Knox’s iPhone mapping app reveals that the van dropped him at the wrong intersection. Maybe they got sick of him. Maybe they’re all laughing at dumping the American. He walks a winding kilometer uphill to reach Ali Ben Abi Taleb. Walks east and locates the address Dulwich sent.
The art gallery is called “brilliant.” All lowercase English. No name offered in Arabic. In the window to the left stands a sandstone egret; to the right, a collage of newsprint, pieces of lingerie and tufts of human hair, all covered in a thick layer of clear-coat. Knox double-checks the address.
He knows what he’s doing here: Dulwich has figured out how to pass him the Harmodius. No need for a courier. No black-market transaction. David Dulwich can be a real pain in the ass. As Sarge hinted, getting the bust from here to Istanbul is going to fall on Knox.
He pushes inside. An antique bell chimes. The sandstorm has been good for business — a dozen or more people are milling about. Three bottles of white wine are open on a side table, two empty. Plastic cups. Knox pours himself one. A young woman, nearly six feet tall, greets him. Australian. Nice calves. Fierce eyes. She welcomes him. They small-talk. Knox searches the wall for the Obama poster.
“I’ve had a recent interest in Shepard Fairey.” He laughs at himself. “I’m behind the times.”
“Not at all! He’s an interesting artist. Began as a skateboarder. Did you know that?”
“A digital Warhol,” Knox says, doing his best. “Though that’s taking it a little far.” He indicates a great distance with his large, scarred hands.
“They say you can tell a great deal about a person by his hands,” she murmurs.
“The most difficult part of the body to paint or sculpt,” Knox says.
“You have impeccable timing.” It sounds loaded. Hers are not eyes he could face when waking.
“How so?”
“We had a bust come in just today — very much like Fairey.”
“Not interested in sculpture.” He wants to make her sell him. Can’t seem eager.
“You should at least take a look.”
“I don’t think so. Wall art’s my interest.”
He allows her to steer him deeper into the gallery. It’s like a UN conference in here: Indian, Asian, African and Caucasian. The scent of incense intensifies.
He spots it atop a white pedestal. An oversized bust of Obama made from a hideous rainbow swirl of what appears to be bowling-ball plastic. The chins of the other gallery patrons lift; the eyes gaze up at the acoustic tile. Knox is forced to cover his smirk with his hand, as if considering the piece.
“Not exactly what I was looking for.”
“One of a kind,” she says.
“With good reason.”
“As close to Fairey as you’ll find in Amman.” She adds, “Which is why my owner chose to represent it.”
He shakes his head. He wants to be begged.
“Art is so personal, is it not? I cannot begin to suggest taste. But strictly as an investment — and I typically discourage clients from thinking this way — these political pieces, especially those tied to Fairey’s influence, are certain to gain in value. Politics is a fleeting business. As you know.”
It’s selling for six hundred U.S. dollars. Its plastic conceals a piece worth millions.
“Given my tastes, if I bought art as an investment I’d be a poor man.”
“I think you underrate yourself.”
If not for those eyes, he could play along. A body like hers can tumble. It would be a pleasant way to pass a lonely evening in Amman.
“I’ll think on it,” he says, wanting to sink the hook. He thanks her and studies a gaudy airbrush of a white horse in the desert. It reminds him of romance-novel cover art. Slim pickings in Amman. The rest is not much better.
He’s careful to get a look at everyone in the gallery. Dulwich didn’t put the ugly plastic over the Harmodius; he didn’t pack and deliver and convince the dealer to display it. There are too many intermediaries, no matter how trustworthy. The bust feels more like chum, and Knox does not want to feed too quickly.
To his surprise, of those who notice Knox, none seem particularly interested. If he’s being monitored, he’s once again reminded that it’s by people so good at their jobs.
Dulwich has handed him a way to take possession of the Harmodius, but moving it into Turkey remains the challenge. Dulwich has his reasons for passing it to Knox here: if the Harmodius “coincidentally” shows up in Istanbul the week the Okle brothers are there, the op could appear forced. If there’s a paper trail, no matter how obscure, that shows Knox shipping it from Amman to Turkey, the attempted sale to Akram Okle will seem all the more authentic. But accomplishing the task, given the earlier encounter and the questions it raises, makes things more complicated.
Knox spends a good deal of his time in front of some horrible art, thinking it through. Studying a nude who’s offering herself to a man’s head on an ape’s body, it dawns on him: Victoria Momani, whose contact information he got from his Skype with Akram. With the proper manipulation, she can be used to ship the Harmodius from Jordan to Istanbul with Knox’s name nowhere on it. The pieces stitch together better than they do on the fabric art by the window.
He approaches the woman docent.
“The wine must be getting to my head,” he says. “In a moment of weakness, I’ll buy it. But sadly, I can’t leave it behind on show. You won’t want me to, anyway, because by the sober light of day I know I’m going to regret this purchase. So it’s your call. If I buy it, I’m taking it with me, which I’m already beginning to think is a bad idea.”
“I think it will live better on its own.”
“It’s iconic. An archetype. For that, and that alone, I will find a place for it.”
“It’s heavy.”
“Since it appears to be a melted-down bowling ball, I assumed as much.”
He gets a rise out of her, though her eyes are prohibited from showing mirth. It’s the depth of the sockets and the smallness of the eyes themselves; she’d do better with Lady Gaga — sized sunglasses. He suggests she call a taxi, owning up to the fact that the storm congestion may delay it.
“More time to get to know each other,” she says cunningly, even hopefully.
Knox knows better. He hates to disappoint.
Despite the fact that the bust is packed and crated, by morning light Knox feels like his X-ray vision can penetrate the box to reveal the hideous rainbow Obama bust. If he’d had the gallery ship it to Istanbul, he’d have left a means to tie him to a missing historical artifact. He can’t use a brick-and-mortar express shipping counter for fear of security cameras; he needs to ship it anonymously from a residential address. It could be picked up out front, leaving no face attached to the air bill. But for that, he needs a valid residential address.
In Amman, Jordan.
Victoria Momani answers his call speaking Arabic.
Knox speaks English. “Victoria? It’s John Knox, a friend of Akram’s.”
His introduction is met with silence.
“He suggested I… that we… that I should call you for a drink if I was ever in Amman.”
“I see.” Understandably skeptical of a stranger’s call.
“I’m in import/export. I’ve sold Akram some artwork.”
“John. Yes,” she says, making no effort to disguise her relief.
“Coffee? A drink? Do you have a spot?”
She names a teahouse and address, suggests lunch. One P.M.