Michael Dobbs - The Final Cut

'And it is my duty, Commander, to secure the peace throughout our country. That's what is at stake here, nothing less. I will not permit you to use troops and tear gas against them.'

'But I don't have enough men to guarantee the security of the grounds or this building. That means you, Sir.' 'I have no concern for my own safety.' 'And your family?'

Nicolaou turned towards his daughter, who was still at the piano. She meant everything to him. When he was lonely because his wife was once more absent, Elpida was there as companion. When he grew outraged at his wife's indulgences, she was there to remind him of what he owed to his marriage. When he was uncertain, she acted as inspiration, raising him above the short-term and trivial to the Cyprus of tomorrow. Elpida's Cyprus. Balm for his every wound.

'It is precisely for her that I must say no. I can't sign a peace treaty with the Turks if there is blood on the streets of Nicosia.'

'Sir!' The commander was pleading now. His voice dropped to prevent Elpida from hearing. 'As an old friend. The choice you're facing is not so much if there will be blood, but whose blood it will be.'

The President walked over to the window, from where he could see out over the floodlit statue of Makarios and the cypress trees to the impressive panorama beyond. 'Panayoti, come here.'

The Commander walked to the President's side. Nicolaou opened the window. 'What's out there?' 'A rabble. Baying at your doorstep.' 'But what do you see out there?' 'The lights of the old city.'

'And beyond that, in the darkness, is the other half of our country. Isn't it time, Panayoti, to bring those two halves back together again? After all these years and so much blood?'

'That's politics, Sir. Your job. My job is security. And I tell you we've got to do something about those people out there.'

With the window open the howl of protest had become unrelenting. 'Then I shall talk to them.' 'This is no time for humour.'

'Let a few of them in. I'll talk to them from the steps.' 'Madness!' 'Perhaps so. But I shall do it nevertheless.' 'At least talk to them from the balcony.'

'The balcony where hangs the British Royal Standard? Peeking out from behind the imperial lion? I think not. No, let it be from the steps.' 'But I can't guarantee your safety!' 'Then leave that task to God.'

And Panayotis, as he had been trained throughout his career, no matter how unacceptable or unreasonable the command, had obeyed. They had planned on perhaps two dozen but numbers are impossible to control when thousands are pressing against the gates, and nearer two hundred had crowded their way in by the time the gates were forced shut once more. They gathered on the driveway before the main entrance, guarded by two ornamental cannons, assorted gargoyles, a couple of flower tubs and a cohort of the palace guard.

Shouts of fury erupted as Nicolaou appeared, waving his hands above his head for calm.

'Cypriots, countrymen. Allow me to be heard. Allow yourselves to hear.' 'Turk lover!' came the cry. 'I love only one thing. Cyprus!' 'Then why give it to the filthy Turks?' – 'And the British!'

'No one has suffered more than I from the thought that our country is divided. I weep for those who have lost families. Homes. Everything.' 'And won't lift a finger to help them.'

Panayotis was growing increasingly nervous. It was already clear that Nicolaou had railed to gain control of the crowd, was entering into a dialogue of the deaf. His logic and sincerity stood no chance against the raw emotions of a mob.

'My friends, remember what split our island. What brought the Turkish Army to our shores. It was when we Greeks fell out amongst each other. When Makarios stood here on these very steps and they refused to listen to him.' His hands stretched up one of the sandstone columns that stood to either side. 'See these holes. Where the bullets struck. When they tried to kill our Archbishop.'

A scattering of neat cylindrical holes and craters had been gouged from the columns, bullet holes, relics of the coup which Makarios had ordered to remain, like the royal standard, as part of the heritage. Stigmata in stone. Now Nicolaou's fingers crept towards them, stretching out, reaching for the mantle of Makarios. The tips of his fingers were almost there when another hole appeared, accompanied by a cloud of dust. Only then did he hear the gunshot.

The effect on the crowd was immediate, as though a starting pistol had been fired. They began to surge forward, pushing against the cordon of guards in front of the steps like dogs at a deer. Nicolaou, bewildered and still only at the early stages of fear, found himself borne aloft in the arms of Panayotis and hustled through the main door, which was slammed shut behind them. Within seconds from the other side there came a primitive baying and a barrage of blows against the wood. At the same time the gates to the palace grounds that had been holding back the main body of protesters were swept aside as anger turned to rage at the sound of gunfire and thousands came streaming up the long driveway.

'For God's sake, now will you go?' Panayotis barked. 'Elpida,' pleaded Nicolaou.

But his daughter was already running down the circular staircase from the private quarters, past the antiquities, the stone heads and torsos, a small harvest of the island's ancient heritage which would soon lie smashed and strewn upon the ground.

Father and daughter tried to embrace, but Panayotis was already pulling them apart and dragging them down the long corridor with its Moorish arches and youthful tapestries that led through the heart of the U-shaped building. Running beside them was the sound of shattering windows, raised voices, wrecking. Then more gunshots.

Panayotis led them to a part of the palace Nicolaou had never visited, at the back of the kitchens. A door. Stone steps. Another door for which Panayotis had a large key. Then they were in a tunnel hacked from the bare rock.

'Makarios Avenue,' Panayotis whispered grimly. 'His escape route at the time of the last coup.'

It was cool, dimly lit, at least two hundred metres long, perhaps longer – Nicolaou had lost all sense of proportion in the confined space. His thoughts were befuddled, still worrying about his commander's words. 'The last coup.' Was this, too, a coup?

They emerged through another door at the far side of the swimming pool, beyond the amphitheatre where Nicolaou had entertained groups of schoolchildren and where, in a previous time of trouble, the British had played tennis. Then they were in the woods, vast stands of eucalyptus which glowered in the moonlight. Behind them the noise of wreckage was growing ever more relentless.

They crossed the shale and loose rocks of a dried river bed – Nicolaou lost his footing and was once more hauled aloft by the ready arms of his commander – and they came upon the chain-link fence which separated the palace grounds from whatever lay beyond. There were no protesters here, they were too busy in the Palace. They heard the sound of a muffled explosion. Panayotis dragged them on.

Another lock on the gate through the fence. Another key. Panayotis seemed well prepared. Then they scrambled up a bank and were standing on an empty road.

'Where to, Sir? A British base?' That was where Makarios had fled, to Akrotiri, into the arms of the old enemy and away from the waving fists of his own people, but Nicolaou decided he had already that evening donned too much of the Archbishop's mantle. 'No. Not to the British. To the mountains.'

Then there were headlights advancing upon them. Panayotis drew a gun.

'Stay in the bushes, Sir,' he instructed, and stood in the middle of the road, waving his arms.

The car stopped. No rioters, only an elderly couple driving home after an evening meal. A German couple who spoke neither Greek nor English, but who understood all too well the unmistakable language of Panayotis' gun.