The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (7 page)

Urquhart’s senses were on alert. He didn’t care for this. He had hoped to be brought in at the earliest stage but the other two were already well ahead of him and he didn’t know where. He’d found no chance to sniff out the Prime Minister’s own views, to read his mind; it was an unhealthy place for a Chief Whip to be in. He wondered whether he was being set up.

As he blinked against the sunlight that was streaming in from behind the Prime Minister’s head, he could read nothing of the expression. He wished now that he hadn’t committed his thoughts to paper—it left him no wriggle room, no escape route—but it was too late for regrets. Williams was staring at him like a hawk. He spoke slowly, so as not to raise alarm, searching for words that might cover his tracks.

“Of course, Prime Minister, they are only suggestions, indications really, of what you might be able to do. I thought, in general, in the round, that it might be better to err on the side of action, as it were, to undertake more rather than fewer changes, simply to indicate that you are firmly in charge. That you are expecting a lot of new ideas and new thinking from your ministers. And a chance to retire just a few of our older colleagues; regrettable, but necessary if you are to bring in some new blood.”

Damn, he thought suddenly, what a bloody inept thing to say with that ancient bastard Williams sitting on the PM’s right hand. But it had been said, there was no means of retreat.

“We’ve been in power for longer than any Party since the war, which presents a new challenge,” he continued. “Boredom. We need to ensure we have a fresh image for the Government team. We must guard against going stale.”

The room fell silent. Then, slowly, the Prime Minister began tapping his pencil on the desk.

“That’s very interesting, Francis, and I agree with you—to a large extent.”

Oh, that hesitation, that little pause, what might that denote? Urquhart found that his hands were clasped, the nails digging into the flesh.

“Teddy and I have been discussing just that sort of problem,” the Prime Minister continued. “Bring on a new generation of talent, find new impetus, put new men in new places. And I find many of your suggestions for changes at the lower ministerial levels below Cabinet very persuasive.”

But they were not the ones that mattered, they all knew that. And the Prime Minister’s tone had changed, grown more somber.

“The trouble is that too much change at the top can be very disruptive. It takes most cabinet ministers a year to find their feet in a new Department, and right now a year is a long time without being able to show positive signs of progress. Rather than your Cabinet changes helping to implement our new program, Teddy’s view is that on balance it would more likely delay the program.”

What new program?
Urquhart was screaming inside his skull. The manifesto had about as much backbone as a sack of seaweed.

“But, with respect, Prime Minister, don’t you think that by cutting our majority the electorate was telling us of its desire for some degree of change?”

“An interesting point. But as you yourself said, no government in our lifetimes has been in office as long as we have. Without in any way being complacent, Francis, I don’t think we could have rewritten the history books if the voters believed we’d run out of steam. On balance, I think it suggests they are content with what we offer.”

It was time to change tack. “You may very well be right, Prime Minister.”

“There’s another point, pretty damned vital in the circumstances,” Collingridge continued. “We have to avoid giving the impression that we’re panicking. That would send entirely the wrong signal. Remember that Macmillan destroyed his own Government by sacking a third of his Cabinet. They took it as a sign of weakness. He was out of office inside a year. I’m not anxious for a repeat performance.” He gave one final beat with the pencil, then put it aside. “I’m thinking of a much more controlled approach myself.”

Collingridge slipped a piece of paper across the desk toward his Chief Whip. On it was printed a list of Cabinet positions, twenty-two in all, with names alongside them.

“As you see, Francis, I am suggesting no Cabinet changes at all. I hope it will be seen as a sign of strength. We have a job to do, I think we should show we want to get straight on with it.”

Urquhart quickly returned the paper to the desk, anxious that the tremble in his hand might betray his inner feelings. “If that is what you want, Prime Minister.”

“It is.” There was the slightest pause. “And of course I assume I have your full support?”

“Of course, Prime Minister.”

Urquhart scarcely recognized his own voice, it sounded as though it came from an entirely different part of the room. Not his words. But he had no choice: it was either support or suicide through instant resignation. Yet he couldn’t leave it there. “I have to say that I…was rather looking for a change myself. A bit of new experience…a new challenge.” His words faltered as he found his mouth suddenly dry. “You may remember, Prime Minister, we had discussed the possibility…”

“Francis,” the Prime Minister interrupted, but not unkindly, “if I move you, I have to move others. The whole pile of dominoes begins to tumble. And I need you where you are. You are an excellent Chief Whip. You have devoted yourself to burrowing right into the heart and soul of the Parliamentary Party. You know them so well. We have to face up to the fact that with such a small majority there are bound to be one or two sticky patches over the next few years. I need to have a Chief Whip who is strong enough to handle them. I need you, Francis. You’re so good behind the scenes. We can leave it to others to do the job out front.”

Urquhart lowered his eyes, not wanting them to see the turmoil of betrayal that flushed through them. Collingridge took it as an expression of acceptance.

“I am truly grateful for your understanding and support, Francis.”

Urquhart felt the cell door slam shut. He thanked them both, took his farewell. Williams hadn’t uttered a single word.

He left by the back route through the basement of Number Ten. It took him past the ruins of the old Tudor tennis court where Henry VIII had played, then to the Cabinet Office that fronted onto Whitehall, along the road from the entrance to Downing Street and well out of sight of the waiting press. He couldn’t face them. He had been with the Prime Minister less than half an hour and he couldn’t trust his face to back up the lies he would have to tell them. He got a security guard at the Cabinet Office to telephone for his car to be brought round. He didn’t bother with small talk.

Eight

The truth is like a good wine. You often find it tucked away in the darkest corner of a cellar. It needs turning occasionally. And given a gentle dusting, too, before you bring it out into the light and start using it.

The battered BMW had been standing outside the house in Cambridge Street, Pimlico for almost a quarter of an hour. The vacant seats were smothered in a chaos of discarded newspapers and granola bar wrappers that only a truly busy single woman could produce, and in the middle of it all Mattie Storin sat biting her lip. The announcement of the reshuffle late that afternoon had led to febrile discussion as to whether the Prime Minister had been brilliant and audacious, or simply lost his nerve. She needed the views of the men who had helped shape the decisions. Williams had been persuasive and supportive as usual, but Urquhart’s phone had rung and rung, unanswered.

Without fully understanding why, after her shift at the
Chronicle
had finished Mattie had decided to drive past Urquhart’s London home, just ten minutes from the House of Commons in one of the elegant side streets that adorn the better parts of Pimlico. She expected to find it dark and empty but instead she discovered the lights were burning and there were signs of movement. She telephoned once more, yet still there was no answer.

The world of Westminster is a club of many unwritten rules and is guarded jealously by both politicians and press—and particularly the press, the so-called “lobby” of correspondents that quietly and discretely regulates media activity in the Palace of Westminster. It allows, for instance, briefings and interviews to take place on the strict understanding that the source will never be identified, not even a hint, everything in the shadows. This encourages politicians to be wildly indiscreet and to break confidences; in turn it allows the lobby correspondents to meet their deadlines and create the most remarkable headlines. The code of
omertà
is the lobby correspondent’s passport; without it he—or she—would find all doors closed and mouths firmly shut. Revealing sources is a hanging offense, banging on a minister’s private door only slightly lower down the list of contemptible behavior designed to cut off all forms of useful contact. Political correspondents don’t pursue their quarry back to their homes; it’s bad form, black marks and bollockings all round.

Mattie gave the inside of her cheek another bite. She was nervous. She didn’t lightly bend the rules but why was the bloody man not answering his phone? What on earth was he up to?

A thick Northern voice whispered in her ear, the voice she had so often missed since leaving the
Yorkshire
Post
and the wise old editor who had given Mattie her first proper job. What had he said? “Rules, my girl, are nothing more than a comfort blanket for old men, something to wrap themselves up in against the cold. They exist for the guidance of the wise and the emasculation of the foolish. Don’t you ever dare come into my office and tell me you missed out on a good story because of somebody else’s sodding rules.”

“OK, OK, you miserable bugger, get off my back,” Mattie said out loud. She checked her hair in the mirror, running a hand through it to restore some life, opened the car door, stepped out onto the pavement and instantly wished she were somewhere else. Twenty seconds later the house echoed to the sound of the front door’s ornate brass knocker.

Urquhart answered the door. He was alone, casually dressed, not expecting visitors. His wife had returned to the country and the maid didn’t work weekends. As his eyes fell on Mattie they were filled with impatience; in the darkness of the street he didn’t immediately recognize the caller.

“Mr. Urquhart, I’ve been trying to contact you all afternoon. I hope it’s not inconvenient.”

“Ten thirty at night? Not
inconvenient
?” The impatience had turned to exasperation.

“Forgive me, but I need some help. No Cabinet changes, not one. It’s extraordinary. I’m trying to understand the thinking behind it.”

“The
thinking
behind it?” Urquhart’s voice dipped deeper into sarcasm. “I’m sorry but I have nothing to say.” He began to close the door only to see his unwanted visitor take a stubborn step forward. Surely the silly girl wasn’t going to put her foot in the door, it would be too comic for words. But Mattie spoke calmly and quietly.

“Mr. Urquhart. That’s a great story. But I don’t think you’d want me to print it.”

Urquhart paused, intrigued. What on earth did she mean? Mattie saw the hesitation, and threw a little more bait in the water.

“The story would read, ‘There were signs last night of deep Cabinet divisions over the non-shuffle. The Chief Whip, long believed to have harbored ambitions for a move to a new post, refused to defend the Prime Minister’s decision.’ How would you care for that?”

Only now, as his eyes adjusted to the shadows beyond his doorstep, did Urquhart recognize the
Chronicle
’s new correspondent. He knew her only slightly but had seen and read enough of her in action to suspect she was no fool. It made him all the more astonished that she was now camped on his doorstep trying to intimidate him. “You cannot be serious,” Urquhart said slowly.

Mattie broke into a broad smile. “Of course I’m not. But what’s a girl supposed to do? You won’t answer your telephone or talk face-to-face.”

Her honesty disarmed him. And, as she stood beneath the light from the lamp above his door, highlights glinting in her short, blond hair, he had to admit that he’d come across less attractive sights in the lobby.

“I’d really like your help, Mr. Urquhart. I need something of substance, something I can get my teeth into, otherwise all I’ve got is thin air. And that’s all you’re leaving me at the moment. Please—help me.”

Urquhart sniffed, stared. “I ought to be bloody furious. On the phone to that editor of yours demanding an apology for such blatant harassment.”

“But you won’t. Will you?” She was being deliberately coquettish. While their previous encounters had been minimal, she remembered the glance he had thrown at her one day as they’d passed in the Central Lobby, the discreet male glint in the eye that had taken in all of her without for a moment appearing to deviate from the direct.

“Perhaps you had better come in after all—Miss Storin, isn’t it?”

“Please, call me Mattie.”

“The sitting room is upstairs,” he said. He made it sound like a small confession. He led the way to a tasteful if very traditionally decorated room, its mustard walls covered in oil paintings of horses and country scenes, the furniture inlaid and elegant. There were tall shelves of books, family photos in frames, a white marble fireplace. The shades were silk, the lighting sparse, the atmosphere intense. He poured himself a large single malt, an old Glenfiddich, and without asking did the same for her before settling into a dark leather armchair. A book with a cracked spine was balanced on the arm, plays by Molière. Mattie sat opposite, nervously perching on the edge of the sofa. She retrieved a small notebook from her shoulder bag but Urquhart waved it away.

“I’m tired, Miss Storin—Mattie. It’s been a long campaign and I’m not sure I would express myself particularly well. So no notes, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. Lobby terms. I can use what you tell me but I can’t attribute it to you in any way. No fingerprints.”

“Precisely.”

He put away Molière, she her notebook and settled back on the sofa. She was wearing a white cotton blouse; it was tight. He noticed, but not in a predatory fashion. He seemed to have eyes that absorbed things, penetrated deeper than most. They both knew they were playing a game.