“You’re worried about a story.”
“In case you haven’t noticed-this is a newspaper office.”
“This isn’t just about the bank or a few big corporations,” says Ruiz. “This notebook could expose organized crime gangs, terror groups, drug cartels… It’s about terrorist funding. It’s about the end-user. It’s about thousands of transactions, every one of them a possible prosecution.”
Gooding throws up his hands. “You know it doesn’t work like that. The CPS will be happy with a handful of convictions. I say we publish first and then hand the dossier to police. Scotland Yard can share it with Interpol, the Iraqis, the Americans-it won’t matter by then.”
“It will matter if the money disappears,” says Ruiz. “It will matter if Yahya Maluk and Mohammed Ibrahim flee the country and can’t be extradited back here. Ibrahim is a wanted war criminal. He should be arrested. Prosecuted.”
Daniela looks at Luca. “He’s got a point. If you report this now they’ll go to ground. Cover their tracks. Remember how this started. You were following the money.”
She’s talking about Baghdad. The insurgency. Someone is funding them.
Luca has been silent through the argument. It can’t be a choice of one thing or the other. There has to be common ground.
“We make copies of everything. We hand everything to SOCA, but we keep investigating.”
Gooding wants to continue arguing. Holly interrupts him. She’s pointing at the TV screen, which has footage of police divers tumbling backwards from Zodiacs. A photograph appears of Richard North. A banner headline runs across the bottom of the screen. Some stories don’t need sound.
26
Taj is sitting at the small kitchen table pushing scrambled eggs around a plate. He looks at Aisha’s hips moving beneath her long skirt as she goes about her chores. She put on weight during her pregnancy; hasn’t lost it all, but he rarely sees her eat anything.
Barefoot and bare-chested, his jeans hang low on his hips.
“You should put on a shirt before you eat,” she says.
Taj sniffs and says, “Fine,” meaning something else. He fiddles with his watchband, opening and closing the clasp.
“You’re very quiet. Is everything OK?” she asks.
He inhales. Exhales. “I have to go away for a while.”
“Is it about that job? Why won’t you tell me what it is?”
“It’s in Pakistan.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to Pakistan for a few months.”
She looks at him incredulously. “Why?”
“Work.”
“What work?”
He makes a line on the tablecloth with a butter knife and wets his lips with his tongue.
“First I got to do something in London, then I fly out.”
“When?”
“I’m leaving tonight.”
“You can’t just leave, Taj. Not without telling me.”
“I am telling you.”
“But we haven’t talked about it. What am I supposed to do?”
Taj drives the handle of the knife into the center of the plate with his fist. It smashes, spraying eggs and baked beans on the wall.
“This is my business,” he yells. “This is me looking after my family. You never stop wanting stuff. That baby never stops wanting stuff.”
“I never ask you for anything, Taj.”
“I babysit, don’t I? A grown man shouldn’t have to do that shit.”
She can see he’s angry. Hurt. She knows not to test his temper, but she wants to understand. For months he has been like this. Bitter. Resentful. Distant. Ever since his father died, ever since he lost his job. Mr. Farouk at the Laundromat said that Taj has stopped going to the mosque on Fridays.
The baked beans are leaking down the wall and on to the skirting board.
“This has something to do with that man, doesn’t it?”
Taj doesn’t answer. Aisha looks at the floor.
“What about Syd and Rafiq?”
“They are coming too. We’ll be together. In a few months I’ll send word to you. Money. Passports. You can join us.”
“In Pakistan?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to live in Pakistan. I want to live here.”
Taj pushes back his chair and goes to the bedroom where he takes an old suitcase from the top of a wardrobe and begins packing.
“What is it, Taj? We have to talk about this.”
“You’ll do as I say because I’m your husband.”
“Why can’t you get a job here?”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried? I’m sick of this country, sick of begging, sick of being made to feel like a scrounger or a criminal.”
“Most people don’t treat us like that.”
“We’re discriminated against.”
“We’re just poor.”
“What about my father, eh? He died because they discriminated against him.”
“He died of heart disease.”
“He was more than a year on that waiting list. He could have had a new heart, but they gave it to some white woman.”
“She had three young children.”
“She wasn’t on the list as long as he was.”
Taj is throwing socks and underwear into the bag, T-shirts, an extra pair of jeans. Aisha is standing in the doorway, her apron bunched in her fists. She can see his muscles flexing on either side of his spine.
“You don’t have to go. You can pull out. Tell Syd and Rafiq.”
“I’m committed.”
“What about me… the baby?”
“You’re going to wait for me.”
Taj reaches into his pocket and produces a roll of cash in a rubber band. Aisha blinks twice, moves her mouth. She has never seen so much money. It scares her.
“What have you done?” she whispers, trembling now.
A silence. Taj isn’t going to tell her. It’s not what he’s done but what’s expected of him…
27
