Baby-face also had overheard enough from the six escapees to know of the overflight of a helicopter. Stimulated by his civic duty to the reading public, and the prospect of early advancement in his career, he resolved to discover who was responsible for this flight and worthy of blame for the burning alive of twelve men. Thus driven, he had called a colleague consigned to endlessly researching the internet and social media and begged immediate assistance.
Now, some twenty four hours later, his colleague’s cellphone picked its way past innumerable black spots and signalled success. Baby-face saw the contact identification on the screen and answered swiftly. His facial expression changed.
“What do you mean ‘it was us’? Oh Jesus Christ. Photographs? Bloody overhead kicks?” Baby-face swung his shoe at a speck of dust. “Please say you haven’t told anyone else? Do these morons have any idea what they have done?” He pictured worms twisting slowly in an opened can, and visualised himself as one of them. The trouble about investigations was that you became an accomplice to non-disclosure.
What was the researcher going on about? He reacted furiously. “What do you mean, ‘tell the chief’? Nic, will have our guts for suspenders. I’ll be hard boiled for breakfast,” he recalled a print of Bruno Giordano roasted on coals, “or worse.”
The researcher was obstinate, however, and not about to be diverted from disclosure. “Are you bloody crazy? You can’t go to Nic…” but his phone had lost contact. He put the cellphone back in his pocket. The trophy was being torn from his grasp. Daily News coverage of this forest fire would go down in infamy.
“What is it?” his photographer was staring at him. They were standing on the flagstoned forecourt of the Argyll Hotel.
“The helicopter, the one that overflew the farm, it was one of ours, or chartered by us anyway. They were taking photographs or whatever.”
“Probably Charlie, our outsourcing people use him a lot. Fucking idiot is Charlie. How did you find out?”
“Friend did some research. He’s off to tell the chief.”
The photographer contemplated the reporter’s angelic countenance.
“Best thing to do. Old Nic won’t shoot the messenger, but after tomorrow nobody needs to go looking for Charlie above ground,” the photographer remarked. “Look on the bright side. Your sleuthing has let Nic in on what happened, given the cunning old bastard wriggle room, a chance to cover it up. Given time, it’s deniable. He’ll love you for it.”
A can of slithering worms appeared before Baby-face once more, but this time festooned with ribbons. “I can’t wait for the medal ceremony to take place,” he said. “Or maybe he’ll give me the Foreign Desk.”
“That’s the spirit,” the photographer said optimistically. “Let’s go in for a drink and celebrate.”
“Like hell. I know far too much. I’ll be sent to cover an outdoor wedding celebration in the Autonomous Region of Afghanistan. Not many guests survive them.”
At the Daily News Building, the editor was gazing with distaste at an untidy researcher in front of him. He picked up his desk phone. “Find Subcontracting, Outsourcing, whatever you call it these days, and get their chief here, right now,” he ordered, “and send in Legal, Insurance also…Of course I want a meeting. Did you think we were going to the Rogano for drinks? Drop whatever you’re doing and get them in here. Tell them to move with whatever alacrity they are capable of. This is urgent.” He replaced the instrument on its rest.
The office door was ajar, and Nic’s secretary could be heard pressing keys on her desk consol. Her voice was soothing, “…if you can come now, Andy, the old devil says it’s urgent.”
Nic smiled. She was the best secretary he’d ever employed. Attractive, too. Eyeing his researcher edging towards the door he barked, “Stay!”