heart,” she says honestly. “I want my money back.”
Besim’s chipped teeth sparkle white. He wants to say something about her being Chinese, to sting her for entering a relationship with an Arab. She knows that look and resents it. Objectified. Reduced to what’s between her shoulders and legs. So easy to choke or garrote a man from the backseat. Her emotions swing with every lane change of the car. Besim knows his stuff; they are stitching their way through the congested traffic.
She doesn’t want to follow, would rather leapfrog.
“His final destination, please. You will drop me there, then wait with my bags at my apartment. It is okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her decision made, she sits back. Her thought process is linear, mathematical. If A equals B and B equals C, then . . . Were the agents waiting for Melemet, aka Mashe Okle, as they appear to have been? The “why” isn’t important to the equation, but the “how” definitely is. They must have been aware of his cover identity prior to his booking the ticket. If a known arms dealer, why not arresthim on the spot? Okle is in Istanbul to be at the bedside of his dying mother. Why put off his arrest? No matter how she manipulates the variables, the equation won’t yield a result. It’s an unsolvable proof. Unacceptable.
What is Dulwich not telling her, and why? This is the parenthetical product she’s lacking, the value that is throwing off the result.
When her phone vibrates and a sixty-four-character string of symbols and alphanumeric characters appears in the Messaging balloon, she knows it’s the password she’s been waiting for, the one she needs to raid Okle’s investment portfolio. She stares at the phone as if it belongs to someone else. The message doesn’t come from Rutherford’s Data Sciences division, but from Dulwich himself, the most digitally challenged man she knows. It’s a small inconsistency, but she’s trained to identify such variables.
She drums her fingers on her knee.
What is Dulwich up to?
Outside the vehicle, the sparkle of the Istanbul lights emerges.
“You like?” Besim asks. He’s caught her look of awe in the mirror.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, admiring the twinkling hills, the dozens of mosque spires, and the sparkling vessels on the Bosphorus Strait. She doesn’t want to get her driver talking. She needs time to think.
The illuminated minarets of the mosques look like chalky fingers pointing to heaven.
Besim nods thoughtfully. “You will like this place.”
Grace is not so sure.
10
T he storm has turned the streets of Amman into a beach parking lot. The grit beneath Knox’s shoes gives him shivers; it’s like biting into a dry Popsicle. The air quality sucks, but at least he doesn’t feel as if he’s standing in front of the nozzle of a sandblaster anymore. It’s tolerable, and people return cautiously to the sidewalks and streets, their faces protectively covered. Some cars are moving. Many hoods are open, the driver leaning in to deal with a clogged air filter. There is little sense of irritation; such storms are an accepted occurrence here. Knox marvels at the universal adaptability of humans.
A text from Dulwich: Shepard Fairey’s Obama Hope poster and an address. A parenthetical: eight P . M . It’s coming up on seven. Knox knows not to put this off. A possible rendezvous, though the Obama reference eludes him. Dulwich’s cryptic messages can be frustrating. Knox returns to his thought about spooks, wondering what Dulwich and Primer have gotten him into. Rutherford Risk rarely discriminates against its clients. Knox is allowed that luxury. He picks and chooses, though Dulwich has his number, quite literally. Anything in six figures and Knox can’t seem to keep his fingers off it.
The corporation is in the business of problem-solving those problems that can’t be solved by conventional means. Over half their business is international kidnapping resolution. Knox can’t yet
Besim’s chipped teeth sparkle white. He wants to say something about her being Chinese, to sting her for entering a relationship with an Arab. She knows that look and resents it. Objectified. Reduced to what’s between her shoulders and legs. So easy to choke or garrote a man from the backseat. Her emotions swing with every lane change of the car. Besim knows his stuff; they are stitching their way through the congested traffic.
She doesn’t want to follow, would rather leapfrog.
“His final destination, please. You will drop me there, then wait with my bags at my apartment. It is okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her decision made, she sits back. Her thought process is linear, mathematical. If A equals B and B equals C, then . . . Were the agents waiting for Melemet, aka Mashe Okle, as they appear to have been? The “why” isn’t important to the equation, but the “how” definitely is. They must have been aware of his cover identity prior to his booking the ticket. If a known arms dealer, why not arresthim on the spot? Okle is in Istanbul to be at the bedside of his dying mother. Why put off his arrest? No matter how she manipulates the variables, the equation won’t yield a result. It’s an unsolvable proof. Unacceptable.
What is Dulwich not telling her, and why? This is the parenthetical product she’s lacking, the value that is throwing off the result.
When her phone vibrates and a sixty-four-character string of symbols and alphanumeric characters appears in the Messaging balloon, she knows it’s the password she’s been waiting for, the one she needs to raid Okle’s investment portfolio. She stares at the phone as if it belongs to someone else. The message doesn’t come from Rutherford’s Data Sciences division, but from Dulwich himself, the most digitally challenged man she knows. It’s a small inconsistency, but she’s trained to identify such variables.
She drums her fingers on her knee.
What is Dulwich up to?
Outside the vehicle, the sparkle of the Istanbul lights emerges.
“You like?” Besim asks. He’s caught her look of awe in the mirror.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, admiring the twinkling hills, the dozens of mosque spires, and the sparkling vessels on the Bosphorus Strait. She doesn’t want to get her driver talking. She needs time to think.
The illuminated minarets of the mosques look like chalky fingers pointing to heaven.
Besim nods thoughtfully. “You will like this place.”
Grace is not so sure.
10
T he storm has turned the streets of Amman into a beach parking lot. The grit beneath Knox’s shoes gives him shivers; it’s like biting into a dry Popsicle. The air quality sucks, but at least he doesn’t feel as if he’s standing in front of the nozzle of a sandblaster anymore. It’s tolerable, and people return cautiously to the sidewalks and streets, their faces protectively covered. Some cars are moving. Many hoods are open, the driver leaning in to deal with a clogged air filter. There is little sense of irritation; such storms are an accepted occurrence here. Knox marvels at the universal adaptability of humans.
A text from Dulwich: Shepard Fairey’s Obama Hope poster and an address. A parenthetical: eight P . M . It’s coming up on seven. Knox knows not to put this off. A possible rendezvous, though the Obama reference eludes him. Dulwich’s cryptic messages can be frustrating. Knox returns to his thought about spooks, wondering what Dulwich and Primer have gotten him into. Rutherford Risk rarely discriminates against its clients. Knox is allowed that luxury. He picks and chooses, though Dulwich has his number, quite literally. Anything in six figures and Knox can’t seem to keep his fingers off it.
The corporation is in the business of problem-solving those problems that can’t be solved by conventional means. Over half their business is international kidnapping resolution. Knox can’t yet
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