We stood there for what seemed like a month but was probably only a minute, locked together in a frozen embrace like flash-heated figures in the ruins of Pompeii. I remember thinking – finish this now or you’ll never get another chance.
And that’s when the bomb went off.
78
I CAME to in what was left of the conference room. My head felt woozy, and it took a few moments to make sense of where I was. It was dark and the air seemed filled with dust. My eyes were gritty and sore and I had trouble breathing. My eardrums were vibrating but I could make out gasps and groans around me and the muted echoes of distant screaming.
I felt as if I’d been hit by a ton of bricks. Which, it turned out, was close to the truth: falling masonry had rained down on us. I had wounds to my head and legs to add to my original chest gunshot injury. I reckoned my left arm was broken.
Then I remembered Bolshakov. Had he managed to get away? Had I killed him?
Struggling to my feet, I took out my phone and switched on its torch function. The room looked like a scene from some apocalyptic movie. The conference table was buckled and bowed with heavy debris. Bodies lay on the floor covered in chalky dust, glass shards and cement chips. Water was dripping down from where only half the ceiling still remained intact. Wires snaked down from the black hole above. I looked through the broken windows to the newsroom beyond. What, moments before, had been a busy, bustling hive of activity now looked like a wasteland. A few figures moved like shadows in the thin morning light coming from faraway windows.
What the fuck? I couldn’t make any sense of what had happened. An earthquake? A gas explosion? No, had to be a bomb. Then I remembered. Finkelstein warning me about the latest threat from the Martyrs. Like a fool, I had discounted them. Told him they didn’t exist. And now this. Like dark, avenging angels, the bastards had hit us in our hour of triumph and punished us for our hubris.
Despite the pain, I helped a few people get to their feet with my one good arm; I couldn’t tell exactly who was who because they were covered in white dust and looked like ghosts. Like me, they were in shock and couldn’t speak. Others lay amidst heavy rubble, not moving. Then I saw the Russian splayed across what remained of the half-demolished conference room doorway, his busted limbs at odd, impossible angles in the rough shape of a swastika. Dripping water had washed some of the dust and dirt and blood from his shattered face. Part of his cheek was missing and his tombstone teeth gleamed in the torchlight like a macabre piano keyboard. I knelt down painfully in the rubble. Bolshakov’s eyes were open and unseeing. I had a moment of gleeful triumph. Good riddance.
But then I noticed a few of my colleagues had shared the same fate, including Ray Griffiths and Harvey Finkelstein. Bitter tears carved rivulets down my dusty cheeks. Why hadn’t I listened?
* * *
It took the emergency services almost another hour to reach us and another few hours before I got the full picture of the tragedy from Shiv. She came to see me in the Royal London Hospital about three miles away from the office, where most of the dead and injured had been taken. They had given me something for the pain and I was a little trippy.
‘Getting to be a habit,’ she said sardonically. ‘You and hospitals.’
I couldn’t raise a smile. ‘Just tell me what happened.’
The reporter sat down right next to my bed, careful not to bump the plaster cast on my injured arm. She took my other hand and gave me the gist. According to her sources, our CCTV captured the arrival of a motorcycle messenger carrying a large box. He was wearing a helmet with the visor open just a crack. We get dozens of them coming in and out every day. The receptionist, Alma, signed for it and put the package below the counter for distribution with the other mail.
‘Ten minutes later, it exploded,’ Shiv said. ‘Alma died instantly. There were eleven other fatalities including Griffo and Finkelstein, along with a feature writer, a sports sub and a young guy who had come to the wrong floor to have a job interview with the ad department.’
I took a long moment to think about the casualties. Griffo had been a great bloke. And I’d warmed to the Meerkat. He was good at his job and, who knows, we might eventually have become friends.
Then Shiv delivered another hammer blow: the wonderful Mrs H had been killed as she made her way towards the reception area. Shiv speculated that the box had been addressed to me and my PA was going to pick it up. In addition, she told me, there were eighteen other casualties, including young Micky Sardar. Only one, a woman from Finkelstein’s team, had life-threatening injuries.
‘Any word on who did it?’ I asked, choking back tears. But I already knew the answer.
Shiv paused before she answered. I think she knew how much it would hurt me. ‘Harkat-ul Shaheed,’ she said softly. ‘ISIS has claimed responsibility, saying the Movement of Martyrs was one of their brigades. I’ll spare you all the other stuff they said about UK Today … and you.’
Ah, shit.
EPILOGUE
Sydney, three weeks later
The vista from the penthouse verandah was a balm for my troubled spirit and broken body: I could see Shark Island basking in the middle of the great watery expanse of Sydney Harbour; a small flotilla of striped-sail Lasers from the Woollahra Sailing Club were riding the wind that buffeted the bay. A small seaplane rose like a butterfly over the Rose Bay ferry terminal on my port side. Probably taking a few lucky tourists for lunch at Jonah’s in Whale Beach, I fancied.
I was horizontal on a sunbed, wearing just bathers and T-shirt, a cold Crownie in my good hand. After the cold, damp miserable winter in London, it was bliss to be back in the lucky country to catch the tail end of summer. It was a sunny twenty-eight degrees and I was taking full advantage of a fresh breeze that broke over the glass balustrade.
Wagga was ensconced on my lap, one of his paws lazily toying with the loose end of the bandages that still swaddled my legs. The cuts and abrasions had almost healed and I was able to get around without the walking stick. This was a slight disappointment because it had been useful for prodding Annie when I needed more grog.
The shiny hull of The Scoop Jon B seemed to flash at me as she twisted and turned lazily in her mooring way below. It reminded me of the painting that had once graced my office. Sadly, that masterpiece was no more, along with a chunk of the newsroom and the eleven poor souls who had taken the brunt of the blast.
To my everlasting regret, my injuries had prevented me from reaching Tumbulgum for Posh’s funeral service. I know that Annie understands the reason for my absence but I also know she will always hold it against me in her heart. It had been a harrowing experience for her and when she needed my support, I was unable to give it. Another bone of contention was the fact that I was in daily touch with Mike Kelly, usually via Facetime. He informed me that they had missed one day of publication but had managed to quarantine the damaged area from the rest of the newsroom and get things back up and running.
Annie thought I should be having a complete break from all things newspaper and focusing on her, Percy and our baby-to-be (a girl, by the way). She was right. I did feel guilty. But I also felt guilty about deserting the paper in the aftermath of the bomb explosion and the fact I’d only managed to attend one of the funeral services for the dead – for Mrs H (or Janette Haggerty, as I’d finally discovered). Then I’d developed a chest infection from the bullet wound and had to be hospitalised once more.
The Marvell scandal continued to play strongly in the British media. Mike told me that the PM and his wife had been quietly buried on their Yorkshire estate in a private ceremony. Meanwhile UK Today had commended the new government for pledging to hold firm on the EU sanctions. They were also asking hard questions about the Russian president’s role in the Marvell conspiracy. There was talk of a Royal Commission into Russia’s meddling in Britain’s internal affairs.
Shiv had also called me a couple of times, partly to discuss the book we were planning to write together and also to give me updates on
what was going on with the Marvell Inquiry.
‘The cops privately think it was more of a murder-suicide – with Cassandra doing the nasty,’ she said. ‘But they doubt they’ll ever be able to prove it.’
‘How are you and Juggs doing?’ I asked.
‘We’ll both live. My scars are mending and his pride took more of a hit than anything else.’
She could not keep the glee out of her voice when she told me that the cops had formally charged Black Mac with conspiracy to murder. More charges were imminent including blackmail and extortion once the jurisprudence experts had worked through the legal and constitutional maze. I still hoped they would find a way to charge the ratbag with treason.
There had been no more about Bolshakov. As far as anyone knew, the Russian Embassy had taken possession of his battered carcass and shipped it back to Moscow. Thank God, I thought. If the blast hadn’t killed him, I might well have, even if at the risk of prison. In idle moments, I’d wonder: Did the police pathologists notice any strange marks on the man’s neck when they did the autopsy?
Good riddance. The bastard threatened to kill my family.
A new thought came out of nowhere: What about his wife, Varvara, or his ex-KGB father, Leonid? Were they just as vengeful as Bolshy? Should I be worried still? I shivered. Must be the breeze, I lied to myself.
I heard noises inside the apartment. Moments later Annie appeared wheeling Percy out on to the verandah in his stroller. He was asleep, his face red-cheeked under a jaunty hat that had fallen to one side of his head. Annie was in sandals and a floaty summer dress that hid her small bump.
‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she said, stooping to kiss me. She smelled wonderful. In the weeks since arriving back in Sydney, Annie had seemed to put the tragic events of the recent past behind her. A new inner glow had emerged along with her swollen tummy. I knew she had been in touch with Dr McCabe a few times. She’d also gone back to work on her memoir. Both seemed to help, although I know she missed having Posh around.
She looked at the laptop on the table: ‘Been talking to Mike again?’
‘Sorry, love. It’s just that the UKT board were meeting earlier to discuss the future of the paper. They might look for a new buyer but in the meantime it’s business as usual. Mike said the chairman would be calling me later this arvo. Sounds like they want me back.’
Annie sat down beside me and scratched Wagga’s ear. Her lovely face was unreadable. ‘And what will you tell them?’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
IT TAKES one person to write a story but a village or even a city to create a book. It also requires a heap of info and I don’t know how scribblers like me would manage without the research resources that Google, Wikipedia and others provide.
Thanks to my editors Roberta Ivers and Kylie Mason for their exacting and exhaustive efforts on my behalf. They and the other great people at Simon & Schuster Australia once again helped turn a hairy caterpillar into a handsome butterfly.
My gratitude to a couple of my old newspaper colleagues: Charles McGhee for his industry insights, and the indomitable Anna Smith – probably the best reporter I ever worked with – for providing the inspiration for one of the main characters in this book. And to Professor Michael Quinn AM for his medical input.
Thanks too to my friends and family who have provided me with energy and encouragement throughout the gruelling gestation process of ‘birthing’ a book – particularly Roy Watt for his support, and my wife Patricia who again tirelessly read every word in every draft and revision.
And, last but far from least, my heartfelt thanks to the many readers who bought or borrowed Dead in the Water and who said they looked forward to the next one. Well, folks, here it is – I hope you enjoy it too.
Author’s note: the newspaper/media world has changed dramatically since I was an editor. I’ve taken a few liberties with regard to the practices and terminology detailed in Deadline but the essence of the ‘jugular journalism’ I’ve tried to capture in the book continues to typify the UK tabloids.
If you enjoyed Deadline, you’ll love Dead in the Water, Terence J. Quinn’s first novel featuring Jonno Bligh. Read on for a taste of the first chapters.
PROLOGUE
Nine Island, Sumatra/December 2014
THE LUXURY cruiser was moored in the lee of a small, sheltered island that faced eastward to the Strait of Malacca. It was a large catamaran. Sleek, expensive. A charter boat, he guessed. Two women were sunbathing on the foredeck platform. They were topless and the hard sun gleamed on their oiled, naked bodies. The man with the pockmarked face and powerful binoculars smiled. ‘God is great,’ he said.
BamBang Budiman was not a religious man but he was grateful for this opportunity. A few hours earlier he and his crew had tried and failed to hijack a cargo boat in the strait. That fuck- up now presented him with two problems: first, his Chinese syndicate bosses would be pissed off; those merciless men did not like failure. I’ll worry about that later, he decided. The second, more pressing problem was that he had lost face with his men. They were the ones who had screwed up the attack on the freighter but they would blame him. A leader who had bad luck was not to be respected. It had not helped that, in anger and frustration, he had chopped off a crewman’s arm with his parang. The man had bled to death on the deck.
Now his crew – a mix of Thai, Vietnamese and Malaysian pirates – were in a mutinous mood, frustrated by their earlier failure and angry at the brutal treatment of their comrade. They need something to keep them occupied, Budiman thought. These western women will suffice. The men will have their fun for a while. Good luck to them – the pelacurs, whores, were not to his taste, of course. Too white, too skinny, too old. Ha, much too old.
Ten minutes later, two skiffs streaked away from the mother vessel towards the gently swaying catamaran. Budiman and seven of his men, all armed to the teeth with guns, machetes and unbridled lust, were determined not to fail this time. When they reached the luxury craft, the pirates swarmed over the stern, danced up a couple of steps and hurried straight to the foredeck.
Two bules – white men – sat up on their sunbeds, shocked by the sudden commotion. Rising slowly, they stood frozen, mouths opening and closing like blowfish, palms outstretched in supplication. The first of the pirates to arrive on the starboard side shot one man in the chest with an automatic pistol while another slashed the second man several times with a parang. Both victims fell to the deck writhing and gasping, blood spurting onto the pristine white fibreglass.
A white woman was kneeling on a towel, arms over her naked breasts, her features contorted. She began to scream uncontrollably as a splash of blood, vivid red against her blanched face, oozed down her cheek and dripped onto her chest. Budiman pushed his men aside. ‘Shut the bitch up,’ he ordered. He stood over the two prostrate white men as they moaned and gasped.
‘You very unlucky gentlemen. Wrong place, wrong time.’ He shrugged and then shot them in the head, one after the other. Beaming with delight, he gestured for his men to throw the bodies overboard. Then he pointed to one of the crew and told him to go find the other western whore. Moments later, smoking a pungent clove cigarette on the rear deck, the pirate leader heard crashing noises followed by a triumphant shout and a shrill scream. He smiled again, his leathery scarred face dissolving into a mass of wrinkles as the early afternoon sun glinted on his gold tooth.
1
I KNOW the exact moment my world turned to shit. And I know the name of the man responsible.
His name is Wes Dreyfus, a country music producer from Nashville, Tennessee. And he’s the one who introduced me to Charlie. Not Charlie Sheen (although he was probably there), but cocaine.
The movie studio had thrown me a welcome party on my first night in Hollywood. I was feeling a tad shy around the galaxy of stars and household names. Wes suggested that a little coke would smooth away my social awkwardness.
‘Charlie will make you feel on top of the world, Jonno. All your worries will fly away
like turkey feathers in the wind,’ he said.
He was right. But the moment he put that little line of white powder in front of me was the start of a downward spiral that would almost destroy me. Until then, my life had been on the up. I had been a top tabloid reporter first in Sydney, then in London. I had written a bestselling book – Hard News – and I was now in LA to collaborate on the screenplay.
While my professional career was going gangbusters, my personal life was less gung- ho. I was in my late thirties, had never married, had never even met a girl I could love. I put it down to a combination of the long hours I worked and my innate shyness. I hoped it wasn’t for any other reason. I was a few inches north of six feet with blond unruly hair and blue- ish eyes. My best friend Cody’s sister once described me as a ‘spunk’, so I’d always reckoned I was so- so in the looks department. Mind you, she was drunk when she said it, so perhaps it was wishful thinking on my part.
I had never once used drugs before; not so much as a wisp of weed. Back in London, I had been offered coke many times but always refused … perhaps because of the images of my alcoholic mother, comatose on the couch, that always came to mind. But now, for the first time, I was seriously tempted. I was mixing with Hollywood royalty in the epicentre of a crazy, fucked- up, clichéd world. Parties. Babes. Sex. Cocktails. Drugs. Rock ’n’ roll. It was sink or swim. To my eternal regret, I sank.
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