by Peter Temple
He said nothing, just picked up his bag and walked. She hadn’t expected that, he was going. She felt something slipping out of her hands, got up, went after him, touched his sleeve, grabbed his arm.
‘Settle down, hold it,’ she said. ‘Just hold on for one second, will you, I’m not…’
Mackie stopped, turned his head. ‘What?’
‘I don’t have the authority to buy something like this.’ She stood close to him, still holding his sleeve, looked into his eyes, it often worked. ‘I’m sorry I said that about, about being faked. I’m sorry. Will you leave the tape with me? A copy? I promise I’ll give you an answer today.’
He moved away from her, just a small distance. ‘No,’ he said, ‘this was a mistake.’
Caroline knew she should plead. There was a time for pleading. It was any time you saw the shimmer of a story that would go on the front page without argument, would require no exercise of editorial judgement by any drink-befuddled executive prat, would speak for itself in short headline words an eight-year-old could understand.
‘Listen,’ she said, holding on to his arm. ‘I don’t need a copy, an hour, two hours, that’s it, two hours, that’s all I need, I’ll talk to people. An answer in two hours. No bullshit. Give me a number.’
He looked at her for so long that she let go his arm and blinked.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Trust me.’
‘One o’clock,’ he said. ‘I’ll ring you at one. Just say yes or no.’
His accent wasn’t Scottish now. It was South African.
‘Mr Mackie, we might need a contract, a legal document, you know, we could do this through lawyers, you’d be protected and we’d…’ ‘Just say yes or no. Twenty thousand. I’ll tell you where to send it.’
When he was gone, she went to her tiny cubicle, her first day in it.
She rang security and asked for prints of Mackie, sat back and thought for a long time about what she should do. This was her story: the man had come to her because of her byline on the Brechan story. But it was too big for her. He wanted cash for something that might be worthless.
It wasn’t. She felt it in her marrow. Her instinct said this was a big story. And her instinct was good. It had taken her to three big stories in Birmingham.
But Halligan would take it away from her. The story would disappear into the inner sanctum without her.
She had to deliver it personally, the way she’d delivered Brechan. Brechan had been the most wonderful luck. She would be writing lifestyle crap now, ten hottest pick-up bars in the City, if someone hadn’t decided to give her Brechan’s rent boy.
‘We know your work from Birmingham,’ the gaunt man in the pub in Highgate said. ‘We think you’re the person to expose this.’
Luck, just pure luck.
It didn’t happen twice.
Who to go to now? Who to trust? Who could get the money?
Colley. He was the only one. She’d been introduced to him in the pub and he’d bought her drinks and made lewd suggestions. Her boss in the permanent catfight that was the Frisson section had told her that Colley ran his own mini-empire. He kept his own hours, only came to conferences when he felt like it.
She went to his office, not a cubical, a proper office with floor-to-ceiling walls, and knocked.
‘Enter,’ shouted Colley.
He was sitting at a large desk covered with files and newspapers looking at a laptop, a cigarette burning in an old saucer. She thought he looked like someone who had lost a large amount of weight quickly.
‘Caroline Wishart,’ she said. ‘We met in the pub?’
‘I remember. Some things I remember.’
‘I need help.’
Colley looked at her. His eyes were heavy-lidded and he was squinting as if caught in a spotlight. ‘First you pinch the Brechan story from under my nose,’ he said, ‘now you come crawling for help.’ He pointed downwards. ‘Under the desk, you upper-class slut. Unzip me with your teeth.’
Caroline sat down. She had to tough this out. ‘I thought your generation still had button-ups,’ she said. ‘Button-up flies are hard on teeth. All I need is the benefit of your experience.’
He smiled, thin lips, yellow teeth. ‘All? Took me thirty years to get where I am. Cost me my liver and my hair, most of my brain. You ruling-class gels walk in, you pout and shake your little tits and they make you editor of some new fucking rubbish section. Grovel to me.’
‘I’ve just seen a film. Soldiers killing civilians. White soldiers killing blacks. A man wants to sell it.’
She told him about Mackie, about the tape labelled 1170.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘probably South Africans, won’t surprise anybody.
Killed blacks like flies. That’s not news anymore.’
‘He says the soldiers are American. They’re shooting people lying on the ground. Seems like a whole village. It’s like an execution. Kids too.’
Colley moved his head around, light catching his dirty glasses. ‘What was the name again?’
‘Mackie.’
‘And he says people tried to kill him in his hotel in London?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s he want?’
‘Twenty grand.’
‘That’s it? Comes in, shows you the film, says he wants twenty grand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Generally, there’s a bit more mystery and foreplay. What’s your feeling about the film?’
‘Real. And awful. Some of the people might be identifiable.’
‘Soldiers?’
‘There’s a group near helicopters. Might be two civilians. He says someone who wanted to buy the film tried to kill him. When I said I needed time, he walked.’
‘Bluff.’
‘He was walking,’ said Caroline. ‘He was going. No doubt in my mind.’
‘Well, the walk. I’ve had walkers. Let them piss off, get to the lift.
Where’d you let him get to?’
‘Okay, I’m learning,’ Caroline said. ‘He’s ringing at one, he wants a yes or no. Should I take it to Halligan?’
She watched Colley scratch his head, a delicate operation. He’d had two kinds of hair transplants and a surgical procedure involving strips of his scalp being moved around, with strange results.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My view is that the proper thing to do is take this to Halligan immediately.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘if that’s your advice.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not. Twenty grand’s nothing. Is this a joint venture then?’
‘It is.’
‘Give me an hour. We can deliver this without Halligan and the fucking lawyers.’
21
…LONDON…
Niemand found a car hire firm in Clerkenwell, used his passport, the international licence, paid for seven days in cash, a ridiculous sum. He would be gone much sooner, but his instinct said to leave a margin. Hired killers had come for him in the night and he didn’t know how they found him.
He drove around for a few hours, places he knew from his runs. He wanted to be gone, London was full of rich people, he didn’t care about that one way or another, but the poor and the desperate were shamefaced, hiding in alleys and under bridges when they should be in the open, shaming the rich.
He parked and waited for 1 p.m., mobile on the passenger’s seat. He would go to Crete and stay with his cousin. Dimitri was like him, they looked alike, all the relatives said that when they’d come to look at him and his mother after their arrival from Africa. It had been late afternoon when they reached the village in the hills. The taxi dropped them in the square. His mother went somewhere and came back with two men, who took their suitcases. They’d all walked down some narrow broken streets and then it was all old women in black, men with moustaches, staring children, everyone seemed to pay more attention to him than they did to his mother. They didn’t look at her in the way they looked at him. He knew now they were looking at the other blood in him, they didn’t see a lot
of strange blood.
Dimi became his friend quickly, in hours, no one ever wanted to be his friend before. Dimi had to be dragged away that evening, was at the door the next morning to take him away, show him things. Dimi taught him how to fish, taught him the Greek swearwords, how to deal with the bigger boys at school, and how you could see the woman undressing if you crept out late, went over the roofs, dead quiet, like cats, and leaned dangerously over a parapet, holding on to a television aerial. He remembered the wait, the agony, the way she came and went, and the final delirious moments when she stood in their full sight, the pull of her petticoat over her head, the slither, the release of her big breasts, their lift and sag, the long dark nipples and the loaded bottom-heavy swing as she turned, tossed her hair, black hair, coffin-black and shiny.
Did she know they were watching?
He looked at his watch, his mind still on Crete, a boy leaning over a parapet in the warm barking night, engorged, pulse beating in his head, erection pressed against the rough surface like a spring-painful, pleasurable.
It was just on 1 p.m. He considered his plan. Careful was seldom wrong, everything he’d been through told him that. He found the piece of paper with the number, switched on the phone, and dialled.
‘Yes.’ The woman, Caroline Wishart.
‘It’s Mackie,’ he said. ‘Yes or no.’
‘Yes.’
‘Cash. I’ll need cash. Today.’
‘That’s very difficult,’ she said.
His didn’t like the sound of that, his hand needed something to do, opened the glove compartment. A McDonald’s packet, scrunched up, greasy. They had rented him an uncleaned car. He would buy a roll of shitpaper and block the air intake before he gave it back.
‘I’m going. Yes or no?’
‘Mr Mackie, the answer is yes but you must give me until tomorrow to get the money. I will get it, I promise you but I can’t until tomorrow. It’s very difficult to get a sum like that quickly in cash. But I will. I will. Please bear with me. Will you?’
Niemand hesitated but he believed her. ‘Okay, I’ll ring you tomorrow at twelve, at noon. Have it in a bag, a sports bag. In fifties.
Give me your cellphone number.’
She gave it to him.
‘Mr Mackie, how can we be sure…’
He told her where to be.
22
…WASHINGTON…
Above the tree line, the mountain was a cone of purest white and the sky behind it was grey, grey with darker streaks, the colour of the puffs of smoke that issued from the trees-a ragged line of puffs, one, two, three, four, five. When the sound of the incoming shells came to the ears of the men and boys watching in the village, they took shelter, casually, it wasn’t done to hurry, show any anxiety, not in front of the cameras, the journalists.
Scott Palmer looked at his empty whisky glass, didn’t resist the temptation. He went to the drinks table and poured two fingers of whisky and one of mineral water. There was no sleep without whisky, precious little with it. Sleep had gone with Lana. Before, really, he hadn’t been sleeping much for a long time.
The television camera was moving around trying to find artillery shells landing on the village, it found a hole in a roof, possibly an old hole, went to two men with cigarettes under their moustaches.
‘Don’t stay up all night.’
His son was in the doorway, head on one side, hair falling over an eye. Palmer looked at him and he felt the pulse of love in his throat. The boy was hopeless, twenty-four and still taking useless college courses, talking eco-nonsense, playing his guitar, surfing.
‘Finishing up, son,’ he said, showing the glass. ‘Long day.’
Andy came over and put his hands on Palmer’s shoulders.
‘Don’t work so hard,’ he said. ‘Where’s it get you? We ever going to play golf again? Feels like years.’
‘Soon,’ said Palmer. ‘Soon. We’ll take a decent break, go to the Virgins, play golf, sail.’
‘Count me in,’ said Andy. He ran a quick hand over his father’s hair. ‘Just that one right? Then you go to bed.’
Palmer nodded. When he looked around, Andy was at the door, looking back at him.
‘I used to say that to you,’ Palmer said.
Andy nodded, didn’t smile, a sadness in his look.
‘Goodnight, Dad.’
‘Goodnight, boy. Sleep tight.’
He put his head back, held whisky in his mouth, thought about Andy, about the day Lana drove the Mustang under a car transporter on Highway 401 outside Raeford, North Carolina, 2.45 in the afternoon. She was alone, leaving a motel, lots of drink taken.
Everyone knew who. Two years later, drinking with Ziller, they were old buddies, they’d been through shit together, Ziller said, ‘That day. Who was it?’
‘Seligson. But you know that.’
‘Never thought of killin him?’
‘Wife and a kid, a girl. What’s the point of two dead? And me doing life. Who’d look after Andy?’
The phone on the side table rang.
Palmer looked at his watch. He muted the television sound, let the phone ring for a while, cleared his throat.
‘Yes.’
‘General, I’m sorry if I’ve woken you. It’s Steve Casca.’
‘One forty-five? Asleep? Who does that?’
‘Sir, may I ask you to ring me back?’
Palmer put the phone down and dialled the number showing on the display. Casca answered after the first beep.
‘Thank you, sir. Sir, a minor Langley asset in London has contacted their resident. The asset’s been offered a film. US military personnel in action. Said to be filmed in Africa, some kind of massacre. That’s the asset’s term.’
‘Taken when?’
‘Not known, sir.’
‘What else?’
‘The tape has the numbers One, One, Seven, Zero. Eleven seventy, that is. On a label.’
Palmer closed his eyes. Eleven Seventy. No.
‘We can find nothing on that,’ said Casca. ‘We thought to ask if this might have meaning for you.’
The television was now showing a building with a third-floor balcony hanging away from the wall, hanging from one support. The double doors leading out to it had blown off. In the street, a crowd had gathered, policemen in kepis. It was a French city, possibly Paris.
‘Probably best not to take it any further,’ said Palmer. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll talk to some people.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
‘I’ll need the names, the asset and so forth.’
‘I can give you that now, sir.’
Palmer listened and wrote on the pad. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Steve, I don’t think you need to log this call.’
‘What call was that, sir? Apologies about the time.’
‘Sound instincts.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
‘Goodnight, Steve.’
He’d always thought well of Casca, even after the serial fuck-ups in Mogadishu. He’d behaved well in Iran, he’d showed his worth. Palmer put the television sound on again. The building was the Turkish embassy in Paris. Mortared, four rounds, possibly five. Mortared? An embassy in Paris? The whole world was turning into Iraq.
He muted the set again and dialled a number. Eleven Seventy. Would it never go away?
‘Yes?’
It was the boyfriend.
‘I need to speak to Charlie.’
‘I’m afraid…’
‘Palmer.’
‘Please hold, Mr Palmer.’
It took a while. People had worried about Charlie being a fag. But no one was going to blackmail Charlie. Anyway, faggotry had an honourable history in the service. British fags were another matter altogether.
‘Sir.’
‘Serious situation, Charlie,’ said Palmer. ‘Some things have to happen. I want you to arrange it now and I want you to go tonight and make sure everything’s neat. Neatness is important.’
‘Yes sir.’
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23
…HAMBURG…
Baader raised his eyebrows and puffed his cheeks. After a while, he expelled air and said, ‘You’re asking me?’
‘No,’ said Anselm. ‘I’m just going around exposing my personal life to anyone who’s breathing.’
‘When did you last ask anyone for advice?’
‘I had the idea I should change,’ Anselm said. ‘Clearly a very stupid idea.’ It was. He was already full of regret.
Baader looked unhappy. ‘Well, change, you’re almost normal these days. Except for the fingers. Just hung over. Christ knows how you run with a hangover. I can’t walk with a hangover.’
‘It’s my way of punishing myself,’ said Anselm. ‘You get women to cane you. I run. Should I talk to her?’
‘I should cane myself. No, that doesn’t work. Like massage, can’t massage yourself. Can you buy a caning machine? Do they have that?’
‘Everything. They have everything. Are you hearing me?’
‘Jesus, John, talk to her. What does she look like?’
Anselm hesitated. ‘Not like Freud,’ he said.
A smile from Baader, the sly-fox look. ‘Attractive, that’s what you’re saying, is it?’
‘The academic look, not necessarily my taste. The scholar. A certain primness.’ He used the word geziertheit.
‘Glasses?’ Baader was interested.
‘No. Well, yes.’
‘I like glasses. Black frames?’
‘Me, we’re talking about me. Less about you.’
Baader looked away, bent his head, scratched an ear. ‘To be serious,’ he said, ‘what the fuck would I know? The things that happened to you, I can’t begin to…Well, are you feeling okay?’
‘I’m feeling fine.’
‘The memory?’
‘Bits come back. It doesn’t bother me as much as it used to.’
‘Well, talking can’t hurt. You’ve never talked to me. Who did you talk to?’
‘I’m sorry I mentioned this. Paid Gerda? If not, I’m looking for another job.’
A hand in the air, a stop sign, gentle. ‘John, relax. Gerda’s paid, the landlord’s been paid, everyone’s been paid. We’re up to date on payments. I’m personally skinned but everyone’s been paid.’
