A Dying Breed, page 23
The General looked faintly confused by Patrick’s convoluted speech. He walked slowly to the table and put down his empty teacup. He turned to face Patrick again. ‘Should I consider you honest, Mr Patrick Reid?’
‘Yes, sir, I am.’
‘In my experience, many Englishmen are not honest. Maybe you are different?’
Patrick nodded warily.
‘How old are you?’
‘I am twenty-six.’
‘And you have worked a lot with your William Carver? Here and elsewhere?’
‘No, this is my first assignment with him. My first trip to Afghanistan. My first assignment ever, in fact.’
‘Really?’
Patrick nodded. He thought perhaps he could see something like amusement in the General’s dark eyes. ‘So then, you know nothing about this country.’
‘I know what I have read. What I’ve heard on the news.’
‘As I say. Nothing.’
The General circled the table, tapping his fingers on the varnished wood. ‘Then why did they send you?’
Patrick hesitated. ‘I’m not sure.’
The General sighed impatiently. ‘There is always a reason.’
There was something about the General’s manner which encouraged Patrick to be candid. Something beyond a simple fear for his life. ‘I think my boss thought William might trust me, that I could make a connection. He can be a difficult man. He usually works alone.’
‘Is he a good journalist?’
‘Yes, I think so. It’s all he cares about, getting to the truth, I mean.’
The General ran a hand through his beard. ‘The truth.’ He shouted out a few words in Dari and within seconds Mirgun strode back in, ignoring Patrick and nodding respectfully in the direction of his master. The General issued a series of instructions and Patrick could tell from Mirgun’s face that the command he was being given was an unwelcome one. When the General had finished speaking, Mirgun nodded a curt acknowledgement and left.
‘Mr Reid. I have made a decision. I will be honest with you and then you will be honest with me. You are interested in the truth, like your friend William Carver, so I will show you some truth. Tomorrow I will take you on a tour. A few hundred kilometres, a few hundred years. After that we will talk some more.’
23 A Clean Slate
DATELINE: BBC News Centre, Portland Place, London, W1, July 6th
Mariscal had an hour to spare before he needed to set off for the airport and he couldn’t face going back to his own office. He needed to take stock. He walked slowly down nine flights of stairs to the basement and then through a maze of corridors to a little-used smoking area he knew, close to the loading bay at the back of the building. Collapsing on to a tired green sofa, he let out a yelp of pain; a thin layer of foam barely cushioned the hard wood beneath. Mariscal rubbed at the small of his back and cursed. In retrospect, the idea that Lance might help him clear his arrears had been naive. He wondered whether he might have exerted more pressure somehow. Threatened resignation; threatened something. The offer of three grand plus expenses was a generous one but that wasn’t what Rob was thinking about now. He gazed over the loading bay up at the cloudless blue sky above London. There was a regular stream of planes heading in the direction of Heathrow, and as he watched, some painted pretty vapour trails across the sky. The part of the conversation that had caught his attention and was now firing his imagination had nothing to do with the three thousand pounds or the promised expenses. It was Fletcher’s mention of the death-in-service benefit which interested him, and the more he tried to not to think about it, the harder it became to think about anything else. The new vapour trails were clean and clear, like chalk lines drawn on a blue background; the old ones spread and blurred, becoming cloudlike before disappearing altogether. Three hundred thousand would clear the slate. Every creditor on that dreadful piece of paper would be paid off and gone. Lucia would have money left over. She could pay off some of the mortgage or buy herself something expensive. Rob couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought his wife anything better than an apologetic bunch of petrol station flowers. He would be dead, of course, but right now that didn’t seem like such a bad thing. His home life was miserable. Work was a slog. He was only really happy for as long as he was drinking and nobody could drink all the time, not even him. Perhaps now was as good a time as any.
Rob would die, not a hero, but hardly a nobody. Professionally, he was respected, revered even. Lots of people hated him, yes, but not everyone. Far from it. He was not unloved. No. His current standing wasn’t bad. It could easily be worse, and as he thought about it, one truth became increasingly clear: the longer it went on, the longer he went on, the worse it would get. His kids would grow older, start to understand him a little better and then, inevitably, judge him. And he wouldn’t emerge from that courtroom smelling of roses, that was for sure. Better to be a benign absence than a malign presence; if his own childhood had taught him anything, it had taught him that. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought about suicide before. He’d thought about it plenty. Mariscal had always been happy to tell pretty much anyone who asked about his various sexual fantasies. But his most secret, and now he came to consider it, possibly his most erotic fantasy centred not on sex but on self-slaughter. He even knew his preferred method; and what was that if not the beginnings of a plan? When Rob imagined suicide he imagined a high building and a long fall. Toppling into thin air and letting gravity do the hard work. Waking up dead. He had simply to walk to the edge of any building taller that ten storeys: his Kabul hotel, perhaps? And fall. He had no problem with heights, and the theatre of it appealed to him. He imagined beautiful women screaming and covering their children’s eyes while their menfolk watched, slack-jawed, astonished by his speed and trajectory.
An hour later, Rob Mariscal stood, bag in hand, outside the old Broadcasting House building. He spotted what looked like his regular car, a black Ford C-Max, parked neatly in a disabled bay next to All Souls Church. But as he walked closer he saw the shadow of a passenger already sitting stiffly on the back seat. He turned away and squinted into the sun, scanning the street for his ride, feeling a flash of irritation. His driver Colin had texted to say he’d arrived. Where was he? Rob had pulled out his phone to call either Colin or the office and shout at someone when he heard his name being called in an odd stage whisper. The voice was familiar. He turned back towards the Ford and saw Graham’s boyish face at the rear passenger window.
‘Good afternoon, squire. Heathrow, Terminal 3, isn’t it? Can I offer you a lift?’
Rob picked up his suitcase and strode over. ‘This is my bloody car.’ He wrenched open the back door, annoyed by Graham but even more so by his own petulant tone.
‘My car as much as yours, old chap. After all, I pay my licence fee.’
Rob pushed what he hoped was the sharp edge of his suitcase in the direction of Graham’s knee and climbed in after it. The back of his shirt was already wet with sweat, the black cotton sticking to his shoulder blades. He felt as if he was at the end of a long day’s travel, not just setting out; had hoped the drive to the airport, and the flight that followed, might provide him with some peace and quiet. But one look at Graham’s face told him that wasn’t how it would be. The driver edged out of the side road on to Portland Place and headed north. Neither man spoke until they were picking up speed on the Westway.
‘Almost silent, these, aren’t they?’ said Graham, feeling the door trim like a prospective buyer. Rob wasn’t interested and didn’t pretend to be, but the driver took the hint and reached for the radio. An inoffensive piano sonata filled the car.
‘Ah, lovely.’ Graham smiled warmly. ‘Good idea, Mr Blake.’
Rob looked up. Who the hell was Mr Blake? Colin the driver nodded an acknowledgement and Mariscal stared at the floor. What did it say about him, that this man had been driving him around for five or six years and he had never thought to ask his surname? Graham pulled a silver hip flask from his jacket pocket and popped the top off.
‘Sharpener?’ he asked, waving it under Rob’s nose. Mariscal refused with a shake of his head despite the fact that he was gagging for a drink. He looked again at Graham. There was something not quite right about him today. The usual dark suit, black shoes, but then Rob noticed the open-necked shirt. Graham looked wrong without a tie. Incomplete.
Graham took a sip from his hip flask and spoke softly and fast. ‘So, first off, some good news. You’ll be turning left on the Delhi leg. We’ve bumped you up.’
Rob gave a grudging smile. This was good news. He’d been dreading eight hours in economy on one bloody mary and a glass of red wine. Now he could look forward to travelling horizontally and anaesthetised.
‘What’s the catch? Let me guess, you’re coming with me …’
‘Unfortunately not. You might not believe this, but I rather wish I were.’
Rob shrugged.
‘I told my boss that you could use a travelling companion but they weren’t buying. You’ll be met by someone at the other end.’
‘Oh yeah? By who?’
‘He’ll introduce himself.’ The sonata finished and a female voice took over. Mariscal listened. Her voice was low but clear and carried well. He wondered how she would sound delivering news. Then she stumbled over the introduction to an oboe concerto and he lost interest.
Graham nudged his arm. ‘Your first foreign trip for a while, isn’t that right?’
‘First trip for years. I used to travel. Did a load of stuff with William just after he arrived on the programme. Good stuff. The Middle East, Central Africa, India, all around. But it’s been a while. Just, you know, holidays.’ Rob did not consider holidays to be the same as travel. In fact holidays were pretty much the opposite of travel, especially since the children had arrived. As far as he could see, family holidays consisted of packing up all the people in your house, and as many of the home comforts as you could carry, and simply transporting them to somewhere a little hotter, at considerable effort and expense.
Graham looked across. ‘Where did you go to in Central Africa? The Congo?’ The reverential way in which the man from the ministry uttered the word Congo made it clear that he believed the place rich in mystery and dark-heart allure.
Rob nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘What was it like?’
‘It was a shithole.’
Graham was not so easily discouraged. ‘I’d love to visit the Congo. And Rwanda.’
‘Yeah, been there too.’
‘Do you know that fantastic Kipling quote?’
Rob shrugged. He suspected he was going to hear the Kipling quote no matter what he said.
Graham pulled himself up in his seat: ‘There are two kinds of men. Those who stay at home and those who do not. The second are the more interesting. What do you think of that? It’s got to be true, hasn’t it?’
‘Sure. I’m guessing that you haven’t travelled much, Graham?’
It was a mean remark but Graham ploughed on, undeterred. ‘No, you’re right, I haven’t. At least, not yet. I’m told there might be more opportunity once all of this is over, if it goes well. So you see, I’m relying on you, Rob.’ His tone was jovial but Mariscal had had enough.
‘You’re blackmailing me, Graham. That’s what you’re doing. Remember?’
‘Not so loud,’ Graham said, tilting his head towards the driver.
‘Why the fuck are you here anyway?’ Rob hissed. ‘You’ve got my phone number.’
‘The personal touch. I like to do things properly.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s all a bit too personal already. Next time, use the phone or a dead letter drop or whatever else you wackos use to communicate.’
Colin glanced in the rear-view mirror, then quickly back at the road.
‘Colin. Whack this up a bit, will you? I love this one,’ Rob barked. The driver did as commanded and turned up the volume. Rob leant closer to Graham, his mouth just an inch or two from his ear.
‘What’s all this really about, then, Graham? What’s William done that’s got you lot so riled?’
Graham was silent for some time before he replied. ‘It’s to do with the last report he did for you.’
‘His last piece? What? The bomb in that tailor’s shop,’ Rob muttered, trying to recall the details. The piece hadn’t been particularly memorable. He had to dredge pretty deep. ‘Some Afghan politician gets blown up by the Taliban?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘Something like that? It sounds pretty straightforward to me.’
‘It’s a bit more complicated than that, Rob. British interests are involved.’ Graham knew he sounded pompous. He also knew he’d said too much already.
‘What sort of British interests? Military? Political? Commercial?’
Graham shuffled in his seat. ‘I don’t know much more than that, and I’ve already told you more than I should.’
Rob gave Graham time to settle before changing tack. But he was a journalist by instinct; he’d try again. ‘I don’t want you to give away any state secrets, Graham, but I need some guidance. Why are you sending me to Kabul? What’s my job? What am I supposed to do? I could do with a few clues before I get on that plane.’
‘You’re supposed to do what you should have done after our last discussion. Put Carver back on the leash and keep him off the radio. Our contact in Kabul will fill you in. Just be co-operative, do what he tells you and this will all work out just fine.’
‘And what about Patrick Reid?’
‘What about him?’
‘Where does the kidnapping of Patrick and Karim Mumtaz fit in to all this?’
Graham took another pull on his little silver flask. ‘The truth is, we’re not sure. But the Embassy will take the lead on the kidnapping. You just concentrate on Carver.’
Rob watched the hard shoulder flash by. He let the black macadam of the road and the green of the verge blur together, focusing his eyes only when a piece of road kill flew by. The bloody remains of a fox, guts spilt and tail gone, pummelled so thoroughly by the relentless traffic that it appeared two-dimensional. A little further along, a dead crow lifted a wing and waved him on his way. Some sort of omen, perhaps, but Rob didn’t believe in omens, good or bad. What did he believe in?
After a while Graham grew uncomfortable with the silence. He hummed along with the radio for a while before clearing his throat, the overture to another announcement.
‘I nearly forgot. There’s one more bit of good news, as well as the upgrade, I mean. After all this is over, if everything goes off all right, we’d like to offer you a job.’
Mariscal gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I thought I was already working for you, Graham. I’m certainly not doing all this for the craic.’
‘No. A real job. There’s a position coming up in one of the departments – rather a big job, actually – Home Office, Head of Strategic Communications. How does that sound? Sounds quite grand to me.’
Rob flinched. ‘A press officer?’
‘No. Head of Strategic Communications. If you don’t like that title, I’m sure we could tweak it a bit. What about Director of Information? Public Liaison Executive? You can make up your own job title as far as we’re concerned. Within reason, naturally.’
‘I don’t want to be your press officer, Graham.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Graham gazed out of the window a while. ‘It’s a shame, though. It’d be fun and the money’s good.’
At the mention of money, Rob’s hand went to his hip pocket and the reassuring bundle of twenty-pound notes. He’d already spent twelve hundred of his three thousand advance. Some had gone into the Portland Place branch of Lloyds to keep a couple of credit cards at bay. A larger sum had been collected by a shaven-headed man in a shiny grey suit.
‘How good?’
‘You’d start on a hundred and twenty thousand. Civil service pension and all that sort of thing, too. The perks are pretty good.’
Rob looked closely at Graham to make sure his leg wasn’t being pulled. ‘Are you messing with me, Graham?’
‘Certainly not, that’s the pay scale. And that’s nowhere near the ceiling. Plus the pension. As I said, gold-plated.’
Rob removed his hand from the cash in his pocket and folded his arms. He’d always suspected that every man had his price, but he’d never tried to work out his own. Now someone had done it for him. Rob’s price, it seemed, was precisely one hundred and twenty thousand. Plus pension. And he didn’t have to kill himself to get it. He just had to—how had Graham put it? He had to be co-operative.
Graham saw that he had Rob on the hook and was smart enough to stay quiet for a while. They were in traffic now, queuing on the sliproad that would take them off the motorway and on towards Heathrow. He nudged Rob’s arm. ‘Nearly there. So, just think about it. Take your time. The job comes with a corner office overlooking the Mall, nice and bright and with a great view of the park. Your missus would be very impressed, I’m sure. Just let us know, in due course.’
Rob nodded. The man who wasn’t Graham knew a lot about him. His successes, failures, his many weaknesses and most recently his sexual proclivities. All of this was written down in a file somewhere and so it was reassuring to learn that there were still some things Graham didn’t know. He had absolutely no idea what might impress Lucia.
PART THREE
24 A Single Shot
DATELINE: BBC house, central Kabul, Afghanistan, July 7th
William recognised the feeling the moment he woke. A vague nagging sensation, which started at the back of his mind before spreading like a drop of ink in a glass of water until it was impossible for him to think of anything else. He was missing something, but what was it? He sat up in bed. With Patrick and Karim gone, the Embassy official in charge of securing their release and Mariscal on his way, William had nothing to do apart from continuing to pursue the story.
