The Prodigal Daughter

by Jeffrey Archer

  Mary and Max Preston waved as the Rolls-Royce glided down the long drive. Once his plane had taken off, Richard felt a tremendous sense of relief. The stewardess served him a cocktail and he began to think about his plans for Monday. To his delight, Florentyna had dinner waiting for him on his return to Sixty-fourth Street.

  “The shares are ours,” he told her excitedly and went over the full details during dinner. They fell asleep on the sofa by the fire a little before midnight, Florentyna’s hand resting on his leg.

  The next morning Richard placed a call through to Jake Thomas to inform him that he was now in possession of 52 percent.

  Richard could hear an intake of breath.

  “As soon as the certificates are in my lawyer’s hands, I shall come over to the bank and let you know how I expect the change-over to be carried out.”

  “Of course,” said Thomas resignedly. “May I ask from whom you obtained the last two percent?”

  “Yes, from an old friend of mine, Mary Preston.”

  There was a pause at the other end. “Not Mrs. Max Preston of Florida?” asked Jake Thomas.

  “Yes,” said Richard triumphantly.

  “Then you needn’t bother to come over, Mr. Kane, because Mrs. Preston lodged her three percent of Lester’s with us four weeks ago and we’ve been in possession of the stock certificates for some time.” The phone clicked. It was Richard’s turn to gasp.

  When Richard told Florentyna about the new development, all she could say was: “You should have slept with the damned woman. I bet Jake Thomas would have.”

  “Would you have slept with Scott Roberts in the same circumstances?”

  “Good God, no, Mr. Kane.”

  “Precisely, Jessie.”

  Richard spent another sleepless night thinking of how that final 2 percent might still be acquired. It was obvious that each side now had 49 percent of the stock. Thaddeus Cohen had already warned him that he must face reality and start thinking of ways to recoup the maximum amount of cash for the shares he already had. Perhaps he should take a leaf out of Abel’s book and sell heavily on July 29, the day before the meeting. Richard continued to toss and turn as useless ideas rushed through his mind. He turned over once again and tried to catch some sleep precisely when Florentyna woke with a start.

  “Are you awake?” she asked quietly.

  “Yes, chasing two percent.”

  “So am I. Do you remember your mother telling us that someone had purchased two percent from Mr. Peter Parfitt on behalf of your father to stop my father from getting his hands on it?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Richard.

  “Well, perhaps they haven’t heard about our offer.”

  “My darling, it’s been in every paper in the United States.”

  “So have the Beatles, but not everyone has heard of them.”

  “I suppose it’s worth a try,” said Richard, picking up the phone by the side of his bed.

  “Who are you calling, the Beatles?”

  “No, my mother.”

  “At four o’clock in the morning? You can’t ring your mother in the middle of the night.”

  “I can and I must.”

  “I wouldn’t have told you if I’d known you might do that.”

  “Darling, there are only two and a half days to go before I lose you thirty-seven million dollars, and the owner of the shares we need so badly might live in Australia.”

  “Good point, Mr. Kane.”

  Richard dialed the number and waited. A sleepy voice answered the phone.

  “Mother?”

  “Yes, Richard. What time is it?”

  “Four o’clock in the morning. I’m sorry to bother you, but there is no one else I can turn to. Now please listen carefully. You once said that a friend of Father’s bought two percent of Lester’s stock from Peter Parfitt to keep it from falling into the hands of Florentyna’s father. Can you remember who it was?”

  There was a pause. “Yes, I think so. It will come back to me if you hold on a minute. Yes, it was an old friend from England, a banker who had been at Harvard with your father. The name will come in a moment.” Richard held his breath. Florentyna sat up in bed.

  “Emson, Colin Emson, the chairman of…oh, dear, I can’t remember.”

  “Don’t worry, Mother, that’s enough to be getting on with. You go back to sleep.”

  “What a thoughtful and considerate son you are,” said Kate Kane as she put down the phone.

  “Now what, Richard?”

  “Just make breakfast.”

  Florentyna kissed him on the forehead and disappeared.

  Richard picked up the phone. “International operator, please. What time is it in London?”

  “Seven minutes past nine.”

  Richard flicked through his personal book and said, “Please connect me to 372-7711.”

  He waited impatiently. A voice came on the line.

  “Bank of America.”

  “Put me through to Jonathan Coleman, please.”

  Another wait.

  “Jonathan Coleman.”

  “Good morning, Jonathan, it’s Richard Kane.”

  “Nice to hear from you, Richard. What can I do for you?”

  “I need some information urgently. Which bank is Colin Emson chairman of?”

  “Hold on a minute, Richard, and I’ll look him up in the Bankers’ Year Book.” Richard could hear the pages turning. “Robert Fraser and Company” came back the reply. “Only now he’s Sir Colin Emson.”

  “What’s his number?”

  “493-3211.”

  “Thank you, Jonathan. I’ll give you a call when I’m next in London.”

  Richard wrote the number on the corner of an envelope and dialed the international operator again as Florentyna came into the bedroom.

  “Getting anywhere?”

  “I’m about to find out. Operator, can you please get me a number in London. Four nine three, three two one one.” Florentyna sat on the end of the bed while Richard waited.

  “Robert Fraser and Company.”

  “May I speak to Sir Colin Emson, please.”

  “Who shall I say is calling, sir?”

  “Richard Kane of the Baron Group, New York.”

  “Hold on please, sir.”

  Richard waited again.

  “Good morning. Emson here.”

  “Good morning, Sir Colin. My name is Richard Kane—I think you knew my father?”

  “Of course. We were at Harvard together. Good chap, your old man. I was very sad to read about his death. Wrote to your mother at the time. Where are you calling from?”

  “New York.”

  “Get up early, you Americans. So what can I do for you?”

  “Do you still own two percent of Lester’s Bank shares?” Richard held his breath again.

  “Yes, I do. Paid a bloody king’s ransom for them. Still, can’t complain. Your father did me a few favors in his time.”

  “Would you consider selling them, Sir Colin?”

  “If you’re willing to offer me a sensible price.”

  “How much would you consider sensible?”

  There was a long pause. “Eight hundred thousand dollars.”

  “I accept,” said Richard without hesitation, “but I must be able to pick them up tomorrow. If I bank-transfer the money, can you have all the paper work done by the time I arrive?”

  “Simple, dear boy, yes,” Emson said without demur. “I’ll also have a car meet you at the airport and put at your disposal while you’re in London.”

  “Thank you, Sir Colin.”

  “Go easy with the ‘Sir,’ young fellow. I’ve reached that age when I prefer to be called by my Christian name. Just let me know when you expect to arrive and everything will be ready for you.”

  “Thank you…Colin.”

  Richard put down the phone.

  “You’re not getting dressed, are you?”

  “I certainly am. I won’t get any more sleep tonight. Now, where’s my
breakfast?”

  By six o’clock Richard was booked on the nine-fifteen flight from Kennedy Airport. He had also booked himself on a return flight the following morning at eleven, arriving back in New York by one thirty-five the following afternoon, giving him twenty-four hours to spare before the shareholders’ meeting at 2 P. M. on Wednesday.

  “Running things a bit close, aren’t we?” said Florentyna.

  “That’s why I am going myself and not risking a messenger.”

  “Well, messenger, William will expect you to bring him back a model of a red London bus.”

  “You’re always making these major commitments on my behalf. It’s a heavy load I carry as the chief executive of your group.”

  “I know, dear, and to think it’s only because you sleep with the chairman.”

  By seven Richard was seated at his office desk writing explicit instructions for the transfer of the $800,000 by Telex to Robert Fraser and Company, Albermarle Street, London W. 1. Richard knew the money would be in Sir Colin Emson’s bank long before he was. At seven-thirty he was driven to the airport and he checked in. The 747 took off on time and he arrived at London’s Heathrow at ten o’clock that night. Sir Colin Emson had been as good as his word. A driver was waiting to pick him up and whisk him off to the Baron. The manager had put him in the Davis Leroy Suite. The Presidential Suite, he explained, was already occupied by Mr. Jagger. The rest of his group had taken over the ninth floor.

  “I don’t think I know the group,” said Richard. “What area do they specialize in?”

  “Singing,” said the manager.

  When Richard checked at the reception desk, there was a message waiting for him from Sir Colin suggesting they meet at the bank at nine the following morning.

  Richard dined quietly in his rooms and called Florentyna to bring her up to date before going to bed.

  “Hang in there, Mr. Kane—we’re all depending on you.”

  Richard woke at seven and packed before going down to breakfast. His father had always gone on about the kippers in London, so he ordered them with some anticipation. When he had finished the last morsel, he realized that they were so good that he would undoubtedly bore his own son with the same story for many years to come. After breakfast, he walked around Hyde Park to kill the hour before the bank opened. The park was green and the flower beds a mass of untouched daffodils. He couldn’t help but compare its beauty to Central Park and recalled that London still had five Royal parks of a similar size.

  As nine o’clock struck, Richard walked in the front door of Robert Fraser and Company on Albermarle Street, only a few hundred yards from the Baron. A secretary ushered him through to Sir Colin Emson’s office.

  “Had a feeling you’d be on time, old fellow, so I have everything prepared for you. I once remember finding your father sitting on the doorstep with the milk bottles. Everybody drank black coffee that day.”

  Richard laughed.

  “Your eight hundred thousand dollars arrived before close of business yesterday, so all I have to do is sign the share certificates over to you in the presence of a witness.” Sir Colin flicked a switch. “Can you come in, Margaret?” Sir Colin’s private secretary watched the chairman of one bank sign the transfer certificates so that the recipient could become the chairman of another bank.

  Richard checked over the documents, carefully signed his part of the agreement and was handed a receipt for $800,000.

  “Well, I hope all the trouble you’ve taken in coming yourself will ensure that you become the chairman of Lester’s, old chap.”

  Richard stared at the elderly man with the white walrus mustache, bald head and military bearing. “I had no idea you realized that…”

  “Wouldn’t want you Americans to think we’re altogether asleep over here. Now you bustle off and catch the eleven o’clock from Heathrow and you’ll make your meeting easily: not many of my customers pay as promptly as you do. By the way, congratulations on that moon chappie.”

  “What?” said Richard.

  “You’ve put a man on the moon.”

  “Good heavens,” said Richard.

  “No, not quite,” said Sir Colin, “but I’m sure that’s what NASA has planned next.”

  Richard laughed and thanked Sir Colin again. He walked quickly back to the Baron, literally humming. He knew exactly what it felt like to be the man on the moon. He had left his overnight bag with the porter so he was able to check out quickly and Sir Colin’s chauffeur drove him back to Heathrow. Richard entered terminal 3 well in time to check in for the eleven o’clock flight. He was going to be back in New York with twenty-four hours to spare: if his father had had to make the same transaction before he became chairman the process would have taken at least two weeks.

  Richard sat in the Clipper Club lounge toying with a martini while reading in the Times about Rod Laver’s chances of going on from his victory at Wimbledon to win The Grand Slam. Outside, a heavy fog was descending. It wasn’t until thirty minutes later that an announcement warned passengers that there would be a short delay on all flights. An hour later, they called Richard’s flight, but as he walked across the tarmac he could see the fog growing denser by the minute. He sat in his seat, belt fastened, reading a copy of the previous week’s Time magazine, willing himself not to look outside, waiting to feel the plane move. Nixon, he read, had named the first women generals, Colonel Elizabeth Hoisington and Colonel Anne Mae Hays; no doubt the first innovation Nixon had made that Florentyna would approve of, he thought.

  “We are sorry to announce that this flight has been delayed until further notice because of fog.” A groan went up inside the first-class cabin. “Passengers should return to the terminal, where they will be issued with luncheon vouchers and advised when to reboard the aircraft. Pan American apologizes for the delay and hopes it will not cause any great inconvenience.” Richard had to smile, despite himself. Back inside the terminal, he went around to every ticket counter, checking on who had the first plane out. It turned out to be an Air Canada flight to Montreal. He reserved a seat, after being told that his Pan Am flight to New York was now the twenty-seventh in line for departure. He then checked the flights out of Montreal to New York. There was one every two hours and the flying time was just over an hour. He pestered Pan American and Air Canada every thirty minutes, but the polite, bland reply remained unvaried: “I’m sorry, sir, we can do nothing until the fog lifts.”

  At two in the afternoon, he called Florentyna to warn her about the delay.

  “Not impressive, Mr. Kane. While you’re on the phone, did you manage to pick up a red London bus for William?”

  “Damn. I completely forgot.”

  “Not doing very well today, Mr. Kane. Better try the duty-free gift shop, hadn’t we?”

  Richard found an airport shop that sold several sizes of London buses. He selected a large plastic one and paid for it with the last of his English money. With the bus safely under his arm, he decided to use his luncheon voucher. He sat down to the worst airport lunch he had ever had: one thin piece of beef about an inch square that the menu had misleadingly described as a minute steak, along with three tired lettuce leaves posing as a side salad. He checked his watch. It was already three o’clock. For two hours he tried to read a copy of The French Lieutenant’s Woman, but he was so anxious listening to every radio announcement that he never got past page 4.

  At seven o’clock, after Richard had walked around terminal 3 several times, he began to think it would soon be too late for a plane to take off whatever the weather. The loudspeaker forebodingly warned of an important announcement to follow shortly. He stood like a statue as the words came out. “We are sorry to announce that all flights out of Heathrow have been canceled until tomorrow morning with the exception of Iran Air Flight 006 to Jiddah and Air Canada flight 009 to Montreal.” Richard had been saved by his foresight: he knew the Air Canada flight would be completely sold out within minutes. Once again he sat in a first-class lounge. Although the flight wa
s further delayed, it was eventually called a few minutes after eight. Richard almost cheered when the 747 took off a little after nine o’clock. Thereafter he found himself checking his watch every few minutes. The flight was uneventful except for more appalling food and the plane eventually landed at Montreal airport shortly before eleven.

  Richard sprinted to the American Airlines counter to discover that he had missed the last flight to New York by a few minutes. He swore out loud.

  “Don’t worry, sir, there is a flight at ten twenty-five tomorrow morning.”

  “What time does it arrive in New York?”

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  “Two hours and thirty minutes to spare,” he said out loud. “I’ll have to hire a private plane.”

  “No plane is allowed out of this airport after ten-thirty, sir.”

  “Damn,” Richard said, and reserved a seat and took a room in the Airport Baron and phoned Florentyna.

  “Where are you now?” she asked.

  “The Airport Baron, Montreal.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  Richard explained what had happened.

  “Poor darling. Did you remember the red London bus?”

  “Yes, I’m clinging on to it, but my overnight bag is still on the Pan Am flight to New York.”

  “And the stock certificates?”

  “They are in my briefcase and have never left my side.”

  “Well done, Mr. Kane. I’ll have a car waiting for you at the airport, and Mr. Cohen and I will be at the stockholders’ meeting at Lester’s clutching on to our forty-nine percent. So if you’re in possession of your two percent, Jake Thomas will be on unemployment compensation by this time tomorrow.”

  “How can you be so cool about it?”

  “You’ve never let me down yet. Sleep well.”

  Richard did not sleep well, and was back at the American Airlines terminal hours before the plane was due to board. There was a slight delay, but the captain was still anticipating that he could land at Kennedy by eleven-thirty. Richard had no baggage and felt confident he could now make the meeting with at least half an hour to spare. For the first time in over twenty-four hours he began to relax and even made some notes for his first speech as Lester’s chairman.