The Mortal Maze

by Ian Richardson

  “Look, Mother, I’m in no mood for this. I’ve had a hard day, and you know that if you really do need me back in London, I can be there in a few hours. Just leave me in peace.”

  Jackson ends the call, pours himself another large whisky, has a shower and collapses onto his bed, naked and inebriated. He doesn’t sleep well, being frequently disturbed by flashbacks to the casualties in the Central Arabia Plaza.

  ******

  Jackson awakes with a severe headache and washes down two paracetamol with a black coffee. By the time he reaches the office, he is feeling a little better. His spirits are boosted by the avalanche of praise arriving from around the world for his Central Arabia Plaza scoop. He and Pete are kept busy providing follow-ups.

  Dick is enjoying the reflected glory. Additionally, he has made friends with an attractive female company executive staying at his hotel and they have a lunch date.

  While Dick is out lunching, Jackson gets his promised call from Thomas. He goes into Mack’s office and closes the door behind him. “Right then, tell me more about the stuff-up.”

  “I can tell you only if you give me a rock solid assurance that you won’t report what I’m going to say,” insists Thomas.

  “I’m not happy with that.”

  “Take it or leave it, Jacko.”

  Jackson takes a minute to think about it.

  “Are you still there, Jacko?” Thomas calls out.

  “Yes, I’m still here… Okay, tell me.”

  “Well, the guys who set up the situation apparently placed the explosives in the wrong part of the sewer. It should have been in the section where the road passes the wasteland near where you were parked. That was intended to keep collateral casualties to the minimum.”

  “Oh fuck,” exclaims Jackson, “how did that screw-up happen?”

  “Dunno. The sewer charts were probably wrong, I guess. You know what it’s like in this country.”

  “But hang on, Thomas! That doesn’t figure. If the explosives were in the wrong spot, how was it that they still blew up under the convoy?”

  There is a pause before Thomas replies. “The explosives were fitted with a magnetic trigger, and a matching magnet was clamped to the underside of the minister’s limo. So, it didn’t really matter where the explosives were, just so long as the limo passed over them.”

  “Fucking hell, Thomas. You guys think of everything.”

  “Not quite everything. Our chaps obviously didn’t check the sewer charts properly.”

  “Obviously not,” agrees Jackson.

  “Well, you just can’t get the staff these days,” Thomas jokes.

  Jackson isn’t amused. “You don’t seem too bothered about all the casualties.”

  “To quote America’s Donald Rumsfeld ‘stuff happens’,” responds Thomas, “and looking at the bigger picture, our main objective was achieved. So job done!”

  Jackson is angered by this comment, but restrains himself. “Yes, I guess that’s how people in your business see it, but could you pop around here for a few minutes after everyone else has gone tonight? I’d like to show you something.”

  “I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

  “It’s important, Thomas. I’ll text you as soon as the coast is clear.”

  “Okay, but it’d better be worth my while.”

  The call ends and Jackson goes back to his desk and he is cheered by a further string of congratulatory emails.

  ******

  That evening, as arranged, Thomas turns up at the bureau. He is in a hurry and has no time for pleasantries. “So what do you want to show me?”

  Jackson goes to the video machine. “I take it that you saw my reports on the assassination?” he asks.

  “Not an assassination, Jacko, a neutralisation, if you don’t mind. But, yes, of course I saw your reports and I was impressed, as always.”

  “Right, Thomas, I now want you to see some of the scenes that my bosses felt were too dreadful to show.”

  Jackson pushes the ‘play’ button and immediately the monitor shows a series of graphic close-ups of wounds and body parts. He winds up the volume, filling the room with piercing blood-curdling screams. Thomas flinches.

  Jackson spools through to another section of the video. It shows wounded and terrified children howling at the top of their voices. Thomas angrily hits the ‘stop’ button, unwittingly causing the video to freeze on a close-up of the little boy trying to shake his dead mother alive.

  Thomas is furious. “What the fuck is this all about?” he shouts.

  “I thought it was just possible that you might feel some shame. I wanted to show you the full, brutal, unadorned result of the actions of you and your ilk. What would you say if those kids had been Sophie and Sam?”

  Thomas’s fury now has no limits. “We’re at war. The death of a few innocent women and children is the price that sometimes has to be paid for the higher good of democracy.”

  It is now Jackson’s turn to lose control. “I’m out of this, Thomas. No more of your dirty games.”

  “Sorry, Jacko, that’s not an option for you – at least not yet.”

  Thomas leaves, slamming the door behind him. Jackson switches off the video editor and slumps into a chair behind his desk. He takes several large breaths to try to calm himself. After a few minutes, he goes into Mack’s office and hunts through the cupboards until he finds a half-empty bottle of Mack’s single malt Glenfiddick whisky. He flops into Dick’s new chair and drinks straight from the bottle.

  ******

  Eight hours later, Jackson comes to, finding that he is still in Dick’s chair. He looks at the wall clock and is shocked to discover that the normal working day will soon begin. The empty whisky bottle is at his feet and he hastily returns it to its hiding place, vaguely thinking that when Mack returns from London he will blame Dick for emptying it. He turns off his computer and grabs his jacket.

  As he heads for the exit, Pete comes in with his camera kit. “Hey, so there you are, Jacko! I knocked on your door at the apartments, but got no answer.”

  “No, um, I had to come here early to answer an urgent enquiry from some silly prat at Broadcasting House,” he lies.

  “Well, you don’t look too flash mate. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah! Of course,” he replies tetchily. “Tell Dick and Samira that I’ll be back in an hour or so after I’ve had a shower and some breakfast.”

  “No worries, mate. Take your time. I’ll let you know if there’s anything important from the morning conference.”

  ******

  Jackson catches a taxi home and feels a growing sense of anger – partly at his inability once again to control his drinking, but mostly at how he has allowed himself to be sucked into the brutal and apparently uncaring world inhabited by Thomas.

  Once inside the apartment, he vows to restart the day in a more civilised manner with a hot bath, brewed coffee and a proper breakfast of porridge, toast and a Spanish omelette. He opens the refrigerator and is pleased to find that his maid has replenished it.

  An hour later, he is finishing his second coffee when the phone rings. It is Felicity.

  “Hi Jacko,” she says with false cheer.

  “Hi Felicity. This is an early time of the day to be calling. Is everything okay?”

  “I’m not sure. Did something happen between you and Thomas last night?”

  “Er, why do you ask?”

  “He arrived home drunk and in a foul temper. I tried to find out why, but he wouldn’t tell me. I then raised the matter of having you around for dinner and he angrily told me to forget it. He said you were a self-important, know-nothing hypocritical shit. I was shocked. He poured himself a large drink and when the TV news came on with more on that dreadful bombing in Central Arabia Plaza, he became very agitated. I told him how terrible it was and that some of the victims were now trying to recover in my rehabilitation centre. I said I couldn’t understand how people would do such terrible things and then he completely lost i
t. He started screaming at me that I was as bad as you and talked rubbish about ‘stuff happens’ and that it was for ‘the higher good of democracy’ etc, etc, etc, blah, blah. I’ve ever seen him like that before.”

  Jackson is taken aback, but adopts a soothing voice. “I’m really sorry to hear about that. Were you frightened?”

  “No, not frightened really, just horrified. And he woke up Sophie and Sam. By the time I came back into the room after settling them down, I found him curled up in a foetal position and snoring away on the floor in the corner. I went to bed and locked the door behind me. When I got up this morning, he was lying on top of the bed in the spare room, still in his work clothes.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “No, he got up a little while later, had a shower, got dressed and went off immediately to the embassy.”

  “Did he not say anything?”

  “No. Well, not much anyway. He swallowed a couple of paracetamols and muttered some weak apologies for coming home drunk. He said he’d had a very rough day. That was it. To be frank, I think he was so pissed last night that he didn’t fully remember what happened.”

  “Perhaps that’s just as well.”

  “Maybe, Jacko, but I still don’t see what set him off like that. After all, the assassination wasn’t his fault, was it.”

  “Yes, well something seems to have hit a raw nerve with him,” says Jackson, evasively. “We had the same sort of argument when we were talking about the killings last night, but he was quite sober when he left me.”

  “I hope he’s calmed down by the time he comes home this evening.”

  “Yes, I hope so, too, for your sake, and for the kids.”

  “Sorry to bother you with this Jacko. I’d better get back to work. I’m at the rehab centre and it’s heart-breaking seeing what’s happened to those kids. Some will never fully recover. But thanks to your kind donation, we’re fairly well off for bandages and other medical stuff.”

  “I’m really pleased about that,” says Jackson.

  The call ends and Jackson brews another coffee. He consults his address book and dials a number. A woman answers: “Hello, Smith Charles and Brownlow, solicitors. Jillian Charles speaking. How can I help?”

  “Hi Jillian! It’s Jackson Dunbar.”

  Hello, Mr Dunbar. Very nice to hear from you again. We’ve been watching your adventures on television. We hope that you’re okay.”

  “Yes, I’m okay.”

  “Excellent! How can I help?”

  “I’d like to make some anonymous donations to a charity that I’ve an interest in. I’m proposing that I transfer money from my main bank account to you every few months and that you then pass it on to the charity, simply stating that it’s come from an anonymous well wisher.”

  “Why do you want it to be anonymous? There are tax benefits for you if you declare it.”

  “No, it’s personal. I don’t want the charity to know where the money’s coming from.”

  “I think we could do that, just as long as it’s clear there’s no money laundering involved.”

  Jackson laughs. “No problem there, Jillian. It’ll come from my salary account and is for a legitimate charity, the Fouad Rehabilitation Centre in Armibar. I’ll email you the contact details and 250 pounds will be transferred by bank standing order to you every three months, starting next month.”

  “Excellent. We’ll process it for you with pleasure. Meantime, you take care, Mr Dunbar.”

  CHAPTER 20

  In London, Mack Galbraith arrives by taxi at New Broadcasting House. He has flown down from Glasgow where he has been making a steady recovery from his wounds. Although he still needs a walking stick, he has been declared fit enough to return to Armibar in the next week or two. But first his bosses in the news department want to talk to him. He is not looking forward to the experience. While he admires some of those who have worked their way up through the ranks, they are far outnumbered by those he regards as overpaid and with little genuine talent. He is under orders from wife Joan not to allow himself to be provoked. He has promised to do his best.

  Thanks to the sartorial attentions of Joan, Mack is looking as neat and tidy as he ever will be. He wears a neat dark grey off-the-rack suit and bright multi-coloured tie. He pauses near a bin for a few minutes to draw heavily on a cigarette. He studies the glitzy glass-fronted entrance to the headquarters building and mutters under his breath about the extraordinary cost of it all.

  He stubs out the cigarette in a sand tray beside the bin and ventures into the entrance, waving his security pass at the guards scrutinising the steady flow of staff and visitors negotiating the revolving doors. He goes to reception and is told that someone will be down to collect him shortly. He grumbles as he is informed that he must display his security pass at all times while in the building.

  Mack is recognised and greeted by several colleagues. His hand is shaken with friendly enthusiasm and sympathy is offered about having been wounded. He goes to the viewing area to peer down on the vast newsroom. It reminds him of an ant nest and he vows that he will never agree to work in such a clinical, smoke-free environment. After several minutes, a smartly-dressed woman in her mid-thirties appears at his side and identifies herself as Louise, personal assistant to Marina Kerner, the head of news. She asks him to follow her upstairs.

  Mack is ushered into a conference room that doubles as an executive dining area. A large wooden table is set for 10 diners. Marina is standing in the corner of the room surrounded by other news executives, a mix of men and women that includes representatives of the personnel and publicity departments. A waiter is serving water, juices and wine from a tray, while another makes sure all the table settings are correct.

  Marina, who is wearing a trouser suit, sees Mack and goes to him to exchange air kisses. “It’s wonderful to see you looking so well again, Mack,” she enthuses with a gentle Belfast accent.

  “Thank you, Marina. I should be fine by the time I get back to Armibar.”

  Mack leans his walking stick against the wall and shakes hands with the rest of the party, most of whom he knows, if only through phone calls and emails. The drinks waiter offers him red or white wine, but he thinks it is wise in this situation to take a mineral water.

  Marina claps her hands for attention. “Well, ladies and gentleman, shall we take our seats and begin the meal,” she says more as an order than a question.

  The assembled party sit at their designated places with Marina at the head of the table and Mack to her right. There are two empty seats at the far end of the table, but these are explained when Mary Dunstan and Harry Kingston arrive breathless. “Sorry we’re late ,” says Mary, “but we had to sort out a problem with one of our stories.”

  “Anything I should be told?” asks Marina.

  “No, nothing to bother you about,” replies Mary. “It was just a small thing arising from a misunderstanding.”

  “Good,” says Marina, “but make sure I’m told if your misunderstanding develops into anything serious.”

  Marina turns to Mack. “We consulted your wife and she suggested a sardine salad starter and a green salad with your filet steak.”

  Mack shrugs. “Ah yes, salad! Joan knows what’s good for me, even if I sometimes don’t.”

  As the starter is served, Marina proposes a toast. “It’s an honour to have in our midst Mack Galbraith, one of the finest foreign correspondents in the history of the corporation. On behalf of everyone, let me say how pleased we are that you, Mack, will soon be putting your considerable skills to use in the field once again.”

  “Hear, hear,” the others respond in chorus as they bang the table with approval and raise their glasses to their guest.

  “Well, thank you very much for those flattering words,” responds Mack, knowing full well that they are just that: flattery. He does not delude himself that over the past couple of decades there haven’t been better foreign correspondents. Further, he knows he is often viewed as an irritant and lo
ose cannon by his masters. Still, he does know that his position is reasonably secure, for the time being at least, there being few others with his depth of knowledge and reputation for delivering good and accurate stories from the Arab world.

  Marina announces that she will take the opportunity during the meal to brief everyone present about how she sees news developing over the next few years. The others murmur their approval, knowing full well that they have no choice but to listen.

  For the next 45 minutes, Marina hardly touches her food as she delivers a vision splattered with current management speak. There is much talk of “delivery”, “platforms”, “programme silos”, “outward facing social media”, “customer orientated websites” and “stakeholder involvement”. Mack fails to stifle a yawn.

  As the coffee and tea trolley is wheeled in, Marina summarises what she asserts are not just her views but those of everyone at the very top of the corporation. “Finally, let me say this to you: We must future-proof our multi-platform digital operations and greenlight more imaginative customer content. We must take affirmative action to ensure that our audiences are constantly replenished. We must dust down and remove our ladders of ambition from the garden shed. By that, I mean we should not just be happy with the low hanging, easy-to-pick fruit. We must eagerly clamber to the very top of the trees to seize the prized ripening apples and pears before they fall into the ever-open grasping baskets of our commercial competitors. So… That is how I – we – see life over the horizon of opportunity. I sincerely hope you share these most essential visionary ambitions.”

  Those around the table clap their hands and murmur their approval, some more enthusiastically than others. Mack takes the opportunity to blow his nose.

  Marina turns to Mack and asks if there is anything he would like to add. Despite his promise to Joan to behave himself, he is unable to hide his disdain. “Well, thank you for that briefing, Marina. I wish I understood it. Back when we were both news trainees, you from Belfast and me from Glasgow, we talked to each other in plain English. Clearly, I have been left behind when it comes to inter-personal high-level management newspeak. But never mind. Those of us out in the field will continue to do our best to inform and entertain what you call “our customers” in language that they’ll understand.”