Choke Point

The last time we were together in a place like this, it did not work out so well.” Grace’s nervousness manifests itself as tightness in her body, even her voice.

“You’re walking like a robot. Loosen up. Remember, this is exciting for us. We are flush with anticipation.”

She snorts. “I may look the part, but I do not feel it. Do not set your expectations too high, John.”

“So noted.”

“Not exactly my area of expertise.”

They’ve taken the usual precautions in order to be together. Grace has gone one step further—she has found herself a leather miniskirt, and a metallic gray silk shirt that’s unbuttoned to her navel. She’s wrapped in a silver trench coat and completes the look with black spike heels that give her the calves of a supermodel. He catches himself looking over at her yet again, not seeing her as a colleague, and looks away.

“You apparently like robots.”

“Busted.”

“I am flattered.”

“You’re nervous.”

Of course I am. Another woman? “A threesome? I am not this woman, John.”

“I’m open to suggestions. We can still call it off. I can do this alone, if you can coach me through the IT stuff.”

“No one is requiring this. I will do what the job requires of me.”

Over the course of the next city block, she transforms. It is the butterfly appearing from the chrysalis. There’s a definite, defiant swing to her walk, and her spine straightens. Her posture is aggressive, but also alluring—even the sound of her high heels on the concrete is different, more certain, more determined. She has entered the zone.

—

GRACE IS WORRIED ABOUT HIM. She has witnessed his Messiah complex. Though honorable, it has no place here. They aren’t here to save a prostitute. Together, they must buy each other time. She has set herself to that goal. She would like to avoid getting naked in front of Knox, though she’s no prude. Her earlier sexual encounter at the hotel has prepared her well; nothing could be worse than an unfulfilling lay with a stranger.

Her focus must remain on the IT needs of the operation. Knox’s job is to get her into the office; once there, the real challenge begins. Will there be a computer in the office? Wireless or Ethernet? Physical files to copy? A landline telephone?

She carries listening devices, line taps and cameras to install—all in a purse slung over her shoulder. The items are hidden in the bottom of her bag beneath a camisole, a cordless vibrator and a riding crop. She is a one-woman wrecking ball.

She mentally choreographs each phase of the operation. Her mathematical mind serves her well. Without any knowledge of what the room will look like, she nonetheless visualizes each stage of the job, rehearsing it. Knox has given her a limit of twenty minutes, promising to occupy their willing partner at least this long. It is barely enough, given so many unknowns. An hour would have been more comfortable—an hour with a team of two or three, better yet. She enters the job knowing they will not get everything they are after, that they will have to settle for less. She hates such compromise.

Knox pays the fifty euros to a fabulous beauty in a Pulp Fiction platinum wig and an elegant evening dress that shows off an abundance of smooth cleavage and nut-hard nipples that could be pasties. She has the body of a lingerie model, and the smile of a quiz-show hostess. Knox’s gaze lingers a little too long on the cleavage; Grace is unsure if it’s intentional or not.

The interior of the house is more contemporary than clubby. Dance music plays in the parlor to the right where a half dozen extremely young women show off their wares by dancing together. The smell of pot and tobacco commingle. Nonsmoking is the room to the left, where love seats, couches and coffee tables break the room up into more intimate spaces. The lighting is low and warm. A self-serve liquor bar and small buffet table divide the room. The management is smart: the couches are not crowded with girls. Instead, there are three or four in the room at a time, rotating constantly from a pool of girls at the back of the house. The exchange is done naturally. It doesn’t come off as a parade, nor a runway, but feels more like a cocktail party that is moving between rooms.

The girls are young and very pretty, well groomed and fashionably dressed. Grace feels old by comparison. For everything it tries not to be, it is nonetheless a meat market: blondes, redheads, brunettes; skinny, plump, plus-sized; flat, busty, leggy, tough, cuddly. Grace has always admired the artistry of women’s bodies. God was having a good day when he created woman. Regardless of taste, a man—or woman—could find the look of choice here. Everything is engineered to seduction. She is excited, aroused even. She can only imagine the conflict in Knox—rage versus desire. Repugnance mixed with hormones. Hell for him. Only now does she realize how difficult it must be for him to participate.

Grace clutches his arm. He guides her to a couch. She holds the short skirt as she sits, the hem rides up to where the slightest movement of her legs will flash her red lace panties.

Knox brings her a vodka on the rocks with a twist, three fingers deep. He has poured himself a single malt. She has to watch herself with the vodka; it can go down too easily.

They make small talk with a very well put-together brunette who goes by the name Usha. They begin in Dutch, but her Slavic accent makes her incomprehensible. Grace attempts Russian, but they soon settle on English so Knox can participate.

“You are together,” the woman says, as if in surprise.

“We like adventure,” Knox says.

“Don’t we all?” the woman returns.

“Do you like adventure, Usha?” Knox asks. He takes hold of Grace’s free hand to make the request more obvious.

“Yes, of course.”

Grace doesn’t approve of the look in Usha’s eyes: the woman clearly favors Knox; Grace is an afterthought, which could complicate the job.

The woman never loses her bright-eyed expression. “You want Jin-Jin,” she says, indicating an Asian hardbody who has a preference for dog collars.

Grace will not work with an Asian. “Perhaps not,” she says.

“Veronique,” Usha says.

The French African wears a rainbow of thin metal bands around her long neck. She has sharp collarbones and wide, square shoulders. Her overly large eyes are haunting; her body belongs to a marathoner. Her skin is so black it looks purple. She wears a side-split skirt open to her hip.

“Magnifique!” Knox pulls Grace to the front of the couch. “You will introduce us, please?”

“Pleasure.”

Usha leads them. Two loud men enter and proclaim themselves partiers. Grace feels Knox tense, and squeezes his hand to bring him back. Had he come alone, a fight would have already broken out.

Veronique grins at Knox across blinding teeth. But it’s the heated look she gives Grace, her eyes first aimed at Grace’s small skirt; she then makes eye contact and loses the smile to a pursing of her large lips. Not quite a kiss, but far from disapproving. She is curious. She is thinking.

She speaks with a British accent. Grace makes small talk. Knox works his way around to the reference of voyeurism. It’s like asking a mechanic for an oil change.

“I can arrange a companion for you as you watch, if you like. For either of you, if desired.” She checks out Grace.

“No, thank you,” Knox says. “I prefer . . . to fly solo.”

Grace says, “We’ll see.”

It’s four hundred euros an hour and any portion thereof. Knox makes a cash down payment to a madam in her thirties. Knox and Grace are left to continue drinking while Veronique prepares the room.

“So far, so good,” Knox says.

“I will need the full twenty minutes. Make sure you give me proper directions.”

Knox says nothing.

“I know this is difficult for you,” she says. “I remember Chongming.”

Silence.

“We both are going to keep her busy, John.”

A younger woman shows them upstairs. The decor is warmer. Knox nudges Grace and eye-checks the floor. Hand-tied rugs. A string of hallway runners. The Dutch oils on the walls look surprisingly authentic. The golden glow from the leaded-glass wall sconces. The sultry, deep-throated voice singing a jazz standard through unseen speakers.

As Grace takes in the rugs, she sees Knox surreptitiously look for the location of the webcams they assume are in constant operation. At these prices, with this clientele, it’s doubtful the cameras cover the bedrooms. But if a girl runs, or a john tries a door other than the one he’s paying for, someone needs to be watching.

“Anything?” she asks.

“No,” he whispers.

She spots a staircase leading higher. An exit sign suggests the window at the end of the hall leads to a fire escape. It has Knox written all over it.

As Grace expected, the bedroom is small but well appointed. It’s cozy, done in warm colors and soft lighting. A place one wants to spend time in. The girl’s job is to push the companionship into a second hour, requiring another four hundred. The corner sink is a welcome sight. “Toilet?” Grace asks.

“Into the hall,” says Veronique. “A second, up the stairs.”

This will help Knox.

“Here’s how it’s going to work,” Knox tells Veronique, laying out the rules. “Constance,” he says, referring to Grace, “and you will get to know one another. You will show me . . .”

“It is the next door. This side.” She points to the mirror on the near wall.

“Very good. I will join you later, at which time Constance will watch. You will arouse me but not allow me to climax. I am counting on your professionalism. Constance will rejoin us after that.”

“This sounds like fun,” Veronique says.

“We are in no hurry,” Grace says.

Veronique locks eyes with Grace, who suddenly feels she might faint.

—

FROM THE MOMENT Veronique touches Grace’s hair, Knox turns his back on the voyeur mirror. If he was in therapy or could drink away the memories, he might find them tempting, but there’s a history buried within him that neither a shrink nor Scotch can ameliorate. And so: avoidance.

The observation room consists of a twin bed and a nylon mesh chair, the same cozy decor as the bedroom where the two women are currently undressing. He’s about to leave as a second mirror in the room reflects Veronique stripping. Next is Grace. When there’s nothing left but the red thong, his pulse races and his throat feels dry. Knox breaks out of his trance, aroused. He leaves the room and heads upstairs.

The room marked PRIVAAT is at the top of the stairs to the right. The toilet is to the left.

Knox carries a pick gun, an automated tumbler decipher that picks nearly any lock with the squeeze of a trigger, illegal worldwide and available on eBay. He removes it from the Scottevest pocket. There was a time a person needed actual lock-picking skills. He prepares the iPhone for camera mode and sets up its digital recorder to record from his Bluetooth headset. He’s accustomed to ad-libbing, has to slow himself down to remember to ask for Kreiger if anyone’s inside the office when he opens the door. He and Grace have worked through half a dozen contingencies.

—

VERONIQUE TOUCHES GRACE FIRST.

“No.” She pauses. “Not yet.”

“You are new to this,” Veronique declares.

Grace feels her cover disintegrating. “I like to take my time. I will do the touching.”

“Whatever you like.”

Veronique lies back. Grace avoids intimacy but touches the woman’s stomach and neck. She tries to appear interested. After a few minutes, Veronique turns to draw on Grace’s abdomen, which contracts under the touch.

“Not yet. I’ll let you know.” Grace starts to pull up the sheet, but Veronique catches it and returns it to their knees.

“For him,” she coos. “He’s watching.”

“Lie back, please.”

Veronique lies on her side. Grace runs her hand over the woman’s muscular buttocks and up from the small of her back and into her hair at the nape of her neck.

Veronique purrs, “A man lacks nuance,” as Grace busies herself with both hands.

Knox opens the door without knocking.

Grace swallows a gasp.

He looks at her first, then quickly he settles his eyes on Veronique.

He smiles, immediately playing his role. “My turn.”

—

WEARING A SILK ROBE with her purse slung over her shoulder, Grace listens to the voice recording Knox has sent to her phone. She flushes the toilet before leaving the washroom without having used the facilities. Although charged with adrenaline, she adopts a lazy stroll on her way down the hall to the office.

“The pick gun is behind the speaker to your left as you face the door,” Knox’s message said. “Laptop, front and center. Wireless router on the lower shelf to the left of the desk as you face it. Vaulted ceiling with natural light. Blinds on the lower windows were open. Now closed. Important you remember to reopen them before leaving. I swept it. No devices found. You’ll want to do better. Twenty minutes. Less, by the time you hear this.”

There’s a text from Dulwich.

meeting wrapping up. unable to hold him.

It’s time-stamped seven minutes earlier.

Now inside the office with the deadbolt locked, she texts:

how long?

Doesn’t wait for a response. Her bag is open. Game on.

on his way there now

She slips into the office chair. The key tracking software will provide them with passwords which will allow her to attack Kreiger’s laptop. She opens a port on the router to skirt virus security software. She video-bugs the top bookshelf where dust on the volumes tells her they’re rarely touched. She wants the audio closer to home. She’ll take over the laptop’s microphone and video once she’s inside.

She packs up her wires and shoulders the purse. Turning off the lights, she crosses to open the blinds. There are windows on opposing walls.

She twists the blinds open. A man on the sidewalk below jerks his head in her direction.

It’s Kreiger. He’s caught the movement in his own office windows. Whether instinctively or by chance, it hardly matters.

Without hesitation, Grace waves down to him.

He stops, head still aimed at her.

She waves again.

Kreiger waves back. He then marches furiously toward the front door.

—

“YOU ARE?”

Grace displays herself resplendently on his love seat. Her best Mata Hari pose, borrowed from an Ingrid Bergman film she’d seen while getting her master’s in criminology at USC.

“A friend of John Knox,” she answers in English.

Kreiger waves off a bouncer and enters. He places down a briefcase that catches her eye.

“I lock my office,” he says, not having moved. “It’s marked private in case you can’t read. How, in the name of God, did you get in here?”

“I am a friend of John Knox,” she says.

She wins a laugh from Kreiger. “Yes, well, that would explain it.”

“I . . . I was interested in company . . . female company . . . and Knox recommended your establishment. He made me promise I would say hello.” As she sits up she makes sure to let a good deal of leg show. He must be immune to such sights, but she tries anyway. The robe comes open far more than she would have wished, but she makes no attempt to close it. Let him ogle her. To her surprise, he does just that. Men.

“I would expect nothing less,” he says. “Drink?”

“Vodka rocks, please.”

She regrets having placed the video camera on the bookshelf. Of everything she’s done, the video camera is the most likely to be detected if he gets suspicious. And how can he not? All the charm in the world cannot nullify breaking and entering.

He pours them both drinks, his back to her.

“He sent you to spy on me,” Kreiger says, paralyzing Grace’s diaphragm.

“I was to get the wholesale cost of the rugs, if I could,” she says without hesitation. “I won’t tell, if you won’t?”

“Identify the wholesaler,” he speculates. “Eliminate the middleman. Knox is not stupid. I might have done the same.”

“He is annoyed at the time it is taking,” she says.

“Yes. I’ve just spoken to his money man.” A wave of realization spreads over Kreiger’s face. “Oh, very good.” He hands her the drink and pulls out a chair to face her. He shows no further interest in her body; she pulls the robe shut and ties it tightly. “He’s a clever one, our Mr. Knox.” He lifts his glass and they toast. “Now . . . what to do with you?”

She peers over the rim of the glass, attempting to look unaffected by his comment.

“I find it most instructive to send a message when such advantage is taken. You are bold to have stayed after I spotted you up here. Very bold indeed.”

“I don’t get paid unless I can deliver actionable intelligence. The laptop is password protected. The desk drawers locked.”

“Hold your purse by the bottom two corners, turn it over and shake out its contents, please.”

“Is that necessary?” she pleads. She has nothing with which to bargain. Sex is a nonstarter in a place like this. She can’t buy him. This is the part of fieldwork she understands requires experience, and she has none. He sits between her and the door. To assault him would be easy enough, but would put Knox in a terrible bind. She’s already done enough damage.

“Please.”

She inverts her bag. Her knot of wires and cameras tumble out.

“How many of those were installed?” he inquires.

“One.”

“Do you assume me so naïve?”

“If I’d had more time . . .”

“Remove it, please.”

She uses a chair to access the top of the bookshelf and retrieve the video camera. The lens is smaller than a lentil. It attaches by a nearly nonexistent wire to a box half the size of a sugar cube. He has been staring at her legs as she climbed; he asks for it, and she hands it to him.

“Amazing,” he says.

To her surprise, he returns it to her and tells her to pack the bag.

In doing so, she manages to check the time. She’s been away from the room for thirty minutes. She has failed on all fronts.

“Tell Knox these things take time. His is a very large order. The manufacturer must carefully measure production before committing. There’s no saying he’ll go for the deal.”

She’s unable to tell if he’s talking about himself in third person.

“You should keep in mind—yourself—as well as pass along to Knox, that this operation . . . these rug merchants . . . Let’s just say they are acutely aware of, shall we say, the world opinion of their ethics. They are not the type to tolerate outside interference. You would have been raped and your throat slit by now if this had been their offices. I would not blindly follow everywhere Knox leads you, young lady. He would be quick to cut bait in a case like yours. You don’t see him knocking down the door to rescue you, do you?”

“If I should scream,” she says, “he will be through that door before you hear me.” She smiles and stands.

Kreiger stands as well, blocking her.

“We can try it, if you like,” she proposes.

A sheen forms on his face.

She marvels at the man’s instant reaction to Knox. She hoists the purse to her shoulder. Tightens the robe’s belt once again. Realizes she knows Knox in ways others do not.

“I’ll have the office swept.” He makes it a threat.

She looks down to the carpet. “It could use it.”

She provokes laughter from him.

“I could use a woman like you,” he says, smiling. “Here at Natuurhonig.”

“Get in line,” says Grace.

—

FROM THE OBSERVATION ROOM, Grace sees Veronique’s wrists tied with bows to the bed frame, her lean, blue body stretched out elegantly on the bed. Knox has blindfolded her. She is smiling while he, in briefs, runs a feather across her.

Grace feels a spike of sentimentality. It’s “us against the world” for her and Knox. She’s beginning to care for him, despite herself. Not romantically, not exactly; she’s unsure what it is she feels. She shakes off the feeling, but it’s sticky and stubborn.

She recognizes the scar on him she helped to mend. One among several. Recalls the story of Knox dragging Dulwich from the burning wreck of a transport, wondering if any of the scars are traceable to that incident. Or the streets of Detroit? Wonders at those unseen, the kind she carries. She spends a few seconds longer here than necessary, causing her to question herself. She is not given to such nostalgia. What’s happening to her? she wonders. She has loved before—loves, still—but this is not that. Is it? Not close. Then what?

An adrenaline hangover from Kreiger’s office, she convinces herself. Blood chemistry, nothing more. A narrow escape. She pulls herself together, realizing she will likely have to dress in front of him.

She opens the door.

“Ah . . .” Veronique says, smiling. She hears Knox’s belt buckle as he begins dressing. “What is this, please?” She unties herself, removes the blindfold.

“I am afraid I am not feeling well,” Grace says, eyes to the floor.

“I did not please you?” the woman says to Knox.

“We have to go,” Knox says. He reaches for his wallet.

“Not again,” Grace says to him. “Please . . .” They both know she’s harking back to Chongming.

He places a great many euros onto the bed. Many times what they owe. He keeps enough for cab fare.

“Find other work,” he tells the woman.

Veronique stares at the pile of cash. Looks between Knox and Grace.

“It is not you,” Grace says, nearly dressed. Struggling into the tight skirt. “He has this . . . it is an emotional problem. We thought tonight . . . that is, we had hoped . . .”

Knox has his hand on the doorknob, waiting impatiently. He holds the door for Grace, takes a fleeting look back at the naked woman stretched out on the bed and closes the door.

—

AVOIDING PUBLIC TRANSPORT, they pause to overlook the black, still waters of a canal. Pale light seeps from the cabin of a boat tied a hundred meters downstream. A tension holds between them.

“He caught me,” she says, “inside his office.”

Knox remains focused on the mirrored water.

She recounts the events down to the exchange of dialogue.

“And we come away empty-handed?”

“No, not at all. He will have the office swept and discover no more bugs. He will have his computer scanned but will find nothing.”

“Is that possible?”

She sighs.

“I’m sorry.”

“We will have video and audio as long as the laptop is online. We will monitor his keystrokes, allowing us to obtain his passwords as well as his correspondence. We are inside his head now, John. His cell phone number will be listed among his contact information.”

“I have his number.”

“There may be others. How many chips do you carry? It is possible he will list bank accounts, credit cards and other financial information in his contacts. Many do. We will have his browser history.”

Knox whistles. The sound carries out across the water. “Less traffic out here,” he says.

“Yes. It is quite peaceful.”

“You must be wondering what I saw.”

“You believe me so childish?”

“Then you don’t care?”

“Do I look fourteen? I need to get started. We go separately from here.”

They walk to the end of the bridge. Grace turns left, Knox right. As she reaches the curb, she stops and turns. He’s standing across the intersection looking back at her.

“You do not look fourteen.”