Thunder in the Blood (11 page)

Rory appeared the following evening. I’d been meaning to go out, but I felt so ill I decided against it. He stayed for half an hour. He sat beside me on the sofa and told me that he’d been up all night thinking about what I’d said and he’d decided that I was right. He’d been selfish with me, a pig to his wife and irresponsible about the kids, and now was the time to try and put it all back together again. He wouldn’t be phoning any more and he wouldn’t be coming round again. The last six months had been the high point of his life, and he never expected anything like it to happen again. He’d loved me for years, he loved me now and he couldn’t see it ever stopping. But stop it must and now was the time.

It was a curiously stilted performance, old-fashioned, awkward, not like Rory at all. At the end, he kissed me and held me for a while, and then he got up and left. I heard the front door closing, and I sat on the sofa for probably an hour, maybe longer, thinking about absolutely nothing. I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t hysterical. I was just numb. Then the phone rang, my mother asking about tickets for a concert she wanted to go to, and we talked for a bit and then she said goodnight. I put the phone down and went out into the hall to bolt the door. On the mat, with its little curl of string, was Rory’s key. I looked at it for a moment or two. And then I wept.

Of the next few months I remember very little. I did what I could at Charlie’s, forcing myself to turn up three or four evenings a week, but I was only going through the motions, listening to myself drone on about positive thinking and self-empowerment, wondering why none of it worked. The Gulf War came and went, video games on the television every morning, and by the end of February we appeared to have won. There was a major celebration in the office, loose talk about a new world order, speculation about closer ties to Washington and I shared a brief drink with Stollmann who told me we were bloody lucky Saddam had been so clueless. A lot of the gear he had was ours. Questions about British deaths from British-supplied equipment might, in some quarters, have been tricky to answer.

Quite what to make of these muttered asides I never really
new, but I’d recognized a face in the paper that morning, a mutual friend of ours who’d just been appointed Parliamentary Under-Secretary for Trade and Industry. The promotion, according to the
Guardian,
had been carefully timed. The arsenals of the Gulf were virtually empty, and the pickings for the arms salesmen were very rich indeed.

‘Lawrence Priddy,’ I’d said to Stollmann, ‘who’d have thought?’

Stollmann, at the mercy of a small glass of sweet sherry, had pulled a face and then looked quickly away, changing the subject when I tried to pursue it. I was doing a fine job in Registry, he’d said, and he held out great hopes for an imminent pay rise. He knew it wasn’t my first choice of posting, but I wouldn’t be shackled to the computer for ever and he’d try and sort something out. I’d looked duly grateful at this piece of news, but in truth I’d ceased to care. Neither the future, nor the present, had any meaning. I just lived from day to day, hour to hour, praying for the phone to ring, slowly realizing that it probably never would.

I was wrong. Late September, summer gone, I was sitting in the flat, spooning Whiskas into a saucer for the cat. The cat was a good size, now. She had the sense to eat for both of us. I lifted the phone. It was Rory.

‘Hi,’ I said woodenly.

‘I’m at the end of the road. In a call box.’

‘You want to come up?’

‘Please.’

I let him in a minute or so later. It was raining outside and his mac was soaking. He stood in the hall for a second or two, dripping on to the carpet. He looked much thinner. I gazed at him for a long time, then I shrugged and went to him and put my arms round him. I could feel him shaking. After a while, he produced a handkerchief and we shared it, drying our eyes. I led him through to the living room, and we sat down, our arms round each other. After a bit, my head on his shoulder, I sniffed.

‘Hopeless.’ I said.

‘You’re right.’

‘But better now.’

He said nothing, his arms tightening around me. Then the cat jumped up, fat old thing, and we both laughed.

Two days later, at Rory’s insistence, we took the night sleeper
to Inverness. At Inverness, we changed on to another train, and clattered west, across the Highlands towards the Kyle of Lochalsh. End of season, we had the carriage to ourselves, and we huddled together by the window, gazing at the view, the stands of pine, the soaring kestrels, the ice-blue water of the lochs, the mountains mirrored beyond, their summits already capped with snow. We said very little, because there was no longer any need, and when we got to the Kyle, we stepped off the train and walked to the end of the platform, shivering in the wind. Across the water was the Isle of Skye and to the north, plainly visible now, were the Cuillin Hills.

Since I’d met him, years back, Rory had talked about the Cuillins. They were, he said, the finest range of mountains in the world, the one occasion when God and geology had got it exactly right. As a youth, holidaying on Skye, he’d climbed them all. In various conversations since we’d come together, he’d climbed them again, choosing the hardest tracks, leading me by the hand, describing every step of the way. Most of these conversations had happened in bed, nose to nose, and the Cuillins had become our talisman, our private estate. One day, he’d always promised me, he’d take me there. And then we’d climb them for real.

That first night, we stayed at a hotel in Portree, an hour on the bus from the ferry. The hotel, fittingly enough, was called Cuillin View, and we had a room at the front of the building, big picture windows, the last of the daylight expiring on the sea loch, the wind beginning to stir the pine trees, the mountains themselves already invisible behind a wall of cloud.

The weather got worse. For the three days we’d managed to escape, it never stopped raining. Once or twice, on our hands and knees on the bedroom floor, we pored over the map Rory had brought with him, convinced that the weather would improve, but it never did and we left Skye with the Cuillins unclimbed. We hadn’t once seen the sun and most of the cloud never left ground level, but we’d had some delicious meals, most of them in bed, and I’d been happier than I can ever remember. Walking down the little road from the hotel to the town centre for the bus back to the ferry, we wiped the rain from our eyes and joked about our paper assault on Rory’s precious mountains. One day, I told
him, we’d be back. And then, in God’s good time, the buggers would fall. I squeezed Rory’s hand, watching the bus turn into the town square.

‘What’s a couple of years,’ I said, ‘between mates?’

Back in London, three days later, I fixed for us to go to the movies. There was an Indian film on,
Salaam Bombay.
I’d read the reviews and I’d once spent a couple of unforgettable weeks in Bombay and after all the chatter about the Cuillins I wanted to treat Rory to some memories of my own.

It turned up outside the cinema a minute or two early. I waited and waited but Rory didn’t appear. After an hour, worried, I phoned the MOD. The desk officer tried his extension. It didn’t answer. I frowned, replacing the receiver, wondering what I could possibly do next. I had his London phone number, the flat in Greenwich, but I was loath to use it. Since Skye, Rory had been planning to tell Ruth that the marriage was over. It wasn’t a conversation he relished having, and the last thing I wanted to do was interrupt it.

I waited on the pavement another fifteen minutes, half expecting him to turn up. When nothing happened, I went back to the phone box. I dialled my own number, thinking Rory might have had the dreaded conversation and gone to my place forgetting about the cinema. When there was no answer, I waited a couple of minutes more. Then I phoned the number in Greenwich. It answered on the second ring.

‘Is Rory there?’ I said carefully.

There was a moment’s silence. Then a woman answered. Her voice, familiar, was chilly. I recognized it at once. It was Ruth.

‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Sarah. Sarah Moreton. I was just—’

‘What can I do for you, Sarah?’

‘Is Rory there?’

There was another silence, longer this time, then she was back again. There was no mistaking the new edge to her voice. As I’d suspected, phoning was a real mistake.

‘Rory?’ she said. ‘I thought you’d be the first to know.’

‘Know what?’

‘He’s gone to Iraq. To look after the Kurds.’

‘What?’

‘Iraq, Sarah. The Kurds.’

I blinked. The last time I’d seen Rory, we’d been sitting in a pub in Soho looking for the cinema listings in the
Evening Standard.
That had been yesterday. Now he’d gone to Iraq.

‘When?’ I said.

‘This morning.’

‘But when did he know?’

‘Weeks ago.’ She paused. ‘Ten days ago.’

I shook my head, not wanting to believe her. ‘How long?’ I said. ‘How long has he gone for?’

‘God knows.’

‘But when’s he back?’

‘Christmas, I hope. We’ve taken a chalet in Val d’Isère. He swears he’ll be back in time to join us.’

‘
Join
you?’

‘Yes.’ She laughed. ‘It’s the last promise he made me before he left.’

Next day, I was called to Stollmann’s office. He was brisk and surprisingly cheerful. A journalist on a defence magazine was chasing a story in which we had a considerable interest. We needed to find out where he was heading and, if necessary, go with him. The journalist had a reputation for being difficult. He was also HIV positive. At this point, Stollmann glanced up at me.

‘You know about AIDS,’ he said. ‘You work with these people.’

‘Yes.’

‘Still?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded, opening a drawer. He gave me a large white envelope. I was to read the contents, make an operational plan and report back. I looked at the envelope. It had a Guildford postmark. On the way out of the office, I paused.

‘This journalist,’ I said, ‘what’s his name?’

Stollmann glanced up again. He was already working on another file.

‘Keogh,’ he said, ‘Wesley Keogh.’

Book Two

11

What happened with Rory came as a complete surprise, naïve as it may sound. It was the last thing I’d expected and for days I don’t think I really believed he’d gone. But the phone never rang and nothing came in the post – no letter, no explanation – and slowly my feelings about him hardened into a cold, implacable anger. I’d loved the man. I’d trusted him. And now, for the second time, he’d taken what he wanted and stolen away. Betrayed would be too mild a word for the way I felt. Rage, loathing and contempt are much closer, though none of these emotions is much fun to live with. Thank God, I remember thinking at the time, for Stollmann and his little files.

My dealings with Wesley Keogh began with Derek Aldridge, his editor at
Defence Week
and his long-term chum who’d been the one to raise the alarm with Eric Stollmann. We met at a French restaurant in Guildford. The meal had been his idea and he was already studying the menu by the time I arrived, rising to greet me the moment I walked in. He was a heavy man, carefully barbered, with a sallow, indoor face and a warm smile. He was drinking Campari from a tall glass and there was a folded copy of the
Daily Telegraph
lying beside his plate. Stollmann’s brief had described him as ‘vulnerable’ and ‘eager to please’, music to our ears, and I could see at once why.

Aldridge settled into his chair. He hadn’t once taken his eyes off me.

‘Mind a recommendation?’

‘Not at all.’

‘You like onion soup?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ He smiled again. ‘And pheasant?’

‘Yes.’

‘Excellent.’

He glanced up at the waiter and ordered both dishes in passable French. In the light from the window, his face was mapped with tiny broken blood vessels. He looked at me again.

‘Burgundy OK for you?’

I smiled. ‘Anything you say.’

‘Sure?’

‘Bien sûr.’

The waiter scribbled the order and headed for the door. Aldridge reached for his napkin. He had beautiful hands, long fingers, buffed nails, a single signet ring.

‘I got the impression you were older,’ he said, ‘somehow.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Your voice on the phone.’ He shrugged. ‘I always get it wrong. Daft old sod.’

Rory had cured me of many things. One of them was believing garbage like this. I smiled politely at Aldridge, making no comment, thinking about the man’s relationship with this Wesley Keogh. Stollmann had called it ‘intermittent’ and ‘close’, two words that seemed to me to be a contradiction in terms. Were they buddies? Working colleagues? Or what? On the phone, Aldridge had refused to comment. Now he was telling me about a place he and his wife were planning to buy in France. It was eighteenth century. It came with forty acres and included a small lake. At a million and a half francs, it was dirt cheap.

‘About Keogh,’ I said.

Aldridge stopped in mid-sentence. One of the things he obviously wasn’t used to in life was being interrupted. He looked at me for a moment, then reached for the remains of his Campari.

‘On the record,’ he said finally, dabbing his mouth with the corner of his napkin, ‘or off?’

‘Whatever you like,’ I said, ‘makes no difference.’

‘To whom?’

‘To me.’ I studied him for a moment. ‘As I understand it, you made the approach to us. Your idea. Your call. You were having problems with Keogh. You were worried about him. Wasn’t that it?’

‘Yes. Poor bastard.’

‘And you thought you ought to get in touch?’

‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve talked to your people before. As you probably know.’

‘Yes.’ A trawl through the files had revealed his previous dealings with us, caving in when we applied pressure over Wesley’s precious drug-smuggling story. Aldridge was shaking the creases out of his napkin, spreading it on his lap. He glanced up, all innocence.

‘So…’ He shrugged. ‘I called again. Thought it might be helpful.’

‘Why?’

Aldridge studied me for a long time. Then he glanced out of the window and sighed. The courtship was over. In its place was a new game.

‘This is hard for me,’ he said at last, ‘harder than you might think. I’ve known the guy most of my working life. He’s like a brother.’ He frowned. ‘He’s brilliant, too. Did you know that?’

‘Only from you. From what you told us.’

‘It’s true,’ he nodded. ‘Hacks like me, been around a while, you get a nose for that kind of talent. Blokes like Wesley… Jesus … make you feel this big.’ He gestured with his right hand, thumb and forefinger, an inch apart.

‘But you say he’s a problem. That’s the impression I get. Reading between the lines.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Why?’

‘Because …’ he sighed, watching the waiter approach with a bottle of Burgundy. He poured two glasses and Aldridge lifted his, the smile back on his face. After a moment’s hesitation, I leaned forward. The train I’d ringed to get me back to London left at three. At this rate, we’d be barely past the soup.

‘The recession’s awful,’ I said, ‘circulation’s down. Sales are hopeless. And Keogh has just upset one of your major advertisers. Isn’t that it?’

Aldridge blinked, the glass at his lips. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘American firm called Extec? From Dallas?’

‘The Extec Corporation.’ He nodded. ‘That’s one of them.’

‘There are others?’

‘Of course. They hunt in packs.’ He paused.

‘And the others are upset as well? Because of Keogh?’

‘Yes, more or less.’

‘Why?’

Aldridge looked at me again, the smile quite gone, and I sensed for the first time exactly what it was that had taken him so far, so fast. Behind the petty vanities and the drink, he was certainly no fool.

‘There are different kinds of defence journalism,’ he said slowly. ‘You may know that.’

‘No,’ I said truthfully, ‘I don’t.’

Aldridge nodded. ‘There’s real journalism. Real questions. Real issues. Broadsheet stuff…’ He paused. ‘And then there’s our sort.’

‘What’s your sort?’

‘Our sort?’ He frowned. ‘Our sort’s different. The broadsheet guys, they’re out in the corridor, hands and knees, peering in through the keyhole, making themselves a nuisance.’

‘And you?’

‘We’re tucked up inside, nice and cosy, no hard questions, nothing embarrassing.’ Another pause. ‘We kid ourselves we’re in the same business. We call it the data game. We like to pretend it’s grown-up journalism, journalism without the hype. In fact, it’s nothing of the sort.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s mostly copy that the industry sends through. We read it and we change it around a little and we put a modest spin on it from time to time, but that’s all. In essence, we’re just another branch of the industry, a mouthpiece if you like. We rely on their advertising, their support. We feed at the same trough. What hurts them, hurts us. In a recession like this, you’re just happy to keep eating.’

‘You sound bitter.’

Aldridge looked up, shaking his head. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘You get into bed with these guys, you expect to get screwed. It’s not so bad after a while. It has its compensations. Providing you forget about journalism.’

‘And Keogh?’

Aldridge shook his head again, genuine regret. ‘Never forgot. Not once. Never understood why he should, either. Guy in his position…’

‘That’s past tense.’

‘You’re right.’ He nodded. ‘I sacked him this morning.’

The soup arrived but Aldridge didn’t touch it. My bluntness seemed to have opened a door he didn’t want to close. Wesley Keogh had been a good friend. As a fellow human being, he had unlimited time for the man, but as a member of
Defence Week
he’d always been a major risk. He was brilliant, but he lacked perspective. He had no time for compromise, he refused to temper his journalistic instincts for the good of the magazine. Fit and well, pursuing genuine stories, he’d always been a handful. Now, his health and his judgement gone, he’d become a real liability.

‘How bad is he?’

‘He’s terrible. He’s sick.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ll see for yourself if you meet him.’

‘But is he still working?’

‘Until this morning,’ he nodded, ‘yes.’

‘What happened this morning?’

Aldridge looked away. Then he smiled, a small, quiet adjustment of the bottom half of his face, almost rueful.

‘There’s a guy sits across from Wesley. He runs the North American desk. He’s very good, very dependable, gets the stuff out, no waves, no drama.’

‘Your sort of journalist?’

‘Yes. Lovely man.’

‘And?’

‘Wesley needed one of his files. The guy keeps files on everything. You should see them. Hard copy from the disks, everything cross-indexed, absolutely immaculate.’

‘And?’

‘Wesley wanted the file on Extec. He’s been after it for weeks. The other guy wouldn’t let him get near it. Not after what Wesley’s done to his contacts.’

‘What’s this guy’s name?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ He paused, looking at me. ‘Ellison.’

I made a note on the pad beside my plate. Then I looked up.

‘Ellison wouldn’t part with the file,’ I said. ‘So what happened?’

Aldridge said nothing for a moment. Then he smiled again, shaking his head, the story evidently still fresh in his mind.

‘Ellison wanted to take a leak. Wesley followed him to the loo. I happened to be on the editorial floor at the time. The loos are
down one end. I saw him come out. The man was raving.’

‘Why?’

‘Wesley had pinned him to the wall and threatened to bite him.’

‘
Bite
him?’

‘Yes,’ he paused. ‘You can imagine the guy’s reaction.’

I put my pen down, thinking it through. According to the tabloids, one bite from someone with AIDS is tantamount to a death sentence. It’s not true but Ellison had obviously believed it. I glanced up, trying to hide a grin.

‘People know? About Keogh’s condition? What’s wrong with him?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Aldridge nodded. ‘That’s the whole point. Wesley doesn’t believe in secrets. Least of all, his own.’

Over the pheasant, at last, we began to talk about Wesley’s story. The version Aldridge had sent to Stollmann was the one that starts this book: that the Americans had staged the Gulf War for their own – and Saddam Hussein’s – benefit. Umpteen Iraqis may have died, but Saddam was still in power, George Bush was a mega-hero and the American arms industry was going from strength to strength. As an exercise in cynicism, the story made me catch my breath, but what I’d seen of the rationale was more than plausible. In six weeks of hostilities, the Americans had lost just seventy-nine men, many of them to accidents and friendly fire. As Stollmann himself had pointed out, that was fewer than a fortnight’s homicides in New York City. On the basis of figures like these, participation in the biggest conflict since Vietnam was – if you were wearing the right uniform – four times safer than staying at home.

By this time Aldridge was half-way into the third bottle of Burgundy. When he offered to fill my glass, I shook my head. I’d drunk far too much already.

‘So tell me,’ I began, ‘do you believe it?’

‘What?’

‘Keogh’s little thesis. About the Gulf.’

Aldridge gazed at his glass for a moment. Then he reached for it, one finger circling the rim.

‘No,’ he said at last, ‘I don’t.’

‘Why not?’

He smiled, rueful again, an honesty I was beginning to like.
‘One, because I can’t afford to,’ he said, ‘and two, because it simply couldn’t have happened.’

‘Couldn’t?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because…’ He shrugged, ‘these things take organization. It’s too big a secret to keep. You’d have to involve too many people.’ He glanced up. ‘Conspiracy’s a fuel. It keeps most journalists going. It’s what makes them get up in the morning. It’s a beautiful word. It explains everything.’

‘But not this?’

‘No.’ He shook his head, emphatic. ‘Life’s more complex. More difficult. Conspiracy sells newspapers. But that’s about it.’

I nodded, saying nothing, tidying the remains of my pheasant into a neat pile at the side of my plate. When I glanced up again, Aldridge was studying me over the rim of his glass.

‘What about you?’ he said. ‘What’s your interest?’

I pondered the question for a moment or two. It had preoccupied me for most of the previous week, though three successive attempts to get Stollmann to part with the background had achieved nothing more helpful than a reminder about my overtime. Anything over five hours a week, I had to get authorized in writing. Unless, that is, I chose not to book it. I looked at Aldridge again. He radiated neither power nor glamour, but in certain lights he had a kind of shabby charm.

‘Tell me about arms sales,’ I said carefully, ‘into the Middle East.’

‘Before the war? Or after?’

‘After.’

‘Easy.’ He smiled. ‘Most of them are going to Washington.’

‘Most?’

‘Twenty-one billion dollars’ worth so far and counting.’

‘And us? How are we doing?’

Aldridge took another sip of wine, enjoying himself now, back on home territory.

‘Us?’ He shrugged. ‘Crumbs from the table. Bits and pieces. Back in the spring there was a Kuwaiti re-equipment agreement. You probably read about it. The Americans sort out the air side. The French look after the navy. We replace the rest.’

‘Rest?’

‘Army stuff. Tanks. Artillery. Mines. Various ordnance.’

‘And?’

‘The Americans said yes, sure, great idea. Then they started calling the debts in. Their guys are everywhere. They’re selling everything. They’re all over the ragheads and the ragheads love it, which I suppose makes sense. They’re going to buy where the power is. They’re going to stick with the big guys. That means dollars, not pounds.’

‘What are they after?’

‘Anything. We’re trying to sell the Challenger into Kuwait at the moment. The Challenger is our battle tank. The Americans say theirs is better. Heavier. Faster.’ He paused. ‘A smarter buy.’

‘And the deal? That agreement you mentioned?’

‘Worthless. Either they never meant it in the first place or it’s all out of control.’ He leaned forward. ‘And one other thing you have to remember. America’s a democracy. Next year’s election year. The last thing Bush wants is empty factories out west.’ He smiled. ‘The Americans understand two things. Winning and losing. The big guys won. That gives them
carte blanche.
At least, that’s the way they see it.’ His hand strayed back towards the half-empty glass, the voice quieter, more reflective: ‘So maybe that’s it, maybe we think they’ve been cheating. Maybe we’re looking for the big stick.’