The Wreckage

28

Owen Price, the editor of the Financial Herald, is an Australian who arrived in London in the eighties at the height of the Wapping dispute and hasn’t smiled since Margaret Thatcher resigned in tears. The editorial meeting has been underway for twenty minutes. Luca and Gooding are pitching the story-the money trail from Baghdad to Mersey Fidelity, the ghost accounts, secret deals and tax evasion.

Price grunts occasionally, a bestial gesture that can be read as either positive or negative, depending upon a person’s level of paranoia. “And you’re saying this dead banker is involved?”

“Up to his eyeballs,” says Gooding.

“It was his job to vet all new accounts and investigate any suspicious transactions,” adds Luca.

“Now he’s dead, which means he can’t verify your story,” says Price.

Gooding: “We don’t need him to verify the story and dead men can’t be libeled.”

“How high does it go?” asks Price.

“Richard North is the brother-in-law of Mitchell Bach, the chief financial officer.”

Price wrinkles his nose, not liking some hidden smell. “Call Legal and tell them to have a QC ready. I want the lawyers involved early. Keep this to a small team. Need-to-know only. You can have Spencer and Blaine.”

The editor is pacing back and forth to the window, chewing on a biro. “They’re going to shit bricks upstairs. Mersey Fidelity has a big advertising budget. Deep pockets.”

“Is that a problem?” asks Luca.

“Not for you, Sunshine, unless this is a set-up.” Price looks at the cracked plastic end of the biro and tosses it into the bin. “This is one of those stories you fuck up only once. Could cost us millions in a libel action. My job. Your job. Oh, right, you don’t have one of those.”

He picks up another pen and addresses Gooding. “You’re in charge. Personalize the story. I want a full profile on Richard North-animal, vegetable and mineral-and get me the complete Bach family album. Where’s the wife?”

“She had a baby last night,” says Luca.

“Better and better. I want someone at the hospital. Send her flowers. A letter. Softly, softly… she could tell her side of the story…”

“Maybe we should go easy on her.”

Price grins. “Don’t go wobbly me on me, Terracini.”

“I’m just saying that she’s been through a lot.”

The editor senses something more. “You know her?”

“I’ve met her.”

“You’ve talked to her! Shit! Why don’t we have quotes?”

“She doesn’t know anything.”

“There are no fucking friends in this story.”

“Her husband is dead.”

“That’s the whole fucking point. I want quotes. Photographs. A sit-down interview.”

A phone is ringing on Price’s desk. He grunts in annoyance. Picks up. Listens. Puts the handset back in the cradle. Then he walks to the sofa and opens the vertical blinds. Three plain-clothes police officers are walking through the newsroom. With them is another man, overweight, dressed in a pinstriped double-breasted suit: a lawyer.

“Someone ratted on us. The bank just called in the police.”

Gooding and Luca peer through the blinds.

“Where is the notebook?” asks Price.

“Not on the premises,” says Luca. “I have copies.”

“Right, you go in there.” He points to a bathroom. “Gooding, you stay here. Let me do the talking.”

Luca follows instructions, keeping the door ajar so he can listen. The detectives and lawyer introduce themselves, handshakes all round and a discussion about the weather. The British are so very polite.

The lawyer’s name is Marcus Weil.

“This is a High Court injunction that prevents you publishing anything based upon statements made by, or materials belonging to, any employee of Mersey Fidelity.”

“Materials?” asks Price. “You’ll have to be a little more specific. I’m Australian. Slow on the uptake.”

“We believe you are in possession of a notebook and other files that were obtained by theft, deception or false overtures. These materials were created by Richard North in the course of his employment at Mersey Fidelity and therefore remain the property of the bank.”

Price has resumed his seat, leaning back in his expensive leather chair; his fingertips pressed together, a frown linking him to his inner world.

“What’s in this notebook?”

“The paranoid ramblings of a disgruntled employee.”

“Oh, so you’ve read it?”

Mr. Weil dismisses the question. “Should you disseminate inaccurate and malicious opinions based on false information and flawed interpretations, you will be sued.” The lawyer then delivers an arrogant non sequitur by denying the bank is in any way suppressing or hiding information to avoid its corporate responsibilities.

“And what makes you so sure we have these materials?” asks the editor.

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You’re not at liberty? That sounds like scurrilous newspaper-speak. Surely you’re not going to hide behind the defense of protecting your sources?”

“Richard North was an employee of-”

“Richard North is dead.”

“His notes are covered by commercial and legal privilege.”

Price repositions his long legs and tilts his head to one side in order to observe Weil from a different angle.

“Since you seem to know quite a lot about this notebook, perhaps you could tell me what I should be looking for?” The editor turns on a tape recorder. “Just for the record.”

Blood has drained from the lawyer’s face. He blusters and whines, threatening warrants, subpoenas and writs. He looks at the detectives, demanding they take action. The most senior of them speaks.

“Have you seen this notebook, Mr. Price?”

“No.”

“Is any member of your staff in possession of such a notebook?”

“No member of my staff.”

Mr. Weil interrupts. “What about Luca Terracini?”

Price raises an eyebrow and glances at Gooding. “That name sounds familiar.”

“One of our foreign stringers-works mainly in Iraq,” says Gooding.

“Yeah. Freelance. A hired gun.” Price gets to his feet. “These stringers are always dreaming up conspiracies. We had one here the other day who accused a bank of laundering money out of Iraq and running a second set of books.”

From Weil not a flicker.

“You should go back and tell your clients not to worry. The Financial Herald doesn’t publish half-baked stories. When we go hunting for elephants we carry a big gun.”