NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL (Gavin & Palmer)

by Adrian Magson

  He reached into a briefcase by his side and produced a magazine. It was glossy, colourful and high quality, and carried the title East European Trade in bold type across the top. He passed it across to her.

  ‘The people I represent are committed to providing high-quality, fully-verifiable ethical material for this journal. It’s monthly, on subscription only, and aimed at decision-makers in government, finance and international business. It has a high cover price, but that’s reflected by the level of information they specialise in.’ He smiled openly. ‘Actually, it’s pretty boring stuff – about east-west trade, mostly – but they have a target audience that deals in billions – trillions, even – so the quality and nature of what goes between the covers is very, very influenced by the readership.’ He shrugged. ‘And that works the other way round, of course.’

  ‘Sounds heavy,’ Riley commented. She flicked to the inside cover page and read through the information about the publishers. Ercovoy News Press was new to her, but this wasn’t her usual area of operations. They listed editorial offices in London, Madrid and Brussels – all P.O. Boxes, she noticed - and a production office at Atcheveli 3-24, Sokhumi, Republic of Georgia. ‘Is this where you come from?’ She was surprised; he sounded so all-American.

  ‘Hell, no.’ He chuckled good-naturedly. ‘I’m an army brat, originally from the deep south. My dad was a career officer, so I guess you could say I’m from all over. I’ve always loved Europe, though, so I’m pleased to be based here now. I’m the editor-at-large. The production office is purely a base for collating the material.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We like to think,’ Varley continued, steering her back on-track, ‘that what we publish has high-impact potential. Our coverage is often of subject material most people won’t have heard about on the usual wires.’

  Riley nodded, ignoring Varley’s excited sales patter. He talked like an MBA marketing clone, although he seemed genuinely less over-the-top zealous than some. She scanned the pages. There was an article on mineral exploration in Kazakhstan; the results of a study into reducing pollution in the Caspian and Black Seas; a profile piece about a member of the Turkish parliament who was also one of the country’s biggest shipping magnates; a debate on the threat of aggressive cross-border trade from the bullish emerging Chinese markets, and the need for manufacturing investment and infrastructure across the states of the former Soviet Union. Boring and worthy, she thought. But presumably, someone, somewhere, read it, and if Varley was right, some would set their political or commercial agenda accordingly.

  ‘Is this for European content only?’

  ‘Not at all. The content is slanted towards Eastern Europe purely because that’s where the bulk of international investment is heading right now. But it’s read by government departments everywhere, so we try to reflect that, too. By everywhere, I mean the US, Europe, China, India, the Middle East – and Westminster, of course.’ He raised open palms. ‘Like I said, this gets seen by some very key people. And the content is also about some very key people.’

  ‘Odd, then, that I’ve never heard of it. Or of Ercovoy News Press.’

  He smiled easily. ‘Well, because it’s aimed at such a specialised market, it doesn’t get to appear on the newsstands… but we’re hardly alone in that respect.’

  Riley nodded. She had worked for a few titles which were not available on the street and which most people had never come across. She put the magazine down. Reading it now would be like wading through treacle. ‘And you want me to contribute?’

  ‘That’s right. Over the coming months, we’re featuring a series of articles on movers and shakers in the east-west socio-industrial area. People who matter today, but also those who will matter tomorrow. In five, maybe ten years, a lot of the big hitters right now will be gone. Their places will be taken by men and women only just starting out. It’s a very fast moving field, and our readership needs to know who these people are and where they’re headed. Some will be well-known, others are lower-profile, maybe because they’re still building their power base and finding their place in the market. Either way, we aim to highlight those people and shine a little spotlight on them.’

  ‘Good or bad?’ Riley suggested.

  He chuckled good-naturedly. ‘Well, I guess some of these guys don’t get to the top by being altar boys, do they? But we’re not here to dish the dirt.’ He waved a hand. ‘Not unless it needs dishing, anyhow.’

  ‘Really? And who decides that?’

  He lifted an eyebrow, his expression open. ‘Actually, that’s a good question. I guess we all do. We’ve profiled some questionable people before, no doubt about that. But exposing them has probably only been a matter of time. Sooner or later, everyone comes under the spotlight, right?’

  ‘Okay. But why me? This isn’t the kind of material I normally handle. There are plenty of people with much more expertise in this area.’

  ‘True.’ Varley scratched his cheek with a large thumb. It made a rasping sound in the quiet room. ‘But you come highly recommended.’

  Riley waited, but he didn’t enlarge on it further.

  ‘May I ask by whom?’

  ‘Actually, I don’t recall. Does it matter? Your name came up. You have a solid reputation, your background checks out, so we decided to add your name to the pool of contributors – which is pretty impressive, I might add. You’d know a lot of the names…although confidentiality agreements mean I can’t tell you who they are until they complete an assignment and it goes public. We work with good people, believe me.’ He reached into an inner pocket and produced an envelope. ‘And to lay out our intentions, so to speak, we make a point of offering a signing-on fee.’ He handed Riley the envelope, which she opened.

  The envelope contained a cheque in four figures, made out in her name.

  Varley smiled. ‘That’s an indication of how serious we are.’

  ********

  11

  Riley didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t aware of any publishers who would come calling with cheques this size up-front – at least, not in the field she normally covered. Nor would their approaches be quite so open-ended. On the other hand, she knew a little about most other publishers, if not by reputation, then by product. And of this one she knew nothing.

  ‘Do you have a particular assignment in mind?’ She slid the cheque back inside the envelope, waiting for the inevitable catch.

  He smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, we do.’ He reached into the briefcase again and produced an opaque plastic folder an inch thick, bound by tape. He passed it across to her. It was heavy.

  ‘The name of the person we’d like you to profile is in there,’ he told her, ‘along with a great deal of background information culled from various reliable sources.’ He waved a hand. ‘Of course, you’ll want to check the details yourself, although I can tell you, it’s absolutely accurate. There’s a detailed brief inside the folder and the deadline is three weeks from today.’ He lifted his shoulders in apology. ‘I’m sorry to hit you with such a tight one from the get-go, but I’m sure you’ll do a good job. We got let down on another piece and decided to bring this one forward.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens. But I guess you’d know that.’

  ‘Of course. When do you need my decision?’

  A flicker of a shadow crossed his face, then was gone almost immediately. ‘Well, I was hoping you’d be able to give me that pretty much right away, Miss Gavin. May I call you Riley?’ He raised a hand without waiting for an answer. ‘But, hey – maybe I’m rushing you a bit. And you’ve probably got things to finish off. Could you get back to me inside a day or so?’ He dipped his fingers into a pocket and pulled out a business card. ‘Maybe you could ring me on that number? I’m in London for about a week, then I have to travel on business.’

  Riley looked at the card. It held his name and a telephone number. No business address. She waved the envelope containing the cheque. ‘And if I decide not to take your offer?’

  He shrugged affab
ly. ‘That’s your decision – and your cheque to keep.’ He lifted his eyebrows and looked suddenly boyish. ‘Uh… in the meantime, maybe we could do dinner.’

  Riley tried to gauge whether he was serious or simply trying it on. He was undoubtedly an interesting man, and seemed to have an abundant supply of self-confidence. But she’d only just met him. Was dinner all he was after, or did he want to extend their putative business relationship beyond trading on the written word?

  Before she could reply, his eyes slid past her shoulder and his face became serious. Riley turned her head. The balding man who had met her at reception was standing in the entrance to the lounge. He gave them both a brief smile, then turned and walked away without a word.

  ‘Riley,’ said Richard Varley, getting to his feet and picking up his briefcase. ‘I’m afraid I have to be going. My associate needs me to deal with something.’ He thrust out his hand and held hers for a long moment, towering over her. Then he let it go and stepped past her.

  Ten minutes later, Riley was in the back corner of a coffee shop, holding a large latte and scanning the contents of the heavy folder Varley had given her.

  Her initial reaction back at the hotel, given Varley’s wandering eyes and the fact that she’d never heard of the magazine, had been to ignore the lure of the unusual signing-on fee and give the job a miss. Now she saw who the profile target was, she was beginning to wonder if she shouldn’t go straight back and dump the papers – and the cheque – in Varley’s lap.

  She had no first-hand reason to think that billionaire retail giant, industrialist and party benefactor, Muammar ‘Kim’ Al-Bashir, was anything other than above-board. There were whispers of heavy-handed reactions whenever journalists delved too deeply into the Egyptian-born businessman’s background, aided by a private army of no-nonsense security guards to discourage further probing. Added to that were friends in very high places and a ruthless thirst for revenge on those who dared cross him.

  But a quick glance at this file showed that it contained material which wasn’t exclusively business gossip – although there was plenty of that. Included were pages of detail and much anecdotal reportage about the man. Her initial impression was that it had been compiled by someone with a very organised approach to gaining the maximum effect from every word - yet in a very readable style.

  Another journalist?

  Riley pondered on this for a while, uneasy at the idea that someone else had already worked on this project. If they had ducked out of the assignment before her, as Donald Brask had so pithily suggested, maybe she should ask who… and why. Then she noticed something even more interesting.

  In addition to the commercial information in the file, which must have been difficult enough to collate - knowing what little she did of the subject and his ways - there was information of a purely personal kind: the kind which delved into the biggest no-go area of Al-Bashir’s life.

  His wife, Asiyah.

  Riley wondered whether this wasn’t simply courting disaster for the sake of it. Taking on a known litigant of biblical proportions, a man with his own security force and the confidence to use it, was not likely to go unnoticed. Nor would it do her reputation much good if the detail contained in the file turned out to be erroneous, misguided or even downright malicious.

  She picked up the copy of East European Trade and took out her mobile. She had promised to let Donald have details of the publisher involved. She didn’t want to get into a discussion with him about this just now, so she took the easy option and texted him the details instead.

  As for Al-Bashir, she toyed for all of five seconds with the idea of tossing the assignment aside. Even if she was going to tell Varley to get lost, maybe a more detailed look at the file first wouldn’t do any harm.

  ********

  12

  Palmer sat at his desk and picked up the large brown envelope. It was bulky but light. He soon saw why. Ripping it open, he tipped out a miscellaneous collection of sheets from spiral notepads, sales receipts from various shops, discarded sheets of A4 plain paper, a holiday postcard showing a slice of blue sea and a rocky coastline, and even a couple of envelopes addressed to Helen at her London home. Mrs Demelzer hadn’t been kidding when she said she’d put in everything she could find.

  Among the papers were two or three stands of blonde hair. Palmer placed them gently back in the envelope. He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, but he thought he detected a faint hint of Helen’s perfume, too. He breathed deeply, forcing himself to relax and concentrate on the papers.

  Most of it was, as Mrs Demelzer had said, jottings and doodles, random notes, some scribbled through and illegible, others circled or underlined. Exclamation marks and stars appeared regularly, but their placing had more to do, he guessed, with points Helen might have been reacting to in conversations rather than relating to any specific words on the paper.

  There were several phone numbers. He made a list of them for checking later. He did the same with names, although they were sufficiently vague or common to make identifying the owners all but impossible without Helen’s address book, Blackberry or computer records.

  His doorbell rang, followed by footsteps on the stairs. He continued reading, surprised to see his own name written along one edge of a page torn from a spiral notebook. It was followed by the words ‘send photo’ underlined twice in a heavy hand and the word 4th. There was no indication as to when the note had been written, nor to whom the photo was to be sent, although he had a good idea. Was it a photo taken of either of them while they were together? If so, he couldn’t recall one, or why she should have chosen to send it now, after all this time.

  He checked through the pile again. There was nothing. He stared at the wall on the other side of the office. Maybe it was at his flat. If it had been sent there any time in the last week, he wouldn’t have seen it. He made a mental note to check the box later, vaguely aware that someone was standing in the office doorway.

  ‘Palmer?’ It was Riley, her face flushed from the stairs. She was carrying two large polystyrene mugs of coffee. ‘What’s up? You look like you swallowed a frog.’

  Palmer swung his legs out from behind the desk and stood up. He took one of the mugs and nodded at the desk. ‘Take a look at that, will you? See if anything strikes you as significant. How did the meeting go?’

  Riley sat down, prising the lid off her mug. ‘It was okay. I’ve got a job if I want it. Are you going to tell me how you got on in rural Basingstoke?’

  ‘Later. Trawl through that lot first, would you? I need an objective eye.’ He wandered round the desk and stood at the window, staring down at the street and sipping his coffee.

  Riley did as he asked, carefully studying each item without comment. When she had finished, she sat back. ‘How did you get this?’

  Palmer told her about his visit to Mrs Demelzer. ‘Helen asked her to send it to me. That’s all I know.’

  Riley nodded and sipped her coffee. ‘Most of it’s meaningless, I’d say,’ she surmised. ‘Stuff she was working on, people she was talking to, memos to self… I’ve got scribbles like this all over – even on my bathroom wall. Except this.’ She leaned forward and tapped a finger on the piece of paper bearing his name. ‘Looks like someone was thinking about you recently. Could the fourth be a date?’

  ‘No idea. Possibly. But there’s no photo anywhere. I checked.’

  ‘There’s a postcard.’

  Palmer picked it up and read the handwriting on the back. It was addressed to Mrs Demelzer and was the usual inconsequential stuff people write when on holiday to those back home. The date on the frank mark was 17, although he couldn’t read the month. He shook his head and dropped it among the other papers. ‘Mrs D must have dropped it in by accident.’

  ‘Could Helen have sent something to your flat?’

  ‘Maybe. I haven’t had time to check.’ It was the first indication he’d given that Helen had known where he lived.

  ‘What could it have been – a sho
t of you two over dinner?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Palmer stared into the distance. ‘We didn’t exactly get round to photos.’

  ‘Well, whatever it was, she must have thought it was important.’ She ran a finger through the mess on his desk. ‘Believe me, women don’t send ex-boyfriends the dross from their bedrooms. Not unless they’re trying to make some obscure point. Did she have your email address?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably.’

  Riley reached beneath his desk and switched on his computer. ‘It could have been a shot she took of something, or maybe she scanned it in from a hard copy.’ She sat back to wait for the machine to boot up, then studied the icons on the screen to call up the email. ‘Christ, Palmer, you make it so easy for people to access your PC. Don’t you have any passwords?’

  ‘You know me,’ he said dryly. ‘I’m an open book.’ He stood behind Riley to watch his inbox fill up. It was mostly Spam, dozens of them. He ran his eyes down as Riley scrolled through the list.

  She stopped the cursor on an untitled message with an attachment. It was dated five days ago. The sender tag was Hellsbells.

  ‘That’s her,’ Palmer breathed. He recalled them laughing over her email name, which she thought summed her up fairly well. There was no message, just the attachment. Riley clicked on it and waited for it to open. The screen flickered and they were looking at a photo of an office building.

  ‘That’s romantic.’ Riley glanced up at him. ‘Does it look familiar?’

  ‘Never seen it before.’ Palmer was puzzled. It was a standard glass-and-concrete panel building, maybe seven floors high, with a pale facia and a sloping canopy over the entrance doors. A couple of trees stood in circular beds set into a block-paving forecourt, with metal bollards to prevent vehicles parking too close to the glass frontage. It could have been any building from Aberdeen to Zanzibar: functional, unremarkable and built by numbers.