Michael Dobbs - The Final Cut

The game proceeded in dogged fashion, the players weighed down by the heat and the tension of the occasion. Martin offered diplomatic expressions of encouragement but Dimitri's hand language betrayed his growing impatience, his cracking knuckles and beaten palms speaking for all the Cypriots in the box as, down on the field, nervous stumble piled upon wayward pass and slip. Only the Bishop expressed no reaction, his attentions seemingly concentrated on the shelling of pistachios and the flicking of husks unerringly into a nearby bowl. A dagger pass, sudden opportunity, raised spirits, a waving flag, offside, another stoppage. Then stamping feet. Jeers. Irreverent whistles. From within the plentiful folds of the Bishop's cassock a finger was raised, like a pink rabbit escaping from an enormous dark burrow.

'Fetch the manager' were the only words spoken; with surprising haste for a man whose spiritual timing was set by an ageless clock, one of the students of theology disappeared through the door.

It was more than fifteen minutes to half time, yet less than five before there was a rapping at the door and a flushed, tracksuited man was permitted to enter. He immediately bowed low in front of the Bishop. To Martin's eye, unaccustomed as he was to the ways of the Orthodox, there seemed to be a distinct and deliberate pause before the Bishop's right hand was extended and the manager's lips met his ring.

'Costa,' the Bishop addressed the manager as he rose to his feet, 'this is God's team. Yet you permit them to play like old women.'

'My apologies, Theofilestate, Friend of God,' the manager mumbled.

The Bishop's voice rose as though warning a vast crowd of the perils of brimstone. 'God's work cannot be done without goals, the ground will not open to swallow our opponents. Their left back has the turning speed of a bulk carrier, put Evriviades against him – get behind him, get goals.' The manager, scourged, was a picture of dejection. 'There's a new Mercedes in it for you if we win.'

'Thank you. Thank you, Aghie, Saintly One!' He bowed to kiss the ring once more. 'And you'll be walking to the bus stop if we don't.'

The manager was dismissed in the manner of a waiter who had spilled the soup.

Martin was careful to conceal his wry amusement. This was a theatre piece, although whether put on for his benefit or that of the manager he wasn't completely sure. He had little interest in football but a growing curiosity in this extraordinary black-garbed apparition who appeared to control the destiny of souls and cup finals as the doorkeeper of hell controls the hopes of desperate sinners. 'You take your football seriously,' Martin commented.

The Bishop withdrew a packet of cigarettes from the folds of his cassock; almost as quickly an aide had ignited a small flame thrower and the Bishop disappeared in a fog of blue smoke. Martin wondered if this were a second part of the entertainment and he was about to witness an Ascension. When the cleric's face reappeared it was split with a smile of mischief.

'My dear Mr Martin. God inspires. But occasionally a little extra motivation assists with His work.'

'I sincerely hope, your Grace, that I never have cause to find myself in anything other than your favour.'

'You and I shall be the greatest of friends,' he chortled. One of the young girls refilled their glasses; she really was very pretty. Theophilos raised his glass. 'Havoc to the foes of God and Cyprus.' They both drank deep.

'Which reminds me, Mr Martin. There's a small matter I wanted to raise with you…' 'And there's another small matter I wanted to raise with you, Max.'

Maxwell Stanbrook thought he truly loved the man. Francis Urquhart stood framed against the windows of the Cabinet Room, gazing out like the admiral of a great armada about to set to sea. Stanbrook had arrived less than twenty minutes before at his office in MAFF, the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, to be told by his agitated private secretary that he was wanted immediately at Downing Street. 'So what is it, Sonia?' 'I don't know, Minister – no, really I don't.'

Stanbrook was firmly committed to the proposition that Government was a quiet conspiracy of civil servants who pulled all of the strings and most of the wool and he took an active and incredulous dislike to those who claimed they didn't know or suggested there was no alternative. He was notorious throughout Whitehall for throwing – literally hurling – position papers back at civil servants wrapped in a shower of uncivil expletives. The Mobster in the MAFFia, as he was known. It was no secret that many in the corridors of power desperately wanted to see his comeuppance; had that time arrived?

A year earlier he'd thought he might have cancer. He remembered how he had walked into the consultant's office trying to mask his dread, to still the shaking knee, to put a brave face on the prospect of death. Somehow it had been easier than this; the fear of mortal illness was nothing compared to the wretchedness he felt as he had walked into the Cabinet Room. Urquhart was there alone. No pleasantries.

'I've had to let Annita go,' the Prime Minister began. God, he was on the list…

'I want you to take her place. Environment Secretary. Put a bit of stick about. You know, Max, the drones in the department fancy themselves as the new thought police. An environmental watchdog here, a pollution inspectorate there. And what's the point? No sooner had they given every school child nightmares about global warming than we had to send in the army to dig hypothermic pensioners out of the snow. Next it was a paper demanding billions of pounds to combat drought fourteen days – fourteen days! – before North Wales and an entire cricket season were washed away in floods. Pipedreams, nothing but pipedreams they conjure up over long lunches in Brussels to keep themselves in jobs. Sort it out for me, will you, Max?' 'Be a pleasure, F.U.'

'One thing in particular. This Fresh Air Directive – you remember? Brussels trying to make British factories smell like a French bordello. Bloody nonsense, I'll not have it.'

'But I thought the directive had already been approved.'

'Yes, it'll be carved on Annita's headstone. She didn't like it, not at all gracious about going; suspect I'll have to watch my back for knitting needles. But although it's European policy, domestic governments are responsible for implementing it.'

'They've turned us into odour officers. Pooper snoopers.'

'Precisely. Now, there's been a lot of loose criticism about us being poor Europeans, you can imagine how distressing I find that. So I want you to ensure that the monitoring arrangements are implemented meticulously. I suggest once a year, usually in January. Preferably during a gale.' 'On the windward side of town.' 'Max, you could go far.' 'I shall certainly do my best.'

Urquhart chuckled benevolently, wondering if he had just spotted a new potential rival. He would watch him, as he watched them all. He rose from his chair and walked to the window from where he could see the trees of St James's.

'There's another small matter, Max. Tricky. One of the first things you'll be asked to do is to sign an order permitting the erection of a statue to the Blessed Margaret – just out there.' He waved in the direction of the park. 'The money's been raised, a sculptor commissioned, they're ready to go.' He turned. 'And I want you to find some way of stopping it.' 'Do you have any suggestions, F.U.?'

'I'd rather hoped you might come up with some. It would be embarrassing if I'm seen to oppose it, they'd say I was motivated by envy, which of course is not the case. It's the principle of the thing. This is not a Government of idolatry and graven images. I want you to know there is no thought of personal advantage in my position on this matter…' 'And I insist that you understand, my dear Mr Martin, there is no thought of personal gain for me in all this. Many new jobs will be created for poor farmers in a desperately undeveloped part of our island.'