The Final Cut

  Urquhart had been alone at the great Cabinet Table when Geoffrey had entered the room. The Prime Minister said nothing but as Geoffrey walked to his chair on the opposite side of the table Urquhart's eyes followed him closely, almost as if he were still trying to make a judgement, uncertain, unsettled. And unsettling. So Geoffrey had started talking.

  'I've had this idea, Francis. A new set of campaigning initiatives for the Party. Thought about it a lot. Build on the reshuffle, get us going through the rest of the year. I've talked it through with the Party Chairman - I think he's going to put it all in a paper for you. The main point is this ...'

  'Shut up, Geoffrey.'

  'I. ..' Geoffrey shut up, uncertain how to respond.

  'The Chairman has already told me about his campaigning ideas, just before I fired him. I have to say you are an excellent peddler of other people's ideas.'

  'Francis, please, you must understand ...'

  'I understand all too well. I understand you. Perhaps it's because we are a little alike.'

  'Are you going to fire me after all?' Geoffrey's tone was subdued, he was trying hard not to beg.

  'I've thought about it.'

  Booza-Pitt's face, depleted by misery, sank towards his chest.

  'But I've decided to make you Home Secretary instead.'

  A curious gurgling noise emerged from the back of Booza-Pitt's throat. The prospect of being translated into one of the four most powerful posts in Government at the age of thirty-eight seemed to have snapped his control mechanisms.

  They'll say I'm grooming you for the leadership when I've gone. But I'm not. I'm putting you there to stop anyone else using the post to groom himself for the leadership. And to do a job. Using your talents at peddling other people's ideas. My ideas.'

  'Anything you say, Francis,' Booza-Pitt managed to croak, throat cracked like the floor of an Arabian wadi.

  'We shall soon be facing an election and I've decided to move the goal posts a little. A new Electoral Practices Act. A measure so generous and democratic it'll leave the Opposition breathless.'

  Booza-Pitt nodded enthusiastically, with no idea what his leader was talking about.

  'I want to make it easier for minority candidates to stand. To allow for. ..' - Urquhart dropped his voice a semi-tone, as though making a speech - 'a fuller and more balanced representation of the views of the general public. To ensure a Government more firmly rooted in the wishes of the people.' He nodded in self-approval. 'Yes, I like that.'

  'But what does it mean?'

  'It means that any candidates who get more than two thousand votes will have all their election expenses paid by the State.'

  The face of the new Home Secretary had suddenly turned incredulous. 'You're winding me up, Francis. With that on offer every nutter and whinger in the land is going to stand.'

  'Precisely.' 'But. . .'

  'But who else would these minorities and malcontents vote for, if not for themselves?'

  'Not for us, not even if you lobotomized every single one of them.'

  'Well done, Geoffrey. They'd vote for the Opposition. So by encouraging them to stand we'll suck away several thousand votes from the Opposition in practically every constituency. Worth at least fifty seats overall, I reckon.'

  'You, you . ..'

  'You're allowed to call me a deviously scheming bastard, if you want. I'd regard it as a compliment.' For the first time in their interview, Urquhart's features had cracked and he was smiling.

  'You are a devious, scheming, brilliant bastard, Francis Urquhart.'

  'And a great champion of democracy. They will have to say that, all the newspapers, even the Opposition.'

  'The updated version of divide and rule.'

  'Exactly. We ran an empire on that principle. Should be good enough for one little country. Don't you think, Home Secretary?'

  A spotlight had been thrown on the box and Theophilos held his arms up high to acknowledge the attentions of the half-time crowd, his robes cascading like dark wings. A great raven, Martin thought, and with similar appetites.

  'So may I expect your co-operation and support, Mr Martin?' the cleric continued, casting the question over his shoulder as he offered the sign of the cross in blessing. 'This is a rare opportunity.'

  'So are the orchids.'

  For a moment the Bishop's arms seemed to freeze in impatience; Dimitri had begun to develop a distinctive lopsided scowl as the conversation turned in circles. He was examining his broad and heavily callused knuckles as though the answer to every problem could somehow be found in the crevices.

  'I don't wish to appear unsympathetic’ the Englishman continued, glad that his pedigree as a Diplomatic Service Grade 4 enabled him to control most of his outward appearances, particularly those which might convey any measure of disagreement or displeasure. It was not the task of the Foreign &. Commonwealth Office to be seen saying no. 'Your problem is not with the British, it's with your own Government. And with the environmentalists.'

  'But this is ridiculous.' The Bishop's voice grew sibilant with exasperation. 'When I approach our stubborn donkey of a President he claims the problem lies with you British. And the environmentalists. The British military climbs into bed with the goddamn greens while our poor peasants starve.' He swung round suddenly, like an unwanted visitor of the night appearing at a bedroom window. The blue enamel adorning his heavy crucifix gleamed darkly in the light; his eyes, too. 'Do not underestimate how important this is to me, Mr Martin.'

  'My regrets. The British Government cannot become involved in a domestic dispute in Cyprus.'

  'But you are involved!' Theophilos slumped angrily into his seat as the second half commenced. 'You have two military bases on our island, you have access rights across it and you fire your missiles and bullets upon it. The only time you choose not to become involved is when we most need you. Like when the Turks invaded.'

  Conversation ceased as the Bishop struggled to regain his humour and the young women served more wine. Martin declined; he made a mental note never to drink again while in the presence of Theophilos, a man whose attentions required all of one's wits in response. When the Cypriot spoke again, his voice was composed, but seemed to contain no less passion.

  'Many Cypriots find it unacceptable that you British should continue to have a military presence on our soil.'

  'The two bases are sovereign British soil, not Cypriot. That was clearly agreed in the Treaty of Establishment.'

  'The soil is Cypriot, the blood spilled upon it for centuries has been Cypriot, and the treaty is unjust and unequal, forced upon us by British colonial masters in exchange for our independence. I advise you, Mr Martin, not to base your arguments upon that treaty, for ordinary Cypriots will neither understand nor approve. Encourage them to think about such matters and they will demand it all back. You might end up having no firing range, no bases, nothing.'

  The warning had been delivered in the manner of a wearied professor lecturing a dullard, the tone implying no room for argument, brooking no response. There seemed nothing more to discuss, a silence hanging uncomfortably between them until their mutual discomfort was thrust aside by a shout of jubilation from all around. Evriviades had scored.

  'You've just lost a Mercedes.'

  'And you, Mr Martin, might just have lost the friendship of the Cypriot people.'

  'Who's there?' 'A friend.'

  'There are few friends about on days like these.' 'Count me as one.'

  The door of the back room in L'Amico's restaurant, tucked away behind Smith Square, slid open to reveal the large figure of Harry Mendip. He'd heard Annita Burke and Saul Wilkinson were lunching privately, sharing sorrows and anger at having been sacked, unwilling to face the whispers and stares of a more public place. Mendip knew how they felt; he'd been one of the victims last time around.

  'Will you eat with us, Harry?'

  'My appetite's not for food.'

  'Then what?'

  'Action.'

  'Revenge?'


  'Some might call it so.'

  A third glass of wine was poured, another bottle ordered.

  'Everything is Urquhart. Damn him.' 'Little Caesar.'

  'He acts like a Prince, not a Prime Minister.' 'And we bow and bend the knee as his subjects.' 'Abjects.'

  'Yet what, apart from ruthlessness, has set him so high?'

  'And what, apart from ruthlessness, will bring him down?'

  They paused as the waiter collected a few scattered dishes.

  'He's grown so lofty that his feet scarcely touch the ground.'

  'But when they do, the ground is soaked with blood. Slippery soil. He is vulnerable.'

  'Butchered too many, over the years.'

  Annita Burke refilled the glasses. 'Are we of the same mind?'

  The other two nodded.

  'Then who is to lead this enterprise?'

  'How about Yorke? He's fit for stratagems and treasons.'

  'A happy blend of mischief.'

  'But there's no harmony in his soul. Nothing to lift the hearts and sights of others.'

  'Then Penthorpe.'

  'With those fearsome ferret eyes that make a man think he's volunteering for the gallows? I think not.'

  'You, Annita.'

  She shook her head. 'No, this one is not for me. Harsh words in a woman are always dismissed as hormones at war. And in my case no one would forget they are Jewish hormones. Anyway, I lack that sharpness of foot and wit necessary to lead the dance.'

  'Then there is only one.'

  They all knew the name.

  'Makepeace.'

  'He will be hard to convince.'

  'All the better once he is so.'

  'To challenge for the leadership?'

  'What is the point? Urquhart has filled the party machine with placemen whose spirits are dead and who've sold their souls.'

  'Then if we cannot take Urquhart away from the party, we must take the party away from him.'

  'Meaning?'

  'A new leader, and a new party.' Mendip sucked in his breath. 'That is a dangerous enterprise,' he said slowly.

  'An honourable one, too. At least, Makepeace would make it seem so.'

  'And I'd rather be torn apart as a dog of war than stay to be slaughtered like a sheep.'

  Burke raised her glass. 'A toast. Let's be masters of our own fate.'

  'All the way to the door of hell.'

  As Booza-Pitt stumbled out of the Cabinet Room in a haze of elation he all but bounced off the portly figure of Bollingbroke, who was admiring the white marble bust of William Pitt which nestled in a niche on the wall.

  'He had it right, don't you think?' Bollingbroke enquired, eyes raised in admiration. The homespun accent stretched vowels as though he were chewing a mouthful of black treacle toffee.

  Booza-Pitt tried to adjust his profile to match that of the eighteenth-century Prime Minister, wondering what on earth the other was prattling about.

  'Prime Minister at the time of Trafalgar, you know. When we blew apart Napoleon's fleet. Heard some crap that he was a relative of yours. Stuff 'n' nonsense. Not true, is it?'

  Faced with such a direct challenge, Booza-Pitt was loath to lie. He shrugged his shoulders inconclusively. Damn the man, he was gibbering when all Geoffrey wanted to do was to flaunt his new eminence and be gone, leaving the other splashing and waterlogged in the wake.

  'What were his words, Geoff, can you remember?'

  He shook his head, lost in the labyrinth of the Bollingbroke mind. He suspected it was some test of his family credentials.

  ' "England has saved herself by her exertions, and Europe by her example." That's what he said, did Pitt. Heck, not a bad motto for today, neither. You know, Froggies never change. I'll have to remember that. Now I'm Foreign Secretary.'

  He poured the news deftly into Booza-Pitt's lap where it landed much like a bucketful of pond life.

  'You - are Foreign Secretary?' Booza-Pitt squeaked. 'Arthur, I'm so delighted for you. You must come and split a bottle of Bollinger with me.'

  'Can't stand the stuff. Best bitter man, meself.'

  Booza-Pitt began to gain the impression that he was being wound up. 'I've been given the Home Office,' he responded weakly, deflated by the prospect of being forced to share the day's headlines with Bollingbroke.

  'Yes, I know,' the Foreign Secretary responded, practising one of those looks with which he would convey to the French the full depth of his disdain without uttering a single undiplomatic word. 'I'm off. Got to go and sort out all those bloody Bonapartists.' He turned away brusquely. 'Hello, pet,' he greeted an approaching figure cheerfully, and was gone.

  Claire appeared, or might have been there all the time, Geoffrey was not sure which.

  'Congratulations, Home Secretary.'

  God, had everyone heard about his promotion before him?

  'But a word of advice,' she continued. 'The tie.'

  'You like it?' he said, running his finger down the vibrant silk motif. 'Australian. An aboriginal fertility symbol, I'm told.'

  'But a little too . . .' - she sought the appropriate term - 'courageous.'

  'What's wrong with my tie?' he demanded defensively.

  'Remember, Geoffrey, the job of Home Secretary is to share miseries and explain away disappointment. Why policemen are towing away shoppers' cars instead of cutting off football hooligans' goolies, that sort of thing. You're not supposed to look as if you're enjoying it.' She smiled mischievously and headed for the Cabinet Room door.

  Hell, would no one allow him to relish the moment? 'That's not all a Home Secretary might do,' he countered. 'Francis and I have got plans.' His tone suggested a conspiracy of friendship and great secrets, an alliance which no one dare mock. And it had stopped her in her tracks, he was pleased to note.

  She turned to face him. 'If you're going to screw the electorate, for pity's sake don't wear a tie advertising the fact.' Then she was gone, entering through the Prime Minister's door without knocking.

  * * *

  COURT OF ARBITRATION

  For the Delimitation of Maritime Areas between the Republic of Cyprus and the Provisional Republic of Northern Cyprus.

  DECISION

  president: Mr Clive Watling. members of the court: Mr Andreas Rospovitch, Mr Michel Rodin, Mr Shukri Osman, Mr Farrokh Abdul-Ghanem .. .

  The Court, composed as above, makes the following decision . . . that while Greek Cypriot fishermen have traditionally fished in these waters, and the two sides have agreed quotas enabling those Greek Cypriot fishermen currently engaged in fishing these waters to continue so as to ensure that their livelihoods may be protected, such traditions of access and the other 'special circumstances' raised by the Greek Cypriot side cannot override the geographical features that lie at the heart of the delimitation process. ..

  Moreover, notwithstanding the fact that independent seismic surveys have indicated little potential exploitable mineral resources on the continental shelf, there is in any event no reason to consider such mineral resources as having any bearing on the delimitation . ..

  In the view of the Court there are no grounds for contending that the extent of the maritime rights of either side should be determined by matters of equity as they relate to the past history of the island. The legality of the Turkish invasion of 1974 is not a matter for consideration by this tribunal, which recognizes the long-standing de facto jurisdiction of the Turkish Cypriot authorities in the northern portion of the island . . .

  Both Parties, in rebutting their opponent's claims, tend to contradict the very principles they have invoked in support of their respective positions. The Court must assure itself that the solution reached is both reasonable and equitable, and to that end, bearing in mind the legally binding assurances provided to Greek Cypriot fishing interests by the Turkish Cypriot authorities ...

  For these reasons:

  the court of arbitration, by three votes to two, being in favour President Watling and Judges Osman and Abdul-Ghanem, and again
st Judges Rospovitch and Rodin, draws the following line of delimitation . ..

  With a final check of the wording, Watling signed the definitive document. It pleased him more than he could describe. An historic agreement that would help cement both peace in a troubled comer of the world and his place amongst textbooks and precedents which would be passed down to future generations of international jurists. There was also the peerage. His mother could enjoy toasted teacakes on the terrace any time she wanted now, while he would never more want for invitations to California, anywhere for that matter, including test matches. They'd be proud of him, back in Cold Kirby-by-the-edge-of-the-Moors. The Judgment of Watling Water. A fine judgment - a fair one, too, which couldn't always be said about such matters. Now it was done and whether they discovered oil, antiques or the bones of the Minotaur didn't matter a damn - and should never have mattered. This was a judgment of law, not a poker game with drilling licences.