The Final Cut

ELEVEN

The dying sun had cast a hard shadow across the cutting. The temperature was still over a hundred but Nicolaou was shivering, as he had been all afternoon. His heartbeat was irregular, his voice a low tremble, but his mind had not lost its edge. 'I cannot leave, Elpida.'

'If you stay, Father, you will die.' She knelt beside him, mopping his brow.

'I'm not afraid. I've grown used to being threatened with death in the recent days.' It was his attempt at being light-hearted to dispel oppression, but it failed. The atmosphere remained fetid, laden with failure. The pool of pale light cast by the lamp inside the truck had drained the colour from his face, leaving only two small spots of protest which suffused the very tops of his cheeks. The rest of him looked like congealing wax.

'Come with me. Now.' Her plea betrayed her desperation. She pulled at him, feeling every bone in his frail hand, but he refused to rise from his mattress of blankets. He was no longer sure he was able, even if he tried.

'You should think about it, Sir,' St Aubyn intervened, his squatting form indistinct in the gloom which was slowly beginning to devour the far end of the truck. 'There's nothing to be gained from senseless suffering.'

'That is… noble of you, Colonel.' Nicolaou's breathing was growing shallow, he was struggling for his words. 'But you risked your lives to rescue us. I cannot desert our British friends.' 'Father, grow up.'

Her rebuke slapped across his face. His eyes, soft-glazed and distant, struggled to focus.

'They did not come to save our necks but those of their High Commissioner. And Mr Urquhart,' she continued. 'Isn't that right, Colonel?'

St Aubyn shrugged. 'I am a military man. I do as I am instructed. A soldier isn't trained to ask why.'

Nicolaou flapped his hand in feeble protest. 'But Mr Urquhart has been such a good friend to us, Elpida. The peace…'

'It is our peace, not his. And it's probably lost, anyway.'

The old man flinched. His suffering had been borne on the hope that all he had fought for would yet come to pass; the contemplation of failure drained him like leeches. 'Please tell me I haven't thrown it all away.'

'You cannot fight on two fronts at once, Father, seeming to give so much away to the Turks while giving in to the British. As much as we want peace, we Cypriots also have our pride. Sometimes that's more important.'

His hand shook in confusion, reaching for his daughter. 'All I have done, Elpida, I have done for you and those like you. For the future.' 'No, Baba. You haven't.'

Nicolaou started choking in confusion. St Aubyn leaned forward, whispering – 'Steady on, Miss' – but she ignored him.

'That's why I want you to leave here and join those people outside,' she continued. 'Why? Why?' her father moaned.

'Because, Baba, they are right. And for the British to occupy Cypriot land as lords and masters is wrong.' 'You never said such things before.'

'You never asked me. Nor did you ask anyone else. But Cyprus is changing. Growing up.' She turned to St Aubyn. 'Colonel, believe me, you will be welcomed in my house at any time. As a friend. But I don't want you in my house as of right.'

He nodded, but said nothing. The concept of retreating from distant outposts was not a novel one to a British soldier.

'Why do you scourge me so, Elpida?' Flakes fell from the President's fading voice.

'Because I love you, Baba. Because I don't want your life to end in failure. Because if we cross the line, join them, you will not only be doing what I believe to be right for our island, but also what is best for you. Salvaging pride, yes, and a little justice from the wreckage that has been strewn about Cyprus by the British. Maybe even saving the peace, too.'

St Aubyn coughed apologetically. 'The gentlemen outside, Sir, have insisted that you and your daughter will only be allowed across the line if you submit your resignation.'

'The presidency has become an uncomfortable bed on which to lie.'

'You cannot make peace with the Turks, Father, until you have brought peace back to our own community.'

'And, it would seem, to my own family.' Nicolaou sank back onto his rough pillow of blankets, exhausted but alert. His bony fingers gripped his daughter's hand, flexing like the beat of his heart as he struggled to find a way through the maze of his emotions. 'What is to be done? Can I achieve more by remaining in office, or by resigning?' 'Father, you can achieve nothing by dying.'

'To lose everything? The presidency? The peace? You, Elpida?'

'Baba, you will never lose my love,' she whispered, and he seemed to gain strength from her words. He squeezed her hand with more certainty, propping himself awkwardly on an elbow, barely able now to see beyond the small pool of lamplight that lit his makeshift bed.

'Colonel, if I decided to leave, would you allow me to?' 'You are not my prisoner, Sir.' 'Then, if you don't mind, I think I shall.'

The Colonel nodded and reached forward as though to help Nicolaou rise. Elpida waved him away.

'No, thank you, Colonel. If he can, I would like my father to walk back to his fellow Cypriots without leaning on a British arm.'

'I do feel stronger somehow,' her father acknowledged.

'Why do you think I have been kicking you so hard, Baba7.' she asked, kissing him gently. 'You always become so stubborn when you get angry.'

As she helped her father down from the truck she turned to St Aubyn. 'I did mean what I said, Colonel. That you will always be welcome in my house. As a friend.'

It was twilight. The candles flickered, the gentle song of a Cypriot schoolgirl quavered on the evening air as the final colours of purple and fire stretched out along the horizon like fingers drawing on the curtain of night. Leaning heavily on the arm of his daughter, the President of Cyprus turned his back on the British and walked the fifty yards to rejoin his countrymen. The new glass and front door had arrived that morning. A tax demand, too, along with an invitation to arrange a meeting with a VAT inspector. 'Vangelis'' was ready to resume business and already the wolves were circling, drawing nearer.

He felt hounded in every direction he looked. On television he had watched the scenes of Makepeace rejoicing outside the magistrates' court, raising his hands high above his head as though still manacled, receiving the same sign back from the spilling crowd and accepting their adulation and fervent endorsement. The victor. An Englishman who, so far as Passolides knew, had never set foot in Cyprus was now treated as his homeland's saviour. Honour built on the sacrifices of others. Sacrifices, thought Passolides, like his own.

The screen showed scenes of rejoicing from the island itself, too, as old men, gnarled and bent double like ancient olive trees, danced with young girls and waved rifles and flasks like some scene out of Zorba in celebration of the defection and deliverance of Nicolaou.

Everywhere he saw the happiness of others, but Passolides had no part in the joy. These should have been his victories, his accomplishments, yet once again as throughout his life he had found himself excluded.

And the crown-encrusted envelopes of officialdom sat on the table before him. They were pursuing him, the agents of British imperialism, as they had done all those years ago, into his every hiding place, leaving him no sanctuary.

Inside he writhed like a worm cleft by a spade, a dew of despair settled upon his eyes, his mind blanked by bitterness. With a great cry of despair he lashed out, throwing the bottle from which he was drinking at the Satan's eye of a television screen. The bottle bounced off, hit the new window. Something cracked. But Vangelis didn't care any more. Urquhart had watched those same newscasts as Passolides, his sense of despair equally profound. He had watched the clasped hands of Makepeace rise above his head, then fall, and rise, and fall again. To Urquhart it was as though Makepeace were clutching the haft of a dagger and he could feel the assassin's blade striking time and again into his own body. In Makepeace's triumph lay his own doom. It was late; he had summoned Corder. 'Still here?' 'Thought you might need some company.'

'Kind. You're a good man, Corder. Good man.' A pause. 'I've got something for you.'

Corder listened attentively, studying the Prime Minister all the while. Urquhart's stiff expression belonged in an abattoir, his voice strangely monotone, his reflexes mechanical. A man changed, or changing, struggling to hide the despair.

When Urquhart had finished, Corder could find only one word. 'Why?' He had never questioned an instruction before.

Urquhart's voice was no louder than a hoarse whisper, he seemed almost to choke on every word. 'I have just given the order for the convoy in Cyprus to surrender; I have no option. To accept defeat is offensive to every bone in my body. It will kill me, Corder, they will flay me alive and demand my head on a pike. Somehow I must fight on, in any way I can.' 'But why this way?'

'Please, don't ask me, Corder; I'm not even sure myself. Perhaps because it is all I have left.' The impact was catastrophic, utterly irresistible. Yet, like a dam which had held back the rising flood waters until it could no longer resist, the first visible cracks took some hours to appear. The news of the final humiliation, the announcement that St Aubyn's men had set aside their weapons in order to engage in 'unconditional discussions' with the Cypriots, came too late for the morning newspapers, and the TV images of the surrender shot through night lenses that appeared on breakfast news were too grainy and indistinct for full impact. Nevertheless, the rumblings of internal collapse were everywhere to be heard.

The noise emanating from the Member of Parliament for Milton Keynes resembled not so much a rumble as a drum being repeatedly struck like a call to arms, unable as he was any longer to confine beneath the straining buttons of his waistcoat all the righteousness which had been building since his hopes of preferment at the last reshuffle had been dashed. 'Tom has been a colleague and friend of mine for many years,' he pronounced from the back seat of the radio car parked in his driveway. 'Both Tom and I have served our party faithfully and I have enormous respect for Tom.' He clung to the name like a lifebelt in stormy seas, as though by continued repetition he might convince others of what he had only just convinced himself. 'The March is due to pass through my constituency later today and I very much hope to be marching with it.'

The battle for the Blessing of Makepeace had begun.

'The party does not belong to Francis Urquhart nor to any one man. I believe Mr Urquhart should announce his intention to step down immediately after this election. My choice for his replacement will be Tom Makepeace.'

'And if the Prime Minister does not make such an announcement?' the interviewer asked from the London studio. 'Frankly, I don't think he's got any choice.'

From party headquarters came reports of a flood tide of telephone calls from activists demanding resignation – whether of the Prime Minister or the Member for Milton Keynes, the reports did not make clear. In any event a press release was issued in immediate denial, but when journalists tried to check the story they couldn't get through. The switchboard was jammed.

And from Cyprus came news of Nicolaou's formal resignation and the first pronouncement of his successor, Christodoulou, the former Vice President who owned the BMW concession on the island. 'We shall not rest,' he told a tumultuous press conference, speaking into a bouquet of microphones, 'until the blood shed by our fathers has been honoured and all soil on this island has been returned to Cypriot control.' Even many journalists started applauding. 'And while I believe that we should pursue every avenue of peace with our Turkish Cypriot neighbours, I cannot sign the proposed peace treaty as it stands. A more fair division of the offshore oil resources is vital, and I shall be contacting President Nures immediately to seek further discussions.' Standing beside him was Elpida, strained but seraphic, who nodded encouragement before reading out a statement of support issued by her father from his hospital bed.

Throughout the day the cracks in the dam grew wider, support draining away, the trickles of defiance becoming great bursting geysers of rebellion that were sweeping Francis Urquhart into oblivion.

By the following morning the mood approached hysteria. The van bringing the early editions of the newspapers into Downing Street had a loose hubcap; the noise echoed from the walls of the narrow street like the rattle of a cart over cobbles on its way to the Tyburn scaffold. Since elements of both main parties and any number of pressure groups now claimed Makepeace as their spiritual leader, the outcome of the election was utter confusion; party lines were crumbling into the chaos of a civil war battlefield, and amongst the tattered ranks roamed packs of reporters trying to find a yet more injurious example of defection from the colours of Francis Urquhart. A telephone poll indicated that less than ten per cent of voters wanted Urquhart to remain as Prime Minister; as the accompanying editorial claimed, they must all have been supporters of the Opposition. Attempts were being made to contact sufficient Government election candidates to discover who in their opinion should be their next leader; the answer was overwhelming. Makepeace – if he would have it. But Makepeace was unmoved, saying nothing as his march wound its way towards the outskirts of Milton Keynes, growing by the thousand with every passing hour.

It seemed that with every passing minute the mob at the gate grew in size. Words that in the morning could be attributed only to anonymous but highly placed sources within the Government party by afternoon were having definitive names attached to them; backbenchers, under pressure from small majorities and small-minded wives, rushed to join the execution squad before they were placed against the wall themselves. Ministers were said to be in constant contact and cabal, to be in open rebellion. It was reported that at least two covens of Ministers would be gathering around the dining tables of London that evening to discuss the removal of the Prime Minister – not if, but when and how. The reports were so prolific that the venues had to be changed at the last minute.

And across the front page of Jasper Mackintosh's new journal, the Clarion, was the most extraordinary allegation of all. Against photographs of sick and weary British soldiers, some of whom were on stretchers recovering from dehydration and heat exhaustion, stood the headline: 'F.U. PLANNED GERM WAR.'

'It was feared last night that the Prime Minister planned to use chemical and biological weapons against the Cypriots before he was forced to surrender. The alarming condition of the British soldiers involved in the fiasco has led to allegations that they were contaminated by their own bio-weapons which Francis Urquhart himself had ordered to be carried secretly on the convoy. "Such orders would make Urquhart a war criminal, guilty of the most serious breaches of the Human Rights Convention," a peace spokesman said…'

Mackintosh was on his yacht in St Katharine's Dock, the fashionable waterhole which nestles beside the looming columns of Tower Bridge, when the phone call came.

'Why do you print it when you know it's not true?' The voice was hoarse, with a slight Scottish lowland taint, as happened when he was on the point of exhaustion.

'Truth, Francis? A strange new suit for you to be wearing.'

'Why do you print it?' Urquhart demanded once more.

'Because it does you damage. Hurts you. That's why.' From behind Mackintosh came the sound of an exploding cork and the tinkle of young female laughter. 'I thought we had an understanding.'

'Sure. You would poke sticks in my eye for as long as you could. Then it would be my turn. You're through, Francis. There's nothing more you can threaten me with, no taxation changes, no monopoly references. Because one week from today they're going to hang you in front of every polling station in the country. And I'll host the celebrations.' 'Is there nothing we can…' But already the line was dead. Late that evening he called them in, one by one. His Cabinet. The Praetorian Guard whose bodies would litter the steps of the Capitol before they would allow any enemy to draw within striking distance of Caesar. In theory, at least.

Claire had counselled against calling them in separately, but he had been firm. They were agitated, like sheep, if one scattered the rest would surely follow. Herd them, isolate them, stare them down, allow them to find no strength in numbers; on their own he might cow them into support before they melted away into the mob. But at his core he knew they weren't up to it; they would fail him.

He sat in the Cabinet Room, in the chair reserved for the Prime Minister, the only one with arms. Three phones beside him. The rest of the table was bare, stripped of blotters and any other sign of Ministerial rank, covered only with a sad brown felt cloth. He wanted his Ministers to have no hiding place, no trappings of office, nothing behind which to hide. He needed to know. Outside it was drizzling.

He had intended to start with Bollingbroke but the Foreign Secretary was returning from a Council of Ministers meeting in Brussels and there was a delay somewhere along the way. Instead he got Whittington – how he wished it had been Whittington's wife; then, at least, he would have found some solid response. There was a knock at the door and Claire brought him in. He seemed reluctant.

'Come in, Terry,' Urquhart encouraged quietly. 'It's my scaffold you're stepping on, not your own.'

The Minister sat opposite, dabbed at his mouth nervously with a handkerchief which then slipped surreptitiously to his temple, wiping away the dew that was beginning to rise.

'Terry, let me get straight to the point. Do I have your continued support as Prime Minister?'

'You will always have my personal support, Prime Minister.' A whimpering smile appeared on his damp lips, then as quickly evaporated. 'But I can't see how we can win, you know, with…' 'With me?' 'With circumstances as they are.' He was bleating, even sounding like a sheep. 'Will you make a public statement of your support for me?' The dew at Whittington's temples had turned into an unmistakable nervous damp. 'It's so very difficult out there' he muttered, waving a rubber wrist. 'I would hate to see you defeated, Francis. As an old friend, I must tell you. I don't think you can win. Perhaps, perhaps… you should consider announcing your resignation. You know, protect your unbeaten record?'

It sounded pre-prepared, second hand. A ditty passed through Urquhart's mind, about something borrowed, something blue. 'And what does your wife think?'

'She feels exactly the same' Whittington added, too hurriedly. He'd given the game away.

Urquhart leaned forward. 'A statement of clear support from my Cabinet would help give a slightly less striking impression of a sinking ship.'

Whittington's lips moved in agitation but he said nothing, merely flapping his arms about. He was already swimming.

'Then will you at least give me until this weekend to decide? Before you say anything publicly?'

Whittington's head nodded, falling forward, hiding his eyes. They were stinging, he wasn't sure whether from the sweat or because he was on the verge of crying.

With a flick of his wrist Urquhart dismissed him. Claire already had the door open. It was raining harder now. Maxwell Stanbrook came in next. 'So, Max?'

'First, Francis, I want to tell you how grateful I am for everything you have done. For me. The party. For the country. I mean that, most sincerely.' 'So you'll support me? Publicly?'

Stanbrook shook his head. 'Game's up, old dear. Sorry. You cannot win.' 'I made you, Max.'

'I know. And so I'll go down with you, too. I'm honest enough to recognize that. Which is why you should recognize that I'm being honest about your situation.' 'There is nothing to be done?'

'Get out on the best terms available, Francis. Which is to announce your resignation now, before the election. Give the rest of us half a chance. And keep your unbeaten record into the bargain. "Undefeated at any election he fought," that's what the history books will record. Not a bad epitaph.'

Protecting his unbeaten record. The same formula used by Whittington. An interesting coincidence, if it were.

'Will you issue a statement of support on my behalf?'

'If that's what you want. But in my opinion it will do you no good.'

It hurt. He'd had hopes of Stanbrook. Deep within he felt a shaking, of foundations crumbling, of new fissures beginning to appear below the water line.

'Thank you at least for being so honest. Please, give me until this weekend. Say nothing until then?'

'You have my word on it. And my hand on it, Francis.'

Melodramatically Stanbrook marched around to Urquhart's side of the table and offered his hand. At close quarters Urquhart could see the lack of sleep which bruised his eyes. At least it hadn't been easy for him.

Catchpole, the next, was in tears. He blubbed copiously, scarcely capable of coherent expression throughout the interview. 'What, in your view, should I do, Colin?' 'Protect…' – blub – 'protect…' – cough.

'I think what you're trying to say is that I should resign now in order to protect my unbeaten record and place in the history books. Is that right?'

Catchpole nodded. Coincidence be damned. They'd been rehearsing, the whole wretched lot of them.

Except for Riddington. The Defence Secretary strode in, but declined to sit, instead standing stiffly at the end of the Cabinet table near the door. His double breast was buttoned, on parade.

'I have sat too long at your table, Prime Minister. In recent days at meetings of COBRA I have watched you abuse your position of trust for entirely political ends, putting the lives of British soldiers at risk for your own personal glorification and salvation.' 'You never mentioned this before.'

'You never asked me before. You never consulted anyone. You only bullied.'

True enough. And Urquhart had expected no less from Riddington, who had refused to support him at the final gathering of COBRA, insisting with the others that St Aubyn's men be allowed to bring an end to their misery.

Urquhart seemed to smile, parting his lips as though being offered a final cigarette. 'So who will defend, if not Defence?' 'I beg your pardon?'

'I was merely musing. I suppose a public statement of support for me is out of the question?'

There was a whimsical tone in Urquhart's voice as though he found humour in his situation. Riddington offered an expression of bad oysters and did not reply.

'I have one last thing to ask,' the Prime Minister continued. 'You have sat at my Cabinet table for more than eight years. In return, I ask you for two days. By Saturday I shall announce my intentions. In the meantime, if you cannot support me, I'd be grateful if you could at least refrain from making public attacks. Leave me a little dignity. Leave the party a few pieces for someone else to pick up.'

Riddington had on his most obstinate Dunkirk expression, but acquiesced. He gave a perfunctory nod, then turned on his heel and left.

For a long moment a complete stillness enveloped the Cabinet Room. Urquhart did not stir, did not appear to breathe. Claire, who had been sitting discreetly in a comer by the door, wondered if he had gone into a trance, so deeply did he seem to have retreated within himself. A tiny pulse on the side of his temple seemed the only sign of life, beating away the seconds until… Until. There was no avoiding it. Even he knew it. Then he returned from wherever he had been, and was with her once again.

'Like trying to stoke a furnace with dead rabbits, isn't it?' he muttered grimly.

She marvelled at his composure, admired his resilient humour. 'I wonder what he would have done,' she asked softly, indicating the portrait of Robert Walpole, the first and longest-serving holder of the office of Prime Minister.

Urquhart rose to examine the oil above the fireplace, gripping the white marble mantel. 'I've been thinking about that a great deal in these last days,' he said softly. 'They accused him of corruption, condemned him, even imprisoned him in the Tower. Called him a warmonger, even before Mr Mackintosh got his hands on the media.' His eyes seemed to dissolve like children's sweets. 'They compelled him to resign. Yet he always found a way to bounce back from disaster. Always.' 'A shining example.' 'History has a devilish strange way with the facts. I wonder whether history will be as kind with me.' 'Is it important to you?'

He turned sharply, his eyes burning with mortification. 'It's the only thing I have.'

The bitterness, hemmed around by dogged humour, was.about to burst forth but at that moment there was a commotion from the door. It burst open, and in bounced Bollingbroke, breathless. 'Et tu, Brute!' 'Beg pardon?'

Urquhart closed his eyes, shook from them the venom and self-pity, and smiled. 'My little joke, Arthur. What news of Brussels?'

'Full of bloody foreigners. Sorry not to have got here earlier, Francis.' 'You are with me?'

'Till my last breath. I dictated a statement of support to the Press Association from the car telephone on my way in.' 'Then you are doubly welcome.'

'Bloody thing is, Francis, it won't do either of us the least bit of good.' 'Why not?'

"Cos you and me are for the high jump, there's no denying it. That bugger Makepeace has got this election by the balls.' And Makepeace marched on. To Luton. Every hour brought Makepeace more support, and closer to London. With every step the march grew in size, slowing him down and giving the Metropolitan Police Commissioner cause for concern. But after the fiasco in Birmingham, he dared not bar the march from the nation's capital.

So they marched, onwards to Trafalgar Square. To Francis Urquhart's funeral pyre. He had stolen away by moonlight. Through the Downing Street press department, down into the labyrinth of corridors which connects Number Ten to the Cabinet Office on Whitehall, past the old brick walls where the Tudor King's tennis court used to be. Not even Corder was with him.

Even at midnight the centre of the city was bustling with activity, mostly vehicular, Whitehall becoming something of a race track for delivery vans and late-night buses. The activity helped hide him, ensure he did not stand out. As he came down the steps from the Cabinet Office, past the startled security guard, he ducked away from the police presence which stood at the entrance to Downing Street. George Downing himself had been a rogue, a spy for both sides in the Civil War, a man steeped in duplicities and lacking in either principle or loyalties. Educated at Harvard. And they had given him a knighthood and named the most important street in the kingdom after him. Whereas he, Francis Urquhart, would be fortunate if they allowed his name to be placed even on a headstone.

There were monuments to the dead everywhere. The Cenotaph. The Banqueting Hall beneath whose windows they had with one blow severed the head of their liege lord and king, Charles I. Statues to fallen heroes, in memoriam and immortal. The entire avenue stood on what had once been the old funeral route from Charing Cross to St Margaret's until the King, disgusted with the wailings of the common herd outside his window, built them a new cemetery at St Martin-in-the-Fields so they could bury the dead without spoiling his dinner. At night in the shadows and with a scimitar moon overhead you could all but hear the creak of ancient bones in this place, a place of remembrance. And he so wanted to be remembered. What else was there for him?

He stood on the stone bridge at Westminster, gazing down into the silty-ink tidal water which lapped against the piers, its gentle murmurs haunting like the witching calls of Sirens. An emptiness yawned beneath him which seemed to offer peace, release, as easily as falling into the open mouth of a grave. What fragments he had left to lose could so readily be given up. Yet he would not do it, take the coward's way out. Not the way to be remembered.

He rattled the spiked and rosetted gates to New Palace Yard – the Members' entrance to the precincts of the House of Commons. Members of Parliament were forbidden access to the Palace of Westminster while an election was being fought, except for the sole purpose of collecting their letters. Even during elections constituents still complained, about drains, about neighbours, about missing social security cheques, all the things that burdened a politician's life, and a carefully worded response might yet win a vote. The policeman who swung back the gate in answer to his call offered a respectful salute – Urquhart was well past, his heels clicking on the cobbles before the semi-slumbering officer had recovered sufficient wit to register what he had seen and wonder why on earth the Prime Minister was calling in person and at midnight to collect his mail. But he was entitled.

Urquhart did not head for the Members' Post Office, which in any event was closed, instead he made his way up the stairs and through the stone archways to the rear of the Chamber; he met no one. But he knew he was not alone, the echo of his footsteps accompanied him like a cohort of distant memories. He had come to the long corridor which ran behind the Chamber, usually noisy with the bustle of errands and anticipation, now ghost still. Before him stood the great Gothic doors to the anteroom of the Chamber. They should have been locked, as should the second set of doors into the Chamber itself, but electricians had been busy rewiring the sound system and the constant unlocking and relocking of doors would have put them into double-overtime. The doors swung open on their great brass hinges.

The darkness was intense, split only by pale splashes of moonlight from the high windows of the west wall, but he knew every inch by instinct. He had stepped onto this stage, the greatest stage of all, so many times yet it never failed to impose its majesty. The atmosphere, heavy with history, clung to him, lifted and elated him, he could feel the memories of centuries crowding round, the ghosts of the great whispering in the wings and waiting for him, Francis Urquhart, to join them.

He pushed his way past the waving Order Papers and jabbing elbows, stepping over the outstretched legs, making his way towards his seat. At one point he stumbled, forced to rest a hand on the lip of the Clerk's Table for support, sure he had been tripped by some extending ankle – Gladstone's, perhaps, the rakish Disraeli's or recumbent Churchill's? Did he hear the clip of a closing handbag, smell stale Havana? But then he had reached it, the space on the bench left for the Prime Minister, waiting, as it always had been, for him. He sat, embracing the formal subtlety of its leather, savouring the spice of great events which lingered in its fabric and brought forth the familiar rush of adrenalin. He was ready for them. But they were quiet tonight, everyone waiting to hear him, hanging on his every word, knowing that these were momentous times.

He stood to face them, his legs propelling him firmly upwards until he was standing at the Dispatch Box, gripping its sides, rubbing his palms along its bronzed edging, afraid of no one. He would have his place in history, whatever it cost, show them all, those faint hearts and foes who surrounded him like men of Lilliput. He'd make them remember Francis Urquhart, and tremble at the name. Never let them forget. Whatever it cost.

He pounded the Dispatch Box and from around the Chamber came answering echoes like the thunder of applause washing down across a thousand years. He could hear them all, great men, one woman, their voices a united chorus of approval, emerging from the dark places around this great hall where history and its memories were kept alive. They spoke of pain, of the sacrifice on which all legend is raised, of the glory which waited for those with character and audacity enough to seize the moment. And their thumping acclaim was for him. Francis Urquhart. A welcome from the gods themselves. 'Excuse me, Mr Urquhart. You shouldn't be here.'

He turned. In the shadows by the Speaker's Chair stood a Palace policeman. 'You shouldn't be here,' the man repeated.

'You are of that opinion, too? It seems the whole mortal world is of the same view.'

'No, I didn't mean that, Sir,' the policeman responded, abashed. 'I merely meant that it's against the rules.'

'My apologies, officer. I only came here for… one final look. Before the election. A chance to reflect. It has been a very long time.'

'No worries, Mr Urquhart. I'm sure no one will mind.' 'Our little secret?' Urquhart requested. 'Course, Sir.'

And with a low bow of deference and a little light from the policeman's torch, Francis Urquhart bade farewell to the gods. For the moment. It was Passolides' custom to rise before dawn, the habit of mountain warfare lingering in the mind of an old man. And while he embraced the cover of night and paid silent tribute to past times, he would gather the freshest of fish from the local market. A habit with purpose.

Unfriendly eyes watched him leave and it was while he was pondering over shells of crab and fillet of swordfish that hostile hands went about their work. Grateful, as Passolides had once been, for the cover of night.

When he tried to turn into the street, laden with paper-wrapped parcels of food, he found his way barred by a large plastic ribbon and a police officer. 'Sorry, Sir. No one allowed in until they've finished damping down.' The parcels slid to the pavement. 'But that is my house.'

A hundred yards away, hemmed in by fire engines, the windows of his home stared out sightless across the street, his newly restored restaurant now a gaping, toothless grin. He had been gone little more than an hour. It had taken considerably less than that to destroy almost every possession he had. They set out that morning for Watford, on the very outskirts of London. It would be the final stop before their triumphal entry into the city itself, and already the route was lined with images of Makepeace and other trophies, strewn along their path like rose petals. A conqueror's welcome for a man of peace. And one day to go. Claire, in answer to his summons, found him writing letters in his study. He brightened as he saw her; he appeared pale with exhaustion but more at ease, as though he had ceased to battle against the impossible current and was finally reconciled to being carried downstream. 'Can I help?' she offered.

'You may help yourself, if you want. I'm writing out a list. Disposing of a few baubles and trinkets to those who have been kind.' He looked at her intently. 'My Resignation Honours.' 'You have decided to go?'

'That has been decided for me, I no longer have any say in the matter. But in the manner of my passing…' He waved the piece of paper. 'Can I find something for you?' 'There is nothing that I want,' she replied quietly. 'For Joh, perhaps?' She shook her head.

He fell to pondering. 'My doctor. Corder, too. Elizabeth, especially Elizabeth. She must have something.' 'You sound,' Claire suggested slowly, 'like a man disposing of his most personal possessions from his…'

'Deathbed?' He completed her thought. His cheeks filled with a little colour, an expression of defiance began to erase the bruises around his eyes. 'No!' he said with feeling. 'I intend to live forever.'

He returned to the papers on his desk. 'Tell me, what do you think Geoffrey deserves?'

'You want to give him something?' The words stuck in her throat like dry biscuit.

'But he surely merits some recognition.' An ironical smile played about his lips but reached no further. The eyes remained like old ice. 'You may have noticed he was unable to attend our little session in the Cabinet Room yesterday, sent a message saying that he was away campaigning around the country. So I tracked him down by phone. He swore loyalty. To me. Which was why he was working so hard in the constituencies, he said. Tireless, the man is tireless. D'you know, it sounded as though he was almost in tears.' She shook her head in evident bewilderment.

'You misjudge him, my dear, our Geoffrey has never been idle or lacked passion.' 'In his own cause most certainly, but in others'?'

'Why, I even asked if he would issue a public statement of support, which he readily agreed to do. I have obtained a copy.'

He indicated a press release on the comer of his desk. She read it quickly. An appeal for party unity. Emphasis on achievements. A call to arms, of battles still to be fought and victories to be gained even through difficult times. Of faith in the future. 'But there's not a single mention of your name.'

'Precisely. His trumpet sounds, but not in praise of me or even in epitaph. It's the first rallying cry in his own leadership campaign. He wants my job.' 'You expected any less?' 'Absolutely not.' 'So why do you want to give him something?'

'Language is important in this job and I've learnt to use my words with care.' It sounded almost as if he were embarking on a lecture. 'I asked you what he deserved.'

'Disappointment. But are such things still within your power?'

'I may be mortally wounded but that makes me dangerous, not incapable. I am still Prime Minister. I can prick him, prick them all. If I want.' 'Do you?' 'In his case?' He pondered, one last time. 'Yes.' 'Why are you so unrelenting?'

He picked up three envelopes, as yet unsealed. 'Because some people are born to ruination. Geoffrey is one.' He sealed the first envelope, addressed to the chairman of Booza-Pitt's local association, regretting that 'in light of the new circumstances' the offer of an honour would have to be withdrawn.

'Because in that process of personal ruination,' Urquhart continued, 'Geoffrey would also ruin the party.' He licked the gum of a second envelope, intended for the Chairman of the House of Commons Committee of Privileges, containing a copy of Geoffrey's letter of resignation with its tale of marital and financial malpractice. It bore the day's date.

'And because he has tried to betray me.' The third envelope, also with a copy of Geoffrey's letter, was sealed. It was addressed to the editor of the News of the World.

'Power is there to be used, Claire. To command people and their destinies. We talk of economics, of ethics. But we mean people.' 'Destroy others. Before they destroy us. Is that it?'

'No!' His eyes were sharp. 'You must understand, yet you don't. We all talk about a vision for a better future but it is our vision and their future. People are our building blocks and you cannot build a temple without breaking a few bricks.' 'As I said. Destroy others, before they destroy you.'

He shook his head, but not in anger. 'No. In politics, we destroy ourselves. We do such a good job of it we scarcely need the assistance of others. Although such assistance is so readily given.'

He sealed a fourth envelope. It was for Annita Burke's husband. A photograph of her and Riddington engaged in the sort of detailed discussions which were impermissible even under the loosest interpretations of collective responsibility. A double blow to the ranks of those who might succeed him.

'It is given to few to cast their shadow across the land. If you desire success then you must stand tall, not constantly be bending down to commiserate with the masses huddled in the shade. That is for nuns.' 'I am no nun.'

'But I wonder what you truly are, Claire. Whether you know yourself.'

'I am not you, Francis. Nor am I like you. That is why I want nothing from you. I already have what I want.' 'Which is?' 'A view of power. From the inside.' 'At the feet of a master.' 'A man who has destroyed himself.' 'Who may yet save himself.' 'I can't see how.'

'That's because, as you said, you are not like me. Because, after all, you are another who has turned away from me.' She could detect no animosity in his tone. He sealed another letter. To the editor of the Mail. In it was a copy of Max Stanbrook's birth certificate which showed him to be both illegitimate and a Jew. A doubly burdensome cargo which would surely sink his ship in the storm waters of a leadership contest. Pity. Urquhart liked Max Stanbrook and he was good. Perhaps too good, that was his problem.

'I haven't turned my back on you, Francis. I'm still here.' 'And I ask myself why.'

'Because I'm not a silly girl who flees in tears at the first sound of gunfire.' 'No. Leave that to the grown men of my Cabinet.'

'And because I can still learn from you. From all this mess. If you'll let me.' 'You want to watch the autopsy.'

'To find out how to do it better. When my turn comes.' 'Oh, you have ambition?'

'I thought for a while you'd destroyed it, turned me off politics and their ways. But I want to find a better way.' 'You won't have long in which to learn. But you may still have much to learn.' 'Such as?' 'Who do you think will lead the party after me?' 'Tom.' 'And if he doesn't want it? Or can't have it?' 'Stanbrook. Riddington, perhaps.'

'But you see, they have all…' – he straightened the pile of envelopes – 'destroyed themselves. They cannot succeed.' 'Then who?' 'I fear it leaves only Arthur.' 'Bollingbroke? He would be a disaster!' 'He's popular. After the party is thrashed at the election they'd cling to anything which floats.' 'He'd split the party.'

'Probably.' His eyes grew distant. 'And then how they will sit round their campfires in the depths of fiercest winter and bemoan the folly of turning on Francis Urquhart. Not such a bad chap after all, they'll say. A great chap, even. One of the finest.'

She hung her head in disbelief. 'You are a remarkable man. Why, you're trying to write history even…'

'Even from beyond the grave.' The clarity in his own thinking seemed to have brought about a remarkable transparency in her own. He rose and came around the desk to her. He took her arms. 'Kiss me?'

He intended to have her, there in the study. Desire ran through his veins, a renewed sense of life. And lust. The final flicker of a guttering candle, perhaps, but a new energy, an electricity which stiffened his body and fuelled his appetites. He would not back away this time.

She shook her head. 'Once, perhaps, Francis, but not now.' 'Have I misunderstood you?'

'No, you've misunderstood the time. And timing is everything.' It was well into the afternoon before they would allow Passolides to inspect the ruins of his home. He was allowed in with a fireman to see whether there was anything capable of salvage, before the place was boarded up.

It stank. He was surprised and disgusted at the overwhelming stench of rancid ashes and charred remnants of what a few hours before had been his life. It scraped his nostrils and stung his eyes, which began to pour.

'Upsetting, Sir,' the fireman commiserated, 'but think of it this way. You were lucky to be out of the property. Particularly at that time of the morning. Have insurance, did you?' Passolides detected the edge of suspicion.

'We'll have to put a report in. Some evidence that the fire was begun deliberately…'

The fireman prattled on as Passolides wandered desolate through the ruins, poking at the sodden ashes with his walking stick. 'Vangelis'' seemed so much smaller now that the upstairs floor had collapsed and all the partition walls had burnt down. Everything was black, charcoal, rafters and jagged wreckage scattered around like smashed bones at the bottom of a medieval burial pit. On a wall where the first floor had been, a washbasin hung at a drunken angle; the old enamel bath now lay overturned in his kitchen. In what had been his kitchen. He scratched, he prodded, hoping to find something of value which had survived the blaze when his stick struck metal. It was the British military helmet which had adorned the back of his door. Flattened like a plate. 'Vangelis'' had gone.

'Know of anyone who might want to burn you out, old man?'

Passolides was standing on the site of his food store. The walls had gone, the freezer had melted and all that remained amidst the other odours was the reek of scorched flesh. He closed his eyes. Was this how it had been, with George and Eurypides? Burnt by the same people, these British whose game of war and death never seemed to stop, even after all these years? 'They have taken everything from me.'

'Got nothing?' the fireman enquired, compassion beginning to squeeze aside the suspicion.

'My clothes. My stick,' Passolides responded. Then he remembered the gun. Tucked in his belt. He still had the gun. It hadn't all gone. 'Social services'll take care of you.'

'I have a daughter!' he spat, fiery proud of his independence; he needed nothing from these British. Then, more sadly: 'She'll be back tomorrow.'

He sank onto the seat of the overturned bath, his forehead coming to rest on his stick, a bent and bleary-eyed old man, overflowing with miseries and exhaustion. In his dark clothing and beret he seemed to melt into the soot-smeared surroundings as though he would never leave this place. The fire officer, wanting to check the stability of the party wall at the rear of the premises, left him to his private sorrow.

As Passolides contemplated the end of his world, something caught his eye, a figure standing in the screaming hole where yesterday had been the doorway. The stranger was clad in black leather and a motorcycle helmet with a courier's personal radio at his shoulder, and was calling his name. 'Package for Passolides.'

A clipboard was thrust at him and, in exchange for his signature, he was rewarded with a padded manila envelope. Without another word, the courier left.

The gnarled fingers fumbled as they sought to open the package. Tentatively he spilled the contents onto his lap. For a moment he did not understand. There was the photograph of Michael Karaolis, the young EOKA fighter with the defiant eyes and exposed neck around which in the morning they would put a noose. The photograph that, the night before, had hung on the restaurant wall. There was another photograph, a fading portrait of a young British army officer whom Passolides did not immediately recognize. And two scorched crucifixes that fell from his shaking fingers – God, how the memories pounded at him, made him gasp for breath, almost knocking him to the floor. The small engraved crosses were those he had given on their name days to George and Eurypides.

The dark world around Passolides seemed to stand still, only his tears had life, washing clean the ash-covered crucifixes as he retrieved them from the floor.

It was not finished. Two further pieces of paper slipped from the envelope. The first was a photocopy of a British Army service record, tracing the short career of a junior officer in a Scottish regiment from his induction in Edinburgh through service in Egypt. And onward to Cyprus. In 1956.

Passolides found the name at the top of the service sheet – now he recognized the officer in the photograph. Lieutenant, one day Prime Minister, Francis Ewan Urquhart.

And the second piece of paper. A primitive leaflet. Appealing to all to come tomorrow to the rally in Trafalgar Square.

At last Passolides knew the identity of the man he had been searching for. The man who had murdered his brothers. And, with a passion for Hellenic honour fermented over endless centuries, he knew what he had to do. Elizabeth woke to find he had stolen from their bed again. She followed the noises to the narrow galley kitchen. He was busying himself at the refrigerator when she walked in. 'I am sorry if I disturbed you' he apologized. 'Why can't you sleep, Francis?'

'There seems so little to sleep for.' There was a finality in his tone. 'Anyhow,' he offered in mitigation, 'I was hungry.' He had before him a large slice of Dundee cake and cheddar cheese, a favourite childhood delicacy which the family ghillie always produced during their beats across the Perthshire moors in search of grouse and deer. It had been years, he'd almost forgotten the sharp-sweet flavour. He began to consume the pieces slowly and with considered relish.

'You pay your midnight feast more attention than you do me in recent days, Francis. You've locked yourself away from me, looked straight through me, you've neither heard me when I've spoken nor offered answers to my questions. There's an anger, an impatience within you which drives you from my bed.' 'Bad dreams. They distract.'

'I've been your wife long enough to know it's not dreams which bother you,' she rebuked. 'Go to bed, Elizabeth.'

He took another mouthful, but she would not be moved.

'You're not running from your dreams, Francis, you're no child. And neither am I. You've never been like this with me before.' Her distress was evident. 'You are angry with me.' 'No.' 'Blame me for my folly with the letter.' 'No!'

'Think that I have helped destroy you.' She reproached him and reproached herself still more.

'We destroy ourselves. All that I have done would have been done whether the letter existed or not. And all that must be done, too.' 'What will you do?'

He looked at her but would not answer. He began munching again, carefully breaking morsels from both cheese and fruit cake, gathering up the crumbs. 'You shut me out.'

'There are some journeys we can only take on our own.'

'After all these years, Francis, it's as though you no longer trust me.'

He pushed aside his plate and came to her. 'Nothing could be further from my mind. Or from my heart. Through all these troubled times you have been the only one I could rely on, could reach for in the darkness and know you would be there. And if I've hurt you through my silence then the fault is mine, not yours, and I beg for your forgiveness. Elizabeth, you must know that I love you. That you are the only woman I have ever loved.' He said it with such force that there could be no doubting his sincerity.

'What will you do, Francis?' she repeated, demanding his trust.

'Fight. With all I have, for everything I have achieved.' 'In what way?'

'So many men spend their lives in fear of doing something wrong, of making error, that they do nothing except live in fear and slip uselessly away.' His eyes blazed contemptuous defiance. 'I will not go meekly into the night. The world will hear of my going. And remember.' 'It sounds so very final, Francis. You scare me.'

'If my life were to end at this moment, Elizabeth, there would be only one regret, that I would be leaving you behind. Yet we both know that the time must come. What matters is what I leave behind, for you. A legacy. A pride. Dignity. A memory people will applaud.' He smiled. 'And that Library.' 'I can't imagine life without you.'

'As I cannot imagine life without all this.' He waved his arms around the most private trappings of power. 'But there comes a time when the body is worn, the spirit tires, the sword is blunted by battle – and even love must have its rest. What survives, for those chosen few, is the name, even after all else has faded away. Immortality. I want you to trust me, Elizabeth. To support me in whatever it is I have to do.' 'I always have.'

'And know that whatever it is I do, I do for us both.'

'Then nothing has changed.' She seemed to relax, understanding bringing a measure of reassurance. She had always known he was not like other men; he lived by his own rules, it could come as no surprise to her that he intended to depart by his own rules, too. Whenever the time came. A time perhaps of his own choosing. She managed a smile as she reached for him.

He kissed her with great tenderness. 'I have so many reasons to be grateful to you, I scarcely know where to start. But let me start with your cake. It's delicious, Elizabeth. I think I shall have another slice.' 'I'll join you. If I may.'