That Monday was fresh and fine with the breeze imparting a chop to the sparkling blue of Loch Sunart. The rain had passed westward during the night, leaving a surge of colour in the hills and touching the high corries with new snow.
The journalists had missed the Ferry turn-off and committed themselves to driving the long way round by Fort William. Daily News had sent his finest, and observing due protocol on arrival they introduced themselves to Mackinnon with the expected questions about a helicopter downdraft causing the Kingussie men to be fatally surrounded by fire. Experienced news hunters, they said nothing of Lashkar Gah, but formally requested permission to speak to any Commission workers that they encountered.
Mackinnon granted them leave to do so and only afterwards did he begin to wonder; why the questioning about the helicopter’s role in the tragedy at the farm? After all, the incident had already been reported with painful attention to detail by the same newspaper. He remembered that he’d sent the younger of the Archies to instruct caution in answering any questions, but an uneasiness remained.
The journos found the squad, not including young Iain whom the ganger had taken with him on an errand, eating sandwiches at the southern verge of road beyond Strontian’s abandoned mine shafts. There was an edge of chill in the breeze, and their faces, warmed in the car, stiffened in protest.
“Hello, guys,” one said, clambering over a drainage ditch, “Daily News. Christ, it’s a bit parky up here.”
At this pronouncement the group stopped eating and stared warily at him and his companion. Both newcomers were lightly dressed; one garlanded with a camera that bumped against his chest as he approached.
The foremost of the pair maintained an engaging conversational style. “Sorry to interrupt your lunch break. Are you the guys who witnessed that shooting at the Community Hall? Terrible thing to have seen,” he sympathised and paused for a flood of good copy. It didn’t come. Alex rose to his feet, “we are bloody sorry about what happened to your two journalists, but we don’t want to talk about it. Not to anybody.”
“I don’t want to talk about that either,” the lead journalist said, with the other hovering behind him. “Does Lashkar Gah mean anything to you? It’s a province in Afghanistan. Your mate, I assume he was your mate, served there. Must have been tough on him.”
“You may as well know,” Ruairidh stood up, “I’m an ex-journo. What’s this all about?” and the newsmen’s empathetic pose became pragmatic.
Nic had briefed them personally. The journalist explained that the story of drone killings at Lashkar Gah had originally been stifled by political pressure but that the Daily News was fully committed to resurrecting it. Noel’s name had been traduced. If they knew anything to set the record straight, both newsmen could be reached at the Argyll Hotel. Rubbing their hands to restore warmth, both moved to retreat.
“Wait,” Ruairidh said. “We have to be agreed on this. Give us a little time to talk amongst ourselves. Don’t go away just yet.”
The six closed ranks for several minutes before Ruairidh approached the newspapermen, the others immediately behind him. He spoke clearly, his voice turning the journalists from their chilled study of desolation to the northeast. They hunched against a sharp breeze, eyes watering.
“Firstly, no photographs,” he said. “Secondly, we will meet you tonight at the Community Hall after we’ve had dinner. You will get an exclusive. In return, we want two things. Your paper must arrange and pay for a decent legal representative to take up the case of a man called Silas, currently in custody at Fort William facing a charge of culpable homicide. You check it out, it happened quite recently.” Ruairidh paused to let this unexpected request take root.
“We will have to speak to our editor,” the lead journalist said in a husky tone. “That’s one, what’s two?”
Ruairidh spoke again, “You must publish the Lashkar Gah story in full. No cherry picking or excuses about poor copy. I’m a journo. I guarantee that we will give you a story the agencies will feast off. Tell your editor there will be no wheeling and dealing. You buy in to both conditions or we go elsewhere. One last thing. One of us is leaving tonight, so don’t get upset when you come and find us a man short.”
The newspapermen went to their cars and finding that cellphones were ineffective, drove off to Strontian. Alex watched them depart. “Keep my name out of this,” he said. “You heard the story from Noel himself, okay? Telling them the story came secondhand from me will weaken its impact, maybe even kill it. You must not let that happen.”
“Fine with me,” Ruairidh said. “White lies show best intentions.”
“A last drink together? What time do you leave?”
“No farewells, Blue,” Alex shook his swarthy head vigorously. “I am no good at farewells. You do a job on these journalists. I’ll read all about it.”
The sound of a car engine interrupted a reply. A landrover drove up. The driver’s door opened and Mackinnon emerged. He walked up to them.
“I passed a couple of journalists on the road. They chat to you at all?”
“Only for a minute,” Alex said quickly. “Ruairidh handled them.”
“Fine, but be very careful, eh, especially if they ask about the helicopter,” Mackinnon continued to look at Alex. “I came up to say goodbye to you, Alex,” he said. “You came shortly after Noel, I remember. Became a very good friend of his, too. I’m really sorry to see you go. There is a job here for you if ever you want to come back to the Commission.”
Alex nodded, and met the forester’s frank gaze. “Thanks Euan,” he said, “I appreciate that but it’s back to the rat race for me.”
“Well, whatever opens your parachute,” Mackinnon smiled and extended his right hand. “good luck to you.” At that, he waved briefly to the others and walked down to the Commission vehicle.
Alex watched the landrover drive off towards Polloch.
“No golden handshake? No inscribed clock? You give the Commission the best years of your life…”
“Oh, stop it, Blue,” Guy said. “Alex is well out of here.”
“You didn’t mention the sudden interest in Lashkar Gah,” George looked directly at Alex.
“No,” Alex answered, “why involve Mackinnon? He’s a good man. The Commission won’t thank him for our hobnobbing with the Daily News. Remember, he warned us about talking to the Press.”
“Alex,” Ruairidh said softly. “You and Noel were close. The story would have died with Noel if it hadn’t been for you. Why keep out of it now?”
“Hard to explain,” Alex said slowly. “I am going back to a previous life. For me, this trip to the high country is over. I will not forget, and I want to read about Lashkar Gah in the newspapers, on the net, wherever.”
“You’ll read about it, all right,” Ruairidh said. “This looks like the Daily News is giving the story a crusade routine. It will stand these bastards in good stead at an Official Enquiry on deaths at the farm. They won’t hold back. Lashkar Gah will get a human face, Noel’s face. The civilians, the soldiers, the baby, were alien, unnamed by our Press. Their names will be published now, you can be sure of it. Without faces and names, atrocities are merely incidents.”
Alec looked past Ruairidh down across sweeps of black stunted trees to high ridges that rose beyond the desolation. He nodded. Whether he did so in agreement or in admiration for native grandeur, it was impossible for the other to tell.
“You seemed at home here,” George remarked, stepping closer.
“I will miss this place, it’s true,” Alex said abruptly, “but it’s not for me.”