Aggressor (10 page)

He walked back to his desk and began riffling through the pile of papers teetering on the top basket of his in-tray.

‘Any messages?'

‘Stansell called a couple of times.'

‘What did he want?'

‘Didn't say. He's not very talkative, is he?'

‘He takes some getting to know,' Girling said; ‘Does he want me to call him?'

‘He said he'd call back.'

Girling nodded.

‘I take it you have been at the Ministry of Defence most of the afternoon,' Mallon said.

Girling sat down and swivelled the chair to face Mallon. ‘Uh-huh.'

‘So how were the back-room boys?'

‘Tech-Int? You have to bring something to the table, otherwise they don't play ball.' He tapped his jacket pocket. ‘So I borrowed the tape of the inter-view with the Soviet Defence Minister - the one we're running in the magazine next month. Tech-Int was particularly interested in the part about the offensive capabilities of their new aircraft carrier, the
Kuznetsov
.'

‘It was hardly your interview to give.'

‘In a few minutes the cassette will be back where I found it. Moynahan will never know.'

‘Well, put like that...'

Girling produced his notepad. ‘Anyway, it didn't take long for the conversation to shift to last night's events in the Lebanon. I was right. Details of the BBC's film of terrorists and hostages getting off the beach - the stuff that we, the public, never got to see - are now in the Pentagon.' He paused to sip his coffee. ‘Not that it's going to be of much use to the US Navy.'

Mallon leant forward. ‘What do you mean?'

‘To put it simply, our violent friends have disappeared off the face of the Earth. Or from the surface of the sea, strictly speaking. Which is pretty bloody astounding, seeing as the Navy had P-3s, E-2s, A-6s, S-2s - basically, a lot of metal in the sky -looking for that fishing boat.'

‘Are you sure about this?'

Girling smiled ruefully. ‘The intelligence community is awash with it. I'm afraid the secret won't last the night.' He gestured to the TV. ‘It'll probably be on the evening news. Certainly in tomorrow's papers. Kelso's going to have to start looking some-where else for his exclusive.'

‘There go our jobs,' Mallon said.

‘No kidding,' Girling said, rolling the coffee cup between his palms.

Mallon's expression darkened. ‘Do you think Lord Kyle will shut us down?'

Girling shrugged. ‘I heard a rumour there's a meeting tomorrow and all the big guns will be there. It explains why Kelso's been busting his balls to put such a hot edition to bed this week. It might end up being the difference between a desk and the dole queue.'

‘And I was just beginning to enjoy journalism,' Mallon said.

‘Chin up,' Girling said, mimicking their editor. ‘We'll be all right.'

Mallon returned the smile. ‘It's certainly good to see you back to your old self.'

‘Me? I'm fine. Always have been.'

‘I meant... well, about what happened at lunchtime.'

Girling waved a hand dismissively. ‘I get a little morose sometimes. Don't take any notice.'

‘I know she was your wife, Tom. Kelso told me. I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have pried like that. I had no right.'

The phone trilled by Girling's elbow.

The receptionist's voice came on the line. ‘It's Mark Stansell for you,' she said. There was a click and he was through.

Mark Stansell? Girling smiled. No one ever referred to him by his Christian name. She must be new.

The line was crackly. In Egypt, Girling had become used to the vagaries of their telephone system. Now he shouted to make himself heard.

‘I hear you've been drafted into Kelso's army,' Stansell said. ‘Welcome back.'

‘Thanks,' Girling replied. ‘It's only a temporary arrangement, although I'm still not sure I'm doing the right thing.'

‘You'll be fine, Tom boy. Just make sure you fly low and slow. Don't rush things.'

‘Sure,' Girling replied. ‘Tell that to the guys who made an even bigger mess of Beirut last night. How are you doing on the ID front, Stansell?'

Stansell said something, but he missed it in a sudden burst of static.

‘Say again.'

‘I said I think I've cracked it,' Stansell said, as the noise subsided.

‘Cracked what?'

‘Who they are. Our terrorists.' Stansell paused, leaving Girling just enough time to worry about the difference he heard in the voice on the other end of the line.

‘Do you have a name?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, for Christ's sake let's have it.'

‘Are you alone? I mean, is there anyone near by?'

Girling looked up. Mallon was chatting to the attractive girl on the sub-editing team who had stopped by his desk on her way out. There was no one else around them.

‘I'm alone. Stansell, what is this?'

‘Well, it's a bit awkward, really. You see, I'm not sure I can use the information.'

Girling swallowed. ‘In case you hadn't heard, this is working up into a pretty big news story over here.'

‘There are one or two things that don't quite add up. I have to check them out.'

‘Stansell, it's press day. You said you'd cracked the identity of these monsters. Let's use it.'

‘I said I thought I'd cracked it.'

‘Who's the source?' Girling asked.

‘That's the thing. He's been rock solid in the past. Every one of his stories has checked out. But this time... You see, I'm sure I've come across this outfit before.'

‘Just give me the name, Stansell. If you're worried about validity, maybe I can second-source it.'

There was another interminable pause.

‘Dust off your Arabic dictionary,' Stansell said at last. ‘But first, you must promise me something, Tom boy.'

‘Sure.'

‘Whatever you do, don't use this until I give you the all-clear. Even if you're able to second-source it with your contacts. And for God's sake don't give it to Kelso until I say it's OK. Have you got that?'

‘Yes. I understand. But why?'

‘I can't go into that. I'm already late - I'm meeting someone across town who could confirm what I'm about to tell you.'

‘Come on, Stansell. The suspense is killing me.'

‘Malaak Al-Hissab,' Stansell said.

‘What?' Girling's pen hovered over his notepad.

‘What happened to your Arabic? The Angels of Judgement. That's what they're called. They're a hard-line, fundamentalist outfit operating from a base deep within southern Lebanon - at least, that's what my source says. They're supposed to be independent of all other religious and political groups which, according to my man, explains why we've never heard of them before.'

‘Except you think you have,' Girling said, resting his pen.

‘Maybe. Trouble is, it makes no sense at all.'

‘Right now, everyone's shooting in the dark, including the Americans. I just heard that the US Navy has lost the boat which the terrorists used to escape from the beach.'

‘Fucking hell. Has that broken yet?'

‘No, but it will. That's why it's important we lead with this. It's one big break for us, Stansell, and we could use it right now.'

‘I know.'

‘You don't sound very sure,' Girling said.

‘If my theory about this lot is right, this information, used prematurely, could be extremely dangerous. That's why it's important you don't use it until I've checked it out. I trust you, Tom. I'd trust you with my life, you know that.'

‘Hey, relax. You have my word, OK?'

Girling could hear Stansell breathing hard over the atmospheric hiss.

‘Look, I want to tell you how glad I am Kelso's tempted you back.'

‘Under some duress,' Girling said.

‘You have talents, Tom. Don't waste them. I'm not saying anything Mona wouldn't have told you herself.'

‘Thanks, but I don't need the lecture, Stansell. How long do you think it will take to confirm that these characters are behind the hijacking?'

‘Maybe a couple of hours. But remember what I said. No confirmation, no story. Look after yourself, Tom. I've got to go.' And with that, he hung up.

Girling replaced the receiver. Stansell, impossible to ruffle, had the jitters. He analysed his own feelings and realized it was like the day he had discovered as a child that his father wasn't invincible but frail and human, just like everybody else. He looked at his watch. It was close to five o'clock. ‘Shit.'

Mallon stopped flirting with the sub-editor and turned to him. ‘What's up?'

‘Lots to do and not much time to do it in. I'm expected at my parents' place outside Oxford this evening. And I haven't even briefed Kelso yet.'

Girling set off for Kelso's office. He knocked on the door and walked in.

Kelso listened first with excitement, then disappointment, to the tale of the hijackers' disappearance and the imminence of the news's appearance in other media outlets. Girling promised to type up what he knew before leaving for Oxford. Some other poor sod could have his evening wrecked working it into shape for the edition.

Girling took a step to the door, then stopped and turned.

‘Look, Bob, you ought to be aware, too, that Stansell has a significant lead on the terrorists' identity,' Girling said. ‘He just called in.'

‘What do you mean, ‘significant lead'?' Kelso asked.

Girling took his editor through the conversation slowly, leaving out the name of the terrorist organization and making it clear that Stansell's caveat - holding off until his say-so was received - was sacrosanct.

Kelso nodded slowly. ‘He's cutting it mighty fine. I'd like to use it, but I can delay the printers only so long.'

‘I know. But Stansell said wait.'

‘What is he trying to prove?' Kelso said angrily.

‘Maybe he wants to make sure it's right. We do still do that, don't we?'

‘Don't break my balls, Tom. I've had a hell of a day.'

‘When do Lord Kyle and the board decide our futures?'

Kelso rubbed his eyes. ‘Tomorrow. Shit, I wish I was a hack again sometimes.'

Girling took two paces towards him. ‘Look, the only reason I told you about this is because, as editor, I thought you should know.'

‘Stansell didn't want you to tell me at all, right?'

‘Everyone knows the pressure you're under, Bob.'

‘So, it's got to the point where even Stansell doesn't trust me any more.'

‘He's just protecting his investment. If he can get confirmation this could be a hell of a story.'

‘Mm, And he told you the name of this outfit?'

‘Yes.'

‘Are you going to tell me?'

‘I can't. I'm sorry, Bob, but I promised.'

‘And what if Stansell staggers out of a bar and falls under a bus?'

‘Oh, come off it.'

‘You know what I'm talking about, Tom.'

‘He's still the best.'

‘He's getting... erratic.'

‘There's always my notes,' Girling said.

Kelso stopped kneading his eyes. When he looked up, they were bloodshot and watering. ‘Maybe I'll give the old bastard a call in a couple of hours; chivvy him along a bit. Or that new girl, the Egyptian. Maybe she can tell me when Stansell's going to file.'

‘Sharifa?'

‘Old friend of yours, isn't she?'

‘Kind of.' He paused. ‘She was Mona's best friend since school.' He looked at his watch. ‘I'm late for my parents and I've still got some work to do. Will you excuse me?'

‘Sure. See you tomorrow.'

Girling went back to his desk and typed up what he had gleaned from Tech-Int about the missing hostages and the US Navy's abortive search for them. Then he left the office, took the tube home, picked up his Alfa Romeo and was soon heading down the motorway towards Oxford, his mind free of work, the Angels of Judgement, Kelso, and Stansell.

He was seeing his daughter again.

Jacobson waited for the first ring of the phone, his eyes still glued to the third of five TV monitor screens set into the wall opposite him.

He was in TERCOM's mini-situation room, a box-like affair with no windows, making it impossible to tell - but for a digital twenty-four-hour clock - whether it was day or night. He was surrounded by every conceivable device man had ever invented for communicating covertly or otherwise with the outside world. Among the SATCOM transmitter/receivers, the VLF submarine communications equipment, and the teletype decoding machines were five ordinary TV sets, each tuned to a different station.

His gaze was fixed on the one which belted out twenty-four-hour news coverage in a relentless stream of bulletins.

Cable News Network had just reported that the US Navy had lost all contact with the terrorist boat that had slipped away from the shores south of Beirut. The reporter wasn't revealing how he had come by the information, but Jacobson guessed it had been leaked by someone in the Pentagon who was unimpressed with naval aviation's reconnaissance efforts. That suggested the culprit to be someone senior in the Air Force. The rival services never lost a trick in pointing up the other's deficiencies.

The media was having a field day.

As he looked on, the picture switched to the Pentagon's chief spokesman, fidgeting nervously beside his podium in the DOD's media room. When Jacobson looked at the other sets, he saw that they were also covering the event. The spokesman straightened his suit and walked to the microphone.

At that moment the phone rang.

‘Are you watching this?' Newhouse asked. ‘I've just had the National Security Adviser on the horn. The President wants to know why he had to learn about this from the media. For Christ's sake, Joel, finding this fishing boat was meant to be easy.'