House of Cards

by Michael Dobbs

  “Better copy it yourself. Wouldn’t do to have that list getting around here tonight.” Collingridge smiled as he tried to bring Urquhart back into the conspiracy of power that always hovers around Downing Street. “In any event, I think it’s time for me to depart. The BBC will want me bright and sparkling in four hours’ time, so I shall wait for the rest of the results in Downing Street.”

  He turned to Williams. “By the way, what is the wretched computer predicting now?”

  “It’s been stuck on twenty-four for about half an hour now. I think that’s it.” There was no sense of victory in his voice. He had just presided over the Party’s worst election result in nearly two decades.

  “Never mind, Teddy. A majority is a majority. And it will give the Chief Whip something to do instead of sitting idly around with a majority of over a hundred. Eh, Francis?” And with that he strode out of the room, leaving Urquhart forlornly clutching his envelope.

  * * *

  Within minutes of the Prime Minister’s departure the crowds both inside and outside the building began perceptibly to melt. Urquhart, still feeling bruised and not in a mood either to celebrate or to sympathize, made his way to the back of the first floor where he knew the photocopying office could be found. Except that Room 132A was scarcely an office at all, little more than a windowless closet barely six feet across and kept for supplies and confidential photocopying. Urquhart opened the door and the smell hit him before he had time to find the light switch. Slumped on the floor by the narrow metal storage shelves was Charles Collingridge. He had soiled his clothes even as he slept. There was no glass or bottle anywhere to be seen but the smell of whiskey was heavy in the air. Charlie, it seemed, had crawled away to find the least embarrassing place to collapse.

  Urquhart reached for his handkerchief and held it to his face, trying to ward off the stench. He stepped over to the body and turned it on its back. A shake of the shoulders did little other than disrupt the fitful heavy breathing for a moment. A firmer shake gave nothing more, and a gentle slap across the cheeks produced equally little result.

  He gazed with disgust at what he saw. Suddenly Urquhart’s body stiffened, his contempt mingled with the lingering humiliation he had suffered at the Prime Minister’s hands. And here, surely, was an opportunity for repayment of the slight. He grabbed at the lapels of Charlie’s jacket, hauled him up, drew back his arm, ready to strike, to lash the back of his hand across this pathetic wretch’s face, to release his humiliation and anger at all the Collingridges. Urquhart was trembling now, poised.

  Then an envelope fell from Charlie’s jacket pocket, an unpaid electricity bill by the look of it, a final demand, covered in red, and suddenly Urquhart realized there was another way to even up the scales of injustice, to tilt them back and over to his side. He wouldn’t hit Charlie after all, not out of any particular sense of fastidiousness, nor any feeling that Charlie was entirely innocent of any offense against him, apart from the smell. Urquhart knew he could hurt Henry Collingridge by inflicting pain upon his brother, of that there was no doubt, but the hurt wouldn’t be enough, wouldn’t last. Anyway, this wasn’t the way, not in some noisome cupboard, nor was it the time. Francis Urquhart was better than this, much better. Better than them all.

  He allowed the sleeping form of Charles Collingridge to fall back gently to the floor, straightened the lapels, left him to rest. “You and I, Charlie, we’re going to become very close. Great friends. Not right this moment, of course. After you’ve cleaned yourself up a bit, eh?”

  He turned to the photocopier, took the letter from his pocket, made one copy, after which he took the bill from Charlie’s pocket and made a copy of that, too. Then he left the drunken form of his new friend to sleep it off.

  Seven

  Wasn’t it that fellow Clausewitz who once said that war is the continuation of politics by other means? He was wrong, of course, ridiculously wrong. Politics? War? As my dear wife Mortima constantly reminds me, there is no distinction.

  Sunday, June 13

  Urquhart’s official car turned from Whitehall into Downing Street to be greeted by a policeman’s starched salute and a hundred exploding flashguns. It was Sunday, shortly before four. He had left Mortima at home in Pimlico with their guests, eight of them, more than usual for a Sunday but this was the anniversary of his father’s death and he was in the habit of filling it with distraction. The men and handful of women of the press were gathered behind the barriers on the far side of the street from the world’s most famous front door, which stood wide open as the car drew up—like a political black hole, Urquhart had often thought, into which new prime ministers disappeared and rarely if ever emerged without being surrounded by protective hordes of civil servants, and only after they had sucked the life out of them.

  Urquhart had made sure to travel on the left-hand side of the car’s rear seat so that as he climbed out in front of Number Ten, he would provide an unimpeded view of himself for the TV and press cameras. He stretched himself to his full height and was greeted by a chorus of shouted questions from the press huddle, providing him with an excuse to walk over for a few words. He spotted Manny Goodchild, the legendary Press Association figure, firmly planted under his battered trilby and conveniently wedged between ITN and BBC news camera crews.

  “Well, Manny, did you have any money on the result?” he inquired.

  “Mr. Urquhart, you know my editor would frown on putting his money where my mouth is.”

  “Nevertheless.” Urquhart raised an eyebrow.

  The old press man’s lips wriggled like two unrelated caterpillars. “Put it this way, Mrs. Goodchild has already booked her holiday in Majorca, and thanks to Mr. Collingridge I’m going with her, too.”

  Urquhart sighed theatrically. “’Tis an ill wind.”

  “And talking of ill winds, Mr. Urquhart”—his colleagues pressed closer as Manny got into his stride—“are you here to advise the Prime Minister about the reshuffle? Won’t there have to be a pretty good clear out after a disappointing result like that? And does it all mean a new job for you?”

  “Well, I’m here to discuss a number of things, but I suppose the reshuffle might come into it,” Urquhart responded coyly. “And we won, remember. Don’t be so downbeat, Manny.”

  “It’s rumored that you’re expecting a major new post.”

  Urquhart smiled. “Can’t comment on rumors, Manny, and anyway you know that’s one for the PM to decide. I’m here simply to give him some moral support.”

  “You’ll be going to advise the PM along with Lord Williams, will you then?”

  The smile struggled to survive. “Lord Williams, has he arrived yet?”

  “More than an hour ago. We were wondering when someone else was going to turn up.”

  It took every ounce of experience gathered through Urquhart’s many years in politics not to let his surprise show. “Then I must go,” he announced. “Can’t keep them waiting.” He gave a courteous nod of his head, turned on his heel, and strode back across the road, ditching his plan to wave at the cameras from the doorstep of Number Ten, just in case it looked presumptuous.

  On the other side of the black-and-white tiled hallway, a carpeted corridor led toward the Cabinet Room. The Prime Minister’s youthful political secretary was waiting for him at the end. As Urquhart approached, he sensed that the young man was uneasy.

  “The Prime Minister is expecting you, Chief Whip.”

  “Yes, that’s why I’m here.”

  The secretary flinched. “He’s in the study upstairs. I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.” Duty done, and not waiting for any further hint of sarcasm, he bounded off up the stairs.

  It was twelve knuckle-cracking, watch-tapping minutes before he reappeared, leaving Urquhart to stare distractedly at the portraits of previous prime ministers that adorned the famous staircase. He could never get over the feeling of how inconsequential
so many of the recent holders of the office had been. Uninspiring, unfitted for the task. By contrast, the likes of Lloyd George and Churchill had been magnificent natural leaders, but would they be allowed to rise to the top nowadays? One had been promiscuous and had sold peerages, the other had spent far too much time in drink, debt, and hot temper; both were giants, yet neither man would have made it past the modern media. Instead the world had been left to the pygmies, men of small stature and still less ambition, men chosen not because they were exceptional but because they didn’t offend, men who followed the rules rather than making their own, men…Well, men like Henry Collingridge.

  The return of the political secretary interrupted his thoughts. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Chief Whip. He’s ready for you now.”

  The room used by Collingridge as his study was on the first floor, overlooking the Downing Street garden to St. James’s Park. A modest room, as so much else in this jumble of spaces that made up the second most important address in the country. As Urquhart entered he could see that, in spite of efforts to tidy up the large desk, there had been much shuffling of paper and scribbling of notes in the previous hour or so. An empty bottle of claret stared out of the waste bin and plates covered with crumbs and a withered leaf of lettuce lurked on the windowsill. The Party Chairman sat to the right of the Prime Minister, his notes spilling over the green leather top. Beside them stood a large pile of manila folders containing MPs’ biographies.

  Urquhart brought up a chair, one without arms, and sat in front of the other two, feeling rather like a schoolboy in the headmaster’s study. Collingridge and Williams were silhouetted against the windows. Urquhart squinted into the light, balancing his own folder of notes uneasily on his knee.

  “Francis, you were kind enough to let me have some thoughts on the reshuffle,” the Prime Minister began. No ceremony, straight down to business. “I am very grateful; you know how useful such suggestions are in stimulating my own thoughts.”

  Urquhart inclined his head in silent gratitude.

  “You’ve obviously put a lot of work into them. But before we get down to specifics I thought we should chat about the broad objectives first. You’ve suggested—well, what shall I call it?—a rather radical reshuffle.” Collingridge peered at the sheet of paper in front of him, through reading glasses he kept only for private occasions. His finger ran down the list. “Six new members for the Cabinet, some extensive swapping of portfolios among the rest.” He sighed, sat back in his chair, as though distancing himself from it all. “Tell me why. Why such a heavy hand? What do you think it would achieve?”

  Urquhart’s senses were on alert. He didn’t care for this. He had hoped to be brought in at the earliest stage but the other two were already well ahead of him and he didn’t know where. He’d found no chance to sniff out the Prime Minister’s own views, to read his mind; it was an unhealthy place for a Chief Whip to be in. He wondered whether he was being set up.

  As he blinked against the sunlight that was streaming in from behind the Prime Minister’s head, he could read nothing of the expression. He wished now that he hadn’t committed his thoughts to paper—it left him no wriggle room, no escape route—but it was too late for regrets. Williams was staring at him like a hawk. He spoke slowly, so as not to raise alarm, searching for words that might cover his tracks.

  “Of course, Prime Minister, they are only suggestions, indications really, of what you might be able to do. I thought, in general, in the round, that it might be better to err on the side of action, as it were, to undertake more rather than fewer changes, simply to indicate that you are firmly in charge. That you are expecting a lot of new ideas and new thinking from your ministers. And a chance to retire just a few of our older colleagues; regrettable, but necessary if you are to bring in some new blood.”

  Damn, he thought suddenly, what a bloody inept thing to say with that ancient bastard Williams sitting on the PM’s right hand. But it had been said, there was no means of retreat.

  “We’ve been in power for longer than any Party since the war, which presents a new challenge,” he continued. “Boredom. We need to ensure we have a fresh image for the Government team. We must guard against going stale.”

  The room fell silent. Then, slowly, the Prime Minister began tapping his pencil on the desk.

  “That’s very interesting, Francis, and I agree with you—to a large extent.”

  Oh, that hesitation, that little pause, what might that denote? Urquhart found that his hands were clasped, the nails digging into the flesh.

  “Teddy and I have been discussing just that sort of problem,” the Prime Minister continued. “Bring on a new generation of talent, find new impetus, put new men in new places. And I find many of your suggestions for changes at the lower ministerial levels below Cabinet very persuasive.”

  But they were not the ones that mattered, they all knew that. And the Prime Minister’s tone had changed, grown more somber.

  “The trouble is that too much change at the top can be very disruptive. It takes most cabinet ministers a year to find their feet in a new Department, and right now a year is a long time without being able to show positive signs of progress. Rather than your Cabinet changes helping to implement our new program, Teddy’s view is that on balance it would more likely delay the program.”

  What new program? Urquhart was screaming inside his skull. The manifesto had about as much backbone as a sack of seaweed.

  “But, with respect, Prime Minister, don’t you think that by cutting our majority the electorate was telling us of its desire for some degree of change?”

  “An interesting point. But as you yourself said, no government in our lifetimes has been in office as long as we have. Without in any way being complacent, Francis, I don’t think we could have rewritten the history books if the voters believed we’d run out of steam. On balance, I think it suggests they are content with what we offer.”

  It was time to change tack. “You may very well be right, Prime Minister.”

  “There’s another point, pretty damned vital in the circumstances,” Collingridge continued. “We have to avoid giving the impression that we’re panicking. That would send entirely the wrong signal. Remember that Macmillan destroyed his own Government by sacking a third of his Cabinet. They took it as a sign of weakness. He was out of office inside a year. I’m not anxious for a repeat performance.” He gave one final beat with the pencil, then put it aside. “I’m thinking of a much more controlled approach myself.”

  Collingridge slipped a piece of paper across the desk toward his Chief Whip. On it was printed a list of Cabinet positions, twenty-two in all, with names alongside them.

  “As you see, Francis, I am suggesting no Cabinet changes at all. I hope it will be seen as a sign of strength. We have a job to do, I think we should show we want to get straight on with it.”

  Urquhart quickly returned the paper to the desk, anxious that the tremble in his hand might betray his inner feelings. “If that is what you want, Prime Minister.”

  “It is.” There was the slightest pause. “And of course I assume I have your full support?”

  “Of course, Prime Minister.”

  Urquhart scarcely recognized his own voice, it sounded as though it came from an entirely different part of the room. Not his words. But he had no choice: it was either support or suicide through instant resignation. Yet he couldn’t leave it there. “I have to say that I…was rather looking for a change myself. A bit of new experience…a new challenge.” His words faltered as he found his mouth suddenly dry. “You may remember, Prime Minister, we had discussed the possibility…”

  “Francis,” the Prime Minister interrupted, but not unkindly, “if I move you, I have to move others. The whole pile of dominoes begins to tumble. And I need you where you are. You are an excellent Chief Whip. You have devoted yourself to burrowing right into the heart and soul of the Parliamentary Part
y. You know them so well. We have to face up to the fact that with such a small majority there are bound to be one or two sticky patches over the next few years. I need to have a Chief Whip who is strong enough to handle them. I need you, Francis. You’re so good behind the scenes. We can leave it to others to do the job out front.”

  Urquhart lowered his eyes, not wanting them to see the turmoil of betrayal that flushed through them. Collingridge took it as an expression of acceptance.

  “I am truly grateful for your understanding and support, Francis.”

  Urquhart felt the cell door slam shut. He thanked them both, took his farewell. Williams hadn’t uttered a single word.

  He left by the back route through the basement of Number Ten. It took him past the ruins of the old Tudor tennis court where Henry VIII had played, then to the Cabinet Office that fronted onto Whitehall, along the road from the entrance to Downing Street and well out of sight of the waiting press. He couldn’t face them. He had been with the Prime Minister less than half an hour and he couldn’t trust his face to back up the lies he would have to tell them. He got a security guard at the Cabinet Office to telephone for his car to be brought round. He didn’t bother with small talk.

  Eight

  The truth is like a good wine. You often find it tucked away in the darkest corner of a cellar. It needs turning occasionally. And given a gentle dusting, too, before you bring it out into the light and start using it.

  The battered BMW had been standing outside the house in Cambridge Street, Pimlico for almost a quarter of an hour. The vacant seats were smothered in a chaos of discarded newspapers and granola bar wrappers that only a truly busy single woman could produce, and in the middle of it all Mattie Storin sat biting her lip. The announcement of the reshuffle late that afternoon had led to febrile discussion as to whether the Prime Minister had been brilliant and audacious, or simply lost his nerve. She needed the views of the men who had helped shape the decisions. Williams had been persuasive and supportive as usual, but Urquhart’s phone had rung and rung, unanswered.