Meltwater (Fire and Ice)

passionate believer in freedom of information and a great supporter of most of what Freeflow did. But he kept his distance, firmly maintaining his journalistic integrity. Which was
fine with Erika. She trusted him and, by and large, he trusted her. And no, she had never slept with him.
    ‘Something on US military aid to Pakistan.’
    ‘Dull. How about a trip to London? Tonight.’
    ‘And why would I want to go to London?’
    ‘To speak with Samantha Wilton.’
    ‘The sister of that woman who was killed in Gaza?’ Alan said without hesitation. News seemed to go into Alan’s brain and never come out.
    ‘The very same.’
    ‘What have you got? Something on her sister’s death?’
    ‘Yeah. Something she’s gonna want to see.’
    ‘Can you give me the details?’
    ‘Not yet.’ Erika waited for Alan’s decision. But they both knew he wasn’t going to say no.
    ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But I get first crack at the story?’
    ‘Yeah. If your old buddies at the Post will still talk to you. Don’t worry, Alan, this one is going to be big.’ Despite his past disagreements with the paper, Alan Traub
was a good entrée into the Washington Post. And this way the Post would pick up his expenses eventually. ‘We’re aiming for a press conference on Monday in London.
I’ll be there, and your job is to get Samantha Wilton there as well. The Post will get the story first that morning with the Guardian in London. Probably Der Spiegel in
Germany. I’d like you to fix up the press conference.’
    ‘I can do that.’
    ‘We also need someone to check out the Gaza angle. On the ground.’
    ‘On the ground? That’s going to be difficult, I’d say impossible in the time. I went there a couple of years ago. You need a permit from the Israeli government and that takes
weeks.’
    ‘What about the other side? The Egyptian border?’
    ‘Rafah? I’m pretty sure that crossing is still closed. You’re going to have to use someone already there. And that means either a local journalist or someone at the UN. What
exactly is it you need to check?’
    ‘I can’t be specific,’ Erika said. ‘Yet. But we have photographs of the incident. We need witnesses to corroborate them.’
    ‘I’ve got a buddy at Reuters who has been there plenty of times. I know he has good local sources. But then you’d have to cut Reuters in.’
    Erika took a deep breath, thinking it over. The Washington Post wouldn’t like Reuters’ involvement. Nor would the Guardian .
    Tough.
    ‘OK – give him a call. But from now on we do everything on Jabber. You remember the password you used last time?’
    ‘Got it.’
    ‘So can you get on a plane tonight?’
    ‘Sorry, Erika, not even for you. There’s some stuff I need to do here. But I can go tomorrow. I’ll be in touch as soon as I get to London.’
    Erika hung up. She was pleased: she trusted Alan to get things done.
    Things were moving.
    ‘Here you are.’ Dieter handed Erika a brand-new netbook computer. ‘I’ve downloaded the software. You’ll need to restore your files yourself using your own
passwords.’
    ‘That was quick.’
    ‘There’s a lot to do,’ said Dieter.
    Erika sat down and tapped in her password: ‘janjaweedare_ murd_eringBASTARDs’. She had found that mangling up a memorable line in this manner was the easiest way to create complex
passwords. Dieter and Apex insisted on them being changed regularly. Soon her machine was chugging away, and within a couple of minutes her familiar screen settings were up.
    There was a message already from Dieter: what about zivah? could she be a mole from mossad? maybe she alerted them? i’m worried about her. should we send her back?
    Erika glanced up at Dieter, who was tapping furiously on his own laptop, headphones firmly clamped to his head, streaming music directly into his brain. Dieter always used chat when he could,
rather than speaking face to face. It frustrated her, but she could hardly change his habits now.
    ‘Zivah!’ she called across to the Israeli student, who was typing on her own new netbook. ‘Can I have a minute?’
    Erika led her into their bedroom and shut the door. She sat on the bed, and Zivah took one of the chairs. Zivah managed to project a mixture of earnestness and innocence that Erika found
appealing. She had short light brown hair and a thin, intelligent face. She looked nervous.
    ‘Sorry to be so direct, Zivah, but I need to know. Can you think of any way that the Israeli government