Blaze (45 page)

‘And not to take his work home.' Bob changed the subject, feeling that the incident showed his judgement was also flawed. ‘Speaking of taking work home, is there any news on the leaker?'

‘No. Ali says she has a plan that will catch whoever it is leaking our stuff to rival magazines. I'm not privy to what that plan is,' said Larissa.

‘You're her deputy!' burst out Bob. ‘But then, Ali does keep things close to her chest, doesn't she? Not exactly a team player.'

Larissa lowered her voice as they passed an open work area where employees were concentrating at their computers. ‘When you're trying to catch a member of the team, you have to hold your own counsel.'

Bob glanced around at their colleagues. ‘Not a nice feeling to know there's a viper in the nest. Ali does seem to take it personally, though.' He was tempted to add, ‘And who can blame her,' but held his tongue. He figured Larissa was well enough aware that Ali was not exactly adored by her staff.

‘The buck stops at the editor's desk,' said Larissa.

‘While the editor-in-chief is away, anyway. See you, Larissa. Let me know what crumbs I can toss to Jonathan.'

In the offices of
Reality
, the tabloid current affairs show of the top-rating commercial television network, the producers and story editors were kicking around ideas.

‘We still need a juicy brawl or someone spilling their guts. Too much poison in our foods causing two-headed babies and medical stuff,' sighed the executive producer.

‘A cream that will supposedly freeze osteoarthritis and a drug to cure kleptomania isn't
really
medical,' suggested one of the segment producers.

‘Who's hot, who's not, who wants t'be?' asked another of the four producers.

‘Did you see the piece a couple of months ago by April Showers about the Baron's son, Jacques Triton? He's shunning the company of our own media mogul sons to hobnob with the staff. Very poor form on his part.'

‘Tony Cox may be staff, but his mummy and daddy build rather large shopping malls and even whole suburbs.'

‘Rumour has it Tony and Jacques frequent a few less than salubrious bars, call up their dealers for backdoor deliveries of coke – and I don't mean the fizzy stuff – while wannabe models strut in the front door.'

‘Now how do you know that for sure?' The executive producer had an interrogator's edge to her voice.

The young segment producer gave a grin. ‘Because I went lap dancing – in the course of research – and became very friendly with one of the bar girls.'

‘Would she talk on camera?'

‘For a price.'

‘So what's the story here? Rich European playboy, whose daddy owns newspapers and magazines, can play up out here knowing that nothing will appear about him in print. Even rival mags won't badmouth him. People in glass houses . . .'

The executive producer raised a hand to still the chatter. ‘Hold on. We're missing the real story angle . . . listen to what April Showers says.' She rifled through a stack of papers in front of her, pulling out the clipping.

Scene . . . a certain bar that moved from the film milieu to the bizoid's fave, which put a whole new meaning on aiming for bums on seats and, seen at the scene, none other than Jacques Triton, leader of the European my-daddy's-richer-than-your-daddy-set, spurning minor royal chums and local media sons, to hang out with one of the local staff and get down and dirty without having to travel far. Did they swap goss on the next move of the Yank Tank? She'd better watch her rear – the son-of is talking about making a permanent move here. And there's only room for one in the blazing editor's chair. Or she could turn her hand to novel writing. It seems to be the trend for former
Blaze
staff. Will the mag's former fashion hackette kiss and tell about conflict with the Yank Tank in her new novel? If she does, it could make a move by Jacques to stay on these shores a sure bet.

The editor looked around expectantly until one of the producers slapped his head. ‘Of course. The Yank Tank. Ali Gruber. She wields a big broom. Swept out an old biddy who'd been there for yonks and the biddy turns around and writes a book about the magazine world, warts and all. I mean, how'd you feel?'

‘The ole biddy better have a top lawyer if she's going to spill the beans on Gruber. Besides, nothing new in that, loads of ex-journos reaching their use-by date try to reinvent themselves as novelists.'

One of the segment producers spoke up. ‘If Jacques Triton is hanging out with a hip young travel guy on Gruber's staff, then that guy might be worth talking to.'

The exec producer turned over a page in her notebook. ‘Okay, so how do we stick it to Gruber? What's the drum on her?'

‘New York. Aussie background, but unknown. She's around thirty. Must have a connection with Nina Jan-sous for her to give Ali the plum job,' said one of the researchers off the top of her head.

‘Did she train here? How come we don't know anything about her? Did she go to the Big Apple as a kid, a journo, a what?'

The question was met with blank stares.

‘So who do we go after? Ali, the Yank Tank? Set up Tony the travel ed, or go for the charming Jacques?'

There was unanimous agreement. ‘Ali. Let's storm the Yank Tank.'

‘And who wins the guernsey?'

Again it was unanimous. ‘Heather Race.' She was their star reporter and she was the biggest bitch in television. She always nailed her man . . . or woman. And brought home the story.

Heather was an anonymous-looking young woman who passed for pretty, until you noticed the gimlet-eyed stare and pointed teeth that gave her smile the look of a sly weasel. Her body had the lean lines of a girl who sweated hard at the gym and those at
Reality
knew her skin had been tanned to an impervious hide. An irate producer or a target of her brash interrogation could scream, yell, abuse or threaten her, and she merely paused and continued as if nothing had happened. Most attacks on her fizzled out in the face of Heather's obstinate implacability.

Heather listened as the segment producer assigned to the Ali story outlined the concept.

‘Hmmm. That story needs a lot of digging and time,' she said unenthusiastically. Heather wasn't known for her patience – or thoroughness – in doing research. ‘I'll make a few inquiries. See if it's worth pursuing.' She moved away. The subject was closed. The young producer knew better than to challenge her if she decided a story wasn't worth her talents. It irked the researchers, who did the grunt work, to have Heather tell the executive producer she didn't feel a story was up her alley. While none of the staff knew the details, Heather had let it be known she had signed a lucrative new contract and was one of the ‘gems of the network'. She hinted her next move would be fronting her own show. While Heather was acknowledged as tops at what she did, even if often by devious means, most of the
Reality
staff didn't give a damn where she moved on to from here. Filling tonight's show was their immediate concern. And tomorrow? There was another empty timeslot. Television was a hungry monster.

*

Nina called the reception desk. ‘I will be leaving the hotel shortly. Please have my account ready.'

In a moment, the duty manager called back. ‘Mrs Jansous, our car is at your disposal to take you to the airport. We will return your rental car.' He made no reference to the supposed bomb scare.

Nina hesitated for a moment, then accepted. ‘Thank you. I'll call the car company and arrange to settle the bill.' It would save her time. She wanted to make it to the airport as soon as possible to finalise a flight out of the country. She planned to be on the first plane available, no matter where it was going. The hoax about the bomb scare had unnerved her. Lucien would just have to change his plans and meet her. He would help her rethink their return to Croatia and work out how to follow up on what she had found. Perhaps he could say he was researching a film. In fact, maybe this could become a documentary based on the story taking form in her mind. Croatia intrigued her. On the surface it was growing as a thriving tourist destination again, recovering from the wars better than the rest of the Balkans, but from her personal viewpoint, she saw the remaining sinister shadows of an unsavoury past.

Nina dressed and had almost finished packing when the doorbell rang and the door was instantly opened by the duty manager who was elbowed aside as two men in dark suits stepped into the room.

Nina glared at the intrusion. ‘Excuse me, I haven't checked out yet.' Their expressions were unfriendly. The heavier-set man stepped forward holding out his hand.

‘Mrs Jansous, we must ask you to please come with us.' He spoke in heavily accented English. In his outstretched hand was a badge. He was obviously a police officer of some kind.

Nina looked at them and at the duty manager hovering nervously in the doorway. ‘Who are these people?' she demanded. ‘You have no right allowing them into my suite like this.'

The other man spoke up. ‘We are from a special investigation unit for the Department of Security. We have reason to believe you intend to smuggle items out of the country. Items that could be of concern for national security.' He noted Nina's shocked face.

‘What on earth are you talking about?' She was tempted to instantly pull rank and point out she was Nina Jansous, the international publisher, but instinct told her to say as little as possible. ‘What sort of items?' she asked as calmly as she could, but her heart was starting to pound as she thought of her grandfather's journal in the safe at Reception.

‘We do not have to answer your questions, Madame,' said the other man. ‘We are asking the questions, and so you will please come with us.'

They motioned her towards the door, but Nina recoiled, glaring at the duty manager. ‘Ask Mr Zarvic, the manager to come up here at once, this is outrageous.'

‘I'm sorry, I am on duty. The senior manager is . . . unavailable.' He looked decidedly uncomfortable, avoiding her eye as he mumbled, ‘It is best you go with them, Mrs Jansous.'

‘Go where?' asked Nina, thinking the whole incident was like a charade. She was in a plush suite in an international hotel, in a sophisticated city.

‘To headquarters. We wish to obtain information.'

His stilted English sounded threatening, but Nina decided she wouldn't let them know she spoke Croatian, even poorly. She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. ‘All right, let's be done with this. I have a plane to catch.'

One of the men glanced at the duty manager, who quickly said in Croatian, ‘We told her there are no planes going out.' He sounded defensive.

It occurred to Nina now that it was the hotel manager who had told her of the supposed bomb scare. They must have been trying to keep her here. The heavy-set man produced a paper from his jacket. ‘Before we leave, Madame, we have a warrant authorising us to search your luggage.'

Nina glanced back at the neatly packed, open suitcase on her bed. She lifted her arms. ‘I don't believe you have authority to do this, but go ahead.'

The second man swiftly raked through the clothes, checking inside her shoes and then the lid and outside of the bag as if looking for a secret compartment. She kept her eyes on the man, avoiding the temptation to glance at the vase on the shelves in the sitting room. He then checked Nina's handbag, glancing in her wallet.

When he was finished he shook his head. The heavy man courteously took Nina's elbow. ‘Please, this way, Madame.'

Nina picked up her handbag and jacket and followed the two men. She gave the duty manager a firm stare. ‘Lock my suite please, and do not allow anyone to go in there. I will be back for my belongings shortly.'

The manager nodded, clicking the door shut behind them. The maid, standing by her trolley of fresh towels, soaps and cleaning items, watched them go. ‘Leave that suite,' the manager barked at her and she nodded quickly, busying herself with the next room.

Nina walked through the lobby, uncomfortably sandwiched between the two men. She was grateful the receptionist kept her head down and made no reference to Nina's documents in the safe.

The men sat on either side of her in the back of a large black car as they sped with undue haste through back streets rather than the main boulevards. They pulled up before an anonymous stone building and Nina was escorted through a doorway into an anteroom with a small desk and several filing cabinets. A woman in a drab suit sat writing at a desk piled with folders. She glanced briefly at them and looked back down. There was a door leading off this room and one of the men opened it, stepping aside for Nina to go in first.

Nina froze, glancing around the room. Surely this was a joke. A farce. It looked like a movie set. Old black and white movie scenes of Gestapo interrogation sessions flashed into her mind. The two chairs facing each other beneath the stark light bulb, the rest of the room in darkness, a window of dark glass on a wall. She swung back to the two men. ‘You must be joking.'

‘Joke? No. I do not think so.' He motioned her to one of the chairs. ‘Please, take a seat.' He sat opposite her, neatly adjusting the crease in his trousers. The other man leaned against a wall, folding his arms across his chest, a faintly pleased expression on his face. The woman from the anteroom bustled in and handed the seated man a folder. From the darker recess, she pulled out a chair, sat and opened a notebook, pen poised.

Nina frowned. ‘I don't believe you have introduced yourselves.'

The man opposite nodded. ‘Excuse me. I am Mr Puskar and that is Mr Molnar.' He didn't bother to introduce the woman. ‘We are interested in your activities. Why did you come here?'

Nina was uncomfortable, but more angry than afraid. ‘Let me say for a start, I do not have to answer your questions at all. I should have embassy and legal representation here.'