The Final Cut

'Difficult, Sir, because as you will remember this was an expedition which I recommended against.' 'Schoolgirls!'

'Precisely. And I cannot envisage a military solution which would not risk endangering the lives of either those schoolgirls or my men, or both.' 'Are you telling me you can find no solution?' 'Not a military one. A political solution, perhaps.'

'You're suggesting I negotiate with a bunch of pirates?'

'They're not exactly that, Prime Minister. Which is part of the trouble. They have no clear leadership, no individual with whom to negotiate. These are simply ordinary Cypriots united around a common purpose. To get us out.' 'What about President Nicolaou?'

'Seems they want him out, too. It's difficult to find much enthusiasm for politicians in this part of the world right now. Sir.'

Urquhart ignored what he was sure was the intentional irony. He needed Rae. 'I have worked hard to bring peace to the island. If they throw out Nicolaou, they throw out the peace deal with him.'

They've never had peace, not in a thousand years. They're the sort who use sticks of dynamite even to go fishing. They'd manage to live without the treaty.'

'Then if they want a fight, Air Marshal, I suggest we'd better give them one.' 'How does the defendant plead? Guilty, or not guilty?'

Layers of dust and silence hung across the veneered courtroom, which was packed. Thousands more had congregated outside. The march had not happened today, they were needed here. Sunlight streamed in through the high windows, surrounding the dock in a surrealistic halo of fire as though Channel 4 were filming a contemporary adaptation of Joan of Arc. Did the defendant have anything to say before he was burnt? 'Not guilty!'

Others apart from Francis Urquhart seemed prepared for a fight. 'If you can't get to the convoy, Air Marshal, then get the convoy to you. Drive it out. Smash the blockade. Call their bluff.' Red-hot coals seemed to roll around Urquhart's tongue.

'You're willing to risk all those lives on a hunch they might be bluffing?'

'Strafe the ridge. Keep their heads low. Blow them off if necessary.' He spat the coals out one by one.

'At last count there were also half a dozen television crews on that ridge, Prime Minister.' 'You'd be surprised how fast a journalist can run.' 'And what about the schoolgirls?'

'Tear gas. Scatter them.' Out of Rae's sight, Urquhart was waving his hands around as if he were already getting on with the job.

'Schoolgirls can't run as fast as a speeding four-ton truck.' 'Are you contradicting me, Air Marshal?' 'Stating fact.' 'Enough objections. Take the simple route.' 'The simple-minded route.'

The exchange which had thumped and pounded like hot blood through an artery had suddenly faltered, its wrists cut. 'Did I hear you correctly, Rae?'

'This is not a game, Prime Minister. Lives are at stake.' 'The future of an entire country is at stake.'

'Forgive me, Prime Minister, if I find it more difficult than you to equate my own personal interest with that of the nation.'

'Do I detect even at this great distance the stench of insubordination?' 'You might say that.'

'Rae, I am giving you a direct order. Run that convoy out of there.'

There was a slight pause, as though the digitalized satellite system was having trouble encoding the words. When they came, however, they sounded throughout the Cabinet Room with the utmost clarity. 'No, Sir.' 'How many others were arrested for participating in the Peace March on Sunday, Chief Inspector Harding?' Makepeace was conducting his own defence. 'None, Sir.' 'And why was I singled out for your attentions?' 'Because we believed you to be the organizer of the march, Mr Makepeace.'

'You were right, Chief Inspector. I was. The defendant admits it. I was, am, and shall be organizer of this march.'

In the public gallery a portly matron with bright red cheeks and hair pulled back in a straw bun was about to start applauding, but Maria stayed her hand and advised silence. The Chairman of the Bench scribbled a note.

'So this other march, Chief Inspector, the skinheads. This progress of pimples about which you had such concern for public order. How many were arrested from their number?'

Although the policeman knew the answer, he consulted his notebook nevertheless. It added an air of authority, and gave him time to think. 'Fifteen, Sir.' The Chairman scribbled again. Clearly this had been a serious disturbance. 'For what offences, Chief Inspector?' 'Offences, Sir?'

'Yes. Isn't it customary to arrest someone on the pretext of having committed an offence?'

Laughter rippled through the public gallery and the Chairman frowned until it had dissipated.

Harding consulted his notebook again. 'Variously for being drunk and disorderly, behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace, four on narcotics charges and one case of indecent exposure.'

'Obviously a troublesome bunch. No wonder you were concerned.'

The policeman didn't respond; Makepeace was being altogether too helpful for his liking.

'I understand the semi-final of the football cup was recently played in Birmingham. Can you remember how many people were arrested then?' 'Not off the top of my head, no, Sir.'

'I'll tell you.' Makepeace consulted a press clipping. 'Eighty-three. There were several hundred police on duty that day, you knew there was going to be trouble.' 'Always is on a big match day.'

'Then why didn't you cancel the match? Order it to be abandoned? Like my march?' 'Not the same thing, is it?'

'No, Chief Inspector. Not The Same Thing At All. Nor was the concert last weekend held at the National Exhibition Centre. You arrested over a hundred then. So the disturbances which arose out of those trying to break up my march were really small beer. Scarcely Bovril, you might say.' Harding said nothing.

'Well, I might say that. I don't suppose you could possibly comment.' Even the Chairman let slip a fleeting smile.

'Then let me return to matters you can comment about, Chief Inspector. Indeed, matters you must comment about. These skinheads, neo-nazis, troublemakers, call them what you wilclass="underline" arrested for drink, drugs, obscenity, you say?' Harding nodded. 'Not for offences under the Public Order Act?' 'I don't understand the point…'

'It's a very simple point, Chief Inspector. Can you confirm that I was the only person to be arrested for marching? All the others were arrested for offences which would have required your intervention whether they were marching, knitting scarves or performing handstands in Centennial Square?'

Harding seemed about to nod in agreement, but the head refused to fall.

'Come on, Chief Inspector. Do I have to squeeze it out of you like toothpaste? Is it or is it not true that of the several thousand people present on Sunday I was the only one you arrested for the offence of marching?' 'That is technically correct. Sir.'

'Excellent. So, we have confirmed that my march was entirely peaceful, that even the activities of the skinheads made it a relatively quiet day for the Birmingham constabulary, and I was the only one you chose to…' – he paused for a little dramatic emphasis – 'arrest as a menace to public order.' He smiled at Harding to indicate there was no ill will. 'Whose public order, Chief Inspector?' 'I beg your pardon?'

'Whose public order? Someone obviously decided that my activities would, if continued, represent a threat. But that was a judgement rather than a fact. Was that your judgement? Did you arrest me on your own initiative?'

'Why, no, Sir. Only after the most careful consideration…'

'Whose consideration? Who was it? On whose authority were you acting?'

Harding had known this might be coming, they had to show the police action was not hasty but considered, right to the very top. Even so his knuckles were beginning to glow white on the edge of the witness box. 'I was acting on the orders of the Chief Constable.'