That evening, there was an awkward moment when Nic and Assistant Director met in the elevator, en route to the discreet hotel suite where Guthrie waited to welcome them. Oaken panelling and landscapes by contemporary artists fostered a theme of luxury being tolerated by art. Plush dark green carpeting softened sound. Georgian windows gave a rectilinear correctness that was eased by heavy velvet curtains.
“You may be surprised to see me, Assistant Director,” Guthrie began, “but a drink to break the ice? No? My involvement in matters such as currently involve you both is a sideline of mine, the leftover of a dark past,” he inclined to the editor. “Can I tempt you, Nic? Oh well, then I shall drink alone.” Guthrie padded gracefully over the thick carpeting towards a tantalus from which he extracted a cut crystal decanter and poured himself a brandy.
“Please, be seated gentlemen,” Guthrie requested and sat down in a club armchair, placing his bulbous glass on an exquisite Edwardian side table. He laid his arms along the padded rests of the chair and regarded the two, burdening the Commission chief with an apologetic grin.
“Assistant Undersecretary asked that I approach you directly, Assistant Director,” he said smoothly. “So let me begin by explaining the reason for my requesting this assignation, and do forgive the cloak – I have no dagger these days.”
With his right hand Guthrie warmed the underside of his brandy glass and swirled the golden brown liquid before nosing and sipping gently. “Heritage, an excellent brandy as you may recall, Assistant Director,” Guthrie continued. “However, events have reached, as one might say, critical mass. Does Lashkar Gah mean anything to you?”
Assistant Director shifted uncomfortably, unbalanced by this unexpected question. Lashkar what? This encounter with the viscount was unsettling. It occurred to him that their first meeting at the golf course may not have been chance. Daily News on the other hand, entirely at ease, had quit his chair to examine a landscape painting which glowed interestingly.
“This is good,” he said, “one of the recent Glasgow boys, I see.”
“Indeed,” Guthrie was languid. “Lashkar Gah, Nic.”
Daily News spoke succinctly, “Afghanistan,” he said, his tone inferring that the exotic place name carried with it a heavy historical portmanteau.
Assistant Director now felt seriously discomfited by the recent viscount, this man of substance and shadow. An international dimension to events in Strontian seemed absurd, surely. Thankfully, Guthrie had turned to the baggily clad Daily News editor.
“Ah, quite so. The Commission employee who caused mayhem last night was witness to an unfortunate occurrence at Lashkar Gah, a ‘friendly fire’ incident, denied by the USA I have to say, that could still cause our allies some embarrassment were there to be a resurrection of negative publicity. A UAV was involved, an Unmanned Aerial Vehicle. We no longer care to call them drones. Unfortunately, this acronym has also become sinister. I should add that we had difficulty in restraining certain of the Press at the time. You were overly keen to splash, Nic, doubtless you remember. We spoke at some length on the matter.”
“I’m struggling to make the connection, if you are pleading that we take a special line on what happened in Strontian,” Daily News said, shaking an Einsteinian shock of hair. “So what if the gunman of last night was at Lashkar Gah? What of it?”
“The connection is really quite straightforward,” Guthrie said. “That little stunt with your helicopter reminded our brave platoon commander, your ex-employee, Assistant Director, of death from the skies. Set him off, one might say, to punish the perpetrator. Dear old Special Branch – their man, happily at the scene, has illuminated it. And the Commission tend to look somewhat hapless in the matter of an arsonist in their ranks. Altogether a toxic mix, if I may borrow an expression much used by a certain class of journalist.”
Guthrie sipped his brandy tenderly, distracted by its attempt at perfection. Assistant Director examined manicured nails. The Daily News editor ran fingers through the confusion of white hair adorning his head. He cocked his head as though fascinated by Guthrie’s self indulgence. A silence fell.
“So straightforward, as I said,” Guthrie came back to the mundane of life and death with a sigh, then continued as though further explanation was entirely unnecessary and rather a bore. “However, gentlemen, a Lashkar Gah connection need not emerge. The helicopter incident can be seen as speculative and left to a fatal accident enquiry which I can guarantee will take at least two years to formalise its findings. Formal Enquiries tend to focus on unsafe procedures being followed. Human error can be vaguely attributed to a system, whatever that is. No individual suffers and it ends with ‘lessons will be learned’. Everyone will follow the usual safe script. The arsonist, we know his identity, will remain at large meantime. Please do not question this. Matter of national security.
Reporting should concentrate on the tragic loss of souls bravely fighting a terrible fire and an ex-officer fatally damaged by the horrors of combat unfathomably murdering two journalists of unimpeachable integrity. It is truly astonishing how a small rural event can escalate, don’t you think?”
Guthrie leaned back in the leather upholstery and once again swirled the brandy glass. Smiling eyes engaged the others. “The helicopter incident must not intrude into Press backstories of the murder of two journalists,” Guthrie sipped at his brandy.
After a time Daily News spoke, “Other newspapers, have you had your wicked way with them?”
“I leave that to you. The Daily News are bereaved. Surely your lead will be followed. Newshounds together in deep mourning for their comrades in print. Sympathy all around the Press corps. You can always claim your paper was blinded by grief if there is later criticism. Call me if you have a problem. One bullfrog croaks, they all croak.”
“Who is the arsonist?” Assistant Director queried as Daily News folded hands on his stomach and contemplated the future. “You said you knew.”
“Believe me, my dear Assistant Director, you don’t want his name. Lack of knowledge makes deniability a great deal easier,” Guthrie said blandly. “Shall we characterise his act as an aberration? So much simpler to sell. A gullible public, given to aberrations of their own, will buy it. I would also question the wisdom of promoting any public forum that shows how easy arson is to perpetrate and how difficult arson is to prove. He will not escape justice. But there are many ways to delaminate a cat, old boy.”
“I had to attend a funeral in the same area not long before the fire started. My God, was that related in any way to all of this?”
“My dear Assistant Director, whatever happened, I am certain the police will deal with it,” Guthrie replied. “I believe they have a new lead. On a happier note, do have another chat with me some day soon, that damned estate needs licking into shape.”
“You cannot mean the Fourth Estate?” Daily News held up his hands in a show of horror.
“I mean the family estate in my charge, long neglected and in need of a strategy to realise its potential,” Guthrie responded with a broad smile, consolidating the break in context and mood, swirling his brandy.
“Be delighted to lend a helping hand,” Assistant Director tried his light amusing voice, and was rewarded by the graciously inclined head of a viscount.
Glances and nods sufficed to have all three rise in unison from armchairs. They were integral to a structured array of institutions forming the great Establishment which, at the final analysis, each was committed to sustain and protect.
At the heart of the matter lay a conviction that they knew what was best for the collective citizenry and were thus each entitled to fulfil whatever ambitions they cherished. Like a self fulfilling prophecy, it followed that a system wise enough to promote them deserved their support in return; the quid pro quo of Establishments everywhere.
To become an eminence grise you had first to take holy orders.