Michael Robotham - The Wreckage

“Going where?” Ruiz asks.

“Into Mersey Fidelity and then out again.”

“How much?”

“Close to three billion dollars.”

Gooding: “How could they keep amounts like that off the books? Surely it has to show up somewhere.”

Daniela points to another note she’s made. “Here is where it gets even more interesting. Most of these non-published accounts were opened in the morning, used for a transaction and closed in the afternoon. The only person who would know about that transaction is the guy who gave the order. The auditor won’t see the account because it existed for less than twenty-four hours.

“Look at this unpublished account, No. 3625. The bank that opened it is in Lugarno, Switzerland, but the final destination of the funds was a company registered in the Bahamas. See the name: Bellwether Construction. It was the company that won a contract to rebuild Jawad Stadium in Baghdad. The work was never done.”

“Where does Richard North come into this?” asks Ruiz.

“He was the compliance officer,” says Luca. “It was his job to report any suspicious transactions, no matter how small.”

“Why would he risk keeping a notebook?”

“Someone had to have the codes. My guess is they weren’t digitalized because that creates a record that is difficult to wipe from a computer hard drive.”

Ruiz wants to be clear. “So this is money-laundering?”

“Money-laundering, tax evasion, insider trading… on a massive scale,” says Daniela. “The notebook reveals more than two thousand ghost accounts in fifty countries.”

“Can we see where the money was going?” asks Gooding.

Luca takes over. “We can trace the transfers to offshore banks, but we need more time to locate the end-user. I think Richard North was researching some of the transactions. Elizabeth North found a file that her husband had hidden. We’ve been matching some of the account numbers to the transactions he circled and grouped together. Once money has entered the European banking system it can be wired and withdrawn anywhere without any controls. Members of terrorist groups can be using ATM machines to access cash, just like the 9/11 hijackers did. It was the same in Bali and Madrid before the bombings.

“Look at this,” Luca points to the computer screen. “North identified a bank in Madrid and another in Bali. They’re the same banks the bombers withdrew funds from.”

“Are they the same accounts?” asks Gooding.

“That’s what we need to find out. We have to trace each transaction.”

“Which could take us months.”

Holly has woken and come looking for food. Ignoring the conversation, she picks up a croissant and pulls it apart with her fingers. Pastry sticks to her nails and she sucks them clean, almost purring like a cat.

She’s watching the TV above her head, Sky News, a Bambi-eyed newsreader sternly reading an autocue. The headlines are running as a banner across the bottom of the screen.

“This is huge,” says Gooding. “Money-laundering. Tax avoidance. Terrorism. Mersey Fidelity was being touted as the beacon of the new banking system. It’s supposed to provide the Bank of England with a blueprint for new banking laws.” He looks at Luca. “Who knew at the bank?”

“It could go right to the top.”

“They’ll deny it.”

“Or destroy any incriminating evidence.”

“We can’t publish this without independent verification. We need someone from Mersey Fidelity to go on the record.”

“Someone senior.”

Ruiz marvels at the strange light in both the journalists’ eyes, like they’ve discovered the Holy Grail or stumbled upon a fortune in gold.

“Maybe we should think about this more carefully,” he says, letting his fingertips rest lightly on the pages of the notebook. “You don’t have the resources to investigate something like this properly. The police can get warrants, tap phones and seize documents. SOCA specializes in this sort of thing.”

Gooding scoffs. “We’re not just handing this over to the police.”

“Why not?”

“Because our exclusive won’t be exclusive anymore.”

“You’re worried about a story.”

“In case you haven’t noticed-this is a newspaper office.”

“This isn’t just about the bank or a few big corporations,” says Ruiz. “This notebook could expose organized crime gangs, terror groups, drug cartels… It’s about terrorist funding. It’s about the end-user. It’s about thousands of transactions, every one of them a possible prosecution.”

Gooding throws up his hands. “You know it doesn’t work like that. The CPS will be happy with a handful of convictions. I say we publish first and then hand the dossier to police. Scotland Yard can share it with Interpol, the Iraqis, the Americans-it won’t matter by then.”

“It will matter if the money disappears,” says Ruiz. “It will matter if Yahya Maluk and Mohammed Ibrahim flee the country and can’t be extradited back here. Ibrahim is a wanted war criminal. He should be arrested. Prosecuted.”

Daniela looks at Luca. “He’s got a point. If you report this now they’ll go to ground. Cover their tracks. Remember how this started. You were following the money.”

She’s talking about Baghdad. The insurgency. Someone is funding them.

Luca has been silent through the argument. It can’t be a choice of one thing or the other. There has to be common ground.

“We make copies of everything. We hand everything to SOCA, but we keep investigating.”

Gooding wants to continue arguing. Holly interrupts him. She’s pointing at the TV screen, which has footage of police divers tumbling backwards from Zodiacs. A photograph appears of Richard North. A banner headline runs across the bottom of the screen. Some stories don’t need sound.

Taj is sitting at the small kitchen table pushing scrambled eggs around a plate. He looks at Aisha’s hips moving beneath her long skirt as she goes about her chores. She put on weight during her pregnancy; hasn’t lost it all, but he rarely sees her eat anything.

Barefoot and bare-chested, his jeans hang low on his hips.

“You should put on a shirt before you eat,” she says.

Taj sniffs and says, “Fine,” meaning something else. He fiddles with his watchband, opening and closing the clasp.

“You’re very quiet. Is everything OK?” she asks.

He inhales. Exhales. “I have to go away for a while.”

“Is it about that job? Why won’t you tell me what it is?”

“It’s in Pakistan.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to Pakistan for a few months.”

She looks at him incredulously. “Why?”

“Work.”

“What work?”

He makes a line on the tablecloth with a butter knife and wets his lips with his tongue.

“First I got to do something in London, then I fly out.”

“When?”

“I’m leaving tonight.”

“You can’t just leave, Taj. Not without telling me.”

“I am telling you.”

“But we haven’t talked about it. What am I supposed to do?”

Taj drives the handle of the knife into the center of the plate with his fist. It smashes, spraying eggs and baked beans on the wall.

“This is my business,” he yells. “This is me looking after my family. You never stop wanting stuff. That baby never stops wanting stuff.”

“I never ask you for anything, Taj.”

“I babysit, don’t I? A grown man shouldn’t have to do that shit.”

She can see he’s angry. Hurt. She knows not to test his temper, but she wants to understand. For months he has been like this. Bitter. Resentful. Distant. Ever since his father died, ever since he lost his job. Mr. Farouk at the Laundromat said that Taj has stopped going to the mosque on Fridays.