The Wreckage: A Thriller by Michael Robotham Page A

fair?”
    “I’m not a great judge of fairness.”
    “Yeah, wel , nobody twisted my arm to come here the first time, but now I’m gonna fil my boots.”
    Luca glances past Edge to a table on the patio. A woman is sitting with two men. Luca recognizes her from the Finance Ministry. She was part of the UN Audit team. Dressed in grey flannels and low-heeled shoes, she’s wearing her hair down and nursing a glass of wine. Her high cheekbones look almost carved and her eyes are shining in the reflection from the pool. She doesn’t seem to be listening to the conversation at her table.
    “I wouldn’t waste my breath,” says Edge, fol owing his gaze.
    “Why’s that?”
    “I offered to buy her a drink and she treated me like I was contagious.”
    “Maybe she’s sick of being hassled.”
    “Or she could be an uppity, better-than-everyone, super bitch.”
    Edge has the barman’s attention. Luca slips away and stands beneath a palm tree, checking the messages on his phone. The woman is no longer at the table. She’s standing by the pool, talking on her mobile, arguing with someone.
    “It’s only for two more weeks… I know… but you can wait that long. No, I’m not at a party. It’s the hotel.” She makes eye contact with Luca. Looks away. “I think you’re being total y unreasonable… I can’t talk to you when you get like this… I’m going to hang up…”
    She snaps the phone closed and purses her lips.
    “Problems at home?” asks Luca.
    “That’s not real y any of your business.”
    “No, I’m sorry.”
    She has an American accent and large eyes with eyelids that pause at half-mast like a face from a da Vinci painting.
    “I shouldn’t have been listening. I’l leave you alone.”
    Luca walks away. She doesn’t stop him. He goes to the bar and has a drink with a German journalist and his French col eague, who are both pul ing out when the last of the American combat troops leave at the end of the month.
    At nine o’clock Luca cal s it a night. As he crosses the hotel lobby, he notices the woman again—this time she’s arguing with the hotel receptionist. There is a problem with the room.
    The power points don’t work. She can’t recharge her laptop.
    Luca is going to walk right by but stops and addresses the receptionist in Arabic—sorting out the problem.
    “They’re moving you to another room,” he says. “It wil take fifteen minutes.”
    “Thank you,” she says, hesitantly, her mouth fractional y too big for her face. Luca nods and turns to leave.
    “Where did you learn to speak Arabic?”
    “My mother is Iraqi.”

    “And you’re American?”
    “I was born in Chicago.”
    She glances at her feet. “Can I buy you a drink?”
    “Why?”
    The question flummoxes her.
    “Do I have to explain?”
    “You could say loneliness, or guilt, or perversity…”
    “I’m sorry for being so rude to you.”
    “In that case I’l have a whisky.”
    Rather than go back into the bar, they go into the restaurant. She’s a foot shorter than he is, but carries herself very straight, her footsteps almost floating across the tiles.
    “I’m Daniela Garner.”
    “Luca Terracini.”
    “That’s an Italian name.”
    “My grandfather came from Naples.”
    “It’s impressive to meet a journalist who speaks Arabic.”
    “I’m glad you’re impressed. How do you know I’m a journalist?”
    “Most of the people here are journalists or private contractors. You don’t look like a mercenary.”
    “I saw you today. You were at the Ministry.”
    She shrugs. A waiter takes their orders. She’s drinking white wine. Luca tries again.
    “You’re working for the UN?”
    “Who told you that?”
    “Shaun is a mate of mine. He cal ed you an IT geek.”
    “I’m an accountant.”
    She shifts in her chair, recrossing her legs. Everything about her is dainty and refined, yet strong. The restaurant is dark apart from the table lamps.
    “We’re instal ing new software to audit government accounts