Istanbul Passage

by Joseph Kanon

  Outside Leon stood for a few minutes watching the traffic snaking through Taksim, the air hazy with bus exhaust, trying to make sense of the money. What was worth fifty thousand dollars to the Russians? Or had Tommy been acting as paymaster, using the deposit boxes the way he had his consulate accounts, funding two networks. With the same currency. Why would the Russians waste precious foreign reserves on an Istanbul payroll? They wouldn’t. Maybe not even on Tommy. But there was the money, in AK and DZ, waiting for two Tommys to collect it.

  A big ship had docked at the end of Enver Manyas’s street, and the noise of winches and hamals shouting drowned out the ping of the shop bell.

  “Manyas Bey?”

  “Efendi,” he said, slipping out from behind the curtain like a cat, his tail still behind. “You’re early.”

  “Too early?”

  “A minute.”

  Leon stared at the wall. Families posing stiffly against painted backdrops of Topkapi. Manyas came back with a passport and handed it over the counter.

  “Nesim Barouh. Traveling to Greece.”

  Leon flipped through the pages. “The seal is good.”

  Manyas dipped his head. Leon took out an envelope. “And for what Mr. King owed you.” Another dip.

  Leon pocketed the passport, then pulled out the two from Tommy’s desk. “I assume these were you?”

  Manyas glanced at the inside covers. “Yes, last year.”

  “The airport arrival stamp—yours, too?”

  “Yes, everything.”

  “Any others? For him, I mean.”

  “Just the new one you paid for.” He turned the page. “No exit stamp. So he never used them?”

  “Not for travel.”

  Manyas waited, then ran his hand over the page, his slender fingers almost stroking it. “A valuable thing, an American passport.”

  “Not if you’re dead.”

  “As you say. Valuable to someone else then. The paper, it’s very difficult to copy. A shame to waste.” His eyes moved up. “Of no use to you now. Of course we would share. Like Mr. King.”

  Tommy’s business partner. Something extra on the side. But how much could it have been? Windfall money, a few rounds for everybody at the bar. And suddenly for a second he was back at the Park, Tommy nostalgic for a room full of Manyases, everyone for sale. When Istanbul had been his playground, full of secrets like his own. Missing it already, as he planned to kill Leon.

  “Tommy supplied you with passports? Real ones?”

  “A few. Difficult to obtain. Sometimes one is lost, the consulate issues a replacement. You might perhaps have a similar source there?”

  “Perhaps.” Wanting to know now. “How much? Tommy’s cut.”

  “Forty percent. The work, you understand, is mine.”

  “Changing the picture.”

  “Not as easy as you might think. Even for Turkish papers,” he said, nodding to the passport in Leon’s pocket. “And other services. Arranging the sale. Mr. King insisted on that. No involvement. No risk to you,” he said, looking now at Leon.

  Leon stared back at him. A simple negotiation, part of the culture, a moment over tea.

  “Fifty percent,” he said. “Tommy’s cut.”

  Manyas said nothing for a minute, then nodded. “A worthy successor.”

  “And how do I know what price you get?”

  A faint smile. “Efendi. A certain amount of trust is required in business. Mr. King never complained. May I?” he said, reaching for the passports.

  “Later,” Leon said, stopping them with his hand. “I need them for a little while.”

  “Need them? With his picture?”

  “Don’t worry, they’re not going anywhere. You can start looking for customers. Who would that be, by the way?”

  “An American passport? Many buyers. But the best prices? During the war, the Jews. What price do you put on your life? Now still, I think. Still the best prices with them.”

  Leon felt his stomach move. “You and Tommy sold passports to Jews?”

  Manyas looked at him. “Who needed them more?”

  The ship was being unloaded and Leon, his head somewhere else, followed the noise down the street. Gears and cranes, people shouting over them. He watched a load swinging up out of the ship and over the pier, guided to its receiving area with furious hand signals, hamals rushing over to break it up. Some of it would simply disappear. Things had been falling off ships for thousands of years in Istanbul, heads turned, something slipped into the hand, as natural as breathing. Did Tommy skim the consulate accounts too? Fond of petty cash, payments to sources who were just initials. Doing business with Enver Manyas. Baksheesh was part of life here. A ship with missing cargo. Expense accounts with something added in. Everybody did it. And then drew their own personal lines. This, but not that. Where had Tommy drawn his? Fleecing Jews. The same desperate people who then crowded onto Anna’s ships. How much could it have been worth, crossing that line? Making them pay for their lives. While he was arranging their rescue, the last person anyone in the consulate would suspect. But you didn’t make fifty thousand dollars selling a few passports. What would he have done for that kind of money? If he’d already crossed a line for a few hundred. Something that valuable to the Russians. Leon frowned, watching another load being landed onto the pier, men carrying sacks away. Not just a piece of cargo. Fifty thousand. In dollars. Who had American dollars? Leon stopped, following the question, then not wanting to get there. Americans.

  There were police cars in the consulate courtyard, as many as there’d been after Tommy had been found, drawing the same crowd of onlookers outside the gate.

  “What’s going on?” Leon said to the marine as he showed his ID.

  “They got the cops here again.”

  “What, asking questions?”

  “Yeah, they—”

  “Corporal! They’re coming down. Give us a hand here. On the double.”

  He waved Leon in and started running toward a group of people near the elevator, two full cars at least. Leon headed up the stairs instead, taking them two at a time. More questions about Tommy. Hours he didn’t have to waste, Alexei waiting. Enver’s papers in his pocket.

  Upstairs there was an odd quiet, no typewriters clicking, as if everyone were on coffee break. Dorothy had stepped out too, all the lights on, a sweater draped over the back of her chair. Leon went through to Tommy’s office, rummaging through the top drawer for Tommy’s appointment books. May, last year. Donald Price had supposedly entered the country in April and needed, or knew he would need, the box in May. He flipped through the pages, midmonth, then further, then went back. Routine appointments. But the others would hardly be the sort of meetings he’d record. Look for the money instead. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out the files he’d gone through before, looking for something else now. Mr. King was proud of these. Having it every which way, crossing the last line.

  “Oh!” Dorothy stood in the door, her hand raised to her chest in a cartoon movement. “You’re here. You gave me a turn. Thank heavens. The police have been asking.”

  “In a minute. I just want to see—”

  “What?” she said, noticing the files.

  “Last spring. Did Tommy take any trips?”

  “Trips?” she said, the idea itself implausible.

  “Out of the country.”

  “Last year? During the war? No. Mr. Bauer, the police. They’re down in the conference room. You’d really better tell them you’re here. They’ve been phoning the Reynolds office.”

  “Reynolds? Why?”

  “You don’t know?” She started fingering the button on her blouse. “It’s Mr. Bishop. He’s dead.”

  “Frank?” Leon said, not taking this in.

  “Last night. Well, I suppose last night. That’s what they’re asking about anyway. Where everybody was last night.”

  “Asking here?” Leon said, still trying to make sense of this. “But he was in Ankara.”

  “No
, here. In the consulate. They found him this morning. Poor Mary. Just opened the door and— They had to give her something. See a thing like that. No warning. The lights are on and she walks in and there he is. Blood, everything.” She shuddered.

  “He died—here?” Leon said, as if he were feeling his way along a wall in the dark.

  “Why he’d want to do it here, I don’t know. Think what it feels like for everybody.”

  “What?”

  “Oh god, you don’t know, do you?” she said, her voice breaking.

  “Dorothy.”

  “He shot himself.”

  For a second he had no reaction at all, his mind blank, then a rush of pictures: Frank at Karpić’s, taking an envelope, smoking a cigarette in Tünel Square, Kay’s pale skin against the morning window, hand over her breast, Leon lying on his elbow, watching her. He felt blood leap to his face. Had Frank known? Where was Kay?

  “Mr. Bauer—”

  “Shot himself,” he said dully. “In his office?” Maybe there when Leon had come for the passports, one of the lights pouring through the transoms into the hall. But how could he have been? “Mrs. Bishop?”

  “She’s downstairs. With the police.”

  Leon started for the door, a file still in his hand, just following his feet. Frank sitting at his desk with a gun. Writing a note?

  “Mr. Bauer—”

  Not hearing her, already walking down the hall. There were police photographers in Frank’s office, flashbulbs lighting up the pushed-back chair, a small overnight bag, a few files in the outtray, no note on the blotter, no signs of any disturbance at all, except for the dark stain on the carpet where he’d bled. Two policemen with measuring tape and plastic bags were going through the rest of the room. Leon walked over to the desk. Personnel files, Frank hunting to the end, but leaving a clean desk, tidying up loose ends before he picked up the gun. Had he called the Pera Palas?

  “Don’t touch anything,” one of the policemen said in Turkish.

  Leon moved his hand back.

  “No one’s allowed here,” the policeman said, cocking his head to the door.

  Leon looked at the chair again, trying to imagine it. Had he slumped over on the desk or been thrown back against the chair? Did it matter? A policeman wearing gloves. Kay downstairs.

  There were a few consulate people waiting in chairs outside the conference room talking in low voices. Leon brushed past the police guards, barely noticing them.

  “Mr. Bauer.” Gülün, the burly policeman who’d been on Tommy’s payroll, looked up from the table, a stenographer next to him, one of the consulate secretaries being questioned across from him. “A late start this morning.” His cheeks dark with stubble, maybe called out too early to shave.

  Kay was at the end of the table, a coffee cup in front of her, face white and vague, like someone who’s been sick.

  “I just heard,” Leon said.

  “You can go,” Gülün said to the secretary. “Mr. Bauer—”

  But Leon was looking down the table. Kay winced, her dazed expression now filled with something else, the guilty apprehension of someone about to be punished.

  “Dorothy said he—” Kay looked away. “Shot himself,” he finished to Gülün. “Is that right?”

  “He was shot, yes,” Gülün said, officious, enjoying himself. “By whom is another matter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that is not yet determined. There are things to consider—the angle of the shot, technical matters.”

  “He means that suicide is not likely. In fact, not possible.” A voice from behind. Colonel Altan got up from a chair and walked toward them. “You can be frank with Mr. Bauer,” he said to Gülün. “He was Mr. Bishop’s colleague. Both, you know, were cooperating with us. On another matter.” He turned to Leon. “Lieutenant Gülün thinks it best for the staff not to be alarmed. So, a simple suicide for now. Nevertheless, he asks questions,” he said with irony, but in English, an effect Gülün would not pick up. “He wants to eliminate possibilities.”

  Leon looked at Gülün. “Someone killed him?”

  “I’m trying to establish the facts,” Gülün said, a strut in his voice. “Please.” He opened his palm and indicated a chair.

  Leon sat, glancing again at Kay, head down, fingering her ring.

  “When did you see Mr. Bishop yesterday? An approximate time,” Gülün said with a small wave.

  “I didn’t. I thought he was in Ankara.”

  “But he called your office. Your secretary says.”

  “You talked to Turhan?”

  “It’s important to be thorough. A man’s death. So, he called—”

  “I thought from Ankara.”

  “No. A local call. According to your secretary.”

  “She never told me that. I had no idea he was here.” Looking at Kay, talking to both of them.

  “Ah. And yet you went from your office to the consulate. Not to meet him?”

  “No, I had some work to finish up.”

  “Saydam, the night guard, said you came here about seven, is that correct?”

  “Yes, about that.”

  “But he did not see you leave.”

  “He wasn’t at the door. I don’t know where he was. Maybe having a pee.”

  “He said he was always there.”

  “Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Look—”

  Gülün waved this off. “So we don’t know. An hour? More? How long were you here?”

  “Not long. Twenty minutes, maybe half an hour.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I went to the Pera Palas.” He glanced down at Kay. “For a drink.”

  “You were seen at the bar?”

  “I don’t know. Ask the bartender. Why? Are you suggesting I killed him?”

  Gülün made a calming gesture with his thick hands. “And after?”

  “After? After I went home,” he said, looking at Gülün.

  Gülün held his gaze for a second. “Not according to Mr. Cicek. It’s correct, yes? Cicek? The bekçi at your building?”

  “You’ve had a busy morning,” Leon said.

  “Lieutenant Gülün is methodical,” Altan said quietly. “It’s correct?”

  “That he’s the bekçi, yes. That he knows where I am night and day? No. Look, what is this? I was at the consulate half an hour at the most. Say till seven thirty. When was Frank shot? Didn’t anybody hear it? A shot?”

  “Unfortunately the police cannot be accurate about the time of death,” Altan said. “Mr. Bishop had been dead for some time when his body was found. The police doctor says yesterday evening—early, not so early, it’s impossible to say which exactly. Maybe when the cleaning staff is running the vacuum, maybe the guard thinks he heard a sound in the street. We don’t know.”

  “But we do know he was shot,” Gülün said. “And we know you were here. So we must account for your time. So, the Pera bar. And after?” Another steady gaze.

  “I went home. Mr. Cicek must not have heard me.”

  “No. He heard your telephone. Ringing. Until the caller gave up. Do you often do that, not answer your phone?”

  A standoff minute, Leon facing him down.

  “He couldn’t,” Kay said. “He was with me.”

  Leon shot her a look, a slight shake of his head. Don’t.

  “Madame?” Gülün said, surprised.

  Altan sat up, eyes moving from one to the other.

  “He wasn’t at home. He was with me. All night. I can swear to it.” Her voice getting fainter.

  “Let me understand. You spent the night with Mr. Bauer.”

  “Yes,” she said to Leon.

  “Your husband’s colleague.” He paused. “You are lovers?”

  “We spent the night,” she said, looking down.

  Gülün glanced at the stenographer, embarrassed, and stood up. “Your husband knew this?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “But he comes to Istanbul. A sudden trip. S
o perhaps a surprise. For the lovers.”

  “He called Mr. Bauer,” Altan said calmly.

  Gülün looked at Kay, then at Leon, not sure what to do with this.

  “A moment, please,” Altan said to Gülün, drawing him toward the door. “You will excuse us? More coffee?”

  Kay shook her head. The stenographer got up and went over to the window, as if she were leaving the room too, out of earshot.

  “Why did you say that?” Leon said quietly when they’d gone.

  “Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?” she said, her voice flat. She pushed the cup away. “A surprise for the lovers,” she said with Gülün’s inflection. “It would have been, wouldn’t it? Quite a surprise.”

  “Kay—”

  “The nuns had it right,” she said to herself. “You pay one way or the other. Maybe not this way, though. Even they wouldn’t think of this.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I was still in bed. When the phone rang. Could I come down? There’s been an accident. Accident. So I wouldn’t become hysterical, I suppose. And I’ve got the smell of you on me.” She got up, hands on the table. “Not that they’d know that.”

  “They do now. Why did—”

  “Do you know what they asked me? Did he have any enemies? And I thought, I don’t know. I don’t know that. My husband, and I don’t know anything about him. So maybe you do. Did he? Have enemies?”

  “He must have had one.”

  She looked down, then put her hand up to cover her eyes. “Imagine not knowing that.” Not crying, but quiet now, receding.

  Leon went over and touched her shoulder, but she swung away, out of reach.

  “An accident,” she said, taking out a handkerchief and blowing her nose. “‘What kind of accident?’ Then this. ‘Last night,’ they said. So he must have been lying there, dead, while we—”

  “Kay,” he said.

  “I had to make the identification. ‘Is this your husband?’ ‘Yes.’ And all the time I’m thinking, I don’t know this man. A man who gets shot. He had some other life to do that. Like you,” she said, lifting her head. “I don’t know you, either.”

  “Yes you do.”