Deadline

by Terence J. Quinn

  ‘Boy, just what I need!’ Annie said as we sat holding hands in slushy traffic on the M4 while Neville drove us into the city. ‘The terrorists must have known I was arriving today.’

  I knew her attempt at humour masked genuine fears that would be magnified by the PTSD symptoms she still suffered after her brutal treatment by the pirates who had abducted her from a catamaran, the Lady Vesper, after killing her first husband and another friend. I looked into Annie’s smiling green eyes and felt utter joy. God, how I loved this woman.

  Suddenly Posh spoke up, breaking the spell. ‘Looks totally shit out there. I’d heard the weather was crap, but this is ridiculous.’

  ‘At least we don’t have no ’airy spiders or ’orrible snakes like wot you ’ave,’ Neville said with a chuckle. ‘Bleedin’ weather must ’ave killed ’em off centuries ago.’

  ‘Do you really think there will be some sort of attack soon?’ Annie asked me softly, her words almost drowned out by the window wipers.

  ‘I fear so. If Shiv reckons it’s a goer, then chances are something bad will happen in the foreseeable future. She knows people who know about these things.’

  ‘She’s the reporter, right?’

  ‘Yes. The best.

  Annie shivered and snuggled in closer. ‘Oh great. Maybe we should have waited another week or two before coming. Until, you know, whatever happens. If it happens.’ She put her head on my shoulder and I breathed in her deliciously familiar scent.

  ‘Well, my love, you’re here now. The chances of you and this little chap being affected by any terrorist thing are one in a million.’

  ‘One in a million, huh? You once gave me the same odds against that bastard Budiman finding us in the Indian Ocean. And you know how that went!’

  15

  THE CHILL December night breeze caressed the Riviera coastline as Ikon rested at anchor three kilometres offshore from Antibes – a quick heli-hop to Nice airport. Too cold to be outside, the Bolshakovs chose to relax in the ship’s sumptuous main saloon.

  The oligarch knew that, officially, his wife was the state-owned Krupnyj Kreditnyj Bank’s senior economist in New York. But he also knew his wife had been sent there by his father Leonid as part of a massive, covert operation run by the SVR – the Foreign Intelligence Service, formerly the KGB. His father had explained that the section’s aims were two-fold: to persuade governments, political and economic leaders and other influential people in western countries to scrap sanctions; and to influence energy cartels, traders and speculators to raise oil prices. Knowing his father, Bolshy assumed the section’s methods would be mostly nefarious: blackmail, bribery, cyber disruption, election rigging and media manipulation including fake news and propaganda. When all else failed, no doubt a mix of murder and mayhem would do the trick.

  Varvara had told him that her mission in the US was to replicate her Banquo feat with one of the presidential contenders. The billionaire businessman had, through a mix of bad decisions, bone-headedness and braggadocio, put his corporation at serious financial risk. As it looked like it was all going to come crashing down, thus making the irredeemable narcissist a laughing stock throughout the world, Varvara had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse: she dangled a secret, life-saving loans package in front of him. He swallowed it whole, just as Banquo had done years before.

  Bolshy sometimes envied her that clarity of purpose. His own machinations on behalf of his papa were more oblique, harder to achieve. He also envied her passion for the work: on one rare occasion when she’d drunk a little too much Moskovskaya, she bragged about the intrigue, the excitement, the visceral feeling of influencing world events from her New York base. He, on the other hand, gained little joy from the political manoeuvrings his father forced him to do. He much preferred to dabble in his drugs and arms enterprises.

  It amused him to speculate about his wife’s private life in New York. He had bought her an apartment in the Dakota building on 72nd Street and Central Park West where the octogenarian Yoko Ono still lived, nearly forty years after her husband was shot dead on the street outside. Bolshy had once told Carlos Macrae to secretly probe Varvara’s life there. ‘She regularly entertains young, beautiful escorts there: mostly but not exclusively black women, and often in pairs,’ he had reported back. Macrae was scared to mention that she had also come on to him more than once.

  Bolshy didn’t care. He had his own, rather different tastes. A mistress in London, of course – a TV producer, though she was mostly a front, a convenience, a suitably attractive person to accompany him to dinners and parties. His real interest lay in causing other people pain: mental, physical and sexual pain. Ideally all at the same time. It was Macrae’s job to supply him with professionals who could put up with the torture in return for cash. Lots of cash.

  Now, relaxing on the Ikon during a rare respite from her clandestine activities, Varvara was intrigued by her husband’s arch conspiracy in London on behalf of his father. After all, she had a vested interest: was she not the catalyst for putting his UK operation in motion a couple of years before? It had been a calculated punt. They had no way of knowing that the politician would rise so high, so fast. Now, the Bolshakovs all knew, Banquo would be their uniquely highly-placed asset for as long as he was useful. He had already provided invaluable classified information when he’d chaired the Home Affairs Select Committee before rising to his present exalted position. Now he was playing harder to get. As Varvara once said after a few drinks, ‘That poor fool will be your creature forever.’ There was no end to the possibilities of having such a high-placed traitor in their pocket.

  Putting her glass of Champagne on the table between them, she said, ‘Darling, I warned you that this Jonno Bligh might be difficult. You would not listen. He has a long heart line and, very unusual, both hands have pronounced simian crease. It means strong heart, strong mind. He is idealistic; he has intensity of purpose. It is not good for us.’

  ‘Vava, this is mumbo-jumbo bullshit. I respect you – you are serious banker, for God’s sake, not … not a fucking carnival sideshow.’

  His wife sighed, her eyes rolling. ‘Lapochka, you know I am very proud of my Roma ancestry. I inherit my great-grandma’s gift, I think. She was a famous spiritualist who knew Grigori Rasputin. Some say she slept with him.’

  He sighed. ‘Yes, yes, you’ve told me that many times. But I need to talk about the Australian. You may be right about him. Martha Fry tells me that he reacted badly when she told him what we need him to do.’

  ‘So you will have to talk to him yourself.’ The enormous diamond ring on her right hand clinked on the wine glass.

  ‘I could kill Hamish Minto. That zhopa – asshole! He gave me bad advice. He told me Bligh was pliable, easily led. Now it may be that the opposite is true. He wants to sack Todd, Macrae’s man inside the newspaper.’

  ‘Shit. Have you told your father?’

  ‘Are you fucking kidding? Papa is exhausted after your American election success. He needs more time to recover. And, as you know, he is stressed by situation back home. I told him – no, I guaranteed him – that my newspaper would put even more pressure on the British Government to ease sanctions. And he has given similar assurances to our own president.’

  ‘Well, darling, you have no choice, now you must see Bligh immediately and force him to play ball. Otherwise … he might have to go the same way as that other journalist.’ She put out her arms and mimicked flying.

  16

  DARK CLOUDS scudded overhead as the sombre crowds moved like zombies into the stone Victorian church. Standing at the inside edge of a middle row, Shiv O’Shea watched the pallbearers shuffle past her down the aisle carrying the plain cardboard coffin topped by a few desolate winter flowers.

  She mouthed the words of the first hymn, ‘The Old Rugged Cross’, in the way that you do when you don’t really know them; it had been a long time since she’d been in a church. For the children’s sake, she knew there had been a desire to plan Barbara Scaife’s f
uneral as a celebration of her life rather than an outpouring of unchecked grief. But the plan had fallen on its arse – the mood in All Saints Church in Ilkley was bone-chillingly bleak, like the weather outside.

  Shiv looked through the mosaic of bowed heads in the rows in front of her to where Barbara’s husband Matthew and the two teenagers, Kylie and Christopher, huddled together at the front, their backs bent, shoulders heaving. Witnessing their unutterable sorrow at the loss of a beloved wife and mother, her throat caught and tears began trickling down her cheeks – she who had witnessed atrocities in theatres of war and unimaginable suffering in domestic situations and had never cried. But there was something so poignant about the inexplicable death of a close friend, mourned by a family – something Shiv herself would never have.

  The vicar, a woman of similar age to Barbara, did her best to raise the mood a notch, her clear, confident voice echoing through the leaden atmosphere as she spoke serenely of the woman she had known. Standing next to a giant framed photo of Barbara, she extolled her virtues and tried to raise a smile with reference to one or two minor vices: her sporadic need for nicotine, her fondness for Prosecco. Shiv’s mind began to wander, thinking about the Barb she had known. And loved.

  They had been chums for twenty-odd years since meeting on a journalism training course in London. Shiv had mocked her new friend’s ‘ey up’ northern accent, Barb had called her ‘Ketchup’ because of her red hair. They had shared the same flat, the same clothes and once, in a state of near total intoxication, the same bed. Neither could remember what happened, if anything. Shiv smiled to herself. It had remained a secret joke between them.

  Of the two, Barb had been the better writer, Shiv the better reporter, a cross between bloodhound and bulldog. Night after night, they’d sat up late smoking and sculling cheap wine, talking about their dreams of working for a national: Barb a broadsheet, Shiv a tabloid. ‘Natch,’ Barb said, ‘a redtop for a redtop!’

  Sometimes, while sleeping under the cold stars in a trench in Bosnia or Afghanistan, Shiv had envied her friend’s happy domesticity, her family wrapped around her. But not for long; Shiv knew career, not children, was her destiny.

  Her focus returned when she realised that Barbara’s younger brother Tom was giving a eulogy. His voice came in fits and starts, his face distorted by the effort to keep talking, to get through it. He talked of Barbara’s pure spirit, her loyalty to family and her love of the great outdoors. ‘It is unfathomable to us how she could have fallen from that rock. Barb was as surefooted as a mountain goat. She had been in that same spot a million times. It was her sacred place. We’ll never know what happened.’

  The hairs on the back of Shiv’s neck stood up. She shared that view one hundred per cent. Barb had loved those moors, had dragged Shiv along, kicking and screaming, on her rare visits north. ‘But my stilettos will get ruined,’ she had always joked. And every time, her friend had hiked through rocks and rubble, and shallow brooks and becks with total confidence, never once losing her balance.

  She remembered the text Barb had sent her the day she’d died. She’d sounded super excited about the story she was working on. Shiv made a mental note to ask her husband Matthew if she could look through Barb’s desk at home to see if she could find the missing attachment.

  In the event, she didn’t need to. At the wake back at the house, she got chatting to her friend’s boss at the Yorkshire Telegraph, Sheldon Heginbotham. He looked to be in his late sixties with ruddy cheeks, a full head of thick white hair and eyebrows to match. He was wearing a dark grey suit, white shirt and black and white spotted tie. There was a Rotary pin in his lapel.

  ‘Summat’s not right,’ he said. ‘The post mortem found two small bruises an inch apart on her chest. It’s possible it could have come from the fall. But the report said the marks resembled fingertips … like those of a martial arts expert.’

  Shiv’s antenna shot up. ‘So, what are you saying?’

  Heginbotham took a big slurp of brown ale. ‘I’m sayin’ she could have been pushed.’

  Astonished, she looked at the old news editor as if he were mad. ‘But why? Who on earth would want to kill Barb?’

  ‘Look, lass, I may be old, but there’s nowt wrong with my brain. She was on to a big ’un. It would have caused ructions at highest levels. People have been murdered for less.’

  ‘What story? She was supposed to send me some notes on something she was working on but there was no attachment to her text. It was the day she died. Is that what you’re talking about?’

  ‘Reckon so. She was on the moor to get her head straight. She always said she could get a story right in her mind while she walked up there.’

  ‘What happened to it? The story, I mean. Have you run it yet?’

  Heginbotham looked pained. ‘Nah, love. Can’t.’ He explained that the paper’s legal firm had persuaded the paper’s management that it was too hot to handle. ‘Those mithering wazzocks wouldn’t know their arse from their elbow.’ He sighed. ‘Happen it’s time I retired. Can’t seem to make head nor tail of this new-fangled digital whathaveyou. T’ only digital I know about is t’ one I get for my prostate!’ His blue eyes twinkled with amusement.

  ‘Sheldon, could I get a copy? Of her notes? Maybe I could do something with them.’

  The veteran newsman looked at her with shrewd eyes. For the first time, Shiv saw the smart journalist he must have once been.

  ‘Aye, lass, I reckon you could.’

  17

  AFTER SO many lonely weeks on my own in a hotel suite, it was blissful to be having brekkie with Annie and Percy (and Posh) in our new home. My darling wife had brought me some Vegemite for my morning toast, bless her. I had a fleeting thought that it might be classed as an illegal substance in the UK but was grateful nonetheless.

  The little family gathering took me back to the days in our Sydney penthouse overlooking the Rose Bay marina with the Scoop Jon B berthed in the marina below. The only one missing was Wagga, who had shared our dangerous adventures on The Scoop. The cat would have to wait a few weeks at home following a rabies shot before he could join us.

  The company had rented us a furnished, four-bedroomed mews apartment in South Kensington. Spacious, stylish and close to shops, pubs and restaurants. It was just like our place back home except for the snow outside and the absence of a sea view. I was spooning Percy some green, glutinous liquid that Posh had blended from various fruit and veg. Most of the kitchen table and my dressing gown were splattered with it. But did I care? Not a bit. What I did care about was the persistent pressure I was being put under to use the paper to support our owner’s ambitions. Annie was horrified by my accounts of meetings with Martha and Black Mac.

  ‘They expect you to do their bidding like … like a prancing poodle?’

  ‘Yeah. They do want me to prance,’ I laughed. ‘To be fair, Macrae is simply obeying His Master’s Voice. Apparently, the actual dog whisperer will be here soon to put a collar on me. In a day or so.’

  ‘The great Bolshakov. I told you he was dodgy. What choices do you have?’

  ‘Well, let’s see. I can sit up and beg. Or I can bite the hand that feeds me. Not sure if there are any others.’

  ‘Does that mean I shouldn’t get too comfortable here? Bugger. And I was just getting used to having The Conran Shop within walking distance.’ She said this with a smile.

  Our nanny, who had been watching the pitiful Piers Morgan on Good Morning Britain while demolishing a huge chocolate croissant, looked up with a startled look. ‘Ngyu ming weil harve thogro bleck thosaushthralah?’ There were flaky crumbs on her nose ring and a brown smear on her cheek.

  ‘No Posh, we’re not going home,’ Annie said. ‘At least, not yet.’ She turned back to me. ‘Do we?’

  I was watching Piers Morgan – himself a former tabloid editor – interview/flirt with a beautiful young woman. The caption identified her as Princess Isabelle von somebody. So that’s the famous Izzy, I thought as I wiped my son’s
Shrek-coloured face. ‘To be honest, I don’t really know at this stage. The terrible thing is that with you guys here, I was just starting to feel really good about everything, the paper included. A lot of the nasty stuff is out of the way and the whole newsroom is beginning to motor. There’s a good buzz about the place.’

  ‘But now this.’

  ‘Now this,’ I repeated.

  ‘At least you know you can tell them to shove their job. We don’t need the money. You could easily write another blockbuster, right? And there’s still the other movie thing in the offing. We can just up-sticks and trundle back to Sydney. Chalk the whole thing up to experience.’

  ‘True, but I hate the thought of giving up. And I hate the idea of going against my editorial principles even more. I’d lose all self-respect. If Shiv O’Shea and the others thought I’d sold them out, they’d string me up from the office Christmas tree.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. It would take me ages to get all those pine needles out of your pants.’

  ‘That’s a prickly thought!’ My phone pinged. ‘Okay, gotta go. Nev’s here. We’ll talk about this later. What are you up to today?’

  ‘Still got plenty of Christmas shopping to do. And I need to get the place ready for my folks tomorrow. You do remember they’re coming?’

  ‘Of course. But they won’t care about me – they’re only interested in Prince Percy here.’ My son looked up at the sound of his name and cheerfully spat out what looked like a bit of banana. He chortled at the achievement.