“I can’t concentrate. I’m keeping an eye on them…”
With her big toe, she pointed to Sarp and the mute.
I’d have a look at Cihad2000’s e-mail when I got back home. I was determined to get into the safe-deposit box the moment the bank opened.
Under Ipekten’s hawklike eye, I checked my pocket any number of times to ensure that I’d remembered the key to the box. She didn’t say a word, just watched. There are times when a steely eye is far more unsettling than a river of well-chosen words.
I cautioned Ipekten, making her promise to keep the door bolted and not to let in any strangers until I got back.
“Don’t worry, hubby,” she called out after I’d closed the door behind me, deviant smile no doubt in place.
I’d been so excited I’d forgotten to call a taxi. I’d have to walk down to the main street and hail one.
Volkan’s safe-deposit box was at a huge bank branch in Sisli. It was always packed. I’d been there a few times before and went straight to the assistant manager. I realized now that despite my best intentions I was a bit overdressed, but I had enough faith in my Chanel No. 5 to take a seat right across from her.
Full cheeked and under the mistaken impression that minimal makeup and unkempt hair would make her look younger, she smiled at me expectantly. In dignified, ladylike tones I explained my business, adding that I was in something of a hurry.
“Just a moment, madam,” she said.
I’d expected her to ask for ID, but she dialed a number instead. The other party must have answered immediately.
“The guest we’ve been expecting has arrived,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I thought to myself. Expected guest? Me? Who was expecting me? I’d found out about the key just the day before. Crazy Okan wouldn’t have dared to tell anyone. He couldn’t have. It was impossible.
I must have gone white as sheet, and hoped I’d applied enough makeup to conceal it. I held my breath and waited. Or was I simply unable to breathe? In a word, I froze. I ran through every worst-case scenario, but still couldn’t imagine who had been the recipient of that phone call.
The assistant manager continued smiling at me sweetly. I studied her eyes and expression. No curiosity, excitement, or concern… Nothing. She faced me wearing the same pleasant mask of a few moments earlier.
Soon, in would walk the general manager, chairman of the board, or worse, and I would be discreetly led away. The police might even come. Or agents from MIT, the National Intelligence Agency. Flanked and handcuffed, I’d be asked for my name, the male name I’d been given at birth. I’d be thoroughly disgraced. Audrey Hepburn would abandon me in disgust, never to return.
Perhaps I could fight back? That depended on who came to confront me. I wouldn’t hesitate to resist ordinary bank guards… But the police, MIT?
I could run away right now, make it out to the pavement in record time. If anyone tried to stop me, and someone surely would, I’d fight for dear life: aikido, Thai boxing, a flurry of desperate punches, kicks, and slaps.
My brain was working, but my body had frozen. I couldn’t move a finger. Not a finger! I tried… I tried to move the hand I’d placed on the desk. Nothing. There was no response to the signals my brain was sending. I was petrified. Or paralyzed, perhaps.
I couldn’t hear anything, not a sound. The clocks had frozen; time stood still. Surely no one could remain motionless and not breathing for such a long time. But I was doing just that. The woman sitting opposite me wasn’t breathing either.
The telephone was ringing, ringing endlessly. Why was no one picking up?
I tested myself to see if I could remember Selcuk’s phone number. I could. If worst came to worst, I could rely on him again. Anyway, it wasn’t like they’d lock me up or torture me just for being in possession of a key.
“Please follow me, madam,” she said as she stood up. Her silk shirt and designer scarf confirmed her position as assistant manager.
She walked round the desk, stopping directly in front of me.
I followed her out of the door. I seemed to have forgotten how to walk like a lady, had adopted the springy lope my big brother taught me when I was a boy. The manager’s office seemed miles away. We walked forever. The other customers all stopped and stared, eyes filled with fear, curiosity, surprise, and even a little pity.
The general manager’s office was suitably spacious and decorated in cool, modern colors. There were no policemen or bodyguards. I relaxed, breathing normally. But I was convinced that my face was waxen.
Rising from behind his desk, the general manager came over to shake my hand. He must have had a background as a bank inspector. Chin thrust forward, he was overbearing, and the hand he reached out was held higher than necessary.
“Would you be the decedent’s next of kin?” he asked, obviously more out of a sense of duty than of genuine interest or sympathy.
“Uh, no,” I said. “I’m a friend…”
“As you no doubt realize, an application form for the release of safe-deposit box contents must be completed by an executor, the attorney for the estate, or the decedent’s next of kin…”
He looked at me as though he were unraveling all the secrets of the universe for my benefit.
“You must also realize that here we face a highly unusual situation. The key holder of the box did not die as a result of what we would normally deem… natural causes.”
“So?” I asked.
“However, if you can prove that you are an executor or next of kin, we might be able to make special arrangements. Otherwise, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”
The beaming assistant shut her eyes and nodded her approval.
“Furthermore, we’re aware that a criminal investigation is currently underway.”
“Well then, the police should come and have a look. Wouldn’t you agree?” I asked.
“Unless you possess documentation demonstrating your relationship…”
“I don’t,” I said. “I wasn’t his wife or anything like that.”
“Yes, we can see that” was his dry response.
Normally I would have been mortified, but at that moment I couldn’t have cared less.
“So then,” I said, “you have, of course, informed the police?”
“Not yet…”
“Why not?” I persisted. “As far as I understand, the police are to be notified immediately in these circumstances.”
“There are certain… sensitivities involved,” he continued, carefully choosing his words. “We make every effort, whatever the circumstances, to protect the interests of our customers…”
“Hmmm,” I said. I raised my left eyebrow as high as it could go. “But I’ve got the key.”
“I’m afraid that’s irrelevant.”
The cheery assistant was there to rubberstamp her boss’s every remark. Once again, she shut her eyes and nodded affirmation. She probably had a limited set of facial expressions, smiles, and head movements, each of them appropriate to a particular situation.
We eyed one another. I looked them up and down; they did the same to me. All three of us were perfectly calm. We were still in the early stages of sizing up and assessing.
I was too close now to back down. I’d never forgive myself. I compiled a list of multiple choices:
(a) Give up and go home.
(b) Try bargaining. That’s what they seemed to expect, after all.
(c) Get the police involved; that is, ask Selcuk for his help in accessing the box.
(d) Wait for them to make the first move. Only then decide on a course of action.
Neither “all of the above” nor “none of the above” were options. None of the choices satisfied me, but I decided on D before switching to B at the last second.
My self-confidence had returned, along with my sense of style. I sat down and crossed my legs.
“So, what should I do?” I asked.
Playing a dumb blonde often does the trick, but, thanks to his background as an inspector, the manager was proving to be a tough nut indeed.
“Allow me to offer you something to drink,” he said. “Please take a seat…”
I was already sitting. I just looked at him.
Ms. Cheery sat down in the armchair opposite; the manager settled into the high-backed leather chair behind his desk.
“What would you like? A cup of Turkish coffee?”
“Unsweetened, please,” I said.
The assistant had dialed the number of the beverage service already.
“I’ll have one as well, Gulben Han?m.”
So that was the name of the assistant now ordering herself a medium-sweet Turkish coffee.
The weather was discussed in the short time it took for the coffee to arrive.
The moment the office boy left the room with his empty tray, the manager got down to business.
“You’re not the only one interested in Volkan Bey’s safe-deposit box.”
“Do you mean the police?”
Eyes closed, Gulben Han?m shook her head from side to side this time.
“The person in question,” he continued, slurping his first sip of coffee and establishing beyond doubt his class, or lack thereof, “is one of our most valued customers.”
I’d grown impatient and tossed off the first name that came to mind.
“Nimet Hanoglu?”
Dear Gulben’s eyes had narrowed, but her head remained stationary. It was either a halfhearted endorsement, or she had withheld automatic approbation at the
