Dulwich has revealed more than he intended, a costly and unusual mistake. The client is either nongovernmental or a covert governmental group unable to interfere. Knox can’t put it together. He doesn’t like hearing that he’s to take direction from Grace; she’s become Dulwich’s star pupil. Knox has always been more the gum chewer in the back row. Grace’s importance to Dulwich is on the rise; his own status, he’s not so sure about. And it’s so out of character for Dulwich to slip up that Knox has to wonder if it’s an intentional ruse. Why would Dulwich game his own assets?
Because this is bigger than stink.
“The Brits’ stolen-art database is fifty thousand pieces,” Knox says. “Yet their total annual budget to investigate stolen art is less than four hundred grand. Italy loses thirty thousand pieces a year. Russia, seven. Stolen art is the most lucrative market out there. And the most underfunded on the investigative side. I like nice things, I deal in nice things, but I’ve never knowingly participated in the sale of stolen art. I need protection. I don’t think I’d like Turkish jail.”
“It’s not in my interests to see you in jail.”
“Well, that’s a huge relief.”
“Scheduling is critical. Clock is ticking. Lean on Grace. If she does her homework, and we both know that’s not an ‘if,’ we’ll know whether or not it’s safe for you two to take that meet.”
“The clock is always ticking.”
Dulwich shrugs.
How much does Grace know? How much will she be willing to share? She can be a real Girl Scout. How much can Knox deduce by understanding what Grace is up to? The stop Knox had planned in Shanghai is worth a fifth of just the down payment Sarge and Primer are offering.
Knox flashes back to the pile of money Tommy lost to the embezzling bookkeeper, money intended for Tommy’s care. Recovering that money is a work in progress, one that currently involves the voluntary help of Dulwich and Grace. In the interim, Knox is trying to cover in-home health care that costs the same as buying a new car every month. Adding drug therapy will kill the goose.
Dulwich’s expertise is manipulation, but in affairs of business only. His personal life is a minefield littered with craters behind him and tall weeds ahead. This job offer feels different, as if he’s dragging Knox into that field with him.
Knox tries for the jugular. “What makes this personal for you?”
Dulwich doesn’t so much as blink. “He’s important to the client.”
“The brother.”
“Correct.” He repeats, “I’ll backfill as much as possible, whenever possible, assuming the client okay’s it. It’ll go through Grace. You and I can’t connect. Period.”
“I’ll be watched.” Knox looks down at the photographs. Feels a chill. Maybe he’s been under surveillance for some time.
“We play the odds.”
“What makes a buyer of art special?” Knox asks, thinking aloud. “The dollar value of the art is what’s significant. Right?”
Dulwich doesn’t want him going there. He says so with his eyes.
“Let’s say I’m a black ops agency trying to buy some RPGs or a few million rounds of ammo. I’m trying to back the Syrian rebels or some other Arab Spring do-gooders. My seller is unwilling to take currency of any kind. Currency can be traced. He can’t allow himself to be found out.”
Dulwich doesn’t stop him, but Knox can tell he’d like to.
“So the cash buys a piece of art. It’s a value market — a relatively small amount of cash buys a very valuable trade. The art is exchanged for the weapons. Untraceable. The guy who sells the weapons hangs the art in his dacha; the other guy reloads. Everyone’s happy.” Knox looks for the fallacies. It holds up. “Mashe’s facilitating war, insurrections, bloodshed.”
He’s a monster.
Dulwich can’t help himself: a small shrug says close enough.
“So the client — your client — is someone on the other side of the potential bloodshed. He doesn’t want the weapons sold. He’s looking to limit or shut down his enemy’s arsenal.”
“I need a go, no-go from you, John. You know how this shit works.”
“But the Red Room.”
“Don’t read too much into that.”
“Seriously?” Knox looks around the bunker. “The client can’t be seen using private contractors like Rutherford. He doesn’t trust his own people — good guys, bad guys. You said so yourself. I find that interesting.”
“Don’t find it anything. Just give me the go, no-go.”
“Stop pressuring me, Sarge. You need me. I’m the one in the photos. How long did it take your client to figure out who I was? To connect you and me? That can’t have been easy. Shit. Months? A year? Are these our guys? Homeland Security? The FBI? You can imagine why that would make me just a little nervous.”
Dulwich fails to react.
“Don’t make like if I pass on this you’re going to move down the list. There is no list. It’s one name. One guy. Me.”
“Lucky you.”
“Flip the payments. The hundred now. Fifty if I get the five minutes with him.”
“Deal.”
Knox shakes his head, disgusted with himself. That came far too easily. He could have gotten more. “I need an agent,” he says.
Dulwich smirks.
“I’m no expert on Istanbul. There’s a brass worker I do some business with in Merkez. The Grand Bazaar is overpriced. Can I parachute in? Sure. But don’t ask for anything ninja.”
“Understood.”
“If Akram is playing middleman for his brother, I don’t see how I ask to meet the guy without raising flags.”
“You leave that to Chu,” he says, referring to Grace. “She can make that happen. I’m serious about it being an in-and-out for you. Show up. Watch movies in your hotel room. Chu does what she does. You do what you do. She will bring Mashe to you. You set up the deal with Akram. Take the meet. You and Grace hop a plane home.”
“How do I get a piece like that in-country? If I’m busted at Customs and spend twenty years in a Turkish prison, I’m going to come out very mad.”
“I’m counting on you.”
“I won’t take a hand-off. Not in a place like Istanbul. Couriers are bought and sold more than the artwork they transport. We need to get it in there ourselves. No middlemen.”
“I’m working on it.” Dulwich pauses. “In all likelihood, it’ll be a hand-off in Amman. After that, it’s up to you. You’ll think of something.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so: this doesn’t feel like you,” Knox says.
“And if I do mind?”
“You’re up against a tight schedule. I get that. This guy’s only on the ground a short time.” Knox feels the ice cracking beneath his feet and he hasn’t even accepted the job yet. “Since when do we take on a client with bad guys on his team? You’re usually telling me not to ad-lib. You hate that about me. Now you’re telling me I’ll think of something.”
“This is actionable.”
“Getting that piece of art from Amman to Istanbul is actionable. You’re not the one making the trip. I’m the one making that mistake.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Fuck you.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
5
By the time Grace reestablishes herself in a Starbucks on Queen’s Road, the sidewalks are quieting down from the lunch rush. She finds a corner table.
The second of the two four-minute recordings made while she fended off her young thief shows a bank officer returning to work. Taking her seat at one of the unoccupied desks, the woman quickly logs on to the bank’s computer network. The beauty of high-def recordings and retina displays makes itself clear in the ease with which Grace is able to zoom in on the woman’s hands and observe the keystrokes in stop-motion.