Later in the war, she moved to London and worked her way through a series of office jobs to become a senior corporate secretary.
She met and married a young Canadian airman in the RAF stationed at an airfield near London. After the war, the couple moved to Canada. Johnston fared even better when they moved to her husband’s home city of Toronto.
She served as chief secretary to a couple of high-powered financiers before taking the job with Chase and the Daily Express. Her husband passed away several years ago, but she continued to work long past normal retirement age. Chase could never imagine her retiring voluntarily – her work was her life.
Mrs. Johnston was an obsessive-compulsive perfectionist who expected everyone else to be the same. She didn’t suffer fools lightly and many people had felt the lash of her tongue. If she had a major fault, it was a lack of diplomacy and tact. Johnston believed in calling things as she saw them. She could be like an English bulldog at times.
But her major strength was extreme loyalty to those for whom she worked. She would protect Chase like he was her own son.
“Rob, nice to speak with you,’ said Chase into the phone. “I’ve been waiting to hear back from you. I hope the word is good from the loans committee.”
Chase held his breath as he stared at the heavily book-lined wall directly across from his desk. His shelf contained mainly non-fiction volumes by writers such as Bob Woodward, David Halberstam, Walter Cronkite, Katherine Graham, all giants in the field of journalism. His fiction taste tendered to favor thriller espionage writers such as John LeCarré, Frederick Forsyth, and the James Bond novels of Ian Fleming.
Next to it was a wall with several contemporary paintings that Chase had collected throughout his travels. He was an ardent bibliophile and art connoisseur.
“Always a pleasure talking to you as well, Andrew,” replied Nelson. “I just wish I had better news to pass on to you.”
“Oh come now, Rob. Don’t tell me you’re turning down our loan request. We’ve been good, solid customers over the past three years.”
“No doubt about that, Andrew. I presented your financial restructuring proposal to our loans committee yesterday. They gave it a thorough review being that you are one of our major clients. Unfortunately a majority of the committee is opposed to your plan. The committee feels a $50 million extension of credit is too great a risk and would put us out on a limb here.”
Andrew felt exasperated. “Rob, you know the paper is worth the investment. I will even put up some of my own personal financial resources as collateral if necessary.”
“Sorry, Andrew the loans committee won’t budge on this. But all is not gloomy. In view of your status as a top client and your good financial background, we are prepared to offer you a $20 million loan on top of the amount you already owe us. Perhaps that will keep you afloat.”
“For a while, Rob but it’s not enough. I need time for our restructuring efforts to pay off and for the initiatives to boost advertising revenue to gel. I need that $50 million that would keep us going for another five years at least and hopefully the paper would be in the black by then.”
“I’m sorry, Andrew. The committee feels it’s too risky. I did my best coming to bat on your behalf being the charming, persuasive rake that I am. But charm only carries so far with these guys. These are hard-line moneymen who live for the bottom line. I’m afraid many think you are doomed to fail. Perhaps you should consider putting the paper up for sale and getting out before she sinks.”
“I have no intention of allowing the Daily Express to sink, Rob. I think it can be a viable operation given the right financing and business plan. I already have a serious offer to buy, but I would prefer to ride this crisis out. I am not a quitter and this paper was a lifelong dream of mine. Perhaps I’ll look elsewhere for financing.”
“Well, I wish you luck, Andrew. But I think you’ll find it a hard sell in the marketplace just now. Just give me a call if you decide on the $20 million and I’ll draw up the papers. Goodbye.”
Chase slowly replaced the phone receiver. He felt depressed. The weight of the world was on his shoulders. Time was running out. He needed new financing right away or he would have no option but to sell.
Right now Rupert White’s offer seemed the only hope.
Chapter 22
Daily Express Newsroom 10:37 AM
KATIE CANNON sipped a can of Coke Zero as she transcribed her notes on the latest Wolfman killing.
His e-mail was unnerving, but she was not unduly worried. She could not see how he possibly could get at her. There was no way he could know where she lived and she spent most of her time at the paper. It was a busy place and there were always lots of people around.
Detective Moon offered her police protection, but she didn’t want to be followed around by a bodyguard. It would only crimp her style as a journalist and hamper her efforts. Cannon had always been very strong-willed and independent minded.
As a child, when people opened doors for her she would stubbornly insist on using another one. She could bloody well open her own doors. She’d been a tomboy as a child and often preferred playing with the boys than hanging out with the girls.
As Katie matured, she found the boys even more interested in being with her, but for different reasons. She learned rather early on that her striking physical assets could be a plus in getting her way. She found it easy to wrap boys and later men around her finger.
But it proved to be a double-edged sword because she had difficulty getting men to respect that she also had a brain.
Katie was as smart as a whip and earned good grades in university. She worked as a volunteer on the Silhouette, a campus student paper at McMaster University in Hamilton.
The field of journalism appealed to her and she often cut classes to spend more time at the paper. She eventually worked her way up to news editor in her final year before graduation.
After a stint as an intern at the Hamilton Spectator, Cannon was hired full-time and built a reputation as a crime reporter. Her hard-hitting reports drew the attention of Toronto media. Braden Young lured her to the Daily Express a year ago.
The big city had the attraction of bigger and better stories and the chance to build a national news reputation. Cannon dated occasionally but there was no one seriously in her life until the day she met Andrew Chase at a cocktail party.
She was immediately attracted to his rugged handsome looks. Even though he was much older than her, he was a charming man, with a good sense of humor. At the time she didn’t know he was the Publisher of the paper and her boss. He’d just said he was in management.
The next day a dozen red roses were delivered to her desk in the newsroom. Attached was a small note: “How About Dinner Sometime? Andrew.”
Cannon took a lot of razzing from her news colleagues about the flowers. There was considerable interest in finding out more about her secret admirer. But Katie wasn’t talking and kept the identity of the sender to herself.
Two nights later, a long romantic dinner at Sotto Sotto was capped off with a pitcher of vodka martinis and conversation well into the night. They left as the restaurant was closing. Chase took her back to his place.
One look at his opulent condo apartment and she knew he was in an entirely different league from her.
He then admitted his true identity as publisher of the Daily Express and her first instinct was to flee. But she’d had too much to drink, she really did find him sexy and charming and it had been a few months since she had been laid. What the hell!
It was a night of passion and tenderness, as Katie had never before experienced.
Chase was an infinitely patient lover who gently kissed her. He started nibbling at her neck and worked his way down her body slowly. He caressed her with nimble fingers and built a wave of passion that caused her to shudder to the core of her very being.
Then, as the wave began to build to a crescendo of desire, he would ease off. The wave receded. She cried out for more. He sta
rted again and the wave returned stronger than ever.
Their bodies melted together. The frenzy built until they were both spent and fell asleep amid a glow of warmth, sexual glow, and satisfaction.
Katie felt sure that this would just be a one-night affair for Andrew.
She was resigned to the fact that when she left the following morning she would probably not hear from him again. That was fine with her because a long-term relationship could never work between them. They were from two different worlds. Besides, he was her boss after all.
The next day at work she was surprised to receive another delivery of two dozen roses with a note from Andrew thanking her for a great evening and asking for another date.
Things took off from there in their relationship.
But Katie laid down some firm ground rules. She wanted to keep their relationship secret for now. They avoided public places where they might encounter people from work. They would usually return to her apartment rather than his. She felt more comfortable there anyway. When Andrew inevitably brought things to an end between them she would never have gotten used to the luxury of his world.
Her career was important to her. She wanted to win the respect of her colleagues for her work. She didn’t want them thinking her career was being built by sleeping with the publisher.
Cannon finished transcribing her notes. She cleared some of the clutter on her desk and glanced up at the clock on the far wall of the newsroom. 10:58 a.m.
She suddenly felt the need to see Andrew. She needed to talk to him about the e-mail threat from the Wolfman. Suddenly, she felt the need for reassurance and his loving arms.
Normally she would never dream of going to his office during the workday unless he summoned her. But this was not a normal day or a normal situation. Cannon first reached for the phone, but then replaced the receiver.
No, it was better to just go up there and drop in. She would take a chance he was there and not busy.
She desperately needed to see him now.
Chapter 23
Braden Young’s Office 11 AM
YOUNG FELT a sense of unease as he sat working behind his desk amid piles of paper and reference books.
The casual observer would see only chaos. To Young, however, it was organized chaos. He knew just where things were and could easily lay his hands on a document if needed. He was always a messy worker. Young was suspicious of people with tidy desks and no clutter. They couldn’t be very busy.
Now that the morning story meeting was out of the way, he had some time to think and all he could think of was Megan and her problems. Better check on her, he thought.
He called home and she picked up the phone after three rings.
“Hi. Princess – how are you holding up?” His pet name derived from the fact that as a little girl, Megan had been consumed with all the Princesses and the Disney fairy tales -- Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Snow White and Arial, the Little Mermaid. She loved pink and always dressed up like a princess.
“Fine, Daddy. How are things going at work?”
“Oh, same old, same old. The usual shit -- murders, fires, robberies, political crime and corruption – all the finer things about humanity.”
“Oh, daddy you’re always so cynical about everything. Most things in life are far better than you journalists write about. You paint such a dreary picture, it’s a wonder we all don’t commit suicide.”
“I know, Princess. You are always such an optimist. You view the glass half-full. You see things through rose-colored glasses. You think life is like a fairy tale. And they all lived happily ever after!”
“Why not? Is it a crime to wish for a better world and that people would treat others better? Deep down, I believe most people are good and want to do the right thing. We’re human though and we all make mistakes. Speaking of mistakes, Dennis called me this morning to apologize. He’s in Toronto at the Westin and wants to meet me for lunch.” Megan sounded hopeful and enthusiastic at the prospect.
“Whoa, hold on there kid. I don’t think you should give that slime ball the time of day just yet. You only just left him. Don’t let him sweet talk you back. Let him stew in his juices a while. Likely he has another pair of arms and bed to get comfort from anyway.”
Braden frowned at this news from his daughter. She can be so naïve and trusting. She could be setting herself up to be hurt all over again.
“Well, I’m going to take the subway and meet him at the hotel,” said Megan. “I want to give him a chance to explain. Don’t worry, Daddy. I’m not ready to forgive and forget so soon. But I feel I need to do this so I can make a decision on my life.”
“Fine, sweetie. You know best. Just be careful. You know I only want what’s best for you. I have to go now. Things are pretty busy here so probably won’t be home until after we put the final edition to bed at midnight. But I’ll come right home.”
Young put the phone receiver back after Megan assured him he she would be okay.
He still felt uneasy.
Megan was so fragile, like a glass figurine that could be so easily shattered.
He feared she was setting herself up to be seriously hurt.
Chapter 24
Tribal Areas 9 PM (Pakistan Standard Time)
TREVOR TREVANIAN could see again.
His kidnappers removed his hood. He blinked his eyes as they adjusted. Night had fallen.
He looked through window of the Lada and saw nothing but dark desolation. It was a land of sand, gravel and boulders overlain by silts and clays. The view was of a bleak and empty countryside.
Trevanian had no idea where they were, but knew it must be somewhere in the tribal areas of Northern Pakistan.
The remote Federally Administered Tribal Areas are a prime training ground for insurgents and a focal point for terrorists, especially since the 911 attacks. The region’s predominant ethnic Pashtuns have strongly resisted Pakistani government rule. This border area is a strong entry point for the insurgents into Afghanistan.
“Are we nearly at the end of this journey?” inquired Trevanian.
“We will be at our destination soon, very soon,” muttered Dharwal.
The Lada continued on its journey for another half-hour. Ahead, Trevanian could see the beginnings of civilization. It was a town. Not a huge town, but not a small village either. They passed a gasoline station and then a sign. Dera.
Throngs of people were milling about. Many of them were carrying AK-74s and older AK-47s. This looked like an armed camp for the insurgents. The car suddenly pulled to a halt in front of a large, red brick building.
Two heavy-set, bearded men in caftans at the doorway stood guard with AK-74s. There were three other armed men posted on the roof of the building as lookouts.
Dharwal and his chubby associate accompanied Trevanian inside the building. Trevor was taken to a large room. It was something out of a Sultan’s harem.
An ornate table stood in the centre of the room on a huge Persian carpet decorated in a deep burgundy. Around the table were four large chairs with deep cushions and well-padded backs. They looked very comfortable. The room was decorated in an Arabic theme. There were many elaborate wall hangings. Along one wall Trevanian saw a burgundy couch with large pillows.
“Mr. Trevanian, welcome to our humble abode. I trust that your journey was not too uncomfortable,” said a lanky, bearded man. He wore a long, charcoal grey caftan. He extended a sinewy arm and Trevanian shook hands.
What the hell is this? They kidnap me at gunpoint and bring me from Kandahar to some god-forsaken hole in Pakistan and then exchange pleasantries like it’s some kind of business trip.
“Thank you,” Trevanian replied politely. “But why have you brought me here? This is a rather strange invitation. You’ve scared the hell out of me. Is this a kidnapping or what?”
“Oh, most certainly not, Mr. Trevanian. You are in no danger. You will be free to leave after your assignment is completed. We will escort you to the nearest large city in Pa
kistan to file your story. I apologize for the manner in which you were brought here, but security is paramount for us. We had to be sure that no one knew of this in advance and where you would be going.”
“What assignment and what story are you talking about? What is here that could possibly interest me or my readers?” asked a perplexed Trevanian. “If you have a story to tell, a simple invitation would have sufficed. You wouldn’t have to kidnap me if there is a real story here.”
He was starting to feel a lot better about his situation now. He felt more confident since it appeared he hadn’t been kidnapped for ransom or worse.
“As I stated, Mr. Trevanian. It was a matter of highest security,” said the al-Qaida man. “The reason you have been summoned here will become clear shortly. Your reputation as a journalist on Afghanistan affairs is well known and respected internationally. Your reports are fair, even handed and balanced, unlike many of your compatriots who parrot their government lies, especially the Americans. As a Canadian journalist, you have shown an understanding for our struggle even if you do not support it.”
The man introduced himself as Kaffir Al-Ghazi, a media relations spokesperson for al-Qaida. He made it sound like he was representing just another company trying to get across its message or “spin”.
Only this company was comprised of terrorists who thought nothing of killing and maiming to make their point and to gain the attention of the world’s press.
Al-Ghazi knew Canada well since he spent four years in Montreal in the 1980s studying at McGill University. He was Saudi Arabian and his English was perfect.
“You have been specially chosen to conduct an interview. There will be no preconditions and you are free to ask whatever questions you desire. We want to get our message across to your North American audience. I am sure your story will be picked up by other media and this will be a journalistic coup for you, Mr. Trevanian.”
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