The Red Room by Ridley Pearson Read Free Book Online Page B

museum. It was adjacent to a school.”
    Knox collects his thoughts. “Listen carefully, my friend. I have a head for puzzles. A woman who tips the scale—think earth-shaking—restored this man’s arm.”
    The line hisses intermittently. “Once again, please.”
    Knox begins with having a head for puzzles, and continues to the end.
    Another long silence intervenes, broken by Akram’s surprised voice. “This is not possible. Out of your wheelhouse.”
    Knox is amused by Akram’s use of current vernacular. He reminds himself that this guy is smarter than he lets on. The piece is indeed well out of anyone’s wheelhouse. It’s so buried in myth as to seem fantastic. Knox has done eight or nine small middleman deals in the past two years. Three have been to Akram. None has been for over two hundred thousand dollars.
    “I kind of fell into it.”
Keep it light,
he tells himself.
    “A nice hole to fall into, if only it were true. I am afraid you have been conned.”
    Akram’s distrust plays into Knox’s hand: Akram can now understand Knox’s use of Shamir and the secretiveness.
    The Skype connection sparkles.
    “You have a number in mind for this fantasy,” Akram says.
    “Mid-sixes, U.S. dollars,” Knox says.
    Akram coughs as he laughs. “Perhaps another time would have suited us both better.”
    Knox’s heart sinks. He mustn’t beg. “As you wish.”
    “You have other clients, I assume.”
    “With patience, one can turn water into wine. Not to worry.”
    “My problem, you see, Mr. John, is that I am not to return to my beloved Jordan for an undetermined amount of time. An illness in my family.”
    “As-salaamu ‘alaykum.”
Knox waits, hoping he hasn’t mispronounced it.
Peace be upon you.
    “If you were to have plans to visit Istanbul anytime soon . . .”
    “Plans can change,” Knox says.
    Shamir turns toward a ruckus in the far corner. Knox quickly opens the contact information for Victoria Momani, copies it. Closes it. Five seconds, tops.
    “How shall I contact you?” Knox asks.
    “My friend Shamir will take care of it.”
    “Very well. Until then.” Knox ends the call. Opens the word processor. Pastes in Victoria Momani’s contact information. Hits Print. Ten seconds.
    Shamir is turning back toward him as the print menu still hovers on the screen. Knox loses his balance intentionally, slips off the chair and shoves Shamir aside.
    The print menu is off the screen by the time they both recover.
    Knox apologizes. Says he has to take a piss. He’ll meet Shamir up front.
    Shamir tells him he’s not going anywhere in this weather. Knox pays the man another twenty. “You may be hearing from me again.”
    “It is my pleasure.” They are best friends.
    On his way to the back, Knox places a coin down surreptitiously on the bar and manages to say, “Paper,” not knowing the word for “print.” He doesn’t wait for change, doesn’t want Shamir seeing this.
    Knox snags the sheet from one of two beat-up printers on his way to the washroom. He folds and tucks the sheet into his pocket.
    He doesn’t yet see a use for Victoria Momani. But the night is young.

9
    Y ou speak English, Besim?” Grace asks of her driver behind the wheel of a Mercedes. Her eyes never leave Melemet, his two bodyguards and the man following them. She has some Turkish, though her Arabic is stronger. She’d rather not show her cards to a driver; such men are known to talk.
    One of the bodyguards takes the front seat of the Audi. A moment later he signals. Melemet is in, followed by the trailing guard. Traffic is intense. No one is going anywhere just yet.
    The agent crosses to an island, waits and is met by a Land Rover. It stays at the curb, much to the disdain of a policeman who is waving it away.
    “Some,” her driver responds. Balding, and with a short-cropped beard, he wears a black suit that brings out a caramel tone in his dark skin. She has yet to see his full face.
    “Have you ever followed another