“You’d better go, Vincent,” says Noonan. “Don’t underestimate Campbell. You don’t have any goodwill left.”
10
LUTON
The flat is small, just three rooms, overlooking a run-down series of shops with broken neon signs and metal grates protecting the windows and doors. On warm evenings, Taj climbs out the upper window and sits on a narrow ledge smoking and drinking coffee while Aisha puts the baby to sleep.
He can hear the clatter of his Asian neighbors echoing up and down the stairwells and through the open windows: arguments, music, children and TV sets. Sometimes he can even convince himself that he is among the chosen people, the lucky ones.
But there are indignities to be suffered. Insults to be endured. Rejections. One particular woman, obese and choleric, always gives him a hard time when he collects his jobseeker’s allowance and housing benefit. She scowls at him behind her desk, mispronouncing his name even after he corrects her; and she treats his payments like money meant for her kidney transplant.
Aisha is calling him inside. Taj puts out his cigarette and climbs off the ledge, swinging his legs through the window and arching his body like a gymnast. His wife looks pretty in tailored trousers and a smock with beading around the neck.
“Didn’t you hear the phone?”
“No.”
“Syd wants to see you.”
“Did he say why?”
“Something about the courier coming.” Aisha looks at the dishes piled in the sink. She’s been working all day at Homebase. On her feet. The least Taj could have done was wash up after breakfast.
She’s annoyed, but she won’t say anything. Taj has been on edge for months, ever since he lost his job. Short-tempered. Angry. She won’t risk starting an argument.
“Stay in tonight,” she says, rubbing his shoulders.
“Syd and Rafiq are expecting me.”
“You’re not married to Syd and Rafiq.”
“I missed the last meeting.”
Aisha turns her back on him, trying not to show her feelings.
“Why don’t you like them?” asks Taj. “They’re my friends.”
“I don’t like the way Syd looks at me.”
“He’s just jealous.”
Taj puts his finger on her lips. Aisha kisses it and giggles when Taj tries to pull her closer. Lithe as a fish, she twists past him and loops an apron over her head, letting Taj tie the bow. All thumbs.
“What do you do at these meetings?” she asks.
“We talk.”
“What do you talk about?”
“The Koran. How we’re treated. The problems we face.”
“We’re better off than our parents.”
“This is our country too.”
Aisha runs hot water, squeezing in dishwashing liquid, watching it foam. She can see Taj reflected in the curved chrome of the tap.
“You say Pakistan is our country and England is our country. Which is it?”
“Both.”
“Can we belong in two places?”
“Only if we make them ours.”
“What does that mean?”
“We have to tear this country down and rebuild it. Make it the way we want it to be.”
“I don’t think we should tear things down.”
“Sometimes it’s the only way.”
Taj begins drying the dishes, his back pressed to the bench.
“Did you pay that bill I gave you?” she asks.
“I didn’t have enough cash. I’ll do it next week.”
“I gave you the money.”
“I spent it.”
“What on? We barely have enough for food.”
Taj throws the tea towel into the soapy water. “And that’s my fault.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Yes, it is!”
“Shhhh, you’ll wake the baby.”
“Don’t tell me to be quiet in my own home.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll pay it tomorrow. I’ll use the money we’re saving for Ramadan.”
They wash the dishes in silence. Taj slips his hand around her waist, trying to show that he’s sorry. He won’t use the word. She closes her eyes and shivers.
“I know you’re worried,” he whispers. “You must not be. We have money coming. Lots of it.”
“Don’t make up stories, Taj.”
“I mean it. Next week. We’ll have all the money we need.”
She throws her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his.
“Did you get a job?”
He smells her hair and cups her buttocks in his palms as though judging their soft weight.
“Yes, a job.”
11
LONDON
The Soho wine bar has black painted walls, black doors and black furniture. It’s full of the kind of people who en masse intimidate Luca most: men in designer suits and women with ballerina bodies and little black dresses. Daniela doesn’t look out of place—she’s a New York girl—she probably has a wardrobe full of cocktail dresses and tailored suits.
Keith Gooding has been entertaining her with stories about Afghanistan; shared adventures with Luca, embarrassing moments. He’s telling her the story about a grizzled old warlord in Jalalabad who promised to show them a former al-Qaeda training camp. Two days into their journey through the mountains the old warlord crept into their room and Luca woke with hands fondling his genitals. His scream brought the warlord’s bodyguards bursting into the room, threatening to shoot them.
“What in God’s name were you doing?” Gooding had hissed.
“The old pervert had his hands on me.”
“Couldn’t you give one up for the team?”
Daniela laughs and Luca tells her that she shouldn’t believe everything Gooding tells her.
She kisses his knuckles. “I know.”
He needs the bathroom. The doors are marked XX and XY—the language of chromosomes. As he exits he notices a tall man with craggy eyes sitting opposite a woman in a camisole and skirt. Holding hands. Lovers. His eyes aren’t looking into hers. Instead they’re focused on Luca.
“What’s wrong?” asks Daniela.
“I’ve just seen someone I recognize, but I can’t place him.”
“In Baghdad?”
“Maybe. Go to the bathroom in a couple of minutes. He’s sitting near the pillar.” Luca looks at Gooding. “Did you book this table?”
“Yes.”
“Who else knows we’re here?”
“Oh, come on, Luca, relax, you’ve been living in a war zone for too long.” He raises his glass. “This is supposed to be a celebration.”
Luca smiles and apologizes, but the disquiet stays with him like an unpleasant aftertaste.
“So what did you find out about Yahya Maluk?”
Gooding takes out his iPhone and runs his finger across the screen.
“Egyptian billionaire. Educated at Charterhouse. Second eldest son of Salim Ahmed Maluk, who rose from being an illiterate moneychanger to found banks in Egypt, Syria and Lebanon. Married. Three grown-up children. Personal wealth estimated at three billion pounds. Family fortune twice that much. Dozens of companies and charitable trusts.”
“Does he still have links with banks in the Middle East?”
“He’s a former director of a Dubai-based private equity firm and non-executive director of the Bank of Syria.”
“What about in the UK?”
“He’s a non-executive director of Mersey Fidelity.”
Luca repeats the name. He’s heard it before.
“It’s been in the news,” explains Gooding, biting a wedge of lime between his teeth and sucking, letting the sourness hollow out his cheeks. “A missing banker.”
Luca remembers the story that he read in the Herald Tribune.
“Richard North disappeared more than a week ago,” explains Gooding. “The bank says fifty-four million pounds is missing.”
“Tell me about Mersey Fidelity.”
&nbs
p; The journalist picks at the label of his beer bottle. “Now there’s an interesting story. It’s the only UK bank that rode out the global financial crisis without needing a taxpayer-funded bailout. Barclays, Lloyds, Bank of Scotland—they were all rescued from bankruptcy and effectively nationalized—but Mersey Fidelity weathered the storm.”
“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 billion dollars of drug and Mafia money was laundered by major banks at the peak of the global financial crisis. That’s a third of a trillion dollars.”
“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 tell 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 million US dollars. 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 dollars. 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 dollars. There were two truckloads, but one lorry went off the cliff and spilled 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 million dollars. The work was never done.”
Luca: “The controlling shareholder of Alain al Jaria is a company called 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 called Mohammed Ibrahim.”
Luca nods towards Daniela.
“His full 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. Accidentally 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. Campbell 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 call the police?”
“She was traumatized. He threatened to cut the baby from her womb.”
“And he wanted some notebook?”
“Apparently.”
Campbell 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. Campbell 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, Campbell begins listing all the mistakes that Ruiz has made and how he should have done things differently. Hindsight is always twenty/twenty with Campbell, the ultimate I-told-you-so personality.
“Let me tell you a story,” he says finally, as if he’s only just decided to share it. “I’m telling 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 Campbell. “They had all 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 Vauxhall Bridge Road. The spooks are all over you—your phones, your house, your car, they’ve got surveillance 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 Holly Knight?”
Ruiz doesn’t answer. Campbell gets to his feet again, pacing. Reaching the far wall, he turns, paces again. It’s like watching a duck in a shooting gallery.
“Do you know where she is?”
“You can’t guarantee her safety.”
“And I suppose you can?”
Campbell 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. Pulls 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 all 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 pulled Richard North’s car out of the River Lea.”
“Any sign of North?”
“Traces of blood.”
Campbell glances at Ruiz, wanting to say so many things.
Instead: “You’re coming with me.”
The Wreckage: A Thriller Page 32
