Michael Dobbs - To play the king

'Oh, Mr Akat, do you not know Italian politics? My Government will not 'elp because they 'ave done a deal with the Germans over the wine lake. Italian farmers to carry on producing subsidized wine which nobody wants, in exchange for the new regulations on chemical dumping. There are three 'undred thousand Italian wine producers and only one Mondelli. You are a politician, you know 'ow such numbers add up.'

Mondelli refrained from adding that he had complicated matters notoriously by running off with a young television actress from Naples while still married to the sister of the Italian Minister of Finance. He was now greeted in Rome with as much warmth as a coachload of English soccer fans.

'Very sad, Signor Mondelli, I feel for you. But surely this is an Italian matter.'

'It is a European matter, Signor Akat. The bureaucrats act in the name of Europe. They overstretch themselves. And you and the British are well known for being the best and most strong opponents of interfering bureaucrats in Brussels. So I ask you, for consideration. For 'elp. Stop the directive. The Environment Commissioner in Brussels. 'E is English. Your friend, eh?' 'You might say that…'

'A nice man – a little weak, perhaps. Too easily led astray by 'is officials. But nice.' 'You might say that, too…' 'I understand 'e wishes you to reappoint 'im when 'is term of office expires. 'E will listen to you.' It was true, of course, every word.

'You might conclude that, Signor Mondelli, but I couldn't possibly comment.' 'Prime Minister, I could not describe 'ow grateful 1 would be.'

This was not accurate. Urquhart knew from his Party Chairman that Mondelli had described precisely how grateful he wished to be. He had suggested one hundred thousand pounds, paid to party funds. 'In recognition of a great internationalist', as he had put it. Stamper had thought himself very skilful in bringing such a prize to the party; Urquhart was about to disillusion him. 'I'm afraid I cannot help you, Signor Mondelli.'

'Ah, your British sense of 'umour.' He did not sound as if he appreciated it.

Urquhart's expression suggested he'd been weaned on pickles. 'Your personal problems are really something for the Italian authorities to sort out. You must understand that.' 'I will be ruined…' 'A great pity.'

'But I thought…' The Italian threw a beseeching look at Stamper, who shrugged his shoulders. 'I thought you could 'elp me.'

'I cannot help you, Signor Mondelli, not as an Italian citizen. Not directly.'

Mondelli was tearing at his black tie and his eyes seemed to bulge still further in consternation.

'However, in the serious circumstances perhaps I can share something with you. The British Government, too, is unenthusiastic about the Brussels proposals. In our own interest, you understand. If it were left entirely up to me, I would veto the whole scheme.' The orchestra were beginning to reassemble in the pit, and a buzz of expectation began to rise around the opera house.

'Unfortunately,' Urquhart continued, 'this is one of but a number of issues we have to negotiate with our European partners and with the Commissioners, even the British ones. There will be give and take. And we have so many distractions on the home front. Times are likely to get tough, very distracting.'

'My entire business is at stake, Prime Minister. Either the regulations go under, or I do.' 'As serious as that?' 'Yes!' 'Well, it would be a happy coincidence if my Government's interests were to coincide with your own.' 'I would be so grateful…'

'If I were in your position, Signor Mondelli, facing ruin…' – he paused to sniff the air, like a prowling wolf – 'I think I should be ten-fold grateful.'

Urquhart gave a perfunctory laugh to suggest light-heartedness, but the Italian had understood. Urquhart had led him to the edge of the cliff and made him peer over; now he offered a lifeline. Mondelli stopped to consider for a few moments, and when he spoke there was no alarm left in his voice. They were no longer talking lifeline, but business. The sum represented around two per cent of his annual profit – significant, but affordable. And his accountants might find a way to write it off against tax as an overseas investment. He nodded his head slowly.

'As you say, Signor Akat, I would indeed be grateful. Tenfold.' Urquhart appeared not to have heard, as if he were pursuing his own idea quite separately from the Italian. 'You know, it's about time we had another shot at putting Brussels back in its box. 1 think this might be just the issue to do it on. There are several British companies who would suffer…' 'I would like to 'elp your campaigning activities.'

'Oh, really? Talk to Stamper, he's the man. Nothing to do with me.'

'I 'ave already told 'im that I think you are a great internationalist.' 'Most kind. It really has been a splendid evening.'

'Yes. But I am not a great lover of opera, Prime Minister.' He was massaging his thighs again. 'You would excuse me if I did not stay for the second 'alf?' 'But Stamper here has paid for the tickets…'

' 'E 'as paid for the tickets, but I believe I 'ave paid for my freedom.' The bow tie hung limply down his chest. 'Then goodnight to you, Signor Mondelli. It has been a pleasure.'

Stamper offered words of rueful admiration as the bulk of the Italian benefactor disappeared through the door, then Elizabeth Urquhart was with them once more, wafting perfume and muttering something about attending a reception for the cast after the opera was finished. Urquhart heard scarcely a word. His fighting fund had been opened and the wind had started blowing in his direction yet again. But even as he felt the satisfaction wash over him, he dared not forget that winds in politics rarely blow fair for long. He mustn't let this one blow out of control, if he did it would form a whirlwind of destruction, probably his own. But if they blew strong enough, and long enough, perhaps it was possible after all. By March. As the cymbals clashed to announce the commencement of the second act, he sat back in his seat and gazed at the ceiling. The cherub bottoms reminded him of someone, an undergraduate, on a Chesterfield. He couldn't recall her name.

The Leader of the Opposition was an earnest man, the son of a crofting family from the Western Isles of Scotland. He was not noted for his sense of humour, the peat moors of the Western Isles being too dour to encourage frivolity, but even his rivals acknowledged his dedication and hard work. Government Ministers privately acknowledged he made an excellent Leader of the Opposition, while in public providing every assistance to ensure he continued in this well-fitting job. At times it appeared as if the inevitable pressure on him came more from within his own ranks than from his political opponents; there had been several press stories in recent days suggesting that, following the narrow election defeat of the previous year and the arrival of a fresh face in Downing Street, his party was getting restless and his position coming under threat. The stories were vague and thin, tending to feed off each other as much as on hard views, but The Times seemed to have a particularly strong handle on it and had quoted one 'senior party source' as suggesting that 'the party leadership is not a retirement job for losers'. It was more a rumble than a revolution, the polls still pointed to the Opposition having a four-point lead, yet political parties always find difficulty in containing the swirling personal ambitions of its also-rans and, as one editorial had put it, there was no smoke without someone lighting a few matches. So Gordon McKillin had welcomed the opportunity to clear the air on a popular current affairs programme which pitted politician against three leading journalists.

For most of the forty minutes the programme had been uneventful, a little dull even, certainly unsuccessful from the point of view of the producer, whose own job security depended on the regular spillage of someone else's blood. McKillin had parried every thrust with skill and patience – none of the supposed opponents had been identified, he suggested, the real issue was not his leadership but the looming recession which threatened millions of jobs. It was the Prime Minister's job under threat, not his. The story of his troubles had been whipped up by the press, he argued, casting a baleful eye in the direction of Bryan Brynford-Jones, whose journal had published the first and most dramatic report. 'Are you able to name a single one of your sources for this story?' he challenged. The editor, unaccustomed to being in the firing line, quickly moved the discussion on. Scarcely two minutes remained before the wrap and, much to the producer's despair, the discussion had become stranded in the marshy fields of the Opposition's environmental credentials. It was Brynford-Jones' turn once again. McKillin smiled generously, as a farmer might eye a prize hog on market day. He was enjoying it.