The Final Cut

ONE

The door of the stage manager's box opened a fraction for Harry Grime to peer into the auditorium. 'Hasn't arrived, then' he growled.

Harry, a leading dresser at the Royal Shakespeare Company, didn't like Francis Urquhart. Fact was, he loathed the man. Harry was blunt, Yorkshire, a raging queen going to seed who divided the universe into thems that were for him and thems that weren't. And Urquhart, in Harry's uncomplicated and unhumble opinion, weren't.

'Be buggered if that bastard'll get back,' Harry had vouchsafed to the entire company last election night. Yet Urquhart had, and Harry was.

Three years on, Harry had changed his hair colour from vivid chestnut to a premature orange and shed his wardrobe of tight leather in preference for something that let him breathe and allowed his stomach to fall more naturally, but he had moved none of his political opinions. Now he awaited the arrival of the Prime Minister with the sensibilities of a Russian digging in before Stalingrad. Urquhart was coming, already he felt violated.

'Sod off, Harry, get out from under my feet,' the stage manager snapped from his position alongside the cobweb of wires that connected the monitors and microphones with which he was supposed to control the production. 'Go check that everyone's got the right size codpiece or something.' Harry bristled, about to retaliate, then thought better of it. The Half had been called, all hands were now at their posts backstage and last-minute warfare over missing props and loose buttons was about to be waged. No one needed unnecessary aggravation, not tonight. He slunk away to recheck the wigs in the quick-change box at the back of the stage.

It was to be a performance of Julius Caesar and the auditorium of the Swan Theatre was already beginning to fill, although more slowly than usual. The Swan, a galleried and pine-clad playhouse that stands to the side of the RSC's main theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon, is constructed in semi-circular homage to the Elizabethan style and has an intimate and informal atmosphere, 432 seats max. Delightful for the performance but a nightmare for Prime Ministerial security. What if some casual theatre-goer who loved Shakespeare much yet reviled Francis Urquhart more, more even than did Harry Grime, took the opportunity to… To what? No one could be sure. The Stratford bard's audiences were not renowned for travelling out with assorted weaponry tucked away in pocket or purse – Ibsen fans, maybe, Chekov's too, but surely not for Shakespeare? Yet no one was willing to take responsibility, not in the presence of most of the Cabinet, a handful of lesser Ministers, assorted editors and wives and other selected powers in the realm who had been gathered together to assist with celebrations for the thirty-second wedding anniversary of Francis and Elizabeth Urquhart.

Geoffrey Booza-Pitt was the gatherer. The youngest member of Francis Urquhart's Cabinet, he was Secretary of State for Transport and a man with an uncanny eye for opportunity. And for distractions, of all forms. And what better distraction from the shortcomings of Ministerial routine than to block-book a hundred seats in honour of the Master's anniversary and invite the most powerful men in the land to pay public homage? Two thousand pounds' worth of tickets returned a hundred-fold of personal publicity and left favours scattered throughout Westminster, including Downing Street. That's precisely what Geoffrey had told Matasuyo, car giant to the world and corporate sponsor to the RSC, who had quietly agreed to pay for the lot. It hadn't cost him a penny. Not that Geoffrey would tell.

They arrived late, their coming almost regal. If nothing else, after the eleven years they had lived in Downing Street, they knew how to make an entrance. Elizabeth, always carefully presented, appeared transported onto a higher plane in an evening dress of black velvet with a high wing collar and a necklace of pendant diamonds and emeralds that caught the theatre's lighting and reflected it back to dazzle all other women around her. The wooden floors and galleries of the playhouse complained as people craned forward to catch a glimpse and a ripple of applause broke out amongst a small contingent of American tourists which took hold, the infection making steady if reluctant progress through the auditorium to the evident embarrassment of many. 'Le roi est arrive.'

'Be fair, Bryan,' chided one of the speaker's two companions from their vantage point in the First Gallery, above and to the right of where the Urquharts were taking their seats.

'Fair? Can we possibly be talking about the same Francis Urquhart, Tom? The man who took the professional foul and set it to Elgar?'

Thomas Makepeace offered no response other than a smile of reproach. He knew Brynford-Jones, the editor of The Times, was right. He was also clear that Brynford-Jones knew he knew. Lobby terms. But there were limits to what a Foreign Secretary could say in a public place about his Prime Minister. Anyway, Urquhart was his friend who had repaid that friendship with steady promotion over the years.

'Still, you have to admire his footwork, a true professional,' Brynford-Jones continued before offering a wave and a smile in the direction of the Urquharts who were turning to acknowledge those around them. 'There's not a man here without the marks of your Prime Minister's studs somewhere on his anatomy. Good old F.U.'

'Surely there's more to life than simply providing you with copy, Bryan.' On Makepeace's other side a third man joined in. Quentin Digby was a lobbyist, and a good one. He not only had an involvement in professional politics but, in his own quiet way, was also something of an activist, representing many charities and environmental concerns. Makepeace didn't know him well but rather liked him.

'I wondered which of us three was going to play the moralizing toad tonight,' Makepeace mocked.

The house lights dimmed as the Managing Director of Matasuyo stepped forward onto the stage to claim his place before the public eye and offer a speech of welcome. The light thrown onto the stage bounced up onto the faces of Makepeace and his companions, giving them a shadowy, conspiratorial look, like witches attending a cauldron.

'Seriously, Tom,' Brynford-Jones continued, anxious to take advantage of the Cabinet Minister's presence, 'he should have gone on his tenth anniversary. Ten bloody years at the top is enough for anyone, isn't it?'

Makepeace made no comment, pretending to concentrate on the Japanese gentleman's homily which was attempting to establish some form of spiritual connection between culture and car bits.

'Wants to go for the record. Outscore Thatcher,' Digby offered. 'I wouldn't mind, but what's the point? What's he trying to achieve? We've got half the country's dustbins crammed full of Harrods wrapping paper which local councils can't afford to collect while the other half go begging for something to eat.'

'You lobbyists always spoil your case with exaggeration,' Makepeace rebuked.

'Funny, I thought that was a politician's prerogative,' the editor came back.

Makepeace was beginning to feel penned in. He'd felt that way a lot in recent months, sitting beside editors or standing before his constituents with a pretence of enthusiasm when there was only weariness and disillusionment inside. Something had gone stale. Someone had gone stale. Francis Urquhart. Leaving Makepeace with much that he wanted to say, but little he was allowed to.

'He's had a good run, Tom, the country's grateful and all that, but really it's time for some new blood.' 'His blood.' 'A fresh start for the Government.' 'For you, Tom.' 'We all know the things you hold dear, the causes you stand for.' 'We'd like to help.'

'You know the country isn't what it was. Or could be. This country has too big a heart to be beholden for so long to one man.' 'Particularly a man such as that.' 'Hell, even the illegal immigrants are leaving.'

'It should be yours, Tom. Makepeace is ever as good a man as Urquhart.'

Respite. The man from Matasuyo had subsided and the play was about to begin; Makepeace was grateful. His head was spinning. He wanted to dispute their claims, play the loyal hound, but couldn't find the words. Perhaps they were right about Urquhart. Without doubt right about himself. They knew he wanted it, enough that at times his mouth ran dry like a man lost in a desert who spots an oasis, only to discover it is a mirage. Power. But not for its own sake, not for a place in the history books like Urquhart, but for now. Today. For all the things that so desperately needed doing and changing.

Both Brynford-Iones and Digby had a strong interest in change, editor and lobbyist, professional revolutionaries by their trade. Having the world standing still was no more an option for them than it was for him, Makepeace thought. Perhaps they would make useful allies, one day, if war ever came. After his friend Francis had left the field. Or perhaps they would all go to hell together amongst the rogues.

And then there was laughter. Caesar had made his first appearance on stage with a face adorned with heavy make-up that made him look uncannily like Francis Urquhart. The same long profile. Piercing eyes. Receding silver hair. A straight gash across his face for a mouth. A mask that showed neither mirth nor mercy. The arguments backstage had been long and furious when they had learnt of Urquhart's imminent presence. Harry had argued vociferously for a boycott and threatened to throw his body into all forms of picket lines and protests but, as the property manager had so successfully argued, 'Give it a rest, love. It's been years since your bottom 'alf lived up to the promises of your top 'alf. Bloody years since you last saw your bottom 'alf, I'll bet. Must do it all from memory.'

So they had compromised. In true thespian tradition the show would go on, laden with a little ideological baggage. Yet Harry, once more sneaking a look from prompt side to test the mettle of his protest, was to be disappointed. The living mask slipped. From his privileged position beside Booza-Pitt at the front of the stage Urquhart, an experienced trouper in any public arena, had spotted the danger and responded. Not only was he leading the laughter but he also made sure that everyone knew it by taking out a white silk handkerchief and waving it vigorously at his protege.

As the play progressed, Makepeace agonized. Loyalty meant so much, for him it was a political virtue in its own right. Yet he hadn't been sleeping well, a disturbed mind and troubled heart had robbed him of rest, doubts beginning to crowd in on his dreams. And he knew that if he did nothing, simply chafed beneath those doubts, he would lose his dreams as well.

'The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power…'

Loyalty. But to what? Not just to a single man. Great men have their day, only to find that their reputation must fall from the sky like leaves before the autumn storm.

'And therefore think him as a serpent's egg which, hatch'd, would, as his kind, grow mischievous…'

Every Prime Minister he'd ever known had demanded too much, been despatched. Sacrificed. Bled. By colleagues.

And finally the deed was done. 'Et tu, Brute!' An exceptionally pitiless portrayal of the assassination, and at every step Urquhart's handkerchief waved and waved.

'Sodding man!' Grime snapped as he stamped about the quick-change box helping the deceased Caesar into his ghost's garb.

'Your little plot didn't work, luvvie,' Julius mocked. 'Didn't you see him? Laughing his bloody head off at us, so he was.'

'Hold still, Big Julie, or I'll run this pin up your arse,' Harry snapped. 'Anyway, what would you know about plots? The last miserable screenplay you spawned didn't even make it as far as the typist.'

'It had a few developmental problems,' Julie acknowledged.

'As much sense of direction as a horse up a hedgehog.'

'At least I act. You couldn't even play the skull in Hamlet on a good day.' 'Bitch,' Harry pursed, and subsided.

In the auditorium the house lights had announced the interval and thunderous applause reflected the audience's appreciation of a production remarkable for its freshness. It had been a long time since anyone could remember laughing so much through a tragedy but, up in the First Gallery, Digby appeared distracted. Makepeace probed.

'Sorry. Wondering about the new car,' the lobbyist apologized.

'About the mileage? Whether it's environmentally friendly? Recyclable?'

'Hardly. It's four litres of testosterone encased in the silkiest and most explicit Italian styling you can find in this country without getting arrested. Ferrari. Rosso red. My only vice. And parked outside.' 'And you're worried whether all the wrapping paper is going to be removed from your dustbin by the end of the week,' Makepeace taunted.

'More worried that in this brave new world of ours the stereo system will have been ripped off by the end of this performance. What do you think, Secretary of State?'

'Contain yourself, Diggers,' Brynford-Jones interjected. 'Nothing lasts forever.'

The editor and lobbyist enjoyed the banter, but Makepeace's mind had drifted elsewhere. He was gazing down onto the floor of the auditorium where Urquhart, surrounded by enthusing acolytes and attended closely by Geoffrey Booza-Pitt, was replacing his handkerchief.

'Everything pukka, Tom?' Brynford-Jones enquired.

'Yes, of course. Just thinking how right you were. You know. About how nothing lasts forever.' The red-leather box lay open on the back seat, papers untouched. The Minister had fallen asleep as soon as they reached the motorway – it had been a heavy working dinner and the old boy's stamina wasn't what it once was. He was snoring gently, mouth ajar, slumped awkwardly to one side. Should've worn his seat belt. The driver studied him carefully in the rear-view mirror for some time before deciding he could risk it. Cautiously, while ensuring that the Jaguar's engine maintained its constant soothing cadence at a steady eighty-three miles an hour, he reached for the volume button of the radio. They were just about to kick off at Upton Park and the next ninety minutes would decide an entire season's effort. He didn't want to miss it. He paused as through the drizzle ahead emerged the rear lights of an old Escort, still trying to prove it was all TRi and not knackered to death. The Escort's youthful driver cursed; the rotted rubber of his wipers had transformed the motorway into a smear of confusing messages and he was straining to make sense of the scene ahead. He had no eyes for what lay behind. The Minister's driver decided not to risk waking his passenger by braking suddenly, not with the match about to start. He drew over to the middle lane to pass the other vehicle on the inside.

Some events in life – and death – lie beyond reasonable explanation. Afterwards men of learning, experience and great forensic ability may gather to offer their views, yet all too frequently such views serve less as explanation than excuse. Sometimes it is as easy to accept that there are moments when Fate rouses herself from an afternoon nap and, sleep still heavy upon her eyes, points her finger capriciously and with chaotic intent. For it was just as the Minister's driver was leaning towards the radio button once more, less than six feet to the rear and on the inside of the other vehicle, that the Escort's rear offside burst. Fate. It swerved violently in front of the Ministerial limousine whose driver, one-handed, snatched at the wheel. The Jaguar hit the central reservation and turned a full, elegant circle on the damp road before crossing the hard shoulder and disappearing down an earth bank.

It came to rest against the trunk of an elm tree. When the driver recovered from his shock he found the Ministerial box battered and torn on the front seat beside him. And so was the Minister. 'Francis Urquhart, peacemaker?' Brynford-Jones made no attempt to hide the incredulity in his voice and he stared closely at Makepeace to gauge the reaction.

'We live in an exciting new world, Bryan. Anything is possible.' 'Agreed. But Francis Urquhart?'

They had stood in line with the other guests on the stairs of Downing Street, waiting to be greeted formally by the Urquharts before being introduced to the Presidents of the divided Cypriot communities. The previous day, on the neutral territory of the ballroom of Lancaster House and under the public eye of the British Prime Minister, Turk and Greek had agreed the principles of peace and undertaken to settle all outstanding details within three months. The Confederated Republics of Cyprus were about to be born, conflict eschewed, the Right Honourable Francis Urquhart, MP, Acting Midwife, Peacemaker.

Now came celebration. The powers that be within the land had been gathered together in the first-floor reception rooms of Downing Street in order that they might offer thanks to peace and to Francis Urquhart. It was a levelling, for some almost humbling, experience. No matter how wealthy or well-known, they had been treated alike. No cars, no eminence, no exceptions. Stopped at the wrought-iron gates barring entrance to Downing Street from Whitehall. Scrutinized by police before being allowed to walk with their wives the full length of the street to the guarded front door. Being made to wait while their coats were exchanged for a wrinkled paper cloakroom ticket. Five minutes spent in line shuffling piously up the stairs, step by single step, past the portraits of former leaders, the Walpoles, Pitts, Palmerstons, Disraelis, Churchills, and the one and only Margaret Thatcher. 'To those we have crucified,' Brynford-Jones had muttered. Then the formal introduction by some red-coated alien from another galaxy who seemed to recognize no one and had great trouble with pronunciation. 'Mr Bimford-Jones' had not been impressed, but then he rarely was.

'It must have been like this at the Court of Versailles,' he offered. 'Just before the tumbrils arrived.'

'Bryan, your cynicism runs away with you. Great changes require a little ruthlessness. Credit where it is due,' Makepeace protested.

'And are you ruthless, Tom? Ruthless enough to snatch old Francis' crown? Because he's not going to hand it over for Christmas. You're going to have to snatch it, like he did. Like they all had to. Do you really have what it takes?'

'You need luck, too, in politics,' Makepeace responded, trying to deflect the question but showing no anxiety to finish with either the conversation or the editor. 'Men should be masters of their own fates.'

'You know I'd love the job but the question doesn't arise. Yet.' it never arises when you expect it. You want to achieve great things, you grab Fortune by the balls and hang on for the ride.' 'Bryan, at times I think you're trying to tempt me.'

'No, not me. I simply present ambition to a man and see if ambition tempts him. I'm strictly a voyeur, the prerogative of the press. The dirty work I leave up to you guys – and girls!' he exclaimed, reaching out to grab the elbow of another guest as she edged through the throng.

Claire Carlsen turned and smiled, her face lighting up in recognition. She was also an MP, at thirty-eight a dozen years younger than Makepeace and the editor.

'And what have you done to earn your place amidst this glittering herd?' Brynford-Jones enquired. 'I thought nobody below the rank of Earl or Archbishop was allowed at this trough. Certainly not a humble backbencher.'

'It's called tokenism, Bryan. Apparently professional middle-aged moralizers like you like to have a bit of skirt around to remind them of lost youth. You know, slobber a bit and go away happy. That's the plan.' The smile was warm but the autumn-blue eyes searching. She was tall, almost eye-to-eye with the rotund editor who enjoyed the glint of evening sunlight shining through her blonde hair.

Brynford-Jones laughed loudly. 'You're too late for confession. I've already owned up to being a voyeur and in your case I'll happily plead guilty. If ever that husband of yours throws you out, you'd be more than welcome to come and stir my evening cocoa.'

'If ever I throw that husband of mine out,' she corrected, 'I'd hope to be stirring more than cocoa in the evenings. Anyway, what have you two been plotting? Strippergrams to the Synod, or something frivolous?'

'I was enquiring whether our friend here has what it takes to succeed in politics, the necessary qualities of energy and ambition to become the next Prime Minister. Would you lay money on him, Claire?'

She arched an eyebrow – she possessed a highly expressive face and, when relaxed, an aura of refreshing mischief. In response to Brynford-Jones' invitation she examined Makepeace as though for the first time, the end of her nose puckered in si cpti-cism, seeming to reach some conclusion before deliberately throwing their attention in an entirely different direction.

'If energy and ambition were all, then our next leader is surely standing over there by the window.'

'Not our Geoff? I'd rather emigrate,' the editor chuckled, irreverent though not entirely incredulous.

They turned to follow her gaze. In the bay of a grand Georgian window overlooking the garden, the Transport Secretary had pinned the Governor of the Bank of England against the elegant drape.

'Liquid engineering,' Claire continued. 'He handles it so smoothly the Governor won't even realize when he's been set aside for the next name on the list.' 'Our Geoff's got a list?' the editor enquired.

'Surely. Typed on a card in his breast pocket. He has an hour here, so he asks for a copy of the invitation list beforehand, sees how many people he wants to impress or to harangue, then splits his time. Six minutes each. Digital precision.'

In silence they watched as Booza-Pitt, without pause for breath or apparent reference to his watch, took the Governor's hand and bade farewell. Then he was moving across the room, shaking hands and offering salutations as he passed, but not stopping.

'Chances are he'll end the programme with somebody's bored wife,' Claire continued. 'It's a regular routine, particularly since he separated from his own wife.' 'His second wife,' Makepeace corrected.

'Fascinating. The man goes up in my estimation,' Brynford-Jones admitted. 'Which, I'm forced to admit, still doesn't take him very far. But how do you come by all this delicious and wicked information?'

She pursed her lips. 'You know how we girls like to gossip. And you don't think he types his own list, do you?'

The editor knew she was mocking more than Booza-Pitt. He noticed how steady the blue eyes remained throughout her conversation, examining, judging. She didn't miss much. He suspected she used men much more than was used by them. Her clothes were expensively discreet from some of Knightsbridge's most fashionable couturiers, her sexuality unobtrusive but apparent and all her own, his desire for her growing by the minute. But he suspected she was not a woman to cross, or to fall for one of his customary 'would you like to discuss your profile over supper' ploys. It would be a mistake to miss the woman within by merely tracing over the superficial packaging.

'I believe I should talk to you more often, Claire,' he offered. 'I believe you should.'

'Aren't you the Booza's parliamentary twin?' he continued, 'I seem to remember reading somewhere. You both came into the House together, what -seven years ago? Same age. Both wealthy, darlings of the party conference. Both tipped to go far.' 'If only I had his talent.'

'Foreign Secretary, d'you think, in a Makepeace Cabinet?' He turned back to his original target.

Makepeace paused, as though to emphasize his words with elaborate consideration. 'Not in a million dawns,' he replied softly. 'The man wouldn't recognize a political principle or an original idea if it were served up en croute with oysters.' 'Ah, at last! A breach in your famous collective Ministerial loyalty, Tom. There's hope for you yet,' the editor beamed, delighted to have discovered a point of such obvious antipathy. He turned to Claire. 'I feel an editorial coming on. Although to tell you the truth, my dear, I'm a little worried by all his talk about principles and original ideas. It's not good for an ambitious man. We're going to have to work on him.'

She laughed, a genuine expression full of white teeth and pleasure. 'You know, Bryan, I think we are.'

Civilian Area, Dhekelia Army Base, British Sovereign Territory, Cyprus 'Greetings, my Greek friend. Welcome to a humble carpenter's workshop. What part of Allah's bounty may His servant share with you?'

'Sheep. Seven of them. A week on Friday. And not all fat and sinews like your wife.'

'Seven?' the Turk mused. 'One for every night of your week, Glafko. For you I shall endeavour to find the most beautiful sheep in the whole of Turkish Cyprus.'

'It's Easter, you son of Saladin,' Glafkos the Plumber spat. 'And my daughter's getting married. A big feast.' 'A thousand blessings on the daughter of Glafkos.'

The Greek, an undersized man with a hunched shoulder and the expression of a cooked vine leaf, remained unimpressed. 'Chew on your thousand blessings, Uluc. Why was I five shirts short on last week's delivery?' The Turk, a carpenter, put aside the plane with which he was repairing a broken door and brushed his hands on the apron spread across his prominent stomach. The sports shirts, complete with skilfully counterfeited Lacoste and Adidas logos, were manufactured within the Turkish sector by his mother's second cousin, who was obviously 'taking the chisel' to them both. But the Greek made a huge mark-up on the smuggled fakes which were sold through one of the many sportswear outlets in the village of Pyla, in a shop owned by his nephew. He could afford a minor slicing. Anyway, he didn't want a damned Greek to know he was being cheated by one of his own family.

'Shrinkage,' he exclaimed finally, after considerable deliberation.

'You mean you've been pulling the sheet over to your side again.'

'But my dear Greek friend, according to our leaders we are soon to be brothers. One family.' His huge hand closed around the plane and nonchalantly he began scraping at the door again. 'Why, perhaps your daughter might yet lie with a Turk.'

'I'll fix the leaking sewers of hell first. With my bare hands.'

The Turk laughed, displaying black teeth and gruff humour. Their battle was incessant, conducted on the British base where they both worked and at various illicit crossing points along the militarized buffer zone which separated Greek and Turkish communities. They could smuggle together, survive and even prosper together, but that didn't mean they had to like each other, no matter what those fools of politicians decreed.

'Here, Greek. A present for your wife.' He reached into a drawer and removed a small bottle marked Chanel. 'May it fill your nights with happiness.'

Glafkos removed the top and sniffed the contents, pouring a little into the open palm of his hand. 'Smells like camel's piss.'

'From a very genuine Chanel camel. And very, very cheap,' Uluc, responded, rolling his eyes.

The Greek tried to scrape off the odour on his shirt then examined the bottle carefully. 'I'll take six dozen. On trial. And no shrinkage.' The Turk nodded. 'Or evaporation.'

Uluc, entered upon another hearty chuckle, yet as quickly as it had arrived his pleasure was gone and in place a grey cloud hovered about his brow. He began stroking his moustache methodically with the tip of a heavily callused finger, three times on each side, as though attempting to smooth away an untidiness that had entered his life.

'Wind from your wife's cooking?' Glafkos the Plumber ventured.

Uluc the Carpenter ignored the insult. 'No, my friend, but a thought troubles me. If we are all told to love one another, Turk and Greek, embracing each other's heart instead of the windpipe – what in the name of Allah are you and I going to do?' As individuals most were modest, middle class, often dull. And proud of it. Collectively, however, they shared a blood lust of animalistic intensity that found expression in waves of screamed enthusiasm which were sent crashing across the court.

'Changed, hasn't it?' Sir Henry Ponsonby mused, his thin face masked by the shade of a large Panama. He didn't need to add that in his view this could not have been for the better. As Head of the Civil Service he took a deal of convincing that change was anything other than disruptive.

'You mean, you remember when we English used to win?'

'Sadly that's ancient history of a sort that isn't even part of the core curriculum anymore.' He sniffed. 'No. I mean that every aspect of life seems to have become a blood sport. Politics. Journalism. Academia. Commerce. Even Wimbledon.'

Down on the court the first Englishman to have been seeded at the All England Tennis Championships for more than two decades scrambled home another point in the tie-break; a further two and he'd survive to fight a deciding set. The crowd, having sulked over the clinical humiliation of its national hero throughout the first hour and a half, had woken to discover he was back in with a chance. On the foot-scuffed lawn before them a legend was in the making. Perhaps. Better still, the potential victim was French.

'I may be an academic, Henry. Even an international jurist. But deep inside there's part of me that would give everything to be out there right now.'

Sir Henry started at this unanticipated show of emotion. From unexceptional origins Clive Watling had established a distinguished career as an academic jurist and steady hand, QC, MA, LLB and multiple honorary distinctions, red-brick reliable, a man whose authority matched his broad Yorkshire girth. Flights of physical enthusiasm were not part of the form book. Still, everyone was allowed a touch of passion, and better tennis balls than little boys.

'Well, that's not exactly what we had in mind for you, old chap,' Sir Henry began again. 'Wanted to sound you out. You know, you've established a formidable standing through your work on the International Court, widely respected and all that.'

Another point was redeemed for national honour and Watling couldn't resist an involuntary clenching of his fists in response. Sir Henry's thin red line of lips closed formation. The mixture of tension and heat on Number One Court stifled any further attempt at conversation as the tennis players squared up once more.

A blow. A flurry of arms and fevered shouts. Movement of a ball so fast that few eyes could follow while all hearts sailed with it. A cloud of English chalk dust, a cry of Gallic despair, and an eruption of noise from the stands. The set was won and from the far end of the court came the sound of hoarse voices joined together in the chorus of 'Rule Britannia'. Sir Henry raised his eyes in distaste, failing to notice his companion's broad grin. Sir Henry was a traditionalist, unaccustomed to expressing emotion himself and deprecating its expression by others. As he was to express to others in his club later that week, this was scarcely his scene. They were forced to wait until the inevitable Mexican wave had washed across them – good grief, was Watling actually flexing his thighs? – before being allowed to resume their thoughts.

'Yes, I've been fortunate, Henry, received a lot of recognition. Mostly abroad, of course. Not so much here at home. Prophet in his own country, you know?' And grammar school achiever in a juridical system still dominated by Oxbridge elitists. Like Ponsonby,

'Not at all, my dear fellow. You're held in the very highest regard. We English are simply a little more reticent about these things.' Sir Henry's words were immediately contradicted by an outburst of feminine hysteria from behind as the players resumed their places for the final set. It was noticeable that the many expressions of patriotic fervour emerging from around the stands were becoming mixed with vivid Francophobia. Such naked passions made Ponsonby feel uncomfortable.

'Let me come straight to the point, Clive. The Cypriots want to settle their domestic squabbles. Shouldn't be beyond reach, both Greeks and Turks appear to be suffering an unaccustomed outbreak of goodwill and common sense. Maybe they've run out of throats to cut, or more likely been tempted by the foreign aid packages on offer. Anyway, most of the problems are being resolved, even the frontiers. They both know they've got to make a gesture, give something up.' 'Are their differences of view large?'

'Not unduly. Both sides want the barbed wire removing and most of the proposed line runs through mountains which are of damn all value to anyone except goatherds and hermits.' 'There's offshore through the continental shelf.'

'Perceptive man! That's the potential stumbling block. Frankly, neither side has any experience of sea boundaries so they want an international tribunal to do the job for them. You know, give the settlement the stamp of legitimacy, avoid any loss of face on either side. All they need is a little bandage for national pride so they can sell the deal to their respective huddled masses. They're already surveying the waters, and they've agreed an arbitration 'I panel of five international judges with Britain taking the chair.' 'Why Britain, for God's sake?'

Ponsonby smiled. 'Who knows the island better? The old colonial ruler, the country both Greeks and Turks mistrust equally. They'll choose two of the judges each, with Britain as the impartial fifth. And we want you to be the fifth.'

Watling took a deep breath, savouring his recognition.

'But we want it all signed and sealed as soon as possible,' Ponsonby continued, 'within the next couple of months, if that could be. Before they all change their bloody minds.' 'Ah, a problem.'

'Yes, I know. You're supposed to spend the summer lecturing in considerable luxury in California. But we want you here. In the service of peace and the public interest. And, old chap, His Majesty's Government would be most appreciative.' 'Sounds like a bribe.'

A double fault, the crowd groaned. Ponsonby leant closer.

'You're long overdue for recognition, Clive. There's only one place for a man of your experience.' He paused, tantalizing. 'You'd make a tremendous contribution in the House of Lords.'

Ponsonby offered an impish smile,- he enjoyed dispensing privilege. Watling, by contrast, was trying desperately to hide the twitch that had appeared at the comer of his mouth. As a boy he'd dreamed of opening the batting for Yorkshire; this ran a close second. 'Who else will be on the panel of judges?'

'Turks have nominated a Malaysian and some Egyptian professor from Cairo…' That would be Osman. A good man.' 'Yes. Muslim Mafia.' 'He's a good man,' Watling insisted.

'Of course, they're all good men. And so are the Greek lot. They've chosen Rospovitch from Serbia – nothing to do with him being Orthodox Christian, I hasten to add. The thought would never have entered a Greek mind.' 'And the fourth?'

'Supplied by Greece's strongest ally in Europe, the French. Your old chum from the International Court, Rodin.'

'Him!' Watling couldn't hide his disappointment. 'I've crossed judgments with that man more often than I care to remember. He's as promiscuous with his opinions as a whore on the Avenue Foch. Can't bear the man.' He shook his head. 'The thought of being cooped up with him brings me no joy.'

'But think, Clive. The panel is split down the middle, two-two, by appointment. You'll have the deciding vote. Doesn't matter a damn about Rodin or any of the others, you can get on and do the job you think is right.'

'I'm not sure, Harry. This is already beginning to sound like a political poker game. Would this be a proper job? No arm-twisting? I'll not be part of any grubby backstage deal,' the lawyer warned, all Northern stubbornness, drawing in his chins. 'If I were to handle this case it would have to be decided on its merits.'

'That's why you've got to do it, precisely because you're so irritatingly impartial. Let me be frank. We want you for your reputation. With you involved, everything will be seen to be fair. Smother them in Hague Conventions and peaceful precedent. Frankly, from the political point of view it doesn't matter a dehydrated fig what you decide, in practice it will be little more than a line drawn across the rocks. A half mile here or there on which you couldn't grow a bag of beans. But what it will do is enable the Cypriot politicians to sew up a deal they badly need. So come down on whatever side you like, Clive, there'll be no pressure from us. All we want is a settlement.'

They paused. The crowd was rising to the boil once more as the decisive set began to take shape. Watling still hesitated, it was time for the final nudge.

'And I suspect it would be appropriate to speed things along at our end, too. No need to wait in long line, I think we could ensure your name appeared in the very next Honours List, at New Year's. Wouldn't want any uncertainty clouding your deliberations.' Ponsonby was laughing. 'Sorry about the hurry. And about California. But there's pressure on. The Cypriots have been at war with each other for a quarter of a century; it's time to draw the curtain on their little tragedy.'

'You're assuming I'll say yes? In the interests of a peerage?' 'Dear fellow, in the interests of British fair play.'

Further exchanges were rendered impossible, buried beneath the weight of noise. The French player had lunged, tripped, become entangled in the net as in desperation he tried to save a vital rally. Break point. The crowd, as one and on its feet, bellowed its delight. The captain of the seismic vessel Happy Valley flicked the butt of his cigarette high above his head, watching it intently as it hung in the heavy air before dipping and falling reluctantly out of sight beyond the trawler's hull. His lungs were burning; he tried to strangle a cough, failed, shivered violently, spat. He'd promised his wife to give up the bloody things and had tried but, out here, day after day spent under callous skies, criss-crossing the featureless seas of the eastern Mediterranean, he found himself praying for storms, for mutiny, for any form of distraction. But there was none. He'd probably die of boredom long before the weed did for him.

He ached in his bones for the old days, running tank spares into Chile or stolen auto parts into Nigeria, his manifests a patchwork of confusion as he confronted the forces of authority, slipping between their legs with a cargo of contraband as a child evades a decrepit grandparent. Yet now his work was entirely legitimate; he thought the dullness of it all would crush his balls.

So those Byzantine bastards in Cyprus had agreed to exorcize their ghosts and reach a compromise. Peace to all men, whether Greek or Turk and no matter whose daughters they'd raped or goats they'd stolen. Or was it the other way around? Hell, he was French-Canadian and loathed the lot, but they wanted their offshore waters surveying so they could agree an amicable split. And the sanctions-busting business wasn't what it used to be, not with peace breaking out everywhere. Seismic was at least a job. Until the next war.

From the sea behind him came the explosive thud of compressed air. Once, he remembered, it had been bullets and mines. He'd never thought he'd die of boredom. He squinted into the setting sun at the lines of floats and hydrophones that trailed for three thousand meters beyond the Happy Valley, crisscrossing the seas on a precise grid pattern controlled by satellite while bouncing shock waves off the muds and shales below the sea bed and down the throats of the computers. The damned computers had the only air conditioning on the vessel while the men fried eggs in their underwear. But, as his bosses at Seismic International never ceased to remind him, this was a thirty-thousand-dollar-a-day operation, the captain and his crew were the cheapest part of it and by far the easiest to replace.

He spat at a seagull that had perched on the rail beside him. The bird rose languidly into the skies behind the vessel, examined the creamy wake for fish and, finding none, gave a cry of contempt before departing in search of a proper trawler. Christ, even the bloody birds couldn't stick the ship. And what was the point? Everyone knew there was nothing but a lot of scrap iron and shards of old pottery down there; not even any fish to talk of, not after they'd blown the once thriving marine world apart with old grenades and other forms of indiscriminate fishing.

He couldn't stick this outburst of peace. He wanted another war. And another cigarette. He coughed and began searching his pockets. He was standing in his dress shirt, bow tie cast aside, staring out through the shard-proof curtains of the bedroom window across St James's Park when she came in. The room was in darkness, his face cast like a wax mask in the reflection from the lighting beneath the trees in the park. Francis Urquhart, shoulders down, hands thrust deep into his dress trouser pockets, looked miserable. 'They turned old Freddie off,' he whispered. 'Darling?'

'Old Freddie Warburton. The car crash? On life support? They decided there was no point, Elizabeth. So they turned him off.' 'But I thought you said he was useless.'

Urquhart spun round to face his wife. 'Of course he was useless. Utterly and comprehensively useless. I'm surprised they could even tell when his brain had stopped functioning. But that's not the point, is it?' 'Then what is the point, Francis?'

'The point, Elizabeth, is that he was the only surviving member of my original Cabinet from all those years ago. They'll say it's the end of an era. My era. Don't you see?'

Elizabeth had begun taking off her jewellery, methodically preparing herself for bed in the semi-light while she considered her husband's fragile mood. 'Don't you think you're over-reacting a little?' she ventured.

'Of course I am,' he replied. 'But they'll over-react, too, the wretched media always do. You know how the poison has begun to drip. Should've retired on his tenth anniversary. An ageing administration in need of new ideas and new blood. An age which is passing. Now with bloody Freddie away they'll say it's passed. Gone.' He sat down on the edge of his bed. 'It makes me feel so… alone, somehow. Except for you.'

She knelt on his bed and began to work away at the tension in his shoulders. 'Francis, you are the most successful Prime Minister this country has ever had. You've won as many elections as anyone, in three months' time you will have passed Margaret Thatcher's record of time in office. Your place in the history books is assured.'

He turned. She could see the jaw muscles working away, making his temples throb.

'That's it, Elizabeth. I feel as if I'm already history. All yesterday, no longer today. No tomorrow.'

It was back, his black mood, when he raged at the pointlessness of his life and the ingratitude and incompetence of the world around him. The moods never lasted long, but undeniably they were lasting longer. The challenge had lost its freshness, he needed dragons to slay but instead they seemed to have crawled away and hidden between the sub-clauses of interminable policy documents and Euro-regulations. The cloak of office hung heavily on his shoulders, ceremonial robes where once there had been armour. He had towered like a giant above the parliamentary scene, quite beyond the reach of his foes, but something had changed, perhaps in him and certainly in others. They speculated openly about how long he would last before he stepped down, about who would be the most likely successor. His reputation for slicing through the legs of young pretenders was formidable, but now they seemed to have formed a circle around his campfire, skulking in the shadows, staying just beyond his reach, finding safety in growing numbers while they waited for their moment to step into the light. A few weeks ago he had appeared in the Chamber at Question Time, ready as always to defend himself against their arrows, carrying with pride the shield that bore the dents and scars of so many successful parliamentary battles. Then a young Opposition backbencher whom Urquhart scarcely recognized had risen to his feet.

'Does the Prime Minister know the latest unemployment figure for this country?' And sat down.

Impudence! Not 'Will he comment on' or 'How can he excuse', but 'Does he know'. Of course Urquhart knew, two million or other, but he realized he needed not an approximation but the precise figure and had searched in his briefing notes. He shouldn't have needed to search; he should have known. But the damned figure changed every month! And as he had searched, his glasses slipped, and the Opposition benches had erupted as he scrabbled. 'He doesn't know, doesn't care!' they shouted. He had found the answer but by then it was too late. A direct hit.

It was unlike Francis Urquhart. He had bled, shown he was mortal. And the black moods had increased.

'I sometimes wonder what it's all been for, Elizabeth. What you and I have to look forward to. One day we'll walk out through that door for the last time and… then what? Horlicks and bloody Bognor?' He shivered as her fingers reached the knot at the back of his neck.

'You're being silly,' she scolded. 'That's a long way off and, anyway, we've discussed it many times before. There's the Urquhart Library to establish. And the Urquhart Chair of International Studies at Oxford. There's so much we will still have to do. And I met a publisher at the reception this evening. He was enthusing about your memoirs. Said the Thatcher books went for something like three million pounds and yours will be worth far more. Not a bad way to start raising the endowment money we need for the Library.'

His chin had fallen onto his chest once more. She realized the talk of memoirs had been misjudged.

'I'm not sure. Not memoirs, I don't think I can, Elizabeth.'

'We shall need the money, Francis. As much as we shall need each other.'

He turned sharply to look at her, staring intensely. In the dark she couldn't detect whether the cast in his eye betrayed mirth or yet deeper melancholy. 'No memoirs,' he repeated. 'Setting down the old falsehoods and inventing new ones. I couldn't write about my colleagues in that way, speaking such ill of the departed. God knows, I uttered lies enough to bury them, I couldn't pursue them beyond the grave. Not at all. Not for a King's ransom.' He paused. 'Could I, Elizabeth?' Hakim was angry. His coffee was cold, his moustache growing white, his talents under-appreciated, his bank unsympathetic, and everyone knew him simply as Hakim. Not Mr Hakim, not Yaman Hakim, not Old Friend and Colleague Hakim. There was a small sign on his office door to that effect, they would carve it on his coffin, 'Hakim the Forgotten'. Then they would forget him, the wife, the kids, the bosses, his bank manager. All of them. Especially his bank manager. He sipped the lukewarm mud in his coffee cup and pursed his lips in disgust. A lifetime's conscientious work and yet all he would have to take with him when the time came to go were his unfulfilled dreams.

He paused to consider. What would he most like to take with him into the afterlife? Young girls? Gold? An air-conditioned Mercedes? The vineyard he had always coveted? Probably young girls, he decided. No, on second thoughts he would take his bank manager. Then they could both burn.

He smiled to himself, then coughed painfully. The damned pollution was getting to his chest again. It was one of the many problems of building a capital city in the armpit of Anatolia where they burnt filthy brown coal and choked the streets with petrol fumes. And they were slowly, remorselessly congesting his lungs. A lifetime's service in order that he could choke to death. And be forgotten.

If he just locked the door from the inside and rotted, would anybody notice? His was a miserable office, even by the unexceptional standards of TNOC, the Turkish National Oil Corporation -shelves crammed with old manuals and reports, walls plastered with charts covered in bizarre patterns, a desk dusted with coffee stains and cigarette ash, the dusty accompaniments of his work as a geo-physicist. For all he knew the office's previous occupant might still be hiding within the bowels of the small document cupboard in the corner – even though this had been Hakim's office for fourteen years.

He turned back to the computer screen and re-examined the seismic cross-sections that had started coming in from the survey. There seemed to be little of interest, everyone knew there was nothing in the seas around Cyprus – TNOC wouldn't have bothered buying in the seismic had Cypriot waters not abutted Turkey's own. All other parts of the Eastern Mediterranean seemed to have oil, not only the Turks but the Libyans, Syrians, Egyptians, even damned Greeks – everyone except little Cyprus, who perhaps needed it more than most. Dry as dust. God's mystery. A desert amidst a sea of black gold. Such is the oil business.

He looked again. They all laughed at him, old Hakim the Forgotten, but he had the patience for the tedious work of analysis, not like these youngsters whose only interest was in football and fu… He stopped. He experienced a strange tingling in his fingers as they hovered over the keyboard, a sensation that he had been here before, or somewhere much like it. A long time ago. Where could it have been? He polished his glasses, giving himself time to remember. These were sedimentary rocks, that was for sure, but sedimentaries bearing oil were like Greeks bearing gifts. Rarely genuine. What type might they be?

Then he understood. He had not only seen it on geological logs, he'd even stuck his hand in the bloody mud. Thirty years ago, as a student at the Petroleum Institute when they had visited an exploratory well being drilled near the sea border with Cyprus. It had pulled up all the right geological formations, the sandwich of spongy sandstones that in theory might have held a billion barrels of oil but had yielded not a single drop. Now he thought he knew why. One of the seismic lines from the recent survey had been shot up to the site of the dry well and went straight through what was obviously a fault plane, a slippage in the earth's crust that played hell with the geology.

He started coughing again, nerves this time. Somewhere he reckoned he still had a copy of his Petroleum Institute report and its detailed findings from the old well. The document cupboard. The thin metal door squealed in protest as with shaking fingers he began ransacking the contents – no skeleton guarding the pirate's doubloons but ancient treasure nonetheless. It was in his hands, a slim ring-bound document that trembled like leaves in an autumn wind as he turned the pages.

It was all there. The right structures. Traces in the drill cuttings of residual oil. But no accumulation, the raw wealth drained by some unknown action. And the screen yelled at him. 'Fault!'

Without the seismic revealing the fault plane there had been no way thirty years ago to understand why such suitable sandstones had been bone dry. And without detailed knowledge of the sandstones revealed by the well, there was no way to understand from the seismic alone what the structures might portend.

But Hakim the Geophysicist knew, and he was the only soul in the world in a position to know.

The fault plane had fouled up everything. Trashing all the logic. Tilting the geological structures. Draining the sandstones dry.

And Hakim thought he knew where a billion barrels of oil had gone. 'I hate memorial services. The cant. The falseness. The empty phrases and hollow praise. I hate memorial services.'

Urquhart was in one of those humours again. He had stamped impatiently as he had waited at the east door of St Margaret's Church to be escorted by the rector, and his face had been set in stone while walking to his appointed pew, past the acquiescent, nodding faces with their spaniel smiles and synthetic sympathies worn above black ties and scarves. They had thought his countenance denoted sadness, distress at the loss of such a good friend and colleague as Freddie, Baron Warburton, and indeed his emotions were fractured, but not in pity for others.

The turbid mood had begun the previous night when he had opened his red box to discover that his press officer, thinking it might be appropriate, had enclosed a few of old Freddie's obituaries. The bloody fool. Reading that Warburton's passing marked 'the end of an era' and that he had been 'the last of F.U.'s dirty dozen' had done little to enhance the Prime Minister's enthusiasm about either the press or his press officer.

'Can't stand it, Elizabeth. They hound a man into the grave then, soon as he's dead and gone, reach for their sopping tissues and try to prove what a great man he was, how his loss somehow threatens culture, the country, civilization as a whole. The only reason I kept Freddie was because he followed like a lamb. Everybody knew that. But now he's a dead lamb they speak of him as a lion. Not a single mention anywhere that his veins had been swept quite clear of blood by alcohol. Nor of that little tangle in Shepherd Market when two ladies of the night abandoned him without either trousers, wallet or his Downing Street pass.' 'He was loyal, Francis.'

'I had his balls in a vice, Elizabeth, of course he was loyal!' Urquhart brought himself to a sudden halt, closing his eyes. He'd gone too far. He should be used to honouring the dead at Westminster, there had been so many over the years, but such memories only brought out the worst in him. 'Forgive me. That was unnecessary.' 'Forgiven.'

'It's just that… what will they say about me, Elizabeth? When I've gone?'

'That you were the greatest Prime Minister of the century. That you rewrote the record books as well as the law books. And lived a long and contented retirement.'

'I doubt that. How many great leaders have ever truly found contentment in retirement?' She searched for a name, but none came to her.

'I don't want to grow old and bitter, after all this has gone. I just don't have a vision of myself retiring, being replaced. Ever.' He waved a hand at her. 'Oh, I know I'm being pathetic but… retirement for me isn't filled with long summer evenings but endless nights dancing with ghosts. The ghosts of what might have been. And of what once was.' 'I understand.'

'Yes, I know you do. You're the only one who does. I owe you so very much.'

She sat beside him now, in the church of St Margaret's at Westminster, which stood in the lee of the great Abbey, as they listened to the choristers singing a plaintive anthem. Elizabeth's eyes were fixed on the young treble soloist, a boy of perhaps twelve with fair hair falling across his forehead and the tender voice of an angel that filled the church like the rays of a new sun. What a difference it might have made, he considered, if they had been able to have children; it could have touched their lives with a sense of immortality and brought music to their souls. Yet it was not to be. She had bound the wound until it scarred and toughened, never complaining, though he knew the hurt at times cleaved her in two; instead she had invested all her emotional energy in him and his career. Their career, in truth, for without her he could not have succeeded or sustained. For Elizabeth it had been a barren crown, a sacrifice in many manners far deeper than death, and all for him. He owed her everything.

The choir had finished and she looked round at him, a fleeting softness in her eye that he knew brimmed with regret. How much easier retirement would be to contemplate, had they had children. Instead all they would leave behind them were a Library and the fickle judgement of history. Apres moi, hen. Once he had thought that would be enough but, as the years passed and mortality knocked, he was no longer sure.

'Rejoice in the Lord alway: and again I say, Rejoice. Let your moderation be known unto all men…'

Clerical hyperbole and half-truth, a momentary suspension of political life in the pews behind him while piously they honoured death and, like birds of prey, plotted more.

'Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure…'

Men sang such tunes in sleepy ritual then woke to ignore them so blithely. Yet, on the day of reckoning, what would be his own case? He suffered a pang of momentary doubt as ghosts crowded into the shadows of his mind, but then he was clear, as he had always been. That what he had done was not for himself, but for others, for his country. That the affairs of men require sacrifices to be made, and that the sacrifices which he had made had always been motivated by public and national interest. Sacrifice of others, to be sure, sometimes in blood, but had not he and Elizabeth made sacrifices of their own, two lives devoted to one cause in the service of others?

'… that all things may be so ordered and settled by their endeavours, upon the best and surest foundations, that peace and happiness, truth and justice, religion and piety, may be established among us for all generations.'

Crap. Life was like setting sail in a sieve upon a wild and disorderly sea. Most people got sick, many drowned.

'In silence, let us remember Frederick Archibald St John Warburton.'

Best damned way to remember the man. In complete bloody silence. But it was not the way Urquhart intended to go. 'Thy will be done on earth…'

And there he drew the line. No, that was not good enough, never had been good enough for Urquhart. Some men used morality as a crutch, an excuse always the men who failed and achieved nothing. Morality was not the way through the swamp but the swamp itself, waiting to ensnare you, bind your limbs, drag you under. Great empires had not been built or sustained on such poor footings, or the British people protected from the plottings of envious foreigners by prayer. In the end, those who honoured weakness were weak themselves. A great man was judged by how high he climbed, not by how long he could remain on his knees.

When the time came, he would not go in silence, he would depart with so much clamour that it would echo through the ages. Francis Urquhart would be master of his own fate. 'Amen.'

Geoffrey Booza-Pitt revealed an unusual degree of self-consciousness as he faced his Prime Minister across the desk of the Downing Street study, hands clasped together, knuckles showing white and a smile seeming painted and fixed. It was not unusual for him to seek a private audience, and within limits Urquhart encouraged it; Geoffrey was a notorious gossip and adept at stealing others' ideas, which he could either claim as his own or abandon with ridicule depending on the reception given to them by his master. He was without personal doubt or hesitation the finest ankle-tapper in the Cabinet, displaying fastidious team loyalty in public while dextrous at sending his colleagues sprawling in front of goal, usually clipping them from the blind side and always with an expression of pained innocence. A useful source of information and amusement for Urquhart, who relished the sport. Urquhart had assumed that Booza-Pitt would be laying the ground for a change of responsibility at the next reshuffle. Geoffrey was a young man constantly on the move; ever since he had kicked open the door of the pen with a series of brilliant pyrotechnic displays at party conference he had proved impossible to pin down to any job or, for those who had memories for such things, to any guiding political principle. But in that he was not unique, and his effervescent energy, which is the hallmark of some slightly undersized men, more than made up for any lack of depth in the eyes of most observers. Geoffrey was going places – he left no listener in any doubt of the fact and such enthusiasm to many is infectious. And it was no secret around Westminster that Geoffrey would welcome a new job. As Transport Secretary for the last two years he had long since grown exasperated with the futility of trying to siphon twentieth-century cars through London's nineteenth-century road system and desperately wanted to escape the gridlock for some new challenge – any new challenge, so long as it came in the form of perceptible promotion. Move on before you grow roots and others grow bored was the Booza-Pitt rule, a creed he followed as much in love as in politics. He'd already scraped through two marriages; his ribald and envious colleagues referred to his Westminster house as the In amp;. Out Club. Geoffrey's response had been to make a dubious virtue of necessity and to eschew further matrimonial entanglement, instead choosing his companions on an a la carte basis from the lengthy menu provided by the women of Westminster. Being single, it merely enhanced the dynamic impression.

Yet in the subdued lighting of Urquhart's study, the Transport Secretary belied his image. The neatly trimmed sandy hair had tumbled across his forehead, the eyes cast down, the broad and slightly crooked chin which normally afforded an aura of rugged athleticism tonight looked simply askew. A schoolboy come to confess.

'Geoffrey, dear boy. What news do you bring from the battle front? Are we winning?' He laid aside the gold-ribbed fountain pen with which he had been signing letters, forcing Booza-Pitt to wait, and suffer. 'Polls seem to be… not too bad.' 'Could be better.' 'Will be.'

Urquhart studied the other man. The eyes were rimmed in red, he thought he could detect the bite of whisky on his breath. Trouble. 'Come to the point, Geoffrey.'

There was no resistance; his composure drained and the shoulders drooped. 'I've got… a little local difficulty, F.U.' 'Women.' 'Is it that obvious?'

The Minister was known to be a man of modest intellect and immoderate copulation; Urquhart had assumed it was only a matter of time before he stubbed his toe in public. 'In this business it's always either women or money – at least in our party.' He leaned forward in a gesture of paternal familiarity, encouraging confession. 'She wasn't dead, was she? Almost anything can be smoothed over, except for live animals and dead women.'

'No, of course not! But it's… more complicated than that.'

More than a stubbed toe – a broken leg, perhaps? Amputation might be called for. 'Well, so far we have one – one? – live woman. Tell me more.'

'The chairman of my local party is going to divorce his wife on the grounds of adultery, citing me.' 'It is true, I assume.'

Booza-Pitt nodded, his hands still clasped between his knees as though defending his manhood from the enraged husband.

'Embarrassing. Might make it difficult to get yourself reselected for the next election with him in the chair.'

Booza-Pitt sighed deeply and rapidly several times, expelling the air forcefully as though attempting to extirpate demons within.

'He says he's not going to be there. He's very bitter. Plans to resign from the party and go to the newspapers with the story.' 'A tangled web indeed.'

'And make all sorts of ridiculous allegations.' This was almost blurted. Control of his breathing had gone. 'That you seduced her…'

'And that I got her to invest money in property on my behalf.' 'So?'

'Property that was blighted by proposed road building schemes.'

'Let me guess. Schemes which were about to be cancelled. Scrapped. So lifting the blight and greatly increasing the value of the property. Inside information known only to a handful of people. Including the Secretary of State for Transport. You.'

The lack of response confirmed Urquhart's suspicions.

'Christ, Geoffrey, you realize that would be a matter for not only resignation, but also criminal prosecution.'

He wriggled like a worm on a hook. Piranha bait. Urquhart left him dangling as he considered. To convict or to assist, punish or protect? He had just buried one Cabinet member, to bury a second in such rapid succession could look more than unfortunate. He swivelled his pen on the blotter in front of him, like a compass seeking direction.

'You can assure me that these accusations are false?' 'Lies, all lies! You have my word.'

'But I assume there are land registry deeds and titles with dates that to the cynical eye will appear to be more than coincidence. How did she know?'

'Pillow talk, perhaps, no more than that. I… I may have left my Ministerial box open in her bedroom on one occasion.'

Urquhart marvelled at the younger man's inventiveness. 'You know as well as I do, Geoffrey, that if this comes out they won't believe you. They'll hound you right up the steps of the Old Bailey.'

The fountain pen was now pointed directly at Booza-Pitt, like an officer's sword at a court martial, in condemnation. Urquhart produced a sheet of writing paper which he laid alongside it. 'I want you to write me a letter, Geoffrey, which I shall dictate.'

Awkwardly, with the movements of a man freezing in the Arctic desert, Booza-Pitt began to write.

' "Dear Prime Minister,"' Urquhart began.'"I am sorry to have to inform you that I have been having an affair with a married woman, the wife of the chairman of my local association…"'

Geoffrey raised pleading eyes, but Urquhart nodded him on.

' "Moreover, she has accused me of using confidential information available to me as a Government Minister to trade in blighted property and enrich myself, in breach not only of Ministerial ethics but also of the criminal law." New paragraph, Geoffrey. "While I have given you my word of honour that these accusations are utterly without foundation, in light of these allegations Booza-Pitt paused to raise a quizzical brow.

' "I have no alternative other than to tender my resignation."'

The death warrant. A sob of misery bounced across the desk.

'Sign it, Geoffrey.' The pen had become an instrument of punishment. 'But don't date it.'

A dawning of hope, a stay of execution. Booza-Pitt did as he was told, managed a smile. Urquhart retrieved the paper, examined it thoroughly, and slid it into the drawer of his desk. Then his voice sank to a whisper, like a vault expelling the last of its air.

'You contemptible idiot! How dare you endanger my Government with your sordid little vices? You're not fit to participate in a Francis Urquhart Cabinet.' 'I'm so dreadfully sorry. And appreciative…' 'I created you. Made a space for you at the trough.' 'Always grateful…' 'Never forget.'

'Never shall. But… but, Francis. What are we going to do about my chairman?'

'I may, just possibly, be able to save your life. What's his name?' 'Richard Tennent.' 'Have I ever met him?'

'Last year, when you came to my constituency. He chewed your ear about grants for tourism.'

Slowly, without taking his eyes off Booza-Pitt, Urquhart reached for his phone. 'Get me a Mr Richard Tennent. New Spalden area.'

And they waited in silence. It took less than two minutes for the operator to make the connection. 'Mr Tennent? This is Francis Urquhart at Downing Street. Do you remember we met last year, had that delightful discussion about tourism? Yes, you put the case very well. Look, I wanted to have an entirely confidential word with you, if you're agreeable. Bit unorthodox, but I have a problem. Did you know that you've been put up for an honour, for your political and public service?' Evidently not.

'No, you shouldn't have known, these things are supposed to be confidential. That's why I wanted an entirely private word. You see, I've just been going through the list and, to be frank, after what you've done for the party I thought you deserved something a little better. A knighthood, in fact. Trouble is, there's a strict quota and a bit of a waiting list. I very much want you to have the "K", Mr Tennent, but it would mean your waiting perhaps another eighteen months. You can have the lesser gong straight away, though, if you like.'

The voice dripped goodwill while his eyes lashed coldly across Booza-Pitt, who showed little sign of being able to breathe.

'You'd prefer to wait. I entirely understand. But you realize that this must remain utterly confidential until then. Won't stop you and Lady Tennent attending a Downing Street reception in the meantime, though? Good.' A tight smile of triumph.

'One last thing. These things get pushed through a Scrutiny Committee, look at each individual case to make sure there are no skeletons in the closet, nothing that might prove a public embarrassment, cause the honour to be handed back or any such nonsense. Forgive my asking, but since your name will be carrying my personal recommendation, there's nothing on the horizon that might…?' A pause.

'Delighted to hear that. I must just repeat that if anything were to leak out about your upcoming award… But then the party has always known it can rely on you. Sir Richard, I am most grateful.'

He chuckled as he threw the phone back into its cradle. 'There you are! The old Round Table gambit always works; give 'em a knighthood and a sense of purpose and they always come aboard. With luck that'll keep his mouth shut for at least another eighteen months and possibly for good.'

Geoffrey had just begun to imitate the Prime Minister's bonhomie when Urquhart turned on him with unmistakable malevolence. 'Now get out. And don't ever expect me to do that again.'

Geoffrey rose, a tremble still evident in his knees. 'Why did you, Francis, this time?'

The light from the desk lamp threw harsh shadows across Urquhart's face, bleaching from it any trace of vitality. One eye seemed almost to have been plucked out, leaving a hollowed socket that led straight to a darkness within.

'Because Francis Urquhart and only Francis Urquhart is going to decide when Ministers come and go from his Cabinet, not some shrivelling cuckold from New Spalden.'

'I understand.' He had been hoping for some acknowledgement of his own irreplaceable worth.

'And because now I own you. Today, tomorrow, and for as long as I wish. You will jump whenever I flick my fingers, whether it be at the throats of our enemies or into your own grave. Without question. Total loyalty.'

'Of course, Francis. You had that anyway.' He turned to leave. 'One last thing, Geoffrey.' 'Yes?' 'Give me back my fountain pen.' The sun blazed fiercely outside the window, and the coffee on the table in small cups was dark and thick; in all other respects the office with its stylishly simplistic furniture; and modern art trimmings might have been found on the Skeppsbron overlooking the harbour in Stockholm. Yet most of the books along the light oak bookshelves were in Turkish, and the two men in the room were of dark complexion, as were the faces in the family photographs standing behind the desk.

'Now, what brought you in such a hurry to Nicosia?' 'Only a fool tarries to deliver good tidings.'

There was an air of formality between them, two Presidents, one Yakar, chief of the Turkish National Oil Company, and the other, Nures, political head of the Republic of Turkish Cyprus. It was not simply that the oil man was a homosexual of contrived manner and the politician a man of robust frame, language and humour; there was often a distance between metropolitan and islander which reflected more than their separation by fifty miles of sea. It had been a century since the Ottomans had ruled Cyprus and differences of culture and perspective had grown. Mainlanders patronized and shepherded the islanders – had they not delivered their cousins from the clutches of Greek extremists by invading and then annexing one third of the island in 1974? At one moment during those confused days the Turkish Cypriots had found themselves on the point of a Greek bayonet, the next they had been in charge of their own state. Except the Government in Ankara kept treating it as though it were their state.

Time to get rid of them, Mehmet Nures told himself yet again. For a thousand years mainland Turks and Greeks and the imperialist British had interfered and undermined, using the island as a well at which to quench the thirst of their ambitions. They'd sucked it dry, and turned an island of old-fashioned kindnesses and a million butterflies into a political desert. Perhaps they couldn't step through the looking glass, back to the ways of old, with bubble-domed churches standing alongside pen-nib mosques, but it was time for change. Time for Cyp-riots to sort out their own destiny, time for peace. The question was – whose peace?

'I have the honour to present to you a draft of the formal report that Seismic International will publish in a few days following their recent survey of the offshore waters.' The oil man removed a folder from a slim leather case and deposited it in front of Nures, who proceeded to rustle through its pages. The file contained many coloured maps and squiggles of seismic cross-sections with much technical language that was quite beyond him.

'Don't treat me like a tortoise. What the hell does all this mean?'

Yakar tugged at his silk shirt cuffs. 'Very little. As expected, the seismic survey has revealed that beneath the waters of Cyprus there is much rock, and beneath the rock there is… much more rock. Not the stuff, I fear, of excited headlines.' 'I sit stunned with indifference.'

Yakar was playing with him, a reserved smile loitering around his moist lips. 'But, Mr President, I have a second report, one which neither Seismic International nor anyone else has – except for me. And now you.' He handed across a much slimmer file, bound in red and bearing the TNOC crest. 'Not the Greeks, you mean?'

'May my entrails be stretched across the Bosphorus first.' 'And this says…?'

'That there is a geological fault off the coast of Cyprus which has tilted the subsurface geology of the sea bed to the north and west of the island. That the structure in that area does indeed contain oil-bearing rock. And that the fault has tipped all the oil into a great big puddle about – there.' He stretched and prodded a bejewelled finger at the map Nures was examining. 'Shit.' 'Precisely.'

The tip of Yakar's manicured nail was pointing directly at what had become known as 'Watling Water' – the sea area contested between Greek and Turkish Cypriot negotiators and currently the subject of arbitration by the British professor's panel.

Nures felt a current of apprehension worm through his gut. It had taken him years to balance the scales of peace, feather by feather, he didn't know if he wanted tons of rock thrown at it right now, oil or no oil. The peace deal was important to him; by giving up so little to the Greek side he could gain so much for his people – peace, international acceptance, true independence, prosperity – and possibly a Nobel Peace Prize for himself. All in exchange for a little land and a stretch of water that was worthless. Or so he had thought.

A thick hand rasped across his dark chin. 'How much oil?' he asked, as if every word had cost him a tooth. 'Perhaps a billion barrels.'

'I see,' he said, but clearly didn't. 'What does that mean?'

'Well, the international spot price for oil is around twenty dollars a barrel at the moment. Cost of extraction about five. In round terms – approximately fifteen billion dollars.'

The oil man was whimpering on about Turkish brotherhood and TNOC getting preferential access, teasing out the deal he wished to cement. Nures closed his hooded eyes as though to shut himself away from such squalor, but in truth to contemplate temptation. He had an opportunity – had created the opportunity – to turn a tide of history that had forced poison between the lips of Cypriots and had condemned his own son to be raised in a land of fear. For his grandson it could be different.

Would the world forgive him for endangering the peace process? Would his people forgive him for missing out on fifteen billion dollars' worth of oil? But could he forgive himself if he didn't try to grab both? No contest. 'President Yakar, I think we want those rocks.' 'President Nures, I rather think we do.' Yaman Hakim felt conspicuous. He had put on his best suit but it was modestly cut and he looked clumsy and other-worldly amidst the style and self-assertiveness on the rue St Honore. Still, he reminded himself, he was not here for a fashion show.

He'd first thought of making the exchange in Istanbul with its cloudburst of humanity beneath which one solitary soul might disappear, but even amongst the labyrinth of souks and smoky bazaars the authorities had their men, the informers, and there was always the danger of his bumping elbows with someone he knew. He didn't trust his luck in such matters; he'd once gone off to Antalya on the excuse of an energy symposium in order to spend two nights with Sherif, a nubile young girl from Personnel who was into older men, only to discover that a neighbour had booked into the next room. Praises to God, the man had been engaged on a similar mission of deceit, allowing them to share the solidarity of sinners. Yet he felt the presence of prying eyes everywhere in his homeland, and this was worth so much more than a quick scramble between the sheets.

He had chosen Paris because he had once visited it as a student many years before, because there was no chance of his being recognized – and because the French understood what was required. The English were too stuffy and of constricted sphincter, while the Americans were all cowboys. If he were to survive, Hakim needed discretion, a partner who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut and not be found after two drinks and an encouraging smile bragging about it in the bar of the Hilton. In matters of corporate espionage, tax evasion and fraud the French had all the necessary finesse, they also had bank accounts untraceable by the Turkish authorities; pity about their limp coffee.

Anxiety had made him early and he sat in the sidewalk cafe swirling the dregs in his cup, waiting. His mind danced with thoughts – of drowsy islands set in mystical seas that shimmered as though studded with a treasury of diamonds; of bougainvillea-clad villas overlooking the sacred Bosphorus and tinkling to the sound of female laughter; of oil wells trembling in the Mediterranean breeze beneath their plumes of black gold – and of the fetid rat-filled walls of Istanbul's notorious Yedi Gule prison, echoing with the cries of those who had come too late to repentance. It was not too late for him, not yet, he could still get out, go home, be back in the office tomorrow. Back to being Hakim the Forgotten. The man whose skill and experience had single-handedly uncovered one of the great natural treasure troves of his lifetime – without whom none of this great adventure in exploration would have been possible! But even as he had handed them his report and analysis, his chest heaving with pride, they had told him it was all in a day's work, what TNOC paid him for, he shouldn't expect any recognition or thanks. And he had received none.

An executive Citroen with immaculate black paintwork drew up on the roadway beside him and a window of darkened glass wound down. 'Mr Hakim, over here. Quickly, please!'

Already the Volkswagen behind was sounding its horn impatiently. They had told him about the cafe, said nothing about a car. Disconcerted, untrusting, but seemingly with little option, the Turk scurried across the pavement. The rear door opened and he settled into the deep leather seat. A hand extended, cuffed in a timepiece of Swiss gold. 'Delighted to meet you at last, Mr Hakim.'

He had insisted on meeting the top man, face to face, not being fobbed off with aides and underlings. He needed decisions, he wanted to deal with the man who made them.

'Forgive the caution. Couldn't be sure you didn't have – how can I put it? – somebody else watching us at the cafe. A news photographer. A competitor, perhaps? I thought a little privacy might assist our discussions.'

Hakim grunted. The man reeked of authority, money; Hakim was well out of his league.

'We were very interested in the material you sent us, Mr Hakim,' – carefully selected pages from the report, crumbs to whet the appetite but not enough to chew on – 'interested enough to check you out. You're genuine. But is your report?'

In response Hakim took a single folded sheet of paper from his suit pocket and, with only the slightest hesitation for a final thought, passed it across. It was the report's summary page, giving the estimates of the potential beneath the sea bed.

'Fascinating. And I assume there is a price for this material.' 'A heavy price,' Hakim growled, snatching back the single sheet. 'But a very fair price.' 'How much?'

'For the entire report?' He chewed his thumb nail. 'A million dollars.'

The other man didn't flinch. His stare was direct, examining Hakim as if some clue to their business might be found in his leathered face; defiantly the Turk stared back.

'This matter is very simple, Mr Hakim. Your information is of no value to anyone unless it is accurate, and of no value to my company unless we get the licence to drill.'

'When the time comes you will buy the licence. With this report you will know how much to pay -and who to pay.' 'That time is some way off.' 'Sadly for you, I am not a patient man.'

'Then let me get to the point. My proposal – which is also my final proposal – is this.' An envelope had appeared in his hands. 'Here is fifty thousand dollars, for sight of the report. If after studying it we believe its contents to be genuine, there will be another two hundred thousand dollars.' He held up a hand to stay the objection beginning to bubble within the Turk. 'And if my company succeeds in obtaining the licence and striking oil, there will be a payment to you of not one, but two million dollars. Worth that, if what you say is true.'

It was the Turk's turn to consider, agitatedly squeezing his salt-streaked moustache as though wishing to pluck it from his lip. 'But how can I trust you?'

'Mr Hakim, how can I trust you? How am I to know you're not hawking this same document around every one of my competitors? There has to be a measure of mutual trust. And look at it this way, what would be the point of my trying to cheat you of millions when there are potentially billions at stake?'

The Turk was breathing heavily, trying to encourage the supply of oxygen to his thought processes.

'If your document is genuine, I shall be giving you a quarter of a million dollars with only your word that it's the sole copy in circulation. A costly mistake for me if your word is false.' The Frenchman paused. 'But it would be a still more costly mistake for you.'

'What?' Hakim mocked. 'You are threatening to break my legs?'

'Not at all, my friend. I would simply let the Turkish authorities know of your activities. I imagine your legs would be the least of your problems.'

The Frenchman smiled, raised the envelope with its fifty thousand dollars and gently proffered it.

Hakim stared, debated, twisted and tore at himself, but the exercise was pointless. It was too late now, neither conscience nor caution could argue with fifty thousand dollars and more, much more, to come. From within his briefcase of imitation-crocodile he extracted his report and handed it across.