A Single Source Page 3

  Carver threw his headphones down and walked quickly over to the boy, knelt by his side and put his ear to the kid’s lips, listening for breath. There was something – and then nothing. A trickle of thick red blood ran from his ear, down his cheek and Carver wiped it uselessly away. William had seen dead bodies but for some reason this felt different. He lifted one of the boy’s eyelids and then dropped it again, frightened by the size and darkness of the pupil, pitch-black and empty of anything. Carver held his hand.

  And then the father came. The man must have been following his son; unable to keep up perhaps, as he was old. He arrived at Carver’s side and stood staring for a moment, saying nothing, then he knelt and slapped at the boy’s cheek to wake him, first softly, then harder. He mumbled a name.

  ‘Adjo.’ Then he shouted it. He put his hands under his son’s shoulders and lifted his head. Carver feared that he might try and shake him back to life but instead he slowly lifted him. He held him upright, carrying him gently to the side of the bridge and sitting down against the stone wall, cradling his dead son in his arms and crying.

  The piece of radio that Carver and Patrick filed to London later that evening was short. They began the report with the sound of the boy’s last minute of life: the sound of a party boat pushing up the Nile, of pop music, of his simple chant and then his killing. Carver followed it with a short piece of script:

  ‘This is the sound of Egypt’s revolution, of the latest chapter in the Arab uprising. The word being sung is kifaya, which means “enough” and that was the last thing this boy said before he was killed with one blow from a policeman’s baton.’

  They put the report together in Carver’s hotel room and after they’d finished, Patrick suggested they order some food.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Okay, well …’

  ‘I need a drink.’

  ‘Yeah, but you asked me to help …’

  ‘You’re my producer, Patrick, not my fucking mother. I need a drink. Just something to take the edge off.’

  Patrick nodded. ‘I’ll find something.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Carver sat down on the bed and opened the file on Patrick’s laptop; he stared at the jagged waveform for a while and at one section in particular. Near the top of the piece, a single spike, representing the moment the baton connected with the boy’s head. He played the piece through a couple of times, wincing each time and then moved the cursor to a point just to the right of the spike. Carver played the audio backwards. And then again, and then again. But it did no good. He pushed the laptop shut.

  Patrick poured a splash of the cheap Polish vodka he’d bought from the hotel barman into his Coke and kept Carver company while he drank the rest of the vodka neat. Before leaving, Patrick sat down at the hotel room table and logged in again; he wanted to check that their report had filed in full and that London was happy. When he turned back around, Carver was asleep, still fully dressed, sprawled diagonally across his double bed and snoring. The air conditioning had turned the room cold. Patrick pulled the duvet and sheet over his sleeping colleague and flicked off the bedroom light.

  ‘Night-night, William.’

  3 Lying for Your Country

  DATELINE: Old Kent Road, London SE11, January 26 2011

  Rob Mariscal stretched a wet arm around the side of the shower cubicle and turned the radio up.

  ‘Let it run,’ he muttered, as Carver’s final line of script faded into the sound of a crowd on the Cairo street. They let it run. ‘Quality,’ Rob said to no one in particular.

  As the piece finished there was a second of respectful studio silence before a deep, Welsh-accented voice back-announced the report: ‘That’s our man William Carver, in Cairo.’

  A second male voice, this one with rather less authority picked up: ‘Yes, he’s having quite a run of it, isn’t he?’

  Mariscal shook his head. ‘Dickwad.’

  Rob turned the shower off and poked his head round the corner of the cubicle in search of a towel. The radio was informing him that they’d be discussing the implications of the worsening situation in Egypt later in the programme. ‘Great, can’t wait. Lindy? Lindy baby, have you got a dry towel in there?’

  His girlfriend arrived, fully dressed and unsmiling, finished drying her hair with the towel and handed it to him.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Lindy glanced at the radio, which was covered in soapsuds. She hesitated a moment then turned it down. ‘You’re going to electrocute yourself on that thing one of these days.’ Her tone suggested that this was more an observation than a concern.

  ‘Yeah, well, I did ask you for a waterproof radio. For my birthday, you remember?’

  ‘Yes, and I asked you for a walk-in shower.’

  Mariscal pulled a face; this was familiar ground. ‘This is a walk-in shower, Lind. I walked into it five minutes ago and I’m about to walk out again now. Look, I’ll show you – you just need to lift your beautiful size fives.’

  ‘And you just need to go screw yourself. I don’t know why you won’t spend some of that redundancy money making this place half decent.’

  Mariscal sighed and turned the radio back up; he needed to hear the news bulletin and he didn’t want another argument about money.

  The half seven bulletin reached a big audience. It was only a couple of minutes long, included only a handful of stories and was a hard target to hit, but Mariscal was hopeful. He wrapped the damp towel around his midriff and listened. The top story was Egypt, then a quick trot around the rest of the Arab world before the newsreader cued into an item about the Cabinet reshuffle.

  ‘Here we go.’ Rob had spent most of the previous day briefing journalists about the new Secretary of State for Defence – his new boss. He leaned closer to the radio.

  ‘More details are emerging of the ongoing Cabinet reshuffle with changes at several key departments including Treasury, Home Office and Environment.’

  ‘Fuck the environment.’

  ‘One of the most notable new appointments is at the Ministry of Defence where Martin Whitewing has been named as the new Secretary of State. Mr Whitewing was previously a junior minister at the Foreign Office and has a military background, having served in both Iraq and Afghanistan.’

  Mariscal’s bellowed laugh was loud enough to attract the attention of his girlfriend, who walked back into the bathroom with her hair freshly blow-dried and make-up applied.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh, nothing – just further confirmation that I’m brilliant at my job.’

  Lindy nodded. ‘Lying for your country.’

  The grin slid from Mariscal’s face and he gripped his towel a little tighter. ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what you called it – last night. You were drunk, and late and I asked you where you’d been. You said you’d spent fourteen hours on the phone, slogging your guts out, lying for your country. You thought it was very funny.’

  ‘Right. I remember.’

  ‘Is it still funny?’

  ‘Sure, sure it’s funny. What else would it be?’

  Rob dried himself and got dressed. Every other senior manager at the Ministry of Defence wore a suit and tie and after a few weeks of resistance when he first started the job, Rob had fallen into line. The only remaining sign of sartorial defiance was his fondness for black. Both of the new off-the-peg suits he bought were black, as were all his shirts, socks and shoes. Some mornings he would glance in the full-length hallway mirror and imagine he still saw a hint of Johnny Cash but today, like most other days, his glassy doppelgänger looked more like a struggling, high street undertaker. He had an early meeting with his boss, the permanent secretary, and he needed to look presentable.

  ‘You look fine.’ Lindy brushed a few flakes of dandruff from her boyfriend’s shoulder and pushed him gently to one side. She wanted to check her own outfit and that was fair enough, the mirror was hers really.

  Rob watched her study herself. The mirror was Lindy’s fr
iend; occasionally it might suggest a change in her choice of top or shade of lipstick but most of the time the mirror simply told her how great she looked and wished her well. Mirrors told Mariscal to go kill himself. He left her to it and stepped out of the flat and into the shared hall for a cigarette. The floorboards beneath the thin carpet were spongy with woodworm; he paced up and down checking the emails on his phone and puffing away. He selected the radio app and stuck an earphone in just in time to hear the promised discussion about how to deal with the Egyptian situation. An academic and a well-known Egyptian novelist were suggesting everything from stiff letters and special United Nations sessions to sanctions and a tightening of the export ban. Mariscal rolled his eyes.

  ‘The export ban’s already tighter than a duck’s arsehole, you idiots.’ The Welsh-accented presenter thanked them for their suggestions. ‘Yeah, great idea. Let academics and novelists decide government policy … we’d be bankrupt in a week.’ He was about to phone and check if his car had arrived when Lindy appeared at the door.

  ‘Smoking in the stairwell still counts as smoking in the flat. The draught from the street blows the smoke straight back in.’

  Mariscal nodded and made a show of smoking the cigarette at speed, taking several quick, deep pulls before lifting his foot and stubbing the butt out on the bottom of his shoe.

  Lindy watched, unimpressed. She ran a protective hand down over her still-flat stomach. ‘For every five cigarettes you smoke, the baby smokes one.’

  ‘That explains why I keep running out of fags. I gotta go.’ Mariscal moved to give his girlfriend a goodbye kiss and was offered a dusty cheek, which he dutifully pecked.

  Rob and Lindy’s flat was situated just off the Old Kent Road. This part of south London had so far stood firm against gentrification and it wasn’t hard to see why: their front door was fifty yards from a flyover. The traffic was heavy this morning; roadworks meant that two lanes were being siphoned into one. Drivers approaching this obstruction over-revved their cars, changed lanes and then skipped back again in search of some small advantage. Rob stood on the pavement, stamping his feet against the cold and cursing his missing driver. He was about to reach for his phone to give the cab company an earful when he saw his car, a black Ford C-Max, double-parked outside the fried chicken shop on the other side of the road. He dodged through the traffic, wrenched open the door and collapsed into the back seat.

  The driver turned to greet him. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Morning. Do me a favour and switch the radio to shuffle, will you?’

  His driver glanced down at the digital display and pushed the shuffle function. ‘I do not use this button.’

  ‘No? It’s a blast, have a listen.’

  The radio retuned itself to a classical music station and Mariscal heard a few seconds of an inoffensive sonata before the announcer picked up with the weather; after ten seconds the radio switched again, this time finding Radio 1 where a much younger voice was already reading the news bulletin against a bass-heavy backing track. The presenter was talking about last night’s shock defeat for Manchester United. Rob tapped his foot impatiently. He didn’t have to wait long, next up was the news he’d been waiting for: there was a new man in charge at the Ministry of Defence, the first in decades who’d done active service. ‘Bingo!’ Rob was particularly pleased with this mention since Radio 1 was the station of choice for a large number of squaddies. The radio changed again and then again – Gold, Magic, Heart – and by the time his car had reached Waterloo, Mariscal’s new minister had completed fourteen tours of duty.

  This small success had unlocked Rob’s appetite and he asked the driver to stop outside the takeaway bakery near Waterloo so he could buy a cheese and onion slice. Mariscal was back in the car, a paper napkin on his lap and about to tuck in when his phone rang. The caller display announced it as Fox – Standard & Guardian. ‘Bollocks, better take this,’ he muttered to himself.

  Even down a scratchy mobile line the man’s voice was loud as a bell. ‘I’ve heard what you’re trying to sell, Mariscal, and I’m not buying. Two tours of duty? He’s a bloody part-timer, a reservist. And from what I hear, a rather reluctant one at that.’

  Rob laughed. ‘Nonsense, he’s done two tours, Richard, it’s all in the records. One in Iraq, one in Afghanistan.’

  ‘Tours? Pull the other one, Rob, it’s got bells. Those were more like long weekends than tours and it seems his main job was to see that our brave boys didn’t run out of biscuits.’

  It was inevitable that someone would work out that there was less to the new minister’s military career than met the eye and unsurprising that it was Richard Fox who had done the job. Rob decided to bluster it out. ‘An army marches on its stomach, Richard, good supplies are essential, you know that.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I know. I know you’ve got a bloody cheek. He’s a part-time soldier and a big risk in an important job like this, especially now. What was wrong with the old Secretary of State?’

  ‘Not dynamic enough.’

  ‘Ha. Not pliable enough more like. Your new man’s a novice. That’s what I’ll write.’

  ‘Fair enough. I can live with that, Richard.’

  Having proven his point the old defence correspondent softened a little. ‘He does look the part, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘He does, doesn’t he?’ The new man had a moustachioed and military air to him. ‘Very charismatic too.’

  ‘God save us from charismatic politicians. Well, he’s going to need more than charisma to stop the Treasury cutting your budget to buggery, I’ll tell you that for nothing.’ Fox paused. ‘I’ll write that your new man’s an unknown quantity.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Richard. How about we sit down for lunch sometime soon?’

  ‘I’m not biddable, you know that.’

  ‘And I’m not buying. I don’t want anything, Richard, I just like having lunch with you. Shall I book a table at the Academy?’

  ‘Why not? Mondays and Tuesdays are good.’

  ‘How about Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays?’

  ‘Ha, those are good too. Tell them you’re coming with me and they’ll give us a decent table.’

  Mariscal’s driver dropped him outside the Ministry of Defence employees’ entrance. Rob took a moment to brush the pastry from his shirt and trousers before heading in.

  Walking down one of the long and over-lit corridors he saw a middle-aged woman in a dark green suit and high black heels coming the other way. The woman wore a fixed but friendly smile, which slipped from her face the moment she saw Mariscal. Rob stopped walking and waited for her to do the same.

  ‘Good morning, Minister, I just wanted to say how …’

  The woman lowered her head and kept walking.

  ‘So, our new Secretary of State is already a fan of yours, Robert. A big fan.’

  Mariscal arranged his face into something that he hoped conveyed both modest surprise and appropriate gratitude. There were a lot of idiots working at the Ministry of Defence but the man sitting on the other side of the old oak desk was not one of them.

  ‘That’s good to hear, Permanent Secretary.’ Rob had realised within days of arriving at the ministry that the permanent secretary preferred to be addressed by title rather than name.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Leslie Craig had been living in England for thirty years, but his Northern Irish accent was still strong, and it always took Rob a while to tune his ear. ‘I’ve just had a quick how d’you do with him. I was telling him who’s who and what’s what – all that sort of thing. I made it very clear to him what an asset you are.’

  ‘Thank you, Permanent Secretary.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure, I was simply speaking the truth. He didn’t need a lot of persuading – that’s quite a sales job you’ve done on him this morning. Every radio station and telly show I saw had his name all over it.’

  Mariscal nodded. ‘His appointment’s gone down pretty well, I think.’

  ‘It certai
nly has.’ Craig folded his hands into a steeple shape in front of him. ‘Perhaps too well. Your man was strutting around like he’s General George Patton – and he’s only just got here.’

  Rob smiled. ‘The Evening Standard might take some of the wind out of his sails.’

  ‘Good. His main mast was billowing away like nobody’s business. The Evening Standard you say?’

  Rob nodded.

  ‘Will that be Mr Fox giving the snake oil an extra sniff?’

  ‘’Fraid so. I just spoke to him, he’s not buying much of what I’m selling.’

  Craig shook his head. ‘No bad thing; a confident minister is a good thing, a cocky one is not. I take it you heard your old radio show this morning? The latest from Cairo?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Those good old tectonic plates our political masters like to talk about are on the move.’

  Mariscal nodded. ‘Sounds like it.’

  ‘We have a dynamic new Secretary of State in place, now we need something for him to say.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  ‘Nothing fancy. A cautious welcome for the winds of change. Maybe mention we’re taking another look at export controls.’

  ‘The export controls are already as tight as a duck’s … I mean they’re already very tight.’

  Craig agreed. ‘I know, but that’s the way we’re headed. Better to say it now and appear to be ahead of the game than wait and look like we’ve been forced into it. Wouldn’t you say?’

  Mariscal couldn’t argue with that.

  ‘Downing Street wants us to take the lead on this.’

  ‘Why?’

  This was a question too far. Craig pretended not to have heard and, pushing himself up out of his black ergonomic chair – the only concession to twenty-first-century working practices visible in this office – walked over to the long picture window. From here, he had the best view of Horse Guards in Whitehall; significantly better than the Secretary of State whose office was one floor below.