The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [128]
“Did you get a job?”
He smells her hair and cups her buttocks in his palms as though judging their soft weight.
“Yes, a job.”
11
LONDON
The Soho wine bar has black painted walls, black doors and black furniture. It’s full of the kind of people who en masse intimidate Luca most: men in designer suits and women with ballerina bodies and little black dresses. Daniela doesn’t look out of place—she’s a New York girl—she probably has a wardrobe full of cocktail dresses and tailored suits.
Keith Gooding has been entertaining her with stories about Afghanistan; shared adventures with Luca, embarrassing moments. He’s telling her the story about a grizzled old warlord in Jalalabad who promised to show them a former al-Qaeda training camp. Two days into their journey through the mountains the old warlord crept into their room and Luca woke with hands fondling his genitals. His scream brought the warlord’s bodyguards bursting into the room, threatening to shoot them.
“What in God’s name were you doing?” Gooding had hissed.
“The old pervert had his hands on me.”
“Couldn’t you give one up for the team?”
Daniela laughs and Luca tells her that she shouldn’t believe everything Gooding tells her.
She kisses his knuckles. “I know.”
He needs the bathroom. The doors are marked XX and XY—the language of chromosomes. As he exits he notices a tall man with craggy eyes sitting opposite a woman in a camisole and skirt. Holding hands. Lovers. His eyes aren’t looking into hers. Instead they’re focused on Luca.
“What’s wrong?” asks Daniela.
“I’ve just seen someone I recognize, but I can’t place him.”
“In Baghdad?”
“Maybe. Go to the bathroom in a couple of minutes. He’s sitting near the pillar.” Luca looks at Gooding. “Did you book this table?”
“Yes.”
“Who else knows we’re here?”
“Oh, come on, Luca, relax, you’ve been living in a war zone for too long.” He raises his glass. “This is supposed to be a celebration.”
Luca smiles and apologizes, but the disquiet stays with him like an unpleasant aftertaste.
“So what did you find out about Yahya Maluk?”
Gooding takes out his iPhone and runs his finger across the screen.
“Egyptian billionaire. Educated at Charterhouse. Second eldest son of Salim Ahmed Maluk, who rose from being an illiterate moneychanger to found banks in Egypt, Syria and Lebanon. Married. Three grown-up children. Personal wealth estimated at three billion pounds. Family fortune twice that much. Dozens of companies and charitable trusts.”
“Does he still have links with banks in the Middle East?”
“He’s a former director of a Dubai-based private equity firm and non-executive director of the Bank of Syria.”
“What about in the UK?”
“He’s a non-executive director of Mersey Fidelity.”
Luca repeats the name. He’s heard it before.
“It’s been in the news,” explains Gooding, biting a wedge of lime between his teeth and sucking, letting the sourness hollow out his cheeks. “A missing banker.”
Luca remembers the story that he read in the Herald Tribune.
“Richard North disappeared more than a week ago,” explains Gooding. “The bank says fifty-four million pounds is missing.”
“Tell me about Mersey Fidelity.”
The journalist picks at the label of his beer bottle. “Now there’s an interesting story. It’s the only UK bank that rode out the global financial crisis without needing a taxpayer-funded bailout. Barclays, Lloyds, Bank of Scotland—they were all rescued from bankruptcy and effectively nationalized—but Mersey Fidelity weathered the storm.”
“How come you know so much about it?” asks Luca.
Gooding looks at him sheepishly. “I’ve been working on a book.”
“A book?”
“Don’t look at me like that. Newspapers are dying. You make money where you can.”
“What’s the book about?” asks Daniela.
“The global financial crisis—why some banks survived and others didn’t.”
“So how did Mersey Fidelity survive?”
“There were whispers.”
“What sort of whispers?” Luca asks.
Gooding leans a little closer. “OK, let me draw you a picture. First you have the credit crisis, the meltdown, major banks hemorrhaging. Lehman