The story with Freddie’s interview was her bombshell and was the last article she needed Don’s go-ahead on. Connecting Connaught and Wyeth to the Arndale bombing was a sure-fire hit. After this story ran, she’d be promoted away from Don and the Magpie shadow. Nothing could stand in her way. She looked over her notes and photos and felt a rush of pride. This was the most important night of her career and soaked in every detail. Fluorescent lights hummed. Air ventilation whooshed. She wanted someone to mark the moment with her.
The rows of desks sat deserted at this time of night. She was past the point of fearing someone would scoop her story and looked around the newsroom. Another reporter sat at the far end of the cavernous room. He was so deep into his own story and thoughts that Dally wondered if he even knew she was there. She fancied he would want to remember this night as a witness to the paper’s history. He would tell the tale of the conscientious and diligent reporter working until the wee hours to hone her story, all alone and sacrificing everything for the good of the paper. The hell with propriety, she thought. Her big moment was too magnificent not to share.
She sneezed, keeping her head down and cupping her hand to direct the sound over to his corner. He didn’t move. She pushed her chair back from her desk, then stretched her arms up, nearly waving her hands over her head. Nothing. She launched her coffee mug off the side of her desk and it fell with a satisfying clatter. Success. He glanced up from his work. She gave him a baleful look and shrug meant to engender his sympathy and chivalry at her working so late alone. He put his head back down and continued typing.
Momentarily thwarted, she returned her attention to her story, biding her time and finishing the last paragraphs. The article was pure genius—parts of it could even be proven as true, and the tale it told was more important and sensational than any recent news.
God dammit. She wanted a witness to her final moments as a nobody. She was no longer going to be the backroom lackey for any newsreader, and her emergence into the world of real journalism was going to happen tonight. She wanted a snog to celebrate. Right there. On the desk. Her legs in the air and his trousers around his ankles.
“What’s that you got there?”
She jumped at the voice so close to her. His approach was silent. She swiveled around in her chair, sweeping notes and photos to the floor. “It’s history in the making is what it is.”
The reporter helped pick up the fallen papers, taking time to read her notes and absorb the photos. He was a head taller than she was and had the rumpled quality about him that said he spent a lot of time indoors sitting down, presumably behind a keyboard. His hair was balding in a Friar Tuck pattern and his thick-lensed, gold-rimmed glasses hooked behind his ears with plastic guards, yellowed from age and scalp oils. A pair of suspenders held up his flannel trousers to a point below his burgeoning gut. His shirt looked liked it had been slept in for a better part of a week, with crumbs from a recent bag of crisps littering his chest. Dirty cuffs flopped open from missing buttons. Central casting could not have come up with a better-looking newsman. He gave her papers back in slow motion, using every spare second he had to read and absorb everything. He looked up at her suddenly as a thought occurred to him.
“You that Dally Thorpe people are buzzing about?”
She could feel the flush of excitement tingle across her. He used her name! He didn’t call her Magpie! “Could be yes. Could be n-no. What’ve you been hearing?” She had to turn her head away knowing that she could not keep the smile from her face.
“Chaps on the tip phones like to line up jars for each story and put pennies in them as the calls come in. They bet on which reporter’s going to have the biggest pot at the end of the week and the winner gets the kitty. I heard your stories are filling up faster than anyone’s.” He paused for a moment, letting the silence be awkward. “I bet on you.”
She could keep the flush from her cheeks no longer. “Yes. I’m her,” she said, trying to sound modest. She inhaled a bit, arching her back and sticking her small breasts out as far as they could go, barely enough to pull at the buttons of her pink cardigan.
“I heard the advert rates ticked up a point around your stories, too. Could be a real boon for you.”
The other measure of a reporter’s or a story’s success was in how the advertisers reacted. The column inch beside the number one sports story costs more than those beside lesser stories. A strong series would earn the paper bonus revenues, as advertisers out-bid one another for the prime spots in the paper. Her stories were going to net her new admirer a few pounds and the paper a few hundred thousand.
“Derrick.” He put out his hand in greeting. His fingers looked like the leftover stubs of chewed cigars, leaving doubt what that meant about the rest of him.
“Dally.” She tried to find something pleasant to settle her eyes on as she shook his hand. The fabric around his half-open fly was greasy from frequent checks. The knees of his trousers, baggy and shiny with wear, were the best bet. “What’s keeping you here tonight?” She wasn’t interested in what he was working on but wanted to fake it until the pleasantries were no longer needed and the snogging could begin.
Derrick looked over to where he was working. “Just got me an assignment about the gypsies killing one of their own in a brawl. Seems that a fourteen-year-old vamped up enough to pass for eighteen and got what she was looking for. Turns out her boyfriend got more than he bargained for when the girl’s daddy came looking for him. You know the drill. A few beers, a few more jeers, and a bottle gets broke over someone’s head. Only this time the father sliced the boyfriend’s throat for good measure.”
She nodded with exaggerated sympathy. “I’ve d-done plenty of those stories. Keep at it. You’ll rise up from writing b-bumpers soon enough.”
“You’re going to be a legend around here.” He dragged a chair over from one of the other desks and plopped himself down. “Heard you got exclusives with witnesses, too.” He pursed his lips and nodded his head in approval. “Not bad. Lucky break for you the story dropped in your lap the way it did.”
The growing bubble of her good mood popped. “It wasn’t chucked down in front of me to trip over. I had to dig for what I got!”
“Keep your panties on. You asked me what I heard, right?”
She nodded, increasingly desperate to hide her need.
“Word is that reporter and newspaper in the States just got socked with a huge libel and defamation lawsuit for a story she was working on there. It seems that your Prince Charming is using his deep pockets to squelch the stories before they take root.”
“He’s not my Prince Charming. He’s a feckin’ m-mick in a gentleman’s clothing. Besides, it would be my luckiest day ever if he came after me with his big bucks. Just filing that lawsuit will be worth page three at the least.”
Derrick chuckled. “Blokes on the tip line say Master Connaught has been getting a few proposals for marriage. Seems the ladies like his Hollywood movie star looks and are takin’ a shine to him. Doesn’t matter to them who his father was. Maybe it would matter to their mothers, but the callers just have eyes for the younger.”
“There’s no accountin’ for taste.” She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice.
“Seems, too, that your article is doing his PR work for him. You running the story with these photos?” He pushed a few pictures around until he found what he was looking for. He pulled a picture from the pile of Jessica and Michael, arm-in-arm, walking along the quad at Saint Mark’s. The beautifully tended grounds and soaring academic buildings gleamed in the background. Jessica’s face was slightly shadowed while the afternoon sun hit Michael’s face, showing his expression of pride. It looked like an image from a promotional brochure.
Dally wagged pages of her notes in his face. “It d-doesn’t matter what the people see. They’ll read my story and end up hating him.” She thrust the pages into his hands. “Besides, the picture is proof they’re together. It shows him lying to her.”
&nb
sp; Derrick rounded his eyes and slowly nodded his head to convey how impressed he was at her plotting. “You’ve got it all figured out. The trap’s been sprung and you’re ready to gather the spoils. Nicely done.” He stood up, placing his hand on the table beside her and leaning over her computer terminal, scanning the screen. “Amazing work. All the pieces fit right together. I’ll bet Don’s been doggin’ your every word.”
“He’s been giving them a look over. I’ve been building back his trust in me. He didn’t give me a whit of issue with the first couple of articles.”
Derrick nodded slowly, clearly impressed. “And you’re hoping for his green light for the bomb you want to drop.”
“He’s as excited about the story as I am. He’s been watching my every move.”
“Fair enough, but is he watching your every word? I’m amazed he’s even kept you on his team. He would have been Managing Editor if it weren’t for Magpie.”
She bristled. “That’s old history. Everyone makes a mistake.”
“True, but not one that cost people their jobs and their pensions. Cost the paper a pretty penny to defend itself. Heard they only kept you on to fill Millie’s mouth with copy. I’ll bet they never do that again.”
Dally hunched her back and pulled her sweater tighter over her arms in the sudden chill. “Everyone makes a mistake,” she repeated, voice smaller.
“True enough, but you can’t afford another one.”
“I’ve got a named source—one who wants to put his name out there. He won’t be hanging in the shadows, refusing to be shown like with Magpie. I learned a hard lesson, but the knock was worth it.”
“A named source, sure, but folks will fancy he’s keen on seeing Jesus’ face in the crust of burnt toast. Unless he’s the bloody Pope himself, I doubt your story will survive a day. I’d give you odds on even less.”
“Bloody hell!” Dally couldn’t take the provocation anymore and threw her file down in front of him. “Look at these! It’s Wyeth with the cargo containers at the airport! I’ve got a witness on record who says that Connaught slime surrounded her with bodyguards and I say that move was more to protect anyone from finding out what was really in those boxes than to protect her. Here’s the image of the betting slip from Aintree found in the truck with her name on it!” She panted with the effort to contain herself.
“But what proof do you have of what was in that cargo? It’s a rich man’s right to surround his woman with care. Plus, sayin’ a jockey’s crooked solely because someone who bet on her was is daft.”
Dally jammed her closed hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. “My story’s not bollix, damn you.”
Derrick looked through the pictures again and gave a low whistle. “Well, so much for what I think. Looks like you’re about ready to send your story to the presses. Right after it gets reviewed by Don.”
BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND
REGGIE BRAGDON STOOD on the corner of Bombay Street and Cupar Way. He hated going to that area of Belfast and only did so when he felt he had no other choice. The deserted street did not give him comfort that he would be unseen. Neither did the odd coat he wore, even with a hat pulled low over his eyes. What was left of the peace line stretched ahead of him, covered in the vile hate slogans of the Catholics, and pockmarked with multiple scars of petrol bombs and live ammunition. No rubber bullets on this side of town. The RUC would shoot to kill any idiot fool enough to step out of line.
He continued his walking and stopped where the towering barrier ended in a twisted and blackened heap. The sheet metal had been pried up at the corner, exposing the support beam. He worked his hand inside and felt up and down the pillar until he found what he was looking for. With a bit of effort, he loosened the metal plate that had the manufacturer’s name on it. He huffed once to steam it up and then rubbed it against his leg until the “2100, Ltd.” stood out in shining relief against the sooted background. He usually wasn’t one for souvenirs, but this one he couldn’t resist. He put it in his pocket, flicked the collar of his coat up, and continued on his way.
The peace line was built because of Bragdon. Without his help to navigate through the morass of laws, legislators, and city counselors, Belfast would not have been divided. He was the one who had lined up support and executed a lightning fast strategy that caught the opposition flatfooted. The wall was up before anyone knew what was coming. The weeks of relative calm after its erection proved the wisdom of the wall. The burgeoning balances in his bank account proved that money could make anything happen. His contact at the corporate offices of 2100, Ltd. was more than generous and very discrete. He liked them and worked well with them. Now the wall and defenses had to be rebuilt and his bank balances had to be replenished.
His visit to the bishop came off better than he had hoped. Telling him he could announce that Sinn Fein had its longed for seat at the bargaining table at Sunday’s service rattled him. The bishop was no fool, and no amount of spin would lessen the connection between the Arndale bombing and getting Sinn Fein what they wanted. The talks labeled “All Party” were nothing of the sort, and the Arndale bombing solidified the Prime Minister’s stance on denying the hooligans from equal’s seat at the bargaining table. What the bishop did not know was that the investigation was stalled again and the announcement was intended to do just what the bishop feared—embolden and ignite the passion for more power gained from the use of a bomb.
Bragdon was more than happy to comply with a request that came from the top of his government. The Prime Minister was quite clear in his plan to have a defined starting point for the announcement. The MI5 would be positioned to track the communications of a targeted few. With the proof that violence worked, the weakness in their human morality would motivate them to do more. They would make a mistake. Networks would be exposed. Inevitably, another bombing would take place, and any proposed talks would be cancelled. The invitation was not to the talks but an open door to prison.
He loved watching people squirm, and in the moments of their greatest discomfort he could ascertain their deepest secrets. Bragdon expected Bishop Hughes to postpone the announcement on the grounds the bombing would look like a successful strategy. But, rather than unsettling the smooth and unflappable bishop with that news, he found instead that the bishop was already agitated. He tried to cover it well enough, but the Bishop was distracted.
Their small talk hit on the usual banal fodder of local football clubs and weather. But something was different with the bishop. He was not focused. While they had talked, Bragdon looked around the room to see what his friend may have been doing that distracted him so much. The answer was in a neatly stacked pile of newspapers folded in such a way that there could be no mistaking the bishop’s interest. Why was he taking such an interest in a series of articles on that pitiful American girl? Bragdon would have paid no attention to one newspaper opened to that story, but having three papers perfectly folded was too delicious not to poke around further.
What he learned from the articles was purely academic but could be the hook he needed into Bishop Hughes. He’d been trying for years to find something—anything—on him and was never successful. Bragdon had no idea why the American girl meant anything, so after leaving the bishop’s flat, he dug out his issues from the rubbish bin. The only connection he could see was that the older trainer, Mr. Gilchrist Adams, was a boyhood friend of the bishop. Bragdon still remembered how shaken Bishop Hughes had been at Adams’ death eight years back, and the masses he said for his chum of long ago.
Masses were often offered for the dead, but the Bishop’s sorrow was clearly more pointed. Bragdon learned that none other than Magnus Connaught had killed Adams and that the American was sleeping with Connaught’s son. Exactly the kind of muddy facts the British tabloids could make into a reeking dung heap without a lot of effort. No doubt the articles were gearing up to target the younger Connaught in a larger filthy scandal. This trajectory was all very amusing, and he wondered what additional shite was going to be throw
n.
He fingered the badge of metal in his pocket and smiled. He could make life excruciatingly uncomfortable for the son. The elder Connaught was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and Bragdon hated Magnus without ever having met him. The slippery operator seemed to have something to do with illegal arms or funding operations but always managed to keep his hands clean and remain above the fray.
Bragdon’s compatriots at the Security Branch of the Ministry of Home Affairs knew the elder Connaught’s activities threatened their tiny country’s security and integrity but were never able to pin anything on him. They knew better than to go on rumor and innuendo when building a case. Once an accusation was made, they damned well better have the goods to back it up or face being buried in an avalanche of investigative hearings, due diligence audits and lawsuits. Bragdon tried many times to connect Magnus to terrorists but offshore accounts, European holding companies, and the damn secrecy around the banking policies of the Swiss routinely thwarted his efforts.
The closest he got was discovering that the guns, munitions, and other weaponry used in the conflict were sourced through the same holding company as the metal detectors, airport security devices of all variations, and other protective gear—including the peace line. The selling of the guns did not constitute the crime. The use of them did. Nothing tainted the transactions, and the money flowed. The only sure winners in war were the suppliers. And, the politicians.
It frustrated Bragdon that nothing ever tainted the bishop. Digging around the Adams murder and the goings on of that American girl could yield some information. If nothing else, maybe he could bully the younger son into making a sizeable donation into his upcoming election fund.
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 39
