To Play the King (7 page)

Urquhart spread his hands wide, a gesture meant to replace the words he couldn't quite find, while Stamper jumped in.

'Prime Minister,'
he began, with emphasis. It was meant as a rebuke at the newspaperman's overfamiliarity, but it slid off the Landless hide without making a dent. 'My apologies, but the new Chancellor will be here in five minutes.'

'Forgive me, Ben. Already I'm discovering that a Prime Minister is not a master, only a slave. Of timetables, mostly. To business, if you don't mind.'

'That's how I like it.' Landless shuffled forward on his chair in expectation.

'You control the
Telegraph
group and have made a takeover bid for United Newspapers, and it falls to the Government to decide whether such a takeover would be in the public interest.' Urquhart was staring at his blotter as if reading from a script, rather like a judge delivering sentence. Landless didn't care for this sudden formality, so unlike their previous conversations on the matter.

Urquhart's hands were spread wide again as he sought for elusive words. Finally, he clenched his fists. 'Sorry, Ben. You can't have it.'

The three men turned to effigies as the words circled the room and settled like birds of prey.

'What the 'ell do you mean I can't bloody have it?' The pronunciation was straight off the streets, the veneer had slipped.

The Government doe
s not believe it would be in the national interest.'

'Crap, Francis. We agreed.'

'The Prime Minister was careful throughout the entire leadership campaign to offer no commitments on the takeover, his public record on that is clear,' Stamper interposed. Landless ignored him, his attention rigidly on Urquhart.

'We had a deal!
You
know it. I
know it.'

'As I said, Ben, a Prime Minister is not always his own master. The arguments in favour of turning the bid down are irresistible. You already own more than thirty per cent of the national press; United would give you close on forty.'

'My thirty per cent supported you every step of the way, as will my forty. That was the deal.'

'Which still leaves just over sixty who would never forgive or forget. You see, Ben, the figures simply don't add up. Not in the national interest. Not for a new Government that believes in competition, in serving the consumer rather than the big corporations.'

'Bullshit. We had a deal!' His huge fists crashed down on the bare table.

'Ben, it's impossible. You must know that. I can't in my first act as Prime Minister let you carve up the British newspaper industry. It's not good business. It's not good politics. Frankly it would make pretty awful headlines on every other front page.'

'But carving me up will make bloody marvellous headlines, is that it?' Landless's head was thrust forward like a charging bull, his jowls shaking with anger. 'So that's why you asked me in by the front door, you bastard. They saw me coming in, and they'll see me going out. Feet first. You've set up a public execution in front of the world's cameras. Fat capitalist as sacrificial lamb. I warn you, Frankie. I'll fight you every step of the way, everything I've got.'

'Which only leaves seventy per cent of the newspapers plus every TV and radio programme applauding a publicly spirited Prime Minister,' Stamper interjected superciliously, examining his finger nails.

'Not afraid to turn away his closest friends if the national interest demands. Great stuff.'

Landless was getting it from both sides, both barrels. His crimson face darkened still further, his whole body shook with frustration. He could find no words with which to haggle or persuade, he could neither barter nor browbeat, and he was left with nothing but the physical argument of pounding the table with clenched fists. 'You miserable little sh—'

Suddenly the door opened and in walked Elizabeth Urquhart in full flow. 'Francis, it's impossible, completely impossible. The apartment's appalling, the decorations are quite disgusting and they tell me there's not enough money left in the budget . . .' She
trailed off as she noted Landle
ss's fists trembling six inches above the table.

'You see, Ben, a Prime Minister is not master even in his own house.'

'Spare me the sermon.'

'Ben, think it through. Put this one behind you. There will be other deals, other interests you will want to pursue, in which I can help. It would be useful to have a friend in Downing Street.'

'That's what I thought when I backed you for Prime Minister. My mistake.' Landless was once again in control of himself, his hands steady, his gaze glacial and fixed upon Urquhart, only the quivering of his jowls revealing the tension within.

'I'm sorry if I've interrupted,' Elizabeth said awkwardly.

'Mr Landless was just about to leave, I think,' Stamper cut in from his guard post beside the radiator.

‘I
am sorry,' Elizabeth repeated.

'Don't worry,' replied Landless, eyes still on her husband.
‘I
can't stay. I just learned of a funeral I have to attend.'

'Ben, seriously, if there's anything I can do . . .'

Landless offered no reply. He rose and buttoned his jacket purposefully, straightening his tie and drawing back his broad shoulders before striding out to face the cameras.

* * *

‘I
won't hear of it, David.'

It was ludicrous. Mycroft was in turmoil; there were so many unformed doubts, half-fears which he could not or dared not realize, which he needed to talk through with the King, for both their sakes. Yet he was reduced to snatching a few words along with mouthfuls of chlorinated water as they ploughed through the waves of the Palace swimming pool. The King's only concession to the interruption in his daily exercise schedule was to switch from the crawl to the breaststroke, enabling Mycroft more easily to match his pace. It was his rigid discipline that enabled the King to maintain his excellent physical shape, and kept all those who served him struggling to keep up.

The King was a fierce defender of the forms of marriage - it came with the job, he would say - and Mycroft had felt it necessary to make the offer. 'It's for the best. Sir,' he persisted.
‘I
can't afford to let you become embroiled in my personal difficulties. I need some time to sort myself out. Better for all of us if I resign.'

‘I
disagree.' The King spat out a mouthful of water, finally resolving to finish the conversation on dry land, and headed for the marbled poolside. 'We've been friends since university and I'm not going to throw away the last thirty years simply because some reptilian gossip columnist might hear of your private problems. I'm surprised you should think I would consider it.' He ducked his shiny head one last time beneath the water as he reached for the steps. 'You're part of the management board of this firm, and that's how it's going to stay.'

Mycroft shook his head like a dog, trying to clear his vision. It wasn't just the marriage, of course, it was all the other pressures he felt crowding in on him which made him feel so apprehensive and wretched. If he couldn't be completely honest even with himself, how could he expect the King to understand? But he had to try.

'Suddenly everything looks different. The house. The street. My friends. Even I look different, to myself. It's as if my marriage was a lens which gave the world a particular perspective over all these years, and now that it's gone nothing seems quite the same. It's a little frightening . . .'

'I'm sorry, truly, about Fiona. After all, I'm godfather to your eldest, I'm involved.' The King reached for his towel. 'But, dammit, women have their own extraordinary ways and I can't profess to understand them. What I do know, David, is that it would make no sense for you to try to get through your problems on your own, to cut yourself off not only from your marriage but also from what you have here.' He placed a hand on Mycroft's dripping shoulder. The contact was very close, his voice concerned. 'You understand me, David, you always have. I am known by the whole world yet understood by so few. You do, you understand. I need you. I will not allow you to resign.'

Mycroft stared into his friend's angular face. He found himself thinking the King's leanness made him look drawn and older than his years, particularly with his hair grown so thin. It was as if a furnace inside was burning the King up too quickly. Perhaps he cared too much.

Care too much - was it possible? Fiona had tossed Mycroft back into the pool and he was struggling in the deep waters, unable to touch bottom. It dawned on him that he had never touched bottom, not once in his life. Far from caring too much, he realized he had never really cared at all and the sudden understanding made him panic, want to escape before he drowned. His emotional life had been shapeless, without substance or roots. Except here at the Palace, which now provided his only support. The man he had once tossed fully clothed through the ice of the college fountain and who had come up spitting bindweed and clutching a lavatory seat was saying, in the only way a lifetime of self-control allowed, that he cared. Suddenly it mattered, very much.

'Thank you. Sir.'

'I don't know a single marriage. Royal, common or just plain vulgar, which hasn't been through the wringer; it's so easy to think you're on your own, to forget that practically everyone you know has jumped through the same hoops.'

Mycroft remembered just how many nights of their marriage he and Fiona had spent apart, and imagined what she had been up to on every one of those nights. There really had been a lot of hoops. He didn't care, not even about that. So what did he care about?

‘I
need you, David. I've waited all my life to be where I am today. Don't you remember the endless nights at university when we would sit either side of a bottle of college port and discuss what we would do when we had the opportunity?
We,
David, you and me. Now the opportunity has arrived, we can't throw it away.' He paused while a liveried footman deposited a silver tray with two mugs of herbal tea on the poolside table. 'If it's really over with Fiona, try to put it behind you. Look ahead, with me. I can't start on the most important period of my life by losing one of my oldest and most trusted friends. There's so much to do, for us both.' He began towelling himself vigorously as though determined to start that very minute. 'Don't make any decisions now. Stick with it for a couple of months and, if you still feel you need a break, we'll sort it out. But trust me, stay with me. All will be fine, I promise.'

Mycroft was unconvinced. He wanted to run, but he had nowhere and no one he wanted to run to. And the thought of what he might find if he ran too far overwhelmed him. After so many years he was free, and he didn't know if he could handle freedom. He stood, water dripping from the end of his nose and through his moustache, weighing his doubts against the Sovereign's certainty. He could find no sense of direction, only his sense of duty.

'So, what do you feel, old friend?'

'Bloody cold. Sir.' He managed a weak smile. 'Let's go and have a shower.'

'Circulate, Francis. And smile. This is supposed to be a celebration, remember.'

Urquhart acknowledged his wife's instruction and began forcing his way slowly through the crowded room. He hated these occasions. It was supposed to be a party to thank those who had helped him into Downing Street, but inevitably Elizabeth had intervened and turned it into another of her evenings for rubbing shoulders with anyone from the pages of the social columns she wanted to meet. The voters love a little glamour,' she argued, and like any self-respecting Colquhoun she had always wanted to preside over her own Court. So instead of a small gathering of colleagues he had been thrust into a maelstrom of actresses, opera stars, editors, businessmen and assorted socialites, and he knew his small talk couldn't last the evening.

The guests had clattered through the dark December night into the narrow confines of Downing Street, where they found a large Christmas tree outside the door of Number Ten, placed at Elizabeth Urquhart's instructions to give TV-viewers the impression that this was simply another family eagerly waiting to celebrate Christmas. Inside Number Ten the glitterati had crossed the threshold, unaware they had already been scanned by hidden devices for weapons and explosives. They handed over their cloaks and overcoats in exchange for a smile and a cloakroom ticket, and waited patiently in line on the stairs which led to the Green Room where the Urquharts were receiving their guests. As they wound their way slowly up the stairs and past its walls covered in portraits of previous Prime Ministers, they tried not to stare too hard at the other guests or their surroundings. Staring implied you hadn't done this a hundred times before. Most had little to do with politics, some were not even supporters of the Government, but the enthusiasm with which they were greeted by Elizabeth Urquhart left them all impressed. The atmosphere was sucking them in, making them honorary members of the team. If power were a conspiracy, they wanted to be part of it too.