The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (31 page)

“Now I know you’ll all be bursting with questions—so let’s start!”

A hum of excitement swept around the room and a forest of hands shot up to catch his eye.

“I suppose to be fair I ought to take the first question from someone who won’t be working for the group,” Landless jested. “Can we find anyone unlucky enough to fit that description?” With theatrical exaggeration he shielded his eyes from the bright lights and searched the gathering for a suitable victim and they all laughed at his cheek.

“Mr. Landless,” shouted the business editor of the
Sunday
Times
. “The Government have made it very clear in recent years that in their view the ownership of British newspapers is already concentrated in too few hands. They’ve made it clear they would consider using their monopolies and mergers powers to prevent any further consolidation. How on earth do you expect to get the necessary Government approval?”

Many heads around the room nodded in agreement. Good question. Landless appeared to agree.

“An excellent point,” he said, spreading his arms wide as if to hug the question to his chest and slowly throttle it to death. “You’re right, of course, the Government will need to make its mind up. Newspapers are part of the worldwide information industry. It’s growing and changing every day. You all know that. Five years ago you lot worked in Fleet Street with old typewriters and printing presses that should’ve been scrapped when the Kaiser surrendered. Today the industry is modernized, it’s decentralized, it’s computerized.”

“Shame!” cried a voice and the room burst into nostalgic laughter for the days of long liquid lunches at El Vino’s wine bar and prolonged printers’ strikes which allowed them weeks or sometimes months off, a time when they could write books or build boats and dream dreams, and all of it while still on full pay.

“You know that had to change. And we’ve got to keep on changing, we can’t stand still. We have to face competition not just from each other but from satellite television, local radio, breakfast TV, and the rest. More people will be demanding information twenty-four hours a day, from all parts of the world. They won’t be buying newspapers which arrive hours after the news has occurred and then covers them in filthy printing ink. If we are going to survive we’ve got to move from being parochial newspapers to being suppliers of information on a worldwide basis. And for that we need clout.” He lifted his shoulders in an enormous shrug that subsided with the deftness of an avalanche. “So the Government has got to decide. Does it play the ostrich, bury its head while the British newspaper industry goes bust like the British car industry, dead inside ten years as the Americans, Japanese, and even Australians take over? Or will it be visionary and back the best of British? Simple proposition. Do we duck and decline? Or take on the rest of the world and beat it?”

A blitz of flash guns greeted him as he sat back in his chair while the journalists who still took shorthand scribbled furiously to catch up with him. The questioner turned to his neighbor. “What do you think? Will the old bastard get away with it?”

“The industrial logic is compelling, that’s for sure, and there’s something rather charming about a working class kid on the make, don’t you think? But if I know our Ben, he won’t be relying just on persuasive logic or passion. He’s the sort of guy who’s already prepared the ground, every inch of it, even the cracks. I think we’ll soon see just how many politicians owe him favors.”

* * *

The answer seemed to be that a whole host of politicians owed Landless. With nominations closing the following day and the first ballot due in just a week, no one seemed keen to take him on and risk antagonizing the combined might of the Chronicle and United groups. There was a rush to endorse his idea that within hours had grown into a stampede among contenders as they struggled not to be left behind. Why, the man was surely not only enlightened but deeply patriotic. Once again, it seemed that Landless had discovered the way to tickle a politician’s fancy. By teatime he was able to sit back with his usual mug of Bovril and snap his red braces in delight.

Not everyone was taken in, of course. The
Independent
couldn’t resist the temptation to have a dig.

The Landless announcement burst like a grenade in the middle of the leadership race—which presumably was his intention. Not since the Profumo scandal have so many politicians been caught pulling their trousers down. It is not only undignified but a dangerous state for a politician to be caught in.

Not all the aspirants joined the stampede. Samuel was cautious, noncommittal—he had too many knife wounds in his back to stick his head above the parapet yet again. He said he wanted to consult the workforce of the two groups before reaching his decision and, even before Landless’s Bovril had gone cold, union representatives were denouncing the plan. They noted there were no guarantees about job security and hadn’t forgotten or forgiven a tactless Landless quip that he’d had to fire ten thousand people for every million he had made. In the face of opposition from the unions, Samuel realized it would be absurd for him now to endorse the deal, so sought refuge in silence.

Urquhart also stood out from the crowd. Within an hour of the announcement he was in front of cameras giving a thoroughly polished analysis of the global information market and its likely trends. His technical expertise far outshone his rivals’, yet he was cautious. “While I have the highest respect for Benjamin Landless I think it would be wrong of me to jump to conclusions before I’ve had an opportunity to consider all the details. I think politicians should be careful; it gives politics a bad name if we all look as if we’re dashing around trying to buy the support of the editorial columns. So to avoid any possible misinterpretation, I shan’t be announcing my own views until the leadership contest is over. By which time, of course,” he added modestly, “they may be of no interest anyway.”

“If only all his colleagues could have taken the dignified and principled stand of the Chief Whip,” the
Independent
commented, raining down on him in praise. “Urquhart is establishing a statesmanlike tone for his campaign which marks him out from the pack. It will do nothing to harm his chances.”

Other editorials echoed the line, not least the
Chronicle
.

We encouraged Francis Urquhart to stand for the leadership because of our respect for his independence of mind and his integrity. We were delighted when he accepted the challenge and we are still convinced that our recommendation was correct. His refusal to rush to judgment over the Chronicle–United newspaper merger is no less than we would expect.

We still hope that after due deliberation he will wholeheartedly endorse the merger plans, but our view of Urquhart is based on much more than commercial interest. He is the only candidate who so far has demonstrated that he has that vital characteristic missing in so many—the quality of leadership.

From around the corridors of Westminster it was possible to detect the sound of doors being slammed in frustration as ambitious politicians realized that, once again, Urquhart had stolen a march on them. A penthouse suite overlooking Hyde Park offered a different perspective. Landless gazed out across the treetops and the world he hoped would soon be his. “To you, Frankie boy,” he muttered into his glass. “To us.”

Thirty-Five

For some it is the end of the rope. For others it is only the beginning.

Thursday, November 18

When nominations closed at noon on Thursday, the only surprise was the last-minute withdrawal of Peter Bearstead. He’d been the first to announce his intention to stand but already his race was run. “I’ve done what I set out to do, which was to get a proper election going,” he announced punchily. “I know I haven’t got a chance of winning, so let the others get on with it. I’ll be there to help drag the bodies out of the arena.”

He had meant to say he would “be there to help bind the wounds” but not for the first time his love of a sharp phrase had run away with his judgment. He immediately signed up with the
Daily
Express
to write personal and indiscreet profiles of the candidates for the duration.

So now there were nine, an unprecedentedly large field, but the prevailing view was that only five of them were in with a serious chance—Samuel, Woolton, Earle, McKenzie, and Urquhart. With the list of combatants complete, pollsters redoubled their efforts to contact Government MPs and sniff which way the tide was running.

Paul McKenzie was determined to show the sharpest edge of his sword. The Secretary of State for Health was a frustrated man. He’d been in charge of the health service for more than five years and had hoped as ardently as Urquhart for a new challenge in a post-election reshuffle. The long years in charge of an unresponsive bureaucracy had left him feeling diminished. A few years previously he had been regarded as one of the rising stars of the Party, a man who could combine a tough intellect with a deep sense of caring. Many predicted he would go all the way. But the health service had proved to be a bureaucratic beast he was incapable of breaking let alone training, and his encounters with picket lines of protesting nurses and ambulance men had left his image deeply frayed. The postponement of the hospital expansion plan had been the last straw. He’d grown dispirited, had talked with his wife about quitting politics at the next election, so had greeted Collingridge’s downfall like a drowning man discovers dry land. He entered the final five days before the first ballot overflowing with enthusiasm and energy, anxious to make an immediate impact, determined to get his head above the crowd. He had asked his staff to find a suitable photo-opportunity, some excuse to revive his tarnished image—but no bloody hospitals, he instructed. His fingers had been chewed off all too often. He’d spent the first three years of his time in the Ministry conscientiously visiting hospitals and trying to learn about patient care, only to be met on bad days by picket lines of nurses complaining about “slave wages,” and on worse days by violent demonstrations from ancillary staff protesting about “savage cuts.” He’d been nicknamed “Dr. Cut,” although the unions had often painted an additional consonant onto their banners. Even the doctors’ unions seemed to take the view that health budgets should be set by the level of noise rather than the level of need. At times, but only in private, it had reduced McKenzie to tears of frustration.

He almost never got to see the patients. Even when he tried to sneak into a hospital by a back entrance the demonstrators always seemed to know beforehand precisely where he would be, ready to throw their abuse at him just when the television camera crews had arrived. Being beaten up in public by an angel of mercy was never great for the image or his self-esteem. So McKenzie had simply stopped visiting hospitals. Rather than running a gauntlet of abuse, he opted out and stuck to safer venues. It was a matter of self-preservation.

So his plan was as simple as it was safe. Instead of a hospital—“it would be entirely wrong to use sick patients for my own political purposes”—his office had arranged for him to visit the Humanifit Laboratories at their headquarters just off the M4. Humanifit made a wide range of equipment for handicapped people and had just developed a revolutionary wheelchair operated by voice commands. Even paraplegics unable to move their limbs could use it. The combination of new British technology and enhanced care for the disabled was just what McKenzie was looking for and so, barely a couple of hours after nominations closed, the Secretary of State’s car was hastening down the motorway in search of his salvation.

McKenzie had been careful. He didn’t take the success of the visit for granted. Factories were all well and good but a spirited demo was a thousand times more attractive to the cameras. He had been ambushed too many times, so he was careful to ensure that his office informed the media only three hours before his impending arrival, soon enough to scramble their camera crews but not enough to get rent-a-mob out and active. As he approached the Humanifit facility, he nestled back in his leather seat, practiced his smile, and congratulated himself on his caution. It was all going to work very well.

Unfortunately for McKenzie, his staff had been too efficient. Governments need to know where their Ministers are at all times; like all other MPs they have to be available if at all possible in the event of an emergency or in case of a sudden vote in the House of Commons. So, on the previous Friday, following her standing instructions to the letter, McKenzie’s diary secretary had sent a full list of his forthcoming engagements to the office of the government’s coordinating authority—otherwise known as the Chief Whip.

As he was driven the final few hundred yards down the country road to the factory’s green-field site, McKenzie combed his hair and prepared himself. The ministerial car passed alongside the red brick wall that curved around the site and, as the Minister in the rear seat made sure his tie was straight, it swept in through the front gates.

No sooner was it through than the driver jammed on the brakes, throwing McKenzie against the front seat, spilling papers on the floor and ruining his careful preparations. Before he had a chance to curse the driver and demand an explanation, the cause of the problem confronted and swirled around him. It was a sight beyond his wildest nightmare.

The tiny car park in front of the factory’s reception office was jammed with a throng of seething protesters, all dressed in nurse’s uniform and hurling abuse, with every angry word and action recorded by the three television cameras that had been dutifully summoned by McKenzie’s press officer and placed in an ideal viewing position on top of the administration block. No sooner was the official car inside the gates than the crowd surged around, kicking the bodywork and banging placards on the roof. In a couple of seconds the aerial had gone and the windscreen wipers had also been wrenched off. The driver had the sense to press the panic button fitted to all Ministerial cars which automatically closed the windows and locked the doors, but not before someone had managed to spit directly into McKenzie’s face. Fists and contorted faces were pressed hard up against the glass, all threatening violence on him; the car rocked as the crowd surged against it, smothering it, suffocating him, until he could see no sky, no trees, no help, nothing but hatred at close quarters.