“It’s not Baghdad.”
“Successful trip?”
“How does one measure the success of such a trip? I addressed a legal conference, while the Minister asked for money, shook hands and smiled for photographs.” He circles his hand in the air. “But you didn’t come here to talk about Moscow.”
“There was another robbery.”
“I heard.”
“How much money was taken?”
“Even if I knew the exact amount, I could not comment.”
“It was US dollars.”
“Are you telling me or asking me?”
“It could have been an inside job. Four security guards are missing.”
Kuther raises his shoulders an inch. Drops them. A cigarette appears in his hand, then between his lips. He lights it with a counterfeit Dunhill lighter.
“I cannot become too fixated on money, Luca. Do you know how many people die in this city every day?”
“Yes.”
“No, you don’t see all of them. You hear about the bombings, the big events that provide footage for your news bulletins.” The judge points to a report on his desk. “This is from last night: seven bodies were found in Amil, three bodies in Doura, two bodies in Ghasaliyah, one body in Khadhraa, one body in Amiriyah and one in Mahmoudiyah. There were eight more bodies in Rusafa. None have been identified.”
Luca looks at the file. “Why are they sending this to you?”
“Because the Interior Ministry cannot handle so many.”
“You’re supposed to be investigating corruption.”
“I do what is necessary.”
Kuther draws on his cigarette and exhales a stream of smoke that looks like his very spirit escaping from his chest.
“We are tearing ourselves apart, Luca: kidnappings, executions, house by house, family by family. The same people who celebrated the toppling of Saddam would today go down on their knees and kiss his feet if they could bring him back.”
“You’re losing hope?”
“I’m running out of time.”
The judge crushes the cigarette. He’s a busy man.
“Tell me exactly what you want, Luca.”
“I want to know who’s robbing these banks. These are US dollar robberies. Reconstruction funds.”
“Money is money,” says Kuther. “Green, brown, blue… any color.”
“A platoon of US Marines captured an insurgent two months ago with a wad of hundred-dollar bills that had sequential serial numbers. The bills were part of a shipment from the US Federal Reserve in 2006. They were stolen from a bank in Fallujah four months ago.”
Kuther bows his head and places his hands together as though praying.
“There is a war on, Luca. Perhaps you should ask the Americans where their money is going.”
5
The pawnshop is on Whitechapel High Street, squeezed between a Burger King and a clothing emporium that has “ladies, gents amp; children’s fashion wear” spilling from bins and racks. Bernie Levinson’s office is on the first floor, accessible via a rickety set of metal stairs at the rear of the building that are held in place by a handful of rusting bolts.
In the basement there is a clothing factory where thirty-five workers, most of them illegal, sit crouched over sewing machines that operate day and night. Two shifts of twelve hours, Bangladeshi and Indian women earning three quid an hour. It’s another of Bernie’s business ventures.
A dozen people are waiting on the stairs to see Bernie, mostly junkies and crackheads. They’re carrying a selection of car stereos, DVD players, laptops and GPS navigators-none of them in boxes or with instruction manuals. Holly Knight waits her turn, clutching her shoulder bag on her lap.
Bernie sits behind a big desk next to an air-conditioning unit that takes up most of the window. A goldfish bowl rests on the corner of his desk, magnifying a lone fish that barely seems to move. Bernie is a short man with a doughy body, who favors baggy trousers and candy-colored shirts.
“Do a twirl,” he tells Holly. “Show me what you’re wearing, such a pretty bint. My daughter is the size of a cow. Takes after her mother. Bovine family. Built to pull ploughs.”
Holly ignores him and opens her shoulder bag, placing the contents on his desk. She has a passport, three credit cards, a mobile phone, a digital camera, four collector’s edition gold coins and some sort of medal in a case.
“What’s this?” asks Bernie, flipping open the box.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s only a police fucking bravery medal!”
“So?”
“You turned over a copper, you daft cow.”
“He said he was retired.”
“Yeah, but he’s going to have friends, isn’t he? Colleagues. Old Bill.” Bernie is waving his hands at her. Wobbling his chins. “I don’t want any of this stuff. Get it out of here.”
Resting her hip on the desk, Holly leans closer, letting the front of her blouse casually gape open.
“Come on, Bernie, we look after each other. What about that gear I brought you the other day?” She points to a dark leather briefcase sitting on top of his filing cabinet. “That’s top quality.”
She and Zac had turned over a suit in Barnes and scored the briefcase, a laptop, two mobiles, passports and jewelry.
Bernie grunts dismissively. “You’re getting sloppy. Taking too many risks.”
“It won’t happen again… I promise, but I’m really short this week. My landlord is going to give me grief.”
Bernie hesitates. Contemplates. The pawnbroker is not a soft touch. He thinks the only true sin is to surrender. He lost most of his family in the ghettos of Warsaw and at Treblinka. They meekly surrendered and were led away, a fact that Bernie despises. That’s one of the reasons he keeps a pistol in his top drawer, a shotgun downstairs and a bodyguard in the next room. Whatever happens, he’s not going to simply disappear.
Glancing at Holly’s cleavage, Bernie wets his bottom lip. “How much you short?”
“Eighty quid.”
“And what does Uncle Bernie get?”
Holly thinks, if Zac were here he’d reach across the table and squeeze your head until your eyes pop out. But she needs the money and she’d rather owe Bernie than Floyd, who charges interest with a silver knuckleduster.
Holly walks to the door and locks it. Then she pushes back Bernie’s leather chair and sits astride him, her knees on either side of his thighs, grinding her pubic bone into his groin. Her hand slides down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt so her fingers can slide across his chest.
Leaning forward she whispers something into his ear. Then she straightens and slowly undoes the buttons on her blouse, opening it a few inches. She’s wearing a black lace bra. Bernie takes a wheezing breath, lust painted all over his face.
Motioning to the cashbox, Holly waits while Bernie fumbles with the key. She takes four twenties and slips the notes into her shoulder bag. Bernie begins to unbuckle his trousers but Holly starts moving again, bumping and grinding. She increases the pressure, whispering in his ear, letting her tongue trace the outline of his earlobe. He tries to stop her, to lift her off, but Holly keeps moving.
Bernie groans. “No, no, nooooo…!”
His eyes roll back into his head and his molars grind together, shuddering.
Holly buttons her shirt and swings her body off his lap. The wet spot on his trousers is starting to spread.
“I want my money back,” he bleats.
Holly scoops the stolen goods into her bag and swings it onto her shoulder. Unlocking the door, she turns. “Here’s what I’ll do, Bernie, I’ll sign you up for membership of the Premature Ejaculation Society. They got a strict dress code. You got to come in your pants.”
She opens the door. Tommy Boyle, Bernie’s bodyguard, is outside. “Everything OK, boss?”
Bernie has a tissue in his hand. “Just shut the fucking door.”
6
Late morning in Central London: Ruiz is waiting downstairs at Scotland Yard. He still has a few contacts in the Met-colleagues who have survived the shake-ups, shake-outs and new brooms. Some adapt. Some pucker up. Some bend over and brace themselves.