by Nick Cook
Soon after his return to England, Girling placed photographs of his wife on the shelves, chests, and tables of the apartment. He felt a need to be surrounded by them. Then, one day, he gathered them into a box and consigned them all save one to a dark corner of the cupboard beneath the stairs. He put the lone photograph in Alia’s bedroom so she could be near her mother. The pain was all the reminder he needed.
Whenever he could, Girling would work from home to stretch time with his daughter. When foreign assignments called, his parents were only too willing to come to the rescue and look after her. The Stalwart Divider trip was typical of the time he would spend away from home on any one occasion.
Girling’s parents lived in a small village outside Oxford, their home since his father retired from the diplomatic service several years before.
He had called them shortly after his return from work. Girling discussed arrangements for collecting Alia with his mother. He promised to drive over the next evening, the precise timing of his arrival dependent on the usual last-minute complications that accompanied press-night. He anticipated he would be there for a late supper. His mother was delighted. Visits from him were so rare. There would be grumbles about promptness from his father. Some things never changed. His father was the last person to understand that he was the reason his only son rarely came visiting.
Outside his second-storey apartment, London slept. Almost two thousand miles away, the ashes of a five-hundred-seat airliner would still be smouldering. And within the hospitals of Haifa and Tel Aviv doctors would be working through the night to save lives.
Girling had fallen asleep to the pictures of American Navy helicopters shuttling survivors to hospitals in Israel, thoughts of James Cramer’s fate in his head. But his dreams were filled with images of a killing on a dirt road in a provincial town between a majestic, sweeping river and the barren wastes of an endless desert. He accepted the dream, because it was part of the price of his sanity. The dream was a vent, through which the feelings he denied himself by day were allowed to escape.
The pain hit him in the stomach and he doubled over, the bottle falling from his hand and smashing on the tiled floor. His arms came down instinctively, hugging a point below his midriff, where the feeling was focused in all its fury.
A word, forgiveness, sprang into his mind, and for a moment, the pain stopped.
He shook his head violently, swore out loud he would do no such thing, and the pain hit him again, harder this time.
Girling held himself until the serrated knife that had been plunged into his gut was pulled through and the agony dissipated.
He got up, avoided the shards of glass that mined the floor, and wandered back to bed.
The pains were getting worse. As if two competing forces were wrestling for supremacy. He could not account for that because nothing had changed. Nothing had altered at all. He accepted it as part of his life. Pain and work; the only things he had besides his little girl.
CHAPTER 6
The day started badly. Girling heard the news on the radio: the Washington Post had scooped Dispatches’ story about the aborted plans to use the F-15Es. It made the second slot, just below the lead item detailing the disappearance of the hijackers and their captives.
As he walked to the station, Girling felt a genuine sense of loss. The feeling was accompanied by a dull throb in the pit of his stomach. The pain was a reminder that he had already flown too close to the flame. Prudence suggested it was time to lay off the ball-grabbing exclusives.
Approaching the tube station he felt the tearing sensation intensify.
The thrill of his old work - once his stock in trade - drew him like a bottle pulls a drunk. It would be so easy to indulge himself. Technical journalism kept him on the right side of the tracks, but it was no compensation for the adrenalin that accompanied the reporting of world news.
Girling had to remind himself how many times in the past he had wrenched a story from the front page of some unsuspecting publication to claim his exclusive. As Mallon liked to say: it happens. It was just one of those things.
After all these years, Girling still found he didn’t like it to happen to him.
When he entered the building, the workstations lay idle, a sign there was another news meeting in progress.
Girling went straight to the conference room to find Kelso calling the meeting to order. He took a seat at the back of the room.
‘What happened to you?’ Kelso asked.
Girling shrugged. He knew he looked terrible. It would wear off.
Kelso didn’t look so good himself. He snapped only when he was tired and angry. And the loss of their story to the early editions of an American newspaper had made him furious.
He began shuffling a sheaf of papers, until the rustle of pages was the only sound in the room. When he had everyone’s attention, Kelso got to his feet.
‘We’ve all heard the news. Last night you lost a colleague and this morning we lost an exclusive. I know some of you have worked with Cramer.’ He paused. ‘So here’s some good news. Whatever the speculation last night, Cramer’s alive.’
Kelso could do that sometimes. He had a way of breaking news to people who were paid to gather it, day in and day out. It was one of the things that had kept him in the business through the years.
‘I was called to an editors’ meeting at the Ministry of Defence this morning,’ Kelso continued. ‘Among other things, they told us he’s safe.’
‘But his pictures went off the air,’ Mallon said. ‘We thought - ’
‘I know what you thought. That’s what all of us were meant to think. The fact is, Cramer’s pictures had become useful.’
‘So someone pulled the plug,’ Girling said. ‘That’s pretty extreme.’
‘The Government is asking for the media’s co-operation. They’ve asked us to hand over any information that might be relevant or useful before publication. That was the gist of the meeting this morning.’
‘Washington must be leaning on its allies pretty hard,’ someone said.
‘Are we going to play ball?’ Carey asked.
He had a point. Requests for media co-operation were not binding.
‘That depends,’ Kelso replied, resuming his seat. ‘We’ve still got a bloody magazine to get onto the streets by tomorrow morning. And there’s no obvious lead. What did we get through last night?’ His gaze fell on Carey.
The news editor looked at his clip-board. He had a list of stories that had been ‘dropped’ into the electronic mailbox by their stringers and correspondents around the world during the night.
‘Gilpatrick’s filed her political sketch, plus a short piece on last night’s press conference at the White House.’
Kelso, like most of his staff, had seen the President speak on the late news. ‘Did she manage to get anything beyond all that shock, horror, and outrage?’
‘She checked her sources on the identity of the terrorists, who might be behind them, and possible military retaliation. No comment. If they know, they’re not saying.’
‘Jesus, how much are we paying that girl?’ Kelso demanded under his breath.
‘Come on, Bob,’ Carey said. ‘This is a tough one.’
‘It seems that the CIA, or whoever checks these things, has no more idea who carried out this attack than we do.’ Moynahan, their diplomatic editor, said. ‘That’s a fair assumption, isn’t it?’
Girling saw the tic pull at Kelso’s right cheek. Moynahan, his words as ponderous as his gait, irritated Kelso. Girling knew that the editor had been seeking an excuse to sack him for months. No one would be sorry to see Moynahan go. He spent more time at the Press Club than he did in the office, which made his gibe about Stansell all the more odious.
‘I don’t want fucking assumptions,’ Kelso said. ‘I want facts.’
‘But the hijackers and hostages have disappeared into thin air. You heard the news, didn’t you?’
‘Doesn’t mean to say no one knows where they’ve go
ne,’ Kelso said. ‘Maybe that’s what the CIA wants us - and the terrorists - to believe.’
Moynahan slumped back into his chair. He looked exhausted, eyes lacklustre in reddened sockets.
‘Bob’s right,’ Carey said. ‘We can’t make any assumptions, especially with a story of this complexity. We shouldn’t simply assume that Washington is groping in the dark.’
Kelso cut him off. There was a wild look in his eyes. ‘Listen, all of you. We’re going all the way on this one. I want us to break the identity of these bastards. Find out who these terrorists are, and who’s behind them. It’s got to be our very own story. Our exclusive. Screw the Washington Post. We’re going to get our own back.’
Girling thought there was more to this outburst than pure indignation. He heard the rustle of money behind Kelso’s words. All he could see was Kelso standing before Lord Kyle and attempting to justify the magazine’s profile against the latest circulation and advertising figures.
‘Time’s running out, Bob,’ Carey said. ‘We’ve got ten hours, maybe twelve tops, if we’re to bury that story for this week’s edition. It doesn’t look too promising.’
There was a look of desperation on Kelso’s face. ‘What’s Stansell filed? He’s closer to it than any of us. He’s got to know something.’
Carey produced the clip-board again and rummaged through the reports until he found the page with the Cairo dateline. ‘He’s sent in a piece setting out the background to Islamic terrorism - ’
Kelso brought his palm down on the table. ‘Background, background. That’s all I’m hearing. Hasn’t anyone got any news, for Christ’s sake?’
Carey grabbed his coffee before it swilled over the edge of his cup. ‘Stamen’s still working the news angle. Along with a few other people.’ The news editor looked sidelong at Moynahan for a sign that he had managed to turn up something during the night. The old hand shook his head.
Carey grimaced. ‘I think it’s worth pointing out what we could be dealing with out there, how these terrorist groups co-operate, their aims, beliefs, and so on. Stansell has done that. I think people will want to know.’
Carey had a knack for keeping a straight head when things got bad. And, just as important, he knew how to play Kelso’s temper.
Kelso’s anger subsided. ‘Give us the short version.’
Carey pulled Stansell’s copy from the clip-board. ‘There are two principal threats, the Palestine Liberation Organization and Hizbollah.’ His eyes ran down the page. ‘Each is an umbrella organization, overseeing dozens of groupings - small armies in some cases - all of them as committed to the cause today as they ever were, whatever their more moderate leaders say.’
‘The cause?’ Mallon asked.
‘Clear in the case of the PLO - the annihilation of Israel and destabilization of the Mid-East peace process. Less so with Hizbollah, but essentially the establishment of a pan-Islamic Shiite state.
‘Behind the two umbrella groupings are a number of sponsor nations, the most prominent being Libya, Syria, and Iraq for the PLO, and Iran for Hizbollah.’
‘I thought the PLO and Hizbollah hated each other,’ Kelso said.
Carey nodded. ‘Luckily for the rest of us they spend more time fighting each other than they do their own traditional enemies. Stansell points that out somewhere,’ he added, putting the copy down.
‘All right,’ Kelso said, ‘pass it over to the subs’ desk.’ He turned to the senior sub-editor. ‘Box it up on the spread. And dig out a picture of the bombing of the Marines’ complex in ‘83. That should show people what we’re dealing with out there. Now all we need is some news.’
Kelso paused a moment, letting his gaze brush each of them. ‘What happened after the terrorists slipped away from the beach? Somebody’s got to know. Somebody we have access to.’
Girling felt a nest of insects stir in his stomach.
Kelso swung round to face him. ‘Well?’
Girling managed to keep the strain from his voice. ‘Tech-Int would know.’
‘What?’ Kelso’s forehead creased.
‘Technical Intelligence. The MOD’s technical analysts - the people who do nothing but assess the bad guys’ hardware. I deal with them all the time.’
Girling stared into a wall of uniform incomprehension. ‘How do you think I get all that information on Soviet military equipment? From the Russians themselves?’
Kelso frowned. Girling realized he might as well have been talking Chinese.
‘Remember that defence exhibition in Baghdad two years ago? I gave Tech-Int a set of photographs - around five hundred prints in all - the day after Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. Tanks, aircraft, missiles - the Iraqis had put everything on display except their nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons. And I was the only Western journalist to show up with a decent camera. Tech-Int confessed that their military attaché in Baghdad had been on holiday at the time. They were delighted. We’ve been best buddies ever since.’
‘What’s that got to do with our friends in Beirut?’ Kelso asked.
Girling took a deep breath. ‘A pound to a penny Tech-Int has sucked Cramer’s film dry for evidence that could point the finger at the terrorists. I know the way they work. They would have passed that information to MI5, who would have sent it on to the Pentagon. That being so, they would have received feedback from Washington, too.’
‘Can you get to them?’
‘We would need to talk about that.’
Kelso pushed back his chair and got to his feet.
His eyes remained on Girling. ‘OK. This meeting is adjourned for everyone except you.’
The two of them strolled back towards Girling’s desk. Like some heavy piece of mechanical engineering, the newsroom began to swing into action around them. Carey was shouting for copy over clattering keyboards and the trilling of phones. It was press day.
They stopped in front of Girling’s desk. Kelso hitched up a trouser leg and sat down on the one corner free of papers. Girling stood facing him.
‘I need you on this story, Tom.’
‘I don’t mind talking to Tech-Int.’
Kelso shook his head slowly. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘I mean for the whole shooting match. You know the Middle East, what we’re dealing with out there. And I haven’t got any reporters working this one.’
‘What about Kieran Mallon?’
‘I mean real reporters. Mallon’s too young. Lacks experience.’
‘You could do worse than give him a break. I’ve never seen a kid so hungry for the story.’
Kelso watched Mallon walk back from the coffee pot to his desk. He had already made up his mind. ‘Another time, maybe. I want you to take charge of this one.’
‘I’m not sure I can.’
‘I’m prepared to take the risk. Listen, Tom. I’ve stuck my neck out for you. I’ve let you pursue your Boy’s Own stories.’ He smiled to himself. ‘I confess that most of your stuff goes straight over my head, but then I’m a little old-fashioned. For Christ’s sake, you’re too damned good to end up on the scrap heap.’
‘Funny as it may seem, Bob, I enjoy what I do. Besides, it makes me feel better.’
‘Don’t think I haven’t seen that look in your eyes. You want this story.’
‘Maybe. But then I’d like a cigarette, too. Doesn’t mean I’m going to start smoking again.’
‘That’s no answer.’
Girling gave his editor a reproachful smile. ‘Yeah, I know.’ He felt the insects stir again. ‘Look, Bob, if it’s just this once...’
Kelso slapped his thighs and got to his feet. From deep within the shark’s eyes a light shone. ‘Good man.’
‘Is that all you can say?’
‘You’ll be all right, Tom. Trust me.’
Girling ordered two pints - a bitter for himself and a stout for Mallon - and carried them over to the table where the reporter was waiting. He glanced at the wall clock on the way. He had another hour in hand before he was due at
the top floor of the large ministry building on Northumberland Avenue where Technical Intelligence was located.
There was a keen look in Mallon’s eye. He was still young enough to thrive off office intrigue; and the business with Kelso during and after the news meeting had more than aroused his curiosity.
‘Cheers,’ Mallon said, putting the glass to his lips. ‘And thanks for the tip-off. In all the excitement I forgot to say anything before.’
Girling raised his glass. No doubt about it, Mallon had done a good job on the Concorde story. Despite the MOD’s best efforts to throw him off, the Irishman had refused to take ‘no’ for an answer.
‘You angry you didn’t get Beirut?’ Girling asked.
Mallon shrugged. ‘Not really. It happens.’
Girling smiled. Mallon the philosopher, strangely at odds with the character who had terrorized the MOD into giving him answers.
‘Anyway, I see Kelso’s put you on to the story,’ the Irishman said.
‘A temporary arrangement, I can assure you.’
‘So how come you get to do it? You’re supposed to be the science and technology correspondent.’
‘I used to cover the Middle East beat. In Kelso’s book, that’s important. I still think any reporter with a nose for a decent story could do the job.’
‘I heard what you said about me, you know.’
For a moment Girling thought Mallon was accusing him. His brow furrowed.
‘The recommendation you made to Kelso,’ Mallon prompted. ‘About me doing the hijack story. Thanks for trying.’
Girling shifted uncomfortably. ‘That’s a hell of a pair of ears you’ve got.’
Mallon laughed. ‘Maybe I’ll insure them one of these days.’
‘So what else did they pick up?’
Mallon traced a finger idly across the head of his Guinness, then stuck it in his mouth. ‘More than a tinge of desperation in our great editor’s voice.’
