They've no idea, he mused to himself. Middle of an election campaign and Europe says No. Deserts us. With British lives at stake. It'll be the Dunkirk spirit all over again. They'll be running up Union Jacks on every council estate in the country and saying prayers in chapel in praise of Arthur Bollingbroke. And Francis Urquhart, of course. Just as F.U. had said they would. Bloody marvellous. It was Thursday. Exactly two weeks to go before the election.
'I am concerned, Prime Minister, that we should not rush into things. There are lives at stake and, to be frank, we've never prepared for a contingency of this sort. Invading Cyprus, if you will.'
'Don't worry, General, I've thought of that for you.'
The Deputy Chief of Defence Staff (Commitments), Lieutenant General Sir Quentin Young-blood, cleared his throat. He wasn't used to having his military judgement either questioned or improved. 'But with the greatest respect, Prime Minister, we've found no one who can brief us on the layout. We simply don't know what this Presidential Lodge looks like and what sort of target it will be.'
'Look no further, General. I visited the Lodge several times when I was serving in Cyprus. It used to be the summer home of the British Governor. It won't have changed much; the Cypriots are sticklers for tradition. Too idle for change.'
'Even so, there are so many political complications. I must ask for a little more time for preparation.' He looked around the other members of the War Cabinet seeking support. The Defence Secretary was shuffling his briefing papers, about to join in.
'No!' Urquhart's hand banged down on the Cabinet table. 'You're asking to give the bloody Bishop more time. Time in which he will strengthen his position and raise the costs for us all…'
Let alone increase the chances of Elizabeth's letter falling into the wrong hands.
'But there are logistical problems, too. We can't afford to rush in blind,' Youngblood protested.
Urquhart looked around the table at COBRA, the Cabinet sub-committee gathered together to handle 'Operation Defrock', as Urquhart had called it. Apart from Youngblood there sat Bollingbroke as Foreign Secretary, the Defence Secretary, the Attorney General (to pronounce on legal requirements), and the Party Chairman to help with presentation and the selling of a great victory. The defence chiefs had muttered objections to the inclusion of the Party Chairman, afraid that it would make the matter seem all too party political a fortnight before polling day. How right they were.
Booza-Pitt had asked to be included, practically begged. For however long it lasted this exercise was going to be at the top of the news and he wanted to be there with it. He'd left a pleading message with Urquhart's private office, insisting that as head of one of the three great departments of state his input and inclusion were vital. But it was a busy day; Urquhart hadn't even bothered to reply. 'Life is destined to be so full of disappointments for the boy,' he'd ventured to his private secretary. But at least Booza-Pitt wasn't a man of faint heart, unlike some. Urquhart stared directly at the General.
'These logistical problems. What form do they take?'
Youngblood drew breath. 'Since the rather lurid reports were published of the Foreign Secretary's discussions in Europe' – Youngblood cast a reproachful look across the table, determined that blame should be shifted onto political shoulders – 'elements of the Cypriot community have treated our preparations as tantamount to a declaration of war. My local commander in Cyprus tells me of a considerable increase in public hostility. It has made any initiative we might take considerably more complicated.'
'And will grow more complicated the longer we leave it.'
'But at this stage there are too many imponderables. I cannot guarantee success.'
'You cannot guarantee that the British Army can whip a bloody bishop?' Urquhart could scarcely contain his derision.
'Success in my opinion is achieving our objectives without unnecessary loss of life.'
'And it is delay which threatens disaster. Timing, timing, timing, General. For God's sake, the Presidential Lodge is barely twenty miles along good roads from our base at Akrotiri. We could be there before your tea's had time to grow cold.' 'But…'
'Are there armed men waiting at the gates of Akrotiri to intercept our convoy? Is that what you are afraid of?' 'There is a blockade…'
'No, General. No more excuses. The time has come.'
Without taking his eyes off the military man, Urquhart had reached for the red phone that sat in front of him on the Cabinet table and raised it to his ear. 'Give me Air Marshal Rae.'
'Prime Minister!' Youngblood protested in puce. 'The chain of military command and communication goes through me. We cannot have politicians interfering in a military operation and…'
'General, you've already insisted that this is a political operation as well as a military one. Are you trying to deny the Prime Minister the right to discuss matters with the local commander?'
Youngblood stared back defiantly but held silence, uncertain of his ground. Air Vice-Marshal Rae was not only the Commander, British Forces Cyprus, but had a further role as the Administrator of the Sovereign Base Areas, effectively the political governor of the British territories. Two hats. But which was he wearing at this moment…? While Youngblood pondered several centuries of constitutional etiquette and precedent, the communications chain of command which ran through operational headquarters at Northwood and onward via satellite above the Sahara had worked without flaw; within seconds Urquhart was linked with the Commander' Administrator in Episkopi at the heart of the Akrotiri base.
'Air Marshal Rae, this is the Prime Minister. I'm talking from the Cabinet Room. I understand your base is under some form of blockade.' He paused while he listened.
'I see. There are two hundred women at the gates blockading it with prams and babies' pushchairs.' The glance he shot at Youngblood was like a viper's tongue. 'In your opinion, would breaking through that blockade of prams constitute a threat to the lives of British servicemen?' A pause.
'I thought not. That being the case, Air Marshal, my orders to you are to cordon off the Presidential Lodge. Make sure that the Bishop and the hostages cannot get out, and no one else can get in. I want it sealed tight. That is to be done immediately. You are then to wait for further instructions. Is that clear?'
Urquhart turned his attention to those in the Cabinet Room. 'Gentlemen, are we in agreement?'
All eyes were turned to Youngblood. Now that the orders had been issued, to dispute them would be professional suicide. He would have no choice but to resign. And, as Urquhart knew, he was not a rash man, likely to jump to precipitate action. The General found something of consuming interest to study amongst the papers in front of him. The news cameraman knew the moment was at hand from the increased level of noise, of shouted commands, of stamping feet and revving engines which had been coming from behind the wire and outbuildings at Episkopi all through the night. He could sense rather than see a change in the activity around the gates, a quickening of pace behind the rolls of razor wire, a sharpness in the reflex, like a lumbering Sumo wrestler about to hurl himself at his opponent. The women sensed the change, too, calling to their children, hugging them more closely than ever, reassuring each other even while their eyes spoke of anxiety and danger. Keep together, they whispered. Success through solidarity. And they had chained and tied the collection of prams and pushchairs together such that it would take an hour to untangle them all. But 'Stinger' Rae did not have an hour.
The first sign of movement came soon after dawn from two olive-painted vehicles which drove up rapidly until a squeal of brakes brought them to a halt only inches from the gates. Several of the women at the front of the demonstration stood in order to gain a clearer view; they were the first to be hit and sent sprawling by the powerful water jets of the fire tenders. The vehicles were not specifically built for riot control, the nozzles of their hoses not set for maximum force, but nevertheless the impact of these 'gentle persuaders', as Rae's press officer would later term them, was devastating. Within less than a minute the demonstration in front of the gates had been washed away in a flood of children's screams. Even as they sobbed in the rushing gutters and on the grass verges around the gateway, teams of servicemen ran into action. The first removed the razor wire, dragging it roughly to one side, another team of medics fanned out amongst the women and their infants to minister to the minor injuries, abrasions and bruises that had been inflicted and the vapours thereby caused. Hot coffee and milk were already at hand. A third team of military policewomen scoured through the overturned and waterlogged baby vehicles to ensure that they were all empty. One sleeping infant was lifted from a pushchair and handed to his dazed mother sitting on the grass verge. Then the all-clear was pronounced.