Michael Dobbs - To play the king

'My dear Bryan, of course this is something of a shock, that's why I'm giving you the opportunity to prepare. But just between the two of us, until tomorrow. No running down to the bookies to put a couple of quid on an early election, now. Another of our little secrets, eh? You call me, only me, Bryan, day or night, if you have any questions. OK? Bye.'

He turned with an expectant expression towards Sally. She offered back a serious, hard look, almost a scowl.

'So who's supposed to be producing this magical overnight poll of yours, Francis?' 'Why, you are, my dear. You are.'

Her bug eyes sank back into their sockets as if trying to hide. It was after midnight and she had been sitting in front of the computer terminal ever since the last of her staff had departed for the night and left her on her own. She needed space to think.

Preparing a questionnaire had been simple. Nothing fancy or out of the ordinary. And she had on the shelf any number of computer disks with their random digit dialling facilities which would give a spin to the sample and so to the results, to drive the survey upmarket or downmarket, give added weight to council-house tenants or the substantial leafy glades of suburbia, question only company directors or the unemployed. The trouble was she had no idea how much the sample needed to be leant on to get the desired result -Urquhart was clearly ahead, but by how much? By however much, it would be more after The Times had sounded off. There was so much unease and anxiety around, it was a perfect time to hotwire the bandwagon.

She wandered around her scruffy premises. The overheads were kept low, all the flash was up front in the reception area, all the quality poured into the strategy and the thinking. The mechanical side was low life. She walked alongside rows of open booths, covered in cloth for sound-proofing, where tomorrow the motley collection of part-time staff would gather to sit in front of their individual computer screens, phoning the randomly chosen telephone numbers thrown out by the mainframe, mindlessly reading out the required questions and equally mindlessly tapping in the answers. They would not suspect. They were junkies in torn jeans, off-duty New Zealand nurses worrying about missed periods, failed businessmen who had suffered from the mistakes of others and fresh-faced students eagerly waiting to make their own. All that mattered was they were vaguely computer-literate and could turn up at two hours' notice. They had no means of knowing what was happening to the information they gathered, and wouldn't care. She paced along the carpet worn with time and well trodden with gum, examining the polystyrene tiles missing from the corner where the gutter had blocked and backed up, running a finger along the open metal shelves overflowing with computer manuals and telephone directories, and dispatch dockets cast around like sweet wrappers on a windy day. Little natural light penetrated in here to expose the workings of the opinion-research industry. She told clients it was for security, in reality it was simply because the place was a dump. A pot plant had struggled and withered and eventually died, and now doubled as an ashtray. This was her empire.

It had its advantages, this air-conditioned, computerized, paperless empire. A few years ago she would have needed to shift a ton of paper to do what she had been asked to do; now she had to lift no more than a couple of fingers, tap a few keys – the right keys, mind you – and there you had it. Your result. Urquhart's result. But there was the rub. He had been uncompromisingly specific about the figures he wanted, had already given them to Brynford-Jones. No matter how much she toyed with the specs or put a wobble into the weighting of the sample, what was required was more than a little spin. She would have to end up doing what she had never done before, and fiddle the result. Take two figures, one Government, the other Opposition, and work backwards. Not so much massaging as beating them to pulp. If she were found out she would never work again, might even be put away for criminal deception. To lie, to cheat, to steal the opinions of ordinary men and women and abuse them. For Francis Urquhart. Is that what her dreams were all about? She gazed once more around the room, its walls painted black to disguise the cracks, its mustiness which even the lavatory deodorizers couldn't disguise, its tired-out percolators and second-hand furniture, its corners which overflowed with plastic cups and discarded cigarette packets, its fire alarm system, brick-red amidst the gloom, a relic of the 1970s, which probably wouldn't work even if tossed into Vesuvius. She picked up the pot plant, plucked off its withered leaves, swept away the stub ends, tidied it as if it were an old and rather disreputable friend, then she dropped the whole thing, container and all, into the nearest waste bin. This was her empire. And it was not enough.

The lack of sleep showed in Sally's eyes, and she had hidden them behind spectacles with a slight tint, which only served to emphasize the fullness of her mouth and the exceptional animation of her nose. As she walked in through the doorway of Downing Street one of the doormen nudged a colleague; they had heard talk of her, of course, but this was the first time she had appeared during daylight. And Elizabeth Urquhart was at home, too. They smiled at her encouragingly, both wishing they could find some excuse to frisk her for weapons.

He was in the Cabinet Room. It was different from the last occasion they had been here, in the dark, with nothing but the distant glow of street lamps and the tips of their fingers and tongues to guide them. He still sat in his special chair, but this time a civil servant drew back a chair on the opposite side of the table for her. It felt as though she were a million miles away from him. 'Good afternoon, Miss Quine.'

'Prime Minister.' She nodded coyly while the civil servant made herself scarce.

He waved his arms a little awkwardly. 'Excuse the, er… working formality. A busy day.'

'Your poll, Francis.' She opened her briefcase and extracted a single sheet of paper which she thrust across the table. He had to stretch to retrieve it. He studied it briefly.

'Of course, I know these are the figures I asked for. But where are the real figures, Sally?'

'You're holding them, Francis. Ludicrous, isn't it? You didn't have to get me to cheat and fiddle. Ten points ahead, just as you asked. You're home and dry.'

His eyelids blinked rapidly as he took the information in. A smile began, like the fingers of a new dawn creeping across his face. He started nodding in pleasure, as if he had known all along. 'I could have kept my virginity after all.'

He looked up from the piece of paper, a crease across his brow. She was making a point of sorts but damned if he could figure out what. Over a set of figures, one poll amongst the thousands? Selective statistics, the sort of thing Government departments did by instinct? He took out a colourful handkerchief and wiped his nose with meticulous, almost exaggerated care. He wanted to celebrate yet she seemed intent on puncturing his euphoria. That, and the distance between them across the table, would make the next bit easier. 'How are those new clients I sent you?'

She raised her eyebrows in surprise; it seemed such a tangent. 'Fine. Really fine. Thanks.'

'I'm the one who should be grateful, Sally. There will be more in the future… clients, that is. I want to go on helping.' He was looking at the figures again, not at her. He was evidently uncomfortable, unsnapping his watch strap and massaging his wrist, easing his collar as if he felt claustrophobic. Claustrophobic? When she was the only other person in the room?

'What is it, Francis?' She pronounced his name in a more nasal manner than usual; less attractive, he thought. 'We have to stop seeing each other.' 'Why?' 'Too many people know.' 'It never bothered you before.' 'Elizabeth knows.' 'I see.' 'And there's the election. It's all very difficult.' 'It wasn't exactly easy fiddling your goddamned figures.' There was a silence. He was still trying to find something in the sheet of paper on which to concentrate. 'For how long? How long do we have to stop seeing each other?'