The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [47]
“Bellwether subcontracted the work to Alain al Jaria, a shelf company based in Syria. There must be local paperwork.”
“It’s probably in Arabic,” says Glover.
“Get it translated.”
Daniela knows she is overstepping her remit. Nilsen had been very clear that she should not go further back than May 2006, but this isn’t natural wastage or an oversight. Most of all she’s annoyed by the blacked-out sentences. She can picture an entire department of faceless public servants in the bowels of the Pentagon, hunched over desks, wielding black marker pens. Too lazy to actually read documents and make informed decisions, they label everything as “classified” and “top secret,” blanking out every name, address and number.
She runs her finger over the hidden text before turning away.
“I’m going out for a little while.”
“Where?”
“An excursion.”
Jawad Stadium is in a safer area of the city, but Shaun and Edge still aren’t happy. The journey will take them through Baathist strongholds, including al-Haifa Street, once known as “sniper alley.”
They spend twenty minutes plotting a route and then briefing a security team. Edge will be in charge. Two vehicles. Four bodyguards. Shaun will stay behind with Glover and the rest of the security team.
Daniela follows the instructions without complaint. She’d prefer to be with Shaun, but holds her tongue. The cars arrive. Two Ford Explorers. Armored. Fully armed. She’s escorted down the steps by Edge and Klosters, his second in command.
The doors shut and the cars are moving, weaving between barricades and joining the main road heading east along the river. The vehicles rarely pause, taking detours rather than risk getting stuck at bottlenecks or at checkpoints. Some of the side roads are dusty tracks between houses and apartment blocks.
The stadium is visible from half a mile away. First the lighting towers, then the covered stands that look like a series of arches, giving the impression of a sporting cathedral. Built in the 1960s, the stadium was a gift to the Iraqi government from a rich oil family. In the 1980s Saddam told architects he wanted it redesigned as a possible Olympic venue.
They reach the main gate. A grizzled Iraqi with a woolen hat and yellowing teeth emerges from a prefabricated hut. Behind him, the parking lot is littered with debris, broken concrete, discarded tires, drums and plastic bags. Weeds are growing through cracks in the tarmac and a broken water pipe has created a lake of oily black water.
Edge offers the caretaker a dinar note. He pockets the money like a conjurer and leans on the counterbalance, raising the boom gate. As the cars roll past he salutes Daniela, lifting his right arm and revealing a stump where his fingers used to be.
They park in the shade of the southern stand and climb a filthy stairwell to the top tier. Emerging on to a concrete ramp, there are banks of seats on each side and tiers that spread around the stadium. The playing surface is a muddy field, churned up by tank tracks and truck tires. The bleachers are pockmarked by bullet holes and riddled with cavities where the seats have been torn out, burned or broken. One of the light towers has crumpled over the players’ entrances.
Edge looks at Daniela.
“Is this what you expected?”
“No.”
She takes a small digital camera from her shoulder bag and begins taking photographs. Edge lights up a cigarette and watches her move between seats to get better angles.
“Why are you so interested?” he calls out from behind her.
“Does this stadium look rebuilt to you?”
Edge blows out a stream of smoke. “Iraqis don’t go in so much for finishing things.”
“It was an American company.”
He shrugs. “Maybe they’re running behind schedule.”
“Work was supposed to have finished two years ago.”
Edge spits into a puddle. “Well, I’m glad someone is making money.”
Daniela glances at him with undisguised loathing.
“Hey, lady, don’t go giving me that look. Let me tell you another story. An army buddy of mine