The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (120 page)

“I understand the semifinal of the football cup was recently played in Birmingham. Can you remember how many people were arrested then?”

“Not off the top of my head, no, sir.”

“I’ll tell you.” Makepeace consulted a press clipping. “Eighty-three. There were several hundred police on duty that day; you knew there was going to be trouble.”

“Always is on a big match day.”

“Then why didn’t you cancel the match? Order it to be abandoned? Like my march?”

“Not the same thing, is it?”

“No, Chief Inspector. Not the Same Thing at All. Nor was the concert last weekend held at the National Exhibition Center. You arrested over a hundred then. So the disturbances that arose out of those trying to break up my march were really small beer. Barely even root beer, you might say.”

Harding said nothing.

“Well, I might say that. I don’t suppose you could possibly comment.”

Even the Chairman let slip a fleeting smile.

“Then let me return to matters you can comment about, Chief Inspector. Indeed, matters you must comment about. These skinheads, neo-Nazis, troublemakers, call them what you will: arrested for drink, drugs, obscenity, you say?”

Harding nodded.

“Not for offenses under the Public Order Act?”

“I don’t understand the point…”

“It’s a very simple point, Chief Inspector. Can you confirm that I was the only person to be arrested for marching? All the others were arrested for offenses that would have required your intervention whether they were marching, knitting scarves, or performing handstands in Centennial Square?”

Harding seemed about to nod in agreement, but the head refused to fall.

“Come on, Chief Inspector. Do I have to squeeze it out of you like toothpaste? Is it or is it not true that of the several thousand people present on Sunday I was the only one you arrested for the offense of marching?”

“That is technically correct, sir.”

“Excellent. So, we have confirmed that my march was entirely peaceful, that even the activities of the skinheads made it a relatively quiet day for the Birmingham constabulary, and I was the only one you chose to”—he paused for a little dramatic emphasis—“arrest as a menace to public order.” He smiled at Harding to indicate there was no ill will. “Whose public order, Chief Inspector?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Whose public order? Someone obviously decided that my activities would, if continued, represent a threat. But that was a judgment rather than a fact. Was that your judgment? Did you arrest me on your own initiative?”

“Why, no, sir. Only after the most careful consideration…”

“Whose consideration? Who was it? On whose authority were you acting?”

Harding had known this might be coming, they had to show the police action was not hasty but considered, right to the very top. Even so his knuckles were beginning to glow white on the edge of the witness box. “I was acting on the orders of the Chief Constable.”

“And I wonder where he was getting his orders from?”

“How do you mean?”

Makepeace looked up to the gallery to catch the eye of Maria. He smiled. She nodded, understanding as always. He’d use Claire’s information; what had he got to lose?

“Can you tell me if the Chief Constable’s office was at any time before my arrest in contact with Downing Street?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“It’s easy enough, Chief Inspector. You seem to have had precious little grounds for arresting me as a matter of law. Therefore it was more likely to have been a matter of politics. Was anyone putting on the political pressure?”

“That’s pure speculation.”

“As was your opinion that my marching might cause trouble. Pure speculation.”

“But an opinion that gave me the authority under law to issue directions and you the duty to obey those directions.”

“Wouldn’t have gone down too well at Nuremberg, would it, Chief Inspector?” Makepeace mocked. “Come on,” he cajoled, “was there political pressure?”

“Of course not.”

“You can confirm that there was no contact beforehand between the Chief Constable’s office and any political office?”

“I…don’t know.” Harding was protesting truthfully, and beginning to fluster. The crossfire between a Prime Minister, his Chief Constable, and a former Foreign Secretary was way beyond his twenty-three years of experience. Early retirement beckoned.

“So you can’t confirm that.”

“No, of course I can’t. I wasn’t…”

“Let me be absolutely clear. Are you in a position to deny that there was any political pressure placed on the police to secure my arrest?”

Harding looked desperately at the Bench. The three magistrates stared back impassively, pens poised.

“How can I answer that?”

“A simple yes or no will do. Can you deny it?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Chief Inspector Harding. I don’t think I need to bother you any further.”

***

COBRA was designed to resolve hostilities, not to generate them. It was not having a good day.

“Youngblood, I want Rae out and replaced within the hour.”

“That will be difficult for me, Prime Minister.”

“Confound you! Will argument take the place of backbone in the British Army? What on earth can be difficult about replacing one officer with another?”

“Nothing difficult in that, Prime Minister. It’s simply that I won’t do it for you.”

“You are refusing me?”

“Exactly.”

The Prime Minister used a short, foul word.

“I realize that for such a refusal you will require my head on the block,” Youngblood continued, “but let me assure you that my speech from the scaffold will be truly magnificent. And forthcoming. I shall, for instance, relate how at every stage you have rejected and ignored military advice, brought this calamity upon yourself. I shall indicate how the nature and timing of our military efforts in Cyprus have been twisted to what I can only assume is an election timetable—I may be wrong about your motives, of course, it may have been folly rather than downright political fraud that caused you to act as you have done, but I shall be happy for others to make up their own minds.” He cleared his throat, offered a perfunctory smile seeded with scorn. “I surprise myself; I’m rather enjoying this. I shall take considerably less enjoyment, however, from blaming you in public for each and every death, British or Cypriot, which might ensue from your folly.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Urquhart gasped; suddenly he was having difficulty breathing.

“Prime Minister, those are brave boys out there,
my
boys. And innocent children. If any of them comes to harm, I give you my word as an officer that I’ll peg you out on an anthill in front of every polling station in the country.”

The brown felt cloth across the Cabinet table had been rucked between Urquhart’s clenched fists. A film of confusion had spread across his eyes, dimming their brightness. He stared ahead but could no longer see, blind. Or was it that there was nothing to see but darkness? He felt as though he were falling backward into nothing.

The General cleared his throat once again and gathered up the papers before him into a neat bundle.

“To contemplate what could turn into a massacre of children before the television cameras of the world is a form of madness. I shall have no part in it.” He stood, straightened his uniform, adopted the pose of a Viking before the funeral pyre. “Now, sir. Do I have your permission to leave?”

***

“I am brought to this court for no offense other than my politics. My views do not find favor with some. There were bullies on the streets who tried to stop my march; there are others, lingering in the shadows, who are their accomplices. Who will not accept an Englishman’s right to disagree, to carve his own path, to decide for himself. We fought two world wars for those rights against enemies without. Now we must face an enemy within. I am called unpatriotic, yet there is no one who loves this country more than I do. I am accused of inciting violence, yet I march only for peace. I am brought before this court, accused of a crime, yet no man clings more closely to justice than do I. And of what am I accused? If it is not a defense for a man to argue that he acted improperly because he was only obeying orders, then surely there can be no offense if a man refuses to obey improper orders. Stubbornness is a quality much to be admired in English oak. I defied the police not because I lack respect for them, but because I have greater respect for the inherent right of an Englishman to say—stuff the lot of you! I want to do it my way. If it is a crime to be English, then I acknowledge that I am guilty. If it gives offense to love freedom and fair play, then, too, I am guilty. If it is a transgression to want peace, then yet again I am guilty. If it is a sin to believe that this country deserves a better form of politics, then condemn me and throw away the key. And do it now. For I shall not hide my views, nor compromise them for the sake of office, neither shall I do deals behind closed doors for things I cannot support in the open sunlight. I have no party, only my politics. And in those politics there is respect, for the law. Love, for my country. Sacrifice, for peace. And defiance for those who would trample over the rights of ordinary men and women. It is they, not I, who are trying to turn this court into a tool of political manipulation, and if they start and succeed here in Birmingham, in the heart of England, where will they stop? And do we have to ask who are ‘they’?”

***

“Sit down, sit down,” Urquhart instructed, desperately attempting to reassess the situation. But Youngblood remained standing.

Urquhart felt drained; he reached for his glass of water. Everyone noted its tremble. He drained it in a savage gulp but it left trickles at the corners of his mouth and his upper lip damp. His eyes flickered nervously, staring up at Youngblood. “Sit down, man. There are lives at stake. Let us at least talk it through.”

Stiffly and with evident reluctance, the General subsided.

No one spoke as Urquhart’s teeth bit into a knuckle, trying to put himself back in touch with his own feelings, even if they were only feelings of pain. For a moment he seemed to be floating, freed from his own body, observing the group from a distance, gazing down at a man sitting immobile in the chair reserved for the Prime Minister, a man who seemed trapped like a fly in amber. One of history’s victims.

“I apologize, General, if I appeared rash. That was not my intention.” He could not feel the tongue that formulated the words, his voice unnaturally taut as though he had swallowed neat mustard.

Youngblood cast a look to turn milk, but said nothing.

“If it is your advice that there is no apparent military solution,” Urquhart continued, still stilted, “what suggestions do you have to make?”

Youngblood gave a terse shake of his head.

“Anyone?” Urquhart offered, staring around the table. For the first time he realized he had scarcely once over the last few days asked other members of COBRA to contribute, but even rubber stamps can make a mark.

No one had anything to say. Then the General coughed. “Rae’s the man on the spot. I trust anything he has to say.”

Urquhart nodded.

“Rae,” the General barked, “your thoughts, please.”

“My thoughts, gentlemen,” the voice carried across a thousand miles, “are that this is a political situation that can only have a political solution.”

“Please feel free, Air Marshal,” Urquhart croaked.

“Reluctantly I reach the conclusion that if the Cypriots want the bases back, there is little we can do to stop them. Now, next year, sometime soon. They would win. These things have an undeniable momentum.”

“But the bases are our most vital listening post throughout the Middle East. Giving them up would be a military and intelligence disaster,” Urquhart objected.

“Depends, sir. The Cypriots don’t dislike our presence here, indeed they welcome it. Off the boil they’re very hospitable. And the bases bring them vast amounts of income and jobs. What they object to is our being freeholders in their own country.”

“What are you suggesting, Rae?” Youngblood pushed.

“If I were a politician, sir”—his tone conveyed his delight that he was not—“I’d be thinking about a deal. Keep us all as friends. Let them know we’re happy to return the title to the base areas, then do a deal to lease them back. We keep the bases, the Cypriots keep the income. Everybody’s happy.”

“Intriguing,” Youngblood muttered.

Urquhart’s expression was of stone, his mind like an ice field that was slowly cracking. As he sat silently, independent thoughts began to swirl around him.

The Party Chairman shook his head. “It would be a political disaster.”

“Not necessarily. Not if we made it our initiative,” the Defense Secretary contradicted. “A solution that would keep our reputation as peacemakers in the island. After all, who could object? Dick Clarence has already publicly backed us in Cyprus, he couldn’t bleat.”

“And the only other likely source of sound is Tom Makepeace. He’s under arrest.” The Attorney General sounded positively cheerful.

A mood of enthusiasm began to warm the room, gradually beginning to thaw Urquhart’s frozen thoughts. Perhaps the fly was not entombed in amber; perhaps it had only brushed against a web and might yet struggle free.

A low knock at the door interrupted their deliberation. A tentative head appeared around the door, followed by the rest of a private secretary who made his way toward the Prime Minister’s chair. He placed a piece of paper on the table, then retired.

Slowly Urquhart’s eyes began to focus and read.

No matter how hard the fly struggled, there was no escape.

Thomas Makepeace had been acquitted.

Forty-Four

The rules of politics are simple. Don’t expect too much, don’t attempt too little, and above all, never, never sleep soundly.

The dying sun had cast a hard shadow across the cutting. The temperature was still over a hundred but Nicolaou was shivering, as he had been all afternoon. His heartbeat was irregular, his voice a low tremble, but his mind had not lost its edge.