This Was a Man

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Congratulations, Giles,” said Seb. “We’ll look forward to your next report. Perhaps now we should move on to item number three.” But his mind began to wander again as he considered the only item that would be on the agenda when he later had a private meeting with his deputy chairman. Although he had to admit that Victor looked a damn sight more relaxed than he felt.

  Seb was relieved when the company secretary finally asked, “Any other business?”

  “Yes,” announced Victor, from the far end of the table. Seb raised an eyebrow. “Some of my colleagues may have been wondering where I’ve been for the past ten days, and I feel I owe you all an explanation.” Certainly three of the directors agreed with him.

  “When I became deputy chairman,” Victor continued, “among the responsibilities the chairman gave me was to look into how the bank dealt with its charitable donations. I’m bound to say I assumed that would not be a demanding task. However, I couldn’t have been more wrong. I quickly discovered that the bank simply doesn’t have a policy, and that by the standards of our competitors we’re not only found wanting but, frankly, mean. I would not have realized just how mean if Lady Barrington hadn’t approached me to ask for the bank’s support when she was running the marathon. When she produced her list of sponsors, I felt ashamed. She’d raised more money from Barclays, Nat West, and Dr. Grace Barrington than she managed from Farthings Kaufman. That also caused me to take a greater interest in the charity she was supporting.”

  The deputy chairman had captured the attention of the entire board.

  “The charity concerned sends missions to Africa where its distinguished heart surgeon, Dr. Magdi Yacoub, operates on young children who would otherwise have no hope of survival.”

  “What exactly is a mission?” asked Mr. Whitford, who had been writing down the deputy chairman’s every word.

  “A mission comprises five people—a surgeon, a doctor, two nurses, and a manager, all of whom give their services for nothing, often sacrificing their holidays to carry out this vital work. Lady Barrington suggested I meet a Miss Candice Lombardo, who is an active member of the charity’s board, so I invited her to join me for dinner.” Victor smiled at the chairman.

  “Why do I know that name?” asked the company secretary.

  “Miss Lombardo,” said Clive Bingham, “was voted the most desirable woman on the planet by the readers of GQ magazine and, if the tabloids are to be believed, she’s currently having a fling with Omar Sharif.”

  “I have no idea if that’s true,” said Victor. “All I can tell you is that when we had dinner, it quickly became clear how committed she was to the cause. Miss Lombardo invited me to join her on a trip to Egypt to witness firsthand the work Dr. Yacoub and his team were carrying out in that country. That’s where I’ve been for the past ten days, chairman. And I confess, I spent much of my time either fainting or being sick.”

  “The deputy chairman fainted?” said Clive in disbelief.

  “On more than one occasion. I can assure you, watching a young child having their chest cut open isn’t for the fainthearted. By the time I got on the plane to come home, I was resolved to do more, a great deal more. As a result of that trip, I will be recommending to the board that we take on the role of being the charity’s bankers, with no charges. I have already agreed to become its honorary treasurer.”

  “To use your words, a great deal more,” said Seb. “What else can the bank do to help?”

  “We could start by making a substantial contribution to the Marsden charitable trust, so they can continue their work without having to live from hand to mouth.”

  “Do you have a sum in mind?” asked Giles.

  “Half a million a year for the next five years.” There were one or two gasps from around the table before Victor continued, “Which I know the board will be pleased to learn qualifies for forty percent tax relief.”

  “How do you think our shareholders will react to us giving such a large amount to charity?” asked John Ashley.

  “If Mr. Kaufman were to address the AGM,” suggested Seb, “I suspect they’d say it isn’t enough.”

  One or two of the board members nodded, while others smiled.

  “But we would still have to explain how the money is being spent,” said the company secretary. “After all, that would be no more than our fiduciary duty.”

  “I agree,” said Victor, “and if I am allowed to address our shareholders on the subject at the AGM, I’m sure I wouldn’t need to remind them that recently the bank made over eleven million pounds on the Harrods takeover by Mr. Al Fayed. However, I must confess that without the board’s approval, I made a down payment on a property in South Parade behind the Royal Marsden, so the charity can set up its headquarters near the hospital. I was able to pick it up at a knockdown price, because the premises had previously been used by an escort agency.”

  “Why didn’t you give the board advance notice of the purchase?” asked Seb. “A phone call would have been quite sufficient, so our executive directors could have discussed your proposal before today’s board meeting. Instead, you appear to have presented us with a fait accompli.”

  “I apologize, chairman, but I failed to mention that Princess Diana, a friend of Dr. Yacoub’s, was also on the trip to Egypt, and we were asked by her security team not to reveal our location or the names of anyone else on the trip.”

  “Quite right,” said Giles. “We don’t need to telegraph the IRA.”

  “And I assumed,” continued Victor, looking directly at Seb, “that if a real emergency were to arise, you wouldn’t have hesitated to call my wife, the one person who knew exactly where I was.”

  Three of the directors nodded in agreement.

  “Finally,” said Victor, “I know you’ll all be delighted to hear that Professor Yacoub will be holding a press conference at the Marsden next Thursday to announce that Princess Diana has agreed to be the charity’s patron.”

  “Bravo,” said Clive. “That can only be good for the bank’s image.”

  “That’s not my sole purpose for wanting to support such a worthwhile cause,” said Victor sharply.

  “Possibly not,” said Arnold, “but while the chancellor is still thrashing about, it won’t do us any harm.”

  “Perhaps you’d write up a proposal for our consideration at next month’s board meeting,” said Seb, “and distribute it early enough for us to give it some serious thought.”

  “I drafted an outline summary while I was circling above you this morning, chairman, and once I’ve completed it, I’ll send copies to all board members.”

  Several directors were nodding, as Victor closed the file in front of him.

  “Thank you,” said Seb. “Now all we have to decide is the date of the next meeting.”

  Diaries were consulted and, once a date had been agreed, Seb brought the meeting to a close.

  “Could you spare me a moment, Victor,” he said, as he gathered up his papers.

  “Of course, chairman.” Victor followed Seb out of the room, down the corridor, and into the chairman’s office. He was just about to close the door behind him when he noticed that John Ashley and Arnold Hardcastle were following close behind.

  Once all four of them were seated around the oval table, Seb tentatively began by saying, “One or two of us became quite concerned, Victor, when during your absence three checks were presented for clearance by a Miss Lombardo, whom Arnold, John, and I had never heard of.”

  “Never heard of?” said Victor. “Which planet have you been living on?”

  When none of them attempted to defend themselves, the penny dropped.

  “Ah,” he said, looking like a man who had a straight flush, “so you all assumed—”

  “Well, you must try to see it from our perspective,” said Arnold defensively.

  “And to be fair,” said Victor, “I don’t suppose Miss Lombardo makes the front page of The FT that often.”

  The other three directors burst out laughing.
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  “I confess I didn’t have the board’s approval to purchase the building and, fearing that we might lose it while it was still at such a low price, I allowed Miss Lombardo to open an account, which I guaranteed.”

  “But that doesn’t explain the five thousand pounds she paid for a mink coat from Harrods,” said John Ashley, a little sheepishly.

  “A birthday present for Ruth that I didn’t want her to know about. By the way, is that why you were trying to get in touch with me?”

  “Certainly not,” said Seb. “We just wanted you to know that Giles may have pulled off a major coup in Rome, before you read about it in the press.”

  “Good try,” said Victor. “But I’ve known you far too long, Seb, to fall for that one. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I won’t mention the subject again, as long as you back my proposal to support the charity at the next board meeting.”

  “That sounds like blackmail.”

  “Yes, I do believe it is.”

  “I should have listened to my wife in the first place,” mumbled Seb.

  “That might have been wise, all things considered,” said Victor. “I wasn’t planning to mention to the board that Samantha winked at me when you were making your ridiculous exit from the Caprice.”

  HARRY AND EMMA CLIFTON

  1986–1989

  44

  WHEN HARRY WOKE, he tried to recall a dream that didn’t seem to have had an ending. Was he yet again the captain of the England cricket team about to score the winning run against Australia at Lord’s? No, as far as he could remember, he was running for a bus that always remained a few yards ahead of him. He wondered what Freud would have made of that. Harry questioned the theory that dreams only ever last for a few moments. How could the scientists possibly be sure of that?

  He blinked, turned over, and stared at the fluorescent green figures on his bedside clock: 5:07. More than enough time to go over the opening lines in his mind before getting up.

  The first morning before starting a new book was always the time when Harry asked himself why. Why not go back to sleep rather than once again embark upon a routine that would take at least a year, and could end in failure? After all, he had passed that age when most people have collected their gold watch and retired to enjoy their twilight years, as insurance companies like to describe them. And Heaven knows, he didn’t need the money. But if the choice was resting on his laurels or embarking on a new adventure, it wasn’t a difficult decision. Disciplined, was how Emma described him; obsessed, was Sebastian’s simple explanation.

  For the next hour, Harry lay very still, eyes closed, while he went over the first chapter yet again. Although he’d been thinking about the plot for more than a year, he knew that once the pen began to move across the page, the story could unfold in a way he wouldn’t have predicted only a few hours before.

  He’d already considered and dismissed several opening lines, and he thought he’d finally settled on one, but that could easily be changed in a later draft. If he hoped to capture the readers’ imagination and transport them into another world, he knew he had to grab their attention with the opening paragraph, and certainly by the end of the first page.

  Harry had devoured biographies of other authors to find out how they went about their craft, and the only thing they all seemed to have in common was that there is no substitute for hard work. Some mapped out their entire plot even before they picked up a pen or began to tap away on a typewriter. Others, after completing the first chapter, would then make a detailed outline of the rest of the book. Harry always thought himself lucky if he knew the first paragraph, let alone the first chapter, because when he picked up his pen at six o’clock each morning, he had no idea where it would lead him, which was why the Irish said he wasn’t a writer, but a seannachie.

  One thing that would have to be decided before setting out on his latest journey, was the names of the main characters. Harry already knew the book would open in the kitchen of a small house in the back streets of Kiev, where a young boy, aged fifteen, perhaps sixteen, was celebrating his birthday with his parents. The boy must have a name that could be abbreviated, so that when readers were following the two parallel stories, the name alone would immediately tell them if they were in New York or London. Harry had considered Joseph/Joe—too associated with an evil dictator; Maxim/Max—only if he was going to be a general; Nicholai/Nick—too royal, and had finally settled on Alexander/Sasha.

  The family’s name needed to be easy to read, so readers didn’t spend half their time trying to remember who was who, a problem Harry had found when tackling War and Peace, even though he’d read it in Russian. He’d considered Kravec, Dzyuba, Belenski, but settled on Karpenko.

  Because the father would be brutally murdered by the secret police in the opening chapter, the mother’s name was more important. It needed to be feminine, but strong enough for you to believe she could bring up a child on her own, despite the odds being stacked against her. After all, she was destined to shape the character of the book’s hero. Harry chose Dimitri for the father’s name, and Elena for the mother—dignified but capable. He then returned to thinking about the opening line.

  At 5:40 a.m., he threw back the duvet, swung his legs out of bed, and placed his feet firmly on the carpet. He then uttered the words he said out loud every morning before he set off for the library. “Please let me do it again.” He was painfully aware that storytelling was a gift that should not be taken for granted. He prayed that like his hero, Dickens, he would die in midsentence.

  He padded across to the bathroom, discarded his pajamas, took a cold shower, then dressed in a T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms, tennis socks, and a Bristol Grammar School 2nd XI sweater. He always laid out his clothes on a chair before going to bed, and always put them on in the same order.

  Harry finally put on a pair of well-worn leather slippers, left the bedroom, and headed downstairs, muttering to himself, “Slowly and concentrate, slowly and concentrate.” When he entered the library he walked across to a large oak partner’s desk situated in a bay window overlooking the lawn. He sat down in an upright, red buttoned-back leather chair and checked the carriage clock on the desk in front of him. He never began writing before five minutes to six.

  Glancing to his right he saw a clutch of framed photographs of Emma playing squash, Sebastian and Samantha on holiday in Amsterdam, Jake attempting to score a goal, and Lucy, the latest member of the family, in her mother’s arms, reminding him that he was now a great-grandfather. On the other side of the desk were seven rollerball pens that would be replaced in a week’s time. In front of him a 32-lined A4 pad that he hoped would be filled with 2,500 to 3,000 words by the end of the day, meaning the first draft of the first chapter had been completed.

  He removed the top from his pen, placed it on the desk beside him, stared down at a blank sheet of paper, and began to write.

  She had been waiting for over an hour, and no one had spoken to her.

  * * *

  Emma followed a routine every bit as disciplined and demanding as her husband’s, even if it was completely different. Not least because she wasn’t her own mistress. When Margaret Thatcher had won a second term, she had promoted Emma to minister of state at the Department of Health, in acknowledgment of the contribution she had made during her first term of office.

  Like Harry, Emma often recalled Maisie’s words, that she should strive to be remembered for something more than just being the first woman chairman of a public company. She hadn’t realized when she accepted that challenge that it would pit her against her own brother, whom Neil Kinnock had shrewdly selected to shadow her. It didn’t help when even The Daily Telegraph referred to Giles as one of the most formidable politicians of the day, and possibly the finest orator in either House.

  If she was going to defeat him on the floor of the House, she accepted that it would not be with some witty repartee or a memorable turn of phrase. She would have to rely on blunter instruments: complete command of her brief
, and a grasp of detail that would convince her fellow peers to follow her into the Contents lobby when the House divided.

  Emma’s morning routine also began at six o’clock, and by seven she was at her desk in Alexander Fleming House, signing letters that had been prepared the day before by a senior civil servant. The difference between her and many of her parliamentary colleagues was that she read every single letter, and didn’t hesitate to add emendations if she disagreed with the proposed script or felt a crucial point had been overlooked.

  Around eight a.m., Pauline Perry, her principal private secretary, would arrive to brief Emma on the day ahead; a speech she would be making at the Royal College of Surgeons that evening needed the odd tweak here and there before it could be released to the press.

  At 8:55 a.m., she would walk down the corridor and join the secretary of state for the daily “prayer meeting,” along with all the other ministers in the department. They would spend an hour discussing government policy to make sure they were all singing from the same hymn sheet. A casual remark picked up by an alert journalist could all too easily end up as a front page story in a national newspaper the following day.

  Emma was still mercilessly teased about the headline, MINISTER SUPPORTS BROTHELS, when she’d said in an unguarded moment, “I have every sympathy with the plight of women who are forced into prostitution.” She hadn’t changed her mind, but had since learned to express her views more cautiously.

  The main topic for discussion that morning was the proposed bill on the future of the NHS, and the role each one of them would play in seeing any legislation through both Houses. The secretary of state would present the bill in the Lower House, while Emma would lead for the government in the Upper House. She knew this would be her biggest challenge to date, not least because her brother would, to quote him, be lying in wait.