The Wreckage: A Thriller Read Free

night.”
    “Where are the others?”
    “We’re looking for them.”
    “These men were shot. Take photographs of this.”
    The general stands and walks onwards, wiping his hands on the coat of the nearest fireman.
    The concrete vault has a heavy metal door that has barely been singed by the blaze. It opens easily. Nothing remains inside except a single aluminum case, smashed open. A handful of US banknotes are floating in a grimy puddle.
    The general leaves the vault, moving towards the internal stairs. Firefighters have erected ladders to the upper floors.
    “Is that going to take my weight?” asks al-Uzri.
    “Yes, sir.”
    He points at Luca. “You go first.”
    The journalist climbs the ladder and steps over a col apsed section of the floor. A toilet has come through the ceiling and landed vertical y across a doorway. Glancing past it, he can see a long corridor with offices on either side. The desktop computers have melted into modern sculptures.
    The senior fireman stops at one of the offices. It takes a moment for Luca to realize what he’s supposed to photograph. A blackened corpse is seated at a metal desk with stiffened half limbs reaching towards the blown-out window. Charred beyond recognition, the skin of the face is shrunken and leathery, gripping the skul , and the mouth is wide open in a scream.
    A swol en tongue protrudes from between teeth that seem unnatural y white.
    Al-Uzri circles the body, examining it from al sides, his wet brown eyes ful of wonder but not horror. Luca is taking short breaths through his mouth.
    “This is one of the ignition points,” says the fireman. “Someone doused the body with petrol and poured a trail along the hal way to the door.” Al-Uzri has moved behind the carbonized body. He pul s a smal Swiss army knife from his coat, unsheathing the blade. His hand steady, he holds the sharp edge against the corpse’s neck and pul s something away, a wire thread embedded in the skin. A garrote.
    He nods to Luca. More pictures are taken.
    Closing the knife, he lights a cigarette, blowing smoke towards the ceiling.
    Nothing shows in his eyes. Not surprise or sadness. Luca has seen that look before in soldiers who have witnessed such horrors that nothing is new under the sun or moon.
    “A bad business,” says the fireman. “Have you seen enough?”
    The general nods. He addresses Luca. “Deliver the photographs to my office. They are the property of the Iraqi police.” Descending the ladders, he retraces his steps through the puddles and up the ramp, pausing only to blow cotton wool from his nostrils. Luca fol ows him outside where drivers scramble into cars, preparing to depart.
    “Excuse me, General, I have a question about the robbery.”
    The commander turns.
    “Your name?”
    “Luca Terracini—I’m an American journalist.”
    “Your Arabic is very proficient, Mr. Terracini.”
    “My mother was Iraqi.”
    Al-Uzri lights another cigarette, shielding it from the spray. He takes a moment to study the journalist.
    “Most of your col eagues wear Kevlar vests and travel in numbers. Do you think having an Iraqi mother wil protect you?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Perhaps you are very brave?”
    “No, sir.”
    Water trickles down Luca’s back. It might be sweat. “The bank manager was tortured.”
    “It appears so.”
    “Do you know how much money was taken?”
    “No.”
    “What happened to the other security guards?”
    “Perhaps they chased after the robbers.”
    “Perhaps they ran off with the money.”
    The leaking hoses have doused the general’s cigarette. He stares at the soggy offering. “It is not a good idea to make accusations like that.”
    “This is the eighteenth bank robbery in Baghdad this year. Does that concern you?”
    The general smiles, but the corners of his mouth barely move. “I find it reassuring that somebody is keeping count.” His car door is being held open, the engine running. He slides into the passenger seat and waves the driver