. He suggests she call a taxi, owning up to the fact that the storm congestion may delay it.

  “More time to get to know each other,” she says cunningly, even hopefully.

  Knox knows better. He hates to disappoint.

  —

  DESPITE THE FACT that the bust is packed and crated, by morning light Knox feels like his X-ray vision can penetrate the box to reveal the hideous rainbow Obama bust. If he’d had the gallery ship it to Istanbul, he’d have left a means to tie him to a missing historical artifact. He can’t use a brick-and-mortar express shipping counter for fear of security cameras; he needs to ship it anonymously from a residential address. It could be picked up out front, leaving no face attached to the air bill. But for that, he needs a valid residential address.

  In Amman, Jordan.

  Victoria Momani answers his call speaking Arabic.

  Knox speaks English. “Victoria? It’s John Knox, a friend of Akram’s.”

  His introduction is met with silence.

  “He suggested I . . . that we . . . that I should call you for a drink if I was ever in Amman.”

  “I see.” Understandably skeptical of a stranger’s call.

  “I’m in import/export. I’ve sold Akram some
artwork.”

  “John. Yes,” she says, making no effort to disguise her relief.

  “Coffee? A drink? Do you have a spot?”

  She names a teahouse and address, suggests lunch. One P.M.

  “I will try for one. I may be a few minutes late. See you there.” He hangs up.

  He calls FedEx and supplies Victoria Momani’s address and a pickup time of one-thirty P.M. He can’t count on her being perfectly on time. He asks the hotel concierge to help with the air bill so his handwriting can’t be traced. Lugs the crate into the taxi at twelve-forty-five; arrives at her apartment building at the top of the hour. The teahouse is a twenty-minute walk, a five-minute cab. He waits outside for five minutes and, seeing no woman leave the building, decides she’s a walker. He takes a chance, his system charged with the elixir of adrenaline.

  He carries the boxed bust up two flights of stairs rather than risk being seen in the elevator. It’s like lugging a small car in his arms. He puts it down outside apartment 222 with the air bill on top. He hurries down the stairs, leaving an unguarded fortune in the hallway. Arrives back to the waiting taxi and is off.

  He’s only minutes late to the Turtle Green Teahouse.

  Jordanian women don’t need the cosmetics they use. Knox finds most of the over-forty faces severe. Like the Italians, it’s the skin of the younger women he finds attractive.

  The only woman willing to meet his eyes is sitting alone. Victoria Momani does not cover her hair. Her shoulders are square, her posture perfect. There’s no indication of smile lines.

  They shake hands. Knox sits across from her and asks for recommendations, then requests she order for the two of them. He wants her to feel in control, to lessen any defenses she may have in place. His primary concern is to keep her here long enough to ensure the package is picked up with her name on the air bill. If he can stretch this to forty minutes, he’s in the clear. FedEx is reliable.

  Knox orders an espresso for himself. She asks for hot tea.

  “Here on business?” she asks. Her English is tinged with a delightful lilt that makes it poetic.

  “What else? I’m a slave to it, I’m afraid.”

  “Trade.”

  He shrugs. “Too kind a word. You might say I’m an arbitrageur. Move a piece of art or craftwork from one country to another where it’s more valued, or where the currency conversion is favorable. Sell it; convert. Purchase. Resale. It’s less supply and demand than catching the idiosyncrasies of artistic taste.”

  “You take advantage of people.”

  He mugs.

  “And me? Do you plan to take advantage of me?”

  He might think she’s flirting, but her tone is accusatory bordering on angry.

  “I beg your pardon.” He has already taken advantage of her. He wishes he could feel remorse over it, but does not.

  “Why do you lie to me?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Akram would never recommend a drink with me. This is your mistake. So you are testing me, yes? A Westerner, no less. Bravo! An interesting twist, to be sure. But I still know nothing. You are wasting your time.”

  To the contrary, Knox thinks, suddenly interested in how Akram might be testing her.

  “You may have me mistaken for—” he says.

  “I think not, Mr. Knox, if that is in fact your name.”

  “Why meet me if you consider me such a liar?”

  “To tell you, as I have told all of you before, to back off. What goes on between a man and a woman, it stays between the man and the woman.”

  “Rarely,” Knox says. The word he hears is “before.”

  “In this case, then.”

  He’s caught between wanting to distance himself from whoever she thinks he is and playing the role in order to work the conflict for “incidental findings,” the unintended information she may yet divulge. Judging by her tone, she and Akram were once an item. Were—past tense. Akram or his people have tested her since the collapse of the relationship. She believes these people have now gone to the trouble of hiring a Westerner to do their bidding. Boxes inside boxes—he’s intrigued.

  Their drinks arrive. He adds sugar to the espresso, but it’s unnecessary: the bean makes for a smooth and slippery liquor in his throat.

  “You like it,” she says.

  “I do, very much.”

  “You will please pass my message along.”

  “I would if I could. Sadly, you mistake me.”

  “I think not.”

  “Your prerogative.” He pauses. “You recognized my name when I called. Akram has spoken of me.”

  “You people . . . people like you . . . you can know any of that far too easily. Did you listen to us at the end? Did you enjoy it?” She can’t look at him, only the reflection in her teacup.

  People like you, Knox hears the echo in his ears. People who eavesdrop. She’s talking about surveillance. She fears she’s been listened in on. Better with every bite. He says, “You mistake me for someone else. No one is keeping you here.”

  Her eyes flash darkly.

  They share olives, hummus and falafel. Knox could eat all afternoon, the coffee boring a bottomless pit in his stomach. Shredded onions deep-fried in garbanzo flour. The dishes keep coming. The act of sharing food lowers the wall between them; the connection is primitive but palpable. He orders a beer.

  “So it was a bad breakup,” he says.

  She shakes her head as if to tell him he knows this already.

  “I’ve only met him a couple of times, but I like Akram.” He thinks he may be getting through to her, judging by a softening of her dark eyes. But she doesn’t take the bait.

  “Leave me alone, please. You tell them: leave me alone.”

  “I don’t know who they are.”

  “If this is the truth, then there is no harm done, and I apologize for any inconvenience. But I know you are lying, Mr. Knox, and I wish to make the point that I must be left alone.”

  “Point taken.” He capitulates for no other reason than laziness and the meal’s imminent end. He signals for the check, pulling receipts, his hotel key card and his thin wallet from his front pocket. He doesn’t want her to see the name on any of the cards. He removes some bills and stuffs everything back.

  “These men. Police? Government? Criminals?”

  She eyes him warily. Spitefully. Shakes her head in defeat. You people won’t stop, her eyes shout. “Is there so much difference?” she asks.

  11

  Mashe Melemet and his two bodyguards take an additional two hours before arriving at the residential address that Besim, Grace’s driver, uncovered. It was likely time spent at the hospital, given that one of his guards is carrying takeaway food; dinner was an afterthought.

  Grace has failed to spot anyone else interested in the apartment building, though she assumes that Dulwich could be watching. She expected to see the men from the airport, including the agent who descended the escalator, but she has not.

  They interest her, and they will certainly interest Dulwich. The more information she can put together on them, the more thorough her work into who’s tailing Mashe Okle is, the more she’ll impress Dulwich. She has the men pegged as police, immigration officers or possibly Turkey’s National Intelligence Organization. Getting it right will earn her bonus points.

  Is the takeaway dinner the result of a long day of travel or Mashe Okle’s—aka Mashe Melemet’s—avoidance of public places? If he’s afraid of restaurants, of being seen in public, it explains why Dulwich needed a plan—needed her—to put herself and Knox in a room with him.

  To that end, she has to black-hat an investment server before she sleeps. Staying with Melemet is a guilty pleasure from which she finds it difficult to pull away. She left Besim and the black Mercedes four blocks back, going on foot, a scarf pulled tight over her head to hide h
er Asian features. She enjoyed walking the busy Turkish neighborhood for the past two hours. An operative. She continues walking past as the mark arrives. Takes no interest in him at all.

  Comes around the block to the north—for the third or fourth time—and spots two men, one wearing the Euro-ubiquitous black leather jacket. Her suspect in the airport wore a jacket just like it. She’s unable to get close enough to see them clearly. They smoke cigarettes while talking, like a million other men in Istanbul.

  Their location is significant. From where they stand, they have a view of Okle’s apartment building. His safe house? she wonders. A family residence? A rental? Are they protecting him, or pursuing him?

  At this moment, she can’t be sure of anything.

  12

  Sipping from an eight-dollar minibar beer for which Dulwich will eventually pay, Knox finds going through e-mails tedious. He can’t keep his mind off the men following him in Amman, or Victoria Momani’s implication that the fallout between her and Akram was related to a team surveilling Mashe. Is there a connection?

  He can’t believe it, but he misses having Grace Chu around. Her mathematical mind has ways of cutting through the clutter. More than anything, he trusts her. He tries to never lose sight of the economic leash connecting Dulwich to Brian Primer.

  Knox has decided the requirement of spending five minutes with Mashe has something do with tracking. He assumes there must be a device within either the plastic outer mold or the Harmodius Obama covers; a tagging device but, according to Dulwich, not for assassination. Maybe Grace could make sense of it. He can’t. He pushes right to the edge of drawing a conclusion, only to be knocked back by a screwball piece of evidence: Dulwich’s promise of no assassination; the attacker in Amman retreating at the moment of superiority; Akram’s level of secrecy.