The Mortal Maze

by Ian Richardson

  ******

  Pete arrives back at the bureau. He is still covered in plaster dust, and gives Farouk the uncut video to transmit back to London. Samira is ending a phone call to the Head of News, Marina Kerner, telling her what’s happened.

  “How was Mack?” Samira asks Pete.

  “He’s lost quite a bit of blood and the wound in his leg didn’t look all that brilliant.”

  “How’s Jacko?”

  “Shaken and a little stirred, but he’s been the hero of the day.”

  Further conversation is halted as they join Farouk to watch the video being fed back to London. The scenes that Pete took as he followed Jackson running and crawling to reach Mack are dramatic. “Phew,” declares Samira, “that’s truly awesome stuff!”

  “Yep. Sure is,” replies Pete, amazed by the power of the pictures on the big monitor.

  The transmission continues, showing Jackson disappearing into the orange shop. Filming stops at the point where Jackson calls for help and Pete and Yassin set out to rescue him and Mack.

  A male voice comes up on the intercom from London. “Hi, it’s Julian here. I’m editing the Six and the Ten tonight. That’s great stuff you’ve got there, Pete. I love the wobbly filming. It gives added value.”

  “Whaddya mean ‘wobbly filming’?”

  “Well, you know, I take it that you deliberately shot it that way for extra dramatic effect.”

  “Are you taking the piss, or something?” replies Pete with mounting anger.

  “No, no, Pete. It was meant to be a compliment. No offence intended. Really. Anyway, when will we get your film of the gun battle? Reuters says all six terrorists were killed and also a couple of security men. Sounds a good yarn if we tie it in with Jackson’s heroic rescue of Mack.”

  “Sorry, but I wasn’t able to get that. I took cover when the soldiers began firing in my direction. All I’ve got is a few short shots of the gun battle when we first arrived.”

  “That’s a pity,” says Julian, “CNN has some really good stuff. They’ve got the soldiers blasting their way into the building and dragging out the bodies of the terrorists.”

  “Yeah, well,” responds Pete sarcastically, “you’ll just have to put it down to my ‘don’t give a stuff’ Aussie incompetence, eh! By the way, why are you calling them terrorists? You don’t know that.”

  “No need to get snippy, Pete. I was just asking. I’ll get in touch with CNN and see if we can swap your stuff for theirs. Okay?”

  “Do what you fucking like, you great fucking toad. Two of my colleagues nearly got killed today and all you worry about is whether CNN has got better film that we’ve given you.”

  There is a click and the intercom goes dead.

  Pete flops into a chair, his head held in his hand. Samira comes over and puts her arm around him. “Ignore, Julian. He’s not really a bad man. He has a severe case of tunnel vision when editing bulletins. If he checks with newsgathering he’ll find that CNN and Al-Jazeera have already offered to pool their film.”

  ******

  Two hours later at Armibar Central Hospital, Jackson and Yassin are waiting outside the operating theatre for word of Mack. Eventually, Mr Than emerges in an optimistic mood. “The bullet went straight through your colleague’s thigh without hitting any bone,” he tells them. “We’ve managed to patch him up and thanks to both of you we were able to replace some of the blood he lost. There’s muscle damage and he’s going to need physiotherapy. It could be a month or two before he can return to work.”

  “Can we see him now?” enquires Jackson.

  “He’s sedated and sleeping soundly. Come back in the morning. In the meantime, you should talk to your bosses about payment for my surgery and the hospital stay.”

  A text arrives on Jackson’s mobile. It is from Felicity: “ur v brave. ru ok?” He is pleased she has enquired and replies immediately: “Am ok. don’t worry. c u soon”.

  ******

  Two days later, arrangements have been made to fly Mack back home to Glasgow where he will continue his recovery. Joan is going with him. A chartered jet waits in the VIP area at Armibar International Airport as an ambulance pulls up. Mack emerges on a trolley with Joan holding his hand and accompanied by a female nurse. He is now fully alert and able to smile at the sight of Jackson, Pete, Samira and Yassin who have come to bid him farewell.

  “Well, you old bugger, you’ll do anything to swing an extra holiday back home, eh!” jokes Jackson.

  Mack laughs then turns to Samira. “Keep a sharp eye on Jacko’s expenses while I’m away, won’t you,” he grins, then adds “But you can allow him a tenner to replace that stupid tie he used to stop me bleeding to death.”

  Everyone laughs and a mobile elevator comes over to lift Mack up to the aircraft door. Mack waves Yassin over. “Got any spare fags on you? I’m dying for a ciggie. The bastards at the hospital wouldn’t let me smoke.”

  Yassin reaches into a jacket pocket and hands over an almost-full packet of Gauloises. He reaches into his trouser pocket and produces a cigarette lighter. “You’d better take this. The cigarettes won’t be much use without it.”

  “Thanks, Yassin, you’re a fine gent. It’ll make the flight back home a little more pleasant.”

  “Oh no it won’t,” interjects Joan, “it’s a no smoking flight. You can have one before you get on the plane, then that’s it until you get to Glasgow.”

  Mack turns to the others in mock anger. “See what I have to put up with! She’s worse than those bampots at Broadcasting House.”

  Everyone laughs as he lights a cigarette and sucks the smoke and nicotine deep into his lungs with a look of deep contentment. “Ah, that’s better.”

  Joan pats him affectionately on the shoulder. “You really are a silly old man, you know, but I suppose I’d miss you not being shrouded in a cloud of smoke.”

  ******

  There is upsetting news awaiting the team when it arrives back at the bureau. An email from Human Resources in London announces that Mack’s stand-in as bureau chief is to be Dick Passick.

  “Fuck me,” says Jackson, “why does it have to be Psycho Passick?”

  “What’s the problem?” asks Samira, “we can’t do without someone senior to run the bureau.”

  “Believe me, Psycho is a major arsehole. Broadcasting House will be cheering that they have got shot of him for a while and dumped him on some other poor buggers.”

  Samira goes to her computer and finds a profile of Dick Passick. “I must say, he’s quite handsome.”

  “Boy, and does he know it!” says Jackson. “He can’t walk down the street without checking his reflection in shop windows. He never knowingly walks past a mirror without combing his hair and pausing to admire himself.”

  “Oh well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we Jacko. He’ll be a change, if nothing else.”

  Jackson suddenly feels overcome by the traumas of the past few days and announces that he is going back to his apartment to have a shower and a nap. He arrives there as his maid is finishing for the day. She addresses him in broken English. “I stop now, Mr Jackson. All clean now.”

  “That’s good. It looks nice and tidy.”

  “Yes, nice tidy, Mr Jackson. Can I have money now, please?”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Jackson takes out his wallet and finds it empty. He fumbles in his pocket and takes out some coins.

  “Sorry. Forgot to go to bank. Here’s five dollars for now. I’ll give you the rest when you come next.”

  The maid is upset, but has no choice but to accept the down payment. She leaves and Jackson opens a new bottle of whisky and pours himself a stiff drink. He switches on his electric keyboard and soothes himself further by playing Moonlight Sonata, one of his favourite piano pieces in times of stress. He is interrupted by his phone. As usual, he puts it on the speaker. “Jackson Dunbar.”

  “Hi. It’s Thomas. Just a quick call to tell you that your delivery the other day has been a wonderful success. We’re getting ve
ry useful information. We’ve even learned what the gentleman concerned thought of you.”

  “Oh really? What did that self-important prick say?”

  “He thought you were a pushover.”

  Jackson laughs. “That’s no surprise. I sucked up to him shamelessly. Now, about your side of the arrangement. I could really do with that going through without delay.”

  “It’s all in hand,” Thomas assures him. “The account has been set up and you’ll be able to access it with a debit card. A courier will deliver the card to you at the bureau and you can use it immediately. Is that okay?”

  “Yes. That’ll be fine.”

  “By the way,” adds Thomas, “we’re very impressed at my workplace at your bravery in rescuing your boss. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “To be honest, Thomas, I surprised myself.”

  “I understand. It’s a bit like the times when I went into battle in Afghanistan. Something in my brain would shut down and wouldn’t recognise the extent of the danger until after it was over.”

  The call ends and almost immediately the phone rings again. This time it is Jackson’s mother.

  “I’ve just watched you on the news, Roger,” Lady Dunbar announces without preamble. “That was a very stupid thing you did. You could have been killed.”

  “But I wasn’t, Mother. I’m still very much alive, apart from a few scratches and some clothes that need dry cleaning.”

  “Well, think what would have happened if you’d been killed. Now that your father has passed on, I would have been left with no-one to help me in my old age.”

  Jackson is aghast. “My God, do you ever listen to yourself? Do you ever, ever think of anyone but yourself? Do you?”

  “There’s no need to be so unkind, Roger. One day you’ll be old, and by the looks of it, you won’t have any children to care for you. I might as well have been childless, for all the help you’ve been. We privately educated you, put you through university and I even breast-fed you.”

  Lady Dunbar bursts into tears. “Please stop that, Mother,” Jackson pleads, “crying won’t resolve anything. You’re not old. You know that. You’re just 65 and Father left you in a very comfortable financial situation. Try to widen your circle of friends. Why not work as a volunteer for a charity or join a club? That would get you out of the house a bit more and encourage you to think of others.”

  Jackson’s words do nothing to stem the flow of tears. “I can’t stand this, Mother. If you don’t discuss your worries in a sensible way, I’m hanging up on you.”

  The sobbing goes on and Jackson carries out his threat. He thumps the bench in frustration and pours himself a large whisky. He goes back to his keyboard – this time assaulting, rather than playing, it.

  CHAPTER 15

  Jackson rises the next morning in good spirits. It’s a pleasant spring day -- sunny and not too hot. What really matters is that his finances are about to be sorted, thanks to his adventure on behalf of Thomas Fulham and his associates. Yassin phones to offer him a lift to the bureau, but he decides that a brisk walk would be good.

  His raised spirits take an unexpected blow on reaching the bureau. Two “heavies”, block his path. He knows he has seen them before, but can’t remember where. They are wearing Western suits, bushy beards, over-sized sun glasses and exude aggression. Each take an arm and firmly guide him towards a white BMW parked on the kerb. There is a moment of panic as he fears that he is about to be abducted again. Instead, he sees Archibald sitting in the back seat in his usual white suit. “Good morning, Mr Dunbar,” says the gambling den owner, “I was just passing and thought I’d remind you that your loan expires tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Jackson replies. “I’ll definitely have the money for you tomorrow evening.”

  “Good. My boys get very bad tempered when a debt isn’t paid on time and I’m sure you wouldn’t want your bosses in London to know the sort of places you frequent in Armibar.”

  “It’s okay,” emphasises Jackson, “I’ll have the money tomorrow. It’s a promise.”

  “Excellent. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  The Arab heavies get into Archibald’s car and it drives away, leaving Jackson shaken. He takes a few deep calming breaths before going into the bureau.

  Upstairs, his mood takes another blow when he sees that Dick Passick has arrived from London and is in the process of clearing a space among the assorted papers and other detritus on Mack’s desk. Samira, Pete, Farouk and Yassin are in the main work area, uncertain about what lies ahead. Samira rolls her eyes at Jackson as he takes another deep breath before stepping into the office to speak to the unwelcome colleague.

  The two men shake hands without enthusiasm. Dick is in his mid-forties and has a well-deserved reputation as a dandy. Today he is wearing a lightweight beige suit, a neat off-white shirt with cuffs, and a discreet tie.

  “Welcome to Armibar, Dick,” mutters Jackson. “You’re quick off the mark. I hadn’t expected you for a day or so.”

  “Hello, Jackson. I came straight away. I’m sure there’s lots to be done here, so the sooner I get started the better. I’ve already spoken to London and said you’ll provide them with a package for this evening’s outlets.”

  Jackson frowns. “On what subject?”

  “I’m sure a bright and ambitious young man like you can think of something.”

  Dick looks around the office and sighs. “Is it always like this?” he asks. “How does Galbraith work in such filth?”

  “Oh, there’s more to life than being tidy,” Jackson tells him. “Mack’s a great operator and boss and no-one has ever complained about the way he runs the bureau.”

  “That may be the case, but things are going to have to change while I’m here.”

  Dick screws up his face as he picks up Mack’s ashtray and empties it into a bin. “For a start, this is now a no-smoking office in line with corporation policy. I’ve already informed your driver – Yassin, is it? – of this ruling. If he wants to smoke, he’ll have to go out into the street and if he spends too much time out there, I’ll dock his pay.”

  Dick puts on his jacket and goes into the main work area. “I’m off back to my hotel to finish unpacking and have lunch,” he tells Samira, “please give my office a good clean before I get back. If you need any help, ask Farouk.”

  Samira is affronted. “I’m the office manager, Dick, not the cleaner. Nor is Farouk.”

  “Well, get a cleaner from somewhere and see that the office is respectable before I get back. I refuse to work in that pigsty.”

  Just as he is about to walk out, he points to the “I love Kylie” T-shirt being worn by Pete and orders him to change it. “I hope that’s not the sort of thing you usually wear to work, Peter. You’re not on Bondi Beach, you know!”

  Dick walks out, having managed to annoy everyone in the team in a matter of minutes. Jackson turns to Samira with a grin on his face. “Well, Mrs Lang, I did warn you about him, didn’t I.”

  Samira shrugs her shoulders. “Maybe he’ll be better once he gets settled in and doesn’t feel he has anything to prove. It must be difficult being flown in to run a bureau with all its quirky ways.”

  “I admire your optimism,” says Jackson.

  There is a knock on the entrance door and a motorcycle courier comes in with an envelope for Jackson. He demands proof of identity and Jackson shows him his passport. He is satisfied and leaves.

  Jackson’s heart beats faster as he takes the envelope and sticks it in his jacket pocket. “Um, I’m going out to get a coffee,” he announces, “anyone else want one?”

  “Yes,” they all say in chorus. “You take care, mate,” adds Pete with a smirk, “you know what happened the last time!”

  “There’ll be no repeat of that,” Jackson assures him.

  Jackson walks out into the street and instead of turning left to the coffee shop, he walks to the nearby ATM, tearing open the envelope as he does so. He is delighted to see that it
contains a platinum debit card and a temporary pin number. He notes with a smile that the card has been issued in the name of “Roger Smith”. He inserts it in the ATM slot, punches in the pin and checks the balance. There, as agreed with Thomas Fulham, is an account with $10,000 in it. Relief and excitement surges through his body. Life is looking good.

  Jackson re-sets his pin number and withdraws the maximum daily allowance, $500. He buys the promised coffees and returns to the bureau.

  Samira is busy on the phone organising cleaners for Mack’s office. Jackson distributes the coffees, goes to his desk and picks up today’s edition of The Voice. There is a front page story about the gun battle in market square. It is accompanied by a photograph of six men laid neatly in a row and wearing camouflage uniforms. Their faces are battered and bloodied.

  Jackson holds up the newspaper for Pete to see. “The local press has decided to run this story at last, I see. It claims the bodies were all members of a major Shia terrorist cell.”

  “I suppose that could be right,” says Pete.

  The phone rings on Samira’s desk. The call is for Jackson. “It sounds like your posh friend,” she announces.

  “I’ll take it in Mack’s office,” Jackson says. He picks up the call on Mack’s speaker phone. “Hi Thomas. I got the card, thanks very much. It works fine.”

  “That’s good, Jacko. It was well earned. On another matter, have you seen today’s Voice?”

  “Yep. Just been looking at it.”

  “Have you noticed anything odd about the photo?”

  “Let me have another look.”

  Jackson picks up Dick’s copy of the paper. “Mmm. I suppose now that I study it, the uniforms these so-called terrorists are wearing seem remarkably neat and unmarked, despite them having been blown up.”

  “Exactly! We’re being fed a line here. It looks to be part of a campaign to generate more hostility towards the Shias. It might be worth exploring.”

  “Mmm. Yep, I think I’ll go back to the scene and see if I can find any witnesses.”