The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (107 page)

Three streets away, in the back of his official Mercedes, Theophilos replaced the phone. A good evening’s work. Exceptional work. God’s work.

Francis Urquhart, when he heard about it, was of the same opinion.

***

Amid the stormy seas of stratagem devised by man, outcrops of nonsense stick defiantly above the waves. None stuck more defiantly than the case of Woofy.

Woofy—in fact, his full name was Woofer—was a three-year-old King Charles spaniel, the pet
in
loco
infantis
of Mr. and Mrs. Peregrine Duckin who lived in comfortable retirement in a white stucco villa overlooking Coral Bay, a sand-strewn corner in the south west of the island. Their Greek was fragmentary, as were their relations with the indigenous population, which amounted to little more than a nodding acquaintance with several local traders, but a substantial number of the five thousand or so civilian Britons who lived in Cyprus did so in this area and they did not want for friends.

The Duckins were to need them. For when they returned from a bridge party organized by one of their more distant neighbors they discovered that their cherished villa had, inexplicably and without warning, burned to the ground.

What was worse, there was no trace of the still more cherished Woofer. All night long they searched, crying his name, calling out across the bay, cursing for the fact that the Cypriot fire brigade seemed to have taken an unconscionable time to arrive, then crying some more. But Woofer was nowhere to be found.

Dawn rose as the Duckins stood amid the smoking ruins of their home, imploring all passersby for news of their beloved dog. One of those passersby happened to be a freelance journalist enjoying a few days’ break but, wherever intrepid journalists tread, disaster is sure to be found. He sympathized, listened carefully, took photographs, shared with them their inexplicable loss—although, in light of other anti-British outrages, the loss was perhaps—no, surely—less inexplicable than at first seemed. A story for its time, lacking nothing but raped nuns.

It duly appeared the following morning, splashed across the front page of Britain’s leading tabloid. A forlorn British couple standing amid the ruins of their shattered Cypriot dream. Caught between the growing crossfire.

And beneath a blazing headline.

“CYPOS ATE MY WOOFY.”

***

The effect of halogen lights spraying across old black brick at night gave the scene a distinctly monochrome cast. A little funereal, perhaps, Urquhart mused, but appropriately melodramatic. He adjusted his tie. Behind him, the Secretary of State for Defense stood starchly to attention. News cameras flashed as the Prime Minister stepped, stern of mouth, to the Downing Street microphones.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have an important announcement to make. Events in Cyprus have taken a further turn for the worse. Not only has our High Commissioner still not been returned, but it is obvious that the Government in Nicosia is unable to guarantee the safety of British assets or personnel. Clearly the situation is being exploited by people of ill intent, and I have a duty to protect British citizens and military personnel. Therefore, with great reluctance and purely as a precautionary measure, I have been forced to place the British bases on a state of alert and restrict Cypriot access to them. British lives and property must be protected, and our troops will have full authority to do precisely that. This is a sensitive matter, and I ask you to treat it with the seriousness it deserves.”

The scrum of reporters in front of him swayed as they pushed in unison, hands thrust forward waving microphones, tape recorders, and assorted electronic tendrils like a harvest of triffids. One scribe who looked as if he had only moments before clambered out of bed was all but bent double over the security barrier in his attempt to get as close as possible. “Prime Minister, what does this all mean?”

“It’s a message to troublemakers. Keep off our patch.”

“Doesn’t this rattle sabers, raise the stakes, though?”

“The stakes have already been raised by others. Those who have kidnapped our High Commissioner. Who attacked British property and placed British lives in peril. I have a duty to respond.”

“To attack?”

“This is an entirely defensive measure.”

“Will the Cypriots see it that way?”

The expression around Urquhart’s mouth grew yet more stiffly grim; he couldn’t betray the ironic smile that played around the paths of his emotions. He knew the Cypriots, their passions—and their polemicists, in whose hands a state of alert would be turned into something akin to a force of invasion. This was going to get much, much worse before it got better. He couldn’t smile, so he simply shrugged.

“Do you have the permission of the Cypriot President for this move?”

“I don’t need it. Our bases in Cyprus are British sovereign territory. I no more need permission to put our troops there on alert than I would to move tanks across Salisbury Plain. I have, of course, informed him.”

“How did he react?”

In agony. With pleading. Said it would inflame the hotheads. Would play into the hands of those who opposed the peace deal, increase the pressure on British bases. Begged to be given a few more days to obtain the release of the High Commissioner. But he’d already had several days…

“He regretted the necessity for this action. As do I. But men of goodwill everywhere will understand and must support this action. My first duty is to protect British interests.”

“Play hell with the island’s tourist trade, Prime Minister.”

“Sadly, yes.” Threatens to knock it on the head.

“Where does this leave the peace deal?”

“That’s for the Cypriots to decide. I cannot help bring peace to Cyprus if they will not bring peace to themselves.”

“And where does this leave the election?”

“On course. This is a move in the national interest, not for party purposes. I expect the support of all responsible politicians, all sides of the political debate. I don’t expect this to become an issue in the election.”

No, not an issue, mused Dicky Withers,
the
issue. I’m watching a piece of banditry, the hijacking of the election campaign as Urquhart casts himself in the role of statesman, defender of the national interest, the British way of life, the rules of cricket, warm beer, sunny afternoons, Blackpool beaches, morality, virginity, and any other -inity to which votes might be attached. And Makepeace, he’s got Makepeace trussed up as tight as a gutted chicken. As tight, presumably, as is our High Commissioner. Francis, you old bastard.

“And Tom Makepeace?” Withers prompted. “Where does this leave him?”

The smile was demanding to emerge, as much in recognition of Dicky’s perceptiveness as in self-congratulation. Makepeace was shafted. Adrift. Nowhere to go except to hell and back. A journey for which he would find few companions.

“Where does it leave Mr. Makepeace? I have no way of knowing. Perhaps you’d better ask him.”

Thirty-Two

There is so much history stuffed into Cyprus that it has given them stomachache.

As the first rays of dawn spilled slowly across the salt flats of Akrotiri, a battered Bedford bus coughed its way uncertainly toward the entrance of the base. It sounded very sick. In better days it had carried children from the village to their schools and produce to the local market, but for almost a year had been languishing behind the pizza bar, its rust levels having been pronounced terminal. The arrival of the bus before the entrance to the base was heralded by a noxious belch of oil smoke and a groan in the manner of some disemboweled dragon. Then it slewed, fell and died, blocking the entire entrance. By the time the smoke had cleared and the guard had crept forward to inspect the prehistoric monster, it was empty.

They took more than an hour to move it. Attempts at restarting the engine failed, and it was difficult to get a tow truck hooked to either end. They tried to raise it on jacks but the suspension collapsed and the beast retaliated by rolling onto its side. Eventually they were forced to bring along an earthmover and push it out of the way.

But not before, in an envelope attached to the steering wheel and addressed to Billy, they had found Eleni’s ring.

***

They were outside again, in greater number than ever. What, less than two weeks before, had begun as sporadic demonstrations by handfuls were now constant and too large to estimate accurately.

They were also intensely personal. Nicolaou was the name—the target—on everyone’s lips. They displayed as much logic, perhaps, as when the mob had come to condemn Christ in the marketplace, but condemn him they did.

The head of presidential security had demanded an audience, interrupting Nicolaou in the first floor living room where he was listening to his daughter, Elpída, play the piano. Beethoven. Something loud and long, to block out the insistent noise coming from beyond the gates.

“We must disperse the protesters, sir. They’re a danger to traffic, to themselves. To you.”

“And how would you propose to accomplish that, Commander?” He was seated, his eyes closed, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in both concentration and anxiety.

“I’d have to call in troops; there are too many of them for my guard.”

Nicolaou was wide awake now. “I can scarcely believe my ears. You want me to set the army against the people?”

“These
people
—sir—are nothing short of a dangerous mob. They’ve already burned buildings, their numbers are growing, their demonstrations have been playing havoc all over Nicosia. My duty is to preserve peace around the presidential palace.”

“And it is my duty, Commander, to secure the peace throughout our country. That’s what is at stake here, nothing less. I will not permit you to use troops and tear gas against them.”

“But I don’t have enough men to guarantee the security of the grounds or this building. That means you, sir.”

“I have no concern for my own safety.”

“And your family?”

Nicolaou turned toward his daughter, who was still at the piano. She meant everything to him. When he was lonely because his wife was once more absent, Elpída was there as companion. When he grew outraged at his wife’s indulgences, she was there to remind him of what he owed to his marriage. When he was uncertain, she acted as inspiration, raising him above the short-term and trivial to the Cyprus of tomorrow. Elpída’s Cyprus. Balm for his every wound.

“It is precisely for her that I must say no. I can’t sign a peace treaty with the Turks if there is blood on the streets of Nicosia.”

“Sir!” The commander was pleading now. His voice dropped to prevent Elpída from hearing. “As an old friend. The choice you’re facing is not so much
if
there will be blood, but
whose
blood it will be.”

The President walked over to the window, from where he could see out over the floodlit statue of Makarios and the cypress trees to the impressive panorama beyond. “Panayoti, come here.”

The Commander walked to the President’s side. Nicolaou opened the window.

“What’s out there?”

“A rabble. Baying at your doorstep.”

“But what do you see out there?”

“The lights of the old city.”

“And beyond that, in the darkness, is the other half of our country. Isn’t it time, Panayoti, to bring those two halves back together again? After all these years and so much blood?”

“That’s politics, sir. Your job. My job is security. And I tell you we’ve got to do something about those people out there.”

With the window open the howl of protest had become unrelenting.

“Then I shall talk to them.”

“This is no time for humor.”

“Let a few of them in. I’ll talk to them from the steps.”

“Madness!”

“Perhaps so. But I shall do it nevertheless.”

“At least talk to them from the balcony.”

“The balcony where hangs the British Royal Standard? Peeking out from behind the imperial lion? I think not. No, let it be from the steps.”

“But I can’t guarantee your safety!”

“Then leave that task to God.”

And Panayotis, as he had been trained throughout his career, no matter how unacceptable or unreasonable the command, had obeyed. They had planned on perhaps two dozen but numbers are impossible to control when thousands are pressing against the gates, and nearer two hundred had crowded their way in by the time the gates were forced shut once more. They gathered on the driveway before the main entrance, guarded by two ornamental cannons, assorted gargoyles, a couple of flower tubs, and a cohort of the palace guard.

Shouts of fury erupted as Nicolaou appeared, waving his hands above his head for calm.

“Cypriots, countrymen. Allow me to be heard. Allow yourselves to hear.”

“Turk lover!” came the cry.

“I love only one thing. Cyprus!”

“Then why give it to the filthy Turks?”

“And the British!”

“No one has suffered more than I from the thought that our country is divided. I weep for those who have lost families. Homes. Everything.”

“And won’t lift a finger to help them.”

Panayotis was growing increasingly nervous. It was already clear that Nicolaou had failed to gain control of the crowd, was entering into a dialogue of the deaf. His logic and sincerity stood no chance against the raw emotions of a mob.

“My friends, remember what split our island. What brought the Turkish Army to our shores. It was when we Greeks fell out among each other. When Makarios stood here on these very steps and they refused to listen to him.” His hands stretched up one of the sandstone columns that stood to either side. “See these holes. Where the bullets struck. When they tried to kill our Archbishop.”

A scattering of neat cylindrical holes and craters had been gouged from the columns, bullet holes, relics of the coup Makarios had ordered to remain, like the royal standard, as part of the heritage. Stigmata in stone. Now Nicolaou’s fingers crept toward them, stretching out, reaching for the mantle of Makarios. The tips of his fingers were almost there when another hole appeared, accompanied by a cloud of dust. Only then did he hear the gunshot.