“Well, if I may suggest it, Binnie, your website is crap. I saw it yesterday and assumed that it was created by some kid with little or nothing to do with his life. If you want the media and the world at large to view you as a serious organisation, you need to get it fixed.”
“Thank you, Roger, I will arrange that.”
Jackson sips his coffee then puts a delicate question to Ahmed: “Your mission… Would it extend to killing me? You know, killing your old school friend?”
Ahmed gives a “maybe, maybe not” gesture, and looks away, embarrassed. Finally, he turns back to Jackson. “I’m about to send you back to your office,” he announces. “You can reveal my name, if you wish, as it will become known sooner or later, but it goes without saying that you must not reveal clues that might lead to my being traced. Is that understood?”
“I don’t see that I have a choice – even if I had the faintest idea where this house is.”
“Good. Then I’ll reward you with occasional tip-offs and maybe even a scoop interview for your beloved BBC.”
“How will I be able to contact you?”
“You can’t. I’ll contact you when I feel it’s necessary.”
Ahmed extends his hand and it is shaken uncertainly by Jackson.
“Goodbye, for now, my friend,” says Ahmed.
Jackson nods an acknowledgement. He turns to follow his captors from the room, but Ahmed has an afterthought: “Hey, I nearly forgot to ask what happened with Plink Plonk?”
Jackson laughs. “Best forgotten, I think. It was just the usual teenage fantasy.”
“So, you didn’t make it onto Top of the Pops?”
“No, we didn’t even get to make a record. Frankly, we were rubbish.”
“I have to agree with that, my friend,” agrees Ahmed with a smile.
Ahmed shakes Jackson’s hands with him a second time.
“I really wish you wouldn’t do this stuff, Binnie,” implores Jackson, weighed down by sadness at the thought of what will lie ahead for his friend and his potential victims.
“I also wish that things were different, but the die is cast, to use a well-worn cliché.”
They shake hands again and Jackson is led from the room.
******
Jackson is being returned to the bureau in the same car and by the same men who had snatched him off the street. Again, he is made to lie down on the seat, covered by a blanket. On arrival, the blanket is pulled from him and he is pushed from the car. He trips and crashes heavily onto the pavement. The passenger in the car throws Jackson’s phone after him, but he fails to catch it. It hits the ground hard and splinters. Jackson retrieves the bits and picks himself up as the car accelerates away.
Jackson’s brain is in a swirl as he goes up the stairs and braces himself for a likely volcanic reaction by Mack on his reappearance. Samira is the first to spot him and is both relieved and furious. “Oh my God! What happened to you? We’ve been so worried.”
Pete looks up from an editing suite and can’t resist a tactless joke. “Yeah, mate. And where are our fucking coffees?”
Jackson doesn’t respond as he watches Mack getting up from his desk and heading towards him. “Where the fuck have you been? And look at the state of you!”
Jackson hasn’t dusted himself down after his fall and he has a nasty graze on his face and there is blood on his hands: “I got lifted, Mack.”
“Who by?”
“Um, some Arabs who wanted to talk to me.”
“Did they beat you up?”
“No. They just wanted to talk to me.”
“Well, what’s all this?” Mack asks, pointing at the blood on Jackson’s face and hands.
“I tripped when they pushed me out of their car”. Samira comes over with the bureau’s First Aid kit and uses medical wipes to remove the blood from his face and his hands. “And by the way,” Jackson adds, “I’m going to need a new mobile.” He takes the broken one from his pocket and puts the bits on his desk for Mack to see. Mack is more concerned about the story than Jackson’s phone. “What did these guys want to talk to you about?”
“The guy who featured in my report the other night wanted to explain his reasons for engaging in war against us.”
“Same old bullshit, no doubt, and hardly worth reporting.”
Jackson disagrees. “What he told me is definitely worth reporting – and I do have his name.”
Mack is now interested again. “Oh, that’s better!”
“His name is Ahmed Faisel Bin Hassan and he’s a Londoner.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure.”
“Sure enough to name him on air?”
“Yes. We can name him with confidence.”
Mack is sceptical: “You may have the confidence, but I’ve got to convince London. We can’t get this wrong. You could’ve been told any old name and we could end up in deep shit libelling some innocent chap who’s had his identity stolen.”
“Trust me, Mack. I’m 100% sure. I have his age and I even know where he used to live in London.”
“How the hell did you learn this? Did he show you a passport or have some other proof of identity?
“He didn’t need to,” says Jackson.
Jackson worries that he has already revealed too much. He stalls for time. “Just give me a break, Mack. I’m shattered. Let me go home to freshen up, then we can resume this conversation when I come back.”
“Fuck that, laddie! This is a news organisation, not a social club. Just sit down at your desk and get cracking on a full account of what happened and how we should sell the story to London. Meanwhile, I’ll tip off the legal department so they can give some thought to how far we can go with this yarn.”
Mack heads back to his office with the parting words: “And don’t go overboard with the heroics. Just remember. This story is about Ahmed Whatshisname, not about you.”
Mack sits down at his desk, lights up a cigarette and picks up the phone.
Jackson turns to Samira: “Christ! Mack’s all heart, isn’t he! When those buggers snatched me I thought I was done for, or at least would be chained up in a cage somewhere.”
Samira puts a sympathetic arm around his shoulder. “Mack means you no harm. You’ve had a frightening experience, but this is small beer to what he went through last year. He was seized by local gangsters who were upset about a story he wrote exposing their corrupt links to a highly-placed politician.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, they put him through two mock executions and said he wouldn’t be released without a huge ransom being paid. He managed to escape when his overnight guard got pissed and fell asleep. He phoned the SAS team at the British Embassy and they dealt with the gangsters in the way they felt was appropriate, if you get my meaning.”
“Shit! Why wasn’t it on the news?”
“Mack’s an old-fashioned hack. He hates ‘celebrity journalism’. He thinks journalists should report stories, not be the story. He reckons that if they choose to put themselves at risk, they shouldn’t whinge if things sometimes go wrong. Mack just lights another ciggie, pours himself a large whisky and gets on with the job.”
It is a steadying message for Jacko. He starts writing his report and Samira makes him a strong coffee.
Half an hour later, Jacko is in Mack’s office with the requested report. Mack studies it calmly, most of his anger dissipated. He is not even smoking.
“This is interesting, Jacko, but mostly for what it doesn’t tell me. I’ve just had a chat with the solicitors in London and they caution us against naming this guy without strong supporting evidence.”
“Can’t I just name him and say that I’m not at liberty to say how I know this?”
“Mmm. You could, but it’s bloody risky and the London bosses get twitchy, wanting to be sure their backs are covered.”
Mack stares into the middle distance and silently chews over the options. He comes to a decision. “Right, I’m going to tr
ust you on this. I’ll tell London that you’ve given me the full story and that I am absolutely confident we can go with it. If our bosses want to know more, I will invoke ‘security reasons’ and insist the sources cannot go beyond me.”
“Thanks, Mack.”
“Let’s go with the story as you suggest, using the footage you have of Ahmed and where he’s said to have been living. Describe how the meeting took place, without over-dramatising it. I’ll do a separate package making an educated guess why the jihadists are suddenly taking an interest in this country.”
“Thanks again, Mack,” says Jackson as he gets up to return to his desk. He calls to Farouk to dig out Pete’s video taken of the riot and of the house where Ahmed had been living. The traumas of the past few hours are temporarily swept aside as he begins planning his report.
Mack wins the day with London and the reports are given prominence on the evening news bulletins and Newsnight. The phones ring incessantly as journalists from around the world seek more information and beg to be let into the secret of how Jackson obtained Ahmed’s name and background. Some offer substantial financial rewards. He rejects them all, despite the seductiveness of the sums being mentioned and threats of stories accusing him of making it all up.
Jackson packs up for the day and catches a taxi to his apartment. He is desperate for a shower, a stiff drink and a good night’s sleep, but he finds Thomas waiting for him outside in a British Embassy Bentley with darkened windows. Thomas gets out of the limousine and furiously demands to know why Jackson didn’t tip him off before the broadcast. “Some mate you are!” he shouts at Jackson.
“Knock it off, Thomas! I’m not obliged to tell you. And anyway, you now have the information, so what’s it matter?”
“It matters because he’s probably fled the country as a result of the publicity.”
Jackson shakes his head. “Pretty unlikely. I think you’ll find he’s here to stay for as long as it takes to carry out his mission, whatever that might be, or he’s killed.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I’m sure. Just believe me.”
Thomas calms down. “I hope you’re right. We really need to catch this bastard before he kills too many people.”
“Well that’s for you to do. It’s for me to report the truth as best I can. Just leave me be. I need to get some rest. It’s been a very hard day.”
“Righto. We’ll have a chance to talk about this again tomorrow. I believe you’re due to have dinner with us.”
“Yes. See you then.”
“Oh, and by the way, Jacko, you will be interested to learn that Stumpy Shortwood is most unamused by your revelations. He says he is going to demand that you be recalled to London.”
Jackson gives a sigh of resignation.
Thomas laughs. “Don’t worry, dear boy. I think he’ll be leaving Armibar before you do!”
CHAPTER 6
The bureau phones are still ringing every few minutes as the team gathers for the morning editorial meeting. Everyone is tired but exhilarated by yesterday’s scoop.
Mack dials the Foreign Desk and Mary Dunstan is again on duty. “Morning guys,” she declares cheerfully over the phone speaker, “nice little story you got yesterday. Congratulations.”
“Thanks, Mary,” chorus Mack and Jackson.
“Unless you’ve got anything more to reveal today, the emphasis of the story will be back here while we ferret around for some Foreign Office reaction and talk to Ahmed Bin Hassan’s old school and the people who now live at his old address. We’ll also be…” Mary has been interrupted by someone at her end. Muffled speech can be heard through her hand placed over the phone mouthpiece. A short while later she comes back on the line. “Er, chaps, Amanda Murphy wants a word.”
Mack and Jacko quietly groan. Amanda is from the Director-General’s office and is not someone to be messed with. “Morning all,” she declares, falsely cheerful and with a dollop of menace in her voice, “I hope you are all in top form after yesterday’s exertions?”
“Yes, thank you, everything is fine here, Amanda.”
“Good, good. Now, about this story of yours!”
“What about it?” enquires Mack defensively.
“Nothing to worry about, I’m sure, but the DG wants to be certain this isn’t going to lead to more uncomfortable issues on top of all the other things he has to deal with. I mean, the Daily Mail and the Daily Telegraph are already running stories implying that it’s a ‘beat up’ with little or no substance.”
“That’s no surprise,” replies Jackson, “they first tried to bribe me for more information, then when that failed, they warned they’d trash me.”
“Even so, Jackson, disturbing complaints are beginning to pour in. The papers have tracked down the only school in London that had an Ahmed Faisel Bin Hassan as a student. The headmaster is furious. He said the man shown in your report is most definitely not the one who attended his establishment. It’s a posh private school with many powerful friends and the head is particularly aggrieved about your man’s allegations of racism. The school now relies heavily on attracting wealthy students from the Middle East and the allegations have been financially damaging. The chairman of the school board, Sir Henry Daniels-Smith, is breathing fire and threatening to issue writs.”
“It’s definitely the right guy. I’m super sure of that!” snaps Jackson, still reluctant to admit his link to Ahmed and grateful that no-one has yet spotted his own connection to the school.
Amanda presses on: “Another thing: there are suspicions – and I put it no higher than suspicions – about where you said this Ahmed chappie lived in London. The right-wing media think it’s just too convenient that all the houses in that street were torn down and replaced by an apartment block and a supermarket about 15 years ago. So, you know, there’s no-one around who can remember who lived in those houses.”
“I don’t bloody care what’s happened to that street, that’s where he used to live,” Jackson explodes.
“Don’t get snippy with me, Jackson, we have broadcast your report in good faith without either you or Mack being able to prove that the chap you met – if you really did meet him – had not stolen some innocent person’s identity and spun you a string of lies.”
Jackson begins shouting. “Stop making the outrageous suggestion that I fake stuff!”
Pete Fox, who has been watching the exchange with some amusement, smiles to himself on hearing Jackson’s last statement. Thinking back to Jackson’s faked piece-to-camera after the riot, he begins to share Amanda’s doubts.
Mack tries to calm the exchange. “Look, Amanda, tell the DG I fully understand his concerns. I’m completely confident in our story. I’m sorry that we can’t tell you more about the background, but there is a ‘security issue’ here, which I’m sure the DG will understand.”
“Yes, Mack, I’ll tell him that, but I have to warn you all that you won’t get off lightly if this story unravels. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
Mary comes back on the line. “Well, that’s seems to be all that needs to be said for now. We’ll talk later.” She hangs up and Mack turns to Jackson. “Blimey, this story had better not turn to custard or I’ll be at the head of the queue to rip your balls off.”
“I think we should toss a coin for that privilege,” adds Pete with an edge to his voice.
As the meeting breaks up, Samira takes yet another phone call. She mouths to Jackson that it is his mother. He sighs and pauses before deciding to answer it. He does so without warmth. “Yes, Mother.” He listens. “Yes, I know my mobile isn’t working. I’m getting it replaced. Anyway, why are you phoning?” He listens. “Yes, of course my report is true. It wouldn’t have been broadcast otherwise.” He listens. “Oh for God’s sake, Mother, I’ve told you before that you should not read the bloody Daily Mail! It’s crap and has a very clear anti-BBC agenda.” He listens. “Yes, yes, I know that the Mail isn’t always wrong and you like it for its Fas
hion and Health sections, but it’s wrong in this instance. If you don’t stop going on about this, I’ll hang up on you again.” He listens for a few moments, then angrily ends the call and mutters to himself “bloody woman!”
Samira is offended. “That’s a shocking way to behave, Jacko.”
“Just be grateful she isn’t your mother, Samira!”
“She can’t be as bad as you make out. I really don’t like you when you talk to her in such a disrespectful way.”
“Sometimes I don’t like myself very much,” he admits, “but I don’t think that has anything to do with my mother.”
Jackson points to his wrecked mobile. “More importantly, I need you to get me another one of these before the day is out.”
“Can’t you see I’m busy! Get it yourself! The phone shop is just a few doors away.”
Jackson turns to Yassin who is sitting in the corner reading an English girlie magazine. “Do me a favour mate and get me a replacement phone. Samira will give you the money.”
Samira rolls her eyes in annoyance and gets some dollar notes from her petty cash drawer.
******
That evening, Jackson arrives by taxi at an imposing gated apartment block favoured by diplomats in Armibar. He is carrying a bunch of flowers. There is a guard box outside the building’s entrance. Sitting inside is a man wearing an unspecific military uniform and carrying a stubby automatic gun. Jackson shows his press pass and the guard presses a button opening the gate. Jackson enters, checks a board listing the tenants, then unhurriedly goes up the stairs, deep in thought.
Throughout the day, when not thinking about his unsettling adventure with school friend Binnie, he has been anxiously speculating the course his dinner might take with Felicity and Thomas Fulham. He hopes there will be no difficult moments. He and Felicity had been an item for nearly a year when they were at Oxford. He knew that if he had been better behaved, the two of them might still be together. He tries not to think of her being in bed with Thomas, a person he is never likely to admire.
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