The Wreckage: A Thriller (6 page)

They meekly surrendered and were led away, a fact that Bernie despises. That’s one of the reasons he keeps a pistol in his top drawer, a shotgun downstairs and a bodyguard in the next room. Whatever happens, he’s not going to simply disappear.

Glancing at Hol y’s cleavage, Bernie wets his bottom lip. “How much you short?”

“Eighty quid.”

“And what does Uncle Bernie get?”

Hol y thinks, if Zac were here he’d reach across the table and squeeze your head until your eyes pop out. But she needs the money and she’d rather owe Bernie than Floyd, who charges interest with a silver knuckleduster.

Hol y walks to the door and locks it. Then she pushes back Bernie’s leather chair and sits astride him, her knees on either side of his thighs, grinding her pubic bone into his groin.

Her hand slides down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt so her fingers can slide across his chest.

Leaning forward she whispers something into his ear. Then she straightens and slowly undoes the buttons on her blouse, opening it a few inches. She’s wearing a black lace bra.

Bernie takes a wheezing breath, lust painted al over his face.

Motioning to the cashbox, Hol y waits while Bernie fumbles with the key. She takes four twenties and slips the notes into her shoulder bag. Bernie begins to unbuckle his trousers but Hol y starts moving again, bumping and grinding. She increases the pressure, whispering in his ear, letting her tongue trace the outline of his earlobe. He tries to stop her, to lift her off, but Hol y keeps moving.

Bernie groans. “No, no, nooooo…!”

His eyes rol back into his head and his molars grind together, shuddering.

Hol y buttons her shirt and swings her body off his lap. The wet spot on his trousers is starting to spread.

“I want my money back,” he bleats.

Hol y scoops the stolen goods into her bag and swings it onto her shoulder. Unlocking the door, she turns. “Here’s what I’l do, Bernie, I’l sign you up for membership of the Premature Ejaculation Society. They got a strict dress code. You got to
come
in your pants.”

She opens the door. Tommy Boyle, Bernie’s bodyguard, is outside. “Everything OK, boss?”

Bernie has a tissue in his hand. “Just shut the fucking door.”

6

LONDON

Late morning in Central London: Ruiz is waiting downstairs at Scotland Yard. He stil has a few contacts in the Met—coleagues who have survived the shake-ups, shake-outs and new brooms. Some adapt. Some pucker up. Some bend over and brace themselves.

Detective Superintendent Peter Vorland is one of the good guys. Snowy headed, thinning on top, he has a powerful handshake and an Afrikaans accent. He came to the UK in the late seventies, escaping apartheid. Thirty-five years later and he’s never been back—not even for a holiday.

Ruiz once asked him why, but Vorland wouldn’t talk about it. Later, when they got drunk after a Twickenham test match, Vorland said he couldn’t forgive Mandela for the Truth and Reconciliation Commission.

“It’s not in my nature to exonerate torturers and murderers,” he said.

A few years back Vorland had a heart attack. Thought he was dying. He told Ruiz he saw fireworks exploding above Table Mountain and heard a black gospel choir singing. The crash cart and 300 volts brought him back.

Everyone thought Vorland should have retired but he wanted to come back. After six months recuperating, he was leaner, fitter, no longer drinking. Ten years younger and twice as miserable.

His office is on the fourteenth floor with a view across the rooftops of Whitehal to Westminster Cathedral.

“You want some crap coffee?”

“I’m good.”

They spend the first few minutes talking about rugby, more out of habit than need. Final y Ruiz elaborates on a phone cal he made earlier, tel ing the DS about “a friend” who was robbed after playing the Good Samaritan.

“Why didn’t your friend report this crime?” asks Vorland.

“He thinks his wife might misinterpret what happened.”

“Where did your friend meet this girl?”

“The Coach & Horses in Greek Street.”

Vorland glances down at a yel ow legal pad by his elbow. “I did a computer search and came up with five robberies in the past six months, same MO, two perps, one female, one male.”

“Descriptions?”

“The girl is eighteen to twenty-five, Caucasian, five-five, blue eyes, dark hair, cut short, but it could be a wig. She’s also been a blonde and a redhead. The boyfriend is six foot, close cropped hair and a northern accent.”

Vorland taps a fountain pen on the pad. “I also checked out that phone number. The SIM card is registered to a fake address in Wimbledon. Pay-as-you-go. The police won’t track the handset unless your friend reports the crime…” He raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you could convince him…” Ruiz gives a non-committal shrug. “I’l have a word.”

Vorland remembers something else.

“You could talk to the CCTV Control Centre at Westminster Council. They’ve got a hundred and sixty cameras in the West End.”

“Big Brother is watching.”

“They do a job.”

“I preferred the cowardly old world to the brave new one.”

Ruiz rises slowly and makes his way downstairs, dropping his visitor’s badge at the security desk. When he steps outside the revolving door he exhales as though he’s been holding his breath this entire time. Sometimes he needs a reminder that retirement was the right decision.

City Watch Security is in Coventry Street, up a narrow stairway from street level without any signage on the door. The reception area is a smal windowless room with posters on the wal urging people to be eternal y vigilant. The control centre is registered as a charitable trust, funded by Westminster City Council, the Metropolitan Police and private businesses.

The woman in charge, Helen Carlson, has white-grey hair and a head that looks slightly too large for her body, giving her a dol -like quality. Ruiz fol ows her to a separate building, around the corner in Wardour Street, where they enter a dark sub-basement with industrial bins and a caged lift. Ms. Carlson taps a number into a panel. The door opens. They wait for it to close behind them. Another panel, a different code and a second door opens into a large room where dozens of men and women watch the streets of London on vast screens, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, every day of the year.

There are images of pedestrians in Oxford Street, couples embracing on a park bench in Leicester Square, a bicycle courier weaving between buses at Piccadil y Circus, a tramp going through bins in Green Park, a delivery van blocking a street in Soho, three teenagers kicking a can outside Euston Station. Snapshots of London, viewed from swivel chairs in a darkened room—Orwel ’s imaginary world, twenty-five years later than expected.

Ms. Carlson taps a keyboard. Her pink nail polish stands out brightly against the keys.

“What time?”

“Between eight p.m. and ten p.m.”

She swivels a joystick control. Fast forwards through archival footage. There are four views of Greek Street. One of them shows the Coach & Horses. The screen has a red square box in the top right corner.

“That signifies the street is an area of suspicion,” explains Ms. Carlson. “We focus on hotels, nightclubs and al eyways.”

“Must be riveting.”

“If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.”

“Did Stalin write that?”

The time code is running along the bottom of the screen. It slows as the footage decelerates. Ruiz sees the boyfriend walking towards the camera carrying two motorcycle helmets.

He must have stashed them somewhere.

Fast-forwarding again, the time code says 21.24. Ruiz sees himself emerging from the pub and shoving the boyfriend into a parked car. The barman appears. The boyfriend walks away from the camera. At 22.08 Ruiz leaves the pub and hails a cab. The actress is wearing her red coat. The door closes and the cab pul s into the traffic. Moments later a motorbike passes the camera. The number plate has been obscured.

“Did you get what you wanted?” asks Ms. Carlson, clearly proud of the technology.

“Tel me something,” asks Ruiz. “If your cameras see a crime being committed, what do you do?”

“We alert the police.”

“And you keep filming?”

“Of course.”

Ruiz grunts dismissively.

“We’re fighting crime,” she says defensively.

“No, you’re recording crime. Your cameras can’t intervene to stop a rape or a murder or a robbery, which makes you just another bystander, sitting on the sidelines, watching it happen.”

The Coach & Horses is busy with a lunchtime crowd. Ruiz recognizes the Aussie barman. His name is Craig and he has freckles on his eyelids.

“You remember me?”

He nods and keeps stacking drinks.

“The girl who was in here last night, the one who wore a fist from her boyfriend; ever seen her before?”

“Nope.”

“What about her charming fel a?”

“You should have hit him harder.”

“She was reading a copy of
The Stage
. You must get a lot of actors in here.”

Craig grins. “You want to see my show-reel?”

“Maybe never.”

Ruiz orders a steak-and-Guinness pie and a pint of ale. While he’s waiting he ducks outside to a newsstand and buys a copy of
The Stage
. Turning to the listings, he runs a finger down the page. Most are by appointment only. She was looking for an open casting. His finger stops. Taps the page.

Speed Dating, a romantic comedy.

Alasdair has been dumped by his girlfriend and is convinced to go to a speed dating night. Rehearsals begin September 18.

We are looking for:

—Alasdair 25–35. Northerner. Slim, a little clumsy around women.

—Jenny 20–30. Confident and sassy with a bruised heart.

—Felicity 20–30. Jenny’s best friend.

—Chris 25–35. Jenny’s fiancé.

Casting at Trafalgar Studios in Whitehal , 3 p.m. to 5 p.m.

(Please bring headshots and a brief resume.)

Ruiz looks at his watch. It’s almost two now. Lunch first and then a look-see.

7

BAGHDAD

The helicopters are flying close tonight. Luca can hear the
whump whump
of the propelers concussing the air as they pass overhead. American troops are patroling, searching for weapons and insurgents and “wanted” faces on playing cards.

They’re early. Most of the raids don’t happen until after midnight. The Apaches hover above convoys of armored Humvees that wil seal off entire streets. The phys-ops vehicles are fitted with loudspeakers broadcasting messages in Arabic or Farsi or Kurdish, tel ing people to put their weapons next to the front door and walk outside. Few have time to comply.

Five soldiers wil enter the house while five wait outside. They go upstairs first, grabbing the man of the house, dragging him out of bed in front of his wife and children, forcing him up against a wal . Other family members are corral ed into the same room and made to kneel with their hands on their heads.

The interpreter wil ask the head of the household if he has any weapons or anti-US propaganda. He wil then ask if he is involved in any insurgent activity. The householder wil say no, because that is normal y the truth. If something is found, they wil shackle and hood the men and teenage boys, tossing them in the back of a Bradley. If nothing is found, they wil say,

“Sorry to have disturbed you, sir. Have a nice evening,” before moving on to the next house.

Luca spent three months embedded with the Third Brigade, First Armoured Division, and watched these “cordon and search” operations first hand. He saw Iraqi men humiliated in front of their terrified families and their homes trashed. He saw accidents because soldiers, wound up with fear, were convinced that people inside these houses were waiting to kil them. One wrong move, one mistaken gesture, and innocent people died.

Passing through the hotel security screening, he enters the foyer of the al-Hamra. Some of the windows stil haven’t been replaced since the bombing and are covered with plywood.

People have taken to scrawling their signatures on the wood panels and leaving short messages.

The bar is crowded with security contractors, engineers, journalists and western NGOs. Luca knows most of the reporters, cameramen and photographers. Some of them are in the veteran class because a year in Baghdad can seem like a lifetime.

They’re talking about a car bombing this afternoon in al-Hurriyah Square. Fifteen civilians died and thirty were injured in the marketplace. One of the Associated Press photographers has photographed the severed head of a smal girl. Now he’s drinking tonic water and showing the picture to anyone who wants to see it.

The security contractors are out by the pool because the al-Hamra doesn’t like guns in the main bar. For the most part their weapons are hidden, tucked into shoulder holsters or socks. Their heavy artil ery is at home in their apartments and hotel rooms.

“Hey, Luca, you made it!”

Shaun Porter waves from a deckchair. He’s lying next to a pretty Iraqi girl who is sipping a fruit juice. Prostitution in Iraq is one of those hidden vices, outlawed under Saddam, but never stamped out. Now there are families that bring their daughters to the hotels for the enjoyment of the westerners.