“Apart from his place in Damascus, there’s a house in the South of France, another in London. According to his housekeeper, he’s in London.”
“For how long?”
“She didn’t know.”
“What about Ibrahim?”
“I mentioned the name but the housekeeper didn’t react. She was nervous. I didn’t hang around.”
A boarding announcement echoes through the terminal. Daniela’s flight is being called: Turkish Airways to Istanbul. She’s waiting at the security barrier.
Luca closes the gap, standing a foot away. Silent. Daniela looks past him at the security station. Beyond is the boarding gate. The last of the passengers are joining the end of the queue.
“My husband wants me to go back to him,” she says. “That was the phone call I had on the night we met at the al-Hamra.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him no.”
She gazes at him, willing him to say something more. The slightest signal might tilt their lives towards each other, maybe for a long time. Luca’s phone is ringing again. He glances at the screen. It’s Ahmed Kuther.
“Can you wait for just one second?”
“No, I can’t, Luca.”
The phone is against his ear. Daniela turns away and puts her bag on to the conveyor belt before stepping through the body scanner.
“Who told you Ibrahim was dead?” asks Kuther.
“It came from a contact at the prison.”
“The information was incorrect.”
“So he’s still in Abu Ghraib?”
Daniela has picked up her bag. She’s walking across the concourse.
“Mohammed Ibrahim was accidentally released from prison four years ago. He was mistaken for another prisoner.”
Luca glances at the departure board. Feels for his passport. There is a Royal Jordanian flight to Istanbul via Amman leaving in two hours.
He yells to Daniela, who turns at the last minute.
“Wait for me in Istanbul.”
She can’t hear him. He tries to get closer, but a guard stops him. He shouts again. “Istanbul. Wait for me!”
“Why?” she mouths.
Luca doesn’t answer. If she can’t find a reason, she won’t be there.
27
The wedding reception is at a Georgian villa on the northern edge of Hampstead Heath. Heritage-listed, whiter than a wedding cake, it looks like a film set from a BBC period drama, minus the bonnets and the horses.
“Do you remember Notting Hill? ” asks Miranda, hooking her hand through the crook of Ruiz’s arm. She’s walking on tiptoes so her heels won’t bruise the turf. “Julia Roberts was the American movie star and Hugh Grant had a travel bookshop on Portobello Road. They filmed one of the final scenes at Kenwood House.”
“I’ve never really seen the point of Hugh Grant,” says Ruiz. “He’s like a male version of Meg Ryan-always playing wishy-washy romantic losers.”
“I thought you fancied Meg Ryan.”
“When she stops whining.”
The Orangery is swathed in white linen with splashes of yellow from the sunflowers on each table display. A string quartet is playing in the corner. Daj, seated like a queen at her own table, is complaining loudly about her inconsiderate son, who never visits or calls. Her voice has a Lady Bracknell quality, slicing through the chatter like a well-honed cleaver.
Claire and Phillip had wanted a child-friendly wedding because most of their friends have started families. Now there are children running between the tables or imprisoned between their parents, going crazy with self-pity. One young boy slides a toy train along the seat so his sister will sit on it when she retakes her place. She lets out a cry. The toy is confiscated. More tears.
Ruiz does the rounds, visiting each table, trying to avoid the trays of champagne. Wedding receptions are strange rituals full of melancholy and a sense of time passing. Unmarried women of a certain age looking slightly forlorn, while those with long-term boyfriends are extra-attentive, hoping the day and the free bar might prompt them to pop the question.
His stepfather’s relatives consist of an ageing aunt and uncle who have flown from Florida, their skin like petrified wood. He was some sort of biologist, but Ruiz can barely remember him apart from the smell of formaldehyde that clings to him like cigarette smoke.
Most of the men have taken off their jackets, loosened ties and rolled up their sleeves. As the night wears on, young people cavort on the dance floor and children are taken home to bed. Miranda asks him to dance. She puts her arms around his waist and hooks her thumbs into his belt. Pressing against him, she tilts her face so her mouth is inches from his.
“I thought you didn’t dance,” she says.
“I like this kind of dancing.”
“Mmmm, I can tell you’re rather pleased. Are you thinking about kissing me?”
“No, I’m thinking about going down on you.”
“Would you think less of me in the morning?”
“Five per cent at most.”
The festivities are paused while the wedding cake is cut. Ruiz finds himself standing next to Phillip’s mother, who reeks of perfume and the sweet smell of rotting fruit.
“Don’t they make a wonderful couple,” she says, showing lipstick smudges on her teeth. “You must be very proud of your Claire.”
“Yes.”
“She does have a lovely complexion. Phillip once brought home an Asian girl from university. I think she was from Hong Kong. Pretty, in a Chinese sort of way. I think her father was involved in horse racing. They’re very big gamblers, the Chinese, and they have those terrible Triads. I have nothing against foreigners, of course. I love a good Chinese…”
“But not in the family?”
The woman’s mouth opens but the message has finally reached her brain. Ruiz is already retreating outside where he looks at the lights of London and goes over the events of the day. The confrontation in the street seems like a memory plucked from a past life. Public displays of violence are not his style, but he doesn’t have the patience or the reflexes of his youth. Cat-and-mouse games annoy him. He’s an intelligent man but not a complicated one.
At the top of the slope where the road cuts across the lawns towards the car park, Ruiz notices a dark car pull up. A figure emerges, silhouetted by the streetlights, tugging at the cuffs of a suit. Not police, but official.
The man says something to his driver and walks down the gravel path. He’s about to pass by when he turns.
“Mr. Ruiz?”
“Yes.”
“Douglas Evans from the Home Office.”
