The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (24 page)

As he passed the supermarket the two men stepped out and blocked his way.

‘Can we help you?’ The older brother spoke in English.

‘I’m sorry.’

The man switched with ease to German. ‘We were asking if you need help?’

Sutler walked ahead and looked to become lost among pedestrians.

The brothers smiled at Grüner.

‘Thanks, no, I’m fine. Thank you.’

The white of Sutler’s shirt became indistinguishable from other white shirts, other shoulders.

‘Are you looking for someone? Perhaps there is something that you want?’

‘No, I’m fine. Excuse me.’ Grüner held up his hands and again attempted to move on. The younger of the two men, who had not yet spoken, stood directly in his way. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘My brother is learning German. Please. Where are you from?’

‘Hamburg,’ Grüner replied. ‘Are you the police?’

Now uncomfortable, he pushed forward but could not make more than two steps without the men confronting him; a dance in which they remained close but did not touch.

‘I like Hamburg. In Hamburg they have a Christmas market. Not as good as the Christmas market in Trier, but a good market, and they have nice museums. Nothing that compares to our museums, of course, but nice and not to be ignored. I think you are looking for someone?’ The brothers blocked his way. ‘The man you were following? What interest do you have in him?’

‘You’ve made a mistake.’ Grüner looked the older brother square in the eye. If it came to trouble he thought that he would be able to handle himself, but he couldn’t be certain. ‘I’m not looking for anyone. I don’t want to buy anything. I am leaving now.’ He levelled his hand as a final gesture.

‘No.’ The older brother shook his head and showed a small silver knife in the flat of his palm. ‘You can come with us. Please.’

At the sight of the knife Grüner became completely compliant.

The men escorted Grüner to a cold-storage lock-up at the back of Cossack Travel. The younger brother quizzed the older brother as they strapped Grüner with duct tape to a small office chair. Was it possible, he wanted to know, that the Germans don’t have a sense of humour because the subject always comes at the end of the sentence so that everything sounds like a punch line? He asked the same question of Grüner.

Grüner complained that the tape was too tight about his stomach. He attempted to move his ankles, his wrists, he explained that he had money, but the brothers did not appear to listen. ‘I have allergies,’ he complained, ‘it’s very serious. To the gum.’ He spoke carefully, clearly, made his case without emotion, hopeful that his rational calm would convince them. At school he could hold his breath until he fainted, and he wondered if now would be a good time to pass out.

‘See, this is a case in point. This is my point exactly. It was a joke and he didn’t understand.’

Undeterred Grüner attempted to speak in Turkish. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘You speak Turkish?’ The older brother looked slightly alarmed.

‘I am a journalist,’ Grüner answered, still calm. ‘I work in the Middle East. I speak four languages. I speak Arabic and I speak a little Hebrew. I speak English and French, and I was following a man because he is wanted by American and British intelligence.’

‘But you just said something in Turkish? Is this the language you use to pick up boys?’

The sound of the younger brother zipping duct tape off the roll made it hard for Grüner to hear. Unsure he’d heard correctly, he repeated himself. ‘I am a journalist and I have to get back to my hotel. I am following a British man who is wanted by the police and by British and American military intelligence. It is very important that you let me go.’

‘You either speak Turkish or you don’t.’ The man leaned close and whispered in Turkish in Grüner’s ear.

‘I don’t speak Turkish. I am a journalist – and this man should not be allowed to disappear, it is very important that I follow him. You have to let me go. I will pay you.’

‘But I heard you speak Turkish.’

‘It was a small phrase. I don’t really speak – I mean I know a little – but I’m a photographer, a journalist, I don’t know much more than a few phrases.’

Done with binding him, the younger brother came to the front and Grüner worried that he would tape over his mouth. ‘So you speak a little Turkish?’

Grüner nodded in surrender. ‘I speak a little Turkish. I know a few phrases.’

‘Enough to pick up boys?’

‘Boys? Why are you asking about boys? I was following a man who is wanted by American intelligence.’

The brothers exchanged a glance.

‘Yes, you come here, you speak a little Turkish, and you pick up boys with the little Turkish that you can speak.’

Grüner rapidly shook his head, trying to rid the room of the idea. ‘I don’t pick up boys. I have a wife. I have a girlfriend. They are both women.’

But the man ran to his own chain of logic. ‘No, the only reason a German would learn Turkish is so that he can come to the country to pollute the flower of Turkish youth.’

Grüner shook his head more vigorously. ‘You aren’t listening to me. I’ve told you what I’m doing here. I am following a man called Stephen Sutler. Look at my camera. Look at the photographs.’

‘Is there something wrong with Turkish boys?’

‘No!’ Grüner rolled his head and began to shout. ‘Why have you brought me here? I have to go.’ He struggled to free himself but succeeded only in jogging the chair forward.

The brother started laughing. ‘I’m making a joke,’ he said, still laughing. ‘A simple joke! What is it about the Germans and their sense of humour? Should I tell you when I am joking? Maybe I will hold up my hand next time so you know? Hey, here it is, a joke! I am now making a joke!’

Grüner could not be precise on the time. The men left, then returned, but neither would speak with him. After another hour, possibly longer, a woman ambled into the room with tea and a modest lunch. He strained to see if it was still light outside, but the open door gave only a view of a wood-panelled corridor. The woman, old and small, with a thin black headscarf, asked the brothers in Turkish if their guest would like something to eat, and Grüner begged her in German, English, and poorly conjugated Turkish to call the police.

‘My wife,’ he pleaded, ‘my mother will be worried.’ In this he sounded sincere.

The woman backed out of the room and the brothers followed after, explaining rapidly that this wasn’t anything she should worry about. Hurry, hurry, hurry, they chided as the door swung closed behind them, they would like coffee.

When the younger brother returned he asked Grüner if he liked films. ‘When I am studying,’ he said, ‘I watch two every day. Every day. It is important to educate yourself. Good for your language, but necessary so that you can follow the narrative, learn the tricks for making films because there are rules.’

‘Is your brother making you do this? I have money. I can pay you. You can buy lots of films. DVDs. I have films at my hotel I can give you. I’m telling the truth. I have many, many films. If you let me go, I won’t tell anyone. I will give you films. Many films.’

When the older brother returned the younger brother fell back into his thoughts.

‘What was he talking about?’

‘He doesn’t watch films.’

The older brother set his hand on his brother’s shoulder as he lowered himself to the floor. They sat side by side. ‘He’s lying. Everybody likes a good film,’ and then to Grüner, ‘My brother will one day write many great films. Our tastes are very different.’ The man shook his head. ‘You must watch films?’

Grüner refused to answer.

‘Herzog? Wenders? Fassbinder?’ The older brother waited for a reply. The man became animated, he stood up and brushed dust from his trousers. ‘I will let you walk out of here now if you can tell me one joke from a Fassbinder movie. One joke. You don’t need to make me laugh. One joke and you can walk free.’

Grüner kept his mouth shut and glowered at the man.

‘All right. I will give you another opportunity. Do you think my brother is handsome? His mouth, no? Don’t you think he has a pretty mouth? I can say without bias that this is a handsome mouth. Perhaps you would like to kiss him?’

With no idea how to answer Grüner closed his eyes and rolled back his head.

The older brother leaned forward with both hands on the armrests. ‘I don’t know, Mr Journalist. I have tried to like you. Honestly, I have tried, but I don’t seem to be able to connect with you. You are a hard man to understand, you know that? I need that knife now.’

4.6

Ford collected his backpack from his room. On his way through the lobby he asked the clerk about the tours along the Bosporus. The clerk, turned to a TV on the counter beside him, cocked his head as Ford asked: How far did they go? How regular? How much did they cost? Did he have any brochures? A leaflet perhaps in his office? He said that he was interested, not for today but maybe tomorrow, if there was something in the morning. He wanted to stay another two nights, and when he came back in the evening he would settle what he owed. There were no leaflets, he said repeating himself, nothing about the trips. The clerk sloped back to his office. It was possible that they had some information somewhere about the trips.

When the clerk returned to the office Ford reached over the counter and opened the desk drawer. He shuffled through the passports until he recognized his own. One eye on the clerk’s legs and backside as he leaned into his office and searched for the leaflets.

He slipped the passport into his pocket before the man returned, and waited for the leaflet. On the TV on the back counter he saw the news, a banner tagline on CNN slipped along the frame:
Iraq – enquiry.

He walked from the hotel to the port as the day finally gave way to night. His stride shortened where the road became steeper, his mood – a certain anxiety about boarding the ferry, about showing his passport and passing through security, about how he would answer if he was challenged – underscored with a hint of optimism, a buzz at leaving Turkey. He liked being on the move, was happy to leave, and felt with this next step a welcome delay in his return to Europe. Malta was a good idea: he would meet Eric, resolve his trouble with the missing account numbers, lie low in a villa, remain undiscovered. Covert. Secure. The decision came to him, clear and true.
I don’t need to return to Bonn. Everything I need to do can be done in Malta
. As Sutler, Ford had succeeded in areas he never could have approached as John Jacob Ford. Why return to Bonn – he couldn’t properly decide in his future – but why would he return to settle the small debts and rents he owed in his absence, considering the amount money he had coming to him? Why give money to banks and corporations? Hadn’t they already accounted for their losses? Hadn’t they written him off? Why surrender this advantage? He was skirting Europe, from Istanbul to Malta, it wasn’t by coincidence; he could see now that his actions held an instinctive logic.

The ferry sat at the quay as Zubenko had promised, and as he came down the hill overlooking the docks Ford could see that the traffic was light. The ferry’s flank overshadowed the quay and arcs of light glanced across the security-booth walls, a small huddle of scuffed white buildings; all a little mournful, as if abandoned. The air by the water reeked of bitter-sweet diesel fumes.

Signs in Turkish and English warned of an increase in security, but he found only two guards, and when he offered his passport and ticket they waved him through without interest. The ease of this disturbed him.

He walked onto the boat without seeing any staff or personnel. On the lower deck he passed behind a solitary cleaner, headphones clapped over her ears as she huffed the machine forward, cleaning the grey linoleum floor and leaving it slick. He found the cabin unlocked and walked into a room of moulded plastic, beige and red, with rounded edges, no window, a draw-down bunk, the air icy from the air conditioning.

In Malta he would find Eric’s villa, find Eric, retrieve his money, and revisit the idea that he didn’t have to be
Ford
, hadn’t Sutler demonstrated this possibility? He could become someone new.

The late summer morning brought rain to Istanbul and he watched the city fall slowly away. He kept his eye on the domes and minarets – a view of steel greys and greens – and felt, despite his pleasure to be leaving, a slight regret. Departures, he told himself, are always melancholic. Passengers crowded the saloons, a few solitary figures lined the wet decks, and cowered under coats and plastic sheeting. The ferry’s wake curved back to the port, white, almost fluorescent in the darkening sea. He faced the stern with Europe to his left and Asia to his right, and felt momentarily unstable, an element in constant motion. A tour boat followed them out. The tour guide’s voice amplified tinny and clear over the water narrated the view. On the opposite bank lay the palace of the last Sultan. Ahead, the Byzantine fortifications. On top of the hill the Topkapi Palace, beside it Aya Sofya. The first Ottoman Emperor, Mehmet the Second, had looked upon the same rump of hills six hundred years ago. He besieged the city, starved it, then pummelled its tough protective walls with a cannon dragged from the outskirts of Vienna. Such is history.

Ford looked hard across the water as the tour boat fell behind.

In his pocket an open ticket to Bodrum, then Bodrum to Kos, Kos to Athens, Athens to Malta. As per his promise to Zubenko, he would never return to Istanbul, and as the sea-fog enveloped the ferry he could feel himself disappear.

4.7

Parson read of Howell’s death in the
International Guardian
. Fifty-seven years old. Heart failure, post-surgery, while undergoing treatment for burns. He also heard from both of the German journalists on the same day. The first call came from Susanna Heida, anxious that she had not heard from the photographer, her partner, Gerhard Grüner.

Heida, a comedy of hyper-disorganization, claimed that she had seen Sutler in Ankara, in broad daylight, two days ago. He’d walked right beside her, la-di-dah, as carefree as you like, no effort to disguise himself. She’d watched him board the coach to Istanbul then immediately called Grüner to let him know when Sutler would arrive. The last she’d heard from Grüner he was at the Konak Hostel. Parson asked Heida why she hadn’t contacted him first. Sutler should not be approached. Hadn’t he said this? Hadn’t he made this perfectly clear?