Read Online To Play the King by Michael Dobbs - Free Book Online Page B

impression that this was simply another family eagerly waiting to celebrate Christmas. Inside Number Ten the glitterati had crossed the threshold, unaware they had already been scanned by hidden devices for weapons and explosives. They handed over their cloaks and overcoats in exchange for a smile and a cloakroom ticket, and waited patiently in line on the stairs which led to the Green Room where the Urquharts were receiving their guests. As they wound their way slowly up the stairs and past its walls covered in portraits of previous Prime Ministers, they tried not to stare too hard at the other guests or their surroundings. Staring implied you hadn't done this a hundred times before. Most had little to do with politics, some were not even supporters of the Government, but the enthusiasm with which they were greeted by Elizabeth Urquhart left them all impressed. The atmosphere was sucking them in, making them honorary members of the team. If power were a conspiracy, they wanted to be part of it too.
    For ten minutes Urquhart struggled with the confusion of guests, his eyes never resting, darting rapidly from one fixed point to another as if always on guard, or on the attack, forced to listen to the complaints of businessmen and the half-baked social prescriptions of chat-show hosts. At last he reached gratefully for the arm of Tim Stamper and dragged him into a corner.
    'Something on your mind, Francis?'
    'I was just reflecting on how relieved Henry must be not to have to put up with all this any longer. Is it really worth it?'
    'Ambition should be made of more solid stuff.'
    'If you must quote Shakespeare, for God's sake get it right. And I'd prefer it if you chose some other play than Julius Caesar. You'll remember they'd had him butchered well before the interval.'
    'I am suitably reproached. In future in your presence I shall quote only from Macbeth.'
    Urquhart smiled grimly at the cold humour, wishing he could spend the rest of the evening crossing swords with Stamper and plotting the next election. In less than a week the polls had already placed them three points ahead as the voters responded to the fresh faces, the renewed sense of urgency throughout Whitehall, the public dispatch of a few of the less acceptable faces of Government. They like the colour of the honeymoon bed linen,' Stamper had reported. 'Fresh, crisp, with just enough blood to show you're doing your job.' He had a style all his own, did Stamper.
    Across the chatter of the crowded room they could hear Elizabeth Urquhart laughing. She was immersed in conversation with an Italian tenor, one of the more competent and certainly the most fashionable opera star to have arrived in London in recent years. She was persuading him through a mixture of flattery and feminine charm to give a rendition later in the evening. Elizabeth was nearing fifty yet she was well preserved and carefully presented, and already the Italian was acquiescing. She rushed off to enquire whether there was a piano in Downing Street.
    'Ah, Dickie,' Urquhart chanted, reaching out for the arm of a short, undersized man with a disproportionately large head and serious eyes who had thrust purposefully through the crowd towards him. Dickie was the new Secretary of State for the Environment, the youngest member of the new Cabinet, a marathon runner, an enthusiast and an intervener, and he had been deeply impressed by Urquhart's admonition that he was to be the defender of the Government's green credentials. His appointment had already been greeted with acclaim from all but the most militant pressure groups, yet at this moment he was looking none too happy. There were beads of moisture on his brow; something was bothering him.
    'Was hoping to have a word with you, Dickie,' said Urquhart before the other had a chance to unburden himself. 'What about this development site in Victoria Street? Had a chance to look into it yet? Are you going to cover it in concrete, or what?'
    'Good heavens, no. Prime