Dulwich promised no killing. He would not appreciate being made to lie to Knox. Silence is the easier alternative. He has stressed repeatedly that Knox’s sole mission is to get into a room with Mashe for five minutes. Knox anticipates the asset being placed onto his person, but how?
Lack of verifiable information is what gets operatives like Knox killed. Ali’s death, his murder, sits badly with him. Operatives deserve what they get, not taxi drivers. All this concern and confusion, and yet, in the end Dulwich has given Knox exactly what he loves: the irritable panic of uncertainty and an irretrievable confidence that makes every footfall tentative. He’s living the life.
Booking his ground transportation through the hotel desk was an intentional risk. It pays off at six A.M., three hours before his scheduled departure, when an exhausted looking Akram Okle traipses across the nearly empty expanse of marble-tiled air terminal. His face is a contortion of patronizing disappointment, regret and relief as he sits alongside Knox.
“Do not do this,” Akram says.
“Such art comes and goes. It will come around again. We both know this. I had a bit of a scuffle after leaving you. For the second time. There was a similar encounter after we met near the aqueduct. A man knows when to leave.”
“A scuffle.”
“I was shot at.” Knox removes his Tigers cap — the Turkish flag hat long since pitched — and spins his head to give the man a good, ugly look.
“Disgusting!”
“Think how I feel,” Knox says.
“Who?”
Knox chuckles, stares down the man’s profile, shakes his head and looks directly forward.
“We are being filmed,” Akram says, bringing up his open hand to cover his whispering mouth. “Possibly eavesdropped upon.”
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it? I feel safe here.”
“John—”
“Obviously, Akram, compared to you I’m a simple man. I can do without the intrigue, without being shot at. Lied to. Without my accountant being kidnapped and my taxi crashing because the driver’s been head-shot. I work extremely hard to make sure I avoid doing business with what we in the U.S. call ‘organized crime.’ The Russians, for instance.” Knox tosses it out there, pauses, and picks up a slight nostril flare from Akram, but nothing else. Wonders how much significance to give it? “I came to you for this very reason: I wanted to avoid all this shit. Now, I come to find—”
“I am not who you say, but who you think. I am the man you know me to be.” His voice exudes pride.
“It was supposed to be a simple transaction.”
“Given these numbers, not so simple, my friend.” Akram is noticeably loosening. “But as to that: it can yet be made such. No?”
“No. It’s not important. Nothing is worth getting shot. Abducted. Are you kidding?” Knox drums up a frightened voice; works hard to sound appalled. “You want it for free, that’s not going to happen. If you kill me, you’ll never find it. And don’t tell me you weren’t trying to kill me.” He returns the cap to his head, pulling it on gingerly.
“These are people—” Akram checks himself just as Knox latches on to his words. “You tell your accountant to do what she must. I respect her efforts to protect your interests. But I tell you now: the buyer is my brother, a humble university professor and, because of this, an adviser to… interests outside Turkey. The window to make this deal was short to begin with and now it is closing fast. My brother is to be leaving soon.”
Akram is no agent; he’s disclosed more than his brother would wish. The information exchange — whatever data is being passed along — will happen soon.
“If your accountant must also meet with him,” Akram continues, “this can be arranged. But it must be on my brother’s terms. It is only to happen after authentication of the Harmodius and, respectfully, the application for information on specific investors by your accounting partner. There is no point in making such a meeting as this should the loose ends remain.”
Knox eyes him, feigning disinterest. “It was never supposed to be half this difficult.” He adds, “Or risky.”
“It was night, was it not?” Akram inquires. “One can only assume this bullet was intended for me.”
“Then you have issues you clearly need to work out.” Knox believes otherwise: his presence has troubled one of the players and his removal is now seen as a way to simplify the op. “I’m scared, Akram.” He lies, savoring the role. “This is well outside my purview. You understand ‘purview’?”
Akram nods. “My brother has pulled together several investors, as I have mentioned. This has not been easy given such short notice. These investors cannot be, will not be, revealed to your accountant. I would not wish to upset such people.”
“Your reputation is not my concern,” Knox says.
“No, of course not.”
“I was nearly killed.”
“I… that is… I believe my brother could arrange for protection.”
“No, thank you. If we’re going to do this, it’s going to be today. Authentication. Dr. Adjani. Then we will make the exchange, the four of us. My accountant will ensure that the remainder of the funding is clean. All remaining funds must be deposited into escrow within the next three hours. From there, she will—”
“Today? Impossible! That kind of money—”
“Is either available or not.”
“Authentication of the piece will take weeks.”
“You will have to be satisfied with what is possible given the limited time.”
“Absurd.”
“At your request, I have arranged for Dr. Adjani to evaluate the Harmodius. That was scheduled for early afternoon. Now, given the threat level, we will have to wrap the deal by tonight or I leave and take the piece with me.”
“Be reasonable, John. The deal is easily within our grasp, but such a sched—”
“I was shot at,” Knox says, “following a meeting with you. You will meet my conditions, Akram, or I will be forced to move on. The choice is simple, and it’s yours to make. The safest place for me is on the other side of security.”
Akram stands. “You will contact me.” He walks away, clearly less tired than when he arrived.
34
“I wish to speak to your office manager.” Grace slides the woman a business card left over from the op that sent her and John to Amsterdam that identifies her as a midlevel United Nations employee. It does the trick.
“Regarding?” The woman’s English is impeccable, her choice of nail polish and hair coloring regrettable.
“Your mail room.”
The receptionist references her computer terminal. “Our post clerk leader is called Kaplan. You are to find him in S-one, eighteen. Elevators to your right.”
Grace repeats the office number, collects her business card, thanks the woman and finds the elevators. She turns to the elevator mirror to check her face. There’s a man alongside her — Turkish, mid-thirties. The look he’s giving her is either a compliment or a cause for concern, because it’s not accidental, even though he plays it otherwise. The elevator car opens, and she steps off.
The mail room manager, Kaplan, is clean-shaven and thin, in his early thirties and going bald. She considers him exceptionally ordinary, though his voice is appealing in a stagecraft way. She gives him a quick look at her business card and then gives him the FedEx tracking number.
“This is a confidential inquiry, sir. If you pass along anything to do with my being here, or the nature of my inquiry, your actions will be considered criminal. This includes your co-workers and senior executives. Do you understand?” Grace came prepared. The accountant in her knows that paperwork intimidates far more than anything said aloud. She presents the man with a nondisclosure form downloaded from the Internet; it has little to do with their situation, but a quick scan of the consequences that stem from dissemination of “anything said or witnessed, or understood to have been said or witnessed” is so severe that the man barely reads a word before signing at the bottom. The click of his ballpoint pen nub retracting is as loud as the snap of a bear trap on his ankle.