The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (12 page)

Uproar followed, which took the Speaker a full minute to quell. During that time the Leader of the House turned and offered a look of sheer desperation to the Prime Minister and the Defense Secretary. They huddled, heads locked, until Collingridge gave a curt nod to the Leader of the House. He rose slowly to his feet once more.

“Mr. Speaker,” he began, and paused to clear his throat, which was by now parched. “Mr. Speaker, my Right Honorable Friends and I have listened carefully to the mood of the House. I have the permission of the Prime Minister and the Secretary of State for Defense to say that, in light of the representations put from all sides today, the Government will look once again at this important matter to see…”

What he could see seemed of little interest to others; his words were lost amidst a huge outcry. He had run up the white flag. Colleagues slapped Sir Jasper’s back, the Opposition jeered, the parliamentary correspondents scribbled in their notebooks. Amidst the hubbub and confusion on all sides, the lonely figure of Henry Collingridge sat forlorn and shrunken, staring at his socks.

* * *

“Kebabed, wouldn’t you say? Done to a bloody crisp,” the PA’s Manny Goodchild announced as Mattie pushed her way through the crowd jostling in the lobby outside the Chamber. She didn’t stop. In every corner there was argument: Opposition Members gloating, claiming victory for themselves while Government supporters with considerably less conviction tried to claim victory for common sense. Yet no one was in any doubt that they had witnessed a Prime Minister on the rack.

Mattie pursued her quarry. Above the mêlée she saw the tall figure of Urquhart, stony-faced, moving, avoiding the questions of several agitated backbenchers. He disappeared through a convenient door. Mattie charged after him. She found him striding two steps at a time up the marbled stairs that led to the upper galleries.

“Mr. Urquhart,” she shouted breathlessly after the fleeing minister. “Please! I need your view.”

“I’m not sure I have one today, Miss Storin.” Urquhart threw his reply over his shoulder; he didn’t stop.

“Oh, surely we’re not back on the ‘Chief Whip refuses to endorse Prime Minister’ game again?”

Suddenly Urquhart stopped and turned, bringing him face to face with the panting Mattie. His eyes burned bright, there was no humor in them. “Yes, Mattie, I suppose you have a right to expect something. Well, what do you think?”

“Skewered. That’s the official view. If Collingridge’s feet were in the fire before this, then the more sensitive parts of his anatomy seem about to follow.”

“Yes, you might say that. It’s not unusual for a prime minister to have to discard his clothes, of course. But to have them stripped off him quite so publicly…”

Mattie waited in vain for Urquhart to finish. He wasn’t about to condemn his Prime Minister, not openly on the stairs. But if there were no condemnation, neither was there any attempt at justification.

“But this is the second major leak in as many weeks. Where are they coming from?”

He stared at her in his hawk-like manner that she found so compelling, and just a little scary. “As Chief Whip I am responsible only for discipline on the Government backbenches. You can scarcely expect me to play headmaster to my own Cabinet colleagues as well.”

Her lips trembled, she gasped. “It’s coming from Cabinet?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Did I say that?”

“But who? And why?”

He drew closer. “Oh, you see right through me, so you do, Miss Mattie Storin.” He was laughing at her now, and so close she could feel the heat of his body. “In answer to your question, I simply don’t know,” he continued, “but doubtless the Prime Minister will instruct me to find out.”

“Formally or informally?”

“I think I’ve probably said enough already,” he said, and continued up the stairs.

But Mattie wasn’t to be thrown off. “Fascinating. Thank you. Lobby terms, of course.”

“But I have told you nothing.”

“The Prime Minister is about to launch an inquiry into which of his own Cabinet colleagues is leaking sensitive information.”

He stopped once more, turned. “Oh, Mattie, I couldn’t possibly comment. But you are so much more sensitive than most of your dull-witted colleagues. It seems to me that your logic rather than my words has led you to your conclusions.”

“I wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble.”

“But, Mattie, I think that’s precisely what you
would
like to do.” He was playing with her, almost flirting.

She stared back at him, her voice little more than a whisper. “You know far more about trouble than I do. You’d find me a willing pupil.”

She wasn’t entirely sure why she had said that. She should have blushed, but didn’t. He should have deflected the innuendo, but held it, savored it with his eyes.

Suddenly, she grasped his sleeve. “If we’re going to be wicked together we have to learn to trust each other, so just let me get one thing perfectly clear. You are not denying that the Prime Minister will order an investigation into his Cabinet members’ conduct. And by not denying it, you are confirming it.”

It was his turn to lower his voice. “You might say that, Mattie. I couldn’t possibly comment.”

“That’s the story I’m going to write. If it’s wrong, I beg you, stop me now.”

Her grip on him had tightened. His hand was on top of hers.

“Stop you, Mattie? Why, we’ve only just started.”

Twelve

A life of extended credit, Indian cooking, and English boys is never likely to keep a man comfortable for long. But of all those three, I would recommend extended credit.

Wickedness. Was that what he was up to? Yes, it probably was, Urquhart decided as he continued up the stairs. He leaned against the wall and laughed out loud, much to the consternation of two passing colleagues who scurried past, shaking their heads. Eventually he found himself at the Strangers’ Gallery, where members of the public squeeze themselves into rows of narrow benches to view the proceedings of the House below them. He caught the eye of a small and impeccably dressed Indian gentleman for whom he had obtained a seat in the Gallery, and signaled to him. The man struggled to extract himself from the packed public benches, squeezing past knees, mouthing apologies as he went, until he found himself standing before his host. Urquhart motioned him to silence and led him toward the small hallway behind the Gallery.

“Mr. Urquhart, sir, it has been a most exciting and highly educational ninety minutes. I am deeply indebted to you for assisting me to obtain such a comfortable position.” The man’s accent was thick with the subcontinent and his head weaved from side to side in the mannered Indian way as he spoke.

Urquhart knew this was balderdash, that even small Indian gentlemen such as Firdaus Jhabwala found the seating arrangement acutely uncomfortable, but he nodded in gratitude. They chatted politely while Jhabwala secured the release of his black hide attaché case from the attendant’s desk. When he had arrived he had firmly refused to hand it over until told that his entry to the Gallery would be forbidden unless he lodged it with the security desk.

“I am so glad that we British can still trust ordinary working chaps with our possessions,” he stated very seriously, patting the case for comfort.

“Quite,” replied Urquhart, who trusted neither the ordinary working chap nor Jhabwala. Still, he was a constituent who seemed to have various flourishing local businesses and had provided a £500 donation toward his campaign expenses, asking for nothing in return except a personal interview in the House of Commons. “Not in the constituency,” he had explained to Urquhart’s secretary on the phone. “It’s a national rather than local matter.”

At £500 for a cup of tea it seemed a bargain. As Urquhart led the way he gave his guest a short tour—the glorious Pugin mosaics of Central Lobby, the frescoes of St. Stephen’s Chapel, the vaulted oak ceiling of Westminster Hall that soared so high and so dark it was almost lost to view. Those rafters were a thousand years old, the most ancient part of the palace. It was here that Jhabwala asked to stand for a while. “I would be grateful for a silent moment in this spot where King Charles was condemned and Winston Churchill lay in state.”

The Chief Whip arched his brow in surprise.

“Mr. Urquhart, please do not think me pretentious,” the Indian insisted. “My family associations with British institutions go back nearly two hundred and fifty years to the days of the Honorable East India Company and Lord Clive, whom my ancestors advised and to whom they loaned considerable funds. Both before that time and since my family has occupied prestigious positions in the judicial and administrative branches of Indian government.” There was no mistaking the pride, but, even as the words rang out in Jhabwala’s trilling voice, the eyes lowered in sadness. “Yet since Independence, Mr. Urquhart, that once great subcontinent has slowly crumbled into a new dark age. The modern Gandhi dynasty has shown itself to be far more corrupt than any my family ever served in colonial days. I am a Parsee, a cultural minority which has found little comfort under the new Raj. That is why I moved to Great Britain. My dear Mr. Urquhart, please believe me when I tell you that I feel more a part of this country and its culture than ever I could back in modern India. I wake up grateful every day that I can call myself a British citizen and educate my children in British universities.”

“That is…so touching,” responded Urquhart, who had never been particularly keen on foreigners taking up places at British universities and had said so on several public occasions. He hurried his guest on toward the interview rooms beneath the Great Hall, their shoes clipping across the worn flagstones as the sun slanted through the ancient windows and staircases of light reached down to the floor.

“And what precisely is it that you do, Mr. Jhabwala?” asked Urquhart hesitantly, afraid his inquiry might spark another monologue.

“I, sir, am a trader, not an educated man, not like my sons. I left behind any hope of that during the great turmoil of Indian Independence. I have therefore had to find my way not with my brain but by diligence and hard work. I am happy to say that I have been moderately successful.”

“What sort of trade?”

“I have several business interests, Mr. Urquhart. Property. Wholesaling. A little local finance. But I am no narrow-minded capitalist. I am well aware of my duty to the community. It is about that I wished to speak with you.”

They had arrived at the interview room and, at Urquhart’s invitation, Jhabwala seated himself in one of the green chairs, his fingers running with delight over the gold embossed portcullis that embellished the upright leather back.

“So, Mr. Jhabwala, how might I help you?” Urquhart began.

“But no, my dear Mr. Urquhart, it is I who wish to help you.”

A furrow of puzzlement planted itself on Urquhart’s forehead.

“Mr. Urquhart, I was not born in this country. That means that of necessity I am required to work particularly hard to gain respectability in the community. So I try. The local Rotary Club, various charities. And, as you know, I am a most enthusiastic supporter of the Prime Minister.”

“I’m afraid you did not see him to best advantage this afternoon.”

“Then I suspect he needs his friends and supporters more than ever,” Jhabwala declared, slapping the palm of his hand on the hide case that lay on the table in front of him.

The furrows deepened on Urquhart’s brow as he struggled to find the meaning and direction behind his guest’s remarks.

“Mr. Urquhart. You know that I have great admiration for you.”

“Ye-e-e-s,” Urquhart said cautiously.

“I was happy to assist in a modest way with your election appeal and would be happy to do so again. For you, Mr. Urquhart. And our Prime Minister!”

“You wish…to make…a donation?”

The head was wobbling from side to side once more. Urquhart found it disconcerting.

“Election campaigns must be so very expensive, my dear Mr. Urquhart. I wonder, would it be permissible for me to make a small donation? To replenish the coffers?”

When it came to donations from foreign sources, Urquhart was well outside his comfort zone. Time and again such matters had dragged politicians into trouble, sometimes even into jail. “Well, I’m sure that…As you say, such things are costly…I believe we could…” For pity’s sake, Urquhart, pull yourself together! “Mr. Jhabwala, could I ask how much you were thinking of giving?”

In reply Jhabwala twirled the combination lock on his case and flipped the two brass catches. The lid sprang open and he turned the case to face Urquhart.

“Would £50,000 be an acceptable gesture of support?”

Urquhart resisted the ferocious temptation to pick up one of the bundles of notes and start counting. He noticed that all the wads were of used £20 notes and were tied with rubber bands rather than bank wrappers. He had little doubt that none of this money had passed through formal accounts.

“This is…most generous, Mr. Jhabwala. Yes, certainly, as I say, most very generous. But…it is a little unusual, for such a large donation to the Party, to come—in cash.”

“My dear Mr. Urquhart, you will understand that during the civil war in India my family lost everything. Our house and business were destroyed, we only narrowly escaped with our lives. A mob burned my local bank to the ground—with all its deposits and records. The bank’s head office apologized, of course, but without any records they could only provide my father with their regrets rather than the funds he had deposited with them. It may seem a little old fashioned of me, I know, but I still prefer to trust cash rather than cashiers.”

The businessman’s teeth sparkled in reassurance. Urquhart was convinced this was trouble. He took a deep breath. “May I be blunt, Mr. Jhabwala?”

“But of course.”

“It is sometimes the case with first-time donors that they believe there is something the Party can do for them, when in reality our powers are very limited…”

Jhabwala nodded in understanding even as his head weaved from side to side. “There is nothing I wish to do other than to be a firm supporter of the Prime Minister. And yourself, Mr. Urquhart. You will understand as a local MP that my business interests occasionally bring me into most friendly contact with local authorities on matters such as planning permission or tendering for contracts. I may at some point ask for your advice but I assure you I am looking for no favors. I want nothing in exchange. Absolutely nothing, no, no! Except, perhaps, to request that I and my wife have the honor of meeting with the Prime Minister at some suitable time, particularly if he should ever come to the constituency. Might that be acceptable? It would mean a very great deal to my wife.”