Deadline

by Terence J. Quinn

  Face burning, I bowed slightly and put my palms together, fingers pointing upwards to my chin a la Mahatma Gandhi. ‘Thank you,’ I mouthed then put my hands up to end the embarrassment.

  When I got to the News Hub, Ray Griffiths handed me a phone. ‘It’s Mrs H for you.’ She told me Chief Inspector Titmus was on the line – did I want to speak to him?

  A little shiver of excitement made the goosebumps pop up on the back of my neck. ‘You bet I do.’

  ‘Mr Bligh? I tried to reach you at the hospital. Bit of a surprise to learn that you had left already. I wanted to give you a heads-up about the dead man at the hotel.’

  Yes, yes, I thought impatiently, get on with it.

  ‘This is off the record, you understand. The body has been identified as that of a Kazakhstan national named Mukhtar Shatsky. Occupation: mercenary or security consultant – take your pick. We have confirmed that his firearm – the one your photographer shot him with – was the same one that killed your nanny, Miss Nesbitt.’ It sounded so matter-of-fact the way he said it, I shivered again. ‘We have also apprehended his brother Nikolai Shatsky, who we believe was his accomplice in that attack. Mr Bligh, you told me yesterday that there was a connection between these men and a Mr Carlos Macrae. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, wishing the man would get to the point.

  ‘Do you have knowledge of Mr Macrae’s present whereabouts?’

  ‘Yes, I certainly do. He’s here. In this building. Our proprietor Borya Bolshakov has, in his wisdom, unleashed the forces of darkness in our midst.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You know that Macrae works for Bolshakov? Well, he’s been made acting managing director of UKT. In fact, I have an appointment to see him at three o’clock. The chances are he’ll sack me and try to have me escorted out of the building. Why so interested in him?’

  There was a pause. ‘Because – and this is strictly off the record – the Shatsky brother we have in custody alleges he was employed by a man he identifies as Carlos Macrae. He has asked for police protection in exchange for providing information. Following the death of his brother, he believes that Macrae will have him killed to ensure his silence. Obviously, we need to speak to Macrae urgently.’

  At that point I pumped my fist in the air, nearly decking Ray Griffiths in the process. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘If you’re agreeable, I would like you to keep that appointment with Mr Macrae. We’ll join the party shortly after three. Is that acceptable?’

  ‘You bet. It will be a pleasure to see you put the cuffs on that slimy bastard.’

  Titmus snorted. ‘I thought you’d like it. We’ll see you in about an hour, then? One more thing – no photographers or reporters other than yourself. Okay? My superiors would put me back in uniform if they knew that I was even talking to you as it is.’

  When I got back to my own office, I was breathing heavily from fatigue but my spirits were soaring. If they can nail Black Mac, then, surely, they can get Bolshy too. This was incredible news. If my ribs hadn’t been hurting so much, I’d have done a little jig.

  Harvey Finkelstein was waiting for me there. ‘I heard the cheers. Your staff seem to think you’ve made UKT a kick-ass paper once again.’

  ‘Thanks. But Shiv and the others are the ones who are doing it,’ I said.

  ‘Dude, I came to tell you that there might be more shit coming down the pipe.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’ve had more threats from our friends at “Harkat-ul Shaheed”, AKA Movement of Martyrs. Following the latest story about foreign aid cash going to ISIS.’

  ‘Stop right there, mate. That whole Martyr malarkey is fake news. There is no Movement of Martyrs. Others were using that name as a device to hide their own intentions.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What other people? Is this something to do with, like, the bugging of your office and the other incredible stuff you talked about this morning?’

  ‘Yes. More will come out in the wash very soon.’ I looked at my watch. ‘In fact, in about half an hour or so, you’ll find out more.’

  ‘Okay, buddy, if you say so. But I reckon this latest post seems genuine. In my opinion, these people are both real and serious. He pulled out a piece of paper. ‘This is what they posted, and I quote: “UK Today will have no tomorrow. The martyrs will soon purge these kuffars from the face of the world with fire and vengeance. They draw on themselves wrath upon wrath. Hell shall be their home. We will strike soon.’ There’s more but you get the drift. Several of the worst threats are taken direct from the Koran. I checked. It sounds to me like these sick puppies are getting ready to strike again.’

  ‘Sorry, Harve, but you’re wrong. The attack on me and my family came from another quarter. These martyr guys simply do not exist. But thanks for the warning.’

  73

  I WAS feeling bone weary when I went up to the executive suite at three pm sharp. My ribs were still hurting and I was gasping like a man who’d just given up a forty-a-day habit. But nothing would have stopped me seeing what was about to unfold.

  There was no sign of Byron, Martha Fry’s personal assistant and martini maestro, when I arrived at her old office for the meeting. Chances were Black Mac had given him the boot, I thought. Macrae did not strike me as a cocktail kind of guy.

  His dark, loathsome bulk was sitting behind the large desk like a spider awaiting a fly. The office was incredibly bright. Where Martha had preferred moody lighting and personal touches, the acting MD had every light blazing – a constellation of overhead spots and table lamps. He had also got rid of the soft curtains, smelly candles and scatter cushions. The office now looked as sterile as my hospital room.

  ‘If it isn’t Crocodile Dundee,’ he said, as I went through the open door without knocking. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘And g’day to you too. What do you think I’m doing? We have an appointment.’

  Then I heard a movement behind me. Turning, I saw Bolshakov at the doorway. Ah, shit. Wasn’t expecting him.

  ‘He means – what is a treacherous zhópa like you still doing in my building?’ The oligarch looked murderous. His black on black attire made him look like an undertaker.

  ‘You’d know all about treachery.’

  Macrae stood up, his eyes blazing almost as brightly as the LED lights overhead. ‘We both know that Mr Bolshakov made it clear you were no longer employed as editor of UK Today.’

  ‘And I bet you are even more surprised – disappointed – that I am still alive. By the way, is this room bugged too?’

  Macrae’s snaggletooth grin appeared, reminding me again of a deadly saltwater crocodile. ‘I have no idea what you’re blabbering about. But now that you are here, I’ll call security and have them escort you out of the building.’ He picked up the phone and spoke briefly.

  ‘Before I go, I have a question for Bolshy.’

  ‘You have one minute before security get here.’

  I hoped my own security would also arrive soon. ‘Did you honestly think you were going to get away with buying and selling a government? Like a pair of bootleg jeans back in the old Soviet days?’ The question sounded a little clichéd even to my ears but I was playing for time.

  ‘Da. Why not? Everything, everyone is for sale. Why not crooked politicians?’

  ‘But now your scheme is fucked. By the time the paper hits the streets tomorrow, everyone will know what an evil, twisted bastard you really are. They’ll find out how Russia has tried to subvert another country’s political system through blackmail and extortion. And how you and this scumbag Macrae have plotted and killed to achieve your aims.’

  The oligarch shook his head. ‘There will be no paper. I have arranged. And those things you say – you are crazy motherfucker. The bullet must have hit your brain, not your chest.’

  ‘The owner of that bullet is dead. A Kazakh gentleman, I believe. His brother is in police custody spilling his guts. He’s talking as if his life
depends on it. Which, come to think of it, is indeed the case.’

  ‘No way, he’s not the kind of guy who –’ Macrae began.

  There was a tap on the door. I hoped it was the cavalry.

  ‘Okay, Bligh, you’ve had your minute,’ Macrae said. ‘These guys will now see you safely off the premises.’

  But it wasn’t Black Mac’s goons who barged into the room. To my relief, it was DCI Titmus accompanied by his sergeant and a couple of uniforms.

  ‘Which one of you two gentlemen is Carlos Macrae?’ The DCI said.

  ‘Who the fuck are you? Get the fuck out of my office.’ Macrae seemed to have shrunk somehow. His deep-set eyes looked like dark pits.

  ‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Titmus of the Metropolitan Police and I am arresting you in connection with the murder of Porsha Nesbitt and the attempted murders of Jonathan Bligh and Siobhan O’Shea.’ He waggled his ID in Black Mac’s direction.

  I half-expected Macrae to bluster and threaten, perhaps even make a run for it, but the scumbag just slumped back down into his chair with the look of a man who knows it’s all over, red rover. Disappointing, really.

  ‘Just a minute, sir.’ Titmus had turned to Bolshakov, who was heading out the door. The two uniforms blocked his exit.

  ‘I am Borya Bolshakov. This is my paper. My building. I go now.’

  Titmus and I looked at each other. We hadn’t planned for the oligarch’s presence. The Kazakh had not implicated Bolshy in his statement. The cop looked perplexed. I realised he did not know what to charge him with. Then he straightened.

  ‘Borya Bolshakov, I am arresting you on suspicion of aiding and abetting Carlos Macrae in the …’

  Nice one. While the inspector droned on with the normal formalities, my mind raced ahead. Did this mean the end? Surely Bolshy was now done for? If a hardened mercenary like Shatsky would seek police protection, surely Macrae would too? He’d have to rat out his boss, or face lethal consequences … He knows the Russian oligarch was not a man to leave loose ends lying around.

  Meanwhile, Bolshy was protesting loudly that he had diplomatic immunity and Titmus had no right to arrest him.

  I smiled as Macrae came around the desk to the waiting arms of the law. Black Mac looked beaten, finished. I relished the moment. This was the man who had tried to have me killed and who was responsible for killing an innocent nanny.

  But as Macrae shuffled past, he suddenly lunged at me and put his hands around my neck. I fell over with him on top of me. He rasped in my ear: ‘You’re a dead man, Bligh.’ Then he started shouting, but the excruciating pain in my chest drowned out his words. Spittle sprayed my cheeks as the uniformed cops struggled to pulled him off me and handcuff him.

  Lying on Martha Fry’s old shag pile rug, trying to get my breath back, I pondered Black Mac’s threat. Like him, I was a loose end and I knew that Borya Bolshakov was not a man to forgive and forget.

  74

  LESS THAN two hours later, I struggled up the familiar staircase at Number 10, holding my ribs in place with one hand and the mahogany banister with the other. Shiv stared at the photo portraits on the wall: Chamberlain, Churchill, Macmillan, Wilson, Thatcher, Blair and the rest. At the top, we stopped to look at James Marvell’s solemn, statesmanlike picture for a moment. I knew Shiv would be wondering the same as me: would he be the first PM in history to be slapped in prison?

  Shiv tugged my arm and we moved on to be greeted by Barry Townend, the PM’s press secretary. He guided us to a comfortable study, which had four chairs placed around a small, antique coffee table on a carpet of blue and red swirls. White wood bookcases filled with leather-bound tomes towered above us. Margaret Thatcher, handbag at the ready, gave me the stink eye from her lofty position above an ornate white mantelpiece.

  Moments later, the Right Honourable James Marvell came in through a white door to the left of the fireplace. That will be changed to ‘Dishonourable’ before long, I thought grimly. The politician looked as tense as I felt.

  ‘Mr Bligh, good to see you again. I hope you are recovering? Cassandra and I were distressed to hear of that terrible incident. Your nanny, wasn’t it? And Ms O’Shea, you also, have been in the wars, I hear. My goodness, UK Today seems to be upsetting a lot of people recently, heh heh.’

  There will be one more in just a few minutes, I thought.

  We all made ourselves comfortable. There was no mention of refreshments. ‘Now then, what was so urgent that you had to speak to me today? I believe your Mr French told Barry that it concerns my statement to the House about EU sanctions against Russia, is that correct? I’m afraid I only have fifteen minutes before I have to leave … off to Davos, for the World Economic Forum. So, fire away.’

  Not the most sensitive comment, considering I still had a bullet hole in me.

  Shiv and I had discussed strategy earlier after I had given her the good news about Black Mac and Bolshakov. We decided I would be good cop, she the bad cop. She took out her notebook and cleared her throat. I could tell she was nervous. No wonder, I thought, she’s about to end this man’s career, possibly his life. It’s a historic moment. But I felt no sympathy for her target. He deserved the ignominy and the shit that was going to get heaped on him from every quarter after this.

  ‘Prime Minister,’ Shiv started, ‘UK Today is running a story tomorrow that, yes, is linked to sanctions.’ She cleared her throat again, then ploughed on. ‘The article will allege that you have compromised your position as the leader of Her Majesty’s Government in your dealings over the issue of EU sanctions. And we are here to do you the courtesy of providing you with an opportunity to tell the British people why that is so.’

  Marvell shifted in his seat and shot a frantic glance at Townend. ‘My goodness, that sounds terribly serious. Tell me, what is it exactly that you think I have done to … compromise my position, as you put it?’

  Shiv took a deep breath. ‘Is it true that your family firm, Marvell Manufacturing International, received a loan from a Russian State Bank in 2008? And that the loan, which was on highly favourable terms, stopped the company from going bankrupt? Further, that representatives of the Russian Federation threatened to foreclose on that same loan if you did not adopt a more positive policy on reducing international sanctions against their country?’

  I was watching the PM closely: he started to say something but his mouth crumpled and he could not get the words out. His face turned the colour of wet putty and his eyes blinked in rapid succession. I thought he was about to cry.

  ‘Um, I don’t … you can’t … I won’t …’ Frightened eyes looked beseechingly at his press secretary who jumped up abruptly and went over to the door next to the fireplace. He rapped sharply twice. The PM just sat there, his mouth moving silently. There was no anger, no outrage. Nothing. Instead, he looked ashamed. He looked like a man who knew he had betrayed his Queen and country. And he looked like a man who knew he had defiled one the world’s oldest and greatest and offices of state.

  Then the white door opened and Cassandra Marvell burst in, took one look at her husband and hurried to him, screaming, ‘Get out, get out!’ at Shiv and me.

  As Barry Townend ushered us out, I looked back at the PM. He was staring into the distance, eyes like black holes in space. Above him, the Iron Lady stared down implacably.

  I swear there was a curl of distaste about her thin lips.

  75

  IT WAS after eight pm. Not long to our first edition deadline. I had decided not to keep the story until later editions to avoid our rivals from nicking it. No paper would touch it until they gauged the fall-out – it was toxic material and they would wait until it was confirmed or condemned by Downing Street. Besides, as far as I was concerned, the sooner we got it out there the better.

  To tell the truth, I half expected to be interrupted at any moment with injunctions or D Notices slapped on us to prevent publication. Were we bound by the Official Secrets Act? I didn’t think so; as far as I knew it only covered gover
nment employees. So, who could try to shut us down? The security bods – M15 and/or MI6, or the Attorney General? I simply did not know what could happen or who might act. There was no precedent of a British paper alleging that the head of government was crooked at best, a traitor at worst. Anyway, I had already made up my mind … to publish and be damned. If they stopped the presses, I’d put it out online. If I ended up as a refugee in the Ecuadoran embassy like Julian Assange or in Moscow like Edward Snowden, so be it.

  On second thoughts – maybe not Moscow.

  We were congregated around the desk of the design chief, Eve Prentice, watching mesmerised as she jigged around with different front-page treatments. Mike Kelly and I were on either side of her, Shiv and the Meerkat behind us. There was a palpable air of excitement in the newsroom. It gave me much needed energy after my exhausting encounters with Macrae and Bolshy, and then the soon-to-be-ex-Prime Minister. This was what journalism was about, I thought, my arms crossed over my aching chest. It’s not just about the first draft of history, it is about making history. I might be conceited but I reckoned the UKT investigation into the sanctions scandal was up there with the Washington Post’s Watergate probe and the New York Times Pentagon Papers revelations. Lots of other journos were standing around in groups chatting excitedly. Many had stayed on after their normal shift, eager to share this moment in history. To celebrate, I had asked the circulation director Jacinta Corrigan to add another quarter of a million copies to the print run.

  Finally, Eve stopped jabbing at the keyboard and said: ‘What about that?’ The headline screamed: