The Red Room

by Ridley Pearson

  “Turkish bath,” she tells him. “Neighborhood bath.” She adds, “It could have been a solo back there, or there could be a dozen of them after us.”

  Knox hadn’t considered a team effort. He nods. They help each other along, arms locked, both hobbled. Sitting ducks if they stay out on the streets.

  The Turkish bath dates back to the fifteenth century, when a lack of running water in homes inspired public works. The numbers of such baths mushroomed in the eighteenth century and then dwindled again; only twenty survive. Some served other functions in the interim, like cheese storage, until the tourist industry discovered them. Grace describes this one well as a neighborhood bath, more a spa for affluent Turks in the hills above downtown. It’s one of the few segregated spas, offering a man’s and a woman’s side, though men attend the women.

  “I hit my head,” Knox tells the attendant, a surly man who gives him a curious look.

  Grace translates, adding that her friend found himself in a romantic tangle with a woman belonging to a powerful man. She’s trying to cover in case their pursuers should inquire. The Turks are romantics at heart. She nudges Knox, causing him to wince.

  “Tip,” she whispers hotly. “Big tip!”

  Knox puts out a hundred dollars on top of the seventy for the bath.

  “We do not wish any trouble,” Grace says.

  The man smiles, displaying two gold teeth. “Nor shall you have any,” he says in English. “No blood in baths.” He points to a sign: NO BODILY FLUIDS is listed as one of twelve bathhouse rules. “You need help, my friend,” he tells Knox, pointing to his own head.

  “Tape,” Knox says.

  “Takes more than tape.”

  “For now,” Knox says, testing. “She will help me.” He has the Super Glue in the Scottevest.

  “Scissors,” Grace says. “A razor?” She pushes the hundred dollars closer to the attendant. “We can help you.”

  The entrance opens into the camekan and a number of changing stations. Fountains. They are given pestemâls, checkered cloths they are told to wear. Knox keeps the Scottevest with him, which draws the receptionist’s attention as the man shows them into the women’s restroom, dragging an orange traffic cone to ensure their privacy.

  Wearing the pestemâl like a toga and carrying her phone, Grace clips, cleans and shaves the area around Knox’s scalp wound. Cleans it again using hand sanitizer. The burn makes Knox curse. Cleaning it the second time is a mistake; the partial clot comes free and it’s bleeding again, badly. Grace glues it, tapes it and glues it again, but it’s a mess by the time it stops bleeding, and there’s a 4x2-inch strip of missing hair on the dome of Knox’s head. He jokes about needing a comb-over, but she doesn’t understand the reference.

  Both are troubled by the fifteen minutes that have passed. If it’s Turks after them, it won’t take long to search the neighborhood. Grace has texted their new GPS icon. Their nerves, on top of their physical exhaustion, leaves them spent. Grace cleans up the small space.

  “So?” she says.

  “Into the baths,” Knox says. “Women’s is over there.”

  “Where we will be naked and defenseless should they find us.”

  “The steam room is first. The hararet. Hard to see in, which gives us the advantage. Be near the door to get the jump on them. Hopefully, it doesn’t come to that. We’ll each be led into the bath and the warm stone area, where we’ll be scrubbed and cleaned before bathing. Tip your man before the rubdown.”

  “Man?”

  “Most places, yes. Now focus. These places have to have exits, so there will be a way out. You hear a shout, that’s me. I’ll head east, toward the river. We both text him again. With any luck—”

  “Agreed. The plan is a good one,” Grace says, uncharacteristically complimentary.

  Still, Knox can’t relax. The steam soaks into his joints and removes some of the pain but his head wound is screaming, and the accompanying headache makes it nearly impossible to think.

  He gets through the steam room without incident, though he’s naked and a Westerner and this attracts envious attention from the other men. It’s been this way since middle school, through the sports locker rooms of high school and dorm showers in college: John Rocks. Knox Johnson. Long John Knox. He’s not sure why women don’t appreciate being objectified, at least a little; for himself, he loves it. If he attempts to cover himself, it only draws more attention because it requires a two-handed effort, so he carries himself with an upright posture and lets them marvel. What the hell?

  His attendant, a potbellied forty-something with so much hair it grows from his shoulders, draws closer and winces audibly at the ripe bruises covering Knox. Knox wishes he knew the word for “gently.” But the man gets the point. He scrubs Knox tentatively, like he’s bathing his own grandchild.

  Thirty minutes have passed since they abandoned the taxi.

  Knox’s attendant looks up, as do several others surrounding the water, their clients prostrate on the hot stone. They’re looking at the receptionist, who quickly crosses the room, moving toward Knox.

  “Your woman asks meet her at desk. She waits for you.”

  Knox thanks him.

  Five minutes later, Grace and Knox ride low in the backseat of a sedan driven by Besim. He drives conservatively. He’s barely acknowledged them. Finally, he speaks Turkish into the rearview mirror.

  “He says you need a hat,” Grace translates. “He will stop and buy you one.”

  Knox thanks the man directly.

  Fifteen minutes later, they briefly visit a teeming street market under sagging strings of lightbulbs that remind Knox of shopping for Christmas trees. Besim delivers the hat, falafel, dolmas and two sodas to the backseat.

  Knox and Grace eat greedily.

  “I need to return to the hotel,” Knox says once they’re moving again. He dons the trucker’s cap Besim bought. It boasts the red flag of the crescent moon and single star with TURKEY stenciled in all caps beneath. It looks stupid on him. “Then to the airport via a taxi arranged by the hotel. We stick to the plan.”

  “Impossible!” Grace spits small pieces of falafel onto the seat. “Too dangerous. A safe house. Some place Besim knows.”

  “There’s a ritual to act out,” Knox says. “I need to leave bread crumbs.”

  “A blood trail is more like it.” She pauses. “It is the woman, is it not?”

  “It is not,” he says avoiding the contraction in order to mock her. “They must know the transaction is off. No sale. Without playing that card, we lose Akram, trust me.”

  “Whoever shot at us will be watching the hotel.”

  “Presumably. Which will give you and Besim something to occupy yourselves.”

  “You joke?”

  “No. I’m serious. We stop and buy you a camera. Besim can find us one. We pass the photos to Hong Kong without getting Sarge involved. Run face recognition on them. It’s time we fill in some of the blanks.”

  “The hit to your head was more serious than I believed,” Grace says, scrunching down again to keep her profile out of the rear window.

  “The item . . .” Knox says. “It’s there as well. Arrangements must be made. I cannot leave the hotel with it. No one coming for it would have tried to kill me. So we know that much.”

  “The attempt was made because you were mistaken for the cutout,” Grace says. She doesn’t miss much. “Insurance. Covering all bases, all possible meetings. Am I correct? They must make certain that if there is a list, it goes no further.” When Knox says nothing, she continues. “So it was not the Iranians shooting at you because they wish the information to be passed, the exchange to be made.”

  “Doubtful, as they would want the list passed on to whoever it’s intended for.”

  “The people who mugged you,” she proposes.

  “Likely. Or a third party who k
nows more than we know and wants to start preventing loose ends.”

  “They’ll kill Akram,” she speculates.

  “I would,” says Knox. “Not Mashe—he lays the golden egg. But the brother? Why not?”

  “I do not like the way you talk, John.”

  “Maybe it was the same people who mugged me. By killing me, they force Akram to try again to pass the list. He might be safe for now.”

  “David would not betray us,” she says. Her words hang in the car like a foul smell.

  “I’m not going to say I told you so.”

  “Ha-ha.” She adds, “Too many variables.”

  “For us and for them. Yes. Knowing the way the world works, no one knows shit about anything. That’s when people start getting killed.” He waits, bracing himself as Besim takes a sharp turn too fast. “The point being, we can only deal with what we know. Move forward while trying to limit casualties.”

  “So far, we have not done such a good job at that.”

  “We stick with the plan. If they let me leave, I leave. You, too.”

  “Just like that?” Grace is appalled.

  “I’m open to suggestions.” Again, he’s mocking her. They don’t know enough to do anything more than Dulwich planned for them. If they can’t get the five minutes with Mashe, they head home. Sarge controls them even from a distance. Resentment burns through his body; Knox uses the last of the soda to combat the flames.

  “Too dangerous,” Grace complains. “Besides, I must search the Nightingale hospital. This package? The FedEx that was intercepted? The operation suggested agency involvement.”

  “It did, didn’t it?”

  “This now makes more sense. Neh? Fit into bigger picture. Need follow up.”

  “When you get angry, you speak like a Chinese girl learning the language,” he says. He’s insulted her. Honesty kills.

  A minute elapses. Two. Shutting his eyes, Knox hears Grace talking with Besim. They’re discussing cameras.

  He grins, leans his head back and passes out.

  —

  KNOX RETURNS to the Alzer and its busy sidewalk café scene in the shadow of the mosque. Victoria sits at a café table alone, drinking a South African Chardonnay and smoking an American cigarette. She leaves the table and follows Knox as he passes, the silver cigarette smoke rising like an antenna into the festooned umbrella.

  Wisely, she boards a separate elevator. Proceeds to her room. This is where he finds her.

  “That’s a stupid-looking hat,” she says, securing the door behind him. No comment about his bruises and lacerations.

  “I have a better one.”

  “Sit down beside me.” She pats the edge of the bed.

  “Can’t stay. I’m heading to the airport, Victoria.” He waits for her to collect and contain her emotions. She is remarkably in control, this one.

  “It looks as if you are not terribly popular.”

  “Maybe too popular.”

  “Police?”

  He shakes his head. “I promise you—I promise—that I am not taking the sculpture with me. It remains in safekeeping here in Istanbul. I am in no way attempting to distance myself.” His eyes convey what she most wants to hear. He hides that he’s using her to let Akram know he’s serious about leaving the country. Hates such tricks, but they’re his bread and butter. “It must be done. If I don’t leave the country, and I’m hoping I won’t have to, I’ll text you.” He pauses. “I’ll text you either way, but if I do leave, I’m not returning. Can’t.”

  “And the art?”

  And so she shows her true colors.

  “Will be retrieved by its owners.”

  “I thought you were the owner.”

  “You might call it more a consortium, and me, its front man.”

  “If you leave Istanbul, I’m out of the deal. How convenient.” The bitterness with which she says this makes him worry she’ll have him pulled aside at Immigration.

  “It has become dangerous.” He takes a risk by revealing the lump of gauze beneath his cap.

  She emits a sharp, horrified sound at the sight of his patched wound.

  “I don’t want it spreading,” he says. “Best if you trust me. I’ll give you your commission if and when I complete the sale.”

  “Why would you?”

  Indeed. He can’t afford honesty, can’t tell her how he feels without sounding trite and adolescent. Can’t afford to have her be the one with a bullet in her skull. “A crime like this crosses borders. Countries, governments, they disagree on a hundred different fronts, but they defend each other’s cultural rights. You don’t seek asylum for art theft, for gray market resale of a national treasure. There’s nowhere to run.”

  “There is no need to run. Dr. Adjani is available,” she says, reminding him of his own plan. “I could tell Akram the schedule must be moved forward. Made more to hurry.” Now she’s getting the idea.

  It’s tempting. “No. Too much of a risk. Better I leave.”

  “Let me explain for you something: Akram is in love. You understand? He never knows when I am not telling the truth.” She adds, “No man knows when a woman is being honest.” And punctuates her words for Knox’s benefit.

  “The only chance you have of profiting from this is to trust me. To find a new hotel and take great care in doing so. Wait to hear from me. End of story.”

  “It is not the end of the story.”

  They kiss. More is said in the kiss than in all the conversation that has gone before. There is trust, longing, hope. Surprise, as he pulls away, because he doesn’t want to. Enchantment.

  Victoria wears a mask of indifference. Knox knows better, or hopes he does.

  —

  THE ROMAN NUMERAL “II” appears on Knox’s phone. He switches to the second of his three SIM chips as he packs the interior pockets of his vest. As the phone registers cell service, a new text appears: a single period followed by “11:00.” Sent by Grace, it tells him that a lone wolf is watching the hotel from eleven o’clock, a spot to the left of the hotel’s front door.

  He is the model of physical efficiency; there’s not a wasted motion as he downs three extra-strength Tylenol, double-checks the contents of his windbreaker using gentle squeezes and pulls it on. Uses a toenail clipper to notch two tears in the bedsheet. He knots three six-inch-wide strips, inspects and tests his knots, and then heaves the bed against the exterior wall, ties one end of his improvised fire rope to the frame and tosses the remaining length of it out the window. Lowers himself to a connecting rooftop. Is crossing another roof when he unexpectedly disturbs a pair of lovers who have made a privacy lean-to out of drying beach towels. The woman is topless, her skirt around one ankle; her screaming boyfriend more terrifying than the presumed assassins Knox is fleeing. The young man hollers at Knox in Turkish at the top of his lungs. The damage is done before Knox finds the propped-open doorway leading down. The kid has announced him to the world.

  Knox is out on the street and hoping for a cab, listening for his phone to chime, signaling another text message from Grace. He expects to be told his surveillants are on the move.

  The cab activity is two streets away, serving the hotel and café guests. As the only Westerner standing alone on the busy sidewalk, Knox might as well be wearing neon.

  Grace has gone silent, likely having had to move away from her observation point. He won’t be suckered into returning to the hotel.

  An explosion to his left. Knox dives and rolls only to realize it’s a flowerpot dropped from the rooftop by the young man, who is attempting to avenge his lover’s modesty. The blow would have killed him. Love complicates everything, he thinks. He’s up and moving away from the Alzer when his peripheral vision picks up a man moving in concert and slightly behind across the street. Knox grits his teeth, clenches his fist. He can imagine such a man squeezing off a shot
at the back of the taxi. Can see Ali slump forward, lifeless. Feels responsible. Feels like crossing the street to return the favor but knows he’s outnumbered, outgunned and likely weaker than his opponent.

  This last thought is the most difficult to embrace, but he’s been repeatedly wounded and is physically and emotionally exhausted. The more troubling thought is that assassins who take potshots at the backs of taxis and openly pursue you from a sidewalk across the street are not in the business of taking prisoners. Abduction is a team effort. Killing is a solo enterprise. This guy’s brass has Knox worried. He doesn’t care if Knox sees his face because in his dim view of the task at hand, Knox won’t be telling anyone who he was.

  The next time Knox steals a sideways glance in his surveillant’s direction, his bowels threaten: the man’s right arm has ceased its pendulum motion at his side. Only his left swings. He’s holding something at his side, something he wants concealed.

  Knox is about to be shot at by a marksman who only fractionally missed his target through a back windshield at sixty yards. He’s unlikely to miss from across the street.

  He turns left at the intersection and crosses the street, running along the wide pedestrian boulevard in front of the majestic Fatih Cami, a white-stone mosque that rises in domes and towers seven stories high alongside an even higher minaret. Tourists are gathered around it, admiring the artistic geometry of the mosque’s spotlighted walls. Knox aims in a jagged dance for the queue of taxis, where drivers hawk for customers.

  He’s gambled correctly: his assassin won’t risk killing a tourist. Knox waves a cabdriver into the driver seat as he approaches, shouting one of the few Turkish words he can properly pronounce: “Fast!”

  He’s in the back of a taxi stitching through traffic like a rabbit through underbrush. Head low, he checks out the back and watches the assassin take the next cab in line.

  “Airport.” Drops liras onto the passenger seat. “Fast.”

  The ride is marked by bone-numbing, axle-bending collisions with potholes and poor surfaces. The contest with the trailing cab never reaches the level of NASCAR; his tail maintains a manageable distance, looming back like a hungry wolf waiting for his prey to tire. Knox is beyond tired. He’s exhausted. It’s everything he can do to fight the movement of the cab, keep it from lulling him to sleep. The dissonant Turkish folk music from the radio doesn’t help. Knox asks the driver to silence it. Earns a scowl in the mirror. Feels friendless.