The Red Room

37

Knox was not made for waiting. He moves to the window and parts the blinds an inch to peer out at the street below. Isn’t sure what he’s looking for. Something different. Something unexpected.

But Istanbul is unexpected — the hustle, the street side conversations, the smells, the mix of Western and Middle Eastern dress. He viewed most of this as an obstacle when he arrived; now it’s under his skin and welcome. The mayhem is damn near comforting, a kind of elixir; its absence would be troubling.

He and Akram have been waiting twenty long minutes for some word from Adjani. For any word. Knox reaches for the laptop and mutes their end of the conversation.

“Tell me about Victoria,” Knox says.

Akram appraises him. “I think not.”

“You haven’t taken your eyes off her.”

“I do not believe this your business, John Knox.”

“She is in possession of my artwork — she, and a man of your choosing.”

“Hassan is no thief.”

“And yet you are on a first-name basis with him,” Knox says.

Akram demurs.

“Not the first time you’ve needed a piece of art authenticated.”

Still nothing.

“She speaks fondly of you. She was hurt. Is hurt.” Knox hits the target.

Akram is all flashing eyes, a wicked temper caged. His carotid artery working overtime.

“Perhaps you two can patch things up,” Knox says, hoping to give his being alive added value.

“She will have none of it.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Knox sees a crack of hope. “The only way a person hurts is if she cares. And she hurts.”

Knox doesn’t have to work too hard. Akram wants this to be true.

“They are more a prize than any piece of art, neh?” Knox hears himself add the Graceism to the end of his sentence; the gesture sends him tumbling through his own spiral of emotions. Is he talking to Akram or to himself? What drove him to this line of conversation? Just how much trouble is he in? And with whom?

“You would do this for me?” Akram’s childish tone reminds Knox a woman can bring a man to his knees. “Do you know my ringtone for her? ‘Brown Sugar,’ Rolling Stones.” He quotes, “‘I’m no schoolboy, but I know what I like.’”

Knox arrives at the moment for which he’s aimed: the reveal that he, Knox, knows more than expected. He measures his words carefully. “She is afraid of your brother.” Pauses. “I have a younger brother. It is not easy for the younger to escape the elder’s shadow.”

“You know nothing of this matter.”

He’s testing. “True,” Knox says cruelly.

“Family blood is thick,” Akram says, rubbing his fingers together.

“Sticky,” Knox says, supplying the word for him.

“Exactly this! Sticky.”

“Our sense of family evolves.”

“She asks too much.” Akram’s anger is overshadowed by his pain. This is not the first time he’s reached this particular crossroads.

Knox shrugs. “Not every deal can be negotiated.”

“Why would you do this?” Akram must read some tell on his face; Knox has slipped. “The truth. Eh?”

Knox chuckles. The truth evolves as well, he thinks. “The last time we met, as you will recall, I was shot at within minutes.” He touches his baseball cap. “There is no reason for me to think this will not happen again.”

“You want to be of value to me.”

“I am of value to you. What I want is protection as I leave here.”

“If I help you live, I get my woman back.”

“Something like that.”

“You drive a hard bargain, John.” It’s the first time Akram has smiled in some time.

Dr. Adjani’s face distorts as he arrives too close to the laptop’s camera. As he does, Knox taps a key to remove the Mute. The lab man’s eyes sparkle with excitement as he speaks.

“The soil carried on the bust is consistent with what was once termed the Great Rift Valley, now part of Israel and adjacent to the Jordan Rift Valley. That is, there are high percentages of rock salt and gypsum. Unique to that area. This is in sharp distinction to the red and gray-brown podzolic soils that cover nearly a third of Turkey. The bust is almost certainly Greek. The soil is not. It would not be the first Greek treasure unearthed in the Rift, though the Harmodius was believed lost in Greece, as you must know. The casting, metalwork and craftsmanship are consistent with the era. As to the metallurgy, I took a small sample from inside the cast and subjected it to gas chromatography.” Adjani pauses to move his glasses in a nervous tick. “The composition of the bronze is unique to the epoch in question. Extremely difficult to reproduce, I should add. I should also caution that this is not a wholesale endorsement.

“It’s suggestive, but such things can be duplicated, no matter how unlikely.

“That said, if duplicated, it is exemplary work, well above anything I have seen outside of authentic pieces.”

Akram and Knox watch the screen, awaiting the bad news. None is forthcoming. Adjani fiddles with his glasses again, shakes his head and says, “Extraordinary, gentlemen. Upon cursory inspection this object would appear to be a fragment of a bronze casting forged approximately five hundred B.C. It might easily have been recovered from the Jordan Rift. Soil compaction would suggest it has been buried for, shall we say, several hundred years at minimum. Such soil compaction is extremely difficult, if not impossible, to reproduce. Only months of exhaustive testing will confirm its authenticity. Such testing should begin immediately. It would be… criminal”—he leans on the word intentionally—“to not complete such tests regardless of the outcome of the piece’s future. This is a work of major importance. I urge you to allow the proper testing — confidential testing, if necessary — to begin at once.”

Knox masks his own surprise as Akram stares him down. Both men know Knox is too insignificant a player in the art world to be trusted with such a piece. The only possible explanation is theft, and clearly Akram did not believe Knox up to such a task.

For his part, Knox is wondering where and how Dulwich came up with such a piece and, by extension, how important Mashe Okle must be to the client to sacrifice an antiquity worth millions for the sake of an op. It’s an inconceivable price to pay, forcing Knox to question once again if the sale will ever take place. If Mashe is not to make it out of Istanbul alive, that’s a play Knox wants no part of. His own life is at stake, too: if the client proves willing to sacrifice a piece as valuable as the Harmodius, what kind of chance does a low-level operative like Knox have?

A single word floats in Knox’s consciousness: Israel. It is the sun around which all logic spins.

On-screen behind Adjani, Victoria lurks like a beta wolf awaiting the sating of alpha’s appetite. Knox’s offer of 10 percent must be titillating. More important, she has to realize that to attempt to steal a piece of such extraordinary value would likely get her killed or arrested. The Obama bust was destroyed to reveal the Harmodius; something equally clever and effective will need to be devised and installed in order to smuggle the Harmodius out of Turkey.

He texts Grace a thumbs-up emoticon signaling the verification is good. Understanding the role of the Israelis and the switched pacemaker is more important now than ever. Fearing Dulwich may have been misled by the client, they must attempt to determine the purpose of their proposed five minutes with Mashe.

“My protection,” Knox says, reminding him. Akram has yet to admit openly he’s under watch by the Iranians.

Akram’s eyes grow distant. “You will please to tell her I love her.”