“And you’ve cost the lives of countless people.”
Chalcott is angry now. On his feet, storming down the corridor. For a moment Luca expects a punch.
“You think you’re a fucking hero, Mr. Terracini? You think you’re the people’s champion? I hope you have nightmares about what you’ve done… the deaths you’re going to cause.”
“What deaths? What are you talking about?”
“Why do you think Mohammed Ibrahim was released from prison? Why do you think we let him re-establish the network of accounts?”
Luca’s gaze falters and his self-possession deserts him for a moment. “What are you talking about?”
Chalcott finds the question amusing. “How did you begin investigating this story?”
“I followed the money.”
“Exactly.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“My job is to stop the bad shit before it happens-to catch the mad mullahs and the bomb makers and locate their training camps. Smash the fuckers. Bring them to their knees. But we can’t defeat these people militarily. And we can’t bomb them back to the Dark Ages because they live in caves already. But they’re not cavemen. They’re cleverer than that. They use our own systems against us. Our technology. Our markets. Our banks.
“People make the mistake of thinking this is an ideological battle. It’s not about religion or faith, it’s about power. It’s about politics. It’s about control. We set this up, Mr. Terracini. I set this up. Mersey Fidelity has been breaking the law for years, laundering money through ghost accounts. All I did was introduce a new client.”
“Ibrahim.”
“And then I followed the money-just like you. Ironic, isn’t it? But while you were looking for a headline, I was looking for terror cells and training camps and secret hideouts.”
The last statement is spat out like he’s swallowed an insect.
“Where is Mohammed Ibrahim?” asks Luca.
“We’ve taken his toys away. He’s out of the race.”
“They were going to blow up a nightclub.”
Chalcott waves his hand dismissively. “A few dozen lives to save thousands.”
“You think the end justifies the means.”
“I think it should be a factor.”
“Who chooses?”
“Pardon?”
“Who makes that choice?”
“People like me. Because people like you don’t have the stomach for it.”
Chalcott signals to Sobel and the lift doors slide open.
“Enjoy your fifteen minutes, Mr. Terracini. I hope it was worth it.”
38
It has been six weeks since Ruiz left hospital. His hands have healed, adding to his scars, and his hearing is almost fully returned, apart from a persistent buzzing in his ears that sounds like a bee trapped behind glass. It’s no more annoying than his second wife, he tells people, not entirely joking.
The story about Mersey Fidelity is almost old news but Luca Terracini is still bathing in the glory-he’s been profiled in the Sunday supplements and interviewed on morning TV. He and Daniela were photographed on a weekend break in Paris-the globetrotting foreign correspondent and the glamorous US auditor who uncovered the biggest financial scandal since the meltdown.
Ruiz stayed out of the spotlight, barely mentioned in reports of the terrorist blast that closed the M1 for twelve hours on 1 September. Two of the bombers died when cornered by officers from the anti-terrorism branch. A third, Taj Iqbal, unemployed of Luton, is in Belmarsh Prison, London, awaiting trial. The Daily Mail published a photograph of his wife and baby son arriving at the prison. She wore a Muslim veil and didn’t talk to reporters. Something in her eyes reminded Ruiz of the moment he first met Elizabeth North, her emotions held in check, defenses raised, a child to protect.
Elizabeth has visited him three times, once in hospital and twice at home. She brings Rowan and Claudia and soon his living room is covered with toys and tinkling with the sound of children’s TV shows.
“Mitchell jumped before he was pushed,” she says. “There’s been a boardroom reshuffle and half the directors have gone.”
“Any news of Maluk?”
“They think he’s in Syria or Egypt.”
Elizabeth unbuttons her blouse to feed Claudia, her breast swollen and pale, lined with the faintest of blue veins. Ruiz looks at the feeding infant, her tiny mouth pressed hard against the nipple, eyes closed in concentration.
“What about the bank?” he asks.
“I had a man come to see me: Douglas Evans.”
“I’ve met him.”
“Doesn’t he remind you of someone out of a le Carre novel?” Elizabeth does his accent. “Confidence is the key. As much as I would like to see those responsible punished for this abomination. Publicly flogged. Humiliated. There are greater issues to consider. Three years ago our banking system suffered a heart attack. It has been on life support ever since. Nobody wants to turn off that life support system.”
Elizabeth laughs and Rowan looks up from the floor. “What’s so funny, Mummy?”
“People who talk with posh accents,” she says, smiling at him and continuing. “They say they’re going to prosecute executives, but nobody has been charged. Mitchell has hired a QC. We haven’t spoken. He’s cut himself off from the family.”
“I’m sorry.”
Elizabeth starts cleaning up the mess, putting lids on Tupperware containers and packing her changing bag. “That girl-the one who went home with North.”
“Holly Knight?”
“How is she?”
“She’s good. She got a call back for a play and she’s looking for part-time work.”
Elizabeth nods. “If you see her…” She hesitates. “Tell her I don’t blame her for anything and I’m sorry about what happened.”
“If you hang around she’ll be home soon.”
“She’s staying here?”
“Yes.”
“Are you two…?”
“Christ no, but I need a lock on my bedroom door.”
Elizabeth shakes her head. Her pram is packed and Claudia strapped inside. Rowan rides on a platform at the back, standing between the handles. They’re going to walk over Hammersmith Bridge and along the river to Barnes.
Pausing at the front gate, she turns. “About Holly,” she says. “Is she any good with children?”
After she’s gone, Ruiz tidies the sitting room, sweeping up crumbs and straightening pillows. Among the “get well” cards on the mantelpiece he comes across one from Capable Jones. Unsigned. Capable is paranoid about people forging his signature. The message is typed and printed, wishing him a speedy recovery, with a postscript tacked on to the end:
That nanny you wanted to find. Do you still want her address?
Ruiz puts on his jacket and goes out, walking the river path where autumn is decorating the trees before winter strips them bare. He doesn’t have the Mercedes anymore and will do without a car for a while. He doesn’t need one in London, where every business seems to deliver, even the off licenses.
Polina Dulsanya lives on the fourth floor of a block of flats in Fulham, just off the high street. Ruiz climbs the stairs slowly, his body still depleted. Knocks on the door.
A woman answers, barely out of her teens, with a gymnast’s body and dark bobbed hair. She’s wearing jeans and a short T-shirt that barely covers her torso. Flesh is the new season’s color.
“Can I help you?” she asks with a confused smile, pronouncing the English words perfectly. She sounds Russian or maybe Polish.
“Can I come in?”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to you about Richard North.”
“Vincent, how did you get through the gates?”
“Your wife let me in.”
Alistair Bach shakes his head. “Sometimes I wonder why I installed a security system. People buzz and Jacinta just opens the gate. She’s far too trusting.”
He’s pruning rose bushes at the rear of the property, where the northern sun hits the stone wall and reflects the heat back on to the flowerbeds.
“It was your bank.”