“And look like we can’t figure this out ourselves?” He knows he’s appealing to her profound fear of appearing weak; he’s learned to trigger her paranoia as much as compliment her strengths, to feed her the information she needs — filtered, if necessary — to move her off of an idea and into his corner. If he had resisted her outright, she would have gotten her back up and been intractable.
He’s learning, or so he convinces himself.
20
Grace chides Knox for his impatience but only because she is no stranger to its irritating and unrelenting hold. It is an unusually warm fall day; golden sunlight floods the vast sea of red terra-cotta roof tiles, spills through the impossibly narrow streets, the ancient buildings so closely packed that, from a distance, they appear as a warped red mass rising slowly to the north, a packed line interrupted by pale chimneys, satellite dishes, minarets, domes and laundry lines.
On the apartment building’s rooftop, Grace occupies a patio chaise lounge. Her laptop is open as an iced tea glass sweats on the side table. Grace wears a collapsible hat; her mother has instilled in her a belief that her skin must never be exposed to the sun. She rechecks the ghost escrow account established by a Cayman lawyer’s office. No deposit has been made. She’s beginning to wonder if Akram Okle and his brother really intend to make a move for the Harmodius. If not, she and Knox will pack up and go home. For every two or three successful ops, there’s a failure. She has yet to be attached to one, dreads the day, but knows it will come.
She sloshes some of the iced tea onto the terrace’s rough gray tile as a thought paralyzes her brain like a seizure. Returns the glass to the side table with her right hand; her left is already working the computer.
Her vision dances between the expansive view, attempting to isolate a single large structure she knows is out there, and her computer’s screen, where Google maps is now open and determining her current location. Her right hand seeks out her iPhone, enters its passcode and texts a message to Knox.
missed overlap
Blames her racing heart on the tea. The map directs her eyes. She gets her bearings. Throws her legs off the chaise, moving to include the area 160 degrees from north.
?
Knox is perplexed by her text.
meet across from FNH — 20 mins
He texts:
copy
Grace changes into her only pair of running shoes, not as white as she hoped, a form-fitting Nike T she wears to work out, and a pair of black yoga pants. On each op, she carries five sets of fake glasses. Selects a geeky but stylish pair. Ties a brown scarf over her head, imitating the Muslim women — far more for coverage than looks.
Has the op planned, but continues to hone it as Besim drives her across town. They pass handcarts carrying fruit, clothing and spices. Stall-sized shops manned by a merchant crouched on his haunches. The men smoke cigarettes while women toil. Boys play soccer in the streets.
Besim leaves her three blocks from her rendezvous. She must not attract attention, hopes the scarf hides her well.
On her walk, she passes a three-story white colonial on two acres behind twelve-foot rock walls. She wonders about its history, its former residents, but her mind makes no attempts to supply a story. Grace yearns for imagination. She questions what she and Knox are doing so far from home. She finds Istanbul’s continual reminders of history and the passage of time daunting. Its confused cultural identity dispirits her. She longs for the simplicity of China.
She wonders if this is contributing to her sense of vertigo. The concrete beneath her feet is undulating.
Grace locates a uniform supply store and purchases a slightly oversized nurse’s uniform. Pulling the dress on over her clothes in the dressing room, she now wears the uniform out onto the street. She carries two different colored head scarfs stuffed into her purse — tricks of the trade. Hide and seek.
Knox is enthroned at a café table, his legs stretched straight out, impossibly long as he semireclines. He’s well through a double espresso. Looks half asleep. Detroit Tigers baseball cap low over his eyes. That same windbreaker he always wears, with its many interior zippers concealing his worldly possessions.
For a split second she wonders once again what the world looks and feels like from inside the head of John Knox. Dismisses it quickly; there are times she doubts he has a single thought in his head. She has no idea what that would feel like.
He kicks back a chair for her.
“Now you’re messing with my fantasies, Nurse Jackie,” he says, admiring her garb.
On the facing street, seven-story office buildings trade places with apartments, the street-level retail space occupied by designer boutiques, camera shops, shoe stores and cellular carriers. It could as easily be a street in Moscow or Paris as Istanbul, the road divided, the island planted with scrawny immature trees. The city can go from fascinating to boring in a block.
Knox catches the attention of a twenty-something waitress with wide eyes. It’s clear she’s been awaiting his signal. She delivers a black tea with sugar substitute and milk on the side.
Grace doesn’t know whether to thank him or be annoyed with herself for being so predictable — an attribute to which she attaches negative connotations.
“So,” he says, studying the nurse’s uniform in a John Knox way that makes her incredibly self-conscious. “I can pretty much guess the first part of whatever’s going on.” He contemplates the hospital across the street. “But I seem to be missing something.”
She mixes the tea like a lab scientist. Sips. Adds a speck more sweetener. Examines her lipstick residue on the cup’s white china.
“The mother,” Grace says. She, too, looks across the street.
“Oh, shit. How stupid can we get?”
“It was late.”
“We’re idiots.” Knox attempts to process the FedEx shipment, to suss out how it connects to Akram Okle’s sick mother, who occupies a bed across the street. “What the hell?”
“I know, right?” Grace hears herself sound American. She attributes it to the two years in grad school in Southern California. Wonders if Knox notices. These expressions bubble up occasionally, catching her by surprise. She thinks of herself as entirely Chinese; not a view shared by her father, who considers her a traitor to tradition.
A young boy skateboards past. Grace instinctively squeezes her purse between her thighs.
“Why would they care about the mother?” Knox’s face is not meant for confusion. He looks boyish and lacking in confidence.
“One wonders.”
“Come on. What the hell do you hope to accomplish dressed like that?”
Knox is threatened by her fieldwork. She takes this as a compliment, but knows she still has much to learn. She wonders if a person can learn to ignore the ordered, logical, straight-line thinking that defines her. Envies the ability of his mind to spark and jump as it does.
“Before you go in there, we need to work this backward,” Knox says, his voice soft now. Sexy. “First, we have to consider whether or not the client is simply ensuring that whatever medical device the mother needs is on schedule. Perhaps he is literally tracking it, making sure no one messes with it en route. In that case, Mashe’s in league with our client and our client is simply looking out for his mother. Right?”
It’s like listening to chamber music, a melody going to an unexpected place.
“Or, the opposite, of course,” he says. “This agent interrupts the delivery of a medical device. Steals it in order to determine the true extent of her illness. Knowledge is power. Perhaps they want leverage over Mashe? Then there’s substituting one device for another. It’s more difficult and tricky, but possible.” He ruminates. She isn’t about to interrupt. Two years ago it might have been different, but they’ve both learned the footsteps of this dance. “Oh… God.” Her system charges with adrenaline as she meets his intense gaze. He’s looking through her. Into her. “Long shot,” he announces, warning her. “The medical device is part of a dead drop. The device being shipped contains a data chip intended for Mashe. No Internet, no chance of interception. All you need is an insider at the device manufacturer who solders an extra memory chip into the device, and you’ve shipped information across borders. Which begs the question: who is Mashe Okle, or Mashe Melemet, or whatever name he’s traveling under this week? An Iranian arms dealer? Your financial investigation says no. An art dealer? A rich businessman? Maybe an agent, an Iranian agent? And what are the Iranians up to these days that they might be seeking classified information?”