Mashe’s Iranian guards make the most sense: shadow the brother to ensure he stays in line. Follow the people he meets in dark ruins late at night to determine what Akram — the vulnerable brother — is up to.
The bin crushes in from Knox’s left, surprising him and disrupting his swarm of thoughts. The force of the impact drives Knox into the stone of the building’s foundation. He brings his arm up as a shield. The bin slams into him a second time; then it’s kicked aside and a knife tip is placed just behind and beneath Knox’s left ear, in soft tissue where a gentle push will drive the blade into his brain and kill him instantly. Silently. It’s a brutally fast and agile move, one Knox did not see coming.
Knox cooperates, led by the pressure of the knife tip. He rolls onto his face, but not before catching a glimpse of stitches and a butterfly bandage on the man’s ear. It’s a wound Knox recalls inflicting.
His right arm wrenched high and painfully up his back, Knox is making out with trash scum and soggy cigarette butts. He’s frisked hurriedly, everything coming out of the jacket’s obvious pockets like confetti. But with its many zippered compartments, the Scottevest is tricky even for the owner-operator. This guy finds only four.
The blade draws blood on Knox’s neck. Knox’s senses heighten. He picks up a trace of cedar over the foul trash, a smell like that of his family’s linen closet. But it’s sweeter, slightly medicinal. Worse: he knows that smell. It’s stored somewhere within him.
His wallet is liberated from his front pants pocket courtesy of an extremely quick draw of a straight razor. The leather slaps to the ground as the wallet is then discarded. Hurried footfalls echo through the courtyard. It has been made to look like a mugging — it is anything but.
Knox counts to five before moving.
Sits. Stands. Checks the neck: a nick. The thigh is worse — the straight razor got a piece of him. Grabs his wallet. Not a single piece of paper inside. His credit cards are gone, but it’s not a big deal. He has two more in the room. His driver’s license and insurance card are in the muck. No paper. Knox moves, maintains pressure on the thigh. Walks without a limp. He’s well practiced.
The few blocks to the Alzer is not the problem. It’s the woman behind the registration desk he doesn’t want to deal with. His left thigh will face her. He buys a Turkish newspaper from a street vendor hoping the hotel receptionist won’t take note of the language. Uses it as a compress and to hide the wound. Tries to keep her eyes off the bloodied hand holding the newspaper in place by saying, “Beautiful evening!” as he passes.
She looks up smiling, but her expression decays as she takes him in.
He understands her response better once he’s inside the small elevator with its smoky mirrors and a framed advertisement for the Alzer’s all-included breakfast. The left side of his face is smeared with disgusting, shit-brown slime. A cigarette butt is adhered to the sludge. In his eagerness to hide the gash in his thigh, he neglected to clean up his leaking, bloody neck.
Before triggering a floor number, he pauses to electronically open the elevator car doors.
She’s behind the front desk, still staring in his direction, just as he suspected.
“I was mugged. You understand? My money.”
“The police! A doctor!”
“Will only make it a very long night for me. These things happen.”
“Not to our guests!” She’s distraught.
“To this guest, yes. But we both know the police can do nothing. A statistic. You understand statistic?”
She nods. “Of course.”
A guest enters through the main entrance. Knox backs away to keep from showing himself. Hits his floor number and the car is his. He rides it interminably. Doesn’t want to bother Grace. May need some stitches, but can make do with Super Glue. He carries a small tube in the Scottevest. Hopes he got through to the receptionist.
Thirty minutes later, a complimentary cheese and fruit plate and a bottle of red wine are delivered to his room. The knock awakens Grace.
She switches on the bedside light, catching sight of Knox in his underwear waiting for the Super Glue to fully dry in his wound. Shakes her head at him like a disapproving mother, apparently not the least bit surprised to see a five-inch slice in his thigh.
“I’ll get it,” she says.
Knox is the one to get it, once she places the tray on the corner of the bed and addresses him. Oddly, of the two of them, she looks worse for wear, the shadows from the only lamp uncomplimentary, the fatigue weighing on her puffy eyes and downturned lips. It’s psychological versus physical, and the results are no contest. She’s had the confidence scared out of her; it sits, spilled limply at her feet like the stuffing from a plush bear. He’s lost a little blood and no resolve.
“You could have woken me,” she says. “That will scar.”
“A souvenir,” Knox says.
“If I had applied the glue while you pinched it shut…”
“Bad timing. But I appreciate the offer.”
“I am not as fragile as you think.” Grace’s expression belies her words. “Leave the girl sleeping? We are partners.”
“Aren’t you going to ask?”
“It was not random violence. I know this much.”
“Yet, it was meant to look that way. I was mugged for my cash. He left my cell.”
“You, mugged?”
“I miscalculated.”
“I do not believe it. How many?”
“One.”
She scoffs.
“With a very sharp knife and the element of surprise.” He tries to make light of it, but the truth is difficult to face. One. He got taken out by one man. Knox is well aware of the professional athletes and military men who lose a step and stay on or in the field too long. Can he be one of them? His stomach turns. In the web of disgust with himself he doesn’t feel his wounds.
“Please. You do take me for a child.” She’s pulling out of her haze, resurfacing. It’s nice to see her.
She sits down on the bed and bites a slice of cheese. Chews thoughtfully.
“Who was he?” she asks.
“One of two men watching Akram. The one who was sitting on the bench awaiting the FedEx.” He explains the earlier struggle and Knox tearing the man’s ear half off.
Her eyes battle to focus on him through the swelling. This news brings matters into her realm. Knox’s mention of the name and, by extension, a meet jolts her.
“He searched me. Took all the paper out of my pockets. Grabbed my cash as cover.” He waits a beat and adds, “An Israeli.”
She gasps, chokes on her piece of cheese. “You cannot possibly—”
“Took me a few minutes to place his deodorant. Smells like cedar. There was this guy in Kuwait. A member of our team. Same stinking stuff. Something Rosenbloum — the brand, I mean. A designer’s name. Red top in a spray can. I borrowed it a couple times. Distinctive. Besides, he had good teeth.”
“You are toying with me.”
Knox says, “Israeli.”
“He took only paperwork? Receipts?” She’s like a dentist, probing.
“Sarge warned me. Listen,” he braves the topic he’s been avoiding, “he doesn’t appreciate our background work.”
Her back straightens, brow creases. Incredulity.
“Your background work,” he continues. “You apparently misunderstood him. The Need To Know was for both of us. He kind of flipped out.” He feels badly for her, can see the hurt he’s causing. But he thinks he can reverse the effects. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think he knew half of what I did. He seemed surprised, informed, but cautiously appreciative. It’s like he knew we might be under surveillance, but not from whom. The Iranians grabbing you troubled him, but it was the mention of the Israelis that scored points.”
“He was angry?” Girlish.