Sons of Fortune

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Then let’s hope I didn’t hold up a proposal.”

  “Far from it. What you did was to make sure I reach the courting stage. Don’t imagine that it was coincidental that Mrs. Alexander came and sat next to you when coffee was being served in the drawing room.”

  Annie gave out a slight moan, and Fletcher looked anxiously across. “Oh, my God,” she said, “the contractions have begun.”

  “But you’ve still got another ten weeks,” said Fletcher. “Just relax and I’ll have you back home and tucked up in no time.”

  Annie groaned again, a little louder. “Don’t bother with going home,” she said, “get me to a hospital.”

  Speeding across Westville, Fletcher checked the names on the street corners and tried to work out which would be the best route to Yale—New Haven Hospital, when he spotted a taxi stand on the far side of the road. He swung the car sharply across and pulled up alongside the front cab. He wound down the window, and shouted, “My wife’s gone into labor, which is the quickest route to Yale—New Haven?”

  “Follow me,” shouted the cab driver and shot off in front of them.

  Fletcher tried to keep up with the taxi as he nipped in and out of the traffic, with a palm pressed down on the horn, while flashing his lights, as he took a route Fletcher didn’t even know existed. Annie clutched her stomach, as the groans became louder and louder.

  “Don’t worry, my darling, we’re nearly there,” he said, as he jumped another red light to make sure he didn’t lose contact with the cab.

  When the two cars finally reached the hospital, Fletcher was surprised to see a doctor and nurse standing next to a gurney by an open door, obviously expecting them. As the cab driver jumped out, he gave the nurse a thumbs-up sign, and Fletcher guessed that he must have asked his dispatcher to call ahead; he hoped he had enough money on him to pay the fare, not to mention a large tip for the man’s initiative.

  Fletcher jumped out of the car, and ran around to help Annie, but the cab driver beat him to it. They took an elbow each and helped to lift her out of the cab and gently onto the gurney. The nurse began to unbutton Annie’s dress even before she was wheeled through the open door. Fletcher removed his wallet, turned to the taxi driver and said, “Thank you, you couldn’t have been more helpful. How much do I owe you?”

  “Not a cent, it’s on me,” the taxi driver replied.

  “But…” began Fletcher

  “If I told my wife I’d charged you, she’d kill me. Good luck,” he shouted and without another word walked back to his cab.

  “Thank you,” Fletcher repeated before he dashed into the hospital. He quickly caught up with his wife and took her hand. “It’s going to be just fine, honey,” he assured her.

  The orderly asked Annie a series of questions, all of which received a monosyllabic yes in reply. His inquiries complete, he rang through to the operating room to alert Dr. Redpath and the waiting team that they were less than a minute away. The slow, vast elevator lurched to a halt on the fifth floor. Annie was wheeled quickly down the corridor, Fletcher trotting by her side, clinging to her outstretched hand. He could see two nurses in the distance holding open double doors so that the gurney would never lose its momentum.

  Annie continued to hold on to Fletcher’s hand as she was lifted onto the operating table. Three more people came bursting into the room, their faces hidden behind masks. The first checked the instruments laid out on the table, the second prepared an oxygen mask, while the third tried to ask Annie more questions; although she was now screaming with pain. Fletcher never let go of his wife’s hand, until an older man came through the door. He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and said, “Are we all ready?” even before he’d had a chance to check the patient.

  “Yes, Dr. Redpath,” replied the nurse.

  “Good,” he said and turning to Fletcher added, “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave, Mr. Davenport. We’ll call for you just as soon as the baby has been delivered.”

  Fletcher kissed his wife on the forehead. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispered.

  22

  Nat woke at five on the day of the election, only to discover that Su Ling was already in the shower. He checked the schedule on the bedside table. Full team meeting at seven, followed by an hour and a half outside the dining hall to meet and greet voters as they went in and out of breakfast.

  “Come and join me,” shouted Su Ling, “we haven’t any time to waste.” She was right, because they arrived at the team meeting only moments before the clock on the bell tower struck seven times. Every other member of the team was already present, and Tom, who had come over from Yale for the day, was passing on the experience of his own recent election. Su Ling and Nat took the two empty seats on each side of their unofficial chief of staff, who continued the briefing as if they weren’t there.

  “No one stops, even to draw breath, until one minute past six when the last vote will have been cast. Now I suggest that the candidate and Su Ling are outside the dining hall between seven thirty and eight thirty while the rest of you go into breakfast.”

  “We’re expected to go on eating that garbage for an hour?” said Joe.

  “No, I don’t want you to eat anything, Joe, I need you moving from table to table, never two of you at the same table, and remember that Elliot’s team will probably be carrying out exactly the same exercise, so don’t waste any time asking for their vote. OK, let’s go.”

  Fourteen people ran out of the room and across the lawn, disappearing through the swing doors and into the dining hall, leaving Nat and Su Ling to hang around near the entrance.

  “Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright, and I’m running for student president, and I hope you’ll be able to support me in today’s election.”

  Two sleepy-eyed students said, “Fine, man, you’ve already wrapped up the gay vote.”

  “Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright, and I’m running for student president, and I hope you’ll be able to support me…”

  “Yes, I know who you are, but how can you possibly understand what it’s like to survive on a student loan, when you earn an extra four hundred dollars a month?” came back the sharp reply.

  “Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright, I’m running for student president and…”

  “I won’t be voting for either of you,” said another student, as he pushed through the swing doors.

  “Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright, and I’m running for…”

  “Sorry, just visiting from another campus, so I don’t have a vote.”

  “Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright and I’m…”

  “Good luck, but I’m only voting for you because of your girlfriend, I think she’s terrific.”

  “Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright…”

  “And I’m a member of Ralph Elliot’s team, and we’re going to kick your butt.”

  “Hi, I’m Nat…”

  Nine hours later, Nat could only wonder how many times he had delivered that line, and how many hands he’d shaken. All he knew for certain was that he had lost his voice and was sure his fingers would fall off. At one minute past six, he turned to Tom and said, “Hi, I’m Nat Cartwright and…”

  “Forget it,” said Tom with a laugh, “I’m the president of Yale, and all I know is if it wasn’t for Ralph Elliot you’d have my job.”

  “What have you planned for me now,” asked Nat, “because my schedule ends at six, so I don’t have a clue what to do next.”

  “Typical of every candidate,” said Tom, “but I thought the three of us could have a relaxed dinner at Mario’s.”

  “What about the rest of the team?” asked Su Ling.

  “Joe, Chris, Sue and Tim are acting as observers at the count over in the Commons, while the others are getting a well-earned rest. As the count begins at seven and should take at least a couple of hours, I’ve suggested that everybody be there by eight thirty.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Nat. “I could eat a horse.”

  Mario guided the three of them to their table in the corner,
and kept addressing Nat as Mr. President. As the three of them sipped their drinks and tried to relax, Mario reappeared with a large bowl of spaghetti which he covered in a bolognese sauce, before sprinkling parmesan cheese all over it. However many times Nat stuck his fork in the heap of pasta, it never seemed to diminish. Tom noticed that his friend was becoming more and more nervous and eating less and less.

  “I wonder what Elliot is up to right now?” asked Su Ling.

  “He’ll be at McDonald’s along with the rest of his wretched gang, eating burgers and fries and pretending to enjoy them,” said Tom as he sipped a glass of house wine.

  “Well, at least there are no more dirty tricks he can play now,” said Nat.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Su Ling, just as Joe Stein came rushing through the door.

  “What can Joe want?” asked Tom as he stood and waved at him. Nat smiled as his chief of staff rushed over to their table, but Joe didn’t return his smile.

  “We’ve got a problem,” said Joe. “You’d better come over to the Commons immediately.”

  Fletcher began pacing up and down the corridor, much in the same way as his father had done over twenty years before, an evening that had been described to him by Miss Nichol on many occasions. It was like the replaying of an old black-and-white movie, always with the same happy ending. Fletcher found he was never more than a few paces from the door of the operating room as he waited for someone—anyone—to come out.

  At last the rubber doors swung open and a nurse rushed out, but she hurried quickly past Fletcher without saying a word. It was several more minutes before Dr. Redpath finally emerged. He removed his face mask, but his lips weren’t smiling. “They’re just settling your wife into her room,” he said. “She’s fine, exhausted, but fine. You should be able to see her in a few moments.”

  “What about the baby?”

  “Your son has been transferred to the special care nursery. Let me show you,” he said, touching Fletcher’s elbow and guiding him along the corridor, stopping at a large plate glass window. On the other side were three incubators. Two of them were already occupied. He watched as his son was placed gently in the third. A scrawny, helpless little thing, red and wrinkled. The nurse was inserting a rubber tube down his nose. She then attached a sensor to his chest and plugged the lead into a monitor. Her final task was to place a tiny band around the baby’s left wrist, displaying the name Davenport. The screen began to flicker immediately, but even with his slight knowledge of medicine, Fletcher could see that his son’s heartbeat was weak. He looked anxiously across at Dr. Redpath.

  “What are his chances?”

  “He’s ten weeks premature, but if we can get him through the night, he’ll have a good chance of survival.”

  “What are his chances?” Fletcher pressed.

  “There are no rules, no percentages, no laid-down laws. Every child is unique, your son included,” the doctor added as a nurse joined them.

  “You can see your wife now, Mr. Davenport,” she said, “if you’d like to come with me.”

  Fletcher thanked Dr. Redpath and followed the nurse down one flight of stairs to the floor below, where he was taken to his wife’s bedside. Annie was propped up with several pillows behind her.

  “How’s our son?” were her opening words.

  “He looks terrific, Mrs. Davenport, and he’s lucky to begin his life with such an amazing mother.”

  “They won’t let me see him,” said Annie quietly, “and I so much want to hold him in my arms.”

  “They’ve put him in an incubator for the time being,” Fletcher said gently, “but he has a nurse with him the whole time.”

  “It seems years ago that we were having dinner with Professor Abrahams.”

  “Yes, it’s been quite a night,” said Fletcher, “and a double triumph for you. You wowed the senior partner of a firm I want to join, and then produced a son, all on the same evening. What next?”

  “That all seems so unimportant now we have a child to take care of.” She paused. “Harry Robert Davenport.”

  “It has a nice ring about it,” said Fletcher, “and both our fathers will be delighted.”

  “What shall we call him,” asked Annie, “Harry or Robert?”

  “I know what I’m going to call him,” said Fletcher as the nurse returned to the room.

  “I think you should try and get some sleep, Mrs. Davenport, it’s been an exhausting time for you.”

  “I agree,” said Fletcher. He removed several pillows from behind his wife’s head, as she lowered herself slowly down the bed. Annie smiled and rested her head on the remaining pillow as her husband kissed her. As Fletcher left, the nurse switched off the light.

  Fletcher raced back up the stairs and along the corridor to check if his son’s heartbeat was any stronger. He stared through the plate glass window at the monitor, willing it to flicker a little higher, and managed to convince himself that it had. Fletcher kept his nose pressed up against the window. “Keep fighting, Harry,” he said, and then began counting the heartbeats per minute. Suddenly he felt exhausted. “Hang in there, you’re going to make it.”

  He took a couple of paces backward and collapsed into a chair on the other side of the corridor. Within minutes, he had fallen into a deep sleep.

  Fletcher woke with a start when he felt a hand gently touch his shoulder. His tired eyes blinked open; he had no idea how long he’d been asleep. The first thing he saw was a nurse, her face solemn. Dr. Redpath stood a pace behind her. He didn’t need to be told that Harry Robert Davenport was no longer alive.

  “So what’s the problem?” asked Nat as they ran toward the Commons where the vote was being counted.

  “We were leading comfortably until a few minutes ago,” said Joe, already out of breath from his trip there and back and unable to keep up with what Nat would have described as a jog. He slowed to a fast walk. “And then suddenly two new ballot boxes appeared, stuffed with votes—and nearly ninety percent of them in favor of Elliot,” he added as they reached the bottom step.

  Nat and Tom didn’t wait for Joe as they bounded up the steps and through the swing doors. The first person they saw was Ralph Elliot—a smug look on his face. Nat turned his attention to Tom, who was already being briefed by Sue and Chris. He quickly joined them.

  “We were leading by just over four hundred votes,” said Chris, “and we assumed it was all over, when two new boxes appeared out of nowhere.”

  “What do you mean, out of nowhere?” asked Tom.

  “Well, they were discovered under a table, but hadn’t been included among those that were registered in the original count. In those two boxes,” Chris checked his clipboard, “Elliot polled 319, to Nat’s 48, and 322 to Nat’s 41, which reversed the original outcome and put him in the lead by a handful of votes.”

  “Give me a few examples of figures from some of the other boxes,” said Su Ling.

  “They were all fairly consistent,” said Chris, returning to his list. “The most extreme was 209 for Nat, against 176 for Elliot. In fact, Elliot only polled higher in one box, 201 to 196.”

  “The votes in the last two boxes,” said Su Ling, “are not statistically possible, when you compare them with the other ten that have already been counted. Someone must have literally stuffed those boxes with enough ballot papers to reverse the original decision.”

  “But how could they have managed that?” asked Tom.

  “It would be easy enough if you could get your hands on any unused ballots,” said Su Ling.

  “And that wouldn’t have been too difficult,” said Joe.

  “How can you be so sure?” asked Nat.

  “Because when I voted in my dorm during the lunch hour, there was only one teller on duty, and she was writing an essay. I could have removed a handful of ballots without her even noticing.”

  “But that doesn’t explain the sudden appearance of two missing boxes,” said Tom.

  “You don’t need a Ph.D. to wo
rk out that one,” chipped in Chris, “because once the poll has closed, all they had to do was hold back two of the boxes, and then stuff them with ballots.”

  “But we have no way of proving that,” said Nat.

  “The statistics prove it,” said Su Ling. “They never lie, though I admit we don’t have any first-hand proof.”

  “So what are we going to do about it?” asked Joe, as he stared across at Elliot, the same self-satisfied look still in place.

  “There’s not much we can do except pass on our observations to Chester Davies. After all, he is the chief elections officer.”

  “OK, Joe, why don’t you do that, and we’ll wait to see what he has to say.”

  Joe left them to make his submission to the dean of students. They watched as the expression on the elderly academic’s face became grimmer and grimmer. Once Joe had made his point, the dean immediately called for Elliot’s chief of staff, who did nothing more than shrug his shoulders and point out that every ballot was valid.

  Nat watched apprehensively as Mr. Davies questioned both men, and saw Joe nod his agreement, before they broke away to join their respective teams.

  “The dean is calling an immediate meeting of the elections committee in his office, and he will report back after they’ve discussed the matter, which should be in about thirty minutes.”

  Su Ling took Nat’s hand. “Mr. Davies is a good and just man,” she said, “he’ll come to the right conclusion.”

  “He may well come to the right conclusion,” said Nat, “but in the end he can only follow the election rules whatever his personal reservations.”

  “I agree,” said a voice from behind them. Nat swung around to see Elliot grinning at him. “They won’t have to look in the rule book to discover that the person with the most votes is the winner,” Elliot added with disdain.

  “Unless they come across something about one person, one vote,” said Nat.

  “Are you accusing me of cheating?” Elliot snapped back, as a group of his supporters drifted over and stood behind him.