Nic fiddled with a pencil on his desk and contemplated the printed paper and photographs that covered its surface. The keyboard of his laptop was similarly piled. Archives had been thorough. He picked up the telephone.
An hour later, he was welcomed by Guthrie at the same venue as before where paintings by contemporary artists acknowledged luxury with wry silence. They were alone. A many faceted decanter glinted on rosewood at a side table.
“Brandy, Nic?” Guthrie asked, cupping a bellbottomed glass. “Yes? My, my, is this an occasion? A celebration, perhaps? What do we toast?” He bent to pour a generous measure of Heritage and handed the glass to the Daily News editor. He cocked his head. “Well?”
Nic sniffed the brandy. “Very fine,” he remarked and raised the glass. “To freedom of the Press!”
Guthrie smiled and elevated his brandy by several millimetres. “Oh, yes, absolutely,” he responded and waved his hand at the club armchairs. Nic eased a thickly creased suit into leather upholstery and forked his fingers to rumple Einsteinian hair. He shifted position in little movements until settled comfortably. His host sat opposite, watching and waiting.
Nic used soliloquy. He launched into it by deprecating the UK’s status as the rugby player much trampled upon at the bottom of the collapsed maul that was called ‘special relationship’, but bravely playing on for the team. Extraordinary rendition, torture, illegal surveillance – information sharing if one preferred – were techniques that we sighed at, then accepted, as the hired hand at 100 million US dollars per annum, or so it was said, and an uneven sharing of intelligence. Of course, occasional crumbs fell from the table. Wall Street propped up London as Europe’s financial hub, but really…so embarrassing at times, didn’t one have to agree?
Nic swigged some Heritage and the homily continued. The USA took UK support as a given, appreciating that the UK relied heavily on the ‘special relationship’ to give an impression of global power. Anachronisms such as the British Commonwealth of Nations helped the illusion along.
The downsides were proving expensive. Europe openly regarded the UK as a conduit for American policy; everyone else had done so pretty much since the end of World War II when what remained of the fascist regimes re-settled in South America with the clandestine blessing of the USA.
Guthrie remained impassive, examining his brandy, occasionally sipping. He seemed politely disinterested. The Daily News editor advanced to his conclusion.
The Press had humoured this nonsense long enough. The readership was getting twitchy. Why not take a stand? Britain could lead the way and be ‘Great’ again. This would mean levelling criticism at the worst American excesses. The USA would be shaken out of complacent sprayings of feed to its chicken and become more aware of the power of its partner. British embassy staffers could again hold their heads high. Risk of terrorist acts against the UK interest would lessen. The Foreign Office and CBI would fight this at first, rooted in conservatism as they were. When they found themselves in profit they would sing in a different key. SIS, close to the Foreign Office, would be happy to downscale their devotions to the CIA, created in the nineteen forties after the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) was dismantled. Like the Uk’s Secret Intelligence Service the CIA would have no law enforcement powers. Fine example of irony.
Nic came up for air and beamed at the exquisitely tailored aristocrat. “So we are going to publish,” he said, “tell all. Another? That is an excellent splash of hooch. You blueblooded folk certainly know your way around the best cellars.”
Guthrie elegantly extricated himself from a deep of armchair and took the proffered bulb of glass. He went to the crystal decanter. Without speaking he returned and handed Nic another brandy.
“No need for hosannas,” Nic admonished. “Lashkar Gah will become a household name, like Watergate. Another cover-up exposed. Think what it will do. The young lieutenant, tortured by memory and suppression of truth, is driven temporarily insane. He commits murder and then suicide. My journos are martyrs to his quest for truth. The helicopter’s spreading of the fire will come out, of course. Bound to happen sooner or later, too many witnesses. We will tell it as it is, warts and all. A freelancer wanted pictures. He was careless. The Daily News tells the whole truth, bravely but humbly. It’s a great story. National tragedy, international tragedy, its bloody Shakespearean.”
Guthrie gazed at the editor. He remembered that Nic had been an asset early in his career when sent by a national daily to its Hong Kong desk. His background had first been discreetly investigated in the usual way resulting in a NKA rating (Nothing Known Against). Nic had dutifully reported some tittle-tattle of little consequence and that had been that.
“Poor timing,” Guthrie remarked with a dismissive gesture. “Washington is desperately trying to persuade the Afghans to grant immunity to their military. The Afghan government is being difficult, and their president is grandstanding about the USA bringing death and destruction to a Pashto people. Washington detests him. Tales of drones, or should I say UAVs, and blue-on-blue yarns of Lashkar Gah are not to be headlined for now.”
“Exactly why now is the time to do just that,” Nic raised his glass and tipped brandy into himself. “This is a point of maximum impact, when news is very influential. Incidentally, what has happened to that biker?”
Guthrie arose and helped himself to more brandy. He took some time to decant the amber fluid and briefly eyed the editor before returning to his armchair. He settled urbanely into cushioned leather.
“What on earth are you talking about, Nic? What biker?”
The news editor shook his head. “Fort William is a wee place, really. It’s noticed when a man who fell off his Ducati merits a 24/7 police presence, a mysterious Detective Inspector called Smith – hah! – and transfer to an unspecified private clinic which he never seems to arrive at. I’ve had folk checking every neurological clinic within two hundred miles of Belford Hospital. Biker vanished yesterday. Was he a terrorist, a spy, or what?”
Guthrie regarded a highly polished shoe and angled a pointed toe. His expression was a study in gravitas while Nic continued, thoughtfully combing his great mane of hair with one hand. “A policeman gave the Fort William hospital a name and an address in Solihull. We checked. The address is a letterbox for shadowy people reminiscent of yourself.”
“Perhaps someone made a mistake. Such things do happen.”
In a parody of Guthrie, Nic chose one of the multitude of creases on his left trouser leg. He made a smoothing gesture and clucked at his failure to iron it using the palm of one hand. He gave up and drained his glass. Guthrie raised his eyebrows. The editor was becoming a bore.
“Ah, well,” the Daily News editor sighed in regret at an expected lack of co-operation. He awkwardly pushed himself upright. “Chairs are far too bloody comfortable,” he muttered, placing a hand over each kidney and gingerly arching his back. “I’ll be off to light the fire, then,” he grunted, stretching his vertebrae with a grimace, “my Press Baron has authorised the campaign to make Britain ‘Great’. Sees a K at the end of it.”
Guthrie stood with accustomed poise. “Publish and be damned,” he said.