He keeps the Tigers cap pulled low as he settles himself onto a stone step across town. Doesn’t want his height and physique drawing undue attention. He wears his important belongings on his person, thanks to the Scottevest. Needs a stop at a department store for a change of clothing.
He continues his surveillance of the Yurtiçi Kargo storefront. Satisfied he’s spotting nothing out of the ordinary at the shipping center, but wary nonetheless, he crosses the street, lengthening his strides to reduce his height. He was with Victoria Momani when she called FedEx and requested an alternate delivery. He trusts that between the hand-off to Turkish authorities by the Jordanians — if such a hand-off ever took place, which is unlikely given the reluctant, sluggish nature of overly possessive international security divisions — any live monitoring of the bust’s movements is unlikely. More credible is that its air bill destination might have been shared or be under surveillance. He can’t imagine Victoria’s redirect to this branch office being picked up on. Bureaucracy has its blessings.
Inside, he presents false ID in the name of one of three covers he carries, John Chambers. The delivery is efficient, no tell apparent from the woman behind the counter. The bulk and weight of the crate creates problems, or would for most. Knox carries it like a hatbox in one hand, stunning the woman, who struggled to move it from cart to scale.
An instant later, he’s out in the street, eyes alert for those alert to him. It’s a strange and disconcerting element of this work; he imagines it being akin to the weight of celebrity. Knox is rarely indifferent to his surroundings, is perpetually preoccupied with survival. It’s a condition shared with animals in the wild — fight or flight, the underlying awareness that every moment is kill or be killed. Some will claim they can feel it, that they possess a prescience that can alert them to surveillance. Knox is not so lucky; he needs some sign. And although he has trained his senses well beyond those of the “average man,” spotting group surveillance continues to elude him. His only hope is to identify one of many and expand from there.
This is the task he puts himself to as he climbs into a taxi. His eyes roam, searching for faces he saw during his curbside vigil. He makes comments about how beautiful the city is to satisfy his driver’s curiosity. Knox makes an excuse of forgetting something, directing the driver to circle a block to return to the pickup — an attempt to spot mobile surveillance. Feigns discovery of the missing item on his person and redirects the cab once again. It’s a familiar routine, but far from comfortable. He’s crawling out of his skin within minutes.
He checks into the Alzer Hotel as himself. Is a returning guest and, as such, is treated like royalty. He declines an upgrade in order to remain on the first floor, one above street level. He looks down on the hotel’s café seating, has a view across an open plaza and a mosque beyond. Its spires and walls suggest an exotic fortress, a world secreted from prying eyes like his. Such treasures await the unsuspecting visitor on nearly every corner: a Roman bath, a Greek column and a mosque.
He keeps the Obama bust in its crate in the bottom of the armoire, displacing a pair of courtesy terry-cloth slippers and a shoeshine kit. Thinks back to Dulwich’s description of the op and wonders if things will settle down now.
They need no introduction when he makes the call, as the caller ID on her end has identified him as Hopper 7.
“We need to get together and go over the books,” she says. Her use of their cover, Grace as his bookkeeper, tells him she’s speaking somewhere she doesn’t believe is secure. He finds it easy to slip into his role.
“Indeed. Work up a budget for me, please, with an eye toward the improving climate.”
“My pleasure.”
There’s something about the way she says it that takes his mind off the job at hand. “Why don’t you pick the location, as I’ve just arrived?”
“I am somewhat… preoccupied,” she says, choosing the word carefully, “with other clients. I could fit you in around drinks.”
She’s suggesting she’s being watched or followed. Knox mulls this over, compares it to his own situation in Amman. He should have pushed Sarge for more details about his “chat” with Grace; sometimes his wisecracking banter is a detriment, though he’s loath to admit it.
“Name it.”
She picks a Starbucks near the Firuz Aga Mosque in the old city. Knox knows the adjoining park welclass="underline" its handcarts selling fresh melon and bananas, the vegetation an unexpected mix of tropical and temperate. The choice of Starbucks disappoints him but is so in character he should have thought of it first. The time is set for three-thirty.
He gets a shower and a much needed nap. Buys two sets of clothes, head-to-toe, and puts them into the hotel express wash. Where once there was adrenaline and urgency, there is routine, a condition he cautions himself against.
Grace’s face remains passive, but her eyes light up at his entrance. They kiss cheeks and he sits across a small table from her. Before anyone else has a chance to enter the coffee shop, she reviews her arrival to the airport and the tail she collected, speaking quietly and fast.
“If I had to guess, I’d say Dulwich is a lying sack of shit,” Knox says.
Grace bites back a smile, chastising him with her expressive eyes, and opens her laptop to actual spreadsheets of Knox’s import business. They sit closer and she traces lines on the screen with a blue fingernail.
“You do not think this,” she says.
“No. I think he’s into something big — we’re into something big — that has political ramifications, and is likely another attempt to improve something that will never be fixed. He knows I’m a sucker for lost causes. He uses that. And even knowing that, I fall into it, so it’s on me.”
“This common interest in Mashe Melemet is shared by others,” she says.
“Who?”
“The mother is Melemet. Hospital records,” Grace says. “Oldest son, Mashe. Younger son, Akram. The spying is on Mashe.”
“You’ve had company,” he says.
She nods.
“Me, too. You ID them?”
She shakes her head.
“Me, neither.” He never stops checking out the other occupants. Has them memorized by face and clothing. “So tell me about him — the brother.”
“He is quite well off. Income is paid through Iran’s Ministry of Industry and Mines.” Grace answers before he asks. “Regulation of industry, including mining. Promotion of export of mining products, including engineering and technology.”
“A cover for military research?”
“Possibly, though his investments suggest an academic. Sciences. Pharmas. Aviation. Space exploration. He could indeed be a researcher. And get this: all listings are on the NASDAQ and the NYSE.”
He smirks.
“I thought you would like that.”
“So, a scientific academic in Iran,” Knox says, leaving it in the air between them.
“He liquidated investments ahead of your previous sales to Akram.”
“He’s my collector.”
“Indeed.”
“And Brian Primer wants us both in a room with him for five minutes, but he swears it’s not a hit.”
He sees surprise.
“What?” he asks.
“The request is from David, neh, not Mr. Primer?”
Ever the realist, Knox thinks.
“My immediate role is to ensure the meet between you and Mashe.”
“You do that how?”
Her eyes say, please. Her voice says, “You like things clean.”