The Wreckage: A Thriller (55 page)

“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. Al I did was introduce a new client.”

“Ibrahim.”

“And then I fol owed the money—just like you. Ironic, isn’t it? But while you were looking for a headline, I was looking for terror cel s and training camps and secret hideouts.” The last statement is spat out like he’s swal owed 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 fuly 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 tel s people, not entirely joking.

The story about Mersey Fidelity is almost old news but Luca Terracini is stil 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.

“Mitchel 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 swol en 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 Carré 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. Mitchel 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.”

“Hol y Knight?”

“How is she?”

“She’s good. She got a cal back for a play and she’s looking for part-time work.”

Elizabeth nods. “If you see her…” She hesitates. “Tel her I don’t blame her for anything and I’m sorry about what happened.”

“If you hang around she’l 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 Hol y,” she says. “Is she any good with children?”

After she’s gone, Ruiz tidies the sitting room, sweeping up crumbs and straightening pil ows. Among the “get wel ” 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 wil 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 stil 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 instal ed 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 wal and reflects the heat back on to the flowerbeds.

“It was
your
bank.”

“Pardon?”

“Mersey Fidelity—you built it.”

“Oh, I can’t take al 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. “Mitchel 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 wil ing to blackmail your own son. Once you succeeded in gaining his co-operation, you sent Polina to your daughter’s house to seduce your sonin-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-smel ing roses have the sharpest thorns, because their scents attract the most animals. We al 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 bril iant real y. Almost foolproof…”

“Until the global financial crisis came along.”

“Mersey Fidelity was hemorrhaging money like al the others. People were closing their positions, sel ing investments, withdrawing their money. We had a liquidity crisis and needed funds to stay solvent. Mitchel 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 tel 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 kil ed.”

“You can’t hold me responsible for his actions.”

“Why not? You’re a part of this. Did you have North kil ed?”

“Of course not! Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“North was trying to find out where the money was going.”

“He was foolish. He fel for the lifestyle and then developed a conscience. I told him not to go looking for trouble.”

“When?”

“That Saturday he came here. He said that he’d traced some of the money to a postbox in Luton… something about a Muslim charity. And he was prattling about earlier transactions in Madrid. The Spanish police had contacted him about some ATM withdrawals prior to the train bombing in 2004. North managed to fob them off by saying the accounts didn’t exist at Mersey Fidelity, but he knew where the money had come from.”

Bach stands, straightening his back, gazing across the pond towards the house, which is wreathed in ivy. A castle fit for a king.

“He should have kept his mouth shut. The audit would have blown over.”

“Don’t you feel any responsibility?”

“What’s done is done.”

“I’m going to tel the authorities.”

Bach laughs. “Good luck with that. Nothing is going to happen. They know already. Why do you think I haven’t been charged? I’m an old man. They’re not going to prosecute me.

They can’t risk damaging confidence in the banking system.”

There’s no hint of triumphalism in Bach’s voice, yet he was right al along, thinks Ruiz. People might hate him or question his morals, but when the economy picks up and the banks grow strong again, they’l envy his wealth and his power. They’l want to be just like him.

“Can I ask you one favor, please, Vincent?”

“What’s that?”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tel Lizzie about Polina. She’s been through so much. Family is al she has left.” His arrogance is astonishing; hubris on a grand scale. Ruiz can feel the skin tighten across his face.

“If it’s a question of money,” says Bach, “I’m sure I can find some honey in the pot to sweeten your medicine.” The buzzing in Ruiz’s ears has grown louder. “I’m not the only person who knows.”

“Polina won’t say anything. She’s been too wel paid.”

Ruiz has already turned away, in sudden need of fresher air. After several steps, he stops and spins.

“By the way, Elizabeth has a new nanny who knows al about dysfunctional families and their secrets. She can even tel when someone is lying.”