Mack briefs Jackson on lunch with the ambassador and expresses scepticism about the American assessment. Jackson summarises what he has been told by Thomas, without naming him. They agree to make further enquiries before dismissing Soldiers of Allah as being the people behind the mosque bombing. Jackson casually mentions that he has heard rumours about the growing importance of Khaled Mohamed and thinks he might be worth interviewing. Mack agrees, but only if nothing more important is going on.
Mack goes upstairs to change back into some more comfortable clothes. Jackson turns to admire Samira, still in the outfit she wore to lunch and still wearing make-up. “Mmm. You look very tasty this afternoon.”
She responds with a smile. “Well, thank you, sir, although I am not sure ‘tasty’ is a word I should accept as a married woman and a feminist.”
“Okay then, what about ‘elegantly glamorous’?”
“Yes, that’s better,” she agrees with a grin, “I like that.”
“So, tell me. How did you enjoy your posh lunch?”
“The food was very nice and as Mack has already told you, the ambassador was quite forthcoming, even if we think he isn’t as clued up as he reckons.”
“I hear on the grapevine that he’s what might be termed a ‘hands on’ diplomat when it comes to attractive young females,” says Jackson.
“Well, he’s certainly an attractive man with film star good looks. I’ll accept him lusting over me if it means he reveals more information than he should, but I’ll make sure he keeps his hands to himself. I’ll have to be very careful not to find myself alone with him.”
The phone rings and Samira picks up the call. It is for Jackson. A “Mrs Fulham” wishes to speak to him. Jackson says it is a “business matter” and will take it in Mack’s office. He closes the door behind him and winces at the mess on Mack’s desk. He pushes aside an assortment of scribbled notes and empties the overflowing ashtray into the bin. He settles down in Mack’s chair and pushes the speaker button on the phone.
“Hi, Felicity! How are you?”
“I’m fine, but more importantly, how are you?”
“I’m okay. Still a bit shaken up, but over the worst of it, I think.”
“Good. Well, look after yourself, Jacko. Don’t go doing anything silly, will you.”
“Like what?”
“You know what I mean: don’t drink too much and don’t get involved in gambling.”
“You needn’t worry about me on either count. I’m getting my act together. Really I am.”
“Well, I sincerely hope that’s true, Jacko. Anyway, Thomas wants us to have another try at dinner here – without being interrupted this time by terrorists. Let me know when you have an evening free in the next week or so.
“Right. Will do.”
There is a pause and Felicity can be heard talking to someone else in the room. She comes back to Jackson. “I’ve just been joined by a young gentleman who’s heard that I am talking to his Uncle Jackson.”
She hands the phone over to Sam Fulham. “Hello, Uncle Jackson. Are you coming to see us again soon?”
“Hello, Sam. Yes, I’ll see you as soon as I get an evening free.”
“Can you tell me some Hairy Maclary, please?”
“Now let me think... Oh yes... Bitzer Maloney all skinny and bony, Muffin McLay like a bundle of hay, Bottomley Potts covered in spots, Hercules Morse as big as a horse -- and Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy.”
Jackson has his back to the door and is unaware that Pete and Farouk have returned and come into the office.
“More, Uncle Jackson. More,” pleads Sam.
“That’s all I can remember for now. We’ll read the book together when I come to see you.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, it’s a promise.”
Jackson ends the call and swivels back to face the door. He is embarrassed to see Farouk and Pete there, smirking.
“I’m impressed you’re so well read in the Scottish classics,” says Pete.
Jackson responds with a good-humoured two fingers. “Not Scottish, you illiterate. The author’s from New Zealand.”
“Really? I didn’t know the bloody Kiwis could even read,” Pete jokes.
Mack comes in, having changed into more comfortable clothes. He observes Jackson sitting in his chair. “What’s this,” he teases, “I leave the office for a few minutes and you try to take over!”
Jackson laughs and points at the mess on the desk. “Well, anyone taking over from you would want to clean up this shit first.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my desk, Jacko. I know exactly where to find everything. Anyway, if you’ve finished with it, I’d like it back.”
“Sorry. I just came in to take a private call.”
Mack sits down at the desk, takes a cigar from his pocket and lights it up. Jackson and the others wince.
“I nicked it while Ambassador Costello was looking the other way,” Mack explains. By the way, there’s no need for you guys to stick around. I’ve had word from London that most of their bulletins tonight will be dominated by news that a government minister has been filmed half-naked with a woman who’s not his wife. Worse, his lady friend is a prominent member of the Opposition.”
“Christ!” declares Jackson. “Who are they?”
“No names yet. It’s a tabloid exclusive with the names being saved for tomorrow.”
******
On his way back to his apartment, Jackson calls in at The Cedar Tree and hands Jamil the $80 he had kept aside in his pocket. “Thank you, Mr Jackson. I’ll get your change.”
“No, no, Jamil. Keep it. You’ve been very tolerant when I’ve been caught short without cash.”
Back in his apartment, Jackson checks his bank account online and discovers that his monthly salary has come through. He feels a tingle through his body. He pours himself a whisky and runs a hot bath.
A few hours later, Jackson makes a return to Archibald’s gambling den, cashed up with $1000 he drew from an ATM conveniently situated a short distance away. Zareena is with him and is unhappy.
“Are you sure you should be doing this, Jacko?” she asks. “You know you’re no good with poker.”
“I’m giving up on poker. Too many crooks. Roulette is much better.”
“You’re deluding yourself. You must know that. There’s only one real winner here and that’s Archbibald.”
Jackson gets angry. “Stop nagging, please! I brought you here as a good luck charm, so stay happy.”
Zareena realises she is wasting her breath. Jackson takes his roll of banknotes from a pocket, peels off $100 and gives it to her. “Here’s your money in advance, so just stop worrying.”
Zareena puts the money in her purse with a sigh and draws up a chair behind Jackson so that she can look over his shoulder. He buys $500 worth of $10 chips and turns to Zareena. “So, what colour do you prefer? Red or black?”
“Black is negative,” she replies, “so it has to be red.”
“Right, red it is! And should I go for odds or evens?”
“I prefer even numbers.”
For the next hour, Jackson’s fortunes at the roulette wheel ebb and flow. His mobile rings, but he is so engaged in the spinning wheel that he switches it off without checking to see who is calling.
Zareena makes a further attempt to get him to quit while he still has money left in the kitty, but it just makes him angry. She is fed up. She tells him she will see him another time and leaves.
Without Zareena’s restraining presence, Jackson raises his bets and goes for the long odds with the prospect of big returns. Inevitably, after half-an-hour, he finds himself cleaned out. He goes to Archibald who agrees to give him a short-time credit of $500 with an extortionate interest rate of 10% for the first day, increasing by 5% for every subsequent day for up to two weeks.
Any residual self-control is abandoned as Jackson continues to play for high stakes, desperate to get that big win that will allow him to leave with
his pockets full and his head held high. Another half-hour passes and he is again cleaned out. Archibald refuses to extend further credit and Jackson regains sufficient control of himself to know that he must go home to bed.
Jackson steps out into the dark and grubby street and goes to the nearby ATM, planning to withdraw enough cash to get a taxi to his apartment. His card is rejected. He has forgotten that he had reached his withdrawal limit for the next 24 hours. He comes out in a cold sweat as he contemplates the prospect of walking home several kilometres away through a slum, notorious for its criminal gangs.
Jackson frantically rummages through his pockets but finds just a few coins – certainly not enough to pay for a taxi back to the apartment. His panic intensifies. About 50 metres from the gambling den he comes across a chauffeured stretch limousine. The driver is asleep behind the wheel. Jackson shakes him awake.
The driver explains that he is employed by one of Archibald’s wealthy clients who is likely to be gambling into the early hours. Jackson offers the driver $50 to take him home. The driver wants $75 – triple the normal rate for such a trip – and Jackson has no option but to accept. He explains that he has the money back at his apartment, which is a fact as he always keeps an emergency reserve of about $100 in a tin.
It is no surprise that the chauffeur is reluctant to make the unauthorised journey without seeing the money first. Jackson offers his Rolex watch as collateral. The driver studies it carefully with a pocket torch and agrees to take him, provided that he can have possession of the watch to ensure that Jackson doesn’t do a runner on reaching his destination.
The chauffeur speeds through the streets, anxious to get back to his spot near the gambling den before his absence is noticed. Outside his apartment, Jackson tells the driver he will be back in a few minutes with his $75. As he walks to the apartment block entrance, the driver does a sharp U-turn and accelerates away. Jackson watches the vehicle disappear in the darkness and knows that he will never see his Rolex again.
CHAPTER 12
Next morning, Jackson walks the five kilometres to the bureau, calling at an ATM along the way. It confirms that he can’t withdraw any money until that evening.
Samira is at her desk in the bureau, concentrating on a spreadsheet. She nods an acknowledgement of his arrival. Jackson sees Mack on the phone, puffing away at a cigarette in his office. Pete, Farouk and Yassin have yet to arrive.
Jackson sits down, staring vacantly into space and making no move to turn on his computer. Samira looks and notices that Jackson is not his usual self.
“Is something wrong, Jacko?”
“Um, no... Er, yes...” He holds up his left hand and points to where his watch would normally be wrapped around his wrist. “I was mugged last night and my Rolex was nicked.”
“Oh really! What happened?”
“It was all very fast. I was walking along the street when some guy with a large knife suddenly appeared out of the dark and demanded the watch and all my American dollars.”
“That’s terrible,” Samira sympathises. “Have you told the police?”
“Absolutely no point.”
Samira agrees. “The coppers here are useless. Even if they recovered your watch, they’d probably sell it on the black market. What’s it worth, do you think?”
“Ten grand at least.”
“Ten thousand? How could you possible afford that?”
“I couldn’t. It was a 30th birthday present from my grandmother, Granny Dunbar.”
“Oh dear,” says Samira as she returns to her spreadsheets. Jackson stares into the middle distance for a minute or two then turns back to Samira. “Can you give me an advance on my exes? I need to buy a new watch pronto.”
“Can’t you just go to the ATM next door and draw out some cash? Our salaries came through yesterday.”
Jackson flounders for an excuse. “Er, I can’t. I’ve mislaid my bank card. I was so confused when I tumbled into bed after being robbed last night that I must have dropped it somewhere.”
Samira nods sympathetically. “Well, if you don’t find it by this evening you’d better report it missing in case it’s fallen into the wrong hands.” She unlocks a drawer in her desk and takes out her petty cash container. “Here’s $100, but I must have it back tomorrow or Mack’ll get very cross.”
Jackson gratefully takes the money. “I’ll choose something a little less attractive to thieves,” he promises.
Mack comes out of his office and before he has a chance to comment on Jackson’s gloomy appearance, Samira chips in. “Jacko got mugged last night and his Rolex was stolen.”
“Huh! Serves you bloody right for wearing such an item in this part of the world,” says Mack.
“Thanks for caring,” replies Jackson sarcastically.
Mack realises that he has been a bit harsh. “Sorry Jacko. You weren’t hurt, I hope.”
“No, there was no struggle or anything like that. He was a big guy who appeared to be looking for an excuse to use his knife. I didn’t argue.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re okay. By the way I tried to ring you last night, but got no answer.”
“Was it important?”
“No, not specially. But where were you anyway?”
“I must’ve been in a black spot. I went to see a couple of guys after getting a tip-off that they knew something about the Soldiers of Allah.”
“And did they?”
“Nope. It was a false lead, and I was on my way back to the flat when I was robbed.”
“Mmm. Well, make sure you get a cheaper replacement.” Mack points to his own watch. “I got this for 20 quid at a service station in Scotland and it’s as good as gold.”
Jackson nods agreement, then adds as an afterthought: “Umm. As I was on duty at the time of the mugging, I suppose I can claim the stolen watch on my expenses?”
Mack responds, not with words, but with raised eyebrows and an expression that make it brutally clear he thinks Jacko is trying it on.
Jackson changes tack. “No, of course not. I’ll claim it on my personal property insurance.”
“That’d be a good idea,” says Mack caustically as he goes back into his office.
Jackson rolls his eyes at Samira, hoping for sympathy, but he doesn’t get it.
“Just stop pushing your luck,” she says. “It’s getting very irritating.” He shrugs and leaves to buy his replacement watch.
******
Within the hour, Jackson arrives back at the bureau proudly waving his new purchase, a solar-powered Seiko. “Looks almost as good as my Rolex,” he announces to Samira.
“How much?” she demands.
“A little under a hundred bucks.”
“How little?” she persists.
“It was seventy-five dollars,” he admits with an embarrassed smile.
Samira holds her hand out for the change, but Jackson shakes his head. “Oh c’mon. I need the change to buy dinner tonight.”
“Okay,” she says, “but I really must have all the money back by tomorrow, regardless of whether you ‘ve found your bank card.”
“Christ, you’re a hard woman!”
Samira lets the subject drop and hands Jackson a yellow Post It note. “Looks like your bid for an interview with Khaled Mohamed has been accepted. Ring that number and his people will give you a date and time. You should be warned that he’s a very boring man and you’re unlikely to get an interview worthy of the name.”
“Well, let’s see, Samira. I have an instinct about this guy. I suspect there’s more to him than meets the eye.”
“Unlikely, but I’m prepared to be surprised.”
Samira goes back to her spreadsheets and Jackson rings the number he has just been given.
******
Next morning, Jackson decides to make a brisk walk to work in the hope that this will invigorate him. The ‘brisk’ bit lasts just a couple of hundred metres; the rest of it done in the manner and pace of an unwell person, which he is. He has endured
another bad night. Despite knocking himself out with a couple of very large whiskies, he had woken a few hours later in a cold sweat about what had happened at the gambling den. Another large whisky had put him back to sleep, but barely an hour later he had a terrifying repeat nightmare about being blown up outside the mosque.
Jackson comes across an ATM and cheers up a little when it confirms that his bank account is active again. He withdraws $150 -- $50 for himself and $100 to replenish Samira’s petty cash.
By the time he reaches the bureau, Mack is at his desk reading an Arabic newspaper, making notes and working his way through his fourth cigarette of the morning. Samira is filing documents in a metal cabinet, and Pete and Farouk are monitoring a feed of Middle Eastern videos from the Reuters news agency.
“Morning,” mutters Jackson as he hangs his jacket behind the entrance door. There is a similarly-muttered response from Samira, Pete and Farouk as they continue what they were doing.
Jackson takes the ATM withdrawal from his pocket and counts out $100, which he places on Samira’s desk. “Your money back, as promised,” he tells her as she continues with the filing.
“Oh good,” she replies, “You found your bank card?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your bank card! You know, the one you mislaid!”
Jackson has temporarily forgotten his little lie to Samira and flounders for an answer. “Oh yes. Yes, found it. Umm. Yes, I found it when I got back to the apartment last night. It’d just fallen off the bedside table where I put my things before going to bed.”
“Oh, good,” she says as she finishes the filing and returns to her desk. It is at this point that she observes Jackson’s miserable physical and mental state.
“Oh Jacko! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, ‘nothing’. You look dreadful. You haven’t even shaved.”
“Well, I don’t feel all that special,” he admits as he strokes the whiskers on his face and realises that he had forgotten to have his usual pre-breakfast shave.
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