Mightier than the Sword

1

“Hrh,” mumbled Harry as he came out of a drowsy half-sleep. He sat up with a start and switched on his bedside light, then slipped out of bed and walked quickly across to the vase of lilies. He read the message from the Queen Mother for a second time. Thank you for a memorable day in Bristol. I do hope my second home has a successful maiden voyage. It was signed, HRH Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother.

“Such a simple mistake,” said Harry. “How could I have missed it?” He grabbed his dressing gown and switched on the cabin lights.

“Is it time to get up already?” inquired a sleepy voice.

“Yes it is,” said Harry. “We’ve got a problem.”

Emma squinted at her bedside clock. “But it’s only just gone three,” she protested, looking across at her husband, who was still staring intently at the lilies. “So what’s the problem?”

“HRH isn’t the Queen Mother’s title.”

“Everyone knows that,” said Emma, still half asleep.

“Everyone except the person who sent these flowers. Why didn’t they know that the correct way to address the Queen Mother is as Her Majesty, not Her Royal Highness. That’s how you address a princess.”

Emma reluctantly got out of bed, padded across to join her husband, and studied the card for herself.

“Ask the captain to join us immediately,” said Harry. “We need to find out what’s in that vase,” he added, before falling to his knees.

“It’s probably only water,” said Emma, reaching out a hand.

Harry grabbed her wrist. “Look more closely, my darling. The vase is far too big for something as delicate as a dozen lilies. Call the captain,” he repeated, with more urgency this time.

“But the florist could just have made a mistake.”

“Let’s hope so,” Harry said as he began to walk toward the door. “But it’s not a risk we can afford to take.”

“Where are you going?” asked Emma as she picked up the phone.

“To wake Giles. He has more experience with explosives than I do. He spent two years of his life planting them at the feet of advancing Germans.”

When Harry stepped into the corridor he was distracted by the sight of an elderly man disappearing in the direction of the grand staircase. He was moving far too quickly for an old man, Harry thought. He knocked firmly on Giles’s cabin door, but it took a second demanding bang with his clenched fist before a sleepy voice said, “Who’s that?”

“Harry.”

The urgency in his voice caused Giles to jump out of bed and open the door immediately. “What’s the problem?”

“Come with me,” said Harry without explanation.

Giles pulled on his dressing gown and followed his brother-in-law down the corridor and into the stateroom.

“Good morning, sis,” he said to Emma, as Harry handed him the card and said, “HRH.”

“Got it,” said Giles after studying the card. “The Queen Mother couldn’t have sent the flowers. But if she didn’t, then who did?” He bent down and took a closer look at the vase. “Whoever it was could have packed an awful lot of Semtex in there.”

“Or a couple of pints of water,” said Emma. “Are you sure you’re not both worrying about nothing?”

“If it’s water, why are the flowers already wilting?” asked Giles as Captain Turnbull knocked on the door before walking into the cabin.

“You asked to see me, chairman?”

Emma began to explain why her husband and her brother were both on their knees.

“There are four SAS officers on board,” said the captain, interrupting the chairman. “One of them ought to be able to answer any questions Mr. Clifton might have.”

“I presume it’s no coincidence that they’re on board,” said Giles. “I can’t believe they all decided to take a holiday in New York at the same time.”

“They’re on board at the request of the cabinet secretary,” replied the captain. “But Sir Alan Redmayne assured me it was just a precautionary measure.”

“As usual, that man knows something we don’t,” said Harry.

“Then perhaps it’s time to find out what it is.”

The captain stepped out of the cabin and made his way quickly down the corridor, stopping only when he reached cabin 119. Colonel Scott-Hopkins responded to the knock on the door far more quickly than Giles had done a few minutes earlier.

“Do you have a bomb-disposal expert in your team?”

“Sergeant Roberts. He was with the bomb squad in Palestine.”

“I need him now, in the chairman’s stateroom.”

The colonel wasted no time asking why. He ran along the corridor and out onto the grand staircase to find Captain Hartley charging toward him.

“I’ve just spotted Liam Doherty coming out of the lavatory in the first-class lounge.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. He went in as a peer of the realm, and came out twenty minutes later as Liam Doherty. He then headed down to cabin class.”

“That may explain everything,” said Scott-Hopkins as he continued down the staircase with Hartley only a pace behind. “What’s Roberts’s cabin number?” he asked on the run.

“Seven four two,” said Hartley as they hurdled across the red chain onto the narrower staircase. They didn’t stop until they reached deck seven, where Corporal Crann stepped out of the shadows.

“Has Doherty passed you within the last few minutes?”

“Damn,” said Crann. “I knew I’d seen that bastard swaggering up the Falls Road. He went into seven zero six.”

“Hartley,” said the colonel as he charged on down the corridor, “you and Crann keep an eye on Doherty. Make sure he doesn’t leave his cabin. If he does, arrest him.” The colonel banged on the door of cabin 742. Sergeant Roberts didn’t need a second knock. He opened the door within seconds, and greeted Colonel Scott-Hopkins with “Good morning, sir,” as if his commanding officer regularly woke him in the middle of the night, dressed in his pajamas.

“Grab your tool kit, Roberts, and follow me. We haven’t a moment to waste,” said the colonel, once again on the move.

It took Roberts three flights of stairs before he caught up with his commanding officer. By the time they reached the stateroom corridor, Roberts knew which of his particular skills the colonel required. He dashed into the chairman’s cabin, and peered closely at the vase for a moment before slowly circling it.

“If it’s a bomb,” he said finally, “it’s a big one. I can’t begin to guess the number of lives that will be lost if we don’t defuse the bugger.”

“But can you do it?” asked the captain, sounding remarkably calm. “Because if you can’t, my first responsibility is for the lives of my passengers. I don’t need this trip to be compared with another disastrous maiden voyage.”

“I can’t do a damn thing unless I can get my hands on the control panel. It has to be somewhere else on the ship,” said Roberts, “probably quite near by.”

“In his lordship’s cabin would be my bet,” said the colonel, “because we now know that it was occupied by an IRA bomber called Liam Doherty.”

“Does anyone know which cabin he was in?” asked the captain.

“Number three,” said Harry, recalling the old man who had been moving a little too quickly. “Just along the corridor.”

The captain and the sergeant ran out of the room and into the corridor, followed by Scott-Hopkins, Harry, and Giles. The captain opened the cabin door with his passkey and stood aside to let Roberts in. The sergeant walked quickly across to a large trunk in the middle of the room. He tentatively raised the lid and peered inside.

“Christ, it’s due to detonate in eight minutes and thirty-nine seconds.”

“Can’t you just disconnect one of those?” asked Captain Turnbull, pointing to a myriad different colored wires.

“Yes, but which one,” said Roberts, not looking up at the captain as he cautiously separated the red, black, blue, and yellow wires. “I’ve worked on this type of device many times before. It’s always a one-in-four chance, and that’s not a risk I’m willing to take. I might consider it if I were on my own in the middle of a desert,” he added, “but not on a ship in the middle of the ocean with hundreds of lives at risk.”

“Then let’s drag Doherty up here posthaste,” suggested Captain Turnbull. “He’ll know which wire to cut.”

“I doubt it,” said Roberts, “because I suspect Doherty isn’t the bomber. They’ll have a sparks on board to do that job, and God knows where he is.”

“We’re running out of time,” the colonel reminded them, as he stared at the second hand’s relentless progress. “Seven minutes, three, two, one...”

“So, Roberts, what do you advise?” asked the captain calmly.

“You’re not going to like this, sir, but there’s only one thing we can do given the circumstances. And even that’s one hell of a risk, remembering we’re down to less than seven minutes.”

“Then spit it out, man,” rapped the colonel.

“Pick the fucking thing up, throw it overboard, and pray.”

Harry and Giles ran back to the chairman’s suite and took up positions on either side of the vase. There were several questions that Emma, who was now dressed, wanted to ask, but like any sensible chairman she knew when to remain silent.

“Lift it gently,” said Roberts. “Treat it like a bowl full of boiling water.”

Like two weight lifters, Harry and Giles crouched down and slowly raised the heavy vase from the table until they were both standing upright. Once they were confident they had it firmly in their grasp they moved sideways across the cabin toward the open door. Scott-Hopkins and Roberts quickly removed any obstacles in their path.

“Follow me,” said the captain, as the two men stepped into the corridor and edged their way slowly towards the grand staircase. Harry couldn’t believe how heavy the vase was. Then he remembered the giant of a man who’d carried it into the cabin. No wonder he hadn’t hung around for a tip. He was probably on his way back to Belfast by now, or sitting by a radio somewhere waiting to hear the fate of the Buckingham, and how many passengers had lost their lives.

Once they reached the bottom of the grand staircase, Harry began to count out loud as the two of them mounted each step. Sixteen steps later, he stopped to catch his breath, while the captain and the colonel held open the swing doors that led out onto the sundeck, Emma’s pride and joy.

“We need to go as far aft as possible,” said the captain. “That will give us a better chance of avoiding any damage to the hull.” Harry didn’t look convinced. “Don’t worry, it’s not too far now.”

How far is not too far, wondered Harry, who would happily have dumped the vase straight over the side. But he said nothing as they progressed inch by inch toward the stern.

“I know just how you feel,” said Giles, reading his brother-in-law’s thoughts.

They continued their snail-like progress past the swimming pool, the deck tennis court, and the sun loungers, neatly laid out in readiness for the sleeping guests to appear later that morning. Harry tried not to think how much time they had left before...

“Two minutes,” said Sergeant Roberts unhelpfully, checking his watch.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see the rail at the stern of the ship. It was only a few paces away, but, like conquering Everest, he knew the last few feet were going to be the slowest.

“Fifty seconds,” said Roberts as they came to a halt at the waist-high rail.

“Do you remember when we threw Fisher into the river at the end of term?” said Giles.

“Could I ever forget?”

“So on the count of three, let’s throw him into the ocean and be rid of the bastard once and for all,” said Giles.

“One—” both men swung their arms back, but only managed a few inches, “two—” perhaps a couple more, “three—” as far as they could get, and then, with all the strength left in their bodies, they hurled the vase up into the air and over the back rail. As it came down, Harry was convinced it would land on the deck, or at best hit the rail, but it cleared it by a few inches, and landed in the sea with a faint splash. Giles raised his arms in triumph, and shouted “Hallelujah!”

Seconds later, the bomb exploded, hurling them both back across the deck.

2

Kevin Rafferty had switched on the For Hire sign the moment he saw Martinez step out of his house on Eaton Square. His orders couldn’t have been clearer. If the client attempted to make a run for it, he was to assume he had no intention of making the second payment owed for the bombing of the Buckingham, and should be punished accordingly.

The original order had been sanctioned by the area commander of the IRA in Belfast. The only modification the area commander had agreed to was that Kevin could select which of Don Pedro Martinez’s two sons should be eliminated. However, as both Diego and Luis had already fled to Argentina, and clearly had no intention of returning to England, Don Pedro himself was the only candidate available for the chauffeur’s particular version of Russian roulette.

“Heathrow,” said Martinez as he climbed into the taxi. Rafferty drove out of Eaton Square and headed down Sloane Street in the direction of Battersea Bridge, ignoring the noisy protests coming from behind him. At four in the morning, with rain still pelting down, he only passed a dozen cars before he crossed the bridge. A few minutes later he pulled up outside a deserted warehouse in Lambeth. Once he was certain there was no one around, he jumped out of the taxi, quickly undid the rusty padlock on the building’s outer door, and drove inside. He swung the cab around, ready for a fast getaway once the job had been completed.

Rafferty bolted the door and switched on the naked, dust-covered lightbulb that hung from a beam in the center of the room. He removed a gun from an inside pocket before returning to the taxi. Although he was half Martinez’s age, and twice as fit as he had ever been, he couldn’t afford to take any risks. When a man thinks he’s about to die, the adrenalin begins to pump and he can become superhuman in a final effort to survive. Besides, Rafferty suspected this wasn’t the first time Martinez had faced the possibility of death. But this time it was no longer going to be simply a possibility.

He opened the back door of the taxi and waved the gun at Martinez to indicate that he should get out.

“This is the money I was bringing to you,” Martinez insisted, holding up the bag.

“Hoping to catch me at Heathrow, were you?” If it was the full amount, Rafferty knew he would have no choice but to spare his life. “Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds?”

“No, but there’s over twenty-three thousand. Just a down payment, you understand. The rest is back at the house, so if we head back—”

The chauffeur knew that the house in Eaton Square, along with Martinez’s other assets, had been repossessed by the bank. Martinez had clearly hoped to make it to the airport before the IRA discovered he had no intention of fulfilling his side of the bargain.

Rafferty grabbed the bag and threw it on the backseat of the taxi. He’d decided to make Martinez’s death somewhat more protracted than originally planned. After all, he had nothing else to do for the next hour.

He waved the gun in the direction of a wooden chair that had been placed directly below the lightbulb. It was already splattered with dried blood from previous executions. He pushed his victim down with considerable force, and before Don Pedro had a chance to react, he had tied his arms behind his back, but then he’d carried out this particular exercise several times before. Finally he tied Martinez’s legs together, then stood back to admire his handiwork.

All Rafferty had to decide now was how long the victim would be allowed to live. His only constraint being, he had to be at Heathrow in time to catch the early morning flight to Belfast. He checked his watch. He always enjoyed seeing that look on the victim’s face when they believed there still might be a chance of survival.

He returned to the taxi, unzipped Martinez’s bag, and counted the bundles of crisp five-pound notes. At least he’d told the truth about that, even if he was more than £226,000 short. He zipped the bag back up and locked it in the boot. After all, Martinez would no longer have any use for it.

The area commander’s orders were clear: once the job had been completed he was to leave the body in the warehouse and another operative would deal with its disposal. The only thing required of Rafferty was to make a phone call and deliver the message, “Package ready for collection.” After that, he was to drive to the airport and leave the taxi, and the money, on the top level of the long-term car park. Another operative would be responsible for collecting it and distributing the cash.

Rafferty returned to Don Pedro, whose eyes had never left him. If the chauffeur had been given the choice, he would have shot him in the stomach, then waited a few minutes until the screaming died down, before firing a second bullet into his groin. More screaming, probably louder, until he finally forced the gun into his mouth. He would stare into his victim’s eyes for several seconds and then, without warning, pull the trigger. But that would have meant three shots. One might go unnoticed, but three would undoubtedly attract attention in the middle of the night. So he would obey the area commander’s orders. One shot, and no screaming.

The chauffeur smiled at Don Pedro, who looked up hopefully, until he saw the gun heading toward his mouth.

“Open up,” said Rafferty, like a friendly dentist coaxing a reluctant child. One common factor among all his victims was the chattering teeth.

Martinez resisted, and swallowed one of his front teeth in the unequal struggle. Sweat began to pour down the fleshy folds of skin on his face. He was only made to wait a few more seconds before the trigger was pulled, but all he heard was the click of the hammer.

Some fainted, some just stared in disbelief, while others were violently sick when they realized they were still alive. Rafferty hated the ones who fainted. It meant he had to wait for them to fully recover before he could begin the whole process again. But Martinez obligingly remained wide awake.

When Rafferty extracted the gun, his idea of a blow job, the victims often smiled, imagining the worst was over. But as he spun the cylinder again, Don Pedro knew he was going to die. It was just a matter of when. Where and how had already been decided.

It always disappointed Rafferty when he succeeded with the first shot. His personal record was nine, but the average was around four or five. Not that he gave a damn about statistics. He thrust the barrel back into Martinez’s mouth, and took a step back. After all, he didn’t want to be covered in blood. The Argentinian was foolish enough to resist again, and lost another tooth for his trouble, a gold one. Rafferty pocketed it before he squeezed the trigger a second time, but was not rewarded with anything but another click. He pulled out the barrel in the hope of removing another tooth, well, half a tooth.

“Third time lucky,” said Rafferty as he thrust the muzzle back into Martinez’s mouth and pulled the trigger. Another failure. The chauffeur was becoming impatient and was now hoping that his morning’s work would be completed on the fourth attempt. He spun the cylinder a little more enthusiastically this time, but when he looked up, Martinez had fainted. Such a disappointment. He liked his victims to be wide awake when the bullet entered their brain. Although they only lived for another second, it was an experience he relished. He grabbed Martinez’s hair, forced open his mouth and pushed the barrel back inside. He was about the pull the trigger a fourth time, when the telephone in the corner of the room began to ring. The insistent metallic echo in the cold night air took Rafferty by surprise. He had never known the phone to ring before. In the past, he had used it only to dial a number and deliver a four-word message.

He reluctantly withdrew the muzzle of the gun from Martinez’s mouth, walked across to the phone, and picked it up. He didn’t speak, just listened.

“The mission has been aborted,” said a voice with a clipped, educated accent. “You won’t need to collect the second payment.”

A click, followed by a burr.

Rafferty replaced the receiver. Perhaps he would spin the cylinder one more time, and if he succeeded, report back that Martinez was already dead by the time the phone had rung. He’d only ever lied to the area commander once, and there was a finger missing from his left hand to prove it. He told anyone who asked that it had been chopped off by a British officer during an interrogation, which few on either side believed.

He reluctantly returned the gun to his pocket and walked slowly back toward Martinez, who was slumped in the chair, his head between his legs. He bent down and untied the rope around his wrists and ankles. Martinez collapsed onto the floor in a heap. The chauffeur yanked him up by the hair, threw him over his shoulder as if he were a sack of potatoes and dumped him in the back of the taxi. For a moment, he had rather hoped he might resist, and then... but no such luck.

He drove out of the warehouse, locked the door, and set off toward Heathrow, to join several other taxi drivers that morning.

They were a couple of miles from the airport when Martinez reentered this world, and not the next. The chauffeur watched in the rearview mirror as his passenger began to come around. Martinez blinked several times before staring out of the window to see rows of suburban homes rushing by. As the realization began to sink in, he leaned forward and was sick all over the backseat. Rafferty’s colleague wouldn’t be pleased.

Don Pedro eventually managed to force his limp body upright. He steadied himself by clinging onto the edge of the seat with both hands and stared at his would-be executioner. What had caused him to change his mind? Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps only the venue had changed. Don Pedro eased his way forward, hoping to be given just one chance to escape, but he was painfully aware that Rafferty’s suspicious eyes returned to the rearview mirror every few seconds.

Rafferty turned off the main road and followed the signs for the long-term car park. He drove up to the top level and parked in the far corner. He stepped out of the car, unlocked the boot, and unzipped the travel bag, pleased again by the sight of the neat rows of crisp five-pound notes. He would have liked to take the cash home for the cause, but he couldn’t risk being caught with that amount of money, now there were so many extra security guards observing every flight to Belfast.

He removed an Argentine passport from the bag, along with a first-class, one-way ticket to Buenos Aires and ten pounds in cash, then dropped his gun in the bag; something else he couldn’t afford to be caught with. He locked the boot, opened the driver’s door, and placed the keys and the parking ticket under the seat for a colleague to collect later that morning. Then he opened the rear door and stood aside to allow Martinez to step out, but he didn’t move. Was he going to make a run for it? Not if he valued his life. After all, he didn’t know that the chauffeur no longer had a gun.

Rafferty grabbed Martinez firmly by the elbow, pulled him out of the car, and marched him toward the nearest exit. Two men passed them on the staircase as they made their way down to the ground floor. Rafferty didn’t given them a second look.

Neither man spoke on the long walk to the terminal building. When they reached the concourse, Rafferty handed Martinez his passport, his ticket, and the two five-pound notes.

“And the rest?” snarled Don Pedro. “Because your colleagues obviously failed to sink the Buckingham.”

“Consider yourself lucky to be alive,” said Rafferty, then turned quickly and disappeared into the crowd.

For a moment, Don Pedro thought about going back to the taxi and retrieving his money, but only for a moment. Instead, he reluctantly headed toward the British Airways South American desk and handed his ticket to the woman seated behind the counter.

“Good morning, Mr. Martinez,” she said. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant stay in England.”

3

“How did you get that black eye, Dad?” demanded Sebastian, when he joined his family for breakfast in the grillroom of the Buckingham later that morning.

“Your mother hit me when I dared to suggest she snored,” Harry replied.

“I don’t snore,” said Emma, as she buttered another piece of toast.

“How can you possibly know if you snore when you’re asleep?” said Harry.

“And what about you, Uncle Giles? Did my mother break your arm when you also suggested she snored?” asked Seb.

“I don’t snore!” repeated Emma.

“Seb,” said Samantha firmly, “you should never ask anyone a question you know they won’t want to answer.”

“Spoken like the daughter of a diplomat,” said Giles, smiling across the table at Seb’s girlfriend.

“Spoken like a politician who doesn’t want to answer my question,” said Seb. “But I’m determined to find out—”

“Good morning, this is your captain speaking,” announced a crackling voice over the tannoy. “We are currently sailing at twenty-two knots. The temperature is sixty-nine degrees Fahrenheit, and we’re not expecting any change in the weather during the next twenty-four hours. I hope you have a pleasant day, and be sure to take advantage of all the wonderful facilities the Buckingham has to offer, particularly the sun loungers and the swimming pool on the upper deck that are unique to this ship.” There was a long pause before he continued. “Some passengers have asked me about a loud noise that woke them in the middle of the night. It seems that at around three o’clock this morning, the Home Fleet were carrying out nighttime exercises in the Atlantic, and although they were several nautical miles away, on a clear night they would have sounded considerably closer. I do apologize to anyone who was woken by the sound of gunfire, but having served with the Royal Navy during the war I am aware that night exercises have to be carried out. However, I can assure passengers that at no time were we in any danger. Thank you, and enjoy the rest of the day.”

It sounded to Sebastian as if the captain had been reading from a prepared script and, looking across the table at his mother, he wasn’t in any doubt who had written it. “I wish I was a member of the board,” he said.

“Why?” asked Emma.

“Because then,” he said, looking directly at her, “I might find out what really happened last night.”

The ten men remained standing until Emma had taken her place at the head of the table, an unfamiliar table, but then the ballroom of the MV Buckingham had not been built for emergency board meetings.

When she looked around at her colleagues, none of them was smiling. Most of them had faced crises in their lives, but nothing on this scale. Even Admiral Summers’s lips were pursed. Emma opened the blue leather folder in front of her, a gift from Harry when she’d first been appointed chairman. It was he, she reflected, who had alerted her to the crisis, and then dealt with it.

“There is no need to tell you that everything we discuss today must remain strictly confidential, because it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to suggest that the future of the Barrington shipping line, not to mention the safety of everyone on board, is at stake,” she said.

Emma glanced down at an agenda that had been prepared by Philip Webster, the company secretary, the day before they set sail from Avonmouth. It was already out of date. There was just one item on the revised agenda, and it would certainly be the only subject discussed that day.

“I’ll begin,” said Emma, “by reporting, off the record, everything that took place in the early hours of this morning, and then we must decide what course of action to take. I was woken by my husband just after three...” Twenty minutes later, Emma double-checked her notes. She felt she had covered everything in the past, but accepted she had no way of predicting the future.

“Have we got away with it?” the admiral asked, once Emma had called for questions.

“Most of the passengers have accepted the captain’s explanation without question.” She turned a page of her file. “However, we’ve had complaints from thirty-four passengers so far. All but one of them have accepted a free voyage on the Buckingham at some time in the future, as compensation.”

“And you can be certain there will be a whole lot more,” said Bob Bingham, his usual North-Country bluntness cutting through the outwardly calm demeanor of the older board members.

“What makes you say that?” asked Emma.

“Once the other passengers discover that all they have to do is write a letter of complaint to get a free trip, most of them will go straight to their cabins and put pen to paper.”

“Perhaps not everyone thinks like you,” suggested the admiral.

“That’s why I’m on the board,” said Bingham, not giving an inch.

“You told us, chairman, that all but one passenger was satisfied with the offer of a free trip,” said Jim Knowles.

“Yes,” said Emma. “Unfortunately an American passenger is threatening to sue the company. He says he was out on deck during the early hours of the morning and there was no sight or sound of the Home Fleet, but he still ended up with a broken ankle.”

Suddenly, all the board members were speaking at once. Emma waited for them to settle. “I have an appointment with Mr.—” she checked her file — “Hayden Rankin, at twelve.”

“How many other Americans are on board?” asked Bingham.

“Around a hundred. Why do you ask, Bob?”

“Let’s hope that not too many of them are ambulance-chasing lawyers, otherwise we’ll be facing court actions for the rest of our lives.” Nervous laughter broke out around the table. “Just assure me, Emma, that Mr. Rankin isn’t a lawyer.”

“Worse,” she said. “He’s a politician. A state representative from Louisiana.”

“One worm who’s happily found himself in a barrel of fresh apples,” said Dobbs, a board member who rarely offered an opinion.

“I’m not following you, old chap,” said Clive Anscott, from the other side of the table.

“A local politician who probably thinks he’s spotted an opportunity to make a name for himself on the national stage.”

“That’s all we need,” said Knowles.

The board remained silent for some time, until Bob Bingham said matter-of-factly, “We’re going to have to kill him off. The only question is who will pull the trigger.”

“It will have to be me,” said Giles, “as I’m the only other worm in the barrel.” Dobbs looked suitably embarrassed. “I’ll try and bump into him before he has his meeting with you, chairman, and see if I can sort something out. Let’s hope he’s a Democrat.”

“Thank you, Giles,” said Emma, who still hadn’t got used to her brother addressing her as chairman.

“How much damage did the ship suffer in the explosion?” asked Peter Maynard, who hadn’t spoken until then.

All eyes turned to the other end of the table, where Captain Turnbull was seated.

“Not as much as I originally feared,” said the captain as he rose from his place. “One of the four main propellers has been damaged by the blast, and I won’t be able to replace it until we return to Avonmouth. And there was some damage to the hull, but it’s fairly superficial.”

“Will it slow us down?” asked Michael Carrick.

“Not enough for anyone to notice we’re covering twenty-two knots rather than twenty-four. The other three propellers remain in good working order and as I had always planned to arrive in New York in the early hours of the fourth, only the most observant passenger would realize we’re a few hours behind schedule.”

“I bet Representative Rankin will notice,” said Knowles unhelpfully. “And how have you explained the damage to the crew?”

“I haven’t. They’re not paid to ask questions.”

“But what about the return journey to Avonmouth?” asked Dobbs. “Can we hope to make it back on time?”

“Our engineers will be working flat out on the damaged stern during the thirty-six hours we’re docked in New York, so by the time we sail, we should be shipshape and Bristol fashion.”

“Good show,” said the admiral.

“But that could be the least of our problems,” said Anscott. “Don’t forget we have an IRA cell on board, and heaven knows what else they have planned for the rest of the voyage.”

“Three of them have already been arrested,” said the captain. “They’ve been quite literally clapped in irons and will be handed over to the authorities the moment we arrive in New York.”

“But isn’t it possible there could be more IRA men on board?” asked the admiral.

“According to Colonel Scott-Hopkins, an IRA cell usually comprises four or five operatives. So, yes, it’s possible that there are a couple more on board, but they’re likely to be keeping a very low profile now that three of their colleagues have been arrested. Their mission has clearly failed, which isn’t something they’ll want to remind everyone back in Belfast about. And I can confirm that the man who delivered the flowers to the chairman’s cabin is no longer on board — he must have disembarked before we set sail. I suspect that if there are any others, they won’t be joining us for the return voyage.”

“I can think of something just as dangerous as Representative Rankin, and even the IRA,” said Giles. Like the seasoned politician he was, the member for Bristol Docklands had captured the attention of the House.

“Who or what do you have in mind?” asked Emma, looking across at her brother.

“The fourth estate. Don’t forget you invited journalists to join us on this trip in the hope of getting some good copy. Now they’ve got an exclusive.”

“True, but no one outside this room knows exactly what happened last night, and in any case, only three journalists accepted our invitation — the Telegraph, the Mail, and the Express.”

“Three too many,” said Knowles.

“The man from the Express is their travel correspondent,” said Emma. “He’s rarely sober by lunchtime, so I’ve made sure there are always at least two bottles of Johnnie Walker and Gordon’s in his cabin. The Mail sponsored twelve free trips on this voyage, so they’re unlikely to be interested in knocking copy. But Derek Hart of the Telegraph has already been digging around, asking questions.”

“‘Hartless,’ as he’s known in the trade,” said Giles. “I shall have to give him an even bigger story, to keep him occupied.”

“What could be bigger than the possible sinking of the Buckingham by the IRA on its maiden voyage?”

“The possible sinking of Britain by a Labour government. We’re about to announce a £1.5 billion loan from the IMF in an effort to halt the slide of sterling. The editor of the Telegraph will happily fill several pages with that piece of news.”

“Even if he does,” said Knowles, “with so much at stake, chairman, I think we ought to prepare ourselves for the worst possible outcome. After all, if our American politician decides to go public, or Mr. Hart of the Telegraph stumbles across the truth, or God forbid, the IRA have a follow-up planned, this could be the Buckingham’s first, and last, voyage.”

There was another long silence, before Dobbs said, “Well, we did promise our passengers this would be a holiday they would never forget.”

No one laughed.

“Mr. Knowles is right,” said Emma. “If any of those three outcomes were to materialize, no amount of free trips or bottles of gin will save us. Our share price would collapse overnight, the company’s reserves would be drained, and bookings would dry up if prospective passengers thought there was the slightest chance of an IRA bomber being in the next cabin. The safety of our passengers is paramount. With that in mind, I suggest you all spend the rest of the day picking up any information you can, while reassuring the passengers that all is well. I’ll be in my cabin, so if you come up with anything, you’ll know where to find me.”

“Not a good idea,” said Giles firmly. Emma looked surprised. “The chairman should be seen on the sundeck, relaxing and enjoying herself, which is far more likely to convince the passengers they have nothing to worry about.”

“Good thinking,” said the admiral.

Emma nodded. She was about to rise from her place to indicate that the meeting was over, when Philip Webster, the company secretary, mumbled, “Any other business?”

“I don’t think so,” said Emma, who was now standing.

“Just one other matter, chairman,” said Giles. Emma sat back down. “Now that I’m a member of the government, I have no choice but to resign as a director of the company, as I’m not allowed to hold a post of profit while serving Her Majesty. I realize it sounds a bit pompous, but it’s what every new minister signs up to. And in any case, I only joined the board to make sure Major Fisher didn’t become chairman.”

“Thank God he’s no longer on the board,” said the admiral. “If he was, the whole world would know what had happened by now.”

“Perhaps that’s why he wasn’t on board in the first place,” suggested Giles.

“If that’s the case, he’ll keep shtum, unless of course he wants to be arrested for aiding and abetting terrorists.”

Emma shuddered, unwilling to believe that even Fisher could stoop that low. However, after Giles’s experiences both at school and in the army, Emma shouldn’t have been surprised that once Fisher had begun to work for Lady Virginia, they hadn’t come together to assist her cause. She turned back to her brother. “On a happier note, I’d like to place on record my thanks to Giles for serving as a director of the company at such a crucial time. However, his resignation will create two vacancies on the board, as my sister, Dr. Grace Barrington, has also resigned. Perhaps you could advise me of any suitable candidates who might be considered to replace them?” she said, looking around the table.

“If I might be allowed to make a suggestion,” said the admiral. Everyone turned toward the old salt. “Barrington’s is a West Country firm with long-standing local connections. Our chairman is a Barrington, so perhaps the time has come to look to the next generation, and invite Sebastian Clifton to join the board, allowing us to continue the family tradition.”

“But he’s only twenty-four!” protested Emma.

“That’s not much younger than our beloved Queen when she ascended the throne,” the admiral reminded her.

“Cedric Hardcastle, who’s a shrewd old buzzard, considered Sebastian good enough to be his personal assistant at Farthings Bank,” interjected Bob Bingham, winking at Emma. “And I’m informed that he’s recently been promoted to second-in-command of the bank’s property division.”

“And I can tell you in confidence,” said Giles, “that when I joined the government, I didn’t hesitate to put Sebastian in charge of the family’s share portfolio.”

“Then all that’s left for me to do,” said the admiral, “is propose that Sebastian Clifton be invited to join the board of Barrington’s Shipping.”

“I’d be delighted to second that,” said Bingham.

“I confess that I’m embarrassed,” said Emma.

“That will be a first,” said Giles, which helped lighten the mood.

“Shall I call for a vote, chairman?” asked Webster. Emma nodded, and sat back in her chair. “Admiral Summers has proposed,” continued the company secretary, “and Mr. Bingham has seconded, that Mr. Sebastian Clifton be invited to join the board of Barrington’s.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Those in favor?” Every hand rose except Emma’s and Giles’s. “Those against?” No hands were raised. The round of applause that followed made Emma feel very proud.

“I therefore declare that Mr. Sebastian Clifton has been elected as a member of the board of Barrington’s.”

“Let’s pray there will be a board for Seb to join,” Emma whispered to her brother once the company secretary had declared the meeting closed.

“I’ve always considered he was up there with Lincoln and Jefferson.”

A middle-aged man, dressed in an open-necked shirt and sports jacket, looked up but didn’t close his book. The few strands of wispy fair hair that were still in evidence had been carefully combed in an attempt to hide his premature baldness. A walking stick was propped against his chair.

“I apologize,” said Giles. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“No problem,” said the man in an unmistakable southern drawl, but he still didn’t close his book. “In fact I’m always embarrassed,” he added, “by how little we know of your country’s history, while you seem to be so well informed about ours.”

“That’s because we no longer rule half the world,” said Giles, “and you look as if you are just about to. Mind you, I wonder if a man in a wheelchair could be elected as president in the second half of the twentieth century,” he added, glancing down at the man’s book.

“I doubt it,” said the American with a sigh. “Kennedy beat Nixon because of a TV debate. If you’d heard it on the radio, you would have concluded that Nixon won.”

“Nobody can see you sweat on the radio.”

The American raised an eyebrow. “How come you’re so well informed about American politics?”

“I’m a Member of Parliament. And you?”

“I’m a state representative from Baton Rouge.”

“And as you can’t be a day over forty, I presume you have your sights on Washington.”

Rankin smiled, but revealed nothing. “My turn to ask you a question. What’s my wife’s name?”

Giles knew when he was beaten. “Rosemary,” he said.

“So now we’ve established that this meeting wasn’t a coincidence, Sir Giles, how can I help you?”

“I need to talk to you about last night.”

“I’m not surprised, as I have no doubt you’re among the handful of people on board who knows what really happened in the early hours of this morning.”

Giles looked around. Satisfied no one could overhear them, he said, “The ship was the target of a terrorist attack, but fortunately we managed to—”

The American waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t need to know the details. Just tell me how I can help.”

“Try to convince your fellow countrymen on board that the Home Fleet were really out there. If you can manage that, I know someone who’d be eternally grateful.”

“Your sister?”

Giles nodded, no longer surprised.

“I realized there had to be a serious problem when I saw her earlier, sitting on the upper deck looking as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Not the action of a confident chairman who I have a feeling isn’t all that interested in sunbathing.”

“Mea culpa. But we’re up against—”

“As I said, spare me the details. Like him,” he said, pointing to the photo on the cover of his book, “I’m not interested in tomorrow’s headlines. I’m in politics for the long game, so I’ll do as you ask. However, Sir Giles, that means you owe me one. And you can be sure there’ll come a time when I call in my marker,” he added before returning to A Life of Roosevelt.

“Have we docked already?” asked Sebastian as he and Samantha joined his parents for breakfast.

“Over an hour ago,” said Emma. “Most of the passengers have already gone ashore.”

“And as it’s your first visit to New York,” said Sam as Seb sat down beside her, “and we only have thirty-six hours before we sail back to England, we haven’t a moment to waste.”

“Why will the ship only be in port for thirty-six hours?” Seb asked.

“You can only make money when you’re on the move, and besides, the docking fees are horrendous.”

“Do you remember your first trip to New York, Mr. Clifton?” asked Samantha.

“I most certainly do,” said Harry with feeling. “I was arrested for a murder I didn’t commit, and spent the next six months in an American prison.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Samantha, recalling the story Seb had once told her. “It was tactless of me to remind you of such a terrible experience.”

“Don’t give it a second thought,” said Harry. “Just make sure Seb isn’t arrested on this visit, because I don’t want that to become another family tradition.”

“Not a chance,” said Samantha. “I’ve already planned visits to the Metropolitan, Central Park, Sardi’s, and the Frick.”

“Jessica’s favorite museum,” said Emma.

“Although she never got to visit it,” said Seb.

“Not a day goes by when I don’t miss her,” said Emma.

“And I only wish I had known her better,” said Sam.

“I took for granted,” said Seb, “that I would die before my younger sister.” A long silence followed, before Seb, clearly wanting to change the subject, asked, “So we won’t be visiting any nightclubs?”

“No time for such frivolity,” said Samantha. “In any case, my father’s got us a couple of tickets for the theatre.”

“What are you going to see?” asked Emma.

“Hello, Dolly!”

“And that’s not frivolous?” said Harry.

“Dad considers Wagner’s Ring Cycle a tad too trendy,” explained Seb before asking, “Where’s Uncle Giles?”

“He was among the first to leave the ship,” said Emma, as a waiter poured her a second cup of coffee. “Our ambassador whisked him off to the United Nations so they could go over his speech before the afternoon session.”

“Perhaps we should try and fit the UN in as well?” suggested Sam.

“I don’t think so,” replied Seb. “The last time I attended one of my uncle’s speeches, he had a heart attack shortly afterward and failed to become the leader of the Labour Party.”

“That’s something you haven’t mentioned before!”

“There’s still a lot you don’t know about our family,” Seb admitted.

“Which reminds me,” said Harry. “I haven’t had the chance to congratulate you on being elected to the board.”

“Thank you, Dad. And now that I’ve read the minutes of the last meeting, I can’t wait” — Seb looked up to see an anxious look on his mother’s face — “to meet my fellow board members, especially the admiral.”

“A one-off,” said Emma, although she was still wondering if the next board meeting would be her last, because if the truth came out she’d be left with no choice but to resign. However, as the memory of that first morning at sea began to fade, she relaxed, and she was feeling a little more confident now that the Buckingham had docked in New York. She glanced out of the window. As far as she could see, there were no press hounds hovering at the bottom of the gangway, barking and baying while flashbulbs popped. Perhaps they were more interested in the result of the presidential election. But she wouldn’t breathe a sigh of relief until the Buckingham had set sail on its return journey to Avonmouth.

“So how do you plan to spend your day, Dad?” asked Seb, breaking into his mother’s reverie.

“I’m having lunch with my publisher, Harold Guinzburg. No doubt I’ll find out what he has planned for my latest book, and what he thought of it.”

“Any hope of an early copy for my mom?” said Samantha. “She’s such a fan.”

“Of course,” said Harry.

“That will be nine dollars ninety-nine cents,” said Seb, holding out his hand. Samantha placed a hot boiled egg in it. “And what about you, Mum? Any plans for painting the hull?”

“Don’t encourage her,” said Harry, not laughing.

“I’ll be the last off the ship and the first back on board. Although I do intend to visit my cousin Alistair and apologize for not attending Great-aunt Phyllis’s funeral.”

“Seb was in hospital at the time,” Harry reminded her.

“So where are we going to start?” demanded Seb as he folded his napkin.

Sam looked out of the window to check the weather. “We’ll take a cab to Central Park and walk the loop before visiting the Met.”

“Then we’d better get going,” said Seb as he rose from the table. “Have a good day, revered parents.”

Emma smiled as the two of them left the dining room, hand in hand. “I wish I’d known they were sleeping together.”

“Emma, it’s the second half of the twentieth century and, let’s face it, we are hardly in a position to—”

“No, I wasn’t moralizing,” said Emma. “It’s just that I could have sold the extra cabin.”

4

“It was good of you to fly back at such short notice, colonel,” said Sir Alan Redmayne, as if he’d had any choice.

The SAS commander had been handed a telegram the moment he stepped off the Buckingham in New York. A car had whisked him to JFK, where he boarded the first flight back to London. Another car and driver were waiting for him at the bottom of the aircraft steps at Heathrow.

“The cabinet secretary thought you would want to see this morning’s papers,” was all the driver said before setting off for Whitehall.

IN YOUR HEART YOU KNEW HE’D LOSE was the headline in the Telegraph. The colonel turned the pages slowly, but there was no mention of the Buckingham, or any article filed under the name of Derek Hart, because if there had been, despite Lyndon Johnson’s landslide election victory over Barry Goldwater, it would surely have led the front page.

The Buckingham did make the center pages of the Daily Express, with a glowing report from the paper’s travel correspondent, extolling the pleasures of crossing the Atlantic on the latest luxury liner. The Daily Mail had pictures of their twelve lucky readers posing in front of the Statue of Liberty. Another twelve free tickets offered for some future date ensured that there was no reference to any inconvenience caused by the Home Fleet.

One hour later, having had no change of clothes or a chance to shave, Colonel Scott-Hopkins was sitting opposite the cabinet secretary in his office at No.10 Downing Street.

The colonel began with a detailed debrief before answering Sir Alan’s questions.

“Well, at least some good came out of this,” said Sir Alan, taking a leather attaché case from under his desk and placing it on top. “Thanks to the diligence of your SAS colleagues, we located an IRA warehouse in Battersea. We also recovered over twenty-three thousand pounds in cash from the boot of the taxi that took Martinez to Heathrow. I suspect that Kevin ‘four fingers’ Rafferty will soon be known as ‘three fingers’ if he can’t explain to his area commander what happened to the money.”

“And Martinez? Where is he now?”

“Our ambassador in Buenos Aires assures me that he’s frequenting his usual haunts. I don’t think we’ll be seeing him or his sons at Wimbledon or Ascot again.”

“And Doherty and his compatriots?”

“On their way back to Northern Ireland, not on a luxury liner this time, but on a Royal Navy ship. Once they dock in Belfast, they’ll be transported straight to the nearest prison.”

“On what charge?”

“That hasn’t been decided yet,” said Sir Alan.

“Mrs. Clifton warned me that a journalist from the Telegraph had been sniffing around, asking far too many questions.”

“Derek Hart. The damn man ignored the IMF loan story that Giles fed him, went ahead and filed his copy on the Home Fleet incident the moment he set foot in New York. However, there were so many ifs and buts in the piece it wasn’t difficult to convince the editor to spike it, not least because he was far more interested in finding out how Leonid Brezhnev, an old school hard-liner, managed to replace Khrushchev in a surprise coup.”

“And how did he?” asked the colonel.

“I suggest you read tomorrow’s Telegraph.”

“And Hart?”

“I’m told he’s on his way to Johannesburg to try to get an interview with a terrorist called Nelson Mandela, which might prove difficult, as the man’s been in prison for more than two years, and no other journalist has been allowed anywhere near him.”

“Does that mean my team can be stood down from protecting the Clifton family?”

“Not yet,” said Sir Alan. “The IRA will almost certainly lose interest in the Barrington and Clifton families now Don Pedro Martinez is no longer around to pay the bills. However, I still need to convince Harry Clifton to assist me in another matter.” The colonel raised an eyebrow, but the cabinet secretary simply rose and shook hands with the SAS commanding officer. “I’ll be in touch” was all he said.

“Have you made up your mind?” asked Seb as they strolled past the Boathouse Café on the east side of Central Park.

“Yes,” said Samantha, letting go of his hand. Seb turned to face her and waited anxiously. “I’ve already written to King’s College and told them I’d like to take up their offer to do my PhD at London University.”

Seb leapt in the air with undisguised delight and screamed “Great balls of fire!” at the top of his voice. No one gave them a second look, but then they were in New York. “Does that mean you’ll move in with me once I find a new flat? We could even choose it together,” he added before she could reply.

“Are you sure that’s what you really want?” asked Samantha, quietly.

“I couldn’t be surer,” said Seb, taking her in his arms. “And as you’ll be based in the Strand, while I’m working in the City, perhaps we should look for a place somewhere near, like Islington?”

“Are you sure?” Sam repeated.

“As sure as I am that Bristol Rovers will never win the Cup.”

“Who are Bristol Rovers?”

“We don’t know each other well enough for me to burden you with their problems,” said Seb as they left the park. “Perhaps given time, a lot of time, I’ll tell you about eleven hopeless men who regularly ruin Saturday afternoons for me,” he added as they reached Fifth Avenue.

When Harry walked into the offices of the Viking Press, a young woman he recognized was waiting in reception.

“Good morning, Mr. Clifton,” said Harold Guinzburg’s secretary, stepping forward to greet him. He couldn’t help wondering how many authors received this sort of treatment. “Mr. Guinzburg is looking forward to seeing you.”

“Thank you, Kirsty,” said Harry. She led him through to the publisher’s oak-panelled office, adorned with photographs of past and present authors: Hemingway, Shaw, Fitzgerald, and Faulkner. He wondered if you had to die before your picture could be added to the Guinzburg collection.

Despite being nearly seventy, Guinzburg leapt up from behind his desk the moment Harry entered the room. Harry had to smile. Dressed in a three-piece suit and wearing a half-hunter pocket watch with a gold chain, Guinzburg looked more English than the English.

“So how’s my favorite author?”

Harry laughed as they shook hands. “And how many times a week do you greet authors with those words?” he asked as he sank down in the high, buttoned-back leather chair facing his publisher.

“A week?” said Guinzburg. “At least three times a day, sometimes more — especially when I can’t remember their names.” Harry smiled. “However, I can prove it’s true in your case, because after reading William Warwick and the Defrocked Vicar, I’ve decided the first print run will be eighty thousand copies.”

Harry opened his mouth, but didn’t speak. His last William Warwick novel had sold 72,000 copies so he was well aware of the commitment his publisher was making.

“Let’s hope there won’t be too many returns.”

“The advance orders rather suggest that eighty thousand won’t be enough. But forgive me,” Guinzburg said, “first tell me, how is Emma? And was the maiden voyage a triumph? I couldn’t find a mention of it, despite scouring the New York Times this morning.”

“Emma couldn’t be better, and sends her love. At this moment, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s buffing up the brass-work on the bridge. As for the maiden voyage, I have a feeling she’ll be quite relieved there’s no mention of it in the New York Times — although the whole experience may have given me an idea for my next novel.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Not a hope,” replied Harry. “You’ll just have to be patient, which I’m well aware is not your strongest suit.”

“Then let’s hope your new responsibilities won’t cut into your writing schedule. Many congratulations.”

“Thank you. Though I only allowed my name to go forward as president of English PEN for one reason.”

Guinzburg raised an eyebrow.

“I want a Russian called Anatoly Babakov to be released from prison immediately.”

“Why do you feel so strongly about Babakov?” asked Guinzburg.

“If you’d been locked up in prison for a crime you hadn’t committed, Harold, believe me, you’d feel strongly. And don’t forget, I was in an American jail, which frankly is a Holiday Inn compared to a gulag in Siberia.”

“I can’t even remember what Babakov was meant to have done.”

“He wrote a book.”

“That’s a crime in Russia?”

“It is if you decide to tell the truth about your employer, especially if your employer was Josef Stalin.”

“Uncle Joe, I remember,” said Guinzburg, “but the book was never published.”

“It was published but Babakov was arrested long before a copy reached the bookshelves, and after a show trial he was sentenced to twenty years in prison, with no right of appeal.”

“Which only makes one wonder what can be in that book to make the Soviets so determined that no one should ever get to read it.”

“I’ve no idea,” said Harry. “But I do know that every copy of Uncle Joe was removed from the bookshelves within hours of publication. The publisher was shut down, Babakov was arrested, and he hasn’t been seen since his trial. If there’s a copy out there I intend to find it when I go to the international book conference in Moscow in May.”

“If you do lay your hands on a copy, I’d love to have it translated and publish it over here, because I can guarantee that not only would it be a runaway best seller but also it would finally expose Stalin as a man every bit as evil as Hitler. Mind you, Russia’s a pretty big haystack in which to be searching for that particular needle.”

“True, but I’m determined to find out what Babakov has to say. Don’t forget, he was Stalin’s personal interpreter for thirteen years, so few people would have had a better insight into the regime — although even he didn’t anticipate how the KGB would react when he decided to publish his version of what he witnessed firsthand.”

“And now that Stalin’s old allies have removed Khrushchev and are back in power, no doubt some of them have things they’d prefer to keep hidden.”

“Like the truth about Stalin’s death,” said Harry.

“I’ve never seen you so worked up about anything,” said Guinzburg. “But it might not be wise for you to poke a stick at the big bear. The new hard-line regime there seems to have little regard for human rights, whichever country you come from.”

“What’s the point of being president of PEN if I can’t express my views?”

The carriage clock on the bookshelf behind Guinzburg’s desk struck twelve.

“Why don’t we go and have lunch at my club, and we can discuss less contentious matters, like what Sebastian’s been up to.”

“I think he’s about to propose to an American girl.”

“I always knew that boy was smart,” said Guinzburg.

While Samantha and Seb were admiring the shopwindows on Fifth Avenue, and Harry was enjoying a rib-eye steak at the Harvard Club with his publisher, a yellow cab came to a halt outside a smart brownstone on 64th and Park.

Emma stepped out, carrying a shoebox with “Crockett & Jones” emblazoned on the lid. Inside was a pair of size nine, made-to-measure black brogues, which she knew would fit her cousin Alistair perfectly, because he always had his shoes made in Jermyn Street.

As Emma looked up at the shiny brass knocker on the front door, she recalled the first time she had climbed those steps. A young woman, barely out of her teens, she’d been shaking like a leaf and had wanted to run away. But she’d spent all her money to get to America, and didn’t know who else to turn to in New York if she was to find Harry, who was locked up in an American prison for a murder he hadn’t committed. Once she’d met Great-aunt Phyllis, Emma didn’t return to England for over a year — until she found out Harry was no longer in America.

This time she climbed the steps more confidently, rapped firmly with the brass knocker, stood back, and waited. She hadn’t made an appointment to see her cousin because she had no doubt he’d be in residence. Although he’d recently retired as the senior partner of Simpson, Albion & Stuart, he was not a country animal, even at weekends. Alistair was quintessentially a New Yorker. He’d been born on 64th and Park, and that, undoubtedly, was where he would die.

When the door opened a few moments later, Emma was surprised to see a man she immediately recognized, although it must have been more than twenty years since she had last seen him. He was dressed in a black morning coat, striped trousers, white shirt, and gray tie. Some things never change.

“How nice to see you, Mrs. Clifton,” he said as if she dropped by every day.

Emma felt embarrassed as she wrestled to recall his name, knowing that Harry would never have forgotten it. “And it’s so nice to see you,” she ventured. “I was rather hoping to catch up with my cousin Alistair, if he’s at home.”

“I fear not, madam,” said the butler. “Mr. Stuart is attending the funeral of Mr. Benjamin Rutledge, a former partner of the firm, and isn’t expected back from Connecticut until tomorrow evening.”

Emma couldn’t hide her disappointment.

“Perhaps you’d care to come inside and I could make you a cup of tea — Earl Grey, if I remember correctly?”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Emma, “but I ought to be getting back to the ship.”

“Of course. I do hope the Buckingham’s maiden voyage was a success?”

“Better than I might have hoped for,” she admitted. “Would you be kind enough to pass on my best wishes to Alistair, and say how sorry I was to miss him?”

“I’d be delighted to do so, Mrs. Clifton.” The butler gave a slight bow before closing the door.

Emma made her way back down the steps and began searching for a cab, when she suddenly realized she was still clutching the shoebox. Feeling embarrassed, she climbed the steps a second time and rapped the door with the brass knocker a little more tentatively.

Moments later the door opened a second time and the butler reappeared. “Madam?” he said, giving her the same warm smile.

“I’m so sorry, but I quite forgot to give you this gift for Alistair.”

“How thoughtful of you to remember Mr. Stuart’s favorite shoe shop,” he said as Emma handed over the box. “I know he’ll appreciate your kindness.”

Emma stood there, still helplessly trying to recall his name.

“I do hope, Mrs. Clifton, that the return voyage to Avonmouth will be equally successful.”

Once again he bowed and closed the door quietly behind him.

“Thank you, Parker,” she said.

5

Once Bob Bingham had finished dressing, he checked himself in the long mirror inside the wardrobe door. His double-breasted, wide-lapelled dinner jacket was unlikely to come back into fashion in the near future, as his wife regularly reminded him. He’d pointed out to her that the suit had been good enough for his father when he was chairman of Bingham’s Fish Paste, and therefore should be good enough for him.

Priscilla didn’t agree, but then they hadn’t agreed on much lately. Bob still blamed her close friend, Lady Virginia Fenwick, for Jessica Clifton’s untimely death, and the fact that their son Clive — who had been engaged to Jessica at the time — hadn’t been back to Mablethorpe Hall since that fateful day. His wife was naïve and overawed when it came to Virginia, but he still lived in the hope that Priscilla would finally come to her senses and see the damned woman for what she was, which would allow them to once again come together as a family. But that, he feared, would not be for some time, and in any case Bob had more immediate problems on his mind. Tonight, they would be on public display, as guests at the chairman’s table. He wasn’t at all confident that Priscilla would be able to remain on her best behavior for more than a few minutes. He just hoped they’d get back to their cabin unscathed.

Bob admired Emma Clifton, “the Boadicea of Bristol” as she was known by friend and foe alike. He suspected that if she had been aware of the nickname, she would have worn it as a badge of honor.

Emma had slipped a pour mémoire under their cabin door earlier that day, suggesting they meet in the Queen’s Lounge around 7:30 p.m., before going into dinner. Bob checked his watch. It was already ten to eight, and there was still no sign of his wife, although he could hear the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. He began to pace around the cabin, barely able to hide his irritation.

Bob was well aware that Lady Virginia had brought a libel suit against the chairman, not something he was likely to forget as he was sitting just behind her when the exchange took place. During question time at this year’s AGM, Lady Virginia had asked from the floor if it was true that one of the directors of Barrington’s had sold all his shares with the intention of bringing down the company. She was of course referring to Cedric Hardcastle’s little ploy to save the company from a hostile takeover by Don Pedro Martinez.

Emma had responded robustly, reminding Lady Virginia that it was Major Fisher, her representative on the board, who had sold her shares and then bought them back a fortnight later in order to damage the company’s reputation, while making a handsome profit for his client.

“You’ll be hearing from my solicitor” was all Virginia had to say on the subject, and a week later Emma did. Bob wasn’t in any doubt which camp his wife would be supporting if the action ever came to court. Were Priscilla to pick up any useful ammunition during dinner that might assist her friend’s cause, he was sure it would be passed on to Virginia’s legal team within moments of them stepping ashore in Avonmouth. And both sides were well aware that if Emma were to lose the case, it wouldn’t be simply her reputation that would be in tatters, but she would also undoubtedly have to resign as chairman of Barrington’s.

He hadn’t told Priscilla anything about the IRA or what had been discussed during the emergency board meeting on that first morning of the voyage, other than to repeat the story about the Home Fleet, and although she clearly didn’t believe him, Priscilla learned nothing other than that Sebastian had been appointed to the board.

After a day’s shopping in New York which would cost Bob several crates of fish paste, she didn’t mention it again. However, Bob was afraid she might raise it with Emma over dinner, and if she did, he would have to deftly change the subject. Thank God Lady Virginia hadn’t carried out her threat to join them on the voyage, because if she had, she wouldn’t have rested until she’d found out exactly what had happened in the early hours of that first night.

Priscilla eventually emerged from the bathroom, but not until ten past eight.

“Perhaps we should go through to dinner,” Emma suggested.

“But aren’t the Binghams meant to be joining us?” said Harry.

“Yes,” said Emma, checking her watch. “More than half an hour ago.”

“Don’t rise, darling,” said Harry firmly. “You’re the chairman of the company, and you mustn’t let Priscilla see that she’s annoyed you, because that’s exactly what she’s hoping for.” Emma was about to protest when he added, “And be sure you don’t say anything over dinner that Virginia could use in court, because there’s no doubt which side Priscilla Bingham is on.”

With all the other problems Emma had faced during the past week, she’d put aside the possible court case, and as she hadn’t heard from Virginia’s solicitors for several months, she’d even begun to wonder if she’d quietly dropped the action. The problem was, Virginia didn’t do anything quietly.

Emma was about to place her order with the head waiter when Harry stood up.

“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” said Priscilla, “but I lost all track of time.”

“Not a problem,” said Harry as he pulled back her chair and waited until she was comfortably seated.

“Perhaps we should order,” said Emma, clearly wishing to remind her guest how long they had been kept waiting.

Priscilla took her time as she turned the pages of the leather-bound menu, and changed her mind several times before she finally made her choice. Once the waiter had taken her order, Harry asked her if she’d enjoyed her day in New York.

“Oh yes, there are so many wonderful shops on Fifth Avenue that have so much more to offer than London, although I did find the whole experience quite exhausting. In fact, when I got back to the ship, I simply collapsed on the bed and fell asleep. And you, Mr. Clifton, did you manage to do any shopping?”

“No, I had an appointment with my publishers, while Emma went in search of a long-lost cousin.”

“Of course, I’d quite forgotten you’re the one who writes novels. I just don’t find the time to read books,” said Priscilla as a bowl of piping hot tomato soup was placed in front of her. “I didn’t order soup,” she said, looking up at the waiter. “I asked for the smoked salmon.”

“I’m sorry, madam,” said the waiter, who removed the soup. While he was still in earshot, Priscilla said, “I suppose it must be quite difficult to recruit experienced staff for a cruise ship.”

“I hope you won’t mind if we start,” said Emma as she picked up her soup spoon.

“Did you catch up with your cousin?” asked Bob.

“Unfortunately not. He was visiting Connecticut, so I joined Harry later, and we were lucky enough to get a couple of tickets for an afternoon concert at Lincoln Center.”

“Who was performing?” asked Bob as a plate of smoked salmon was placed in front of Priscilla.

“Leonard Bernstein, who was conducting his Candide overture, before he played a Mozart piano concerto.”

“I just don’t know how you find the time,” said Priscilla between mouthfuls.

Emma was about to say she didn’t spend her life shopping, but looked up to see Harry frowning at her.

“I once saw Bernstein conducting the LSO at the Royal Festival Hall,” said Bob. “Brahms. Quite magnificent.”

“And did you accompany Priscilla on her exhausting shopping trip up and down Fifth Avenue?” asked Emma.

“No, I checked out the lower East Side, to see if there was any point in trying to break into the American market.”

“And your conclusion?” asked Harry.

“The Americans aren’t quite ready for Bingham’s fish paste.”

“So which countries are ready?” asked Harry.

“Only Russia and India, if the truth be known. And they come with their own problems.”

“Like what?” asked Emma, sounding genuinely interested.

“The Russians don’t like paying their bills, and the Indians often can’t.”

“Perhaps you have a one-product problem?” Emma suggested.

“I’ve thought about diversifying, but—”

“Can we possibly talk about something other than fish paste,” said Priscilla. “After all, we are meant to be on holiday.”

“Of course,” said Harry. “How is Clive?” he asked, regretting his words immediately.

“He’s just fine, thank you,” said Bob, jumping in quickly. “And you must both be so proud of Sebastian being invited to join the board.”

Emma smiled.

“Well, that’s hardly a surprise,” said Priscilla. “Let’s face it, if your mother is the chairman of the company, and your family owns a majority of the stock, frankly you could appoint a cocker spaniel to the board and the rest of the directors would wag their tails.”

Harry thought Emma was about to explode, but luckily her mouth was full, so a long silence followed.

“Is that rare?” Priscilla demanded as a steak was placed in front of her.

The waiter checked her order. “No, madam, it’s medium.”

“I ordered rare. I couldn’t have made it clearer. Take it away and try again.”

The waiter deftly removed the plate without comment, as Priscilla turned to Harry. “Can you make a living as a writer?”

“It’s tough,” admitted Harry, “not least because there are so many excellent authors out there. However—”

“Still, you married a rich woman, so it really doesn’t matter all that much, does it?”

This silenced Harry, but not Emma. “Well, at last we’ve discovered something we have in common, Priscilla.”

“I agree,” said Priscilla, not missing a beat, “but then I’m old-fashioned, and was brought up to believe it’s the natural order of things for a man to take care of a woman. It somehow doesn’t seem right the other way around.” She took a sip of wine, and Emma was about to respond when she added with a warm smile, “I think you’ll find the wine is corked.”

“I thought it was excellent,” said Bob.

“Dear Robert still doesn’t know the difference between a claret and a burgundy. Whenever we throw a dinner party, it’s always left to me to select the wine. Waiter!” she said, turning to the sommelier. “We’ll need another bottle of the Merlot.”

“Yes of course, madam.”

“I don’t suppose you get to the north of England much,” said Bob.

“Not that often,” said Emma. “But a branch of my family hails from the Highlands.”

“Mine too,” said Priscilla. “I was born a Campbell.”

“I think you’ll find that’s the Lowlands,” said Emma, as Harry kicked her under the table.

“I’m sure you’re right, as always,” said Priscilla. “So I know you won’t mind me asking you a personal question.” Bob put down his knife and fork and looked anxiously across at his wife. “What really happened on the first night of the voyage? Because I know the Home Fleet was nowhere to be seen.”

“How can you possibly know that, when you were fast asleep at the time?” said Bob.

“So what do you think happened, Priscilla?” asked Emma, reverting to a tactic her brother often used when he didn’t want to answer a question.

“Some passengers are saying that one of the turbines exploded.”

“The engine room is open for inspection by the passengers at any time,” said Emma. “In fact, I believe there was a well-attended guided tour this morning.”

“I also heard that a bomb exploded in your cabin,” said Priscilla, undaunted.

“You are most welcome to visit our cabin at any time so you can correct the ill-informed rumormonger who suggested that.”

“And someone else told me,” said Priscilla, plowing on, “that a group of Irish terrorists boarded the ship at around midnight—”

“Only to find we were fully booked, and as there wasn’t a cabin available, they were made to walk the plank and swim all the way back to Belfast?”

“And did you hear the one about some Martians flying in from outer space and landing inside one of the funnels?” said Harry, as the waiter reappeared with a rare steak.

Priscilla gave it no more than a glance, before she rose from her place. “You’re all hiding something,” she said, dropping her napkin on the table, “and I intend to find out what it is before we reach Avonmouth.”

The three of them watched as she glided serenely across the floor and out of the dining room.

“I apologize,” said Bob. “That turned out even worse than I feared.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Harry. “My wife snores.”

“I do not,” said Emma, as the two men burst out laughing.

“I’d give half my fortune to have the relationship you two enjoy.”

“I’ll take it,” said Harry. This time it was Emma’s turn to kick her husband under the table.

“Well, I’m grateful for one thing, Bob,” said Emma, reverting to her chairman’s voice. “Your wife clearly has no idea what really happened on our first night at sea. But if she ever found out...”

“I’d like to open this meeting by welcoming my son Sebastian Clifton onto the board.”

Hear, hears echoed around the ballroom.

“While being inordinately proud of his achievement at such a young age, I feel I should warn Mr. Clifton that the rest of the board will be observing his contributions with considerable interest.”

“Thank you, chairman,” said Sebastian, “for both your warm welcome and your helpful advice.” Seb’s words caused several members of the board to smile. His mother’s confidence, with his father’s charm.

“Moving on,” said the chairman, “allow me to bring you up to date on what has become known as the Home Fleet incident. Although we cannot yet afford to relax, it would appear that our worst fears have not been realized. Nothing of any real significance found its way into the press on either side of the Atlantic, not least, I’m told, because of a little assistance from Number Ten. The three Irishmen who were arrested in the early hours of our first night at sea are no longer on board. Once we’d docked and all the passengers had disembarked, they were discreetly transferred to a Royal Navy frigate, which is now on its way to Belfast.

“The damaged propeller, although not back to its full capacity, still has a rev count of around sixty percent, and will be replaced once we arrive back in Avonmouth. Our maintenance team worked day and night on the damaged hull while we were docked in New York and have done a first-class job. Only a seasoned mariner would be able to spot any sign of repair. Further work on the hull will also be carried out while we’re in Avonmouth. I anticipate that by the time the Buckingham sets out on its second voyage to New York in eight days’ time, no one would know we ever had a problem. However, I think it would be unwise for any of us to discuss the incident outside the boardroom, and should you be questioned on the subject, just stick to the official Home Fleet line.”

“Will we be making a claim on our insurance policy?” asked Knowles.

“No,” said Emma firmly, “because if we did, it would undoubtedly throw up a lot of questions I don’t want to answer.”

“Understood, chairman,” said Dobbs. “But how much has the Home Fleet incident cost us?”

“I don’t yet have an accurate figure to present to the board, but I’m told it could be as much as seven thousand pounds.”

“That would be a small price to pay, given the circumstances,” chipped in Bingham.

“I agree. However, no reference to the Home Fleet incident need be recorded in the minutes of this board or disclosed to our shareholders.”

“Chairman,” said the company secretary, “I’ll have to make some reference to what happened.”

“Then stick to the Home Fleet explanation, Mr. Webster, and don’t circulate anything without my approval.”

“If you say so, chairman.”

“Let’s move on to some more positive news.” Emma turned a page of her file. “The Buckingham has a one hundred percent occupancy for the journey back to Avonmouth, and we already have a seventy-two percent take-up for the second voyage to New York.”

“That is good news,” said Bingham. “However, we mustn’t forget the 184 free cabin spaces we have offered as compensation that are sure to be taken up at some time in the future.”

“At some time in the future is what matters, Mr. Bingham. If they are evenly distributed over the next couple of years, they’ll have little effect on our cash flow.”

“But I’m afraid there’s something else that might well affect our cash flow. And what makes it worse, the problem is not of our making.”

“What are you referring to, Mr. Anscott?” asked Emma.

“I had a very interesting chat with your brother on the way out, and found him fairly sanguine about the consequences of the country having to borrow one and a half billion pounds from the IMF in order to stop a run on the pound. He also mentioned the possibility of the government imposing a seventy percent corporation tax on all companies, as well as ninety percent income tax on anyone earning over thirty thousand a year.”

“Good God,” said the admiral. “Will I be able to afford my own funeral?”

“And the chancellor’s latest idea,” continued Anscott, “which I find almost inconceivable, is that no businessman or holidaymaker will be allowed to leave the country with more than fifty pounds cash in their possession.”

“That won’t exactly tempt people to travel abroad,” said Dobbs with some feeling.

“I think I may have found a way around that,” said Sebastian.

The rest of the board turned toward the newest recruit.

“I’ve been carrying out a little research into what our rivals are up to, and it seems that the owners of the SS New York and the SS France have come up with a solution to their tax problems.” Seb had caught the attention of the board. “The SS New York is no longer registered as being owned by an American company, despite the fact that its headquarters are still in Manhattan, along with the vast majority of its employees. For tax purposes, the company is registered in Panama. In fact, if you look carefully at this picture,” Seb placed a large photograph of the SS New York in the center of the table, “you will see a small Panamanian flag flying from the stern, despite the fact that the Stars and Stripes remain emblazoned on everything on board, from the plates in the dining rooms to the carpets in the staterooms.”

“And are the French doing the same thing?” asked Knowles.

“They most certainly are, but with a subtle Gallic difference. They’re flying an Algerian flag from the stern of the SS France, which I suspect is no more than a political sop.” Another photo, this time of the great French liner, was passed around Seb’s colleagues.

“Is this legal?” asked Dobbs.

“There’s not a damn thing either government can do about it,” said Seb. “Both ships are at sea for more than three hundred days a year, and as far as the passengers can tell, everything is exactly the same as it’s always been.”

“I don’t like the sound of it,” said the admiral. “It doesn’t seem right to me.”

“Our first duty must be to the shareholders,” Bob reminded his colleagues, “so can I suggest that Clifton presents a paper on the subject, so we can discuss it in greater detail at the next board meeting?”

“Good idea,” said Dobbs.

“I’m not against the idea,” said Emma, “but our finance director has come up with an alternative solution that some of you might find more attractive.” Emma nodded in the direction of Michael Carrick.

“Thank you, chairman. It’s quite simple really. If we were to go ahead with building a second ship, and take advantage of our repeat order option with Harland and Wolff within the specified contract period, we would avoid paying any corporation tax for the next four years.”

“There must be a catch,” said Knowles.

“Apparently not,” said Emma. “Any company can claim tax relief on a capital project, as long as it keeps to the price agreed in the original contract.”

“Why would the government agree to that, when their other proposed measures are so draconian?” asked Maynard.

“Because it helps to keep the unemployment figures down,” said Seb. “Which the Labour Party promised to do in their last manifesto.”

“Then I favor that solution,” said Dobbs. “But how much time is there before we have to decide whether or not to take up Harland and Wolff’s offer?”

“Just over five months,” said Carrick.

“More than enough time to come to a decision,” said Maynard.

“But that doesn’t solve the fifty-pounds restriction on our passengers,” said Anscott.

Seb couldn’t resist a smile. “Uncle Giles pointed out to me that there’s nothing to stop a passenger cashing a check while on board.”

“But we don’t have any banking facilities on the Buckingham,” Dobbs reminded him.

“Farthings would be only too happy to open an onboard branch,” said Seb.

“Then I suggest,” said Anscott, “that such a proposal also be included in Mr. Clifton’s report, and any recommendations should be circulated to all board members before the next meeting.”

“Agreed,” said Emma. “So all we have to decide now is when that meeting will be.”

As usual, some considerable time was spent selecting a date that was convenient for all the board members.

“And let us hope,” said Emma, “that by the time we next meet, the Home Fleet incident will be nothing more than folklore. Any other business?” she asked, looking around the table.

“Yes, chairman,” said Knowles. “You asked us to suggest possible candidates for the other vacant position on the board.”

“Who do you have in mind?”

“Desmond Mellor.”

“The man who founded the Bristol Bus company?”

“The same, but he sold out to National Buses last year. Made a handsome profit, and now finds himself with time on his hands.”

“And considerable knowledge of the transport business,” chipped in Anscott, revealing that he and Knowles were working in tandem.

“Then why don’t I invite Mr. Mellor to come in and see me some time next week,” said Emma, before either man could put it to a vote.

Knowles reluctantly agreed.

When the meeting broke up, Emma was delighted to see how many directors went over to Sebastian and welcomed him to the board. So much so, that it was some time before she was able to have a private word with her son.

“Your plan worked perfectly,” she whispered.

“Yes, but it was pretty obvious that your idea was more palatable to the majority of the board than mine. But I’m still not convinced, Mother, that we should risk such a large capital outlay on building another ship. If the financial outlook for Britain is as bad as Uncle Giles is suggesting, we could be stuck with two turkeys next Christmas. And if that’s the case, it will be the board of Barrington’s who are stuffed.”

6

“How kind of you to find the time to see me, Mr. Clifton,” said the cabinet secretary, ushering Harry to a seat at the small oval table in the center of the room, “especially remembering how busy you are.”

Harry would have laughed if he hadn’t been sitting in No.10 Downing Street opposite one of the busiest men in the country. A secretary appeared and placed a cup of tea in front of him, as if he were a regular at his local café.

“I hope your wife and son are well?”

“They are, thank you, Sir Alan.” Harry would have inquired about the cabinet secretary’s family, but he had no idea if he even had one. He decided to cut the small talk. “I presume it was Martinez who was behind the bombing?” he ventured, after taking a sip of his tea.

“It was indeed, but as he’s now back in Buenos Aires, and all too aware that if he or either of his sons ever set foot in England they’ll be arrested immediately, I don’t think he’ll be troubling you again.”

“And his Irish friends?”

“They were never his friends. They were only interested in his money, and as soon as that dried up, they were quite prepared to dispose of him. But as their ringleader and two of his associates are now safely behind bars, I can’t imagine we’ll be hearing from them for some considerable time.”

“Did you find out if there were any other IRA operatives on board the ship?”

“Two. But they haven’t been seen since. Intelligence reports that they’re holed up somewhere in New York, and aren’t expected to return to Belfast for the foreseeable future.”

“I’m grateful, Sir Alan,” said Harry, assuming the meeting was over. The cabinet secretary nodded, but just as Harry was about to rise, he said, “I must confess, Mr. Clifton, that wasn’t the only reason I wanted to see you.”

Harry sat back down and began to concentrate. If this man wanted something, he’d better be wide awake.

“Your brother-in-law once told me something that I found difficult to believe. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to indulge me, so I can see if he was exaggerating.”

“Politicians do have a tendency to do that.”

Sir Alan didn’t reply but simply opened a file in front of him, extracted a single sheet of paper, slid it across the table, and said, “Would you be kind enough to read that through slowly?”

Harry looked at a memo that was about three hundred words in length, containing several place-names and details of troop movements in the Home Counties, with the ranks of all the senior officers involved. He read the seven paragraphs as instructed, and when he’d finished, he looked up and nodded. The cabinet secretary retrieved the piece of paper and replaced it on the table with a lined pad and a biro.

“Would you now be kind enough to write out what you’ve just read?”

Harry decided to play the game. He picked up the biro and began writing. When he’d finished, he passed the pad to the cabinet secretary, who compared it with the original.

“So it’s true,” he said a few moments later. “You are one of those rare people with a photographic memory. Though you made one mistake.”

“Godalming and not Godmanchester?” said Harry. “Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention.”

A man who was not easily impressed was impressed.

“So are you hoping to recruit me for your pub quiz team?” asked Harry.

Sir Alan didn’t smile. “No, I’m afraid it’s a little more serious than that, Mr. Clifton. In May you’ll be travelling to Moscow as the president of English PEN. Our ambassador there, Sir Humphrey Trevelyan, has come into possession of a document that is so sensitive he can’t even risk sending it in the diplomatic pouch.”

“Can I ask its contents?”

“It’s a comprehensive list of the name and location of every Russian spy operating in the UK. Sir Humphrey hasn’t even shown it to his deputy. If you could bring it back in your head, we would be able to dismantle the entire Soviet spy network in this country, and as no documents would be involved you wouldn’t be in any danger.”

“I’d be quite willing to do that,” said Harry without hesitation. “But I will expect something in return.”

“I’ll do anything within my power.”

“I want the foreign secretary to make an official protest about the imprisonment of Anatoly Babakov.”

“Stalin’s interpreter? Didn’t he write a book that was banned — what was it called...”

“Uncle Joe,” said Harry.

“Ah yes, of course. Well, I’ll do what I can, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

“And he must also make an official statement to all national and foreign press agencies the day before I fly to Russia.”

“I can’t promise you that, but be assured I’ll recommend that the foreign secretary supports your campaign to have Mr. Babakov released.”

“I’m sure you will, Sir Alan. But if you are unable to assist me with Babakov’s plight,” he paused, “you can bugger off and find someone else to be your messenger boy.”

Harry’s words had exactly the effect he had hoped for. The cabinet secretary was speechless.

Emma looked up as her secretary entered the office, accompanied by a man she knew as soon as they shook hands she wasn’t going to like. She ushered Mr. Mellor toward two comfortable chairs by the fireplace.

“It’s very nice to meet you at last, Mrs. Clifton,” he said. “I’ve heard, and read, so much about you over the years.”

“And I’ve recently been reading a great deal about you, Mr. Mellor,” said Emma as she sat down and took a closer look at the man seated opposite her. She knew from a recent profile in the Financial Times that Desmond Mellor had left school at sixteen and begun his working life as a booking clerk at Cooks Travel. By the age of 23, he’d started up his own company, which he’d recently sold for close to £2 million, having had several well-chronicled scrapes along the way. But Emma accepted that that would be true of most successful entrepreneurs. She had been prepared for his charm, but was surprised to find that he looked far younger than his forty-eight years. He was clearly fit, with no surplus pounds that needed to be shed, and she had to agree with her secretary that he was a good-looking man, even if his dress sense hadn’t quite kept pace with his financial success.

“Not all bad, I hope,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh.

“Well, if your recent takeover battle is anything to go by, Mr. Mellor, you certainly don’t believe in taking prisoners.”

“It’s tough out there at the moment, Mrs. Clifton, as I’m sure you’re finding, so sometimes you have to cover your backside, if you’ll excuse the expression.”

Emma wondered if she could come up with an excuse to cut the meeting short, despite the fact that she had instructed her secretary that she was not to be disturbed for at least thirty minutes.

“I’ve been following your husband’s activities on behalf of Babakov,” said Mellor. “Seems he might also have to cover his backside,” he added with a grin.

“Harry feels passionately about Mr. Babakov’s plight.”

“As I’m sure we all do. But I have to ask, is it worth the candle? Those Russians don’t seem to give a damn about human rights.”

“That won’t stop Harry fighting for something he believes in.”

“Is he away often?”

“Not that much,” Emma said, trying not to show she’d been taken by surprise by the sudden change of subject. “The occasional book tour or conference. But when you chair a public company, that can sometimes be a blessing in disguise.”

“I know just how you feel,” said Mellor, leaning forward. “My wife prefers to live in the country, which is why I stay in Bristol during the week.”

“Do you have any children?” asked Emma.

“One girl by my first marriage. She’s a secretary in London. And another by my second.”

“And how old is she?”

“Kelly is four, and, of course, I know your son Sebastian has recently joined the board of Barrington’s.”

Emma smiled. “Then perhaps I can ask, Mr. Mellor, why you want to join us on the board?”

“Des, please. All my friends call me Des. As you know, my experience is mainly in the travel business, although since I sold the company, I’ve started dabbling in the odd property deal. But as I still find myself with time on my hands, I thought it might be fun to work under a woman chairman.”

Emma ignored this. “If you were to become a member of the board, what would be your attitude to a hostile takeover bid?”

“To begin with, I’d pretend I wasn’t interested and see how much I could milk them for. The secret is to be patient.”

“There wouldn’t be any circumstances under which you’d consider holding on to the company?”

“Not if the price was right.”

“But when National Buses took over your company, weren’t you worried about what might happen to your staff?”

“If they were half awake they must have seen it coming for years, and in any case I wasn’t going to get another chance like that.”

“But if the FT is to be believed, within a month of the takeover, half your staff, some of whom had been with you for over twenty years, were made redundant.”

“With a six-month salary bonus. And a number of them had no difficulty finding employment elsewhere, one or two at Barrington’s.”

“But within another month, National Buses had dropped your name from the company masthead and, with it, the reputation you’d built over many years.”

“You dropped your name when you married Harry Clifton,” said Des, “but it didn’t stop you becoming chairman of Barrington’s.”

“I wasn’t given a choice, and I suspect even that may change in the future.”

“Let’s face it, when it comes to the bottom line, you can’t afford to be sentimental.”

“It’s not difficult to see how you’ve become such a successful businessman, Des, and why, for the right firm, you’d make an ideal director.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.”

“But I still need to speak to my colleagues just in case they don’t agree with me. When I have, I’ll be back in touch.”

“I look forward to that, Emma.”

7

Sebastian arrived outside the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square just before nine o’clock the following day for his appointment with the chef de mission.

After he’d reported to the front desk, a marine sergeant accompanied him to the second floor and knocked on a door at the end of the corridor. Seb was surprised when the door was opened by Mr. Sullivan.

“Good to see you, Seb. Come on in.”

Seb entered a room that overlooked Grosvenor Gardens, but he didn’t take in the view.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you, sir,” said Seb, who was far too nervous to think about anything other than his opening line.

“So what can I do for you?” asked the chef de mission as he took a seat behind his desk.

Seb remained standing.

“I’d like your permission, sir, to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

“How wonderfully old-fashioned,” said Mr. Sullivan. “I’m touched that you took the trouble to ask, Seb, and if that’s what Samantha wants, it’s fine by me.”

“I don’t know what she wants,” admitted Seb, “because I haven’t asked her yet.”

“Then good luck, because I can tell you, nothing would please her mother and me more.”

“That’s a relief,” said Seb.

“Have you told your parents yet?”

“Last night, sir.”

“And how do they feel about it?”

“Mother couldn’t be more pleased, but my father said that if Sam’s got any sense, she’ll turn me down.”

Sullivan smiled. “But if she does say yes, can you keep her in a style she isn’t accustomed to? Because as you know, she hopes to be an academic, and they are not overpaid.”

“I’m working on it, sir. I’ve just been promoted at the bank, and am now number two in the property division. And as I think you know I’ve recently joined the board of Barrington’s.”

“That all sounds pretty promising, Seb, and frankly, Marion was wondering what took you so long.”

“Does that mean I have your blessing?”

“It most certainly does. But never forget that Samantha sets standards, like your mother, that the rest of us normal mortals find hard to live with, unless, like your father, they’re guided by the same moral compass. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, would you like to sit down?”

When Sebastian returned to the City later that morning, he found a note on his desk from Adrian Sloane, asking him to report to his office the moment he got back.

Sebastian frowned. The one blip on his radar screen during the past few months had been his immediate boss. He’d never been able to please Sloane from the moment Cedric Hardcastle had appointed him as his deputy in the property division. Sloane always managed to leave the impression that he was efficient at his job, and, to be fair, the division’s month-on-month revenues and profits were continually impressive. However, for some reason he didn’t seem to trust Seb, and made no attempt to confide in him — in fact, he went out of his way to keep him out of the loop. Seb also knew from one of his colleagues that whenever his name came up in discussions, Sloane didn’t hesitate to undermine him.

Seb had considered mentioning the problem to Cedric, but his mother had counseled against it, saying Sloane was bound to find out, which would only make him more antagonistic.

“In any case,” Emma had added, “you should learn to stand on your own two feet, and not expect Cedric to wet-nurse you every time you come up against a problem.”

“That’s all very well,” said Seb, “but what else can I be expected to do?”

“Just get on with your job, and do it well,” said Emma. “Because that’s all Cedric will care about.”

“That’s exactly what I am doing,” insisted Seb. “So why is Sloane treating me this way?”

“I can explain that in one word,” said Emma. “Envy. And you’d better get used to it if you’re hoping to climb further up the corporate ladder.”

“But I never had that problem when I worked for Mr. Hardcastle.”

“Of course you didn’t, because Cedric never saw you as a threat.”

“Sloane thinks I’m a threat?”

“Yes. He assumes you’re after his job, and that only makes him more secretive, insecure, paranoid, call it what you will. But to use one of Des Mellor’s favorite expressions, just be sure you cover your backside.”

When Seb reported to Sloane, his boss came straight to the point, and didn’t seem to mind that his secretary was listening to every word.

“As you weren’t at your desk when I came in this morning, I assume you must have been visiting a client.”

“No, I was at the American Embassy dealing with a personal matter.”

This silenced Sloane for a moment. “Well, in future, when you’re dealing with personal matters, do it in your own time, and not the company’s. We’re running a bank, not a social club.”

Seb gritted his teeth. “I’ll remember that in future, Adrian.”

“I’d prefer to be called Mr. Sloane, during working hours.”

“Anything else... Mr. Sloane?” asked Seb.

“No, not for the moment, but I expect to see your monthly report on my desk by close of business this evening.”

Seb returned to his office, relieved to be a step ahead of Sloane, as he’d already prepared his monthly report over the weekend. His figures were up again, for the tenth month in a row, although it had recently become clear to him that Sloane was adding his own results in with Seb’s, and taking the credit. If Sloane hoped that his tactics would eventually grind Seb down, even force him to resign, he needn’t hold his breath. As long as Cedric was chairman of the bank, Seb knew his position was secure, and while he continued to deliver, he need have no fear of Sloane, because the chairman was well capable of reading between the lines.

At one o’clock, Seb grabbed a ham sandwich from a nearby café and ate it on the move, not something his mother would have approved of — at your desk if you have to, but not on the move.

As he searched for a taxi, he thought about some of the lessons he’d learned from Cedric when it came to closing a deal, some basic, some more subtle, but most of it good old-fashioned common sense.

“Know how much you can afford, never overstretch yourself, and try to remember that the other side are also hoping to make a profit. And build good contacts because they’ll be your lifeline during bad times, as only one thing is certain in banking — you will experience bad times. And by the way,” he’d added, “never buy retail.”

“Who taught you that?” Seb had asked.

“Jack Benny.”

Armed with sound advice from both Cedric Hardcastle and Jack Benny, Seb went in search of an engagement ring. The contact had been suggested by his old school chum, Victor Kaufman, who now worked on the foreign exchange desk at his father’s bank, just a few blocks away from Farthings. He’d advised Seb to visit a Mr. Alan Gard in Hatton Garden.

“He’ll supply you with a larger stone, at half the price of any jeweller on the high street.”

Seb was eating on the move and taking a taxi because he knew he had to be back at his desk within the hour if he didn’t want to fall foul of Adrian Sloane yet again. It pulled up outside a green door that Seb would have passed without noticing if the number 47 hadn’t been painted neatly on it. There was nothing to hint of the treasures that lay within. Seb realized that he must be dealing with a private and cautious man.

He pressed the bell, and a moment later a Dickensian figure wearing a skull cap and with long black ringlets greeted him. When Seb said he was a friend of Victor Kaufman, he was quickly ushered through to Mr. Gard’s inner sanctum.

A wiry man, no taller than five feet, and dressed casually in an open-necked shirt and well-worn jeans, rose from behind his desk and gave his potential customer a warm smile. When he heard the name Kaufman, the smile broadened and he rubbed his hands together as if he was about to roll some dice.

“If you’re a friend of Saul Kaufman, you’re probably expecting to get the Koh-I-Noor for five pounds.”

“Four,” said Seb.

“And you’re not even Jewish.”

“No,” said Seb, “but I was trained by a Yorkshireman.”

“That explains everything. So how can I help you, young man?”

“I’m looking for an engagement ring.”

“And who’s the lucky girl?”

“An American, called Sam.”

“Then we’ll have to find Sam something special, won’t we?” Mr. Gard opened his desk drawer, took out a vast key ring, and selected a single key from the bunch. He walked across to a large safe embedded in the wall, unlocked the heavy door, and opened it to reveal a dozen neatly stacked trays. After hesitating for a moment, he selected the third tray from the bottom, pulled it out, and placed the contents on his desk.

Several small diamonds winked up at Seb. He studied them for a few moments before shaking his head gravely. The gemologist made no comment. He returned the tray to the safe and extracted the one above.

Seb took a little more time considering the slightly larger stones that shone up at him, but once again rejected them.

“Are you sure you can afford this girl?” asked the jeweller, as he removed the third tray from the top.

Seb’s eyes lit up the moment he saw a sapphire surrounded by a cluster of tiny diamonds that rested in the center of the black velvet cloth.

“That one,” he said without hesitation.

Gard picked up a loupe from his desk and studied the ring more closely. “This beautiful sapphire came from Ceylon, and is one point five carats. The cluster of eight diamonds are all point zero five of a carat, and were recently purchased from India.”

“How much?”

Gard didn’t reply for some time. “I have a feeling you’re going to be a long-term customer,” he finally said, “so I’m tempted to let you have this magnificent ring at an introductory price. Shall we say one hundred pounds?”

“You can say anything you like, but I don’t have a hundred pounds.”

“Look upon it as an investment.”

“For whom?”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Gard, returning to his desk and opening a large ledger. He turned over several pages, then ran a forefinger down a list of figures. “To show how confident I am that you’ll be a future customer, I’ll let you have the ring for the price I paid for it. Sixty pounds.”

“We’ll have to go back to the bottom shelf,” said Seb reluctantly.

Gard threw his arms in the air. “How can a poor man hope to make a profit when he has to bargain with someone as sharp as you? My lowest possible offer is,” he paused, “fifty pounds.”

“But I only have about thirty pounds in my bank account.”

Gard considered this for a few moments. “Then let us agree on a ten-pound deposit and five pounds a month for one year.”

“But that takes it back up to seventy pounds!”

“Eleven months.”

“Ten.”

“You have a deal, young man. The first of many, I hope,” he added, as he shook Seb’s hand.

Seb wrote out a check for ten pounds, while Mr. Gard selected a small red leather box in which to place the ring.

“Pleasure to do business with you, Mr. Clifton.”

“One question, Mr. Gard. When do I get to see the top shelf?”

“Not until you’re chairman of the bank.”

8

On the day before Harry flew to Moscow, Michael Stewart, the British foreign secretary, summoned the Russian ambassador to his office in Whitehall and, on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government, protested in the strongest possible terms about the disgraceful treatment of Anatoly Babakov. He went as far as to suggest that Babakov be released from prison, and the ban on his book lifted immediately.

Mr. Stewart’s subsequent statement to the press made the front pages of every broadsheet in the country, with supportive leaders in the Times and the Guardian, both of which mentioned the campaign mounted by the popular author, Harry Clifton.

During Prime Minister’s Questions that afternoon, Alec Douglas-Home, the leader of the opposition, voiced his concern for Babakov’s plight, and called upon the PM to boycott the bilateral talks that were due to take place with the Soviet leader, Leonid Brezhnev, in Leningrad later that month.

The following day, profiles of Babakov, along with photos of his wife Yelena, appeared in several of the papers. The Daily Mirror described his book as a time bomb that, if published, would blow the Soviet regime apart. Harry did wonder how they could possibly know that when they couldn’t have read the book. But he felt that Sir Alan couldn’t have done any more to assist him and was determined to keep his side of the bargain.

On the night flight to Moscow, Harry went over his conference speech again and again, and by the time the BOAC plane touched down at Sheremetyevo airport, he felt confident that his campaign was gathering momentum and that he would deliver a speech Giles would be proud of.

It took him over an hour to get through customs, not least because his suitcase was unpacked by them, and then repacked by him, twice. Clearly he was not a welcome guest. When he was finally released, he and several of his fellow delegates were herded onto an old school bus which trundled into the city center, arriving outside the Majestic Hotel some fifty minutes later. Harry was exhausted.

The receptionist assured him that as the leader of the British delegation, he had been allocated one of the hotel’s finest rooms. She handed him his key and, as the lift had broken down and there were no porters available, Harry dragged his suitcase up to the seventh floor. He unlocked the door to enter one of the hotel’s finest rooms.

The sparsely furnished box brought back memories of his schooldays at St. Bede’s. A bed with a thin, lumpy mattress, and a table scarred by cigarette burns and stained with beer glass circles passed as furniture. In the corner was a washbasin with a tap that produced a trickle of cold water, whether it was turned on or off. If he wanted a bath, a notice informed him that the bathroom was at the far end of the corridor: Remember to bring your towel, and you must not stay in the bath for more than ten minutes, or leave the tap running. It was so reminiscent of his old school that if there’d been a knock on the door, Harry wouldn’t have been surprised to see Matron appear to check his fingernails.

As there was no minibar, or even the suggestion of a shortbread biscuit, Harry went back downstairs to join his colleagues for supper. After a one-course, self-service meal, he began to realize why Bingham’s fish paste was considered a luxury in the Soviet Union.

He decided on an early night, not least because the first day’s program revealed that he would be addressing the conference as the keynote speaker at eleven the following morning.

He may have gone to bed, but it was some hours before he could get to sleep, and not just because of the lumpy mattress, the paper-thin blanket, or the garish neon lights that invaded every corner of his room through nylon curtains that didn’t quite meet. By the time he finally fell asleep, it was eleven o’clock in Bristol, two in the morning in Moscow.

Harry rose early the following morning and decided to take a stroll around Red Square. It was impossible to miss Lenin’s mausoleum, which dominated the square and served as a constant reminder of the founder of the Soviet state. The Kremlin was guarded by a massive bronze cannon, another symbol of victory over another enemy. Even wearing the overcoat insisted on by Emma, with the collar turned up, Harry’s ears and nose had quickly turned red with the cold. He now understood why the Russians wore those magnificent fur hats, accompanied by scarves and long coats. Locals passed him on their way to work but few of them gave him a second look, despite the fact that he was continually slapping himself.

When Harry returned to the hotel, rather earlier than planned, the concierge handed him a message. Pierre Bouchard, the conference chairman, hoped he would be able to join him for breakfast in the dining room.

“I’ve allocated you the eleven o’clock slot this morning,” said Bouchard, having already given up on some scrambled egg that could never have seen a chicken. “It’s always the best attended of the conference meetings. I will open proceedings at ten thirty, when I’ll welcome the delegates from seventy-two countries. A record number,” he added with Gallic panache. “You’ll know I’ve come to the end of my speech when I remind the delegates that there’s one thing the Russians do better than anyone else on earth.” Harry raised an eyebrow. “The ballet. And we’re all lucky enough to be attending Swan Lake at the Bolshoi this evening. After I mention that to the delegates, I will invite you onto the stage to deliver the opening speech.”

“I’m flattered,” said Harry, “and better be on my toes.”

“You shouldn’t be,” said Bouchard. “The committee were unanimous in their choice of you as the keynote speaker. We all admire the campaign you’ve been masterminding on behalf of Anatoly Babakov. The international press are showing considerable interest, and it will amuse you to know that the KGB asked me if they could see an advance copy of your speech.”

Bouchard’s words caused Harry a moment of anxiety. Until then, he hadn’t realized how widely his campaign had been followed abroad, and how much was expected of him. He looked at his watch, hoping there was still time to go over his speech once again, drained his coffee, apologized to Bouchard, and headed quickly back up to his room. It was a relief to find the lift was now working. He didn’t need reminding that he might never have another opportunity like this to promote Babakov’s cause, and certainly not in Russia’s backyard.

He almost ran into his room and pulled open the drawer of the small side table where he’d left his speech. It was no longer there. After searching the room, he realized that the KGB were now in possession of the advance copy they’d been so keen to get their hands on.

He checked his watch again. Forty minutes before the conference opened, when he would be expected to deliver a speech he’d spent the last month working on, but no longer had a copy of.

When ten chimes rang out in Red Square, Harry was shaking like a schoolboy who had an appointment with his headmaster to discuss an essay that existed only in his head. He’d been left with no choice but to test out just how good his memory was.

He walked slowly back downstairs, aware how an actor must feel moments before the curtain is due to rise, and joined a stream of delegates making their way to the conference center. On entering the ballroom, all he wanted to do was go straight back to his room and lock himself in. Bookshelves of chattering authors were even more intimidating than advancing Germans.

Several delegates were searching for seats in a room that was already packed. But as instructed by Bouchard, Harry made his way to the front and took his place at the end of the second row. As he glanced around the vast hall, his eyes settled on a group of expressionless, heavily built men wearing long black coats, standing with their backs against the wall, evenly spaced around the room. They had one other thing in common: none of them looked as if they’d ever read a book in their lives.

Bouchard was coming to the end of his opening address when he caught Harry’s eye and gave him a warm smile.

“And now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” he said. “An address by our distinguished colleague from England, the writer of nine highly successful crime novels featuring Detective Sergeant William Warwick. I only wish that my own French counterpart, Inspector Benoît, was half as popular. Perhaps we are about to find out why?”

After the laughter had died down, Bouchard continued: “It is my honor to invite Harry Clifton, the president of English PEN, to address the conference.”

Harry made his way slowly up to the platform, surprised by the flashing bulbs of so many photographers surrounding the stage, while at the same time his every step was dogged by a stalking television crew.

He shook hands with Bouchard before taking his place behind the lectern. He took a deep breath and looked up to face the firing squad.

“Mr. President,” he began, “allow me to start by thanking you for your kind words, but I should warn you that I will not be speaking today about either Detective Sergeant William Warwick, or Inspector Benoît, but about a man who is not a fictional character, but flesh and blood, like every one of us in this room. A man who is unable to attend this conference today, because he is locked up far away in the Siberian gulag. His crime? Writing a book. I am of course referring to that martyr, and I use the word advisedly, Anatoly Babakov.”

Even Harry was surprised by the outburst of applause that followed. Book conferences are usually sparsely attended by thoughtful academics, who manage a polite round of applause once the speaker has sat down. But at least the interruption allowed him a few moments to gather his thoughts.

“How many of us in this room have read books about Hitler, Churchill, or Roosevelt? Three of the four leaders who determined the outcome of the Second World War. But until recently the only inside account about Josef Stalin to come out of the Soviet Union was an official pamphlet censored by a committee of KGB officials. As you all know, the man who translated that book into English was so disillusioned with it that he decided to write his own unauthorized biography, which would surely have given us a different perspective of the man we all know as Uncle Joe. But no sooner was the book published than every copy of it was destroyed, its publisher shut down, and, following a show trial, the author disappeared off the face of the earth. I’m not talking about Hitler’s Germany, but present-day Russia.

“One or two of you may be curious to know what Anatoly Babakov could possibly have written that caused the authorities to act in such a tyrannical manner — myself included. After all, the Soviets never stop trumpeting the glories of their utopian state, which they assure us is not only a model for the rest of the world, but one which, in time, we will have no choice but to copy. If that is the case, Mr. President, why can’t we read a contrary view and make up our own minds? Don’t let’s forget that Uncle Joe was written by a man who stood one pace behind Stalin for thirteen years, a confidant of his innermost thoughts, a witness to how he conducted his day-to-day life. But when Babakov decided to write his own version of those events, no one, including the Soviet people, were allowed to share his thoughts. I wonder why?

“You won’t find a copy of Uncle Joe in any bookshop in England, America, Australia, Africa, or South America, and you certainly won’t find one in the Soviet Union. Perhaps it’s appallingly written, boring, without merit, and unworthy of our time, but at least let us be the judge of that.”

Another wave of applause swept through the room. Harry had to suppress a smile when he noticed that the men in long black coats kept their hands firmly in their pockets, and their expressions didn’t change when the interpreter translated his words.

He waited for the applause to die down before he began his peroration. “Attending this conference today are historians, biographers, scientists, and even a few novelists, all of whom take for granted their latest work will be published, however critical they are of their governments, their leaders, even their political system. Why? Because you come from countries that can handle criticism, satire, mockery, even derision, and whose citizens can be entrusted to make up their own minds as to a book’s merit. Authors from the Soviet Union are published only if the State approves of what they have to say. How many of you in this room would be languishing in jail if you had been born in Russia?

“I say to the leaders of this great country, why not allow your people the same privileges we in the West take for granted? You can start by releasing Anatoly Babakov and allowing his book to be published. That is, if you have nothing to fear from the torch of freedom. I will not rest until I can buy a copy of Uncle Joe at Hatchards on Piccadilly, Doubleday on Fifth Avenue, Dymocks in Sydney, and George’s bookshop in Park Street, Bristol. But most of all, I’d like to see a copy on the shelves of the Lenin Library in Vozdvizhenka Street, a few hundred yards from this hall.”

Although the applause was deafening, Harry just clung to the lectern, because he hadn’t yet delivered his final paragraph. He waited for complete silence before he looked up and added, “Mr. President, on behalf of the British delegation, it is my privilege to invite Mr. Anatoly Babakov to be the keynote speaker at our international conference in London next year.”

Everyone in the room who wasn’t wearing a long black coat rose to their feet to give Harry a standing ovation. A senior KGB official who was seated in a box at the back of the room turned to his superior and said, “Word for word. He must have had a spare copy of the speech that we didn’t know about.”

“Mr. Knowles on line one, chairman.”

Emma pressed a button on her phone. “Good afternoon, Jim.”

“Good afternoon, Emma. I thought I’d give you a call because Desmond Mellor tells me he had a meeting with you, and he felt it went quite well.”

“I’m sure he did,” said Emma, “and I have to admit I was impressed with Mr. Mellor. Unquestionably a capable businessman, with a great deal of experience in his field.”

“I agree,” said Knowles. “So can I assume you’ll be recommending he joins us on the board?”

“No, Jim, you cannot. Mr. Mellor has many admirable qualities, but in my opinion he has one overriding flaw.”

“And what might that be?”

“He’s only interested in one person, himself. The word ‘loyalty’ is anathema to him. When I sat and listened to Mr. Mellor, he reminded me of my father, and I only want people on the board who remind me of my grandfather.”

“That puts me in a very awkward position.”

“Why would that be, Jim?”

“I recommended Mellor to the board in the first place, and your decision rather undermines my position.”

“I’m sorry to hear you feel that way, Jim.” Emma paused before adding, “Of course I would understand if you felt you had to resign.”

Harry spent the rest of the day shaking hands with people he’d never met before, several of whom promised to promote Babakov’s cause in their own countries. Glad-handing was something Giles, as a politician, did quite naturally, while Harry found it exhausting. However, he was pleased that he had walked the streets of Bristol with his brother-in-law during past election campaigns because it wasn’t until now that he realized just how much he’d picked up from him.

By the time he climbed on the bus for the conference delegates’ visit to the Bolshoi Theatre, he was so tired he feared he might fall asleep during the performance. But from the moment the curtain rose he was on the edge of his seat, exhilarated by the artistic movement of the dancers, their skill, their grace, and their energy, making it impossible for him to take his eyes off the stage. When the curtain finally fell he was in no doubt that this was one field in which the Soviet Union really did lead the world.

When he returned to his hotel, the receptionist handed him a note confirming that an embassy car would pick him up at ten to eight the following morning, so he could join the ambassador for breakfast. That would give him more than enough time to catch his twelve o’clock flight back to London.

Two men sat silently in a corner of the lobby, observing his every move. Harry knew they would have read the message from the ambassador long before he had. He picked up his key, gave them a broad smile, and wished them good night before taking the lift to the seventh floor.

Once he’d undressed, Harry collapsed on to the bed and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

9

“Not a good move, Mama.”

“Why not?” said Emma. “Jim Knowles has never been supportive, and frankly I’ll be glad to be rid of him.”

“Remember what Lyndon Johnson said about J. Edgar Hoover? I’d rather have him inside the tent pissing out than outside pissing in.”

“One sometimes wonders why your father and I spent so much money having you educated. But what harm can Knowles possibly do?”

“He has a piece of information that could bring the company down.”

“He wouldn’t dare to make the Home Fleet incident public. If he did, he’d never get another job in the City.”

“He doesn’t have to make it public. All he has to do is have a quiet lunch at his club with Alex Fisher, and Lady Virginia will know every detail of what really happened that night half an hour later. And you can be sure she’ll save the most sensational bits for the witness box, because it will not only bring you down, but the company with it. No, I’m afraid you’re going to have to eat a slice of humble pie, Mother, if you don’t want to spend every day wondering when the bomb will finally drop.”

“But Knowles has already made it clear that if Mellor isn’t made a director, he’ll resign from the board.”

“Then Mr. Mellor will have to be offered a place on the board.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Your words, Mother, not mine.”

Tap, tap, tap. Harry’s eyes blinked open. Tap, tap, tap. Was someone knocking on the door, or was it just noise coming from outside? Tap, tap, tap. It was definitely the door. He wanted to ignore it, but it had a persistence that suggested it wasn’t going away. Tap, tap, tap. He reluctantly placed his feet on the cold linoleum floor, pulled on his dressing gown, and shuffled across to the door.

If Harry was surprised when he opened the door, he tried not to show it.

“Hello, Harry,” said a sultry voice.

Harry stared in disbelief at the girl he’d fallen in love with twenty years ago. A carbon copy of Emma in her early twenties stood in front of him wearing a sable coat and, he suspected, nothing much else. She held a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. Clever Russians, Harry thought.

“My name is Alina,” she purred as she touched his arm. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong room,” said Harry.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Alina. She tried to slip past him, but Harry remained lodged in the doorway, blocking her path.

“I’m your reward, Harry, for making such a brilliant speech. I promised the president that I’d give you a night you will never forget.”

“You’ve already achieved that,” said Harry, wondering which president Alina worked for.

“Surely there’s something I can do for you, Harry?”

“Nothing I can think of, but please thank your masters and let them know I’m just not interested.” Alina looked disappointed.

“Boys, perhaps?”

“No, thank you.”

“Money?” she suggested.

“How kind, but I have enough already.”

“Is there nothing I can tempt you with?”

“Well,” said Harry, “now you mention it, there is something I’ve always wanted, and if your masters can deliver it, I’m their man.”

“And what might that be, Harry?” she said, sounding hopeful for the first time.

“The Nobel Prize for literature.”

Alina looked puzzled, and Harry couldn’t resist leaning forward and kissing her on both cheeks as if she was a favorite aunt. He quietly closed the door and crept back into bed. “Damn the woman,” he said, quite unable to sleep.

“There’s a Mr. Vaughan on the line, Mr. Clifton,” said the girl on the switchboard. “Says he needs to speak to Mr. Sloane urgently, but he’s away at a conference in York and isn’t expected back until Friday.”

“Put the call through to his secretary and ask her to deal with it.”

“Sarah’s not answering her phone, Mr. Clifton. I don’t think she’s back from lunch yet.”

“OK, put him through,” said Seb reluctantly. “Good morning, Mr. Vaughan, how can I help you?”

“I’m the senior partner of Savills estate agents,” said Vaughan, “and I need to speak to Mr. Sloane urgently.”

“Can it wait until Friday?”

“No. I now have two other offers on the table for Shifnal Farm in Shropshire, and as bidding closes on Friday I need to know if Mr. Sloane is still interested.”

“Perhaps you could give me the details, Mr. Vaughan,” said Seb, picking up a pen, “and I’ll look into it immediately.”

“Could you let Mr. Sloane know that Mr. Collingwood is happy to accept his offer of one point six million, which means I’ll need a deposit of £160,000 by five o’clock on Friday if he still hopes to secure the deal.”

“One point six million,” repeated Seb, not sure he’d heard the figure correctly.

“Yes, that of course includes the thousand acres as well as the house.”

“Of course,” said Seb. “I’ll let Mr. Sloane know the moment he calls in.” Seb put down the phone. The amount was larger than any deal he’d ever been involved in for a London property, let alone a farm in Shropshire, so he decided to double-check with Sloane’s secretary. He walked across the corridor to her office to find Sarah hanging up her coat.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Clifton, how can I help?”

“I need to see the Collingwood file, Sarah, so I can brief Mr. Sloane when he calls in.”

Sarah looked puzzled. “I’m not familiar with that particular client, but just let me check.”

She pulled open a filing cabinet marked A to H and quickly flicked through the Cs. “He’s not one of Mr. Sloane’s clients,” she said. “There must be some mistake.”

“Try looking under Shifnal Farm,” said Seb.

Sarah turned her attention to the S — Z file, but once again shook her head.

“Must be my mistake,” said Seb. “Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t mention it to Mr. Sloane,” he added as she closed the filing cabinet. He walked slowly back to his office, closed the door, and thought about his conversation with Mr. Vaughan for some time before he picked up the phone and dialed directory inquiries.

When a voice eventually answered, Seb asked for a Mr. Collingwood at Shifnal Farm in Shropshire. It was a few moments before the operator came back on the line.

“I have a Mr. D. Collingwood, Shifnal Farm, Shifnal?”

“That must be him. Can you give me his number?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. He’s ex-directory.”

“But this is an emergency.”

“It may well be, sir, but I’m not allowed to give out ex-directory numbers under any circumstances.” The phone went dead.

Seb hesitated for a moment before he picked up the phone again and dialed an internal number.

“Chairman’s office,” said a familiar voice.

“Rachel, I need fifteen minutes with the boss.”

“Five forty-five, but no more than fifteen minutes, because he has a meeting with the deputy chairman at six and Mr. Buchanan is never late.”

The embassy Rolls-Royce, Union Jacks fluttering on both wings, was waiting outside the Majestic Hotel long before Harry appeared in the lobby at ten to eight that morning. The same two men were slumped in the corner, pretending not to notice him. Did they ever sleep, Harry wondered.

After Harry had checked out, he couldn’t resist giving his guards a little farewell bow before he left the hotel, Majestic in nothing but name. A chauffeur opened the back door of the Rolls to allow Harry to step inside. He leaned back and began to think about the other reason he’d come to Moscow.

The car made its way through the rain-swept streets of the capital, passing St. Basil’s Cathedral, a building of rare beauty, nestled at the south end of Red Square. The car crossed the Moskova, turned left, and a few moments later the gates of the British Embassy opened, splitting the royal crest in two. The chauffeur drove into the compound and came to a halt outside the front door. Harry was impressed. A palatial residence, worthy of a tsar, towered over him, reminding visitors of Britain’s past empire, rather than its reduced status in the postwar world.

The next surprise came when he saw the ambassador standing on the embassy steps waiting to greet him.

“Good morning, Mr. Clifton,” said Sir Humphrey Trevelyan as Harry stepped out of the car.

“Good morning, your excellency,” said Harry as the two men shook hands — which was appropriate, as they were about to close a deal.

The ambassador led him into a vast circular hall that boasted a life-size statue of Queen Victoria, as well as a full-length portrait of her great-great-granddaughter.

“You won’t have read the Times this morning,” said Trevelyan, “but I can tell you that your speech to the PEN conference seems to have had the desired effect.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Harry. “But I’ll only be convinced when Babakov is released.”

“That might take a little longer,” warned the ambassador. “The Soviets are not known for rushing into anything, especially if it wasn’t their idea in the first place. It might be wise to prepare yourself for the long game. Don’t be disheartened, though, because I can tell you the Politburo has been surprised by the support you’ve received from the international community. However, the other side of that coin is that you’re now considered... persona non grata.”

He led his guest down a marble corridor, dominated by portraits of British monarchs who had not suffered the same fate as their Russian relatives. A floor-to-ceiling double door was pulled open by two servants, although the ambassador was still several paces away. He walked straight into his study, took his place behind a large uncluttered desk, and waved Harry into the seat opposite him.

“I have given instructions that we are not to be disturbed,” said Trevelyan as he selected a key from a chain and unlocked his desk drawer.

He pulled out a file and extracted a single sheet of paper which he handed to Harry. “Take your time, Mr. Clifton. You are not under the same restrictions that Sir Alan imposed on you.”

Harry began to study a random list of names, addresses, and telephone numbers that seemed to have no sequence or logic to them. After he’d gone over it a second time, he said, “I think I have it, sir.”

The incredulous look on the ambassador’s face suggested that he wasn’t convinced. “Well, let’s be sure, shall we?” He retrieved the list and replaced it with a couple of sheets of embassy notepaper and a fountain pen.

Harry took a deep breath and began to write out the twelve names, nine addresses, and twenty-one telephone numbers. Once he’d completed the task, he handed his effort back to the ambassador to be marked. Sir Humphrey slowly checked it against the original.

“You spelt Pengelly with one ‘1’ instead of two.”

Harry frowned.

“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to repeat the exercise, Mr. Clifton,” the ambassador said as he sat back, struck a match, and set light to Harry’s first effort.

Harry completed his second attempt far more quickly.

“Bravo,” said the ambassador, after double-checking it. “I only wish you were a member of my staff. Now, as we can assume the Soviets will have read the note I left at your hotel, perhaps we shouldn’t disappoint them.” He pressed a button under his desk and a few moments later the doors opened again and two members of staff dressed in white linen jackets and black trousers entered, pushing a trolley.

Over a breakfast of hot coffee, brown toast, Oxford marmalade, and an egg that had been produced by a chicken, the two men chatted about everything from England’s chances in the forthcoming Test series against the South Africans — Harry felt that England would win, the ambassador wasn’t convinced; the abolition of hanging — Harry in favor, the ambassador against; Britain joining the Common Market — something they were able to agree on. They never once touched on the real reason they were having breakfast together.

When the trolley was removed and they were once again alone, Trevelyan said, “Forgive me for being a bore, old chap, but would you be kind enough to carry out the exercise one more time?”

Harry returned to the ambassador’s desk and wrote out the list for a third time.

“Remarkable. I now understand why Sir Alan chose you.” Trevelyan led his guest out of the room. “My car will take you to the airport, and although you may think you have more than enough time, I have a feeling the customs officials will assume I have given you something to take back to England and you will therefore be subject to a lengthy search. They are right, of course, but fortunately it’s not something they can get their hands on. So all that is left for me to do, Mr. Clifton, is to thank you, and suggest that you do not write out the list until the wheels of the aircraft have left the tarmac. You might even feel it advisable to wait until you are no longer in Soviet airspace. After all, there’s bound to be someone on board watching your every move.”

Sir Humphrey accompanied his guest to the front door and they shook hands for a second time before Harry climbed into the back of the Rolls-Royce. The ambassador remained on the top step until the car was out of sight.

The chauffeur dropped Harry outside Sheremetyevo airport, two hours before his flight was due to take off. The ambassador turned out to be correct, because Harry spent the next hour in customs, where they checked, and double-checked, everything in his suitcase, before unstitching the lining of his jacket and overcoat.

After they had failed to find anything, he was taken to a small room and asked to remove his clothes. When their efforts failed yet again, a doctor appeared, and searched in places Harry hadn’t even considered before, but certainly wouldn’t be describing in graphic detail in his next book.

An hour later, his case was reluctantly given a chalk cross to show it had been cleared, but it never did turn up in London. He decided not to protest, even though the guards at customs also failed to return his overcoat, a Christmas present from Emma. He would have to buy an identical one from Ede & Ravenscroft before he drove back to Bristol as he didn’t want his wife to find out the real reason Sir Alan had wanted to see him.

When Harry finally boarded the plane, he was delighted to find he’d been upgraded to first class, as he had been on the last occasion he’d worked for the cabinet secretary. Equally pleasing, no one had been allocated the seat beside him. Sir Alan didn’t leave anything to chance.

He waited until he had been in the air for over an hour before asking a steward for a couple of sheets of BOAC writing paper. But when they arrived, he changed his mind. Two men seated across the aisle from him had glanced in his direction once too often.

He adjusted his seatback, closed his eyes, and went over the list in his mind again and again. By the time the plane touched down at Heathrow, he was mentally and physically exhausted. He was only glad being a spy wasn’t his full-time job.

Harry was the first to disembark from the aircraft, and he wasn’t surprised to see Sir Alan waiting on the tarmac at the bottom of the steps. He joined him in the back of a car that made its way quickly out of the airport without being bothered by a customs officer.

Other than, “Good morning, Clifton,” the cabinet secretary didn’t say a word before he passed over the inevitable pad and pen.

Harry wrote out the twelve names, nine addresses, and twenty-one telephone numbers that had been lodged in his mind for several hours. He double-checked the list before handing it to Sir Alan.

“I am most grateful,” he said. “And I thought you’d be pleased to hear that I’ve added a couple of paragraphs to the speech the foreign secretary will be making at the UN next week, which I hope will assist Mr. Babakov’s cause. By the way, did you spot my two minders sitting across the aisle from you in first class? I put them there to protect you, just in case you had any trouble.”

“There’s no deal for one point six million in the offing that I’m aware of,” said Cedric, “and it’s hardly likely to be something I’d forget. I’m bound to wonder what Sloane’s up to.”

“I’ve no idea,” said Sebastian, “but I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.”

“And you say he won’t be back until Friday?”

“That’s right. He’s at a conference in York.”

“So that gives us a couple of days to look into it. You’re probably right, and there’s a simple explanation. But one point six million,” he repeated. “And Mr. Collingwood has accepted his offer?”

“That’s what Mr. Vaughan of Savills said.”

“Ralph Vaughan is old school and doesn’t make that kind of mistake.” Cedric remained silent for a few moments before adding, “You’d better go up to Shifnal first thing in the morning and start digging around. Begin at the local pub. The publican always knows everything that’s going on in his village, and one point six million would have all the gossips chattering. After you’ve spoken to him, check the local estate agents, but make sure you don’t go anywhere near Collingwood. If you do, Sloane is certain to hear about it and will assume you’re trying to undermine him. I think we’d better keep this between ourselves in case it turns out to be totally innocent. When you get back to London, come straight round to Cadogan Place and you can brief me over dinner.”

Seb decided that this wasn’t the time to tell Cedric that he’d booked a table at the Mirabelle for dinner tomorrow night with Samantha. The clock on the mantelpiece struck six, so he knew the deputy chairman, Ross Buchanan, would be waiting outside. He rose to leave.

“Well done, Seb,” said Cedric. “Let’s hope there is a simple explanation. But in any case, thank you for keeping me briefed.”

Seb nodded. When he reached the door he turned back to say good night, to see Cedric swallowing a pill. He pretended not to notice, as he closed the door behind him.

10

Seb was up, dressed, and had left the house before Sam woke the following morning.

Cedric Hardcastle never traveled first-class, but he always allowed his senior management to do so when it was a long journey. Although Seb picked up a copy of the Financial Times at Euston, he barely glanced at the headlines during the three-hour journey to Shropshire. His mind was preoccupied with how best to use his time once he arrived in Shifnal.

The train pulled into Shrewsbury station just after eleven thirty, and Seb didn’t hesitate to take a taxi on to Shifnal rather than wait for the connecting train because on this occasion time was money. He waited until they had left the county town behind them, before he fired his first question at the driver. “Which is the best pub in Shifnal?”

“Depends what you’re looking for, good grub or the best ale in the county.”

“I always think you can judge a pub by its landlord.”

“Then it has to be the Shifnal Arms, owned by Fred and Sheila Ramsey. They don’t just run the pub, but the village as well. He’s president of the local cricket club, and used to open the bowling for the village. Even played for the county on a couple of occasions. And she sits on the parish council. But be warned, the food’s lousy.”

“Then it’s the Shifnal Arms,” said Seb. He sat back and began to go over his strategy, aware that he didn’t need Sloane to discover why he wasn’t in the office.

The taxi drew up outside the Shifnal Arms a few minutes after twelve. Seb would have given the driver a larger tip, but he didn’t want to be remembered.

He strolled into the pub trying to look casual, which wasn’t easy when you’re the first customer of the day, and took a close look at the man standing behind the bar. Although he must have been over forty, and his cheeks and nose revealed that he enjoyed the product he sold, while his paunch suggested he preferred pork pies to fine dining, it was not hard to believe this giant of a man had once opened the bowling for Shifnal.

“Afternoon,” said the landlord. “What can I get you?”

“A half of your local beer will suit me fine,” said Seb, who didn’t usually drink during working hours, but today it was part of the job. The publican drew half a pint of Wrekin IPA and placed it on the bar. “That’ll be one shilling and sixpence.” Half the price Seb would have had to pay in London. He took a sip. “Not bad,” he said, before bowling his first long hop. “It’s not a West Country brew, but it’s not half bad.”

“So you’re not from around these parts?” said the publican.

“No, I’m a Gloucestershire lad, born and bred,” Seb told him before taking another sip.

“So what brings you to Shifnal?”

“My firm is opening a branch in Shrewsbury, and my wife won’t agree to the move unless I can find a house in the country.”

“You don’t play cricket by any chance?”

“I open the batting for the Somerset Stragglers. Another reason why I’m not that keen on moving.”

“We’ve got a decent enough eleven, but we’re always on the lookout for fresh talent.”

Seb pointed to a photograph behind the bar. “Is that you holding up the cup?”

“It is. 1951. When I was about fifteen years younger and some fifteen pounds lighter. We won the county cup that year, for the first and, I’m sorry to say, last time. Although we did reach the semi-finals last year.”

Time for another slow long hop. “If I was thinking of buying a house in the area, who would you suggest I deal with?”

“There’s only one half-decent estate agent in town. Charlie Watkins, my wicket keeper. You’ll find his place on the High Street, can’t miss it.”

“Then I’ll go and have a chat with Mr. Watkins, and come back for a bite of lunch.”

“Dish of the day is steak and kidney pie,” said the publican, patting his stomach.

“I’ll see you later,” said Seb after he’d downed his drink.

It wasn’t difficult to find the High Street, or to spot Watkins Estate Agency with its gaudy sign flapping in the breeze. Seb took some time studying the properties for sale in the window. The prices seemed to range from seven hundred pounds to twelve thousand, so how was it possible for anything in the area to be worth one point six million?

He opened the front door to the sound of a jangling bell and as he stepped inside a young man looked up from behind his desk.

“Is Mr. Watkins around?” asked Seb.

“He’s with a customer at the moment, but he shouldn’t be long,” he added as a door behind him opened and two men walked out.

“I’ll have the paperwork completed by Monday at the latest, so if you could arrange for the deposit to be lodged with your solicitor, that should help move things along,” the elder of the two men said as he opened the door for his customer.

“This gentleman’s waiting to see you, Mr. Watkins,” said the young man behind the desk.

“Good morning,” said Watkins, thrusting out his hand. “Come into my office.” He opened the door and ushered his potential client through.

Seb walked into a small room that boasted a partner’s desk and three chairs. On the walls were photographs of past triumphs, every one marked with a red sticker declaring SOLD. Seb’s eyes settled on a large property with several acres. He needed Watkins to quickly work out which end of the market he was interested in. A warm smile appeared on the estate agent’s face.

“Is that the type of property you’re looking for?”

“I was hoping to find a large country house with several acres of farmland attached,” Seb said as he took the seat opposite Watkins.

“I’m afraid that sort of thing doesn’t come on the market very often. But I have one or two properties that might interest you.” He leaned back, pulled open the drawer of the only filing cabinet, and extracted three folders. “But I have to warn you, sir, that the price of farm land has rocketed since the government decided to allow tax relief for anyone investing in agricultural land.” Seb didn’t comment as Watkins opened the first folder.

“Asgarth Farm is situated on the Welsh border, seven hundred acres, mainly arable, and a magnificent Victorian mansion... in need of a little repair,” he added reluctantly.

“And the price?”

“Three hundred and twenty thousand,” said Watkins, passing over the brochure before quickly adding, “or near offer.”

Seb shook his head. “I was hoping for something with at least a thousand acres.”

Watkins’s eyes lit up as if he’d won the pools. “There is one exceptional property that’s recently come on the market, but I’m only a subagent, and unfortunately bids have to be in by five this Friday.”

“If it’s the right property, that wouldn’t put me off.”

Watkins opened his desk drawer and, for the first time, offered a customer Shifnal Farm.

“This looks more interesting,” said Seb as he turned the pages of the brochure. “How much are they asking?”

The estate agent hesitated, almost as if he didn’t want to reveal the figure. Seb waited patiently.

“I know there’s a bid in with Savills for one point six million,” said Watkins. His turn to wait patiently, expecting the client to reject it out of hand.

“Perhaps I could study the details over lunch and then come back this afternoon and discuss it with you?”

“In the meantime, shall I make arrangements for you to see over the property?”

That was the last thing Seb wanted, so he quickly replied, “I’ll make that decision once I’ve had a chance to check the details.”

“Time is against us, sir.”

True enough, thought Seb. “I’ll let you know my decision when I come back this afternoon,” he repeated a little more firmly.

“Yes, of course, sir,” said Watkins as he leapt up, accompanied him to the door and, after shaking hands once again, said, “I look forward to seeing you later.”

Seb stepped out onto the High Street and made his way quickly back to the pub. Mr. Ramsey was standing behind the bar polishing a glass when Seb sat on the stool in front of him.

“Any luck?”

“Possibly,” said Seb, placing the glossy brochure on the counter so the landlord couldn’t miss it. “Another half, please, and won’t you join me?”

“Thank you, sir. Will you be having lunch?”

“I’ll have the steak and kidney pie,” said Seb, studying the menu chalked up on a blackboard behind the bar.

Ramsey didn’t take his eyes off the brochure, even as he drew the customer’s half pint.

“I can tell you a thing or two about that property,” he said as his wife came out of the kitchen.

“Seems a bit overpriced to me,” said Seb, bowling his third long hop.

“I should say so,” said Ramsey. “Only five year back it were on the market at three hundred thousand, and even at that price, young Mr. Collingwood couldn’t shift it.”

“The new tax incentives could be the reason,” suggested Seb.

“That wouldn’t explain the price I’m hearing.”

“Perhaps the owner’s been granted planning permission to build on the land. Housing, or one of those new industrial estates the government are so keen on.”

“Not on your nelly,” said Mrs. Ramsey as she joined them. “The parish council may not have any power, but that lot at County Hall still have to keep us informed if they want to build anything, from a letterbox to a multistory car park. It’s been our right since Magna Carta to be allowed to lodge an objection and hold up proceedings for ninety days. Not that they take much notice after that.”

“Then there has to be oil, gold, or the lost treasure of the Pharaohs buried under the land,” said Seb, trying to make light of it.

“I’ve heard wilder suggestions than that,” said Ramsey. “A hoard of Roman coins worth millions, buried treasure. But my favorite is that Collingwood was one of them train robbers, and Shifnal Farm is where they buried the loot.”

“And don’t forget,” said Mrs. Ramsey, reappearing with a steak and kidney pie, “Mr. Swann says he knows exactly why the price has rocketed, but he won’t tell anyone unless they make a substantial donation to his school theatre appeal.”

“Mr. Swann?” said Seb as he picked up his knife and fork.

“Used to be headmaster of the local grammar school, retired some years back, and now devotes his time to raising money for the school theatre. Bit obsessed with the idea if you ask me.”

“Do you think we can beat the South Africans?” asked Seb, having gained the information he needed and now wanting to move on.

“M.J.K. Smith will have his hands full with that lot,” said the barman, “but if you ask me...”

Seb sipped his beer, while selecting carefully which parts of the steak and kidney pie he could safely eat. He settled on the burnt crust, as he continued to listen to the landlord’s views on everything from the Beatles being awarded the MBE (Harold Wilson after the young vote), to the possibility of the Americans landing a man on the moon (What’s the point?).

When a rowdy group of customers entered the pub and Ramsey became distracted, Seb left half a crown on the bar and slipped out. Once he was back on the street, he asked a woman clutching the hand of a young boy where the grammar school was.

“About half a mile up the road,” she said. “You can’t miss it.”

It felt more like a mile, but he certainly couldn’t miss the vast, redbrick Victorian edifice, which John Betjeman would have admired.

Seb didn’t even have to pass through the school gates before he spotted what he was looking for. A prominent notice announced an appeal for £10,000 to build a new theatre for the school. Next to it was a large drawing of a thermometer, but Seb observed that the red line only reached £1,766. To learn more about the project, please contact Mr. Maurice Swann MA (Oxon) on Shifnal 2613.

Seb wrote down two numbers in his diary, 8234 and 2613, then turned and headed back toward the High Street. In the distance he spotted a red telephone box, and he was pleased to see it wasn’t occupied. He stepped inside and rehearsed his lines for a few moments, before checking the number in his diary. He dialed 2613, pressed four pennies into the slot, and waited for some time before an elderly voice answered.

“Maurice Swann.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Swann. My name is Clifton. I’m the head of corporate donations for Farthings Bank, and we are considering making a donation to your theatre appeal. I wonder if it might be possible for us to meet. I would of course be quite happy to come and see you.”

“No, I’d prefer to meet at the school,” said Swann eagerly. “Then I can show you what we have planned.”

“That’s fine,” said Seb, “but unfortunately I’m only in Shifnal for the day, and will be returning to London this evening.”

“Then I’ll come over immediately. Why don’t I see you outside the school gates in ten minutes?”

“I look forward to meeting you,” said Seb. He put the phone down and quickly retraced his steps back to the grammar school. He didn’t have to wait long before he spotted a frail-looking gentleman walking slowly toward him with the aid of a stick.

After Seb had introduced himself, Swann said, “As you have such a short time, Mr. Clifton, why don’t I take you straight through to the Memorial Hall, where I can show you the architect’s plans for the new theatre and answer any questions you might have.”

Seb followed the old man through the school gates, across the yard, and into the hall, while listening to him talk about the importance of young people having their own theatre and what a difference it would make to the local community.

Seb took his time studying the detailed architect’s drawings that were pinned to the wall, while Swann continued to enthuse about the project.

“As you can see, Mr. Clifton, although we will have a proscenium arch, there would still be enough room backstage to store props, while the actors standing in the wings won’t be cramped, and if I raise the full amount the boys and girls will be able to have separate dressing rooms.” He stood back. “My life’s dream,” he admitted, “which I hope to see completed before I die. But may I ask why your bank would be interested in a small project in Shifnal?”

“We are currently buying land in the area on behalf of clients who are interested in taking advantage of the government’s latest tax incentives. We realize that’s not likely to be popular in the village, so we’ve decided to support some local projects.”

“Would one of those pieces of land be Shifnal Farm?”

Seb was taken by surprise by Swann’s question, and it was some time before he managed, “No, we looked at Mr. Collingwood’s property and on balance decided it was overpriced.”

“How many children do you think I’ve taught in my lifetime, Mr. Clifton?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Seb, puzzled by the question.

“Just over three thousand, so I know when someone is trying to get away with only telling me half the story.”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

“You understand all too well, Mr. Clifton. The truth is, you’re on a fishing trip, and you have absolutely no interest in my theatre. What you really want to know is why someone is willing to pay one point six million pounds for Shifnal Farm, when no one else has bid anywhere near that amount. Am I right?”

“Yes,” admitted Seb. “And if I knew the answer to that question, I’m sure my bank would be willing to make a substantial donation toward your new theatre.”

“When you’re an old man, Mr. Clifton, and you will be one day, you’ll find you have a bit of time on your hands, especially if you’ve led an active and worthwhile life. So when someone bid far too much for Shifnal Farm, my curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to spend some of my spare time trying to find out why. I began, like any good detective, by looking for clues, and I can tell you that after six months of diligent research, following up even the most unlikely leads, I now know exactly why someone is willing to pay way over the asking price for Shifnal Farm.”

Seb could feel his heart thumping.

“And if you want to know what it is that I’ve found out, you won’t just make a substantial donation to the school theatre, you’ll finance the entire project.”

“But what if you’re wrong?”

“That’s a risk you’re going to have to take, Mr. Clifton, because there’s only a couple of days before the bidding closes.”

“Then you must also be willing to take the risk,” said Seb, “because I’m not going to fork out over eight thousand pounds unless, and until, you’re proved right.”

“Before I agree to that, it’s my turn to ask you a question.”

“Of course,” said Seb.

“Are you, by any chance, related to Harry Clifton, the author?”

“Yes, he’s my father.”

“I thought I saw a resemblance. Although I’ve never read any of his books, I’ve followed his campaign for Anatoly Babakov with great interest, and if Harry Clifton is your father, that’s good enough for me.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Seb.

“Now, sit down, young man, because time is against us.”

Seb perched on the edge of the stage, while Swann took him slowly through the meticulous research he’d carried out during the past six months, that had led him to only one conclusion. A conclusion Seb couldn’t find fault with. He jumped down from the stage.

“May I ask you one more question before I leave, sir?”

“Of course, young man.”

“Why didn’t you tell Collingwood what you’d discovered? After all, he couldn’t have lost a penny if he didn’t have to pay up until you were proved right.”

“I taught Dan Collingwood when he was at the grammar school,” said Swann. “Even as a boy he was greedy and stupid, and he hasn’t improved much since. But he wasn’t interested in what I might have to tell him, just fobbed me off with a five-pound donation and wished me luck.”

“So you haven’t told this to anyone else?” said Seb, trying not to sound anxious.

The old man hesitated for a moment. “I did tell one other person,” he admitted, “but I haven’t heard from him since.”

Seb didn’t need to ask his name.

Sebastian knocked on the door of 37 Cadogan Place just after eight o’clock. Cedric answered the summons and, without a word, led his young protégé through to the drawing room. Seb’s eyes immediately settled on a Hockney landscape hanging above the fireplace, before he admired the Henry Moore maquette on the sideboard. Seb didn’t doubt that if Picasso had been born in Yorkshire his work would also be part of Cedric’s collection.

“Would you care to join me for a glass of wine?” asked Cedric. “Châteauneuf-du-Pape 1959, which from the expression on your face I have a feeling you may have earned.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Seb as he sank into the nearest chair. Cedric handed him a glass and took the seat opposite him.

“When you’ve caught your breath, take me through the day, slowly.”

Seb took a sip. Not a vintage Mr. Ramsey would be serving at the Shifnal Arms that evening.

When Seb came to the end of his tale twenty minutes later, Cedric remarked, “Swann sounds to me like a shrewd old cove. I have a feeling I’d like him. But what did you learn from the encounter?” A question he had frequently posed when Seb had been his personal assistant.

“Just because a man is physically frail, doesn’t mean his mind isn’t still sharp.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“The importance of reputation.”

“Your father’s, in this case,” Cedric reminded him. “If you get nothing else out of today, Seb, that lesson alone will have made your journey to Shifnal worthwhile. However, now I have to face the fact that one of my most senior members of staff may be dealing behind my back.” He took a sip of wine before he continued. “It is possible, of course, that Sloane will have a simple explanation, but somehow I doubt it.”

Seb suppressed a smile. “But shouldn’t we do something about the deal, now we know what the government has in mind?”

“All in good time. First I’ll need to have a word with Ralph Vaughan, because he’s not going to be pleased when I withdraw the bank’s offer, and he’ll be even more angry when I tell him the reason why.”

“But won’t he simply accept one of the lower offers?”

“Not if he thinks there’s still a chance he might get a higher price if he hangs on for a few more days.”

“And Mr. Swann?”

“I’m tempted to give him the £8,234 whatever happens. I think he’s earned it.” Cedric took another sip of wine before he added, “But since there’s nothing else we can do tonight, Seb, I suggest you go home. In fact, as all hell is going to break loose tomorrow, perhaps it might be wise for you to take the day off and stay as far away from the office as possible. But report to me first thing on Monday morning, as I have a feeling you could be on your way back to Shropshire.”

As they left the room and walked down the corridor toward the front door, Cedric said, “I hope you didn’t have anything planned for this evening?”

Nothing special, thought Seb. I was just going to take Samantha out to dinner and ask her to marry me.

11

Once Sebastian realized that he wouldn’t be expected back at the office before Monday morning, he began to plan a surprise weekend for Samantha. He spent the morning booking trains, planes, hotels, and even checked the opening times of the Rijksmuseum. He wanted the weekend in Amsterdam to be perfect, so when they emerged from customs, he ignored the signs for buses and trains and headed straight for the taxi rank.

“Cedric must have been pleased when you discovered what Sloane was up to,” said Sam as the cab joined the traffic making its way out of the airport. “What do you think will happen next?”

“I expect Sloane will be sacked around five o’clock this afternoon.”

“Why five this afternoon?”

“That’s when he was hoping to close the Shifnal Farm deal.”

“There’s almost an element of Greek tragedy about that,” said Sam. “So, with a bit of luck, Sloane will be gone by the time you turn up for work on Monday.”

“Almost certainly, because Cedric asked me to report to him first thing.”

“Do you think you’ll get Sloane’s job?” asked Sam as the cab headed on to the motorway.

“Possibly. But it’s only likely to be a temporary appointment while Cedric looks for someone more experienced.”

“But if you managed to pull off the Shifnal deal, he might not bother to look for someone else.”

“That’s also a possibility, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find I was on a train back to Shrewsbury on Monday. Did he go left around that roundabout?”

“No, right,” said Sam, laughing. “Don’t forget we’re on the continent.” She turned to Seb, who was clinging on to the front seat, and placed a hand on his leg. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I sometimes forget about that dreadful accident.”

“I’m fine,” said Seb.

“I like the sound of Mr. Swann. Perhaps it would be wise to keep him on your side.”

“Cedric agrees with you. And if we pull off the deal, we’ll probably end up having to build his school a concert hall,” Seb added as they entered the outskirts of the city.

“I assume we’re staying at the Amstel?” said Sam as the deluxe five-star hotel overlooking the Amstel river loomed up in front of them.

“Not this time, that will have to wait until I’m chairman of the bank. But until then, it’s the Pension De Kanaal, a well-known one-star guest house frequented by the up-and-coming.”

Sam smiled as the taxi drew up outside a little guest house wedged between a greengrocer and an Indonesian restaurant. “Far better than the Amstel,” she declared as they walked into the cramped lobby. Once they’d checked in, Seb lugged their bags up to the top floor, as the pension didn’t have a lift or a porter. He unlocked the door of their room and switched on the light.

“Palatial,” Sam declared.

Seb couldn’t believe how small the room was. There was only just enough space for them to stand on each side of the double bed. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I wanted this weekend to be just perfect.”

Sam took him in her arms. “You are a silly thing at times. This is perfect. I prefer being up-and-coming. Gives us something to look forward to.”

Seb fell back on the bed. “I know what I’m looking forward to.”

“A visit to the Rijksmuseum?” suggested Sam.

“You wanted to see me?” said Sloane, as he marched into the chairman’s office. He didn’t wait to be offered a seat.

Cedric looked up at the head of his property division, but didn’t smile. “I’ve just finished reading your monthly report.”

“Up two point two percent on last month,” Sloane reminded him.

“Very impressive. But I wonder if you might have done even better if...”

“If what, chairman?” said Sloane abruptly.

“If Shifnal Farm had also been included in your report,” said Cedric, picking up a brochure from his desk.

“Shifnal Farm? Are you sure that’s one of my properties, and not Clifton’s?” said Sloane, nervously touching the knot of his tie.

“I’m absolutely certain it’s one of your properties, Sloane. What I can’t be sure about is whether it’s one of the bank’s.”

“What are you getting at?” said Sloane, suddenly on the defensive.

“When I called Ralph Vaughan, the senior partner of Savills, a few moments ago, he confirmed that you’d put in a bid of one point six million pounds for the property, with the bank acting as guarantor.”

Sloane shifted uneasily in his chair. “You’re quite right, chairman, but as the deal hasn’t finally been closed, you won’t have all the details until I send you next month’s report.”

“One of the details that will take some explaining is why the account is registered to a client in Zurich.”

“Ah, yes,” said Sloane. “Now I remember. You’re quite right, we were acting for a Swiss client who prefers anonymity, but the bank charges three percent commission on every deal we carry out for that particular customer.”

“And it didn’t take a great deal of research,” said Cedric, patting a pile of papers on the desk in front of him, “to discover that that particular client has conducted another six transactions during the past year, and made himself a handsome profit.”

“But isn’t that what my department is supposed to do?” protested Sloane. “Make profits for our clients, while at the same time earning the bank a handsome commission?”

“It is indeed,” said Cedric, trying to remain calm. “It’s just a pity the Swiss client’s account is in your name.”

“How can you possibly know that,” blurted out Sloane, “when client accounts in Switzerland are not named but numbered?”

“I didn’t. But you’ve just confirmed my worst fears, so your number is up.”

Sloane leapt from his chair. “I’ve made a twenty-three percent profit for the bank over the past ten months.”

“And if my calculations are correct,” came back Cedric, “you’ve made another forty-one percent for yourself during the same period. And I have a feeling Shifnal Farm was going to be your biggest payday yet.”

Sloane collapsed back in his chair, a look of desperation on his face. “But...”

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” continued Cedric, “but this is one deal you’re not going to pull off for your Swiss client, because I called Mr. Vaughan at Savills a few minutes ago and withdrew our bid for Shifnal Farm.”

“But we could have made a massive profit on that deal,” said Sloane, now staring defiantly at the chairman. “Possibly as much as a million pounds.”

“I don’t think you mean we,” said Cedric, “I think you mean you. Although it was the bank’s money you were putting up as collateral, not your own.”

“But you only know half the facts.”

“I can assure you, Sloane, that thanks to Mr. Swann, I know all the facts.”

Sloane rose slowly from his seat.

“You are a stupid old man,” he said, spitting out the words. “You’re out of touch, and you don’t begin to understand modern banking. The sooner you make way for a younger man, the better.”

“No doubt in time I will,” said Cedric, as he stood up to face his adversary, “but of one thing I’m certain, that young man is no longer going to be you.”

“You’ll live to regret this,” said Sloane, leaning across the desk and eyeballing the chairman.

“Don’t waste your time threatening me, Sloane. Far bigger men than you have tried and failed,” said Cedric, his voice rising with every word. “There’s only one thing left for you to do, and that’s make sure you’ve cleared your desk and are off the premises within thirty minutes, because if you’re not, I’ll personally put your belongings out on the pavement for every passerby to see.”

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyers,” shouted Sloane, as he turned to leave.

“I don’t think so, unless you plan to spend the next few years in prison, because I can assure you, once this stupid old man has reported your behavior to the ethics committee of the Bank of England, you’ll never work in the City again.”

Sloane turned back, his face as white as a sheet and, like a gambler with only one chip left, spun the wheel for the last time. “But I could still make the bank a fortune, if you’ll only—”

“Twenty-nine minutes,” shouted Cedric, trying to control his temper, as he lurched forward and grabbed the edge of his desk.

Sloane didn’t move as the chairman pulled open a drawer and took out a small bottle of pills. He fumbled with the safety cap, but lost his grip and dropped the bottle on to his desk. They both watched as it rolled on to the floor. Cedric attempted to fill a glass with water, but he no longer had the strength to pick up the jug.

“I need your help,” he slurred, looking up at Sloane, who just stood there, watching him carefully.

Cedric stumbled, took a pace backward, and fell heavily on the floor, gasping for breath. Sloane walked slowly around the desk, his eyes never leaving the chairman as he lay on the floor fighting for his life. He picked up the bottle and unscrewed the cap. Cedric stared up at him as he shook the pills on to the floor, just out of his reach. He then wiped the empty bottle with a handkerchief from his top pocket and placed it in the chairman’s hand.

Sloane leaned over and listened carefully, to find that the chairman was no longer breathing quite so heavily. Cedric tried to raise his head, but he could only watch helplessly as Sloane gathered up all the papers on his desk that he’d been working on for the past twenty-four hours. Sloane turned and walked slowly away, without once looking back, avoiding those eyes that were burning into him.

He opened the door and looked out into the corridor. No one in sight. He closed the door quietly behind him and went in search of the chairman’s secretary. Her hat and coat were no longer on the stand, so he assumed she must have left for the weekend. He tried to remain calm as he walked down the corridor, but beads of sweat were pouring off his forehead and he could feel his heart pounding.

He stood for a moment and listened, like a bloodhound sniffing for danger. He decided to throw the dice once again.

“Anyone around?” he shouted.

His voice echoed through the high-ceilinged corridor as if it were a concert hall, but there was no response. He checked the executive offices one by one, but they were all locked. No one on the top floor, other than Cedric, would still be in the office at six o’clock on a Friday evening. Sloane knew there would still be junior staff in the building who wouldn’t think of leaving before their bosses, but none of them would consider disturbing the chairman, and the cleaners wouldn’t be returning until five o’clock on Monday morning. That only left Stanley, the night porter, who would never budge from his comfortable chair at the front desk unless the building was on fire.

Sloane took the lift to the ground floor and, as he crossed the lobby, he noticed that Stanley was dozing quietly. He didn’t disturb him.

“The Rijksmuseum,” said Sam as they entered the Dutch national gallery, “houses one of the finest collections on earth. The Rembrandts are showstoppers but the Vermeers, De Wittes, and Steens are also among the finest examples of the Dutch masters you’ll ever see.”

Hand in hand they made their way slowly around the grand gallery, Sam often stopping to point out a character, or a feature of a particular work, without ever once referring to her guidebook. Whenever heads turned, and they often did, Seb wanted to shout, “And she’s bright, too!”

At the far end of the gallery stood a small crowd, admiring a single work.

“The Night Watch,” said Sam, “is a masterpiece, and probably Rembrandt’s best-known work. Although sadly we’ll never know what the original looked like because the city council later trimmed the painting to fit between two columns in the town hall.”

“They should have knocked down the columns,” said Seb, unable to take his eyes off the group of figures surrounding a finely dressed man carrying a lantern.

“Pity you weren’t on the town council,” said Sam as they walked into the next room. “And here’s a painting that will feature in my PhD thesis,” she continued as they stopped in front of a large canvas. “It’s hard to believe that Rubens completed the work in a weekend, because he had to attend the signing of a peace treaty between the English and Spanish on the following Monday. Most people are quite unaware that he was a diplomat as well as an artist,” she said before moving on.

Seb felt he ought to be taking notes, but his mind was on other things.

“This is one of my favorites,” said Sam, stopping in front of The Arnolfini Wedding.

“I’ve seen that somewhere else,” said Seb.

“Ah, so you do listen to me occasionally. You saw it when we visited the National Gallery last year.”

“So what’s it doing here?”

“It’s probably on loan,” said Sam. “But only for another month,” she added after taking a closer look at the label on the wall beside the portrait. “But more important, do you remember what I told you about it at the time?”

“Yes, it’s the wedding of a wealthy merchant, and Van Eyck must have been commissioned to record the event.”

“Not bad,” said Sam. “So really Van Eyck was just doing the job of a modern-day wedding photographer.”

Seb was about to say something, but she added, “Look at the texture of the bride’s dress, and the fur on the lapels on the groom’s coat — you can almost feel it.”

“The bride looks heavily pregnant to me.”

“How observant of you, Seb. But any wealthy man at the time had to be sure that the woman he’d chosen to be his wife was capable of producing an heir to inherit his fortune.”

“What a practical lot those Dutch were,” said Seb. “But what if you weren’t rich?”

“The lower classes were expected to behave more properly.”

Seb fell on one knee in front of the painting, looked up at Sam and said, “Samantha Ethel Sullivan, I adore you, and always will, and more than anything on earth I want you to be my wife.”

Sam blushed and, bending down, whispered, “Get up, you idiot. Everyone’s staring at us.”

“Not until you’ve answered my question.”

A small group of visitors had stopped looking at the paintings and were waiting for her reply.

“Of course I’ll marry you,” she said. “I’ve loved you since the day you got me arrested.” Several of the onlookers, looking rather puzzled, tried to translate her words.

Seb stood up, took out a small red leather box from his jacket pocket, and presented it to her. When Sam opened the box and saw the exquisite blue sapphire surrounded by a cluster of little diamonds, she was for once lost for words.

Seb took out the ring and placed it on the third finger of her left hand. When he leant forward to kiss his fiancée, he was greeted with a round of applause. As they walked away, hand in hand, Samantha glanced back at the painting and wondered if she ought to tell him.

12

“May I ask what time you left the office on Friday evening, sir?”

“It must have been around six o’clock, inspector,” said Sloane.

“And what time was your appointment with Mr. Hardcastle?”

“Five. We always met at five on the last Friday of the month, to go over my department’s figures.”

“And when you left him, did he seem in good spirits?”

“Never better,” said Sloane. “My monthly results were up by two point two percent, and I was able to tell him the details of a new project I’d been working on that he became very excited about.”

“It’s just that the pathologist has put the time of death at around six o’clock on Friday evening, so you must have been the last person to see him alive.”

“If that’s the case, I only wish our meeting had lasted a little longer,” said Sloane.

“Quite so. Did Mr. Hardcastle take any pills while you were with him?”

“No. And although we all knew Cedric had a heart problem, he made a point of not taking his medication in front of members of staff.”

“It seems odd that his pills were scattered randomly over the floor of his office while the empty bottle was in his hand. Why wasn’t he able to get hold of at least one of the pills?”

Sloane said nothing.

“And Stanley Davis, the night porter, told me that you phoned in on Saturday morning to check if a package had arrived for you.”

“Yes, I did. I needed a particular document for a meeting that was scheduled for Monday morning.”

“And did it arrive?”

“Yes, but not until this morning.”

“Mr. Davis tells me he’s never known you to telephone on a Saturday morning before.”

Sloane didn’t rise to the bait.

“The pathologist has issued a death certificate concluding that Mr. Hardcastle died of a heart attack, which I have no doubt the coroner will confirm at the inquest.” Still Sloane said nothing. “Can I assume that you’ll be around for the next few days, Mr. Sloane, should I have any more questions?”

“Yes, you can, although I was planning to travel up to Huddersfield tomorrow to pay my respects to Mr. Hardcastle’s widow, and to see if there’s anything I can do to help with the funeral arrangements.”

“How very thoughtful of you. Well, I only have one or two more people to interview, Mr. Sloane, and then I’ll be on my way.”

Sloane waited for the inspector to leave his office and close the door behind him before he picked up the phone.

“I need those documents ready for signature by close of business today.”

“I’ve got a team working on them right now, sir.”

Sloane’s second call was to Ralph Vaughan at Savills, who passed on his condolences, but didn’t go into all of the details of his conversation with Cedric Hardcastle on Friday afternoon.

“And like you,” said Sloane, “our thoughts are with Cedric and his family at this time. But the last thing he said to me on Friday evening was to be sure we closed the Shifnal Farm deal.”

“But surely you know he withdrew the bank’s offer on Friday afternoon, which was embarrassing, to say the least.”

“That was before I was able to brief him on the full details, and I know he had intended to call you first thing this morning.”

“If that’s the case, I’m willing to extend the deadline for one more week, but no more,” emphasized Vaughan.

“That’s good of you, Ralph. And be assured the deposit of a hundred and sixty thousand will be with you later today, and we’ll just have to wait and see if anyone outbids me.”

“I can’t imagine anyone will,” said Vaughan. “But I must ask if you have the authority to make an offer of one point six million on behalf of the bank.”

“It’s no more than my duty to see that Cedric’s final wishes are carried out,” said Sloane, before putting down the phone.

Sloane’s third and fourth calls were to two of the bank’s major shareholders, who said they would back him, but only if Mrs. Hardcastle went along with his proposal.

“I’ll have the documents on your desk ready for signature by close of business tomorrow,” he assured them.

Sloane’s fifth call was to the Bank of Zurich in Switzerland.

Seb phoned his mother from the office that morning and told her the news.

“I’m so sorry,” said Emma. “I know how much you admired Cedric.”

“I can’t help thinking that my days at Farthings are numbered, especially if Adrian Sloane takes Cedric’s place.”

“Just keep your head down, and remember it’s quite hard to sack someone who’s doing a good job.”

“You clearly haven’t met Sloane. He would have sacked Wellington on the morning of Waterloo if it would have guaranteed he became a general.”

“Don’t forget that Ross Buchanan is still the deputy chairman, and the most likely candidate to replace Cedric.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Seb.

“I’m sure Cedric kept Ross well briefed on Sloane’s activities. And please let me know when and where the funeral will take place, as your father and I will want to attend.”

“I’m so sorry to trouble you at a time like this, Mrs. Hardcastle, but we both know that Cedric would have expected nothing less of me.”

Beryl Hardcastle drew her woollen shawl tightly around her and shrank back, almost disappearing into the large leather armchair.

“What do you need me to do?” she whispered.

“Nothing too demanding,” said Sloane. “Just a couple of documents that need to be signed, and then I know the Reverend Johnson is waiting to take you through the order of service. His only concern is that the church won’t be large enough to accommodate the local community as well as all Cedric’s friends and colleagues who will be traveling up from London on Thursday.”

“He wouldn’t have wanted them to miss a day’s work for his sake,” said Beryl.

“I didn’t have the heart to stop them.”

“That’s very considerate of you.”

“It’s no more than he deserves,” said Sloane. “But there is still one small matter that needs to be dealt with.” He extracted three thick documents from his briefcase. “I just need your signature, so the bank can carry on with its day-to-day business.”

“Can it wait until this afternoon?” asked Beryl. “My son Arnold is on his way up from London. As you probably know, he’s a QC, and he usually advises me on any matters concerning the bank.”

“I fear not,” said Sloane. “I’ll have to take the two o’clock train back to London if I’m to keep all the appointments Mr. Hardcastle had scheduled. If it would help, I’ll happily send copies of the documents round to Arnold’s chambers as soon as I get back to the bank.” He took her by the hand. “I just need three signatures, Mrs. Hardcastle. But by all means read through the documents if you are in any doubt.”

“I suppose it will be all right,” Beryl said, taking the pen Sloane handed to her and making no attempt to read the densely typed small print. Sloane left the room and asked the vicar to join them. He then knelt down beside Mrs. Hardcastle, turned to the last page of the first document and placed a finger on the dotted line. Beryl signed all three documents in the presence of the Reverend Johnson, who innocently witnessed her signature.

“I look forward to seeing you again on Thursday,” said Sloane, getting up off his knees, “when we will recall with admiration and gratitude all that Cedric achieved in his remarkable life.”

He left the old lady with the vicar.

“Mr. Clifton, can you tell me where you were at five o’clock on Friday evening?”

“I was in Amsterdam with my girlfriend, Samantha, visiting the Rijksmuseum.”

“When did you last see Mr. Cedric Hardcastle?”

“I went to his home in Cadogan Place just after eight on Thursday evening, having returned from Shifnal in Shropshire.”

“May I ask why Mr. Hardcastle wanted you to visit him outside working hours, when you could have seen him at the office the following morning?”

Sebastian spent a little time considering his response, well aware that all he needed to say was that it was a private matter concerning the bank, and the inspector would have to move on.

“I was checking on a deal, where the chairman had reason to believe that a senior member of staff had been working behind his back.”

“And did you discover that the person was concerned working behind Mr. Hardcastle’s back?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Was that senior member of staff Mr. Adrian Sloane, by any chance?”

Seb remained silent.

“What was Mr. Hardcastle’s attitude, after you told him what you’d found out?”

“He warned me that he intended to sack the person concerned the following day, and advised me to be as far away from the office as possible when he did so.”

“Because he was going to sack your boss?”

“Which is why I was in Amsterdam on Friday evening,” said Seb, ignoring the question. “Which I now regret.”

“Why?”

“Because if I’d gone to the office that day, I just might have been able to save Mr. Hardcastle.”

“Do you believe Mr. Sloane would have saved him, faced with the same circumstances?”

“My father always says that a policeman should never ask a hypothetical question.”

“Not all of us can solve every crime quite as easily as Inspector Warwick.”

“Do you think Sloane murdered Mr. Hardcastle?” asked Seb.

“No, I don’t,” said the inspector. “Although it’s just possible that he could have saved his life. But even Inspector Warwick would find that hard to prove.”

The Rt. Rev. Ashley Tadworth, Bishop of Huddersfield, climbed the half-dozen steps and took his place in the pulpit, during the last verse of “Abide With Me.”

He looked down at the packed congregation and waited until everyone was settled. Some, who hadn’t been able to find a seat, were standing in the aisles, while others, who’d arrived late, were crammed together at the back of the church. It was a mark of the man.

“Funerals are, naturally, sad events,” began the bishop. “Even more so when the departed has achieved little more than leading a blameless life, which can make delivering their eulogy a difficult task. That was not my problem when I prepared my address on the life, the exemplary life, of Cedric Arthur Hardcastle.

“If you were to liken Cedric’s life to a bank statement, he left this world with every account in credit. Where do I begin, to tell you the unlikely tale of this remarkable Yorkshireman?

“Cedric left school at the age of fifteen and joined his father at Farthings Bank. He always called his father ‘sir,’ both at work and at home. In fact, his father retired just in time not to have to call his son ‘sir.’”

A little laughter broke out among the congregation.

“Cedric began his working life as a junior trainee. Two years later he became a teller, even before he was old enough to open a bank account. From there he progressed to undermanager, branch manager, and later, area controller, before becoming the youngest director in the bank’s history. And frankly no one was surprised when he became chairman of the bank at the age of forty-two, a position he held for the past twenty-three years, during which time he took Farthings from being a local bank in a small town in Yorkshire to one of the most respected financial institutions in the City of London.

“But something that would not have changed, even if Cedric had become chairman of the Bank of England, was his constant refrain that if you take care of the pennies, the pounds will take care of themselves.”

“Do you think we’ve got away with it?” asked Sloane nervously.

“If, by that, you’re asking if everything you’ve done in the past four days is legal and above board, the answer is yes.”

“Do we have a quorum?”

“We do,” said Malcolm Atkins, the bank’s chief legal advisor. “The managing director, the company secretary, and six nonexecutive directors are waiting for you in the boardroom. Mind you,” he added, “I’d be fascinated to know what you said to them when they suggested that perhaps they ought to be attending a funeral in Huddersfield today rather than a board meeting in London.”

“I told them quite simply that the choice was theirs. They could vote for a place in this world or the next.”

Atkins smiled and checked his watch. “We should join them. It’s almost ten.”

The two men left Sloane’s office and walked silently down the thickly carpeted corridor. When Sloane entered the boardroom, everyone stood, just as they’d always done for the late chairman.

“Gentlemen,” said the company secretary once they had all settled. “This extraordinary meeting has been called for one purpose, namely...”

“Whenever we think of Cedric Hardcastle,” continued the bishop, “we should remember one thing above all. He was quintessentially a Yorkshireman. If the second coming had taken place at Headingley during the tea interval of a Roses match, he would not have been surprised. It was Cedric’s unswerving belief that Yorkshire was a country, not a county. In fact, he considered Farthings Bank to have become international not when he opened a branch in Hong Kong but when he opened one in Manchester.”

He waited for the laughter to die down before he continued.

“Cedric was not a vain man, but that didn’t stop him being a proud one. Proud of the bank he served every day, and even prouder of how many customers and staff had prospered under his guidance and leadership. So many of you in this congregation today, from the most junior trainee to the president of Sony International, have been beneficiaries of his wisdom and foresight. But what he will most be remembered for is his unquestionable reputation — for honesty, integrity, and decency. Standards he took for granted when dealing with his fellow men. He considered a good deal was one in which both sides made a profit, and would be happy to raise their hats to each other whenever they passed in the street.”

“The one item on today’s agenda,” continued the company secretary, “is for the board to elect a new chairman, following the tragic death of Cedric Hardcastle. Only one name has been proposed, that of Mr. Adrian Sloane, the head of our highly profitable property division. Mr. Sloane has already obtained the legal backing of sixty-six percent of our shareholders, but he felt his appointment should also be ratified by the board.”

Malcolm Atkins came in on cue. “It is my pleasure to propose that Adrian Sloane be the next chairman of Farthings Bank, as I feel that is what Cedric would have wanted.”

“I’m delighted to second that motion,” said Desmond Mellor, a recently appointed non-executive director.

“Those in favor?” said the company secretary. Eight hands shot up. “I declare the motion carried unanimously.”

Sloane rose slowly to his feet. “Gentlemen. Allow me to begin by thanking you for the confidence you have shown by electing me as the next chairman of Farthings. Cedric Hardcastle’s shoes are not easy ones to step into. I replace a man who left us in tragic circumstances. A man we all assumed would be with us for many years to come. A man I could not have admired more. A man I considered not only a colleague, but a friend, which makes me all the more proud to pick up his baton and carry it on the next leg of the bank’s race. I respectfully suggest that we all rise, and bow our heads in memory of a great man.”

“But ultimately,” continued the bishop, “Cedric Hardcastle will best be remembered as a family man. He loved Beryl from the day she gave him an extra third of a pint when she was the milk monitor at their primary school in Huddersfield, and he could not have been more proud when their only son, Arnold, became a QC. Although he could never understand why the lad had chosen Oxford, and not Leeds, to complete his education.

“Allow me to end by summing up my feelings for one of my oldest and dearest friends with the words from the epitaph on Sir Thomas Fairfax by the Duke of Buckingham:

He never knew what envy was, nor hate;

His soul was filled with worth and honesty,

And with another thing besides, quite out of date,

Called modesty.”

Malcolm Atkins raised a glass of champagne.

“To the new chairman of Farthings,” he toasted, as Sloane sat in the chair behind Cedric’s desk for the first time. “So, what will be your first executive action?”

“Make sure we close the Shifnal deal before anyone else works out why it’s so cheap at one point six million.”

“And your second?” asked Mellor.

“Sack Sebastian Clifton,” he spat out, “along with anyone else who was close to Hardcastle and went along with his outdated philosophy. This bank is about to join the real world, where profits, not people, will be its only mantra. And if any customers threaten to move their account, let them, especially if they’re from Yorkshire. From now on, the bank’s motto will be, If you’ve only got pennies, don’t bother to bank with us.”

Sebastian bowed his head as the pallbearers lowered the coffin into the grave so no one would see his tears. Ross Buchanan didn’t attempt to hide his feelings. Emma and Harry held hands. They had all lost a good and wise friend.

As they walked slowly away from the graveside, Arnold Hardcastle and his mother joined them.

“Why wasn’t Adrian Sloane here?” asked Ross. “Not to mention half a dozen other directors?”

“Father wouldn’t have missed Sloane,” said Arnold. “He was just about to sack him before he died.”

“He told you that?” said Ross.

“Yes. He rang me early on Friday morning to find out what the legal position was if the head of a department was caught using the bank’s money to carry out private deals.”

“Did he say which head of department?” asked Ross.

“He didn’t need to.”

“Did you say six directors?” interrupted Emma.

“Yes,” said Ross. “Why’s that important?”

“It constitutes a quorum. If Cedric were still alive, he would have spotted what Sloane was up to.”

“Oh my God. Now I realize why he needed me to sign those documents,” said Beryl. “Cedric will never forgive me.”

“Like you, I’m appalled, Mother, but don’t worry, you still own fifty-one percent of the bank.”

“Can someone kindly explain in simple English,” asked Harry, “what you’re all talking about?”

“Adrian Sloane has just appointed himself as the new chairman of Farthings,” said Sebastian. “Where’s the nearest phone?”

13

Sebastian checked his watch. Just enough time to make one call. He was relieved to find the only phone box within sight was empty, and wasn’t out of order. He dialed a number he knew by heart.

“Victor Kaufman.”

“Vic, it’s Seb.”

“Seb, hi. You sound as if you’re phoning from the other side of the world.”

“Not quite. I’m at Huddersfield station. I’ve just been to Cedric Hardcastle’s funeral.”

“I read his obituary in today’s FT. That was one hell of a man you were working for.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Which is why I’m calling. I need to see your father urgently.”

“Just give his secretary a call, and I’ll make sure she fixes an appointment.”

“What I want to discuss can’t wait. I need to see him this evening, tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“Am I sensing a big deal?”

“The biggest ever to cross my desk.”

“Then I’ll speak to him immediately. When will you be back in London?”

“My train’s due to arrive at Euston at ten past four.”

“Give me a call from the station and I’ll—”

A shrill whistle blew and Seb turned to see a green flag waving. He dropped the phone, ran out on to the platform, and jumped onto the moving train.

He took a seat at the rear of the carriage and, once he’d got his breath back, he thought about how he’d first met Vic at St. Bede’s, when he’d shared a study with him and Bruno Martinez, and they had become his two closest friends; one the son of an immigrant Jew, and the other the son of an Argentinian arms dealer. Over the years they’d become inseparable. That friendship grew even closer when Seb had ended up with a black eye for defending his Jewish friend, not that he had been altogether sure what a Jew was. Like a blind man, unaware of race or religion, he quickly discovered that prejudice was often taught at the breakfast table.

He turned his attention to the sage advice his mother had given him just before she and Dad had driven back to Bristol after the funeral. He knew she was right.

Seb took his time writing a first draft, then a second. By the time the train pulled into Euston, he’d completed a final draft which he hoped would meet with both his mother’s and Cedric’s approval.

Sloane immediately recognized the handwriting. He tore open the envelope and pulled out a letter, becoming angrier with each word he read.

Sloane leapt out of his chair, unable to control his temper. He charged into his secretary’s office and shouted, “Is he still in the building?”

“Who?” asked Rachel innocently.

“Clifton, who else?”

“I haven’t seen him since he handed me a letter and asked me to put it on your desk.”

Sloane marched out of his office and down the corridor, still hoping to find Clifton at his desk so he could publicly sack him.

“Where’s Clifton?” he demanded as he strode into Sebastian’s room. Bobby Rushton, Seb’s young assistant, looked up at the new chairman, and was so petrified he couldn’t get any words out. “Are you deaf?” said Sloane. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Where’s Clifton?”

“He packed his things and left a few minutes ago,” said Rushton. “He told us all that he’d resigned and wouldn’t be back.”

“Only minutes before he would have been sacked,” said Sloane. Looking down at the young man, he added, “And you can join him. Make sure you’re off the premises within the hour, and be certain you leave nothing in this room that even hints that Clifton ever existed.”

Sloane stormed back to his office and sat down at his desk. Five more envelopes, all marked Personal, were waiting to be opened.

“I only met Cedric Hardcastle on half a dozen occasions, mostly social,” said Saul Kaufman. “We never did any business, but I’d have liked to, because he was one of the few men in the City who still believed a handshake closed a deal, not a contract.”

“Even a contract won’t necessarily close a deal with the new chairman,” said Seb.

“I’ve never met Adrian Sloane, I only know him by reputation. Is he the reason you wanted to see me so urgently?”

“Yes, sir,” said Seb. “I was looking into a major deal involving Sloane when the chairman had his heart attack.”

“Then take me through the deal slowly, and don’t leave out any details.”

Seb began by telling Mr. Kaufman how he’d taken a phone call from Ralph Vaughan of Savills that had alerted him to what Sloane was up to. And how the following morning, on Cedric’s instructions, he’d travelled up to Shifnal, and how the day had ended with him meeting Mr. Swann and discovering why Sloane was willing to pay way over the odds for a thousand-acre farm in Shropshire.

When Seb came to the end of his story, an enigmatic smile appeared on Kaufman’s face.

“Could it be possible that Mr. Swann has stumbled across something we all missed? We’ll find out soon enough, because the government is expected to announce its findings in the next few weeks.”

“But we haven’t got weeks, only a couple of days. Don’t forget, closing bids have to be in by five o’clock tomorrow.”

“So you want me to outbid Sloane, on the possibility that Mr. Swann has worked out what the government has planned?”

“Cedric was willing to take that risk.”

“And, unlike Sloane, Cedric Hardcastle had the reputation of being a cautious man.” Kaufman placed his hands together as if in prayer, and when his prayer was answered, he said, “I’ll need to make a few phone calls before I come to a final decision, so come back to my office at 4:40 tomorrow afternoon. If I’m convinced, we’ll take it from there.”

“But by then it will be too late.”

“I don’t think so,” said Kaufman.

When Seb left the bank he was in a daze, and not at all convinced that Kaufman would go ahead with the deal. But he had nowhere else to turn.

He hurried home. He wanted to share everything that had happened since he’d left the flat that morning with Samantha. She always saw things from a different angle, often coming out of left field, to use one of her favorite American expressions.

While Sam prepared supper, Seb told her who’d attended the funeral that morning and, more important, who hadn’t, and what Sloane and his cronies had been up to while he was in Huddersfield... and why he was now looking for a job.

When he finally stopped pacing around the kitchen and sat down, Sam said, “But you’ve always known Sloane was a crook, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he’d call a board meeting when everyone who would have opposed him was out of town. I bet your mother would have worked that one out.”

“She did, but by then it was too late. But I still think we can beat Sloane at his own game.”

“Not at his own game,” said Sam. “Try to think what Cedric would have done in the circumstances, not Sloane.”

“But if I’m ever going to beat him, I’ll have to think like him.”

“Possibly, but that doesn’t mean you have to act like him.”

“Shifnal Farm is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“That’s not a good enough reason to crawl around in the same gutter as Sloane.”

“But, Sam, I might never get another chance like this again.”

“Of course you will, Seb. Think long-term, and you’ll understand the difference between Adrian Sloane and Cedric Hardcastle. Because I’m absolutely sure of one thing, very few people will be attending Sloane’s funeral.”

Friday turned out to be the longest day of Sebastian’s life. He’d hardly slept the previous night as he tried to work out what Kaufman was up to.

When Sam left to attend a lecture at King’s, he pottered around the flat, pretended to read a morning paper, spent an inordinate amount of time washing up the few breakfast dishes, even went for a run in the park, but by the time he got back, it was still only just after eleven.

He took a shower, shaved, and opened a tin of baked beans. He continually glanced at his watch, but the second hand still only circled the dial every sixty seconds.

After what passed for a fork lunch, he went upstairs to the bedroom, took his smartest suit out of the wardrobe, and put on a freshly ironed white shirt and his old school tie. He finally polished a pair of shoes until a sergeant major would have been proud of them.

At four o’clock he was standing at the bus stop waiting for the number 4 to take him into the City. He jumped off at St. Paul’s and, although he walked slowly, he was standing outside Kaufman’s bank on Cheapside by 4:25. There was nothing for it but to stroll around the block. As he walked past so many familiar City institutions, he was reminded just how much he enjoyed working in the Square Mile. He tried not to think about being unemployed for any length of time.

At 4:38, Seb marched into the bank and said to the receptionist, “I have an appointment with Mr. Kaufman.”

“Which Mr. Kaufman?” she asked, giving him a warm smile.

“The chairman.”

“Thank you, sir. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Seb paced around the lobby watching another second hand make a larger circle around a larger clock but with exactly the same result. His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder and the words, “The chairman is waiting for us in his office. I’ll take you up.”

Seb was impressed that Vic hadn’t said “Dad.” He could feel the palms of his hands sweating, and as the lift trundled slowly up to the top floor he rubbed them on his trousers. When they entered the chairman’s office, they found Mr. Kaufman on the phone.

“I need to speak to a colleague before I can make that decision, Mr. Sloane. I’ll call you back around five.” Seb looked horrified, but Kaufman put a finger to his lips. “If that’s convenient.”

Sloane put the receiver down, picked it up again immediately, and without going through to his secretary dialed a number.

“Ralph, it’s Adrian Sloane.”

“I thought it might be,” said Vaughan, checking his watch. “You’ll be pleased to hear that no one has called about Shifnal Farm all day. So with just fifteen minutes to go, I think it’s safe to assume the property is yours. I’ll give you a call just after five, so we can discuss how you want to deal with the paperwork.”

“That’s fine by me,” said Sloane, “but don’t be surprised if my line’s engaged when you call, because I’m currently involved in a deal that’s even bigger than Shifnal Farm.”

“But if someone was to make a bid between now and five—”

“That isn’t going to happen,” said Sloane. “Just make sure you send the contract round to Farthings first thing on Monday morning. There’ll be a check waiting for you.”

“It’s ten to five,” said Vic.

“Patience, child,” said the old man. “There is only one thing that matters when you’re trying to close a deal. Timing.” He leaned back and closed his eyes, although he was wide awake. He had told his secretary that under no circumstances was he to be disturbed between ten to five and ten past. Neither Vic nor Seb said another word.

Suddenly Saul’s eyes opened and he sat bolt upright. He checked that the two phones on his desk were placed exactly where he wanted them. At six minutes to five, he leaned forward and picked up the black phone. He dialed the number of an estate agent in Mayfair, and asked to speak to the senior partner.

“Mr. Kaufman, this is an unexpected pleasure,” said Vaughan. “How can I help you?”

“You can start by telling me the time, Mr. Vaughan.”

“I make it five to five,” said a puzzled voice. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I wanted to be sure that you’re still open for bids on Shifnal Farm in Shropshire.”

“We most certainly are. But I must warn you that we already have an offer of one point six million pounds from another bank.”

“Then I bid one million, six hundred and ten thousand.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Vaughan.

“And what time do you make it now?”

“Three minutes to five.”

“Please hold on, Mr. Vaughan, there’s someone on the other line. I’ll only be a moment.” Kaufman placed the black receiver on his desk, picked up the red one and dialed a number.

After three rings a voice said, “Adrian Sloane.”

“Mr. Sloane, I’m calling back about the Nigerian oil bonds your bank is offering to selected investors. As I said earlier, it sounds a most exciting opportunity. What is the maximum amount that you’ll allow any one institution to invest?”

“Two million pounds, Mr. Kaufman. I’d offer you more, but the majority of the shares have already been taken up.”

“Can you just hold on while I consult one of my colleagues?”

“Of course, Mr. Kaufman.”

Saul placed the red phone back on his desk and picked up the black one. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Vaughan, but I must ask you once again, what time do you make it?”

“One minute to five.”

“Excellent. Would you now be kind enough to open your office door?”

Kaufman put the black receiver back down on his desk and picked up the red one. “My colleague is asking, if we were to invest the full two million, would that entitle us to a place on the board of the new company?”

“Most certainly,” said Sloane. “In fact, I could offer you two places, as you would own ten percent of the stock.”

“Allow me to consult my colleague again.” The red phone was placed back on the desk, and Kaufman picked up the black one.

“What did you find when you opened the door, Mr. Vaughan?”

“A messenger handed me an envelope containing a banker’s draft for one hundred and sixty-one thousand pounds.”

“The ten percent required to close the transaction. What time do you make it now, Mr. Vaughan?”

“Two minutes past five.”

“Then the deal is closed. And as long as I pay the remaining ninety percent within thirty days, Shifnal Farm is mine.”

“It most certainly is,” said Vaughan, unwilling to admit how much he was looking forward to telling Sloane that he’d lost the deal.

“Have a good weekend,” said Kaufman as he placed the black phone back on its cradle and returned to the red one.

“Mr. Sloane, I want to invest two million pounds in this most exciting project.” Kaufman wished he could see the look on Sloane’s face. “But unfortunately I couldn’t get my colleagues to agree with me, so sadly I’ll have to withdraw my offer. As you assured me the majority of the shares have already been taken up, I don’t suppose that will cause you too much of a problem.”

14

Sebastian didn’t tell Samantha the tactics Mr. Kaufman had resorted to in order to close the Shifnal Farm deal, because he knew she wouldn’t approve, even though it was Sloane who’d lost out. What he did tell her was that Kaufman had offered him a job.

“But I thought his bank didn’t have a property division.”

“It does now,” said Seb. “He’s asked me to set up my own department. Small transactions to begin with, but with a view to expanding, if I prove myself.”

“That’s wonderful news,” said Sam, giving him a hug.

“And it shouldn’t be too difficult to pick up good staff, since Sloane’s sacked my entire team, not to mention several others who’ve resigned, including Rachel.”

“Rachel?”

“She used to be Cedric’s secretary, but she only lasted a week under the new regime. I’ve asked her to join me. We start on Monday with a clean sheet. Well, not exactly a clean sheet, because Sloane sacked my assistant, and ordered him to remove everything from the office that even hinted of me, so he gathered up all the files I was working on, walked across to Cheapside, and handed them to me.”

“Is that legal?”

“Who gives a damn, when Sloane’s never going to find out?”

“Farthings Bank is not just Adrian Sloane, and you still have an obligation to it.”

“After the way Sloane treated me?”

“No, after the way Cedric treated you.”

“But that doesn’t apply to Shifnal Farm, because Sloane was working behind Cedric’s back on that deal.”

“And now you’re working behind his.”

“You bet I am, if it’s going to make it possible for us to buy a flat in Chelsea.”

“We shouldn’t be thinking about buying anything until you’ve paid off all your debts.”

“Mr. Kaufman has promised me a forty-thousand-pound bonus when the government makes its announcement, so I won’t have any debts then.”

“If the government makes an announcement,” said Sam. “Don’t start spending the money before you’ve got it. And even if you do pull the deal off, you’ll still owe Mr. Swann over eight thousand pounds, so perhaps we ought not to be thinking about moving quite yet.”

That was something else Seb decided he wasn’t going to tell Sam about.

Seb spent the next few weeks working hours that would have impressed even Cedric and, with the help of Rachel and his old team from Farthings, they were up and running far more quickly than Mr. Kaufman would have thought possible.

Seb wasn’t satisfied with just being reunited with his old customers, but like a marauding pirate he began to plunder several of Farthings’ other clients, convincing himself that it was no more than Sloane deserved.

It was about three months after he’d begun working at Kaufman’s that the chairman called him into his office.

“Did you read the Financial Times this morning?” he said, even before Seb had closed the door.

“Only the front page and the property section. Why?”

“Because we’re about to find out if Mr. Swann’s prediction is correct.” Seb didn’t interrupt Kaufman’s flow. “It seems the transport minister will be making a statement in the House at three o’clock this afternoon. Perhaps you and Victor should go along and hear what he has to say, then call and let me know if I’ve made or lost a fortune.”

As soon as Seb returned to his office, he called Uncle Giles at the Commons and asked if he could arrange a couple of tickets for the Strangers’ Gallery that afternoon, so he and a friend could hear the statement by the minister of transport.

“I’ll leave them in Central Lobby,” said Giles.

After he’d put the phone down, Giles studied the order paper, and wondered why Sebastian would be interested in a decision that would only affect a handful of people living in Shropshire.

Seb and Vic were seated in the fourth row of the Strangers’ Gallery long before the minister rose to deliver his statement. Uncle Giles smiled up at them from the government benches, still puzzled as to what would be in the statement that could possibly be of any interest to his nephew.

The two young bankers were sitting on the edge of the green leather bench when the Speaker called for the Secretary of State for Transport to deliver his statement to the House.

“Mr. Speaker,” the minister began, as he gripped the dispatch box, “I rise to inform the House which route has been selected by my department for the proposed motorway extension that will run through the county of Shropshire.”

If the word SILENCE hadn’t been displayed in bold on the wood-panelled walls, Seb would have leapt in the air when the minister referred to the outskirts of Shifnal, including Shifnal Farm, as a section of the route for the proposed new motorway.

Once the minister had dealt with several questions from local members, he resumed his place on the front bench to allow a debate on foreign affairs to begin.

Seb and Vic had no interest in whether the government intended to impose economic sanctions on South Africa, so they slipped quietly out of the Strangers’ Gallery, made their way downstairs to the central lobby, and out onto Parliament Square. That’s when Seb leapt in the air and screamed, “We did it!”

Samantha was reading the Guardian when a sleepy Sebastian appeared for breakfast the following morning.

“Where were you last night?” she asked. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”

“Vic and I were out celebrating. Sorry, I should have called to let you know.”

“Celebrating what?” asked Sam, but Seb didn’t answer as he helped himself to a bowl of cornflakes.

“Could it possibly be that Mr. Swann worked out that the new motorway would go straight through the middle of Shifnal Farm and, to quote the Guardian,” said Sam, looking down at the article in front of her, “make a small fortune for a handful of speculators?” She handed the newspaper to Seb, who only glanced at the headline.

“You have to understand,” said Seb between mouthfuls, “this means we’ll now have enough money to buy a house in Chelsea.”

“But will there be enough money left over for Mr. Swann to build his theatre in Shifnal?”

“That depends...”

“On what? You gave him your word that if the information he supplied turned out to be correct, you would pay him the £8,234 he needed to complete his theatre.”

“But I only earn four thousand a year,” protested Seb.

“And you’re about to be given a bonus of forty thousand.”

“On which I’ll have to pay capital gains tax.”

“Not on a charitable donation, you won’t.”

“But there was nothing in writing.”

“Seb, did you hear what you just said?”

“In any case,” added Seb quickly, “it’s Mr. Kaufman who will make the small fortune, not me.”

“And it was Mr. Kaufman who took the risk in the first place, and could have lost a small fortune. Whereas you had nothing to lose, and everything to gain.”

“You don’t understand—” began Seb.

“I understand only too well,” said Sam as Seb pushed his bowl aside and got up from the table.

“I ought to be going,” he said. “I’m already late, and I’ve got a lot to do today.”

“Like deciding how to spend the money Mr. Swann has made for you?”

He leaned down to kiss her, but she turned away.

“The truth is, you never had any intention of paying Mr. Swann, did you?”

Seb made no attempt to answer her question as he turned and walked quickly toward the door.

“Can’t you see that if you don’t pay Mr. Swann, you’ll be just as bad as Adrian Sloane?” said Sam with feeling.

Seb didn’t reply as he picked up his briefcase and hurried out of the flat without saying goodbye. Once he was safely out on the street, he hailed a taxi. As it made its way along City Road he began to wonder how long it would be before, like Saul Kaufman, he had his own car and driver. But his mind kept returning to Sam and her words: “you’ll be just as bad as Adrian Sloane.”

He would book a table for two at the Mirabelle tonight, when they would talk about anything but banking. During his lunch break he would visit Mr. Gard in Hatton Garden and buy that marcasite brooch. Then surely Sam would begin to appreciate the advantages of being engaged to Sebastian Clifton.

“Your usual table, Mr. Kaufman?”

Seb wondered how long it would be before the head waiter would say to him, “Your usual table, Mr. Clifton?”

Over lunch in the Grill Room, he told the chairman he’d already spotted one or two other properties whose sellers seemed unaware of their true value.

After a lunch at which he’d drunk a little too much, he took a taxi to Hatton Garden. Mr. Gard opened the safe and pulled out the third tray from the top. Seb was delighted to see it was still there: a Victorian marcasite brooch surrounded by diamonds that he was sure Sam would find irresistible.

In the taxi on his way back to Islington, he felt confident that over dinner at the Mirabelle, he could bring her around to his way of thinking.

When he put the key in the lock, his first thought was, we won’t be living here much longer, but when he opened the door, he was puzzled to find that all the lights were out. Could Sam be attending an evening lecture? The moment he switched on the light, he sensed that something was wrong. Something was missing, but what? He sobered up instantly when he realized that several personal objects, including the photograph of the two of them in Central Park, one of Jessica’s drawings, and Sam’s print of The Night Watch, were nowhere to be seen.

He rushed through to their bedroom and flung open the cupboards on Sam’s side of the bed. Empty. He looked under the bed, to find her suitcases were no longer there.

“No, no,” he screamed as he ran out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where he saw the envelope. It was propped up against a small red leather box and addressed to Sebastian. He tore it open and pulled out a letter that was written in her strong, bold hand.

Sebastian fell to his knees, the words of Sam’s father ringing in his ears. “Samantha sets standards, like your mother, that the rest of us normal mortals find hard to live with, unless, like your father, they’re guided by the same moral compass.”