He empties the contents of the box onto the shop counter. There is an assortment of rings and cheap necklaces. The pawnbroker, a North African, wears a shabby Western suit and an equally-shabby keffiyeh. He dismissively pushes the rings and necklaces to one side. “Twenty-five dollar for those,” he says in broken English.
His eye is caught by a small velvet bag. He empties it into his hand and sees a small diamond-encrusted brooch. He studies it through a jeweller’s magnifying eyeglass and nods that he is interested. “I give you a thousand.”
“You must be joking,” declares Jackson, “that’s Cartier!”
The pawnbroker shrugs. “One thousand,” he repeats.
Jackson scoops up the jewellery into its box. “That’s a rip-off. I’ll find somewhere else for a better price.”
He heads for the exit, but the pawnbroker calls him back. “My friend,” he says, “let me see brooch again.”
Jackson returns to the counter and the pawnbroker affects to study the brooch more carefully. “Okay, friend. Very nice. Brooch 2000. Rest 500.”
Jackson knows this is still a rip-off, but he accepts that it will probably be all he can get in his current circumstances. “Okay,” he says, “but in American dollars and it’s a loan, not a sale. I’ll return to collect the items within a week.”
The pawnbroker nods agreement and goes to a safe from which he takes a tin containing bundles of American dollars. He counts out the loan in 50 and 100 dollars notes and gives Jackson a scribbled receipt. “Interest for week 10%,” he adds, “if you not return in week I sell.”
“I’ll be back,” Jackson assures him.
As the pawnbroker is about to return the jewels to their box, he notices a small black-and-white photograph lying on the bottom. It is of an elderly grey-haired woman.
“You want?” the pawnbroker asks Jackson.
“Yes thanks,” says Jackson. It’s a photo of his granny and he slips it carefully into his shirt pocket.
******
Back at his apartment, Jackson puts the pawnbroker’s loan in a drawer and decides that he will investigate what he might get for his flat in London, should he decide to put it on the market. He rings his estate agency and is put through to Roderick Turner. “Hi Roderick. It’s Jackson Dunbar. I’m the chap who bought that flat in Willoughby Road last year. You know, the one you rent out for me.”
“Ah yes, Mr Dunbar, of course. I see on the telly you’ve been leading an exciting life in Arabia. I hope you’re now safe and well.”
“Yes, I’m fine,” replies Jackson. “I’m calling to explore whether I should sell the flat.”
“You mean now?”
“Yes, well as soon as possible.”
Roderick hesitates. “Umm, is that a good idea just now?” he asks.
“Why do you ask that?”
“Only that the market is a bit flat at the moment and as a new tenant has just moved in, it might have a negative impact on the price we can get.”
“What’s a realistic figure?”
“Well, Mr Dunbar, taking all things into consideration, I would reckon £350,000.
“Bloody hell!” explodes Jackson, “that’s what I paid for it.”
“Yes, well, as I’ve said, the market is a bit flat at the moment, and as you took out private mortgages totalling 90% of the selling price, the rent you’re getting is only just covering the repayments. To be honest, Mr Dunbar, I would stick with the flat for a few more years until the market picks up.”
“So much for your assurances that the flat would be a nice little earner.”
“Situations sometimes change, Mr Dunbar, and just for the moment, we’re going through a bit of an unexpected dip in the market.”
“Thanks for nothing, Roderick,” says Jackson as he ends the call.
******
Jackson returns to the bureau in ill temper, but explains this away to the team as frustration that his prospective “lead” on the Soldiers of Allah had come to nothing, causing him to waste most of his morning. He goes to his desk and notices a Post It sticker on his screen. “Call your mother,” it says.
He waves the sticker at Samira. “What’s she want this time?”
Samira shrugs her shoulders. “Sorry, Jacko, I don’t know, but she sounded very angry. She said something about the DG refusing to discuss your career. She seemed particularly cross that his letter to her hadn’t even been signed by him.”
“Oh fuck!” Jackson exclaims. “That woman is driving me nuts!”
Pete overhears the exchange and wants to know what is going on. “Should I take it, mate, that your mum has been trying to suck up to the DG to your career advantage?”
“Get stuffed, Pete! I’ve got enough on my mind without extra needle from you.”
Samira intervenes before a row gets out of hand. “Stop it, boys, please!” She checks to see that Dick is busy at his desk and that the door to the office is closed, then calls Jackson and Pete over to her desk. “I’ve just had some very good news,” she whispers.
“What’s that,” Pete asks.
“I’m not telling,” she teases, “I want it to be a surprise.”
“Well, when will we get that surprise?” Jackson wants to know.
“Just be here on time for tomorrow morning’s editorial meeting,” she instructs.
The rest of the day goes quietly and Jackson returns to his apartment with the intention of trying his chances at the roulette tables at Archibald’s gambling den. But his luck is out. Archibald is hosting an invitation-only night and won’t be able to accommodate him until later in the week. Jackson logs on to Towering Treasures Inc but his credit has expired. He decides instead on a shower, a beer, a bit of undemanding television and an early night, wanting to be ready and fresh for Samira’s promised surprise tomorrow morning.
******
The next morning Jackson, Pete, Yassin, Farouk and Samira assemble on time for the morning editorial conference. Unusually, Dick is not at his desk. “Where’s Psycho?” asks Pete.
“Ah,” replies Samira, “that’s Part One of your surprise. He flew back to London last night and won’t be returning any time soon.”
There is spontaneous applause from the rest of the team. “So what’s Part Two?” enquires Jackson.
Samira gives a broad grin and goes to the bureau entrance. “Here’s Part Two,” she says as she opens the door. There is a pause, then Mack Galbraith appears in his usual scruffy clothes and waves his walking stick in greeting. There is another burst of applause and cheering.
Mack joins the team in the office, still walking with a slight limp, grinning from ear to ear and thrilled to be back at work. He looks around at his tidy and squeaky-clean office. “What’s happened here?!” No answer is necessary as the team laugh loudly. He sniffs the air. “What’s that smell?” Samira informs him that it is Dick’s air freshener. “Christ!” is his only response.
Mack goes to the new leather chair bought by Dick and eases himself into it. “I like this chair anyway,” he declares, “but where are my ash trays?”
“They’re here, Mack,” says Samira as she retrieves two from a cupboard and puts them on his desk.
“That’s better,” he says. He points his walking stick at the bright “No Smoking” signs Dick had stuck to the walls. “And you can take those down right now.” There is more laughter as he offers a cigarette to Yassin and lights one up himself.”
Samira winces. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Mack, we did rather enjoy this place being a ‘no smoking’ area.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do to cut it down.”
Pete chips in. “Let’s do a deal, Mack: you cut down the smoking and I’ll stop wearing stupid T-shirts to work.”
“I see you’re still a cheeky young bugger!” Mack responds with a resigned smile. He points to Pete’s T-shirt displaying a grotesque cartoon of the Queen disporting herself in a most unladylike manner. “I take it you’re just trying to wind me up with that one.”
> “No, not really,” replies Pete, “it was intended to wind up ‘Psycho’. I thought he’d still be here. But you can relax. As of today I’ll be a model of sartorial propriety. The T-shirt joke has run its course.”
Mack nods approvingly and claps his hands. “Well, we’d better talk to London.” He dials the Foreign Desk and Mary Dunstan answers. “Good morning, Mack. Very pleased to hear you back on base.”
“Yes, Mary, wonderful to be here again with the team, although I doubt that I’ll be able to find anything now that Psycho has tidied everything away.” Mary laughs. “I understand, Mack. I’ve seen your office and I also know what Dick’s is like. I think a surgeon could carry out a major operation on top of his desk without the risk of the patient catching an infection. Anyway, down to business… We have a packed diary of local and foreign stories today, so unless you’ve got something really outstanding, we won’t need anything from you. It’ll be a good day for you to settle back in and return your desk and ashtray to their usual overflowing state.”
Mack and the rest of the team laugh. “Thanks, Mary. Talk again tomorrow.”
“Indeed, Mack, but when you get a moment I think we should have a private chat about some of the things that were raised when you were here for that embarrassing lunch.”
Mack shifts uncomfortably in his chair and the rest of the team exchange enquiring glances. “Will do,” he says as he ends the call.
“What was that about, boss?” asks Pete.
“Oh, just a little bit of shitty point-scoring by some of the bampot bosses with nothing better to do with their dreary lives. Nothing for you to worry about.”
The meeting breaks up and Mack is left alone to make the requested call to Mary. She tips him off that the rumours about Jackson and Samira appear to be coming from Dick Passick. He agrees that this is most likely and thanks her for the warning.
Samira enters his office with a folder of expenses claims. “Why didn’t Psycho do these?” he asks.
“He was concerned that there were so few receipts and we agreed it was best to leave them for you to approve,” she explains.
Mack raises an eyebrow. “Receipts? Obviously someone who’s never worked in the Developing World,” he observes.
Samira gets up to leave, but he motions her to stay. “How did Psycho behave while he was here?” he asks. “Any conflicts?”
“Oh, we established a working relationship with him, eventually. He’s not a man you naturally admire or like, but there was nothing we couldn’t handle.”
Mack wants to know more. “Were there any incidents that I should be aware of? Anything that might have provoked him to raise matters with our bosses?”
“As I said, Mack, there was nothing we couldn’t handle and he’s returned home basking in the reflected glory of how we handled the coverage of the assassination of Khaled Mohamed. He should have no reason to bad-mouth us.”
“I’m pleased to hear that,” says Mack.
It’s now Samira’s turn to ask questions. “Is there something you should be telling me?”
Mack lights a cigarette while he considers an answer. “Umm. Well, there’s something that we should keep between the two of us… Someone has told London that Jackson has a gambling problem and that he’s even using his computer here to access a website.”
Samira is surprised. “That’s news to me. He’s always short of cash, but I’ve just accepted that he isn’t very good with money and that he’s still having problems with some bad property purchase back home.”
“What about his computer? Have you seen anything that would suggest he’s an online gambler?”
“No, Mack. Nothing. The only way to find out would be if he goes away from his computer with it still logged on. His browsing history would tell us which sites he visits, but I would never want to do that.”
“No, no, we mustn’t do that,” agrees Mack. “I think we can assume that this is some story concocted by Psycho. I’ll tell London that I’ve investigated and found that it’s all bull manure.”
CHAPTER 22
That evening, Jackson is back at his apartment for a snack meal and a shower in preparation for a few hours at Archibald’s gambling den. He makes an upsetting discovery: He finds his photograph of Granny Dunbar in a tattered state on the kitchen bench. It is attached by a paper clip to a note scribbled in Arabic. The note is from his maid and it tells him that she found the photograph in a shirt pocket after putting his clothes through the washing machine and drier. He thumps the bench in anger, but he knows it is mostly his fault. He tries to smooth the photograph, but it is beyond salvaging and he eventually drops it in the rubbish bin with a sigh.
A couple of hours later, Jackson is refreshed and aiming to make his fortune at Archibald’s roulette tables, using the loan raised by his granny’s jewellery. Archibald tells him he can stay just an hour because he has a group of high-rollers who are taking over the den for another late-night invitation-only event. At the end of the hour, Jackson is on a winning streak and has more than tripled his money, but Archibald tells him his time is up.
“Oh c’mon,” shouts Jackson, “that’s not fair. You’re sending me away because I’m winning.”
“You’d be most welcome to stay here to allow me to take my losses back from you,” assures Archibald, “but my establishment has been booked by a group of very wealthy clients who would regard your bets as pocket money. You have your winnings, so go away quietly or I will have you forcibly removed.”
Jackson has no choice, so leaves quietly and hails a taxi to take him to his apartment. He is both frustrated and elated. On the one hand, he is annoyed that his time at the gambling tables has been interrupted; on the other, he deludes himself that his winnings tonight are merely a forerunner to the big money that will allow him to escape all his debts and return to a gambling-free life. Meantime, it will allow him to recover Granny Dunbar’s jewellery from the pawnbroker. He vows to do that tomorrow.
******
At the next morning’s editorial meeting, the team notes that Mack’s desk is rapidly returning to its pre-Dick Passick state, but in a concession to his colleagues, Mack stubs out his cigarette and doesn’t light another while the meeting progresses.
Pete has news from his girlfriend, Kelly. She has told him that she saw a document marked “Confidential” that was accidentally left on the office photocopier. It lays out provisional plans for her bank to pull out of Central Arabia if the bombings and other terrorist acts don’t end soon.
“Any chance of her sneaking a copy of the document to you?” Mack asks.
“Fair go!” exclaims Pete. “I’m not going to ask her to do that. She could be fired, especially as some of her workmates know we’re friends.”
“Understood, laddie. Still, it’s very useful to be aware that at least one bank is getting nervous about the situation here. No doubt you’ll let us know if these provisional plans harden.”
“Sure, boss.”
Mack sees a new Reuters message on his computer screen. It reports that a new Development Minister has been appointed. He is Hadeed Hussam, said to be pro-Western and a supporter of President Hasani.
“Have either of you heard of him?” Mack asks Farouk and Yassin.
They both shake their heads.
“Oh well. I’ll see what I can find out and do a radio piece for World Service,” says Mack. “As for Jackson, I suggest you spend the day touring the foreign embassies here to see if they have something we might be missing. Perhaps Pete could see if there’s any film of this guy Hussam.”
The meeting breaks up. Pete goes to his locker and changes into a plain T-shirt without any provocative illustrations. Jackson goes back to his desk and discreetly phones Thomas to discuss the news of the Development Minister appointment. He is told that Hussam is a political lightweight – a technocrat who does not have the Machiavellian skills or network support to present President Hasani with a challenge.
Jackson wants to know if the bug he planted i
n the minister’s office is still active. He is told that it is, but because of Hussam’s low status, is unlikely to provide any useful information. Anyway, the battery is beginning to run down. “To be truthful,” he tells Jackson, “our priority has to be the mysterious silence of your terrorist buddy, Bin Hassan. Have you heard anything from him lately?” Jackson assures him that he hasn’t.
Jackson spends most of the day visiting as many embassies as will see him, but gains no new information, or at least no new information that is credible. His impression is that most European diplomats in the city see the American Embassy in Armibar as the only major player in the city. Even the Russian Embassy thinks that.
His last task for the day is to call at the pawnshop to recover Granny Dunbar’s jewellery. He is in for a shock. He hands the pawnbroker his receipt and begins counting out the payment from yesterday’s roulette winnings. “You’re $2500 back, plus interest of $250. Right?” he declares.
The pawnbroker shakes his head. “No, $500 and $50 interest.”
“Eh? But that’s just for the rings and necklaces! What about the brooch?”
“I keep brooch to sell. $10,000,” he says.
Jackson is dismayed. “No, no, no! The brooch is mine. Give it back!”
“No, it Cartier. I sell it for much dollar.”
“You can’t do that,” shouts Jackson, “that was my grandmother’s. It has to stay in my family.”
There is a pause, then the pawnbroker announces “Okay. You can have for $8,000.”
“That’s robbery,” says Jackson, still shouting.
“You insult me,” says the pawnbroker, “it $8,000.”
“I don’t have $8,000.”
“How much you have? You show me. Empty your pockets!”
The pawnbroker rings a bell beneath the counter and is promptly joined by two men in traditional wear and oversize dark glasses. Jackson has no option but to empty his pockets onto the counter. The pawnbroker pushes Jackson’s key ring, pens and notebook to one side and takes Jackson’s large roll of dollars. He expertly counts the banknotes. They total $6,500. He shrugs and tells Jackson that he will accept that sum for the jewels.
The Mortal Maze Page 22
