Free The Red Room by Ridley Pearson Page A

contact—up between the legs, under and around her breasts from behind. He dumps her purse on the carpet and inspects the contents as he returns them one by one. He pulls the battery from her cell phone and drops them both into the bag.
    “Which agency do you work for?” he asks, still working her belongings. “You had me going with all the complaints. I bought that fair and square. A wonderfully executed diversion. Well done.”
    “You cannot be so ignorant.”
    “Who but a police officer or agent could find my hotel room in a city this size? And you did not follow me.”
    “What kind of import/exporter can track who’s following him?”
    He hands her back her purse, motions her to a chair. “The one thing you learn in my business is this: a simple robbery is rarely simple. At any given time, I might be carrying a coin or a stamp, a letter, a photograph worth a small fortune. One learns to protect his assets.”
    “Okay.”
    “You answered a question with a question,” he says. “So you’re trained at this.”
    “No. I am a woman.” She points to the table. Knox does not want her messing with his laptop. “You pulled out your key card when you paid the bill.”
    Knox sees his key card on the table next to the laptop. The card’s paper slipcase carries the hotel logo. He can’t believe he made such a freshman mistake.
    “A friend’s sister works on the hotel’s event staff. Amman is not such a big place. You . . . you stand out. It wasn’t hard. I was given five rooms to try. This was my third.”
    “That’s a lot of effort to go to for a drink.” He’s bent at the minibar.
    “White wine,” she says.
    He pours it into a water glass. “So?”
    “Your arrogance is insulting.”
    “Is it?”
    “Your ignorance as well.”
    “Is that so?”
    “Then you knew it’s my gallery? Brilliant?”
    Bile stings his throat. He works to mask his confusion with a wry smile. His mind grinds. When the shit flies in your face, you’d better be wearing goggles. He’s rarely forced to deal with bad luck; is something of an amateur at it.
    “I am called by my gallery manager. Told we flipped—I believe you call it—a piece. Buy and sell same day. She describes a Westerner who buys piece. Same man meets me for a drink not so long after. I have neighbors, Mr. Knox, neighbors who saw a big man, a Westerner, enter my apartment building with a heavy crate or box, and leave empty-handed.”
    He’s assembling his explanation as she continues.
    “Shortly thereafter, same box picked up by delivery service. Object is heavy, but what? A bomb? Explosives? Ammunition? Somethingsent to Akram, perhaps? With my name and return address on it, his ex-girlfriend, someone to take blame.”
    “Too much television.”
    “I beg your pardon?” Irate.
    “Far too dramatic, Victoria. Have you heard of value-added tax? Not nearly as sexy as bombs or ammunition, but I’m not an arms dealer. I’m in import/export. I just exported a pretty ugly piece of artwork I may find a market for outside of Amman. But if I pay the VAT and fail to recover it, I’m out what slim margin I might have to turn a profit. It shouldn’t take you too long to determine who might be interested in this artwork, eh? How else would I have gotten your contact information?”
    She’s visibly upset, and to his surprise, it’s not directed at him. Again, he’s a fraction late in realizing what’s at play.
    “You actually thought I was sending a mail bomb? Me?”
    She holds a finger to her lips, silencing him. She points to her hairband. The one place he failed to check. It could easily contain a microphone or GPS chip.
    Driven by her anger with Akram and Moshe Okle, her mistrust of Knox has resulted in a call to the police. Judging by her pallor—she’s an eerie green—she regrets that now.
    Knox grabs the laptop, stuffs it into his messenger bag along with its power cord. His Scottevest jacket’s many pockets contain everything he values. The gun