The Final Cut

'Metal roof like a drum, solid stone walls, windows shuttered, door presumably secured,' Urquhart mused. 'If I asked you to gain access, Colonel St Aubyn, how would you do it?'

On the far side of the Cabinet table, Youngblood propelled himself to his feet.

'Colonel, stand by,' Urquhart instructed, closing the link. 'General Youngblood. People only rise from this table in order to leave.'

'But this is senseless! We must wait. Wear them down psychologically. Give us time to put in a specialist SAS squad. St Aubyn's men are ordinary infantrymen, they're not equipped for special forces work. They can't go in blind. Shouldn't go in at all.'

'The blindness is yours. He wants us to wait, to delay. Even now he'll be organizing and by tomorrow an army of infant soldiers in their buggies will have arrived to give you yet another excuse for delay.' 'Wait, consider. I implore you.' 'Seize the time, General.'

Urquhart made it clear he would not be moved, both jaw and mind set like rock. The soldier knew it was useless, the anger in his voice was replaced by a measure of considered disgust. 'What demon is driving you?' 'Political leadership demands many sacrifices.'

'But of whom? One fool throws a rock into a pond and a thousand young men may drown trying to retrieve it.'

'If this goes wrong, I'm the sacrifice and you can dance a jig on my grave.' 'My feet are already tapping.'

The insult was poured slowly, like treacle, and brought a gasp of astonishment from the military advisers who sat in a row behind Youngblood.

Urquhart's eyes offered not a flicker. 'Weren't you supposed to have put that in code, General?'

'I wanted there to be no misunderstanding. I think I have your measure, Mr Urquhart.'

With that the Deputy Chief of Defence Staff (Commitments) strode from the room. 'Bishop, good morning.'

'Ah, my dear Mr Urquhart. Kalimeia. You have had a good night's rest, I trust? No unpleasant dreams.' 'Little sleep but time for much thought.' 'And shall I have the privilege of knowing to where those thoughts lead you?' 'To a deal. An exchange.'

'But. There's a But. I can hear the rumble of conditions already sticking in your throat. Take care not to choke.' 'The terms you outlined yesterday are impossible.' A drizzle of ridicule washed across Theophilos' words. 'You wish to fiddle at your own funeral?'

'I wish to survive, very much. But consider. If I let it be known that I am – how would I term it? -acknowledging the Cypriots' just claims for the return of the base areas and I were to announce my conclusions before the election, then, as you say, I shall be a casualty. Driven from office. But whose purpose will that serve? Not yours. A week on Thursday there would be a new Prime Minister who would feel no obligation to honour any undertaking given by me. Quite the contrary, he would probably have been swept into Downing Street on the promise to keep every inch of the bases.'

'And I shall have kept your High Commissioner. In pieces.' 'Exactly. No one would win.'

The Bishop hesitated; his trump card seemed to have turned distinctly soggy and more difficult to play.

'You are suggesting that the British would act the jackal and break their word. As they have done so many times before.' 'That's one way of putting it.'

The sound of a hot liquid being vigorously slurped came over the line; an extended pause for thought. 'You spoke of a deal. A counter-proposal?'

'You release the High Commissioner, and in return I give you a written pledge about the bases.' 'British paper!' the Bishop scoffed.

'And also a substantial aid package. I'm willing to be highly imaginative about that package, Bishop. And very personal.' 'I understand.'

'You will also understand that the agreements about aid and the bases cannot be made public until after the election. You see, you need me in Downing Street to meet these promises. You've got to help me win.' 'But how will I know you will deliver afterwards?' 'You will have my signature…' 'Not enough!'

'… and a substantial down-payment of the aid package as a token of good faith. In cash. Delivered into your hands for safekeeping. It can be arranged within hours.'

'Mr Urquhart, I am beginning to like you. A man after my own heart.'

'We have a common interest, Bishop, perhaps even a common destiny.'

'The start of a splendid affair,' Theophilos chuckled.

'I believe you have a saying in Cyprus that everyone pulls the quilt over to their own side.'

'But at least it seems we shall be sharing the same bed…'

The voice trailed off. From the other end of the phone came sounds of interruption. The Bishop could be heard asking in a gruff voice what amidst the flames of hell was happening. Confusion. Then he was back on the phone.

'Urquhart, you English bastard. What are you up to?' The Troodos Mountains are the pine-green heart of Cyprus. The towering ranges which stretch up to Mount Chionistra act as a cloud trap, sucking in the winds of the eastern Mediterranean, bringing relief from the oppressive heat of the plains and water in an abundance which is the envy of most other Mediterranean islands. But it is not always so in the Troodos. The rain falls mainly in winter while the summer months are parched. The shadow-dappled glades between the pines scorch to arid bowls of dust, the forest ferns die and desiccate while the carpet of flowers that is spread in springtime is rolled back to reveal the dried bones of once-abundant vegetation. The bracken and fallen timbers of the forests are turned to a compost of kiln-dried tinder and cooling winds may become the harbinger of death. Disaster in a spark.

The back of the Troodos itches with the scars and scabs of old forest fires, silent charcoaled testimony to the power of flame whose noise and smoke resemble a belching express train and may travel almost as fast. Men who know the mountains fear the flame.

The first wisp of smoke began to curl into the sky from beside the roadway which runs below the Presidential Lodge at the start of the tourist trail leading to the Caledonian Falls. A cigarette end, the rays of the sun focused through the glass of a carelessly discarded bottle, the embers of a lightning strike, there might have been many explanations, but only one consequence. The gossamer thread curled into the sky like a kitten edging for the first time away from its mother's side. It was already growing rapidly when the Bishop's guard posted in the third-floor window of the Lodge spotted it. By the time Theophilos had climbed up the stairs to see for himself, it was approaching with the roar of a lion. He wrenched the phone from its cradle. 'What double dealing is this, Urquhart? How stupidly you condemn four hostages to death.' 'Bishop, listen to me very carefully. You touch the hostages and both you and I are finished. I will be blamed and you will be butchered. I would have no choice but to order my troops in.' 'You pretend you did not set this fire? Liar!'

'For God's sake are you telling me this is the first forest fire you've seen? It could've started in a thousand ways, the important thing is to finish it. My troops are already fighting the fire. If you wish to leave the Lodge I shall arrange safe transport…' 'We stay!'

'Then do that, but don't touch the hostages. Remember that you and I will stand or fall together in this matter. We are bound as one.'

'Urquhart, I do not trust you. But you can trust me. I swear on my Holy life that at the first sight of any British soldier approaching this Lodge I shall take one of the hostages and throw him from the top-floor window. Just to show you my good faith. And if you don't keep the fire away from the Lodge, I shall accept your offer of transportation. But I shall leave another hostage behind in the ashes. Do you hear?'

'All too well. But there is no need for that. I'm told that there are already two helicopters on their way to you equipped with fire-fighting facilities. The Lodge will be safe.' 'You'd better pray for your own soul if it is not.' The Wessex HC2 trooplift helicopters were the old workhorses of the military skies, long since phased out in most other parts of the world for larger, more sophisticated machinery better able to deal with front-line conditions. But Cyprus wasn't the front line – or hadn't been, until now. The Wessex was all they had, but it was adequate for the task.