The Red Room

42

My God!” Grace blurts out as Knox admits her to the toilet stall at the back of the falafel shop. There are two unisex toilets. Knox has been sitting on the closed seat, awaiting her arrival.

Her reaction is in part to his pants being down at his ankles, but primarily to the bloody lacerations and ugly raised lumps on his shins. Hopefully she’s not paying attention to the red stab wound on his thigh or the similarly repaired injury to his scalp.

“I wouldn’t have called, but it’s nearly impossible to walk.”

Grace stares at his legs, her face pale. “What—?”

“A woman. Rebar. I was supposed to end up in an ambulance for what I assume was a ‘debriefing.’ Did you get it?”

She digs into the paper bag she carries and removes a small brown bottle. “This is meant for toothaches, John.”

“It’ll do the trick, believe me. I usually carry some. I’m out. What about—?”

Grace removes a prescription bottle from her purse. “Vicodin. Take two—”

“How did you—?”

“You do not want to ask.” Yet she explains anyway. “Habit-forming drugs require prescription. Antibiotics, antidepressants? These do not. I used my considerable charms — and my UN identification — to obtain eight pills. One day’s worth. Not enough to satisfy an addiction.”

Knox uncaps the vial, dispenses four and swallows them.

“Size triple X,” he says.

He spills some of the toothache ointment over the injuries, wincing at the contact. Grace kneels and patches him up, using cream, gauze and tape from the bag.

“Any one of these wounds is enough to require you to rest, John. We should abort.”

Knox studies her pained face. Her position makes them both uncomfortable; she’s looking up at him, her eyes level with his waist. He sees something beyond concern flash across her face, but exactly what it is remains out of reach.

“You’d better explain that.”

An impatient knock.

“Let us get you out of here first,” Grace whispers. “Can you walk?”

Knox flexes his ankles. Shoots of pain race through him like fever chills. He puts his weight on both heels. Winces a second time. “Sure. Why not?”

Grace reaches out to help with his pants, but Knox takes over and Grace stands back as he lifts them gingerly past the wounds and fastens them at the waist. She collects the contents of the bag, including the trash. Leave no evidence of injury behind; give your opponent no sense of advantage.

He hobbles forward two steps.

“It’ll be better once the drugs kick in.”

“That will not be soon enough. We will wait here. Put food in you. Medication to be taken with food. When is the last time you ate?”

“Look who’s talking.”

“David just bought me falafel,” she says.

Knox wonders if it’s the pain or her words that stop his diaphragm. “O… kay.”

At a table against the wall, Knox sits, long legs elevated on the chair next to Grace; across the table, she takes him through the meeting with Dulwich and her encounter with Besim’s agent provocateur. She talks at length with the waitress, who brings two bags of ice. Grace places them atop Knox’s wounds.

“You cannot continue, John. Not like this.”

He tells her that the testing of the Harmodius, including the soil samples, indicates Israeli soil. Grace nods; relates that this matches with Besim’s man lip reading the Hebrew spoken by her hospital pursuers.

The reputation of Mossad is not lost on either of them. Mashe Okle’s scientific credentials. The fact that a half-dozen Iranian nuclear scientists have died under suspicious circumstances. Dulwich’s assurances that no killing would take place, when all evidence points to the contrary.

Grace walks Knox through what Dulwich told her about a single client, informs him that they are in the midst of a black op multilayered to ensure deniability. She impresses him with Dulwich’s apparent surprise at hearing about a possible dead drop, adds that Sarge’s emphasis remains on the two of them getting their five minutes with Mashe Okle. “Your condition, John, is the perfect excuse for us to abort,” she finishes.

“What about all his flag waving?” This is the part of her story that intrigues Knox — Dulwich’s plea to stay with the op. Dedication to the job is one thing, but the way she described it, it sounds more like passion. Knox knows Dulwich to be truly passionate about one thing only: the flag and all it represents.

“Let us accept this: the Harmodius was dug up in Israel. Real or a copy, it hardly matters. It is presumed to be extremely valuable. The client, either acting alone or on behalf of the Israelis, has used it as bait. What if the Israeli agents we have encountered are assigned to ensure its security? Its eventual return?”

Knox likes her explanation, appreciates her ability to be concise. She takes his relaxation the wrong way.

“I am boring?”

“Of course,” he says.

She laughs, covering her mouth, an annoying habit of hers he has failed to break.

“It’s the drugs kicking in.” He feels good. Too good. Recognizes that he’s speaking too freely.

“You were supposed to take only two,” she reminds him.

“Sarge claimed ignorance regarding a drop,” Knox says, attempting to clarify.

“I am reading into this something that may not be accurate,” she says, carefully prefacing her words, “but I would say David was not surprised by the suggestion of a dead drop, although it was news to him, if you are able to discern the difference. The trip here serves two purposes, it seems. This makes sense to him, but troubles him, too.”

“He’s not the only one.” Knox lets this information roll around in his head. It’s getting gooey in there. The rough corners are smooth now, his body warm. His shins pulse but no longer scream. “You know what this means?”

Grace shakes her head patronizingly. He must be slurring his words.

“Either the Israelis or the Iranians are responsible for the mother’s illness.”

A ceiling fan creaks. Cars rumble past on the street.

“It’s what got him here. Mashe. What created the excuse for him to come.”

“A son cannot possibly condone such a thing.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know. He won’t have put it together. And we don’t know what he condones or what kind of hold, if any, they have over him. Perhaps the threat is that they finish her. It’s impossible to say. If Sarge knows, he isn’t telling.”

“We either have two unrelated ops,” she says softly, “or we misread your mugging.”

“I’m listening.”

Grace says, “Let us assume the Israelis are assigned to keep track of the Harmodius. They follow you. They account for your every move. They search your hotel room when you are away. The Harmodius is gone. What is next?”

“They search me for a receipt or locker key — evidence of where I’ve stashed the statue. They make it look like a mugging. Ergo, no dead drop.”

“It is a possibility, neh?”

It’s genius, but he doesn’t tell her so. “Then what’s with the pacemaker?” Knox would rather be telling than asking, but the shock of the wound combined with the medication is limiting. He’ll let Grace take the lead for now.

“It could be nothing more than proactive intelligence. Let us assume the Israelis have connected a Swiss medical supplier with a foreign intelligence organization. Medical devices are being used to convey intelligence. The Israelis cannot take the chance that software vital to the nuclear program might be smuggled to the Iranians inside the electronics of sealed pacemakers—”

“So they interrupt the supply chain and place clean pacemakers in the hospital. They collect the suspicious shipment and deliver it to their lab for analysis.” Knox exhales. “Clever bastards.”

Grace overreacts instinctively, worried about his pain. “John!”

“I’m good.” There are warm marbles rolling around behind his eyes. He could sit here for hours. “Doesn’t explain the shot Ali took. You don’t try to kill the guy who’s hidden what’s yours.” It’s an unintended slap in the face.

“No,” she says.

“What are you keeping from me? Sarge told you something.”

She does not hesitate. “He said, I quote, it is ‘bigger than stink.’”

The expression hits Knox. “He said that? Those exact words?”

“Yes. Why?”

Knox inhales through his nose, feels sick. Knows it’s not the drugs. “Well then,” he whispers. “Phones off.” He digs his out and turns his off and waits for her to do the same. Tries to stand. “They’ll have this location by now. We need an alternate exit. And we’ve got to stay moving.”

“John?” Grace allows fear into her voice. She helps him to stand. He’s unsteady.

He allows her to help. It surprises them both. He talks to himself. “I’ll need to turn mine back on: Akram’s going to text me the location for the meet. But for now…”

He’s rambling. Scared, she repeats his name, imploringly.

Knox steadies himself with hands on both her shoulders. “Bigger than stink. It’s a Sarge expression: the end justifies the means, which in our case is us.” He meets eyes with her. “We’re fucked.”