The House of Cards Complete Trilogy

by Michael Dobbs

  The choir had finished and she looked around at him, a fleeting softness in her eye that he knew brimmed with regret. How much easier retirement would be to contemplate, had they had children. Instead all they would leave behind them were a Library and the fickle judgment of history. Après moi, rien. Once he had thought that would be enough but, as the years passed and mortality knocked, he was no longer sure.

  “Rejoice in the Lord always: and again I say, Rejoice. Let your moderation be known unto all men…”

  Clerical hyperbole and half-truth, a momentary suspension of political life in the pews behind him while piously they honored death and, like birds of prey, plotted more.

  “Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure.”

  Men sang such tunes in sleepy ritual then woke to ignore them so blithely. Yet, on the day of reckoning, what would be his own case? He suffered a pang of momentary doubt as ghosts crowded into the shadows of his mind, but then he was clear, as he had always been. That what he had done was not for himself, but for others, for his country. That the affairs of men require sacrifices to be made, and that the sacrifices he had made had always been motivated by public and national interest. Sacrifice of others, to be sure, sometimes in blood, but had not he and Mortima made sacrifices of their own, two lives devoted to one cause in the service of others?

  “…that all things may be so ordered and settled by their endeavors, upon the best and surest foundations, that peace and happiness, truth and justice, religion and piety, may be established among us for all generations.”

  Crap. Life was like setting sail in a sieve upon a wild and disorderly sea. Most people got sick, many drowned.

  “In silence, let us remember Frederick Archibald St. John Warburton.”

  Best damned way to remember the man. In complete bloody silence. But it was not the way Urquhart intended to go.

  “Thy will be done on earth…”

  And there he drew the line. No, that was not good enough, never had been good enough for Urquhart. Some men used morality as a crutch, an excuse—always the men who failed and achieved nothing. Morality was not the way through the swamp but the swamp itself, waiting to ensnare you, bind your limbs, drag you under. Great empires had not been built or sustained on such poor footings, or the British people protected from the plottings of envious foreigners by prayer. In the end, those who honored weakness were weak themselves. A great man was judged by how high he climbed, not by how long he could remain on his knees.

  When the time came, he would not go in silence, he would depart with so much clamor that it would echo through the ages. Francis Urquhart would be master of his own fate.

  “Amen.”

  ***

  Geoffrey Booza-Pitt revealed an unusual degree of self-consciousness as he faced his Prime Minister across the desk of the Downing Street study, hands clasped together, knuckles showing white and a smile seeming painted and fixed. It was not unusual for him to seek a private audience, and within limits Urquhart encouraged it; Geoffrey was a notorious gossip and adept at stealing others’ ideas, which he could either claim as his own or abandon with ridicule depending on the reception given to them by his master. He was without doubt the finest ankle-tapper in the Cabinet, displaying fastidious team loyalty in public while dexterous at sending his colleagues sprawling in front of goal, usually clipping them from the blind side and always with an expression of pained innocence. A useful source of information and amusement for Urquhart, who relished the sport.

  Urquhart had assumed that Booza-Pitt would be laying the ground for a change of responsibility at the next reshuffle. Geoffrey was a young man constantly on the move; ever since he had kicked open the door of the pen with a series of brilliant pyrotechnic displays at party conference he had proved impossible to pin down to any job or, for those who had memories for such things, to any guiding political principle. But in that he was not unique, and his effervescent energy, which is the hallmark of some slightly undersized men, more than made up for any lack of depth in the eyes of most observers. Geoffrey was going places—he left no listener in any doubt of the fact and such enthusiasm to many is infectious. And it was no secret around Westminster that Geoffrey would welcome a new job. As Transport Secretary for the last two years he had long since grown exasperated with the futility of trying to siphon twentieth-century cars through London’s nineteenth-century road system and desperately wanted to escape the gridlock for some new challenge—any new challenge, so long as it came in the form of perceptible promotion. Move on before you grow roots and others grow bored was the Booza-Pitt rule, a creed he followed as much in love as in politics. He’d already scraped through two marriages; his ribald and envious colleagues referred to his Westminster house as the In & Out Club. Geoffrey’s response had been to make a dubious virtue of necessity and to eschew further matrimonial entanglement, instead choosing his companions on an à la carte basis from the lengthy menu provided by the women of Westminster. Being single, it merely enhanced the dynamic impression.

  Yet in the subdued lighting of Urquhart’s study, the Transport Secretary belied his image. The neatly trimmed sandy hair had tumbled across his forehead, the eyes cast down, the broad and slightly crooked chin that normally afforded an aura of rugged athleticism tonight looked simply askew. A schoolboy come to confess.

  “Geoffrey, dear boy. What news do you bring from the battle front? Are we winning?” He laid aside the gold-ribbed fountain pen with which he had been signing letters, forcing Booza-Pitt to wait, and suffer.

  “Polls seem to be…not too bad.”

  “Could be better.”

  “Will be.”

  Urquhart studied the other man. The eyes were rimmed in red; he thought he could detect the bite of whiskey on his breath. Trouble.

  “Come to the point, Geoffrey.”

  There was no resistance; his composure drained and the shoulders drooped. “I’ve got…a little local difficulty, FU.”

  “Women.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  The Minister was known to be a man of modest intellect and immoderate copulation; Urquhart had assumed it was only a matter of time before he stubbed his toe in public. “In this business it’s always either women or money—at least in our party.” He leaned forward in a gesture of paternal familiarity, encouraging confession. “She wasn’t dead, was she? Almost anything can be smoothed over, except for live animals and dead women.”

  “No, of course not! But it’s…more complicated than that.”

  More than a stubbed toe—a broken leg, perhaps? Amputation might be called for. “Well, so far we have one—one?—live woman. Tell me more.”

  “The chairman of my local party is going to divorce his wife on the grounds of adultery, citing me.”

  “It is true, I assume.”

  Booza-Pitt nodded, his hands still clasped between his knees as though defending his manhood from the enraged husband.

  “Embarrassing. Might make it difficult to get yourself reselected for the next election with him in the chair.”

  Booza-Pitt sighed deeply and rapidly several times, expelling the air forcefully as though attempting to extirpate demons within.

  “He says he’s not going to be there. He’s very bitter. Plans to resign from the party and go to the newspapers with the story.”

  “A tangled web indeed.”

  “And make all sorts of ridiculous allegations.” This was almost blurted. Control of his breathing had gone.

  “That you seduced her…”

  “And that I got her to invest money in property on my behalf.”

  “So?”

  “Property that was blighted by proposed road building schemes.”

  “Let me guess. Schemes that were about to be canceled. Scrapped. So lifting the blight and greatly inc
reasing the value of the property. Inside information known only to a handful of people. Including the Secretary of State for Transport. You.”

  The lack of response confirmed Urquhart’s suspicions.

  “Christ, Geoffrey, you realize that would be a matter for not only resignation, but also criminal prosecution.”

  He wriggled like a worm on a hook. Piranha bait. Urquhart left him dangling as he considered. To convict or to assist, punish or protect? He had just buried one Cabinet member; to bury a second in such rapid succession could look more than unfortunate. He swiveled his pen on the blotter in front of him, like a compass seeking direction.

  “You can assure me that these accusations are false?”

  “Lies, all lies! You have my word.”

  “But I assume there are land registry deeds and titles with dates that to the cynical eye will appear to be more than coincidence. How did she know?”

  “Pillow talk, perhaps, no more than that. I…I may have left my Ministerial box open in her bedroom on one occasion.”

  Urquhart marveled at the younger man’s inventiveness. “You know as well as I do, Geoffrey, that if this comes out they won’t believe you. They’ll hound you right up the steps of the Old Bailey.”

  The fountain pen was now pointed directly at Booza-Pitt, like an officer’s sword at a court-martial, in condemnation. Urquhart produced a sheet of writing paper, which he laid alongside it. “I want you to write me a letter, Geoffrey, which I shall dictate.”

  Awkwardly, with the movements of a man freezing in the Arctic desert, Booza-Pitt began to write.

  “‘Dear Prime Minister,’” Urquhart began. “‘I am sorry to have to inform you that I have been having an affair with a married woman, the wife of the chairman of my local association.’”

  Geoffrey raised pleading eyes, but Urquhart nodded him on.

  “‘Moreover, she has accused me of using confidential information available to me as a Government Minister to trade in blighted property and enrich myself, in breach not only of Ministerial ethics but also of the criminal law.’ New paragraph, Geoffrey. ‘While I have given you my word of honor that these accusations are utterly without foundation, in light of these allegations…’”

  Booza-Pitt paused to raise a quizzical brow.

  “‘…I have no alternative other than to tender my resignation.’”

  The death warrant. A sob of misery bounced across the desk.

  “Sign it, Geoffrey.” The pen had become an instrument of punishment. “But don’t date it.”

  A dawning of hope, a stay of execution. Booza-Pitt did as he was told, managed a smile. Urquhart retrieved the paper, examined it thoroughly, and slid it into the drawer of his desk. Then his voice sank to a whisper, like a vault expelling the last of its air.

  “You contemptible idiot! How dare you endanger my Government with your sordid little vices? You’re not fit to participate in a Francis Urquhart Cabinet.”

  “I’m so dreadfully sorry. And appreciative…”

  “I created you. Made a space for you at the trough.”

  “Always grateful…”

  “Never forget.”

  “Never shall. But…but, Francis. What are we going to do about my chairman?”

  “I may, just possibly, be able to save your life. What’s his name?”

  “Richard Tennent.”

  “Have I ever met him?”

  “Last year, when you came to my constituency. He chewed your ear about grants for tourism.”

  Slowly, without taking his eyes off Booza-Pitt, Urquhart reached for his phone. “Get me a Mr. Richard Tennent. New Spalden area.”

  And they waited in silence. It took less than two minutes for the operator to make the connection.

  “Mr. Tennent? This is Francis Urquhart at Downing Street. Do you remember we met last year, had that delightful discussion about tourism? Yes, you put the case very well. Look, I wanted to have an entirely confidential word with you, if you’re agreeable. Bit unorthodox, but I have a problem. Did you know that you’ve been put up for an honor, for your political and public service?”

  Evidently not.

  “No, you shouldn’t have known, these things are supposed to be confidential. That’s why I wanted an entirely private word. You see, I’ve just been going through the list and, to be frank, after what you’ve done for the party I thought you deserved something a little better. A knighthood, in fact. Trouble is, there’s a strict quota and a bit of a waiting list. I very much want you to have the ‘K,’ Mr. Tennent, but it would mean your waiting perhaps another eighteen months. You can have the lesser gong straightaway, though, if you like.”

  The voice dripped goodwill while his eyes lashed coldly across Booza-Pitt, who showed little sign of being able to breathe.

  “You’d prefer to wait. I entirely understand. But you realize that this must remain utterly confidential until then. Won’t stop you and Lady Tennent attending a Downing Street reception in the meantime, though? Good.”

  A tight smile of triumph.

  “One last thing. These things get pushed through a Scrutiny Committee, look at each individual case to make sure there are no skeletons in the closet, nothing that might prove a public embarrassment, cause the honor to be handed back or any such nonsense. Forgive my asking, but since your name will be carrying my personal recommendation, there’s nothing on the horizon that might…?”

  A pause.

  “Delighted to hear that. I must just repeat that if anything were to leak out about your upcoming award…But then the party has always known it can rely on you. Sir Richard, I am most grateful.”

  He chuckled as he threw the phone back into its cradle. “There you are! The old Round Table gambit always works; give ’em a knighthood and a sense of purpose and they always come aboard. With luck that’ll keep his mouth shut for at least another eighteen months and possibly for good.”

  Geoffrey had just begun to imitate the Prime Minister’s bonhomie when Urquhart turned on him with unmistakable malevolence. “Now get out. And don’t ever expect me to do that again.”

  Geoffrey rose, a tremble still evident in his knees. “Why did you, Francis, this time?”

  The light from the desk lamp threw harsh shadows across Urquhart’s face, bleaching from it any trace of vitality. One eye seemed almost to have been plucked out, leaving a hollowed socket that led straight to a darkness within.

  “Because Francis Urquhart and only Francis Urquhart is going to decide when Ministers come and go from his Cabinet, not some shriveling cuckold from New Spalden.”

  “I understand.” He had been hoping for some acknowledgment of his own irreplaceable worth.

  “And because now I own you. Today, tomorrow, and for as long as I wish. You will jump whenever I flick my fingers, whether it be at the throats of our enemies or into your own grave. Without question. Total loyalty.”

  “Of course, Francis. You had that anyway.” He turned to leave.

  “One last thing, Geoffrey.”

  “Yes?”

  “Give me back my fountain pen.”

  Seven

  Some people prefer to pour oil on troubled waters. I prefer to throw a match.

  The sun blazed fiercely outside the window, and the coffee on the table in small cups was dark and thick; in all other respects the office with its stylishly simplistic furniture and modern art trimmings might have been found on the Skeppsbron overlooking the harbor in Stockholm. Yet most of the books along the light oak bookshelves were in Turkish, and the two men in the room were of dark complexion, as were the faces in the family photographs standing behind the desk.

  “Now, what brought you in such a hurry to Nicosia?”

  “Only a fool tarries to deliver good tidings.”

  There was an air of formality between them, two Presidents, one Yakar, chief of the
Turkish National Oil Company, and the other, Nures, political head of the Republic of Turkish Cyprus. It was not simply that the oil man was a homosexual of contrived manner and the politician a man of robust frame, language, and humor; there was often a distance between metropolitan and islander that reflected more than their separation by fifty miles of sea. It had been a century since the Ottomans had ruled Cyprus, and differences of culture and perspective had grown. Mainlanders patronized and shepherded the islanders—had they not delivered their cousins from the clutches of Greek extremists by invading and then annexing one third of the island in 1974? At one moment during those confused days the Turkish Cypriots had found themselves on the point of a Greek bayonet, the next they had been in charge of their own state. Except the Government in Ankara kept treating it as though it was their state.

  Time to get rid of them, Mehmet Nures told himself yet again. For a thousand years mainland Turks and Greeks and the imperialist British had interfered and undermined, using the island as a well at which to quench the thirst of their ambitions. They’d sucked it dry, and turned an island of old-fashioned kindnesses and a million butterflies into a political desert. Perhaps they couldn’t step through the looking glass, back to the ways of old, with bubble-domed churches standing alongside pen-nib mosques, but it was time for change. Time for Cypriots to sort out their own destiny, time for peace. The question was—whose peace?