Mightier than the Sword

24

“Did you ever make a complete fool of yourself when you were my age?” asked Sebastian as they sat drinking on the veranda.

“Not more than once a week, if my memory still serves me,” said Ross Buchanan. “Mind you, I’ve improved a little over the years, but not much.”

“But did you ever make such a huge mistake that you’ve regretted it for the rest of your life?” asked Seb, not touching the brandy by his side.

Ross didn’t reply immediately, because he knew only too well what Seb was referring to. “Nothing I haven’t been able to make amends for.” He took a sip of his whisky before adding, “Are you absolutely convinced you can’t win her back?”

“I’ve written to her several times, but she never replies. I’ve finally decided I’ll have to go to America and find out if she’d even consider giving me a second chance.”

“And there hasn’t been anyone else?” said Ross.

“Not in that way,” said Sebastian. “The occasional fling, too many one-night stands, but frankly Sam was the only woman I loved. She didn’t care if I was penniless. I stupidly did. Did you ever have that problem, Ross?”

“Can’t pretend I did. When I married Jean, I had twenty-seven pounds, two shillings, and four pence in my personal account, but then you weren’t allowed an overdraft if you worked as a clerk for the Aberdeen Shipping Company. So Jean certainly didn’t marry me for my money.”

“Lucky man. Why didn’t I learn from Cedric Hardcastle? A handshake should always be enough to close a deal.”

“Ah, I presume it’s Maurice Swann we’re now talking about.”

“You know about Mr. Swann?”

“Only from what Cedric told me. He was convinced that if you closed the Shifnal Farm deal, you’d keep your side of the bargain. So I must assume you didn’t?”

Seb bowed his head. “That’s why Sam left me. I lost her because I wanted to live in Chelsea, and I didn’t realize she couldn’t give a damn where we lived, as long as we were together.”

“It’s never too late to admit you’re wrong,” said Ross. “Just pray that Mr. Swann is still alive. If he is, you can be sure he’ll still be desperate to build his theatre. And Kaufman’s, is that enough for you?” asked Ross, changing the subject.

“What do you mean, is it enough?” asked Seb, picking up his brandy.

“It’s just that you’re the most ambitious young man I’ve ever come across and I’m not sure you’ll be satisfied until you become chairman of the bank.”

“Which bank?”

Ross laughed. “I’ve always assumed that it’s Farthings you’ve had your eye on.”

“You’re right, and I haven’t been idle. On Bob Bingham’s advice, I’ve been picking up shares for the past five years, always investing fifty percent of the commission I earn on any deal. I already own more than three percent of Farthings’ stock. Once I’ve got my hands on six percent, which shouldn’t be long now, I intend to take my place on the board and wreak havoc.”

“I wouldn’t be too confident about that, because you can be sure Adrian Sloane will have spotted you on his radar and, like a submarine, he’ll attack when you least expect it.”

“But what can he do to stop me? The bank’s statutes specify that any company or individual who owns six percent of the stock is automatically entitled to a place on the board.”

“Once you’ve acquired your six percent, he’ll simply rewrite the statutes.”

“Can he do that?”

“Why not? He appointed himself chairman while we were at Cedric’s funeral, so why wouldn’t he rewrite the bank’s statutes if it meant he could stop you getting on the board? Just because he’s a despicable man doesn’t mean he isn’t a clever one. But frankly, Seb, I think you’ve got a far bigger problem facing you on the home front.”

“At Kaufman’s?”

“No, at Barrington’s. I did warn your mother that if she allowed Desmond Mellor to become a director, it would end in tears. He’s been on the board for four years, and I’m sure you know he now wants to be deputy chairman.”

“He couldn’t make it more obvious,” said Seb. “But as long as my mother is chairman, he can forget it.”

“I agree, just so long as your mother is chairman. But surely you noticed that he’s already begun to park his tanks on your front lawn?”

“What are you talking about?”

“If you read this morning’s Financial Times, you’ll find tucked away under new appointments that Adrian Sloane has invited Mellor to become deputy chairman of Farthings. Now you tell me, what do those two have in common?”

This silenced Seb for the first time.

“An intense dislike of your family. But don’t despair,” continued Ross, “you still have a card up your sleeve that he’ll find hard to trump.”

“And what’s that?”

“Not what, who. Beryl Hardcastle and her fifty-one percent of Farthings’ stock. Beryl won’t consider signing any more documents sent by Sloane that haven’t been carefully scrutinized by her son first.”

“So what do you advise?”

“Once you’ve got six percent of the bank’s stock, you can park your tank on Sloane’s front lawn and cause havoc.”

“But if I were to get hold of Beryl Hardcastle’s fifty-one percent, I could park a whole army on Sloane’s front lawn, and he’d have no choice but to beat a hasty retreat.”

“Nice idea, as long as you know someone with the odd twenty million pounds to spare.”

“How about Bob Bingham?” said Seb.

“Bob’s a wealthy man, but I think you’ll find that’s even too much for him to consider.”

“Saul Kaufman?”

“In his present state of health, I suspect he’s a seller not a buyer.”

Seb looked disappointed.

“Try to forget taking over the bank for now, Seb. Concentrate on becoming a director and making Sloane’s life hell.”

Seb nodded. “I’ll go and see him as soon as I’m back from the States.”

“I think there’s someone else you should pay a visit to before you go to America.”

“What you have to appreciate, Sarah, is that although Macbeth is an ambitious man, Lady Macbeth is the key to him getting his hands on the crown. This was at a time when women’s rights didn’t exist, and her only hope of having any real influence in Scotland was to convince her weak, vacillating husband he should kill the king while he was a guest under their own roof. So I want to do that scene again, Sarah. Try to remember you’re a mean, conniving, evil piece of work, who’s trying to get her husband to commit murder. And this time, make sure you convince me, because if you do, you’ll convince the audience.”

Sebastian sat at the back of the hall and watched a group of enthusiastic young pupils rehearsing under the watchful eye of Mr. Swann. It was a pity that the stage was so small and cramped.

“Much better,” said Swann when they came to the end of the act. “That will do for today. Tomorrow, I want to start with the Banquo’s ghost scene. Rick, you must remember that Macbeth is the only person in the room who can see the ghost. Your guests at the dinner are fearful about what’s troubling you, some even think you’re losing your mind. And, Sarah, you’re trying to convince those same guests that all is well, and despite your husband’s strange behavior there’s nothing for them to worry about. And whatever you do, don’t ever look at the ghost, because if you should, even once, the spell will be broken. I’ll see you all at the same time tomorrow, and be sure you know your lines by then. After Monday, we abandon scripts.”

A groan went up as the actors left the stage and became school children once again, picking up their satchels and books and making their way out of the hall. It amused Seb to see Lady Macbeth clutching Banquo’s hand. No wonder Mr. Swann had told Sarah not to look at him during the ghost scene. Shrewd man.

Mr. Swann didn’t turn off the stage lights until he had all the props in place for the banquet scene. He then picked up his well-thumbed script, put in his old Gladstone bag, and headed slowly toward the door. At first he didn’t notice that someone was sitting at the back of the room, and he wasn’t able to hide his surprise when he saw who it was.

“We’re not doing Othello this year,” he said. “But if we were, I wouldn’t have to look far to cast Iago.”

“No, Mr. Swann, it’s Prince Hal you see before you, come on bended knee to beg forgiveness of the King, having made a dreadful mistake from which he may never recover.”

The old man stood still as Sebastian took out his wallet, extracted a check, and handed it over.

“But this is far more than we agreed on,” the former headmaster said, fumbling for words.

“Not if you still want those new dressing rooms, a proper curtain, and not to have to be satisfied with last year’s costumes.”

“Not to mention a separate changing room for the girls from Shifnal High,” said Swann. “But may I ask what you meant, Mr. Clifton, when you said you had made a dreadful mistake from which you may never recover?”

“It’s a long story,” said Seb, “and I’ll not bore you—”

“I’m an old man with time on my hands,” said Swann, sitting down opposite Seb.

Sebastian told Mr. Swann how he’d first seen Samantha at Jessica’s graduation ceremony and been struck dumb.

“I can’t imagine that happens to you too often,” said Swann with a smile.

“When I next met her, I’d recovered enough to ask her out to dinner. Not long after that I realized I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.” The old man knew when to remain silent. “But when she found out that I didn’t intend to honor my promise to you, she left me, and returned to America.” He paused. “I haven’t seen her since.”

“Then I would beg you not to make the same mistake I did when I was your age.”

“You made the same mistake?”

“Worse in a way. When I was a young man just down from university, I was offered a job teaching English at a grammar school in Worcestershire. I’d never been happier, until I fell in love with the headmaster’s eldest daughter, but didn’t have the courage to let her know.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve always been shy, especially around women, and in any case I was afraid the headmaster wouldn’t approve. It must sound silly now, but it was a different world in those days. I moved to another school and later learned that she had never married. I might have been able to live with that if just last year, when I attended her funeral, her younger sister hadn’t told me that I was her first and only love, but her father had told her she must do nothing unless I made my feelings known. What a fool I was. A moment wasted, to be followed by a lifetime of regret. Young man, be sure not to make the same mistake. Faint heart ne’er won a lady fair.”

“Robert Burns?” said Seb.

“There’s hope for you yet,” said Swann. With the help of his walking stick, the old man rose to his feet and took Seb by the arm. “Thank you for your generosity. I look forward to the honor of meeting Miss Sullivan.” He turned to face Seb. “Would you be kind enough to ask her, Mr. Clifton, if she would be willing to open the Samantha Sullivan Theatre?”

25

“Hi, revered parent, I’m thinking of going to America on business, and I wondered if—”

“You could sail on the Buckingham? Yes, of course, but don’t forget Bob Bingham’s rule about family members having to pay for their passage. If you can go next week, you could join your father. He’s off to New York to see his publisher.”

Sebastian flicked over a page of his diary. “I’ll have to rearrange a couple of meetings, but yes, that looks fine.”

“And what takes you to the States?”

“A business opportunity that Mr. Kaufman wants me to look into.”

The moment Seb put down the phone he felt guilty about not telling his mother the real reason for his trip, as he feared he could well be making a complete fool of himself — once again.

But he had no idea where Sam was living or how he could find out. He was considering the problem when Vic Kaufman walked into his office and took him by surprise.

“Have you noticed my dad repeating himself lately?”

“No, can’t say I have,” said Seb. “Saul’s occasionally a little forgetful, but he must be over seventy.”

“When he escaped from Poland he didn’t bring a birth certificate with him, but he once let slip that he could remember Queen Victoria’s funeral, so he must be nearer eighty. I have to admit I’m a bit worried, because if anything did happen to the old man, frankly, you’re not ready to take over yet, and I’m just not good enough.”

It had never crossed Seb’s mind that Saul Kaufman wouldn’t go on being chairman forever, and he certainly hadn’t considered taking over as chairman of the bank before Vic raised the subject.

Seb now had fourteen staff working for him, most of them older than himself, and his department was the third-largest income provider for the bank, not far behind foreign exchange and commodities.

“Don’t worry about it, Vic,” said Seb, trying to reassure him. “I’m sure your father’s got a few more miles left on the clock.”

However, at Seb’s weekly meeting with the chairman, Mr. Kaufman did ask, on three separate occasions, the name of the client they were representing on one particular land development deal, although Seb knew he’d done business with him on at least two occasions in the past.

Seb had spent so much of his spare time thinking about what was happening at another bank just a few streets away that it hadn’t crossed his mind that his future at Kaufman’s could not be taken for granted. He tried not to think about the worst-case scenario: the old man having to retire because of ill-health, Farthings making a takeover bid for Kaufman’s, and Seb having to write a second resignation letter to the new joint chairman of the two banks.

He even considered canceling his trip to the States, but he knew that if he didn’t leave by the last tide on Friday evening, he would never have the courage to go through with it.

Seb thoroughly enjoyed his father’s company on the five-day voyage to New York, not least because, unlike his mother, Harry didn’t spend his time asking endless questions Seb didn’t want to answer.

They always ate together in the evening, and sometimes at lunch. During the day, his father would lock himself in his cabin, leaving the Do Not Disturb sign on his door. He spent hour upon hour going over the final draft of his latest manuscript, which he would hand to Harold Guinzburg within an hour of the ship docking.

So when Seb was taking a brisk walk around the upper deck one morning, he was surprised to find his father reclining in a deck chair, reading his favorite author.

“Does that mean you’ve finished the book?” he asked as he sat down in the deck chair next to him.

“It does,” said Harry, putting down Beware of Pity. “Now all I have to do is deliver the manuscript to Harold and wait for his opinion.”

“Do you want mine?”

“On my book? No, but on another book, yes.”

“What book are we talking about?”

“Uncle Joe,” said Harry. “Harold has offered Mrs. Babakov a hundred-thousand-dollar advance for the world rights, against a fifteen-percent royalty, and I’m not sure what to advise her.”

“But is there a chance of anyone ever finding a copy of the book?”

“I used to think there was almost none, but Harold told me that Mrs. Babakov knows where a copy can be found. The only problem is, it’s in the Soviet Union.”

“Did she tell him where in the Soviet Union?”

“No. She said she’d only tell me, which is why I’m going on to Pittsburgh once I’ve seen Harold in New York.”

Harry was surprised by his son’s next question.

“Would a hundred thousand dollars be a large sum of money to Mrs. Babakov, or is she comfortably off?”

“She escaped from Russia without a penny, so it would change her whole life.”

“Then if you think Mr. Guinzburg’s offer is fair, my advice is she should accept it. Whenever I want to close a deal, I try to find out how much the other side needs the money, because that will always influence the way I think. If they are desperate for the money, I’m in the driver’s seat. If not...”

Harry nodded.

“However, there’s a caveat in this particular case. Because if you’re the only person she’s willing to tell where the book is hidden, you can be sure she’s also hoping that you’ll be the one who’ll go and pick it up.”

“But it’s in the Soviet Union.”

“Where you’re still persona non grata. So whatever you do, don’t make any promises.”

“I wouldn’t want to let her down.”

“Dad, I know it must be fun to take on the Soviet Empire single-handedly, but it’s only James Bond who always triumphs over the KGB. So can we return to the real world, because I also need some advice.”

“Mine?”

“No, Detective Inspector Warwick’s.”

“Why, are you planning to murder someone?”

“No, just looking for a missing person.”

“Which is why you’re going to the States.”

“Yes. But I don’t know where this person lives or how to find out.”

“I think you’ll find they have a record of her home address on this ship.”

“How’s that possible?”

“Because she traveled with us on the maiden voyage, and would have had to hand in her passport to the purser. So he’s almost certain to have her address on his files. It may be a long shot, as it’s several years ago, but at least it’s somewhere to start. In normal circumstances, I suspect he wouldn’t be willing to release personal information about another passenger, but as you’re a director of the company, and she was your guest on the trip, I imagine that won’t be a problem.”

“How did you know that my missing person was Samantha?”

“Your mother told me.”

“But I didn’t tell her.”

“Not in so many words. But I’ve learned over the years never to underestimate that woman. Mind you, when it’s personal, even she can make mistakes.”

“Like Desmond Mellor?”

“I would never have thought it possible that whoever replaced Alex Fisher could prove even more of a problem.”

“And there’s a big difference between Mellor and Fisher,” said Seb. “Mellor’s bright, which makes him far more dangerous.”

“Do you think he has any chance of becoming deputy chairman?”

“I didn’t, until Ross Buchanan convinced me otherwise.”

“Maybe that’s why Emma’s considering the nuclear option, and forcing Mellor to put his cards on the table.”

“Which table?”

“The boardroom table. She’s going to let him stand as her deputy, but she’ll oppose him and put up her own candidate. If he loses, he’ll have no choice but to resign.”

“And if she loses?”

“She’ll have to learn to live with it.”

“Who’s her candidate?”

“I assumed it must be you.”

“Not a chance. The board would always back Mellor against me, not least because of my age, and that would mean Mother would end up having to resign. Which, come to think of it, might even be part of Mellor’s long-term plan. I’m going to have to talk her out of it. And it’s not as if that’s her only problem at the moment.”

“If you’re referring to Lady Virginia and her libel claim, I think that’s no longer an issue.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I can’t, but we haven’t heard anything on that front for some time. In another twelve months your mother can apply to the courts to have the action struck off the list, but I’ve advised her against that.”

“Why?”

“When you come across a sleeping snake, don’t prod it with a sharp stick in the hope that it will go away, because it’s likely to wake up and bite you.”

“And that woman’s bite is venomous,” said Seb. “Mind you, I don’t even know why she’s suing mother in the first place.”

“I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”

The ship’s purser could not have been more helpful. He was able to supply Sebastian with an address for Miss Samantha Sullivan: 2043 Cable Street, Georgetown, Washington, DC, although he couldn’t be sure if she was still living there, as she hadn’t traveled on the ship since the maiden voyage. Seb hoped 2043 would turn out to be a small apartment where she lived alone or with one of her female colleagues.

He thanked the purser, walked up a couple of flights of stairs to the Grill Room, and joined his father for dinner. It wasn’t until the steward had cleared away the main course that Seb raised the subject of Virginia’s writ.

“Quite dramatic stuff, or at least we all thought so at the time,” said Harry, lighting a Havana cigar, which he couldn’t have purchased on an American ship. “Your mother was addressing the company’s AGM, and during questions from the floor Virginia asked if one of the directors of Barrington’s had sold all his shares with the intention of bringing down the company.”

“So how did Mother deal with the question?”

“She turned it to her advantage by asking if Virginia was referring to the three occasions on which Alex Fisher, her representative on the board, had sold and then bought back her own shares, while at the same time making a handsome profit.”

“But as that’s no more than the truth,” said Seb, “it’s hardly libel.”

“I agree, but your mother couldn’t resist prodding the snake with a very sharp stick by adding—” Harry put his cigar down, leaned back, and closed his eyes — “‘If it was your intention to bring the company down, Lady Virginia, you have failed, and failed lamentably, because you were defeated by decent ordinary people who want this company to succeed...’ no, no,” said Harry, correcting himself, “her exact words were, ‘to be a success.’ The audience cheered, and Virginia stormed out of the room shouting, ‘You’ll be hearing from my solicitor,’ and indeed we did. But that was some time ago, so let’s hope she’s been advised to drop the case and has slithered away into the undergrowth.”

“If she has, she’ll only be curled up waiting to strike again.”

On the last morning of the voyage, Seb joined his father for breakfast, but Harry hardly said a word. He was always the same just before handing in a manuscript to his publishers. The longest three days of his life, he once told Seb, were while he waited to hear Harold Guinzburg’s opinion of his latest work.

“But how can you be sure he’s being completely honest about how he feels when the last thing he would want is to lose you?”

“I don’t listen to a word he says about the book,” admitted Harry. “I’m only interested in the number of hardback copies he will print for the first impression. He can’t bluff that. Because if it’s over a hundred thousand this time, it means he thinks he’s got a number-one best seller.”

“And under a hundred thousand?” said Seb.

“Then he’s not so sure.”

Father and son walked down the gangway together just over an hour later. One of them was clinging onto a manuscript and heading for a publishing house in Manhattan, while the other took a cab to Penn Station armed with no more than an address in Georgetown.

26

Sebastian stood on the other side of the road clutching a large bunch of red roses. He stared at the front door of a small, single-story redbrick house. In front, a little square of grass that could have been cut with scissors, was surrounded by begonias. A swept path led up to a recently painted front door with a brass knocker that shone in the late morning sun. So neat, so tidy, and so Samantha.

Why was he fearless whenever he took on Adrian Sloane, or crossed swords with someone over a million-pound deal, when knocking on what might not even prove to be Sam’s front door filled him with apprehension? He took a deep breath, crossed the road, walked slowly up the path, and knocked tentatively on the door. When it opened, his immediate reaction was to turn and run. It had to be Sam’s husband.

“Can I help you?” the man asked, eyeing the roses suspiciously.

“Is Samantha in?” Seb asked, wondering if suspicion would quickly turn to anger.

“She hasn’t lived here for over a year.”

“Do you know where she’s moved?”

“No idea. Sorry.”

“But she must have left a forwarding address,” said Seb desperately.

“The Smithsonian,” the man replied, “that’s where she works.”

“Thanks,” said Seb, but the door had already closed.

This encounter made him feel a little bolder, and he quickly returned to the street and hailed the first passing cab. During the journey to the Smithsonian, he must have repeated to himself a dozen times, stop being so feeble and just get on with it. The worst she can do is...

When he got out of the cab, he found himself standing in front of a very different door: a massive glass panel that never seemed to remain closed for more than a few seconds at a time. He marched into the entrance hall. Three young women in smart blue uniforms were standing behind a reception desk, dealing with visitors’ queries.

Seb approached one of them, who smiled when she saw the roses. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Samantha Sullivan.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know that name, but then I only started last week,” she said, turning to a colleague who had just come off the phone.

“Samantha Sullivan?” she repeated. “You’ve just missed her. She left to pick up her daughter from school. She’ll be back at ten tomorrow.”

Daughter, daughter, daughter. The word rang in Seb’s ears like a discharged bullet. If only he’d known, he wouldn’t—

“Would you like to leave a message for her?”

“No, thank you,” he said, as he turned and headed back toward the door.

“You might still catch her at Jefferson Elementary,” said the voice behind him. “They don’t come out until four.”

“Thank you,” repeated Seb, as he pushed his way through the door, but he didn’t look back. He walked out of the building and went in search of another cab. One immediately drew up by his side. He climbed in and was about to say Union Station, but the words came out as “Jefferson Elementary School.”

The driver eased out into the afternoon traffic and tucked in behind a long line of cars.

“I’ll double whatever’s on the meter if you get me there before four.”

The driver switched lanes, ran the next light, and shot through gaps so tight that Seb had to close his eyes. They drew up outside a massive neo-Georgian brick building with four minutes to spare. Seb looked at the meter and handed the driver a ten-dollar bill. He got out of the cab and quickly disappeared behind several little pockets of chatting mothers waiting for their offspring to appear. Shielded by a tree, he checked out the mums one by one, searching for a face he recognized. But he didn’t see her.

At four o’clock, a bell rang and the doors opened to disgorge a gaggle of noisy young girls dressed in white shirts, crimson blazers, and gray pleated skirts, with school bags swinging by their sides. They ran down the steps and straight to their mothers, as if attracted by magnetism.

Sam looked carefully at the girls. They must have been around five, but how could that be possible when Sam had been in England less than six years ago? And then he saw his little sister charging down the steps. The same mop of wavy black hair, the same dark eyes, the same smile that he could never forget. He wanted to run to her and take her in his arms, but he remained frozen to the spot. She suddenly smiled in recognition, changed direction, and ran toward her mother.

Seb stared at the woman who, when he’d first met her, had struck him dumb. Once again he wanted to cry out, but once again he didn’t. He just stood and watched as the two of them climbed into a car and, like the other mothers and children, set off on their journey home. A moment later they were gone.

Seb stood there dazed. Why hadn’t she told him? He’d never felt sadder or happier in his life. He must win both their hearts, because he would sacrifice anything, everything, to be with them.

The crowd dispersed as the last few children were reunited with their mothers, until finally Seb was left standing on his own, still clutching the bunch of red roses. He crossed another road and entered another door in the hope of finding someone who could tell him where they lived.

He walked down a long corridor, past classrooms on either side that were decorated with pupils’ drawings and paintings. Just before he reached a door on which a sign announced Dr. Rosemary Wolfe, Headmistress, he stopped to admire a child’s painting of her mother. It could have been painted by Jessica twenty years ago. The same confident brushwork, the same originality. It was no different this time. Her work was in a different class from anything else on display. He recalled walking down another corridor when he was ten years old, experiencing exactly the same emotion — admiration, and a desire to know the artist.

“Can I help you?” said a stern-sounding voice.

Seb swung around to see a tall, smartly dressed woman bearing down on him. She reminded him of his aunt Grace.

“I was just admiring the paintings,” he said, somewhat feebly, hoping his exaggerated English accent would throw her off guard. Although she didn’t look like the kind of woman who was easily thrown off guard.

“And this one,” Seb added, pointing to My Mom, “is exceptional.”

“I agree,” she said, “but then Jessica has a rare talent... are you feeling all right?” she asked as Seb’s cheeks drained of their color and he staggered forward, quickly steadying himself against the wall.

“I’m fine, just fine,” he said, recovering his composure. “Jessica, you say?”

“Yes, Jessica Brewer. She’s the most accomplished artist we’ve seen at Jefferson Elementary since I’ve been headmistress, and she doesn’t even realize how talented she is.”

“How like Jessica.”

“Are you a friend of the family?”

“No, I knew her mother when she studied in England.”

“If you tell me your name, I’ll let her know you—”

“I’d rather not, headmistress, but I do have an unusual request.” The stern look reappeared. “I’d like to buy this picture and take it back to England, to remind me of both the mother and her daughter.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not for sale,” said Dr. Wolfe, firmly. “But I’m sure if you were to speak to Mrs. Brewer—”

“That’s not possible,” said Seb as he bowed his head.

The headmistress’s expression softened and she took a closer look at the stranger.

“I’d better be going,” said Seb, “or I’ll miss my train.” He wanted to run, but his legs were so weak he could hardly move. When he looked up to say goodbye, the headmistress was still staring at him.

“You’re Jessica’s father.”

Seb nodded as the tears welled up uncontrollably. Dr. Wolfe walked across, removed the picture from the wall, and handed it to the stranger.

“Please don’t let them know I was here,” he begged. “It will be better that way.”

“I won’t say a word,” said Dr. Wolfe, offering him her hand.

Cedric Hardcastle would have been able to do business with this woman; someone who didn’t need to sign a contract to keep her word.

“Thank you,” said Seb, handing her the flowers.

He left quickly, clutching the painting under his arm. Once he was outside, he walked and walked. How stupid he’d been to lose her. Doubly stupid. Like the bad cowboy in a B movie, he knew he had to get out of town, and get out fast. Only the sheriff could know he’d ever been there.

“Union Station,” he said as he climbed into the back of another cab. He couldn’t stop staring at My Mom, and would have missed the neon sign if he hadn’t happened to look up for a moment.

“Stop!” he shouted. The cab drew into the kerb.

“I thought you said Union Station. That’s another ten blocks.”

“Sorry, I changed my mind.” He paid the driver, stepped out onto the pavement, and stared up at the sign. This time he didn’t hesitate to walk into the building and straight up to the counter, praying that his hunch was right.

“Which department do you want, sir?” asked the woman standing there.

“I want to buy a photograph of a wedding that I’m sure your paper would have covered.”

“The photographic department is on the second floor,” she said, pointing toward a staircase, “but you’d better hurry. They’ll be closing in a few minutes.”

Seb bounded up the stairs three at a time and charged through some swing doors with PHOTOS stenciled on the beveled glass. On this occasion, it was a young man looking at his watch who was standing behind a counter. Seb didn’t wait for him to speak.

“Did your paper cover the Brewer and Sullivan wedding?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ll check.”

Seb paced back and forth in front of the counter, hoping, willing, praying. At last the young man reappeared carrying a thick folder.

“Seems we did,” he said, dumping the folder on the counter.

Seb opened the buff cover to reveal dozens of photographs and several press cuttings recording the happy occasion: the bride and groom, Jessica, parents, bridesmaids, friends, even a bishop, at a wedding at which he should have been the groom.

“If you’d like to choose a particular photo,” said the young man, “they’re five dollars each, and you can pick them up in a couple of days.”

“What if I wanted to buy every picture in the file. How much would that cost?”

The young man slowly counted them. “Two hundred and ten dollars,” he said eventually.

Seb took out his wallet, removed three hundred-dollar bills and placed them on the counter. “I want to take this file away now.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir. But as I said, if you come back in a couple of days...”

Seb extracted another hundred-dollar bill, and saw the look of desperation on the young man’s face. He knew the deal was all but closed. It was only a matter of how much.

“But I’m not allowed...” he whispered.

Before he could finish his sentence Seb placed another hundred-dollar bill on top of the other four. The young man glanced around to see that most of his colleagues were preparing to leave. He quickly gathered up the five bills, stuffed them in a pocket, and gave Seb a weak smile.

Seb grabbed the file, left the photo department, walked quickly back down the stairs, through the swing doors, and out of the building. He felt like a shoplifter, and continued running until he was sure he had escaped. At last he slowed down, caught his breath, and began to follow the signs to Union Station, the painting tucked under one arm, the folder under the other. He bought a ticket on the Amtrak express to New York, and a few minutes later climbed aboard the waiting train.

Sebastian didn’t open the folder until the train pulled out of the station. By the time he arrived at Penn Station, he couldn’t help wondering if, like Mr. Swann, he would regret not telling her for the rest of his life, because Mrs. Brewer had only been married for three months.

27

Harold Guinzburg placed the manuscript on the desk in front of him. Harry sat opposite him and waited for his verdict.

Guinzburg frowned when his secretary entered the room and put two steaming hot coffees and a plate of biscuits in front of them, and remained silent while she was in the room. He was clearly enjoying making Harry suffer a few more moments of torture. When the door finally closed behind her, Harry thought he would explode.

The suggestion of a smile appeared on Guinzburg’s face. “No doubt you’re wondering how I feel about your latest work,” he said, turning the screw one more notch.

Harry could have happily strangled the damn man.

“Shall we start by giving Detective Inspector Warwick a clue?”

And then buried him.

“A hundred and twenty thousand copies. In my opinion, it’s the best thing you’ve ever done, and I’m proud to be your publisher.”

Harry was so shocked that he burst into tears, and as neither of them had a handkerchief, they both started to laugh. Once they had recovered, Guinzburg spent some time explaining why he’d enjoyed William Warwick and the Time Bomb so much. Harry quickly forgot that he’d spent the previous two days endlessly walking the streets of New York agonizing over how his publisher would react. He took a sip of his coffee, but it had gone cold.

“May I now turn your attention to another author,” said Guinzburg, “namely Anatoly Babakov, and his biography of Josef Stalin.”

Harry placed his cup back on the saucer.

“Mrs. Babakov tells me that she’s hidden her husband’s book in a place where no one could possibly find it. Worthy of a Harry Clifton novel,” he added. “But, as you know, other than to confirm that it’s somewhere in the Soviet Union, you’re the only person she’s willing to tell the exact location.” Harry didn’t interrupt. “My own view,” continued Guinzburg, “is that you shouldn’t become involved, remembering the Communists don’t exactly consider you to be a national treasure. So if you do find out where it’s hidden, perhaps someone else should go and retrieve it.”

“If I’m not willing to take that risk myself,” said Harry, “then what was the point of all the years I’ve spent trying to get Babakov released? But before I decide, let me ask you one question. If I were able to lay my hands on a copy of Uncle Joe, what would be your first print run?”

“A million copies,” said Guinzburg.

“And you think it’s me who’d be taking a risk!”

“Don’t forget that Svetlana Stalin’s book, Twenty Letters to a Friend, was on the best-seller list for over a year and, unlike Babakov, she never once entered the Kremlin during her father’s reign.” Guinzburg opened a drawer of his desk and extracted a check for $100,000, made out to Mrs. Yelena Babakov. He handed it to Harry. “If you do find the book, she’ll be able to live in luxury for the rest of her life.”

“But if I don’t, or if it isn’t even there? You’ll have spent a hundred thousand dollars and will have nothing to show for it.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” said Guinzburg. “But then any half-decent publisher is a gambler at heart. Now let’s talk about more agreeable things. My beloved Emma, for example, and Sebastian. Not to mention Lady Virginia Fenwick. I can’t wait to hear what she’s been up to.”

Lunch with his publisher had gone on far too long and Harry only just made it to Penn Station in time to catch the Pennsylvania Flyer. During the first part of the journey to Pittsburgh, he went over every question Guinzburg wanted answered before he could part with his $100,000.

Later, as Harry dozed off, his mind drifted to his last conversation with Sebastian. He hoped his son could win Samantha back, and not just because he’d always liked her. He felt Seb had finally grown up, and that Sam would rediscover the man she’d fallen in love with.

When the train pulled into Union Station, Harry remembered that there was something he’d always wanted to do if he ever went to Pittsburgh. But there would be no time to visit the Carnegie Museum of Art, which Jessica had once told him housed some of the finest Cassatts in America.

He climbed into the back of a yellow cab and asked the driver to take him to Brunswick Mansions on the north side. The address had an air of middle-class gentility about it, but when they came to a halt twenty minutes later Harry discovered the reality was a decaying slum. The cab sped off the moment he had paid the fare.

Harry climbed the well-worn stone steps of a graffiti-covered tenement building. The Out of Order sign hanging from the lift door had a permanent look about it. He walked slowly up the stairs to the eighth floor and went in search of apartment number 86, which was on the far side of the block. Neighbors looked out from their doorways, suspicious of the smartly dressed man who must surely be a government official.

His gentle knock on the door was answered so quickly she must have been waiting for him. Harry smiled down at an old woman with sad, tired eyes and a deeply lined face. He could imagine just how painful her long separation from her husband must have been by the fact that although they were about the same age, she looked twenty years older than him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Clifton,” she said with no trace of an accent. “Please come in.” She guided her guest down a narrow, uncarpeted corridor into the living room, where a large photograph of her husband, hanging above a shelf of well-thumbed paperbacks, was the sole adornment on otherwise blank walls.

“Please sit down,” she said, gesturing toward one of the two chairs that were the only pieces of furniture in the room. “It was kind of you to make such a long journey to see me. And I must thank you for your gallant efforts to have my dear Anatoly released. You have proved an indefatigable ally.”

Mrs. Babakov talked about her husband as if he was late home from work and would appear at any moment, rather than serving a twenty-year prison sentence more than seven thousand miles away.

“How did you first meet Anatoly?” he asked.

“We both trained at Moscow’s Foreign Languages Institute. I ended up teaching English at a local state school, while Anatoly moved into the Kremlin soon after he won the Lenin Medal for coming top of his year. When we were first married, I thought we had everything, that we must have been blessed, we were so lucky, and by most people’s standards in Russia, we were. But that changed overnight when Anatoly was chosen to translate the chairman’s speeches so they could be used for propaganda purposes in the West.

“Then the chairman’s official interpreter fell ill, and Anatoly filled in. A temporary appointment, they told him, and how he wished it had been. But he wanted to impress the country’s leader, and he must have done so, because he was quickly promoted to become Stalin’s principal interpreter. You’d understand why, if you’d ever met him.”

“Wrong tense,” said Harry. “You mean I’ll understand why when I meet him.”

She smiled. “When you meet him. That was when his problems began,” she continued. “He became too close to Stalin, and although he was only an apparatchik, he began to witness things that made him realize what a monster Stalin was. The image presented to the people, of a kind, benevolent favorite uncle, could not have been further from the truth. Anatoly would tell me the most horrendous stories when he came back from work, but never in front of anyone else, even our closest friends. If he had spoken out, his punishment would not have been demotion, he would simply have disappeared like so many thousands of others. Yes, thousands, if they so much as raised an eyebrow in protest.

“His only solace was in his writing, which he knew could never be published until after Stalin’s death, and probably not until after his own death. But Anatoly wanted the world to know that Stalin was every bit as evil as Hitler. The only difference being that he’d got away with it. And then Stalin died.

“Anatoly became impatient to let the world know what he knew. He should have waited longer, but when he found a publisher who shared his ideals, he couldn’t stop himself. On the day of publication, even before Uncle Joe reached the shops, every copy was destroyed. So great were the KGB’s fears of anyone discovering the truth that even the presses on which Anatoly’s words had been printed were smashed to pieces. The next day he was arrested, and within a week he’d been tried and sentenced to twenty years’ hard labor in the gulag for writing a book that no one had ever read. If he’d been an American who’d written a biography of Roosevelt or Churchill, he would have been on every talk show, and his book would have been a best seller.”

“But you managed to escape.”

“Yes, Anatoly had seen what was coming. A few weeks before publication, he sent me to my mother’s in Leningrad and gave me every ruble he had saved, and a proof copy of the book. I managed to get across the border into Poland, but not until I’d bribed a guard with most of Anatoly’s life savings. I arrived in America without a penny.”

“And the book, did you bring it with you?”

“No, I couldn’t risk that. If I’d been caught and it had been confiscated, Anatoly’s whole life would have served no purpose. I left it somewhere they will never find it.”

The three men who had been waiting for her all rose as Lady Virginia entered the room. At last the meeting could begin.

Desmond Mellor sat opposite her, wearing a brown-checked suit that would have been more in place at a greyhound track. On his left was Major Fisher, dressed in his obligatory dark blue pinstriped double-breasted suit, no longer off-the-peg; after all, he was now a Member of Parliament. Opposite him sat the man who was responsible for bringing the four of them together.

“I called this meeting at short notice,” said Adrian Sloane, “because something has arisen that could well disrupt our long-term plan.” None of them interrupted him. “Last Friday afternoon, just before Sebastian Clifton traveled to New York on the Buckingham, he purchased another twenty-five thousand of the bank’s shares, taking his overall position to just over five percent. As I warned you some time ago, anyone in possession of six percent of the company’s stock is automatically entitled to a place on the board, and if that were to happen, it wouldn’t be long before he discovered what we’ve been planning for the past six months.”

“How much time do you think we’ve got?” asked Lady Virginia.

“Could be a day, a month, a year, who knows?” said Sloane. “All we do know for certain is that only needs another one percent to claim a place on the board, so we should assume sooner rather than later.”

“How close are we to getting our hands on the old lady’s shares?” inquired the major. “That would solve all our problems.”

“I have an appointment to see her son Arnold next Tuesday,” said Des Mellor. “Officially to seek his advice on a legal matter, but I won’t tell him my real purpose until he’s signed a nondisclosure agreement.”

“Why aren’t you making him the offer?” Virginia asked, turning to Sloane. “After all, you’re the chairman of the bank.”

“He’d never agree to do business with me,” said Sloane, “not after I got Mrs. Hardcastle to waive her voting rights on the day of her husband’s funeral. But he hasn’t come across Desmond before.”

“And once he’s signed the nondisclosure agreement,” said Mellor, “I’ll make him an offer of three pounds nine shillings a share for his mother’s stock — that’s thirty percent above market value.”

“Surely he’ll be suspicious? After all, he knows you’re a director of the bank.”

“True,” said Sloane, “but as the sole trustee of his father’s estate, it’s his responsibility to get the best possible deal for his mother, and at the moment, she’s living off her dividend which I’ve kept to the minimum for the past two years.”

“After I’ve reminded him of that,” said Mellor, “I’ll deliver the coup de grâce, and tell him that the first thing I intend to do is remove Adrian as chairman of the bank.”

“That should clinch it,” said the major.

“But what’s to stop him getting in touch with Clifton and simply asking for a better price?”

“That’s the beauty of the nondisclosure agreement. He can’t discuss the offer with anyone other than his mother, unless he wants to be reported to the Bar Council. Not a risk a QC would take lightly.”

“And is our other buyer still in place?” asked the major.

“Mr. Bishara is not only in place,” said Sloane, “but he’s confirmed his offer of five pounds a share in writing, and deposited two million pounds with his solicitor to show he’s serious.”

“Why is he willing to pay so much over the odds?” asked Lady Virginia.

“Because the Bank of England has recently turned down his application for a license to trade as a banker in the City of London, and he’s so desperate to get his hands on an English bank with an impeccable reputation that he doesn’t seem to mind how much he pays for Farthings.”

“But won’t the Bank of England object to what is obviously a takeover?” asked Fisher.

“Not if he keeps the same board in place for a couple of years, and I stay on as chairman. Which is why it’s so important that Clifton doesn’t find out what we’re up to.”

“But what happens if Clifton gets his hands on six percent?”

“I’ll also offer him three pounds nine shillings a share,” said Sloane, “which I have a feeling he won’t be able to resist.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Mellor. “I’ve noticed a change of attitude recently. He seems to be working to a completely different agenda.”

“Then I’ll have to rewrite that agenda.”

“The book is where a book should be,” said Mrs. Babakov.

“In a bookshop?” Harry guessed.

Mrs. Babakov smiled. “But no ordinary bookshop.”

“If you want to keep that secret, I’ll understand, especially if its discovery is likely to bring even greater punishment on your husband.”

“What greater punishment could there be? His last words as he handed me the book were, ‘I’ve risked my life for this, and would happily sacrifice it to know it had been published so that the world, and more important the Russian people, can finally be told the truth.’ So I only have one purpose left in life, Mr. Clifton, and that is to see Anatoly’s book published, whatever the consequences. Otherwise every sacrifice he’s made will have been in vain.” She grasped his hand. “You’ll find it in an antiquarian bookshop that specializes in foreign translations on the corner of Nevsky Prospekt and Bolshaya Morskaya Street in Leningrad,” she said, continuing to grasp Harry’s hand like a lonely widow clinging to her only son. “It’s on the top shelf in the farthest corner, between War and Peace in Spanish, and Tess of the d’Urbervilles in French. But don’t look for Uncle Joe, because I hid it in the dust jacket of a Portuguese translation of A Tale of Two Cities. I don’t think too many Portuguese visit that shop.”

Harry smiled. “And if it’s still there, and I’m able to bring it back, are you happy for Mr. Guinzburg to publish it?”

“Anatoly would have been proud to be—” She stopped, smiled again and said, “Anatoly will be proud to be published by the same house as Harry Clifton.”

Harry took an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to her. She opened it slowly and extracted the check. Harry watched to see her reaction, but she simply put the check back in the envelope and returned it to him.

“But surely Anatoly would have wanted you to—”

“Yes, he would,” she said quietly. “But it’s not what I want. Can you imagine the pain he suffers every day? So until he is released, I do not care to live in any degree of comfort. You, of all people, must understand that.”

They sat silently together in the little room, holding hands. As the shadows crept in Harry realized there was no light. She was determined to share her husband’s prison. She displayed such dignity that it was Harry who felt embarrassed. Finally, Mrs. Babakov stood.

“I’ve kept you far too long, Mr. Clifton. I will understand if you decide not to return to Russia, as you have much to lose. And if you do not, I make only one request: please say nothing, until I have found someone who is willing to carry out the task.”

“Mrs. Babakov,” Harry said, “if the book is still there, I will find it. I will bring it back, and it will be published.”

She embraced him and said, “I will of course understand if you change your mind.”

Harry felt both sad and exhilarated as he walked back down the eight flights of stairs to the now-deserted sidewalk. He had to walk for several blocks before he was able to hail a cab, and he didn’t notice the man following him, dodging in and out of the shadows, and occasionally taking a surreptitious photograph.

“Damn,” muttered Harry as the train pulled out of Union Station and began its long journey back to New York. He had been so preoccupied with meeting Mrs. Babakov, he’d quite forgotten to visit the Carnegie. Jessica would chastise him. Wrong tense. Jessica would have chastised him.