The Final Cut

SEVEN

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 petrol 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 amongst thick pine forests, the heavy trunks picked out in the headlamps, 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' Elpida 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 pine cones 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 colour 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' Elpida 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. 'Kopiaste.' – '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 back yard, 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 coffee house 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 which was 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,' Elpida 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 Elpida 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. 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 favour 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.'

She raised herself on an elbow, ready to listen. It was the moment to reach for a cigarette.

'It was the final Question Time. I arrived early but the bench was already crowded. They'd deliberately squeezed up to leave no room for me. So I shoved myself in, right at the end, all elbows and shoulders and nudging. Like a prep-school bus trip. Then Marjory appeared – you know, the one who looks like a moulting orange squirrel and throws up barricades before breakfast? She just stood there, waiting to get past. So I… moved. Got up to let her past. Then they simply pushed again. Pushed me right out. They were all laughing, mocking me.' He cringed with the humiliation. 'No room for me on either side of the House. I had to sit on the bloody floor.' Slowly she began to gurgle with mirth.

'You too?' His eyes flared in accusation but already the truth was beginning to dawn. 'It was so bloody childish.' An expression of self-ridicule trickled from between reluctant lips. 'And so very effective.' He had the grace to look embarrassed. Her lips brushed at the creases.

'But there was more. The frustration of knowing there was nothing I could do or say. Urquhart stood there accepting the plaudits of his acolytes and the rest of us were left like a crowd at a coronation.' 'Didn't you try to say anything about Cyprus?'

'And give him the chance to play his Churchill impersonations? Didn't you hear what he said in his speech last night? "Wherever an Englishman stands, there we shall stand also. Wherever an Englishman falls, there we shall be to raise him up…"' His fingers began to twist at the loose ends of her hair. 'I'm facing the most important battle of my life and I don't have a single ally. Except for you. Even Annita can't look me in the eye.'

The rage was gone; the brutal man had become no more than a little boy lost.

'There were so many who promised to walk with me. Now not one of them seems able to find their feet. All I have is the hope that I might be able to hold on to my own seat. Otherwise…' He deflated into his pillow.

'There are plenty of people who will walk with you, ordinary people outside of Westminster. You're not alone.' 'Truly?' 'You know it's true.'

'But I've no time. No party. No friends. No issue any more. Urquhart's like some malevolent magician, he's made them all vanish.'

'Go over Urquhart's head. Stand up for fair play. Give people an excuse to march with you.'

'Without a political machine it'd be a damn long march.' 'That's a great idea.' 'What is?'

'A Long March. Instead of burying yourself in your constituency, take your cause to the people in the country. Walk with them. Talk with them. Show the world your strength.' He sat up. 'What would be the point?'

'It's a means of showing how much support you have. A way to become a figure of real power and authority after the election, even if you don't yet have a party and a hundred parliamentary seats. Be a voice for all those who feel disillusioned and left out of the present system. A one-man revolution.'

He curled up his legs, placing his chin on his knees while he considered. 'Great media possibilities. A march from – where, Manchester to London via Birmingham? – the country's three greatest cities with speaking stops and interviews on the way.'

'Surrounded by supporters, real people, not ancient party hacks. Something fresh, a total contrast to all the other campaigns.'

'Best way of beating the Government machine in my own constituency, by showing national support.' He was beginning to bounce on the mattress, inflated by enthusiasm, when suddenly the air began to escape.

'Do we have time? It would need a big start. And would need to grow, momentum to keep it going.'

'I'll provide the start. Give me three days and I'll deliver two thousand Greek Cypriots anywhere in the country, with posters in every high street and organizational support in every town. After that it's up to you and a lot of luck.'

'If it fails, peters out, my political career will be ruined.'

'If you don't try it, you're ruined anyway. What have you got to lose?' 'Nothing, I suppose. Apart from you.'

She pulled him towards her. 'Come and show me how it's done properly. Before we go out and do it to Francis Urquhart.'

'If I'm to do all this walking, hadn't I better preserve my strength…?' But already his protests were too late. 'Come, Corder, it's a warm day. Into the garden.'

Superintendent Corder of the Special Branch followed his Prime Minister through the Cabinet Room and down into the walled garden. Urquhart indicated a bench beneath the shade of a rowan tree and they sat down together. Tea was ordered.

The privilege of such intimacy was not lightly bestowed, but Corder had earned the trust over many years of loyalty and unquestioning service. He was unmarried, had never displayed anything other than a mechanical sense of humour, a policeman with a university education but few apparent interests apart from his work of heading Urquhart's personal security team, passing up promotion in order to remain in that task. He was an extraordinarily self-contained individual whose first name was known to very few. Elizabeth, who had tried to interest him in opera, occasionally speculated that the Urquharts were his only friends. But they were of different worlds. Once while on a pheasant shoot in Northamptonshire Urquhart had winged a bird which had crashed from the sky to lie fluttering pathetically in front of them. Before anyone could move, Corder had drawn his revolver and finished the job, the 9 mm bullet at such close range spreading pieces of giblet for several feet in every direction. As Urquhart related later to his wife, not very sporting but damned effective.

Corder had a small red file in his hand which he opened in his lap.

'Probably not significant, but I'm not paid to take risks, Sir.' He spoke in a series of assaults, short, rapid bursts, rather like machine-gun fire. 'Over the last few days the local Greek Cypriot radio station in London has been spouting like a volcano, throwing all sorts of criticism in your direction. Getting really carried away. But the worst has come from this man.' He handed across the file. 'Evanghelos Passolides. About your age. Appears to own some sort of eating house in north London. We don't know much about him, apart from the fact that he appears to have connections with Mr Makepeace. And that he's said on live radio – the transcript's at the back of the file…' – in a monotone Corder began quoting from memory – 'that you deserve to have the skin ripped from your lying bones, various material parts of your anatomy thrown to dogs and the rest of you buried in a deep grave and forgotten about in the same manner he suggests you've forgotten about his brothers. He's the gentleman who…'

'Yes, Corder, I know who this gentleman is,' Urquhart whispered, staring at the photograph in the file. 'And I haven't forgotten his brothers.'

His mouth had run dry and he longed for the tea at his side, but he knew his hand would shake and betray him, so long as those eyes of long-festered malevolence were staring up at him. Abruptly he closed the file. So now he knew the name of the brother. Had seen him, practically on his doorstep, had felt his hate which refused to die. It was as though ghosts from all those years ago had chased him around the world.

'Probably a harmless old crank,' Corder was saying, forgetting the age similarity with Urquhart, 'but he has threatened you, and what with you being out and about on the campaign trail we can't afford to take chances. What would you like me to do with him? Warn him off? Lock him away for a bit? Or forget about him? As it's election time and this is all very personal, I thought this one should be your call. Even parking tickets can get political at a time like this.'

'Thank you, Corder,' Urquhart responded softly. A gentle breeze riffled through the honeysuckle and ran across the lawn, glancing off Urquhart's brow. He could feel prickles of sweat.

'Trouble is, if we do nothing it could simply get worse. His threats. The bilge on the radio. Do you want me to have him shut up?'

There were other voices, too, inside Urquhart's head, whispering, blowing at the mists of doubt, helping him to see more clearly and to decide.

'No, Corder, not the man, don't touch him. No martyrs. But the station…' 'London Radio for Cyprus.'

'It must surely have broken all sorts of codes. Race Relations Act, election law, any number of broadcasting regulations.'

'I'll bet it's probably got illegal substances hidden on the premises, too. Could almost guarantee it.'

'Yes, I suspect you could. Let's pull the plug on them, revoke their broadcasting licence. Silence their foul mouths. Then there would be no need to run the risk of turning Passolides into an object of public sympathy. What do you think?'

'Just tell me when you want their lights to go out, and it's done.'

'Excellent. Now, Corder, tell me about the old man's links with Mr Makepeace…' 'And it turns out he's been rogering the daughter.'

Tom hadn't wasted much time, Claire mused. Rebounding like a badly sliced golf ball.

'The thing that surprises me,' Urquhart was saying, 'is that you'd heard nothing about it. From the driver. Apparently they've been going at it like Caribbean cats in an alley.'

Surprised her, too. The driver must have known, told Joh. Ah, but there it was. Joh hadn't told her. Wouldn't have told her. It wasn't his way. 'We need to know more. Does he dress up as Robin Hood? Leap from piles of Hansard7. Nuggets like that are more precious than pieces of the cross' Urquhart continued, 'in encouraging those lame mules in the press to rise up as one beast.'

All this prying, probing for weaknesses. Not the best way, she was beginning to realize. Not Joh's way. He'd not been the first of the Carlsens she had known. Claire and his son, Benny, had been contemporaries at university, and had been considerably more. Their affair had begun at the start of the Trinity term in a punt moored beneath a conspiring willow on one of the headwaters of the Cherwell and had continued throughout a glorious summer of hedonism spent amongst the sand dunes and melon patches of Zakynthos, living in a state of self-centred lust. One evening they'd gone to watch the turtles clamber up the beach to their nesting sites; they'd taken a bottle and already had more than enough to drink. They'd met another, older man, on his own. Benny had suggested they share the drink and, later, had suggested they share her, too. And why not? Benny would've jumped at a similar chance. She'd obliged, on the warm sands of turtle beach, and after that it had never been the same between her and Benny. Up to that point they'd tried to share all their sexual experiences and appetites, but this one she hadn't afterwards wanted to share. It had been a mistake, an own goal, something which made her realize she might have the body of a woman but yet lacked judgement in its use. And judgement about Benny. She didn't want to talk about it. So he'd grown jealous, obsessive, tormented by the memory of her writhing pleasurably in the moonlight, and they had bickered all the way back to their separate and final years of study. Then, a lifetime later, she had met foh. She hadn't wanted to fall in love with him and had tried hard to prevent it but it had happened. And, when she had met Benny again after all those years and Joh had read the tormented expressions on their faces, he had known. He blamed no one and had understood when Benny decided to go and run the Stockholm office and rarely visited. He had never asked.

How different Jon was to Francis Urquhart. Urquhart always searched for weaknesses to exploit, private pieces which would wither a man's reputation to the roots when exposed to the sun. For him, every man of stature was a threat to be cut down to the stump. She began to realize that for Urquhart there were no mountains, no glorious escarpments and swooping valleys, only a flat and desolate landscape upon which he alone cast a shadow.

She'd learnt a valuable lesson today. She found Francis Urquhart hugely attractive. But she didn't very much like him. They'd discovered you couldn't organize a huge march in three days, but in five they had worked wonders. The novelty of the idea in a campaign which threatened to be squeezed of initiative by the party machines attracted several showy pieces in the press and on television, and fifty thousand leaflets were printed, their hurried and unambitious style carrying an appealing touch of sincerity. A small alternative advertising agency developed a logo for T-shirts emblazoned with the message 'F.U. Too'. He sighed when he saw it, but discouraged no one – if the event were small enough for him to control, he would already have failed. Only the route was firmly within his grasp – authorities permitting. The line of march was to begin in Albert Square beside the Town Hall in Manchester and finish in Trafalgar Square, something over two hundred miles in fourteen days with the bits in between being worked on almost as they marched. But march they did.

There were considerably fewer than two thousand on that first Sunday morning and their politics were distinctly dappled – the great majority were Cypriots with their families but there were also environmentalists, militant vegetarians, a smattering from the anti-hunting lobby who came to present a petition and left, a woman who had been at university with Makepeace and now ran a free-love-and-alfalfa commune somewhere in Cumbria, and three candidates from the Bobby Charlton for President Party. There were also enough journalists and television cameras to make it worthwhile. They came to look, to crow, to write feature pieces dipped in condescension and cant. 'Making War With Makepeace,' the Telegraph wrote opposite a photograph of three members of the Manchester Akropolis weightlifting team persuading the candidate of the Sunshine Brotherhood to put his clothes back on. Others wrote of chaotic coalitions, of Makepeace and his coat of many colours. But they wrote. And others read. It gave Makepeace a chance. The Battle Bus, as it was known, was a specially designed coach armoured with kevlar and mortar-proof compartments which had been constructed as Urquhart's primary means of road transport for the campaign. Chauffeur-driven Daimlers were deemed too remote and untouchable for the ordinary voter – although had any ordinary voter managed to penetrate the cordon of security thrown around the Battle Bus at every stop and touched anything apart from the windscreen wiper, they would have activated an alarm system delivering almost as many Special Branch officers as decibels. In motion now, sliding through the night air on its way back to London, there was nothing to disturb the Prime Minister's peace but the whisper of air conditioning and the quiet murmurings from the front compartment of aides conducting a post-mortem on the day's campaigning.

The campaign rally had been a success – no hint of hecklers getting into the hall, a good speech and, Urquhart had to admit, an even better video, although Elizabeth had been going on about resetting the music track. The evening had rather made up for the afternoon, an industrial visit to a factory which made agricultural equipment that included cattle prods. Some reptile from the press pond had discovered that the biggest single order for the electronic prods came not from an agricultural concern but from the National Police Headquarters in Zaire. Testicle ticklers. Urquhart had decided he'd test one on the cretin who arranged the visit.

But that had been the Six O'clock News and now the main evening news pictures and the morning headlines would carry more sensible coverage. Not a bad day's work, he reflected as he rested, eyes closed, in the Tank Turret – the bus's fortified central compartment.

There was a tugging at his sleeve. 'Sorry to disturb you, Prime Minister, there's a call from Downing Street. You'll need the scrambler.'

A sense of anticipation rose through tired limbs as he picked up the phone. It was his private secretary. 'Prime Minister, shall we scramble?'

Urquhart pushed the red button. During the last campaign they'd discovered a car shadowing the route of the bus with sophisticated monitoring equipment, hoping to pick up the chatter of the mobile phones and fax machines. He'd been disappointed to discover that the eavesdroppers were from neither the Opposition nor the IRA, either of which would have doubled his majority, but simply freelancers from a regional press bureau. They'd pleaded guilty to some minor telegraphy offence and been fined?100, making several thousand by selling details of their enterprise to the Mirror. He held a sneaking admiration for their initiative, but it had left his civil servants as reluctant to break news as pass wind. To bother him on the campaign trail betokened a matter of some importance.

He listened attentively for several minutes, saying little until the call had finished and he had switched off the phone.

'Trouble?' Elizabeth enquired from her seat on the other side of the bus where she had been signing letters. 'For someone.' 'Who?'

'That remains to be seen.' His eyes flashed and he drew back from his thoughts. 'There has been an announcement from Cyprus. It appears that our High Commissioner and their President Nicolaou are both alive, well, and being held hostage in the mountains.' 'By whom?'

He laughed, genuinely amused. 'By a bloody bishop.' 'You've got to get them out.'

Urquhart turned to examine Elizabeth, who shared none of his humour. 'It will be all right, Elizabeth.'

'No it won't' she replied. Her tone had edges of razor. 'Not necessarily.'

In the subdued night lighting of the bus he could sense rather than see her distress; he moved to sit beside her.

'Francis, you may never forgive me…' She was chewing on the soft flesh in her cheek.

'I've never had anything to forgive you for,' he replied, taking her hand. 'Tell me what's worrying you.' 'It's the Urquhart Library and the Endowment. I've been making plans…' He nodded. 'Making arrangements for the funding.' 'I'm delighted.'

'Francis, I did a deal with President Nures. If I could help him achieve a satisfactory arbitration decision for the Turkish side, he would ensure a consultancy payment made over to the Library fund.' 'Do we have a fund?' 'In Zurich.'

'And did you – help achieve a satisfactory decision?'

'I don't know. I had a talk with Watling but I've no idea if it helped. The point is, neither does Nures. I told him I'd fixed it and he's delighted.' 'How delighted?' 'Ten million dollars.' 'A drop in an ocean of oil.' 'These arrangements are normal business practice in that part of the world…' 'A finder's fee.'

'… and I have a letter signed by him to confirm the arrangement. He also has one from me. One letter each, guaranteeing our good faith. No copies. Just him and me. No one else knows.'

Urquhart considered all he had been told, his fingers steepled as though in communion with a higher authority. He seemed to find some answer and turned slowly to his wife. 'So what is the problem?'

'I also did a deal with the wife of President Nicolaou.' He shook his head in confusion.

'She approached me at a meeting of the Commonwealth Parliamentary Wives – we've always got on well over the years at those meetings. She'd just come from Paris – she has good contacts there, perhaps a lover, I'm not sure. Anyway, she'd heard reports of the oil, very specific reports, said how important it was to her poor country. And to some immensely rich oil concerns in Paris. How grateful both would be for any help… So, we did a deal. I would try to help, no guarantees. Payment only on result. Nothing if the Greeks lost the waters, nothing if they found no oil. On two conditions. That all dealings would be conducted through her, so I would never have to meet anyone else and my name wouldn't be revealed to the people in Paris.' 'Very sensible. And the second condition?' 'Four million dollars.'

'She must have been deeply disappointed at losing out on the decision.' 'We cried on each other's shoulder.' 'Does her husband know?' 'No. He's an unworldly academic…' 'He's a Greek politician.'

'He didn't know, I'm sure. It would have raised too many questions about her – how can I put it? -friends in Paris.' 'Then what is worrying you so?'

'Another letter. From me to her. Which apparently she left in a safe in the Presidential Palace. Now she doesn't know who's got it, even if it still exists.'

His words were slow and solemn. 'That is a considerable pity.' The implications were all too apparent.

She fell silent for a moment, eyes downcast. 'I've been trying to find the right moment to tell you. Do you hate me?'

He looked at her for a long time until, in the shadows of the night, her eyes came up to meet his once more.

'Elizabeth, all you have ever done you have done for me. As far as I have ever climbed, you have been at my side. All we have ever achieved has been achieved together. I could not feel anything for you that I do not feel for myself. I love you.'

Her eyes washed with gratitude but there was still within them a cold glint of fear. 'But Francis, the letter may fall into the wrong hands. It would destroy me. And with it, you.' 'If it fell into the wrong hands.'

'Do you realize what must be done? We have to make sure the letter is safe. Grab back the President. Send in the troops. Take on the Cypriot mob. Use any means and any force necessary.'

'But haven't you realized, Elizabeth? That is precisely what I have planned to do all along.' They were prepared for the assault. Somehow they'd figured it out – perhaps it was the unexpected request for all recent programme tapes, or an unwise word on the telephone from one of the officials at the Radio Authority in Holbom, for when three police vans and an RA van drew up outside 18 Bush Way, the doors were blockaded and the airwaves drenched in emotional outpourings which would have done justice to the Hungarian Uprising. Not from Franco, of course. At the first hint of trouble he'd legged it, suggesting that to get caught up in a hassle with officialdom might interfere with his Open University course. They could have used Franco, shoved him in the metal cabinet jammed up against the front door to give it more dead weight.

Resistance was never likely to be more than token; there were too many windows, too many hands on too many sledgehammers for them to hold out long. London Radio for Cyprus went off the air as a policeman kicked out the lock of the studio door and with a polite 'Excuse me, Sir,' reached across and flicked off the power supply. Simultaneously he also managed to kneel on the producer's fingers, although whether by accident or design was never established.

But not before the excited Cypriot had succeeded in squeezing out one final phrase of defiance. The EOKA cry of resistance. 'Eleftheria i Thanatos!' When Passolides returned that afternoon from purchasing fresh crab and vegetables at the market, he found the plate-glass frontage to his restaurant smashed to pieces and the curtain of seclusion ripped into shreds. A neighbour told him that a car had drawn up, a man climbed out with a sledgehammer and without any evident sense of haste had calmly shattered the window with three blows.

Passolides hadn't called the police, he didn't trust them, but they arrived anyway, a man in plain clothes with an indecipherable name flashing a warrant card.

'Not a lot we can do, Sir,' he'd explained. 'Trouble is, outspoken gentlemen like you make yourselves targets at a time like this. Lot of anti-Cypriot feeling around in some quarters, what with the High Commissioner gone missing. Wouldn't be surprised if this happened again.'

He'd closed his notebook, dragging back the remnants of curtain to peer inside.

'By the way, Sir, I'll tell the VAT people you're ready for inspection, shall I?' The French Foreign Minister sat studying papers before the start of the meeting in Brussels. It was more than the routine gathering of the Council of Foreign Ministers; indeed it had an element of drama. The British would be practising a little crawling today and it would force that appalling man Bollingbroke to adopt a position of vulnerability which the Frenchman was looking forward to exploiting. He'd taken enough from the Englishman in recent weeks; he relished the opportunity to show that handing out punishment was not an exclusive Anglo-Saxon prerogative.

His reverie was broken by the clamping of a large hand on his shoulder. 'Allo, Allen.'

Damn him. Bollingbroke always Anglicized the name, refusing to pronounce it properly.

'Looking forward to a fine meeting today, Allen. You know, getting your support on this Cyprus matter.'

'It's a complicated problem. I feel it would be inadvisable to rush…'

But already the Englishman was talking through him. It was like watching a bulldozer trying to cut grass.

'It could get rough, you know. Might have to send in the troops. But I've just thought, Allen. What you ought to do. Offer us some of your own troops, a sort of international gesture. After all, we're trying to sort out an international problem. Restoring order and democracy in Cyprus. We'd take care of 'em, make sure none of 'em got hurt.'

'They can certainly take care of themselves,' the Frenchman responded, ruffling with pride, 'but are you suggesting that we give you French troops to help sort out this mess you English have got yourselves into?' 'That's right.' 'Impossible!'

'You surprise me,' Bollingbroke responded, astonishment wrinkled across his face. 'I'd have thought you'd jump at it. Why, give you Frenchies a chance to be on the winning side for a change.'

Another hand came down on the Frenchman's shoulder, a playful tap which he suspected was intended to break his collar bone. His neck turned the colour of the finest Burgundy as he threw aside the folder containing his briefing notes. He knew how to handle this meeting.

The French representative was adamant and intractable. He would not be moved and, since most of the other partners had little desire to be moved, even the traditional compromise of fudge was lost. Every request by the British Government for support was turned down. Flat. Non! No token troops, no selective sanctions, not even words of encouragement or understanding. Europe turned its back on Bollingbroke.

Throughout the long meeting he argued, cajoled, insisted, threatened, suggested all sorts of dire repercussions, but to no avail. And when the vote was taken and he stuck out like a stick of Lancashire rhubarb, he simply smiled.

They've no idea, he mused to himself. Middle of an election campaign and Europe says No. Deserts us. With British lives at stake. It'll be the Dunkirk spirit all over again. They'll be running up Union Jacks on every council estate in the country and saying prayers in chapel in praise of Arthur Bollingbroke. And Francis Urquhart, of course. Just as F.U. had said they would. Bloody marvellous. It was Thursday. Exactly two weeks to go before the election.

'I am concerned, Prime Minister, that we should not rush into things. There are lives at stake and, to be frank, we've never prepared for a contingency of this sort. Invading Cyprus, if you will.'

'Don't worry, General, I've thought of that for you.'

The Deputy Chief of Defence Staff (Commitments), Lieutenant General Sir Quentin Young-blood, cleared his throat. He wasn't used to having his military judgement either questioned or improved. 'But with the greatest respect, Prime Minister, we've found no one who can brief us on the layout. We simply don't know what this Presidential Lodge looks like and what sort of target it will be.'

'Look no further, General. I visited the Lodge several times when I was serving in Cyprus. It used to be the summer home of the British Governor. It won't have changed much; the Cypriots are sticklers for tradition. Too idle for change.'

'Even so, there are so many political complications. I must ask for a little more time for preparation.' He looked around the other members of the War Cabinet seeking support. The Defence Secretary was shuffling his briefing papers, about to join in.

'No!' Urquhart's hand banged down on the Cabinet table. 'You're asking to give the bloody Bishop more time. Time in which he will strengthen his position and raise the costs for us all…'

Let alone increase the chances of Elizabeth's letter falling into the wrong hands.

'But there are logistical problems, too. We can't afford to rush in blind,' Youngblood protested.

Urquhart looked around the table at COBRA, the Cabinet sub-committee gathered together to handle 'Operation Defrock', as Urquhart had called it. Apart from Youngblood there sat Bollingbroke as Foreign Secretary, the Defence Secretary, the Attorney General (to pronounce on legal requirements), and the Party Chairman to help with presentation and the selling of a great victory. The defence chiefs had muttered objections to the inclusion of the Party Chairman, afraid that it would make the matter seem all too party political a fortnight before polling day. How right they were.

Booza-Pitt had asked to be included, practically begged. For however long it lasted this exercise was going to be at the top of the news and he wanted to be there with it. He'd left a pleading message with Urquhart's private office, insisting that as head of one of the three great departments of state his input and inclusion were vital. But it was a busy day; Urquhart hadn't even bothered to reply. 'Life is destined to be so full of disappointments for the boy,' he'd ventured to his private secretary. But at least Booza-Pitt wasn't a man of faint heart, unlike some. Urquhart stared directly at the General.

'These logistical problems. What form do they take?'

Youngblood drew breath. 'Since the rather lurid reports were published of the Foreign Secretary's discussions in Europe' – Youngblood cast a reproachful look across the table, determined that blame should be shifted onto political shoulders – 'elements of the Cypriot community have treated our preparations as tantamount to a declaration of war. My local commander in Cyprus tells me of a considerable increase in public hostility. It has made any initiative we might take considerably more complicated.'

'And will grow more complicated the longer we leave it.'

'But at this stage there are too many imponderables. I cannot guarantee success.'

'You cannot guarantee that the British Army can whip a bloody bishop?' Urquhart could scarcely contain his derision.

'Success in my opinion is achieving our objectives without unnecessary loss of life.'

'And it is delay which threatens disaster. Timing, timing, timing, General. For God's sake, the Presidential Lodge is barely twenty miles along good roads from our base at Akrotiri. We could be there before your tea's had time to grow cold.' 'But…'

'Are there armed men waiting at the gates of Akrotiri to intercept our convoy? Is that what you are afraid of?' 'There is a blockade…'

'No, General. No more excuses. The time has come.'

Without taking his eyes off the military man, Urquhart had reached for the red phone that sat in front of him on the Cabinet table and raised it to his ear. 'Give me Air Marshal Rae.'

'Prime Minister!' Youngblood protested in puce. 'The chain of military command and communication goes through me. We cannot have politicians interfering in a military operation and…'

'General, you've already insisted that this is a political operation as well as a military one. Are you trying to deny the Prime Minister the right to discuss matters with the local commander?'

Youngblood stared back defiantly but held silence, uncertain of his ground. Air Vice-Marshal Rae was not only the Commander, British Forces Cyprus, but had a further role as the Administrator of the Sovereign Base Areas, effectively the political governor of the British territories. Two hats. But which was he wearing at this moment…? While Youngblood pondered several centuries of constitutional etiquette and precedent, the communications chain of command which ran through operational headquarters at Northwood and onward via satellite above the Sahara had worked without flaw; within seconds Urquhart was linked with the Commander' Administrator in Episkopi at the heart of the Akrotiri base.

'Air Marshal Rae, this is the Prime Minister. I'm talking from the Cabinet Room. I understand your base is under some form of blockade.' He paused while he listened.

'I see. There are two hundred women at the gates blockading it with prams and babies' pushchairs.' The glance he shot at Youngblood was like a viper's tongue. 'In your opinion, would breaking through that blockade of prams constitute a threat to the lives of British servicemen?' A pause.

'I thought not. That being the case, Air Marshal, my orders to you are to cordon off the Presidential Lodge. Make sure that the Bishop and the hostages cannot get out, and no one else can get in. I want it sealed tight. That is to be done immediately. You are then to wait for further instructions. Is that clear?'

Urquhart turned his attention to those in the Cabinet Room. 'Gentlemen, are we in agreement?'

All eyes were turned to Youngblood. Now that the orders had been issued, to dispute them would be professional suicide. He would have no choice but to resign. And, as Urquhart knew, he was not a rash man, likely to jump to precipitate action. The General found something of consuming interest to study amongst the papers in front of him. The news cameraman knew the moment was at hand from the increased level of noise, of shouted commands, of stamping feet and revving engines which had been coming from behind the wire and outbuildings at Episkopi all through the night. He could sense rather than see a change in the activity around the gates, a quickening of pace behind the rolls of razor wire, a sharpness in the reflex, like a lumbering Sumo wrestler about to hurl himself at his opponent. The women sensed the change, too, calling to their children, hugging them more closely than ever, reassuring each other even while their eyes spoke of anxiety and danger. Keep together, they whispered. Success through solidarity. And they had chained and tied the collection of prams and pushchairs together such that it would take an hour to untangle them all. But 'Stinger' Rae did not have an hour.

The first sign of movement came soon after dawn from two olive-painted vehicles which drove up rapidly until a squeal of brakes brought them to a halt only inches from the gates. Several of the women at the front of the demonstration stood in order to gain a clearer view; they were the first to be hit and sent sprawling by the powerful water jets of the fire tenders. The vehicles were not specifically built for riot control, the nozzles of their hoses not set for maximum force, but nevertheless the impact of these 'gentle persuaders', as Rae's press officer would later term them, was devastating. Within less than a minute the demonstration in front of the gates had been washed away in a flood of children's screams. Even as they sobbed in the rushing gutters and on the grass verges around the gateway, teams of servicemen ran into action. The first removed the razor wire, dragging it roughly to one side, another team of medics fanned out amongst the women and their infants to minister to the minor injuries, abrasions and bruises that had been inflicted and the vapours thereby caused. Hot coffee and milk were already at hand. A third team of military policewomen scoured through the overturned and waterlogged baby vehicles to ensure that they were all empty. One sleeping infant was lifted from a pushchair and handed to his dazed mother sitting on the grass verge. Then the all-clear was pronounced.

With a grumble of diesel engines, a long snake of vehicles came into view, headed by a phalanx of four-ton trucks. They hit the jumble of baby carriages at a good thirty, and left them crushed flat beneath the tyres. They were followed by ambulances, Land-Rovers, a signals truck and more four-tonners, carving through the barricade like a sleigh through fresh snow. They left behind them the tears of children and the sight of sobbing women picking over the wreckage, just in case. They also left behind them a delighted news cameraman.

They took the main road into the hills, past the dam, until their progress was slowed by the serpent-like curving of the black tar as it wound its way through the pine forests. The air was noticeably cooler, the drivers could smell the pine resin even inside their cabs as they crashed their way down through the gears. They encountered no opposition. Fifty-three men in all, led by a Lieutenant Colonel Rufus St Aubyn, which included the assault force, four specialist signals operators, a squad of diversionary troops, and medics. Just in case.

In two hours they were there. Turning off the main road beneath the gaze of the huge golf-ball radar domes that dominated the highest points, dropping down a gorge strewn with the tall, mastlike trunks of pines. At the top of the gorge they left two men and a roll of razor wire, more than enough to secure the narrow entryway. At the lowest point, where the road rejoins the main highway, they did the same. And in between on a carpet of pine kernels but out of sight of the green metal roof of the Lodge, the remainder of the troops scurried around to spy out the land and secure their communications. Within four hours it was done. That evening Makepeace, with Maria at his side, held a rally to the south of the pottery town of Stoke-on-Trent. Five days had passed since the start of the Long March and it had come to a crucial phase. The novelty was gone, and so had many of the hangers-on, particularly those who were there to gawp or to disrupt, perhaps, the type that gathers to stare as a man stands on a ledge and threatens to jump. In Makepeace's case he had jumped and they'd been interested solely in the gruesome result. Yet he had disappointed them. He'd bounced.

Most who still walked with Makepeace were now intent on the same purpose of protest. None but a handful had followed him all the way, but many came to walk for a day, more for an hour or a mile, pushing children, carrying banners, cheerfully accepting the hospitality provided along the way by mobile kebab shops and local Greek businesses. Yet day by day the numbers had visibly diminished. The efforts of those distributing the leaflets ahead of their progress were tireless, their determination unbowed, yet there was a limit to the amount of coverage the media would give to an endless, uneventful march, and the promotional push of television news had begun to wane. Until today.

In modern warfare the greatest obstacle to military success is often not the muzzle of an adversary's gun but the lens of a camera. The scenes of women cradling babies in arms being set upon by jets of British Army water which spouted like flame throwers dominated the lunchtime news. They were excellent action pictures which puzzled and upset many viewers; great adventures in distant lands were made of victories over panzer divisions or darkened fuzzy-wuzzies, not defenceless children. The military vehicles scythed through baby carriages like wolves through a Siberian village, leaving devastation, tears and much anger in their wake.

And so by that Friday evening Makepeace had found new recruits to his cause. Greek Cypriots, who gathered in larger number and with still greater determination than before. Those whose politics were inspired by a European ideal came too, offended by Bollingbroke. There were pacifists aplenty, waving 'Make Peace' slogans, along with those who did not regard themselves as being political but whose sense of the balance of decency had been upset by the news pictures. There were banners, speeches, babies in arms, an impromptu concert of folk songs and a display of Cypriot dancing which carried with it a sense of renewed commitment for the cause of the Long March.

At dusk in a park they sang, joined hands, shared; they held up a thousand flickering candles whose light turned the park into a field of diamonds, jewels of hope which adorned their faces and their spirits. Before them, on a makeshift stage beneath the limbs of a great English oak, Makepeace addressed his followers and, beyond them, a nation.

'We have set out, as has a convoy in a place faraway yet a place close to all our hearts today, called Cyprus. But our intent could not be more different. Where they threaten war, we talk of peace. Where they brush aside babes in arms, we open our arms to all. Where they believe the answer lies in the strength of military force, we believe the answer lies in our conjoined and peaceful sense of purpose. And where they do the bidding of Francis Urquhart, we say No! Not now, not tomorrow, not ever again!'

And many who were watching on television or listening to his words on radio resolved to join him. Passolides watched the events unfolding on his television screen, feeling more deserted than ever. His soul boiled at the sight of women and children under fire from British Tommies, being cut down, cast aside, just in the manner he thought he remembered through the mists of time, mists which had been thickened with romantic tales of suffering until they obscured the truth. Memory and emotion play tricks on old men.

He sat alone in his deserted and ruined restaurant, the Webley in front of him in case the wreckers returned, watching Makepeace. For many Cypriots the Englishman was growing as a hero, a latter-day Byron, but this was not a view shared by Passolides. The man had taken his only daughter, had taken her in flesh and away from him. Not asked, not in the Greek way, simply taken. As the English had always taken. And who the hell was this Englishman to claim the mantle of honour bome so bravely by George and Eurypides and hundreds of others – a mantle which, but for cruel fate, should also have been Evanghelos' own?

So he drank, and spat at the name of Makepeace, even as he grew to hate Francis Urquhart the more.

Then he heard them outside, scratching at the temporary plywood sheeting which covered the damage, kicking at the remaining traces of glass, sniggering. They were back! With a roar the old man made for the door, flung it open and threw himself into the street. He found not men with sledgehammers but three youths, obviously the worse for drink, spraying graffiti.

'I will kill you for this,' he vowed, taking a step towards them.

'Yeah? You 'n' whose army, you bleedin' old fool?' The three turned to confront him, full of beerish bravado. 'One against three. I like these odds' one scoffed.

'Soddin' Cypos shouldn't be 'ere anyway. Not their country,' another added.

They were almost upon him before, in the shadows cast by the dim street lighting, they saw the revolver he was waving at them and the gleam of madness in his eye. They didn't bother hanging around to find out whether the gun or its crazed owner were for real. At the rear of Downing Street, where the garden wall backs onto Horse Guards Parade, there is a narrow L-shaped road, at the side of which is a large wallbox. Within the wallbox run many yards of British Telecom wiring, and nearby is a hole in the wall through which signalling cable can be fed directly into Downing Street. Once connected – and it takes less than a couple of hours to complete the task – television signals can be received from any point on the globe.

Military engagements make for good pictures. What Cable News Network had done for the Gulf War, defence establishments around the world had decided to do for all their wars thereafter – although on a rather less public scale than CNN. On arrival in the mountains, St Aubyn's signals operators had unloaded their large metal boxes from their four-tonner, exposed the racks of control equipment, set up two remote-control cameras at some distance on either side of the Lodge, slotted together the segmented parts of a two-metre dish, and with a compass located and locked on to the Eutelsat satellite in geostationary orbit above the equator. From there the test signals were bounced to Teleport in London's Docklands, thence to the BT Tower opposite the taverna in Maple Street, and onwards to two monitors in the Cabinet Room. Francis Urquhart was almost ready to wage war. The screens flickered into life to reveal the solid, unpretentious and tightly shuttered three-storey Lodge set amidst a tangle of tall trees, slightly comic in its bright green paintwork.

'Looks like a Victorian rectory in some down-at-heel diocese,' Bollingbroke muttered.

'That's almost precisely what it is,' Urquhart responded. He dismissed the technicians from the room before turning to the red phone. 'Your report, please, Colonel St Aubyn. You are on a loudspeaker to the other members of COBRA, and we have vision on the monitors.'

'The area is now secure, Prime Minister. There's only one access route and we have that blocked. The ground surrounding the Lodge is pretty inhospitable, the side of a mountain covered in pines and thorn bushes. One or two men might just make it but they'd never get a whole party out. Not including a woman and a bishop, Sir. We have them corked up.' 'Excellent. What resistance do you expect?'

'Difficult to say at the moment. As you can see on your screens, there are various other buildings surrounding the Lodge which might give us cover, – on the other hand, we're not yet sure whether there are guards in any of those buildings who might see us long before we can get to them. I'll have to wait for the cover of darkness for a full evaluation, I'm sure our night scopes will tell us all we need to know.' 'Very good.'

'Trouble is, Mr Urquhart, the Lodge itself is an old solid stone structure, the type they don't build any more.' 'Yes, I remember.'

'An excellent defensive position,' St Aubyn continued. 'Roof made of corrugated metal which will clatter like a drum. Outhouses on one side which might contain guards, an open stretch of lawn leading to a heli-pad on the other. Countryside completely covered with dried pine debris which makes a sound as though you're walking on com flakes. If they're not fast asleep they're going to know we're coming, and from quite a distance.'

Youngblood gave a loud 'harrumph' which bordered on, but did not quite cross, the line of insolence.

'Does your communications wizardry allow you to put me directly in touch with His Grace the Bishop?' Urquhart asked.

'It will if I get Private Hawkins here to shin up a telegraph pole and tap into his phone line. Take about five minutes.' 'Do it, please.'

They waited while Hawkins made his effort at earning the Distinguished Flying Cross, during which Youngblood yet again put his case. There could be no surprise, he insisted, they had no specialist assault troops on site. They must wait, delay, lower the Bishop's guard through fatigue. To push ahead trying to release the hostages by force would be folly, more likely to result in their deaths than their release. To it all, Urquhart offered no reply. And then he was through.

'Bishop Theophilos? This is Prime Minister Francis Urquhart.'

'At last. What kept you? I have been waiting for your call.'

'What kept me, my dear Bishop, was the need to put a military cordon around the Lodge where you are holding the hostages. That cordon is in place. You are now my prisoner.'

A belly laugh crackled down the phone. 'Forgive me, Prime Minister, I had forgotten what an excellent sense of humour you British retained in adversity.'

'But time is on my side, Bishop. Those troops could stay there weeks, months if necessary.'

'If you believe that, Mr Urquhart, then you are a fool. Do you not realize what you have done by bringing your troops to this place? You have invaded Cyprus, my country. Even as we speak the tide of resistance will be flooding through this island. You will find no friends here and the longer you squat on my doorstep like some imperialist bully of old, the more you increase my power and the easier it will be to sweep you off this island for good. It is time, time to complete the unfinished business of earlier years. Why in God's name do you think I've been sitting here waiting for you? Did you not recognize the trap that I set for you?'

Evening was drawing across Cyprus, casting long shadows and suddenly giving the pictures of the Lodge a more gloomy cast. Urquhart's voice dropped to a more thoughtful register. 'I hadn't looked at it in that light.'

The Defence Secretary winced and quickly covered his eyes, pretending to be deep in thought. Youngblood raised himself in his chair in the manner of his ancestor, Ezekiel, saddling up before the charge at Balaclava, his eyes growing bulbous with righteousness. The Bishop's metallic but distinct voice continued to fill the room.

'I have wine enough for weeks and food for months, Prime Minister. I am in no hurry. Oh, yes, I was almost forgetting. And I have four hostages. I am a great believer in the afterlife. I shall have no compunction whatsoever in propelling them towards it at an accelerated rate if I so much as sniff the socks of a British soldier approaching this Lodge.' 'Is that a Christian view?' Urquhart protested.

'We have a saying in Cyprus: The Bishop's son is the Devil's grandson. We are a nation of priests and pirates and few can tell the difference.' He chuckled.

Urquhart's voice had lost its assurance, sounded deflated. 'There need be no violence, Bishop. I want no casualties.'

'Sadly, I suspect there must be at least one casualty, Mr Urquhart.' 'Who?'

'You, my dear Prime Minister. You have, what -thirteen days to go before your election? I cannot believe the British people will consider re-electing a Prime Minister who, sadly, will be humiliated by a Cypriot Bishop. Because I demand that you announce before election day your intention of withdrawing from your bases.' 'How can I possibly agree to that?'

'Because if you don't, I shall send to your newspapers slices of Mr Martin's ears.' 'I see.' 'I hope you do.'

Urquhart paused. 'Bishop, is any of this negotiable?'

A pause. 'The timing, perhaps. Withdrawal in five years rather than immediately. In exchange for a substantial aid package, of course. You see, Mr Urquhart, I am not an unreasonable man.' 'I need to think about this. Give me time to think.'

'All the time in the world.' He gave another laugh and cut the phone link.

Sitting starchly upright across the table, Youngblood was contempt made flesh. 'I told you to wait,' he hissed.

'And I told you time was on the Bishop's side, not mine.' 'But you said you needed time to think…' 'I don't need to think, I already know what I'm going to do.' 'Which is?'

Urquhart took one final look at the scene on the television monitor. 'I'm going to burn that bastard out.'