I waited a few seconds so that my answer didn’t sound defensive then I gave Skandon an icy stare which was designed to unsettle him.
‘The answer to all those questions is yes,’ I said quietly, ‘but I tend to take the view that playing the hard man when it is totally unnecessary can be simply pointless bluster.’
Skandon reddened slightly and I hoped he hadn’t noticed the small smile on Ionescu’s face. I shouldn’t really have done it. I knew I had confirmed Skandon as an enemy but he clearly was anyway. It was pretty obvious that Landesman and Skandon already favoured another candidate and weren’t too concerned how they torpedoed any rivals. But before Skandon could come back with a riposte, Ionescu intervened.
‘Tell me John,’ she said mildly, ‘what do you see as the main qualities of a World Service editor?’
‘I would say leadership and good news judgement,’ I replied.
‘And what about management skills?’ Landesman struck again, giving Skandon a chance to collect his thoughts.
‘Managerial skills are obviously part of the job, but above all, the World Service needs a leader they can respect and follow through all the coming changes.’
I tried not to make it sound pompous and was ready for any follow-up questions but out of the corner of my eye, I could see Colonel Rance itching to enter the arena.
When Rance finally spoke, I remembered the thin metallic voice, which corresponded exactly with the spare frame and iron grey hair. ‘Would you like to expand a little on the difference between leadership and management?’ he said.
‘The two obviously overlap,’ I said, ‘but leaders lead and managers organise. Often, sadly, neither has the skills that command the respect of those they are in charge of. A leader must have the respect of the led. We’re about to enter a period of enormous change. The editor must be able to carry his staff along with him’
‘Do you consider that you would be good at managing change?’
I was tempted to say that in my experience, ‘managing change’ usually meant lining the troops up to get fucked in an orderly manner but instead I said,
‘I’m sure Colonel, you’re familiar with the classic army reference: ‘I can think of no possible reason to follow this officer except curiosity’. I try not to be in that category.’
Only Ionescu laughed. Rance smiled briefly then glanced down at his notes. ‘Yes, John, you were in the Army rather longer than you’ve been in the World Service. I see you were in the Royal Logistical Corps. What was your speciality?’
‘Ammunition and fuel supply,’ I said warily. ‘I also had a spell on food storage and shipment.’
‘I must say your face seems familiar,’ Rance said thoughtfully, ‘did you serve in Iraq at any time?’
Time for the Big Lie, I thought. I had to block any opportunity for further probing.
Putting on a suitably rueful expression, I said, ‘I’m afraid not, Colonel, I was never lucky enough to see any action. I’m afraid fate destined me to be a REMF.’
Nobody asked for a translation. Rance knew well enough it stood for Rear Echelon Mother Fucker. Landesman and Skandon obviously didn’t want to confess ignorance of military slang and Oana simply let it pass.
Rance nodded. ‘Strange,’ he said, ‘I’m usually quite good with faces.’ He glanced down at his notes. ‘And you finished a captain?’
‘Yes’
‘Then you were invalided out?’
‘With asthma yes.’
This was another area where I had to be extremely cautious. The asthma had been invented at MI6’s insistence. They had wanted to bar me from becoming a foreign correspondent, feeling that they could keep an eye on me better if I was tied to London-based jobs.
‘And in civilian life, you chose journalism rather than use your technical training?’ Rance went on.
‘I was offered one or two jobs in my specialist fields. Shell offered me a job managing a fuel storage depot in Scotland but I knew that the depot environment wouldn’t be good for my asthma.’
‘You were in charge of an RLC depot?’
‘For a while yes.’
‘Which one?’
‘Second Base Logistical Support Group Depot at Richmond.’
I had the answer off pat. I knew the base well. I’d made several visits getting amiably drunk in the depot mess with an old friend who really was a Loggy, as Royal Logistical Corps officers were known.
Then I saw Rance’s eyes brighten and I knew I’d made a mistake.
‘Ah. That may well be where we met,’ Rance said. ‘When exactly were you there?’
It was a make or break moment. I tried desperately to remember exactly what was on my phoney CV. Then suddenly, Skandon of all people saved me.
‘Stuart, we only have a limited time for each candidate,’ he interrupted impatiently, ‘don’t you think we ought to turn our attention to BBC issues?’
Rance gave Skandon a nasty look. I could see he wanted to continue the military questioning but he clearly didn’t want friction with the World Service board members and he knew he was taking up too much time. ‘Of course, Peter, you’re quite right,’ he said, ‘please carry on.’
The respite was only brief. Skandon had jumped in because he had spotted another line of attack.
‘This asthma could be a serious concern,’ Skandon said, ‘as I understand it, you aren’t able to travel to several areas.’
‘It’s true I can’t visit any ‘category one’ countries,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid I’m not fit enough to take the hostile environment course.’
‘In other words you can’t go anywhere dangerous,’ Skandon said with another sneer, ‘that’s not going to earn much respect from the news staff.’
Once again it was Ionescu who came to my aid. ‘Really Peter, that’s not a fair comment. John is not boarding for a post as foreign correspondent. As you well know there are a number of managers who cannot do the hostile environment course.’ She was clearly itching to add ‘including yourself’ but held back. Skandon looked uncomfortable for a moment then switched his attack.
‘You’re aware of the developments overnight, the arrests, Iran and so on. Tell us how you would handle that story.’
That was a question I had no trouble with and I began to outline the coverage I would plan but Skandon interrupted impatiently, ‘Yes, but what is your personal view of the situation?’
I looked at him coolly.
‘That is something you will never know,’ I said.
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘Like all informed individuals I have views on everything that happens in the world, ‘I said, ‘but I am confident that you will not be able to identify a single occasion where my views have shown in my handling of the news. I believe that the one absolute priority for an editor is objectivity. Whatever I think as an individual, will never show.’
After that, the interview calmed down. Skandon seemed to have recognised that his attacks were too obvious and Landesman didn’t seem to have a heart to take up the baton. I calculated though that they thought they had already scored enough points and they were probably right.
They turned next to budgets and ways of handling funding cuts and twenty minutes later, the interview was over and I knew I had survived. As I walked back over the bridge to the newsroom, I cursed my luck at having two selectors who had it in for me. Ironically, it was the ‘outsider’ from Human Resources who was supposed to hold the ring and prevent prejudices from skewing the board, but I was glad most of all that I had managed to stop Rance from catching me out.
I switched on my mobile phone, checked there were no messages then made my way back to the newsroom and walked through the double doors, smiling the brave face.
Then I stopped and froze. Standing in the narrow passageway leading into the newsroom were three men and a woman clustered round Marianne Astier and I found myself staring directly at the man who had raped and killed my wife.
Chapter 4
I could see only half
the man’s profile but I knew immediately it was Ali Omar. There was no mistaking that tiny figure. Omar was a bundle of muscle barely more than five feet tall - weightlifter, wrestler, gymnast and professional killer. And if there had been any doubt, the other men talking to Marianne Astier were Ray Vossler and Jeremy Simpson-Carr. The three men who had ruined my life were back together and right there in the World Service newsroom. There was simply no reason why they should be there. It was completely surreal.
For years, I’d resisted the temptation to track down Omar and kill him. I had two sons I cared for deeply and didn’t want them to have a murderer for a father. Omar would expect no such scruples: he would fight to the death. There was no time for decisions. What street-fighters call ‘the off’ was almost instantaneous, provoked by the powerful northern Irish voice of one of my newsroom colleagues, Eamon Docherty.
‘John, how did it go? Did you knock them dead at the board?’ he called out.
Several people looked towards him, including Omar, then Omar looked straight at me. Our eyes met and Omar’s hand immediately moved towards his pocket. I knew what weapon Omar was reaching for. He was never without it and if he could draw it, I knew I had lost any chance of an even match. I had to get in first. I was twenty paces away – too far for a lunge or a charge. My only weapons were coins and keys in my pocket but I couldn’t reach them quickly enough. In the split second I had to scan the immediate area, I could see only two options: a flower vase and a laptop, open on the desk beside me. I went for the laptop, grabbed it by the screen and sent it skimming towards Omar. There was no time to aim; it was intended as a distraction to give me time to close in but I was in luck. It caught Omar on the side of his face, opening a deep cut on his cheek.
I closed in fast. You didn’t fight hand to hand with a man like Omar. In close combat there are only half a dozen vulnerable spots on the human body and Omar had spent a lifetime practising how to defend them. With Omar, you needed a weapon that would break bones or crack a skull. There was no weapon to hand but there was the refreshment-trolley. It was parked in the aisle at the entrance to the newsroom and an elderly woman was still making the preparations before starting to serve.
I grabbed her trolley and propelled it violently towards Omar. He tried to scramble out of the way but caught his leg against one of the tables. I quickly touched the side of the huge metal coffee urn; it was hot, but not too hot to grab. I seized it with both hands and hurled it at Omar’s head. If it had connected it would have been a show-stopper, but Omar’s agility saved him and he managed to manoeuvre his shoulder into position to block the urn. At the same time he used his legs to push the trolley back towards me. There was little force behind the shove but the trolley still blocked my path.
I knew I needed to steady myself. I was too angry and I wasn’t concentrating. Before Omar could get fully to his feet, I grabbed a jug of milk from the trolley and hurled it at him. It missed but the milk showered over him. Omar put his hand to his face to clear his eyes and I leaped over the trolley and body charged him. It was like running into a pile of truck tyres. As we hit the ground, I grappled for a neck lock, failed and used the side of my clenched fist to batter his face. This wasn’t the way to deal with Omar but I had no choice. I knew that one really powerful hit to the temple was the best I could hope for in this position but Omar tucked his chin into his neck and twisted and turned violently, to free his trapped left hand. I tried instead for a jab at his eye with my thumb but missed again. This time, Omar managed to free his left hand and I could feel him clawing at my hair.
I was barely aware of the turmoil around us; there was no shouting or screaming, just the thud of running feet and the scraping of desks and chairs as people backed to the edges of the room. I needed one real shot at a vulnerable spot before Omar managed to reach his weapon but he was too experienced and too agile to offer any targets. As we wrestled, I managed to wrench an electric plug free from the row of sockets beneath the table and shoved it into Omar’s face. Omar turned in time but the prongs raked his ear, tearing the lobe. He swore and tried again to get out from under my body weight. I struck again with the plug but the lead caught against the table leg. As I tried to free it, Omar blocked my arm and delivered a powerful jab, narrowly missing my face. Then suddenly, Omar was free, in a mixture of hand-spring and sideways leap. Physically, he was a freak of nature, a man who had been rejected by the US Special Forces because of his tiny stature and had been compensating ever since. He could bench press three times his weight and tumble and cartwheel like an India-rubber ball.
This time Omar did reach his weapon. Everyone who knew him, knew about it. Someone had nicknamed it the ‘Sado’ and Omar himself had adopted the name. He had designed it personally. It was his trademark: a weapon for close combat and for intimidation and torture. It was shaped like a knuckle-duster but the forward surface was edged with razor wire which could virtually shred an opponent’s face. Inside the lead-weighted hand-piece was a powerful taser. If the blow wasn’t powerful enough to stop the adversary on its own, a paralysing electric charge would finish the job. The rim of the Sado, insulated from Omar’s own hand, was made of a carbon alloy which the electric charge could heat instantly to over a hundred degrees. Now the weapon was out, if we did get to close quarters, the Sado could fire up to four needle darts and I had seen Omar take a man’s eye out with one.
I did a quick scan of the crowd to look for other potential problems. Predictably, Ray Vossler had already moved well out of the way, on the pretext of shielding a stylish-looking middle-aged woman I hadn’t seen before. Jeremy Simpson-Carr was also trying to look protective of Marianne Astier. I knew neither man would ever risk getting involved in this kind of violence. That was what Omar was paid for. There was no sign yet of any security guards, though they must have been summoned. Everyone was backing away, watching in bemused fascination. And inevitably there were cell phone cameras recording every move. The only person trying to get involved was Eamon Docherty who was also advancing on Omar, signalling to me that he was ready to help.
Eamon was not young but he was a tough character and I was sure he could still handle himself in a brawl. But this was no brawl; this was professional stuff.
‘Eamon get back, he’s a killer,’ I shouted. Docherty hesitated, then, reluctantly obeyed.
Omar raised his fist and pointed the Sado. If he fired a dart, the fight could easily be over there and then. I remembered only too clearly how I had dealt with the same threat. We had fought before and then I had used a restaurant table as a shield. A newsroom desk would do the job now, but they were heavy and had computer terminals on them. What the hell, I decided. So they were heavy, so much the better. There was one desk nearby which was not linked to any others. I high-kicked the computer terminal and sent it crashing to the floor. As I grabbed the table by the two nearest legs, I felt a sharp pain in my hip. A dart for sure. I couldn’t tell how bad the injury was but it didn’t feel as though it had hit a vital spot. I ignored the pain, lifted the table to chest height and charged down the aisle towards Omar. Omar tried to leap sideways, but the table was too wide. The edge caught him a damaging blow and sent him spinning sideways. I prayed I’d dislocated his shoulder. I hadn’t done so but I had done some damage, enough, with luck, to slow him down. I raised the table and was about to bring it down in on his head and clinch the battle.
Then suddenly, I heard barking. I had been so focused on Omar that I hadn’t seen, Olivia, Mark Bestman’s guide dog. Olivia was a sweet-tempered and beautiful long-haired Alsatian, who spent most of her time in the newsroom, patiently spread out on the floor waiting as her blind master worked as a producer. Olivia, silent as always, had been masked by the array of work stations which made up the European desk. Now, she was positioning herself to protect Bestman. Omar had also seen her and read the situation. Struggling to his left, he crouched on the floor and positioning himself close to Olivia. If I used the table now, I would cripple the dog. I knew I’d lost the mome
nt. I saw two security guards running into the aisle behind the editorial rim, then a third and a fourth close behind. It was time to run.
Both entrances were blocked and the exit via the studio corridor could well be locked on Saturday. But there were open windows. The news room was air-conditioned but the temperature control had been upset by the heat wave, and staff had long since started to ignore the rule about not opening windows. We were on the fourth floor, but there been renovation work going on for several weeks and scaffolding covered three sides of the internal court-yard. I dropped the table and made for the nearest window. Then I heard a shout. It was Margaret Fenniman one of the producers who worked on the row of work stations on that side of the room.
‘John, not that one, over here’, she shouted.
I swerved and saw what she meant. The section of scaffolding outside the window I had been heading for was a self-contained unit that led nowhere. The window indicated by Fenniman led onto a builders’ platform which ran round half way round the side of the building. The security guards might try to follow but they were middle-aged and unfit and not a real threat. A much bigger concern was that they had walkie-talkies and cell phones and could order all entrances electronically closed. Because of the ever-present threat of an Al-Qaeda attack, the BBC had invested heavily in sophisticated security systems, but I knew the building well and there was one way I was sure I could get out, if I was quick. There was an entrance on the south side of the courtyard. It had two electronic gates which opened on command from a guardhouse-like structure set into the wall. There was a gap between the top of the gates and the ornamental stone arch, which it was possible to pass through. It wasn’t a security threat from intruders outside as it would have been impossible to scale the gates quickly enough but, for getting out, it should just be reachable from the scaffolding.
The Saxon Network Page 3
