A Single Source Page 11

  ‘Un-fucking-believable.’ The word carbuncle came to mind but Rob rejected it. To his eye, the News Centre was less carbuncle, more eight-storey glassy scar. ‘Thank Christ I don’t have to work in there anymore.’ It was nearly 9 a.m. and a steady stream of people was arriving for work; some clocked Rob and recognised him but he avoided eye contact. He had no interest in renewing old acquaintances, he wanted to meet the person he’d arranged to meet and then put some distance between himself and his former employer.

  There was one interesting-looking individual on the piazza – a bearded man, wearing some kind of safari suit with short trousers despite the cold, and heavy hiking boots. He’d appeared from nowhere while Rob was having a fag and looked even more out of place than Mariscal himself. The man was standing at the centre of the open space, very still, staring up into the sky. Rob moved closer and as he did, he noticed that the man wore a thick brown glove on his left hand. Standing on the glove, rigid and alert, was a bird. Rob’s curiosity got the better of him. ‘All right, chief? What’s the bird for?’

  The man pointed upwards with his unencumbered hand. ‘Pigeons.’

  ‘What about them? He kills them?’

  ‘Bird’s a she, not a he. Hers a Harris hawk – she don’t kill them, just gives ’em a scare. Moves them on.’ The man had a broad West Country accent.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Health and hygiene. Pigeons are vermin, aren’t they?’

  Rob shrugged, he wasn’t sure about that; he’d always had a soft spot for pigeons. There was something unflashy and honest about them.

  ‘Yous can pet her if you like?’

  Rob gave the bird’s breast feathers a nervous stroke.

  From somewhere high above there was a faint sound, a flutter of wings; the hawk cocked her head, waiting. Mariscal studied the bird: she had a small black leather hood covering her head, and a silver bell was tied to her clawed foot.

  ‘So she just chases them off then? Never catches them? Eats them?’

  The falconer glanced around the piazza; people strode by but no one was paying them much notice. ‘Sometimes she’ll get one. If she gets one, she’ll ’ave it. But most of the time that’s ’cos pigeon’s poorly. Or old. She’s mainly doin’ what I said – scarin’ ’em off, moving them on.’

  ‘Right.’ Rob paused. ‘Is this your job then? They pay you for this?’

  The falconer glanced at Mariscal. ‘Course they pays me, what d’you think? I do it for the giggles?’

  ‘No. I guess not.’

  Rob moved away, curiosity satisfied. He took a table outside the coffee shop next to new Broadcasting House and waited. The woman he was meeting was late but there was no point getting het up about it; she was doing him a favour seeing him at all and he knew how hard it was to extricate yourself from those post-programme meetings.

  Just then Rob’s successor as Today programme editor appeared outside the revolving doors of New Broadcasting House and shaded her eyes against the sun. Rob raised his hand.

  Naomi Holder was wearing flat shoes, a light blue sweater and black cigarette pants, a shapeless black bag hanging from her shoulder. Her make-up had been freshly applied and Mariscal wondered fleetingly whether this might be for his benefit before deciding that it probably wasn’t. They had got along fine when Naomi first worked at Today – years back now – but she’d never shown any sign of having a romantic interest in Rob and that was when he was young-ish and powerful as opposed to fat-ish and vilified. Arriving at his table, Naomi bent low and brushed Rob’s cheek with her lips. He was grateful for this and glanced around to see if anyone else might have noticed. Naomi smelled faintly of jasmine.

  ‘I thought you were going to meet me inside?’

  ‘I figured it was better meeting out here. I think I’m still persona non grata.’

  ‘Is that Latin for guy who everyone thinks is a dick?’

  Mariscal smiled. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Speak a lot of Latin working in Whitehall, do you?’

  ‘Certe. Is it certe or valde?’

  Naomi shook her head. ‘No idea. State school remember. What’s the plan? Want to get a coffee and a croissant here?’

  ‘No, not here, I’ve booked that place down the road, that fancy new Fitzrovia diner. I thought we’d have a proper breakfast?’

  ‘Breakfast! I can’t remember the last time I had breakfast.’

  Mariscal nodded. ‘That’s what I figured. One of the worst things about being Today editor, you never get to eat the most important meal of the day; one of the reasons I quit.’

  Naomi laughed. ‘Come on, Rob. You jumped about thirty seconds before you were pushed. We’ve known each other long enough to be honest about stuff like that, haven’t we?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  Inside the restaurant, they were given a window seat and a tight deadline. The young waiter seating them apologised that they’d need the table back at ten.

  Rob nodded. ‘You better serve us quick then, I’m an extremely slow eater. Have you got Winchester cutlets?’

  The kid had a diagonal fringe that looked like it had been cut with the aid of a ruler. When he shook his head it looked like someone was drawing the curtains.

  ‘No? How about broiled partridge? Reindeer tongues?’

  The curtains closed again and Naomi intervened, taking the menu from the boy’s hand. ‘We’ll have two full English. Eggs scrambled, everything well-done and black coffee.’

  The waiter gave a grateful nod and withdrew.

  ‘Nice ordering.’

  ‘I remember you used to eat a full English whenever we went out for lunch. I assumed you wouldn’t mind having it for breakfast too.’ Naomi started the meal with her mobile phone sitting on the table next to her, but when she realised that its repeated buzzing was bugging Mariscal, she put it back in her bag.

  Their time together at Today had lasted just six months but both remembered it fondly. Naomi was on a series of attachments to the flagship BBC news programmes and the Today programme was her penultimate placement. It was part of a scheme aimed at nurturing high flyers – an initiative that Mariscal hated in principle, but try as he might he could not hold this against Naomi, who was exceptional from the get-go. After the attachment was up, Rob tried to persuade her to stay but she insisted she should do her six months in telly before deciding whether to come back. She never came back, or not until she was offered the editor’s job anyway.

  ‘So I hear you’ve prettified my old office. Feminised the place?’

  Naomi took a sip of her coffee and smiled. ‘I took the pornography down off the walls, if that’s what you mean?’

  ‘Ah yes, that’s a shame. It wasn’t really porn – it was more arty. I don’t suppose you—’

  ‘No I didn’t. I threw it away.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Rob refilled their water glasses. ‘What else have you changed? Do you still go for Monday night drinks?’

  ‘Not every Monday but I do try and keep that one going. Smoking isn’t as rigidly enforced as it used to be.’

  ‘Really? I always thought the smoking was pretty good for esprit de corps?’

  ‘Perhaps, but I think making people go outside with you for a cigarette is probably against the law now. You still puffing away?’

  ‘Sure, nine quid a packet these days.’

  ‘Then quit.’

  ‘I’d like to, but it’s so exciting.’

  ‘What’s exciting?’

  ‘My life. It basically all boils down to a race between bankruptcy and lung cancer. I can’t wait to see who wins.’

  Naomi smiled at her old boss. The food arrived and she watched Mariscal over-salt everything on his plate before tucking in.

  ‘I’m not sure I ever really thanked you for that placement, way back when.’

  ‘No thanks necessary, you were good. Better than good.’ Rob spoke through a mouthful of egg.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve always been grateful. My time with you made a difference, you were always
very straightforward with me.’

  Mariscal shrugged.

  ‘There were a lot of people at the BBC who were nervous around me when I first arrived, bashful about even describing me. I’d been described as the lady with frizzy hair, the woman with very dark hair and hoop earrings. My first day at Today, someone from personnel came and asked you who I was – you pointed at me: She’s over there, the lanky black girl by the photocopier. It was a relief. You made me welcome.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that was before I knew that you’d climb over my dead body to get my job.’

  ‘You’re not dead yet, Rob.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  It took a while for Rob to get around to talking about the real reason he needed to see Naomi. Partly because he was enjoying her company and partly out of embarrassment.

  Halfway down Rob’s list of ways in which he might start selling the story of the ship was an idea that the permanent secretary particularly liked. Mariscal suggested inviting a Today programme presenter to spend a week on board an aircraft carrier, experiencing the day-to-day working of one of these giants and sending back regular dispatches – radio pieces of course but also films, digital diaries, photos, tweets, the works. His boss told Rob to move this plan up to the very top of the list, and so with the food finished and the waiter loitering, ready to reclaim the table, Mariscal made his pitch. Naomi listened carefully, a slight smile on her face. Rob wasn’t sure he liked the look of this smile.

  ‘What’re you grinning about?’

  ‘Do you remember what you used to tell us about embeds and MOD facilities?’

  ‘Thankfully, no I don’t.’

  ‘You used to say they were as journalistically credible and appetising as a tablespoon of dog shit.’

  ‘Right. Well, I changed my mind. It turns out that MOD facilities aren’t dog shit, in fact they’re a very good way to build trust between the government and the governed.’

  Naomi raised her coffee cup in a toast then placed it back down. Her brow furrowed as she considered Rob’s offer. ‘So, you’re bringing me this because you’re in a knife fight with the Treasury over the defence budget and the aircraft carriers are vulnerable.’

  Mariscal smiled. ‘On the record – that’s a dreadfully cynical suggestion that has no basis in fact.’

  ‘Off the record?’

  ‘Off the record – sure.’

  He watched as she weighed up the pros and cons of the MOD facility. He remembered Naomi telling him that she’d almost chosen law over journalism as a career and he had no doubt that she’d have excelled in that arena too. When they were working together, he delegated all the conversations with BBC lawyers to Naomi and, to Rob’s amazement, she actually seemed to enjoy it. Her ability to analyse a story and cross-examine arguments was impressive, though Rob felt that it made her over-cautious. He remembered telling her how an editor sometimes has to just trust their gut and take a punt. Naomi wasn’t that type.

  ‘The MOD must be an interesting place to be right now.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘If this whole Arab Spring thing turns out to be real, if there’s genuine change across North Africa, across the Middle East, then that’s more than half a dozen countries in flux – some of our biggest arms importers.’

  ‘The Ministry of Defence’s sole purpose is to defend the realm.’

  ‘And facilitate arms sales.’

  ‘I refer you to my previous on the record response.’

  Naomi grinned. ‘Come on, Rob, you’ve got at least a hundred and sixty people, working in the same building as you, whose job it is to help British arms companies flog their wares around the world.’

  Mariscal shrugged. ‘We live in a turbulent and challenging international environment. British firms can provide solutions to some of those challenges. We should be proud of that.’

  Naomi shook her head. ‘What a load of bullshit.’

  ‘It’s not. I genuinely believe that, or some of it anyway. But dog shit and bullshit aside, this is actually a pretty decent offer, Naomi. A week on a working aircraft carrier, completely exclusive, access all areas.’

  ‘Have you offered this to anyone else?’

  ‘You know I haven’t but you also know that if I do, Good Morning wotsit or Sky would have my arm off.’

  After breakfast they loitered at the door of the diner a while, making vague promises that they’d meet again soon; dinner was mentioned. Naomi was heading back in the direction of his old office, her new one, when Rob stopped her. ‘I meant to ask, how’s Carver? I mean I hear his pieces but we’re not … you know … in touch.’

  Naomi smiled. ‘He’s fine. Older, grumpier but he’s doing okay. Patrick’s keeping him on the straight and narrow and they’ve had a good Arab Spring. He called it early.’

  ‘He does that.’

  ‘I spoke to him briefly this morning. The world’s press are arriving en masse. I think he finds that a little dispiriting.’

  Rob smiled. ‘Yeah. I bet he didn’t put it quite like that. You should watch out for that one. When the whole world gets an appetite for a story, Carver tends to lose his.’

  13 Quod Erat Demonstrandum

  DATELINE: The Seti Hotel, Cairo, Egypt, January 28 2011

  ‘What a goat fuck this is.’

  Carver pointed a finger at the object of his displeasure – a lobby full of breathless hacks, half of them with phones clamped to their ears, talking themselves and each other into a frenzy. TV crews from a dozen different countries were gathering their kit together and arguing over taxicabs. Carver sat on the banquette outside the main hotel bar and stared at it all. He elbowed Patrick in the ribs. ‘That guy over there, the one that looks like a used car salesman …’

  Patrick nodded; a square-jawed American was talking into his laptop, giving his TV audience the news via Skype.

  ‘He’s been there since breakfast, he hasn’t moved! Every fifteen minutes he starts yelling into his computer about how he’s got the latest information. The rest of the time he’s staring at his phone.’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘Not great.’

  ‘Not great? As far as I’m concerned it’s the end of bloody civilisation.’

  Patrick stayed shtum. The American newsman’s way of working probably lay somewhere on a line between not great and the end of civilisation but arguing with William about where it lay on that line was pointless.

  ‘Why are we here then? Why didn’t you meet me back down at Tahrir?’

  ‘You think I want to be stuck here? I promised Zahra I’d meet this mate of hers.’ William owed Zahra several favours and that morning she’d finally called one in, asking him to hang around the hotel and meet with her. The girl had a story that she thought the British media might be interested in. ‘Chances are it’ll be a complete waste of time but I said I’d check it out.’

  ‘Why do you need me?’

  Carver shuffled in his seat. ‘The way Zahra described this friend I thought she’d be more up your street than mine. She’s a Twitter and Facebook kind of person apparently.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Zahra called her a citizen journalist.’ Carver could not have sounded more disdainful if he’d tried.

  Patrick smiled. ‘Do you even know what citizen journalist means, William?’

  ‘Yeah. It means not a real journalist.’

  Once Zahra had finished dealing with the latest lot of new arrivals she strode over to where Carver and Patrick were sitting.

  ‘Mr Akar is in his office, I cannot bring Nawal into the hotel. I will take you to meet her.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Outside. In the storeroom next to the pool.’

  Carver hauled himself to his feet; the cartilage in his knee clicked loudly as he stood and he winced with pain, Patrick noticed.

  ‘Did Jean get you those painkillers yet?’

  ‘No, she disappeared on me. It’s no big deal, I’ve got my own pills.’

  They followed Zahra
through the empty dining room and out the French windows towards the swimming pool. The sun was high and the garden contained every possible shade of green, set off by splashes of bright red from large terracotta pots filled with geraniums. Zahra walked quickly – occasionally glancing back over her shoulder. They walked around the pool bar to a whitewashed concrete building with thick metal doors where the sun umbrellas and other swimming pool paraphernalia were kept. It took a while for Carver’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. When they did, he saw a stooped, dark-haired figure standing at the back of the storeroom, a black rucksack on her back.

  ‘This is Nawal al-Moallem. Nawal, this is the William Carver that I told you about. And his assistant, Patrick.’

  The young woman stepped forward and shook hands, pumping Carver’s arm enthusiastically. She was wearing black jeans and a green bomber jacket over a dark grey hoodie; her build was slight, her hair cut short and combed. Carver looked at her; she looked more like a boy than a girl – wearing what she was wearing. He was used to seeing androgynous kids like this in the west but it was unusual in Arab countries. Patrick stared too; he was sure he’d seen Nawal before but was having trouble remembering where.

  Zahra pushed four large plastic tubs of chlorine into the centre of the room with her foot and they sat in a square. Nawal smiled nervously at Carver. Her eyes were dark, set wide and she looked like she could use a good night’s sleep.

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet with you. I am sorry about my English, it is not good. Zahra helps me all of the time.’

  Carver nodded and suggested that Zahra translate.

  ‘Of course. But we should talk quickly, Nawal must not be long. I don’t want anyone to see her here.’

  Carver nodded. ‘Sure, I’m busy too. So what’s this all about?’

  Zahra jutted her chin in the direction of her friend’s rucksack. Nawal shuffled the bag from her back, reached into the bottom and brought out a parcel, wrapped in what looked like a ripped-up bed sheet and tied together with a yard of bright yellow climbing rope. Nawal stood and unrolled the contents of the parcel on to the top of the barrel she’d been sitting on.