The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (6 page)

Similar scenes of confusion and congestion were repeated inside as the Prime Minister’s party pushed its way upstairs, pausing only for a traditional word of thanks to the staff. It had to be repeated because the press photographers hadn’t been assembled quickly enough. Through it all, the delay, the gentle pushing, the noise, the Prime Minister smiled.

Yet once upstairs in the relative safety of Lord Williams’s suite, the signs of strain that had been so well hidden all evening began to appear. The television set in the corner was just announcing that the computer was predicting a still lower majority, and Collingridge let out a long, low sigh. “Turn the bloody thing off,” he whispered. Then his eyes wandered slowly round the room.

“Has Charlie been around this evening?” he asked.

“Yes, he’s been here, but…”

“But what?”

“We seem to have lost him.”

The Prime Minister’s eyes met those of the Chairman.

“I’m sorry,” the older man added, so softly that it almost required the Prime Minister to lip read.

Sorry for what? The fact that my brother’s a drunk? Sorry that I’ve almost thrown away this election, put so many of our colleagues to the sword, done more damage than Goering? Sorry that you’ll have to wade through the sewage that’s about to hit us along with me? But anyway, thanks for caring, old friend.

The adrenalin had ceased flowing and suddenly he was desperately tired. After weeks of being hemmed in on all sides and without a single private moment to himself, he felt an overwhelming need to be on his own. He turned away to find somewhere a little quieter and more private but he found his way blocked by Urquhart who was standing right by his shoulder. The Chief Whip was thrusting an envelope at him.

“I’ve been giving some thought to the reshuffle,” Urquhart said, his eyes lowered, his voice betraying a mixture of discomfiture and hesitation. “While this is hardly the time, I know you will be giving it some thought over the weekend, so I’ve prepared a few suggestions. I know you prefer positive ideas rather than a blank sheet of paper, so…” He held out his handwritten note. “I hope you find this of use.” He was demanding his place at the top table, and by right rather than invitation.

Collingridge looked at the envelope and something inside him broke, the little wall that keeps politeness and honesty well apart. He raised his exhausted eyes to his colleague. “You’re right, Francis. This is scarcely the time. Perhaps we should be thinking about securing our majority before we start sacking our colleagues.”

Urquhart froze in embarrassment. The sarcasm had cut deep, deeper than the Prime Minister had intended, and he realized he had gone too far.

“I’m sorry, Francis. I’m afraid I am a little tired. Of course you’re quite right to think ahead. Look, I’d like you and Teddy to come round on Sunday afternoon to discuss it. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to let Teddy have a copy of your letter now, and send one round to me at Downing Street tomorrow—or, rather, later this morning.”

Urquhart’s face refused to betray the turmoil that was growing within. He had been too anxious about the reshuffle and cursed himself for his folly. Somehow his natural assurance deserted him when it came to Collingridge, the product of a grammar school who in social terms would have had trouble gaining membership to any of Urquhart’s clubs. The role reversal in Government unnerved him, unsettled him; he found himself acting out of character when he was in the other man’s presence. He had made a mistake and he blamed Collingridge for that more than he blamed himself, but now was not the time to reclaim the ground he had lost. Instead, he retreated into affability, bowing his head in acceptance. “Of course, Prime Minister. I will let Teddy have a copy straight away.”

“Better copy it yourself. Wouldn’t do to have that list getting around here tonight.” Collingridge smiled as he tried to bring Urquhart back into the conspiracy of power that always hovers around Downing Street. “In any event, I think it’s time for me to depart. The BBC will want me bright and sparkling in four hours’ time, so I shall wait for the rest of the results in Downing Street.”

He turned to Williams. “By the way, what is the wretched computer predicting now?”

“It’s been stuck on twenty-four for about half an hour now. I think that’s it.” There was no sense of victory in his voice. He had just presided over the Party’s worst election result in nearly two decades.

“Never mind, Teddy. A majority is a majority. And it will give the Chief Whip something to do instead of sitting idly around with a majority of over a hundred. Eh, Francis?” And with that he strode out of the room, leaving Urquhart forlornly clutching his envelope.

* * *

Within minutes of the Prime Minister’s departure the crowds both inside and outside the building began perceptibly to melt. Urquhart, still feeling bruised and not in a mood either to celebrate or to sympathize, made his way to the back of the first floor where he knew the photocopying office could be found. Except that Room 132A was scarcely an office at all, little more than a windowless closet barely six feet across and kept for supplies and confidential photocopying. Urquhart opened the door and the smell hit him before he had time to find the light switch. Slumped on the floor by the narrow metal storage shelves was Charles Collingridge. He had soiled his clothes even as he slept. There was no glass or bottle anywhere to be seen but the smell of whiskey was heavy in the air. Charlie, it seemed, had crawled away to find the least embarrassing place to collapse.

Urquhart reached for his handkerchief and held it to his face, trying to ward off the stench. He stepped over to the body and turned it on its back. A shake of the shoulders did little other than disrupt the fitful heavy breathing for a moment. A firmer shake gave nothing more, and a gentle slap across the cheeks produced equally little result.

He gazed with disgust at what he saw. Suddenly Urquhart’s body stiffened, his contempt mingled with the lingering humiliation he had suffered at the Prime Minister’s hands. And here, surely, was an opportunity for repayment of the slight. He grabbed at the lapels of Charlie’s jacket, hauled him up, drew back his arm, ready to strike, to lash the back of his hand across this pathetic wretch’s face, to release his humiliation and anger at all the Collingridges. Urquhart was trembling now, poised.

Then an envelope fell from Charlie’s jacket pocket, an unpaid electricity bill by the look of it, a final demand, covered in red, and suddenly Urquhart realized there was another way to even up the scales of injustice, to tilt them back and over to his side. He wouldn’t hit Charlie after all, not out of any particular sense of fastidiousness, nor any feeling that Charlie was entirely innocent of any offense against him, apart from the smell. Urquhart knew he could hurt Henry Collingridge by inflicting pain upon his brother, of that there was no doubt, but the hurt wouldn’t be enough, wouldn’t last. Anyway, this wasn’t the way, not in some noisome cupboard, nor was it the time. Francis Urquhart was better than this, much better. Better than them all.

He allowed the sleeping form of Charles Collingridge to fall back gently to the floor, straightened the lapels, left him to rest. “You and I, Charlie, we’re going to become very close. Great friends. Not right this moment, of course. After you’ve cleaned yourself up a bit, eh?”

He turned to the photocopier, took the letter from his pocket, made one copy, after which he took the bill from Charlie’s pocket and made a copy of that, too. Then he left the drunken form of his new friend to sleep it off.

Seven

Wasn’t it that fellow Clausewitz who once said that war is the continuation of politics by other means? He was wrong, of course, ridiculously wrong. Politics? War? As my dear wife Mortima constantly reminds me, there is no distinction.

Sunday, June 13

Urquhart’s official car turned from Whitehall into Downing Street to be greeted by a policeman’s starched salute and a hundred exploding flashguns. It was Sunday, shortly before four. He had left Mortima at home in Pimlico with their guests, eight of them, more than usual for a Sunday but this was the anniversary of his father’s death and he was in the habit of filling it with distraction. The men and handful of women of the press were gathered behind the barriers on the far side of the street from the world’s most famous front door, which stood wide open as the car drew up—like a political black hole, Urquhart had often thought, into which new prime ministers disappeared and rarely if ever emerged without being surrounded by protective hordes of civil servants, and only after they had sucked the life out of them.

Urquhart had made sure to travel on the left-hand side of the car’s rear seat so that as he climbed out in front of Number Ten, he would provide an unimpeded view of himself for the TV and press cameras. He stretched himself to his full height and was greeted by a chorus of shouted questions from the press huddle, providing him with an excuse to walk over for a few words. He spotted Manny Goodchild, the legendary Press Association figure, firmly planted under his battered trilby and conveniently wedged between ITN and BBC news camera crews.

“Well, Manny, did you have any money on the result?” he inquired.

“Mr. Urquhart, you know my editor would frown on putting his money where my mouth is.”

“Nevertheless.” Urquhart raised an eyebrow.

The old press man’s lips wriggled like two unrelated caterpillars. “Put it this way, Mrs. Goodchild has already booked her holiday in Majorca, and thanks to Mr. Collingridge I’m going with her, too.”

Urquhart sighed theatrically. “’Tis an ill wind.”

“And talking of ill winds, Mr. Urquhart”—his colleagues pressed closer as Manny got into his stride—“are you here to advise the Prime Minister about the reshuffle? Won’t there have to be a pretty good clear out after a disappointing result like that? And does it all mean a new job for you?”

“Well, I’m here to discuss a number of things, but I suppose the reshuffle might come into it,” Urquhart responded coyly. “And we won, remember. Don’t be so downbeat, Manny.”

“It’s rumored that you’re expecting a major new post.”

Urquhart smiled. “Can’t comment on rumors, Manny, and anyway you know that’s one for the PM to decide. I’m here simply to give him some moral support.”

“You’ll be going to advise the PM along with Lord Williams, will you then?”

The smile struggled to survive. “Lord Williams, has he arrived yet?”

“More than an hour ago. We were wondering when someone else was going to turn up.”

It took every ounce of experience gathered through Urquhart’s many years in politics not to let his surprise show. “Then I must go,” he announced. “Can’t keep them waiting.” He gave a courteous nod of his head, turned on his heel, and strode back across the road, ditching his plan to wave at the cameras from the doorstep of Number Ten, just in case it looked presumptuous.

On the other side of the black-and-white tiled hallway, a carpeted corridor led toward the Cabinet Room. The Prime Minister’s youthful political secretary was waiting for him at the end. As Urquhart approached, he sensed that the young man was uneasy.

“The Prime Minister is expecting you, Chief Whip.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m here.”

The secretary flinched. “He’s in the study upstairs. I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.” Duty done, and not waiting for any further hint of sarcasm, he bounded off up the stairs.

It was twelve knuckle-cracking, watch-tapping minutes before he reappeared, leaving Urquhart to stare distractedly at the portraits of previous prime ministers that adorned the famous staircase. He could never get over the feeling of how inconsequential so many of the recent holders of the office had been. Uninspiring, unfitted for the task. By contrast, the likes of Lloyd George and Churchill had been magnificent natural leaders, but would they be allowed to rise to the top nowadays? One had been promiscuous and had sold peerages, the other had spent far too much time in drink, debt, and hot temper; both were giants, yet neither man would have made it past the modern media. Instead the world had been left to the pygmies, men of small stature and still less ambition, men chosen not because they were exceptional but because they didn’t offend, men who followed the rules rather than making their own, men…Well, men like Henry Collingridge.

The return of the political secretary interrupted his thoughts. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Chief Whip. He’s ready for you now.”

The room used by Collingridge as his study was on the first floor, overlooking the Downing Street garden to St. James’s Park. A modest room, as so much else in this jumble of spaces that made up the second most important address in the country. As Urquhart entered he could see that, in spite of efforts to tidy up the large desk, there had been much shuffling of paper and scribbling of notes in the previous hour or so. An empty bottle of claret stared out of the waste bin and plates covered with crumbs and a withered leaf of lettuce lurked on the windowsill. The Party Chairman sat to the right of the Prime Minister, his notes spilling over the green leather top. Beside them stood a large pile of manila folders containing MPs’ biographies.

Urquhart brought up a chair, one without arms, and sat in front of the other two, feeling rather like a schoolboy in the headmaster’s study. Collingridge and Williams were silhouetted against the windows. Urquhart squinted into the light, balancing his own folder of notes uneasily on his knee.

“Francis, you were kind enough to let me have some thoughts on the reshuffle,” the Prime Minister began. No ceremony, straight down to business. “I am very grateful; you know how useful such suggestions are in stimulating my own thoughts.”

Urquhart inclined his head in silent gratitude.

“You’ve obviously put a lot of work into them. But before we get down to specifics I thought we should chat about the broad objectives first. You’ve suggested—well, what shall I call it?—a rather radical reshuffle.” Collingridge peered at the sheet of paper in front of him, through reading glasses he kept only for private occasions. His finger ran down the list. “Six new members for the Cabinet, some extensive swapping of portfolios among the rest.” He sighed, sat back in his chair, as though distancing himself from it all. “Tell me why. Why such a heavy hand? What do you think it would achieve?”