Hard Rain (21 page)

‘When did you last talk to him?’ Masters continued.

‘Hmm . . . a few weeks before I heard of his murder.’

‘And when did he last fly with the Reapers?’

‘From memory, less than two months ago.’

‘Was that instance a training flight?’ I asked. ‘And have your training missions involved a turnaround at Tallil Air Base?’

‘I don’t know that I can talk to you about operational specifics, Special Agent.’

‘Well, then, what was the nature of the last training mission Colonel Portman participated in?’

‘As in, what were we training for?’

‘That’ll do.’

‘I’m going to have to repeat my last answer, Special Agent. You think that kind of detail’s going to help you solve this crime?’

‘Could be,’ I said.

‘Tell you what I’ll do, son. I’ll clear your questions with the higher powers, and if they’re okay with it, I’ll get back to you.’

‘Appreciate it, Colonel. Can you tell me how many times Colonel Portman had flown with the squadron?’

‘He flew a total of eight sorties with the Reapers.’

‘And do you know why Colonel Portman was interested in Tallil?’ I asked.

A familiar scream filled the Explorer, foiling attempts to hear anything less than full-on shouting. I glanced out the window.

‘Those Israelis,’ Woodward yelled, as one of the odd-looking F-16 Sufa variants roared past in the flare, a low-viz Star of David on its flank. ‘Just been having a friendly joust with those people. I tell you, the Cheil Ha’avir’s one air force I’d think twice about tangling with. Those Ha’ Negev boys and girls can sure crank and bank.’

Johnny Oh followed the truck ahead, turning us away from the flight line towards a dark row of nondescript 1950s-style brick buildings and old Quonset huts.

‘What was your question again, Cooper?’ Colonel Woodward asked.

‘We know Colonel Portman had some interest in Tallil Air Base. Would you happen to know what that interest was?’

Woodward seemed to be considering the question before answering, debating in his mind in what context he could talk about it. ‘I don’t think it was the base he was interested in,’ he began. ‘It just happened to be the nearest friendly facility to some town he had his eye on.’

‘Can you remember the name of the town?’ I asked.

Again, he thought about it for a moment. ‘It was Kumbayah – something like that.’

I made a note of this, and doodled a semi-quaver beside it. ‘Did he happen to mention what was so special about this . . . er . . . Kumbayah?’

‘Can’t remember for sure. Something about an infrastructure project being built down there. Something to do with water, or maybe it was a hospital. To tell you the truth, Special Agent, if it doesn’t have flaps, you can’t count on my interest. Most of what Emmet told me about things that had nothing to do with flying, or his days at the squadron, rolled in one ear and fell out the other.’ Woodward indicated a spot around the side of a building where the truck ahead of us had stopped. ‘Just pull over there, sarge.’

Johnny parked and left the motor running.

‘Emmet was a fine airman and a good American,’ Woodward announced. ‘You folks got any further questions?’

‘No, not for the moment, Colonel,’ I replied.

‘No,’ Masters added.

‘Well, if I can think of anything, or if I get clearance from my superiors, I’ll be sure to call you. Either of you got a card or something?’

Both Masters and I obliged. He pocketed them, got out of the vehicle and then bounced up the steps. We motored slowly off to join the base traffic behind a snowplough grinding away at the roadside’s ice shoulder.

‘I know I said I had no more questions, but FISHDO?’ Masters asked.

From the front seat, Johnny Oh spoke up: ‘Fuck it, shit happens, drive on.’

‘Thanks.’

‘How does that song go?’ I said. ‘
Kum-by-yah, my lord, Kum-by-yah
. . .’

Refusing to join in and turn it into a round, Masters said, ‘Sergeant Gallagher and now Woodward said Portman was interested in something going on down in southern Iraq.’

‘A Christian fireside song, perhaps?’

‘Vin . . .’ said Masters, losing patience.

‘You heard the colonel – if it doesn’t have flaps . . . Who knows what the name of that town was? But there’s nothing even vaguely like it mentioned in Portman’s emails. And that’s surprising if it was important to him,’ I reasoned. ‘For that matter, why would he talk about this project supposedly close to Tallil in a reasonably open way to Woodward and Gallagher, but say nothing to either Harvey Stringer, Mr CIA, or Ambassador Burnbaum?’

‘Or perhaps he did, but neither Stringer nor Burnbaum thought it worthwhile enough to pass on to us.’

‘Maybe we should give them both another opportunity to mention it,’ I replied as my cell began to ring. The number on-screen had an Istanbul area code. ‘Cooper,’ I said, answering it.

‘Captain Cain, here, Special Agent. How you doin’ down there? I heard about the F-16 going up in smoke. I also heard you lit the fuse. Any truth in that rumour?’

I put the phone on speaker to include Masters in the conversation. We then both gave him a brief rundown of recent events and asked whether any of the information we’d requested had come in.

‘Yeah, that’s why I’m calling. We just got the results back from the FBI on those explosives – the ones used to blow the safe in Portman’s house. Thought you might like to know.’

‘We would,’ I said.

‘The stuff was manufactured in the USA.’

‘It’s ours?’

‘Apparently, we sold it to Israel. We shipped it to them in artillery shells – bunker busters. I checked it out with the people at military intelligence. According to them, the shells were fired into Lebanon during the ’06 September stoush with Hezbollah.’

Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t that. ‘Every last one?’

‘Who would know? You think the Israelis would give us the specifics? Also, I’ve been breaking down that shipping register you left me. I think we might have something there, unless I’m reading too much into it.’

‘What you got?’ I asked.

‘As you know, over the five hours covered by the log, the period that spanned Portman’s estimated time of death, there were thirty-six vessels transiting the Bosphorus. Twenty-four of them required pilots.’

‘And the twelve that didn’t?’

‘They’re the smaller, local ships. Only one of these stood out as being irregular, a rust bucket of around 10,000 tons called the
Onur –
which in Turkish means “pride”, by the way – registered out of Istanbul. She was carrying cooking oil. At 02:17 she went up the strait, and she came back down again at 05:02.’

‘What’s so irregular about that, Rodney?’

‘I’ve been reliably informed that you either go up the Bosphorus, or you come down, not both – at least, not so quickly. Round trips usually take longer than a few hours, unless you’re a public ferry. If you’re lugging cargo, that means entering and leaving a port, and that eats up time. So the round trip usually takes you more than a day and includes either loading or unloading cargo, and it’s accompanied by paperwork. So, anyway, at some point in the Bosphorus or up in the Black Sea, the
Onur
decided to come back to Istanbul.’

‘She would have been in the right place at the right time to make deliveries and pick-ups,’ said Masters, looking at me as she spoke.

I nodded.

‘Yeah,’ said Cain. ‘Exactly. There were the usual radio calls logged between the vessel and shipping control confirming all of this, by the way. The
Onur
apparently went back to Istanbul because of engine trouble.’

‘A likely story,’ I cut in.

‘Actually, I called around and the engine trouble checked out.
Onur
was barely seaworthy. Anyway, I went down to the port this morning to have a general snoop and see what I could dig up, and guess who I ran into?

‘I don’t know . . . was it Ramses II?’

‘You did ask for it, Cain,’ Masters said.

‘Sorry. Okay, well, it was Detective Sergeants Karli and Iyaz.’

‘What were they doing there?’ I asked.

‘Checking out the homicide angle. Last night the
Onur
sank at its mooring with all hands lost.’

M
asters had called ahead, and Emir and his mobile living room were waiting for us at Istanbul’s Atatürk Airport. He gave Masters a hug and then went for me. I warned him not to try it. The guy got his own back, smoking and talking all the way to the docks.

I switched off and thought about Stringer and Burnbaum. We’d called the consulate-general from Incirlik and learned that Stringer had left for CIA headquarters, Langley, Virginia, and that Burnbaum was at the US Embassy in Ankara, the capital of Turkey. Neither was contactable.

When Detective Sergeant Karli saw me walking towards him along the dock, I caught him raising his eyes to heaven, as if asking his maker what the fuck I was doing there. But I’ve been receiving that general reception for a few years now and I’m almost disappointed if I don’t get it.

He turned and walked off in another direction like he’d forgotten something. Maybe it was his desire to cooperate.

As prearranged, Rodney Cain met us on the dock. I saw him standing behind a line-up of police vehicles, deep in conversation with one of the Turkish forensics people. He gave us a wave, detached himself from the company, and came on over. ‘Morning,’ he said.

I checked my watch. He was right, it was morning. Only 11:45 and already it felt like late afternoon.

‘They just pulled the last of the bodies out,’ he reported. ‘Ten in total. All drowned. The divers found them floating around in the mess. The hatch had been dogged shut with a piece of steel shoved in the mechanism.’

‘A great way to clean house – flood it,’ I said. ‘How’d they sink her?’

‘According to some expert that Karli and Iyaz have dug up, it could have been done any number of ways. Until the divers have completed their survey, the general consensus is that someone blew off the engine cooling ducts.’

‘Have you informed Turkish homicide we were looking into the
Onur
as part of the Portman investigation?’ Masters asked.

‘Yeah. They’re not happy about the connection, but I told them it wasn’t exactly our fault. I think they just want the whole show to catch a flight home to the States, us included.’

‘No survivors, no witnesses,’ I said. ‘A person or persons on board met Portman’s killers – maybe even handed them towels when they came back on board. Let’s at least see how much they paid the ship’s master for the pick-up and delivery service.’

‘I’ll get the master’s bank records pulled,’ said Cain.

‘Has anyone seen or heard from Portman’s manservant yet – this Adem Fedai?’ Masters enquired.

‘No. And while I’m on the subject of bank accounts, Fedai’s hasn’t been touched. I checked yesterday. I’m starting to think that more than likely he’s out there somewhere,’ Cain said, gesturing at the rusting expanse of the port and the cold grey sea beyond it, ‘dusting Davy Jones’s locker.’

‘I’d like to take the afternoon off, if that’s okay with you,’ said Masters as we walked back towards Emir, who, as usual, was waving at us like he was stranded on a rooftop and we were a couple of rescue choppers.

‘Again. To do . . . what?’

‘It’s personal,’ she replied.

‘We don’t have any more time for personal crap, Anna.’

‘And I don’t know why I even asked, Vin. I don’t need your okay and you know it.’

I did know it, but I also knew a lot of people were dying well before they were supposed to and that Masters and I were the best chance any future victims had of not becoming them. Or, I allowed myself to admit, was there another reason I didn’t want to let her go?

Masters told Emir to take us back to the Hotel Charisma. Half an hour later, I watched her step out of the car and into the arms of that other reason – Colonel Wad – who was waiting for her in the foyer.

Emir drove off slow. I stopped him around the corner, got out of the car, and gave him the rest of the month off. He wasn’t happy about it, so I told him to take it up with Special Agent Masters. I needed to walk, get a few things straight. I had paperwork to write up – the happenings down at Incirlik and a progress report on the case – but I put it all off. I wanted some time to consider how I felt about Anna ending up with someone other than me. I also had a new thought on this hit-squad theory, and walking, I believed, might help me work it all through.

I walked for thirty-five minutes, past the Blue Mosque, the Aya Sophia, down the hill, past two more mosques, across the bridge and up the other side. At least, that’s the route I must have walked. There was no other way I could have taken to end up outside Doctor Merkit’s house. But that’s exactly where I found myself when I finally looked up from the rolling patch of sidewalk in front of my feet.

I could have walked up the steps to the front door, could have rung the bell, could have discussed the latest theories on the case with her, could have ended up naked for some skin-on-skin action . . . But instead, I hailed a cab and went to the scene of the original crime – Colonel Portman’s place in Bebek.

Investigating crime can have the effect of altering the investigator’s perspective on time. A week can compress itself into a space that feels like a
day, while a day can stretch on and feel like a week. So it was that I had to think about how many days or weeks had passed since Masters and I had taken a look around the Portman place. I believed it was four days ago, but I could have been wrong. It could also have been months. But then I saw the familiar green van belonging to the cleaners parked out front, which swung the odds in favour of days.

They should have finished the clean-up job well and truly by now. Perhaps business was slow in Istanbul at the moment and they were squeezing the job dry. The police still had a guard on the place, but only one uniform now and not a guy I recognised. The portable bulletproof shields were also gone but the uniform was still conspicuously armed, an FN FAL rifle slung over his shoulder, the stock and bluing worn enough for it to have been a family heirloom.

I took the handful of steps to the front door and showed the guard my shield. He smiled in return, showing me a set of teeth held in place by wire thick enough to hang a coat on. He opened the door. I went in and heard the door close behind me.

The hallway was still dark, but the heating had been turned on and the place felt almost cosy. The smell of fresh paint was in the air, reminding me that Portman’s blood had been impossible to clean off, a realisation that had the effect of taking that cosy feeling away. I noticed an antique wood table by the front door, which wasn’t there the first time I visited the place. A large and expensive ornate glass vase sat on it, filled with imported irises and poppies, the leasing agents doing what they could to fill the place with cheer for any prospects they could muster.

I went for a lap around the ground floor to get my bearings. The door through which the courtyard and drain were accessed had a new lock fitted. The key was in the lock. The smashed windowpane had also been replaced and the fingerprint dust removed. I unlocked the door, opened it, and took the steps down to the courtyard. It was cold and damp, the area in shadow. I walked to the drain cover and looked down at it, hoping some new insight would pop. It didn’t. A couple of birds circled overhead, keening, disappointed. Perhaps because the waterbed was dry.

I walked back towards the door but something crunched underfoot. I ignored it and it crunched again. Lifting up my boot, I saw that a wedge of glass was caught between the blocks of rubber. I pulled it out. It was about the right thickness – a sliver from the broken windowpane. My boot must have picked it up from a gap between the flagstones. What’s it doing all the way over here? I wondered. I flicked it at the courtyard wall and it landed in a corner.

I then went back inside the house, climbed the steps to the first storey and kept going up to the second. Halfway up the stairs one of the women I’d met when Masters and I had inspected this place – the one who’d dissolved my T-shirt with her miracle cleaning fluid – appeared on the top step. She was carrying a bucket, a mop, a couple of brooms and a plastic trash bag. She said hello and followed up with a little Turkish, all delivered in a friendly manner, as we passed each other mid-flight. I gathered her job here was finished at last, and that she was off to freshly bloodied pastures.

I reached the top floor and made my way to where Portman met his end. I’d read the forensic report on the crime scene so many times it was tattooed on my brain. I walked into the smallish room with the gilt chair upholstered in red velvet; it wasn’t quite in the same position it had previously occupied, but it was no longer upended, the claw feet pressing into the Turkish rug. Beneath the chair and rug, I knew, was the removable tile in the carpet and, beneath that, the floor safe, the one Portman had had secretly installed.

There was a small antique table in front of the chair. The room smelt of fresh paint and the chemicals released by new carpet. The oriental faces that hung on the wall gazed out inscrutably, giving away nothing of the horror they’d witnessed here a week ago.

I had no conscious reason for returning to Portman’s house. The Turkish forensic team had been as thorough as any I’d worked with in the past. They’d done a great job, missed nothing that I could point to, and yet I had a feeling that
something
had to have slipped through our collective fingers.

I walked into the adjoining room, the one with the wall safe. I pulled
back the painting with the guys in turbans bringing down the elephant. The original door had been destroyed in the explosion. This one was new, the combination dial gleaming with black and silver enamel, the handle a scratch-free matt black. I pulled on it and the door swung open. There was nothing inside, as expected. I closed it up, replaced the painting and wandered back to where the Air Attaché had been sitting on his last night on earth.

I shifted the chair and then the table, moving them back into their original positions, the ones they’d been in on that bloody night. Then I stood back and regarded the chair. Portman had been sitting right here when a pad doused in chloroform had been pressed over his mouth and nose. Would he have seen the faces of his killers before he’d gone under, the chemical searing away the flesh in the back of his nose and throat?

I sat in the chair and tried to imagine the way it had gone down. We knew the killers had been wearing coveralls and drysuits. They would also have been wearing diving-style facemasks. But were those masks pulled over their faces the entire time, or just while they cut Portman up, to ensure that his blood didn’t splatter into their eyes?

I glanced behind the chair to the set of wide double doors on the far side of the larger adjoining room. It made sense that the killers would have crept up behind their victim. The murder took place sometime after 2 am – maybe Portman was asleep or resting, his head already tilted back. I relaxed, attempted to get comfortable in the chair. I put my head back and looked up at the ceiling, allowing my eyes to follow the maze of intricate painted patterns, and tried to think what that elusive something we’d missed might be . . . Did it have anything to do with the two safes? Or the use of chloroform? My thoughts drifted to the moment when the killers appeared in Portman’s view – hoods over their heads, goggled up like bugs, one of them brandishing a jigsaw, perhaps? How long had the Attaché’s terror lasted before he’d slipped away on the chemical carpet ride?

The room was quiet and still, the only sound my own breathing. The top of the chair had a hard wooden knob that dug into the back of
my skull, and the cushion was firm. Finding a comfortable position in this rack wasn’t easy. That told me it was unlikely that Portman had sat down to rest – not in this chair. The forensic report stated that at the time of his murder, he’d been fully dressed, wearing suit pants, leather shoes, a white shirt and a loosened tie. The realisation made me sit upright.

There was no sound system in the room, no books on shelves, no view – nothing. And, as I was experiencing first-hand, this chair was no place to come to relax. So the question I was suddenly asking myself was: what was the Attaché
doing
when he was sitting in this chair at the time he was killed? Who just sits in a chair and does nothing, anyway? Was he working through a crossword? Picking his nose?
What
? Something had to have been occupying the guy’s time. Was he reviewing notes? Crafting correspondence? Portman might well have been doing one, some or all of these activities, or something else entirely. Only, according to the forensic report, there was nothing of that nature (or any nature) found with the guy’s remains. It could therefore be interpreted that Colonel Portman had just been sitting in this gilt chair, twiddling his thumbs, waiting to be made into chop suey. If I didn’t believe that, which I didn’t, it meant a person or persons – possibly the killers, but also possibly someone else entirely – had removed articles from the crime scene. If so, what? And who? Maybe the elusive, or equally possibly very dead, Adem Fedai?

I got out of the chair, tipped it back the way the Turkish police had found it and rolled away the rug. The carpet tile was in place. I removed it and the floor safe was revealed, its door ajar. I opened it: empty. I had no idea what I might be looking for. But having no idea when I returned here to Portman’s place had revealed
something
, even if only in the way of insight, so maybe I could mine a little more of that luck.

I closed the safe, replaced the square and the rug, and sat the chair back on its feet. The carpet was new and freshly nailed into the floor at the skirting boards. A small antique cabinet was placed hard up against one wall. I opened the doors to the cabinet – two shelves on
each side, all empty. I leaned it back so that I could look under, behind and beneath it. There was wicker bracing between the legs, which could double as a kind of shelf. Again, empty.

What had I been thinking? Forensics wouldn’t have missed anything.

I stood up, hands on hips. The picture of a plastic trash bag came to mind . . . Where had I seen it? And what was the significance? And then it slapped me. Goddamn it – the
cleaners
!