Read Online The House of Cards Complete Trilogy by Michael Dobbs - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Dobbs
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instant resignation. Yet he couldn’t leave it there. “I have to say that I…was rather looking for a change myself. A bit of new experience…a new challenge.” His words faltered as he found his mouth suddenly dry. “You may remember, Prime Minister, we had discussed the possibility…”
“Francis,” the Prime Minister interrupted, but not unkindly, “if I move you, I have to move others. The whole pile of dominoes begins to tumble. And I need you where you are. You are an excellent Chief Whip. You have devoted yourself to burrowing right into the heart and soul of the Parliamentary Party. You know them so well. We have to face up to the fact that with such a small majority there are bound to be one or two sticky patches over the next few years. I need to have a Chief Whip who is strong enough to handle them. I need you, Francis. You’re so good behind the scenes. We can leave it to others to do the job out front.”
Urquhart lowered his eyes, not wanting them to see the turmoil of betrayal that flushed through them. Collingridge took it as an expression of acceptance.
“I am truly grateful for your understanding and support, Francis.”
Urquhart felt the cell door slam shut. He thanked them both, took his farewell. Williams hadn’t uttered a single word.
He left by the back route through the basement of Number Ten. It took him past the ruins of the old Tudor tennis court where Henry VIII had played, then to the Cabinet Office that fronted onto Whitehall, along the road from the entrance to Downing Street and well out of sight of the waiting press. He couldn’t face them. He had been with the Prime Minister less than half an hour and he couldn’t trust his face to back up the lies he would have to tell them. He got a security guard at the Cabinet Office to telephone for his car to be brought round. He didn’t bother with small talk.
Eight
The truth is like a good wine. You often find it tucked away in the darkest corner of a cellar. It needs turning occasionally. And given a gentle dusting, too, before you bring it out into the light and start using it.
The battered BMW had been standing outside the house in Cambridge Street, Pimlico for almost a quarter of an hour. The vacant seats were smothered in a chaos of discarded newspapers and granola bar wrappers that only a truly busy single woman could produce, and in the middle of it all Mattie Storin sat biting her lip. The announcement of the reshuffle late that afternoon had led to febrile discussion as to whether the Prime Minister had been brilliant and audacious, or simply lost his nerve. She needed the views of the men who had helped shape the decisions. Williams had been persuasive and supportive as usual, but Urquhart’s phone had rung and rung, unanswered.
Without fully understanding why, after her shift at the Chronicle had finished Mattie had decided to drive past Urquhart’s London home, just ten minutes from the House of Commons in one of the elegant side streets that adorn the better parts of Pimlico. She expected to find it dark and empty but instead she discovered the lights were burning and there were signs of movement. She telephoned once more, yet still there was no answer.
The world of Westminster is a club of many unwritten rules and is guarded jealously by both politicians and press—and particularly the press, the so-called “lobby” of correspondents that quietly and discretely regulates media activity in the Palace of Westminster. It allows, for instance, briefings and interviews to take place on the strict understanding that the source will never be identified, not even a hint, everything in the shadows. This encourages politicians to be wildly indiscreet and to break confidences; in turn it allows the lobby correspondents to meet their deadlines and create the most remarkable headlines. The code of omertà is the lobby correspondent’s passport; without it he—or she—would find all doors closed and mouths firmly shut.
“Francis,” the Prime Minister interrupted, but not unkindly, “if I move you, I have to move others. The whole pile of dominoes begins to tumble. And I need you where you are. You are an excellent Chief Whip. You have devoted yourself to burrowing right into the heart and soul of the Parliamentary Party. You know them so well. We have to face up to the fact that with such a small majority there are bound to be one or two sticky patches over the next few years. I need to have a Chief Whip who is strong enough to handle them. I need you, Francis. You’re so good behind the scenes. We can leave it to others to do the job out front.”
Urquhart lowered his eyes, not wanting them to see the turmoil of betrayal that flushed through them. Collingridge took it as an expression of acceptance.
“I am truly grateful for your understanding and support, Francis.”
Urquhart felt the cell door slam shut. He thanked them both, took his farewell. Williams hadn’t uttered a single word.
He left by the back route through the basement of Number Ten. It took him past the ruins of the old Tudor tennis court where Henry VIII had played, then to the Cabinet Office that fronted onto Whitehall, along the road from the entrance to Downing Street and well out of sight of the waiting press. He couldn’t face them. He had been with the Prime Minister less than half an hour and he couldn’t trust his face to back up the lies he would have to tell them. He got a security guard at the Cabinet Office to telephone for his car to be brought round. He didn’t bother with small talk.
Eight
The truth is like a good wine. You often find it tucked away in the darkest corner of a cellar. It needs turning occasionally. And given a gentle dusting, too, before you bring it out into the light and start using it.
The battered BMW had been standing outside the house in Cambridge Street, Pimlico for almost a quarter of an hour. The vacant seats were smothered in a chaos of discarded newspapers and granola bar wrappers that only a truly busy single woman could produce, and in the middle of it all Mattie Storin sat biting her lip. The announcement of the reshuffle late that afternoon had led to febrile discussion as to whether the Prime Minister had been brilliant and audacious, or simply lost his nerve. She needed the views of the men who had helped shape the decisions. Williams had been persuasive and supportive as usual, but Urquhart’s phone had rung and rung, unanswered.
Without fully understanding why, after her shift at the Chronicle had finished Mattie had decided to drive past Urquhart’s London home, just ten minutes from the House of Commons in one of the elegant side streets that adorn the better parts of Pimlico. She expected to find it dark and empty but instead she discovered the lights were burning and there were signs of movement. She telephoned once more, yet still there was no answer.
The world of Westminster is a club of many unwritten rules and is guarded jealously by both politicians and press—and particularly the press, the so-called “lobby” of correspondents that quietly and discretely regulates media activity in the Palace of Westminster. It allows, for instance, briefings and interviews to take place on the strict understanding that the source will never be identified, not even a hint, everything in the shadows. This encourages politicians to be wildly indiscreet and to break confidences; in turn it allows the lobby correspondents to meet their deadlines and create the most remarkable headlines. The code of omertà is the lobby correspondent’s passport; without it he—or she—would find all doors closed and mouths firmly shut.
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