Hard Rain

Thirty-six

Emir stopped next to the Grand Bazaar’s main entrance. I asked him to wait, and the doc and I joined the crowds moving back and forth like a restless sea beneath the arch. We passed by the gold and jewellery sellers, past the spice merchants and clothing shops, ducked behind the knife quarter and ended up outside a row of shops specialising in technical equipment.

The doc walked up to an old man in a threadbare cardigan behind the counter. He put his cigarette down on the glass counter, the burning end hanging over the edge. The doc and the old guy then embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks a couple of times, back and forth like Europeans do, and exchanged a few words. ‘My brother’s wife’s uncle’s neighbour would like to know if you would stay for tea,’ Aysun asked me.

‘Love to, but you know…’ I jiggled my wrist. ‘Time.’

Even though he couldn’t speak English, the old guy got the drift, reached behind his counter and lifted up a box with a handle. He opened it and gestured for me to come closer. The shop was empty, as was every other retailer in this corner of the Grand Bazaar, it being a long way from the bargain T-shirt quarter. Inside the carrying case was a robust-looking yellow box the size of a house brick with a large dial on it, a carry handle, a range switch and a simple on/off switch — a Geiger counter. The old guy chugged on his cigarette, put it down, then showed me how to use the instrument; which, I gathered, was basically to turn the switch to ‘on’ and walk the box towards the suspected hot source until the needle jumped into the your-hair’s-about-to-fall-out zone. He pointed it in a couple of directions and the speaker gave off two single crackle-like pops.

He said a few words in a voice that was thin and emphysemic. I shrugged apologetically, not understanding. He raised a finger and then pointed the box at his wristwatch to demonstrate. The needle went nuts, accompanied by a continuous stream of popping sounds. He adjusted the scale knob, the noise disappeared and the needle settled down again. I got it — the scale was adjustable from radiation that was ‘background’ to ‘Chernobyl’.

I said thanks and told the old guy, through the doc, that I’d return the instrument when I was finished with it. He replied with body language that said, ‘No hurry’.

Ten minutes later Aysun and I were walking back across the road towards where Emir had illegally parked, causing a minor traffic jam. A couple of uniforms in a patrol vehicle had pulled up behind his Renault and were attempting to get him and his uncle to move along. They were all waving arms at each other like Will Robinson’s Robot. The issue was resolved when the doc and I materialised from the crowd, whereupon Emir acquiesced to the police demands and moved to hold a door open for the doc. The uncle waved at the officers, who had the surly look of traffic cops the world over. They got in their car and drove off to the next inevitable snarl, somewhere down the road.

‘I’m going to go it alone from here,’ I said. The doc was about to protest but I headed her off. ‘I have to do a little break-and-enter. It’d be best if you weren’t with me. Emir will take you back to your place. If you like, I’ll stop by later and let you know how I made out.’

‘Yes, okay. Please…’ Aysun smiled, took my good hand and squeezed it before climbing into the back seat.

Emir witnessed this apparently intimate and traitorous exchange between the two of us and shot me a poisonous glance — which, of course, I ignored. I whistled at a cab that happened along on the other side of the road, heading in the right direction.

Bebek was maybe fifteen minutes across town, enough time to think about why exactly Portman, Bremmel, Ten Pin and the Onur crew had been killed. Enough time also to wonder whether Masters would want to make good on her threat and go to work on me with her nail file. But that would only happen if I took the coward’s way out, unburdened my guilt, and told her what had happened. Assuming, that is, I had guilt.

The cab deposited me outside the familiar Portman residence. The cop guards and their portable armour shields had long gone, replaced now by the estate agent’s leasing sign affixed to the front wall. I walked up the steps, case in hand, and tried the door, just in case the previous visitors had been careless. Locked.

I took my notebook from my jacket pocket and removed the thin, filed-down hacksaw blade that lived in the spine for just these occasions, and went to work on the deadlock. The door clicked open. I went in, closed the door behind me, and the scents of a house freshly cleaned but unlived-in washed over me. I began the climb up the stairs.

I put the case on the floor in Portman’s study and extracted the Geiger counter. I turned it on and the device was quiet. I pulled back the chair and the carpet, opened the floor safe; the box stayed quiet when I waved it around inside — a couple of pops, background stuff.

The wall safe was next in line. The painting in front of it hadn’t been changed — the hunting party was still doing its best to bring down that elephant. I swung it wide on its hinge. The box sounded off a handful of pops. I opened the safe door, put the Geiger counter in the space, and the thing went crazy. I adjusted the scale and a screech came out of the speaker like the noise a badly tuned radio makes in a violent thunderstorm. The needle hovered over the 12,400-becquerel mark.

There was another competing noise in the room. My cell. The screen told me it was Masters.

I switched off the Geiger counter. ‘Hey,’ I said, answering it. ‘Guess what?’

‘Jesus, Vin…’ There was relief in her voice. ‘So you’re at Portman’s place?’

‘Yeah, why? What’s up?’

‘Something terrible has happened…’