The Red Room

by Ridley Pearson

  He wants to say that it happens so rarely he can count the times on one hand. That it has as much, if not more, to do with the mystery about her, the situation they are in, the hold she has over him, as it does the intangibles of physical perfection and connection. To her credit, she doesn’t press for another throw. Perhaps she’s as surprised as he. How incredible if that were the case, if a man and woman could not only scale and reach their own peaks, but summit the same mountain.

  Also to her credit, she hasn’t spoken. They are basking in an afterglow so intense that a single word would spoil it.

  Another thirty minutes. He kisses her on the top of her head, and leaves her slumbering but not quite completely out, on the pillow. Pulls up his jeans, covers her and moves toward the door.

  As the latch is about to click shut, he hears a faint “thank you.” In English.

  —

  THE CALL from Akram comes as Knox is walking down the hall back to his room and Grace. He checks the time. Jesus.

  “Yeah?” Knox says, answering.

  “Where Itfaiye Caddesi crosses the aqueduct. How long?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Fifteen.” The call ends.

  It takes Knox five minutes. A single streetlamp pours yellow light onto brown stones sixteen hundred years old, piled sixty feet high in double-stacked arches. The bottom arch leads through to a tree-lined pedestrian way.

  The Turks are not superstitious or afraid of the dark, but Muslims are devout and wary of displeasing Allah. New Yorkers, certainly a man from Detroit, would think twice about loitering along the aqueduct’s nearly thousand meters of randomly darkened arches at this time of night. The Itfaiye intersection, while busy with street vendors by day, lacks the lighted and noisy cafés and bars that abound near its Atatürk Boulevard crossing. Itfaiye Caddesi looks more like a pedestrian tunnel. Knox peers inside cautiously. The aqueduct is ten meters wide at its base. He sees no one.

  While he appreciates the activity, even in the midst of it Knox can’t stop his mind from grinding. He’s not an analyst but an operative. He’s here because he was a truck driver in another life and he saved Sarge’s life. He’s been put in a position of doubting everyone and everything. His only touchstone is Grace, and she’s been through a psychological wringer from which it’s not easy to immediately recover. The setting feels like the Berlin Wall in a Cold War film; he’s a spy who doesn’t know which side he’s on. He took precautions to make sure he wasn’t followed from the hotel, but his efforts feel in vain as he itches under the invasive sense that he’s being watched. His skin crawls. He’s sweating despite the cool night air. He convinces himself he can smell the Bosphorus—a muddy, turgid tang swirling up in faint gusts along the aqueduct’s ancient route.

  A figure of a man in silhouette appears beneath a cone of streetlamp light on the south side of the Valens Aqueduct. A dramatic image, it triggers a series of defensive reactions. Knox establishes two modes of egress, though neither provides much cover. In fact, the rendezvous exposes both men unnecessarily. It’s a poor choice.

  The constant hum of city noise is shrouded by a whine in Knox’s ears. It’s the sound of increased blood pressure and hyperawareness.

  Knox practices the Native American art of rolling his feet as he walks, eliminating all sound of his advance. Keeping his legs slightly spread and his arms from contacting his torso as they swing, he moves silently through the darkened arch, pausing at the far side and allowing his peripheral vision to account for anomalies, any possible threats lurking to either side. Seeing none, he continues toward what appears to be a black cardboard cutout of a man.

  As Knox nears, the man moves closer to the streetlamp’s post and sits on a metal bench that faces the promenade. The posture puts him in profile. It’s Akram. He wears wire-rim glasses tonight, moving him away from a well-dressed tough toward academic.

  Knox doesn’t like the choice of the bench, which exposes his back. He retreats to the ancient wall and leans against it. A minute passes. Two. Akram stands and walks slowly toward Knox. He joins Knox, the two of them looking down the long promenade, before a word passes between them.

  “The provenance is impressive,” Akram says in an overtly doubtful tone that suggests he believes the Harmodius paperwork has been forged.

  “It is indeed,” Knox says, playing it as if he missed the man’s implication.

  “You will explain please Victoria’s participation.”

  Knox works to keep surprise off his face. “There were complications in Amman. You would have heard this from your man, Shamir. Yes? It wasn’t me who used Victoria’s Skype account to try to cloak our conversation. You and Shamir brought her into this and apparently I’m stuck with her and her demand of a commission.” John Knox the occasional gray market art dealer would play up the unfairness of the payout and little more. “Which brings us to the deposits due in the escrow account.”

  “We have lost our joy, my friend, you and I. And while it is true I trust Victoria’s judgment and expertise when it comes to the world of art, this is not for her.”

  “Feel free to tell her that. Seems as if you two know each other well enough.”

  “I will accept her participation,” Akram says, backing down quickly, not wanting to tackle the woman any more than Knox, “but I must make clear she is in no way associated with me in this transaction. Any commission is between the two of you.” Back to business; he doesn’t want Victoria costing his brother.

  Knox spots movement in the reflection off the man’s eyeglasses. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “You’ve been followed.” He feels Akram stiffen.

  “Impossible.” Equally soft.

  “Move your head slowly to your right as I shake you.” Knox bumps Akram against the wall, then pins him at a slight angle. Knox uses the man’s glasses as his eyes.

  “There’s a second,” Knox says. “A shadow showing from an arch. The other is in this side of the building to your left.” He bangs him again. “Straight up! Are they yours?”

  “Do not be ridiculous.”

  “Your brother’s?”

  Akram snaps his head up to face Knox.

  “Did you or your brother arrange the kidnapping of my accountant?”

  The resulting silence is slowly replaced by a loud whine in his right ear. It’s a sensation Knox has experienced only rarely since his truck-driving days; they ended abruptly when a vehicular IED took out a stretch of his convoy and nearly killed Dulwich four years ago. Knox was rendered partially deaf for two months following. He lived with the intermittent whine for the next six months. Its return frightens him; it’s loud enough to make him deaf in that ear, is occasionally accompanied by sharp pain, and leaves him off balance and sound-blind. He has to turn in the man’s direction to clearly hear Akram.

  “I know nothing of this kidnapping,” Akram says.

  “Your brother’s doing, then. Same as these two.”

  “We are done.”

  Before Akram can take a step, Knox has him by the arm.

  “We are not done, my friend.” Knox holds the man against the stone wall. Akram does not fight back, but looks paralyzed, a man unaccustomed to physical violence; it speaks volumes to Knox. Akram is more of a fish out of water than Knox. “I have gone to great trouble in order to offer you this piece. You walk away and you will have much explaining to do.”

  Akram leans back and looks up at the night sky. “The deposit has been made. You only must check.”

  “I will,” Knox says. He wishes Grace were awake to handle this for him. He’s not great with the iPhone, but he manages to access the correct site. Akram inputs the account number and a password. The screen shows 250,000 USD. The figure swims in Knox’s head, distracting him. It’s not an amount either man can walk away from, and they both know it.

  “I don’t know who your brother is, and I don’t care. But I don�
��t appreciate people kidnapping and interrogating my accountant.” He hopes to confirm what Grace purposely allowed during her interrogation in the back of the van. It has become an unsolvable 3-D puzzle for Knox. One he can’t seem to get through and from which he sees no way out. “I don’t appreciate your allowing people to follow you—”

  “But I swear—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Enough of that, my friend. Clean up the way you do business or the Harmodius is gone.”

  “That is surely why these men exist, is it not?” Akram sounds legitimately convinced. “So that you do not cut and run—I believe that is the expression.”

  “We all have much to lose,” Knox says. “Advise your brother that any finalization of the deal must now involve him. And no babysitters. The next phase is verification.”

  “Dr. Adjani,” Akram says. “Victoria is able to arrange this. These two have met.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Knox says. “Following verification I will expect the remainder of funds to be transferred within six hours.”

  Akram sucks air through his teeth but does not counter.

  “Upon full deposit, you, your brother, me and my accountant will meet at a mutually agreed-upon location.”

  “It will never get past verification.”

  “If you believed that, we would not be here. Yet, here we are.” Knox manages to keep an eye on the shadow caused by a man in hiding in the next arch. Unless Akram is wearing a wire, the two cannot possibly hear the conversation, yet have made no move despite Knox’s roughing up Akram. It makes no sense, but Knox is not going to push his good fortune. He speaks quickly, “So let’s talk transfer of the remaining funds.”

  “As to the funds, the primary investor,” Akram says, as if he’s pretending the person is not his blood relation, “never moves without security. Impossible.”

  “You have wasted my time. I will not forget this.” Knox heads for the archway.

  “Twenty-four hours,” Akram calls out, stopping him. “I must have this name of your financial analyst. I will have him checked out.”

  “It’s a her. Grace Chu. Chinese national. Residence, Hong Kong.”

  “If I cannot confirm her—”

  “You can, and you will.” Knox crosses through the darkness of the arched tunnel to Itfaiye. He moves fast, taking the first of the routes he planned. The alley between two cafés is narrow enough to touch the walls by reaching out to both sides. He runs, pauses, reaches the end where a courtyard frames a trio of apartment houses. Cuts sharply to his left. Back to the wall. Pauses.

  The whining in his right ear has reached a fever pitch. Why now?

  The footfalls of a person running cough from the mouth of the alley. It’s how Knox would have done it: one on Akram; one on the meet, Knox. It’s the reason for him having positioned himself where he stands. He doesn’t want a confrontation, just the knowledge of what he’s up against. He remains in shadow as much as possible as he moves away from the alley and across the cobblestone courtyard. There’s a street entrance that’s too logical a choice; Knox doesn’t take it. Instead, he crouches alongside a foul-smelling plastic trash bin wedged between it and moss-covered stone steps that rise to a red door. It’s not looking good. In the realm of fight or flight, Knox never gives the options much thought. He’s wired a certain way. So sue me.

  The man pursuing him is no longer running; he’s standing still. He’s onto Knox’s ruse.

  The problem for Knox is that the guy knows his stuff. As did the Iranians who snatched Grace. As did the agent in the sandstorm in Amman. Knox can understand the Iranians keeping a short leash on Mashe’s brother. Taken together, the radiation-sensing ring Victoria discovered and Mashe’s PhD in nuclear physics explain why Mashe comes so well protected. Grace’s Iranian abductors wanted to determine who was attempting a background check on their nuclear expert. The Israelis have secretly assassinated a handful of such assets; in response, the Iranians are guarding Mashe “Okle” Melemet closely.

  Yes, Knox can paste this much together. But who would be tailing Akram?

  Mashe’s Iranian guards make the most sense: shadow the brother to ensure he stays in line. Follow the people he meets in dark ruins late at night to determine what Akram—the vulnerable brother—is up to.

  The bin crushes in from Knox’s left, surprising him and disrupting his swarm of thoughts. The force of the impact drives Knox into the stone of the building’s foundation. He brings his arm up as a shield. The bin slams into him a second time; then it’s kicked aside and a knife tip is placed just behind and beneath Knox’s left ear, in soft tissue where a gentle push will drive the blade into his brain and kill him instantly. Silently. It’s a brutally fast and agile move, one Knox did not see coming.

  Knox cooperates, led by the pressure of the knife tip. He rolls onto his face, but not before catching a glimpse of stitches and a butterfly bandage on the man’s ear. It’s a wound Knox recalls inflicting.

  His right arm wrenched high and painfully up his back, Knox is making out with trash scum and soggy cigarette butts. He’s frisked hurriedly, everything coming out of the jacket’s obvious pockets like confetti. But with its many zippered compartments, the Scottevest is tricky even for the owner-operator. This guy finds only four.

  The blade draws blood on Knox’s neck. Knox’s senses heighten. He picks up a trace of cedar over the foul trash, a smell like that of his family’s linen closet. But it’s sweeter, slightly medicinal. Worse: he knows that smell. It’s stored somewhere within him.

  His wallet is liberated from his front pants pocket courtesy of an extremely quick draw of a straight razor. The leather slaps to the ground as the wallet is then discarded. Hurried footfalls echo through the courtyard. It has been made to look like a mugging—it is anything but.

  Knox counts to five before moving.

  Sits. Stands. Checks the neck: a nick. The thigh is worse—the straight razor got a piece of him. Grabs his wallet. Not a single piece of paper inside. His credit cards are gone, but it’s not a big deal. He has two more in the room. His driver’s license and insurance card are in the muck. No paper. Knox moves, maintains pressure on the thigh. Walks without a limp. He’s well practiced.

  The few blocks to the Alzer is not the problem. It’s the woman behind the registration desk he doesn’t want to deal with. His left thigh will face her. He buys a Turkish newspaper from a street vendor hoping the hotel receptionist won’t take note of the language. Uses it as a compress and to hide the wound. Tries to keep her eyes off the bloodied hand holding the newspaper in place by saying, “Beautiful evening!” as he passes.

  She looks up smiling, but her expression decays as she takes him in.

  He understands her response better once he’s inside the small elevator with its smoky mirrors and a framed advertisement for the Alzer’s all-included breakfast. The left side of his face is smeared with disgusting, shit-brown slime. A cigarette butt is adhered to the sludge. In his eagerness to hide the gash in his thigh, he neglected to clean up his leaking, bloody neck.

  Before triggering a floor number, he pauses to electronically open the elevator car doors.

  She’s behind the front desk, still staring in his direction, just as he suspected.

  “I was mugged. You understand? My money.”

  “The police! A doctor!”

  “Will only make it a very long night for me. These things happen.”

  “Not to our guests!” She’s distraught.

  “To this guest, yes. But we both know the police can do nothing. A statistic. You understand statistic?”

  She nods. “Of course.”

  A guest enters through the main entrance. Knox backs away to keep from showing himself. Hits his floor number and the car is his. He rides it interminably. Doesn’t want to bother Grace. May need some stitches, but can make do with Super Glue. He carries a small tube in the Scotteve
st. Hopes he got through to the receptionist.

  Thirty minutes later, a complimentary cheese and fruit plate and a bottle of red wine are delivered to his room. The knock awakens Grace.

  She switches on the bedside light, catching sight of Knox in his underwear waiting for the Super Glue to fully dry in his wound. Shakes her head at him like a disapproving mother, apparently not the least bit surprised to see a five-inch slice in his thigh.

  “I’ll get it,” she says.

  Knox is the one to get it, once she places the tray on the corner of the bed and addresses him. Oddly, of the two of them, she looks worse for wear, the shadows from the only lamp uncomplimentary, the fatigue weighing on her puffy eyes and downturned lips. It’s psychological versus physical, and the results are no contest. She’s had the confidence scared out of her; it sits, spilled limply at her feet like the stuffing from a plush bear. He’s lost a little blood and no resolve.

  “You could have woken me,” she says. “That will scar.”

  “A souvenir,” Knox says.

  “If I had applied the glue while you pinched it shut . . .”

  “Bad timing. But I appreciate the offer.”

  “I am not as fragile as you think.” Grace’s expression belies her words. “Leave the girl sleeping? We are partners.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask?”

  “It was not random violence. I know this much.”

  “Yet, it was meant to look that way. I was mugged for my cash. He left my cell.”

  “You, mugged?”

  “I miscalculated.”

  “I do not believe it. How many?”

  “One.”

  She scoffs.

  “With a very sharp knife and the element of surprise.” He tries to make light of it, but the truth is difficult to face. One. He got taken out by one man. Knox is well aware of the professional athletes and military men who lose a step and stay on or in the field too long. Can he be one of them? His stomach turns. In the web of disgust with himself he doesn’t feel his wounds.