The Final Cut

When the time came, he would not go in silence, he would depart with so much clamour that it would echo through the ages. Francis Urquhart would be master of his own fate.

‘Amen.’

Geoffrey Booza-Pitt revealed an unusual degree of self-consciousness as he faced his Prime Minister across the desk of the Downing Street study, hands clasped together, knuckles showing white and a smile seeming painted and fixed. It was not unusual for him to seek a private audience and, within limits, Urquhart encouraged it; Geoffrey was a notorious gossip and adept at stealing others’ ideas, which he could either claim as his own or abandon with ridicule depending on the reception given to them by his master. He was without personal doubt or hesitation the finest ankle-tapper in the Cabinet, displaying fastidious team loyalty in public while dextrous at sending his colleagues sprawling in front of goal, usually clipping them from the blind side and always with an expression of pained innocence. A useful source of information and amusement for Urquhart, who relished the sport.

Urquhart had assumed that Booza-Pitt would be laying the ground for a change of responsibility at the next reshuffle. Geoffrey was a young man constantly on the move; ever since he had kicked open the door of the pen with a series of brilliant pyrotechnic displays at party conference he had proved impossible to pin down to any job or, for those who had memories for such things, to any guiding political principle. But in that he was not unique, and his effervescent energy, which is the hallmark of some slightly undersized men, more than made up for any lack of depth in the eyes of most observers. Geoffrey was going places – he left no listener in any doubt of the fact and such enthusiasm to many is infectious. And it was no secret around Westminster that Geoffrey would welcome a new job. As Transport Secretary for the last two years, he had long since grown exasperated with the futility of trying to siphon twentieth-century cars through London’s nineteenth-century road system and desperately wanted to escape the gridlock for some new challenge – any new challenge, so long as it came in the form of perceptible promotion. Move on before you grow roots and others grow bored was the Booza-Pitt rule, a creed he followed as much in love as in politics. He’d already scraped through two marriages; his ribald and envious colleagues referred to his Westminster house as the In & Out Club. Geoffrey’s response had been to make a dubious virtue of necessity and to eschew further matrimonial entanglement, instead choosing his companions on an à la carte basis from the lengthy menu provided by the women of Westminster. Being single, it merely enhanced the dynamic impression.

Yet in the subdued lighting of Urquhart’s study, the Transport Secretary belied his image. The neatly trimmed sandy hair had tumbled across his forehead, the eyes cast down, the broad and slightly crooked chin which normally afforded an aura of rugged athleticism tonight looked simply askew. A schoolboy come to confess.

‘Geoffrey, dear boy. What news do you bring from the battle front? Are we winning?’ He laid aside the gold-ribbed fountain pen with which he had been signing letters, forcing Booza-Pitt to wait, and suffer.

‘Polls seem to be…not too bad too bad.’

‘Could be better.’

‘Will be.’

Urquhart studied the other man. The eyes were rimmed in red, he thought he could detect the bite of whisky on his breath. Trouble.

‘Come to the point, Geoffrey.’

There was no resistance; his composure drained and the shoulders drooped. ‘I’ve got…a little local difficulty, FU.’

‘Women.’

‘Is it that obvious?’

The Minister was known to be a man of modest intellect and immoderate copulation; Urquhart had assumed it was only a matter of time before he stubbed his toe in public. ‘In this business, it’s always either women or money – at least in our party.’ He leaned forward in a gesture of paternal familiarity, encouraging confession. ‘She wasn’t dead, was she? Almost anything can be smoothed over, except for live animals and dead women.’

‘No, of course not! But it’s…more complicated than that.’

More than a stubbed toe – a broken leg, perhaps? Amputation might be called for. ‘Well, so far we have one – one? – live woman. Tell me more.’

‘The chairman of my local party is going to divorce his wife on the grounds of adultery, citing me.’

‘It is true, I assume.’

Booza-Pitt nodded, his hands still clasped between his knees as though defending his manhood from the enraged husband.

‘Embarrassing. Might make it difficult to get yourself reselected for the next election with him in the chair.’

Booza-Pitt sighed deeply and rapidly several times, expelling the air forcefully as though attempting to extirpate demons within.

‘He says he’s not going to be there. He’s very bitter. Plans to resign from the party and go to the newspapers with the story.’

‘A tangled web indeed.’

‘And make all sorts of ridiculous allegations.’ This was almost blurted. Control of his breathing had gone.

‘That you seduced her…’

‘And that I got her to invest money in property on my behalf.’

‘So?’

‘Property that was blighted by proposed road-building schemes.’

‘Let me guess. Schemes which were about to be cancelled. Scrapped. So lifting the blight and greatly increasing the value of the property. Inside information known only to a handful of people. Including the Secretary of State for Transport. You.’

The lack of response confirmed Urquhart’s suspicions.

‘Christ, Geoffrey, you realize that would be a matter for not only resignation, but also criminal prosecution.’

He wriggled like a worm on a hook. Piranha bait. Urquhart left him dangling as he considered. To convict or to assist, punish or protect? He had just buried one Cabinet member, to bury a second in such rapid succession could look more than unfortunate. He swivelled his pen on the blotter in front of him, like a compass seeking direction.

‘You can assure me that these accusations are false?’

‘Lies, all lies! You have my word.’

‘But I assume there are land registry deeds and titles with dates that to the cynical eye will appear to be more than coincidence. How did she know?’

‘Pillow talk, perhaps, no more than that. I…I may have left my Ministerial box open in her bedroom on one occasion.’

Urquhart marvelled at the younger man’s inventiveness. ‘You know as well as I do, Geoffrey, that if this comes out they won’t believe you. They’ll hound you right up the steps of the Old Bailey.’

The fountain pen was now pointed directly at Booza-Pitt, like an officer’s sword at a court martial, in condemnation. Urquhart produced a sheet of writing paper which he laid alongside it. ‘I want you to write me a letter, Geoffrey, which I shall dictate.’

Awkwardly, with the movements of a man freezing in the Arctic desert, Booza-Pitt began to write:

‘“Dear Prime Minister,”’ Urquhart began. ‘“I am sorry to have to inform you that I have been having an affair with a married woman, the wife of the chairman of my local association…”’

Geoffrey raised pleading eyes, but Urquhart nodded him on.

‘“Moreover, she has accused me of using confidential information available to me as a Government Minister to trade in blighted property and enrich myself, in breach not only of Ministerial ethics but also of the criminal law. New paragraph, Geoffrey. “While I have given you my word of honour that these accusations are utterly without foundation, in light of these allegations…”’

Booza-Pitt paused to raise a quizzical brow.

‘“I have no alternative other than to tender my resignation.”’

The death warrant. A sob of misery bounced across the desk.

‘Sign it, Geoffrey.’ The pen had become an instrument of punishment. ‘But don’t date it.’

A dawning of hope, a stay of execution. Booza-Pitt did as he was told, managed a smile. Urquhart retrieved the paper, examined it thoroughly, and slid it into the drawer of his desk. Then his voice sank to a whisper, like a vault expelling the last of its air.

‘You contemptible idiot! How dare you endanger my Government with your sordid little vices? You’re not fit to participate in a Francis Urquhart Cabinet.’

‘I’m so dreadfully sorry. And appreciative…’

‘I created you. Made a space for you at the trough.’

‘Always grateful…’

‘Never forget.’

‘Never shall. But…but, Francis. What are we going to do about my chairman?’

‘I may, just possibly, be able to save your life. What’s his name?’

‘Richard Tennent.’

‘Have I ever met him?’

‘Last year, when you came to my constituency. He chewed your ear about grants for tourism.’

Slowly, without taking his eyes off Booza-Pitt, Urquhart reached for his phone. ‘Get me a Mr Richard Tennent. New Spalden area.’

And they waited in silence. It took less than two minutes for the operator to make the connection.

‘Mr Tennent? This is Francis Urquhart at Downing

Street. Do you remember we met last year, had that delightful discussion about tourism? Yes, you put the case very well. Look, I wanted to have an entirely confidential word with you, if you’re agreeable. Bit unorthodox, but I have a problem. Did you know that you’ve been put up for an honour, for your political and public service?’

Evidently not.

‘No, you shouldn’t have known, these things are supposed to be confidential. That’s why I wanted an entirely private word. You see, I’ve just been going through the list and, to be frank, after what you’ve done for the party I thought you deserved something a little better. A knighthood, in fact. Trouble is, there’s a strict quota and a bit of a waiting list. I very much want you to have the “K”, Mr Tennent, but it would mean your waiting perhaps another eighteen months. You can have the lesser gong straight away, though, if you like.’

The voice dripped goodwill while his eyes lashed coldly across Booza-Pitt, who showed little sign of being able to breathe.

‘You’d prefer to wait. I entirely understand. But you realize that this must remain utterly confidential until then. Won’t stop you and Lady Tennent attending a Downing Street reception in the meantime, though? Good.’

A tight smile of triumph.

‘One last thing. These things get pushed through a Scrutiny Committee, look at each individual case to make sure there are no skeletons in the closet, nothing that might prove a public embarrassment, cause the honour to be handed back or any such nonsense. Forgive my asking, but since your name will be carrying my personal recommendation, there’s nothing on the horizon that might…?’

A pause.

‘Delighted to hear that. I must just repeat that if anything were to leak out about your upcoming award…But then the party has always known it can rely on you. Sir Richard, I am most grateful.’

He chuckled as he threw the phone back into its cradle. ‘There you are! The old Round Table gambit always works; give ’em a knighthood and a sense of purpose and they always come aboard. With luck that’ll keep his mouth shut for at least another eighteen months and possibly for good.’

Geoffrey had just begun to imitate the Prime Minister’s bonhomie when Urquhart turned on him with unmistakable malevolence. ‘Now get out. And don’t ever expect me to do that again.’

Geoffrey rose, a tremble still evident in his knees. ‘Why did you, Francis, this time?’

The light from the desk lamp threw harsh shadows across Urquhart’s face, bleaching from it any trace of vitality. One eye seemed almost to have been plucked out, leaving a hollowed socket that led straight to a darkness within.

‘Because Francis Urquhart and only Francis Urquhart is going to decide when Ministers come and go from his Cabinet, not some shrivelling cuckold from New Spalden.’

‘I understand.’ He had been hoping for some acknowledgement of his own irreplaceable worth.

‘And because now I own you. Today, tomorrow, and for as long as I wish. You will jump whenever I flick my fingers, whether it be at the throats of our enemies or into your own grave. Without question. Total loyalty.’

‘Of course, Francis. You had that anyway.’ He turned to leave.

‘One last thing, Geoffrey.’

‘Yes?’

‘Give me back my fountain pen.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Some people prefer to pour oil on troubled waters. I prefer to throw a match.

The sun blazed fiercely outside the window, and the coffee on the table in small cups was dark and thick; in all other respects the office with its stylishly simplistic furniture and modern art trimmings might have been found on the Skeppsbron overlooking the harbour in Stockholm. Yet most of the books along the light oak bookshelves were in Turkish, and the two men in the room were of dark complexion, as were the faces in the family photographs standing behind the desk.

‘Now, what brought you in such a hurry to Nicosia?’

‘Only a fool tarries to deliver good tidings.’

There was an air of formality between them, two Presidents, one Yakar, chief of the Turkish National Oil Company, and the other, Nures, political head of the Republic of Turkish Cyprus. It was not simply that the oil man was a homosexual of contrived manner and the politician a man of robust frame, language and humour; there was often a distance between metropolitan and islander which reflected more than their separation by fifty miles of sea. It had been a century since the Ottomans had ruled Cyprus and differences of culture and perspective had grown. Mainlanders patronized and shepherded the islanders – had they not delivered their cousins from the clutches of Greek extremists by invading and then annexing one third of the island in 1974? At one moment during those confused days, the Turkish Cypriots had found themselves on the point of a Greek bayonet, the next they had been in charge of their own state. Except the Government in Ankara kept treating it as though it were their state.

Time to get rid of them, Mehmet Nures told himself yet again. For a thousand years mainland Turks and Greeks and the imperialist British had interfered and undermined, using the island as a well at which to quench the thirst of their ambitions. They’d sucked it dry, and turned an island of old-fashioned kindnesses and a million butterflies into a political desert. Perhaps they couldn’t step through the looking glass, back to the ways of old, with bubble-domed churches standing alongside pen-nib mosques, but it was time for change. Time for Cypriots to sort out their own destiny, time for peace. The question was – whose peace?

‘I have the honour to present to you a draft of the formal report that Seismic International will publish in a few days following their recent survey of the offshore waters.’ The oil man removed a folder from a slim leather case and deposited it in front of Nures, who proceeded to rustle through its pages. The file contained many coloured maps and squiggles of seismic cross-sections with much technical language that was quite beyond him.

‘Don’t treat me like a tortoise. What the hell does all this mean?’

Yakar tugged at his silk shirt cuffs. ‘Very little. As expected, the seismic survey has revealed that beneath the waters of Cyprus there is much rock, and beneath the rock there is…much more rock. Not the stuff, I fear, of excited headlines.’

‘I sit stunned with indifference.’

Yakar was playing with him, a reserved smile loitering around his moist lips. ‘But, Mr President, I have a second report, one which neither Seismic International nor anyone else has – except for me.

And now you.’ He handed across a much slimmer file, bound in red and bearing the TNOC crest.

‘Not the Greeks, you mean?’

‘May my entrails be stretched across the Bosphorus first.’

‘And this says…?’

‘That there is a geological fault off the coast of Cyprus which has tilted the subsurface geology of the sea bed to the north and west of the island. That the structure in that area does indeed contain oil-bearing rock. And that the fault has tipped all the oil into a great big puddle about – there.’ He stretched and prodded a bejewelled finger at the map Nures was examining.

‘Shit.’

‘Precisely.’

The tip of Yakar’s manicured nail was pointing directly at what had become known as ‘Watling Water’ – the sea area contested between Greek and Turkish Cypriot negotiators and currently the subject of arbitration by the British professor’s panel.

Nures felt a current of apprehension worm through his gut. It had taken him years to balance the scales of peace, feather by feather, he didn’t know if he wanted tons of rock thrown at it right now, oil or no oil. The peace deal was important to him; by giving up so little to the Greek side he could gain so much for his people – peace, international acceptance, true independence, prosperity – and possibly a Nobel Peace Prize for himself. All in exchange for a little land and a stretch of water that was worthless. Or so he had thought.

A thick hand rasped across his dark chin. ‘How much oil?’ he asked, as if every word had cost him a tooth.

‘Perhaps a billion barrels.’

‘I see,’ he said, but clearly didn’t. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Well, the international spot price for oil is around twenty dollars a barrel at the moment. Cost of extraction about five. In round terms – approximately fifteen billion dollars.’

The oil man was whimpering on about Turkish brotherhood and TNOC getting preferential access, teasing out the deal he wished to cement. Nures closed his hooded eyes as though to shut himself away from such squalor, but in truth to contemplate temptation. He had an opportunity – had created the opportunity – to turn a tide of history that had forced poison between the lips of Cypriots and had condemned his own son to be raised in a land of fear. For his grandson it could be different.

Would the world forgive him for endangering the peace process? Would his people forgive him for missing out on fifteen billion dollars’ worth of oil? But could he forgive himself if he didn’t try to grab both?

No contest.

‘President Yakar, I think we want those rocks.’

‘President Nures, I rather think we do.’

Yaman Hakim felt conspicuous. He had put on his best suit but it was modestly cut and he looked clumsy and other-worldly amidst the style and selfassertiveness on the rue St Honoré. Still, he reminded himself, he was not here for a fashion show.

He’d first thought of making the exchange in Istanbul with its cloudburst of humanity beneath which one solitary soul might disappear, but even amongst the labyrinth of souks and smoky bazaars the authorities had their men, the informers, and there was always the danger of his bumping elbows with someone he knew. He didn’t trust his luck in such matters; he’d once gone off to Antalya on the excuse of an energy symposium in order to spend two nights with Sherif, a nubile young girl from Personnel who was into older men, only to discover that a neighbour had booked into the next room. Praises to God, the man had been engaged on a similar mission of deceit, allowing them to share the solidarity of sinners. Yet he felt the presence of prying eyes everywhere in his homeland, and this was worth so much more than a quick scramble between the sheets.

He had chosen Paris because he had once visited it as a student many years before, because there was no chance of his being recognized – and because the French understood what was required. The English were too stuffy and of constricted sphincter, while the Americans were all cowboys. If he were to survive, Hakim needed discretion, a partner who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut and not be found after two drinks and an encouraging smile bragging about it in the bar of the Hilton. In matters of corporate espionage, tax evasion and fraud the French had all the necessary finesse, they also had bank accounts untraceable by the Turkish authorities; pity about their limp coffee.

Anxiety had made him early and he sat in the sidewalk café swirling the dregs in his cup, waiting. His mind danced with thoughts – of drowsy islands set in mystical seas that shimmered as though studded with a treasury of diamonds; of bougainvillea-clad villas overlooking the sacred Bosphorus and tinkling to the sound of female laughter; of oil wells trembling in the Mediterranean breeze beneath their plumes of black gold – and of the fetid rat-filled walls of Istanbul’s notorious Yedi Giile prison, echoing with the cries of those who had come too late to repentance. It was not too late for him, not yet, he could still get out, go home, be back in the office tomorrow. Back to being Hakim the Forgotten. The man whose skill and experience had single-handedly uncovered one of the great natural treasure troves of his lifetime – without whom none of this great adventure in exploration would have been possible! But even as he had handed them his report and analysis, his chest heaving with pride, they had told him it was all in a day’s work, what TNOC paid him for, he shouldn’t expect any recognition or thanks. And he had received none.

An executive Citroën with immaculate black paintwork drew up on the roadway beside him and a window of darkened glass wound down.

‘Mr Hakim, over here. Quickly, please!’

Already the Volkswagen behind was sounding its horn impatiently. They had told him about the café, said nothing about a car. Disconcerted, untrusting, but seemingly with little option, the Turk scurried across the pavement. The rear door opened and he settled into the deep leather seat. A hand extended, cuffed in a timepiece of Swiss gold.

‘Delighted to meet you at last, Mr Hakim.’

He had insisted on meeting the top man, face to face, not being fobbed off with aides and underlings. He needed decisions, he wanted to deal with the man who made them.

‘Forgive the caution. Couldn’t be sure you didn’t have – how can I put it? – somebody else watching us at the café. A news photographer. A competitor, perhaps? I thought a little privacy might assist our discussions.’

Hakim grunted. The man reeked of authority, money; Hakim was well out of his league.

‘We were very interested in the material you sent us, Mr Hakim…’ – carefully selected pages from the report, crumbs to whet the appetite but not enough to chew on – ‘…interested enough to check you out. You’re genuine. But is your report?’

In response, Hakim took a single folded sheet of paper from his suit pocket and, with only the slightest hesitation for a final thought, passed it across. It was the report’s summary page, giving the estimates of the potential beneath the sea bed.

‘Fascinating. And I assume there is a price for this material.’

‘A heavy price,’ Hakim growled, snatching back the single sheet. ‘But a very fair price.’

‘How much?’

‘For the entire report?’ He chewed his thumb nail. ‘A million dollars.’

The other man didn’t flinch. His stare was direct, examining Hakim as if some clue to their business might be found in his leathered face; defiantly the Turk stared back.

‘This matter is very simple, Mr Hakim. Your information is of no value to anyone 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.’