The Wreckage

2
ISTANBUL

The hotel in Istanbul is in a filthy side street between a Chinese wholesalers and a factory where African workers make knock-offs of European labels for Russian tourists. Globalization in a microcosm; profit as god.

Inside the arched gateway, along a narrow passage, there is a courtyard filled with apricot and orange trees around a rectangular pool with water the color of green moss.

Daniela emerges from the bathroom, dressed in a robe, her hair dripping and the ragged curls falling around her neck. Luca is still toweling off.

“I’m probably going to regret this,” she says.

“What happened to the post-coital glow?”

“I’m not talking about the sex.”

Luca holds out his arms and she comes to him, tucking her head beneath his chin, her breasts against his ribs. He can feel the warmth of her breath against his neck.

“Are you really going to London?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to ask Yahya Maluk why one of his companies is smuggling stolen money from Iraq. I’m also going to ask him if he knows Mohammed Ibrahim-a man who helped Saddam steal billions of dollars from his own people.”

“Just like that?”

“Yep.”

“And I suppose he’s going to throw up his hands and confess everything.”

“That would be nice.”

“You have the word of a one-armed former truck driver and a series of coincidences.”

“They’re more than just coincidences.”

“Yahya Maluk has unlimited funds and an army of lawyers. He’ll get injunctions to stop any story. He’ll sue you for defamation.”

“I know that.”

“Why then?”

“Sometimes the only way to rattle someone like Maluk is to shake his gilded cage.”

“That’s a dangerous game.”

“I’m just following the money.”

“You could stop.”

“What if it’s funding the insurgency?”

“Nobody is going to be surprised.”

Luca feels like a mediocre gambler trying to bluff an expert. Daniela has slipped away and gone to the latticed window. It has grown dark outside. The courtyard is strung with fairy lights that follow the contours of tree trunks and branches. Over the rooftops, the dome of Santa Sophia is bathed in gold.

“Come to London with me,” he says.

“Why?”

“I don’t want you lose you.”

“We’re different people, Luca. I deal in numbers and balance sheets. You deal in hunches and hearsay.”

“I search for the facts.”

“But you never have them all. You gather just enough, write a story and move on.”

“You make me sound like a gigolo.”

“No, you’re not that good.”

Luca can see what she’s like-her father’s daughter, practical to the point of impracticality. He leans forward, brushing his lips against hers, holding the kiss.

Later, lying naked in the air-conditioned room, his heartbeat returning to normal, Luca wonders what it’s like for a woman, that moment when pleasure overcomes self-control and the wave breaks inside her.

“Do you still want me to come to London?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll come to London.”