Deadline (2 page)

“
Hey Bovey, hard to see
anything through this blasted crap,” said Trevanian, tapping the
arm of Captain Mark Van Den Boven, the commanding officer of the
patrol. “Is it much further to the village?”

“
About another 10 klicks,”
replied Van Den Boven. “Hope this storm dies down soon. There’s
nothing but sand, sand and more fucking sand in this shithole.
Can’t wait for my tour to be up so I can get back to the sea in my
home sweet Nova Scotia. But we’ve got a big job unfinished here yet
to do before I get to go home.”

“
Do you really think
you’re going to make a difference in the end, Mark? Read your
history. The British and Russians were unable to tame this wild
land. Afghanistan has been invaded many times, but never
conquered.”

“
The big difference, my
friend, is that this isn’t an invasion. We’re a UN sponsored
international force trying to stabilize the Afghan government and
restore some infrastructure to this country. It’s their only hope
for a new and peaceful life in the future.”

“
Try telling that to the
innocent villagers caught in the crossfire of bombs and bullets.
Afghanistan is a nation of warring tribes and always will be – run
by tribal chiefs and drug lords. Kabul seems to have little control
over its own country.”

The armored vehicles started slowing
and conversation abruptly halted. The sandstorm abated and the
outline of village buildings could be seen ahead. There were
numerous buildings, but the streets were deserted.

It was an eerie sight - like a ghost
town. Trevanian could see various mud brick buildings, but no signs
of life. The convoy pulled around a corner and there was the mud
brick schoolhouse. Or what was left of it.

A bombed and burned out ruin
confronted them. Days of work down the drain.

Captain Mark Van Den Boven felt a deep
sense of emptiness and disappointment for the forces who had worked
on the project and for the children of the village.

Trevanian immediately reached for his
Nikon digital camera and started taking photos of the burned out
schoolhouse – the latest legacy of the Taliban.

“
Captain, look to your
left - someone’s coming!” shouted one of the soldiers.

Slowly approaching the vehicle was an
elderly Afghan. He appeared to be in his 80s with brown, wrinkled,
leathery sun-drenched skin. He wore a long, white caftan as he
shuffled toward the soldiers.

Mark jumped down from
the
armored
carrier, beckoning Specialist Troy Stewart, a
translator, to accompany him. Trevanian followed them.

The old Afghan conversed with Van Den
Boven in Pashto, with Stewart translating.

“
He’s urging us to leave
immediately, Captain,” said Stewart. “The villagers are frightened
to come out and be seen with us. He says there are insurgent
informers in the village and our presence poses a threat to anyone
seen helping us.”

“
What happened to the
schoolhouse we were constructing?”

“
He says the insurgents
came last night after we returned to base and blew it up. They then
rounded up the village chief and six council elders. They executed
them in front of the villagers.”

The Afghan then led Mark and the
translator, escorted by several soldiers with assault rifles at the
ready, to a nearby pit to view the evidence of the
savagery.

There were seven bodies in the pit.
Each riddled with bullet holes and spread-eagled in various
positions. They had been mercilessly mowed down by intensive
gunfire execution style.

“
I think we need to return
to base and report this,” said Van Den Boven, who assigned a small
burial detail to fill in the pit before they left. “But first we
have some medical supplies to deliver to the local
hospital.”

Trevanian moved in to take photos of
the tragedy.

This is life in today’s southern
Afghanistan, he thought. The countryside controlled by the
international forces during the day and the Taliban by
night.

Chapter 4

Toronto Daily Express
Thursday 12:10 AM

ANDREW CHASE hung up the phone with
his head throbbing like it was about to explode.

God, am I having an aneurysm? If so,
make it a good one that will end all my troubles.

Chase was the owner and publisher of
the Daily Express. He scrambled in a drawer of his large oak desk
to find some acetaminophen tablets with codeine. These days he
downed them like M&Ms for the constant headaches.

The 46-year-old publisher washed the
pills down with the bottle of mineral water sitting on top of his
chestnut-colored oak desk. The phone call he just finished did not
help matters much.

He had just ended a conversation on a
transatlantic line with Rupert White, the multi-billionaire media
tycoon in London, England. White desired to break into the Toronto
market. He already owned 300 newspapers, 350 television stations,
and 400 radio stations along with phone and satellite services
throughout the world.

Toronto was a major media market in
Canada and North America, but White didn’t yet have a presence
there. He was determined to change that soon.

“
Andrew, my boy. How are
things in Hogtown these days?” White’s supercilious British accent
was particularly grating to Chase. “I was wondering if you have
come to a decision yet on my latest offer for the
Express.”

“
Well Rupert, I’m still
thinking it over and reviewing my other options,” replied
Chase.

“
What other options, my
boy? I am sure things are not getting much better for your paper.
You had better strike while the iron is hot. This offer is not
unlimited. You had better consider what is in your best future
financial interests. Would you rather face bankruptcy or a few
million more dollars going into your bank account?”

“
It is a very generous
offer, Rupert. One I am very seriously considering, but I need some
time. This paper was a dream of mine. I find it difficult to
consider letting it go. There is also a matter of the hundreds of
employees. I feel a responsibility to them and their
jobs.”

“
Bullshit! Your first
responsibility is to yourself and your reputation, Andrew. And you
know as well as I that your paper is going down the tubes. You
don’t need to be the Captain of the Titanic and go down with the
ship. My pockets are far deeper than yours. I can sustain the
losses temporarily and build that paper into a competitor that will
give the Globe and the Star a run for their money. That will also
be in the best interests of your employees in the long
term.”

Chase paused momentarily. What a
condescending prick!

Chase knew full well Rupert White’s
track record with new acquisitions. The ink on the agreement would
hardly be dry before the pink slips would start going
out.

White would gut the paper and replace
most of the existing staff with others from his vast media empire.
He would put in place a skeleton staff drawing on the resources of
his other papers. The newspaper would be filled with canned
stories, lots of wire copy, printing at a centralized plant, and
reductions in local reporter coverage.

White was internationally renowned for
running a lean, mean moneymaking media machine.

“
Like I said, Rupert. I
need more time to consider this,” said Chase. “I’ll get back to you
as soon as possible.”

There was a pause at the other end of
the line.

“
You have 24 hours,
Andrew,” replied White. “My offer will expire at midnight tomorrow
your time. Come to your senses, boy and do the right
thing.”

The line suddenly
disconnected.

“
What an Asshole! I’d like
to tell him right now where he could shove his offer, Andrew
thought. But $450 million was nothing to take lightly. Andrew knew
he had to consider White’s offer to purchase.

It was time for him to make a
decision.

Chapter 5

Toronto Daily Express
Thursday 12:25 AM

“
IT’S A WRAP. The presses
are rolling,” said managing editor Braden Young. “Who wants a
nightcap at Paddy’s? Drinks are on me!”

The Irish bar was located only a few
steps away from the Daily Express building. It was a favorite
watering hole for its reporters and editors. Paddy’s was a second
home to many of them. They frequented its premises far more than
was good for them. But it was a place to ease stress and let off
steam.

“
Sounds good. I’ll take
you up on that offer,” replied Paul O’Connor. “I never say no to a
Guinness – the mother’s milk of us Irish.”

“
Thanks, boss, but I’ll
take a rain check if you don’t mind,” said Cannon. “I’m beat. I
want nothing more than a good hot shower and to hit the
sheets.”

I’d like nothing better than to join
you, thought Young. Then he pushed his lusty thoughts aside. Shame
on me. She’s almost the same age as my daughter.

Young rarely saw his daughter Megan
who now lived in New Jersey with her boyfriend, a television
anchorman at a local station in New York.

Young didn’t have much love of
television journalists – pretty boys and girls with their blown dry
hair and makeup. Few of them were serious news people who earned
their chops covering a beat, getting their hands dirty and
clambering their way to the top as he had done.

But he’d paid a terrible price for
that lifestyle.

Long hours and late nights had wreaked
havoc on his marriage to his high school sweetheart Nancy. He was
rarely home and spent little time with his family. While she was
growing up, he missed many of Megan’s dance recitals, school plays
and concerts because of his work.

Time passed so fast. Before he knew
it, Megan had grown up into a teenager. Then of course, she wanted
little to do with either of her parents, except for their
money.

Finally, Nancy had enough of her
marriage sham. They separated seven years ago and divorced a few
months later.

His ex-wife was now married to a
university professor at a small state college in Ohio. Nancy much
preferred the stable life as the spouse of an academic who was home
most evenings

Megan lived with her mother until she
met a young man in the journalism school at the university. Romance
blossomed despite Nancy’s misgivings about her daughter getting
involved with a journalist, even the broadcast kind.

Young picked up his jacket. “Well,
we’ll escort you down to the garage, Katie. It’s late at night and
I don’t want to take any chances with that Wolfman character
prowling around the city. He seems to have a personal interest in
you reporting on his exploits. I don’t want him to get any ideas
about getting too personal.”

Young was referring to the fact that
Cannon had started receiving e-mails from the Wolfman following
some of her stories about the last few victims.

The killer seemed enamored with the
publicity and notoriety Katie gave him. She even coined the term
‘Wolfman’, which was picked up by the other media, based on one of
the serial killer’s predilections.

The news trio waited for the elevator.
The elevator doors opened and standing inside was the publisher,
Andrew Chase.

“
Good evening, Mr. Chase.
You’re burning the midnight oil tonight,” said Young.

“
Yes, paper business kept
me late tonight, Braden. I take it tomorrow’s edition has been put
to bed. Good evening, Paul and Katherine.” Chase nodded formally in
their direction. “What are the good citizens of this city going to
wake up to tomorrow?”

“
Our top line story is
more on this Wolfman serial killer. The police don’t seem close to
capturing him.” Braden Young spoke enthusiastically about the
paper’s line-up. “Our second line story from our correspondent
Trevor Trevanian is about more suicide bombings in
Afghanistan.”

“
So much death and
destruction,” sighed Chase. “Is it any wonder people say newspapers
are so depressing to read these days? Isn’t there any good news we
can report for a change?”

“
Plenty,” replied Young.
“But it’s inside stuff. Despite what some people claim, it is the
juicy bad news that readers really lap up. That’s what sells
papers. And that is our business after all.”

“
Yes, it is,” replied
Chase. “I suppose you’re right, Braden. But I sometimes wonder if
putting more good news on the front page wouldn’t ultimately sell
more papers and build us a stronger readership.”

The elevator reached the basement
parking garage and the doors opened.

“
Well goodnight to you
all. Thanks for all your efforts and dedication to the paper.”
Chase headed off to his Lexus in the executive parking
area.

Braden turned to Katie Cannon. “Sure
you don’t want to change your mind and come with us for that
drink?”

“
No thanks, Braden. I’m
ready to call it a night. Tomorrow could be another long day. Good
night, fellas. See you in the morning – or rather I should say
later this morning.” She looked at her watch, noting that it was
now 12:40 a.m. It had been another long day. There had been so many
lately.