The Wreckage: A Thriller by Michael Robotham Page B

and keep track of reconstruction spending.”
    “Sounds dry.”
    “Bone.”
    “How long wil the job take?”
    “They told us two weeks, but from what I saw today, it’s going to be longer. I don’t think anyone in Iraq understands bookkeeping.”
    “Good luck with that.”
    He drinks half his whisky but can’t real y taste it. Downs the rest. Orders another.
    “How long have you been here?” she asks.
    “Six years.”
    “Do you mind if I ask why? I mean, who would stay here… if they had a choice?”
    “Most Iraqis don’t have a choice.”
    “Yes, but you have an American passport. Do you have any family here?”
    “No.”
    She motions over her shoulder towards the bar. “I mean, those guys out there—the mercenaries—they’re here for the money or to play at being soldiers or because of their homoerotic fantasies; and most of the journalists are here because they have this romantic ideal of being war correspondents in flak jackets, appearing on the evening news. You don’t strike me as being like the rest of them.”
    “Maybe I’m deranged.”
    “No.”
    “Or pumped ful of drugs.”
    “It’s something else.”
    Luca can feel a dangerous light-headedness coming over him, a trembling inside. He knows he should end the encounter. Draining his glass, he gets up from the table.
    “Thank you for the drink.” He gives her a tight smile.
    Daniela looks disappointed. “Have I offended you?”
    “No.”
    “I think I have. I’m sorry. Your friend in there—the one with the tattoos on his forearms…”
    “He’s not my friend.”
    “His first words to me were that we might get blown up tomorrow and did I fancy a fuck? I’m not interested in your life history, Luca. I was just making conversation because you were nice to me.”
    Silence.
    Luca takes a deep breath. Relaxes. Manages a proper smile. “There are things you do to get by in a place like this. Masks you have to wear.” The way she looks at him, her silence, her detachment, it reminds him of a shrink he went to see after Nicola’s funeral.
    The hotel receptionist has crossed the restaurant. Daniela’s room is ready.
    She looks down at his hands and then up into his face. Her tongue touches her lower lip.
    “Do you want to help me move my luggage?”
    “They can send someone up.”
    She doesn’t reply and turns away, leaving the restaurant. Luca walks outside, beyond midnight, making his way home to an unmade bed and sweat-stained sheets. He doesn’t contemplate what it would have been like to sleep with Daniela Garner. He doesn’t fuck any more. He’s not a performer.

    8

    LONDON

    Trafalgar Studios has crimson carpets, dusty chandeliers and an ageing splendor. Dozens of wannabes are miling in the foyer, pretending to ignore each other. Some are rehearsing soliloquies or listening to iPods or chewing gum. Multi-tasking in the modern age.
    Hol y Knight gives her name to a brisk young assistant wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard. She’s handed a scene to read—a two-page dialogue between “Jenny” and
    “Alasdair,” a young couple meeting for the first time.
    “You’l be assigned a partner,” says the assistant.
    “But I’ve prepared my own material,” says Hol y.
    “I’m sure your mother loves it.”
    The assistant is already taking another name.
    Hol y has to climb the stairs to find a square of carpet, beneath a window. She reads each line of her dialogue and closes her eyes, trying to memorize them.
    After waiting an hour she gets bored. Pushing open a polished wooden door, she finds herself in a smal theater with a bril iantly lit stage. Tiered seats rise into the darkness on three sides.
    The director, dressed in a Che Guevara beret and fatigues, barely seems to pay attention as names are cal ed and a new pair of actors arrives on stage. Candidates are whittled down. Hol y watches them, some trying too hard, others battling nerves. Periodical y, the director whispers something to his personal assistant,