Hard Rain - 03

by David Rollins

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘That’s good. Istanbul is city for lovers.’

  I glanced out the Renault’s window. So I’d been told.

  ‘I stop talking. You enjoy Istanbul,’ said Emir, reading the mood of his passenger like I was a street sign, one that said: ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  I felt like sightseeing as much as I felt like talking. I wanted to say to Masters that her fiancé had come to embody the blind obstinacy of a government policy that was cold, heartless and plain unfair. I thought about my buddy back home who’d be spending the rest of his shortened life bouncing in and out of medical centres, reduced to eating what he could suck through a straw. Outside, the high-voltage electricity towers and tenements drifted by beneath a chill blue sky. Away in the distance a low grey line of cloud hung like sludge above the horizon, threatening.

  ‘Okay,’ said Emir, pulling over. ‘We are here.’

  It had been a quick drive. I read the fare off the meter and pulled out my wallet.

  ‘So, how about it? You want driver for your stay in Istanbul, sir?’

  ‘Can you give me a receipt for that?’ I asked, as I handed over the cash.

  ‘Yes, my cell number is on the receipt.’ He scribbled the fare paid onto a pad, tore off the sheet and handed it to me. Then he began fishing around for change.

  ‘Keep it,’ I said. I climbed out of his living room and strolled over to the boom gate. In the reflection of the security glass beyond, I saw Emir waving me goodbye like I was headed off on a long trip and he was going to miss me.

  Masters didn’t look up when I walked in. She was on the phone saying ‘Uh-huh’ and doodling stars on the pad in front of her. I took a seat behind the mother-of-pearl desk, beneath the painting of the guy striding over a trash heap of body parts stewing in blood. The painting gave me the creeps.

  The desk was sparsely populated with a flat computer screen and keyboard, a phone, a Rolodex business-card holder that appeared to be full, a manila folder, a pen and a pencil. A handwritten note signed by Rodney Cain told me the Rolodex was Portman’s. I swiped my common access card and the computer screen came to life. Apparently, I had mail. I clicked. The mail was from Cain.

  I clicked again. Masters had been copied. The email read: Here you go, Special Agents. Just click on the link. Warning – there’s a lot here to go through. One thing I haven’t sent you is a link to the electronic diary kept by Colonel Portman. I tried to open it and the file is corrupted. I spoke to IT services about it and they said there’s nothing they can do to fix it. If you need any help at all, just holler.

  The news about the diary was disappointing. Knowing where Portman had been recently and who he’d been with might have been an asset. Nothing we could do about it.

  ‘Shame about the diary,’ Masters commented from across the room.

  I nodded as I clicked on the link to Portman’s email box. I wound through a turn or two of the Rolodex while I waited for the file to open fully. At a glance, most of the recent email traffic – for the past few months, at least – seemed to be between Portman and various people at an organisation called TEI, the local aerospace company making General Electric jet engines for Turkish Air Force F-16s, and General Electric in the States. That seemed reasonable given the Air Attaché’s main focus before his murder, which was working on the Turks’ F-16 upgrade.

  Next I opened his phone records. Captain Cain had had the good sense to attach names to the numbers. At some stage, I would have to take a couple of days to go through both files properly, but this was not the day.

  Masters sat opposite at another desk, similarly furnished. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Where you been?’ she asked.

  ‘Istanbul,’ I replied.

  She glanced at the ceiling like she was hoping to find strength up there, then held the handset away from her ear, her hand still covering the mouthpiece. ‘Got the leasing agent here,’ she said. ‘Portman had that second safe installed without informing them.’

  ‘So it definitely wouldn’t have shown up on any plans,’ I said. Masters’ hunch had paid dividends. I told myself that if I didn’t smarten up, she’d become the brains of the operation.

  ‘They want to know when they’ll be able to re-lease the residence.’

  I thought about my T-shirt. ‘Tell them after the cleaners have finished dissolving it.’

  Masters went back to saying uh-huh. I opened the manila folder in front of me. Inside was a bunch of official OSI forms outlining the charge of rape against Staff Sergeant Mort Gallagher, the case down at Incirlik Air Base that Portman had, according to Ambassador Burnbaum, intended to look into. Beneath these was the original employment form filled out by one Adem Fedai, manservant to Colonel Portman. Fedai was thirty-three, single, five eight, and 150 pounds. If he were a boxer, he’d be a junior middleweight. I looked at the photo. Eyes: brown. Moustache – of course. I copied his home address into my notebook.

  ‘There’s also this,’ said Masters, done with her phone call. She slid a couple of sheets of paper across the desk towards me.

  The one on top was a letterhead with a shield and the words ‘Istanbul Emniyet Müdurlügü’ – Police Administration. I couldn’t read the contents as they were written in Turkish, but stapled to it was the translation: it was a report from Istanbul police forensics. I scanned it. Apparently, tests had determined the make-up of the explosives used to blow Colonel Portman’s wall safe: HMX mixed in with some LX-14, a plastic bonded explosive that’d stop the HMX blowing up if the handler happened to sneeze. Familiarity told me this kind of explosive was used in high-performance anti-armour warheads rather than heists. ‘So it was military. They got a spectroscopy analysis?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Masters held up a couple more sheets of paper, giving them a waggle. ‘And if you’re asking because you want to send it on to the FBI – done it. It’ll take them a few days to get back to us.’ She raised an eyebrow, daring me to say something.

  ‘Good,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ she repeated.

  ‘Good,’ I repeated back.

  ‘Okay, then . . .’ she said.

  I left the field of battle and toyed with the scene-of-the-crime report. Each type of explosive had its own distinctive spectroscopic signature, its own chemical fingerprint, which could be cross-referenced with the FBI’s explosives database. Not only could the database confirm the type used on the Attaché’s safe as being military, but it would also tell us whose military used it. And, of course, who manufactured it.

  The door swung open and a man strode in, a big, round man. I guessed he was about 300 pounds and in his mid fifties. ‘You must be Special Agent Cooper,’ he said, holding out a hand the size of a Christmas ham to shake on the fact. ‘I’m Harvey Stringer, chief political adviser hereabouts. Ambassador Burnbaum asked me to come on over. I believe the OSI is now leading the investigation into Colonel Portman’s murder.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied.

  The translation for ‘chief political adviser’ was CIA head of station. Harvey Stringer was balding, the remaining hair as fine and white as gossamer. It wafted about, catching the light from a window behind him like flares off the sun. He wore wide suspenders spotted with pink and blue polka dots. They held up loose-fitting pants big enough to pitch and sleep four in comfort. His head was also big and round, with small, snug-fitting ears and a large red nose. Maybe he’d just come off working undercover at the local circus.

  ‘And you must be Special Agent Masters,’ he said, taking a mere step and a half to reach her desk. ‘I’m pleased to meet ya’ll, though I’m sorry it has to be under such disturbing circumstances.’

  Stringer took Masters’ hand within his and it disappeared, swallowed whole. I noted he gave her the two-handed preacher shake, for extra saccharine. The accent placed Harvey Stringer from down Alabama way. I wondered if maybe he’d shared a bucket of fried chicken with Special Agents Seb Goddard and Arlow Mallet.

  ‘The Ambassador told me you
good people wanted to talk a few things over,’ he continued. ‘So here I am. Let’s talk. Mind if I sit?’ He let out a grunt as he lowered himself into a worn leather armchair.

  ‘Thanks for stopping by, sir.’ I took a moment to flick through my notebook to help get my brain into gear for this impromptu visit. ‘Just at the moment, because we don’t know what we’re looking for, we’re checking on everything – the deceased’s recent movements, people who worked for him, people he would have met. Sir, we noted from his flight record that he was an appi-8. He was a unique individual, and this is known to be a pretty hot part of the world. Put the two together and we imagined there might have been some call on the Attaché’s time from certain quarters.’

  ‘So, you think he might have been working on . . . special projects. Is that what you’re sayin’? Something that might account for the way he was killed?’

  ‘In a nutshell, sir,’ Masters said.

  Stringer shook his big head from side to side. ‘Sorry, can’t help you there. I can assure you that Colonel Portman was not on the Company payroll, though I can honestly say we’d have welcomed his input on a couple of things. He simply didn’t have the time. Too busy with the Turkish Air Force, I believe.’

  ‘We know about that,’ Masters confirmed.

  ‘Had he ever done any work for the Company in Turkey?’ I asked.

  Stinger massaged his chin with that Christmas ham of his. ‘Hmm . . . Well over a year ago, he helped us out with an operation to find an al-Qaeda terrorist cell looking to cause some mischief around Incirlik Air Base.’

  ‘But nothing more recently?’ I asked, pushing. ‘Seems odd to us that a guy like Portman wouldn’t be involved in, if not black ops, then at least something brown.’

  Stringer replied after a moment of what could have been irritation. ‘No, nothing. On official business or otherwise.’ He then glanced from me to Masters, waiting for a question. When none came, he stood. I noted there was no grunt this time. He got to his feet light as a blimp and almost as big. ‘Well, if there’s nothing more . . . ?’

  I found myself wondering how much of this guy’s mannerisms was theatre – maybe he’d just been putting on a show. Why was I surprised? It was my experience that clowns didn’t usually make it to the corner offices in the Company’s executive structure.

  ‘I very much hope ya’ll catch this killer,’ Stringer added, adjusting his braces. ‘Like I said, if there’s anything I can help you with, you got my full cooperation. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have a luncheon engagement.’

  In fact, there was something the Company could help us with, but I knew that before a man like Stringer would give, he’d have to receive. ‘Sir,’ I began, ‘we’re checking out a theory that there might have been two killers.’

  ‘Two killers . . .’ he repeated, nodding, considering the possibility, accepting the gift of information. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘When the assailants blew the Attaché’s safe, we believe they used blast blankets to deaden the sound. Those things are heavy. Add to that the rest of the stuff they left behind in the drain.’

  ‘I’ve seen the inventory,’ Stringer agreed. ‘So, all up, more than one person could carry. Makes sense.’

  ‘Special Agent Masters and I also believe they may have had a boat moored out in the Bosphorus as their base – used scuba gear, floated everything in, and maybe sunk everything they didn’t need or want to leave behind on the way back out.’

  Stringer nodded again. ‘It’s still making sense.’

  ‘We’d like to know if the Bosphorus happened to be under any useful footprints on the night in question,’ said Masters, cutting to it.

  ‘Hmm . . .’ He pondered the request as well as its implications, drumming his huge fingers on the desk. This was always going to be a tough ask. While satellite photographs might allow us to identify such a boat, perhaps even helping us identify the killers, the downside would be – if it ever got out, and most likely it would – an admission that we were spying on Turkey, which was supposed to be an ally. ‘I’m not sure I can do that,’ he said finally, ‘even if there was a bird overhead at the time. Which I doubt,’ he added for safety.

  Stringer was back-pedalling fast enough to win the Tour de France sprinter’s jersey.

  ‘Have you considered that they could also have been dropped off and picked up by legitimate vessels?’ he asked.

  ‘No, we hadn’t, sir.’

  ‘Something to think about, maybe.’ He cracked a knuckle. ‘Anyhow, I can certainly put your request to the people who decide these things,’ he continued. ‘Y’all just let me know if there’s anything else I can do.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Well, it’s been great to meet you.’ With that, he gave us a wave and closed the door behind him as he left.

  ‘Y’all just let me know if there’s anything else I can do,’ Masters mimicked, ‘. . . so as I can sit on it.’

  ‘Where it’d have no chance of ever seeing the light of day,’ I added. I wondered what else he might have up there – a large boat came to mind.

  ‘So much for the full-cooperation bit. Especially when it comes to satellites.’

  I sat on the corner of the desk, picked up a pen and used it to scratch the itch down inside my cast. Something was bugging me. I knew if I thought about it too hard, I’d lose it permanently, so I let it go – whatever it was. Maybe it would hit me over the head at 3 am.

  Stringer. If I was head of CIA operations out this way, I would probably be pretty interested to know why a serious embassy asset was chopped into snack-size pieces, wouldn’t I? That got me to thinking: if I really was Stringer, and he was me, the only reason I’d play dumb would be because I had something I didn’t want me to know. That made me wonder what I knew that I wasn’t telling myself, and why the hell I’d allowed myself to put on so much weight.

  The photo of Portman’s manservant, Adem Fedai, caught my eye, distracting me. Fedai had a pleasant face, but it was a head-and-shoulders shot. The guy could have been smiling sweetly while, unseen and out of frame, his hands held a little girl’s pet rabbit as it struggled under water. Jeffrey Dahmer had a pleasant face too. He –

  A rolled-up ball of paper pinged off my head. ‘Cooper, you still with us?’ It was Masters, on the phone, her hand over the mouthpiece again. ‘It’s Cain. We’ve got another murder.’

  Nine

  The plant room was not much bigger than a phone booth, or maybe I just thought of it that way because of the absurd number of people trying to squeeze into it. The room was on the bottom floor of the Istanbul Hilton parking lot, which was underground a hundred or so yards away from the hotel itself. We were all there to see the one person who didn’t mind being crammed into the small space, on account of the fact that his head had been removed from his neck with a tree saw.

  An ambulance had been called to the scene. A man I took to be the janitor was sitting in the back of the vehicle, being attended to by paramedics. The guy, an old man in faded grey coveralls with a blue Hilton logo on his breast pocket, was sucking oxygen from a mask attached to his face. He was shaking his head and gesticulating as he talked to the uniform cop taking his statement.

  Masters and I had been called to the scene not because the victim was an American. And it wasn’t because he carried a Californian driver’s licence, either. The clincher was that he appeared to have a finger inserted in his anus. Someone else’s finger.

  ‘Looks familiar,’ said Captain Cain, stepping out of the plant room. ‘They were right to call us.’ The parking lot filled with silent lightning as the forensics team took their digital snaps. ‘It’s similar to the Portman murder, but different. A variation of the MO – no systematic dismemberment this time – but the same casual über-violence. Along with the decapitation, both hands were severed. Smells like chloroform was again used to subdue the victim.’

  ‘Any bones missing from this one?’ Masters asked.

  Cain shook his head. ‘N
o, they all appear to be present and accounted for.’ He rubbed the top of his head.

  ‘Maybe the killer was disturbed,’ Masters ventured.

  Yeah, ‘disturbed’ was one way to put it.

  ‘I’m going to step way out on a limb here,’ he said, ‘and say the finger they found in his ass is one of Colonel Portman’s.’

  Exactly how many human bones were out there doing the rounds in this city, being passed from one murder victim to the next? Unless they did things different here in Istanbul, not many, I’d have thought. ‘What’s the janitor’s story, Captain?’ I asked.

  ‘As far as I can make out, he’d come to the end of his shift and was locking up for the night. He found the door ajar, Goldilocks inside and the porridge all gone.’

  Dropped on the floor beside the open plant room door, I noticed, was a broom with a wide bristle head. ‘Did the janitor leave the door unlocked?’

  ‘Must have,’ said Cain. ‘The lock wasn’t forced or drilled out.’

  ‘What about the murder weapon or weapons – anything apart from the saw left behind again?’

  ‘They’ve searched. Nothing else has been recovered.’

  ‘So then, what’s the connection between the victim and Portman, aside from what we already know?’ Masters asked.

  ‘You mean, aside from the fact that he worked for General Electric and was helping Portman with the F-16 upgrade?’ I said.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Masters turned to face me.

  ‘His California driver’s licence says his name’s Dutch Bremmel. There’s a Dutch Bremmel, a retired US Air Force lieutenant colonel, working for TEI. Bremmel was General Electric’s man working with the Turks. There were emails back and forth between him and Portman, as well as his business card in Portman’s Rolodex.’ Could be a coincidence, but I doubted it. ‘You didn’t happen to notice Bremmel’s name on Portman’s computer, did you, Rodney?’

  Cain looked sheepish. If a tin can had been lying around on the ground, he’d have probably kicked it. ‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t managed to spend too much time with the Attaché’s files.’