Hard Rain (33 page)

‘I will get a copy of the report and see you again when you are finished – in, say, around twenty minutes,’ Tawal informed us.

‘Take thirty minutes, if you like,’ I said.

Tawal switched on a smile that held about as much warmth as a photo of a long-life bulb.

‘So where’s the head of security?’ I asked our latest guide.

‘On leave.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Would you like to see our crows?’ Jarred asked cryptically.

‘Your what?’ Masters was going for clarification.

‘Yes, I will show you our crows. You will see what I mean.’ Jarred turned and walked in the opposite direction to the one Tawal had gone in.

We followed along behind. After a few steps, Masters gestured at his side-arm. ‘An unusual pistol you’ve got there, Jarred,’ she said. ‘What is it?’

‘A Barak.’

‘Never seen one before. Where’s it from?’

‘Kmart.’

Masters and I shared a glance. Another Barak SP-21: nine-millimetre, fifteen-round magazine, and as Israeli as a Jaffa orange. Maybe Israel was Jarred’s adopted country, which might explain the ambiguous accent.

‘Which Sayeret unit you serve in?’ I asked, playing a hunch, the Sayeret being the special forces arm of the Israeli Defense Forces.

Jarred turned his droopy eyes on me. He heard the question, but wasn’t prepared to answer. Maybe the guy had already used up his daily quota of idle conversation. He took us up a couple of floors via another elevator, along one more corridor and into a loading dock, passing at least thirty surveillance cameras and half-a-dozen armed men, who nodded respectfully at our guide.

A bunch of golf carts were parked in the bay, the shutter door banging and rattling with the weather pounding against it on the other side. A fine dust hung in the air and tickled the back of my throat.

‘I hope you don’t mind a little sand,’ Jarred said, hopping down a small flight of stairs and making his way to the cart closest to the shutter.

T
he sand in Iraq is not the kind of sand that kids build castles with at the beach. It’s about fifty times finer and, when pushed around by a wind that’s eighty-plus miles an hour, about a thousand times meaner. The fine, abrasive particles penetrate everything. They get inside your nose, your ears, your hair, inside your eye goggles, your gloves, under your fingernails, into your clothes, your pockets, your webbing, your shoes, your socks, your underwear. Even your cracks –
especially
your cracks. It penetrates everywhere, and I do mean everywhere. Machinery gets it worse. The dust combines with lubricants to form a paste that destroys bearing surfaces, which explains why our golf cart stopped dead fifty yards from the bunker and had to be pushed the remainder of the way, into the lee of a concrete wall.

‘These damn crows had better be worth it,’ I shouted into the howling wind, Masters beside me, back bent behind the cart.

‘What?’ she yelled back.

I shook my head. Translation: forget it.

The bunker rose out of the orange-red hellscape, the concrete curved dome of its roof a black silhouette in the haze. Jarred punched a code into a keypad, jerked open the heavy steel access door, then closed it behind us. Masters and I pulled off our Kevlar helmets and goggles
while Jarred coughed up a clod of brown paste and spat it on the ground.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Masters, shaking the grit out of her hair and blinking it out of her eyes. The air about us swirled with vortexes of fine power.

A phone on the wall rang. Jarred answered it while I took in the surroundings. There was nothing special about the bunker per se – just your usual reinforced, armour-plated speed bump for mobile attacking forces, though this one did have a twist.

‘That was Mr Tawal,’ said Jarred, interrupting my scoping. ‘Your escort has been recalled.’

‘They not coming back for us?’ Masters asked.

‘Not until the storm is over. It is getting worse. Mr Tawal has made accommodation arrangements for you.’

Nothing we could do about it. And maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. It might provide us with the opportunity to do a little more snooping, this time without a tour guide.

‘So, do you like our crows?’ Jarred asked.

I realised what Jarred had been referring to as soon as we’d walked in – the five .50-calibre M2 machine guns arrayed around the bunker wall. Each was set up as a Common Remotely Operated Weapon Station, or CROWS. I’d seen CROWS mounted on Humvees, but this was a variation on the theme. We went in for a closer look. I knew they could be programmed so as not to shoot off parts of their own vehicles, or in this instance, their own facility. A thick rubber boot between the wall and the barrel kept the dust out of the bunker, although I wouldn’t want to be in the vicinity if a round went down those barrels before they were cleaned.

‘This bunker, and eleven more like it, have been built around these CROWS,’ Jarred announced. ‘Some use your American Mk 19 forty-millimetre Automatic Grenade Machine Gun instead of the M2. The sensor array for the system is built into the hardened external concrete shell and includes a daylight video camera with a 120-power zoom, a thermal imager for night operations and a laser rangefinder for pinpoint
target acquisition. Each is furnished with a fully integrated fire control system. And if one array goes down, an array on a neighbouring bunker can take over. In this way, they are all as one.’ Jarred stroked the barrel with a lover’s touch. ‘Using a simple joystick, each weapon can be fired individually or linked together, and from a remote location.’

‘We’ve been there, seen that,’ I said, Masters nodding. The bank of screens each with a joystick – the facility’s control room was also the fire control centre.

‘The system can also be set to shoot automatically, and will do this in all weather, day or night.’

‘You here on commission?’ I asked.

He smiled. ‘I like this weapon.’

‘Never would’ve guessed,’ Masters said, arms folded.

‘How many mines you got out there?’ I asked.

‘I am not authorised to answer this question.’

‘What kind of mines are they – anti-personnel, penetrator?’

‘I am not authorised to answer this question.’

‘How many men you got enrolled in your private army here?’

‘I am not –’

‘We get the picture,’ I said.

‘Let us go back,’ he said, giving the machine gun a parting fondle.

On the way here the sand blast had been at our backs, but it was into our faces on the return journey. So, in a word, worse. Arriving in the loading dock, we took some time to shake the sand and grit out of our clothes.

‘Please let there be a damn shower in this place,’ Masters prayed aloud.

‘I will take you to Mr Tawal, now,’ Jarred said.

A short walk later, Jarred left us back in the boardroom, waiting for Tawal. I had no skin left in my crotch area, or under my arms where my shirt combined with sweat and dust to rub the skin raw.

‘So, what do you think of Kawthar al Deen?’ asked Tawal as he came through the door, his good humour having returned along with his smile.

‘Like Evian crossed with the Maginot Line,’ I said.

‘Yes, we are well defended, if it comes to that.’

‘And a handy place to launch an attack from, if you were so inclined,’ Masters observed.

Tawal’s smile left in such a hurry I almost felt the draught. ‘I have the report here,’ he said, ‘the environmental impact study that preceded the building of this facility. It is your copy to keep.’

‘Thanks,’ replied Masters, accepting the five or so pounds of printed report, tucking it under her arm.

‘I believe Jarred has told you about your escort?’ Tawal asked.

I nodded. ‘They were told to come inside out of the wind. Jarred informed us you’re going to put us up here.’

‘If that is suitable?’

‘If it comes with a shower, it’s suitable,’ said Masters.

‘I am sure that can be arranged. So, I am happy to answer any further questions you may have . . .’

I wanted to ask Tawal, just to gauge the reaction, if he’d had Colonel Portman, Bremmel, Doc Merkit, Emir and the others killed, only I had no follow-up answer if he responded by asking why he would want to do that. And as far as we could see, there was no motive wrapping this guy up with the murders. ‘Not for the moment,’ I said. ‘Though I suggest you don’t leave town till we’ve concluded our enquiries.’

‘You have no authority here – over me.’

‘We know that, Mr Tawal,’ Masters replied. ‘Like Special Agent Cooper said, it’s a suggestion.’

‘I have a conference in Cairo in two days time.’

‘I’m sure we won’t be keeping you that long,’ Masters promised.

Tawal snapped out a phrase in Arabic. The Iraqi servant appeared and stood stiffly at attention, waiting instructions. Tawal spoke to the guy like he was something that needed a saddle on its hump. He turned back to us. ‘Achmed will show you to your accommodation. I am around should you to desire to discuss anything further. Achmed doesn’t speak English, by the way, so there’s no point asking him anything. If you leave your uniforms and any gear you want cleaned outside your rooms, he
will see to it.’ Tawal stood, eager to leave. ‘Now, if there is nothing more, I have a desalination plant to get operational . . .’ He was out the door in four strides.

‘Shall we leave our sidearms and body armour outside for a little sprucing up?’ I asked.

Masters answered with half a smile.

The dust and sand blew across the windowpanes in heavy red waves, the glass flexing under the pressure. We could have been on Mars. Achmed cleared his throat to catch my attention, then gestured for us to follow, holding the door handle. The three of us retraced part of Tawal’s earlier tour, passing several armed personnel, who checked us over far more heavily than when we’d been accompanied by Jarred, their boss.

Coming around a corner, I collided with a guy in a white coat. I recognised him from the welt on his face. I noticed he also had a split across the bridge of his nose. He was one of Tawal’s whipping boys, the one I saw earlier in the control room. I looked at him, he looked at me, and then he dropped something – a small scrap of paper. And then he hurried off, leaving the scrap behind.

Achmed came back around the corner to check on the delay, but by then I was bent down, tying my shoelace, the scrap secured beneath my rubber combat sole. While fumbling knot number three, I checked the area for cameras. There were plenty, but all of them were pointed in other directions; we were in a blind spot. It occurred to me that the guy who left the note knew exactly what he was doing. Achmed glanced away, giving me enough time to palm the scrap.

After another five minutes spent walking around endless corridors, Achmed left us in adjoining rooms, Masters in one and me in another. I wondered whose reputation Tawal and Achmed were concerned about. Theirs? Masters’? Mine?

I looked around – a bed, no television, no mini-bar, no view. Not even of drainpipes on an adjacent building, on account of there being no windows at all. We had to be at least three floors underground. Off the main room was a small en-suite with a head, washbasin and shower. Folded neatly on the bed was a towel and a galabia – a jaunty orange
number with a blue and gold geometric pattern around the collar and down the front.

I tried the front door, the door I came in through. Locked. I heard Masters rattle the door between our rooms. Locked. ‘Are we under house arrest here?’ Masters asked on the other side, stating the obvious.

I picked the lock with the implement that lived in the spine of my notebook, and opened the connecting door. ‘Look what I found baked in a loaf of bread,’ I said, showing her the hacksaw blade.

‘You find a tunnel in there too?’ she enquired as I went to her front door.

The lock was too heavy and complex for the blade, so I went to the door connecting her room with the next and put my ear against it. Nothing. I picked the lock and did the same on the next two doors until I found a room with a main door unlocked.

One of the rooms was three times the size of the area Masters and I had been allocated. I counted ten bunk beds. I wondered how many rooms like the ones we’d just been through were duplicated here. I checked the hallway: clear, but well lit and covered by surveillance cameras. It was also long and ended in a right angle. I’d seen enough armed personnel walking about to believe that this part of the facility was probably being patrolled, especially now that we were occupying it. I closed the door.

‘Hey, before I forget, you must have tied your boot a half-dozen times back there,’ Masters said. ‘What was that all about?’

‘Did you say you wanted to take a shower?’ I asked, heading back to our allocated rooms.

Masters took the hint after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Yeah.’

I led the way to her bathroom and turned the cold tap to full on. Water blasted from the faucet. We then began checking the mirror, light fittings and ventilation grates for pinhole cameras. We found none. I had no idea why we’d been placed in these particular quarters, but neither of us was prepared to take unnecessary chances.

Reasonably satisfied that the room was secure, I took the scrap of paper out of my pocket. Maybe it was nothing special – the guy’s grocery
list. For all I knew, we’d seen Tawal beating up on him for dropping litter and here he was doing it again.

‘The technician, the one we saw Tawal working over. You didn’t see, but he bumped into me on purpose. He dropped this.’ I unfolded the scrap. ‘Might be nothing, or . . .’

‘Or what?’ she asked as I handed her the note.

‘Possibly a hell of a lot of something,’ I said.

‘Lat-long coordinates.’

‘You want to fire up your laptop? Think you’ll get a signal in this storm?’

‘Ought to,’ she replied. ‘Got ultra-wide band, and thanks to the US Army, there are plenty of repeaters.’ Masters went out and came back with her Toshiba. ‘Let’s do this quick and easy,’ she said as it booted. A minute later, Google Earth was up and running. ‘Give me a read back on those coordinates and I’ll punch them in.’

‘Thirty-two degrees fourteen minutes, two point nine-zero seconds north – forty-six degrees fifty-two minutes, sixteen point eight-six seconds east.’

Masters finished tapping the keys and the familiar blue earth rotated to focus on Iraq before the view zeroed in for a close-up. Masters clicked on a tool and obtained some distances.

‘Where are we?’ I asked.

‘You are here – Kawthar al Deen,’ she said, placing a yellow electronic pin in the map, almost on the border with Iran. ‘And whatever’s sitting on these coords is 14.99 miles west/south-west of us.’

‘Can you get in close on the location?’

Masters played with Google Earth’s buttons. ‘Nope, it’s pretty fuzzy. I guess the DoD isn’t keen on giving al Qaeda ground resolution it can use.’

‘Has to be something there. The guy risked his life getting us that scrap of paper,’ I said.

Masters gave me The Look.

‘Okay, he risked getting another good clipboarding. Fact is, we don’t really know what this Moses Abdul Tawal is capable of.’

‘Perhaps whatever we find there will give us a clue,’ Masters observed.

‘Can you get on to Christie through his regiment?’ I asked.

‘I’d say yeah, probably.’

‘Without giving him the specific locations, ask him whether there are any restricted areas – Coalition or Iraqi – on this side of the border, and within, say, twenty miles of this place.’

‘Okay . . . so, we done?’ Masters asked. ‘If we are, I might take that shower.’

‘Don’t let me stop you,’ I said, leaning against the basin.

‘Alone.’

‘Sure. And after you’ve emailed Christie, you might as well upload those photos you took earlier. Maybe the FBI or Homeland Security has something we can use.’

Masters nodded.

I gave her a smile.

‘Alone.’