The Red Room

by Ridley Pearson

  Maybe he has it wrong. Maybe this tail is nothing more than what he wants: Mashe’s Iranian guards following Knox to the airport, realizing he’s serious about leaving the country if the meet doesn’t go his way. Maybe the device held at his tail’s side was nothing more than a cell phone. Maybe his fatigue isn’t helping anything.

  The order of the taxis holds, keeping Knox in the lead for the remainder of the trip to the airport.

  As Knox arrives at the curb, the trailing cab pulls over well behind him and . . . nothing. The rear door does not open. Knox sees no motion on the other driver’s part, no attempt to stop the meter. The two cabs sit curbside, twenty meters apart. A few moments later, the space between is filled by other vehicles. Knox no longer has a clean view; he angles to pick up the curbside in his own taxi’s passenger mirror. His driver repeats several times, “Please,” in English. He motions to Knox’s door.

  Knox ignores him, watching the side mirror, waiting for the timing to be right. His moment comes when a minivan disgorges a three-generational family whose numbers could challenge the Guinness World Records book. Knox uses the cover to make it safely into the terminal. Once inside, he looks back. His taxi is gone. The other sits, unmoving, reminding him he remains the prey. The occupant could be calling in his status or awaiting an order.

  More likely, he is painfully aware of the inescapable security cameras covering every square inch of the airport from multiple angles.

  —

  THE ABSENTEE Dulwich is on Knox’s mind as he waits overnight in the airport terminal. The waiting taxi was shooed away hours ago by a police officer, and Knox has not seen it again.

  International airport terminals are among the safest places on earth. The only real threat would come from people posing as police or security officers, and if Knox makes enough noise, others will come to verify his attacker’s credentials.

  Knox wonders fuzzily why he’s still alive. The man trailing him could have had him at any number of red lights. He wonders if his going to an airport didn’t save him in more ways than he’d intended. What if whoever shot at him simply wants Knox out of the equation? What if trying to reason him into leaving the country was too risky, beyond the scope of his pursuer’s mission? By arriving at the international terminal, Knox has signaled surrender. Perhaps that’s enough to buy him a pass.

  The Israelis again? Mashe’s assassination appears less important to the Israelis than the status of Iran’s nuclear program. Five Iranian nuclear scientists have been covertly assassinated in the past seven years, four while inside Iran. Yet Mashe Okle lives.

  Dulwich promised no killing. He would not appreciate being made to lie to Knox. Silence is the easier alternative. He has stressed repeatedly that Knox’s sole mission is to get into a room with Mashe for five minutes. Knox anticipates the asset being placed onto his person, but how?

  Lack of verifiable information is what gets operatives like Knox killed. Ali’s death, his murder, sits badly with him. Operatives deserve what they get, not taxi drivers. All this concern and confusion, and yet, in the end Dulwich has given Knox exactly what he loves: the irritable panic of uncertainty and an irretrievable confidence that makes every footfall tentative. He’s living the life.

  Booking his ground transportation through the hotel desk was an intentional risk. It pays off at six A.M., three hours before his scheduled departure, when an exhausted looking Akram Okle traipses across the nearly empty expanse of marble-tiled air terminal. His face is a contortion of patronizing disappointment, regret and relief as he sits alongside Knox.

  “Do not do this,” Akram says.

  “Such art comes and goes. It will come around again. We both know this. I had a bit of a scuffle after leaving you. For the second time. There was a similar encounter after we met near the aqueduct. A man knows when to leave.”

  “A scuffle.”

  “I was shot at.” Knox removes his Tigers cap—the Turkish flag hat long since pitched—and spins his head to give the man a good, ugly look.

  “Disgusting!”

  “Think how I feel,” Knox says.

  “Who?”

  Knox chuckles, stares down the man’s profile, shakes his head and looks directly forward.

  “We are being filmed,” Akram says, bringing up his open hand to cover his whispering mouth. “Possibly eavesdropped upon.”

  “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? I feel safe here.”

  “John—”

  “Obviously, Akram, compared to you I’m a simple man. I can do without the intrigue, without being shot at. Lied to. Without my accountant being kidnapped and my taxi crashing because the driver’s been head-shot. I work extremely hard to make sure I avoid doing business with what we in the U.S. call ‘organized crime.’ The Russians, for instance.” Knox tosses it out there, pauses, and picks up a slight nostril flare from Akram, but nothing else. Wonders how much significance to give it? “I came to you for this very reason: I wanted to avoid all this shit. Now, I come to find—”

  “I am not who you say, but who you think. I am the man you know me to be.” His voice exudes pride.

  “It was supposed to be a simple transaction.”

  “Given these numbers, not so simple, my friend.” Akram is noticeably loosening. “But as to that: it can yet be made such. No?”

  “No. It’s not important. Nothing is worth getting shot. Abducted. Are you kidding?” Knox drums up a frightened voice; works hard to sound appalled. “You want it for free, that’s not going to happen. If you kill me, you’ll never find it. And don’t tell me you weren’t trying to kill me.” He returns the cap to his head, pulling it on gingerly.

  “These are people—” Akram checks himself just as Knox latches on to his words. “You tell your accountant to do what she must. I respect her efforts to protect your interests. But I tell you now: the buyer is my brother, a humble university professor and, because of this, an adviser to . . . interests outside Turkey. The window to make this deal was short to begin with and now it is closing fast. My brother is to be leaving soon.”

  Akram is no agent; he’s disclosed more than his brother would wish. The information exchange—whatever data is being passed along—will happen soon.

  “If your accountant must also meet with him,” Akram continues, “this can be arranged. But it must be on my brother’s terms. It is only to happen after authentication of the Harmodius and, respectfully, the application for information on specific investors by your accounting partner. There is no point in making such a meeting as this should the loose ends remain.”

  Knox eyes him, feigning disinterest. “It was never supposed to be half this difficult.” He adds, “Or risky.”

  “It was night, was it not?” Akram inquires. “One can only assume this bullet was intended for me.”

  “Then you have issues you clearly need to work out.” Knox believes otherwise: his presence has troubled one of the players and his removal is now seen as a way to simplify the op. “I’m scared, Akram.” He lies, savoring the role. “This is well outside my purview. You understand ‘purview’?”

  Akram nods. “My brother has pulled together several investors, as I have mentioned. This has not been easy given such short notice. These investors cannot be, will not be, revealed to your accountant. I would not wish to upset such people.”

  “Your reputation is not my concern,” Knox says.

  “No, of course not.”

  “I was nearly killed.”

  “I . . . that is . . . I believe my brother could arrange for protection.”

  “No, thank you. If we’re going to do this, it’s going to be today. Authentication. Dr. Adjani. Then we will make the exchange, the four of us. My accountant will ensure that the remainder of the funding is clean. All remaining funds must be deposited into escrow within the next three hours. From there, she will—”

  “Today? Impossi
ble! That kind of money—”

  “Is either available or not.”

  “Authentication of the piece will take weeks.”

  “You will have to be satisfied with what is possible given the limited time.”

  “Absurd.”

  “At your request, I have arranged for Dr. Adjani to evaluate the Harmodius. That was scheduled for early afternoon. Now, given the threat level, we will have to wrap the deal by tonight or I leave and take the piece with me.”

  “Be reasonable, John. The deal is easily within our grasp, but such a sched—”

  “I was shot at,” Knox says, “following a meeting with you. You will meet my conditions, Akram, or I will be forced to move on. The choice is simple, and it’s yours to make. The safest place for me is on the other side of security.”

  Akram stands. “You will contact me.” He walks away, clearly less tired than when he arrived.

  34

  I wish to speak to your office manager.” Grace slides the woman a business card left over from the op that sent her and John to Amsterdam that identifies her as a midlevel United Nations employee. It does the trick.

  “Regarding?” The woman’s English is impeccable, her choice of nail polish and hair coloring regrettable.

  “Your mail room.”

  The receptionist references her computer terminal. “Our post clerk leader is called Kaplan. You are to find him in S-one, eighteen. Elevators to your right.”

  Grace repeats the office number, collects her business card, thanks the woman and finds the elevators. She turns to the elevator mirror to check her face. There’s a man alongside her—Turkish, mid-thirties. The look he’s giving her is either a compliment or a cause for concern, because it’s not accidental, even though he plays it otherwise. The elevator car opens, and she steps off.

  The mail room manager, Kaplan, is clean-shaven and thin, in his early thirties and going bald. She considers him exceptionally ordinary, though his voice is appealing in a stagecraft way. She gives him a quick look at her business card and then gives him the FedEx tracking number.

  “This is a confidential inquiry, sir. If you pass along anything to do with my being here, or the nature of my inquiry, your actions will be considered criminal. This includes your co-workers and senior executives. Do you understand?” Grace came prepared. The accountant in her knows that paperwork intimidates far more than anything said aloud. She presents the man with a nondisclosure form downloaded from the Internet; it has little to do with their situation, but a quick scan of the consequences that stem from dissemination of “anything said or witnessed, or understood to have been said or witnessed” is so severe that the man barely reads a word before signing at the bottom. The click of his ballpoint pen nub retracting is as loud as the snap of a bear trap on his ankle.

  To her credit, she could name the date and time, as well as the shipper, BioLectrics, which makes the request all the more convincing.

  Kaplan carries out his duties, consulting a computer terminal silently and efficiently. With his eyes on the screen, he confirms receipt of the package on the day Grace has gleaned from FedEx. “Delivered in hospital the following morning.”

  “To what department, floor, office or doctor?” she asks officiously, allowing a degree of impatience to seep into her voice.

  “The Kazan Building. Floor five. Cardiology. Dr. Osman.”

  “Contents?”

  Kaplan looks up, suddenly terrified. “I am sorry, ma’am. I . . . we . . .” He looks befuddled. “Rarely, if ever, are we made aware of a package’s contents.”

  “Yes, of course.” Grace considers her options. She feels electric. High from acting out her role convincingly, and from the man’s palpable response to the pressure she applies. Control is its own endorphin.

  For dramatic effect, she paces in front of the desk, then turns authoritatively to face Kaplan. “I cannot make this inquiry. Do you see?” She is counting on him being unable to see anything of the sort. “It must come internally if it is to remain anonymous.” She pretends she needs a few more seconds to pull her thoughts together. “You will call Dr. Osman’s office and explain that there has been confusion about a certain package—this package, you understand? The contents of this package. They will please consult their invoice and confirm the contents of the package and that they received the contents in working condition.” She places her hands on the desk and leans toward him. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Exactly as I have said. You are doing your job, Kaplan. There must be nothing in your voice or your attitude to imply differently. Are we clear?”

  The poor man is sweating from his forehead and hairline—what’s left of it.

  “We process such shipments from BioLectrics regularly, ma’am. Every three to four weeks, without fail. Always approximately the same weight and size. Cardiology. They are pacemakers.”

  A clap of thunder could not have been louder. Grace nearly squeals. Nearly runs around the desk and hugs the man. Chastises herself for her own stupidity.

  Maintaining her calm, she asks that he not speculate, and to please confirm the contents of the delivery. Inside, she’s bubbling.

  The clerk makes a show of collecting himself before placing the call. We’re both acting, she thinks. Though most of the Turkish escapes her, the man’s tone does not. He is annoyed, concerned, perhaps implying that an employee of his has come under suspicion of theft—she can’t be sure. He carries out his assigned duty and hangs up the receiver.

  “One dozen pacemakers. Exactly as I have said.” His confidence borders on cocky. How quickly the attitude of men changes as their testosterone is reestablished. Grace moves to gather her documents and once again swears him to secrecy. She thanks him on her way out and phones Knox from an area outside the hospital’s main entrance, where a group of people stand smoking. She cups the phone so she can’t be overheard.

  “Go ahead,” Knox says, answering.

  “The package they substituted contains pacemakers.”

  “How certain—?”

  “Confirmed.”

  “Someone’s going to have heart trouble. We need the POI’s medical records.”

  She notes the care he takes not to refer to Mashe by name. “We will never get them,” she says. “I go through those firewalls, I bring the lions to our door again.”

  “The package has to involve him.”

  “But not directly. The switch was made days before either of us arrived in Istanbul. It is the mother who is hospitalized.”

  “Shit,” he says. “Ali. The taxi. What if all of that has nothing to do with Mashe and the sculpture and everything to do with our spending time on the mosque terrace, shooting videos and chasing down FedEx shipments?”

  “And hacking bank accounts and breaching Iranian university firewalls. Yes. I see.”

  “Sarge said no deaths,” Knox blurts out.

  “We should work with that.”

  “How? He’s lying!”

  “We can assume he knows nothing of this. Without a good deal of work, we would know nothing as well.”

  “The more we know, the less we know,” Knox says irritably.

  “Do you wish to abort?”

  “Not an option. Victoria can blackball me with the Turkish cultural ministries. I ran from the Jordanian police. We moved the shipment on them. They have plenty of cause to bring me in if she stirs the nest. It could make it tricky for me and Tommy. The import/export. It’s important I satisfy her—”

  Grace clears her throat.

  “If I cut and run without paying her a commission . . . It’ll likely follow me.” Knox backtracks, reviewing his most recent conversation with Akram at the airport for relevant details. “Look, no matter what, this is over later today. We get our five minutes, and we get out. We can still do this.”

  “We continue
as scheduled,” she says. She pronounces it “shed-uled,” like the Brits. She didn’t pick that up in China, but from living in Hong Kong. She hears herself speak and it triggers a picture, a complex self-portrait that jumps from her parents’ traditional home to university, to her army service, to graduate school in California. The flashing images leave her with a sudden keen sense of her own mortality. She wonders if she’s getting old or if it’s only the poison of fear that makes her feel so. “Your Victoria is the connection to Dr. Adjani. She transports the art while you meet with the younger brother. I must remain here, collect pacemaker.” She hears herself sounding Chinese, knows it signals her stress level to Knox; hopes he doesn’t call her on it. They have agreed on the importance of knowing the role of the devices. No more surprises.

  She hears Knox hesitate. Suspects that though he supports her, Knox is about to remind her that Dulwich doesn’t want them digging.

  She intercepts him. “Do you trust her?”

  “Of course not.”

  “We arrange a driver for her. Besim keeps watch.”

  Knox goes quiet on the other end of the call. She can sense that he’s considering arguing with her, and she takes it as points in her column when he says, “That works.” It’s spoken with more than a whiff of resentment.

  35

  For Knox, the op has been reduced to base objectives. Victory will be defined by survival. Working off the idea that some force he can’t yet ID wants him out of Istanbul, he buys a one-way ticket for Gebze, Turkey. He uses his company credit card, assuming his transactions may be watched—by Dulwich? the client? the Israelis? He’s not sure.

  In-country travel does not require him to pass through Immigration, where he fears interference by Victoria or yet another party might lead him to be red-flagged. The plane is still in turnaround as he waits at the gate. He pays an additional seventy-five dollars at the desk for priority boarding. Walks the air bridge behind the first-class passengers, arriving outside the jet’s entry while the food service crew is still at work in the galley. The food service truck is parked opposite. Knox steps out of line to tie a shoe that doesn’t need tying. Two people pass him. The flight attendant moves down the aisle to help push a bag into an overhead. The food service man stumbles past with a crate of sodas.