“Fellow investors,” Mashe Okle says.
“I tried to—” Akram says.
His older brother lifts a hand, silencing him.
That demonstration of control liquefies Grace’s bowels. She wants out of here. Now. The sound is of rain on metal gutters.
Strength demands strength. It is the rule behind all escalation.
“I will require documentation of the source of those deposits. Canceled checks, copies of wire transfers. And I caution you: I must source the origin of each deposit, the originating accounts.”
“I respect such thoroughness.”
“I will need a computer and time. Such work is not easy, nor is it without risk.”
He purses his lips. “I am under the impression that you, Mr. Knox, require the transaction to take place today. Now. That you have a plane to catch.”
“My accountant is quite capable, Mr. Okle. An hour or two is all.” Knox looks to Grace for confirmation.
She nods. “It would be a start.”
Mashe Okle draws close the ladder-back chair that holds his suit jacket and sits. He speaks more softly. “I am afraid we lack the computer you require. I am also sorry to say neither of you will leave this apartment until the transaction is completed. You see, I have the same concerns as you, Ms. Chu. Mr. Knox is not known to trade in such rare artifacts. Now we are to believe he has come across one of the rarer treasures in the history of Western civilization. A treasure carrying traces of Israeli soil.”
He blinks rapidly, revealing a deep-seated fatigue. Grace needs no reminder from Knox that this apparent change in his behavior comes after the five-minute mark, though she lacks an explanation for it.
She’s distracted by the recollection of her admittance to the Red Room. She and Dulwich surrendered their phones to shelving outside the secure space. Other than the two abductions, it was the last time she can remember being separated from her iPhone. She knows Knox was briefed in the Red Room as well. Her throat, already dry, is parched.
Their phones were tampered with, perhaps cloned and replaced during their briefings. Dulwich’s choice of the Red Room had little or nothing to do with secrecy, and everything to do with separating them from their devices. The degree of the conspiracy expands exponentially — she and Knox have been carefully manipulated from the start. Everything Dulwich has put them through is part of a well-crafted plan. Knox’s paranoia is justified.
Mashe Okle has gone pale, perspiration covering his face with a sweaty glaze. The room is hot, and Grace says so. Akram, also sweating, agrees. He disappears behind the drawn drapes and the street sounds intensify as fresh air flows across the space, the wind billowing the curtains. Akram reappears.
“Brother?” he inquires, focusing on the man’s sallow skin tone.
“Tired is all.”
Has Mashe been anticipating this? Is it part of his plan to defect? He must not seem ill; he must be ill. Is Akram privy to any of it?
Knox stands. He speaks, sounding sleepy. “You’re in possession of the lab results. You’ve seen the piece in person. You will either bring a laptop and some food and coffee or release us and the Harmodius until such time as my associate can complete her due diligence.”
Mashe looks like he’s had enough. His body language shows weakness. He shakes his head as if disappointed.
“Brother?” Akram’s concern comes across as nerves.
“I am fine.” To Knox, Mashe says, “I doubt these men have been terribly accommodating, and for this I would like to apologize. I suspect the present arrangements have made you and your colleague uncomfortable. Again, I apologize. While I respect your desire to leave, I believe you will find my security personnel less agreeable.” He addresses Grace. “I will request a computer, as you wish. I must caution you: they are likely to decline the request, as any Internet access could, I presume, locate the three of us in ways I doubt I must elaborate upon. Therefore, I will suggest we are in something of a stalemate. I seriously doubt, Ms. Chu, you will be availed of your desire to vet my accounts and, while I understand the desire for such verification, it simply may not be possible given the present circumstances.
“This leaves us with two choices: I can transfer one half of the funds to any account you choose, the balance to remain in escrow, or I can direct these men to make sure the two of you are in no condition to follow me and take the sculpture without compensation.”
He allows the silence to settle.
“I am not a thief. I have no desire to make a reputation as one. Nor do I desire to threaten or aggravate the two of you to the point at which you might consider exposing the Harmodius, no matter that once I leave here, no one will ever find it. My brother is a man of honor. I am, as well. However, if you force my hand…”
47
Knox is painfully aware that they have passed the five-minute mark. As far as Dulwich is concerned, he and Grace are free to go. Knox has been waiting for a wink and nod to indicate Mashe Okle’s plan to defect, but it hasn’t come. The only thing he’s witnessed is a marked decline in the man’s color and his decaying demeanor. It looks as if the air is leaking out of him.
This fits with Knox’s earlier theory that the defection might be related to a medical complication. Whatever the intended end game, Knox wants out before anyone accuses him and Grace of causing whatever’s about to happen. A Glock in the small of his back would help matters, but he’s clean. The op is complete. They have served the required five-minute sentence. It’s Dulwich’s mess to sort out from here.
Mashe Okle appears to be going south. Grace can see it; Akram, too. The man is unaware of his own condition, making it all the more pitiful and painful to observe.
“As soon as the source of the funds is confirmed, the Harmodius is yours,” Knox says, staying stubborn. He can’t give in too easily.
Mashe nods solemnly, a benched athlete. “I am sorry, but this is unacceptable.”
“Brother?” Akram says.
Mashe’s eyes roll to the top of his sockets, his head unmoving. “Give me a minute.”
“You do not look well, brother.”
Surprisingly, several minutes of sitting quietly return color to his face. His shoulders square, his posture elongates. He’s like a flower set out in sunlight. Mashe says with surprising confidence, “One half of funds to remain in escrow until additional testing confirms authenticity.”
“The only testing — done by your man — is behind us now.” Knox straightens his back, plays his role. He watches Akram for any change in body language.
Knox stands with difficulty and limps toward the bust. There’s no need to verbalize the threat. If he were to throw the bust through the window to the pavement below, it would be rendered worthless.
Mashe’s skin turns the same awful yellow it was only minutes earlier. Noticing the change, Knox understands the nature of the op in a sickening rush — though he has no idea how Dulwich pulled it off.
“My phone,” she had said. Our phones, he’s thinking.
Grace moves toward Mashe Okle. Simultaneously, Akram moves protectively to his brother’s side. No one has spoken. One of the guards in the hall coughs; he’s smoking a cigarette. The smell of tobacco smoke seeps into the apartment.
“Let us forget this for now, brother,” Akram says. “Let us visit Mother.”