Wish You Were Here Read Free

per cent and the Globe had run rings round him with the Hudson Bay radiation leak scare. Something like this could change all that. Overnight.
    â€˜I really liked the bit where you link that guy the President’s hairdresser’s uncle was at high school with to the car smash where that ecology activist’s arm got broken, which has never been conclusively proved not to be a bungled CIA hit attempt.’ He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. ‘That had, you know, overtones. Could mean absolutely anything .’
    â€˜Thank you.’
    The editor grinned. ‘And that bit about the leading US company supplying components to the Brazilian company that supplies components to the French company that made all the filing cabinet divider cards used by Sadam Hussein during the Gulf War. Masterly. No other word for it. Their stock’s gonna go through the floor when this hits the stands.’ He frowned, and made a mental note to call his broker.
    â€˜Yeah. It’s a pretty damn good story.’
    â€˜Good?’ The editor gestured vaguely. ‘It makes Woodward and Bernstein look like a couple of old guys doing a gardening column.’ He frowned. ‘Just one thing,’ he added. ‘You couldn’t work in anything about Kennedy, could you? Only we haven’t had a good JFK conspiracy story for . . .’
    â€˜Three weeks.’
    â€˜OK, OK,’ grumbled the editor. ‘Three weeks is a long time in journalism.’ He flicked through the story again. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing. ‘In this bit where you link Mark Twain with the rise of the Hitler Youth. Couldn’t you kinda just squeeze it a bit and—?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜No?’ The editor pulled a little face. ‘Fair enough, I guess it’s your baby. All right, how about here? The part where you claim the guy who’s doing all the Senegal famine relief stuff is really Klaus von Mordwerk, the Butcher of Chartres. If you just . . .’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Huh? Pity. Because, you know that bit where you say his birth certificate says he was born in 1957 but it’s all a fake because really he was kidnapped by aliens who whizzed him round the galaxy at seven times the speed of light, so he only looks forty years old even though really he’s ninety-seven; if you were to imply that the same aliens were the ones who snatched Kennedy—’
    â€˜No.’
    The editor shrugged. ‘You know best,’ he said. ‘It’s just I hate to see an opportunity going to—’
    â€˜That’s the follow-up. For next week.’
    â€˜Ah.’
    â€˜I suggest you put Chlopeki on it. She needs the experience.’
    The editor nodded, and reached for a cigar. He was just about to light it when it was taken from his hand, snapped neatly in two and dropped in the bin. ‘Sorry,’ the editor said sheepishly. ‘I forgot.’
    â€˜Don’t.’
    â€˜Which reminds me,’ the editor added. ‘That bit where you attributed Rasputin’s madness to passive smoking while he was a novice in Kiev. Do you think we could work that up into a major feature? Only, we haven’t had a passive smoking scare for, oh . . .’
    â€˜Two days.’
    â€˜Right. Yeah, well, we could call it a follow-up. You know; write your congressman NOW!!! kinda thing . . .’
    A shrug. ‘You can if you like. Look, I’m really glad you liked the story, but I haven’t got time right now. I’ll catch up with you when I get back, OK?’
    â€˜Back?’ The editor looked up. ‘You off somewhere?’
    â€˜Yes.’ Linda Lachuk nodded. ‘Iowa. Looks like something big.’
    â€˜Another one? Hey.’
    â€˜No.’ Linda allowed herself a thin smile. ‘That one you got there’s just a bit of fun. The Iowa thing is big . See you.’
    The editor opened his mouth and closed it again. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘bigger