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.
He walked back to his desk and began riffling through the pile of papers teetering on the top basket of his in-tray.
‘Any messages?’
‘Stansell called a couple of times.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Didn’t say. He’s not very talkative, is he?’
‘He takes some getting to know,’ Girling said; ‘Does he want me to call him?’
‘He said he’d call back.’
Girling nodded.
‘I take it you have been at the Ministry of Defence most of the afternoon,’ Mallon said.
Girling sat down and swivelled the chair to face Mallon. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘So how were the back-room boys?’
‘Tech-Int? You have to bring something to the table, otherwise they don’t play ball.’ He tapped his jacket pocket. ‘So I borrowed the tape of the inter-view with the Soviet Defence Minister — the one we’re running in the magazine next month. Tech-Int was particularly interested in the part about the offensive capabilities of their new aircraft carrier, the Kuznetsov.’
‘It was hardly your interview to give.’
‘In a few minutes the cassette will be back where I found it. Moynahan will never know.’
‘Well, put like that…’
Girling produced his notepad. ‘Anyway, it didn’t take long for the conversation to shift to last night’s events in the Lebanon. I was right. Details of the BBC’s film of terrorists and hostages getting off the beach — the stuff that we, the public, never got to see — are now in the Pentagon.’ He paused to sip his coffee. ‘Not that it’s going to be of much use to the US Navy.’
Mallon leant forward. ‘What do you mean?’
‘To put it simply, our violent friends have disappeared off the face of the Earth. Or from the surface of the sea, strictly speaking. Which is pretty bloody astounding, seeing as the Navy had P-3s, E-2s, A-6s, S-2s — basically, a lot of metal in the sky — looking for that fishing boat.’
‘Are you sure about this?’
Girling smiled ruefully. ‘The intelligence community is awash with it. I’m afraid the secret won’t last the night.’ He gestured to the TV. ‘It’ll probably be on the evening news. Certainly in tomorrow’s papers. Kelso’s going to have to start looking some-where else for his exclusive.’
‘There go our jobs,’ Mallon said.
‘No kidding,’ Girling said, rolling the coffee cup between his palms.
Mallon’s expression darkened. ‘Do you think Lord Kyle will shut us down?’
Girling shrugged. ‘I heard a rumour there’s a meeting tomorrow and all the big guns will be there. It explains why Kelso’s been busting his balls to put such a hot edition to bed this week. It might end up being the difference between a desk and the dole queue.’
‘And I was just beginning to enjoy journalism,’ Mallon said.
‘Chin up,’ Girling said, mimicking their editor. ‘We’ll be all right.’
Mallon returned the smile. ‘It’s certainly good to see you back to your old self.’
‘Me? I’m fine. Always have been.’
‘I meant… well, about what happened at lunchtime.’
Girling waved a hand dismissively. ‘I get a little morose sometimes. Don’t take any notice.’
‘I know she was your wife, Tom. Kelso told me. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have pried like that. I had no right.’
The phone trilled by Girling’s elbow.
The receptionist’s voice came on the line. ‘It’s Mark Stansell for you,’ she said. There was a click and he was through.
Mark Stansell? Girling smiled. No one ever referred to him by his Christian name. She must be new.
The line was crackly. In Egypt, Girling had become used to the vagaries of their telephone system. Now he shouted to make himself heard.
‘I hear you’ve been drafted into Kelso’s army,’ Stansell said. ‘Welcome back.’
‘Thanks,’ Girling replied. ‘It’s only a temporary arrangement, although I’m still not sure I’m doing the right thing.’
‘You’ll be fine, Tom boy. Just make sure you fly low and slow. Don’t rush things.’
‘Sure,’ Girling replied. ‘Tell that to the guys who made an even bigger mess of Beirut last night. How are you doing on the ID front, Stansell?’
Stansell said something, but he missed it in a sudden burst of static.
‘Say again.’
‘I said I think I’ve cracked it,’ Stansell said, as the noise subsided.