a shoeshine kit. Thinks back to Dulwich’s description of the op and wonders if things will settle down now.
They need no introduction when he makes the call, as the caller ID on her end has identified him as Hopper 7.
“We need to get together and go over the books,” she says. Her use of their cover, Grace as his bookkeeper, tells him she’s speaking somewhere she doesn’t believe is secure. He finds it easy to slip into his role.
“Indeed. Work up a budget for me, please, with an eye toward the improving climate.”
“My pleasure.”
There’s something about the way she says it that takes his mind off the job at hand. “Why don’t you pick the location, as I’ve just arrived?”
“I am somewhat . . . preoccupied,” she says, choosing the word carefully, “with other clients. I could fit you in around drinks.”
She’s suggesting she’s being watched or followed. Knox mulls this over, compares it to his own situation in Amman. He should have pushed Sarge for more details about his “chat” with Grace; sometimes his wisecracking banter is a detriment, though he’s loath to admit it.
“Name it.”
She picks a Starbucks near the Firuz Aga Mosque in the old city. Knox knows the adjoining park well: its handcarts selling fresh melon and bananas, the vegetation an unexpected mix of tropical and temperate. The choice of Starbucks disappoints him but is so in character he should have thought of it first. The time is set for three-thirty.
He gets a shower and a much needed nap. Buys two sets of clothes, head-to-toe, and puts them into the hotel express wash. Where once there was adrenaline and urgency, there is routine, a condition he cautions himself against.
—
G RACE ’ S FACE REMAINS PASSIVE , but her eyes light up at his entrance. They kiss cheeks and he sits across a small table from her. Before anyone else has a chance to enter the coffee shop, she reviews her arrival to the airport and the tail she collected, speaking quietly and fast.
“If I had to guess, I’d say Dulwich is a lying sack of shit,” Knox says.
Grace bites back a smile, chastising him with her expressive eyes,and opens her laptop to actual spreadsheets of Knox’s import business. They sit closer and she traces lines on the screen with a blue fingernail.
“You do not think this,” she says.
“No. I think he’s into something big—we’re into something big—that has political ramifications, and is likely another attempt to improve something that will never be fixed. He knows I’m a sucker for lost causes. He uses that. And even knowing that, I fall into it, so it’s on me.”
“This common interest in Mashe Melemet is shared by others,” she says.
“Who?”
“The mother is Melemet. Hospital records,” Grace says. “Oldest son, Mashe. Younger son, Akram. The spying is on Mashe.”
“You’ve had company,” he says.
She nods.
“Me, too. You ID them?”
She shakes her head.
“Me, neither.” He never stops checking out the other occupants. Has them memorized by face and clothing. “So tell me about him—the brother.”
“He is quite well off. Income is paid through Iran’s Ministry of Industry and Mines.” Grace answers before he asks. “Regulation of industry, including mining. Promotion of export of mining products, including engineering and technology.”
“A cover for military research?”
“Possibly, though his investments suggest an academic. Sciences. Pharmas. Aviation. Space exploration. He could indeed be a researcher. And get this: all listings are on the NASDAQ and the NYSE.”
He smirks.
“I thought you would like that.”
“So, a scientific academic in Iran,” Knox says, leaving it in the air between them.
“He liquidated investments ahead of your previous sales to Akram.”
“He’s my collector.”
“Indeed.”
“And Brian Primer wants us both in a room with him for five minutes, but he swears it’s not a hit.”
He sees surprise.
“What?” he
They need no introduction when he makes the call, as the caller ID on her end has identified him as Hopper 7.
“We need to get together and go over the books,” she says. Her use of their cover, Grace as his bookkeeper, tells him she’s speaking somewhere she doesn’t believe is secure. He finds it easy to slip into his role.
“Indeed. Work up a budget for me, please, with an eye toward the improving climate.”
“My pleasure.”
There’s something about the way she says it that takes his mind off the job at hand. “Why don’t you pick the location, as I’ve just arrived?”
“I am somewhat . . . preoccupied,” she says, choosing the word carefully, “with other clients. I could fit you in around drinks.”
She’s suggesting she’s being watched or followed. Knox mulls this over, compares it to his own situation in Amman. He should have pushed Sarge for more details about his “chat” with Grace; sometimes his wisecracking banter is a detriment, though he’s loath to admit it.
“Name it.”
She picks a Starbucks near the Firuz Aga Mosque in the old city. Knox knows the adjoining park well: its handcarts selling fresh melon and bananas, the vegetation an unexpected mix of tropical and temperate. The choice of Starbucks disappoints him but is so in character he should have thought of it first. The time is set for three-thirty.
He gets a shower and a much needed nap. Buys two sets of clothes, head-to-toe, and puts them into the hotel express wash. Where once there was adrenaline and urgency, there is routine, a condition he cautions himself against.
—
G RACE ’ S FACE REMAINS PASSIVE , but her eyes light up at his entrance. They kiss cheeks and he sits across a small table from her. Before anyone else has a chance to enter the coffee shop, she reviews her arrival to the airport and the tail she collected, speaking quietly and fast.
“If I had to guess, I’d say Dulwich is a lying sack of shit,” Knox says.
Grace bites back a smile, chastising him with her expressive eyes,and opens her laptop to actual spreadsheets of Knox’s import business. They sit closer and she traces lines on the screen with a blue fingernail.
“You do not think this,” she says.
“No. I think he’s into something big—we’re into something big—that has political ramifications, and is likely another attempt to improve something that will never be fixed. He knows I’m a sucker for lost causes. He uses that. And even knowing that, I fall into it, so it’s on me.”
“This common interest in Mashe Melemet is shared by others,” she says.
“Who?”
“The mother is Melemet. Hospital records,” Grace says. “Oldest son, Mashe. Younger son, Akram. The spying is on Mashe.”
“You’ve had company,” he says.
She nods.
“Me, too. You ID them?”
She shakes her head.
“Me, neither.” He never stops checking out the other occupants. Has them memorized by face and clothing. “So tell me about him—the brother.”
“He is quite well off. Income is paid through Iran’s Ministry of Industry and Mines.” Grace answers before he asks. “Regulation of industry, including mining. Promotion of export of mining products, including engineering and technology.”
“A cover for military research?”
“Possibly, though his investments suggest an academic. Sciences. Pharmas. Aviation. Space exploration. He could indeed be a researcher. And get this: all listings are on the NASDAQ and the NYSE.”
He smirks.
“I thought you would like that.”
“So, a scientific academic in Iran,” Knox says, leaving it in the air between them.
“He liquidated investments ahead of your previous sales to Akram.”
“He’s my collector.”
“Indeed.”
“And Brian Primer wants us both in a room with him for five minutes, but he swears it’s not a hit.”
He sees surprise.
“What?” he
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