Cometh the Hour

by Jeffrey Archer

  “There are two flights out of Bombay today, both of them Air India.” She glanced down at her pad. “One in forty minutes’ time, at 12:50, so you couldn’t possibly make it to the airport in time, and one—”

  “—but a man on a motorbike could,” said Ghuman without explanation. “Get me the duty controller at the airport.”

  Ghuman paced around the room as he waited to be put through. He snatched at the phone the moment it rang.

  “It’s Patel, in accounts, sir. You asked me to—”

  “Not now,” said Ghuman. He slammed the phone down and was just about to ask his secretary what was taking so long when it rang again.

  “Who is this?” he demanded as he picked the phone up.

  “My name is Tariq Shah, Mr. Ghuman. I am Air India’s senior controller at Santacruz airport. How may—”

  “I have reason to believe that a Mr. Sebastian Clifton and my daughter, Priya, are booked on your 12:50 flight to London. Check your manifest immediately and let me know if they’ve already boarded the plane.”

  “Can I call you back?”

  “No, I’ll hold on.”

  “I’ll need a couple of minutes, sir.”

  Two minutes turned into three, and as Ghuman could no longer pace around his office while he held onto the phone, he grabbed the letter-opener on his desk and began stabbing his blotting pad in frustration. Finally a voice said, “Neither Mr. Clifton nor your daughter are on that flight, Mr. Ghuman, and the boarding desk has already closed. Do you want me to check the 18:50 flight?”

  “No, they won’t be on that one,” Ghuman said before adding, “What a clever young man you are, Mr. Clifton.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Shah.

  “Listen carefully, Shah. I want you to check every other flight that’s leaving India for London tonight, whatever the airport, and then ring me straight back.”

  * * *

  Seb and Priya pulled up outside the domestic terminal just before one o’clock, to find Vijay standing on the pavement looking out for them.

  “Take the bike back to the garage, Vijay, then go home and stay put for the rest of the day. Don’t report back to work until tomorrow morning. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal,” said Vijay.

  Seb handed him the keys to the bike and another five hundred rupees.

  “But you have already given me more than enough money, sir.”

  “Nowhere near enough,” said Seb. He took Priya by the hand and led her quickly into the terminal and straight to Gate 14B, where some passengers were already boarding. He was glad he’d carried out two dress rehearsals, but it didn’t stop him continually looking over his shoulder to check if anyone was following them. With a bit of luck, Ghuman’s thugs would be heading for the international terminal.

  They joined the queue of passengers boarding the flight to New Delhi, but Seb didn’t feel safe even when the stewardess asked everyone to fasten their seatbelts. Not until the wheels had left the ground did he breathe a sigh of relief.

  “But we won’t be safe even when we’re back in London,” said Priya, who was still shaking. “My father won’t give up while he thinks there’s the slightest chance of getting me to change my mind.”

  “That will be pretty difficult, if we’re already married.”

  “But we both know that won’t be possible for some time.”

  “Have you ever heard of Gretna Green?” said Seb, not letting go of her hand. “It’s like Vegas without the gambling, so by this time tomorrow, you will be Mrs. Clifton. Which is why we’re taking a plane to Glasgow this evening, and not London.”

  “But even if we do that, my father will only take some other kind of revenge.”

  “I don’t think so. Because when he returns to London he’s going to have a visit from Mr. Varun Sharma, the Indian High Commissioner, as well as a chief inspector from Scotland Yard.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “I didn’t. But when you see my uncle Giles again, you can thank him.”

  * * *

  The airport controller was back on the line forty minutes after Ghuman had put the phone down.

  “There are five other flights scheduled for London this evening, Mr. Ghuman. Three out of New Delhi, one from Calcutta and the other from Bangalore. Neither Mr. Clifton nor your daughter are booked on any of them. However, there’s a BOAC flight to Manchester and another to Glasgow that are leaving New Delhi later this evening, and the booking desks for both are still open.”

  “Clever, Mr. Clifton, very clever indeed. But there’s one thing you’ve overlooked. Mr. Shah,” said Ghuman, “I need to know which of those flights they’re booked on. Once you’ve found out, make sure they don’t board the plane.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr. Ghuman, because they are both British carriers, and I have no way of checking their manifests, unless I can show a crime has been committed.”

  “You can tell them Clifton is attempting to kidnap my daughter, and that you’ll hold the flight up if they allow them to board the plane.”

  “I don’t have the authority to do that, Mr. Ghuman.”

  “Listen carefully, Mr. Shah. If you don’t do it, by this time tomorrow you won’t have any authority at all.”

  * * *

  The flight from Bombay to New Delhi landed a couple of hours later, leaving Seb and Priya with almost two hours to kill before they could board their connecting flight. They didn’t waste any time making their way over to the international terminal, where they joined the queue at BOAC’s booking desk.

  “Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?” asked the clerk.

  “I’d like two seats on your flight to Glasgow.”

  “Certainly, sir. First or economy?”

  “First,” said Seb.

  “Economy,” said Priya. They tossed a coin. Priya won.

  “Is this the way it’s going to be for the rest of our married life?” said Seb.

  “Are you on your honeymoon?” asked the booking clerk.

  “No,” said Seb. “We’re getting married tomorrow.”

  “Then I shall be delighted to upgrade you to first class.”

  “Thank you,” said Priya.

  “But first I need to see your passports.” Sebastian handed them over. “Do you have any bags to check in?”

  “None,” said Seb.

  “Fine. And could I have a credit card please?”

  “Do we also toss for that?” asked Seb, looking at Priya.

  “No, I’m afraid you’re about to marry a girl who comes without a dowry.”

  “You’re in seats 4A and 4B. The flight is scheduled to leave on time, and the gate opens in forty minutes. You might like to take advantage of our first-class lounge, which is on the other side of the hall.”

  Seb and Priya held hands as they nervously nibbled nuts and drank endless cups of coffee in the first-class lounge, until they finally heard the announcement they had been waiting for.

  “This is the first call for BOAC flight 009 to Glasgow. Will all passengers please make their way to Gate number eleven.”

  “I want us to be the first on the plane,” said Seb, as they walked out of the lounge. He had always known that this would be the only unscripted moment, but he was confident that once they’d boarded the plane, even Mr. Ghuman wouldn’t be able to have them taken off a British carrier. In the distance he spotted two armed policemen standing by the departure gate. Were they always there, or were they on the lookout for him? And then he remembered the police car that had been stationed outside Mr. Ghuman’s house and had then continuously followed him and Vijay. Ghuman was a man with political influence and power, especially in his own country, the High Commissioner had warned.

  Seb slowed down, looking first to his right and then his left as he searched for an escape route. The two policemen were now staring at them and, when they were just a couple of yards from the barrier, one of the officers stepped forward as if he’d been waiting for them.
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  Seb heard a commotion behind him and swung, around to see what was going on. He immediately knew that he’d made the wrong decision and should have kept on walking. His fifth mistake. He stood, mesmerized, as Ghuman’s two bodyguards charged toward them. How could they have got there so quickly? Of course, Ghuman had a private jet—something else the High Commissioner had warned him about. Seb was surprised how calm he felt, even when one of them pulled out a gun and pointed it directly at him.

  “Drop that gun and get on your knees!” shouted one of the policemen. The crowd scattered in every direction, leaving the six of them stranded in their own no-man’s land. Seb realized that the police had always been on his side. Barrington v. Ghuman—no contest. One of Ghuman’s guards immediately fell to his knees and slid his gun across the floor toward the two policemen. The other thug, the one who’d failed to dislodge Priya from the motorbike, ignored the order, never taking his eyes off his quarry.

  “Move away, black swan,” said Seb firmly, pushing Priya to one side. “It’s not you he’s after.”

  “Put down your weapon and get on your knees or I will fire,” said one of the policemen standing behind them.

  But the man didn’t lower his gun and didn’t fall on his knees. He squeezed the trigger.

  Seb felt the bullet hit him. As he stumbled back, Priya shouted, “No!” and threw herself between Seb and the gunman. The second bullet killed her instantly.

  LADY VIRGINIA FENWICK

  1972

  22

  WHEN THE MONEY began to dry up, Virginia wondered if she could return to the same watering hole a second time.

  Without informing her father, she had employed a new butler and housekeeper and returned to her old way of life. £14,000 might have seemed like a lot of money at the time, but that was before she checked her recent dress account, spent a month at the Excelsior Hotel in Tenerife with a totally unsuitable young man, made a foolish loan to Bofie that she knew he’d never repay and backed a string of fillies at Ascot that never had any intention of entering the winners’ enclosure. She had refused to place a bet on Noble Conquest for the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes, and then watched her romp home at 3/1. Her owner, Cyrus T. Grant III, was inexplicably absent, so Her Majesty presented the cup to his trainer.

  Virginia opened yet another letter from Mr. Fairbrother, a man she had sworn never to speak to again, and reluctantly accepted that she was facing the same temporary embarrassment as she’d experienced six months previously. Her father’s monthly allowance had put her bank balance temporarily back in the black, so she decided to invest a hundred pounds seeking the advice of Sir Edward Makepeace QC. After all, it wasn’t his fault she’d lost her libel case against Emma Clifton. Alex Fisher was to blame for that.

  * * *

  “Let me try to understand what you’re telling me,” said Sir Edward after Virginia had come to the end of her story. “You met a Mr. Cyrus T. Grant III, a Louisiana businessman, at a lunch party at Harry’s Bar in Mayfair hosted by the son of Lord Bridgwater. You then accompanied Mr. Grant back to his hotel—” Sir Edward checked his notes—“the Ritz, where you had tea in his private suite, and later both of you drank a little too much … presumably not tea?”

  “Whisky,” said Virginia. “Maker’s Mark, his favorite brand.”

  “And you ended up spending the night together.”

  “Cyrus can be very persuasive.”

  “And you say that he proposed to you that evening, and when you returned to the Ritz the following morning he had, to quote you, ‘done a runner.’ By which you mean he had settled his account with the Ritz and taken the first flight back to America.”

  “That is exactly what he did.”

  “And you are seeking my legal opinion as to whether you have a claim for breach of promise against Mr. Grant that would stand up in a court of law?” Virginia looked hopeful. “If so, I have to ask, do you have any proof that Mr. Grant actually proposed to you?”

  “Such as?”

  “A witness, someone he told or, even better, an engagement ring?”

  “We had planned to go shopping for a ring that morning.”

  “I apologize for this indelicacy, Lady Virginia, but are you pregnant?”

  “Certainly not,” said Virginia firmly. She paused for a moment, before adding, “Why? Would it make any difference?”

  “A considerable difference. Not only would we have proof of your liaison but, more importantly, you could seek a maintenance order, claiming that Mr. Grant had an obligation to bring up the child in a style and manner commensurate with his considerable wealth.” He looked at his notes again, “As the twenty-eighth richest man in America.”

  “As reported in Forbes magazine,” confirmed Virginia.

  “That would have been good enough for most courts of law in both countries. However, as you are not pregnant, and have no proof that he proposed to you other than your word against his, I cannot see any course of action open to you. I would therefore advise you not to consider suing Mr. Grant. The legal expense alone could prove crippling and, after your recent experience, I suspect that isn’t a road you’d want to travel down a second time.”

  Her hour was up, but Virginia considered it £100 well spent.

  * * *

  “And when is the baby due, Morton?” asked Virginia.

  “In about two months, my lady.”

  “Do you still plan to have it adopted?”

  “Yes, my lady. Although I’ve found a new position in a good household, while Mrs. Morton is unable to work we simply can’t afford the expense of another child.”

  “I sympathize with you,” said Virginia, “and am keen to help if I can.”

  “That’s very kind of you, my lady.”

  Morton remained standing while Virginia outlined, in some detail, a proposition that she hoped might solve her problem as well as his. “Would that be of any interest to you?” she asked finally.

  “It certainly would, my lady, and if I may say so, it is most generous.”

  “How do you think Mrs. Morton will react to such a proposal?”

  “I’m sure she’ll fall in with my wishes.”

  “Good. However, I must stress that should you and Mrs. Morton accept my offer, neither of you would be able to have any contact with the child again.”

  “I understand.”

  “Then I will have the necessary documents drawn up by my lawyer and engrossed ready for you both to sign. And be sure to keep me regularly informed about Mrs. Morton’s health, in particular when she plans to go into hospital.”

  “Of course, my lady. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

  Virginia stood up and shook hands with Morton, something she’d never done before.

  * * *

  Virginia had the Baton Rouge State-Times airmailed to her from Baton Rouge once a week. This allowed her to keep up with the “wedding of the year”. The latest edition devoted a whole page to the forthcoming marriage of Ellie May Campbell to Cyrus T. Grant III.

  Invitations had already been sent out. The guests included the state governor, The Hon. Hayden Rankin, both US senators, several congressmen and the mayor of Baton Rouge, as well as most of the leading society figures in the state. The ceremony would be conducted by Bishop Langdon, in St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, and would be followed by a five-course banquet at the bride’s family ranch for the four hundred guests who were expected to attend.

  “Four hundred and one,” said Virginia, although she wasn’t quite sure how she was going to lay her hands on an invitation. She turned next to page four of the State-Times, and read about the outcome of a divorce case she had been following with great interest.

  Despite meticulous preparation, there were still one or two obstacles that Virginia needed to overcome before she could consider setting off for the New World. Bofie, who seemed to have contacts in both the Upper House and the lower classes, had already supplied her with the name of a struck-off doctor and a lawyer who ha
d appeared more than once in front of the Bar Council’s Ethics Committee. Mellor Travel had organized her flights to and from Baton Rouge, and booked her into the Commonwealth Hotel for three nights. The hotel was sadly unable to offer her ladyship a suite as they had all been taken by guests attending the wedding. Virginia didn’t complain, as she had no wish to be the center of attention—well, only for a few minutes.

  For the next month she prepared, double-checked and rehearsed everything that needed to be covered during her three days in Baton Rouge. Her final plan would have impressed General Eisenhower, although she only needed to defeat Cyrus T. Grant III. The week before she was due to fly to Louisiana, Virginia visited a branch of Mothercare in Oxford Street, where she purchased three outfits that she only ever intended to wear once. She paid in cash.

  * * *

  Lady Virginia Fenwick was picked up from her flat in Cadogan Gardens and driven to Heathrow in a private hire car arranged by Mellor Travel. When she checked in at the BOAC counter, she was told her flight to New York was running a few minutes late, but there would still be more than enough time to catch the connecting flight to Baton Rouge. She hoped so, because there was something she needed to do while she was at JFK.

  A slim, smartly dressed, middle-aged woman stepped onto a plane bound for New York, while a heavily pregnant woman boarded the connecting flight to Baton Rouge.

  On arrival in the capital of Louisiana, the pregnant woman took a taxi to the Commonwealth Hotel. As she stepped out of the back of the yellow cab, two porters rushed across to assist her. When she booked in, it wasn’t hard to tell, from the conversations all around her, that the hotel was packed with guests looking forward to the special occasion. She was shown up to a single room on the third floor and, as there was nothing more she could do that night, Virginia collapsed onto the bed exhausted and fell into a deep sleep.

  When she woke at 4 a.m., 10 a.m. in Cadogan Gardens, she thought about the meeting she had arranged later that morning with a Mr. Trend, the man who would decide if her plan was realistic. She had phoned him a week earlier, and his assistant had called back to confirm her appointment with the senior partner. She hoped to have a little more success with her new lawyer than she had managed with Sir Edward.