Mortima had insisted he come to the opening night of a new opera and had been so persistent he had been forced to succumb, even though he had no ear for Janacek or forty-member choruses who seemed intent on singing from forty different scores, all at the same time. Mortima sat transfixed, her attention upon the tenor who was battling to drag his beloved back from the dead. Rather like the leader of the Liberal Party, Urquhart mused.
Stamper had also encouraged him to come and had secured the private box. Anyone who can afford three hundred pounds a seat for the stalls, he had said, must be worth bumping into. He’d arranged with the management to swap the publicity of Urquhart’s presence for the address list of the Opera House patrons, all of whom within a week would be hit with an invitation to a Downing Street reception, a vaguely worded letter about future support for the arts, and a telephone call asking for cash.
And there was Alfredo Mondelli, a man with a face like a lightbulb, round, solid, all bone and no hair, with eyes that bulged as if the bow tie of his evening dress had been secured too tightly. The Italian businessman sat with his wife alongside Stamper and the Urquharts—judging by the fidgeting that could be heard coming from his direction, he was equally filled with tedium. For several endless minutes Urquhart tried to find distraction from the music in the procession of gilded female figures who chased plaster cherubs around the domed ceiling, while beside him the creaking of Mondelli’s chair grew more persistent. When finally the interval came it was a release for them all; a clearly exulted Mortima and Signora Mondelli rushed off to the powder room, permitting the three men to take refuge in a bottle of vintage Bollinger.
“A pity to spoil business with so much pleasure, don’t you think, Signor Mondelli?”
The Italian rubbed life back into his buttocks and thighs. “When God was giving out ’is gifts, Prime Minister, ’e was a little short on musical appreciation when it came to my turn.” His English was proficient, his pronunciation slow and distinctly Soho bistro.
“Then let us make sure we use the interval well before we get drenched in another dose of culture. Straight to it. How can I help you?”
The Italian nodded in gratitude. “As I think Mr. Stamper ’as told you, I am proud to be one of my country’s leading manufacturers of environmentally friendly products. To ’alf of Europe I am Mr. Green. I employ tens of thousands of people, ’ole communities depend upon my business. A big research institute in Bologna named after me…”
“Very commendable.” Urquhart recognized the Latin exaggeration. Mondelli ran a company that, though significant by Italian standards, was not in the same league as the far more powerful multinationals.
“But now, now it is all threatened, Your Excellence. Bureaucrats who understand nothing about business, about life. They terrorize everything I ’ave built.” Champagne washed over the side of his glass and spilt as the passion built in his voice. “Those foolish bambini at the European Community and their draft regulations. You know, in two years’ time they wish to change the ’ole way we dispose of chemical waste.”
“Why does that concern you?”
“Mr. Akat…” He made it sound as if he were clearing his throat. “These are the chemicals I spend my life taking out of my products. What you wrap your food in, wash in, dress in, the paper you write on. I make them environmentally friendly by taking the wretched”—he gesticulated with his stubby fingers and screwed up his face as if performing on the stage—“wretched chemicals out of them. What the ’ell am I supposed to do with them now? Governments, you run your nuclear power stations and you bury all your nuclear waste, but that’s not good enough for businessmen. We shall no longer be allowed to bury the by-products, or simply burn them, or dispose of them deep in the ocean. Those bastardi in Brussels even want to stop me exporting them to store in the deserts of the Third World, no matter that the people of those countries are starving and are in desperate need for the income. Africans will starve, Italians will starve, my family will starve. It is madness!” He took a huge draught of champagne, emptying the glass.
“Forgive me, Signor Mondelli, but aren’t all your competitors in the same position?”
“My competitors are mainly German. They ’ave the Deutschmarks for such ’uge investments to dispose of the chemicals ’ow the bureaucrats want. I do not. It is a conspiracy by the Germans to force the competition out of business.”
“So why come to me? Why not your own Government?”
“Oh, Mr. Akat, do you not know Italian politics? My Government will not ’elp because they ’ave done a deal with the Germans over the wine lake. Italian farmers to carry on producing subsidized wine that nobody wants, in exchange for the new regulations on chemical dumping. There are three ’undred thousand Italian wine producers and only one Mondelli. You are a politician, you know ’ow such numbers add up.”
Mondelli refrained from adding that he had complicated matters notoriously by running off with a young television actress from Naples while still married to the sister of the Italian Minister of Finance. He was now greeted in Rome with as much warmth as a coachload of English football fans.
“Very sad, Signor Mondelli, I feel for you. But surely this is an Italian matter.”
“It is a European matter, Signor Akat. The bureaucrats act in the name of Europe. They overstretch themselves. And you and the British are well known for being the best and most strong opponents of interfering bureaucrats in Brussels. So I ask you, for consideration. For ’elp. Stop the directive. The Environment Commissioner in Brussels. ’E is English. Your friend, eh?”
“You might say that…”
“A nice man—a little weak, perhaps. Too easily led astray by ’is officials. But nice.”
“You might say that, too…”
“I understand ’e wishes you to reappoint ’im when ’is term of office expires. ’E will listen to you.”
It was true, of course, every word.
“You might conclude that, Signor Mondelli, but I couldn’t possibly comment.”
“Prime Minister, I could not describe ’ow grateful I would be.”
This was not accurate. Urquhart knew from his Party Chairman that Mondelli had described precisely how grateful he wished to be. He had suggested one hundred thousand pounds, paid to party funds. “In recognition of a great internationalist,” as he had put it. Stamper had thought himself very skillful in bringing such a prize to the party; Urquhart was about to disillusion him.
“I’m afraid I cannot help you, Signor Mondelli.”
“Ah, your British sense of ’umor.” He did not sound as if he appreciated it.
Urquhart’s expression suggested he’d been weaned on pickles. “Your personal problems are really something for the Italian authorities to sort out. You must understand that.”
“I will be ruined…”
“A great pity.”
“But I thought…” The Italian threw a beseeching look at Stamper, who shrugged his shoulders. “I thought you could ’elp me.”
“I cannot help you, Signor Mondelli, not as an Italian citizen. Not directly.”
Mondelli was tearing at his black tie and his eyes seemed to bulge still further in consternation.
“However, in the serious circumstances perhaps I can share something with you. The British Government, too, is unenthusiastic about the Brussels proposals. In our own interest, you understand. If it were left entirely up to me, I would veto the whole scheme.” The orchestra was beginning to reassemble in the pit, and a buzz of expectation began to rise around the opera house.
“Unfortunately,” Urquhart continued, “this is one of but a number of issues we have to negotiate with our European partners and with the Commissioners, even the British ones. There will be give and take. And we have so many distractions on the home front. Times are likely to get tough, very distracting.”
“My entire business is at stake, Prime Mini
ster. Either the regulations go under, or I do.”
“As serious as that?”
“Yes!”
“Well, it would be a happy coincidence if my Government’s interests were to coincide with your own.”
“I would be so grateful…”
“If I were in your position, Signor Mondelli, facing ruin…” He paused to sniff the air, like a prowling wolf. “I think I should be tenfold grateful.”
Urquhart gave a perfunctory laugh to suggest lightheartedness, but the Italian had understood. Urquhart had led him to the edge of the cliff and made him peer over; now he offered a lifeline. Mondelli stopped to consider for a few moments, and when he spoke there was no alarm left in his voice. They were no longer talking lifeline, but business. The sum represented around two percent of his annual profit—significant, but affordable. And his accountants might find a way to write it off against tax as an overseas investment. He nodded his head slowly.
“As you say, Signor Akat, I would indeed be grateful. Tenfold.”
Urquhart appeared not to have heard, as if he were pursuing his own idea quite separately from the Italian. “You know, it’s about time we had another shot at putting Brussels back in its box. I think this might be just the issue to do it on. There are several British companies who would suffer…”
“I would like to ’elp your campaigning activities.”
“Oh, really? Talk to Stamper, he’s the man. Nothing to do with me.”
“I ’ave already told ’im that I think you are a great internationalist.”
“Most kind. It really has been a splendid evening.”
“Yes. But I am not a great lover of opera, Prime Minister.” He was massaging his thighs again. “You would excuse me if I did not stay for the second ’alf?”
“But Stamper here has paid for the tickets.”
“’E ’as paid for the tickets, but I believe I ’ave paid for my freedom.” The bow tie hung limply down his chest.
“Then good night to you, Signor Mondelli. It has been a pleasure.”
Stamper offered words of rueful admiration as the bulk of the Italian benefactor disappeared through the door, then Mortima Urquhart was with them once more, wafting perfume and muttering something about attending a reception for the cast after the opera was finished. Urquhart heard scarcely a word. His fighting fund had been opened and the wind had started blowing in his direction yet again. But even as he felt the satisfaction wash over him, he dared not forget that winds in politics rarely blow fair for long. He mustn’t let this one blow out of control; if he did it would form a whirlwind of destruction, probably his own. But if they blew strong enough, and long enough, perhaps it was possible after all. By March. As the cymbals clashed to announce the commencement of the second act, he sat back in his seat and gazed at the ceiling. The cherub bottoms reminded him of someone, an undergraduate, on a Chesterfield. He couldn’t recall her name.
Twenty-Three
There is no need to outrun the lion. All that is necessary for a man to do in order to survive is to outrun his friends.
The Leader of the Opposition was an earnest man, the son of a crofting family from the Western Isles of Scotland. He was not noted for his sense of humor, the peat moors of the Western Isles being too dour to encourage frivolity, but even his rivals acknowledged his dedication and hard work. Government Ministers privately acknowledged he made an excellent Leader of the Opposition, while in public providing every assistance to ensure he continued in this well-fitting job. At times it appeared as if the inevitable pressure on him came more from within his own ranks than from his political opponents; there had been several press stories in recent days suggesting that, following the narrow election defeat of the previous year and the arrival of a fresh face in Downing Street, his party was getting restless and his position coming under threat. The stories were vague and thin, tending to feed off each other as much as on hard views, but The Times seemed to have a particularly strong handle on it and had quoted one “senior party source” as suggesting that “the party leadership is not a retirement job for losers.” It was more a rumble than a revolution, the polls still pointed to the Opposition having a four-point lead, yet political parties always find difficulty in containing the swirling personal ambitions of its also-rans and, as one editorial had put it, there was no smoke without someone lighting a few matches. So Gordon McKillin had welcomed the opportunity to clear the air on a popular current affairs program that pitted politician against three leading journalists.
For most of the forty minutes the program had been uneventful, a little dull even, certainly unsuccessful from the point of view of the producer, whose own job security depended on the regular spillage of someone else’s blood. McKillin had parried every thrust with skill and patience—none of the supposed opponents had been identified, he suggested, the real issue was not his leadership but the looming recession that threatened millions of jobs. It was the Prime Minister’s job under threat, not his. The story of his troubles had been whipped up by the press, he argued, casting a baleful eye in the direction of Bryan Brynford-Jones, whose journal had published the first and most dramatic report. “Are you able to name a single one of your sources for this story?” he challenged. The editor, unaccustomed to being in the firing line, quickly moved the discussion on.
Scarcely two minutes remained before the wrap and, much to the producer’s despair, the discussion had become stranded in the marshy fields of the Opposition’s environmental credentials. It was Brynford-Jones’s turn once again. McKillin smiled—generously, as a farmer might eye a prize hog on market day. He was enjoying it.
“Mr. McKillin, let me turn in the short time we have left to a more personal question.” Brynford-Jones was toying with some form of brochure. “You are an elder of the Wee Free Church of Scotland, are you not?”
The politician nodded sagely.
“Now the Chinch has just published a pamphlet—I have it here—which is entitled ‘Toward the Twenty-First Century: A Moral Guide for Youth.’ It’s fairly wide-ranging and contains, in my view, some excellent prescriptions. But there is one section that intrigued me. On page…fourteen, it reaffirms its attitude to homosexuality, which it describes as ‘a pernicious sin.’ Do you, Mr. McKillin, believe homosexuality is a pernicious sin?”
The politician swallowed. “I’m not sure this is the right time to get into this sort of complex and difficult discussion. This is, after all, a program on politics rather than the Church—”
“But it’s a relevant question, nonetheless,” Brynford-Jones interrupted. “A simple one, too. Do you hold homosexuality to be a sin?”
A small bead of sweat had begun to gather in the politician’s sideburn, only just perceptible to the professional eye of the producer, who began to brighten.
“I find it difficult to imagine how to respond to such a broad-ranging question as that on a program like this—”
“Let me help you, then. Imagine your dreams have been fulfilled and you are Prime Minister, at the Dispatch Box, and I’m the Leader of the Opposition. I’m asking you a direct question. Do you believe homosexuality to be evil, a sin? I think the accepted parliamentary phrase goes: ‘Since the question is a very simple one, which even he should be able to understand, a simple “yes” or “no” will suffice.’”
All those present and several million viewers recognized the phrase, McKillin’s own, which he had used so frequently in taunting Urquhart at Question Time. It was his own hook. The bead of sweat was beginning to trickle.
“Let me rephrase it, if you like,” the editor encouraged. “Do you believe your kirk’s moral guidance is wrong?”
McKillin struggled for his words. How could he explain, in an atmosphere like this, that it had been his kirk’s guidance that since his earliest days had fueled the desire to help others and to mount his own crusade, giving him a clear personal creed on which he had based h
is political beliefs and guiding him through the moral cesspits around Westminster, that as an elder he had to accept his kirk’s teachings with an open heart and without question or compromise. He understood sin and others’ weaknesses and could accept them, but his faith would not permit him to deny them.
“I am an elder of the Kirk, Mr. Brynford-Jones. Of course I accept my church’s teachings, as an individual soul. But as a politician such matters can be more complicated—”
“Let me be clear, absolutely clear. You accept your church’s edict on this matter?”
“As an individual, I must. But allow me to—”
It was too late. The end credits were already rolling and the signature music beginning to flood the studio. Several million viewers had to struggle to discern Brynford-Jones’s sign-off. “Thank you, Mr. McKillin. I’m afraid that’s all we have time for. It’s been a fascinating forty minutes.” He smiled. “We are grateful to you.”
***
Kenny and Mycroft had watched the evening news in silence. It had contained a factual report of McKillin’s interview, and also of the volcanic response. The Opposition Leader’s office was said to be in the process of issuing a statement of clarification, but it was inevitably too late. Leaders of rival church groups had already opined, gay campaigners had assailed, his own Front Bench transport spokesman had stated boldly that on this issue his leader was utterly, miserably, and inexcusably wrong. “Is there a leadership crisis?” he had been asked. “There is now,” had been his response.
The House of Cards Complete Trilogy Page 46
