The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [65]
“Vigilante justice. Innocent people dying. Nobody ever held to account. Do you think that Iraqi law doesn’t apply to you because you carry a foreign passport?”
“No.”
“Do you think you’re better than we are?”
Luca shakes his head. The general has taken a knife from the scabbard on his belt. It has one serrated edge and the other one smooth, sharp, tapering to a point. He splays one hand on the table and places the tip of the blade between his thumb and forefinger, holding the knife vertically.
“This country is old. My ancestors created writing and philosophy and religion when yours were painting drawings on rock walls. This was the cradle of civilization, but still you treat us like savages and barbarians.”
In a blur of speed, the knife rises and falls, spearing the table between each of his fingers, back and forth, tracing his hand. He stops and raises his fingers. Not a scratch.
He signals a young officer to come closer. “Would you die for me?”
“Yes, General.”
“Put your hand on the table. Spread your fingers. Would you lose a finger for me?”
He hesitates. Al-Uzri laughs.
“What is the more realistic fear—dying or losing a finger, eh? Perhaps you would like to try it, Mr. Terracini?”
“I’m not a fan of party tricks.”
“No? I saw the result of your party near Mosul. Your visa has been canceled. You have two days to leave Iraq.”
“On what grounds?”
“Undesirable activities.”
“Bogus grounds.”
The general chuckles wetly. “Complain to your embassy. See if anyone listens. You are not the most popular journalist in Iraq, Mr. Terracini. Messengers are not valued when they bring nothing but bad news.”
Al-Uzri has a thin trickle of blood dripping from the end of his index finger. A nick. He slides the knife into a scabbard and adjusts his beret. Luca is dragged to his feet and pushed against the wall. Handcuffed and hooded, he is taken up the stairs, into the daylight. A gust of wind brings the familiar stink of the city beneath the fabric.
The car journey has none of the menace and uncertainty as when he was arrested. The police officers are talking about football and their favorite pastry shops. Anger replaces the fear. He’s alive. Resentful. Worried about Jamal.
The hood is lifted. Brightness stabs at his eyes. They’re moving through a checkpoint into the International Zone. A policeman leans across the seat and gives him a plastic bag containing his mobile phone, his wallet, but not his pistol.
He is handed over to a military attaché at the US Embassy. Two uniformed guards escort him along marbled corridors, past triumphant arches and iron busts of Saddam Hussein. He is taken to a waiting room with a view across the sluggish brown river. Downstream, two bridges, bombed and rebuilt, are bowing under the weight of traffic. Beyond them, flat-bottomed skiffs ferry passengers between the banks.
On a table there are copies of the Wall Street Journal and Newsweek, fanned in a perfect circle. A TV monitor is playing Bloomberg, with market quotes streaming under a woman who is speaking from half a world away.
Moments later an inner door opens and a man in his mid-forties ushers Luca inside, pointing to a chair. His eyes seem to radiate earnestness and goodwill.
His name is Jennings. He doesn’t give a first one. The State Department seems to have dispensed with given names. He looks like a former college football star or a future politician, with one of those preppy hair partings that have been fashionable since John Kennedy was in the White House. Dressed in casual trousers, a shirt and tie, he has ink smudges on his fingers. He opens a briefcase and takes out a file, a stapler and a selection of pens. Props.
In a cracked-sounding voice, like he’s hoarse from shouting, he begins listing charges.
“The Iraqis have withdrawn your visa. You have forty-eight hours in which to leave the country.”
“I want to appeal.”
“There is no process of appeal.”
“You can make a request—government to government.”
Jennings laughs. “This country doesn’t have a government.”
“I was drugged by the Iraqi police.”
“So you