The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (103 page)

“Emoluments!” he pronounced with vernacular relish. “Wish I ’ad some of them there Emoluments. It says in this Sunday newspaper”—he waved a copy high above his head—“that apparently one of the Commissioners took a personal interpreter with him on a ten-day visit he made recently to Japan. By some oversight, ’owever, the young lady turned out to be qualified only in Icelandic and Russian.” He shrugged as though confronted with a problem of insurmountable complexity. “Well, I dunno, they probably all sound the same and I’m sure she had her uses. But it’s a bit much when they come back and start asking for more.”

Mixed shouts of encouragement and objection were issuing from all sides when, in a stage whisper everyone in the Chamber (with the exception of the scribe from
Hansard
) had no trouble in hearing, he added: “Wonder if I could get it on expenses?”

The debate was rapidly turning into music hall, much to the annoyance of several members of the Opposition who attempted to intervene, but Bollingbroke, as though standing defiant watch from the cliffs of Dover, refused to give way.

“And for what purpose are we being asked to pay the good burghers of Brussels more, Mr. Speaker?” he demanded, waving down several who wanted to offer an answer. “I’ll tell you. One of their latest plans is to issue a standard history of Europe that can be used in all our schools. Sort of…give our kids a common perspective. Bring them together.”

Several members of the Opposition Front Bench were nodding their heads in approval. They should have known better.

“A visionary epistle. Apparently, the Germans never invaded Poland, the Italians never retreated, the French never surrendered, and we never won the war.”

Pandemonium had erupted in every corner of the Chamber, the noise being so great that it was impossible to tell who was shouting in support and who in condemnation of the Foreign Secretary. But Makepeace had sprung to his feet, the flush on his face indicating beyond doubt the depths of his outrage. Bollingbroke, always willing to plumb such depths, gave way.

“In all my years in this House I have never heard such an ill-tempered and bellicose performance by a Foreign Secretary,” Makepeace began. “When all the rest of Europe is looking for a common way forward, he seems intent on acting like an obstinate child. And his Prime Minister, who likes to pretend he is a statesman, sits beside him and cheers him on.”

Makepeace had become confused with his targets. In the seat beside Bollingbroke, Urquhart was chatting with Claire, who was leaning down from her guard post in the row behind to whisper something in his ear. From where Makepeace stood, it looked almost like an affectionate nuzzle. His sense of personal betrayal grew.

“When the rest of Europe is as one, for God’s sake shouldn’t we be joining with them rather than scratching over old wars?”

“In my Dad’s day they called that appeasement,” Bollingbroke shouted, but did not attempt to reclaim the floor; he was enjoying the sight of Makepeace being wound tight like a spring.

“This Government is picking foreign quarrels for the sole purpose of covering its failures at home. It has lost all moral authority to continue in office…”

Nearby, Annita Burke was nodding her head in approval, urging him on, while several others around her were also trying to listen, their heads inclined in sympathy rather than joining the general commotion. Through it all, Bollingbroke could be heard scoffing: “So he’s found morality since he was kicked out of office, has he? Convenient.”

“As the bishops themselves have recently said in General Synod, this country needs a change in direction and a new sense of moral leadership—a leadership that this Government and this Prime Minister doesn’t even attempt to provide.”

That was enough for Bollingbroke, who sprang to his feet and started thumping the Dispatch Box. “What have you achieved compared with Francis Urquhart?” he was shouting. “Compared with him you’re like a pork-scratching on a pig farm. Francis Urquhart has brought prosperity to this country, peace to Cyprus…”

The mention of Cyprus arrived like a slap across the face to Makepeace. It seemed to have galvanized Urquhart, too, who was tugging at the sleeve of his Foreign Secretary. Bollingbroke, startled at this unusual intervention from his Prime Minister, subsided into his seat, his place at the Dispatch Box taken by Urquhart. The House fell to silence, fascinated to catch the next turn of the carousel.

Urquhart cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt my Right Honorable Friend—I was rather enjoying his contribution—but all this talk about morality and bishops. So muddled and misleading. You know, Mr. Speaker, I find it extraordinary that those who spend so much time warning about the dire consequences of wrongdoing in the afterlife are often so silent about it in this life. Turn the other cheek, they suggest.” He sighed. “But if that’s the self-appointed role adopted by the bishops, that cannot be the role for Government—at least not my Government. Our job is not to forgive those who have done wrong. Our job is to protect those who haven’t.”

If Makepeace had thrown down the gauntlet of morality, Urquhart seemed intent on retrieving it and using it as an offensive weapon.

“Don’t misunderstand me, I have a high regard for the contribution made to the success of my Government by the Right Honorable Gentleman while he was a member of it.” He offered a slow smile soaked in derision. “Although I don’t recall sitting around the Cabinet table hearing him expound on how we were making such a mess of things. Not until I sacked him. But loss of office can have such a distorting effect on a man’s perspective and memory.”

The gauntlet struck again. Slap!

“I don’t doubt the sincerity of his personal values, but I do find them odd. Odd when he says we must do this or that, simply because the bishops say so. Even more extraordinary that we should follow this or that course of action because the rest of Europe says so. Where’s the morality in that? In secondhand opinions that follow the herd like dogs follow a dust cart?”

Slap.

“Morality is about deciding for yourself what’s right. Then doing something about it. Let me have around me men of action, not moralizers with empty words. I’ve nothing but scorn for those”—Urquhart’s eyes lashed in the direction of his former colleague—“who sit back and carp at the efforts of others. Who descend from their high moral vantage points after the battle is over and tell the wounded and dying how they got it wrong…”

Makepeace tried not to flinch, but inside he hurt. Claire’s taunt still echoed in his ears—sitting on the sidelines, she’d accused—and now this. They were out to humble him, together. He looked around him as the blows rained down. Those he regarded as supporters were shifting uncomfortably in their places while Annita’s expression urged him on—do something! He rose to his feet, asking for the floor.

“No, no,” Urquhart slapped him down. “I’ve heard enough theology from him to last me a good long while.”

Makepeace held his ground, demanding to be heard, his clenched hand raised—it still gripped Urquhart’s letter—while Urquhart loyalists were jeering, shouting at him to resume his place. Slap, slap, slap! Makepeace stood alone, defying the blows, but was he simply to stand there—doing nothing, as Urquhart had taunted—allowing himself to be gouged and mauled? Annita’s eyes brimmed with sorrow as his own brimmed with the injustice of it all.

“Since he lost office,” Urquhart was saying, “his attitude has become so critical, so negative, so personally embittered and destructive that I sometimes wonder what he’s doing in the same great party as me.”

SLAP!

So there it was. The public challenge. He had no choice but to respond. All around him those with whom he had discussed and conspired were examining him, wondering whether he was up to the duel. Makepeace against Urquhart. He knew that if he ducked the challenge at this moment it would be all but impossible to persuade some of the conspirators to join with him at a later time. Yet it was too soon, too early, he wasn’t fully prepared. Don’t be too impatient, emotional, Annita had warned…but even eagles must fly with the wind. And if he played the politician then he had also been born a man, and that man was hurting inside, his cheeks smarting, his thoughts misted by a dark and deepening fury that demanded satisfaction.

Satisfaction. For the humiliations delivered publicly on the floor of the House. Satisfaction for the insults delivered more privately in the letter in his hand. Satisfaction for denying Maria and her father. And for stealing away Claire.

Satisfaction for it all. Now!

From his position on the benches three rows up, Makepeace stepped sideways into the gangway. Was he running away? The prospect brought the House to instant and observant silence. He stepped down toward the floor of the great Chamber, to the red lines drawn on the carpet that separated Government side from opponents by the measure of two swords, the boundary between friend and unremitting foe. Then he stepped across. Not a heartbeat anywhere, not a sound to be heard, a Chamber so packed with emotion yet as though frozen. They watched as Makepeace mounted the steps through the benches of Opposition, one, two, three rows, and took a vacant seat.

The House exhaled with a single breath as life returned and tumult was restored. They had witnessed a slice of parliamentary life so rare it would fill their chronicles and be retold to grandchildren around the fire. Makepeace had crossed the floor, abandoned his party, torn up the rule book, and declared war on Urquhart, to the last breath.

Yet as he looked across the Chamber to the benches from which he had fought for so many years, Makepeace thought he saw the shadow of a faint, fugitive smile cross Francis Urquhart’s lips.

Twenty-Six

The Greeks invented democracy. Little wonder that since then they have caused nothing but chaos.

The eye of an inhospitable Levantine sun stared down upon the Cypriot capital, baking the narrow streets of the central city like bricks in a kiln. Hugh Martin was relieved to reach the air-conditioned sanctuary of the Power House, a former electricity generating station that had been turned with considerable imagination into one of the old quarter’s most exclusive restaurants. Works of fine contemporary art competed with menus and wine lists for the attention of the well-heeled clientele, one of whom, Dino Nicolaides, was editor of the
Cyprus
Weekly
and intent on conducting an in-depth interview with his guest. For that purpose he had commandeered the seclusion of the table by the door, which led to the rear courtyard.

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 that in itself aroused little suspicion in such a small community. Drage, however, was immediately on his guard, cursing that the bright sunlight streaming 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 that secured the flight bag he discovered that it had been smeared with superglue. 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 submachine 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 fiber 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.

Twenty-Seven