Grace walks Knox through what Dulwich told her about a single client, informs him that they are in the midst of a black op multilayered to ensure deniability. She impresses him with Dulwich’s apparent surprise at hearing about a possible dead drop, adds that Sarge’s emphasis remains on the two of them getting their five minutes with Mashe Okle. “Your condition, John, is the perfect excuse for us to abort,” she finishes.
“What about all his flag waving?” This is the part of her story that intrigues Knox — Dulwich’s plea to stay with the op. Dedication to the job is one thing, but the way she described it, it sounds more like passion. Knox knows Dulwich to be truly passionate about one thing only: the flag and all it represents.
“Let us accept this: the Harmodius was dug up in Israel. Real or a copy, it hardly matters. It is presumed to be extremely valuable. The client, either acting alone or on behalf of the Israelis, has used it as bait. What if the Israeli agents we have encountered are assigned to ensure its security? Its eventual return?”
Knox likes her explanation, appreciates her ability to be concise. She takes his relaxation the wrong way.
“I am boring?”
“Of course,” he says.
She laughs, covering her mouth, an annoying habit of hers he has failed to break.
“It’s the drugs kicking in.” He feels good. Too good. Recognizes that he’s speaking too freely.
“You were supposed to take only two,” she reminds him.
“Sarge claimed ignorance regarding a drop,” Knox says, attempting to clarify.
“I am reading into this something that may not be accurate,” she says, carefully prefacing her words, “but I would say David was not surprised by the suggestion of a dead drop, although it was news to him, if you are able to discern the difference. The trip here serves two purposes, it seems. This makes sense to him, but troubles him, too.”
“He’s not the only one.” Knox lets this information roll around in his head. It’s getting gooey in there. The rough corners are smooth now, his body warm. His shins pulse but no longer scream. “You know what this means?”
Grace shakes her head patronizingly. He must be slurring his words.
“Either the Israelis or the Iranians are responsible for the mother’s illness.”
A ceiling fan creaks. Cars rumble past on the street.
“It’s what got him here. Mashe. What created the excuse for him to come.”
“A son cannot possibly condone such a thing.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know. He won’t have put it together. And we don’t know what he condones or what kind of hold, if any, they have over him. Perhaps the threat is that they finish her. It’s impossible to say. If Sarge knows, he isn’t telling.”
“We either have two unrelated ops,” she says softly, “or we misread your mugging.”
“I’m listening.”
Grace says, “Let us assume the Israelis are assigned to keep track of the Harmodius. They follow you. They account for your every move. They search your hotel room when you are away. The Harmodius is gone. What is next?”
“They search me for a receipt or locker key — evidence of where I’ve stashed the statue. They make it look like a mugging. Ergo, no dead drop.”
“It is a possibility, neh?”
It’s genius, but he doesn’t tell her so. “Then what’s with the pacemaker?” Knox would rather be telling than asking, but the shock of the wound combined with the medication is limiting. He’ll let Grace take the lead for now.
“It could be nothing more than proactive intelligence. Let us assume the Israelis have connected a Swiss medical supplier with a foreign intelligence organization. Medical devices are being used to convey intelligence. The Israelis cannot take the chance that software vital to the nuclear program might be smuggled to the Iranians inside the electronics of sealed pacemakers—”
“So they interrupt the supply chain and place clean pacemakers in the hospital. They collect the suspicious shipment and deliver it to their lab for analysis.” Knox exhales. “Clever bastards.”
Grace overreacts instinctively, worried about his pain. “John!”
“I’m good.” There are warm marbles rolling around behind his eyes. He could sit here for hours. “Doesn’t explain the shot Ali took. You don’t try to kill the guy who’s hidden what’s yours.” It’s an unintended slap in the face.
“No,” she says.
“What are you keeping from me? Sarge told you something.”
She does not hesitate. “He said, I quote, it is ‘bigger than stink.’”
The expression hits Knox. “He said that? Those exact words?”
“Yes. Why?”
Knox inhales through his nose, feels sick. Knows it’s not the drugs. “Well then,” he whispers. “Phones off.” He digs his out and turns his off and waits for her to do the same. Tries to stand. “They’ll have this location by now. We need an alternate exit. And we’ve got to stay moving.”
“John?” Grace allows fear into her voice. She helps him to stand. He’s unsteady.
He allows her to help. It surprises them both. He talks to himself. “I’ll need to turn mine back on: Akram’s going to text me the location for the meet. But for now…”
He’s rambling. Scared, she repeats his name, imploringly.
Knox steadies himself with hands on both her shoulders. “Bigger than stink. It’s a Sarge expression: the end justifies the means, which in our case is us.” He meets eyes with her. “We’re fucked.”
43
The city bus smells of human sweat and greasy food. Grace had to help Knox climb up into it. Now that they’re seated, Knox has no intention of ever getting up again.
Neither he nor Grace was willing to risk a taxi. Walking any sort of distance was out of the question. The Alzer Hotel is off limits. They ride the bus to have somewhere to be, like the homeless, and receive their share of stares from the predominantly Turkish passengers. The driver has taken to watching them in his oversized mirror.
“So, we wait,” Grace says. As if they’ve done something else in the past ninety minutes. Knox dozes in and out, grateful for her presence and for the drugs running through his system.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says, coming awake.
She dismisses this as delirium.
“Given the circumstances, the complexities, there’s no reason for two of us—”
“You are delirious. Go back to sleep.”
“Plans change based on the conditions. These are unusual conditions.”
“I know where you are going with this. No chance, John. None. We wait for the text or the call. We do this together.”
“As what, martyrs? Why?”
“The plan has not changed. Two of us in the room with him for five minutes. We hand over the Harmodius. We go home.”
“I don’t like going home. Home is what got me into this.” She can see he regrets his words, but his tongue is loose. “Sarge pushes whatever buttons are required to get what he wants. Same as anyone else.”
“Tommy?”
“A new medication. Did I tell you?” He looks delirious. She should have let him go back to sleep. But she can’t control her curiosity. Wonders if it’s an asset or a liability.
“Expensive,” she says.
“Insanely so. Yeah. I must have told you.”
“You are a good man. A good brother. You must not equate Tommy with—”
“I’m a fraud. I’m the Harmodius. I look like the real thing, test like the real thing, but I’m a copy. An old copy.”
“You should sleep.”
“Do I do this work out of benevolence? Brotherliness? No. I do this because it takes me away from all of the shit back there. I live for this.” He touches his cap and the wound beneath it. “I don’t want to die. Far from it. But this shit matters. You know? You realize that, right, Grace? This shit matters.”