The House of Cards Complete Trilogy

by Michael Dobbs

  “Costa,” the Bishop addressed the manager as he rose to his feet, “this is God’s team. Yet you permit them to play like old women.”

  “My apologies, Theofiléstate, Friend of God,” the manager mumbled.

  The Bishop’s voice rose as though warning a vast crowd of the perils of brimstone. “God’s work cannot be done without goals, the ground will not open to swallow our opponents. Their left back has the tinning speed of a bulk carrier, put Evriviades against him—get behind him, get goals.”

  The manager, scourged, was a picture of dejection.

  “There’s a new Mercedes in it for you if we win.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, Aghie, Saintly One!” He bowed to kiss the ring once more.

  “And you’ll be walking to the bus stop if we don’t.”

  The manager was dismissed in the manner of a waiter who had spilled the soup.

  Martin was careful to conceal his wry amusement. This was a theater piece, although whether put on for his benefit or that of the manager he wasn’t completely sure. He had little interest in football but a growing curiosity in this extraordinary black-garbed apparition who appeared to control the destiny of souls and cup finals as the doorkeeper of hell controls the hopes of desperate sinners. “You take your football seriously,” Martin commented.

  The Bishop withdrew a packet of cigarettes from the folds of his cassock; almost as quickly an aide had ignited a small flame thrower and the Bishop disappeared in a fog of blue smoke. Martin wondered if this were a second part of the entertainment and he was about to witness an Ascension. When the cleric’s face reappeared it was split with a smile of mischief.

  “My dear Mr. Martin. God inspires. But occasionally a little extra motivation assists with His work.”

  “I sincerely hope, your Grace, that I never have cause to find myself in anything other than your favor.”

  “You and I shall be the greatest of friends,” he chortled. One of the young girls refilled their glasses; she really was very pretty. Theophilos raised his glass. “Havoc to the foes of God and Cyprus.”

  They both drank deep.

  “Which reminds me, Mr. Martin. There’s a small matter I wanted to raise with you…”

  ***

  “And there’s another small matter I wanted to raise with you, Max.”

  Maxwell Stanbrook thought he truly loved the man. Francis Urquhart stood framed against the windows of the Cabinet Room, gazing out like the admiral of a great armada about to set to sea. Stanbrook had arrived less than twenty minutes before at his office in MAFF, the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries, and Food, to be told by his agitated private secretary that he was wanted immediately at Downing Street.

  “So what is it, Sonia?”

  “I don’t know, Minister—no, really I don’t.”

  Stanbrook was firmly committed to the proposition that Government was a quiet conspiracy of civil servants who pulled all of the strings and most of the wool, and he took an active and incredulous dislike to those who claimed they didn’t know or suggested there was no alternative. He was notorious throughout Whitehall for throwing—literally hurling—position papers back at civil servants wrapped in a shower of uncivil expletives. The Mobster in the Mafia, as he was known. It was no secret that many in the corridors of power desperately wanted to see his comeuppance; had that time arrived?

  A year earlier he’d thought he might have cancer. He remembered how he had walked into the consultant’s office trying to mask his dread, to still the shaking knee, to put a brave face on the prospect of death. Somehow it had been easier than this; the fear of mortal illness was nothing compared to the wretchedness he felt as he had walked into the Cabinet Room. Urquhart was there alone. No pleasantries.

  “I’ve had to let Annita go,” the Prime Minister began.

  God, he was on the list…

  “I want you to take her place. Environment Secretary. Put a bit of stick about. You know, Max, the drones in the department fancy themselves as the new thought police. An environmental watchdog here, a pollution inspectorate there. And what’s the point? No sooner had they given every school child nightmares about global warming than we had to send in the army to dig hypothermic pensioners out of the snow. Next it was a paper demanding billions of pounds to combat drought fourteen days—fourteen days!—before North Wales and an entire cricket season were washed away in floods. Pipe dreams, nothing but pipe dreams they conjure up over long lunches in Brussels to keep themselves in jobs. Sort it out for me, will you, Max?”

  “Be a pleasure, FU.”

  “One thing in particular. This Fresh Air Directive—you remember? Brussels trying to make British factories smell like a French bordello. Bloody nonsense, I’ll not have it.”

  “But I thought the directive had already been approved.”

  “Yes, it’ll be carved on Annita’s headstone. She didn’t like it, not at all gracious about going; suspect I’ll have to watch my back for knitting needles. But although it’s European policy, domestic governments are responsible for implementing it.”

  “They’ve turned us into odor officers. Pooper snoopers.”

  “Precisely. Now, there’s been a lot of loose criticism about us being poor Europeans, you can imagine how distressing I find that. So I want you to ensure that the monitoring arrangements are implemented meticulously. I suggest once a year, usually in January. Preferably during a gale.”

  “On the windward side of town.”

  “Max, you could go far.”

  “I shall certainly do my best.”

  Urquhart chuckled benevolently, wondering if he had just spotted a new potential rival. He would watch him, as he watched them all. He rose from his chair and walked to the window from where he could see the trees of St. James’s.

  “There’s another small matter, Max. Tricky. One of the first things you’ll be asked to do is to sign an order permitting the erection of a statue to the Blessed Margaret—just out there.” He waved in the direction of the park. “The money’s been raised, a sculptor commissioned, they’re ready to go.” He turned. “And I want you to find some way of stopping it.”

  “Do you have any suggestions, FU?”

  “I’d rather hoped you might come up with some. It would be embarrassing if I’m seen to oppose it, they’d say I was motivated by envy, which of course is not the case. It’s the principle of the thing. This is not a Government of idolatry and graven images. I want you to know there is no thought of personal advantage in my position on this matter…”

  ***

  “And I insist that you understand, my dear Mr. Martin, there is no thought of personal gain for me in all this. Many new jobs will be created for poor farmers in a desperately undeveloped part of our island.”

  “But Cape Kathikas is a nature reserve. It’s meant to be undeveloped. To preserve the orchids and other rare plants.”

  The Bishop gesticulated extravagantly, the loose sleeves of his cassock slipping back to reveal surprisingly well-muscled forearms. “There are a hundred thousand hillsides for the orchids. But only one Cape Kathikas. Let me tell you of my vision…”

  Cape Kathikas, it seemed, was an ideal spot not only for the indigenous and exceptionally scarce orchid Ophrys cypria Renz, but also for a twin-hotel resort complete with helipad, golf course, conference center, and marina. The local inhabitants of this westerly cape, after generations of isolation and impoverishment and fueled by stories of unimagined riches, were enthusiastic to the point of uprising that their small and fruitless plots of land should be transformed into approach roads, sand traps, water hazards, staff quarters, and the other accumulated clutter of a Costa del Kypros. And if the Church in the person of Theophilos who owned most of the land were also to benefit hugely, it seemed merely to bestow God’s blessing upon their venture.

  There was only one other obstacle, apart from the orchids.
That was the fact that the Cape was a field firing range for the British military, designated as such under the Treaty of Establishment, which had given Cyprus its independence and where for twenty-one days a year the coastal rocks and its offshore environs were peppered with Milan and Swingfire antitank missiles. Bound to play merry hell with a high-rise hotel and marina.

  “Do you really need a firing range?” Theophilos asked.

  “As much as we need an army.”

  “Then we shall find you another area for your operations. There must be so many other parts of the island that might be suitable.”

  “Such as?”

  “The British surely wouldn’t stand in the way of us Cypriots developing our economy,” the Bishop responded, ducking the direct question. “It would raise so many unpleasant memories.”

  “I thought the objections were being led by Cypriots themselves, the environmentalists. Those who value the area as a national park.”

  “A handful of the maudlin and the meddling who have small minds and no imagination. Lunchtime locusts who know wildlife only from what they eat. What about our poor villagers?”

  “What about the orchids?”

  “Our villagers demand equality with orchids!”

  There was no answer to that. Martin offered a conciliatory smile and subsided.

  ***

  Booza-Pitt was gabbling. He did that when he was nervous, to fill in the spaces. He didn’t like spaces in a conversation. As a boy they had tormented him, fleeting pauses in which his mother drew breath before continuing with her ceaseless tirade of complaint about her lot in life. So, as a means of defense, he had learned to launch himself into any conversation, talking across people and above people and about anything. He was an excellent talker, never at a loss for words. Trouble was, he’d never really learned to listen.

  Urquhart had been alone at the great Cabinet Table when Geoffrey had entered the room. The Prime Minister said nothing but as Geoffrey walked to his chair on the opposite side of the table Urquhart’s eyes followed him closely, almost as if he were still trying to make a judgment, uncertain, unsettled. And unsettling. So Geoffrey had started talking.

  “I’ve had this idea, Francis. A new set of campaigning initiatives for the Party. Thought about it a lot. Build on the reshuffle, get us going through the rest of the year. I’ve talked it through with the Party Chairman—I think he’s going to put it all in a paper for you. The main point is this…”

  “Shut up, Geoffrey.”

  “I…” Geoffrey shut up, uncertain how to respond.

  “The Chairman has already told me about his campaigning ideas, just before I fired him. I have to say you are an excellent peddler of other people’s ideas.”

  “Francis, please, you must understand…”

  “I understand all too well. I understand you. Perhaps it’s because we are a little alike.”

  “Are you going to fire me after all?” Geoffrey’s tone was subdued; he was trying hard not to beg.

  “I’ve thought about it.”

  Booza-Pitt’s face, depleted by misery, sank toward his chest.

  “But I’ve decided to make you Home Secretary instead.”

  A curious gurgling noise emerged from the back of Booza-Pitt’s throat. The prospect of being translated into one of the four most powerful posts in Government at the age of thirty-eight seemed to have snapped his control mechanisms.

  “They’ll say I’m grooming you for the leadership when I’ve gone. But I’m not. I’m putting you there to stop anyone else using the post to groom himself for the leadership. And to do a job. Using your talents at peddling other people’s ideas. My ideas.”

  “Anything you say, Francis,” Booza-Pitt managed to croak, throat cracked like the floor of an Arabian wadi.

  “We shall soon be facing an election and I’ve decided to move the goal posts a little. A new Electoral Practices Act. A measure so generous and democratic it’ll leave the Opposition breathless.”

  Booza-Pitt nodded enthusiastically, with no idea what his leader was talking about.

  “I want to make it easier for minority candidates to stand. To allow for”—Urquhart dropped his voice a semitone, as though making a speech—“a fuller and more balanced representation of the views of the general public. To ensure a Government more firmly rooted in the wishes of the people.” He nodded in self-approval. “Yes, I like that.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “It means that any candidates who get more than two thousand votes will have all their election expenses paid by the State.”

  The face of the new Home Secretary had suddenly turned incredulous. “You’re winding me up, Francis. With that on offer every nutter and whiner in the land is going to stand.”

  “Precisely.”

  “But…”

  “But who else would these minorities and malcontents vote for, if not for themselves?”

  “Not for us, not even if you lobotomized every single one of them.”

  “Well done, Geoffrey. They’d vote for the Opposition. So by encouraging them to stand we’ll suck away several thousand votes from the Opposition in practically every constituency. Worth at least fifty seats overall, I reckon.”

  “You, you…”

  “You’re allowed to call me a deviously scheming bastard, if you want. I’d regard it as a compliment.” For the first time in their interview, Urquhart’s features had cracked and he was smiling.

  “You are a devious, scheming, brilliant bastard, Francis Urquhart.”

  “And a great champion of democracy. They will have to say that, all the newspapers, even the Opposition.”

  “The updated version of divide and rule.”

  “Exactly. We ran an empire on that principle. Should be good enough for one little country. Don’t you think, Home Secretary?”

  ***

  A spotlight had been thrown on the box and Theophilos held his arms up high to acknowledge the attentions of the halftime crowd, his robes cascading like dark wings. A great raven, Martin thought, and with similar appetites.

  “So may I expect your cooperation and support, Mr. Martin?” the cleric continued, casting the question over his shoulder as he offered the sign of the cross in blessing. “This is a rare opportunity.”

  “So are the orchids.”

  For a moment the Bishop’s arms seemed to freeze in impatience; Dimitri had begun to develop a distinctive lopsided scowl as the conversation turned in circles. He was examining his broad and heavily callused knuckles as though the answer to every problem could somehow be found in the crevices.

  “I don’t wish to appear unsympathetic,” the Englishman continued, glad that his pedigree as a Diplomatic Service Grade 4 enabled him to control most of his outward appearances, particularly those that might convey any measure of disagreement or displeasure. It was not the task of the Foreign & Commonwealth Office to be seen saying no. “Your problem is not with the British, it’s with your own Government. And with the environmentalists.”

  “But this is ridiculous.” The Bishop’s voice grew sibilant with exasperation. “When I approach our stubborn donkey of a President he claims the problem lies with you British. And the environmentalists. The British military climbs into bed with the goddamn greens while our poor peasants starve.” He swung around suddenly, like an unwanted visitor of the night appearing at a bedroom window. The blue enamel adorning his heavy crucifix gleamed darkly in the light; his eyes, too. “Do not underestimate how important this is to me, Mr. Martin.”

  “My regrets. The British Government cannot become involved in a domestic dispute in Cyprus.”

  “But you are involved!” Theophilos slumped angrily into his seat as the second half commenced. “You have two military bases on our island, you have access rights across it, and you fire your missiles and bullets upon it. The only time you
choose not to become involved is when we most need you. Like when the Turks invaded.”

  Conversation ceased as the Bishop struggled to regain his humor and the young women served more wine. Martin declined; he made a mental note never to drink again while in the presence of Theophilos, a man whose attentions required all of one’s wits in response. When the Cypriot spoke again, his voice was composed, but seemed to contain no less passion.

  “Many Cypriots find it unacceptable that you British should continue to have a military presence on our soil.”

  “The two bases are sovereign British soil, not Cypriot. That was clearly agreed in the Treaty of Establishment.”

  “The soil is Cypriot, the blood spilled upon it for centimes has been Cypriot, and the treaty is unjust and unequal, forced upon us by British colonial masters in exchange for our independence. I advise you, Mr. Martin, not to base your arguments upon that treaty, for ordinary Cypriots will neither understand nor approve. Encourage them to think about such matters and they will demand it all back. You might end up having no firing range, no bases, nothing.”

  The warning had been delivered in the manner of a wearied professor lecturing a dullard, the tone implying no room for argument, brooking no response. There seemed nothing more to discuss, a silence hanging uncomfortably between them until their mutual discomfort was thrust aside by a shout of jubilation from all around. Evriviades had scored.

  “You’ve just lost a Mercedes.”

  “And you, Mr. Martin, might just have lost the friendship of the Cypriot people.”

  ***

  “Who’s there?”

  “A friend.”

  “There are few friends about on days like these.”

  “Count me as one.”

  The door of the back room in L’Amico’s restaurant, tucked away behind Smith Square, slid open to reveal the large figure of Harry Mendip. He’d heard Annita Burke and Saul Wilkinson were lunching privately, sharing sorrows and anger at having been sacked, unwilling to face the whispers and stares of a more public place. Mendip knew how they felt; he’d been one of the victims last time around.