“More surprised.”
She takes a moment. “Not your phone. This mugger. He did not take your phone.” She wants to stick to the business at hand. Expressing emotion does not come easily to Grace. In this way, they aren’t so different. But the news of Dulwich’s discontent has shattered her and her lofty ambition she tries so hard to keep hidden.
Knox plays along, but feels the pit of his stomach. “He’s followed Akram, not me. I promise you. He took me on only after the meet. I assume the other guy stayed with Akram. My guy searched me, wanting it to look like a mugging.”
“But left your phone,” she says.
“That’s explainable. Phones can be tracked.”
“You could be wrong about him being Israeli,” she says.
“I could, but I’m not. The Israelis are watching Mashe. That includes keeping track of his younger brother and any late-night contacts said brother makes. Mashe works for Iran. The pieces fit: he’s going to be terminated, whether Sarge knows it or not.” He speaks what he’s only dared think: that Dulwich has screwed up mightily.
“Speculation.”
“It’s what the Israelis do to Iranian nuclear scientists, Grace. They stake out restaurants in Amman; they follow the brother; they terminate the Einstein.”
“You let him get close. You took this risk to study him.” She is definite and irate.
“It happened fast. It wasn’t exactly like that, though I appreciate your concern.” He’s practiced at silencing her: imply an emotional component, and the professional in her shuts it down. The unspoken truth is that their relationship is important to her. Its crumbling walls must terrify her. Such walls can seldom be rebuilt.
He says. “The deposit’s in escrow.”
“You are changing the subject.” She eyes the wine bottle.
“I can have vodka sent up.”
“Coffee,” she says, but only after an internal battle. “What do we tell David about the Israelis, John? What does it mean to you? Go? No-go?”
“Leaving my ID behind was a mistake,” Knox says.
“Time plays into such things,” she says, trying to figure out his mugger. “He drops them. It is dark.”
“You’re missing the point of view. This guy saw me meet Akram. He empties my pockets and keeps every last piece of paper, but leaves my license. An accident? The Israelis? Come on.”
Grace says, “They believe the brother, Akram, to be a courier or cutout. They think he passes you something. They want to know what.”
“It’s hard to see it as anything else. But leaving my phone while taking every scrap of paper? That’s its own message.”
“Yes. That whatever is being passed is being done physically, not electronically.”
“Bingo. You know bingo?” he asks. He irritates her.
“A note given to Akram by Mashe and intended for… for whom?”
“Someone watched by governments. Someone you can’t reach electronically without it being intercepted and putting everyone in danger. Old-school stuff.”
“They believe you are also a courier,” she says. “But if so highly sensitive, why not a true cutout? Why not a legitimate dead drop where the cutout picks up a message from one hiding place and delivers it to another? You catch the cutout, and there is no way to connect the message to anyone. If the Israelis are watching Akram, they are not here to kill Mashe, but to find out whatever information Mashe is using Akram to pass.”
“Or to identify who’s buying the intel.” Knox feels his wound, tries not to wince. “This guy risked a lot, searching me the way he did.”
“Is he the client? The Israelis hire Rutherford Risk because you have a relationship with Akram. They are watching him. They need to see what Akram is couriering for his brother, so they need your connection to the man. This is why David can attempt to promise no one is to be killed.”
“It fits,” Knox says.
Grace meets his eyes and inhales sharply. “A note being passed from an Iranian nuclear physicist.” She pauses. “I wonder also: intended for whom?”
“Plenty of buyers. Could be plans, going to the North Koreans. A shopping list of embargoed parts. Hell, it could also be medicines needed for the mother,” Knox says. “The question is: how much does Akram know?”
It comes out of his mouth bitterly, leaving behind a taste that won’t leave his tongue.
33
Knox nears a boiling point five hours later when Dulwich has yet to return his messages.
“It’s like one of those fad restaurants where you eat in the dark,” he tells Grace bitterly. “We’re being served warm dog shit when we ordered the pork sausage.”
“Let us hope David was not ‘mugged’ as you were.”
Thanks to nearly uninterrupted work by Grace, Mashe Okle’s finances are tied up with a neat little bow. He has some explaining to do about his sources, and this will require Grace to be part of the meeting, as Dulwich intended. Grace feels as proud as a schoolgirl. She’s drinking coffee on top of coffee.
“We can present this any time you want,” she says. “I am prepared.”
“I’m nearly there, too.” Knox is dancing with the devil. He claims he has involved this woman, Victoria, because she has contacts in Istanbul that offer him a “remarkable opportunity.” Grace detests the idea, but concedes its necessity. Work with the resources you’re given. He’s been texting Victoria, although she is just down the hall. The entire arrangement feels wrong to Grace.
“You trust them so little,” she says.
“The Harmodius is worth millions, Grace. That’s a number, something you know intimately. If we hand it over so they can test its authenticity, you and I are the only things keeping them from walking off with it. I’m being the good Samaritan: I’m leading them away from temptation. The problem is, I haven’t accounted for the Israelis.”
“If that is who they were.”
“Oh, ye of little faith. He was wearing Red Top. Trust me: Israeli. It adds an element of the unknown. Poses a big risk to what’s already a risk.”
“You know I do not mean their nationality, but their role. These men could be private, like us. They could represent the same client as us. More likely, they are art thieves who mugged you hoping to lift a storage receipt or business card that will lead them to the Harmodius. It doesn’t take a nuclear scientist to realize you succeeded in smuggling the piece into Turkey. Perhaps they are part of a global team that intercepts stolen art.”
“So why are they tracking a particular FedEx shipment?”
“We do not know it is the same people.”
“Nawriz Melemet, aka Mashe Okle, has attracted more flies than shit,” says Knox.
“If these ancillary people believe you are being used as a courier or cutout, then it follows that someone is set to receive information from Mashe Okle.” Grace feels opportunity returning in her favor. She recognizes her condition as related to that of an addicted gambler — the more one loses, the more all-in. With a little more effort, she can deliver the kind of actionable intel Dulwich needs. He will forgive all if she can pull it together. It’s loose ends he abhors. There is no choice but to pursue the intel. And Knox proves the perfect sounding board: the more she counters his theories, the more he puts forward, giving her all the more angles to pursue.
She feels awkward manipulating John in this way, playing games within games. But she has hurt herself with Dulwich and needs to make it right. Knox would be the first to do the same.
“At the minimum,” she says, “we are dealing with two separate interests: the Iranians and these others — possibly Israelis — who mugged you. The Iranians want to protect the asset, Mashe Okle. The Israeli objective remains uncertain. We must not discount the possibility of a third party: the end recipient of whatever information the Israelis believe you were carrying.”