The Final Cut

FOUR

Cabinet Government frequently resembled a herd of pigs flying in close formation, he thought. In the Orwellian world of Westminster there was one prerogative above all accorded to the Chief Pig, that of choosing his companions for the fly-past, and it was something of a pity that the resignation of Makepeace had taken the edge off the reshuffle, implying an element of enforced necessity instead of presenting it as unadulterated Urquhart. Makepeace was an overweight boar, he'd insisted, fattened to excess on a diet of Brussels and scarcely capable any longer of lift-off let alone the aerial gymnastics required for public esteem on the British side of the Channel. Market time. 'Should remind others of the constant need to remain lean and hungry,' he'd told his new press officer, Grist. 'And the blessings of the bacon sheer.'

Grist had made a good start to such a significant day, suggesting that the Prime Minister conduct a brisk walk around the lake in St James's Park in order to supply appropriate images for the benefit of photographers, a mixture of purpose and vigour. One of the cameramen had suggested the Prime Ministerial hands might be placed around the neck of a domesticated goose, 'just to give the public an idea of how it's done, Mr Urquhart.' He declined.

By the time he returned to Downing Street an impatient flock of reporters and lobby correspondents was perched along the barriers, waiting upon first prey. Blood was about to be splashed over their boots and they squabbled amongst themselves, fighting for the first morsel, launching thrusts at the Prime Minister from across the road. He responded with nothing more than a wave and a look of sincerity practised to perfection before retreating towards the glossy black door.

'Cry God for England and St George?' It was Dicky Withers. The wise old bird was saving his energies and his thoughts to hang upon a special moment.

Urquhart turned in the doorway to look once more upon the scene, and nodded in Dicky's direction. Dicky knew what this was all about.

'And warm beer, white cliffs and flying pigs,' Urquhart muttered. He said no more before disappearing inside. There was work to be done. It would be a long day. With long knives. For Geoffrey Booza-Pitt, the day had started in admirable fashion. He'd gone fishing at the Ritz, casting champagne and scrambled egg upon the familiar waters until she had risen innocently for the bait. Breakfast with Selina would in any event have been a pleasure, but the attractions of her body were as little for the Transport Secretary compared with those of her mind – or, more specifically, her memory. She was a secretary in the office of the Party Chairman and was one of several in similar political employment whom Geoffrey regularly fed and flattered. In all such cases he preferred breakfast to bed, being cautious about sleeping with women of naive years where sex could be seen as a prelude either to emotional entanglement or to the insinuations of a gossip column, neither of which Geoffrey could countenance. Sharing breakfast offered much more robust reward, pillow talk without the cigarette ash and mascara smears, information sans ejaculation.

Booza-Pitt's political philosophy was unorthodox. He did not believe, for instance, that information attracted ownership, at least the ownership of anybody who was lax enough to let it slip. So Geoffrey would acquire a little bit here and a little bit there, not wholesale robbery, but in the end it all added up – as it had done when he was a student. He'd written to every Jewish charity he could find explaining that he was a devout student struggling to make ends meet, that he was?200 short on his tuition money. He'd work nights, of course, for his living expenses, but he did want to make sure of his tuition and could they please help? And, with a little bit here and a little bit there, the trickles of help had become a flood. If he'd had a conscience it certainly wasn't of Jewish origin since both his parents were casual Methodists. Anyway, he'd slept well in a bed of considerable comfort.

Information was wealth around the labyrinths of Westminster, of a value greater than money, and Selina had paid for breakfast in generous fashion. She'd typed every draft of the new campaigning document being prepared at party headquarters, every addition and amendment, every thought and rethought, the paragraphs of analysis and argument, all the conclusions. And her recall was stupendous, even as the bubbles tickled her nose and made her giggle. The new campaign, it seemed, would not be radical in approach – a little direct mail, a lightweight slogan – but it had been based on new opinion research and, like Selina, was attractively packaged. She was ebullient, unsuspecting, and tender enough to believe he really wanted to help. Geoffrey had smiled, poured, and committed it all to his excellent memory.

The car ferrying them back to their separate offices was stuck in the morning snarl. The fool of a driver had decided to take the rapid route to nowhere around Trafalgar Square, where ranks of one-eyed pigeons stood morose and diseased on guard duty. The Transport Secretary wound up the window and settled back into his seat, for once in his life content to remain obscure, trying to avoid the attentions of fellow jammers with their acrid fumes and equally corrosive tempers. Beside him on the back seat Selina was rearranging her elegant legs, causing him to undertake a rapid reassessment of his priorities -he was a fool for thighs, perhaps he should suggest dinner next time? – when the phone began to burble. From the other end of the line came the voice of his House of Commons secretary. The guest list for his box at the Albert Hall. The promenade concert late next week. A late cancellation, the Trade Secretary off trying to pluck leaves from the tree of Japanese abundance, where he would surely discover like all his predecessors that when it came to promises of freer trade, in the Orient it was always autumn.

The interruption soured Booza-Pitt's mood, distracting him from his scrutiny of delicate ankles and contemplation of indulgence. He hated last-minute cancellations that disturbed what was often months of planning; he went into a sulk, like the Duke of Wellington receiving a scrap of paper informing him that Blucher wouldn't make it in time for Waterloo. He decided to shoot the messenger.

'So what have you done?' he demanded querulously.

'Well, I assume we'd like another top-level politician, so I've been checking the list. You've done every other member of the Cabinet in the last twelve months apart from Tom Makepeace…'

'This is a box at the Albert Hall, not a bloody crypt.'

'And Arthur Bollingbroke. I've already called his secretary to check, she thinks he and his wife might be free on that evening.'

'Bollingbroke! The man's a bloated bore, why the hell do you think I haven't invited him to anything else? I can't sit him down next to the American Ambassador and Chairman of ITN, he'd fart all through the overture while swilling down vast quantities of my champagne. Have you any idea how much that'd cost me?'

The secretary was trying to justify herself but Booza-Pitt was in no mind to listen. The motorist stuck in the next vehicle had recognized him and was offering a two-fingered salutation; the Transport Secretary struggled to balance discretion against a sudden compulsion to get out of the car and rearrange the guy's nasal passages.

'Perhaps we'd better wait until tomorrow, anyway,' he heard her suggest. 'What on earth for?' 'Until the reshuffle is finished.'

'Reshuffle…?' He choked. Selina wondered if a stray salmon bone had become lodged in his throat. 'Didn't you know? It's on television right now.'

Reshuffles had always had an adverse effect on Booza-Pitt, they made him twitch. That first time, he'd been in Parliament less than eighteen months and had refused to stray more than twenty yards from the phone throughout the day, even though his second wife had told him there was no credible chance of his finding promotion so early in his career. Yet the phone had rung while he was out in the garden – 'Downing Street' his wife had announced in awe through the kitchen window. He had run – rushed, tripped, fallen, broken his finger and ripped the knee from his trousers, yet nothing would stop him from taking the call. The Prime Minister's office. Wondering whether he could help. Of course, of course I can! A speaking engagement in a neighbouring constituency which the Prime Minister had planned to undertake, yet which he must now sadly decline. The reshuffle, you understand. Could Geoffrey fill in, tomorrow night? His eyes blurred red with pain, Geoffrey had expressed his unencumbered delight at having been asked, while his soon-to-be former wife had collapsed in convulsions.

You couldn't keep him down, though. He'd been involved in every reshuffle since and now the hounds of hazard had slipped the leash again. Alarums would be ringing all around Westminster, causing grown men to cringe. He studied the telephone in his hand, his features drenched in disbelief. He hadn't known it was today, right this minute, with calls reaching out from Downing Street to summon the good and the gone while she jammed the line with waffle about how it was such a pity because she truly admired Tom Makepeace and… 'Get off the bloody phone!' he screamed. He was still in his shirt sleeves when he opened the front door. By the lack of subtlety in the creases, she suspected he might have ironed it himself.

'You're going to hate me for pestering you at home.' From two steps up Tom Makepeace studied her, still munching his toast. She was tossing her dark hair nervously, the morning sun catching colours of polished coal. The lips were full, puckered in concern, her arms clutched around her in a troubled manner which seemed to lift her breasts towards him. Her coyness was a rarity in Westminster, so were the jeans.

'I hope it's something important, Miss…?' He'd noticed the lack of a ring.

'Maria Passolides. A matter of life and death, in a way.'

But, damn it, this was the middle of his breakfast. 'If you have a problem, perhaps it would be best if you wrote to me with the details.'

'I have. I got a letter in return from an assistant saying thanks but you were too busy to deal with individual predicaments at the moment. He couldn't spell "predicaments".'

'We've had an enormous number of letters in the last few days. Mostly supportive, I'm glad to say, but far too many for me to handle personally. I apologize. Perhaps you'd care to telephone my office to arrange an appointment.' He brushed his hands dismissively of the crumbs.

'Done that, too. Five times. You're always engaged.'

He was losing this game to love, and on his service. 'It seems I'm likely to spend the whole morning apologizing to you, Miss Passolides. Tell me briefly how I might be able to help.' He did not forsake his high vantage point or invite her inside; there were so many troubled individuals, so little politicians could do, and already too many distractions from the extraordinary pile of unopened envelopes which had taken over his dining table. Yet as she talked, she touched something inside him, a pulse of interest. It was several minutes before he recognized it as lust.

'You must understand, Miss Passolides, it's a difficult time for politicians to get into the matter of missing graves, just when we seem to be on the point of peace in Cyprus.'

'That's where you couldn't be more wrong.' As she talked her diffidence had completely disappeared. 'It's not openness that will threaten peace but continuing uncertainty and any hint of a cover-up. Even the Turks have recognized that.'

He reflected on the force of her argument, his energies still weighed down by the thought of the unopened letters and unanswered calls which would pursue him for weeks to come. Life without the Ministerial machine was proving extraordinarily tiresome, with little scope for new crusades. It's all a long way from my constituency,' he offered weakly.

'Don't be so sure. There are nearly three hundred thousand Greek Cypriots in this country and a kebab shop or taverna in every high street. Overnight a politician could have an army at his side.' 'Or at his throat.'

'Beware of Greeks bearing grudges.' She stood laughing on the pavement. There was an unhewn energy, enthusiasm, impatience, passion, commitment, the raw edge of life in this woman. He liked that, and he liked her.

'It seems that the only way I'm going to get you and your army off my doorstep is to invite you in for a cup of tea. Then perhaps we can discuss the matter of whose side.' He stood aside to let her pass. 'And whose throat.' He declined his head as Urquhart strode across the threshold of Number Ten. Over the years the doorman had noticed that what had started as his brief nod of respect had developed into something closer to a cautious bow; as a good trade unionist he'd fought the tendency but found it irresistible, built upon generations of inbred class attitudes which instinctively recognized authority. Damn 'em all. The atmosphere had changed in Downing Street, especially when Elizabeth Urquhart was around, growing more formalized with the passage of time and Parliaments, a royal court dressed in democratic image. One day, the doorman reassured his wife, the great unwashed would stir and shake like a million grains of sand beneath Urquhart's feet and he would slip to his knees and be gone, buried beneath the changing tide of fortune. One day, someday, maybe soon. But in the meantime the doorman would continue to smile and bow a little lower, the better to inspect the shifting sands.

The door closed, shutting out the cries of inquisitive hunger from the press corps. They'd be thrown a few bones later. Before then, there were dishes to carve. Urquhart studied his watch. Good, the timing was perfect. He'd've kept Mackintosh waiting for exactly twenty minutes.

Jasper Mackintosh was standing in the comer of the hallway, tapping his hand-crafted shoe on the black-and-white floor tiles, trying with little success to hide his irritation. As the owner and publisher of the country's second largest and fastest-growing newspaper empire, he was more accustomed to being waited on than waiting, and after a lifetime of building and breaking politicians he was left in no undue awe by his surroundings. Several months previously he'd concluded that the time had come to start pulling the plug on Francis Urquhart – not that the Prime Minister had done anything politically damaging or offensive, simply that he'd been around so long that stories about him no longer sold newspapers. Change and uncertainty sold newspapers, and business dictated it was time for a little turmoil. Mackintosh was on a high, and in a hurry. Only last week he'd finally agreed the terms of purchase for the Clarion chain of newspapers, a lumbering loss-making giant staffed by clapped-out journalists working in clapped-out plant for a clapped-out readership, yet which offered well-known titles and great potential. The journalists could be paid off, new plant could be constructed, a new readership bought through heavy advertising and discounting, but the cost was going to be high, many tens of millions, and there was no room in Mackintosh's world for standing still. He had to get the money men off his back. That meant headlines, happenings, histrionics and new heroes. Sentimentality was a sin.

Mackintosh had already decided that Urquhart had lost this morning's game, and not simply for starting it twenty minutes late. He assumed the Prime Minister wanted to rekindle the relationship, perhaps give him an exclusive insight into the reshuffle in exchange for sympathy. No chance. In Mackintosh's world of tomorrow, Francis Urquhart didn't feature. Anyway, where was the courtesy, the deference he expected from a supplicant? Urquhart simply grabbed him by the elbow and hustled him along the corridor.

'Glad you could make it, Jasper. I haven't got a lot of time, got to dispatch a few of the walking wounded, so I'll come straight to the point. Why have you directed your muck spreaders into Downing Street?' 'Muck spreaders?' 'Driven by your editors.'

'Prime Minister, they are souls of independent mind. I have given countless undertakings about interfering…'

'They are a bunch of brigands and whatever the state of their minds, you've got them firmly by the balls. Their thoughts tend to follow.' Suddenly Urquhart called a halt to the breathless charge down the passageway. He hustled Mackintosh into the alcove by the Henry Moore and looked him directly in the eye. 'Why? Why are you writing that it's time for me to go? What have I done wrong?'

Mackintosh considered, and rejected the option of prevarication. Urquhart wanted it straight. 'Nothing. It's not what you've done, it's what you are. You're a giant, your shadow falls across the political world and leaves others in the shade. You've been a great man, Francis, but it's time for a change. Let others have a chance to grow.' He smiled gently; he'd put it rather well, he thought. 'It's business, you understand. The business of politics and of newspapers. Nothing personal.'

Urquhart seemed unaffected by the obituary. 'I'm obliged to you, Jasper, for being so direct. I've always thought we had a relationship which was robust and candid, which could withstand the knocks of changing times.'

'That's extremely generous of you…' Mackintosh began, but Urquhart was talking straight through him.

'And speaking of the knocks of changing times, I thought it only fair – in equal candour and confidence – to share with you some plans which the Treasury are proposing to push forward. Now you know I am not a man of high finance, I leave that to the experts like you. Extraordinary how the nation entrusts the fate of its entire national fortune to politicians like me who can scarcely add up.' He shrugged his shoulders, as though trying to slough off some unwelcome burden. 'But as I understand it you've undertaken to buy the Clarion and are going to pay for it all by issuing a large number of bonds to your friends in the City.'

The newspaper man nodded. This was all public knowledge, a straightforward plan to raise the money by huge borrowings, with the interest payments being set off against his existing company's profits. Overall his profits would plummet but so would his tax bill, and in effect the Inland Revenue would end up paying for the expansion of the Mackintosh empire, which in a few years' time would be turned into one of the biggest money spinners in the country. Debt today, paid for by the tax man, in exchange for huge profit tomorrow, paid directly to Mackintosh. Creative accounting and entirely legal. The money men loved it.

'The point is,' the Prime Minister continued, 'and this is just between the two of us, as old friends…'

Somewhere inside, at the mention of friendship, Mackintosh felt his muesli move.

'… the Treasury is planning to make a few changes. As from next week. Something about the losses of one company no longer being able to be set off against the profits of another. I don't profess to understand it, do you?'

Of course Mackintosh understood. So well that he grabbed the wall for support. It was a proposal to slash the canvas of his creative accounting to shreds. With those rules his tax bill would soar and even the dullest underwriter would realize he'd no longer be able to repay the debt. He was already committed to buying the Clarion, no way out of it, yet at the slightest hint of a rule change the money men would wash their hands of the whole plan, walk away to their champagne bars and Porsches, leaving him with… 'Ruin. You'd ruin me. I'd lose everything.'

'Really? That would be a pity. But the Treasury button counters are so very keen on this new idea, and who am I to argue with them?' 'You are the bloody Prime Minister!'

'Yes, I am. But, apparently, one not long for this world. On the way out.'

'Oh, God.' Mackintosh's shoulders had slumped, the tailored suit seeming to hang like sacking. A man reduced. He raised his eyes in search of salvation but all he could find were the long drapes which stood guard beside the tall sash windows of the hallway, coloured like claret, or blood. His blood. Time to swallow pride, words, self-respect. He cleared his throat with difficulty. 'It seems my editors have badly misjudged you, Prime Minister. You appear to have lost neither your acumen nor your enthusiasm for office. I shall inform them of their error immediately. And I think I can assure you that no editor who holds anything but the highest regard for your many and varied talents will ever work for one of my newspapers.'

For an endless breath Urquhart said nothing. The lips closed, grew thin, like the leathered beak of a snapper turtle, and the eyes ignited with a reptilian malevolence and a desire to do harm that Mackintosh could physically feel. It was the stuff of childish nightmares; he could taste his own fear. 'Good.' At last the lips had moved. 'You can find your own way out.' Urquhart had already turned his back and was a step away from the dejected Mackintosh when he spun round for one final word, the features now bathed in a practised smile.

'By the way, Jasper. You understand, don't you? All this. It's business. Nothing personal.' And he was gone. It was a night out for the boys. Loud, rumbustious, earthy, scarcely diplomatic, not at all ecclesiastical. Hardly the place one expected to find His Grace the Bishop of Marion and the High Commissioner of the Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. But the Cypriot Bishop was one of the new breed of clerics who sought orthodoxy only in their religion.

'Welcome, most high of high commissioners.' The Bishop, clad in the black of the clerical cassock, spread his arms in greeting and chuckled. As Hugh Martin, the British diplomat, entered, three of the four men who had been sitting alongside the Bishop rose and melted to the sidelines. The fourth, who was as broad as the Bishop was tall, was introduced as his brother, Dimitri.

'I'm delighted you could come and enjoy what, with God's grace, will be a night of momentous victory for my team,' the Bishop continued, while two girls who said nothing through enormous smiles offered trays of wine and finger food.

'Your team, your Grace?' Martin enquired light-heartedly.

'Indeed,' the Bishop responded in his most earnest of tones. 'I own the team. In the name of the bishopric, of course. A fine way of extending God's bounty to the masses, don't you think?' On cue the thousands of ardent soccer supporters packed into Nicosia's Makarios Stadium erupted into a stamping war cry of delight as twenty-two players filed onto the pitch. The Cyprus Cup Final was about to get underway.

In the corner of the private box high up in the stadium a mobile phone warbled and one of the besuited assistants began muttering into the mouthpiece. Martin looked afresh at the scene. He was new to the posting in the Cypriot capital yet already had heard of the extrovert Theophilos, still only in his forties, who controlled an empire which covered not only hearts and souls but also pockets – a newspaper, two hotels, several editors, still more politicians and a vineyard which was arguably the finest on the island. But Martin hadn't known about the football team. Clearly there was much to learn about this Harvard Business School-educated, well-groomed cleric.

The Englishman was grateful for the whirring fans which spilled the air around the box. Nicosia was one of those capitals which seemed to be in the wrong place, tucked behind the Kyrenia mountains on the wide plains of Mesaoria, touched by neither rippling sea breeze nor fresh mountain air, where even as early as May the heat and exhaust fumes built to oppressive levels. The Makarios Stadium had become a concrete cauldron nearing the boil, bringing sweat and fanatical passion to the brows of the packed crowd, yet beneath his ankle-length bishop's robes Theophilos remained cool. Elegantly he dispatched instructions via the assistants who sat behind him, all of whom were introduced as theology teachers yet who, judging by their frequent telephone conversations, were equally at home in the world of Mammon. Only his brother Dimitri, a highly strung man of fidgeting fingers whose tongue ceaselessly explored the comers of his cheeks, sat alongside the Bishop and the High Commissioner; the others remained in a row of chairs behind, except for a single man who neither spoke nor smiled but stood guard beside the door. Martin thought he detected a bulge beneath the armpit, but surely not with a man of the cloth? He decided that the sweet, heavy wine they were drinking must be affecting his imagination.

The game proceeded in dogged fashion, the players weighed down by the heat and the tension of the occasion. Martin offered diplomatic expressions of encouragement but Dimitri's hand language betrayed his growing impatience, his cracking knuckles and beaten palms speaking for all the Cypriots in the box as, down on the field, nervous stumble piled upon wayward pass and slip. Only the Bishop expressed no reaction, his attentions seemingly concentrated on the shelling of pistachios and the flicking of husks unerringly into a nearby bowl. A dagger pass, sudden opportunity, raised spirits, a waving flag, offside, another stoppage. Then stamping feet. Jeers. Irreverent whistles. From within the plentiful folds of the Bishop's cassock a finger was raised, like a pink rabbit escaping from an enormous dark burrow.

'Fetch the manager' were the only words spoken; with surprising haste for a man whose spiritual timing was set by an ageless clock, one of the students of theology disappeared through the door.

It was more than fifteen minutes to half time, yet less than five before there was a rapping at the door and a flushed, tracksuited man was permitted to enter. He immediately bowed low in front of the Bishop. To Martin's eye, unaccustomed as he was to the ways of the Orthodox, there seemed to be a distinct and deliberate pause before the Bishop's right hand was extended and the manager's lips met his ring.

'Costa,' the Bishop addressed the manager as he rose to his feet, 'this is God's team. Yet you permit them to play like old women.'

'My apologies, Theofilestate, Friend of God,' the manager mumbled.

The Bishop's voice rose as though warning a vast crowd of the perils of brimstone. 'God's work cannot be done without goals, the ground will not open to swallow our opponents. Their left back has the turning speed of a bulk carrier, put Evriviades against him – get behind him, get goals.' The manager, scourged, was a picture of dejection. 'There's a new Mercedes in it for you if we win.'

'Thank you. Thank you, Aghie, Saintly One!' He bowed to kiss the ring once more. 'And you'll be walking to the bus stop if we don't.'

The manager was dismissed in the manner of a waiter who had spilled the soup.

Martin was careful to conceal his wry amusement. This was a theatre piece, although whether put on for his benefit or that of the manager he wasn't completely sure. He had little interest in football but a growing curiosity in this extraordinary black-garbed apparition who appeared to control the destiny of souls and cup finals as the doorkeeper of hell controls the hopes of desperate sinners. 'You take your football seriously,' Martin commented.

The Bishop withdrew a packet of cigarettes from the folds of his cassock; almost as quickly an aide had ignited a small flame thrower and the Bishop disappeared in a fog of blue smoke. Martin wondered if this were a second part of the entertainment and he was about to witness an Ascension. When the cleric's face reappeared it was split with a smile of mischief.

'My dear Mr Martin. God inspires. But occasionally a little extra motivation assists with His work.'

'I sincerely hope, your Grace, that I never have cause to find myself in anything other than your favour.'

'You and I shall be the greatest of friends,' he chortled. One of the young girls refilled their glasses; she really was very pretty. Theophilos raised his glass. 'Havoc to the foes of God and Cyprus.' They both drank deep.

'Which reminds me, Mr Martin. There's a small matter I wanted to raise with you…' 'And there's another small matter I wanted to raise with you, Max.'

Maxwell Stanbrook thought he truly loved the man. Francis Urquhart stood framed against the windows of the Cabinet Room, gazing out like the admiral of a great armada about to set to sea. Stanbrook had arrived less than twenty minutes before at his office in MAFF, the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, to be told by his agitated private secretary that he was wanted immediately at Downing Street. 'So what is it, Sonia?' 'I don't know, Minister – no, really I don't.'

Stanbrook was firmly committed to the proposition that Government was a quiet conspiracy of civil servants who pulled all of the strings and most of the wool and he took an active and incredulous dislike to those who claimed they didn't know or suggested there was no alternative. He was notorious throughout Whitehall for throwing – literally hurling – position papers back at civil servants wrapped in a shower of uncivil expletives. The Mobster in the MAFFia, as he was known. It was no secret that many in the corridors of power desperately wanted to see his comeuppance; had that time arrived?

A year earlier he'd thought he might have cancer. He remembered how he had walked into the consultant's office trying to mask his dread, to still the shaking knee, to put a brave face on the prospect of death. Somehow it had been easier than this; the fear of mortal illness was nothing compared to the wretchedness he felt as he had walked into the Cabinet Room. Urquhart was there alone. No pleasantries.

'I've had to let Annita go,' the Prime Minister began. God, he was on the list…

'I want you to take her place. Environment Secretary. Put a bit of stick about. You know, Max, the drones in the department fancy themselves as the new thought police. An environmental watchdog here, a pollution inspectorate there. And what's the point? No sooner had they given every school child nightmares about global warming than we had to send in the army to dig hypothermic pensioners out of the snow. Next it was a paper demanding billions of pounds to combat drought fourteen days – fourteen days! – before North Wales and an entire cricket season were washed away in floods. Pipedreams, nothing but pipedreams they conjure up over long lunches in Brussels to keep themselves in jobs. Sort it out for me, will you, Max?' 'Be a pleasure, F.U.'

'One thing in particular. This Fresh Air Directive – you remember? Brussels trying to make British factories smell like a French bordello. Bloody nonsense, I'll not have it.'

'But I thought the directive had already been approved.'

'Yes, it'll be carved on Annita's headstone. She didn't like it, not at all gracious about going; suspect I'll have to watch my back for knitting needles. But although it's European policy, domestic governments are responsible for implementing it.'

'They've turned us into odour officers. Pooper snoopers.'

'Precisely. Now, there's been a lot of loose criticism about us being poor Europeans, you can imagine how distressing I find that. So I want you to ensure that the monitoring arrangements are implemented meticulously. I suggest once a year, usually in January. Preferably during a gale.' 'On the windward side of town.' 'Max, you could go far.' 'I shall certainly do my best.'

Urquhart chuckled benevolently, wondering if he had just spotted a new potential rival. He would watch him, as he watched them all. He rose from his chair and walked to the window from where he could see the trees of St James's.

'There's another small matter, Max. Tricky. One of the first things you'll be asked to do is to sign an order permitting the erection of a statue to the Blessed Margaret – just out there.' He waved in the direction of the park. 'The money's been raised, a sculptor commissioned, they're ready to go.' He turned. 'And I want you to find some way of stopping it.' 'Do you have any suggestions, F.U.?'

'I'd rather hoped you might come up with some. It would be embarrassing if I'm seen to oppose it, they'd say I was motivated by envy, which of course is not the case. It's the principle of the thing. This is not a Government of idolatry and graven images. I want you to know there is no thought of personal advantage in my position on this matter…' 'And I insist that you understand, my dear Mr Martin, there is no thought of personal gain for me in all this. Many new jobs will be created for poor farmers in a desperately undeveloped part of our island.'

'But Cape Kathikas is a nature reserve. It's meant to be undeveloped. To preserve the orchids and other rare plants.'

The Bishop gesticulated extravagantly, the loose sleeves of his cassock slipping back to reveal surprisingly well-muscled forearms. 'There are a hundred thousand hillsides for the orchids. But only one Cape Kathikas. Let me tell you of my vision…'

Cape Kathikas, it seemed, was an ideal spot not only for the indigenous and exceptionally scarce orchid Ophrys cypria, but also for a twin-hotel resort complete with helipad, golf course, conference centre and marina. The local inhabitants of this westerly cape, after generations of isolation and impoverishment and fuelled by stories of unimagined riches, were enthusiastic to the point of uprising that their small and fruitless plots of land should be transformed into approach roads, sand traps, water hazards, staff quarters and the other accumulated clutter of a Costa del Kypros. And if the Church in the person of Theophilos who owned most of the land were also to benefit hugely, it seemed merely to bestow God's blessing upon their venture.

There was only one other obstacle, apart from the orchids. That was the fact that the Cape was a field firing range for the British military, designated as such under the Treaty of Establishment which had given Cyprus its independence and where for twenty-one days a year the coastal rocks and its offshore environs were peppered with Milan and Swingflre anti-tank missiles. Bound to play merry hell with a high-rise hotel and marina.

'Do you really need a firing range?' Theophilos asked. 'As much as we need an army.'

'Then we shall find you another area for your operations. There must be so many other parts of the island that might be suitable.' 'Such as?'

'The British surely wouldn't stand in the way of us Cypriots developing our economy' the Bishop responded, ducking the direct question. 'It would raise so many unpleasant memories.'

'I thought the objections were being led by Cypriots themselves, the environmentalists. Those who value the area as a national park.'

'A handful of the maudlin and the meddling who have small minds and no imagination. Lunchtime locusts who know wildlife only from what they eat. What about our poor villagers?' 'What about the orchids?' 'Our villagers demand equality with orchids!'

There was no answer to that. Martin offered a conciliatory smile and subsided. Booza-Pitt was gabbling. He did that when he was nervous, to fill in the spaces. He didn't like spaces in a conversation. As a boy they had tormented him, fleeting pauses in which his mother drew breath before continuing with her ceaseless tirade of complaint about her lot in life. So, as a means of defence, he had learnt to launch himself into any conversation, talking across people and above people and about anything. He was an excellent talker, never at a loss for words. Trouble was, he'd never really learnt to listen.

Urquhart had been alone at the great Cabinet Table when Geoffrey had entered the room. The Prime Minister said nothing but as Geoffrey walked to his chair on the opposite side of the table Urquhart's eyes followed him closely, almost as if he were still trying to make a judgement, uncertain, unsettled. And unsettling. So Geoffrey had started talking.

'I've had this idea, Francis. A new set of campaigning initiatives for the Party. Thought about it a lot. Build on the reshuffle, get us going through the rest of the year. I've talked it through with the Party Chairman – I think he's going to put it all in a paper for you. The main point is this…' 'Shut up, Geoffrey.' 'I…' Geoffrey shut up, uncertain how to respond.

'The Chairman has already told me about his campaigning ideas, just before I fired him. I have to say you are an excellent peddler of other people's ideas.' 'Francis, please, you must understand…'

'I understand all too well. I understand you. Perhaps it's because we are a little alike.'

'Are you going to fire me after all?' Geoffrey's tone was subdued, he was trying hard not to beg. 'I've thought about it.'

Booza-Pitt's face, depleted by misery, sank towards his chest.

'But I've decided to make you Home Secretary instead.'

A curious gurgling noise emerged from the back of Booza-Pitt's throat. The prospect of being translated into one of the four most powerful posts in Government at the age of thirty-eight seemed to have snapped his control mechanisms.

They'll say I'm grooming you for the leadership when I've gone. But I'm not. I'm putting you there to stop anyone else using the post to groom himself for the leadership. And to do a job. Using your talents at peddling other people's ideas. My ideas.'

'Anything you say, Francis,' Booza-Pitt managed to croak, throat cracked like the floor of an Arabian wadi.

'We shall soon be facing an election and I've decided to move the goal posts a little. A new Electoral Practices Act. A measure so generous and democratic it'll leave the Opposition breathless.'

Booza-Pitt nodded enthusiastically, with no idea what his leader was talking about.

'I want to make it easier for minority candidates to stand. To allow for…' – Urquhart dropped his voice a semi-tone, as though making a speech – 'a fuller and more balanced representation of the views of the general public. To ensure a Government more firmly rooted in the wishes of the people.' He nodded in self-approval. 'Yes, I like that.' 'But what does it mean?'

'It means that any candidates who get more than two thousand votes will have all their election expenses paid by the State.'

The face of the new Home Secretary had suddenly turned incredulous. 'You're winding me up, Francis. With that on offer every nutter and whinger in the land is going to stand.' 'Precisely.' 'But…'

'But who else would these minorities and malcontents vote for, if not for themselves?'

'Not for us, not even if you lobotomized every single one of them.'

'Well done, Geoffrey. They'd vote for the Opposition. So by encouraging them to stand we'll suck away several thousand votes from the Opposition in practically every constituency. Worth at least fifty seats overall, I reckon.' 'You, you…'

'You're allowed to call me a deviously scheming bastard, if you want. I'd regard it as a compliment.' For the first time in their interview, Urquhart's features had cracked and he was smiling.

'You are a devious, scheming, brilliant bastard, Francis Urquhart.'

'And a great champion of democracy. They will have to say that, all the newspapers, even the Opposition.' 'The updated version of divide and rule.'

'Exactly. We ran an empire on that principle. Should be good enough for one little country. Don't you think, Home Secretary?' A spotlight had been thrown on the box and Theophilos held his arms up high to acknowledge the attentions of the half-time crowd, his robes cascading like dark wings. A great raven, Martin thought, and with similar appetites.

'So may I expect your co-operation and support, Mr Martin?' the cleric continued, casting the question over his shoulder as he offered the sign of the cross in blessing. 'This is a rare opportunity.' 'So are the orchids.'

For a moment the Bishop's arms seemed to freeze in impatience; Dimitri had begun to develop a distinctive lopsided scowl as the conversation turned in circles. He was examining his broad and heavily callused knuckles as though the answer to every problem could somehow be found in the crevices.

'I don't wish to appear unsympathetic' the Englishman continued, glad that his pedigree as a Diplomatic Service Grade 4 enabled him to control most of his outward appearances, particularly those which might convey any measure of disagreement or displeasure. It was not the task of the Foreign amp;. Commonwealth Office to be seen saying no. 'Your problem is not with the British, it's with your own Government. And with the environmentalists.'

'But this is ridiculous.' The Bishop's voice grew sibilant with exasperation. 'When I approach our stubborn donkey of a President he claims the problem lies with you British. And the environmentalists. The British military climbs into bed with the goddamn greens while our poor peasants starve.' He swung round suddenly, like an unwanted visitor of the night appearing at a bedroom window. The blue enamel adorning his heavy crucifix gleamed darkly in the light; his eyes, too. 'Do not underestimate how important this is to me, Mr Martin.'

'My regrets. The British Government cannot become involved in a domestic dispute in Cyprus.'

'But you are involved!' Theophilos slumped angrily into his seat as the second half commenced. 'You have two military bases on our island, you have access rights across it and you fire your missiles and bullets upon it. The only time you choose not to become involved is when we most need you. Like when the Turks invaded.'

Conversation ceased as the Bishop struggled to regain his humour and the young women served more wine. Martin declined; he made a mental note never to drink again while in the presence of Theophilos, a man whose attentions required all of one's wits in response. When the Cypriot spoke again, his voice was composed, but seemed to contain no less passion.

'Many Cypriots find it unacceptable that you British should continue to have a military presence on our soil.'

'The two bases are sovereign British soil, not Cypriot. That was clearly agreed in the Treaty of Establishment.'

'The soil is Cypriot, the blood spilled upon it for centuries has been Cypriot, and the treaty is unjust and unequal, forced upon us by British colonial masters in exchange for our independence. I advise you, Mr Martin, not to base your arguments upon that treaty, for ordinary Cypriots will neither understand nor approve. Encourage them to think about such matters and they will demand it all back. You might end up having no firing range, no bases, nothing.'

The warning had been delivered in the manner of a wearied professor lecturing a dullard, the tone implying no room for argument, brooking no response. There seemed nothing more to discuss, a silence hanging uncomfortably between them until their mutual discomfort was thrust aside by a shout of jubilation from all around. Evriviades had scored. 'You've just lost a Mercedes.'

'And you, Mr Martin, might just have lost the friendship of the Cypriot people.' 'Who's there?' 'A friend.' 'There are few friends about on days like these.' 'Count me as one.'

The door of the back room in L'Amico's restaurant, tucked away behind Smith Square, slid open to reveal the large figure of Harry Mendip. He'd heard Annita Burke and Saul Wilkinson were lunching privately, sharing sorrows and anger at having been sacked, unwilling to face the whispers and stares of a more public place. Mendip knew how they felt; he'd been one of the victims last time around. 'Will you eat with us, Harry?' 'My appetite's not for food.' 'Then what?' 'Action.' 'Revenge?' 'Some might call it so.'

A third glass of wine was poured, another bottle ordered. 'Everything is Urquhart. Damn him.' 'Little Caesar.' 'He acts like a Prince, not a Prime Minister.' 'And we bow and bend the knee as his subjects.' 'Abjects.'

'Yet what, apart from ruthlessness, has set him so high?'

'And what, apart from ruthlessness, will bring him down?'

They paused as the waiter collected a few scattered dishes.

'He's grown so lofty that his feet scarcely touch the ground.'

'But when they do, the ground is soaked with blood. Slippery soil. He is vulnerable.' 'Butchered too many, over the years.'

Annita Burke refilled the glasses. 'Are we of the same mind?' The other two nodded. 'Then who is to lead this enterprise?'

'How about Yorke? He's fit for stratagems and treasons.' 'A happy blend of mischief.'

'But there's no harmony in his soul. Nothing to lift the hearts and sights of others.' 'Then Penthorpe.'

'With those fearsome ferret eyes that make a man think he's volunteering for the gallows? I think not.' 'You, Annita.'

She shook her head. 'No, this one is not for me. Harsh words in a woman are always dismissed as hormones at war. And in my case no one would forget they are Jewish hormones. Anyway, I lack that sharpness of foot and wit necessary to lead the dance.' 'Then there is only one.' They all knew the name. 'Makepeace.' 'He will be hard to convince.' 'All the better once he is so.' 'To challenge for the leadership?'

'What is the point? Urquhart has filled the party machine with placemen whose spirits are dead and who've sold their souls.'

'Then if we cannot take Urquhart away from the party, we must take the party away from him.' 'Meaning?' 'A new leader, and a new party.' Mendip sucked in his breath. 'That is a dangerous enterprise,' he said slowly.

'An honourable one, too. At least, Makepeace would make it seem so.'

'And I'd rather be torn apart as a dog of war than stay to be slaughtered like a sheep.'

Burke raised her glass. 'A toast. Let's be masters of our own fate.' 'All the way to the door of hell.' As Booza-Pitt stumbled out of the Cabinet Room in a haze of elation he all but bounced off the portly figure of Bollingbroke, who was admiring the white marble bust of William Pitt which nestled in a niche on the wall.

'He had it right, don't you think?' Bollingbroke enquired, eyes raised in admiration. The homespun accent stretched vowels as though he were chewing a mouthful of black treacle toffee.

Booza-Pitt tried to adjust his profile to match that of the eighteenth-century Prime Minister, wondering what on earth the other was prattling about.

'Prime Minister at the time of Trafalgar, you know. When we blew apart Napoleon's fleet. Heard some crap that he was a relative of yours. Stuff 'n' nonsense. Not true, is it?'

Faced with such a direct challenge, Booza-Pitt was loath to lie. He shrugged his shoulders inconclusively. Damn the man, he was gibbering when all Geoffrey wanted to do was to flaunt his new eminence and be gone, leaving the other splashing and waterlogged in the wake. 'What were his words, Geoff, can you remember?'

He shook his head, lost in the labyrinth of the Bollingbroke mind. He suspected it was some test of his family credentials. ' "England has saved herself by her exertions, and Europe by her example." That's what he said, did Pitt. Heck, not a bad motto for today, neither. You know, Froggies never change. I'll have to remember that. Now I'm Foreign Secretary.'

He poured the news deftly into Booza-Pitt's lap where it landed much like a bucketful of pond life.

'You – are Foreign Secretary?' Booza-Pitt squeaked. 'Arthur, I'm so delighted for you. You must come and split a bottle of Bollinger with me.' 'Can't stand the stuff. Best bitter man, meself.'

Booza-Pitt began to gain the impression that he was being wound up. 'I've been given the Home Office,' he responded weakly, deflated by the prospect of being forced to share the day's headlines with Bollingbroke.

'Yes, I know,' the Foreign Secretary responded, practising one of those looks with which he would convey to the French the full depth of his disdain without uttering a single undiplomatic word. 'I'm off. Got to go and sort out all those bloody Bonapartists.' He turned away brusquely. 'Hello, pet,' he greeted an approaching figure cheerfully, and was gone.

Claire appeared, or might have been there all the time, Geoffrey was not sure which. 'Congratulations, Home Secretary.'

God, had everyone heard about his promotion before him? 'But a word of advice,' she continued. 'The tie.'

'You like it?' he said, running his finger down the vibrant silk motif. 'Australian. An aboriginal fertility symbol, I'm told.'

'But a little too…' – she sought the appropriate term – 'courageous.'

'What's wrong with my tie?' he demanded defensively.

'Remember, Geoffrey, the job of Home Secretary is to share miseries and explain away disappointment. Why policemen are towing away shoppers' cars instead of cutting off football hooligans' goolies, that sort of thing. You're not supposed to look as if you're enjoying it.' She smiled mischievously and headed for the Cabinet Room door.

Hell, would no one allow him to relish the moment? 'That's not all a Home Secretary might do,' he countered. 'Francis and I have got plans.' His tone suggested a conspiracy of friendship and great secrets, an alliance which no one dare mock. And it had stopped her in her tracks, he was pleased to note.

She turned to face him. 'If you're going to screw the electorate, for pity's sake don't wear a tie advertising the fact.' Then she was gone, entering through the Prime Minister's door without knocking.