Hard Rain - 03

by David Rollins

  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.’

  Forty-one

  Masters was towelling off her hair as she walked into my room. Like me, she was wearing a galabia, only hers was cream coloured. Despite it being cut for a guy, I couldn’t help but notice it fitted in most of the right places. And the places looked good.

  ‘That suits you, Vin,’ she said, motioning at the orange, blue and gold thing I’d uncomfortably slipped into.

  ‘Makes me look like an Inca ruin. Did you get through?’

  ‘To Christie? I believe so, but I haven’t heard back.’ Masters sat on the chair beside a small writing shelf anchored to a wall. She seemed troubled.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I flicked through the report Tawal gave us. They tested the surface water at a number of sites, one of them being Kumayt, and found various isotopes consistent with depleted uranium contamination. I’ve been thinking about the DU supposedly buried around here.’

  ‘Do we need the cone of silence, chief?’ I asked.

  ‘I think maybe we do.’

  I walked back into the bathroom and turned on the faucets. ‘They bury contaminated material where it’s geologically stable,’ Masters said, resting on the basin. ‘They also bury it where it’s dry. Have you noticed the ground in this part of Iraq is totally the wrong kind? Remember what it was like back in the vicinity of Kumayt? It was soft, wet and porous. You drop something radioactively hot in a hole dug in marshland and sure as shit it’s going to work its way back out.’

  ‘Is it possible someone just went ahead and buried stuff here anyway – made a mistake? The Army has been known to make one or two.’

  ‘Vin, Cain and I were snooping around in the Department of Energy before we left, remember? We were hoping to get a lead on the contamination burial sites. The people we spoke to have checked their research with the DoD and sent Cain an email, which he has just forwarded to me. Energy says there’s no chemical waste or DU-contaminated wreckage buried anywhere around here – in their words, “unsuitable containment characteristics”. In short, too marshy.’

  ‘So if there’s no DU dump, why does this environmental impact study say different?’ I asked.

  ‘According to Energy, enquiries into the existence of a dump in the Maysan province had been made on a prior occasion by our mission in Ankara.’

  ‘Really . . . does it say who made the enquiry?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Masters. ‘But it was six months ago. Five’ll get you ten it was Portman doing the digging.’

  ‘If there’s no DU in the water, I’d like to know what messed with those children.’

  ‘I’m sure the colonel asked himself the same ques
tion. I’d say, with that independent water-quality assessment he commissioned, he found some answers along with that uranyl fluoride.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I wondered what the hell we were really dealing with here. ‘We done?’ I asked.

  Masters nodded. I turned off the taps and walked out into the main room as the Iraqi in the white coat, Achmed, came in through the front door carrying a tray with food on it. He glanced at me, then Masters, glowered, shook his head at our shameless display of immorality and mumbled to himself while he put the tray on the shelf. He then checked the state of the adjoining door, no doubt wondering whether he’d contributed to this lascivious behaviour by leaving the lock unlatched.

  ‘Don’t get the wrong idea, Mac,’ I said. ‘She’s my mother.’

  He looked at me, puzzled, went out the door and then came back in with another tray, which he deposited in Masters’ room. On his way back out, I stopped him and said, ‘Clothes,’ pinching the galabia’s collar to help him get it. ‘Clothes, uniform,’ I repeated.

  ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed and held up ten fingers, flashing them a second time. My interpretation: our ABUs were either being returned in twenty minutes, twenty hours or twenty days.

  Achmed left us to eat. I went to the tray and lifted up a couple of lids. Slices of lamb, lettuce, yoghurt, tomatoes and cucumber. Again. From Istanbul to Iraq, that’s all anyone seemed to eat. Masters lifted a lid on her tray and screwed up her nose.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ I said. ‘What wouldn’t you give for a nice, juicy rat.’

  A ping sound came from the laptop in Masters’ room. ‘Mail’s in,’ she said, going to fetch it while I sat on the end of the bed and picked at the food. ‘From Christie,’ she announced, walking back in. ‘Says he’ll pick us up at 7.30 tomorrow morning and has informed Tawal of that.’

  ‘What about the sandstorm?’

  ‘It’ll still be with us, but the wind’s supposed to drop some before sunrise. And in answer to your question, he said there are no restricted areas around here – too close to Iran. Kawthar al Deen is out here on its own.’

  Masters sat down on the bed beside me with her tray and played with her food. ‘Do you miss her?’

  I didn’t need to hear Doc Merkit’s name to know who Masters was referring to. ‘Yes,’ I replied. No point denying it.

  ‘Were you in love with her?’

  Was I in love with her? I hadn’t been prepared to ask myself that. I liked her. I enjoyed being in her company. I liked her smell, her warmth. I liked the way she looked, her eyes, the way her hair fell around her shoulders. I liked the whole Turkish-girlfriend thing – it was exotic. I enjoyed making love to her; loved the touch of her breasts against my back; loved watching her move; loved watching her move on me . . . ‘Did I love her? I don’t know. “Love” is a pretty complex word,’ I said. ‘Could you be more specific?’

  ‘I know that before you left the consulate, before the explosion, you visited her. I know you went to see her, because you told me you were going to see her. Emir called me.’

  ‘Emir called you?’

  ‘He said you were with her for at least an hour and that I shouldn’t trust you.’

  I was starting to think that Emir was lucky he was already dead. ‘So you want to know whether you should go get your nail file?’ I asked.

  ‘No, actually I want to absolve you. I was the one who went and got engaged. I tried to manipulate you. Maybe I wanted to hurt you. And then, when it was all over with Richard, I just assumed you’d come running. Turn you off, turn you on, make the rules and expect you to follow them. That wasn’t fair.’

  ‘I guess, if you put it like that –’

  ‘The slate’s clean, Vin. You don’t owe me any excuses.’

  ‘Are you trying to talk me into coming up for coffee?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know, maybe I am . . . Is that something you might be interested in?’

  I came awake suddenly, instantly, too fast. It took a few blinks to work out where the hell I was. It was dark and the surroundings were unfamiliar. And then it came back – an explosion, a silver skeleton, Iraq, Kawthar al Deen. Through the door between our rooms I could hear Masters’ soft and steady breathing. Before going to bed, she’d made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, except that I’d refused it. There was only one reason why that made sense: it was just too soon.

  I thought about the doc. She’d still be alive if we hadn’t become involved, and the realisation gave me a pain in my chest.

  *

  I woke Masters with a cup of Turkish-style coffee left by Achmed, who’d also brought us a breakfast of cheese, tomato and cucumber. I was thinking I’d happily kill for a bagel. Achmed showed me our clothes, which were folded on the floor outside our respective doors. They’d probably been sitting there all night, so maybe he’d meant twenty minutes.

  Once we’d eaten, showered and dressed, Tawal paid us a visit. ‘I trust your stay here hasn’t inconvenienced you,’ he said as we collected our helmets, weapons and other gear.

  ‘No, though I haven’t been locked in my room since I was a kid,’ I informed him. ‘You got a good reason for that, or did you want to prevent us from going on an unguided tour?’

  Tawal gave us his phony smile. ‘You and I both know that these rooms held you for less than two minutes, Special Agent. You would also be aware that, with so much security in this facility, no harm could possibly have come to you. And should you have chosen to explore this facility on your own and become lost, finding you would have been a simple matter indeed. Shall we proceed? I believe Lieutenant Christie is waiting.’ He turned and walked off.

  Tawal had an oblique way of saying, ‘We kept an eye on you every second.’ I wondered about the bathrooms. Had he seen us and picked up our conversations, despite the precautions?

  ‘Do you think he’s disappointed we didn’t put on a little peep show for him last night?’ I said under my breath.

  ‘Maybe,’ replied Masters. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Please, this way,’ Tawal said before I could answer, holding a security door open for us.

  We were led on a brisk walk through the facility. I couldn’t work out whether it was a meandering tour or the most direct route to what was probably the main entrance, a black granite and mirror-lined reception area with an elaborate water feature. I timed the walk: seven-and-a-half minutes at an average speed of around three miles an hour. Up three floors, past twelve armed goons, twenty-seven surveillance cameras, along two hallways and through four security doors. Subtracting thirty seconds for tapping codes into keypads and another minute while listening to ‘The Girl from Ipanema’, in the elevator left six minutes. A walk of around a third of a mile and I still had no sense of the extent of the facility below ground.

  Jarred appeared to be loitering around the front reception area. I gave him a nod, which he ignored. He was wearing dust goggles, preparing for a walk outside and, for all I knew, he was looking at his reflection in one of the mirrors. Alternatively, he could just have had a bowl of assholes for breakfast and, as they say, you are what you eat.

  The reception windows faced an open courtyard filled with concrete bollards that limited the speed and direction of any traffic. Specifically, any traffic that might have intended to blow itself up. I noted that the airborne sand had thinned a little, but the wind was still blowing waves of it across the sky. Out front there was a small garden blanketed in about a foot of sand that had also built up against the glass of the external door. It was a great day to be somewhere else. Lieutenant Christie’s vehicles were parked thirty yards away, black shapes against a morning sky shifting from red at the horizon to yellow overhead. The lead vehicle gave us a few dirty yellow blinks, flashing its lights. Time to move.

  ‘I hope you have both enjoyed your impromptu stay with us,’ said Tawal. ‘If you have any further questions, please do not hesitate to contact me.’

  ‘Thanks for your hospitality, Mr Tawal. We’ll be in touch,’ Masters replied, handlin
g the goodbyes while I matched the guy’s fake smile with one of my own.

  Jarred held the glass door open for Masters and me as we walked into what felt like an airlock. We dropped goggles over our eyes and pulled scarves up over our mouths, preparing for the short jog across the open ground to the lead Land Rover.

  As I pulled open the door, the wind caught the built-up sand and lifted it into a swirling tornado that ripped at our clothes and stung the skin on the back of my neck. I put my head down and made for Christie’s Land Rover, Masters half a pace in front of me.

  ‘Good morning,’ chimed Christie as we threw ourselves in the back.

  We shook the grit out of our gear. A water bottle was passed back to us and the vehicle began to move.

  ‘Sorry we had to leave you there last night,’ he said. ‘I thought perhaps it might to be your advantage anyway.’

  ‘It was fine,’ said Masters, taking a drink and then offering me the bottle. I passed.

  ‘Tawal’s an unusual guy,’ I said. ‘When he flies in, where does he fly in from?’

  ‘He’s Egyptian, so perhaps from somewhere there.’

  ‘So, we’ve got Egyptian management, Turkish technology and construction, and Iraqi labour, maintenance and supervision,’ Masters summarised. ‘And probably the whole thing’s compartmentalised – no one on the ground except Tawal knowing what the left and the right hand are up to.’

  ‘Who put up the capital?’ I asked.

  Masters shrugged. ‘Maybe all three countries. Maybe someplace else entirely.’

  The Land Rover rounded the last of the concrete bollards and drove through the heavy front gates.

  ‘Y’know, Vin,’ Masters continued, ‘Thurlstane must have been in the game just to provide a check quote, just to give the process the impression of fairness.’