Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

“The man didn’t come until past midnight. There were two more vehicles. He ordered us to drive, but I said it wasn’t safe at night. He laughed at me and waved a gun. That stretch of road from Ash Sholah to Palmyra is treacherous even during the daylight. The edges are soft and the escarpment has switchbacks and blind corners.

“My brother-in-law was ahead. He missed a turn. Maybe he fell asleep. Maybe his brakes failed. I saw the truck go over the edge and roll down the mountain. It opened like a giant tin of peaches. I expected to see bodies being flung into the air, but there weren’t any people inside.”

Al-Hayak motions for Luca to give him another banknote. “This is what I saw,” he says, holding the note in front of Luca and Daniela’s eyes. “Fluttering like butterflies in the moonlight, caught in the updraft. I knew Mazen was dead. The truck had fallen two hundred feet. A guard pointed a gun at my head and told me to keep driving. He asked me if I saw anything. I said no. They would have killed me then. No question.”

“What happened to the money?”

“The mountainside was covered in shale and loose rocks. It was too dangerous to climb down. They made me drive to a warehouse on the outskirts of Damascus, near the airport.”

“Can you remember the address?”

“There was a sign on the gate: Alain al Jaria.”

“Ever-flowing spring,” says Daniela.

“You speak Arabic?”

She shakes her head. Luca looks at her, puzzled, and al-Hayak grows nervous at how much he’s said. More drivers are waking and wandering past, peering at the strangers, eyes hooded, shoulders hunched.

“Did you hear any names?” asks Luca.

Al-Hayak scratches his chin. “I was told to forget.”

Luca gives him another twenty.

“The man who came to the border to meet us-I heard one of the guards use his name. Mohammed Ibrahim.”

Daniela’s eyes widen. She tries to recover, but the cook has seen her reaction.

“Enough! No more questions!”

He turns away, pushing through the flapping hessian curtain.

Daniela follows him. “Did you ever see this man? What did he look like? Was he a big man? Overweight?”

The cook lifts the lid from a dirty steel pot, dropping it loudly. Steam billows into his face.

“Did he have another name?” says Daniela. “What did they call him?”

Al-Hayak spins like an animal trapped in a box. This time he has a heavy steel lid in his fist.

The rest of the kitchen is suddenly silent. The big cook dressed in overalls is beside him, the muscles swelling across his shoulders like cords of wood on a woodpile.

Luca steps in front of Daniela. He avoids the first blow, but someone punches him from behind, finding his kidneys. He goes down, mouthing the air like a fish feeding on the surface of a lake. Strong hands pick him up and carry him outside on to the street where drivers are queuing for breakfast. Al-Hayak is breathing hard. White flecks cling to the corners of his mouth.

Edge is running, the semi-automatic in his damaged hand. All hell is going to break loose. His good fist snaps out three professional punches, sending the big cook to the ground. He swings the gun in a wide arc, almost daring the others to give him an excuse.

Lifting Luca to his feet, he pushes him into Daniela’s arms.

“We’re leaving.”

Backing away from the crowd, swinging the semi-automatic from side to side, he waits for them to reach the car. Then he slides behind the wheel, the engine running, finding reverse where it should be, accelerating backwards down the narrow street, spinning the wheel, sending the Land Cruiser into a 180-degree turn. First gear. Stamping on the accelerator. Gravel spitting from the tires and rattling against a pyramid of fuel drums.

Edge doesn’t look back until they reach the smooth tarmac of the highway. Tossing his weapon on to the passenger seat he lights a cigarette and opens the windows. Pushed back by the rushing wind, nobody speaks for a dozen miles.

“Who is Mohammed Ibrahim?” asks Luca.

Daniela brushes hair from her eyes. “Remember I told you how I used to work for Paul Volcker?”

“The former head of the Fed Reserve.”

“We were investigating the Oil for Food program. Saddam skimmed nineteen billion dollars in bribes and kickbacks. That’s how he built his palaces and paid rewards to the families of Palestinian suicide bombers.”

“And Ibrahim?”

“One of the mysteries we had to solve was how Saddam got this illegal revenue into Iraq. It took a while but eventually we found dozens of bank accounts set up in the name of front companies in Jordan, Syria and Lebanon. The bribes and pay-offs were channeled through these into accounts in Iraq’s state-owned banks. One name kept coming up: Mohammed Ibrahim Omar al-Muslit. The Iraqis called him the Fat Man, but we had another name for him.”

“What was that?”

“Saddam’s banker.”

Elizabeth isn’t ready for this baby. It’s not the unfinished projects that concern her-the nursery curtains and the baby clothes still in boxes in the attic-her mind is in the wrong place. She’s supposed to be eating properly, taking vitamins and conserving her energy, but her body won’t allow her to pause. In the meantime, Claudia is like a parasite feeding from a host, carelessly taking what she needs.

The phone is ringing. The answering machine picks it up. Elizabeth is in the shower, rinsing shampoo from her hair. Drying herself, she puts on something feminine to make her feel less frumpy.

This time her mobile is ringing. Her father’s voice: “Have you seen the TV?”

“What is it? Is it North?”

“I’m so sorry, Lizzie.”

Her throat closes. She fights against the panic.

“What? Tell me.”

“It’s absolutely foul. So fucking unfair.”

Sinking to her knees in front of the television, Elizabeth holds the remote control in both hands. She flicks through the channels. Stops. BBC News. There are images of Mersey Fidelity’s head office, footage of a trading room, dealers waving their arms and shouting. The banner says: MILLIONS MISSING IN HUNT FOR ROGUE BANKER.

She turns up the volume.

“A fugitive banker is being hunted today following the discovery of a ‘black hole’ in the bank’s accounts. Mersey Fidelity, one of Britain’s biggest investment banks, says it is investigating a series of suspicious trades and transfers following an official audit. Fiona Gallagher reports.”

The camera switches to a reporter standing on the steps of Mersey Fidelity, a skinny woman with big hair who Elizabeth is sure has never been eight months pregnant.

“Authorities have spent the morning retrieving hundreds of documents and computer disks from the banker’s office. Forensic accountants have also been brought in to trace transactions.

“Today’s revelations follow in the wake of Mersey Fidelity announcing record profits and being praised by the government and the Bank of England for having weathered the global financial crisis. Chancellor of the Exchequer George Osborne told Parliament last week that Mersey Fidelity would provide the blueprint for new banking laws in the UK, which he would take to the G20 summit in South Korea in November…”

As she watches the coverage and commentary, the ache of uncertainty inside Elizabeth is replaced by a dull thudding like clods of earth rattling on a coffin lid. Her father is still talking. “It must be a mistake. The wrong end of the stick.”

“Are they talking about North?” she asks.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this…”

“Why would they say such things?”

She doesn’t hear what he says next. Her mind has gone to Rowan. She has to go shopping. She promised him pasta shapes for dinner. He likes the spirals or the tubes but not the shells.