The House of Cards Complete Trilogy

by Michael Dobbs

“I shall withdraw my proposals for constitutional reform,” Urquhart uttered in exhaustion. “If necessary, I shall make a public apology for any…misunderstanding.”

  “Decent of you to offer, Urquhart. Saves me and Mr. Landless here insisting on it. I would like the apology made when you introduce the Abdication Bill.”

  “But there’s no need. You win. We can turn the clock back…”

  “You still don’t understand, do you? I am going to abdicate, whether you want that or not. I am not the right man for this task I was born to; I don’t have the self-restraint required of a King. I’ve come to terms with that. My abdication will protect the Crown and all it stands for much more effectively than if I try to muddle my impatient way through the murky constitutional waters. My son has already been sent for and the regency papers are being drawn up. He is more patient than I, younger, more flexible. He will have a better chance of growing into the great King I shall never be.” He prodded his own chest. “It’s the best thing for me, the man.” The finger turned on Urquhart. “And it is also the best damned way I can devise of destroying you and everything you stand for.”

  Urquhart’s lip trembled. “You used to be an idealist.”

  “And you, Mr. Urquhart, used to be a politician.”

  Epilogue

  There was a knock on the front door, a soft, tentative sort of rapping. Kenny put down his book and went to answer it. The door opened and there, on the darkened doorstep, wrapped in a new overcoat against the blustery rain, stood Mycroft.

  Mycroft had prepared his explanations and apologies carefully. With the announcement of the abdication and election, things had changed. The press had new fish to gut and fry and would leave them alone, if Kenny could understand. And forgive. But as he looked up at the other man he could see the pain deep within the startled eyes, and his words deserted him.

  They stood facing each other, each afraid of what the other might say, not wanting to expose once again the scarcely healed wounds. It seemed to Mycroft several lifetimes before Kenny finally spoke.

  “Are you going to stand out there all sodding night, David? The bears’ tea will be getting cold.”

  THE END

  Copyright © 1994, 2014 by Michael Dobbs

  Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover designed by The Book Designers

  Cover images © beboy/Shutterstock, Eremin Sergey/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Originally published in 1994 in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  The Final Cut

  Front Cover

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  “That we shall die, we know; ’tis but the time

  And drawing days out, that men stand upon.”

  —Brutus, William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar

  Introduction

  The Final Cut was written in 1994. All these years later the British are still arguing about Europe, the Cypriots have discovered a vast ocean of hydrocarbon wealth beneath the Mediterranean, and the Greeks and Turks are still arguing about the future of that sadly divided island. What I also hope the reader will find timeless is the enduring wickedness of FU.

  Prologue

  Troodos Mountains, Cyprus—1956

  It was late on an afternoon in May, the sweetest of seasons in the Troodos, beyond the time when the mountains are muffled beneath a blanket of snow but before the days when they serve as an anvil for the Levantine sun. The spring air was filled with the heavy tang of resin and the sound of the breeze being shredded on the branches of great pines, like the noise of the sea being broken upon a pebbled shore. But this was many miles from the Mediterranean, almost as far as is possible to get from the sea on the small island of Cyprus.

  These were good times, a season of abundance even in the mountains. For a few weeks in spring the dust of crumbling rock chippings that passes for soil becomes a treasury of wildflowers—erupting bushes of purple-flowered sword lily, blood-dipped poppies, alyssum, the leaves and golden heads of which in ancient times were supposed to effect a cure for madness.

  Yet nothing would cure the madness that was about to burst forth on the side of the mountain.

  George, fifteen and almost three-quarters, prodded the donkey further up the mountain path, oblivious to the beauty. His mind had turned once again to breasts. It was a topic that seemed to demand most of his time nowadays, depriving him of sleep, causing him not to hear a word his mother said, making him blush whenever he looked at a woman, which he always did straight between her breasts. They had an energy source all their own, which dragged his eyes toward them, like magnets, no matter how hard he tried to be polite. He never seemed to remember what their faces looked like; his eyes rarely strayed that far. He’d marry a toothless old hag one day. So long as she had breasts.

  If he were to avoid insanity or, even worse, the monastery, somehow he would have to do it, he decided. Do IT. Before he was fifteen and three-quarters. In two weeks’ time.

  He was also hungry. On the way up he and his younger brother, Eurypides, thirteen and practically one half, had stopped to plunder honey from the hives owned by the old crone Chlorides, who had mean eyes like a bird and horribly gnarled fingers—she always accused them of robbing her, whether they had or not, so a little larceny used up some of their extensive credit. Local justice. George had subdued the bees with the smoke from a cigarette he had brought along specifically for the purpose. He’d almost gagged—he hadn’t taken to cigarettes yet, but would, he promised himself. Soon. As soon as he had had IT. Then,
maybe, he could get to sleep at nights.

  Not far to go. The terraced ledges where a few wizened olive trees clung to the rock face were now far behind; they were already two kilometers above the village, less than another two to climb. The light had started to soften, it would be dark in a couple of hours and George wanted to be home by then.

  He gave the donkey another fierce prod. The animal, beneath its burden of rough-hewn wooden saddle and bulging cloth panniers, was finding difficulty in negotiating the boulder-strewn trail and cared nothing for such encouragement. The beast expressed its objection in the traditional manner.

  “Not over my school uniform, dog meat!” Eurypides sprang back in alarm, too late, and cursed. There was a beating if he did not attend school in uniform. Even in a poor mountain village they had standards.

  And they had guns.

  Like the two Sten guns wrapped in sacking at the bottom of one of the panniers they were delivering, along with the rest of the supplies, to their older brother. George envied his older brother, hiding out with five other EOKA fighters in a mountain lair.

  EOKA. Ethniki Organosis Kyprion Agoniston—the National Organization of Cypriot Fighters—who for a year had been trying to blast open the closed colonial minds of their British rulers and force them to grant the island independence. They were terrorists to some, liberation fighters to others. To George, great patriots. With every part of him that was not concerned with sex he wanted to join them, to fight the enemies of his country. But the High Command was emphatic; no one under the age of eighteen could take up arms. He would have lied, but there was no point, not in a village where everyone knew even the night of his conception, just before Christmas 1939. The war against the Germans was only a few months old and his father’s brother George had volunteered for the Cyprus Regiment of the British Army. Like many young Cypriots he had wanted to join the fight for freedom in Europe, which, once won, would surely bring their own release. Or so they had thought. His uncle’s farewell celebration had been a long night of feasting and loving, and he had been conceived.

  Uncle George never came back.

  The younger George had much to live up to. He idolized the uncle he had never known, but he was only fifteen and almost three-quarters and instead of marching in heroic footsteps was reduced to delivering messages and supplies.

  “Did you really do it with Vasso? Seriously, George.”

  “Course, stupid. Several times!” George lied.

  “What was it like?”

  “Like peponia, soft melons of flesh,” George exclaimed, gyrating his hands in demonstration. He wanted to expand but couldn’t; Vasso had taken him no further than the buttons of her blouse where he had found not the soft fruits he had anticipated but small, hard breasts with nipples like plum stones.

  Eurypides giggled but didn’t believe. “You didn’t, did you?” he accused. George felt his carefully constructed edifice wobbling beneath him.

  “Did.”

  “Didn’t.”

  “Psefti.”

  “Malaka!”

  Eurypides threw a stone and George jumped, stumbling on a loose rock and falling flat on his rump, fragments of his dream scattered around him. Eurypides’s squeals of laughter, by turns childishly high pitched and pubescent gruff, filled the valley and cascaded like acid over his brother’s pride. George felt humiliated; he needed something to restore his flagging esteem. Suddenly he knew exactly how.

  George loosened the string neck of one of the panniers and reached deep inside, beneath the oranges and side of smoked pork, until his fingers grasped a cylindrical parcel of sacking. Carefully he withdrew it, then a second slightly smaller bundle. In the shadow of a large boulder he laid both on the carpet of soft pine needles, gently removed the wrappings, and Eurypides gasped. It was his first trip on the supply run; he hadn’t been told what they were carrying. Staring up at him from the sacking was the dull gray metal of a Sten gun, modified with a folding butt to make it more compact for smuggling. Alongside it were three ammunition mags.

  George was delighted with the effect. Within a few seconds, as his older brother had taught him the week before, he had prepared the Sten, a lightweight machine gun, swinging and locking into position the skeletal metal butt, engaging one of the magazines. He fed the first bullet into the chamber. It was ready.

  “Didn’t know I could use one of these, did you?” He felt much better, authority reestablished. He wedged the gun in the crook of his elbow and adopted a fighting pose, raking the valley with a burst of pretend fire, doing to death a thousand different enemies. Then he turned on the donkey, dispatching it with a volley of whistled sound effects. The beast, unaware of its fate, continued to rip at a clump of tough grass.

  “Let me, George. My turn,” his brother pleaded.

  George, the Commander, shook his head.

  “Or I’ll tell everyone about Vasso,” Eurypides bargained.

  George spat. He liked his little brother who, although only thirteen and practically one half, could already run faster and belch more loudly than almost anyone in the village. Eurypides was also craftier than most of his age, and more than capable of a little blackmail. George had no idea precisely what Eurypides was planning to tell everyone about him and Vasso, but in his fragile emotional state any morsel was already too much. He handed over the weapon.

  As Eurypides’s hand closed around the rubberized grip and his finger stretched for the trigger, the gun barked, five times, before the horrified boy let it fall to the floor.

  “The safety!” George yelped, too late. He’d forgotten. The donkey gave a violent snort of disgust and cantered twenty yards along the path in search of less disturbed grazing.

  The main advantages of the 9 mm Sten gun are that it is light and capable of reasonably rapid fire; it is neither particularly powerful nor considered very accurate. And its blowback action is noisy. In the crystal air of the Troodos, where the folds of the mountains spread away from Mount Chionistra into mist-filled distances, sound carries like a petrel on the wing. It was scarcely surprising that the British army patrol heard the bark of the Sten gun; what was more remarkable was the fact that the patrol had been able to approach so closely without George or Eurypides being aware of their presence.

  There were shouts from two sides. George sprang to retrieve the donkey but already it was too late. A hundred yards beneath them, and closing, was a soldier in khaki and a Highland bonnet. He was waving a .303 in their direction.

  Eurypides was already running; George delayed only to sweep up the Sten and two remaining magazines. They ran up the mountain to where the trees grew more dense, brambles snatching at their legs, the pumping of their hearts and rasping breath drowning any sound of pursuit until they could run no further. They slumped across a rock, wild eyes telling each other of their fear, their lungs burning.

  Eurypides was first to recover. “Mum’ll kill us for losing the donkey,” he gasped.

  They ran a little more until they stumbled into a shallow depression in the ground well hidden by boulders, and there they decided to hide. They lay facedown in the center of the rocky bowl, an arm across each other, listening.

  “What’ll they do if they catch us, George? Whip us?” Eurypides had heard dream-churning tales of how the British thrashed boys they believed were helping EOKA, a soldier clinging to each limb and a fifth supplying the whipping with a thin, ripping rod of bamboo. It was like no punishment they received at school, one you could get up and walk away from. With the Tommies, you were fortunate to be able to crawl.

  “They’ll torture us to find out where we’re taking the guns, where the men are hiding,” George whispered through dried lips. They both knew what that meant. An EOKA hide had been uncovered near a neighboring village just before the winter snows had arrived. Eight men were cut down in the attack. The ninth, and sole survivor, not yet twenty, had been hanged at Nicosia Jail the
previous week.

  They both thought of their elder brother.

  “Can’t let ourselves be captured, George. Mustn’t tell.” Eurypides was calm and to the point. He had always been less excitable than George, the brains of the family, the one with prospects. There was even talk of his staying at school beyond the summer, going off to the Pankyprion Gymnasium in the capital and later becoming a teacher, even a civil servant in the colonial administration. If there was still to be a colonial administration.

  They lay as silently as possible, ignoring the ants and flies, trying to melt into the hot stone. It was twelve minutes before they heard the voices.

  “They disappeared beyond those rocks over there, Corporal. Havnae seen hide nor hair o’ them since.”

  George struggled to control the fear that had clamped its jaws around his bladder. He felt disgusted, afraid he was going to foul himself. Eurypides was looking at him with questioning eyes.

  From the noises beyond the rocks they reckoned that another two, possibly three, had joined the original soldier and corporal, who were standing some thirty yards away.

  “Kids you say, MacPherson?”

  “Two o’ them. One still in school uniform, Corporal, short troosers an’ all. Cannae harm us.”

  “Judging by the supplies we found on the mule they were intending to do someone a considerable amount o’ harm. Guns, detonators. They even had grenades made up from bits of piping. We need those kids, MacPherson. Badly.”

  “Wee bastards’ll probably already huv vanished, Corporal.” A scuffling of boots. “I’ll hae a look.”

  The boots were approaching now, crunching over the thick mat of pine debris. Eurypides bit deep into the soft tissue of his lip. He reached for George’s hand, trying to draw strength, and as their ice-cold fingers entwined so George started to grow, finding courage for them both. He was the older, this was his responsibility. His duty. And, he knew, his fault. He had to do something. He pinched his brother’s cheek.

  “When we get back, I’ll show you how to use my razor,” he smiled. “Then we’ll go see Vasso, both of us together. Eh?”