Hard Rain - 03

by David Rollins

  Masters grinned. The waiter arrived with our drinks. I paid.

  ‘Ten Pin wasn’t the key,’ she said after a long sip. ‘He was too low on the totem. That leaves us with Bremmel and Portman.’

  ‘My money’s on Portman,’ I replied.

  ‘Based on . . . ?’

  ‘Bremmel was having too much fun plunging into his secretary.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘He seemed mostly preoccupied with his secretarial affairs. There was nothing to murder him for, not from what we’ve seen. Which leaves Portman, the first and by far the most meticulous and bloodthirsty of our murders. And then there was the robbery. Neither of the other two victims had anything taken from them, except their lives.’

  ‘Any bright ideas on why you think Portman was killed?’

  ‘No, but as we’re not looking for serial-killer types, we can look at his death as a straight murder case.’

  ‘And how might that change the way we’re investigating these murders?’ enquired Masters.

  ‘First, we need to go back to your room and get naked,’ I said.

  ‘And after I slap you and then bring a sexual harassment charge against you?’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure . . . We need to review what we have already – go back over the forensic report, revisit the crime scene, talk to the people we’ve talked to already, apply some pressure, shake the tree. There have to be details we’ve missed, or maybe previously meaningless items will suddenly become significant now we’re looking at this through a different lens. In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt to find out who or what Portman was so interested in down at Tallil.’

  Masters and I had been allocated quarters on base separated by half a mile, a minor blizzard and temperatures way below zero if the windchill factor was taken into account. I knew Masters well enough to figure she must have had a word in the ear of the folks who organised such things.

  Despite the ferocity of the night-time weather, the morning broke to a pale blue sky with visibility CAVU, as pilots say when there’s nothing to obstruct the view, and no wind. I had time to fix myself a black coffee before Johnny Oh arrived at 8:30 am, with Masters already in the co-pilot’s seat.

  ‘Morning,’ she said as I climbed in the back. ‘Sleep well?’

  Between the cracked rib, the general bruising and the cast on my arm, sleep had been a battle. ‘Like I’d been blown up earlier in the day,’ I replied.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘The Reapers have been out for a dawn run,’ said Johnny, who’d quickly learned to ignore the banter between Masters and me. ‘They should be touching down in around five minutes.’

  He took us down the flight line, past the wreckage of the destroyed F-16, which was now mostly blanketed by snow mixed with frozen white foam and surrounded by yellow crime-scene tape. A couple of hundred yards away, Ten Pin’s engine test bed was similarly ringed with tape, several MPs stamping their feet on the ice while they stood guard around it.

  We were parked off the side of the Tarmac allocated to the Reapers just as the first of four low-viz grey F-15 fighters touched down on the main runway with a scream and a blast of light-powdered snow. The frigid clear morning air rumbled as if a major storm was brewing nearby, indicating that the remainder of the squadron was cruising along the downwind leg of the landing pattern not far behind.

  Within minutes, the four-ship squadron was on the ground, taxiing towards us. The usual trucks and vans assembled to meet the arriving aircraft, prompting a flashback to the gruesome events of the day before.

  Masters and I stood beside the Explorer, trying to stuff the palms of our hands in our ears while the jets swung into positions dictated to them by the guys with the wands. The Eagles shut down one by one, stopping in a line as straight as a crease ironed into a pair of admiral’s pants.

  The name stencilled on the fuselage of the nearest F-15 told us it was flown by one Lieutenant Colonel Chip Woodward, the man who’d replaced Emmet Portman as squadron commander. The colonel’s helmeted head bobbed around as he performed various shutdown checks and suddenly the engines cut, their shriek dying instantly. The ground crew moved in and a short while later ‘Block’ was climbing down the side of his aircraft. As Masters and I approached him, I said, ‘He’s the guy in the photo, the one on Portman’s pin board.’

  ‘I thought he looked familiar,’ Masters replied.

  ‘Colonel Woodard,’ I said, ‘mind if we have a word?’ Masters and I both presented our shields.

  The colonel gave us a small double take. ‘Jesus Christ! Can’t that damn woman ever leave me the hell alone? I am getting tired of this goddamn BOHICA.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Masters, puzzled.

  ‘BOHICA – bend over, here it comes again,’ I translated.

  ‘You’re not here at her behest?’ Woodward asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Masters, still a little confused.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ he said, hands on hips, visibly relieved. ‘Thought she might have chased me all the way down-range. Wouldn’t have been the first time.’ He pulled a blister-pack of gum from a front pocket, pressed out a few pellets and popped them in his mouth. ‘You married?’ he asked, addressing the question to me.

  ‘Divorced.’

  ‘Then you know the score. Met her on I & I. Then twelve months ago, she meets the love of her life, a saxophone player in a local jazz band, for Christ’s sakes, and expects me to goddamn pay for them to shack up together.’

  I chose not to kick my own tale of marriage woes into the pot. Instead, and before Masters could ask, I leaned into her ear and whispered, ‘I & I – intoxication and intercourse. Just like R & R, only more accurate.’

  Woodward turned to Masters. ‘How about you, Special Agent? You still a virgin in the matrimonial stakes?’

  ‘Engaged, Colonel.’

  ‘Then you’re standing on the edge of the precipice. Two words of advice, young lady: step back. You’re walking into a sure-fire charlie foxtrot.’

  ‘We’re here to ask you some questions about Colonel Portman,’ Masters said, failing to keep the annoyance out of her voice – ‘charlie foxtrot’ meaning CF for cluster fuck.

  ‘Emmet? That’s why you wanna talk? Poor bastard. I heard the guy was FUGAZI.’

  ‘FUGAZI?’ Masters enquired, her head on a tilt.

  ‘Army talk for Fucked up, got ambushed, and zipped in to a body bag. Give me a minute and I’ll let the boys know I’ll be getting a ride to the maintenance debrief with you.’

  ‘Can we stop off and get an interpreter for this guy?’ Masters asked under her breath as the colonel went to pull over a truck coming our way.

  The truck wasn’t a bread van but it still reminded me of the one that had stopped behind Ten Pin. I gave the driver an eyeballing while Woodward went around the back and told his people that he’d be riding with us. The truck drove off and someone called out, ‘Okay, see you back at the ranch, Block.’

  The colonel turned in time to see my smirk. ‘A name like Woodward and my parents have to go and call me Chip,’ he explained. ‘So for the rest of my life I’m a chip off the ol’ you-know-what.’

  Masters held the rear door open for the colonel.

  ‘Why, thank you, Special Agent,’ he said as he took a seat. Colonel Woodward was average height and weight, in his early forties, with light brown, close-cropped hair and tan skin. His eyes were a cool light blue – two chips of the winter sky.

  ‘Where can I take you, sir?’ asked Oh.

  ‘Just follow that there six-pack,’ said the colonel, indicating the vehicle ferrying the pilots in his flight.

  ‘Colonel Woodward, how long did you know Colonel Portman?’ Masters asked, getting on with business.

  ‘Around twelve months, give or take.’

  ‘Did you get to know him well?’

  ‘Well enough to have had a cordial friendship and, I hope, share a mutual respect. Emmet’s were big shoes t
o fill.’

  ‘Do you believe he would have confided in you any troubles he might have been having?’

  ‘Possibly – I don’t know. We’ve all got our own crap, right? But as far as I know, he had no enemies. In fact, I honestly can’t recall anyone having a bad word to say about him. Sure, Emmet Portman was ambitious, but he was also one of the good guys. What can you say about something like this besides FISHDO?’

  ‘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 s
poke.

  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.’

  Twenty-four

  Masters 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.