Hard Rain

Thirty-nine

Moses Abdul Tawal was in his mid fifties. He was also somewhere around six three and 230 pounds; athletic, but with a stomach that looked like a pillow had been stuffed up his shirt. His hair was solid black with no grey — dyed, I guessed — and brushed back off his forehead. His skin was brown and smooth as tanned leather. Behind gold Porsche Design glasses, his eyes were small and surrounded by dark circles. Tawal either didn’t sleep much or he was sporting a couple of first-class shiners. Maybe the workforce had fought back.

‘You have blood on your sleeve, Mr Tawal,’ I said once the formalities of introduction, namely our shields, were back in our pockets.

He saw the spatters, pulled back the sleeve and investigated the skin on the underside of his forearm. ‘Oh, I must have injured myself somehow,’ he said in perfect, though Middle Eastern — accented, English.

Yeah, we saw.

Not finding a source for the blood, Tawal shrugged and moved on. ‘Can I get you anything? You must be parched from being out in the storm. As you might expect, we do a very nice line in water here.’

‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘Water would be fine.’

‘Please,’ nodded Masters.

A young Iraqi guy in a white coat and black pants appeared from behind a black panel, a crystal decanter and two glasses on a heavy silver tray between his hands. He placed the load on the immense, and no doubt priceless, wood and ivory antique boardroom table. I accepted the glass as sand dislodged from the folds in my clothes and rained down onto the black granite floor around my feet. I shifted my boots, and the sand crunched. I gulped down the water, as did Masters.

A wall of glass down two sides of the room suggested this was a corner office. Beyond it, I supposed, lay the expanse of Kawthar al Deen — though, at the moment, the view was limited to a solid wall of boiling dust, the high overhead sun making its presence known by throwing an ethereal orange — red tinge throughout. There was a flash followed by a bolt of lightning. The building rumbled, the storm front passing close by. Large drops of water, heavy with suspended powder, began to smear the glass.

‘So, how may I help you today?’ Tawal asked, taking a seat at the head of the table and beckoning us to sit.

‘There have been a number of murders. You have probably heard what happened to the US Air Attaché to Turkey, Colonel Emmet Portman,’ I said, kicking it off. ‘We believe you and the colonel met on a number of occasions, and over a number of years.’

‘Why, yes, I did hear about the colonel. Very tragic. But I fail to see how his death might have anything to do with me.’

‘Colonel Portman spent a lot of time down here. There seems to have been a lot of effort expended to keep that quiet.’

Tawal shook his head. ‘Not of my doing. I still don’t see how I may be of any worthwhile assistance.’

‘We believe the two of you didn’t get on.’

‘Who told you this?’ Tawal frowned.

‘I don’t think it’s any secret,’ I countered.

‘There were certainly issues on which the colonel and I did not see eye to eye. But I would like to think that we had a common respect.’

‘What were some of the issues that came between you, Mr Tawal?’ Masters asked.

‘The colonel did not think it fair that this facility came to be built by an Iraqi-led consortium, given the amount of American blood sacrificed here in the name of democracy.’

I believed in Tawal’s answer as much as he did. ‘You mean he didn’t appreciate the way your consortium lied, cheated and bribed its way into the box seat.’

‘Ah, I see you’ve been talking to the people at the Thurlstane Group. This is not America, Mr…’

‘Special Agent Cooper.’

‘Thurlstane was not prepared to conform to the realities of business practices here in Iraq, Special Agent Cooper. We were. That is why, as I believe you saw today, we have built a magnificent piece of infrastructure for the people of Iraq, for the future of this great country.’

‘A runway, lots of empty buildings, a nice thirty-mile stretch of highway — it all seems like a lot of trouble to go to for a patch of desert,’ I said.

‘How very near-sighted of you, Special Agent. Water is even more important to the future fortunes of the Middle East than oil. Over the coming decades, you will see towns like Kumayt become cities, purely because of the presence of this facility. Along with the domestic consumption of potable water, we will also be able to supply industry and agriculture with its needs. I wouldn’t be surprised if Kawthar al Deen itself becomes an important town and business centre surrounded by lush farmland. Populations will grow on our doorstep.’

‘I hope they don’t step on your mines.’

Tawal stared at me without blinking. He then glanced around the room — probably scoping about for his trusty clipboard with which to teach me some respect.

‘Where are you from, Mr Tawal? You’re not Iraqi.’

‘I am Egyptian, from Cairo. Are you going to ask to see my passport?’

‘No, and there’s no need to tense up on us, Mr Tawal,’ I said.

‘You have an aggressive interrogation style, Special Agent.’

‘This is Special Agent Cooper being nice, Mr Tawal,’ Masters informed him. ‘He must like you.’

The guy forced out a smile but he didn’t seem in the least bit happy.

‘We have some photos we’d like you to have a look at, if you wouldn’t mind, sir,’ Masters continued. She pulled a folder from a satchel. ‘Do you know this man?’ she asked, placing a print on the table in front of Tawal.

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Who is he?’

‘His name is Dutch Bremmel. Or I should say, was. He’s dead.’ Masters produced a second photograph. ‘And this man?’

‘No.’

‘His name was Denzel Nogart, though mostly he was known as Ten Pin. Also dead.’

A blank expression suffused Tawal’s face. It said he had no idea why he was being shown these photos, which he reiterated by saying as much.

‘How about this woman?’ Masters now put a police artist’s impression of Yafa on the table.

‘Is this woman also dead?’

‘We wish,’ I said.

‘Why are you showing me pictures of people I have never seen before?’ he asked.

We couldn’t decide whether Mr Tawal here was a very dangerous man or a man in very great danger. Until we knew for certain what we were dealing with, Masters and I had decided beforehand not to stampede the guy. It was time to shift the tone into the conciliation range.

‘We believe Emmet Portman died because of some connection with this facility,’ I told him. ‘And frankly, sir, we’re concerned for your safety. Special Agent Masters could show you photographs of at least another twenty men and women, including a couple of close associates of ours, who’ve been murdered along with him. There have also been attempts on our lives during the course of this investigation.’

‘I did not know. And, of course, I am shocked and very sorry to hear this,’ Tawal said, his mood disarmed. ‘Naturally I will do everything possible to assist your enquiries. Come let me show you what we have created here. We can talk along the way.’

He stood. We stood. A poke around the joint was exactly what we wanted. Masters shuffled the photos back into the folder.

‘Guts before glory,’ I said as she followed him out.

‘Unfortunately, the storm will preclude the full tour. The facility is spread over a number of hectares. It is too far to walk so we often move about on golf carts. But not today, I’m afraid.’

We passed though fifty yards of corridor to a second set of elevators, and rode one to the basement. ‘Do you know how desalination works?’ he asked.

‘You take out the salt,’ I said.

‘Er… well, yes, of course. The desert may seem dry, but beneath it are natural reservoirs containing many thousands of megalitres of water, deposited over millennia. Unfortunately, due to the high content of salts, this water is undrinkable. The salt content is not as high as sea water, but still not suitable for human consumption.’ The doors slid open on a wide underground corridor that disappeared in darkness in both directions.

‘Saving on electricity?’ I asked.

‘We are not fully operational as yet,’ he said with a shrug.

Five men wearing jeans, body armour and machine pistols strolled out of the darkness and walked past us. Tawal ignored them. We found it hard to. They moved with the confidence of combat vets. I wondered what their backgrounds were.

Moving to a heavy security door, Tawal punched a code into a panel and the door swung open on hydraulic arms. Behind it was a control room. Displayed up on one wall of the room were flow diagrams illustrating the plant’s main processes — that of power generation and desalination.

Two large control panels dominated the floor. A couple of additional rows of computer terminals, all with joysticks, backed them up. Four male technicians hovered over the control panels. One of the men had a welt on the side of his face; he didn’t appear to be entirely happy in his work and frowned at the control panel, avoiding eye contact with the boss. I recognised him. He was one of the men we’d seen Tawal discussing industrial relations with just before the storm rolled in.

‘Kawthar al Deen is almost totally automated,’ said Tawal. ‘The systems are monitored and there is a maintenance crew, but we can produce enough water for a city of three hundred thousand people with a work force of just twenty.’

‘Then why do you need all the office space?’ Masters asked. ‘Looks like you’ve got enough of it here for at least several hundred people.’

‘Yes. We have planned for Kawthar al Deen to be a business centre. We have incorporated all the facilities of a modern Western-style workplace: a swimming pool, gyms, a nursery. Perhaps we will also incorporate a retail shopping mall one day.’

Tawal then spoke in a brusque manner to the guy with the facial remodelling. The man went to work on his keyboard and a section of the diagram up on the wall filled with green.

‘There are two kinds of desalination processes — electro-dialysis and reverse osmosis,’ Tawal continued. ‘Here we utilise reverse osmosis. The process begins when we draw off brackish water from the subterranean aquifers. The larger solids are removed, the pH is altered, then we pressurise this feedwater to 375 pounds per square inch.’

Various sections of the diagram lit up to illustrate Tawal’s pitch.

‘The feedwater is then forced through water-permeable membranes and we end up with brine on one side and virtually salt-free water on the other, all without the need for heating, environmentally questionable chemical processes, or phase changes. The only by-product is brine — salt-saturated water — and the impurities and minerals that have been removed, all of which is disposed of through the proven method of deep-well injection. The product water that remains is ready for distribution free of solids, pollutants and bacterium. Cleaner and fresher than rainwater.’

‘So this process also removes uranyl fluoride,’ I said.

A pause followed that was pregnant enough to give birth to quintuplets. The guys on the control panels froze. ‘Excuse me?’ Tawal asked.

‘Uranyl fluoride. Apparently it’s in the water hereabouts, right?’

‘No, I do not think so,’ Tawal replied. ‘Let us continue the tour.’ He moved to the door and held it open, frowning. I wondered whether it was something I’d said. Masters and I followed his lead. ‘Would you care to see the gas-fired electrical power station we have built here? If desalination has one drawback, it’s that it requires a lot of energy to pressurise the feedwater.’

‘What’s down there?’ I asked, nodding towards the end of the blacked-out corridor heading off in another direction.

‘Nothing interesting. Storage, mostly.’

The elevator doors opened. Tawal gestured that we should go first.

‘Lamb before slaughter,’ I said to Masters, who smiled.

‘I’m sorry?’ Tawal asked, eyebrows raised.

‘So you don’t know anything about the uranyl fluoride?’ I replied.

‘No, but I can only think you must be referring to the vehicles your American government buried that contaminated the surface water upstream of Kumayt. You may not know about this. It was because of such contamination that the Iraqi government decided to build Kawthar al Deen. In fact, I can give you a copy of the environmental report that revealed the problem. Depleted uranium is a terrible weapon,’ Tawal said, spreading icing on the guilt complex he wanted to serve us. ‘Your government gave Agent Orange to Vietnam, and they have given Iraq depleted uranium. This will be a problem for a thousand Iraqi generations to come.’

‘A copy of that environmental report would be handy,’ Masters cut in.

‘I will see to it.’

‘Wasn’t shredding it part of the tender process?’ I enquired.

Tawal paused. ‘Only the unsuccessful bidders were asked to destroy materials. The file is confidential, but I’m sure you have the appropriate clearances.’

‘I don’t suppose you might know where this radioactive graveyard is located?’ I asked.

‘I’m sorry, Special Agent. Your government doesn’t share its secrets with me.’

Seemed to me a lot of people knew about the stash of buried hot wreckage, only no one would — or could — produce the smoking gun.

The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. A man with an M4 carbine, body armour and a pistol in a hip holster stood in the doorway. I recognised him also — the guy with the binoculars who’d seen us looking down on the facility. His eyes were hidden behind the wrap-around sunglasses, so I wasn’t sure if the recognition was mutual. He gave the boss a nod and was about to step past us into the elevator when Tawal said, ‘Oh, Jarred. Would you mind doing me a favour and showing our visitors our special defences?’

The man nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Jarred is our deputy head of security.’

Jarred’s accent was interesting — I couldn’t place it. At a guess, the country in which he was born and raised was probably no longer where he lived. The U-haul carrying his speech patterns unhitched itself from the wagon and got left somewhere along the way. He was tall and blond with brown eyes that drooped at the corners. The guy looked depressed.

‘I will get a copy of the report and see you again when you are finished — in, say, around twenty minutes,’ Tawal informed us.

‘Take thirty minutes, if you like,’ I said.

Tawal switched on a smile that held about as much warmth as a photo of a long-life bulb.

‘So where’s the head of security?’ I asked our latest guide.

‘On leave.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Would you like to see our crows?’ Jarred asked cryptically.

‘Your what?’ Masters was going for clarification.

‘Yes, I will show you our crows. You will see what I mean.’ Jarred turned and walked in the opposite direction to the one Tawal had gone in.

We followed along behind. After a few steps, Masters gestured at his side-arm. ‘An unusual pistol you’ve got there, Jarred,’ she said. ‘What is it?’

‘A Barak.’

‘Never seen one before. Where’s it from?’

‘Kmart.’

Masters and I shared a glance. Another Barak SP-21: nine-millimetre, fifteen-round magazine, and as Israeli as a Jaffa orange. Maybe Israel was Jarred’s adopted country, which might explain the ambiguous accent.

‘Which Sayeret unit you serve in?’ I asked, playing a hunch, the Sayeret being the special forces arm of the Israeli Defense Forces.

Jarred turned his droopy eyes on me. He heard the question, but wasn’t prepared to answer. Maybe the guy had already used up his daily quota of idle conversation. He took us up a couple of floors via another elevator, along one more corridor and into a loading dock, passing at least thirty surveillance cameras and half-a-dozen armed men, who nodded respectfully at our guide.

A bunch of golf carts were parked in the bay, the shutter door banging and rattling with the weather pounding against it on the other side. A fine dust hung in the air and tickled the back of my throat.

‘I hope you don’t mind a little sand,’ Jarred said, hopping down a small flight of stairs and making his way to the cart closest to the shutter.