The Final Cut. Michael Dobbs

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      ‘Pillow talk, perhaps, no more than that. I…I may have left my Ministerial box open in her bedroom on one occasion.’

      Urquhart marvelled at the younger man’s inventiveness. ‘You know as well as I do, Geoffrey, that if this comes out they won’t believe you. They’ll hound you right up the steps of the Old Bailey.’

      The fountain pen was now pointed directly at Booza-Pitt, like an officer’s sword at a court martial, in condemnation. Urquhart produced a sheet of writing paper which he laid alongside it. ‘I want you to write me a letter, Geoffrey, which I shall dictate.’

      Awkwardly, with the movements of a man freezing in the Arctic desert, Booza-Pitt began to write:

      ‘“Dear Prime Minister,”’ Urquhart began. ‘“I am sorry to have to inform you that I have been having an affair with a married woman, the wife of the chairman of my local association…”’

      Geoffrey raised pleading eyes, but Urquhart nodded him on.

      ‘“Moreover, she has accused me of using confidential information available to me as a Government Minister to trade in blighted property and enrich myself, in breach not only of Ministerial ethics but also of the criminal law. New paragraph, Geoffrey. “While I have given you my word of honour that these accusations are utterly without foundation, in light of these allegations…”’

      Booza-Pitt paused to raise a quizzical brow.

      ‘“I have no alternative other than to tender my resignation.”’

      The death warrant. A sob of misery bounced across the desk.

      ‘Sign it, Geoffrey.’ The pen had become an instrument of punishment. ‘But don’t date it.’

      A dawning of hope, a stay of execution. Booza-Pitt did as he was told, managed a smile. Urquhart retrieved the paper, examined it thoroughly, and slid it into the drawer of his desk. Then his voice sank to a whisper, like a vault expelling the last of its air.

      ‘You contemptible idiot! How dare you endanger my Government with your sordid little vices? You’re not fit to participate in a Francis Urquhart Cabinet.’

      ‘I’m so dreadfully sorry. And appreciative…’

      ‘I created you. Made a space for you at the trough.’

      ‘Always grateful…’

      ‘Never forget.’

      ‘Never shall. But…but, Francis. What are we going to do about my chairman?’

      ‘I may, just possibly, be able to save your life. What’s his name?’

      ‘Richard Tennent.’

      ‘Have I ever met him?’

      ‘Last year, when you came to my constituency. He chewed your ear about grants for tourism.’

      Slowly, without taking his eyes off Booza-Pitt, Urquhart reached for his phone. ‘Get me a Mr Richard Tennent. New Spalden area.’

      And they waited in silence. It took less than two minutes for the operator to make the connection.

      ‘Mr Tennent? This is Francis Urquhart at Downing

      Street. Do you remember we met last year, had that delightful discussion about tourism? Yes, you put the case very well. Look, I wanted to have an entirely confidential word with you, if you’re agreeable. Bit unorthodox, but I have a problem. Did you know that you’ve been put up for an honour, for your political and public service?’

      Evidently not.

      ‘No, you shouldn’t have known, these things are supposed to be confidential. That’s why I wanted an entirely private word. You see, I’ve just been going through the list and, to be frank, after what you’ve done for the party I thought you deserved something a little better. A knighthood, in fact. Trouble is, there’s a strict quota and a bit of a waiting list. I very much want you to have the “K”, Mr Tennent, but it would mean your waiting perhaps another eighteen months. You can have the lesser gong straight away, though, if you like.’

      The voice dripped goodwill while his eyes lashed coldly across Booza-Pitt, who showed little sign of being able to breathe.

      ‘You’d prefer to wait. I entirely understand. But you realize that this must remain utterly confidential until then. Won’t stop you and Lady Tennent attending a Downing Street reception in the meantime, though? Good.’

      A tight smile of triumph.

      ‘One last thing. These things get pushed through a Scrutiny Committee, look at each individual case to make sure there are no skeletons in the closet, nothing that might prove a public embarrassment, cause the honour to be handed back or any such nonsense. Forgive my asking, but since your name will be carrying my personal recommendation, there’s nothing on the horizon that might…?’

      A pause.

      ‘Delighted to hear that. I must just repeat that if anything were to leak out about your upcoming award…But then the party has always known it can rely on you. Sir Richard, I am most grateful.’

      He chuckled as he threw the phone back into its cradle. ‘There you are! The old Round Table gambit always works; give ’em a knighthood and a sense of purpose and they always come aboard. With luck that’ll keep his mouth shut for at least another eighteen months and possibly for good.’

      Geoffrey had just begun to imitate the Prime Minister’s bonhomie when Urquhart turned on him with unmistakable malevolence. ‘Now get out. And don’t ever expect me to do that again.’

      Geoffrey rose, a tremble still evident in his knees. ‘Why did you, Francis, this time?’

      The light from the desk lamp threw harsh shadows across Urquhart’s face, bleaching from it any trace of vitality. One eye seemed almost to have been plucked out, leaving a hollowed socket that led straight to a darkness within.

      ‘Because Francis Urquhart and only Francis Urquhart is going to decide when Ministers come and go from his Cabinet, not some shrivelling cuckold from New Spalden.’

      ‘I understand.’ He had been hoping for some acknowledgement of his own irreplaceable worth.

      ‘And because now I own you. Today, tomorrow, and for as long as I wish. You will jump whenever I flick my fingers, whether it be at the throats of our enemies or into your own grave. Without question. Total loyalty.’

      ‘Of course, Francis. You had that anyway.’ He turned to leave.

      ‘One last thing, Geoffrey.’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Give me back my fountain pen.’

       CHAPTER SEVEN

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