Richard House - The Kills

There were, Zubenko became wistful, plenty of witnesses who would testify that the German had thrown himself down the steps like a crazy man. His two sons were educated men, trained in Germany and treated like Turks, so there were any number of reasons why they might feel disinclined to be courteous to a German journalist, although, personally, he could not imagine his sons being so rude.

Zubenko turned his attention to his register. His forefinger rested on the map.

‘What are you telling me? Malta? Is that what you are saying. He has gone to Malta?’

Zubenko gave a quick glance at the guard then looked hard at Parson and impatiently tapped the page. ‘I am not, personally, telling you anything.’

* * *

Parson waited for a call from Gibson. He stood at the window and looked out on a tiled courtyard at two cats. One on a stone seat, the other in a dry flowerbed stretched out in prickly disregard.

When Parson answered he gave his news in one clean breath: ‘I’ve found him. Sutler is in Malta.’

Gibson rushed him through the details. Parson described his meeting with Bastian.

‘People aren’t interested in Sutler any more. It’s gone so much further than that. Does it make any difference if HOSCO did or didn’t send other people on his trail?’

‘They send one man to look for a man who has stolen fifty-three million?’

‘That’s how it looked when it started. At the time no one had any idea it was this big. They have a team in Syria, they have a team in Iraq. I have it on good authority.’

‘From HOSCO?’

‘On good authority.’ Gibson’s voice rang with boredom.

‘What if Bastian is right, and Sutler is nothing more than a distraction?’

‘I don’t see the point.’

‘But that’s the point. All of this money is missing and no one’s interested in who did it or why. The entire budget for the Massive has disappeared. HOSCO is losing most of its government contracts. The company is being split into smaller units. Bastian is right. Sutler is a distraction. I don’t think they want to find him, not HOSCO, and not Washington. I don’t think they’re looking for any particular answer for any of this.’

‘You have to think about the bigger picture. This is about individuals who aren’t comfortable with their association with the entire thing. People who supported the idea from the start. It’s looking very embarrassing. Not only for HOSCO. There are people who backed the Massive who would rather it was all allowed to die down. HOSCO might be in pieces but these people want to survive.’ Gibson drew in breath. The technology transformed his voice to a powdery whine. ‘I need you back in Iraq. If the Americans aren’t happy it doesn’t matter. Time to pass this on. We’ve done everything they’ve asked.’ Gibson continued to explain himself in headmasterly terms, allowing no break, no opportunity for interruption, no avenue for disagreement. When the monologue stopped Parson found himself listening to static.

And so they expected him to return to Iraq.

* * *

Smarting from his discussions with Bastian then Gibson, Parson found a kiosk on the Heights overlooking the strait and sat with his back to the city. Talking to Gibson was a mistake, the man, isolated, knew only what others told him, and now because of this Parson had cancelled himself out of the investigation. Bastian’s assessment wasn’t wrong, no one was interested in Sutler any more, and by locating the man he’d completed his job. Tell them you’ve found him and see what happens.

A late-afternoon fuzz settled between the hills as fog returned to the city from the sea. In front of him, attached to the side of a building, ran a row of billboards set to face the train track. In one image, an advert for a phone company, a smiling woman threw back her head, laughing perhaps; a tag line ran beneath her asking: … where are your friends tonight?

Parson turned to face the city. None of this sat right. A disjointed view, a city made of parts and pieces, of apartments, offices, mosques, immediately behind him a church with minarets. What could he be certain about? Exactly what did he know? He knew that HOSCO, having suffered so many blows, could not afford further speculation or humiliation. The disintegration of the company was in process, not quite begun. No one wanted to hear about Sutler.

A new gesture needed to be struck.

He decided to speak with Geezler, blow a little smoke and see if he could revitalize his interest in Sutler. Quite how he would manage this he couldn’t imagine.

* * *

After three fortifying beers he called Paul Geezler directly. ‘I have him,’ he said. ‘Sutler. He’s headed to Malta.’

The response from Geezler sounded unenthusiastic, and Parson guessed that he had spoken with Gibson, that the matter was concluded. ‘We’ll take it from here.’

‘I think I know who he is. I know his name isn’t Sutler.’

Geezler said he hadn’t heard properly and Parson repeated the information.

‘His name isn’t Sutler. Do you know what a sutler is?’

‘So, what is his name?’

Parson hadn’t thought this through. He pinched the bridge of his nose to concentrate. ‘We should be looking at other employees. Maybe the reason we can’t find anything about Sutler in the UK is that he doesn’t live in the UK. Maybe he’s never worked there? Maybe he works somewhere else? Maybe he’s one of your employees from another region? You have people in Amman, Saudi, Afghanistan. We should be looking elsewhere, London is a distraction.’

‘Do you have any idea how many people we hire in Europe alone?’

‘Why Europe?’

‘Or Saudi. Or Kuwait.’

On a note beside his glass Parson had written ‘Paul Geezler’ and circled it twice. He needed a different kind of lever, this wasn’t going to work.

‘Do you know Sutler’s name?’

‘I know what his name means. I know this is a game. I know it’s not his real name.’

‘So, again, you have nothing for me?’

Parson turned the paper over and felt a sting: every time he spoke with Geezler the man asserted himself, humiliated him in small, indirect ways: through his exactness, through his precision, as if Parson would never surprise him, as if Parson would always fail to produce a result.

An idea came to him with absolute clarity, born from a moment of spite. ‘He’s using your name.’

Geezler’s hesitation suggested new possibilities. ‘I don’t understand. You know his name or you don’t know his name?’

‘His name is Paul Geezler. This is the name he’s using?’

Again Geezler hesitated. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying. How is he using my name?’

‘I’m sorry, this line is really bad. I can’t hear you. You keep dropping out.’

Parson cancelled the call, placed the phone on the bar, and then settled his head against the counter. What game was he playing?

His phone immediately began to ring. He watched it vibrate across the counter. The barman, wiping glasses, approached him and he signalled for another beer.

Parson answered the call when the phone began to ring a second time. He wiped his hand across his forehead. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t find a signal.’

He heard Geezler draw a long breath. ‘Tell me what you know.’

‘I know that Sutler has used your name for his hotel and travel bookings. Some of his reservations are booked under your name. Why would he do that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Geezler answered. ‘I have no idea.’

‘He’s also starting to spend money. He booked a room in your name in Istanbul. There is a room booked in Valletta in the same hotel chain, in the same name. Why would he use your name?’ Parson looked about the bar for details, for any information which would help. ‘It looks deliberate. It’s not a common name. There are other interests searching for him now. American and British. Sutler has to know this is happening, and he’s deliberately using your name. He’s spending money. He’s making a point. I don’t think he’s running any more.’