Cometh the Hour: A Novel (15 page)

“And the whole family’s delighted by how it’s worked out. Mum particularly likes Karin.”

“And your father?” asked Giles, as he drove into St. John’s Wood Road.

“He’s cautious by nature, so he may take a little longer. But that’s only because he’s got your best interests at heart.”

“Can’t blame him. After all, he and your mother have been married for over twenty-five years, and they still adore each other.”

“Tell me more about today’s game,” said Seb, clearly wanting to change the subject.

“For the Indians, cricket is not a game, it’s a religion.”

“And we’re guests of the president of the MCC?”

“Yes, Freddie Brown and I both played for the MCC, and he went on to captain England,” Giles said as he parked his car on a yellow line outside the ground. “However, you’re about to find that cricket is a great leveler. There’s sure to be an interesting mix of guests in the president’s box, who only have one thing in common—a passion for the game.”

“Then I’ll be the odd one out,” said Seb.

*   *   *

“The Cabinet Office.”

“It’s Harry Clifton. Could I have a word with the Cabinet Secretary?”

“Hold on please, sir, I’ll find out if he’s free.”

“Mr. Clifton,” said a voice a few moments later. “What a pleasant surprise. I was only asking your brother-in-law the other day if there had been any progress in getting Anatoly Babakov released.”

“Sadly not, Sir Alan, but that wasn’t the reason I was calling. I need to see you fairly urgently, on a private matter. I wouldn’t bother you unless I considered it important.”

“If you say it’s important, Mr. Clifton, I’ll see you whenever it’s convenient, and I don’t always say that, even to cabinet ministers.”

“I’m in London today to visit my publishers, so if by any chance you could fit me in for fifteen minutes this afternoon…”

“Let me check my diary. Ah, I see the prime minister is at Lord’s to watch the test match, where he’ll have an unofficial meeting with Indira Gandhi, so I don’t expect him back at No.10 much before six. Would four fifteen suit you?”

*   *   *

“Good morning, Freddie. It was kind of you to invite us.”

“My pleasure, Giles. Nice to be on the same side for a change.”

Giles laughed. “And this is my nephew, Sebastian Clifton, who works in the City.”

“Good morning, Mr. Brown,” said Sebastian, as he shook hands with the president of the MCC. He looked out onto the magnificent ground, which was quickly filling up in anticipation of the opening salvoes.

“England won the toss and have elected to bat,” said the president.

“Good toss to win,” said Giles.

“And is this your first visit to the home of cricket, Sebastian?”

“No, sir, as a schoolboy I saw my uncle score a century for Oxford on this ground.”

“Not many people have achieved that,” said the president, as two of his other guests entered the box and came across to join them.

Sebastian smiled, although he was no longer looking at the former captain of England.

“And this,” said the president, “is an old friend of mine, Sukhi Ghuman, not a bad spin bowler in his time, and his daughter Priya.”

“Good morning, Mr. Ghuman,” said Giles.

“Do you enjoy cricket, Priya?” Seb asked the young woman, whom he tried not to stare at.

“That’s a rather silly question to ask an Indian woman, Mr. Clifton,” said Priya, “because there wouldn’t be anything to talk to our men about if we didn’t follow cricket. How about you?”

“Uncle Giles played for the MCC, but when bowlers see me, they don’t expect it to be a lasting experience.”

She smiled. “And I heard your uncle say you work in the City.”

“Yes, I’m at Farthings Bank. And you, are you over here on holiday?”

“No,” said Priya. “Like you, I work in the City.”

Sebastian felt embarrassed. “What do you do?” he asked.

“I’m a senior analyst at Hambros.”

Let’s wind back, Seb wanted to say. “How interesting,” he managed, as a bell rang and rescued him.

They both looked out onto the ground to see two men in long white coats striding down the pavilion steps, a signal to the packed crowd that battle was about to commence.

*   *   *

“Mr. Clifton, what a pleasure to see you again,” said the Cabinet Secretary as the two men shook hands.

“What’s the teatime score?” asked Harry.

“England are seventy-one for five. Someone called Bedi is taking us apart.”

“I rather hope they beat us this time,” admitted Harry.

“That’s nothing less than high treason,” said Sir Alan, “but I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it. And by the way, congratulations on the worldwide success of Anatoly Babakov’s book.”

“You played your own role in making that possible, Sir Alan.”

“A minor role. After all, cabinet secretaries are not meant to appear on the stage, but be satisfied with prompting others from the wings. Can I get you a tea or coffee?”

“No, thank you,” said Harry, “and as I don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary, I’ll get straight to the point.” Sir Alan leaned back in his chair. “Some years ago, you asked me to travel to Moscow on behalf of Her Majesty’s government, to carry out a private mission.”

“Which you did in an exemplary manner.”

“You may recall that I was required to memorize the names of a group of Russian agents operating in this country, and to pass those names on to you.”

“And most useful that has proved to be.”

“One of the names on that list was an agent called Pengelly.” The Cabinet Secretary reverted to being an expressionless mandarin. “I was rather hoping that is no more than a coincidence.” The wall of silence prevailed. “How stupid of me,” said Harry. “Of course you’d already worked out the significance of that particular name.”

“Thanks to you,” said Sir Alan.

“Has my brother-in-law been informed?” Another question that remained unanswered. “Is that entirely fair, Sir Alan?”

“Possibly not, but espionage is a dirty business, Mr. Clifton. One doesn’t exchange calling cards with the enemy.”

“But Giles is deeply in love with Pengelly’s daughter, and I know he wants to marry her.”

“She is not Pengelly’s daughter,” said Sir Alan. It was Harry’s turn to be struck dumb. “She’s a highly trained Stasi agent. The whole operation was a setup from the beginning, which we’re monitoring closely.”

“But Giles is bound to find out in time, and then all hell will be let loose.”

“You may be right, but until then my colleagues have to consider the bigger picture.”

“As you did with my son Sebastian, some years ago.”

“I will regret that decision for the rest of my life, Mr. Clifton.”

“And I suspect you will regret this one too, Sir Alan.”

“I don’t think so. If I were to tell Lord Barrington the truth about Karin Brandt, many of our agents’ lives would be put in danger.”

“Then what’s to stop me telling him?”

“The Official Secrets Act.”

“Are you absolutely confident that I wouldn’t go behind your back?”

“I am, Mr. Clifton, because if I know one thing about you, it’s that you would never betray your country.”

“You’re a bastard,” said Harry.

“That’s part of my job description,” said Sir Alan.

*   *   *

Harry would often visit his mother at her cottage on the estate during his four to six p.m. writing break, when they would enjoy what Maisie described as high tea: cheese and tomato sandwiches, hot scones with honey, éclairs and Earl Grey tea.

They would discuss everything from the family—her greatest interest—to the politics of the day. She didn’t care much for Jim Callaghan or Ted Heath, and only once, straight after the war, had voted anything other than Liberal.

“A wasted vote, Giles never stopped reminding you.”

“A wasted vote is when you don’t vote, as I’ve told him many times.”

Harry couldn’t help but notice that since her late husband had died, his mother had slowed down. She no longer walked the dog every evening, and recently she’d even canceled the morning papers, unwilling to admit her eyesight was failing.

“Must get back to my six to eight session,” said Harry. As he rose from his seat by the fire, his mother handed him a letter.

“Not to be opened until they’ve laid me to rest,” she said calmly.

“That won’t be for some years, Mother,” he said as he bent down and kissed her on the forehead, although he didn’t believe it.

*   *   *

“So, are you glad you took the day off?” Giles asked Sebastian as they walked back through the Grace Gates after stumps.

“Yes, I am,” said Seb. “Thank you.”

“What a glorious partnership between Knott and Illingworth. They may have saved the day for England.”

“I agree.”

“Did you have a chance to chat to Mick Jagger?”

“No, I didn’t speak to him.”

“What about Don Bradman?”

“I shook his hand.”

“Peter O’Toole?”

“I couldn’t understand a word he said.”

“Paul Getty?”

“We exchanged cards.”

“What about the prime minister?”

“I didn’t realize he was there.”

“From this scintillating exchange, Sebastian, should I conclude that you were distracted by a certain young lady?”

“Yes.

“And are you hoping to see her again?”

“Possibly.”

“Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

“No.”

*   *   *

The three of them met once a week, ostensibly to discuss matters concerning Mellor Travel, on whose board they all sat. But as they didn’t always want their fellow directors to know what they were up to, the meeting was neither minuted nor official.

The Unholy Trinity, as Sebastian referred to them, consisted of Desmond Mellor, Adrian Sloane and Jim Knowles. They only had one thing in common: a mutual hatred of anyone named Clifton or Barrington.

After Mellor had been forced to resign from the board of Barrington’s and Sloane was dismissed as chairman of Farthings Bank, while Knowles departed from the shipping company without any “regrets” being minuted, they had become bound together by a common thread—to gain control of Farthings Bank, and then take over Barrington’s shipping company, by fair means or foul.

“I am able to confirm,” said Mellor as they sat quietly in the corner of one of the few London clubs that would have them as members, “that Lady Virginia has reluctantly sold me her seven and a half percent holding in Barrington’s Shipping, which will allow one of us to take a seat on the board.”

“Good news,” said Knowles. “I’m only too happy to volunteer for the job.”

“No need to be in such a rush,” said Mellor. “I think I’ll leave our fellow directors to consider the possible consequences of whoever I might select, so that every time the boardroom door opens, Mrs. Clifton will wonder which one of us is about to appear.”

“That’s a job I would also relish,” chipped in Sloane.

“Don’t hold your breath,” said Mellor, “because what neither of you know is that I already have a representative on the board. One of Barrington’s longest-serving directors,” he continued, “is experiencing a little financial difficulty, and has recently approached me for a fairly hefty loan that I feel sure he has no chance of repaying. So from now on, not only will I be getting the minutes of every board meeting, but also any inside information Mrs. Clifton doesn’t want recorded. So now you know what I’ve been up to during the past month. What have you two got to offer?”

“Quite a bit,” said Knowles. “I recently heard that Saul Kaufman only retired as chairman of Kaufman’s after everyone at the bank, including the doorman, realized he had Alzheimer’s. His son Victor, who couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery, has temporarily taken his place while they look for a new chairman.”

“Then this must be our best chance to make a move?” said Mellor.

“I wish it were that easy,” said Knowles, “but unfortunately young Kaufman has begun negotiating a merger with Farthings. He and Sebastian Clifton were at school together, even shared a study, so Clifton’s got the inside track.”

“Then let’s make sure he trips up as he comes around the final bend,” said Sloane.

“I also picked up another useful piece of information,” continued Knowles. “It seems that Ross Buchanan intends to step down as chairman of Farthings some time in the New Year, and Hakim Bishara will take his place, with Clifton as CEO of the newly formed Farthings Kaufman Bank.”

“Will the Bank of England go along with such a cozy little arrangement?”

“They’ll turn a blind eye, especially now Bishara has ingratiated himself with the City. He’s somehow managed to get himself accepted as part of the establishment.”

“But,” interjected Mellor, “doesn’t the new government legislation demand that any proposed bank merger has to be vetted by the City regulators? So there’s nothing to stop us putting in a counterbid and stirring things up.”

“What’s the point, when we couldn’t begin to challenge Bishara’s deep pockets? All we could do is hold the process up, and even that wouldn’t come cheap, as we found to our cost last time.”

“Is there anything else we can do to prevent the merger?” asked Mellor.

“We could so damage Bishara’s reputation with the Bank of England,” said Sloane, “that they wouldn’t consider him a fit and proper person to run one of the City’s larger financial institutions.”

“We tried that once before,” Mellor reminded him, “and failed.”

“Only because our plan wasn’t foolproof. This time I’ve come up with something that will make it impossible for the City regulators to allow the merger to go ahead, and Bishara would have to resign as chairman of Farthings.”

“How can that be possible?” asked Mellor.

“Because convicted criminals are not allowed to serve on the board of a bank.”

16

“A
M
I
UGLY?”

“Need you ask?” said Clive Bingham as he sat at the bar sipping a pint of beer.

“And stupid?”

“Never in any doubt,” said Victor Kaufman.

“Then that explains it.”

“Explains what?” asked Clive.

“My uncle took me to Lord’s last Thursday.”