“I’m not liking this,” Knox says, again breaking the silence.
“Act in the valley so you need not fear those who stand on the hill.” She speaks Mandarin, allowing Knox to appreciate the nuance of the proverb.
“Did I miss something, or are we as prepared as can be expected?”
“We shall find out,” Grace says with more dread and apprehension than confidence.
“On convoy, when I felt like this, I ordered us to turn around. Or at least stop.”
“The choice is yours.” She isn’t going to stop him. He can smell her fear.
“We’re going to be all right.”
“Is that for me, or are you thinking with your mouth?”
On the phone, the slow-moving blue dot arrives at the red destination pin.
“Shit,” Knox says.
The location is a quaint tea shop, the sweet smells of chai and tobacco burnished into the nut-colored walls. In a city of Greek, Roman and Ottoman influence, it feels strangely and warmly British. Akram waits at the far end in front of a waterfall of beads that obscures a doorway to a private room that holds floor pillows and a large round table. The table is scarred with cigarette burns around its edge and stained interiorly by a thousand overlapping circles left by wet mugs.
Akram is genial and relaxed. His shirt is white linen under a forest green vest of hand-tied knots, paired with black trousers. His mustache is bold, his cheeks covered in five o’clock shadow, his hair cropped. His bloodshot eyes contradict his congenial smile; he’s uncomfortable, exhausted and uptight.
“I did not expect two guests,” he says, sitting across the large table from them. “Especially one so lovely as you, Miss Grace.”
“You honor me,” Grace says, demurely.
Akram’s eyes inform Knox that Grace’s presence is not appreciated.
“You can understand, my friend,” Knox begins, “that in a deal with a sum so high as this, all precaution and due diligence must be conducted. I must ensure that there are no surprises.”
Akram nods. “So,” he says, palms down on the table. “Tea?”
His eyes flick toward the door, no doubt anticipating the fact that Knox has brought the Harmodius with him to be assayed, its authenticity confirmed. He has another think coming.
An aproned man waits on the other side of the beaded doorway. Grace orders green chai; Knox, Assam with milk and sugar. They wait until the server is out of earshot.
“As Mr. Knox’s accountant,” Grace begins confidently, “you can understand the need to determine the source of funding for a transaction such as this. It was imperative not only that a deposit be placed in escrow, as you have so kindly done, but that the source of the funding also be confirmed. A drop of water does not make a well.”
Akram’s distrustful eyes dart between Grace and the silent Knox.
“Furthermore,” Grace continues, “due to the sensitivity of such an exclusive exchange, both the source and the depth of the well comes under consideration.”
“I assure you, the funds are there.”
“Yes. And I can only hope you do not take this the wrong way, but again the source of those underlying assets is of keen interest to me and my client. In order to protect my client from possible malfeasance, a sting arranged by law enforcement, you understand.”
“I do not appreciate the implication, Miss Grace.” Again, his basalt eyes flash at Knox. “Since when—?”
She interrupts calmly. “A piece such as this… Authorities would go to great lengths to acquire it. Great lengths, indeed. No man, no country, for that matter, would be able to prevent such an operation. I am not accusing you of anything. I am merely paid to take precautions, so precautions I take.”
Akram’s nostrils flare. He’s ready to get off the pillow and choke her.
“Which is why I took the liberty…” Grace reaches into a portfolio and slides a spreadsheet across to Akram.
The proprietor returns with the iron teapots and black iron demitasse cups, placing everything on the table just so, aiming the spouts and handles away. He genuflects and backs off through the beads. Pomp and circumstance. Akram must have tipped well for this room and for his privacy.
Akram’s dark complexion and day’s growth cannot conceal the color that invades his cheeks. Grace recites from memory the amounts and dates of the cash of which he has taken delivery, the banks that facilitated those deliveries. In some cases, a matching wire transfer to the bank has been highlighted. Akram’s withering expression denotes his astonishment that she has obtained such information.
“I will not put my client in harm’s way, Mr. Okle. The majority of the escrow’s funding is through wire and cash conversions originating in Iran.”
“Inaccurate!” Akram’s adamancy is matched by the darkening of his complexion. Knox deduces it must have been his job to wash the wire transfers and make the deposits.
Grace calmly slides several pieces of paper across. “You’ll notice the various withdrawals, ATM transactions and how the sums match with the resulting deposits and payments.”
His eyes track and he goes pale. He’s a chameleon reacting to his background. Pale, like the color of paper.
Grace keeps him off balance. “You are aware that the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime has placed into motion what it calls ‘an innovative initiative to support the Islamic Republic of Iran’ in protecting its cultural heritage and combating trafficking in cultural property?”
Her steadiness and resolute determination to win the information from Akram is apparent in Grace’s steady voice and controlled motions. She is a professional driver so accustomed to high speed that she can take her eye off the track to calm her passenger.
“It is a matter of procedure, nothing more. Mr. Knox has assured me he does not doubt the intention behind the exchange, but alas, I cannot take such luxuries.”
Alas. Knox must suppress a grin. Where does she come up with this stuff? Knox strains and pours his tea, adds sugar and milk, and then a bit more sugar. Stirs. An elixir of the gods. But Akram has not touched his. Grace is ahead of both men.
“The Iranian funds originate from the investment accounts of one Mashe Okle, your brother. These accounts received recent deposits. I am unable to verify the origin of all deposits. For this reason, I must speak to Mashe Okle and be provided records of these transactions.”
“Impossible. Absurd!”
“It is no problem — your being a proxy. The way of business, of course. But either I meet the buyer and vet his funds, or there is no sale. I will not have my client spending the rest of his days in a Turkish prison. How will I collect my retainer?”
She smirks. She should copyright that half-grin, Knox thinks. Trademark it. As subtle as the Mona Lisa.
“What prison? What the fuck?” Akram addresses Knox. “We have done business before.”
“Not on this scale, we haven’t,” Knox replies stonily.
“Out of the question.”
“So be it,” Knox says, playing the only card left.
“If you should change your mind.” Grace passes a business card across the table, steering it with a painted nail.
Akram is nonplussed. For a moment, he hesitates, expecting Knox to raise the price to accommodate the risk involved. When it grows apparent that the two have every intention of leaving — never an easy thing to determine — Akram is up and following.
“What do you expect?” He sounds desperate. “It is unreasonable.”