Advance praise for A Single Source
‘Topical, authoritative and gripping’
Charles Cumming
‘Tight, pacy and strong on atmosphere’
Michael Palin
‘Completely unputdownable’
Seb Emina, The Happy Reader
‘If you love le Carré, were gripped by Homeland and couldn’t get your nose out of A Dying Breed, here’s another thrilling read for you’
Dame Ann Leslie
‘A compelling story set against some of the global forces shaping our times’
Mishal Husain, BBC Today presenter
‘Draws you in from the first line and keeps you guessing until, literally, the very last’
Allan Little, former BBC correspondent
‘An enthralling read’
Roy Greenslade
‘Peter Hanington is entirely in command of this thrilling story and tells it with great verve’
Kirsty Wark, author of The Legacy of Elizabeth Pringle
‘One of the most assured pieces of writing I have read for a very long time … The sense of setting out on a journey in safe hands makes it all the more shocking when the plot takes its gut-wrenching twists’
Edward Stourton
‘Hanington has a knack for telling the stories of the lives behind the news headlines in a way that invites you, the reader, to care about his characters’
Fi Glover, the Fortunately podcast
Praise for A Dying Breed
Sunday Times Thriller of the Month
‘There are nods to John le Carré, but his impressive debut is its own thing, with three radio men at its centre, not spooks or civil servants’
The Sunday Times
‘Thoughtful, atmospheric and grippingly plotted’
Guardian
‘an impressive debut by Peter Hanington. The multi-layered plot, set in Afghanistan and BBC headquarters, moves excitingly and entertainingly but also raises serious current issues about dodgy political and commercial interference with the search for truth by journalists … Hanington has true talent’
The Times
‘A tremendous novel – shot-through with great authenticity and insider knowledge – wholly compelling and shrewdly wise’
William Boyd
‘A Dying Breed is an enthralling page-turner, and, as befits an author steeped in newsgathering, there’s a real sense of authority and authenticity at work in this quality thriller’
Michael Palin
Also by Peter Hanington
A Dying Breed
www.tworoadsbooks.com
First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Two Roads
An imprint of John Murray Press
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Peter Hanington 2019
The right of Peter Hanington to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
eBook ISBN 9781473625471
John Murray (Publishers)
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.tworoadsbooks.com
For Jack and Martha
CONTENTS
Advance praise for A Single Source
Praise for A Dying Breed
Also by Peter Hanington
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
1 The Listening Room
2 Kifaya
3 Lying for Your Country
4 Dreamers
5 Arabs Got Talent
6 Zahra
7 Firebrands
8 The Story of the Ship
9 Sins of the Fathers
10 A Breath of Fresh Air
11 Citizen Journalist
PART TWO
12 A Man. A Plan
13 Quod Erat Demonstrandum
The Way of Sorrows (i)
14 The Fear
The Way of Sorrows (ii)
15 Error 404
16 Hospitality
The Way of Sorrows (iii)
17 Arms and the Men
18 Lions
The Way of Sorrows (iv)
19 Close Calls
The Way of Sorrows (v)
20 Good Riddance
The Way of Sorrows (vi)
21 Patron Saints and Pictures
The Way of Sorrows (vii)
22 Appetite
23 Traitors and Heroes
24 How to Spike a Story
The Way of Sorrows (viii)
25 Missing
The Way of Sorrows (ix)
26 Fakes and Pharaohs
The Way of Sorrows (x)
27 The Offer
28 Personal Effects
PART THREE
29 A Man’s Word
30 Rattling Cages
The Way of Sorrows (xi)
31 Long Player
32 A Daughter Hears
33 Hell for Leather
The Way of Sorrows (xii)
34 Crooked Wood
35 Sabry Street
The Way of Sorrows (xiii)
36 The Old Ways
The Way of Sorrows (xiv)
37 Missio
The Way of Sorrows (xv)
38 A Little Light Journalism
39 Meetings
The Way of Sorrows (xvi)
PART FOUR
40 Wishes
Epilogue
The Way of Sorrows (xvii)
Acknowledgements
About the Author
News stories should be multi-sourced. That said – single-source stories are sometimes unavoidable. In these circumstances, the source must be authoritative, a participant involved in the action or with first-hand knowledge of the event. Above all, both reporter and source must have a track record of telling the truth.
The Journalists’ Handbook
Prologue
The man Gabriel wanted his grandsons to meet wore an electric blue-coloured business suit with wide lapels, a white shirt and thin red leather tie. He had a chunky steel watch that was too big for his wrist and that he looked at repeatedly.
‘I see you notice my watch? It was your grandfather that got me this watch: Tag Heuer. It is real, I have had this checked. I thought he might try and cheat me …’ – he looked at both brothers in turn – ‘… but he did not.’ There was a hint of disappointment in the man’s voice. ‘So, I owe old man Gabriel the favour and he says that you two are how I am to repay.’ The name on his embossed business card was Adam Adonay but the man had asked that the boys refer to him only as Mr Adam. ‘Like the first man – you understand?’
The boys nodded.
Mr Adam glanced around the room, the look on his face suggesting that he found nothing there that met with his approval. Gabriel had arranged for the meeting to take place in the home of a mutual friend, someone who both he and Mr Adam agreed could be trusted. The house turned out to be only a few streets from the boys’ own home in the rundown district of Godaif. ‘I live in the European section, you know it?’ This question was directed at Gebre, who nodded. ‘
It is a good area, not like this. This house has nothing – a few sticks of furniture is all, not even a picture on the wall. Look!’ He waved a hand in the direction of the nearest wall and Gebre looked. Mr Adam was not wrong. He pointed at the table in front of him, an old tea chest covered in a yellow cloth. On it were some papers, a litre bottle of beer and three glasses. ‘They do not even have a proper table!’ He refilled his already half-full glass to the brim, leaving his guests’ glasses empty. ‘I have asked around about you two boys. The police find no fault with you, no one else either, so tell me, why do you need to leave?’
Gabriel had told the pair to expect this question and provided them with a prepared answer but Gebre chose to improvise.
‘There is nothing for us here, Mr Adam. We live in a house like this house – just me, my brother and our mother. We have no work, no hope of decent work. In Europe we can work and improve our lives, send money back to help our mother and grandfather too.’
The man shrugged, this answer seemed satisfactory.
‘I understand. But let us not talk about Europe just yet. One footstep at a time as they say. First we have to get you across the desert … Eritrea to Sudan and Sudan to Libya. Then the sea. Then Europe.’ He took a gulp of beer and again refilled his glass. ‘I told old Gabriel that I would treat you well; that the price he has paid will be the total price. I promised him this.’
Gebre studied Mr Adam. He wondered what this man’s promise was worth.
‘So, you two will not get the normal trip … you will get the VIP trip, you understand?’
The brothers shook their heads. Mr Adam smiled and Gebre saw the flash of a gold tooth.
‘Very Important Passenger trip, this is what I have arranged for you. I will tell you how it works. As I said to your grandfather, nothing will happen for two days, but then everything will happen. Things will move very quickly, and you will need to be ready.’
He told them they’d be picked up in a regular taxi and taken an hour or two out of the city; here they’d meet up with their fellow travellers and the men who’d been paid to drive them across the desert. ‘This letter, this is your passport.’ Mr Adam handed Gebre a single sheet of paper. In typewritten script were three lines of text and under that a telephone number. Each line contained the same message: once in Arabic, once in Tigrinya and once in English.
Mr Adam does guarantee good character and cost of transport for the two boys holding this paper: Gebra and Soloman Hassan.
Gebre turned the paper over. The reverse was blank.
‘This is all?’
Mr Adam sucked his teeth, clearly offended.
‘That is all you will need, I wrote it out myself. It is more than most people have. Much more. That is my personal mobile phone number on this paper. Where you are going this piece of paper is worth more than an Italian passport or a German passport or any other passport you can name. Do not ever lose this.’
Gebre handed the piece of paper to Solomon.
‘Both of our names are spelled wrong.’
Mr Adam snatched the paper back and held it close to his face.
‘I do not have my typewriter with me; it is only a small difference, it will not matter. My name is the important thing for these people.’
The boys were silent, they knew how much it had cost their grandfather to arrange this trip: ten thousand nakfa or six hundred American dollars – more than two years’ pay for most Eritreans and this piece of paper and a promise was what they got in return.
Mr Adam picked up a clear plastic wallet from the makeshift table and inserted the boys’ travel document with a certain amount of ceremony. ‘As I say before, do not lose it. This is your future.’ He handed it across the table to Gebre and clapped his hands together. ‘I believe that is all. Your grandfather will be told when the first car will come.’ Mr Adam stood and the brothers followed suit. ‘He is a good man, your grandfather., I told him he should come into business with me, he knows a lot of people, he knows how to make things happen. Do you know what he said?’
Gebre nodded.
‘He always says that he prefers to move objects … not people.’
Mr Adam smiled.
‘This is exactly what he says to me … that if he loses a sack of grain, a bicycle or even a fine watch, it is shame but still he can sleep at night. I told him I understood this problem well – I find it very, very difficult to sleep at night.’ Mr Adam finished the beer. ‘My doctor says it is the gas but I am sure it is more than this.’
PART ONE
@tsquarelawan
The black and white days are coming. There will be no more grey and everyone must choose … which side are you on?
1 The Listening Room
DATELINE: Highbury Fields, London N5, December 27 2010
William Carver stared at the long line of London plane trees, stretching from the bench where he sat, all the way up the Fields to the clock tower at the top. Each tree wore a snowy skirt around its trunk; each looked the same as its neighbour. It was more than thirty years since he’d first set eyes on them, yet the trees seemed unchanged. Carver wondered how far back you’d have to go for the trees to have looked much different. When were they saplings for instance? Maybe all the way back, when these Fields were where London’s rich came to hunt stag and fornicate? Carver nodded to himself; trees like these certainly made you think about the passage of time. He took his mobile phone from his anorak pocket and poked out another message: Get a bloody move on.
Patrick was pulling the front door to his flat shut when he felt his phone buzz; he ignored it and sloshed his way across the snowy road, greeting Carver with a wave.
‘Merry Christmas.’
‘What the hell are you wearing?’
Under his long black raincoat Patrick had on an eye-catching red and green sweater featuring a drunk-looking reindeer and several elves.
‘It’s my Christmas jumper. Me and Becs both bought each other one. Hers is even funnier than this.’ Carver remained unsmiling. Patrick noticed that instead of his usual uniform of jeans, black trainers and white shirt, William had a suit on underneath the anorak. ‘How come you’re so smart?’
‘It’s just a suit and tie.’ His hand went to his collar as though to check this fact. ‘McCluskey is a bit of a stickler for smart.’
Patrick grimaced. ‘You should’ve said. Shall I go and change?’
Carver shook his head. ‘No time.’ He picked up his plastic carrier bag and stood.
They’d walked a few steps when the sound of frantic tapping at a top-floor window stopped them. Rebecca was standing on the sofa, wrapped in a white towel. Whatever urgent thought had occurred to her, had occurred while she was halfway through drying her hair – her blonde bob stuck out at a variety of angles. Patrick grinned at his girlfriend; she looked like a scarecrow – an incredibly pretty scarecrow.
She was mouthing something: ‘Ask him.’
Patrick shook his head.
She pointed at Carver and tried again: ‘Ask him.’
Patrick shrugged and continued pretending not to understand. He sensed Carver losing patience.
‘She wants you to ask me something. But you obviously don’t want to, and I don’t care either way, so shall we just leave it?’ He gave Rebecca a wave and dragged Patrick away. ‘We’ve got a train to catch.’
As they walked along the wide pavement that ran down the side of the Fields, Carver reminisced. Back at the beginning of his career – before switching to radio – he was junior crime reporter for a popular north London local tabloid and Highbury Fields was on his patch. ‘Christmas week was always good. Drunken scraps at the Lord Nelson … bottlings … joy-riders. You even got the odd murder-suicide if you were lucky. My editor always gave me extra pages Christmas week.’
Patrick had heard some of William’s gory stories before, but he didn’t mind hearing them again. They were riding the escalator down to the Victoria Line before he could get a word in.
‘So where are we go
ing? You said you’d tell me on the way.’
Carver glanced at his colleague. ‘We’re off to Caversham, the BBC Monitoring station. I got a call from McCluskey, I’ve been summoned.’
Patrick nodded; he’d always wanted to see Caversham. ‘Cool. And who’s McCluskey?’
Carver smiled. ‘McCluskey is a legend.’
The train to Reading was one of the modern types: moulded plastic fittings and seats like sandpaper. Carver found an empty table and took the window seat, facing backwards. He watched London recede and slowly the blocks of grey and brick and graffiti made way for trees and irregular-shaped patches of green. The taxi rank at Reading was empty and the station guard advised them that the best way to travel the last leg to Caversham was by bus.
The pink-coloured single-decker wound its way out of town and dropped them a ten-minute walk from the stately home. The cold sky shone as they walked past well-tended allotments and then a field, empty apart from a brown horse, its nose buried in a broken bale of hay. By the time they reached the tall iron gates, Carver was breathless; they stopped and admired the grand-looking facade in silence before William pointed out a few things to Patrick.
‘See the sat dish over there? The big green one?’
Patrick looked where Carver was pointing and saw the largest dish he’d ever seen, painted green to help it blend with the gardens but obvious nonetheless.
‘They used to have loads of short-wave aerials all over the front of the building, but they took them all down.’
‘I guess they don’t really need that old stuff anymore?’
Carver shrugged. ‘Opinions differ.’
Caversham was an impressive sight, Italian baroque made from stone and steel. ‘It was designed by the same bloke who did Tower Bridge.’ What Carver’s tour lacked in detail it made up for in enthusiasm. Patrick could tell that his colleague felt at home here. ‘I used to come and hang out with McCluskey and a few of the others when I was on leave.’
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