Girling stared into a wall of uniform incomprehension. ‘How do you think I get all that information on Soviet military equipment? From the Russians themselves?’
Kelso frowned. Girling realized he might as well have been talking Chinese.
‘Remember that defence exhibition in Baghdad two years ago? I gave Tech-Int a set of photographs — around five hundred prints in all — the day after Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. Tanks, aircraft, missiles — the Iraqis had put everything on display except their nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons. And I was the only Western journalist to show up with a decent camera. Tech-Int confessed that their military attaché in Baghdad had been on holiday at the time. They were delighted. We’ve been best buddies ever since.’
‘What’s that got to do with our friends in Beirut?’ Kelso asked.
Girling took a deep breath. ‘A pound to a penny Tech-Int has sucked Cramer’s film dry for evidence that could point the finger at the terrorists. I know the way they work. They would have passed that information to MI5, who would have sent it on to the Pentagon. That being so, they would have received feedback from Washington, too.’
‘Can you get to them?’
‘We would need to talk about that.’
Kelso pushed back his chair and got to his feet.
His eyes remained on Girling. ‘OK. This meeting is adjourned for everyone except you.’
The two of them strolled back towards Girling’s desk. Like some heavy piece of mechanical engineering, the newsroom began to swing into action around them. Carey was shouting for copy over clattering keyboards and the trilling of phones. It was press day.
They stopped in front of Girling’s desk. Kelso hitched up a trouser leg and sat down on the one corner free of papers. Girling stood facing him.
‘I need you on this story, Tom.’
‘I don’t mind talking to Tech-Int.’
Kelso shook his head slowly. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘I mean for the whole shooting match. You know the Middle East, what we’re dealing with out there. And I haven’t got any reporters working this one.’
‘What about Kieran Mallon?’
‘I mean real reporters. Mallon’s too young. Lacks experience.’
‘You could do worse than give him a break. I’ve never seen a kid so hungry for the story.’
Kelso watched Mallon walk back from the coffee pot to his desk. He had already made up his mind. ‘Another time, maybe. I want you to take charge of this one.’
‘I’m not sure I can.’
‘I’m prepared to take the risk. Listen, Tom. I’ve stuck my neck out for you. I’ve let you pursue your Boy’s Own stories.’ He smiled to himself. ‘I confess that most of your stuff goes straight over my head, but then I’m a little old-fashioned. For Christ’s sake, you’re too damned good to end up on the scrap heap.’
‘Funny as it may seem, Bob, I enjoy what I do. Besides, it makes me feel better.’
‘Don’t think I haven’t seen that look in your eyes. You want this story.’
‘Maybe. But then I’d like a cigarette, too. Doesn’t mean I’m going to start smoking again.’
‘That’s no answer.’
Girling gave his editor a reproachful smile. ‘Yeah, I know.’ He felt the insects stir again. ‘Look, Bob, if it’s just this once…’
Kelso slapped his thighs and got to his feet. From deep within the shark’s eyes a light shone. ‘Good man.’
‘Is that all you can say?’
‘You’ll be all right, Tom. Trust me.’
Girling ordered two pints — a bitter for himself and a stout for Mallon — and carried them over to the table where the reporter was waiting. He glanced at the wall clock on the way. He had another hour in hand before he was due at the top floor of the large ministry building on Northumberland Avenue where Technical Intelligence was located.
There was a keen look in Mallon’s eye. He was still young enough to thrive off office intrigue; and the business with Kelso during and after the news meeting had more than aroused his curiosity.
‘Cheers,’ Mallon said, putting the glass to his lips. ‘And thanks for the tip-off. In all the excitement I forgot to say anything before.’
Girling raised his glass. No doubt about it, Mallon had done a good job on the Concorde story. Despite the MOD’s best efforts to throw him off, the Irishman had refused to take ‘no’ for an answer.
‘You angry you didn’t get Beirut?’ Girling asked.
Mallon shrugged. ‘Not really. It happens.’
Girling smiled. Mallon the philosopher, strangely at odds with the character who had terrorized the MOD into giving him answers.
‘Anyway, I see Kelso’s put you on to the story,’ the Irishman said.
‘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.’