The Wreckage by Michael Robotham EPUB & PDF – eBook Details
- Author: Michael Robotham
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BAGHDADÂ
The most important lesson Luca Terracini ever learned about being a foreign
correspondent was to tell a story through the eyes of someone else. The
second most important lesson was how to make spaghetti marinara with a can
of tuna and a packet of ramen noodles.
There were others, of course, most of them to do with staying alive in a
war zone: Do not make an appointment to see anyone you do not trust
absolutely. Do not go out before checking whether any suspicious vehicles
are loitering outside. Do not assume that a place that was safe yesterday will
be safe today.
These security measures were followed by all western reporters in
Baghdad, but Luca had added a few of his own over the years–advice that
came down to possessing three vital tools for survival: a natural cowardice;
several US hundred-dollar bills sewn into his trouser cuffs; and a welldeveloped sense of the absurd.
The first call to prayer is sounding. Sunrise. Luca had been woken by the
racket of washing machines, TV sets and air conditioners coming to life
simultaneously. The government can only provide electricity during certain
hours, which means the appliances trigger at random times, day or night,
creating a strange symphony of music and metal.
Stripping off his T-shirt, he scoops water from a bucket with a ladle,
pouring it over his head. Droplets pour from his short dark beard and down
his chest over his genitals. It’s already nearly ninety degrees outside and not
even the shutters can keep the heat out once the sun hits the side of the
building.
Drying his hair, he chooses a thin cotton shirt, something plain, cheap. He
dresses like an Iraqi and tries to sound like an Iraqi. His shoes are not
western. His sunglasses are not too foreign looking.
Sliding his hand beneath the mattress, he pulls out a compact semiautomatic 9mm pistol and tucks it into a holster in the small of his back.
In
his office, he unplugs his mobile, grabs his camera gear and opens the front
door of his apartment, checking the corridor and then taking the rear stairs.
A security guard dozes behind a desk in the foyer.
“Sabah al-khair, Ahmed.”
The guard jerks awake, reaching for his rifle. Luca holds up his hands in
mock fear and the guard grins at him.
“Have you made the city safe, Ahmed?”
“I have defused two dozen bombs.”
“Excellent. Just don’t recycle them.”
The guard laughs and gets to his feet. His belt is undone, his stomach
bulging freely.
Luca opens his mobile and calls Jamal.
“Where are you?”
“Two minutes away.”
Glancing through the taped windows, the street view is shielded by
concrete blast walls that are fifteen feet high. There are checkpoints at the
two nearest intersections, giving the illusion of safety. Just like his rules for
survival, Luca has developed his own conflict metabolism, attuned to the
violence. His heart no longer punches through his chest when a mortar
explodes and he doesn’t duck when a round zings overhead.
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