The Mortal Maze Read online

  THE MORTAL MAZE

  A novel by Ian D. Richardson

  “In journalism, there has always been a tension between getting it first and getting it right”

  -- Pulitzer Prize winning American columnist, Ellen Goodman

  First ebook edition. Published August 28, 2015

  by

  Preddon Lee Limited

  26 Ascott Avenue, London W5 5QB, United Kingdom

  http://www.preddonlee.com/

  http://www.themortalmaze.com/

  copyright Ian D. Richardson 2014

  Cover design: Rachel Lawston, London, UK

  http://www.lawstondesign.com/

  Story editor: Jan Woolf, London, UK

  http://www.janwoolf.com/

  Final draft proof reader & editor: Rosemary Batson

  Ebook conversions: Linda White

  http://www.coinlea.co.uk/

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, nor may it be stored in any information storage and retrieval system without prior permission from the publisher.

  The right of Ian D. Richardson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Although much of this story has the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) as its setting, it is entirely a work of fiction. The events and the characters portrayed are the creation of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9571401-7-2

  CONTENTS:

  1: Faking it.

  2: Unexpected visitors from the past.

  3: Who is the jihadist?

  4: A clash with the boss.

  5: A shock reunion.

  6: An abrupt end to a family dinner.

  7: A close call for Jackson and Pete.

  8: Will the bigfoots move in?

  9: Zareena soothes the stresses.

  10: What do the Americans know?

  11: The debts grow.

  12: A bug earns a reward.

  13: A sneeze helps an illicit delivery.

  14: A rescue and unwelcome news.

  15: A photograph explained.

  16: Samira becomes a sexual target.

  17: Dick seeks to control Jackson.

  18: A bigfoot meets his match.

  19: Felicity seeks help.

  20: Mack’s HQ language problems.

  21: An act of desperation.

  22: A challenging tip-off.

  23: A threat carried out.

  24: The team caught off guard.

  25: Jackson faces another crisis.

  26: A mother disowns her son.

  27: Another rejection for Jackson.

  28: The plan to capture Bin Hassan.

  29: The set-up is threatened.

  30: Fate intervenes.

  The Reckoning.

  End Notes

  Thanks

  CHAPTER 1

  Jackson Dunbar – Jacko to his colleagues and friends – surveys the scene before him with some disappointment. He has been in Armibar, capital of Central Arabia, for a month now and he still hasn’t been able to get a report on the BBC’s Ten O’Clock News.

  It is a frustrating time for an ambitious TV correspondent. Twice he has been to demonstrations in this shabby street, pock-marked by bullets from a long-past battle, and in a part of the city well away from the eyes of most citizens. On both occasions, a promised dramatic event failed to make the grade, except for a few short clips on the World News channel.

  Jackson’s young Australian cameraman, Pete Fox, is busy filming about 100 Arab men chanting and waving placards calling for the destruction of Britain, America and Israel. They are mostly in grubby traditional outfits, the ankle-length thawb or dishdash, and headwear, the keffiyeh. Women wearing black hijabs stand in the doorways ululating and clapping.

  It is very routine stuff, unlikely to have any impact, and Jackson wonders why the demonstration is being held in such an out-of-the-way run-down street with its dusty pot-holed roads, broken pavements and heaps of stinking uncollected rubbish. Police and soldiers in their cheap crumpled uniforms are there in substantial numbers as they always are for demonstrations, but even they are looking upon the protest in a manner that suggests they wish they were back in their barracks playing cards or football.

  Pete, in his late twenties and with an accent and choice of clothes that make clear his Down Under origins, comes over to Jackson: “Do you want to do a piece-to-camera, mate?”

  Jackson takes another look around him and shakes his head. “It’s another no-no. Let’s pack it in and get back to the bureau.”

  Pete is unsure. “I think I’ll stick around a bit while they’re still here,” nodding towards the CNN and Al-Jazeera crews and newsagency reporters.

  “Please yourself, but my expenses need urgent attention,” Jackson says with a grin.

  He goes to the BBC’s silver Range Rover 4x4 parked nearby and gets in beside the staff driver, Yassin Azizi, an easy-going young Arab with a bushy dark moustache, wearing smart western clothes and smoking a cigarette.

  Five minutes later the car is moving down an avenue alongside the Armibar Central Plaza, a busy and prosperous air conditioned shopping mall with life going on as though the city is at total peace with itself. It is a world and a culture away from where they have just been. Many of the women are confidently wearing fashionable Western clothes and proudly flaunting expensive designer handbags. Were it not for the many men bustling about in their neat white thawbs and patterned keffiyehs, it could be any flourishing business centre in the developed world.

  Jackson spots a modern glass-fronted bank and tells Yassin to pull over at the ATM. He inserts his card and taps in the PIN. The card is rejected. Jackson angrily bangs the machine with his fist and walks back to the car, watched with resignation by Yassin.

  “Bloody banks!” mutters Jackson.

  Yassin anticipates what will happen next and already has his wallet out by the time Jackson gets back into the passenger seat. He hands over a $50 note.

  “Thanks,” says Jackson, embarrassed that this is not the first time. “I’ll give it back when I get my exes.” Yassin sighs but says nothing.

  The car resumes the journey back to the bureau. Jackson’s mobile phone rings. He sees on the screen that Pete is calling. “Hi Pete!” There is no answer and the line goes dead. “Bloody phones,” declares Jackson.

  The car continues on its way, both men remaining silent. Then, as they turn into the street lined with modern brick office blocks where the bureau is situated, they spot the thirties-something Anglo-Arab office manager, Samira Lang, at the front door. She simultaneously sees the car and runs out onto the roadway, waving her hands furiously. Jackson winds down his window. “Go back, go back,” Samira shouts. Jackson’s mobile rings. It is Pete again.

  “What’s the problem, Pete?” Jackson listens briefly, then, “Okay. We’re on our way back now.” There is a Hollywood-style squealing of tyres as Yassin does a fierce U-turn and speeds back down the road.

  Ten minutes later, Jackson is back at the scene of the demonstration. It could not be more shockingly different than when they left it such a short time ago. It is a blood bath. Wounded and dead Arabs, both military and civilian, both male and female, are lying in pools of blood on the road and in doorways. Soldiers are tensely lined up, rifles raised and firing shots into the air, to keep back a gathering crowd. There are sirens as police and military cars and ambulances arrive. Some of the injured demonstrators are already in the back of private utility trucks that charge away with headlights and horns blazing.

  Jackson sees P
ete filming from a doorway and runs to him. Pete has blood running down his face. “What the fuck happened?”

  Pete replies while continuing filming. “The demo was infiltrated by militants just before you left.”

  “Did you see them?” Jackson demands.

  “I guess I did.”

  “Well, why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

  “How the hell was I to know they were carrying hidden guns and grenades?! They just looked like regular demonstrators who’d turned up late. Anyway, mate, don’t blame me for your own failings. You shouldn’t have pissed off before you knew the story was really over. You should know how sensitive everything is in this city.”

  Jackson accepts that Pete is right and that is how the acerbic bureau chief, Mack Galbraith, will also see it. He knows he has to do something fast and drastic to salvage the situation. “C’mon. Let’s not get into an argument, Pete, I need to know what you filmed?”

  “Most of it, mate.”

  “Thank Christ!” Jackson mutters.

  Pete pauses to wipe the blood from his face before adding caustically: “And thanks for asking how I am!”

  “Sorry, Pete. What happened?”

  “A ricochet off the wall just above me when the troops opened fire on a guy who had appeared at a window with his gun. It’s only a graze. I’ll be okay. But the guy at the window copped it.”

  “Glad you weren’t badly hurt.”

  Having expressed his concern, even belatedly, Jackson is anxious to get back to the story. He nods towards the CNN and Al Jazeera crews as they speed away. “How much did they get?”

  “All of it, mate, and both Jane and Omar were in the middle of doing their pieces-to-camera when it all blew up.”

  “Oh shit, shit, shit! Mack is going to tear my balls off over this.”

  Desperation is taking hold of Jackson. “Look mate, I’ve really got to do a piece-to-camera.”

  “That’s going to look a bit lame at this stage, Jacko.”

  “No it won’t. Run into that derelict building over there, filming as you go, then turn the camera on me as I run in after you.”

  Pete hesitates. Jackson panics as he sees his promising career coming apart before his eyes. “Do it, will you! Just do as I say!”

  The row begins to attract bystanders, now that most of the wounded and bodies have been taken away. Pete is embarrassed and runs without enthusiasm into the derelict building as instructed. Jackson pauses then races after Pete as though competing in a 100-metre sprint. Once inside, he crouches down, catches his breath and begins pouring out words to the camera:

  “What started out today as a peaceful protest has turned violent. It…”

  Jackson suddenly flinches and anxiously looks around before resuming his report.

  “Er. It isn’t quite clear why the protest turned into such a savage confrontation, but there are many dead and wounded. This bloody event is sure to place additional pressure on the Central Arabian Government, which has been facing serious allegations of corruption and a weakness towards what is seen as the imperial ambitions of Israel and Western governments.”

  Jackson flinches again, looks around anxiously, pauses a few seconds, then casually stands up and dusts himself down. “That should do the trick, Pete. Let’s get this back to the office.”

  As they return to the 4x4, Jackson fails to notice a small heap of human excrement just inside the entrance to the building. He steps right into it. He screws up his face and wipes his shoe clean on a tuft of grass. “You could be in the shit in more than one way,” laughs Pete.

  ******

  At the BBC bureau, MacDonald “Mack” Galbraith angrily paces about his untidy office. He is 50 and a caricature of an old-fashioned world-weary Glaswegian hack. He puffs furiously on a cigarette and his clothes need the attention of an iron. As he mostly confines himself to doing reports for radio and online, his appearance doesn’t really matter. The ash tray on Mack’s untidy desk is overflowing, his book shelves lack any apparent order and the large wall map of the Middle East is faded and torn with Post-it stickers and scribbles all over it.

  Mack goes to the door to the main work area and shouts at Samira: “Where the fuck is that numptie?”

  Samira attempts to calm him: “He’ll be here in a few minutes. He says he’s got a great piece-to-camera.”

  “He’d better or I’ll have him cut off at the knees,” Mack shouts as he returns to his desk, lights another cigarette from a smoking butt and glares at three TV monitors fixed to the wall. They are permanently tuned to BBC World News, CNN and Al Jazeera.

  Meanwhile, Yassin is swerving through the traffic, horn tooting and headlights flashing. Jackson is in the front seat and turns to Pete who is in the back studying the piece-to-camera on the camera monitor. “It’ll work fine if you add some shooting and bullet pings to the sound track,” he declares.

  Pete frowns. “I’m not going to fake it, Jacko.”

  “Jeez! We’re not really faking it. It’s what would have happened if I’d been there. Anyway, you must’ve done it all the time in Australia.”

  “There are witnesses to what you – we – did, Jacko. And besides, we’re working for the British Broadcasting Corporation, not some two-bit commercial outfit in Australia!”

  ”Don’t get pompous with me, Pete!”

  Pete fiddles with the camera, then turns back to Jackson. “I’ve deleted your piece. Debate over!”

  Jackson sinks back into his seat, crushed. “Shit!”

  Back at the bureau, Mack’s fury knows no bounds as he watches the TV monitors and sees that CNN and Al Jazeera are already on air with their version of the story. He lights another cigarette even though his previous one is only half smoked. He pours himself a large whisky from a bottle in a drawer in his desk.

  ******

  Jackson and Pete come crashing through the entrance door and go into the main open-plan work area. Farouk Ahmed, the bureau’s Arab technician, is setting up a camera on the platform in the corner of the room used as a TV broadcast area.

  Mack comes to his office door. “About fucking time, too,” he shouts and points to the TV monitors showing CNN and Al Jazeera’s coverage of the story. Jackson flinches and turns to Samira: “Quick! Get me the latest Reuters.”

  “A ‘please’ would be nice, Jacko,” she curtly replies.

  “I don’t have time for ‘pleases’, Samira. Just get me the Reuters stuff. I need it now, now, now!”

  Samira sighs and prints the latest Reuter reports from her computer while Pete lines up his film. Jackson closes his eyes and does deep breathing to calm himself. He grabs a brush from his desk and tidies his dark wavy hair as he moves in front of the studio camera. Farouk turns on the TV lights and attaches a clip microphone to Jackson’s shirt. Samira goes to Jackson and dabs make-up on his forehead to take away the shine.

  The TV monitors beside the camera come to life and show the BBC World News studio with presenter Margaret Mathieson talking to a studio guest.

  “Are you there, London?” Jackson calls out.

  “Yes, we’re here,” says a disembodied male voice on a speaker, “we’ll come to you in a couple of minutes as soon as this interview is wound up.”

  Jackson nods and is handed a couple of sheets of Reuters by Samira.

  “Thanks,” he says with a weak apologetic smile.

  Mack’s fury grows as he paces about his office watching CNN and Al Jazeera doing their reports. He turns up the sound on the CNN monitor as reporter Jane Kubinski delivers her piece-to-camera:

  The gun battle started without warning after the relatively peaceful and routine demonstration was infiltrated by…

  There is a rapid burst of gunfire and Jane crouches down and looks around her. She looks up to a window where a man in Arab dress is waving a white flag. He is shot dead and slumps forward, half hanging out the window. Jane hesitates then resumes her report with a trembling voice:

  As I was saying, the demonstration was infiltrated by a
group of men who seem to have hidden hand grenades under their thawbs, their traditional ankle-length garment. Without warning, they began attacking soldiers and police who were monitoring the demonstration. The soldiers retaliated with indiscriminate gunfire and…

  Mack kills the sound and turns up the Al Jazeera report in Arabic. Their correspondent, Omar Abbas, is seen running to take shelter while simultaneously trying to explain what is happening. At that moment, Mack sees BBC World News presenter Margaret Mathieson end the studio interview and turn to the camera. He brings up the sound:

  We are just getting reports from the troubled country of Central Arabia that there has been a violent demonstration resulting in many dead and wounded. Our correspondent, Jackson Dunbar, was there and is in our studio in the capital, Armibar… Hello Jackson, tell us what happened…

  Jackson appears on screen and talks in a confident manner that belies his turbulent emotional state:

  Well, Margaret, no-one could have predicted the slaughter I witnessed a short while ago. Although the Central Arabian regime is very much on the defensive these days, demonstrations take place frequently and are hardly worth reporting because they seem directionless and unlikely to change anything. I’ve been to several of these demonstrations since arriving in Armibar a month ago and they have never been newsworthy. The regime mostly ignores them.

  Mack shouts at the monitor: “Jings, Jacko! Just tell us what fucking happened!”

  At that point, Margaret, jumps in with an edge to her voice:

  Yes, we understand that Jackson, but can you tell us what actually went wrong today?

  Jackson correctly takes this as a polite reprimand.

  Yes, of course, Margaret... It seems that the demonstration was infiltrated by a group of jihadists armed with grenades. Without warning, they began hurling the grenades at the soldiers who were keeping a watch on the demonstration. And here’s what happened: This film was taken by my colleague Peter Fox and contains scenes that some viewers may find distressing.

  Farouk plays in Pete’s uncut film. It is not one for the faint-hearted. There are graphic and bloody scenes of killing and wounding with screams from the victims and the watching women and children. No commentary is needed.