Pete grins. “Well, I’ve got this great shirt with Kylie Minogue looking fabulously sexy. I’m sure Stumpy will lust over that.”
“Hah, bloody hah,” retorts Mack, in no mood for jokes. He turns to Jackson: “What’s on your plate today?”
“I need to catch up with my expenses first of all, and I want to check out some rumours that al-Qaeda is taking an increasing interest in Central Arabia.”
“Okay, it’s possible, I guess, but nothing has come my way to suggest that it’s the case. They’re too tied up elsewhere. As for your expenses, laddie, I know you’re always a bit short of the readies, but don’t make them too much of a work of fiction, eh!” he says with a knowing smile.
******
An hour later, Jackson finishes his expenses and hands them to Samira. It is her job to check them before presenting them to Mack for his signature. Samira takes a quick look . “Mmm. Just $450 this time – and you’ve even got a few receipts. Congratulations!”
Jackson accepts the teasing. “I mustn’t push my luck, you know. But I’d like you to put them through as quickly as you can.”
“I’ll do what I can,” agrees Samira, “but I don’t understand why you’re always short. You’re on good money – a darned sight better than I am.”
“I’ve got a lot of commitments,” he says, trying to come up with a plausible explanation. “I bought a flat in London, not realising that the market was about to slip, and the mortgage and other things have been eating into my earnings.”
Samira accepts this as the truth. “That’s bad luck. I know a few people who’ve got caught like that.”
“And there was another problem,” said Jackson, unable to stop enhancing his tale of woe, “I had a tenant who trashed the place and did a runner, leaving me with huge bills.”
“Yes, bad luck,” Samira repeats, “my parents also had serious financial problems when they were ripped off after they fled to England from Iraq. You have my sympathy. I’ll get Mack to sign them as soon as he gets a moment.”
Jackson is embarrassed and disgusted with himself that he has fraudulently generated Samira’s sympathy.
CHAPTER 4
Mack comes out of his office, wearing a jacket and tie. Both are typically crumpled, but he knows that Pete won’t make him look too bad in the short periods he will be in shot. He calls to Pete, who is at a desk with his camera kit. “Right, let’s go and see what Stumpy has to say!”
Yassin, who has been reading from a pile of Arabic and English magazines he keeps in the corner of the room, stands up to drive them to the destination. Mack instructs Yassin to fuss about as Pete’s lighting assistant when they get to the embassy. Then, as an after-thought, he turns to Farouk, who is in the middle of editing a video. “Leave that for now, Farouk, and come with us. It doesn’t matter what you do, just look as though it’s important. It’ll flatter old Stumpy rotten if we turn up with a four-man team.”
Mack notes that Pete is now wearing a plain blue open-necked shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. “Well, that’s better. I suppose it’s too much to ask if you have a tie?”
“Not one that would meet with your approval,” Pete grins.
“Oh well,” says Mack with a sigh, “it’s better than your usual Bondi Beach cast-offs. I’ll explain to His Excellency that you are colonial Australian and know no better.” Pete laughs.
The team leaves and Jackson returns to his desk. He takes the print of the grab from the riot video from his drawer, studies it for a while and remains baffled why it unsettles him. He gives up thinking about it and returns it to the drawer.
The bureau phone rings and Samira takes the call. “BBC Armibar. Samira Lang speaking.” She listens. “Yes, Mr Dunbar is here. Who will I say is calling?” She listens. “Well, I will see if I can interrupt him.”
Samira calls to Jackson. “There’s some guy with a posh voice wants to speak to you. He won’t give his name. He says he’s an old university friend.”
Jackson picks up the call on his desk phone. It is Thomas, but he doesn’t let on to Samira. “Fancy hearing from you, er, Bill. What are you doing in this town?” He listens. “Well, it would be nice to catch up with you. There’s a coffee shop across the road from the British Embassy. Do you know where that is?” He listens. “Fine. We can meet there in about half an hour.” Jackson hangs up and turns to Samira. “I'd better go and see this guy. He’s here for only a short period. If I’m not back when Mack returns, tell him that I’m checking out the al-Qaeda angle.
Samira tuts. “Why do you always feel compelled to talk bullshit, Jacko? I’ll just tell him the truth – that an old mate has turned up in town and you’ve gone to have a coffee with him.”
Jackson shrugs. “Whatever. I’ll be on my mobile if I’m needed.”
******
Fifteen minutes later, Jackson gets out of a taxi and goes into the coffee shop across from the British Embassy. Thomas is waiting for him at a discreet corner table. He is sipping a coffee and has a second one awaiting Jackson.
Jackson takes a seat: “Well, what have you got for me?”
Thomas produces the grab from the riot video: “I thought you might like to know that this nasty bag of excrement has quite a track record. My colleagues in London recognised him straight away. He appeared from nowhere a few months ago, but has already been linked to al-Qaeda operations in several countries.”
“So, who the hell is he?”
“We can’t put a name to him yet, but he seems to understand Western ways better than most. We reckon he is probably a convert.”
“Mmm. Could be. Converts are often the worst.”
“Yes, no doubt about that, Jacko.”
Jackson studies the photo: “What’s he doing here, do you reckon?”
“Can’t be sure, but there is more Western investment here than most people realise, now that so much of the Middle East seems to want to go back to the dark ages. Hence, this place could be the newest target for those twisted buggers who want to destroy our society.”
Jackson agrees and sips his coffee as he reflects on what might happen now. “I don’t suppose your people have any idea where he’s hiding?”
“Well, if we did, I wouldn’t be sitting here chatting to you,” says Thomas with a smile, “but we do know where he was until yesterday.”
“Christ! How did you find that out?”
“Look, Jacko, we’re not as incompetent as you guys think. We just missed the bastard by a whisker.”
“Had he been tipped off, or something?”
“No, nothing like that. He’d just popped down the street to buy some cigarettes a few minutes before the raiding party arrived. As he returned, he spotted our armoured vehicles and scarpered. Extraordinary good luck for him; extraordinary bad luck for us.”
Jackson now sees a story in the making: “Can I use any of this?”
“You can not only use it, here’s the address you’ll need.”
Thomas hands Jackson a slip of paper. Jackson immediately recognises the address: “Shit! That’s just down the street from the apartments where Pete and I live.”
“I know,” says Thomas with a smirk, “your neighbourhood obviously isn’t as classy as you think.”
“Obviously not,” agrees Jackson, “but it’s still a surprise that he would have been holed up in our residential area.”
“Not really, Jacko, less likely to be noticed in a well-to-do area than a slum. It also reinforces other information that he’s quite comfortable among the educated middle classes and not some half-arsed petty criminal who’s been radicalised while in prison.”
Jackson is now most intrigued and thanks Thomas for the tip-off.
“Just a little thank you for the help you gave me the other day. Just make bloody sure that it can’t be traced back to me.”
Thomas finishes his coffee and heads for the exit. Jackson studies the address for a minute or two, wondering how best to act on this information. He comes to a decision and phones Pete who, h
e learns, has finished the Stumpy Shortwood interview and has gone back to his apartment.
“I’ll be there in 10 minutes,” Jackson tells Pete, “we have another job to do.”
When Jackson turns up at the apartments, he finds Pete in a poor mood: “Jeez, Jacko! What’s this all about? I thought I’d finished for the day.”
“Stop complaining, this could be a terrific story.”
“Does Mack know about it?”
“Not yet. It might not come to anything and, anyway, he won’t want to be interrupted while he’s editing the Shortwood interview.”
******
It is late evening on the same day and Mack is relaxing in his apartment above the bureau. It has been a good day and London was reasonably pleased with what he extracted from Stumpy. He and wife Joan are enjoying an old episode of Dad’s Army on the TV. She has a glass of wine, while he smokes a cigar and has his usual whisky. Like Mack, Joan is Glaswegian and about the same age, but better preserved. Despite Mack’s notoriously-grumpy behaviour, she remains immensely fond of him and enjoys the variety of life abroad. She and Mack met when he was a young Glasgow Daily Herald reporter sent to interview her about the first of several historical novels she has written over the years. They were unable to have children, but rationalised that this was probably a good thing for a couple with unsettled professional careers.
Dad’s Army comes to an amusing end and Joan announces that she is off to bed.
“Righto, Hen,” says Mack, “Won’t be long. I just want to see where they run my Shortwood interview.” He turns to World News as the Newsnight signature is played and goes to the drinks cabinet to pour himself a final nightcap.
Mack has his back to the TV as he casually pours his drink and adds a smidgen of mineral water. His serenity abruptly switches to disbelief, then rage, as he hears a headline declaring that “the BBC has learned that a leading al-Qaeda activist has turned up unexpectedly in the troubled Middle Eastern state of Central Arabia. We have the full story from our correspondent Jackson Dunbar in Armibar”. Mack spills his drink down the front of his shirt as he swings around to look at the screen.
“Good God!” Mack shouts as he watches a montage of images flash across the screen. He sits down, his jaw having dropped, literally. He is temporarily speechless. He instinctively reaches for the phone to dial Jackson, but realises that before he relieves Jackson of his testicles, figuratively speaking, he needs to see the story. His torment is exacerbated by having to watch presenter Bill Smythe make a leisurely tour of the other stories that will be appearing later in the show.
At last Jackson is introduced and appears on the screen with a pre-recorded piece-to-camera in which he stands outside an apartment block in the street where he lives:
Less than 48 hours ago, a man seen as potentially one of the most dangerous al-Qaeda terrorists in the Middle East was living quietly in this street and in this ordinary-looking apartment block. He is now believed to have moved to another safe house. We don’t know where, but we can exclusively reveal what he looks like, as we filmed him a few days ago, directing a group of men armed with guns and grenades who infiltrated an initially-peaceful demonstration in this city.
The report cuts to a clip from the riot film, freezing on the close-up of the terrorist. Jackson continues his report over the freeze frame: “I have not yet been able to establish who this person is, but intelligence sources are convinced that he is a high-ranking member of al-Qaeda and that he has been involved in major terrorist acts in several countries.”
Jackson appears back on the screen:
I spoke to several people living in this apartment block. They don’t wish to appear on screen but confirmed to me that the man had been living unobtrusively in the block until a day or so ago when a raid was carried out by a team of unknown persons, believed to be American or British military people. I am told that the raid was unsuccessful because the terrorist had gone out to buy some cigarettes from a local shop and was able to escape when he returned to see the raiding party entering his block.
Mack has heard enough – more than enough -- and as Jackson continues his report, he picks up the phone and stabs the fast-dial button for Jackson’s home number. He gets the answering machine, so he tries the mobile number, but again no answer.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” rages Mack. Joan reappears in the room in her nightdress, startled by her husband’s outburst.
“What’s wrong, Mack? What’s wrong?”
“Look at that!” he replies, pointing to the TV.
“Look at what? It’s just Jacko.”
“It’s not ‘just Jacko’. That little shit has gone and dumped me in it.”
At this point, the cameras cut back to Bill Smythe:
Well, Jackson Dunbar’s report will surely come as a shock to Britain’s ambassador in Armibar, Sir Gordon Shortwood, as earlier in the day he told our chief correspondent, Mack Galbraith, that he was confident there was no outside involvement in Central Arabia’s recent troubles.
Stumpy Shortwood appears on the screen beaming with arrogant confidence:
There’s absolutely no doubt that the root causes of the troubles here is deeply-embedded corruption and a power struggle within the regime. Some ministers are anxious to align themselves more with the West while others want the country to remain 100% Arab and Muslim.
Mack hurls his whisky glass at the TV. It misses and shatters the glass front to Joan’s prized crystal cabinet.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mack, look what you’ve done!” Joan shouts. She goes to the cabinet and finds that a Chinese figurine is broken. She holds it up for Mack to see: “That was given to me by Granny McPherson!”
“Oh jings, Hen, I’m really sorry, but Jacko has really over-reached himself this time.”
Mack tries Jackson’s phone again, but all he gets is an answering machine announcement. He rings Pete’s mobile and this time it is answered. Mack doesn’t bother with opening pleasantries: “What do you know about this al-Qaeda package that just been aired?” he demands.
“Yeah, I filmed it for Jacko late this afternoon. Good story, boss.”
“Why wasn’t I told about it?”
“Buggered if I know, Mack. That’s Jacko’s job!”
“Look laddie, don’t get arsey with me! Even if you don’t see it as your job, you must have known that it dumped all over everything in my interview with Stumpy Shortwood. Weren’t you listening to what he said?”
“Not really. I was too busy getting the filming right and, anyway, he’s such a boring bastard.”
“Well, what about Farouk? Didn’t he spot the contradictions when he edited Jacko’s package?”
“Dunno, Mack. He probably thought it was none of his business.”
By now, Mack is not just angry but mightily frustrated: “I’ve been trying to get hold of Jacko. Do you know where he is?”
“Sorry, not the faintest. He borrowed a hundred bucks from me and said he was going out for the rest of the evening.”
“I’m seriously pissed off by all of you,” roars Mack, as though that wasn’t already blindingly obvious, “and I want to see you all in my office at 8.30 before I have to talk to London.”
******
There is a good reason why Mack has been unable to contact Jackson. He is in a rather shady part of town with very poor mobile signal cover. Not that Jackson is inclined to answer any calls at the moment. He is in an illegal gambling den, engaged in a game of poker that requires his total attention. He is competing at a round table with half a dozen Arabs, some in traditional dress while others are in smart casual Western outfits.
The den is run by a small, tidy hard-eyed man with a neatly-trimmed short beard. He is about 40 and always wears expensive white suits without ties. He calls himself Archibald, but no-one believes that is his real name. His Arabic suggests he is Moroccan, but he speaks English with an accent that appears to have been acquired by watching old black-and-white movies made in Britain in the 1940s. “Archibald”
is never seen anywhere without two heavily-built and armed clean-shaven Arab guards, wearing traditional dress and a thug’s trademark oversize sun glasses.
Jackson is on a winning streak and has converted the $100 borrowed from Pete into a bundle totalling at least five thousand dollars. His heart pounds with the excitement and his skin has a pleasant tingling that comes with addiction. Suddenly, he scoops up his money and stands up, declaring that he wants to take a break. The Arab players protest that he isn’t giving them a chance to win back at least some of their losses. “Don’t worry,” he announces in Arabic, “I’ll be back soon to relieve you of even more of your precious dollars.”
The Arabs continue to protest, but Jackson brushes aside their complaints. He counts out a thousand dollars and puts it on the table as an assurance that he will be back. “I shall return – just as soon as I’ve fulfilled a little engagement next door,” he says with a wink. The Arabs laugh knowingly and their grumbles subside.
A few minutes later, Jackson is next door, still in ebullient mood. He walks into a discreetly-lit room decorated with erotic paintings and photographs never likely to have the distinction of being displayed in an art gallery. Arabic music plays softly in the background. He is greeted by an Arab woman aged about 50, wearing smart western dress and sitting at a small desk. She addresses him in precise English and in the traditional Arab way, as “Mr Jackson”, rather than “Mr Dunbar”: “Welcome back, Mr Jackson. Nice to see you again. Are you here to settle your account, or to be entertained, or both?”
“Good evening, Leila. I’m here to do both. Is Zareena in tonight?”
“She was about to leave, but I am sure she will be delighted to stay on a little longer for her favourite client.”
“That’s good. She’s my favourite too,” he says with a genuine smile.
Leila picks up the phone on her desk and dials an internal number: “Zareena. Your friend from the television is here and will be along in a minute.” She turns to Jackson with her hand out: “First, let’s deal with the little matter of your debt.”
The Mortal Maze Page 4
