Revolution (5 page)

‘Exactly. So we need a secondary supply line, something that bypasses Iran, Iraq, Russia – something that we can reply upon should we fall on political or diplomatic hard–times. Maintaining a prolonged war–footing in the Middle East may have worked before, but eventually that strategy will cease to serve a purpose and besides, it remains an impossible tactic against Russia. As long as the markets
think
that oil supplies are under threat, the price will remain suitably elevated. What we really need is a source of supply that remains permanently indebtded to our influences.’

Cain shook his head slowly in admiration.

‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’

Kruger smiled but his eyes remained hard as ice.

‘Mordania’s location on the Caspian Sea, between Russia and Dagestan, is perfect. It has extensive reserves of coal and can receive oil across the Caspian from Kazakhstan and direct it through Georgia, a country that has already demonstrated a desire to join both NATO and the European Union. Russia’s military actions in Georgia are a bluff – they don’t want another situation like Chechnya. Georgia itself is on the Black Sea coast and from there oil can make its way through the Bosporus and out into the west. Our only competition will be from the Chinese, who are even now trying to secure the Kazakhstan fields for themselves. We must move quickly and ensure Mordanian compliance with our aims.’

‘That all works, provided the Mordanian government can wrest control of the rebel insurgency,’ Cain pointed out.

‘Which is why you are here,’ Kruger agreed. ‘Our purpose, in the face of this unexpected and unwelcome rebellion, is to ensure that the United Nations will support the democratic government of Mordania. The financial support needed to bring Mordania into the twenty–first century can come only from the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund – once they’re on board, Mordania is effectively ours. It will take them hundreds of years to repay the loans. The rebels must be crushed, and the contracts we have negotiated with the government signed into Mordanian law. Those pipelines will be worth over thirty billion dollars to Kruger Petrochemicals over the next ten years, and I don’t intend to see either that profit or the investments I have already made compromised by a militia of illiterate
peasants
.’

Kruger spat the last word along with a spray of spittle. He pointed at Cain.

‘Corporate America, along with various major banks, control the vast majority of the western world’s news networks and broadcasting houses, my friend. You control what the world sees, Seth, and you can influence what they see too. Your role in this endeavour is quite simple. Use Global News Network to ensure public sympathy for intervention in Mordania, even an invasion and air–war if you like. The United Nations or United States – whoever – must wrest control of Mordania from the rebel factions and support the pro–Western government.’

Cain frowned.

‘GNN doesn’t have the power anymore, Sherman, you know that. We’ve lost influence over the last decade, offices have closed in over twelve countries. Staff are flocking to rival networks like rats off a sinking ship and my investors are damn close to following. I no longer have the controlling share in the company, let alone the influence to alter policy.’

‘Then ensure that whatever you do in Mordania is spectacular enough to change public opinion of both the conflict and GNN. Do something extravagant, Seth. Get the people watching.’

‘Easier said than done,’ Cain murmured. ‘The Board of Directors could easily buy me out should this little endeavour of yours fail. I just don’t have the resources to keep those blood–sucking bastards at bay, not to mention that threats of hostile takeovers from other broadcasters.’

Kruger’s leathery face creased into a thin fracture of a smile.

‘Oh, Seth, calm yourself. The controlling share of GNN will become yours.’

Cain laughed. ‘Even you don’t have that kind of money.’

Kruger’s smile withered, the rheumy old eyes turning hard as steel.

‘I have more money than you could ever dream of, Seth, and don’t you ever forget it. Your forty–six percent share of GNN will become fifty–one percent, rest assured.’ The old man leaned forward. ‘Make the world see something spectacular, and your company will save itself and you, board or no. Just ensure that whatever it is, it serves our purpose – the Mordanian governement’s continued rule.’

‘Collateral?’

‘What will be, will be.’

Cain snorted.

‘The president is highly opposed to using American military intervention in foreign affairs, especially after the mess previous administrations have made of foreign policy. Everybody remembers Iraq, and they didn’t bother with Syria. Neither the White House nor the public will be easily swayed.’

Kruger regarded his wine glass for a moment, and then looked through the open doors to the master bedroom. In the shadowy interior he could see a young, naked body lying upon the huge bed.

‘Ensure that the good, hard–working, law–abiding citizens of the west learn all about the democratic struggles of our valiant allies in the Mordanian Government,’ he said finally, ‘and that they fully understand just what a bunch of unholy shits the rebel Islamist forces represent. In due course the war will end in our favour and democracy, as you call it, will prevail to the endless joy of one and all.’

‘There’ll be blood,’ Cain said, ‘one way or the other.’

‘There always is,’ Kruger agreed as he levered himself up onto his aged legs, ‘but at least there’ll be profit, and nobody really cares about some pissy little backwater of a country where clean water is considered a luxury. To hell with them. They’ll be better off with the revenue generated by the pipelines anyway – it’ll bring some light into their miserable little lives.’

Cain stood and turned away. As he did so, Kruger saw him catch a glimpse of Julia lying inside the bedroom.

‘Tempted, Seth?’ Kruger murmured. ‘She’s very willing.’

Cain strode away as Kruger’s voice rattled after him.

‘You shouldn’t deny yourself the chance to take something young and full of promise, and thoroughly shaft it Seth! It’s what we’ll be doing to Mordania!’

***

City of Thessalia,

Republic of Mordania

The massive C–130J C/4 Hercules transport aircraft from XXIV Squadron, Royal Air Force banked over into a steep turn, vibrating under the power of its four huge Allison turboprop engines. Megan sat strapped into a small folding seat against one wall of the cavernous fuselage, Callum McGregor next to her. The rest of the aircraft was filled with troops from the Prince of Wales Royal Regiment, all heavily burdened with weapons, webbing and Bergens.

The Loadmaster gave Megan and Callum a thumbs–up and shouted to be heard above the noise.

‘We’re on a glide–slope for a
Khe–San
tactical descent to avoid possible Surface to Air Missiles or RPG attacks from rebel forces, so hold on!’

The aircraft’s undercarriage and flaps whined down, and then without further warning it plunged out of the sky. Megan felt her heart and stomach lift into her throat as the Hercules plummetted at what felt like a near vertical angle toward the ground, her knuckles turning white as she held on to the rim of her seat.

Suddenly the G–forces reversed, slamming her down into the seat as the Hercules crew pulled out of their suicidal descent and hauled the nose of the aircraft up into its landing flare. Megan caught a vertiginous glimpse of rushing grey rocks through the open cockpit doorway and then the runway appeared ahead as the nose came up and she felt a thump that reverberated through her spine as the Hercules settled onto the ground.

The pilot’s voice spoke in clipped tones over the intercom.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for flying Royal Air Force and welcome to hell. We hope you have a pleasant stay.’

Megan and Callum removed their headphones and unclipped their kit from the fuselage webbing as the Hercules taxied onto Thessalia Airport’s dispersal pan, the aircraft under the watchful eye of armed United Nations troops distinctive in their disruptive–pattern camouflage kit and pale blue helmets.

The aircraft came to a stop and the rear ramp opened, letting in a blast of cold air. The Loadmaster approached Callum McGregor and shook his hand, shouting to be heard above the roar of the still turning engines.

‘End of the line, Callum! Most of the journo’s are camped out in the Thessalia Hilton, or at least that’s what they’re calling it. It’s a former administrative block to the east of the city centre. This whole country is a shit–hole of misery mate, makes Bosnia look like the Algarve. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just stay on board?’

‘Not my choice,’ Callum replied, gesturing briefly to Megan. ‘Thanks for the ride Alan, see you back home, right?’

‘Sooner the better!’

Megan hefted a large rucksack onto her back and followed Callum down the ramp as the engines shut down, the infantry soldiers marching down alongside them and mustering beneath the aircraft’s broad wings.

Megan looked around at their surroundings. The flat surface of the airfield was hemmed in on three sides by mountain ranges that vanished into heavy grey clouds tumbling overhead on a cold and blustery wind. Tiny flakes of snow whipped past Megan’s eyes as she surveyed the airfield, its squat and ugly grey terminal surrounded by machine gun nests. Armed Mordanian police marched everywhere, and in the distance she could see the urban sprawl of Thessalia, rising slightly on an incline of hills that overlooked the airfield.

Callum moved to stand beside Megan with an expectant look on his face.

‘So, here we are. What’s the plan?’

Megan tightened the straps on her shoulders and gestured toward the city.

‘We check into the Hilton, and start asking questions.’

*

‘Welcome to the Thessalia Hilton, where soap is a thing of the past.’

Megan Mitchell dropped her heavy rucksack and shook Hillary Cook’s hand.

‘Been a while,’ she said, grateful to see a familiar face. ‘Yugoslavia.’

‘Yeah, that was it. What a party,’ Hillary murmured.

Hillary Cook looked younger than her forty–six years, but two decades of reporting on the worst that mankind had to offer had lined her skin and jaded the light in her eyes to a pale shadow of what it had once been.

Megan looked around at the crumbling walls and peeling plaster of Thessalia’s finest, and indeed last, hotel.

‘A bit better than Srebrenica.’

‘Anything is better than Srebrenica,’ Hillary replied, and glanced at Callum as he made his way through the hotel’s entrance. ‘So you’re still hanging around together then?’

‘Wouldn’t have it any other way,’ Callum replied, picking Hillary up in his customary bear hug. ‘Still loitering in dangerous places?’

Hillary looked at them both seriously as Callum set her down.

‘It’s dangerous here all right. The government has forbidden any foreign journalists to travel beyond the UN controlled safe–haven of Thessalia. Apparently two journos found themselves on the wrong end of a rebel assault last week. What was left of them came back here in bags.’

Megan picked up her rucksack. ‘Any idea on why they got hit?’

‘None,’ Hillary admitted, ‘but probably they just stumbled on something that somebody didn’t want them to see. Kind of puts the brakes on our line of work. Come on, I’ll show you to your excuse of a room.’

Callum looked at Megan in surprise.

‘We have rooms already?’

‘I asked Harrison Forbes to call ahead,’ Megan explained as they climbed what had once been a grand spiral staircase to the hotel’s upper floors. ‘Our old friend Sir Wilkins is running the UN show from the capital.’

‘Is he going to help?’

‘That’s what we’re going to find out next.’

The three of them were half way up the stairs when a journalist coming down in the opposite direction blocked their way.

‘Well, now I’ve seen everything.’

Megan Mitchell looked up and caught sight of Martin Sigby descending toward her, followed by his cameraman, Robert. Sigby was a couple of inches shorter than Megan, slightly overweight and with one of those faces that looked as though it had been flattened by repeated blows from a shovel. Sigby extended his hand, which Megan shook reluctantly.

‘I thought we’d seen the last of you in South America,’ Sigby said.

‘Good to see you again too, Martin.’

Sigby smiled with his lips only. ‘What are you doing here in Thessalia?’

‘Business.’

‘What kind of business?’

Callum took a step closer to Sigby. ‘None of yours.’

‘Oh, but it is my business,’ Sigby replied, regarding Megan with interest, ‘after what happened.’

Megan did not reply, but Hillary looked at her questioningly.

‘You didn’t hear, Hillary?’ Sigby enquired. ‘Didn’t Megan tell you, about the fiasco in Mexico and her subsequent disappearance? Or how she returned to London suspiciously wealthy despite having last been seen lugging nets on a fishing boat in Singapore? I think we’d all be interested to know how that happened.’ Sigby’s oily smile returned again. ‘It must be a story all on its own, how Megan here avoided being committed to an asylum or spending the rest of her days swigging bottled cider in an alley in Manila.’

‘We’re working for GNN,’ Callum said before Megan could reply, ‘and we have work to do, so why don’t you move your squat little backside out of our way?’

Sigby’s carefully cultivated expression faltered, and then he chuckled.

‘Still keeping the finest company, Megan. Please, don’t let me keep you, there must be so much for you to do here in a country where there is nothing to report.’

Megan pushed past the correspondent, with Hillary following.

‘There’s always something to report,’ Megan said.

‘That’s right,’ Sigby said as they ascended the remainder of the staircase. ‘And I am the man doing it, so there’ll be scant work for you here my friend. There’s just Thessalia and nothing beyond.’

Callum McGregor drew level with Martin Sigby and paused, looking down at him. Sigby craned his head to look up at the towering Scot.