Mightier than the Sword

33

“What do i tell your father when he phones to ask me how the board meeting went?”

“The truth. He’ll expect nothing less.”

“But if I do, he’ll turn around and come straight back home.”

“Why, where is he?”

“At Heathrow, waiting to board a flight to Leningrad.”

“How unlike him to leave when—”

“It’s my fault. I told him we couldn’t possibly lose the vote, and he took my word for it.”

“And we wouldn’t have done if I’d arrived on time.”

“True enough. Perhaps it would have been more sensible if you’d come down the night before,” said Emma.

“And if you’d taken my advice, none of this would have happened,” snapped Seb.

Both of them remained silent for some time.

“How important is Dad’s trip to Leningrad?”

“Every bit as important as this morning’s vote was for me. He’s been preparing for it for weeks, and if he doesn’t go now, he won’t get another chance for a very long time, if ever. Anyway, he’s only going to be away for a couple of days.” She looked at her son. “Perhaps you could take the call when he phones.”

“And say what?” asked Seb. “If he asks me how the meeting went, I’ll have to tell him the truth otherwise he’ll never trust me again.” He brought the car to a halt outside the Manor House. “What time did you say he was likely to call?”

“His flight’s at four, so I suppose it will be some time around three.”

Seb looked at his watch. “Don’t worry, I’ll come up with something by then.”

Harry didn’t need to check in his luggage because he’d only brought an overnight bag. He knew exactly what he needed to do from the moment he landed and he would have more than enough time to fine-tune his plan on the long flight across the continent. If the impossible had happened and Emma had lost the vote, then it wouldn’t matter anyway, because he’d be taking the next train back to Bristol.

“This is the first call for all passengers on BOAC flight 726 to Leningrad. Would you please make your way to gate number three where the flight is now boarding.”

Harry strode across to the nearest phone booth, clutching a handful of coins. He dialed his home number and fed in enough money to allow him three minutes.

“Bristol 4313,” said a voice he recognized immediately.

“Seb, hi. What are you doing at home?”

“Helping Mum celebrate. I’ll go and get her so she can tell you the good news herself.”

“This is the second call for passengers traveling to Leningrad on BOAC flight number...”

“Hello, darling,” said Emma. “I’m so glad you called, because—” The line went dead.

“Emma, are you there?” There was no reply. “Emma?” he tried again, but there was still no response and he didn’t have enough coins left over to call a second time.

“This is the third and final call for passengers on BOAC flight 726 to Leningrad.”

Harry replaced the receiver, trying to recall Seb’s exact words — “Helping Mum celebrate. I’ll go and get her so she can tell you the good news herself.” When Emma had come on the line, she had sounded unusually cheerful. She must have won the vote, Harry concluded. Despite this, he hesitated for a moment.

“Would Mr. Harry Clifton please make his way to gate number three, as the gate is about to close.”

“What are we celebrating?” asked Emma.

“I don’t know,” said Seb, “but I’ll think of something by the time Dad gets back from Russia. But for now we have to concentrate on more immediate problems.”

“There’s not much we can do until the trial is over.”

“Mother, you must stop acting like a Girl Guide, and begin to think like Mellor and Knowles.”

“And what are they thinking at this moment?”

“That it couldn’t have gone better for them if they’d planned it. Not only did they get rid of you, but three of your most trusted lieutenants at the same time.”

“Three honorable men,” said Emma.

“Just like Brutus, and look where that got him.”

“I wish I’d still been in the boardroom when Admiral Summers—”

“You’re back in your Girl Guide uniform, Mother. Now snap out of it, and listen carefully. The first thing you must do is ring Admiral Summers, Bob Bingham, and Mr. Dixon, and tell them that under no circumstances are they to resign from the board.”

“But they walked out, Seb. Knowles and Mellor won’t give a damn why they did.”

“But I do give a damn, because I only care about the three votes we would sacrifice for the sake of a pointless gesture. If they were to remain on the board, with my vote, yours and Dobbs’s, we’d have six votes to their five.”

“But I won’t be in the chair again until after the trial. Have you forgotten that I stood down?”

“No, you didn’t. You just walked out of the meeting. So you can walk back in again, because if you don’t, you won’t be chairman after the trial, win or lose.”

“You’re a devious individual, Sebastian Clifton.”

“And as long as Mellor and Knowles don’t work that out, we’re still in with a chance. But first, you’ve got three calls to make. Because, believe me, Mellor and Knowles will only ever accept defeat if we win every vote.”

“Perhaps you should be chairman,” said Emma.

“All in good time, Mother. But what I need you to do now is get straight on the phone to Admiral Summers, because he’s probably already written his resignation letter. Let’s just hope he hasn’t posted it.”

Emma picked up the phone book and began flicking through the S’s.

“And if you need me for anything, I’ll be in the library making a long-distance call,” said Seb.

Adrian Sloane was standing in the entrance hall of Farthings Bank at five minutes to eleven. No one could remember the chairman ever coming down to meet a guest before.

Mr. Bishara’s Bentley drew up outside the bank four minutes later and a doorman rushed across to open the car’s back door. As Bishara and his two colleagues entered the building, Sloane stepped forward to greet him.

“Good morning, Mr. Bishara,” he said as they shook hands. “Welcome to your bank.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sloane. I’m sure you’ll remember Mr. Moreland, my lawyer, and Mr. Pirie, my chief accountant.”

“Of course,” said Sloane, shaking hands with both men. He then guided his guests toward a waiting lift as the staff burst into well-rehearsed applause to welcome their new president.

Bishara gave a slight bow and smiled at the three young porters who stood behind the reception desk. “That’s where I began my banking career,” he said to Sloane as he stepped into the lift.

“And now you’re about to become the owner of one of the City’s most respected financial institutions.”

“A day I have looked forward to for many years,” admitted Bishara. A statement that made Sloane feel even more confident that he could forge ahead with his change of plan.

“When we reach the executive floor we’ll go straight through to the boardroom, where the offer documents have been prepared and await your signature.”

“Thank you,” said Bishara, as he stepped out into the corridor. When he entered the boardroom, the bank’s eight directors rose as one and waited for him to take his place at the head of the table before they sat back down. A butler served Bishara with a cup of his favorite Turkish coffee, black and steaming hot, and two McVitie’s shortbread biscuits, also his favorite. Nothing had been left to chance.

Sloane took a seat at the other end of the table.

“On behalf of the board, Mr. Bishara, allow me to welcome you to Farthings Bank. With your permission, I will take you through the procedure for the exchange of ownership.”

Bishara took out his fountain pen, and placed it on the table.

“In front of you are three copies of the offer document, as approved by your lawyers. Both sides have made small emendations, but nothing of any real consequence.” Mr. Moreland nodded his agreement.

“I thought it might be helpful,” continued Sloane, “if I were to highlight the most important issues we have agreed on. You will become the president of Farthings Bank, and can nominate three directors to represent you on the board, one of whom will be appointed deputy chairman.”

Bishara smiled. They weren’t going to like who he had in mind for deputy chairman.

“I will remain as chairman for a period of five years, and the eight board members present here today will also have their contracts renewed for a further five years. And, finally, the sum agreed upon for the takeover is twenty-nine million eight hundred thousand pounds, which values each share at five pounds.”

Bishara turned to his lawyer, who handed him a banker’s draft for the full amount. He placed it on the table in front of him. The sight of it almost caused Sloane to change his mind.

“However,” said Sloane, “something has arisen in the past twenty-four hours that has made it necessary to make a small adjustment to the contract.”

Bishara could have been playing backgammon at the Clermont for all Sloane could tell from the expression on his face.

“Yesterday morning,” continued Sloane, “we had a call from a well-established City institution which offered us six pounds a share. In order to prove their credibility, they placed the full amount in escrow with their solicitors. This offer placed me and the board in a most invidious position, as we are no more than the servants of our shareholders. However, we held a board meeting earlier this morning and it was unanimously agreed that if you were able to match the offer of six pounds a share, we would dismiss the rival bid and honor our original agreement. We have therefore adjusted the offer document to show this change, and have entered the new figure of thirty-five million, seven hundred and sixty thousand pounds.” Sloane gave Bishara an ingratiating smile, and added, “Given the circumstances, I hope you will consider this an acceptable solution.”

Bishara smiled. “Firstly, Mr. Sloane, allow me to thank you for your courtesy in giving me this opportunity to equal the counterbid made by a third party.” Sloane smiled. “However, I must point out that we agreed on the sum of five pounds a share almost a month ago, and as I put down a deposit with my solicitors in good faith, this comes as something of a surprise.”

“Yes, I must apologize for that,” said Sloane. “But you will understand the dilemma I faced, remembering that we have a fiduciary duty to our stockholders.”

“I don’t know what your father did for a living, Mr. Sloane,” said Bishara, “but mine was a carpet trader in Istanbul, and one of the many things he taught me in my youth was that once a price had been agreed upon, coffee was served, and you then sat around for some time pretending to like each other; the equivalent of an Englishman’s handshake followed by lunch at his club. So my offer of five pounds a share is still on the table, and if you decide to take it up I will happily sign the agreement.”

All eight board members turned and looked at the chairman, willing him to accept Bishara’s offer. But Sloane simply smiled, convinced that the carpet trader’s son was bluffing.

“If that is your final offer, Mr. Bishara, I fear I will have to accept the counterbid. I only hope that we can part as friends.”

The eight directors turned their attention to the other end of the table. One of them was sweating.

“Clearly the morals of City bankers are not those I was taught sitting at my father’s feet in the bazaars of Istanbul. Therefore, Mr. Sloane, you have left me with no choice but to withdraw my offer.”

Sloane’s lips began to quiver as Bishara handed the banker’s draft back to his lawyer, rose slowly from his place, and said, “Good day, gentlemen. I wish you a long and successful relationship with your new owner, whoever that might be.”

Bishara left the boardroom flanked by his two advisors. He did not speak again until they were seated in the back of his Bentley, when he leaned forward and said to his driver, “Change of plan, Fred, I need to call Kaufman’s Bank.”

“Could you put me through to Dr. Wolfe,” said Seb.

“Who is calling?”

“Sebastian Clifton.”

“Mr. Clifton, how kind of you to call back. I only wish it were in happier circumstances.”

Seb’s legs gave way, and he collapsed into the chair behind his father’s desk, desperate to find out if anything had happened to Samantha or Jessica.

“Sadly,” continued Dr. Wolfe, “Samantha’s husband, Michael, recently suffered a stroke while on a flight from Chicago back to Washington.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“By the time they got the poor man to a hospital, he had lapsed into a coma. How differently things might have turned out if it had happened an hour earlier or an hour later. This all took place some weeks ago, and his doctors are not optimistic about his recovery. In fact, they have no way of knowing how long he will remain in his present state. But that was not the purpose of my call.”

“I’m guessing that it’s Jessica you called about, and not her stepfather.”

“You’re right. The truth is that medical bills in this country are quite horrendous, and although Mr. Brewer held a high-ranking post in the State Department and was well covered by his health insurance, the expense of the around-the-clock nursing his condition requires has resulted in Samantha deciding to withdraw Jessica from Jefferson Elementary at the end of this term, as she can no longer afford our fees.”

“I’ll cover them.”

“That is most generous of you, Mr. Clifton. However, I should tell you that our fees are fifteen hundred dollars a semester, and Jessica’s extracurricular activities last semester came to a further three hundred and two dollars.”

“I’ll wire you two thousand dollars immediately, and then perhaps you’ll be kind enough to bill me at the end of every semester. However, that is on condition that neither Samantha nor Jessica ever finds out that I’m involved in any way.”

“I had a feeling you might say that, Mr. Clifton, and I think I’ve come up with a strategy that would protect your anonymity. If you were to endow an art scholarship with an annual donation of, say, five thousand dollars, it would then be up to me to select which pupil should be the beneficiary.”

“A nice solution,” said Seb.

“I feel sure your English master would have approved of your correct use of the word nice.”

“My father, actually,” said Seb. “Which reminds me, when my sister needed canvases, paints, drawing paper, brushes, or even pencils, my father always made sure they were of the highest quality. He used to say it mustn’t be our fault if she didn’t succeed. I want the same for my daughter. So if five thousand isn’t enough, Dr. Wolfe, don’t hesitate to give her anything she needs and I’ll cover the extra costs. But I repeat, neither mother nor daughter must ever find out who made this possible.”

“It won’t be the first secret of yours I’ve kept, Mr. Clifton.”

“I apologize,” said Seb, “and also for my next question. When do you retire, Dr. Wolfe?”

“Not long after your daughter will have won the Hunter Prize Scholarship to the American College of Art, which will be a first for Jefferson Elementary.”

34

Harry was checking his traveler’s checks when the stewardess began her final round, making sure the first-class passengers had fastened their seat belts as the plane began its descent into Leningrad.

“Excuse me,” said Harry. “Do you know when your next flight back to London is?”

“This aircraft has a four-hour turnaround, and is scheduled to return to London at nine ten this evening.”

“That’s a bit rough on you, isn’t it?”

“No,” she said, suppressing a smile. “We always have a stopover in Leningrad. So if you were to return on this evening’s flight, you’d be served by a completely different crew.”

“Thank you,” said Harry. “That’s most helpful.” He looked out of the cabin window to watch Tolstoy’s favorite city looming larger by the second, although he suspected the great author would have been appalled by its change of name. As he heard the hydraulics lowering the wheels into place he wondered if there would be enough time for him to carry out his shopping spree and be back on board before the cabin door was locked.

When the wheels touched the ground, Harry felt a surge of adrenalin he’d only previously experienced when he’d been behind enemy lines during the war. He sometimes forgot that was nearly thirty years ago, when he was a stone lighter and a whole lot nimbler. Well, at least this time he wouldn’t be expected to face a regiment of Germans advancing toward him.

After leaving Mrs. Babakov, he had committed everything she had said to memory. He hadn’t written anything down for fear of someone discovering what he had planned. He had told no one other than Emma the real reason he was visiting Leningrad, although Giles had worked out that he must be going there to collect the book — although “collect” was the wrong verb.

As the plane bumped along the potholed runway he estimated that it would be at least an hour before he cleared customs and was able to convert some sterling into the local currency. In fact, it took an hour and fourteen minutes, despite his only having an overnight bag and exchanging ten pounds for twenty-five rubles. He then had to join the end of a long taxi queue, because the Russians hadn’t quite got the hang of free enterprise.

“The corner of Nevsky Prospekt and Bolshaya Morskaya Street,” he instructed the driver in his native tongue, hoping he would know where it was. All those hours learning Russian, when in truth he would only need a few well-honed phrases, as he intended to be on his way back to England in a few hours, mission completed, as his old commanding officer would say.

During the drive into the city they passed the Yusupov Palace, when Harry’s thoughts turned to Rasputin. The arch manipulator might have enjoyed his little subterfuge. Harry only hoped he wouldn’t end up being poisoned, wrapped in a carpet and then dropped through an ice-hole in the Malaya Nevka river. Harry realized that if he was going to be back at the airport in time to board the 21:10 to Heathrow, he would only have twenty or thirty minutes to spare. But that should be more than enough.

The taxi driver stopped outside an antiquarian bookshop and pointed to the meter. Harry took out a five-ruble note and handed it to him.

“I don’t expect to be long, so would you be kind enough to wait?”

The driver pocketed the note and gave him a curt nod.

The moment Harry stepped inside the shop, he could see why Mrs. Babakov had chosen this particular establishment in which to secrete her treasure. It was almost as if they didn’t want to sell anything. An elderly woman was seated behind the counter, her head in a book. Harry smiled at her, but she didn’t even look up when the bell rang above the door.

He took a couple of books down from a nearby shelf and pretended to peruse them as he edged his way slowly to the back of the shop, his heart beating a little faster with each step he took. Would it still be there? Had someone already bought it, only to discover when they got home that they’d got the wrong book? Had another customer captured the prize and destroyed Uncle Joe for fear they might be caught with it? He could think of a dozen reasons why the three-thousand-mile round trip could turn out to be a wasted journey. But for the moment, hope still triumphed over expectation.

When he finally reached the bookcase on which Mrs. Babakov had said she’d hidden her husband’s work, he closed his eyes and prayed. He opened his eyes to find that Tess of the d’Urbervilles was no longer in its place; just a gap covered with a thin layer of dust between A Tale of Two Cities and Daniel Deronda. Mrs. Babakov had made no mention of Daniel Deronda.

He glanced back toward the counter, to see the old woman turning a page. Standing on tiptoe, he stretched up and eased A Tale of Two Cities off the top shelf, accompanied by a shower of dust that sprinkled down on him. When he opened it, he thought he might have a heart attack, because it was not a copy of Dickens’s work but a slim volume by Anatoly Babakov.

Not wishing to draw attention to his prize, he took two other novels from the same shelf, Greenmantle by John Buchan and Jamaica Inn by Daphne du Maurier, and pretended to browse as he made his way slowly toward the counter. He almost felt guilty interrupting the old woman as he placed the three books on the counter in front of her.

She opened each of them in turn and checked the prices. Mrs. Babakov had even penciled in the price. If she’d turned one more page, he would have been caught. She didn’t. Using her fingers as an adding machine, she said, “Eight rubles.”

Harry handed her two five-ruble notes, having been warned when he was in Moscow for the conference that shopkeepers had to report anyone who attempted to purchase goods with foreign currency and, more important, that they were to refuse the sale and confiscate the money. He thanked her as she handed him his change. By the time he left the shop, she’d turned another page.

“Back to the airport,” said Harry as he climbed into the waiting taxi. The driver looked surprised, but swung obediently around and set out on the return journey.

Harry opened the book once again to check that it hadn’t been an illusion. The thrill of the chase was replaced by a feeling of triumph. He turned to the first page and began reading. All those hours spent studying Russian were finally proving worthwhile. He turned the page.

An early evening traffic jam meant the journey back to the airport took far longer than he’d originally anticipated. He began to check his watch every few minutes, fearful that he might miss the plane. By the time the taxi dropped him at the airport, he had reached chapter seven and the death of Stalin’s second wife. He handed another five rubles to the driver and didn’t wait for the change, but ran into the airport and followed the signs for the BOAC counter.

“Can you get me on the nine ten back to London?”

“First or economy?” asked the booking clerk.

“First.”

“Window or aisle?”

“Window, please.”

“Six A,” she said, handing him a ticket.

It amused Harry that he would be flying back in the same seat he’d occupied for the incoming flight.

“Do you have any luggage to check in, sir?”

“No, just this,” he said, holding up his bag.

“The flight is due to take off shortly, sir, so it might be wise to make your way through to customs.”

Harry wondered how many times a day she delivered that particular line. He was happy to obey her suggestion and, as he passed a bank of telephones, his thoughts turned to Emma and Mrs. Babakov, but he would have to wait until he was back in London before he could tell them the news.

He was only a couple of strides away from passport control when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He turned to find two heavily built young policemen standing on either side of him.

“Would you come with me,” said one of the officers, confident that Harry spoke Russian.

“Why?” asked Harry. “I’m on my way back to London and I don’t want to miss my flight.”

“We just need to check your bag. If there are no irregularities, you’ll have more than enough time to catch your flight.”

Harry prayed they were looking for drugs, cash, or contraband, as they gripped him firmly by the arm and led him away. He considered making a dash for it. Perhaps twenty years ago...

The policemen stopped outside an unmarked door, unlocked it, and shoved Harry inside. The door slammed behind him and he heard a key turning in the lock. He looked around the room. A small table, two chairs, and no windows. Nothing on the walls other than a large black and white photograph of Comrade Brezhnev, chairman of the party.

Moments later, he heard the key turning in the lock again. Harry already had half a story prepared about having come to St. Petersburg to visit the Hermitage. The door opened and a man entered. The sight of this tall, elegantly dressed officer caused Harry to feel apprehensive for the first time. He was wearing a dark green uniform with three gold stars on his epaulets and too many medals on his chest to suggest that he might be easily intimidated. Two very different men followed him in, whose appearance seemed to disprove Darwin’s theory of evolution.

“Mr. Clifton, my name is Colonel Marinkin and I am the officer in charge of this investigation. Please open your bag.” Harry unzipped the bag and stood back. “Place all the contents on the table.”

Harry took out his wash bag, a pair of pants, a pair of socks, a cream shirt, just in case he had to stay overnight, and three books. The colonel only seemed interested in the books, which he studied for a few moments before placing two of them back on the table.

“You may pack your bag, Mr. Clifton.”

Harry let out a long sigh as he returned his belongings to the bag. At least the whole exercise hadn’t been a complete waste of time. He knew the book existed, and he’d even read seven chapters, which he would write out on the plane.

“Are you aware of what this book is?” asked the colonel, holding it up.

“A Tale of Two Cities,” said Harry, “among my favorites but not considered to be Dickens’s masterpiece.”

“Don’t play games with me,” said Marinkin. “We are not the complete fools you arrogant English take us for. This book, as you well know, is Uncle Joe by Anatoly Babakov, which you have been trying to get hold of for some years. Today you almost succeeded. You planned everything down to the finest detail. First you visit Mrs. Babakov in Pittsburgh to learn where she had hidden the book. On returning to Bristol, you brush up on your Russian, even impressing your tutor with your grasp of our language. You then fly to Leningrad just a few days before your visa is due to expire. You enter the country carrying only an overnight bag, the contents of which suggest you didn’t plan even to stay overnight, and you change just ten pounds into rubles. You ask a taxi driver to take you to an obscure antiquarian bookshop in the center of the city. You purchase three books, two of which you could have picked up in any bookshop in England. You ask the driver to take you back to the airport and you check yourself in on the next flight home, even the same seat. Who do you imagine you’re fooling? No, Mr. Clifton, your luck has run out, and I am placing you under arrest.”

“On what charge?” asked Harry. “Buying a book?”

“Save it for the trial, Mr. Clifton.”

“Would those passengers traveling to London on BOAC flight number...”

“There’s a Mr. Bishara on line three,” said Rachel. “Shall I put him through?”

“Yes,” said Seb, then placed a hand over the mouthpiece and asked his two colleagues if they could leave him for a few minutes.

“Mr. Clifton, I think it’s time we had another game of backgammon.”

“I’m not sure I can afford it.”

“In exchange for a lesson, I ask for nothing more than information.”

“What do you need to know?”

“Have you ever come across a man by the name of Desmond Mellor?”

“Yes, I have.”

“And your opinion of him?”

“On a scale of one to ten? One.”

“I see. And what about a Major Alex Fisher MP?”

“Minus one.”

“Do you still own six percent of Farthings Bank?”

“Seven percent, and those shares are still not for sale.”

“That’s not why I asked. Shall we say ten o’clock tonight at the Clermont?”

“Could we make it a little later? I’m taking my aunt Grace to see Death of a Salesman at the Aldwych, but she always likes to catch the last train back to Cambridge, so I could be with you around eleven.”

“I’m delighted to be stood up in favor of your aunt, Mr. Clifton. I look forward to seeing you at eleven at the Clermont — where we can discuss Death of a Salesman.”

35

“Arrogance and greed is the answer to your question,” spat out Desmond Mellor. “You had a banker’s draft, cash in hand, but you still weren’t satisfied. You wanted more, and because of your stupidity, I’m facing bankruptcy.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad, Desmond. After all, you still own fifty-one percent of Farthings, not to mention your other considerable assets.”

“Let me spell it out for you, Sloane, so you’re not under any illusions as to what I’m up against and, more important, what I expect you to do about it. I purchased, on your advice, fifty-one percent of the bank’s stock from Arnold Hardcastle, at a price of three pounds nine shillings a share, which cost me just over twenty million pounds. In order to raise that sum, I had to borrow eleven million from my bank, using the shares, all my assets including two homes, as well as having to sign a personal guarantee. Farthings’ shares are on the market this morning at two pounds eleven shillings, which means I’m showing a shortfall of over five million pounds, for a deal you said we couldn’t lose on. It’s just possible I may avoid going bankrupt, but I’ll certainly be wiped out if I have to put my shares on the market now. Which, I repeat, is because of your arrogance and greed.”

“That isn’t entirely fair,” said Sloane. “At the board meeting last Monday, we all agreed, you included, to put the asking price up to six pounds.”

“True, but the carpet trader’s son called your bluff. He was still willing to go ahead at five pounds a share, which would have got me off the hook and provided us all with a handsome profit. So the least you can do is buy my shares for three pounds and nine shillings, and get me out of a situation you’re responsible for.”

“But as I’ve already explained, Desmond, much as I’d like to help, what you’re suggesting would be breaking the law.”

“That didn’t seem to worry you when you told Bishara that you had a bid of six pounds on the table from a ‘well-established City institution,’ when no such third party existed. I think you’ll find that’s also against the law.”

“I repeat, we all agreed—”

The phone on Sloane’s desk began to ring. He pressed the intercom and barked, “I told you, no interruptions.”

“It’s Lady Virginia Fenwick, and she says it is urgent.”

“I can’t wait to hear what she’s got to say,” said Mellor.

“Good morning, Lady Virginia,” said Sloane, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. “How nice to hear from you.”

“You may not feel that way when you know why I’m calling,” said Virginia. “I’ve just received a pretrial invoice from my solicitors for twenty thousand pounds that has to be settled before the first day of proceedings. You will recall, Adrian, giving me your word that you would cover the costs of my trial. Pennies, in the grand scheme of things, if I remember your words correctly.”

“I did indeed say that, Lady Virginia. But you will also remember that the offer depended on the successful outcome of our negotiations with Mr. Bishara, so I’m afraid—”

“But Major Fisher tells me you only have yourself to blame for that remarkable lack of judgement. You may take this as you wish, Mr. Sloane, but if you do not keep your word and cover my legal costs, let me warn you that I am not without influence in the City...”

“Are you threatening me, Lady Virginia?”

“As I said, Mr. Sloane, you may take it as you wish.”

Virginia slammed down the phone and turned to Fisher. “I’ll give him a couple of days to come up with the twenty thousand, otherwise—”

“That man won’t part with a penny unless you have a written agreement, and perhaps not even then. It’s the way he treats everyone. He promised me a place on the board of Farthings but since the Bishara deal fell through, I haven’t heard a word from him.”

“Well, I can promise you that he won’t be working in the City for much longer if I have anything to do with it. But I’m sorry, Alex, I’m sure that wasn’t the reason you wanted to see me.”

“No, it wasn’t. I thought you ought to know that I was issued with a subpoena this morning from Mrs. Clifton’s solicitors, putting me on notice that they intend to call me as a witness at your trial.”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” said Seb as he climbed on to the barstool. “When we came out of the theatre, it was raining, and I couldn’t find a taxi, so I had to drive my aunt to Paddington to make sure she didn’t miss the last train.”

“Worthy of a boy scout,” said Bishara.

“Good evening, sir,” said the barman. “Campari and soda?”

Seb was impressed, as he’d only visited the club once before. “Yes,” he replied, “thank you.”

“And what does your aunt do in Cambridge?” asked Bishara.

“She’s an English don at Newnham, the family’s bluestocking. We’re very proud of her.”

“You’re so unlike your fellow Englishmen.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Seb as a Campari and soda was placed in front of him.

“You treat everyone as an equal, from the barman to your aunt, and you don’t patronize foreigners, like myself. So many Englishmen would have said, my aunt teaches English at Cambridge University, but you took it for granted that I knew what a don is, that Newnham is one of the five women’s colleges at Cambridge, and that a bluestocking is a girl who aspires to learning. Unlike that patronizing idiot Adrian Sloane, who, because he went to Harrow, thinks he’s well educated.”

“I get the impression you dislike Sloane almost as much as I do.”

“Possibly more, after his latest con trick when he tried to sell me his bank.”

“But it’s not his bank to sell. At least not as long as Cedric Hardcastle’s widow still owns fifty-one percent of the stock.”

“But she doesn’t any longer,” said Bishara. “Desmond Mellor has recently purchased all her shares.”

“That’s not possible,” said Seb. “Mellor’s a wealthy man, but he’s not in that league. He’d need twenty million before he could get his hands on fifty-one percent of Farthings’ stock, and he doesn’t have that sort of money.”

“Could that be the reason the man who was sweating when I was in the Farthings boardroom wants to see me?” said Bishara, almost as if he was speaking to himself. “Has Mellor overstretched himself, and now that my offer is no longer on the table, does he need to off-load his shares?”

“What offer?” said Seb, not touching his drink.

“I agreed to pay five pounds a share for what must have been Arnold Hardcastle’s stock, or to be more accurate, his mother’s. I was just about to sign the contract when Sloane decided to raise the price to six pounds. So I withdrew my offer, packed up my tent, gathered up my camels, and headed back into the desert.”

Seb laughed. “But at five pounds he and Mellor would both have made a small fortune.”

“That’s my point, Mr. Clifton. You would have honored the deal, not tried to change the price at the last moment. But Sloane only thinks of me as a carpet trader he can take advantage of. But if I can get two questions answered before I see Mellor tomorrow, I could still take over Farthings and, unlike Sloane, I would welcome you onto the board.”

“What do you need to know?”

“Was it Mellor who purchased Mrs. Hardcastle’s shares and, if so, how much did he pay for them?”

“I’ll give Arnold Hardcastle a call first thing in the morning. But I must warn you, he’s a lawyer by profession, and although he hates Sloane almost as much as I do, he would never compromise a client’s confidentiality. But that won’t stop me trying. What time’s your meeting with Mellor?”

“Twelve o’clock, at my office.”

“I’ll ring you as soon as I’ve spoken to Arnold Hardcastle.”

“Thank you,” said Bishara. “Now on to more important matters. Your first lesson in the dubious art of backgammon. One of the few games you English didn’t invent. The most important thing to remember about backgammon is that it’s all about percentages. As long as you can calculate the odds after each throw of the dice, you can never be beaten by an inferior opponent. Luck only comes into the equation when two players are equal.”

“Not unlike banking,” said Seb as the two men took their seats on opposite sides of the board.

When Harry opened his eyes, he had such a splitting headache that it was some time before he could focus. He tried to raise his head but he didn’t have the strength. He lay still, feeling as if he was coming around after an anesthetic. He opened his eyes again and looked up at the ceiling. A concrete block with several cracks in it, one producing a slow drip of water, like a tap that hadn’t been properly turned off.

He turned his head slowly to his left. The condensation on the wall was so close that he could have touched it if he hadn’t been handcuffed to the bed. He turned the other way, to see a door with a square window in it, through which he could, like Alice, have escaped if there hadn’t been three iron bars across it, and two guards standing on the other side.

He tried to move his feet, but they were also clamped to the bed. Why such precautions for an Englishman who had been caught with a banned book? Although the first seven chapters had been fascinating, he sensed that he hadn’t yet discovered the real reason every copy had been destroyed, which only made him even more determined to read the remaining fourteen chapters. They might also explain why he was being treated as if he were a double agent or a mass murderer.

Harry had no way of knowing how long he’d been in the cell. His watch had been removed, and he couldn’t even be sure if it was night or day. He started singing “God Save the Queen,” not as an act of defiant patriotism but more because he wanted to hear the sound of his own voice. Actually, if you’d asked him, Harry would have admitted he preferred the Russian national anthem.

Two eyes peered through the bars but he ignored them and continued singing. Then he heard someone shouting a command, and moments later the door swung open and Colonel Marinkin reappeared, accompanied by his two Rottweilers.

“Mr. Clifton, I must apologize for the state of your accommodation. It’s just that we didn’t want anyone to know where you were before we released you.”

The words “released you” sounded to Harry like Gabriel’s horn.

“Let me assure you, we have no desire to keep you any longer than necessary. Just some paperwork to complete, and a statement for you to sign, and then you can be on your way.”

“A statement? What kind of statement?”

“More of a confession,” admitted the colonel. “But once you’ve signed it, you’ll be driven back to the airport and be on your way home.”

“And if I refuse to sign it?”

“That would be remarkably foolish, Mr. Clifton, because you would then face a trial at which the charge, the verdict, and the sentence have already been decided. You once described a show trial in one of your books. You will be able to give a much more accurate portrayal when you write your next novel—” he paused — “in twelve years’ time.”

“What about the jury?”

“Twelve carefully selected party workers, whose vocabulary only needs to stretch to the word guilty. And just to let you know, your current accommodation is five-star compared to where you would be going. No dripping ceilings, because the water is frozen night and day.”

“You’ll never get away with it.”

“You’re so naïve, Mr. Clifton. You have no friends in high places here to take care of you. You are a common criminal. There will be no solicitor to advise you, and no QC to argue your case in front of an unbiased jury. And unlike America, there is no jury selection, and we don’t even have to pay the judges to get the verdict we want. I will leave you to consider your options, but in my opinion, it is a simple choice. You can fly back to London, first class on BOAC, or take a cattle train to Novaya Uda that only has straw class, and which I’m afraid you’d have to share with several other animals. And I feel I should warn you, it’s a prison from which no one has ever escaped.”

Wrong, thought Harry, as he recalled from chapter three of Uncle Joe that it was the jail Stalin was sent to in 1902, and from which he had escaped.

36

“How are you, my boy?”

“Well, thank you, Arnold. And you?”

“Never better. And your dear mother?”

“Preparing herself for next week’s trial.”

“Not a pleasant experience to have to go through, especially when there’s so much at stake. Talk in chambers is that it’s too close to call, but the odds are shortening on your mother, as nobody thinks Lady Virginia will endear herself to the jury. She’ll either patronize them, or insult them.”

“I was rather hoping both.”

“Now, why are you calling, Sebastian, because I usually charge by the hour, not that I’ve started the clock yet.”

Seb would have laughed, but he suspected Arnold wasn’t joking. “Word in the City is that you’ve sold your shares in Farthings Bank.”

“Mother’s shares, to be accurate, and only after I was made an offer that it would have been extremely foolish to turn down. Even then I only agreed when I was assured that Adrian Sloane would be removed as chairman, and Ross Buchanan would take his place.”

“But that’s not going to happen,” said Seb. “Sloane’s representative lied to you, and I can prove it if you felt able to answer a couple of questions.”

“Only if they don’t involve a client I represent.”

“Understood,” said Seb, “but I hoped you’d be able to tell me who bought your mother’s shares and how much he paid for them.”

“I can’t answer that, as it would break client confidentiality.” Seb was about to curse when Arnold added, “However, were you to suggest the name of Sloane’s representative, and were I to remain silent, you could draw your own conclusions. But, Sebastian, let me make it clear, one name and one name only. This is not a raffle.”

“Desmond Mellor.” Seb held his breath for several seconds, but there was no response. “And is there any chance you’ll let me know how much he paid for the shares?”

“Under no circumstances,” said Arnold firmly. “And now I must dash, Seb. I’m off to see my mother in Yorkshire, and if I don’t leave immediately I’ll miss the 3:09 to Huddersfield. Do give your mother my kindest regards and wish her luck for the trial.”

“And please pass on my best wishes to Mrs. Hardcastle,” said Seb, but the line had already gone dead.

He checked his watch. It was just after ten, which didn’t make any sense. Seb picked up the phone again and dialed Hakim Bishara’s private line.

“Good morning, Sebastian. Did you have any luck getting your distinguished QC to answer my two questions?”

“Yes, and I think so.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

“He confirmed that it was Desmond Mellor who bought the stock, and I think the price he paid was three pounds and nine shillings per share.”

“Why can’t you be sure? He either told you the price, or he didn’t.”

“He neither did, nor didn’t. But what he did say was that he had to leave immediately or he’d miss the 3:09 to Huddersfield, and as it’s just after ten a.m., and Euston is only twenty minutes away by taxi...”

“Clever man, your Mr. Hardcastle, because I’m sure we won’t have to check whether or not there actually is a 3:09 to Huddersfield. Congratulations. I suspect no one other than you would have been able to get that information out of him. So as they say in my country, I will be forever in your debt, until you have been repaid in full.”

“Well, now you mention it, Hakim, there is something you may be able help me with.”

Bishara listened carefully to Seb’s request. “I’m not sure that your scoutmaster would have approved of what you’re suggesting. I’ll see what I can do, but I make no promises.”

“Good morning, Mr. Mellor. I think you’ve already met my lawyer, Jason Moreland, and my chief accountant, Nick Pirie.”

Mellor shook hands with both men before joining them around an oval table.

“As you’re on the board of Farthings,” said Bishara, “I can only assume you come here as an emissary of Mr. Sloane.”

“Then you assume wrongly,” said Mellor. “He’s the last man I would be willing to represent in any negotiation. Sloane made a complete ass of himself when he turned down your offer.”

“But he told me he had an offer of six pounds on the table, from a well-established City institution.”

“And you knew that wasn’t true, which is why you walked away.”

“And you are willing to walk back, because they were never his shares to sell in the first place.”

“The truth is,” said Mellor, “he was playing Russian roulette with my bullet, and it turned out to be a blank. However, I am willing to sell you fifty-one percent of the bank’s stock for the five pounds a share you originally offered.”

“Originally offered is correct, Mr. Mellor. But that offer is no longer on the table. After all, I can buy Farthings on the open market for two pounds and eleven shillings a share, and have been doing so for several weeks.”

“Not the fifty-one percent you want, which would give you overall control of the bank. In any case, I can’t afford to sell them at that price.”

“No,” said Bishara, “I’m sure you can’t. But you can afford to sell them for three pounds and nine shillings a share.”

Mellor’s mouth opened, and didn’t close for some time. “Could you make it four pounds?”

“No, I could not, Mr. Mellor. Three pounds and nine shillings is my final offer.” Bishara turned to his chief accountant who handed him a banker’s draft for £20,562,000. He placed it on the table.

“I may be wrong, Mr. Mellor, but I have a feeling you can’t afford to make the same mistake twice.”

“Where do I sign?”

Mr. Moreland opened a file and placed three identical contracts in front of Mellor. Once he’d signed them, he thrust out a hand and waited for the banker’s draft to be passed across to him.

“And like Mr. Sloane,” said Bishara as he took the top off his fountain pen, “before I can add my signature to the contract, I require one small amendment that I have promised for a friend.”

Mellor stared defiantly at him. “And what might that be?”

The lawyer opened a second file, took out a letter, and placed it in front of Mellor. He read it slowly.

“I can’t sign this. Never.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Bishara, picking up the banker’s draft and handing it back to his chief accountant.

Mellor didn’t move, but when he began to sweat, Bishara realized it was only a matter of time.

“All right, all right,” said Mellor. “I’ll sign the damn letter.”

The lawyer double-checked the signature before placing the letter back in his file. Bishara then signed all three contracts, and the accountant handed Mellor one copy and the banker’s draft for £20,562,000. Mellor left without another word. He didn’t even thank Bishara, nor did he shake hands.

“If he’d called my bluff,” said Bishara to his lawyer once the door had closed, “I would have settled without him having to sign the letter.”

Harry studied the statement they expected him to read out in court. He would have to confess to being a British agent who worked for MI5. If he did so, he would be released immediately and deported back to his homeland, never to be allowed to return to the Soviet Union.

Of course, his family and friends would dismiss the statement for what it was worth. Others might feel he’d been left with little choice. But then there would be the majority who didn’t know him. They would assume that it was true, and that his fight for Babakov had been nothing more than a smoke screen to cover his espionage. One signature, and he would be free but his reputation would be shattered and, more important, Babakov’s cause would be lost for ever. No, he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his reputation, or Anatoly Babakov, quite that easily.

He tore up the confession and threw the little pieces of paper high in the air, like confetti waiting for a bride.

When the colonel returned an hour later armed only with a pen, he stared in disbelief at the scraps of paper strewn across the floor.

“Only an Englishman could be that stupid,” he remarked, before turning and marching back out of the cell, slamming the door behind him.

He’s got a point, thought Harry, then closed his eyes. He knew exactly how he intended to pass any unfulfilled hours. He would try to recall as much as possible of the first seven chapters of Uncle Joe. He began to concentrate. Chapter One...

“Some good news at last,” said Emma, “and I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Lady Virginia has fallen into a concrete mixer, and is now part of a high rise in Lambeth?” suggested Seb.

“Not quite that good, but almost.”

“Dad’s home and he’s got a copy of Uncle Joe?”

“No, he’s still not back, although he promised he wouldn’t be more than a couple of days.”

“He told me he might visit the Hermitage and see some of the other sights while he was over there, so no need to worry. But come on, Mum, what’s your news?”

“Desmond Mellor has resigned from the board of Barrington’s.”

“Did he give a reason?”

“He was pretty vague — just said it was for personal reasons, and that he wished the company every success in the future. He even sent his best wishes for the trial.”

“How considerate of him.”

“Why do I get the distinct impression my news doesn’t come as a surprise to you?” said Emma.

“Chairman, Mr. Clifton has arrived. Shall I send him in?”

“Yes, do.” Sloane leaned back in his chair, delighted that Clifton had finally come to his senses. But he still intended to give him a hard time.

A few seconds later his secretary opened the door and stood aside to allow Sebastian to enter the chairman’s office.

“Let me say at the outset, Clifton, that my offer of five pounds a share for your six percent is no longer on the table. But as a sign of goodwill, I’m prepared to offer you three pounds a share, which is still considerably above this morning’s market price.”

“It is indeed, but my shares are still not for sale.”

“Then why are you wasting my time?”

“I hope I’m not wasting your time, because as the new deputy chairman of Farthings Bank, I’m here to carry out my first executive action.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Sloane, leaping up from behind his desk.

“At twelve thirty this afternoon, Mr. Desmond Mellor sold his fifty-one percent shareholding in Farthings to Mr. Hakim Bishara.”

“But, Sebastian—”

“Which also made it possible for Mr. Mellor to finally keep his word.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Mellor promised Arnold Hardcastle that you would be removed from the board, and Ross Buchanan would be the next chairman of Farthings.”