The Red Room

31

Wrists crossed and held low in front, protecting the sternum. Chin averted to the side, in case his opponent’s head snaps forward, a rare but painful unintended consequence. A quick step to his left like a defensive tackle in a stunt. Knox plants the block perfectly, lifting the small but sturdy man fully off his feet and laying him back onto the street. His head hits concrete with an audible thud.

Knox drops his right knee into the man’s crotch. There’s no mistaking the parts caught between his patella and the asphalt. A good percentage of his two hundred and twenty-seven pounds are balanced on that knee.

It’s not the wallet that interests him — leatherbound fiction. Nor the 9mm handgun in a belt holster, which Knox removes, ejecting the magazine with one hand and skidding the weapon deeply under a truck that has stopped to allow the pedestrians to cross. The flurry of car horns doesn’t bother him; in truth, his focus is so intense, he barely hears anything but the blood whining in his ears.

It’s the man’s phone he wants, his data. Ones and zeros that connect this man to another, and he to she, and she to it. It’s the “it” he wants. Needs. The “it” may put this all into perspective, something Dulwich is clearly loath to do. If the data suggest Iranians, so be it. But if Israelis or another faction, it moves the five minutes with Mashe Okle/Nawriz Melemet into far more dangerous territory — the arenas of international politics and national security, a zone in which friends and allies are no more than conveniences. Though he doesn’t want to, Knox must consider the possibility that Dulwich and/or Primer have entered into this op naively, that he and Grace are now in too far to abort but may have been set up, intentionally or not, as scapegoats.

The inside zippered pocket. Knox has the phone practically before the man’s facial skin stops dancing from the contact with the pavement. He’s off him and moving. Elapsed time, seven seconds. Knox continues in the direction, away from Grace, alert for others like this one, who now lies unconscious in a thinning intersection.

He passes a yogurt shop, a jeans store, a window with more discount electronics than anything in Times Square. Crosses at the next intersection, reducing his height by bending his knees and taking longer strides. Same old tricks. Same old circus.

As he nears the far curb, the taxi jerks to a stop. Knox rounds the vehicle and climbs into the back, throwing his arm around her without saying a word. It’s Dulwich driving the cab.

Grace clings to Knox like a child.