Read Online A Sentimental Traitor by Michael Dobbs - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Dobbs
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complaint, while Felix perched on the arm of a chair, sensing she wanted to talk.
‘He’s in a spot of bother,’ she mused.
‘Serves him right.’
‘Could get worse.’
‘Which he would also deserve.’
‘The question is, Felix, should I make sure of it?’
He paused, considered, his lips pursed. ‘Why should you interfere?’
Slowly she raised her eyes from the fire. ‘I already have.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ She stirred, as though feeling a draught. With abrupt fingers she shoved the cat off her lap; it stalked away, its tail raised in complaint. ‘Because,’ she said,
returning to her theme, ‘he’s in the way.’
Her husband placed his glass to one side and knelt down awkwardly by the fire. He grabbed a poker, raked the embers, then picked up another log. ‘You have to keep feeding a fire, you know,
once it’s started. Mustn’t let it go out.’ He dropped the log onto its bed of glowing ash. Vivid red and amber sparks chased each other up the chimney.
Hamish Hague, the Telegraph ’s Brussels correspondent, had also come home to Britain for Christmas. He was a dour and rotund Scot whose head was flat on top and
broad at the chin, as though it had been moulded with a bucket, with wiry grey hair like waves breaking on a shore. He had never been seen dressed in anything other than an ancient and shapeless
tweed suit that carried with it the aroma of sweet pipe tobacco, and he walked with the gait of a penguin. He was known as McDeath by wine-swillers throughout Fleet Street, one of the old-timers
who sat in the Telegraph ’s vast open-plan news room and tapped away with two fingers on his keyboard as though he was poking out an alligator’s eyes. Now his cheeks were more
than usually flushed. He’d been looking forward to a relaxed time out on the moors of Perthshire massacring partridge, but instead found himself upstairs in the overheated office of his
editor with the door firmly closed. Montague Strauss was many years younger than his man from Brussels. His dark hair had receded in his twenties, leaving his head looking like a light bulb, and
his eyes were too close and bulbous, as though his brain was being pinched. The task given to him by his proprietors was to bring the newspaper up alongside a new generation of readers, but he was
experienced enough to recognize there were times, like now, when even he was out of his depth.
‘What you’re saying, Hamish, is we got it wrong. That it wasn’t a bomb.’
‘No, what I’m saying is that you got it wrong, Monty,’ Hamish replied, his soft Lowland accent and steady eyes suggesting that he was not a man to rush to his
judgements. ‘What I wrote about was a cell of terrorists. You decided it had to be a bomb.’
‘You didn’t mention a bloody missile.’
‘I didn’t know about a bloody missile. Which is why I didn’t write about it. Or a bomb.’
‘So how sure are you of this?’ Strauss waved his hand at the screen, where for the last half hour he’d been staring at Hague’s latest copy.
He got nothing in reply but a stare of rebuke.
‘We’ll look bloody fools if—’
‘We won’t.’
‘You going to tell me who your source is?’ The fact that he asked rather than demanded made it clear he recognized just how sensitive this was. It also implied that he trusted
Hamish.
‘Maybe. Out on the moors. Not in here, not with all these glass walls.’ Hague knew newspaper offices leaked like sieves. ‘There’s a night train, if you’re
interested.’
‘Some other time,’ the editor snapped. He’d never been nearer a bloodied partridge than a dining table in Hampstead. He also knew the older man was winding him up. Still, he
deserved it. He had overplayed the bomb bit. He needed to get this one right.
‘You are saying that the plane was shot down by a missile.’
‘That’s what I’ve written.’
‘Russian,’ the editor said, chewing his cheek.
‘An SA-24 Igla-S 9K338 portable air-defence missile
‘He’s in a spot of bother,’ she mused.
‘Serves him right.’
‘Could get worse.’
‘Which he would also deserve.’
‘The question is, Felix, should I make sure of it?’
He paused, considered, his lips pursed. ‘Why should you interfere?’
Slowly she raised her eyes from the fire. ‘I already have.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ She stirred, as though feeling a draught. With abrupt fingers she shoved the cat off her lap; it stalked away, its tail raised in complaint. ‘Because,’ she said,
returning to her theme, ‘he’s in the way.’
Her husband placed his glass to one side and knelt down awkwardly by the fire. He grabbed a poker, raked the embers, then picked up another log. ‘You have to keep feeding a fire, you know,
once it’s started. Mustn’t let it go out.’ He dropped the log onto its bed of glowing ash. Vivid red and amber sparks chased each other up the chimney.
Hamish Hague, the Telegraph ’s Brussels correspondent, had also come home to Britain for Christmas. He was a dour and rotund Scot whose head was flat on top and
broad at the chin, as though it had been moulded with a bucket, with wiry grey hair like waves breaking on a shore. He had never been seen dressed in anything other than an ancient and shapeless
tweed suit that carried with it the aroma of sweet pipe tobacco, and he walked with the gait of a penguin. He was known as McDeath by wine-swillers throughout Fleet Street, one of the old-timers
who sat in the Telegraph ’s vast open-plan news room and tapped away with two fingers on his keyboard as though he was poking out an alligator’s eyes. Now his cheeks were more
than usually flushed. He’d been looking forward to a relaxed time out on the moors of Perthshire massacring partridge, but instead found himself upstairs in the overheated office of his
editor with the door firmly closed. Montague Strauss was many years younger than his man from Brussels. His dark hair had receded in his twenties, leaving his head looking like a light bulb, and
his eyes were too close and bulbous, as though his brain was being pinched. The task given to him by his proprietors was to bring the newspaper up alongside a new generation of readers, but he was
experienced enough to recognize there were times, like now, when even he was out of his depth.
‘What you’re saying, Hamish, is we got it wrong. That it wasn’t a bomb.’
‘No, what I’m saying is that you got it wrong, Monty,’ Hamish replied, his soft Lowland accent and steady eyes suggesting that he was not a man to rush to his
judgements. ‘What I wrote about was a cell of terrorists. You decided it had to be a bomb.’
‘You didn’t mention a bloody missile.’
‘I didn’t know about a bloody missile. Which is why I didn’t write about it. Or a bomb.’
‘So how sure are you of this?’ Strauss waved his hand at the screen, where for the last half hour he’d been staring at Hague’s latest copy.
He got nothing in reply but a stare of rebuke.
‘We’ll look bloody fools if—’
‘We won’t.’
‘You going to tell me who your source is?’ The fact that he asked rather than demanded made it clear he recognized just how sensitive this was. It also implied that he trusted
Hamish.
‘Maybe. Out on the moors. Not in here, not with all these glass walls.’ Hague knew newspaper offices leaked like sieves. ‘There’s a night train, if you’re
interested.’
‘Some other time,’ the editor snapped. He’d never been nearer a bloodied partridge than a dining table in Hampstead. He also knew the older man was winding him up. Still, he
deserved it. He had overplayed the bomb bit. He needed to get this one right.
‘You are saying that the plane was shot down by a missile.’
‘That’s what I’ve written.’
‘Russian,’ the editor said, chewing his cheek.
‘An SA-24 Igla-S 9K338 portable air-defence missile
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