Mack’s response is laced with ill-disguised sarcasm. “Yes, Amanda, they are both highly respected in certain sections of the population at large, but the corporation also has a professional responsibility to provide a depth and richness of insight that only a correspondent based on a patch can provide. I, myself, do not see us as a ‘brand’. It is, as our founder, good Lord Reith, would agree from his grave, a public service broadcaster with the emphasis on ‘service’, not on ‘celebrity’.
“This is obviously a conversation for another time, Mack,” Amanda responds acidly, “but meantime, I have been asked by the Director-General to pass on his praise for the dedication and courage shown by Jackson Dunbar and his cameraman Peter Fox. The DG has issued a statement to the press to that effect. He also asks that I convey to you the need not to put yourselves unnecessarily in harm’s way. It was noted that Mr Dunbar was not wearing the regulation flak jacket when he filmed his piece-to-camera last night.”
This is too much for Mack. “Stop it Amanda! Just bugger off back to your posh office and get on with whatever you overpaid, over-important bureaucrats seem to do each day – shuffling bits of paper around your desk, attending pointless meetings and lunches and messing about with the lives of the people who do the real work – the broadcasters.”
Amanda is deeply offended. “I am choosing to ignore your intemperate remarks, Mr Galbraith. I will put them down to the stresses you have obviously undergone in recent days. On this occasion, I will not convey to the DG or others on the board of management just how rude you have been. Please do not show such disrespect on future occasions, otherwise there will be consequences.”
Mack terminates the call.
“Great stuff, boss,” says Pete, holding up his hands like a sportsman who’s just scored, “I really enjoyed that.” And so, it seemed, did all the others in the room.
“Well, she really gets on my tits, that woman,” says Mack, “but she’ll probably see that I pay dearly for this insubordination at a time of her choosing. When I calm down I’ll call Harry back and sort out today’s coverage.”
The editorial meeting breaks up, but Jackson and Pete are asked to stay behind. Mack wants to be assured that they have not suffered any long-term physical or mental consequences from yesterday’s event. “Would you guys like the day off? I’ve got all the pooled stuff for a package and Farouk is okay with a camera if I need extra film.”
“I think I’d prefer to keep working, if you don’t mind,” says Jackson, “I don’t see much point us just sitting around doing bugger all and thinking too much about yesterday.”
“I agree, boss,” says Pete.
“Well, don’t go pushing yourselves to the brink.”
“We’ll be fine, Mack,” Jackson assures him, with nodded agreement from Pete.
“Good. There’s one thing I wanted to ask you, Jacko. Why did you want me to back off the al-Qaeda angle last night? It seemed solid enough, but I did as you said and left a question mark over the possibility.”
“I can’t go on record with this, but I had a very brief call from Ahmed Bin Hassan denying it was his lot. He hung up before I could get any more information, but he could have been telling the truth. If it were al-Qaeda or one of their affiliates or imitators, we should have heard from them by now. More importantly, Pete and I are wondering why the suicide bomber didn’t have his rucksack packed with nails and ball bearings and so forth.”
“Mmm. Good point,” muses Mack, “and there’s another issue we should keep in mind for the future. It looks as though the reason you couldn’t use your mobiles was because the only public network – the one owned by a corrupt business associate of President Hasani -- was switched off for several hours last night. I’d better order some more portable satellite phones from London, so we don’t get caught next time there’s a crisis.”
Jackson and Pete nod their agreement.
Jackson’s mobile rings. It’s Thomas Fulham wanting to talk. Jackson gets Mack’s permission to go for a short coffee break with his “university friend”.
CHAPTER 9
Jackson and Thomas sit at their usual table in the café across from the British Embassy. Thomas is anxious to know how Jackson is but, in truth, his main concern is that had Jackson been killed he would have lost a most useful and developing contact. He tells Jackson that he had witnessed what happened with the suicide bomber, but from a safe distance. “Sorry that I didn’t go to your aid, but I could see that you already had help, and to be honest, it shook me up a bit.”
“Not really a surprise, I guess. It was a nasty thing to witness.”
“It wasn’t only that. It just brought back memories of the Taliban bomb that nearly blew off my leg in Afghanistan.”
Thomas discreetly pulls up his left trouser leg and shows Jackson a deep scar running the length of his calf.
Jackson winces. “So that’s why you walk with a bit of a limp.”
“Yes, and it’s why I was invalided out of the marines and transferred to military intelligence.” Thomas rolls down his trouser leg. “I convinced myself that there was nothing to be gained last night by sticking around the mosque. I went back home to make sure Sam and Sophie were settled down in bed and to finish the dinner that Flip had cooked for us.”
Arabic coffees and water are brought to their table and Thomas turns the conversation to speculation about what was behind the attack on the mosque. “No doubt that it was your contact, Ahmed Faisel Bin Hassan.”
“Not sure about that, Thomas.”
“Why not? That’d be the most obvious way to do it if he’s trying to make a name for himself and his so-called Soldiers of Allah group.”
“That’s my point, Thomas. So why haven’t they laid claim to it? There’s been nothing given to the media and their new website says nothing. And there’s another oddity about last night’s attack. Why did that suicide bomber not have a proper belt packed with stuff that would have killed me?”
“I don’t know the answer to that, but you shouldn’t assume that just because a group doesn’t claim responsibility for something it doesn’t mean they didn’t do it. There are sometimes internal reasons for not making a claim – or even denying it. I can think of at least one incident in Afghanistan where an operation was carried out without the approval of the leadership, so it was never admitted and the bombers were quietly taken aside and shot.”
“That may be so, Thomas, but take a tip from me. Don’t waste time on the al-Qaeda angle.”
Thomas is suspicious. “Are you keeping something back from me?”
Jackson shakes his head. “I’m just letting you have the benefit of my instincts, based mainly on the meeting with Binnie when he had me lifted.”
“Binnie?” asks Thomas.
Jackson is flustered at his slip. “Sorry. I mean Bin Hassan. I’m so tired I can’t think straight.”
Thomas thinks it may be more than a slip of the tongue and makes a mental note.
Jackson turns the conversation around to what Thomas and his intelligence colleagues have learned about the mosque bombing.
“Not much, if you want the truth,” Thomas replies, “but we’re being hounded by HQ in London to give the matter priority. Anything you can help us out with will be gratefully received – and suitably rewarded, of course.”
“Well, I’ve already told you that I think you should be looking elsewhere for the culprits. Ask yourself why the Soldiers of Allah would attack a mosque? My assessment is that they are anti-western and not involved or interested in stirring up conflict between the various permutations of Islam. I’m going to sniff around the possibility that the Israelis are involved. I think you should do the same.”
“Yes, but there are limits to how much digging around I can do with them. Anything involving them is hugely sensitive, hugely political. The Israelis and the West have conflicting interests in this country. While we want it to remain stable, for political and commercial reasons, the Israelis like to keep their neighbours on edge.
They want to be the only stable country in the region because that allows them to continue to dominate it.”
“I have the same problem with London if any story involves the Israelis,” says Jackson. “If we broadcast anything the Israelis don’t like they’re banging on the DG’s door before you can say ‘anti-Zionist scum’. I’ve got to have rock solid evidence and let’s face it, that’s unlikely to come my way.”
Jackson checks his watch. “I’ve got to get back to the bureau,” he says, gulping down his coffee, despite it now being tepid and hardly drinkable. “Give my regards to Felicity and tell the kids that I will read to them when I see them next.”
“Yes, I will get Felicity to make another attempt at having you around for dinner.”
“Good. I’ll leave you to pay for the coffee. Sorry, but I don’t have any cash on me.”
Thomas takes a sip from his coffee, screws up his face, and decides to leave the rest of it. He puts an American dollar note under the saucer and follows Jackson from the café.
******
Back at the bureau, Mack and Farouk are at the editing desk assembling their package for the evening bulletins. Pete is cleaning his beloved camera, Samira is working at her computer and Yassin is at his usual spot in a corner, smoking and flicking through some English-language sports magazines.
Smoke from Yassin’s cigarette drifts across Samira’s desk, causing her to frown. “Do you have to smoke those shocking French cigarettes? Between you and Mack, this place stinks.”
“Mr Mack says it’s okay,” he shrugs.
“Yes, well he would, wouldn’t he,” she groans.
Jackson arrives back and goes to his desk to check his emails. “Anything new?” he asks of no-one in particular.
“Yes indeed,” declares Mack, “Pete’s just come back with some new film of the mosque. We’ve got something to show you.”
“Oh?”
“First of all let’s look at Pete’s film of your piece-to-camera last night.”
Pete puts his camera down and joins them at the editing desk. He plays the final seconds of the film in slow motion. “Right, Jacko. Watch carefully how the guy goes down as he’s raked with bullets. He topples backwards, probably because of the weight of the rucksack, which explodes as it hits the ground.”
“Yes, I see that. But what’s your point?”
“The point is, mate, that if he had fallen forward, you would definitely be dead meat now. And I’ll show you why.”
Pete cues up a section of the video he shot today when he returned to the mosque. “See that fucking great hole in the ground? Well, that was caused by the rucksack exploding downwards, instead of into the crowd.” He spools through to a close-up of the hole. “And see all the silver bits glinting in the sun? Well, they’re the nails and ball bearings that were supposed to kill everyone within a range of 20 or 30 metres.”
Jackson now gets the point and goes cold as he considers how close he came to being killed. He sits down, gasping for breath and on the edge of a panic attack. Samira hurries over and puts a consoling arm around his shoulders. He begins to cry. She reaches for tissues from his desk and wipes his tears. As she does, she begins to weep.
“Oh, bugger me, guys,” exclaims Pete, “don’t go all weepy on me. Just think what lucky bunnies we are. We should be celebrating. We should be buying tickets in the lottery. With our luck, we’re certain to win the big prize.”
Pete’s bravado fails him and he finds that he, too, is wiping away tears. Mack pats Jackson on the shoulder and as tears well up in his eyes. He retreats to his office where he won’t be seen. Both Farouk and Yassin look away in embarrassment at this flood of emotion by the Westerners.
Mack phones the nearby coffee shop and orders a delivery of best Arabic coffee for everyone. By the time it turns up about 15 minutes later, emotional equilibrium of sorts has been restored and he calls everyone into his office for an editorial meeting.
He turns first to Pete. “Righto, laddie. What did you learn when you went filming at the mosque this morning?”
“Apart from what I discovered about the close shave that Jacko and I had, not a lot. The mosque will have to be rebuilt, that’s for sure. And so will several of the neighbouring buildings. The initial bomb was loaded in a horse and cart that pulled up right outside the main entrance. There is still some confusion about the number of dead and wounded, but we’re well into double figures, I reckon.”
“Who are the mosque people blaming?” Mack asks.
“Oh just about everyone – the Israelis, the Americans, the British and any Muslim group with a different interpretation of the Koran. The usual thing.”
Mack turns to Jackson. “What do you reckon?”
“As I think it is unlikely to have been the Soldiers of Allah, I reckon it was most likely the Israelis, using one of their proxy groups, so they have deniability.”
“Don’t even go there, Jacko! I’m in enough trouble with London without making accusations against the Israelis – accusations, I assume, we won’t be able to substantiate.”
“No, it’s an educated guess.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll get onto my mates at the American Embassy. I doubt the CIA would have been involved as the Americans have too many business and military interests here and they would want those protected. But they may know something. Meantime, London wants us to give them as much as we can about Soldiers of Allah, in case it does turn out to be an outfit that everyone has to take seriously. I’ll stall them until tomorrow on that one because I reckon Jacko and Pete should pack it for the rest of the day. Yassin can drive you home.”
Jackson and Pete make no attempt to disagree.
“Go back to the apartment,” Mack urges them both, “have a hot bath and watch a bit of crap television to unwind. I suggest, though, that Jacko keeps off the booze.”
Jackson nods agreement with a wan smile and shuts down his computer. Pete packs his camera in its travelling case and he and Jackson leave with Yassin.
******
As Yassin drives them to their apartments, Pete dials a number on his mobile. It is promptly answered. “Hi there, Kelly. It’s Pete. Look, sorry about the other night. An unfortunate time to be interrupted, eh!” He listens. “Yeah, well it was a bit unpleasant. I was okay, but my mate had a shitty time, literally. Umm. Look, are you around this evening? I could really do with some warm and sympathetic company.” He listens. “Great! I’ll go home and have a shower so I can be smelling nice and fresh for you.” He listens. “Oh, crikey, that sounds even better! I’ll be there before you can get your knickers off. Bye.”
Pete flips shut his mobile and turns to Jackson and Yassin with a broad grin. “Well, guys, my situation has just taken a turn for the better. An ‘assisted shower’ has just come on offer. If Yassin would just make a short detour to Independence Avenue, that would be much appreciated.”
Yassin grins and knows where to go, having delivered Pete to that address before. He drops him off outside a gated block of modern apartments, mostly occupied by foreigners working tax free in Armibar. “You lucky bastard!” mutters Jackson as Pete alights and waves them a triumphant goodbye.
A short time later, Yassin delivers Jackson to his apartment block. By now, Jackson feels like a deflated balloon and as with Pete, fancies some warm female company. He makes a phone call to Leila at the Zing Zing Club. He learns that his favourite girl, Zareena, will be available in a couple of hours, so he has a hot bath – this time without any accompanying whisky – and changes into shorts and T-shirt.
Jackson now feels marginally better, switches on the TV and flicks through the dozens of satellite channels without finding anything that appeals. He makes a mug of instant coffee and boots up his computer. He is pre-occupied by yesterday’s brush with death and Pete’s joking observation that it would be an auspicious time to buy a ticket in the lottery. He prefers the instant gratification of his favourite gambling website, but there is a familiar problem – he has reached his credit l
imit. He checks a couple of other sites, but they all tell him the same story. He tries a top-up from his four credit cards, but they too have hit the spending ceilings, despite them totalling close on $20,000. He knows it is a waste of time trying his bank account because that has reached the limit of his overdraft and his next month’s salary isn’t due for several more days.
Although it should now be blindingly obvious to Jackson that his gambling is destroying his finances and his emotional well-being, he isn’t yet ready to stop. He remains convinced, as gambling addicts so often are, that given a fair wind, his fortunes will take a sharp turn for the better. It is only a matter of time before he will not only clear his debts, but be put back into substantial profit. Then, he tells himself, he will give up gambling altogether. For now, though, he needs access to some ready cash to “invest” and to tide him over until his salary goes into his account.
Jackson checks his contacts list, pushes the speaker button on his landline phone and dials an international number. It is promptly answered by a man with an educated southern English accent. “Good afternoon, this is Briteson and Associates of London. Adam Gower speaking. How can I help?”
“Good afternoon to you, Adam. It’s Jackson Dunbar here.”
“Oh yes, Mr Dunbar. How are you? I see from the television last night that you had a very lucky escape, wherever it is you are in the Middle East. Must have been a shocking experience for you.”
“I’m fine. It probably looked worse on television than it really was.”
“I’m pleased about that, Mr Dunbar. And how can I help you today?”
The Mortal Maze Page 9
