The House of Cards Complete Trilogy

by Michael Dobbs

“I have the honor to present to you a draft of the formal report that Seismic International will publish in a few days following their recent survey of the offshore waters.” The oil man removed a folder from a slim leather case and deposited it in front of Nures, who proceeded to rustle through its pages. The file contained many colored maps and squiggles of seismic cross sections with much technical language that was quite beyond him.

  “Don’t treat me like a tortoise. What the hell does all this mean?”

  Yakar tugged at his silk shirt cuffs. “Very little. As expected, the seismic survey has revealed that beneath the waters of Cyprus there is much rock, and beneath the rock there is…much more rock. Not the stuff, I fear, of excited headlines.”

  “I sit stunned with indifference.”

  Yakar was playing with him, a reserved smile loitering around his moist lips. “But, Mr. President, I have a second report, one which neither Seismic International nor anyone else has—except for me. And now you.” He handed across a much slimmer file, bound in red and bearing the TNOC crest.

  “Not the Greeks, you mean?”

  “May my entrails be stretched across the Bosphorus first.”

  “And this says…?”

  “That there is a geological fault off the coast of Cyprus that has tilted the subsurface geology of the seabed to the north and west of the island. That the structure in that area does indeed contain oil-bearing rock. And that the fault has tipped all the oil into a great big puddle about—there.” He stretched and prodded a bejeweled finger at the map Nures was examining.

  “Shit.”

  “Precisely.”

  The tip of Yakar’s manicured nail was pointing directly at what had become known as “Watling Water”—the sea area contested between Greek and Turkish Cypriot negotiators and currently the subject of arbitration by the British professor’s panel.

  Nures felt a current of apprehension worm through his gut. It had taken him years to balance the scales of peace, feather by feather, he didn’t know if he wanted tons of rock thrown at it right now, oil or no oil. The peace deal was important to him; by giving up so little to the Greek side he could gain so much for his people—peace, international acceptance, true independence, prosperity—and possibly a Nobel Peace Prize for himself. All in exchange for a little land and a stretch of water that was worthless. Or so he had thought.

  A thick hand rasped across his dark chin. “How much oil?” he asked, as if every word had cost him a tooth.

  “Perhaps a billion barrels.”

  “I see,” he said, but clearly didn’t. “What does that mean?”

  “Well, the international spot price for oil is around twenty dollars a barrel at the moment. Cost of extraction about five. In round terms—approximately fifteen billion dollars.”

  The oil man was whimpering on about Turkish brotherhood and TNOC getting preferential access, teasing out the deal he wished to cement. Nures closed his hooded eyes as though to shut himself away from such squalor, but in truth to contemplate temptation. He had an opportunity—had created the opportunity—to turn a tide of history that had forced poison between the lips of Cypriots and had condemned his own son to be raised in a land of fear. For his grandson it could be different.

  Would the world forgive him for endangering the peace process? Would his people forgive him for missing out on fifteen billion dollars’ worth of oil? But could he forgive himself if he didn’t try to grab both?

  No contest.

  “President Yakar, I think we want those rocks.”

  “President Nures, I rather think we do.”

  ***

  Yaman Hakim felt conspicuous. He had put on his best suit but it was modestly cut and he looked clumsy and otherworldly amid the style and self-assertiveness on the rue St. Honoré. Still, he reminded himself, he was not here for a fashion show.

  He’d first thought of making the exchange in Istanbul with its cloudburst of humanity beneath which one solitary soul might disappear, but even among the labyrinth of souks and smoky bazaars the authorities had their men, the informers, and there was always the danger of his bumping elbows with someone he knew. He didn’t trust his luck in such matters; he’d once gone off to Antalya on the excuse of an energy symposium in order to spend two nights with Sherif, a nubile young girl from Personnel who was into older men, only to discover that a neighbor had booked into the next room. Praises to God, the man had been engaged on a similar mission of deceit, allowing them to share the solidarity of sinners. Yet he felt the presence of prying eyes everywhere in his homeland, and this was worth so much more than a quick scramble between the sheets.

  He had chosen Paris because he had once visited it as a student many years before, because there was no chance of his being recognized—and because the French understood what was required. The English were too stuffy and of constricted sphincter, while the Americans were all cowboys. If he were to survive, Hakim needed discretion, a partner who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut and not be found after two drinks and an encouraging smile bragging about it in the bar of the Hilton. In matters of corporate espionage, tax evasion, and fraud the French had all the necessary finesse, they also had bank accounts untraceable by the Turkish authorities; pity about their limp coffee.

  Anxiety had made him early and he sat in the sidewalk café swirling the dregs in his cup, waiting. His mind danced with thoughts—of drowsy islands set in mystical seas that shimmered as though studded with a treasury of diamonds; of bougainvillea-clad villas overlooking the sacred Bosphorus and tinkling to the sound of female laughter; of oil wells trembling in the Mediterranean breeze beneath their plumes of black gold—and of the fetid rat-filled walls of Istanbul’s notorious Yedi Giile prison, echoing with the cries of those who had come too late to repentance. It was not too late for him, not yet, he could still get out, go home, be back in the office tomorrow. Back to being Hakim the Forgotten. The man whose skill and experience had single-handedly uncovered one of the great natural treasure troves of his lifetime—without whom none of this great adventure in exploration would have been possible! But even as he had handed them his report and analysis, his chest heaving with pride, they had told him it was all in a day’s work, what TNOC paid him for, he shouldn’t expect any recognition or thanks. And he had received none.

  An executive Citroën with immaculate black paintwork drew up on the roadway beside him and a window of darkened glass wound down.

  “Mr. Hakim, over here. Quickly, please!”

  Already the Volkswagen behind was sounding its horn impatiently. They had told him about the café, said nothing about a car. Disconcerted, untrusting, but seemingly with little option, the Turk scurried across the pavement. The rear door opened and he settled into the deep leather seat. A hand extended, cuffed in a timepiece of Swiss gold.

  “Delighted to meet you at last, Mr. Hakim.”

  He had insisted on meeting the top man, face-to-face, not being fobbed off with aides and underlings. He needed decisions; he wanted to deal with the man who made them.

  “Forgive the caution. Couldn’t be sure you didn’t have—how can I put it?—somebody else watching us at the café. A news photographer. A competitor, perhaps? I thought a little privacy might assist our discussions.”

  Hakim grunted. The man reeked of authority, money; Hakim was well out of his league.

  “We were very interested in the material you sent us, Mr. Hakim”—carefully selected pages from the report, crumbs to whet the appetite but not enough to chew on—“interested enough to check you out. You’re genuine. But is your report?”

  In response Hakim took a single folded sheet of paper from his suit pocket and, with only the slightest hesitation for a final thought, passed it across. It was the report’s summary page, giving the estimates of the potential beneath the seabed.

  “Fascinating. And I assume there is a price for this material.”<
br />
  “A heavy price,” Hakim growled, snatching back the single sheet. “But a very fair price.”

  “How much?”

  “For the entire report?” He chewed his thumbnail. “A million dollars.”

  The other man didn’t flinch. His stare was direct, examining Hakim as if some clue to their business might be found in his leathered face; defiantly the Turk stared back.

  “This matter is very simple, Mr. Hakim. Your information is of no value to anyone unless it is accurate, and of no value to my company unless we get the license to drill.”

  “When the time comes you will buy the license. With this report you will know how much to pay—and who to pay.”

  “That time is some way off.”

  “Sadly for you, I am not a patient man.”

  “Then let me get to the point. My proposal—which is also my final proposal—is this.” An envelope had appeared in his hands. “Here is fifty thousand dollars, for sight of the report. If after studying it we believe its contents to be genuine, there will be another two hundred thousand dollars.” He held up a hand to stay the objection beginning to bubble within the Turk. “And if my company succeeds in obtaining the license and striking oil, there will be a payment to you of not one, but two million dollars. Worth that, if what you say is true.”

  It was the Turk’s turn to consider, agitatedly squeezing his salt-streaked mustache as though wishing to pluck it from his lip. “But how can I trust you?”

  “Mr. Hakim, how can I trust you? How am I to know you’re not hawking this same document around every one of my competitors? There has to be a measure of mutual trust. And look at it this way, what would be the point of my trying to cheat you of millions when there are potentially billions at stake?”

  The Turk was breathing heavily, trying to encourage the supply of oxygen to his thought processes.

  “If your document is genuine, I shall be giving you a quarter of a million dollars with only your word that it’s the sole copy in circulation. A costly mistake for me if your word is false.” The Frenchman paused. “But it would be a still more costly mistake for you.”

  “What?” Hakim mocked. “You are threatening to break my legs?”

  “Not at all, my friend. I would simply let the Turkish authorities know of your activities. I imagine your legs would be the least of your problems.”

  The Frenchman smiled, raised the envelope with its fifty thousand dollars, and gently proffered it.

  Hakim stared, debated, twisted, and tore at himself, but the exercise was pointless. It was too late now, neither conscience nor caution could argue with fifty thousand dollars and more, much more, to come. From within his briefcase of imitation crocodile he extracted his report and handed it across.

  Eight

  What is the point of conquering mountains? It’s bloody cold, the food is appalling, and who wants to do everything roped helplessly to some stumbling idiot?

  No, not mountains. Better to conquer men.

  A glorious spring dawn brimming with rose-tinged enthusiasm had advanced across London, delighting most early risers. Mortima Urquhart could not know her husband shared none of the collective spirit.

  “Good morning, Francis. The weather gods seem to be smiling in celebration. Happy birthday.”

  He didn’t move from his position staring out from the bedroom window and at first offered only a soft “Oh, dear” and a slight flaring of the nostrils in response. He lingered at the window, captured by something outside before shaking his head to clear whatever pest was scratching at his humor. “What have you got for me this year? Another Victorian bottle for the cabinet? What is it—eighteen years of bloody bottles? You know I can’t stand the things.” But his tone was self-critical, more irony than ire.

  “Francis, you know you have no interests outside politics and I’m certainly not going to give you a bound copy of Hansard. Your little collection has at least given you something for the hacks to put in their profiles, and this particular piece is rather lovely. A delicate emerald green medicine bottle that is supposed to have belonged to the Queen herself.” She puckered her lips, encouraging him along. “Anyway, I like it.”

  “Then, Mortima, if you like it, so shall I.”

  “Don’t be such a curmudgeon. I’ve something else for you, too.”

  At last he turned from the window and sat opposite her as she held forth a small package with obligatory ribbon and bow. Unwrapped, it teased from him the first sign of pleasure. “Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France. And an early edition.” He fingered the small leather-bound volume with reverence.

  “A first edition,” she corrected. “The pioneer volume for the Urquhart Library, I thought.”

  He took her hands. “That is so typically thoughtful. And how appropriate that our Library should start with one of the finest anti-French tirades ever written. You know, it might inspire me. But…I have to admit, Mortima, that this talk of birthdays and libraries smacks all too much of retirement. I’m not yet ready, you know.”

  “The young pretenders may seem fleeter of foot, Francis, but what’s their advantage if you are the only one who knows the route?”

  “My life would be so empty and graceless without you.” He smiled, and meant it. “Well, time to give the ashes a rake and discover whether the embers still glow.” He kissed her and rose, drawn again to the view from the window.

  “What is out there?” she demanded.

  “Nothing. As yet. But soon there may be. You know the Thatcher Society wants to erect a statue to the Baroness on that piece of lawn right out there.” He prodded a finger in the direction of the carefully manicured grass that lay beyond the wall of the Downing Street garden, opposite St. James’s Park. “You know, this is a view that hasn’t much changed in two hundred and fifty years; there’s a print hanging in the Cabinet Room and it’s all there, same bricks, same doors, even the stones on the patio are original. Now they want to put up a bloody statue.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “And the erection fund is almost fully subscribed.” He turned sharply, his face twisted by frustration. “Mortima, if the first thing I’m going to see every morning of my life when I draw my bedroom curtains is that bloody woman, I think I shall expire.”

  “Then stop it, Francis.”

  “But how?”

  “She doesn’t merit a statue. Thrown out of office, betrayed by her own Cabinet. Is the statue going to show all those knives in her back?”

  “Yet almost all of them are hacked from office, my love. By their colleagues or the electorate. Like Caesar, taken from behind by events they hadn’t foreseen. Ambition makes leaders blind and lesser men bloody; none of them knew when the time had come to go.”

  “There’s only one Prime Minister who should have a statue there, and that’s you!”

  He chuckled at her commitment. “Perhaps you’re right—but flesh and blood turn to stone all too soon. Don’t let’s rush it.”

  He turned himself to stone two hours later, as fixedly as if he had spent the night wrapped in the arms of the Medusa. It was his press secretary’s habit to arrange on a regular basis a meeting with representatives of charities—ordinary members, not experienced leaders—inviting them to the doorstep of Number Ten but not beyond, a visit too brief to allow for any substantial lobbying but long enough to show to the cameras that the Prime Minister cared—the “Click Trick,” as the press secretary, a hockey player and enthusiast named Drabble, termed it. Having been at his desk since six collating the morning’s press, extracting from it selected articles he thought worthy of note and preparing a written summary, he met Urquhart in the entrance hall shortly before nine thirty.

  “What is it today, Drabble?” Urquhart inquired, striding briskly down the red-carpeted corridor from the Cabinet Room.

  “A birthday surprise, Prime Minister. This week it’s pensione
rs, they’re going to make a presentation.”

  Somewhere inside Urquhart felt part of his breakfast liquefying. “Was I told of this?”

  “You had a note in your box last weekend, Prime Minister.”

  “Sadly, kept from me by more pressing letters of state,” Urquhart equivocated. Damn it, Drabble’s notes were so tedious, and if a Prime Minister couldn’t rely on professionals to sort out the details…

  The great door swung open and Urquhart stepped into the light, blinked, smiled, and raised a hand to greet the onlookers as though the street was filled with a cheering crowd rather than a minor pack of world-weary journalists huddled across the street. A group of fifteen pensioners drawn from different parts of the country were gathered around him, arranged by Drabble, who was giving an advanced simulation of a mother hen. The mechanics were always the same: Urquhart asked their names, listened with serious-smiling face, nodded sympathetically before passing on to the next. Soon they would be whisked off by one of Drabble’s staff and a junior Minister from an appropriate department to be plied with instant coffee and understanding in a suitably impressive Whitehall setting. A week later they would receive a photograph of themselves shaking hands with the Prime Minister and a typed note bearing what appeared to be his signature thanking them for taking the trouble to visit. Their local newspapers would be sent copies. Occasionally the discussions raised points or individual cases that were of interest to the system; almost invariably the majority of those involved went back to their pubs and clubs to spread stories of goodwill. A minor skirmish in the great war to win the hearts and votes of the people, but a useful one. Usually.

  On this occasion Urquhart had all but completed the ritual of greeting, moving on to the last member of the group. A large package almost five feet in height was leaning against the railings behind him and, as Urquhart swung toward him, so the pensioner shuffled the package to the fore. It turned out to be a huge envelope, addressed simply: To the Prime Minister.

  “Many happy returns, Mr. Urquhart,” the pensioner warbled.