Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

The doors shut and the cars are moving, weaving between barricades and joining the main road heading east along the river. The vehicles rarely pause, taking detours rather than risk getting stuck at bottlenecks or at checkpoints. Some of the side roads are dusty tracks between houses and apartment blocks.

The stadium is visible from half a mile away. First the lighting towers, then the covered stands that look like a series of arches, giving the impression of a sporting cathedral. Built in the 1960s, the stadium was a gift to the Iraqi government from a rich oil family. In the 1980s Saddam told architects he wanted it redesigned as a possible Olympic venue.

They reach the main gate. A grizzled Iraqi with a woolen hat and yellowing teeth emerges from a prefabricated hut. Behind him, the parking lot is littered with debris, broken concrete, discarded tires, drums and plastic bags. Weeds are growing through cracks in the tarmac and a broken water pipe has created a lake of oily black water.

Edge offers the caretaker a dinar note. He pockets the money like a conjurer and leans on the counterbalance, raising the boom gate. As the cars roll past he salutes Daniela, lifting his right arm and revealing a stump where his fingers used to be.

They park in the shade of the southern stand and climb a filthy stairwell to the top tier. Emerging on to a concrete ramp, there are banks of seats on each side and tiers that spread around the stadium. The playing surface is a muddy field, churned up by tank tracks and truck tires. The bleachers are pockmarked by bullet holes and riddled with cavities where the seats have been torn out, burned or broken. One of the light towers has crumpled over the players’ entrances.

Edge looks at Daniela.

“Is this what you expected?”

“No.”

She takes a small digital camera from her shoulder bag and begins taking photographs. Edge lights up a cigarette and watches her move between seats to get better angles.

“Why are you so interested?” he calls out from behind her.

“Does this stadium look rebuilt to you?”

Edge blows out a stream of smoke. “Iraqis don’t go in so much for finishing things.”

“It was an American company.”

He shrugs. “Maybe they’re running behind schedule.”

“Work was supposed to have finished two years ago.”

Edge spits into a puddle. “Well, I’m glad someone is making money.”

Daniela glances at him with undisguised loathing.

“Hey, lady, don’t go giving me that look. Let me tell you another story. An army buddy of mine got a bullet in his back, lodged in his spine. Paralyzed from the waist down. They flew him back on a C141 to Andrews, lying on a stretcher, surrounded by amputees and invalids and guys who were pissing, puking and dying. Even the healthy ones were fucked. Stateside they spent a week getting debriefed. Then their CO told them to go home, kiss their girlfriend and walk the dog. Walk the fucking dog-do you believe that?”

“They signed up to fight.”

“Most of them couldn’t piss straight with a hard-on. They were recruited straight out of school from Buttfuck, Idaho, where the only jobs were working in the local chicken factory. So these kids get to thinking, if they join the army, they get to go on this big adventure overseas and shoot at shit, which has got to be better than pulling chicken guts out of a carcass for the rest of their sorry fucking lives.”

Edge spits again. Wipes his lips.

“I was one of them. I did more than a hundred patrols in this shithole country. I rode on tanks and flew in choppers and got rocked by roadside bombs. I lifted bodies on to trucks and built boxes to send them home. Now I’m here to make money. I’m here to kill or be killed, but I’m not going home poor. I’m going to suckle on the nipple until the milk runs dry.”

Daniela lowers her gaze, still appalled by his uncouthness, but with a better understanding of his motives.

A distant explosion thumps the air, rattling the metal pipes and roofing iron. It’s followed by an exchange of gunfire that lasts almost five minutes, punctuated by the wail of sirens. Ambulances. Fire engines.

They listen in silence, picturing the chaos.

Edge slings his weapon across his chest.

“Time to go.”

A note flutters beneath the wiper blades of the Mercedes. Not a parking ticket. The doors are unlocked. Ruiz glances inside and sees a large orange envelope on the passenger seat.

Walking slowly around the car, he crouches to peer beneath the chassis, checking the wheel arches and drive shaft. Four years in Northern Ireland taught him to be careful. Standing upright, he studies the street. Opposite there is a school with an asphalt playground. Boys kick a ball between painted posts on a brick wall and girls sit in groups on the benches. A dark blue Audi is parked on the corner. Engine running. Ruiz is no expert on cars. He doesn’t watch Top Gear because Jeremy Clarkson is further right than Donald Rumsfeld and only half as funny.

The car is too bright and shiny and new. Out of place. Stepping on to the road, Ruiz walks towards it, but the Audi begins rolling further away from him. As he speeds up, so does the car. Cutting a corner, he tries to close the gap. Twenty feet away, the Audi accelerates. Gone.

He chastises himself. Dogs chase cars. His knees are hurting, a dull thudding pain, muscle memory from the rugby field, old injuries. Holly’s clothes have spilled from the plastic bags he dropped. He gathers them together and tosses them on to the back seat. Then he pulls the note from beneath the wiper blade; a single page. Handwritten.

Dear Mr. Ruiz,

We think this was stolen from you recently. You should have it back. This should pay for your daughter’s wedding and make up for any losses. It’s an intelligent alternative to poking your nose into somebody else’s business. We think you have something of ours. If you return it promptly you can double your reward.

The envelope contains two neat bundles of banknotes: four, maybe five thousand pounds. It’s not the money that worries him. It’s the fact that these people know about Claire and the wedding. It’s less a bribe than a warning.

Flipping open his mobile, he dials the number at the bottom of the note.

“Nice of you to call,” says a voice. American. Educated.

“Have we met?”

“I know you by reputation.”

“You left me a package.”

“Money owed.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It can be a down-payment for services rendered.”

Ruiz turns full circle, surveying the street. Something tells him he’s still being watched.

“Pardon me for saying this, but you’re making as much sense as a kosher pork chop.”

The American chuckles. The guy won’t be laughing when he gets bounced off a few walls, thinks Ruiz. He has memorized the number plate of the Audi. He’s going to find him and they’ll talk properly, face to fist.

“The girl has the key.”

“What key?”

“I would like to talk to her personally.”

“My person will call your person. We’ll do lunch.”

“You’re not taking me seriously, Mr. Ruiz.”

“Did you kill Zac Osborne?”

The question warrants a pause. “We’re not animals, Mr. Ruiz. Your young lady friend is in danger. I can protect her.”

“That’s very gallant of you. The price is twenty-five thousand.”

“That’s more expensive than I expected.”

“Inflation.”

“I’m sure we can agree on a price when we meet. I’ll give you an address. You can bring the girl.”

Ruiz can hear a barge horn sounding in the background. He’s heard it before on the river, closer to home. The American is keeping Ruiz on the phone. Trying to drag out the conversation. The question is why?