House of Cards

by Michael Dobbs

  Francis Urquhart is more difficult to assess. The least experienced and well known of the three, nevertheless his performance in the first round ballot was remarkable. Three reasons seem to explain his success. First, as Chief Whip he knows the Parliamentary Party extremely well, and they him. Since it is his colleagues in the Parliamentary Party and not the electorate at large who will decide this election, his low public profile is less of a disadvantage than many perhaps assumed.

  Second, he has conducted his campaign in a dignified style which sets him apart from the verbal fisticuffs and misfortunes of the other contenders. What is known of his politics suggests he holds firm to the traditionalist line, somewhat patrician and authoritarian perhaps, but sufficiently ill-defined for him not to have antagonized either wing of the Party.

  Finally, perhaps his greatest asset is that he is neither of the other two. Many MPs have certainly supported him in the first round rather than commit themselves to one of the more contentious candidates. He is the obvious choice for those who wish to sit on the fence. But it is that which could ultimately derail his campaign. As the pressure for a clear decision grows, Urquhart is the candidate who could suffer most.

  So the choice is clear. Those who wish to air their social consciences will support Samuel. Those who thirst for blood-and-thunder politics will support Woolton. Those who cannot make up their minds have an obvious choice in Urquhart. Whichever way they decide, they will inevitably deserve what they get.

  Woolton chuckled as he finished off the last of the toast and his wife arrived to join him, her arms laden with the morning’s post.

  “What do they say?” she said, nodding at the newspapers.

  “That I’m Maggie Thatcher without the tits,” he said. “Home and bloody dry.”

  She replenished his mug of tea and sighed as she sat beside the pile of mail and began sifting through it. She had gotten the process down to a fine art. Her word processor was carefully programmed with a series of standard responses that, with only the barest brush of a keyboard, would make a reply seem personalized. Then they would be signed with the help of a little autograph machine he had brought back from the States. Even though many of the letters were from the usual bunch of discontents, lobbyists, professional whingers, and nutters who wrote in green ink, they would all get an answer. She wouldn’t risk losing her husband even a single vote by failing to offer some form of reply even to the most abusive.

  She left the padded brown envelope until last. It had been hand-delivered and was firmly stapled down; she had to struggle to open it, risking her manicure in the process. As she pulled out the last tenacious staple a cassette tape fell into her lap. There was nothing else in the envelope, no letter, no compliments slip, no label on the tape to indicate where it had come from or what it contained.

  “Fools. How on earth do they expect us to reply to that?”

  “It’s probably a recording of last weekend’s speech or a tape of a recent interview,” he suggested distractedly, not bothering to look up from his newspaper. “Give us some more tea, lass, and let’s give it a whirl.” He waved broadly in the general direction of the stereo unit.

  His wife, dutiful as ever, did as he bade. He was slurping his tea, his attention fixed to the editorial in the Sun, when with a burst of red light the playback meter on the tape deck began to show it was reading something. There was a series of low hisses and crackles, it was clearly not a professional recording.

  “Turn the bloody thing up, then, love,” he instructed, “let the fox hear the chicken.”

  The sound of a girl’s laughter filled the room. It was followed, moments later, by her low, deep gasp. The noise hypnotized the Wooltons, rooting them to the spot. No tea was supped and no paper turned for several minutes as through the speakers came many noises: heavy breaths, low curses, a complaining mattress, a grunt of happiness, the rhythmic banging of a headboard against a wall. The tape left little to the imagination. The woman’s sighs became shorter and more shrill, only pausing to gasp for breath before they climbed ever higher.

  Then, with mutual cries of ascension and fulfillment, it was done. A woman’s giggles mixed with the deep bass panting of her companion.

  “Oh, my, that was bloody marvelous,” the man gasped.

  “Not bad for an oldie.”

  “That’s what you get with age. Stamina!”

  “Can we do it again, then?”

  “Not if you’re going to wake up the whole of bloody Bournemouth,” an unmistakable Lancashire accent said.

  Neither Woolton nor his wife had moved since the tape had begun but now she stepped slowly across the room and switched it off. A soft, gentle tear fell down one cheek as she turned to look at her husband. He couldn’t return her gaze.

  “What can I say? I’m sorry, love,” he whispered. “I’ll not lie and tell you it’s bogus. But I am sorry, truly. I never meant to hurt you.”

  She made no reply. The look of sorrow on her face cut him far more deeply than any angry word.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked gently.

  She turned on him, her face flooded with pain. She had to dig her nails deep into her palm to retain control. “Pat, I have turned many a blind eye over the last twenty-three years and I’m not so stupid as to think this is the only time. You could at least have had the decency to keep it away from me and to make sure my face wasn’t rubbed in it. You owed me that.”

  He hung his head. She let her anger sink into him before she continued.

  “But one thing my pride will not tolerate is having a tart like that trying to break up my marriage and make a fool of me. I’ll not stand for it. Find out whatever the blackmailing little bitch wants, buy her off or go to the police if necessary. But get rid of her. And get rid of this!” She flung the tape at him; it bounced off his chest. “It doesn’t belong in my house. And neither will you if I have to listen to that filth again!”

  He looked at her with tears in his own eyes. “I’ll sort it out. I promise. You’ll hear no more about it.”

  Forty-Three

  Love reaches a man’s heart. Fear, on the other hand, gets to his more persuadable parts.

  Thursday, November 25

  Penny cast an unwelcoming frown in the direction of the solid steel sky and, muffled in wool, she stepped carefully onto the pavement from the Earl’s Court mansion block in which she lived. The weathermen had been talking for days about the possibility of a sudden cold snap and now it had arrived, intent on getting on with its job. As she picked her way over frozen puddles she regretted her decision to wear heels instead of boots. She was moving slowly along the edge of the pavement, blowing hot breath on her fingers, as a car door swung open, blocking her path.

  She bent low to tell the driver to be more bloody careful when she saw Woolton at the wheel. She beamed at him but he didn’t return her warmth. He was looking straight ahead, not at her as she obeyed his clipped instruction and slipped into the passenger seat.

  “What is it you want?” he demanded in a voice as hard as the morning air.

  “What are you offering?” She smiled, but an edge of uncertainty was already creeping in as she saw his eyes. They were soulless.

  The lips were thin, curled, exposing his teeth as he spoke.

  “Did you have to go and send that tape to me at home? That was a damned cruel thing to do. My wife heard it. It was also extremely stupid because she knows about it now so you can’t blackmail me. No newspaper or radio station will touch it, the potential libel damages will have them all running for cover, so there’s not much use you can make of it.”

  It wasn’t the truth. The tape could still do immense damage to him in the wrong hands but he hoped she would be too stupid to see all that. His bluff seemed to have worked as he watched her face fill with alarm.

  “Pat, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “The blood
y tape you sent me, you silly trollop. Don’t you go coy on me!”

  “I…I sent you no tape. I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  The unexpected assault on her feelings had come as a considerable shock and she began to sob and gasp for breath. He grabbed her arm ferociously and tears of real pain began to flow.

  “The tape! The tape! You sent me the tape!”

  “What tape, Pat? Why are you hurting me…?”

  The trickle of tears had become a torrent. The street outside began to disappear behind misted windows and she was locked in a world of madness.

  “Look at me and tell me you didn’t send me a tape of us in Bournemouth.”

  “No. No. What tape?” Suddenly she gasped and the tears died in horror. “There’s a tape of us in Bournemouth? Pat, that’s vile. But who?”

  He released her arm and his head sank slowly onto the steering wheel. “Oh, my God, this is worse than I thought,” he muttered.

  “Pat, I don’t understand.”

  His face was gray, suddenly aged, his skin stretched like old parchment across his cheeks. “Yesterday a cassette tape arrived at my home. It was a recording of us in bed at the Party conference.”

  “And you thought that I had sent it? Why, you miserable shit!”

  “I hoped it was you, Pen.”

  “Why? Why me?” she shouted in disgust.

  He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, looking ahead, but not at the road. “I hoped it was you, Pen, because if it’s not you then I haven’t the faintest idea who’s doing this. And it can’t be any type of coincidence that it’s arrived now, so many weeks after it was made. They’re not trying to blackmail me for money. They want me out of the leadership race.” His voice faded to a whisper. “As far as next Tuesday goes, I’m toast.”

  * * *

  Woolton spent the rest of the morning trying to think constructively. He had no shred of doubt it was the leadership race that had caused the sudden appearance of the tape. He threw a dozen ideas against the wall as to who was behind it, even the Russians, but nothing stuck. He had nowhere else to go. He called his wife—he owed her that, and more—then he called a press conference.

  Faced with such a problem, some men might have decided to fade gently from the scene and pray that their quiet retirement would not be disturbed, but Woolton wasn’t some men. He was the type who would rather go down fighting, trying to salvage whatever he could from the wreckage of his dreams. He had nothing to lose.

  He was in a determined mood by the time the press conference gathered shortly after lunch. With no time to make more formal arrangements he had summoned the media to meet him on the Albert Embankment, on the south side of the river directly opposite the Houses of Parliament. He needed a dramatic backdrop and the gingerbread palace with the tower of Big Ben would provide it. As soon as the cameramen were ready, he began.

  “Good afternoon. I’ve got a short statement to make and I’m sorry I’ll not have time afterwards for questions. But I don’t think you’re going to be disappointed.”

  He waited as another camera crew arrived and heaved their equipment into position.

  “Following the ballot on Tuesday, it seems as if only three candidates have any realistic chance of success. In fact, I understand that all the others have already announced they’ll not be standing in the second round. So, as you gentlemen have put it, this is a three-horse race.”

  He paused. Bugger it, but this was hard. He hoped they were all freezing, too.

  “Of course, I’m delighted to be one of those three, honored, but three can be an unlucky number. There aren’t really three alternatives in this election, only two. Either the Party can stick to the practical approach to politics that’s proved so successful and kept us in power for over a decade. Or it can develop a new raft of policies, sometimes called conscience politics, which will get Government much more deeply involved—some would say trapped—in trying to sort out every problem in the world. Big Brother it’s called, and as you all know that’s never been my brand of tea.”

  The reporters stirred. Everyone knew there were divisions within the Party but it was rare for them to be given such a public airing.

  “However well intentioned, I don’t believe that a new emphasis on conscience politics would be appropriate—fact is, I think it would be a disaster for the Party and the country. I reckon that’s also the view of the clear majority within the Party. Yet that is just the way we could end up drifting if that majority gets divided between two candidates. The two candidates who support pragmatic policies are Francis Urquhart and myself. Now I am a practical man. I don’t want my personal ambitions to stand in the way of achieving those policies in which I’ve always believed. But that’s just what might happen.”

  Despite the cold air his words were catching fire, sending spirals into the air.

  “That place”—he cocked a thumb at the Parliament building behind him—“means too much to me. I want to make sure the right man is running it with the right policies in place. So, ladies and gentlemen”—he gave one last look around at the mass of cameras and bodies that pressed around him, toying with them for a second more—“I’m not going to take any risks. Too much is at stake. So I am withdrawing from the race. I shall be casting my own vote for Francis Urquhart, who I sincerely hope will be our next Prime Minister. I have nothing more to say.”

  His last words were almost lost in the clatter of a hundred camera shutters. He didn’t wait but began striding up the riverside steps toward his waiting car. A few gave chase, running after him, but were able to get no more than the sight of him being driven off across Westminster Bridge. The rest stood in a state of bewilderment. He had left them no time for questions, no opportunity to develop theories or detect hidden meanings behind his words. They had only what he had given them so they would have to report it straight—which is precisely what Woolton intended.

  He drove home, where his wife stood waiting on the doorstep, no less confused. He was smiling ruefully as they went inside; she allowed him a kiss on her cheek, he made the tea.

  “You decided to spend more time with your family, Pat?” she asked, skeptical, as they sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table.

  “Would do no harm, would it?”

  “But. There’s always a ‘but’ somewhere with you. I understand why you had to back out and I suppose that’s going to have to be punishment enough.”

  “You’ll stick with me, love? That’s more important than anything, you know that.”

  She chose her words carefully, not wanting to let him slip so freely off the hook. “I shall go on supporting you, as I always have. But…”

  “That bloody word again.”

  “But why on earth did you decide to support Francis Urquhart? I never knew you two were that close.”

  “That superior bugger? We’re not close. I don’t even like him!”

  “Then why?”

  “Because I’m fifty-five and Michael Samuel is forty-eight, which means that he could be in Downing Street for twenty years until I’m dead and buried. Francis Urquhart, on the other hand, is almost sixty-two. He’s not likely to be in office more than five years. So with Urquhart, there’s a chance of another leadership race before I’m reduced to dog meat. In the meantime, if I can find out who’s behind that tape, or they suffer some really brutal and horribly painful accident, as I sincerely hope they will, then I’m in with a second chance.”

  His pipe was hurling thick blue smoke at the ceiling as he worked on his logic.

  “In any event, I’ve nothing to gain from remaining neutral. Samuel would never tolerate me in his Cabinet. So instead I’ve handed the election to Urquhart on a plate and he’ll have to show some public gratitude for that.”

  He looked at his wife, forced a smile for the first time since they had heard the tape.

&nb
sp; “Hell, it could be worse. How do you fancy being the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s wife for the next couple of years?”

  Forty-Four

  To lie about one’s strength is the mark of leadership; to lie about one’s faults, the mark of politics.

  Friday, November 26

  The following morning’s weather was still well below freezing, but a new front had passed over the capital bringing crystal skies to replace the leaden cloud of the previous day. It felt like a fresh start. From the window of his office Urquhart gazed out at what seemed for him to be a future as bright as the sky. After Woolton’s endorsement he felt invulnerable. He was almost home.

  Then the door burst open with the sound of an exploding shell and from the rubble emerged the tattered figure of Roger O’Neill. Even before Urquhart could demand to know what on earth he was doing, the babbling commenced. The words were fired like bullets, being hurled at Urquhart as if to overwhelm him by force.

  “They know, Francis. They’ve discovered the file is missing. The locks were bent and one of the secretaries noticed and the Chairman’s called us all in. I’m sure he suspects me. What are we going to do? What are we going to do?”

  Urquhart was shaking him to stop the incomprehensible gabble. “Roger, for God’s sake shut up!”

  He pushed him bodily into a chair and slapped his face. Only then did O’Neill pause for breath.

  “Now slowly, Roger. Take it slowly. What are you trying to say?”

  “The files, Francis. The confidential party files on Samuel you asked me to send to the Sunday newspapers.” He was panting from both physical and nervous exhaustion. The pupils of his eyes were dilated, the rims as raw as open wounds, the face the color of ashes. “You see, I was able to use my pass key to get into the basement without any trouble, that’s where all the storage rooms are, but the files are in locked cabinets. I had to force the lock, Francis. I’m sorry but I had no choice. Not very much but it bent a little. There’s so much dust and cobwebs around that it looked as if no one had been in there since the Boer War, but yesterday some bitch of a secretary decided to go in there and noticed the bent lock. Now they’ve gone through the whole lot and discovered that Samuel’s file is missing.”