‘You got time for a drink?’ Mallon asked, getting to his feet. ‘I’m heading down to the Punch.’
The Punch was the office watering hole a few blocks away.
Girling looked at his watch. ‘Not tonight. Got to get back home.’ He’d promised he’d speak to Alia that evening and already it wasn’t far off her bedtime. She’d been with her grandparents for the best part of a week and he missed her terribly.
Mallon pulled on a thick overcoat and turned up his collar against the icy temperature outside. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then. Big day.’
The buzz surrounding a good exclusive made press day all the more frantic.
Girling gave him a half wave. ‘Goodnight, Kieran.’
There was no one left in the newsroom, except for the night editor, Joe Cornelius, an old hand from the days when the Street hummed with the presses of newspapers most people had never heard of. Cornelius sat in a stupor at his desk, his eyes raised to the TV.
The box, perched on a shelf in the corner of the room, pulsed out its mute images, the volume turned too low for Girling to hear. In another corner, one of the wire machines jerked into life. Cornelius rose to inspect the message, glanced at it cursorily and moved back to his seat.
On the TV, the chat-show host grinned into the camera, then turned back to his guest. Girling reached out and shut down his PC.
It was only when he was on his feet that he noticed the package from the photo labs in his in-tray. He had not spotted it amongst the cuttings, press releases, and scrawled notes that lay strewn across his desk.
He pulled the six glossy enlargements from their folder and began to leaf through them.
He smiled to himself. His efforts to capture the 11–76 Candid at Machrihanish were somewhat haphazard. One of the pictures was wide of the hangar, but showed the hills and the stormy sky behind to advantage.
Of the rest, one was reasonable enough to print. The guy with the walkie-talkie was screwing his eyes against the bright hangar lights behind the great white fuselage of the transport aircraft, his arm raised. The object of the man’s attention was hidden by the partially open cabin door.
Girling reached for his coat, then hesitated. He might still catch someone at the Ministry of Defence.
He dialled the number of the press office and waited. If any of them were working this late, it would be a miracle, but it was worth trying out just to establish the MOD’s line on the Candid’s presence at Machrihanish.
The phone answered on its first ring. Girling recognized Peter Jarrett’s voice on the other end of the line. ‘What are you still doing there, Pete? This was supposed to be a long shot.’
‘Who’s that?’ The voice sounded tired and irritated.
‘Tom Girling, Dispatches.’
‘Tom, sorry, didn’t recognize you for a moment. Contrary to what you lot think, some of us do actually put in some hours here.’ Jarrett paused. ‘Well, if you must know, the wife’s coming up to town. We’re going to catch a show in the West End tonight. What can I do for you?’
Girling pulled a notepad out from his top drawer and scribbled on a page to ensure his pen was working. ‘It’s about something I saw during Exercise Stalwart Divider. You know your boys arranged an exclusive facility for us to cover the story from the back seat of a Tornado…’
‘Oh yes,’ Jarrett said. ‘I remember.’
‘Well, we had to divert to RAF Machrihanish with a technical problem.’
‘Did you now,’ Jarrett said. Girling could almost hear the alarm bells ringing in the press office at Whitehall. ‘I suppose we’re going to see this splashed over your lead page this week.’
‘The Tornado is not the reason I’m ringing.’
‘Go on,’ Jarrett said warily.
‘While I was on the ground at Machrihanish I saw a Soviet transport aircraft — an 11–76 Candid. Do you know the thing I mean? A big four-engined bugger.’
‘Yes, I know the type. It looks a bit like a British Aerospace 146. I bet that was what you saw. The Queen’s flight has 146s, you know.’
‘Come on, Pete, you know me better than that. This was a Candid. I’ve got pictures.’
‘There’s bound to be a very good reason for this, Tom. I doubt very much whether there’s a story in it for you,’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Girling said. He hated to be fed that line by press officers.
‘The Soviets come into the UK on a regular basis these days,’ Jarrett continued, getting into his stride. ‘It’s all to do with verification. CFE treaty and all that. We allow them to check our equipment levels, make sure they adhere to treaty rules, and they let us see theirs.’ Jarrett chuckled. ‘It’s bloody daft if you ask me, but you’d better not quote me on that.’
‘I’d appreciate if you’d check all the same,’ Girling said.
His eyes started to roam around the room. The chat-show host was staring straight at him, laughing.
‘Perhaps this is a question for another department. I could try another desk tomorrow if you prefer.’
Jarrett coughed. ‘No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll ask the right people, but I think I know what the answer will be. As I said- ’
‘Verification,’ Girling cut in. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘Precisely, Tom. When do you close for press?’
‘Tomorrow night.’
Girling was about to thank him and hang up, but Jarrett wanted to keep on talking. ‘How are things on the journal? I notice you’ve got a new staffer. Can’t remember the chap’s name, but he’s been keeping us damned busy today over this Concorde business.’
‘Kieran Mallon,’ Girling said distantly. ‘Yes, he’s good.’
Girling’s attention was riveted to the TV screen. The picture had changed from the chat-show to a shaky view of bright lights against an inky backdrop. Girling caught a glimpse of an aircraft on the ground. It took him a second to realize it was the jumbo.
‘Tom, are you still there?’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,’ Girling said firmly. ‘Something’s going down in Beirut.’
He hung up and sprinted across the newsroom, turning the volume up as soon as he reached the set. Cornelius’s expression of irritation changed the moment he saw the reason for the intrusion.
The TV picture was still veering about the screen. There was the sharp crack of gunfire, followed by a burst of excited voices. The BBC’s Middle East correspondent, James Cramer, whom Girling knew well from the old days in Cairo, was doing his best to describe what was happening. But it sounded as if his view of events wasn’t any better than theirs. The cameraman focused shakily on the cockpit of the airliner. Girling could just make out a shadow on the flight deck.
‘… there were several shots, we heard them quite distinctly, one of the bullets ricocheted off the building behind me. I can see a hijacker in the cockpit. He’s pointing a machine-gun out of the window…’ There was another crack and the picture went haywire again. ‘That was extremely close. The gunmen appear to be firing indiscriminately around the airport.’
The voice cracked. ‘Someone has been hit. I can see one of the newsmen to my right on the ground… his colleagues are dragging him across the tarmac to cover.’ There was a brief shot of a body being carted along the ground. Then more firing. The screen was filled with a blurred picture of sandbags five inches from the camera lens. The correspondent’s rapid breathing pounded over the TV’s loudspeaker.
Despite the intensity of the drama, Girling sensed Kelso moving across the floor from his office to join him and Cornelius.