The House of Cards Complete Trilogy (93 page)

“He’s not that old,” Claire protested. “Only a little older than Daddy.”

“A very little older than Daddy,” Johannis commented wryly. He was examining the financial pages of the evening newspaper while managing to watch the news and eavesdrop at the same time.

“Did your Mummy read
The
Wind
in
the
Willows
to you when you were a girl?” Diana inquired.

“No, darling. She didn’t.”

“Did you have an unhappy childhood, Mummy?” Diana was beginning to pick up so many of her mother’s unspoken thoughts, much as Claire had when she was a child. Her own mother had spoken so little to her, not wanting to share the pain, trying to protect her from the truth. But the pain had come, even when there had been no beatings, for when there was no abuse there was silence. That’s how it had been for Claire and how it would never be for her own children. Screaming matches, hysterical argument, voices and fists raised until she thought her heart would crack. Then long periods of silence. Complete silence. Meals that were spent in silence, long days in silence, even her mother weeping in silence. The silence of the hell cupboard beneath the stairs where on occasions she was locked and more frequently she hid. A childhood of abuse and silence, the noise of wounding and the yet more wounding sound of silence—perhaps it all evened out in the end. She had survived. She was a survivor.

“Buy shares in him, d’you think?” Joh asked, his attention now upon the television news. “Or has he gone the way of all flesh?”

Tom Makepeace paid for his oranges.

She wondered how much Joh knew, or guessed. Before they had married they’d discussed openly his fears that a husband twenty-three years older than a wife would inevitably be found deficient, lacking in some important respects, that one day he would be a pensioner while she was still in her prime and in almost all such relationships there was bound to develop a gulf that could only be bridged by trust and immense understanding. “You cannot keep a marriage warm if both sides of the bed go cold,” he’d said. How well he had foreseen. But that had been a long time ago; had he in the years since made the crossover in his mind from abstract theory to fact? If he had, as she suspected he had, he’d offered no hint of it. Loyal knight, husband, guide, father-confessor, never inquisitor. It made her respect and love for him all the stronger.

“No,” she responded to her husband’s question. “Not yet at least.”

“But Tom Makepeace could be a danger.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I am a businessman, my love, not a politician. But make your own market analysis. How long do most Prime Ministers last—three, four, five years? He’s already lasted more than ten. No one can defy the odds forever; the chances of your Francis still being in office in two years’ time are very small. Age, accident, ill health, unpopularity. Time has many unpleasant allies.”

“But he seems at the height of his power.”

“So was Alexander when he fell from his horse.”

“What are you saying, Joh?”

“I suppose I’m saying be careful. That there’s every likelihood of Francis Urquhart falling beneath the chariot wheels while you are his PPS—correction, not falling, more likely being thrust beneath by a baying mob. And all his handmaidens with him. Don’t tie yourself too closely.”

“And you think that Tom Makepeace will do the thrusting?” She found the terminology peculiarly uncomfortable.

“Makepeace, or someone like Makepeace. You should keep an eye on him.”

His logic was, as always, impeccable; a shiver of distress passed down her spine.

“How would you do that, Joh? Keep an eye on him?”

He appeared not to have heard, setting aside his newspaper in order that he could embrace his daughters before sending them off to bed accompanied by the normal chorus of complaint. Only when Abby and Diana had departed, towing soft toys and endearments, did he turn once again to his wife. “How? Depends how important it was.”

“According to you, very.”

He massaged his hands, a vizier warming them above a campfire on some damp, starless night, his lips moving as though sucking at the pipe he used to love before he met Claire and loved her more. “A talkative friend. Close colleague, perhaps. Nothing electronic or illegal. That sort of thing, you mean?”

She stared at him, afraid to acknowledge what she meant, even to herself.

“A driver. Drivers know all the secrets. They could’ve abolished the CIA in exchange for one driver in the Kremlin motor pool. I’d get a friendly businessman to offer him a driver with big ears inside the car and a big mouth out of it.”

“Not illegal?”

“More an accident.”

She bit her bottom lip, puckering her face as though tasting lemons. “Suppose, Joh, just suppose for the sake of argument that a businessman was impressed by the Concorde Club and wanted to offer Tom some gesture of support—a small donation for administrative support, the loan of a car and driver to replace the Ministerial car he’s just lost…”

“A driver of incontinent tongue and divided loyalty.”

“What would you say, Joh?”

“I’d say that would alter the odds significantly in Mr. Urquhart’s favor. For a little while.”

“How might that be done?” she asked softly.

He examined her closely, probing, hypothesis spilling into resolution. He needed to be certain.

“Rather easily, I would guess. But I’m sure a busy girl like you wouldn’t want to be bothered with such detail.”

“I suspect you’re right.”

He paused, contemplating the new door that had opened up on their lives. “Seems it’s not only your job that’s changed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought you rather liked Tom Makepeace.”

He knew, she was sure. At times he seemed to have a mirror into her mind and she had no hiding place from him, even inside.

“I did. I suppose I still do.”

“But?”

“But…” She shrugged, grown suddenly weary. “But politics.” It seemed to explain everything. Yet it excused nothing.

Fifteen

The Mediterranean is a full, confused sea, littered with wrecks and old ruins.

Evanghelos Passolides sang a song of ancient honor as he invoked the miracle of the mallet, beating short strips of pig into what by later that evening would have become cuisine. Thud—squish—smash, and another thousand bygone warriors were tossed to the Underworld.

Maria prepared the evening tables. She’d turned up again after another long day’s teaching for no better purpose than to watch over him and to indulge her growing concern. His moods had become increasingly capricious, occasionally malevolent, an appearance of determination followed by outbursts of bitterness when it seemed that the forces of authority were once again standing guard over his brothers’ graves, fending him off with their rules of silence. They’d tried to find out more about the unknown officer and the precise location of the burial site, but no one in authority displayed any spark of interest. It was all so very long ago, miss, by now there’d be nothing to dig up but problems. Put the details in writing and we’ll see what can be done. So Maria had written but there had been no reply, the letter left to circulate through the corridors of power until it dropped from exhaustion.

Meanwhile Passolides cooked, sang mournful songs, and grew ever more resentful.

And it was her fault. She had interfered with his silent grief, stirred his hopes and, with them, dark memories. She couldn’t drop it now, any more than he could.

Family. The bonds of loyalty. Bondage. Links that had chained her for so many years, the finest hour of her womanhood, first to a dying mother then to a grieving father. And for him, a ligature tied so tight it had all but strangled the life from him. For both their sakes, she had to find help from somewhere. From someone who could break through the artifice and excuses, someone who could find out about the brothers’ graves, and whether there were any other graves. But who?

As the television news flickered on the small monochrome screen perched above the coatrack, she saw a man of authority and responsibility, a man who talked of principle and his determination to defend the rights of ordinary men and women against insensitive and arrogant Government, even as he bought his oranges…

***

Clive Watling looked around the lunch table and wondered why he had been so naive. He’d swallowed the Ponsonby line that it would be an easy task, the issues simple, the evidence direct, the conclusions all but self-evident. Yet they couldn’t even agree on what to eat. Two Muslims, one of whom had an ulcer, a vegetarian, a native of Yorkshire who liked his food like his law—ample in quantity and unambiguously honest. And then, of course, there was Rodin, who insisted on kosher food and scowled upon whatever was presented on the plate with a look of Jacobin condescension. About most things in this world, it seemed, Rodin had already formed his inflexible opinion.

There was so little certainty to international law; so much was left to textual interpretation, to confusing precedent, hopefully to common sense and fundamental principle. How it could be left to unreconstructed tribalists like Rodin he would never fathom.

For weeks the academics, geologists, politicians, historians, maritime experts, and professional lobbyists garbed as lawyers had trooped before their sittings and expounded on the matter, which in essence was simple. Beyond the breeze-kissed beaches of Cyprus lay two disputed areas of continental shelf, east and west. Hand them to the Greeks, or to the Turks, or find some means of division that could be dressed in a cloak of equity and natural justice. Miles of salt water, sea anemones, and sand.

And oil.

Watling was sure of it now. And he was sure the Frenchman knew. Whatever else could explain his utter unreason? Any proposal that the Turks might gain a substantial proportion of the continental shelf was resisted with vehemence, even the suggestion that they draw a straight line down the middle and split it in equal halves was disparaged and denounced. The “share of lions,” as he put it, must go to the Greeks. While they waited in the private dining room for their first course Rodin had been pressed for his defense—what new principle of international justice could he possibly invoke to justify such an imbalance of objectivity?

“It is simple and irrefutable,” he had pronounced, swirling the water in his glass as though inspecting a dribble of English wine. “The Turks invaded, took their territory by force. At the cost of many lives and in defiance of the United Nations. It would be appeasement of the worst kind to offer them reward for their bloody actions.”

“We are not here to deliberate upon the war,” Osman the Egyptian had scolded.

“That is exactly what we are doing!” Rodin spat. “If we show favor to the Turks we sanctify future acts of international terrorism. What would we be saying to the world—grab territory, rape and pillage the inhabitants into exile, and in twenty years’ time the international courts will offer you congratulation and confirm the spoils?”

“That’s how frontiers have been fixed throughout the ages, for goodness’ sake,” the Malaysian muttered.

“I’d hoped we could find a rather less medieval means of settlement,” Rodin replied icily. “Oh, don’t quote me your Bering Seas and Beagle Channels, why should we hide behind ancient precedent?”

“Because it’s the law,” Osman responded quietly.

“But it isn’t justice.”

Justice, Watling mused to himself, he talks of justice. And this the man who had so vehemently argued the case of French fishermen in their attempt to force themselves upon the fishing grounds of Guernsey, quoting in his public cause Napoleonic treaty and national honor while arguing grubby compromise behind closed doors. Now compromise of whatever kind that left the Turk within a hundred miles of oil shale he condemned with the mock virtue of a
tricoteuse
hearing the clatter on cobbles of approaching tumbrels.

Watling eyed the Frenchman. Of course Rodin knew! Watling found himself wondering whether Rodin actually took money for his views, or was the merest sniff of French national interest sufficient to turn him? Whichever, it mattered little, the result would still be the same. If Watling allowed it.

French justice. Of the type that had been meted out to his father. For a few mouthfuls Watling fought the urge within that was attempting to drench his own views in prejudice—but there was no conflict here, he decided, no contradiction, his sense of principle was entirely in accord with his antagonism. French bigotry and self-interest was not to be confused with fair play, not in Watling’s court. Rodin spoke glibly of justice, so on the stake of justice the Frenchman would be impaled. Watling would see to it. As a matter of high principle. And pleasure.

Sixteen

All politics are the search for advantage.

Cabinet Government frequently resembled a herd of pigs flying in close formation, he thought. In the Orwellian world of Westminster there was one prerogative above all accorded to the Chief Pig, that of choosing his companions for the flypast, and it was something of a pity that the resignation of Makepeace had taken the edge off the reshuffle, implying an element of enforced necessity instead of presenting it as unadulterated Urquhart. Makepeace was an overweight boar, he’d insisted, fattened to excess on a diet of Brussels and scarcely capable any longer of liftoff let alone the aerial gymnastics required for public esteem on the British side of the Channel. Market time. “Should remind others of the constant need to remain lean and hungry,” he’d told his new press officer, Grist. “And the blessings of the bacon slicer.”

Grist had made a good start to such a significant day, suggesting that the Prime Minister conduct a brisk walk around the lake in St. James’s Park in order to supply appropriate images for the benefit of photographers, a mixture of purpose and vigor. One of the cameramen had suggested the Prime Ministerial hands might be placed around the neck of a domesticated goose, “just to give the public an idea of how it’s done, Mr. Urquhart.” He declined.