The House of Cards Complete Trilogy

by Michael Dobbs

Ten minutes later Roger O’Neill called a meeting of the entire Press Office at Party Headquarters. “You guys are going to have to cancel all your lunch arrangements today. I’ve had word that shortly after one o’clock this afternoon we can expect a very important statement from Downing Street. It’s absolutely confidential, I can’t tell you what it’s about, but we have to be ready to handle it. Push everything else aside.”

  Within the hour five lobby correspondents had been contacted with apologies to cancel lunch. Two of them were sworn to secrecy and told that “something big was going on in Downing Street.” It didn’t take a Brain of Britain winner to conclude that it was likely to have something to do with “the Collingridge Affair.”

  One of those facing the prospect of a canceled lunch was the PA’s Manny Goodchild. Instead of twiddling his thumbs, he used the formidable range of contacts and favors he had built up over the years to ascertain that every single member of the Cabinet had canceled engagements in order to be at Downing Street that morning, although the Number Ten Press Office refused to confirm it. He was a wise and experienced old hound and he smelled blood, so on a hunch he phoned the Buckingham Palace Press Office. That, too, like Downing Street, had nothing to say—at least officially. But the deputy press secretary had worked with Goodchild many years before on the Manchester Evening News and confirmed, entirely off the record and totally unattributably, that Collingridge had asked for an audience at 1:00 p.m.

  By 11:25 a.m. the PA tape was carrying the story of the secret Cabinet meeting and the unscheduled audience expected to take place at the Palace. It was an entirely factual report. By midday IRN was feeding local radio with a sensationalized lead item that the Prime Minister “will soon be on his way for a secret meeting with Her Majesty the Queen. Speculation has exploded in Westminster during the last hour that either he’s going to sack several of his leading Ministers and inform the Queen of a major Cabinet reshuffle, or he’s going to admit his guilt to recent charges of insider trading with his brother. There are even rumors that she has been advised to exercise her constitutional prerogative and sack him.”

  Downing Street filled with the press pack, jostling, eager. The far side of the street from the famous black door became obscured by a forest of cameras and hastily erected television lights. At 12:45 Collingridge walked out onto the doorstep of Number Ten. He knew the presence of the crowd denoted treachery. Someone had betrayed him, again. He felt as though nails had been driven through his feet. He ignored the screams of the press corps, didn’t look up, wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. He drove off into Whitehall, pursued by camera cars. Overhead he could hear a helicopter hovering, pursuing. Another crowd of photographers was waiting outside the gates of Buckingham Palace. His attempt at a dignified resignation had turned into a public crucifixion.

  * * *

  The Prime Minister had asked not to be disturbed unless it was absolutely necessary. After returning from the Palace he had retired to the private apartment above Downing Street, wanting to be alone with his wife for a few hours, yet once again his wishes counted for nothing.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Prime Minister,” his private secretary apologized, “but it’s Dr. Christian. He says it’s important.”

  The phone buzzed gently as the call was put through.

  “Dr. Christian. How can I help you? And how is Charlie?”

  “I’m afraid we have a problem,” the doctor began, his tone apologetic. “You know we try to keep him isolated, away from the newspapers so that he won’t be disturbed by all these allegations that are being thrown around. Normally we switch his television off and find something to divert him during news programs but…The fact is, we weren’t expecting the unscheduled reports about your resignation. I’m so deeply sorry you’ve had to resign, Prime Minister, but Charles is my priority. I have to put his interests first, you understand.”

  “I do understand, Dr. Christian, and you have your priorities absolutely right.”

  “This morning he’s heard everything. All these allegations about shares. And your resignation. He’s deeply upset, it’s come as a great shock. He believes he’s to blame for all that’s happened and I’m sorry to tell you but he’s talking about doing harm to himself. I’d hoped we were on the verge of making real progress with him, but now I fear we’re on the brink of a real crisis. I don’t wish to alarm you unduly but he needs your help. Very badly.”

  Sarah saw the look of anguish that had stretched across her husband’s face. She sat beside him and held his hand. It was trembling.

  “Doctor, what can I do? I’ll do anything, anything you want.”

  “We need to find some way of reassuring him. He’s desperately confused.”

  “May I talk to him, doctor? Now? Before this thing goes any further.”

  There was a wait of several minutes as his brother was brought to the telephone. Collingridge could hear the sound of protest and gentle confusion down the line.

  “Charlie, how are you old boy?” Henry said softly.

  “Hal, what have I done?”

  “Nothing, Charlie, absolutely nothing.”

  “I’ve ruined you, destroyed everything!” The voice sounded strangely old, hoarse with panic.

  “Charlie, it’s not you who’s hurt me.”

  “But I’ve seen it on the television. You going off to the Queen to resign. They said it was because of me and some shares. I don’t understand it, Hal, I’ve screwed everything up. I don’t deserve to be your brother. There’s no point in anything anymore.” There was a huge, gulping sob on the end of the phone.

  “Charlie, I want you to listen to me very carefully. Are you listening?”

  Another sob filled with mucus and tears and grief.

  “You have no need to ask my pardon. I’m the one who should be down on my knees begging for forgiveness. From you, Charlie.”

  “Don’t be stupid—”

  “No, you listen, Charlie! We’ve always got through our problems together, as family. Remember when I was running the business—the year we nearly went bust? We were going down, Charlie, and it was my fault. Too tied up in my politics. And who brought in that new client, that order which saved us? Oh, I know it wasn’t the biggest order we’d ever had but it couldn’t have come at a more vital time. You saved the company, Charlie, and you saved me. Just like you did when I was a bloody fool and got caught drink-driving that Christmas.”

  “I didn’t do anything really…”

  “The local police sergeant, the one who was a golfing friend of yours, somehow you persuaded him to fix the breath test at the station. If I’d lost my license I’d never have been selected for my constituency. I’d never have set foot in Downing Street. Don’t you see, you silly bugger, far from ruining it for me you made it all possible. You and me, we’ve always faced things together. And that’s just how it’s going to stay.”

  “I don’t deserve—”

  “No, you don’t deserve, Charlie, not a brother like me. You were always around when I needed help but what did I do in return? I got too busy for you. When Mary left, I knew how much you were hurting. I should’ve been there, of course I should. You needed me but there always seemed other things to do. I was always going to come and see you tomorrow. Always tomorrow, Charlie, always tomorrow.” The emotion was cracking Collingridge’s voice. “I’ve had my moment of glory, I’ve done the things that I wanted to do. While I watched you become an alcoholic and practically kill yourself.”

  It was the first time that either of them had spoken that truth. Charles had always been under the weather, or overtired, or suffering from nerves—never uncontrollably, alcoholically drunk. There were no secrets any longer, no going back.

  “You know something, Charlie? I’ll walk out of Downing Street and be able to say bloody good riddance, screw the lot of them—if only I know I still have my brother. I’m just terrified that it’s too late,
that I’ve neglected you too badly to be able to ask for your forgiveness—that you’ve been alone so long you don’t see the point in getting better.”

  There were tears of exquisite anguish at both ends of the phone. Sarah was hugging her husband as though he were about to be swept overboard by the storm.

  “Charlie, unless you can forgive me, what’s been the bloody point? It will all have been for nothing.”

  There was silence.

  “Say something, Charlie!” he said in desperation.

  “Bloody idiot, you are,” Charlie blurted. “You’re the best bruv any man could have.”

  “I’ll come and see you tomorrow. Promise. We’ll both have a lot more time for each other now, eh?”

  “Sorry about all the fuss.”

  “To tell you the truth, I haven’t felt this good in years.”

  Twenty-Six

  The shadows of infidelity should always lurk at the door; otherwise, a marriage grows stale.

  “Mattie, I’m surprised,” Urquhart said as he opened his front door to find her standing beneath the lamp. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “You know that’s not true, Mr. Urquhart. It’s you who’s been avoiding me. You practically ran away from me every time I tried to get near you at the conference.”

  “Well, they were a hectic few days in Bournemouth. And you are from the Chronicle. I have to admit that it wouldn’t have been”—he searched for a word—“proper for me to have been seen talking to one of their journalists, particularly one who is—how can I put this?—as blond as you.”

  His eyes were dancing in merriment and yet again she hesitated, as she had done so many times when she’d picked up the phone to call him but held back. She wasn’t entirely sure why. This man was dangerous, she knew that, made her feel things she shouldn’t, yet when she was with him she tingled with excitement right down to her toes.

  “People might have misunderstood, seeing you and me huddled in some dark corner, Mattie,” he continued, more serious now. “And that front page of yours did mortal damage to my Prime Minister.”

  “Whoever leaked the poll did the damage, not me.”

  “Well, timing is everything. And now you’re here once again. To ask me questions.”

  “It’s what I do, Mr. Urquhart.”

  “And there’s an early chill for the time of year, I think.” He gazed along the street as though to check the weather, and who might be watching. “Why don’t you come in?”

  He took her coat, sat her down in a large leather chair in his study, found them both whiskey.

  “I hope this isn’t improper, too,” she ventured.

  “Unlike Bournemouth there are no prying eyes.”

  “Mrs. Urquhart…”

  “Is at the opera with a friend. Won’t be back for some time. If at all.”

  And in a few words he had thrown a cloak of conspiracy around them that she found nestled so comfortably on her shoulders.

  “It’s been quite a day,” she said, sipping.

  “It isn’t every day that a comet appears in the sky and burns so spectacularly.”

  “Can I talk to you frankly, Mr. Urquhart, not even on lobby terms?”

  “Then you’d better call me Francis.”

  “I’ll try—Francis. It’s just that…My father was a strong character. Clear blue eyes, clear mind. In some ways you remind me of him.”

  “Of your father?” he said, a little startled.

  “I need your advice. To understand things.”

  “As a father?”

  “No. Not even as a Chief Whip. As a…friend?”

  He smiled.

  “Is it all coincidence?”

  “Is what coincidence?”

  “These leaks. The opinion poll. It was put under my door, you know.”

  “Extraordinary.”

  “Then the Renox shares. I can’t help feeling that someone’s behind it all.”

  “A plot to get rid of Henry Collingridge? But, Mattie, how could that be?”

  “Sounds silly, perhaps, but…”

  “Leaks are a part of the trade, Mattie. There are some politicians who can’t pass the doors of the Guardian without going inside and turning on the taps.”

  “You don’t destroy a prime minister by accident.”

  “Mattie, Henry Collingridge wasn’t destroyed by his opponents but by his brother’s apparent fiddling of the Renox shares. Cock-up, not conspiracy.”

  “But, Francis, I’ve met Charlie Collingridge. Spent several hours with him at the Party conference. He struck me as being a pleasant and straightforward drunk who didn’t look as if he had two hundred pounds to put together, let alone being able to raise tens of thousands to start speculating in shares.”

  “He’s an alcoholic.”

  “Would he have jeopardized his brother’s career for a few thousand pounds’ profit on the Stock Market?”

  “Alcoholics are rarely responsible.”

  “But Henry Collingridge isn’t an alcoholic. Do you really think he’d stoop to feeding his brother insider share tips to finance his boozing?”

  “I take your point. But is it any more credible to believe there’s some form of high-level plot involving senior party figures to cause total chaos?”

  She pursed her lips and a frown crept across her brow. “I don’t know,” she conceded. “It’s possible,” she added stubbornly.

  “You may be right. I’ll bear that in mind.” He finished his drink, the moment was over. He found her coat, escorted her to the door. He had his hand on the lock but didn’t open it. They were close together. “Look, Mattie, it’s possible your fears are correct.”

  “I don’t fear it, Francis,” she corrected him.

  “In any event the next few weeks are going to be tumultuous. Can we do this again, discuss these ideas, whatever twists and turns we discover—just you and me? Entirely privately?”

  She smiled. “You know, I was going to ask you much the same.”

  “Mrs. Urquhart doesn’t spend the entire week in London. She’s often away or involved with her other activities. Tuesday and Wednesday nights I’m usually here on my own. Please feel free to drop round.”

  His gaze was steady, penetrating, left her stirred and with a sense of danger.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “I will.”

  He opened the door. She was down the step when she turned. “Are you going to stand, Francis?”

  “Me? But I’m the Chief Whip, not even a full member of the Cabinet.”

  “You’re strong, you understand power. And you’re a little bit dangerous.”

  “That’s kind of you—I think. But, no, I won’t be standing.”

  “I think you should.”

  She took another step but he called after her.

  “Did you get on with your father, Mattie?”

  “I loved him,” she said before finally slipping into the night.

  * * *

  He settled himself back in his chair with a fresh whiskey, his mind alive with the events of the day, and of the hour just past. Mattie Storin was exceptionally bright and beautiful, and had made it clear she was available. But for what, precisely? The possibilities seemed as endless as they were attractive. He was musing contentedly on the matter when the phone rang.

  “Frankie?”

  “Ben, excellent to hear from you, even at this late hour.”

  Landless ignored the sarcasm. “Interesting times, Frankie, interesting times. Isn’t that what they say in China?”

  “I believe it’s a curse.”

  “I guess old Harry Collingridge would agree!”

  “I was sitting here thinking much the same.”

  “Frankie, you haven’t got time to sit on your backside. Game on. You up for it?”

  “U
p for what, Ben?”

  “Don’t be so—what’s the word?”

  “Obtuse?”

  “Yeah, up your arse. I need you to be right out in the open with me, Frankie.”

  “About what?”

  “Do you want to stand?” Landless pressed impatiently.

  “For the leadership? I’m merely the Chief Whip. I don’t appear on stage, I sit in the wings and prompt the players.”

  “Sure, sure, but do you want it? Because if you do, old son, I can be very helpful to you.”

  “Me? Prime Minister?”

  “Frankie, we’re playing a new game now, bigger balls. And your balls are almost as big as mine. I like what you do and the way you do it. You understand how to use power. So do you want to play?”

  Urquhart didn’t immediately reply. His eye went to an oil that hung on his wall in an ornate gilded frame, of a stag at bay surrounded by baying hounds. Did he have the stomach for it? The words came slowly. They took him by surprise. “I would like to play very, very much.”

  It was the first time he had confessed his ambition to anyone other than himself, yet with a man like Landless who exposed his naked desires with every chime of the clock, he felt no embarrassment.

  “That’s good, Frankie. That’s great! So let’s start from there. I’m going to tell you what the Chronicle’s running tomorrow. It’s an analysis piece by our political correspondent, Mattie Storin. Pretty blond girl with long legs and great tits—you know who I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “She’s going to say it’s an open race, everybody’s hand dipped in Collingridge’s blood, lots more chaos to come.”

  “I believe she is right.”

  “Chaos. I like chaos. Sells newspapers. So who is your money on?”

  “Well, let’s see…These things normally only last a couple of weeks. So the slick Willies, the flashy television performers, they’re the ones who will gain the best start. The tide is everything; if it’s with you it will sweep you home.”

  “Which slick Willy in particular?”

  “Try Michael Samuel.”

  “Mmm, young, impressive, principled, seems intelligent—not at all to my liking. He wants to interfere all the time, rebuild the world. Too much conscience, not enough experience.”