A week after her return to London, Susan was having an early supper in her apartment when the downstairs security lock buzzed. She glanced at the digital clock on a lower shelf of her television stand. Twentyone ten. Susan got to her feet. She went to a wall mounted panel and said “yes?” into the tiny grille.
“It’s Alex,” a voice said. “Remember me from Strontian?”
Susan hesitated, then bent towards the grille. “Come up,” she said, “I’m on the first floor,” and pressed the buzzer. The lock released with a click.
She ushered Alex into the flat. “I thought you would be in darkest Africa on gardening leave,” Susan commented as he stepped past, seeming taller in his city suit, but less imposing than when they had parted, “take a seat, the big chair should fit. If you don’t mind I’ll finish having supper.” She knelt on the carpet beside an occasional table. Alex sat uncomfortably in, rather than on, a ridiculous plushy boudoir chair and was repelled by the aggressive thrust of objects and a weird metal appendage hanging from the ceiling, purporting to be a chandelier. He felt transported back to the 1930s, and disliked the feeling.
“Art Deco,” Susan explained from the floor. “It’s too bloody for words. The landlord’s interior designer decorated this apartment and I am not allowed to change anything. Affordable flats are hard to find. But what brings you? How did you get my address, or shouldn’t I ask?”
“Your phone is being monitored,” Alex said, “but don’t stop using it or they’ll twig that you know. They’ll give up after a month or two.”
“Oh, God,” Susan rocked back on her heels, “why would anyone want to listen to my calls?”
“Listen to me,” Alex leaned from the large armchair, “why do you think Noel’s report was so sensitive? There were many blue-on-blue incidents and a drone strike killing Afghan civilians was nothing new. Condoling and denying, quietly distributing blood money, why change the routine?”
“I don’t know,” Susan let her heels support her and looked up, “was there more to it? Noel didn’t always tell me everything.”
“It was the woman,” Alex said. “They were terrified that Noel would find out who she was, perhaps recognise a photograph, or stumble across one of the first reports. They went unpublished. America and the government spiked them, if that is still the term.”
“The woman?” Susan questioned, “the woman with the baby?”
“She was the real target,” Alex said. “She was married to a government official. He suspected her of cheating on him and arranged for security services, intelligence if you like, to call in the strike, claiming that the house was being used by militants.”
“But she was a woman, and she was outside the house,” Susan protested. “Why did they fire when they saw her go to the car with the baby.”
“Intelligence advised that some militants were disguised as women. The baby could have been a bundle of rags to add colour. A drone camera at an altitude of a thousand feet is not going to identify the sex of someone wearing a burqa. The missile strike went in. It happens, personal scores being settled by false humint, human intelligence. It’s jaldi – jaldi, quick as you can. Intelligence is not checked if the source is high enough.”
“Dear Lord,” Susan said, “so she was visiting her boyfriend?”
“Actually, she wasn’t,” Alex answered. “She was visiting her father and brother.”
A long silence followed. Alex still leaned out of the soft armchair. Susan continued to sit on the floor, the remainder of her supper untouched on a plate on the little table. After a time, Susan raised her eyes to Alex. “Why come out with this now?” she asked.
“I want you to tell the Daily News that you found a document among the effects Noel left here in London revealing the reason for the drone attack. You deeply regret having burned it, but perhaps they can follow up. It’s a story for their crusade. You support it and want to help them educate the public about thousands of illegal drone deaths. Change the culture.”
“I do want to help,” Susan began to get emotional. “You didn’t answer my question, though. Why now?”
“Tomorrow’s news will carry the report of an entire family killed by a drone strike in the Yemen. Faulty intelligence is the presumption. The Americans who are co-ordinating intelligence and targeting, will state that this is an isolated occurrence, very regrettable. This Lashkar Gah explanation of civilian deaths in that incident shows that intelligence abuses are routinely covered up.”
“But can this report be challenged? Who is leading with this story from the Yemen?” Susan’s voice had become less distinct.
“The dear old BBC,” Alex replied. “The report is rock solid.”
“So why are you doing all this, Alex? Won’t they shoot you for treason?”
“Maybe I’m just an establishment lackey, following his master’s orders,” Alex said. “Maybe the decision takers have decided to re-define a special relationship with an embarrassing partner. Perhaps a high policy is being secretly served by these disclosures. Maybe the Daily News crusade has persuaded the London elite to stop fagging for America.”
“That’s a bit far fetched,” Susan articulated the words with difficulty.
“Is it?” Alex asked. “London has been tossed an occasional bone for decades. Maybe they want more. Maybe they want out. Who knows?”
“That’s a lot of ‘maybe’s’,” Susan pushed herself upright. “Please don’t say any more. Poor Noel…” and she wept burning tears of despair for a brother whose agonised death was being exploited for geopolitical gain.
“One final thing,” Alex said. “Our moral compass needed loosening to accommodate extra-judicial killing. America is red hot on this and have been pushing us to follow. Government lawyers use Article 51 of the UN Charter, the article that allows states to strike first when threatened. We invaded Iraq on it. The next step is legalising drone kills. International lawyers, however, have insisted that public acceptance of drone strikes must be established before they bring a new law forward. I’m guessing the Government are getting ready to announce it.”
“They wouldn’t have wanted Noel’s report on Lashkar Gah to come out, especially if we’ve decided to follow the Americans.” Susan’s voice had broken, but there was anger in it.
“The understatement of the year,” Alex said.