‘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.
This time the guard flicked through every page in Ford’s passport. He flicked back. Stopped at the page which showed a stamp for Iraq, alongside a handwritten date. The guard tipped the passport toward Ford.
‘Where is the exit?’
Ford looked at the page.
‘What was your purpose for travel?’
‘Now? Tourist.’
The man tilted the passport to show it to Ford and pointed to the stamp. An eagle against Arabic script. ‘This is the visa with the entry stamp.’
‘It’s the exit date. That’s when I left.’
‘And where did you go?’
‘I went to Syria.’
The guard turned the pages one by one.
‘There is no stamp for Syria. There is no exit stamp for Iraq.’
‘I have another passport.’
‘Show me.’
‘It’s out of date, it’s with the consulate in the UK. I have two passports for business. It’s not uncommon.’
The guard studied Ford’s face with undisguised irritation. ‘The entry stamp and the exit stamp are always on the same page, in the same passport.’ He turned one page and looked closely at the photo. ‘What consulate in the UK?’
‘London. I meant passport services, the passport office. Where it was issued. You confused me.’
The guard gave a single nod then turned to find his companion.
‘Look,’ Ford decided on another approach, ‘I obviously left because I’m here. If they didn’t stamp the passport it isn’t my problem.’