The House of Cards Complete Trilogy

by Michael Dobbs

  “Do you really think so?”

  “I am a businessman, my love, not a politician. But make your own market analysis. How long do most Prime Ministers last—three, four, five years? He’s already lasted more than ten. No one can defy the odds forever; the chances of your Francis still being in office in two years’ time are very small. Age, accident, ill health, unpopularity. Time has many unpleasant allies.”

  “But he seems at the height of his power.”

  “So was Alexander when he fell from his horse.”

  “What are you saying, Joh?”

  “I suppose I’m saying be careful. That there’s every likelihood of Francis Urquhart falling beneath the chariot wheels while you are his PPS—correction, not falling, more likely being thrust beneath by a baying mob. And all his handmaidens with him. Don’t tie yourself too closely.”

  “And you think that Tom Makepeace will do the thrusting?” She found the terminology peculiarly uncomfortable.

  “Makepeace, or someone like Makepeace. You should keep an eye on him.”

  His logic was, as always, impeccable; a shiver of distress passed down her spine.

  “How would you do that, Joh? Keep an eye on him?”

  He appeared not to have heard, setting aside his newspaper in order that he could embrace his daughters before sending them off to bed accompanied by the normal chorus of complaint. Only when Abby and Diana had departed, towing soft toys and endearments, did he turn once again to his wife. “How? Depends how important it was.”

  “According to you, very.”

  He massaged his hands, a vizier warming them above a campfire on some damp, starless night, his lips moving as though sucking at the pipe he used to love before he met Claire and loved her more. “A talkative friend. Close colleague, perhaps. Nothing electronic or illegal. That sort of thing, you mean?”

  She stared at him, afraid to acknowledge what she meant, even to herself.

  “A driver. Drivers know all the secrets. They could’ve abolished the CIA in exchange for one driver in the Kremlin motor pool. I’d get a friendly businessman to offer him a driver with big ears inside the car and a big mouth out of it.”

  “Not illegal?”

  “More an accident.”

  She bit her bottom lip, puckering her face as though tasting lemons. “Suppose, Joh, just suppose for the sake of argument that a businessman was impressed by the Concorde Club and wanted to offer Tom some gesture of support—a small donation for administrative support, the loan of a car and driver to replace the Ministerial car he’s just lost…”

  “A driver of incontinent tongue and divided loyalty.”

  “What would you say, Joh?”

  “I’d say that would alter the odds significantly in Mr. Urquhart’s favor. For a little while.”

  “How might that be done?” she asked softly.

  He examined her closely, probing, hypothesis spilling into resolution. He needed to be certain.

  “Rather easily, I would guess. But I’m sure a busy girl like you wouldn’t want to be bothered with such detail.”

  “I suspect you’re right.”

  He paused, contemplating the new door that had opened up on their lives. “Seems it’s not only your job that’s changed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought you rather liked Tom Makepeace.”

  He knew, she was sure. At times he seemed to have a mirror into her mind and she had no hiding place from him, even inside.

  “I did. I suppose I still do.”

  “But?”

  “But…” She shrugged, grown suddenly weary. “But politics.” It seemed to explain everything. Yet it excused nothing.

  Fifteen

  The Mediterranean is a full, confused sea, littered with wrecks and old ruins.

  Evanghelos Passolides sang a song of ancient honor as he invoked the miracle of the mallet, beating short strips of pig into what by later that evening would have become cuisine. Thud—squish—smash, and another thousand bygone warriors were tossed to the Underworld.

  Maria prepared the evening tables. She’d turned up again after another long day’s teaching for no better purpose than to watch over him and to indulge her growing concern. His moods had become increasingly capricious, occasionally malevolent, an appearance of determination followed by outbursts of bitterness when it seemed that the forces of authority were once again standing guard over his brothers’ graves, fending him off with their rules of silence. They’d tried to find out more about the unknown officer and the precise location of the burial site, but no one in authority displayed any spark of interest. It was all so very long ago, miss, by now there’d be nothing to dig up but problems. Put the details in writing and we’ll see what can be done. So Maria had written but there had been no reply, the letter left to circulate through the corridors of power until it dropped from exhaustion.

  Meanwhile Passolides cooked, sang mournful songs, and grew ever more resentful.

  And it was her fault. She had interfered with his silent grief, stirred his hopes and, with them, dark memories. She couldn’t drop it now, any more than he could.

  Family. The bonds of loyalty. Bondage. Links that had chained her for so many years, the finest hour of her womanhood, first to a dying mother then to a grieving father. And for him, a ligature tied so tight it had all but strangled the life from him. For both their sakes, she had to find help from somewhere. From someone who could break through the artifice and excuses, someone who could find out about the brothers’ graves, and whether there were any other graves. But who?

  As the television news flickered on the small monochrome screen perched above the coatrack, she saw a man of authority and responsibility, a man who talked of principle and his determination to defend the rights of ordinary men and women against insensitive and arrogant Government, even as he bought his oranges…

  ***

  Clive Watling looked around the lunch table and wondered why he had been so naive. He’d swallowed the Ponsonby line that it would be an easy task, the issues simple, the evidence direct, the conclusions all but self-evident. Yet they couldn’t even agree on what to eat. Two Muslims, one of whom had an ulcer, a vegetarian, a native of Yorkshire who liked his food like his law—ample in quantity and unambiguously honest. And then, of course, there was Rodin, who insisted on kosher food and scowled upon whatever was presented on the plate with a look of Jacobin condescension. About most things in this world, it seemed, Rodin had already formed his inflexible opinion.

  There was so little certainty to international law; so much was left to textual interpretation, to confusing precedent, hopefully to common sense and fundamental principle. How it could be left to unreconstructed tribalists like Rodin he would never fathom.

  For weeks the academics, geologists, politicians, historians, maritime experts, and professional lobbyists garbed as lawyers had trooped before their sittings and expounded on the matter, which in essence was simple. Beyond the breeze-kissed beaches of Cyprus lay two disputed areas of continental shelf, east and west. Hand them to the Greeks, or to the Turks, or find some means of division that could be dressed in a cloak of equity and natural justice. Miles of salt water, sea anemones, and sand.

  And oil.

  Watling was sure of it now. And he was sure the Frenchman knew. Whatever else could explain his utter unreason? Any proposal that the Turks might gain a substantial proportion of the continental shelf was resisted with vehemence, even the suggestion that they draw a straight line down the middle and split it in equal halves was disparaged and denounced. The “share of lions,” as he put it, must go to the Greeks. While they waited in the private dining room for their first course Rodin had been pressed for his defense—what new principle of international justice could he possibly invoke to justify such an imbalance of objectivity?

  “It is simple and irr
efutable,” he had pronounced, swirling the water in his glass as though inspecting a dribble of English wine. “The Turks invaded, took their territory by force. At the cost of many lives and in defiance of the United Nations. It would be appeasement of the worst kind to offer them reward for their bloody actions.”

  “We are not here to deliberate upon the war,” Osman the Egyptian had scolded.

  “That is exactly what we are doing!” Rodin spat. “If we show favor to the Turks we sanctify future acts of international terrorism. What would we be saying to the world—grab territory, rape and pillage the inhabitants into exile, and in twenty years’ time the international courts will offer you congratulation and confirm the spoils?”

  “That’s how frontiers have been fixed throughout the ages, for goodness’ sake,” the Malaysian muttered.

  “I’d hoped we could find a rather less medieval means of settlement,” Rodin replied icily. “Oh, don’t quote me your Bering Seas and Beagle Channels, why should we hide behind ancient precedent?”

  “Because it’s the law,” Osman responded quietly.

  “But it isn’t justice.”

  Justice, Watling mused to himself, he talks of justice. And this the man who had so vehemently argued the case of French fishermen in their attempt to force themselves upon the fishing grounds of Guernsey, quoting in his public cause Napoleonic treaty and national honor while arguing grubby compromise behind closed doors. Now compromise of whatever kind that left the Turk within a hundred miles of oil shale he condemned with the mock virtue of a tricoteuse hearing the clatter on cobbles of approaching tumbrels.

  Watling eyed the Frenchman. Of course Rodin knew! Watling found himself wondering whether Rodin actually took money for his views, or was the merest sniff of French national interest sufficient to turn him? Whichever, it mattered little, the result would still be the same. If Watling allowed it.

  French justice. Of the type that had been meted out to his father. For a few mouthfuls Watling fought the urge within that was attempting to drench his own views in prejudice—but there was no conflict here, he decided, no contradiction, his sense of principle was entirely in accord with his antagonism. French bigotry and self-interest was not to be confused with fair play, not in Watling’s court. Rodin spoke glibly of justice, so on the stake of justice the Frenchman would be impaled. Watling would see to it. As a matter of high principle. And pleasure.

  Sixteen

  All politics are the search for advantage.

  Cabinet Government frequently resembled a herd of pigs flying in close formation, he thought. In the Orwellian world of Westminster there was one prerogative above all accorded to the Chief Pig, that of choosing his companions for the flypast, and it was something of a pity that the resignation of Makepeace had taken the edge off the reshuffle, implying an element of enforced necessity instead of presenting it as unadulterated Urquhart. Makepeace was an overweight boar, he’d insisted, fattened to excess on a diet of Brussels and scarcely capable any longer of liftoff let alone the aerial gymnastics required for public esteem on the British side of the Channel. Market time. “Should remind others of the constant need to remain lean and hungry,” he’d told his new press officer, Grist. “And the blessings of the bacon slicer.”

  Grist had made a good start to such a significant day, suggesting that the Prime Minister conduct a brisk walk around the lake in St. James’s Park in order to supply appropriate images for the benefit of photographers, a mixture of purpose and vigor. One of the cameramen had suggested the Prime Ministerial hands might be placed around the neck of a domesticated goose, “just to give the public an idea of how it’s done, Mr. Urquhart.” He declined.

  By the time he returned to Downing Street an impatient flock of reporters and lobby correspondents was perched along the barriers, waiting upon first prey. Blood was about to be splashed over their boots and they squabbled among themselves, fighting for the first morsel, launching thrusts at the Prime Minister from across the road. He responded with nothing more than a wave and a look of sincerity practiced to perfection before retreating toward the glossy black door.

  “Cry God for England and St. George?” It was Dicky Withers. The wise old bird was saving his energies and his thoughts to hang upon a special moment.

  Urquhart turned in the doorway to look once more upon the scene, and nodded in Dicky’s direction. Dicky knew what this was all about.

  “And warm beer, white cliffs, and flying pigs,” Urquhart muttered. He said no more before disappearing inside. There was work to be done.

  It would be a long day. With long knives.

  ***

  For Geoffrey Booza-Pitt, the day had started in admirable fashion. He’d gone fishing at the Ritz, casting champagne and scrambled egg upon the familiar waters until she had risen innocently for the bait. Breakfast with Selina would in any event have been a pleasure, but the attractions of her body were as little for the Transport Secretary compared with those of her mind—or, more specifically, her memory. She was a secretary in the office of the Party Chairman and was one of several in similar political employment whom Geoffrey regularly fed and flattered. In all such cases he preferred breakfast to bed, being cautious about sleeping with women of naive years where sex could be seen as a prelude either to emotional entanglement or to the insinuations of a gossip column, neither of which Geoffrey could countenance. Sharing breakfast offered much more robust reward, pillow talk without the cigarette ash and mascara smears, information sans ejaculation.

  Booza-Pitt’s political philosophy was unorthodox. He did not believe, for instance, that information attracted ownership, at least the ownership of anybody who was lax enough to let it slip. So Geoffrey would acquire a little bit here and a little bit there, not wholesale robbery, but in the end it all added up—as it had done when he was a student. He’d written to every Jewish charity he could find explaining that he was a devout student struggling to make ends meet, that he was £200 short on his tuition money. He’d work nights, of course, for his living expenses, but he did want to make sure of his tuition and could they please help? And, with a little bit here and a little bit there, the trickles of help had become a flood. If he’d had a conscience it certainly wasn’t of Jewish origin since both his parents were casual Methodists. Anyway, he’d slept well in a bed of considerable comfort.

  Information was wealth around the labyrinths of Westminster, of a value greater than money, and Selina had paid for breakfast in generous fashion. She’d typed every draft of the new campaigning document being prepared at party headquarters, every addition and amendment, every thought and rethought, the paragraphs of analysis and argument, all the conclusions. And her recall was stupendous, even as the bubbles tickled her nose and made her giggle. The new campaign, it seemed, would not be radical in approach—a little direct mail, a lightweight slogan—but it had been based on new opinion research and, like Selina, was attractively packaged. She was ebullient, unsuspecting, and tender enough to believe he really wanted to help.

  Geoffrey had smiled, poured, and committed it all to his excellent memory.

  The car ferrying them back to their separate offices was stuck in the morning snarl. The fool of a driver had decided to take the rapid route to nowhere around Trafalgar Square, where ranks of one-eyed pigeons stood morose and diseased on guard duty. The Transport Secretary wound up the window and settled back into his seat, for once in his life content to remain obscure, trying to avoid the attentions of fellow jammers with their acrid fumes and equally corrosive tempers. Beside him on the backseat Selina was rearranging her elegant legs, causing him to undertake a rapid reassessment of his priorities—he was a fool for thighs, perhaps he should suggest dinner next time?—when the phone began to burble. From the other end of the line came the voice of his House of Commons secretary. The guest list for his box at the Albert Hall. The promenade concert late next week. A late cancellation, the Trade Secretary off tryin
g to pluck leaves from the tree of Japanese abundance, where he would surely discover like all his predecessors that when it came to promises of freer trade, in the Orient it was always autumn.

  The interruption soured Booza-Pitt’s mood, distracting him from his scrutiny of delicate ankles and contemplation of indulgence. He hated last-minute cancellations that disturbed what was often months of planning; he went into a sulk, like the Duke of Wellington receiving a scrap of paper informing him that Blücher wouldn’t make it in time for Waterloo. He decided to shoot the messenger.

  “So what have you done?” he demanded querulously.

  “Well, I assume we’d like another top-level politician, so I’ve been checking the list. You’ve done every other member of the Cabinet in the last twelve months apart from Tom Makepeace…”

  “This is a box at the Albert Hall, not a bloody crypt.”

  “And Arthur Bollingbroke. I’ve already called his secretary to check, she thinks he and his wife might be free on that evening.”

  “Bollingbroke! The man’s a bloated bore, why the hell do you think I haven’t invited him to anything else? I can’t sit him down next to the American Ambassador and Chairman of ITN, he’d fart all through the overture while swilling down vast quantities of my champagne. Have you any idea how much that’d cost me?”

  The secretary was trying to justify herself but Booza-Pitt was in no mind to listen. The motorist stuck in the next vehicle had recognized him and was offering a two-fingered salutation; the Transport Secretary struggled to balance discretion against a sudden compulsion to get out of the car and rearrange the guy’s nasal passages.

  “Perhaps we’d better wait until tomorrow, anyway,” he heard her suggest.

  “What on earth for?”

  “Until the reshuffle is finished.”

  “Reshuffle…?” He choked. Selina wondered if a stray salmon bone had become lodged in his throat.

  “Didn’t you know? It’s on television right now.”