The House of Cards Complete Trilogy

  Copyright © 1989, 2014 by Michael Dobbs

  Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by The Book Designers

  Cover images © pisaphotography, arturasker/Shutterstock

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Originally published in 1989 in the United Kingdom by Collins, an imprint of HarperCollins.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  House of Cards

  Front Cover

  Copyright

  PART ONE: THE SHUFFLE

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  PART TWO: THE CUT

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  PART THREE: THE DEAL

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Afterword

  PART ONE

  THE SHUFFLE

  Nothing lasts, not forever. Not laughter, not lust, not even life itself. Not forever. Which is why we make the most of what we have.

  Why waste a life in search of an epitaph? “Fondly Remembered.” Who other than a half-wit has that chiseled above his head? It is nothing but sentimental incontinence. Let’s face facts, life is a zero-sum game and politics is how we decide who wins, who loses. And whether we like it or not, we are all players.

  “Respected By All Who Knew Him.” Another monumental whimper. Not for my gravestone. It’s not respect but fear that motivates a man; that’s how empires are built and revolutions begin. It is the secret of great men. When a man is afraid you will crush him, utterly destroy him, his respect will always follow. Base fear is intoxicating, overwhelming, liberating. Always stronger than respect.

  Always.

  One

  Thursday, June 10

  It seemed scarcely a moment since she had made it back home, stumbling up the last step in exhaustion, yet already the morning sun was sticking thumbs in her eyes as it crept around the curtain and began to nestle on her pillow. She turned over irritably. Her head was thick, her feet sore, and the bed beside her empty. Helping finish off that second bottle of Liebfraumilch had been a lousy idea. She’d let down her defenses, got herself stuck in a corner with some creep from the Sun who was all acne and innuendo. She’d had to spill the last of the wine down his shirt before he’d backed off. She took a quick peek under the duvet, just to make sure she hadn’t screwed up completely and he wasn’t lurking there. She sighed; she hadn’t even got round to taking off her socks.e

  Mattie Storin beat her pillow into submission and lay back once again. She deserved a few extra moments in bed; she knew she wouldn’t get any sleep tonight. Election night. Day of Damnation. Voters’ Vengeance. The past few weeks had been ferocious for Mattie, under siege from her editor, stretched too tightly between deadlines, tossed between excitement and exhaustion. Maybe after this evening she could take a few days off, sort her life out, find a better quality of both wine and man to spend her evening with. She pulled the duvet more closely around her. Even in the glare of the early summer sun she felt a chill.

  It had been like that ever since she had left Yorkshire almost a year before. She’d hoped she could leave all the accusations and the anger behind her, but they still cast a cold shadow that followed her everywhere, particularly into her bed. She shivered, buried her face in the lumpy pillow.

  She tried to be philosophical. After all, she no longer had any emotional distractions, nothing to get in the way of discovering whether she really had what it took to become the best political correspondent in a fiercely masculine world. Only herself to bother about, not even a cat. But it was difficult to be philosophical when your feet were freezing. And when you didn’t have any clean laundry. She threw back the duvet and clambered out of bed, only to discover that her underwear drawer was bare. She’d miscalculated, forgotten, too much to do and so little time to do any of it, least of all the bloody washing. She searched other drawers, every corner, made a mess but found nothing. Damn, she was glad no man had to watch her do this. She dived into her laundry basket, ferreted around and came up with a pair of knickers a week old but only a day worn. She turned them inside out, stepped into them. Ready for battle. With a sigh Mattie Storin threw open the bathroom door and got on with her day.

  * * *

  As dusk began to settle across the June skies, four sets of HMI mercury oxide television lamps clicked on with a dull thud, painting the front of the building with high intensity power. The brilliant light pierced deep behind the mock Georgian façade of the Party’s headquarters. A curtain fluttered at a third floor window as someone took a quick glance at the scene outside.

  The moth also saw the lamps. It was waiting for the approaching night, resting in a crevice of one of the nearby towers of St. John, the graceful church built by Wren in the middle of Smith Square. The church had long been deconsecrated, St. John dismissed, but its four limestone towers still dominated this now godless square in the heart of Westminster. They stared down, frowning in disapproval. But not the moth. It began to tingle with excitement. It stretched its wings, drawn by ten thousand watts and a million years of instinct.

  The moth strained in the early evening air, forcing its body along the river of light. It flew above the heads of the growing crowd, beyond the bustle and gathering pace of preparations. Nearer and nearer it flew, eager, passionate, erratic, ambitious, heedless of everything other than the power it was being drawn to, power beyond dreams, beyond resistance. It had no choice.

  There was a bright flash as the moth’s body hit the lens a millisecond before its wings wrapped around the searing glass and vaporized. Its charred and blackened carcass gave off little vapors of despair as it
tumbled toward the ground. The night had gained its first victim.

  * * *

  Another of the night’s early victims was propping up the varnished bar at the Marquis of Granby, just around the corner from the growing commotion. The original Marquis of Granby had been a popular military figure more than two hundred years earlier and had more pubs named after him than any other figure in the land, but the marquis had succumbed to politics, lost his way, and died in debt and distress. Much the same fate lay in store for Charles Collingridge, according to his many tolerant friends. Not that Charlie Collingridge had ever been elected, but neither had the marquis, it wasn’t the done thing in those early days. Collingridge was in his midfifties, looked older, worn, and hadn’t had a particularly glorious military career, two years of national service that had left him with little more than a sense of his own inadequacy in the order of life. Charlie had always tried to do the decent thing but he was accident prone. It happens when you have a drinking habit.

  His day had started early with a shave and a tie, but now the stubble was beginning to show and the tie was hanging at half-mast. The eyes told the barman that the large vodka he had served two glasses ago hadn’t been the first of the day. But Charlie was a genial drunk, always ready with a smile and a generous word. He pushed his empty glass back across the counter.

  “Another?” The barman asked, dubious.

  “And one for yourself, my good man,” Charlie replied, reaching for his wallet. “Ah, but it seems I’m a little short,” he muttered, staring at a solitary note in disbelief. He searched through his pocket and pulled out keys, a gray handkerchief, and a few coins. “I’m sure, somewhere…”

  “The note will do,” the barman replied. “Nothing for me, thanks. It’s going to be a long night.”

  “Yes. It will. My younger brother, Hal, you know him?”

  The barman shook his head, pushed the drink across the varnish, glad the old drunk was out of money and soon out of his bar.

  “You don’t know Hal?” Charlie asked in surprise. “You must.” He sipped. “Everyone knows Hal.” Another sip. “He’s the Prime Minister.”

  Two

  It’s a very good idea for a politician to have vision. Yes, the Vision Thing, just the ticket. Really useful, don’t you think? Why, on a clear day most politicians can see as far as—well, I know some who can see almost as far as Battersea.

  Francis Ewan Urquhart was a man of many parts, a Member of Parliament, a Privy Councilor that gave him the prefix of Right Honorable, a Minister of the Crown, and a Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. He was all these things and this was his night, yet still he wasn’t enjoying himself. He was squashed into the corner of a small and stuffy living room, pressed hard up against a hideous 1960s standard lamp that showed every sign of toppling over. He was hemmed in by a posse of matrons who doubled as his constituency workers and who had cut off his means of escape as they chattered proudly about their last-minute mail drops and pinched shoes. He wondered why they bothered. This was suburban Surrey, the land of the A and B social classes in the terminology of pollsters, where passports lay at the ready and Range Rovers stood in the driveway. Range Rovers? The only time they ever encountered mud was when being driven carelessly over front lawns late on a Friday night or when dropping off their little Johnnies and Emmas at their private schools. Canvassing in these parts was held to be almost vulgar. They didn’t count votes here, they weighed them.

  “Another vol-au-vent, Mr. Urquhart?” A plate of sagging pastry was thrust in front of him by an overweight woman whose bosom was clad in large floral print and seemed to be hiding two fractious cats.

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Morecombe. I fear I shall explode!”

  With impatience. It was a fault, one that stretched back many generations. The Urquharts were a proud warrior family from the Highlands of Scotland, their castle on the banks of Loch Ness, but the MacDonalds had arrived and the castle now lay in ruins. Urquhart’s childhood memories were of the bracing, crystal air of the moors, in the company of an old gillie, lying for hours in the damp peat and sweetly scented bracken waiting for the right buck to appear, just as he had imagined his older brother Alastair was doing, waiting for the Germans in the hedgerows outside Dunkirk. His brother had called him FU, a nickname that had often got them both a clout from their father, even though it was years before Francis understood why. He didn’t mind, happy to tag along behind his big brother. But Alastair hadn’t come home. His mother had crumbled, never recovered, lived in memory of her lost son and neglect of Francis, so FU had eventually come south, to London. To Westminster. To Surrey. Abandoned his duties. His mother had never spoken to him again. To have sold his heritage for the whole of Scotland would have been unforgivable, but for Surrey?

  He sighed, even as he smiled. This was the eighteenth committee room of the day, and the enthusiasm that had knitted together the early morning humor had long since unraveled and turned to thread. It was still forty minutes before the polling booths closed and the last vote was cast. Urquhart’s shirt was wringing wet. He was tired, uncomfortable, penned in by the posse of women who pursued him with spaniel-like persistence.

  Yet still he kept his smile afloat, because his life was about to change, whatever the result. Urquhart had spent years climbing the political ladder, from backbencher through Junior Ministerial jobs and now attending Cabinet as Chief Whip, one of the two dozen most powerful posts in the Government. It provided him with splendid offices at 12 Downing Street, just yards from the Prime Minister’s own. It was behind the door of Number 12 that two of the most celebrated Britons of all time, Wellington and Nelson, had met for the first and only time. The walls echoed with history and with an authority that was now his.

  Yet Urquhart’s power didn’t stem directly from his public office. The role of Chief Whip didn’t carry full Cabinet rank. Urquhart had no great Department of State or massive civil service machine to command; his was a faceless task, toiling ceaselessly behind the scenes, making no public speeches and giving no television interviews. A man of the shadows.

  And also a man of discipline. He was the Enforcer, the one whose job it was to put a bit of stick about. That meant he was not simply respected but also a little feared. He was the minister with the most acute political antennae in government. In order to deliver the vote, day after day, night after night, he needed to know where his Members of Parliament were likely to be found, which meant he needed to know their secrets—with whom they were conspiring, with whom they might be sleeping, whether they would be sober enough to vote, whether they had their hands in someone else’s pocket or on someone else’s wife. All these secrets with their sharp little edges were gathered together and kept in a black book, locked inside a safe, and not even the Prime Minister had access to the keys.

  In Westminster, such information is power. Many in Urquhart’s Parliamentary Party owed their continuing position to the ability of the Whips’ Office to sort out and occasionally cover up their personal problems. Backbenchers intent on rebellion or frontbenchers distracted by ambition found themselves changing their minds when reminded of some earlier indiscretion that had been forgiven by the Party, but never forgotten. It was astonishing how pliable politicians became when confronted by the possibility of a collision between their public and private lives. Why, even that dyspeptic Staffordshire soul, the Transport Secretary, a man who had planned to make a conference speech way outside his remit and far too close to the Prime Minister’s home turf, had come to his senses. All it had taken was a phone call to his mistress’s mews house rather than the marital home.

  “Francis, how the fuck did you find me here?”

  “Oh, Keith, have I made some terrible mistake? I’m so sorry, I wanted to have a quick chat with you about your little speech, but it seems I looked for your number in the wrong set of accounts.”

  “What the bloody hell do you mean?”

  “Oh, don’t you
know? We keep two sets of books. One is the official tally, the other…Well, don’t worry, we keep our little black book under very careful control. It won’t happen again.” A pause before: “Will it?”

  The Transport Secretary had sighed, a sound full of melancholy and guilt. “No, Francis, it bloody well won’t.” Another sinner came to rapid repentance.

  The Party owed Francis Urquhart, everyone knew that. And, after this election, it would be time for the debt to be called in.

  Suddenly Urquhart was brought back to the moment by one of his devoted ladies. Her eyes were excited, her cheeks flushed, her breath heavy with the sour afterlife of egg and watercress sandwiches, her sense of coyness and discretion overcome by the heat and excitement of the day.

  “Tell us, Mr. Urquhart, what are your plans? Will you still stand at the next election?” she inquired brashly.

  “What do you mean?” he replied, taken aback, his eyes flaring in affront.

  “Are you thinking of retiring? You’re sixty-one, aren’t you? Sixty-five or more at the next election,” she persisted.

  He bent his tall and angular figure low in order to look her directly in the face. “Mrs. Bailey, I still have my wits about me and in many societies I would just be entering my political prime,” he responded through lips that no longer carried any trace of good nature. “I still have a lot of work to do. Things I want to achieve.”

  He turned away from her, not bothering to hide his impatience, even while deep down he knew she was right. The strong red hues of his youth had long since vanished, gold turned to silver, as he liked to joke. He wore his hair over-long, as if to compensate. His spare frame no longer filled the traditionally cut suits as amply as in earlier years, and his blue eyes had grown colder with the passing of so many winters. His height and upright bearing presented a distinguished image in the crowded room, but one minister, a man he had crossed, had once told him he had a smile like the handle on an urn of cold ashes. “And may those ashes soon be yours, you old bastard,” the man had snapped. Urquhart was no longer in the first flush of middle age and he couldn’t hide it, even from himself. Experience was no longer an ally.