The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (17 page)

Urquhart hadn’t spoken for nearly ten minutes. The tip of his middle finger was running slowly around the rim of his glass setting up a discordant wailing. His eyes came up, blue, penetrating. “But who is the enemy, Patrick?”

The stare was returned. “Whoever is most likely to bring us to defeat at the next election. The Leader of the sodding Opposition? Or Henry?”

“And your view? What
precisely
is it you are saying, Patrick?”

Woolton roared with laughter. “I’m sorry, Francis. Too much diplomatic claptrap. You know I can’t even kiss the wife good morning without her wondering what my intentions are. You want a direct answer? OK. Our majority is too small. At the rate we’re going we’ll get wiped out next time around. We can’t go on as we are.”

“So what is the solution? We have to find one.”

“We bide our time, that’s what we should do. A few months. Prepare the public perception, put pressure on Henry to stand down, so that when he does we’ll be seen to be bowing to what the public wants rather than indulging in private squabbles. Perceptions are crucial, Francis, and we’ll need time to get our ducks in a row.”

And you need a little time to prepare your own pitch, thought Urquhart. You old fraud. You want the job just as badly as ever.

He knew Woolton. The man was no fool, not in all things. He would already be planning to spend as many evenings as possible in the corridors and bars of the House of Commons, strengthening established relationships, making new friends, eating rubber chicken on the constituency circuit, chatting up newspaper editors and columnists, building up his credentials. His official diary would get cleared, he would spend less time traveling abroad and much, much more time dashing around Britain making speeches about the challenges facing the country in the next decade.

“That’s your job, Francis, and a damned difficult one it is, too. To help us decide when the time is right. Too early and we’ll all look like assassins. Too late and the Party’ll be in pieces. You will have to keep your ear damned close to the ground. I assume you’re taking soundings elsewhere?”

Urquhart nodded carefully in silent assent. He’s nominated me as Cassius, he thought, put the dagger in my hand. Urquhart was exhilarated to discover that he didn’t mind the sensation, not one bit.

“Patrick, I’m honored that you’ve been so frank with me. Deeply grateful for the confidence you’ve shown in me. The next few months are going to be difficult for all of us, and I will need your continuing counsel. You will always find in me a firm friend.”

“I know I will, Francis.”

Urquhart rose. “And, of course, not a word of this will pass outside this room.”

“My Special Branch team are all going on at me about how walls have ears. I’m glad it’s you who’s got the bungalow next door!” Woolton exclaimed, thumping Urquhart playfully and a little patronizingly between the shoulder blades as his visitor strode over to retrieve his red box.

“I’m holding my conference reception this evening, Patrick. Everyone will be there, a most useful gathering. You won’t forget, will you?”

“Course not. Always enjoy your parties. Be rude of me to refuse your champagne!”

“I’ll see you in a few hours then,” replied Urquhart, picking up a red box.

As Woolton closed the door behind his visitor, he poured himself another drink. He would skip the afternoon’s debates in the conference hall. Instead he’d have a bath and a short sleep to prepare himself for the evening’s heavy schedule. As he reflected on the conversation he’d just had he began to wonder whether the whiskey had dulled his senses. He was trying to remember how Urquhart had voiced his own opposition to Collingridge, but couldn’t. “Crafty sod. Let me do all the talking.” Still, that’s what was expected of a Chief Whip, and he could trust Francis Urquhart, couldn’t he? As he sat there wondering whether he had been just a little too frank, he failed to notice that Urquhart had walked off with the wrong red box.

* * *

Mattie had been in high spirits ever since sending through her copy shortly after lunch. Opinion poll shocker. A front page exclusive, at a moment when she was surrounded by every single one of her competitors. She had won bragging rights for this conference, that was for sure. She had spent much of the afternoon wistfully thinking about the new doors that were slowly beginning to open for her. She had just celebrated her first anniversary at the
Chronicle
and her abilities were getting recognition. Another year of this and maybe she’d be ready to make the next step, perhaps as an assistant editor or even as a columnist with room to write serious political analysis and not just daily potboilers. And with friends like Francis Urquhart she’d never be short of an inside story.

There was a price to be paid, of course. Her mother was still under the impression that she had found someone in London, a partner to share her life, but it was a hard and often lonely life, once she had gotten back to her apartment late at night and scrabbled yet again through her laundry bin in the morning. She had needs, not just professional vanity, and they were becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Neither could she ignore the urgent message to call her office that she got shortly before five o’clock. She had just finished chatting over tea on the terrace with the Home Secretary—he was keen to get the
Chronicle
to puff his speech the following day and in any event much preferred an hour chatting with a young blond than sitting through another interminable afternoon of his colleagues’ speeches—when a receptionist thrust the message into her hand. The hotel lobby was crowded but one of the public telephones was free and she decided to put up with the noise. When she got through, Preston’s secretary explained that he was engaged on the phone and connected her with the deputy editor, John Krajewski, a gentle giant of a man she had begun to spend a little time with during the long summer months, spurred on by a shared enjoyment of good wine and the fact that his father, like her grandfather, had been a wartime refugee from Europe. Nothing sexual, not yet, although he’d made it clear he wanted to swap more than office gossip. But his tone was suddenly awkward.

“Hi, Mattie. Look, er…Oh, fuck it, I’m not going to cover this in three yards of bullshit. We’re not—he’s not—running your story. I’m really sorry.”

There was a stunned silence over the phone as she turned over the words to make sure she had understood correctly. But, whichever way she turned them, they still came out the same.

“What the hell do you mean you’re not running it?”

“Just what I say, Mattie. It’s not going to happen.” Krajewski was clearly having grave difficulty with the conversation. “Look, I’m sorry I can’t give you all the details because Grev has been dealing with it personally—I haven’t touched it myself, please believe me on that—but apparently it’s such a hot story that our esteemed editor feels he can’t run it without being absolutely sure of our ground. He says we’ve always supported this Government and he’s not about to throw editorial policy out of the window on the basis of an anonymous piece of paper. We have to be absolutely certain before we move, and we can’t be if we don’t know where this information came from.”

“For God’s sake, it doesn’t matter where the bloody paper came from. Whoever sent it to me wouldn’t have done it if he thought his identity was going to be spread all over our newsroom. All that matters is that it’s genuine, and I’ve confirmed that.”

He sighed. “Trust me, I know how you must feel about this, Mattie. I wish I were a million miles away from this one. All I can tell you is that Grev is adamant. It’s not running.”

Mattie wanted to scream long, hard, and very coarsely. Suddenly she regretted making the call from a crowded lobby. “Let me talk to Grev.”

“Sorry. I think he’s busy on the phone.”

“I’ll hold!”

“In fact,” said the deputy editor in a voice heaped with embarrassment, “I know he’s going to be busy for a long time and insisted that I had to be the one to explain it to you. I know he wants to talk to you, Mattie—but tomorrow. There’s no point in trying to beat him into submission tonight.”

“Tomorrow’s no bloody good! Since when do we risk losing an exclusive because Grev’s got his phone stuck up his arse?” Mattie spat out her contempt. “What sort of newspaper are we running, Johnnie?”

She could hear the deputy editor clearing his throat, unable to find suitable words. “Sorry, Mattie,” was the best he could do.

“And screw you, Johnnie!” was all she was able to hiss down the line before slamming the phone back into its cradle. He didn’t deserve it, but neither did she. She picked up the phone once again to see whether he was still on the end and was going to tell her it was all a stupid prank, but all she got was the disinterested buzzing of the dial tone. “Fuck!” she snapped, slamming the phone down once more. A conference steward on the next phone flashed her a tart look. She glared at him. “Fuck!” she said again, deliberately, just to make sure he’d heard, before stalking across the foyer toward the bar.

The steward was just raising the grille over the counter when Mattie arrived and slapped her bag and a five-pound note down on the bar. “I need a drink!” she declared, still in such a blind rage that she knocked the arm of another patron who was already lined up at the varnished counter and clearly intent on being served with the first drink of the night.

“Sorry,” she apologized huffily without sounding as if she meant it.

The other drinker turned to face her. “Young lady, you say you need a drink. You look as if you need a drink. My doctor tells me there is no such thing as needing a drink, but what does he know? Would you mind if a man old enough to be your father joins you? By the way, the name’s Collingridge, Mr. Charles Collingridge. But please call me Charlie. Everyone calls me Charlie.”

“Well, Charlie, so long as we don’t talk politics, it’ll be my pleasure. Allow my editor to do the first decent thing he’s managed today and buy you a very large one!”

Eighteen

The world of Westminster is driven by ambition and exhaustion and alcohol. And lust. Especially lust.

The room had a low ceiling and was packed with people. Even with the windows wide open, “Overtime Alley” had come to resemble a Third World airport terminal. As a consequence the chilled champagne being dispensed by Urquhart’s constituency secretary was in ever greater demand. The heat and alcohol cut through the formality and the occasion was already on its way to being one of the Chief Whip’s more relaxed conference receptions.

Urquhart, however, was not in a position to circulate and accept his guests’ thanks. He was effectively pinned in one corner by the enormous bulk of Benjamin Landless. The East End newspaper magnate was sweating heavily and he had his jacket off and collar undone, displaying his thick green braces like parachute webbing that were holding up his vast, flowing trousers. Landless refused to take any notice of his discomfort; his full attention was concentrated on his trapped prey.

“But that’s all bloody bollocks, Frankie, and you know it. I put my whole newspaper chain behind you lot at the last election. I’ve moved my entire worldwide headquarters to London. I’ve invested millions in the country. The way I see it, you owe me. But if Henry don’t pull his fingers out the whole bloody circus is going down the drain at the next election. And because I’ve been so good to you, those buggers in the Opposition will crucify me if they get in. So stop pratting around, for God’s sake!”

He paused to produce a large silk handkerchief from within the folds of his trousers and wipe his brow, while Urquhart goaded him on.

“Surely it’s not as bad as that, Ben. All governments go through sticky patches. We’ve been through all this before. We’ll pull out of it.”

“Bollocks! That’s complacent crap and you know it, Frankie. Haven’t you seen your own latest poll? They phoned it through to me earlier this afternoon. Cata-bleedin’-strophic! If you held the election today you’d get thrashed. Bloody annihilated!”

Urquhart felt a rush of comfort as he envisaged the
Chronicle
’s headline in the morning, but couldn’t afford to show it. “Damn. How on earth did you get hold of that? That will really hurt us at the by-election tomorrow.”

“Don’t mess your pants, Frankie. I’ve told Preston to pull it. It’ll leak, of course, eventually, but that’ll be after the by-election.” He stuck a thick finger into his own chest. “I’ve saved your conference from being turned into a bear pit.” He sighed deeply. “It’s more than you bloody deserve.”

“I know Henry will be grateful, Ben,” Urquhart said, feeling sick with disappointment.

“Course he will,” Landless growled, his finger now prodding into Urquhart’s chest, “but the gratitude of the most unpopular Prime Minister since Christ was crucified isn’t something you can put in the bank.”

“What do you mean?”

“Get real, Frankie. Political popularity is cash. While you lot are in, I should be able to get on with my business and do what I do best—make money. That’s why I’ve supported you. But as soon as your boat starts taking in water everybody panics. The Stock Market sinks. People don’t want to invest. Unions get bolshy. I can’t look ahead. And that’s what’s been happening ever since June. The PM couldn’t organize an arse-cracking contest right now. If he kissed a baby he’d be done for common assault. He’s dragging the whole Party down, and my business with it. Unless you do something about it, we’re all going to disappear down a bloody great hole.”

“Do you really feel like that?”

Landless paused, just to let Urquhart know it wasn’t the champagne speaking. “Passionately,” he growled.

“Then it looks as if we have a problem.”

“Damn right.”

“What would you have us do, Ben?”

“Frankie, if my shareholders saw me screwing around like this, I wouldn’t last till lunchtime. I’d be gone.”

“You mean…?”

“Sure. Get rid of him. The Big Bye-Bye!”

Urquhart raised his eyebrows sharply but Landless was the sort of man who, once he mounted a horse and charged, had difficulty in turning the beast. “Life’s too short to spend it propping up losers, Frankie. I haven’t spent the last twenty years working my guts out just to watch your boss piss it all away.”