The Red Room

29

Go around,” Knox instructs the cabbie in crude Turkish.

The cabbie’s posted ID reveals a Muslim name to go with his Egyptian face. The vehicle skirts a small fire engine and two police cars pulled to the curb, negotiates the crowd of curious onlookers. Knox strains to look up from within the cab. It’s a nondescript apartment building, a perfect safe house.

He’s traveled by ferry to the Asian side of the city. Now the cab. Knox has no idea what he’s looking for, only knows that he’ll recognize it when he sees it. Tops on his list is the clothing seen in the Skype video — a distinctive light brown leather jacket on one of the two men; a more ubiquitous dark windbreaker worn by the other. Turks, Greeks, Spaniards, Italians — the stadiums of any futbol match are filled with a hundred thousand clones of the men he seeks.

To his left, a group of young boys flees down the sidewalk — following someone in a hurry? Somewhere nearby, sirens; hopefully Dulwich with the cavalry.

“This address?” The cabdriver points to the meter. He has tired of Knox’s impatience, wants to be free of him.

Knox isn’t much of a gambler. Feels himself coming apart. Raid the building or follow the boys? Pictures Grace, her hands free enough to trip a fire alarm. Her captors playing her for the female computer hacker she is. A nerd. They wouldn’t expect her punch. No one would ever expect a woman as complex as she.

The sky in front of them is brighter than rain clouds behind. Knox knows the psychological reaction of someone frightened, someone fearing for her life, would be to move in the direction of the light.

The direction the boys were running.

“Drive on,” Knox says. “I will tell you the way.”

The driver huffs.

Grace needs a sanctuary, he thinks, somewhere to lose herself in a crowd. A mosque is too male-dominated. A restaurant is too static, and therefore risky. The neighborhood around the safe house is upscale: sidewalks of hand-laid pavers, trees in abundance, a mixture of contemporary and ancient architecture. The sidewalks remain a Benetton ad: Western, Indian, Arab, African. Not a Chinese in sight.

“A market? A street market?” Knox says.

“The Grand Bazaar, mister, is most famous—”

“This side of the strait! The south side!” Knox’s abrupt tone is off-putting to the driver. The man looks away from the rearview mirror, pretending his cab is empty.

Knox drops some liras into the front seat. “A food or spice market. Clothing? Household goods? A street market near here.”

“Kadiköy is not familiar,” the driver says.

“Call someone! Find out!” Knox says. “Turn here.” He points right. Directs the cab left at the next intersection. He’s all raw instinct — a water witcher. The purpose of training is to make you unpredictable, and Grace is well trained. She’s likely stuck on foot if she’s not dead in the safe house. He shudders. “Call someone now!” he shouts. “Public market!”

Cursing beneath his breath, the cabdriver reaches for his phone.

Knox attempts to further untangle the knot of Grace’s abduction. Mashe Okle, a nuclear engineer. The record of his higher education obscured but not redacted. Grace’s captors will want her to explain her interest in the man. To kill her would be to invite others to follow the same path. If she has escaped — as Knox is assuming — the Iranians will be trying to recapture her.

“Street market today,” the cabbie says, ending the call. “Many apologies. I forget the day it is.”

“Near here?”

“Up the hill. Quite near.”

“Up the hill?” Grace has played contrarian, assuming that, like Knox, her pursuers will head downhill.

“I take you there?” The man wants Knox out of his cab. Smells trouble.

“You take me there,” Knox confirms. He wants Grace in the backseat with him. And he wants any one of the personnel pursuing her, too. Wants to confirm them as Iranians, wants to tune up someone to rid himself of the adrenaline poisoning him. Experiences a pang of guilt: he should have protected her from this ever happening.

Knox’s phone vibrates. “Yeah?”

“Police emergency line.” It’s Dulwich. “Woman speaking English says kidnappers are after her. Said she’s near a bull.”

“Bull!” Knox says to the driver. “Cow. Steer.”

“Yes. I tell you already. This is Kadiköy market.”

“Got it,” Knox says to Dulwich, ending the call. His mind is stuck back on Dulwich having access to voice traffic on Istanbul’s police emergency line. Can that be explained by Kamat’s or Xin’s involvement? Does it suggest outside resources available to Dulwich?

Knox drops more liras onto the passenger seat. “Fast!”