Hard Rain (2 page)

With the area now lit up by the fires, Major Portman reached over and selected the AGM-65s – the Mavericks – and went hunting along the road for large targets, Razor close behind. Thirty seconds later, he found them: fuel tankers, tanks, and artillery pieces – a column of maybe fifty vehicles – breaking out into the road’s sandy verges, some of them probing for escape. Portman depressed a button on the base of the control stick grip, which enabled him to position the aiming gate. He settled the gate on an old Soviet-made T-72 main battle tank loaded onto a transporter, then released the button. It had a good lock, the missile’s seeker head following the target. Portman tapped the trigger; the screen blanked – missile away. He thumbed the button again, moving the gate fifty metres down the road. He lined up on another target and released the button.
Shoot!
Again the screen blanked and the missile was on its way. Thiokol TX-481 solid propellant rocket motors accelerated the missiles to just under the speed of sound, while optical imaging guidance systems adjusted flight as the targets manoeuvred.
Portman had nothing to do except look for more targets. Moments later, 125-pound warheads smashed into metal with such heat and force that the surrounding sand was fused into glass.

‘Amjad! Let’s go, let’s go!’ Raaghib and Daleel urged. ‘Now!
Come on!
’

Amjad snapped out of his trance, jammed the gearbox into drive and floored the pedal. The Range Rover leapt forward and charged through some smoking debris, knocking it aside. Two armless men, blackened and bloody, suddenly appeared in the headlight beams, staggering from the burning wreckage of their vehicle, a Mercedes with a bent fridge hanging forward over the hood. The young soldier stamped his foot on the brake pedal to avoid hitting them.

‘Yebnan kelp!
Son of a dog!’ Raaghib swore. ‘Amjad. We can’t do anything for them. Go! Go!’

The Range Rover accelerated onto the verge. Men were wandering everywhere in shock. An escaping truck ploughed through a group of soldiers, tossing them aside like store dummies, and didn’t slow.

Major Emmet Portman was all out of missiles, except for the two air-to-air AIM-9s and the IR Maverick he now only occasionally needed to see with.

He pulled up into a shallow climb, re-engaged the Avenger Gatling gun and gave it a quick test, tapping the trigger. The airframe shuddered the way it always did. Yep, still good. Levelling off, he glanced below and saw a cluster of vehicles still moving, begging to be obliterated by DU.

Amjad saw an armoured troop carrier two hundred yards ahead being pounded by an overwhelming force that seemed to push it into the ground like a bug mashed underfoot. Whatever was hitting the vehicle sparkled briefly before metal panels and chassis and engine simply burst
into flame, just like the tanks he’d seen from that slit trench. Several cars either side of it were instantly flattened by this same sparkling force before erupting into cones of fire. Another armoured carrier seemed to crush itself into a ball a quarter of its size before a geyser of flame shot from its side. Men caught fire and ran around with their arms outstretched until they ran into each other or could run no more and dropped to the sand and continued to burn, screaming, gurgling.

The air coming through the A-10’s vent smelt like a mixture of burnt diesel, human flesh and scorched French perfume. Portman had never smelt anything like it before. He gagged and instinctively flipped the oxygen to a hundred per cent. Perhaps it was the damn perfume making it somehow personal on a level that sickened him. He had smelt perfume like that before, handed out on cards by pretty saleswomen in cheap department stores.

He flipped the switch back to cabin air, but left his mask in place. The road disappearing over the horizon was a continuous string of bonfires. His eyes swept the instruments: temps and pressures all normal. Plenty of fuel and the Avenger’s hoppers were still just under half full of ammunition – 480 rounds. He had his orders, and there was plenty of equipment down there still reasonably intact.

Portman rolled into a dive, heading for a brace of trucks trying to make a run for it. He depressed the trigger for two seconds. The volley of DU lifted the first truck off the deck and caused it to curl in on itself like a snail curling around a hot match. The second truck was sawn completely in half, its tyres blown out and its steel body panels on fire. The third, fourth and fifth trucks seemed to be pushed beneath the desert sand before explosions ripped them apart.

A rush of heat and dust shot through the A-10’s vents, enough to cause a tickle in Emmet’s throat that resulted in a coughing fit. He banked away to find some clean air.
Fucking air-conditioner.

And that’s when he saw the speeding vehicle, lit up in the glow of the fires. It was a Range Rover – a new model. Nice little unit. Somehow it
had managed to get away from the road, and now it was heading due north, bouncing across the sand at high speed.

Portman dived low and flew over the vehicle’s roof. He then executed a climbing turn to bring the four-by-four into the Avenger’s kill zone. The Hog came around, and Emmet lined up the Range Rover on the HUD. He compressed the trigger for a half-second. A whirring vibration rattled up through the seat as a continuous stream of molten orange fire shot from the nose of the aircraft and sliced through the night.

Amjad and Raaghib heard the plane’s engines before they saw its green glow through the windshield, passing low and fast overhead. But, Amjad reasoned, the Range Rover was black – in such darkness, perhaps they had a chance.

‘Where is it?’ Daleel asked, searching the night sky out of his window. ‘Where is it?’

‘Shut up!’ said Amjad, wrestling with the steering wheel through a patch of soft sand. He needed every ounce of concentration to drive with the lights off across the desert at this speed.

Daleel looked back behind them at the highway and saw a ribbon of fire that stretched as far as he could see. He was about to say something about this when thirty depleted uranium and HEI shells drilled into the Range Rover, bringing it to an instant stop. The staggering kinetic energy released by the impact caused the DU and titanium alloy to ignite. They burned at 6000 degrees Celsius – the surface temperature of the sun – vaporising parts of the vehicle in a swirling cloud of superheated uranium aerosol.

The major’s descending turn brought him back over the burning Range Rover, now reduced to a blob of liquid metal in the sand. That smell came through the vents again – the awful sweet perfume smell. And this time, he threw up.

Bebek, Istanbul, Turkey

C
olonel Emmet Portman, US Air Attaché to Turkey, was beginning to feel a little more relaxed. If they intended to kill him, surely they’d have wrapped it up by now.

Portman had discovered the truth, and the fuckers had eyes everywhere. That he was still alive surprised him – not that he was going to complain about it. These people were ruthless. Just look at what they’d done in Kumayt. Perhaps the insurance he’d sent off on its round trip had been unnecessary after all, but it had been worth doing even if merely for his own peace of mind.

The colonel sank into the antique gilt chair. Or at least tried to. He had a lot on his mind, and it wasn’t the most comfortable place to sit. He let his head fall back. A knot of carved wood dug into the base of his skull. No, not the most comfortable place to sit. He considered moving, going to bed. Maybe in a few minutes.

Portman felt his muscles relax and soften as he took a deep breath, letting it out with a hiss. The manila folder on his lap dropped to the carpet, the loose sheets inside sliding over each other and spreading across the carpet like splashed water. Portman sighed, too tired to
bother doing anything about gathering them up.

The clock on the wall chimed and he counted them off. A quarter to two – 01:45 hours. His eyes wandered to the ancient Roman carved marble, panels of intertwined leaves and grapes, trophied for the room’s doorway.

Colonel Portman had liked the idea of being posted to Turkey as the United States Air Attaché. It was a plum post, the kind of job that went to a guy climbing at the best angle of attack. Turkey was a major ally in the global war on terror: a secular Moslem country, friendly to Washington and Israel, and strategically placed with its southern border snuggling up to Syria, Iraq and Iran. It was a gift on a platter. And the Turks were also investing big time in American technology, TEI – the huge high-tech manufacturing consortium down in Eskisehir making turbofan jet engines – being a prime example. The F-16 Falcon upgrade program he was involved in with TEI might have been painful, but it was mild compared with that other business down in Kumayt, southern Iraq.

Portman took another deep breath and closed his eyes. Time to get back to more pleasant thoughts, such as this house in Bebek. It even came with a manservant.
In a house like this, maybe Lauren and I could
. . .
No, don’t go there
. . . Anyway, living in a place like this was a style to which he’d happily become accustomed. Colonels, even full bird colonels, didn’t ordinarily rate this kind of accommodation. It was more a general’s gig, or an admiral’s.

His eyes wandered to the concave ceiling, where seventeenth-century Ottoman craftsmen had executed an exquisite mosaic of bewildering geometric complexity. The history he’d read on this apartment said it had been built and owned by a rich sea merchant back in the 1600s and, indeed, if he gazed at the swirling patterns of red, blue and green tiles long enough, they reminded him of the rolling ocean swells. From past experience he knew that if he looked too long, those patterns would make him bilious, the way a trip in a boat always did.

It was time for bed. Portman had spent so much time this night thinking through the implications of the Kumayt mess that he felt his brain was in danger of turning to mush. The conclusion he’d come to
was this: the scandal hanging over Washington and Jerusalem was big enough to bring down the governments of both countries.

Portman closed his eyes again. Of course, blowing the whistle would also wreck his own career, but there was no way he could keep quiet about it – not once he’d seen the ugly truth. All those sick and disfigured children . . . A lot depended on State. Would they stand with him shoulder to shoulder when the secret was out and the shit came down?

He opened his eyes and saw a smiling face above him. Its sudden appearance startled him. There was enough time for Portman to register that he knew this face, and to ask, ‘What are you doing here, B–’ before a pad covered his mouth and nose and pressed down, hard. The Attaché took a sharp breath and his head swam with an acrid chemical smell – a hospital smell. Fumes filled his brain and the battle for consciousness began.

Another man leaned over the colonel, his face protected from blood spatter by a plastic shield. He held up a long, thin instrument. It was a wood chisel. Portman flinched as the tool dug his eyeball out of its socket.

Emmet Portman slid deeper into a tunnel of dull pain governed by the familiar hospital smell. Suddenly he was in the Philippines jungle, in the south of the country, looking at a man without legs or arms. Local surgeons were trying to save him, a terrorist insurgent training in a nearby camp that had been surprised and ripped apart by a US Marines Recon unit. The man’s screams filled his head but, in fact, it was a scream torn from Portman’s own throat. He gasped, sucking down more of the chemical that sloughed the skin clean off the back off his palate, sending a surge of blood into his mouth and nostrils. Portman was choking, drowning, unable to move. And then his remaining eye mercifully turned back in its socket like a ball rolling uphill as he slid into unconsciousness.

The hand held the gauze pad over the colonel’s mouth a few seconds longer. Just to make sure. Then, satisfied that the victim was anaesthetised, the man known to the colonel left the scene.

Two assailants dragged the Attaché’s body from the velvet-upholstered chair and laid it out on the floor. His clothes were cut away using a surgeon’s scalpel, revealing a 47-year-old white male. The killers surveyed their victim. There was a hint of a tan line around his waist and middle thigh, suggesting that he wore boxers around the pool. The waistline was thickening, though it was clear the colonel looked after himself. The chest hair was turning salt and pepper. There was an appendix scar, a significant one, which indicated that he’d been cut many years before anyone cared about the cosmetics. A hairline scar running down the outside of the left knee pointed to an operation on the cruciate ligament. The colonel had once been an athlete, or maybe a skier – at least before the procedure. No other scars or identifying marks, except for the fact that the man was circumcised.

The killers went to work. A large, dark-olive-coloured plastic trash bag was set beside the body. Assailant number one pulled a couple of pairs of disposable paper coveralls from the bag while assailant number two straightened the victim’s arms and legs. Next from the bag came a wooden mallet, a larger wood chisel than the one already used, and a battery-powered jigsaw. Tools ready, the killers put on the coveralls.

Placing a knee on the man’s hand, assailant number two picked up the mallet and chisel, and laid the honed tool steel blade across the first joint of the Attaché’s thumb. Its edge was so sharp it cut through the skin under its own weight. The chisel was given a solid tap with the mallet and the end of the thumb separated easily from the rest of the digit. The killers noted how surprisingly little blood flowed from the stump, and how the victim’s remaining eyelid barely fluttered.

Two and a half hours had been allowed for the work ahead. A clock on a side table read 2.47. Plenty of time.

T
hey weren’t fooling anyone. The place was called the Hotel Charisma because it had none. I sat in the foyer and passed the time with a pencil, using it to reach down into the fibreglass cast on my left hand and scratch an itch on my wrist. The bellhop at the front door clustered together a few curled brochures for a cheap local belly-dancing joint while he chain-smoked something that smelt like horse blanket. I wasn’t sure which one of us was more excited. I watched this spectacle as I waited for Special Agent Masters. She was upstairs, doing whatever she was doing – washing the flight out of her skin, I supposed. There was no hurry; even if he was important, the victim had been dead three days already and wouldn’t be drumming his fingers, impatient for us to get on with it.

Some guy wearing baggy MC Hammer pants, a waistcoat that would have been small on a ten-year-old and a red hat the shape of an ice bucket, wandered in off the street past the bellhop. He saw me sitting on my own and came in to sell me a glass of something out of a polished metal urn strapped to his back. He insisted. I resisted harder. He eventually gave up and wandered off to pester a couple of tourists standing around outside with their snouts buried in a guidebook. I went back to scratching with the pencil and staring absently out the window at the
parade of stragglers coming and going. It was a new day in Istanbul, Turkey, and outside, things were starting to liven up.

While I waited I recalled the victim’s particulars. His name was Colonel Emmet Portman and he was six foot two, eyes of blue and just a little too perfect to be true. Well, maybe not perfect. According to his medical records, his sperm count was down to a handful of stalwarts. Basically, the guy went to his grave shooting blanks. I was surprised to find that bit of information in his file. I wondered what interesting details
my
file might contain, but then I reminded myself that I didn’t have to wonder. I knew what was in there: several hand grenades that would ensure I retired as the Air Force’s oldest major, if I chose to stay on to the bitter end.

Where was I? Yeah, Colonel Portman, US Air Attaché to Turkey, who these days better resembled a human being in kit form prior to assembly. The colonel was divorced and childless, his ex living in Van Nuys. Aside from that, Portman was so well groomed he could have stepped straight off the production line, or maybe out of the shop for hand-builts. He’d come third in his class at the Air Force Academy in ’79; completed the Fighter Weapons School at Nellis Air Force Base in ’81; there was a stint in West Berlin during the height of the Cold War; he’d helped put together Reagan’s bombing raid into Libya in ’86; a conversion to A-10 Thunderbolts came next, just in time to bust Iraqi tanks in Gulf War I; then it was on to a posting to Lakenheath, England, where he commanded the 493rd Fighter Squadron – ‘the Grim Reapers’. The job of US Air Attaché to Turkey followed. Along the way, he’d collected a number of medals including the Silver Star, the Legion of Merit and the Distinguished Flying Cross: valour, achievement and flying ability. No doubt about it, the colonel already had a gold star on his forehead. General’s stars on his epaulettes were just a matter of time. Only he got himself murdered, and pretty emphatically judging by the snapshots doing the rounds.

‘Let’s go,’ said Special Agent Anna Masters as she walked past. She was wearing a pair of faded jeans and leather jacket, a New York Fire Department cap and Ray-Ban Aviators. The Ray-Bans weren’t
necessary – it was cloudy with a low grey sky and the sun was a long way from clearing the buildings. Most likely, Masters just didn’t feel comfortable with eye contact. Eye contact with me, at least. I stood and followed her out onto the narrow, hillside street.

Okay, perhaps I should bring you up to speed.

My name is Vin Cooper, aged thirty-four. If you guessed from the name that I’m male, congratulations. Maybe you’re in the wrong job. I’m also Caucasian, currently around 215 pounds, and closing in on six foot one inch. My hair is brown, eyes a murky kind of green. No distinguishing marks on my face, though, as I already mentioned, I’m currently wearing a fibreglass cast on my left arm, from elbow to knuckle. I hold the rank of major in the AFOSI, which is the acronym for the following mouthful: the United States Air Force Office of Special Investigations. I’m a ‘special agent’, which is a fancy title for an internal affairs cop. There are roughly 310,000 personnel in the USAF, give or take, and some of them need weeding out, particularly the murderers, deserters, extortionists and rapists. We transfer those guys to the Army.

We’ve got all kinds of criminals in today’s Air Force, committing all the crimes that make it worthwhile getting out of bed, seizing the day and locking it up. At least if you’re a cop.

Anyhow, somewhere along the way I seem to have earned a reputation for solving the more serious of these crimes. At the moment, what the people back in DC are hoping is that I’ll – or, should I say,
we’ll
– figure out who murdered our Air Attaché. We know someone broke into said Attaché’s house and cut him up into bite-size pieces with a battery-powered saw and laid him out on the carpet in all his sectioned, jointed glory. But we’re hoping for a few more details.

Back to Special Agent Anna Masters. You could say we’ve met. In fact, until recently, Masters and I were an item. That is until she told me she was swinging from the chandelier for some attorney from the JAG corps. A little less than twenty-four hours have gone under the bridge since she delivered this news flash. She gave it to me a couple of hours before we boarded the flight to Istanbul together. With timing like that she could do stand-up.

‘Did you say something?’ Masters enquired, turning those piercing Ray-Bans of hers on me.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Oh. I could have sworn you said something.’

‘You imagined it,’ I informed her.

‘Are you going to say something?’

‘No.’

‘Are you giving me the silent treatment here?’ she asked.

‘Major, I don’t talk to keep my mouth limber. When I’ve got something to say, you’ll hear it with your ears.’

‘Hmph.’

A cab mooched by slow, the driver hustling for a fare. We took it.

‘You are Americans?’ asked the driver after Masters gave him the destination. He was looking in the rear-view mirror and lighting up a cigarette.

Not a bad guess, given that we were headed for the US Consulate-General.

‘Yes,’ said Masters.

‘I like Americans.’

Masters nodded.

‘I like Americans. And Japanese.’

‘Why’s that?’ I asked.

‘Because you are rich.’

‘No . . .’ Masters said, shaking her head. She leaned forward to check the meter was running, concerned this guy might also be taking us to the cleaners. Relieved to see the glowing numbers tick over, she sat back and stared out the window.

The rear seat of the cab was uncomfortable, but nowhere near as uncomfortable as the flight over, and not because we were seated down in economy. The problem arose because the flight was packed, and that forced us to sit
together
. Shoulder to shoulder. For more than twelve hours.

‘Do you think this guy knows where he’s going?’ she asked suddenly as the cab turned down a narrow cobbled street.

‘Beats me. Why don’t you ask him?’

Masters leaned forward again. ‘Excuse me, sir. Is it much further?’

‘No. We are here,’ he said, pulling over.

I glanced out the window. Where were the security cameras and the bulletproof glass? This didn’t look much like a US Consulate-General–type building, unless it was running a little tourist souvenir business on the side.

‘You come and see Turkish rug,’ said the driver, turning around. ‘They are the best – double knotted.’ A guy trotted out from the shop with a smile that reminded me of a Chrysler’s grille and opened Masters’ door.

‘What? No! We don’t have time,’ Masters replied, angry, not moving from her seat.

‘But my cousin has beautiful rug. You must see,’ the driver pleaded.

‘No!’ said Masters, emphatic, grabbing the front seat with both hands. ‘We want the US Consulate-General and we want you to take us there
now
. Should we take another cab?’

‘No, no. It’s okay. Please . . . we go now. Maybe you come back after.’

The driver snapped out a few words at the guy holding Masters’ door open. He nodded, confused, and then closed the door.

‘Can we get going, please?’ Masters requested. She then turned her anger on me. ‘Feel free to step in any time, Vin.’

I shrugged. She was going just fine.

The driver mumbled something that sounded vaguely like ‘US Consulate’ said backwards, followed by a bunch of sounds that could have been words or could equally have been him clearing a nasty knot of mucus from the back of his throat. He wound down his window and spat, which solved that particular puzzle.

Masters read the address off a printed sheet of paper. ‘Kaplicalar . . . Mevkii . . . So-kak, number two.’

The driver suddenly roared with laughter.

‘I think you just told him that his camel’s toenails needed clipping,’ I said.

Masters pursed her lips and handed the driver the sheet of paper
with the address on it. He scanned it, nodded in a way that implied he had in fact misunderstood her, passed it back and returned to that knot in his throat for a second helping.

I went back to the view out the window. We’d get to where we were going eventually. I caught a glimpse of a building way off in the distance. Lots of domes and minarets. A voice boomed from nearby speakers, punching through the cab’s windows with a squeal of feedback: ‘
Allah-u-Akbar. Allah-u-Akbar. Allah-u-Akbar. Allah-u-Akbar. Ash’hadu an laa ilaaha illallaah. Ash’hadu an laa ilaaha illallaah
. . .’

I’d heard the refrain enough times in Afghanistan to know what was being sung: ‘Allah is most great’ a bunch of times run together, followed by, ‘I bear witness that there is no god but Allah . . .’ and so on.

It still made the hair on my arms stand on end. The faithful were being called to prayer, the dawn prayer, or
Fajr
. It was the first of five occasions they’d be called on to profess their faith during the day. Just in case they were inclined to forget who was boss.

We flashed past a shop and inside I saw men rolling out their prayer rugs. It was Friday, the holy day. A little further on down the street were several young women wearing hip-hugging jeans that barely cleared their pubic line, showing off flat stomachs and pierced belly buttons. Accompanying them were two males around the same age. I didn’t see them hurrying to lay out
their
rugs. They were all on their cell phones, texting – maybe they were texting the Big Guy their prayer. I’d heard the cliché about Istanbul often enough not to want to think about it, but the whole East-meets-West thing really was everywhere you cared to look. Over on the other side of the street lumbered a couple of ample old women whose headscarves covered their hair in such a way that not a single lock would escape and, presumably, drive men to the heights of sexual frenzy.

The cab headed up a ramp to a highway heading north, and we accelerated into the traffic flow. The city of Istanbul quickly gave way to rock, scrub and high-voltage electricity towers. The cab’s wheels were out of balance, setting up a rumble that made the seat vibrate like a Las Vegas honeymoon special. The driver wound up the radio volume. As
far as I could tell, it was a woman singing. She seemed to be having difficulty deciding which notes to hit, and so was hitting them all at once. I glanced at Masters.

‘Where we headed?’ I asked. ‘Bulgaria?’

‘Istinye.’

‘Istinye! Istinye!’ confirmed the driver, nodding.

I sat back and counted tenements. Twenty minutes later, we pulled off the highway and drove down through some low hills that gave way to a protected inlet. A road sign read, ‘Istinye’. The place appeared to be a weekend retreat on the water for Istanbul’s middle class.

The cab doubled back and headed inland. ‘There,’ said the driver suddenly, pointing through the windscreen. ‘US Consulate.’

He was indicating a sprawling building made from prefab slabs of concrete, perched up high on the hill like a castle and ringed by a twenty-foot-high concrete wall enclosing the entire ridge-line. It appeared that the place had been positioned for a siege. The building was painted peach – maybe they were expecting a siege of home decorators from the ’80s.

The cab driver delivered us close to the front door, which was a bunker wrapped in bulletproof glass and swept by surveillance cameras. Masters paid for the ride.

A couple of women wearing headscarves occupied the space behind the security bunker’s bulletproof glass. Masters took my passport, added it to hers, and slid them beneath the glass. ‘We have an appointment with Ambassador Burnbaum,’ she informed one of the women.

The woman checked the passports, scanned the biometrics, and consulted a computer screen. Her make-up was immaculately applied to flawless pale-olive skin. It was the only skin open for viewing, so maybe she figured it was worth the effort. She was wearing a short-sleeve shirt but flesh-coloured Lycra covered her forearms. White gloves hid her hands, black smudges on their fingertips. Her workmate was similarly sealed. The woman returned our passports with a vague smile. ‘Go through there,’ she said, indicating the metal detector and x-ray machine.

As we completed the preliminaries and walked across the open space towards the front door, the heavy steel gate to the parking lot opened and a vehicle pulled in. It looked like a cop vehicle – bottom of the range, dirty, and scuffed around some, like they all are no matter what the country. Two males got out. They wore clothes freshly pressed by a park bench. I took a guess and pegged them as homicide – the local guys. I took a further guess and assumed their boss was riding them to get the mess with the dead Attaché sorted out but fast. A US Air Force colonel murdered in your country was plain bad for the national image.

The two men eyeballed us right back, frowning. But then I realised they both had those solid mono-brows and were probably just born scowling. They walked like their shoes were lead ballast. If I read these guys right, the day was young and already it had gone bad. They got to the door before us.