The clerk places his hairy hand over the shears, pinning them to the counter.
“It is inhumane,” the young woman says. “Only a coward must bind his wife’s hands like a prisoner.”
The sound of approaching sirens carry down the street outside, giving everyone pause.
The young woman doubts herself. “What have you done?”
Grace pleads, “Please! There isn’t much time!” The sirens form a chorus. “Whose side will they take?”
The young woman isn’t going to touch the man’s hand. She snags a butane lighter from a basket and lights its blue flame. She looks down at the curls of black hair on the back of the man’s hand.
Minding the flame, he takes his hand off the scissors, but the young woman and Grace are of like mind. Grace has angled her wrists and the girl is melting the plastic tie that binds them. It catches fire, emitting dark black smoke, and then pops as Grace applies outward pressure.
The matrons jump away as the burning plastic whistles to the floor.
Grace utters a Muslim blessing to the girl, who returns it.
“There is a door through the back.” The girl speaks English, her all-knowing look holding Grace. “Do not worry.” Again, English. “I say nothing.”
Grace rushes toward the rear of the shop.
The streets are narrow and as thick with people as the air, which hangs heavy with the smell of spiced food and human sweat. Smog cloaks the tops of the low buildings like morning fog over a river. She hears coughing and the scratch of grit beneath shoes, the roar of car engines, children’s voices and a barking confined dog. Despite its uncanny similarity to Shanghai’s claustrophobic neighborhoods, it is foreign to her. She is a stranger here, in looks, height, dress. She has no money. Her phone is worthless. She has no idea where she is in relation to the Bosphorus or any other city landmarks. Senses she is a target, that they are coming after her.
She swipes a head scarf from a woman’s shopping bag as she passes; pulls it on and cinches it beneath her chin. Wishes for a pair of dark glasses. Needs some sense of bearings. More minarets than chimneys in Dickensian London. More people than a parade route. The buildings are too crowded, the street too winding for her to get a glimpse of the landscape. And all the while, there is the inescapable tension of the Pamplona bulls coming up behind her.
Head down. Long strides. She uses car mirrors to check the street. Cuts in front of taller vehicles, using them as screens. Looks for a bicycle, anything to move her faster. A part of her cannot believe anyone could find her given the crush, but she knows better. Rutherford Risk is in business because of the suffocating hold kidnappers maintain on hostages — even escaped hostages. Informal networks of payoffs. Corrupt cops. Gangs. The underground world is five times the size of the legitimate one. It runs on a currency of favor and fear, is a place where debts are final and betrayal is met with punishment that extends across generations.
Her phone vibrates in her pocket, stunning her. She fishes it out. The carrier is written in Arabic. Glancing back all the while in search of anyone following, she stops several people, asking in Turkish: “Please!” and holding out her phone. Finally, a woman stops.
“My phone,” Grace says, speaking Turkish. “What does this mean?”
The woman tries English. “This says, problem. How you say, problem? Difficulty?”
“Emergency!”
“Just so. Emergency. Yes. Like hospital.”
“I can dial an emergency number?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“What do I dial for police?”
“This number is the one, the five, the five.”
“One, five, five. Thank you.”
“May I help, please?”
Grace fights back a surge of emotion. Her eyes glass over. The Turks are such warm people.
“You have. Thank you so much. Indebted.”
She spots a man a half block back, recognizes him as one of her captors.
Her newfound girlfriend picks up on the sudden fear coursing through Grace. Looks back and forth between the two with troubled eyes. “This man make trouble you?”
Perhaps she has seen the red, raw rings on Grace’s wrists or the dried sweat and smeared makeup. But no. It’s Grace’s feet: she is shoeless, wearing only ankle socks.
Even with its chip pulled, the phone can dial emergency calls.
“One-five-five. Thank you!” Grace speaks even as she runs from the man approaching.
29
Go around,” Knox instructs the cabbie in crude Turkish.
The cabbie’s posted ID reveals a Muslim name to go with his Egyptian face. The vehicle skirts a small fire engine and two police cars pulled to the curb, negotiates the crowd of curious onlookers. Knox strains to look up from within the cab. It’s a nondescript apartment building, a perfect safe house.
He’s traveled by ferry to the Asian side of the city. Now the cab. Knox has no idea what he’s looking for, only knows that he’ll recognize it when he sees it. Tops on his list is the clothing seen in the Skype video — a distinctive light brown leather jacket on one of the two men; a more ubiquitous dark windbreaker worn by the other. Turks, Greeks, Spaniards, Italians — the stadiums of any futbol match are filled with a hundred thousand clones of the men he seeks.
To his left, a group of young boys flees down the sidewalk — following someone in a hurry? Somewhere nearby, sirens; hopefully Dulwich with the cavalry.
“This address?” The cabdriver points to the meter. He has tired of Knox’s impatience, wants to be free of him.
Knox isn’t much of a gambler. Feels himself coming apart. Raid the building or follow the boys? Pictures Grace, her hands free enough to trip a fire alarm. Her captors playing her for the female computer hacker she is. A nerd. They wouldn’t expect her punch. No one would ever expect a woman as complex as she.
The sky in front of them is brighter than rain clouds behind. Knox knows the psychological reaction of someone frightened, someone fearing for her life, would be to move in the direction of the light.
The direction the boys were running.
“Drive on,” Knox says. “I will tell you the way.”
The driver huffs.
Grace needs a sanctuary, he thinks, somewhere to lose herself in a crowd. A mosque is too male-dominated. A restaurant is too static, and therefore risky. The neighborhood around the safe house is upscale: sidewalks of hand-laid pavers, trees in abundance, a mixture of contemporary and ancient architecture. The sidewalks remain a Benetton ad: Western, Indian, Arab, African. Not a Chinese in sight.
“A market? A street market?” Knox says.
“The Grand Bazaar, mister, is most famous—”
“This side of the strait! The south side!” Knox’s abrupt tone is off-putting to the driver. The man looks away from the rearview mirror, pretending his cab is empty.
Knox drops some liras into the front seat. “A food or spice market. Clothing? Household goods? A street market near here.”
“Kadiköy is not familiar,” the driver says.
“Call someone! Find out!” Knox says. “Turn here.” He points right. Directs the cab left at the next intersection. He’s all raw instinct — a water witcher. The purpose of training is to make you unpredictable, and Grace is well trained. She’s likely stuck on foot if she’s not dead in the safe house. He shudders. “Call someone now!” he shouts. “Public market!”
Cursing beneath his breath, the cabdriver reaches for his phone.
Knox attempts to further untangle the knot of Grace’s abduction. Mashe Okle, a nuclear engineer. The record of his higher education obscured but not redacted. Grace’s captors will want her to explain her interest in the man. To kill her would be to invite others to follow the same path. If she has escaped — as Knox is assuming — the Iranians will be trying to recapture her.