The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [40]
“Iraqis voted in elections in March but there still isn’t a government. When the politicians stop posturing they will need to know the state of the country’s finances. The UN wants to undertake an audit. That’s why I’m offering you a job.”
Cooling down after her ride, Daniela felt her nipples swell against the thinness of the nylon. The apartment was colder than she first imagined.
“Why me?” she asked.
“You understand the nature of the work… the sensitivities.”
“Is there opposition?”
Nilsen hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “The audit must be conducted within certain parameters.”
“What parameters?”
“The government of Iraq and the reconstruction agencies are not interested in the mistakes of the past. The audit will only cover the term of the previous government, from May twentieth 2006 up until the present,” explained Nilsen. “Any projects commenced prior to that date will be excluded.”
“Whom would I be answerable to?”
“Me.”
“Staff?”
“As many as you need—within reason.”
Daniela had felt a sense of displacement that shifted and separated inside her.
“I’m not really interested.”
“I can offer you five thousand a day or a guaranteed hundred thousand dollars if the job takes less than three weeks.”
Daniela tried not to react. People who tell you that money doesn’t matter are invariably the ones without large mortgages and credit card debts. Daniela liked nice things. Clothes. Art. Theatre. This was a month’s work for a year’s wages. Nilsen gave her two days to decide. She took two hours.
There is a knock. Glover slouches against the doorframe with his shirttail hanging out.
“Have I told you how much I hate this country?”
“Yes.”
“We need to replace one of the computers. A power surge fried the hard drive.”
“What about the surge protectors?”
“Toasted.”
“Did we lose anything?”
“No.”
Daniela motions him to her desk. “Have you ever heard of Jawad Stadium?”
“Nope.”
“It was rebuilt. The work was finished two years ago.” She points to the list of numbers on the black screen. New drainage. Covered stands. Changing rooms. Seating for forty-five thousand. Turf imported from Sweden.”
“Duplicate payments,” says Glover.
“Nearly forty-two million dollars.”
“Who was the contractor?”
“Bellwether Construction. Bahamas registered. It subcontracted the work to various Iraqi companies.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Put a call in to the US Embassy. Find out which of the Provisional Reconstruction Teams approved the rebuild.”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to go back any further than May twentieth 2006.”
“The dates aren’t clear on this one.”
Glover gives her a youthful grin, knowing she’s overstepping her authority.
“You want me to mention this to Jennings?”
“Not just yet.”
Jennings is the State Department’s “man on the ground” who has been complaining about the audit since day one. He calls Daniela regularly, offering to answer her questions and reminding her that “this is a war zone” and to “ignore the random,” whatever that means. He also seems to be laboring under the misapprehension that she works for the US and not the UN.
Glover pauses at the door.
“Hey, your friend called.”
“What friend?”
“He left his name.”
There is a pause. “Presumably you wrote it down.”
“It was Italian sounding.”
“Luca?”
“That may have been it. He said he’d call back.”
“Did he leave a number?”
“No.”
He disappears down the corridor and she can hear his Converse trainers squeaking on the tiles like blind kittens.
20
LONDON
The small attic room has a sloping ceiling, a window and a skylight. It reminds Holly of her last foster home, where she had slept on a bed between steamer trunks full of old paintings and boxes of self-help books. The house is gone now. She burnt it down. The flames were fifty feet high. Old books and oil paints are good fuel. Holly had stood on the far side of the road and watched the great arcs of water being poured on the burning house, marveling at how the moisture evaporated in the heat, creating clouds of steam.
Some people put