Michael Dobbs - The Final Cut

'Confound you! Will argument take the place of backbone in the British Army? What on earth can be difficult about replacing one officer with another?'

'Nothing difficult in that, Prime Minister. It's simply that I won't do it for you.' 'You are refusing me?' 'Exactly.' The Prime Minister used a short, foul word.

'I realize that for such a refusal you will require my head on the block,' Youngblood continued, 'but let me assure you that my speech from the scaffold will be truly magnificent. And forthcoming. I shall, for instance, relate how at every stage you have rejected and ignored military advice, brought this calamity upon yourself. I shall indicate how the nature and timing of our military efforts in Cyprus have been twisted to what I can only assume is an election timetable – I may be wrong about your motives, of course, it may have been folly rather than downright political fraud which caused you to act as you have done, but I shall be happy for others to make up their own minds.' He cleared his throat, offered a perfunctory smile seeded with scorn. 'I surprise myself; I'm rather enjoying this. I shall take considerably less enjoyment, however, from blaming you in public for each and every death, British or Cypriot, which might ensue from your folly.'

'You wouldn't dare' Urquhart gasped; suddenly he was having difficulty breathing.

'Prime Minister, those are brave boys out there, my boys. And innocent children. If any of them comes to harm, I give you my word as an officer that I'll peg you out on an anthill in front of every polling station in the country.'

The brown felt cloth across the Cabinet table had been rucked between Urquhart's clenched fists. A film of confusion had spread across his eyes, dimming their brightness. He stared ahead but could no longer see, blind. Or was it that there was nothing to see but darkness? He felt as though he were falling backwards into nothing.

The General cleared his throat once again and gathered up the papers before him into a neat bundle.

'To contemplate what could turn into a massacre of children before the television cameras of the world is a form of madness. I shall have no part in it.' He stood, straightened his uniform, adopted the pose of a Viking before the funeral pyre. 'Now, Sir. Do I have your permission to leave?' 'I am brought to this court for no offence other than my politics. My views do not find favour with some. There were bullies on the streets who tried to stop my march; there are others, lingering in the shadows, who are their accomplices. Who will not accept an Englishman's right to disagree, to carve his own path, to decide for himself. We fought two world wars for those rights against enemies without. Now we must face an enemy within. I am called unpatriotic, yet there is no one who loves this country more than I do. I am accused of inciting violence, yet I march only for peace. I am brought before this court, accused of a crime, yet no man clings more closely to justice than do I. And of what am I accused? If it is not a defence for a man to argue that he acted improperly because he was only obeying orders, then surely there can be no offence if a man refuses to obey improper orders. Stubbornness is a quality much to be admired in English oak. I defied the police not because I lack respect for them, but because I have greater respect for the inherent right of an Englishman to say – stuff the lot of you! I want to do it my way. If it is a crime to be English, then I acknowledge that I am guilty. If it gives offence to love freedom and fair play, then, too, I am guilty. If it is a transgression to want peace, then yet again I am guilty. If it is a sin to believe that this country deserves a better form of politics, then condemn me and throw away the key. And do it now. For I shall not hide my views, nor compromise them for the sake of office, neither shall I do deals behind closed doors for things I cannot support in the open sunlight. I have no party, only my politics. And in those politics there is respect, for the law. Love, for my country. Sacrifice, for peace. And defiance for those who would trample over the rights of ordinary men and women. It is they, not I, who are trying to turn this court into a tool of political manipulation, and if they start and succeed here in Birmingham, in the heart of England, where will they stop? And do we have to ask who are "they"?' 'Sit down, sit down,' Urquhart instructed, desperately attempting to reassess the situation. But Youngblood remained standing. Urquhart felt drained, he reached for his glass of water. Everyone noted its tremble. He drained it in a savage gulp but it left trickles at the corners of his mouth and his upper lip damp. His eyes flickered nervously, staring up at Youngblood. 'Sit down, man. There are lives at stake. Let us at least talk it through.'

Stiffly and with evident reluctance, the General subsided.

No one spoke as Urquhart's teeth bit into a knuckle, trying to put himself back in touch with his own feelings, even if they were only feelings of pain. For a moment he seemed to be floating, freed from his own body, observing the group from a distance, gazing down at a man sitting immobile in the chair reserved for the Prime Minister, a man who seemed trapped like a fly in amber. One of history's victims.

'I apologize, General, if I appeared rash. That was not my intention.' He could not feel the tongue which formulated the words, his voice unnaturally taut as though he had swallowed neat mustard.

Youngblood cast a look to turn milk, but said nothing.

'If it is your advice that there is no apparent military solution,' Urquhart continued, still stilted, 'what suggestions do you have to make?' Youngblood gave a terse shake of his head.

'Anyone?' Urquhart offered, staring round the table. For the first time he realized he had scarcely once over the last few days asked other members of COBRA to contribute, but even rubber stamps can make a mark.

No one had anything to say. Then the General coughed. 'Rae's the man on the spot. I trust anything he has to say.' Urquhart nodded. 'Rae,' the General barked, 'your thoughts, please.'

'My thoughts, gentlemen,' the voice carried across a thousand miles, 'are that this is a political situation which can only have a political solution.' 'Please feel free, Air Marshal' Urquhart croaked.

'Reluctantly I reach the conclusion that if the Cypriots want the bases back, there is little we can do to stop them. Now, next year, sometime soon. They would win. These things have an undeniable momentum.'

'But the bases are our most vital listening post throughout the Middle East. Giving them up would be a military and intelligence disaster,' Urquhart objected.

'Depends, Sir. The Cypriots don't dislike our presence here, indeed they welcome it. Off the boil they're very hospitable. And the bases bring them vast amounts of income and jobs. What they object to is our being freeholders in their own country.'

'What are you suggesting, Rae?' Youngblood pushed.

'If I were a politician, Sir' – his tone conveyed his delight that he was not – 'I'd be thinking about a deal. Keep us all as friends. Let them know we're happy to return the title to the base areas, then do a deal to lease them back. We keep the bases, the Cypriots keep the income. Everybody's happy.' 'Intriguing,' Youngblood muttered.

Urquhart's expression was of stone, his mind like an ice field which was slowly cracking. As he sat silently, independent thoughts began to swirl around him.

The Party Chairman shook his head. 'It would be a political disaster.'

'Not necessarily. Not if we made it our initiative,' the Defence Secretary contradicted. 'A solution that would keep our reputation as peacemakers in the island. After all, who could object? Dick Clarence has already publicly backed us in Cyprus, he couldn't bleat.'