CHAPTER SIXTEEN: MANOEUVRES
Gorbodey arrived at Hunter’s flat on the dot of nine o'clock with a second Russian, a grim-faced man in a baggy dark suit to whom smiles seemed foreign, or perhaps signs of weakness. They caught Hunter drinking his way through a second pot of coffee after having debated whether to work his way, Elaine-style, down a bottle of brandy, and manfully rejecting the idea. He was miserable, and depressed, and he had a feeling that his day had begun badly.
‘You look not good.’ Gorbodey was bushy-tailed. ‘What goes wrong? Hangover?’
Hunter sighed. ‘Chloe.’
Gorbodey frowned. ‘The girl?’ He laughed a big Russian laugh. ‘You are in love?’
Hunter felt like weeping. ‘She packed me in.’
‘Ah, you were package.’ Gorbodey's eyes were mocking. ‘How you go? Where you go? Parcel post? Destination Siberia?’ He grinned: it was plain that his heart was bulletproof. ‘She is tough girl, I hear, hard cookie. Jim says all men fall for her, and she is Amazon: first she smiles, then she bites, and afterwards she spits out the bits.’
The grim-faced man listened to this interchange with evident impatience. He interjected something in Russian and Gorbodey nodded. ‘Sad. But you will mend, you are tough newspaperman. Now we must hunt bugs.’
The grim-faced man had already taken out his small black box and begun sweeping Hunter's hallway speculatively. He drew a blank and they moved on to comb Hunter's kitchen and bathroom before moving into his bedroom.
Fortunately the room was spick and span: Hunter had made his bed neatly, and all traces of Chloe were gone. The grim-faced man pointed his box at a chest of drawers holding Hunter's shirts, and the box began to click busily. Gorbodey unpacked the shirts neatly, one by one, and all had additional buttons. He chuckled happily as he flippped each one free to drop it into his pocket.
‘Wonderful, wonderful. They have been very thorough, very professional. This was very well done.’
Hunter watched doubtfully. He was not so sure that being bugged was a benefit. ‘What will you do with them?’
Gorbodey was now busily scanning his underwear, but he drew a blank, and Hunter's suits and casual wear also prove bug-free. He shrugged. ‘Anything, anything.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Maybe we put them on Chloe and some other girls. It would be big surprise for some people. Maybe they would fall in love as well.’
He grinned at Hunter's discomfiture, and they moved into Hunter’s drawingroom. The magic box located two more bugs on Cradock’s suitcase, but the rest of Hunter’s flat was free. Gorbodey held the box out. ‘Now you keep this. It had a button, you just press. It has battery, it will last about forty, maybe fifty, hours. Then you just open, give it new battery, very simple.’
Hunter took the box and turned it over in his fingers. It was as inoffensive as a pocket calculator, yet it might prove his salvation. But Gorbodey was fidgeting.
‘Now we must go.’ He was plainly waiting for something. Hunter eyed him questioningly.
‘You have whisky in your kitchen, I think.’
His companion came to life at the word, his grimness melting into hope, and both men looked thirsty.
Hunter hurried to play host. He poured three large measures - there are times when even tough newspapermen must drown their sorrows, and he could walk part of the way to Financeday if his head proved slow in clearing.
The Russians sank their whiskies in single gulps, and for a moment Hunter feared that he might also lose two glasses. But they held on to them, and both men’s eyes were expectant eyes. He poured again, but only into the Russians' glasses. Gorbodey and his companion waited, but Hunter shook his head.
‘I've got to go to work.’
Gorbodey looked reproachful. ‘We too.’
‘No.’ He shook his head firmly. ‘I can't write if I drink too much. I lose my head.’
‘Okay.’ Gorbodey downed his whisky in a gulp, held on to his glass for a moment, and then placed it carefully on the kitchen table. ‘We will go.’ He paused, as though recalling a lost thought. ‘Melnikov, he asks me to ask you. Could you write something nice about Elektron?’
Hunter thought of his dollar cheque, and beamed. It was good whisky, and he was now recovered, and in a very good mood. ‘How nice do you want me to be?’
‘I have papers in the car.’ Gorbodey waved a reproving hand in front of his companion, who seemed to be on the point of refilling his glass. ‘He had some plans, expansion plans. He wants to build Wonders very big in Russia.’
‘Papers in English?’
‘Oh yes, of course. Very good English.’ He licked his lips. The whisky bottle plainly held a magic attraction. ‘I will also be on mobile. We can wing it as we go.’ He licked his lips again.
Hunter relented: a story is always a story, and readymade copy is always worth a drink or two. ‘Let's wing it now.’
Gorbodey looked startled, and then grinned. His companion was already pouring. Hunter watched him libate two very large measures, and held up his hand, forefinger barely a couple of millimetres from his thumb. The Russian covered the bottom of his glass, and looked up. They smiled at each other, and the Russian shrugged. Two very large whiskies and a droplet vanished without trace, and fortunately both Russians were still sober enough to place their glasses tidily on the table.
Gorbodey rubbed his hands together cheerfully. ‘Okay. Now we go. Call us if you have any problems.’
Hunter travelled down to street level with them, the small black box tucked neatly into a corner of his document case, nestling neatly alongside his mobile and his Cradock outline.
A large black Mercedes with darkened windows lay parked directly across the street from his flat, and it was impossible to fathom the interior. But he had a distinct feeling that he could glimpse one of the up-front chicks with short skirts seated in the back.
Gorbodey rummaged in the car to surface with a wad of photocopies. Hunter glanced at them quickly. More than half were tables, graphs, and maps. He added them to the small black box, the three men shook hands, and a moment later the Russians were gone. Hunter began to walk towards Notting Hill Gate underground station.
Financeday's newsroom was already bustling as he arrived. The paper's journalists normally made great play at being cool, greeting each on arrival with merely the politest of nodded, or possibly a brief murmured phrase. But Hunter's arrival triggered a small barrage of welcoming smiles, and he swelled proudly as Martin Scott broke away from a small huddle at the end of the room to join him.
‘What happened about Croesus? We thought you might file.’ Scott's tone was low-key, even deferential.
Hunter put his forefinger to his lips. He had no intention of sowing fear and alarm. ‘Off the record.’
‘Secretive bastard.’ Scott lingered. ‘Anything you can follow up?’
Hunter remembered Harris' strategy for sending an europhile prime minister down the chute. ‘He reckons they can put the skids under Jim Small by the end of the month.’
‘The trade figures?’
He nodded.
Scott frowned. ‘But they're expected to be brilliant.’
Hunter leered. There is something about retailing trickery that renders even a reporter devious. ‘Because we're still opted out. So they're going to put down a motion asking him to swear that he'll never dish the pound.’
Scott clickd his tongue disbelievingly against his teeth. ‘Jim would shred them.’
‘He reckons he's got enough votes to swing it.’
‘Don't believe it. He's just shooting off his mouth.’ Scott shook his head firmly. Harris was a big-mouthed braggart, and braggarts were all hot air. But then he looked thoughtful: threats, even idle threats, could often make good stories. He beamed. ‘But see whether you can get Ben Butcher to bite on it, we might trigger some shivers in Downing Street. Make it an early story, and we'll give you a couple of hundred words. And don't forget your Wonders background piece.’
Hunter fetched himself a cup of coffee. Chloe's face had already begun to fade in his mind as he picked up his telephone: work is ever a sovereign remedy for emotional ailments.
Butcher was affable, but cautious, as Hunter converted Croesus into a juicy nugget of hearsay. ‘You've been talking to Ned, haven't you?’ He guffawed. ‘He's a bit premature.’
Hunter pressed. He was two days away from the Home Secretary, and he might profit by sowing a little advance mayhem in high places: alarmed politicians were frequently indiscreet politicians.
‘He says you've already counted your votes.’
‘Oh, does he?’ Butcher might be an affable man, but he could also be very cautious. ‘He's gone a bit over the top.’ He paused, and the telephone was silent for a long moment, as though risks were being weighed, and reward ratios carefully assessed. Then he began to speak again, but now his voice was collusive to the point of incest. ‘I suppose you'll be on to Number Ten when you've cleared me down?’
It was a question, but also an assumption. Hunter grunted noncommitally.
‘Tell Jack Yeats...’ Butcher hesitated. ‘Tell him you've heard that a group of MPs met secretly yesterday and set up a group called 'Protect the Pound'. Tell him they're planning to abstain next week.’
‘Abstain?’ Hunter echoed the word uncertainly. It had a flavour of retreat, even surrender.
Butcher guffawed again. ‘Sounds better than attack.’
Hunter was still unsure. ‘But do you really want to show your hand?’
‘Ned can be a loose cannon: our hand was already on the table, Richard.’
‘But won't the PM shred you?’
‘We've already counted our votes.’ Butcher rubbed his eyes wearily. He had spent a long night horse-trading, carving up ministerial appointments with friends and supporters, and now everything was neatly in place. But he was also a cautious man, and he had no wish to start burning bridges until he was sure he had the wind fully with him. ‘Just don't quote me.’
Hunter cleared his line to redial. Jack Yeats sounded irritable. He had already heard rumours of the previous night's meeting, and feared that a new eurosceptic prime minister might want new eurosceptic helpers. He was technically on secondment from the Treasury, but he had absolutely no wish at all to return to low profile bureaucratic life: his spell as personal press office to the prime minister had given him a taste for high living.
‘It's all load of balls, Richard.’ He drenched his words with scorn. ‘I told you last week that we've got an epidemic of end of term fidgets. Now some of them seemed to have turned into mad cows.’
Hunter listened, and scented a whiff of anxiety behind this bravado, and smiled. He edged closer, a bullfighter with cape in hand. ‘The gods drive mad those they wish to destroy?’
‘Quite so, quite so. Quem deus vult, etcetera, etcetera.’ Yeats sniffed. He could also reel off latin tags.
‘Some people seem to think that it's Jim that's gone round the bend.’
‘Oh, very funny.’ Yeats' voice was a suppressed snarl. He was in no mood for smart-alecs.
Now it was time for the sharpest of sharp rapier blows, and Hunter's voice was silky. ‘I guess you'll have to go back to the Treasury.’
Yeats
seaw red. He was normally the most even of men, and most sweet-natured of press
officers. But Hunter was being a shit, and he was tempted beyond all conscience.
He growled. ‘You'd better take some guidance before you start tapping your
keyboard, Richard. Goodies are up for grabs, and Charlie counts on winning.’
He slammed down the telephone, and sat quivering with suppressed fury. He had committed a massive indiscretion, but he did not care. Lord Archell and the prime minister were both at a reception for the great and the good following a highpowered presentation on information technology at the Waldorf Hotel in Aldwych, and Yeats was prepared to bet that Archell would corner the prime minister and touch on the subject of television channel franchises. It would be a moment for mustering influence, and stepping most carefully, not for fuelling Jim's enemies. Hunter deserved a boot in the short and curlies, and Yeats' one regret was that it would not be him doing the kicking.
Lord Archell and prime minister Jim Small were in fact nibbling on cocktail snacks. They had been exchanging a few snippets of political small talk, but Small was waiting. Financeday had blotted its copybook by fostering mutinous eurosceptics, and Archell must muzzle Hunter if he wanted to stay in the running.
He glanced at his watch. It was time for a prompt. ‘Well, Charlie, soon we'll have every home in the country linked to a vast information network.’
‘It's going to be pricey.’ Archell looked judicious. American, European, and Japanese media groups were all busily trying to forge links with British partners in an expected auction. But Archell had built a powerful national consortium. ‘We could lead the world, with the right environment.’
Small smiled. Archell plainly wanted a long run. But he stood to mint a lot of money, and mints could prove expensive. He nodded again, and Archell reflected that the man sometimes bore a remarkable resemblance to the nodding dogs once popular with low income car owners.
‘We have to weigh these things very carefully.’ The prime minister looked Archell straight in the eye. ‘We've got to choose responsible people who can set a responsible lead.’
‘Quite so, prime minister, quite so.’ Archell was deferential, but he was laughing inside. Small thought he held power in his hands, but he knew nothing about Hunter's Cradock timebomb.
‘We must be positive, a force for good.’ A statesmanlike frown furrowed Small's brow. Archell was being a pain. It was time for him to quit playing so damned high and mighty, and crawl a bit.
Archell said nothing. Jim Small was set for a large surprise, and soon he would be begging for a friendly press. Playing poker can be great fun for a man holding all the aces.
They were both silent for a moment, and then they smiled formally at each other, to part a little stiffly. Both were stubborn men, and both were determined to be winners.
Meanwhile Hunter wrapped up his eurosceptic piece whilst the rest of Financeday prepared to go to lunch. The Financeday newsroom emptied, and he followed through by stitching together a quick piece on Elektron to run as a box with his Wonders background feature. Melnikov's papers were very Russian, stuffed with numbers and a touch heavy, and they woefully lacked colour. But Hunter was a newsman to the core. He quickly made up some dynamic quotes to make the piece come to life, emailed a copy to Wonders, to stay on the right side of Morissey, and then called Gorbodey and read him his draft over the phone.
Gorbodey purred. ‘Brilliant, Richard, brilliant. We must take you to Jim's again.’
Hunter thought of Chloe, and winced.
A few minutes later Morissey's secretary called to convey her boss' blessing, and he prepared to close down. Wonders' share price was still climbing, and making him richer by the hour, his stomach was chiding him for not having eaten, and he had to polish Cradock up to scratch and be in tip-top condition for a little slow dancing with Veronica Finch. Life as a newspaperman could be a hard, hard slog.