Hard Rain - 03

by David Rollins

  On the back of the envelope was the address of the residence I was standing in – Portman’s – but no name. Predictably, given the letter’s addressee, across the front of the envelope was scrawled ‘RETURN TO SENDER’. There were enough stamps to start an album, ensuring it made the round trip. The postmark indicated that the letter’s journey had begun just over three weeks ago.

  The sender had to have been Colonel Emmet Portman. Furthermore, he must have addressed it the way he had to keep the contents out of circulation for a period of time, the time it takes a letter to make the trip from Istanbul to New York and back again. I tapped the envelope on my fingertips, considering whether to open it. After travelling thousands of miles and passing through at least half-a-dozen pairs of hands, one more set wouldn’t compromise the envelope’s forensic value, would it?

  I took the letter to the kitchen, slit it open with a bread knife and shook the contents out onto the bench. A single sheet of paper. On it, printed in neat black ink, same as the handwriting on the envelope, was a single line of numbers and letters: L12R25L36R19L51. Goddamn it – the combination for a safe!

  I raced up the stairs again, all the way to the second-floor sitting room, gripping the sheet at a corner between thumb and forefinger. I pulled the chair away, rolled back the carpet and flipped up the floor tile. After pushing the safe door closed and spinning the knob left and right to lock it, I dialled in the combination from the letter . . . and the door popped ajar. Je-sus! I sat back on the floor with another burst of those prickles running up my spine.

  Portman must have known he was in danger. So he’d put . . . what? Evidence of some kind? Whatever, he’d put it in the safe and then sent the combination to the US and back. Portman had locked something away, something to be found in the event of his death, and it had all been removed on the night he was killed.

  Twenty-five

  The cab pulled up outside Portman’s place. I got in. The driver wanted to know where to, which was precisely the question I was wrestling with. The hours off that Masters had demanded had yet to pass. But enough afternoon delight was enough, especially when Colonel Dick Wad was the one giving it. The general R-rated nature of those thoughts had made me think of Doc Merkit. I needed to pay her a visit too, and managed a reasonable job of convincing myself that said visit had nothing to do with the potential of once again seeing her without her clothes on. So I tossed a coin and let it decide.

  A short ride later, I pulled up outside the familiar pink shoebox in Beyoglu. The lights were on, holding back the gloom of the mid afternoon. Wind whipped down the street in a sudden blast that turned a couple of umbrellas inside out. I huddled into my jacket, took the steps up to the front door, and rang the bell. I heard footsteps and then the door opened and I was looking into the doc’s deep-sea eyes. She was smiling, pleased to see me. The feeling was mutual.

  ‘Vin! You must come in. Hurry, it is cold out there,’ she said, scooping me in with a wave of her arm. The house was warm but the doc was dressed as if it wasn’t, in a thick woollen sweater the colour of corn meal that hung mid-thigh, and a sea-blue scarf covering her hair that framed her face. Beneath the sweater was a narrow sheath of dark blue fabric that forced her to take small quick steps. Her feet were bare. ‘You have caught me relaxing,’ she said, a little self-conscious.

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Please, it is okay.’

  ‘Where’s Nasor?’ I asked.

  ‘He has gone back to university and my receptionist is still sick. I have no patients today, so I am closed.’ She shrugged. ‘I was making some apple tea. You would like some too?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. The doc made it easy to be accommodating.

  ‘I saw you outside in the street earlier – before an hour or so. Was it you or is there someone else in Istanbul who looks just like you?’

  ‘That was me,’ I admitted as I walked behind her to the kitchen.

  ‘You left before I could invite you to come in.’

  ‘I walked here from the Sultanahmet,’ I said. ‘I had some things on my mind. The walk helped.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘I went back to Portman’s home – to have another look around the crime scene.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, pouring the tea into the small, traditional bell-shaped glasses. ‘I heard from Captain Cain about what happened at Incirlik. He told me you were lucky not to have been killed.’ The doc was frowning. I couldn’t help but notice she frowned sexy, too.

  ‘Cain’s prone to exaggeration.’ I was suddenly aware of my cracked rib. It was throbbing beneath the bandages. ‘You mind if we sit down somewhere? Been kind of a long day.’

  ‘You are injured. I was about to take a bath – you must have it.’

  I had the picture of the doc all soaped up and slipping around with me in the tub. It took an effort to wrench myself away from the happy thought. I said no thanks and meant to leave it there, but I heard myself add, ‘Maybe later.’

  She nodded as if that would be fine, and sat beside me on the couch. I did my best to try to stick to the point. ‘So . . . Cain tell you about the man killed down there and what they found on him?’

  ‘Yes. Again, like the Bremmel murder, I think this is now definitely not the work of serial killers,’ she said. ‘The murders are not happening for psychological reasons.’ The doc handed me a glass of tea.

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The other murders were a smoke screen – a diversion. I believe Portman was assassinated, removed for perhaps political reasons.’

  Aysun sipped her tea, giving herself a moment to consider it. ‘What makes you think this?’

  I gave her a rundown on the significant developments, starting with her own theory that Bremmel’s murder was too different from Portman’s to have been the work of what was ordinarily deemed a serial killer. There was the FBI’s confirmation that the explosives used to blow Portman’s wall safe were military, made in the USA; the discovery of the blast blankets and other items in the Bosphorus and the related sinking of the Onur with the loss of all hands. Then, of course, there was the mysterious presence of the supposed ‘agents’ and their hunt for Adem Fedai, Portman’s manservant, the man I was certain had cleaned out the hidden floor safe when he arrived for work. There were other factors, too, ones that didn’t seem to fit any scenario other than that of a planned and systematic attack: the break-in at the leasing agent’s offices to steal the floor plans for Portman’s residence; the care with which the crime scenes had been managed to lead us down blind alleys; the letter containing the safe combination that Portman effectively posted to his own address, proving he believed himself to be in mortal danger.

  ‘Do you have any suspects?’ she asked finally.

  ‘No.’ The admission pricked the soap bubble, the feeling I had that this case was finally leading somewhere. Pop. I shifted on the seat and the rib hooked my breath, causing me to grit my teeth.

  Doc Merkit matched my discomfort with a look of concern. ‘Please, Vin. Come with me.’ She got up from the couch, stepped over a pile of books and helped me stand. She led me down to the back of her house and into the bathroom. ‘Here, sit,’ she said, indicating an old wooden chair.

  I eased down onto it with a grunt that reminded me of the way the cleaner over at Portman’s moved. I glanced in the mirror and rubbed the growth on my chin and cheeks. I was even starting to look like her.

  The doc struck a match and lit two fat candles on the broad, white marble benchtop. She then kneeled in front of me and began unlacing my shoes.

  ‘Doc, I don’t have time . . .’

  ‘You have never had a Turkish girlfriend.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Turkish women know how to care for a man.’ She slipped off my boots.

  ‘I’m sure that’s true, doc, but . . .’

  ‘Shh.’

  I put up about as much resistance as an old drunk with a fresh bottle.

  Doc Merkit stood and removed the he
adscarf. Her hair was tied in a ponytail. She removed the elastic from her hair and shook it out for that just-had-sex look. The sweater came next, and she pulled it over her head. The blue sheath beneath it was a dress made from some stretch fabric that followed the curves of her body, with low off-the-shoulder sleeves cut to accentuate the narrowness of her waist and the swell of her breasts. I had a little swelling of my own.

  She leaned over, unzipped my jacket and helped me out of it. ‘Can you lift your arms?’

  ‘Yep,’ I said.

  ‘Show me.’

  I showed her and the doc gently eased the T-shirt over my head. My chest was tightly bandaged.

  ‘These . . . I can do them better,’ she said, running a hand across the strapping. ‘A doctor must be good for something, don’t you think?’

  ‘Must be,’ I replied, by this stage not really caring what her prowess with a bandage was like.

  She released the clips that kept the elastic tight around my ribs and the sudden drop in pressure caused me to flinch. ‘I am sorry,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s okay, doc, though I think I’m going to need a lot of sympathy.’

  She smiled and stood. I did likewise and she rolled the bandages off my torso, eventually revealing a large black bruise the colour of spoilt plums. ‘What did this to you?’ she asked, running her fingers gently over the discolouration that now occupied most of my left-hand side.

  ‘My job spec.’ The meeting in the park with the woman called Yafa and her brass knuckles came briefly, but vividly, to mind.

  The zip coming down on my pants refocused my attention. The doc dropped them to the floor, along with my shorts, and I helped the process, stepping over them, naked.

  She ran her fingertips over the puckered entry scars of various lead slugs that had passed through my upper body on the way to other places. ‘You have been in a war,’ she said.

  ‘Or two.’

  Her hands dropped to Little Coop, who was showing off as usual. She took hold with both hands. ‘This is much better than toys,’ she told me, and our mouths came together in a kiss that was hot and wet.

  When we finally broke, she said, ‘Now, I will do your back.’

  I was hoping she’d do other parts of me. She helped me settle into the bath, which was the size of a spa. I turned to watch the doc peel herself out of her dress. And then her black lace bra. And then the small triangle of black lace covering the smaller black triangle beneath. She stepped down into the bath, her large breasts snubbing gravity and bouncing – it seemed to me – happily.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘You are smiling.’

  ‘You’ve got plenty for me to smile about, doc.’

  She sat behind me, picked up a loofah and gently went to work. ‘You did not need to see me about the case. You could have called to talk about it. Why did you really come?’

  I’d managed to convince myself that this visit was legit, but not the doc. ‘You’re right, I could have phoned,’ I said. ‘Maybe I wanted to see how you were getting along. Y’know, holding on to your virginity till you were thirty-one – maybe I was feeling guilty about you losing it in my hotel room.’

  ‘I am the one who lost it, not you. I have no regrets. It was time. But I will not take out an advertisement in the newspaper to make an announcement.’

  ‘So you’re okay?’

  ‘Yes, but afterwards . . . I prayed it would not take another thirty-one years to happen again. And here you are.’

  That sounded to me like a cue. I turned, pulled her towards me, and we slid around on each other like a couple of horny tuna fish.

  Twenty-six

  The guy with the urn on his back was loitering outside the Charisma, plying the tourist trade. My cab caught his attention as it pulled up, but his eyes slid off my face when I got out. This was one ambulance he’d given up chasing.

  I crossed the empty foyer to the elevator, which happened to arrive with a perfectly timed ping as I stepped up to it. The doors parted, revealing Lieutenant Colonel Wadding. He was staring at the floor as if a good friend had just been buried there. The noise of the elevator against its stops snapped the guy out of it.

  ‘Special Agent Vincent Cooper,’ he said when he raised his head and saw me, hitting the charm button. ‘I’ve been hoping to run into you.’ I noted that the guy’s hair was wet. I wondered how clean his back was.

  ‘I’d like to say the feeling’s mutual, Colonel, only I don’t happen to be driving a bus.’

  Wadding bared his dental veneers at me. ‘You’re a funny man, Cooper. Say, I checked up on your friend – Tyler Dean. Y’know, it’s such a shame he’s gone. As a good friend of yours, I’d have enjoyed . . . well, I’d have enjoyed making his life even more miserable than it already was.’

  I saw the red mist. ‘You need to get out of my way before we both regret it.’

  ‘Unless you’ve forgotten, Cooper, I’m JAG, as well as being a superior officer – a colonel, remember? So, as they say, go ahead and make my day.’

  ‘You’re not worth the skinned knuckle, Dick Wad.’

  His eyes narrowed at the mention of his call sign. Maybe he wasn’t aware it had gone public. ‘You can refer to me as “sir”.’

  ‘I think that’s unlikely.’

  Wadding gave a small snort and a smile crept over his lips like something out of a hole. ‘Anna told me you and she used to be involved. Now that I know a little about you – your prospects, your attitudes – I really do find it hard to believe.’ He shook his head to further illustrate his point. ‘Y’all know what I love most about your ex-girlfriend?’

  I’d changed my mind about wanting to hit the guy. My new problem was deciding where.

  Wadding took half a step forward and whispered in my ear, ‘It’s the way she shudders when she comes.’

  ‘Vin,’ said Masters, suddenly appearing on the stairs beside the elevator shaft. ‘Is that your foot jammed against the door?’ She peered around the corner to confirm it. ‘So you’re the hold-up. You know you’re keeping the whole damn building waiting?’ She was smiling, but the smile faded when she caught the mood. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, Anna,’ Wadding replied. ‘Vin and I were just exchanging pleasantries. Call you later.’ He kissed her on the cheek and strode off into the gathering dusk.

  Emir was angry, throwing us around as he carved up the traffic. As for Masters, she hadn’t said a word since we’d left the hotel.

  ‘So, what do you see in this guy?’ I asked, kicking things off.

  ‘Which guy? Emir?’

  ‘She speaks . . . No, not Emir.’

  ‘Which reminds me. Why did you fire him?’ Masters asked.

  Emir’s eyes were hot, flitting from the road ahead to the rear-view mirror. He dragged on his Camel and the orange embers gave his features an evil cast.

  ‘We die, Emir, and you’re a dead man,’ I warned.

  ‘Vin!’

  ‘Forget Emir,’ I said. ‘I’m talking about Wadding.’

  ‘I won’t have that conversation with you, Vin. Not here, not now. And maybe not ever.’

  ‘Over at Ramstein. You said you were helping Wadding. What were you helping him with?’

  ‘I’m not a hundred-per-cent certain but I think that’s classified. And if it’s not classified, it’s privileged.’

  ‘You’re not a lawyer, so those rules don’t apply. Just tell me what you were doing and quit stalling.’

  Masters turned away, adjusted her jacket, thinking about it. ‘I was his liaison.’

  ‘His liaison for what?’

  ‘There were experiments with armour on the base. They shot it up with DU.’

  ‘What did the tests show?’

  ‘Look, I can’t –’

  ‘What did they show, damn it?’ I asked again.

  ‘What do you think they showed, for Christ’s sake? You subject anything to a hard rain of depleted uranium ammunition and wha
t’s left is radioactive and stays that way for four-and-a-half-billion years.’

  ‘And the guy who’s going to twist that up so that the men and women who fought our wars lose their battles with cancer – he’s the guy you’re going to spend the rest of your life with?’

  ‘Oh, come on . . .’

  ‘Well, aren’t you?’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry about Tyler,’

  ‘Then why don’t you call his wife?’ I challenged. ‘Her name’s Katie, by the way. Yeah, call Katie and let her know just how sorry you are for her and the twins – their names are Talia and Montana. You’ve known Wadding for maybe six weeks plus change. Do you really have any idea what you’re letting yourself in for with this asshole?’

  ‘He’s an advocate, Vin – an attorney. Attorneys sometimes take unpopular cases, root for what seems like the wrong team, unpopular causes. But that’s the system, that’s how it works. You can’t hate him for it.’

  No, now it was a lot more than that. It’s the way she shudders when she comes.

  Masters folded her arms tight like they were secured that way with straps. I went into a huddle with the door. Emir swerved into Kaplicalar Mevkii. The asphalt snaked up the hill towards the peach consulate-general building lit up bright enough to be seen from space.

  ‘Stop the car!’ Masters snapped.

  Emir stood on the brakes.

  ‘What?’ I asked, thrown hard against the seatbelt.

  ‘Look . . .’

  She was pointing at a human column standing in the parking lot. It was Ocirik. He was waiting for something, maybe for us.

  ‘Ocirik!’ I called as I got out. ‘What brings you all the way out here? Changed your mind about letting us search your place?’

  It was clear from the deep lines of concentration across Ocirik’s bus-shelter brow that he understood possibly less than every third or fourth word I spoke. ‘I bring message,’ he said, pulling on a cigar big enough to hit a home run with.