******
Jackson is wearing a sober suit and tie as he arrives by taxi at the British Embassy. It’s a large Edwardian brick building with a high iron railing fence. He is frisked by an armed British military guard at the entrance gate and escorted into Reception. The young receptionist immediately recognises him. “Good morning, Mr Dunbar. I’m Katherine. I believe you have an appointment with His Excellency. I’ll see if he’s ready to receive you.”
The receptionist dials an internal number. “Oh hello, Jane. Mr Dunbar of the BBC is here for his meeting with Sir Gordon. I’ll get someone to escort him up.”
She puts the phone down, pushes a button on the desk to summon a guard and turns back to Jackson. “A security officer will be along in a minute or two,” then adds, “Congratulations on your reports on the riots the other day. It must have been very dangerous.”
Jackson feigns modesty: “It was okay. In our job one learns how to look after oneself.”
“Yes, I’m sure, Mr Dunbar. But congratulations all the same.”
******
A uniformed security guard escorts Jackson through a maze of corridors to a lift that takes them to an upper floor where he is met by the embassy press attaché, William Crawford. William ushers him into a vast, ridiculously-grand ambassadorial suite. Sir Gordon Shortwood, a man in his late fifties with an air of British public school entitlement, gets up from behind his large carved wooden desk and shakes hands with Jackson. He wears a dark three-piece suit more suited to a Gentlemen’s Club in London than the Middle East.
William takes a seat to one side of the room and discreetly switches on a hand-held audio note-taker.
“Nice to meet you in the flesh, Mr Dunbar” says Sir Gordon, “please take a seat.” He waves Jackson towards one of several large leather-bound chairs.
“I have, of course, been watching your reports with great interest. A nasty situation you found yourself in the other day, I see!”
“Yes, a bit tricky, Your Excellency.”
“Oh, no need for ‘Your Excellency’. Sir Gordon will suffice on these private occasions.”
“Thank you, Sir Gordon. And please call me Jackson.”
“Yes. Well, Jackson, how can I help?”
“As you know, I’m new on this patch, so I thought it would be useful if we could get acquainted and I could draw on your wisdom as a highly-regarded diplomat with considerable experience of the machinations in the Central Arabian regime.”
“Very nice of you to say so, Jackson. Yes, the truth is that I’m one of the better informed ambassadors in this region,” he says, unconsciously puffing out his chest.
Jackson takes a notebook from his pocket. His mobile phone rings. He glances at the screen, then turns off the phone. The interview begins.
CHAPTER 3
Back at the bureau, Mack wonders where Jackson is. “He’s not planning to come in until after lunch,” Samira tells him. “Who says?” asks an irritated Mack. “Who runs this bloody bureau? Him or me?”
“I tried phoning him,” she responds, “but he must be in a black spot. Do you want me to try again?”
“Don’t bother,” shrugs Mack, “just as long he gets here soon. Newsnight wants to clarify something in that package he did for them.”
“I’ll tell him as soon as he gets in,” says Samira.
******
Jackson’s off-the-record chat with Sir Gordon Shortwood comes to an end. The ambassador escorts him to the door of his suite. “Well, as I’ve said, there’s no doubt in my mind that eventually this regime will implode because of corruption, cronyism and incompetence. But for the time being, al-Qaeda and their jihadist conspirators are much more concerned with attacking Christian Europe and America. This place is of no interest to them.”
“That’s most useful guidance, Sir Gordon. I appreciate you sparing the time to brief me,” says Jackson. “Your background knowledge is immensely useful to a newcomer such as myself.”
Sir Gordon is suitably flattered: “Well, young man, I hope that I’ve been able to put you on the right track. May your posting to Armibar be both successful and enjoyable.”
Sir Gordon and Jackson shake hands and the security guard reappears to escort Jackson from the building. They are walking along a long corridor when Jackson spots Thomas in shirt sleeves down a side corridor, punching a number into a door security code.
“Hey, Thomas!” Jackson calls out, but Thomas doesn’t hear and disappears through the doorway. Jackson runs down to the door, but is pursued by the security guard. “Sir, Sir! Please come back immediately. You’re in a restricted area.” Jackson sees a sign “Authorised Personnel Only”. The guard firmly takes him by the arm and they return to the main corridor.
“What’s down there?” Jackson asks. “No idea, sir,” lies the guard, “it’s a separate division of the embassy.”
Back at reception, Jackson thanks the guard and goes to the receptionist. “Hello again, Katherine. Could you raise Thomas Fulham for me, please?”
She looks surprised. “Er, why would you need to see him? He doesn’t do interviews with the press.”
“Oh, we know each other and I was just going to say hello.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr Dunbar, but Mr Fulham isn’t able to see anyone without an appointment.”
“Really? It was just going to be a quick word about some, er, commercial matters,” he lies.
“Oh, well. You need to talk to Mr O’Brien about that.”
“Not Mr Fulham?”
“No, Mr O’Brien would be best.”
“Well, it’s Mr Fulham I was hoping to see.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr Dunbar, but I have strict instructions about this. If you wish, I’ll pass on a message to him that you called. I’m sure he will make contact with you as soon as he is able.”
Jackson gives up. “Well, thanks anyway,” he says as he heads for the exit.
Jackson is increasingly suspicious about the reaction of the receptionist. Once outside the embassy, he gets Thomas’s business card from his wallet and phones the number on his mobile. It is promptly answered: “It’s Jacko, Thomas. What game are you playing?” He listens to Thomas’s reply, then demands: “Yeah. Well, I think you’d better come clean with me.” He listens again, responds with a curt “right!” and pockets his phone.
******
Jackson crosses the road from the British Embassy and goes into a coffee shop. He orders two Arabic coffees and water and sits down at a discreet corner table. As the drinks are brought to him, he is joined by Thomas who takes a seat but doesn’t speak until the waiter has moved away.
“Look, dear chap, er Jacko, it’s very sensitive. I couldn’t just come right out and say what the situation really is. You’re a man of the world. You must know that.”
“I shouldn’t really be surprised,” admits Jackson, “the commercial attaché crap just didn’t fit.”
“The opposition intelligence people probably aren’t fooled either. It’s all a kind of game, you know, but with very serious intent.”
“What does Felicity feel about this?”
“Oh God!” exclaims Thomas, “I haven’t told Flip. It would be too much pressure for her. Too unsettling. To use a cliché, ‘ignorance is bliss’.”
Jackson shrugs his shoulders in a non-committal way and sips his coffee. Thomas looks around to check that he can’t be overheard and leans forward to Jackson: “Now that you’ve guessed what I’m really doing here, I’d like you to do me a little favour.”
Jackson is suspicious. “What sort of ‘little favour’?”
“Nothing much. It won’t involve you in anything other than showing me the full uncut video from that riot the other day.”
Jackson is still suspicious. Thomas tries to reassure him: “It won’t be a problem for you. Honest! I just need a quick look, then that’s it.”
“Okay,” says Jackson, “I’ll make an excuse to stay on at the bureau after the others have packed it in for the day, but do
n’t think I’ll make a habit of this!”
“Thanks. I owe you.”
******
Jackson takes a taxi to the bureau and as he arrives, he removes his tie, rolls it up and puts it in his jacket pocket. He strolls upstairs to the office to be greeted by an irritated Mack. “Thanks for coming in today, Jacko,” he says sarcastically.
Jackson doesn’t understand: “What’s the problem, Mack? I left you a Post It note before I finished up last night.” He points to a yellow bit of paper among the mess on Mack’s desk. “See. There it is!”
“Oh yes,” grumps Mack, “well, next time put your notes where I can’t miss them!”
“Will do,” Jackson replies, then adopts a faux casual tone: “Oh, by the way, I had a chat to the ambassador this morning.”
“Who? The British ambassador?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing talking to Stumpy Shortwood? That’s my job as the Chief of Bureau.”
“Oh, it was just by accident,” lies Jackson, “I was passing by the embassy and popped in to say ‘hello’ to William Crawford at the press office. He introduced me to Sir Gordon.”
“Did Stumpy tell you anything useful?”
Jackson shakes his head. “No, nothing really. Pompous old fart, I thought.”
“He is that,” agrees Mack, “but just remember relations with Stumpy are my responsibility.”
“Okay. Understood.”
Later, after the rest of the bureau have left for the day, Jackson logs onto the Towering Treasures Inc gambling website. He loses money fast and is cursing under his breath. There is a knock on the door and Thomas is there as arranged. Jackson hastily shuts down the gambling site. He and Thomas go to one of the video editing machines. “Right,” says Jackson, “Here’s what you’re after. What bits do you want to see?”
“I’m not sure,” replies Thomas, “but let’s start with the period just before the violence erupts.”
Jackson spools through to the requested section. There is some desultory chanting and banner-waving, then a group of about half-a-dozen men in full Arab dress with masks covering the lower part of their faces appear from a side street and discreetly join the protest.
“Stop it there,” says Thomas, “these are the jihadis, I’m sure. Let’s see it again.”
Jackson pushes the slow motion button and he and Thomas watch intently as the infiltrators work their way to the front of the crowd. One particular Arab appears to be issuing instructions. His mask slips from his face for a few seconds and Pete has instinctively zoomed in on it. Thomas becomes excited: “Hey! Stop it there! Oh yes! That’s him alright!”
“That’s who?” enquires Jackson.
“Don’t know yet, but he pops up from time to time, stirring the shit for all it’s worth.”
“He’s not one of the dead, then?”
“Hell no! Too cunning to get killed. Run the video a bit further and I bet we see him slip away just before the action gets under way.”
Jackson spools through the video and it confirms Thomas’s forecast. Just seconds before the grenades are thrown, the mystery man can be seen disappearing into a side street.
“Right, Jacko, let’s go back to that close-up your cameraman got.”
Jackson spools the recording back and freeze-frames the close-up. Thomas is ecstatic. “Brilliant! Give me a print of that.”
“Hang on,” shouts Jackson, “that’s not part of the deal. You said you just wanted to see the video, not take copies of any of it.”
“Sorry, mate, I really must have a print. It’s far and away the best shot we have ever seen of this nasty piece of goods. We must have it.”
Jackson sighs and sends a grab of the frame to a colour printer. Thomas snatches the print and studies it with unrestrained glee. “Fantastic! Just fantastic!”
Jackson studies the close-up and frowns: “There’s something vaguely familiar about him.”
“In what way?”
“Don’t know. Just vaguely familiar.”
“Think hard.”
“Maybe I might have seen him lurking in the background at some of the other demos recently.” He jokes: “See one and you’ve seen ‘em all.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” agrees Thomas with a laugh, “but if you do remember anything, let me know.”
They shake hands as Thomas prepares to leave with his prized print. “I owe you, Jacko, and on this topic, let me give you a tip that you’re wasting your time with Stumpy Shortwood. He’s just a pompous not-of-this-age jobsworth diplomat at the end of his career. On the other hand, I see and hear things that could be really useful to you.”
“What’s the quid pro quo?” Jackson asks suspiciously.
“Nothing, dear b... Nothing that would cause you problems. We just discreetly scratch each other’s back a little and everyone’s a winner.”
“That’s a tricky road to go down, Thomas.”
“Oh, c’mon, Jacko. Lighten up.”
They shake hands again and Thomas leaves. Jackson takes a second print of the grab and puts it in a drawer in his desk. He reopens the gambling page. He is about to resume playing, but pauses, then logs off with a sigh. It pleases him to know that he has done that, as he has already lost too much money – money that he can’t afford. He shuts down his computer, checks that the video player and other equipment have been switched off, turns out the lights and leaves, pulling the door behind him.
******
Jackson returns to his flat, switches on the TV, sticks a ready-made pasta meal in the microwave, pours himself a beer and boots up his computer. He types “gambling” into the browser and selects the Gateway to Greenbacks site that offers free registration and the enticement of a $US50 as start-up money.
The microwave pings and Jackson takes out the pasta. He chooses a plate and a fork from among the dirty dishes in a pool of sludge in the sink, and gives them a quick rinse under the tap. The pasta is emptied onto the plate and he takes it back to the computer.
Jackson studies the computer screen, knowing that he has already lost money gambling that day. He rationalises his desire to register with this site by convincing himself that he will stop if he loses the “free” $50. He discovers that he cannot claim the $50 without first paying in $100 of his own money. He decides to go ahead anyway and gets out his credit card. He types in his number and other details, but it is rejected. He gets out his debit card. He begins typing in its details, but common sense prevails and he shuts down the page.
Jackson switches on a wildlife documentary on the TV as he eats his meal and sips his beer. He returns the empty plate and fork to the sink sludge, and opens a battered address book beside the phone. He dials a number under something called the Zing Zing Club.
“Hi, it’s Jackson. Is Zareena available tonight?” He listens to the reply. “Okay. That’ll be fine. Just time to have a shower.” He listens again. “Terrific. Um, just one other thing. I didn’t get a chance to go to the bank today, so don’t have much cash on me. Okay if it goes on my tab?” Listens again. “Oh, c’mon. You know you’ll get your money. I’ve never let you down, have I?” He listens again. “Okay, okay! Just a straight massage tonight, and I will definitely settle up with Zareena next time.”
Jackson hangs up the phone with a troubled sigh, pours himself another beer and turns on the shower. He knows that he has to get a grip on his life, but tonight, he will settle for a massage from the lovely Zareena.
******
Next morning Jackson turns up at the bureau and finds himself immediately summoned into Mack’s office.
“I saw Stumpy Shortwood at an American Embassy reception last night,” says Mack, lighting his umpteenth cigarette of the morning.
“Oh,” responds Jackson, trying not to be defensive, “did he give you a story?”
“No, but it soon became clear that it was a cock ‘n’ bull yarn about how you met him!”
“Well, I was taken to meet him by William Crawford.”
�
��Yes, but you know that’s less than half the truth.” Mack waves a finger in Jackson’s face. “Let me make it very clear to you, laddie, I’m the fucking boss here and I will not tolerate colleagues who go behind my back. Do you understand that, Jacko? Do you fucking understand?!”
“Well, I just thought you wouldn’t mind,” Jackson replies without conviction.
Mack becomes even angrier, his Glaswegian accent getting broader by the second. “I do fucking mind. I really do. We’re supposed to be a team here. I admire ambition, but not at my expense, or at the expense of the rest of the team. Don’t you forget that you’ve a whole career ahead of you and I can make or break it. Do you fucking understand, laddie?!”
“Yes. Sorry Mack. Really sorry.”
Jackson is shaken by the ferocity of the dressing down. He hates to admit it, but he knows that Mack is right, although he regards the intensity as an over-reaction.
The rest of the team come in for the morning editorial meeting. Once again, it is Mary on the line from London. Mack puts her on his speaker: “Right, Mack, what’s on offer today?”
“Nothing huge, Mary. There’ve been some fairly minor incidents we’ve been covering for World Service, but nothing outstanding. A few minor explosions and some routine arrests, but I sense the tension is growing. The British ambassador has agreed to do an on-the-record TV and radio interview today on what he sees is the cause of the growing tensions here.”
“Mmm. Stumpy Shortwood? Not a very exciting bloke, as I understand it.”
“True, Mary, but he has long experience of this patch, and I reckon that with a bit of prodding I can get something lively from him. It’s important, too, that we keep him on side.”
“Okay. Let’s see how it goes. Probably won’t make the Ten, but Newsnight and World News might pick it up if he reveals anything substantial.”
“Fair enough, Mary. Talk to you tomorrow.”
Mack ends the call and turns to Pete, who is wearing a T-shirt displaying two cartoon kangaroos wearing boxing gloves and having a fight. “For Christ’s sake, Pete, change into something more appropriate for the ambassador!”
The Mortal Maze Page 3
