The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (38 page)

Urquhart led O’Neill to one of the second floor guest rooms. He said little as they climbed the stairs, every space in time filled by O’Neill’s babbling and breathless commentary. The guest showed little interest in the fine views across the New Forest afforded by the room; he threw his overnight bag carelessly on the bed. They retraced their way down two flights of stairs until Urquhart led him through an old, battered oak door into his book-lined study.

“Francis, this is beautiful, truly beautiful,” O’Neill said, gazing at the collection of leather-bound books, paintings covering a range of traditional topics from ships under full sail in heavy seas to clansmen in a distinctive green tartan, and a pair of antique globes. It wasn’t beautiful, that was typical exaggeration, but it was intimate and entirely Urquhart. Cut crystal glasses surrounded two decanters that stood in an alcove in the dark wooden bookcase.

“Help yourself, Roger,” Urquhart invited. “There is a rare Speyside and an island whiskey full of peat and seaweed. You choose.” He watched with clinical concentration as O’Neill overfilled a tumbler with whiskey and began draining it.

“Oh, can I get one for you, Francis?” O’Neill spluttered, finally remembering his manners.

“My dear Roger, not
just
at this moment. I must keep a clear head, you understand. But please feel free.”

O’Neill poured another enormous glass and slumped into a chair. And as they talked the alcohol began to do battle with whatever else was inside his system and the raging in his eyes became a touch less frenetic even as his tongue became thicker and his conversation increasingly lost its coherence. Depressant fought stimulant, never achieving peace or balance, always leaving him on the point of toppling into the abyss.

“Roger,” Urquhart was saying, “it looks as though we shall be in Downing Street by the end of the week. I’ve been doing some thinking about what I’ll need. I thought we might talk about what
you
wanted.”

O’Neill took another gulp before answering.

“Francis, I’m drenched in gratitude that you should be thinking of me. You’re going to be a class act as Prime Minister, Francis, really you are. As it happens, I’ve also been giving some thought to it all, and I was wondering whether you could use someone like me in Downing Street—you know, as an adviser or even your press spokesman. You’re going to need a lot of help and we seem to have worked so well together and I was thinking…”

Urquhart waved his hand for silence. “Roger, there are scores of civil servants to take on those responsibilities, people who are already doing that work. What I need is someone just like you in charge of the political side of things, who can be trusted to avoid all those wretched mistakes that the Party organization has been making in recent months. I’d very much like you to stay at Party Headquarters—under a new Chairman, of course.”

A look of concern furrowed O’Neill’s brow. The same meaningless job, watching from the sidelines as the civil service ran the show? Wasn’t that what he’d been doing these last years? “But to do something like that effectively, Francis, I shall need support, some special status. I thought we’d mentioned a knighthood.”

“Yes, indeed, Roger. That would be no more than you deserve. You’ve been absolutely indispensable to me and you must understand how grateful I am. But I’ve been making inquiries. That sort of recognition may not be possible, at least in the short term. There are so many who are already in line to be honored when a Prime Minister retires and there’s a limit on the number of honors a new Prime Minister can hand out. I’m afraid it could take a while…”

O’Neill had been slumped in his chair, slipping forward on the leather seat, but now he pulled himself up straight, confused, indignant. “Francis, that’s not what we said.”

Urquhart was determined to test O’Neill, to bully him, prod him, stick a finger in his eye or up his arse, shower him in offense and disappointment, put him to a little of the pressure he would inevitably come under in the next few months. He wanted to see how far O’Neill could be pushed before reaching the limit. He hadn’t a moment longer to wait.

“No, that’s not what we fucking said, Francis. You promised! That was part of the deal! You gave your word and now you’re telling me it’s not on. No job. No knighthood. Not now, not soon, not ever! You’ve got what you wanted and now you think you can get rid of me. Well, think again! I’ve lied, I’ve cheated, I’ve forged, and I’ve stolen for you. Now you treat me just like all the rest. I’m not going to have people laughing at me behind my back anymore and looking down their noses as if I were some smelly Irish peasant. I deserve that knighthood—and I demand it!”

The tumbler was empty and O’Neill, shaking with emotion, hauled himself from the chair to refill it from the decanter. He chose the second decanter, not caring what was in it, spilling the dark malty liquid over the rim of the glass. He slurped a huge mouthful before turning to Urquhart and resuming his avalanche of outrage.

“We’ve been through all of this together, as a team, Francis. Everything I’ve done has been for you and you wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near Downing Street without me. We succeed together—or we get fucked together. If I’m going to end up on the shit heap, Francis, I’m damned if I’m going there on my own. You can’t afford that, not with what I know. You owe me!” He was trembling, spilling more whiskey. The pupils of his eyes were like pinpricks. He was dribbling.

The words had been spoken, the threat made. Urquhart had offered O’Neill a gauntlet of provocation that, almost without pause for breath, had been picked up and slapped into Urquhart’s face. It was clear it was no longer a matter of whether O’Neill would lose control, but how quickly, and it had taken no time at all. There was little point in continuing to test him. Urquhart brought the moment to a rapid conclusion with a broad smile and shake of the head.

“Roger, my dear friend. You misunderstand me entirely. I’m only saying that it will be difficult this time around, in the New Year’s Honors List. But there’s another one in the spring, for the Queen’s Birthday. Just a few weeks away, really. I’m only asking you to wait until then.” He laid his hand on O’Neill’s trembling shoulder. “And if you want a job in Downing Street, then we shall find you one. We work as a team, you and I. You’ve deserved it. On my word of honor, Roger, I will not forget what you deserve.”

O’Neill was unable to respond beyond a murmur. His passion had been spent, the alcohol burrowing its way inside, his emotions torn to pieces and now pasted back together. He fell back into his chair, ashen, exhausted.

“Look, have a sleep before lunch. We can sort out the details of what you want later,” Urquhart suggested, refilling O’Neill’s glass himself.

Without another word, O’Neill closed his eyes. He drained the glass yet again and within seconds his breathing had slowed, yet even asleep his eyes still flickered beneath their lids in constant turmoil. Wherever O’Neill’s mind was wandering, it had found no peace.

Urquhart sat looking at the shrunken figure. Mucus was dripping from O’Neill’s nose. The sight reminded Urquhart yet again of his childhood, and of a Labrador that had been with him through years of faithful service as a gun dog and constant companion. One day the gillie had come and explained that the dog had suffered a stroke; it must be put down. Urquhart had been devastated. He had rushed to the stable where it slept and was greeted with the pitiful sight of an animal that had lost control of itself. The rear legs were paralyzed, it had fouled itself, and its nose and mouth, like O’Neill’s, were dribbling uncontrollably. It was as much as it could do to raise a whimper of greeting. There was a tear in the old gillie’s eye as he fondled its ear. “There’ll be no more chasing o’ rabbits for you, old fella,” he had whispered. He had turned to the young Urquhart. “Time for you to go, Master Francis.”

But Urquhart had refused. “I know what is needed,” he had said.

So together they had dug the grave at the back of the orchard near a thick hedge of yew, had lifted the dog to a bright spot nearby where it could feel the warmth of an autumn sun. Then Urquhart had shot it. Put an end to its suffering. As he stared now at O’Neill, he remembered the tears he had shed, the times he had visited the spot where he had buried it, and wondered why some men deserved less pity than dumb animals.

He left O’Neill in the library and made his way quietly toward the kitchen. Under the sink he found a pair of rubber kitchen gloves and stuffed them, along with a teaspoon, into his pocket before proceeding through the back door toward the outhouse. The old wooden door groaned on rusty hinges as he entered the potting shed. The mustiness hit him. He used this place rarely but he knew precisely what he was looking for. High on the far wall stood an ancient, battered kitchen cupboard that had been thrown out of the old scullery many years before and which now served as a home for half-used tins of paint, stray cans of oil, and a vigorous army of woodworm. At the back, behind the other cans, he found a tightly sealed tin. He put on the rubber gloves before taking it from its shelf and walking back toward the house, holding the can as if he were carrying a flaming torch.

Once back in the house he checked on O’Neill, who was still profoundly asleep and snoring like a distant storm. He made his way quietly upstairs to the guest room and was relieved to discover that O’Neill hadn’t locked his overnight case. He found what he was looking for in the toilet bag, crammed alongside the toothpaste and shaving gear. It was a tin of men’s talcum powder, the head of which came away from the shoulders when he gave it a slight wrench. Inside there was no talcum but a small self-sealing polyethylene bag with the equivalent of a large tablespoonful of white powder. He took the bag to the polished mahogany writing desk that stood in the bay window and extracted three large sheets of blue writing paper from the drawer. He placed one sheet flat and poured the contents of the bag into a small mound on top of it. He placed a second sheet beside it and, still in his rubber gloves, opened the tin he had brought from the potting shed and spooned out another similarly sized pile of white powder. Using the flat end of the spoon as a spatula he proceeded with the greatest care to divide both mounds of white powder into two equal halves, scraping one half of each onto the third page of writing paper that he had creased down its middle. The grains were of an almost identical color and consistency, and he mixed the two halves together to hide the fact that they had ever been anything but one. With the aid of the crease along the middle of the paper, he prepared to pour the mixture back into the polyethylene bag.

He stared at the sheet of paper, and his hand. It had a gentle tremble. Was that nerves, age, indecision? Something he had inherited from his father? No, never that. Whatever it took, never that! The powder slipped unprotesting into the polyethylene bag, which he then resealed. It looked as if it had never been touched.

Five minutes later, in a corner of the garden near the weeping willow, where his gardener always had a small pile of garden rubbish ready to burn, he lit a fire. The tin was now empty, its contents flushed away, and he buried it in the midst of the blaze along with the blue writing paper and the rubber gloves. Urquhart watched the flames as they flared, then smoked, until there was little left but a battered old can covered in ash.

He returned to the house, poured himself a large whiskey, swallowed it almost as greedily as had O’Neill, and only then did he relax.

It was done.

Forty-Five

It was that wise old sailor of stormy seas, Francis Drake, who remarked that the wings of opportunity are fledged with the feathers of death. Someone else’s death, for preference.

O’Neill had been asleep for three hours when he was roused by someone shaking him fiercely by the shoulder. Slowly he focused his eyes and saw Urquhart leaning over him, instructing him to wake up.

“Roger, there’s been a change of plan. I’ve just had a call from the BBC asking if they can send a film crew over here to shoot some footage for their coverage on Tuesday. Samuel has apparently already agreed, so I felt I had little choice but to say yes. They’ll be here for some time. It’s just what we didn’t want. If they find you here it’ll start all sorts of speculation about how Party Headquarters is interfering in the leadership race. Best to avoid confusion. I’m sorry, but I think it best that you leave right away.”

O’Neill was still trying to find second gear on his tongue as Urquhart poured some coffee past it, explaining once again how sorry he was about the weekend but how glad he was they had cleared up any confusion between them.

“Remember, Roger. A knighthood next Whitsun, and we can sort out the job you want next week. I’m so happy you were able to come. I really am so grateful,” Urquhart was saying as he tipped O’Neill into his car.

He watched as O’Neill edged his way with practiced caution down the driveway and out through the gates.

“Good-bye, Roger,” he whispered.

Forty-Six

Lust broadens the horizon. Love narrows it to the point of blindness.

Sunday, November 28

The dawn chorus of the quality Sundays made sweet music for the Chief Whip and his supporters.

“URQUHART AHEAD,” the
Sunday
Times
declared on its front page, supplementing that with the endorsement of its editorial columns. Both the
Telegraph
and the
Express
openly backed Urquhart while the
Mail
on
Sunday
tried uncomfortably to straddle the fence. Only the
Observer
gave editorial backing to Samuel yet even this was qualified by its report that Urquhart had a clear lead.

It took one of the more lurid newspapers, the
Sunday
Inquirer
, to give the campaign a real shake. In an interview conducted with Samuel about “the early years,” it quoted him as acknowledging a passing involvement in many different university clubs. When pressed he had admitted that until the age of twenty he had been a sympathizer with a number of fashionable causes that, thirty years later, seemed naive and misplaced. Only when the reporter had insisted the paper had documentary evidence to suggest that these causes included the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament and republicanism had Samuel suspected he was being set up.