“What does this have to do with Mersey Fidelity?” asks Gooding.
“Before we flew out of Baghdad we found a former truck driver who told us how he smuggled cash out of Iraq into Syria. US dollars. There were two truckloads, but one lorry went off the cliff and spilled the payload. The second lorry went to a warehouse on the outskirts of Damascus owned by an import/export company registered in Syria. Alain al Jaria. It doesn’t have a physical office address, just a postbox. And no tax returns in ten years…”
Daniela adds, “The same company was subcontracted to rebuild a stadium in Baghdad in 2005 and paid forty-two million dollars. The work was never done.”
Luca: “The controlling shareholder of Alain al Jaria is a company called May First Limited, with a registered address in the Bahamas. And the only name associated with both companies is Yahya Maluk.”
Luca places his elbows on the table, lowering his voice to a whisper.
“I think stolen money is being smuggled out of Iraq using the same routes that Saddam Hussein set up to overcome the international sanctions and blockades of the nineties. Maybe that’s how Mersey Fidelity avoided the credit crisis: it found a new source of funds.”
“What evidence do you have?”
“Not enough.”
Gooding is staring at him, his eyes slightly glazed by the alcohol, but there’s something skulking behind his countenance-a tense energy or the shadow of a secret. Luca searches his eyes for a clue. Over Gooding’s shoulder, he can see a miniature version of himself in a far-off mirror.
“There’s something else,” says Luca.
“I’m listening.”
“The truck driver who delivered the cash to Damascus said he was met by a man called Mohammed Ibrahim.”
Luca nods towards Daniela.
“His full name is Mohammed Ibrahim Omar al-Muslit,” she says. “He was responsible for setting up dozens of bank accounts in the name of front companies in Jordan, Syria and Lebanon for Saddam Hussein. He was arrested in 2003 and gave up Saddam’s hiding place.”
“Why isn’t Ibrahim in prison?”
“Four years ago he walked out of Abu Ghraib. Accidentally released, due to a case of mistaken identity. It was just before the US handed over control of the prison.”
“Unfortunate.”
“I would have chosen another word.”
12
Seated on a plastic chair with his hands outspread on a table, Ruiz looks like a pianist playing a final chord and listening to the music fade. Campbell Smith doesn’t seem to appreciate the performance. His lips have disappeared and his face is as pale as poached chicken.
“Why didn’t she call the police?”
“She was traumatized. He threatened to cut the baby from her womb.”
“And he wanted some notebook?”
“Apparently.”
Campbell wants to go over it again: Zac Osborne, Richard North, Colin Hackett-two dead, one missing-he can see how the dots are joined but can’t make out any discernible picture.
There is a knock on the door. Dinner. Campbell is happier once he’s eaten (pork ribs in black bean sauce, delivered from the local Chinese). Ruiz no longer feels hungry after watching him eat.
Licking sauce from his fingers, Campbell begins listing all the mistakes that Ruiz has made and how he should have done things differently. Hindsight is always twenty/twenty with Campbell, the ultimate I-told-you-so personality.
“Let me tell you a story,” he says finally, as if he’s only just decided to share it. “I’m telling tales out of school, which could get me suspended, but maybe you should be aware of the context.”
“What context?”
“Not ten minutes after I got back to the Yard today, I had a request from the Deputy Commissioner. He wanted to see me in his office. There was someone with him. Said he was from the Home Office. I didn’t catch his name.”
“Douglas Evans?”
“That’s him,” says Campbell. “They had all your Met files. Every bit of paperwork-who you arrested, who you didn’t, every complaint, every mistake. Suspended twice. Dismissed once. Reinstated. Cautioned at least a dozen times. You went AWOL when your first wife died.”
“I don’t need a history lesson.”
“That guy wasn’t Home Office, but somewhere closer to Vauxhall Bridge Road. The spooks are all over you-your phones, your house, your car, they’ve got surveillance teams tracking you 24/7, listening to you crunching your Bran Flakes and taking a crap. You’re out on a limb, Vincent. Isolated. Even your best friends are ducking for cover. Maybe if you could give them this notebook…”
“I don’t know where it is.”
“What about Holly Knight?”
Ruiz doesn’t answer. Campbell gets to his feet again, pacing. Reaching the far wall, he turns, paces again. It’s like watching a duck in a shooting gallery.
“Do you know where she is?”
“You can’t guarantee her safety.”
“And I suppose you can?”
Campbell stares at Ruiz for a long time, but it’s not a tactic or a psychological ploy. He moves across the room to his desk. Opens a drawer. Pulls out a plain white envelope.
“We found this at the back of a filing cabinet in Richard North’s office. The London postmark is dated sixteenth June. No return address.”
Inside the envelope are a dozen photographs of Richard North with a woman who isn’t Elizabeth; a brunette with a model’s cheekbones and a tight body, dressed in jeans and a fitted top. They’re sitting in an outdoor cafe holding hands. Kissing. The trees in the background are bare. The photos were taken in winter with a telephoto lens.
“Who is she?” asks Ruiz.
“Polina Dulsanya.”
“The nanny?”
“SOCO took samples from the house and found semen stains on her sheets. Got a positive match. Richard North was shagging the nanny.”
“It says something about the man.”
“It says he cheats on his wife.”
The two men regard each other as if somehow all men have been diminished by this one act of betrayal.
“We’re looking for the nanny now, but she gave the police a fake address.”
“Does Elizabeth know?” asks Ruiz.
“I thought it could wait.”
“Where is she?”
“I had someone drive her back to her father’s place.”
Ruiz looks at the images again. “Why does someone send photographs like this to Richard North?”
“To warn him off.”
“Or to blackmail him.”
A knock on the door. DI Thompson. He’s wearing his undertaker face. He motions to the commander “Can I talk to you, guv?”
“What is it?”
“They just pulled Richard North’s car out of the River Lea.”
“Any sign of North?”
“Traces of blood.”
Campbell glances at Ruiz, wanting to say so many things.
Instead: “You’re coming with me.”
13
Chalcott is sitting in a business-class seat on the tarmac at JFK, sipping a glass of complimentary champagne. He’s not a happy flyer; hates the rigmarole of security screening, boarding queues and pre-flight safety demonstrations. The only benefit of flying long haul is being forty thousand feet above sea level and out of communication.
Not yet. His mobile is vibrating. London.
“Talk quickly,” he tells Sobel.
“They found North’s car.”
“What about North?”
“Traces of blood but no body.”
“You think he’s dead?”
“We have to consider the possibility.”
Chalcott scoops peanuts into his fist and inhales them between sentences. A stewardess leans over him.
“Excuse me, sir, but all electronic devices must be turned off for take-off.”
Chalcott waves her away. “What about Terracini?”
“He’s being monitored.”
“Has anything else changed?”
“We’re still looking for the girl.”
“Are you a religious man, Brendan?”