A Sentimental Traitor (9 page)

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.’

At last he let go of the Dispatch Box and sank back in his seat. The moment was over. It wasn’t bad but neither had it been great. His fate now lay in the hands of others. Dave Murray, the
Leader of the Opposition, was young, new in post and relatively callow, a man not renowned for his skill with the rapier, but he didn’t need it. He’d been handed a battleaxe. No matter
how loosely he swung it, he couldn’t fail to find the target. He knew he mustn’t turn this into a party political battle, that wasn’t appropriate, not yet, with tragedy still so
fresh in the air. But, as the Prime Minister had said, it was never too early to point the finger of blame and identify those who were responsible.

So he thanked the Prime Minister for recalling Parliament, joined with the Prime Minister in expressing sympathy, was as one with him in denouncing the outrage. ‘I have only one difficulty
with the Prime Minister’s position,’ he declared, ‘which is this. He is the Prime Minister, yet he always seems to be the last to know.’ Murray held up his hand to stifle
the indignation he knew his words would unleash. ‘Was it the fault of the Prime Minister that he couldn’t be at his desk to deal with this atrocity when it first occurred? No. But
surely, in the days since then, he was duty bound to handle it with competence and clarity. The families of the victims deserve nothing less. We deserve nothing less.’

Usher’s supporters began to howl, their jeers blown back by the Opposition benches. Murray threw up both hands, waved them, calmed them, bringing them back to order. He was turning out to
be something of an actor. ‘The other day,’ he continued, ‘the Prime Minister declared that there was no bomb. He got his press spokesman to denounce the suggestion. Yet today he
tells us it was a bomb – a flying bomb, a missile. At last it seems the Prime Minister has got round to reading the newspapers, too.’

It was outrageous stuff, considering the gravity of the cause, but an election was looming and good taste had never stuffed a ballot box. The noise on all sides was deafening, and this time he
didn’t try to stem it. His cheeks were flushed, he was nodding his head like a rabbi at his Wailing Wall, until at last the House fell silent again. That took some time, but they all wanted
to hear, wondering how far he dare go.

‘The Prime Minister says that he doesn’t yet know who is responsible, but that he will not rest until they have been identified. That they dare not sleep soundly in their beds
tonight. Has the Prime Minister, even once, even for the briefest moment, considered his own responsibility? Will he be able to sleep soundly in
his
bed tonight?’

And that was it. He had done his job; Usher’s humiliation was complete and made public. The Prime Minister didn’t join in the floodtide of objection that burst around him. He sat in
his seat, his face fixed, pretending not to mind. As he gazed around the chamber, his eye settled on the crests that ran along the wall, each one marking a Member of the House who had given his
life on active duty. He found himself a little envious. None of them had been slowly strangled to death.

From above, Patricia Vaine looked down upon the Prime Minister’s sea of troubles and discovered something new within herself. She was seated in the private gallery to which, as a senior
official of the European Union, she had a right of access, a privilege recently granted throughout all the Parliaments of the EU. She found the atmosphere intoxicating. Information was a weapon,
and she controlled it. The sensation was almost sexual, and perhaps even better than that, for the victim was a man she loathed. Usher was a typical English xenophobe, a Wogs-begin-at-Calais sort,
a man with his arse stuck in the eighteenth century.

She had begun a game of unexpected consequences, one of which had proved to be Usher’s discomfort. It was right that he should suffer. And, as she sat watching Order Papers being waved
like the sails of capsizing boats, she thought it was right that he should suffer a little more.

In fact, he should go, be removed from the scene, like a car that had crashed and was obstructing the middle of a motorway. And she could do that, make sure it happened. She thought about it.
She had the power to move history forward. It made her tremble from deep inside, like only a woman can.

‘How was Christmas?’

‘Fine,’ Jemma lied. She’d wanted to be with Harry, was angry he hadn’t made it possible.

‘I missed you,’ he said, and with such conviction that in a breath he blew away all her irritation. She didn’t know how he had spent Christmas, didn’t want to give him
the impression that she cared enough to ask but, with those three words from him, her decision to give him a hard time was abandoned. She threw herself on him, and didn’t release him until
they were both sweating, naked and spent. Then she fell asleep.

When she woke she found Harry staring into the distance with that other-world look on his face. ‘Where are you, darling?’ It was the first time she had called him that; he
didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem to notice.

‘The Prime Minister had a terrible time this afternoon.’

She nestled back into his arm. ‘Did he deserve it?’

‘Probably not.’

‘So how much trouble is he in?’

‘If the election were four days away he’d be dead. But it’s four months.’ A hesitation. ‘He’ll be fine.’

‘And you?’

‘There’s always the cock-up theory, it’s one of the most violent forces known to nature, but I have the good fortune to represent the sixty-fourth safest seat in the country.
Losing that would be as likely as . . .’ He stretched for a simile.