The Final Cut (24 page)

There was only one other obstacle, apart from the orchids. That was the fact that the Cape was a field firing range for the British military, designated as such under the Treaty of Establishment which had given Cyprus its independence and where for twenty-one days a year the coastal rocks and its offshore environs were peppered with Milan and Swingflre anti-tank missiles. Bound to play merry hell with a high-rise hotel and marina.

'Do you really need a firing range?' Theophilos asked.

'As much as we need an army.'

'Then we shall find you another area for your operations. There must be so many other parts of the island that might be suitable.'

'Such as?'

'The British surely wouldn't stand in the way of us Cypriots devel
oping our economy’
the Bishop responded, ducking the direct question. 'It would raise so many unpleasant memories.'

'I thought the objections were being led by Cypriots themselves, the environmentalists. Those who value the area as a national park.'

'A handful of the maudlin and the meddling who have small minds and no imagination. Lunchtime locusts who know wildlife only from what they eat. What about our poor villagers?'

'What about the orchids?'

'Our villagers demand equality with orchids!'

There was no answer to that. Martin offered a conciliatory smile and subsided.

Booza-Pitt was gabbling. He did that when he was nervous, to fill in the spaces. He didn't like spaces in a conversation. A
s a boy they had tormented him,
fleeting pauses in which his mother drew breath before continuing with her ceaseless tirade of complaint about her lot in life. So, as a means of defence, he had learnt to launch himself into any conversation, talking across people and above people and about anything. He was an excellent talker, never at a loss for words. Trouble was, he'd never really learnt to listen.

Urquhart had been alone at the great Cabinet Table when Geoffrey had entered the room. The Prime Minister said nothing but as Geoffrey walked to his chair on the opposite side of the table Urquhart's eyes followed him closely, almost as if he were still trying to make a judgement, uncertain, unsettled. And unsettling. So Geoffrey had started talking.

'I've had this idea, Francis. A new set of campaigning initiatives for the Party. Thought about it a lot. Build on the reshuffle, get us going through the rest of the year. I've talked it through with the Party Chairman - I think he's going to put it all in a paper for you. The main point is this
...'

'Shut up, Geoffrey.'

'I. ..' Geoffrey shut up, uncertain how to respond.

'The Chairman has already told me about his campaigning ideas, just before I fired him. I have to say you are an excellent peddler of other people's ideas.'

'Francis, please, you must understand
...'

'I understand all too well. I understand you. Perhaps it's because we are a little alike.'

'Are you going to fire me after all?' Geoffrey's tone was subdued, he was trying hard not to beg.

'I've thought about it.'

Booza-Pitt's face, depleted by misery, sank towards his chest.

'But I've decided to make you Home Secretary instead.'

A curious gurgling noise emerged from the back of Booza-Pitt's throat. The prospect of being translated into one of the four most powerful posts in Government at the age of thirty-eight seemed to have snapped his control mechanisms.

They'll say I'm grooming you for the leadership when I've gone. But I'm not. I'm putting you there to stop anyone else using the post to groom himself for the leadership. And to do a job. Using your talents at peddling other people's ideas. My ideas.'

'Anything you say, Francis,' Booza-Pitt managed to croak, throat cracked like the floor of an Arabian wadi.

'We shall soon be facing an election and I've decided to move the goal posts a little. A new Electoral Practices Act. A measure so generous and democratic it'll leave the Opposition breathless.'

Booza-Pitt nodded enthusiastically, with no idea what his leader was talking about.

'I want to make it easier for minority candidates to stand. To allow for.
..'
- Urquhart dropped his voice a semi-tone, as though making a speech - 'a fuller and more balanced representation of the views of the general public. To ensure a Government more firmly rooted in the wishes of the people.' He nodded in self-approval. 'Yes, I like that.'

'But what does it mean?'

'It means that any candidates who get more than two thousand votes will have all their election expenses paid by the State.'

The face of the new Home Secretary had suddenly turned incredulous. 'You're winding me up, Francis. With that on offer every nutter and whinger in the land is going to stand.'

'Precisely.' 'But. . .'

'But who else would these minorities and malcontents vote for, if not for themselves?'

'Not for us, not even if you lobotomized every single one of them.'

'Well done, Geoffrey. They'd vote for the Opposition. So by encouraging them to stand we'll suck away several thousand votes from the Opposition in practically every constituency. Worth at least fifty seats overall, I reckon.'

'You, you .
..'

'You're allowed to call me a deviously scheming bastard, if you want. I'd regard it as a compliment.' For the first time in their interview, Urquhart's features had cracked and he was smiling.

'You are a devious, scheming, brilliant bastard, Francis Urquhart.'

'And a great champion of democracy. They will have to say that, all the newspapers, even the Opposition.'

'The updated version of divide and rule.'

'Exactly. We ran an empire on that principle. Should be good enough for one little country. Don't you think, Home Secretary?'

A spotlight had
been thrown on the box and Theo
philos held his arms up high to acknowledge the attentions of the half-time crowd, his robes cascading like dark wings. A great raven, Martin thought, and with similar appetites.

'So may I expect your co-operation and support, Mr Martin?' the cleric continued, casting the question over his shoulder as he offered the sign of the cross in blessing. 'This is a rare opportunity.'

'So are the orchids.'

For a moment the Bishop's arms seemed to freeze in impatience; Dimitri had begun to develop a distinctive lopsided scowl as the conversation turned in circles. He was examining his broad and heavily callused knuckles as though the answer to every problem could somehow be found in the crevices.

'I don
't wish to appear unsympathetic’
the Englishman continued, glad that his pedigree as a Diplomatic Service Grade 4 enabled him to control most of his outward appearances, particularly those which might convey any measure of disagreement or displeasure. It was not the task of the Foreign &. Commonwealth Office to be seen saying no. 'Your problem is not with the British, it's with your own Government. And with the environmentalists.'

'But this is ridiculous.' The Bishop's voice grew sibilant with exasperation. 'When I approach our stubborn donkey of a President he claims the problem lies with you British. And the environmentalists. The British military climbs into bed with the goddamn greens while our poor peasants starve.' He swung round suddenly, like an unwanted visitor of the night appearing at a bedroom window. The blue enamel adorning his heavy crucifix gleamed darkly in the light; his eyes, too. 'Do not underestimate how important this is to me, Mr Martin.'

'My regrets. The British Government cannot become involved in a domestic dispute in Cyprus.'

'But you are involved!' Theophilos slumped angrily into his seat as the second half commenced. 'You have two military bases on our island, you have access rights across it and you fire your missiles and bullets upon it. The only time you choose not to become involved is when we most need you. Like when the Turks invaded.'

Conversation ceased as the Bishop struggled to regain his humour and the young women served more wine. Martin declined; he made a mental note never to drink again while in the presence of Theophilos, a man whose attentions required all of one's wits in response. When the Cypriot spoke again, his voice was composed, but seemed to contain no less passion.

'Many Cypriots find it unacceptable that you British should continue to have a military presence on our soil.'

'The two bases are sovereign British soil, not Cypriot. That was clearly agreed in the Treaty of Establishment.'

'The soil is Cypriot, the blood spilled upon it for centuries has been Cypriot, and the treaty is unjust and unequal, forced upon us by British colonial masters in exchange for our independence. I advise you, Mr Martin, not to base your arguments upon that treaty, for ordinary Cypriots will neither understand nor approve. Encourage them to think about such matters and they will demand it all back. You might end up having no firing range, no bases, nothing.'

The warning had been delivered in the manner of a wearied professor lecturing a dullard, the tone implying no room for argument, brooking no response. There seemed nothing more to discuss, a silence hanging uncomfortably between them until their mutual discomfort was thrust aside by a shout of jubilation from all around. Evriviades had scored.

'You've just lost a Mercedes.'

'And you, Mr Martin, might just have lost the friendship of the Cypriot people.'

'Who's there?' 'A friend.'

'There are few friends about on days like these.' 'Count me as one.'

The door of the back room in L'Amico's restaurant, tucked away behind Smith Square, slid open to reveal the large figure of Harry Mendip. He'd heard Annita Burke and Saul Wilkinson were lunching privately, sharing sorrows and anger at having been sacked, unwilling to face the whispers and stares of a more public place. Mendip knew how they felt; he'd been one of the victims last time around.

'Will you eat with us, Harry?'

'My appetite's not for food.'

'Then what?'

'Action.'

'Revenge?'

'Some might call it so.'

A third glass of wine was poured, another bottle ordered.

'Everything is Urquhart. Damn him.' 'Little Caesar.'

'He acts like a Prince, not a Prime Minister.' 'And we bow and bend the knee as his subjects.' 'Abjects.'

'Yet what, apart from ruthlessness, has set him so high?'

'And what, apart from ruthlessness, will bring him down?'

They paused as the waiter collected a few scattered dishes.

'He's grown so lofty that his feet scarcely touch the ground.'

'But when they do, the ground is soaked with blood. Slippery soil. He is vulnerable.'

'Butchered too many, over the years.'

Annita Burke refilled the glasses. 'Are we of the same mind?'

The other two nodded.

'Then who is to lead this enterprise?'

'How about Yorke? He's fit for stratagems and treasons.'

'A happy blend of mischief.'

'But there's no harmony in his soul. Nothing to lift the hearts and sights of others.'

'Then Penthorpe.'

'With those fearsome ferret eyes that make a man think he's volunteering for the gallows? I think not.'

'You, Annita.'

She shook her head. 'No, this one is not for me. Harsh words in a woman are always dismissed as hormones at war. And in my case no one would forget they are Jewish hormones. Anyway, I lack that sharpness of foot and wit necessary to lead the dance.'

'Then there is only one.'

They all knew the name.

'Makepeace.'

'He will be hard to convince.'

'All the better once he is so.'

'To challenge for the leadership?'

'What is the point? Urquhart has filled the party machine with placemen whose spirits are dead and who've sold their souls.'

'Then if we cannot take Urquhart away from the party, we must take the party away from him.'

'Meaning?'

'A new leader, and a new party.' Mendip sucked in his breath. 'That is a dangerous enterprise,' he said slowly.

'An honourable one, too. At least, Makepeace would make it seem so.'