Knox follows the airport signage. They can see it now to their left, and beyond it, the Bosphorus. On the opposite shore starts the Asian half of the city.
“May be a strait, but it certainly looks like a river,” she says. “What is it with us and rivers?”
She watches him smile. With more planning, more knowledge, they might have left by the Bosphorus. Always water. Bloodlines.
“We go through security in separate lines.”
“Of course.”
“If I’m detained…”
“I will notify David.” It’s the best they can hope for. She would gladly make a sacrifice to take this off of him. Has no idea where that thought comes from. Sacrilege. Her career path is entirely singular.
She speaks abruptly. “Everything I do or have done, it is to prove my father wrong.”
Knox glances over at her curiously.
“Deepest apology,” she says, sounding entirely too Chinese. She hangs her head.
“Well, that’s awkward,” Knox says.
She starts to laugh, but it borders on tears and she bottles it up as she has learned to do so well in the time they’ve spent working together.
“My shit’s always been about protecting Tommy,” he says, adding, “at least that’s what I tell myself.”
“We never know if we will see the other again,” she says wistfully.
“True story.”
Her heart races. She’s unsure why. “I have feelings for you, John Knox.”
The car enters the Departures ramp.
“Yeah,” he says.
She waits. The car slows toward the curb. “That is all? ‘Yeah’?”
Knox parks. “Yeah.” His smile conceals a deeper message; concern for her? Attraction? Whether he means it as such, that smile floods her with warmth.
Knox says, “Check your phone. Find us the first flight out of the country.”
60
Follow me, please.” The immigration officer is soft and in his mid-forties, probably nearing the end of his career. The uniform stretches tight across his belly. His pant legs bunch at his ankles as he steps out of his booth to block Knox’s exit. The irregular beeping of the magnetometers in the distance is reminiscent of hospital sounds.
All of Knox’s worlds are spinning into one, like water down a drain. And he’s running down with them. His being detained could be the result of his passport being tagged, but he doubts it. More likely it’s the result of face recognition software or vigilant eyes behind one-way glass on the other side of a CCTV camera’s video monitor.
Cause and effect matter to him. He can only hope it’s the passport.
When two more security men arrive to escort him, that hope is dashed. With his guards the product of steroids and workout videos, Knox knows the depth of the trouble he’s in. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Grace, from the back, as she hesitates a fraction of a second before joining a screening line. He wills her to stay out of this.
The walk is longer than he expects. With a guard on either side, he feels like a death-row inmate, a dead man walking. With airports better manned, better guarded than prisons, there’s nowhere to go. The thought of Turkish prison stirs his imagination. He’s not going down without a fight. The only question is when to start it.
The key is knowing at what point to play his card: too early and it may be ignored; too late, and its significance may be missed. He curses himself for allowing Dulwich to move him into the world of spooks. No one ever accused Knox of being subtle, and this is a game of shades, not colors.
He’s treated respectfully. Placed in a chair at a desk alone. The room is undoubtedly locked. Both guards remain on the other side of the door. A ceiling-corner camera stares at him unflinchingly.
The uniformed supervisor who enters five minutes later carries the fatigued eyes of an overworked bureaucrat. His mustache is neatly trimmed above poor teeth. The man’s attention is on the paperwork in front of him. He makes no real effort to connect with Knox.
“Name.”
“John Knox.”
“Nationality?”
“What’s this about?” Knox knows the questions to ask in order to appear Joe Normal.
“Nationality?”
“USA. American.” The redundancy causes the supervisor to issue a look of complaint: he doesn’t want his time wasted. “What have I done? I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“Last country visited?” The man flips through the passport.
“Jordan. Last week. Amman.”
Another disapproving look.
But Knox is not about to act the professional. He won’t be lured into it. “I have a plane to catch!”
The man continues working the passport. Knox doesn’t like that camera staring at him. Passing Mashe’s business card could be construed as an attempted bribe. He has little idea of how Turkish law works. Or doesn’t work. Perhaps he’s supposed to offer money. He should have studied up in all his free time.
“Purpose of your trip? Business or pleasure?”
The man has set the bear trap; he now invites Knox to put his foot inside. If his being detained has to do with the sale of the Harmodius, a lie could entrap him. If, however, this guy is fishing, the claim of business invites more questions, more chances to answer incorrectly. Knox’s position is to lessen the depth of the interest in him.
“It depends if you consider a woman business or pleasure,” Knox replies. He wins a slight twist of the man’s mustache, like a cat flicking its tail against the cold. “There was the business of a lover of hers in Amman, you see. But the pleasure was all mine once we got to Istanbul.” Knox hopes his timing is good. “Victoria Momani, if you need her name. She’s returning by train to Amman. Left this afternoon.”
Detail, especially unsolicited detail, has a way of authenticating a statement. It can’t be forced, can only be used when the opportunity is presented. Knox prides himself on timing, whether in lovemaking or Immigration interrogations.
The man excuses himself and leaves the room. Returns several long minutes later.
This isn’t the guy to approach, Knox decides. He’s made no attempt at eye contact, has offered not the slightest of signals. He’s following up on Knox’s statements, moving information from point A to point B. Stalling, Knox hopes.
Knox checks his watch. “My plane…”
“This is an airport,” the man replies. “Plenty of planes.” His teeth look like old patio bricks.
“We stayed at the Alzer Hotel,” Knox says. “Separate rooms in case her lover checked up on her.” He adds, “My room did not get a lot of use.”
The man is clearly titillated. Knox can keep him occupied if need be, but he’s supplying information the man already has. He allows himself the fantasy of wondering whether his detention could possibly be random. Such thoughts are dangerous; they allow him to lower his guard. He warns himself to remain alert. Shades, not colors.
The hand-off comes abruptly. A square-jawed man in a worn brown suit and no tie takes the place of Knox’s interrogator. Musical chairs. This guy could shave every hour and it wouldn’t make any difference. He has the black, infinite stare of a character from a zombie film. He meets eyes with Knox and holds the gaze for a long time.
So this is the guy, and this is the place, and they are both extremely aware of the camera, given that the guy looks over his shoulder, right into it, to make sure it doesn’t escape Knox.
Knox’s vitals shift into overdrive. The man represents two doors. Monty Hall. Maybe, just maybe, the Israelis or Dulwich could get him out of Turkish prison, but it’s a hell of a gamble. Maybe, just maybe, this is the moment that Mashe Okle was referencing when he passed Knox his business card. The Turks have learned to get along with most of their neighbors and the West. The only question for Knox is if he’s reading this man correctly.