Urquhart laughed that conspiratorial laugh once more, while Stamper could only manage a tight smile as he waited for the reminiscing to stop and for his fate to be pronounced.
“To business, Tim. There’s much to be done and I shall want you, as always, right by my side.”
Stamper’s smile broadened.
“You’re going to be my Party Chairman.”
The smile rapidly disappeared. Stamper couldn’t hide his confusion and disappointment.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find you some ministerial sinecure to get you a seat around the Cabinet table—Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster or some such nonsense. But for the moment I want your mittens firmly on the Party machine.”
Stamper’s jaw was working furiously, trying to marshal his arguments. “But it’s been scarcely six months since the last election, and a long haul before the next one. Three, maybe four years. Counting paper clips and sorting out squabbles among local constituency chairmen is scarcely my strong suit, Francis. You should know that after what we’ve been through together.” It was an appeal to their old friendship.
“Think it through, Tim. We’ve a parliamentary majority of twenty-two and a party that’s been torn apart by the recent leadership battle. And we are just about to get a beating from a swine of a recession. We’re no better than even in the opinion polls and our majority won’t last three or four years. We’ll be shot to pieces at every by-election we face and we’ve only to lose fewer than a dozen seats before this Government is dead. Unless, that is, you can guarantee me no by-elections, that you’ve found some magic means of ensuring none of our esteemed colleagues will be caught canvassing in a brothel, misappropriating church funds, or simply succumbing to senility and excessive old age?”
“Doesn’t sound like a lot of fun for a Party Chairman, either.”
“Tim, the next couple of years are going to be hell, and we probably don’t have a sufficient majority to survive long enough for us to get through the recession. If it’s painful for the Party Chairman it’ll be bloody agony for the Prime Minister.”
Stamper was silent, unconvinced, unsure what to say. His excitement and dreams of a few moments before had suddenly frayed.
“Our futures can be measured almost in moments,” Urquhart continued. “We’ll get a small boost in popularity because of my honeymoon period while people give me the benefit of their doubt. That will last no longer than March.”
“You’re very precise about that.”
“Indeed I am. For in March there has to be a Budget. It’ll be a bastard. We let everything rip in the markets to get us through the last election campaign and the day of judgment for that little lot is just around the corner. We borrowed off Peter to buy off Paul, now we have to go back to pick the pockets of them both. They’re not going to care for it.” He paused, blinking rapidly as he ordered his thoughts. “That’s not all. We’ll take a beating from Brunei.”
“What?”
“The Sultan of that tiny oil-infested state is a great Anglophile and one of the world’s most substantial holders of sterling. A loyal friend. Unfortunately not only does he know what a mess we’re in, but he’s also got his own problems. So he’s going to unload some of his sterling—at least three billion worth sloshing around the markets like orphans in search of a home. That’ll crucify the currency and stretch the recession on for probably another year. For old time’s sake he says he’ll sell only as and when we suggest. So long as it’s before the next Budget.”
Stamper found difficulty in swallowing, his mouth had run dry.
Urquhart began to laugh but without the slightest hint of humor. “And there’s more, Tim, there’s more! To top it all the Attorney General’s office has quietly let it be known that the trial of Sir Jasper Harrod will begin immediately after Easter. Which is March the twenty-fourth, to save you looking it up. What do you know of Sir Jasper?”
“Only what most people know, I guess. Self-made megamillionaire, chairman of the country’s biggest computer-leasing operation. Does a lot of work with government departments and local authorities and has gotten himself accused of paying substantial backhanders all over the place to keep hold of his contracts. Big into charities, I seem to remember, which is why he got his K.”
“He got his knighthood, Tim, because he was one of the party’s biggest contributors. Loyally and discreetly over many years.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Having come to our aid whenever we asked for it, he now expects us to come equally loyally to his. To pull a few strings with the Director of Public Prosecutions. Which of course we can’t, but he refuses to understand that.”
“There’s more, I know there’s more…”
“And he insists that if the case comes to trial he will have to reveal his substantial party donations.”
“So?”
“Which were paid all in cash. Delivered in suitcases.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Enough of it to give us all acute hemorrhoids. He not only gave to the central Party but supported the constituency election campaigns of almost every member of the Cabinet.”
“Don’t tell me. All spent on things that weren’t reported as election expenses.”
“In my case everything was recorded religiously and will bear full public scrutiny. In other cases…” He arched an eyebrow. “I’m told the Trade Secretary, later this afternoon to reinforce our glorious backbenches, used the money to pay off a troublesome mistress who was threatening to release certain compromising letters. It was made over to her, and Harrod still has the canceled check.”
Stamper pushed his chair back from the table until it was balancing on its rear legs, as if trying to distance himself from such absurdity. “Christ, Francis, we’ve got all this crap about to hit us at a hundred miles an hour and you want me to be Party Chairman? If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather seek asylum in Libya. By Easter, you say? It’ll take more than a bloody resurrection to save anybody caught in the middle of that lot.”
His waved his arms forlornly, drained of energy and resistance, but Urquhart was straining forward in great earnest, tension stiffening his body.
“By Easter. Precisely. Which means we have to move before then, Tim. Use the honeymoon period, beat up the Opposition, get in ahead of the recession, and get a majority that will last until all the flak has been left well behind us.”
Stamper’s voice was breathless. “An election, you mean?”
“By the middle of March. Which gives us exactly fourteen weeks, only ten weeks before I have to announce it, and in that time I want you as Party Chairman getting the election machine as tight as it can be. There are plans to be made, money to be raised, opponents to be embarrassed. And all without anyone having the slightest idea what we’re about to spring on them.”
Stamper’s chair rocked back with a clatter as he endeavored to recover his wits. “Bloody Party Chairman.”
“Don’t worry. It’s only for fourteen weeks. If all goes well you can have the pick of any Government department you want. And if not…Well, neither of us will have to worry about a political job ever again.”
Five
A politician has no friends.
“This is truly appalling.” Mortima Urquhart screwed up her nose with considerable violence as she surveyed the room. It had been several days since the Collingridges removed the last of their personal effects from the small apartment above 10 Downing Street reserved for the use of Prime Ministers, and the sitting room now had the ambience of a three star hotel. It lacked any individual character—that had already been transported in the packing cases, and what was left was in good order but carried the aesthetic touch of a British Rail waiting room. “Simply revolting. It won’t do,” she repeated, gazing at the wallpaper, where she half expected to find the faded impressions of a row of flying china ducks. She was momentarily distra
cted as she passed by a long wall mirror, surreptitiously checking the conspicuous red tint her hairdresser had applied earlier in the week as she had waited for the final leadership ballot. A celebratory highlight, the stylist had called it, but no one could any longer mistake it for a natural hue and it had left her constantly fiddling with the color balance on the remote control, wondering whether it was time to change the television or her hair salon.
“What extraordinary people they must have been,” she muttered, brushing some imagined speck of dust from the front of her Chanel suit while her husband’s House of Commons secretary, who was accompanying her on the tour of inspection, buried herself in her notebook. She thought she rather liked the Collingridges; she was more definite in her views of Mortima Urquhart, whose cold eyes gave her a predatory look and whose constant diets to fend off the advance of cellulite around her expensively clad body seemed to leave her in a state of unremitting impatience, at least with other women, particularly those younger than herself.
“Find out how we get rid of all this and see what the budget is for refurbishment,” Mrs. Urquhart snapped as she led the way briskly down the short corridor leading to the dark entrails of the apartment, fingertips tapping in rebuke the flesh beneath her chin as she walked. She gave a squawk of alarm as she passed a door on her left, behind which she discovered a tiny galley kitchen with a stainless-steel sink, red and black plastic floor tiles, and no microwave. Her gloom was complete by the time she had inspected the claustrophobic dining room with the atmosphere of a locked coffin and a view directly onto a grubby attic and roof. She was back in the sitting room, seated in one of the armchairs covered in printed roses the size of elephants’ feet and shaking her head in disappointment, when there came a knock from the entrance hall.
“Come in!” she commanded forlornly, remembering that the front door didn’t even have a lock on it—for security reasons she had been told, but more for the convenience of civil servants as they came to and fro bearing papers and dispatches, she suspected. “And they call this home,” she wailed, burying her head theatrically in her hands.
She brightened as she looked up to examine her visitor. He was in his late thirties, lean with razor-cropped hair.
“Mrs. Urquhart. I’m Inspector Robert Insall, Special Branch,” he announced in a thick London accent. “I’ve been in charge of your husband’s protection detail during the leadership election and now they’ve been mug enough to make me responsible for security here in Downing Street.” He had a grin and natural charm to which Mortima Urquhart warmed, and a build she couldn’t help but admire.
“I’m sure we shall be in safe hands, Inspector.”
“We’ll do our best. But things are going to be a bit different for you, now you’re here,” he continued. “There are a few things I need to explain, if you’ve got a moment.”
“Come and cover up some of this hideous furniture, Inspector, and tell me all about it…”
***
Landless waved as the crowd applauded. The onlookers had no idea who sat behind the darkened glass of the Silver Spur, but it was a historic day and they wanted a share in it. The heavy metal gates guarding the entrance to Downing Street drew back in respect, and the duty policemen offered a smart salute. Landless felt good, even better when he saw the pavement opposite his destination crowded with cameras and reporters.
“Is he going to offer you a job, Ben?” a chorus of voices sang out as he pried himself from the backseat of the car.
“Already got a job,” he growled, showing off his well-known proprietorial glare and enjoying every minute of it. He buttoned up the jacket flapping at his sides.
“A peerage, perhaps? Seat in the House of Lords?”
“Baron Ben of Bethnal Green?” His fleshy face sagged in disapproval. “Sounds more like a music hall act than an honor.”
There was much laughter, and Landless turned to walk through the glossy black door into the entrance hall but he was beaten to the step by a courier bearing a huge assortment of flowers. Inside, the hallway was covered with a profusion of bouquets and baskets, all still unwrapped, with more arriving by the minute. London’s florists, at least temporarily, could forget the recession. Landless was directed along the deep red carpet leading straight from the front door to the Cabinet Room on the other side of the narrow building, and he caught himself hurrying. He slowed his step, relishing the sensation. He couldn’t remember when he had last felt so excited. He was shown directly into the Cabinet Room by a solicitous and spotty civil servant who closed the door quietly behind him.
“Ben, welcome. Come in.” Urquhart waved a hand in greeting but didn’t rise. The hand indicated a chair on the other side of the table.
“Great day, Francis. Great day for us all.” Landless nodded toward Stamper, who was leaning against a radiator, hovering like a Praetorian Guard, and Landless found himself resenting the other man’s presence. All his previous dealings with Urquhart had been one-on-one; after all, they hadn’t invited an audience as they’d laid their plans to exhaust and overwhelm the elected head of government. On those earlier occasions Urquhart had always been the supplicant, Landless the power, yet as he looked across the table he couldn’t help but notice that things had changed, their roles reversed. Suddenly ill at ease, he stretched out a hand to offer Urquhart congratulation, but it was a clumsy gesture. Urquhart had to put down his pen, draw back his large chair, rise and stretch, only to discover that the table was too wide and all they could do was to brush fingers.
“Well done, Francis,” Landless muttered sheepishly, and sat down. “It means a lot to me, your inviting me here on your first morning as Prime Minister. Particularly the way you did. I thought I’d have to sneak in round the back by the dustbins, but I have to tell you I felt great as I passed all those cameras and TV lights. I appreciate the public sign of confidence, Francis.”
Urquhart spread his hands wide, a gesture meant to replace the words he couldn’t quite find, while Stamper jumped in.
“Prime Minister,” he began, with emphasis. It was meant as a rebuke at the newspaperman’s overfamiliarity, but it slid off the Landless hide without making a dent. “My apologies, but the new Chancellor will be here in five minutes.”
“Forgive me, Ben. Already I’m discovering that a Prime Minister is not a master, only a slave. Of timetables, mostly. To business, if you don’t mind.”
“That’s how I like it.” Landless shuffled forward on his chair in expectation.
“You control the Chronicle group and have made a takeover bid for United Newspapers, and it falls to the Government to decide whether such a takeover would be in the public interest.” Urquhart was staring at his blotter as if reading from a script, rather like a judge delivering sentence. Landless didn’t care for this sudden formality, so unlike their previous conversations on the matter.
Urquhart’s hands were spread wide again as he sought for elusive words. Finally, he clenched his fists. “Sorry, Ben. You can’t have it.”
The three men turned to effigies as the words circled the room and settled like birds of prey.
“What the ’ell do you mean I can’t bloody have it?” The pronunciation was straight off the streets, the veneer had slipped.
“The Government does not believe it would be in the national interest.”
“Crap, Francis. We agreed.”
“The Prime Minister was careful throughout the entire leadership campaign to offer no commitments on the takeover, his public record on that is clear,” Stamper interposed. Landless ignored him, his attention rigidly on Urquhart.
“We had a deal! You know it. I know it.”
“As I said, Ben, a Prime Minister is not always his own master. The arguments in favor of turning the bid down are irresistible. You already own more than thirty percent of the national press; United would give you close on forty.”
“My thirty percent supported
you every step of the way, as will my forty. That was the deal.”
“Which still leaves just over sixty who would never forgive or forget. You see, Ben, the figures simply don’t add up. Not in the national interest. Not for a new Government that believes in competition, in serving the consumer rather than the big corporations.”
“Bullshit. We had a deal!” His huge fists crashed down on the bare table.
“Ben, it’s impossible. You must know that. I can’t in my first act as Prime Minister let you carve up the British newspaper industry. It’s not good business. It’s not good politics. Frankly it would make pretty awful headlines on every other front page.”
“But carving me up will make bloody marvelous headlines, is that it?” Landless’s head was thrust forward like a charging bull, his jowls shaking with anger. “So that’s why you asked me in by the front door, you bastard. They saw me coming in, and they’ll see me going out. Feet first. You’ve set up a public execution in front of the world’s cameras. Fat capitalist as sacrificial lamb. I warn you, Frankie. I’ll fight you every step of the way, everything I’ve got.”
“Which only leaves seventy percent of the newspapers plus every TV and radio program applauding a publicly spirited Prime Minister,” Stamper interjected superciliously, examining his fingernails. “Not afraid to turn away his closest friends if the national interest demands. Great stuff.”