Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

On the floor of the bedroom he finds the photograph of Nicola. He picks it up and brushes the broken glass away. Removing it from the frame, he folds the photo and slips it into his shirt pocket.

In the kitchen, he picks up a chair and sits down. Dirty, unshaven and two days without sleep, he drinks bottled water and takes a moment to feel sorry for himself.

Where to now? America seems like a foreign country he visited a long time ago, like a childhood book he remembers reading. Over the years, moving from war to war, from coups to independence struggles, he has come to realize the arbitrary nature of nationality. There are places in Europe where four or five different countries are separated by just a few miles. One man’s country is another man’s prison. One man’s coup is another man’s dispossession. The dead always look the same.

He unhooks a gas cylinder beneath the stove; the lower half twists off to reveal a hidden compartment. A satellite phone is tucked inside. He calls the news desk of the Financial Herald in London and asks for Keith Gooding, the chief reporter.

The two men met in Afghanistan in 2002, which seems like a lifetime ago. They both traveled to Kabul via the Khyber Pass, escorted by forty Afghan fighters, men and boys, crowded into pickup trucks, clutching grenade launchers and belts of ammunition.

Four years later Luca was best man at Gooding’s wedding in Surrey when he married his childhood sweetheart Lucy, whose father worked in the Foreign Office.

Gooding answers the phone abruptly.

“How’s Lucy?”

“She’s still beautiful.”

“Tell me something-how did a man like you get a woman like that to touch your dick?”

“She grabbed it with both hands.”

Luca laughs. His chest hurts. He’s out of practice.

“So tell me, Mr. Terracini, how are things with you?”

“Been better.”

“What have you done this time?”

“I upset the chief of police.”

“Other people fish for minnows, you harpoon whales.”

Luca can hear phones ringing in the background and can picture Gooding at his desk, spinning in his chair, feet off the ground like a child on a roundabout. Luca has never been comfortable in an office environment. Never lingered. Gooding is different, a political animal with eyes on the editorship.

“They’re kicking me out of the country, revoking my visa.”

“Maybe it’s not a bad thing.”

“I’m getting close to something.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Stolen cash smuggled out of Iraq into Syria and possibly Jordan.”

“How much?”

“Tens, maybe hundreds of millions.”

“Reconstruction funds?”

“And banking assets. Mostly US dollars.”

“What can I do?”

“Find out who monitors international currency transfers. There must be some international body that investigates big movements of cash.”

Luca is about to go on, but stops. Someone is at the door. He glances at the intercom. Bare wires hang from a hole in the wall.

“I have to go.”

“Stay in touch.”

Walking to the window, he peers through a crack in the curtains. An SUV is parked out front along with the Skoda, which is now a muddy green color. One of Jimmy Dessai’s mechanics is leaning on the hood.

Jimmy is sweating from the stairs. He’s wearing a cut-off Levi’s jacket, showing off his tattoos. “I got your wheels.”

“I saw. What’s with the color?”

“I had a job lot of green paint. Bought it from a company that paints oil pipelines.”

“I’m not paying extra.”

“I know.”

Jimmy looks at the state of the apartment.

“Some housewarming.”

“I wasn’t even here.”

“Shame.”

Jimmy lifts his stubbly chin. The light from the window shines through the jug-ears, turning them pale pink.

“Hey, that thing you wanted to know about truck driving, I might have found someone. His name is Hamada al-Hayak. He’s been smuggling petrol over the border since the end of the Iraq-Iran war in the late eighties. A few months back he got shot up on a run to Jordan. Lost his arm. Now he works as a cook at a trucking camp outside of Baghdad. He’ll want payment… talking of which, you owe me five grand.”

“You’ll get your money.”

“Sooner rather than later.”

“What’s the rush?”

“That bull’s-eye painted on your back.”

Luca returns to the gas cylinder and pulls out a wad of US dollars, counting out five grand. Jimmy pockets the money without recounting.

He looks around the apartment again. “So who did this?”

“The Iraqi police.”

“Was it something you said?”

“I looked at them the wrong way.”

Jimmy chuckles and cracks his knuckles. At the door, he turns. “Are you leaving town?”

“Looks like it.”

“People are gonna miss you.”

“You trying to tell me something?”

“I just did.”

A pine-scented air freshener shaped like a Christmas tree swings from the rear-vision mirror of the Skoda but it still reeks of fresh paint. Luca drives to the al-Hamra Hotel and gives the keys to the concierge. He tries to call Daniela’s room from downstairs. She doesn’t pick up. She hasn’t checked out. One of the housekeepers opens the door for him.

Daniela is lying in darkness, curled up on the bed. Luca reaches for the light switch but she tells him to go away, anguish in her voice, a soft wet sound.

The housekeeper leaves quickly, pocketing a banknote. Luca moves into the room. Sits on the edge of the bed. Catches a glimpse of her face.

“I’m sorry to hear about your German friend.”

“He wasn’t my friend.”

She rolls on to her back, pulling the sheet up to her stomach. Her hair is matted into greasy clumps, her eyes dull and listless. Luca takes her hand and pulls her up. Groaning softly in protest, she’s like a refugee being told what to do and following automatically. He leads her to the bathroom where he turns on the shower, letting steam billow and the air grow humid.

Button by button he undresses her until her blouse falls open and slips from her shoulders; her drawstring pants are pushed down, one foot raised and then the other.

Standing before him in quivering stillness, she waits while he undresses. Then he leads her beneath the stream of water where he soaps a flannel and gently washes her arms and legs, her feet and hands, her shoulders and breasts. He shampoos her hair, massaging his fingers into her scalp, letting the soap stream down his forearms and over his penis.

Only when he’s finished does she open her eyes and gaze into his. Her lips move slightly apart. She wants to be kissed, but he holds her at arm’s length and begins drying her. Wrapping a robe around her shoulders, he takes her back to the bedroom and pours her a drink from the mini-bar.

“Shaun is dead,” she whispers.

“I know.”

“So are the others.”

“What happened?”

“They were dressed like soldiers. They came into the Ministry and started shooting.”

“Where were you?”

“Away…” She sucks in a breath. “I had to identify Glover’s body. They tortured him with an electric drill and then cut his throat. He was covered in flies…”

Her voice has a mechanical quality, devoid of emotion, like a person who has spent a lifetime tethered to the banks of a river, only to wake one morning and discover that someone has severed the mooring lines overnight and she’s drifted into a dark new place.

“The attack was premeditated. We were the targets. They went straight to the basement.”

“Why would they do that?”

“To stop the audit.”

“Had you discovered something?”

“The software had only been running for forty-eight hours. There were some double payments and overpayments…” The statement tails off.