Obviously not Bill Todd. What about Douglas French? The political editor was a solid operator but could I trust him with something like this? Like many journos who spent too much time in the Westminster bio bubble, French might have developed a Stockholm syndrome approach to the people he was supposed to be reporting on. So, who? Ray Griffiths? Good guy, but he had enough on his plate with his new job. Then it struck me: Shiv O’Shea. I liked her, respected her professionalism and knew in my bones that she could be trusted.
There was also another reason she was the right choice as confidante: her investigative reporting skills. Maybe it was the effect of the wine, but I had begun to think that there was more to this sanctions thing than met the eye. Like, why would a Russian oligarch be agitating so hard for international sanctions against his country to be lifted? Financial gain, political advantage? I came back to the discussion he and the PM had before the Christmas lunch. Was I crazy to think that Bolshy had some leverage there?
My journo instincts told me there was a bad smell about the whole business – I needed a top operator like Shiv to look into the whole thing. Just in case. I was not usually given to conspiracy theories and there was probably nothing to see here but I didn’t want to die wondering. I made my last decision of the day: I would speak to her the following morning.
34
SHIV’S NEWS feature on Hazari provoked two different reactions the following day. The first came from the BBC, who asked me, once again, to be interviewed for their main news program. I said I’d think about it. I was still having nightmares about my first time.
The second, even more unwelcome, reaction came from a group calling itself Harkat-ul Shaheed – the Movement of Martyrs. Neville was not impressed. ‘Sounds like Islamic diarrhoea to me, guv,’ he said with a sniff when he picked me up. It seems these martyrs were even less impressed about our terror coverage of their jihadi colleagues, including Hazari. Various blood-curdling death threats had been made against me and my family, as well as Shiv O’Shea and all the other UKT journalists.
I looked up these jihadi jokers on the web. There were various articles on Wikipedia and other sites alleging the militant group was an offshoot of Jamaat ul Mujahideen Bangladesh, a nasty bunch with strong links to ISIS. JMB was banned after a deadly series of bombings and murders in the region. Meanwhile, I read, the mad martyrs had a bad habit of issuing death threats to journalists and bloggers. Charming. But it got worse: they had actually killed a number of secular writers, LGBTQI activists, and academics who had dared to criticise Islam. With a shiver, I noticed that the common denominator in the bulk of these killings was the use of machetes as the attackers’ weapon of choice.
I thought again about the two recent London murders: an LGBTQI activist and a critic of Islam’s treatment of women. Machetes used in both incidents. The dots were joining up.
During my earlier time as a reporter I had received various threats to my continued wellbeing, mostly from crooked businessmen and corrupt politicians. I had dismissed them as mere bluster and thought little about my safety. But maybe this was different. These, after all, were fundamentalist maniacs who wanted to take the world back to some medieval notion of a perfect world where women were subjugated and non-believers were stoned to death. And I now had a family.
I asked Mrs H to get hold of Shiv. When the red-haired reporter came into my office, I looked up and said, ‘Seems you’ve been upsetting people again.’
‘Me? Surely not! You know I’m just a pussycat.’ She laughed. ‘Okay, who did I piss off this time?”
I told her about the threats that had been made both online and via our contact lines. ‘Griffo talked to somebody high up at the National Counter Terrorism Office and their view is that this Harkat-ul Shaheed mob should be taken seriously. Its links to Jamaat ul Mujahideen Bangladesh – which, in turn, is connected to Jamaat-e-Islami – raises red flags in their eyes. The so-called martyrs haven’t got any previous when it comes to UK attacks but, now that we have raised it, the police and security forces will investigate any linkage between Ghulam Hazari and JMB. In the meantime, they advise us all to take extreme care.’
Shiv’s eyes took on the familiar, wary look of a seasoned reporter who’s used to hearing bullshit. This, of course, was a woman who was a veteran reporter of the conflicts in the Balkans, the Middle East and Afghanistan and had a tailor-made flak jacket in her desk drawer. ‘Fuck ’em,’ she said. ‘I’m sick and tired of these bastards doing this shit. Won’t stop me doing my job, that’s for sure. What about you?’
‘Ditto,’ I said. ‘But I do have a slight worry, obviously, about my family. And I’ll need to get the ME to send a note to all our news staff giving them a heads-up. Everyone should be aware of the danger, however slight.’
I waited for a moment while Mrs H brought in a pot of tea and some biscuits. When she’d left, I turned back to Shiv. ‘While you’re here, there is another important matter I want to talk to you about. It’s also very sensitive.’ I stared hard at her, unsure if I was doing the right thing.
She gazed back, not giving anything away. She had an odd sort of face, quirky but attractive. There was a curious difference between the top and bottom halves of her oval face. The upper part was very feminine – baby blue eyes and a dainty nose – but below was decidedly masculine: firm, cleft chin and thin, uncompromising lips. Vulnerability and indestructibility all in the one package.
‘What? Why are you looking at me like that?’ she said.
‘To be honest, I’m wondering whether I should bring you in on something. It could get both of us in a lot of trouble.’ I tugged at the French cuffs on my shirt, the way Prince Charles does when he’s nervous. My cuff links, a present from Annie, were a reminder of our pirate saga: two flattened bullets dug out of the teak cockpit table of The Scoop Jon B and set in gold.
Shiv looked amused. ‘Secret squirrel stuff? If you want, I’ll put my hand on my heart and say, “Guide’s Honour.”’
‘Seriously, let me ask you something, Shiv: have you ever taken a good look at Borya Bolshakov? And I mean an in-depth, down and dirty look at his background?’
She looked surprised. ‘Not really. I sort of checked him out when he first bought the paper but didn’t dig very far.’
‘Pity. But it’s not too late.’ Then I took a deep breath and got right into it. I told her about my conversation with the oligarch on Christmas Eve and about the devil’s pact I had made with him to get a special edition out the next day.
Shiv whistled. ‘I wondered how you managed to pull that off.’
‘Yeah, but … Bolshy expects this so-called in-paper campaign against sanctions to get going next week. However, I’ve decided to renege on the deal.’ I paused to take a sip of tea. I noticed my hand was shaking slightly.
Shiv stayed silent.
‘I’ve thought about it for days in between all this terror crap.’ I didn’t need to explain to Shiv that editors take the job knowing pretty much what their proprietors’ political persuasions and personal idiosyncrasies are, and that they’ll be expected to advance them in the paper irrespective of their own views. But she was taken aback when I told her that Bolshakov, a Russian national, was contriving to change a key British foreign policy by dodgy means.
‘I have no problem running the odd piece from people who argue the case for dropping EU sanctions. But I can’t – I won’t – have the paper campaigning for it.’
‘Good for you. I’ll hold your jacket when you tell him!’
‘Yeah, right. I’m seriously not looking forward to that conversation. But look, there’s more. The other reason I wanted to talk it through with you is that I think our lord and master may have some other scary shit going on.’
‘What scary shit?’
‘I think he might be pressuring James Marvell to strongarm other European leaders to scrap the sanctions too. I suspect the bastard’s got some undue hold over him.’
‘Fuck me! You mean blackmail? You’re saying the owner
of the UK’s biggest newspaper is blackmailing the Prime Minister? Are you shitting me?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know it sounds far-fetched, but I still want you to look into it. Believe me, I’ll be more than happy if you find nothing. I just have a feeling something’s not quite right about all of this. I was once a hack like you, remember. And my instincts tell me that Bolshy’s playing some game. I’m just not sure what it is yet.’
Shiv got up. ‘Okay. It’s probably a wild goose chase but I’ll give it a go. By the way, isn’t Bolshakov’s father rumoured to be the head honcho of some sort of intelligence section in Moscow? He was a top KGB guy in his day. Could that have anything to do with this?’
‘Dunno. Maybe. But it’s a good starting point. In the meantime, I’ll try to stall Bolshy. Perhaps these martyr morons are a blessing in disguise. I can try to use their threats as an excuse to keep him off my back for a while.’
35
CARLOS MACRAE was not conducting a Black Mass but he was supping with the Devil. He and Martha Fry were with Borya Bolshakov on board the Ikon along with fellow conspirators Varvara Moroshkin and Bill Todd. Still to arrive was Efrayim Klein, the Paris-based overlord of Bolshakov’s conglomerate. The sky was clear, the wind had dropped and the temperature was unseasonably low. A warm breeze carried hints of tobacco and banana from the nearby Canary Islands. The superyacht was cruising at a lazy twenty knots – less than half its top speed – like Michael Phelps in an Olympic final.
The oligarch had a substantial interest in a medium-sized Spanish oil and gas corporation – Grupo OG (Océano Gas) – that was currently exploring prospects under the sea between Lanzarote and Morocco. Bolshakov had invested US$500 million in the project and he was there to make damn sure his money was being well spent.
The conspirators were having lunch al fresco on the opulent owner’s deck, seated on white, Italian leather chairs around the lacquered circular table aft of the main stateroom on the upper deck. The ship’s stewards had been banished below to ensure maximum privacy. Bolshakov’s French head chef had laid on a lavish buffet including caviar, langoustine and ceviche. There was also a salad bar and a selection of hot dishes. The stunning wines had been carefully selected to complement the food.
Todd had been a bit miffed when Jonno Bligh had insisted he take a vacation, but it had worked out nicely when Carlos Macrae had told him his presence was required at this meeting. At first, he had been pleased and proud to be invited to sit at the boss’s table but right now he was feeling nervous. Despite shorts, a short-sleeved linen shirt and a pleasant breeze, the newspaper’s deputy editor was sweating. He might like to think he was a player while holding court in the pub near the office with the young journos, but here he felt intimidated, well out of his league.
Bill Todd was a relic of the days when the print unions ruled the roost … when it was almost impossible for any ‘comrade’ to be fired unless convicted of murder or, worse – not paying their union subs. A lazy reporter and a sloppy sub, he’d survived despite many bosses believing him to be over-paid and over-promoted. They’d shunted him into various admin roles that no one else wanted before the previous editor had made him deputy editor under pressure from Black Mac, who’d wanted his snitch in a newsroom box seat.
Christmas decorations fluttered gaily from the chrome guardrails but Bolshy was not in a festive mood. His father had been driving him mad. Twice a day Leonid called, wanting to know what progress had been made on Banquo. Chërt voz’mí! Did his papa not realise that virtually everything stopped for the Christmas and New Year period? Including bloody government! It was not the same in Russia where Christmas Day was actually held on January 7.
‘Tell me, Carlos, apart from spending my money, is our esteemed new editor behaving himself?’
‘As far as I know, Boss.’ Macrae looked at Bill Todd. ‘As he forced Todd to take leave, I don’t have quite the same intel regarding the current goings-on in the newsroom. But I did hear earlier that he is about to do another TV interview.’
Martha almost choked on a bread roll. ‘You’re shitting me! After he fucked up the last time?’
‘I shit you not, ma’am,’ said Macrae with a smirk. ‘The BBC has asked him to pontificate about the paper’s coverage of the whole Princess Izzy saga.’
‘To be fair, he’s done quite a good job on that score,’ Martha said. ‘Circulation is up and Finkelstein says web traffic is going ape-shit.’
Varvara looked amused. ‘Don’t tell me we all underestimated his abilities?’
‘Bollocks,’ said Black Mac. ‘Just cos he’s got one reporter who can find decent stories doesn’t make him a great editor. And, if you remember, it was me who lured O’Shea away from the Daily Tribune in the first place.’
Bill Todd coughed. Everyone turned to look at him and he rubbed his moustache nervously. ‘Erm, I got a text saying that there has been some sort of serious death threat made against him and the paper by some Muslim nutters. He got Vernon Sharp to put out a general note to all the staff warning them to take care.’
Martha Fry took out her phone and scrawled through various messages. ‘Yup, here it is. Chrissakes, I told the son-of-a-bitch to go easy. He could get all of us killed. So, is this like, whaddyacallit – a fatwa?’
‘You mean like that guy, you know … Salmon someone?’ Varvara had already drunk several glasses of Cristal, the Louis Roederer cuvée specially created in 1876 for Tsar Alexander II. She was wearing a full-length, multi-coloured silk caftan, all swirls and swooshes, her hair scraped back into a topknot as usual. Huge mirrored sunglasses studded with rhinestones perched on top of sharp cheekbones, hiding her almond eyes. A thin cigar fought for space with gold and diamond rings on her fingers.
‘Sal-man Rushdie,’ Martha said.
Varvara waved a languid hand, cigar smoke trailing. ‘Whatever. But maybe this is good thing? These people will kill Jonno Bligh and solve our problem.’
‘Hold it,’ Bolshy said. He had been uncharacteristically quiet. ‘We don’t know that we have problem yet. Bligh has told me he will do what I ask.’
‘We would not have a problem at all if you had made me editor,’ said Todd.
The billionaire turned to look at him with narrowed eyes. ‘What you say?’
Todd looked flushed from the drinks but defiant. ‘I’m just saying, if you had given me the job, none this would have been necessary.’
Bolshakov turned to stare at the deputy editor like he was something sticky on the sole of his shoe. He turned to Macrae. ‘Why did you bring this fuckwit, Carlos?’ Then, with a loud snarl, he leaned over and seized Todd by the throat. Both their chairs toppled over as the Russian yanked Todd up and dragged him metres across the deck before pinning him against the guardrail. The upper half of Todd’s body hung over the stainless-steel rail, both his arms flapping in the breeze.
There was a sudden hiatus while no one else moved or said anything. Then Martha cried out, Macrae groaned and Varvara laughed out loud. Todd, meanwhile, showed no resistance. His face was bright red, he was making choking noises and tears spilled down his cheeks.
The oligarch continued to squeeze his throat before leaning in close and screaming in his ear. ‘I tell you why you not get job – because you are fucking useless zhópa,’ the Russian said, saliva coating his clenched teeth. ‘Now get the fuck out of my sight.’ With that, he flipped Todd over the stainless steel rail and into the churning sea thirty feet below. Bolshakov stood and watched with a satisfied smile as the flailing man was carried clear of the stern and into the ship’s wake, narrowly avoiding being chewed up by the powerful propellers.
Martha and Macrae stood up and moved to the rail, while Varvara just sat at the table screaming with laughter. Macrae growled, ‘Boss, this is not good – too many witnesses.’ He gestured at Martha Fry who was kneeling on the deck and vomiting.
Bolshy seemed to pull himself together. ‘All right, tell the captain to stop engines and send a tender to find the motherfucker, if he hasn’t
drowned already.’
* * *
Less than twenty minutes after Todd had belly-flopped into the Mediterranean, Black Mac fished him out with the aid of a telescopic boat hook and a deckhand who dragged him aboard. The deputy editor tumbled on to the carpeted floor of the Ikon’s day boat, coughing and spluttering, his face contorted in anguish. He’d lost his shirt and shorts, and his pale, hairless body looked like a big lump of bleached coral in the bright sunlight – apart from the purple and blue smudges around his neck.
Macrae said to the crewman with a shrug: ‘He got drunk, fell overboard.’
Back on board the superyacht, Todd slowly recovered after a large whisky and a long shower. When he’d towelled and dressed himself, he found Black Mac sitting in his stateroom, his face a mask. Seeing Todd, he stood up and grabbed the front of the journo’s shirt in one meaty fist and pulled him close. ‘What the fuck was that all about, you moron? You can’t speak to the boss like that.’
Todd started babbling. ‘I’m sorry, Carlos. Really. I don’t – I don’t know what I was thinking. Look, it’s the heat, I’m not used to it, you see. D’you think I should go back and apologise?’
‘No fucking way. Trust me, if he sees you again, he’ll toss you back in the sea and this time he’ll leave you for the sharks.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know why I bothered trying to get you a seat at the big table. Stupidly, I thought you might have some ideas on how we can sort out Bligh. Now the boss will give me all kinds of shit for bringing you here.’ His phone pinged and he took it out of his pocket. It was a text from the oligarch.
‘This says you should go back to the office. Immediately. Find some freelancers and commission a series of articles that will launch the campaign against EU sanctions. He wants them to start running next week.’
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