“Over my dead body.”
“And he’s also given orders to transfer the entire Lowell Collection to the bank as security in case the IRS wants to value it.”
“That could be a problem,” admitted Evelyn.
“I have to tell you, Karpenko is one tough bastard,” said Ackroyd. “You clearly don’t know the man.”
* * *
Alex spent the rest of the week studying balance sheets, dividend returns, tax payments, and even junior staff wages. But it wasn’t until Wednesday afternoon that he came across an entry that needed to be checked a third time before he was sure that no responsible board would have sanctioned it.
He stared at the item again, thinking it had to be one naught too many. It was tucked neatly in between two other figures of a similar amount so as not to draw attention to the entry. He double-checked the sum and wrote the figure down on a pad by his side. Alex wondered how many more such entries he would come across before he reached the present day.
The following morning, Alex found a similarly large withdrawal appearing on the balance sheet without explanation. Once again, Alex wrote the figure down. It was already dark by the time he came across the third entry, which was for a far larger amount. He added the figure to his growing list, and wondered how she’d been allowed to get away with it.
By Friday, Alex had concluded that Lowell’s, by any standards, was trading while insolvent, but he decided not to inform the banking commissioner until Mr. Rosenthal had valued the art collection, and he’d been able to value any other assets the bank might possess.
When the street lights flickered on, Alex decided it was time to leave the office and go home. He couldn’t wait to see Anna again. He glanced at the diminishing pile of balance sheets that still needed to be studied, and wondered if he’d ever get through them.
It hadn’t helped that Lawrence had been serving in Vietnam for two years when Douglas Ackroyd had brought a new meaning to the words “when the cat’s away.” He not only paid himself five hundred thousand dollars a year, but claimed another three hundred thousand dollars in expenses, while his two cronies, Jardine and Fowler, only ever traveled first class whenever they climbed aboard his gravy train. But the conductor was clearly Evelyn, who, with her fifty percent of the bank’s shares, appeared to have given Ackroyd carte blanche to do as he pleased. Now he’d discovered just how much she’d expected in return.
He was looking forward to spending the weekend with Anna, who was traveling up from New York that afternoon, but it didn’t stop him picking up half a dozen more files before he left the office. As he passed Miss Robbins’s room, he noticed that her light was still on. He popped his head around the door and said, “Thank you, and have a good weekend.”
“I’ll see you at six o’clock on Monday morning, chairman,” she said, without looking up from a pile of correspondence.
Alex had quickly discovered why Doug Ackroyd had sacked her. She was the one person who knew where all the bodies were buried.
As Alex left the building, he had a nagging feeling that he was being watched; a throwback from his days in Leningrad. It brought back memories of Vladimir, and he wondered how far up the KGB ladder he’d crawled by now. I ought to give him a call and see if he’d like to join the board of Lowell’s, he thought. He was sure Vladimir would have ways of making Ackroyd, Fowler, and Jardine divulge which entries he should be checking more carefully.
Alex gave the driver his address before he sank into the back seat of a taxi and opened another file. If he hadn’t read each debit with close attention, he might have missed yet another withdrawal, which could only have been sanctioned by one man. He checked the figure three times, but still couldn’t believe it. The final check had been cashed two days after Lawrence’s death, and the day before Ackroyd resigned, and was by far the largest amount to date.
Alex added the latest figure to his long list, before he totaled up all the withdrawals Evelyn had made since her father had died and her brother had taken over as chairman of Lowell’s. The final figure came to just over twenty-one million dollars, with no suggestion of any repayments. If you added her profligacy to the outrageous salary Ackroyd had paid himself and his four placemen, plus their countless expenses, it was no wonder that Lowell’s was facing bankruptcy. Alex began to wonder if he would have to sell off the Lowell Collection in order to make sure the bank was solvent enough to lower its debts and continue trading.
He was considering the consequences as the taxi pulled up outside Lawrence’s home. He would always think of it as Lawrence’s home.
He climbed out of the car and a huge smile appeared on his face when he spotted Anna standing in the doorway. It evaporated just as quickly when he saw the look on her face.
“What’s the matter, darling?” he asked as he took her in his arms.
“You’d better have a large vodka before I tell you.” She took his hand, and without another word led him into the house. She poured them both a drink and waited for him to sit down before saying, “It’s not just the Warhol that’s a copy.”
Alex drained his glass before asking, “How many?”
“I can’t be sure until Mr. Rosenthal has given his opinion, but I suspect that at least half the collection are copies.”
Alex said nothing, while she refilled his glass. After another long gulp, he admitted, “The value of the Lowell Collection is the one thing that’s preventing the bank from going under. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep until Mr. Rosenthal arrives.”
“I called him a couple of hours ago and he’s already on his way.”
“And my mother?” asked Alex. “How is she?”
“Your mother keeps asking me why we constantly change the date for our wedding,” said Anna.
“And what did you tell her?”
“We’re still trying to fit it in between rescuing a bank, opening the latest Elena’s, and preferably when we’re both in the same place at the same time.”
“We could have grandchildren by then,” said Alex.
33
SASHA
Merrifield
Sasha had always managed to survive on six hours’ sleep a night, but once the Prime Minister had visited Buckingham Palace and sought a dissolution of Parliament, he had to learn how to get by on four.
Once again he adopted a daily routine that would have impressed a Bolshoi ballet master, even if it was only for three weeks. He rose every morning at five, and was standing outside Roxton station with a small band of volunteers long before the first commuters arrived. He greeted them with, “Hi, I’m Sasha Karpenko, and I’m…”
At 8 a.m. he took a break for breakfast, a different cafe every morning, and twenty minutes later he would walk to party headquarters in the high street—three rooms hired for a month—and check the morning papers. The Merrifield Gazette had found several different ways of saying it was neck and neck, a close-run thing, everything to play for, but the morning’s headline took him by surprise: HUNTER CHALLENGES KARPENKO TO DEBATE.
“Shrewd move,” said Alf. “She didn’t wait for you to make the running this time. You have to accept immediately, and then we’ll agree later on a date, time, and place.”
“Any time, any place,” said Sasha.
“No, no!” said Alf. “We’re not in any hurry. We need the debate to be in Roxton, and as close to the election as possible.”
“Why Roxton?”
“Because more of our supporters are likely to turn up there than anywhere else in the constituency.”
“But why hold it off until the last moment?”
“It will give you more time to prepare. Don’t forget you’re not up against a university student any longer, but a parliamentarian who’s lived in this constituency all her life. But for now, you should get back on the street and leave us to worry about the details.”
After Sasha had rung the editor of the Gazette to say he would be delighted to accept Ms. Hunter’s challenge, and couldn’t wait to debate with
her, he left HQ to join the early morning shoppers, mainly women and young children, and a few old-age pensioners. During the next three hours he shook hands with as many voters as possible, always delivering the same simple message: his name, his party, the date of the election, and a reminder that Merrifield was now a key marginal seat.
Then came a forty-minute break for lunch at one o’clock, when Alf would join him at a local pub and bring him up to date with what Fiona was up to. Sasha always chatted to the publican about licensing hours and the tax on alcohol, while ordering only one course and a half pint of the local beer.
“Always make sure you pay for your own food and drink,” said Alf. “And don’t buy anything for anyone if they have a vote in the constituency.”
“Why not?” asked a heavily pregnant Charlie, as she sipped an orange juice.
“Because you can bet the Tories would try to claim he was attempting to bribe a constituent, and therefore breaking electoral law.”
After shaking hands with everyone in the pub, they left for a factory visit, where Sasha usually got more hellos than bugger-offs, followed by the school run from three thirty to four thirty—primary, secondary, and finally the local grammar school. This was when Charlie came into her element, and many mothers confided in her that, unlike their husbands, they would be voting for Sasha.
“She’s our secret weapon,” the chairman often told the candidate, “especially as, although Fiona claims to be engaged, her fiancé has yet to make an appearance. Not that I’ll be mentioning that to anyone, of course,” he added with a grin.
Back to HQ around 5 p.m. for a debriefing, before leaving to address two, possibly three, evening meetings.
“But so few people bother to turn up,” said Sasha.
“Don’t worry about that,” said Alf. “It will give you a chance to rehearse a few of the key points and phrases that will need to sound off-the-cuff during the debate.”
Back home by midnight and hopefully asleep by 1 a.m. Not always possible, because just like with an actor treading the boards, the adrenaline doesn’t conveniently stop the moment the curtain comes down. Four hours’ sleep before the alarm goes off, when he started the whole process again, only thankful that it was one day less until the election.
* * *
On the morning of the debate, one local poll gave Fiona a two-point lead, while another had the two candidates neck and neck. It didn’t help steady Sasha’s nerves when the local TV station announced that there had been so much interest in the debate that they would be showing it live at prime time.
Charlie selected the suit (gray, single-breasted), shirt (white), and tie (green) that Sasha would wear for the encounter that evening. She didn’t interrupt him while he rehearsed salient lines and well-honed phrases whenever they were alone. But if he asked for her opinion, she didn’t hesitate to respond candidly, even if it wasn’t always what he wanted to hear.
“Time to leave,” said Charlie, checking her watch.
Sasha followed her out of party HQ and joined her in the back of a waiting car.
“You look so handsome,” she said, as they moved off. Sasha didn’t reply. “Don’t forget, she’s just not in your class.” Still no response. “By this time next week, it will be you, not her, who’s sitting in the House of Commons.” Still nothing. “And by the way,” she added, “perhaps this isn’t the best time to tell you, but I’m thinking of voting Conservative.”
“Then let’s be thankful you haven’t got a vote in this constituency,” said Sasha as the car pulled up outside Roxton Town Hall.
* * *
“If you win the toss,” said Alf, who was standing at the top of the steps waiting to greet them, “you should speak second. Then you can respond to anything Fiona raises in her opening remarks.”
“No,” said Sasha. “If I win the toss I’ll go first, and then she’ll have to respond to what I have to say.”
“But that would be handing her an immediate advantage.”
“Not if I’ve already made her speech for her. I think I’ve worked out what her line of attack will be. Don’t forget, I know her better than anyone.”
“It’s a hell of a risk,” said Alf.
“The sort of risk you have to take when the polls are this close.”
Alf shrugged his shoulders. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said, as they walked onto the back of the stage and the moderator came across to join them.
“Time for the toss,” said Chester Munro, the veteran anchorman from Southern News.
Sasha and Fiona shook hands for the photographers, although she never once looked him in the eye.
“Your call, Ms. Hunter.”
“Heads,” said Fiona as Munro spun a silver coin high in the air. It bounced on the floor before coming to rest to reveal the image of the best-known woman on earth.
“Your choice, Ms. Hunter,” said Munro. “Will you open the batting, or put Mr. Karpenko in first?”
Sasha held his breath.
“I shall allow my opponent to speak first,” said Fiona, clearly pleased to have won the toss.
A young woman appeared from the wings and powdered Munro’s forehead and the tip of his nose, before he marched out onto the center of the stage to warm applause.
* * *
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” said Munro as he looked down at the packed auditorium. “Welcome to the debate between the two main contenders for the parliamentary seat of Merrifield. Fiona Hunter, the current member, is representing the Conservative Party, and her opponent, Sasha Karpenko, is the Labour Party’s candidate.
“Each candidate will make a three-minute opening statement, which will be followed by questions from the floor, and then we will end proceedings with both of them making a two-minute closing statement. I will now invite the two candidates to join us.”
Sasha and Fiona appeared from opposite wings of the stage, each of them greeted with rapturous applause from their own supporters. Sasha wished he was back in the Fulham Road enjoying one of his mother’s moussakas and a glass of red wine, but then he spotted Charlie and his mother smiling up at him from the front row. He smiled back, as Munro said, “I shall now call upon Mr. Karpenko to make his opening statement.”
Sasha walked slowly forward, placed his notes on the lectern, and waited for the audience to settle. He glanced down at the opening sentence, although he knew the entire speech by heart. He looked up, aware that he only had three minutes in which to make a lasting impression. No, Alf had told him to think of it as 180 seconds, that way you’ll make every second count. For the first time, Sasha wondered if Alf might have been right when he suggested that whoever spoke first would be at a disadvantage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sasha began, fixing his eyes on the tenth row of the audience. “You see, standing before you, a carpetbagger.”
A palpable gasp went up around the hall. Only Charlie didn’t look surprised. But then, she’d already heard the speech several times.
“And if that’s not bad enough,” continued Sasha, “I’m also a first-generation immigrant. And if you’re still looking for an excuse not to vote for me, I was born in Leningrad, not Merrifield.”
Alf looked anxiously out from the wings to see that the audience had been stunned into silence.
“But please allow me to tell you something about this particular carpetbagger. I was, as I said, born in Leningrad. My late father was a brave man who won the Defence of Leningrad for defending his homeland against the Nazis during the siege of that city in the Second World War. After the war he worked his way up from dock laborer to become works supervisor in charge of eight hundred men. A position he held until he committed a crime for which he was put to death.”
The audience were now hanging on his every word.
“Of course, you will want to know what that crime was. Murder, perhaps? Armed robbery? Fraud, or even worse, was he a traitor who’d betrayed his country? No, my father’s crime was that he wanted to form a trade
union among his fellow dockworkers so that his comrades could enjoy the same benefits that everyone in this country takes for granted. But the KGB didn’t want that, so they had him eliminated.
“My brave mother, who is sitting among you tonight, risked her life so she and I could escape the tyranny of Communism and begin a new life in this great country. I went to school in London and, like Ms. Hunter, won a scholarship to Cambridge, where, again like Ms. Hunter, I became president of the Union, and was awarded a first-class honors degree.”
The first round of applause followed, giving Sasha a moment to relax, look down at his speech, and check the next sentence.
“After coming down from Cambridge, I went to work in my mother’s restaurant, while at the same time attending night school, where I studied accountancy and business management. My mother may have won two Michelin stars as one of the finest chefs in this country, but she’s rubbish when it comes to balancing the books.”
Laughter and warm applause greeted these words.
“I fell in love with and married an English girl, who now works as a research fellow at the Courtauld Gallery. Our first child is due on election day.” Sasha looked up to the heavens and said, “Could you possibly make it the day after?”
This time the applause was spontaneous and Sasha smiled down at his wife. A buzzer sounded to indicate that he only had thirty seconds left. He hadn’t anticipated such prolonged applause, and needed to speed up.
“When I first came to Merrifield to fight the by-election three years ago, I fell in love for a second time. But you rejected this suitor and gave the prize to my rival, although the margin was slim enough for me to hope that you were perhaps suggesting I should try again. Now I am asking you to have a change of heart.” He lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “I want to share a secret with you which I hope will prove how much I care about Merrifield. Before this election was called, I had the opportunity to contest a London seat with a Labour majority of over ten thousand. But I declined that opportunity because I have something else in common with Ms. Hunter. Like her, I want to be the Member of Parliament for Merrifield. I may be a carpetbagger, but I want to be your carpetbagger.”
Heads You Win Page 32