'Can you confirm that the military advice was against this convoy heading for Nicosia?'
'Such private discussions must remain confidential…'
'But are there really lives at stake, or is this simply a tangle with St Trinian's?' 'This is a serious matter…'
'Will you send in the SAS?' – 'Better send in Michael Jackson' a colleague offered.
'Gentlemen, this has nothing to do with farming…' 'Dig for victory, eh, Prime Minister?'
The television lights seemed uncharacteristically warm this morning. He could feel the prickle of perspiration on his scalp and Prime Ministers aren't meant to sweat, to show pressure or exasperation. The cruel eye of television allows them nothing more than a cheerful glow, but he wasn't feeling cheerful.
'And what about Mr Makepeace, Prime Minister? Has there been any contact between Downing Street and the Birmingham police about his arrest?' Claire looked on from the wings, studying him closely while she twisted inside. Means, ends, truth, principle, pragmatism. Politics. Weeds choking the rose. She knew he'd have to lie, to deceive, perhaps she would too in his position – except she would never have got herself into that position, would she? She had been trusting, naive. She still had much to learn, even about herself. And much still to do.
The question hung in the air. Urquhart offered a reproachful glance at his wristwatch. 'You'll forgive me, ladies and gentlemen, but this is proving to be an unexpectedly busy day.' She would attempt to make the walk that day even if she were on her own. Fifteen miles to Stratford-upon-Avon, from a sloping farmer's field outside Bentley Heath, south of Birmingham, where the M40 and M42 motorways intersect. To show Tom he was not alone.
She had arrived early after the confusion of the night before and had sat on the dewy grass, waiting. Time hung heavily upon the morning air, weighing down her spirits. There was, perhaps, little point in this gesture, but gestures have to be made. Sometimes that is all there is. And others seemed to agree.
Like daffodils in spring, Makepeace's movement had grown, not yet in flower but already thrusting defiantly through the oppressive snow. They came, in families, with friends, on buses, by train and on foot, some solemn, some singing, carrying banners and babies, trickling into the field until they had grown to a river swollen on injustice. Then, with their unerring instinct for crowds, the first mobile kebab shops arrived. At last she ventured a smile. She could imagine no more powerful symbol of success, of spring. The cuckoos of journalism would not be far behind.
By nine they numbered nearly five thousand. Not bad for a Monday morning.
Maria had grown with the movement, in confidence, in judgement and independence. She'd never stood before anything more formidable than a class of thirty infants, but armies march to the beat of a drum and in Tom's absence someone had to do it. They looked to her.
She clambered onto the roof of the small Renault support van to face them. Slowly, the shuffle of noise subsided until all eyes clung to her. She had no words for what was in her heart, but somehow she felt that they all understood and shared.
The breeze caught her face, blowing back her dark hair and rubbing into her cheeks the flush of rebellion. Then, slowly and as though in great pain, she raised her clasped hands high above her head. As Makepeace had done the previous day, in chains. Five thousand pairs of hands rose towards the sky, clenched in defiance, and as many voices sang out in chorus.
From the control van parked in a lay-by beyond the entrance to the field, hurried conversations were flowing up the chain of police command, from the Inspector on the scene all the way to the Chief Constable's office. The marchers had started on their way before the decision came back down. There was little chance of the march being met by violent opposition, at least for the next few hours; skinheads wouldn't be out of bed yet. Anyway, the march was heading away from Birmingham, out of West Midlands' jurisdiction; so good riddance and the Warwickshire Constabulary could pick up the problem. Anyway, what were they supposed to do, arrest the whole bloody lot? 'Kiss 'em goodbye, Inspector.' In the pink light of dawn the cutting glistened like the inside of a wolf's mouth, waiting to snap shut on its prey. It did not last. By mid-morning the moisture had burnt away and the rocks of pillow lava were batting the sun's rays back and forth in a cruel game of solar ping-pong. The temperature at the road surface was ninety and climbing.
Nicolaou had slept badly. The strain of the last few days was telling on a body which even in youth had been far from robust, and the reserves of character and resilience he had drained during his time at the Lodge had proved impossible to replenish. The sharp cold of the mountain night had cut through to his bones and he was in no mood to eat breakfast, even had there been any. His eyes had grown glassy, he was beginning to run a fever. But there was still pride.
They had made him as comfortable as the circumstances would allow in the back of one of the four-tonners. He had uttered not a single word of complaint, offering only a brave smile for his daughter, but she was not fooled and refused to disguise her concern. And by mid-afternoon the temperature even in the shade was over a hundred.
St Aubyn made hourly rounds of the besieged convoy, trying to maintain morale, emphasizing to all that had the Cypriots been intent on personal harm they would undoubtedly have inflicted it by now.
'Cypos are nice people, Sir,' a corporal confirmed, wiping his reddened face with a rag. 'Funny thing is, though, when I was a kid we had lots of beetles on the farm. I never got into trouble for crushing them, it was only when I tried to burn the bleedin' things alive with a magnifying glass that me old man gave me a belt. Think I'm beginning to understand what he meant.'
St Aubyn passed on quickly, unwilling to tangle with such singular logic. The next truck was Nicolaou's.
'Fetch me a little water, Elpida,' her father asked, as St Aubyn appeared at his feet.
When she was gone he turned to the soldier. 'Colonel, I am desperately sorry to tell you this, but I'm not sure if I shall be able to last very much longer.'
St Aubyn knelt beside him. 'Mr President,' he whispered, 'the water your daughter is fetching is all but our final cup. I'm not sure how much longer any of us will be able to last.' They were able to maintain intermittent radio contact with the outside world through the helicopters which flew surveillance at regular intervals high over the cutting. From this they were able to inform their base that their supplies were exhausted, and to learn that as yet no one had any idea how – or when – they might be released.
As dusk drew in a Wessex appeared on the horizon flying fast and low, no more than two hundred feet, the door to the rear cabin latched back. As it passed overhead two drums emerged, sprouted silken wings and began floating down, laminated red in the light of the melting sun. A straggling cheer rose from hoarse throats as the soldiers watched the water drums floating towards them and the Wessex begin its turn to start another supply run.
The drums were about a hundred feet from the ground when two shotgun blasts rang out on the ridge above. The parachutes exploded into a cloud of rag feathers and the supplies plummeted to the ground. On impact they burst, one drum almost taking a startled soldier with it into the afterlife.
With a dip of its nose, the Wessex abandoned its run and vanished into the evening sky. Elizabeth woke to a clap of summer thunder. It was three a.m., the air dank and oppressive, outside the curtain of night was being torn by the white lightning of the storm. He was at the window; he hadn't slept.
She joined him, her arm snaking through his like links in a chain. 'You are troubled, Francis.'
'The gods are troubled tonight. I feel…' He shrugged, unable to finish.
'Francis, this is no time for secrets between us.'
He breathed deep and tried again. 'I feel as though they are waging war over me, the gods out there. Fighting over who will dispose of Francis Urquhart.' 'Who will sit at his side in triumph,' she corrected.