The House of Cards Complete Trilogy

by Michael Dobbs

  There were tears in her eyes but again Elpída smiled, and spat in his face.

  Dimitri was about to strike her once more when his collar was grabbed and he was cuffed about the head. He went sprawling in surprise and, rolling over, discovered the figure of his brother looming over him, arm raised to threaten him again.

  “Fool!” Theophilos snarled. “Is there no time when your brain rises above your belt?”

  Dimitri prepared to growl and snap, Theophilos to strike, when they both froze, their dispute forgotten in an instant. For in the distance they could hear the rumbling thunder of helicopters.

  Thirty-Nine

  A conscience is like a rock, always waiting to trip you up.

  The two helicopters came in at three hundred feet, skirting the jumble of tourist shops and cheap restaurants huddled below the mountain top and dropping down through the gorge of ancient black pines. Even at that height they could feel the cauldron of heat bubbling beneath them, the pilots struggling to maintain control as bursts of superheated air hit the underside of the fuselage. The fire had fanned out, catching the mountain air and swirling it into innumerable eddies and currents that were then thrown out in all directions, the flames following. Climbing the mountainside. Creeping nearer the Lodge.

  Mission Three-Zero Alpha was the first to start its bombing run, the pilot guided by the instructions of the crewman in the rear. Even leaning out from the fuselage in the embrace of the dispatcher’s harness it was difficult for him to determine a precise point of impact; from above all that could be seen was an angry swirl of thick dark smoke being blown forward above the flames. The first run would be no more than target spotting, suppressing the smoke screen to provide a clear line of sight.

  Alpha hovered to get its bearings before moving decisively forward, slicing across the leading edge of the fire. It was traveling at forty knots, the pilot throwing anxious glances at his torque meter as he was forced to use near-maximum power to cope with the unhappy combination of height, sudden heat, and heavy payload that turned the craft from a porpoise into a mother duck. He could screw up the transmission if he wasn’t careful. It didn’t help that he was practically blind, the limited forward vision provided by the droop-nosed Wessex all but obliterated by plumes of smoke. He was in the hands of God and his crewman, one of whom, he knew for a fact, had slipped in an extra pint of Guinness last night.

  The crewman was latched firmly to the handrail and had one foot perched on the wheel of the undercart to give himself extra inches of reach and sight. “Steady. Steady. Left ten. God, it’s bloody hot. Steady.” The craft was in his hands, the pilots following his commands as he tried to find the right release point. A gust of wind snatched at the smoke below, carving out a gap through which he thought he could see it. It was as good a bearing as he was going to get. He yanked the cable that fired the rainmaker release. The newly liberated Wessex leaped forward as half a ton of water spread out and drenched two hundred square yards of forest. Yet already thousands were in flame.

  The first Wessex was already heading back toward the trout farm when Mission Three-Zero Bravo maneuvered into position. Perhaps the rear crewman directing the approach was a shade hesitant, for from above it appeared as though he’d covered the almost identical section of forest as Alpha, a wasted run, but from below the action looked spectacular, for a passing second the rainmakers creating great rainbow arcs in the sky before the pall of smoke and new steam once again covered the sun. Hope, heat, darkness, and still more flame marked the time as the rearmed Wessex craft returned to resume the onslaught.

  But still the fire was not out. The flames licked forward like the tongue of a fire serpent, enraged, defiant, setting about everything in its path, which led directly to the Lodge.

  And the trout pond was empty. A new water supply had to be found, more vital minutes away.

  The attack was beginning to falter.

  ***

  “For pity’s sake, Mr. Urquhart, the fire is less than a hundred meters from the Lodge.”

  The Bishop’s tone had altered. The bluster had disappeared, ground away by anxiety as he had watched the assault of the helicopters being repulsed by the forces of nature.

  “They are doing their best. Another helicopter has been scrambled from Akrotiri.” Yet even Urquhart was sounding less confident. “Their problem is finding a suitable water supply.”

  “Enough of your excuses, Englishman!”

  “Bishop, let me evacuate you and your men. I give you my word…”

  “As I have given you mine. If I am forced to leave this place, one of the hostages will remain behind. And her death will be on your hands.”

  “What more can I do, Bishop?”

  “Pray, damn you. Down on your knees.”

  “I already am.”

  ***

  The flames were only seventy meters from the Lodge, advancing remorselessly. They had already encountered the fence of barbed wire thrown around the perimeter of the compound and reduced it to a cat’s cradle of blackened shards. Glowing embers were soaring on the convection currents, thrown high into the heavens before cascading down upon the lawn in front of the Lodge and bouncing off its metal roof.

  Bravo had made his final pass. The water bombing had proved ineffective, the nearby water supplies exhausted. In a gesture that stank of defeat, the pilot pressed the jettison button and ditched the rainmaker bucket, shedding the last hope of quenching the fire.

  Theophilos watched it all with growing anxiety. He had thought his plan foolproof, beyond the means of man to unravel. He hadn’t counted on God getting in the way.

  As he watched through the partially opened shutters of the Lodge he was gripped by a grim fatalism. Someone was going to die—had to die, he had given his Holy word on it. As the moment of decision approached, he found his hand was trembling. He hid it deep within the folds of his cassock.

  Yet the play was not finished. Even as the Bishop peered from the Lodge, Bravo circled around ahead of the fire until it was almost above the Lodge. Slowly it edged forward until it hovered only fifty feet from the ground, its wheels practically brushing the pine tops, interposing itself directly between the building and the approaching fire. The rotor blades sliced through the air, hurling a downdraft of immense force against the trees. A new front in the battle had been opened. A wall of air was pushed forward from the helicopter until it met the advancing flames and the two air masses engaged in a war of great winds. Choking billows of smoke and dust were hurled in all directions, encasing the helicopter in a blinding envelope of debris. Bitter tongues of flame leaped upward, only to dash against the concentrated fury of fifteen hundred horsepower of mechanical muscle and be forced back in retreat. Mission Three-Zero Bravo did not kill the flame, which sidetracked, sought new avenues of advance, but with both courage and skill and flying almost blind amid the smoke it held the fire from the Lodge while Alpha and the newly arrived support helicopter continued with the work of the rainmakers.

  Inside the Lodge the noise was deafening. The force of the swirling blades beat down upon the corrugated metal roof like a hammer upon a drum, obliterating all other sounds and making conversation impossible. Shutters rattled, a chimney pot crashed down, corrugated roofing sheets began to flap loose, thoughts were shaken by the irresistible frenzy of sound until they fell apart.

  Theophilos watched the scene from an upstairs window with a huge grin of relief. The forward march of the flames had been stopped, he felt much better now. He wasn’t going to have to kill anyone after all.

  ***

  They chose a small square window that led into the darker recesses of the Lodge, on the side farthest away from the fire.

  The Lodge, their target, had been designed more than a hundred years before by a French poet, Arthur Rimbaud, while still in his twenties. He was a man of rich experience for his few years, a life dedicated to indulgence, drinking,
and bawdy conversations, which he supported through his activities as a gun runner, explorer, trader, man of letters—and architect. His building design, however, was utterly commonplace, the Lodge owing its survival more to the stoutness of its stone than to its beauty or practicality. The kitchen, in particular, was a miserable affair, narrow and dark, so at a later stage it had been modified by adding a small extension for storage, and light for that extension was provided by a small window. It was out of character with the other windows in the Lodge, which were mostly tall with a pretense at elegance. This window was scarcely two feet square. It was also the only window into the Lodge without shutters.

  They knew precisely where the hostages were held, in the sitting room at the far end of the house from the kitchen. They suspected that there were at least an equal number of the Bishop’s men guarding them and another three, including the Bishop, were stationed at windows keeping watch on the progress of the fire. With luck, they could account for them all.

  Captain Rupert Darwin had been placed in charge of the assault squad. Aged thirty-two, infantry, he was a man of endeavor and experience rather than notable achievement who had served in Ulster and Oman as well as United Nations duty in strife-torn Nigeria. He had also been to the same school as the Air Vice-Marshal—they were distantly related—but it was his two tours of duty on rotation with the Special Air Service in Northern Ireland rather than blood ties that in all probability had accounted for his selection to lead the assault on the Lodge. Six ordinary but experienced riflemen plus the captain, one for each hostile body, armed with the short SA80 rifle, smoke grenades, and thunder flashes. With faces blackened they had approached the Lodge from the side farthest away from and up-mountain of the fire, their camouflage smocks providing more than adequate cover among the smoke-strewn trees.

  They had come to within twenty yards, each footstep sending telltale rivulets of pine needles creeping down the steep slope. They lingered behind the fissured boles of the pines until it had been confirmed that the three lookouts posted in the outbuildings had been taken out—without even a curse, as it later transpired, so distracted had they been studying the progress of the fire. Their task could only get more difficult. With a final glance at the shuttered windows and fearing a spying eye and angry muzzle behind every one, Darwin and his men had swarmed from behind their pines and tumbled down the final stretch of slope to the wall of the kitchen extension. No cry, no shout of alarm, nor sound of shot—nothing but the pounding of rotor blades that even from the far side of the building made it sound as if they were standing in the middle of an avalanche.

  Darwin edged to the window, his back pressed flat against the wall. He could feel the trickle of sweat along his backbone. Now was the worst moment, when it all started, the point of no return in the operation when your life was about to depend upon the lessons squeezed from a thousand years of military history. That and a whole pile of luck. The time when you swallowed the fear, prayed it was your day to survive. He took a deep breath, knowing it might be his last, and spun to face the window.

  The kitchen was empty—of course, who would want coffee at a time like this? His luck was holding, already he felt better. But they could not risk the sound of shattering glass. They taped and cut out a section of windowpane, carving a hole with a glass cutter through which the latch could be released. In less than thirty seconds the window had swung open. In another thirty Darwin and two others were inside, the rest of the men following in quick order.

  The galley kitchen was narrow, no cover, no place to run or hide, a killing field if but one of the Bishop’s men confronted them in such confined quarters. They needed to get out of it as rapidly as possible. But they were through, into the dining room with its dark, formal furniture. There were dirty plates on the table, cheese and bread crumbs, fruit, several empty bottles of wine, screwed-up cigarette packets, and on the sideboard two submachine guns and boxes of ammunition. The eyes of Makarios, dark and somber in oils, stared down upon them, but no one else.

  Within the house the bombardment of noise seemed still more remorseless, echoing between stone walls until the inside of their heads throbbed. There was no possibility of communicating through speech, all commands were given with a flick of the fingers to an order of battle orchestrated and meticulously scored in the hours before. Beyond the dining room they knew they would find a central hallway leading from the main door, and beside the door a half-open shutter where there should be a lookout. He’d been there all morning, damn him if he’d moved in the last ten minutes. Up the stairs from the hallway on the top floor they expected to find another lookout; the Bishop was reported to be on the middle floor, in the main bedroom with a view overlooking the fire. Beyond the hallway was the sitting room with four bound hostages and—they hoped—the four remaining hostiles. All accounted for. Perhaps. A man each.

  The lookout positioned beside the main door was the key that, once turned, would open up the stairway and the approach to the sitting room. But they could afford no shots, no noise that might cause the lock to jam.

  The paneled oak door from the dining room opened silently. Darwin smiled grimly. The theology student-turned-liberation fighter had been spending too much time on theory, his practical skills proving woefully inadequate. While he dragged at a cigarette his machine pistol lay on the chair a good pace away from the window, a pace he would never get the chance to take. Before he’d even turned a sergeant had the point of a bayonet pressed against the jugular and a hand forced over his mouth. The lookout froze, his eyes filled with fear, the bayonet point breaking the skin on his throat as he swallowed. Then he fell to his knees as though in prayer. One down.

  In his heart, Darwin knew that the assault on the sitting room couldn’t be as simple. The position of the hostages was critical; if they were all set apart from their captors, an exchange of fire might be risked. He glanced through the crack in the door, cursed. One of the guards was seated directly beside the hostages, facing the window where, silhouetted against the bright light, standing shoulder to shoulder and struggling for a better view, two others stood. There should have been three.

  The male hostages were tied in a row, also facing the windows, but the young woman was behind them and turned toward the door. One cheek was raw red and two buttons on her untidy blouse were missing, torn away. Yet there was a light in her dark eyes that ignited as she saw Darwin’s sooted face. He raised a finger to his lips; she closed her eyes, managed a small smile.

  The rubber-soled boots made no distinguishable noise upon the carpet. The seated guard was felled with a blow from a rifle butt, offering nothing more than a low moan as he crumpled to the floor. Still there was no response from the men standing at the window, so overpowering and obliterating was the noise. Two soldiers stationed themselves as a wall of flesh between the guards and the hostages, another pair approached those at the window. Barrels to their backs. The captors stiffened in alarm. One accepted his fate in a flurry of raised hands and dropped weapons, but the other swung around, determined, hate in his eyes, his arm sweeping at the short barrel of the automatic rifle. All he got was the butt in his face, a blow that broke his nose and left him covered in blood. He fell to the floor, groaning.

  The briefest of checks on the hostages assured Darwin that all were alive, although Martin in particular, captive for almost two weeks, appeared wan and exhausted. Any attempt to elicit from them the precise whereabouts of the Bishop and the other targets was frustrated; they didn’t appear to know, the noise prevented any useful exchange.

  It was while he was questioning the High Commissioner that Darwin’s attention was aroused by the look of alarm that suddenly was drawn across the face of one of his men. He turned to discover that the freed woman had picked up one of the many small arms left lying around and was standing over the fallen guard with the busted nose. She kicked him to attract his attention. He stopped moaning, looked up, saw a special look in her eyes, held out a bloodie
d, pleading hand.

  Elpída let him grovel until she could see fear stretched tight across his face like a piano wire. Then she fired and blew Dimitri’s right kneecap into a mush of skin and bone fragments. “Next time, you bastard, you’ll come crawling to me.”

  Dimitri’s body began to jerk, trying desperately to get hands around his shattered leg while every movement sent a thousand volts of agony shooting through his body. He was screaming at the top of his voice.

  As though she were handing out refreshments during a hot afternoon on the lawn of the Presidential Palace, Elpída gave the gun to Darwin and went to tend to her father.

  The Captain felt sick. He’d lost control, the game plan was unraveling. It seemed certain that the gunshot and Dimitri’s cries of agony would have been heard by those still unaccounted for. He had the hostages secure, but the job was not yet finished. And he’d have to do the rest on his own.

  As he contemplated the stairs, his mouth went dry and his finger stiffened around the trigger. He had little idea what to expect—Urquhart’s briefing had only extended as far as the ground floor—and there were too many doors leading off the landing, any of which could leap open in a blaze of gunfire. Like O’Mara Street near the river in Derry, a disheveled terraced house with peeling wallpaper and no carpet, on a miserable November day when he’d been sent to pick up an IRA suspect. At the top of a short flight of stairs there had been only two doors, but one of them had opened, just a fraction. He had hesitated—was it an innocent civilian, a child perhaps, coming from the bathroom? Or the suspect about to surrender?

  The answer had come in the form of a 5.56-mm bullet fired from an Armalite that had sliced clean across his collarbone and through the throat of the corporal giving him cover from behind. They had both ended up at the bottom of the stairs, Darwin curled in a ball of pain, staring directly into the lifeless eyes of his fellow soldier. The corporal’s widow had got a pension, Darwin had got sick leave and a commendation, and the IRA murderer a sentence of life imprisonment when eventually he had given himself up. That was eight years ago; he could be paroled and out on the streets in less than another two. In Darwin’s dreams the eyes of the dead soldier had stared back at him for months afterward. That wasn’t going to happen again.