for more. In Jinnah’s opinion, it reduced the chances of people reading the accompanying news story by a factor of ten. He now began to see how badly Grant wanted to beat him. Jinnah’s rage turned from a blinding red to a clear, visionary white. He now knew what he had to do.
“And what about my story?” he asked quietly.
“Not much room left on the page for another story,” said Junior Church.
“Indeed not,” agreed Blacklock. “You will file your material to Mister Grant, Jinnah. He. will use it at his discretion.”
“Don’t worry, Jinnah,” said Grant affably. “I’ll give you a second byline — if I end up using more than three paragraphs.”
“Do you have anything to add, Mister Church?”
Church looked like a deer in the headlights, a common expression of junior execs on the management fast-track when asked a direct question. Church’s narrow eyes swung wildly between Blacklock, Grant and Jinnah.
“I suppose we could use a nibbly on what a hero is — if Grant uses more than three paras of Jinnah’s stuff,” he suggested, trying to sound forceful.
“I love hypotheticals,” said Grant.
Blacklock, confident that his protégé was light-years away from challenging his authority given the depth of his analysis, smiled serenely.
“Happy, Jinnah?” he asked, raising his heavy eyebrows.
Jinnah winced and took his glasses off. He mopped his sweaty brow.
“I’m not feeling well,” he said, his warm tone dissolving into a high-pitched whine. “I am coming down with something. I think it may be malaria — I have all the symptoms —”
“You haven’t got malaria any more than you had ebola virus a week ago,” said Blacklock.
“It’s malaria,” said Jinnah, rising weakly to his feet and shivering. “It is recurrent, as you know. I’ve got the chills. I think I better go home.”
Blacklock leaned across his desk. His face was set and hard and all playfulness was gone from his voice. He spoke in the voice of command, harshly, in a tone that did not brook argument.
“Jinnah, you will listen to me: If you go slinking off home malingering, that’s between you and the insurance company. But if you go harassing this poor man Chan in hospital, I will break you! Understand? I specifically forbid you to have any contact with that witness! Are you listening?”
Jinnah stumbled towards the door.
“I think I’m delirious,” said Jinnah. “I’m hearing distant voices —”
“Jinnah!”
Jinnah was already at the door of Blacklock’s office. He looked bleary-eyed up at the ceiling.
“Father? Father is that you?” he said and lurched out of the office.
The seconds ticked by at a glacial pace as the three remaining occupants of the room stared alternately at each other and the open door. Finally, Blacklock sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“Mister Grant? Will you please see to it that in his delirium Mister Jinnah doesn’t steal any stationery or, perhaps, his computer?” he said heavily.
Grant sprang up from his chair.
“Of course, Mister Blacklock,” he said, and was out the door like a shot, closing the portal with a diffidence that Junior Church admired and silently vowed to emulate.
Left alone in the presence, Church sat mute, waiting for a verbal or physical cue from his boss. He half expected an explosion now the reporters were gone on the laziness and venality of the average working hack. He’d endured many such rants before. But to his surprise, Blacklock smiled, shot him a wink, and picked up the phone. He put the device on speaker phone so Church could hear both sides of the conversation.
“Mister Frost?” he said. “Can you see what Mister Jinnah is doing just now?”
“He’s talking to Sanderson with his coat on,” Frost’s voice crackled. “He told me he was suffering from malaria and was taking the rest of the day off.”
“Excellent,” said Blacklock. “I want you to hold the front page for an exclusive interview with the only witness to Sam Schuster’s fiery death.”
There was a slight pause and Junior Church tried to hide his look of amazement.
“Uh, boss,” said Frost matter-of-factly. “How do you know Jinnah’s going to get that interview with Chan?”
“Because, Mister Frost, I have just specifically forbidden him to speak with the gentleman.”
The pause this time was no more than a beat, nor did Frost’s tone betray any admiration. It was all strictly professional.
“You want the whole top or just a zipper on the bottom?” he asked.
“The whole top, Frost. And have the rewrite desk combine whatever Grant files into one story on page three. I’m sure you’ll find his prose infinitely cuttable.”
“Will do.”
Blacklock hung up and looked over at Church. His young ME was staring at him with something approaching genuine awe.
“But how —” he began.
Blacklock waved him into silence.
“That’s negative energy at work, son,” he said.
Jinnah was chewing his lower lip and eagerly anticipating a cigarette as he approached his desk. Sanderson was there waiting for him.
“I tried to get your attention before you went into the meeting —” he began.
“Yes,” said Jinnah sharply. “I saw you, Ronald. I thought you were imitating a drowning man the way you were flailing about.”
“A gentleman identifying himself as the president of the Orient Love Express called,” continued Sanderson.
“Ah, cousin Sanjit,” said Jinnah.
“The same cousin Sanjit who was living in your basement about six months ago?”
“He has risen considerably in the world since then.”
“He said it was urgent.”
“Nothing is as urgent as my need for quinine and nicotine right now.”
Jinnah grabbed a pill bottle off his desk and popped it open. He took out three tablets and swallowed them with the aid of some cold coffee. Sanderson frowned.
“Anti-malaria drugs?” he said dryly.
“Phenobarbital, actually,” said Jinnah. “If you’d been through what I’ve just experienced, you’d need some tranquilizers too.”
Sanderson
