Mightier Than the Sword (34 page)

Seb slipped off the stool and walked slowly toward him, hoping he looked relaxed and in control, because he wasn’t.

“Good evening, Mr. Bishara, I wondered if you were free for a game?”

“Not free,” he said, giving Seb a warm smile. “In fact, rather expensive.”

“Yes, the barman warned me about your terms. But I still want to play you.”

“Good, then have a seat.” Bishara rolled one die out onto the board.

Seb was painfully aware after the first half a dozen moves that this man was quite simply in another class. It only took a few minutes before Bishara began removing his counters from the board.

“Tell me, Mr.…”

“Clifton, Sebastian Clifton.”

Bishara reset the board. “As you are clearly not even a respectable pub player, you must have had a good reason for wanting to give away a hundred pounds.”

“Yes, I did,” said Seb, taking out his check book. “I needed an excuse to meet you.”

“And why, may I ask?”

“Because we have several things in common, one in particular.”

“Clearly not backgammon.”

“True,” said Seb. “Who should I make the check out to?”

“The Polio Society. You haven’t answered my question.”

“I thought we might trade information.”

“What makes you think you have any information I might be interested in?”

“Because I saw your name in a visitors’ book and thought you just might like to know that I own six percent of Farthings Bank.”

Seb could tell nothing from the expression on Bishara’s face. “How much did you pay for your shares, Mr. Clifton?”

“I’ve been purchasing Farthings’ stock regularly over the past five years, and the price has averaged out at around two pounds.”

“Then it has proved a worthwhile investment, Mr. Clifton. Am I to assume you now wish to sell your shares?”

“No. Mr. Sloane has already made me an offer of five pounds a share, which I turned down.”

“But you would have made a handsome profit.”

“Only in the short term.”

“And if I were to offer you more?”

“It would be of no interest to me. I still intend to take my place on the board.”

“Why?”

“Because I began my working life at Farthings as Cedric Hardcastle’s personal assistant. After his death, I resigned, and joined Kaufman’s.”

“Shrewd old bugger, Saul Kaufman, and a smart operator. Why did you leave Farthings?”

“Let’s just say there was a difference of opinion over who should attend funerals.”

“So Sloane wouldn’t be happy if you were to join the board?”

“If murder was legal, I’d be dead.”

Bishara took out his check book and asked, “What’s your favorite charity?” That was one question Seb hadn’t been prepared for.

“The Boy Scouts.”

“Yes, I can believe that,” said Bishara, smiling as he wrote out a check, not for a hundred pounds, but for a thousand. “A pleasure to have met you, Mr. Clifton,” he said, as he handed it over. “I have a feeling we may meet again.”

Seb shook his outstretched hand and was about to leave when Bishara added, “What was the one thing in particular we have in common?”

“The oldest profession. Except in my case, it was my grandmother, not my mother.”

*   *   *

“What’s Sir Edward’s opinion of your chances of winning the case?” asked the major as Virginia poured him a second gin and tonic.

“He’s a hundred percent certain we can’t lose, open-and-shut case were his exact words, and he’s convinced the jury will award me substantial damages, possibly as much as fifty thousand.”

“That’s good news,” said Fisher. “Will he be calling me as a witness?”

“No, he says he doesn’t need you, although he thinks there’s an outside chance the other side may call you. But it’s unlikely.”

“That could prove embarrassing.”

“Not if you stick to the simple line that you were my professional advisor when it came to stocks and shares, and that I didn’t show a great deal of interest in the details, as I trusted your judgement.”

“But if I were to do that, someone might suggest it was me who was trying to bring the company down.”

“If they were stupid enough to try that line of questioning, Sir Edward would remind the judge that it’s not you who’s on trial, and because you’re a Member of Parliament, Mr. Trelford would quickly back off.”

“And you say Sir Edward is certain you can’t lose?” asked Fisher, not sounding convinced.

“As long as we all stick to the party line, he says we’re home and dry.”

“And he doesn’t think it’s likely they’ll call me?”

“He’d be surprised if they did. But I do feel,” continued Virginia, “that if, as Sir Edward suggested, I’m likely to be awarded fifty thousand, we should split it down the middle. I’ve asked my lawyers to draw up an agreement to that effect.”

“That’s most generous, Virginia.”

“No more than you deserve, Alex.”

32

S
EBASTIAN WAS
sitting in the bath when the phone rang. Only one person would have considered calling him at that hour in the morning. Should he jump out of the bath and run into the hall, leaving a small stream in his wake, or should he get on with washing himself, as his mother was sure to call again in a few minutes’ time? He stayed put.

He was right, the phone went again while he was in the middle of shaving. This time he walked out into the hall and picked up the receiver. “Good morning, Mother,” he said, before she’d had a chance to speak.

“Sorry to call you so early, Seb, but I need your advice. How do you think I should vote when Desmond Mellor stands for deputy chairman?”

“I haven’t changed my mind since we discussed this subject last night, mother. If you vote against Mellor and he wins, that will undermine your position. If you abstain and the vote’s tied, you’ll still have the casting vote. But if you vote for him—”

“I would never do that.”

“Then you have two choices. Personally I’d vote against, so that he if loses he’ll have no choice but to resign. By the way, Ross Buchanan doesn’t agree with me. He thinks you should abstain and keep your options open. But I don’t have to remind you what happened the last time you did that, when Fisher stood for chairman.”

“It’s different this time. Mellor’s given me his word that he won’t vote for himself.”

“In writing?”

“No,” admitted Emma.

“Then it’s not a word I’d rely on.”

“Yes, but if I—”

“Mum, if I don’t finish shaving, you won’t even get my vote.”

“Yes, sorry. I’ll think about what you said. See you at the board meeting.”

Seb smiled as he put the phone down. What a complete waste of time that was when he knew she’d already decided to abstain. He checked his watch. Just enough time to grab a bowl of muesli and boil himself an egg.

*   *   *

“What did he say?” asked Harry as he passed his wife a cup of tea.

“He said I should vote against, but that Ross thinks I should abstain. So I’m none the wiser.”

“But only last night you told me you were confident of winning.”

“By six votes to four, even if I abstain.”

“Then I think you should abstain.”

“Why?”

“Because I agree with Ross. If you vote against Mellor and lose, it would make your position untenable. However, I’m beginning to think I should postpone my trip to Leningrad until we know the outcome.”

“But if you don’t go today,” said Emma, “you’ll have to wait at least six months before you can get another visa. Whereas if you go now, you’ll be back well in time for the trial.”

“But if you were to lose the vote today…”

“I’m not going to lose, Harry. Six of the directors have given me their word, so there’s nothing to worry about. And you gave your word to Mrs. Babakov, so you must keep it. In any case, it will be nothing less than a personal triumph when you come home with a copy of
Uncle Joe
under your arm. So start packing.”

*   *   *

Sebastian was putting on his jacket and heading for the door when the phone rang for a third time. He looked at his watch, 7:56, and thought about ignoring it, but turned back, grabbed the phone, and said, “I haven’t got time, Mother.”

“It’s not your mother,” said Rachel. “I thought you ought to know that I had a call just after you left the office last night, and I wouldn’t have bothered you if she hadn’t said it was urgent. I’ve already called a couple of times this morning, but you were engaged.”

“She?” said Seb.

“A woman called Dr. Rosemary Wolfe, phoning from the States. Said you’d know who she was.”

“I most certainly do. Did she leave any message?”

“No, just a number, 202 555 0319. But, Seb, don’t forget, they’re five hours behind us, so it’s only three in the morning in Washington.”

“Thanks, Rachel. Got to dash or I’ll be late for the Barrington’s board meeting.”

*   *   *

Jim Knowles joined Desmond Mellor for breakfast at the Avon Gorge Hotel.

“It’s going to be close,” said Knowles as he sat down opposite Mellor, who stopped speaking while a waitress poured him a coffee. “My latest calculation is five votes each.”

“Who’s changed their mind since yesterday?” asked Mellor.

“Carrick. I convinced him of the importance of having a deputy chairman in place while Mrs. Clifton is tied up in a trial that could last for a month, perhaps even longer.”

“Is her vote included in the five?”

“No, because I’m fairly sure she’ll abstain.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were in her position. And if we win the first vote, what about the second?”

“The second should be easier, as long as you stick to the line that you think it will be for no more than a month. Even the waverers should go along with that.”

“A month will be more than enough to make sure she never returns.”

“But if she loses the trial, it all becomes academic, because then she’ll have to resign. Either way, my bet is you’ll be chairman a month from today.”

“In which case, Jim, you’ll be my deputy.”

“Any news from Virginia on how her case is shaping up?” asked Knowles.

“She rang me yesterday evening. Apparently her barrister has assured her that she can’t possibly lose.”

“I’ve never known a barrister say that before,” said Knowles, “especially when Alex Fisher might be called as a witness, because I can tell you from past experience, he’s not good under fire.”

“Virginia tells me that Sir Edward doesn’t intend to call him.”

“Rather proving my point. But once she’s won the case, everything should fall neatly into place. That’s assuming you’ve paid Arnold Hardcastle for his mother’s shares.”

“Not yet. I don’t intend to cough up until the last possible moment. Even I can’t afford that sort of outlay for any longer than necessary.”

“Why not ask Sloane to advance you a short-term loan to cover it?”

“I wish I could, but it’s against the law for a bank to make a loan for the purpose of buying its own shares. No, I’ll get all my money back and make a handsome profit once Bishara completes his part of the deal. If Sloane gets his timing right, it will be a double whammy, because he’ll stay on as chairman of the bank and I’ll be the new chairman of Barrington’s.”

“That’s assuming we win today,” said Knowles.

*   *   *

Once Sebastian had escaped the rush-hour traffic and turned on to the A40, he checked the clock on his dashboard. He still had a couple of hours to spare, but he didn’t need any more holdups. At that moment a red light on the dashboard came on and the petrol indicator began to flicker, which meant he was down to his last gallon. A road sign informed him the next service station was 21 miles away. He knew there was something he’d meant to do last night.

He moved across to the inside lane and maintained a steady fifty miles an hour so he could eke out every last drop of what was left in the tank. He began to pray. Surely the gods weren’t on Mellor’s side?

*   *   *

“Who are you calling?” asked Harry as he zipped up his overnight bag.

“Giles. I’d like to see if he agrees with Ross or Seb. After all, he’s still the largest shareholder in the company.”

Harry wondered if he should unpack.

“And don’t forget your overcoat,” said Emma.

“Sir Giles Barrington’s office.”

“Good morning, Polly. It’s Emma Clifton. Could I have a word with my brother?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Clifton. He’s abroad at the moment.”

“Somewhere exciting, I hope?”

“Not exactly,” said Polly. “East Berlin.”

*   *   *

Seb began to relax when he came off the motorway and drove up the ramp into the petrol station. Once he’d filled up, he realized just how close it must have been. He handed over a ten-pound note for the twelve gallons, and waited for his change.

He was back on the motorway at nine thirty-six. The first sign to Bristol read 61 miles, so he was confident he would still make it with time to spare.

He moved into the outside lane, pleased to see a long stretch of open road ahead of him. His mind drifted from Dr. Wolfe, and what could possibly be urgent enough for her to phone him, to his mother, and how she would vote, to Desmond Mellor and what last minute tricks he would stoop to, and then back to Samantha. Was it possible …

When he heard the siren, he assumed it was an ambulance and quickly moved across to the inside lane, but when he looked in his rearview mirror he saw a police car with lights flashing bearing down on him. He slowed down, willing it to shoot past, but it drew up alongside him and the driver indicated that he should pull over onto the hard shoulder. Reluctantly, he obeyed.

The police car pulled up in front of him and two policemen climbed out and walked slowly toward him. The first was carrying a thick leather notebook, the second what looked like a briefcase. Seb wound down the window and smiled.

“Good morning, officers.”

“Good morning, sir. Were you aware that you were traveling at almost ninety miles an hour?”

“No, I wasn’t,” admitted Seb. “I’m very sorry.”

“Could I see your driving license, sir?”

Seb opened the glove compartment, took out his license, and handed it to the policeman, who studied it for some time before saying, “Would you be kind enough to step out of the car, sir.”