“Your opinion of Akram?” She tries to read his face.
“My opinion doesn’t matter. Sarge puts him as the messenger. He and his brother know that even an ancient copy of the Harmodius is invaluable. Many times what I’m asking, and I have a problem with a client willing to sacrifice millions — many millions — just so we can spend five minutes with Mashe Okle. Translation: whatever it is we’re supposed to accomplish would either cost the client those same millions, or the desired outcome is so impossible for them to accomplish on their own that it’s worth those millions. You see?”
Knox has a way of clarifying things. Grace is overly sensitive about her lack of this ability. She equates Knox’s faculty with the much-heralded American ability to create and innovate; her own tendency is toward rote technical skills. She thinks of Knox’s Chinese violinist example and flushes. Here, he has turned a double negative into a positive. It’s not the high price of the art; it’s the amount being given up by establishing a lower price that tells them something about the seller.
“You are more clever than you give yourself credit for,” she says softly.
“Do you hear me disagreeing?”
“You are also arrogant and rude.”
“And I wear it proudly.”
She reminds herself never to compliment him. “You can be such an ass.”
She expects another of his snide comebacks. Is surprised to see that she has stung him.
“I put out a feeler for a meeting with Sarge. I got back postponement.”
“He is here in Istanbul,” she says. “I feel it.”
“You know what? I hope not. I actually hope not.”
“Hope leads to disappointment; action to success.”
“Another proverb?”
She doesn’t answer. “What do we do about it? About David?”
“We consider the people that pulled me into the van and the people who followed you as allies, at least of Sarge. Probably working for the client. We assume we are pawns, and you know how I feel about that. We need to come up with a way to do the op without their involvement, client or not. I don’t trust them.”
“Maybe this helps us determine who and why,” she says, indicating the two phones shooting video.
“I’d rather shoot a guy in the leg than shoot video,” Knox says. “Puts a person in a sharing mood real quick.”
“There is a surprise.”
“Akram?”
“I have what I need.” Grace looks toward the mosque. “Xin and Dr. Kamat will help me to breach the bank firewalls. I have every confidence the plan will go forward as designed.”
“You never lack for confidence,” Knox says.
“You exaggerate, as usual.”
“Don’t give me that false modesty… that Chinese thing you do, going all humble and demure? It’s undignified.”
“On the contrary, it is quite dignified, which is why you do not recognize or understand it.”
“I won’t dignify that with a comment. Look, we wait a day for Mashe and Akram to settle out the funds. You need to be ready by then. Thirty-six hours, max. Then we’re on a plane home.”
“I may need more time. David’s plan is more… evolved. I am to challenge the sourcing of the funds, demand an explanation. This provides you — us — with the meet. The five minutes.”
“Doesn’t mean I like it,” he grumbles. “So, we’ll make our move once the deposit and sourcing are confirmed. ‘Action breeds success.’”
“Given that my work cannot commence until the deposit of the funds,” Grace says, “we are presented with ample opportunity to shoot more video tomorrow. We then download it to Xin for analysis. We meet here again tomorrow, sixteen hundred.”
“You’re putting too much on this,” Knox says.
“It is tangible. Actionable intelligence.” It will impress David. “We must know why this agent spent time here. Perhaps to meet his control. Neh? How pleasing would it be to identify not only this agent but also his control?”
“You’ve grown your hair longer,” he says. “And changed perfumes. This is tangible.”
She swallows her surprise, is able to contain her reaction.
“Enough! It is past five,” she says. “We are done here.”
19
Maybe it’s the three beers or the bone-aching numbness of isolation, of time spent in his hotel. It may be the lively patter from the terrace below, the internal echo of the earlier call to prayer still reverberating through his body — whatever it is, Knox’s sense is that he’s missing out. His dedication to fixing Tommy up with private care for life rules out all else. Undermines him. He’s either chasing a deal on rattan chairs in Indonesia or pursuing black marketers in Amsterdam. He lives in airport lounges, discount hotels and the backs of cabs. When he gets a break like this — a four-star hotel in a picturesque location, gorgeous women planting their oversized lips on oversized wine goblets that chime when their nails ring against the glass — and he’s confined to his room, whether by dictum or common sense, he curses the likes of Dulwich and Primer — even Tommy and Grace — all those figures who in some way control him.
It’s the beer, he decides. Sometimes it fills him with elevated joy. At other times, despair. He guessed wrong tonight.
His big moment of the night comes when he wheels room service into the hall and heads to the hotel business center, an unpretentious glorified closet containing three Dell computers and an HP printer. He transmits the videos he and Grace have taken to Hong Kong as requested. But bored — again he blames the beer — he also uploads them onto YouTube without sound. Posts them as tourist videos. Calls one up on the computer to his left, the second on the computer in front of him. Uses Rewind and Play to closely synchronize the two so they play at roughly the same minute of the day. Requests a fourth beer from room service, letting them know his location. Turns off one of the monitors as the beer is delivered.
With the opening of the door, he hears more activity from the lobby and the pulse of a Killers song. He pays for the beer. Lights up the dark monitor.
He studies the two videos side by side in ten-second clips. Chuckles to himself when he identifies the same pigeon. He can envision a children’s picture book, The Pigeon Is the Spy. Checking his mirth, he slows his consumption of the cold beer.
Person by person, nearly frame by frame, he compares faces, profiles, shoes, backpacks, head wraps and scarves. Smokers and nonsmokers. Right down to the make of cameras being used by the tourists. He keeps notes on a hotel pad using a hotel pen. The sight of the pigeon has him tracking dogs.
A hotel guest enters and prints a boarding pass on the third machine. Nothing is said between the two. But Knox knows the guy’s name and frequent flyer number, the flight he’s on and the fact that he’s not checking bags.
It’s the only interruption over a two-hour period. Knox shrinks the open windows when he takes a break to the washroom, returns to work refreshed. The cause of boredom isn’t sitting around; it’s lack of purpose. Energized by the puzzle of trying to spot similarities on the two screens, time passes quickly. The roughly one hour of video takes three hours to get through.
“Forest for the trees” becomes a mantra for him when he catches himself going screen blind. Rewinding.
When he spots the boy, he’s eager to call Grace and loop her in. But he knows the trap of such knee-jerk reactions; it’s better to finish the job and deliver a full list. Nearing midnight, he has all but settled on making the call. He’s reached the end of the two videos. Both are paused on their respective screens. Catching himself studying a woman’s backside, he runs a hand over his face: it’s bedtime.