Free A Sentimental Traitor by Michael Dobbs Page B

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