“Never mind,” says Mary. “We all make dumb mistakes from time to time.”
The “dumb” description hits home, adding to Dick’s annoyance. “I don’t care for your choice of words, Mary, but let’s leave it for now.” He ends the call and angrily waves the rest of the team out of the office. They exchange smirks as they close the door behind them and return to their desks.
Samira lowers her voice and calls to Pete. “You filmed the first interview, so why didn’t you tell him?”
Pete shrugs his shoulders and grins. “Well, he didn’t ask, so I didn’t tell. I’m just the cameraman and everyone knows that a bloody cameraman is clueless and just does what he’s told. Anyhow, why didn’t you warn him?”
“I might’ve if he’d bothered to tell me he was doing it. I just got a phone call saying he wanted you to go immediately to the embassy. He didn’t say what for, and I couldn’t be bothered to ask.”
While this exchange is going on, Jackson is checking the news agencies on his computer. His attention is caught by an Associated Press report that an unnamed Central Arabian official is missing shortly after leaving government headquarters. Jackson doubts that it is a story for him, but phones Thomas just in case. Thomas says he knows only what is being reported by AP. “Probably a routine kidnapping for ransom,” he adds. “It happens often in this part of the world, as you probably know.”
Jackson scans the Arabic newspapers on his desk and finds nothing of special interest. He is bored and tells Samira he is going to stretch his legs and will be back shortly. His real intention is to go to the Fouad Rehabilitation Centre, a few short blocks away, in the hope of seeing Felicity. He finds her giving physiotherapy to a young Arab boy who has lost a leg. She is surprised to see him.
“Oh, there’s nothing much going on at the bureau and I thought I’d like to see where you work,” he explains.
“Well, this is it,” she says with a sweep of her hand. The room is large and austere and badly in need of re-decoration. There is some basic exercise equipment and rows of simple metal-framed beds, most of them occupied by sick or injured children. Felicity has her hair tied back in a ponytail and wears a neat green overall and plain flat-heeled shoes. There are five Arab nurses tending the patients. They all wear headscarves and a variety of outfits covering both arms and legs.
Jackson studies the scene. “Sad, isn’t it,” he observes. “I guess this is one of the few places where these kids can get proper treatment.”
“It’s not really ‘proper treatment’. It’s very basic, but it’s the best that’s available unless you have the money to pay for a stay in the Armibar Central Hospital.”
“Well, your physiotherapy training is certainly coming in useful.”
“Yes, but we’re desperately short of medical supplies. The authorities here don’t give a damn about these poor kids and we have to rely on a little foreign aid and gifts from charities.”
Felicity continues to give the young boy his exercises. “What happened to you?” Jackson asks him in Arabic.
“Some men blew up my house and killed my mummy and daddy,” he replies.
“I’m very, very sorry,” says Jackson with a sigh. He pats the boy on the shoulder sympathetically and with a sense of helplessness.
He turns back to Felicity. “What sort of twisted evil mind thinks it’s okay to do these things to innocent people?” he asks rhetorically.
She shrugs uncomprehendingly and offers Jackson a coffee.
“Thanks, but I’d better get back,” he replies. “I’ve got this creepy acting boss who’ll be wanting to know where I am.”
“Okay. But we must make another attempt to have you around for dinner.”
“Yes. That would be enjoyable. Perhaps once Mack returns here.”
Jackson instinctively leans forward to give Felicity a good-bye kiss. She gently holds him away. “Not out here, Jacko. My Muslim nurses and patients would be offended.”
“Sorry,” he says with a shy grin.
Jackson departs and Felicity continues with the physiotherapy. She has enjoyed the surprise visit which has triggered fond memories of past times.
A few minutes later, Jackson reappears at the door. He is carrying a large bag of oranges. “These are for the kids,” he announces.
“That’s lovely!” she exclaims.
“I also have something for your centre. Close your eyes and hold out your hand.”
Jackson slips an envelope into her hand and instructs her to count to 10 before she opens her eyes. He makes a speedy departure from the room.
Felicity finishes the countdown and opens the envelope to find it contains a bundle of banknotes. She counts out $500. She wipes tears of gratitude from her eyes.
******
Jackson arrives back at the bureau just as Dick comes out of his office with a folder in his hand. He goes to Samira at her desk. “I don’t understand these expenses. They just say who they’re for and the month they were incurred. I take it that you have receipts for all of these?”
“You must be joking, Dick. This is the Middle East,” she tells him.
“Well, what are they for?”
“Oh taxis, hospitality, payments to contacts and some low level bribes. That sort of thing.”
“Good grief. How do you know they’re not all made up?”
“Trust, Dick. It’s trust.”
“Well, I’m certainly not going to put my name to this sort of unsubstantiated stuff.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll see you don’t have to.”
Dick turns to Jackson. “Have we got anything to offer London, yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, keep trying. I want to see at least one story a day out of this bureau while I’m here. By the way, did you get anything from that contact Yassin took you to see yesterday?”
“Sorry, nothing came out of it. It was just someone hoping to rip us off by selling a made-up yarn.”
“Oh well, keep trying,” says Dick as he goes back into his office.
The rest of the day is, to Dick’s disappointment, uneventful and Jackson announces that he is going back to his apartment. He attempts a withdrawal from the Roger Smith account at the local ATM, having forgotten that his spontaneous gift to the Fouad Rehabilitation Centre means he has already reached his daily limit. He checks the balance and winces at the discovery that he has just $1500 left.
******
Samira is finishing for the day. Farouk and Pete have already gone. Dick comes out of his office with the expenses folder and hands it to Samira. “I’ve seen enough for now,” he says.
He adopts a more friendly tone. “Doing anything interesting tonight?”
“No, nothing special,” she replies, “I’ll just have a meal at home and perhaps watch a DVD.”
“Oh, you like movies? What sort?”
“Art house ones with a bit of substance mostly, but sometimes I’ll watch a mindless blockbuster for some light relief.”
“Ah, we seem to have the same tastes.”
Samira clears her desk and locks away the expenses files. Dick heads back to his office, then changes his mind.
“Um, I don’t suppose you’d like to join me in a spot of dinner somewhere nice, would you?”
“Tonight?”
“Well, yes. If you don’t mind leaving your DVD for another time?”
“Mmm. Yes, I suppose I could.”
“I notice there’s a nice-looking place a few doors away from my hotel. The Candle something.”
“The Candelabra. I’ve not been there, but I believe it’s very nice.”
“Excellent. Well, shall we meet there at eight o’clock?”
“Yes,” agrees Samira, “I’ll pop home and change into something more suitable.”
“Excellent. I’ll phone Yassin to pick you up.”
Samira puts on her coat and takes her handbag from a drawer. “Well, see you soon,” she says.
“Yes. See you soon.”
Dick prepar
es to close down the office for the day. He notices that Jackson’s computer has been left on. He goes to shut it down, then changes his mind. He opens the email file and scrolls down the In Box messages but finds nothing of particular interest. Most of the emails are to and from newsgathering in London discussing stories Jackson has been working on. There is a clutter of browser links on the desktop. They seem routine, but in one corner of the screen he spots a link that says simply “Treasures”. He opens it and sees that it is the entry page to Towering Treasures Inc. He can go no further because it requires a user name and password. His curiosity is now aroused. He Google’s the company name and discovers that it is an online gambling operation based in the United States. He wonders why Jackson has been logging on to this company’s website.
Dick finds nothing else of interest and shuts down the computer. He tries to open the bottom drawer in the desk, but it is locked. The top one can be opened, but it mostly contains old notebooks and Arabic newspaper clippings. There is also a print of the screen grab of Ahmed Faisel Bin Hassan. He is mildly curious about this, but it is not identified in any way and he puts it back in the drawer.
CHAPTER 17
Dick is already seated at the table when Samira arrives at The Candelabra a few minutes after eight. Her hair is up and she wears make-up, high heels, a flowered knee-length dress, a plain green jacket and some simple gold neck chains. Dick has changed into a light linen suit, a monogrammed Ralph Lauren shirt and a club tie. He stands to greet her as a waiter shows her to a chair, lays a serviette across her lap and places a leather-bound menu in front of her.
The restaurant is spacious with tables sufficiently apart to avoid conversations being overheard. It is discreetly lit by several chandeliers and miniature candelabra on each table. Most of the diners are men, some in Western dress, most in traditional Arab outfits.
“You’re looking most attractive,” Dick tells Samira.
“Well, you are looking quite smart yourself, Dick,” she responds.
“Thank you. I always try to look my best.”
“Yes, I can tell that.”
“Some people don’t think it matters, but I believe that I have a duty to dress appropriately for a senior editor. Good clothes maketh the man – or should that be a good man maketh the clothes?” He laughs at his own witticism. Samira merely smiles.
Dick scans the restaurant and the other diners. “I take it that this is the place to be in Armibar?”
“Yes, it is. We are in the presence of Central Arabia’s great and the good and as we sit here, million-dollar political and business deals are probably being done at the other tables.”
Dick is impressed. “I always get a buzz when I’m in a place like this. I think it calls for a bottle of wine that befits the venue and the occasion. I’m very partial to a good red. Would that suit you?”
She nods agreement. Dick picks up the wine list and waves over the hovering waiter. “I see that you have the same very nice Pinot Noir that’s on offer in my club in London. We’ll have a bottle of that, thank you.”
Dick and Samira peruse the menu. Both choose a crayfish and salad starter. For the main course, Samira selects a duck and vegetable dish, while Dick opts for a rack of lamb with baby potatoes and salad.
The Pinot Noir arrives and Dick takes a test mouthful, rolls it around his tongue pretentiously and pronounces it to be excellent. The waiter fills their glasses and Dick and Samira toast each other.
“So, you are a Muslim who doesn’t mind a drink,” says Dick.
“No,” she replies, “I’m a Christian who doesn’t mind a drink.”
“Of course,” he says with an embarrassed half-laugh, “I must remember that not every Arab is a Muslim.”
“And not every Arab is a terrorist,” she adds.
“Yes, of course.”
They exchange small talk as they wait for their starters to arrive. Dick tells her that he has two sons in a private preparatory school and that their names are now down for Harrow. His ambition is that before too many years pass he will be Head of News or at least a channel controller.
He learns from Samira that she has a business degree from a red brick university in London and hopes to have children once her husband completes a contract in Lebanon and has a settled job in Armibar. Dick tells her his wife, Sandra, is a public relations executive with a firm of financiers in the City of London and volunteers the information that they have an ‘open marriage’.
“Does this mean you have affairs without consequences?” Samira enquires.
“Sometimes there are consequences, but they’re of little importance. We’re both honest enough to recognise that neither of us is monogamous by inclination.”
“Oh well,” says Samira, “I suppose it’s okay if your wife genuinely doesn’t mind, but Nigel and I could never accept anything less than total fidelity.”
Dick can see a prospective sexual affair slipping away. “Well, congratulations to both of you, anyway. Everyone to their own expectations of a marriage. Your husband is very lucky to have you. I have to say that you are a most attractive and interesting woman and I’m flattered that you’ve agreed to share your evening with me. I can also see why Mack chose you as the bureau manager.”
“Because of my brains?”
“Oh, I’m sure. A bit of female glamour around the office is to be welcomed too,” he says with a wink.
Samira doesn’t care for the tone of Dick’s remarks, but the starters have just arrived and she lets the topic drop.
They eat in silence for a few minutes, then Dick asks: “Tell me. Are you happy in your employment here?”
“Oh yes. I enjoy it very much. It’s an admirable organisation to work for.”
“Yes, admirable certainly, but not without its flaws.”
“I suppose that applies to most large organisations.”
Dick finishes his starter and takes a gulp of wine before resuming the questions. “Once you have your hoped-for children, would you want to return to the corporation?”
“Yes.”
Dick empties his wine glass and the waiter gives it a refill. Samira’s is still two-thirds full. “Drink up, my lovely! We can always get another bottle,” Dick tells her.
The waiter goes to top up her glass, but she politely waves him away. “It’s very nice, but I’m not a big drinker.”
“Oh well,” sighs Dick as he continues his questions.
“So, how long have you been bureau manager?”
“About four years.”
“So you must know where the bodies are buried?”
Samira doesn’t understand. “Bodies?”
“Yes, bodies. Not actual bodies, of course, but things that Mack and Jackson and Peter don’t want anyone back in London to know about.”
There is a pause while the empty starter plates are removed and the main courses arrive. Dick and Samira take their first mouthfuls and nod their approval.
Samira is still baffled by Dick’s ‘bodies’ comment.
“Well, you know, there must be some fiddling of expenses and time sheets. That sort of thing,” he explains with a knowing look.
“There’s no fiddling,” she insists. “I know there aren’t many receipts, but there’s no ‘fiddling’, as you describe it. Everyone here works very hard and the expenses are all justified in one form or another, otherwise Mack and I wouldn’t approve them.”
Dick empties his glass again and waves over the waiter for a refill. His manner is becoming aggressive.
“You’re just being blinded by loyalty, aren’t you! I bet Jackson and Peter are ‘on the make’.”
“No, no. That’s not true. Why do you think that?”
Dick pulls back from further questioning and suggests they should eat their meal before it gets cold. There is a strained silence as they do so. Finally Samira speaks. “Why are you so suspicious of everyone, Dick?”
“To be honest, I don’t like Jackson and Peter. They’re so cocky and insolent. I’ve dealt
with their type before. And I bet Farouk and Yassin are on the fiddle. Arabs always are.”
“Not true,” she says with growing irritation.
“There’s another thing that needs looking into: is Jackson a gambler?”
“Good grief! Why do you ask that?”
Dick empties his third glass of red and the waiter gives him a refill. The bottle is now empty. Samira is increasingly concerned about the tone and direction of the exchanges. “What makes you think he’s a gambler?”
Dick doesn’t want to admit that he has been into Jackson’s computer, so he just taps his nose, smiles knowingly and says it is his “instinct”.
“Drink up,” he instructs, pointing to her glass, which is still two-thirds full.
“No, I’m okay,” she insists.
The drink is having its effect on Dick and he leans forward in a confidential manner. “As I have already said, you are a very pretty woman and I hope that you feel able to join my team.”
“What do you mean ‘join your team’? I have no intention of moving to London at this stage.”
“No, no! I don’t mean that. What I mean is that if there’s anything you think London needs to know, you can call me in confidence. In return, I will see that any unpleasantness that might come your colleagues’ way does not attach itself to you. And as I move up in the corporation, I will need to employ someone clever and pretty like you to be my eyes and ears.”
Samira studies him in disbelief. “Am I imagining it, Dick, or are you suggesting that I become your spy?”
“No, no, my lovely. Spy is much too pejorative a word. I am just suggesting that your greater loyalty is to London, rather than your colleagues here, and that loyalty should not go unrewarded, if you get my meaning.”
Samira has had enough. She angrily hurls the contents of her wine glass down the front of Dick’s suit and shirt.
“I’m sure there’s an appropriate Arabic word to describe you, but the English ‘scumbag’ is more than adequate,” she shouts.
Dick is mortified. His acute embarrassment is exacerbated by the waiter rushing over to wipe him down with a white serviette.
The Mortal Maze Page 17
