Coaches vied for stands at the terminus; rising from his seat Ford could taste the traffic, taste the fine blue air made sickly and delicate with petrol and seawater. Among the confusion: horses harnessed to small buggies; trams and taxis; vendors with food and souvenir stalls all gathered under the city ramparts. Hawkers waited to hustle the tourists then grouped about the bus as soon as it stopped. Some clapped in welcome, some for attention.
Tired and uncertain, Ford loaded his rucksack over his shoulder then pressed through the crowd, he followed the line of the city walls to a gate. Behind him the remaining passengers picked through their luggage, equally bewildered by the journey, the early morning, the crazy bustle.
The German journalists had mentioned a hotel close by Aya Sofya, and he guessed that there would be other hotels in that area. Now back in a large city he considered it unwise to wander about so obviously when he might be recognized.
At a small tobacconist’s he stopped to buy a black baseball cap. With the hat on, the brim pulled low, he felt more secure.
* * *
After a long walk he found a hostel in the Sultanahmet district. A flat-roofed building that faced the crouched hulk of Aya Sofya with thirty-two tight rooms and dormitories built around an internal courtyard. Happy to have found a room he lay on the cot and thought that he would sleep without difficulty, but lying down made him wearier and sleep escaped him. Rain struck the tiles of the inner courtyard with a coin-like bounce. He ached from the journey and as he attempted to sleep he began to fret. What if the banks could not transfer the money? What if he made one more mistake while entering the numbers? What if the numbers on the dog tags simply didn’t work? What if the money had been intercepted, and the account was empty? And what if they were waiting for him, ready, because, if they knew about the account, then it would be obvious that he’d try to access it from a larger city? If the money had been traced they would have him — but wasn’t that the point of a junk account, weren’t these transactions secure, confidential, untraceable? Once again Ford had to ask how much he trusted Geezler. It all came down to the simple fact that Geezler had warned him but not Howell. Consequently, he remained free while Howell was in custody. Ford lay still and focused on his breathing. The events of the previous six weeks poised above him, poorly balanced, ready to tumble. The familiar dread of discovery returned to him. He needed to be vigilant and he needed to keep his wits keen. He needed sleep. Now in Istanbul he would find a bank, or better, a computer and transfer the money out of the junk account, and if, for any reason, he had to wait for the transaction to be completed — he would bide his time, consider a new future, and slide through the city alongside every other tourist. He decided to rest, in an hour he would shower, change, get out and find a computer. Once he had secured the money he would find somewhere to hide. Simple, simple, step by step.
* * *
In his sleep he returned to Amrah City and tumbled head over heels in bright dust specked with powdered glass. He fell backward side by side with Kiprowski who told him, matter of fact, that neither of them would return home.
* * *
He woke in a cold sweat uncertain of the time, troubled by the closeness of the walls, the airlessness, and the double stink of his own sweat and the fusty mildew from the mattress. An ache pushed through his knees and hips.
From other rooms came slight percussive bumps of doors and beds and cupboards, as if everything were loose, and he remembered slowly that he was in Istanbul, travelling again, and that today everything would be fixed as soon as he found a computer. This was all he had to do. Slowly, he told himself, slowly, move with caution. He stood on the bed to open the window. Immediately across the street rose the western flank of Aya Sofya. Dark and immense, rain-streaked, the blood-ochre and sissy-pink bulwarks overshadowed the small hostel. Small wonder his dreams were cramped and heavy.
Ford hauled his rucksack onto the bed. He dug his hands deep into the backpack and brought out Eric’s sweater. The sweater, tucked down into the side of the bag, was not where he had placed it. He searched the small internal pocket but could not find the dog tags. Not yet worried, he tipped the pack upside down and sorted through his belongings: the laundry, the clothes and sandals he had bought in Narapi, a washbag, a damp and musty towel, and found everything except for the dog tags.
Cramp set in his stomach. Ford doubled up and breathed slowly.
He checked the bag, turned it completely inside out, shook it, checked that everything emptied onto the floor, every fleck and speck of paper. He searched again through the scattered belongings, gathered them onto the bed, then fell to his knees to search the floor under the bed.
Finding nothing he checked the jacket he’d worn the previous day and took out the boy’s money and the wallet of traveller’s cheques, small receipts for coffees, pastries, lunches, but no dog tags.
As a last measure he searched again through his clothes, through every pocket, every fold, he stood and shook through everything, piece by piece, expecting to hear a rattle, but still could not find the tags.
The dog tags were gone — stolen from his bag.
Without the dog tags he could not access the junk account. Without the numbers he could move neither forward nor backward. This, everything, was useless, all for nothing. Ford sat at the end of the bed and began to strike himself. He struck his face until he could feel nothing but pressure, and in that pressure a kind of concentration, a noise, loud enough to overload his thoughts.
* * *
Sense returned with the idea that he should call the pension, speak with Nathalie, ask if she could go to the bus company, enquire for him, complain, make threats if necessary. He couldn’t return to Narapi. Not now the boy knew who he was. Without hope of retrieving the dog tags for the junk account and the money it gave access to, he could achieve nothing.
Ford returned to the lobby. The clerk winced as Ford came into the light, and after handing him the phone slipped into his office to return with a damp towel, then settled back to watch the news. Ford dialled the numbers, pressed the towel to the bridge of his nose, a little sore, a little tender, his face reflected red and bruised in the glass beside the board of numbered keys, his eyes watered so he had to squint to see the numbers. No answer. He checked the number with the clerk, dialled again, and again found no answer.
* * *
At 15:00 and 15:30 he again called the Maison du Rève.
* * *
At 16:00, 17:00, 17:15. No answer and no machine to leave a message.
* * *
He sat for an hour, from 18:00 till 19:00, one thought caught and repeating that he was not going anywhere, not now, not back, not forward, not without money. Closer to failure than success, he would have to return to Narapi and face the boy. He had no choice. Ford searched again through the contents of the backpack, through every shirt and trouser pocket.
And then he remembered: Eric had written the numbers down, in their proper order — either in the novel or in one of his notebooks, he couldn’t remember. This was all he needed. The account numbers. With this information he could access the junk account. He didn’t need the dog tags. He only required the numbers. The theft could be corrected.
Ford leafed through the novel, slowly, page by page, two times, three times, and found nothing. The numbers were in one of Eric’s black notebooks. Still, it would be possible to recover this information. If he called Nathalie she could find Eric’s notebook and supply him with the account details over the phone.
He settled with the novel on the bed and searched this time for notes written in the boy’s coded script. He found an itinerary: Ankara to Athens, Athens to Luqa, and a letter from Eric’s mother. She promised to pick him up. They were staying at Marsaskala, a village on the east coast. They would breakfast at Rizzi’s. During the day Eric could do as he pleased, buses crisscrossed the island, it couldn’t be more convenient, and nothing was more than an hour or so away. By the time he arrived she would be able to set her research aside. She signed the letter God bless, and Mum. Mum not Mom, the handwriting ordered, clear, legible, as if she had no character at all. Calmer now, he leafed through the pages a second and third time. Eric had used papers, cuttings, ticket stubs as page markers, but none of them were written on, and he found no clue, not even a fraction of the code from which he might cunningly devise the number for the junk account.