The Wreckage: A Thriller Read Online Free PDF Page B

while it was under attack. That’s when he got burned. That’s when he started forgetting things.
    Zac turns on the tel y. A girl in a raincoat is giving the weather report, pointing to a map with cartoon clouds.
    “How pointless is that,” says Zac. “Look out the window and you can see the sun is shining.”
    Next comes a report on the stock market, the Dow Jones. Is that a person, wonders Hol y; is there someone cal ed Mr. Jones?
    Zac picks up the near-empty bottle of Scotch.
    “It’s too early,” she says.
    “Hair of the dog.”
    He pours two fingers into a glass.
    Hol y leaves him to get changed.
    “I’ve got to go and see Bernie,” she yel s from the bedroom.
    “Why?”
    “We owe the rent.”
    “Again?”
    “Comes round every month. We don’t have enough to pay Floyd.”
    Floyd is their landlord on the estate and also a local crack dealer.
    “I’m going to sel that stuff we got last night.”
    “Don’t let Bernie rip you off.”
    “I won’t.”
    “And don’t let him touch you. He’s always trying to touch you.”
    “Bernie is pretty harmless.”
    “You want me to come?”
    “No it’s OK. I want you to fil out the form from the DSS. You need to get your pension sorted.”
    Hol y has changed into her nicest clothes. She rinses Zac’s plate in the sink.
    “I’m going to sel Bernie the laptop and other stuff. Then I thought I might take the jewelry to Hatton Garden.”
    “Don’t let them rip you off.”
    “I won’t. I have my audition today.”
    “Can I come?”
    “You know I get nervous when you’re there.”
    He nods and goes back to watching an infomercial for a hair-straightening wand that features women with perfect teeth and lottery-winning smiles.

    4

    BAGHDAD

    The queue outside the Ministry of Finance stretches more than a hundred yards, snaking between concrete blast wals that are decorated with political posters and daubed with anti-American graffiti.
    Checkpoints are always dangerous. Anyone can approach—beggars, vendors, teenagers sel ing soft drinks or newspapers; fuel sel ers carrying jerrycans and rubber hoses that are swung through the air making a whooshing sound. Any one of them could be carrying a grenade or wearing a suicide vest.
    Luca produces his accreditation. The Iraqi soldier looks at both sides of the media pass, studying the English and Arabic versions. Then he consults a visitor’s book in the plasterboard kiosk.
    “Your name is not on the list.”
    “I made the appointment only an hour ago.”
    The soldier taps the pass against his cheek and slowly circles the Skoda, as one of his col eagues checks the boot and passes a mirror beneath the chassis.
    They are waved through. Jamal pul s up outside the Ministry. Engine running. Luca opens the door.
    “Are you going to wait?”
    Jamal taps the dashboard. “I have to get petrol. The queues are long today.”
    “I’l give you money for black market fuel.”
    “I should queue like everyone else.”
    Luca smiles. “You’re the only person in Iraq who doesn’t buy on the black.”
    Jamal looks a little sad. “It won’t always be this way.”
    The two men slap their palms together and their shoulders touch.
    “Give my love to Nadia and the boys.”
    Luca jogs up the stairs, zipping up his jacket. There are more checkpoints inside, along with metal detectors and bag searches. He surrenders his pistol, which is placed in a strongbox, and asks for Judge Ahmed Kuther, the Commissioner of Public Integrity. The receptionist points to a row of a dozen plastic chairs, al of them taken.
    Luca waits.
    A cleaner is polishing the marble floor, running an ancient machine across the smooth slabs. Elsewhere workmen are peeling blast tape from the windows. Wishful thinking.
    It has been more than a year since the Coalition Provisional Authority handed over control of Iraq to the Iraqis, but independence is stil mostly a state of mind. The parliamentary elections were five months ago but no single party emerged with