Having located two security camera bubbles, he keeps a post between himself and one camera while using Victoria to partially block the other.
“The first writings of magnifying lenses date back to a play by Aristophanes. Four hundred years before Christ,” she says, continuing to study the details of a hanging rug.
One cool woman, he thinks. It’s as if they’d rehearsed the meeting.
“On vacation?” he asks. “You should have told me ahead of time.”
She moves to the next hanging rug, Knox following like an obedient dog. He knows of only one alternative exit, and it’s not close by.
“I meet you in courtyard, ten minutes. I am not finished with gallery.”
He suppresses a flash of anger; it’s not easy, given his fatigue. Wants to wring Dulwich’s neck for not being more up-front with him and Grace.
Outside, he doesn’t know if he has the right courtyard. Finds the building as beautiful as the artifacts it contains. It’s a Muslim Frick on steroids, possibly the most architecturally stunning museum he’s ever been inside.
He sits outside at a two-person table in the shadow of plane trees. She approaches with a model’s gait, a confident swagger that puts him back on his heels. A yellow head scarf frames her face; her brown cardigan hangs open over a yellow and green floral top, flared white linen pants. She wears the scarf for fashion, not out of religious obligation; many Muslim women are Westernized here. Gold and silver bangles rattle. A beaded metal necklace bounces against her chest.
Once she reaches him, she hesitates. Knox stands and draws back the chair; she sits. She places a gray leather clutch in her lap. Waits for him to take his seat across from her.
“I have not seen man move as you did when we last met.”
“I was a gymnast in college.”
“Yes?”
“No,” he says. “I majored in Budweiser.”
Her condescending expression says: If you are trying for charming, it is not working. She doesn’t speak.
His eyes reply: When I try for charming, you’ll be the first to know.
She frowns.
“I’m tired,” he says, apologizing. “Sleeping with one eye open has that effect on me.”
“Afraid? You? I think not.”
“Cautious. I’m not a fan of surprises. Though I make exceptions for a phone call from a beautiful woman.”
“So quick with flattery,” Victoria Momani says.
“I’m hoping this is a social call.”
“After your escape,” she says, “I was detained by authorities.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He looks around. “And now? Are you working with them?”
“I was questioned by Ministry of Culture,” she says. Her dark eyes catch the sky and go pewter. She looks alien. “I believed your VAT explanation,” she adds. “Stupid of me. When Ministry of Culture is involved I think to myself, What is Obama hiding? Why would ministry make such involvement?”
“What did you tell them?”
“I am an art dealer.” Victoria considers him. “You? You are government agent? Working for Mashe? Who else? You are selling to Akram. Yes? This puts him at great risk. All for the older brother. Of this, I have little doubt. Mashe gets whatever he wants. Always. He runs Akram around like his slave. I will take twenty percent of whatever deal you are making, or I report you to Turkish and Jordanian authorities. At very least, they interrupt your sale and detain you. Make business difficult for you.”
“You think?”
“Perhaps ministry discover you hide stolen art — I am guessing an antiquity — and they put you in jail for long time. I come out hero. Paid reward.”
His chest tightens like stepping into bitterly cold air. “Extortion?”
“It would be mistake to doubt me,” she says.
“Seven-point-five percent,” Knox says. “Even this will make you rich.”
“Twenty.”
“Seven-point-five.”
“Fifteen.”
“Ten is final,” he says. “And I get everything you know or have ever heard about Mashe Okle.”
“You are government agent,” Victoria claims.
“I am not. We’ve done this before, you and I. Make the call. Turn me in. They’ll never find the piece. You’ll have ten percent of nothing. And I’ll walk.”
“Why Mashe?”
“Because he’s the buyer, according to you. Possibly for the other pieces I’ve sold to Akram as well.”
“Definitely. Mashe is collector. Mashe will go to great lengths to acquire. It is maybe disease for him. Like drugs to addicted.”
“I make a point of knowing my buyers better than they know themselves. Keeps me out of trouble.”
“This, I understand,” Victoria says.
“The full download on Mashe. You know ‘download’?”
“Yes!” She’s insulted. He reminds himself: don’t talk down to her.
“And ten percent.” Knox adds, “Rich. Very rich.”
She eyes him cautiously. He knows how the rugs inside must have felt. “I will be present at appraisal.”
“Not going to happen.” He adds, “Understand?’”
“Akram will trust appraisal one hundred percent more with me in room.”
“I am not involving you.”
“In this way I know true value of sale and ensure I am not cheated.”
“What will Akram think of that?” he says testily.
“I just explain. You will propose me as person in middle. Akram remains in love with me. You will see.”
I don’t doubt it, Knox thinks. “Middleman,” he quips.
She nods faintly. “That, or Turkish cultural ministry. You make choice.”
Reaching inside his jacket and searching among the many zippers, he pulls out a small journal. Raises it. Shows her the pen he intends to write with.
“I won’t agree until I see how much detail you can provide.”
“The start? The first time I meet Akram?”
“Why not? I’m a good listener,” Knox says.
The story she tells plays out as a tale of promise and expectation. Victoria and Akram — Knox starts thinking of them as Victoria and Albert — met at one of her gallery openings during a Saturday-night gallery walk in the former embassy district, now the artsy, chic neighborhood of Jabal al-Weibdeh.
She knows his restaurant, has eaten there and is impressed by his humility, his knowledge of art. He’s ruggedly handsome yet soft-spoken. She spends more time than usual with him, while she knows she should be spreading herself around the crowded gallery. He buys two pieces, both from her back room, regional artists he collects, pieces she would have liked to own.
He charms her without outwardly trying. Avoids flirting. They talk history and architecture and film. Tells her to call ahead if she’s planning on coming to his restaurant — especially if she’s coming alone.
She sees it as an irresistible offer, puts an anxious week between the gallery walk and the dinner. He has held a window table for her. It’s set for two. The meal lasts three hours. He gives her a ride home on the back of his vintage American motorcycle and never once fishes for an invitation upstairs.
For their next date, he flies her to Istanbul, where he owns another restaurant. They gallery-hop, feast and spend the night in a two-bedroom hotel suite. Victoria blushes. Skips ahead.
Akram travels a good deal between Irbid, Amman, Istanbul and Ankara, where, at the time, he was starting a fourth restaurant. The courtship is romantic, undemanding, the best months of her life. She imagines giving him a family and knows he, too, is thinking about it.