“Have you been boozing?”
“No, no,” he insists, “nothing like that. No more than a small glass of wine with dinner last night.” He pats his stomach as he creates yet another plausible lie. “I did think there was something odd about the main course I had at The Cedar Tree. Yes, that would be it. I’ll have a word with Jamil when I next go there. I’ve never had problems before, so he should be told.”
“My word, Jacko, you have had a rough few days,” Samira observes.
“Yes, could be better,” he admits.
Mack calls everyone into his office for the morning editorial meeting. He takes one look at Jackson and sighs. “Pissed again, Jacko!”
“No, no! Definitely not!” He pats his stomach. “A bad dose of food poisoning from my local restaurant.”
“Well, go home and go to bed. There’s nothing much going on and I don’t want you throwing up or shitting yourself in the bureau. Give me a call after lunch if you’re feeling better and you can do the late shift.”
Jackson isn’t inclined to argue and gratefully accepts an offer from Yassin to drive him home.
******
Back at the apartment, Jackson puts on a soothing CD and contemplates the fix he has got himself into. Not least is the challenge he faces over the money owed to Archibald.
He makes a strong instant coffee, and without too much thought, picks up a near-empty whisky bottle and pours a hair of the dog into a large glass.
His landline phone rings and he listlessly pushes the speaker button.
“Jackson Dunbar.”
“Jacko, it’s Thomas.”
“Oh, hi Thomas,” he says, unable to hide his current state of mind.
“You don’t sound too good.”
“Yeah, I’m not feeling the best.”
“You sound a bit pissed. Isn’t it a bit early in the day to be hitting the booze!”
“I am not – repeat not – pissed,” he replies with growing anger, “I’m home coping with severe food poisoning.”
“Sorry, Jacko. That’s a bit of a bugger. I hope you make a quick recovery.”
“So do I,” says Jackson. “So why are you calling?”
“Well, I believe you’re being granted an interview with Khaled Mohamed.”
“Hell! How did you know that?”
Thomas laughs. “We just know.”
“Well, I don’t have a time and date yet, but I believe that he’ll see me.”
“Excellent. I need to talk to about something. Can I come around to your apartment?”
“When?”
“About half an hour?”
“Hell! Can’t you leave it to another time?”
“No, not really. It’s important that I see you now, before you do the interview.”
“Okay. But make it an hour, so that I can have a shower and get my brain into gear.”
“Right. See you in an hour.”
The call ends. Jackson sits sipping his coffee, transfixed by the glass of whisky on the bench. He studies it with a mixture of hatred and longing. Eventually common sense is the victor and he empties the glass into the sink, then does the same with the dregs of the whisky bottle.
He opts for a hot bath instead of a shower. As it runs, he has his belated shave. The mirror steams up and he is unconsciously grateful for this. In his present state, the less he looks at himself the better.
Thomas turns up as scheduled, by which time Jackson is feeling the benefit of the bath and a short nap on the sofa. He is also pleased that he was able to resist more hair of the dog. He brews freshly ground coffee in a cafetiere as Thomas takes a seat on the sofa and casts his eye around the room. He spots a Rolling Stones poster on wall. “Ah, Jacko, a Stones man, eh! Have you ever been to one of their gigs?”
“Just one – that terrific gig in Hyde Park some years ago. How do you want your coffee?”
“A dash of milk and a half a spoon of sugar, thanks.”
Jackson pours two mugs, puts them on the coffee table in front of the sofa, and gets a plastic container of milk and a bowl of sugar. “I’ll leave you to add the milk and sugar,” he tells Thomas.
There is an uncomfortable silence as the two men fix their coffees and take test sips. Jackson is the first to speak. “Right, Thomas, what’s this about?” his voice heavy with suspicion.
“Hey, lighten up, dear boy, er Jacko. It’s something that could be to your great advantage, while at the same time fulfilling a need by my people.”
Jackson’s suspicion grows. “How would that be?”
“As I’ve already made clear to you, we believe that Khaled Mohamed is a hidden power behind the throne. It’s essential we know what he’s up to. For starters we need to know if we’re right in suspecting that he was involved in the mosque bombing. That’s where you come into the frame. When you do the interview, we need you to put a monitoring device in his office.”
Jackson is incredulous. “You must be nuts,” he shouts. “Why I would do that, even if I wanted to?”
“Calm down,” Thomas demands. “Don’t get on your high horse before I’ve explained it all.”
“There’s nothing to explain, Thomas. Nothing! I’m bound to be searched when I arrive, so how the hell would they not notice a bug? I’d end up rotting in a Central Arabian prison. At the very least, it would also mean the end of my career with the BBC or anyone else.”
“Shut up, for God’s sake, and let me finish!”
Jackson agrees and sips his coffee.
“Here’s the situation, Jacko: among the equipment you take with you will be what looks like an ordinary nine volt battery – just like you’d buy from any hardware store. But it’s not a battery. It’s an incredibly powerful surveillance device. You don’t need to know all the details, but let me say that even if this device is x-rayed or otherwise scanned, it’ll still look like a battery. And even if the minister is paranoid enough to have his office swept for bugs, the kit won’t be detected because it automatically shuts down as a sweep begins. It also transmits an encrypted signal that disguises itself as a normal electronic field generated by computers and lots of other bits of household equipment. And before you ask, even if it’s found, it’ll continue to look like a battery and if someone tries to test it, it’ll show ‘battery flat’. When the device is no longer required, we send a signal that scrambles its innards. It’s brilliant, believe me.”
“Most impressive,” admits Jackson, “but I’m still not interested. Where am I supposed to hide this, er, bug? And how would I be able to do it when there’s almost certainly going to be other people in the room?”
Thomas is exasperated. “Create a diversion of some sort. Surely you’re clever enough to come up with something. It’s magnetised, so it’ll takes just seconds to attach to anything metal.”
“I’m still not doing it,” says Jackson. “It’s too much of a risk and there’s nothing in it for me.”
“But there is,” asserts Thomas, “there’s lots in it for you.” He gulps down his coffee before continuing. “Your interview with this guy will give you many brownie points with your bosses when he suddenly becomes big news, which I can assure you he will. Next, by placing the device in his office, you will be doing something important in the British national interest which in due course will be rewarded in a discreet way. And finally, there’ll be some help with your present financial problems.”
“What financial problems?” demands Jackson angrily.
“Oh c’mon, Jacko, don’t get shirty with me. It’s obvious that you’ve over-extended yourself in some way and find it difficult to get from one month to the next without running out of cash. We can help you.”
Jackson stalls for time to think about this. “Want a coffee top-up?”
“No, I’m fine,” replies Thomas.
Jackson finishes his coffee and unhurriedly pours himself a fresh one before resuming the conversation.
“I didn’t realise that it was so obvious that I was, er, pressed for cash. Betwe
en you and me things are a bit tight at the moment. I over-reached myself on a mortgage on this flat I bought in London at the peak of the market. Frankly, I got ripped off by the estate agent, but that’s another story. And I help out my mother from time-to-time with some cash when things get difficult for her.”
Thomas nods sympathetically. “Yes, I see. So a bit of cash would be very useful for you, and from our point of view, we would consider it a just and well-earned reward for helping us out.”
“What sort of sum did you have in mind?” asks Jackson, attempting to make it a casual enquiry, as though he is having a friendly chat with an amiable bank manager.
“Well, we thought ten thousand US dollars would be appropriate.”
“Oh yes. I see,” he says, trying not to sound impressed. “Yes, I could use that to pay off part of my mortgage, I suppose. Yes, I could do that.”
Jackson’s brain is now in a spin as he contemplates the risk to his career and his freedom, counter-balanced by the thought that the unexpected offer could give him a much-needed financial recovery. He again stalls for time by putting milk and sugar into his coffee and giving it a gentle stir.
Thomas watches Jackson intently and knows that a deal is about to be done. Jackson sips his coffee and resumes the conversation.
“I’m wondering about how this might be viewed by outsiders? If such a payment were revealed, would it cause me problems? Would it be better if this were, er, some kind of loan – one that could be paid back once my financial situation improves?”
“That’s an excellent thought, Jacko. Let’s make it a loan. It’ll be a gentlemen’s agreement that we’ll get the money back as soon as you find that possible.”
“Yes, I’d feel more comfortable with a loan.”
“It would probably be best if we set up a special bank account for you. You know, one that doesn’t raise any questions about where the money has come from. We have a special department that arranges such things.”
“Okay, I’ll do it. But I want it understood that I won’t get involved in anything like this again.”
“That’s understood, old friend. We’ll be well satisfied with this one most useful contribution.”
The two men shake on it and Thomas leaves. Jackson pours himself another coffee and feels his spirits rising. Despite the dubious and risky elements of Thomas’s proposal, he convinces himself that it will be a one-off, done in the British national interest, with the important added value of getting him back on his financial feet. He now considers himself well enough to go into the office to see if he can set up the interview with Khaled Mohamed.
CHAPTER 13
Jackson’s return to the bureau is greeted with some surprise, not least because he appears to be a changed man.
“Well, well,” says Samira, “what happened to that wreck who was here earlier in the day?”
Jackson grins. “I’m made of tough stuff. It takes more than a bit of food poisoning to hold me down for long. A hot bath, a short shut-eye on the sofa and strong coffee has fixed me.”
Mack comes out of his office. “Well, Jacko, welcome back to the land of the living. You’ve returned just in time. I’ve had a tip off that there’s been an incident of some sort in Ibrahim Ahmed Avenue. You and Pete had better check it out.”
“Right. Will do.” Jackson turns to Samira. “When you get a moment, could you give Khaled Whatsit’s office a call and see if he can see me tomorrow or the next day? Feed him loads of bullshit about how much I’m looking forward to learning about his plans for the future of this country.”
“I’ll do my best,” she says with a grin.
******
Jackson and Pete, driven by Yassin, arrive in Ibrahim Ahmed Avenue – a middle-class modern residential street -- to find firemen hosing down a burned-out BMW saloon. The badly burnt body of a man is behind the steering wheel and they flinch at the sight. Pete begins filming and Jackson walks over to talk to a group of male bystanders, most of them in traditional Arab wear.
“What happened here?” he asks in Arabic.
Most of the men shake their heads and turn away, but one man dressed in casual western clothes responds in broken English. “Ambush. Black van blocked car. Masked man shoot driver. Car set on fire. Petrol.” He points to an empty can lying on the road beside the car.
Jackson calls Pete over with his camera, but the man holds his hand over the lens. “No, no. No talk to camera,” he insists and walks away, hiding his face.
Omar Abbas and his Al-Jazeera camera crew arrive. Omar and Jackson confer.
“What’s this about, do you think?” asks the Al-Jazeera reporter.
“Not sure, Omar, but I’ve just been told it was an ambush.”
Omar goes to the back of the burnt-out car and checks the number plate, which is still visible. “It’s a gangland job,” he tells Jackson. “The car belongs to local thugs who’ve been feuding with a neighbouring gang. Doesn’t look political. I reckon it’s just a story for local TV.”
Jackson murmurs agreement. “Not really our sort of story, I guess.”
Both crews head back to their respective offices. Jackson gets a phone call along the way. It is Samira reporting that an interview with Khaled Mohamed has been set up for tomorrow morning. Jackson passes on the news to Pete.
“The Development Minister says we can interview him at 11am. We need to be there in good time and we need to make a good impression. I don’t want you turning up in one of your stupid T-shirts. Wear a plain ordinary shirt and a tie, if you have one.”
“What’s wrong with this shirt?” Pete demands pointing to a cartoon Koala on his chest. “People find my T-shirts amusing.”
“Sometimes they do; sometimes they think you’re just being stupid.”
“Well, stop going on about it, Jacko,” he says with growing irritation, “I’ll turn up tomorrow in something suitably boring.”
“Good,” says Jackson, “and I also want you to make sure you bring a still camera with you.”
“Okay, but why?”
“Um, I want you to take some publicity and file photos of the minister while we have the opportunity.”
“Okay, anything you say, sir,” responds Pete, giving Jackson a caustic mock salute.
Jackson is too tense to be amused by this mockery.
******
Next morning, Jackson and Pete leave the bureau in plenty of time for the interview with Khaled Mohamed at the government offices in central Armibar. Jackson is wearing a lightweight suit and discreetly-patterned tie. Pete’s concession to the occasion is a subdued, slightly faded, short-sleeved beach shirt and a rather unfashionable narrow leather tie. As Yassin drives them to their appointment, Jackson takes from a trouser pocket the “battery” bug that has been delivered to him that morning by one of Thomas Fulham’s agents. “You’d better put this with your kit,” he tells Pete.
Pete takes the bug, but doesn’t understand why Jackson is carrying it.
“It’s for the smoke alarm in my kitchen,” Jackson lies, “I bought it on the way to work.”
“Why give it to me?”
“Just a precaution. I don’t want anything that might be seen as a bit unusual in my pockets if we get a body search. It’ll be perfectly normal for you to have a battery in your kit.”
Pete accepts this explanation and drops the bug into his bag.
As expected, Jackson and Pete are scanned and given a full body pat-down before being allowed to enter the government offices. Pete is instructed to switch on his camera to prove that it is not a fake and his tripod is put through the scanner. A security officer empties Pete’s kit bag onto an inspection bench. He examines each item but pays no particular attention to the “battery” bug. Jackson notes that a Canon digital camera is in Pete’s kit and the security officer switches it on to see that it works.
A tall man wearing an expensive western suit and tie arrives. He introduces himself as Adnan, Khaled’s press and publicity officer. He shakes hands with Jackson,
but ignores Pete’s extended hand. Pete tries not to show his irritation. He has become used to being ignored because he is “just the cameraman”.
Adnan addresses Jackson in English with a soft southern American drawl. “Good morning, Mr Dunbar, if you and your colleague will follow me, I will take you through to the Development Ministry.”
No further words are exchanged as Adnan leads the two men along a long corridor and ushers them into a vast and very grand room decorated with ornate curtains, tiled Arab images and a generous use of gold leaf. Several large chandeliers hang from the ceiling. It is a room where official receptions are held and not at all what Jackson is expecting.
“Khaled Mohamed will see you here as soon as he gets a break from his duties,” announces Adnan. “I suggest you set your equipment up over there,” he says, pointing to a podium at the far end of the room. I think that will give you a nice backdrop for the interview.”
Jackson is shaken. It would be pointless him planting the bug in a reception room and if no bug is planted, there will be no “loan” from Thomas Fulham and his colleagues.
“Oh yes,” says Pete, looking around the room with approval, “this’ll be perfect.”
Jackson is desperate to stay calm. “Yes, it’s a lovely room, Adnan, but I’m, er, not sure that it will deliver the right sort of image your minister would wish to convey.”
Adnan is surprised. “Why wouldn’t the minister want to be filmed here?”
Jackson’s brain is in top gear as he attempts to justify his statement. “Well, as I understand it, Khaled Mohamed has built up a well-deserved reputation as an exceptionally-talented and hard-working minister. I just feel we could do him greater justice by filming him at his desk in his office.”
Adnan can see that Jackson’s proposal makes sense. “I see. You have judged the minister well, Mr Dunbar. I will speak to him and explain what your intentions are. He is exceptionally busy, so it may take me a little while to put your proposal to him. Meanwhile, I have taken the liberty of ordering you and your cameraman some coffee and something to eat.”
“Thank you. That would be very welcome,” replies Jackson.
The Mortal Maze Page 13
