that Sir Wilkins was expecting her.
‘This is as far as I go,’ Hillary said. ‘I’ve got a live UK broadcast in two hours and sod–all to say.’
‘I’ll see you at the hotel,’ Megan promised, as one of the policemen returned and opened the gates.
Megan walked inside the compound, the gate closing behind her as the policeman gestured for her to follow. They walked through the main door of the house and into the hush of the building itself.
The main reception hall was broad and flanked by opposing staircases carpeted in faded red fabric. Mock chandeliers hung from the high ceilings on long cables. Megan sensed the musty odour of age and aeons of dust as she followed her escort down a long corridor to the right of the reception hall.
Despite the winter chill outside there seemed to be no heating in the massive building. Iron–barred windows to her right looked out over the compound, whilst the walls to her left were adorned with large canvass paintings of what Megan assumed to be politicians or Mordanian Kings.
‘Megan!’
Sir Thomas Wilkins strode toward Megan from one of the offices adjoining the corridor. The escort peeled away as Wilkins grasped Megan’s hand firmly and kissed her on both her cheeks, his wild white hair as wavy as ever and his florid skin betraying decades of fine dining and late–night brandy drinking with the dignitaries of dozens of countries.
‘So good to see you back in the field again, Megan!’
‘And you Tom,’ Megan replied. ‘It’s been a while.’
Sir Thomas Wilkins had been a servant of the United Nations for well over a decade, and before that had served the UK Foreign Office in Kuwait, presiding over Kuwaiti liaisons with the extraordinary multi–national coalition that had responded to Iraq’s invasion of that country in 1991. It had been there that Megan had first met the animated, enthusiastic Wilkins, a man who had been a key asset to Megan’s investigations into Iraqi atrocities against the Kurds both before and during the Gulf War.
‘I’m only here for a temporary assignment,’ Megan replied. ‘I’m working for GNN.’
‘Thought you might be,’ Wilkins confided. ‘Come, my offices are right around the corner.’
Megan followed Wilkins into a large room that had probably once served as a dining hall but was filled now with computer desks and filing cabinets. UN staff tapped busily away at computer terminals or talked with serious expressions on telephones.
‘Totally mobile communications,’ Wilkins explained, ‘modern technological marvels. We supply New York with on–the–spot, up–to–date information on events here, so that they can determine the required responses immediately.’
‘What about local broadcast resources?’ Megan asked.
‘That’s based in the communications centre of Government House – you may have seen the satellite dishes on your way in. State–owned television is broadcast from there, and selectively censored broadcasts from the outside world allowed in. It’s very carefully controlled here, Megan. The transmission dishes atop government house essentially control what the Mordanian people see on a day–to–day basis, all of it filtered through a communications centre beneath the building that’s controlled by the secret police.’
Wilkins led her into an office and closed the door. A small fire crackled energetically in the corner of the room, filling it with light and blessed warmth.
‘Sit, sit,’ he insisted. ‘Coffee? Tea? A dram?’
‘Coffee’s fine, Tom.’
‘So,’ Wilkins began as he poured. ‘What brings you to Mordania? I wouldn’t have thought that there was much for a journalist of your calibre to cover here right now.’
Megan decided not to beat about the bush.
‘I’m not here for journalistic purposes, Tom. I’m looking for someone.’
‘Ah,’ Wilkins said, setting a mug in front of Megan and taking a seat opposite with his back to the broad windows. He regarded Megan for a
‘This is as far as I go,’ Hillary said. ‘I’ve got a live UK broadcast in two hours and sod–all to say.’
‘I’ll see you at the hotel,’ Megan promised, as one of the policemen returned and opened the gates.
Megan walked inside the compound, the gate closing behind her as the policeman gestured for her to follow. They walked through the main door of the house and into the hush of the building itself.
The main reception hall was broad and flanked by opposing staircases carpeted in faded red fabric. Mock chandeliers hung from the high ceilings on long cables. Megan sensed the musty odour of age and aeons of dust as she followed her escort down a long corridor to the right of the reception hall.
Despite the winter chill outside there seemed to be no heating in the massive building. Iron–barred windows to her right looked out over the compound, whilst the walls to her left were adorned with large canvass paintings of what Megan assumed to be politicians or Mordanian Kings.
‘Megan!’
Sir Thomas Wilkins strode toward Megan from one of the offices adjoining the corridor. The escort peeled away as Wilkins grasped Megan’s hand firmly and kissed her on both her cheeks, his wild white hair as wavy as ever and his florid skin betraying decades of fine dining and late–night brandy drinking with the dignitaries of dozens of countries.
‘So good to see you back in the field again, Megan!’
‘And you Tom,’ Megan replied. ‘It’s been a while.’
Sir Thomas Wilkins had been a servant of the United Nations for well over a decade, and before that had served the UK Foreign Office in Kuwait, presiding over Kuwaiti liaisons with the extraordinary multi–national coalition that had responded to Iraq’s invasion of that country in 1991. It had been there that Megan had first met the animated, enthusiastic Wilkins, a man who had been a key asset to Megan’s investigations into Iraqi atrocities against the Kurds both before and during the Gulf War.
‘I’m only here for a temporary assignment,’ Megan replied. ‘I’m working for GNN.’
‘Thought you might be,’ Wilkins confided. ‘Come, my offices are right around the corner.’
Megan followed Wilkins into a large room that had probably once served as a dining hall but was filled now with computer desks and filing cabinets. UN staff tapped busily away at computer terminals or talked with serious expressions on telephones.
‘Totally mobile communications,’ Wilkins explained, ‘modern technological marvels. We supply New York with on–the–spot, up–to–date information on events here, so that they can determine the required responses immediately.’
‘What about local broadcast resources?’ Megan asked.
‘That’s based in the communications centre of Government House – you may have seen the satellite dishes on your way in. State–owned television is broadcast from there, and selectively censored broadcasts from the outside world allowed in. It’s very carefully controlled here, Megan. The transmission dishes atop government house essentially control what the Mordanian people see on a day–to–day basis, all of it filtered through a communications centre beneath the building that’s controlled by the secret police.’
Wilkins led her into an office and closed the door. A small fire crackled energetically in the corner of the room, filling it with light and blessed warmth.
‘Sit, sit,’ he insisted. ‘Coffee? Tea? A dram?’
‘Coffee’s fine, Tom.’
‘So,’ Wilkins began as he poured. ‘What brings you to Mordania? I wouldn’t have thought that there was much for a journalist of your calibre to cover here right now.’
Megan decided not to beat about the bush.
‘I’m not here for journalistic purposes, Tom. I’m looking for someone.’
‘Ah,’ Wilkins said, setting a mug in front of Megan and taking a seat opposite with his back to the broad windows. He regarded Megan for a
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