He’s trying to convince his brother to let him take him to the hospital.
“You had your chance,” Knox says brusquely.
“You see?” Grace says to Knox. Her acting is impressive. “The situation so often alters when the money becomes real.”
“Salim!” Mashe shouts.
The door opens with alarming speed. Knox grabs hold of the Harmodius, but his legs betray him. Salim has taken a cue from Mashe and runs interference; Knox doesn’t make it to the window fast enough. Salim passes and comes at him from the direction of the windows, driving a stumbling Knox back into the room. Knox could smash the heavy bust to the floor, but it would likely only hurt the floor; the thing’s as solid as a piece of armament. Still, the threat of it, as Knox struggles to press the Harmodius overhead, brings Mashe to his feet.
Knox’s arms tremble. He can’t hold it much longer. “All, or nothing!” he says once again. “I… don’t… trust… you.” Sweating now, he manages to look Akram in the eye. “Apologies, friend. You, I trust.”
Mashe acquiesces. “Agreed! Agreed! Now, help him!”
The guard assists Knox in lowering the Harmodius. It’s returned to the table where it previously perched.
Knox aches. He sizes up the guard who stands closer; decides he’d go down quickly. It’s the man at the open door holding a Makarov PPM that concerns him.
Mashe Okle makes a phone call, holding up a finger to request silence in the room. Knox’s pained breathing competes with the sounds from the street. The man talks in clipped Persian. Ending the short call, he works his phone and passes it to Grace.
“Internet connection. Do what you must.” Mashe Okle sits back down as if he’s just run a marathon.
“I’m with Akram,” Knox says casually. “You don’t look so hot.”
Mashe addresses his brother. “It is nothing. Fatigue is all.” He reaches into the side pocket of his suit coat where it hangs on the back of the chair. He withdraws a business card. Extends it toward Knox. Knox avoids glancing at Grace, who is certainly processing the offer as Knox is: the exchange. If Knox accepts the card, he is a cutout. If he does not, he and Grace may lose their value for Mashe Okle and his guards.
Mashe waits for Knox. The moment borders on awkward. Knox accepts it and thanks him.
Mashe says, “If you or your colleague should have any questions or complications when attempting to leave the country, you will please present my card and ask them to call number on back.” He pauses. “You will find I am extremely well connected, Mr. Knox. In your game of Monopoly, this is same as ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card. City police, MIT, it makes no difference. Do not misplace it.”
Grace works the phone she was given. She must go through sourcing the funds to make their story credible and convincing.
Knox flicks the card’s edge, and then pockets it. Everything he and Grace have theorized whirs through him, arriving back at the idea of his being used to unwittingly courier intel. The man’s business card feels as though it weighs several pounds. He figures he’s supposed to encounter trouble along the way, is supposed to offer up the card. In doing so, he, Knox, passes along Iranian intel. A piece of old-school spycraft. As he thought.
“You have your information?” Mashe says to Grace.
She meets eyes with Knox. “Because of time, I chose one of the six accounts at random. It checks out.”
She returns the phone to Mashe Okle.
“It is a treasure,” Mashe says, his voice filled with gratitude. “I want you to know it will be treated as such, its beauty and historical significance enjoyed by many.”
Knox winces a smile. He doesn’t give a shit. He resents being used. Assumes he is part of a dead drop, with the emphasis on dead.
If he gets rid of the card, he’ll be tortured and torn to pieces to find it; if he keeps it, he’s got a target on his back. A target with two bad legs and a busted shoulder and head wounds that need weeks to heal.
Mashe Okle is fading once again. His eyes are shut, his face pallid.
“We’re good,” Knox says, wanting out, wanting to separate himself from Grace. By accepting the business card, he’s been made radioactive.
“Perhaps,” Mashe says to his brother in Persian, “a visit to Mother is not such a bad idea.” To Knox, he speaks English. “I am sorry to say that you must suffer the indignity of secrecy in leaving here today. My men will accompany you to a location that offers many forms of public transportation. I trust you will forgive me this precaution. It is not to be avoided.”
“I would prefer to name the destination myself,” Knox says, not wanting to be delivered anywhere on a platter, “once we are in the vehicle.”
“As long as it is within reason, it shall be as you wish,” Mashe says, surprising Knox with his agreement. He speaks to his men.
“Remember,” Mashe says, rising to show them out and pointing to Knox’s pocket. “Any kind of trouble. This card is your passport. Use it.”
“It is kind of you,” Grace says.
“Pleasure is mine.” He bows for her and extends his hand to Knox. “I thank you, sir, for this opportunity. You do me and my brother a great honor.”
Knox wonders if he means the sale of the Harmodius or the involuntary sacrifice of carrying the business card. If Dulwich’s hysteria is to be believed, the fate of the world now rests in his pocket. Knox is caught in the middle.
At the bottom of the stairs, the hoods are readministered. There is a pause, as perhaps the guards allow the sidewalk to clear. Then Knox and Grace are rushed outside through the rain and into the van and driven off.
Ten minutes of abrupt stops and poor driving, and the hoods come off. The door slides open and the two are politely pushed out into the wet as the van drives away.
“Bastards!” Knox hisses. They’ve been dropped in front of a nondescript building — a sign reveals that it’s the city’s naval museum. It’s miles from the Metro stop he requested.
“Inside,” he says. Grace takes him by the elbow and steers him toward the museum’s stairs. “Don’t!” he says, admonishing her for her nervous glances in every direction.
They are well on their way to being soaked by the time they step inside. Admittance is four Turkish liras. Knox has the cash, but their captors have stuffed his belongings into two of the windbreaker’s many pockets, leaving him disorganized. It takes a moment to locate his wallet. In the interim, Grace returns her SIM to the iPhone and the device powers up.
Knox pays. Grace’s phone chimes, signaling incoming text messages. Once clear of the receptionist, Grace reports in a whisper, fighting the echoing, oversized room with its stone floor and gray marble wainscoting.
“Besim’s man. We were followed from the meet.” She slips the phone away.
“Currently?” he asks.
“Two men. Northwest of us.” She gets her bearings. “Outside the main entrance.”
Knox is moving better even if she doesn’t notice it. “Remember the ferry dock. The Huangpu?”
It’s rhetorical.
“Not exactly like that, but timing is everything.” Knox moves her through the museum with the grace of a dancer. Now, she notices.
“Look at you.”
“Amazing what a little motivation can do.”
“Will they kill you? Us?” Said so matter-of-factly. So Grace.
“Depends who they are. But why not? Who knows?”
“His health. His failing like that. That was us.”
“So noted. Do you know how?” He steers her through a room with paintings.
“My phone. Maybe yours, too. That is only hardware we carry.”
“Turned off. Chips pulled. Is that possible?”
She is already a few steps ahead of him. “Dulwich switched them on us. I left mine behind when entering the Red Room. It had to be then.”
Knox stops abruptly. They’re in a room with five majestic wooden vessels. “Use of the Red Room wasn’t about secrecy,” he proposes, “but about disconnecting us from our phones?”