Hard Rain

Thirty-three

I was lying down, trying to sleep and hoping to wake and find this all a nasty dream, when there was the sudden sound of metal on metal and the heavy, grey-painted door swung open. Mallet and Goddard walked in behind it.

I didn’t sit up. ‘So let me guess,’ I said. ‘Masters entered me for an extreme makeover and you’re here to start my transformation into Brad Pitt.’

I got blank stares from both of them. ‘Let me take another guess. You two are playing Dumb and so far it’s a tie game.’

‘A room with rubber walls, Cooper, that’s what you need,’ Goddard said, pushing out his chin.

I hoisted myself up off the cot. My hand throbbed and my rib jagged on something, causing a spasm that stretched my lips tight across my teeth. I had a sudden loss of interest in sparring.

‘For a cop, you seem to spend a hell of a lot of time behind bars,’ said Mallet. ‘It’s time to leave. Can you get up under your own steam or do you want a hand?’

‘Keep your applause to yourself.’ I rubbed my rib cage with my good hand. ‘Where are we going and what’s the catch?’

‘No catch, Cooper. Holding you for an extra hour was Istanbul homicide’s little joke. They called the embassy, who told us to come and get you. And here we are, fast as our little legs could carry us.’

I managed to stand, feeling woozy. A strong hand under my armpit held me upright.

‘You’ve lost weight, Cooper,’ said Goddard. ‘We heard about your stint underground.’

Was I mistaken or were these guys playing nice? They weren’t biting like they used to, but I knew how to fix that. ‘The folks who killed Ten Pin down at Incirlik — I think you knew who they were,’ I began. ‘That’s why you came across Masters and me being heavied in the park. You weren’t tailing us, you were following them — the woman called Yafa, the jerk with the toothpick and their entourage of sociopaths.’

‘You’re guessing, Cooper,’ said Mallet.

‘I don’t think so. Down at Incirlik, you wanted to know if I’d recognised the two guys in the van who died in the fire. You were fishing. You thought I might have identified them because you knew who they were and you were curious about whether we did, too. Their names were Ben and Jonah, by the way. So, you want to come clean and tell me about the shit you guys are wading around in? And maybe while you’re at it, you could drop the whole CID routine.’

‘Harvey will be seeing you later, back at the ranch,’ Mallet informed me. It was like the guy had had a lobotomy, a slack smile on his face. I think I preferred him mean. ‘You got questions, ask him,’ he continued.

Harvey Stringer. CIA. I might have known.

As I walked, the blood started flowing again and the muscles felt a little less seized. I collected my belongings from a bored guy behind a thick wire screen, belongings that included a box of bandages and the laces for my shoes. I checked my cell phone but the batteries had rigor mortis.

‘Where’s Special Agent Masters?’ I asked.

‘Outside,’ said Mallet, pointing me in the general direction.

Winter sunshine bathed the access road out the back. I lifted my face to soak up some warmth. It was a handful of minutes after midday.

A black Suburban idled, waiting. A young guy trying too hard to look the part in Ray-Ban Aviators, jeans and leather jacket, held open the rear door. I could see Masters dozing, her head against the window concentrating the sunshine. I stopped and scoped the building behind me. Somewhere up there, Karli and Iyaz were having a laugh at my expense. Maybe we weren’t so different after all.

There was a fully equipped OR in the basement of the consulate-general. The doctor, a middle-aged woman with a crooked nose and a mole on her cheek sprouting hairs, saw to my knuckles.

The x-rays came back without delay and the picture said things weren’t as bad as they felt, although it was back to square one on the original fractures. At least they wouldn’t require surgery to line up the pieces.

The doc drew off half a syringe of reddish fluid from them and re-taped my rib. Being up to date on my shots, I passed on the hepatitis and tetanus boosters. She left to go stir a cauldron while I sat on the cot and waited for the plaster to dry out a little.

Not long after, Masters walked in with a glow, looking like she’d spent a week at a health farm. Rat agreed with her. ‘How you doing?’ she asked.

‘I’ll never play the violin.’

‘So we’re all in luck. I just saw Cain,’ she said. ‘He thinks he might have struck gold on that email, the one signed by the mysterious B.’

‘Yeah?’

‘More than likely it’s B for Bob. Bob Rivers — CEO of Thurlstane’s European operation. He’s based in Paris.’

Thurlstane Group, the US civil-engineering giant. I recalled the email: You know the score better than anyone. We’ll hold you to your promise that the mess down there won’t sour our chances on future contracts. All best, B. ‘So what was the mess Bob hoped wouldn’t curdle their reputation?’

‘A little two-billion-dollar project,’ she said.

‘What does two billion buy you?’

‘A big fat desal plant.’

‘Desalination…’ Water. It fit.