And many who were watching on television or listening to his words on radio resolved to join him. Passolides watched the events unfolding on his television screen, feeling more deserted than ever. His soul boiled at the sight of women and children under fire from British Tommies, being cut down, cast aside, just in the manner he thought he remembered through the mists of time, mists which had been thickened with romantic tales of suffering until they obscured the truth. Memory and emotion play tricks on old men.
He sat alone in his deserted and ruined restaurant, the Webley in front of him in case the wreckers returned, watching Makepeace. For many Cypriots the Englishman was growing as a hero, a latter-day Byron, but this was not a view shared by Passolides. The man had taken his only daughter, had taken her in flesh and away from him. Not asked, not in the Greek way, simply taken. As the English had always taken. And who the hell was this Englishman to claim the mantle of honour bome so bravely by George and Eurypides and hundreds of others – a mantle which, but for cruel fate, should also have been Evanghelos' own?
So he drank, and spat at the name of Makepeace, even as he grew to hate Francis Urquhart the more.
Then he heard them outside, scratching at the temporary plywood sheeting which covered the damage, kicking at the remaining traces of glass, sniggering. They were back! With a roar the old man made for the door, flung it open and threw himself into the street. He found not men with sledgehammers but three youths, obviously the worse for drink, spraying graffiti.
'I will kill you for this,' he vowed, taking a step towards them.
'Yeah? You 'n' whose army, you bleedin' old fool?' The three turned to confront him, full of beerish bravado. 'One against three. I like these odds' one scoffed.
'Soddin' Cypos shouldn't be 'ere anyway. Not their country,' another added.
They were almost upon him before, in the shadows cast by the dim street lighting, they saw the revolver he was waving at them and the gleam of madness in his eye. They didn't bother hanging around to find out whether the gun or its crazed owner were for real. At the rear of Downing Street, where the garden wall backs onto Horse Guards Parade, there is a narrow L-shaped road, at the side of which is a large wallbox. Within the wallbox run many yards of British Telecom wiring, and nearby is a hole in the wall through which signalling cable can be fed directly into Downing Street. Once connected – and it takes less than a couple of hours to complete the task – television signals can be received from any point on the globe.
Military engagements make for good pictures. What Cable News Network had done for the Gulf War, defence establishments around the world had decided to do for all their wars thereafter – although on a rather less public scale than CNN. On arrival in the mountains, St Aubyn's signals operators had unloaded their large metal boxes from their four-tonner, exposed the racks of control equipment, set up two remote-control cameras at some distance on either side of the Lodge, slotted together the segmented parts of a two-metre dish, and with a compass located and locked on to the Eutelsat satellite in geostationary orbit above the equator. From there the test signals were bounced to Teleport in London's Docklands, thence to the BT Tower opposite the taverna in Maple Street, and onwards to two monitors in the Cabinet Room. Francis Urquhart was almost ready to wage war. The screens flickered into life to reveal the solid, unpretentious and tightly shuttered three-storey Lodge set amidst a tangle of tall trees, slightly comic in its bright green paintwork.
'Looks like a Victorian rectory in some down-at-heel diocese,' Bollingbroke muttered.
'That's almost precisely what it is,' Urquhart responded. He dismissed the technicians from the room before turning to the red phone. 'Your report, please, Colonel St Aubyn. You are on a loudspeaker to the other members of COBRA, and we have vision on the monitors.'
'The area is now secure, Prime Minister. There's only one access route and we have that blocked. The ground surrounding the Lodge is pretty inhospitable, the side of a mountain covered in pines and thorn bushes. One or two men might just make it but they'd never get a whole party out. Not including a woman and a bishop, Sir. We have them corked up.' 'Excellent. What resistance do you expect?'
'Difficult to say at the moment. As you can see on your screens, there are various other buildings surrounding the Lodge which might give us cover, – on the other hand, we're not yet sure whether there are guards in any of those buildings who might see us long before we can get to them. I'll have to wait for the cover of darkness for a full evaluation, I'm sure our night scopes will tell us all we need to know.' 'Very good.'
'Trouble is, Mr Urquhart, the Lodge itself is an old solid stone structure, the type they don't build any more.' 'Yes, I remember.'
'An excellent defensive position,' St Aubyn continued. 'Roof made of corrugated metal which will clatter like a drum. Outhouses on one side which might contain guards, an open stretch of lawn leading to a heli-pad on the other. Countryside completely covered with dried pine debris which makes a sound as though you're walking on com flakes. If they're not fast asleep they're going to know we're coming, and from quite a distance.'
Youngblood gave a loud 'harrumph' which bordered on, but did not quite cross, the line of insolence.
'Does your communications wizardry allow you to put me directly in touch with His Grace the Bishop?' Urquhart asked.
'It will if I get Private Hawkins here to shin up a telegraph pole and tap into his phone line. Take about five minutes.' 'Do it, please.'
They waited while Hawkins made his effort at earning the Distinguished Flying Cross, during which Youngblood yet again put his case. There could be no surprise, he insisted, they had no specialist assault troops on site. They must wait, delay, lower the Bishop's guard through fatigue. To push ahead trying to release the hostages by force would be folly, more likely to result in their deaths than their release. To it all, Urquhart offered no reply. And then he was through.
'Bishop Theophilos? This is Prime Minister Francis Urquhart.'
'At last. What kept you? I have been waiting for your call.'
'What kept me, my dear Bishop, was the need to put a military cordon around the Lodge where you are holding the hostages. That cordon is in place. You are now my prisoner.'
A belly laugh crackled down the phone. 'Forgive me, Prime Minister, I had forgotten what an excellent sense of humour you British retained in adversity.'
'But time is on my side, Bishop. Those troops could stay there weeks, months if necessary.'
'If you believe that, Mr Urquhart, then you are a fool. Do you not realize what you have done by bringing your troops to this place? You have invaded Cyprus, my country. Even as we speak the tide of resistance will be flooding through this island. You will find no friends here and the longer you squat on my doorstep like some imperialist bully of old, the more you increase my power and the easier it will be to sweep you off this island for good. It is time, time to complete the unfinished business of earlier years. Why in God's name do you think I've been sitting here waiting for you? Did you not recognize the trap that I set for you?'
Evening was drawing across Cyprus, casting long shadows and suddenly giving the pictures of the Lodge a more gloomy cast. Urquhart's voice dropped to a more thoughtful register. 'I hadn't looked at it in that light.'
The Defence Secretary winced and quickly covered his eyes, pretending to be deep in thought. Youngblood raised himself in his chair in the manner of his ancestor, Ezekiel, saddling up before the charge at Balaclava, his eyes growing bulbous with righteousness. The Bishop's metallic but distinct voice continued to fill the room.
'I have wine enough for weeks and food for months, Prime Minister. I am in no hurry. Oh, yes, I was almost forgetting. And I have four hostages. I am a great believer in the afterlife. I shall have no compunction whatsoever in propelling them towards it at an accelerated rate if I so much as sniff the socks of a British soldier approaching this Lodge.' 'Is that a Christian view?' Urquhart protested.
'We have a saying in Cyprus:
The Bishop's son is the Devil's grandson. We are a nation of priests and pirates and few can tell the difference.' He chuckled.
Urquhart's voice had lost its assurance, sounded deflated. 'There need be no violence, Bishop. I want no casualties.'
'Sadly, I suspect there must be at least one casualty, Mr Urquhart.' 'Who?'
'You, my dear Prime Minister. You have, what -thirteen days to go before your election? I cannot believe the British people will consider re-electing a Prime Minister who, sadly, will be humiliated by a Cypriot Bishop. Because I demand that you announce before election day your intention of withdrawing from your bases.' 'How can I possibly agree to that?'
'Because if you don't, I shall send to your newspapers slices of Mr Martin's ears.' 'I see.' 'I hope you do.'
Urquhart paused. 'Bishop, is any of this negotiable?'
A pause. 'The timing, perhaps. Withdrawal in five years rather than immediately. In exchange for a substantial aid package, of course. You see, Mr Urquhart, I am not an unreasonable man.' 'I need to think about this. Give me time to think.'
'All the time in the world.' He gave another laugh and cut the phone link.
Sitting starchly upright across the table, Youngblood was contempt made flesh. 'I told you to wait,' he hissed.
'And I told you time was on the Bishop's side, not mine.' 'But you said you needed time to think…' 'I don't need to think, I already know what I'm going to do.' 'Which is?'
Urquhart took one final look at the scene on the television monitor. 'I'm going to burn that bastard out.'
EIGHT
'Four hostages in total. Three men and a woman. All in the same room downstairs. We picked them up on the night scopes. Prime Minister. As you can see, during the day the windows of the Lodge are shuttered but at night they open some of them for air. We've counted seven hostiles inside, including the Bishop, another three posted in outbuildings on watch.'
'Metal roof like a drum, solid stone walls, windows shuttered, door presumably secured,' Urquhart mused. 'If I asked you to gain access, Colonel St Aubyn, how would you do it?'
On the far side of the Cabinet table, Youngblood propelled himself to his feet.
'Colonel, stand by,' Urquhart instructed, closing the link. 'General Youngblood. People only rise from this table in order to leave.'
'But this is senseless! We must wait. Wear them down psychologically. Give us time to put in a specialist SAS squad. St Aubyn's men are ordinary infantrymen, they're not equipped for special forces work. They can't go in blind. Shouldn't go in at all.'
'The blindness is yours. He wants us to wait, to delay. Even now he'll be organizing and by tomorrow an army of infant soldiers in their buggies will have arrived to give you yet another excuse for delay.' 'Wait, consider. I implore you.' 'Seize the time, General.'
Urquhart made it clear he would not be moved, both jaw and mind set like rock. The soldier knew it was useless, the anger in his voice was replaced by a measure of considered disgust. 'What demon is driving you?' 'Political leadership demands many sacrifices.'
'But of whom? One fool throws a rock into a pond and a thousand young men may drown trying to retrieve it.'
'If this goes wrong, I'm the sacrifice and you can dance a jig on my grave.' 'My feet are already tapping.'
The insult was poured slowly, like treacle, and brought a gasp of astonishment from the military advisers who sat in a row behind Youngblood.
Urquhart's eyes offered not a flicker. 'Weren't you supposed to have put that in code, General?'
'I wanted there to be no misunderstanding. I think I have your measure, Mr Urquhart.'
With that the Deputy Chief of Defence Staff (Commitments) strode from the room. 'Bishop, good morning.'
'Ah, my dear Mr Urquhart. Kalimeia. You have had a good night's rest, I trust? No unpleasant dreams.' 'Little sleep but time for much thought.' 'And shall I have the privilege of knowing to where those thoughts lead you?' 'To a deal. An exchange.'
'But. There's a But. I can hear the rumble of conditions already sticking in your throat. Take care not to choke.' 'The terms you outlined yesterday are impossible.' A drizzle of ridicule washed across Theophilos' words. 'You wish to fiddle at your own funeral?'
'I wish to survive, very much. But consider. If I let it be known that I am – how would I term it? -acknowledging the Cypriots' just claims for the return of the base areas and I were to announce my conclusions before the election, then, as you say, I shall be a casualty. Driven from office. But whose purpose will that serve? Not yours. A week on Thursday there would be a new Prime Minister who would feel no obligation to honour any undertaking given by me. Quite the contrary, he would probably have been swept into Downing Street on the promise to keep every inch of the bases.'
'And I shall have kept your High Commissioner. In pieces.' 'Exactly. No one would win.'
The Bishop hesitated; his trump card seemed to have turned distinctly soggy and more difficult to play.
'You are suggesting that the British would act the jackal and break their word. As they have done so many times before.' 'That's one way of putting it.'
The sound of a hot liquid being vigorously slurped came over the line; an extended pause for thought. 'You spoke of a deal. A counter-proposal?'
'You release the High Commissioner, and in return I give you a written pledge about the bases.' 'British paper!' the Bishop scoffed.
'And also a substantial aid package. I'm willing to be highly imaginative about that package, Bishop. And very personal.' 'I understand.'
'You will also understand that the agreements about aid and the bases cannot be made public until after the election. You see, you need me in Downing Street to meet these promises. You've got to help me win.' 'But how will I know you will deliver afterwards?' 'You will have my signature…' 'Not enough!'
'… and a substantial down-payment of the aid package as a token of good faith. In cash. Delivered into your hands for safekeeping. It can be arranged within hours.'
'Mr Urquhart, I am beginning to like you. A man after my own heart.'
'We have a common interest, Bishop, perhaps even a common destiny.'
'The start of a splendid affair,' Theophilos chuckled.
'I believe you have a saying in Cyprus that everyone pulls the quilt over to their own side.'
'But at least it seems we shall be sharing the same bed…'
The voice trailed off. From the other end of the phone came sounds of interruption. The Bishop could be heard asking in a gruff voice what amidst the flames of hell was happening. Confusion. Then he was back on the phone.
'Urquhart, you English bastard. What are you up to?' The Troodos Mountains are the pine-green heart of Cyprus. The towering ranges which stretch up to Mount Chionistra act as a cloud trap, sucking in the winds of the eastern Mediterranean, bringing relief from the oppressive heat of the plains and water in an abundance which is the envy of most other Mediterranean islands. But it is not always so in the Troodos. The rain falls mainly in winter while the summer months are parched. The shadow-dappled glades between the pines scorch to arid bowls of dust, the forest ferns die and desiccate while the carpet of flowers that is spread in springtime is rolled back to reveal the dried bones of once-abundant vegetation. The bracken and fallen timbers of the forests are turned to a compost of kiln-dried tinder and cooling winds may become the harbinger of death. Disaster in a spark.
The back of the Troodos itches with the scars and scabs of old forest fires, silent charcoaled testimony to the power of flame whose noise and smoke resemble a belching express train and may travel almost as fast. Men who know the mountains fear the flame.
The first wisp of smoke began to curl into the sky from beside the roadway which runs below the Presidential Lodge at the start of the tourist trail leading to the Caledonian Falls. A cigarette end, the rays of the sun focused through the glass of a carelessly discarded bottle, the embers of a lightning strike, there might have been many explanations, but only one consequence. The go
ssamer thread curled into the sky like a kitten edging for the first time away from its mother's side. It was already growing rapidly when the Bishop's guard posted in the third-floor window of the Lodge spotted it. By the time Theophilos had climbed up the stairs to see for himself, it was approaching with the roar of a lion. He wrenched the phone from its cradle. 'What double dealing is this, Urquhart? How stupidly you condemn four hostages to death.' 'Bishop, listen to me very carefully. You touch the hostages and both you and I are finished. I will be blamed and you will be butchered. I would have no choice but to order my troops in.' 'You pretend you did not set this fire? Liar!'
'For God's sake are you telling me this is the first forest fire you've seen? It could've started in a thousand ways, the important thing is to finish it. My troops are already fighting the fire. If you wish to leave the Lodge I shall arrange safe transport…' 'We stay!'
'Then do that, but don't touch the hostages. Remember that you and I will stand or fall together in this matter. We are bound as one.'
'Urquhart, I do not trust you. But you can trust me. I swear on my Holy life that at the first sight of any British soldier approaching this Lodge I shall take one of the hostages and throw him from the top-floor window. Just to show you my good faith. And if you don't keep the fire away from the Lodge, I shall accept your offer of transportation. But I shall leave another hostage behind in the ashes. Do you hear?'
'All too well. But there is no need for that. I'm told that there are already two helicopters on their way to you equipped with fire-fighting facilities. The Lodge will be safe.' 'You'd better pray for your own soul if it is not.' The Wessex HC2 trooplift helicopters were the old workhorses of the military skies, long since phased out in most other parts of the world for larger, more sophisticated machinery better able to deal with front-line conditions. But Cyprus wasn't the front line – or hadn't been, until now. The Wessex was all they had, but it was adequate for the task.
The Final Cut fu-3 Page 28
