Mightier Than the Sword

by Jeffrey Archer

  “How many of us in this room have read books about Hitler, Churchill, or Roosevelt? Three of the four leaders who determined the outcome of the Second World War. But until recently the only inside account about Josef Stalin to come out of the Soviet Union was an official pamphlet censored by a committee of KGB officials. As you all know, the man who translated that book into English was so disillusioned with it that he decided to write his own unauthorized biography, which would surely have given us a different perspective of the man we all know as Uncle Joe. But no sooner was the book published than every copy of it was destroyed, its publisher shut down, and, following a show trial, the author disappeared off the face of the earth. I’m not talking about Hitler’s Germany, but present-day Russia.

  “One or two of you may be curious to know what Anatoly Babakov could possibly have written that caused the authorities to act in such a tyrannical manner—myself included. After all, the Soviets never stop trumpeting the glories of their utopian state, which they assure us is not only a model for the rest of the world, but one which, in time, we will have no choice but to copy. If that is the case, Mr. President, why can’t we read a contrary view and make up our own minds? Don’t let’s forget that Uncle Joe was written by a man who stood one pace behind Stalin for thirteen years, a confidant of his innermost thoughts, a witness to how he conducted his day-to-day life. But when Babakov decided to write his own version of those events, no one, including the Soviet people, were allowed to share his thoughts. I wonder why?

  “You won’t find a copy of Uncle Joe in any bookshop in England, America, Australia, Africa, or South America, and you certainly won’t find one in the Soviet Union. Perhaps it’s appallingly written, boring, without merit, and unworthy of our time, but at least let us be the judge of that.”

  Another wave of applause swept through the room. Harry had to suppress a smile when he noticed that the men in long black coats kept their hands firmly in their pockets, and their expressions didn’t change when the interpreter translated his words.

  He waited for the applause to die down before he began his peroration. “Attending this conference today are historians, biographers, scientists, and even a few novelists, all of whom take for granted their latest work will be published, however critical they are of their governments, their leaders, even their political system. Why? Because you come from countries that can handle criticism, satire, mockery, even derision, and whose citizens can be entrusted to make up their own minds as to a book’s merit. Authors from the Soviet Union are published only if the State approves of what they have to say. How many of you in this room would be languishing in jail if you had been born in Russia?

  “I say to the leaders of this great country, why not allow your people the same privileges we in the West take for granted? You can start by releasing Anatoly Babakov and allowing his book to be published. That is, if you have nothing to fear from the torch of freedom. I will not rest until I can buy a copy of Uncle Joe at Hatchards on Piccadilly, Doubleday on Fifth Avenue, Dymocks in Sydney, and George’s bookshop in Park Street, Bristol. But most of all, I’d like to see a copy on the shelves of the Lenin Library in Vozdvizhenka Street, a few hundred yards from this hall.”

  Although the applause was deafening, Harry just clung to the lectern, because he hadn’t yet delivered his final paragraph. He waited for complete silence before he looked up and added, “Mr. President, on behalf of the British delegation, it is my privilege to invite Mr. Anatoly Babakov to be the keynote speaker at our international conference in London next year.”

  Everyone in the room who wasn’t wearing a long black coat rose to their feet to give Harry a standing ovation. A senior KGB official who was seated in a box at the back of the room turned to his superior and said, “Word for word. He must have had a spare copy of the speech that we didn’t know about.”

  * * *

  “Mr. Knowles on line one, chairman.”

  Emma pressed a button on her phone. “Good afternoon, Jim.”

  “Good afternoon, Emma. I thought I’d give you a call because Desmond Mellor tells me he had a meeting with you, and he felt it went quite well.”

  “I’m sure he did,” said Emma, “and I have to admit I was impressed with Mr. Mellor. Unquestionably a capable businessman, with a great deal of experience in his field.”

  “I agree,” said Knowles. “So can I assume you’ll be recommending he joins us on the board?”

  “No, Jim, you cannot. Mr. Mellor has many admirable qualities, but in my opinion he has one overriding flaw.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “He’s only interested in one person, himself. The word ‘loyalty’ is anathema to him. When I sat and listened to Mr. Mellor, he reminded me of my father, and I only want people on the board who remind me of my grandfather.”

  “That puts me in a very awkward position.”

  “Why would that be, Jim?”

  “I recommended Mellor to the board in the first place, and your decision rather undermines my position.”

  “I’m sorry to hear you feel that way, Jim.” Emma paused before adding, “Of course I would understand if you felt you had to resign.”

  * * *

  Harry spent the rest of the day shaking hands with people he’d never met before, several of whom promised to promote Babakov’s cause in their own countries. Glad-handing was something Giles, as a politician, did quite naturally, while Harry found it exhausting. However, he was pleased that he had walked the streets of Bristol with his brother-in-law during past election campaigns because it wasn’t until now that he realized just how much he’d picked up from him.

  By the time he climbed on the bus for the conference delegates’ visit to the Bolshoi Theatre, he was so tired he feared he might fall asleep during the performance. But from the moment the curtain rose he was on the edge of his seat, exhilarated by the artistic movement of the dancers, their skill, their grace, and their energy, making it impossible for him to take his eyes off the stage. When the curtain finally fell he was in no doubt that this was one field in which the Soviet Union really did lead the world.

  When he returned to his hotel, the receptionist handed him a note confirming that an embassy car would pick him up at ten to eight the following morning, so he could join the ambassador for breakfast. That would give him more than enough time to catch his twelve o’clock flight back to London.

  Two men sat silently in a corner of the lobby, observing his every move. Harry knew they would have read the message from the ambassador long before he had. He picked up his key, gave them a broad smile, and wished them good night before taking the lift to the seventh floor.

  Once he’d undressed, Harry collapsed on to the bed and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

  9

  “NOT A GOOD MOVE, Mama.”

  “Why not?” said Emma. “Jim Knowles has never been supportive, and frankly I’ll be glad to be rid of him.”

  “Remember what Lyndon Johnson said about J. Edgar Hoover? I’d rather have him inside the tent pissing out than outside pissing in.”

  “One sometimes wonders why your father and I spent so much money having you educated. But what harm can Knowles possibly do?”

  “He has a piece of information that could bring the company down.”

  “He wouldn’t dare to make the Home Fleet incident public. If he did, he’d never get another job in the City.”

  “He doesn’t have to make it public. All he has to do is have a quiet lunch at his club with Alex Fisher, and Lady Virginia will know every detail of what really happened that night half an hour later. And you can be sure she’ll save the most sensational bits for the witness box, because it will not only bring you down, but the company with it. No, I’m afraid you’re going to have to eat a slice of humble pie, Mother, if you don’t want to spend every day wondering when the bomb will finally drop.”

  “But Knowles has already made it clear that if Mellor isn’t made a director, he’ll resign from the board
.”

  “Then Mr. Mellor will have to be offered a place on the board.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Your words, Mother, not mine.”

  * * *

  Tap, tap, tap. Harry’s eyes blinked open. Tap, tap, tap. Was someone knocking on the door, or was it just noise coming from outside? Tap, tap, tap. It was definitely the door. He wanted to ignore it, but it had a persistence that suggested it wasn’t going away. Tap, tap, tap. He reluctantly placed his feet on the cold linoleum floor, pulled on his dressing gown, and shuffled across to the door.

  If Harry was surprised when he opened the door, he tried not to show it.

  “Hello, Harry,” said a sultry voice.

  Harry stared in disbelief at the girl he’d fallen in love with twenty years ago. A carbon copy of Emma in her early twenties stood in front of him wearing a sable coat and, he suspected, nothing much else. She held a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. Clever Russians, Harry thought.

  “My name is Alina,” she purred as she touched his arm. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  “I think you’ve got the wrong room,” said Harry.

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Alina. She tried to slip past him, but Harry remained lodged in the doorway, blocking her path.

  “I’m your reward, Harry, for making such a brilliant speech. I promised the president that I’d give you a night you will never forget.”

  “You’ve already achieved that,” said Harry, wondering which president Alina worked for.

  “Surely there’s something I can do for you, Harry?”

  “Nothing I can think of, but please thank your masters and let them know I’m just not interested.” Alina looked disappointed.

  “Boys, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Money?” she suggested.

  “How kind, but I have enough already.”

  “Is there nothing I can tempt you with?”

  “Well,” said Harry, “now you mention it, there is something I’ve always wanted, and if your masters can deliver it, I’m their man.”

  “And what might that be, Harry?” she said, sounding hopeful for the first time.

  “The Nobel Prize for literature.”

  Alina looked puzzled, and Harry couldn’t resist leaning forward and kissing her on both cheeks as if she was a favorite aunt. He quietly closed the door and crept back into bed. “Damn the woman,” he said, quite unable to sleep.

  * * *

  “There’s a Mr. Vaughan on the line, Mr. Clifton,” said the girl on the switchboard. “Says he needs to speak to Mr. Sloane urgently, but he’s away at a conference in York and isn’t expected back until Friday.”

  “Put the call through to his secretary and ask her to deal with it.”

  “Sarah’s not answering her phone, Mr. Clifton. I don’t think she’s back from lunch yet.”

  “OK, put him through,” said Seb reluctantly. “Good morning, Mr. Vaughan, how can I help you?”

  “I’m the senior partner of Savills estate agents,” said Vaughan, “and I need to speak to Mr. Sloane urgently.”

  “Can it wait until Friday?”

  “No. I now have two other offers on the table for Shifnal Farm in Shropshire, and as bidding closes on Friday I need to know if Mr. Sloane is still interested.”

  “Perhaps you could give me the details, Mr. Vaughan,” said Seb, picking up a pen, “and I’ll look into it immediately.”

  “Could you let Mr. Sloane know that Mr. Collingwood is happy to accept his offer of one point six million, which means I’ll need a deposit of £160,000 by five o’clock on Friday if he still hopes to secure the deal.”

  “One point six million,” repeated Seb, not sure he’d heard the figure correctly.

  “Yes, that of course includes the thousand acres as well as the house.”

  “Of course,” said Seb. “I’ll let Mr. Sloane know the moment he calls in.” Seb put down the phone. The amount was larger than any deal he’d ever been involved in for a London property, let alone a farm in Shropshire, so he decided to double-check with Sloane’s secretary. He walked across the corridor to her office to find Sarah hanging up her coat.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Clifton, how can I help?”

  “I need to see the Collingwood file, Sarah, so I can brief Mr. Sloane when he calls in.”

  Sarah looked puzzled. “I’m not familiar with that particular client, but just let me check.”

  She pulled open a filing cabinet marked A to H and quickly flicked through the Cs. “He’s not one of Mr. Sloane’s clients,” she said. “There must be some mistake.”

  “Try looking under Shifnal Farm,” said Seb.

  Sarah turned her attention to the S–Z file, but once again shook her head.

  “Must be my mistake,” said Seb. “Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t mention it to Mr. Sloane,” he added as she closed the filing cabinet. He walked slowly back to his office, closed the door, and thought about his conversation with Mr. Vaughan for some time before he picked up the phone and dialed directory inquiries.

  When a voice eventually answered, Seb asked for a Mr. Collingwood at Shifnal Farm in Shropshire. It was a few moments before the operator came back on the line.

  “I have a Mr. D. Collingwood, Shifnal Farm, Shifnal?”

  “That must be him. Can you give me his number?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. He’s ex-directory.”

  “But this is an emergency.”

  “It may well be, sir, but I’m not allowed to give out ex-directory numbers under any circumstances.” The phone went dead.

  Seb hesitated for a moment before he picked up the phone again and dialed an internal number.

  “Chairman’s office,” said a familiar voice.

  “Rachel, I need fifteen minutes with the boss.”

  “Five forty-five, but no more than fifteen minutes, because he has a meeting with the deputy chairman at six and Mr. Buchanan is never late.”

  * * *

  The embassy Rolls-Royce, Union Jacks fluttering on both wings, was waiting outside the Majestic Hotel long before Harry appeared in the lobby at ten to eight that morning. The same two men were slumped in the corner, pretending not to notice him. Did they ever sleep, Harry wondered.

  After Harry had checked out, he couldn’t resist giving his guards a little farewell bow before he left the hotel, Majestic in nothing but name. A chauffeur opened the back door of the Rolls to allow Harry to step inside. He leaned back and began to think about the other reason he’d come to Moscow.

  The car made its way through the rain-swept streets of the capital, passing St. Basil’s Cathedral, a building of rare beauty, nestled at the south end of Red Square. The car crossed the Moskova, turned left, and a few moments later the gates of the British Embassy opened, splitting the royal crest in two. The chauffeur drove into the compound and came to a halt outside the front door. Harry was impressed. A palatial residence, worthy of a tsar, towered over him, reminding visitors of Britain’s past empire, rather than its reduced status in the postwar world.

  The next surprise came when he saw the ambassador standing on the embassy steps waiting to greet him.

  “Good morning, Mr. Clifton,” said Sir Humphrey Trevelyan as Harry stepped out of the car.

  “Good morning, your excellency,” said Harry as the two men shook hands—which was appropriate, as they were about to close a deal.

  The ambassador led him into a vast circular hall that boasted a life-size statue of Queen Victoria, as well as a full-length portrait of her great-great-granddaughter.

  “You won’t have read the Times this morning,” said Trevelyan, “but I can tell you that your speech to the PEN conference seems to have had the desired effect.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Harry. “But I’ll only be convinced when Babakov is released.”

  “That might take a little longer,” warned the ambassador. “The Soviets are no
t known for rushing into anything, especially if it wasn’t their idea in the first place. It might be wise to prepare yourself for the long game. Don’t be disheartened, though, because I can tell you the Politburo has been surprised by the support you’ve received from the international community. However, the other side of that coin is that you’re now considered … persona non grata.”

  He led his guest down a marble corridor, dominated by portraits of British monarchs who had not suffered the same fate as their Russian relatives. A floor-to-ceiling double door was pulled open by two servants, although the ambassador was still several paces away. He walked straight into his study, took his place behind a large uncluttered desk, and waved Harry into the seat opposite him.

  “I have given instructions that we are not to be disturbed,” said Trevelyan as he selected a key from a chain and unlocked his desk drawer.

  He pulled out a file and extracted a single sheet of paper which he handed to Harry. “Take your time, Mr. Clifton. You are not under the same restrictions that Sir Alan imposed on you.”

  Harry began to study a random list of names, addresses, and telephone numbers that seemed to have no sequence or logic to them. After he’d gone over it a second time, he said, “I think I have it, sir.”

  The incredulous look on the ambassador’s face suggested that he wasn’t convinced. “Well, let’s be sure, shall we?” He retrieved the list and replaced it with a couple of sheets of embassy notepaper and a fountain pen.

  Harry took a deep breath and began to write out the twelve names, nine addresses, and twenty-one telephone numbers. Once he’d completed the task, he handed his effort back to the ambassador to be marked. Sir Humphrey slowly checked it against the original.

  “You spelt Pengelly with one ‘1’ instead of two.”

  Harry frowned.

  “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to repeat the exercise, Mr. Clifton,” the ambassador said as he sat back, struck a match, and set light to Harry’s first effort.

  Harry completed his second attempt far more quickly.