“What the—?” The agent shouts obscenities at the nearest bellman.
“Taxi!” the other agent says, his English decent. “Now!”
The bellman, no more than a kid, gestures nervously to the street. “Much rain, sir, as you see. One moment, if you please! Right away! Right away!” He runs out into the maelstrom, rain bouncing off his red fez. Blows a whistle, looking left and right.
“You need car? Private car!” A man’s heavily accented voice calls out from Knox’s left. The driver stands beneath an open umbrella. He moves toward his quarry, extending the shelter provided by the plastic.
“Private car. Very reasonable, very cheap. Where you go, please?”
The whistle for the taxi continues to blow. A crowd of wet Turks gathers around the foreigners, looking curiously at their man in custody. They shout questions in Turkish and English. Wet cigarettes dangle from their lips. Trial by jury on the streets of Istanbul.
Staring bitterly at the incapacitated Audi, the lead agent answers, “Istinye. How much?”
The driver rattles off a price.
The agent launches into negotiations.
“We take it!” the other agent says, moving himself under the extended umbrella while leaving Knox in the rain.
It’s not just raining. It’s apocalyptic. It’s an Old Testament deluge. The wet is a wake-up call. Knox’s brain is a computer spinning beach balls; he’s processing data from twenty seconds earlier.
“This way, if you please.” The driver.
In his dazed and beleaguered state, Knox allows himself to believe he knows the voice. Or is he confusing it with one of the agents?
Someone pushes his head down. He’s soaking wet as he lands in the backseat of the private car and is shoved to the center, his bound wrists behind him. The agents climb in on either side. One wet. One dry.
The doors power-lock. Knox leans forward, staring down at his knees, which are practically higher than his shoulders.
“You’re going to pay for this,” says the agent whose whipped face limits his ability to speak.
No doubt, Knox is thinking. He grunts, looks up and happens to catch the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
The eyes. The voice.
Besim.
57
It isn’t the first time Grace has faced a difficult decision, so why does she hesitate now? What hold over her does Knox possess? Dulwich hires her because of her pragmatism, her cultural tendency to follow orders to the letter and leave her imagination at the door. She supposes he balances her against Knox for this reason, sees this as the logic behind their recent pairings.
Has she allowed herself to be seduced, corrupted? After all the sacrifices for her career, is she willing to risk a setback? For what? For whom? A testosterone-charged renegade? A maverick, that by his own admission is only in it for the money? A mercenary?
The problem is, she has had the occasional glimpse of the overprotective brother, the defender of women — the sensitivities Knox doesn’t want exposed. Dulwich exploits these vulnerabilities for his own benefit. As the op supervisor, he’s no doubt willing to sacrifice the troops to win the battle. Turning the opposing loyalties in her head, Grace finds herself uneasy and undecided, two qualities she would never associate with her usual logical assurance.
Cancer or cure, John Knox is under her skin.
In the hotel’s lobby bathroom, she uses a safety pin she’d snagged previously to narrow the waistband of her pants to attach Mashe Okle’s business card behind the interior garment tag. Her pants slip lower but hold above her hips; it’s not a look she would normally tolerate, as the hems of the pant legs drag behind her flats. But if she’s searched, the card will be difficult to find. A cursory look at the contents of her handbag and pockets will yield nothing.
The accountant in her ticks off the successes of the op: she and Knox got to Okle and sent him to the hospital, ensuring the implantation of a customized pacemaker in place of the defective model. They did so without the involvement of any government agency. A highly sought-after shopping list of what is likely parts for nuclear reactor maintenance, a list perhaps intended for the Russians, Chinese or North Koreans, is currently pinned by her hip bone. Any such agents could be in the hunt.
Might kill for it.
She leaves the hotel using a side exit; she conceals herself among a group of conventioneers wearing blue lanyards and plastic-shrouded white badges. She hesitates beneath a metal canopy that holds back the steady drum of gray rain. Smothered by conflicting emotion and reason, she battles the two sides of her conscience.
Then she pulls her phone to her ear.
“Xin, I am sorry to wake you. If you inform Dulwich of what I am about to request, I will make what is left of your life a living hell.” She knows what it’s like in Digital Services, knows the degree to which the myth of field ops pervades the culture. She counts on her bluster to rattle the man, hopes he doesn’t identify her words as a hollow bluff.
“You threaten me?”
“I have three phone numbers. I need a ‘last-known position’ for each of them.”
“iPhones?” Xin is already coming awake.
“The numbers won’t be registered.”
“Understood.”
“How quickly?” Grace asks. With a laptop and secure Internet connection, she could do the work herself. She’s being polite and they both know it. Xin can accomplish this as fast as he’s willing.
“Five minutes,” he says, perhaps sensing the trap she’s laid.
She rattles off the numbers of Knox’s SIM chips. They are committed to memory, not carried in her phone’s contact list.
Xin repeats them, double-checking.
“Nothing personal,” she says.
The line goes dead.
58
Accustomed to following a navigation system, neither of the men bookending Knox seems to notice that the car has missed the exit for Barbaros Boulevard, the most direct route north to the Istinye district. Instead, they travel the O-1 southeast, and Besim takes a long exit ramp toward Bahçesehir University. The men look nondescript, Knox thinks as he surreptitiously studies them; the two could be of any European nationality. Judging by the accent of the few words spoken in the hotel’s laundry room and the swearing, he’s convinced they are Israeli or are on contract to the Israelis. If Israeli, they apparently don’t know about Besim. Boxes within boxes.
In point of fact, they could work for any government, any agency, any security company or corporation or individual wanting nuclear secrets.
The man to Knox’s left gets twitchy, perhaps sensing the detour. Besim has made the mistake of not averting the rearview mirror, which carries in its upper corner the dull green compass heading: SW. How long until it’s noticed?
Knox wrestles his body forward in an attempt to divert attention. His activity serves its purpose, though it gains him a blow to his sore ribs. Pain is an expected part of the process, but he’s worn down by the accumulation of wounds. He resists physical limitations, is able to overcome most of them; it’s another part of what makes him valuable to men like Dulwich. The fact that he’s succumbing to the toll now makes him question his longevity in this line of work, the thoughts coming in a series of panicked flashes. He hopes to hell Dulwich has not picked up on it, is worried it might make him dispensable.
Thinks of Tommy and the risk he’s taking and questions whether or not he’s fooling himself by thinking he accepts the work for Tommy’s sake.
“Hey!” The agent has it now.
“Traffic bad. Golf tournament, Sahasi,” Besim says calmly. “This way better.”