The Wreckage: A Thriller (14 page)

“Iraqis voted in elections in March but there stil isn’t a government. When the politicians stop posturing they wil need to know the state of the country’s finances. The UN wants to undertake an audit. That’s why I’m offering you a job.”

Cooling down after her ride, Daniela felt her nipples swel against the thinness of the nylon. The apartment was colder than she first imagined.

“Why me?” she asked.

“You understand the nature of the work… the sensitivities.”

“Is there opposition?”

Nilsen hesitated, choosing his words careful y. “The audit must be conducted within certain parameters.”

“What parameters?”

“The government of Iraq and the reconstruction agencies are not interested in the mistakes of the past. The audit wil only cover the term of the previous government, from May twentieth 2006 up until the present,” explained Nilsen. “Any projects commenced prior to that date wil be excluded.”

“Whom would I be answerable to?”

“Me.”

“Staff?”

“As many as you need—within reason.”

Daniela had felt a sense of displacement that shifted and separated inside her.

“I’m not real y interested.”

“I can offer you five thousand a day or a guaranteed hundred thousand dol ars if the job takes less than three weeks.” Daniela tried not to react. People who tel you that money doesn’t matter are invariably the ones without large mortgages and credit card debts. Daniela liked nice things. Clothes.

Art. Theatre. This was a month’s work for a year’s wages. Nilsen gave her two days to decide. She took two hours.

There is a knock. Glover slouches against the doorframe with his shirttail hanging out.

“Have I told you how much I hate this country?”

“Yes.”

“We need to replace one of the computers. A power surge fried the hard drive.”

“What about the surge protectors?”

“Toasted.”

“Did we lose anything?”

“No.”

Daniela motions him to her desk. “Have you ever heard of Jawad Stadium?”

“Nope.”

“It was rebuilt. The work was finished two years ago.” She points to the list of numbers on the black screen. New drainage. Covered stands. Changing rooms. Seating for forty-five thousand. Turf imported from Sweden.”

“Duplicate payments,” says Glover.

“Nearly forty-two mil ion dol ars.”

“Who was the contractor?”

“Bel wether Construction. Bahamas registered. It subcontracted the work to various Iraqi companies.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Put a cal in to the US Embassy. Find out which of the Provisional Reconstruction Teams approved the rebuild.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to go back any further than May twentieth 2006.”

“The dates aren’t clear on this one.”

Glover gives her a youthful grin, knowing she’s overstepping her authority.

“You want me to mention this to Jennings?”

“Not just yet.”

Jennings is the State Department’s “man on the ground” who has been complaining about the audit since day one. He cal s Daniela regularly, offering to answer her questions and reminding her that “this is a war zone” and to “ignore the random,” whatever that means. He also seems to be laboring under the misapprehension that she works for the US and not the UN.

Glover pauses at the door.

“Hey, your friend cal ed.”

“What friend?”

“He left his name.”

There is a pause. “Presumably you wrote it down.”

“It was Italian sounding.”

“Luca?”

“That may have been it. He said he’d cal back.”

“Did he leave a number?”

“No.”

He disappears down the corridor and she can hear his Converse trainers squeaking on the tiles like blind kittens.

20

LONDON

The smal attic room has a sloping ceiling, a window and a skylight. It reminds Holy of her last foster home, where she had slept on a bed between steamer trunks ful of old paintings and boxes of self-help books. The house is gone now. She burnt it down. The flames were fifty feet high. Old books and oil paints are good fuel. Hol y had stood on the far side of the road and watched the great arcs of water being poured on the burning house, marveling at how the moisture evaporated in the heat, creating clouds of steam.

Some people put out fires, other people start them and the rest watch blissful y from the perimeter with flames dancing in their eyes. That’s the power of the match. Struck against the side of a box, balanced between two fingers, given the right fuel, it can raze a house or fel a forest. Rome burned. So did Dresden. Hol y’s world burned that night.

She was sent to a psych ward and then to a children’s home where she spent two years. When she turned eighteen she no longer had to answer to judges and social workers. She was free, but freedom didn’t come with a safety net. That’s why Zac was so important. Darling Zac.

Hol y grips the edge of the mattress and feels her throat begin to close. Maybe this is what grief feels like. Suffocating. Paralyzing.

If Zac were here, he would tel her to cup her hands over her mouth and breathe deeply. Count slowly. Relax. After a time the anxiety passes. She pushes back the bedclothes and begins searching through the wardrobe, choosing clothes: jeans, a plaid shirt, a scarf, a leather satchel…

Ruiz is downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper.

“You found some clothes.”

Hol y nods. “Is it OK if I take this?” She holds up the satchel.

“Sure. You want breakfast? There is cereal, bread, eggs, bacon…”

“I don’t eat bacon.”

“Eggs then?”

She doesn’t answer.

Sitting opposite him, she stares at the back of his newspaper without reading the words. He pours tea and spoons sugar. Stirs. The spoon sounds loud against the rim of the cup.

Without warning, Hol y begins to speak.

“Were you real y a copper?”

“Yes.”

“Why’d you give it up?”

“It gave me up.”

“You got fired?”

“I got retired.”

Hol y has tied her hair up in a scarf, which makes her look like a 1940s aircraft worker.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“Wel it doesn’t happen very often. And people who are nice to me usual y end up leaving or dying.”

“Who else has died?”

“My brother… my parents.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven.”

“What happened to them?”

Hol y shakes her head and changes direction. “I knew a guy at school, Scott Kernohan. He got hit by a train.” She changes direction again. “How did your wife die?”

“Cancer.”

“Did you remarry?”

“Twice.”

Hol y looks at a framed montage of family photographs on the wal beside the fridge. Snapshots of weddings, dinners, holidays, children’s concerts, birthday celebrations, anniversaries.

“When is your daughter getting married?”

“On Saturday.”

“I saw the invitation.”

“When you were robbing me?”

Hol y lets the comment slide. “Do you like the guy she’s marrying?”

“Sure.”

She smiles wryly.

“What’s that look for?”

“You’re lying.” She points to a photograph on the wal . “Is that him?”

“No, that’s my son Michael.”

“He’s cute.”

“He’s in Barbados.”

“But he’s coming home for the wedding, right?”

“We hope so.”

Hol y loses interest and begins opening cupboards. Ruiz can’t concentrate on his newspaper because he wants to watch her. She opens a box of cereal and eats with her hand.

“I have bowls.”

“It’s OK.”

He tries to read, but can feel her eyes upon him. Silence until he can stand it no more. He folds the newspaper. “Why do you rob people?”

“To pay the rent.”

“You couldn’t find another way?”

“I’m sure you’re going to give me a list.”

“Whoever kil ed Zac was looking for something.”

“You don’t know that.”

Hol y takes another handful of cereal.

“Who did you rob?”

“Rich horny guys, businessmen, suits, married, middle-aged.”

“How many?”

“Nine, maybe ten,” she says defensively. “We didn’t do it al the time—just when we needed the rent. Zac wasn’t getting his army pension. They lost his paperwork.”

“I need names and addresses of everyone you robbed.”

“Oh, yeah, I kept them on speed dial.”

Sarcasm scratches her pretty face.

“What did you take?”

“Phones, cameras, computers, jewelry—stuff we could carry.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Fenced it.”

“Who with?”

Hol y hesitates. “I’m not a grass.”

“I just want to talk to him.”

“That’s another lie.”

“What is it with you? You keep cal ing people liars.”

“I can tel .”

“Sure.”

“It’s true.” Hol y is staring into her mug as if reading the dregs. Tired. Wan. Resigned to being disbelieved. Ruiz thinks of his mother. Before her mind was scattered by dementia, Daj would often talk of people having “gifts” or a “third eye,” seeing things that other people don’t. A gypsy gift and a gypsy curse have little to differentiate them.

“Test me,” says Hol y.

“How?”

“Tel me something true or false. Anything.”

“I’m not playing games.”

“OK, don’t do it.” Hol y shrugs and pushes back her chair.

Ruiz reaches into his pocket and closes his fist.

“OK, what’s in my hand?”

“I don’t know.”

“I have a coin. Do you know which one?”

“No.”

“It’s a fifty-pence piece.”

“No it’s not.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re lying.”

“What if I told you it was twenty pence?”

“You’d be a liar.”

“What about a pound?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Ruiz uncurls his fingers. The pound coin lies flat in his palm.

“Lucky guess.”

“If you say so.”

She’s chal enging him. Ruiz knows he should let the subject go, but her cockiness irritates him.

“Let’s do it again.”

“Only if we play for money. I get a pound for every time I’m right.”

“OK.”

Ruiz takes a moment to plan his tactics.

“I’m going to tel you five things. Tel me which ones are true.”

“That’s five pounds.”

Hol y sits opposite him, looking at his face.

“I was once arrested on suspicion of murder.”

“Wow, that’s a bummer.”

“You think it’s true?”

“Yes.”

“My middle name is Wil iam?”

“No.”

“My middle name is Yanko?”

“What sort of name is that?”

“Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“I have a brother but he doesn’t live in London.”

She hesitates. “That’s two facts.”

“So what?”

“He doesn’t live in London.”

“Are you saying I don’t have a brother?”

“No, but there’s something wrong…” Hol y taps the table with her finger, thinking of the possibilities. “Is he alive?” Ruiz’s heart seems to lurch sideways in his chest. How could she possibly know that?

“This is ridiculous. I don’t want to play anymore.”

She holds out her hand. “I want my five pounds.”

How can she… it’s impossible… is he
that
transparent? Then he remembers that Hol y has been in his house. She looked through his things. There are photo albums upstairs, marriage and birth certificates, pictures of Claire and Michael, Laura’s letters…

“You real y are a piece of work,” he says, glaring at her, pushing up from the table.

Hol y cringes as he passes, waiting for the blow to fal . The front door slams.

She has glimpsed the monster. There’s one inside every man.

21

BAGHDAD

Luca has a long wait at the checkpoint into the International Zone. A soldier wearing reflective sunglasses examines his papers, while another walks around the Skoda and seems to be counting the bul et holes.

“You were lucky,” he says.

“That’s exactly what I thought at the time,” replies the journalist. “I was dodging those bul ets and thinking, How lucky am I?” The sarcasm is lost on the guards, who are mostly Latinos or Nepalese working for private security companies.

The boom gate rises and Luca enters a different world—four square miles of air-conditioned, ful y supplied comfort in the middle of a bombed city. There are juice bars, ice-cream parlors, beauty shops, cafeterias, clothing stores, swimming pools, gyms, a Pizza Hut, a Subway and a giant PX store.

Iraq took control of the zone in 2009 but little has changed in the fortified compound. The only difference is that now it’s home to dozens of Iraqi politicians bickering with one another, oblivious to what’s happening on the other side of the wire. They don’t have to queue for petrol or worry about roadblocks, or suicide bombers or sniper attacks. They don’t live in the same fear, which is the dangerous disconnect that skews al decision-making in the new Iraq.

Luca drives to the eastern edge of the zone and stops outside a gated compound protected by ten-foot-high electric fences, topped with razor wire. Inside, baking in the heat, are dozens of gleaming SUVs parked in rows.