A Single Source

by Peter Hanington

  Let state TV tell the lies. We will tell the Truth.

  Nawal was working on a rota for the new school – or a school of sorts anyway. A tarpaulined space where local street children were given free food and drink and then encouraged to stay for lessons in reading and writing or just to listen to stories. Half a dozen middle-aged women – mothers who’d come to Tahrir to find out where their children had got to – had offered to staff the new school and Nawal was sorting out a rota and filling in the names. She’d almost finished when Tarek ran in, his red Egyptian team shirt sticking to him with sweat.

  ‘It has started again near the museum. Some baltagi broke through the checkpoint.’

  They set off together, gathering reinforcements as they moved across the square.

  @tsquarelawan

  Pro-president baltagi throwing Molotovs and slabs of rock from rooftops on to protesters near museum. Take care!

  @tsquarelawan

  Fighting on the Egyptian museum side – people injured, they need help!

  Nawal was supposed to meet Zahra and William Carver an hour from now but this would not take long. She messaged Zahra, telling her that she was helping out at the museum.

  She was holding one end of a stretcher, moving a boy who’d been hit in the head with a slab of rock from the street to a nearby ambulance when an army sergeant asked for assistance. He told Nawal there were more injured people in the gardens next to the museum. He took her and a young paramedic through the main museum gates, garlanded with razor wire, and into a wooden hut that was being used as a security checkpoint. They were greeted warmly by an army captain who said he would take them to the injured.

  ‘There are not too many and it will not take long.’ He looked at the paramedic. ‘Thank you for your help, sir.’ And at Nawal: ‘And for yours, Miss al-Moallem.’

  They were inside the pink-coloured museum and heading for the back of the building before a nagging worry in Nawal’s mind took shape. She was trying to remember when she’d told the sergeant or any of his soldiers her name. And then she realised that she hadn’t.

  24 How to Spike a Story

  DATELINE: Cavendish Square, London W1, February 2 2011

  Rob suggested they meet around the corner from Broadcasting House, in Cavendish Square – less chance of an awkward encounter with old colleagues and he only needed a few minutes. The shorter this meeting was, the better.

  He walked around the square twice before he found a free bench; the place was busier than he’d expected, local shop and office workers making the most of the bright winter sunshine to eat their lunch alfresco. Fat London pigeons strode around, demanding bread with menaces and a group of students from the nearby fashion college were playing table tennis and smoking spliffs. Not far from Rob’s bench, half a dozen homeless blokes were sleeping off old hangovers or working on new ones with the help of strong Polish lager. The youngest member of the group, a kid with a blond mullet, was trying to persuade his Alsatian to take a sip from the can.

  Rob glanced over at the park noticeboard, which gave a brief history of the square and a list of park rules; it seemed to Mariscal that the only rule not currently being broken was the one prohibiting roller-blading. He stood and glanced around – there was no sign of Naomi. Rob took out his phone and checked the messages: nothing. Perhaps she wouldn’t come? Part of him hoped that she wouldn’t.

  Despite these reservations, Rob’s dark mood lifted when he spotted Naomi Holder, crossing at the traffic lights near the back of the Langham Hotel. It then swiftly fell when he saw that there was a middle-aged man in red trousers, white shirt and blue blazer walking in lockstep next to her, a big grin on his face. He was regaling her with what he clearly believed was a very funny story. Naomi spotted Rob and headed for the bench with her companion one step behind.

  ‘Hey, Rob.’ She gave Mariscal a friendly peck on the cheek. ‘You remember Lawrence?’

  ‘Yep.’

  The grin slipped from Lawrence Bew’s face as he recognised Rob. The newest member of Naomi’s team of presenters held out his hand and Mariscal gave it a half-hearted shake. The feeling was mutual.

  Rob had spent years refusing the BBC bosses’ suggestion that Bew be made a regular presenter. Every few months one big cheese or another would suggest that Bew – a long-standing Westminster correspondent – would be a good addition to the team and every time Rob would tell them to go whistle. The man’s ego was too big, his ambition too obvious. Lawrence glared at Rob who glared back and nobody said anything until Naomi broke the silence.

  ‘We were just talking about the seven thirty lead – the Home Secretary interview. Did you catch it, Rob?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I thought it was soft.’

  Bew turned on Rob. ‘Cheers, Rob, luckily no one gives a toss what you think anymore.’

  ‘Naomi asked for my opinion – that’s my opinion. You should’ve gone in harder, especially on prisons.’

  Bew pulled his shoulders back. ‘There’s more than one way to remove a gentleman’s overcoat, Robert. Sometimes a stiff wind is the thing – other times a nice warm breeze will do the job.’

  Mariscal shook his head; he’d forgotten just how pompous Bew could be. ‘I see. I didn’t realise you were trying to undress the Home Secretary, Lawrence, I thought you were trying to hold him to account.’

  Bew huffed and puffed and Rob waited while Naomi calmed him down and sent him on his way. Lawrence left without any kind of goodbye for Rob, which suited him just fine. Once he’d gone, Rob shuffled up the bench, making room for Naomi to sit down. She crossed her legs and turned to face him.

  ‘I thought the new job involved making friends and influencing people.’

  ‘Yeah, but I draw the line at Lawrence Bew. I don’t understand why you had to go and give him a permanent presenter slot.’

  Naomi shrugged. ‘He’s well connected.’

  ‘He’s well annoying.’

  She smiled; Naomi was wearing a dark denim skirt with woollen tights and a bright yellow jumper. Rob wondered whether she might have time for breakfast, then remembered that the plan was to keep this meeting as brief and businesslike as possible.

  They talked shop for a while. Naomi was interested to know what Rob thought of a few changes she’d made, most but not all of which he approved of. She told him her next idea was to shunt the regular ‘Thought for the Day’ slot back an hour.

  Mariscal nodded. ‘I think pretty much every editor in the last twenty years has had the same idea.’

  ‘But they didn’t do it.’

  ‘There are reasons. I think it’s great that you’re moving some of the furniture around. Absolutely right you want to make a mark.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But I’m just not sure that picking a fight with every faith leader in Britain is the best way to do it – picking a fight with God.’

  Naomi smiled. ‘I don’t think God listens to “Thought for the Day” anymore.’

  ‘No, you’re right about that. Just the Shipping Forecast – he’s a vain old bastard.’

  As they spoke, Naomi’s phone vibrated silently in her skirt pocket.

  ‘So, I’m guessing this is about the aircraft carrier send? Are you about to tell me all that exclusivity and access all areas stuff doesn’t apply anymore?’

  Rob shook his head. ‘No, no, it’s all good. I’ve had to piss off a dozen other angry broadcasters to make sure it’s just you – but it’s just you.’

  ‘We’re grateful.’

  ‘Good, who’re you going to send?’

  ‘Well, I assumed you wouldn’t want Lawrence?’

  Rob pulled a face. ‘Not unless we’re allowed to cram the fat bastard in a torpedo tube and fire him at North Korea – no.’

  Naomi suggested one of her two female presenters and they discussed dates. Everything they’d spoken about so far could have been handled over the phone. Everything up until Rob’s next casual-sounding c
onversational gambit. ‘How’s William by the way?’

  Naomi had her phone out and was checking messages. She threw Mariscal a sideways look. ‘You two should try talking to each other – save you having to ask me about him every time we meet.’

  Mariscal smiled. ‘Yeah, I guess. Does he ask about me as well then?’

  ‘No.’ She put her phone away. ‘How is Carver? He’s okay, not as focused as I’d like him but you warned me about that, didn’t you?’

  Rob nodded. ‘I thought the last couple of pieces sounded a little off the pace, like his mind’s on other things.’

  ‘Yeah, I hear that too.’

  Rob’s brow furrowed. ‘As it happens, I have an idea what this other thing might be.’

  ‘Really?’

  Mariscal told Naomi about a batch of British-made tear gas, old stock, that had somehow ended up in Egypt together with some other bits and pieces. ‘Body armour, batons, that kind of thing. Complete accident on the company’s part; the Egyptians probably bought it through a third party. Believe it or not, there are some dodgy characters involved in the arms business.’

  Naomi smiled.

  ‘Not that this is arms; more public order.’

  ‘And William’s working on this?’

  ‘He’s been making enquiries.’

  Rob didn’t like lying to Naomi but this was so close to the truth as to make no difference.

  She shrugged. ‘The way you describe it, it doesn’t sound like much of a story.’

  ‘It isn’t – it’s a Guardian page four, Times news-in-brief kind of thing at best, I reckon. But you know what he’s like when he gets his teeth into something. He gets a bit obsessive, goes a bit mad.’

  Naomi weighed up what she was being told; her phone still buzzed but she wasn’t interested. ‘Where do you fit in here, Rob? Why is what Carver’s up to any business of the head of comms at the MOD?’

  Mariscal had expected this question, it was the right one. ‘The world I work in now is pretty small. I hear a lot of things and in answer to your question – I made this my business.’ He shuffled an inch closer to Naomi and lowered his voice to little more than a whisper. ‘The company that made this stuff, they’re seriously litigious and from what I hear, their lawyers are licking their lips over this one. That’s another thing no new editor wants – a big legal row, just when you’re starting to make your mark.’ Mariscal grinned. ‘I speak from experience.’

  ‘So you’re warning me off the story?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not at all. I can’t do that. And I wouldn’t. I’m just saying keep an eye on him. Sometimes when Carver goes after something, all hell for leather, he gets reckless. You know what I mean.’

  Naomi nodded; she retrieved her phone and tutted. ‘I gotta go.’ She leaned over and gave Mariscal a peck on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Rob, I appreciate it.’

  He watched as she strode away. He liked Naomi, he always had. He couldn’t ask her to spike a story and he wouldn’t, even if he could. But he could plant a seed of doubt in her mind and, most of the time, that’s all it took.

  The Way of Sorrows (viii)

  The Sudanese-Libyan border

  The brothers lay on their backs, staring up at the blue sky. Gebre could see a long, cigar-shaped cloud, but it was too compact and moving too fast; it had no intention of watering this land. He wondered when this desert had last seen rain. Not in months certainly, maybe years? He was aware that his brother was watching him.

  After nearly three days of driving, the Sudanese traffickers had unloaded the truck and left their passengers at a deserted security post on the Libyan border. They’d told them that the men who would transport them from there to Ajdabiya in north-east Libya were late and that they could not wait for them. When Solomon asked for some extra water and food, in case the wait was long, the men laughed.

  Gebre was hungry and weak and Solomon was worried. He tried to shade his brother as best he could and to distract him wherever possible.

  ‘Do you see that, brother?’ Solomon was pointing at a thin contrail, high in the blue sky.

  Gebre lifted his head an inch. ‘London?’

  ‘No. No, that one is going to Germany, it has a string of sausages hanging from the wing, don’t you see?’

  Gebre smiled. ‘I do not know what I want more right now, to be on that plane or to be eating a plate of sausages.’

  Solomon shook his head. ‘The plane ride, you must always choose the plane ride. When you’re on the plane they give you a plastic tray, filled with food, all in different sections – my idiot cycling coach told me about this. The plane people place it on your knee: a little box of green salad, a box of chicken and carrots, a chocolate pudding and as much tea or coffee as you like.’

  It was another night and the best part of the following day before the Libyan traffickers arrived in four pick-up trucks.

  ‘Tourist luxury!’ The man who acted as the trafficker’s translator pointed at the vehicles. ‘But of course we have to ask you to pay for this luxury.’

  Reasoned explanations and desperate pleas from the people that they had already paid for the journey fell on deaf ears and the shakedown commenced. The smugglers went from person to person collecting money and valuables; if they received what they thought was enough, the individual was invited to take their bag and find a space in the back of one of the trucks. It was Gebre who noticed that they were demanding more of the older and frailer passengers.

  ‘Sol, we have to look useful … strong.’

  Solomon nodded and the pair got to their feet. Just as the traffickers were dealing with the group of women ahead of them in the line Gebre felt his legs go and he fell against his brother who caught him, propping him up against his own solid frame. The brothers had their suitcase open in front of them, ready for the traffickers to take from at will. While they were doing this, Solomon held his brother up, his hand gripping the belt at the back of Gebre’s trousers. After he’d found the half-hidden money and taken a couple of shirts, the translator stood and stared at the brothers.

  ‘It is not much.’

  Solomon met his eye. ‘It is what we have. But also we can help when the vehicle is trapped in sand. I know this work well.’

  The man jutted his chin in the direction of the truck and the looting party moved on. Gebre was too weak to take much notice of who was allowed to board the pick-ups and who was left behind; the gang crammed about thirty people into the three lead cars while the fourth was loaded with supplies: hundreds of litres of water, tinned food and fuel. The space left in the back of this last truck was reserved for a few of the younger women and once they had been chosen the cars set off in convoy.

  Some people died from dehydration, others fell from the back or sides of the pick-ups and were left behind. On the second day, the convoy was chased and shot at by bandits; the traffickers returned fire and they escaped but three men and one woman died from gunshot wounds. The last of the four to die was Simon, but they were not allowed to stop and bury him or any of the others. The dead were simply lifted and dropped from the sides of the moving vehicles. During this part of the journey, Gebre drifted in and out of consciousness. At night, when the convoy stopped for a few hours and they slept, Solomon kept Gebre warm against the cold. Cradling his younger brother in his arms he stared up into the star-filled sky and wondered how much suffering one group of people could take before they submit. As usual they used their suitcase as a pillow and one of the nights, when he was sure everyone else was sleeping, Solomon opened it and dug around until he found the waterproof envelope containing their phones, photographs and documents. It was the piece of paper their grandfather pressed upon them that he was looking for, the one with the name and telephone number for the old priest. Solomon punched the numbers into his phone and pocketed it.

  When his phone sprang briefly into life the next day Solomon buried his face in his brother’s chest to muffle any sound and made a call. It rang for what seemed like an eternity and then connec
ted – he heard a voice speaking many different languages before pausing. Solomon whispered into the phone, a frantic stream of information spoken as quickly as he could manage in case the line failed. When he stopped there was silence and then a reassuring voice.

  ‘Of course I remember and of course I will help. As it happens, your timing is very good.’

  On the morning of the fourth day Solomon shook his half-conscious brother awake and whispered into his ear: ‘I can smell the sea.’

  25 Missing

  DATELINE: The Seti Hotel, Cairo, Egypt, February 2 2011

  It had been two days and Zahra had heard nothing. She had retraced her friend’s last known movements several times and distributed a photocopied picture of Nawal all around Tahrir Square. There had been a couple of possible sightings but these had come to nothing. Zahra had a reasonably clear idea of what had happened right up until the moment she’d disappeared: friends had seen her close to the museum entrance, helping move the injured to nearby ambulances. They’d seen a soldier ask Nawal and a paramedic she was working with to accompany him into the museum. Neither of them came back out.

  Zahra had asked the soldiers at the checkpoint if they remembered seeing the pair. They insisted that no civilians had been let through on that day or any other; that only army personnel were allowed inside the museum. They said she’d been misinformed and when Zahra kept going back and asking the same questions each time the shift changed and different soldiers were on duty, they threatened to arrest her.

  Carver didn’t wake until gone eleven. He’d stayed up late again, trying to persuade some dullard of a duty press officer at the British Embassy in Cairo to pull his finger out and make some phone calls that might help find Nawal. In retrospect, Carver wondered whether he could have been more diplomatic with the guy but he doubted whether the idiot would have made much headway regardless of how nicely he had asked. He’d also tried calling his own Egyptian army and police contacts again as well as phoning the museum direct – he’d left a lot of messages in a lot of different places but so far he’d got nowhere. Carver had missed breakfast and, after leaving phone messages for Jean and Patrick, he decided he might as well go and do his lengths.