Mister Jinnah: Securities: A Mister Jinnah Mystery

Chapter One

If you think you’re going to gamble with our future like that, forget it.

It’s not a gamble! It’s a safe bet.

A bet is a wager or gamble and I said forget it.

It was at times like this that Robert Chan forgot about the long, flowing silk tapestry of his wife Kathy’s hair and the dark, deep chocolate wells of her eyes and remembered the sharp, steely mind encased in her slender body. As newlyweds, Kathy and Robert Chan never argued about much except money. And when they did, Kathy won by using the same cold, maddening logic that had driven her through Business Administration at the University of British Columbia. Robert had also taken business, but he had finished well behind Kathy in the class standings. He was finishing dead last in this argument. Nevertheless, he persevered.

Look, we won’t have a future unless we take a few calculated risks, he insisted. That’s why they call it risk capital.

They call it uninsured investor’s funds, which is a polite term for sucker-cash, said Kathy patiently. Watch out for the puddle.

Robert jumped over the muddy pool of brown-green water, a reminder of the morning’s rain. It was May and the evening air was cool and damp, gently enfolding them in a growing mist as they walked down the winding, tree-lined sidewalk of Marine Drive in South Vancouver. Above, new leaves on the maple trees arched over them, branches bending, forming an uneven green umbrella. Kathy liked this walk. Here, the road was close to the river and despite the growing number of condominiums lining its banks, there were long stretches of wild woods and grassy clearings where you could almost imagine there was no Vancouver behind you, crowded and bursting at the seams with tens of thousands of families — many of them like the Chans: young, just starting out, and trying to make all the right financial moves.

It’s not as if this is some shady resource stock listed on the Canadian Venture Exchange, said Robert, mounting another assault. It’s out of Toronto. And highly rated.

That’s what they said about Bre-X.

I know lots of people who did great out of Bre-X. You just had to bail out at the right time.

Like the geologist? asked Kathy, giving her husband a piercing look with those eyes.

The gathering darkness matched Robert’s mood perfectly. Like the light of day, any hope of convincing his wife that his get-rich-quick scheme was worthwhile was fading fast. Still, he had won Kathy over and convinced her to marry him by bull-headed persistence and perhaps if he found the right tack, he could sell her on the virtues of dabbling in the stock market with the money they had set aside to start their own business. He was, after all, a young husband with much to learn.

Listen, he said, waving a hand at the row of condos they were passing. This deal is as safe as those houses over there.

Kathy laughed.

Those? Those are the most notorious leaky condos in Vancouver! The buyers lost their shirts.

Robert looked more closely at the low line of blue-grey buildings in the uncertain light. Only now did he pick out here and there the tell-tale orange tarps and metal scaffolding that signaled the end of someone’s dreams of real estate success.

Yeah, well, anyway, coughed Robert, swiftly abandoning his analogy. We’re not talking condos or real estate here. It’s a pension fund thing.

Those condos were built with union pension funds.

I give up. We’ll live in desperate poverty for years before we get enough cash to open the store.

Robert?

Yes, darling?

Shut up and hug me.

This a joint-venture thing?

They were by a thicket of woods, at the head of a dirt road leading down to what had once been a riverside sawmill. As he hugged his wife, Robert was keenly aware of her scent and the softness of her waist. It was dark now and there were only a few lights across the river to reflect off the dark cascade of Kathy’s hair.

And then, the night lit up as a ball of fire exploded on the riverbank and Robert was temporarily blinded by the fierce, yellow light. He gasped and blinked, instinctively turning Kathy around to shield her from the blast.

Robert! said Kathy. What —

Less than twenty metres down the road in the middle of the overgrown sawmill site, Robert saw a large car engulfed in flames.

Wait here, he said and before Kathy could protest, sprinted towards the blazing vehicle.

The heat was intense and thick, acrid smoke was beginning to pour out of the car as Robert looked to see if there was anyone trapped inside. It appeared to be a Cadillac and the fire was centred in the front. To Robert’s relief, there was no one visible inside and the driver’s door was open. The feeling lasted less than an instant, for as he glanced down at the ground beside the open door, he saw the unmistakable form of a person laying on his back. The figure’s clothes were already smoldering and licked by flame.

Jesus! barked Robert.

Robert! Kathy shouted from the top of the road. What are you doing?

There’s someone here!

Robert dropped to his knees and tucked his face into his jacket up to his eyes. He crawled towards the prone human form ten metres away. Later, in the hospital, he would find the details he remembered strange, like how the body had its hands up, as if surrendering to some unseen foe and how he’d wondered why the person appeared to be wearing sunglasses.

Robert! Don’t! shouted Kathy, starting down the road.

Robert stopped and turned. He was about to shout at his wife to stay put when a movement to his right near the river caught the corner of his eye. As he twisted around to see what it was, there was a second eruption from the car. The gas tank had exploded and Robert was knocked flat by a wall of heat, flames, and fumes. Knocked unconsciousness by the searing shock wave that slammed into him and roared past, he did not feel his eyebrows and lashes being singed off. Nor did he feel Kathy desperately dragging him away from the blaze by his collar. His last thought was how lucky he was not to have invested in that pension fund scheme. There wasn’t much likelihood of him needing a pension now.

Kathy, possessed of a strength she never suspected she had, managed to haul Robert to the top of the driveway without realizing she had in the process torn a shoulder muscle and sprained her left ankle. The adrenaline masked all pain and the urgent need to get help for Robert overrode any other sensation. She grabbed Robert’s smouldering jacket and yanked out his cellphone. She dialed 911.

Police, fire, or ambulance? asked the despatcher.

All three, said Kathy. My husband and I are in the 3000-block of Marine Drive, by the old sawmill site. There’s a fire. I think someone’s dead. Please hurry.

A part of Kathy’s mind was quite detached from the scene before her — blackened frame of a car, the stench of burned plastic, fabric, and flesh. The part of her mind floating above the havoc wrought by the fire complimented her on how swiftly she had acted to save her husband and how remarkably calm she was now, talking quietly on the phone to the dispatcher as sirens wailed in the distance. It was only later — much, much later — when they played the tape of the 911 call at the inquest into the bizarre death of Sam Schuster, that Kathy Chan realized she had been screaming.

Ronald, Ronald, I’m telling you, my friend — get in on the action while you can, buddy.

Not on your life, Hakeem.

I’m letting you in on the ground floor, for God’s sake!

Yeah — the bottom of the pyramid scheme.

It’s not a pyramid scheme! I’m Kenyan, not Egyptian!

Ronald Sanderson looked at his friend Hakeem Jinnah and slapped his forehead in exasperation. Jinnah often provoked this response. He sat at the desk next to Sanderson and they had to share a computer terminal that swiveled back and forth. His slender, brown face framed by gold glasses could often be seen leaning out beside the computer screen as Sanderson tried to work. Today however, Jinnah sat back in his chair, feet calmly planted on his desk, stirring a cup of coffee with four creams and four sugars in it, head angled to one side alternately begging and berating Sanderson in an attempt to coerce his friend’s life savings out of his RRSPs. Around them, most of the Vancouver Tribune news room staff were silent. They were watching the daily Jinnah-Sanderson show with amusement and wondering how today’s battle would turn out.

You don’t have to be Egyptian to build a pyramid scheme and I doubt Cheops could have come up with a bigger shell-game than you have, replied Sanderson. I ought to set the law on you.

Jinnah snorted into his coffee.

Ronald, it’s an introduction service, nothing more.

Most introduction services don’t get listed on the Canadian Venture Exchange.

This one does, said Jinnah, calmly sipping his coffee. It is, as you know, international in its scope. It requires a great deal of capital.

The capitals being Beijing and Moscow. Pairing lonely Chinese bachelors with Russian women desperate to immigrate? Are you nuts?

No, just logical, my friend. Think of it — because of Beijing’s one-child policy and the Chinese preference for male babies, within the next ten years, there will be over one hundred million Chinese men looking for wives that aren’t there! The Russian women are already on the market. I say strike while the iron is hot, buddy.

It’s immoral, said Sanderson. You’re selling Chinese men and Russian women in batches of twenty —

Units, Ronald, units, Jinnah chided his friend. Let’s be professional about this thing. And use the proper name for my venture: The Orient Love Express.

It’s dishonest.

It’s a legal way to make money, Ronald.

There’s more to life than money, Jinnah.

Tell the Aga Khan — he gets 10 percent.

To think you work at a newspaper that just won the city’s humanitarian award!

Jinnah took a long sip of his coffee and pointed a long, dark finger at his friend.

Ronald, don’t blame me when I make a fortune and you remain a destitute hack working at this Godforsaken rag until they wheel you out the door when you’re sixty-five — first, of course, they will have a security guard search your desk for stolen stationery. I am offering you riches.

You are offering me a one-way ticket to a medium-security facility for fraud.

Think of it as an early-retirement package.

Jinnah — Sanderson started.

And stopped. He had been about to sharply rebuke Jinnah when he saw the smile creep around the edges of his friend’s mouth, eyes glinting like the heavy gold jewellery he wore on his chest and wrists. Jinnah had done it to him again, baiting him and playing him like some cut-throat trout, pulling on the line until he roared with the hook in his mouth. It was now Jinnah’s turn to roar, the laugh shaking his long, slender frame.

What is it your Jesus said about gaining the whole world? he laughed.

Sanderson snatched the paper off his desk and unfolded it with a snap. His face was burning red behind the pages. He did not turn around to see the smiles and grins on his co-workers’ faces, but he knew they were there. He could hear them chuckling and chortling as Jinnah looked over at them with that grin of his. Really, one day Hakeem was going to go too far. Even now, his voice floated over top of the newspaper to Sanderson’s ears.

Ronald, Ronald, seriously — are you in or out?

Don’t you have any work to do, Hakeem? said Sanderson, keeping his round, rubicund face behind the protective shield of newsprint.

Things are slow on the crime front, said Jinnah, reclining back into his chair.

There was that sudden death in South Vancouver last night.

The Cadillac crispy critter? Bah! snorted Jinnah. A man dies in a car fire. Big deal. I wouldn’t go near it. Let a junior reporter cover it. Yourself, perhaps. I have other fish to fry. Although, said Jinnah, grinning wickedly. I hear this guy’s last words were to his father.

Oh? said Sanderson, sounding disinterested. What were they?

"Hey, Dad! Can I borrow the keys to the char? Get it?"

Sanderson remained with his newsprint shield up, fuming. How could Jinnah be so calm and detached about these things? How he could be so passionless about such an awful death by fire? It was the same outer coolness with which he greeted all violent crime, whether it be murder, assault or worse. Sanderson supposed it had a lot to do with Hakeem’s childhood. He was the son of a Kenyan police chief and he thought more like a cop than a reporter.

I see we have combined our customary callousness with a certain juvenile humour, said Sanderson loftily.

Come on, Ronald! Lighten up! No pun intended. Mind you, that would take a really twisted mind, hmm? Burn someone to death in their own car.

You take an indecent delight in thinking these things out. I think you almost identify with these murderers, Jinnah.

As it should be, said Jinnah, twirling the ends of his thick, black moustache. To catch a killer, my friend, you have to get inside his head. You must put yourself in the shoes of a killer. Know his mind and all will make sense by his rules, not ours.

I must say that most killers’ logic is a mystery to me.

That is why you are on general assignment, Ronald, and I am a beat reporter, hmm? Your mind is capable of flitting from story to story. Me? I obsess. I work myself up into a fury and, if the story merits it —

I know, you launch a Jinnahad, sighed Sanderson, who had heard this spiel perhaps a thousand times before. I wish you luck, Sherlock.

Jinnah’s face assumed a twisted grin.

Oh, ho, Bernstein! And what’s your great story today, eh? Another lost dog tale, is it not? Call the Canadian Association of Journalists! We have a finalist!

Sanderson’s fair, freckled face flushed red again. He resented it when Jinnah tormented him because he was bored.

I should win an award for the dumpster dog, countered Sanderson firmly. It’s an uplifting story of human compassion.

Throwing a Scottie dog into a dumpster to die is hardly heroism, observed Jinnah.

Rescuing him is, retorted Sanderson. Really, Hakeem! You’re so judgmental!

All shall be judged, Ronald! Remember: there is trial by judge, trial by jury and trial by Jinnah!

In any event, I’d much rather read about an act of kindness towards an animal over my morning corn flakes than the gruesome details of your latest case.

Now, Ronald —

Jinnah got no further. A shadow came between himself and Sanderson and as it was cast by Gerald Dixon Grant, it was both a physical and emotional pall. Both Sanderson and Jinnah immediately stiffened. Grant was a business reporter and, as he liked to remind Jinnah, an award-winning journalist. As such, he dressed in power suits and conservative ties and regarded Jinnah’s fashion sense as post-modern juvenile. Grant towered over the seated Jinnah, his tall, heavy frame crowned by thinning blond hair and designer glasses. Like his opinion of himself, everything about Grant was over-stated: his face was too large for his head, his lips too thick for his mouth, his bulging eyes ready to pop out of sockets too small to contain them. His smile was a bearing of fangs about to be sunk into the delicate portions of Jinnah’s large, exposed ego.

Morning, Jinnah, Grant said curtly. Hard at it, I see.

Jinnah remained sprawled in his chair, feet on his desk. His coffee was nearly empty but he affected a look of disinterest by sipping at its dregs and playing with his computer terminal.

Crime reporting requires thinking, Mister Grant, not just rewriting some corporate press release. I am thinking, he said, staring at his screen.

Grant leaned down and looked at the curved glass surface. A story template was on display there with Jinnah’s name atop it, but otherwise, the screen was blank.

I see you have the most important portion of your day’s labour completed, said Grant. All you have to do now is hit a user key and fill in the blanks, right?

Sanderson managed to stifle a chuckle. Jinnah only wrote four kinds of tales and did them in such a repetitive style that his colleagues had coined the phrase user key stories to describe them. User key one, when dealing with murder or accidental death, was Why did he/she have to die? If somehow the victim had failed to die (a serious fault that almost always moved a story off page one and back inside the paper), Jinnah fell back on user key two: So-and-so is Lucky to Be Alive. There was also user key three (The little guy/gal fighting the government body oppressing him/her and she/he is furious!) and user key four (All I saw was a blinding flash, for explosions and other catastrophes). Jinnah, however, was not amused.

What do you want, Grant? We’re all rather busy here on city side.

Grant leaned even closer to Jinnah, putting an unfriendly arm around his co-worker’s shoulders. His tone was as collegial as a drill sergeant explaining something to a particularly thick recruit.

This little car fire story I see your name attached to on the list? Drop it, okay?

Jinnah sat bolt upright, rigid.

What are you talking about? he snapped.

I’m doing it, that’s why.

Like hell you are! And take your hands off me or I’ll slap a sexual harassment suit on you so fast —

That it’ll make all those times you unbuttoned your shirt and showed Crystal the receptionist your ‘African Rug’ pale by comparison?

Grant’s tone was still warm and friendly. It always was when he was skewering someone. Sanderson toyed with the idea of going to Jinnah’s aid, then rejected it. The audience watching this set-to was too large. If anything beat a Sanderson-Jinnah bout it was a grudge-match between the two biggest egos at the paper.

There’s nothing pale about my African Rug, buddy, said Jinnah, unfastening another button on his already amply opened shirt. Would you like to see more of it?

Grant straightened up and took a step back.

I pride myself on being in touch with my feminine side, Jinnah. That doesn’t mean I want to be in touch with your hairy chest.

Then what’s this bullshit about you stealing my Cadillac crispy critter?

Because the crispy critter in question has just been identified as Sam Schuster and Sam Schuster belongs to me. Period.

Jinnah was momentarily silenced. Sanderson was surprised enough to let his newspaper shield drop.

You mean Sam the Sham? Shyster Schuster? Sanderson asked.

Grant nodded gravely.

Well, said Jinnah standing up. All the more reason for me to cover it, I think.

For all his sang-froid, Grant bristled slightly.

Indian speak with fork in his tongue, said Grant. Make no sense.

Then I’ll use the tiny, small words you business guys are limited to in your vocabulary, Jinnah replied, taking a step towards Grant. I have a 100 percent controlling interest in murders at this newspaper. Your presence on this story would be a considerable liability. And since, as my inherent instincts tell me, this is likely to be the line story today —

It should be done properly, said Grant coldly. By me.

Oh? said Jinnah. And where are you going to get your facts? The same place you got your name?

Grant’s face hardened into taut, tense lines.

What are you insinuating?

Listen, smartass! I remember when you were just plain Gerry Grant working in the suburbs writing sports! Suddenly, you make up a middle name —

I’ve had quite enough of this conversation.

Grant, his face a mask of icy contempt, turned and stalked away.

Go on, run! Jinnah shouted after him. We’ll see who ends up on page one!

Grant turned abruptly.

Why don’t we leave it to Blacklock to decide then, Jinnah? He usually gives you preferred treatment, doesn’t he?

There was a momentary hush. Conway Blacklock, the Tribune’s editor-in-chief, did have a special place for Jinnah. It was called the doghouse and despite being arguably the best reporter at the paper, Jinnah was seldom out of it. But Jinnah, in full fury, was not about to back down.

I’ll meet you in Blacklock’s office at two o’clock and we’ll see who’s writing this story, he said, throwing the gauntlet down at Grant’s feet.

Grant smiled.

Fine. It’s up to the editor, he said and, certain of his pending victory, went back to his desk to place some very important phone calls about the late Sam Schuster.

Unbeknownst to Jinnah and Grant, they were among the main topics of conversation at a lunch Blacklock was having with the Tribune’s new publisher. Blacklock had chosen the restaurant with great care. They were at the Teahouse in Stanley Park, an elegant eatery that looked out over the magnificence of Vancouver’s Outer Harbour. With snow-capped mountains spreading out on either side and the long, slender stretch of blue water in between gradually widening into the Strait of Georgia, the scenery was as spectacular as the cuisine. It was an establishment that never failed to impress and that was exactly what Blacklock was attempting to do. He felt it vital to define the limits of his personal empire and that meant explaining his management style to the new boss. Most reporters, had they been asked, would have described it as neo-fascist, but the editor-in-chief preferred a more gracious interpretation.

I call it ‘Negative Energy Dynamics’ and it works remarkably well, Blacklock said, his pudgy hands gripping his white coffee cup, slowly rotating it so the Publisher wouldn’t see the little brown coffee stains trailing down the lip.

The Publisher frowned.

Negative Energy Dynamics? Is that sort of like Synergy or Employee Empowerment?

Blacklock allowed himself a small, amused smile on his wide, beefy face, which was framed by greying brown curls and a sneer worthy of Charles Laughton.

With due respect, sir, those sorts of management theory don’t work in a newsroom. Negative energy, on the other hand, produces results. Daily.

Really?

The Publisher frowned again. Blacklock, seeing some further explanation was required, stared out at the mountains and the water. This was another advantage of the Teahouse: you could gaze out the window with a thoughtful look on your face for quite a while without your guest minding much or even suspecting you were searching your brain for the correct response. But now, Blacklock merely did it for dramatic effect. He’d rehearsed this speech carefully, he simply wanted to give it an air of spontaneity. He folded his hands together and continued to look out the window as he spoke.

Negative Energy is rather like a battery: you need both positive and negative working together to create a spark. The reporters provide the positive charge, I serve as the negative pole.

I don’t quite follow you, said the Publisher, a pleasant-looking man in his late fifties whose glasses were just a bit too large for his domed head.

Blacklock returned his gaze to the Publisher and found himself looking down. He smiled inwardly. A tall, stout man, he liked being physically overbearing. He calculated that he was a good six inches taller than his new superior.

The reporters work very hard, putting their positive energies into producing stories, explained Blacklock. They seek my approval as a sort of surrogate father figure. However, I deny them my approval, giving back negative energy.

The Publisher’s eyes widened.

Meaning if they do a good job, you don’t give them a pat on the back?

Blacklock had been taking a sip of coffee and he nearly choked. This fellow was much more astute than his rather bland little exterior would lead one to believe. He would have to be more careful.

Not exactly, he continued. I may grudgingly acknowledge that they have done better than they normally do — marginally — and then perhaps opine that their standard of work is still far below that of a National Newspaper Award. That sort of thing.

Don’t they just fold the tent and stop working then?

Indeed not, sir. They generally redouble their energies, hoping that the next story will please me and gain my long sought-after approval.

The Publisher’s frown returned. He was a good man, but he had risen through the ranks of the chain through the advertising and the business offices in Toronto. He had no idea of how to run a newsroom and reporters were a mystery to him. They certainly didn’t operate like advertising salespeople, who had a monetary incentive to work hard and succeed. Reporters got paid the same no matter how much — or how little — work they did. But then, people were people, even reporters, and the Publisher had always believed motivated employees who felt valued performed better than those who were terrorized.

Well, said the Publisher, resorting to Blacklock’s strategy of looking out the window. I must say it sounds like a lot of work for you, being the sole negative spark.

Blacklock let out a mental breath. He had not been sure if the Publisher would buy into his theory. He knew the man’s background, how the sales department had special events, parties, bonuses, and other methods of motivating their employees. Blacklock despised them. People like the Publisher made his job that much more difficult.

Actually, although I am the primary power source, I am not the only negative pole, admitted Blacklock modestly. You see, the other facet of this theory is to create positive-negative energy between the reporters themselves — make them compete with each other.

The Publisher took his eyes off the line of tankers and container ships sitting out in the harbour, waiting for their turn at the docks inside the Lions Gate Bridge.

Compete with each other? he said, eyes narrowing.

Of course. That way, they form a positive-negative charge of their own, creating even more energy.

It sounds a bit like divide and conquer to me, Mister Blacklock, said the Publisher with a hint of a smile. Is it practical?

It has worked well for the Tribune thus far, sir, said Blacklock, unruffled. Take, for instance, the rather bizarre and untimely death of Sam Schuster this morning.

Sam Schuster? asked the Publisher. Who is he?

Blacklock gave an inward shake of the head. In his rules of power-lunching, never admitting ignorance of any fact, no matter how small, was high on the list. Even if you were absolutely, unequivocally wrong, you never admitted it. How had this man risen to the state of Publisher with no concern, seemingly, for appearing not to be plugged-in? The fact the Publisher was new to Vancouver did not signify. Part of the trick of establishing your place in the pecking order of the information industry was to research these kinds of things in advance. He went on indulgently.

A local and somewhat colourful stock promoter, said Blacklock. Found burned to a crisp beside his Cadillac last night. A bit of a shyster, but never convicted.

You’ll give that to Jinnah, of course, said the Publisher.

Blacklock was somewhat impressed. At least the Publisher had bothered to scope out the staff before taking the job. Then again, he reflected ruefully, it was a woefully ignorant newspaper executive who had never heard of Jinnah in some capacity or other.

In fact, sir, since this story has a plethora of business ins and outs, I was considering involving Mister Grant, our award-winning business reporter, in the Tribune’s investigation.

I see. Teamwork. Good thinking, said the Publisher. They get on well together, Grant and Jinnah?

No sir, laughed Blacklock. They do not. In fact, in a newsroom barely large enough to fit all the over-sized egos, they are the two biggest prima donnas in the place. Hate each other. Passionately.

Won’t that create a lot of friction? asked the Publisher, raising his eyebrows.

You mean, I think, negative energy, sir, said Blacklock, finishing his coffee.

Jinnah was savouring a cigarette on the open-air plaza of the cafeteria, writing his story in his head for about the fourth time when the senior assistant city editor Peter Perma-Frost Frost came to give him the bad news

You may consider that cigarette your last request, said the white-haired desker.

Jinnah smiled. He liked Frost. Once, he had been a golden-haired young man, back in the Sixties when it was still possible to tell your boss to go to hell, quit, and get a job at another paper overnight. Then, Frost had adopted his trademark wardrobe of bright, floral Hawaiian shirts, sandals, and shades. Always calm, always cool under deadline pressure. But the years had slowly turned Peter Frost’s hair a paler and paler yellow until now it was a thinning mass of snow-white, limp locks, which had earned him his sobriquet. Like Jinnah, Frost was one of the few smokers left on the Tribune. The nicotine-addicted shared a common craving and a sense of solidarity born of their persecution by the no-smoking forces that had banished them to this one designated smoking area. The tips of Frost’s fingers were browny-yellow with nicotine and Jinnah could see the man looking enviously at his cigarette.

It is indeed my last cigarette, my friend, he grinned. So don’t think of bumming one — I’m out.

This has nothing to do with trying to collect some of the thousands of smokes you owe me, said Frost, gently taking the cigarette from Jinnah’s hand and taking a drag off it. You have been summoned to the inner sanctum.

I know, smiled Jinnah. I specifically asked for the meeting. It’s me or that asshole Grant for the line.

Would that it were so simple, said Frost sadly. It’s no longer an either-or situation.

Jinnah looked at Perma-Frost with a dismay that had nothing to do with the loudness of his shirt.

Son of a bitch, he said. What now?

I think Blacklock wants you to work with Grant on this Schuster death.

Son of a bitch, repeated Jinnah vehemently. Grant got to him first!

Not, actually, said Frost, patting his own pockets for a pack of cigarettes and failing to find one. He’s been closeted with Junior since he got back from lunch.

Jinnah winced. This was even worse news. Junior was the nickname for James Tiberius Church, the Managing Editor, who was indecently young to hold such an exalted position — which wouldn’t matter, if he’d had any professional experience, but Junior’s qualifications were purely of the ass-kissing variety and everyone in the newsroom despised him, except Blacklock. The editor-in-chief used Junior as a sort of messenger-boy/lackey, making sure his wishes were carried out on the floor and throwing him into the breach when there was a distasteful task that needed doing like a firing or suspension. Blacklock was constantly giving Junior lectures and putting him into situations to test his fitness to succeed him at the paper’s helm. There could only be one reason for including Junior in a meeting between himself, Jinnah, and Grant: Blacklock wanted to teach his ME some evil facet of employee management. Well, Jinnah wasn’t about to managed. He would be calm and professional about the whole thing. If they wanted to make idiots of themselves by including Grant in what was undoubtedly a contract killing of some sort, then so be it. It wasn’t Jinnah’s problem. He would wait them out and when the truth finally emerged (with a little help) he would be the one in a position to modestly say I told you so.

Let me at ‘em, said Jinnah, crushing his cigarette underfoot.

Frost smiled faintly.

Do not go gently into that lion’s den, he said.

Listen, buddy — you don’t have to be afraid of some syphilitic lion when you’re a Kenyan Tiger!

Frost refrained from mentioning there were no tigers in Kenya as Jinnah walked quickly back to the newsroom. He noticed Sanderson motioning to him as he moved along the row of glassed-in offices where the executives held court, but ignored him. He found Blacklock already in his office with Junior and Grant. The editor-in-chief was sitting at his side-desk, on which rested a massive Macintosh terminal that, unlike Jinnah and Sanderson’s smaller screen, was designed to lay out the entire paper, if necessary. Close beside him was Junior and slouched insolently in a chair against the far wall was Grant. Everyone looked at him pointedly as he entered.

Ah, Jinnah, said Blacklock with that genteel contempt unique to the English accent that has successfully endured public school but failed in Fleet Street. Just what have you been doing while we have been here planning?

Working, said Jinnah, taking a seat beside Grant. I’ve got the line story.

Grant raised his eyebrows and smiled without warmth.

I rather doubt that, he said.

Jinnah looked at Blacklock to see his reaction, but the editor’s face revealed nothing. Church’s face was a study of anxiety: he was anxious to please his boss, anxious to understand what was going on, and anxious to add something — anything — that appeared to be half-way intelligent to the conversation. He was such a contrast to Blacklock, Church. While the editor-in-chief was a larger-than-life man with a small, black moustache and affected English accent, Church was a thin, wiry figure, his ginger hair a legacy of his Scottish/Irish ancestry. Together, Blacklock and Church reminded everyone in the newsroom of Laurel and Hardy. It was rather hard to take them seriously, but unlike the famous comics, these two were not funny intentionally — they were always in deadly earnest. Jinnah ignored Grant and spoke directly to Blacklock.

We have a hero who risked his life trying to pull Schuster from the flaming inferno that claimed his life, Jinnah enthused. It’s a fantastic story.

Blacklock looked singularly unmoved. Church, waiting for a cue from his mentor before speaking and seeing none, was silent. Grant leapt into the gap.

I don’t think anyone who tries to save Shyster Schuster’s skin can be called a hero, he said dryly.

Jinnah felt the admittedly thin veneer of his cool, professional demeanour flaking.

For God’s sake! The man is in hospital recovering from burns! he cried. He risked his life to save another human. He didn’t ask the bastard to fill out a questionnaire before crawling through the smoke and flames —

Blacklock held up a hand.

Enough, Jinnah! Let us bring some order to this chaos. Let’s start with what we know for certain. Now, what do we know about Sam Schuster? Mister Grant?

Grant, slumped somewhat arrogantly in his chair to effect just the right air of feigned indifference to the proceedings, lazily leafed through his notebook.

Schuster was fifty-three, he said without really glancing at his notes. Medium-sized player on the VSE before the merger with the Alberta Exchange created Canadian Venture. Prime mover of the Northern Frontier Oil and Gas scam in the early 1980s —

Scam? interrupted Jinnah. Nothing was ever proven.

Grant looked at Jinnah with a pained, pitying expression.

And O.J. Simpson is innocent.

A lot of oil and gas exploration companies went under in the early Eighties, insisted Jinnah. Not all of them were scams.

Well, Schuster’s was, said Grant.

He was never convicted of anything.

And you, said Grant pleasantly. Have never won a major journalism award of any kind, but that doesn’t mean you’re not a good reporter, Hakeem.

The veneer, which had been flaking slowly away, now fairly flew off Jinnah’s hide in large, messy chunks.

Listen, you pompous son of a bitch, he said, pointing a finger at Grant. Any business reporter can get an award by rewriting a few corporate press releases. Crime reporting is different!

There’s no need to get personal, said Grant.

Gentlemen, said Blacklock. I know it’s difficult for you both to check your egos at the door but do you think we might focus on the story rather than your resumes?

Jinnah and Grant were stopped in their rhetorical tracks. Jinnah was sweating and he desperately wanted a cigarette. It had been a mistake to rise to Grant’s bating, but he couldn’t