The House of Cards Complete Trilogy

by Michael Dobbs

  And beneath a blazing headline.

  “CYPOS ATE MY WOOFY.”

  ***

  The effect of halogen lights spraying across old black brick at night gave the scene a distinctly monochrome cast. A little funereal, perhaps, Urquhart mused, but appropriately melodramatic. He adjusted his tie. Behind him, the Secretary of State for Defense stood starchly to attention. News cameras flashed as the Prime Minister stepped, stern of mouth, to the Downing Street microphones.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I have an important announcement to make. Events in Cyprus have taken a further turn for the worse. Not only has our High Commissioner still not been returned, but it is obvious that the Government in Nicosia is unable to guarantee the safety of British assets or personnel. Clearly the situation is being exploited by people of ill intent, and I have a duty to protect British citizens and military personnel. Therefore, with great reluctance and purely as a precautionary measure, I have been forced to place the British bases on a state of alert and restrict Cypriot access to them. British lives and property must be protected, and our troops will have full authority to do precisely that. This is a sensitive matter, and I ask you to treat it with the seriousness it deserves.”

  The scrum of reporters in front of him swayed as they pushed in unison, hands thrust forward waving microphones, tape recorders, and assorted electronic tendrils like a harvest of triffids. One scribe who looked as if he had only moments before clambered out of bed was all but bent double over the security barrier in his attempt to get as close as possible. “Prime Minister, what does this all mean?”

  “It’s a message to troublemakers. Keep off our patch.”

  “Doesn’t this rattle sabers, raise the stakes, though?”

  “The stakes have already been raised by others. Those who have kidnapped our High Commissioner. Who attacked British property and placed British lives in peril. I have a duty to respond.”

  “To attack?”

  “This is an entirely defensive measure.”

  “Will the Cypriots see it that way?”

  The expression around Urquhart’s mouth grew yet more stiffly grim; he couldn’t betray the ironic smile that played around the paths of his emotions. He knew the Cypriots, their passions—and their polemicists, in whose hands a state of alert would be turned into something akin to a force of invasion. This was going to get much, much worse before it got better. He couldn’t smile, so he simply shrugged.

  “Do you have the permission of the Cypriot President for this move?”

  “I don’t need it. Our bases in Cyprus are British sovereign territory. I no more need permission to put our troops there on alert than I would to move tanks across Salisbury Plain. I have, of course, informed him.”

  “How did he react?”

  In agony. With pleading. Said it would inflame the hotheads. Would play into the hands of those who opposed the peace deal, increase the pressure on British bases. Begged to be given a few more days to obtain the release of the High Commissioner. But he’d already had several days…

  “He regretted the necessity for this action. As do I. But men of goodwill everywhere will understand and must support this action. My first duty is to protect British interests.”

  “Play hell with the island’s tourist trade, Prime Minister.”

  “Sadly, yes.” Threatens to knock it on the head.

  “Where does this leave the peace deal?”

  “That’s for the Cypriots to decide. I cannot help bring peace to Cyprus if they will not bring peace to themselves.”

  “And where does this leave the election?”

  “On course. This is a move in the national interest, not for party purposes. I expect the support of all responsible politicians, all sides of the political debate. I don’t expect this to become an issue in the election.”

  No, not an issue, mused Dicky Withers, the issue. I’m watching a piece of banditry, the hijacking of the election campaign as Urquhart casts himself in the role of statesman, defender of the national interest, the British way of life, the rules of cricket, warm beer, sunny afternoons, Blackpool beaches, morality, virginity, and any other -inity to which votes might be attached. And Makepeace, he’s got Makepeace trussed up as tight as a gutted chicken. As tight, presumably, as is our High Commissioner. Francis, you old bastard.

  “And Tom Makepeace?” Withers prompted. “Where does this leave him?”

  The smile was demanding to emerge, as much in recognition of Dicky’s perceptiveness as in self-congratulation. Makepeace was shafted. Adrift. Nowhere to go except to hell and back. A journey for which he would find few companions.

  “Where does it leave Mr. Makepeace? I have no way of knowing. Perhaps you’d better ask him.”

  Thirty-Two

  There is so much history stuffed into Cyprus that it has given them stomachache.

  As the first rays of dawn spilled slowly across the salt flats of Akrotiri, a battered Bedford bus coughed its way uncertainly toward the entrance of the base. It sounded very sick. In better days it had carried children from the village to their schools and produce to the local market, but for almost a year had been languishing behind the pizza bar, its rust levels having been pronounced terminal. The arrival of the bus before the entrance to the base was heralded by a noxious belch of oil smoke and a groan in the manner of some disemboweled dragon. Then it slewed, fell and died, blocking the entire entrance. By the time the smoke had cleared and the guard had crept forward to inspect the prehistoric monster, it was empty.

  They took more than an hour to move it. Attempts at restarting the engine failed, and it was difficult to get a tow truck hooked to either end. They tried to raise it on jacks but the suspension collapsed and the beast retaliated by rolling onto its side. Eventually they were forced to bring along an earthmover and push it out of the way.

  But not before, in an envelope attached to the steering wheel and addressed to Billy, they had found Eleni’s ring.

  ***

  They were outside again, in greater number than ever. What, less than two weeks before, had begun as sporadic demonstrations by handfuls were now constant and too large to estimate accurately.

  They were also intensely personal. Nicolaou was the name—the target—on everyone’s lips. They displayed as much logic, perhaps, as when the mob had come to condemn Christ in the marketplace, but condemn him they did.

  The head of presidential security had demanded an audience, interrupting Nicolaou in the first floor living room where he was listening to his daughter, Elpída, play the piano. Beethoven. Something loud and long, to block out the insistent noise coming from beyond the gates.

  “We must disperse the protesters, sir. They’re a danger to traffic, to themselves. To you.”

  “And how would you propose to accomplish that, Commander?” He was seated, his eyes closed, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in both concentration and anxiety.

  “I’d have to call in troops; there are too many of them for my guard.”

  Nicolaou was wide awake now. “I can scarcely believe my ears. You want me to set the army against the people?”

  “These people—sir—are nothing short of a dangerous mob. They’ve already burned buildings, their numbers are growing, their demonstrations have been playing havoc all over Nicosia. My duty is to preserve peace around the presidential palace.”

  “And it is my duty, Commander, to secure the peace throughout our country. That’s what is at stake here, nothing less. I will not permit you to use troops and tear gas against them.”

  “But I don’t have enough men to guarantee the security of the grounds or this building. That means you, sir.”

  “I have no concern for my own safety.”

  “And your family?”

  Nicolaou turned toward his daughter, who was still at the piano. She meant everything to him. When he was lonely
because his wife was once more absent, Elpída was there as companion. When he grew outraged at his wife’s indulgences, she was there to remind him of what he owed to his marriage. When he was uncertain, she acted as inspiration, raising him above the short-term and trivial to the Cyprus of tomorrow. Elpída’s Cyprus. Balm for his every wound.

  “It is precisely for her that I must say no. I can’t sign a peace treaty with the Turks if there is blood on the streets of Nicosia.”

  “Sir!” The commander was pleading now. His voice dropped to prevent Elpída from hearing. “As an old friend. The choice you’re facing is not so much if there will be blood, but whose blood it will be.”

  The President walked over to the window, from where he could see out over the floodlit statue of Makarios and the cypress trees to the impressive panorama beyond. “Panayoti, come here.”

  The Commander walked to the President’s side. Nicolaou opened the window.

  “What’s out there?”

  “A rabble. Baying at your doorstep.”

  “But what do you see out there?”

  “The lights of the old city.”

  “And beyond that, in the darkness, is the other half of our country. Isn’t it time, Panayoti, to bring those two halves back together again? After all these years and so much blood?”

  “That’s politics, sir. Your job. My job is security. And I tell you we’ve got to do something about those people out there.”

  With the window open the howl of protest had become unrelenting.

  “Then I shall talk to them.”

  “This is no time for humor.”

  “Let a few of them in. I’ll talk to them from the steps.”

  “Madness!”

  “Perhaps so. But I shall do it nevertheless.”

  “At least talk to them from the balcony.”

  “The balcony where hangs the British Royal Standard? Peeking out from behind the imperial lion? I think not. No, let it be from the steps.”

  “But I can’t guarantee your safety!”

  “Then leave that task to God.”

  And Panayotis, as he had been trained throughout his career, no matter how unacceptable or unreasonable the command, had obeyed. They had planned on perhaps two dozen but numbers are impossible to control when thousands are pressing against the gates, and nearer two hundred had crowded their way in by the time the gates were forced shut once more. They gathered on the driveway before the main entrance, guarded by two ornamental cannons, assorted gargoyles, a couple of flower tubs, and a cohort of the palace guard.

  Shouts of fury erupted as Nicolaou appeared, waving his hands above his head for calm.

  “Cypriots, countrymen. Allow me to be heard. Allow yourselves to hear.”

  “Turk lover!” came the cry.

  “I love only one thing. Cyprus!”

  “Then why give it to the filthy Turks?”

  “And the British!”

  “No one has suffered more than I from the thought that our country is divided. I weep for those who have lost families. Homes. Everything.”

  “And won’t lift a finger to help them.”

  Panayotis was growing increasingly nervous. It was already clear that Nicolaou had failed to gain control of the crowd, was entering into a dialogue of the deaf. His logic and sincerity stood no chance against the raw emotions of a mob.

  “My friends, remember what split our island. What brought the Turkish Army to our shores. It was when we Greeks fell out among each other. When Makarios stood here on these very steps and they refused to listen to him.” His hands stretched up one of the sandstone columns that stood to either side. “See these holes. Where the bullets struck. When they tried to kill our Archbishop.”

  A scattering of neat cylindrical holes and craters had been gouged from the columns, bullet holes, relics of the coup Makarios had ordered to remain, like the royal standard, as part of the heritage. Stigmata in stone. Now Nicolaou’s fingers crept toward them, stretching out, reaching for the mantle of Makarios. The tips of his fingers were almost there when another hole appeared, accompanied by a cloud of dust. Only then did he hear the gunshot.

  The effect on the crowd was immediate, as though a starting pistol had been fired. They began to surge forward, pushing against the cordon of guards in front of the steps like dogs at a deer. Nicolaou, bewildered and still only at the early stages of fear, found himself borne aloft in the arms of Panayotis and hustled through the main door, which was slammed shut behind them. Within seconds from the other side there came a primitive baying and a barrage of blows against the wood. At the same time the gates to the palace grounds that had been holding back the main body of protesters were swept aside as anger turned to rage at the sound of gunfire and thousands came streaming up the long driveway.

  “For God’s sake, now will you go?” Panayotis barked.

  “Elpída,” pleaded Nicolaou.

  But his daughter was already running down the circular staircase from the private quarters, past the antiquities, the stone heads and torsos, a small harvest of the island’s ancient heritage that would soon lie smashed and strewn upon the ground.

  Father and daughter tried to embrace, but Panayotis was already pulling them apart and dragging them down the long corridor with its Moorish arches and youthful tapestries that led through the heart of the U-shaped building. Running beside them was the sound of shattering windows, raised voices, wrecking. Then more gunshots.

  Panayotis led them to a part of the palace Nicolaou had never visited, at the back of the kitchens. A door. Stone steps. Another door for which Panayotis had a large key. Then they were in a tunnel hacked from the bare rock.

  “Makarios Avenue,” Panayotis whispered grimly. “His escape route at the time of the last coup.”

  It was cool, dimly lit, at least two hundred meters long, perhaps longer—Nicolaou had lost all sense of proportion in the confined space. His thoughts were befuddled, still worrying about his commander’s words. “The last coup.” Was this, too, a coup?

  They emerged through another door at the far side of the swimming pool, beyond the amphitheater where Nicolaou had entertained groups of schoolchildren and where, in a previous time of trouble, the British had played tennis. Then they were in the woods, vast stands of eucalyptus that glowered in the moonlight. Behind them the noise of wreckage was growing ever more relentless.

  They crossed the shale and loose rocks of a dried riverbed—Nicolaou lost his footing and was once more hauled aloft by the ready arms of his commander—and they came upon the chain-link fence that separated the palace grounds from whatever lay beyond. There were no protesters here; they were too busy in the Palace. They heard the sound of a muffled explosion. Panayotis dragged them on.

  Another lock on the gate through the fence. Another key. Panayotis seemed well prepared. Then they scrambled up a bank and were standing on an empty road.

  “Where to, sir? A British base?” That was where Makarios had fled, to Akrotiri, into the arms of the old enemy and away from the waving fists of his own people, but Nicolaou decided he had already that evening donned too much of the Archbishop’s mantle.

  “No. Not to the British. To the mountains.”

  Then there were headlights advancing upon them. Panayotis drew a gun.

  “Stay in the bushes, sir,” he instructed, and stood in the middle of the road, waving his arms.

  The car stopped. No rioters, only an elderly couple driving home after an evening meal. A German couple who spoke neither Greek nor English, but who understood all too well the unmistakable language of Panayotis’s gun.

  With a cry of alarm the man put his foot to the floor and sped off into the night. Panayotis shrugged his shoulders in despair. What was he supposed to do, shoot a couple of elderly and unarmed tourists?

  “Leave it to me,” Elpída instructed and pushed him aside
.

  The next car contained an accountant, who stopped and listened with growing incredulity to the pretty girl. He apologized, he was almost out of gas and his mother was expecting him home, but he would be happy to take them as far as he was going. The President of the Republic of Cyprus, his daughter, and the Commander of the Palace Guard thanked him as one and climbed into his battered Renault. They’d argue about distance and destination later.

  Nicolaou looked behind him in the direction of his home. An angry orange moon shone down like a celestial torch, brushing the treetops and sprinkling them with fire. The view brought tears to the President’s eyes as they drove away. It was only when he had dried them and was gripping the hand of his daughter that he realized it wasn’t moonlight at all. He was watching the glow as, once again, the palace was being burned to the ground.

  Thirty-Three

  Honesty is not a policy. It is merely an excuse for moral idleness.

  The battered Renault and its increasingly disorientated driver got them as far as a Hertz parking lot. There Panayotis acquired an alternative vehicle. It had no ignition key but the full tank of gas seemed more compelling since the few coins Panayotis kept in his trouser pocket for the cigarette machine proved to be the only money they had between them. Nicolaou found comfort in the knowledge that Panayotis hadn’t thought of everything; somehow it made him feel less of a fool.

  As soon as they were beyond the city limits of Nicosia on the road to the Troodos, Nicolaou fell into a deep sleep. The tension and—yes, he admitted it—fear had drained the energy from his veins and he was overcome by a most oppressive exhaustion. They had no idea whom they could trust—was this simply a riot or a full-blooded coup attempt? And if a coup, had it succeeded? Such matters could be determined from the Presidential Lodge in the mountains from where, for a few weeks in the height of the summer and if necessary for the next few days, the country could be run.

  He did not wake until they were less than ten miles from their destination and the road had begun to wind and curl its way around the mountainsides. They were among thick pine forests, the heavy trunks picked out in the headlights, standing patiently like queues of hovering tax collectors. Not until they had turned off the main road and were approaching the compound along a narrow, steeply descending lane did their spirits begin to rise as the car lights played comfortingly across the familiar picket fence of the driveway.