The Final Cut

TEN

The custody sergeant was deeply unimpressed. A pack of tissues, a depleted tube of blister ointment, a couple of pens – one biro and the other a sparkling Parker Duofold – a comb, watch, a paper clip, a mobile phone and three envelopes containing letters of support thrust at Makepeace during the morning's march were all that he could produce by way of personal effects from his pockets. No cash, no credit cards, no visible means of support.

'I could 'ave you done for vagrancy,' the Sergeant quipped.

'I was on a march, not an outing to John Lewis,' Makepeace responded drily.

'Well, at least I can't book you for shoplifting, I suppose.'

He finished completing the sheet of personal details, stumbling only over the occupation.

'Since Parliament is prorogued that means I'm technically no longer an MP,' Makepeace explained. 'Must make me unemployed.'

The Sergeant sniffed, sucked the top of his pen and wrote down 'Election Candidate'. Then he began reciting the words of the formal caution. 'You are charged with the offences shown below. You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so…'

'Believe me, Sergeant, I wish to do so. I have no intention of staying silent.' 'Which in your case makes for problems. As I understand it, Mr Makepeace, it's your stated intention as soon as you've been released to go back out on the march – the very thing for which you've been arrested.' 'Correct.' 'Can't have that, can we, Sir?' 'You going to arrest me again?'

'No. Not yet at least. Not necessary. Since you've made it clear you won't honour any conditions of bail, I'm proposing not to release you.' 'You must.'

'I can hold you for up to twenty-four hours, Sir. That's the law. I suspect you voted in support of it, too. Give you a bit of time to consider, to cool down. Then we'll put you before the next sitting of the magistrates' court…' – he glanced up at the wall clock, which showed nearly one on Monday morning – 'which'll be Tuesday.'

'I'm supposed to be in Banbury, almost halfway to London by then.' 'Not this Tuesday, I'm afraid.'

'Sweep out the tumbril before you put me in it, will you?'

'Don't be like that, Sir. You'll find your cell very cosy, I'm sure. Although we're fresh out of feather quilts.' 'And justice.' 'That's for the magistrates to decide.' 'And, thankfully, the people.' The silver disc of the moon had risen to shed a pale, monochrome light across the cutting, supplemented at various points along the ridge by lamps which appeared to be powered from car batteries, and punctuated by the occasional brilliance of portable television lights. Across the road where the children sat, a line of candles had been lit, giving the cordon an almost festive appearance. Every twenty minutes or so some forty of the schoolgirls would rise and their places would be taken by a fresh contingent; they were running the human wall in shifts and by the coach-load. But who 'they' were was not yet apparent.

No shots had been fired, but the intention of those occupying the ridge was clear. Every time one of St Aubyn's men approached within twenty yards of the barricade of buses, rifles were raised, chambers loaded and triggers very audibly cocked. Even had the President and his daughter not been accompanying them, resistance would have been pointless. They had no cover, no way out apart from bulldozing through the children, so they sat and stared, sitting ducks.

Once the sun had melted from the sky and the inky umbrella of night emerged to cover them, they had discovered how insubstantial was the mountain air and how cold it could grow with nothing but starlight for warmth. Rations, too, were meagre; no one had planned on this. And from beyond the cordon they could taste the smoky flavours of roasting lamb painted with garlic and rosemary. Torture on a hungry tongue.

Then three men emerged from behind the row of candles and made their way forward. One carried a battered oil lamp, another a large plastic bottle of water.

'Good evening, English,' the man holding the lamp greeted St Aubyn as he moved to meet them. The Cypriot, a wrinkled man in his sixties, sported a huge moustache which grew like ram's horns and entirely obscured his mouth. He held up his hand to indicate he was unarmed. 'I hope you are uncomfortable.'

'What is the point of this?' the Colonel demanded. 'You know that a thousand British soldiers could be here within hours.'

'And you and everyone in your convoy could be dead within minutes. But let us not deal in hypotheses, English.' 'What do you want?' 'Your surrender.' 'You cannot be serious.'

'Deadly serious. We want to show you British that you are not welcome in this island, not as military occupiers who meddle in our affairs. And by holding you here until you surrender we want to show the world that your game is over.' 'It cannot happen.' 'I don't think you can prevent it.'

'My Commander at Episkopi will already be organizing our relief.'

'On the contrary, we have already spoken to your Air Vice-Marshal Rae and told him that if he lifts a single finger he will be responsible for an enormous loss of life, mostly British.' 'You've already been in touch with him?'

'Indeed. We thought it only fair to let him know since we suspect your own communication facilities on the convoy are somewhat inadequate.'

Damn right. Stuck in a cutting in the middle of the Troodos mountains with all the specialist communications equipment sent back to Episkopi, they might as well have been shouting down a drainpipe from the moon. St Aubyn had been relying on a search party being sent out as soon as it was realized they were missing. 'And…?' St Aubyn enquired uncertainly.

'It seems that he is seeking guidance from London. I am afraid you will have an uncomfortable night.'

'We have no food. Precious little water,' St Aubyn explained, noticing the water bottle.

'Anyone who wishes either food or water will be welcome as our guests. But they will come unarmed and will not be allowed to return.'

The man holding the water placed the bottle on the far side of the line of candles, tantalizing, just beyond reach.

'I fear that on this occasion we shall have to decline your Cypriot hospitality,' St Aubyn responded drily.

'For now, perhaps. But we shall see.' He glanced up to the starscape which hung in the clear sky where soon would hang the fire of a Middle Eastern sun. 'We shall see.'

The Cypriots turned to make their way back beyond the line. 'By the way, who are you?' St Aubyn demanded.

'Just ordinary Cypriots. I come from the village of Spilia.' 'The Bishop's men?'

The old man turned and smiled wryly, a gold tooth glistening in the lamplight. 'You don't understand, do you, English? Since yesterday, almost everyone on the island is one of the Bishop's men.' Then he disappeared into the shadows. 'Did you have any trouble locating the boys, Jim?'

'None at all, Sir,' the Squadron Commanding Officer replied. He'd been up at first light to fly the reconnaissance mission himself. 'They're on the main Nicosia road, just below the village of Spilia.' He pointed out the location on the large wall map in the Air Vice-Marshal's office. 'Bottled up in a cutting by a barricade of buses and…' – he coughed apologetically – 'what appeared to be a gathering of schoolgirls.' 'You're kidding' Rae gasped. 'The schoolgirls appeared to be dancing, Sir.' 'What is this, carnival week?'

'It has some elements of that, Sir. Long lines of cars and buses seem to be approaching the site from every direction. Looks as though it's becoming something of a tourist attraction. Whatever else it means, there's going to be no way to get a relief convoy up there without standing in line in a traffic jam.' 'Helicopters?'

'We'd be hovering only feet above the top of the cutting with about as much protection as butterflies. They wouldn't even need to fire, just throw stones. Easier than a coconut shy at a fair.'

The Air Vice-Marshal's voice dropped a tone. 'So what's the answer, Jim?' 'Buggered if I know, Sir.'

Rae slumped in his chair over the telephone which he knew would soon be ringing. 'Tell you something, old friend. They ain't going to like this back in London. Ain't going to like it one little bit.' 'Serves him bloody right.' The morning election press conference had approached a shambles. Urquhart had appeared on the rostrum at party headquarters beneath a neat velcro slogan entitled 'Growing Together'. He had with him a carefully prepared press release and an equally carefully prepared Minister for Agriculture, intent on extolling the expanding fortunes of the great British farmer. The media would have none of it.

The position had been well rehearsed on matters Makepeace and military. No comment. The first was sub judice and up to the courts, the second a matter of national security. 'You'll have to wait and see' the Party Chairman offered in his introduction, but of course they wouldn't. They attacked the position in waves.

'Is it true that our troops are being stopped by a bunch of schoolgirls?' 'It's really not that simple…'

'Can you confirm that the military advice was against this convoy heading for Nicosia?'

'Such private discussions must remain confidential…'

'But are there really lives at stake, or is this simply a tangle with St Trinian's?' 'This is a serious matter…'

'Will you send in the SAS?' – 'Better send in Michael Jackson' a colleague offered.

'Gentlemen, this has nothing to do with farming…' 'Dig for victory, eh, Prime Minister?'

The television lights seemed uncharacteristically warm this morning. He could feel the prickle of perspiration on his scalp and Prime Ministers aren't meant to sweat, to show pressure or exasperation. The cruel eye of television allows them nothing more than a cheerful glow, but he wasn't feeling cheerful.

'And what about Mr Makepeace, Prime Minister? Has there been any contact between Downing Street and the Birmingham police about his arrest?' Claire looked on from the wings, studying him closely while she twisted inside. Means, ends, truth, principle, pragmatism. Politics. Weeds choking the rose. She knew he'd have to lie, to deceive, perhaps she would too in his position – except she would never have got herself into that position, would she? She had been trusting, naive. She still had much to learn, even about herself. And much still to do.

The question hung in the air. Urquhart offered a reproachful glance at his wristwatch. 'You'll forgive me, ladies and gentlemen, but this is proving to be an unexpectedly busy day.' She would attempt to make the walk that day even if she were on her own. Fifteen miles to Stratford-upon-Avon, from a sloping farmer's field outside Bentley Heath, south of Birmingham, where the M40 and M42 motorways intersect. To show Tom he was not alone.

She had arrived early after the confusion of the night before and had sat on the dewy grass, waiting. Time hung heavily upon the morning air, weighing down her spirits. There was, perhaps, little point in this gesture, but gestures have to be made. Sometimes that is all there is. And others seemed to agree.

Like daffodils in spring, Makepeace's movement had grown, not yet in flower but already thrusting defiantly through the oppressive snow. They came, in families, with friends, on buses, by train and on foot, some solemn, some singing, carrying banners and babies, trickling into the field until they had grown to a river swollen on injustice. Then, with their unerring instinct for crowds, the first mobile kebab shops arrived. At last she ventured a smile. She could imagine no more powerful symbol of success, of spring. The cuckoos of journalism would not be far behind.

By nine they numbered nearly five thousand. Not bad for a Monday morning.

Maria had grown with the movement, in confidence, in judgement and independence. She'd never stood before anything more formidable than a class of thirty infants, but armies march to the beat of a drum and in Tom's absence someone had to do it. They looked to her.

She clambered onto the roof of the small Renault support van to face them. Slowly, the shuffle of noise subsided until all eyes clung to her. She had no words for what was in her heart, but somehow she felt that they all understood and shared.

The breeze caught her face, blowing back her dark hair and rubbing into her cheeks the flush of rebellion. Then, slowly and as though in great pain, she raised her clasped hands high above her head. As Makepeace had done the previous day, in chains. Five thousand pairs of hands rose towards the sky, clenched in defiance, and as many voices sang out in chorus.

From the control van parked in a lay-by beyond the entrance to the field, hurried conversations were flowing up the chain of police command, from the Inspector on the scene all the way to the Chief Constable's office. The marchers had started on their way before the decision came back down. There was little chance of the march being met by violent opposition, at least for the next few hours; skinheads wouldn't be out of bed yet. Anyway, the march was heading away from Birmingham, out of West Midlands' jurisdiction; so good riddance and the Warwickshire Constabulary could pick up the problem. Anyway, what were they supposed to do, arrest the whole bloody lot? 'Kiss 'em goodbye, Inspector.' In the pink light of dawn the cutting glistened like the inside of a wolf's mouth, waiting to snap shut on its prey. It did not last. By mid-morning the moisture had burnt away and the rocks of pillow lava were batting the sun's rays back and forth in a cruel game of solar ping-pong. The temperature at the road surface was ninety and climbing.

Nicolaou had slept badly. The strain of the last few days was telling on a body which even in youth had been far from robust, and the reserves of character and resilience he had drained during his time at the Lodge had proved impossible to replenish. The sharp cold of the mountain night had cut through to his bones and he was in no mood to eat breakfast, even had there been any. His eyes had grown glassy, he was beginning to run a fever. But there was still pride.

They had made him as comfortable as the circumstances would allow in the back of one of the four-tonners. He had uttered not a single word of complaint, offering only a brave smile for his daughter, but she was not fooled and refused to disguise her concern. And by mid-afternoon the temperature even in the shade was over a hundred.

St Aubyn made hourly rounds of the besieged convoy, trying to maintain morale, emphasizing to all that had the Cypriots been intent on personal harm they would undoubtedly have inflicted it by now.

'Cypos are nice people, Sir,' a corporal confirmed, wiping his reddened face with a rag. 'Funny thing is, though, when I was a kid we had lots of beetles on the farm. I never got into trouble for crushing them, it was only when I tried to burn the bleedin' things alive with a magnifying glass that me old man gave me a belt. Think I'm beginning to understand what he meant.'

St Aubyn passed on quickly, unwilling to tangle with such singular logic. The next truck was Nicolaou's.

'Fetch me a little water, Elpida,' her father asked, as St Aubyn appeared at his feet.

When she was gone he turned to the soldier. 'Colonel, I am desperately sorry to tell you this, but I'm not sure if I shall be able to last very much longer.'

St Aubyn knelt beside him. 'Mr President,' he whispered, 'the water your daughter is fetching is all but our final cup. I'm not sure how much longer any of us will be able to last.' They were able to maintain intermittent radio contact with the outside world through the helicopters which flew surveillance at regular intervals high over the cutting. From this they were able to inform their base that their supplies were exhausted, and to learn that as yet no one had any idea how – or when – they might be released.

As dusk drew in a Wessex appeared on the horizon flying fast and low, no more than two hundred feet, the door to the rear cabin latched back. As it passed overhead two drums emerged, sprouted silken wings and began floating down, laminated red in the light of the melting sun. A straggling cheer rose from hoarse throats as the soldiers watched the water drums floating towards them and the Wessex begin its turn to start another supply run.

The drums were about a hundred feet from the ground when two shotgun blasts rang out on the ridge above. The parachutes exploded into a cloud of rag feathers and the supplies plummeted to the ground. On impact they burst, one drum almost taking a startled soldier with it into the afterlife.

With a dip of its nose, the Wessex abandoned its run and vanished into the evening sky. Elizabeth woke to a clap of summer thunder. It was three a.m., the air dank and oppressive, outside the curtain of night was being torn by the white lightning of the storm. He was at the window; he hadn't slept.

She joined him, her arm snaking through his like links in a chain. 'You are troubled, Francis.'

'The gods are troubled tonight. I feel…' He shrugged, unable to finish.

'Francis, this is no time for secrets between us.'

He breathed deep and tried again. 'I feel as though they are waging war over me, the gods out there. Fighting over who will dispose of Francis Urquhart.' 'Who will sit at his side in triumph,' she corrected.

He did not argue, nor was he convinced. In the bursts of sharp light pouring through the window she could see nothing but shadow across his eyes which made them appear as the empty sockets of a skull. Thunder rattled like the chains of the Underworld. The mood frightened her. 'What is it?' she demanded. 'Don't lock me out.'

His eyes flickered back into life, he bowed his head in apology. 'We have always shared, Elizabeth. Everything. The triumphs and the wounds. But now I'm afraid to.' 'Sharing a fear is to cut it in two.' 'I haven't wanted to burden you.'

'Am I so weak or loose-tongued you feel you have to protect me?'

'I wish to protect you' he chastised gently, 'because I value you beyond all others. And my fears seem so infantile and superstitious. Yet so very real.'

She squeezed his arm more tightly. The atmosphere was stifling, the storm was about to break.

'I told you about Cyprus. Of sacrifice, many years ago' he continued. 'It took place not three miles from where the convoy is being held, near the village of Spilia. And it was marked by a symbol, a sign. A flaming pine. Like a torch which has flickered through my dreams in all the years since.' 'Sometimes it's not healthy to dwell on dreams.'

'I saw the tree again. The other day beside the Lodge. Burning once more.' 'A symbol of future triumph,' she offered. 'Perhaps a life come full circle.'

'Then a completeness. A whole. Signifying strength.'

'A life which has come full circle can never go round again, Elizabeth.'

Mortality. With that she could find no argument. Yet the words had helped, he appeared more at ease now, the burden shared, his inner doubts confronted and out in the open. Better to see them. A mile away a trident's fork of lightning struck the BT Tower and a final, massive drum roll of thunder vibrated across the rooftops. 'What will you do, Francis?'

'Do what I have always done, the only thing I know how to do. Fight. And hope my gods win.' He turned to embrace her and the rains came. The gods' battle was done. They were ready to dispose of him. It was almost two a.m. when Maria heard the knock on her motel door. She hadn't been able to sleep, exhilarated by the success of the day's march and tormented by thoughts of what might happen to Tom in the morning. The knocking grew persistent. She threw the covers aside and was halfway across the room before she hesitated. Who was it? What could be so urgent and why the hell hadn't they telephoned? Anyway, she was wearing nothing but one of Tom's shirts. 'Who's there?' she enquired cautiously.

From out in the corridor a woman's voice replied; it carried no hint of threat. Maria opened the door but kept it on the chain.

'I've brought a message for Tom,' the woman announced, addressing the eye and loose strand of hair which appeared around the door.

Tom. The password to Maria's new life. Resolved, she slipped the chain and slowly opened the door. It was Claire. Maria didn't fully recognize her, but Claire had already recognized the shirt – so it was true, they were lovers. The legs were great, long and finely toned. Tom always had appreciated good legs. 'I think I'd better come in. Both you and I are a little too exposed here in the corridor.'

The shirt, the legs and the attractive face with its long and darkly rumpled hair made way.

'Hello, I'm Claire Carlsen,' she said, extending her hand. 'Francis Urquhart's PPS.'

Instantly Maria took a step back and her look of sleepy half recognition turned to sharp disfavour. 'Get out. I have nothing to say to you.'

'But I have something to say to you.' Claire held her ground. 'Something for Tom.'

'Francis Urquhart wouldn't lift a finger to help Tom.' 'You're absolutely right. But I would.'

'You?' She made no attempt to disguise her ill-feeling. 'Why?'

How could she explain, to Maria of all people? 'Perhaps because in helping him I may be able to help myself.'

Maria studied the other woman. The blonde features were so different from her own. The salon-chic hair, the Italian shoulder bag, the considered, discreetly expensive style. Everything Maria was not. She had many reasons for distrusting this other woman, but there were also the raw eyes which said Claire hadn't slept, not since she'd heard of Tom's arrest and understood why Corder had been so keen to ensure that the driver was well out of trouble's reach. Trouble Corder knew to expect. Trouble which he must have planned. And behind Corder stood only one master.

'I don't believe I want to help anyone associated with Francis Urquhart,' Maria said firmly.

'We are all associated with Francis Urquhart, whether we like it or not. Tom above all.'

Maria stood in the middle of the bedroom, her arms folded across the shirt, aggression squeezed aside by her concerns for Tom and, perhaps, feminine intuition about this woman. 'You would betray Urquhart?'

'I prefer to think of it as being true to myself. I don't think I have been at times in these past weeks. I want to make up for it.' 'How?' 'By warning Tom. His arrest was no accident. There were politics behind it. Downing Street politics.' 'Where's your proof?' 'I have none. It's no more than a suspicion.' 'Not much to go on.' 'Enough for me to take the very considerable risk of driving through the night to come here.' 'Risk?'

'If Francis found out, there wouldn't be much point in going back.'

'This could simply be a ruse, a distraction of some sort. Another trick.'

'Please. Let Tom decide that. Tell him I think it was Urquhart.' Maria made no reply.

'One other thing,' Claire continued. 'Urquhart knows you are lovers. He'll certainly use it against you if he needs to.' 'Don't try to threaten me.' There was anger now. 'I'm trying to save you.' 'He can't prove a thing!'

'My advice to you is to stay out of his bed until the election is over. And stay out of his shirts.'

Maria started, looked down at her nightwear and then back at Claire, her intuition suddenly wide awake. 'He said there had been someone who'd hurt him. Someone in politics, very different from me.' She studied the tired eyes closely, trying to find the woman within. 'Someone who would know his shirts.' 'Someone who still cares for him very much.'

'We have more in common than I thought,' Maria acknowledged grimly. 'He still thinks about you.' 'And I still think about him, as you see.'

'But more about yourself.' Maria's tone carried accusation.

'Perhaps. And particularly about my family.' She hadn't intended all this self-exposure and sharing of secrets, she wasn't sure it had helped. 'What are you going to do?' 'What are you going to do?' 'I'm not sure.'

'Funny thing is,' Maria replied, showing her the door, 'neither am I.' A photograph of a grizzled old Cypriot dominated the front page of the Independent. He was seated on a splay-footed dining chair, old military beret pulled askew over his brow, a gap-tooth smile splitting his walnut face. A battered musket of pre-1914 vintage was propped against one knee and a lissom sixteen-year-old schoolgirl seated on the other. By such an army were the British being humbled, 'held to ransom by a combination of hockey stick and blunderbuss,' as the Independent claimed.

The Sun was less tactful, 'FU! SAY CYPOS' ran its headline. Of the carnival atmosphere amongst the Greeks there was much coverage; of the growing fear and suffering amongst the British troops very little.

The message of the media was unanimous. Francis Urquhart: from triumph to turkey. Two days is a long time in Fleet Street.

'So what is the military solution, Air Marshal Rae?'

A smell of furniture polish lingered throughout the Cabinet Room; it takes more than war to disrupt a Whitehall cleaning schedule. Over the satellite link to COBRA came the sound of an apologetic cough. 'That's difficult, Prime Minister.'

'Difficult?' Urquhart snapped. 'You're telling me you can't handle this?'

Across the Cabinet table, Youngblood began to colour. Out of sight, the climate was changing in Cyprus, too. The Air Vice-Marshal was a man minted at Harrow and moulded by his passion for the brutality of croquet; an unsuitable case for bullying. Rae blew his nose stubbornly, a noise which across the link sounded like a bull preparing to resist the matador's goad.

'Difficult, Sir, because as you will remember this was an expedition which I recommended against.' 'Schoolgirls!'

'Precisely. And I cannot envisage a military solution which would not risk endangering the lives of either those schoolgirls or my men, or both.' 'Are you telling me you can find no solution?' 'Not a military one. A political solution, perhaps.'

'You're suggesting I negotiate with a bunch of pirates?'

'They're not exactly that, Prime Minister. Which is part of the trouble. They have no clear leadership, no individual with whom to negotiate. These are simply ordinary Cypriots united around a common purpose. To get us out.' 'What about President Nicolaou?'

'Seems they want him out, too. It's difficult to find much enthusiasm for politicians in this part of the world right now. Sir.'

Urquhart ignored what he was sure was the intentional irony. He needed Rae. 'I have worked hard to bring peace to the island. If they throw out Nicolaou, they throw out the peace deal with him.'

They've never had peace, not in a thousand years. They're the sort who use sticks of dynamite even to go fishing. They'd manage to live without the treaty.'

'Then if they want a fight, Air Marshal, I suggest we'd better give them one.' 'How does the defendant plead? Guilty, or not guilty?'

Layers of dust and silence hung across the veneered courtroom, which was packed. Thousands more had congregated outside. The march had not happened today, they were needed here. Sunlight streamed in through the high windows, surrounding the dock in a surrealistic halo of fire as though Channel 4 were filming a contemporary adaptation of Joan of Arc. Did the defendant have anything to say before he was burnt? 'Not guilty!'

Others apart from Francis Urquhart seemed prepared for a fight. 'If you can't get to the convoy, Air Marshal, then get the convoy to you. Drive it out. Smash the blockade. Call their bluff.' Red-hot coals seemed to roll around Urquhart's tongue.

'You're willing to risk all those lives on a hunch they might be bluffing?'

'Strafe the ridge. Keep their heads low. Blow them off if necessary.' He spat the coals out one by one.

'At last count there were also half a dozen television crews on that ridge, Prime Minister.' 'You'd be surprised how fast a journalist can run.' 'And what about the schoolgirls?'

'Tear gas. Scatter them.' Out of Rae's sight, Urquhart was waving his hands around as if he were already getting on with the job.

'Schoolgirls can't run as fast as a speeding four-ton truck.' 'Are you contradicting me, Air Marshal?' 'Stating fact.' 'Enough objections. Take the simple route.' 'The simple-minded route.'

The exchange which had thumped and pounded like hot blood through an artery had suddenly faltered, its wrists cut. 'Did I hear you correctly, Rae?'

'This is not a game, Prime Minister. Lives are at stake.' 'The future of an entire country is at stake.'

'Forgive me, Prime Minister, if I find it more difficult than you to equate my own personal interest with that of the nation.'

'Do I detect even at this great distance the stench of insubordination?' 'You might say that.'

'Rae, I am giving you a direct order. Run that convoy out of there.'

There was a slight pause, as though the digitalized satellite system was having trouble encoding the words. When they came, however, they sounded throughout the Cabinet Room with the utmost clarity. 'No, Sir.' 'How many others were arrested for participating in the Peace March on Sunday, Chief Inspector Harding?' Makepeace was conducting his own defence. 'None, Sir.' 'And why was I singled out for your attentions?' 'Because we believed you to be the organizer of the march, Mr Makepeace.'

'You were right, Chief Inspector. I was. The defendant admits it. I was, am, and shall be organizer of this march.'

In the public gallery a portly matron with bright red cheeks and hair pulled back in a straw bun was about to start applauding, but Maria stayed her hand and advised silence. The Chairman of the Bench scribbled a note.

'So this other march, Chief Inspector, the skinheads. This progress of pimples about which you had such concern for public order. How many were arrested from their number?'

Although the policeman knew the answer, he consulted his notebook nevertheless. It added an air of authority, and gave him time to think. 'Fifteen, Sir.' The Chairman scribbled again. Clearly this had been a serious disturbance. 'For what offences, Chief Inspector?' 'Offences, Sir?'

'Yes. Isn't it customary to arrest someone on the pretext of having committed an offence?'

Laughter rippled through the public gallery and the Chairman frowned until it had dissipated.

Harding consulted his notebook again. 'Variously for being drunk and disorderly, behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace, four on narcotics charges and one case of indecent exposure.'

'Obviously a troublesome bunch. No wonder you were concerned.'

The policeman didn't respond; Makepeace was being altogether too helpful for his liking.

'I understand the semi-final of the football cup was recently played in Birmingham. Can you remember how many people were arrested then?' 'Not off the top of my head, no, Sir.'

'I'll tell you.' Makepeace consulted a press clipping. 'Eighty-three. There were several hundred police on duty that day, you knew there was going to be trouble.' 'Always is on a big match day.'

'Then why didn't you cancel the match? Order it to be abandoned? Like my march?' 'Not the same thing, is it?'

'No, Chief Inspector. Not The Same Thing At All. Nor was the concert last weekend held at the National Exhibition Centre. You arrested over a hundred then. So the disturbances which arose out of those trying to break up my march were really small beer. Scarcely Bovril, you might say.' Harding said nothing.

'Well, I might say that. I don't suppose you could possibly comment.' Even the Chairman let slip a fleeting smile.

'Then let me return to matters you can comment about, Chief Inspector. Indeed, matters you must comment about. These skinheads, neo-nazis, troublemakers, call them what you will: arrested for drink, drugs, obscenity, you say?' Harding nodded. 'Not for offences under the Public Order Act?' 'I don't understand the point…'

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

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

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

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

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

'Why, no, Sir. Only after the most careful consideration…'

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

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

'And I wonder where he was getting his orders from?' 'How do you mean?'

Makepeace looked up to the gallery to catch the eye of Maria. He smiled. She nodded, understanding as always. He'd use Claire's information; what had he got to lose? 'Can you tell me if the Chief Constable's office was at any time before my arrest in contact with Downing Street?' 'I don't understand the question.'

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

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

'But an opinion which gave me the authority under law to issue directions and you the duty to obey those directions.'

'Wouldn't have gone down too well at Nuremberg, would it, Chief Inspector?' Makepeace mocked. 'Come on,' he cajoled, 'was there political pressure?' 'Of course not.'

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

'I… don't know.' Harding was protesting truthfully, and beginning to fluster. The crossfire between a Prime Minister, his Chief Constable and a former Foreign Secretary was way beyond his twenty-three years of experience. Early retirement beckoned. 'So you can't confirm that.' 'No, of course I can't. I wasn't…'

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

Harding looked desperately at the Bench. The three magistrates stared back impassively, pens poised. 'How can I answer that?' 'A simple yes or no will do. Can you deny it?' 'No.'

'Thank you, Chief Inspector Harding. I don't think I need to bother you any further.' COBRA was designed to resolve hostilities, not to generate them. It was not having a good day.

'Youngblood, I want Rae out and replaced within the hour.' 'That will be difficult for me, Prime Minister.'

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

'Nothing difficult in that, Prime Minister. It's simply that I won't do it for you.' 'You are refusing me?' 'Exactly.' The Prime Minister used a short, foul word.

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

'You wouldn't dare' Urquhart gasped; suddenly he was having difficulty breathing.

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

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

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

'To contemplate what could turn into a massacre of children before the television cameras of the world is a form of madness. I shall have no part in it.' He stood, straightened his uniform, adopted the pose of a Viking before the funeral pyre. 'Now, Sir. Do I have your permission to leave?' 'I am brought to this court for no offence other than my politics. My views do not find favour with some. There were bullies on the streets who tried to stop my march; there are others, lingering in the shadows, who are their accomplices. Who will not accept an Englishman's right to disagree, to carve his own path, to decide for himself. We fought two world wars for those rights against enemies without. Now we must face an enemy within. I am called unpatriotic, yet there is no one who loves this country more than I do. I am accused of inciting violence, yet I march only for peace. I am brought before this court, accused of a crime, yet no man clings more closely to justice than do I. And of what am I accused? If it is not a defence for a man to argue that he acted improperly because he was only obeying orders, then surely there can be no offence if a man refuses to obey improper orders. Stubbornness is a quality much to be admired in English oak. I defied the police not because I lack respect for them, but because I have greater respect for the inherent right of an Englishman to say – stuff the lot of you! I want to do it my way. If it is a crime to be English, then I acknowledge that I am guilty. If it gives offence to love freedom and fair play, then, too, I am guilty. If it is a transgression to want peace, then yet again I am guilty. If it is a sin to believe that this country deserves a better form of politics, then condemn me and throw away the key. And do it now. For I shall not hide my views, nor compromise them for the sake of office, neither shall I do deals behind closed doors for things I cannot support in the open sunlight. I have no party, only my politics. And in those politics there is respect, for the law. Love, for my country. Sacrifice, for peace. And defiance for those who would trample over the rights of ordinary men and women. It is they, not I, who are trying to turn this court into a tool of political manipulation, and if they start and succeed here in Birmingham, in the heart of England, where will they stop? And do we have to ask who are "they"?' 'Sit down, sit down,' Urquhart instructed, desperately attempting to reassess the situation. But Youngblood remained standing. Urquhart felt drained, he reached for his glass of water. Everyone noted its tremble. He drained it in a savage gulp but it left trickles at the corners of his mouth and his upper lip damp. His eyes flickered nervously, staring up at Youngblood. 'Sit down, man. There are lives at stake. Let us at least talk it through.'

Stiffly and with evident reluctance, the General subsided.

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

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

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

'If it is your advice that there is no apparent military solution,' Urquhart continued, still stilted, 'what suggestions do you have to make?' Youngblood gave a terse shake of his head.

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

No one had anything to say. Then the General coughed. 'Rae's the man on the spot. I trust anything he has to say.' Urquhart nodded. 'Rae,' the General barked, 'your thoughts, please.'

'My thoughts, gentlemen,' the voice carried across a thousand miles, 'are that this is a political situation which can only have a political solution.' 'Please feel free, Air Marshal' Urquhart croaked.

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

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

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

'What are you suggesting, Rae?' Youngblood pushed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A low knock at the door interrupted their deliberation. A tentative head appeared around the door, followed by the rest of a private secretary who made his way towards the Prime Minister's chair. He placed a piece of paper on the table, then retired. Slowly Urquhart's eyes began to focus and read.

No matter how hard the fly struggled, there was no escape. Thomas Makepeace had been acquitted.