In the Evil Day

56

…LONDON…

Three men kidnapped in Beirut in 1993. Paul Kaskis and John Anselm, American journalists, David Riccardi, Irish photographer.

Caroline read the clippings again. The Times described Kaskis as ‘foreign correspondent and former military affairs correspondent for the Washington newsletter Informed Sources’. Anselm was a ‘freelance veteran of news flashpoints from Somalia to Sri Lanka’. Riccardi was called an ‘award-winning battle zone photographer’. The kidnappers were thought to be ‘anti-American Hezbollah extremists’.

John Anselm said Kaskis was murdered. Caroline skimmed. There was no mention of the death of Kaskis. The last clipping, dated 17 July 1994, said Anselm and Riccardi had appeared at the US Embassy in the early morning of the previous day.

So Anselm and Riccardi were never interviewed, never told their stories, didn’t write about them.

Caroline closed her eyes. The time to stop this was now. She had fobbed off Halligan for the last time. Now she should tell him it had looked promising and then it had evaporated.

It would be humiliating. More humiliation, after being treated like a hooker-fucked over and given money.

She caught herself rubbing her hands, something she did without thinking when she was feeling stressed. Her cook’s hands. Her father once said her brother had pianist’s hands. Richard had no musical ability, couldn’t whistle Happy Birthday. After Sothebys sacked her, her mother suggested cooking school. Her father was reading the paper, From behind it, he said, ‘Good idea. The Digby women all have cook’s hands.’ The Digbys were her mother’s family. After that, she took every chance to study the hands of the Digby women but she saw no sign of domestic-staff uniformity.

No more humiliations. She’d had her share. Think.

A man in drag had tried to kill Mackie. Only Colley knew about the meeting. She had set up the meeting and a man in drag had tried to kill Mackie.

And money appeared in her account. Colley could mock her because he had a doctored tape of their meeting. No one would believe her story.

The time to stop this thing? Colley arranged the money, arranged for the money in the briefcase the slight, dark woman gave her.

But Colley didn’t arrange for Mackie to die at the head of the escalator. Colley was a slimy old hack who picked through celebrities’ garbage and followed up-market call girls to see who their customers were, but he wasn’t an arranger of killings.

No. For personal gain, he had told someone about the film and that someone had arranged to get it and kill Mackie and compromise her.

Who had Colley told?

There were no answers that way. The film, she’d seen the film, the whole thing was about the film. People would kill to get the film.

A village in Angola. Americans. That was still the way to go.

Anselm said Kaskis intended to interview Joseph Diab, an ex-soldier, Lebanese-American, in Beirut. In the Lebanon anyway, which was mostly Beirut as she understood it.

Did the paper have a correspondent in Beirut? She never read the foreign news pages.

It took five minutes to find out. They had a stringer called Tony Kourie who worked for a Beirut paper, a moonlighter. He answered the phone. A faint East End accent.

He said he knew her name, he’d seen the Brechan story. They compared weathers. Then she asked him and he whistled.

‘No shortage of Joe Diabs here. Had a go from the American end, have you? US Army?’

‘No. I will if I have to.’

‘I’ll have a try. Anything else might help?’

It came to her from nowhere.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Get back to you.’

The phone. Halligan.

‘Caroline, we’re at the end of the road here, darling.’

‘I need a little more time,’ she said, confidence gone.

‘Full account. Pronto. Today. In writing, in detail.’

‘I think I’ve shown…’ ‘Shown? You won’t mind me saying turning up Brechan’s bumboy, that’s now looking less spectacular. A lot less clever of you. In the light of information received.’

The skin of her face felt tight. Information received?

‘I’ll get back to you,’ she said.

‘You will. Soonest. And the contract, well, study the fine print.’

Minutes passed. She realised she was rubbing her hands together. The phone again.

‘Caroline, Tony Kourie. Listen, I’ve got a likely Joe Diab. Joseph Elias Diab, age thirty-six, born Los Angeles, parents both born in Beirut. Former US Army senior sergeant.’

‘Yes?’

‘And dead. Outside the house of his cousin, six shots to the body.’

‘When?’

‘Night of 5 October, 1993.’

‘Thanks, Tony. Really, thanks. Repay you if I can.’

‘Tell the bastards to run some more of my stuff.’

‘I will.’

Caroline looked at the printouts, but she didn’t pick them up for a while. She knew. Anselm, Kaskis and Riccardi had been kidnapped on the night of 5 October, 1993.