The Wreckage: A Thriller (35 page)

“Cause of death?”

“Not given.”

“What about a death certificate?”

“Could take months. You could ask the Commission of Public Integrity. Judge Kuther is supposed to investigate deaths in custody.” Luca checks his watch. Daniela’s flight is due to board any minute. He puts in a cal to Ahmed Kuther. Waits. Thinks. Stares at the red-and-white control tower, the coppered glass, the minarets like sharp pencils jammed into the sky. The events of the past few days have left him with a dangerous sense of incompletion. Secrets stil buried. A job half done. He never supposed this search would have a good end, but what sort of ending is this?

The judge final y picks up. “I hear you’re leaving.”

“Good news travels fast.”

“I wil be sorry to see you go.”

“You could do me one last favor. There was a prisoner, Mohammed Ibrahim Omar al-Muslit. He’s a former lieutenant colonel in the Republican Guard. Arrested December 2003.

Last known address, Abu Ghraib, where he died four years ago.”

“What do you need from me?”

“Confirmation.”

Daniela has her boarding pass. She has to stand on her toes to kiss Edge on the cheek. He bends and picks her up. Her heels are off the ground.

Luca has to say goodbye to her now. He doesn’t want to lose this woman. He wants to go to bed with her an infinite number of times. He wants to take her somewhere with white sandy beaches, palm trees and blue water; taste the salt drying on her skin and between her thighs.

His phone is ringing again. Daniela wants him to leave it. He looks at the screen. It’s Tony Castro from Damascus.

“Bad time?”

“Could be better.”

“That warehouse you asked me about: Alain al Jaria is registered in Syria as an import/export company. It has a postal address in Damascus and a couple of local directors who don’t appear to exist. The only listed shareholder is a company cal ed May First Limited, with a registered address in the Bahamas. And the only name associated with both companies is an Egyptian national with a British passport—Yahya Maluk.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s a big player. Connected. He’s a friend of President al-Assad in Syria and Mubarak in Egypt. Made his money smuggling oil for Saddam, according to the rumors. Nobody could ever prove it.”

“Where is he now?”

“Apart from his place in Damascus, there’s a house in the South of France, another in London. According to his housekeeper, he’s in London.”

“For how long?”

“She didn’t know.”

“What about Ibrahim?”

“I mentioned the name but the housekeeper didn’t react. She was nervous. I didn’t hang around.”

A boarding announcement echoes through the terminal. Daniela’s flight is being cal ed: Turkish Airways to Istanbul. She’s waiting at the security barrier.

Luca closes the gap, standing a foot away. Silent. Daniela looks past him at the security station. Beyond is the boarding gate. The last of the passengers are joining the end of the queue.

“My husband wants me to go back to him,” she says. “That was the phone cal I had on the night we met at the al-Hamra.”

“What did you tel him?”

“I told him no.”

She gazes at him, wil ing him to say something more. The slightest signal might tilt their lives towards each other, maybe for a long time. Luca’s phone is ringing again. He glances at the screen. It’s Ahmed Kuther.

“Can you wait for just one second?”

“No, I can’t, Luca.”

The phone is against his ear. Daniela turns away and puts her bag on to the conveyor belt before stepping through the body scanner.

“Who told you Ibrahim was dead?” asks Kuther.

“It came from a contact at the prison.”

“The information was incorrect.”

“So he’s stil in Abu Ghraib?”

Daniela has picked up her bag. She’s walking across the concourse.

“Mohammed Ibrahim was accidental y released from prison four years ago. He was mistaken for another prisoner.” Luca glances at the departure board. Feels for his passport. There is a Royal Jordanian flight to Istanbul via Amman leaving in two hours.

He yel s to Daniela, who turns at the last minute.

“Wait for me in Istanbul.”

She can’t hear him. He tries to get closer, but a guard stops him. He shouts again. “Istanbul. Wait for me!”

“Why?” she mouths.

Luca doesn’t answer. If she can’t find a reason, she won’t be there.

27

LONDON

The wedding reception is at a Georgian vila on the northern edge of Hampstead Heath. Heritage-listed, whiter than a wedding cake, it looks like a film set from a BBC period drama, minus the bonnets and the horses.

“Do you remember
Notting Hill?
” asks Miranda, hooking her hand through the crook of Ruiz’s arm. She’s walking on tiptoes so her heels won’t bruise the turf. “Julia Roberts was the American movie star and Hugh Grant had a travel bookshop on Portobel o Road. They filmed one of the final scenes at Kenwood House.”

“I’ve never real y seen the point of Hugh Grant,” says Ruiz. “He’s like a male version of Meg Ryan—always playing wishy-washy romantic losers.”

“I thought you fancied Meg Ryan.”

“When she stops whining.”

The Orangery is swathed in white linen with splashes of yel ow from the sunflowers on each table display. A string quartet is playing in the corner. Daj, seated like a queen at her own table, is complaining loudly about her inconsiderate son, who never visits or cal s. Her voice has a Lady Bracknel quality, slicing through the chatter like a wel -honed cleaver.

Claire and Phil ip had wanted a child-friendly wedding because most of their friends have started families. Now there are children running between the tables or imprisoned between their parents, going crazy with self-pity. One young boy slides a toy train along the seat so his sister wil sit on it when she retakes her place. She lets out a cry. The toy is confiscated.

More tears.

Ruiz does the rounds, visiting each table, trying to avoid the trays of champagne. Wedding receptions are strange rituals ful of melancholy and a sense of time passing. Unmarried women of a certain age looking slightly forlorn, while those with long-term boyfriends are extra-attentive, hoping the day and the free bar might prompt them to pop the question.

His stepfather’s relatives consist of an ageing aunt and uncle who have flown from Florida, their skin like petrified wood. He was some sort of biologist, but Ruiz can barely remember him apart from the smel of formaldehyde that clings to him like cigarette smoke.

Most of the men have taken off their jackets, loosened ties and rol ed up their sleeves. As the night wears on, young people cavort on the dance floor and children are taken home to bed. Miranda asks him to dance. She puts her arms around his waist and hooks her thumbs into his belt. Pressing against him, she tilts her face so her mouth is inches from his.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” she says.

“I like this kind of dancing.”

“Mmmm, I can tel you’re rather pleased. Are you thinking about kissing me?”

“No, I’m thinking about going down on you.”

“Would you think less of me in the morning?”

“Five per cent at most.”

The festivities are paused while the wedding cake is cut. Ruiz finds himself standing next to Phil ip’s mother, who reeks of perfume and the sweet smel of rotting fruit.

“Don’t they make a wonderful couple,” she says, showing lipstick smudges on her teeth. “You must be very proud of your Claire.”

“Yes.”

“She does have a lovely complexion. Phil ip once brought home an Asian girl from university. I think she was from Hong Kong. Pretty, in a Chinese sort of way. I think her father was involved in horse racing. They’re very big gamblers, the Chinese, and they have those terrible Triads. I have nothing against foreigners, of course. I love a good Chinese…”

“But
not
in the family?”

The woman’s mouth opens but the message has final y reached her brain. Ruiz is already retreating outside where he looks at the lights of London and goes over the events of the day. The confrontation in the street seems like a memory plucked from a past life. Public displays of violence are not his style, but he doesn’t have the patience or the reflexes of his youth. Cat-and-mouse games annoy him. He’s an intel igent man but not a complicated one.

At the top of the slope where the road cuts across the lawns towards the car park, Ruiz notices a dark car pul up. A figure emerges, silhouetted by the streetlights, tugging at the cuffs of a suit. Not police, but official.

The man says something to his driver and walks down the gravel path. He’s about to pass by when he turns.

“Mr. Ruiz?”

“Yes.”

“Douglas Evans from the Home Office.”

“Have we met?”

“I don’t believe so.”

The man has the kind of English voice Ruiz dislikes. Upper class. Privately educated. Eton and the Guards most likely. He also has that tel tale military bearing, as though always on the verge of snapping to attention and saluting.

“How was the wedding?”

“Beautiful. You should have been there.”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“Exactly.”

Mr. Evans taps the top of his wrist as though he’s forgotten his watch.

“I understand that you know the whereabouts of a young woman cal ed Hol y Knight, who is wanted by the Metropolitan Police for further questioning. You guaranteed to make her available.”

“She ran away from some of your men in black.”

“Men in black?”

“Spooks. Dark suits. You know the sort. Fake identities. Cover stories. Everything hush hush.”

Mr. Evans shakes his head. He taps his wrist again.

“Tel me something, Mr. Evans: why are you so interested in Hol y Knight?”

“She’s a suspect in a murder investigation.”

“It’s more than that.”

Mr. Evans taps again. “We’ve had a request from our American counterparts to assist in finding Miss Knight.”

“Why do they want her?”

“We’re not entirely certain, Mr. Ruiz. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. The spirit of co-operation between America and Britain has always been healthy, of course, but occasional y information is overlooked or left out of communiqués.”

“They didn’t tel you?”

“I’m trying to fil in the blank spaces.” Mr. Evans attempts a smile. “We’re on the same side, Mr. Ruiz. We both want to know what this is al about. If Miss Knight does break cover, I could guarantee her safety.”

“If she speaks to
you
first?”

“She’s a British citizen on British soil.”

“I’l bear that in mind.”

Ruiz turns to leave. He feels a firm grip on his forearm.

“I am trying to help her.”

“Then tel me what this is about.”

“That’s above my pay grade.”

Ruiz shakes his arm loose. Mr. Evans hands him a business card. “My numbers… should you change your mind. Give it some thought.” He looks Ruiz up and down. “Nice suit.” The reception is winding down. Claire and Phil ip have made their public escape, chauffeured away in a white limousine trailing tin cans, streamers, and covered in a year’s supply of shaving foam.

Ruiz finds the professor and the two men share a moment on the patio while the waiters are clearing tables and stacking chairs. The wind has picked up—a storm is coming.

“You see that over there?” asks Ruiz, pointing at a pattern of lights. “That’s Camden. I remember investigating a hit-and-run. She was knocked off her bicycle. Nine years old. And just off to the right—see that tower block? A four-year-old fel from a window on the sixth floor. His mother and father were junkies and had gone out to get a fix. Oakshot Avenue, Highgate: the wife of an alcoholic ex-sergeant blew his brains out when she found out he was having an affair.

“St. George’s Catholic School, Maida Vale: Philip Lawrence, the head teacher, was stabbed to death while protecting a pupil. Cobbold Road, Shepherd’s Bush: an elderly woman died of exposure because her landlord turned off the heating. Horn Lane, Acton: a hooker had her throat cut when she shopped her pimp for trading in underage girls…”

“Why are you tel ing me this?”

“Most people look at a city and they see people or buildings. Al I see are the dead.”

“Maybe you should get some help about that.”

“I gave up being a detective because I got tired of dealing with al the rules and regulations, the red tape. I could handle the psychopaths and scumbags, until they started turning up in uniform and carrying badges.”

“What’s this about?” asks Joe.

Ruiz hesitates, draining the last of his Guinness. “Those men in the car this afternoon… I lost control. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I’ve spent most of my life trying to keep a lid on my temper, but I’ve always known it’s there. Sometimes it frightens me.”

“You’re scared of what you might do.”

“I used to wonder what motivates people to do great harm—terrorists and the like. What makes them want to blow up buildings and bring down airliners, but when I feel that red-and-black mist rising up in me, I reckon I could lay waste to the world.”