whisky.
Had it been any other day than Christmas Eve, the matter might have been handled so much more skilfully, but chaos chooses its own moment. The country was already closing down
for the long festive break. The dull-green fragment of aluminium was being tested by forensic experts and even though it was too early for any confirmation that it was from a missile, it was enough
for the men from the AAIB to put a call in to the private office of the Secretary of State for Transport, under whose auspices they fell. Yet she was already weaving her way down the slopes of
Verbier, her office on skeleton staff, and nobody returned the call.
It was left to the Telegraph to break the news. It took the rest of the media only hours to follow.
‘Was It A Bomb?’ the front page screamed, above an image of the aircraft tail sticking from the water that had become iconic. And already the government was being dragged
behind events.
The report quoted ‘usually reliable intelligence sources’, which nevertheless remained unnamed, saying that a new terrorist cell was reported to be operating in northern Europe. It
was believed to be Islamist, and although its precise origins were as yet unclear its objective was to ‘punish the Western democracies for persistent interference in the affairs of the Muslim
world’ by finding and destroying a substantial target, preferably American. ‘Intelligence officers are speculating that the target might have been Speedbird 235 and the 115 passengers
on board.’ There followed a lengthy history of Middle Eastern terrorism stretching from Carlos the Jackal to Yasser Arafat, Palestinian groups to the Taliban, al-Megrahi and al-Qaeda that
covered more than forty bloody years. ‘Memories of the Lockerbie bomb still burn deeply into the psyche of the anti-terrorist forces of Britain and the United States. Could this be yet
another example of their failure?’ the Telegraph asked.
It was perilously thin stuff, a theory hanging from a thread, yet that had never stood in the way of a good headline and within hours the story had been picked up by the rest of the media and
was swimming in a sea of speculation. This time when the telephone rang and Ben Usher answered, it wasn’t either the American ambassador or his wife, but the President himself. The two men
hadn’t always got on; a relationship that was supposed to be ‘special’ and had more recently been described as ‘essential’ was now openly referred to as
‘stretched’, and became more so as the American leader described how unsettling such news was ‘at a time when Americans should be home celebrating peace and love with their
families’. The man had never been known to leave a cliché under-rehearsed.
‘Mr President, there is not a single shred of evidence in my possession to substantiate these reports,’ Usher replied. He was standing in the window of his study at Chequers, the
Prime Minister’s country retreat, watching a family of crows tussle on the lawn while his wife was downstairs putting the final touches to the Christmas tree. Was there no escape?
‘So it’s untrue?’ the President persisted.
‘Totally. So far as we know.’
‘So far as you know?’
‘I’m not God,’ Usher protested.
‘But we play God, you and I, that’s our job. If it’s not true, you should give those imposters of the press one hell of a kicking.’
‘I don’t control the media any more than you do,’ Usher all but spat.
‘I’ve got a million of the miserable bastards screaming at me trying to nail down this story. It’s your story, Ben. If it’s not going to fly, kill it. Kill it dead.
Before it really rips the ass out of Christmas.’
So, later that dreary and grey afternoon, a denial was issued. The Downing Street press spokesman confirmed it. There was no suggestion of a bomb. The denial had the benefit of being the truth,
but as the world was soon to discover, it wasn’t the whole truth. And Ben Usher, a
Had it been any other day than Christmas Eve, the matter might have been handled so much more skilfully, but chaos chooses its own moment. The country was already closing down
for the long festive break. The dull-green fragment of aluminium was being tested by forensic experts and even though it was too early for any confirmation that it was from a missile, it was enough
for the men from the AAIB to put a call in to the private office of the Secretary of State for Transport, under whose auspices they fell. Yet she was already weaving her way down the slopes of
Verbier, her office on skeleton staff, and nobody returned the call.
It was left to the Telegraph to break the news. It took the rest of the media only hours to follow.
‘Was It A Bomb?’ the front page screamed, above an image of the aircraft tail sticking from the water that had become iconic. And already the government was being dragged
behind events.
The report quoted ‘usually reliable intelligence sources’, which nevertheless remained unnamed, saying that a new terrorist cell was reported to be operating in northern Europe. It
was believed to be Islamist, and although its precise origins were as yet unclear its objective was to ‘punish the Western democracies for persistent interference in the affairs of the Muslim
world’ by finding and destroying a substantial target, preferably American. ‘Intelligence officers are speculating that the target might have been Speedbird 235 and the 115 passengers
on board.’ There followed a lengthy history of Middle Eastern terrorism stretching from Carlos the Jackal to Yasser Arafat, Palestinian groups to the Taliban, al-Megrahi and al-Qaeda that
covered more than forty bloody years. ‘Memories of the Lockerbie bomb still burn deeply into the psyche of the anti-terrorist forces of Britain and the United States. Could this be yet
another example of their failure?’ the Telegraph asked.
It was perilously thin stuff, a theory hanging from a thread, yet that had never stood in the way of a good headline and within hours the story had been picked up by the rest of the media and
was swimming in a sea of speculation. This time when the telephone rang and Ben Usher answered, it wasn’t either the American ambassador or his wife, but the President himself. The two men
hadn’t always got on; a relationship that was supposed to be ‘special’ and had more recently been described as ‘essential’ was now openly referred to as
‘stretched’, and became more so as the American leader described how unsettling such news was ‘at a time when Americans should be home celebrating peace and love with their
families’. The man had never been known to leave a cliché under-rehearsed.
‘Mr President, there is not a single shred of evidence in my possession to substantiate these reports,’ Usher replied. He was standing in the window of his study at Chequers, the
Prime Minister’s country retreat, watching a family of crows tussle on the lawn while his wife was downstairs putting the final touches to the Christmas tree. Was there no escape?
‘So it’s untrue?’ the President persisted.
‘Totally. So far as we know.’
‘So far as you know?’
‘I’m not God,’ Usher protested.
‘But we play God, you and I, that’s our job. If it’s not true, you should give those imposters of the press one hell of a kicking.’
‘I don’t control the media any more than you do,’ Usher all but spat.
‘I’ve got a million of the miserable bastards screaming at me trying to nail down this story. It’s your story, Ben. If it’s not going to fly, kill it. Kill it dead.
Before it really rips the ass out of Christmas.’
So, later that dreary and grey afternoon, a denial was issued. The Downing Street press spokesman confirmed it. There was no suggestion of a bomb. The denial had the benefit of being the truth,
but as the world was soon to discover, it wasn’t the whole truth. And Ben Usher, a
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