a country they barely knew.
Inside the building, Walton was held in slightly lower esteem. That much, Will had picked up. The seating arrangements alone confirmed it: a returned foreign correspondent placed alongside the Metro staff’s newest recruit. It was hardly star treatment. Quite what Walton had done to deserve this slight Will did not yet know.
‘We were just discussing your front-page triumph. Good job. Of course, there will be doubters, sceptics, who wonder what greater light this tale shed, but I am not one of them. No, William, not me.’
‘Will. It’s Will.’
‘The executive editor seems to think it’s William. You might need to have a word with him. Anyway, my question is this: why, I wonder, should this little story be on the front page? What larger social phenomenon did it expose? I fear our new editor does not yet fully understand the sacred bottom left slot. It’s not just for amusing or interesting vignettes. It should serve as a window onto a new world.’
‘I think it was doing that. It was correcting a stereotype about urban life in this city. This man seemed like a sleazeball but he was, you know, better than that.’
‘Yes, that’s great. And well done! Tremendous job. But remember what they say about beginner’s luck: very hard to pull off that trick twice. I doubt even you could find too many “tales of ordinary people”—’ he was putting on a cutesy, Pollyanna-ish voice ‘—that would interest the New York Times. At least not the New York Times I used to work for. Once counts as an achievement, William; twice would be a miracle.’
Will turned back to his computer, to his email inbox. Woodstein, Amy. In the subject field: Coffee?
Five minutes later Will was in the vast Times canteen, all but deserted at this morning hour. He paced up and down by the glass cases which housed Times merchandise: sweatshirts, baseball caps, toy models of the old Times delivery trucks. Amy materialized beside him, clutching a cup of herbal tea.
‘I just wanted to say sorry about all that just now. That’s the downside of working here: lot of testosterone, if you know what I mean.’
‘It was fine—’
‘People are very competitive. And Terry Walton especially.’
‘I got that impression.’
‘Do you know the story with him?’
‘I know he used to be in Delhi and that he was forced to come back.’
‘They accused him of expenses fraud. They couldn’t prove it, which is why he’s still here. But there’s certainly some trust issues.’
‘About money, you mean?’
‘Oh no, not just about money.’ She gave a bitter chuckle.
‘What else then?’
‘Well, look, you didn’t hear this from me, OK? But my advice is to lock up your notebooks when Terry’s around. And talk quietly when you’re on the phone.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Terry Walton steals stories. He’s famous for it. When he was in the Middle East they called him The Thief of Baghdad.’
Will was smiling.
‘It’s actually not that funny. There are journalists around the world who could talk all night about the crimes of Terence Walton. Will, I’m serious: lock away your notebooks, your documents, everything. He will read them.’
‘So that’s why he writes like that.’
‘What?’
‘Walton has this very tiny handwriting, completely indecipherable. That’s deliberate, isn’t it? To make sure no one reads his notes.’
‘I’m just saying, be careful.’
When he arrived back in the newsroom he found Glenn Harden sticking a Post-it to his screen. ‘Come up and see me some time.’
‘Ah, here you are. I have a message from National. Go west, young man.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘To Seattle. Bates’s wife is in labour and National need us to cover. Apparently they don’t have any reporters of their own, so they’ve put out the begging bowl.’ Harden raised his voice. ‘I scraped the bottom of the barrel and offered them Walton, but he’s come up with some lame-assed excuse and suggested you.’ Walton was on the phone, not listening. ‘Talk to Jennifer, she’ll fix you a flight.’
‘Thank you,’ Will stammered, a smile beginning to break on his face. He knew this was a major break, a serious vote of confidence. Sure, it was only cover, only temporary. But Harden would not want Metro disgraced in the eyes of what he regarded as the Ivy League snobs over at National: he would want to show Metro’s best face. Will gulped at the thought: that was him.
‘Oh and pack your galoshes.’
Tuesday, 10.21am, Washington State
And I have shown you, Jesus Christ is the light and the way. We have seen a miracle today . . .
Christian radio, along with country music, was the one staple you could always rely on: even the remotest backwater, where there were no other stations on the dial, would always be favoured with the word of the gospel, beamed through the air. The mountain passes of Washington State were no different.
He was getting closer to the flood scene, he could tell. The roads were becoming clogged and soon he began to see the flashing lights of emergency teams. Then, most reassuring of all, a fleet of white, liveried satellite trucks: local TV, confirmation that he had arrived at the site of the story.
He hooked up with a photographer who seemed to know what he was doing. For one thing, he had all the right equipment. Not just the regulation photographer jacket, with enough pockets to store the possessions of a nuclear family, but industrial-strength, thigh-high Wellington boots, waterproof trousers, polar ice-cap socks and gloves that looked as if they were custom-designed by NASA.
Will waded into the flood water after him, conscious of the chill creeping up his trouser leg. Before long they had hitched a ride on a police dinghy and were ferrying from submerged home to submerged home. He saw one woman winched to safety carrying the thing she valued most: her cat. Another man was standing, sobbing by his store front, watching a lifetime’s investment wash away like leaves in a gutter.
A few hours of that and Will was back in the rental car, soaked and hunched over his keyboard. ‘The people of the Northwest are used to nature’s temper – but her latest mood swing has them reeling,’ he began, before detailing the individual tales of woe. A couple of quotes from officialdom and a nice closing line about the fickleness of the climate, spoken by the man who had lost his stationery shop, and it was done.
Once back in the hotel room, he called Beth. She was already in bed. She talked about her day; he uncoiled the full story of his sodden journey into the flood lands. Both of them were too exhausted to restart the conversation they had never really finished.
He flicked on the local news: pictures of the Snohomish floods; Will picked out faces he recognized. His heart went out to the reporter doing the live-shot: that meant he was still there.
‘Next up, more on the murder of Pat Baxter. After these messages.’ Will turned back to his computer, only half listening to the words coming out of the TV.
The victim, fifty-five, found dead and alone in his cabin . . . police suspect a botched break-in . . . much damage, but nothing stolen . . . Baxter had been under surveillance for years . . . was briefly prime suspect in Unabomber case . . . no family, no relatives . . .
Will wheeled around. One word had leapt out. Will Googled ‘Unabomber’, getting