The Wreckage: A Thriller (42 page)

“How come you know so much about it?” asks Luca.

Gooding looks at him sheepishly. “I’ve been working on a book.”

“A book?”

“Don’t look at me like that. Newspapers are dying. You make money where you can.”

“What’s the book about?” asks Daniela.

“The global financial crisis—why some banks survived and others didn’t.”

“So how did Mersey Fidelity survive?”

“There were whispers.”

“What sort of whispers?” Luca asks.

Gooding leans a little closer. “OK, let me draw you a picture. First you have the credit crisis, the meltdown, major banks hemorrhaging. Lehman Brothers has filed for bankruptcy.

Nobody is lending any more. You’re on your knees. Facing ruin. What do you do?”

“You ask for a bailout?”

“Yes, but before that—before you know that central banks are going to ride to the rescue.”

“I don’t know.”

“You take anybody’s money. And I mean
anybody
. The Mafia, Triads, Colombian drug barons, corrupt regimes, criminal gangs—anybody.”

“Is that what happened?”

“Two years ago the UN Office on Drugs and Crime released a report saying that drug money was the only thing keeping some major banks in business. The UN estimates that three hundred and fifty-two bil ion dol ars of drug and Mafia money was laundered by major banks at the peak of the global financial crisis. That’s a third of a tril ion dol ars.”

“What about the regulators?”

“They turned a blind eye because it helped keep bank doors open.”

“And you think Mersey Fidelity was involved?”

“It’s a theory.”

Luca glances at Daniela, wondering how much to tel Gooding. Scanning the bar, he notices the couple from earlier have gone. A fresh beer arrives. He centers it on a coaster and begins.

“Just over a week ago the Zewiya branch of the al-Rafidain Bank in Baghdad was robbed. Four bank guards helped engineer the break-in. We aren’t sure how much they stole—

perhaps as much as fifty mil ion US dol ars. Less than twenty-four hours later they were found executed outside of Mosul. This wasn’t the first such robbery—Iraq has been averaging about one a week—but this was US dol ars. Daniela checked with the Iraqi Central Bank and discovered that the money had been delivered only a few hours before the bank was raided.”

“What does this have to do with Mersey Fidelity?” asks Gooding.

“Before we flew out of Baghdad we found a former truck driver who told us how he smuggled cash out of Iraq into Syria. US dol ars. There were two truckloads, but one lorry went off the cliff and spil ed the payload. The second lorry went to a warehouse on the outskirts of Damascus owned by an import/export company registered in Syria. Alain al Jaria. It doesn’t have a physical office address, just a postbox. And no tax returns in ten years…”

Daniela adds, “The same company was subcontracted to rebuild a stadium in Baghdad in 2005 and paid forty-two mil ion dol ars. The work was never done.” Luca: “The control ing shareholder of Alain al Jaria is a company cal ed May First Limited, with a registered address in the Bahamas. And the only name associated with both companies is Yahya Maluk.”

Luca places his elbows on the table, lowering his voice to a whisper.

“I think stolen money is being smuggled out of Iraq using the same routes that Saddam Hussein set up to overcome the international sanctions and blockades of the nineties. Maybe that’s how Mersey Fidelity avoided the credit crisis: it found a new source of funds.”

“What evidence do you have?”

“Not enough.”

Gooding is staring at him, his eyes slightly glazed by the alcohol, but there’s something skulking behind his countenance—a tense energy or the shadow of a secret. Luca searches his eyes for a clue. Over Gooding’s shoulder, he can see a miniature version of himself in a far-off mirror.

“There’s something else,” says Luca.

“I’m listening.”

“The truck driver who delivered the cash to Damascus said he was met by a man cal ed Mohammed Ibrahim.”

Luca nods towards Daniela.

“His ful name is Mohammed Ibrahim Omar al-Muslit,” she says. “He was responsible for setting up dozens of bank accounts in the name of front companies in Jordan, Syria and Lebanon for Saddam Hussein. He was arrested in 2003 and gave up Saddam’s hiding place.”

“Why isn’t Ibrahim in prison?”

“Four years ago he walked out of Abu Ghraib. Accidental y released, due to a case of mistaken identity. It was just before the US handed over control of the prison.”

“Unfortunate.”

“I would have chosen another word.”

12

LONDON

Seated on a plastic chair with his hands outspread on a table, Ruiz looks like a pianist playing a final chord and listening to the music fade. Campbel Smith doesn’t seem to appreciate the performance. His lips have disappeared and his face is as pale as poached chicken.

“Why didn’t she cal the police?”

“She was traumatized. He threatened to cut the baby from her womb.”

“And he wanted some notebook?”

“Apparently.”

Campbel wants to go over it again: Zac Osborne, Richard North, Colin Hackett—two dead, one missing—he can see how the dots are joined but can’t make out any discernible picture.

There is a knock on the door. Dinner. Campbel is happier once he’s eaten (pork ribs in black bean sauce, delivered from the local Chinese). Ruiz no longer feels hungry after watching him eat.

Licking sauce from his fingers, Campbel begins listing al the mistakes that Ruiz has made and how he should have done things differently. Hindsight is always twenty/twenty with Campbel , the ultimate I-told-you-so personality.

“Let me tel you a story,” he says final y, as if he’s only just decided to share it. “I’m tel ing tales out of school, which could get me suspended, but maybe you should be aware of the context.”

“What context?”

“Not ten minutes after I got back to the Yard today, I had a request from the Deputy Commissioner. He wanted to see me in his office. There was someone with him. Said he was from the Home Office. I didn’t catch his name.”

“Douglas Evans?”

“That’s him,” says Campbel . “They had al your Met files. Every bit of paperwork—who you arrested, who you didn’t, every complaint, every mistake. Suspended twice. Dismissed once. Reinstated. Cautioned at least a dozen times. You went AWOL when your first wife died.”

“I don’t need a history lesson.”

“That guy wasn’t Home Office, but somewhere closer to Vauxhal Bridge Road. The spooks are al over you—your phones, your house, your car, they’ve got surveil ance teams tracking you 24/7, listening to you crunching your Bran Flakes and taking a crap. You’re out on a limb, Vincent. Isolated. Even your best friends are ducking for cover. Maybe if you could give them this notebook…”

“I don’t know where it is.”

“What about Hol y Knight?”

Ruiz doesn’t answer. Campbel gets to his feet again, pacing. Reaching the far wal , he turns, paces again. It’s like watching a duck in a shooting gal ery.

“Do you know where she is?”

“You can’t guarantee her safety.”

“And I suppose you can?”

Campbel stares at Ruiz for a long time, but it’s not a tactic or a psychological ploy. He moves across the room to his desk. Opens a drawer. Pul s out a plain white envelope.

“We found this at the back of a filing cabinet in Richard North’s office. The London postmark is dated sixteenth June. No return address.” Inside the envelope are a dozen photographs of Richard North with a woman who isn’t Elizabeth; a brunette with a model’s cheekbones and a tight body, dressed in jeans and a fitted top. They’re sitting in an outdoor café holding hands. Kissing. The trees in the background are bare. The photos were taken in winter with a telephoto lens.

“Who is she?” asks Ruiz.

“Polina Dulsanya.”

“The nanny?”

“SOCO took samples from the house and found semen stains on her sheets. Got a positive match. Richard North was shagging the nanny.”

“It says something about the man.”

“It says he cheats on his wife.”

The two men regard each other as if somehow al men have been diminished by this one act of betrayal.

“We’re looking for the nanny now, but she gave the police a fake address.”

“Does Elizabeth know?” asks Ruiz.

“I thought it could wait.”

“Where is she?”

“I had someone drive her back to her father’s place.”

Ruiz looks at the images again. “Why does someone send photographs like this to Richard North?”

“To warn him off.”

“Or to blackmail him.”

A knock on the door. DI Thompson. He’s wearing his undertaker face. He motions to the commander “Can I talk to you, guv?”

“What is it?”

“They just pul ed Richard North’s car out of the River Lea.”

“Any sign of North?”

“Traces of blood.”

Campbel glances at Ruiz, wanting to say so many things.

Instead: “You’re coming with me.”

13

NEW YORK

Chalcott is sitting in a business-class seat on the tarmac at JFK, sipping a glass of complimentary champagne. He’s not a happy flyer; hates the rigmarole of security screening, boarding queues and pre-flight safety demonstrations. The only benefit of flying long haul is being forty thousand feet above sea level and out of communication.

Not yet. His mobile is vibrating. London.

“Talk quickly,” he tel s Sobel.

“They found North’s car.”

“What about North?”

“Traces of blood but no body.”

“You think he’s dead?”

“We have to consider the possibility.”

Chalcott scoops peanuts into his fist and inhales them between sentences. A stewardess leans over him.

“Excuse me, sir, but al electronic devices must be turned off for take-off.”

Chalcott waves her away. “What about Terracini?”

“He’s being monitored.”

“Has anything else changed?”

“We’re stil looking for the girl.”

“Are you a religious man, Brendan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Maybe you should say a prayer.”

He hangs up. Turns off his phone. Closes his eyes. In seven hours he’l be in London and he can sort out this mess. So far he’s given his superiors a minimalist rendering of the situation. Two lessons he’s learned from twenty years with the Agency—refuse to recognize anything is amiss and keep your answers short.

Ibrahim is cleaning up. He’s hired himself an assassin, but this hasn’t changed the game. Every side has men who kil for a cause, but it’s easier dealing with a hired gun than a teenager with a hard-on for heavenly virgins and a vest packed ful of explosives.

Money or God—some motives are easier to understand.

14

LONDON

The
Financial Herald
has floor-to-ceiling glass doors and a marbled lobby fringed with indoor gardens. A lone security guard sits behind a brightly lit island counter. Gooding waves his ID card in front of a scanner and signs Luca into the register before handing him a visitor’s pass.

A lift rises above the foyer until the security guard is only a bald spot five floors below. Gooding scans his ID again to enter the newsroom. Lights trigger as they weave between cluttered desks and colored partitions that are pinned with newspaper clippings, cartoons and calendars. At the far end of the newsroom a subs desk is pooled in light and half a dozen men sit behind oversized computer screens. Most have hunched shoulders, midnight tans and the tics and twitches of ex-smokers.

Nearby the night news editor is poring over copies of the first editions, seeing what stories their rivals are running. What did they miss? Who scooped whom? It’s too late now to make any major changes. Only a big breaking event would warrant stopping the presses and dropping in a new front page.

Luca’s father had been a sub-editor on a paper in Chicago back in the hot-metal days when the printing presses would shake the entire building like a distant earthquake. Every line of type was cast in molten metal—an al oy of lead, antimony and tin—before being wedged into metal gal eys on stone tables.

Luca was seven years old when he was first taken down on to “the stone.” The setters were rough-looking men in ink-stained overal s with paper hats folded from newsprint. His father would lean over the gal eys, subbing the raised lead type, reading stories back to front and upside down faster than most people read normal y. He cut paragraphs, trimmed sentences, added fil ers and corrected mistakes.

New technology put paid to the setters and linotype machines. Now it is al done by computers in sterile, temperature-control ed rooms without the screaming machines and clanking metal.

Gooding’s desk is protected by partitions that block everything except the view from his window across the rooftops. Luca had pressed him for access to the newspaper’s archives and library. Initial y, Gooding had hesitated, which puzzled Luca. Something about the journalist’s lugubrious face had registered too little when they were talking about the missing banker. Daniela had been awake to the deficit, catching the subtle change in Gooding’s tone.

“He’s not tel ing you everything,” she whispered to Luca as he hailed her a cab. “Be careful.” Then she had peppered his face with kisses. “I think I’m in love with you.”

“I wouldn’t recommend that.”

“Why?”

“I’m a ful y paid-up pessimist.”

“I thought journalists were supposed to be idealists.”

“We start off as idealists and then we become pragmatists and final y pessimists. You can join the club. We have vacancies.” She had laughed and he closed the cab door, giving directions to the driver.

Sitting at the computer screen, Luca waits for Gooding to type in a password.

“So where did you and Daniela meet?”

“At a hotel in Baghdad.”

“What were the first words you said to her?”

“Why?”

“I’m interested in first words. I col ect them. If you remember the first words I figure you must think someone is special.”

“What were the first words you said to Lucy?”

“Pass the salt.”

Gooding laughs drunkenly, his eyes shining. Then he taps the keyboard lightly with his fingertips. A password. The archive opens. He steps back and lets Luca put in the parameters of the search, looking for links between Mersey Fidelity and Iraq. The screen refreshes. The first article is from
The Economist
: fifteen foreign banks had applied for a license to operate in Iraq since the relaxing of the banking laws in 2004. Five licenses had been granted—one of them to Mersey Fidelity—but none of the banks had opened local branches.