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Authors: Ridley Pearson
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idea.”
“I think it will live better on its own.”
“It’s iconic. An archetype. For that, and that alone, I will find a place for it.”
“It’s heavy.”
“Since it appears to be a melted-down bowling ball, I assumed as much.”
He gets a rise out of her, though her eyes are prohibited from showing mirth. It’s the depth of the sockets and the smallness of the eyes themselves; she’d do better with Lady Gaga–sized sunglasses. He suggests she call a taxi, owning up to the fact that the storm congestion may delay it.
“More time to get to know each other,” she says cunningly, even hopefully.
Knox knows better. He hates to disappoint.
—
D ESPITE THE FACT that the bust is packed and crated, by morning light Knox feels like his X-ray vision can penetrate the box to reveal the hideous rainbow Obama bust. If he’d had the gallery ship it to Istanbul, he’d have left a means to tie him to a missing historical artifact. He can’t use a brick-and-mortar express shipping counter for fear of security cameras; he needs to ship it anonymously from a residential address. It could be picked up out front, leaving no face attached to the air bill. But for that, he needs a valid residential address.
In Amman, Jordan.
Victoria Momani answers his call speaking Arabic.
Knox speaks English. “Victoria? It’s John Knox, a friend of Akram’s.”
His introduction is met with silence.
“He suggested I . . . that we . . . that I should call you for a drink if I was ever in Amman.”
“I see.” Understandably skeptical of a stranger’s call.
“I’m in import/export. I’ve sold Akram some artwork.”
“John. Yes,” she says, making no effort to disguise her relief.
“Coffee? A drink? Do you have a spot?”
She names a teahouse and address, suggests lunch. One P . M .
“I will try for one. I may be a few minutes late. See you there.” He hangs up.
He calls FedEx and supplies Victoria Momani’s address and a pickup time of one-thirty P . M . He can’t count on her being perfectly on time. He asks the hotel concierge to help with the air billso his handwriting can’t be traced. Lugs the crate into the taxi at twelve-forty-five; arrives at her apartment building at the top of the hour. The teahouse is a twenty-minute walk, a five-minute cab. He waits outside for five minutes and, seeing no woman leave the building, decides she’s a walker. He takes a chance, his system charged with the elixir of adrenaline.
He carries the boxed bust up two flights of stairs rather than risk being seen in the elevator. It’s like lugging a small car in his arms. He puts it down outside apartment 222 with the air bill on top. He hurries down the stairs, leaving an unguarded fortune in the hallway. Arrives back to the waiting taxi and is off.
He’s only minutes late to the Turtle Green Teahouse.
Jordanian women don’t need the cosmetics they use. Knox finds most of the over-forty faces severe. Like the Italians, it’s the skin of the younger women he finds attractive.
The only woman willing to meet his eyes is sitting alone. Victoria Momani does not cover her hair. Her shoulders are square, her posture perfect. There’s no indication of smile lines.
They shake hands. Knox sits across from her and asks for recommendations, then requests she order for the two of them. He wants her to feel in control, to lessen any defenses she may have in place. His primary concern is to keep her here long enough to ensure the package is picked up with her name on the air bill. If he can stretch this to forty minutes, he’s in the clear. FedEx is reliable.
Knox orders an espresso for himself. She asks for hot tea.
“Here on business?” she asks. Her English is tinged with a delightful lilt that makes it poetic.
“What else? I’m a slave to it, I’m afraid.”
“Trade.”
He shrugs. “Too kind a word. You might say I’m an arbitrageur. Move a piece of art or craftwork from one country to another whereit’s
“I think it will live better on its own.”
“It’s iconic. An archetype. For that, and that alone, I will find a place for it.”
“It’s heavy.”
“Since it appears to be a melted-down bowling ball, I assumed as much.”
He gets a rise out of her, though her eyes are prohibited from showing mirth. It’s the depth of the sockets and the smallness of the eyes themselves; she’d do better with Lady Gaga–sized sunglasses. He suggests she call a taxi, owning up to the fact that the storm congestion may delay it.
“More time to get to know each other,” she says cunningly, even hopefully.
Knox knows better. He hates to disappoint.
—
D ESPITE THE FACT that the bust is packed and crated, by morning light Knox feels like his X-ray vision can penetrate the box to reveal the hideous rainbow Obama bust. If he’d had the gallery ship it to Istanbul, he’d have left a means to tie him to a missing historical artifact. He can’t use a brick-and-mortar express shipping counter for fear of security cameras; he needs to ship it anonymously from a residential address. It could be picked up out front, leaving no face attached to the air bill. But for that, he needs a valid residential address.
In Amman, Jordan.
Victoria Momani answers his call speaking Arabic.
Knox speaks English. “Victoria? It’s John Knox, a friend of Akram’s.”
His introduction is met with silence.
“He suggested I . . . that we . . . that I should call you for a drink if I was ever in Amman.”
“I see.” Understandably skeptical of a stranger’s call.
“I’m in import/export. I’ve sold Akram some artwork.”
“John. Yes,” she says, making no effort to disguise her relief.
“Coffee? A drink? Do you have a spot?”
She names a teahouse and address, suggests lunch. One P . M .
“I will try for one. I may be a few minutes late. See you there.” He hangs up.
He calls FedEx and supplies Victoria Momani’s address and a pickup time of one-thirty P . M . He can’t count on her being perfectly on time. He asks the hotel concierge to help with the air billso his handwriting can’t be traced. Lugs the crate into the taxi at twelve-forty-five; arrives at her apartment building at the top of the hour. The teahouse is a twenty-minute walk, a five-minute cab. He waits outside for five minutes and, seeing no woman leave the building, decides she’s a walker. He takes a chance, his system charged with the elixir of adrenaline.
He carries the boxed bust up two flights of stairs rather than risk being seen in the elevator. It’s like lugging a small car in his arms. He puts it down outside apartment 222 with the air bill on top. He hurries down the stairs, leaving an unguarded fortune in the hallway. Arrives back to the waiting taxi and is off.
He’s only minutes late to the Turtle Green Teahouse.
Jordanian women don’t need the cosmetics they use. Knox finds most of the over-forty faces severe. Like the Italians, it’s the skin of the younger women he finds attractive.
The only woman willing to meet his eyes is sitting alone. Victoria Momani does not cover her hair. Her shoulders are square, her posture perfect. There’s no indication of smile lines.
They shake hands. Knox sits across from her and asks for recommendations, then requests she order for the two of them. He wants her to feel in control, to lessen any defenses she may have in place. His primary concern is to keep her here long enough to ensure the package is picked up with her name on the air bill. If he can stretch this to forty minutes, he’s in the clear. FedEx is reliable.
Knox orders an espresso for himself. She asks for hot tea.
“Here on business?” she asks. Her English is tinged with a delightful lilt that makes it poetic.
“What else? I’m a slave to it, I’m afraid.”
“Trade.”
He shrugs. “Too kind a word. You might say I’m an arbitrageur. Move a piece of art or craftwork from one country to another whereit’s
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