The House of Cards Complete Trilogy

by Michael Dobbs

  Makepeace was blinking rapidly, trying to brush away the mists of rage and clear his thoughts. Maria was there first. “What of tomorrow, Chief Inspector? And the next day? And next weekend in London?”

  Harding shrugged. “Not in my hands, miss. That would depend on the local police force. But if the threat of violence is still there…”

  “So you would allow a bunch of thugs to run my election campaign completely off the road,” Makepeace snapped.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And what will you do if I refuse?”

  “Mr. Makepeace, I have given you a lawful direction to stop this march. If you don’t, you would leave me with no choice but to arrest you. Neither of us wants that. Wouldn’t do your election campaign much good either.”

  “You’ll allow me to be the judge of that.”

  But others were also judging, pressing around more closely as they began to understand that the police presence surrounding Makepeace was not for his protection. The mood was turning edgy.

  “I don’t pretend to understand politics, sir, but I have a job to do. So let’s wind this march up peacefully.”

  “No, I think we’ll take the other route. Arrest me or get out of my way.” Makepeace began marching once more, trying to clear a path through the bodies in front of him.

  “Please, sir…”

  Harding was reaching out after him; Makepeace brushed aside the restraining hand. Harding hurried to bring himself alongside.

  “Sir, you do not have to say anything. But if you do not mention now something that you later use in your defense, the court may decide…”

  The rest was drowned in a growl of opposition from various members of the Akropolis weight-lifting team who had begun pushing forward through the crowd. Parents with children in arms were getting jostled, someone tumbled, cries of confusion sounded on all sides, the march had suddenly tugged on the edge of chaos. Is that what Harding intended? Makepeace arrested in the midst of violence without a neo-Nazi in sight? Forcefully Maria thrust herself between Makepeace and the advancing muscle, shouting reprimands in seaman’s Greek and waving them to subside.

  Makepeace had a constable latched on to either arm but he did not struggle or resist. Instead he, too, was calling out for order. “Relax. Get on with the march,” he shouted to those around. “I’ll be back with you as soon as I’ve got this nonsense sorted out.”

  But Harding’s placatory smile had disappeared. “No, Mr. Makepeace, I don’t think we can allow that. Not at all.”

  ***

  The cutting had been blocked by a barricade of eight buses, ancient Bedford and modern Mercedes, parked sideways and four deep, fronted by a low rampart of boulders and pine trunks. There was no way through and, since the sides of the cutting rose steeply from the roadway, no way around. The buses were empty, doors ajar, curtains flapping at dust-streaked windows, yet the silence had an unmistakable menace that filled St. Aubyn’s throat with bile.

  “Back!” he yelled, waving his hand in a circular motion above his head as the driver made an agile three-point turn and started off for the far end of the cutting. The four-tonners snorted and complained like beached whales as they struggled in the narrow confines to follow suit.

  It had been less than three minutes since they had passed into the rocky valley, but when they returned to it the entrance was not as it had been. Seated in the road as though engaged in a summer’s picnic were two hundred chattering schoolgirls, in uniform, none more than fifteen. A barrier as unbreachable as rock. The Land Rover slid ungracefully to a halt in a cloud of dust.

  Trapped. And he could see something else out of the corner of his eye. Shadows were falling across his path, cast down from on high. St. Aubyn looked to the top of the cutting, towering above him some forty feet, where the silhouettes of men were shooting up like a field of thistles. Every one of them was armed.

  Then he saw two further dark shapes appear against the hard blue sky. Men holding to their shoulders not weapons, but television cameras.

  With a certainty that sickened him, St. Aubyn suddenly knew he was going to be famous.

  ***

  Makepeace was, of course, already famous, and about to move up to the category that would label him notorious. As soon as he had been arrested he had moved to the side of the road, out of the path of the march and against the wall of a church. There, framed against the statue of Mother and Child that dominated the churchyard, he refused any further cooperation. At least for the next couple of minutes. He had spotted a television van parking a short distance away, its crew tumbling forth. He needed to make a little time for them; there was little to be gained from being arrested if the drama couldn’t be played out on prime-time television.

  Maria was at his side, gesticulating to the marchers to continue, while Makepeace refused to budge, his arms folded and studiously ignoring the eye and the commands of the beleaguered Harding. But then all was ready, the mike boom was thrust forward, the red eye glaring on the front of the video camera.

  Slowly, as though in prayer, he clenched his hands and held them well away from his body. Once more he was asked to cooperate; again he refused, shaking his head. He held the hands out still farther, his eyes shut tight. They took his arm; he shook them off. He was going nowhere. Reluctantly the Chief Inspector gave the order and a pair of handcuffs were snapped around his wrists.

  When his eyes flicked open, they shone with vivid intensity. Makepeace held his cuffed hands aloft, like a warrior triumphant in battle, shaking them for all to see.

  “The chains of an Englishman!” he exclaimed.

  Maria held out her hands, too. Then another, and yet another. All around there were marchers asking, almost demanding to be arrested. The confused constables looked to the Chief Inspector for instruction. Hell, he couldn’t turn it into a massacre of the innocents. Makepeace would have to be enough. He tugged nervously at the cuffs of his sleeve and shook his head.

  Then, and only then, did Makepeace allow himself to be led away.

  And the marchers continued marching. Every time a policeman approached they held their hands out in front of them, priests, mothers with babes in arms, children, even some in wheelchairs. And each time the policeman turned away.

  ***

  Two issues confronted the editors of television news programs that night.

  The first was how on earth to get political balance into their programs, to ensure that during the election period all sides got roughly equal coverage to avoid accusations of bias. In the end, most said to hell with the alternative of Clarence cuddling grannies on the seafront at Skegness. Delivered unto them had been the enviable combination of hard stones and gripping pictures, TV news at its best. They went with it.

  The second was more difficult, to decide which of the two contending items should get top billing. Some chose Makepeace, most featured Colonel St. Aubyn. A “Double Whammy!” as the Mirror was to call it the following morning. Disruption, diversion, and editorial delight.

  Mortima glanced across at Urquhart, creases of concern about her eyes. He recognized the look.

  “I don’t know, Mortima, how this will end. We don’t control it anymore. Fools are afoot and our fate lies in the hands and upon the votes of the graceless mob.”

  “St. Aubyn. Makepeace. Are these stories of help or hindrance?”

  “Who is to tell? All I am sure of is that these are contrary winds, and some boats will be quite swamped before the gale has blown itself out.”

  Forty-Two

  Never show weakness, never. The only reason I bend the knee is in order to hit below the belt.

  The custody sergeant was deeply unimpressed. A pack of tissues, a depleted tube of blister ointment, a couple of pens—one a cheap throwaway and the other a sparkling Parker Duofold—a comb, a watch, a paper clip, a mobile phone, and three envelopes containing letters of support thru
st at Makepeace during the morning’s march were all that he could produce by way of personal effects from his pockets. No cash, no credit cards, no visible means of support.

  “I could ’ave you done for vagrancy,” the Sergeant quipped.

  “I was on a march, not an outing to John Lewis,” Makepeace responded drily.

  “Well, at least I can’t book you for shoplifting, I suppose.”

  He finished completing the sheet of personal details, stumbling only over the occupation.

  “Since Parliament is prorogued that means I’m technically no longer an MP,” Makepeace explained. “Must make me unemployed.”

  The Sergeant sniffed, sucked the top of his pen, and wrote down “Election Candidate.” Then he began reciting the words of the formal caution. “You are charged with the offenses shown below. You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so…”

  “Believe me, Sergeant, I wish to do so. I have no intention of staying silent.”

  “Which in your case makes for problems. As I understand it, Mr. Makepeace, it’s your stated intention as soon as you’ve been released to go back out on the march—the very thing for which you’ve been arrested.”

  “Correct.”

  “Can’t have that, can we, sir?”

  “You going to arrest me again?”

  “No. Not yet at least. Not necessary. Since you’ve made it clear you won’t honor any conditions of bail, I’m proposing not to release you.”

  “You must.”

  “I can hold you for up to twenty-four hours, sir. That’s the law. I suspect you voted in support of it, too. Give you a bit of time to consider, to cool down. Then we’ll put you before the next sitting of the magistrates’ court”—he glanced up at the wall clock, which showed nearly one on Monday morning—“which’ll be Tuesday.”

  “I’m supposed to be in Banbury, almost halfway to London by then.”

  “Not this Tuesday, I’m afraid.”

  “Sweep out the tumbrel before you put me in it, will you?”

  “Don’t be like that, sir. You’ll find your cell very cozy, I’m sure. Although we’re fresh out of feather quilts.”

  “And justice.”

  “That’s for the magistrates to decide.”

  “And, thankfully, the people.”

  ***

  The silver disk of the moon had risen to shed a pale, monochrome light across the cutting, supplemented at various points along the ridge by lamps that appeared to be powered from car batteries, and punctuated by the occasional brilliance of portable television lights. Across the road where the children sat, a line of candles had been lit, giving the cordon an almost festive appearance. Every twenty minutes or so some forty of the schoolgirls would rise and their places would be taken by a fresh contingent; they were running the human wall in shifts and by the coachload. But who “they” were was not yet apparent.

  No shots had been fired, but the intention of those occupying the ridge was clear. Every time one of St. Aubyn’s men approached within twenty yards of the barricade of buses, rifles were raised, chambers loaded, and triggers very audibly cocked. Even had the President and his daughter not been accompanying them, resistance would have been pointless. They had no cover, no way out apart from bulldozing through the children, so they sat and stared, sitting ducks.

  Once the sun had melted from the sky and the inky umbrella of night emerged to cover them, they had discovered how insubstantial was the mountain air and how cold it could grow with nothing but starlight for warmth. Rations, too, were meager; no one had planned on this. And from beyond the cordon they could taste the smoky flavors of roasting lamb painted with garlic and rosemary. Torture on a hungry tongue.

  Then three men emerged from behind the row of candles and made their way forward. One carried a battered oil lamp, another a large plastic bottle of water.

  “Good evening, English,” the man holding the lamp greeted St. Aubyn as he moved to meet them. The Cypriot, a wrinkled man in his sixties, sported a huge mustache that grew like ram’s horns and entirely obscured his mouth. He held up his hand to indicate he was unarmed. “I hope you are uncomfortable.”

  “What is the point of this?” the Colonel demanded. “You know that a thousand British soldiers could be here within hours.”

  “And you and everyone in your convoy could be dead within minutes. But let us not deal in hypotheses, English.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Your surrender.”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  “Deadly serious. We want to show you British that you are not welcome in this island, not as military occupiers who meddle in our affairs. And by holding you here until you surrender we want to show the world that your game is over.”

  “It cannot happen.”

  “I don’t think you can prevent it.”

  “My Commander at Episkopi will already be organizing our relief.”

  “On the contrary, we have already spoken to your Air Vice-Marshal Rae and told him that if he lifts a single finger he will be responsible for an enormous loss of life, mostly British.”

  “You’ve already been in touch with him?”

  “Indeed. We thought it only fair to let him know since we suspect your own communication facilities on the convoy are somewhat inadequate.”

  Damn right. Stuck in a cutting in the middle of the Troodos mountains with all the specialist communications equipment sent back to Episkopi, they might as well have been shouting down a drainpipe from the moon. St. Aubyn had been relying on a search party being sent out as soon as it was realized they were missing.

  “And…?” St. Aubyn inquired uncertainly.

  “It seems that he is seeking guidance from London. I am afraid you will have an uncomfortable night.”

  “We have no food. Precious little water,” St. Aubyn explained, noticing the water bottle.

  “Anyone who wishes either food or water will be welcome as our guests. But they will come unarmed and will not be allowed to return.”

  The man holding the water placed the bottle on the far side of the line of candles, tantalizing, just beyond reach.

  “I fear that on this occasion we shall have to decline your Cypriot hospitality,” St. Aubyn responded drily.

  “For now, perhaps. But we shall see.” He glanced up to the starscape that hung in the clear sky where soon would hang the fire of a Middle Eastern sun. “We shall see.”

  The Cypriots turned to make their way back beyond the line.

  “By the way, who are you?” St. Aubyn demanded.

  “Just ordinary Cypriots. I come from the village of Spilia.”

  “The Bishop’s men?”

  The old man turned and smiled wryly, a gold tooth glistening in the lamplight. “You don’t understand, do you, English? Since yesterday, almost everyone on the island is one of the Bishop’s men.”

  Then he disappeared into the shadows.

  ***

  “Did you have any trouble locating the boys, Jim?”

  “None at all, sir,” the Squadron Commanding Officer replied. He’d been up at first light to fly the reconnaissance mission himself. “They’re on the main Nicosia road, just below the village of Spilia.”

  He pointed out the location on the large wall map in the Air Vice-Marshal’s office. “Bottled up in a cutting by a barricade of buses and”—he coughed apologetically—“what appeared to be a gathering of schoolgirls.”

  “You’re kidding,” Rae gasped.

  “The schoolgirls appeared to be dancing, sir.”

  “What is this, carnival week?”

  “It has some elements of that, sir. Long lines of cars and buses seem to be approaching the site from every direction. Looks as though it’s becoming something of a tourist attraction. Whatever else it means, there’s going to be no way to get a re
lief convoy up there without standing in line in a traffic jam.”

  “Helicopters?”

  “We’d be hovering only feet above the top of the cutting with about as much protection as butterflies. They wouldn’t even need to fire, just throw stones. Easier than a coconut shy at a fair.”

  The Air Vice-Marshal’s voice dropped a tone. “So what’s the answer, Jim?”

  “Buggered if I know, sir.”

  Rae slumped in his chair over the telephone, which he knew would soon be ringing. “Tell you something, old friend. They ain’t going to like this back in London. Ain’t going to like it one little bit.”

  “Serves him bloody right.”

  ***

  The morning election press conference had approached a shambles. Urquhart had appeared on the rostrum at party headquarters beneath a neat Velcro slogan entitled “Growing Together.” He had with him a carefully prepared press release and an equally carefully prepared Minister for Agriculture, intent on extolling the expanding fortunes of the great British farmer. The media would have none of it.

  The position had been well rehearsed on matters Makepeace and military. No comment. The first was sub judice and up to the courts, the second a matter of national security. “You’ll have to wait and see,” the Party Chairman offered in his introduction, but of course they wouldn’t. They attacked the position in waves.

  “Is it true that our troops are being stopped by a bunch of schoolgirls?”

  “It’s really not that simple…”

  “Can you confirm that the military advice was against this convoy heading for Nicosia?”

  “Such private discussions must remain confidential…”

  “But are there really lives at stake, or is this simply a tangle with St. Trinian’s?”

  “This is a serious matter…”

  “Will you send in the SAS?”

  “Better send in Michael Jackson,” a colleague offered.