AS A rule, a Royal Air Force transport over Afghanistan is a poor place for collecting political intelligence. The engines are loud and the ride not smooth, as pilots swoop and roll to lessen the threat of attack from the ground. Thus it signalled that something urgent was afoot when David Cameron's director of communications, Craig Oliver, began clambering about on a cramped flight out of Kabul on July 5th. He wanted to ask reporters accompanying the prime minister their thoughts on some breaking news.

The two-day trip had already been touched by crisis. A plan to visit the town of Lashkar Gah, intended to show off improving security, was called off after a young soldier—one of 9,500 British troops in Afghanistan—went missing nearby, and was later found dead. Bagehot watched Mr Cameron handle the grim setback with assurance. As British forces searched for the soldier, the prime minister declared he would not use valuable helicopters on his own account. His sympathies expressed, he returned to his main task: explaining what Britain is doing in Afghanistan.

Mr Oliver's breaking news involved a grubbier crisis: fresh allegations against the News of the World, a tabloid mired in ever-widening claims that it obtained scoops by illegally hacking into the mobile-phone messages of celebrities, politicians and other public figures. This time, the accusation was that the paper had hacked into the voice-mail of Milly Dowler, a schoolgirl whose abduction and murder in 2002 were front-page news.

Mr Cameron's reaction was less assured. Questioned amid the shady pines and fountains of the presidential palace in Kabul, he blustered, calling the Milly Dowler allegations “really appalling,” and if true, a “dreadful situation”. A day later, back in the House of Commons, he was still awkward. He bowed to demands from the opposition Labour Party for a public inquiry into phone-hacking. He agreed that police foot-dragging over the affair looked troubling. But then he said a public inquiry (or inquiries) might have to wait until the same police completed a criminal probe. Labour gleefully called Mr Cameron “out of touch”.

There are some straightforward reasons for Mr Cameron's caution. Until January this year, the Downing Street head of communications was Andy Coulson, a former News of the World editor who resigned in 2007 after his royal correspondent and a private investigator were jailed for conspiracy to intercept voice-mail messages (Mr Coulson denied any knowledge of wrongdoing). Saying Mr Coulson deserved a second chance, Mr Cameron hired him as his PR chief, then stood by him until months of digging, notably by the Guardian, forced the ex-editor to resign for a second time in January. (The prime minister should send the Guardian flowers: if Mr Coulson were still in office, his whole government would be in crisis.)

And like all recent prime ministers, Mr Cameron is close to bosses at News International, parent company of the News of the World, the Sun, Times and Sunday Times. He calls Rebekah Brooks, the firm's chief executive, a friend. Alas, Mrs Brooks was News of the World editor when Milly Dowler's phone was allegedly hacked (she says it is “inconceivable” she knew of such acts).

The confidence trick

But other lessons can be drawn from this week's tale of two crises. Britain's deployment in Afghanistan amounts to a three-sided puzzle of high politics. On one side, most British voters no longer understand why troops are still there: internal government polling shows only about 40% believe Britain's presence helps protect national security. Against that, the British hate losing wars, and would dislike even a half-defeat in which a decade of spilled blood bought only a thuggish Afghanistan in which the Taliban play a big role. Finally, Mr Cameron is a junior partner with limited autonomy. British generals may dislike talk of pulling troops out of Afghanistan too soon, but Barack Obama is pulling tens of thousands out by September 2012.

Mr Cameron is confident in such tight spots. When public opinion is uncertain, Mr Cameron relishes explaining his case. Visiting Camp Bastion, an Ozymandian citadel that has sprung from the Afghan desert, he said the goal was not to create a “perfect country”, but an Afghanistan able to secure itself and deny terrorists a safe haven. In his telling, early thoughts of nation-building were unrealistic, then during the Iraq war the allies took their eyes off Afghanistan. Now, though winning hearts and minds is “helpful”, security unlocks the Afghan puzzle. Mr Cameron thinks that—for all the risks—setting a departure date (and making clear some Taliban will feature in a final political settlement) focuses minds in Kabul and among the British armed forces too. If his generals disagree, he will overrule them. In short, he is a man at ease with the exercise of formal authority.

In contrast, the sordid saga of phone-hacking revolves around low politics and the changeable tempests of mass opinion. In such a context, Mr Cameron's confidence seems to desert him.

Consider the evidence. Alone in Mr Cameron's rarefied inner circle, Mr Coulson offered Mr Cameron a gut feel for the popular mood. That, close observers say, helps explain why the ex-editor survived so long. Faced with loud popular or even press hostility—as over health-service reforms or planned changes to sentencing policy—Mr Cameron changes course.

Mr Cameron's enemies accuse him of swaggering overconfidence. In fact, a week of twin crises—of war in Afghanistan and sleaze at home—suggests something more complex. Assured in his office, he is ill-at-ease in matters of raw power, and in the face of public fury. That timidity has led him to some of his worst mistakes, from policy U-turns to embracing Mr Coulson. And more crises lie ahead, of both high and low politics.





Economist.com/blogs/bagehot