The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (10 page)

While the barber cut his hair Ford watched the soldiers in the barrack yard. Almost midday and the men laboured under the full force of the sun, parading in a tight squad, their skin absorbing light, everything about them soft and unready. He guessed that they had been drafted into service, and while they performed the required manoeuvres he detected a reticence, either uncertainty or reluctance. It would be better if these men were sent home before they caused harm, or before harm came to them.

Ford nursed a fragmentary notion, the image of Howell walking away, of Kiprowski rushing forward the moment before all of the chaos, before the building disassembled and the walls pulsed out. In that moment – before black smoke, white smoke, before the blast came at him as heat but also texture, before it threw him from the building, before his head became busy with pig- and bird-like squeals – in that moment before chaos burst upon them, before all of this, there was Kiprowski, hurtling forward, arms locked to shield his head, his eyes squeezed shut.

*

The barber insisted that Ford remain in his seat, insisted on shaving him. Ford settled back and noticed that the waiting customers looked away with disinterest. When the barber stepped aside, Ford was struck by how different he appeared. Two strangers, side by side, ashen, in a hard sunlight in a bright room. With shorter hair, without the beard, with a skinnier face, he appeared considerably younger. Only his eyes and the way he narrowed them to focus gave any idea of his true age.

He wiped his neck and could not look at the doorway or the mirror. He teetered at the cusp of some understanding – a realization about what had happened at Southern-CIPA. Did Kiprowski know about the explosion? Ford knew he could not depend on this memory, because he remembered very little about it. The fact that Kiprowski appeared to be running the moment before the explosion could be a simple mistake, the events could have been synchronous – Kiprowski running and the smoke blossoming behind him at one and the same moment. He couldn’t tease it out: Kiprowski’s run, a mere six or seven steps, seemed endless to him, the man running at full pelt toward him as if to hammer him down.

If he could speak with Geezler this would all be different. He wanted to speak with Geezler to figure this out.

At the market he spied Nathalie and caught her off-guard. Surprised, she spoke automatically in French. Ford apologized in English.

Still a little taken aback Nathalie said she hardly recognized him from this morning. ‘You look different. Much better. So much nicer.’

Ford stroked his chin. ‘I’m a new man,’ he said, not quite believing himself.

‘Very much so,’ she agreed. ‘For women it’s not so easy. We have to work harder.’

He asked what she was doing, and she told him, half-serious, that the town was too small to become properly lost in, and that she was in the mood to lose herself.

‘Are you waiting for your husband?’

Nathalie again appeared confused. With a little laugh she explained that he had this all wrong. ‘Martin, no? No, no. They won’t be here until later.’ The idea returned to her and she laughed again, excusing herself. ‘And you? Are you waiting for someone?’

‘It’s a long story. But no.’ Ford explained that he needed someone to help him buy new clothes. ‘My luggage,’ he said, ‘was lost. All gone. I need to change some money also, all I have are dollars.’

‘That’s better for them, but not so good for you.’ Nathalie led him back to a stall beside the barber shop. If he wanted Turkish lire he could change money at one of the banks, although it would be expensive it might be sensible. ‘Not everyone will take American money.’ She laughed. ‘You remind me – when I was a child I was very forgetful, and my parents adored me, they spoiled me and replaced everything I lost with something new or better so I could become even more careless. I never had anything old. I had the idea that one person was collecting my things. Not stealing them but keeping them for me somewhere. This was my excuse. Just imagine all the things you’ve lost, everything you’ve mislaid, collected in one room, like at a train station. Safe, all in one place.’

Ford glanced into the barber shop as they passed. The men now talked with ease. He asked if she was serious about the room, the lost property, and she said this was a long time ago. ‘I have to admit that I am forgetful now. I have no excuse. I lose things all the time.’

They walked casually from stall to stall. ‘Tell me. What do you need?’

‘Everything,’ he replied. ‘A hat. Shirts. Trousers. New clothes for a new man.’

‘Really, everything? Sandals?’

‘Everything.’

Ford looked over the stall but couldn’t see anything he would choose.

‘Is there anywhere I can get online here? The internet?’

Nathalie shook her head. ‘You must use your phone, or go to Birsim. You can ask in one of the hotels.’ She checked her watch. Martin would arrive soon from Ankara and she should return to the Maison du Rève.

Ford found a hat and inspected himself in a hand mirror. Clean-shaven and with shorter hair his face now appeared angular, crisp. Nathalie held up two shirts. ‘Light,’ she said, ‘but not white.’ She spoke in French to the trader then gave Ford a wave. ‘You know, I was mistaken about the time. I really should go.’

Ford watched her walk away without hurry. A languid, self-conscious walk. Other men noticed and turned her way as she passed.

3.2

Parson’s day began with mixed news. Another message from the London office asking that he contact Gibson: urgent business.

‘It’s about the Hassan case,’ Gibson began, ‘the translator who broke his neck in that lorry accident.’

Parson had no trouble recalling the desert road. The tyre marks heading straight. The highway curving west. ‘Amer Hassan. What haven’t I done?’

‘It’s your recommendation. HOSCO aren’t happy. You asked them to settle.’

‘And what did they come back with?’

‘No compensation. Final pay only. They are prepared to round up to the whole month.’

‘But what about the family? There was no life insurance.’

‘They’re simply following your findings, you marked the claim “no culpability”.’

‘With mitigating circumstances, which is why I recommend that they settle. There’s more to consider here. It’s all in my notes.’

‘Well, they’ve seen your report, and they aren’t having any of it.’

‘He has a family. He has two children. Their father is dead. They’ve just arrived in England. His wife doesn’t speak English, and she’s now without a husband. They live in Darlington, for christsakes.’

‘You marked “no culpability”. You know how these things go. If the family aren’t happy they can contest the claim.’

‘With what money? I thought we were supposed to protect them from claims like this. If the family take this to the papers the story won’t be good for HOSCO.’

‘It’s unlikely. I think they’ve calculated the risks. We’re talking about immigrants who don’t speak English. HOSCO have made their decision.’

‘Remind me why we do business with them?’ Parson turned away from the table and sat forward. Realizing that he had embarrassed Gibson, he apologized. About him men in uniform and desert fatigues returned to tables with trays, voices from the kitchen rang sharp and hollow through the commissary. He disliked the smell of fried food, which seemed to thicken and add heat to the air, stick to the floors and tables: fat that reeked of sick.

‘I do have one piece of good news.’ Gibson passed on to new business. ‘Two journalists have spotted Stephen Sutler. And he’s in Turkey.’

The journalists insisted on meeting Parson at their motel in Cukurca.

It sat at the intersection of two main roads at the edge of town – one branch east–west, the other aimed north. Without doubt Sutler would have passed this junction, it was the one certain fact Parson knew about him, and if he was attentive he would have seen the motel stuck in the crotch of two roads, surrounded by a shantytown of wind-slapped tents. He would have seen this place.

The meeting struck him as a waste of time. The moment Heida answered the door she became sharp with demands, and he guessed that they had been arguing. Grüner, antsy, bothered, and indifferent, appeared to be sulking. Parson understood that the offer of information came with a condition of some kind, some subterranean demand as yet unexpressed, which threw doubt on anything she might tell him. Heida, edging toward the subject, asked if she could tape the interview. Parson ignored the request and when she set the digital recorder on the table he immediately switched it off.

They all looked at the device.

Grüner complained about the motel. ‘The people outside,’ he said, ‘are different from the people at Kopeckale. It’s not so safe. There is only the manager here.’

Parson also felt this tension: this crowd, with fewer women, fewer children, kept separate from the motel by a chain-link fence, had attitude and palpable threat. ‘Anyway,’ Grüner shook his head, ‘I don’t see why he would come here?’

‘Why not?’ Heida disagreed. ‘It makes perfect sense. He can pass across the border with the refugees, it’s not so hard for him to disappear here. People can come this way without trouble.’

‘You saw him in Kopeckale.’ Parson drew out a map. ‘Stephen Sutler.’

Heida said that they needed to talk first. She looked at Grüner while she spoke to Parson. ‘It’s simple. We need permits to enter Iraq.’

‘I don’t know anything about visas.’

‘They won’t recognize our status. We have proper identification. They are stopping the press from entering the country by requiring working visas. It’s crazy. We have a right. A duty. It is impossible to work until we are there.’

Parson didn’t understand. There were journalists in Iraq assigned to military units, journalists working with bureaus; every branch of media, every company had people placed in Iraq. ‘I don’t know anything about this. It’s not my area. I don’t see what I can do.’

‘But you want this man? Yes? You want this person? Yes? Everybody wants to find him. So maybe if you want him you could do something for us? You could help? They won’t let us through because the borders are closed. If we want to go to Iraq we have to fly to Frankfurt or Düsseldorf, or maybe Beirut, I don’t know, and then we fly to Baghdad, to the American zone, and then, finally, after this, we drive all the way back to the border just to be thirty kilometres away from where we are now. It’s crazy. It doesn’t make sense.’

Uninterested in repeating himself Parson waited. Heida persisted. Behind her, mounted in a single line, a series of four photographs of small stone churches in deep and lush valleys.

‘The people you work for are American? Yes? You work for the same people we called? So maybe if you call these people, speak with the people who sent you, they will do something if they want to know about this man?’

‘You want me to call? Who exactly?’

‘I don’t know, but there must be someone, if this man is so important? Tell them they have to help us.’ Heida’s voice dipped an octave, becoming more reasonable. ‘It’s not so much to ask. It’s a small thing, very easy.’

‘How certain are you this is the same person?’

‘It is the same man. No question. The same person. Exactly the same.’

Parson shook his head. It didn’t work like this. He wouldn’t do it. ‘I have no influence. There isn’t anything I can do. There isn’t anyone to call. There isn’t any
they
. I work for an English company based in London. I don’t even have a permit myself. There’s nothing I can do.’

Grüner appeared to accept the situation. Heida folded her arms.

‘Of course there is someone you can call. Someone sent you to us. Someone from the American company called us, I have his name. This man called us two minutes after we contacted them and said that they would send you to speak with us.’

Heida’s ideas made no sense. Parson’s instructions came directly from Gibson.

‘They want to know where this man is now. He is on the news all of the time because of the money he stole. You know, maybe he has the money with him? Maybe we have seen the money? You don’t know. Maybe we have information which is useful for you? You didn’t even consider what we are asking you. This isn’t an ordinary situation and you should pay attention to us. Maybe we should speak with someone else?’

‘Who is the man who called you?’

Heida narrowed her eyes. ‘His name is Geese . . . Grease . . .’

‘Griesel. Paul Griesel, he is from the same company as the man we saw.’ Grüner read the name from a sheet of paper.

‘I don’t know this man.’ Parson shrugged.

‘He works for H-O-S-C-O.’ Grüner spelled out the name, then handed Parson the slip of paper. ‘Griesel said he was trying to fix everything.’

Parson stepped out onto the balcony to call Gibson. Nine o’clock in Turkey, it would be seven in England. He looked over the car park to the road, a briny-black night, and felt certain that he would not get a reply. To his surprise Gibson answered before the call went to message.

He explained the situation and said he wouldn’t have called except it was urgent.

‘It’s Geezler. Paul Geezler,’ Gibson said. ‘And he spoke to them directly? This is interesting. Give me a moment.’

Parson returned in fifteen minutes with an answer.

‘I have something.’ He tried not to sound surprised and laid a note on the table. ‘You need to contact this man. The Americans don’t control the border, neither does HOSCO. Who comes and goes is entirely up to the Turkish authorities. But this man can help you.’

Heida leaned forward to read the note. ‘Who is he?’

‘He works for the Turkish military. You need to speak with him directly. He has your names. He will be expecting to hear from you.’

The woman straightened up. ‘This is the truth?’

Parson pointed at the note. ‘It’s the truth. Call him. He will be in either Ankara or Istanbul.’

‘Who gave you this?’

‘The people I work for in London contacted the man you spoke with, Paul Geezler, and he came up with this name. He said that this man will help you.’

Heida pushed the note toward Grüner and they spoke briefly in German. Parson stood by while the two disagreed.