Richard House - The Kills

A coach drew up at the end of the terminal, signs on the side and in the back window saying Non-stop: Ankara — Istanbul. Heida kept her eye on Sutler, and debated what she should do: call the police, have the man arrested, or wait, follow after him, play with him, keep him in her sights? As he came out of the waiting room she slipped back through the doors, and thought to find her camera. How amazing was this? How incredible? The man was on the bus before her camera had charged up, but she took a photo anyway and kept taking photographs. As the coach drew away from the stand she became bolder and stepped out of the crowd and onto the road to photograph.

Satisfied she tucked her camera into the side pocket, along with the dog tags and her wallet and passport. She called Grüner, hoping he was now in Istanbul. He answered on the first ring, and she gave instructions. Sutler was heading toward him, to Istanbul, the bus was direct, no other stops, she would look for a ticket and join him. Grüner should follow Sutler, but on no account should he approach the fugitive. She kept the dog tags to herself, she’d show them to him later as proof of contact. When she jostled back to the waiting room she found a seat and set the bag on her knees, satisfaction burning through her. So, after all of their delay, their trouble in finding visas, the aggravation over every attempt to enter Iraq, finally, a reward. Heida turned the bag about, and found the side pocket open.

In the same way that she had stolen from Sutler, someone had stolen from her. The dog tags, the camera, her wallet, her passport. All gone.

4.1

Wide awake, Ford watched as the coach crossed the Bosporus. A grey vapour hung over the water which appeared at first as a limitless field punctured by lights from the opposite bank. A little closer and the rounded backs and shoulders of the distant hills appeared roughened by the city, all in pinpoint detail. The domes, grey, black, dusky, gold-tipped. The spines of minarets, clustered towers, apartment blocks, all backed up the rise to a heavy sky.

It would be killing Geezler, it occurred to him, not to know where he was. Even though he had specifically instructed him not to make contact, it would be Geezler who suffered.

Coaches vied for stands at the terminus; rising from his seat Ford could taste the traffic, taste the fine blue air made sickly and delicate with petrol and seawater. Among the confusion: horses harnessed to small buggies; trams and taxis; vendors with food and souvenir stalls all gathered under the city ramparts. Hawkers waited to hustle the tourists then grouped about the bus as soon as it stopped. Some clapped in welcome, some for attention.

Tired and uncertain, Ford loaded his rucksack over his shoulder then pressed through the crowd, he followed the line of the city walls to a gate. Behind him the remaining passengers picked through their luggage, equally bewildered by the journey, the early morning, the crazy bustle.

The German journalists had mentioned a hotel close by Aya Sofya, and he guessed that there would be other hotels in that area. Now back in a large city he considered it unwise to wander about so obviously when he might be recognized.

At a small tobacconist’s he stopped to buy a black baseball cap. With the hat on, the brim pulled low, he felt more secure.

* * *

After a long walk he found a hostel in the Sultanahmet district. A flat-roofed building that faced the crouched hulk of Aya Sofya with thirty-two tight rooms and dormitories built around an internal courtyard. Happy to have found a room he lay on the cot and thought that he would sleep without difficulty, but lying down made him wearier and sleep escaped him. Rain struck the tiles of the inner courtyard with a coin-like bounce. He ached from the journey and as he attempted to sleep he began to fret. What if the banks could not transfer the money? What if he made one more mistake while entering the numbers? What if the numbers on the dog tags simply didn’t work? What if the money had been intercepted, and the account was empty? And what if they were waiting for him, ready, because, if they knew about the account, then it would be obvious that he’d try to access it from a larger city? If the money had been traced they would have him — but wasn’t that the point of a junk account, weren’t these transactions secure, confidential, untraceable? Once again Ford had to ask how much he trusted Geezler. It all came down to the simple fact that Geezler had warned him but not Howell. Consequently, he remained free while Howell was in custody. Ford lay still and focused on his breathing. The events of the previous six weeks poised above him, poorly balanced, ready to tumble. The familiar dread of discovery returned to him. He needed to be vigilant and he needed to keep his wits keen. He needed sleep. Now in Istanbul he would find a bank, or better, a computer and transfer the money out of the junk account, and if, for any reason, he had to wait for the transaction to be completed — he would bide his time, consider a new future, and slide through the city alongside every other tourist. He decided to rest, in an hour he would shower, change, get out and find a computer. Once he had secured the money he would find somewhere to hide. Simple, simple, step by step.

* * *

In his sleep he returned to Amrah City and tumbled head over heels in bright dust specked with powdered glass. He fell backward side by side with Kiprowski who told him, matter of fact, that neither of them would return home.

* * *

He woke in a cold sweat uncertain of the time, troubled by the closeness of the walls, the airlessness, and the double stink of his own sweat and the fusty mildew from the mattress. An ache pushed through his knees and hips.

From other rooms came slight percussive bumps of doors and beds and cupboards, as if everything were loose, and he remembered slowly that he was in Istanbul, travelling again, and that today everything would be fixed as soon as he found a computer. This was all he had to do. Slowly, he told himself, slowly, move with caution. He stood on the bed to open the window. Immediately across the street rose the western flank of Aya Sofya. Dark and immense, rain-streaked, the blood-ochre and sissy-pink bulwarks overshadowed the small hostel. Small wonder his dreams were cramped and heavy.

Ford hauled his rucksack onto the bed. He dug his hands deep into the backpack and brought out Eric’s sweater. The sweater, tucked down into the side of the bag, was not where he had placed it. He searched the small internal pocket but could not find the dog tags. Not yet worried, he tipped the pack upside down and sorted through his belongings: the laundry, the clothes and sandals he had bought in Narapi, a washbag, a damp and musty towel, and found everything except for the dog tags.

Cramp set in his stomach. Ford doubled up and breathed slowly.

He checked the bag, turned it completely inside out, shook it, checked that everything emptied onto the floor, every fleck and speck of paper. He searched again through the scattered belongings, gathered them onto the bed, then fell to his knees to search the floor under the bed.

Finding nothing he checked the jacket he’d worn the previous day and took out the boy’s money and the wallet of traveller’s cheques, small receipts for coffees, pastries, lunches, but no dog tags.

As a last measure he searched again through his clothes, through every pocket, every fold, he stood and shook through everything, piece by piece, expecting to hear a rattle, but still could not find the tags.

The dog tags were gone — stolen from his bag.

Without the dog tags he could not access the junk account. Without the numbers he could move neither forward nor backward. This, everything, was useless, all for nothing. Ford sat at the end of the bed and began to strike himself. He struck his face until he could feel nothing but pressure, and in that pressure a kind of concentration, a noise, loud enough to overload his thoughts.