The House of Cards Complete Trilogy

by Michael Dobbs

  There was no need for the newspapers to keep their sources anonymous any longer; the protesters were tripping over themselves in the rush to denounce bigotry, medieval morality, and cant. Even those who agreed with McKillin had been of no help, a leading antigay campaigner being dragged from obscurity to demand in venomous tones that McKillin sack all homosexual MPs in his party or be branded a hypocrite.

  Kenny switched off the television. Mycroft sat silently for some time, slumped among bean bags piled in front of the screen, while Kenny quietly prepared two mugs of hot coffee, laced with brandy out of miniatures smuggled back from one of his trips. He had seen it all before, the outrage, the alarm, the invective, the inevitable suspicion it brought. He could also see how upset was Mycroft. The older man had seen none of this before, not from this angle.

  “God, I’m confused,” Mycroft eventually muttered, biting his lip. He was still staring at the blank screen, unwilling to look directly into Kenny’s eyes. “All this fuss, this talk about rights. I just can’t help remembering that odious man Marples dragging along the young boy. Didn’t the boy have rights, too?”

  “All queers tarred with the same brush, eh?”

  “I sometimes ask myself what the hell I’m doing. What does it all mean for my job, for me? You know, I still can’t identify, join the club, not when I see men like Marples and some of those militants jumping up and down on the screen.”

  “I’m gay, David. A queer. A faggot. A fairy queen. Nancy boy. Poof. Call it what you like, that’s what I am. You saying you can’t identify with me?”

  “I’m…not very good at this, am I? All my life I’ve been brought up to conform, to believe that such things are…Christ, Kenny, half of me agrees with McKillin. Being a queer is wrong! Yet, and yet…” He raised troubled eyes to look directly at his partner. “I’ve had more happiness in the last few weeks than I ever thought possible.”

  “That’s gay, David.”

  “Then I suppose I must be, Kenny. I must be. Gay. Because I think I love you.”

  “Then forget about all that crap.” Kenny waved angrily in the direction of the television. “Let the rest of the world go mount their own soapboxes and get splinters in their dicks, we don’t have to join them in slagging off everybody else. Love’s meant to be inside, private, not open bloody warfare on every street corner.” He looked earnestly at Mycroft. “I don’t want to lose you, David. Don’t go getting guilty on me.”

  “If McKillin is right, we may never get to heaven.”

  “If heaven’s full of people who are so utterly stinking miserable, who can’t even accept what they are or what they feel, then I don’t think I want to join. So why don’t we just stick with what we’ve got here, you and me, and be happy.”

  “For how long, Kenny?”

  “For as long as we’ve got, old love.”

  “For as long as they leave us alone, you mean.”

  “Some people come to the edge of the cliff and they look over, then run away in fear. They never realize it’s possible to fly, to soar away, to be free. They spend their lives crawling along cliff tops without ever finding the courage. Don’t spend your life crawling, David.”

  Mycroft gave a weak smile. “I’m not sure if I have much of a head for heights.”

  Kenny put his coffee aside. “Come here, you daft bugger. Let’s go jump off a cliff.”

  Twenty-Four

  All politics involves a little larceny. I try to steal a constituency or two, while he tries to steal the entire country.

  The rifle lined up on its target exactly twenty-five yards away. The head of Gordon McKillin stared back unflinching. A breath, a moment, a tightened finger. There was a sharp retort as the .22-caliber bullet sped on its way. A perfect hole appeared on the old campaign poster exactly where the Opposition Leader’s mouth had been, before the badly peppered target disintegrated and fluttered like orphaned pieces of tissue to the floor.

  “Don’t make posters like they used to.”

  “Nor Leaders of the Opposition.”

  Urquhart and Stamper enjoyed their joke. Directly beneath the dining room of the House of Lords in a low, wood-lined cellar strewn with the piping, conduits, and other architectural entrails of the Palace of Westminster, the two men lay side by side in the narrow rifle range where parliamentarians retreat to vent their murderous instincts on paper targets rather than each other. It was where Churchill had practiced his gunnery in preparation for the expected German invasion, vowing to fight it personally and to the last from behind the sandbags at the top of Downing Street. And it was where Urquhart practiced for Question Time, freed from the inhibitions of Madam Speaker’s censorious stare.

  “A stroke of luck yours, coming up with that church pamphlet,” Stamper acknowledged somewhat grudgingly, adjusting the leather wrist sling that supported the heavy bolt-action target rifle. He was a much less experienced shot than Urquhart, and had never beaten him.

  “The Colquhouns are a rather exotic tribe, members of which descend upon Mortima from time to time bearing all sorts of strange gifts. One of them thought I would be interested in the morality of youth, strange man. It wasn’t luck, Tim. Simply good breeding.”

  The former estate agent glowered. “You want to shoot any more?” he inquired, placing another bullet in the chamber.

  “Tim, I want a veritable war.” Urquhart raised the rifle to his well-padded shoulder once more, peering fixedly down the sight. “I’ve decided. It’s on again.”

  “Another of your campus jokes.”

  Urquhart obliterated a further paper portrait before turning to Stamper. His smile was withering.

  “McKillin’s in trouble. He went out on a limb, and it broke. So sad.”

  “We’re not ready, Francis. It’s too soon,” Stamper objected, deeply unconvinced.

  “The Opposition will be even less well prepared. Parties facing an election are like tourists being pursued by a man-eating lion. You don’t have to outrun the lion—you can’t. All you have to do is make sure you run faster than the other bastard.”

  “The country might be buried under a foot of snow at this time of year.”

  “Great! We’ve got more vehicles with four-wheel drive than they have.”

  “But we’re still four points behind in the polls,” the Party Chairman protested.

  “Then there’s no time to lose. Six weeks, Tim. Let’s get a grip on them. A major policy announcement every week. A high profile foreign trip, the new PM taking Moscow or Washington by storm. Let’s have a row in Europe, demand some money back. I want dinner with every friendly editor in Fleet Street, on his own, while you tickle the political correspondents. And, if we can get away with it, a cut in interest rates. Castrate a few criminals. Get a bandwagon rolling. We’ve got McKillin on the floor, let’s be sure to kick hell out of him while he’s down. No prisoners, Tim. Not for the next six weeks.”

  “Let’s hope His Majesty decides to cooperate this time.” Stamper couldn’t hide his skepticism.

  “You’re right. I’ve been thinking we should take a new approach to the Palace. Build a few bridges. Put your ear to the ground, find out what the gossip is. What’s going on in the dark places.”

  Stamper cocked an ear, as if he heard the sound of prey lumbering through the forest.

  “And we need foot soldiers, Tim. Loyal, dedicated. Not too bright. Men who would be happy to charge across those bridges, should the need arise.”

  “That does sound like war.”

  “Better win it, old boy. Or they’ll be putting us up there as targets. And I’m not talking about paper images, either.”

  Twenty-Five

  Being a member of the House of Commons is often like being buried alive. At least in the House of Lords they have the grace to wait until you are almost dead.

  January: The Second Week

  The gravel of the long
drive leading from the gate lodge to the front of the old manor house rattled against the bodywork of the car as it drew up alongside the other vehicles. The polished dark-blue Rolls-Royce seemed out of place alongside the battered Land Rovers and muddy estate cars, and Landless already knew he would not fit in. He didn’t mind, he was used to it. The manor house was the ancestral home of Mickey, Viscount Quillington, and commanded magnificent views over the rolling countryside of Oxfordshire, although a gray January afternoon was not the best of settings. The fabric of the building charted the chaotic progress of an ancient aristocratic family and was mostly William and Mary or Victorian with a hint of Tudor in the wing nearest the tiny chapel, but of the twentieth century there was little sign.

  The damp seemed to follow him into the rough and tumble of the large entrance hall filled with tangled hunting dogs, mucky Wellington boots, and a variety of anoraks and outer garments all struggling to dry. The floor tiles were badly chipped and there was not a hint of central heating anywhere. It was the type of house that in many other parts had been rescued from decay by an expanding Japanese hotel group or golf course consortium, but not here, not yet. He was glad he had declined the invitation to stay the night.

  The Quillingtons traced their line back to the time when one of their ancestors had traveled to Ireland with Cromwell, collected his estates for bloody services rendered, and returned to England at the time of the Restoration to make a second fortune. It was a fine history, on which the current generation of Quillingtons, impoverished by time, misfortune, and inadequate tax planning, reflected with awe. The estates had gradually been whittled away, the ties with Ireland finally broken, many of the paintings sold, the best pieces of furniture and silver auctioned, the large staff pared. This was old money, and it was growing increasingly short.

  Meeting the other guests proved something of a trial for the businessman. They were all old friends, some dating from nursery days and displaying the type of public school clannishness boys from Bethnal Green find impossible to penetrate. His clothes hadn’t helped. “Country casual” he’d been told. He had turned up in a check two-piece with waistcoat and brown shoes; they were all wearing jeans. Not until Princess Charlotte greeted him warmly did he begin to feel less defensive.

  The weekend had been built around the Princess. Arranged by Quillington’s younger brother, David, it was an opportunity for her to relax among old friends away from the petty intrigues of London’s socialites and gossip columnists. Here they were almost all scions of old families, some older than the Windsors, and to them she was a friend with a job to do, still the “Beany” of childhood squabbles in the swimming pool and costume parties organized by po-faced nannies. She had insisted on a private bedroom well away from other guests and David had seen to all the arrangements, tidying the two detectives and chauffeur of the Royal Protection Group well away at the back of the house. The Princess had the Chinese Room, not so much a suite but more a single vast room on the first floor of the East Wing, with David occupying the only other bedroom on the floor. Her privacy was ensured.

  There was a certain sadness in surveying the house with its ancient wiring, frayed edges, dank corners, and one wing almost completely closed down, yet it had character and a great sense of history, and the dining room was magnificent. Fifty feet long, oak-paneled, lit by two fernlike chandeliers whose lights shone deep into a burnished table constructed from the timbers of an old Man o’ War and crafted by prisoners from Napoleon’s navy. The silver was old and monogrammed, the crystal assorted, the effect timeless. Old money, even in short supply, certainly knew how to eat. Quillington presided at the head of the table, on his right the Princess and on his left Landless, with others further down, and they listened politely to the publisher’s stories of City life as their ancestors might have listened to explorer’s tales of the South Sea islands.

  After dinner they took their port and cognac into the Old Library, where the ceiling was high and the winter air clung tenaciously to the far corners, where leather-clad books were piled along endless shelves and smoke-darkened oil paintings covered the one free wall. Landless thought he could see marks on the wall where paintings had been removed, presumably for auction, with the remainder spread around a little more thinly. The furniture seemed as old as any part of the house. One of the two large sofas crowding around the roaring log fire was covered in a car rug to hide the ravages of age, while the other stood battered and naked, its dark green fabric torn by the insistent scratching of dogs, with its stuffing of horsehair dribbling out like candle wax from underneath one of the cushions. Within the embrace of the Library, dinner guests became almost family and the conversation grew more relaxed and uninhibited.

  “Shame about today,” Quillington muttered, kicking the fire with the heel of his leather boot. The fire spat back, sending a shower of sparks up the broad chimney. He was a tall, streaky figure much used to wandering around in tightly tailored jeans, high boots, and a broad kangaroo-skin fedora, which looked eccentric if not vaguely ridiculous on a fifty-year-old. Eccentricity was a useful cover for encroaching impoverishment. “Damned hunt-saboteurs, buzz like flies around horse shit. There they are, on my land, and the police refuse to arrest them or even move them on. Not unless they actually attack someone. God knows what this country is coming to when you can’t even prevent layabouts like that rampaging all over your own land. Home a man’s damned castle, ’n’ all that.”

  It had not been a successful day’s hunting. The animal rights protesters had waved their banners and spread their pepper and aniseed, unsettling the horses, confusing the hounds, and outraging the huntsmen. It had been a soggy morning overflowing with drizzle, not good for picking up trails, and they had lumbered through the heavy clay of the countryside to find nothing more enthralling than the carcass of a dead cat.

  “You can’t throw them off your own land?” inquired Landless.

  “Not bloody likely. Trespass isn’t criminal; police’ll do damn all about it. You can ask them politely to move on; they tell you to piss off. You so much as lay a finger on them and you find yourself in court on assault charges. For protecting your own bloody property.”

  “Chalked up one of the yobs, I did,” the Princess intervened gaily. “Saw him hovering close behind my horse so I backed the beast up. Scared all hell out of him when he saw sixteen hands shunting straight toward him. He jumped back, stumbled, and fell straight into a pile of fresh crap!”

  “Bravo, Beany. Filled his pants, I hope,” David Quillington interjected. “You hunt, Mr. Landless?”

  “Only in the City.”

  “You should try it sometime. See the countryside at its best.”

  Landless doubted that. He had arrived in time to find the stragglers returning from the hunt, faces red and blotched, covered in mud and thoroughly soaked. Mix in the sight of a fox being torn apart, its entrails smeared over the ground and squelched beneath horses’ hooves, and he thought he could well do without such pleasures. Anyway, boys born and brought up in concrete tower blocks surrounded by broken street lamps and derelict cars tend to have a naive empathy for the countryside and the things that live in it. He hadn’t seen any of England’s green and pleasant pastures until a school day-trip when he was thirteen and, in truth, he held an undemanding admiration for the fox.

  “Foxes are vermin,” the younger Quillington continued. “Attack chickens, ducks, newborn lambs, even sick calves. Scrounge off city rubbish dumps and spread disease. It’s too easy to knock the landowners but, I tell you, without their work in protecting the countryside, keeping it clear of pests like foxes, rebuilding the walls and hedgerows, planting woodlands for fox and pheasant cover—all at their own expense—those protesters would have a lot less countryside to protest about.”

  Landless noticed that the younger Quillington, seated on the sofa next to the Princess, was moderate both in his language and his drinking. That could not be said of his brother, leaning against
the Adam fireplace, glass in hand. “Under threat. Everything under threat, you know. They trample over your land, shouting, screaming like Dervishes, waving their banners and blowing their bloody horns, trying to pull the hounds onto busy roads and railway lines. Even when they manage to get themselves arrested some damned fool magistrate takes pity on them. And me, because I’ve got land, because my family has worked it for generations, devoted themselves to the local community, done their bit for the country in the House of Lords, because I’ve tried so hard and got no bloody money left and nothing but bills and bank letters to read, I’m supposed to be a parasite!”

  “There’s no sense of proportion anymore,” the Princess agreed. “Take my family. Used to be held in respect. Nowadays journalists are more interested in what goes on in the bedroom than the State Room.”

  Landless noticed the exchange of looks between the Princess and the younger Quillington. It was not their first. They had begun the evening sitting well apart at opposite ends of the sofa, but they seemed to have drawn ever closer, like magnets.

  “Absolutely, Beany. They know you can’t defend yourself so they lay into you without pity,” Mickey continued from his position by the fire. “We’ve all worked damned hard for what little we have. Yet they get at the foxhunting, they attack the landowners, they undermine the hereditary principle, and the next thing you know we’re a sodding republic. It’s about time we started sticking up for ourselves, stopped taking it on the chin and turning the other cheek.”

  Charlotte had finished her glass and was holding it out toward the younger Quillington for a refill. “But, Mickey, I can’t, none of my lot can. The Family’s supposed to be the silent service.” She turned to Landless. “What do you think, Benjamin?”

  “I’m a businessman, not a politician,” he protested coyly, but checked himself. She had offered him a chance to break into their tight circle of concerns; there was no point in turning it down. “Very well, take a lesson from the politician’s book. If a Minister wants something said but finds it injudicious to say it himself, he gets somebody else to do the talking. A fellow MP, a business leader, a newspaper editor even. You have friends, influential friends. Like Lord Quillington here, with a voice and seat in the House of Lords.”