Jackson takes a bundle of dollar notes from his pocket and begins to count them out: “Here you are… $150 for last week, $25 for the massage the other night, $75 for tonight, and $150 on account.”
Leila nods approvingly and points to a hallway: “Off you go, Mr Jackson. She’s in the usual room.”
******
Next morning, Mack waits impatiently in his office, still steamed up about last night’s Newsnight package. Pete and Farouk are there, but there is no sign of Jackson. Mack stubs out a cigarette, having first used it to light another. He is about to phone his errant correspondent when Jackson appears breathlessly at the door and looking less than cheerful. “Sorry, Mack, I got your message, but was held up in the traffic,” he lies.
“You’ve always got some excuse,” says Mack sarcastically, “and I have to say you don’t look too bright.”
“I’ll be okay, just had a disturbed night, that’s all,” Jackson replies, not able to admit that on his return visit to the gambling den, he had lost all but a few measly dollars of his earlier winnings. It is true he had a disturbed night, but that was largely due to anger at his turn of bad luck in the gambling den.
“Right then,” says Mack, declaring the ad hoc meeting open, “would someone, perhaps starting with Jacko, do me the honour of telling me what happened yesterday. In other words, why was I not told about the al-Qaeda development?”
Jackson makes a defensive apology: “Sorry, Mack, but we were working right up to the wire on this one. We didn’t finish the edit until a couple of minutes before transmission. No-one told me what Stumpy Shortwood had said, so there was no special reason to bother you so late at night.”
Mack is furiously unimpressed: “Look, laddie, I repeat that we are supposed to be working as a team in this bureau. You knew the story was a big one and you should’ve given me a quick call to let me know about it. Anyway, where the hell were you last night? I tried to call both your numbers and got no answer.”
“I went to see a friend who was briefly in town. I had my mobile on, so I guess I must have been in a black spot.”
“Well, you are certainly in my black spot, laddie. I am seriously beginning to wonder about you.”
Samira appears at the door: “Sorry to interrupt, Mack, but Sir Gordon Shortwood wants an urgent word.”
“Oh jings!” says Mack, slapping his forehead in frustration, “put him through.”
Mack picks up the phone on his desk: “Good morning, Sir Gordon, it’s Mack Galbraith.” Mack listens to Sir Gordon and flinches at what he hears. “Well, Sir Gordon, I understand that you’re very upset, and I’m sure that in the end, your theories about the situation here will be proved to be the correct ones. There was absolutely no intention on my part to have your views undermined, but in this business, things can move very fast and we are sometimes not as well co-ordinated as we should be.” Mack listens. “Yes, well… I’m just about to have our morning editorial conference with London and I will pass on your displeasure at the way they handled the story. And yes, Mr Dunbar and I will see you at the embassy at 10 o’clock to discuss this further.” He listens again. “Well, you have our sincerest apologies, Sir Gordon. All will be explained when we see you. Goodbye.”
Mack puts the phone down and stabs a finger in Jackson’s direction: “Now look what you’ve done!”
Samira pokes her head in the door again: “London’s on the line, Mack.”
Mack puts the call on the phone speaker: “Good morning, London.”
“Morning, Mack, it’s Harry Kingston here on the Foreign Desk. Let me begin by congratulating all of you on the coverage last night. Terrific piece from Jacko and much amusement here at how Mack let Shortwood prove to the world that he’s a stupid old fart who knows bugger all. Great stuff. There are suggestions here that Stumpy will be retired or moved to a post where his views won’t matter.”
Mack is both surprised and relieved by Harry’s comments. Jackson’s immediate reaction is that he has been let off the hook.
Harry continues: “Well, as for a follow-up, how do you see it, guys?”
Jackson decides it is diplomatic to let Mack do the talking: “Well, Jacko and I have to see Stumpy shortly to smooth things down as best we can, then we’ll see what else we can learn about this mysterious terrorist and why al-Qaeda has decided to target Central Arabia. This country is the last major domino still standing in this part of the region, and my educated guess is that they want to see this one toppled, so they can then focus their attention on Saudi Arabia and its neighbours.”
“Yes, could be, Mack. Perhaps you could do us something along those lines while Jacko follows up his links.”
“Will do, Harry. I’ll also see if I can have lunch with the American Ambassador, who seems a sharper operator than Stumpy. Anyway, that’s it from here for now. We’ll no doubt talk later. Bye.”
The call ends and Mack lights a cigarette while he ponders the conversation that has just taken place. He turns to Jackson, again stabbing his finger at him. “We may be heroes today in London, laddie, but you’re not my hero. In the end, this is what matters for your career. From now on we operate as a team with a capital T. Do you understand that? Team with a capital T!”
Jackson nods acceptance.
Mack and Jackson turn up at the British Embassy at 10am on the dot. They are taken up to the ambassadorial suite by a guard and met by William Crawford and Sir Gordon who is in a thunderous mood. The ambassador remains seated, makes no offer to shake hands and leaves them standing like two naughty boys before the headmaster. William takes a seat to one side and starts recording the conversation.
Mack begins by repeating his apologies, but he is cut short by Sir Gordon: “You chaps deliberately set me up, didn’t you!”
“No, no, that’s not true Sir Gordon,” protests Mack, “it was just a most unfortunate collision of circumstances beyond our control.”
“Unfortunate is hardly the word for it. You were suggesting that Her Majesty’s representative in Armibar didn’t have a clue what was going on. Outrageous! Sadly typical of what I’ve come to expect of journalists from your lot.”
Jackson leaps to the defence: “Sorry, Your Excellency. I assumed that someone in your position would be in possession of the same information that I was given.”
“No, I did not have that information,” he shouts. “You know why? Because it’s total nonsense. That Arab chappie could be anyone. Any low-level jumped-up jihadist. Let me repeat, there’s no substance to your story and I’ve personally informed the Foreign Minister of that fact. He’s chewing the carpet and will be making personal representations to your Director-General.
“With respect, Your Excellency,” Jackson responds with forced civility, “I now have evidence to support the accuracy of the story.”
“Would it be too much to ask that you tell me your source, young man?”
Jackson shakes his head. “You know I can’t do that, Your Excellency.”
Sir Gordon stands up, fit to have a seizure. “In that case, there’s no point in continuing this discussion. Let me assure you that I won’t forget this.” He dismisses them with a wave and they are escorted from the suite by William Crawford.
As the trio wind their way back along the corridors to Reception, William confirms that Jackson’s story is probably right. “Don’t be too fussed by the old man’s tantrum,” he tells Mack and Jackson. “Once he gets an idea fixed in his head, nothing will change it, no matter what the evidence is. Don’t hesitate to remain in touch with me, but keep it discreet.”
They reach Reception and William shakes hands with Mack and Jackson and bids them a cheery farewell. As they leave the building, Mack turns to Jackson: “I hope you’ve learned something from this experience, laddie.” Jackson nods agreement. “Right then,” announces Mack, “I’ll let you get back to the bureau while I have lunch with the American ambassador and pick his brains.”
CHAPTER 5
Jackson arrives back at the bureau, gr
ateful that his row with Mack seems to be over the worst. As he settles down at his desk, Samira arrives back from the bank with the staff expenses money. She counts it out and clips it to the expenses sheets.
“The ‘fraud sheets’ are back, chaps,” she announces with a broad smile, “so come and get your money.”
Farouk and Yassin go to her and each get $75 while Pete collects $150. Jackson is still at his desk, staring intently as the computer screen. Samira goes to him with his money. “Here you are, Jacko,” she says with a certain look of expectation on her face. “Thanks,” he says, breaking away from his computer screen. He picks up the money and frowns. “Hey! Is this all?” Samira smirks agreement. He then checks his several expenses sheets and sees that some large items have been crossed out. “Hey, what’s Mack playing at?” he demands. Samira shrugs: “There’s a clear lesson for you there, Jacko. Don’t go pissing off the Chief of Bureau.”
Jackson groans, knowing that there is nothing he can do about it, especially as several of the lunch and taxi claims were entirely fictitious. Yassin and Pete are both amused by what has happened and rub it in by approaching Jackson with their hands out, a reminder that he owes them money. He gives Yassin his $50 and Pete has his $100 returned.
“Cheer up, Jacko,” declares Pete, “you’ve still got a couple of hundred bucks there, more than enough to buy us all a nice coffee instead of the dreadful instant stuff we have in the kitchen.”
Jackson sees the funny side and laughs. He agrees to go to the coffee shop next door and buy a round.
******
The street is unusually quiet as he comes out into it. He half notices a large black Mercedes saloon parked nearby. A tall bearded Arab man in a thawb alights from the back seat and walks briskly towards him. “Hello,” the Arab says in accented English, “are you Mr Jackson Dunbar?”
“Yes,” confirms Jackson, instantly cautious. “How can I help?”
“My friends would like a word with you,” he says, pointing towards the Mercedes. Jackson goes over and sees two Arab men in the front seat. One points an automatic handgun at him: “No fuss please, Mr Dunbar, just get in the back.” Jackson fleetingly considers trying to make a run for it, but judges that he has no choice but to do as he is told. He gets into the back seat, his mind and heart racing.
The man who intercepted him on the footpath gets in beside him and the car pulls away. He is ordered to lie down on the seat and a blanket is placed over him so that no-one can see him and he, in turn, cannot see the route the car is taking. He hears one of the men make a phone call to report in Arabic that they have Jackson in their possession and should be able to deliver him in half an hour. Jackson knows from his Hostile Environment Training that there is nothing he can do except try not to antagonise his captors.
Jackson can tell from the number of potholes the car is hitting that he is being driven through a poor area. After about 15 minutes, he notes that they are now travelling along a better stretch of road.
******
Jackson’s bureau colleagues are getting irritated about his failure to return with the coffees. Samira dials his mobile number. It rings and Jackson tries to see who is calling, but the man sitting beside him snatches the phone away. He looks at the screen and demands: “Who is Samira? Your girlfriend?” Jackson explains that she is the bureau manager. His captor turns the phone off and puts it in his pocket.
After what seems an eternity – certainly more than the predicted half-an-hour – the car slows, makes a sharp turn and travels along what sounds to be a gravel driveway. The car pulls up and Jackson, still covered by the blanket, is guided from the car and taken indoors. He looks down at his feet and sees a patterned marble floor. Finally, he is ushered into a room and the blanket is removed.
He is in a plushly-furnished room with the blinds drawn. Clearly, he is not in a slum. He is ordered to wait quietly in a chair upholstered in thick fabric embossed with Arabic patterns. He does as he is told.
Back at the bureau, Samira is worried and goes looking for Jackson. The owner of the coffee shop tells her that he saw Jackson talking to some men and getting into a car. She urgently phones Mack, who is at the American Embassy waiting to be taken upstairs to lunch with the ambassador.
Mack’s reaction to the news that Jackson is missing is at first dismissive, until he is told about the men in the car. He profusely apologises to the ambassador, claiming that there is a crisis with a news story and that he has been ordered back to the bureau immediately.
******
Jackson is now a little calmer. He studies his surroundings and mentally runs through all the possibilities that might lie ahead of him and how he might best react. Nothing, however, prepares him for what happens next. A door opens and an Arab man in a thawb and keffiyeh strides in. Jackson’s pulse races as he realises that he is in the presence of the terrorist featured in his reports.
The man takes a seat and studies Jackson in silence, enjoying the mixture of astonishment and fear that flickers across his captive’s face. Jackson breaks the silence, addressing the man in Arabic. “Why have you brought me here? What do you want?”
Jackson is taken aback when the man responds in English with an educated London accent: “My friend, let’s talk in our mother tongue. I’m English and my Arabic is not very good.”
Jackson is astonished. “So who exactly are you?”
“Roger, my friend, you don’t recognise me?”
“Only from the film my cameraman shot of the riot. And where did you get ‘Roger’ from?”
The terrorist is enjoying himself: “You really don’t know who I am, do you!”
Jackson shakes his head and the man reaches for a folder and takes from it a colour snapshot of two scrawny youths posing in front of a very traditional red brick British school. They have their arms around each other’s shoulders. Jackson is gobsmacked. “Who gave you this?”
“You did, my friend. You did.”
The penny suddenly drops for Jackson: “Shit! It’s me and Binnie – Ahmed Faisel Bin Hassan.”
“Yes, my friend Roger, it’s me, Binnie or Ahmed, grown up, no longer the skinny kid, and now with this bushy beard.”
As Jackson absorbs the stunning revelation, a servant comes in and serves them with water and Arabic coffee.
“How’s your granny? Granny Dunbar?” asks Ahmed.
“Er, died a few years ago, I’m very sorry to say.”
“Sad. I liked her a lot. And what of your father? I haven’t seen him in the papers recently.”
“His style of journalism went out of fashion, and he’s dead too.”
“Sorry about that. I didn’t know your dad.”
“Nor did I really,” responds Jackson with some residual bitter memories.
The two men study each other in silence, with Jackson still astonished by the extraordinary circumstances he finds himself in.
“Well?” enquires Ahmed finally, “have you nothing else to say?”
“Yes. My overwhelming question is why are you mixed up in this evil shit, Binnie? It makes no sense. You were a great school friend from a hard-working and respectable refugee family.”
“Hard-working, respectable – and all dead.”
“Hell! What happened?”
“As you probably know, we all moved back to Iraq after I left school. We needed to look after my grandparents who were getting very frail. I got a job and married a nice local girl and everything was more or less okay until the Bush-Blair invasion. I was at work one day when American marines smashed their way into the house and slaughtered everyone – my wife, my baby, my parents and my grandparents. The marines said they were tipped off that we were terrorists, but I think they just killed for the fun of it. They walked away laughing and were never called to account.”
“Oh shit!”
“Yes, Roger, ‘oh shit’, as you say. My mission in life is now clear.”
Jackson is shocked: “What mission? To kill the innocent along with the guilty?”
“My family was innocent and never did anyone any harm, but no-one cared when they died. No-one!”
“I’m sure that’s not true, Binnie, but sometimes terrible things happen in war.”
“It is true, Roger. You and your granny were the only ones who treated me with respect when I was at that bloody school in London.”
Ahmed picks up the folder and takes from it a battered A4 group photograph from his school days. He holds it up for Jackson to see. Ahmed is the sole non-European boy in the photograph. A crude target has been drawn on his chest with a gun pointing at it. Scribbled in large letters across the top of the photograph are the words “You’re dead, you stinking wog!” Ahmed puts the photograph back in the folder. “There were many more like that, Roger. Very nasty. Very upsetting.”
Jackson shakes his head in shame. “I’m shocked, Binnie, but that still doesn’t justify terrorism.”
“It’s not terrorism, my friend; it’s war: Iraq, Chad, Gaza, Yemen, Aghanistan, Pakistan. You name the country. It’s war.”
“But, Binnie, you must realise that you can’t survive this war. Sooner or later you will be hunted down and killed – or martyred as you probably prefer to put it.”
“I’m not into that martyr stuff, Roger. I’m simply a soldier of Allah with a duty to avenge the wiping out of my family and all the others who have died unjustly at the hands of the West and the Israelis. If and when I die, I don’t assume that I’ll go to Paradise. The chances of a cluster of eager virgins awaiting me are as likely as the claim that Jesus Christ was the result of a virgin birth or that your God parted the Red Sea for Moses.” Jackson and Ahmed both briefly giggle at this, bringing back memories of the mischievous fun they had together when teasing the bumbling religious education teacher at their school.
“So,” asks Jackson, “who are Soldiers of Allah? Are they your mob?”
“Yes, my ‘mob’, as you so disparagingly put it. “It draws its inspiration from Osama Bin Laden, but that’s all. We are not al-Qaeda or anyone else. We’re entirely independent. I have a small cell of people I trust 100%. Because of that, we’ll never be infiltrated by our enemies.”
The Mortal Maze Page 5