Aggressor (9 page)

‘A temporary arrangement, I can assure you.'

‘So how come you get to do it? You're supposed to be the science and technology correspondent.'

‘I used to cover the Middle East beat. In Kelso's book, that's important. I still think any reporter with a nose for a decent story could do the job.'

‘I heard what you said about me, you know.'

For a moment Girling thought Mallon was accusing him. His brow furrowed.

‘The recommendation you made to Kelso,' Mallon prompted. ‘About me doing the hijack story. Thanks for trying.'

Girling shifted uncomfortably. ‘That's a hell of a pair of ears you've got.'

Mallon laughed. ‘Maybe I'll insure them one of these days.'

‘So what else did they pick up?'

Mallon traced a finger idly across the head of his Guinness, then stuck it in his mouth. ‘More than a tinge of desperation in our great editor's voice.'

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.'

‘Come on, Tom. You know I didn't mean it like that.'

‘Relax. I was kidding.'

‘You could tell me why Kelso's so keen for you to take charge of this job, though.'

‘I know the Middle East. And I used to be a reporter. It's that simple.'

‘The work you did for
The Times
, right? We never did finish that conversation.'

‘There's not a whole lot left to say,' Girling said.

‘Why does everyone talk in riddles when they're around you? Now you're doing it yourself.'

‘I'm not sure I follow you.'

‘When Kelso asks you to talk to these Defence Ministry whiz-kids you turn round and say, “We'd need to talk about that.” As if you were striking some sort of deal with him. What's there to talk about, for Christ's sake? If I were to try and negotiate with Kelso over a story he'd throw me into the street.'

‘That's just because you're not yet part of the furniture.'

Mallon's blue eyes bore into him. ‘I ask a few people later what the big mystery is about you and they just shrug, or clam up on me. And then I come back to my desk to find Kelso kissing your arse because he wants you to take charge of the whole story. You, the technology correspondent.'

Outside, it was raining heavily. The traffic moved slowly down Fleet Street towards Ludgate Circus and St Paul's Cathedral.

Girling looked at his watch.

‘Well?' Mallon's eyes shone like a child's before a bedtime story.

‘You don't give up, do you,' Girling said.

The Irishman shook his head. ‘Persistence. It's what I'm paid for, remember?'

Girling took a cigarette from the pack Mallon had left on the table and rolled it between his fingers. He was just about to place it in his mouth when he thought better of it and stuffed it back into the box.

‘All right, so you know that I used to work for
The Times
. I was their Middle East correspondent. People said I was on my way, and I believed them.'

Girling watched the traffic crawl through the rain. He picked out a harmless-looking man, roughly his age, sitting on the top deck of a bus, and tried to lose himself in imaginary details of that ordinary life.

‘Tell me what happened,' Mallon said.

Girling spoke, but his voice had changed. ‘I suppose I could have done something about it. They told me afterwards that she was beyond help, but to this day I keep thinking...'

‘Done something?'

‘About the slaughter. No other word for it, really. Murder doesn't describe what they did to her.'

Mallon lost all interest in his beer. ‘Murder? Who was murdered?'

‘Her name was Mona. Mona Hamdi. You wouldn't have heard of her. She was a young Egyptian photographer. Did some freelance work for us. For
The Times
, I mean. She would have been very good.' He smiled distantly. ‘She was already pretty good.'

Girling gulped at his drink, but the alcohol wasn't working. His stomach felt as if it were on fire. ‘Kelso thinks that this hijacking is going to send me off the rails again, but he's in a tight spot. You were right about him being desperate.'

‘You said murder.'

‘I did? Must be the drink.'

‘Stop pissing me about, Tom. What happened to Mona? And what has she got to do with you?'

‘What is this?' Girling said. ‘A one-on-one?'

‘I'm sorry.'

Girling never heard Mallon's apology. He was half-way to the equator, on a dirt road in a provincial town in Upper Egypt. ‘Mona was killed by fundamentalists. She was dragged from my car, before my eyes. Slaughtered...'

He turned to the window.

‘They stoned her to death. Rained the rocks down until her head cracked open and the blood was all over the road, while I just watched.'

‘Why, for God's sake?' Mallon touched Girling gently on the arm.

‘There must have been dozens of them, whipped into a frenzy. She hadn't done anything, except take a few pictures. Bastards held me, while their leader laughed in my face, his hands red with blood from the rocks… I'll never forget that face. It was twisted with loathing. For me, for her, everything we stood for. I don't want to forget that. I won't forget that.

‘My heart has lost the capacity to forgive, Kieran. And that's the way I want it to stay. In a funny way, it's my reason for living.'

Mallon knocked on Kelso's door and walked in, even though the editor was in the middle of dictating a letter to his secretary.

‘Yes?' There was a look of irritation on Kelso's face.

‘I'm sorry, but I'd like to talk to you privately,' Mallon said. ‘It shouldn't take a moment.'

‘Is anything wrong?'

‘Yes, I think there is.'

Kelso's secretary was still waiting expectantly for her next line of dictation. Without uttering a word, Kelso gestured her to the door. ‘I'll buzz you when I'm through.'

When they were alone, Kelso shuffled the sheaf of papers on his desk and popped them into a drawer. ‘Well?'

Mallon suddenly felt awkward. He searched for a way to convey his concern without directly criticizing Kelso's approach.

‘It's about Girling,' he said. ‘He's just told me what happened in Egypt. About the riot.' He paused, but Kelso wasn't giving him any help. ‘I had no idea,' he stammered.

‘Nasty business,' Kelso said. ‘Incredible how he manages to keep it to himself.'

‘I never knew what he was carrying around with him, Bob. But it runs deep, very deep, and this business over the hijacking... it's not doing him any good. He said something about going off the rails, just like last time. What did he mean by that?'

Kelso scratched at the skin beneath his beard. It made a curious rasping sound in the silence that hung between them. ‘He blamed himself for what happened. In a nutshell, he cracked up. Hospital case.'

‘A breakdown?'

‘Something like that.'

‘What were these riots?'

‘They hardly made the news over here. An out-break of student rioting - serious stuff, mind you. Burning, looting, killing, the lot - and all started by the Muslim Brotherhood, the Egyptian secret religious society. All roads and communications in the south were down, so Girling and Mona set off up-river in a bid to deliver an exclusive to
The Times
. They felt they could get through where every other reporter and photographer had failed.

‘They reached Asyut, the centre of the troubles, and it was like a bad day in Beirut. Girling tried to persuade Mona to remain outside the town, but she wouldn't have any of it. They were driving through the streets, when a mob sprang up from nowhere, spotted them and pulled Mona from the car. Local reports said it took ten minutes for the stones to kill her.'

‘What happened to Tom?'

‘They started on him next, but the cavalry arrived in the nick of time. An Egyptian Army patrol reached him before they could finish him off.'

‘Finish him off?'

‘He was half-dead,' Kelso explained. ‘And they never did catch Mona's killers. As far as I know, they're still at large today.'

‘But what made them do it?'

‘Who knows? An Egyptian girl, a Muslim, caught with an unbeliever. Perhaps that's reason enough to people like that. Anyway, the point is, Girling blamed himself for what happened* Only time he ever talked to me about it, he told me he wished he'd died with her. Funny thing is, if it hadn't been for Stansell, he probably would have been granted his wish.'

‘Our Stansell?'

Kelso nodded. ‘Stansell turned up at the hospital a few days later. He was doing a feature on fundamentalism and the return of the Brotherhood. He wanted to get Girling's own story. You should find the back numbers and read it for yourself. It's vintage Stansell - a graphic, vivid account of a grubby Middle East dust-up that most of us never even knew was going on. Anyway, Girling wasn't eating, or accepting medication, so the Gippos just left him to die. Stansell had Girling shipped over to his apartment and simply refused to allow him to give in. Don't ask me how he did it. I've known Stansell a long time, but he's never told me the full story. You haven't met Stansell, have you?'

Mallon shook his head.

‘He's a funny old sod. He must be sixty by now. One of the old school. You know the type. Married to the job. Was married for real once, but it didn't last long. Likes a drink - a bit too much, as it happens. It's been showing in his copy, or lack of it, for some time. Still, in his day, he was a bloody fine foreign correspondent. Loves the solitary life. He could spend weeks incommunicado and then - wham - up he popped with some amazing exclusive. Loves the Middle East, too. Covered everything from the Six Day War to the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Always on the spot. I used to rank him one of the best in the world.'

‘What happened to Tom?' Mallon asked.

‘
The Times
replaced him, of course, because he refused to file anything, or was incapable of filing anything - I don't know which. He didn't touch a keyboard for months, not until Stansell coaxed him back to it. But by then he was through with hard news. He went back to his roots - technical journalism. He'd started out that way, writing for some popular science magazine, oh, years ago. But he was an ambitious bastard in those days and chucked it in to become a reporter, eventually working his way up to
The Times
. He did well there. So much so that they sent him to Egypt. The rest, as they say, is history.'

‘So why the hell did you put him on to this story? It was just a matter of time before he flipped his lid.'

Kelso bristled. ‘He's got to snap out of it sooner or later.'

‘Oh, really? You don't need him because this magazine's in a bit of a tight spot, I suppose.'

‘Careful, Mallon.'

‘I'm sorry,' Mallon said, then regretted it. He'd meant every word.

‘Girling's got to leave this psychosis behind,' Kelso said. ‘He's too good to spend the rest of his working life writing about machinery.'

‘Don't you think he should be free to work out his own destiny, in his own time?'

‘Bah.' Kelso searched the cracks in the ceiling for an answer. ‘If Man had always remained on safe, solid ground, if he'd never taken risks, we'd still be staring at the Moon and wondering if it's made of cheese. Girling has to confront this. When I was looking for someone on the science and technology desk, it was Stansell who persuaded me that Girling was good enough for the job. I've never regretted it. He has a knack for turning high-tech jargon into good reading. But it's time to move on.'

‘Well, you've managed to shed light on one mystery, anyway,' Mallon said.

‘What's that?'

‘Why Girling talks about Stansell sometimes like he's his old man.'

‘Girling would die for Stansell,' Kelso said. ‘He's never forgotten that he saved his life.'

He picked up his phone and asked the secretary to come through and finish taking his letter. ‘Girling's a distant kind of bloke. Half his problem is that he doesn't want anyone to know he has a problem. But you're as close to him as anyone in this building, Kieran,' he added, turning back to Mallon. ‘Keep an eye on him, will you? I think this will all pass, but if I'm wrong... I wouldn't want him or his little girl on my conscience.' He stood up, came round the desk and clapped a paternal arm around the Irishman's shoulders. ‘If he looks like going over the edge again, I'll take him off the case, that's a promise.'

‘I never even knew Girling was married, let alone a father,' Mallon said, getting to his feet.

Kelso stared at Mallon.

‘I thought Tom must have told you. Mona Hamdi was his wife.'

It was late afternoon when Girling returned to the newsroom.

Mallon was on the phone. Carey had asked him to turn his hand to covering the spate of anti-war demonstrations that had sprung up in London and other European capitals on account of the US military build-up in the Eastern Mediterranean. At that moment, Mallon was trying to interview an opposition MP well-known for his controversial views on Middle Eastern affairs. The parliamentarian was running out of steam, but Mallon willed him to keep talking, for the handset had become a convenient shield from Girling. He didn't know how to begin picking up the pieces of their friendship.

Girling's shadow fell across Mallon's desk just as he was replacing the receiver.

‘Want a coffee?'

Mallon looked up and blinked. Girling was waving two empty cups in front of him.

‘No thanks,' the Irishman managed.

Girling shrugged, then moved to the pot and filled his cup. ‘Can't say I blame you,' he said, sniffing the steam that belched from the mouth of the jug.

Girling stirred his coffee with an absent, tranquil look on his face. It was as if the incident at lunch-time had never happened.