by Joseph Kanon
“I come and spend the night.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know,” he said quietly.
She got up and went over to the chair, picking up her blouse. “And what if I meet somebody I know in the dining room?”
“Good. More witnesses.”
“For my alibi.” She looked over at him. “Who thinks of these things? Bring a book. Do you see so many women like this?”
“No.”
“You could. You’d be good at it. The stories. This place.” She looked around. “So convenient to have a friend away.”
“He’s never come in handy before.”
“Stop asking, you mean. So maybe that’s a story too.”
He got up from the bed, holding her by the shoulders. “I’ve never brought a woman here.”
She looked away, then started stepping into her skirt. “What book? For my dinner.”
“How about a guide to Istanbul. Read about what you’ve seen.”
She nodded. “Every detail. And what will you be doing?”
“Working. So people won’t think I’m out chasing somebody’s wife.”
“You didn’t have to chase very hard,” she said, pulling at the side zipper, then smoothing out the skirt. “Anyway, it’s so important what people think?”
“It is for you.”
She looked at him, half amused. “I never thought before. How useful it would be, secret work, for this. Knowing how to hide, make stories. Someone in that work, it’d be easy for him.”
Leon picked up his pants, beginning to dress. “Why don’t you stay longer?”
“I can’t. Besides, you’re going away. On a trip you don’t talk about. So maybe it’s better this way. What we always said. Just walk away. Oh, god,” she said suddenly, sitting down on the bed, head bent. “Now what?”
He sat down next to her. “Stay.”
She said nothing for a minute, looking down, then raised her head. “No, it’s what we said.” She turned to him. “Just come and stay the night.”
In the street, he took the direct way again to the tram, one last chance to be noticed. This time Sürmeli must have been waiting at his window—stepping suddenly into the street, merhaba, had Leon heard about Georg, so sudden, a rush of mournful Turkish, but all the time looking at Kay, eyes wide with interest, the flat explained.
“Who was that?”
“Someone Georg knew at the university.” Not quite right, bending the truth again, using her for cover.
“Does he know? About the heart attack?”
“That was all the Turkish. Life being so short.”
She looked at him, not saying anything.
At Sirkeci they took separate taxis.
“See you,” she said, door open, putting a hand on his arm. “What did I like best? For the desk clerk.”
“Topkapi. The jewels.”
She nodded, then held his arm tighter. “I eat an early dinner.”
He grinned. “Don’t get picked up in the bar.”
In the taxi he went through the checklist in his head. Clothes, the papers from Manyas first thing tomorrow, then the car in Üsküdar. Safer to split up. Alexei could take the Haydarpaşa ferry, just a few streets away from the funicular, impossible to miss even if you didn’t know the city. Avoid Haydarpaşa itself, the station full of eyes, and follow the quay on the right instead, toward Kadiköy, an easy pickup at the end, both of them on the Asian side without having crossed together, already on the road south. Even safer if they could leave tonight, in the dark, but there were the papers. And Kay. What did I like best? For the desk clerk. Get Alexei out first—keep things separate. But he realized the excitement of one had spilled over into the other, part of the same thing now, getting away with both, juggling balls faster in the air.
At the office, Turhan was getting ready to leave. The monthly figures were done. Mrs. King had called again. A farewell party, time and place. Dorothy at the consulate wanting to know if he was expected back today. Frank Bishop.
“What did he want?”
“He just said he’d try again.”
Checking in. Maybe checking up. But why would he? Someone Leon should feel awkward about and yet didn’t. He could feel her hand on his arm again, the promise of later, not the little qualms that hid away in corners. Frank unaware at his desk in Ankara. Something else to think about later. I eat an early dinner.
By the time he left it was dark, Taksim bright with neon, Istanbul’s Piccadilly. He glanced at the signs while he waited for the Istiklal tram. Persil soap. Pamuk, the Coke substitute. If he was early he could always have a drink at the bar, run into somebody from the consulate, say he was on his way home. Colgate. A cinema with running lights. The big branch of Denizbank.
On the tram, he stood near the back, seeing his reflection in the glass. Not smiling exactly, but his lips half curled up, expectant. Going somewhere. He thought of that first rainy night in Bebek, seeing himself in the mirror at home. Now feeling like this. Lighted storefronts, barely noticed. They were near the Flower Passage now, past the big sweets store with its blocks of lokum in the window, then a bookstore, an Akbank branch. He felt a nagging, as if he’d forgotten something, or seen something out of place. Akbank. A.K. Denizbank. He gripped the rail tighter, trying to remember. Maybe that was it, not a code.
He leaped off at the next stop and threaded his way down to Meşturiyet. Lights were still on at the consulate, telephone night staff, cleaning ladies slowly making their way through the building. The snappy Marine day guard had been replaced at night by a local watchman, who asked to see Leon’s ID.
“People working late?” Leon said in Turkish while the guard examined the pass.
“Always,” he said, surprised at the Turkish. “Americans, they like to work.” He shrugged.
“It’s the time difference. Their bosses are still—” Leon began, then gave it up as too complicated to explain. “I won’t be long.”
He didn’t wait for the elevator, racing up the stairs instead. A woman was emptying wastebaskets in the hall.
“Mister,” she said, bowing, surprised at someone on the stairs.
Leon nodded back, wondering if she sifted through the baskets, one of Altan’s eyes. Behind her several transoms still had lights coming through.
He switched on the overhead in the outer office, then went into Tommy’s and got the passports from underneath the drawer. Slips inside. Yes, A.K., the other D.Z.—Denizbank? Not code, bank account numbers. Under different names. Manyas’s flawless papers all the identification a bank would need. But Leon wasn’t the man in the picture. He’d need a power of attorney or some equivalent paper Akbank would accept. Executor. He went out to Dorothy’s desk and found some consular stationery. The wording wouldn’t matter, as long as it looked official. He typed out two, one for each name, giving him authority to access the accounts. How much had Tommy stashed away?
He put the passports and letters in his jacket pocket, then hurried out of the office. The cleaning lady had disappeared and so had the watchman, maybe out back for a smoke or in the bathroom, but the front door wasn’t locked so Leon just pushed through. Outside, the iron gates were open, a few cars still in the courtyard, so there was no need to ring for a guard. What if he’d been a burglar?
But wasn’t he? Whose money would it be, technically? Barbara’s? The government’s? Not the Russians’ anymore. Assuming money was there. But it had to be, or why have the accounts? How had it been arranged? Wire transfers, something traceable, finally proof? Or an envelope of cash, passed under the table at the Park or at one of those Allied meetings, Melnikov exchanging more than information. Tommy’s thirty pieces of silver.
He looked down the street to the Pera, jumpy and elated at the same time. Withholding evidence, the police would say. But it had to be the link, a way to prove Tommy— Tucked away in his pocket, something only he knew, while he had a drink at the bar. Waiting to go upstairs.
He sensed that she was already
awake, her back to him, maybe staring out the window at the drizzly morning. He lay still, watching the faint rise of her shoulder as she breathed, feeling the warmth, his body curved along hers. It had rained during the night, streaking the windows, making them snuggle under the covers, but now it had slowed to a fine mist, the skies finally exhausted. The roads through the mountains would be slick, slower to drive. Then sun at the end, citrus trees. What time did the banks open? She pulled at the sheet, covering herself.
“What are you thinking?” he said quietly, a morning whisper.
She turned in the bed, facing him. “How it happens.”
“What?”
“Standing in the street. After the funeral. And you gave me a cigarette. And I wondered. That’s all. That’s how it started. Then we talked at the reception. So one thing, then another. I was trying to trace it, in my mind, how that happens.”
He put his hand to her face.
“I woke up and I could smell you,” she said. “On my skin. I thought, I’m lying here and he’s on my skin. So how did that happen?”
“One things leads to another,” he said, a cued response.
She looked at him. “Well, until it doesn’t.”
“I’ll come to Ankara. I go there on business. It’s easy.”
“For you,” she said, sliding away, reaching for the robe on the floor.
“I’ll arrange it. I’m good at that. You said so.”
“But I’m not.” She stood up, beginning to put on the robe.
“No, don’t. Wait a minute. Just stand there. Like that.”
She put her hand to her breast, covering herself. “What are you looking at?”
“Just looking.”
He leaned up on one elbow, facing her. Her skin pale white with the window light behind.
She lowered her head. “I’ve never done this. Have somebody look at me. Naked.”
“Never?”
She put her arm through the sleeve. “Anyway, it’s cold.”
“Keep it open,” he said, getting out of bed and coming over to her. “I want to see you.”
“So you can remember?”
He held her against him. “I’ll arrange something.”
For a second she didn’t move, then let her arms hang loose and stepped over to the window. “You’d better get dressed. It’s stopping.”
“I don’t have to leave yet. It’s early.”
“Yes, now. It’s the right time.” She turned to face him, trying a smile. “And I’ll get back into bed for a while. Smell you on me.” She stood there for a minute, then belted the robe. “Get dressed, okay?” she said softly, picking up a cigarette and lighting it.
He reached for his pants, watching her. “I won’t be away long. I’ll come to Ankara after.”
“And maybe we can all have dinner. Frank looking at us. And you looking at me and me avoiding you. And me sneaking around with Orhan, that’s our driver, we have a car there and it would look funny if I took a cab anywhere. And then what? I pretend to go shopping and he waits and I run around the corner—to where? Some room you arranged? Maybe your friend here has one there too. For a quick one while I’m supposed to be shopping.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that.”
“It is like that.”
He stopped, letting his tie hang from his collar. “Kay—”
“So it’s a mess.” She ran the cigarette around the rim of the ashtray, tapping off ash. “My god, I’m the other woman, aren’t I? In a hotel. My mother was right. Smoking. Half hanging out of my robe. Quite a sight.”
“Utterly depraved.”
She looked up, a small smile. “I’m glad you stayed the night. It makes it less like—”
“It’s not.”
“Then what is it?”
He finished his tie. “It’s what we have.”
She drew on the cigarette, looking at him, then stubbed it out. “All dressed. You’d better go. What do we say? I’m new at this.”
He walked over and took her chin in his hand, kissing her on the forehead. “Say, I’ll see you soon.”
She met his eyes, then moved back, shoulders slightly drooped.
He picked up his jacket, not really looking, so that he grabbed it upside down, the breast pocket hanging over the floor. A quiet thump, Tommy’s passports spilling out, then one of the consulate letters. He looked at the pile for a second, jarred, then scooped them back up. Nothing seen, no names, just the fact of them, obviously passports, more than one. Kay folded her arms across her chest, a protective reflex, then glanced up at him. He put on his jacket, sliding the passports back into the pocket.
“Don’t ask,” he said. “Remember?”
She kept looking at him. “What else don’t you tell me, I wonder. Maybe it’s the same. With us.”
He adjusted his collar, not answering.
“Maybe you like it this way. Secret. Like your work. Seeing me like this. It’s exciting for you.”
He looked over. “There are two of us in this room.”
She said nothing for a minute, then nodded. “All right. Yes. I like it too. I’m just not as good at it. I keep thinking it shows in my face.”
He moved closer, putting his hand on her neck. “It does. But nobody else sees it.”
She touched his breast pocket, not patting it, her hand still. “Whatever you’re doing with these—it’s safe?”
He nodded. “I’ll come to Ankara,” he said, and then before she could answer, “You can give Orhan the day off.”
She looked up. “All the details.”
The numbers turned out to be for safety deposit boxes, not accounts. No deposit slips, no transfers, no records at all.
“But you have the date when he took the box?”
“Yes, of course,” the Denizbank manager said, and referred to an index card in his hand. “May ’forty-four. The nineteenth. There’s some irregularity?”
“No, no, we need to audit his assets, that’s all, so we can settle the estate.”
“He’s dead? I’m sorry,” he said, Mr. Price clearly unknown to him. An American with a valid passport and money to pay for a box. “We would need to see a death certificate before we could release the contents. You understand.”
“Yes, naturally. We don’t want to close it out. We just need to know what’s in it. Any papers. His wife thinks there may have been bonds—she can’t find them at home. If you’d like to have someone from the bank present while I do the accounting—”
The manager brushed this aside. “Please. A consulate request. Is there anything you need? There’s a desk in the room. Only a signature here. To confirm the grant of access.”
“Do people sign every time they come in?”
The manager smiled. “No, not the box holders. One woman, you know, comes in every day. To look at her jewels. Imagine if we had to ask her.” He looked up, hesitant. “This is not a police matter?”
“No, nothing like that. A simple audit.”
Leon was shown into a vault room lined floor to ceiling with metal boxes. The manager drew one out and put it on the table, handing Leon a key. Leon put a notepad and pen next to it.
“Ergin will wait outside,” the manager said. “Leave the key with him. Now if there’s anything—”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
The manager bowed as he left, an embassy gesture.
Leon looked up as he turned the key. No Ergin, no mirrors, nobody watching. He raised the lid, half expecting the shine of gold, some treasure chest effect, but there was only the dull gray-green of currency, several bundles of it, no identifying bank bands or other papers, just money. He flipped the corners of one bundle, counting. One-hundred-dollar bills in stacks of fifty, five in all, twenty-five thousand dollars. He stared at it. In dollars, something the Russians usually hoarded. Why not pay in Turkish liras? Not a fortune, but a lot of money. What had Tommy actually done to earn it? Copy cables? Sell names? But not accumulated in bits over the years, the stacks crisp and o
f a piece, a single payout.
Leon counted all of it, just to be sure, then closed the box again and locked it. A big house in Chevy Chase with a powder room, the one he’d told Dorothy about. He wouldn’t have to wire the money home, pay taxes, just carry it in his briefcase on the plane, nobody, not even Denizbank, the wiser. For what? Alexei might be worth twenty-five thousand dollars, a bounty hunter price. But the money had already been here when Tommy was killed, and it was unlikely the Russians would pay in advance. Anyway, why pay Tommy to kill Alexei when they could easily have done it themselves. If they’d had the information.
The manager at Akbank was more scrupulous, insisting on staying in the room while Leon opened the box, his only concession a discreet turning away as Leon raised the lid. One-hundred-dollar bills, the same plain stacking bands, a duplicate of the first box. More than enough now for the house. Or maybe another life, lived on another passport, nothing to link Tommy to either box. If anything went wrong. But what would?
“No one else can open this box?” Leon asked. “His wife?”
“I’m sorry. There is no countersignature. Just Mr. Riordan.” Again, someone clearly unknown. “Of course, if there were a court order the bank would be obliged—”
“Who could get that?”
“The police. The treasury. During the time of the wealth tax there were investigations. Undeclared assets. But Mr. Riordan is a foreign national. Not, I believe, subject to Turkish taxes?” His eyebrows rose with the question.
“No.”
“Then it would not concern him. In any case, you know, the law was repealed. Mr. Riordan took out the box afterward.”
“When exactly, do you know?”
The manager checked a card, similar to Denizbank’s. “Last year. May.”
“But technically the government could still get access?”
A good reason not to put everything in one account. Mr. Price. Mr. Riordan. Tommy spreading his bets again.
“Technically. But they have not done so. May I ask, is there some reason—?”
“No, just curious. When the will is executed, I’ll need to attest to the integrity of the assets. I just wanted to be sure that no one—”
“No one. Only Mr. Riordan.” He dipped his head to Leon. “Now his executor. The estate will be responsible for the box fees? I’m sorry to ask, but—”
