The Red Room

35

For Knox, the op has been reduced to base objectives. Victory will be defined by survival. Working off the idea that some force he can’t yet ID wants him out of Istanbul, he buys a one-way ticket for Gebze, Turkey. He uses his company credit card, assuming his transactions may be watched — by Dulwich? the client? the Israelis? He’s not sure.

In-country travel does not require him to pass through Immigration, where he fears interference by Victoria or yet another party might lead him to be red-flagged. The plane is still in turnaround as he waits at the gate. He pays an additional seventy-five dollars at the desk for priority boarding. Walks the air bridge behind the first-class passengers, arriving outside the jet’s entry while the food service crew is still at work in the galley. The food service truck is parked opposite. Knox steps out of line to tie a shoe that doesn’t need tying. Two people pass him. The flight attendant moves down the aisle to help push a bag into an overhead. The food service man stumbles past with a crate of sodas.

Knox moves straight across and into the raised back of the service truck. It’s all about the appearance of confidence. He doesn’t hurry, doesn’t stoop. He waits until he’s deep into the truck, where he pushes himself behind a stack of dirty trays. When the worker returns, Knox attracts his attention by making rodent scratches on the wooden floor. Silences him with a blow to the trachea and choke-holds him into unconsciousness. Takes the man’s shirt and airport employment ID lanyard. Works the hydraulics to lower the raised truck bed and drives away a few minutes later. Leaving via a secure airport ramp in Turkey amounts to driving up to a security booth and watching the mechanical arm raise fifteen seconds before being close enough to require an exchange. Food service trucks are a regular sight, apparently.

Knox boards the Metro and rides to Beyoglu. Doesn’t spot anyone following. Rides a bus northwest to Tepebasi and goes on foot the final distance, taking twelve blocks to accomplish what could have been done in eight. His nerves are on edge, an uncommon sensation that causes him to walk faster than usual. Hoping he has lost the tail, he reverses direction and reaches the street Akram named in a text forty minutes earlier.

The latch hums. He’s through. He climbs to the first floor, conscious that this is but the first of a two-stage process. Here he must convince Akram the Harmodius is legitimate enough to merit investment; next, he must leverage that authenticity to bring Mashe into a room with him and Grace for five minutes.

The apartment is on the right, likely a flat belonging to a friend of Akram’s. Maybe a mistress, Knox thinks, given a few feminine touches. There’s a ceramic bulldog sitting on a handmade doily atop a tube television. Furniture, that to Knox’s American eye looks like it belongs in a 1960s period film, crowds the small room into which Knox is welcomed.

Akram wears the same cracked brown leather jacket, dark T-shirt and designer jeans. He looks wider and stronger than Knox remembers, more threatening.

“The piece?” Akram says. “Where is the Harmodius, please, John?”

Knox spots the open laptop that Akram was instructed to bring. He sets up a wireless connection over his iPhone, connects to the Internet and places a Skype video call.

“Dr. Adjani,” Knox says. “As you approved.”

“I do not see him,” Akram says irritably, gesturing to their surroundings and the studio apartment that barely accommodates himself and Knox.

“I have taken precautions, given the challenges you and I discussed at the airport.” Knox indicates the laptop’s screen, which now shows an image of a university lab.

“This will not do.”

“It will, or I’m gone.”

Adjani, personally selected by Akram, stands alongside the Obama bust in what could double as a high school science lab. Just off screen, at the back of the room, Knox sees Victoria. Is it Knox’s imagination or is Akram more interested in her than the professor?

“We are ready at this end,” Dr. Adjani says.

“I do not understand,” Akram complains. “What is the meaning of this?”

“You and your expert have two hours. Victoria is there, as you can see, protecting your interests. I cannot travel with the Harmodius. Not after that earlier business. Victoria transported it for me. Two hours. Use it well.”

Akram appears poised to call it off. Knox is paralyzed with anticipation.

“Let us see what we have, Hassan.” Akram sits down in front of the laptop.

Minutes later, Adjani carefully drives a flat, wide blade into Obama’s left shoulder. With a black rubber mallet, he applies small, studied taps. His blows are calculated and efficient. He works a rent into the seam and pries; the plastic separates and two pieces calve away, revealing a lump of gauze in one half. Knox watches Akram’s face. Impressed. Apprehensive. Overly eager for the gauze to be removed.

Adjani pries the lump from the cast plastic. It’s heavy. The man dons surgical gloves and peels away the veil, revealing a bronze head and partial torso broken below the shoulders, which are angled forward. Akram does his best to suppress a gasp, but his eyes pop. Knox has studied Harmodius and Aristogeiton enough to know that if it’s a copy, it’s a damn good one.

Good enough to be crafted by Kritios and Nesiotes? he wonders. If so, the value is incalculable.

Akram has had the same thought. “The second copy was also lost to the ages.”

“Yes.”

Akram doesn’t say it, but his face shouts, Could this possibly be real?

As the bust is fully revealed, it is seen to still contain dirt and gravel, seams of earth packed into its crevices. The piece looks like it was dug up an hour ago and barely cleaned. Knox knows the condition serves a purpose: the dirt and the existing condition can help date the bust, often more than the bust itself.

“I’m telling you, it is possible. Confirmed by my experts.” Knox says this and then recalls that his expert is Dulwich, whom he no longer trusts. If Dulwich burned him on the Harmodius, there’s no way he’ll get the five minutes with Mashe — and no way Victoria will let him off the hook with the authorities.

Knox continues, faking a confidence he doesn’t feel. “Adjani should be able to determine the fundamentals. If it’s a copy, how old a copy? The chemical lab work is speculative at best.”

Knox wears an earbud that Akram hasn’t asked about. It’s an open phone connection with Besim, who’s surveilling the university building where Victoria and Adjani are working. Knox has a chauffeur he’s never met guarding several million dollars’ worth of sculpture. Grace told Besim that Victoria is her husband’s mistress, and that she suspects they have colluded to appraise a piece of art, which they will sell without Grace’s knowledge. Knox is a good friend monitoring the situation. Every element of the op is based on a lie.

With the veil removed, Adjani’s meticulous methods suggest more than an expert doing his job. He’s reverential. The man attempts to start a video camera to record his work, but Knox stops him. Akram speaks Turkish with Adjani. Knox puts a quick stop to that, though ostensibly Victoria is in the room to protect Knox’s interests.

The lab work draws out. Soil is scraped from the bust and tested. The piece is subjected to ultrasound. Adjani dons surgeon’s glasses and examines the surface of the bronze in a dozen places, picking at it with dentist tools. Nothing is heard but the occasional scratching, Adjani sniffling or Victoria, offscreen, rearranging herself. The silence is painful. Knox breaks it to maintain his sanity.

“The remainder of the funds?”

“It is as we discussed. To be transferred upon delivery should the verification prove out.”

Knox enjoys getting what he wants. “My associate must meet him. As discussed.”

“I cannot confirm this demand at present.”

Knox doesn’t belabor the point. He’ll let the Harmodius sell itself. It will give him leverage. Adjani is already obsessed with the piece. He rolls up a stool and faces the camera.

An hour has passed. To Knox, it feels like most of the day.