A Single Source Page 14

  Carver looked at the computer and saw that it had a built-in camera just above the monitor. He took another look inside his bag and found the three-day-old chicken shawarma sandwich, its brown paper wrapping now almost black with grease. Carver glanced at the café owner, who was busy counting a pile of dirty green notes, then unwrapped the sandwich, tore a piece of pitta bread off, smeared it in tahini sauce and stuck it over the computer’s shiny eye. He switched the hard disk on and waited for the thing to warm up.

  He started from first principles, typing one of the serial numbers from the old gas canisters into the search engine, initially by itself, which yielded nothing and then with a few other key words: gas, CS, canister. The words canister and public order both took Carver to a list of entries that included the company Nawal had identified: QUADREL.CO.UK.

  Carver glanced around the café. No one was paying him the least bit of attention, every face glued hard to its own screen. He double-clicked on Quadrel.

  The company’s front page looked impressive: the main picture was of a huge aircraft carrier, bristling with weapons systems, planes and helicopters. The carrier was sailing into a rather beautiful sunset and it was about as pretty as a picture of a huge piece of military hardware could be. Above this photo, in good solid sans serif lettering, was the company name: Quadrel Engineering & Defence and its logo – a stag beetle. He clicked on the first link. The neatly written introduction told you very little beyond the fact that Quadrel provided Defence equipment for national armies and navies worldwide. Everything necessary to meet a turbulent international security context head-on. He clicked on a few more links, looking for some specifics and found commendations from the World Defence Almanac, Naval Forces magazine and other similar trade publications.

  Several of the clickable boxes led to the same message: a polite request that he email Quadrel with details of his enquiry. He clicked on the link for press and publicity and got a different email address; this was for a well-known PR company situated near Pall Mall. Carver had dealt with them before, the boss was some New Labour numpty who had sold out in spades and he had no interest in contacting them. His eye kept wandering back to the search function at the top of Quadrel’s homepage. He scratched at his chin and took another quick look around the café.

  ‘In for a penny …’

  Carver flicked through his notepad until he found the nine-figure serial number he’d discovered hidden under a layer of white paint on the gas canister that Nawal had given him. He carefully typed the number into the search box, paused, and then pressed ENTER.

  Nothing happened for what seemed like a very long time; so long that Carver eventually got to his feet and glanced around to see if anyone else in the café was having trouble with their internet connection, but there was no sign of it. When he looked back there was an error message in the centre of the screen:

  HTTP Error 404 – File not found.

  ‘Fair enough.’ He was about to delete the search and try again when the screen suddenly flashed bright white and then black. It stayed that way for a couple of seconds before another message appeared in the centre of the screen.

  This website would like to use your current location

  Do Not Allow / Allow

  ‘Use it for what? Fuck off.’ Carver clicked firmly on the box marked Do Not Allow but it remained unselected. He tried again. And again. Nothing. All of a sudden the box marked Allow selected itself and a grey-coloured egg-timer started to spin. Carver looked up and saw that a dull green light had appeared above his screen, shining through the thin layer of pitta bread and tahini – the computer’s camera had switched itself on. He shoved his chair back, reached underneath the desk and switched off the hard drive but when he looked back up, the egg-timer was still spinning, the green light still lit. He scrambled back down on to the floor and pulled every plug he could lay his hands on. When he got back to his feet he saw that his machine and several others in his row were dark, and the entire café was staring at him.

  Carver gave a sheepish smile and turned to the spiky-haired manager. ‘Sorry about that – almost gave my credit card details to some German porn site.’

  The man looked Carver up and down and went back to counting his money. William packed his stuff away and hurried out of the café and into the street; he could hear the blood pumping in his ears. Nawal was on to something, and now – so was he.

  The BBC broadcast point Patrick was looking for was sandwiched in between CNN and a Spanish network halfway down a growing line of TV crews. The person in charge of the operation was Vivian Fox, a calm-headed and competent producer who Patrick knew reasonably well. Vivian had worked as Carver’s producer a few years back in Kabul but the partnership had ended early and with a good deal of acrimony – Carver had behaved badly and Vivian had refused to put up with it. Patrick had always rather admired her for this. He stood and watched his colleague brief her cameraman and presenter. She was wearing cargo pants and a blue linen shirt buttoned to the neck; her dark hair was pulled into a tidy ponytail and covered in a white headscarf, and in her hand she held a black clipboard. When she saw Patrick she smiled and strode over.

  ‘Hey there, radio boy, come to see how the other half live?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Look at this …’ Vivian waved her clipboard in the direction of the crowds of people making their way down the road in the direction of Tahrir Square. ‘Exciting, huh? History in the making and all that?’

  Patrick shrugged. ‘I guess so.’ He paused. ‘Carver keeps reminding me that it’s our job not to get excited.’

  Vivian pulled a face. ‘Ah, William. One of the most annoying things about him is that he’s usually right. He’s a walking rebuke to me, that man – the one who got away.’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘From what I hear, you did everything you could.’ Patrick looked up and down the long row of live broadcast points, the smart-suited anchor-men and -women lit by bright arc lights. ‘Maybe you’d fancy another shot? We could do a job swap?’

  ‘You don’t mean that, take a look at this …’ Vivian handed Patrick the clipboard; the top page was a complicated-looking grid of times and broadcast commitments. ‘That’s just the next few hours, endless live two-ways and bulletin pieces. I can barely go for a pee, let alone walk around and find out what’s going on.’

  Patrick gave her a sympathetic look.

  ‘Then there’s Brandon.’

  Just then a well-maintained man aged somewhere around sixty and wearing a cream-coloured linen suit walked up.

  ‘Viv. A word?’

  ‘Of course, John. You remember Patrick? William Carver’s producer.’

  John Brandon gave Patrick an incurious look. ‘Course I do, yes.’ He turned away. ‘So, Viv, I’m going to mention these rumours about Egyptian soldiers deserting in my next two-way. That, and maybe this fuel shortage stuff too.’

  Vivian stared at Brandon, who was pointing a thick finger at his phone. ‘Where are you getting all this from?’

  ‘@bigbeartahrir – he’s got a load of followers.’

  ‘Right, well I’d rather you—’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll just say reports.’

  ‘How about you say unconfirmed reports.’ Vivian sighed and followed her presenter back towards his chair.

  Brandon’s presence was confirmation that BBC newsgathering believed some sort of major world news event was on the cards. A story that would require blanket coverage, including the icing on the cake: an outside broadcast from John Brandon, live into the Ten O’Clock News. Before long Vivian was back, an exasperated grimace on her face.

  ‘I’ve got about ten minutes, shall we try to get a mint tea or something?’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it’s not really a social call, Viv, I’m here with my begging bowl.’

  ‘I thought you might be, you and Carver don’t talk to us TV types unless you have to. I believe newsgathering monkeys is what William calls us?’

 
; ‘What? No, I’ve not heard him say that.’

  Vivian gave him a disbelieving look. ‘So what do you need?’

  Patrick explained his predicament and made as convincing a case as he could. He showed Vivian the script he’d drafted and said that he’d be happy to record it with whoever she could spare and that they could do it right here. Vivian was consulting her clipboard to see whether there was a correspondent free when Patrick’s phone rang. He checked the screen – it was Rebecca. He hesitated a moment then let it go to answerphone.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No problem. London?’

  ‘No, no, it was my girlfriend, Rebecca.’

  ‘Course. Rebecca, the teacher. How is she?’

  ‘She’s good, yeah, great. Er, how do you …?’

  ‘We met at one of those god-awful Today programme parties a year or so back.’

  Patrick nodded; he had no memory of this.

  ‘She’s great, Rebecca, you’re lucky to have someone like that. Someone normal.’

  ‘Yeah, very lucky.’ Patrick paused; he sensed that some sort of reciprocal enquiry was expected. ‘How about you? Are you seeing someone?’

  Vivian shuffled her feet. ‘Well … actually I’m seeing Steven.’

  ‘Steven?’

  ‘Yeah, you know? Our Steven?’

  ‘Steve? Security Steve?’

  ‘Yes. He doesn’t really like being called that, but yeah, Security Steve. He’s actually all right and …’

  Patrick noticed Vivian’s face had reddened. ‘And?’

  ‘Well, you’ve seen what he looks like.’ She was blushing now. ‘Bet you’re sorry you asked?’

  Patrick shook his head in a way that must have looked more convincing than it felt because Vivian continued.

  ‘I think that every woman deserves to experience someone like that. At least once in her romantic career. Don’t you?’

  ‘Er, I’m going to have to think about that one. I’m busy wondering whether Rebecca feels the same way. Hopefully not.’

  Vivian laughed. ‘I don’t think you have to worry about Rebecca, I reckon she’s only ever had time for the sensitive types – blokes like you.’ Vivian gave Patrick a watchful look. ‘You’re still the sensitive type, aren’t you, Patrick?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Carver was standing outside the internet café with his arm in the air for ten minutes before it became clear that any cab heading into the middle of Cairo was booked or busy. He set off walking and as he walked he took stock: it was obvious that Nawal’s story was worthy of further investigation. First the Egyptian police didn’t want people knowing they’d fired a particular type of tear gas and now a British company was being a bit shy about having manufactured it – that was a decent start. Carver had a familiar, premonitory feeling – one that down the years he had learned to trust. The problem was going to be pursuing this story at the same time as doing the day job.

  At the first crossroads, he came upon a group of students, organising themselves before marching in to join the larger demonstration. At the centre of the group was a woman with a thick artist’s brush and a jar of black ink, kneeling next to a pile of paper and recycled cardboard boxes. Some of the hand-painted placards she was making were written in English, others in Arabic. They made the familiar demands: disband the police force, end the regime. The largest of the banners, attached to broom handles and held aloft by two school-age kids, was more straightforward: it demanded Bread & Freedom.

  When the group of students set off, Carver followed on behind, his tape machine in hand. No more than fifteen or twenty young people, walking down the street at an easy pace, clumped together in solidarity and at the front – riding on the shoulders of his friend – a boy barely out of his teens with his hands cupped around his mouth, shouting slogans that echoed the banners being carried. They walked down narrow residential streets and main roads, passing cafés and juice shops overflowing with interested onlookers and as they walked the numbers grew. Now and again a marcher would peel off to buy some buttery sweetcorn or peanuts from a street-seller before running to catch up again with their friends. The streets were alive and for now, at least, the mood celebratory.

  Carver had arranged to meet Patrick near the ever-growing line of live broadcast points. Patrick was up on the BBC gantry talking to a woman Carver recognised and was keen to avoid and so he decided to wait on the pavement below. While he waited, he counted the number of media organisations: twenty at least. While he was waiting he walked up and down the line and tuned his ear to a few of the live broadcasts. The same people he’d seen on TV screens in hotel rooms over the last few weeks saying that an Egyptian revolution was impossible, now seemed to believe it was inevitable. Patrick didn’t take long.

  ‘Hey, William.’

  ‘Playing footsy with the newsgathering monkeys, are you?’

  Patrick glanced back over his shoulder to see if Viv had heard this; a fractional lifting of her eyebrow told him that she had. She wasn’t the only person who had noticed William; before Patrick could get them away, John Brandon was bouncing down the steps, bellowing Carver’s name. Patrick leaned towards William. ‘Play nicely, please? I need favours from these guys.’

  Brandon put a ham-like hand on Carver’s shoulder. ‘I was hoping I’d see you, William. I was just telling your boy here how good I thought that Muslim Brotherhood interview you did was.’

  Patrick looked at Brandon, he’d told him nothing of the sort.

  ‘I wondered if you fancied doing a turn on the telly with me? Tell the great British public what you think it means?’

  Carver smiled. ‘I think it’s too early to say.’

  Brandon guffawed. ‘Ha, yes. Bit like Mao on the French Revolution – or was it Nixon?’

  ‘Neither, but you’re close. I think I’ll pass. Journalists talking to other journalists about journalism: that’s not the kind of stuff we should be doing, is it?’

  ‘Good point, couldn’t agree more. Danger of us disappearing up our own whatsit sometimes, isn’t there? Talking of scoops though, I’ve got a sit-down with the ambassador later on. Dinner first and then something on the record with our man in Cairo. I’m happy to let you have a listen if you like.’

  ‘Thanks, John.’

  Walking away from the BBC broadcast point, Patrick nudged Carver with his elbow. ‘Cheers for that, you can be pretty diplomatic when you want to.’

  Carver grunted.

  ‘Do you want me to get hold of a copy of his interview with the ambo?’

  ‘Fuck no. The man only moved here from Estonia a few weeks ago, he probably knows even less about Egypt than John Brandon. Have you spoken to London?’

  ‘Yep. Naomi’s pretty het up but I reckon a solid afternoon’s work will calm her down.’

  ‘What does she want? More blood, sweat and tear gas?’

  ‘That’s it. She’s worried we’re losing focus, told me to tell you that Tahrir is the only story in the world right now, there’s no other story.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, she’s wrong.’

  By 9 p.m. Carver was knackered. He could happily have fallen into bed and slept but he was determined to give some time and thought to Nawal’s discovery. He took his laptop down to the hotel garden – empty now that the pool bar had closed for the night – and set himself up on a lounger at the end of the swimming pool furthest from the hotel. Carver connected to the hotel’s internet, balanced the laptop on his belly and started reading. He looked at the current rules around exporting to Egypt, at international law regulating the sale of CS gas and definitions of internal repression. He sent emails to his contacts at Jane’s Defence and Chatham House but kept the nature of his enquiries vague. The curious behaviour of his computer at the internet café had left him cautious, wary of putting too much information out there – at least for now.

  He’d been at it for almost an hour when he heard footsteps, the ricochet of high heels on the hotel flagstones. Looking up he saw a tall figure at the other end of the
pool. Carver squinted against the darkness; the woman was walking his way. Eventually the lanky shadow resolved itself into the distinctive shape of Jean Fitzgerald. When it did, Carver felt his heart lift.

  Jean considered the limited seating options close to William before lowering herself on to the sunbed nearest to his.

  ‘You might have to help me out of this thing.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I thought I might find you out here, you antisocial old bastard.’

  Carver pushed his laptop shut.

  ‘Not that you’re missing anything. John Brandon’s holding court in the hotel bar so I thought I’d mooch about.’

  William nodded; he’d noticed down the years that Jean and John Brandon gave each other a wide berth. He’d always assumed there must have been some kind of romantic falling out at some point, though he really hadn’t given it much thought.

  ‘You two don’t get along.’

  ‘No. You know the story of course?’

  Carver shook his head.

  ‘Really? I thought everyone knew the story. Brandon’s got this line, a chat-up line he uses. Anyway, back in the day – the Balkans it was – he tried it on me.’

  Jean explained how Brandon would begin by telling the object of his affection how lovely she was, how irresistible, how much he longed for her. ‘He used to seal the deal by telling you his balls would explode if you didn’t sleep with him.’

  Carver stifled a laugh. ‘He told you this?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jean shrugged. ‘It sounded like a pretty serious situation – volatile. I decided the best thing to do was perform a controlled explosion. Using my knee.’

  Carver grinned.

  ‘I might’ve overdone it. A friend told me it took him a while to find the second ball. Anyway, he’s stayed pretty clear of me since then.’

  ‘I bet.’ Carver could feel the darkness thicken around them.

  Fitzgerald put a hand to the front pocket of her loose trousers and pulled out a silver hip flask. ‘I know you’re doing all that swimming, not smoking thing but I assume you’re still allowed a slug of brandy?’