The Red Room

56

Knox unbraids the top of a metal hanger in three quick rotations. He straightens it with two sharp bends and is already swinging the wire whip as he steps around the rolling rack of employee uniforms. It extends three feet from his hands, catching the unsuspecting man across the face, first from Knox’s right and then again on the return blow from the left. It raises welts on the man’s right cheek, draws blood on the left. By the time his opponent reacts, all the man can do is offer up his hands for a lashing. The whip nearly takes his pinky off. Backs him up a staggering step.

Forehand, backhand. Knox, the matador, marching forward relentlessly. The man cowering now, bent at the waist, bloodied hands clasped over his head, charges Knox like a bull. Hits Knox in the belly hard, reversing their fortunes. Knox drops the whip, gets his hands on the man’s shoulders, but it’s too late. Two hundred lean pounds drive Knox back and off his weak legs.

The two men wrestle on the concrete floor. Roll into the clothes rack. Knox pulls it over onto them, drowning them in polyester. He breaks loose and crab-walks away, understanding he’s no match for this man’s coordinated power. A good pair of legs are vital for defending against a man of his opponent’s strength.

By the time Knox scrambles out from beneath the pile of black jackets, he’s facing two men. One standing; he has a stitched-up ear. One kneeling and not looking good.

All three are winded. Briefly, no one moves — Knox is still inverted on hands and feet like he’s in a camp contest. The message is simple: outnumbered, Knox has lost.

Knox speaks first. “You speak English,” he tells them. “We’re all following orders. I don’t have what you want. I passed it off at the hospital. Check on that.”

The one who’s standing produces a Taser from a side pocket.

“Oh, come on,” Knox says.

The man fires.

As he regains consciousness, Knox registers that his hands have been plastic-tied behind his back. His legs are weak but moving, his head pounding, his heart racing.

“Motherfucker,” Knox groans behind the electronic hangover.

They’re in the hotel basement corridor.

“I like the jacket,” the man who didn’t suffer the face lashing says. “Could use one of those myself.” So they’ve searched him.

“I passed it off,” Knox complains, repeating himself, directing attention back to the card.

“You’ll be fine.”

Knox doesn’t say, “Oh, sure.” He doesn’t say, “Tell that to my head.” He feels something foreign in that moment: hopelessness. Doesn’t know how people can live with such a feeling. His head swims but begins to level out, and he’s already looking for options, has already left the black hole of despair behind.

The man Knox whipped grips Knox’s arm like a tourniquet. Knox won’t give him the pleasure of knowing how much it hurts.

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Knox says in a steady voice.

“No one’s shooting anyone.”

The wounded man trips Knox across the shins, hits hard against the bloodstains.

Knox chokes out, “Your boss should make a call. I can give you a number.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” The wounded one swats the back of Knox’s head. It hurts worse than a cop’s nightstick. “Shut up, do not lie, and you are to be released. This is over.”

Spooks — Israeli spooks? — get away with murder, Knox thinks, knowing he’ll never be released because the business card he handed Dulwich contains nothing more than hospital contact information.

“We’re all on the same side here,” Knox says, not believing a word of it.

“Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

Knox is searching for Grace as he’s led into the lobby. It’s a bad sign that these two don’t care about being seen by hotel employees.

They reach the outside. It’s raining again. The Istanbul traffic is bumper to bumper. Pedestrians slosh along the sidewalk, colorful umbrellas held high overhead. It’s the parade of a dozen cultures. A place for lovers, enemies, allies. Spooks. He feels himself spiraling down the drain; blames the meds for his lack of inspiration. He’s out of ideas — a first. Hopes this isn’t his last glimpse of Istanbul. Wouldn’t mind staying a while longer.

“Hatichat harah!” the talkative agent says, speaking Hebrew. He wins a flash of scorn from his nearest colleague.

Knox considers himself something of a linguist in that he knows how to swear in a multitude of languages. The agent is not happy with tires of the Audi Quattro 7, parked at an angle to the curb. Two flats.

“What the—?” The agent shouts obscenities at the nearest bellman.

“Taxi!” the other agent says, his English decent. “Now!”

The bellman, no more than a kid, gestures nervously to the street. “Much rain, sir, as you see. One moment, if you please! Right away! Right away!” He runs out into the maelstrom, rain bouncing off his red fez. Blows a whistle, looking left and right.

“You need car? Private car!” A man’s heavily accented voice calls out from Knox’s left. The driver stands beneath an open umbrella. He moves toward his quarry, extending the shelter provided by the plastic.

“Private car. Very reasonable, very cheap. Where you go, please?”

The whistle for the taxi continues to blow. A crowd of wet Turks gathers around the foreigners, looking curiously at their man in custody. They shout questions in Turkish and English. Wet cigarettes dangle from their lips. Trial by jury on the streets of Istanbul.

Staring bitterly at the incapacitated Audi, the lead agent answers, “Istinye. How much?”

The driver rattles off a price.

The agent launches into negotiations.

“We take it!” the other agent says, moving himself under the extended umbrella while leaving Knox in the rain.

It’s not just raining. It’s apocalyptic. It’s an Old Testament deluge. The wet is a wake-up call. Knox’s brain is a computer spinning beach balls; he’s processing data from twenty seconds earlier.

“This way, if you please.” The driver.

In his dazed and beleaguered state, Knox allows himself to believe he knows the voice. Or is he confusing it with one of the agents?

Someone pushes his head down. He’s soaking wet as he lands in the backseat of the private car and is shoved to the center, his bound wrists behind him. The agents climb in on either side. One wet. One dry.

The doors power-lock. Knox leans forward, staring down at his knees, which are practically higher than his shoulders.

“You’re going to pay for this,” says the agent whose whipped face limits his ability to speak.

No doubt, Knox is thinking. He grunts, looks up and happens to catch the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

The eyes. The voice.

Besim.