White Collar Option

By Bill Johnstone

The shooting of US senator Charles McKinsey and the near fatal car crash of media tycoon John Rochester, both in Washington, trigger an investigation by reporter Mike McCabe.
The story that unfolds is a thrilling contemporary tale of violence, political intrigue, conspiracy and duplicity, involving power, the banks, the security agencies and basic human frailty.
The first in a thrilling series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Johnstone
• Release date: Jan 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466078369

Bill Johnstone

The author has been a journalist for more than 30 years and has taught the subject in the USA and the UK.He was born in Glasgow, Scotland and lived in London and Washington where his novels are set.He is an avid animal lover and a trusteee of a cat sanctuary in Somerset, England.He travels frequently between the UK and the USA.

Book preview

White Collar Option

By Bill Johnstone

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Bill Johnstone

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The author has been a journalist for more than 30 years; among the many outlets for which he has worked are The Times, the BBC and UPI. He has taught journalism in the UK and the USA.

He was born in Glasgow, Scotland but lived for many years in London and Washington where this novel is set.

The story stands alone but the author has written others in the series.

White Collar Option

Then Go Straight Forward

Waiting For The Storm To Pass

Their Will Be Done

POINTED INWARDS

MADE TO ACCOUNT

CHAIN REACTION

CONSIGNMENT

TRUE WIND

Many thanks to family, colleagues and friends for their support which made this book possible; special thanks to Rosamund for her support, encouragement, patience and diligent proofreading.

All characters and incidents in this book are fictional.

Comments: [e-mail]

Preface

Washington

No one could have detected the chaos behind the curtains in the wealthy neighborhood of Georgetown on the northwest side of Washington, DC. The room was a mess, a bleeding body lay on the floor as an intruder continued his search. Desk drawers were dragged open, their contents carelessly dumped onto the carpet, quickly inspected and then kicked to one side. The carefully indexed books on the shelves were checked for any hidden secrets and then thrown recklessly across the room. The intruder, getting more frantic, moved erratically from one shelf to another. He was sweating heavily and his breathing labored. He looked at his watch. Hed taken too much time.

The man on the floor moved and staggered awkwardly to his feet. The bruising on his face was evidence of the beating he had taken. Amid the din and the panic of the mindless ransacking, he made his way to the door undetected. Then a shot rang out. He fell as the bullet entered his body and he hit the floor with a sickening thud. The sounds seemed to echo in the room.

The gunman, still gasping and sweating, stood over the crumpled body, inspected his gruesome handiwork, gave the room a final glance then slowly slipped out of the room.

London

The news conference in any newspaper is the start of a cycle, an unscientific process which owes as much to the personalities who shape it than to any form of logic. The first phase takes place in the morning with the discussion of largely unrelated ideas and ends, followed by a second in the late afternoon, with the choice of what to print. There are the items whose place on any list already had been determined by their political or economic significance. However, the rest are of diverse merit and taste, whose fate is determined by the forcefulness of their mentors.

But the other items, which do not owe their existence to the corporate or political PR machinery, are the province of the reporter, the dogged newshound, whose insatiable appetite for stories gives any publication character and credibility.

Mike McCabe, of the London Daily Herald, is one such reporter and news is his bag; the man with an acute instinct in following stories that are little more than possibilities; a tenacious and determined ferret who knows how to dig, drawn as if by nature to the core of a news story.

Chapter 1

Mike McCabe sat back at his desk looking at the view across the river, savoring the unexpected peace before the momentum of his day created its predictable absorbing chaos and the phone started ringing.

As a cub reporter, the first task of any day was to read the opposition. He still did; old habits. Spot the stories you didn’t get, the ones you should have got and, above all, the ones your editor would blame you for not getting. Those were the rules of survival and now they were instinctive.

He spread the morning newspapers out on the desk. However, the hot news was electronic. The shooting of a US senator in Washington had been too late for the print editions but was now being flashed across every digital globe network in a matter of seconds. There were no details, just a tantalizing news item that would suck in dozens of media organizations as they battled to get the details first. To some, the item would mean nothing. To those familiar and interested in the intricacies of US government and its predictable security fallout, it was a major alert. Homeland security was paramount in the US these days and layers of security personnel and their counterparts were present in abundance in the US capital, each vying for the upper hand. He knew only too well. He’d spent many months trawling those furrows, trying to make sense of its political quagmire. There would be turmoil in the US capital today. But he’d enough to worry about at home.

At times like this, the river view was calming. That’s why he’d bought the barge; an old coal transporter; originally filthy and rusty, its conversion the ultimate labor of love; the antithesis of his other world. It was also a monument to three years hard work and as many desperate compromises with his local bank manager. But if his faith had ever waned during that painful journey, the vista was always there to dispel the doubts and be another soothing influence when the pressure mounted. He looked at his phone. The calming influence was likely to be tested anytime soon.

Now named Sergeant Pepper, the boat was home, equipped with all the props of modern living but still a world away from the terraced multi-million dollar houses that flanked the riverbank a hundred yards away. It was also as many light years from his previous homes; rooms, apartments and conservative terrace houses. While there he was in a different world. Berthed in a lazy nautical community on the banks of The Thames, near Chelsea Harbour London, it was also home to a dozen other crafts of various shapes and sizes, mostly survivors from an industrial and grimy past, now unwittingly part of an opulent west London.

The backgrounds of the owners were just as varied. They boasted lawyers, accountants and artists among their ranks. There were even those who did real jobs, men of toil he called them, whose sweat and effort were etched in their leathered hands. Then there was McCabe; the only journalist in this motley crew of free-spirits who loved their boats and their unconventional way of life. But it didn’t make him immune from the daily onslaught. That phone was going to ring any second and he’d be the default fireman to get the story that had been missed first time around.

But his cell phone hadn’t rang or made an all too familiar frantic dance across the desk buzzing for attention, as he’d expected. He glanced through his newspapers again.

He doubted whether the tabloids would be interested in the US senator story, one that would rock the US capital and those behind its government. He wasn’t sure if they even had a reporter in DC. As usual, that morning they had gone big on some inconsequential story about the sex life of a supposed celebrity of whom he’d never heard. A star of reality television, the papers said. His prowess was a marvel and unrivalled; at least that was the verdict of his sexual playmates, none of whom McCabe had heard of either. He suspected neither had anyone else. They were soap opera scandal sheets, purveyors of celebrity tittle-tattle and sexual feats on Olympian proportions which defied the laws of gravity and medical science, all monuments to bad taste, and barometers of the public’s appetite, however crass. They sometimes hit the jackpot, uncovering rafts of corruption and seedy behavior among the great and the good. Power and influence which lured the other basic vices was their fodder. He doubted whether the US senator’s shooting titillated them enough, unless they could find some risqué angle. He didn’t for a moment doubt they’d try. Quality newspapers, like his, the London Daily Herald, quite hypocritically, would claim an interest in both.

Generally, McCabe was the first port of call when the news desk had a problem. But he’d been hoping that today he’d be out of the firing line. A feature, promised for the weekend travel section, would keep him at home and safely at arm’s length. By late afternoon he’d have finished the words, sent them to the office via the convenience of modern communications, and then be stretched out indolently on deck with a bottle of cold beer. He looked at his watch again; strange no phone call.

He walked on deck and savored another mouthful of coffee, had a bight of his bacon sandwich and looked out over the river again. Life could be good, if he could only live like this; no editor breathing down his neck, no phone ringing in the middle of the night, no writing when he didn’t have the slightest idea what to say. Shortly, that nirvana of journalism would be no more, of that he was confident. It wasn’t his patch but he had a bad feeling that, for him, the US senator’s attempted murder - if that’s what it was - spelt trouble.

About two miles away at the London Daily Herald, the morning news conference was about to begin. The noise of a door closing at the far end of the conference room grabbed everyone’s attention. The seating was unplanned save one. Everyone turned their eyes to the man at the far end.

Scott Edmunds, Editor, stared down the table, scoured the faces and fidgeted impatiently watching the late arrivals. They bowed apologetically and scuttled into the remaining seats. He scanned the news list on his laptop, looked up and then returned to the screen. He sighed, took off his reading glasses and looked round the room, as if counting heads like a school master at assembly. ‘Where’s Foreign?’ he asked quietly.

There was no answer.

‘We’ll go big on the economic summit in Washington,’ he said, pointing to the top of the list on his computer. ‘That will be our lead and it’ll take up most of the space on the comment pages too. I assume we’re getting a statement from Downing Street? What’s coming from Washington? Is Brook Lawrence on top of that?’

The Foreign Editor had just arrived. He was breathless, as well as late. He hesitated, trying to choose his words carefully. ‘I haven’t spoken to him yet but there’s a statement due from Washington too, ten their time. It’ll be the usual political fudge….’

Edmunds held up his hand, impatiently dismissing the comment. ‘I want more. I want the sideshows, the political horse-trading. I don’t want the standard PR rhetoric that passes for political insight. We’re not a mouthpiece for the White House.’ Edmunds stopped for a moment. ‘Or Downing Street, for that matter; tell Lawrence to ring me.’ He glanced back at the computer screen, lowered his spectacles again then spoke quietly without preamble. ‘Tell me about the US senator shooting.’

Predictably, there was silence; an atmosphere of expectancy tempered with the faintest hint of nervousness. Edmunds leant forward on the table and scanned the room again.

The Foreign Editor, speaking quietly, didn’t seem too sure of himself. ‘This morning, Associated Press reported the shooting of Senator Charles McKinsey.’

Edmunds said nothing for a moment. It wasn’t obvious if he’d heard. The Foreign Editor began to speak again. ‘This morning, AP…’

‘I heard you the first time,’ said Edmunds abruptly.

‘He’s a Republican from one of the south western states,’ added the Foreign Editor.

Edmunds was deep in thought. ‘Financial expert; that’s him is it not?’ he asked, almost in a whisper.

‘Yes, that’s the man; ex-banker or broker; something like that; now a government advisor, I think.’

‘Shot! How? What happened?’ asked Edmunds.

‘We only have the briefest details from the AP report. He was shot in his house in Washington. He has serious injuries. That’s all we have at the moment.’

‘When did it happen?’

‘We’ve no more details. The AP report is timed about an hour ago.’

‘I take it you haven’t spoken to Lawrence about this yet?’

The Foreign Editor looked uncomfortable again. ‘I’m just about to do that. It’s barely six in the morning there.’ Immediately, he looked as if he’d regretted saying anything.

Edmunds looked through him. ‘I DO know what time it is in Washington,’ he said slowly, as he stood up and moved towards the door. ‘Send me through a copy of that AP report,’ he ordered as he left.

Everybody sank further into their chairs as the tension in the room seemed to dissipate.

Edmunds’ phone rang as he closed his office door. He walked slowly to his desk, made himself comfortable and then lifted the receiver to his ear. ‘Edmunds!’ he said quickly.

‘It’s Brook Lawrence on the line from Washington,’ said his secretary.

‘Tell him to wait.’ He sat thinking for a moment, opened a drawer in the middle of his desk, pulled out a file, opened it, extracted an envelope and read the letter it contained. There was no mistaking the letterhead of the United States Senate; there was no mistaking the tone of the letter, there was no ambiguity in the message. In all his years in journalism, it was unprecedented. It was confidential and strictly private yet a correspondence that needed to be on the record but had to remain undisclosed. It baffled him when he’d first received it and still did. He re-read it and then studied the signature at the bottom of the page; Senator Charles McKinsey.

He put away the letter and pressed a button on his telephone. ‘Let him through.’ He put the handset on the speakerphone and slid back in his chair. ‘Brook, how are you?’

‘Good, thanks.’

‘Have you got the summit statement yet?’

‘No! It’s due out about ten here. But before we get onto that, there’s something you need to know.’ Lawrence sounded disturbed. ‘John Rochester has been in a car accident. He’s in hospital in intensive care,’ he said quickly.

‘What?’

‘A car crash on the ring-road round Washington.’

‘What happened?’

‘His car hit a barrier, somersaulted and ended up on its roof.’

‘When?’

‘About ten last night, Washington time. The news has just surfaced.’

‘Did he fall asleep, or what?’

‘Lost control, apparently. No other car involved. I don’t know anymore. The local radio station is reporting he’d a heart attack. The police won’t confirm it. They say he’d been to dinner at The Mayflower Hotel in Washington and was driving himself home to McLean in Virginia. That’s it.’

‘Was he on his own?’

‘That’s all they’re saying.’

‘Who?’

‘The police.’

‘Who was he with at The Mayflower?’

‘They wouldn’t tell me that either.’

‘Where did they take him?’

‘George Washington Hospital.’

‘Where’s his wife?’

‘I’m assuming she’s with him now. I haven’t contacted the hospital yet.’

‘Find out what you can. Keep me posted on this.’ Edmunds didn’t say anything for a moment. ‘Hold on.’ He pressed another button on his phone. ‘Find McCabe,’ he said quickly to his secretary. He switched back to Lawrence. ‘Get your G-Summit piece to me as soon as possible. I want the wheeling and the dealing too; the political marriages and divorces. I want more than the usual PR dribble from the White House.’

‘Will do!’

‘Lawrence, before you go.’

‘Yes?’

Edmunds typed a command into his desktop. The screen filled in seconds. The AP report on the McKinsey shooting filled the screen. He read it quickly. ‘AP is reporting the shooting of Senator Charles McKinsey. Says it happened in his home. No more details. Do you know anything about it?’

There was silence. Edmunds continued. ‘He’s a bit of a financial expert, I recall, a banker or similar in a previous life.’ There was still no answer. ‘Lawrence, are you still there? Did you hear me?’

‘Yes, I am. Sorry, I was just checking on my laptop. I’ve got the report here. But I don’t know any more. I’ll …I’ll check it out.’ He seemed a bit thrown.

‘Do that. Speak to me later.’

Edmunds dropped the receiver onto the cradle and then stopped, still holding it. His mind was on overdrive. John Rochester, proprietor of the London Daily Herald was now in intensive care. A torrent of possibilities flooded the editor’s brain; none made him feel comfortable. After a minute he shook his head from side to side, as if debating some issue with himself. He pressed a button on the phone again.

‘Bring my car round the front in about half an hour. Have you managed to contact him yet?’

McCabe was back at his desk gazing over the river again. He caught sight of a neighbor making his way along the dockside. He didn’t know him well but they exchanged their customary waves.

The phone rang somewhere on his desk, now buried underneath the pile of newspapers. He pulled off the top layer and looked at the caller ID. ‘Shit,’ he said to himself. He looked at his watch again. ‘What does he want?’ He let it ring one more time then lifted it slowly, almost cautiously, to his ear without saying anything.

‘Mike?’ asked Edmunds’ secretary in her soft voice.

McCabe smiled and thought of her at the other end. A happy marriage, and a husband she adored, had thwarted any ambition he’d had in that direction. It was undoubtedly better that way he’d often told himself; the sensible thing. But he’d always wondered.

‘Mike?’ she asked again.

‘I’m here. The breath just left me when I heard your voice,’ he said, adding a little drama to his reply.

She laughed. ‘I feel confident you’ll manage to recover.’

‘Why don’t you run away with me, now that I’m divorced?’

‘You asked me that when you were married.’

‘Did I? What was your answer?’

‘Mike!’ she said sternly. ‘Get serious.’

‘We can sail round the world,’ he persisted.

‘What, in that dirty old coal barge?’

‘Don’t be cruel,’ he answered, as if hurt by the comment.

She dismissed the chat. ‘Mike, he wants to see you.’

‘The favored son, the determined ferret on call again,’ said McCabe, sarcastically.

The reality was much less attractive. He was the man who, much too frequently, picked the short straw. In fact, invariably, he didn’t pick it at all. It was thrust into his reluctant hand.

‘I’m busy. I’ve a feature to write. It’s promised. Tell him, no can do.’

‘You can tell him yourself. Good luck on that score. I wouldn’t count on it working, if I were you. He wants to see you, now.’

‘Shit! Why?’

‘I don’t know why but he wants to see you, immediately.’

‘I’ve got a lunch with a contact and then a cold beer waiting for me here. You can come and join me. Hey, that’s a great idea. Tell him you couldn’t find me.’

‘If I