The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [107]
His phone is ringing again. Daniela wants him to leave it. He looks at the screen. It’s Tony Castro from Damascus.
“Bad time?”
“Could be better.”
“That warehouse you asked me about: Alain al Jaria is registered in Syria as an import/export company. It has a postal address in Damascus and a couple of local directors who don’t appear to exist. The only listed shareholder is a company called May First Limited, with a registered address in the Bahamas. And the only name associated with both companies is an Egyptian national with a British passport—Yahya Maluk.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s a big player. Connected. He’s a friend of President al-Assad in Syria and Mubarak in Egypt. Made his money smuggling oil for Saddam, according to the rumors. Nobody could ever prove it.”
“Where is he now?”
“Apart from his place in Damascus, there’s a house in the South of France, another in London. According to his housekeeper, he’s in London.”
“For how long?”
“She didn’t know.”
“What about Ibrahim?”
“I mentioned the name but the housekeeper didn’t react. She was nervous. I didn’t hang around.”
A boarding announcement echoes through the terminal. Daniela’s flight is being called: Turkish Airways to Istanbul. She’s waiting at the security barrier.
Luca closes the gap, standing a foot away. Silent. Daniela looks past him at the security station. Beyond is the boarding gate. The last of the passengers are joining the end of the queue.
“My husband wants me to go back to him,” she says. “That was the phone call I had on the night we met at the al-Hamra.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him no.”
She gazes at him, willing him to say something more. The slightest signal might tilt their lives towards each other, maybe for a long time. Luca’s phone is ringing again. He glances at the screen. It’s Ahmed Kuther.
“Can you wait for just one second?”
“No, I can’t, Luca.”
The phone is against his ear. Daniela turns away and puts her bag on to the conveyor belt before stepping through the body scanner.
“Who told you Ibrahim was dead?” asks Kuther.
“It came from a contact at the prison.”
“The information was incorrect.”
“So he’s still in Abu Ghraib?”
Daniela has picked up her bag. She’s walking across the concourse.
“Mohammed Ibrahim was accidentally released from prison four years ago. He was mistaken for another prisoner.”
Luca glances at the departure board. Feels for his passport. There is a Royal Jordanian flight to Istanbul via Amman leaving in two hours.
He yells to Daniela, who turns at the last minute.
“Wait for me in Istanbul.”
She can’t hear him. He tries to get closer, but a guard stops him. He shouts again. “Istanbul. Wait for me!”
“Why?” she mouths.
Luca doesn’t answer. If she can’t find a reason, she won’t be there.
27
LONDON
The wedding reception is at a Georgian villa on the northern edge of Hampstead Heath. Heritage-listed, whiter than a wedding cake, it looks like a film set from a BBC period drama, minus the bonnets and the horses.
“Do you remember Notting Hill?” asks Miranda, hooking her hand through the crook of Ruiz’s arm. She’s walking on tiptoes so her heels won’t bruise the turf. “Julia Roberts was the American movie star and Hugh Grant had a travel bookshop on Portobello Road. They filmed one of the final scenes at Kenwood House.”
“I’ve never really seen the point of Hugh Grant,” says Ruiz. “He’s like a male version of Meg Ryan—always playing wishy-washy romantic losers.”
“I thought you fancied Meg Ryan.”
“When she stops whining.”
The Orangery is swathed in white linen with splashes of yellow from the sunflowers on each table display. A string quartet is playing in the corner. Daj, seated like a queen at her own table, is complaining loudly about her inconsiderate son, who never visits or calls. Her voice has a Lady Bracknell quality, slicing through the chatter like a well-honed cleaver.
Claire and Phillip had wanted a child-friendly wedding because most of their friends