The Wreckage

16

The seven-hour flight ends with a bump on the runway and a delay getting to the gate. Chalcott rolls his carry-on bag through Customs.

“How was the flight?” asks Sobel.

“Terrible.”

“London is lovely at this time of year.”

“What are you, my fucking tour guide?”

Sobel tries to remain stoic as they weave through the crowd to a waiting car. Chalcott has several moods that range from bullying to wheedling self-pity, but bullying is his favorite. A boarding school background most likely, his parents in the diplomatic service, his holidays spent with relatives or in guarded compounds in Third World countries.

“Any sign of North?” asks Chalcott.

“They’re searching the river.”

“He’s dead then?”

“Not confirmed.”

“If we keep Terracini quiet, we should be back on track.”

“In essence.”

“What does that mean?”

Sobel adopts a passive-aggressive tone. “Luca Terracini accessed the newspaper archives last night. He downloaded photographs of Yahya Maluk and Ibrahim.”

“You said you had Terracini under control.”

“We have someone at the newspaper keeping watch. We’re ready to intervene.”

“If Ibrahim is spooked, he’ll clear the accounts.”

“We can follow the trail.”

“You’re stating the obvious, Brendan, but things that are solid can melt into air.”

Chalcott goes to the wrong side of the car. Forgets about the left-hand drive. Curses. Gets in the passenger seat. The drive from Heathrow takes them over the A4 flyover, past buildings used as billboards and a neon sign flashing the temperature: 21 degrees. It is four years since Chalcott was last in London. Each year it gets more crowded, less charming and slightly shabbier. Changing by the week or by the day, leaving most people confused.

“There is one more thing,” says Sobel. “The audit at Mersey Fidelity could show up some discrepancies.”

“What sort of discrepancies?”

“Unexplained deposits and withdrawals. It could set off alarm bells.”

“Who’s conducting the audit?”

“Not one of ours.”

“Can we change the personnel?”

“This is England, we can’t just…”

“What? Change an auditor? Pardon my fucking ignorance, but aren’t we supposed to be allies? We fought two fucking wars pulling their skinny white butts out of the European mud. Where’s the quid pro quo, eh? Where’s the ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’?

“Let me tell you something, Brendan, if this goes pear-shaped, our political friends in Washington are going to wash their hands of us. Remember the Iran-Contra Affair? Secret arms sales to fund that dirty little war in Nicaragua? This will make it look like a fucking accounting error.”