The House of Cards Complete Trilogy

by Michael Dobbs

  “Will you eat with us, Harry?”

  “My appetite’s not for food.”

  “Then what?”

  “Action.”

  “Revenge?”

  “Some might call it so.”

  A third glass of wine was poured, another bottle ordered.

  “Everything is Urquhart. Damn him.”

  “Little Caesar.”

  “He acts like a Prince, not a Prime Minister.”

  “And we bow and bend the knee as his subjects.”

  “Abjects.”

  “Yet what, apart from ruthlessness, has set him so high?”

  “And what, apart from ruthlessness, will bring him down?”

  They paused as the waiter collected a few scattered dishes.

  “He’s grown so lofty that his feet scarcely touch the ground.”

  “But when they do, the ground is soaked with blood. Slippery soil. He is vulnerable.”

  “Butchered too many, over the years.”

  Annita Burke refilled the glasses. “Are we of the same mind?”

  The other two nodded.

  “Then who is to lead this enterprise?”

  “How about Yorke? He’s fit for stratagems and treasons.”

  “A happy blend of mischief.”

  “But there’s no harmony in his soul. Nothing to lift the hearts and sights of others.”

  “Then Penthorpe.”

  “With those fearsome ferret eyes that make a man think he’s volunteering for the gallows? I think not.”

  “You, Annita.”

  She shook her head. “No, this one is not for me. Harsh words in a woman are always dismissed as hormones at war. And in my case no one would forget they are Jewish hormones. Anyway, I lack that sharpness of foot and wit necessary to lead the dance.”

  “Then there is only one.”

  They all knew the name.

  “Makepeace.”

  “He will be hard to convince.”

  “All the better once he is so.”

  “To challenge for the leadership?”

  “What is the point? Urquhart has filled the party machine with placemen whose spirits are dead and who’ve sold their souls.”

  “Then if we cannot take Urquhart away from the party, we must take the party away from him.”

  “Meaning?”

  “A new leader, and a new party.”

  Mendip sucked in his breath. “That is a dangerous enterprise,” he said slowly.

  “An honorable one, too. At least, Makepeace would make it seem so.”

  “And I’d rather be torn apart as a dog of war than stay to be slaughtered like a sheep.”

  Burke raised her glass. “A toast. Let’s be masters of our own fate.”

  “All the way to the door of hell.”

  ***

  As Booza-Pitt stumbled out of the Cabinet Room in a haze of elation he all but bounced off the portly figure of Bollingbroke, who was admiring the white marble bust of William Pitt that nestled in a niche on the wall.

  “He had it right, don’t you think?” Bollingbroke inquired, eyes raised in admiration. The homespun accent stretched vowels as though he were chewing a mouthful of black treacle toffee.

  Booza-Pitt tried to adjust his profile to match that of the eighteenth-century Prime Minister, wondering what on earth the other was prattling about.

  “Prime Minister at the time of Trafalgar, you know. When we blew apart Napoleon’s fleet. Heard some crap that he was a relative of yours. Stuff ’n’ nonsense. Not true, is it?”

  Faced with such a direct challenge, Booza-Pitt was loath to lie. He shrugged his shoulders inconclusively. Damn the man, he was gibbering when all Geoffrey wanted to do was to flaunt his new eminence and be gone, leaving the other splashing and waterlogged in the wake.

  “What were his words, Geoff, can you remember?”

  He shook his head, lost in the labyrinth of the Bollingbroke mind. He suspected it was some test of his family credentials.

  “‘England has saved herself by her exertions, and Europe by her example.’ That’s what he said, did Pitt. Heck, not a bad motto for today, neither. You know, Froggies never change. I’ll have to remember that. Now I’m Foreign Secretary.”

  He poured the news deftly into Booza-Pitt’s lap where it landed much like a bucketful of pond life.

  “You—are Foreign Secretary?” Booza-Pitt squeaked. “Arthur, I’m so delighted for you. You must come and split a bottle of Bollinger with me.”

  “Can’t stand the stuff. Best bitter man, meself.”

  Booza-Pitt began to gain the impression that he was being wound up. “I’ve been given the Home Office,” he responded weakly, deflated by the prospect of being forced to share the day’s headlines with Bollingbroke.

  “Yes, I know,” the Foreign Secretary responded, practicing one of those looks with which he would convey to the French the full depth of his disdain without uttering a single undiplomatic word. “I’m off. Got to go and sort out all those bloody Bonapartists.” He turned away brusquely. “Hello, pet,” he greeted an approaching figure cheerfully, and was gone.

  Claire appeared, or might have been there all the time, Geoffrey was not sure which.

  “Congratulations, Home Secretary.”

  God, had everyone heard about his promotion before him?

  “But a word of advice,” she continued. “The tie.”

  “You like it?” he said, running his finger down the vibrant silk motif. “Australian. An aboriginal fertility symbol, I’m told.”

  “It’s a little too”—she sought the appropriate term—“courageous.”

  “What’s wrong with my tie?” he demanded defensively.

  “Remember, Geoffrey, the job of Home Secretary is to share miseries and explain away disappointment. Why policemen are towing away shoppers’ cars instead of cutting off football hooligans’ goolies, that sort of thing. You’re not supposed to look as if you’re enjoying it.” She smiled mischievously and headed for the Cabinet Room door.

  Hell, would no one allow him to relish the moment? “That’s not all a Home Secretary might do,” he countered. “Francis and I have got plans.” His tone suggested a conspiracy of friendship and great secrets, an alliance which no one dare mock. And it had stopped her in her tracks, he was pleased to note.

  She turned to face him. “If you’re going to screw the electorate, for pity’s sake don’t wear a tie advertising the fact.” Then she was gone, entering through the Prime Minister’s door without knocking.

  ***

  COURT OF ARBITRATION

  For the Delimitation of Maritime Areas between the Republic of Cyprus and the Provisional Republic of Northern Cyprus.

  •••

  DECISION

  PRESIDENT: Mr. Clive Watling. MEMBERS OF THE COURT: Mr. Andreas Rospovitch, Mr. Michel Rodin, Mr. Shukri Osman, Mr. Farrokh Abdul-Ghanem…

  The Court, composed as above, makes the following decision…that while Greek Cypriot fishermen have traditionally fished in these waters, and the two sides have agreed to quotas enabling those Greek Cypriot fishermen currently engaged in fishing these waters to continue so as to ensure that their livelihoods may be protected, such traditions of access and the other “special circumstances” raised by the Greek Cypriot side cannot override the geographical features that lie at the heart of the delimitation process…

  Moreover, notwithstanding the fact that independent seismic surveys have indicated little potential exploitable mineral resources on the continental shelf, there is in any event no reason to consider such mineral resources as having any bearing on the delimitation…

  In the view of the Court there are no grounds for contending that the extent of the maritime rights of either side should be determined by matters of equity as they relate t
o the past history of the island. The legality of the Turkish invasion of 1974 is not a matter for consideration by this tribunal, which recognizes the long-standing de facto jurisdiction of the Turkish Cypriot authorities in the northern portion of the island…

  Both Parties, in rebutting their opponent’s claims, tend to contradict the very principles they have invoked in support of their respective positions. The Court must assure itself that the solution reached is both reasonable and equitable, and to that end, bearing in mind the legally binding assurances provided to Greek Cypriot fishing interests by the Turkish Cypriot authorities…

  For these reasons:

  THE COURT OF ARBITRATION: by three votes to two, being in favor President Watling and Judges Osman and Abdul-Ghanem, and against Judges Rospovitch and Rodin, draws the following line of delimitation…

  ***

  With a final check of the wording, Watling signed the definitive document. It pleased him more than he could describe. A historic agreement that would help cement both peace in a troubled corner of the world and his place among textbooks and precedents that would be passed down to future generations of international jurists. There was also the peerage. His mother could enjoy toasted tea cakes on the terrace any time she wanted now, while he would never more want for invitations to California, anywhere for that matter, including test matches. They’d be proud of him, back in Cold Kirby-by-the-edge-of-the-Moors. The Judgment of Watling Water. A fine judgment—a fair one, too, which couldn’t always be said about such matters. Now it was done and whether they discovered oil, antiques, or the bones of the Minotaur didn’t matter a damn—and should never have mattered. This was a judgment of law, not a poker game with drilling licenses.

  Justice. British justice. And if it entailed screwing the French into the bargain, then the bargain was all the better for it. Rodin could rot in hell.

  Nineteen

  The fundamental skill of diplomacy is all about give and take. And take. And take. And take…

  It had developed into a silent tussle of wills. The BBC cameraman kept adjusting the angle repeatedly in order to gain an uncluttered view of the Prime Minister and his announcement in front of Number Ten—it was, after all, Urquhart’s moment—but the new Foreign Secretary was intent on basking in the sunshine of television lights and the reflected plaudits. With the persistence of an outbreak of measles the rotund outline of Bollingbroke kept insinuating itself into the picture until he was standing to attention, suit buttons straining, immediately behind the Prime Minister’s right shoulder. Urquhart’s Praetorian Guard.

  One of the private secretaries had suggested that perhaps the statement should have been made to Parliament rather than to the media, but Grist—good Grist, whose instincts were so sound—had captured Urquhart’s mood. On the doorstep of Downing Street there was no Leader of the Opposition to throw up supercilious questions and comment, no former-and-recently-fired Minister to claim part of the credit, nothing to prevent Urquhart from occupying the top slot on the lunchtime news all by himself. Except for Bollingbroke. Maybe next time they would truss him to a chair.

  Thus had a grateful nation been given the opportunity to witness FU expressing his delight at turning closed minds into the open hands of friendship, accepting the accolade of Statesman. Formally inviting the leaders of both Cypriot republics to fly to London in eight weeks’ time for the signing of the final and definitive peace accord—and thus providing him with another glorious media binge and guaranteed victory in an arena where no other British politician could even enter.

  Francis Urquhart. Man of Peace.

  ***

  In a small floral-patterned room on the top floor of 10 Downing Street, at the eastern end of the living quarters that are so small, so unbefitting the head of a major Western government, and so very English in their understatement, Mortima Urquhart sat at the Regency desk that had once been her grandmother’s. She pushed aside the letters she had been answering and with a small key unlocked the drawer, taking from it her private address book. There was a slight tremble to her fingers, the sense of anticipation she had known when riding to hounds as they were about to down a great stag. An inward struggle between excitement, fear, and—conscience? The hand reached out, no longer for crop or reins but the telephone, the one she’d installed many years before when they had first moved in. The telephone that did not go through the switchboard. Her phone, for her purposes. The quarry had been cornered, there was good news she wished to share. But not with too many people.

  ***

  “I regret, Mr. President, that the air-conditioning plant has broken down again.”

  A knot of anxieties had tangled around the aide who was soaked in sweat from his recent spittle-scattered brawl with the engineering supervisor. It had been to no effect, the temperature was still rising rapidly into the eighties. The two fans he had placed in the corners of the room seemed to have negligible impact on the heavy Nicosia air, which smelled and tasted as though it had been breathed many times before.

  Nures, a man of passion and varied temper, seemed to bear no trace of ill will. He had removed jacket and tie, sipped sweet mint tea and was mopping his receding brow with a large red handkerchief. He was also poring over a map, and exulting.

  “Soon we shall have new air conditioning—all of us. And new roads. Schools. Homes. A new airport, even. No longer to be outcasts.” His dark eyes shimmered with hope. “A fresh start.”

  “We have much to be grateful for,” the aide offered damply, trying to push along the unexpected tide of good humor.

  “And good friends,” Nures responded, “to whom we owe more than gratitude.”

  ***

  Theophilos wrenched the towel from around his neck and with an impatient wave of his hand dismissed the barber.

  “What’s your problem?” Dimitri badgered as the door closed. He was seated at the monitor on the Bishop’s ornate mahogany desk, his thick fingers tapping out instructions on the keyboard. The screen sprang to life. “Market’s up, it likes all this talk of peace. And Swiss interest rates rose the other day. It’s been a good week for us.”

  “Political capital, that’s what we must watch, little brother,” Theophilos replied, scratching the roots of his newly trimmed beard. “If we are to rid ourselves of this fool of a President we need a taste of chaos. Peace at his hand is about as welcome as an outbreak of cholera.” He glanced at his watch. A television interview in ten minutes. He exchanged the Rolex for a plain leather band and climbed back into the dark bishop’s cassock, hanging around his neck the heavy crucifix, once more the simple man of God.

  “So what are we to do?”

  “Pray. To God in Heaven and any other gods you can find in the back of your closet. Get down on your knees. Humble yourself. And beg that the Turks will be caught trying to fuck us up once more.”

  ***

  The telephone warbled. From the rear seat of the Citroën limousine on the congested streets of Paris, the businessman stretched to answer it, listening carefully. He said nothing, his attention focused absolutely on the message and its consequences, which were clear. The quarter of a million dollars he’d already handed to—what was the name of that Turkish quisling? He’d already forgotten—had been thrown away, the gamble had been lost. And it hurt. Even in the oil business, a quarter of a million unreceipted dollars makes a heavy hole in the petty cash account. Yet that was the least of the pain, for it seemed certain that he was about to lose more, far more. Thousands of millions of dollars’ worth of lost opportunity. Oil by the seaful. It seemed he would never get to drill his wells.

  He replaced the receiver without a word, hearing it latch gently into place. The darkened glass and heavy noise insulation of the limousine cocooned him from the chaos on the street beyond. This was a sheltered world, a world of privilege and security, protected from the outside. Except for the phone. And the messages it brought.

 
He was a controlled man, emotionally desiccated, with his appetites reserved for only one thing. Oil. The Earth’s milk. More precious to him than his own blood. With a rage as silent as the engine at idle and his fist balled like a mallet, he began pounding the leather armrest, heedless of the pain, until it broke.

  ***

  She rolled to one side and, as the sheet slipped across the contours of her body, he felt himself shaking inside once more. Until he had met Maria he hadn’t been sure quite where his loins were, now they seemed to be everywhere, vibrating with an extraordinary energy every time he undid a button or clasp. In Maria he had found an ideal partner, a woman of natural curiosity and wit who was not afraid to acknowledge the shortcomings of her experience and was anxious to overcome them. They were explorers, trekking together through new territories and relishing the joys of discovery.

  He was surprised he felt no guilt, for he knew now that his marriage was over. It was form with no substance, his wife the absentee landlord of his loyalties, his house no longer a home, and it was not enough. He had tried many things to fill the void in his life—ambition, esteem, endeavor, achievement—but nothing would work while he was alone. The presence of Maria Passolides in his world—and in his bed—had made him realize that.

  As she propped herself up on the pillow, he watched transfixed as a bead of sweat trickled its way from around her neck past the creases of olive skin between her breasts. “What are you thinking, white man?” she asked, amused.

  With the point of his little finger he traced the passage of the droplet, which had made a sudden rush for her navel. “I’m thinking about what I can do for you.”

  Her eyes closed as his finger slid slowly past her belly button, her breath quickening. “Christ, what did you have for breakfast?” she panted. The blood was beginning to rush once more, her body desperate to make up for so much lost time.