Cometh the Hour

39

Giles remembered the governor only too well. His shrewd advice and discretion had helped to avert a major catastrophe when the IRA attempted to sink the Buckingham on her maiden voyage, and he certainly hadn’t forgotten Hayden Rankin’s parting words on the subject, “You owe me one.”

Giles wrote back immediately to say he would be delighted to see Hayden when he was in London. Not least — which he didn’t say in his letter — because he couldn’t wait to find out how his ex-wife could possibly have come across one of the governor of Louisiana’s closest friends. And it might also finally solve the mystery of little Freddie.

He was delighted that Hayden had been reelected for a second term but didn’t feel as confident about his own party’s chances of success at the next election, even though he wasn’t willing to admit as much, especially to Emma.

Following the surprise resignation of Harold Wilson in April 1976, the new prime minister, Jim Callaghan, had asked Giles to once again take charge of the marginal seat campaign, and for the past two months he had been visiting constituencies as far-flung as Aberdeen and Plymouth. When Callaghan asked Giles for his realistic assessment of what the next election result would be, he had warned “Lucky Jim” that they might not be quite as lucky this time.

“Can I speak to Sebastian Clifton please?”

“This is Sebastian Clifton.”

“Mr. Clifton, I’m ringing from the United States. Will you accept a reverse charge call from a Miss Jessica Clifton?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Hi, Pops.”

“Hi, Jessie, how are you?”

“Great, thanks.”

“And your mother?”

“I’m still working on her, but I was calling to make sure you’ll be joining us in Rome next month.”

“I’m already booked into the Albergo del Senato, in the Piazza della Rotonda. It’s just opposite the Pantheon. Where will you be staying?”

“With my grandparents at the American Embassy. I can’t remember if you’ve ever met Grandpops, he’s super cool.”

“Yes, I have. In fact I visited him when he was the chef de mission at the Embassy in Grosvenor Square, and asked his permission to marry your mother.”

“How beautifully old-fashioned of you, Pops, but you needn’t bother to ask him again, because I’ve already got his approval, and I can’t think of a more romantic city than Rome in which to propose to Mom.”

“Please don’t tell me you phone the ambassador in Rome and reverse the charges!”

“Yes, but only once a week. I can’t wait to meet Grandpops Harry and Great-uncle Giles. Then I can add them to my list and let them know you’re planning to propose to Mom.”

“Should I presume you’ve already picked the date, the time and the place?”

“Yes, of course. It will have to be on Thursday, when we have tickets for the Borghese Gallery. I know Mom’s looking forward to seeing the Berninis, and Canova’s Paolina Borghese.”

“Did you know that the gallery is named after Napoleon’s sister?”

“I didn’t know you’d been to Rome, Pops.”

“It may come as a surprise to you, Jessie, but there were people roaming the earth before 1965.”

“Yes, I knew that. I’ve read about them in my history books.”

“You wouldn’t like to run a bank, by any chance?”

“No thanks, Pops, I just haven’t got the time, what with preparing for my next exhibition and trying to organize you two.”

“I can’t imagine how we survived before you came along.”

“Not very well, by all accounts. By the way, have you ever come across a man called Maurice Swann, from Shifnal in Shropshire?”

“Yes, but surely he can’t still be alive.”

“And kicking, it would seem, because he’s invited Mom to open his school theatre. What’s that all about?”

“It’s a long story,” said Seb.

Desmond Mellor was a few minutes late and, once Virginia had poured him a whisky, he got straight to the point.

“I’ve kept my word, and the time has come for you to keep yours.” Virginia didn’t comment. “I’ve made a lot of money over the years, Virginia, and I’ve recently had a serious offer for Mellor Travel, that might even make it possible for me to gain a controlling interest in Farthings Bank.”

Virginia refilled his glass with Glen Fenwick. “So, what can I do for you?”

“The long and short of it is, I want that knighthood you promised you could fix when you needed my help to convince those American detectives that you were legit.”

Virginia was well aware that the very idea of Desmond Mellor being offered a knighthood was preposterous, but she had already seen a way of turning this to her advantage. “Frankly, Desmond, I’m surprised you haven’t been nominated for an honor already.”

“Is that how it works?” said Mellor. “Someone has to nominate me?”

“Yes, the honors committee, a select group of the great and the good, receive recommendations and, if they feel it appropriate, give the nod.”

“Do you know anyone on that committee by any chance?”

“No one is meant to know who sits on the honors committee. It’s a closely guarded secret. Otherwise they’d never stop being bothered with recommendations from completely unsuitable people.”

“So what hope have I got?” said Mellor.

“Better than most,” said Virginia, “because the chairman of the committee just happens to be an old family friend.”

“What’s his name?”

“If I tell you, you must swear to keep it secret, because if he thought even for a moment you knew, that would scupper your chances of ever being knighted.”

“You have my word, Virginia.”

“The duke of Hertford — Peregrine to his friends — has been chairman of the committee for the past ten years.”

“How in hell’s name will I ever get to meet a duke?”

“As I said, he’s a personal friend, so I’ll invite him around to a cocktail party, which will be an opportunity for him to get to know you. But we’ve still got a lot of work to do before that can happen.”

“Like what?”

“First you’ll need to mount a major campaign if you want to be taken seriously.”

“What kind of campaign?”

“Articles about your company and how successful it’s been over the years, with particular emphasis on your export record, will need to appear regularly in the business sections of the press. The honors committee always respond favorably to the word ‘exports.’”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange. Mellor Travel has branches all over the globe.”

“They also like the word ‘charity.’ You’ll have to be seen to be supporting a range of worthy local and national causes, with regular photo ops that will attract their attention, so that when your name comes up in front of the committee, someone will say, ‘Does a lot of charity work, you know.’”

“You seem to know an awful lot about this, Virginia.”

“I would hope so. We’ve been at it for over four hundred years.”

“So will you help me? Obviously I wouldn’t be able to put myself up.”

“I would be only too happy to help in normal circumstances, Desmond, but as you know better than anyone, I am no longer a lady of leisure.”

“But you gave me your word.”

“And indeed I will honor my commitment. But if it is to be done properly, Desmond, I would have to spend a great deal of my time making sure you are invited to all the right society balls, asked to make speeches at the appropriate business conferences, while arranging for you to meet — without anyone knowing, of course — certain members of the honors committee, including the duke.”

“Shall we say five hundred pounds a month, to make it happen?”

“Plus expenses. I’m going to have to wine and dine some very influential people.”

“You’ve got a deal, Virginia. I’ll arrange a standing order for five hundred a month to be transferred to your bank today. And as I’ve always believed in incentives, you’ll get a bonus of ten thousand the day Her Majesty’s sword taps me on the shoulder.”

A bonus Virginia accepted she was never going to bank.

When Mellor finally left, Virginia breathed a sigh of relief. It was true that she was an old friend of the duke of Hertford, but she knew only too well that he wasn’t a member of the honors committee. Still, no harm in inviting Peregrine to a cocktail party so she could introduce him to Mellor if it kept his hopes alive, while at the same time ensuring she received a monthly check, plus expenses.

Virginia began to think of other suitable candidates for the honors committee she could also introduce to Mellor. It fascinated her that someone who was normally so shrewd and calculating, when taken out of their natural environment could be so naive and gullible. Mind you, Virginia accepted that she couldn’t afford to overplay her hand.

40

By the time the negotiations had been completed and the contracts signed, Sebastian was both exhilarated and exhausted. The French are never the easiest people to do business with, he considered, not least because they pretend they can’t speak English whenever they don’t want to reply to an awkward question.

When he got back to his hotel, all he wanted was a light supper, a hot shower and an early night, as he was booked on the first flight out of Charles De Gaulle in the morning. He was studying the room-service menu when the phone rang.

“Concierge desk, sir. We wondered if you would like to take advantage of our massage service?”

“No, thank you.”

“We offer this service to all our premium guests, sir, and there is no extra charge.”

“All right, you’ve convinced me. Send him up.”

“Actually, it’s a woman, sir. She’s Chinese and an excellent masseuse, but I’m afraid her English is a little limited.”

Seb got undressed, put on a hotel dressing gown and waited. A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. He opened it, to be greeted by a woman in a white tracksuit, carrying a folded massage table in one hand and a small suitcase in the other.

“Mai Ling,” she said, and bowed low.

“Please come in,” said Seb, but she did not respond. He watched as she set up the massage table in the middle of the room before disappearing into the bathroom and returning a few moments later with two large towels. She then opened her hold all and extracted several bottles of oils and creams.

She bowed again, and indicated that Seb should lie facedown on the table. He took off his dressing gown, feeling a little self-conscious clad only in his boxer shorts, and climbed onto the table.

After a couple of minutes of pummeling, she located an old squash injury in his left calf, and moments later, a recent torn muscle in his shoulder. She dug deep, and Seb soon relaxed, feeling he was in the hands of a professional.

Mai Ling was working on his neck when the phone rang. Seb knew it would be the chairman wanting to find out how the French deal had gone. He was just about to reluctantly climb off the table and answer the call but, before he could move, Mai Ling had picked up the receiver and placed it by his ear. He heard a voice say, “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s a Mr. Bishara on the line.”

“Please put him through.”

“How did it go?” were the chairman’s first words.

“We agreed on a coupon of 3.8 percent per annum,” said Seb as Mai Ling dug deeper into his shoulder blade and found the exact spot. “But only on condition that the French franc doesn’t fall below its current rate against the pound of 9.42.”

“Well done, Seb, because if I remember correctly, you would have settled at 3.4 percent and even allowed the franc to be devalued by a further 10 percent.”

“That’s right, but after a bit of negotiating and several bottles of rather good wine, they came around. I’ve got the contract in French and English.”

“When can we expect you back?”

“I’ll be on the first flight to Heathrow tomorrow morning, so I should be in the office before midday.”

“Could you drop in and see me as soon as you’re back? There’s something I need to discuss with you rather urgently.”

“Yes, of course, chairman.”

“On a lighter note, I’ve had a charming letter from Samantha to say how pleased she was with the outcome of the trial.”

“How did she find out about that?” asked Seb.

“You evidently told Jessica.”

“Yes, Jessie now calls me two or three times a week, always reverse charges, of course.”

“She’s also spoken to me a couple of times.”

“Jessie’s been calling you reverse charges?”

“Only when she can’t get hold of you.”

“I’ll kill her.”

“No, no,” said Hakim. “Don’t do that. She makes a pleasant change from most of my callers, although heaven help the man who marries her.”

“No one will ever be good enough.”

“And Samantha? Are you good enough for her?”

“Of course not, but I haven’t given up hope because Jessie tells me they’re going to Rome in the summer, when they hope to see all nineteen Caravaggios.”

“I assume you’ve booked your holiday at the same time?”

“You’re worse than Jessie. It wouldn’t surprise me if you two were in league together.”

“I’ll see you around twelve tomorrow,” said Hakim, before the phone went dead.

Mai Ling returned the phone to the little table in the corner of the room before starting to work on Seb’s neck. But he couldn’t help wondering why the chairman wanted to see him the moment he got back, and why he wasn’t willing to discuss the matter over the phone.

A little buzz on Mai Ling’s clock indicated that his hour was up. Seb was so relaxed he’d almost fallen asleep. He climbed off the table, went into the bedroom and extracted a ten-franc note from his wallet. By the time he returned, the massage table had been folded up, the bottles of oils returned to their case and the towels deposited in the laundry basket.

He handed Mai Ling her tip, and she bowed low before quickly leaving the room. Seb sat down next to the phone, but it was some time before he picked it up.

“How can I help you, Mr. Clifton?”

“I’d like to place a call to the States.”

41

“Any idea why the chairman wants to see me so urgently?”

“No, Mr. Clifton,” replied Rachel. “But I can tell you that Barry Hammond is in there with him.”

“Right. Send the English copy of the contract down to accounts and remind them that the first payment is due on quarter day, in francs.”

“And the French copy?”

“File it along with the others in the gathering-dust cabinet. I’ll catch up with you as soon as I’ve seen the chairman.”

Sebastian left his office, walked quickly down the corridor and knocked on the chairman’s door. He entered to find Hakim deep in conversation with Barry Hammond and someone he thought he recognized.

“Welcome back, Seb. You know Barry Hammond of course, and I think you’ve recently met his colleague, Mai Ling.”

Sebastian stared at the woman seated next to Barry, but it took him a moment to realize who she was. She rose and shook hands with Seb, no longer deferential, no longer shy.

“How nice to see you again, Mr. Clifton.”

Seb decided to sit down in the nearest chair before his legs gave way.

“Congratulations on your triumph, Seb,” said Hakim, “and the agreement you extracted from the French. Bravo. Just remind me of the details. No, why don’t you remind me, Mai Ling?”

“Repayments of 3.8 percent per annum as long as the exchange rate remains at 9.42 francs to the pound.”

Seb put his head in his hands, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

“And may I add, Mr. Clifton, how nice I think it is that your daughter Jessica calls you from the States, twice, sometimes three times a week, and you always allow her to reverse the charges.”

Hakim and Barry burst out laughing. Seb could feel his cheeks burning.

“No harm done,” said Hakim. “Barry, why don’t you explain to Seb why we put him through this charade?”

“Although we’re now fairly certain it was either Adrian Sloane or Desmond Mellor, possibly the two of them working together, who were responsible for having the drugs planted in Mr. Bishara’s bag, we’re no nearer to being able to prove it. Sloane, as you probably know, has a flat in Kensington, while Mellor’s main residence is in Gloucester, though he also has a pied-à-terre above his office in Bristol. And we recently found out that whenever he comes to London he always books into the same room at the same hotel. The Swan in St. James’s.”

“The head porter there, who shall remain nameless,” said Mai Ling, picking up the thread, “is an ex-Met copper, like Barry and myself. He recently suggested to Mellor that he take advantage of the hotel’s free massage service, which is available only to regular customers.”

“He clearly enjoys Mai Ling’s skills in particular,” continued Hammond, “because he now always books her well in advance. That’s how we know he’ll be staying at the Swan next Tuesday night. He’s made an appointment to have a massage at 4:30 that afternoon. I’ve booked his room for the night before, which will give me more than enough time to install the recording device, so we can listen in to what he and Sloane are saying to each other.”

“But what makes you think Sloane will call him at that time?”

“He doesn’t have to. Mellor is never off the phone, and the number he calls most frequently is Sloane’s.”

“But surely Sloane will be cautious about what he says over the phone?”

“He usually is, but Mellor sometimes goads him, and Sloane can’t resist trying to score the occasional point. And he probably thinks Mellor’s calling from his office, so the line’s secure.”

“But they may not discuss anything of any use to us,” said Seb.

“You may well be right, Mr. Clifton, because this will be Mai Ling’s fourth appointment with Mellor, and although certain key words regularly come up whenever he and Sloane talk on the phone — Farthings, Bishara, Clifton, Barrington and occasionally Hardcastle and Kaufman — they haven’t yet divulged anything of real significance. But now that I’ve listened to the three earlier tapes, I’d know Mellor’s or Sloane’s voice the moment I heard it. That’s relevant because David Collier has given me a copy of the tape recording of the anonymous tip-off call. I listened to it again last night and, I can tell you, it was Adrian Sloane.”

“Well done, Barry,” said Hakim. “But how do we prove that Mellor was also involved?”

“That’s where Mai Ling comes in,” said Barry. “Given time, I’m sure she’ll work her magic on him, just as she did on you, Mr. Clifton. Unless you have any more questions, we ought to get back to work.”

“Just one.” Seb turned to Mai Ling. “While I’ve been sitting here, I’ve developed a slight crick in my neck, and I wondered...”

Mai Ling set up the massage table while Desmond Mellor went into the bathroom and got undressed. When he came out, he was wearing only a pair of pants. He patted her backside as he climbed onto the table, pleased to see she’d already put the phone next to his headrest.

Mellor picked it up and began dialing even before she’d begun to work on his feet. He always enjoyed having his feet and head massaged more than any other part of his body. Well, almost. But Mai Ling had made it clear from the outset that wasn’t on offer, even if he paid cash.

His first call was to his bank manager, and the only point of interest that emerged was that he agreed the company should pay Lady Virginia Fenwick’s latest expenses claim of £92.75, a figure that seemed to increase every month. He would have to speak to her about it. He had also sent a donation of £1,000 to the Bristol Cathedral organ fund, a building he’d never entered.

His second call was to his secretary at Mellor Travel in Bristol. He barked at the poor girl for about twenty minutes, by which time Mai Ling had reached his shoulders. She was beginning to fear that this would be another wasted session until he suddenly slammed the phone down and started dialing again.

“Who’s this?”

“Des Mellor.”

“Oh, hi, Des,” said Sloane, his voice changing from bully to sycophant without missing a beat. “What can I do for you?”

“Have you got rid of all my Farthings shares? I noticed they were at a new high this morning.”

“You’re down to the last fifty thousand but you’ve already covered your original investment, even made a small profit. So you can hold onto them and see if they go any higher, or cash in.”

“Always cash in when you’re ahead, Adrian. I thought I’d taught you that.”

“We wouldn’t have needed to,” said Sloane, clearly chastened by the barb, “if that stupid Nigerian bitch had kept her mouth shut. We could be running the bank now. Still, I’ll get the bastard next time.”

“There isn’t going to be a next time,” said Mellor, “unless it’s a hundred percent foolproof.”

“It’s better than foolproof,” retorted Sloane. “This time he’ll be done for insider trading and lose his banking license.”

“Bishara would never involve himself in anything that irresponsible.”

“But one of his dealers might. Someone who used to work for me when I was chairman of Farthings.”

“What have you got on him?”

“He has a gambling problem. If you could be paid out for backing the last horse in every race, he’d be a millionaire. Unfortunately his bookies are putting pressure on him to settle his account.”

“So what? The moment Bishara finds out, he’ll sack the man, and no one will believe for a minute that he was involved.”

“It would be hard for Bishara to deny his involvement if we had the whole conversation on tape.”

“How’s that possible?” barked Mellor.

“Bishara is constantly on the phone to the dealing room from wherever he is in the world, and it’s amazing what a skilful electrical engineer can do with the help of the latest equipment. Just listen to these four tapes.” There was a moment’s pause, before Mellor heard a click and then the words, Don’t buy Amalgamated Wire, because we’re currently in negotiations with them, and that would be insider trading.

“And now a second,” said Sloane. Another pause. Buy your secretary something special, Gavin. She’s served the bank well over the years. Charge it to me, but don’t let anyone know I authorized it.

“And a third: You’ve had an excellent year, Gavin, keep up the good work, and I’m sure it will be reflected in your annual bonus.” An even longer silence followed, when Mellor began to wonder if he’d been cut off.

“Now, after a professional cut-and-paste job,” said Sloane, “it sounds like this: Buy Amalgamated Wire, but don’t let anyone know I authorized it, because that would be insider trading. Keep up the good work, Gavin, and I’m sure it will be reflected in your annual bonus.”

“That’s good,” said Mellor. “But what happens if the other tapes are discovered?”

“Unlike Richard Nixon, I’ll personally destroy them.”

“But your contact could once again be the weak link in the chain.”

“Not this time. The people Gavin deals with don’t take kindly to punters who fail to pay their gambling debts. They’ve already threatened to break his legs.”

“But what’s to stop him changing his mind once we’ve paid them off?”

“I won’t be handing over any money until he’s delivered the tape to the Bank of England, along with an It’s with considerable regret that I have to inform you... letter.”

“How much is it going to cost me?”

“Just over a thousand pounds.”

“And there’s no chance of anyone knowing I’m involved?”

“Was there last time?” said Sloane.

“No, but there’s more at stake this time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Strictly entre nous, Adrian, there’s just a possibility that I might be in the New Year’s honors list.” He hesitated. “A knighthood.”

“Many congratulations,” said Sloane. “I have a feeling the Bank of England would approve of Sir Desmond Mellor taking over as chairman of Farthings.”

“When will your man deliver the tape to the Bank of England?”

“Some time next week.”

The buzzer on Mai Ling’s alarm clock starting purring.

“Perfect timing,” said Mellor, as he slammed down the phone, got off the table and disappeared into the bathroom.

Mai Ling agreed. While Mellor was in the shower she unscrewed the mouthpiece on the phone and removed the recording device. She then folded up the massage table, placed the bottles back in the case and threw the soiled towels in the laundry basket.

By the time Mellor came out of the bathroom holding up a ten-pound note, Mai Ling was getting into a car parked outside the Swan Hotel. As she handed the tape to Barry Hammond she said, “Thank God I’ll never have to see that man again.”

“Sir Desmond,” said Virginia, as the butler showed her protégé into the drawing room.

“Not yet,” said Mellor.

“But I have a feeling it won’t be too long now. Ah,” Virginia said, looking over Mellor’s shoulder. “Miles, good of you to drop by, considering how busy you must be. Have you two met before? Desmond Mellor is one of the country’s leading businessmen. Desmond, Sir Miles Watling, chairman of Watling Brothers.”

“We met at Ascot, Sir Miles,” said Mellor, as the two men shook hands. “But there’s no reason you should remember.” Always be respectful to those who already have a title, was one of Virginia’s golden rules.

“How could I forget?” said Sir Miles. “You were in Virginia’s box and you gave me the only winner I backed all afternoon. How are you, old chap?”

“Never better, thank you,” said Desmond, as Virginia reappeared with a tall, elderly, gray-haired gentleman on her arm.

“So good of you to come, your grace,” she said, emphasizing the last two words.

“Who in their right mind would even consider missing one of your parties, my dear?”

“How kind of you to say so, Peregrine. May I introduce Mr. Desmond Mellor, the well-known philanthropist?”

“Good evening, your grace,” said Mellor, following Virginia’s lead. “How nice to meet you.”

“I’m so sorry the duchess isn’t with you,” said Virginia.

“I’m afraid she’s a bit under the weather, poor gal,” said the duke. “But I’m sure she’ll be as right as rain in no time,” he added, as Bofie Bridgwater walked across to join them, right on cue.

“Good evening, Desmond,” said Bofie, as he was handed a glass of champagne. “I understand congratulations are in order?”

“You’re a little premature, Bofie,” replied Mellor, placing a finger to his lips. “Although I think I can safely say we’re in the home straight.”

The duke and Sir Miles pricked up their ears.

“Should I be picking up a few more shares in Mellor Travel before the news of the takeover becomes public?”

Desmond winked conspiratorially. “But mum’s the word, Bofie.”

“You can rely on me, old chap. I won’t tell a soul.”

After he’d had a long chat with the duke, Virginia took Desmond by the arm and guided him around the room to meet her other guests. “Dame Eleanor, I don’t think you’ve met Desmond Mellor, who—”

“No, I haven’t,” said Dame Eleanor, “but it gives me the opportunity to thank Mr. Mellor for his generous donation to the Sick Children’s Trust.”

“I’m only too happy to support the amazing work you do,” said Desmond. Virginia’s stock answer, when dealing with the president of any charity.

By the time Desmond had spoken to everyone in the room, he was exhausted. Small talk and social etiquette were not his idea of how to spend a Friday evening. He was growing impatient to leave for his dinner with Adrian Sloane, when he would find out if the tape and the letter had been delivered to the Bank of England. But he hung back until the last of Virginia’s guests had departed so he could have a private word with her.

“Well done, Desmond,” were Virginia’s first words when she returned to the drawing room. “You certainly impressed a lot of influential people this evening.”

“Yes, but are any of them on the honors committee?” said Mellor, reverting to his old persona.

“No, but I’m confident I can get both Sir Miles and Dame Eleanor to sign your nomination papers, which can’t do any harm, remembering they are both friends of the duke.”

“So how much longer will I have to wait before I hear from the Palace?”

“One can’t hurry these things,” said Virginia. “You must appreciate, the committee cannot be rushed.”

“Meanwhile, you’re costing me a small fortune, Virginia. You must have wined and dined half the landed gentry.”

“And to good purpose, because they’re slowly coming around to my way of thinking,” said Virginia, as the butler helped Mellor on with his overcoat. “You’ll just have to be a little more patient, Desmond,” she added, before allowing him to bend down and kiss her on both cheeks. “Goodbye, Sir Desmond,” she mocked, but only after the butler had closed the door.

Buy Amalgamated Wire, but don’t let anyone know I authorized it, because that would be insider trading. Keep up the good work, Gavin, and I’m sure it will be reflected in your annual bonus.

Hakim pressed the Stop button. “What more could we ask for? Once the Ethics Committee hears all four tapes, Mellor and Sloane will be unable to show their faces in the City ever again.”

“But if you were to present those tapes to the Bank of England as evidence,” said Arnold, “they’re bound to ask how you obtained them. And when you tell them, they may think you’re no better than those two rogues you want to see behind bars.”

“Why?” said Hakim. “The tapes prove that Sloane organized the planting of the drugs, and Mellor covered his expenses. And not satisfied with that, they’re now trying to set me up a second time using a doctored tape to leave the impression I was involved in insider trading.”

“True, but the committee may feel that by secretly taping them, you’ve also broken the law. And they certainly wouldn’t condone that.”

“Are you suggesting I shouldn’t use the tapes to clear my name?”

“Yes, because in this case, the means do not justify the end. Anyone who hears those tapes will know they were acquired without the knowledge of the participants, which would make them inadmissible in a court of law. In fact, it could well be you who ends up being referred to the DPP.”

“But if they’re allowed to present their damning fake tape to the committee and I’m not able to show what they’ve been up to, at best I’ll have to spend another year defending myself, and at worst, I’ll end up losing my banking license.”

“That’s a risk I’d be willing to take if the alternative is being compared to those two scumbags,” said Arnold. “And for what it’s worth, that’s my advice. Of course, you’re free to ignore it. But should you decide to go down that road, I fear I won’t be able to represent you on this occasion. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m expected back in court at ten.”

Hakim remained silent until Arnold had closed the door behind him.

“What do I pay that man for?”

“To give you his considered judgment,” said Sebastian. “Which might not always be what you want to hear.”

“But surely you agree with me, Seb, that I should be able to defend myself?”

“That wasn’t the point Arnold was making. He simply feels that the way you went about acquiring the tape leaves you open to being accused of being no better than Sloane and Mellor.”

“And you agree with him?”

“Yes, I do, because I only have to ask myself what Cedric would have done, if he was still sitting in your chair.”

“So I’m expected to suffer another year of humiliation?”

“I’ve suffered for fifteen years because I didn’t listen to Cedric’s advice, so I can only recommend you listen to his son.”

Hakim pushed his chair back, stood up and began to pace restlessly around the room. He finally came to a halt in front of Seb. “If you’re both against me—”

“Neither of us is against you. We’re on your side, and only want what’s in your best interests. You could of course call Ross and get a third opinion.”

“I don’t need to call Ross to know what his opinion would be. But what am I expected to do when a member of my own staff delivers that tape to the Bank of England and tells the committee he felt it was no more than his duty to report me?”

“Think like Cedric, be advised by Arnold, and in the end you’ll defeat the bastards.”

An elderly gentleman shuffled slowly out of the wings, a walking stick in each hand. He came to a halt in the center of the stage and peered down at the packed audience.

“Mr. Mayor, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “this is a day I’ve been looking forward to for over forty years. Forty-two to be precise, and there were times when I didn’t think I’d live to see it. Hallelujah!” he shouted, looking up to the skies, which was greeted with laughter and applause. “But before I ask Samantha Sullivan to open the theatre named after her, can I say how delighted I am that Sebastian Clifton was able to join us today. Because without his unstinting support and encouragement, this theatre would never have been built.”

The audience burst into applause a second time, as Maurice Swann looked down at his benefactor, who was seated in the front row.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d honored your agreement?” whispered Samantha as she took Seb’s hand.

Sebastian had wondered how he would feel about Samantha after the intervening years. Would the memory of things past evaporate into thin air? Or would he... He need not have worried because, if anything, he fell more in love with her “the second time around.” Sam had lost none of her allure, her tenderness, her wit or her beauty. His only fear was that she might not feel the same way. Jessica didn’t help with her less-than-subtle hints that it was high time her parents got married.

“I now invite Samantha to join me on stage to perform the opening ceremony.”

Samantha walked up the steps onto the stage and shook hands with the former headmaster. She turned to face the audience, hoping they wouldn’t be able to see how nervous she felt.

“I’m so honored to have a theatre named after me,” she began, “especially as I’ve never been a good actress and am terrified of public speaking. But I have to say how proud I am of the man who has made it all possible, Sebastian Clifton.”

When the applause had finally died down, Mr. Swann handed Samantha a large pair of scissors. She cut the tape that stretched across the stage and the whole audience rose to their feet and cheered.

For the next hour, Samantha, Sebastian and Jessica were surrounded by teachers, parents and pupils who wanted to thank them for all Mr. Clifton had done. Sam looked up at Seb and realized why she had fallen in love with him a second time. Gone were the rough edges of greed, replaced with an understanding of what the other side had the right to expect. Seb kept telling her how lucky he was to have been given a second chance, whereas she felt—

“You can see how much this means to the entire community,” said Mr. Swann. “If there’s ever anything I can do to show my appreciation, just—”

“Funny you should mention that,” interrupted Jessica. “Pops told me you used to be a director.”

“Yes, but that was a long time ago.”

“Then I’m going to have to bring you out of retirement to direct your swan song.”

“That was an awful pun, young lady. What do you have in mind?”

“I want you to put my mom and pops back on stage.”

The old man turned and walked slowly up the steps and onto the stage.

“What’s she up to?” whispered Samantha.

“I have no idea,” said Seb. “But perhaps it would be simpler just to indulge her.” He took Sam’s hand and led her up onto the stage.

“Now, I want you center stage, Seb,” said Mr. Swann. “Samantha, you stand facing him. Sebastian, you will now fall on one knee, look adoringly up at the woman you love and deliver your opening line.”

Seb immediately fell on one knee. “Samantha Ethel Sullivan. I adore you and always will,” he said, “and more than anything on earth I want you to be my wife.”

“Now you reply, Samantha,” said Swann.

“On one condition,” she said firmly.

“No, that’s not in the script,” said Jessica. “You’re meant to say, ‘Get up, you idiot. Everyone is staring at us.’”

“This is when you produce the little leather box,” said Swann. “Samantha, you must look surprised when he opens it.”

Sebastian took out a small red box from his jacket pocket and opened it to reveal an exquisite blue sapphire surrounded by diamonds that Sam hadn’t seen for ten years. Her expression was one of genuine surprise.

“And now your final line, Mom, if you can remember it.”

“Of course I’ll marry you. I’ve loved you since the day you got me arrested.”

Seb stood up and placed the ring on the third finger of her left hand. He was about to kiss his fiancée when Samantha took a pace back and said, “You lot have been rehearsing behind my back, haven’t you?”

“True,” admitted Swann. “But you were always going to be our leading lady.”

Seb took Samantha in his arms and kissed her gently on the lips, which was greeted with a spontaneous burst of applause from an audience who had been sitting on the edges of their seats.

“Curtain!” said Mr. Swann.

Sir Piers Thornton, the chairman of the court at the Bank of England, wrote to the chairman of Farthings Bank to invite him to appear before the Ethics Committee. He detailed what the bank wished to discuss with him, and enclosed a copy of the tape recording as well as the evidence given by one of the bank’s brokers, which had been given in camera. The committee offered Mr. Bishara four weeks to prepare his case and recommended that he had a legal representative present.

Arnold Hardcastle replied by return of post that his client would prefer to appear before the committee as soon as was convenient. A date was agreed.

On the car journey back to London, Sebastian told Samantha about the contents of the damning faked tape and the problem Hakim was facing.

“Cedric would have agreed with your advice,” said Sam, “just as I do. Sloane and Mellor are obviously both crooks, and Mr. Bishara shouldn’t need to lower his standards to theirs to prove he’s innocent.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Seb, as he turned onto the new motorway. “Hakim will be appearing in front of the Ethics Committee next Wednesday and he hasn’t got much more to rely on than his good name.”

“That should be more than enough,” said Sam. “After all, it will be obvious he’s telling the truth.”

“I wish it were that easy. Mellor and Sloane nearly got away with it last time, and if Hakim can’t prove the tape has been doctored, things could go badly wrong for him. And worse, the four tapes that prove Hakim’s innocence have somehow disappeared from the storeroom.”

“So they’ve got someone working on the inside.”

“A commodity trader called Gavin Buckland, who’s already given evidence to the committee. He told them that—”

“Mom?”

“I thought you were asleep,” said Sam as she looked around to see her daughter curled up on the backseat.

“How could I get any sleep with you two chattering away.” She sat up. “So let me see if I’ve fully understood the situation, because it’s clear to me, Mom, that you haven’t been paying attention.”

“Out of the mouths of babes...” said Seb.

“So what is it you think I’ve missed, Jessie?”

“For a start, why don’t you tell Pops about Professor Daniel Horowitz?”

“Who’s he?” asked Seb.

“A colleague of mine at the Smithsonian, who... of course, how dumb of me.”

“I sometimes wonder if either of you is really my parent,” said Jessica.

42

The four of them sat facing the committee in a dark, oak-paneled room that no one who worked in the City ever wanted to enter. For most of those who sat on the wrong side of the long oak table, it spelled the end of their career.

On the other side of the table sat the chairman of the committee, Sir Piers Thornton, a former sheriff of the City. On his right, Nigel Foreman of NatWest, and on his left, Sir Bertram Laing of Price Waterhouse. However, perhaps the most important figure present was Henry VIII, whose portrait hung on the red-velvet-covered wall behind the chairman to remind everyone who had originally granted this august body its royal seal of approval.

Sir Piers offered a benign smile before he opened proceedings. “Good morning, gentlemen. I’d like to begin by thanking you all for attending this enquiry.” What he didn’t add was what the consequences would have been had they failed to do so. “As you know, Mr. Gavin Buckland, who has worked as a commodity broker at Farthings for the past eleven years, has levied a serious accusation against Mr. Hakim Bishara, the bank’s chairman. He claims that Mr. Bishara ordered him to purchase a large number of shares in Amalgamated Wire at a time when he knew it was involved in a takeover bid for another company. To compound matters, that company was represented by Farthings Bank.

“Mr. Buckland told the committee that he refused to carry out the order as he knew it was against the law and so, to quote him, ‘with a heavy heart,’” said Sir Piers, looking down at the written statement in front of him, “he decided to report the matter to this committee, and supplied us with a tape of his conversation with Mr. Bishara. The purpose of this inquiry, Mr. Bishara, is to give you the opportunity to defend yourself against these charges.”

The chairman sat back and produced the same benign smile to show he had completed his opening statement.

Arnold Hardcastle rose from his place on the other side of the table.

“My name is Arnold Hardcastle, and I am the bank’s legal advisor, a position I have held for the past twenty-two years. I would like to begin by saying that this is the first occasion anyone from Farthings has been asked to appear before this committee since the bank’s foundation in 1866.”

The benign smile returned.

“I am joined today, Sir Piers, by the chairman of Farthings, Mr. Hakim Bishara, and his chief executive, Mr. Sebastian Clifton, both of whom you will be acquainted with. The other member of our team, with whom you will not be familiar, is Professor Daniel Horowitz of the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, DC. He will explain the presence of the fifth member of our team, Matilda, who also hails from the Smithsonian.

“I will begin by saying a few words about the role Mr. Bishara has played since he became chairman of Farthings four years ago. I will not dwell on the countless awards he has received from government institutions and respected organizations from all over the world, but the simple, undisputed fact is that under his leadership, Farthings has opened branches in seven countries, employs 6,412 people, and its share price has tripled. Mr. Bishara is well aware that the accusation against him is a serious one because it goes directly to the most important tenet of banking: reputation.

“It will not be me, nor Mr. Bishara himself, who defends him against these charges. No, he will leave that to a machine, which must surely be a first for this committee in its five-hundred-year history. The inventor of this machine, Professor Horowitz, may not be known to you, but as he will be our sole advocate on this occasion, perhaps I should tell you a little about his background. Young Daniel Horowitz escaped from Germany with his parents in 1937. They settled in the borough of Queens in New York, where his father became a pawnbroker. Daniel left New York at the age of seventeen to attend Yale University, where he studied physics.

“He graduated with a B.S. before he was old enough to vote. He went on to MIT, where he completed his PhD with a thesis on the impact of sound in an increasingly noisy world. Dr. Horowitz then joined the Smithsonian as a lecturer, where nine years later he was appointed as the first Professor of Sound. In 1974 he was awarded the prestigious Congressional Science Medal, only the fourteenth person to be so honored in the nation’s history.” Arnold paused. “With the committee’s permission, Sir Piers, I will ask Professor Horowitz to conduct our defense.”

The professor rose from his chair, although it was not immediately obvious, as he appeared still to be on the same level as the members of the committee who were seated. However, it was not his lack of physical stature that would have struck a casual observer, but the vast bald dome that rested on such tiny shoulders, and made it easy to overlook the fact that his trousers couldn’t have seen an iron since the day they were bought, or that his shirt was frayed at the collar. A tie hung loosely around his neck, as if it were an afterthought. It was only when the professor opened his mouth that the committee realized they were in the presence of a giant.

“What a strange, incongruous figure I must appear, Mr. Chairman, standing before this august and ancient body to address you on a subject I have spent my whole life studying: sound. I am fascinated by the sound of Big Ben chiming, or a London bus changing gears. Only yesterday I spent a considerable time recording the sound of Bow Bells. You may well ask, how can this have any relevance for the defense of a man accused of insider trading? To answer that, I will need the help of my offspring, Matilda, who like me has never visited London before.”

The professor walked across to a side table on which he had placed a white cube, about two feet square, with what looked like the handset of a telephone attached to one side. On the side facing the committee was a large circular dial with black numbers around its edge that went from 0 to 120. A thick red arrow rested on zero. From the looks on the faces of the committee, Matilda had succeeded in catching their attention.

“Now, with your permission, sir, I shall ask Mr. Bishara to deliver the exact words he was accused of saying to Mr. Buckland. But please don’t look at Mr. Bishara, concentrate on Matilda.”

The committee didn’t take their eyes off the machine as Hakim rose from his place, picked up the handset and said, “Buy Amalgamated Wire, but don’t let anyone know I authorized it, because that would be insider trading. Keep up the good work, Gavin, and I’m sure that it will be reflected in your annual bonus.” Hakim replaced the handset and returned to his seat.

“I should now like to ask you gentlemen,” said the professor politely, “what you observed while you were watching Matilda.”

“While Mr. Bishara was speaking,” said Sir Piers, “the arrow shot up to 76, then fluctuated between 74 and 78 until he put the handset down, when it returned to zero.”

“Thank you, chairman,” said the professor. “The voice of the average male of Mr. Bishara’s age will have a volume level somewhere between 74 and 78. A softly spoken woman will average 67 to 71, while a younger man might reach a high of 85, or even 90. But whatever the individual’s voice level, it remains constant.

“If I may, I would now like to feed Matilda with the tape on which the allegations against Mr. Bishara are based. Once again, I would ask you to watch the arrow carefully.”

By the time the professor had placed the tape into the machine, the committee were leaning forward intently. He pressed Play, and everyone in the room listened to the same words a second time, but this time Matilda registered a very different result.

“How is that possible?” asked Sir Piers.

“It is possible,” said the professor, “because the tape supplied to this committee is a recording not of one conversation, but four, as I shall now demonstrate.” He rewound the tape and once again pressed the Play button.

“Buy Amalgamated Wire.” He paused the tape. “Seventy-six, Mr. Bishara’s normal level.” He pressed Play. “But don’t let anyone know I authorized it. Eighty-four. Because that would be insider trading. Seventy-six, back to normal. Keep up the good work, Gavin. Eighty-one.”

“How do you explain the discrepancy?” asked Mr. Foreman.

“Because as I suggested, sir, the tape that was provided to this committee is a compilation drawn from four different conversations. To use a vulgar American expression, the originals have been sliced and diced. I concluded that two of the conversations were conducted on the telephone in Mr. Bishara’s office as their levels are between 74 and 76; one was from overseas, when people have a tendency to speak up — in this case the level increased to 84; and one from Mr. Bishara’s home in the country, when the level is 81, and where the sound of birds — blue tits and sparrows, I believe — can be heard faintly in the background.”

“But,” said Mr. Foreman, “he did say ‘Buy Amalgamated Wire.’”

“I accept that,” said the professor. “But if you listen carefully to that section of the tape, I think you’ll come to the same conclusion as I did: that a word has been cut out. I’d stake my reputation and experience on that word being ‘don’t.’ In doctored tapes, that is the most common word to be deleted. So Mr. Bishara’s actual words were ‘Don’t buy Amalgamated Wire.’ You will of course be able to test my theory more fully when you interview Mr. Buckland again.”

“With that in mind, professor,” said the chairman, “may we call on your services when we see Mr. Buckland?”

“I would be happy to assist you,” said the professor, “but my wife and I are only in England for a week conducting further research.”

“Into what?” asked Sir Piers, unable to resist.

“I plan to record the sonic output of London’s buses, particularly double-deckers, and to spend some time at Heathrow recording 707 takeoffs and landings. We’re also going to attend a concert by the Rolling Stones at Wembley, when Matilda’s little indicator may hit its maximum level of 120 for the first time.”

The chairman allowed himself a chuckle before saying, “We appreciate your giving us your time, professor, and look forward to seeing you and Matilda again in the near future.”

“And I have to confess,” Horowitz said, as he placed a plastic cover over his offspring and zipped her up, “you only got me just in time.”

“And why is that?” asked Sir Piers.

“Scotland Yard have set me an interesting conundrum that Matilda can’t handle on her own. However, I’ve almost perfected an odious little boyfriend for her, called Harvey, but he’s not quite ready to be let loose on the world.”

“And what will Harvey be able to do?” the chairman asked on behalf of everyone in the room.

“He’s an equalizer, so it won’t be too long before I will be able to take any tape that has been sliced and diced and reproduce it at a constant level of 74 to 76. If whoever tampered with Mr. Buckland’s tape had been aware of Harvey, Mr. Bishara would not have been able to prove his innocence.”

“Now I recall why I know your name,” said Sir Piers. “Mr. Hardcastle told us that you were awarded the Congressional Science Medal, but he didn’t tell us what for. Do remind us, Mr. Hardcastle.”

Arnold stood up again, opened the Horowitz file and read out the citation. “At the time of President Nixon’s impeachment, Professor Horowitz was invited by Congress to study the Nixon tapes and see if he could show that there had been any deletions or tampering with their content.”

“Which is exactly what I did,” said the professor. “And as a staunch Republican, it was a sad day for me when the president was impeached. I came to the conclusion that Matilda must be a Democrat.”

They all burst out laughing.

“Mind you, if I had perfected Harvey a little earlier, the president might still have served his full two terms.”

Adrian Sloane picked up the phone on his desk, curious to know who was calling him on his private line.

“Is this Adrian Sloane?” said a voice he didn’t recognize.

“Depends who’s asking.” There was a long pause.

“Chief Inspector Mike Stokes. I’m attached to the drugs squad at Scotland Yard.”

Sloane felt his whole body go cold.

“How can I help you, Mr. Stokes?”

“I’d like to make an appointment to see you, sir.”

“Why?” asked Sloane bluntly.

“I can’t discuss the matter over the phone, sir. Either I could come to you, or you could visit me at Scotland Yard, whichever is more convenient.”

Sloane hesitated. “I’ll come to you.”

43

The toastmaster waited for the applause to die down before he banged his gavel several times and announced, “Your excellency, my lord, ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for the bridegroom, Mr. Sebastian Clifton.”

Warm applause greeted Sebastian as he rose from his place at the top table.

“Best-man speeches are almost always appalling,” said Seb, “and Victor is clearly a man who doesn’t believe in breaking with tradition.” He turned to his old friend. “If I was given a second chance to choose between you and Clive...” Laughter and a smattering of applause broke out.

“I want to begin by thanking my father-in-law for so generously allowing Samantha and me to be married in this magnificent embassy with its romantic past. I didn’t realize until Jessica told me that the palazzo had its own lady chapel, and I can’t think of a more idyllic place to marry the woman I love.

“I would also like to thank my parents, of whom I am inordinately proud. They continue to set standards I could never hope to live up to, so let’s be thankful that I’ve married a woman who can. And of course, I want to thank all of you who have traveled from different parts of the world to be with us in Rome today to celebrate an event that should have taken place ten years ago. I can promise you I intend to spend the rest of my life making up for those lost years.

“My final thanks go to my precocious, adorable and talented menace of a daughter, Jessica, who somehow managed to bring her mother and me back together, for which I will be eternally grateful. I hope all of you will enjoy today, and have a memorable time while you’re in Rome.”

Sebastian sat down to prolonged applause, and Jessica, who was seated next to him, handed him the dessert menu. He began to study the different dishes.

“The other side,” she said, trying not to sound exasperated.

Seb turned over the menu to find a charcoal drawing of himself delivering his speech.

“You just get better and better,” he said, placing an arm around her shoulder. “I wonder if you could do me a favor?”

“Anything, Pops.” Jessica listened to her father’s request, grinned and quietly left the table.

“What a fascinating job, being an ambassador,” said Emma as an affogato was placed in front of her.

“Especially when they give you Rome,” said Patrick Sullivan. “But I’ve often wondered what it must be like to chair a great hospital, with so many different and complex issues every day — not just the patients, doctors, nurses and—”

“The car park,” said Emma. “I could have done with your diplomatic skills when it came to that particular problem.”

“I’ve never had a car parking problem,” admitted the ambassador.

“And neither did I, until I decided to charge for parking at the infirmary, when one of the local papers launched a campaign to get me to change my mind and described me as a heartless harridan!”

“And did you change your mind?”

“Certainly not. I’d authorized over a million pounds of public money to be spent building that car park, and I didn’t expect the general public to use it for free parking whenever they wanted to go shopping. So I decided to charge the same rate as the nearest municipal car park, with concessions for hospital staff and patients, so it would only be used by the people it had been originally intended for. Result: uproar, protest marches, burning effigies! This, despite a terminally ill patient having to be driven around in circles for over an hour because her husband was unable to find a space. And if that wasn’t enough, when I bumped into the paper’s editor and explained why it was necessary, all he said was, of course you’re right, Emma, but a good campaign always sells newspapers.”

Mr. Sullivan laughed. “On balance, I think I’ll stick to being the American ambassador in Rome.”

“Grandma,” said a youthful voice behind her. “A little memory of today.” Jessica handed her a drawing of Emma making a point to the ambassador.

“Jessica, it’s wonderful. I’ll definitely show it to the editor of my local paper, and explain why I was wagging my finger.”

“How’s Giles enjoying the Lords?” asked Harry.

“He isn’t,” said Karin. “He’d rather be back in the Commons.”

“But he’s a member of the Cabinet.”

“And he’s not sure he will be for much longer. Now the Tories have elected Margaret Thatcher as their leader, Giles feels they will have a good chance of winning the next election. And I confess I could vote for her,” whispered Karin, before she quickly added, “What’s the latest on your campaign to have Anatoly Babakov released from prison?”

“Not a lot of progress, I’m afraid. The Russians won’t even let us know if he’s still alive.”

“And how’s Mrs. Babakova bearing up?”

“She’s moved to New York and is renting a small apartment on the Lower West Side. I visit her whenever I’m in the States. Yelena remains an eternal optimist and continues to believe that they’re just about to release Anatoly. I haven’t the heart to tell her it isn’t going to happen in the foreseeable future, if ever.”

“Let me give the problem some thought,” said Karin. “After spending so many years behind the Iron Curtain, I might be able to come up with something that would irritate the Russians enough to reconsider their position.”

“You might also mention my lack of progress to your father. After all, he hates the communists every bit as much as you do,” said Harry, carefully observing how Karin reacted. But she gave nothing away.

“Good idea. I’ll discuss it with him when I next go down to Cornwall,” she said, sounding as if she meant it, although Harry doubted if she would ever raise the subject of Anatoly Babakov with her controller.

“Karin,” said Jessica, handing her a copy of the menu. “A little gift to mark our first meeting.”

“I’ll treasure it,” said Karin, giving her a warm hug.

“Do you ever hear from Gwyneth or Virginia?” asked Grace.

“Gwyneth occasionally,” said Giles. “She’s teaching English at Monmouth School, which should please you, and has recently become engaged to one of the house masters.”

“You’re right, that does please me,” said Grace. “She was a fine teacher. And Virginia?”

“Only what I pick up in the gossip columns. You will have seen that her father died a couple of months ago. Funny old stick, but I confess I rather liked him.”

“Did you go to his funeral?”

“No, I didn’t feel that was appropriate, but I wrote to Archie Fenwick, who’s inherited the title, saying that I hoped he’d play an active role in the Upper House. I received a very courteous reply.”

“But you surely don’t approve of the hereditary system?” said Grace.

“No, I don’t. But as long as we keep losing votes to the Tories in the Commons, reform of the House of Lords will have to be shelved until after the next election.”

“And if Mrs. Thatcher wins that election, reform of the Lords won’t be shelved, it will be buried.” Grace drained her glass of champagne before adding, “Touching on a more sensitive subject, “I’m so sorry you and Karin haven’t had any children.”

“God knows we’ve tried everything, even sex.” Grace didn’t laugh. “We both visited a fertility clinic. It seems that Karin has a blood problem and, after two miscarriages, the doctor feels the risk would be too great.”

“How sad,” said Grace. “No one to follow you into the Lords.”

“Or, more important, open the batting for England.”

“Have you thought about adoption?”

“Yes, but we’ve put it on hold until after the election.”

“Don’t put it on hold for too long. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, Giles, but there are some things more important than politics.”

“I apologize for interrupting you, Aunt Grace, but may I give you this small gift?” Jessica said, handing over another portrait.

Grace studied the drawing for some time before she offered an opinion. “Although I am not an expert, you undoubtedly have promise, my dear. Be sure you don’t squander your talent.”

“I’ll try not to, Aunt Grace.”

“How old are you?”

“Eleven.”

“Ah, the same age as Picasso when he held his first public exhibition — in which city, young lady?”

“Barcelona.”

Grace awarded her a slight bow. “I shall have my portrait framed, hang it in my study in Cambridge and tell my fellow dons and pupils alike that you are my great-niece.”

“Praise indeed,” said Giles. “Where’s mine?”

“I can’t fit you in today, Uncle Giles. Another time perhaps.”

“I’ll certainly hold you to that. How would you like to stay with me at Barrington Hall while your parents are away on honeymoon? In return, you could paint a portrait of Karin and myself. And while you’re with us you could visit your grandparents, who are just a couple of miles down the road at the Manor House.”

“They’ve already invited me to stay. And didn’t try to bribe me.”

“Never forget, my dear,” said Grace, “that your great-uncle is a politician.”

“Have you heard anything back from the Bank of England?” asked Hakim.

“Nothing official,” said Arnold Hardcastle. “But, strictly between ourselves, Sir Piers rang me on Friday afternoon to let me know that Gavin Buckland didn’t show up for his second interview, and the committee have decided not to pursue the matter any further.”

“I could have told them he was unlikely to turn up because his letter of resignation was on my desk even before I’d got back from our meeting with the Ethics Committee.”

“He’ll never be offered another job in the City,” said Arnold. “I can only wonder what he’ll do next.”

“He’s gone to Cyprus,” said Hakim. “Barry Hammond followed him to Nicosia, where he’s taken a job on the commodities desk of a local Turkish bank. He was good at his job, so let’s just hope there aren’t too many racetracks in Cyprus.”

“Any news of Sloane or Mellor?”

“Gone to ground, according to Barry. But he’s pretty sure they’ll resurface in the spring like all pond life, when no doubt we’ll find out what they’ve got planned next.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Arnold. “I was at the Bailey last week, and a police sergeant told me that—”

“A little gift for you, Mr. Bishara, on behalf of my father.” Hakim swung around nervously, thinking someone might have overheard their conversation.

“What a wonderful surprise,” he said when he saw the portrait. “I’ve always admired the drawing of your mother that hangs in your father’s office, and I’ll certainly put this one in mine.”

“I do hope you’ll do one of me,” said Arnold, admiring the drawing.

“I’d be delighted to, Mr. Hardcastle, but I must warn you, I charge by the hour.”

The loud banging of a gavel could be heard coming from the top table. The guests fell silent as Victor Kaufman stood up once again.

“Not another speech, I promise. I thought you’d want to know that the bride and groom will be leaving in a few minutes’ time, so if you would like to make your way to the entrance, we can all see them off.”

The guests began to rise from their places and drift out of the ballroom.

“Where are they going on honeymoon?” Emma asked Harry.

“No idea, but I know someone who will. Jessica!”

“Yes, Grandpops,” she said, running across to join them.

“Where are your mother and father spending their honeymoon?”

“Amsterdam.”

“Such a lovely city,” said Emma. “Any particular reason?”

“It’s where Dad first proposed to Mom, eleven years ago.”

“How romantic,” said Emma. “Are they staying at the Amstel?”

“No, Pops booked the attic room of the Pension De Kanaal, which is where they stayed last time.”

“Another lesson learned,” said Harry.

“And have they finally decided which country they are going to live in?” asked Emma.

“I decided,” said Jessica. “England.”

“And have you let them know?”

“Pops can hardly be expected to run Farthings from Washington, and in any case Mom has been shortlisted for a job at the Tate.”

“I’m so glad you’ve been able to sort everything out to your satisfaction,” said Emma.

“Got to go,” said Jessica. “I’m in charge of confetti distribution.”

A few minutes later, Samantha and Sebastian came down the sweeping staircase arm in arm, Seb’s limp now almost indiscernible. They walked slowly through a tunnel of well-wishers throwing confetti vaguely in their direction, until they emerged into the evening sun of the courtyard, to be surrounded by friends and family.

Samantha looked at a dozen hopeful young women, then turned and tossed her bouquet of blush-pink roses over her head and high into the air. It landed in Jessica’s arms, which was greeted with wild laughter and applause.

“God help the man,” said Sebastian as the chauffeur opened the back door of the waiting car.

The ambassador took his daughter in his arms and seemed reluctant to let her go. When he finally relinquished her, he whispered to Seb, “Please take care of her.”

“For the rest of my life, sir,” said Seb, before joining his wife in the backseat.

The car drove sedately out of the courtyard through the sculpted gates and onto the main road, with several of the younger guests in pursuit.

Mr. and Mrs. Clifton looked back and continued to wave until they were all out of sight. Sam rested her head on Seb’s shoulder.

“Do you remember the last time we were in Amsterdam, my darling?”

“Could I ever forget?”

“When I forgot to mention I was pregnant.”

44

The two men shook hands, which helped Sloane to relax.

“It was good of you to come in at such short notice, Mr. Sloane,” said Chief Inspector Stokes. “When a policeman visits someone like you in their office, it can lead to unnecessary gossip among the staff.”

“I can assure you, chief inspector, that I have nothing to hide from anyone, including my staff,” said Sloane as he sat down, leaving the policeman standing. Sloane stared at the large Grundig tape recorder on the table between them. His mind began working overtime as he tried to anticipate what might be on the tape.

“I wasn’t suggesting that you have anything to hide,” said Stokes, sitting down opposite Sloane. “But you may be able to help me by answering one or two questions concerning a case I’m currently working on.”

Sloane clenched his fists below the table, but didn’t respond.

“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to listen to this tape, sir.” Stokes leaned forward and pressed the Play button on the tape recorder.

“Customs office, Heathrow.”

“Put me through to the senior customs officer.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“No, you may not.”

“I’ll see if he’s available.” There was a pause before another voice was heard. “SCO Collier. How can I help you?”

“If you’re interested, I can tell you about some drugs that a passenger will be trying to smuggle in today.”

“Yes, I’m interested. But first, would you tell me your name?”

“The passenger’s name is Hakim Bishara. He’s well known in the trade, and is traveling on flight 207 from Lagos. He has thirteen ounces of heroin in his overnight bag.”

Sloane remained silent after the tape had come to an end. The chief inspector removed the spool and replaced it with another one. Once again he pressed the Play button. Once again he said nothing.

“Is this Adrian Sloane?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

“Chief Inspector Mike Stokes. I’m attached to the drug squad at Scotland Yard.”

“How can I help you, Mr. Stokes?”

“I’d like to make an appointment to see you, sir.”

“Why?”

“I can’t discuss the matter over the phone, sir. Either I could come to you, or you could visit me at Scotland Yard, whichever is more convenient.”

“I’ll come to you.”

Sloane shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve had both those tapes analyzed by an American voice specialist,” said Stokes, “and he’s confirmed that not only were they made by the same person, but from the same telephone.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Are you sure?” asked the interrogator, his eyes never leaving Sloane.

“Yes, I am, because the telephone call to the customs officer lasted less than three minutes, and is therefore untraceable.”

“How could you possibly know that, Mr. Sloane, if it wasn’t you who made the call?”

“Because I attended every day of Hakim Bishara’s trial and heard all the evidence firsthand.”

“You did indeed, sir. And I confess I’m still puzzled about why you did.”

“Because, Mr. Stokes, as I’m sure you know, I was the previous chairman of Farthings Bank, and one of my clients at the time was a substantial shareholder, so I was doing no more than my fiduciary duty. You’ll need something a little more convincing than that to prove I was involved.”

“Before we go on to discuss the role you played on behalf of your substantial shareholder, and how you were both involved, perhaps I could play the first tape again. I’m going to ask you to listen more carefully this time.”

Sloane could feel the palms of his hands sweating. He wiped them on his trousers as the tape recorder whirred back into action.

“Customs office, Heathrow.”

“Put me through to the senior customs officer.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“No, you may not.”

“I’ll see if he’s available.”

Stokes pressed the Stop button. “Listen carefully, Mr. Sloane.” The chief inspector pressed the Play button once again, and this time Sloane could hear the faint sound of chimes in the background. Stokes pressed Stop.

“Ten o’clock,” he said, his eyes still fixed on Sloane.

“So what?”

“Now I’d like you to listen to the second tape again,” said Stokes as he swapped the cassettes. “Because I called you in your office at one minute to ten.”

“Is this Adrian Sloane?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

A long pause, and this time Sloane couldn’t miss the ten chimes. He felt beads of sweat on his forehead and, despite having a handkerchief in his top pocket, made no attempt to wipe them away.

The detective pressed Stop. “And I can assure you, Mr. Sloane, those chimes came from the same clock, which our American expert has confirmed is St. Mary-le-Bow, Cheapside, less than a hundred yards from your office.”

“That proves nothing. There must be thousands of offices in the vicinity, and you know it.”

“You’re quite right, which is why I requested a court order to allow me to check your phone records for that particular day.”

“Over a hundred people work in the building,” said Sloane. “It could have been any one of them.”

“On a Saturday morning, Mr. Sloane? I don’t think so. In any case, it wasn’t the bank’s number that I called, but your private line, and you answered it. Don’t you get the distinct feeling that these coincidences are beginning to mount up?”

Sloane stared defiantly back at him.

“Perhaps the time has come,” said Stokes, “for us to consider yet another coincidence.” He opened a file in front of him and studied a long list of phone numbers. “Just before you phoned the customs office at Heathrow—”

“I never phoned the customs office at Heathrow.”

“You made a call to Bristol 698 337,” Stokes continued, ignoring the outburst, “which is the office of Mr. Desmond Mellor, who I understand is the client you mentioned as having substantial shareholdings in Farthings Bank at the time of the Bishara trial. Yet another coincidence?”

“That proves nothing. I sit on the board of Mellor Travel, of which he’s the chairman, so we always have a lot to discuss.”

“I’m sure you do, Mr. Sloane. So perhaps you can explain why you made a second call to Mr. Mellor the moment you’d put the phone down on Mr. Collier.”

“It’s possible I couldn’t get through to Mellor the first time and I was making a second attempt.”

“If you didn’t get through the first time, why did that call last twenty-eight minutes and three seconds?”

“It could have been Mr. Mellor’s secretary who answered the phone. Yes, now I remember. I had a long chat to Miss Castle that morning.”

Stokes looked down at a page in his notebook. “Mr. Mellor’s secretary, Miss Angela Castle, has informed us that she was visiting her mother in Glastonbury on that particular Saturday morning, where they both attended a local antiques fair.”

Sloane licked his lips, which were feeling unusually dry.

“Your second call to Mr. Mellor’s office lasted six minutes and eighteen seconds.”

“That doesn’t prove that I spoke to him.”

“I thought you might say that. Which is why I asked Mr. Mellor to drop in and see me earlier today. He admitted that he spoke to you twice that morning, but says that he can’t remember the details of either conversation.”

“So this has been nothing more than a fishing expedition,” said Sloane. “All you’ve come up with is speculation and coincidence. Because one thing’s for certain, Mellor would never have taken the bait.”

“You could be right, Mr. Sloane. However, I have a feeling neither of you will want this case to come to court. It might well make your colleagues in the City feel there was just one coincidence too many for them to consider doing business with you again.”

“Are you threatening me, Stokes?”

“Certainly not, sir. In fact, I confess I have a problem.” Sloane smiled for the first time. “I just can’t make up my mind which one of you to arrest, and which one of you to release without charge.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Possibly, but I thought I’d give you the first chance to take up my offer to give evidence on behalf of the Crown. Should you turn me down—”

“Never,” said Sloane defiantly.

“Then I have no choice but to go next door and make the same offer to Mr. Mellor.”

The sweat was now pouring down Sloane’s fleshy cheeks. The chief inspector paused for a moment before saying, “Shall I give you a few minutes to think about it, Mr. Sloane?”

45

“I’m beginning to believe that Mrs. Thatcher will win the next election,” said Emma after returning from an area group meeting.

“Including Bristol Docklands?”

“Almost certainly. We’ve chosen an impressive candidate and he’s going down well with the electorate.”

“Giles won’t be pleased about that.”

“He’d be even less pleased if he could see our canvass returns for the West Country, and if things are the same nationally, Margaret will be taking up residence at No.10 in the not-too-distant future. I’ll know more after the national chairman’s meeting at Central Office, when she’ll be addressing us.”

“That sounds like a whole lot of fun,” said Harry.

“Don’t mock or I’ll have you thrown in the tower.”

“You’d make a rather good governor of the tower.”

“And you and Giles will be the first on the rack.”

“What about Seb?”

“He always votes Conservative,” said Emma.

“Which reminds me,” said Harry, “he called last night to say he now has to make an appointment to see you, so heaven knows what it’s going to be like after the election — that’s assuming Thatcher wins.”

“Actually it will be a lot easier after the election as I’m not eligible to stand for a second term as area chairman. So I’ll be able to devote more time to the hospital, and I’m rather hoping that in time Seb will be willing to take over as chairman of Barrington’s. The company needs a breath of fresh air if we’re to compete with the latest luxury liners.” Emma gave her husband a kiss.

“Must dash or I’ll be late. I’m chairing a hospital subcommittee in an hour’s time.”

“Will you be seeing Giles when you’re in London? Because if you are—”

“Certainly not. I shall not be consorting with the enemy until after the election, when he’ll be back in Opposition.”

“We may have a traitor in our camp,” said Pengelly, once they had left the road and he was sure no one could overhear them.

Karin tried not to show how nervous she felt. She daily lived in fear of Pengelly finding out that it was she who was in fact the traitor. She had often shared these anxieties with Baroness Forbes-Watson, who was no longer just her handler but had become a trusted friend and confidante.

“Am I allowed to know who you suspect, comrade director?”

“Yes, because our masters in Moscow want you to be involved in the plan to flush him out. One of our agents in the Ukraine will pass on a particularly sensitive piece of information to agent Julius Kramer, with instructions to brief you. If he fails to do so, we’ll know he’s working for the other side.”

“If that turns out to be the case, what happens next?”

“Kramer will be ordered back to Moscow and that’ll be the last we’ll ever hear of him.”

“And if he doesn’t report back?”

“We’ll track him down and exact the punishment all traitors can expect if they switch sides.”

They continued to walk for a while before Pengelly spoke again. “Marshal Koshevoi has another job he wants you to do, comrade. Harold Wilson’s unexpected resignation as PM has caused considerable speculation, and the party wants us to take advantage of it.”

“Barrington told me Wilson’s doctor detected early signs of Alzheimer’s and advised him to resign before it became obvious.”

“But he didn’t give that as the reason at the time. No doubt because he was advised against it. So we’ve come up with our own explanation.”

“Which is?”

“That he was always in the pay of the Russians. MI6 found out and he was told that if he didn’t resign they’d expose him.”

“But that’s farcical, and Marshal Koshevoi must know it.”

“I’m sure he does, but there are enough people on both sides of the House who would be only too willing to believe it.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Tell Barrington you’ve heard the rumor and ask if there could be any truth in it. He’ll dismiss it, of course, but you’ll have planted the idea in his mind.”

“But surely the public will never swallow it?”

“As Stalin memorably said, comrade, tell a lie often enough and it becomes the truth.”

“Hi Ginny, it’s Buck Trend.”

Virginia disliked being addressed as Ginny — so common. But when the person who does so also sends you a check for $7,500 every month, you learn to grin and bear it.

“I’m phoning to warn you,” continued Buck, “that our esteemed governor of Louisiana, the Honorable Hayden Rankin, is planning a visit to London in July. And, according to my sources, he has an appointment to see your ex-husband, Lord Barrington.”

“What could those two possibly have in common?” said Virginia.

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Haven’t your sources come up with any ideas?”

“Only that Cyrus T. Grant III is a close friend of the governor, as well as being one of his major campaign contributors. So it might be wise if you and little Freddie were out of town when the governor crosses the Atlantic.”

“Don’t worry, Freddie will be spending his hols in Scotland, and I’ll be in the Bahamas enjoying a well-earned rest.”

“Fine. But if you do find out why the governor wants to see your ex, call me. Because I need to know if he’s trying to find a way of stopping your monthly payments, and we wouldn’t want that, would we, Ginny?”

They never discussed anything serious until tea and two slightly burnt crumpets had been served.

“Giles will be under considerable pressure as we get nearer to an election.”

“He visits a different constituency every week,” said Karin.

“Does he still think it’s possible for Labour to win again?”

“He assures me they can over breakfast every morning and I’d believe him if he didn’t talk in his sleep.”

The baroness laughed. “Then we’d better prepare ourselves for a spell of the grocer’s daughter.”

“Two teas and two burnt crumpets, my lady.”

“Thank you, Stanley.”

“So what’s Pengelly up to?” Her voice changed, the moment the waiter left.

“Moscow thinks Julius Kramer might be a double agent.”

“Do they indeed?” said the baroness as she dropped a third sugar lump in her tea. “And what do they intend to do about it?”

“Kramer will be instructed to pass on some highly sensitive information to me, and if he doesn’t they’ll call him back to Moscow.”

“But if he does, it means they’re not testing Kramer, but you. If he doesn’t, it means you’re in the clear, in which case his life will be in danger and we’ll need to take him out of the front line immediately. You mustn’t allow yourself to be compromised, Karin, however sensitive that piece of information might be. So once you’ve briefed me, you should pass it on to Pengelly as quickly as possible.” The baroness took a bite of her crumpet. “Did Pengelly say anything else I should know about?”

“All agents are being instructed to spread a rumor that the real reason Harold Wilson resigned as prime minister was because MI6 had discovered he was in the pay of the Russians.”

“Then it’s time he bought himself a new Gannex mac with all that extra money he must have been earning.” She took another bite, before adding, “It would be funny, except some fools might actually believe it.”

“He also asked me to tell Giles that I’d heard the rumor and see how he reacted.”

“I’ll get Sir John to brief Giles on the real reason for Harold’s resignation. Mind you, it would have helped if the PM had been willing to admit he’d got Alzheimer’s at the time.”

“Do you have anything you want me to pass on?”

“Yes, I think the time has come for your tiresome ‘father’ to be called back to East Germany. So why don’t you tell him...”

46

“My lord.”

“Governor.”

“Swap?”

“Well, it’s funny you should mention that,” said Giles. “While I’ve never wanted to be a governor, I’ve always fancied being a senator.”

“And if you held your equivalent post in the Senate, you’d be Majority Leader Barrington.”

“Majority Leader Barrington. I rather like the sound of that.”

“So how much would I have to raise to become Lord Rankin of Louisiana?”

“Not a penny. It would be a political appointment, made on my recommendation to the prime minister.”

“No money involved and you didn’t even need to be elected.”

“Certainly not.”

“And Britain still doesn’t have a constitution or a bill of rights?”

“What a dreadful idea,” said Giles. “No, we work on legal precedent.”

“And even your head of state isn’t elected!”

“Of course not, she’s a hereditary monarch, appointed by the Almighty.”

“And you have the nerve to claim you’re a democracy.”

“Yes, we do. And just think how much money we save, and you waste, by electing everyone from dog catcher to president, just to prove how democratic you are.”

“You’re trying to get off the hook, Giles.”

“All right, then tell me how much you had to raise before you could even consider running for governor?”

“Five, six million. And it’s getting more expensive with every election.”

“What did you spend it on?”

“Mostly negative advertising. Letting the electorate know why they shouldn’t be voting for the other guy.”

“That’s something else we’ll never do. Which is another reason our system is more civilized than yours.”

“You may well have a point, my lord, but let’s get back to the real world,” said Hayden. “Because I need your advice.”

“Fire away, Hayden. I was intrigued by your letter and I can’t wait to find out how one of your constituents can possibly have come across my ex-wife.”

“Cyrus T. Grant III is one of my oldest friends, and has also been one of my biggest financial backers over the years, so I’m hugely indebted to him. He’s a good, kind and decent man, and although I don’t know what the T stands for, it might as well be ‘trusting.’”

“If he’s that trusting, how did he make his fortune?”

“He didn’t. He owes that piece of luck to his grandfather, who founded the canning business that bears his name. Cyrus’s father took the company on to the New York Stock Exchange, and his son now lives comfortably off the dividends.”

“And you have the nerve to criticize the hereditary system. But that doesn’t explain how this kind, decent and trusting man crossed swords with Virginia.”

“Some five years ago, Cyrus was visiting London and was invited to lunch by someone with the unlikely name of Bofie Bridgwater.”

“I’m afraid Lord Bridgwater is not a convincing argument for the hereditary system. He makes Bertie Wooster look shrewd and decisive.”

“During lunch, Cyrus sat next to Lady Virginia Fenwick and he was clearly overwhelmed by all her ‘member of the royal family’ and ‘distant niece of the Queen Mother’ rubbish. Afterwards, she went shopping with him in Bond Street to buy an engagement ring for his high school sweetheart, Ellie May Campbell, whom he later married. After Cyrus had bought the ring, he invited Lady Virginia back to his suite at the Ritz for tea, and the next thing he remembers is waking up in bed beside her, and the only thing she was wearing was the engagement ring.”

“That’s impressive, even by Virginia’s standards,” said Giles. “So what happened next?”

“That was when Cyrus made his first big mistake. Instead of grabbing the ring and telling her to get lost, he took the next flight back to the States. For a while, all he thought he’d lost was the ring, until Lady Virginia turned up at his wedding looking seven months pregnant.”

“Not the sort of wedding present he was hoping for.”

“Gift-wrapped. The next day, Buck Trend, one of the sharpest and meanest lawyers west of the Mississippi, gave Cyrus’s in-house lawyer a call, and once again my friend panicked. He ended up instructing his lawyer to settle before he and Ellie May returned from their honeymoon. Trend extracted more than a pound of flesh, and Cyrus ended up paying a million dollars up front, and a further ten thousand a month until the child has completed his education.”

“That’s not a bad return for a one-night stand.”

“If it ever was a one-night stand. What Virginia hadn’t bargained for was Ellie May Campbell — now Ellie May Grant — who turns out to be cut from the same Scottish cloth as her ladyship. When Cyrus finally confessed to what had taken place in London, Ellie May didn’t believe a word of Virginia’s story. She hired a Pinkerton detective and sent him across the Atlantic with instructions not to return until he’d found out the truth.”

“And did he come up with anything?” said Giles.

“He reported back that he wasn’t convinced Lady Virginia had ever had a child, and that even if she had, there was no reason to believe Cyrus was the father of the Hon. Frederick Archibald Iain Bruce Fenwick.”

“A blood test might narrow down the possibility.”

“And it might not. But in any case, while the boy’s at pre-prep in Scotland, Cyrus can hardly drop in and ask the headmaster for a sample.”

“But if he contested a paternity suit in open court the judge would have to call for a blood test.”

“Yes, but even if they turned out to share the same blood group it still wouldn’t be absolutely conclusive.”

“As I well know,” said Giles, without explanation. “So how can I help?”

“As Lady Virginia is your ex-wife, Cyrus and I wondered if you could throw any light on what she was up to during the time he was in London.”

“All I can remember is that she’d been having some financial difficulties and had disappeared off the scene for some time. But when she reappeared, she’d moved into a far larger establishment and was once again employing a butler and a housekeeper as well as a nanny. And as for her son, Freddie, he’s rarely seen in London. He even spends the school holidays at Fenwick Hall in Scotland.”

“Well, that at least confirms what our detective has been telling us,” said the governor. “And according to his report, the nanny, a Mrs. Crawford, is five foot one in her stockinged feet and weighs about ninety pounds. Although she looks as if she could be blown away by a puff of wind, the detective said he’d prefer to deal with the Mafia than have to face her again.”

“If she’s not proving helpful,” said Giles, “what about all the other people Virginia’s employed over the years? Butlers, chauffeurs, housekeepers? Surely one of them must know something and be willing to talk.”

“Our man has already tracked down several of her ladyship’s former employees, but none of them is prepared to say a word against her, either because they’re being paid to keep quiet or they’re simply terrified of her.”

“I was terrified of her too,” admitted Giles. “So I can’t blame them. But don’t give up on that front. She’s sacked an awful lot of people in her time and she certainly doesn’t believe in handing out farewell presents.”

“Cyrus is also terrified of her. But not Ellie May. She’s been trying to convince him to stop the payments and call Virginia’s bluff.”

“Virginia is not easily bluffed. She’s cunning, manipulative and as stubborn as the Democrat mascot. A dangerous combination that leads her to believe she’s always right.”

“What in God’s name ever possessed you to marry the woman?”

“Ah, I forgot to mention. She’s stunningly beautiful, and when she wants something, she can be irresistibly charming.”

“How do you think she’ll react if the payments suddenly dry up?”

“She’ll fight like an alley cat. But if Cyrus isn’t Freddie’s father, she couldn’t risk going to court. She would be well aware she could end up in prison for obtaining money under false pretences.”

“I can’t believe the earl would be pleased about that,” said Hayden, “and what about poor Freddie?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Giles. “But I can tell you, there’s been no sighting of the Hon. Freddie, or the formidable Mrs. Crawford, in London recently.”

“So if Cyrus did cut Virginia off, do you think Freddie would suffer?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so. But I have a speaking engagement in Scotland next week so if I pick up anything worthwhile I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you, Giles. But if you’re in Scotland, why don’t you just drive up to Fenwick Hall, bang on the front door and ask the earl for his vote?”

“Earls don’t have a vote.”

“Why haven’t I received this month’s payment?” demanded Virginia.

“Because I didn’t get mine,” said Trend. “When I called Cyrus’s lawyer he told me you wouldn’t be getting another red cent. Then he hung up on me.”

“Then let’s sue the bastard!” shrieked Virginia. “And if he doesn’t pay up, you can tell his lawyer that Freddie and I will take up residence in Baton Rouge, and we’ll see how they like that.”

“Before you book your flight, Ginny, I ought to tell you that I did call back and threaten them with every kind of legal proceedings. Their response was short and to the point. ‘Your client had better be able to prove that Cyrus T. Grant is Freddie’s father, and that she is even the boy’s mother.’”

“That will be simple enough to confirm. I have the birth certificate and am still in touch with the doctor who delivered Freddie.”

“I pointed all that out, but I couldn’t make head nor tail of their response. However, they assured me that you would understand all too well.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They told me that Ellie May Grant has recently employed a new butler and housekeeper for her home in Louisiana, a Mr. and Mrs. Morton.”

Comrade Pengelly was ushered into Marshal Koshevoi’s massive oak-paneled office. The KGB chief didn’t stand to greet him, just gave a dismissive nod to indicate that he should sit.

Pengelly was understandably nervous. You are only summoned to KGB headquarters when you are about to be sacked or promoted, and he wasn’t sure which it was going to be.

“The reason I called for you, comrade commander,” said Koshevoi, looking like a bull about to charge, “is that we have discovered a traitor among your agents.”

“Julius Kramer?” asked Pengelly.

“No, Kramer was a smokescreen. He is completely reliable and totally committed to our cause. Although the British are still under the impression he’s working for them.”

“Then who?” said Pengelly, who thought he knew every one of his thirty-one agents.

“Karin Brandt.”

“But she’s been passing on some very useful information recently.”

“And we have now discovered the source of that information. It was a tip-off from a most unlikely quarter that gave her away.” Pengelly didn’t interrupt. “I instructed Agent Kramer to inform Brandt that we wanted you to report back to Moscow.”

“And she delivered that message.”

“But not before she had passed it on to someone else.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Tell me the route you took to Moscow.”

“I drove from my home in Cornwall to Heathrow. I took a plane to Manchester, a coach to Newcastle—”

“And from there you flew to Amsterdam, where you took a barge along the Rhine, the Main and the Danube to Vienna.” Pengelly shifted uneasily in his seat. “You then traveled from Vienna to Warsaw by train, before finally boarding a plane to Moscow. Shadowed every inch of the way by a succession of British agents, the last of whom accompanied you on your flight to Moscow. He didn’t even bother to get off the plane before going back to London because he knew exactly where you were going.”

“But how is that possible?”

“Because Brandt informed her English handler that I had ordered you back to Moscow even before she told you about it. Comrade, they literally saw you coming.”

“Then my whole operation is blown apart and there’s no point in my returning to England.”

“Unless we turn the situation to our advantage.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

“You will return to England by an equally circuitous route, so they think we have no idea that Brandt has betrayed us. You will then go back to work as usual but, in future, every message we send through Kramer to Brandt, the British will be confident they have intercepted.”

“It will be interesting to see how long we can get away with that before MI6 begin to wonder which side she’s on,” said Pengelly.

“The moment they do, it will be time to dispose of her, and then you can return to Moscow.”

“How did you find out she’s switched sides?”

“A piece of luck, comrade commander, that we nearly overlooked. There’s a member of the House of Lords called Viscount Slaithwaite. A hereditary peer who would be of no particular interest to us, except that he was a contemporary of Burgess, Maclean and Philby at Cambridge. Once he joined the university’s Communist Party, we no longer considered recruiting him as an agent, although he’d like you to believe he’s the sixth man. Over the years Slaithwaite has regularly passed on information to our embassy which, at best, was out of date and, at worst, planted to mislead us. But then, without having any idea of its significance, he finally came up with gold dust. He sent a note to say that Lord Barrington’s wife — he has no idea that she is one of our agents — was seen regularly in the House of Lords tearoom in the company of Baroness Forbes-Watson.”

“Cynthia Forbes-Watson?”

“No less.”

“But I thought MI6 pensioned her off years ago?”

“So did we. But it seems she’s been resuscitated to act as Brandt’s handler. And what better cover than tea in the House of Lords, while Lord Barrington toils away on the front bench.”

“Baroness Forbes-Watson must be eighty—”

“Eighty-four.”

“She can’t go on for much longer.”

“Agreed, but we’ll keep the counteroperation running for as long as she does.”

“And when she dies?”

“You’ll only have one more job to carry out, comrade commander, before you return to Moscow.”