Down fell the President

An academic wrestles with guilt for what he may have done

I have discovered recently that guilt is an untameable monster, an unremitting pain. During my long career as a Religion and Ethics Professor I have lectured on how different faiths deal with it and how psychologists treat it. But I’d never known personally how debilitating it can be. I have no idea how to cope with it. It’s not simply a nagging thought, and is more than an emotion; it’s like a burning fire scorching my whole body – a physical thing. My learning has not equipped me to handle it. Perhaps writing this down will help.

You see, I believe I was an accessory to the murder of at least 50 innocent people in another country. And, knowing the country as I do, their immediate families, children included, will almost certainly have suffered greatly, and were possibly tortured or killed themselves.

I have never spoken of this before for several reasons. It’s partly out of deference to the Official Secrets Act. Not that I’ve ever signed it, but a number of my overseas trips have been covered by a code of honour that comes pretty close to it. The trip on which this incident occurred was certainly one of them. We were forbidden to speak to the media afterwards “in the national interest”, which really meant our interest; we’d be frozen out of any future trips if we did, and anything we said would be contradicted by the well-oiled Whitehall spin machine.

For some years I have lived with a lurking fear that I could be arrested and convicted as an accessory to the crime. I am increasingly nervy whenever someone comes to my door who I’m not expecting. I’ve become anxious when I go out – which I do less and less often these days – aware that the regime in whose territory the crime took place might send an assassin to wreak revenge, or, perhaps, to keep me quiet. They have long memories over there.

Even if I was innocent (which I seriously doubt), I was afraid to say anything in case I was thought a conspiracy theorist, scaremonger or worse. I have to be careful. Although I’m now Emeritus, invitations to deliver guest lectures around the world rest on my academic reputation and provide a welcome boost to my modest pension that I would be sorry to lose.

But I can’t keep it to myself any longer. A small item in The Times recently re-opened the running psychic sore. The article was about a new building construction technique now available commercially. I’ll explain it later – it’ll make more sense then. It came as a lightbulb moment; that’s how it could have been done! I felt the exhilaration one might get when one has worked out how a stage magician has managed to fool an audience.

That was followed quickly by this all-consuming feeling of despair. It was my fault! I have blood on my hands! I got out the tattered photo of poor Krystyna, Sasha and their children, and looked at it for what seemed like hours. Might they have survived? It was unlikely but I had no way of finding out. The smallest enquiry could have fatal consequences – to me, and to them, if they were still alive.

So I’ve decided to contact my friend James. He used to be in the Foreign Office and we’d worked together on the travel and logistical plans for many of my overseas trips, this one included. James has taken early retirement, so he’s free of the constraints of the Office and is now using his time to develop his considerable artistic skills, as is his wife. He and I meet up a couple of times a year for lunch at a little restaurant in Marlow to chew the cud, reminisce, and exchange whatever gossip we manage to pick up.

We’ve never discussed this trip before. I’d submitted the mandatory post-visit report which, I had been advised, should contain no mention of the incident, and heard nothing more. It’s probably gathering dust somewhere in Whitehall. But the fact that I was ordered to suppress it meant that someone there knew something. I thought that if anyone knew the truth, it would be James. I need him to confirm, or allay, my fears.

We are due to meet again, so I decided to set down the facts as I know them in advance for his consideration. I sent them to him by registered post (I wouldn’t trust email; it could so easily be intercepted). I also took the precaution of not using real names, not even his. I’m getting so paranoid that it did cross my mind that a registered envelope might attract more attention than an ordinary one. So I’ve lodged a copy with my solicitor for safekeeping, too.

                                                            *           *           *

I was in, let’s say Mystryania, as part of a twenty-strong delegation on a cultural exchange sponsored by the Foreign Office and the British Council. We were there at the invitation of their government to inspect and report on the progress made by the regime in the broad area of human rights and welfare.

            It was no secret that its President was one of the most loathsome creatures ever to hold high office. Paranoid, ruthless, corrupt, manipulative, bullying, devious, mercurial, intolerant, power-crazed, deceptive, violent, uncaring of all but himself – every description of evil oppression you can imagine applied to him. Together with the Executive Council he ruled with an iron fist. Opposition was crushed if it as much as whispered a question. The population was downtrodden and impoverished but brainwashed into believing that the rest of the world was worse off than they were.

However, the regime needed to soften its image in order to attract overseas investment, hence it indulged in what we knew was little more than window dressing by inviting us in. Foreign visitors were extremely rare. We were stared at wherever we went. Many shrank away from us as we approached.

            Most of us in the delegation were old hands at this. So it was no surprise to us that the visit was carefully choreographed by our hosts. We didn’t expect to learn a lot, and weren’t disappointed. But it did provide us with privileged access to a secretive country, and the opportunity to question very senior officials there. You don’t turn down opportunities like that, especially when they’re funded by Her Majesty’s Government. It’s always possible that what you discover could in the long run help to make some difference. In my case, it also helped me, indirectly at least, to gather useful information for my courses.

We each had areas of special interest. From the Foreign Office perspective a condition of our being allowed to go was that we should, between us, get as good an overview as possible of the current situation at grassroots. My area of interest was freedom of religion and I was teamed up with a charming Sikh who I already knew a little. Others in the delegation were focusing on such things as child welfare and education, health and social care, industrial conditions and employment rights, sport and leisure, equal opportunities, and of course the trickiest (and largest group) of all, politics, media and freedom of expression.

Each day we were taken out, usually in our pairs but occasionally in larger groups, to view flagship facilities and interview staff. They were obviously carefully selected to give us answers to our enquiries that had been scripted by the rulers. It was a bit like taking tourists to see Buckingham Palace and telling them that this was a typical Englishman’s home.

Of course we have freedom of religion. Just look at our churches, temples, mosques and synagogues. There is no discrimination here.  So why have some places of worship been closed and their leaders imprisoned? We do not persecute people for their beliefs. If sanctions are imposed, which is very rare, it is because people have broken the law. Doesn’t every country punish those who break its laws?

What laws did they break? I don’t have detailed information but usually it is because they are found to be working against the State in some way. By criticising the views or actions of the State or the President? I do not have that information. Next we would like to take you to see…

It was much the same for all the groups. Ahead of this visit we’d been given a detailed briefing. We were sent on a three-day intensive conference in Henley that was more like an exam. They gave us sheets of indirect questions we might ask, and sheets of possible follow-up questions, in order to get behind the propaganda and pan small nuggets of truth from the ballast of lies.

I can hear the tutor now. Ex-military, I imagine. Memorise them. Then we’ll collect them back. Remember you’ve handed in your electronic devices, pens and any notepads you brought. So you cannot make notes or copies. You have no access to the office photocopier, and even if you got into the office the copier is coded and we’d see you on CCTV. This afternoon you’ll be taken on mock tours so you can practise your skills. You will be filmed, and our team will, I assure you, be ruthless as we review your attempts later. We are sending you to Mystryania both as ambassadors for Britain and as gatherers of useful information. You are not going on holiday. Is that clear?

It was. It had to be. The penalty for not toeing the line was exclusion from the group, revocation of our visas to travel, and the certainty that no such opportunities to serve Her Majesty would ever come our way again.

“Not much different to where we’re going, really,” muttered one member of the delegation who I’ll call Archibald. That wasn’t his real name, of course, but somehow I doubted that the name he used on the course was his real one, either. He’d not been on any previous visit that I’d experienced. I call him Archibald because he seemed aristocratic. Tall, immaculately dressed even when in casual clothes, sporting a cravat with a sweater, and speaking in the clipped tones of a sharp diplomat who’d been through Eton, Oxbridge, maybe Sandhurst and the Guards, before being posted as a military attaché somewhere. I wondered, in fact, if he worked for MI6.

For some reason he seemed to latch on to me and we spent quite a bit of time together on the course, and later in Mystryania. But I never learned anything about him personally. He had this way of answering questions that sounded fine until you realised he’d told you absolutely nothing and by then had changed the subject or thrown the question back on yourself.

While at Henley we were also given a crash course in observation skills. Don’t look at the main Boulevards and large buildings the guide is jabbering on about. We know all that. Look down the side streets as you pass them. What buildings are there? What are the people doing? Out in the country, ignore the scenery – it’s splendid by the way, real possibilities for tourism if they’d only clean up their act – look for tell-tale signs of poverty and repression.

Here’s a sheet on what signs to look for in the schools and factories and institutions. Memorise it. Look especially at their clothes and shoes when they’re not in State uniforms. Drift around casually. Be unobtrusive. We Brits are good at getting lost and looking helpless, are we not?

Yes, sir.

And by the way, you’re a cultural delegation gathering general information, not spies. Don’t do anything stupid. Be wise as serpents and harmless as doves, as a wise man once said. We don’t want to have to send the SAS in to magic you out of some dungeon at considerable risk to your own life and limb and sparking off World War Three. Mystryania has powerful backers who are not of our way of thinking. Is that clear?

Yes, sir.

Have you got all that?

Yes, sir, we have.

Archibald, I noticed, merely smirked when most of us nodded sagely and muttered the response which was clearly expected by the Regimental Sergeant Major or whoever the tutor was. (The staff only gave us their first names, and as they went down the alphabet – Alan, Brenda, Carl, Damien – it was rather obvious they were signatories of the Official Secrets Act, even if we weren’t.)

Archibald was attached to the political, media and freedom of expression group, but often seemed to disappear on his own with his interpreter, who was always the same person. It was rumoured they had adjoining rooms in the hotel but we never managed to verify that. We were all on the same floor anyway but our minders usually left us in the strong hands of the hotel security force and a duty interpreter at night. Which meant we were in lock-down.

It wouldn’t have been the first time that someone from the Foreign Office (or maybe MI6) had accompanied us under the cover of some other role. Our hosts would have been given a carefully-constructed false identity, complete with a plausible backstory with verifiable data that would pass security checks. Archibald’s cover was of a middle manager in the Department of Culture, Media and Sport. I’m certain he was more than that.

                                    *           *           *

So there we were, doing our best to follow instructions, glean information and not arouse suspicion. We all made a habit of getting lost when we could, going round corners and into places our guides had not intended. It became something of a game.

We soon sensed that our minders and interpreters rather enjoyed us going walkabout, although they never admitted it. We’d taken copious supplies of colourful tee shirts and other western clothes, cheap fake jewellery, sweets and chocolate (decadent western foods!) and small children’s toys. We presented them with something almost every day to show our gratitude for their great care of us, and would they mind walking just a bit further behind us (or in front of us) out of respect for our culture in which we give each other space in public? (We forgot to mention the Tube in rush hour.)

It challenged them to improvise instead of just following orders. At first they seemed to be joined at the hip. They didn’t know whether to chase after the stray and leave the rest unshepherded, who might then stray themselves, or call for back-up. (The minders all sported earpieces. Whether they were connected to anything we never found out. We never caught any of them talking into their sleeve or coat collar.)

They soon learned to share responsibility – one searched, the other stayed. It was a lesson in freedom of choice and using personal initiative. I hope they remembered it and applied it later. From such small beginnings are rebellions born.

There was one particular occasion when the pair assigned to the Sikh and myself voluntarily gave us time alone with a some ordinary Mystryanians. Perhaps our minders were secret opponents of the regime, or maybe they’d been bribed in some way. They could even have been secret religious adherents. Because it took place in one of the churches.

The Sikh and I were shown around the building by an elderly priest.  It was typical of an Orthodox Church.  It still had some icons – although there were gaps where I assumed some had been removed, maybe for the gold leaf or because their subjects were deemed to be seditious. The building was tired-looking, paint was peeling, and only about half the lights worked. But it was clean, and evidently cared for as far as the small congregation could manage. A few slim red candles burned on a stand, probably placed there by people who slipped in to pray.

After the brief tour and some polite questions, the priest declared that we should say some prayers. At that, our minders left us in the sanctuary and closed the doors. We knelt together at the front. The priest then spoke to us in English, for the first time. He used the short staccato sentences that reminded me of a young child learning to talk.

“We have little time. You must listen. You meet real person. Krystyna!” A young woman, thin, haggard-looking who was probably in her 30s, appeared from what I assume was a vestry holding a broom and duster. She was dressed in a fairly ragged long brown dress. He spoke to her in their own language and indicated that we should ask them about life for ordinary people there.

Both were very forthcoming. Krystyna thrust a rather battered black and white photograph into my hand. “Please take. Show in your country,” said the priest, whose name I never gathered. He said it showed Krystyna with her husband Sasha and their children. They looked undernourished, sad, resigned. Their clothes seemed drab and, like hers, ragged. “Sasha work for State. Make stages for President when he give speeches.”

I asked what their home was like. The priest translated Krystyna’s rapid-fire response. “Very poor. Three rooms. With Grandparents. Very full. Most live like this. Not good pay. Food costs much, not very good. Children hungry and not well. Medicine cost much.”

Krystyna interrupted. The priest listened and told us, “She say tell world. This not good country. Leaders not care. They tell lies. Many people hate them but can do nothing. Anyone who speaks against State put in prison. Or killed. Please help us.”

We talked for a few more minutes and gleaned some priceless insights into the grassroots we were supposed to be investigating. It was heart-rending, and left us wishing we could do something to alleviate their poverty but feeling helpless to do anything except listen and promise to tell our government and media. (It was only afterwards that we were effectively gagged by the authorities at home.) Then there were noises outside. The priest said quickly, “We pray now.” My Sikh colleague, bless him, seemed quite unfazed. The priest chanted some prayers loudly, we muttered “Amen” at what seemed to be appropriate moments, our minders came back in, and that was that. I secreted the photo in my jacket.

It was only after we’d left that I realised that Sasha’s job –“making stages for the President” – probably meant that he was working on the site opposite our hotel. Throughout our ten days there armies of workers had been erecting a huge scaffold grandstand on the opposite side of the square to the hotel. It incorporated the Presidential podium in the centre. It was impressive, and we all bemoaned our lack of a time-lapse camera. It would have made a riveting little film.

The workers – there must have been about fifty of them if you include those who were laying cables and fixing the cladding – swarmed over the slowly-growing structure like spiders building a giant web. I’ve no idea who first called them spidermen but the name stuck. (We think there were some women among them but their uniforms were all identical so it was hard to tell. We weren’t allowed to cross the square for a closer look. There were police stationed outside the hotel door to whom our minders always deferred.)

                                                            *           *           *

The day before we were to travel home was, as usual on such trips, different. Usually it was a free day so that we could be taken to approved shops for souvenirs or do tourist-type things. But not this time. It was a public holiday. Some anniversary of the President – his coronation, or whatever they called it. He was to make a speech to the nation. There was to be a huge celebration and parade of military might in the square right outside our hotel. The President would be there in person and speak from the purpose-built platform.

The night before the parade Archibald took me aside. “Give me a couple of minutes after dinner, would you? We’ll pop outside for a breath of fresh air.” (Such as it was. The pollution levels were notoriously high even on fine weather days.)

He took me through a door in reception marked “private” in several languages and controlled by a keypad to which he knew the code. Hence my suspicions that he was more than he claimed, which were quickly reinforced as he guided me through some corridors to a fire exit in the side of the hotel. We turned, and strolled slowly back towards the square.

“It’s easier this way,” he explained. “The guards don’t bat an eyelid when you walk in on your own through the front. They raise hell if you walk out of it without your chaperone.” He didn’t give me a chance to ask how he’d found out or where his minder was. “Look,” he continued, “I’ve got to be up on that grandstand thing tomorrow. Representing our little group among the overseas contingent. Pray for good weather, will you? You and your Sikh friend – double the chances of being heard if there’s anyone up there. The stand’s got no roof and we’re not allowed to wear overcoats. Strict dress code. Grey suits one and all, dark ties, black shoes.”

He sighed. “Tight protocols all round. No phones, watches or cameras allowed. No pens or notebooks. Can’t even carry small change or wear cufflinks and tie clips. Anyone pinging the metal detector gets frogmarched off to goodness knows where. Sniffer dogs slobber over your shoes to check for explosives. Guards pat you down, and up, with the vigour of a birch-wood thrashing and massage in a Turkish sauna. And that’s after you’ve gone through an X-ray contraption that probably emits so much radiation that the American satellites will register it as an atom bomb test. In short, they’re paranoid. As if you didn’t know.

“But its damned awkward. You see – and don’t tell the others; I can trust you can’t I?” He suddenly turned to face me and his look – it was almost threatening yet his expression hardly changed. I must have nodded or something. I was so taken aback that I couldn’t think straight at all.

“Good. You see I’m supposed to monitor the procession in real time. Send the details to our boys back home. They can’t rely on the TV broadcast, even if they can unscramble it. There’s no guarantee that what is said to be live footage actually is. They cut all sorts of stuff in to fool the world. Could you do it for me? There’s a set order of appearances. There always is. Battalion of soldiers first. Then armoured cars. Then soldiers. Or airmen. Or sailors – God knows why they’ve got sailors; they haven’t got a coastline let alone a harbour or a navy, but I guess the peasants don’t know that. Then tanks. Then more foot soldiers. Then the missile carriers. Finally the elite guard and hoards of conscripted children who’ll be cheerleaders for the Presidential address.

“All you have to do is count them. Marchers come in identical blocks ten wide, twelve long. There could be several blocks each time. Your maths OK on that? Good. Kids might be a bit chaotic but we’re not interested in them – a guess will do. What’s of most interest is the vehicles. Their numbers vary year to year. Always more than the previous year even if they’ve had to rent some in from other rogue states. Count how many of each. OK?”

I thought he was going to pause but he didn’t. “You’ll have a good view of everything. All you do is send a few texts with the details – easier to keep them short if you split them – but this is important, your last one needs to go before the President stands up. You’ll have a good view from the hotel – it’s all arranged – but you’ll be clapped in irons if you fiddle with your phone when the Potentate pontificates. Here’s the number. And just use initials or abbreviations; by the time you’ve keyed in ‘armoured personnel carriers’ you’ll have forgotten how many and the next block of marchers will have passed you. The boys are fairly bright.”

He gave me the number, and abbreviations, verbally. I had to strain to listen, because he was whispering. We’d almost reached the front door. “External mics with the cameras,” he added. “Don’t have private conversations on the front steps. Anywhere in the world.” He looked straight at the two police at the foot of the steps and in his normal voice said “Good evening” in English, and did the same to the two at the top. They remained impassive. We parted in the lobby. “Thanks for the company,” he said, quite loudly. “Never go out for a fag on your own. They told us that at Henley, I recall. Must kick the habit.” As he had not lit a cigarette, I assumed he was informing a hidden microphone of the purpose of his sortie. We parted in the lobby.

The next morning the hotel remained in lockdown. Most of us in the delegation lingered over breakfast in the restaurant and then mooched around in the lobby. There were more police on duty at the door so our view outside was severely restricted. Anyone leaving was stopped and questioned and most were turned back. Archibald came silently down the stairs and without looking at any of us went to the door, flashed a pass or a ticket, and was let through at once. I doubt few others saw him; I only noticed because I was watching out for him.

I was wondering how on earth I could fulfil my secret assignment. I should have watched him closely at the keypad, but I hadn’t. There’d be no sneaking out that way. I’m not sure I would have had the nerve, anyway.

But our hosts had it all figured. We were their guests, after all, and this was the most important event in their calendar. To them, this was like Christmas. We were rounded up and taken to the first floor ballroom. It had windows the full length of the side facing the square. Comfortable chairs were lined up for us by the window with several coffee tables laden with snacks and canapés. A small bar was open at the far end.

The chief guide used a microphone – the room was large and echoed – to welcome us and explain the protocols. “We are very pleased you can join us for this special occasion,” she said. “I hope you have your cameras or camera-phones. You are most welcome to take pictures of the parade of our military and civilian organisations, and of our glorious President. All we ask is that you listen respectfully during his speech which I will translate for you, and do not please take any photographs at that time.

“There are TV screens for you here too” – for some reason they were only just being wheeled in by porters who grovelled on the floor to plug them in – “so that you can see what is going on even more closely than you can already. Throughout the event we will be serving you drinks and – what do you call them – cannopeas? Little things for you to eat, except during the glorious President’s speech when again we ask you to maintain a respectful stillness.”

We smiled at each other and no one felt inclined to correct her pronunciation. But as soon as she’d finished – and on the plane home the next day – the puns flowed as freely as the drinks. Cannopeas. Can of peas. The snacks certainly had a strange colour. Can of pee? The beer tasted vaguely like that. Can appease the Dictator – the default international position. Canna pease them all – our Scottish members relished that.

So suitably lubricated and over-fed we settled back to be mind-numbingly bored by the show of strength and pride that most other countries would love to bomb to Kingdom Come. But western democracies don’t do that. We wring our hands, impose sanctions, and let the little children suffer in their parents’ poverty and slavery. Which is the most humane option? To allow a whole population to be ravaged by malnutrition or riddle some of them with shrapnel following a bomb attack? Which cause of death would you consider preferable – hunger or holocaust? Discuss, giving cogent reasons for your answer. The examiners are looking for a careful, logical discussion of issues taking all factors into account. Fifteen marks. I thought I could use that in the BA finals exam the following year.

Time goes by slowly when you think you know what to expect and don’t really want to be there anyway. We were prisoners in Mystryania. Just as choreographed as the thousands who would be parading through the square or pouring in to the small viewing areas – they’d be minor officials, I guessed, who didn’t qualify for a seat with the bigwigs in the stand.  At that moment we were just as trapped as the people we’d been meeting during the week. The difference was that we could fly away tomorrow to the frenetic, debt-ridden status-seeking world flooded with gadgets few people knew how to use properly, that we called western civilisation. Krystyna, Sasha, and their children could only dream of them.

                                                *           *           *
There was a band at the front of the grandstand. Our guide pointed out the various sections of honoured guests. I could see Archibald, head and shoulders above most, near the top on the far edge of the structure. The spidermen with “all who had worked to prepare for this great day”, according to our guide, were gathered in a group to the side. I tried to look for Sasha but it was impossible to make out an individual who I had only seen in a grainy photo.

After what seemed an age after everyone had filed into their seats, the band struck up and everyone stood. Our guide indicated that we should do the same, even though we were indoors. “It is a mark of respect for our glorious President,” she said. “Everyone watching in their homes will stand at this point also. When the President arrives and sits down, you may sit also.”

The Presidential motorcade rolled into the square. Armed guards swarmed around it. The President was barely visible getting out of one of the vehicles, as bodyguards flanked him and, from where we were, almost seemed to carry the diminutive and overweight figure up the steps to the central platform. It was surrounded by a tall Perspex or glass screen – which I assumed was bulletproof. He sat on a huge throne-like chair, flanked by guards, and I was reminded of pictures of Egyptian pharaohs except no-one was fanning him with palm fronds. Members of the Executive Council sat around the sides of the platform-box.

I fiddled with my phone and when the parade began I dutifully punched in the information. I noticed that the TV coverage appeared to be at least thirty seconds behind the live events, unless that was a trick of camera perspective. I tried to make it look as if I was taking pictures, and none of the locals spared me a second glance. They had eyes only on the leader, and betrayed nothing of whatever they felt or thought inwardly. They had fixed, almost beatific, grins. They were performing the role required of them. Presumably one or more of their number was an informant who would report any deviations that would be classified as treason.

When the marchpast was complete and the child cheerleaders were amassed in front of the grandstand, the President stood and moved to the lectern at the front of his bubble. He had only uttered a few words when we all noticed strange noises percolating through the thick ballroom windows. Then, as if in slow motion, the platform began to sag, tilt and sink. The rest of the grandstand remained stable. The platform went down like a giant lift on an aircraft carrier depositing a plane into the hangar below deck. The TV coverage was still delayed so showed nothing of this. It suddenly cut out.

Mayhem ensued. One of our guides leaped to activate the curtain mechanism that slowly closed our view from our windows. Another screamed, “No photo!” in such a voice that everyone dropped their cameras, fearful perhaps of immediate imprisonment. A caption appeared on the TVs and our chief translator said there had been a technical fault and the President’s speech would follow shortly. Which it did, being almost certainly a recording delivered in a studio against a green screen with a still picture of the full grandstand superimposed on it. Here’s one I made earlier. You had to hand it to them; they’d thought of everything. Well, almost.

Before our curtains closed completely, we’d seen stewards trying to corral the panicking VIPs on the grandstand while security staff along with the ever-present police, ambulance and fire crews plunged into the abyss to attend to the President and his Council who had disappeared amid tangled scaffold poles and decking.

I managed to tap a quick message to my mystery number before putting the phone away. There was no reply to this or to any of my previous texts. We remained in our places while the interminable speech droned on. When it eventually finished we were told to help ourselves to the cannopeas but should remain in the room. Our questions for information went unanswered.

It was several hours before we were released. When we got to the lobby and peered through the gaps between the guards at the front doors we could see that the grandstand was being dismantled, and there was no sign of the wrecked central platform. I caught up with Archibald over the evening meal but he was non-committal. He said that the guests had been ushered straight to the planned reception at a building near the square, which went ahead as if nothing had happened. We were assured by Archibald’s interpreter – the only person who offered any information – that no-one had been killed or seriously hurt, and that the President had escaped with cuts and bruises.

It was not until we were on the plane and in the air the next day that Archibald announced to us – we were on a charter flight and had the plane to ourselves – that as he was the only civil servant on board he had received a message from the UK government. We had witnessed only a minor incident. As the Presidential address had continued uninterrupted there was no need to refer to what was a small technical fault. All was well, and the government looked forward to receiving our reports at the de-brief which would take place at Heathrow when we landed.

When he took his seat I asked him if he knew what had happened. He said he didn’t. Someone would be held to account, surely, I said. The spidermen, perhaps, who’d built the platform? He sighed and looked out of the window at the clouds below. “Shot at dawn, old man. Standard procedure. Probably their families as well. Just to make sure. Imperfection is not tolerated in Mystryania.”

And it’s that which has been bugging me all this time, eating into my heart or soul like a cancer.

                                    *           *           *

So, James, I asked as we sipped our after-lunch coffee and gazed across at the boats on the Thames, what really happened?

“You tell me what you think”, he said. “Something in the paper, wasn’t it?”

            I showed him the cutting from The Times. It described a new building construction technique using electronically-controlled magnetic clips to join scaffold poles. With further development, they could be adapted to connect weight-bearing girders even in tall buildings. The clips were attached to the poles or girders at ground level. These were hoisted up by crane, and then remotely triggered to snap into place. It was a huge step forward in quicker automated building construction, the article claimed, eliminating the need for so many scaffolders and builders with the added benefit that those who were on site were exposed to fewer health and safety risks.

The process was reversed to remove the scaffold when building work was finished. There had been some concern that the clips could be hacked, causing the structure to collapse prematurely, but these had been ironed out and they were now deemed to be “fail safe”.

There was surely no doubt that what I witnessed was sabotage, I said. An early prototype of the method was used on the President’s platform, and triggered to collapse just at the time when the President was in fullest view, after the parade had passed, for major effect. As the TV feed was delayed, the person with the trigger – who could of course have been local, not back in the UK – needed my texts to tell him when to set off the reaction. 

James glanced at the cutting casually, holding it upright and bouncing the edge gently on the table. He was quiet for a few seconds, then ventured, “Isn’t all this rather, shall we say, circumstantial evidence? This technique is new. It’s unlikely that prototypes would have been used by a backward country where labour is cheap and expendable.”

On the contrary, I countered. Isn’t that exactly what governments and big businesses do? Try out new processes in remote places where opposition voices are stifled or non-existent, so that if there’s an accident it goes unreported and corporate responsibility can easily be denied if the story does leak out? Come on James, you know as well as I do that the Kremlin, Mossad, the CIA, and our MI6 all hated this President. Any one of them could have arranged this, but they needed me to set the thing off!

I realised that I was raising my voice; the emotion was running high. I really couldn’t bear the stress much longer. James raised his hand to quieten me. Other customers in the restaurant had turned to look at us.

“What if your texts really were just part of this Archibald’s monitoring process? I don’t recognise him from your description, by the way, but that doesn’t mean anything. Field operators rarely came into the Office. Could it not have just been a simple coincidence? Such things do happen, you know – and with your academic background I’d be very surprised if you had really bought into some conspiracy theory.”

I was about to answer that it was a pretty unlikely coincidence but he continued. “And of course, it could simply have been an unfortunate accident. Despite what the citizens are told, they do happen. I mean, you know this better than me – wasn’t the story of Joshua marching round Jericho before the walls fell down something to do with the vibrations of the soldiers causing the shallow foundations to loosen? Sort of sending shock waves like a minor earthquake so that the walls collapsed? All that heavy metal, great missiles and tanks, thundering past, plus the soldiers in step – left, right, thump, thump – could that have simply shaken the flimsy structure? After all, it only takes a couple of joints to fail to bring something like that down. It’s happened before, in sports grounds and music festivals when people start jumping around.”

He paused again while I took this in, but my face must have told him I was unconvinced. “Look,” he said more gently, “even if it was sabotage, you yourself discovered that there were people hostile to the regime within the country. It wouldn’t have been difficult for some sixth column to sabotage the structure. They wouldn’t even have needed electronic clips. Loosen a few joints here and there and let nature take its course. They probably wanted the President dead – who didn’t? – but at least the failed assassination attempt would have sent a warning signal to the regime that they weren’t invincible.”

He took a deep breath and almost whispered, “It could have been that Sasha who you never met. Krystyna told you they hated the government and that he was working on the platform.”

That was like red rag to a bull. I exploded again. “Never! He’d know that it would have almost certainly brought reprisals not only on him and the crew, but also on their families! They were so close. She said so. He’d never willingly do something that could result in them all being killed.”

As soon as I said it I knew the obvious answer. It would be better if they all died together trying to do something than for the family to be bereft of the main breadwinner. I’d posed similar ethical dilemmas in countless tutorials and exams.

James laid the cutting down and pushed it back to me. “Funnily enough, I’d seen this story. It wasn’t in any of the other media. Did you notice where it was in the paper?” I shook my head. “Bottom of page seven,” he continued. “Where they usually put the off-beat stuff. Especially on April the first.”

© Derek Williams 2017