“Good luck with that,” he says.
Dulwich studies the card thoroughly, flipping it over twice. He couldn’t play act it any better if Knox had coached him. Then comes the moment Knox hoped for.
Dulwich pockets the card.
Grace tugs Knox away. “Come on, John. We were wrong.”
As they walk past Dulwich, the man nods and grins, appreciating her humility.
The door to the exam room in question clicks open. Knox ducks his chin. Grace has the wherewithal to snuggle into him and bury her face in his pajama top as they walk; she partially screens Knox.
Akram Okle comes out of the exam room, passing within feet of Knox and Grace. He doesn’t look up.
Knox risks a final glance over his shoulder.
The two agents have converged on Dulwich.
52
Thorium,” Grace says.
“Sounds like a vitamin supplement,” Knox says.
“Poor man’s uranium,” Grace says, speaking in professorial mode. “Abundantly available. Same energy benefits, but without the degree of waste and nearly impossible to weaponize.”
“McEnergy.”
“Something like that.”
“He should have told us,” Knox repeats. Before Grace has a chance to defend Dulwich, Knox cuts her off. “Don’t start!”
They step through a door into a fire escape. Grabbing her arm, Knox turns her. “They’re looking for two of us.”
Grace is already pulling off the scrubs. Knox holds her inside shirt down so it won’t ride up and expose her as she strips off the top. Her look softens as she tosses the scrub top into the corner.
“When they see it’s a hospital card, they will come for you.”
“Yes,” he acknowledges. “I’ll head up, you go down.”
She objects. “Absurd. I will go up. My legs function properly. You leave as quickly as possible.”
He nods reluctantly. “We rendezvous at the Holiday Inn across the street. North a few bloc—”
“I know it.”
“There’s a booth by the café’s exterior door. Wait there thirty minutes, no more. If I don’t show, I’ll see you at your place in Hong Kong.”
“I am not leaving Istanbul without—”
“Yes, you are. It’s protocol.” He hits her where she lives — the front-row student.
“The client is connected to the Israelis. Shabak? Mossad? Does it matter?”
“It’s an unsanctioned op,” he reminds her. “We both know that. If we appeal to Primer to intervene with the Israelis, the roof’ll come down on Sarge.”
“You care.”
“I care.”
“Who shot at us?”
“Not here.” Knox has a theory that the Israelis are a house divided, but she won’t believe him; Dulwich won’t believe him. He checks the door, checks the staircase. The Israelis seem to be the least of their worries; in a few short hours, Mashe Okle’s heart troubles will bring down the wrath of the Iranians. They won’t care about evidence: they will want words with Knox. “Thirty minutes. Then you abort.”
Knox takes off down the stairs with difficulty. Mulls the fact that she switched their assignments. She likes to play so hard-nosed, but Knox is not easily fooled. He waits to make sure he hears Grace ascending.
At the next landing, he quietly opens the door and steps into the hall. It’s a patient floor. He walks slowly, peering through partially open doors. The third room is a double: one bed untouched, the other has its bedding turned back and unkempt; it’s unoccupied. Knox steps inside, eases the door nearly shut.
“Hello?” He’s worried the patient could be in the bathroom.
No reply.
He moves quickly to the bedside phone. Reaches the hospital operator and asks to be connected to a patient. “Family name, Melemet.”
Waits, hoping he has guessed correctly — would she, too, now use Okle?
A click, a woman’s quavering voice answers in Turkish.
“Victoria Momani,” Knox says.
The old woman replies in Arabic.
Victoria answers in Arabic as well. “Yes?”
“This is important. Drop your cell phone in the toilet. Leave the room with it, but dump it as soon as possible. You understand?”
“I understand.” Her voice is shaky.
“Not English! Think! Switch taxis no fewer than three times, walking fully around the block each time. Head to the train station. Take the first train east toward Jordan. Wait somewhere down the line and join the overnight to Jordan. Do not wait here for the Jordanian train. You understand?”
She answers in Arabic.
“Calm yourself. Be polite and sweet. Don’t tell her you’re leaving — say you need to find a vending machine. Something like that. Do not use the hospital’s front entrance. There are plenty of others. Wear your head scarf. You understand?”
“Thank you for calling,” she says, her voice now relaxed.
A woman’s inquiry in Turkish. Knox pivots. Gently hangs up the phone.
The woman coming out of the bathroom is in her early forties. She’s clutching an IV stand and, though facing him, holds her hospital gown closed from behind.
Knox still wears the gown himself, over his pants. He speaks Turkish. “Lost.” He points to his head. “Not remember what floor is my room. So sorry.” He moves past her. She rotates to keep the back of her gown hidden. Eyes him as the intruder he is. He suspects she may call it in. He thanks her. Hurries.
Stands briefly in the corridor, busier now than minutes before. Weighs the risk of the slowness and pain of the stairs versus the speed and ease of the elevators, knowing full well there are surveillance cameras in the elevator cars.
53
Getting into trouble is not so difficult,” Grace’s army intelligence instructor once said in a lecture. “It is getting out of trouble that requires effort.”
Grace has climbed three flights of stairs. Is tempted by the thought of an elevator, but knows better. Wishes she had not abandoned the scrubs so quickly, for now she elects to cross the eleventh floor to an opposing set of stairs. She is as much a target as Knox, and they both know it. Any of the interested parties would welcome the chance to dangle her as bait, reel him in.
She wonders if John has a plan. Doubts it. She has gone along with him because he has a knack for thinking on the fly. Given thirty minutes, she could come up with an exit strategy better than his. But she knows she wouldn’t have thought to pass a business card to David, to scent the hounds in his direction. A stroke of genius, so typically John Knox, and one that may have bought them enough time to find their way out of Istanbul.
Grace finds the memory of the bloodied taxi and Ali’s unmoving corpse unshakable. Distracting. The same instructor warned her about losing one’s focus. One can stumble into trouble, but then one must plot a course to find the way out. She feels she is stumbling as she lowers her chin perhaps too far and holds back her stride to avoid running. Still, she senses the deliberateness of her movements, the telegraphing of her intentions. Poisoned by doubt, she begins to crumble, pieces of her confident façade falling to the tile floor. She wants to reach out and hold on, but it would be like trying to catch snowflakes.
Patience! Constant dripping wears away even a stone, her maternal grandmother would remind her.
Mashe Okle’s advice to barter his business card with the authorities calls into question what authorities he had in mind. Is he aware of all the players? The problem with spycraft is facing a faceless enemy, she thinks. Grace doesn’t appreciate being distracted by such regurgitation. Takes it as a bad sign and curses her culture for instilling in her such a strong belief in bad signs. But the point is taken: she and Knox are hindered by having so little idea who, or how many, are pursuing them. It could be three or four; it could be a dozen or more. They might have shown their faces more than once; this might be the first time she and John have seen them.