Richard House - The Kills

Ford shook his head.

‘You have no passport? Or you have no passport with you?’

‘With me.’

‘Are you sure you want dollars?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you wish to exchange the whole amount today? Do you have the little dockets as well as the cheques?’

‘Yes.’

Zubenko cleared his throat. ‘I will buy the cheques at five per cent below their value, but I will pay you for the dockets. Do you understand me?’

Ford took out a plastic wallet containing the cheques, he asked for a pen.

‘Please. There is no need to sign them.’

The agent smiled as he passed over the wallet. As he counted through the cheques Ford looked around the office. At the back, in shadow, two young men sat side by side on a box-sprung back seat taken from a car. One older, one younger, almost certainly brothers. The men watched with flat expressions, a little unnerving, one with folded arms who appeared bored, the other picked at his teeth then looked at his fingernail.

Zubenko took out a key attached to his trouser belt by a chain. He unlocked a desk drawer and pulled out a cashbox, the small key pinched between his plump fingers. He spoke in a low voice in Turkish to the two brothers who neither stirred nor answered. Zubenko hissed between his teeth then tutted with dissatisfaction. ‘So. You are travelling tomorrow? Did you know that there are problems at the airport? Delays. Security at the airport is very tight.’

Ford admitted that he had yet to make arrangements. He looked at the street, anxious that he could not see Grüner.

‘If you were leaving by sea, I could arrange this.’ Zubenko pointed at the poster. ‘Because, of course, I am a travel agent. Cyprus … Rhodes … Egypt…’

‘Malta?’ Ford surprised himself with the idea. Malta would work, why not, and it opened possibilities: the boy might arrive, it wasn’t impossible. At least he knew his travel details, and knew when Eric had planned to meet his mother. Hadn’t he also spoken about a villa, a palazzo, a place to stay that was not used? A place he could stay without being discovered. Ford scanned the street for the journalist, uncomfortable that the man could not be seen.

‘Malta is a beautiful place, of course. You said that you were departing tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘Tomorrow would be expensive. Can I ask? Is something the matter?’

‘I’m being followed. I need some assistance.’

Zubenko continued counting. ‘I’m not sure what you are asking.’ He laid the notes out in sets of five hundreds. When the counting was complete he made one stack, then counted through again, turning the notes so that they were in order.

‘There is a man who has been following me. Can I leave from another door?’

The agent set his hand flat over the money. ‘I’m afraid I do not have enough. I need to go to the bank myself. I can change three-quarters of what you need now and a quarter later. Would you meet me this evening, and I will have the remaining money and your tickets?’ When he raised his hand he pinched two of the top bills and folded them into his palm. ‘Apart from this man who is following you, are you sure there is nothing else I can do? Your passport? You said that you have one? I can’t remember?’

‘I have a passport.’

Zubenko pushed the money towards Ford, and Ford realized that their business, for the moment, was concluded, and he worried that he would not see the rest of the cash. ‘You can leave without trouble. People think that this neighbourhood is not safe. It is perfectly safe. But,’ he shrugged a little indifferently, ‘you can never be absolutely sure.’

* * *

Uncertain of the route, Ford tracked down the hill until he was back at the water. Zubenko’s sons followed him out of the agent’s then slipped away. He did not doubt that they would soon approach him and take the money, by force if necessary. Why else would Zubenko comment on his neighbourhood? He wondered if they would stab or beat him, or simply demand the money, but he reached the hotel without incident and did not see the men again. Once in his room he checked the street and found it empty.

* * *

In the late afternoon Ford woke to a whistle, a low, deliberate call. He stood on the bed to lean out of the window but found the street empty. The whistle came a second time and still he could not pinpoint the source. The German, Grüner, had not followed him back to the hotel, but even so, he could still know where he was staying. Ford began to despair. The more time he spent in Istanbul, the more problems he would make for himself. He stepped off the bed and heard the whistle a third time. He should change his hotel, move, or leave the city.

* * *

As he came into the lobby the clerk held out a card. The man would not look directly at Ford, his attention taken by the television on the counter.

The card belonged to the travel agent Afan Zubenko, on the reverse was written a name and a time. Ciragan. 15:00. He showed the card to the clerk. The clerk shrugged and stepped back into the office without a word.

He’d lost the money he’d left with Zubenko, no doubt, but he found no grief in this. His plans for cash, for tickets, were much too vague to inspire proper hope. He expected nothing and told himself that whatever money remained should be spent on a ticket to the Black Sea. Go against expectation. Head north to Russia, why not, to some winter state where he could slowly learn the language, teach perhaps, take asylum in a culture so exterior he’d make himself a new man with no echo from the past. His future, without doubt, was shaped in fields of snow.

* * *

A hotel, the Ciragan, close by Seraglio Point, overlooked the Bosporus. The straits ran sluggish but sure, slow eddies indicating a change of tide. Ford arrived on time, and found the travel agent already seated at a table, a napkin tucked into his shirt, his shoulders falling in a broad curve so that the man appeared to anchor the room, solid and central. Laid out in front of him a side tray loaded with plates, sweet treats, small tastes of cakes and pastries, a fork to each saucer.

Afan Zubenko nodded as Ford approached and suggested that he sit down. ‘Please,’ the agent apologized, ‘I know that you are busy.’ He stabbed at a piece of cake and twisted it open. He looked at the cake without interest before wiping the fork on his napkin. ‘I have your money,’ the agent sighed, ‘of course, and I have your tickets.’

Zubenko softly tutted under his breath. He raised a fork to another plate and tracked the tines through a small curve of honey seeped from a pastry, his expression one of deep distaste. He looked up at Ford, then down at the saucer. ‘Our business this morning has come with a number of obligations.’ The man looked again to the pastry. ‘There was a man following you. He knows where you are staying, and he has ideas about you,’ Zubenko paused, ‘and he intends to speak with the police.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Please.’ Zubenko held up the fork. ‘You brought him to my business. Do you know if the cheques have been reported missing?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The cheques. The cheques. It is important. Have they been reported missing?’

‘No.’ Ford answered with certainty, although he had no idea.

‘Then this is good.’ The cheques, Zubenko explained, would need to work for their money before the police could trace the numbers and put a stop to them.

The agent lifted an envelope from his jacket pocket and slid it along the table. Inside, Ford found the remaining money and passes for travel by boat from Istanbul to Bodrum, to Kos, to Athens, to Malta.

‘You will be able to board tonight. The ferry leaves early in the morning. You have a cabin, sadly with no window. If you go tonight you will find that security is not a problem between ten and eleven, these are ferries for people from the islands who bring food, not trouble, and security is less interested in worrying about these people. You might decide to stay in your cabin until the ferry has departed.’