by Chris Simms
‘When you say colossal, what do you mean?’ Rick asked, sitting forward.
‘You heard of the CPA?’ Mueller asked.
Jon remembered it being mentioned in one of the letters from the raft.
‘Once Saddam’s regime was toppled,’ Mueller elaborated, ‘Iraq needed to be rebuilt. Schools, roads, hospitals, power stations, bridges. Shock and awe took out all sorts of stuff and the Coalition Provisional Authority was in charge of allocating funds.’
Rick cocked his head. ‘Which is run by America, is it not?’
Mueller nodded. ‘We’re talking billions in cash. Hundred-dollar bills, shrink-wrapped in plastic, piled on pallets and then flown in on cargo planes. Two billion per flight.’
‘Two billion?’ Buchanon murmured.
‘Correct,’ Mueller nodded. ‘This money was then handed on to various bodies. Problem was, there was no proper accounting system in place.’
‘How much missing money are we talking, then?’ Rick asked.
‘We’re aware of $8.8. billion – but it’s hard to keep count. Could be over $20 billion according to some estimates.’
‘Simply vanished?’ Rick’s face was disbelieving.
‘We prefer to say it’s unaccounted for.’
‘Whose money is it?’ Rick’s head was shaking. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘Much of it is Iraq’s own funds. Oil revenues and cash left over from the oil-for-food programme run by the United Nations. After that, it’s mainly come from the UN and American tax-payers.’
‘But surely the CPA has some idea where it’s gone?’ Buchanon asked.
‘All we know is money went to a whole variety of government departments – including the Iraqi Defence Ministry – and myriad private contractors.’
Jon thought about something else mentioned in one of the letters. The contract for rebuilding Al Sara-something bridge. What had she said? The CPA paid a company three times the amount that was needed. She’d also said the circumstances surrounding the explosions which destroyed the bridge in the first place were dodgy.
Rick sat back. ‘Incredible. Which private contractors?’
‘There are dozens, hundreds, out there handling all sorts of aspects of the reconstruction. It’s big, big business.’
Soutar placed a hand on his briefcase. ‘Now, about three months ago, our security forces in Basra received a tip-off about a consignment of US dollars being transported overland to the Iraqi port of Umm Qasr. Members of the Special Forces managed to get close enough to tag it with a satellite tracking device. The money was then placed in a container and loaded onto a ship, but we didn’t know in which container. All we could do was sit back to see where it went.’
‘The Lesya Ukrayinka,’ Jon said.
‘Hang on,’ Rick interrupted. ‘This operation you’ve been conducting. It’s got nothing to do with some kind of arms shipment?’
Soutar smiled condescendingly. ‘No, it hasn’t. The Lesya is a tramp ship with no fixed itinerary. It travelled up through the Suez Canal, through the Straits of Gibraltar and round the Spanish coast, diverting from the shipping lane on the fourth of August to avoid a major storm in the Bay of Biscay.’
Rick looked at Jon. Well, at least we got that right, his glance said. Jon winked in return.
‘It then proceeded along the English Channel, docking in Felixstowe on Friday the eighth. It remained in the dock for ten days while repairs were completed. During that time, containers were off-loaded, but not the one with the satellite tracking device inside.’
Rick rubbed at his brow. ‘Can I get this right? This is all about some dollars looted from the CPA's coffers?’
Soutar nodded. ‘That’s right. Just a few looted dollars.’
Jon registered the man’s mock breeziness and glanced warily at his partner.
There was now a note of caution in Rick’s voice as he asked, ‘How many dollars?’
‘From the number of bales counted by our special forces guys, we estimate around eight hundred and fifty.’
‘Eight hundred and fifty what?’
Soutar looked back, expression neutral. ‘Eight hundred and fifty million dollars.’
‘Really?’ Rick’s voice had gone up a notch.
Jon sat back and crossed his arms. Incredible. This entire thing, everyone who’s died: it was all about money.
‘The vessel then posted notice that it was making a delivery to Rotterdam before continuing to Baltimore, USA. When we knew the embezzled cash could be heading out of British waters and towards the States, we alerted our counterparts in the CIA.’
Rick looked at Mueller. ‘Do you know who’s awaiting delivery for the shipment in the States?’
‘That information is classified,’ Mueller replied curtly.
‘Unfortunately,’ Soutar continued, ‘you gentlemen then chose to question Mykosowski about his apparent connection to a murdered crew member from the Lesya.’
Jon stared uneasily at the MI5 officer. ‘You’re getting to your satellite tracking device.’
‘We lost the signal within hours of your visit to London. We presume it was jettisoned overboard, along with the cash.’
Jon blinked, then turned to Rick. What did he just say? Rick was looking like a schoolboy who had just been told he was about to be expelled. Jon turned his head to Mueller, who was now studying something beyond the window. Feeling slightly queasy, Jon tried to swallow.
Buchanon cleared his throat. ‘Did you just say the money went overboard?’
‘Now somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic.’ Soutar’s voice was brittle with fake cheer. ‘A big clap for Detectives Spicer and Saville.’
Jon sat perfectly still. He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat felt like sandpaper. Peeling his tongue from the roof of his mouth, he said, ‘How do you know it went overboard?’
Mueller spoke up. ‘The Lesya had just entered American waters when the signal was lost. One of our naval vessels intercepted it, the master and crew were placed under arrest and the ship taken to a secure port to be searched. The money is no longer on that vessel.’
Jon thought about his bank account. A couple of hundred quid, tops. Probably not worth offering to help pay the missing money back.
‘If we had any idea,’ Buchanon started to bluster. ‘But there was no alert from SOCA. We couldn’t have known.’
Soutar raised a hand. ‘We realise lines of communication could have been clearer. To take a charitable view, the storm is the real culprit. If the crew members hadn’t gone overboard with all those bloody ducks.’
And the small issue of a few dozen refugees, Jon thought.
A bit of colour had returned to Buchanon’s face. ‘What will your next actions be?’
Soutar directed a questioning glance at the CIA officers. Mueller gave the smallest of nods. ‘We need to find your man,’ Soutar said. ‘He’s trying to take out anyone with any knowledge of that cargo and its intended recipients. First his three colleagues, now Mykosowski.’
‘What about the ship’s master?’ Jon cut in. ‘He must know something.’
Soutar’s BlackBerry started beeping and he turned away from the table to take the call. That bloody thing, Jon thought, wanting to hurl it against the wall.
‘He died,’ Mueller announced. ‘En route for questioning.’
‘En route?’
‘A suspected heart attack, mid-flight.’
‘Couldn’t he . . .’ Jon paused. ‘There was no way to keep him alive – just until reaching a hospital on the mainland?’
‘He was en route to Egypt.’
‘I don’t understand. Why fly him to—’
‘He’d been rendered,’ Rick interjected. ‘Am I right? He was en route to an Egyptian prison?’
Jon looked at his partner, realisation dawning. No wonder the poor bastard’s heart gave out. The prospect of being tortured.
‘So we need Vladimir Yashin, as you know him,’ Soutar announced, turning back round. ‘And we think we’ve got a way to lure
him out.’ He looked at the other men. ‘We use the author of these letters that are being found in the rubber ducks. From conversations she overheard while on the raft, it appears she had a good idea where the cash was headed. Possibly a whole lot more, besides. She is the last loose thread.’
‘Is she alive?’ Rick asked.
‘Having read the last letters being published tomorrow, we don’t think that’s possible. But with a small alteration to her final note, we can make her alive. In the same way the Russians were rescued, so can she be. All that’s needed are two extra words at the end of the last letter: “A ship”.’
Jon looked at the windows, realising the sky was now growing dark. Finally a refugee is acknowledged, he thought. But only as bait for the person they really want.
‘We’ll then announce she’s in a hospital near here while her claim for asylum is being processed,’ Soutar added.
‘When?’ Jon asked.
‘Tomorrow. That was what my last call was about. It’s all set up – the hospital will release a statement announcing her presence tomorrow at nine. Once the Express has made its sales from the last six letters – they want to wind up the story before some other big exclusive in Sunday’s edition. She’s going to be in the,’ he glanced down at his BlackBerry, ‘Manchester Royal Infirmary. After that, we wait for Salnikov to appear.’
Instantly, Jon sat up. ‘Salnikov? That’s his name?’
Soutar reached into his briefcase and took out a file. ‘Valeri Salnikov. Here’s who you’ve been chasing, Detective.’
Twenty-Seven
Alice knelt in silence on the floor of Holly’s room, one elbow propped on the bed, her fingers wrapped in her daughter’s gradually loosening grip. She gazed down at the little girl’s face, studying the flawless skin and marvelling at its ability to absorb the night light’s soft glow. Holly’s eyes had stopped moving about behind her closed lids and her breathing had slowed and deepened. Alice slid her hand free from her daughter’s fingers and they curled in slightly. The petals of a closing flower.
She was finally asleep, though for how long, Alice couldn’t say.
Sometimes it was a matter of minutes before she woke again, a nameless sense of disquiet causing her to sob and whimper. Holly could never say what the dreams contained; but it was plain they left her feeling frightened and anxious.
Careful to make no sound, Alice climbed to her feet and tip-toed from the room. On the landing, she paused, eyes drawn to her own bedroom door. She recalled Jon’s ability to spring up, whatever the hour, instantly alert to their daughter’s needs. There comforting her before she was even fully awake. Alice slept so deeply that, with him no longer in the house, the first knowledge she had of anything being wrong was often when her daughter appeared at the side of the double bed, cheeks wet with tears. More and more often, she simply beckoned her daughter under the covers and they spent the remainder of the night together, two slender forms clinging to each other on the bed’s wide expanse.
In the kitchen, she flicked the kettle on and looked around. The house felt so empty and quiet. She glanced at the corner of the room where Punch’s basket once lay and tears stung her eyes. What has happened to us all?
Her phone started to ring and, for a second, Jon’s face appeared in her mind. Then she pictured Phillip, perhaps calling from his house, ready to sort things out. She didn’t recognise the number displayed on the screen. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello – is that Mrs Alice Spicer speaking?’
The words were well spoken. Brusque, even. ‘Yes,’ Alice replied warily, fearing some kind of sales call.
‘Mrs Spicer, sorry to call you so late in the evening, but I’ve only just received your message. My name is Patrick Seakins, a Principal Medical Officer in Her Majesty’s Navy.’
‘My message?’ Alice mumbled, trying to make sense of what he was saying. ‘I’ve never heard your name before. Patrick Sea—’
‘Call me Beach. Everyone else does.’ His voice had softened slightly and now she could detect something that sounded very much like excitement. ‘Sorry, I’ve got ahead of myself. You didn’t personally leave a message for me. You made an enquiry at MDHU Derriford, here in Plymouth.’
‘God, yes.’ Alice raised a hand and swept her hair back. ‘I did. About a young female-’
‘We found her. It was us who brought her ashore.’
‘We?’
‘I work on a Trafalgar Class submarine, HMS Triumph. While we were on exercise in the Atlantic, our sonar operator detected a small object on the surface above us. We went to periscope depth to see what it was. We couldn’t believe it. He’d detected a raft – with a young woman on it. I’m certain she’s the one you have up there.’
Alice sat down, eyes squeezed shut as she tried to process the information. ‘You found her out at sea on a raft?’
‘That’s correct. How is she?’
‘Alive, still confined to bed, often being fed intravenously because she shows no interest in food. There are concerns about her liver, apparently. But she’ll survive; she’s obviously a fighter.’
‘Absolutely. To have made it through what she did: it was obvious she’d been drifting for quite a while before we found her.’
‘I’m concerned about her mental state,’ Alice responded. ‘She hasn’t been able to speak since arriving.’
‘The same with us. Has she put on any weight?’
‘A little. The staff have been trying to spoon-feed her solids.’
‘When we found her, Mrs Spicer, she was hours from death. Her body had started shutting down – severe dehydration. To a degree I’ve only ever read about.’
‘You’re called Beach, did you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you mean, she was on a raft? Was she alone?’
‘Yes.’ His voice was suddenly guarded. ‘It was . . . I won’t ever forget the sight of her on that raft. Wooden pallets – that’s all it was. Lashed together with children’s skipping ropes.’
Alice had to place a hand on the kitchen table, the sense of the floor lurching was so strong. ‘Do you not read the newspapers?’
‘We docked just over an hour ago. I’ve been at sea this past week. We’ve had no outside contact in that time. Of course I’ve seen the papers, now. It’s her – she wrote those letters. I would bet my life on it.’
‘But I don’t understand. Why did she end up here?’
‘I’m piecing it together, too. We brought her ashore and I had her placed in infection control at the MDHU. I’d put her on a drip onboard the Triumph and started her on a course of antibiotics. She weighed just over six stone when we lifted her from that godforsaken thing.’
‘Then what?’
‘I don’t fully know, yet. We had three days ashore then went back out on training exercises. There was some confusion as to what we should do with her – once she was well enough to be moved. Beds on infection control are hugely expensive. I know questions were being asked as to where that money was coming from. I presume the decision was made to refer her on to that place for refugees.’
‘The screening unit in Liverpool?’
‘I thought it was East Croydon?’
Alice raised her eyes. That’s where her notes must have gone: East bloody Croydon.
‘So she arrived with you how long ago?’ Beach asked.
‘Seven days,’ Alice sighed. ‘She was too ill to be interviewed by the Border Agency. And Liverpool had no psychiatric unit beds free, so they shunted her on to the mental health unit at Sale General. A taxi dropped her off, but without any case notes.’
‘After everything she’d been through – a taxi just dumped her at the hospital?’
Alice could hear the anger in his voice. ‘I’m sorry to say, but, yes.’
‘And she’s been there ever since?’
‘Yes. No one had a clue about her.’
‘Well, it’s her, Mrs Spicer. I know it. Young female, early twenties. Much of her hair missing.’
‘Yes – some nurses thought maybe she was Indian or Bangladeshi. Is there nothing else you can tell me?’
‘Yes. When I examined her, I found something written on her hand. I wasn’t sure if it was her name: she didn’t ever speak.’
‘What was it?’
‘Amira.’
‘Amira?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘I’m sorry. No – there was! She was clutching this miniature bottle of perfume. Tiny thing made of glass. All curved edges. I had to prise it from her grip. It went into the wash bag we gave her.’
‘Wash bag?’ Alice thought about the woman’s room on the MHU. The bedside table and the single bag inside it. I didn’t search through it properly. She stood, ready to drive back to the hospital there and then. Holly. Looking at the clock, she realised her mum was out, so couldn’t babysit. The hospital visit would have to be tomorrow, after dropping Holly off at school. ‘That’s it, then. There really was nothing else on the raft?’
‘Nothing worth mentioning.’ He sounded guarded again. ‘Nothing to identify her. The raft was – it wasn’t pleasant.’
‘What happened to it?’
‘It was used for target practice. Best that way.’
She wanted to know more, but something in his voice dissuaded her from asking anything else. ‘Can I get you on this number? I’ll go and see her in the morning. Check for that bottle.’
‘Please do. I know it’s her, Mrs Spicer. I'm certain.’
‘Thanks for ringing. We’ll speak again tomorrow.’ She pressed red then placed the phone on the table. My God! She pounded her feet in a series of little stamps. I know who she is – I may even know her name! She looked at her phone then started circling it round and round, desperate to tell someone. Mum was out. Jon? She dismissed the idea. Perhaps Phillip? Suddenly, she remembered the lady at the hospital in Liverpool. Yulia. The Russian woman who’d been so helpful working out the connection to Plymouth. Alice toyed with the idea of ringing her. Eight thirty at night. Her office would probably be closed, anyway. Alice lifted her handset, unable to resist. After six rings, an answer-phone clicked in. Alice recognised the woman’s accent.
