The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (108 page)

The effect on the crowd was immediate, as though a starting pistol had been fired. They began to surge forward, pushing against the cordon of guards in front of the steps like dogs at a deer. Nicolaou, bewildered and still only at the early stages of fear, found himself borne aloft in the arms of Panayotis and hustled through the main door, which was slammed shut behind them. Within seconds from the other side there came a primitive baying and a barrage of blows against the wood. At the same time the gates to the palace grounds that had been holding back the main body of protesters were swept aside as anger turned to rage at the sound of gunfire and thousands came streaming up the long driveway.

“For God’s sake, now will you go?” Panayotis barked.

“Elpída,” pleaded Nicolaou.

But his daughter was already running down the circular staircase from the private quarters, past the antiquities, the stone heads and torsos, a small harvest of the island’s ancient heritage that would soon lie smashed and strewn upon the ground.

Father and daughter tried to embrace, but Panayotis was already pulling them apart and dragging them down the long corridor with its Moorish arches and youthful tapestries that led through the heart of the U-shaped building. Running beside them was the sound of shattering windows, raised voices, wrecking. Then more gunshots.

Panayotis led them to a part of the palace Nicolaou had never visited, at the back of the kitchens. A door. Stone steps. Another door for which Panayotis had a large key. Then they were in a tunnel hacked from the bare rock.

“Makarios Avenue,” Panayotis whispered grimly. “His escape route at the time of the last coup.”

It was cool, dimly lit, at least two hundred meters long, perhaps longer—Nicolaou had lost all sense of proportion in the confined space. His thoughts were befuddled, still worrying about his commander’s words. “The last coup.” Was this, too, a coup?

They emerged through another door at the far side of the swimming pool, beyond the amphitheater where Nicolaou had entertained groups of schoolchildren and where, in a previous time of trouble, the British had played tennis. Then they were in the woods, vast stands of eucalyptus that glowered in the moonlight. Behind them the noise of wreckage was growing ever more relentless.

They crossed the shale and loose rocks of a dried riverbed—Nicolaou lost his footing and was once more hauled aloft by the ready arms of his commander—and they came upon the chain-link fence that separated the palace grounds from whatever lay beyond. There were no protesters here; they were too busy in the Palace. They heard the sound of a muffled explosion. Panayotis dragged them on.

Another lock on the gate through the fence. Another key. Panayotis seemed well prepared. Then they scrambled up a bank and were standing on an empty road.

“Where to, sir? A British base?” That was where Makarios had fled, to Akrotiri, into the arms of the old enemy and away from the waving fists of his own people, but Nicolaou decided he had already that evening donned too much of the Archbishop’s mantle.

“No. Not to the British. To the mountains.”

Then there were headlights advancing upon them. Panayotis drew a gun.

“Stay in the bushes, sir,” he instructed, and stood in the middle of the road, waving his arms.

The car stopped. No rioters, only an elderly couple driving home after an evening meal. A German couple who spoke neither Greek nor English, but who understood all too well the unmistakable language of Panayotis’s gun.

With a cry of alarm the man put his foot to the floor and sped off into the night. Panayotis shrugged his shoulders in despair. What was he supposed to do, shoot a couple of elderly and unarmed tourists?

“Leave it to me,” Elpída instructed and pushed him aside.

The next car contained an accountant, who stopped and listened with growing incredulity to the pretty girl. He apologized, he was almost out of gas and his mother was expecting him home, but he would be happy to take them as far as he was going. The President of the Republic of Cyprus, his daughter, and the Commander of the Palace Guard thanked him as one and climbed into his battered Renault. They’d argue about distance and destination later.

Nicolaou looked behind him in the direction of his home. An angry orange moon shone down like a celestial torch, brushing the treetops and sprinkling them with fire. The view brought tears to the President’s eyes as they drove away. It was only when he had dried them and was gripping the hand of his daughter that he realized it wasn’t moonlight at all. He was watching the glow as, once again, the palace was being burned to the ground.

Thirty-Three

Honesty is not a policy. It is merely an excuse for moral idleness.

The battered Renault and its increasingly disorientated driver got them as far as a Hertz parking lot. There Panayotis acquired an alternative vehicle. It had no ignition key but the full tank of gas seemed more compelling since the few coins Panayotis kept in his trouser pocket for the cigarette machine proved to be the only money they had between them. Nicolaou found comfort in the knowledge that Panayotis hadn’t thought of everything; somehow it made him feel less of a fool.

As soon as they were beyond the city limits of Nicosia on the road to the Troodos, Nicolaou fell into a deep sleep. The tension and—yes, he admitted it—fear had drained the energy from his veins and he was overcome by a most oppressive exhaustion. They had no idea whom they could trust—was this simply a riot or a full-blooded coup attempt? And if a coup, had it succeeded? Such matters could be determined from the Presidential Lodge in the mountains from where, for a few weeks in the height of the summer and if necessary for the next few days, the country could be run.

He did not wake until they were less than ten miles from their destination and the road had begun to wind and curl its way around the mountainsides. They were among thick pine forests, the heavy trunks picked out in the headlights, standing patiently like queues of hovering tax collectors. Not until they had turned off the main road and were approaching the compound along a narrow, steeply descending lane did their spirits begin to rise as the car lights played comfortingly across the familiar picket fence of the driveway.

“Home from home,” Elpída whispered, for whom the mountains had always been a place of adventure and refuge.

“And from here it’s a straight drive down to Akrotiri. If necessary,” Panayotis added, practical as ever.

Nicolaou remained silent, winding down the window and allowing the sweet resin air to flood in and revive his bruised soul. From beneath the wheels came the sound of pinecones being crushed. No flag was flying and there was no one in the guard hut, no welcoming flash of light or howl of dogs, but no one had known they were coming. The familiar green roofs—all corrugated iron, as was the fashion in the Troodos, to deal with the snow—flashed past as though in an old film, and behind the low wall of the vegetable garden the tomato plants were flourishing, waving gentle welcome in the breeze. The car circled slowly around the drive and approached the front of the Lodge. The moon, so angry above the skies of Nicosia, here in the mountains was the color of ripe melon and surrounded by a million shy stars. It gave greeting, dusting the front of the house and lighting their path to the green double door. Everything was as it should be.

“It’s open,” Elpída muttered in relief as she tried the handle.

“Let me, miss,” Panayotis insisted, and led the way into the dark hallway. He was fumbling for the light switch when he noticed a chink of light coming from under one of the doorways leading off the hall. Some fool of a maintenance engineer, leaving doors open and lights…

They entered the sitting room and looked around in numb amazement. It was busy with armed men, all standing, and pointing guns in their direction. Only two people were seated.

In one corner, bound to his chair and with a mouth taped beneath glassy, exhausted eyes, sat the British High Commissioner.

And by the fireplace directly in front of them, casually sucking at a small cigar, his lips twisted in a smile of greeting, sat Theophilos.

“
Kopiáste
.”

“Sit down and join us.”

***

“Little wonder we couldn’t find your lair.”

Theophilos raised a tumbler of Remy in salutation of the compliment. “You didn’t think to look in your own backyard, let alone your bedroom. Nor will anyone else. I have it all here—communications, security, food. Now, by the hand of God, even you.”

Nicolaou tested the bonds that tied him, like the High Commissioner and the other hostages, to a chair. It was, as he knew it would be, a futile gesture. “How did you know I would come here?”

“He moves in a mysterious way.” His deep voice had a lilt, as though he were singing the Eucharist. Then he laughed, raucously. “And He gave you only three choices.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Death in the ruins of the Palace. A political burial with our British enemies in one of their bases, which is what I would have preferred—your memory would have been kicked like a manged dog from every coffeehouse in the country. Or, thirdly, deliverance unto me here. For that, too, I prepared; obviously you did not see my lookout at the edge of the compound.”

“There are many things I appear not to have seen,” Nicolaou remarked with evident distress. He looked across the room to where his daughter was bound. “Do you intend to harm us?”

“If need be.”

“In God’s name what do you hope to achieve?”

“Why, in God’s name, everything. First, we shall blockade the bases until the British are forced to pack their bags and go home. In the meantime, I fear, you will be too preoccupied to fly to London for the signing ceremony with the Turks. Too many pressing engagements here. Such as signing a decree nationalizing all British assets in Cyprus. Then, I suggest, you are likely to find yourself too exhausted to continue with the strains of office. You will hand over the presidency.”

“To you? Never.”

“No, my dear Nicolaou. I am but a humble cleric. It is possible in time that I might become Archbishop of Cyprus, but I have no wish to hold your office. So much strain and uncertainty, don’t you find?” He settled back in the simple rustic furniture scattered around the small room; Nicolaou noticed that beneath his cassock he was wearing yellow socks. “Anyway, I have too much other…business, yes, business, to concern myself with.”

“Then who?”

“Why, my brother Dimitri.”

Dimitri smiled, an awful jagged expression.

“Then he’d better get his teeth fixed unless he wants to give the babies nightmares,” Elpída spat.

The smile went out.

“You can’t possibly hope to get away with it,” Nicolaou challenged.

“But of course I shall. I have every advantage. The company of the British High Commissioner. The ear of the Cypriot President…”

“I’ll not lift a finger to help you.”

“And not only his ear,” Theophilos continued unruffled, “but also his arse. And, perhaps more importantly, his daughter’s arse.”

Dimitri had moved across to Elpída with the apparent threat of thumping the insolence out of her, but had changed tactics and instead was stroking her hair, moving his finger slowly down her neck to her shoulder. He was smiling again.

A strangled cry of protest racked through Nicolaou’s throat.

“I think I hold all the aces,” Theophilos said, without a trace of compassion.

Thirty-Four

A manifesto is like a well-cut suit. Its function is to hide a politician’s nakedness.

Every step of his arrival had been greeted with a loud cry of “Huzzah!” from his troops. He had paraded before them, stiffening sinews, summoning up the blood. He could all but hear the impatient stamp of horse and the whisper of swords settling into well-oiled scabbards. An army ready to do battle.

The business was done, the Electoral Reform Bill passed, the sun setting on another Parliament. On the morrow they marched. All lungs were filled with courage, all nostrils with the scent of death—of others hopefully, perhaps of their own.

Urquhart’s troops took their farewells, hearts gladdened by the propitious omens. Every hour seemed to bring news of further polls and press barons marching to their support, and already several of the enemy’s generals had made it known they would be heading not to the sound of battle but only to the Chiltern Hills and, if favor shone upon them, to the House of Lords. As for the hapless Clarence, Leader of the Forces of Opposition, the soothsayers were already gathering outside his tent, their speculations vivid as to whether he would fall on his sword or have to be hacked. If, indeed, he managed to survive the battle. Three weeks on Thursday.

And of Makepeace there had been no sound, and scarcely sight. A general without troops.

Time to let slip the dogs of war.

***

She began to shiver and yelp, a noise like a beaten dog, her cries filling the room and tumbling through the open window, but still he did not stop.

Makepeace had called her, said he needed her, and she had jumped. And so had he, as soon as she came through the door and dropped her bag, but it was not an exercise of adventure, more in the manner of a savage reprisal and experimentation in pain. When it was over, he buried his head in the pillow, ashamed of her silent tears.

“You’ve never been like that before,” she mourned. She thought she could taste blood in her mouth.

When eventually his face rose from the pillow, his eyes were also rimmed red. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I’ve never done anything like that before. I feel such a bloody fool. Sorry.”

“You ought to be.”

For a while she plotted retribution, thought she might hit him, take a bread knife and split him in two, but their relationship was more than sex, more even than love. Somehow she sensed that he was the victim. Instead of rushing for the kitchen she stared at the confusion in his eyes. “Rough day?”

“The bloodiest. Ever. Like I want to destroy the last thing that’s important to me. Before, like everything else I cherish, it turns and destroys me.”