Jake scooped up the bundle and half-ran to see his news editor. More grim news for Europe raced across the overhead tickers: recovery flat-lining, stock markets in freefall, debt marching upward. China had just posted eight per cent growth, a performance any Western premier would kill for.
Niall Heston was perched at the end of the newsdesk. He was thin with a high forehead, wispy hair and an aquiline nose, like a hunting falcon in a suit. Heston was the link between reporters and the editor-in-chief. The big boss decided on the front-page splash, whether to run something legally hazardous and so on, while Heston kept him updated with the best prospects. In theory he knew what every reporter was working on and which exclusives would hit the streets in three days’ time. It was the most enervating role in the newspaper.
“Aha! Scoop Wolsey! What crackers have you got in store for us today?” Heston’s Aberdeen lilt oozed sarcasm – he had his favourites and Jake was not among them.
“I think I’m onto something good this time,” said Jake.
Heston shot his underling a look. “Should I be calling David back from The Ivy?”
Jake forced a laugh.
“Go on then, what have you got for me?”
Jake rattled through the events of the last twenty-four hours: the unhinged professor, the mysterious postal run and now Britton’s package.
Heston tapped his lips with his forefingers. “What are you saying then, Jake? There’s some kind of conspiracy surrounding this professor and the forces of darkness have contrived to call down a lightning strike on his head?”
“Well, obviously the lightning strike’s just coincidence.”
“Right, good, glad we’ve got that cleared up. It’s reassuring to know my highly-paid reporters aren’t living entirely in cloud-cuckoo-land. So what exactly have we got? What have we got that’s concrete, that I can run?”
“We’ve got a professor saying he’s being followed.”
“A mad professor,” Heston interjected.
“And a day later he winds up dead.”
“Killed by a freak of nature,” said Heston. “A lightning strike for fuck’s sake, witnessed by dozens of tourists.”
“And we’ve got this phoney postal van making a collection at completely the wrong time.”
“Bloody Royal Mail lying bastards covering their own arses,” said Heston. “What’s the likelier explanation – bullshitting postman is late for delivery, or some grand conspiracy to steal a package from a discredited academic who you’ve already admitted had lost the plot, big time?”
“What about the note?” Jake pleaded. “Britton writes an ‘if anything happens to me’ letter and a day later he’s dead. Doesn’t that strike you as strange? It’s like … it’s like Princess Di telling people she thought MI5 were arranging an accident for her.”
Heston burst out laughing. “Oh man, I can’t believe you even said that. You just played the Diana Card! Right, definitely not a story.”
Jake loathed this man.
“Why are you even telling me all this?” Heston continued. “What do you want to do with this so-called ‘information’ you’ve collected?”
“Britton’s assistant is off to Istanbul to carry on his work.”
“Ah, you fancy a nice wee jolly, is that it?” Heston sighed through his nose.
“We’ve got exclusive access,” said Jake.
“Well, I suppose it might make a decent colour piece,” Heston muttered. “But forget all this conspiracy shit, ok?”
“Fine.”
“One more thing. Remind me when your contract expires?”
Jake felt a sickening in his gut. “This September … why?”
“Just bear that date in mind, eh? If you’re going to be burning more of my money on this caper I want some seriously shit-hot copy. Do I make myself clear? Seriously shit-hot.”
Jake nodded.
“Are you sure you want to go? Do you understand what I’m getting at? If you want to change your mind, now’s the time.”
This was it – one of those moments on which pivots a career, a life.
“I’m sure.”
“Very well then. The die is cast.”
Jake felt giddy as he walked from the newsdesk. Strange decision.
The die is cast.
As Caesar said when he crossed the Rubicon.