The Wreckage

12

Artie Chalcott sits in his home office, feeling his skin prickle and sweat on his forehead. His ulcer is also acting up and his bowel movements are all over the place. Stress-related. Shit-related. Things are also going south in London. First the banker gets robbed, then he goes missing and now they can’t find the girl who robbed him.

During the afternoon he’d tried to take out his frustration on the driving range, hitting balls. Smacking them with a club head the size of a Christmas ham. Made no difference to his mood.

Now he’s home and the kids are asleep upstairs and his wife is outside on a pool lounger, wrapped in a silk kimono, smoking a cigarette and getting drunk. She smokes in the same hungry way that she has sex. Not with him. He doesn’t know what gym instructor or pool boy or realtor she’s screwing now.

Chalcott can’t punch a turd, but he can punch a number. He calls Sobel in London. Apologizes for the hour.

“Don’t worry about it, Artie, sleep was so last century.”

Chalcott feels a flash of annoyance. Sobel sounds too cheerful and he should be calling him “sir.”

“What news on our banker?”

“He’ll turn up.”

“That’s the issue, isn’t it, Brendan? Where will he turn up? You should have pulled him in before he went AWOL. The list would be safe by now.”

“The robbery was a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences. Someone killed the boyfriend.”

“Maybe it was North?”

“You don’t believe that.”

“Who then?”

“Ibrahim.”

“Ibrahim doesn’t do his own dirty work.”

“Maybe he hired someone. North was getting nervous and making threats. He made a phone call on Friday from a call box to a journalist.”

“Who?”

“Keith Gooding on the Financial Herald. He left a message.”

“Had they ever met?”

“We’re going back over his phone records.”

Chalcott has the television muted. Pictures of a building in Baghdad with shattered windows and curtains flapping through the holes. The Finance Ministry. A crowd outside being kept back by soldiers. A rolling banner on the screen: Missing UN auditor found dead in Iraq.

“What about the wife?”

“North hasn’t been in touch with her.”

“And the girl?”

“MI6 are looking.”

“Six couldn’t find their ass-cheeks with both hands.” Chalcott belches. “While we’re on the subject of Ibrahim?”

“He’s dropped out of sight.”

“Christ almighty! This is a clusterfuck, Brendan. You know how much time and money have gone into this. Remember Afghanistan? Khost? We lost seven agents in one day. They trusted al-Balawi-they made him a fucking birthday cake-and the prick was playing them all along. He walked right into a secure base wearing a suicide vest and blew them all to pieces.”

“The Jordanians vouched for al-Balawi.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t trust any of these cunts. We control that list and we’re two years ahead of the game. We’ll nail every last one of the murdering scumbags.”