Cometh the Hour

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Of course,” Seb repeated.

  “Some time ago you asked me if I’d like to join the board of Farthings. I’m calling to find out if the offer is still open.”

  Sebastian was speechless.

  “Are you still there, Seb?”

  “Yes,” he managed eventually.

  “I would consider it a great honor to serve under Hakim Bishara,” said Giles, “if he still felt I could be of any assistance.”

  * * *

  When the phones were no longer ringing off the hook, Sebastian finally decided to go home, although there was one person he still had to call. But he decided it would be easier to speak to her from the privacy of his flat.

  On the way home to Pimlico, he suddenly felt hungry, as he hadn’t had any lunch. He couldn’t face eating out, and certainly didn’t feel like cooking, so he stopped off at a takeaway to pick up a large pepperoni pizza. By the time he’d parked outside his block of flats, his mind had turned to the problems he would have to face at tomorrow’s emergency meeting, now that Adrian Sloane was back on the board. He let himself in to Pimlico Mansions, and took the lift to his apartment on the ninth floor. As he opened his door, he could hear the phone ringing.

  * * *

  Hakim Bishara looked closely at the man seated across the table from him. Once again, he was playing the game his father had taught him. Mr. Hammond’s dark blue suit was well tailored but off the peg; his white shirt had been put on less than an hour ago. His tie was crested, probably a rugby club, and his shoes could only have been polished by someone who’d served in the armed forces. His head was shaven, his body slim and agile, and although he must have been in his mid-forties, not many thirty-year-olds would have wanted to step into the ring with him. Hakim waited for him to speak. The voice offers so many more clues.

  “I only agreed to see you, Mr. Bishara, because you’re a friend of Mr. Hardcastle.”

  Essex, tough, streetwise. Hammond turned to his left and gave Arnold a slight nod.

  “And I owe him. He got me off when I was guilty. Are you guilty, Mr. Bishara?” he asked, his deep brown eyes focused on Hakim as if he were a python eyeing up his lunch.

  Hakim could hear Seb’s voice in his ear telling him to stay calm. “No, I am not guilty, Mr. Hammond,” he replied, returning his stare.

  “Have you ever taken drugs, Mr. Bishara?”

  “Never,” said Hakim calmly.

  “Then you won’t mind rolling up your sleeves, will you?” Hakim carried out the order without question. Hammond’s eyes scanned his arms. “And now your trousers.” He rolled up each leg of his trousers. “Open your mouth, I want to look at your teeth.” Hakim opened his mouth. “Wider.” He peered inside. “Well, one thing’s for certain, Mr. Hardcastle. Your friend has never taken drugs in his life, so he’s passed the first test.” Hakim wondered what the second test would be. “Now let’s find out if he’s a dealer.”

  * * *

  Sebastian pushed the door closed, dropped his pizza on the hall table and grabbed the phone. He was greeted with a voice he hadn’t heard for years.

  “I was just about to phone you,” said Seb. “But thought it unwise to call from the office, given the circumstances.”

  “The circumstances?” repeated Samantha in a gentle voice Seb could never forget.

  “I’m afraid it’s rather a long story.”

  Seb then attempted to explain what had happened to Bishara since his abortive phone call from Dulles airport, and when he finally stopped talking he still had no idea how Samantha would react.

  “Poor man. I can’t begin to imagine what he’s going through.”

  “It’s a nightmare,” said Seb. “I hope you feel I did the right thing.”

  “I would have done exactly the same,” she said. “Although I must confess I was looking forward to seeing you.”

  “I could fly back to Washington on Saturday, pick up my pictures and take you to dinner.”

  “I would suggest both of us,” said Sam. “Jessica has made a plasticine model of you and has been sticking pins into it for the past twenty-four hours.”

  “No more than I deserve. Should I speak to her, or will she hang up on me?”

  “Don’t worry. I have a feeling she’ll run out of pins.”

  * * *

  “Describe the person who was sitting next to you on the plane,” said Hammond.

  “Forty, possibly forty-five, elegant, married—”

  “How do you know she was married?”

  “She was wearing a wedding ring and an engagement ring.”

  “What does that prove?”

  “That’s she’s not available. You, for example, are recently divorced.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “There’s a thin white line on the third finger of your left hand, which you occasionally try to twist around, as if a ring were still there.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “A tailored suit, no other jewelry except an expensive pair of diamond earrings and a Cartier Tank watch.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “No, her body language made it clear she didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Did you speak to any of the other passengers on the flight?”

  “No, I’d had a pointless and exhausting journey to Lagos and I just wanted to sleep.”

  “I’ll need the flight number and the date and time of the booking because it’s just possible she’s a regular on that route.”

  Arnold made a note.

  “It couldn’t have been her,” said Hakim with conviction.

  “Do you remember anything else about her?”

  “She was reading Watership Down and she wore glasses.”

  “Her nationality?”

  “Scandinavian. Swedish would be my guess.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “No other race on earth has such naturally fair hair.”

  “Now I want you to think carefully before you answer my next question, Mr. Bishara.” Hakim nodded. “Can you think of anyone who would benefit from your being in jail?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. A lot of people are envious of my success, but I don’t regard them as enemies.”

  “Is there anybody who would be happy to see the proposed Farthings Kaufman merger fail?”

  “Several people. But after what I’ve been through in the last few days, I’m not willing to accuse someone who, like me, might be totally innocent.”

  Arnold made another note.

  “Mr. Clifton or Mr. Kaufman, for example? Don’t forget they were at school together. One of them may see himself as the next chairman, and sooner than expected if you were safely out of the way.”

  “There’s no doubt that one of them will eventually take my place as chairman. But I can assure you, Mr. Hammond, they are both one hundred percent trustworthy and have more than proved their loyalty over the past few days. No, Mr. Hammond, you’ll have to look further afield than that.”

  “What about any other board members?”

  “They’re either too old, too busy, or well aware that they’re not up to the job.”

  Arnold Hardcastle allowed himself a smile.

  “Well, there’s someone out there who wants to see you locked up for a very long time, otherwise why take so much trouble to have you arrested for a crime you didn’t commit?”

  “But if someone like that had been on the plane, surely I would have recognized them.”

  “They wouldn’t have been on the plane,” said Hammond. “He or she would have used someone who was above suspicion, who could get on board that flight with thirteen ounces of heroin without anyone suspecting them. A stewardess perhaps, or even the pilot.”

  “But why?” said Hakim.

  “Greed or fear is usually the answer to that question, Mr. Bishara. Money is almost always the catalyst. Some debt they needed to pay, some piece of information they didn’t want revealed. Don’t worry, Mr. Bishara, I’ll find out who it
was. But it won’t come cheap.”

  Hakim nodded. The mention of money and he felt on firmer ground. “What’s it going to cost me?”

  “I’ll need a small team. Two, possibly three. They’ll have to be experts in their fields, and they’ll expect to be paid in cash, up front.”

  “How much?”

  “Five grand.”

  “You’ll have it later today,” said Hakim, who nodded to Arnold. “And your payment, Mr. Hammond?”

  “I’ve given that some thought, and I’d prefer to be paid on results.”

  “What did you have in mind?” asked Hakim, remembering another of his father’s golden rules: in any deal, always wait for the other side to make the opening bid.

  “Five thousand pounds if I find the person responsible for planting the heroin. Ten thousand if they’re arrested and charged. Twenty thousand if I discover the person or persons behind the operation. And another thousand for every year of their sentence.”

  Hakim could have bargained for an hour and probably lowered Hammond’s demands by 30, 40 even 50 percent, but as his father had once told him, sometimes the opening bid is the one you should settle for, especially if the stakes are high. In this case, the stakes couldn’t have been higher.

  He rose slowly from his chair, offered an outstretched hand and said, “You have a deal, Mr. Hammond.”

  * * *

  “This emergency board meeting has been called in most unfortunate circumstances,” said Ross Buchanan. “But first I must tell you that Mr. Bishara has asked me to stand in as chairman until he returns.”

  “Shouldn’t that be put to a vote?” said Adrian Sloane. “Can a man who’s locked up in prison on a serious drugs charge continue to dictate how a public company is run?”

  “I agree with Mr. Sloane,” said Giles. “Such an important decision should be put to a vote. I therefore propose that Mr. Ross Buchanan, a distinguished former chairman of this bank, takes on the responsibilities of chairing the board once again, until Mr. Bishara returns to his rightful position.”

  “But I am also a past chairman of the bank,” protested Sloane.

  “I did say distinguished,” said Giles, without even bothering to look at Sloane.

  A stony silence followed.

  “Will anyone second Mr. Clifton’s proposal that Mr. Ross Buchanan stand in as chairman until Mr. Bishara returns?” asked the company secretary.

  “I will be delighted to do so,” said Jimmy Goldsmith.

  “Those in favor?” asked the company secretary.

  Everyone around the table except Sloane raised their hand.

  “Those against?”

  Sloane raised his hand and said, “I want it minuted that if Bishara is convicted of drug smuggling, I shall expect every one of you to resign.”

  “And if he isn’t?” asked Victor Kaufman.

  “Then naturally I will have to consider my own position.”

  “That’s something else I’d like minuted,” said Victor. The company secretary duly wrote down his words.

  “Perhaps,” said Ross, “we should now move on. I’d like to begin by welcoming Lord Barrington and Mr. James Goldsmith as members of the board, before asking our chief executive, Sebastian Clifton, to report on the effect recent events have had on the company’s finances, and the latest position concerning the merger.”

  “Our shares are down by twelve percent, Mr. Chairman,” said Sebastian, “but I’m pleased to report that the market appears to have steadied, not least because of the intervention of Mr. Goldsmith, who clearly not only believes in Mr. Bishara’s innocence but also in the long-term future of the bank. And can I say how delighted I am that he has taken his place on the board and been able to join us today.”

  “But like Mr. Buchanan,” said Goldsmith, “I intend to withdraw as a director as soon as Mr. Bishara returns.”

  “And if he doesn’t return?” said Sloane. “What will you do then, Mr. Goldsmith?”

  “I will remain on the board and do everything in my power to make sure that a little shit like you doesn’t become chairman.”

  “Mr. Chairman,” protested Sloane. “This is the board meeting of a leading City bank, not a casino, where clearly Mr. Goldsmith would be more at home.”

  “My reason for not wanting Mr. Sloane to return as chairman of this bank,” said Goldsmith, “is not just because he’s a shit but, far more important, because the last time he held that position he almost succeeded in bringing Farthings to its knees, and I suspect that is his present purpose.”

  “That is a disgraceful slur on my reputation,” said Sloane. “You have left me with no choice but to place the matter in the hands of my solicitors.”

  “I can’t wait,” said Goldsmith. “Because when you were chairman of Farthings and Mr. Bishara withdrew his bid for the bank, you stated at a full board meeting, which was minuted, that there was another leading financial institution willing to pay considerably more for Farthings shares than Mr. Bishara was offering. It’s always been a bit of a mystery to me who that leading financial institution was. Perhaps you would care to enlighten us now, Mr. Sloane.”

  “I don’t have to take any more insults from the likes of you, Goldsmith.” Sloane rose from his place and, as he knew his words would be recorded in the minutes, added, “You will all have to resign when Bishara is convicted. The next meeting of this board I attend will be as chairman. Good day, gentlemen,” he said, and walked out.

  Goldsmith didn’t wait for the door to close before saying, “Never be afraid to attack a bully because they always turn out to be cowards, and the moment they come under any pressure they run away.”

  A small round of applause followed. When it had died down, Giles Barrington leaned across the table. “I wonder, Jimmy, if you’d consider joining the Labour Party? There are one or two members of the Shadow Cabinet I’d love to see the back of.”

  Ross Buchanan waited for the laughter to subside before he said, “Sloane was right about one thing. If Hakim is convicted, we’ll all have to resign.”

  HAKIM BISHARA

  1975

  33

  COURT NUMBER FOUR of the Old Bailey was packed long before ten o’clock on Thursday morning. Counsel were in their places, the press benches were heaving and the gallery above resembled the dress circle of a West End theatre on opening night.

  Sebastian had attended every day of the trial, even the morning when the jury was being selected. He hated having to witness Hakim coming up from below to take his place in the dock, a policeman standing on either side of him as if he were a common criminal. The American system, where the defendant sits at a table with his legal team, seemed so much more civilized.

  Hakim’s counsel was Mr. Gilbert Gray QC, while the Crown was represented by Mr. George Carman QC. They were like two seasoned gladiators in the Roman Colosseum, cut and thrust, but so far neither had managed to inflict anything more serious than the occasional flesh wound. Sebastian couldn’t help thinking that if they were to change sides, all the feigned passion, the barbed insults, the angry protests would still have been displayed in equal measure.

  In their opening speeches, Mr. Gray and Mr. Carman had set out their stalls, and Sebastian was sure the jury hadn’t been swayed one way or the other by the time they sat back down. The first three witnesses—the captain of flight 207, the purser and Mrs. Aisha Obgabo, a Nigerian stewardess who had supplied written evidence—added little to the case, as none of them could remember the woman seated in 3B, and they certainly hadn’t witnessed anyone slipping something into Mr. Bishara’s bag. So a great deal now rested on the next witness, Mr. Collier, a senior customs officer at Heathrow, who had arrested the defendant.

  “Call Mr. Collier!” bellowed a policeman standing by the entrance to the court.

  Sebastian watched with interest as Mr. Collier entered the room and made his way to the witness box. He was a little over six foot, with thick dark hair and a beard that gave him the look of a sea captain. He had an open a
nd honest face, and Barry Hammond had written in his report that Collier spent his Sunday mornings refereeing mini rugby. But Barry had dug up something that just might give Mr. Gray the chance to draw first blood. However, that would have to wait, because he was the Crown’s witness, so Mr. Carman would be called to examine him first.

  When Mr. Collier delivered the oath, he didn’t need to read the card held up by the clerk of the court. His voice was firm and confident, with no suggestion of nerves. The jury were already looking at him with respect.

  Mr. Carman rose slowly from his place, opened a red file in front of him and began his examination. “Would you please state your name for the record?”

  “David Collier.”

  “And your occupation?”

  “I’m a senior customs officer, currently working out of Heathrow.”

  “How long have you been a customs officer, Mr. Collier?”

  “Twenty-seven years.”

  “So it would be fair to say that you are a man who has reached the top of his chosen profession?”

  “I would like to think so.”

  “Let me go further, Mr. Collier, and suggest—”

  “You needn’t go any further,” interjected Mr. Justice Urquhart, glaring down from the bench at senior counsel. “You have established Mr. Collier’s credentials, so I suggest you move on.”

  “I’m most grateful, my lord,” said Carman, “for your confirmation of Mr. Collier’s undoubted qualifications as an expert witness.” The judge frowned, but made no further comment. “Mr. Collier, can I confirm that you were the senior customs officer on duty on the morning the defendant, Mr. Bishara, was arrested and taken into custody.”

  “Yes I was, sir.”

  “When Mr. Bishara entered the green channel, indicating that he had nothing to declare, did you stop him and ask to inspect his baggage?”

  “Yes I did, sir.”

  “How much luggage was he carrying?”

  “Just an overnight bag, nothing else.”

  “And was this simply a random check?”

  “No, sir. We had received a tip-off that a passenger on flight 207 from Lagos would be attempting to smuggle a consignment of heroin into the country.”