The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (118 page)

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 relief 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.

“Gentlemen, this has nothing to do with farming…”

“Dig for victory, eh, Prime Minister?”

The television lights seemed uncharacteristically warm this morning. He could feel the prickle of perspiration on his scalp and Prime Ministers aren’t meant to sweat, to show pressure or exasperation. The cruel eye of television allows them nothing more than a cheerful glow, but he wasn’t feeling cheerful.

“And what about Mr. Makepeace, Prime Minister? Has there been any contact between Downing Street and the Birmingham police about his arrest?”

Claire looked on from the wings, studying him closely while she twisted inside. Means, ends, truth, principle, pragmatism. Politics. Weeds choking the rose. She knew he’d have to lie, to deceive, perhaps she would too in his position—except she would never have got herself into that position, would she? She had been trusting, naive. She still had much to learn, even about herself. And much still to do.

The question hung in the air. Urquhart offered a reproachful glance at his wristwatch. “You’ll forgive me, ladies and gentlemen, but this is proving to be an unexpectedly busy day.”

***

She would attempt to make the walk that day even if she were on her own. Fifteen miles to Stratford-upon-Avon, from a sloping farmer’s field outside Bentley Heath, south of Birmingham, where the M40 and M42 motorways intersect. To show Tom he was not alone.

She had arrived early after the confusion of the night before and had sat on the dewy grass, waiting. Time hung heavily upon the morning air, weighing down her spirits. There was, perhaps, little point in this gesture, but gestures have to be made. Sometimes that is all there is.

And others seemed to agree.

Like daffodils in spring, Makepeace’s movement had grown, not yet in flower but already thrusting defiantly through the oppressive snow. They came, in families, with friends, on buses, by train and on foot, some solemn, some singing, carrying banners and babies, trickling into the field until they had grown to a river swollen on injustice. Then, with their unerring instinct for crowds, the first mobile kebab shops arrived. At last she ventured a smile.

She could imagine no more powerful symbol of success, of spring. The cuckoos of journalism would not be far behind.

By nine they numbered nearly five thousand. Not bad for a Monday morning.

Maria had grown with the movement, in confidence, in judgment and independence. She’d never stood before anything more formidable than a class of thirty infants, but armies march to the beat of a drum, and in Tom’s absence someone had to do it. They looked to her.

She clambered onto the roof of the small Renault support van to face them. Slowly, the shuffle of noise subsided until all eyes clung to her. She had no words for what was in her heart, but somehow she felt that they all understood and shared.

The breeze caught her face, blowing back her dark hair and rubbing into her cheeks the flush of rebellion. Then, slowly and as though in great pain, she raised her clasped hands high above her head. As Makepeace had done the previous day, in chains. Five thousand pairs of hands rose toward the sky, clenched in defiance, and as many voices sang out in chorus.

From the control van parked in a lay-by beyond the entrance to the field, hurried conversations were flowing up the chain of police command, from the Inspector on the scene all the way to the Chief Constable’s office. The marchers had started on their way before the decision came back down. There was little chance of the march being met by violent opposition, at least for the next few hours; skinheads wouldn’t be out of bed yet. Anyway, the march was heading away from Birmingham, out of West Midlands’ jurisdiction; so good riddance and the Warwickshire Constabulary could pick up the problem.

Anyway, what were they supposed to do, arrest the whole bloody lot?

“Kiss ’em good-bye, Inspector.”

***

In the pink light of dawn the cutting glistened like the inside of a wolf’s mouth, waiting to snap shut on its prey. It did not last. By midmorning the moisture had burned away and the rocks of pillow lava were batting the sun’s rays back and forth in a cruel game of solar ping-pong. The temperature at the road surface was ninety and climbing.

Nicolaou had slept badly. The strain of the last few days was telling on a body that even in youth had been far from robust, and the reserves of character and resilience he had drained during his time at the Lodge had proved impossible to replenish. The sharp cold of the mountain night had cut through to his bones and he was in no mood to eat breakfast, even had there been any. His eyes had grown glassy, he was beginning to run a fever.

But there was still pride.

They had made him as comfortable as the circumstances would allow in the back of one of the four-tonners. He had uttered not a single word of complaint, offering only a brave smile for his daughter, but she was not fooled and refused to disguise her concern. And by midafternoon the temperature even in the shade was over a hundred.

St. Aubyn made hourly rounds of the besieged convoy, trying to maintain morale, emphasizing to all that had the Cypriots been intent on personal harm they would undoubtedly have inflicted it by now.

“Cypos are nice people, sir,” a corporal confirmed, wiping his reddened face with a rag. “Funny thing is, though, when I was a kid we had lots of beetles on the farm. I never got into trouble for crushing them, it was only when I tried to burn the bleedin’ things alive with a magnifying glass that me old man gave me a belt. Think I’m beginning to understand what he meant.”

St. Aubyn passed on quickly, unwilling to tangle with such singular logic. The next truck was Nicolaou’s.

“Fetch me a little water, Elpída,” her father asked, as St. Aubyn appeared at his feet.

When she was gone he turned to the soldier. “Colonel, I am desperately sorry to tell you this, but I’m not sure if I shall be able to last very much longer.”

St. Aubyn knelt beside him. “Mr. President,” he whispered, “the water your daughter is fetching is all but our final cup. I’m not sure how much longer any of us will be able to last.”

***

They were able to maintain intermittent radio contact with the outside world through the helicopters that flew surveillance at regular intervals high over the cutting. From this they were able to inform their base that their supplies were exhausted, and to learn that as yet no one had any idea how—or when—they might be released.

As dusk drew in a Wessex appeared on the horizon flying fast and low, no more than two hundred feet, the door to the rear cabin latched back. As it passed overhead two drums emerged, sprouted silken wings and began floating down, laminated red in the light of the melting sun. A straggling cheer rose from hoarse throats as the soldiers watched the water drums floating toward them and the Wessex begin its turn to start another supply run.

The drums were about a hundred feet from the ground when two shotgun blasts rang out on the ridge above. The parachutes exploded into a cloud of rag feathers and the supplies plummeted to the ground. On impact they burst, one drum almost taking a startled soldier with it into the afterlife.

With a dip of its nose, the Wessex abandoned its run and vanished into the evening sky.

***

Mortima woke to a clap of summer thunder. It was three a.m., the air dank and oppressive, outside the curtain of night was being torn by the white lightning of the storm. He was at the window; he hadn’t slept.

She joined him, her arm snaking through his like links in a chain. “You are troubled, Francis.”

“The gods are troubled tonight. I feel…” He shrugged, unable to finish.

“Francis, this is no time for secrets between us.”

He breathed deep and tried again. “I feel as though they are waging war over me, the gods out there. Fighting over who will dispose of Francis Urquhart.”