The Final Cut fu-3

by Michael Dobbs

  Martin apologized to the editor for the presence of Drage – the atmosphere in Nicosia in recent days had soured like uncollected rubbish, and demonstrations of one sort or another had become a daily occurrence, with the demonstrators becoming increasingly confused about whether the target of their protest was the Turks, the British or the Cypriot Government itself.

  'Summer madness,' the editor agreed, and Drage was deposited on a stool by the bar.

  If the furniture and decor were fashionable, the hospitality was in best Cypriot tradition and Martin was soon relaxed. Drage, however, could afford no such luxury, having been inducted by his superiors into the Order of Toasted Testicles with crossed pokers after the fiasco outside the museum. 'Never again,' his superiors had admonished. 'Better a widow's pension for your wife than you make a complete ass of yourself on the main evening news.' Never again, Drage had vowed. He sat eagle-eyed on his stool, the innocuous flight bag in which he carried 'the necessary' perched on the bar beside him, fingers tapping nervously upon his knees. He offered a perfunctory smile but no conversation to the two Cypriots who stood beside him at the bar ordering drinks.

  The incident, when it arrived, did so with extraordinary speed. Halfway through the meal a guest from a nearby table rose and crossed to greet the editor and diplomat, an action which in itself aroused little suspicion in such a small community. Drage, however, was immediately on his guard, cursing that the bright sunlight which streamed through the window was burning into his retina as he stared, turning all those around the table into silhouettes. He blinked, blinked again, searching the profile of the new arrival for any sign of the unusual. Drage did not notice – could not have noticed in the circumstances – the eyes of the High Commissioner growing large with alarm and searching in his direction. Martin's arms remained motionless on the table, as he had been ordered. It was in the same moment when Drage thought he might have detected the outline of a small barrel protruding from beyond the far side of the intruder that the door immediately behind the table and leading to the courtyard began to open. Fear began to rise through his veins. Drage made a grab for his bag.

  Impossible! As he reached for the zip which secured the flight bag he discovered that it had been smeared with super glue. Child's play! Yet so extraordinarily effective. The fastener was stuck solid, the revolver and alarm transmitter inside as inaccessible as though they were still locked in the High Commission's vault.

  Two men – Drage's companions from the bar -had now entered through the rear door. One was waving what appeared against the glare to be some form of sub-machine gun while the other helped hustle the High Commissioner up and out. The submachine gun had stopped waving and for several seconds the attacker was pointing it fixedly in Drage's direction. Then he, too, was gone. Not even a scream, it had all happened so quickly and most guests in the restaurant were still enjoying their food, their first thought of alarm arriving only as Drage kicked over the bar stool in his lunge for the door. It was, as he knew in every fibre it would be, locked. By the time he had made it out through the restaurant's main entrance and around the side into the chrysanthemum-covered courtyard, the getaway car was speeding off and already lost in the narrow streets of the carpenters' quarter. He didn't even get a make, let alone a number. He had lost the British High Commissioner. He sat behind the drawn curtains of his Commons room, eyes closed. The storm was about to break around him and there could be no retreat. Fate, destiny, the games of gods, call it what he might, had contrived to bring him to a time of great decision; if he failed the test they would say he lacked not the opportunity, only courage.

  Less than twenty minutes after Makepeace had crossed the floor and changed the face of parliamentary politics, Urquhart had heard of the kidnapping of Martin. Havoc wherever he looked. And in havoc, opportunity. For war had been declared against him on two fronts, the first upon a parliamentary field where his skills and sagacity were matched by none, the other in a distant arena which was one of the handful in the world where British troops were still stationed. An arena which he knew so well, where the long journey of his manhood had started, and might yet finish. Where Makepeace would have trouble following, and wouldn't even know what the spoils were.

  There was a knock on the door, a secretary's head appeared. 'Prime Minister, the Cabinet have all assembled.'

  'A moment more. Ask them to give me a moment more.'

  A final moment, a last listen to the voices inside that spoke of tempests and terrible trials. These were skies of blood which foretold men's doom and which others dared not walk in. But Francis Urquhart dared. He had wars to fight, and without delay. For in war, timing was everything. And that time had come. He had sent the wheel of fortune spinning and there was nothing to do but relish the exhilaration of the risk. He felt better than he had done in months. There was a lightness to his step as he walked the few yards from his room back into the Chamber, clutching his piece of paper, a single sheet with a simple portcullis crest and in his own hand, a note which would end up in the Urquhart Library. Or in the Tower. That reminded him, perhaps he should get Booza-Pitt to add a simple amendment to his Bill providing tax breaks for companies who contributed to educational funds. Like the Urquhart Library or the Endowment. There was still time. Just.

  The Chamber was full, aware that such an extraordinary and impromptu gathering of Cabinet Ministers betokened considerable drama. MPs rustled like leaves in a drying autumn wind as Urquhart placed the single sheet upon the Dispatch Box, smoothing its cream edges, and began.

  'Mr Speaker, with your permission I would like to make a statement. This afternoon in the House, a Member crossed the floor in an act which not only reduced this Government's majority but threatens a period of damaging uncertainty…' Others would say it, would already be shouting it as they prepared the morning newspapers, so there was nothing to be lost by the admission. 'Such uncertainty can only do harm to the good governance of this country. Moreover, claims were made that my Government had lost its moral authority to govern. That is a challenge no Government can ignore.'

  He leaned back from the Dispatch Box so that he could survey his audience and, more importantly, keep them dangling, impatient upon his words.

  This Government prefers to take its authority not from self-appointed moralists but from the people. It is the people to whom we listen and in whom we trust; it is for them to say who should sit on these benches and who amongst the Opposition. It is the people who must decide.'

  From the comer of its collective eye the whole House was looking at Makepeace, who sat impassive, aware that Urquhart was challenging every line of his credentials, and awkward on a crowded bench where not a single one was numbered amongst his friends or supporters. He looked isolated; he'd jumped too soon.

  'In order to bring an end to the uncertainty, it is my intention to ask His Majesty for a dissolution and a general election at the earliest practicable moment, after the passage of certain essential pieces of parliamentary business. That moment should be in four weeks next Thursday. Thank you.'

  Picking up his piece of paper, Urquhart left the Chamber.

  For several long moments the House reacted in the manner of some prehistoric beast under attack. A bemused silence, before sounds of confusion began to rattle amongst many throats. Then a sustained bellow as the creature finally became aware that its tail had been torn away. Cries of determination and rage rose on all sides.

  'Good God, I never thought I'd see it. The day when Francis Urquhart ran up the white flag of surrender.' A young scribe in the press gallery tore at his notebook, infected by the air of anarchy which prevailed.

  Beside him Dicky Withers appeared unmoved, eyeing the scene below him with no apparent display of heat, drawing in his cheeks as though sucking on his favourite pipe. 'Bloody fool.' 'What, Urquhart?' his junior colleague enquired.

  'Not Urquhart. You. He's not running away, he's called Makepeace's bluff.'

  'But he's behind in the polls, now his party is split…' />
  'You watch 'em. Faced with an electoral drowning, not many will be keen to join Makepeace in jumping ship.'

  He nodded towards the former Foreign Secretary, who was walking alone out of the Chamber. In an arena where everyone was shouting, rebuking, gesticulating, only he seemed to have nothing to say, and no one to say it to.

  SIX

  Nicosia swelters by day, by night, life is lived on the street, in the open-air eating places, on corners, at coffee shops, in parks beneath the stars. The hot pavements chatter, gossip flows along every gutter; at traffic lights young men lean out of their car windows or from mopeds to exchange banter and cigarettes with passers-by, for everyone seems to be connected either by business or by blood. But, since the Turks invaded, mostly by blood.

  And in the stifling atmosphere the soft wind of rumour sweeps through the back streets, is passed from balcony to bus queue like a mistral of mistruth. Blow your nose by the Famagusta Gate and it has become a full-scale epidemic by the time, an hour or so later, it has reached Makarios Avenue. One day, perhaps, television may rescue the Cypriots, replacing febrile excitement with numbing uniformity and squeezing conspiracy into the commercial breaks. One day, perhaps, but until then, the Cypriot will believe anything. Except politicians.

  Beneath a roof of woven palm fronds in the shadow of the great Venetian walls of the old city, a waiter served two British tourists, patiently explaining the menu, imploring them to try the boiled brains which were a speciality of his cousin, the cook, and warning them off the squid. 'Last week's. Too old.' He shook his head as though at a graveside.

  A young boy, no more than ten, passed between the tables distributing leaflets. He stopped before the couple, clearly identifying them as British. 'Good mornings,' he offered, along with a full smile and a leaflet each, before continuing with his task.

  'What does it say?' the woman enquired of the waiter.

  'It says we want the British out of Cyprus,' he responded cheerfully, before spying the look on her face. 'No, not you, Madams. The bases. Only the bases. We want the British to stay, we love you. But as our friends in our homes and our tavernas. Not in the bases.' His cheerful clarification suggested not a trace of rancour. 'Now, how about some suckling pig, freshly butchered…?'

  Suddenly a scooter, under-powered and hideously over-throttled, squealed to a halt at the kerbside and the waiter exchanged greetings with the driver. The noise grew, however, as did the animation of both waiter and driver, who were gesticulating as though warding off an attack of ravenous vampire bats. Then the waiter turned to his cousin who was leaning from the window of the kitchen. More shouts -the waiter abandoned his pen, pad and corkscrew on the table cloth – and the battle with the bats continued as he backed away in the direction of the scooter. Pursued by cries from his cousin that clearly fell well short of endearments, he climbed on the back of the scooter and disappeared into the night.

  The cousin appeared at the guests' table carrying an expression of wearied forbearance, wiped his hands on his apron and reclaimed the pad. 'But… what was all that?' Madams enquired.

  He shrugged. 'Bones. They've found more bones. So there's another demonstration at the Presidential Palace. Don't worry, ladies, he's only gone for a quick shout. Be back in half an hour. Now, what can I get you? Has he told you about the squid…?'

  There were bones, uncovered in the hills behind Paphos beneath a pile of rocks in an olive grove. They weren't of an age which matched with graves from either the British or Turkish wars, and it turned out they weren't even human. But it would be days before forensic analysis established the facts and in the meantime there would be protests, rumours, inventions and outright lies.

  Through dragging Cypriot days and beneath hard blue skies, truth rots like a gangrenous limb. The Presidential Palace in Nicosia is an unlikely affair. Built to house the imperial trappings of an early British Governor after the old headquarters were wrecked by a popular uprising, it was in its own turn burnt to the ground by the coup against Archbishop Makarios which opened the door to the Turkish invasion. This would have been an opportunity to erase the British stamp upon the presidential home once and for all, and to create a palace of entirely modern Cypriot design. 'But the British are our history,' the Archbishop was supposed to have said, 'they are our friends.' So, along with the Archbishop, the Palace was restored in the old style, complete with the dominant British coat of royal arms carved in sandstone above the main entrance. Dieu et Mon Droit. An unlikely affair.

  Aristotle Nicolaou was a similarly unlikely affair. Tall, stooped, of uncomfortable construction, the President had a leanness and a blue intensity in his eyes which set him apart from most Cypriots. He was a philosopher rather than a politician, a man who had encountered no greater pleasure in his life than teaching economics at the London School of Economics and marrying an English wife. His happiness had disappeared with the Turkish invasion that had torn the island apart, and he had returned for no better reason than to assuage his sense of guilt at missing the hardships being endured by his fellow Cypriots. It was not a sense of guilt shared by his wife. Nicolaou was a man of broad ideals who had never fully reconciled himself to the tactics and daily concessions required of political life, any more than he had to those required in his marriage. As he sat at the small desk in his office, surrounded by family photographs and the paraphernalia of power, he felt adrift. Through the great Moorish stone arched windows came the sound of protest from beyond the palace gates – louder than ever tonight – and from the telephone came the sound of protest from the British Prime Minister. He didn't know how to handle either.

  'Ari, I must emphasize how seriously I take this business. I'm not going to allow people to start kidnapping my High Commissioners and get away with it.'

  'Francis, I'm committing everything to this. We'll find him.'

  'But you haven't. Have you even found out why he was taken?'

  'A radio station received a telephone call about two hours ago. Untraceable, naturally. Called itself "The Word". Gave the position of Mr Martin's birthmark. Said it will give the rest of him back in exchange for all files concerning hidden war graves and a commitment from your Government to withdraw from your "outposts of imperialism", as it called them. Bones and bases.' 'Bloody blackmail.'

  In a bowl in front of Nicolaou were piled fresh lemon leaves from the garden; he crushed a few between his finger tips, savouring the sharp fragrance, as was his custom at times of stress. 'Can we at least encourage them to talk about it?'

  'Ari, I've got an election campaign about to start. I've no intention of kicking that off by dickering with terrorists..'

  'It's more than that, I'm sure. It's aimed at me, too. They want to prevent me signing the peace treaty. Even now I have a mob beating at my door.'

  Beneath the canopy of a hundred thousand stars, another wave of protest drifted across the grounds -God, had they broken in? For once he was glad his wife was away on yet another trip to Paris. More culture. Shopping again. 'How seriously should we take these people?'

  'Have you British not yet learnt to take Cypriots seriously?' Nicolaou sounded caustic. 'We may be a nation of tavern keepers and taxi drivers, but you'll remember we saw off the British military machine with little more than a handful of home-made bombs and stolen rifles.' 'I remember.'

  'Above all, I cannot afford to forget. Throughout the ages we Cypriots have been betrayed by those who let in the Turks and other invaders through the back door. Now some believe I'm inviting them in through the front, putting out the welcoming mat. The arch deceiver, they call me. It's my head they want, not that of Mr Martin.'

  'I hadn't realized things were so difficult for you. I'm sorry,' Urquhart said, and didn't mean it.

  The President crushed more lemon leaves and gazed across his office to where, against the soft pastel walls above the fireplace, hung a large oil portrait of his daughter, an only child born five months after their return to Cyprus. Elpida, he had called her – Hope. 'So long as we h
ave peace for our children, Francis, little else counts.'

  The maudlin fool. Matters appeared to be getting out of control in Cyprus; Urquhart could not have been more content. 'And you believe these bone grinders who oppose the peace are the ones holding my High Commissioner?' 'I do.' 'Then who in God's name is behind it all?' Nicolaou sighed wearily. 'I wish I knew.' She was twenty-three, extended in leg and lip with an adventurous, uncomplicated outlook. That's why she had become an air stewardess, to see something of the world and its charms, and particularly its men. She hadn't counted on meeting a man like this. Within ten minutes of their encounter in first class he'd offered her a job – better pay, more regular hours, no more anonymous hotel rooms and shabby, sweaty nights with men trying desperately to forget they were over forty and heavily married. At least this one wasn't married. But she hadn't expected to be looking down the barrel of a revolver.

  Her hand went to her throat in alarm. From six feet away the barrel waved, fell, once, twice, three times, indicating the buttons on her blouse. He nodded as her fingers found them; she was nervous, trembling, had trouble unfastening the first. The others came away more easily.

  The barrel flicked to the left, then the right as though brushing her shoulders, and her bra straps fell. The whole garment dropped to the floor to join the blouse. She shivered as a breeze from off the sea, soaked in the scent of jasmine, crept through the open window and across her bare skin. Her nipples tightened, and so did the lines of his mouth.

  Remorselessly the barrel continued its march across her body. She stepped out of her skirt and was left standing in only her underwear, her arms crossed around her as though in penitence.