“Don’t worry, Ma’am. I think I’m in a position to acquire these photographs and ensure they never see the light of day.”
She looked up from the gloves, relief and gratitude swelling in her eyes. Not for a moment did she realize that Landless already had the photographs, that they had been taken on his explicit instructions after a tip-off from one of the women’s disgruntled Spanish au pair who had overheard a telephone conversation and stolen the check stub.
“But that’s not really the point, is it,” Landless continued. “We need to find some way of ensuring you don’t run into this sort of trouble ever again. I know what it’s like to be the victim of constant press sneering. I feel we’re in this together. I’m British, born and bred and proud of it, and I’ve no time for those foreign creeps who own half our national press yet who don’t understand or care a fig about what makes this country great.”
Her shoulders stiffened under the impact of his bombastic flattery as the vicar began an appeal for help to the homeless built heavily around images of insensitive innkeepers and quotations from the annual report of a housing action charity.
“I’d like to offer you a consultancy with one of my companies. Entirely confidential, only you and me to know about it. I provide you with a suitable retainer, and in return you give me a few days of your time. Open one or two of our new offices. Meet some of my important foreign business contacts over lunch. Perhaps host an occasional dinner at the Palace. And I’d love to do something like that on the Royal Yacht, if that’s possible. But you tell me.”
“How much?”
“A dozen times a year, perhaps.”
“No. How much money?”
“A hundred thousand. Plus a guarantee of favorable coverage and exclusive interviews in my newspapers.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“The chance to get to know you. Meet the King. Get some great PR support for me and my business. Get the sort of exclusive Royal coverage that sells newspapers. Do you need more?”
“No, Mr. Landless. I don’t particularly care for my job, it’s brought me no great personal happiness, but if I do something I like to do it properly. Without making too much of the matter, I need more money than the Civil List makes available. In the circumstances, so long as it remains an entirely private arrangement and requires nothing that will demean the Family, I’d be delighted to accept. And thank you.”
There was more, of course. Had she known Landless better she would have known there was always more. A Royal connection would have its uses, filling the gap left by his withered line to Downing Street, a tool to impress those who still thought majesty mattered. But this was a particularly versatile connection. He knew the Princess was usually indiscreet, occasionally unwise, frequently uninhibited—and unfaithful. She was despair waiting to be exposed at the heart of the Royal Family, and when at last the despair became too large to contain, as eventually he was sure it would, his newspapers would be at the front of the jackal pack, armed with their exclusive insights, as they tore her to pieces.
Twelve
An editor will usually take matters into his own hands, particularly the law and the reputation of other men’s wives.
The room had a hushed, almost reverential atmosphere. It was a place of contemplation, of escape from the outside world with its persistent telephones and interruptions, a haven where businessmen could repair after a heavy lunch to collect their thoughts. At least, that was what they told their secretaries, unless, of course, their secretaries were waiting in one of the simple bedrooms upstairs. The Turkish Bath of the Royal Automobile Club on Pall Mall is one of those many London institutions that never advertise their blessings. It is not a case of English modesty, simply that if the institution is good enough its reputation will circulate sufficiently without causing an influx of what is called “the wrong type of people.” It is impossible to define what is the wrong type of people, but gentlemen’s clubs have generations of experience in spotting it as soon as it walks through the door, and assisting it straight back out. Such people do not normally include politicians or newspaper editors.
The politician, Tim Stamper, and the editor, Bryan Brynford-Jones, sat in a corner of the steam room. It was still morning and the after-lunch crush had not yet developed; in any event, the denseness of the steamy atmosphere made it impossible to see further than five feet. It clouded the dim wall lights like a London fog and muffled any sound. They would be neither seen, nor overheard. A good place to share confidences. The two men leaned forward on their wooden bench, working up a sweat, the perspiration dripping off their noses and trickling down their bodies. Stamper had draped a small crimson towel across himself while BBJ, as he liked to be known, sat completely naked. He was as overweight and fleshy as Stamper was gaunt, his stomach practically covering his private parts as he leaned forward. He was extroverted, opinionated, insecure, midforties, and very menopausal, beginning to turn that delicate corner between maturity and physical decrepitude.
He was also deeply disgruntled. Stamper had just given him a flavor of the New Year’s Honors list soon to be announced, and he wasn’t on it. What was worse, one of his fiercest rivals among the national editors’ club was to get a knighthood, joining two other Fleet Street K’s.
“It’s not so much I feel I deserve one, of course,” he had explained. “But when all your competitors are in on the act it makes people point their fingers at you, as if you’re second rate. I don’t know what the hell I have to do to establish my credentials with this Government. After all, I’ve turned The Times into your biggest supporter among the quality press. You might not have scraped home at the last election had I turned on you, like some of the rest.”
“I sympathize, really I do,” the Party Chairman responded, looking less than sincere as he offered condolence while perusing a copy of the Independent. “But you know these things aren’t entirely in our hands.”
“Bullshit.”
“We have to be evenhanded, you know…”
“The day a Government starts being evenhanded between its friends and its enemies is the day it no longer has any friends.”
“All the recommendations have to go before the Scrutiny Committee. You know, checks and balances, to keep the system smelling sweet. We don’t control their deliberations. They often recommend against…”
“Not that ancient crap again, Tim.” Brynford-Jones was beginning to feel increasingly indignant as his ambitions were brushed aside without Stamper even lifting his eyes from the newspaper. “How many times do I have to explain? It was years ago. A minor offense. I only pleaded guilty to get rid of it. If I’d fought it the whole thing would have been dragged out in court and my reputation smeared much more badly.”
Stamper looked up slowly from his newspaper. “Pleading guilty to a charge of flashing your private parts at a woman in a public place is not designed to recommend you to the good and the great of the Scrutiny Committee, Bryan.”
“For Chrissake, it wasn’t a public place. I was standing at the window of my bathroom. I didn’t know I could be seen from the street. The woman was lying when she said I made lewd gestures. It was all a disgusting stitch-up, Tim.”
“You pleaded guilty.”
“My lawyers told me to. My word against hers. I could’ve fought the case for a year and still lost with every newspaper in the country having a field day at my expense. As it was it only got a couple of column inches in some local rag. Christ, a couple of column inches is probably all that prying old bag wanted. Maybe I should have given it to her.”
Stamper was struggling to fold the pages of the Independent, which had become flaccid in the damp atmosphere, his apparent lack of concern infuriating Brynford-Jones further.
“I’m being victimized! I’m paying for the lies of some shriveled old woman almost fifteen years ago. I’ve worked my balls off trying to make up for all that, to put it behind me.
Yet it seems I can’t even rely on the support of my friends. Maybe I should wake up and realize they’re not my friends after all. Not the people I thought they were.”
The bitterness, and the implied threat to withdraw his editorial support, were impossible to misunderstand, but Stamper did not respond immediately, first carefully attempting to refold his newspaper, but it was pointless: the Independent was beginning to disintegrate amid the clouds of steam, and Stamper finally thrust it soggily to one side.
“It’s not a matter of just friends, Bryan. To override the objections of the Scrutiny Committee and be willing to put up with the resulting flak would require a very good friend. To be quite honest, Henry Collingridge was never that sort of friend for you, he’d never stick his neck out.” He paused. “Francis Urquhart, however, is a very different sort of dog. Much more of a terrier. And right now, with a recession around the corner, he’s a strong believer in friendship.”
They paused as, through the murk, the door opened and a shadowy figure appeared, but the cloying atmosphere was evidently too much and after two deep breaths he coughed and left.
“Go on.”
“Let’s not beat about the bush, Bryan. You don’t have a cat in hell’s chance of getting your gong unless you find a Prime Minister willing to fight in the last ditch for you. A Prime Minister isn’t going to do that unless you’re willing to reciprocate.” He wiped a hand over his forehead to clear his line of vision. “Your unstinting support and cooperation all the way up to the next election. In exchange for informed briefings, exclusive insights, first shot at the best stories. And a knighthood at the end of it. It’s a chance to wipe the slate clean, Bryan, and put the past behind you. No one argues with a K.”
Brynford-Jones sat, his elbows on his knees and the folds of his belly piled one upon the other, staring straight ahead. A smile began to etch its way across his damp face like a beam of light through this murky, misting world of fallen chests and sagging scrota.
“You know what I think, Tim?”
“What?”
“I think you may have just rekindled my faith.”
Thirteen
Royalty is an institution that, in the end, is based on little more than semen and sycophancy.
• • •
Buckingham Palace
16 December
My dear son,
You will soon be back with us for Christmas, but I felt I needed someone with whom to share. There are so few people to trust.
My life, and yours to come, are beset by frustration. We are expected to be examples—but of what! Apparently of servility. At times I despair.
As we discussed when last you came down from Eton, I had planned to make a speech drawing the country’s attention to the growing divisions within the country. Yet the politicians have “redrafted” some of my thoughts, so I no longer recognize them as my own. They are trying to make me a eunuch and force me to deny my own manhood.
Is the role of the King to reign mute over a nation being led to dissolution and division? There seem to me to be few clear rules, except that of caution. My anger at the Government’s treatment of my speech must remain private. But I cannot be a Monarch without also retaining my self-respect as a man—as you will find when your time comes.
If we have not the freedom to defend those things in which we believe passionately, then at least we can avoid colluding in those actions we oppose and feel dangerously inappropriate. Never let them put words into your mouth. I have simply omitted large chunks of the Government’s draft.
My task, and yours to come, is a heavy burden. We are meant to be figureheads, to symbolize the virtues of the nation. To do so grows increasingly difficult in a modern world that surrounds us with many temptations but so few occupations. But if our role is to mean anything, then it must at very least allow us our conscience. I would sign a bill proclaiming a republic tomorrow if it were put to me approved by Lords and Commons, but I will not speak politicians’ nonsense and bless it as my own.
Everything I do, every blunder I make, every morsel of respect I gather, will in time be passed on to you. I have not always been able to be the sort of father I would want. Formality, convention, distance too often come between a King and his son—me and you, as they did between me and my own father. But I will not betray you and your inheritance, on that you have my word. In previous times they have taken our forefathers to a public place and chopped off their heads! At least they had the dignity of dying with their conscience intact.
The world seems dark to me at the moment. I eagerly await the light that your return for the seasonal holiday will bring.
With my warmest affection to you, my son.
Father
Fourteen
He has two qualities. I can’t remember the first, and it’s a very long time since he bumped into the other.
Mycroft had spent the evening pacing disconsolately around his cold, empty house, searching for distraction. It had been a miserable day. Kenny had been called off at short notice for a ten-day tour to the Far East that would keep him away over the holiday. Mycroft had been with the King when Kenny called, so all he got was a message left with his secretary wishing him Happy Christmas. As Mycroft gazed at the four walls, he imagined Kenny already cavorting along some sun-kissed beach, laughing, enjoying himself, enjoying others.
The King hadn’t helped, either, spitting incandescence at the Government’s redraft of his speech. For some reason Mycroft blamed himself. Wasn’t it his job to ensure that the King’s views got across? He felt as if he had failed. It was another pang of the guilt that plagued him whenever he was away from Kenny and out from under his spell.
The house was so neat, orderly, and impersonal that he longed for the sight of some of Fiona’s clutter, but there wasn’t even a dirty dish in the sink. He’d paced all evening, unable to settle, feeling ever more alone, drinking too much in a vain attempt to forget, drowning once again. Thoughts of Kenny only made him jealous. When he tried to distract himself by thinking of his other life, all he could feel was the force of the King’s passion and his bitterness at the Prime Minister. “If only I hadn’t been so open with him, thought he might be different from the rest. It’s my fault,” he had said. But Mycroft held himself to blame.
He sat at his desk, the King’s emasculated draft in front of him, the photo of Fiona in the silver frame still not removed, his diary open with a ring around the date of Kenny’s return, his refilled glass leaving rings of dampness on the leather top. God, but he needed someone to talk with, to remind himself there was a world out there, to break the oppressive silence around him and to distract from his feeling of guilt and failure. He felt confused and vulnerable, and the drink wasn’t helping. He was still feeling confused and vulnerable when the phone rang.
“Hello, Trevor,” he greeted the Chronicle’s Court Correspondent. “I was hoping someone would ring. How can I help? Good God, you’ve heard what…?”
***
“I am not an ’appy man. I am not an ’appy bloody man.” The editor of the Sun, an undersized and wiry man from the dales of Yorkshire, began swearing quietly to himself as he read the lead item in the Chronicle first edition. The profanity became louder as he read down the copy until he could contain his frustration no longer. “Sally. Get me that bastard Incest.”
“He’s in the hospital. Just had his appendix out,” a female voice floated through his open door.
“I don’t care if he’s in his bloody coffin. Dig him up and get him on the phone.”
Roderick Motherup, known as Incest throughout the newspaper world, was the paper’s Royal Correspondent, the man paid to know who was doing what to whom behind the discreet facades of any of the Royal residences. Even while he lay flat on his back.
“Incest? Why the hell did we miss this story?”
“What story?” a weak voice sounded down the line.
“What story?” the voice chimed in again, more weakly.
The editor began reading the salient facts. The extracts from the King’s draft speech excised by the Government. The replacement sections suggested by the Government, full of economics and optimism, which the King had refused to use. The conclusion that behind the King’s recent address to the National Society of Charitable Foundations lay one hell of a row.
“So I want the story, Incest. Who’s screwing who? And I want it for our next edition in forty minutes.” He was already scribbling draft headlines.
“But I haven’t even seen the story,” the correspondent protested.
“Have you got a fax?”
“I’m in the hospital!” came the plaintive protest.
“I’ll bike it round. In the meantime get on the phone and get back to me with something in ten.”
“Are you sure it’s true?”
“I don’t care if the damned thing’s true. It’s a fantastic ball-breaking story and I want it on our front page in forty minutes!”
In editorial offices all around London similar words of motivation were being relayed to harassed Royal-watchers. There was the sniff of a downturn in the air, advertising revenues were beginning to fall, and that meant nervous proprietors who would more happily sacrifice their editors than their bottom lines. Fleet Street needed a good circulation-boosting story. This would put many tens of thousands on tomorrow’s sales figures and had the promise of being a story that would run and run. And run.
The House of Cards Complete Trilogy Page 42
