The gatekeeper is small and brown with a frayed coat and woolen hat the same color as his beard. Pressing his palms together, Luca talks in Arabic, wishing him good morning.
Springsteen is playing on a beatbox from within a nearby tent.
“That’s what I’ll never understand about this place,” mutters Edge to Daniela. “These bastards hate us, but they watch our movies and listen to our music.”
“Maybe music doesn’t belong to anyone,” replies Daniela.
“Yeah, well Springsteen doesn’t belong to these fuckers.”
Luca comes back to the Land Cruiser.
“Two hundred yards straight ahead, building on the right.”
The drivers are waking, emerging from their tents, stiffness in their bodies, shirts unbuttoned and belts undone, scratching navels or testicles. Most of them are foreigners, uneducated and poor, hapless and a long way from home. One of them urinates loudly on the side of an empty drum.
Edge parks near the largest of the buildings and watches Luca and Daniela walk across the dusty street and push through a doorway slung with a hessian curtain. Inside the air smells of pea soup, eggs, rice and noodles. Large metal pots are propped on cinder blocks above glowing charcoal.
Four cooks turn in unison. Only one keeps his back to them, continuing to stir a pot. Luca bows and asks for Hamada al-Hayak.
Al-Hayak turns and wipes his left hand on a dirty cloth tucked in the rope that serves him as a belt. Instead of a right arm he has an empty sleeve, knotted above the elbow.
The cooks and dishwashers are focused on Daniela, whose headscarf has slipped back from her forehead. Self-consciously, she tugs it back in place. One of them is huge, in a checked shirt and overalls that are two sizes too small and ride up over his ankles.
“Can we talk?” asks Luca.
Al-Hayak motions to the rear door. Stepping past a makeshift pyramid of gas cylinders, he leads them into a small courtyard and storage area fenced in by shipping containers. A diesel generator chugs noisily, producing power for the fridges and the lights. Goats are tethered to wooden stakes, their eyes luminous and curious.
The cook turns on Luca.
“What sort of dumb shit are you? Coming here. Bringing a woman like that.” He motions to Daniela without making eye contact with her. “Some of these men will look at you and see nothing but a reward.” He pinches one nostril and blows out the other. “Who gave you my name?”
“Jimmy Dessai.”
“You’re lying.”
Luca takes a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket. “I need some information.”
Al-Hayak ignores the request and puts a cigarette between his lips, hunting in his shirt pocket for a match. Finding a light, he holds the smoke deep in his lungs like he’s trying to digest it. “So now you’re going to bribe me. How much is my life worth? What about my arm? What will you pay me for my good arm?”
“What happened to your arm?” asks Daniela.
“What do you care? You will go home one day soon and you’ll call this a victory and say you did your best.”
“You used to be a truck driver,” says Luca.
“When I had two of these.” He holds up his hand.
“What happened?”
“I lost my truck. They blew up the lead vehicle in the convoy, blocking the road and opened fire on the rest of us.”
“What were you hauling?”
“Diesel.”
“Ever take anything else?”
He shrugs. “Cigarettes, paraffin, wheat, cooking oil…”
“What about cash?”
Al-Hayak shakes his head, his mouth a tight line. The odor of cooking fat and wet nicotine rises from his clothes.
“I earn two dollars a day serving food. With two arms I could earn five times that much. I’m a cook, not a criminal.”
Luca pulls out another banknote, holding it between his index and forefinger. The gesture seems to reveal something in the cook’s eyes, a small dull yellow light burning in the corners like a parasite feeding. Taking the money quickly, he pushes it deep into the front pocket of his apron.
“I have no stake in this.”
“I understand.”
“I delivered a container. I didn’t know what was inside.”
Al-Hayak stares at the burning end of his cigarette. “Seven months ago a man came to my brother-in-law and asked him about doing a run into Syria. He wanted two trucks, so my brother-in-law called me. He told me we were hauling oil, but I could tell by the weight it was something else.”
“You didn’t see the trailer being loaded?” asks Daniela.
“No.”
“What about a manifest?”
“The paperwork says what they want it to say.”
“What did you think you were carrying?”
Al-Hayak scratches his face. His fingernails are edged with dirt. “Drugs. People. I didn’t ask. We had an escort. Guards. Usually only the military convoys get protection, but we had two Land Cruisers with us all the way to the border.”
“Where did you cross?”
“Husaiba.”
“Into Syria.”
“Yes. The Land Cruisers didn’t cross with us. I was given a number to call once we had cleared immigration and Customs. I had to ask for a man who would give me orders. The man was angry because we had come a day earlier than he expected. He told us to wait and he would send an escort.
“Mazen, my brother-in-law, wanted to find shade, but I told him we couldn’t move. We waited all day in the heat. I thought if there were people inside they would be dying of heatstroke and dehydration. I put my head against the side, listening, but I couldn’t hear anything.”
The cook’s cheeks are dented as he sucks the saliva out of his mouth and spits.
“The man didn’t come until past midnight. There were two more vehicles. He ordered us to drive, but I said it wasn’t safe at night. He laughed at me and waved a gun. That stretch of road from Ash Sholah to Palmyra is treacherous even during the daylight. The edges are soft and the escarpment has switchbacks and blind corners.
“My brother-in-law was ahead. He missed a turn. Maybe he fell asleep. Maybe his brakes failed. I saw the truck go over the edge and roll down the mountain. It opened like a giant tin of peaches. I expected to see bodies being flung into the air, but there weren’t any people inside.”
Al-Hayak motions for Luca to give him another banknote. “This is what I saw,” he says, holding the note in front of Luca and Daniela’s eyes. “Fluttering like butterflies in the moonlight, caught in the updraft. I knew Mazen was dead. The truck had fallen two hundred feet. A guard pointed a gun at my head and told me to keep driving. He asked me if I saw anything. I said no. They would have killed me then. No question.”
“What happened to the money?”
“The mountainside was covered in shale and loose rocks. It was too dangerous to climb down. They made me drive to a warehouse on the outskirts of Damascus, near the airport.”
“Can you remember the address?”
“There was a sign on the gate: Alain al Jaria.”
“Ever-flowing spring,” says Daniela.
“You speak Arabic?”
She shakes her head. Luca looks at her, puzzled, and al-Hayak grows nervous at how much he’s said. More drivers are waking and wandering past, peering at the strangers, eyes hooded, shoulders hunched.
“Did you hear any names?” asks Luca.
Al-Hayak scratches his chin. “I was told to forget.”
Luca gives him another twenty.
“The man who came to the border to meet us—I heard one of the guards use his name. Mohammed Ibrahim.”
Daniela’s eyes widen. She tries to recover, but the cook has seen her reaction.
“Enough! No more questions!”
He turns away, pushing through the flapping hessian curtain.
Daniela follows him. “Did you ever see this man? What did he look like? Was he a big man? Overweight?”
The cook l
ifts the lid from a dirty steel pot, dropping it loudly. Steam billows into his face.
“Did he have another name?” says Daniela. “What did they call him?”
Al-Hayak spins like an animal trapped in a box. This time he has a heavy steel lid in his fist.
The rest of the kitchen is suddenly silent. The big cook dressed in overalls is beside him, the muscles swelling across his shoulders like cords of wood on a woodpile.
Luca steps in front of Daniela. He avoids the first blow, but someone punches him from behind, finding his kidneys. He goes down, mouthing the air like a fish feeding on the surface of a lake. Strong hands pick him up and carry him outside on to the street where drivers are queuing for breakfast. Al-Hayak is breathing hard. White flecks cling to the corners of his mouth.
Edge is running, the semi-automatic in his damaged hand. All hell is going to break loose. His good fist snaps out three professional punches, sending the big cook to the ground. He swings the gun in a wide arc, almost daring the others to give him an excuse.
Lifting Luca to his feet, he pushes him into Daniela’s arms.
“We’re leaving.”
Backing away from the crowd, swinging the semi-automatic from side to side, he waits for them to reach the car. Then he slides behind the wheel, the engine running, finding reverse where it should be, accelerating backwards down the narrow street, spinning the wheel, sending the Land Cruiser into a 180-degree turn. First gear. Stamping on the accelerator. Gravel spitting from the tires and rattling against a pyramid of fuel drums.
Edge doesn’t look back until they reach the smooth tarmac of the highway. Tossing his weapon on to the passenger seat he lights a cigarette and opens the windows. Pushed back by the rushing wind, nobody speaks for a dozen miles.
“Who is Mohammed Ibrahim?” asks Luca.
Daniela brushes hair from her eyes. “Remember I told you how I used to work for Paul Volcker?”
“The former head of the Fed Reserve.”
“We were investigating the Oil for Food program. Saddam skimmed nineteen billion dollars in bribes and kickbacks. That’s how he built his palaces and paid rewards to the families of Palestinian suicide bombers.”
“And Ibrahim?”
“One of the mysteries we had to solve was how Saddam got this illegal revenue into Iraq. It took a while but eventually we found dozens of bank accounts set up in the name of front companies in Jordan, Syria and Lebanon. The bribes and pay-offs were channeled through these into accounts in Iraq’s state-owned banks. One name kept coming up: Mohammed Ibrahim Omar al-Muslit. The Iraqis called him the Fat Man, but we had another name for him.”
“What was that?”
“Saddam’s banker.”
18
LONDON
Elizabeth isn’t ready for this baby. It’s not the unfinished projects that concern her—the nursery curtains and the baby clothes still in boxes in the attic—her mind is in the wrong place. She’s supposed to be eating properly, taking vitamins and conserving her energy, but her body won’t allow her to pause. In the meantime, Claudia is like a parasite feeding from a host, carelessly taking what she needs.
The phone is ringing. The answering machine picks it up. Elizabeth is in the shower, rinsing shampoo from her hair. Drying herself, she puts on something feminine to make her feel less frumpy.
This time her mobile is ringing. Her father’s voice: “Have you seen the TV?”
“What is it? Is it North?”
“I’m so sorry, Lizzie.”
Her throat closes. She fights against the panic.
“What? Tell me.”
“It’s absolutely foul. So fucking unfair.”
Sinking to her knees in front of the television, Elizabeth holds the remote control in both hands. She flicks through the channels. Stops. BBC News. There are images of Mersey Fidelity’s head office, footage of a trading room, dealers waving their arms and shouting. The banner says: MILLIONS MISSING IN HUNT FOR ROGUE BANKER.
She turns up the volume.
“A fugitive banker is being hunted today following the discovery of a ‘black hole’ in the bank’s accounts. Mersey Fidelity, one of Britain’s biggest investment banks, says it is investigating a series of suspicious trades and transfers following an official audit. Fiona Gallagher reports.”
The camera switches to a reporter standing on the steps of Mersey Fidelity, a skinny woman with big hair who Elizabeth is sure has never been eight months pregnant.
“Authorities have spent the morning retrieving hundreds of documents and computer disks from the banker’s office. Forensic accountants have also been brought in to trace transactions.
“Today’s revelations follow in the wake of Mersey Fidelity announcing record profits and being praised by the government and the Bank of England for having weathered the global financial crisis. Chancellor of the Exchequer George Osborne told Parliament last week that Mersey Fidelity would provide the blueprint for new banking laws in the UK, which he would take to the G20 summit in South Korea in November…”
As she watches the coverage and commentary, the ache of uncertainty inside Elizabeth is replaced by a dull thudding like clods of earth rattling on a coffin lid. Her father is still talking. “It must be a mistake. The wrong end of the stick.”
“Are they talking about North?” she asks.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this…”
“Why would they say such things?”
She doesn’t hear what he says next. Her mind has gone to Rowan. She has to go shopping. She promised him pasta shapes for dinner. He likes the spirals or the tubes but not the shells.
“Did you hear me, Lizzie?”
“Sorry.”
“The police will want to talk to you. They’ll want to search the house.”
“Why?”
“In case he left something.”
“Left what?”
“It’s a mistake, I know, but we have to co-operate.”
Polina is standing in the open doorway, listening to her conversation. She’s carrying a box of Rowan’s toys and his favorite bath towel.
“I’ll send Jacinta over,” says Alistair Bach.
“No.”
“You shouldn’t be alone. Come and stay with us.”
Elizabeth doesn’t want to see her stepmother. She wants to talk to Mitchell. She wants to know why he hasn’t called to explain. Why didn’t he warn her?
The landline is ringing. “I have to go.”
She picks up the new call. It’s an unfamiliar voice.
“Mrs. North?”
“Yes.”
“I’m from the Daily Mail. Can you confirm that your husband is being sought by the police?”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Do you know where your husband is?”
“Please don’t call this number again.”
She drops the handset as though scalded.
“Is everything all right?” asks Polina.
“Fine. I’m going to pick up Rowan.”
“It’s not even midday.”
“He had a sore throat this morning. I should have kept him at home.”
“Do you want me to fetch him?”
“No, I’ll go.”
Elizabeth grabs her coat and her keys. She needs to be outside. Moving. Thinking.
It takes her fifteen minutes to reach the nursery. The carers don’t seem surprised to see her. Rowan is playing in the sandpit. She collects his things. Forgets his lunchbox. One of his shoelaces is undone, but she doesn’t stop.
“Slow down, Mummy, you’re hurting.”
His coat sleeve has been pulled off one of his arms.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“Is Daddy home?”
“Not yet.”
As they turn the final corner she spies the police cars parked in front of the house.
“It must be Daddy,” Rowan cries, pulling free from her hand.
Elizabeth tries to stop him. Calls out. He’s running a
nd she can’t keep up because she risks giving birth to Claudia on Barnes Green. Rowan runs with his head down and a loping stride like a puppy let off a leash.
Polina is standing outside the open front door. She catches Rowan before he can get inside. A detective emerges from the house. He hands Elizabeth a search warrant and delivers a speech warning her not to interfere.
“There has been some mistake,” Elizabeth tells him.
“Please step aside, Mrs. North.”
“We’ve done nothing wrong.”
Four officers move past them, each dressed in light blue cotton overalls carrying aluminum cases. They’re not just searching the house, they are vacuuming and scraping and dusting for evidence.
“Do you know the whereabouts of your husband?”
“No.”
“Has he been in contact with you?”
“No.”
Rowan is tugging at her hand, wanting to ask a question. “Not now, sweetheart.”
The detective has moved her into the garden. She can feel the neighbors’ eyes upon her from across the road, their fingers creasing the venetians. Rushing to judgment.
“I need you to come to the station with me,” the detective says. “We’ll need a statement.”
“I’ve given you one.”
“That was before.”
Elizabeth glances at Rowan and then looks to Polina. “Can you stay? Just until I get back.”
The nanny nods.
Elizabeth follows the detective to a waiting police car. She’s told to mind her head. At the last moment she looks up at the sound of an approaching car. A black Lexus parks across the driveway, blocking the unmarked police car. Felicity Stone emerges; her only wrinkle in the lap of her tight skirt. The young detective watches her approach, his eyes on her hips and her calves. Miss Stone gives him her widest smile.
“You’ll have to move your car.”
“Of course, whatever you say. I’m here with Mrs. North’s lawyer. Nobody is to speak to her unless he’s present.”
A large man struggles with his seat belt as he emerges from the Lexus. He has a fringe of brown hair combed over his head. He reaches up to pat his scalp, checking that everything is still in place.
The Wreckage: A Thriller Page 22
