The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [87]
Luca takes a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket. “I need some information.”
Al-Hayak ignores the request and puts a cigarette between his lips, hunting in his shirt pocket for a match. Finding a light, he holds the smoke deep in his lungs like he’s trying to digest it. “So now you’re going to bribe me. How much is my life worth? What about my arm? What will you pay me for my good arm?”
“What happened to your arm?” asks Daniela.
“What do you care? You will go home one day soon and you’ll call this a victory and say you did your best.”
“You used to be a truck driver,” says Luca.
“When I had two of these.” He holds up his hand.
“What happened?”
“I lost my truck. They blew up the lead vehicle in the convoy, blocking the road and opened fire on the rest of us.”
“What were you hauling?”
“Diesel.”
“Ever take anything else?”
He shrugs. “Cigarettes, paraffin, wheat, cooking oil…”
“What about cash?”
Al-Hayak shakes his head, his mouth a tight line. The odor of cooking fat and wet nicotine rises from his clothes.
“I earn two dollars a day serving food. With two arms I could earn five times that much. I’m a cook, not a criminal.”
Luca pulls out another banknote, holding it between his index and forefinger. The gesture seems to reveal something in the cook’s eyes, a small dull yellow light burning in the corners like a parasite feeding. Taking the money quickly, he pushes it deep into the front pocket of his apron.
“I have no stake in this.”
“I understand.”
“I delivered a container. I didn’t know what was inside.”
Al-Hayak stares at the burning end of his cigarette. “Seven months ago a man came to my brother-in-law and asked him about doing a run into Syria. He wanted two trucks, so my brother-in-law called me. He told me we were hauling oil, but I could tell by the weight it was something else.”
“You didn’t see the trailer being loaded?” asks Daniela.
“No.”
“What about a manifest?”
“The paperwork says what they want it to say.”
“What did you think you were carrying?”
Al-Hayak scratches his face. His fingernails are edged with dirt. “Drugs. People. I didn’t ask. We had an escort. Guards. Usually only the military convoys get protection, but we had two Land Cruisers with us all the way to the border.”
“Where did you cross?”
“Husaiba.”
“Into Syria.”
“Yes. The Land Cruisers didn’t cross with us. I was given a number to call once we had cleared immigration and Customs. I had to ask for a man who would give me orders. The man was angry because we had come a day earlier than he expected. He told us to wait and he would send an escort.
“Mazen, my brother-in-law, wanted to find shade, but I told him we couldn’t move. We waited all day in the heat. I thought if there were people inside they would be dying of heatstroke and dehydration. I put my head against the side, listening, but I couldn’t hear anything.”
The cook’s cheeks are dented as he sucks the saliva out of his mouth and spits.
“The man didn’t come until past midnight. There were two more vehicles. He ordered us to drive, but I said it wasn’t safe at night. He laughed at me and waved a gun. That stretch of road from Ash Sholah to Palmyra is treacherous even during the daylight. The edges are soft and the escarpment has switchbacks and blind corners.
“My brother-in-law was ahead. He missed a turn. Maybe he fell asleep. Maybe his brakes failed. I saw the truck go over the edge and roll down the mountain. It opened like a giant tin of peaches. I expected to see bodies being flung into the air, but there weren’t any people inside.”
Al-Hayak motions for Luca to give him another banknote. “This is what I saw,” he says, holding the note in front of Luca and Daniela’s eyes. “Fluttering like butterflies in the moonlight, caught in the updraft. I knew Mazen was dead. The truck had fallen two hundred feet. A guard pointed a gun at my head and told me to keep driving. He asked me if I saw anything. I said no. They would have killed me then. No question.”
“What happened to the money?”
“The mountainside was covered in shale and loose rocks. It was too