A Sentimental Traitor Read Online Free

but sufficient to drench the
steward in embarrassment. Clumsy bugger. Yet Usher was an old hand, knew there would be a photographer’s lens pointing at him from behind some bush or across the lake, so instead of
succumbing to an instinctive scowl he burst into laughter, making sure that the steward and the wide world beyond realized he couldn’t care less. It was to prove an unfortunate image, in the
circumstances.
    He first heard of the tragedy on the Thames while he was changing into a fresh shirt – only the sketchiest details, no one knew yet the scale of the disaster or the death toll, or even
that there was a death toll, but it was not something that could be ignored. He immediately asked for an earlier flight home, but was told there was none. In any event there were still important
details needing to be wrapped up at the conference, so with some misgivings he stayed on those few extra hours. Another misfortune.
    The contrasting images of the wreckage and that smile were played side by side. The Prime Minister’s refusal to walk out of the conference led to questions about his sense of priorities.
And even before he had arrived back in London, two days after the tragedy, the media had already made up their collective mind about this act of callousness, Usher’s failure to capture the
sombre spirit of the moment, and on that point they were not for turning, no matter what the Downing Street press spokesman offered in explanation. Grossly unfair, of course, a despicable
distortion, but such, in the end, is the fate of all prime ministers.
    Makhachkala, inside the Russian Federation
    There were other casualties. Even before the waters had time to settle above the fuselage of Speedbird 235, a small group of wind-scuffed portable cabins standing on a rocky
outcrop overlooking the shore of the Caspian Sea were set ablaze. The spot was a little to the north of the dreary Russian city of Makhachkala, and the cabins were completely destroyed. The fire
raised little local interest and was immediately attributed to unknown delinquents before it was filed away as being solved. The authorities had far more important things to attract their
attention; the province of Chechnya was only down the road with its population of insurgents and suicide bombers, while the entire Caspian was a sea of troubles.
    It was the world’s largest inland sea, or lake, and beneath it lay an ocean of oil and gas worth trillions of dollars. That made the region even more unstable. The countries that clustered
around the Caspian shore – Russia, Iran, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan – were without exception led by posses of adventurers and political bandits whose loathing was mutual.
It was a region of irredeemable conflict, yet its peoples were never going to be left to fight it out amongst themselves, for there were too many others who were desperate to claim a share of the
riches. There were plans to lay rival pipelines across the floor of the Caspian, which ensured that the neighbours fought amongst themselves ever more bitterly, arguing about where the pipelines
should cross, and who should control them. And while they fought, the waters of the Caspian became more muddied, the sturgeon swam ever closer to extinction, and the Russians and Iranians ferried
in warships to back up their rival claims. It was a desperate, bloody place, and nobody gave a damn about a Portakabin or two.
    Mayfair, London
    Even though he was only three miles away from the catastrophe beside Tower Bridge, Harry Jones heard nothing. He was in his mews house, his head bowed in concentration as he
pored over the final draft of his election manifesto. He wasn’t enjoying it, never did. As a former soldier he knew that wars always carried their share of casualties, and what was politics,
except for war without the ethical bits? Careers in Westminster were never more than a headline away from disaster, and one day they would get him, too. People