Michael Dobbs - The Final Cut

'But this is ridiculous.' The Bishop's voice grew sibilant with exasperation. 'When I approach our stubborn donkey of a President he claims the problem lies with you British. And the environmentalists. The British military climbs into bed with the goddamn greens while our poor peasants starve.' He swung round suddenly, like an unwanted visitor of the night appearing at a bedroom window. The blue enamel adorning his heavy crucifix gleamed darkly in the light; his eyes, too. 'Do not underestimate how important this is to me, Mr Martin.'

'My regrets. The British Government cannot become involved in a domestic dispute in Cyprus.'

'But you are involved!' Theophilos slumped angrily into his seat as the second half commenced. 'You have two military bases on our island, you have access rights across it and you fire your missiles and bullets upon it. The only time you choose not to become involved is when we most need you. Like when the Turks invaded.'

Conversation ceased as the Bishop struggled to regain his humour and the young women served more wine. Martin declined; he made a mental note never to drink again while in the presence of Theophilos, a man whose attentions required all of one's wits in response. When the Cypriot spoke again, his voice was composed, but seemed to contain no less passion.

'Many Cypriots find it unacceptable that you British should continue to have a military presence on our soil.'

'The two bases are sovereign British soil, not Cypriot. That was clearly agreed in the Treaty of Establishment.'

'The soil is Cypriot, the blood spilled upon it for centuries has been Cypriot, and the treaty is unjust and unequal, forced upon us by British colonial masters in exchange for our independence. I advise you, Mr Martin, not to base your arguments upon that treaty, for ordinary Cypriots will neither understand nor approve. Encourage them to think about such matters and they will demand it all back. You might end up having no firing range, no bases, nothing.'

The warning had been delivered in the manner of a wearied professor lecturing a dullard, the tone implying no room for argument, brooking no response. There seemed nothing more to discuss, a silence hanging uncomfortably between them until their mutual discomfort was thrust aside by a shout of jubilation from all around. Evriviades had scored. 'You've just lost a Mercedes.'

'And you, Mr Martin, might just have lost the friendship of the Cypriot people.' 'Who's there?' 'A friend.' 'There are few friends about on days like these.' 'Count me as one.'

The door of the back room in L'Amico's restaurant, tucked away behind Smith Square, slid open to reveal the large figure of Harry Mendip. He'd heard Annita Burke and Saul Wilkinson were lunching privately, sharing sorrows and anger at having been sacked, unwilling to face the whispers and stares of a more public place. Mendip knew how they felt; he'd been one of the victims last time around. 'Will you eat with us, Harry?' 'My appetite's not for food.' 'Then what?' 'Action.' 'Revenge?' 'Some might call it so.'

A third glass of wine was poured, another bottle ordered. 'Everything is Urquhart. Damn him.' 'Little Caesar.' 'He acts like a Prince, not a Prime Minister.' 'And we bow and bend the knee as his subjects.' 'Abjects.'

'Yet what, apart from ruthlessness, has set him so high?'

'And what, apart from ruthlessness, will bring him down?'

They paused as the waiter collected a few scattered dishes.

'He's grown so lofty that his feet scarcely touch the ground.'

'But when they do, the ground is soaked with blood. Slippery soil. He is vulnerable.' 'Butchered too many, over the years.'

Annita Burke refilled the glasses. 'Are we of the same mind?' The other two nodded. 'Then who is to lead this enterprise?'

'How about Yorke? He's fit for stratagems and treasons.' 'A happy blend of mischief.'

'But there's no harmony in his soul. Nothing to lift the hearts and sights of others.' 'Then Penthorpe.'

'With those fearsome ferret eyes that make a man think he's volunteering for the gallows? I think not.' 'You, Annita.'

She shook her head. 'No, this one is not for me. Harsh words in a woman are always dismissed as hormones at war. And in my case no one would forget they are Jewish hormones. Anyway, I lack that sharpness of foot and wit necessary to lead the dance.' 'Then there is only one.' They all knew the name. 'Makepeace.' 'He will be hard to convince.' 'All the better once he is so.' 'To challenge for the leadership?'

'What is the point? Urquhart has filled the party machine with placemen whose spirits are dead and who've sold their souls.'

'Then if we cannot take Urquhart away from the party, we must take the party away from him.' 'Meaning?' 'A new leader, and a new party.' Mendip sucked in his breath. 'That is a dangerous enterprise,' he said slowly.

'An honourable one, too. At least, Makepeace would make it seem so.'

'And I'd rather be torn apart as a dog of war than stay to be slaughtered like a sheep.'

Burke raised her glass. 'A toast. Let's be masters of our own fate.' 'All the way to the door of hell.' As Booza-Pitt stumbled out of the Cabinet Room in a haze of elation he all but bounced off the portly figure of Bollingbroke, who was admiring the white marble bust of William Pitt which nestled in a niche on the wall.

'He had it right, don't you think?' Bollingbroke enquired, eyes raised in admiration. The homespun accent stretched vowels as though he were chewing a mouthful of black treacle toffee.

Booza-Pitt tried to adjust his profile to match that of the eighteenth-century Prime Minister, wondering what on earth the other was prattling about.

'Prime Minister at the time of Trafalgar, you know. When we blew apart Napoleon's fleet. Heard some crap that he was a relative of yours. Stuff 'n' nonsense. Not true, is it?'

Faced with such a direct challenge, Booza-Pitt was loath to lie. He shrugged his shoulders inconclusively. Damn the man, he was gibbering when all Geoffrey wanted to do was to flaunt his new eminence and be gone, leaving the other splashing and waterlogged in the wake. 'What were his words, Geoff, can you remember?'

He shook his head, lost in the labyrinth of the Bollingbroke mind. He suspected it was some test of his family credentials. ' "England has saved herself by her exertions, and Europe by her example." That's what he said, did Pitt. Heck, not a bad motto for today, neither. You know, Froggies never change. I'll have to remember that. Now I'm Foreign Secretary.'

He poured the news deftly into Booza-Pitt's lap where it landed much like a bucketful of pond life.

'You – are Foreign Secretary?' Booza-Pitt squeaked. 'Arthur, I'm so delighted for you. You must come and split a bottle of Bollinger with me.' 'Can't stand the stuff. Best bitter man, meself.'

Booza-Pitt began to gain the impression that he was being wound up. 'I've been given the Home Office,' he responded weakly, deflated by the prospect of being forced to share the day's headlines with Bollingbroke.

'Yes, I know,' the Foreign Secretary responded, practising one of those looks with which he would convey to the French the full depth of his disdain without uttering a single undiplomatic word. 'I'm off. Got to go and sort out all those bloody Bonapartists.' He turned away brusquely. 'Hello, pet,' he greeted an approaching figure cheerfully, and was gone.

Claire appeared, or might have been there all the time, Geoffrey was not sure which. 'Congratulations, Home Secretary.'

God, had everyone heard about his promotion before him? 'But a word of advice,' she continued. 'The tie.'

'You like it?' he said, running his finger down the vibrant silk motif. 'Australian. An aboriginal fertility symbol, I'm told.'

'But a little too…' – she sought the appropriate term – 'courageous.'