The Wreckage

37

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 Fidelity 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.”