“Please.”
She inverts her bag. Her knot of wires and cameras tumble out.
“How many of those were installed?” he inquires.
“One.”
“Do you assume me so naïve?”
“If I’d had more time . . .”
“Remove it, please.”
She uses a chair to access the top of the bookshelf and retrieve the video camera. The lens is smaller than a lentil. It attaches by a nearly nonexistent wire to a box half the size of a sugar cube. He has been staring at her legs as she climbed; he asks for it, and she hands it to him.
“Amazing,” he says.
To her surprise, he returns it to her and tells her to pack the bag.
In doing so, she manages to check the time. She’s been away from the room for thirty minutes. She has failed on all fronts.
“Tell Knox these things take time. His is a very large order. The manufacturer must carefully measure production before committing. There’s no saying he’ll go for the deal.”
She’s unable to tell if he’s talking about himself in third person.
“You should keep in mind—yourself—as well as pass along to Knox, that this operation . . . these rug merchants . . . Let’s just say they are acutely aware of, shall we say, the world opinion of their ethics. They are not the type to tolerate outside interference. You would have been raped and your throat slit by now if this had been their offices. I would not blindly follow everywhere Knox leads you, young lady. He would be quick to cut bait in a case like yours. You don’t see him knocking down the door to rescue you, do you?”
“If I should scream,” she says, “he will be through that door before you hear me.” She smiles and stands.
Kreiger stands as well, blocking her.
“We can try it, if you like,” she proposes.
A sheen forms on his face.
She marvels at the man’s instant reaction to Knox. She hoists the purse to her shoulder. Tightens the robe’s belt once again. Realizes she knows Knox in ways others do not.
“I’ll have the office swept.” He makes it a threat.
She looks down to the carpet. “It could use it.”
She provokes laughter from him.
“I could use a woman like you,” he says, smiling. “Here at Natuurhonig.”
“Get in line,” says Grace.
—
FROM THE OBSERVATION ROOM, Grace sees Veronique’s wrists tied with bows to the bed frame, her lean, blue body stretched out elegantly on the bed. Knox has blindfolded her. She is smiling while he, in briefs, runs a feather across her.
Grace feels a spike of sentimentality. It’s “us against the world” for her and Knox. She’s beginning to care for him, despite herself. Not romantically, not exactly; she’s unsure what it is she feels. She shakes off the feeling, but it’s sticky and stubborn.
She recognizes the scar on him she helped to mend. One among several. Recalls the story of Knox dragging Dulwich from the burning wreck of a transport, wondering if any of the scars are traceable to that incident. Or the streets of Detroit? Wonders at those unseen, the kind she carries. She spends a few seconds longer here than necessary, causing her to question herself. She is not given to such nostalgia. What’s happening to her? she wonders. She has loved before—loves, still—but this is not that. Is it? Not close. Then what?
An adrenaline hangover from Kreiger’s office, she convinces herself. Blood chemistry, nothing more. A narrow escape. She pulls herself together, realizing she will likely have to dress in front of him.
She opens the door.
“Ah . . .” Veronique says, smiling. She hears Knox’s belt buckle as he begins dressing. “What is this, please?” She unties herself, removes the blindfold.
“I am afraid I am not feeling well,” Grace says, eyes to the floor.
“I did not please you?” the woman says to Knox.
“We have to go,” Knox says. He reaches for his wallet.
“Not again,” Grace says to him. “Please . . .” They both know she’s harking back to Chongming.
He places a great many euros onto the bed. Many times what they owe. He keeps enough for cab fare.
“Find other work,” he tells the woman.
Veronique stares at the pile of cash. Looks between Knox and Grace.
“It is not you,” Grace says, nearly dressed. Struggling into the tight skirt. “He has this . . . it is an emotional problem. We thought tonight . . . that is, we had hoped . . .”
Knox has his hand on the doorknob, waiting impatiently. He holds the door for Grace, takes a fleeting look back at the naked woman stretched out on the bed and closes the door.
—
AVOIDING PUBLIC TRANSPORT, they pause to overlook the black, still waters of a canal. Pale light seeps from the cabin of a boat tied a hundred meters downstream. A tension holds between them.
“He caught me,” she says, “inside his office.”
Knox remains focused on the mirrored water.
She recounts the events down to the exchange of dialogue.
“And we come away empty-handed?”
“No, not at all. He will have the office swept and discover no more bugs. He will have his computer scanned but will find nothing.”
“Is that possible?”
She sighs.
“I’m sorry.”
“We will have video and audio as long as the laptop is online. We will monitor his keystrokes, allowing us to obtain his passwords as well as his correspondence. We are inside his head now, John. His cell phone number will be listed among his contact information.”
“I have his number.”
“There may be others. How many chips do you carry? It is possible he will list bank accounts, credit cards and other financial information in his contacts. Many do. We will have his browser history.”
Knox whistles. The sound carries out across the water. “Less traffic out here,” he says.
“Yes. It is quite peaceful.”
“You must be wondering what I saw.”
“You believe me so childish?”
“Then you don’t care?”
“Do I look fourteen? I need to get started. We go separately from here.”
They walk to the end of the bridge. Grace turns left, Knox right. As she reaches the curb, she stops and turns. He’s standing across the intersection looking back at her.
“You do not look fourteen.”
Knox has relocated them to another houseboat, this time on Keizersgracht not far from the Amsterdam Hermitage. It’s the same boat by the same manufacturer, the same layout as the first, but Sonia has been installed into the waterside cabin because Keizersgracht has a fair amount of foot traffic; Knox is taking no chances of an inadvertent sighting.
Perched on the berth, her laptop on her lap, Sonia clings to a glass of red wine, half full. It’s a familiar sight; she hasn’t moved from this pose in days. But it’s not the same woman; one look tells him as much. Tells him more than he wants to know. The wine bottle stands close to empty.
“What is it?” He speaks at a low volume. Closes the thin wooden door gently behind him. Latches its brass latch.
Sonia plays music from her laptop to cover their voices. Contemporary Top 20 pop. She’s full of surprises. Knox sits by her ankles.
Her eyes wander to his, then roll into the back of her head and her pupils reappear. She stares him down with angry eyes. He looks back at the near-empty wine bottle. Its glass refracts and displaces the camera tucked behind it. His Nikon.
“Who are you?” she says accusingly.
“You’ve had too much to drink.”
“Who—?”
“You know who I am!”
She spins the laptop to face him. “I needed to caption whatever photo I was to include with my article.”