“I don’t know myself,” Jackson confesses. “All I’ve got is a tip-off to be at this spot at this time.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
Pete groans and slides down in his seat.
“Stop complaining,” Jackson tells him, “at least you’re not bored out of your mind stacking supermarket shelves or sweeping the streets.”
“True, but does it ever occur to you what a bonkers business we’re in?” responds Pete.
“Quite often,” admits Jackson. “People outside journalism view us with a mixture of admiration, bafflement and contempt, and who can blame them. What sane person would feel compelled to head towards danger, rather than away from it? They also can’t understand why it’s so competitive.”
“Yeah,” says Pete with a sigh. “My family in Australia think I’m nuts. They can’t understand why we take such risks just to get a story ahead of our rivals. I’ve tried explaining, but I’m not sure I really know. Do you?”
“Well, sort of. We always want to be first with a story. There’s no satisfaction in being told by someone ‘that’s not news. I heard that on another channel or read it in my newspaper’.”
“What made you go into journalism? Was it because of your dad?”
“That’s part of it,” admits Jackson, “and I liked writing and the thought of doing exciting things. I also felt my reporting would help put right some of the world’s wrongs.”
Pete raises an eyebrow. “That’s funny, Jacko. Don’t you think you should sort yourself out first before you try to fix the wider world?”
Jackson laughs. “You Aussies don’t do diplomacy, do you!”
Their discussion is abruptly interrupted by the sound of approaching sirens.
“Maybe this is what we’re waiting for,” says Jackson.
Pete jumps from the car and begins filming a convoy approaching from the south towards the plaza. As it gets closer and travels past the wasteland, he can see that a police car is in the lead, followed by an official government limousine with blacked-out windows and two military trucks with armed soldiers standing in the open backs.
The convoy sweeps past them and into the plaza. Pete is about to stop filming when there are two brilliant flashes, followed a second later by the rumble of two huge explosions. Their car is rocked by the shockwaves.
The official limousine, the police escort and one of the military trucks are hurled in the air in a cloud of smoke and dust. This, most definitely, is their story.
“Shit!” shouts Jackson. He instructs Yassin to phone Dick and tell him what has happened and that he and Pete are on the scene.
Jackson and Pete run towards the blast with Pete filming as he goes. They arrive to see a massive crater in the roadway with water spouting from a ruptured water main. There are bodies and body parts everywhere and all the shop fronts within 100 metres or so are blown in. Some shops are on fire. There are piercing screams from the wounded men, women and children. Most are lying on the ground, but some are staggering around blindly in a state of shock. A woman, stripped semi-naked by the blast, collapses onto the footpath. Two uniformed convoy guards have escaped injury, but wander aimlessly around the devastation, no longer carrying their weapons and too shaken to react in any useful way.
While Pete continues filming, Jackson pauses to take in the detail.
Back at their car, Yassin manages to get only the briefest of messages to Dick before the mobile network is shut down, as it was with the mosque bombing.
Jackson also tries to ring the bureau, but sees there is no signal. He goes to Pete and instructs him to take lots of close-ups of the dead and wounded.
“Jeez, mate, are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Let’s not sanitise this with too many wide shots. I want the report to reveal what it’s really like when a bomb goes off.”
“If you say so, mate, but just remember we’re here as observers not axe-grinders, and you know London won’t allow the close-ups. It’ll be too upsetting for viewers.”
“We’ll worry about that later. For now, just do as I say!”
Jackson sees a small boy screaming and clutching the dead body of his mother, trying desperately to shake her back to life. “Quick, Pete, get that,” he instructs. “And get some of the body parts scattered about.”
Jackson spots the wrecked official limousine still smoking and lying in its side against a burning shop. He looks inside and sees Khaled Mohamed suspended by his seat belt in the back of the car. He can tell from the minister’s wounds that he has not survived the blast. He waves Pete over to film the car and the dead minister, then he does a brief piece-to-camera describing the devastation, naming the dead minister, and expressing the view that it is not terrorism but an assassination related to a power struggle within the government.
As he finishes, he sees the CNN crew drive up and begin filming. Jane Kubinski runs over to him. “You were here quick, Jacko.”
“Just luck. We were passing by just as it happened,” he lies.
Jane peers into the wrecked limousine and sees the body inside. “Do you know who he is?”
Jackson shakes his head than immediately realises this denial is taking professional rivalry too far. “Well, actually, it’s Khaled Mohamed, the Development Minister. I did a very boring interview with him a few weeks ago.”
“Was he important?”
“Important enough to assassinate, I guess.”
“So, it’s not a gang thing this time?”
“No, definitely more important than that.”
“Thanks, Jacko.”
“My pleasure, Jane. We’d better get back to the bureau to do the feed. It looks like we’ve beaten you to this story,” he says triumphantly.
Jane grins. “Sorry to disabuse you of that, Jacko, but we brought our satellite link and we’ll be on air before you get down the end of the street.”
“Bugger! Oh well, at least we’ll have the best film,” he shrugs.
Jackson and Pete run back to their car and accelerate down the road against a flow of police vehicles and ambulances heading towards the bombing with their sirens screaming and lights flashing. In the midst of these oncoming vehicles is a taxi that suddenly swerves across their path and screeches to a halt. Yassin slams on the brakes and attempts to go around the taxi, but there isn’t room. He fears they are being ambushed. Instead, Frederick Wynter emerges from the taxi and walks over to them in a deliberately-languid manner intended to convey a message that he has seen it all and done it all during his long career covering conflicts of every sort.
Jackson is furious. “What the fuck are you up to, Fred? Do you have to drive about as though you’re in a crap Hollywood movie?”
Frederick is dismissive. “C’mon, Jackson. I don’t have time to mess about. What’s the story?”
“It’s just along the road, if you want to see for yourself.”
“No, I’ll use your film. London will want me to do a report, seeing I’m on the spot.”
Frederick returns to his taxi which moves out of the way to allow the BBC car through. Yassin shouts to the taxi driver in Arabic. Jackson bursts out laughing. “Nice one, Yassin,” he says.
“What’s so funny?” Pete wants to know.
“I told the taxi driver to take Mr Wynter the long way back and not to drive too fast,” Yassin replies.
“Brilliant!” declares Pete.
Fifteen minutes later they rush upstairs into the bureau to see Dick and Farouk watching Jane Kubinski doing a live report from the scene.
“Look, you’ve been scooped,” Dick shouts to Jackson, “and why haven’t you been answering your mobiles?”
“Get stuffed. This is a biggie and we’ve some stunning film that Jane would die for.”
Farouk has already set up a link to London and Pete immediately starts a direct transfer from his camera. Dick goes back into his office to watch the transfer on his monitor. Jackson grabs a chair and jams it under the lock of the bur
eau entrance door. He tells Samira that no-one – absolutely no-one – should be allowed in without his say so. He goes to his computer and types some quick notes for a live piece from the bureau studio.
Dick comes out of his office. “Some of that stuff you’ve just sent back is bloody hard on the eyes and stomach, Jackson. Did you need all those close-ups?”
“We shot it as it was, Dick. It’s a nasty business and the public ought to be able to see it.”
“They won’t use the close-ups, you know. Far too graphic. Casualty porn. By the way, did you see anything of Frederick when you were there?”
“Oh yeah,” replies Jackson, “he was pissing about as usual and he told us that he’d meet us back here. I don’t know where he’s got to.”
Pete grins broadly and gives Samira a wink. It dawns on her that Frederick is being maliciously outsmarted.
Jackson does a live crossover to London, explaining what happened and claiming it was a total coincidence that he and Pete were on the scene, neatly skipping over the obvious question about how Pete’s camera was running when the explosions were detonated. Jackson repeats his view that the assassination was brought about by a power struggle within the government. As Dick and Pete had predicted, London does not run the gruesome close-ups, relying instead on Pete’s wide scenes and slow motion shots of the explosions and the convoy vehicles flying through the air.
Dick comes out of his office again. “Are you sure about the people behind the explosion, Jackson? I’d have thought it would have been the work of this Soldiers of Allah group.”
“Very much doubt it, Dick, but I should have confirmation one way or the other in the next few hours.”
“How will you get that?”
Jackson taps his nose, knowingly. “I have my ways and my contacts.”
“I hope you’re right. I don’t want us getting on the wrong side of the government again.”
Dick checks his watch and turns to Samira. “Any word from Frederick yet?”
“No, not a thing,” she replies. “I can’t contact him because the government has shut down the mobile network again.”
Dick goes back into his office and closes the door behind him, just as the bureau entrance door handle begins turning back and forth furiously. There is sharp knocking on the door and Samira hears Frederick’s muffled demands to be let in. Pete also hears it and drowns it out by running some bombing tape with the volume turned up high.
On the other side of the door, Frederick can hear the sounds of victims yelling and screaming. He bangs again on the door, then puts his shoulder to it. To no avail. He gets out his mobile to ring the bureau, but the network is still down. He realises that his way into the bureau is being deliberately blocked.
CHAPTER 19
Dick is mystified at next morning’s editorial meeting about the failure of Frederick to show, but he gets his answer when Mary Dunstan comes on the line from the Foreign Desk in London. “I’ve just had word that there’s been a change of plans by Fred Wynter. He thinks Afghanistan is about to blow up and that he should get there straight away. I hope that won’t mess up your coverage arrangements.”
Everyone except Dick breaks into broad grins. “It’ll be okay, Mary,” says Jackson, trying not to sound too pleased, “we’ll just have to manage without him.”
“I thought that might be your answer,” replies Mary, “but I should alert you to the strong possibility that Sally Singer will fly out to replace Fred on your patch.”
There are groans all round, even from Dick. “Oh Christ! What have we done to deserve this!?” exclaims Jackson.
“Just joking,” laughs Mary, “she’s on leave and doing lectures on a cruise ship in the Caribbean. Honest.” Mary has enjoyed winding up the Armibar team and has a fit of the giggles as she ends the call.
Dick suggests that Jackson and Pete return to Central Arabia Plaza – this time with the satellite link – and do a live update from the explosion scene. Jackson agrees.
On the way, the mobile network comes back on. Jackson sends a brief text to Thomas, asking him to call. He fears that the assassination of Khaled Mohamed was somehow linked to the bug he placed in the minister’s office. He also wonders why the assassination took place in a crowded shopping centre, causing so many innocents to be injured or killed. A few minutes later he gets a reply text from Thomas: “2 busy 2 talk. Will call 2morrow”.
******
Jackson and Pete are exhausted and are drinking a refreshing beer back at Jackson’s flat. It has been a triumphant day. Pete’s film is in great demand by broadcasters around the globe. Dick has had to admit that Jackson and Pete have done the bureau proud and he is not slow to bathe in the reflected glory. Although CNN was first on the air with the story, its film didn’t match the jaw-dropping spectacle of Pete’s shots of the convoy being blown up. Al-Jazeera was caught completely flat-footed and could show only aftermath film, having arrived on the scene nearly an hour after the assassination. At the same time, Jackson has modified his explanation of how they got film of the convoy being blown up, claiming they had pulled up to get a coffee and that when Pete heard the approaching sirens, he automatically grabbed his camera and began filming.
“Would you like me to knock up something to eat?” Jackson asks Pete.
“Depends what you have in mind,” he replies cautiously.
“Let’s see,” says Jackson as he goes to the refrigerator and finds it almost empty. He takes out the remains of a large meat pie. He sniffs it, winces and tips it into the rubbish bin. He opens a cupboard and studies a row of cans.
“I could do you baked beans on toast,” he tells Pete with a smile.
Pete screws up his face. “Thanks, but no thanks, mate. I gave up that sort of food in my early ‘teens. I’ll go back to my apartment. There’s a nice chilli dish awaiting my attention.”
He gulps down the last of his beer and goes to the front door. “See you in the morning, Jacko.” He leaves and Jackson empties a tin of baked beans into a saucepan on the stove. He puts sliced bread in his toaster and flips the top off another bottle of beer.
The landline phone rings and Jackson hits the speaker button. “It wasn’t us,” announces the voice of Ahmed Faisel ‘Binnie’ Bin Hassan, without any preamble.
“I guessed that,” responds Jackson, “but who was it?”
“It was your lot and the Americans, with the approval of the presidential palace. They wanted the traitorous prick Khaled Mohamed out of the way.”
The line goes dead, to the immense frustration of Jackson, but he knows that Binnie will always keep his calls brief to stop his location being traced.
Jackson eats his baked beans, washed down with beer, and reflects on Binnie’s claim. It fits his suspicions that the British were involved in the assassination. He feels a growing anger about the number of innocent people who were killed or maimed. He decides that he needs something stronger than a beer and pours himself a large whisky. He dials Thomas Fulham.
The call is immediately picked up and answered abruptly. “Yes, Jacko, want do you want?”
“I need to talk to you about what happened today.”
Thomas is irritated. “Look, I’m far too busy. All I can say is that there was a bit of a stuff -up.”
“In what way?”
“It shouldn’t have happened where it did.”
“Christ!” exclaims Jackson.
“A shame, but at least that bastard Khaled Mohamed won’t be causing any more trouble.”
Before Jackson can respond further, Thomas cuts him short. “I’ll ring you tomorrow as promised.” The line goes dead.
Jackson finishes his whisky and is about to have a shower when the phone rings. It is his mother. For a change, she greets him in a positive and uncritical manner: “Hello, darling, I just thought I’d phone to congratulate you on the wonderful reports you did on today’s news.”
“Thank you, Mother. That’s nice. No complaints about how I looked?”
“No, da
rling, you looked lovely. I was very impressed and so were all my friends at the Belgravia Bridge Club.”
“Oh, so you’re playing bridge now, are you?”
“Yes, darling, I’m not very good at it yet, but I took your advice to get out a bit more.”
“Excellent, Mother. I’m really pleased about that.”
“Yes, it’s good and I think they’re flattered that they now have a member of the aristocracy among their members. But there’s one thing I wanted to…”
Jackson angrily interrupts her flow. “What do you mean ‘aristocracy’?”
“Well, you know, I’m ‘Lady Dunbar’ and the bridge club likes that.”
“That may just about make you a fringe part of the establishment, but it certainly doesn’t elevate you to the aristocracy. Honestly, Mother, you’re such a terrible snob. You really are!”
His mother brushes this aside. “As I was about to tell you, everyone is so impressed with your bravery on the television lately, and I decided on the spur of the moment to write to the Director-General to make a suggestion.”
Jackson is immediately suspicious: “What sort of suggestion?”
“Well, darling, I explained how old I am and that you are the only family that I have. I told him that I thought that it wasn’t right for them to keep you in such a dangerous place and that you would make an excellent senior manager back here London where you could also keep a closer eye on my welfare.”
Jackson groans. “Oh Mother! I hope you haven’t posted that letter.”
“I just managed to catch today’s last collection. I sent it First Class, so that he should get it tomorrow.”
Jackson groans again. “Mother! I just can’t believe that you did that. You have no right to interfere in my career.”
“But, darling, I need you back here. I’m lonely and my health isn’t good. What if you got killed? I would have no-one to look after me.” She begins sobbing.
“So, this is what this call is all about, eh?! More self-centred pity. More interference in my life and my career.”
His mother’s crying increases.
The Mortal Maze Page 19