“Sorry?”
“Your hands. They’re going to be fine,” she says, still mouthing words.
Ruiz notices the bandages. They look like white stumps.
He points to his ears. “I can’t hear you. What’s wrong with me?”
“Ruptured eardrums,” she mouths. “You may need surgery.”
“Holly?”
The nurse laughs. “I thought you wanted Laura. Holly is down the way.”
“What?”
“Holly is OK. She’s fine.”
Ruiz tries to get out of bed, but the nurse puts a strong hand on his chest, digging her knuckles into his breastbone.
“They warned me about you. Said you’d be a difficult patient.”
He doesn’t understand.
“Your friends.” She straightens his pillow. “They’ve been waiting outside all night.”
“Luca?”
“Oh, he’s here. They pulled a bullet out of his shoulder, but he’s out of surgery.”
Ruiz shakes his head, not understanding.
The nurse uses a pad on the bedside table and writes:
He’s fine. Bullet removed. Recuperating.
The door opens. Joe O’Loughlin is wearing a cravat and looks even more like a professor than usual. He stands beside the bed and the two men communicate wordlessly in a language that only dogs and men can understand. He takes the notepad from the nurse, who tells them both to behave as she leaves.
Joe writes: You can’t hear. I can’t speak. We’re like two of the wise monkeys.
“You’re a monkey. I’m a gorilla,” says Ruiz, shouting at him. “I want to see Holly.”
Joe writes: Can you walk?
“Yeah.”
Joe helps Ruiz to sit and then stand. He’s wearing a hospital gown with ties at the back. Ruiz can’t hold it together with his bandaged hands, so Joe does it for him, clearly not enamored of the task.
“I could get used to you not talking,” says Ruiz, as they shuffle down the corridor. Joe pinches him on the arse, making him jump.
They reach Holly’s room, which is full of flowers and get-well cards. Holly is sitting on the edge of her bed while a doctor peers into her ears with a torch-like contraption. She’s chewing gum. Looking bored. There are marks on her wrists where the handcuffs tore at her skin.
“How come you get proper pajamas?” says Ruiz. “Your legs are better than mine-you should be wearing a gown.”
Her face lights up and she’s on him in a heartbeat, throwing her arms around his shoulders, her legs around his hips.
“This is the not the way a young lady should greet a man of my age and in my condition.”
He doesn’t hear what Holly says. Maybe she says nothing at all.
37
LONDON
Throughout Monday, Luca sits in the High Court listening to opposing lawyers make grand speeches about press freedom and commercial confidentiality. It has been almost a week since the thwarted terrorist attack and two days since he left hospital with his arm in a sling and the bullet in a small glass jar that is nestled in his pocket. A souvenir. Proof that he doesn’t always sit on the sidelines.
The Financial Herald is trying to overturn the High Court injunction preventing publication. Mersey Fidelity’s lawyers are doing verbal and linguistic somersaults as they argue that commercial privacy should outweigh public interest. The judge is not having a bar of it. The lawyers lodge an immediate appeal. He dismisses it. Luca steps from the court and calls Daniela with the news.
“We’re going to celebrate.”
“You’re not supposed to be drinking.”
“I’m going to watch you get drunk and then take advantage of you.”
“But you’re an invalid.”
“We’re not going to arm wrestle.”
Daniela laughs and it sounds like music. Luca ends the call and steps outside, looking for a cab. He has a story to write, but there are still questions to be answered. Dialing a new number, he listens to the call being rerouted through different internet servers until Luca’s new best friend answers.
“Capable?”
“Mr. Terracini.”
“Call me Luca.”
“Thank you, Mr. Terracini.”
“Any news?”
“They’re on the move. A van arrived this morning.”
The address in Cartwright Street is an old bank building with an ornate iron door and arched entrance. A removal van is parked in the narrow side alley in front of two identical black Pathfinders. What a world these people live in, thinks Luca, as he pays the cab driver. Taking a table across the road, he nurses a coffee and watches boxes and computers being loaded into the van.
Another Pathfinder shows up, this one disgorging a set of beefy passengers in suits and dark glasses. One of the occupants he recognizes. Older. Grey-haired. Giving orders.
Luca waits until he disappears inside. He pays for his coffee and crosses the street, following a removal man into the lift and rising through the floors. The doors open. Boxes are stacked in the corridors. A shredding machine lets out a long whine. Industrialsized. Worm-like mounds of confetti are spilling from plastic sacks.
Soft footsteps. Somebody yells at him to stop. He is gripped from behind and pushed into an office where Artie Chalcott and Brendan Sobel are deep in conversation.
Chalcott looks up. His face reddens. Luca notices that his eyes are very small. Perhaps they are the standard size and his head is overly large. Maybe they shrink when he’s angry.
“You got a nerve, coming here.”
“I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“Get him out of here.”
“We’re publishing tomorrow,” says Luca. “I’m giving you a chance to comment on the story.”
“No comment.”
Brendan Sobel is walking Luca towards the lift. The journalist yells over his shoulder. “You can’t cover this one up. You can’t shred it or bury it. It’s going to come out.”
Chalcott laughs. “You really think you can make this one fly-some fatuous conspiracy theory about Iraqi robberies and a British bank? A week from now nobody is going to care.”
“You will.”
“No, that’s where you’re wrong. I’ll have moved on.”
Luca fights at Sobel’s arms. “I’m giving you a chance to explain.”
“Patriots don’t have to explain. It’s pacifists and apologists like you who need to justify what you do.”
“I took a bullet.”
“And you’ve cost the lives of countless people.”
Chalcott is angry now. On his feet, storming down the corridor. For a moment Luca expects a punch.
“You think you’re a fucking hero, Mr. Terracini? You think you’re the people’s champion? I hope you have nightmares about what you’ve done… the deaths you’re going to cause.”
“What deaths? What are you talking about?”
“Why do you think Mohammed Ibrahim was released from prison? Why do you think we let him re-establish the network of accounts?”
Luca’s gaze falters and his self-possession deserts him for a moment. “What are you talking about?”
Chalcott finds the question amusing. “How did you begin investigating this story?”
“I followed the money.”
“Exactly.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“My job is to stop the bad shit before it happens-to catch the mad mullahs and the bomb makers and locate their training camps. Smash the fuckers. Bring them to their knees. But we can’t defeat these people militarily. And we can’t bomb them back to the Dark Ages because they live in caves already. But they’re not cavemen. They’re cleverer than that. They use our own systems against us. Our technology. Our markets. Our banks.
“People make the mistake of thinking this is an ideological battle. It’s not about religion or faith, it’s about power. It’s about politics. It’s about control. We set this up, Mr. Terracini. I set this up. Mersey Fidel
ity has been breaking the law for years, laundering money through ghost accounts. All I did was introduce a new client.”
“Ibrahim.”
“And then I followed the money-just like you. Ironic, isn’t it? But while you were looking for a headline, I was looking for terror cells and training camps and secret hideouts.”
The last statement is spat out like he’s swallowed an insect.
“Where is Mohammed Ibrahim?” asks Luca.
“We’ve taken his toys away. He’s out of the race.”
“They were going to blow up a nightclub.”
Chalcott waves his hand dismissively. “A few dozen lives to save thousands.”
“You think the end justifies the means.”
“I think it should be a factor.”
“Who chooses?”
“Pardon?”
“Who makes that choice?”
“People like me. Because people like you don’t have the stomach for it.”
Chalcott signals to Sobel and the lift doors slide open.
“Enjoy your fifteen minutes, Mr. Terracini. I hope it was worth it.”
38
LONDON
It has been six weeks since Ruiz left hospital. His hands have healed, adding to his scars, and his hearing is almost fully returned, apart from a persistent buzzing in his ears that sounds like a bee trapped behind glass. It’s no more annoying than his second wife, he tells people, not entirely joking.
The story about Mersey Fidelity is almost old news but Luca Terracini is still bathing in the glory-he’s been profiled in the Sunday supplements and interviewed on morning TV. He and Daniela were photographed on a weekend break in Paris-the globetrotting foreign correspondent and the glamorous US auditor who uncovered the biggest financial scandal since the meltdown.
Ruiz stayed out of the spotlight, barely mentioned in reports of the terrorist blast that closed the M1 for twelve hours on 1 September. Two of the bombers died when cornered by officers from the anti-terrorism branch. A third, Taj Iqbal, unemployed of Luton, is in Belmarsh Prison, London, awaiting trial. The Daily Mail published a photograph of his wife and baby son arriving at the prison. She wore a Muslim veil and didn’t talk to reporters. Something in her eyes reminded Ruiz of the moment he first met Elizabeth North, her emotions held in check, defenses raised, a child to protect.
Elizabeth has visited him three times, once in hospital and twice at home. She brings Rowan and Claudia and soon his living room is covered with toys and tinkling with the sound of children’s TV shows.
“Mitchell jumped before he was pushed,” she says. “There’s been a boardroom reshuffle and half the directors have gone.”
“Any news of Maluk?”
“They think he’s in Syria or Egypt.”
Elizabeth unbuttons her blouse to feed Claudia, her breast swollen and pale, lined with the faintest of blue veins. Ruiz looks at the feeding infant, her tiny mouth pressed hard against the nipple, eyes closed in concentration.
“What about the bank?” he asks.
“I had a man come to see me: Douglas Evans.”
“I’ve met him.”
“Doesn’t he remind you of someone out of a le Carre novel?” Elizabeth does his accent. “Confidence is the key. As much as I would like to see those responsible punished for this abomination. Publicly flogged. Humiliated. There are greater issues to consider. Three years ago our banking system suffered a heart attack. It has been on life support ever since. Nobody wants to turn off that life support system.”
Elizabeth laughs and Rowan looks up from the floor. “What’s so funny, Mummy?”
“People who talk with posh accents,” she says, smiling at him and continuing. “They say they’re going to prosecute executives, but nobody has been charged. Mitchell has hired a QC. We haven’t spoken. He’s cut himself off from the family.”
“I’m sorry.”
Elizabeth starts cleaning up the mess, putting lids on Tupperware containers and packing her changing bag. “That girl-the one who went home with North.”
“Holly Knight?”
“How is she?”
“She’s good. She got a call back for a play and she’s looking for part-time work.”
Elizabeth nods. “If you see her…” She hesitates. “Tell her I don’t blame her for anything and I’m sorry about what happened.”
“If you hang around she’ll be home soon.”
“She’s staying here?”
“Yes.”
“Are you two…?”
“Christ no, but I need a lock on my bedroom door.”
Elizabeth shakes her head. Her pram is packed and Claudia strapped inside. Rowan rides on a platform at the back, standing between the handles. They’re going to walk over Hammersmith Bridge and along the river to Barnes.
Pausing at the front gate, she turns. “About Holly,” she says. “Is she any good with children?”
After she’s gone, Ruiz tidies the sitting room, sweeping up crumbs and straightening pillows. Among the “get well” cards on the mantelpiece he comes across one from Capable Jones. Unsigned. Capable is paranoid about people forging his signature. The message is typed and printed, wishing him a speedy recovery, with a postscript tacked on to the end:
That nanny you wanted to find. Do you still want her address?
Ruiz puts on his jacket and goes out, walking the river path where autumn is decorating the trees before winter strips them bare. He doesn’t have the Mercedes anymore and will do without a car for a while. He doesn’t need one in London, where every business seems to deliver, even the off licenses.
Polina Dulsanya lives on the fourth floor of a block of flats in Fulham, just off the high street. Ruiz climbs the stairs slowly, his body still depleted. Knocks on the door.
A woman answers, barely out of her teens, with a gymnast’s body and dark bobbed hair. She’s wearing jeans and a short T-shirt that barely covers her torso. Flesh is the new season’s color.
“Can I help you?” she asks with a confused smile, pronouncing the English words perfectly. She sounds Russian or maybe Polish.
“Can I come in?”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to you about Richard North.”
“Vincent, how did you get through the gates?”
“Your wife let me in.”
Alistair Bach shakes his head. “Sometimes I wonder why I installed a security system. People buzz and Jacinta just opens the gate. She’s far too trusting.”
He’s pruning rose bushes at the rear of the property, where the northern sun hits the stone wall and reflects the heat back on to the flowerbeds.
“It was your bank.”
“Pardon?”
“Mersey Fidelity-you built it.”
“Oh, I can’t take all the credit.”
“And it was your scheme. You set up the ghost accounts and recruited Richard North to carry on your work.”
Bach’s shoulders tighten beneath his cotton shirt. For a moment Ruiz braces for a confrontation, but the older man gazes at the secateurs in his hand and seems to reach a different decision.
Ruiz continues. “Mitchell had no idea when he took control. You couldn’t be sure how he’d react, so you hired someone to infiltrate his household, someone to seduce him just in case you needed leverage. You were willing to blackmail your own son. Once you succeeded in gaining his co-operation, you sent Polina to your daughter’s house to seduce your son-in-law.”
“That’s a fanciful story, Vincent. You’ve been hanging around with journalists for too long.”
“I’ve talked to Polina. She told me.”
“And you believe the word of a prostitute?”
“She has no reason to lie anymore.”
Bach continues to prune, holding the branches with a gloved hand to avoid the thorns.
“Do you know why roses have thorns, Vincent? It’s to prevent grazing animals from eating them. The sweetest-smelling roses have the sharpest thorns, because their scents attract
the most animals. We all need defense mechanisms… even banks.”
“You broke the law.”
Bach chuckles with delight. “The law! Where have you been, Vincent? The law doesn’t apply to banks. We’re too big to fail.”
Shaking his head, he grows circumspect. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Things got out of hand. It began with a few accounts. Major corporations. We helped hide their assets or shift profits between territories to avoid tax or arrange a hostile take-over. Over time our client base expanded and became less than savory, but we couldn’t say no because they could expose us.”
“You were blackmailed,” says Ruiz.
Bach gives him a pained smile. “The system was working. It was brilliant really. Almost foolproof…”
“Until the global financial crisis came along.”
“Mersey Fidelity was hemorrhaging money like all the others. People were closing their positions, selling investments, withdrawing their money. We had a liquidity crisis and needed funds to stay solvent. Mitchell panicked and tapped into some of the ghost accounts.”
“That’s why North was so concerned with the audit.”
“He came to see me. Begged me to intervene.”
“When?”
“On the Saturday he disappeared. He said he’d been robbed the night before-picked up by some girl in a bar and drugged. I thought he was bluffing when he told me about the notebook.
“Nobody was supposed to have a complete list. That’s how we protected the bank-nothing in writing, nothing on file, nothing on computer. Numbers, not names on the accounts.”
“North began piecing it together.”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell Ibrahim about the photographs or was it Maluk?”
“I have no control over Yahya. I’m not the chairman anymore.”
“You signed Hackett’s death warrant.”
“I don’t even know who you’re talking about.”
“The private detective… Ibrahim had him killed.”
“You can’t hold me responsible for his actions.”
“Why not? You’re a part of this. Did you have North killed?”
“Of course not! Now you’re being ridiculous.”
The Wreckage Page 42