Strauss put his feet up on his desk and gazed out of the window, which had one of the meanest views in Westminster. Everything was grey; it was raining. He scratched distractedly at his crotch. ‘OK, Hamish, so why should we expect readers to believe this missile theory when two days ago we told them it was a bomb?’
‘Because it’s not a theory. Because this time you’re not going to allow anyone to muck around with my copy behind my back. And because there’s more.’
More? Strauss stopped scratching. He twisted around so violently his chair threatened to tip. He was about to shout and thunder that no matter how long Hague had been on the bloody books he wasn’t going to screw with him, but then came a flash of understanding, a moment in a younger man’s life that would mark the rest of his career as an editor, and possibly pick him out as a great one. He sensed he had to back off, let this cautious old Scotsman play him for a pike, that it didn’t matter, so long as he delivered. ‘OK. This is your story, Hamish. What have you got?’
‘The biggest bit of all.’
‘What, bigger than a sodding missile?’
‘The terror cell. The guys who fired it.’
‘You know . . .?’
The Scot had eyes the colour of autumn hazel; they held the other man, not rushing, not striking too quickly, wanting to make sure he was firmly and inextricably hooked. ‘Not the identity, not yet. Just the nationality.’ Then he whispered one word. ‘Egyptian.’
Humiliations, like buses, tend to arrive in quantity.
‘I know it’s Christmas. I’ve got my entire family waiting for me by the fire but I haven’t even made it out of my dressing gown. And do you know why? Because you can’t track down a single bloody soul who knows a single bloody thing about the story that’s over the front of every single bloody newspaper!’
It was unfair. He shouldn’t be taking it out on a duty clerk. But it was proving to be one of the most vexed mornings of the Prime Minister’s life.
Usher should have been the one to tell the world about the missile. But the AAIB had sent the scrap of aluminium they thought was a missile to a specialist forensic laboratory for testing. They needed to be sure. Yet it was Christmas. The government’s own forensic service had been shut down a couple of years before. And this private laboratory would be closed for another two days. So the Telegraph got there first and the others rushed in behind it.
Usher had badgered duty officers, press officers, Secretaries of State, even a couple of friendly editors, but only after several hours did he manage to track down the Chief Inspector of the AAIB at his holiday hotel on the Isle of Wight. He had just come back from a bracing walk when the receptionist thrust the telephone at him.
‘Have you . . . read the news?’ the Prime Minister demanded, his exasperation causing him to stutter.
‘I’ve read a deal of speculation,’ the CI, Simon Galliani, answered defensively.
‘Let’s cut through the crap, Mr Galliani. Is it true?’
‘Is what true, precisely, Prime Minister?’ the other man answered, lowering his voice and trying to cover the mouthpiece as he looked cautiously around the hotel reception area for potential eavesdroppers.
‘Was it a missile?’
Galliani cleared his throat. ‘Probably.’
‘Probably? What the hell do you mean “probably”? We don’t pay you to sit on the bloody fence.’
Galliani braced his back and found himself staring into the eyes of a stuffed moose with a threadbare nose. It’s why he liked this place. The old dust. It didn’t smell in the least like a laboratory. ‘Prime Minister, I am a forensic engineer. It’s not a matter of sitting on the fence but of gathering evidence. We are currently waiting on the results of technical analysis.’
‘Waiting? Waiting?’
Galliani hesitated. This was, after all, the Prime Minister. But he was an engineer, not a moose. He had no intention of being stuffed and mounted. Anyway, he was only a couple of years away from retirement, they couldn’t touch him. It was time to kick back. ‘Sir, our workload this past financial year rose twelve-point-eight per cent. Yet you cut our budget by more than twenty per cent. Apart from that, it’s Christmas. It’s also Sunday. Which makes tomorrow a Bank Holiday. When the laboratory opens on Tuesday, and as soon as they are able to confirm any information, I give you my solemn undertaking that you will be the first to know.’
‘But the whole world knows!’ the Prime Minister all but shouted. ‘Didn’t it ever strike you that you should have let someone know?’
‘Someone? You mean someone like the Transport Secretary? We phoned and e-mailed her office on Thursday, but – well, I suppose it’s Christmas, even in Westminster.’
At the other end of the phone, Usher began to realize he might have mishandled this conversation. He tried to back off. ‘Look, I know you understand how important this is. Couldn’t you . . . just get the laboratory to open, even over the holiday? Get this thing resolved?’
‘I’d be more than happy to do that,’ Galliani replied, ‘if only you would let me.’
‘Me?’
‘It’s a matter of Health & Safety, you see. A wreck is a dangerous environment, carbon-fibre ash, chemical pollution, and always the possibility of blood-borne pathogens. We’re required to have adequate staffing levels. Not just a couple of mere lab technicians but there’s fire officers, of course, medical support staff, supervisors . . .’
‘Winston would have wept.’
‘Mr Churchill didn’t have to deal with EU Working Place directives, working-time limitations, budget restrictions, statutory employment practices.’ Galliani found he was rather enjoying himself; above his head, he thought he saw the moose’s glass eye wink. ‘And if I ordered my staff to return to work I expect we’d be in line for all sorts of claims.’
‘Claims?’
‘For breaching their human rights.’
‘Didn’t those little children have human rights, too?’
‘I entirely agree, Prime Minister. Perhaps that might have been a point to consider before you let all those EU directives through.’
‘But I hate bloody Brussels,’ Usher whispered beneath his breath.
‘And, of course, if we short-circuited our set procedures, it’s probable that as a result any evidence we obtained would be inadmissible in court. Is that what you want?’
‘What I want? What I want?’ He rolled the words around; they left a bitter taste. ‘That doesn’t seem to matter much any more,’ the Prime Minister said softly, replacing the phone.
CHAPTER FOUR
Parliament was recalled. It was the middle of the recess; the elves and goblins weren’t supposed to be back from their Christmas break until the second week of January, but this was too important to wait. It caught the system by surprise; there was still scaffolding on one corner of the Commons’ Chamber where one of the ancient leaded windows was being refurbished, and no amount of huffing and puffing could persuade the mortar to set more quickly. There was huffing and puffing in every corner, for recesses are rare jewels in the battered crowns of most MPs, and now it had been snatched away. No one could remember anything like it since the House had sat on a Saturday in 1982 during the Falklands War.
But it was necessary. The media speculation had continued to grow, the headlines becoming ever more lurid. Accusations like ‘Muslim Missile’ and ‘Muslim Murder Squad’ thundered across the front page. Theories were hurled back and forth, often blindly, in the hope that if they kept it up long enough they’d eventually hit a target. But no one doubted it was an Arab plot, because the Telegraph had said so, and that paper at least seemed to know what it was talking about. On the day of the recall it published further details. The terrorist who led the cell was Abdul Mohammed, his family name was Ghazi; it meant warrior or champion. He had been a conscript during the 1967 Arab–Israeli War, captured by the Israelis and turned fanatical by his appalling treatment, so it was said. Later he had been responsible for any number of indiscriminate atrocities, which ended only whe
n Mubarak’s men had dragged him onto their torture tables. The Telegraph reported he had lost an eye and, allegedly, a testicle during this time. The tabloid psychoanalysts had a field day with that. His survival was said to be a miracle, his release the result of the revolution of the Arab Spring, and he was now an agent of the Muslim Brotherhood who had come to rule in that blighted country.
The story was all supposition and speculation, there was no firm information to go on, the wonks at MI6 couldn’t corroborate it, but neither would they disown it, since no ambitious spy can afford to admit he or she simply doesn’t know. Ignorance doesn’t read well on the annual assessment. Anyway, McDeath was known to have excellent sources and was considerably more reliable than the mistyped university thesis the British government had downloaded from the Internet and used as a pretext for war in Iraq. So the British government decided to act.
On the morning that Parliament was recalled, the British Foreign Secretary summoned the Egyptian ambassador to King Charles Street, which runs parallel to Downing Street. As his car slowed to pull into the rear entrance to the building off Horse Guards Road, it was met by a posse of journalists and photographers who shouted questions through the closed car window and snatched photographs, a couple even kicking a side panel under cover of the scrum to see if they could get a snarl or look of alarm. The ambassador, however, remained impassive.
The Ambassadors Door, the discreet entrance into the Foreign & Commonwealth Office used by visiting diplomats, is tucked away at the back of Downing Street where it faces the park. As the Egyptian’s car stopped he was met not by the Minister for the Middle East as protocol normally required but by an official, who conducted him to a small lift. The ambassador had a degree in comparative economics from the LSE where in his twenties he had gained a reputation as an irrepressible womanizer, yet the joys of life seemed to have been drained from his face, and despite his proficiency at English he had still brought with him an embassy official to act as an interpreter. They all knew this wasn’t going to be fun and he wanted a witness. The lift to the ministerial floor was intensely claustrophobic.
Only once he stepped out of the lift did the Minister appear and offer a formal handshake. Their heels clicked along the mosaic tile of the hallway as they took the brief walk to the office of the Minister’s boss, the Secretary of State, which was vast, constructed by Victorians to impress the natives. Gilded frames, heavy oils, cascading red drapes and marble fireplaces, everything else clad in ornately carved dark wood that had been ripped from the forests of Africa. Somewhere near at hand the ambassador could hear the insistent ticking of a clock, even though this was a place that time seemed to have passed by.
‘Darius!’
The Foreign Secretary, Andrew Judd, stood in the middle of his office, beaming welcome, but not moving, forcing the ambassador to come to him, even though the Arab was old enough to be his father. ‘How are you? And how’s that son of yours? Following proudly in his father’s footsteps at the LSE, so I’m told.’ And so that the Egyptian remembered they were keeping a watch on his son, too.
‘As-salamu alaykum,’ the Egyptian replied. Arabic. He wasn’t going to make this easy.
‘May peace be with us both, Darius.’ The Englishman’s greeting was cautious as he showed his guest to one of the pair of deep leather chairs by the fireplace. The Arab paused as he passed an old globe adorned with names like Siam and Persia and the Gold Coast, and so much of it splashed in red. His finger came to rest on his own country, also in imperial red. He muttered something; his eyes came up to meet those of the Foreign Secretary, and he stared. They were remorseless eyes, drenched in accusation.
And privately, inside, the Foreign Secretary flogged himself; this was his meeting, yet already he’d lost control of it.
The ambassador muttered something in his low, guttural voice: ‘The world has moved on,’ the interpreter translated. Then the ambassador took his chair, while Judd took the other, its back to the window. It meant that he would be in silhouette, his face hard to read, while the visitor’s face was laid bare to the weak winter sun, a game as old as empire that would show up every smile, inflexion, grimace or nervous tic. But the Arab was an old hand, he offered not a flicker.
Then the démarche began, any pretence of friendship pushed to one side and no tea.
‘Your Excellency,’ the Foreign Secretary began, ‘I wish to read a statement that Her Majesty’s government intends to publish later today, and I would be grateful for any comments you might have on it.’
A secretary handed him a single sheet; the ambassador’s interpreter drew close to hover behind him.
The Foreign Secretary cleared his throat and began to read out loud. ‘Following the tragic loss of Speedbird 235 and the lives of all the one hundred and fifteen passengers and crew on board, it has become clear that this was not an accident. In these circumstances it is the clear purpose of Her Majesty’s government to establish the full facts of this murderous act. It will then be our duty to identify its perpetrators, and to see them,’ – he raised an eyebrow – ‘and all who have given them succour, suitably punished.’
He paused as the interpreter gabbled softly in the ambassador’s ear; the ambassador continued to stare fixedly at his accuser, he didn’t even blink.
‘In light of widely circulating reports that the perpetrators have links to Egypt, we call on the Egyptian government . . .’ The language was formal and stuffy, but as he continued its meaning rang out simple and clear. The Egyptians had to hand over the suspects immediately or face massive retribution that might include but would not necessarily be limited to the slaughter of all Egyptian firstborn. When the Foreign Secretary had finished he handed the sheet back to his assistant, who handed it to the ambassador. Still the eyes didn’t flicker; he took the sheet and slowly, defiantly, throttled it in his fist.
The Foreign Secretary’s tongue ran around the inside of his cheeks, as though to make sure no other unpleasantries were lurking there. ‘May I ask, have you any comments?’
Only now did the Arab’s face betray emotion. ‘Zeft!’ he spat.
Behind him, the translator cleared his throat nervously. ‘The ambassador says that these charges and insinuations are . . .’ He hesitated. He couldn’t possibly repeat what the ambassador had said. So he reinterpreted, heavily. ‘He says they are rubbish.’
Everyone knew the language had been far more colourful and crude, but even during a démarche there are some niceties to be observed.
The ambassador waved the sheet of paper, now a crumpled mass in his right hand. Only now did he use English. ‘These are lies. May you choke on them.’
With that he rose and left. The confrontation had lasted less than two minutes.
When, barely an hour later, the Prime Minister arrived at the Dispatch Box in the House of Commons, the chamber was packed. MPs squeezed shoulder to shoulder on the green leather benches, others were squatting on the floor of the gangways, with an overflow of members left standing at either end. Many still bore the blush of the ski slope or beach from which they had been dragged, but almost all had come. It was an election year, there was only one story in town, and they needed to be part of it.
The Speaker, seated in his chair, cast around as he tried to get the measure of them. This place had a mood of its own, its currents swirling and unpredictable, and this moment was unique. ‘Order! Order!’ The familiar cry rang out. ‘The Prime Minister.’ The words cut through the hubbub and the House fell to silence as Usher rose to his feet. The silence that enveloped him was not a silence of subservience but more one of suspicion; they sensed he was no longer in control, demanded that he reassert his authority, bring the circus back to order, before the tigers ran loose.
He opened the folder in front of him, clutched the sides of the Dispatch Box, prayed that the dark tie and sombre brow betrayed none of the anxieties inside. He had spent the previous night and the entire morning working on the speech he was about to make, refining its words, testing
their meaning, all the time growing ever more aware just how thin it was. The humiliation that had been showered upon him during his conversation with the stroppy sod from AAIB had at least been a private affair. Now he was standing on the most public stage of all. He had often wondered why the leather of the Dispatch Box became so worn; now, and to his surprise, he found his hands sliding back and forth, back and forth, like a mountaineer searching for a grip.
‘Mr Speaker,’ he began, ‘the loss of Speedbird 235 was a national catastrophe. My first duty is to convey to the families of the victims who died on board the profound sympathies of this House. Rarely has a Prime Minister had to answer for a disaster so widespread and of such profound consequence . . .’ And he was off. The sympathy was easy, and entirely sincere. Then he took a deep breath.
‘Mr Speaker, this was no accident. On the basis of evidence that has now been confirmed by the Air Accident Investigation Branch only a few hours ago, I can tell the House that Speedbird 235 was shot from the skies by a missile.’
A low growl of anger ran through the ranks. It was the first time matters had moved from speculation to confirmation. Even those who had bent their backs in order to listen through the speakers embedded in the leather benches now sat upright.
‘The preliminary indications are that the missile was a Russian-made surface to air weapon, an SA-24 more commonly known as a Grinch. These weapons are available on the black market and there is nothing to suggest that Russia is in any way involved in this act of terrorism.’
He looked up from his script, his eyes roving around the House, meeting their challenge. ‘However, we have not been able to eliminate the suggestion of Egyptian involvement. This morning, the Egyptian ambassador was summoned to the Foreign Office . . .’ And with that, the emotions, like the first clouds of the monsoon, began to gather and the skies to darken. There was nothing new in any of it, they’d read it all in the Telegraph and seen it on SKY, and Usher had to struggle against their impatience, at times raising his voice. Beneath the jacket, his shirt was soaked in sweat, it restricted him, distracted him, kept him from his best. He felt a deep sense of emptiness as at last he worked his way towards his conclusion, and the words that had seemed so fine and heartfelt last night in draft, began to ring in his ears like the oldest clichés. ‘Mr Speaker, I understand the intense anger . . . I share the feelings . . . We will not tolerate . . . And as I said when this tragedy first struck, we will discover what happened, and who was responsible. We will not rest, we shall not tire, until justice is done. Whoever was responsible dare not sleep soundly in their beds tonight, or any night, for we are on their trail. We will catch them. And in the name of justice, they will suffer the consequences of their evil.’
A Sentimental Traitor Page 6