into grave, bang, ashes to ashes … hey!’
‘What?’
‘Great title.’
Pegley pushed his plate away, trying to mask his smile. As a researcher, he’d worked for Llewelyn for nearly four years. Despite the bullying and the megalomania, despite the lies and the vanity, he still retained a strange affection for the man. Todd Llewelyn was the all-time survivor. He never took no for an answer. He absolutely refused to lie down. And even now, several years over the hill, he could still come up with a good idea.
‘So what would you need,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘from us?’
‘A commission. And a firm go-ahead. We have to move the idea along. Before someone else does.’
Pegley said nothing for a moment. Then he frowned.
‘You know it’s not absolutely firmed up,’ he said, ‘this People’s thing …’
Llewelyn blinked.
‘It’s not?’
‘I don’t mean the money. The dosh is there. The backing. We have no problem with any of that. But there’s still a tiny glitch on the licensing side. I’m told it’s nothing to worry about, but we’re still waiting for a go-ahead. Officially, I mean.’
‘So where’s the problem?’
‘You tell me. The engineering boys say it’s to do with broadband allocation but that sounds like a cop-out. My own feeling is …’ He shrugged. ‘Take a look at the major backers. We’re hardly this government’s favourite people.’
Llewelyn nodded. The newspaper group behind the People’s Channel was left of centre, a permanent thorn in the Cabinet’s side. That’s why the concept of People’s had raised so much interest in the trade. Serious money chasing the stories no one else would touch. A lone voice in the television wilderness.
Llewelyn eyed the bottle of Chianti. His glass was nearly empty.
‘You’re telling me you’re not commissioning?’
‘No, not at all, I’m not telling you that at all. I’m telling you there’s a trillionth per cent chance of a problem. And I’m telling you I think it’s a great idea. Africa with a human face. Something we can all relate to. Something Joe Soap can get a handle on. What did you have in mind? Lengthwise?’
‘An hour special.’
‘World rights?’
‘Absolutely. In return for total funding. Plus I’ll throw in a print piece, too. At no extra charge.’
Pegley nodded, agreeing at once, knowing it was a neat idea. Todd Llewelyn and his wandering housewife wouldsit nicely in a weekend supplement a day or two before transmission. Good promotion. Great profile.
‘You’ll take a camcorder?’ he said. ‘Do it yourself?’
Pegley watched the older man thinking about it. Todd Llewelyn came from a world of six-men camera crews and mountains of silver boxes. Using a camera himself was clearly a departure, though already he was visibly warming to the idea. Like most television presenters, Llewelyn had always fantasised about absolute control.
‘You want me to shoot it as well?’ He nodded. ‘Sure, why not?’
News of the fighting around Muengo reached Terra Sancta’s Africa desk in Winchester in mid-afternoon. It came not from the charity’s Luanda office, which was temporarily unmanned, but from the Geneva headquarters of the International Committee of the Red Cross. Their mission in Muengo was operating from a bunker beneath the house. The city was under intermittent bombardment but so far they’d suffered no casualties. Amongst the aid people they were keeping tabs on was Tom Peterson.
Valerie Askham took the message to the Director personally. He read the telex from Geneva then put it to one side.
‘All this fighting …’ He frowned. ‘What about the UN? Are they involved yet?’
Valerie nodded. She’d talked to the UN office in Luanda as soon as the telex had arrived. They had observers on the ground in Muengo and they were trying to arrange a ceasefire to evacuate the aid workers.
‘Where on the ground?’
‘I’m not sure, exactly. I think they have a bunker of their own.’
‘So
‘What?’
‘Great title.’
Pegley pushed his plate away, trying to mask his smile. As a researcher, he’d worked for Llewelyn for nearly four years. Despite the bullying and the megalomania, despite the lies and the vanity, he still retained a strange affection for the man. Todd Llewelyn was the all-time survivor. He never took no for an answer. He absolutely refused to lie down. And even now, several years over the hill, he could still come up with a good idea.
‘So what would you need,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘from us?’
‘A commission. And a firm go-ahead. We have to move the idea along. Before someone else does.’
Pegley said nothing for a moment. Then he frowned.
‘You know it’s not absolutely firmed up,’ he said, ‘this People’s thing …’
Llewelyn blinked.
‘It’s not?’
‘I don’t mean the money. The dosh is there. The backing. We have no problem with any of that. But there’s still a tiny glitch on the licensing side. I’m told it’s nothing to worry about, but we’re still waiting for a go-ahead. Officially, I mean.’
‘So where’s the problem?’
‘You tell me. The engineering boys say it’s to do with broadband allocation but that sounds like a cop-out. My own feeling is …’ He shrugged. ‘Take a look at the major backers. We’re hardly this government’s favourite people.’
Llewelyn nodded. The newspaper group behind the People’s Channel was left of centre, a permanent thorn in the Cabinet’s side. That’s why the concept of People’s had raised so much interest in the trade. Serious money chasing the stories no one else would touch. A lone voice in the television wilderness.
Llewelyn eyed the bottle of Chianti. His glass was nearly empty.
‘You’re telling me you’re not commissioning?’
‘No, not at all, I’m not telling you that at all. I’m telling you there’s a trillionth per cent chance of a problem. And I’m telling you I think it’s a great idea. Africa with a human face. Something we can all relate to. Something Joe Soap can get a handle on. What did you have in mind? Lengthwise?’
‘An hour special.’
‘World rights?’
‘Absolutely. In return for total funding. Plus I’ll throw in a print piece, too. At no extra charge.’
Pegley nodded, agreeing at once, knowing it was a neat idea. Todd Llewelyn and his wandering housewife wouldsit nicely in a weekend supplement a day or two before transmission. Good promotion. Great profile.
‘You’ll take a camcorder?’ he said. ‘Do it yourself?’
Pegley watched the older man thinking about it. Todd Llewelyn came from a world of six-men camera crews and mountains of silver boxes. Using a camera himself was clearly a departure, though already he was visibly warming to the idea. Like most television presenters, Llewelyn had always fantasised about absolute control.
‘You want me to shoot it as well?’ He nodded. ‘Sure, why not?’
News of the fighting around Muengo reached Terra Sancta’s Africa desk in Winchester in mid-afternoon. It came not from the charity’s Luanda office, which was temporarily unmanned, but from the Geneva headquarters of the International Committee of the Red Cross. Their mission in Muengo was operating from a bunker beneath the house. The city was under intermittent bombardment but so far they’d suffered no casualties. Amongst the aid people they were keeping tabs on was Tom Peterson.
Valerie Askham took the message to the Director personally. He read the telex from Geneva then put it to one side.
‘All this fighting …’ He frowned. ‘What about the UN? Are they involved yet?’
Valerie nodded. She’d talked to the UN office in Luanda as soon as the telex had arrived. They had observers on the ground in Muengo and they were trying to arrange a ceasefire to evacuate the aid workers.
‘Where on the ground?’
‘I’m not sure, exactly. I think they have a bunker of their own.’
‘So
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