She hears footfalls stop in the corridor. He’s measured the empty hallway, perhaps. Believes he should have caught sight of her.
The door is thrown open. A pause. Grace sees the problem now: if he looks into the mirror above the sink, the angle will allow him to see her. She turns her face away.
The door shuts without a word. She exhales.
39
Akram makes a phone call and less than five minutes later there’s a knock on the door of the safe house, and Knox knows the Iranian guards were never far away. He has no qualms about seeking help; for the next few hours he’s in league with Akram, Mashe and the Iranians. There’s no way to hide it.
He must consider the possibility that Akram has been followed to their meet, and that the Iranians would not have picked up on it if it was the Israelis trailing him.
“This is going to go a little differently,” Knox says to one of the two men. “You understand?”
The man grunts his assent. But no love lost.
Knox spots the white van they’re walking him toward and his world spins — Grace was abducted in a white van.
He says, “You’re going to slide open the side door for me to go inside. You’ll close it all up, wait twenty seconds. You understand?”
“One… two…” An accent so thick Knox has to interpret.
“Correct. To twenty. Then drive off.”
The guard furrows his brow, having no idea what Knox has planned.
“Exactly as I’ve said. You understand?” He nearly adds, “You didn’t think I was actually going to get into that van, did you?”
Moments later the guard opens the van’s side door. Knox steps in front of the man and drops to the curb like he’s been Tasered. He slips between the curb and the undercarriage and is gone from sight by the time the perplexed guard steps into the van. Knox belly-crawls beneath the rear axle and differential then scurries beneath the truck parked closely behind the van.
… twenty… The van pulls away from the curb and into traffic.
Knox has to keep an eye on his wristwatch because he’s lost all sense of time. At ninety seconds he crawls back out and takes to the sidewalk, brushing himself off. He feels clever and proud and wishes Grace had been there to witness it, wondering a moment later where such thoughts come from and what kind of hold he’s allowed her to have on him. He’s not in the habit of caring about others’ opinions, wants to be liked but not at too high an expense. Tries to clear his head, wondering when he last ate.
He keeps the Tigers cap pulled down low. Still, he can’t stop himself from remembering Ali’s head blowing open as it slumps against the wheel. Knox moves quickly and somewhat erratically, hoping to make himself a difficult target. Wants off the street.
The neighborhood he’s in is not on the Star Tour maps. His height and coloring call out for attention.
He tightropes the curb to stay away from street-side doorways. Any one of them could suck him in and swallow him like Jonah into the whale. He keeps alert for new vehicles while measuring the nerves of those within reach of him. Body language and posture can telegraph intent. He pays particular attention to anyone wearing earbuds. Wishes he had backup. Curses Dulwich. Wonders if he should have risked a ride in the white van.
The woman approaching is low to the ground, thin and proves herself deceptively fast. She’s in her twenties, a loop of silver pierced through her eyebrow. Something slips into her hand from up the long sleeve of her flouncy top, like a derringer in an old Western. Knox figures it out only after the rebar is swinging for his shins. She connects there like a polo player. She was aiming for his kneecaps, but Knox leaps instinctively, straight up. Even deflected, the impact stings — cracks — he returns to earth collapsing to the sidewalk.
Loses his vision to the pain — a gooey purple orb swims before him. Sensing a second and perhaps final blow coming, he attacks blindly, working off the sound of her sandals and the adrenaline of threat.
He dislocates her knee with an elbow butt. She buckles and comes down on him like a felled tree. His eyesight returning, he tears the loop from her eyebrow, winning an animal cry. He bucks her off.
An ambulance races up the street.
Ingenious. Creative. Expensive.
He rises onto his knees — nothing can hurt this much — and breaks her ribs with a fist blow; makes peeing blood a part of her future and dislocates her jaw to cut the chatter. Men rush to attack Knox for assaulting a woman.
Knox grabs the rebar and defends his turf as he hobbles into the street. The ambulance pulls up. Knox drives the butt end of the rebar into the grille and through the radiator, releasing a torrent of steaming green water that falls hissing to the street. Hauls the rebar up, cracks the windshield and catches the legs of the imposter emerging from the front passenger seat. Tit for tat. Takes two of the most painful steps of his life and greets a motorcyclist trying to sneak down the side of the stopped traffic; sends the man airborne. Walks stiff-legged like Frankenstein, recovers the fallen motorcycle, its engine still running.
Gives a look to the ambulance driver, who rounds the nearest vehicle. The guy is poised, ready to pull a concealed weapon on him. But to what end? To shoot Knox in the back with a dozen witnesses watching? Possibly?
Knox gives himself the cover of smoke from his back wheel, cussing with each toe shift as he screeches away.
40
The funicular, dangling from its thread of twisted steel, floats down into the Tophane district. Grace feels like a spider off to mend her web. The street address and name of her contact are written on opposing palms — the scribble on her right nearly impossible to read.
Across the dark green waters of the Bosphorus, sliced white by wake and the occasional ship, she sees southern Istanbul on the Asian continent. Below her, a patchwork of rooftops spill toward the water, broken by the green of an occasional park. Its picturesque quality is opposed to her thought. She’s cranked and unable to appreciate it. If she knew more clearly the exact location of her destination — an electronics shop Xin has arranged for her — she could likely see it, so clear is the view. But it’s lost on her.
Forty-five minutes later, having ferried across the river and ridden the back of a hot taxi through a decidedly more Oriental Istanbul, she resents the lack of anything more from Knox. She has switched SIM chips and texted all three of his numbers.
Nothing. Asshole!
The wheels are coming off the op. They have only a matter of a few hours before the proposed meet with Mashe Okle and she has yet to determine what their secreted role is; what purpose the five minutes with the POI is to serve.
She is alone. Knox is alone. Together, they are alone. For a time, her mathematical mind could project a resolution to the op, but now it’s more ephemeral; Knox believes them both to be sacrificial lambs, and she has no evidence to dispute this. Dulwich has expected them to do this alone. There is no exit strategy in place.
A strong scent of cloves mingles in the air, tinged with cinnamon. It somehow permeates the taxi’s cigarette-stained interior to intoxicate her and remind her of life now past: leisure time in a Hong Kong café with a cup of chai, the Financial Times, under a clock with no minute hand. She can envision herself flipping through family photos she recently downloaded to her phone in order to make a birthday collage for her somewhat estranged father, who turns fifty in three weeks. Imagines herself smiling at memories. Laughing internally. Of shopping irresponsibly, of making herself feel pretty and feminine and maybe even available.