‘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.
‘We have two things for you.’ She turned the map around and leaned close. ‘It was here,’ Heida pointed to the map, ‘somewhere here on this road. Maybe there. He was walking on his own. We took him to the station in Kopeckale. There were no buses until the morning so he had to stay the night at the terminus. When we found out who he was we went to find him, but he was gone.’
‘And did you see where he was going?’
‘No,’ Grüner interrupted, but they had spoken about a hotel in Istanbul. ‘It’s for journalists. It’s a hostel opposite the big church, Aya Sofya. I think this is where he will go.’
‘And how did he appear? In himself?’
Grüner stopped chewing. ‘Tired. Not so good. Exhausted I think. His clothes were dirty, you know, and his face was scratched, and he had a tan. His face was, you know, dark. He told us he was on the road for two or three days, but the way he looked, it was longer. I’m sure. He didn’t say so much until we told him about the hotel in Istanbul, then he was really interested because he asked questions.’
Parson wrote his number on the map. ‘Call me if you remember something else.’ He paused, pen in hand. ‘You said you had two pieces of information.’
‘Yes.’ Heida looked to Grüner and narrowed her eyes. ‘He had the money with him. He had two big bags. Very big bags, and he sat with his arms about them. I tried to help but he wouldn’t let me touch them.’
‘Two bags?’
‘Two backpacks.’
‘And you didn’t see what was in them?’
‘I didn’t see inside, but they were heavy.’
‘Tell me, why did you stop for him?’
‘Because it was strange. He looked like someone you would see at home. Just someone on the street. This ordinary man in the wrong place. I thought something might have happened to him because of the marks on his face. We had no idea who he was.’
* * *
Parson returned to his car. Instead of driving away he slowly circled the parking lot and the one lone vehicle belonging to Heida and Grüner, a military jeep with civilian plates. He drove a full circuit, unwilling to head off, a nagging dissatisfaction with the discussion he couldn’t fix. His headlights strafed the motel, the concrete wall, the compound fence, and a row of generators, a bare hill that flattened out to wasteland then the distant sheets of plastic, the slack sides of tents at the refugee camp, low-lying and secretive — then back again to the motel and the neon lights in the eyes of a stray dog. Driving, thinking, he leaned into the curve and began to feel the satisfaction of ideas beginning to stir. It wasn’t that the journalists had lied to him, maybe a little, but they had failed to impress upon him some crucial element. Of this he was certain.