“Well, I can promise you that he won’t be working in the City for much longer if I have anything to do with it. But I’m sorry, Alex, I’m sure that wasn’t the reason you wanted to see me.”
“No, it wasn’t. I thought you ought to know that I was issued with a subpoena this morning from Mrs. Clifton’s solicitors, putting me on notice that they intend to call me as a witness at your trial.”
* * *
“I’m sorry I’m late,” said Seb as he climbed on to the barstool. “When we came out of the theatre, it was raining, and I couldn’t find a taxi, so I had to drive my aunt to Paddington to make sure she didn’t miss the last train.”
“Worthy of a boy scout,” said Bishara.
“Good evening, sir,” said the barman. “Campari and soda?”
Seb was impressed, as he’d only visited the club once before. “Yes,” he replied, “thank you.”
“And what does your aunt do in Cambridge?” asked Bishara.
“She’s an English don at Newnham, the family’s bluestocking. We’re very proud of her.”
“You’re so unlike your fellow Englishmen.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Seb as a Campari and soda was placed in front of him.
“You treat everyone as an equal, from the barman to your aunt, and you don’t patronize foreigners, like myself. So many Englishmen would have said, my aunt teaches English at Cambridge University, but you took it for granted that I knew what a don is, that Newnham is one of the five women’s colleges at Cambridge, and that a bluestocking is a girl who aspires to learning. Unlike that patronizing idiot Adrian Sloane, who, because he went to Harrow, thinks he’s well educated.”
“I get the impression you dislike Sloane almost as much as I do.”
“Possibly more, after his latest con trick when he tried to sell me his bank.”
“But it’s not his bank to sell. At least not as long as Cedric Hardcastle’s widow still owns fifty-one percent of the stock.”
“But she doesn’t any longer,” said Bishara. “Desmond Mellor has recently purchased all her shares.”
“That’s not possible,” said Seb. “Mellor’s a wealthy man, but he’s not in that league. He’d need twenty million before he could get his hands on fifty-one percent of Farthings’ stock, and he doesn’t have that sort of money.”
“Could that be the reason the man who was sweating when I was in the Farthings boardroom wants to see me?” said Bishara, almost as if he was speaking to himself. “Has Mellor overstretched himself, and now that my offer is no longer on the table, does he need to off-load his shares?”
“What offer?” said Seb, not touching his drink.
“I agreed to pay five pounds a share for what must have been Arnold Hardcastle’s stock, or to be more accurate, his mother’s. I was just about to sign the contract when Sloane decided to raise the price to six pounds. So I withdrew my offer, packed up my tent, gathered up my camels, and headed back into the desert.”
Seb laughed. “But at five pounds he and Mellor would both have made a small fortune.”
“That’s my point, Mr. Clifton. You would have honored the deal, not tried to change the price at the last moment. But Sloane only thinks of me as a carpet trader he can take advantage of. But if I can get two questions answered before I see Mellor tomorrow, I could still take over Farthings and, unlike Sloane, I would welcome you onto the board.”
“What do you need to know?”
“Was it Mellor who purchased Mrs. Hardcastle’s shares and, if so, how much did he pay for them?”
“I’ll give Arnold Hardcastle a call first thing in the morning. But I must warn you, he’s a lawyer by profession, and although he hates Sloane almost as much as I do, he would never compromise a client’s confidentiality. But that won’t stop me trying. What time’s your meeting with Mellor?”
“Twelve o’clock, at my office.”
“I’ll ring you as soon as I’ve spoken to Arnold Hardcastle.”
“Thank you,” said Bishara. “Now on to more important matters. Your first lesson in the dubious art of backgammon. One of the few games you English didn’t invent. The most important thing to remember about backgammon is that it’s all about percentages. As long as you can calculate the odds after each throw of the dice, you can never be beaten by an inferior opponent. Luck only comes into the equation when two players are equal.”
“Not unlike banking,” said Seb as the two men took their seats on opposite sides of the board.
* * *
When Harry opened his eyes, he had such a splitting headache that it was some time before he could focus. He tried to raise his head but he didn’t have the strength. He lay still, feeling as if he was coming around after an anesthetic. He opened his eyes again and looked up at the ceiling. A concrete block with several cracks in it, one producing a slow drip of water, like a tap that hadn’t been properly turned off.
He turned his head slowly to his left. The condensation on the wall was so close that he could have touched it if he hadn’t been handcuffed to the bed. He turned the other way, to see a door with a square window in it, through which he could, like Alice, have escaped if there hadn’t been three iron bars across it, and two guards standing on the other side.
He tried to move his feet, but they were also clamped to the bed. Why such precautions for an Englishman who had been caught with a banned book? Although the first seven chapters had been fascinating, he sensed that he hadn’t yet discovered the real reason every copy had been destroyed, which only made him even more determined to read the remaining fourteen chapters. They might also explain why he was being treated as if he were a double agent or a mass murderer.
Harry had no way of knowing how long he’d been in the cell. His watch had been removed, and he couldn’t even be sure if it was night or day. He started singing “God Save the Queen,” not as an act of defiant patriotism but more because he wanted to hear the sound of his own voice. Actually, if you’d asked him, Harry would have admitted he preferred the Russian national anthem.
Two eyes peered through the bars but he ignored them and continued singing. Then he heard someone shouting a command, and moments later the door swung open and Colonel Marinkin reappeared, accompanied by his two Rottweilers.
“Mr. Clifton, I must apologize for the state of your accommodation. It’s just that we didn’t want anyone to know where you were before we released you.”
The words “released you” sounded to Harry like Gabriel’s horn.
“Let me assure you, we have no desire to keep you any longer than necessary. Just some paperwork to complete, and a statement for you to sign, and then you can be on your way.”
“A statement? What kind of statement?”
“More of a confession,” admitted the colonel. “But once you’ve signed it, you’ll be driven back to the airport and be on your way home.”
“And if I refuse to sign it?”
“That would be remarkably foolish, Mr. Clifton, because you would then face a trial at which the charge, the verdict, and the sentence have already been decided. You once described a show trial in one of your books. You will be able to give a much more accurate portrayal when you write your next novel—” he paused—“in twelve years’ time.”
“What about the jury?”
“Twelve carefully selected party workers, whose vocabulary only needs to stretch to the word guilty. And just to let you know, your current accommodation is five-star compared to where you would be going. No dripping ceilings, because the water is frozen night and day.”
“You’ll never get away with it.”
“You’re so naïve, Mr. Clifton. You have no friends in high places here to take care of you. You are a common criminal. There will be no solicitor to advise you, and no QC to argue your case in front of an unbiased jury. And unlike America, there is no jury selection, and we don’t even have to pay the judges to get the verdict we want. I will leave you to consider your options, but in my opinion, it
is a simple choice. You can fly back to London, first class on BOAC, or take a cattle train to Novaya Uda that only has straw class, and which I’m afraid you’d have to share with several other animals. And I feel I should warn you, it’s a prison from which no one has ever escaped.”
Wrong, thought Harry, as he recalled from chapter three of Uncle Joe that it was the jail Stalin was sent to in 1902, and from which he had escaped.
36
“HOW ARE YOU, my boy?”
“Well, thank you, Arnold. And you?”
“Never better. And your dear mother?”
“Preparing herself for next week’s trial.”
“Not a pleasant experience to have to go through, especially when there’s so much at stake. Talk in chambers is that it’s too close to call, but the odds are shortening on your mother, as nobody thinks Lady Virginia will endear herself to the jury. She’ll either patronize them, or insult them.”
“I was rather hoping both.”
“Now, why are you calling, Sebastian, because I usually charge by the hour, not that I’ve started the clock yet.”
Seb would have laughed, but he suspected Arnold wasn’t joking. “Word in the City is that you’ve sold your shares in Farthings Bank.”
“Mother’s shares, to be accurate, and only after I was made an offer that it would have been extremely foolish to turn down. Even then I only agreed when I was assured that Adrian Sloane would be removed as chairman, and Ross Buchanan would take his place.”
“But that’s not going to happen,” said Seb. “Sloane’s representative lied to you, and I can prove it if you felt able to answer a couple of questions.”
“Only if they don’t involve a client I represent.”
“Understood,” said Seb, “but I hoped you’d be able to tell me who bought your mother’s shares and how much he paid for them.”
“I can’t answer that, as it would break client confidentiality.” Seb was about to curse when Arnold added, “However, were you to suggest the name of Sloane’s representative, and were I to remain silent, you could draw your own conclusions. But, Sebastian, let me make it clear, one name and one name only. This is not a raffle.”
“Desmond Mellor.” Seb held his breath for several seconds, but there was no response. “And is there any chance you’ll let me know how much he paid for the shares?”
“Under no circumstances,” said Arnold firmly. “And now I must dash, Seb. I’m off to see my mother in Yorkshire, and if I don’t leave immediately I’ll miss the 3:09 to Huddersfield. Do give your mother my kindest regards and wish her luck for the trial.”
“And please pass on my best wishes to Mrs. Hardcastle,” said Seb, but the line had already gone dead.
He checked his watch. It was just after ten, which didn’t make any sense. Seb picked up the phone again and dialed Hakim Bishara’s private line.
“Good morning, Sebastian. Did you have any luck getting your distinguished QC to answer my two questions?”
“Yes, and I think so.”
“Curiouser and curiouser.”
“He confirmed that it was Desmond Mellor who bought the stock, and I think the price he paid was three pounds and nine shillings per share.”
“Why can’t you be sure? He either told you the price, or he didn’t.”
“He neither did, nor didn’t. But what he did say was that he had to leave immediately or he’d miss the 3:09 to Huddersfield, and as it’s just after ten a.m., and Euston is only twenty minutes away by taxi…”
“Clever man, your Mr. Hardcastle, because I’m sure we won’t have to check whether or not there actually is a 3:09 to Huddersfield. Congratulations. I suspect no one other than you would have been able to get that information out of him. So as they say in my country, I will be forever in your debt, until you have been repaid in full.”
“Well, now you mention it, Hakim, there is something you may be able help me with.”
Bishara listened carefully to Seb’s request. “I’m not sure that your scoutmaster would have approved of what you’re suggesting. I’ll see what I can do, but I make no promises.”
* * *
“Good morning, Mr. Mellor. I think you’ve already met my lawyer, Jason Moreland, and my chief accountant, Nick Pirie.”
Mellor shook hands with both men before joining them around an oval table.
“As you’re on the board of Farthings,” said Bishara, “I can only assume you come here as an emissary of Mr. Sloane.”
“Then you assume wrongly,” said Mellor. “He’s the last man I would be willing to represent in any negotiation. Sloane made a complete ass of himself when he turned down your offer.”
“But he told me he had an offer of six pounds on the table, from a well-established City institution.”
“And you knew that wasn’t true, which is why you walked away.”
“And you are willing to walk back, because they were never his shares to sell in the first place.”
“The truth is,” said Mellor, “he was playing Russian roulette with my bullet, and it turned out to be a blank. However, I am willing to sell you fifty-one percent of the bank’s stock for the five pounds a share you originally offered.”
“Originally offered is correct, Mr. Mellor. But that offer is no longer on the table. After all, I can buy Farthings on the open market for two pounds and eleven shillings a share, and have been doing so for several weeks.”
“Not the fifty-one percent you want, which would give you overall control of the bank. In any case, I can’t afford to sell them at that price.”
“No,” said Bishara, “I’m sure you can’t. But you can afford to sell them for three pounds and nine shillings a share.”
Mellor’s mouth opened, and didn’t close for some time. “Could you make it four pounds?”
“No, I could not, Mr. Mellor. Three pounds and nine shillings is my final offer.” Bishara turned to his chief accountant who handed him a banker’s draft for £20,562,000. He placed it on the table.
“I may be wrong, Mr. Mellor, but I have a feeling you can’t afford to make the same mistake twice.”
“Where do I sign?”
Mr. Moreland opened a file and placed three identical contracts in front of Mellor. Once he’d signed them, he thrust out a hand and waited for the banker’s draft to be passed across to him.
“And like Mr. Sloane,” said Bishara as he took the top off his fountain pen, “before I can add my signature to the contract, I require one small amendment that I have promised for a friend.”
Mellor stared defiantly at him. “And what might that be?”
The lawyer opened a second file, took out a letter, and placed it in front of Mellor. He read it slowly.
“I can’t sign this. Never.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Bishara, picking up the banker’s draft and handing it back to his chief accountant.
Mellor didn’t move, but when he began to sweat, Bishara realized it was only a matter of time.
“All right, all right,” said Mellor. “I’ll sign the damn letter.”
The lawyer double-checked the signature before placing the letter back in his file. Bishara then signed all three contracts, and the accountant handed Mellor one copy and the banker’s draft for £20,562,000. Mellor left without another word. He didn’t even thank Bishara, nor did he shake hands.
“If he’d called my bluff,” said Bishara to his lawyer once the door had closed, “I would have settled without him having to sign the letter.”
* * *
Harry studied the statement they expected him to read out in court. He would have to confess to being a British agent who worked for MI5. If he did so, he would be released immediately and deported back to his homeland, never to be allowed to return to the Soviet Union.
Of course, his family and friends would dismiss the statement for what it was worth. Others might feel he’d been left with little choice. But then there would be the majority who didn’t know him. They would assume
that it was true, and that his fight for Babakov had been nothing more than a smoke screen to cover his espionage. One signature, and he would be free but his reputation would be shattered and, more important, Babakov’s cause would be lost for ever. No, he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his reputation, or Anatoly Babakov, quite that easily.
He tore up the confession and threw the little pieces of paper high in the air, like confetti waiting for a bride.
When the colonel returned an hour later armed only with a pen, he stared in disbelief at the scraps of paper strewn across the floor.
“Only an Englishman could be that stupid,” he remarked, before turning and marching back out of the cell, slamming the door behind him.
He’s got a point, thought Harry, then closed his eyes. He knew exactly how he intended to pass any unfulfilled hours. He would try to recall as much as possible of the first seven chapters of Uncle Joe. He began to concentrate. Chapter One …
Josef Stalin was born losif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili in Gori, Georgia, on 18 December 1878. As a child, he was known as Soso, but when he became a young revolutionary he adopted the pseudonym Koba, after a fictional Robin Hood figure he wanted to be compared with, although in fact he was more like the Sheriff of Nottingham. As he rose through the ranks of the party, and his influence grew, he changed his name to Stalin (“Man of Steel”). But …
* * *
“Some good news at last,” said Emma, “and I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“Lady Virginia has fallen into a concrete mixer, and is now part of a high rise in Lambeth?” suggested Seb.
“Not quite that good, but almost.”
“Dad’s home and he’s got a copy of Uncle Joe?”
“No, he’s still not back, although he promised he wouldn’t be more than a couple of days.”
“He told me he might visit the Hermitage and see some of the other sights while he was over there, so no need to worry. But come on, Mum, what’s your news?”
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