The Wreckage: A Thriller by Michael Robotham

haven’t been replaced since the bombing and are covered with plywood.
    People have taken to scrawling their signatures on the wood panels and leaving short messages.
    The bar is crowded with security contractors, engineers, journalists and western NGOs. Luca knows most of the reporters, cameramen and photographers. Some of them are in the veteran class because a year in Baghdad can seem like a lifetime.
    They’re talking about a car bombing this afternoon in al-Hurriyah Square. Fifteen civilians died and thirty were injured in the marketplace. One of the Associated Press photographers has photographed the severed head of a smal girl. Now he’s drinking tonic water and showing the picture to anyone who wants to see it.
    The security contractors are out by the pool because the al-Hamra doesn’t like guns in the main bar. For the most part their weapons are hidden, tucked into shoulder holsters or socks. Their heavy artil ery is at home in their apartments and hotel rooms.
    “Hey, Luca, you made it!”
    Shaun Porter waves from a deckchair. He’s lying next to a pretty Iraqi girl who is sipping a fruit juice. Prostitution in Iraq is one of those hidden vices, outlawed under Saddam, but never stamped out. Now there are families that bring their daughters to the hotels for the enjoyment of the westerners.
    Shaun pul s a beer from a bucket of ice and flips it open with the edge of a cigarette lighter. He hands it to Luca, who wishes him a happy birthday.
    “You know most of the guys.”
    “I’ve seen them around.”
    Beer bottles are raised in welcome. A redneck from Texas is wearing a T-shirt that says, “Who’s your Baghdaddy?” He starts tel ing a joke about why Iraqis have only two pal bearers at their funerals.
    “Because garbage cans only come with two handles.”
    The men laugh and Luca wishes he were somewhere else. A big guy in a cut-off sweatshirt joins them. He has blue flames tattooed on his forearms.
    “This is the mate I was tel ing you about,” says Shaun. “Meet Edge.”
    Edge’s grey eyes flick over Luca as though sizing up his fighting weight. Slightly older than the others, he has deep wrinkles around his eyes and a crushing handshake.
    “You’re that journalist living outside the wire.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Does that make you crazy or fucked up?”
    “Deluded, maybe.”
    Edge raises his margarita and sucks salt crystals from around the rim. Behind him, the pool lights glow an alien green beneath the water.
    Two Filipino women shriek with laughter. They’re wearing short denim skirts and skimpy tops, flashing midriffs and muffin tops to the group of contractors who keep plying them with drinks.
    Edge is watching, amused. Sexual conquest is a local sport among the contractors.
    “You were here in ’03,” says Luca.
    “Saw the whole clusterfuck.”
    “So what made you come back?”
    “I missed the place.”
    Edge drains his margarita and licks his lips.
    “I got bored working for my father-in-law. America’s fucked, man—people losing their houses, their jobs, factories going offshore—the bankers and politicians screwed everyone over.”
    “You think this place is any better?”
    “Here you can shoot the bad guys.” He grins. “In America we give them corporate bonuses and promote them to Treasury Secretary.” He holds his glass aloft, signaling to the barman for another. “You know the moment I knew I was coming back to Baghdad?”
    “No.”
    “Happened before I even left. I had to pick up a package from the Military Postal Service—it was a birthday present from my folks. This fat chick was sitting behind the counter painting her nails. She said it was her coffee break and she made me wait fifteen minutes while I watched her stuff her face with Twinkies. I was getting blown up and shot at for twenty-five grand a year while that fat chick, sitting on her fat ass, lifting nothing heavier than a pencil was making four times what I did. Tel me if that seems