The Final Cut fu-3

by Michael Dobbs

  'But haven't you realized, Elizabeth? That is precisely what I have planned to do all along.' They were prepared for the assault. Somehow they'd figured it out – perhaps it was the unexpected request for all recent programme tapes, or an unwise word on the telephone from one of the officials at the Radio Authority in Holbom, for when three police vans and an RA van drew up outside 18 Bush Way, the doors were blockaded and the airwaves drenched in emotional outpourings which would have done justice to the Hungarian Uprising. Not from Franco, of course. At the first hint of trouble he'd legged it, suggesting that to get caught up in a hassle with officialdom might interfere with his Open University course. They could have used Franco, shoved him in the metal cabinet jammed up against the front door to give it more dead weight.

  Resistance was never likely to be more than token; there were too many windows, too many hands on too many sledgehammers for them to hold out long. London Radio for Cyprus went off the air as a policeman kicked out the lock of the studio door and with a polite 'Excuse me, Sir,' reached across and flicked off the power supply. Simultaneously he also managed to kneel on the producer's fingers, although whether by accident or design was never established.

  But not before the excited Cypriot had succeeded in squeezing out one final phrase of defiance. The EOKA cry of resistance. 'Eleftheria i Thanatos!' When Passolides returned that afternoon from purchasing fresh crab and vegetables at the market, he found the plate-glass frontage to his restaurant smashed to pieces and the curtain of seclusion ripped into shreds. A neighbour told him that a car had drawn up, a man climbed out with a sledgehammer and without any evident sense of haste had calmly shattered the window with three blows.

  Passolides hadn't called the police, he didn't trust them, but they arrived anyway, a man in plain clothes with an indecipherable name flashing a warrant card.

  'Not a lot we can do, Sir,' he'd explained. 'Trouble is, outspoken gentlemen like you make yourselves targets at a time like this. Lot of anti-Cypriot feeling around in some quarters, what with the High Commissioner gone missing. Wouldn't be surprised if this happened again.'

  He'd closed his notebook, dragging back the remnants of curtain to peer inside.

  'By the way, Sir, I'll tell the VAT people you're ready for inspection, shall I?' The French Foreign Minister sat studying papers before the start of the meeting in Brussels. It was more than the routine gathering of the Council of Foreign Ministers; indeed it had an element of drama. The British would be practising a little crawling today and it would force that appalling man Bollingbroke to adopt a position of vulnerability which the Frenchman was looking forward to exploiting. He'd taken enough from the Englishman in recent weeks; he relished the opportunity to show that handing out punishment was not an exclusive Anglo-Saxon prerogative.

  His reverie was broken by the clamping of a large hand on his shoulder. 'Allo, Allen.'

  Damn him. Bollingbroke always Anglicized the name, refusing to pronounce it properly.

  'Looking forward to a fine meeting today, Allen. You know, getting your support on this Cyprus matter.'

  'It's a complicated problem. I feel it would be inadvisable to rush…'

  But already the Englishman was talking through him. It was like watching a bulldozer trying to cut grass.

  'It could get rough, you know. Might have to send in the troops. But I've just thought, Allen. What you ought to do. Offer us some of your own troops, a sort of international gesture. After all, we're trying to sort out an international problem. Restoring order and democracy in Cyprus. We'd take care of 'em, make sure none of 'em got hurt.'

  'They can certainly take care of themselves,' the Frenchman responded, ruffling with pride, 'but are you suggesting that we give you French troops to help sort out this mess you English have got yourselves into?' 'That's right.' 'Impossible!'

  'You surprise me,' Bollingbroke responded, astonishment wrinkled across his face. 'I'd have thought you'd jump at it. Why, give you Frenchies a chance to be on the winning side for a change.'

  Another hand came down on the Frenchman's shoulder, a playful tap which he suspected was intended to break his collar bone. His neck turned the colour of the finest Burgundy as he threw aside the folder containing his briefing notes. He knew how to handle this meeting.

  The French representative was adamant and intractable. He would not be moved and, since most of the other partners had little desire to be moved, even the traditional compromise of fudge was lost. Every request by the British Government for support was turned down. Flat. Non! No token troops, no selective sanctions, not even words of encouragement or understanding. Europe turned its back on Bollingbroke.

  Throughout the long meeting he argued, cajoled, insisted, threatened, suggested all sorts of dire repercussions, but to no avail. And when the vote was taken and he stuck out like a stick of Lancashire rhubarb, he simply smiled.

  They've no idea, he mused to himself. Middle of an election campaign and Europe says No. Deserts us. With British lives at stake. It'll be the Dunkirk spirit all over again. They'll be running up Union Jacks on every council estate in the country and saying prayers in chapel in praise of Arthur Bollingbroke. And Francis Urquhart, of course. Just as F.U. had said they would. Bloody marvellous. It was Thursday. Exactly two weeks to go before the election.

  'I am concerned, Prime Minister, that we should not rush into things. There are lives at stake and, to be frank, we've never prepared for a contingency of this sort. Invading Cyprus, if you will.'

  'Don't worry, General, I've thought of that for you.'

  The Deputy Chief of Defence Staff (Commitments), Lieutenant General Sir Quentin Young-blood, cleared his throat. He wasn't used to having his military judgement either questioned or improved. 'But with the greatest respect, Prime Minister, we've found no one who can brief us on the layout. We simply don't know what this Presidential Lodge looks like and what sort of target it will be.'

  'Look no further, General. I visited the Lodge several times when I was serving in Cyprus. It used to be the summer home of the British Governor. It won't have changed much; the Cypriots are sticklers for tradition. Too idle for change.'

  'Even so, there are so many political complications. I must ask for a little more time for preparation.' He looked around the other members of the War Cabinet seeking support. The Defence Secretary was shuffling his briefing papers, about to join in.

  'No!' Urquhart's hand banged down on the Cabinet table. 'You're asking to give the bloody Bishop more time. Time in which he will strengthen his position and raise the costs for us all…'

  Let alone increase the chances of Elizabeth's letter falling into the wrong hands.

  'But there are logistical problems, too. We can't afford to rush in blind,' Youngblood protested.

  Urquhart looked around the table at COBRA, the Cabinet sub-committee gathered together to handle 'Operation Defrock', as Urquhart had called it. Apart from Youngblood there sat Bollingbroke as Foreign Secretary, the Defence Secretary, the Attorney General (to pronounce on legal requirements), and the Party Chairman to help with presentation and the selling of a great victory. The defence chiefs had muttered objections to the inclusion of the Party Chairman, afraid that it would make the matter seem all too party political a fortnight before polling day. How right they were.

  Booza-Pitt had asked to be included, practically begged. For however long it lasted this exercise was going to be at the top of the news and he wanted to be there with it. He'd left a pleading message with Urquhart's private office, insisting that as head of one of the three great departments of state his input and inclusion were vital. But it was a busy day; Urquhart hadn't even bothered to reply. 'Life is destined to be so full of disappointments for the boy,' he'd ventured to his private secretary. But at least Booza-Pitt wasn't a man of faint heart, unlike some. Urquhart stared directly at the General.

  'These logistical problems. What form do they take?'

  Youngblood drew breath. 'Since the rather lurid reports were pub
lished of the Foreign Secretary's discussions in Europe' – Youngblood cast a reproachful look across the table, determined that blame should be shifted onto political shoulders – 'elements of the Cypriot community have treated our preparations as tantamount to a declaration of war. My local commander in Cyprus tells me of a considerable increase in public hostility. It has made any initiative we might take considerably more complicated.'

  'And will grow more complicated the longer we leave it.'

  'But at this stage there are too many imponderables. I cannot guarantee success.'

  'You cannot guarantee that the British Army can whip a bloody bishop?' Urquhart could scarcely contain his derision.

  'Success in my opinion is achieving our objectives without unnecessary loss of life.'

  'And it is delay which threatens disaster. Timing, timing, timing, General. For God's sake, the Presidential Lodge is barely twenty miles along good roads from our base at Akrotiri. We could be there before your tea's had time to grow cold.' 'But…'

  'Are there armed men waiting at the gates of Akrotiri to intercept our convoy? Is that what you are afraid of?' 'There is a blockade…'

  'No, General. No more excuses. The time has come.'

  Without taking his eyes off the military man, Urquhart had reached for the red phone that sat in front of him on the Cabinet table and raised it to his ear. 'Give me Air Marshal Rae.'

  'Prime Minister!' Youngblood protested in puce. 'The chain of military command and communication goes through me. We cannot have politicians interfering in a military operation and…'

  'General, you've already insisted that this is a political operation as well as a military one. Are you trying to deny the Prime Minister the right to discuss matters with the local commander?'

  Youngblood stared back defiantly but held silence, uncertain of his ground. Air Vice-Marshal Rae was not only the Commander, British Forces Cyprus, but had a further role as the Administrator of the Sovereign Base Areas, effectively the political governor of the British territories. Two hats. But which was he wearing at this moment…? While Youngblood pondered several centuries of constitutional etiquette and precedent, the communications chain of command which ran through operational headquarters at Northwood and onward via satellite above the Sahara had worked without flaw; within seconds Urquhart was linked with the Commander' Administrator in Episkopi at the heart of the Akrotiri base.

  'Air Marshal Rae, this is the Prime Minister. I'm talking from the Cabinet Room. I understand your base is under some form of blockade.' He paused while he listened.

  'I see. There are two hundred women at the gates blockading it with prams and babies' pushchairs.' The glance he shot at Youngblood was like a viper's tongue. 'In your opinion, would breaking through that blockade of prams constitute a threat to the lives of British servicemen?' A pause.

  'I thought not. That being the case, Air Marshal, my orders to you are to cordon off the Presidential Lodge. Make sure that the Bishop and the hostages cannot get out, and no one else can get in. I want it sealed tight. That is to be done immediately. You are then to wait for further instructions. Is that clear?'

  Urquhart turned his attention to those in the Cabinet Room. 'Gentlemen, are we in agreement?'

  All eyes were turned to Youngblood. Now that the orders had been issued, to dispute them would be professional suicide. He would have no choice but to resign. And, as Urquhart knew, he was not a rash man, likely to jump to precipitate action. The General found something of consuming interest to study amongst the papers in front of him. The news cameraman knew the moment was at hand from the increased level of noise, of shouted commands, of stamping feet and revving engines which had been coming from behind the wire and outbuildings at Episkopi all through the night. He could sense rather than see a change in the activity around the gates, a quickening of pace behind the rolls of razor wire, a sharpness in the reflex, like a lumbering Sumo wrestler about to hurl himself at his opponent. The women sensed the change, too, calling to their children, hugging them more closely than ever, reassuring each other even while their eyes spoke of anxiety and danger. Keep together, they whispered. Success through solidarity. And they had chained and tied the collection of prams and pushchairs together such that it would take an hour to untangle them all. But 'Stinger' Rae did not have an hour.

  The first sign of movement came soon after dawn from two olive-painted vehicles which drove up rapidly until a squeal of brakes brought them to a halt only inches from the gates. Several of the women at the front of the demonstration stood in order to gain a clearer view; they were the first to be hit and sent sprawling by the powerful water jets of the fire tenders. The vehicles were not specifically built for riot control, the nozzles of their hoses not set for maximum force, but nevertheless the impact of these 'gentle persuaders', as Rae's press officer would later term them, was devastating. Within less than a minute the demonstration in front of the gates had been washed away in a flood of children's screams. Even as they sobbed in the rushing gutters and on the grass verges around the gateway, teams of servicemen ran into action. The first removed the razor wire, dragging it roughly to one side, another team of medics fanned out amongst the women and their infants to minister to the minor injuries, abrasions and bruises that had been inflicted and the vapours thereby caused. Hot coffee and milk were already at hand. A third team of military policewomen scoured through the overturned and waterlogged baby vehicles to ensure that they were all empty. One sleeping infant was lifted from a pushchair and handed to his dazed mother sitting on the grass verge. Then the all-clear was pronounced.

  With a grumble of diesel engines, a long snake of vehicles came into view, headed by a phalanx of four-ton trucks. They hit the jumble of baby carriages at a good thirty, and left them crushed flat beneath the tyres. They were followed by ambulances, Land-Rovers, a signals truck and more four-tonners, carving through the barricade like a sleigh through fresh snow. They left behind them the tears of children and the sight of sobbing women picking over the wreckage, just in case. They also left behind them a delighted news cameraman.

  They took the main road into the hills, past the dam, until their progress was slowed by the serpent-like curving of the black tar as it wound its way through the pine forests. The air was noticeably cooler, the drivers could smell the pine resin even inside their cabs as they crashed their way down through the gears. They encountered no opposition. Fifty-three men in all, led by a Lieutenant Colonel Rufus St Aubyn, which included the assault force, four specialist signals operators, a squad of diversionary troops, and medics. Just in case.

  In two hours they were there. Turning off the main road beneath the gaze of the huge golf-ball radar domes that dominated the highest points, dropping down a gorge strewn with the tall, mastlike trunks of pines. At the top of the gorge they left two men and a roll of razor wire, more than enough to secure the narrow entryway. At the lowest point, where the road rejoins the main highway, they did the same. And in between on a carpet of pine kernels but out of sight of the green metal roof of the Lodge, the remainder of the troops scurried around to spy out the land and secure their communications. Within four hours it was done. That evening Makepeace, with Maria at his side, held a rally to the south of the pottery town of Stoke-on-Trent. Five days had passed since the start of the Long March and it had come to a crucial phase. The novelty was gone, and so had many of the hangers-on, particularly those who were there to gawp or to disrupt, perhaps, the type that gathers to stare as a man stands on a ledge and threatens to jump. In Makepeace's case he had jumped and they'd been interested solely in the gruesome result. Yet he had disappointed them. He'd bounced.

  Most who still walked with Makepeace were now intent on the same purpose of protest. None but a handful had followed him all the way, but many came to walk for a day, more for an hour or a mile, pushing children, carrying banners, cheerfully accepting the hospitality provided along the way by mobile kebab shops and local Greek businesses. Yet day by day the numbers
had visibly diminished. The efforts of those distributing the leaflets ahead of their progress were tireless, their determination unbowed, yet there was a limit to the amount of coverage the media would give to an endless, uneventful march, and the promotional push of television news had begun to wane. Until today.

  In modern warfare the greatest obstacle to military success is often not the muzzle of an adversary's gun but the lens of a camera. The scenes of women cradling babies in arms being set upon by jets of British Army water which spouted like flame throwers dominated the lunchtime news. They were excellent action pictures which puzzled and upset many viewers; great adventures in distant lands were made of victories over panzer divisions or darkened fuzzy-wuzzies, not defenceless children. The military vehicles scythed through baby carriages like wolves through a Siberian village, leaving devastation, tears and much anger in their wake.

  And so by that Friday evening Makepeace had found new recruits to his cause. Greek Cypriots, who gathered in larger number and with still greater determination than before. Those whose politics were inspired by a European ideal came too, offended by Bollingbroke. There were pacifists aplenty, waving 'Make Peace' slogans, along with those who did not regard themselves as being political but whose sense of the balance of decency had been upset by the news pictures. There were banners, speeches, babies in arms, an impromptu concert of folk songs and a display of Cypriot dancing which carried with it a sense of renewed commitment for the cause of the Long March.

  At dusk in a park they sang, joined hands, shared; they held up a thousand flickering candles whose light turned the park into a field of diamonds, jewels of hope which adorned their faces and their spirits. Before them, on a makeshift stage beneath the limbs of a great English oak, Makepeace addressed his followers and, beyond them, a nation.

  'We have set out, as has a convoy in a place faraway yet a place close to all our hearts today, called Cyprus. But our intent could not be more different. Where they threaten war, we talk of peace. Where they brush aside babes in arms, we open our arms to all. Where they believe the answer lies in the strength of military force, we believe the answer lies in our conjoined and peaceful sense of purpose. And where they do the bidding of Francis Urquhart, we say No! Not now, not tomorrow, not ever again!'