A Single Source

by Peter Hanington

  ‘I think that if people are only willing to pay attention for nine seconds then we might as well all give up and go home.’

  She nodded. ‘Fair point. You’re more an analogue, long-player kind of guy; my granddad’s the same.’

  Carver balked at being bracketed with Naomi’s ancient grandfather. ‘I’m not a complete Luddite. We did some of that Face-chat stuff from Cairo – me and Patrick.’

  ‘FaceTime, yes, I saw that.’ Naomi, along with much of the rest of the BBC, had watched Carver’s FaceTime appearance. It had reminded her of a hostage video; she kept expecting the sweaty-faced Carver to hold up a copy of that day’s Cairo Times and beg, half-heartedly, for his life. ‘It’s not your strong suit.’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘But with a bit more help you—’

  Naomi was interrupted by a sudden thud, loud enough to make both she and Carver jump in their seats. He looked across to see a pigeon fall, half-conscious, away from the window closest to where they sat. The bird had flown hard into the glass, hitting with enough force that it left a dusty outline of its body – turned head and two broad wings. Carver stood and walked over to get a better look and was surprised to see the pigeon standing, unsteady but still alive, on the stone mantle beneath them. The bird shook its head and tested its wings, recovering its equilibrium before flying stutteringly off into the blue. As Carver turned away he saw, from the corner of his eye, a feathery flash of brown. The hawk was in hot pursuit, but the pigeon had a decent head start. He sat back down.

  ‘What was I saying, William?’

  ‘You were talking about getting me some help.’

  ‘Right, I—’

  ‘But I don’t need help, Naomi. I just need you to let me do what I’m good at.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Digging, hassling. Making a nuisance of myself. Analogue stuff mainly.’

  Naomi smiled. ‘Fair enough, you win. Go on then, what’s the story?’

  Carver gave her an unvarnished version: a respected British defence company breaching an export ban, selling kit that was used to tear-gas men, women and children. He’d seen some evidence but he didn’t have it anymore, he’d spoken to a witness but he didn’t have that either. Naomi listened and when it was clear he’d finished – she spoke.

  ‘Right. So it’s a single source story?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But the source is dead?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And the gas canister you saw, that’s gone too?’

  ‘The one I saw, yes. There’s at least one other and we’re looking for it.’

  Naomi pulled a face. ‘Who’s we?’ She held up a hand. ‘No, on second thoughts, don’t tell me who we is.’ She reached across the table and spun her phone; they both watched and waited for it to stop spinning, and when it did, she went on. ‘So, Rob Mariscal came to see me last week …’

  Carver sighed. ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘He warned me you might try and flog me this story.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Rob said the gas you’re talking about was British made but it was old stock, that it ended up in Egypt by accident – through a third party. He told me this was a Guardian page four kind of story at best. But he said you’d go overboard – chase it all hell for leather and forget about the due diligence. He told me about Quadrel too – he says they’re very litigious.’

  ‘They are. He’s right.’ Carver studied his editor. ‘So Rob Mariscal wants you to drop the story. What do you want to do?’

  Naomi stared at Carver. She was remembering something else that Rob had told her, back at the beginning. He’d said that sometimes an editor had to trust gut instinct and take a punt. ‘I don’t like being warned off stories. I’ll deal with the lawyers; I’m good with lawyers. I want you to go after it, William – hell for leather …’

  Carver nodded. ‘Right you are.’

  32 A Daughter Hears

  DATELINE: The Orchard Apartments, Matariya, Cairo, Egypt, February 9 2011

  Zahra racked her brains but nothing came. She’d run out of places to look for Nawal’s collection of gas canisters, batons and bullets. She’d stopped going to Tahrir Square, ignored messages from Nawal’s friends and followers and barely even looked at the news. Zahra worked, slept and ate – that was all she did, and she only did this much because her family depended on her salary and her mother stood over her at mealtimes until she had eaten at least a mouthful or two.

  Mr Akar, meanwhile, had decided that now was the time to press his case. He had arrived uninvited at the family’s flat with gifts for Zahra’s mother and father, then stayed to drink her father’s gift – a French brandy he remembered the old man saying he liked. The two men got drunk together in the living room while Zahra and her mother sat next door in the kitchen. Zahra heard her boss talk about how important she was to him, how the hospitality industry would go from strength to strength once the young people in Tahrir Square got tired and went home. Akar told her father that he needed her at his side. As he left, he lowered his voice.

  ‘I know your daughter, I know her history but I can turn the blind eye, I am modern. A little chicken blood on the sheet the morning after the first night and everyone’s honour is restored – hers, mine. And yours of course. Talk to her, please. A daughter hears her father.’

  Zahra had left for work even earlier than usual the following morning. She would rather listen to her father demean himself at the end of the day than at the beginning. But she knew that sooner or later she would have to hear it and she knew what her response had to be. Zahra had all but given up.

  The first message arrived late that night. She’d worked a double shift at the hotel and was almost asleep when her phone buzzed beneath her pillow. More than likely it was Mr Akar, with another ham-fisted sweet nothing, but when she lifted the pillow and looked at the screen it read: Nawal.

  Zahra’s heart started to pound. She fumbled and dropped the phone in her haste to open the message.

  Here in this square is what we should be, what we once were and could be again.

  She started to message back, and then stopped herself. It was not real. It was some kind of trap. Or a cruel joke. Her first logical thought was that she should ignore it, forget the message, but she knew she could not do that. She sat up in bed and dialled Nawal’s number. The man who answered sounded sheepish; his voice was vaguely familiar.

  ‘I am sorry, it was a mistake.’

  It was the same man who had found the phone and sim cards dumped out near Hykestep military base. He said he’d been trying to find something he’d saved and had accidentally sent one of the old messages that the previous owner had written.

  ‘Old messages?’

  ‘Yes, a few old ones that did not send. I am sorry, I will delete them now, I promise.’

  ‘No!’ Zahra swung her feet from the bed and stood. ‘Don’t delete them, send them to me. All of them.’

  As Nawal’s messages landed one by one in her inbox, Zahra copied them and emailed them back to herself. She was determined they wouldn’t go missing again. Once she’d satisfied herself that every last word that Nawal had intended to send her was safe she started to read. Here in this square is what we should be, what we once were and could be again. This felt like a draft of something, a thought that Nawal had had and that she would’ve asked Zahra to turn into something longer. They often worked that way. The messages that followed this were more straightforward:

  Z. I’m in museum with medic, no signal; pls post this when you get it.

  Z. Medic taking museum injured away. Out soon.

  Z. Medic gone, army guy asking me to stay. Says it’s too dangerous to leave – Molotovs.

  Z. Long wait. Got a bad feeling.

  Zahra, I love you. No time to say the rest. I hope you know?

  Zahra dried her eyes on her sleeve and read the final message. The last thing Nawal would ever write: He is coming. Go here –ground-floor apt, 43 Sabry Street.
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  Zahra recognised the street name, she knew the neighbourhood; it was halfway between the Seti Hotel and Tahrir Square, an hour or so from her apartment. She checked the time on her phone. It was past midnight; even if she went now, no one would answer. The thought of going alone at any time of day concerned her. She lay back on the bed, but sleep was out of the question. She could either lie awake all night or she could call someone. Zahra scrolled through her contacts until she found Jean’s number.

  33 Hell for Leather

  DATELINE: Quadrel Engineering & Defence, Hyde Park, London W2, February 9 2011

  The kid on reception at Quadrel Engineering & Defence was conducting a thorough investigation of his nose using his thumb. Carver was the first visitor of the day and although he’d stopped picking his nose by the time William was standing in front of him, he still hadn’t managed to get his tie on. Carver waited while he clipped the thing to his shirt collar and made sure the stag beetle logo was facing outwards and not obscured by his lanyard, which had Temporary Staff stamped on it.

  ‘I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, sir, how can I help you today?’

  The line sounded rehearsed. Behind him, through a half-open door, Carver could see a smart-suited woman unpacking a tower of Tupperware and fixing her hair. This was the real receptionist, the kid was just the stand-in, but that suited Carver.

  ‘Impressive offices you’ve got here.’

  The boy glanced around the lobby, as though seeing it for the first time, then remembered his line: ‘Thank you, yes. The Quadrel headquarters boasts one of the highest atriums in Europe. The marble’s real. It’s Italian.’

  ‘No shit?’

  The kid studied Carver a little more closely. ‘Who did you say you were here to see, sir?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I haven’t told you who I’m here to see – not yet.’

  ‘Right, well … would you like to tell me?’

  ‘I’m here to see your boss.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘How many have you got?’

  The boy grinned and when he spoke again his London accent was more obvious. ‘I’m new, temporary. Pretty much everyone here’s my boss.’

  William nodded. ‘I know the feeling.’ He smiled. ‘I’m here to see the big boss. Quadrel’s president? Or the CEO, or the chairman?’

  The boy grinned again. ‘That’s all the same bloke – Mr Bellquist.’

  ‘Really? Well I guess it’s him I want to see then.’

  ‘Have you got an appointment?’

  ‘Not in the conventional sense.’

  The kid laughed and this noise served to summon the proper receptionist, who marched from behind the half-closed door, her heels ricocheting on the real Italian marble. She glanced first at her underling and then at Carver, who sensed the fun was probably over.

  ‘Did I hear you say you were here to see Mr Bellquist, sir?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What’s your name please? Your name and the time of your appointment.’

  ‘I don’t have an appointment, not in the con—’

  ‘He won’t see you without an appointment, sir. He doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. What’s your name?’

  ‘My name’s William Carver, I’m a journalist. I work for BBC radio.’ He watched the woman write these details down. ‘I’m happy to wait. If you could just tell Mr Bellquist that I’d like to ask him why Quadrel are selling tear gas to a repressive Egyptian regime. Why they broke an export ban to do it.’ She wrote this down too. Credit where it’s due – she was thorough.

  ‘I think it’s probably our press and public relations team you need to talk to, Mr …’ She looked down at her note. ‘Carver. I can give you their number.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ve got their number. I’d prefer to talk to Mr Bellquist. Like I said, I can wait. I’ll just sit over there.’ Carver pointed in the direction of an expensive-looking white leather sofa and alongside it a low glass table covered in magazines.

  The woman shrugged. ‘Of course, sir, wait if you like. But I’m afraid you might be wasting your time.’ She didn’t look overly concerned. ‘I’ll speak to the press and publicity team anyway – on your behalf.’

  Carver sat down and helped himself to a few magazines. The choice was pretty good: Foreign Policy Review, GQ, Vanity Fair plus all the main trade magazines for the defence sector. He started with a copy of the Quadrel Annual Report for the previous year. It was a glossy affair, perfect-bound and filled with facts, figures and photographs of impressive-looking hardware. It also included eye-wateringly awful descriptions of the company’s achievements and aims – a mix of jargon, acronym and hyperbole that was so horrible Carver found it difficult to read more than a couple of lines at a time. Maybe that was the point?

  There was a lot of different kit mentioned in the annual report – but no CS gas.

  William had been waiting for a couple of hours when, glancing up from his reading, he saw the frosty receptionist pointing in his direction. The woman covered her mouth with her hand and whispered some instructions to her hapless apprentice. Then she picked up her pile of Tupperware and headed out the door for an early lunch. Carver waited until she was out of sight before approaching the desk. When he cleared his throat, the boy glanced up from his book, an anguished-looking smile on his face.

  ‘Hello again, sir.’

  ‘Hello. I hope your day’s going better than mine.’

  The kid shrugged.

  ‘I guess they must pay you pretty well here, don’t they?’

  ‘I’m temporary, a trainee. I get the minimum wage.’

  ‘Eight quid?’

  The boy gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I’m not twenty-one yet. It’s more like five – and they take tax off that.’

  ‘Really? Do you know how much this lot made last year? Its overall profit I mean?’

  The kid shook his head.

  ‘Two point one billion pounds.’

  The boy frowned as he tried to conceive of a number that big.

  ‘Do you know what your boss, Mr Bellquist, was paid?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Eighteen million pounds. Eighteen million, that’s thirty-four thousand pounds a week. You’d have to work here for’ – Carver did the sum in his head – ‘two or three years to make what he makes in a week.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem very fair.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. I think I might ask Mr Bellquist about that too. When I get to talk to him.’

  The young man glanced past Carver, in the direction of the front door, then leaned across the desk. ‘You’re wasting your time sitting there, sir. Mr Bellquist never comes in or out the front door, not unless it’s for show. He arrives and leaves by the back door; his Jag waits for him outside the Cardigan Arms. Out across the plaza and round to the right.’

  Carver thanked the boy.

  He gathered up his things, including a couple of the more interesting-looking trade magazines, and left. The plaza in front of Quadrel’s headquarters was just as soulless as the building it was designed to showcase. Looking back at the space from the safety of the pavement, Carver realised what the problem was – it looked too much like the architect’s model that had no doubt inspired it: the crisp lines of steel and stone were too straight. Even the people seemed to have been designed and carefully placed: seated in pairs, suited and smart. Two by the abstract sculpture, two on a bench beside an over-pollarded tree.

  Carver ambled round the corner. The Jag was exactly where the kid had said it would be, parked outside the Cardigan Arms in a disabled bay. Carver walked up to the driver’s door and tapped on the window; as the man behind the wheel opened it, he got a whiff of the pine-scented air freshener that was hanging from the rear-view mirror and underneath that the stink of stale cigar smoke.

  ‘You can’t park here. It’s for blue badge holders only.’

  The man behind the wheel wore a dark suit and black t
ie, and his hair was combed and Brylcreemed. He had a funereal look about him, like he’d be more at home driving a hearse. Carver watched as he reached into the glove compartment and retrieved a blue badge and a certificate. He held the piece of paper up for Carver to see.

  ‘It’s all legit – you can take the number and check it with Westminster Council if you like.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will.’

  The undertaker studied Carver. ‘You don’t look like a parking warden. Where’s your … you know? Badge? Peaked cap? All that?’

  ‘I’m undercover.’

  ‘You’re an undercover parking warden?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I’m not sure I buy that.’

  Carver nodded. ‘You’re quite right, I’m not really a parking warden. I’m a journalist. William Carver’s the name. What time will Mr Bellquist be out, d’you think?’

  ‘It depends, could be six, could be later.’

  Carver could see that the man regretted answering this question the moment the words had past his lips.

  ‘But I’m not s’posed to talk to journalists.’ He coughed nervously.

  ‘Fair enough, can I just give you this?’ William retrieved a slightly dog-eared BBC business card from his wallet and handed it over; as he did so he caught another whiff of old cigar. ‘You know, they’ve just done a load of new research on second-hand smoking and lung cancer? It’s pretty scary stuff. You should check it out.’

  The driver’s window closed with a soft purring sound and Carver considered his options. It didn’t take him long to decide to have a half in the Cardigan Arms.

  Inside the pub, he bought his drink and some pork scratchings and sat down at a table next to the window. From there he had a good view of the street and the red Jag. He saw the driver take his phone from his pocket and hold it out in front of him. For a moment he thought the man was going to try and take a picture of him but it soon became clear that he was just long-sighted. Most likely he was Googling passive smoke and lung cancer.

  Carver got the defence industry trade magazines out and started reading; if it was a waiting game that was required Carver was as good at that as anyone. The chair was comfortable enough, the beer was decent and the smell of roast chicken drifting from the Cardigan Arms kitchen tempting. Perhaps that kid on reception would appreciate a plate of food and a pint?