Peter Corris - The January Zone

‘Why?’

‘They could do a microscopic analysis, get blood types from fingernail scrapings and so on.’

‘Was any crime ever solved by that stuff?’

I grinned. ‘I never heard of one. Still, something might turn up. We’ll do it when we get back.’

‘I’ll make a note. Are you enjoying yourself so far?’

‘It’s okay. No one’s shot at me. I’ll be ready for a decent feed. Where’re we staying in Washington?’

She consulted a notebook. ‘The Lincoln.’

‘Good.’

‘D’you know it?’

‘No, but at least it’s not the Watergate.’

‘I think the Watergate’s for the rich.’

‘It certainly made a lot of people rich, Watergate.’

‘Mm.’ She looked across the laps and knees at January who was arguing fiercely with Martin. Bolton, presumably, was off working on his emphysema. A steward came down the aisle and handed Trudi a note. She unfolded the paper and read quickly.

‘Great,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Press in LA.’

‘Talk English, Trude.’

She smiled as she handed the note along to Peter. ‘Some members of the American media would like to talk to the Minister at Los Angeles International Airport.’

‘Commie Aussie polly gives Reds head,’ I said.

‘Jesus, Cliff. It won’t be that bad.’

We looked at January. He smoothed down his hair, checked his watch and did up some of the buttons on his waistcoat. Martin held out a paper to him and he brushed it aside. ‘Later,’ he said.

‘Will he be out of his depth, d’you think?’ Trudi whispered.

I watched January work his tongue around his teeth and flex his neck muscles, pulling in the incipient double chin. ‘How tall is he?’

‘Five nine,’ Trudi said.

I smiled. ‘He’s barely five eight but I don’t think the depth will worry him too much.’

The American reporters, who had seen everything, hadn’t ever seen anything like Peter January. As we assembled in the media lounge, with January in his three piece suit and his advisers and minders around him, they must have thought they were in for another quick question-and-answer session which their editors just might give 30 seconds or a half column to.

The young man who opened was bored before he started. He wore a striped shirt and bow tie; his hair was clipped to his skull and he treated his cameraman like the Great White Hunter lording it over the Bantu. When he thought the technician had done his best he signalled to January that he was ready. The other reporters deferred to him.

‘Mr January, do you regard the United States as a friend or foe to Australia?’

January smiled. ‘In my country it’s usual for reporters to identify themselves.’

‘David Harvard, West American TV.’

‘What was the lead story in your channel’s morning news program, Mr Harvard?’

Harvard fumbled the ball. He looked confused and didn’t know what instructions to give his patient, curious Bantu. ‘I…ah, I’m not sure, I…’

‘How can you be a serious reporter if you don’t know how your channel is handling news? Next. Could I have someone from the print media, please?’

‘Mr January, Timothy Squires, LA Banner, first question-are you aware that the Soviet Union is ringing Australia with military bases under the guise of fishing facilities?’ Squires was a squat, heavily-jowled man with an aggressive style of delivery. He gave the impression of having elbowed his way to the front and of resentment at having to identify himself as January had requested. He had an unlit cigarette in the hand that held the pad as if he was seeking just one line from January before he could rush off to smoke and file his copy. ‘Second question-what…’

January was sitting only a few feet back from Squires; he leaned forward and flicked a cigarette lighter. Squires was nonplussed; he put the cigarette in his mouth and leaned towards the light. January killed the flame before he got the tip of the cigarette to it. ‘Sorry, I forgot. No smoking in here. What’s the population of Australia, Mr Squires?’

The cigarette fell from the reporter’s mouth. Some of his colleagues were tittering. ‘Around, er…shit, five million I guess…’

‘Guess again,’ January snapped. ‘Sixteen million plus. You need to do your homework, Mr Squires. Is there anyone here from Cal TV, channel 8?’

‘Yessir.’ The speaker was a sun-bleached young woman who stood with her camera and sound team near the back of the room. All three were women.

‘Congratulations on your report on the Solomon Islands. I saw it on the satellite link at home. Would you like to ask a question?’

And that’s how it went on for the remaining few minutes. He killed them with a mixture of charm and sharp put-downs. When Gary wound it up there were more smiles than frowns among the reporters and Peter January had won himself an unprecedented eight minutes on prime time West Coast TV.

Back on the plane January returned Bolton’s cigarette lighter with a nod. Bolton was open-mouthed and kept staring at January as if he was a bald man who’d suddenly grown real hair.

‘That was fantastic,’ he said. ‘I’ve travelled with…God, all the big ones, and I’ve never seen ‘em handled like that before.’

January winked. The steward came offering drinks and he waved him away. The wave appeared to include the rest of us because the steward retreated. I called him back.

‘Let’s see if they can make a wine and soda,’ I said.

January shook his head. ‘I’m off it for the duration. You need to be sharp with this mob. But you go ahead.’

‘Thanks, boss.’ I ordered drinks for Trudi, Gary, Martin and me. Bolton seemed prepared to follow January into hell and he refused a drink.

‘That was fine, Minister,’ Martin said after he’d tried his drink, ‘but I’m telling you, you still need a…’

‘Slogan,’ January said. ‘I know. I’m working on it.’ There was a note of dismissal in his tone and Martin moved back a row to confer with Bolton. The plane had emptied somewhat at Los Angeles and our group was gradually spreading itself. January made a side to side movement of his head which drew Trudi and me into conference. Gary Wilcox was studying a map of Washington, DC.

‘Speaking of working,’ January said, ‘what’ve you come up with on the threats?’

I looked at Trudi who raised an eyebrow which could have meant anything. I judged that January was high enough on success to take a pinch or two of bad news. ‘Nothing much, Peter,’ I kept my voice low. ‘Didn’t want to worry you with this before, but someone took a shot at Trudi the other night.’

‘What? Where?’

I gave him the details but didn’t mention the notes. His uncertainty returned in full measure. ‘Think I will have a drink, plenty of time before I have to do the performing monkey act again.’ He raised his hand to the steward. ‘Scotch and ice.’

Trudi and I sipped our drinks and January drummed his fingers on the armrest while he waited for his. When it came he sucked half of it down in a gulp.

‘Easy, Peter,’ Trudi said.

‘You’re saying easy and people are shooting at us.’

‘You’ve been shot at before.’

‘I could shoot back then. Who the fuck is this maniac? There must be some clues.’

‘As far as the sniper is concerned it looks as if it could be a wronged husband.’ I told him about the note. He finished his drink and rubbed his hand over the stubble that was beginning to sprout on his chin and cheeks. We’d been 18 hours in the air; my own face felt rough and dry and my operated-on eye was watering.

‘Things have got so crazy in this game,’ January said. ‘You should hear the letters some of the blokes get.’