The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [88]
“Can you remember the address?”
“There was a sign on the gate: Alain al Jaria.”
“Ever-flowing spring,” says Daniela.
“You speak Arabic?”
She shakes her head. Luca looks at her, puzzled, and al-Hayak grows nervous at how much he’s said. More drivers are waking and wandering past, peering at the strangers, eyes hooded, shoulders hunched.
“Did you hear any names?” asks Luca.
Al-Hayak scratches his chin. “I was told to forget.”
Luca gives him another twenty.
“The man who came to the border to meet us—I heard one of the guards use his name. Mohammed Ibrahim.”
Daniela’s eyes widen. She tries to recover, but the cook has seen her reaction.
“Enough! No more questions!”
He turns away, pushing through the flapping hessian curtain.
Daniela follows him. “Did you ever see this man? What did he look like? Was he a big man? Overweight?”
The cook lifts the lid from a dirty steel pot, dropping it loudly. Steam billows into his face.
“Did he have another name?” says Daniela. “What did they call him?”
Al-Hayak spins like an animal trapped in a box. This time he has a heavy steel lid in his fist.
The rest of the kitchen is suddenly silent. The big cook dressed in overalls is beside him, the muscles swelling across his shoulders like cords of wood on a woodpile.
Luca steps in front of Daniela. He avoids the first blow, but someone punches him from behind, finding his kidneys. He goes down, mouthing the air like a fish feeding on the surface of a lake. Strong hands pick him up and carry him outside on to the street where drivers are queuing for breakfast. Al-Hayak is breathing hard. White flecks cling to the corners of his mouth.
Edge is running, the semi-automatic in his damaged hand. All hell is going to break loose. His good fist snaps out three professional punches, sending the big cook to the ground. He swings the gun in a wide arc, almost daring the others to give him an excuse.
Lifting Luca to his feet, he pushes him into Daniela’s arms.
“We’re leaving.”
Backing away from the crowd, swinging the semi-automatic from side to side, he waits for them to reach the car. Then he slides behind the wheel, the engine running, finding reverse where it should be, accelerating backwards down the narrow street, spinning the wheel, sending the Land Cruiser into a 180-degree turn. First gear. Stamping on the accelerator. Gravel spitting from the tires and rattling against a pyramid of fuel drums.
Edge doesn’t look back until they reach the smooth tarmac of the highway. Tossing his weapon on to the passenger seat he lights a cigarette and opens the windows. Pushed back by the rushing wind, nobody speaks for a dozen miles.
“Who is Mohammed Ibrahim?” asks Luca.
Daniela brushes hair from her eyes. “Remember I told you how I used to work for Paul Volcker?”
“The former head of the Fed Reserve.”
“We were investigating the Oil for Food program. Saddam skimmed nineteen billion dollars in bribes and kickbacks. That’s how he built his palaces and paid rewards to the families of Palestinian suicide bombers.”
“And Ibrahim?”
“One of the mysteries we had to solve was how Saddam got this illegal revenue into Iraq. It took a while but eventually we found dozens of bank accounts set up in the name of front companies in Jordan, Syria and Lebanon. The bribes and pay-offs were channeled through these into accounts in Iraq’s state-owned banks. One name kept coming up: Mohammed Ibrahim Omar al-Muslit. The Iraqis called him the Fat Man, but we had another name for him.”
“What was that?”
“Saddam’s banker.”
18
LONDON
Elizabeth isn’t ready for this baby. It’s not the unfinished projects that concern her—the nursery curtains and the baby clothes still in boxes in the attic—her mind is in the wrong place. She’s supposed to be eating properly, taking vitamins and conserving her energy, but her body won’t allow her to pause. In the meantime, Claudia is like a parasite feeding from a host, carelessly taking what she needs.
The phone