Tom Rachman - The Imperfectionists

"I can do that."

"You've got four hours till cutoff. Look, report the hell out of it and check back in ninety minutes."

Lloyd puts down the phone. He glances at his contact numbers. He doesn't even have up-to-date background on Gaza. He dials Jerome's cellphone, but it rings and rings. He finds a number for the foreign ministry. Maybe he can get details without revealing Jerome as his source. Of course he can. He has done this sort of thing a million times. He phones the ministry press office, thankful for the first time that crazy Francoise changed their son's last name to hers-no one will tie the name Lloyd Burko to Jerome.

Lloyd poses a few introductory questions to the duty officer. But she's more intent on extracting information than on giving it, so he cuts the conversation short. The moment he hangs up, his phone rings: it's Menzies.

"You're phoning me now," Lloyd says with a hint of triumph.

"I mentioned your story at the afternoon meeting and Kathleen is excited about it," he says, referring to the editor-in-chief. "As you know, you don't want to get Kathleen excited."

"So you're taking it?"

"We'll need to see it first. Personally, I'd like to run it."

"How many words you looking for?"

"As long as you need. Provided it holds up. As I say, we'll have to see the copy first. You think this could be frontable?"

If the story runs on the front page, it has to jump to the inside pages, too, which means it must be longer. And longer means more money. "Page one," Lloyd says. "Definitely page one."

"You're hammering this, right?"

"Just got off the phone with the foreign ministry."

"And?"

"More of the same."

"But you're getting this confirmed-that's amazing. I haven't seen this anywhere."

After they hang up, Lloyd paces around his apartment, stares out the window, scratching the pane, searching his memory for any useful source. No time. All he can do is work with what he has-finesse a single-source story, plump it up with background material, and pray that it slips through. He sits at his word processor and types out a story that, when he yanks the paper from the machine, is easily the flimsiest he has ever tried to flog. He places the sheet to one side. No quotes, nothing.

He feeds in a fresh sheet and starts anew, writing the piece as it ought to have been: full quotations, dates, troop numbers, disputes within the cabinet, transatlantic hostilities. He knows his craft-all is couched in terms of possibilities, proposals, balloons floated. All the fabricated sources are "on condition of anonymity," or "officials close to," or "experts familiar with." No one is cited by name. Fourteen hundred words. He calculates how much that will earn him. Enough to pay the rent-a reprieve. Enough to buy Jerome a decent shirt. To take Eileen out for drinks.

He reads the article, using a red pen to slice away what might be contested. This shortens the text, so he concocts a couple of repetitive quotes from "an administration official in Washington." He retypes it, makes amendments, and faxes it from a phone center down the street. He bounds back up to his apartment, pausing on the landing, out of breath, trying to smile. "Lazy bastard!" he tells himself. He bangs on Didier's door. "Eileen? You there?" He enters his place and locates a dusty quart of Tanqueray, pours himself a shot and swirls the liquor in his mouth, letting it burn inside his cheeks. He has never falsified a story before. "Feels all right," he says. "Shoulda done this years ago! Saved myself a whole lot of work!" He pours another splash of gin, waits for the inevitable call.

The phone rings.

"We need to tighten the sourcing," Menzies says.

"Tighten how?"

"That's Kathleen's say-so. Incidentally, this faxing stuff is a nightmare on deadline. We had to retype everything here. You really need to get your email working."

This is a good sign: Menzies is counting on pieces in the future.

"You're right. I'll get the computer fixed right away."

"And sourcing. We have to be clearer. Like in the third graf, the quote reads weird. We can't identify the person as 'familiar with the report' when we haven't mentioned any report."

"Did I leave that in? I meant to cut that."

They make tweaks, work their way down the story, hang up in accord. Lloyd takes another sip of gin. The phone rings again. Menzies is still not happy. "This isn't sourced directly to any person or institution. Could we just say the 'French foreign ministry'?"

"I don't see why 'an official' isn't good enough."

"On the meat of the story, you have a single unnamed source. It's too vague for page one."

"How is it vague? You run this sort of stuff all the time."

"I thought you said the foreign ministry confirmed it."

"They did."

"Can't we say that?"

"I'm not gonna burn my source."

"We're near deadline here."

"I don't even want you writing 'French' anything. Just say 'an official.'"

"If you can't agree to more exact wording, we won't be able to run it. I'm sorry-I've got Kathleen right here telling me so. And that'd mean tearing up page one. Which means hell on earth this close to deadline, as you know. We need to decide now. Can you budge on this?" He waits. "Lloyd?"

"A source at the foreign ministry. Say that."

"And it's solid?"

"Yes."

"Good enough for me."

But not for Kathleen, it turns out. She calls a contact in Paris who scoffs at the piece. Menzies phones back. "Kathleen's source is some top ministry flack. Is yours better than that?"

"Yes."

"How much better?"

"They just are. I can't get into who."

"I'm battling Kathleen on this. I don't doubt your source. But for my state of mind, give me a clue. Not for publication."

"I can't."

"Then that's it. I'm sorry."

Lloyd pauses. "Someone in the Mideast directorate, okay? My source is good: policy side, not press side."

Menzies conveys this to Kathleen, who puts Lloyd on speakerphone. "And this guy is bankable?" she asks.

"Very."

"So you've used him before?"

"No."

"But we can trust him?"

"Yes."

"Off the record, who is it?"

He hesitates. "I don't see why you need to know." But he does see, of course. "It's my son."

Their chuckles are audible over the speakerphone. "Are you serious?"

"He works at the ministry."

"I'm not too enthused about quoting your family members," Kathleen says. "Though at this hour it's either that or we run wire copy on Bush's plunging approval ratings, which frankly is no longer page-one material at this stage."

Menzies suggests, "We could plug in the Five-Years-After-9/11 setup, which is pretty much done."

"No, the anniversary is Monday, so I want to save that for the weekend." She pauses. "Okay, let's go with Lloyd."

He's drunk by the time Eileen returns home. She left Didier with his friends at a jazz club and knocks at the front door. Why doesn't she just walk in? But he won't bring that up now. He hurries for another tumbler and pours her a gin before she can decline.

"Make sure you buy the paper tomorrow," he says. "Page one."

She rubs his knee. "Congrats, babe. When was your last of those?"

"The Roosevelt administration, probably."

"Franklin or Teddy Roosevelt?"

"Definitely Teddy." He pulls her closer, a little roughly, and kisses her-not one of their normal soft pecks but an ardent embrace.

She shifts back. "Enough."

"Right-what if your husband turned up."

"Don't make me feel lousy."

"I'm only kidding. Don't feel bad-I don't." He pinches her cheek. "I love you."

Without a word, she returns across the hall. He flops onto his bed, mumbling drunkenly-"Goddamn page fucking one!"

Eileen wakes him gently the next morning and places the paper on the bed. "It's freezing in here," she says. "I put the coffee on."