Comes around the block to the north — for the third or fourth time — and spots two men, one wearing the Euro-ubiquitous black leather jacket. Her suspect in the airport wore a jacket just like it. She’s unable to get close enough to see them clearly. They smoke cigarettes while talking, like a million other men in Istanbul.
Their location is significant. From where they stand, they have a view of Okle’s apartment building. His safe house? she wonders. A family residence? A rental? Are they protecting him, or pursuing him?
At this moment, she can’t be sure of anything.
12
Sipping from an eight-dollar minibar beer for which Dulwich will eventually pay, Knox finds going through e-mails tedious. He can’t keep his mind off the men following him in Amman, or Victoria Momani’s implication that the fallout between her and Akram was related to a team surveilling Mashe. Is there a connection?
He can’t believe it, but he misses having Grace Chu around. Her mathematical mind has ways of cutting through the clutter. More than anything, he trusts her. He tries to never lose sight of the economic leash connecting Dulwich to Brian Primer.
Knox has decided the requirement of spending five minutes with Mashe has something do with tracking. He assumes there must be a device within either the plastic outer mold or the Harmodius Obama covers; a tagging device but, according to Dulwich, not for assassination. Maybe Grace could make sense of it. He can’t. He pushes right to the edge of drawing a conclusion, only to be knocked back by a screwball piece of evidence: Dulwich’s promise of no assassination; the attacker in Amman retreating at the moment of superiority; Akram’s level of secrecy.
Knox doesn’t feel safe. But he doesn’t jump at the sound of knocking. He shuts the laptop and eyeballs the peephole to the hall.
“One second, please,” he says.
He keys open the safe and leaves it ajar. He can have the gun in hand in a second, or less.
He opens the room door, his foot blocking it from the inside. She appears to be alone. He admits her and locks the door, security bar and dead bolt.
“I’m sorry,” he says, taking her by the forearm. “I’m going to need to search you and your purse.”
Victoria Momani’s eyes blink slowly, giving her consent. Knox is gentle but thorough, sparing no contact — up between the legs, under and around her breasts from behind. He dumps her purse on the carpet and inspects the contents as he returns them one by one. He pulls the battery from her cell phone and drops them both into the bag.
“Which agency do you work for?” he asks, still working her belongings. “You had me going with all the complaints. I bought that fair and square. A wonderfully executed diversion. Well done.”
“You cannot be so ignorant.”
“Who but a police officer or agent could find my hotel room in a city this size? And you did not follow me.”
“What kind of import/exporter can track who’s following him?”
He hands her back her purse, motions her to a chair. “The one thing you learn in my business is this: a simple robbery is rarely simple. At any given time, I might be carrying a coin or a stamp, a letter, a photograph worth a small fortune. One learns to protect his assets.”
“Okay.”
“You answered a question with a question,” he says. “So you’re trained at this.”
“No. I am a woman.” She points to the table. Knox does not want her messing with his laptop. “You pulled out your key card when you paid the bill.”
Knox sees his key card on the table next to the laptop. The card’s paper slipcase carries the hotel logo. He can’t believe he made such a freshman mistake.
“A friend’s sister works on the hotel’s event staff. Amman is not such a big place. You… you stand out. It wasn’t hard. I was given five rooms to try. This was my third.”
“That’s a lot of effort to go to for a drink.” He’s bent at the minibar.
“White wine,” she says.
He pours it into a water glass. “So?”
“Your arrogance is insulting.”
“Is it?”
“Your ignorance as well.”
“Is that so?”
“Then you knew it’s my gallery? Brilliant?”
Bile stings his throat. He works to mask his confusion with a wry smile. His mind grinds. When the shit flies in your face, you’d better be wearing goggles. He’s rarely forced to deal with bad luck; is something of an amateur at it.
“I am called by my gallery manager. Told we flipped — I believe you call it — a piece. Buy and sell same day. She describes a Westerner who buys piece. Same man meets me for a drink not so long after. I have neighbors, Mr. Knox, neighbors who saw a big man, a Westerner, enter my apartment building with a heavy crate or box, and leave empty-handed.”
He’s assembling his explanation as she continues.
“Shortly thereafter, same box picked up by delivery service. Object is heavy, but what? A bomb? Explosives? Ammunition? Something sent to Akram, perhaps? With my name and return address on it, his ex-girlfriend, someone to take blame.”
“Too much television.”
“I beg your pardon?” Irate.
“Far too dramatic, Victoria. Have you heard of value-added tax? Not nearly as sexy as bombs or ammunition, but I’m not an arms dealer. I’m in import/export. I just exported a pretty ugly piece of artwork I may find a market for outside of Amman. But if I pay the VAT and fail to recover it, I’m out what slim margin I might have to turn a profit. It shouldn’t take you too long to determine who might be interested in this artwork, eh? How else would I have gotten your contact information?”
She’s visibly upset, and to his surprise, it’s not directed at him. Again, he’s a fraction late in realizing what’s at play.
“You actually thought I was sending a mail bomb? Me?”
She holds a finger to her lips, silencing him. She points to her hairband. The one place he failed to check. It could easily contain a microphone or GPS chip.
Driven by her anger with Akram and Moshe Okle, her mistrust of Knox has resulted in a call to the police. Judging by her pallor — she’s an eerie green — she regrets that now.
Knox grabs the laptop, stuffs it into his messenger bag along with its power cord. His Scottevest jacket’s many pockets contain everything he values. The gun carries his prints. Can’t have that. He retrieves the safe’s contents and stuffs them away in the jacket, vowing to be rid of the gun — possession of a handgun will land him in Jordanian prison. Only shotguns and rifles are allowed, and they are hell to obtain legally. He appreciated being able to defend his castle, but out on the streets, he’ll need to rely on his wits. An art dealer doesn’t carry. He never gives the few clothes and toiletries he leaves behind a second thought.
He picks his hotel rooms carefully. Never takes a room above the third floor for a reason. He’s out on the private balcony in seconds.
To her credit, Victoria Momani is up there, shouting as if Knox is with her. She’s comparing him to a parasite, attempting to keep the police engaged and at bay.
Knox dangles from his balcony, swings and drops to the balcony below. He climbs over and hangs, facing too far a drop to the sidewalk. His only hope to save his legs is to aim for one of the rattan tables on the sidewalk terrace. He pushes off the wall and drops, knees bent to absorb the hit. Crashes dead center, rolls, clutching the bag. A few bruises. A stiff ankle. A crushed table. He hobbles off, staying close to the wall, working the rigid joint back to life.
The rapid footfalls behind him push him faster as he turns the corner. Police or worse. They think him a bomber or an arms dealer. Lovely. The narrow streets twist and turn. If he weren’t being chased, it would be an interesting neighborhood to wander. But whoever’s back there knows them better than he.