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'That would be a tremendous pity, Ben. You have been a great friend of the Party, and it would be a great shame if we were unable to repay that friendship. I cannot speak for the Prime Minister. In fact, I find myself increasingly unable to speak for him nowadays. But from my point of view, I would do everything I could to support you when you needed it.'
'That's good to know, Frankie. I appreciate it, very much. If only Henry could be so decisive, but I know that's simply not his nature. If it were up to me, he'd be out.'
'But isn't it up to you?'
'Me?'
'You have your newspapers. They are tremendously influential, and you control them. One headline can make news and break politicians. You were saying that the polls show the public's dislike for the PM is undermining the whole Party. It's personal, not political.'
Landless nodded his assent.
'Let you say you are not going to publish because it will turn the conference into a bear fight. Do you really think you are going to be able to sort this out without one hell of a fight?'
The bullying Landless of a few moments ago had disappeared, to be replaced by a subtle man who understood every nuance of what was being suggested to him.
'I think I see your point, Frankie. And I think we understand each other.'
'I think we do.'
They shook hands. Urquhart almost winced as his hand disappeared inside the vice-like grip of Landless. He knew the other's handshake was distinctly ambiguous - an expression of friendship, by all means, but also a promise to crush anyone who reneged on a deal.
'Then I have some work to do, Frankie. The Telegraph first edition is closing in less than thirty minutes and I shall have to make a telephone call.' He grabbed his jacket and draped it over his arm.
'Thanks for the party. It's been most stimulating.'
Urquhart watched silently as the industrialist, damp shirt sticking closely to his broad back, shuffled across the crowded room and disappeared through the door.
Across the other side of the room beyond the dignitaries, journalists and hangers-on who were squashed together, Roger O'Neill was huddled on a small sofa with a young and attractive conference-goer. O'Neill was in an excited and very nervous state. He fidgeted incessantly and his words rattled out at an alarming pace. The young girl from Rotherham had already been overwhelmed with the names O'Neill had skilfully dropped and the passion of his words, and she looked on with wide-eyed astonishment, an innocent bystander in a one-way conversation.
The Prime Minister's under constant surveillance by our security men. There's always a threat. Irish. Arabs. Black Militants. One of them's trying to get me, too. They've been trying for months, and the Special Branch boys insisted on giving me protection throughout the election. Apparently, they'd found a hit list; if the PM were too well protected they might turn to targets close to the PM like me. So they gave me twenty-four-hour cover. It's not public knowledge, of course, but all the journos know.'
He dragged furiously at a cigarette and started coughing. He took out a soiled handkerchief and blew his nose loudly, inspecting it before returning it to his pocket.
'But why you, Roger?' his companion ventured.
'Soft target. Easy access. High publicity hit,' he rattled. If they can't get the PM, they'll go for someone like me.'
He looked around nervously, his eyes fluttering wildly.
'Can you keep a confidence? A real secret?' He took another deep drag. They think I've been followed all week. And this morning I found my car had been tampered with, so the Bomb Squad boys went over it with a fine tooth comb. They found the wheel nuts on one of the front wheels had been all but removed. Straight home on the motorway, the wheel comes off at eighty miles an hour and - more work for the road sweepers! They think it was deliberate. The Murder Squad are on their way over to interview me right now.'
'Roger, that's awful' she gasped.
'Mustn't tell anyone. The SB don't want to frighten them off if there's a chance of catching them unawares.'
'I hadn't realised you were so close to the Prime Minister' she said with growing awe. 'What a terrible time for...' She suddenly gasped. 'Are you all right, Roger? You are looking very upset. Your, your eyes...' she stammered.
O'Neill's eyes were flickering wildly, flashing still further lurid hallucinations into his brain. His attention seemed to have strayed elsewhere; he was no longer with her but in some other world, with some other conversation. His eyes wavered back to her, but they were gone again in an instant. They were bloodshot and watering, and were having difficulty in finding something on which to focus. His nose was dribbling like an old man in winter, and he gave it a cursory and unsuccessful wipe with the back of his hand.
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