Deadline

by Terence J. Quinn

  His handsome features and dark, liquid eyes turned serious. ‘Some guys I know will give me a hard time. But most Muslims I know are good people. They are the vast majority. They do not want anything to do with the hotheads, like the whistleblower I spoke to said. So, I guess I will be okay.’

  I turned to Richard. ‘What else have we found out about this BFIC bunch?’

  ‘Not a lot so far. They’re best known for providing halal certification to major food producers including meat exporters and dairy producers. At an exorbitant cost, needless to say. We haven’t been able to find out who they actually represent or what kind of standing they have in the Muslim world.’

  ‘I looked them up while I was on the train,’ Micky said, opening his notebook. ‘Their website boasts that the BFIC is, and I quote: “a peak body for many Islamic organisations in the United Kingdom to promote the teachings of Islam and advocate on behalf of the Muslim community on all such matters that affect the community’s relevance, settlement and integration within British society”.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound too radical,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but wait, there’s more: “The BFIC strongly believes that multicultural aims should lead to legal pluralism, including Sharia Law and allow groups to publicly promote Salafi Islam values, to seek social justice and to sponsor political organisations and movements”.’

  ‘Salafi Islam?’

  Micky said: ‘It’s a branch of Sunni Islam. Salafis strictly adhere to religious traditions of the seventh century rather than twenty-first-century realities. It has also been linked to some terrorist groups around the world.’

  ‘Jeez, that puts a little bit more of a sinister spin on things. Anything else?’

  Richard explained in more detail what they had managed to find out about the secretive BFIC. It didn’t represent all Muslims – only Sunnis. Apart from the Islamic schools and the halal certification program, it had few clear links to the Muslim community. When I asked where the seed money to set up the BFIC and establish the schools had come from, Micky said his Leicester contact thought it had come originally from Saudi Arabia – a charitable donation from a Wahhabi-sponsored foundation.

  I was even more gobsmacked when Derek Baird said that the body had reported assets totalling more than thirty million quid.

  ‘Guys, that’s all very well, but how do we know that they’re linked to terrorist groups?’ I asked.

  ‘Because the president – the only person mentioned in the website – is one Abdul Qadar Ajeeb. And he, God bless him, was indoctrinated by Jamaat-e-Islami in Pakistan and allegedly trained with Al-Qaeda in Iraq and Syria.’

  ‘And we know this how?’

  Richard looked triumphant. ‘I spoke to one of our stringers in Islamabad. He told me that Ajeeb had been imprisoned there in 2000 not long after President Pervez Musharraf grabbed power in a military coup. He was convicted of acts of terrorism by the new regime. My source reckons Ajeeb was freed in 2007 but I haven’t been able to dig up anything more on his activities since then … including how he fetched up here in the UK.’

  By this point my head was spinning. ‘Okay, let’s sum up what we’ve got so far: a dodgy Islamic group dedicated to medieval fundamentalist principles has somehow found a way to milk millions of pounds from the UK public purse and use it to fund acts of terror. The government and local councils are complicit in this scam because of either misplaced altruistic multicultural aspirations and/or sheer fiscal incompetence.’ I looked at the others. ‘Is that about right?’

  They nodded.

  ‘So, we need to get on to members of the various school boards for quotes. Why did they allow all this to happen? Are they complicit? Obviously try to nail down Ajeeb. And find a few usual suspects to express outrage and astonishment about our revelations – for example, one of our tame MPs and a terrorism expert. You know the score. In the meantime, I’ll write an editorial condemning the lack of scrutiny by government departments and local authorities over how taxpayer money is being spent.’

  I stood up. ‘Fantastic job, all of you. Particularly you, Derek, for the financial forensics. Now let’s get the bloody lawyers in again.’

  57

  AFTER A tortuous hour with the legal team, I went to see Martha Fry to give her a heads-up on the Muslim schools story. She was entitled to know that it would probably provoke another storm of protest and further threats of violence to the paper.

  I hadn’t seen Martha since the day of Princess Izzy’s memorial service. But if she was embarrassed about our previous encounter, she didn’t show it. ‘Jonno, I was about to call you anyway to see if you had changed your mind on the sanctions thing? Carlos tells me that Bolshy is still … well, he’s still making noises.’

  ‘What noises?’

  ‘Oh, you know … just noises.’ Martha regarded me with tired-looking eyes. ‘Honey, let me give it to you straight: I think he intends to fire your ass.’

  ‘Really?’ I pretended to look surprised. ‘Can he do that under the terms of his acquisition of UK Today? Did he not give certain guarantees about editorial independence?’

  ‘Sure he did. But frankly, my dear, he couldn’t give a good goddamn about any guarantees. We both know he’ll do whatever the fuck he likes and spit on the consequences. Anyway, you’re a big boy – you can make your own decisions. What did you want to see me about?’

  I told her about our Muslim schools investigation and warned her about the possible consequences. I’d expected her to fly off the handle as she had when I ran the editorial on Islam. But this time she actually looked amused. ‘Well, sweety, you do like to stir shit up, don’t ya? I’ll give you that.’ She pressed a button on the desk phone. A moment later Finkelstein’s squeaky tones came out of the speaker. Martha told him to ‘get your ass in here pronto’.

  ‘If we get a lot of crap thrown at us – and we will – the website will be the first to register it. We need to give him early warning. Knowing you, Harve won’t have heard about this from you yet. Right?’

  I nodded.

  The Meerkat appeared at the door and Martha ushered him in. He eyed me nervously. I did not acknowledge him. ‘Jonno here has something he wants to tell you, Harve.’

  Reluctantly, I gave him a brief run down on the whole schools scandal. To my surprise, he looked excited. His whiskery face became animated and he started talking enthusiastically about ‘SEO’, ‘bounce rates’ and ‘Google analytics’. Geeky stuff. I had no bloody idea what he was talking about. Martha looked even more amused at my reaction.

  ‘Mate, stop with all that shit!’ I said. ‘Look, all you need to know is that we have a ripper story and it should give your website more bloody clicks than a chopsticks factory. Come to the evening news meeting and you’ll get all the details.’

  ‘The important thing, Harve, is we both need to know immediately if there are more threats,’ Martha said. ‘Now get the hell out of here, both of you. And tell my boy Byron on the way out that I’m about ready for one of his big-ass martinis.’

  As I moved out into the corridor of the executive floor, Finkelstein suddenly grabbed my elbow.

  I looked at him with irritation. ‘What the hell?’

  He looked furtively up and down the corridor and licked his thin lips. ‘There’s something you should know.’

  ‘Oh yeah, what’s that? That you have quinoa and kale for breakfast?’

  The Meerkat bristled and started to walk away. ‘Okay, okay, what is it?’ I said.

  ‘Your office is bugged.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ I was incredulous. How do you know? Who would do that?’

  ‘I overheard that son-of-a-bitch Carlos Macrae on his cell phone yesterday.’ Strewth. I hadn’t realised there was bad blood between the two of them. ‘He was telling someone – I presume Mr Bolshakov – that you knew all about something or somebody called Banquo? At least, I think that’s what he said.’

  ‘How do you know it came from a bug?’

  ‘Because he said
he would send the other person a tape of your conversation. A conversation he said you had with a reporter in your office.’

  My body went numb and my head started pounding as I tried to process what the Meerkat was saying. ‘Look, why are you telling me this? I didn’t think you were exactly a fan of mine.’

  Finkelstein gave a lop-sided grin. ‘That’s right, dude – I’m not. You, Bligh, are what I’d call digitally dyslexic. A print dinosaur, if you will. But the thing is … I might not particularly like you but I positively hate Carlos Macrae.’

  So, a case of ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend’. Not totally reassuring but right now I’d take it. But then the full extent of Finkelstein’s disclosure hit me: if Macrae knew about my plotting with Shiv, then I was well and truly fucked. But who or what the hell was Banquo?

  As we went down in the lift to the editorial floor, I thanked Finkelstein sincerely for his intel, all the time wondering what Macrae had done to piss him off so much. Nevertheless, I owed him one.

  Back in my office, I shut the door and sat down to think about the mysterious name Black Mac had mentioned to the oligarch. It didn’t take me long to figure it out. Banquo was the Thane of Lochaber from Shakespeare’s great tragedy Macbeth. If Bolshakov was Macbeth, then it didn’t take a genius to work out who Banquo might be: Jim Marvell, the Prime Minister of Great Britain and the head of Her Majesty’s Government.

  Jeeezus.

  58

  ANNIE FINISHED signing Jonno’s birthday card with a flourish and added several extravagant XXXs.

  ‘Have you got him something nice?’ Posh asked. The nanny was on the sofa trying to engage Percy in an animal picture book but he was more interested in trying to grab an eyebrow piercing.

  ‘I think so. I hope he likes it. That man is so hard to find something for. He has no interest in clothes or jewellery and no real hobbies. But then I had this great idea.’

  Annie put the card into a yellow envelope and went out of the room. A moment later she was back lugging a large flat object loosely wrapped in brown paper. She held it upright on the coffee table and stripped off the paper.

  ‘Ta da!’ she sang. ‘What do you think? I had it shipped over specially.’ Posh looked at the large painting of The Scoop Jon B with Rose Bay as a backdrop.

  ‘It’s awesome, Annie. He’ll be totally stoked.’

  Percy reached out towards the canvas and Annie gave him a crumpled piece of the brown paper to keep him amused.

  ‘It’s for his office in the newspaper. To remind him of home. I commissioned a well-known Sydney artist to paint it. He’s done a brilliant job. If you look closely you can even see little Wagga sitting on the foredeck. The whole thing cost a bit but I think it’s worth it. He loves The Scoop. Well, we both do. It played a large part in our lives.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve seen the old bullet holes on the boat! I kinda knew there was a lot of bloody drama but you’ve never really told me what happened. How you two met up on that island, for a start.’

  Annie was silent for a few moments, her eyes focused on a spot on the ceiling. Then she looked at Posh again. ‘As you may have gathered, that’s what my book’s about. Why I’ve been going to the library every morning. But it’s stirring up a lot of memories … some good but mostly bad. The main thing, however, is that I owe my life to Jonno. He saved me from a truly horrible death. And that’s how we met. And fell in love.’

  Posh’s eyes widened. ‘Bloody hell, Annie! I didn’t know that.’

  They put Percy down for an afternoon nap and continued talking. Annie gave a sanitised version of the pirates’ attack on the Lady Vesper and the murders of her husband and two friends. She recounted how the pirates had chased Jonno and her after they fled Rehab Island on The Scoop Jon B before they were rescued from the brink of disaster by an Indonesian navy patrol boat. To cap it all, they’d then been banged up in a Jakarta jail accused of drug smuggling.

  ‘Oh my God,’ breathed Posh. ‘That’s, like, incredible. I knew you guys had a bit of history together but that is like a frickin’ Tom Cruise movie. What happened next? Percy came along and you lived happily ever after?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Annie laughed. ‘Although I hadn’t bargained for our new life in London resulting in my darling husband spending most of his time at the office, as you know well enough. And more bloody death threats. Anyway, enough about me. How are you finding things? Over here, I mean?’

  ‘After that story, life here is like, pretty tame by comparison. But it’s awesome. I love it. I’m a country girl and I used to think Sydney was huge. But here … I’m like, “Posh, you’re dreaming girl!” All my mates are totally jealous. And now there’s Azim.’ Her eyes sparkled.

  ‘Do you miss your family?’

  ‘Mum. Not my dad. And don’t even mention my brothers.’ She sighed. ‘The only thing I really miss about home is Maverick.’

  ‘Is he your boyfriend back home?’

  ‘No way! Maverick’s my horse. And he’s a real beaut. Look, I’ve got a picture.’ She took out her phone.

  ‘He is handsome, Posh. No wonder you miss him.’

  ‘Yeah, well, my friend’s looking after him. There’s no bloody way I’d trust my family with him. They’d sell him for dog food in a heartbeat.’

  For the first time, Annie could see a vulnerable streak beneath Posh’s tough girl trappings. There had also been a couple of hints that she too had suffered abuse, possibly from her father. Annie felt a surge of affection for the girl. Here was a young vulnerable woman, a bit out of her depth in a strange, sophisticated cosmopolis, thousands of miles from home without friends or family, just Annie and Jonno. And Percy, of course. She was now very much part of their little family.

  Annie put her hand on the nanny’s arm. ‘So, are you up for the panto on Saturday?’

  ‘Wouldn’t bloody miss it! Can’t wait to see Aladdin, cos it’s got the bloke from that TV soap. Shit, can’t remember his name. Ummm … never mind.’

  ‘It starts at 1 pm. Should finish by three. I thought we would go to the Kensington Hotel for afternoon tea. We can have scones and jam. And, of course, clotted cream.’

  ‘Yummy.’

  ‘As it’s Jonno’s birthday we might even stretch to a bottle of champagne. And Neville’s volunteered to take us as a sort of birthday treat. He’ll make sure we get there and back safely.’

  59

  THE INDOMITABLE Shiv O’Shea had broken many big stories in her career but I could tell that even this fearless, battle-hardened veteran was nervous about the scale of the one she had been working on for the last week. We were in the White Hart, a pub near the office. It reminded me of a Fleet Street hostelry of the same name that I’d frequented years before when I worked for the Daily Tribune. It was known to all hacks as The Stab in the Back because of the backroom politics and dirty dealings that went on there in its noisy, smoke-filled recesses. Sadly, the Stab was no more – the building now houses a pizza place. So much for progress.

  I had texted Shiv to say it was not safe to talk in my office. The redheaded reporter was gobsmacked when I told her what the Meerkat had revealed.

  ‘A bug! You have to be shitting me. Christ, I know Bolshy sounds and acts like that guy Blofeld in James Bond but that is freaking ridiculous! Mind you, your mate Macrae is more than capable of it.’

  ‘You realise of course that this means they know that we are on to them? And that they will now do anything to shut us down.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Fire us both for a start. Maybe even worse.’

  ‘You mean … like Barbara Scaife? A so-called accident?’

  ‘The thing is, they know that if they simply sack us both, we can still take the story elsewhere. Another paper, TV even. That means Bolshy will have to find something more, um, extreme to silence us. I’ve tried contacting him but he won’t take my calls.’

  ‘Didn’t you feel as intimidated the time you exposed those two sex-crazed slime-balls and screwed the governme
nt?’

  ‘You mean James and Josephine St John Carmichael?’ I laughed. ‘The former member for Letcham and his charming spouse noted for their suburban swinger parties? Well, yes, I was shitting myself on the day we splashed it. That was the scoop of my career. It led to the book, the film, the whole works. But this one is bigger, Shiv. A lot bigger. Bigger even than the Profumo affair.’

  ‘Don’t I know it! Marvell will be blown away and his government with him. You might take a lot of flak too, Jonno. I mean, it will be your decision to publish. A lot of powerful people won’t like it. And now we know Bolshy knows we’ve got something.’ The ice in Shiv’s glass rattled as her hand shook.

  I grabbed a handful of mixed peanuts from a bowl that I had picked up at the bar when I bought the drinks.

  Shiv wagged a finger at me. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’

  ‘What?’ I stuffed the nuts into my mouth.

  ‘Eat those.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The features people once did a piece on pub snacks. Took the contents of bowls like that from ten different boozers and had them tested in a lab.’

  I stopped munching. ‘And?’

  ‘They were riddled with all sorts of shit. Salmonella, bacteria, STDs, bloody Ebola as far as I know. Reckoned people went to the toilet, didn’t wash their hands, rummaged in the nuts. At closing time, the bartenders would empty any left over into a big jar and use them again the next day.

  ‘Ugh.’ I pushed the bowl away and took a huge gulp of beer.

  After lengthy sessions with Marcus Devereux, Shiv’s in-depth investigation had managed to pull all the pieces together. We now knew the guts of the story: the financial problems relating to Marvell’s family firm, Varvara’s involvement in the Russian state bank’s bail-out, Bolshakov senior’s spying and hacking program, and our very own Russian oligarch’s naked blackmail of the British Prime Minister in a bid to overturn European Union sanctions against his mother country. Shiv had talked to a couple of eminent economists and it was clear that Russia was teetering on the edge.