He switched on the overhead in the outer office, then went into Tommy’s and got the passports from underneath the drawer. Slips inside. Yes, A.K., the other D.Z.-Denizbank? Not code, bank account numbers. Under different names. Manyas’s flawless papers all the identification a bank would need. But Leon wasn’t the man in the picture. He’d need a power of attorney or some equivalent paper Akbank would accept. Executor. He went out to Dorothy’s desk and found some consular stationery. The wording wouldn’t matter, as long as it looked official. He typed out two, one for each name, giving him authority to access the accounts. How much had Tommy stashed away?
He put the passports and letters in his jacket pocket, then hurried out of the office. The cleaning lady had disappeared and so had the watchman, maybe out back for a smoke or in the bathroom, but the front door wasn’t locked so Leon just pushed through. Outside, the iron gates were open, a few cars still in the courtyard, so there was no need to ring for a guard. What if he’d been a burglar?
But wasn’t he? Whose money would it be, technically? Barbara’s? The government’s? Not the Russians’ anymore. Assuming money was there. But it had to be, or why have the accounts? How had it been arranged? Wire transfers, something traceable, finally proof? Or an envelope of cash, passed under the table at the Park or at one of those Allied meetings, Melnikov exchanging more than information. Tommy’s thirty pieces of silver.
He looked down the street to the Pera, jumpy and elated at the same time. Withholding evidence, the police would say. But it had to be the link, a way to prove Tommy- Tucked away in his pocket, something only he knew, while he had a drink at the bar. Waiting to go upstairs.
He sensed that she was already awake, her back to him, maybe staring out the window at the drizzly morning. He lay still, watching the faint rise of her shoulder as she breathed, feeling the warmth, his body curved along hers. It had rained during the night, streaking the windows, making them snuggle under the covers, but now it had slowed to a fine mist, the skies finally exhausted. The roads through the mountains would be slick, slower to drive. Then sun at the end, citrus trees. What time did the banks open? She pulled at the sheet, covering herself.
“What are you thinking?” he said quietly, a morning whisper.
She turned in the bed, facing him. “How it happens.”
“What?”
“Standing in the street. After the funeral. And you gave me a cigarette. And I wondered. That’s all. That’s how it started. Then we talked at the reception. So one thing, then another. I was trying to trace it, in my mind, how that happens.”
He put his hand to her face.
“I woke up and I could smell you,” she said. “On my skin. I thought, I’m lying here and he’s on my skin. So how did that happen?”
“One things leads to another,” he said, a cued response.
She looked at him. “Well, until it doesn’t.”
“I’ll come to Ankara. I go there on business. It’s easy.”
“For you,” she said, sliding away, reaching for the robe on the floor.
“I’ll arrange it. I’m good at that. You said so.”
“But I’m not.” She stood up, beginning to put on the robe.
“No, don’t. Wait a minute. Just stand there. Like that.”
She put her hand to her breast, covering herself. “What are you looking at?”
“Just looking.”
He leaned up on one elbow, facing her. Her skin pale white with the window light behind.
She lowered her head. “I’ve never done this. Have somebody look at me. Naked.”
“Never?”
She put her arm through the sleeve. “Anyway, it’s cold.”
“Keep it open,” he said, getting out of bed and coming over to her. “I want to see you.”
“So you can remember?”
He held her against him. “I’ll arrange something.”
For a second she didn’t move, then let her arms hang loose and stepped over to the window. “You’d better get dressed. It’s stopping.”
“I don’t have to leave yet. It’s early.”
“Yes, now. It’s the right time.” She turned to face him, trying a smile. “And I’ll get back into bed for a while. Smell you on me.” She stood there for a minute, then belted the robe. “Get dressed, okay?” she said softly, picking up a cigarette and lighting it.
He reached for his pants, watching her. “I won’t be away long. I’ll come to Ankara after.”
“And maybe we can all have dinner. Frank looking at us. And you looking at me and me avoiding you. And me sneaking around with Orhan, that’s our driver, we have a car there and it would look funny if I took a cab anywhere. And then what? I pretend to go shopping and he waits and I run around the corner-to where? Some room you arranged? Maybe your friend here has one there too. For a quick one while I’m supposed to be shopping.”
“It doesn’t have to be like that.”
“It is like that.”
He stopped, letting his tie hang from his collar. “Kay-”
“So it’s a mess.” She ran the cigarette around the rim of the ashtray, tapping off ash. “My god, I’m the other woman, aren’t I? In a hotel. My mother was right. Smoking. Half hanging out of my robe. Quite a sight.”
“Utterly depraved.”
She looked up, a small smile. “I’m glad you stayed the night. It makes it less like-”
“It’s not.”
“Then what is it?”
He finished his tie. “It’s what we have.”
She drew on the cigarette, looking at him, then stubbed it out. “All dressed. You’d better go. What do we say? I’m new at this.”
He walked over and took her chin in his hand, kissing her on the forehead. “Say, I’ll see you soon.”
She met his eyes, then moved back, shoulders slightly drooped.
He picked up his jacket, not really looking, so that he grabbed it upside down, the breast pocket hanging over the floor. A quiet thump, Tommy’s passports spilling out, then one of the consulate letters. He looked at the pile for a second, jarred, then scooped them back up. Nothing seen, no names, just the fact of them, obviously passports, more than one. Kay folded her arms across her chest, a protective reflex, then glanced up at him. He put on his jacket, sliding the passports back into the pocket.
“Don’t ask,” he said. “Remember?”
She kept looking at him. “What else don’t you tell me, I wonder. Maybe it’s the same. With us.”
He adjusted his collar, not answering.
“Maybe you like it this way. Secret. Like your work. Seeing me like this. It’s exciting for you.”
He looked over. “There are two of us in this room.”
She said nothing for a minute, then nodded. “All right. Yes. I like it too. I’m just not as good at it. I keep thinking it shows in my face.”
He moved closer, putting his hand on her neck. “It does. But nobody else sees it.”
She touched his breast pocket, not patting it, her hand still. “Whatever you’re doing with these-it’s safe?”
He nodded. “I’ll come to Ankara,” he said, and then before she could answer, “You can give Orhan the day off.”
She looked up. “All the details.”
The numbers turned out to be for safety deposit boxes, not accounts. No deposit slips, no transfers, no records at all.
“But you have the date when he took the box?”
“Yes, of course,” the Denizbank manager said, and referred to an index card in his hand. “May ’forty-four. The nineteenth. There’s some irregularity?”
“No, no, we need to audit his assets, that’s all, so we can settle the estate.”
“He’s dead? I’m sorry,” he said, Mr. Price clearly unknown to him. An American with a valid passport and
