Revolution (18 page)

‘It should link any second,’ Robert replied, pressing a button on a laptop computer and sitting back on his haunches patiently.

Sigby looked at his watch. Two minutes to go–live. The sound of distant mortar rounds impacting ancient earth rumbled on the air, a faint flash of light flickering against the low clouds enveloping the mountains.

‘Make sure the camera sees that action,’ Sigby instructed, gesturing with a nod of his head toward the sounds of battle. ‘Always looks good on film.’

Robert nodded, and took up his position behind the camera. He pressed a finger to his ear as he heard their connection link up. The screen of the laptop flickered and an image of the news appeared, streamed directly via digital–link from the broadcasting satellite. Sigby could see the GNN anchor for the night, Charlotte Dennis, adjusting her skirt and hair as the broadcast prepared to go live from the UK. He watched her with interest, and then heard the call to go live. Charlotte finishing tidying herself and looked directly at the camera as the countdown and introductory music sounded over the speakers.

‘Good evening, welcome to the six o’clock news. I’m Charlotte Dennis.’

‘Oh, I know you are,’ Sigby whispered to himself as he prepared to go live.

‘Our headline tonight; in the war–torn capital of Mordania, more disturbing images and extraordinary exclusive reports from our correspondent on the scene. We go live now to Thessalia, where Martin Sigby is ready to talk to us about today’s develoments in the conflict. Martin, can you hear me?’

*

Megan and Callum sat alongside three old women with broken teeth, crouched in old rags, sipping their hot coffee and hugging UN supplied thermal blankets to keep out the cold.

They, like everyone else in the MSF tent, were watching the report from Mordania as it was broadcast from the capital.

‘I can hear you, Charlotte,’
Martin Sigby said as he appeared on the split screen with the anchor in London.

‘Martin, I understand that there have been several new developments in the genocide investigation inside Mordania, is that correct?’

Megan looked at Callum.

‘Here’s where we find out whether we get our ticket in–country or not,’ she whispered.

‘That’s right, Charlotte. There have been surprising advances in the understanding of what has occurred here in Mordania, sufficiently so for the president himself to make an official announcement to the world’s press. I can tell you, Charlotte, that I have spoken personally with President Mukhari Akim and bring news of his plans for his country in this, its darkest of hours.’

Callum raised an eyebrow and looked at Megan.

‘He’s gotten himself friends in high places. How’d he manage that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Megan said.

The image of Martin Sigby was suddenly replaced with that of President Mukhari Akim, standing in his personal chamber. He addressed the camera directly, his face impassioned, his gestures articulate.

‘Citizens of the west, I speak to you now from the remnants of what was once a great and proud country, on behalf of a people who had embraced democracy and had hoped to embark upon a road to prosperity and inclusion within the international community. Sadly, due to the brutal and dangerous regime that now seeks to wrest power from the democratically elected government which I lead, those hopes are now the ashes of dreams.’

Megan watched as the president gestured out of the windows of the room in which he stood.

‘Out there, advancing swiftly and without mercy, are ten thousand rebel soldiers who are intent on destroying everything that my government has sought to build. They are pitiless in their killing, slaying men, women and children without hesitation. They prefer anarchy to democracy, violence to dialogue, war to peace.’
The president hesitated before finishing.
‘And I cannot stop them.’

‘What’s this?’ Callum asked in surprise, as Sophie Vernoux came over to join them.

‘I am appealing to the world, to the United Nations, to the United States, to anyone with a will, for help in repelling the imminent attack of the rebel force under the command of the traitor General Mikhail Rameron. I and my men cannot protect the city of Thessalia. Our forces are already depleted and retreating before the might of the rebel army.’

The president moved closer to the camera, his eyes blazing with both deference and desperation.

‘I am aware that the United States is seeking a more pacifist approach to its foreign policy, and that the United Nations is reluctant to intefere directly in the affairs of sovereign nations, but what you are seeing here in Mordania is not the collapse of a regime or the fall of a dictator. This is the total destruction of a democracy, like yours, like the ones you so proudly hold up to be the model for good governance around the world. This is what you wanted from us. This is what you told us we should do, what our people would want. We did it. It is being destroyed. I implore you – help us, for we can no longer help ourselves.

The camera lingered on his face for a moment longer, and then snapped back to the silent faces of Charlotte Dennis in her studio and Martin Sigby in Thessalia.

‘Extraordinary,’
Charlotte said.
‘Remarkable words there from President Mukhari Akim, and at a time when the west is trying to distance itself from engagement in foreign conflicts. Martin, you say that there have also been developments within Mordania itself? And how will President Akim’s statement affect the situation in Mordania?’

Megan leaned close, expectantly.

‘Well, Charlotte, considering the announcement today by the President of the United States Matthew Baker, I suspect that Mukhari Akim’s words may fall on agonised but none the less deaf ears in Europe. The United Nations is powerless to intervene in Mordania without agreement from its member nations and a program for moving forward, which of course cannot occur without the attendent resolution invoking a military solution to the conflict. However, the United States is not beholden to such resolutions and in light of the most recent discoveries here in Mordania, may decide on their own whether to intervene.’

‘And what are those discoveries, Martin?’

‘They are, Charlotte, that the individuals found murdered two days ago in a village in Mordania were actually combatants who may have been fighting here in Mordania, and not innocent scientists.’

Megan’s blood ran cold as she stared at the screen.

‘You’re saying that they were not the victims of a genocide at all, but fighters themselves?’
Charlotte asked in surprise.

‘That’s right, Charlotte. The Red Cross managed with the help of the Mordanian military police to identify one of the dead men as a Petra Milankovich. At about this time, the Mordanian police uncovered a cache of arms on the site of the massacre, most of which were stamped with the numbers of weapons that according to government records belonged to the Mordanian Air Force Regiment, whose men make up a considerable bulk of the rebel factions.’

Megan felt devoid of feeling, her own heartbeat a distant throbbing.

‘That’s not true,’ she heard herself whisper.

‘But if that’s the case, then who killed them?’
Charlotte enquired.

‘The investigators do not know that at this time, Charlotte, but the feeling here on the ground is that they may have been an advance force of rebels who were fleeing General Mikhail Rameron’s insurgency and trying to return home. They were caught hiding in this village by their former comrades, murdered, and the village burned to the ground as a warning to other potential deserters. It’s a stark demonstration of the mercurial nature of the fighting forces here in Mordania.’

Charlotte Dennis waved her pencil in the air thoughtfully as she spoke.

‘And there’s nothing at all suggesting why they may have decided to occupy what appeared to be laboratories, or indeed what those laboratories were for?’

‘Nothing, Charlotte. It was most likely just chance that they were caught where and when they were. The general feeling here is that no connection can be found because there is none. It would seem that the big story right now is President Mukhari’s heart–felt plea to the world, and how the world reacts to it. Martin Sigby, Thessalia, Mordania.’

Megan stared into space for several long seconds with an expression drained of emotion, Callum and Sophie watching her.

Then she lurched to her feet and shot out of the tent at a run.

***

Megan raced into the Thessalia Hilton with Callum and Sophie in hot pursuit.

Megan stormed up the stairs to the first floor and turned toward Martin Sigby’s room in time to see Sigby walking toward them with his cameraman just behind. She pointed one arm like a shotgun at him.

‘Sigby!’

Martin Sigby looked up and saw Megan bearing down upon him. He halted in the corridor and his face blanched, but he stood his ground.

‘You lied!’ Megan shouted as advanced toward him. ‘You lied about the scientists! It wasn’t the truth!’

Sigby drew himself up to his full height, raised his chin and scoffed dismissively as Megan reached him.

‘I reported only what I have been told by the police.’

‘Bollocks!’

Megan swung for the correspondent’s face, telegraphing her punch around with full power and maximum rage. Her fist smacked into Sigby’s jaw with a dull crack that lifted the reporter off the floor and propelled him backward past Robert. Sigby ricocheted off a nearby wall and spun as he dropped onto the grubby carpet.

Megan was about to hit Sigby’s stunned and cowering cameraman for good measure when she felt herself lifted bodily off the floor in a bear grip. Callum pulled her backwards and away from the innocent man.

‘All right Rocky,’ Callum said, ‘that’s enough.’

Callum released Megan but remained next to her as Sophie barged past them both. She knelt down next to Sigby, whose eyes were rolling loosely in their sockets, and pulled the journalist up into a sitting position as he gradually regained consciousness. Sigby shook his head, massaging his jaw as his brain re–booted itself. His memory returned at the same time as the pain hit him and he saw Megan glowering down at him.

‘You’re worth nothing,’ Megan snapped. ‘You’re worse than scum, you’re not worth the ground that scum walk upon.’

A bolt of latent fury snapped down Sigby’s spine and he staggered to his feet.

‘To hell with you, Mitchell! Who the hell do you think you are, coming in here and telling me what I should and shouldn’t say? You’ve nothing to offer me now. You’re old news!’

Megan struggled to prevent herself from striking out again.

‘You lied! There were no guns in that village, those people were not soldiers and you know it. You’ve been paid off, haven’t you!’

Sigby wiped his nose on his sleeve, avoiding Megan’s penetrating glare. Sophie, who was still steadying the correspondent by the shoulder, released him as though he were diseased. Megan stalked closer.

‘Somebody didn’t want those bodies found and they got to you, didn’t they?’

‘There’s more to it than that, Mitchell,’ Sigby spat back. ‘There’s a country at stake here and there are people trying to save it. They need help and international intervention is how they can get it. I did it for them.’

‘Bollocks!’ Megan shot back. ‘You’ve never done a damn thing for anyone else in your life without something in return. You’re paid to learn the truth and convey it to the rest of the world. Instead you take money from liars and say what they tell you to, like a poodle to its master.’

Sigby sneered at Megan, pointing an accusing finger at her.

‘Don’t think that I don’t know what you’re up to, Mitchell! You’ve been up to something ever since you came here. It’s probably the reason
why
you came here. You’ve smelt another opportunity, haven’t you, another chance for Megan Mitchell to profit from the suffering of those around her.’

Sophie looked questioningly at Megan, but she ignored her.

‘What the hell are you talking about? You’re the one who’s taking back–handers. Who was it? Severov? The president?!’

‘Oh, and you’re a fine one to talk about being paid off!’ Sigby uttered. ‘Megan Mitchell, investigative reporter extraordinaire, who frolicks around the globe with her fancy stories and her wonderful reports! But then, alas, it all falls apart and you end up wandering around the world on a wild goose–chase looking for yourself, ending up somewhere in the Malay with nothing but booze to keep you company and no money to buy even that!’

Sophie glanced from Martin Sigby to Megan, her eyes wide as she tried to digest the unexpected nature of what she was hearing.

Megan’s features emptied of expression, her gaze cold and direct as Martin Sigby jabbed a finger in her direction, his face screwed up with contempt.

‘And then, lo and behold, you make your oh–so glorious return from the depths of poverty to sudden grandeur, living in the finest of penthouses and with enough money in the bank to never work again, a boat in the marina and who knows what else!?’

Sigby was standing in front of Megan now, ablaze with righteous indignation.

‘And you’re telling me that you, the great and good Megan Mitchell, doesn’t know about being paid off?! Tell me, Megan, how was it done? What did you do, eh? Who paid
you
off? Because if they hadn’t you’d be locked up in a mental home with the rest of the fruit–loops, so don’t talk to me about being paid off!!’

The corridor fell silent as Megan stood immobile before Martin Sigby. For several long seconds nobody moved. Sigby’s rage withered in the silence as he stared uncertainly at Megan, who remained utterly motionless as though carved from granite. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded as though it came from another planet.

‘If Amy O’Hara had a chance of survival in this country then you just ruined it with your broadcast, because you didn’t tell the truth.’