The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [129]
“You ask for a bailout?”
“Yes, but before that—before you know that central banks are going to ride to the rescue.”
“I don’t know.”
“You take anybody’s money. And I mean anybody. The Mafia, Triads, Colombian drug barons, corrupt regimes, criminal gangs—anybody.”
“Is that what happened?”
“Two years ago the UN Office on Drugs and Crime released a report saying that drug money was the only thing keeping some major banks in business. The UN estimates that three hundred and fifty-two billion dollars of drug and Mafia money was laundered by major banks at the peak of the global financial crisis. That’s a third of a trillion dollars.”
“What about the regulators?”
“They turned a blind eye because it helped keep bank doors open.”
“And you think Mersey Fidelity was involved?”
“It’s a theory.”
Luca glances at Daniela, wondering how much to tell Gooding. Scanning the bar, he notices the couple from earlier have gone. A fresh beer arrives. He centers it on a coaster and begins.
“Just over a week ago the Zewiya branch of the al-Rafidain Bank in Baghdad was robbed. Four bank guards helped engineer the break-in. We aren’t sure how much they stole—perhaps as much as fifty million US dollars. Less than twenty-four hours later they were found executed outside of Mosul. This wasn’t the first such robbery—Iraq has been averaging about one a week—but this was US dollars. Daniela checked with the Iraqi Central Bank and discovered that the money had been delivered only a few hours before the bank was raided.”
“What does this have to do with Mersey Fidelity?” asks Gooding.
“Before we flew out of Baghdad we found a former truck driver who told us how he smuggled cash out of Iraq into Syria. US dollars. There were two truckloads, but one lorry went off the cliff and spilled the payload. The second lorry went to a warehouse on the outskirts of Damascus owned by an import/export company registered in Syria. Alain al Jaria. It doesn’t have a physical office address, just a postbox. And no tax returns in ten years…”
Daniela adds, “The same company was subcontracted to rebuild a stadium in Baghdad in 2005 and paid forty-two million dollars. The work was never done.”
Luca: “The controlling shareholder of Alain al Jaria is a company called May First Limited, with a registered address in the Bahamas. And the only name associated with both companies is Yahya Maluk.”
Luca places his elbows on the table, lowering his voice to a whisper.
“I think stolen money is being smuggled out of Iraq using the same routes that Saddam Hussein set up to overcome the international sanctions and blockades of the nineties. Maybe that’s how Mersey Fidelity avoided the credit crisis: it found a new source of funds.”
“What evidence do you have?”
“Not enough.”
Gooding is staring at him, his eyes slightly glazed by the alcohol, but there’s something skulking behind his countenance—a tense energy or the shadow of a secret. Luca searches his eyes for a clue. Over Gooding’s shoulder, he can see a miniature version of himself in a far-off mirror.
“There’s something else,” says Luca.
“I’m listening.”
“The truck driver who delivered the cash to Damascus said he was met by a man called Mohammed Ibrahim.”
Luca nods towards Daniela.
“His full name is Mohammed Ibrahim Omar al-Muslit,” she says. “He was responsible for setting up dozens of bank accounts in the name of front companies in Jordan, Syria and Lebanon for Saddam Hussein. He was arrested in 2003 and gave up Saddam’s hiding place.”
“Why isn’t Ibrahim in prison?”
“Four years ago he walked out of Abu Ghraib. Accidentally released, due to a case of mistaken identity. It was just before the US handed over control of the prison.”
“Unfortunate.”
“I would have chosen another word.”
12
LONDON
Seated on a plastic chair with his hands outspread on a table, Ruiz looks like a pianist playing a final chord and listening to the music fade. Campbell Smith doesn’t seem to appreciate the performance.