Sons of Fortune

by Jeffrey Archer

  “I know what his answer will be to that question, because I’ve already discussed it with him.”

  “Thank God we didn’t take this long to land when we flew in to Washington last night,” said Fletcher as they circled the airport for a third time.

  “Will you still stop by and see Dad before you go to the Capitol?” asked Annie. “He’s bound to be sitting up in bed waiting to hear your news.”

  “I always intended to make Harry my first stop,” said Fletcher as he drove his car out of the airport and onto the highway.

  It was a bright autumnal morning when Senator Davenport arrived back in town. He decided to drive up the hill and past the Capitol before cutting across to the hospital.

  As they came over the brow of the hill, Annie stared out of the car window, and began weeping uncontrollably. Fletcher pulled over to the hard shoulder. He took his wife in his arms, as he looked over her shoulder at the Capitol building.

  The United States flag was flying at half mast.

  41

  Mr. Goldblatz rose from his place at the center of the table and glanced down at his prepared statement. On his right sat Nat Cartwright, and on his left, Tom Russell. The rest of the board was seated in the row behind him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, it is my great pleasure to announce the merger of Fairchild’s and Russell’s, creating a new bank which will be known as Fairchild Russell. I shall remain as chairman, Mr. Nat Cartwright will be my deputy chairman, and Tom and Julia Russell will join the board. Mr. Wesley Jackson will continue as the new bank’s chief executive. I am able to confirm that Russell’s Bank has withdrawn its takeover bid, and a new ownership structure for the company will be announced in the near future. Both Mr. Cartwright and I will be happy to answer your questions.”

  Hands shot up all over the room. “Yes,” said the chairman, pointing to a woman in the second row, with whom he had pre-arranged the first question.

  “Is it still your intention to resign as chairman in eighteen months’ time?”

  “Yes, it is, and there are no prizes for guessing who I expect to succeed me.”

  He turned and looked at Nat as another journalist shouted, “How does Mr. Russell feel about that?”

  Mr. Goldblatz smiled, as it was a question they had all anticipated. He turned to his left and said, “Perhaps Mr. Russell should answer that question.”

  Tom smiled benevolently at the journalist. “I’m delighted by the coming together of the two leading banks in the state, and honored to have been invited to join the board of Fairchild Russell as a nonexecutive director.” He smiled. “I’m rather hoping Mr. Cartwright will consider reappointing me in eighteen months’ time.”

  “Word perfect,” whispered the chairman as Tom resumed his place.

  Nat quickly rose from the other side to deliver an equally well-scripted response, “I most certainly will be reappointing Mr. Russell, but not as a nonexecutive director.”

  Goldblatz smiled and added, “I am sure that will not come as a total surprise to anyone who follows these matters closely. Yes?” he said, pointing to another journalist.

  “Will there be any layoffs caused by this merger?”

  “No,” said Goldblatz. “It is our intention to retain all of Russell’s staff, but one of Mr. Cartwright’s immediate responsibilities will be to prepare for a complete restructuring of the bank during the next twelve months. Though I would like to add that Mrs. Julia Russell has already been appointed to head up our new combined property division. We at Fairchild’s have watched with admiration her handling of the Cedar Wood project.”

  “Can I ask why your legal counsel, Ralph Elliot, is not present today?” said a voice from the back of the room.

  Another question Goldblatz had anticipated, even though he couldn’t quite see where it had come from. “Mr. Elliot has been in Washington, D.C. Last night he dined with President Bush at the White House, otherwise he would have been with us this morning. Next question?” Goldblatz made no reference to the “frank exchange of views” he’d had with Elliot on the phone in the early hours of the morning.

  “I spoke to Mr. Elliot earlier today,” said the same journalist, “and I wonder if you would care to comment on the press statement he has just released?”

  Nat froze as Goldblatz rose more slowly. “I’d be happy to comment if I knew what he’d said.”

  The journalist looked down at a single sheet of paper and read from it: “I am delighted that Mr. Goldblatz felt able to take my advice and bring the two banks together rather than continue a bruising and damaging battle from which no one would have profited.” Goldblatz smiled and nodded. “In eighteen months’ time there will be three members of the board available to replace the current chairman, but as I consider one of them quite unsuitable to hold a post that requires financial probity, I have been left with no choice but to resign from the board and withdraw as the bank’s legal advisor. With that one reservation, I wish the company every success in the future.”

  Mr. Goldblatz’s smile quickly disappeared, and he was unable to contain his rage. “I have no comment to make at the present t…t…time, and that ends this press con…con…conference.” He rose from his place and marched out of the room with Nat following a pace behind him. “The bastard broke his agreement,” said Goldblatz furiously, as he strode down the corridor toward the boardroom.

  “Which was what precisely?” asked Nat, trying to remain calm.

  “I agreed to say that he was a party to the successful negotiations, if in turn he would resign and withdraw as the legal representative of the new company, and make no further comment.”

  “Do we have that in writing?”

  “No, I agreed to it over the phone last night. He said he would confirm it in writing today.”

  “So once again Elliot comes out smelling of roses,” said Nat.

  Goldblatz came to a halt outside the boardroom door and turned to face Nat. “No, he does not. I think the smell is more akin to manure,” he added, “and this time, he’s chosen the wrong man to cro…cro…cross.”

  The popularity of an individual in life often only manifests itself in death.

  The funeral service for Harry Gates, held at St. Joseph’s Cathedral, was filled to overflowing, long before the choir had left the vestry. Don Culver, the chief of police, decided to cordon off the block in front of the cathedral, so that mourners could sit on the steps or stand in the street, while they listened to the service being relayed over loudspeakers.

  When the cortège came to a halt, an honor guard carried the coffin up the steps and into the cathedral. Martha Gates was accompanied by her son, while her daughter and son-in-law walked a pace behind them. The throng of people on the steps made a passage to allow the family to join the other mourners inside. The congregation rose as an usher accompanied Mrs. Gates to the front pew. As they walked down the aisle, Fletcher noted the coming together of Baptists, Jews, Episcopalians, Muslims, Methodists and Mormons, all unified in their respect for this Roman Catholic.

  The bishop opened the service with a prayer chosen by Martha, which was followed by hymns and readings that Harry would have enjoyed. Jimmy and Fletcher both read lessons, but it was Al Brubaker, as chairman of the party, who climbed the steps of the wooden pulpit to deliver the address.

  He looked down at the packed congregation and remained silent for a moment. “Few politicians,” he began, “inspire respect and affection, but if Harry could be with us today, he would see for himself that he was among that select group. I see many in this congregation I have never come across before,” he paused, “so I have to assume they’re Republicans.” Laughter broke out inside the cathedral, and a ripple of applause outside in the street. “Here was a man who, when asked by the president to run for governor of this state, replied simply, I have not completed my work as the senator for Hartford,’ and he never did. As chairman of my party, I have attended the funerals of presidents, governors, senators, congressmen and congresswomen
, along with the powerful and mighty, but this funeral has a difference, for it is also filled with ordinary members of the public, who have simply come to say thank you.

  “Harry Gates was opinionated, verbose, irascible and maddening. He was also passionate in the pursuit of causes he believed in. Loyal to his friends, fair with his opponents, he was a man whose company you sought out simply because it enriched your life. Harry Gates was no saint, but there will be saints standing at the Gates of Heaven waiting to greet him.

  “To Martha, we say thank you for indulging Harry and all his dreams, so many achieved; one still to be fulfilled. To Jimmy and Annie, his son and daughter, of whom he was inordinately proud. To Fletcher, his beloved son-in-law, who has been given the unenviable burden of carrying the torch. And to Lucy his granddaughter, who became class president a few days after he died. America has lost a man who served his country at home and abroad, in war and in peace. Hartford has lost a public servant who will not easily be replaced.

  “He wrote to me a few weeks ago,” Brubaker paused, “begging for money—what a nerve—for his beloved hospital. He said he’d never speak to me again if I didn’t send a check. I considered the pros and cons of that particular threat.” It was a long time before the laughter and applause died down. “In the end, my wife sent a check. The truth is, that it never crossed Harry’s mind that if he asked, you wouldn’t give, and why? Because he spent his whole life giving, and now we must make that dream a reality and build a hospital in his memory of which he would have been proud.

  “I read in the Washington Post last week that Senator Harry Gates had died, and then I traveled to Hartford this morning and drove past the senior citizens’ center, the library and the hospital foundation stone that bears his name. I shall write to the Washington Post when I return tomorrow and tell them, ‘you were wrong. Harry Gates is alive and still kicking.’” Mr. Brubaker paused as he looked down into the congregation, his eyes settling on Fletcher. “Here was a man, when comes such another?”

  On the cathedral steps, Martha and Fletcher thanked Al Brubaker for his words.

  “Anything less,” said Al, “and he would have appeared in the pulpit next to me, demanding a recount.” The chairman shook hands with Fletcher. “I didn’t read out the whole of Harry’s last letter to me,” he said, “but I knew you would want to see the final paragraph.” He slipped a hand into an inside pocket, removed the letter, unfolded it and passed it across to Fletcher.

  When Fletcher had read Harry’s last words, he looked at the chairman and nodded.

  Tom and Nat walked down the cathedral steps together and joined the crowds as they quietly dispersed.

  “I wish I’d known him better,” said Nat. “You realize that I asked him to join the board when he retired from the Senate?” Tom nodded. “He wrote—hand-wrote—such a charming letter explaining the only board he would ever sit on was the hospital’s.”

  “I only met him a couple of times,” said Tom, “he was mad, of course, but you have to be if you choose to spend your life pushing boulders up a hill. Don’t ever tell anyone, but he’s the only Democrat I’ve ever voted for.”

  Nat laughed. “You as well?” he admitted.

  “How would you feel if I recommended that the board should make a donation of fifty thousand to the hospital fund?” asked Tom.

  “I would oppose it,” said Nat. Tom looked surprised. “Because when the senator sold his Russell’s shares, he immediately donated a hundred thousand to the hospital. The least we can do is respond in kind.”

  Tom nodded his agreement and turned back to see Mrs. Gates standing on the top of the cathedral steps. He would write to her that afternoon enclosing the check. He sighed. “Look who’s shaking hands with the widow.”

  Nat swung around to see Ralph Elliot holding Martha Gates’s hand. “Are you surprised?” he said. “I can just hear him telling her how pleased he was that Harry took his advice and sold those shares in Russell’s Bank, and made himself a million.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Tom, “you’re beginning to think like him.”

  “I’m going to have to if I’m to survive during the coming months.

  “That’s no longer an issue,” said Tom. “Everyone at the bank accepts that you’ll be the next chairman.”

  “It’s not the chairmanship I’m talking about,” said Nat. Tom came to a halt in front of the steps of the bank and turned to face his oldest friend.

  “If Ralph Elliot puts his name forward as the Republican candidate for governor, then I shall run against him.” He looked back toward the cathedral. “And this time I will beat him.”

  Book Five

  Judges

  42

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Fletcher Davenport, the next governor of Connecticut.”

  It amused Fletcher that within moments of being selected as the Democratic candidate, he was immediately introduced as the next governor; no suggestion of an opponent, no hint that he might lose. But he recalled only too well Walter Mondale continually being introduced as the next president of the United States, and ending up as ambassador to Tokyo while it was Ronald Reagan who moved into the White House.

  Once Fletcher had called Al Brubaker to confirm that he was willing to run, the party machine immediately swung behind him. One or two other Democratic heads appeared above the parapet, but like ducks at a shooting range they were quickly flattened.

  In the end, Fletcher’s only opposition turned out to be a congresswoman who had never done any harm—or enough good—for anyone else to notice. Once Fletcher had defeated her in the September primary, his party machine suddenly turned her into a formidable opponent who had been soundly beaten by the most impressive candidate the party had produced in years. But Fletcher privately acknowledged that she hadn’t been much more than a paper opponent, and the real battle would begin once the Republicans had selected their standard bearer.

  Although Barbara Hunter was as active and determined as ever, no one really believed she was going to head up the Republican ticket. Ralph Elliot already had the backing of several key party members, and whenever he spoke in public or private, the name of his friend, and even occasionally his close friend, Ronnie, fell easily from his lips. But Fletcher repeatedly heard rumors of just as large a group of Republicans who were searching for a credible alternative; otherwise they were threatening to abstain, even vote Democrat. Fletcher found it nerve-racking waiting to discover who that opponent would be. By late August, he realized that if there was to be a surprise candidate, they were leaving it tantalizingly late to come forward.

  Fletcher looked down at the crowd in front of him. It was his fourth speech that day, and it wasn’t yet twelve o’clock. He missed Harry’s presence at those Sunday lunches, where ideas could be tested and found wanting. Lucy and George were happy to add their contributions, which only reminded him how indulgent Harry had been when he had come up with suggestions the senator must have heard a hundred times before, but never once hinted as much. But the next generation certainly left Fletcher in no doubt of what the Hotchkiss student body expected of their governor.

  Fletcher’s fourth speech that morning didn’t differ greatly from the other three: to the Pepperidge Farm plant in Norwalk, the Wiffle Ball headquarters in Shelton and the Stanley tool-workers in New Britain. He just altered the occasional paragraph to acknowledge that the state’s economy would not be in such good shape without their particular contribution. On to lunch with the Daughters of the American Revolution, where he failed to mention his Scottish ancestry, followed by three more speeches in the afternoon, before attending a fund-raising dinner, which wouldn’t produce much more than ten thousand dollars.

  Around midnight he would crawl into bed and put his arms around his sleeping wife and occasionally she would sigh. He’d read somewhere that once, when Reagan was out on the stump, he had been found cuddling a lamppost. Fletcher had laughed at the time, but no longer.

  “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?”
r />   Nat had to agree with his son’s assessment. Juliet was beautiful, but not the sort of girl Luke was likely to fall for. With five other females in the cast, he tried to work out which one it could possibly be. When the curtain came down for the interval, he thought that Luke had given a moving performance, and felt a glow of pride as he sat there in the audience listening to the applause. His parents had seen the play the night before, and told him that they’d felt the same pride as when he had performed Sebastian in the same hall.

  Whenever Luke left the stage, Nat found his mind wandering back to the phone call he’d taken from Washington that morning. His secretary assumed it was Tom playing one of his practical jokes when he was asked if he was available to speak to the president of the United States.

  Nat had found himself standing when George Bush came on the line.

  The president congratulated him on Fairchild and Russell’s being voted Bank of the Year—his excuse for the call—and then added the simple message, “Many people in our party hope you will allow your name to go forward as governor. You have a lot of friends and supporters in Connecticut, Nat. Let’s hope we can meet soon.”

  The whole of Hartford knew within the hour that the president had called, but then switchboard operators also have a network of their own. Nat only told Su Ling and Tom, and they didn’t seem all that surprised.

  “The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.”

  The father’s mind switched back to the play.

  Nat found that people began to stop him in the street and say, “I hope you’ll run for governor, Nat”—Mr. Cartwright—even sir. When he and Su Ling had entered the hall that evening, heads had turned and he sensed a buzz all around him. In the car on the way to Taft he didn’t ask Su Ling if he should run, simply, “Do you think I can do the job?”

  “The president seemed to think so,” she replied.