The Red Room

58

Accustomed to following a navigation system, neither of the men bookending Knox seems to notice that the car has missed the exit for Barbaros Boulevard, the most direct route north to the Istinye district. Instead, they travel the O-1 southeast, and Besim takes a long exit ramp toward Bahçesehir University. The men look nondescript, Knox thinks as he surreptitiously studies them; the two could be of any European nationality. Judging by the accent of the few words spoken in the hotel’s laundry room and the swearing, he’s convinced they are Israeli or are on contract to the Israelis. If Israeli, they apparently don’t know about Besim. Boxes within boxes.

In point of fact, they could work for any government, any agency, any security company or corporation or individual wanting nuclear secrets.

The man to Knox’s left gets twitchy, perhaps sensing the detour. Besim has made the mistake of not averting the rearview mirror, which carries in its upper corner the dull green compass heading: SW. How long until it’s noticed?

Knox wrestles his body forward in an attempt to divert attention. His activity serves its purpose, though it gains him a blow to his sore ribs. Pain is an expected part of the process, but he’s worn down by the accumulation of wounds. He resists physical limitations, is able to overcome most of them; it’s another part of what makes him valuable to men like Dulwich. The fact that he’s succumbing to the toll now makes him question his longevity in this line of work, the thoughts coming in a series of panicked flashes. He hopes to hell Dulwich has not picked up on it, is worried it might make him dispensable.

Thinks of Tommy and the risk he’s taking and questions whether or not he’s fooling himself by thinking he accepts the work for Tommy’s sake.

“Hey!” The agent has it now.

“Traffic bad. Golf tournament, Sahasi,” Besim says calmly. “This way better.”

Knox wonders how many languages the man speaks; how many dialects; how easily this clipped attempt at English comes to him. It’s convincing enough to ease the agent back in his seat.

The car turns right, north, back toward Barbaros Boulevard, but yips to a stop at the entrance to a forested park on the left. Besim auto-unlocks the doors without being asked to do so, and they come open simultaneously. In a flurry of box cutters, swinging arms and fierce shouting, Besim reaches back to contribute the sting of a Taser. Seat belts are cut with razors. Both men are dragged out. It’s over in ten seconds or less.

Fucking Israelis.

The two men are replaced by two others, and the car races off, leaving Knox’s captors behind, one on his hands and knees, the other unconscious, facedown. The plastic binding Knox’s wrists is cut free. He exercises his sore shoulders.

Besim has the car moving fast. South, toward old Istanbul. South, toward the train terminal on the European side and, beyond, the airport.

No one speaks. Knox observes the protocol. Knows better than to mess with Mossad.

After fifteen minutes it’s apparent that they are indeed headed for the airport.

So many questions tug at Knox. He understands that he’s unlikely to ever get a single straight answer. There is no question — none — that Besim is with these two. The mood in the car is relaxed, other than at stops or when the car slows, which sets the men’s heads pivoting like radar dishes.

But then why did Besim attack him to get the shopping list? The only answer Knox can come up with is that Besim is doubled, working for both sides of Israeli security — the side that hired Dulwich and the side that doesn’t want to spare a thorium reactor from the fires of hell about to descend upon Iran. So which are these two?

He has to take the risk.

“Just to be clear,” Knox says, “I don’t have what you think I do. What those guys back there thought I did. I was told it could buy me a pass in a situation like this, but I’m sorry to say I don’t have it.”

The man on Knox’s left eye-signals Besim and the car pulls off the main road and onto a side street. This agent gets out of the car and makes a phone call. A moment later, the agent climbs back into the car, searches Knox’s Scottevest, and locates Knox’s iPhone. Five seconds later, the phone purrs and Knox answers.

“What’s this?” It’s Dulwich.

“I don’t have it.”

“I got that much.”

“She has it.”

Silence. Then, “Fuck.”

“I’ll never get through Immigration anyway.”

“You think too much.”

“So hire Schwarzenegger.”

“Not the time for it, pal.”

“We stopped being pals a while ago.” Knox wonders if he’ll ever get a call from Dulwich again and if, by association, he’s ruined Grace’s dreams of fieldwork. He wonders if Dulwich will pay him for this op if he makes it out. Wonders what the hell to do for Tommy. Fuck.

“You think? I was the one responsible for dumping those two back there. Don’t be so quick to pass judgment. I’m risking some serious capital here.”

“I’m feeling bad for you.” Knox notes the use of “back there.” Dulwich is close by.

“Where is she?” Dulwich asks.

“Someplace safe, I hope. I thought you and your friends here had teams on both of us?”

A yellow taxi approaches from up the street. Besim backs up expertly, running the rear tires up onto the sidewalk and cutting the wheel sharply. He’s about to peel out when the man on Knox’s right shouts too loudly for the confines of the car, “Atzor!” Stop! Hebrew.

Knox ends the call and returns the phone to the jacket.

He’s found Grace.