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Authors: Michael Dobbs
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system. But you can call it a Grinch,’ Hamish added doggedly. He knew when to play pedantic. It confused the hell out of
whizz-kids who never did much more than scrape the surface of things.
‘Photos? Diagrams? The technical shit?’
‘All downloadable from Wikipedia.’
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
whizz-kids who never did much more than scrape the surface of things.
‘Photos? Diagrams? The technical shit?’
‘All downloadable from Wikipedia.’
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
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