“Can you see them? Maybe I should stand up.”
“You’re fine.”
“It still looks kind of lame.”
Rafiq seems to make a decision. He goes to his rucksack and removes a cloth-covered object, placing it carefully on the table. Unwrapping it with great ceremony, he steps back. The pistol has a black rubber grip and snub-nosed barrel that soaks up the light.
Syd whistles through his teeth and reaches for it. Rafiq slaps his hand away.
“I just want to touch it.”
“Be careful.”
Syd’s fingers close around the grip. He picks it up and feels the weight, marveling at how balanced it feels. Swinging it left, he aims it at a blank TV screen.
“Is it loaded?”
“You got to treat every gun like it’s loaded, that’s what the Courier says.”
“Where did you get it?”
“The Courier gave it to me.”
“Am I going to get one?”
“You don’t ask him shit like that.”
Syd closes one eye and looks down the barrel. “Why we need guns for, anyway? We’re just gonna blow shit up.”
“Insurance.”
“Against what?”
“Problems.”
Syd glances at the camera. “Can I hold it—just while we’re filming?”
Rafiq takes his time deciding and nods. Syd sits on the floor, crossing his arms with the pistol braced against his chest.
“Do I look like a soldier?”
“You look good.”
“One day of fighting…”
“… is worth eighty of praying.”
He looks into the camera.
“Oh, glorious prophet and vanquisher of the infidels, bless me now as I prepare for holy Jihad against the unbelievers…”
“What’s wrong?”
“I forgot what I was going to say next.”
Syd pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and begins memorizing.
“Just read it.”
“I don’t want to read it. I want to know it off by heart.”
“We’re wasting memory.”
“I got it now. Was I speaking too fast? Sometimes when I get excited I speak too fast.”
“You were fine.”
“Could you hear the words?”
“Yeah.”
“So it was OK?”
“You should say something about being a martyr.”
“But we’re not going to be martyrs. That’s what the Courier said. I’m not going to even pretend. I’m not interested in virgins in Heaven. I’ll be happy if Jenny Cruikshank lets me feel her tits.”
“Don’t let the Courier hear you say shit like that.”
“I’m not scared of him.”
“Bollocks!”
“I’m not.”
Syd looks up and his bowels seem to liquefy. The Courier is standing in the doorway as if he has suddenly materialized from thin air. Syd scrambles to his feet. Bows his head. Palms together. Salaam.
“Where is Taj?” asks the visitor.
“He’s running late,” says Rafiq. “His wife wanted him to mind their baby.”
“I can go look for him,” suggests Syd, who likes being around Aisha, Taj’s wife, even though she makes him nervous. Pretty girls do that to him and Aisha is so beautiful he finds her painful to look at. How did Taj manage to get a wife like that? Honey-colored eyes. Perfect skin. Glo-white teeth. When Syd’s time comes, his parents are likely to choose some fat cow with a stutter.
The Courier has moved into the room and taken a seat on a plastic chair. He motions them to sit down. He has a job for them.
“We have to dump the banker’s car.”
“What about his body?” asks Rafiq.
“That too.”
26
BAGHDAD
Daniela’s bags are packed and waiting on a luggage trolley by the door. Her flight leaves in four hours, the first leg to Istanbul and then on to New York. By this time tomorrow she’ll be back in her one-bedroom apartment with its dodgy plumbing and her weird neighbor who works all night in a basement under strange flickering lights.
“Have you decided?” she asks Luca.
“Decided?”
“Are you coming with me?”
“New York in the fall.”
“It’s lovely. Not too hot. Not too cold.”
“You sound like Goldilocks.”
Forty-eight hours. That’s how long Jennings gave Luca to leave Iraq. He can picture his visa smoking and then self-destructing like a Mission Impossible tape.
“I have three questions,” asks Daniela. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Not exactly.”
She purses her lips. “What if I begged you to leave?”
“Don’t.”
“Do you think Glover was killed because of this?”
“Yes.”
She sighs and leans back on the bed. The motion tightens her sweater, molding it against her body. It hurts Luca to look at her. It hurts him to think of her leaving. He should go with her to New York and shag her into next year. It would mean admitting defeat—the leaving, not the shagging—but what’s one more humiliation after being arrested, drugged and interrogated by the Iraqi police?
The satellite phone interrupts. Keith Gooding on the line from London:
“You wanted to know about Ibrahim? I found someone at the Foreign Office who pulled his file. Nothing new. This stuff dates back to the invasion.”
“What stuff?”
“I’ll tell you the story the way it was told to me.”
Gooding talks in a type of journalistic shorthand, full of half sentences and abbreviations.
“Twenty-first March 2003, Shock and Awe. Forty Tomahawk missiles began the assault, launched by navy vessels in the Persian Gulf and the Red Sea. Then came the precision-guided bombs dropped on Baghdad from stealth jets. Three hours after the raids began Saddam Hussein appeared on state television calling on Iraqis to defend their country. By then Baghdad was burning.
“Saddam knew the attack was coming, so three days before the air assault he sent his son Qusay to the al-Rafidain Bank in central Baghdad. He had a handwritten note from the President, written in Arabic, authorizing the withdrawal of nine hundred and twenty million US dollars.
“It took them two hours to load the cash on to three tractor-trailers. The bills were sealed in aluminum boxes, each containing four million dollars.”
“Whose money was it?”
“Semantics,” says Gooding. “What belonged to Iraq belonged to Saddam.”
“Four weeks later, twentieth April, US ground forces had captured Baghdad and Saddam was in hiding. The second brigade of the Third Infantry Division had taken up residence in Saddam’s new presidential palace on the west side of the Tigris. Two US Army sergeants went searching for a chainsaw to clear branches. Staff Sergeant Kenneth Buff and Sergeant First Class Daniel Van Ess noticed a windowless cottage. They broke it open and discovered forty galvanized aluminum boxes, riveted shut, with lead seals and plastic strapping. Another forty cases were found next door. Six of them were selected at random and opened. Each contained four million US dollars in neatly stacked hundred-dollar bills. Third Infantry organized a wider search. By nightfall they’d found one hundred and sixty-four boxes. That’s a haul of six hundred and fifty-six million dollars.”
“What’s this got to do with Mohammed Ibrahim?”
“I’m getting to that. Like I said—the cases were sealed, signed and dated. The signature was that of Mohammed Ibrahim, Saddam’s paternal cousin and a lieutenant colonel in the Republican Guard.
“Two days later, reservists from the 354th Civil Affairs Brigade found another stash in a wooded neighborhood where top Baath Party officials lived. Twenty-eight cases were hidden in dog kennels that had been bricked up with cinder blocks and cement. The seals bore the same signature.”
“And this came from the original bank robbery?”
“They r
ecovered all but one hundred and fifty million US.”
Luca glances at Daniela, who is sitting near the window. With the light behind her, he can’t see the look on her face.
“What about Ibrahim?” he asks.
Gooding answers. “After the invasion, most of the leading Baathists scattered, mainly to Syria and Jordan. Mohammed Ibrahim stayed under the radar because nobody considered him to be very important. He was a junior public servant. It was only later they discovered he was Saddam’s bagman.”
“Where is he now?”
“The US military stumbled upon him almost by accident. They were searching for Saddam and rounded up dozens of his former drivers and bodyguards in December 2003. Ibrahim was among them, but he wouldn’t talk. Over the next thirteen days they arrested forty of his relatives and closest friends. They had the names of another twenty. Ibrahim did a deal. He gave up Saddam and his family were released.
“The task force flew to a farmhouse near Tikrit. It still took them three hours to find Saddam. Ibrahim had to show them the entrance to the rat hole. You know the rest. Saddam was put on trial. Executed. Ibrahim was sent to Camp Bucca and later transferred to Abu Ghraib. Classified as high security.”
“So he should be in prison, awaiting trial?”
“I assume so. Why?”
“No reason.”
“Tell me.”
“I met someone who claimed to have seen him on the border between Iraq and Syria seven months ago.”
“A credible witness?”
“A paid informant.”
Luca needs another favor—the name of a stringer working out of Damascus; someone who can ask questions and check out an address. Gooding gives him the number of Tony Castro.
“What’s he like?”
“Can’t write, can’t spell, but he has the instincts of a ferret.”
“Ferrets are much-maligned creatures.”
“You’d know more about that than me.”
Gooding wants first refusal on the story and they negotiate expenses, but the price will have to wait. Luca has spent most of his cash reserves buying a new engine for the Skoda. Hanging up, he calls the stringer in Damascus.
Tony Castro has a booming voice and an Italian accent that makes him sound as though he’s yelling out orders for takeaway pizzas. The introductions are brief. He’s heard of Luca, remembers the Pulitzer Prize, but doesn’t seem impressed.
Luca tells him about the warehouse near the airport in Damascus. The sign: Alain al Jaria—Ever-Flowing Spring.
“I need to know who owns it and what it’s used for.”
“Anything else?”
“Look out for the name Ibrahim.”
“No shortage of Ibrahims here.”
“This one is an Iraqi. His full name is Mohammed Ibrahim Omar al-Muslit, also known as the Fat Man.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Luca hangs up and continues making calls. For the next two hours he runs an obstacle course of transfers, denials or being put on hold. He is passed between four different sections at the Interior Ministry before getting a “no comment” regarding Mohammed Ibrahim. Jenkins at the US Embassy is “in a meeting” and then “gone for the day.” The US military command wants the request in writing and approved by the Iraqis.
Out of ideas, he calls Jamal. “I know I said I wouldn’t ask you for any more favors…”
“What do you need?”
“Information. The prisoner’s name is Mohammed Ibrahim Omar al-Muslit. Arrested December 2003. Interned at Abu Ghraib awaiting trial.” Luca doesn’t mention the link to Saddam or the smuggled cash. “Don’t push it too hard,” he says. “Make a call and then leave it alone.”
At two p.m. the phone rings in Daniela’s room. Edge is twenty minutes away. He’s ready for the run to the airport.
Daniela leans forward and takes Luca’s hands in hers, pressing down hard with her thumbs. Her eyes fasten on his. “Give this up. You’re fixated on something that can only bring trouble.”
“Don’t you want answers?”
“I can live without them.”
The last woman Luca cared about had accused him of sitting on the sidelines, unwilling to get involved, a spectator not a player. This one wants him benched and out of the game.
Opening the flap of his shirt pocket, Luca touches the folded photograph of Nicola. He opens it on his lap, smoothing the crease with his fingers.
“I owe you a story.”
“You don’t have to,” says Daniela.
“I want to.”
He begins at the beginning. Nicola had worked for the National Library of Iraq, tracing and restoring the priceless manuscripts and books that had been looted or damaged during the invasion. It shouldn’t have been a dangerous job, but the library had been bombed twice and attacked by snipers who had shot out several windows.
Luca had gone to do a story on the restoration and Nicola took him on a guided tour of the library, explaining the importance of the collection and how much was still missing. Passionate and beautiful, she’d been educated in Geneva where her father had worked as a diplomat before falling out with Saddam. Later she studied bookbinding and restoration in Venice.
It took Luca six weeks to convince her to have a coffee with him. Her sister acted as chaperone. “I’m not going to fall in love with you,” Nicola told him, “because you will leave me one day.”
They were together for nearly two years, “not in love” she insisted, but that was just playing with words. One Friday afternoon the wages didn’t arrive at the library. Nicola offered to collect them from the bank because it was a long weekend and people needed money for food and fuel. She took a taxi as far as al-Mutanabi Street, which was only five hundred yards from the library. The street is named after one of the greatest Arab poets, who lived in Iraq in the Middle Ages. Famous for its bookstores, it is a favorite place for writers and impoverished intellectuals.
An explosion shook the windows of the National Library. Amid the grey smoke, there were tens of thousands of papers, flying high, as if the clouds were raining books. Some of the pages were burning.
Nicola was blown off her feet and showered with glass, but recovered. She saw two children crouching next to their dead mother. She picked them up and carried them to the side of the road, away from the fire trucks and police cars. An ambulance arrived. She ran towards it and called to the driver, but the man just looked at her. He was praying, rocking back and forth.
She must have realized he wasn’t a paramedic. She pushed the children away as the second bomb exploded. Fifteen killed. Forty injured. They found her broken body amid the rubble.
Daniela takes the photograph from Luca’s hands and examines the image of a serious-looking young woman with dark eyebrows and large eyes.
“Were you in love with her?”
“Yes.”
Flinching almost imperceptibly, she studies Luca’s face as though she’s seeing the details for the first time; his brown eyes, his long lashes, the dark beard trimmed tight to his jaw. She wants to ask him if she means that much to him, but she won’t. Instead they sit in silence, listening to the distant sirens and the steady hum of the air conditioner.
Luca slides his back down the wall and perches on his heels. It’s a universal posture of men who can’t find any more words and are too exhausted to search for them.
Edge accelerates on the divided highway, crossing the wind-ruffled river and passing suburbs of yellow and brown buildings, dotted with trees and rusting water tanks. No hint of rainclouds on the horizon. No hint of relief from the scorching white orb.
Route Irish was once the most dangerous road in the world. Now the military patrols have reduced the roadside bombings and hijackings. The wrecks have been cleared away and the hiding places bulldozed.
There are four checkpoints on the journey—two of them are run by the US military—mirrors sweep the chassis and suitcases have to be unlocked and searched.
Daniela rests her head on L
uca’s shoulder, exhausted and pleased to be going home, but mostly sad. There have been very few men in her life since her husband. None of them like Luca. There was the German diplomat with a wheat allergy; a French activist, who wanted her to stop shaving under her arms; a Dutch translator with a kink in his penis—none of them had Luca’s passion for life or streak of self-loathing.
People had warned her about him. They said he was crazy living outside the wire, a maverick with a death wish, hunting his own headlines. Every line of reasoning told her to walk away, to not get involved, to wish him luck and leave him behind. This is stupid, she thinks. We hardly know each other. He doesn’t know my middle name, or my favorite book, or movie, or what flowers I like, or how I used to work on my uncle’s farm every summer until I broke my leg falling off a horse.
The Land Cruiser has stopped outside the terminal building. A passenger jet passes overhead, complaining noisily as it climbs.
Edge is out of the vehicle, unloading suitcases. Through the doors there are X-ray machines and body scanners. Daniela waits in line at the check-in.
Luca has taken a phone call. It’s Jamal.
“Where are you?”
“At the airport.”
“Are you leaving?”
“Not yet.”
“I found someone at the prison. A cleaner. He asked the office staff about Ibrahim. He’s no longer at Abu Ghraib.”
“Transferred?”
“According to the records, Mohammed Ibrahim died in custody four years ago.”
“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 call 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 still buried. A job half done. He never supposed this search would have a good end, but what sort of ending is this?
The judge finally picks up. “I hear you’re leaving.”
The Wreckage: A Thriller Page 26
