The Red Room

50

John!” Grace calls out, just loudly enough to be heard. The cardiac ward’s corridor stretches out before her. David Dulwich steps closer to John, which explains why John doesn’t turn his head.

She has to assume he can hear her. “It is GPS. The device was modified to contain GPS!”

Now he does look her way, shoots her an expression of shock, disbelief and victimization. John thinks she has betrayed him.

“GPS,” she says again.

From the moment she saw the man observing from outside the electronics shop, she knew: it was virtually impossible he’d followed her; beyond any possibility of coincidence that he might be surveilling a random electronics repair shop. No, he had followed the device she’d stolen. Thus, the only possible explanation: the device contained a GPS chip.

She now believes Dulwich’s claim that his client did not intend to kill Mashe Okle, but only follow him. Whether such surveillance would result in his death was beyond her ability to determine, but she could make assumptions, as John was now doing. She stands less than a meter from both men.

“The Israelis,” Knox says to Dulwich. No one is within earshot, but he wouldn’t care if they were. His anger shows as a tightening of muscle and sinew, as though his body is preparing to take a blow. Both men know where this is headed.

Dulwich does not look thrilled about it.

“You are so far out of your element.” Dulwich is more mindful of volume than Knox. “You did what you came to do. Now, go home.” He reluctantly takes the last few steps and plants himself within striking distance. Lowers his voice further. Grace can barely hear him.

“You two…” Dulwich looks past Knox at Grace. “You should have left well enough alone.”

“You can’t leave something alone unless you know about it in the first place.”

“The op is a thirty,” he says, indicating that it’s over; they’re done. “It’s a fat paycheck. Don’t jeopardize it.”

“I’m going in there,” Knox says, glancing at the room’s door. “I won’t be part of his death.”

Dulwich shakes his head. “I told you up front: no killing. It’s NTK, Knox. Leave it!”

“You made like he was a monster!” Knox spits unintentionally.

“You like things neat. Like your booze.”

Knox shakes his head. “The GPS tracks him to a bunker the Israelis have been unable to find.”

“N… T… K.”

“They add it to the sortie when the time comes to start taking out Iran’s nukes. Those bunker busters the U.S. has been so hesitant to provide. No stone unturned. No bunker left operating.”

“You have to learn when to turn it off.”

“I’m missing that switch. This model didn’t come with one.”

Dulwich collects himself. “Come on, John.”

Grace adjusts her position, believing she’s going to have separate them.

Knox produces his phone. “What say we give Primer a call and sort this out?”

“He’ll deny it all.”

“Impressive. You didn’t so much as flinch.”

“We’re making a scene. Let’s take this down to the cafeteria or outside.”

“A scene? You ain’t seen nothing yet.” Knox moves to push past the man, but Dulwich is faster on two good legs. They stand chest to chest.

“Boys.” Grace indeed closes the distance. She stands behind Knox, a gesture he takes as both symbolic and significant. She can be his legs.

“Tell him we don’t need a scene,” Dulwich says.

“You lied to us,” Grace says. “Omission. Commission. No matter. You lied.”

“You are both disobeying the directive. You are also misunderstanding what’s going on. It’s Need To Know.”

“I need to know”—Knox emphasizes the words mockingly—“why you lied. I suspect Primer will be interested as well, denial or not.”

He focuses on his phone’s screen. Dulwich reaches for it, but Knox has several inches more arm span. He holds it at bay. He and Dulwich are practically kissing.

“You have no fucking idea how wrong you have this.”

“Enlighten me.”

Grace steps forward to pry them apart. Her intervention catches the attention of an orderly down the hall. She spots the man a mile away, thanks to his oversized shoes. He had to change out of his leather-soled shoes to look the part, she guesses, and he couldn’t find any his own size in the staff lockers he broke into. In her mind’s eye, Grace can see the man panicking and settling for a pair several sizes too large. But he looks like a carnival clown; it might have been smarter to risk wearing his own shoes. He’s moving to help her.

“David, your six o’clock,” she hisses. The men stop wrestling.