Free A Sentimental Traitor by Michael Dobbs Page A

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