The Red Room

17

In order to harpoon his pickpocket, Knox performs a gag he learned off a middle schooler named Cameron Wood on a school trip to New York City. Warned by their chaperone of thieves in Times Square, Cameron and his buddies bought a street vendor wallet and put a note in it reading, “You are being electronically tracked by the NYPD.” Cameron then volunteered to be the one to carry the decoy wallet in his back pocket, keeping his real one in the front. When the class returned to the hotel from a walk around Times Square, Cameron realized the wallet was gone; he never felt a thing. He and his pals got a good laugh at what the pickpocket’s face must have looked like when he read their note.

Knox’s three notes, written in Turkish by the hotel receptionist, read, “I will pay five times this. Look for the tall American by the ticket window.”

He, too, carries a dummy wallet showing slightly from his back pocket. But unlike young Cameron, Knox knows exactly when each of the three wallets is stolen. Each carries a handwritten note and the equivalent of ten USD in Turkish liras.

He waits thirty minutes by the mosque’s ticket window. The apprehensive boy is twelve years old with oversized eyes and a choirboy complexion. He keeps himself at arm’s length in case Knox turns out to be trouble.

Knox is trouble, but not in any way the boy will ever know.

Knox and Akram Okle meet two blocks from the DoubleTree on Mithat Pasa Caddesi, a narrow street that could be Paris or Brussels except for the occasional Red Crescent on a sign. Art galleries intermingle with boutique hotels. Nothing over three stories. Freshly painted neoclassical alongside colonial. The men are in blue jeans, long-sleeved shirts and sweaters. Running shoes. Not a woman in sight. Knox is spitting distance from the Grand Bazaar, the Beyazit Tower and the Calligraphy Museum. In any five-block area of the European side of Istanbul, there is more history than in all of Athens. He thinks they should put a glass dome over the entire city and preserve it as it is. The Syrians or Georgians or Kurds are bound to destroy it in a forgettable conflict and the world will lose a treasure, as it has lost Lebanon. He absorbs what he can with what little of him is not preoccupied surveying his immediate surroundings. He plays far too much defense; he’s eager to get himself on the other side of the ball.

Someone is grilling lamb nearby. There’s the scent of cardamom in the air, carried on a charcoal breeze. Knox is ready for lunch; to his delight, the source of the aromas is their meeting spot. He passes through a beaded curtain, keeps his eye on a pair of low ceiling fans and asks Akram to switch sides of the table with him as they shake hands, providing Knox a view of the entrance. It is an uncomfortable moment that neither man draws attention to.

They talk briefly about the time of year and the approach of cooler days. Knox expresses concern over the illness in the man’s family. Akram orders for them, telling Knox of a dish this restaurant does better than any other in the city. Knox settles in for a long lunch. Akram likes his food.

There are tourists scattered throughout, none fitting the descriptions provided by Grace, but Knox has every person sized up and he’s located the exit by the two restrooms, as well as the entrance to the kitchen. He drinks coffee that should be considered an alternative fuel, tolerates the cigarette smoke. Realizes a dentist could make more money in this city than a bond trader. He’s high on adrenaline and the approach of negotiation, feels it in his loins like he’s about to try to flirt an underwear model into leaving a party with him.

“So, this thing we talked about,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Should I consider you interested?”

Akram lowers his eyes in consent. Knox finds the man’s face to be a confusion of contradictions. Bronze facial skin covered by a salt-and-pepper balbo beard that adds ten years to what is likely his early thirties. Nearly shaved head to lessen the impression of a receding hairline. Heavy, expressive eyebrows shield wide-set eyes that could be black glass, yet his gaze reveals that he’s multitasking. He’s an IRS agent who knows everyone cheats on his or her taxes, a priest awaiting the first stone. He’d run a fillet knife through you if you crossed him, but he’ll attend your son’s bar mitzvah no matter how far he has to travel. He wears a cracked brown leather jacket that might have trouble zipping shut when it reaches his chest. The tight fitting black T-shirt supports this assessment. He wears no jewelry. The face of his rubber sports watch is scratched, its black band cracked.

“It’s many times greater than that of any of our prior transactions.”

Knox withholds comment.

“First, let me say, my friend, that I mean no insult to your integrity.” He allows that to fester in Knox. “I must question how it is an item that has eluded the top archaeologists and researchers for several centuries, suddenly appears in the hands of a…” He’s searching for a word other than “amateur.”

Knox saves him. “Even a good copy is worth serious consideration. We both know that. And this is not a good copy.”

“The original Harmodius? This is not possible.”

“And yet we are here.”

“So it is.”

“I expect you will want authentication. I will agree to the specialist of your choosing, but I am to accompany the piece at every step, and I will determine the location. Your man has three days.”

Akram purses his lips. “Absurd. Three months, perhaps. Analysis of mineral composition, weathering layers, historical comparison. This takes time.”

“I have paperwork with me. An independent, well-respected expert. You can call him directly and he will confirm the contents of the paperwork. As to the funds, half will be placed into escrow. At that time I will permit verification to begin. Time is of the essence.”

“Someone has done a good job of selling you, my friend. I do not know whether to feel sorry for you or happy for them.”

“I mean no insult to your integrity,” Knox says deliberately, “but I will need a credit check, or asset verification. The sum is large and not easily raised.”

“I cannot think of a museum that would not do business with you, whatever terms you demand.”

“Do you read the news? The art world has become too accountable. What has happened to everyone?”

“Globalization,” Akram says. “We were far better off when isolated in our own countries. We wanted blue jeans. We ended up with the EU. If only we had known.”

“You are able to raise the funds?” Knox asks.

“For a good copy, certainly. For the original? How long do we play this charade?”

The food arrives. Knox inhales deeply.

“I told you,” Akram said. “The chef is an artist.”

The presence of food lessens the tension. Akram shares a story about one of his six daughters, who is training as a gymnast back in Irbid, Jordan. She has started to grow taller, maturing early, and it’s a family crisis.

“You are wondering how I can afford such artwork,” Akram says, as the third course, the lamb Knox smelled out on the street, arrives.

“Not my business. Only that you’re able.”

“Let us assume it is a copy, to your great surprise.”

“Very well.”

“It would be wise for us to have two prices in mind. Yes?”

“As to that, the down payment will be held in escrow. If you pass, your money will be returned.”

“So confident! Please pardon me, my friend. But are you so naive?”

Knox shrugs. This is some of the best lamb he’s ever tasted.

“It’s the marinade,” Akram says.

“Secret recipe?”

“More precious than your Harmodius, believe me.”

“I do not,” Knox says. “Five hundred thousand, U.S.”

Akram Okle offers his first tell: he pinches his nose to clear it. Knox had taken note of the tic earlier, but now he establishes its significance.

“I offer it to you first out of respect. You have only a matter of days to fund the escrow. I will then deliver the piece for analysis at a place and time of my choosing. It will be very last minute, I am afraid.” There are only a few labs in Istanbul capable of authentication. Arranging an ambush at multiple locations will present a challenge for Akram. Knox must cover every base.

“I would request the same.”

“As I said, I have test results,” Knox says. He unzips two of the nineteen pockets in the Scottevest to locate the paperwork Dulwich supplied. Passes it across the table, keeping his hand atop it. He wants the symbolism of the exchange to register.

Knox says, “I will accept half as a down payment. It must be received at least twenty-four hours before your people assay it.”

“Twenty-five percent.”

“Fifty percent. No less.”

“As you wish,” Akram says. He studies Knox carefully as he slides the paperwork his way. He shows tremendous strength in not looking at it. He won’t trust the contents, but it will set him drooling. It will help his people know what to verify in the short time Knox will give them at the lab. “Can you handle this, John? A deal like this? This size?”

“Our earlier deals… I was testing you,” Knox lies. “I thought you ready for this. If I am wrong…”

Akram pinches the bridge of his nose again and inhales. “It is impossible, the Harmodius. You must understand.”

“Half now,” Knox says. “The other half wired to the account of my choosing upon delivery.” He goes back to the lamb. Delicious.