‘The news that Americans are deporting Madam Bolshakov is the icing on the cake. It now seems certain she was working for Bolshy’s father. He was probably the architect of the whole scheme to loan Marvell Manufacturing the money to prevent bankruptcy. Old Leonid might not have known at that time precisely how he could use it for future leverage. He was simply playing a long game.’
‘That means the Russian president himself is up to his neck in all this shit. The repercussions of this story will be worldwide,’ I said.
‘Would make a good book,’ Shiv said.
‘A great book,’ I agreed.
‘Who’d write it?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Both of us. Equal billing.’
‘It’s a deal!’ Shiv clinked her glass against mine in delight.
I mentally filed that thought for future action because right now I was totally pissed off. Bolshakov had tried to use me to further his aims. He had tried to subvert a government, possibly killed a fellow journalist and now could even be thinking about getting rid of Shiv and me. Come to think of it, he’d probably arranged for Todd’s untimely death. To think that he came across as Prince Charming the first time Annie and I met him!
I told Shiv about Isobel Todd’s revelation about the men seen leaving the house on the day her husband died. ‘I don’t want to alarm you but this is getting very serious. If these bastards are as ruthless as I think, they will have no scruples in planning a similar fate for us.’ I put my hand on my forehead. ‘Jesus, it must be open season on Jonno Bligh. If it’s not Russian oligarchs wanting to kill me, it’s Islamic radicals. Today’s story about the Muslim schools won’t have helped.’
My phone pinged. A text from Douglas French. ‘Doug has just sent me a message – there are hints from Downing Street that the PM might be about to do a U-turn on sanctions.’
‘Fuck me!’
‘Indeed. Look, that means we have to move fast. How long will it take you to write the first tranche? Main story, sidebars. A couple of inside spreads? You’ll also have to do a write-off for the website. The Meerkat will be desperate to post something overnight.’
‘Sure, I can do all of that today easy. Then I’ll work on a much deeper piece, detailing every stage of their global conspiracy to save Russia from economic collapse.’
‘Good. Okay, let me think. Today is Friday. I’ll rustle up a couple of our best lawyers and get them to go through what we’ve got over the next twenty-four hours. I’ll get Mrs H to book a conference room at a discreet hotel. We can’t do it in the office for obvious reasons. The lawyers will shit themselves but that can’t be helped. We’ll let them look at your copy tomorrow and then meet up with them on Sunday morning to thrash it out.’
‘Why can’t we sort it out with the lawyers tomorrow? Why wait until Sunday?’
I coughed. This was a bit embarrassing. I explained I would be celebrating a significant birthday, that plans that had been laid and Annie would do worse to me than the Russian oligarch if I cancelled.
‘Is it your fiftieth?!’
‘Cheeky! We’ll aim to have it all buttoned down legally by Sunday night. Then we’ll front Marvell on Monday, get his reaction. After that, we’ll blow Bolshy, Black Mac and the whole bloody lot of them off the face of the planet!’
‘Can’t wait!’ The reporter’s face was beaming. We clinked our glasses again.
‘In the meantime,’ I said, ‘you’ve got to be ultra-careful. I mean it.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll stay at Juggs’s place. He’ll make sure no one hurts me. ’
‘I can imagine. And look … no walks on the moors. No shortcuts up dark alleys. Stay away from garages. Wear that famous flak jacket you have in your desk drawer. These people are dangerous and their backs are against the wall. Who knows what they will do to try to stop us?’
‘You too, Jonno. My guess is that you’re the bigger target.’
‘Who for? Bolshakov or the jihadis?’
‘Both.’
60
I WAS dead right – more threats of violence awaited me at the office. Some via the website and, more chillingly, one handed to UKT’s reception. Mrs H brought the package in to my office. She handled it gingerly, her face screwed up in distaste and apprehension as if it contained dog poop or anthrax. It was an A4-sized yellow Jiffy bag with crude black Arabic lettering on the outside, front and back.
Mrs H didn’t want me to open it. ‘You should call the police,’ she advised, arms folded.
I waved her out and sat looking at the envelope on my desk. It didn’t look like a bomb. I touched it gently with a finger … nothing hard inside. I decided to take a chance. Pulling a Stanley knife from my top desk drawer, I carefully sliced open one end. Fragments of the shredded padding spilled on to the desktop. I separated the ends and peered inside. A sheet of paper was poking out. I extracted it slowly and turned it over.
Ah, shit.
The picture showed a menacing black-hooded figure holding a wicked-looking serrated knife to the throat of a kneeling man. Two glittering eyes glared out from a slash in the hood. Then I did a double-take: my face and head had been photo-shopped on to the intended victim. Jesus Christ! I shivered in a spasm of fear.
I looked more closely at the slogans daubed on the sheet with a red marker pen:
‘Deth to Bligh’
‘Martirs Movement wil be venged’
‘All infidel piggs must die’
The spelling might be awful but the message was clear: these Islamic guys did not want me taking up any more space in the world. I glanced at the front page of that day’s paper. The headline said: HOW MUSLIM SCHOOL CASH FUNDS JIHADI MURDERERS
And the subhead said: ‘Scandal as secretive Islamic group siphons £75m of taxpayer money to aid evil terrorists’
No wonder the buggers were upset. It was a sensational headline. But then again, it was a sensational story. The intro said it all:
The Government was rocked today by revelations that Muslim schools had channelled millions in taxpayer money to fund terror groups in the UK and abroad.
In an exclusive investigation, UK Today found that the shadowy British Federation of Islamic Councils has siphoned off cash from educational grants made by Whitehall departments and local councils and used it to bankroll major terror groups such as ISIS and Al-Qaeda. The government funding, awarded over several years, is believed to total more than £75m.
The revelations sparked a storm of outrage from Opposition MPs, security officials and taxpayer activists.
There was a tap on the door and the immaculately coiffured head of Mrs H came into view. ‘Sorry, Mr Finkelstein is here. I’ve explained you’re busy but …’ Her eyebrows rose to form the mute question.
The Meerkat was probably the last person I wanted to see right now but I owed him.
As he came in his eyes scanned the room – the walls, the ceiling – obviously looking for bugs. I had already done my own search but had found nothing. If there was a surveillance device, it was well hidden. Nonetheless, as Finkelstein came over to the desk, I put my finger to my lips and indicated for him to be careful about what he said. He nodded and then looked down at the sheet of paper. It was upside down and he tilted his head so as to see it better. He whistled.
‘That was what I came to see you about. We’ve had a bunch of, like, crazies explaining how they plan to separate your head from your body. You’re not Mr Popular among the Muslim community right now.’ He coughed. ‘Super-great story by the way. Awesome. Playing very well on the site. If it’s any comfort, buddy, the majority of readers back you. Thousands actually. They think the whole thing sucks.’
The Meerkat handed me a printout of some of the reader comments. A few were rabid in their desire to send me and the paper to hell, but most were just gutted that all that public money had been allowed to disappear without proper accountability. Sure, they wanted people’s heads to roll, but thankfully not mine!
‘Thanks, mate. Good to know. Has there
been anything specific from our old friends the Harkat-ul Shaheed? They’re possibly the ones who sent me this little birthday present.’ I gestured at the package on my desk.
‘Yeah. A few posts mention the Martyrs.’
It was frustrating. Our best investigative reporters had tried tracking down these people but without success. Even Shiv’s contacts in the counter terrorism world didn’t seem to know much about them. A thought struck me: maybe they didn’t exist and someone else was playing a cruel hoax on me?
‘What are you going to do with that?’ Finkelstein pointed to the jiffy bag.
‘Mrs H wants me to get the police involved again, but I’m not sure. They didn’t exactly surround me or my family with an armed guard the last time. I doubt this little piece of art is going to get their juices flowing either.’
‘Whatever. In the meantime, we’ll keep hammering it to death online. We’ve never had this much traffic in all the time I’ve been here. You’re doing a totally awesome job, dude. Mr Bolshakov must be very pleased.’ As he said that, he mimed being sick.
Maybe the Meerkat’s not such a bad dude himself, I thought.
After he’d gone, I ventured out into the newsroom to find out how the opposition had reacted to the story. There was an air of exuberance across the floor. I got stopped several times on my way to the News Hub by people giving me a thumbs-up or wanting to shake my hand. I went over to where Micky Sardar was sitting and put my hand on his shoulder. He looked stressed.
‘What’s the matter, Micky? Are they giving you a hard time?’
‘Yes, boss. A few Imams and other community leaders have called me to express their disgust that a good Muslim boy should be helping the …’
‘Go on, helping the what?’ I prodded.
‘Kuffars. Sorry, no offence but that’s what they call you. But there are others who are disgusted that this should have happened in the first place. They say this terrible misuse of public money further stains the character of good Muslims.’
‘I understand, Micky. If it helps, I should tell you that, as of today, you have a permanent staff job here at UK Today. If you want it, that is.’
‘Want it? Are you kidding?! I’d give my right arm for it.’ He got up and shook my hand.
The News Hub was a hive of activity when I finally reached it. Ray Griffiths and his team were fielding calls, briefing reporters while half watching the TVs mounted on the pillars above and checking out the other papers. Police scanners were crackling away in the background.
I indicated the TV. ‘Are they on to it?’
Griffo nodded. ‘Sure, they’re playing catch-up. It will be everywhere today. TV, radio, online. And they’ll all be forced to use our front page to illustrate the story.’
‘What about the other papers?’
He grinned. ‘Fit to be tied. We’ve heard that a few editors have given their news execs a good kicking already this morning, so they’ll all be doing their damnedest to find a way to take the story forward.’
‘What about us? Presume we have something up our sleeve for tomorrow?’
‘Bloody right! I’ll tell you more at the morning conference, but basically a civil servant whistleblower has told us that taxpayer money is also reaching terror groups through our foreign aid program.’
‘Bugger me. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.’
61
MY BILLIONAIRE boss had been ominously silent for more than a week. I’d been keen, if apprehensive, to confront Bolshakov with our suspicions about him. The story Shiv had woven together was largely circumstantial and, like anyone else accused of crimes, the Russian deserved the opportunity to hear and respond to the charges.
Unfortunately, Marcus Devereux had not provided much in the way of documentary proof about the PM that would stand up in court. But Shiv had taped his verbal testimony and he’d been close to Marvell during the crucial time of the Russian bank bailout, so that placed him in a position to know. He had also signed the all-important affidavit. In addition, we had the facts that Barbara Scaife had provided before she had died. The sum of these parts gave us enough confidence to run a story and risk the consequences. The lawyers might not agree, of course, when they saw Shiv’s copy, but they would be pussy cats compared to how Bolshy and Co were likely to react.
Frustratingly, the Russian had not taken my calls or responded to texts or emails. I figured I needed to poke him in the eye to get his attention. That was why I’d run a short leader about the EU sanctions against Russia, urging Parliament to continue to uphold them, in Friday’s edition. I reckoned that would guarantee a reaction from Bolshakov. The tactic worked. That afternoon, I got a message from the oligarch to meet him at his London apartment. I called Shiv to tell her.
‘Make sure you record everything,’ she said. ‘And for God’s sake, be careful. That bastard believes he’s invincible.’
Bolshakov’s servant Josef answered the front door to the penthouse overlooking Hyde Park. Courteous but unsmiling, he ushered me into a large room with panoramic views towards Kensington Palace. I realised for the first time that the oligarch and I were sort of neighbours. The thought did not please me. The park below was fairly quiet, probably because of the cold conditions outside. But there were a few joggers and skateboarders, a number of women pushing prams, and some businessmen with briefcases, their breath steaming in the crisp chill. I looked out over five hundred years of history and imagined Henry VIII down there, hunting for wild boar.
I turned around and gazed at the white expanse of the room. More Henry Moore than Henry Tudor: Modernist, minimalist, Manhattanist. There’s no such word, I chided myself. But Martha Fry would probably agree that it did have a sort of New York Soho vibe going on. It was simple but not stark. It was also clean and calm and surprisingly warm despite its concrete floors and worktops, and the grey wood and granite accents. The warmth seemed to come from the rich colours of the diverse artworks on display – paintings, sculpture and glassware. Picasso and Pollock, Moore and Mondrian, Hirst and Hockney. The only reason I knew all this was because someone had helpfully put little plaques next to each piece like they do in museums. Then I remembered Shiv’s suggestion: I took my phone out and pressed record before putting it back in my pocket.
After a few more minutes, Bolshy strode into the room closely followed by Black Mac. I might have known he’d have his henchman for support. Neither greeted me or offered to shake my hand. They sat down at an irregular-shaped table that looked like it had been sculpted out of one block of grey-white quartz the size of a shipping container; the oligarch gestured brusquely towards a seat on the other side. I sighed and sat down.
Bolshy’s demeanour was very different from the charming, solicitous manner he’d displayed all those months ago at the Mintos’ place in Sydney when he was wooing me for the job. Now he looked tense, the fingernails of one hand drumming on the table. The Scots have a word for his demeanour – ‘thrawn’. It means ‘sullen, twisted, contrary’ and it perfectly described the Russian’s countenance that morning. I’d known I was entering the lions’ den but had gambled he would not physically harm me in his own home. Even predatory birds don’t shit in their own nests. Nevertheless, I felt almost as intimidated as I had when I was forced to share a Jakarta jail cell with a bunch of Indonesian gangsters who took a dislike to me.
Bolshy opened the batting: ‘You have been big disappointment to me, Jonno. I asked for small favour in return for giving you something you wanted badly. You betrayed me. Why you do this?’
I cleared my throat. ‘Before I answer that, I’d like to ask you a question.’
‘What?’ Bolshy snapped.
‘Have you bugged my office?’ I looked directly at Macrae. His saturnine face turned even darker. He blinked several times before looking at his Russian master who stood up and slapped the table.
‘Kakáya zanúda!’ he shouted. ‘What the hell! That is ridiculous to say. Why we do that?’
‘I can think of a few reasons, but I
have another question. Did you have Barbara Scaife killed?’
‘Who? What craziness is this? I not kill anyone!’
‘What about you, Macrae? Did you have the reporter murdered? And Bill Todd?’ Now he too scrambled to his feet. They looked down at me as if I was a cockroach they wanted to stamp on. Bolshy started swearing in his native tongue and I felt the urge to laugh. Maybe it was nerves, but I couldn’t help it. The two of them looked so silly in their confected outrage. Like teenage boys caught surfing porn.
‘You had better get the fuck out of here now,’ Macrae snapped. ‘While you still can.’
I ignored him. Taking the phone out of my pocket and holding it up, I said: ‘One more question for the record: Mr Bolshakov, is it true that you are blackmailing the British Prime Minister? That you are forcing him to back down on European Union sanctions against Russia or you will bankrupt his family business?’
That seemed to do it. The oligarch started to come around the table at me, shouting in Russian.
As I stood up to my full height, Macrae grabbed his boss’s elbow and stopped him. His lips curled in a sneer. ‘I think what Mr Bolshakov wants to say is that you are fired. With immediate effect. Go back to your office, clear your desk and I will arrange for security to escort your miserable Australian arse from the premises. Goodbye Bligh – and good fucking riddance.’
‘Mate, I don’t think so. Your boss will have to convene an extraordinary meeting of the board to get approval for that. That was part of the agreement he signed when he bought the paper from the Malleson family. It will take some time to organise. In the interim, I’ll continue to edit the paper and investigate wrongdoing in high places. Goodbye, gentlemen.’
* * *
‘I want that zhópa dead,’ Bolshakov snarled at Macrae.
‘It’s already arranged. But maybe there’s no need. As you know, Banquo has already caved in. He’ll issue a statement on sanctions in the next forty-eight hours. There’s no reason to kill Bligh. It could backfire on us.’
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