The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (25 page)

‘But there he was,’ she answered, Sutler in Ankara. ‘I wasn’t looking for him.’ This statement, plain as it sounded, came with teeth. How was it that she had seen Sutler twice, yet Parson never seemed to get close to him? ‘We had an agreement,’ she said. ‘You were supposed to help with our visas, you gave us a name of someone who was supposed to help, but this was no good,’ because of this she felt no obligation to call him.

Parson didn’t believe that she had seen Sutler. The claim was nonsense. No, this was about her not getting the visas for Iraq, nothing else.

Later in the afternoon Parson received a call from the Turkish police that made him change his mind. Gerhard Grüner was in hospital in Istanbul, having broken his leg in a fall. Unlike Heida, Grüner was particular that Parson should know his whereabouts. He had information and wanted to speak as soon as possible.

When the Turkish police checked the Konak Hostel they found no trace of a Stephen Sutler, but plenty of evidence of Gerhard Grüner. The desk clerk stated that Grüner had asked for assistance in procuring the services of a man, or preferably a young boy. He had asked for magazines and places to go. Grüner, it seemed, had been clumsy, and suffered nothing less than he deserved.

Parson took note of the information, but as soon as the call was completed he tore the page out of his notebook. This was nonsense.

It took time to find where the police were holding Afan Zubenko and his sons; because of Grüner’s statement the men had been brought into custody, and Parson was having trouble finding out where. When he finally located them at the Central Police Station in Eminonu, he found that the police in Istanbul weren’t interested in assisting him. Access to the Zubenkos, he was told, would be impossible. Parson called Gibson to see what muscle he could employ.

Rather than wait for Gibson’s reply, Parson met Grüner at the hospital and brought him back to his hotel. The two men stood side by side at the window looking down on the grey parkway before the city walls. Grüner leaned forward on his crutches, one leg bandaged from his knee to his thigh: unbalanced, he veered toward the glass. A scuff ran from his cheek to his temple, pink and sore enough to make Parson cringe.

‘This was where you saw him?’

‘He came by coach.’ Grüner tapped the window. ‘Where that stall is, by the wall.’

Parson looked down on the terminus at men selling newspapers and boys with flat baskets of fruit, lokum, sandwiches. Sutler could be among those people right now, he had no way of knowing. While hunting Sutler he’d developed ideas about who the man might be, but he didn’t know much. It would be possible to pass Sutler in the street and not know it. In ten days he could have adopted any kind of disguise with minimal effort, although Grüner was emphatic that the man looked exactly like the photograph they were using online and in the US press, the photograph taken from Sutler’s ID. Coming to Istanbul was a risk. A risk Sutler could have avoided by veering north of the city and crossing by land to Greece or Bulgaria.

‘And where was his hotel?’

Grüner pointed out the Konak and the travel agency on a tourist map. He’d drawn in red the route he’d followed with Sutler. His voice a little slow, lulled with medication.

Within an hour they began to roll over the same information. Grüner’s voice became dry, his expression a little glassy. Ready to leave, Parson helped the journalist to a seat. He laid the crutches carefully within reach and asked the man what he would do now. Grüner shrugged and shook a cigarette out of the pack. Lined side by side on the table, a small digital camera, the map, a pencil, and a red sports cap.

‘I don’t know. Iraq is not possible. Those men took my camera. I don’t have the pictures. I have this.’ He pointed at the camera. ‘It’s not as good. Not good enough for work. I have a story now without pictures.’

They looked out at the city to a view of a cold, bright, and cloudless sky. Parson accepted a cigarette. He picked up the camera, turned it over in his hands.

‘How did Sutler look?’

‘Not so good. His face. He had these bruises, and his nose was big. Swollen.’

Parson drew on his cigarette. ‘But describe him.’

‘Like before. Thin. Nervous. He has short hair now. English.’

‘Does he look like me?’

Grüner looked at Parson and shook his head. ‘Not so much. I mean maybe the same shape, more or less, in the face. A little rounder. The hair is much shorter.’

‘You need a photo?’

‘Of course. Maybe the story runs for a day or so, but with a picture it would be different. It would mean more money. People would take it more seriously. A picture is what everybody wants. I had him in the terminal and outside the hotel. Some in the street.’

‘And he doesn’t look like me?’

Grüner looked again at Parson and studied him hard. ‘Maybe, if you were in the street? It’s possible.’

Parson picked up the sports cap as he rose. ‘And after this you return to Frankfurt?’

‘To Hamburg. They said that I can travel. But I don’t know what will happen now.’

Parson shook the journalist’s hand and pointed to the window. ‘You said you saw him at the buses? Beside the coaches?’

Gibson did not call Parson back. Instead – as he walked among the coaches parked at the terminus, deliberate enough to provide Grüner a good opportunity to photograph him – he received a call from the German consulate. One of their men, Henning Bastian, was interviewing Afan Zubenko at the Central Police Station and they wanted him to come in.

The tone of the call disturbed Parson. This was not a polite request.

An hour later Parson arrived at the Central Police Station – a long building tagged on to a new apartment complex, with ironwork in front of the lower windows, pale magnolia walls, and bare planters. Informed that Henning Bastian was still interviewing Zubenko, Parson was escorted to one of the interrogation rooms and told to wait.

He sat at a table for an hour in a simple windowless room with the faint odour of fresh paint; two guards at the door, hefty men, both silent, and faintly bothersome, their attention locked on him so surely he began to feel that he had done something wrong.

The feeling deepened with the arrival of the cultural attaché. Bastian: boyish, lanky, thin-faced, dressed in a light grey suit, wiped his hands with a piece of tissue before he sat down. He looked to Parson, then the table, then the three men who had accompanied him, and briskly told them all to sit down, a clipped precision about his instructions. One of the men handed him a black-backed register as the others scurried to fetch chairs.

Bastian looked impatiently about the room. ‘Can we start?’ He turned his attention to Parson. ‘Mr Parson. I am Henning Bastian with the German consulate, and I have been assigned to oversee the claims made by the photographer Gerhard Grüner regarding Stephen Lawrence Sutler.’

Parson jerked his head forward. ‘He hasn’t made any claims against Sutler, his claims are against Zubenko.’

‘I need a little background.’ The man closed his eyes and opened them. ‘I need a little clarification on why you are involved with Gerhard Grüner, in what capacity you have come to know him.’ Once again, the man gave a slow blink. ‘I would like to speak with you about your business with the Hospitality and Operational Support Company of Hampton Roads, Virginia.’

Parson intended to say yes, but taken aback by Bastian’s formality he couldn’t find his voice.

‘Mr Parson, please confirm for me that you are working for Gibson and Baker, under instruction from their clients, the Hospitality and Operational Support Company of Hampton Roads, Virginia. I am saying this right? This is correct, no?’

Parson nodded.

‘Gibson and Baker are public adjusters based in London? You investigate and assess insurance claims made against your clients? Is that right? You investigate claims and potential suits in order to – what – to advise on risk, on fraud?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And yet HOSCO have you searching for Stephen Lawrence Sutler?’ Bastian’s hands settled either side of the register.

‘They have teams in Iraq, in Kuwait, and other countries—’

Bastian’s head gave a single shake, a taut negative. ‘HOSCO? No. No they don’t.’

‘I’ve been speaking with the new division head in Amrah City, who is coordinating the search.’

Again Bastian gave a short curt shake. ‘No. There are a number of agencies searching for Stephen Sutler, but none of these searches are managed or funded by HOSCO. You are the only person employed by HOSCO to search for Stephen Sutler. This is very interesting. Who told you there were other teams?’

‘I would check your information.’ Parson sat upright and straightened his back.

‘I know my information, Mr Parson, and it’s just you. There isn’t anybody else.’ Bastian looked at him, sour and direct. ‘Can you tell me how you came to hear about Afan Zubenko?’

‘I was contacted by two German journalists who had seen Sutler first in Kopeckale and then in Ankara. One of the journalists—’

‘Ah, Gerhard Grüner. The journalist. Tell me, do you believe Gerhard Grüner?’

‘I believe he has seen Sutler.’

‘You’re certain they’ve seen this man, these journalists?’

‘I have no reason to doubt them.’

‘Although no one else has seen him they have managed to bump into him twice? That is quite a coincidence. Mr Parson, how is your knowledge of the American Civil War?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Do you read historical fiction? Have you heard of a
sutler
? It’s a military term.’ Bastian’s face pinched with a teacher’s concentration. ‘A
sutler
is someone who follows the military, they sell provisions, clothes, uniforms, food . . .’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Sutler. Sutler. S-U-T-L-E-R. It’s from the Dutch. It means someone who does the dirty work.’ Again, a pause, but this time a slower blink. ‘Tell me, what do you know about Paul Howell?’

‘Paul Howell?’

‘The Deputy Administrator at Southern-CIPA, Paul Howell, the man who controlled the finances for both government and civilian projects. Paul Howell, the man who came up with Stephen Sutler.’

‘Came up?’ Parson looked to the men about the room. ‘I’m sorry?’

Bastian shunted his chair forward. He spoke carefully, quietly, with certainty. ‘There is no Stephen Lawrence Sutler, Mr Parson. There is no trace of this man prior to his arrival at Camp Liberty. Stephen Sutler was invented by Paul Howell. As the man responsible for controlling the distribution of finances to civil contractors, Paul Howell understood exactly how to manipulate the system he was managing. HOSCO hired a man who does not exist.’ Bastian looked Parson up and down, an unmistakable evaluation.

‘There was a man going by the name of Stephen Sutler at Camp Liberty.’

‘But I’ve told you he doesn’t exist.’

‘Then I am looking for the man who called himself Stephen Sutler.’

‘Perhaps it’s possible that Stephen Sutler is a number of people? Mr Parson, can you tell me anything about the current reorganization of HOSCO?’

‘I’m looking for Sutler. I know very little about the company.’

‘Paul Geezler? What do you know about Paul Geezler?’

‘That he works for the division chief in Europe and is now temporarily assigned to the head of operations in southern Iraq.’

‘Were you hired by Paul Geezler?’

‘No. I was hired because I was completing work here for them. I have only been in contact with him since he took up his new duties.’

‘Has it occurred to you that it might be more productive to look at the people who came up with Stephen Sutler rather than the man who is playing him?’ Bastian sat back. Mouth pinched. ‘Tell me, Mr Parson, did you ever ask yourself why they hired you? You investigate accidents and fraud, and this is very specific work, no? Very particular? And yet they have charged you with a major investigation. Did it occur to you that by hiring you, the company might deliberately prevent the people who understand these things from performing their duties?’

‘This is my job.’

‘No, Mr Parson. This is my job.’

Parson heard the men behind him snicker.

‘My job, Mr Parson. It is my job.’

Rising from his chair, Parson said that he was ready to go. ‘I would like to speak with Afan Zubenko.’

Bastian opened his hands. ‘There’s nothing he can tell you. Zubenko knows nothing. There is nothing to discover here.’

‘I would like to speak with him nevertheless.’

Bastian pushed the register forward. ‘Be my guest, Mr Parson. There is nothing here.’ The man looked over Parson’s shoulder. ‘Mr Parson, enlighten me, do you think that once you have discovered this man or these people who have been playing Stephen Sutler, that everything will be resolved? Do you think that he has all of that money? All hidden somewhere? All in one account, offshore? Zurich? Nicely waiting for him? Or perhaps he carries it around with him?’ Bastian closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘You won’t find anything here, Mr Parson, and I can guarantee that you won’t find Sutler. And when HOSCO cut you loose they will consider the job to be done. Do you understand? They won’t look any more. The man will be gone, the money will be gone, and the whole business will be laid to rest.’ Bastian leaned forward, something of a smile coming to him. ‘Why don’t you give your friend in Amrah City a little information? Tell him that you have found Sutler and see what happens. Just to see what they do.’

4.8

The customs boat drew alongside the ferry. The larger ferry bore down upon the smaller launch, the two customs officials stretched out, sometimes reaching, sometimes holding on in their attempts to board.

Ford sat on deck undisturbed, and looked out at the island, Kos: beaches, umbrellas kicked by the wind, stubby palms along the coastal road, white hotel developments tipped back in their compounds, behind them a sharp fin of mountain steep enough to show exposed rock above the olive groves. Almost close enough to swim to, the distance a little deceptive, the sea a little rough and perhaps cold, but blue and clear.

The guards separated once on deck, and demanded that the passengers show their passports. Ford had already shown his twice – and each time the official had looked without proper regard or interest, Ford knew that they didn’t see him, only a white European, middle-aged and undistinguished.