The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (64 page)

“If you are to…persuade them to forgo substantial income, the word needs to come directly from you. You can’t expect them to take that sort of idea from me or any other aide.” Mycroft sounded restless. He had been sent before on similar errands to members of the Royal Family. He found that the more junior the rank, the more hostile grew their reception.

The King managed a rueful smile that turned his face down at one corner. “You’re right to be squeamish. I suspect any messenger sent on such a delicate task would return with his turban nailed firmly to his head. Don’t worry, David, this one’s for me. Brief them, if you will, on the new Civil List arrangements. Then prepare a short paper for me setting out the arguments and arrange for them to come and see me. Separately rather than in a gang. I don’t want to be subjected to yet another collective family mugging around the dinner table, not on this one.”

“Some are abroad at the moment. It may take several days.”

“It has already taken several lifetimes, David.” The King sighed. “I don’t think a few more days can matter very much…”

Thirty-One

A princess’s place is in at least one of her castles. If she has any sense she will have the drawbridge drawn up, but they rarely do.

The British Airways 747-400 from Kingston arrived ten minutes behind schedule on the approach to Heathrow, unable to make up the delay caused by a picket line of striking passport officers that had stretched around the departure terminal and spilled onto parts of the tropical runway. The flight had missed the prearranged landing slot and normally might have had to circle for another fifteen or twenty minutes before air traffic control found a suitable gap in the queue, but this was not a normal flight and the captain was given immediate permission to land as twelve other flights that had arrived on schedule were shuffled back into the pack. The Princess was waiting to disembark the moment the wheels touched down.

The Boeing had taxied to a terminal in one of the quieter corners of the airport and normally the Princess and her escorts would be driven directly out of Heathrow through a private perimeter gateway. She would be back at Kensington Palace even before her fellow passengers had struggled to the head of the taxi rank. Today, however, the Princess did not drive directly away. First she had to collect the keys of her new car.

It had been a foul few months for all manufacturers of luxury cars and the prospects for the rest of the year looked worse. Trade was tough; sales—and sales promotions—were at a premium. So it had seemed an excellent idea for Maserati UK to offer the Princess a free edition of their latest and most sporty model in the expectation of considerable and ongoing publicity. She had accepted with alacrity. As the aircraft drew alongside its arrival gate the managing director of Maserati waited anxiously on the tarmac, keys tied with an extravagant pink bow dangling from nervous fingers, eyeing the clouds. He could have wished for a kinder day, the intermittent drizzle had necessitated copious attention to the bodywork to keep it shining, but there were compensations. The media coverage afforded the Princess in recent days had considerably increased both the size and the enthusiasm of the press contingent lined up beside his car. The publicity value of his shares in the Princess had already increased considerably.

She breezed onto the damp tarmac with a polished white smile and tan that defied the elements. It would take less than ten minutes, a few words of greeting and thanks with the anxious little man in the shiny mohair suit waving the keys, a brief photo call as the cameras compared her bodywork with that of the fierce red Maserati, and a couple of minutes spent driving slowly round in circles as she discovered the location of the gears and they squeezed off a few feet of promotional video. A breeze, and fair exchange of her time for a growling new £95,000 four-and-a-half liter turbocharged mechanical Italian beast.

The press, of course, had other ideas, wanting to inquire after her holiday and the whereabouts of her husband and holiday companion, but she was having none of it. “The Princess will entertain questions only about the car, gentlemen,” an aide had announced. Why not a Jaguar—because it was American owned. How many other cars did she have—none like this wicked brute. What’s the top speed—seventy miles an hour while I’m driving. Hadn’t she recently been clocked at over a hundred on the M1—a sweet smile and a grab for the next question. Would she lean a little lower over the bonnet for the benefit of the cameras—you guys must be joking. The next shower of rain looked imminent and already it was time for a few quick revolutions around the cameras before departing. She climbed in as gracefully as the low-slung bodywork would allow and wound down the window for a final smile at the jackal pack as they closed in.

“Isn’t it a bit demeaning for a Princess to flog foreign cars?” a sharp voice asked bluntly.

Bloody typical. They were always at it. Her cheeks colored beneath her tan. “I spend my entire life ‘flogging,’ as you so snidely put it. I flog British exports wherever I go. I flog overpriced tickets for charity dinners to help the starving in Africa. I flog lottery tickets so we can build retirement homes for pensioners. I never stop flogging.”

“But flogging flash foreign sports cars?” the voice continued.

“It’s you lot who demand the flash. If I turned up in secondhand clothes or thirdhand cars, you’d be the first to complain. I have to earn my living the same as everybody else.” The smile had disappeared.

“What about the Civil List?”

“If you knew how difficult it was to do everything that’s expected of you on a Princess’s allowance, you wouldn’t ask such bloody fool questions!”

That was enough. They were goading her; she was losing her temper; it was time to go. She slipped the clutch, a fraction impatiently, for the car began to perform inelegant kangaroo hops toward the cameramen who scattered in alarm. Serve the bastards right. The V-8 engine stalled, the man in the shiny suit looked dismayed and the cameras snapped angrily. She restarted, selected a gear, and was off. Damn their impertinence. Back at the Palace after only a week away she would be greeted with a small hillock of paperwork that would contain countless invitations, more requests and begging letters from charities and the underprivileged. She would show them. She would answer all the invitations, accept as many as possible, go on eating the dinners and raising the monies, smiling at the old and the young, the sick and the infirm, comforting those who were just plain unlucky. She would ignore the jibes and go on working hard, as she always did, grinding away through the hillock. She had no way of knowing that on top of the unopened pile lay a brief telling her about arrangements for the new Civil List, and that already copy was being prepared for the morning editions attacking a pouting princess in a brand new foreign sports car who complained she was not paid enough.

Misery in a Maserati.

***

The image of the Princess’s glowing brake lights faded from the television as Urquhart hit the red button. His attention stayed fixed on the blank screen for a long time, his half-knotted tie hanging limply around his neck.

“Am I not old enough for you, Francis? You prefer middle-aged nymphomaniacs to good, clean-living young girls like me, is that it?”

He gave her a doleful look. “I couldn’t possibly comment.”

Sally dug him playfully in the ribs; distractedly he pushed her away. “Stop that or I’ll revoke your visa.” But the warning served only to redouble her efforts. “Sally! We’ve got to talk.”

“God, not another of those serious, meaningful relationships. And just when I was beginning to have some fun.” She sat on the sofa opposite him, smoothing down her dress. She put her underwear in her handbag, she’d sort that tangled mess out later.

“There will be a storm about those pictures tomorrow. The headlines will be savage. Alas, it is also the day I’ve chosen to make the public announcement about the new Civil List. Unfortunate, the announcement sitting alongside those sort of pictures, but”—he smiled a huge, theatrical smile like Macbeth welcoming dinner guests—“it can’t be helped. What I find most distressing is that it will focus attention not only on our hapless and witless Princess but on the whole Royal Family. And that’s where I need your help, O Gypsy. Please.”

“I am a stranger in your land, suh, and my campfire is small,” she mocked in a deep Southern drawl.

“But you have magic on your side. Magic that can take a family so royal, and make it so common.”

“How common?”

“So far as the lesser Royals are concerned? As common as gigolos on a beach. But not the King, though. This isn’t all-out war. Just make sure he’s not above criticism. Reflect a degree of disappointment. It can be done?”

She nodded. “Depends on the questions, how you set it up.”

“How would you set it up?”

“Can I go to the bathroom first?” Her dress was now immaculately smoothed, but somewhere underneath she was still a mess.

“Tell me first, Sally. It’s important.”

“Pig. OK, off the top of my head. You start with something like: ‘Have you seen any news about the Royal Family in the last few days, and if so, what?’ Just to get them thinking about the photographs without, of course, being seen to lead them on. That would be unprofessional! If they’re such bozos that they’ve not heard a damn thing about the Royals, you can exclude them as dickheads and deadbeats. Then something like: ‘Do you think it is important that the Royals set a good public example in their private lives?’ Of course people will say yes, so you follow up with: ‘Do you think the Royal Family is setting a better or worse public example in their private lives than in previous years?’ I’ll bet my next month’s income that eight out of every ten will answer worse, much worse, or unprintable.”

“The Princess’s bikini could yet prove to be as powerful as the sling of David.”

“If somewhat larger,” she added testily.

“Continue with the tutorial.”

“Then perhaps: ‘Do you think the Royal Family deserves its recent pay increase or do you think, in the current economic circumstances, it should be setting an example of restraint?’ Words like that.”

“Perhaps even: ‘Do you think the number of members of the Royal Family supported by the taxpayer should remain the same, get larger, or be reduced?’”

“You’re learning, Francis. If you put in a question immediately before that to ask whether they feel they get good value for money from the work of Princess Charlotte and a couple of other disreputable or unknown Royals, they’ll be warmed up for it and you’ll get an even fiercer response.”

His eyes were glittering.

“Only then do you come to the killer. ‘Is the Royal Family more or less popular, or doing a better or worse job for the country, than five years ago?’ Top of the mind the public will say they are still great fans. So you have to bring out their deeper feelings, the concerns they hide away, the sort of things they’re not always aware of themselves. Put that question up front, first off, and you’ll probably discover that the Royals are only marginally less popular than they were. But ask away after you’ve given them a chance to think about sand, sex, and Civil Lists, and your devoted and loyal citizens will have become a rebellious mob who will string up their beloved Princess Charlotte by her bikini straps. Is that enough?”

“More than enough.”

“Then if you don’t mind I’m going to disappear for a little repair work.” Her hand was on the door handle when she turned around. “You don’t like the King, do you. Man to man, I mean.”

“No.” The reply was dry, blunt, reluctant. It only fueled her curiosity.

“Why? Tell me.” She was pushing at doors he had not chosen to open freely, but she had to broaden the relationship if it were not to descend into empty habit and boredom. It had to be more than simply screwing each other, and the Opposition between times. Anyway, she was naturally curious.

“He’s sanctimonious, naive,” came the low reply. “A pathetic idealist who’s getting in the way.”

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, irritation undisguised.

“Francis, you’re halfway to raising a rebellion. You’re not planning that just because he’s sanctimonious.”

“He’s trying to interfere.”

“Every editor in Fleet Street tries to interfere yet you invite them to lunch, not to their own lynching.”

“Why must you press it? All this twaddle about his children and the future!” His face revealed anguish, the tone had sharpened and his characteristic control had disappeared. “He lectures me constantly about how passionate he is to build a better world, for his children. About how we shouldn’t build a gas pipeline or nuclear power station without thinking first, about his children. How his first duty as a future King and Monarch was to produce an heir to the Throne—his children!” The flesh around his eyes had grown gray and his lips were spittled with saliva as he grew rapidly more animated. “The man is possessed about his children. Forever talking about them whenever I meet him. Nagging. Harassing. Whining. As if children were some form of miracle that he alone could perform. Yet isn’t it the commonest, most covetous and selfish act of all, to want to re-create your own image?”

She stood her ground. “No, I don’t think it is,” she said softly. She was suddenly frightened by the eyes that were red with fire, looking directly at her yet at the same time staring through her to some torment hidden beyond. “No, it’s not. Not selfish.”

“It’s sheer egoism and self-love, I tell you. A pathetic attempt to grab at immortality.”

“It’s called love, Francis.”

“Love! Was your child born out of love? Damned funny kind of love that leaves you in the hospital with broken ribs and the child in a cemetery plot!”

She slapped him with the full force of an open palm, and knew at once it was a mistake. She should have recognized the danger signs in the throbbing veins at his temples. She should have remembered that he had no children, had never had children. She should have shown pity. Understanding came with a cry of pain as his hand lashed in return across her face.