Knox saves him. “Even a good copy is worth serious consideration. We both know that. And this is not a good copy.”
“The original Harmodius? This is not possible.”
“And yet we are here.”
“So it is.”
“I expect you will want authentication. I will agree to the specialist of your choosing, but I am to accompany the piece at every step, and I will determine the location. Your man has three days.”
Akram purses his lips. “Absurd. Three months, perhaps. Analysis of mineral composition, weathering layers, historical comparison. This takes time.”
“I have paperwork with me. An independent, well-respected expert. You can call him directly and he will confirm the contents of the paperwork. As to the funds, half will be placed into escrow. At that time I will permit verification to begin. Time is of the essence.”
“Someone has done a good job of selling you, my friend. I do not know whether to feel sorry for you or happy for them.”
“I mean no insult to your integrity,” Knox says deliberately, “but I will need a credit check, or asset verification. The sum is large and not easily raised.”
“I cannot think of a museum that would not do business with you, whatever terms you demand.”
“Do you read the news? The art world has become too accountable. What has happened to everyone?”
“Globalization,” Akram says. “We were far better off when isolated in our own countries. We wanted blue jeans. We ended up with the EU. If only we had known.”
“You are able to raise the funds?” Knox asks.
“For a good copy, certainly. For the original? How long do we play this charade?”
The food arrives. Knox inhales deeply.
“I told you,” Akram said. “The chef is an artist.”
The presence of food lessens the tension. Akram shares a story about one of his six daughters, who is training as a gymnast back in Irbid, Jordan. She has started to grow taller, maturing early, and it’s a family crisis.
“You are wondering how I can afford such artwork,” Akram says, as the third course, the lamb Knox smelled out on the street, arrives.
“Not my business. Only that you’re able.”
“Let us assume it is a copy, to your great surprise.”
“Very well.”
“It would be wise for us to have two prices in mind. Yes?”
“As to that, the down payment will be held in escrow. If you pass, your money will be returned.”
“So confident! Please pardon me, my friend. But are you so naive?”
Knox shrugs. This is some of the best lamb he’s ever tasted.
“It’s the marinade,” Akram says.
“Secret recipe?”
“More precious than your Harmodius, believe me.”
“I do not,” Knox says. “Five hundred thousand, U.S.”
Akram Okle offers his first telclass="underline" he pinches his nose to clear it. Knox had taken note of the tic earlier, but now he establishes its significance.
“I offer it to you first out of respect. You have only a matter of days to fund the escrow. I will then deliver the piece for analysis at a place and time of my choosing. It will be very last minute, I am afraid.” There are only a few labs in Istanbul capable of authentication. Arranging an ambush at multiple locations will present a challenge for Akram. Knox must cover every base.
“I would request the same.”
“As I said, I have test results,” Knox says. He unzips two of the nineteen pockets in the Scottevest to locate the paperwork Dulwich supplied. Passes it across the table, keeping his hand atop it. He wants the symbolism of the exchange to register.
Knox says, “I will accept half as a down payment. It must be received at least twenty-four hours before your people assay it.”
“Twenty-five percent.”
“Fifty percent. No less.”
“As you wish,” Akram says. He studies Knox carefully as he slides the paperwork his way. He shows tremendous strength in not looking at it. He won’t trust the contents, but it will set him drooling. It will help his people know what to verify in the short time Knox will give them at the lab. “Can you handle this, John? A deal like this? This size?”
“Our earlier deals… I was testing you,” Knox lies. “I thought you ready for this. If I am wrong…”
Akram pinches the bridge of his nose again and inhales. “It is impossible, the Harmodius. You must understand.”
“Half now,” Knox says. “The other half wired to the account of my choosing upon delivery.” He goes back to the lamb. Delicious.
18
Back on the same bench in front of the Sisli mosque, Grace speaks softly.
“Detroit is up in the World Series. Congratulations.”
“Verlander is a god,” says Knox.
“He cannot pitch every game. I will put ten dollars on the opponent in tonight’s game three.”
“You, gamble?”
“Consider my heritage. You think mahjong is a game of fun?”
“What do we know of our boy’s movement?”
“His chip went unused the morning after we spotted him surveilling. He’s obviously careful.”
“Or well informed.”
Grace respects Knox’s ability in the field, is trying to learn from him. This work, the work she is doing right now, is dream work. Out from behind the desk, yet still able to use her accounting skills, sitting on a plaza bench in Istanbul riding an adrenaline high. She senses how close she is to being given a solo assignment. Sees down the road a boutique security firm, her picking and choosing ops that satisfy more than the bottom line — like the work she and Knox did in Amsterdam.
She worries that Knox won’t forgive her once he realizes how she has used him. She has evolved from tolerance, through acceptance, to appreciation of her sometime collaborator. Knox is like a piece of contemporary art: meaningless at first glance, but in time comes to speak to you.
“Sarge has withheld information from us,” Knox says.
“Possibly.” Grace feels a rush. “SOP. NTK.”
“Protecting the client?”
“And the mark,” she says. “This is how he explained it to me. Yes. Perhaps not only the client and mark. You were rescued by that van, or so you said.”
“But then what we’re saying is that this is something so heinous a government can’t be associated with the outcome. That’s the reality break for me. Sarge promised there would be no targeting of Mashe.”
“Sensitive, perhaps not heinous,” says Grace.
“Their own spooks handle sensitive. This has to be more than that.”
“David prefers we perform the operation as assigned.”
Knox ignores her. “It could be someone connected to Mashe. I could buy that — using Mashe to lure out a bigger fish. That would allow Sarge to promise me nothing’s going to happen to Mashe. I didn’t expand the playing field. My bad.”
“I could suggest we stay with the operation,” Grace says.
“Says the woman doing all the digging around. What’s gotten into you, anyway?” When she fails to answer, he asks, “Is there actually any hope that these videos will mean anything?”
Knox gets restless easily. His legs bounce. His feet start tapping.
“There is, of course, something of significance here. Four separate visits by the person we now think of as an agent of the client.” She speaks encouragingly. “A few more minutes, please.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“If you sit still, the image will be clearer.”
“Point taken.”
The two ride out the remaining seven minutes. In that time, fifty or more people stream in and out of the mosque entrance. Several hundred cars flow past. It is a remarkable sight. Europeans, Americans, Africans, Japanese tourist groups, Arabs.
“Maybe your guy just likes people-watching.” Knox is in a snarky mood. She can’t blame him; he’s not a stakeout type. More the brass knuckle variety.