‘Or at what level?’
‘Sorry, Eddie. All I know is what my source said, that it’s the result of a secret American initiative. What I can tell you is that some politically well-connected Yank has been reported doing a flying shuttle between Dublin, Stormont and London. You know, like old Henry Kissinger used to do.’
‘Does this Yank have a name?’
‘This’ll cost you, Eddie.’
‘Fifty?’
‘A hundred.’
Mercs’s lower lip puckered. But then his freelance friend had to earn a living and had a lot of mouths to feed. ‘Okay, Gerry, the cheque’s in the post. What’s the name of this Yank?’
‘Senator Abe Powers.’
On the drive back to the Standards offices, Mercs went over the new intro to his story with Casey, jotting his own indecipherable form of Pitman’s into his notebook, oblivious of the jolting motion of the car.
They arrived at one thirty. Casey was taken over by Mercs’s enthusiasm, although still not quite certain what she had discovered and what all the excitement was about. Amid the chaos of his work station, with overflowing ashtrays and dead plastic coffee cups, someone had left a proof of the front page. His earlier telephoned story had made the splashed lead:
YARD PLAYS DOWN BOMB CHAOS
‘.Gordon Bennett!’ he groaned. ‘Is that the best the subs could do? With headlines like that, I’m surprised all our readers aren’t dead through boredom. At times like this I wouldn’t mind working on the Sun. BOMB BUSTERS BEAT BRIDGE BLASTERS or some such.’ He snatched up the telephone and punched in the news editor’s extension. ‘Steve, Eddie here, I’ve got an update on that bombing conference. New angle — and hopefully a new soddin’ headline.’
Across the room the news editor was glancing at his watch. Twenty-five minutes to clear the West End Final. ‘Run it up and let’s see what it looks like.’
‘Shall do,’ Mercs snapped, hung up and looked at Casey. ‘A shared by-line okay?’
She laughed. ‘Here comes my Pulitzer.’
Eddie Mercs clamped a cigarette, unlit, between his teeth and called up the news ‘basket’ on his VDU, splitting the screen with his original story on the left, running his ‘revise’ down the blank right-hand side.
He began tapping: One of the British Army’s top bomb-disposal experts, Major Tom Harrison, has been called in from Northern Ireland to assist the Metropolitan Police in their fight against the latest terror bombing campaign in London…
While he worked Casey made three telephone calls in an attempt to get official confirmation of the story. The Home Office, the Ministry of Defence and the Northern Ireland Office all denied any knowledge, with varying degrees of hostility. But none, she noticed, categorically said that it was incorrect.
‘No comment,’ she said, replacing the receiver after the last call.
Mercs’s eyes sparkled mischievously. ‘Then it’s true. Otherwise they’d have said.’
With the story complete, Mercs punched it down the line to the news editor.
A few minutes later the exec ed, who ran the production side, phoned to invite the reporter to join him at the Graphics Desk.
‘C’mon,’ Mercs said to Casey, ‘this is a moment to cherish.’
Having seen thousands of his masterpieces decimated over the years by subs, news editors and production wallahs at various newspapers, he welcomed any chance to cross the jealously guarded divide between the editorial hierarchy and the humble news hounds.
Such occasions were rare, restricted to when a real rush was on and even then a reporter’s presence was not only informal but barely tolerated.
The exec, news and picture editors as well as a senior sub were gathered behind Mandy Oates, a failed actress, who was operating the Display Mac.
‘Nice one, Eddie,’ she murmured, studying the full front page on the screen. Mercs’s revise fitted the space to within a line.
‘Cut out the second “and” on the third para,’ advised the sub and Mandy dutifully cut and realigned the column. Perfect.
‘The overall balance is all wrong now,’ observed the exec ed. ‘If we could ditch that caption story of the kid from Bosnia at the zoo and replace it with…’
‘Nothing suitable,’ the pics ed said glumly.
‘How about a nice sexy pic of a bomb-disposal bloke from Northern Ireland,’ Mercs suggested brightly.
The pics ed scowled; he hated library pictures on the front page, this was most definitely not a reporter’s province. ‘Like living dangerously, do you, Eddie? Just stick to your joined-up writing, there’s a good lad.’
But the exec ed liked the idea. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got on file.’
While they waited for the photographs and Mandy began rearranging the layout, the news editor ran his eye over the story again.
‘What’s this tailpiece about a parcel bomb?’ he asked Mercs. ‘I haven’t heard about that before.’
‘Casey was there when it happened, Steve.’
‘Senator Powers? Wasn’t he the one who refused to give Casey an interview last Christmas? Said he was on a private visit?’
‘Private, my arse, Steve. He’s involved in those secret talks. That’s obviously why he was sent the bomb.’
Steve’s eyes were dark and suspicious as he glanced sideways at Mercs. ‘You know we’ve been told not to mention them.’
The reporter appeared unconcerned. ‘We haven’t. It’s just a pure statement of fact — that Scotland Yard denied any knowledge that Senator Powers was sent a bomb.’
‘You know that implies we don’t believe them,’ the news editor warned.
Mercs allowed himself a sly smile. ‘It might shake something nasty out of the woodwork.’
‘You’re a crafty bastard, Eddie.’
‘They’re making the rules, Steve, I’m just playing by them. Fair enough?’
The news editor nodded. ‘Fair enough.’
A selection of photographs came down the old-fashioned air tubes from the Picture Library on the next floor. One was chosen, a dramatic scene of hellfire and damnation in Belfast with an ATO in a sinister-looking bombsuit emerging from the flames.
‘Looks good,’ the exec ed said.
The picture editor grunted. ‘Gives the impression London’s turning into a second Belfast.’
.‘Maybe it is,’ Mercs replied, placing his arm around the sub’s shoulder. ‘And for God’s sake, Reg, come up with a more imaginative headline this time.’
‘And quickly,’ the exec ed urged, tapping his watch. ‘The time’s ticking away. Five minutes.’
‘Ah,’ Reg said thoughtfully.
9
The meeting was held at the new Thames House headquarters of CI5 — still more generally referred to as MI5 k-immediately following the press conference. John Nash, head of the Security Service’s Counter-Terrorism Department, was in the chair. The personal protege of Director General Clarissa Royston-Jones, he was a youthful-looking forty years old with baby-blue eyes and black hair that had yet to show signs of greying.
He greeted Harrison warmly. ‘Please to have you aboard, Major. I understand you’ve hardly been wasting your time since you arrived. I’m referring, of course, to Dukes Hotel.’
‘I was just helping out.’
‘Well, it was appreciated.’
Harrison smiled. ‘Perhaps not in all quarters, sir. But thanks anyway.’
Nash gave a knowing nod of the head, but made no further comment. ‘Now I think you know Lieutenant Colonel Trenchard and Detective Chief Superintendent Jim Maitland of the Anti Terrorist Branch…’
The SATO acknowledged the two men who were amongst a dozen gathered round the table.
‘I’ll introduce everyone else as we go,’ Nash said easily. ‘We have representatives here from Special Branch, GCHQ, SIS, the Home Office and the Northern Ireland Office, as well as others holding various watching briefs.’