Knox takes note of every twitch of every tree leaf. Nothing escapes his eye. He spots no solo surveillance, though the complexities of spotting team surveillance that combines mobile and pedestrian remains. He gives himself an extra twenty minutes to make damn sure. The success of the op depends on the next hour. If the Obama bust is studied in depth by Jordanian authorities, if it should end up confiscated, Dulwich’s plan is compromised.
He wraps a white scarf bought from a street vendor in an open-air market around his head to fashion a turban. Angles his chin low as he descends the stairs and crosses the street. Enters the apartment building and climbs to the second floor.
Knocks. Waits. Knocks again.
Victoria Momani opens the door. She wears a large scarf like a robe. “Go away,” she says. “I was asleep.”
“It can’t wait.”
“You have been hurt.”
Knox hasn’t gotten to a mirror. The scuffle in the van, he assumes. “It’s been a busy evening.”
She checks the hall before she admits him. Once the door is shut: “Are you out of your mind?”
“Regularly.”
“I could be watched.”
He shakes his head.
“Who are you?” She waits. “I knew you people would not stop.”
“Stop what, Victoria? I told you: you got me wrong the first time. I am as I represented,” he says, still weighing his options. “Why else would you have let me in? You believe me. That’s important to me. To us both.” If only Grace were here, he thinks. She could make this smoother. “But let’s stay here for a moment: who do you think I am? What have these people done?”
She appraises him. Shakes her head.
“‘You people,’” he repeats to her. “Organized crime?”
She is incensed by the suggestion.
“Police? Special police?” he asks.
His ignorance is winning her over. Her second evaluation of him is more forgiving.
“Are you police?”
She coughs up laughter. Doesn’t know what to do with him.
“Innocent bystander,” he says. Her eyes go glassy, contradicting her outward confidence. He’s a dentist with a pick.
“I need a favor,” he says.
“Because we are such old friends.”
“What caused the split with Akram?”
Impressively, she manages to keep her obvious emotion from her voice. “It is not yours to consider.”
“His brother,” Knox says. “Mashe.”
It is as if all the air is let out of her. As she contracts, she finds a chair to sit upon while she coils inward. “I knew it.”
“I am neither what nor who you think. I am, in fact, as I told you, a merchant. But I am helping others, as I know you would, were you able.” He stares her down; he’s reached her.
“You think me so gullible?”
“I think you’ve been hurt. Lied to, more than likely.”
“And you are the great purveyor of truth.”
Her command of English suggests he should avoid talking down to her. He regroups.
“I fashion the truth as needed,” he says. “I lie about another’s beauty, my own politics, my vices. But not about this.” Having little to no idea of what he speaks, he says, “Mashe Okle is trouble. He can be stopped. I am offering you that chance. The crate contains a piece of legitimate art. I promise you that. But, believe it or not, it’s important to my effort. I do not work for any government or police. I am a merchant enlisted by others — neither government nor police, nor any kind of criminal effort — to help expose the man for what he is. By now the Jordanians have alerted the Turks to monitor my package when and where it is delivered in Istanbul.”
“I do not believe you. It is a bomb. Something like this. I will not hurt Akram or have him involved in hurting Mashe, no matter what I think of the man. I will not be part of this.”
“It is not any kind of weapon or device, nor can it be used to make a weapon or a device. It is as I said.” He considers her. “Very well.”
He makes for the door, a gamble that causes each stride to seem artificially long and slow. Has he judged her incorrectly? Since when?
“Wait!”
He works to hide the smirk. Successful, he turns.
“A phone call is all. One phone call,” he says.
15
Standing in Sisli Square, Grace can understand why a person would return to this place multiple times. Worn like a cocked cap, morning sunlight the color of candle flame catches the top of the minaret. There are more pigeons than people, more cars than pigeons. The mosque’s three gray-roofed domes rise above the rectangular entrance wall, trees lurching up from within an unseen courtyard. It’s all in the middle of a bustling neighborhood awaking for the day.
She’s arrived early, having sneaked out of the apartment and snagged a cab, leaving Besim to sip his morning tea out front for the sake of anyone watching.
There is an answer here, some reason the man following her has repeatedly visited the square. She watches for it, expects it. Awaits its jumping out at her. This added depth of knowledge is exactly what Dulwich will treasure: not just the fact that she’s being surveilled, but by whom and possibly why.
Dulwich has failed to answer calls she’s made from one of several anonymous pay-as-you-call SIM chips she carries. He had warned her that she and Knox would be on their own. Nonetheless she holds out hope she’ll hear from him. She has provided him this place and time. She waits, and then spins once, slowly, holding her head scarf in place.
It reminds her of a Parisian avenue but with Turkish spices in the air and overseen by a towering minaret. Sisli was countryside in the late nineteenth century, transformed into a residential neighborhood at the end of the Ottoman Empire in the early years of the Turkish Republic, when French culture was au courant — wide avenues edged with wrought-iron balconies. It was an area of trade, soon taken over by Greek and Balkan immigrants. There isn’t a parking space to be had. The streets and even the newer buildings seem poised to be pushed over by the crush of pedestrians.
On her iPhone, she once again reads the data pertinent to Sisli Square. The man she and Besim identified as watching her the night before, the man from the airport, visited this place four times in three days. His phone’s GPS data reveals that he’s been in Istanbul but six days. Other than a discount hotel across town, this is the only place he has frequented.
Why? Beauty alone cannot account for it. Given that each visit was between four and five o’clock, it’s possible he performed afternoon prayers at this mosque, but it’s unlikely given the absence of any other repeated visit in the city. Grace decides to return at that hour if possible.
Her phone vibrates; the caller is listed as “Hopper 1.” Dulwich. The “hopper” designation assures her that the line is secure; Grace checks around her to ensure the area is as well. That’s when she sees him, sitting on a bench in the shade closer to the mosque, his back to the avenue.
“So?” Dulwich says.
“My apartment is being watched.”
“Then you were careless.”
“The GPS data from this man’s phone reveals a pay-as-you-go SIM chip initiated six days ago,” Grace says.
“You have tracked his phone?”
She thrills at the sound of his voice: shock and awe. “He has since visited this place where I sit four times in the past three days.” Grace waits. “Hello?”