The Red Room

by Ridley Pearson

  “Are you going to make me beg?”

  “David did not confirm the man’s occupation to me. Did he to you?”

  “What a snake.”

  “He allowed us our assumptions,” Grace says. “Fair play.”

  “He must have loved that we both jumped to the same conclusion.”

  “He choreographed this. Yes?”

  “I suppose he did.” Knox drops his head into his large hands in concentration. “How can Mashe possibly afford the Harmodius if he’s not in arms dealing?”

  “Investors. A consortium. The money will be kept in a phantom account or will be held as cash in a safe-deposit box or home safe. It is possible it cannot be wired. If cash, it would be safer to carry it in. Physically transported.”

  “But Mashe is already here,” Knox says.

  “A friend or family member. A mule he trusts implicitly.”

  “His wife.”

  “Or mistress, or cousin. It can be done,” she says. “But to convert such amounts of currency? At black market rates? It is very onerous. Funds wired from a ghost account would convert at bank rates, the most favorable possible.”

  “Mashe would wire the funds here,” Knox speculates, trying to follow, “from a fake account. Akram would collect it as cash from various banks, bundle it and deliver to me. Leaving us where?”

  “Leaving you stuck with too much cash to legally get out of the country. You say your previous dealings have been cash?”

  “Yeah. But we’re talking small amounts.”

  “This time it must be different. Can you take a meeting with Akram?”

  “Of course.”

  “We will need a pickpocket,” she says. “Must be a thousand around the Hagia Sophia.”

  “You going to put out a sandwich board offering employment?” he says.

  She looks surprised. “Yes! I suppose it should be something like that.”

  He wonders: is she mocking him, or is she being sweetly naive? Has she already formed a plan, or is she leaving it up to him? He grins privately as Grace allows a smirk beneath her oversized sunglasses. There is cunning in her expression, a high-spiritedness and a convincing smugness that suggests she is already three steps ahead of him.

  17

  In order to harpoon his pickpocket, Knox performs a gag he learned off a middle schooler named Cameron Wood on a school trip to New York City. Warned by their chaperone of thieves in Times Square, Cameron and his buddies bought a street vendor wallet and put a note in it reading, “You are being electronically tracked by the NYPD.” Cameron then volunteered to be the one to carry the decoy wallet in his back pocket, keeping his real one in the front. When the class returned to the hotel from a walk around Times Square, Cameron realized the wallet was gone; he never felt a thing. He and his pals got a good laugh at what the pickpocket’s face must have looked like when he read their note.

  Knox’s three notes, written in Turkish by the hotel receptionist, read, “I will pay five times this. Look for the tall American by the ticket window.”

  He, too, carries a dummy wallet showing slightly from his back pocket. But unlike young Cameron, Knox knows exactly when each of the three wallets is stolen. Each carries a handwritten note and the equivalent of ten USD in Turkish liras.

  He waits thirty minutes by the mosque’s ticket window. The apprehensive boy is twelve years old with oversized eyes and a choirboy complexion. He keeps himself at arm’s length in case Knox turns out to be trouble.

  Knox is trouble, but not in any way the boy will ever know.

  —

  KNOX AND AKRAM OKLE meet two blocks from the DoubleTree on Mithat Pasa Caddesi, a narrow street that could be Paris or Brussels except for the occasional Red Crescent on a sign. Art galleries intermingle with boutique hotels. Nothing over three stories. Freshly painted neoclassical alongside colonial. The men are in blue jeans, long-sleeved shirts and sweaters. Running shoes. Not a woman in sight. Knox is spitting distance from the Grand Bazaar, the Beyazit Tower and the Calligraphy Museum. In any five-block area of the European side of Istanbul, there is more history than in all of Athens. He thinks they should put a glass dome over the entire city and preserve it as it is. The Syrians or Georgians or Kurds are bound to destroy it in a forgettable conflict and the world will lose a treasure, as it has lost Lebanon. He absorbs what he can with what little of him is not preoccupied surveying his immediate surroundings. He plays far too much defense; he’s eager to get himself on the other side of the ball.

  Someone is grilling lamb nearby. There’s the scent of cardamom in the air, carried on a charcoal breeze. Knox is ready for lunch; to his delight, the source of the aromas is their meeting spot. He passes through a beaded curtain, keeps his eye on a pair of low ceiling fans and asks Akram to switch sides of the table with him as they shake hands, providing Knox a view of the entrance. It is an uncomfortable moment that neither man draws attention to.

  They talk briefly about the time of year and the approach of cooler days. Knox expresses concern over the illness in the man’s family. Akram orders for them, telling Knox of a dish this restaurant does better than any other in the city. Knox settles in for a long lunch. Akram likes his food.

  There are tourists scattered throughout, none fitting the descriptions provided by Grace, but Knox has every person sized up and he’s located the exit by the two restrooms, as well as the entrance to the kitchen. He drinks coffee that should be considered an alternative fuel, tolerates the cigarette smoke. Realizes a dentist could make more money in this city than a bond trader. He’s high on adrenaline and the approach of negotiation, feels it in his loins like he’s about to try to flirt an underwear model into leaving a party with him.

  “So, this thing we talked about,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “Should I consider you interested?”

  Akram lowers his eyes in consent. Knox finds the man’s face to be a confusion of contradictions. Bronze facial skin covered by a salt-and-pepper balbo beard that adds ten years to what is likely his early thirties. Nearly shaved head to lessen the impression of a receding hairline. Heavy, expressive eyebrows shield wide-set eyes that could be black glass, yet his gaze reveals that he’s multitasking. He’s an IRS agent who knows everyone cheats on his or her taxes, a priest awaiting the first stone. He’d run a fillet knife through you if you crossed him, but he’ll attend your son’s bar mitzvah no matter how far he has to travel. He wears a cracked brown leather jacket that might have trouble zipping shut when it reaches his chest. The tight fitting black T-shirt supports this assessment. He wears no jewelry. The face of his rubber sports watch is scratched, its black band cracked.

  “It’s many times greater than that of any of our prior transactions.”

  Knox withholds comment.

  “First, let me say, my friend, that I mean no insult to your integrity.” He allows that to fester in Knox. “I must question how it is an item that has eluded the top archaeologists and researchers for several centuries, suddenly appears in the hands of a . . .” He’s searching for a word other than “amateur.”

  Knox saves him. “Even a good copy is worth serious consideration. We both know that. And this is not a good copy.”

  “The original Harmodius? This is not possible.”

  “And yet we are here.”

  “So it is.”

  “I expect you will want authentication. I will agree to the specialist of your choosing, but I am to accompany the piece at every step, and I will determine the location. Your man has three days.”

  Akram purses his lips. “Absurd. Three months, perhaps. Analysis of mineral composition, weathering layers, historical comparison. This takes time.”

  “I have paperwork with me. An independent, well-respected expert. You can call him directly and he will confirm the contents of the paperwork. As to the funds, half will be placed into escrow
. At that time I will permit verification to begin. Time is of the essence.”

  “Someone has done a good job of selling you, my friend. I do not know whether to feel sorry for you or happy for them.”

  “I mean no insult to your integrity,” Knox says deliberately, “but I will need a credit check, or asset verification. The sum is large and not easily raised.”

  “I cannot think of a museum that would not do business with you, whatever terms you demand.”

  “Do you read the news? The art world has become too accountable. What has happened to everyone?”

  “Globalization,” Akram says. “We were far better off when isolated in our own countries. We wanted blue jeans. We ended up with the EU. If only we had known.”

  “You are able to raise the funds?” Knox asks.

  “For a good copy, certainly. For the original? How long do we play this charade?”

  The food arrives. Knox inhales deeply.

  “I told you,” Akram said. “The chef is an artist.”

  The presence of food lessens the tension. Akram shares a story about one of his six daughters, who is training as a gymnast back in Irbid, Jordan. She has started to grow taller, maturing early, and it’s a family crisis.

  “You are wondering how I can afford such artwork,” Akram says, as the third course, the lamb Knox smelled out on the street, arrives.

  “Not my business. Only that you’re able.”

  “Let us assume it is a copy, to your great surprise.”

  “Very well.”

  “It would be wise for us to have two prices in mind. Yes?”

  “As to that, the down payment will be held in escrow. If you pass, your money will be returned.”

  “So confident! Please pardon me, my friend. But are you so naive?”

  Knox shrugs. This is some of the best lamb he’s ever tasted.

  “It’s the marinade,” Akram says.

  “Secret recipe?”

  “More precious than your Harmodius, believe me.”

  “I do not,” Knox says. “Five hundred thousand, U.S.”

  Akram Okle offers his first tell: he pinches his nose to clear it. Knox had taken note of the tic earlier, but now he establishes its significance.

  “I offer it to you first out of respect. You have only a matter of days to fund the escrow. I will then deliver the piece for analysis at a place and time of my choosing. It will be very last minute, I am afraid.” There are only a few labs in Istanbul capable of authentication. Arranging an ambush at multiple locations will present a challenge for Akram. Knox must cover every base.

  “I would request the same.”

  “As I said, I have test results,” Knox says. He unzips two of the nineteen pockets in the Scottevest to locate the paperwork Dulwich supplied. Passes it across the table, keeping his hand atop it. He wants the symbolism of the exchange to register.

  Knox says, “I will accept half as a down payment. It must be received at least twenty-four hours before your people assay it.”

  “Twenty-five percent.”

  “Fifty percent. No less.”

  “As you wish,” Akram says. He studies Knox carefully as he slides the paperwork his way. He shows tremendous strength in not looking at it. He won’t trust the contents, but it will set him drooling. It will help his people know what to verify in the short time Knox will give them at the lab. “Can you handle this, John? A deal like this? This size?”

  “Our earlier deals . . . I was testing you,” Knox lies. “I thought you ready for this. If I am wrong . . .”

  Akram pinches the bridge of his nose again and inhales. “It is impossible, the Harmodius. You must understand.”

  “Half now,” Knox says. “The other half wired to the account of my choosing upon delivery.” He goes back to the lamb. Delicious.

  18

  Back on the same bench in front of the Sisli mosque, Grace speaks softly.

  “Detroit is up in the World Series. Congratulations.”

  “Verlander is a god,” says Knox.

  “He cannot pitch every game. I will put ten dollars on the opponent in tonight’s game three.”

  “You, gamble?”

  “Consider my heritage. You think mahjong is a game of fun?”

  “What do we know of our boy’s movement?”

  “His chip went unused the morning after we spotted him surveilling. He’s obviously careful.”

  “Or well informed.”

  Grace respects Knox’s ability in the field, is trying to learn from him. This work, the work she is doing right now, is dream work. Out from behind the desk, yet still able to use her accounting skills, sitting on a plaza bench in Istanbul riding an adrenaline high. She senses how close she is to being given a solo assignment. Sees down the road a boutique security firm, her picking and choosing ops that satisfy more than the bottom line—like the work she and Knox did in Amsterdam.

  She worries that Knox won’t forgive her once he realizes how she has used him. She has evolved from tolerance, through acceptance, to appreciation of her sometime collaborator. Knox is like a piece of contemporary art: meaningless at first glance, but in time comes to speak to you.

  “Sarge has withheld information from us,” Knox says.

  “Possibly.” Grace feels a rush. “SOP. NTK.”

  “Protecting the client?”

  “And the mark,” she says. “This is how he explained it to me. Yes. Perhaps not only the client and mark. You were rescued by that van, or so you said.”

  “But then what we’re saying is that this is something so heinous a government can’t be associated with the outcome. That’s the reality break for me. Sarge promised there would be no targeting of Mashe.”

  “Sensitive, perhaps not heinous,” says Grace.

  “Their own spooks handle sensitive. This has to be more than that.”

  “David prefers we perform the operation as assigned.”

  Knox ignores her. “It could be someone connected to Mashe. I could buy that—using Mashe to lure out a bigger fish. That would allow Sarge to promise me nothing’s going to happen to Mashe. I didn’t expand the playing field. My bad.”

  “I could suggest we stay with the operation,” Grace says.

  “Says the woman doing all the digging around. What’s gotten into you, anyway?” When she fails to answer, he asks, “Is there actually any hope that these videos will mean anything?”

  Knox gets restless easily. His legs bounce. His feet start tapping.

  “There is, of course, something of significance here. Four separate visits by the person we now think of as an agent of the client.” She speaks encouragingly. “A few more minutes, please.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “If you sit still, the image will be clearer.”

  “Point taken.”

  The two ride out the remaining seven minutes. In that time, fifty or more people stream in and out of the mosque entrance. Several hundred cars flow past. It is a remarkable sight. Europeans, Americans, Africans, Japanese tourist groups, Arabs.

  “Maybe your guy just likes people-watching.” Knox is in a snarky mood. She can’t blame him; he’s not a stakeout type. More the brass knuckle variety.

  “Your opinion of Akram?” She tries to read his face.

  “My opinion doesn’t matter. Sarge puts him as the messenger. He and his brother know that even an ancient copy of the Harmodius is invaluable. Many times what I’m asking, and I have a problem with a client willing to sacrifice millions—many millions—just so we can spend five minutes with Mashe Okle. Translation: whatever it is we’re supposed to accomplish would either cost the client those same millions, or the desired outcome is so impossible for them to accomplish on their own that it’s worth those millions. You see?”

  Knox has a way of clarifying things. Grace is
overly sensitive about her lack of this ability. She equates Knox’s faculty with the much-heralded American ability to create and innovate; her own tendency is toward rote technical skills. She thinks of Knox’s Chinese violinist example and flushes. Here, he has turned a double negative into a positive. It’s not the high price of the art; it’s the amount being given up by establishing a lower price that tells them something about the seller.

  “You are more clever than you give yourself credit for,” she says softly.

  “Do you hear me disagreeing?”

  “You are also arrogant and rude.”

  “And I wear it proudly.”

  She reminds herself never to compliment him. “You can be such an ass.”

  She expects another of his snide comebacks. Is surprised to see that she has stung him.

  “I put out a feeler for a meeting with Sarge. I got back postponement.”

  “He is here in Istanbul,” she says. “I feel it.”

  “You know what? I hope not. I actually hope not.”

  “Hope leads to disappointment; action to success.”

  “Another proverb?”

  She doesn’t answer. “What do we do about it? About David?”

  “We consider the people that pulled me into the van and the people who followed you as allies, at least of Sarge. Probably working for the client. We assume we are pawns, and you know how I feel about that. We need to come up with a way to do the op without their involvement, client or not. I don’t trust them.”

  “Maybe this helps us determine who and why,” she says, indicating the two phones shooting video.

  “I’d rather shoot a guy in the leg than shoot video,” Knox says. “Puts a person in a sharing mood real quick.”

  “There is a surprise.”

  “Akram?”

  “I have what I need.” Grace looks toward the mosque. “Xin and Dr. Kamat will help me to breach the bank firewalls. I have every confidence the plan will go forward as designed.”

  “You never lack for confidence,” Knox says.

  “You exaggerate, as usual.”

  “Don’t give me that false modesty . . . that Chinese thing you do, going all humble and demure? It’s undignified.”