you go, Special Agents. Just click on the link. Warning – there’s a lot here to go through. One thing I haven’t sent you is a link to the electronic diary kept by Colonel Portman. I tried to open it and the file is corrupted. I spoke to IT services about it and they said there’s nothing they can do to fix it. If you need any help at all, just holler.
The news about the diary was disappointing. Knowing where Portman had been recently and who he’d been with might have been an asset. Nothing we could do about it.
‘Shame about the diary,’ Masters commented from across the room.
I nodded as I clicked on the link to Portman’s email box. I wound through a turn or two of the Rolodex while I waited for the file to open fully. At a glance, most of the recent email traffic – for the past few months, at least – seemed to be between Portman and various people at an organisation called TEI, the local aerospace company making General Electric jet engines for Turkish Air Force F-16s, and General Electric in the States. That seemed reasonable given the Air Attaché’s main focus before his murder, which was working on the Turks’ F-16 upgrade.
Next I opened his phone records. Captain Cain had had the good sense to attach names to the numbers. At some stage, I would have to take a couple of days to go through both files properly, but this was not the day.
Masters sat opposite at another desk, similarly furnished. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Where you been?’ she asked.
‘Istanbul,’ I replied.
She glanced at the ceiling like she was hoping to find strength up there, then held the handset away from her ear, her hand still covering the mouthpiece. ‘Got the leasing agent here,’ she said. ‘Portman had that second safe installed without informing them.’
‘So it definitely wouldn’t have shown up on any plans,’ I said. Masters’ hunch had paid dividends. I told myself that if I didn’t smarten up, she’d become the brains of the operation.
‘They want to know when they’ll be able to re-lease the residence.’
I thought about my T-shirt. ‘Tell them after the cleaners have finished dissolving it.’
Masters went back to saying uh-huh. I opened the manila folder in front of me. Inside was a bunch of official OSI forms outlining the charge of rape against Staff Sergeant Mort Gallagher, the case down at Incirlik Air Base that Portman had, according to Ambassador Burnbaum, intended to look into. Beneath these was the original employment form filled out by one Adem Fedai, manservant to Colonel Portman. Fedai was thirty-three, single, five eight, and 150 pounds. If he were a boxer,he’d be a junior middleweight. I looked at the photo. Eyes: brown. Moustache – of course. I copied his home address into my notebook.
‘There’s also this,’ said Masters, done with her phone call. She slid a couple of sheets of paper across the desk towards me.
The one on top was a letterhead with a shield and the words ‘Istanbul Emniyet Müdurlügü’ – Police Administration. I couldn’t read the contents as they were written in Turkish, but stapled to it was the translation: it was a report from Istanbul police forensics. I scanned it. Apparently, tests had determined the make-up of the explosives used to blow Colonel Portman’s wall safe: HMX mixed in with some LX-14, a plastic bonded explosive that’d stop the HMX blowing up if the handler happened to sneeze. Familiarity told me this kind of explosive was used in high-performance anti-armour warheads rather than heists. ‘So it was military. They got a spectroscopy analysis?’
‘Yeah.’ Masters held up a couple more sheets of paper, giving them a waggle. ‘And if you’re asking because you want to send it on to the FBI – done it. It’ll take them a few days to get back to us.’ She raised an eyebrow, daring me to say something.
‘Good,’ I said.
‘Good,’ she repeated.
‘Good,’ I repeated back.
‘Okay, then . . .’
The news about the diary was disappointing. Knowing where Portman had been recently and who he’d been with might have been an asset. Nothing we could do about it.
‘Shame about the diary,’ Masters commented from across the room.
I nodded as I clicked on the link to Portman’s email box. I wound through a turn or two of the Rolodex while I waited for the file to open fully. At a glance, most of the recent email traffic – for the past few months, at least – seemed to be between Portman and various people at an organisation called TEI, the local aerospace company making General Electric jet engines for Turkish Air Force F-16s, and General Electric in the States. That seemed reasonable given the Air Attaché’s main focus before his murder, which was working on the Turks’ F-16 upgrade.
Next I opened his phone records. Captain Cain had had the good sense to attach names to the numbers. At some stage, I would have to take a couple of days to go through both files properly, but this was not the day.
Masters sat opposite at another desk, similarly furnished. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Where you been?’ she asked.
‘Istanbul,’ I replied.
She glanced at the ceiling like she was hoping to find strength up there, then held the handset away from her ear, her hand still covering the mouthpiece. ‘Got the leasing agent here,’ she said. ‘Portman had that second safe installed without informing them.’
‘So it definitely wouldn’t have shown up on any plans,’ I said. Masters’ hunch had paid dividends. I told myself that if I didn’t smarten up, she’d become the brains of the operation.
‘They want to know when they’ll be able to re-lease the residence.’
I thought about my T-shirt. ‘Tell them after the cleaners have finished dissolving it.’
Masters went back to saying uh-huh. I opened the manila folder in front of me. Inside was a bunch of official OSI forms outlining the charge of rape against Staff Sergeant Mort Gallagher, the case down at Incirlik Air Base that Portman had, according to Ambassador Burnbaum, intended to look into. Beneath these was the original employment form filled out by one Adem Fedai, manservant to Colonel Portman. Fedai was thirty-three, single, five eight, and 150 pounds. If he were a boxer,he’d be a junior middleweight. I looked at the photo. Eyes: brown. Moustache – of course. I copied his home address into my notebook.
‘There’s also this,’ said Masters, done with her phone call. She slid a couple of sheets of paper across the desk towards me.
The one on top was a letterhead with a shield and the words ‘Istanbul Emniyet Müdurlügü’ – Police Administration. I couldn’t read the contents as they were written in Turkish, but stapled to it was the translation: it was a report from Istanbul police forensics. I scanned it. Apparently, tests had determined the make-up of the explosives used to blow Colonel Portman’s wall safe: HMX mixed in with some LX-14, a plastic bonded explosive that’d stop the HMX blowing up if the handler happened to sneeze. Familiarity told me this kind of explosive was used in high-performance anti-armour warheads rather than heists. ‘So it was military. They got a spectroscopy analysis?’
‘Yeah.’ Masters held up a couple more sheets of paper, giving them a waggle. ‘And if you’re asking because you want to send it on to the FBI – done it. It’ll take them a few days to get back to us.’ She raised an eyebrow, daring me to say something.
‘Good,’ I said.
‘Good,’ she repeated.
‘Good,’ I repeated back.
‘Okay, then . . .’
Similar Books
