The Mortal Maze

by Ian Richardson

  ******

  A waiter wearing a white jacket, plain white shirt and black bow tie escorts Mack and Samira to a table set for four in the executive dining room at the American Embassy in Armibar. Mack is now as tidy and smart as he is ever likely to be and Samira is wearing a stylish flower-patterned dress and high heels. The neck-line is just low enough to attract male interest without being overly inviting. Unusually, she is wearing make-up. The waiter sits them down, tells them they will be joined shortly by the ambassador, and offers them a drink.

  “Orange juice would be fine for me,” replies Samira. “And a Jim Beam on ice would do me nicely,” says Mack.

  The waiter goes over to the bar to prepare their drinks and Mack and Samira soak up the sight and atmosphere of their expensively-furnished surroundings.

  “Boy, the American diplomats really know how to live,” observes Mack, “imagine what it must have cost to ship in all this antique furniture from God-knows where?”

  Samira, who has never been beyond the reception desk at the American Embassy before, agrees. She points to a large dark wood display cabinet full of fine China and assorted ornaments. “My mother’s family in Lebanon had something like that once. Several centuries old and very beautiful. It had to be sold to help raise money for the family to escape to Britain.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember the Lebanon connection now. Your family was Christian, wasn’t it?”

  “Token Christians. They didn’t attend church except on special family occasions.”

  “Why did your family leave Lebanon?”

  “Not really sure. Something to do with a Christian militia group accusing my father of something or other. I was never told the details and knew it was pointless to ask.”

  Their conversation is halted as their drinks are delivered by the waiter and a door swings open to admit Ambassador Andrew Costello. He is about 50, tall, slim and tanned and has a full head of dark hair with flecks of grey. He is wearing a neatly-pressed dark suit and tie and his accent is best described as East Coast neutral. He looks as though he has been chosen by central casting. Mack and Samira stand to greet him. The ambassador and Mack vigorously shake hands. “Nice to see you again, Mack,” enthuses the ambassador. “And you, too,” replies Mack.

  The ambassador’s eye rest on Samira. “Well now, how nice to see the delightful Samira Lang again!”

  Samira steps forward and proffers her hand. “Pleased to meet you again, Mr Ambassador.”

  He encases Samira’s hand in both of his and takes half a step back to admire her.

  “Wonderful of you to come, Samira, and there’s no need to be formal over this lunch. Please call me Andrew.”

  “Thank you… Andrew.”

  They take their seats. Andrew nods towards the spare table setting and explains that they will be joined shortly by the embassy press attaché, Randolph Abrahams.

  ******

  Pete, Farouk and Yassin have gone to the bombed mosque to get film of the demolition and temporary repairs, leaving Jackson alone at the bureau. He takes the opportunity to check his online bank account. The £500 advance on his shares is there. He transfers $300 to his account with the Towering Treasures Inc gambling website and is about to begin playing when his colleagues arrive back from the mosque. He quickly shuts down the screen.

  “Anything new?” he asks Pete a little too hastily.

  “Well, it’s going to be a long while before that mosque is operating again. Farouk had a chat to a few of his mates there and learned that another 15 more bodies -- 10 men and five youths -- were found under rubble being cleared by the bulldozers.”

  “Can we go with that, Farouk?” asks Jackson.

  “Sure,” replies Farouk in his broken English, “definitely 100 deaths, at least.”

  “Okay, let London know when you send your rushes to them. If they need a package, I’ll knock it out later. I have to go out now.”

  Jackson leaves, walks along the street to an ATM and draws out $100. He counts out $80, carefully folds it and puts in a trouser pocket. The other $20 goes into his wallet.

  ******

  Lunch is going well at the American Embassy. Randolph Abraham – “Randy” to most of his associates – has joined them. He is a tall mixed-race man in his early forties and sees his primary task as keeping his rather unpredictable boss out of trouble.

  The main course of fine imported American fillet steaks and a local salad is being washed down by the three men with a vintage Southern States red. Samira sticks to her juice.

  Ambassador Costello is entranced by Samira, who has been primed by Mack to ask some of the trickier questions in the hope that the answers will be franker than the ones offered to him.

  “So how many CIA people are stationed here in Armibar?” asks Samira cheekily.

  Ambassador Costello is taken aback by her directness and turns to Mack. “My word, your young lady is not backward in coming forward, eh!”

  Mack grins. “Well, you must admit that it’s an important issue because it would indicate how seriously your government takes its presence here in Central Arabia.”

  “That’s true. Officially, of course, we don’t have any CIA people here, just a military attaché in a passive liaison role and a representative of the arms manufacturers.”

  “But that can’t be true,” asserts Samira.

  He laughs. “Of course it isn’t true!”

  “So, how many people do you have here?”

  Randy Abrahams jumps in before the ambassador has a chance to answer. “I’m afraid, Miss Lang, that’s a question that can’t be answered for national security reasons. I’m sure you understand.”

  The ambassador is undeterred, seeking to impress Samira. “Randy is quite right, young lady, but I think that as we’re speaking off-the-record, no harm will be done in telling you that it’s more than 40 and less than 60.” Then he adds with a leery grin: “But if you ever suggest that this information came from this embassy I’ll deny it and never invite you for another lunch!”

  Randy is worried that too much information is being disclosed. “I’m sure Miss Lang is an entirely trustworthy young woman, but there are some matters that should not be revealed to the press.”

  “I understand,” sympathises Samira, “but there is just one other general point, off-the-record, of course. Who effectively controls the activities of the CIA here – you or the Pentagon?”

  “Oh well, that’s a delicate issue, of course,” replies the ambassador. “In theory, they have to answer to their masters back home, but I think I can safely say that my views – both political and military – carry a lot of weight here. You may not know it, but President Benson is a cousin, so I have access to the Oval Office. I’m not like your ambassador, Shortwood, who doesn’t seem to have a clue what’s going on and is, I gather, a bit of a joke with your intelligence people. I’m sure Randy will agree with me when I say that I’m very much in the intelligence loop here and nothing significant goes back to the Pentagon without my nod.”

  Randy nods loyally. The ambassador leans over to Samira. “By the way, is it true that Stumpy is being replaced by someone more attuned to what’s really going on?”

  “They seem to be just rumours,” replies Samira, “but we’ve heard that the Foreign Office in London was chewing their carpet over that interview he gave Mack.”

  “Oh yes, we all fell about laughing about that one, Mack. You really stitched him up like a sack of oats.”

  Mack nods his thanks, grateful that no-one outside the bureau realises what really happened. The waiter removes the empty plates and asks if anyone would like ice cream or cheese. They all decline both choices. The ambassador suggests a Cuban cigar and Mack is delighted to accept as he is beginning to feel nicotine deprivation, not having had a cigarette for more than an hour. Randy and Samira decline.

  Mack takes over the questioning as he and the ambassador light up.

  “Who do your people think were behind the mosque bombing?”

&nb
sp; The ambassador doesn’t have a definite answer. “We don’t know for sure, Mack, but it was most probably that splinter group, Soldiers of Allah, or whatever they call themselves. We can’t see it would be anyone else. But we’re a bit mystified that they haven’t made a public claim, as you’d normally expect of a group trying to mark out its territory.”

  He turns to Randy. “Do you agree?”

  “Oh yes, sir, probably Soldiers of Allah, but there are still some doubts.”

  “Do you think that terrorists pose a threat to this embassy?” enquires Mack.

  “Not a special threat, I wouldn’t think. We’re very secure here and if the recent riot and the mosque bombing are any indication, they’re more interested in blowing each other up. That’s fine by us,” he adds with a laugh, “but I wouldn’t want to be quoted on that.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” agrees Mack with an acquiescing smile.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jackson is in the Hotel Armibar feeding dollar coins into the poker machine with very little to show for it. He hears a voice from behind. “You’re wasting your money, you know.”

  Jackson turns to see Thomas Fulham who has invited him to the hotel to have their postponed lunch. “Oh, it’s just a bit of harmless fun from time to time. Just fun,” he asserts without conviction.

  “Well, I’ve a busy afternoon ahead,” says Thomas, “so we’d better have our lunch.”

  Thomas leads the way to a large dining room, an unimaginative eating place that would be found in any modern four-star hotel anywhere in the world. About half the tables are occupied, mostly by men, some wearing western suits, others in traditional Arab wear. The few women are wearing fashionable western clothes.

  The maître d comes over and Thomas points to a table away from the main groups of diners. They sit down and study the menu while a formally-dressed waiter hovers nearby.

  “A glass of wine, Jacko?”

  Jackson hesitates. “Um, well I don’t suppose it’ll matter if I have a small Merlot.”

  “Good,” says Thomas, “and what do you fancy to eat?”

  “Oh, I believe the seafood salad here is excellent.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Thomas waves over the waiter and addresses him in English: “The seafood special for both of us, a large glass of Pinot Grigio for me and a small Merlot for my guest. Oh, and a bottle of still mineral water each.” He taps his watch and adds: “We don’t have much time, so we would like to be served without delay.”

  The waiter understands and hurries towards the kitchen.

  “Right then, Jacko. Any new thoughts on those responsible for the mosque bombing?”

  “Nothing more than what I’ve already told you. Mack is having a lunch at the American Embassy as we speak, so he may come back with something.”

  “No doubt being given the full treatment by Ambassador Costello.”

  “Could be,” agrees Jackson, “all I know is that he’s taken Samira, the bureau manager, with him.”

  Thomas grins. “Ah, a smart move. Mr Ambassador has a keen eye for a good-looking young woman.”

  The waiter arrives with the water and two glasses of wine. Thomas waits until he is out of hearing before resuming the conversation.

  “It’s very interesting to learn how you escaped being killed the other day. My contacts have told me about another interesting aspect. They say that the guy who blew himself up wasn’t a committed jihadist. He was some poor kid from a local mental asylum. He was religious, but in a seriously mental sort of way, and was conned into blowing himself up in return for a promise that he would be given a grand palace in Paradise with an endless supply of servants and virgins to meet his every need.”

  Jackson raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Why would the terrorists need to use a certified nutter when there are plenty of uncertified ones around, all desperate to be blasted to Paradise?”

  “Ah yes, Jacko, why indeed?” Thomas pauses for dramatic effect. “Now, my old friend, let me tell you something else: my contacts believe that the people behind the mosque attack are in the government.”

  Jackson is surprised. “Really? Why would they want to do that?”

  “You clearly aren’t up to speed yet on the make-up of this bunch of shysters,” Thomas laughs, “most of the people running this country are Sunnis, while most of the Shia – the disempowered -- are poor.”

  “But the wrecked mosque is Sunni!” interrupts Jackson.

  “Exactly, Jacko! We reckon that someone in the government is trying to set up a situation in which it seems entirely reasonable to blame the Shia for the country’s problems – then, of course, they can organise a Shia clear-out. You know, drive them from the country.”

  There’s another pause in the conversation as the waiter arrives with the salads.

  “Mmm. That food looks good,” observes Thomas. Jackson agrees. The waiter goes to serve another table and Thomas and Jackson clink their wine glasses and tuck into the meal. After a pause, Jackson raises a question: “Your theory is an interesting one, but I still don’t get it. Why would the government want to rock the boat?”

  “Yes, there are some unanswered questions, but our political department reckons that there are people who take the view that dealing with the Shia is necessary for the long-term stability of the country. The attack on the mosques gives the government a perfect excuse to act against them.”

  “You might be right, but a lot of people died in the attack and most of them would’ve been Sunnis.”

  Thomas laughs. “God, you are naïve, Jacko! The people who run this country are ruthless with a capital R. I bet that if we went through all those who died, we wouldn’t find a person of any significance. All the government’s mates and power-brokers would have been somewhere else.”

  “Were they tipped off?”

  “Hell, no! Cleverer than that. At the time of the mosque attack, there was a huge Independence Day party in the Presidential Palace. It was a ‘must attend’ event and everyone who was anybody in Armibar was there. The result: the party kept all the government’s Sunni friends and allies out of harm’s way, without them realising that the mosque attack had been deliberately timed to coincide with the event. Cunning, eh!”

  Jackson has to agree that there is a certain plausibility to Thomas’s theory. “Mmm. It’s a scenario worth investigating. But I can’t imagine this Machiavellian intention would meet with the approval of the West, least of all the investors here.”

  “It most certainly does not. The trouble with the government is that it’s too stupid to realise that its scheme would not just drive out the Shia, but also the big companies that keep this country afloat. All the diplomats here are doing their best to convince the powers-that-be to treat the Shia with more respect, rather than try to drive them away. But the government seems to be dominated by those who have an obsessive religious hostility to the Shia and sees them as a potential Third Column. If our diplomats fail to persuade these idiots to change their ways, some other more rigorous methods will have to be employed.”

  “Such as?” asks Jacko.

  “You surely don’t expect me to answer that question do you?”

  “No harm in asking,” replies Jackson with a shrug.

  Thomas finishes his salad, checks his watch and gulps down his wine. “I really must get going, but there’s something I’d like to suggest that might be useful for both of us.”

  “Oh yes, what’s that?” asks Jackson suspiciously.

  “Set up an interview with the Development Minister, Khaled Mohamed.”

  “Why him? He’ll probably just bore me to tears with heaps of bullshit about the wonderful commercial future the country has.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise us if he orchestrated the mosque attack and is hoping to elbow the president aside. He’s a Sunni and seriously corrupt bugger, and nasty with it. Don’t underestimate him, Jacko.”

  “Well, I still don’t see why you’re so keen for me to interview him. What’s in
it for you?”

  “Christ, Jacko! I’m doing you a favour – a tip-off that you should establish contact with someone who’ll become a newsmaker in the near future. You should be grateful. All I ask from you in return is that you somehow weave into the conversation a suggestion that I am a person of influence worth meeting.”

  “And just how am I supposed to do that?”

  “Use a little bit of imagination. It can’t be all that hard for someone who’s supposed to be very bright!”

  “Yeah, all right,” Jacko says irritably, “but I can’t see why you can’t set up a meeting with him yourself.”

  “His minders won’t even pass on my requests for a meeting because they think I’d be of no use to him. It’s important that I get a face-to-face with him in his office so I get a sense of what the bugger is up to.”

  “Okay, I’ll look into it the next time we have a quiet news day.”

  “Try not to leave it too long. The sooner the better, in fact.”

  “I’ll think about it, Thomas. But no promises.”

  “Oh by the way,” adds Thomas as he checks the bill and leaves a $50 note on the plate, “I meant to ask you what the name Binnie means to you?”

  Jackson is thrown by this question. “Er, I don’t understand.”

  “It’s simple Jacko. The other day you referred to someone called Binnie.”

  “Oh that! Well, that was just a slip of the tongue. I meant Bin Hassan. I said so at the time, you’ll remember. Why have you brought it up now?”

  “This morning, there was an unexplained reference to someone with that name in some of the intelligence stuff crossing my desk. It seems more than a coincidence that you should refer to a Binnie.”

  Jackson tries hard to make light of the matter. “Oh c’mon, Thomas, you intelligence guys see conspiracies everywhere. It was just a slip of the tongue.”

  Thomas grins. “You might be right. Anyway, must get away. Let me know ASAP if you succeed in setting up an interview with Khaled Mohamed.”

  ******

  Mack and Samira arrive back from lunch. Jackson decides to take up Thomas’s suggestion and puts in a bid for an interview with Khaled Mohamed. He is told by the minister’s office that the bid will be passed on to the minister within the next day or so.