The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [170]
“You got a nerve, coming here.”
“I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“Get him out of here.”
“We’re publishing tomorrow,” says Luca. “I’m giving you a chance to comment on the story.”
“No comment.”
Brendan Sobel is walking Luca towards the lift. The journalist yells over his shoulder. “You can’t cover this one up. You can’t shred it or bury it. It’s going to come out.”
Chalcott laughs. “You really think you can make this one fly—some fatuous conspiracy theory about Iraqi robberies and a British bank? A week from now nobody is going to care.”
“You will.”
“No, that’s where you’re wrong. I’ll have moved on.”
Luca fights at Sobel’s arms. “I’m giving you a chance to explain.”
“Patriots don’t have to explain. It’s pacifists and apologists like you who need to justify what you do.”
“I took a bullet.”
“And you’ve cost the lives of countless people.”
Chalcott is angry now. On his feet, storming down the corridor. For a moment Luca expects a punch.
“You think you’re a fucking hero, Mr. Terracini? You think you’re the people’s champion? I hope you have nightmares about what you’ve done… the deaths you’re going to cause.”
“What deaths? What are you talking about?”
“Why do you think Mohammed Ibrahim was released from prison? Why do you think we let him re-establish the network of accounts?”
Luca’s gaze falters and his self-possession deserts him for a moment. “What are you talking about?”
Chalcott finds the question amusing. “How did you begin investigating this story?”
“I followed the money.”
“Exactly.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“My job is to stop the bad shit before it happens—to catch the mad mullahs and the bomb makers and locate their training camps. Smash the fuckers. Bring them to their knees. But we can’t defeat these people militarily. And we can’t bomb them back to the Dark Ages because they live in caves already. But they’re not cavemen. They’re cleverer than that. They use our own systems against us. Our technology. Our markets. Our banks.
“People make the mistake of thinking this is an ideological battle. It’s not about religion or faith, it’s about power. It’s about politics. It’s about control. We set this up, Mr. Terracini. I set this up. Mersey Fidelity has been breaking the law for years, laundering money through ghost accounts. All I did was introduce a new client.”
“Ibrahim.”
“And then I followed the money—just like you. Ironic, isn’t it? But while you were looking for a headline, I was looking for terror cells and training camps and secret hideouts.”
The last statement is spat out like he’s swallowed an insect.
“Where is Mohammed Ibrahim?” asks Luca.
“We’ve taken his toys away. He’s out of the race.”
“They were going to blow up a nightclub.”
Chalcott waves his hand dismissively. “A few dozen lives to save thousands.”
“You think the end justifies the means.”
“I think it should be a factor.”
“Who chooses?”
“Pardon?”
“Who makes that choice?”
“People like me. Because people like you don’t have the stomach for it.”
Chalcott signals to Sobel and the lift doors slide open.
“Enjoy your fifteen minutes, Mr. Terracini. I hope it was worth it.”
38
LONDON
It has been six weeks since Ruiz left hospital. His hands have healed, adding to his scars, and his hearing is almost fully returned, apart from a persistent buzzing in his ears that sounds like a bee trapped behind glass. It’s no more annoying than his second wife, he tells people, not entirely joking.
The story about Mersey Fidelity is almost old news but Luca Terracini is still bathing in the glory—he’s been profiled in the Sunday supplements and interviewed on morning TV. He and Daniela were photographed on a weekend break in Paris—the globetrotting foreign correspondent and the glamorous US auditor who uncovered the biggest financial scandal since the meltdown.
Ruiz stayed out of the spotlight, barely mentioned in reports of the terrorist blast that closed the M1 for twelve hours on 1 September. Two of the bombers died when cornered by officers from the anti-terrorism branch. A third, Taj Iqbal,