'It was feared last night that the Prime Minister planned to use chemical and biological weapons against the Cypriots before he was forced to surrender. The alarming condition of the British soldiers involved in the fiasco has led to allegations that they were contaminated by their own bio-weapons which Francis Urquhart himself had ordered to be carried secretly on the convoy. "Such orders would make Urquhart a war criminal, guilty of the most serious breaches of the Human Rights Convention," a peace spokesman said . . .'
Mackintosh was on his yacht in St Katharine's Dock, the fashionable waterhole which nestles beside the looming columns of Tower Bridge, when the phone call came.
'Why do you print it when you know it's not true?' The voice was hoarse, with a slight Scottish lowland taint, as happened when he was on the point of exhaustion.
'Truth, Francis? A strange new suit for you to be wearing.'
'Why do you print it?' Urquhart demanded once more.
'Because it does you damage. Hurts you. That's why.' From behind Mackintosh came the sound of an exploding cork and the tinkle of young female laughter.
'I thought we had an understanding.'
'Sure. You would poke sticks in my eye for as long as you could. Then it would be my turn. You're through, Francis. There's nothing more you can threaten me with, no taxation changes, no monopoly references. Because one week from today they're going to hang you in front of every polling station in the country. And I'll host the celebrations.'
'Is there nothing we can . . .'
But already the line was dead.
Late that evening he called them in, one by one. His Cabinet. The Praetorian Guard whose bodies would litter the steps of the Capitol before they would allow any enemy to draw within striking distance of Caesar. In theory, at least.
Claire had counselled against calling them in separately, but he had been firm. They were agitated, like sheep, if one scattered the rest would surely follow. Herd them, isolate them, stare them down, allow them to find no strength in numbers; on their own he might cow them into support before they melted away into the mob. But at his core he knew they weren't up to it; they would fail him.
He sat in the Cabinet Room, in the chair reserved for the Prime Minister, the only one with arms. Three phones beside him. The rest of the table was bare, stripped of blotters and any other sign of Ministerial rank, covered only with a sad brown felt cloth. He wanted his Ministers to have no hiding place, no trappings of office, nothing behind which to hide. He needed to know. Outside it was drizzling.
He had intended to start with Bollingbroke but the Foreign Secretary was returning from a Council of Ministers meeting in Brussels and there was a delay somewhere along the way. Instead he got Whittington - how
he wished it had been Whitting
ton's wife; then, at least, he would have found some solid response. There was a knock at the door and Claire brought him in. He seemed reluctant.
'Come in, Terry,' Urquhart encouraged quietly. 'It's my scaffold you're stepping on, not your own.'
The Minister sat opposite, dabbed at his mouth nervously with a handkerchief which then slipped surreptitiously to his temple, wiping away the dew that was beginning to rise.
'Terry, let me get straight to the point. Do I have your continued support as Prime Minister?'
'You will always have my personal support, Prime Minister.' A whimpering smile appeared on his damp lips, then as quickly evaporated. 'But I can't see how we can win, you know, with . . .'
'With me?'
'With circumstances as they are.' He was bleating, even sounding like a sheep. 'Will you make a public statement of your support for me?'
The dew at Whittington's temples had turned into an unmistakable nervous damp. 'It's so very difficult out there
’
he muttered, waving a rubber wrist. 'I would hate to see you defeated, Francis. As an old friend, I must tell you. I don't think you can win. Perhaps, perhaps . . . you should consider announcing your resignation. You know, protect your unbeaten record?'
It sounded pre-prepared, second hand. A ditty passed through Urquhart's mind, about something borrowed, something blue.
'And what does your wife think?'
'She feels exactly the same
’
Whittington added, too hurriedly. He'd given the game away.
Urquhart leaned forward. 'A statement of clear support from my Cabinet would help give a slightly less striking impression of a sinking ship.'
Whittington's lips moved in agitation but he said nothing, merely flapping his arms about. He was already swimming.
'Then will you at least give me until this weekend to decide? Before you say anything publicly?'
Whittington's head nodded, falling forward, hiding his eyes. They were stinging, he wasn't sure whether from the sweat or because he was on the verge of crying.
With a flick of his wrist Urquhart dismissed him. Claire already had the door open. It was raining harder now.
Maxwell Stanbrook came in next.
'So, Max?'
'First, Francis, I want to tell you how grateful I am for everything you have done. For me. The party. For the country. I mean that, most sincerely.'
'So you'll support me? Publicly?'
Stanbrook shook his head. 'Game's up, old dear. Sorry. You cannot win.'
'I made you, Max.'
'I know. And so I'll go down with you, too. I'm honest enough to recognize that. Which is why you should recognize that I'm being honest about your situation.'
'There is nothing to be done?'
'Get out on the best terms available, Francis. Which is to announce your resignation now, before the election. Give the rest of us half a chance. And keep your unbeaten record into the bargain. "Undefeated at any election he fought," that's what the history books will record. Not a bad epitaph.'
Protecting his unbeaten record. The same formula used by Whittington. An interesting coincidence, if it were.
'Will you issue a statement of support on my behalf?'
'If that's what you want. But in my opinion it will do you no good.'
It hurt. He'd had hopes of Stanbrook. Deep within he felt a shaking, of foundations crumbling, of new fissures beginning to appear below the water line.
'Thank you at least for being so honest. Please, give me until this weekend. Say nothing until then?'
'You have my word on it. And my hand on it, Francis.'
Melodramatically Stanbrook marched around to Urquhart's side of the table and offered his hand. At close quarters Urquhart could see the lack of sleep which bruised his eyes. At least it hadn't been easy for him.
Catchpole, the next, was in tears. He blubbed copiously, scarcely capable of coherent expression throughout the interview.
'What, in your view, should I do, Colin?'
'Protect. . .' - blub - 'protect. . .' - cough.
'I think what you're trying to say is that I should resign now in order to protect my unbeaten record and place in the history books. Is that right?'
Catchpole nodded. Coincidence be damned. They'd been rehearsing, the whole wretched lot of them.
Except for Riddington. The Defence Secretary strode in, but declined to sit, instead standing stiffly at the end of the Cabinet table near the door. His double breast was buttoned, on parade.
'I have sat too long at your table, Prime Minister. In recent days at meetings of COBRA I have watched you abuse your position of trust for entirely political ends, putting the lives of British soldiers at risk for your own personal glorification and salvation.'
'You never mentioned this before.'
'You never asked me before. You never consulted anyone. You only bullied.'
True enough. And Urquhart had expected no less from Riddington, who had refused to support him at the final gathering of COBRA, insisting with the others that St Aubyn's men be allowed to bring an end to their misery.
Urquhart seemed to smile, parting his lips as though being offered a final cigarette. 'So who will defend, if not Defence?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'I was merely musing. I suppose a public statement of support for me is out of the question?'
There was a whimsical tone in Urquhart's voice as though he found humour in his situation. Riddington offered an expression of bad oysters and did not reply.
'I have one last thing to ask,' the Prime Minister continued. 'You have sat at my Cabinet table for more than eight years. In return, I ask you for two days. By Saturday I shall announce my intentions. In the meantime, if you cannot support me, I'd be grateful if you could at least refrain from making public attacks. Leave me a little dignity. Leave the party a few pieces for someone else to pick up.'
Riddington had on his most obstinate Dunkirk expression, but acquiesced. He gave a perfunctory nod, then turned on his heel and left.
For a long moment a complete stillness enveloped the Cabinet Room. Urquhart did not stir, did not appear to breathe. Claire, who had been sitting discreetly in a comer by the door, wondered if he had gone into a trance, so deeply did he seem to have retreated within himself. A tiny pulse on the side of his temple seemed the only sign of life, beating away the seconds until .
..
Until. There was no avoiding it. Even he knew it. Then he returned from wherever he had been, and was with her once again.
'Like trying to stoke a furnace with dead rabbits, isn't it?' he muttered grimly.
She marvelled at his composure, admired his resilient humour. 'I wonder what
he
would have done,' she asked softly, indicating the portrait of Robert Walpole, the first and longest-serving holder of the office of Prime Minister.
Urquhart rose to examine the oil above the fireplace, gripping the white marble mantel. 'I've been thinking about that a great deal in these last days,' he said softly. 'They accused him of corruption, condemned him, even imprisoned him in the Tower. Called him a warmonger, even before Mr Mackintosh got his hands on the media.' His eyes seemed to dissolve like children's sweets. 'They compelled him to resign. Yet he always found a way to bounce back from disaster. Always.'
'A shining example.'
'History has a devilish strange way with the facts. I wonder whether history will be as kind with me.' 'Is it important to you?'
He turned sharply, his eyes burning with mortification. 'It's the only thing I have.'
The bitterness, hemmed around by dogged humour, was .about to burst forth but at that moment there was a commotion from the door. It burst open, and in bounced Bollingbroke, breathless.
'Et tu, Brute!’
'Beg pardon?'
Urquhart closed his eyes, shook from them the venom and self-pity, and smiled. 'My little joke, Arthur. What news of Brussels?'
'Full of bloody foreigners. Sorry not to have got here earlier, Francis.'
'You are with me?'
'Till my last breath. I dictated a statement of support to the Press Association from the car telephone on my way in.'
'Then you are doubly welcome.'
'Bloody thing is, Francis, it won't do either of us the least bit of good.'
'Why not?'
"Cos you and me are for the high jump, there's no denying it. That bugger Makepeace has got this election by the balls.'
And Makepeace marched on. To Luton. Every hour brought Makepeace more support, and closer to London. With every step the march grew in size, slowing him down and giving the Metropolitan Police Commissioner cause for concern. But after the fiasco in Birmingham, he dared not bar the march from the nation's capital.
So they marched, onwards to Trafalgar Square. To Francis Urquhart's funeral pyre.
He had stolen away by moonlight. Through the Downing Street press department, down into the labyrinth of corridors which connects Number Ten to the Cabinet Office on Whitehall, past the old brick walls where the Tudor King's tennis court used to be. Not even Corder was with him.
Even at midnight the centre of the city was bustling with activity, mostly vehicular, Whitehall becoming something of a race track for delivery vans and late-night buses. The activity helped hide him, ensure he did not stand out. As he came down the steps from the Cabinet Office, past the startled security guard, he ducked away from the police presence which stood at the entrance to Downing Street. George Downing himself had been a rogue, a spy for both sides in the Civil War, a man steeped in duplicities and lacking in either principle or loyalties. Educated at Harvard. And they had given him a knighthood and named the most important street in the kingdom after him. Whereas he, Francis Urquhart, would be fortunate if they allowed his name to be placed even on a headstone.
There were monuments to the dead everywhere. The Cenotaph. The Banqueting Hall beneath whose windows they had with one blow severed the head of their liege lord and king, Charles I. Statues to fallen heroes,
in memoriam
and immortal. The entire avenue stood on what had once been the old funeral route from Charing Cross to St Margaret's until the King, disgusted with the wailings of the common herd outside his window, built them a new cemetery at St Martin-in-the-Fields so they could bury the dead without spoiling his dinner. At night in the shadows and with a scimitar moon overhead you could all but hear the creak of ancient bones in this place, a place of remembrance. And he so wanted to be remembered. What else was there for him?
He stood on the stone bridge at Westminster, gazing down into the silty-ink tidal water which lapped against the piers, its gentle murmurs haunting like the witching calls of Sirens. An emptiness yawned beneath him which seemed to offer peace, release, as easily as falling into the open mouth of a grave. What fragments he had left to lose could so readily be given up. Yet he would not do it, take the coward's way out. Not the way to be remembered.