The Final Cut. Michael Dobbs
unless it is accurate, and of no value to my company unless we get the licence to drill.’
‘When the time comes you will buy the licence. With this report you will know how much to pay – and who to pay.’
‘That time is some way off.’
‘Sadly for you, I am not a patient man.’
‘Then let me get to the point. My proposal – which is also my final proposal – is this.’ An envelope had appeared in his hands. ‘Here is fifty thousand dollars, for sight of the report. If after studying it we believe its contents to be genuine, there will be another two hundred thousand dollars.’ He held up a hand to stay the objection beginning to bubble within the Turk. ‘And if my company succeeds in obtaining the licence and striking oil, there will be a payment to you of not one, but two million dollars. Worth that, if what you say is true.’
It was the Turk’s turn to consider, agitatedly squeezing his salt-streaked moustache as though wishing to pluck it from his lip. ‘But how can I trust you?’
‘Mr Hakim, how can I trust you? How am I to know you’re not hawking this same document around every one of my competitors? There has to be a measure of mutual trust. And look at it this way, what would be the point of my trying to cheat you of millions when there are potentially billions at stake?’
The Turk was breathing heavily, trying to encourage the supply of oxygen to his thought processes.
‘If your document is genuine, I shall be giving you a quarter of a million dollars with only your word that it’s the sole copy in circulation. A costly mistake for me if your word is false.’ The Frenchman paused. ‘But it would be a still more costly mistake for you.’
‘What?’ Hakim mocked. ‘You are threatening to break my legs?’
‘Not at all, my friend. I would simply let the Turkish authorities know of your activities. I imagine your legs would be the least of your problems.’
The Frenchman smiled, raised the envelope with its fifty thousand dollars and gently proffered it.
Hakim stared, debated, twisted and tore at himself, but the exercise was pointless. It was too late now, neither conscience nor caution could argue with fifty thousand dollars and more, much more, to come. From within his briefcase of imitation crocodile he extracted his report and handed it across.
What is the point of conquering mountains? It’s bloody cold, the food is appalling and who wants to do everything roped helplessly to some stumbling idiot?
No, not mountains. Better to conquer men.
A glorious spring dawn brimming with rose-tinged enthusiasm had advanced across London, delighting most early risers. Mortima Urquhart could not know her husband shared none of the collective spirit.
‘Good morning, Francis. The weather gods seem to be smiling in celebration. Happy birthday.’
He didn’t move from his position staring out from the bedroom window and at first offered only a soft ‘Oh, dear’ and a slight flaring of the nostrils in response. He lingered at the window, captured by something outside before shaking his head to clear whatever pest was scratching at his humour. ‘What have you got for me this year? Another Victorian bottle for the cabinet? What is it – eighteen years of bloody bottles? You know I can’t stand the things.’ But his tone was self-critical, more irony than ire.
‘Francis, you know you have no interests outside politics and I’m certainly not going to give you a bound copy of Hansard. Your little collection has at least given you something for the hacks to put in their profiles, and this particular piece is rather lovely. A delicate emerald green medicine bottle which is supposed to have belonged to the Queen herself.’ She puckered her lips, encouraging him along. ‘Anyway, I like it.’
Then, Mortima, if you like, so shall I.’
‘Don’t be such a curmudgeon. I’ve something else for you, too.’
At last he turned from the window and sat opposite her as she held forth a small package with obligatory ribbon and bow. Unwrapped, it teased from him the first sign of pleasure. ‘Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France. And an early edition.’ He fingered the small leather-bound volume with reverence.
‘A first edition,’ she corrected. ‘The pioneer volume for the Urquhart Library, I thought.’
He took her hands. ‘That is so typically thoughtful. And how appropriate that our Library should start with one of the finest anti-French tirades ever written. You know, it might inspire me. But…I have to admit, Mortima, that this talk of birthdays and libraries smacks all too much of retirement. I’m not yet ready, you know.’
‘The young pretenders may seem fleeter of foot, Francis, but what’s their advantage if you are the only one who knows the route?’
‘My life would be so empty and graceless without you,’ he smiled, and meant it. ‘Well, time to give the ashes a rake and discover whether the embers still glow.’ He kissed her and rose, drawn again to the view from the window.
‘What is out there?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing. As yet. But soon there may be. You know the Thatcher Society wants to erect a statue to the Baroness on that piece of lawn right out there.’ He prodded a finger in the direction of the carefully manicured grass that lay beyond the wall of the Downing Street garden, opposite St James’s Park. ‘You know, this is a view that hasn’t much changed in two hundred and fifty years; there’s a print hanging in the Cabinet Room and it’s all there, same bricks, same doors, even the stones on the patio are original. Now they want to put up a bloody statue.’
He shook his head in disbelief. ‘And the erection fund is almost fully subscribed.’ He turned sharply, his face twisted by frustration. ‘Mortima, if the first thing I’m going to see every morning of my life when I draw my bedroom curtains is that bloody woman, I think I shall expire.’
‘Then stop it, Francis.’
‘But how?’
‘She doesn’t merit a statue. Thrown out of office, betrayed by her own Cabinet. Is the statue going to show all those knives in her back?’
‘Yet almost all of them are hacked from office, my love. By their colleagues or the electorate. Like Caesar, taken from behind by events they hadn’t foreseen. Ambition makes leaders blind and lesser men bloody; none of them knew when the time had come to go.’
‘There’s only one Prime Minister who should have a statue there, and that’s you!’
He chuckled at her commitment. ‘Perhaps you’re right – but flesh and blood turn to stone all too soon. Don’t let’s rush it.’
He turned himself to stone two hours later, as fixedly as if he had spent the night wrapped in the arms of the Medusa. It was his press secretary’s habit to arrange on a regular basis a meeting with representatives of charities – ordinary members, not experienced leaders – inviting them to the doorstep of Number Ten but not beyond, a visit too brief to allow for any substantial lobbying but long enough to show to the cameras that the Prime Minister cared – the ‘Click Trick’, as the press secretary, a hockey player and enthusiast named Drabble, termed it. Having been at his desk since six collating the morning’s press, extracting from it selected articles he thought worthy of note and preparing a written summary, he met Urquhart in the entrance hall shortly before nine thirty.
‘What is it today, Drabble?’ Urquhart enquired, striding briskly down the red-carpeted corridor from the Cabinet Room.
‘A birthday surprise, Prime Minister. This week it’s pensioners, they’re going to make a presentation.’
Somewhere