The Final Cut

  'Can you tell me if the Chief Constable's office was at any time before my arrest in contact with Downing Street?'

  'I don't understand the question.'

  'It's easy enough, Chief Inspector. You seem to have had precious little grounds for arresting me as a matter of law. Therefore it was more likely to have been a matter of politics. Was anyone putting on the political pressure?'

  'That's pure speculation.'

  'As was your opinion that my marching might cause trouble. Pure speculation.'

  'But an opinion which gave me the authority under law to issue directions and you the duty to obey those directions.'

  'Wouldn't have gone down too well at Nuremberg, would it, Chief Inspector?' Makepeace mocked. 'Come on,' he cajoled, 'was there political pressure?'

  'Of course not.'

  'You can confirm that there was no contact beforehand between the Chief Constable's office and any political office?'

  'I ... don't know.' Harding was protesting truthfully, and beginning to fluster. The crossfire between a Prime Minister, his Chief Constable and a former Foreign Secretary was way beyond his twenty-three years of experience. Early retirement beckoned.

  'So you can't confirm that.'

  'No, of course I can't. I wasn't. ..'

  'Let me be absolutely clear. Are you in a position to deny that there was any political pressure placed on the police to secure my arrest?'

  Harding looked desperately at the Bench. The three magistrates stared back impassively, pens poised.

  'How can I answer that?'

  'A simple yes or no will do. Can you deny it?'

  'No.'

  'Thank you, Chief Inspector Harding. I don't think I need to bother you any further.'

  COBRA was designed to resolve hostilities, not to generate them. It was not having a good day.

  'Youngblood, I want Rae out and replaced within the hour.'

  'That will be difficult for me, Prime Minister.'

  'Confound you! Will argument take the place of backbone in the British Army? What on earth can be difficult about replacing one officer with another?'

  'Nothing difficult in that, Prime Minister. It's simply that I won't do it for you.'

  'You are refusing me?'

  'Exactly.'

  The Prime Minister used a short, foul word.

  'I realize that for such a refusal you will require my head on the block,' Youngblood continued, 'but let me assure you that my speech from the scaffold will be truly magnificent. And forthcoming. I shall, for instance, relate how at every stage you have rejected and ignored military advice, brought this calamity upon yourself. I shall indicate how the nature and timing of our military efforts in Cyprus have been twisted to what I can only assume is an election timetable - I may be wrong about your motives, of course, it may have been folly rather than downright political fraud which caused you to act as you have done, but I shall be happy for others to make up their own minds.' He cleared his throat, offered a perfunctory smile seeded with scorn. 'I surprise myself; I'm rather enjoying this. I shall take considerably less enjoyment, however, from blaming you in public for each and every death, British or Cypriot, which might ensue from your folly.'

  'You wouldn't dare’ Urquhart gasped; suddenly he was having difficulty breathing.

  'Prime Minister, those are brave boys out there, my boys. And innocent children. If any of them comes to harm, I give you my word as an officer that I'll peg you out on an anthill in front of every polling station in the country.'

  The brown felt cloth across the Cabinet table had been rucked between Urquhart's clenched fists. A film of confusion had spread across his eyes, dimming their brightness. He stared ahead but could no longer see, blind. Or was it that there was nothing to see but darkness? He felt as though he were falling backwards into nothing.

  The General cleared his throat once again and gathered up the papers before him into a neat bundle.

  'To contemplate what could turn into a massacre of children before the television cameras of the world is a form of madness. I shall have no part in it.' He stood, straightened his uniform, adopted the pose of a Viking before the funeral pyre. 'Now, Sir. Do I have your permission to leave?'

  'I am brought to this court for no offence other than my politics. My views do not find favour with some. There were bullies on the streets who tried to stop my march; there are others, lingering in the shadows, who are their accomplices. Who will not accept an Englishman's right to disagree, to carve his own path, to decide for himself. We fought two world wars for those rights against enemies without. Now we must face an enemy within. I am called unpatriotic, yet there is no one who loves this country more than I do. I am accused of inciting violence, yet I march only for peace. I am brought before this court, accused of a crime, yet no man clings more closely to justice than do I. And of what am I accused? If it is not a defence for a man to argue that he acted improperly because he was only obeying orders, then surely there can be no offence if a man refuses to obey improper orders. Stubbornness is a quality much to be admired in English oak. I defied the police not because I lack respect for them, but because I have greater respect for the inherent right of an Englishman to say - stuff the lot of you! I want to do it my way. If it is a crime to be English, then I acknowledge that I am guilty. If it gives offence to love freedom and fair play, then, too, I am guilty. If it is a transgression to want peace, then yet again I am guilty. If it is a sin to believe that this country deserves a better form of politics, then condemn me and throw away the key. And do it now. For I shall not hide my views, nor compromise them for the sake of office, neither shall I do deals behind closed doors for things I cannot support in the open sunlight. I have no party, only my politics. And in those politics there is respect, for the law. Love, for my country. Sacrifice, for peace. And defiance for those who would trample over the rights of ordinary men and women. It is they, not I, who are trying to turn this court into a tool of political manipulation, and if they start and succeed here in Birmingham, in the heart of England, where will they stop? And do we have to ask who are "they"?'

  'Sit down, sit down,' Urquhart instructed, desperately attempting to reassess the situation. But Youngblood remained standing. Urquhart felt drained, he reached for his glass of water. Everyone noted its tremble. He drained it in a savage gulp but it left trickles at the corners of his mouth and his upper lip damp. His eyes flickered nervously, staring up at Youngblood. 'Sit down, man. There are lives at stake. Let us at least talk it through.'

  Stiffly and with evident reluctance, the General subsided.

  No one spoke as Urquhart's teeth bit into a knuckle, trying to put himself back in touch with his own feelings, even if they were only feelings of pain. For a moment he seemed to be floating, freed from his own body, observing the group from a distance, gazing down at a man sitting immobile in the chair reserved for the Prime Minister, a man who seemed trapped like a fly in amber. One of history's victims.

  'I apologize, General, if I appeared rash. That was not my intention.' He could not feel the tongue which formulated the words, his voice unnaturally taut as though he had swallowed neat mustard.

  Youngblood cast a look to turn milk, but said nothing.

  'If it is your advice that there is no apparent military solution,' Urquhart continued, still stilted, 'what suggestions do you have to make?'

  Youngblood gave a terse shake of his head.

  'Anyone?' Urquhart offered, staring round the table. For the first time he realized he had scarcely once over the last few days asked other members of COBRA to contribute, but even rubber stamps can make a mark.

  No one had anything to say. Then the General coughed. 'Rae's the man on the spot. I trust anything he has to say.'

  Urquhart nodded.

  'Rae,' the General barked, 'your thoughts, please.'

  'My thoughts, gentlemen,' the voice carried across a thousand miles, 'are that this is a political situation which can only have a political solution.'
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  'Please feel free, Air Marshal’ Urquhart croaked.

  'Reluctantly I reach the conclusion that if the Cypriots want the bases back, there is little we can do to stop them. Now, next year, sometime soon. They would win. These things have an undeniable momentum.'

  'But the bases are our most vital listening post throughout the Middle East. Giving them up would be a military and intelligence disaster,' Urquhart objected.

  'Depends, Sir. The Cypriots don't dislike our presence here, indeed they welcome it. Off the boil they're very hospitable. And the bases bring them vast amounts of income and jobs. What they object to is our being freeholders in their own country.'

  'What are you suggesting, Rae?' Youngblood pushed.

  'If I were a politician, Sir’ - his tone conveyed his delight that he was not - 'I'd be thinking about a deal. Keep us all as friends. Let them know we're happy to return the title to the base areas, then do a deal to lease them back. We keep the bases, the Cypriots keep the income. Everybody's happy.'

  'Intriguing,' Youngblood muttered.

  Urquhart's expression was of stone, his mind like an ice field which was slowly cracking. As he sat silently, independent thoughts began to swirl around him.

  The Party Chairman shook his head. 'It would be a political disaster.'

  'Not necessarily. Not if we made it our initiative,' the Defence Secretary contradicted. 'A solution that would keep our reputation as peacemakers in the island. After all, who could object? Dick Clarence has already publicly backed us in Cyprus, he couldn't bleat.'

  'And the only other likely source of sound is Tom Makepeace. He's under arrest.' The Attorney General sounded positively cheerful.

  A mood of enthusiasm began to warm the room, gradually beginning to thaw Urquhart's frozen thoughts. Perhaps the fly was not entombed in amber, perhaps it had only brushed against a web and might yet struggle free.

  A low knock at the door interrupted their deliberation. A tentative head appeared around the door, followed by the rest of a private secretary who made his way towards the Prime Minister's chair. He placed a piece of paper on the table, then retired.

  Slowly Urquhart's eyes began to focus and read.

  No matter how hard the fly struggled, there was no escape.

  Thomas Makepeace had been acquitted.

  ELEVEN

  The dying sun had cast a hard shadow across the cutting. The temperature was still over a hundred but Nicolaou was shivering, as he had been all afternoon. His heartbeat was irregular, his voice a low tremble, but his mind had not lost its edge. 'I cannot leave, Elpida.'

  'If you stay, Father, you will die.' She knelt beside him, mopping his brow.

  'I'm not afraid. I've grown used to being threatened with death in the recent days.' It was his attempt at being light-hearted to dispel oppression, but it failed. The atmosphere remained fetid, laden with failure. The pool of pale light cast by the lamp inside the truck had drained the colour from his face, leaving only two small spots of protest which suffused the very tops of his cheeks. The rest of him looked like congealing wax.

  'Come with me. Now.' Her plea betrayed her desperation. She pulled at him, feeling every bone in his frail hand, but he refused to rise from his mattress of blankets. He was no longer sure he was able, even if he tried.

  'You should think about it, Sir,' St Aubyn intervened, his squatting form indistinct in the gloom which was slowly beginning to devour the far end of the truck. 'There's nothing to be gained from senseless suffering.'

  'That is . .. noble of you, Colonel.' Nicolaou's breathing was growing shallow, he was struggling for his words. 'But you risked your lives to rescue us. I cannot desert our British friends.' 'Father, grow up.'

  Her rebuke slapped across his face. His eyes, soft-glazed and distant, struggled to focus.

  'They did not come to save our necks but those of their High Commissioner. And Mr Urquhart,' she continued. 'Isn't that right, Colonel?'

  St Aubyn shrugged. 'I am a military man. I do as I am instructed. A soldier isn't trained to ask why.'

  Nicolaou flapped his hand in feeble protest. 'But Mr Urquhart has been such a good friend to us, Elpida. The peace .. .'

  'It is our peace, not his. And it's probably lost, anyway.'

  The old man flinched. His suffering had been borne on the hope that all he had fought for would yet come to pass; the contemplation of failure drained him like leeches. 'Please tell me I haven't thrown it all away.'

  'You cannot fight on two fronts at once, Father, seeming to give so much away to the Turks while giving in to the British. As much as we want peace, we Cypriots also have our pride. Sometimes that's more important.'

  His hand shook in confusion, reaching for his daughter. 'All I have done, Elpida, I have done for you and those like you. For the future.'

  'No, Baba. You haven't.'

  Nicolaou started choking in confusion. St Aubyn leaned forward, whispering - 'Steady on, Miss' - but she ignored him.

  'That's why I want you to leave here and join those people outside,' she continued.

  'Why? Why?' her father moaned.

  'Because, Baba, they are right. And for the British to occupy Cypriot land as lords and masters is wrong.'

  'You never said such things before.'

  'You never asked me. Nor did you ask anyone else. But Cyprus is changing. Growing up.' She turned to St Aubyn. 'Colonel, believe me, you will be welcomed in my house at any time. As a friend. But I don't want you in my house as of right.'

  He nodded, but said nothing. The concept of retreating from distant outposts was not a novel one to a British soldier.

  'Why do you scourge me so, Elpida?' Flakes fell from the President's fading voice.

  'Because I love you, Baba. Because I don't want your life to end in failure. Because if we cross the line, join them, you will not only be doing what I believe to be right for our island, but also what is best for you. Salvaging pride, yes, and a little justice from the wreckage that has been strewn about Cyprus by the British. Maybe even saving the peace, too.'

  St Aubyn coughed apologetically. 'The gentlemen outside, Sir, have insisted that you and your daughter will only be allowed across the line if you submit your resignation.'

  'The presidency has become an uncomfortable bed on which to lie.'

  'You cannot make peace with the Turks, Father, until you have brought peace back to our own community.'

  'And, it would seem, to my own family.' Nicolaou sank back onto his rough pillow of blankets, exhausted but alert. His bony fingers gripped his daughter's hand, flexing like the beat of his heart as he struggled to find a way through the maze of his emotions.

  'What is to be done? Can I achieve more by remaining in office, or by resigning?'

  'Father, you can achieve nothing by dying.'

  'To lose everything? The presidency? The peace? You, Elpida?'

  'Baba, you will never lose my love,' she whispered, and he seemed to gain strength from her words. He squeezed her hand with more certainty, propping himself awkwardly on an elbow, barely able now to see beyond the small pool of lamplight that lit his makeshift bed.

  'Colonel, if I decided to leave, would you allow me to?'

  'You are not my prisoner, Sir.'

  'Then, if you don't mind, I think I shall.'

  The Colonel nodded and reached forward as though to help Nicolaou rise. Elpida waved him away.

  'No, thank you, Colonel. If he can, I would like my father to walk back to his fellow Cypriots without leaning on a British arm.'

  'I do feel stronger somehow,' her father acknowledged.

  'Why do you think I have been kicking you so hard, Baba7.' she asked, kissing him gently. 'You always become so stubborn when you get angry.'

  As she helped her father down from the truck she turned to St Aubyn. 'I did mean what I said, Colonel. That you will always be welcome in my house. As a friend.'

  It was twilight. The candles flickered, the gentle song of a Cypriot schoolgirl quavered on the
evening air as the final colours of purple and fire stretched out along the horizon like fingers drawing on the curtain of night. Leaning heavily on the arm of his daughter, the President of Cyprus turned his back on the British and walked the fifty yards to rejoin his countrymen.

  The new glass and front door had arrived that morning. A tax demand, too, along with an invitation to arrange a meeting with a VAT inspector. 'Vangelis'' was ready to resume business and already the wolves were circling, drawing nearer.

  He felt hounded in every direction he looked. On television he had watched the scenes of Makepeace rejoicing outside the magistrates' court, raising his hands high above his head as though still manacled, receiving the same sign back from the spilling crowd and accepting their adulation and fervent endorsement. The victor. An Englishman who, so far as Passolides knew, had never set foot in Cyprus was now treated as his homeland's saviour. Honour built on the sacrifices of others. Sacrifices, thought Passolides, like his own.

  The screen showed scenes of rejoicing from the island itself, too, as old men, gnarled and bent double like ancient olive trees, danced with young girls and waved rifles and flasks like some scene out of Zorba in celebration of the defection and deliverance of Nicolaou.