How different Jon was to Francis Urquhart. Urquhart always searched for weaknesses to exploit, private pieces which would wither a man's reputation to the roots when exposed to the sun. For him, every man of stature was a threat to be cut down to the stump. She began to realize that for Urquhart there were no mountains, no glorious escarpments and swooping valleys, only a flat and desolate landscape upon which he alone cast a shadow.
She'd learnt a valuable lesson today. She found Francis Urquhart hugely attractive. But she didn't very much like him. They'd discovered you couldn't organize a huge march in three days, but in five they had worked wonders. The novelty of the idea in a campaign which threatened to be squeezed of initiative by the party machines attracted several showy pieces in the press and on television, and fifty thousand leaflets were printed, their hurried and unambitious style carrying an appealing touch of sincerity. A small alternative advertising agency developed a logo for T-shirts emblazoned with the message 'F.U. Too'. He sighed when he saw it, but discouraged no one – if the event were small enough for him to control, he would already have failed. Only the route was firmly within his grasp – authorities permitting. The line of march was to begin in Albert Square beside the Town Hall in Manchester and finish in Trafalgar Square, something over two hundred miles in fourteen days with the bits in between being worked on almost as they marched. But march they did.
There were considerably fewer than two thousand on that first Sunday morning and their politics were distinctly dappled – the great majority were Cypriots with their families but there were also environmentalists, militant vegetarians, a smattering from the anti-hunting lobby who came to present a petition and left, a woman who had been at university with Makepeace and now ran a free-love-and-alfalfa commune somewhere in Cumbria, and three candidates from the Bobby Charlton for President Party. There were also enough journalists and television cameras to make it worthwhile. They came to look, to crow, to write feature pieces dipped in condescension and cant. 'Making War With Makepeace,' the Telegraph wrote opposite a photograph of three members of the Manchester Akropolis weightlifting team persuading the candidate of the Sunshine Brotherhood to put his clothes back on. Others wrote of chaotic coalitions, of Makepeace and his coat of many colours. But they wrote. And others read. It gave Makepeace a chance. The Battle Bus, as it was known, was a specially designed coach armoured with kevlar and mortar-proof compartments which had been constructed as Urquhart's primary means of road transport for the campaign. Chauffeur-driven Daimlers were deemed too remote and untouchable for the ordinary voter – although had any ordinary voter managed to penetrate the cordon of security thrown around the Battle Bus at every stop and touched anything apart from the windscreen wiper, they would have activated an alarm system delivering almost as many Special Branch officers as decibels. In motion now, sliding through the night air on its way back to London, there was nothing to disturb the Prime Minister's peace but the whisper of air conditioning and the quiet murmurings from the front compartment of aides conducting a post-mortem on the day's campaigning.
The campaign rally had been a success – no hint of hecklers getting into the hall, a good speech and, Urquhart had to admit, an even better video, although Elizabeth had been going on about resetting the music track. The evening had rather made up for the afternoon, an industrial visit to a factory which made agricultural equipment that included cattle prods. Some reptile from the press pond had discovered that the biggest single order for the electronic prods came not from an agricultural concern but from the National Police Headquarters in Zaire. Testicle ticklers. Urquhart had decided he'd test one on the cretin who arranged the visit.
But that had been the Six O'clock News and now the main evening news pictures and the morning headlines would carry more sensible coverage. Not a bad day's work, he reflected as he rested, eyes closed, in the Tank Turret – the bus's fortified central compartment.
There was a tugging at his sleeve. 'Sorry to disturb you, Prime Minister, there's a call from Downing Street. You'll need the scrambler.'
A sense of anticipation rose through tired limbs as he picked up the phone. It was his private secretary. 'Prime Minister, shall we scramble?'
Urquhart pushed the red button. During the last campaign they'd discovered a car shadowing the route of the bus with sophisticated monitoring equipment, hoping to pick up the chatter of the mobile phones and fax machines. He'd been disappointed to discover that the eavesdroppers were from neither the Opposition nor the IRA, either of which would have doubled his majority, but simply freelancers from a regional press bureau. They'd pleaded guilty to some minor telegraphy offence and been fined?100, making several thousand by selling details of their enterprise to the Mirror. He held a sneaking admiration for their initiative, but it had left his civil servants as reluctant to break news as pass wind. To bother him on the campaign trail betokened a matter of some importance.
He listened attentively for several minutes, saying little until the call had finished and he had switched off the phone.
'Trouble?' Elizabeth enquired from her seat on the other side of the bus where she had been signing letters. 'For someone.' 'Who?'
'That remains to be seen.' His eyes flashed and he drew back from his thoughts. 'There has been an announcement from Cyprus. It appears that our High Commissioner and their President Nicolaou are both alive, well, and being held hostage in the mountains.' 'By whom?'
He laughed, genuinely amused. 'By a bloody bishop.' 'You've got to get them out.'
Urquhart turned to examine Elizabeth, who shared none of his humour. 'It will be all right, Elizabeth.'
'No it won't' she replied. Her tone had edges of razor. 'Not necessarily.'
In the subdued night lighting of the bus he could sense rather than see her distress; he moved to sit beside her.
'Francis, you may never forgive me…' She was chewing on the soft flesh in her cheek.
'I've never had anything to forgive you for,' he replied, taking her hand. 'Tell me what's worrying you.' 'It's the Urquhart Library and the Endowment. I've been making plans…' He nodded. 'Making arrangements for the funding.' 'I'm delighted.'
'Francis, I did a deal with President Nures. If I could help him achieve a satisfactory arbitration decision for the Turkish side, he would ensure a consultancy payment made over to the Library fund.' 'Do we have a fund?' 'In Zurich.'
'And did you – help achieve a satisfactory decision?'