The Protector (22 page)

The pool entrance was on the mezzanine floor but for some reason known only to the hotel management the lifts did not stop there: it was a choice between walking up to the first floor or down to the lobby in order to call one. Stanza chose to employ gravity and, supporting himself heavily on the banister rail, hopped down the broad curving marble stairs to the ground floor as quickly as he could. He hobbled over to the elevator bank and joined a short podgy man who was pushing the call button repeatedly as if his action might speed up the machinery.

‘Goddamned elevators,’ the man mumbled as he adjusted a thick pair of glasses on his nose to squint up at the floor indicators that sometimes told the truth about the lift’s whereabouts.

Stanza checked the indicator on the elevator on the other side of the lobby to see that it was on the top floor, which was not unusual. KBR, a major general contractor, rented the top section of the hotel and it was their habit to jam one of the lifts on their floor so that they did not have to wait for one. It was a constant irritation to the rest of the guests but KBR was the nine-hundred-pound gorilla.

The man kept his finger on the button as he looked over his shoulder. ‘Hey, Jack Stanza, right?’

Stanza looked down at the short man whom he did not recognise. ‘Jake,’ Stanza corrected him.

‘Jake, right,’ the man said, holding out his other hand. ‘Aaron Blant,
Washington Post
.’

Stanza shook the hand, wondering if he had met the man before. There were several papers staying at the Sheraton and the
Post
was below on the fourth floor. ‘Have we met?’

‘No. I heard about you. The guy who got shot on his first day, right? How’s the leg?’ Blant asked, leaning around Stanza to take a look at it. ‘Ouch,’ he said as he saw the ugly scar.

‘It’s not so bad,’ Stanza said.

‘Looks pretty painful to me.’

‘It’s OK now.’

‘You were pretty lucky,’ Blant said. Something about his tone was beginning to annoy Stanza. ‘Couple more inches towards the middle and you wouldn’t have been laughing,’ he said, grinning. Blant seemed to trivialise the incident in a way that made Stanza feel more like a loser than a hero.

‘That’s right,’ Stanza said, looking up at the floor indicator that was on the move at last.

The lift arrived and Stanza imagined his computer ringing away while Patterson cursed his name. Blant stepped into the elevator and made a meal out of holding the doors open for Stanza as if he was a cripple.

‘Which floor?’

‘Fifth,’ Stanza said, attempting to collect his thoughts, wishing he had some kind of bone to throw to his foreign editor. He’d been working on a couple of pieces, one about the closing of several local schools because of terrorist threats against the teachers and children and another about a suicide bomber whose device failed to detonate and who was now in jail. But frankly they were both crap and frustration welled up in him as he stared at the shattered plastic ceiling in search of divine help.

‘Still painful, huh?’ Blant said, watching him.

‘What?’ Stanza asked, wondering why the little jerk was still talking to him.

‘You look like you’re still in a lotta pain.’

Stanza sighed inwardly and chose to ignore him, hoping that his silence would be hint enough to make the guy shut up.

‘What are you still doing in Baghdad?’ Blant persisted, oblivious to Stanza’s lack of interest. ‘I’d have been on the first flight outta here as soon as I left the goddamned hospital.’

‘Yeah. Maybe you’re right,’ Stanza said, wondering about Patterson’s interest in Lamont and his need to go to a secure communication link. Stanza had read a couple of lines on the wires about the guy but there were so many kidnapped victims in captivity, a couple dozen of them American, and there was nothing about Lamont’s story that made it more significant than the others.

Stanza looked down at Blant, who was wearing a shirt and tie under a sleeveless argyle pullover. ‘Know anything about this Lamont guy who was kidnapped?’ Stanza asked, suspecting that if there was anything unusual this little swot would probably be aware of it.

‘Nothing new as far as I know. Kidnapped from the Karada district three or four weeks ago. You see him on TV? The vid’s out already.’

Stanza was more out of touch than he thought. He should’ve known there was a terrorist video out on Lamont even if he had no interest in the man. It was his damned job to.

‘Only a matter of time before he buys it,’ Blant went on. ‘You’re with the
Herald
?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘I’d have thought you woulda been all over that story.’

‘Why’s that?’ Stanza asked, suddenly afraid that he had missed more than just the video.

‘Rumour has it he’s a Wisconsin boy. Any truth to that?’

The lift came to an abrupt stop but Stanza might well have jolted with equal force if he’d been standing on firm ground. ‘I . . . I don’t know if that’s true yet.’

‘Well, you take it easy,’ Blant said as the doors opened and he started to head out.

‘You know anything else about him?’ Stanza asked, hoping that he didn’t appear as desperate as he sounded to himself.

Blant appeared to suspect something but then shrugged. ‘Ain’t much of a story,’ he said. ‘Rumour is he was seeing a local chick. She got blown away, maybe because she was a hooker.’

‘I . . . I’d heard something about that,’ Stanza said, grabbing the doors to keep them open.

‘Maybe it was the girl’s brother. You know how uptight these people get about one of their own screwing a westerner.’ Blant smirked. ‘Catch you later,’ he said as he walked away.

Stanza let the doors close and the lift continued up to the next floor. He squeezed through the doors before they opened fully and hobbled, wincing, along the corridor towards his door.

As he entered his room he could hear the simulated standard phone tone coming from his computer speakers. He tossed his things onto the bed, sat at his desk and fumbled to pick up his headphones as a window on his computer monitor screen alerted him to the call from the
Herald
’s foreign desk.

He placed the headset over his ears and fumbled with the jack as he spun the mouse pointer around the screen in an effort to click the ‘answer’ button.

‘Hello,’ he said, adjusting the microphone in front of his mouth. ‘Hello, hello,’ he repeated, unable to hear anything.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Patterson grumbled, his voice stretching like a rubber band as the Internet fought to convert the signal.

‘Sorry, I—’

‘I take it you’re alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. Jeffrey Lamont . . . ’

‘Yeah,’ Stanza interrupted in an effort to show that he was up to date. ‘Kidnapped in Karada. A Wisconsin boy. Was sleeping with—’

‘So what did you do when you heard he was a local boy?’ Patterson asked accusingly.

‘I . . . I figured since he was sleeping with an Iraqi girl, she was killed because of that relationship and—’

‘And you didn’t try and find out what he was doing there, check out his
family
?’ Patterson emphasised the last word.

Stanza suspected that Patterson would have made a perfect Gestapo officer. ‘If Lamont was sleeping with an Iraqi girl in her house he was, well, frankly stupid. I didn’t see any attractive angle in portraying a local guy who was so dumb . . . ’

‘Where are your goddamned instincts, Stanza?’

Stanza rubbed his forehead in frustration, wondering if Patterson hated just him or everyone.

‘I was gonna give this story to one of our people here,’ Patterson growled. ‘But it’s gotta come from Baghdad. And since none of my chicken-shit writers wanna go there it looks like it’s gonna have to be you. I’ll e-mail you what we have so far but I’ll read you the meat of it.This is uncut from research. Jeffrey Lamont is a Milwaukee boy born and bred, but his name wasn’t always Lamont. He went to St John’s North-Western Military Academy in Delafield, Wisconsin, an all-boys boarding school and considered one of the best in the region: at St John’s North-Western, young men learn that with discipline comes character. He ran away from the place twice, was caught and re-enrolled. From there he went to Harvard where he majored in film theory, experimented with psychedelic mushrooms, dropped out to piss off his folks and spent a couple of years burning through his trust fund on a beach in Indonesia. Between Harvard and Indonesia he had a row with his father who wanted him to join the family business. Jeffrey wanted nothing to do with it. Sounds like he finally grew up after Indonesia because he started his own communications business. But things didn’t go well and he ended up working for an outfit based in San Francisco called Detron Communications. Six months ago, on his father’s birthday, eight years after walking out on the family, he made contact with the old man again and it looked like they were going to patch things up . . . His real name is Stanmore . . . Jeffrey Stanmore.’

As Patterson said the name it dropped inside Stanza’s head with a crash. ‘Stanmore beer,’ he said. It was one of the largest breweries in Milwaukee and was still owned and run by the old man - who was also an influential player on the state political scene.

‘The man’s a genius,’ Patterson said sarcastically, referring to Stanza. ‘Now. Why do we have this story before anyone else?’

Stanza could have come up with some theories but Patterson was clearly in a pugnacious mood.

‘The
Herald
’s owner is a long-time friend of old man Stanmore,’ Patterson went on immediately. ‘But that’s not why Stanmore called us in on this. You’re probably already writing this - least, I
hope
you are - but this is no ordinary kidnapping story. We’re talking about a son of Milwaukee, an estranged son, alienated from one of the most powerful figures in the state. We’re talking about a father who wants his son back and is prepared to pay a lot of money for him. But it’s also the mighty versus the merciless. Democracy versus Islam. When this story breaks we’re gonna lead it for two reasons. One, because we’re the
Herald
and we’d
better
damn well break it first with the advantage we have. And second, when other media get a hold of it there could be some muck-throwing: young Stanmore sleeping with an Iraqi girl, the enemy, a hooker, gone native, living in the danger zone, et cetera, et cetera. But by then we will have already put the story into perspective, something old man Stanmore is very keen on - and is willing to pay for. It’s not just a story about the son, it’s about the father too. A dynasty is gonna be exposed. The
Herald
is gonna tell the true story, Jake. It’s a story about a young man lost in search of a dream of proving his worth to his father, putting his life on the line in a vile and ugly war in search of love, perhaps, love lost. That’s what it is, Jake. It’s a story about love and sacrifice . . . Do you hear what I’m saying?’

Stanza knew the smell of bullshit well enough. He was beginning to wonder if Patterson hated him not because of the quote he’d stolen but simply because he had been caught. He decided to play his boss a little, give him some more rope. It was a dangerous move, perhaps, but Stanza had home-field advantage. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure if I do, exactly.’

But Patterson was nobody’s fool and could read the likes of Stanza from a mile away. ‘You know why I’m giving you this story, Jake?’ Patterson asked rhetorically. ‘You know why I don’t hire a freelancer or order one of our people to get on a plane right now and fly into Baghdad to take over from you? It’s partly because you are a good journalist, Jake. Good enough to get this job done. It’s also because you need this if you still want a future in the news business . . . Jeffrey Stanmore was a passionate boy. I believe he loved that Iraqi girl and he was willing to put his life on the line for her . . . Jeffrey was a hero, a son of America . . . And that’s only the first part of this story. This story is also going to propel you into the spotlight. It will end up a story as much about you as about Stanmore, and when I say you I mean the
Herald
. . . Jake, you’re going to negotiate his release. The
Herald
is going to get young Stanmore back to his father. Jake Stanza, of the
Herald
, is going to reunite father and son. Do you hear me? You do this job right, Jake, and I’ll hand your career back to you on a golden platter. Do you hear what I’m saying, Jake?’

Stanza could hear only too well.

‘Jake?’

‘Yeah,’ he said.

‘Am I right? Are you the man for this job?’

For one second Stanza had thought he’d had hold of the rod. But he was always the fish on the end of Patterson’s line. Still, Patterson had something. He was right. This could be a big story. Huge, if played well, and Patterson and the
Herald
were behind it one hundred per cent. There wasn’t a journalist alive who would pass this one up. It was showtime. ‘I can do this,’ Stanza said, his voice low and thoughtful.

‘Does that pass for enthusiasm where you come from?’

‘I couldn’t be more enthusiastic. I’m already writing.’

‘Good . . . We’ll talk later, after you’ve read the file and thought about it.’ The phone gave a click and the window on the monitor indicated that the caller had disconnected.

Stanza pushed himself to his feet, too quickly at first - stiffness was followed by a bolt of pain. He manoeuvred himself to his bed, lowered himself onto it, put his head on the pillow and shuffled his legs until he was in a straight line.Then he exhaled deeply.

Without having to think too hard Stanza could see the warning signs for the minefield ahead. Patterson - or, more to the point, Stanmore - knew what he wanted. The big question was how much the facts would support the current storyboard. Overall, the story was going to have to be a combination of perspective, timing and faith, with parallel strands of past and future narrative. The past was old man Stanmore and the Iraqi girl and would be defined by the struggle between love and worth. The future was the hostage negotiation and its final outcome, defined by a contest of life versus death.