Hard Rain (3 page)

I caught it before it closed behind them and held it open for Masters. ‘Judas first,’ I said.

Masters replied with a lift of her chin.

Up ahead was a window – more bulletproof glass – behind which sat a blonde in a blouse covered in big, bright menopausal flowers. The cops showed her their credentials and I overheard Ambassador Burnbaum’s name mentioned. The blonde passed them a clipboard under the glass and had them fill it out before handing them a couple of clip-on visitor’s security passes and directing them towards an elevator down an adjacent hallway.

She smiled helpfully as we stepped up. ‘How can I help you today? Visas? Passports?’ she chirped with an American accent.

Masters flashed her shield. ‘Actually, I think we might be with them,’ she replied, tilting her head in the direction of the previous enquiry. ‘Special Agents Masters and Cooper. We have an appointment with Ambassador Burnbaum.’

I pressed my shield against the glass. As I did so I caught a whiff of the blonde’s perfume, which was sweet and powerful – had to be, there was a sheet of glass half-an-inch thick between us. A bee arrived and bumped into the pane, trying to get at the source of the bouquet.

‘My, the Ambassador
is
busy today,’ she observed. ‘Name, agency – I’ll fill out the rest.’ She pushed the clipboard through a slot at the bottom of the glass.

Masters filled in the details for both of us.

‘There you go,’ the blonde said, as she swung us a couple of passes beneath the glass. ‘Head round the corner, go down the hallway till you get to the elevator. You want the fourth floor. Someone will meet you. Just follow those men.’

‘And try not to lose them, Special Agent,’ I added.

‘Don’t start with me, Vin,’ said Masters under her breath as she pushed away from the counter.

A
n older woman, her hair tied up in a grey bun and glasses on a chain swinging from her neck, met us when the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor. She led us to a large, sun-drenched room and closed the door behind us. The room was crowded with people standing around, deep in conversation. I took the opportunity to absorb the surroundings.

It was a modern white box of a room with recessed low-voltage spots burning bright holes in the ceiling. Natural light flooded in through two large south-east-facing windows. At odds with this modernity were furnishings provided by a century long gone. A lush Turkish rug featuring what appeared to be foliage in rich reds and blues covered much of the floor. In one corner of the room was a large antique desk heavily inlaid with mother-of-pearl to create dazzling and intricate geometric patterns. Gold-framed chairs upholstered in red velvet were arrayed around it in a semicircle. On the wall behind the desk hung an enormous painting in a heavy gold frame. And it was some painting. It showed a battle in progress being fought by soldiers wearing turbans, brandishing curved, bloody scimitars and hauling an enormous cannon. In the background, the battlements of what appeared to be a Roman city were breached in a tumble of shattered stone blocks. In the foreground of the
painting, beneath the feet of the victors, was a thick layer of diced body parts in a blood sauce. Reminded me of something.

My eyes met those of a trim guy in late middle age with styled grey hair, wearing a pinstriped suit. I recognised him from file photos – Ambassador Burnbaum. He excused himself from a conversation and came on over. ‘Ah, you must be Special Agents Cooper and Masters. Excellent!’ he said. ‘We can get started.’

I handed him a copy of my orders.

‘No need for the formalities, Special Agent. Thank you for coming over so promptly. We’re between Consulate-Generals at the moment, so I’ll be standing in, shuttling between here and the embassy in Ankara. I hope that won’t impede your investigation at all.’

I gave him a nod, sure it wouldn’t, and shook his outstretched hand.

‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ Masters gushed, on the verge of a curtsy.

Ward Baxter Burnbaum, United States Ambassador to Turkey. The guy was quite a legend. During the Cold War, the story went, he’d spirited a number of high-ranking Soviet military defectors out of East Berlin. On his last mission there, his cover blown, and having been wounded in the leg and chased all the way to the barbed wire by a Trabant full of Stasi – and, did I mention, while dragging a similarly wounded defector to freedom? – Burnbaum had relieved an enemy soldier of his Kalashnikov and shot his way out to the West. Supposedly, as he lay bleeding in the arms of a fellow CIA agent, and moments before he slipped into unconsciousness, he announced that he had a couple of cartons of eastern bloc cigarettes to declare to Customs. Oh, yeah, and one KGB general.

Burnbaum shifted across to State and lay low for a couple of years. When things calmed down a little, after the East Germans had paid us back with a few shoot-outs of their own on our turf, and the scorecard had worked itself out about even, he came back to serve. These days, though, Burnbaum was heading for retirement, the gig in Turkey being his last post.

‘First, allow me to introduce General Zafer Mataradzija,’ he continued. ‘And this is his adjutant, Lieutenant Colonel Ozden Gokdemir.’
Burnbaum’s lips tackled the Turkish officers’ names like a blindfolded SEAL assembling an M4 – that is, expertly. ‘General, Colonel, this is Special Agent Cooper and Special Agent Masters from the United States Air Force Office of Special Investigations.’

While the colonel was of average height and build with no particularly distinguishing features, the general was short. Actually, I thought he was seated until he took a step towards us and put out his hand. His fingers were large and dry, and as rough as hand-rolled cigars. In halting but rehearsed English, he said, ‘A pleasure to meeting you in this unfortunate occasion.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Masters and I replied, almost in unison.

All by the book. An Air Attaché, especially one serving in a significant strategic partner-state like Turkey, was an important member of our diplomatic mission. His murder was a big deal for both the Turks and us.

Burnbaum moved on, ushering us along with him. ‘This is Special Agent Seb Goddard and Special Agent Arlow Mallet.’ Masters and I nodded at Goddard and Mallet, who returned the gesture. ‘They’re up from 3rd MP Group, out of Kuwait.’

I wondered what they were
up
for, exactly. This was an OSI case, and although CID was a police organisation working for the same country we were, that didn’t mean we got on. In fact, it guaranteed we wouldn’t.

Mallet said, ‘Y’all need US Army CID resources on this one, you just holler.’

‘Here to help,’ Goddard echoed.

‘We’ll be sure and do that,’ I told them, lying. Goddard was a pin-up for steroid abuse, with a neck so thick his earlobes probably had jock rash. Mallet was all ropey sinew with hollows for cheekbones and black eyes that reminded me of watermelon pits. Both MPs were in their mid twenties, which meant they were most likely warrant officers – doers, not thinkers. Masters and I moved along.

‘And these are the police officers who’ve done such a wonderfully proficient job of handling the case thus far,’ said Burnbaum, radiating
the detectives we’d seen earlier with his warmest smile. Yeah, Burnbaum was good; the two cops had no idea they’d just been slandered by a pro. I wondered why the Ambassador didn’t think much of them. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Umit Karli,’ he began, ‘and Detective Sergeant Baris Iyaz, both from the Turkish National Police, Homicide Division.’

Masters and I gave them hellos and we all shook hands and exchanged business cards. I had the feeling we were returning to our corners before coming out to fight. There’s nothing like the spirit of international cooperation.

Burnbaum glanced up, distracted by the door as it swung open. ‘Ah, General. Come right in, please.’

‘Morning, Mr Ambassador,’ said a US Army two-star. I speculated about what his unit was and what his interest in the case might be. Maybe it was simply that because
they
had a general here, we had to have one too. He went straight up to his Turkish counterpart and shook the man’s hand. Like the Turkish general, ours was short. In addition to that, however, ours was narrow shouldered, bald on top and wore specs with thick, square-shaped green plastic rims. He reminded me of the guy who used to work in the Texaco down the road from the house I grew up in, back in the days when the attendants pumping gas and wiping windshields wore bow ties. If this guy had a wife, I bet her name was Edna. I further bet it was the pressure of Edna’s thumb that had worn the bald spot on his head. ‘So, you’re what Washington has sent us?’ he asked, his eyes bouncing between Masters and me like a pinball trapped between rebound cushions.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Masters. She introduced us by both by name, leaving out the rank.

‘Don’t you people ever wear a goddamn uniform?’ he quizzed, pursing his lips.

Masters and I let it go without an answer. The general would’ve known that we rarely wear uniforms for a reason – the reason being that, in civilian clothes, officers who outranked us thought there was a chance we might outrank them, and so wouldn’t pull the I-outrank-you bullshit when we questioned them. And even when we did wear ABUs,
airman battle uniforms, the standard Air Force combat camos, we wore them devoid of rank for the same reason. The general was just flexing his muscles, marking his territory, getting us back for having to wake up beside Edna.

The pin on his chest introduced him as Maj. General Buford Trurow. I’d never heard of him, but then I guessed he’d never heard of me either, so we were starting out even, more or less.

‘Don’t have to worry about introducing me to everyone, Ward,’ said Trurow, bursting with impatience. ‘If no one else is joining us, let’s just get on with it.’

Before Burnbaum could respond, the door opened and in walked a young captain juggling a bundle of satchels and a briefcase.

‘Cain,’ snapped General Trurow. ‘Where the hell’ve you been?
You
might have all day, but if you do, son, I’d like to know why.’

Refusing to be flustered, Captain Cain said, ‘Sir, the medical examiner has just finished the autopsy and the report was delayed.’

Trurow grunted and sat on a chair with his arms folded, doing his best to appear put out by the captain’s uncommon gall at arriving in the room after him. The Ambassador went through another round of flawless introductions.

I knew from the briefing we’d received in Washington that Captain Rodney Cain had been called in as the scene officer on the Portman case. Aside from supervising the crime scene and managing the USAF’s interest in the murder of one of its own, he would also have to liaise with the local authorities; in particular, as he’d said, the local medical examiner. From the looks on the faces of Detective Sergeants Karli and Iyaz, there wasn’t a lot of love lost between them and the captain. I guessed because Cain was doing his job. And maybe some of theirs, too.

I took in the room. There were quite a few people here, plenty of us and plenty of them, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone important was missing.

With one hand in his pocket and the other on his desk, and with the slightest movement of his head, Burnbaum conveyed that we should all
pay attention to something he wanted to say. He addressed the room, barely raising his voice. ‘I don’t have to remind anyone here about the sensitivity of this investigation. The human side of it is tragic enough. We’ve managed to keep the press out of it – which is helpful – and for this we have General Mataradzija to thank.’ He nodded at the general. ‘The reason for this get-together today is to introduce you to the special agents Washington has sent across to help the local effort, to share with them any developments in the case, and to give Special Agents Cooper and Masters the opportunity to ask any questions that may have occurred since they were briefed on the case yesterday in Washington. So . . . where shall we begin?’

‘Mind if I fire up my laptop, sir?’ asked Cain.

‘Please,’ said Burnbaum with a nod.

‘I also have a projector here. Would you have a power outlet I could plug into, sir?’

Burnbaum stood aside and indicated the floor behind him. Captain Cain squeezed past and fumbled around unseen on the floor.

Projector. I had the feeling we weren’t about to view holiday snaps.

‘Can we just get this show on the road?’ demanded Trurow after giving his wristwatch a double take.

Okay, General, I get it – you’re a busy man. I bet myself twenty bucks he’d be the first out, just so everyone in the room would know his time was the most valuable.

I sat with my legs stretched out in front of me, crossed my feet, and got comfortable. ‘The show’, as Trurow called it, would take as long as it took. If Trurow had better places to be, he’d be there. As for the Turkish police, I could see they were uncomfortable with the situation. This was their town, and the murder had happened on their soil. It would have been a different matter if the Attaché had been killed within the grounds of the embassy or the consulate – technically speaking, US sovereign territory and thus out of their jurisdiction. But he’d been murdered, according to the brief, in an apartment in the upmarket Istanbul suburb of Bebek, wherever that was.

‘Of course, General,’ said Burnbaum, as smooth as shaving cream in
response to Trurow’s impatience. ‘Perhaps our Turkish friends would care to go through the facts of the case.’

Detective Sergeant Umit Karli volunteered, taking half a step forward. He gave us the once-over before opening his mouth. I returned the compliment. The DS was five ten and built like a bag of dirty washing – narrow at the top, wide and round at the bottom. I pegged him as being around forty-five years old, but he could have been older. He was sporting a dark brown comb-over, the kind that’d make Donald Trump nod with admiration. The guy’s front fringe – which was probably a foot long in the shower – had been carefully arranged to hide the sparse turf on the crown of his head, and set in place with some kind of goop. But the truth was having its way and some nasty black freckles were revealing themselves on his noggin here and there between the strands. Classy. His pants were hitched halfway up his rib cage, the belt cinched tight. And I hate to go into details, but he dressed to the left – and with what I couldn’t help thinking were a few pairs of socks stuffed down there for added stature. He stood with hands on his hips, which had the effect of pulling open his jacket, revealing an empty underarm holster, his piece checked at the front door. ‘Before I begin, have you read report?’ he asked, addressing the question to me in heavily accented English.

Masters answered for me. ‘There was a report, but we don’t know whether it was yours.’

Karli glanced at his partner, Detective Sergeant Iyaz, who returned the look with the hint of a shrug. Iyaz, by the way, was around twenty-five and of average height and build. He didn’t have the regulation mo, but there was a deep five o’clock shadow across his cheeks and a brown spot in the centre of his forehead worn there by carpet rash from regular praying. His hair was jet black, combed back and as shiny as a beetle’s carapace.

Karli put a mint in his mouth and cracked it between his molars. ‘We find deceased on the floor of his study.‘

‘So,
you
found him?’ asked Masters, getting in before me.

‘No. A gendarme found him.’

‘Gendarme?’ Masters was on a roll.

‘Like a police officer, but also military,’ said Karli. From the look on his face I could see he couldn’t quite work out what they were dealing with in Anna Masters. His simpering smile told me he’d already convinced himself she wanted to sleep with him and his socks. But the jury in his mind was out on the question of whether this American woman was plain dumb or just thorough. She was beautiful, so the odds on dumb had to be good. And not a Moslem, so also therefore of loose morals, right? Who was I to get in the way of his voyage of discovery?