“Why?”

“Because we’d be hurting a woman whose skin’s more fragile than most.”

“Then consider it forgotten.”

She turned to face him. “So tell me, what would you do if you were me? How would you get to Gareth Tench?”

“Through young Keith, of course,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the starlit world.

Mairie was relishing the chase.

This wasn’t features; wasn’t some puff piece for a pal of the editor, or interview-as-marketing-tool for an overhyped film or book. It was an investigation. It was why she’d gone into journalism in the first place.

Even the dead ends were thrilling, and so far she’d taken plenty of wrong turns. But now she’d been put in touch with a journalist down in London-another freelancer. The two of them had danced around each other during their first telephone conversation. Her London connection was attached to a TV project, a documentary about Iraq. My Baghdad Laundrette, it was going to be called. At first, he wouldn’t tell her why. But then she’d mentioned her Kenyan contact, and the man in London had melted a little.

And she’d allowed herself a smile: if there was any dancing to be done, she’d be the one doing the leading.

Baghdad Laundrette because of all the money washing around Iraq in general, and its capital in particular. Billions-maybe tens of billions of U.S.-backed dollars-had gone into reconstruction. And much of it could not be accounted for. Suitcases of cash used for the bribing of local officials. Palms greased to ensure that elections would go ahead no matter what. American companies moving into the emerging market “with extreme prejudice,” according to her new friend. Money sloshing around, the various sides in the conflict needing to feel safe in these uncertain times…

Needing to be armed.

Shiites and Sunnis and Kurds. Yes, water and electricity were necessities, but so were efficient guns and rocket launchers. For defense only, of course, because reconstruction could only come when people felt protected.

“I thought arms were being taken out of the equation,” Mairie had commented.

“Only to be put back in again as soon as nobody’s looking.”

“And you’re linking Pennen to all of this?” Mairie had eventually asked, scribbling notes to herself furiously, the phone clenched between cheek and shoulder.

“Just the tiniest portion. He’s a footnote, a little P.S. at the end of the missive. And it’s not even him per se really, is it? It’s the company he runs.”

“And the company he keeps,” she couldn’t help adding. “In Kenya, he’s been making sure his bread’s buttered on both sides.”

“Funding the government and the opposition? Yes, I’d heard about that. As far as I know, it’s no big deal.”

But the diplomat Kamweze had given her a little more. Cars for government ministers; road-building in districts run by opposition leaders; new houses for the most important tribal leaders. All of it described as “aid,” while arms powered by Pennen technology added to the national debt.

“In Iraq,” the London journalist went on, “Pennen Industries seems to fund rather a gray area of reconstruction-namely, private defense contractors. Armed and subsidized by Pennen. It may be the first war in history run largely by the private sector.”

“So what do these defense contractors do?”

“Act as bodyguards for people coming into the country to do business. Plus man the barricades, protect the Green Zone, ensure local dignitaries can turn their car key in the ignition without having to fear a Godfather moment…”

“I get the picture. They’re mercenaries, right?”

“Not at all-perfectly legit.”

“But sponsored by Pennen cash?”

“To a degree.”

Eventually she’d ended the call with promises on both sides to stay in touch, her London friend stressing that as long as she steered clear of the Iraq story, they might be able to help each other. Mairie had typed up her notes while they were fresh, then had bounced through to the living room where Allan was slumped in front of Die Hard 3-watching all his old favorites again now that he had his home cinema to play with. She’d given him a hug and poured them each a glass of wine.

“What’s the occasion?” he’d asked, pecking her on the cheek.

“Allan,” she said, “you’ve been to Iraq…tell me about it.”

Later that night, she’d slipped out of bed. Her phone was beeping, telling her she had a text. It was from the Westminster correspondent of the Herald newspaper. They’d sat next to each other at an awards dinner two years back, knocking back the Mouton Cadet and laughing at the short lists in every single category. Mairie had kept in touch with him, actually quite fancied him though he was married-happily married, as far as she knew. She sat on the carpeted stairs, dressed in just a T-shirt, chin on her knees, reading his text.

U SHD HV SAID U HAD INTEREST IN PENNEN. CALL ME 4 MORE!

She’d done more than call him. She’d driven to Glasgow in the middle of the night and made him meet her at a twenty-four-hour café. The place was full of studenty drunks, bleary rather than loud. Her friend was called Cameron Bruce-it was a joke with them, “the name that works just as well from both directions.” He arrived wearing a sweatshirt and jogging pants, his hair tousled.

“Morning,” he said, glancing meaningfully at his watch.

“You’ve only got yourself to blame,” she chided him. “You can’t go teasing a girl at close to midnight.”

“It has been known,” he replied. The twinkle in his eye told her she’d need to check the current status of that happy marriage. She thanked God she hadn’t arranged to meet him at a hotel.

“Spit it out then,” she said.

“Coffee’s not that bad actually,” he replied, lifting his mug.

“I didn’t drive halfway across Scotland for bad jokes, Cammy.”

“Then why did you?”

So she sat back and told him about her interest in Richard Pennen. She left bits out, of course-Cammy was the competition, after all, despite being a friend. He was wise enough to know there were gaps in her story-every time she paused or appeared to change her mind about something, he gave a little smile of recognition. At one point she had to break off while the staff dealt with an unruly new client. It was all done professionally and at speed, and the man found himself back on the pavement. Gave the door a few kicks and the window a few thumps, but then slouched away.

They ordered more coffees and some buttered toast. And then Cameron Bruce told her what he knew.

Or, rather, what he suspected-all of it based on stories doing the rounds. “And therefore to be taken with the usual shaker of salt.”

She nodded her understanding.

“Party funding,” he stated. Mairie’s reaction: feigned sudden sleep. Bruce laughed and told her it was actually quite interesting.

“You don’t say?”

Richard Pennen, it transpired, was a major personal donor to the Labor Party. Nothing wrong with that, not even when his own company stood to benefit from government contracts.

“Happens with Capita,” Bruce commented, “and plenty of others.”

“You’re saying you dragged me all the way here to tell me Pennen’s doing something completely legal and aboveboard?” Mairie sounded less than overwhelmed.

“I’m not so sure about that. See, Mr. Pennen is playing on both sides of the net.”

“Giving money to the Tories as well as Labor?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. Pennen Industries has sponsored several Tory shindigs and bigwigs.”

“But that’s the company rather than Pennen himself? So he’s probably not breaking any laws.”

Bruce just smiled. “Mairie, you don’t have to break the law to get into trouble in politics.”

She glared at him. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“Might be,” he said, biting into another half slice of toast.