Mehmet allowed Ford into the courtyard. He hadn’t seen Martin and Nathalie all afternoon and thought that they were out; he was just leaving himself, but it was no problem if Ford wanted to wait. With the door open to his room Ford was surprised to see his bed already stripped, the sheets and blanket stacked at the end of the bed, military style. The print of the French mountains tilted on the wall. Eric’s rucksack lay at the end of the cot, zips open, clothes draped along the towel rail to dry.
He closed the door and made sure it was secure before he searched a second time through Eric’s backpack. Among the twists of rope, the steel crampons, he found three identical black notebooks, his toothbrush and razor. Folded in a washcloth in a side pocket he discovered a fat roll of money. The money confused him. He’d found traveller’s cheques before, but here was cash. He counted out two thousand American dollars, two thousand exactly. He flicked through the corners of damp twenty-dollar bills, counting up; puzzled that anyone would carry so much money and leave it unsecured. In a washbag he found the traveller’s cheques and two more notebooks. For good measure he checked again through the boy’s book and found nothing but the newspaper clippings.
He held the book by its spine and scattered the papers free about the bed. He double-checked that the door was secure then returned to the cot. The clippings were folded tidily into small square chits. The articles concerned the novel. Some covered details about the writer’s disappearance, some debated issues surrounding what looked to be a murder, although no body was found. Ford skimmed through details: the discovery of body parts (a shopping bag with a severed tongue), a bloody room, clothes cut and dumped on wasteland, a photograph of a mariner’s star, and he quickly became confused — were they talking about the plot of the novel or an actual murder? One clipping, an interview with the writer, was annotated and underlined. On the reverse — to his alarm — he discovered a photograph of himself standing beside Paul Howell.
So this is how he knew.
How strange to recognize himself. Strange also to remember the airfield, the aircraft, the delivery of pallets of money packed into thick bricks loaded into orderly stacks — he’d seen this one time, accompanied Howell on Howell’s command, and had no idea that they were being photographed. The loading bay stopped with tens of millions of dollars. Howell presented himself with a tight oafish smile, perhaps even a little smug: the man appeared duplicitous even when he was sincere. The photograph wasn’t clear. Ford stood in shadow, obscured. The accompanying article gave details of Howell’s arrest, the embezzlement of reconstruction funds, and the disappearance of the event’s main player — Stephen Lawrence Sutler. Teams of investigators were searching for him in Jordan, Syria, Kuwait, Turkey.
Here was the spark he most feared. Ford’s hand began to shake. What he read did not make sense. He flattened the paper onto the cot and re-read the article, this time shaking his head with complete incredulity, stunned to see the name Stephen Lawrence Sutler in print, astounded by the charge of theft. Fifty-three, he read again, fifty-three million dollars of misappropriated funds.
The figure left him giddy. Fifty-three million. A mistake, a gross miscalculation. Two hundred and fifty thousand was all that Howell had transferred, money he’d yet to claim from the junk account. Fifty-three million? The figure hollowed him out.
I know who you are.
He shoved the clipping into his pocket then began to re-fold the cuttings, a sense of endlessness coming to him, a panic at having to fold each piece of paper two or three times, the minute nature of this action running contrary to the scale of the theft. Fifty-three million. Ford scooped up the clippings, cash, and traveller’s cheques: details of the article repeated as noise in his head. Teams of investigators. Deputy Administrator Paul Howell arrested. Fifty-three million unaccounted. He stuffed the papers between the pages of the book, but couldn’t see the point of it. I know who you are. Taking one article would change nothing. Down to his last fifty dollars, his options were more limited than he’d imagined.
Now sweating he knew that however calm he appeared his agitation would be apparent. He would give himself away. With Eric’s belongings back in place he looked down at the bed. The money. What was he doing? He needed money, and here was money. Here was money and traveller’s cheques. Four thousand dollars. Enough to see him clear to Europe. He could head directly to Istanbul as planned, check into a hotel, use his final opportunity to transfer the money from the junk account to wherever he wanted.
The decision was already made. He would take the money, but, he told himself, he’d return every cent. Knowing that this was a lie, or at the very least a great improbability, he took the money and the cheques out of the bag. He checked the side pockets and found a travel itinerary with an address. Eric was due to arrive in Malta on the last day of the month. Ford slipped the paper into his back pocket and told himself that he would, almost certainly, return the money, regardless of his situation.
As he stepped into the courtyard he remembered another detail. The photograph Nathalie had taken at the church. He checked his watch and wondered if he had enough time to search for her camera. He knocked cautiously on Nathalie and Martin’s door. To his surprise Nathalie answered, telling Eric that she would be out in a moment.
Nathalie came to the door, eyes narrowed, sleepy. ‘Oh, I thought you were Eric.’ Martin huddled on the bed behind her, asleep.
‘He’s gone. I can’t find him.’
Nathalie looked back into the room. She swept her hair from her brow, still drowsy.
‘I’m serious. I think I upset him. I can’t find him.’
Nathalie followed him into the room.
‘But, everything is here?’ Nathalie paused in the doorway, unsure. ‘What’s the time? He’s supposed to be back to help Martin. He’s late. I don’t understand why you think he’s gone?’ Nathalie looked to Ford’s bed. ‘Where are your things?’
‘I’m leaving. I was just coming to say goodbye.’
‘You’re going?’ She appeared genuinely taken aback — then seeing Eric’s washbag on the bed her attention shifted. She blinked and took a sharp intake of breath. ‘This is strange.’ Nathalie picked up the washbag and looked quickly through it. The money pricked his side through his jacket as she searched.
‘I don’t understand what’s happened. Where is it?’ Nathalie spoke in a whisper, she held her hands up, aghast. ‘Oh no. He’s taken the money. Where is his book?’ She straightened up, an idea coming to her. ‘Where is his book?’
‘You mean this?’ Ford held up the novel. ‘He said I could take it and read it on the bus.’
‘Look between the pages. Is there anything inside?’
Ford held out the book and flicked through it for her to see. The pages slapped together. ‘There’s nothing here. A few clippings about the writer.’
Nathalie sat on the bed and Ford explained that he had to leave.
‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ he said, trying to sound sincere. ‘He said goodbye but he seemed upset. I assumed he would come back here. I thought I would see him.’
* * *
Out of the pension Ford walked slowly, believing that the man who had been watching them might still be waiting. He followed a whitewashed wall until it curved into the main road. The moment he rounded the corner he began to run down the street.
At the terminal he asked for his bag. He tucked Eric’s novel into the pack, and couldn’t decide if the dog tags would be safer in his pocket, or in the bag in the hold. Not knowing which choice would be best he left the tags in the bag and kept the money and the wallet of traveller’s cheques in his pocket along with his passport. Just to be sure. After he returned the bag to the attendant, he sat out on the pavement in the kiosk’s shade, conscious of every passing vehicle, the quiet curiosity of the other travellers.