‘What did he say?’
‘Just what you’d expect: great front page, good job, etcetera.’
‘That’s fantastic. Did Bolshy mention the BBC interview?’ Annie’s face was impish.
I squirmed. ‘Shit, how do you know about that?’
‘There was a mention of it in The Australian this morning. The Media Diary.’
‘Aw, bloody hell. Trust them. What did it say?’
‘It was a bit garbled. Didn’t really understand it.’ Thank God for that.
‘So I watched it myself on YouTube. 429,000 hits and counting. You are a star, my darling!’
‘Jeez. I thought you said you wanted to comfort me? You know what, this isn’t helping.’ Despite my embarrassment, I couldn’t help smiling back at Annie’s mischievous look on the screen.
‘You were saying about Bolshy?’
‘Yeah. He was positive about the paper but I sensed underneath he wasn’t happy about something.’
‘Like what?’
‘Dunno. He was a bit off. It just seemed as if I had done something to piss him off. Maybe it was the editorial. I wrote a leader about the whole Muslim thing. Todd warned me he wouldn’t like it.’
‘What did it say?’
‘I called for the government to stop posturing in the aftermath of terrorist acts and put more pressure on Muslim community leaders to preach more tolerance about both gays and women.’
Annie looked puzzled. ‘Sounds okay to me. Not sure why it would upset him.’
‘You’re right. Must be something else. Probably my devious deputy Bill Todd feeding him some rubbish. He’s a bit too tight with Bolshy’s offsider Carlos Macrae for my liking. Anyway, I have a meeting with the managing director, Martha Fry, tomorrow so maybe I’ll ask her.’
Suddenly Annie looked at her watch. ‘Sorry darling, I must go,’ she said. ‘I’m taking Percy to the park to meet up with Posh. Take care. I love you.’ She blew me a kiss.
‘Love you too,’ I said to the blank screen.
* * *
On her way to the park, Annie thought about her husband. He had looked strained. There were lines on his open, handsome face she hadn’t noticed before. Faint, like the thin contours on an ordnance survey map. And dark smudges under his soft blue eyes. Maybe it was just the moody light in his hotel suite, she thought. His thick, golden hair had been mussed and unruly as if he’d just run his fingers through it. But his full lips had still looked highly kissable, she thought. I’d like to kiss him right now.
Later, she watched Percy’s beaming face while Posh pushed him on a swing, her heart fluttered. God, he looks so like his dad.
4
I WENT to bed tired but still wired. It took me a while to drop off and I kept rerunning the BBC interview in my mind. Ugh.
My new boss Bolshakov had insisted I do it. ‘You are big name, it will be good for newspaper. Help sell more copies.’ I knew from my previous London sting that the News at Six was watched by more than four million Brits. What can go wrong? I’d asked myself. So, at five-ish that cold, wet afternoon, I had duly arrived at Broadcasting House, the famous art deco building in London’s West End. I had done numerous such interviews over the years but had never got entirely comfortable with that sort of attention; I’m not what you would call an extrovert. And I was also jet-lagged and wearing a suit, silk tie and proper shoes for the first time in ages. It felt stiff and scratchy after months of just shorts, thongs and T-shirts.
The pre-interview process seemed to go in a flash. One minute I was in make-up getting a bit of powder on my shiny bits, the next I was in the swanky studio sitting to the side of the news presenter. I had been told she was a stand-in for the usual guy who was unwell. Making a last-ditch effort with fingers and a drop of saliva to control my blond thatch of hair, I desperately tried – and failed – to remember her name.
As I sat there, tired and self-conscious, the sharp-faced presenter looked straight at a camera, talking on air to the BBC’s Washington correspondent about the controversial US billionaire who was vying for the presidency. I must have drifted off slightly because then I heard my name. The presenter was looking at me directly with a slight smile on her lips.
‘… talk to Jonathan Bligh, the new editor of Britain’s best-selling newspaper UK Today. He is also the author of two bestselling books and an Oscar-winning screenplay. Good evening, Mr Bligh, and congratulations on your new job.’
I sat up straight and tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out right. ‘Thank you, er …’ I still couldn’t remember her bloody name. Or the masthead, for that matter. ‘… It is, um, an honour to, ah, as you say, be the new editor of, um, that newspaper.’ A shard of ice stabbed my heart and I began to sweat.
‘Mr Bligh, how do you respond to the criticisms from some quarters that a British institution like UK Today is now owned by a ruthless Russian oligarch and edited by an Australian with no editing experience? That it cannot truly represent the interests of our country?’
What the fuck?! ‘It’ll be a short, upbeat chat before the weather,’ the Beeb producers had assured me. Nothing heavy. Now here I was being grilled like a butterflied prawn. The next several minutes were excruciating. I’d stuttered and stammered my way through the remainder of the interview before, thankfully, I heard the news presenter from hell say, ‘Well, thank you Mr Bligh, that was very illuminating. Now we move on to Pixie and tomorrow’s weather …’
* * *
‘So you got sandbagged on the Beeb,’ Carlos Macrae said with a sardonic smile. ‘Boo hoo. Get used to it, buddy. There’s zero love for us out there. And besides, you obviously don’t know this – but the presenter, Francesca Walker, is married to the editor of one of our main competitors, Ricky Walker. Standard operating procedure – she was getting their retaliation in first.’
We were in a private dining room at the Dorchester. Macrae, I learned, was the son of a Spanish mother and a Scottish father. He had been a journalist – but not a good one – before becoming a PR guru in the city. The oligarch had then offered him a Tsar’s ransom to work exclusively for him. His nickname was Black Mac, partly due to his swarthy, saturnine appearance and lantern jaw, and partly because, as I would discover before too long, he was a malicious practitioner of the dark arts of both personal and political spin.
I had gone straight from the BBC studios to the hotel where Martha Fry, the managing director, was hosting a dinner for me. I dislike social events at the best of times, but coming straight after the TV debacle, I was dreading it. A so-called friend had already texted me to say the Twittersphere had lit up like the Sydney New Year’s Eve fireworks. I was trending, and even had my own hashtag – #ByeByeBligh. My fears were confirmed when Martha welcomed me in the nasal Brooklyn accent that I would come to know so well: ‘So you bombed, what of it? Honey, you gotta hang tough. In a few days everyone will have forgotten it ever happened.’
Ah shit, it was that bad? ‘Thanks, Martha, but I should never have done that interview. Not while I was still jetlagged.’
A large Scotch had helped settle my nerves as I was introduced to the rest of the UKT senior management team. Looking back, I don’t remember much about the meal or any of my new colleagues from that first meeting, except, that is, for Black Mac and Martha Fry. Indeed, my memory of her is quite distinct.
She was a pale-skinned brunette; mid-forties, I guessed. Medium height, boosted by high-heeled black boots. Minimum jewellery, maximum make-up: eyes powder-coated in sooty black, lips slashed in crimson. A sexy glamorous Goth. Not my type, but I could see why the other men in the room looked at her with something other than collegial interest.
Sitting next to Martha at dinner, I observed how she dominated the rest of the group with quiet, steely authority. Sitting upright and very still, she commanded everyone’s attention without ever raising her voice.
‘So Jonno, Bolshy sure seems to dig the fact you are a famous writer. Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of reading your books, but I
promise to do so real soon.’ She put a small but steely hand on my arm and leaned towards me, her musky fragrance almost anaesthetising me. ‘But lemme tell ya – I did see your movie. Watched it on a plane coming over from New York. Awesome. A must for anyone involved in the news business, I’d say.’
She paused and patted her full red lips with the napkin. It came away looking like a surgical swab. She turned to look at Black Mac: ‘Carlos, what did you think of Jonno’s movie – what was it called again?’
Macrae looked at her and then at me with eyes like Colombian coffee beans. His mouth opened in a snaggle-toothed grin that reminded me of a saltwater crocodile. It was obvious he’d had a bit to drink.
‘Ma’am –’ I was to find that he had the annoying, slightly mocking habit of calling her that, like she was the bloody Queen, ‘– the film was called Hard News and it did indeed achieve the impossible: make journalists look almost human. I can only hope our new superhero Jonno can save this newspaper just like his character in the film did.’
‘You know what, Carlos, I am sure Jonno doesn’t want to hear about our problems – or should I say challenges? – so soon. Plenty of time for that.’
Problems? Bolshakov hadn’t mentioned any problems. As if she had read my mind, Martha turned her dark eyes to me, leaned over and said in a soft, breathy voice: ‘But, honey, we’ll need to get together and talk about a few little things real soon. I’ll get my PA Byron to fix something up in a day or two, once you’ve settled in.
I had left early, pleading tiredness from the flight and gone back to my hotel and called Annie. Now lying sleepless, I thought about what Martha had said. Just what exactly had the Russian neglected to tell me when he offered me the job back in Sydney?
5
MY AUSSIE mate Hamish Minto had played matchmaker. ‘I want you to meet someone,’ he’d whispered down the phone, as if scared of being overheard. ‘Interesting guy. Russian. Super wealthy. Very keen to see you.’
‘What does a rich Russian want with an old hack like me?’
‘Sorry, Jonno, can’t say … other than that he has a remarkable proposition for you.’
Hamish and I had met years before in London when I was an investigative reporter on the Daily Tribune and he was the creative director of a small, independent ad agency that had since gone global. We had both come a long way: me with a brace of best-sellers, he with a booming business and a baronetcy.
Hamish and his wife, Heather, were back in Sydney for a brief visit and invited Annie and me to a dinner party at their Vaucluse mansion. I counted ten other guests including the Foreign Minister and her partner, but Blind Freddy could have picked Minto’s mystery man. Rugged and rangy with a high forehead, full lips and deep-set grey eyes the colour of iron filings. Lean Nordic face, light brown, close-cropped hair and a hint of stubble – think Marlboro Man minus hat and cigarette – he also had the glossy patina that massive wealth seems to provide. He was dressed in chic, black-on-black clothes – dark suit, silk shirt and polished loafers. Standing next to him was a tall, angular woman with dark hair scraped back into a topknot that coiled on her head like a northern death adder. She was no great beauty, but her feline eyes and slanted cheekbones made her striking. They both stepped forward to greet us.
‘Mister Bligh? It is pleasure to meet you. And Mrs Bligh? He kissed her on both cheeks. Hamish did not tell me that you were such beautiful woman.’ The oligarch spoke slightly fractured English in a heavily accented baritone. ‘I am Borya Bolshakov and this is my wife Varvara.’ His smile displayed large, white teeth. The woman took my hand and gave it a firm squeeze. Then she did something weird: she turned it over and examined it. One red-taloned finger traced a line on my palm for an awkward moment before she abruptly dropped it and stepped back a pace.
Bolshakov gave her a glance before continuing. ‘Mr Bligh – can I call you Jonno? – I have private matter I would like to discuss with you. Mrs Bligh, would you mind if I take your husband away for a short time?’
Annie smiled. ‘He’s all yours. Please be gentle with him.’
But the Russian had already taken my elbow and was steering me to Minto’s library. Behind its thick oak doors, my mind raced. What the hell was this all about? Maybe he just wanted me to ghostwrite his autobiography, or consult on a film project. I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
‘Jonno, I am glad my friend Sir Hamish persuaded you to come tonight. Let me come straight to the point: I want you to be new editor of my newspaper in Great Britain. It is called UK Today.’
‘I don’t understand – why me?’
Bolshakov smiled. ‘I have conventional editor for five years and paper is like “okroshka”. That, Jonno, is cold Russian soup with vinegar, stodgy potatoes and sour cream. I no longer want okroshka. I want Beluga caviar.’
The rest of that conversation is a blur. I do remember that he flattered me outrageously, mentioning my books and my reputation as an investigative journalist. He believed that my celebrity would add lustre to the paper. He glossed over my protestation that I had never been an editor. ‘You know how to tell stories. That is enough. Besides, you and your charming wife will be big asset to me in London.’
His magnetic grey eyes were hypnotic as he outlined the eye-watering package of salary, benefits and perks that I could expect. But the clincher was what he said next. ‘Most of all, Jonno, I offer you power. Unbelievable power to do great things. You and my newspaper.’
As I sat, gobsmacked, the oligarch leaned forward with a half-smile. ‘I do not take no for answer. What do you say?’
I didn’t say anything. But I was sold.
* * *
‘Quite something, isn’t he?’ Heather Minto turned to Annie.
‘Jonno?’ She was looking at the library doors and wondering what was going on behind them.
Heather laughed. ‘Well, of course, him too. But I meant Bolshy. We are all terribly intrigued by him. Quite the international man of mystery. I mean, he’s all smiles and trousers, but you know what?’ Her voice lowered. ‘There’s something not quite right about him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You remember Anne Widdicombe? The former MP? Well, she once said of her former boss that there was “something of the night” about him. I feel the same about Bolshakov.’
‘Do you know what he wants with Jonno?
‘Um, not exactly but …’
‘Come on – spill the beans.’
‘Och, I can’t say. Hamish would kill me. But I did pick up something this afternoon when he and Bolshy were talking out on the verandah.’
‘Come on, Heather. I’ll find out soon enough anyway.’
Her friend smiled impishly. ‘Well, dear, let’s just say that we might be seeing a bit more of you in London in the near future.’
* * *
We’d left the dinner party as early as possible, pleading babysitting problems. Apart from a short, whispered conversation in the bathroom before dinner, Annie and I had not had any time together at the Minto party to discuss the momentous job offer. The ten-minute Uber ride home to our penthouse overlooking Rose Bay had been tense, the air pregnant with our respective thoughts on Bolshakov’s proposition.
We had agreed not to talk about it until we got home. But, finally, after we’d said goodnight to our live-in nanny Posh and kissed our sleeping son good night, Annie and I sat down on the verandah with stiff drinks in our hands. She seemed to have used the intervening time to marshall her arguments for opposing the move. ‘It would cause too much upheaval. Our lives would be changed forever. Percy’s too young.’ All valid reasons, but I knew at the heart of her resistance lay the occasional nightmares, panic attacks and flashbacks – PTSD symptoms – she still suffered as a consequence of her terrible ordeal in South East Asia two years earlier.
I, on the other hand, was excited at the prospect of going back to newspapers. ‘You said I needed a new project.’
‘I meant writing another book, not moving halfway acro
ss the world.’
‘My God, Annie, it’s London, not Lesotho! Your parents live up the road.’
‘But why you? Why not a proper editor?’
‘Thanks very much for the vote of confidence!’ I gave her a gentle nudge. ‘Partly because I’m a good journalist and partly because I’m a bit famous. It won’t be the first time someone like me has become editor of a national paper – the guy at the Evening Standard used to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, for God’s sake.’
‘Sorry, it’s just that I have a bad feeling about it,’ Annie said. ‘I’m not sure I could stand another horrible drama like Rehab Island.’ That was the name we’d given the uninhabited island where desperate circumstances had brought us together. ‘And Heather Minto told me there was something dodgy about your new BFF.’
That was a surprise. I thought Annie had been bowled over by Bolshakov. She had seemed to bask in his glow and blush at his lavish compliments. There was no doubting the Russian’s casual charisma. Annie had sat next to him at dinner and, when I’d looked over once or twice, her face was shining as they talked. And when we were leaving, he’d put an arm around her and said, ‘I hope you and your husband will accept my little proposition. You will be London’s new glamour couple.’
Why did Heather say he was dodgy?
‘What was that thing with his wife and your hands?’ Annie said.
‘Jeez, I don’t know. It looked as if she was reading my palms. Maybe she’s a weird Russian mystic or something.’
‘Poor woman – if she’s read your palm, she won’t be able to sleep tonight!’
Later, sitting up in bed, arms folded, at loggerheads, I wanted to talk about the amazing opportunity that had been presented to me, while Annie wanted to list all the reasons why I shouldn’t grab it.
‘Lately I’ve felt so much better. And Percy is doing so well. Why do you want to spoil everything?’ Suddenly her eyes glistened. ‘This is shit!’ she shouted before jumping out of bed and locking herself in the bathroom. Our cat Wagga, who’d been sleeping on the bed, sprang up like he’d been scalded.
Deadline Page 2