Niall Heston was wading through the two thousand emails which had arrived overnight. Had he known how much administration this job involved he might have reconsidered becoming news editor – sometimes it didn’t feel like being a real journalist. And it was rare that he could get his teeth into a story. That said, £200K was a fair old whack. He must be in the top percentile of the profession. A door knock interrupted his reflections.
“Marvin! Come on in.”
Marvin Whyte was a short South African with a magician’s goatee who’d risen to be the best-connected security correspondent in the country. He was valuable to the newspaper and he knew it; the last salary negotiation had been a gladiatorial haggle worthy of an Arab merchant, complete with several pretend walkouts.
“You’re going to like this, boss,” Whyte began. “Jeez, you’re going to like this. I just got tipped off that another MI6 agent has been killed abroad.”
Heston started forward. “Who gave you the heads-up?”
The smile of a crocodile whose dinner is assured crept across the reporter’s face. “The Foreign Secretary. We can quote him as a ‘highly placed government source’. The minister is hopping mad – he’s supposed to authorize all overseas interventions. Well, MI6 just went ahead and did whatever it is they wanted to do without asking. And it’s ended in another fatality.” Whyte paused, revelling in the scoop. “The minister dragged the chief of MI6 in for a bollocking, but apparently he denied all knowledge. So at best, we’ve got the head of MI6 losing control of his own organization. At worst – Jeez, Niall, I don’t even know what it means at worst.”
“Is the killing linked to Medcalf’s death?” Despite her family’s pleas for a private funeral, the church had been surrounded by a host of television cameras.
“The minister swears he doesn’t know. I for one believe him.”
“In Istanbul again?”
“No – Ethiopia, of all places.”
Heston turned sickly. “Ethiopia?”
“Yep. Why?”
“Jake Wolsey’s there. Against my better judgement I let him take a couple of week’s holiday. But he was using it to stand up a hunch about what went down in Istanbul. Bit of a coincidence, no?” Heston exhaled, tapping his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “We need to get Jake on the phone as soon as possible. Check he’s all right. Get him back here, discreetly. And I think we need to give some serious thought to all these wild theories he’s been coming up with.”
“What’s going on here, boss?”
“I don’t know for certain. But I’m beginning to suspect Jake might be onto something more sensational than anything this newspaper’s had for a very long time indeed.”
*
Two children were keeping watch when the sleeping journalist awoke and sneezed. The youngsters burst into giggles and fled. Sunlight was streaming through the door of the hut, catching on particulate air; from outside came the rhythmic ‘thunk, thunk, thunk’ of cassava being smashed into powder with a staff. Jake’s head was pounding too – it felt like he had nailed a bottle of gin. Yet confusingly, for the first time in months, he hadn’t touched a drop. He yawned and his lips split open, the reason for his headache coming back to him at once. Gingerly he explored the gash across his temple. His hair was matted with blood. He needed a dentist. Then he stepped outside and thoughts of his injuries vanished.
The air was clear and he could see for fifty miles. The heavens above seemed huge, a blue dome to humble the skies of England. A cataclysmic landscape fell away beneath his feet: mountain, precipice, escarpment and plateau, each jousting to be highest. The abysses beneath their feet boiled with foliage, mysterious places where waterfalls flowed.
The woman who had made coffee for them gestured for Jake to sit. She had a bowl of water and began dabbing at his forehead, cajoling him in her high voice.
“Amesegenallo,” said Jake. ‘Thank you’ was one of the few words he had learned in Amharic. The woman was delighted to hear her own language and she set about her work with new tenderness.
When Florence ambled out of the hut to join them, Jake did a double take.
“Your eye!” he exclaimed. “It’s happened again.”
Another twist of blood vessels had burst to the left of the pupil; Florence caressed her eye socket with her fingertips as she studied her reflection.
“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” Jake said. “People get them from time to time …”
He was interrupted as the woman began jabbering in Amharic and pointing down the hillside, where an Ethiopian man in western clothes was approaching.
The newcomer questioned the woman in businesslike tones. Then he said to Jake in English, “Bad place to get lost. You were lucky to find this village, I think. Big storm.”
It transpired the newcomer was a health worker who made a circuit of remote villages treating basic ailments and advising on sanitation. He had been educated in Cairo and spoke English well. The medic put three stitches in Jake’s temple and gave them both a shot of antibiotics.
After he had finished his ministrations Florence asked something troubling. “Are there any historical sites in this direction?”
She pointed to the north-east.
My God, thought Jake. She’s every bit as dotty as Britton.
But to his astonishment the medic nodded. “Yes, yes … you mean the Monastery of Debre Damo. That way, maybe fifty kilometres drive. It is more than one thousand five hundred years old.”
“How do we get there?”
The man waggled his head. “Not possible. It’s not safe, madam. Too close to the border.”
“How close?”
“Maybe five, six kilometres from Eritrea, something like this.”
“The Foreign Office advisory, remember?” muttered Jake. “We’re not supposed to go anywhere near there.”
“It’s dangerous,” the Ethiopian agreed. “Really. Last month Europeans shot by Eritrean bandits there. Very bad men, come to Ethiopia to make trouble.”
But Florence merely stared at the horizon.
“I’m going,” she said at last. “You stay here if you want, Jake – it’s up to you.”
Jake couldn’t let her go into danger alone. In the throes of this obsession she would get herself killed and his conscience wouldn’t allow it.
“If we did want to get there,” he began, “how would we go about it?”
“A man two villages from here has a car,” said the medic. “And he speaks English ok. He can take you, I think. But not cheap. Many dollars.”
“I’ll pay,” said Florence. “We’ll find something there, I’m sure of it.”
Jake felt a weight in his stomach, as if a heavy stone was lodged there. He followed her eyes to the north-east.