There was a brief silence on the telephone as Corder struggled to decode her cryptic remark. Irony was not his strong suit. 'Your friendly driver,' he continued cautiously, 'is he on duty today?'
'No,' she replied. During the last week the driver's time had been spent ferrying secretaries, correspondence and dry cleaning between London and the route of the march, and he'd little to offer by way of fresh indiscretion. Claire had felt relieved.
Now she felt dirty. Corder knew. Her secret was spreading, as was her feeling of remorse. At the beginning she had regarded it as no more than a little idle mischief but she could no longer hide from the fact that it had been a mistake. The betrayal of a friend she still cared for. She had demeaned herself, got carried away. Acted like Urquhart. The receptionist was staring once more, furtively; she turned her back on him, no longer able to meet his gaze.
'No, the driver's not on duty,' she mumbled, feeling much like a prisoner in the dock being asked to plead. Not guilty, she wanted to insist. But who was she kidding? 'Good,' Corder snapped.
'Why do you ask?' she was about to enquire, but already it was too late. Corder had rung off. Makepeace stood on the age-worn steps of the parish church of St Joseph's in Cannock, some fifteen miles north of the centre of Birmingham, having attended early morning Communion and received the vicar's blessing. He was a committed if undogmatic Christian, not unaware of the benefits for a politician of displaying occasional touches of piousness, and many Christian groups had begun to join him on the march, gathering beneath a large 'March For Peace' banner which had been draped across the bell tower of the church. Yet there were many others assembling that morning whose motivations were less spiritual, and two new elements in particular. For the first time, supporters and committed members of Dick Clarence's party paraded openly amongst the kaleidoscope of banners and protest groups in the crowd. They, like Urquhart, most editors and many others, had perceived Clarence as a lost cause and already written him off. Stranded between the rock of despair which was Clarence and the hard, unforgiving place over which towered Urquhart, they had turned to the only banner of defiance they could find. Thomas Makepeace.
The second new element was still more noticeable, noisy in spite of relative lack of numbers. Draped in Union flags and tattoos, their close-cropped heads appearing like battering rams above mean eyes and studded noses, surrounded by news photographers and penned in behind the hastily erected barriers of the local constabulary, the skinheads had begun to arrive, armed with their traditional weaponry of obscenity, spittle and abuse. It was early morning, their enthusiasm for the task not yet fully warmed, but they formed the skirmishing patrols of elements which would gather later in the day in the guise of nationalist warriors. 'Scum's risen,' Maria muttered to Makepeace. 'Not all of it. Too early for most of them.'
'Urquhart's supporters come in strange and unwashed shapes. I suppose we should take it as a sign of success.'
'I'd rather not. It worries me, these types, with all the families and children around.'
'Don't worry,' she reassured. 'The police will take care of it all.' They were much slower to stir in the Troodos, even taking into account the two-hour time difference. In the early hours of the previous evening Lieutenant Colonel St Aubyn had commandeered the top floor of the Pine Crest Hotel a few miles from the Lodge; it had caused the manager mild apoplexy and for a few minutes he was of a mind to refuse. But he was a German with an irregular work permit who had no care to tangle with the President of Cyprus, and was not paid enough to do so with several dozen well armed troops. There had been an hour of shuffle and squeeze – and also indignation, guests responding with an eclectic mixture of insults when they discovered that they were not to be allowed to set foot outside the hotel until after the presidential party had left the following morning. But Elpida had wandered around each of the dinner tables, thanking, explaining, asking for understanding. The harrowing details of her story plus the scar on her cheek had done much to repair frayed tempers, bolstered by the announcement that the Ministry of Finance would be picking up the bills for the entire week.
Of the President, however, there was no sign. Exhaustion had overcome him. As soon as he had talked by phone with a couple of his Ministers and ensured that his arrival the following day was to be expected, he had slept, until ten o'clock the following morning. Panayotis insisted on standing guard the whole night outside his door. No one had tried to wake him, there was little point. It would take only a couple of hours to drive to Nicosia.
By the time he rose the following morning the dew had disappeared and the crickets and martins on the wing had taken over from the morning chorus. It was a tender honey-coloured spot, surrounded with cherry trees and with unspoilt views across the valley, so different from the tree-choked gorge in which the Lodge had been built. Nicolaou, like his daughter, made an attempt to circulate and thank everyone but the strain of his adventure was all too apparent in the awkward shuffle of his frame and the bruise-grey shadows about his eyes. He had aged, clinging to Elpida's arm as though afraid someone else would try to snatch her away.
St Aubyn was growing impatient. It would be noon before they left, they would be travelling into the heat of the day and the President, already wan, was in no need of further ordeal. 'Do not worry on my behalf, Colonel,' Nicolaou had tried to reassure, 'I am a Cypriot. Used to a little heat.'
The Lieutenant Colonel deferred to the politician, which seemed to be the order of the day. He'd been even less impressed with the instruction to head for Nicosia than his military superiors had been,- the capital was a warren of intrigue where both streets and tongues forked in a confusion that offended the neat military mind. But as the Air Vice-Marshal had reminded him, soldiers don't get to choose.
The sun had passed its zenith but the thermometer was still rising when at last they set off, four-tonners in front and rear, Land-Rovers in the middle, carrying forty-eight British servicemen and the four liberated hostages. They had debated long and hard whether to send more troops up from Episkopi, but had decided against. This was supposed to look like a victory parade, not another invasion.
Darwin and his team as well as the signals squad had been sent back to base, doused in gratitude from the President.
'You must come and visit us in Nicosia, Captain. Accept a little of our hospitality.'
'And perhaps a medal or two?' Elpida added mischievously. 'It's been an honour, Sir – Miss.'
The Captain saluted starchly, but the President was too overcome with emotion for military etiquette. He threw his arms around his saviour in the manner of any Balkan bidding farewell to a much-loved brother, kissing both cheeks.
'Take care of yourself, Sir,' Darwin mumbled, colouring. 'Don't worry, my dear Captain Darwin. The worst is over. After what you have already achieved, the rest will be easy.' There was little Sunday spirit in evidence. With some three thousand people marching with him and more than ten thousand promised when he reached Birmingham city centre, Makepeace should have been content, but all day long the skinheads had been driving up and down their route, blaring their horns and sounding trumpets, waving flags, leaning far out of car windows to raise clenched fists, spitting, goading, warning of trouble to come. Several supporters had tried to intervene and appeal for moderation, but by mid-morning and Walsall, empty beer cans and other forms of garbage had joined the obscenities being thrown in their direction. A morris dancer had already been knocked to the floor, and several marchers with young families had decided to quit.
Makepeace had appealed several times to the police to take some form of action to quell the disruption but the number of officers on duty was small and entirely inadequate to deal with the incitement. He was relieved therefore when, up ahead in the far distance, he saw a congregation of police cars, orange flashes on white, surrounded by a flurry of officers whose animation suggested they were intent on business. One was striding purposefully towards him.