The Mortal Maze

by Ian Richardson

  There is urgent knocking on the glass door by Samira and he waves her in. “I’ve just had a strange call from someone with a London accent who said to tell you ‘it wasn’t us’ and that the clue is the bank next door. He hung up before I could find out who he was.”

  “Thanks. That’s very interesting.”

  Samira leaves the room. Thomas, who hears the exchange, wants to know if the call was from Bin Hassan. Jackson agrees that it probably was.

  “Well, Jacko, there you go. It looks as though there’s something for both of us to investigate.”

  ******

  Jackson, accompanied by Pete and Yassin, arrives at Old Market Square, which has returned to its usual bustling self. They study the wrecked building where Mack was shot. Jackson feels a chill as the events of two days ago flash before his eyes. “Christ, Pete, we were really lucky to get out of that place alive,” he declares. Pete and Yassin nod their agreement.

  “Why are we back here?” asks Pete. “I filmed this yesterday and there’s nothing new.”

  Jackson points to a bank two doors along from the wrecked building. “That’s what I’m interested in. I’d forgotten that Mack comes here to go to his bank.”

  “What’s that got to do with the story?”

  “Let’s try to find out.”

  ******

  A couple of hours later, back at the bureau, Jackson, Pete, Samira, Farouk and Yassin are in excellent spirits and are relaxing over coffee and cake, again bought by Jackson. The television monitors in the main work area are tuned to the BBC. The cleaners have just left after turning Mack’s office into something more to Dick’s taste.

  Dick returns from lunch at his hotel and frowns when he sees no sign of any journalistic activity. “Have you people got nothing to do?” he demands.

  “Nope,” replies Jackson with a smirk on his face, “we’re all done for the day.”

  “And what makes you think that, Jackson?”

  “Well, Dick, if you’d like to make yourself comfortable in your nicely spruced up office and turn on your TV, you’ll shortly discover why.”

  Dick is irritated by the condescending tone of Jackson’s remarks, but tries not to show it. He looks into Mack’s office and sees the desk has been cleared and wiped clean. The ashtrays are gone and the rubbish bins have been emptied. The book shelves have been tidied and are no longer cluttered with empty coffee cups and drinks glasses.

  “Mmm, that’s better, Samira,” he observes grudgingly, “but I still need that battered old chair of Mack’s to be replaced, preferably by a nice leather one. I also want that hideous wall map changed to one that is more up-to-date and less offensive to the eye.”

  “I’ll do it in the next day or so, Dick,” she replies with an edge.

  He is about to respond, but is interrupted by Jackson who points at the TV monitors. “Right, here we go! Watch this!”

  Dick goes into Mack’s office and switches on the World News. He sees the female anchor do a back announcement to the item just ended, then begins her introduction to the next report.

  “And now to Armibar, capital of Central Arabia. You may remember that a couple of days ago, our bureau chief there, MacDonald Galbraith, was wounded when he was caught in the crossfire between soldiers and a group of armed men. The pro-government newspaper, The Voice, has belatedly reported the incident and laid the blame firmly on terrorists attempting to overthrow the regime.

  The front page of the newspaper is displayed on screen.

  As you will see, the alleged terrorists are pictured wearing military-style camouflage uniforms. But our correspondent, Jackson Dunbar, who led the rescue of Mr Galbraith, returned to the scene today and made a discovery that contradicts the government claims.

  Jackson appears on screen with the wrecked building as a backdrop.

  The first clue that there were questions to be asked was the state of the uniforms worn by the alleged terrorists. They seemed too neat and bore no blood stains. This didn’t match the fact that the men died in a barrage of bullets and rocket-propelled grenades fired by the security forces. On my return today, I went looking for anyone who had been here during the period immediately before the gun battle began. I found this man, a local resident, who told me what happened. He didn’t wish to be identified for fear of retribution.

  The film cuts to Jackson interviewing a man with his back to the camera.

  Jackson: Where were you at the time?

  Man (speaking in Arabic with an English-language voiceover): I was in the bank to pay in some money.

  Jackson: So what happened?

  Man: Some masked men burst in with guns and forced the tellers to empty the main safe. As they were doing that, someone set off the alarm. The men panicked, grabbed what they could and ran outside. Policemen on duty in the square opened fire on the men, who fled into the offices above the orange shop.

  Jackson: What were the gunmen wearing?

  Man: Ordinary clothes, just like me.

  Jackson shows the man the photograph on the front page of The Voice.

  Jackson: So they weren’t dressed in these fatigues?

  The man studies the photograph briefly and laughs.

  Man: No, of course not! They were just criminals wearing ordinary clothes and masks.

  The camera cuts back to Jackson standing alone.

  I also spoke to other witnesses who told me roughly the same story. A short time ago, I phoned the Central Arabian Government Information Office, but they had no comment.

  The programme anchor comes back on screen.

  That report from Jackson Dunbar in Armibar. And we’re pleased to tell you that MacDonald Galbraith is making a good recovery in hospital in Glasgow.

  Dick mutes the TV set and goes out to the main work area. “Quite a nice story, Jackson.”

  “What do you mean ‘quite a nice story’, Dick?” shouts Pete. “It’s bloody brilliant. It’s a scoop. The government here will be furious.”

  “Yes, very good,” says Dick grudgingly, “but I hope it doesn’t mean the authorities will try to close us down.” He goes back into his office and can be seen setting up framed family photographs on his desk. There is also a nameplate Richard Passick placed prominently on the desk. He takes out a small foldable mirror, sets it up alongside the photographs. He checks his appearance and runs a comb through his hair.

  CHAPTER 16

  The next morning, on his way to work, Jackson goes to an ATM and draws another $500 from the Roger Smith account. He tells Dick he wants to see a contact and would like Yassin to drive him there, as it is a dodgy part of town. In truth, he wants to be taken to Archibald’s gambling den to pay off his debt. Dick agrees.

  Yassin and Jackson arrive outside the gambling den. From the outside it appears to be a poorly maintained and nondescript office block. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Jackson tells Yassin.

  Jackson enters the den and goes to Archbibald who is smoking a cigar in his glass-enclosed office. “I’ve brought your money,” he tells the den boss as he reaches into his pocket for the cash he has drawn out over the past 48 hours.

  “Good,” says the den boss. “Let’s see it then.”

  Jackson counts out $700. “Where’s the rest?” demands Archibald.

  “What do you mean? That’s your $500 back, plus your interest.”

  “Don’t get clever with me! That’s not enough. It’s not straight interest on the loan. It’s compound interest, plus an administration fee. I make that out to be $1,100.”

  “No, no! That’s not right. It’s robbery!”

  Archibald pushes a button on his desk and there is ringing at the entrance door where his two heavies are standing. They hurry over to Archibald’s office and stand menacingly with arms crossed at the door.

  “Now look here, Jackson, I’m a businessman and when I make a loan I expect it to be honoured. There is no argument to be had. You owe me $1100.”

  “But I don’t have that much on me and I can’t
draw out any more from my bank account before tomorrow.”

  Archibald changes tack. “I’m a reasonable man, so give me what you’ve got and I will allow you to pay the remaining $200 tomorrow. There will, I regret, have to be a late payment fee.”

  “Eh? What do you propose that be?

  “Oh, I think $50 is reasonable.”

  “That’s outrageous! You’re a fucking loan shark!”

  “Now, don’t be so offensive or I might get angry. I am merely a businessman trying to earn an honest living.”

  Jackson knows he is beaten. He hands over another $200. “If you or your boys can meet me at the ATM near our bureau, I’ll give you the balance then. I can be there at 9am.”

  “Okay. My boys will meet you then, and because you are such a valued client of my establishment, I will reduce the late payment to $25 as a gesture of goodwill.”

  “You’re all heart, Archibald,” says Jackson sarcastically.

  “Yes, I’m often told that,” he smirks. “My boys will now see you safely outside.”

  The two heavies escort Jackson from the den. As he goes out into the street and approaches the BBC car, he leans against the car, gasping for breath. Yassin jumps from the car and goes to him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Just short of breath. Take me home please.”

  Yassin opens the front passenger door and Jackson flops into the seat, still gasping for breath. They set off for Jackson’s apartment. Yassin has growing concerns for his colleague. “Are you sure you okay?”

  “Yes, of course.” There is a pause, then he admits he does have a problem. “No, I’m not okay, to be honest. The meeting was not as I expected. My contact turned out to be rather nasty.”

  “How nasty?”

  “It doesn’t matter how. It was just nasty. It was a mistake. Normally, I would’ve coped, but it just hit me after all the other shit recently. I’ll be okay in a few minutes.”

  “You need days off,” suggests Yassin.

  “No, no! I mustn’t do that. It would involve Psycho. You mustn’t tell anyone about what has just happened.”

  “I say nothing,” Yassin promises.

  The rest of the journey takes place in silence and Jackson’s breathing slowly returns to normal. On reaching the apartment, Yassin again seeks reassurance that his colleague will be alright. Jackson tells him not to worry, but to inform Dick that he will be working from his apartment for the rest of the day.

  “You like me collect you in morning?” Yassin asks, as he is about to drive away.

  “No, don’t worry. The walk will do me good.”

  ******

  Right on 9am the next morning Jackson is at the ATM near the bureau. He draws out another maximum of $500. A short while later, Archibald’s BMW glides up with the two heavies in it. Jackson hands $225 through an open window. One of the heavies checks it and nods acknowledgment. The car drives away and Jackson walks the short distance to the bureau. He is taken aback to see that he is being observed by Yassin who is having a cigarette break just outside entrance, now that Dick has banned smoking in the bureau. He fears that Yassin has seen him talking to Archibald’s heavies, but Yassin makes no mention of it as they greet each other.

  “Good morning, Jacko. Are you feeling better?”

  “Good morning, Yassin. Much better. Thanks for your understanding yesterday. I now feel a new man.”

  “That’s good, Jacko.”

  The morning’s editorial meeting is coming to a close as Jackson walks into the office. “Nice of you to turn up today, Jackson,” observes Dick caustically.

  Before Jackson can respond, a male voice comes up on the phone speaker. “Oh, hi there Jacko, it’s Harry Kingston here. I’ve just been congratulating Dick on the great story yesterday. It got an airing on all outlets. A good start to your time in Armibar, Dick.”

  “My pleasure, Harry. We’re here to serve, as always.”

  “Yes, thank you. Talk later. Bye.”

  The call ends and Pete turns to Jackson. “Just as well you were late for the meeting, mate. It meant you didn’t have to listen to our temporary boss taking shovel-loads of personal credit for yesterday’s story.”

  Dick bangs the desk angrily. “I object to that. We’re a team here and I accepted the credit on behalf of all of you.”

  “Yeah, right. Then why did you keep using the word ‘I’ instead of ‘we’?”

  Dick bangs the desk again. “I won’t be spoken to like that, Peter!”

  “You’ll get some respect, mate, when you’ve fucking earned it!”

  Dick is now fit to explode and for want of something better to complain about, he points at Pete’s T-shirt bearing a cartoon koala. “And I told you not to wear stupid T-shirts to work!” he shouts.

  Pete gives Dick a rude one finger and walks from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Dick angrily turns to Samira. “Haven’t we got another cameraman we can use?”

  “Sorry Dick,” she replies, “he’s got a two-year contract.”

  “And you shouldn’t even think of replacing him, Dick,” adds Jackson. “He’s the best and bravest there is in this city.”

  “I’m warning you, I will not put up with this insolence,” shouts Dick. “I will not! You should all remember that I have the ear of very senior people back in London, and I will feel no restraint in telling them exactly how dysfunctional this bureau has become. Now, get out of my office. All of you! And close the door behind you.”

  Jackson, Samira, Farouk and Yassin get up and leave, sneaking amused looks at each other. Outside in the main work area they are greeted by a still-angry Pete. “What a wanker!”

  Samira is emollient. “There’s no point in antagonising him unnecessarily. We all have to work together, and Mack will be back soon and life will return to its normal happy state.”

  The others mumble their agreement.

  A short while later, Dick opens the door to his office, affecting an air of calm. It is as though the angry exchanges of the previous minutes had not happened. “Samira, would you be kind enough to arrange lunch for me with Sir Gordon Shortwood? Any day will do. And when you get a moment, I would like to see a copy of the bureau budget.”

  “Certainly, Dick. I’ll get onto the embassy right away. I’ll give you a financial statement in an hour or so when I’ve added the latest expenditures.”

  “Thank you. Much appreciated.”

  He goes back into his office and the rest of the team exchange discreet smiles. “I wonder if he knows that Stumpy is yesterday’s man?” Samira asks Jackson.

  “I suspect not, otherwise he wouldn’t bother to suck up to him. It’ll be interesting to see how Stumpy spins it.”

  “Perhaps I should warn him,” suggests Samira.

  “Let the arrogant bugger discover it for himself.”

  ******

  The next few days are relatively peaceful with no further clashes between Dick and the rest of the team. As expected, The Voice has denounced Jackson’s allegations about the Old Market Square gunfight, but no serious move has been made by the regime to close down their bureau or even to impose sanctions against it. There are some low-level gunfights and explosions in Armibar. They have made small items on World News, but don’t get an outing on the main UK domestic bulletins.

  Jackson has made his peace with Archibald and has again become a regular at the gambling den. Sometimes he wins; sometimes he loses. The underlying trend, however, is that he is steadily eating into the $10,000 in his special account. His long-term desire to quit gambling is eclipsed by an unquenchable delusion that sooner or later his luck will improve and riches will be his.

  ******

  The morning’s editorial chat with London is getting under way as Jackson arrives.

  Dick’s outfit for the day might be called ‘Hack’s Tropical’ – the sort of safari suit that only a reporter who has never worked in the tropics would be seen dead in. The ensemble comprises a matching khaki shirt and trousers, w
oven leather sandals and sunglasses perched on his bouffant hair. The shirt has four pockets, one on each breast and one on each sleeve. One breast pocket carries a notebook and the others are all are stitched in such a way that an array of pens and pencils remain neatly upright and accessible. His trousers, too, are well supplied with pockets – two normal side ones, two at the back and two on each thigh. His thigh pockets display further pens and pencils. Jackson observes the outfit with amusement and struggles to resist delivering some sort of joke about Dick having cleaned out a stationery shop before leaving London.

  Dick is keen to report that he has filmed an interview with Sir Gordon Shortwood. “It’s very strong stuff,” he tells Mary Dunstan on the Foreign Desk. “He really has a most interesting and well-informed perspective on the internal troubles in Central Arabia. Newsnight and World News will love it.”

  “Sorry, Dick, but they won’t love it at all,” says Mary with a groan. “Didn’t you see the interview he did with Mack a while ago? There was a hell of a row about it.”

  “I must have been on leave in Tuscany.”

  “That could be, but I’m sorry to tell you that no-one will touch your interview with a barge pole. Didn’t you know that old Stumpy was being yanked back to London where he’ll do no more harm?”

  “Who’s Stumpy?”

  “Stumpy Shortwood. It’s his nickname. And didn’t he tell you he was about to leave Armibar?”

  “No, not at all. He just hinted that he’d soon be moving on to something terribly important.”

  “I’m astonished that you didn’t know any of this, Dick,” says an exasperated Mary. “Didn’t anyone in the bureau tip the wink about him?”

  Dick turns to Jackson. “Did you know about this?”

  “Oh sure,” says Jackson with barely-restrained delight. “I would have told you if you’d mentioned that you were going to interview him.”

  “And what about you, Peter?” Dick demands, “did you know?”

  “Sorry, it’s news to me, mate,” he lies. “Didn’t have a clue, otherwise I would definitely have said something.”

  Dick is humiliated and angry. “Well, Mary, I’m sorry my valuable time has been wasted. Clearly the briefings I’ve been given since arriving here have been seriously inadequate.”