The Final Cut. Michael Dobbs

      ‘Hardly. It’s four litres of testosterone encased in the silkiest and most explicit Italian styling you can find in this country without getting arrested. Ferrari. Rosso red. My only vice. And parked outside.’

      ‘And you’re worried whether all the wrapping paper is going to be removed from your dustbin by the end of the week,’ Makepeace taunted.

      ‘More worried that in this brave new world of ours the stereo system will have been ripped off by the end of this performance. What do you think, Secretary of State?’

      ‘Contain yourself, Diggers,’ Brynford-Jones interjected. ‘Nothing lasts forever.’

      The editor and lobbyist enjoyed the banter, but Makepeace’s mind had drifted elsewhere. He was gazing down onto the floor of the auditorium where Urquhart, surrounded by enthusing acolytes and attended closely by Geoffrey Booza-Pitt, was replacing his handkerchief.

      ‘Everything pukka, Tom?’ Brynford-Jones enquired.

      ‘Yes, of course. Just thinking how right you were. You know. About how nothing lasts forever.’

      *

      The red-leather box lay open on the back seat, papers untouched. The Minister had fallen asleep as soon as they reached the motorway – it had been a heavy working dinner and the old boy’s stamina wasn’t what it once was. He was snoring gently, mouth ajar, slumped awkwardly to one side. Should’ve worn his seat belt. The driver studied him carefully in the rear-view mirror for some time before deciding he could risk it. Cautiously, while ensuring that the Jaguar’s engine maintained its constant soothing cadence at a steady eighty-three miles an hour, he reached for the volume button of the radio. They were just about to kick off at Upton Park and the next ninety minutes would decide an entire season’s effort. He didn’t want to miss it.

      He paused as through the drizzle ahead emerged the rear lights of an old Escort, still trying to prove it was all TRi and not knackered to death. The Escort’s youthful driver cursed; the rotted rubber of his wipers had transformed the motorway into a smear of confusing messages and he was straining to make sense of the scene ahead. He had no eyes for what lay behind. The Minister’s driver decided not to risk waking his passenger by braking suddenly, not with the match about to start. He drew over to the middle lane to pass the other vehicle on the inside.

      Some events in life – and death – lie beyond reasonable explanation. Afterwards men of learning, experience and great forensic ability may gather to offer their views, yet all too frequently such views serve less as explanation than excuse. Sometimes it is as easy to accept that there are moments when Fate rouses herself from an afternoon nap and, sleep still heavy upon her eyes, points her finger capriciously and with chaotic intent. For it was just as the Minister’s driver was leaning towards the radio button once more, less than six feet to the rear and on the inside of the other vehicle, that the Escort’s rear offside burst. Fate. It swerved violently in front of the Ministerial limousine whose driver, one-handed, snatched at the wheel. The Jaguar hit the central reservation and turned a full, elegant circle on the damp road before crossing the hard shoulder and disappearing down an earth bank.

      It came to rest against the trunk of an elm tree. When the driver recovered from his shock, he found the Ministerial box battered and torn on the front seat beside him. And so was the Minister.

       CHAPTER TWO

       I hate outbreaks of unnecessary violence. They strip the violence that is essential of its pleasures.

      ‘Francis Urquhart, peacemaker?’

      Brynford-Jones made no attempt to hide the incredulity in his voice and he stared closely at Makepeace to gauge the reaction.

      ‘We live in an exciting new world, Bryan. Anything is possible.’

      ‘Agreed. But Francis Urquhart?’

      They had stood in line with the other guests on the stairs of Downing Street, waiting to be greeted formally by the Urquharts before being introduced to the Presidents of the divided Cypriot communities. The previous day, on the neutral territory of the ballroom of Lancaster House and under the public eye of the British Prime Minister, Turk and Greek had agreed the principles of peace and undertaken to settle all outstanding details within three months. The Confederated Republics of Cyprus were about to be born, conflict eschewed, the Right Honourable Francis Urquhart, MP, Acting Midwife, Peacemaker.

      Now came celebration. The powers that be within the land had been gathered together in the first-floor reception rooms of Downing Street, in order that they might offer thanks to peace and to Francis Urquhart. It was a levelling, for some almost humbling, experience. No matter how wealthy or well-known, they had been treated alike. No cars, no eminence, no exceptions. Stopped at the wrought-iron gates barring entrance to Downing Street from Whitehall. Scrutinized by police before being allowed to walk with their wives the full length of the street to the guarded front door. Being made to wait while their coats were exchanged for a wrinkled paper cloakroom ticket. Five minutes spent in line, shuffling piously up the stairs, step by single step, past the portraits of former leaders, the Walpoles, Pitts, Palmerstons, Disraelis, Churchills, and the one and only Margaret Thatcher. ‘To those we have crucified,’ Brynford-Jones had muttered. Then the formal introduction by some red-coated alien from another galaxy who seemed to recognize no one and had great trouble with pronunciation. ‘Mr Bimford-Jones’ had not been impressed, but then he rarely was.

      ‘It must have been like this at the Court of Versailles,’ he offered. ‘Just before the tumbrels arrived.’

      ‘Bryan, your cynicism runs away with you. Great changes require a little ruthlessness. Credit where it is due,’ Makepeace protested.

      ‘And are you ruthless, Tom? Ruthless enough to snatch old Francis’ crown? Because he’s not going to hand it over for Christmas. You’re going to have to snatch it, like he did. Like they all had to. Do you really have what it takes?’

      ‘You need luck, too, in politics,’ Makepeace responded, trying to deflect the question but showing no anxiety to finish with either the conversation or the editor.

      ‘Men should be masters of their own fates.’

      ‘You know I’d love the job but the question doesn’t arise. Yet.’

      ‘It never arises when you expect it. You want to achieve great things, you grab Fortune by the balls and hang on for the ride.’

      ‘Bryan, at times I think you’re trying to tempt me.’

      ‘No, not me. I simply present ambition to a man and see if ambition tempts him. I’m strictly a voyeur, the prerogative of the press. The dirty work I leave up to you guys – and girls!’ he exclaimed, reaching out to grab the elbow of another guest as she edged through the throng.

      Claire Carlsen turned and smiled, her face lighting up in recognition. She was also an MP, at thirty-eight a dozen years younger than Makepeace and the editor.

      ‘And what have you done to earn your place amidst this glittering herd?’ Brynford-Jones enquired. ‘I thought nobody below the rank of Earl or Archbishop was allowed at this trough. Certainly not a humble backbencher.’

      ‘It’s called tokenism, Bryan. Apparently professional middle-aged moralizers like you like to have a bit of skirt around to remind them of lost youth. You know, slobber a bit and go away happy. That’s the plan.’ The smile was warm but the autumn-blue eyes searching. She was tall, almost eye-to-eye with the rotund editor who enjoyed the glint of evening sunlight shining through her blonde hair.

      Brynford-Jones laughed loudly. ‘You’re too late for confession. I’ve already owned up to being a voyeur and in your case I’ll happily plead guilty. If ever that husband of yours throws you out, you’d be more than welcome to come and stir my evening cocoa.’

      ‘If ever I throw that husband of mine out,’ she corrected,