House of Cards

by Michael Dobbs

  The Chief Whip arched his brow in surprise.

  “Mr. Urquhart, please do not think me pretentious,” the Indian insisted. “My family associations with British institutions go back nearly two hundred and fifty years to the days of the Honorable East India Company and Lord Clive, whom my ancestors advised and to whom they loaned considerable funds. Both before that time and since my family has occupied prestigious positions in the judicial and administrative branches of Indian government.” There was no mistaking the pride, but, even as the words rang out in Jhabwala’s trilling voice, the eyes lowered in sadness. “Yet since Independence, Mr. Urquhart, that once great subcontinent has slowly crumbled into a new dark age. The modern Gandhi dynasty has shown itself to be far more corrupt than any my family ever served in colonial days. I am a Parsee, a cultural minority which has found little comfort under the new Raj. That is why I moved to Great Britain. My dear Mr. Urquhart, please believe me when I tell you that I feel more a part of this country and its culture than ever I could back in modern India. I wake up grateful every day that I can call myself a British citizen and educate my children in British universities.”

  “That is…so touching,” responded Urquhart, who had never been particularly keen on foreigners taking up places at British universities and had said so on several public occasions. He hurried his guest on toward the interview rooms beneath the Great Hall, their shoes clipping across the worn flagstones as the sun slanted through the ancient windows and staircases of light reached down to the floor.

  “And what precisely is it that you do, Mr. Jhabwala?” asked Urquhart hesitantly, afraid his inquiry might spark another monologue.

  “I, sir, am a trader, not an educated man, not like my sons. I left behind any hope of that during the great turmoil of Indian Independence. I have therefore had to find my way not with my brain but by diligence and hard work. I am happy to say that I have been moderately successful.”

  “What sort of trade?”

  “I have several business interests, Mr. Urquhart. Property. Wholesaling. A little local finance. But I am no narrow-minded capitalist. I am well aware of my duty to the community. It is about that I wished to speak with you.”

  They had arrived at the interview room and, at Urquhart’s invitation, Jhabwala seated himself in one of the green chairs, his fingers running with delight over the gold embossed portcullis that embellished the upright leather back.

  “So, Mr. Jhabwala, how might I help you?” Urquhart began.

  “But no, my dear Mr. Urquhart, it is I who wish to help you.”

  A furrow of puzzlement planted itself on Urquhart’s forehead.

  “Mr. Urquhart, I was not born in this country. That means that of necessity I am required to work particularly hard to gain respectability in the community. So I try. The local Rotary Club, various charities. And, as you know, I am a most enthusiastic supporter of the Prime Minister.”

  “I’m afraid you did not see him to best advantage this afternoon.”

  “Then I suspect he needs his friends and supporters more than ever,” Jhabwala declared, slapping the palm of his hand on the hide case that lay on the table in front of him.

  The furrows deepened on Urquhart’s brow as he struggled to find the meaning and direction behind his guest’s remarks.

  “Mr. Urquhart. You know that I have great admiration for you.”

  “Ye-e-e-s,” Urquhart said cautiously.

  “I was happy to assist in a modest way with your election appeal and would be happy to do so again. For you, Mr. Urquhart. And our Prime Minister!”

  “You wish…to make…a donation?”

  The head was wobbling from side to side once more. Urquhart found it disconcerting.

  “Election campaigns must be so very expensive, my dear Mr. Urquhart. I wonder, would it be permissible for me to make a small donation? To replenish the coffers?”

  When it came to donations from foreign sources, Urquhart was well outside his comfort zone. Time and again such matters had dragged politicians into trouble, sometimes even into jail. “Well, I’m sure that…As you say, such things are costly…I believe we could…” For pity’s sake, Urquhart, pull yourself together! “Mr. Jhabwala, could I ask how much you were thinking of giving?”

  In reply Jhabwala twirled the combination lock on his case and flipped the two brass catches. The lid sprang open and he turned the case to face Urquhart.

  “Would £50,000 be an acceptable gesture of support?”

  Urquhart resisted the ferocious temptation to pick up one of the bundles of notes and start counting. He noticed that all the wads were of used £20 notes and were tied with rubber bands rather than bank wrappers. He had little doubt that none of this money had passed through formal accounts.

  “This is…most generous, Mr. Jhabwala. Yes, certainly, as I say, most very generous. But…it is a little unusual, for such a large donation to the Party, to come—in cash.”

  “My dear Mr. Urquhart, you will understand that during the civil war in India my family lost everything. Our house and business were destroyed, we only narrowly escaped with our lives. A mob burned my local bank to the ground—with all its deposits and records. The bank’s head office apologized, of course, but without any records they could only provide my father with their regrets rather than the funds he had deposited with them. It may seem a little old fashioned of me, I know, but I still prefer to trust cash rather than cashiers.”

  The businessman’s teeth sparkled in reassurance. Urquhart was convinced this was trouble. He took a deep breath. “May I be blunt, Mr. Jhabwala?”

  “But of course.”

  “It is sometimes the case with first-time donors that they believe there is something the Party can do for them, when in reality our powers are very limited…”

  Jhabwala nodded in understanding even as his head weaved from side to side. “There is nothing I wish to do other than to be a firm supporter of the Prime Minister. And yourself, Mr. Urquhart. You will understand as a local MP that my business interests occasionally bring me into most friendly contact with local authorities on matters such as planning permission or tendering for contracts. I may at some point ask for your advice but I assure you I am looking for no favors. I want nothing in exchange. Absolutely nothing, no, no! Except, perhaps, to request that I and my wife have the honor of meeting with the Prime Minister at some suitable time, particularly if he should ever come to the constituency. Might that be acceptable? It would mean a very great deal to my wife.”

  £500 for a cup of tea, £50,000 for a photograph. The man struck a generous bargain.

  “I am sure that could be arranged. Perhaps you and your wife would like to attend a reception at Downing Street.”

  “It would be an honor, of course, and perhaps to be able to have just a few private words with him, to express my great personal enthusiasm?”

  A little more than a mere photograph, then, but that was only to be expected. “You will understand that the Prime Minister himself couldn’t personally accept your donation. It would not be—how should I put it?—delicate for him to be involved with such matters.”

  “Of course, of course, Mr. Urquhart. Which is why I want you to accept the money on his behalf.”

  “I’m afraid I can only give you a rudimentary receipt. Perhaps it would be better if you delivered the money directly to the Party treasurers.”

  Jhabwala threw up his hands in horror. “Mr. Urquhart, sir, I do not require a receipt. Not from you. You are my friend. I have even taken the liberty of engraving your initials on this case. Look, Mr. Urquhart.” He tapped the initials with his fingertip. FU stood out in bold capitals of gold. “It is a small gesture which I hope you will accept for all your wonderful work in Surrey.”

  You crafty, ingratiating little sod, thought Urquhart, all the while returning Jhabwala’s broad smile and wondering how long it would be before h
e got the first call about planning permission. He should have thrown the Indian out but instead he reached across the table and shook Jhabwala’s hand warmly. An idea was forming in his mind. This man and his money were undoubtedly trouble, of that there was no longer a shred of doubt. The question was, trouble for whom?

  Thirteen

  Westminster was once a riverside swamp. Then they transformed it, built a palace and a great abbey, piled it high with noble architecture and insatiable ambition.

  But deep down it is still a swamp.

  Friday, July 23

  Praed Street, Paddington. A scruffy newsagent’s in a street that was modest by day and, in the view of the local constabulary, far too ambitious by night. A young black woman hesitated on the pavement, took a breath of west London air, and stepped inside. Behind the security grille and dirty windows, the shop was dark and musty. The shopkeeper, an overweight middle-aged Italian in a tight T-shirt with a cigarette hanging from his lip, was bent over a magazine, the sort that had few words. He raised his eyes reluctantly. She asked about the cost of accommodation address facilities that he advertised on a card in the window, explaining that she had a friend who needed a private address for some of his personal mail. The shopkeeper brushed away the cigarette ash he had spilled over the counter.

  “This friend of yours, he got a name?”

  In reply she pushed across a copy of an old utility bill.

  “No credit. I work only in cash,” he said.

  “So do I,” she replied.

  He offered her a fleshy smile, leered. “You do discounts?”

  She stared at his midriff. “I’d have to charge you double.”

  He raised a lip, sneered, scribbled a quick note. She paid the fee for the minimum period of three months, put the receipt she would need for identification in her purse, and left. The shopkeeper stared at the retreating and delicately curved backside before being distracted by the complaints of an old age pensioner about the lack of her morning newspaper. He didn’t see the young woman get into the taxi that had been waiting for her outside.

  “All right, Pen?” O’Neill asked as she slammed the door behind her and settled into the seat beside him.

  “No problem, Rog,” his assistant answered. “But why the hell couldn’t he do it himself?”

  “Look, I told you. He has some delicate personal problems to sort out and needs some privacy for his mail. Dirty magazines for all I know. So no questions, and not a word to anyone. OK?”

  O’Neill was irritable, felt uncomfortable. Urquhart had sworn him to secrecy and he suspected the Chief Whip would be furious if he discovered that O’Neill had pushed the envelope and got Penny Guy to do his dirty work. But he knew he could trust Penny. And he resented the way Urquhart seemed to regard him as a dogsbody and made him feel so ridiculously insignificant.

  As the taxi pulled away he settled back in the seat while his fingers toyed nervously until they touched the small plastic packet in his pocket. That would soon settle things for him. Make him feel himself once again.

  * * *

  The day was growing ever hotter by the time the man in the sports jacket and trilby hat ventured into the north London branch of the Union Bank of Turkey on the Seven Sisters Road. He presented himself to the Cypriot counter clerk and inquired about opening an account. His eyes were hidden behind tinted glasses and he spoke with a slight but perceptible regional accent that the clerk couldn’t quite place.

  It took only a few minutes before the manager became available and the prospective new client was ushered into an inner sanctum. They exchanged pleasantries before the man explained that he lived in Kenya but was visiting the United Kingdom for a few months to develop his holiday and property portfolio. He was interested in investing in a hotel that was being built outside the Turkish resort of Antalya, on the southern Mediterranean coast.

  The manager responded that he did not know Antalya personally but had heard that it was a beautiful spot and, of course, the bank would be delighted to help him in whatever way possible. He offered the prospective customer a simple registration form, requiring details of his name, address, previous banking reference, and other details. The customer apologized for being able to provide a banking reference only from Kenya but explained that this was his first trip to London in nearly twenty years. The manager assured the older man that the bank was very accustomed to dealing with overseas inquiries and a banking reference from Kenya did not pose any particular problem.

  The customer smiled. The system operated in its own sweet time. It would take at least four weeks for the reference to be checked and would probably take another four before it would be established that the reference was false. Time enough for what he had in mind.

  “And how would you like to open your account, sir?” the manager inquired.

  The man pulled open a brown corduroy holdall and placed it on the desk between them. “I would like to make an initial deposit of £50,000—in cash.”

  “But, of course…” the manager said, struggling to contain his delight.

  Francis Urquhart leaned back in his chair and, without removing his glasses, rubbed his eyes. The spectacles were years old, at least two prescriptions behind his current contacts, and were making his eyes ache. A simple disguise, but one he thought was more than adequate to avoid recognition by any but his closest colleagues. There was, after all, some benefit in being the most faceless senior member of Her Majesty’s Government.

  While Urquhart signed the necessary forms with a scrawl, the manager finished counting the money and began filling out a receipt. Banks are like plumbers, Urquhart thought; cash in hand and no questions asked.

  “One other thing,” Urquhart said.

  “But of course.”

  “I don’t want the cash sitting idle in a current account. I’d like you to purchase some shares for me. Can you arrange that?”

  The manager was nodding delightedly. More commission.

  “I’d like you to purchase twenty thousand ordinary shares in the Renox Chemical Company PLC. They’re currently trading at just over 240p per share, I believe.”

  The manager consulted his screen and assured his client that the order would be completed by 4:00 p.m. that afternoon, at a cost of £49,288.40 including stamp duties and brokers’ fees. It would leave precisely £711.60 in the new account. Urquhart signed yet more forms with a flourish and the same illegible signature.

  The manager smiled as he pushed the receipt across the desktop to his new client. “It is a great pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Collingridge.”

  Monday, July 26—Wednesday, July 28

  End of term. The final week before the start of the summer recess. And a heat wave. Many MPs had already abandoned Westminster and those who had stayed at their posts were left distracted and impatient. Surviving eighty degree temperatures inside a building where the idea of air conditioning was to open a window and flap an Order Paper was an ordeal. But it would soon be over. Only seventy-two hours of bickering left.

  The Government didn’t mind the sense of distraction. The record would show that they, at least, had stuck to their posts, issuing wodges of Written Answers and press releases while others wilted. Ministers from the Department of Health were particularly grateful for the diversion since one of the many Written Answers they issued concerned the postponement of the hospital expansion program. Thanks to the leak it was already old news, but now it was on the record they could at least come out in daylight and not run for the shadows every time anyone asked.

  The Department had other issues to deal with, too. Hospital waiting lists. A press release about the latest outbreak of mumps in Wales. And a routine announcement about three new drugs that the Government, on the advice of their Chief Medical Officer and the Committee on the Safety of Medicines, were licensing for general use. One of the drugs was Cybernox, a new medication developed by the Ren
ox Chemical Company PLC that had proved startlingly effective in controlling the craving for nicotine when fed in small doses to addicted rats and beagles. The same excellent results had been obtained during extensive testing on humans, and now the entire population could get it under doctor’s prescription.

  The announcement caused a flurry of activity at Renox Chemicals. A press conference was called for the following day. The Marketing Director pressed the button on a pre-planned mail shot to every single general practitioner in the country, and the company’s broker informed the Stock Exchange of the new license.

  The response was immediate. Shares in the Renox Chemical Company PLC jumped from 244p to 295p. The twenty thousand ordinary shares purchased two days before by the Union Bank of Turkey’s brokers were now worth £59,000, give or take a little loose change.

  Shortly before noon the following day, a telephone call to the manager of the Union Bank of Turkey instructed him to sell the shares and credit the amount to the appropriate account. The caller also explained that regrettably the hotel venture in Antalya was not proceeding and the account holder was returning to Kenya. Would the bank be kind enough to close the account and expect a visit from the account holder later that afternoon?

  It was just before the bank closed at 3:00 p.m. that the same man in the hat and sports jacket and tinted glasses walked into the branch on Seven Sisters Road. He was invited into the manager’s office, where tea was waiting, but he declined. He watched as the manager and an assistant placed bundles of £20 notes on his desk to the value of £58,250.00, plus another £92.16 in other denominations, which the customer placed in the bottom of his brown corduroy bag. He eyebrows arched at the £742.00 in charges the bank had levied on his short-lived and simple account but, as the manager had suspected, he chose not to make a fuss. He asked for a closing statement to be sent to him at his address in Paddington and thanked the clerk for his courtesy.