Aisha is calling him inside. Taj puts out his cigarette and climbs off the ledge, swinging his legs through the window and arching his body like a gymnast. His wife looks pretty in tailored trousers and a smock with beading around the neck.
“Didn’t you hear the phone?”
“No.”
“Syd wants to see you.”
“Did he say why?”
“Something about the courier coming.” Aisha looks at the dishes piled in the sink. She’s been working all day at Homebase. On her feet. The least Taj could have done was wash up after breakfast.
She’s annoyed, but she won’t say anything. Taj has been on edge for months, ever since he lost his job. Short-tempered. Angry. She won’t risk starting an argument.
“Stay in tonight,” she says, rubbing his shoulders.
“Syd and Rafiq are expecting me.”
“You’re not married to Syd and Rafiq.”
“I missed the last meeting.”
Aisha turns her back on him, trying not to show her feelings.
“Why don’t you like them?” asks Taj. “They’re my friends.”
“I don’t like the way Syd looks at me.”
“He’s just jealous.”
Taj puts his finger on her lips. Aisha kisses it and giggles when Taj tries to pull her closer. Lithe as a fish, she twists past him and loops an apron over her head, letting Taj tie the bow. All thumbs.
“What do you do at these meetings?” she asks.
“We talk.”
“What do you talk about?”
“The Koran. How we’re treated. The problems we face.”
“We’re better off than our parents.”
“This is our country too.”
Aisha runs hot water, squeezing in dishwashing liquid, watching it foam. She can see Taj reflected in the curved chrome of the tap.
“You say Pakistan is our country and England is our country. Which is it?”
“Both.”
“Can we belong in two places?”
“Only if we make them ours.”
“What does that mean?”
“We have to tear this country down and rebuild it. Make it the way we want it to be.”
“I don’t think we should tear things down.”
“Sometimes it’s the only way.”
Taj begins drying the dishes, his back pressed to the bench.
“Did you pay that bill I gave you?” she asks.
“I didn’t have enough cash. I’ll do it next week.”
“I gave you the money.”
“I spent it.”
“What on? We barely have enough for food.”
Taj throws the tea towel into the soapy water. “And that’s my fault.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Yes, it is!”
“Shhhh, you’ll wake the baby.”
“Don’t tell me to be quiet in my own home.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll pay it tomorrow. I’ll use the money we’re saving for Ramadan.”
They wash the dishes in silence. Taj slips his hand around her waist, trying to show that he’s sorry. He won’t use the word. She closes her eyes and shivers.
“I know you’re worried,” he whispers. “You must not be. We have money coming. Lots of it.”
“Don’t make up stories, Taj.”
“I mean it. Next week. We’ll have all the money we need.”
She throws her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his.
“Did you get a job?”
He smells her hair and cups her buttocks in his palms as though judging their soft weight.
“Yes, a job.”
11
The Soho wine bar has black painted walls, black doors and black furniture. It’s full of the kind of people who en masse intimidate Luca most: men in designer suits and women with ballerina bodies and little black dresses. Daniela doesn’t look out of place-she’s a New York girl-she probably has a wardrobe full of cocktail dresses and tailored suits.
Keith Gooding has been entertaining her with stories about Afghanistan; shared adventures with Luca, embarrassing moments. He’s telling her the story about a grizzled old warlord in Jalalabad who promised to show them a former al-Qaeda training camp. Two days into their journey through the mountains the old warlord crept into their room and Luca woke with hands fondling his genitals. His scream brought the warlord’s bodyguards bursting into the room, threatening to shoot them.
“What in God’s name were you doing?” Gooding had hissed.
“The old pervert had his hands on me.”
“Couldn’t you give one up for the team?”
Daniela laughs and Luca tells her that she shouldn’t believe everything Gooding tells her.
She kisses his knuckles. “I know.”
He needs the bathroom. The doors are marked XX and XY-the language of chromosomes. As he exits he notices a tall man with craggy eyes sitting opposite a woman in a camisole and skirt. Holding hands. Lovers. His eyes aren’t looking into hers. Instead they’re focused on Luca.
“What’s wrong?” asks Daniela.
“I’ve just seen someone I recognize, but I can’t place him.”
“In Baghdad?”
“Maybe. Go to the bathroom in a couple of minutes. He’s sitting near the pillar.” Luca looks at Gooding. “Did you book this table?”
“Yes.”
“Who else knows we’re here?”
“Oh, come on, Luca, relax, you’ve been living in a war zone for too long.” He raises his glass. “This is supposed to be a celebration.”
Luca smiles and apologizes, but the disquiet stays with him like an unpleasant aftertaste.
“So what did you find out about Yahya Maluk?”
Gooding takes out his iPhone and runs his finger across the screen.
“Egyptian billionaire. Educated at Charterhouse. Second eldest son of Salim Ahmed Maluk, who rose from being an illiterate moneychanger to found banks in Egypt, Syria and Lebanon. Married. Three grown-up children. Personal wealth estimated at three billion pounds. Family fortune twice that much. Dozens of companies and charitable trusts.”
“Does he still have links with banks in the Middle East?”
