Sons of Fortune

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Anonymous, no doubt,” said Harry.

  “I’m not at liberty to reveal my sources,” the journalist replied, trying hard not to smirk.

  “Just in case your New York office didn’t tell you who that informant was, I’ll let you know his name just as soon as this press conference is over,” snapped Fletcher.

  “Well, I think that just about wraps it up,” said Harry, before anyone could ask a supplementary question. “Thank you all for joining us. You’ll get a regular shot at the candidate in his weekly campaign press conferences—which is more than I ever gave you.”

  “That was awful,” said Fletcher as they walked off the stage. “I must learn to control my temper.”

  “You did just fine, my boy,” said Harry, “and by the time I’ve finished with the bastards, the only thing they will remember about this morning was your answer on the Kendrick Amendment to the finance bill. And frankly, the press are the least of our problems.” Harry paused ominously. “The real battle will begin when we discover who the Republican candidate is.”

  29

  “What do you know about her?” asked Fletcher as they walked down the street together.

  There wasn’t a lot Harry didn’t know about Barbara Hunter, as she had been his opponent for the past two elections, and a perpetual thorn in his flesh during the intervening years.

  “She’s forty-eight, born in Hartford, daughter of a farmer, educated in the local school system, and then at the University of Connecticut, married to a successful advertising executive, with three children, all living in the state, and she’s currently a member of the State Congress.”

  “Any bad news?” asked Fletcher.

  “Yes, she doesn’t drink and is a vegetarian, so you’ll be visiting every bar and butcher in the constituency. And like anyone who has spent a lifetime in local politics, she’s made her fair share of enemies on the way, and as she barely won the Republican nomination this time around, you can be sure that several party activists didn’t want her in the first place. But more important, she lost the last two elections, so we paint her as a loser.”

  Harry and Fletcher entered the Democratic headquarters on Park Street to find the front window covered in posters and photos of the candidate, something Fletcher still hadn’t become used to. The Right Man for the Job. He hadn’t thought a lot of the slogan until the media experts explained that it was good to have the words “right” and “man” in the message when your opponent was a Republican woman. Subliminal, they had explained.

  Harry walked up the stairs to the conference room on the first floor, and took his seat at the head of the table. Fletcher yawned as he sat down, although they had only been campaigning for seven days; and there were still twenty-six to go. The mistakes you make today are history tomorrow morning, your triumphs forgotten by the early evening news. Pace yourself, was one of Harry’s most repeated maxims.

  Fletcher looked around at the assembled group, a combination of pros and seasoned amateurs, with Harry no longer their candidate, but instead pressed into being campaign chairman. It was the only concession Martha had allowed, but she had told Fletcher to send him home the moment he showed the slightest sign of fatigue. As each day passed, it became harder to keep to Martha’s instructions, as it was Harry who always set the pace.

  “Anything new or devastating?” Harry asked as he looked around the team, one or two of whom had played a role in all seven of his election victories. In the last encounter, he’d beaten Barbara Hunter by over five thousand votes, but with the polls now running neck and neck, they were about to find out just how much of that vote had been personal.

  “Yes,” said a voice from the other end of the table. Harry smiled down at Dan Mason, who had been with him for six of his seven campaigns. Dan had started by working the copier, and was now in charge of press and public relations.

  “The floor’s all yours, Dan.”

  “Barbara Hunter has just issued a press release challenging Fletcher to a debate. Presumably I tell her to get lost, and add that it’s a sign of someone who is desperate and knows they are going to lose. That’s what you always did.”

  Harry was silent for a moment. “You’re right, Dan, I did,” he eventually said, “but only because I was the incumbent and treated her as an upstart. In any case, I had nothing to gain from a debate, but that situation has changed now that we’re fielding an unknown candidate, so I think we need to discuss the idea more fully before we come to any conclusion. What are the advantages and disadvantages? Opinions?” he said. Voices all started speaking at once.

  “Gives our man more exposure.”

  “Gives her the center stage.”

  “Proves we have the outstanding debater, which because of his youth will come as a surprise.”

  “She knows the local problems—we could look inexperienced and ill-informed.”

  “We look young, dynamic, and energetic.”

  “She looks experienced, canny and seasoned.”

  “We represent the youth of tomorrow.”

  “She represents the women of today.”

  “Fletcher could wipe the floor with her.”

  “She wins the debate, and we lose the election.”

  “Well, now we’ve heard the committee’s views, perhaps it’s time to consider the candidate’s,” said Harry.

  “I’m quite happy to debate with Mrs. Hunter,” said Fletcher. “People will assume she’s more impressive simply because of her past record and my lack of experience, so I must try and turn that to our advantage.”

  “But if she outshines you on local issues, and makes it look as if you’re just not ready to do the job,” said Dan, “then the election will be over in one evening. Don’t think of it as a thousand people in a hall. Try to remember that the whole event would be covered by local radio and television, and is certain to be plastered over the front page of the Hartford Courant the following morning.”

  “But that could work to our advantage as well,” said Harry.

  “I agree,” said Dan, “but it’s one hell of a risk to take.”

  “How long have I got to think about it?” asked Fletcher.

  “Five minutes,” said Harry, “perhaps ten, because if she’s issued a press statement, they’ll want to know our immediate response.”

  “Can’t we say we need a little time to think about it?”

  “Certainly not,” said Harry, “that would look as if we’re debating the debate, and in the end you’d have to give in, so she then wins both ways. We either turn it down firmly, or accept it with enthusiasm. Perhaps we should take a vote on it,” he added, looking around the table. “Those in favor?” Eleven hands shot up. “Against?” Fourteen hands were raised. “Well, that’s the end of that.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Fletcher. Everyone seated around the table stopped talking and looked at the candidate. “I am grateful for your opinions, but I do not intend to spend my political career being run by a committee, especially when the vote is that close. Dan, you will issue a statement saying I’m delighted to accept Mrs. Hunter’s challenge, and look forward to debating the real issues with her, rather than the political posturing that the Republicans seem to have specialized in from the start of this campaign.” There was a moment’s silence, before the room broke into spontaneous applause.

  Harry smiled. “Those in favor of a debate?” Every hand shot up. “Those against?” None. “I declare the motion carried unanimously.”

  “Why did we have a second vote?” Fletcher asked Harry as they left the room.

  “So that we can tell the press that the decision was unanimous.”

  Fletcher smiled as they headed toward the station. Another lesson learned.

  A team of twelve canvassed the station every morning, most of them handing out leaflets, while the candidate shook hands with the early commuters leaving the city. Harry had told him to concentrate on those going into the station, because they almost certainly lived in Hartford, whereas those coming o
ff the trains probably didn’t have a vote in the constituency.

  “Hi, I’m Fletcher Davenport…”

  At eight thirty they crossed the road to Ma’s and grabbed an egg and bacon sandwich. Once Ma had given her opinion on how the election was going, they headed off for the city’s insurance district to shake hands with “the suits” as they arrived at their offices. In the car, Fletcher put on a Yale tie, which he knew many of the executives would identify with.

  “Hi, I’m Fletcher Davenport…”

  At nine thirty, they returned to campaign HQ for the early morning press conference. Barbara Hunter had already held hers an hour earlier, so Fletcher knew that there would only be one subject on the agenda that morning. On the way back, he replaced the Yale tie with something more neutral as he listened to the headlines on the morning news update, to make sure he couldn’t be surprised by a piece of breaking news. War had broken out in the Middle East. He would leave that to President Ford, because it wasn’t going to end up on the front page of the Hartford Courant.

  “Hi, I’m Fletcher Davenport…”

  When Harry opened the morning press conference, he told the assembled journalists even before they could ask the question that it had been a unanimous decision to take on Mrs. Hunter head to head. Harry never referred to her as Barbara. When questioned about the debate—venue, time, format—Harry said this was yet to be decided, as they had only received the challenge earlier that morning, but he added, “I don’t foresee any problems.” Harry knew only too well that the debate would throw up nothing but problems.

  Fletcher was surprised by Harry’s reply when asked what he thought of the candidate’s chances. He had expected the senator to talk about his debating skills, his legal experience and his political acumen, but instead Harry said, “Well of course, Mrs. Hunter starts off with a built-in advantage. We all know that she’s a seasoned debater, with a great deal of experience on local issues, but I consider it typical of Fletcher’s honest, open approach to this election that he’s agreed to take her on.”

  “Doesn’t that make it a tremendous risk, Senator?” asked another journalist.

  “Sure does,” admitted Harry, “but as the candidate has pointed out, if he wasn’t man enough to face Mrs. Hunter, how could the public expect him to take on the bigger challenge of representing them?” Fletcher couldn’t remember saying anything like that, although he didn’t disagree with the sentiment.

  Once the press conference was over, and the last journalist had departed, Fletcher said, “I thought you told me Barbara Hunter was a poor debater, and took forever answering questions?”

  “Yep, that’s exactly what I said,” admitted Harry.

  “Then why did you tell the journalists that…”

  “It’s all about expectations, my boy. Now they think you’re not up to it,” Harry replied, “and that she’ll wipe the floor with you, so even if you only manage a draw they’ll declare you the winner.”

  “Hi, I’m Fletcher Davenport…” kept repeating itself over and over like some hit song he just couldn’t get out of his mind.

  30

  Nat was delighted when Tom popped his head around the door and asked, “Can I bring a guest to dinner tonight?”

  “Sure, business or pleasure?” Nat asked, looking up from his desk.

  Tom hesitated, “I’m rather hoping that it might be both.”

  “Female?” said Nat, now more interested.

  “Decidedly female.”

  “Name?”

  “Julia Kirkbridge.”

  “And what…”

  “That’s enough of the third degree, you can ask her all the questions you want to tonight because she’s more than capable of taking care of herself.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” said Su Ling when Nat sprung an extra guest on her only moments after he’d arrived home.

  “I should have called, shouldn’t I?” he said.

  “It would have made life a little easier, but I expect you were making millions at the time.”

  “Something like that,” said Nat.

  “What do we know about her?” asked Su Ling.

  “Nothing,” said Nat. “You know Tom; when it comes to his private life, he’s even more secretive than a Swiss banker, but as he’s willing to let us meet her one can only live in hope.”

  “What happened to that gorgeous redhead called Maggie? I’d thought that…”

  “Disappeared like all the others. Can you ever remember him inviting anyone to join us for dinner a second time?”

  Su Ling thought about the question for a moment, and then admitted, “Now you mention it, I can’t. I suppose it could just be my cooking.”

  “No, it’s not your cooking, but I’m afraid that you are to blame.”

  “Me?” said Su Ling.

  “Yes, you. The poor man has been besotted with you for years, so everyone he goes out with is dragged along to dinner so that Tom can compare…”

  “Oh no, not that old chestnut again,” said Su Ling.

  “It’s not an old chestnut, little flower, it’s the problem.”

  “But he’s never done more than kiss me on the cheek.”

  “And he never will. I wonder how many people are in love with someone they have never even kissed on the cheek.”

  Nat disappeared upstairs to read to Luke as Su Ling set a fourth place at the table. She was polishing an extra glass, when the doorbell rang.

  “Can you get it, Nat? I’m a bit tied up. There was no response, so she took off her apron and went to the front door.

  “Hi,” said Tom as he bent down and kissed Su Ling on the cheek, which only brought Nat’s words to mind.

  “This is Julia,” he said. Su Ling looked up at an elegant woman, who was nearly as tall as Tom, and almost as slim as she was, although her fair hair and blue eyes suggested a heritage nearer Scandinavia than the Far East.

  “How nice to meet you,” said Julia. “I know it’s hackneyed, but I really have heard so much about you.”

  Su Ling smiled as she took Julia’s fur coat. “My husband,” she said, “is caught up with…”

  “Black cats,” said Nat as he appeared by Su Ling’s side. “I’ve been reading The Cat in the Hat to Luke. Hi, I’m Nat, and you must be Julia.”

  “Yes, I am,” she said, giving Nat a smile that reminded Su Ling that other women found her husband attractive. “Let’s go into the living room and have a drink,” said Nat, “I’ve put some champagne on ice.”

  “Do we have something to celebrate?” asked Tom.

  “Other than you being able to find someone who is willing to accompany you to dinner, no, I can’t think of anything in particular, unless…” Julia laughed. “Unless we include a call from my lawyers to say that the Bennett’s takeover has been clinched.”

  “When did you hear about that?” asked Tom.

  “Late this afternoon; Jimmy called to say that they’ve signed all the documents. All that we have to do now is hand over the check.”

  “You didn’t mention this when you came in,” said Su Ling.

  “The thought of Julia coming to dinner drove it out of my mind,” said Nat, “but I did discuss the deal with Luke.”

  “And what was his considered opinion?” asked Tom.

  “He thought that a dollar was far too much to pay for a bank.”

  “A dollar?” echoed Julia.

  “Yes, Bennett’s have been declaring a loss for the past five years and, if you exclude the banking premises, their long-term debt is no longer covered by their assets, so Luke may prove to be right if I can’t turn it around in time.”

  “How old is Luke?” asked Julia.

  “Two, but he already has a proper grasp of financial matters.”

  Julia laughed. “So tell me more about the bank, Nat.”

  “It’s only the beginning,” he explained as he poured the champagne, “I still have my eye on Morgan’s.”

  “And how much is that going to cost you?” asked Su Lin
g.

  “Around three hundred million at today’s prices, but by the time I’m ready to make a bid, it could be over a billion.”

  “I can’t think in those sort of sums,” said Julia, “it’s way out of my league.”

  “Now that’s not true, Julia,” said Tom. “Don’t forget I’ve studied your company’s accounts, and unlike Bennett’s, you’ve made a profit for the past five years.”

  “Yes, but only just over a million,” said Julia, giving him that smile again.

  “Excuse me,” said Su Ling, “while I check on dinner.”

  Nat smiled at his wife and then glanced at Tom’s guest. He already had the feeling that Julia just might make it to a second date. “What do you do, Julia?” asked Nat.

  “What do you think I do?” was thrown back with the same flirtatious smile.

  “I’d say you were a model, possibly an actress.”

  “Not bad. I used to be a model when I was younger, but for the past six years I’ve been involved in real estate.”

  Su Ling reappeared. “If you’d like to come through, dinner is just about ready.”

  “Real estate,” said Nat as he accompanied his guest into the dining room, “I would never have guessed.”

  “But it’s true,” said Tom. “And Julia wants us to handle her account. There’s a site she’s looking at in Hartford, and she will be depositing five hundred thousand dollars with the bank, in case she needs to move quickly.”

  “Why did you select us?” asked Nat, as his wife placed a bowl of lobster bisque in front of her.

  “Because my late husband dealt with Mr. Russell over the Robinson Mall site. Although we were the underbidders on that occasion and failed to secure the deal, Mr. Russell didn’t charge us,” said Julia. “Not even a fee.”

  “That sounds like my father,” said Tom.

  “So my late husband said that if we were ever to look at anything else in this area, we should only bank with Russell’s.”

  “Things have changed since then,” said Nat, “Mr. Russell has retired and…”