Hard Rain

Forty-six

‘Okay,’ I began as we headed back to the peach fortress on the hill, ‘this is what we know… After making like an Iranian fighter-interceptor against the Israelis, Portman gives up his flying status to concentrate on the shit going down at Kumayt. Then Yafa and her eunuchs come along and kill him in such a way that the police believe he’s the victim of a serial killer, a theory reinforced by subsequent murders. Portman’s gruesome death turns out to be merely the cover for the murderers’ real intentions — securing the only report they believe to be in existence on the HEX-contaminated water at Kumayt.

‘The explosives used to blow Portman’s safe, as well as the car bomb that later kills Doc Merkit and Emir, turn out to have come from Israel, from artillery shells supposedly fired off in the September War. And this brings us to Jarred, who happens to be a former IDF artillery captain working for Tawal, the guy who’s poisoning the water at Kumayt with US nuclear material. Why? Because he needs an excuse to build a vast desalination plant on the Iranian border that will be used as a secret military base. Have I missed anything?’

‘The US connection — the HEX. We’re up to our necks in this somehow,’ Masters said as we went through the front security check.

I agreed. Plus, there was the mole; the tampering with Portman’s email; the general obfuscation, the leaking of confidential information.

The local women in their headscarves and body stockings smiled at us from behind the bomb-proof glass like we were old friends. Masters smiled back for the both of us. After passing through the x-ray machine, we walked in silence to the elevator. We’d just missed it. Masters pressed the button and leaned against the wall.

‘I’ve been thinking about who we can check that HEX tank’s serial number with,’ she said.

‘Any ideas?’

‘Well, the Department of Energy runs all nuclear storage facilities. When I was asking around about the Iraq DU dumps I developed a pretty good rapport with a woman in the DoE’s middle management. She was high enough to have reasonable access, low enough to pass under the radar, and jaded enough to want to help.’

‘Okay, see what she can do with it.’

‘I’ve also been thinking about something Doctor Bartholomew told us. That Portman said he felt personally responsible for the children affected by the contamination at Kumayt. Why would he say that — that he felt personally responsible?’

‘You think we’ve missed something?’ I asked.

‘Maybe nothing important… Portman stumbles across the hospital at Kumayt and he gets involved. He gets drawn into the tender process and doesn’t like what he sees going on. Maybe he plays a few hunches and comes up with some frightening information that leads to even more frightening conclusions. And when he learned what his squadron was up to, he wanted no part in it. Portman had the full picture. I wonder what he was going to do with what he knew.’

The elevator arrived.

‘If Portman blew the whistle on the shit going down in Kumayt, what would that do to the governments in Israel and the US?’ I wondered. ‘It’s our HEX and Israel is our ally. Once the scandal hits the media, both administrations are going to be in for a rough ride. What would Jerusalem and Washington do to protect themselves?’

They’d do plenty. And what instrument would they use for that protection? The Israelis would call on Mossad. Washington would use the CIA. Masters and I looked at each other, arriving at the same place at the same time: Stringer.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. The coast was clear. We hurried to our office. I opened the door and –

‘Ah, just the people I was hoping to bump into.’ It was Harvey Stringer, seated behind my desk. ‘In fact, I’ve been trying to do that with you in particular, Cooper, for some time. But you’re elusive, aren’t you?’

‘I didn’t realise,’ I said.

‘No, I’m sure.’ Stringer tapped his fingers together and stared at us like he was considering his next move.

Goddard and Mallet were loitering around Masters’ desk. I noticed they’d switched to wearing suits now that their cover was blown, the cheap variety that give out electric shocks on warm, dry days. I had the impression we’d caught them all in the act of a little invasion of privacy.

‘In my office in an hour and a half. Both of you,’ Stringer demanded. The desk seemed a lot smaller with the big man behind it. He stood up and performed that big person’s trick of appearing weightless as he swung out from behind it and made the door in two giant steps. Without turning, he bellowed, ‘Be on time.’

Mallet and Goddard followed their boss at a respectful distance.

‘Flotsam before jetsam,’ I called out as they reached the door, which caused them to pause.

‘Cooper, admitting you’re an asshole is the first step in the program,’ said Goddard with a smile.

‘Doesn’t seem to have worked for you, or your throwback buddy. And did you happen to find what you were hunting around for back there? A few good ideas, maybe?’

Mallet shook his head. ‘Aside from your partner’s spectacular ass and her exhibitionist tendencies, you two got nothing.’

‘Catch you in your next X-rated performance, honey,’ Goddard said to Masters as he walked out, looking smug, Mallet in tow behind him looking smugger.

Masters headed back to her desk, steamed up. ‘Do men always compete with each other to see who can be the biggest shithead?’

Yeah, often. Redirecting her energies, I wrote on a pad and passed it to her: Agree we might have missed something important on Portman. Need to go back through the case notes.

She gave a nod.

I went to the filing cabinet, unlocked it, pulled the files and laid them on her desk. We re-read the translations of Iyaz and Karli’s notes, neighbours’ eyewitness accounts, the scene-of-crime report, the initial report on Portman’s remains from forensics, the lists of evidence collected, my own notes on the Thurlstane Group and the interview with Bob Rivers, Portman’s phone and bank records, his will and insurance papers, the phone interview with Portman’s wife, his flight records, and a hell of a lot more besides. Nothing popped, for me or Masters. After nearly an hour she got up and took a glass of water from the cooler.

I had a problem. ‘There’s nothing new,’ I told Masters.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Aside from the Flight Records stuff, nothing new has been added to the case file.’ After a pause, I called Captain Cain. ‘Rodney, Vin.’

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘There are a few preliminary reports in Portman’s file. None of them have been updated with finals.’

‘Such as?’

I picked up the one at the top of the pile. ‘Such as the full, unabridged report from Istanbul homicide forensics.’

‘Well, yeah, as a matter of fact, got that one right here. Arrived the day before yesterday. Took longer because they had it translated. I didn’t know you were sweating it.’

‘Nothing else come in?’

‘A few of the neighbours have been re-interviewed… To be honest, I think Istanbul homicide have moved on. They’re expecting us to make the miracle breakthrough.’

I felt a twinge of guilt. Cain had just inadvertently reminded me that I’d kept him well behind the play. But then I remembered the hint of suspicion and the guilt untwinged itself. ‘Can you fax up what you’ve got?’ I asked him.

‘Sure.’

I hung up and checked the watch. Half an hour till Stringer Time.

Cain sent the final forensic report through on the machine a minute later. It had swelled considerably, but I wasn’t expecting to see anything particularly new or surprising, just a lot more detail on what we already had. I started flipping pages. Yep — the missing bones, the number of pieces he was cut into, the damage done to the back of his larynx by the chloroform… There was half a rainforest of recorded tedium. Say a guy gets an axe buried up to its handle in his forehead, you’d think the forensic autopsy would stop somewhere above the neck, right? But no, when these guys are good, they’re thorough. They take tissue samples, hundreds of them, from all over the body. If the thickness of the report was any indication, Istanbul forensics was thorough.

‘Hey,’ said Masters. I glanced up. She pointed at the face of her wristwatch. In twenty-five minutes Stringer would start drumming his fat fingers on his desk, wondering where we were.

I speed-read the summaries. In an early operation, some surgeon had botched the posterior cruciate ligament in the knee joint of Portman’s left leg. No more skiing for him. There were no signs of arthritis in his fingers or toes. There was a low-grade case of haemorrhoids and a little diverticulitis. Tut-tut, not enough fibre in the diet. Portman’s renal function was poor. His lung function was excellent — well above average for a guy around fifty, and his liver function was normal. His –

Wait a minute. Poor renal function — why was that? Why weren’t Portman’s kidneys working? I flicked back to the appropriate section and read the pathologist’s more extensive overview. The word ‘necrotised’ got my full attention. ‘Shit,’ I said out loud.

‘What?’ Masters enquired.

‘You got Portman’s files there — his medical records?’ I asked.

Masters passed it across.

‘Turns out Portman was down to one kidney. The other one was almost completely dead.’ I searched for the paragraph I knew should be in his last flight physical, but it wasn’t there. Somehow he’d fooled the system. ‘Jesus… I think I can tell you why Portman felt personally responsible for the situation down in Kumayt. Because, in Desert Storm, he flew Warthogs and buried a few tons of depleted uranium in Iraqi ass.’

‘You have to call his wife,’ said Masters.

‘Ex-wife,’ I corrected her.

‘She has a right to know,’ Masters replied, as she re-read the information rushed through from Andrews.

It had taken some fast talking, but the Flight Surgeon’s office had come through. The guy on the desk there pulling an all-nighter must have been bored. He’d faxed us the relevant page in Portman’s flight log within twenty minutes of our request.

‘You’re better at this stuff than I am,’ I said.

‘You’ve already spoken with her,’ Masters said, holding the handset out to me. ‘I’ve dialled the number. Take it…’

I took the phone. It was ringing, and then someone picked up.

‘Hello?’ said a familiar voice.

‘Mrs Portman?’

‘Yes…? Who is it?’

‘Mrs Portman, I’m sorry about the hour,’ I said, glaring at Masters. ‘This is Special Agent Cooper.’

‘What time is it?’

‘It’s 7 am, ma’am.’ If I were her, I’d have hung up on me.

‘Your voice is familiar. I’ve spoken to you before, haven’t I?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Special Agent Vin Cooper. I’m with the OSI, investigating Emmet Portman’s death. You might not remember — you told me about your husband coming home and telling you he didn’t want children, that he wanted a divorce.’

‘I remember. You were rude to my sister…’

‘I was jus—’

‘Why are you calling? Do you know who killed him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that why you’re calling? To inform me?’

‘We don’t have the proof as yet, ma’am.’

‘So you’re not going to tell me who?’

‘I can tell you positively that he was not the victim of a serial killer, ma’am. We believe he was killed by an organisation that wanted it to look like a serial killing. Emmet Portman found something. The organisation wanted to stop him revealing it, and stopped in a way that would send any investigation chasing its tail. I can’t tell you too much more about it — not just now.’

There was silence while she took all this in.

‘Mrs Portman, your husband saw combat in Desert Storm. Did he tell you much about it?’

‘No. A little — not much. Why?’

‘He was one of the pilots who stopped the retreating Iraqi army on the highway to Basra. It was widely reported in the media at the time — it was called the Highway of Death.’

‘Yes, I saw the pictures. Horrible. I didn’t know he was involved.’

‘Did you know he was on the verge of complete renal failure?’

‘What?’

‘He was down to less than one kidney.’

‘No… no, I didn’t.’

‘Mrs Portman. Your husband was also sterile.’

‘Sterile? I don’t believe it.’

‘Believe it, ma’am. You should also know that your husband loved you very much,’ I said.

There was silence on the line.

‘Mrs Portman?’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. And I don’t see that it’s really any of your business.’

She was right, it wasn’t. But Masters and I had come to know a few things about Colonel Emmet Portman. Maybe passing on some of that knowledge might help her down the line. ‘Ma’am, my investigating partner and I believe your husband divorced you so that you could meet someone else. He wanted you to have children. He wanted children with you.’

‘I’m hanging up now… This is… I don’t believe you.’

‘Mrs Portman…’

She didn’t hang up.

‘Colonel Portman was flying A-10s,’ I said. ‘Tank-busters. The ammunition they use is called depleted uranium, or DU. Have you heard of it?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’

‘When this ammunition burns, it turns into a uranium oxide aerosol. When inhaled, there’s a view amongst a number of medical experts that it can cause problems.’

‘What kind of problems?’

Masters handed me a page downloaded from the internet about some of the disorders being levelled at DU. A paragraph was highlighted, which I read out. ‘Kidney damage, cancers of the lungs and bones, respiratory disease, skin disorders, neurocognitive disorders, chromosomal damage, and birth defects.’

‘Oh my god…’

‘During the attack on the highway, the A-10s were pretty low and they shot off a lot of DU,’ I continued. ‘He could have breathed in a lot of uranium oxide.’

Silence.

‘Ma’am,’ I said, ‘the stuff he was breathing probably killed his kidneys, and sterility is another symptom. As I said, we believe your husband left you so that you could have healthy children with someone else.’

‘Dear god,’ she said. It was barely audible.

‘Mrs Portman, if you want, I can provide you with the numbers of a support group… There’s a class action being put together…’ I went on to tell her a little about Kumayt and Portman’s work in the hospital there, helping and caring for those children.

She told me that since her divorce from Emmet, there had been no one else. From what I knew, there’d been no one else for Emmet Portman either.

I left her in tears.