The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [13]
Clapping his hands together, he sends people back to their desks. Then he slumps in a leather chair, spinning it back and forth from the window.
“How was Moscow?”
“It’s not Baghdad.”
“Successful trip?”
“How does one measure the success of such a trip? I addressed a legal conference, while the Minister asked for money, shook hands and smiled for photographs.” He circles his hand in the air. “But you didn’t come here to talk about Moscow.”
“There was another robbery.”
“I heard.”
“How much money was taken?”
“Even if I knew the exact amount, I could not comment.”
“It was US dollars.”
“Are you telling me or asking me?”
“It could have been an inside job. Four security guards are missing.”
Kuther raises his shoulders an inch. Drops them. A cigarette appears in his hand, then between his lips. He lights it with a counterfeit Dunhill lighter.
“I cannot become too fixated on money, Luca. Do you know how many people die in this city every day?”
“Yes.”
“No, you don’t see all of them. You hear about the bombings, the big events that provide footage for your news bulletins.” The judge points to a report on his desk. “This is from last night: seven bodies were found in Amil, three bodies in Doura, two bodies in Ghasaliyah, one body in Khadhraa, one body in Amiriyah and one in Mahmoudiyah. There were eight more bodies in Rusafa. None have been identified.”
Luca looks at the file. “Why are they sending this to you?”
“Because the Interior Ministry cannot handle so many.”
“You’re supposed to be investigating corruption.”
“I do what is necessary.”
Kuther draws on his cigarette and exhales a stream of smoke that looks like his very spirit escaping from his chest.
“We are tearing ourselves apart, Luca: kidnappings, executions, house by house, family by family. The same people who celebrated the toppling of Saddam would today go down on their knees and kiss his feet if they could bring him back.”
“You’re losing hope?”
“I’m running out of time.”
The judge crushes the cigarette. He’s a busy man.
“Tell me exactly what you want, Luca.”
“I want to know who’s robbing these banks. These are US dollar robberies. Reconstruction funds.”
“Money is money,” says Kuther. “Green, brown, blue… any color.”
“A platoon of US Marines captured an insurgent two months ago with a wad of hundred-dollar bills that had sequential serial numbers. The bills were part of a shipment from the US Federal Reserve in 2006. They were stolen from a bank in Fallujah four months ago.”
Kuther bows his head and places his hands together as though praying.
“There is a war on, Luca. Perhaps you should ask the Americans where their money is going.”
5
LONDON
The pawnshop is on Whitechapel High Street, squeezed between a Burger King and a clothing emporium that has “ladies, gents & children’s fashion wear” spilling from bins and racks. Bernie Levinson’s office is on the first floor, accessible via a rickety set of metal stairs at the rear of the building that are held in place by a handful of rusting bolts.
In the basement there is a clothing factory where thirty-five workers, most of them illegal, sit crouched over sewing machines that operate day and night. Two shifts of twelve hours, Bangladeshi and Indian women earning three quid an hour. It’s another of Bernie’s business ventures.
A dozen people are waiting on the stairs to see Bernie, mostly junkies and crackheads. They’re carrying a selection of car stereos, DVD players, laptops and GPS navigators—none of them in boxes or with instruction manuals. Holly Knight waits her turn, clutching her shoulder bag on her lap.
Bernie sits behind a big desk next to an air-conditioning unit that takes up most of the window. A goldfish bowl rests on the corner of his desk, magnifying a lone fish that barely seems to move. Bernie is a short man with a doughy body, who favors baggy trousers and candy-colored