The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [105]
“Anything else?”
“Look out for the name Ibrahim.”
“No shortage of Ibrahims here.”
“This one is an Iraqi. His full name is Mohammed Ibrahim Omar al-Muslit, also known as the Fat Man.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Luca hangs up and continues making calls. For the next two hours he runs an obstacle course of transfers, denials or being put on hold. He is passed between four different sections at the Interior Ministry before getting a “no comment” regarding Mohammed Ibrahim. Jenkins at the US Embassy is “in a meeting” and then “gone for the day.” The US military command wants the request in writing and approved by the Iraqis.
Out of ideas, he calls Jamal. “I know I said I wouldn’t ask you for any more favors…”
“What do you need?”
“Information. The prisoner’s name is Mohammed Ibrahim Omar al-Muslit. Arrested December 2003. Interned at Abu Ghraib awaiting trial.” Luca doesn’t mention the link to Saddam or the smuggled cash. “Don’t push it too hard,” he says. “Make a call and then leave it alone.”
At two p.m. the phone rings in Daniela’s room. Edge is twenty minutes away. He’s ready for the run to the airport.
Daniela leans forward and takes Luca’s hands in hers, pressing down hard with her thumbs. Her eyes fasten on his. “Give this up. You’re fixated on something that can only bring trouble.”
“Don’t you want answers?”
“I can live without them.”
The last woman Luca cared about had accused him of sitting on the sidelines, unwilling to get involved, a spectator not a player. This one wants him benched and out of the game.
Opening the flap of his shirt pocket, Luca touches the folded photograph of Nicola. He opens it on his lap, smoothing the crease with his fingers.
“I owe you a story.”
“You don’t have to,” says Daniela.
“I want to.”
He begins at the beginning. Nicola had worked for the National Library of Iraq, tracing and restoring the priceless manuscripts and books that had been looted or damaged during the invasion. It shouldn’t have been a dangerous job, but the library had been bombed twice and attacked by snipers who had shot out several windows.
Luca had gone to do a story on the restoration and Nicola took him on a guided tour of the library, explaining the importance of the collection and how much was still missing. Passionate and beautiful, she’d been educated in Geneva where her father had worked as a diplomat before falling out with Saddam. Later she studied bookbinding and restoration in Venice.
It took Luca six weeks to convince her to have a coffee with him. Her sister acted as chaperone. “I’m not going to fall in love with you,” Nicola told him, “because you will leave me one day.”
They were together for nearly two years, “not in love” she insisted, but that was just playing with words. One Friday afternoon the wages didn’t arrive at the library. Nicola offered to collect them from the bank because it was a long weekend and people needed money for food and fuel. She took a taxi as far as al-Mutanabi Street, which was only five hundred yards from the library. The street is named after one of the greatest Arab poets, who lived in Iraq in the Middle Ages. Famous for its bookstores, it is a favorite place for writers and impoverished intellectuals.
An explosion shook the windows of the National Library. Amid the grey smoke, there were tens of thousands of papers, flying high, as if the clouds were raining books. Some of the pages were burning.
Nicola was blown off her feet and showered with glass, but recovered. She saw two children crouching next to their dead mother. She picked them up and carried them to the side of the road, away from the fire trucks and police cars. An ambulance arrived. She ran towards it and called to the driver, but the man just looked at her. He was praying, rocking back and forth.
She must have realized he wasn’t a paramedic. She pushed the children away as the second bomb exploded. Fifteen killed. Forty injured. They found her broken body amid the rubble.
Daniela takes the photograph from Luca’s hands and examines the