Mightier Than the Sword (10 page)

He checked his watch again. Forty minutes before the conference opened, when he would be expected to deliver a speech he’d spent the last month working on, but no longer had a copy of.

When ten chimes rang out in Red Square, Harry was shaking like a schoolboy who had an appointment with his headmaster to discuss an essay that existed only in his head. He’d been left with no choice but to test out just how good his memory was.

He walked slowly back downstairs, aware how an actor must feel moments before the curtain is due to rise, and joined a stream of delegates making their way to the conference center. On entering the ballroom, all he wanted to do was go straight back to his room and lock himself in. Bookshelves of chattering authors were even more intimidating than advancing Germans.

Several delegates were searching for seats in a room that was already packed. But as instructed by Bouchard, Harry made his way to the front and took his place at the end of the second row. As he glanced around the vast hall, his eyes settled on a group of expressionless, heavily built men wearing long black coats, standing with their backs against the wall, evenly spaced around the room. They had one other thing in common: none of them looked as if they’d ever read a book in their lives.

Bouchard was coming to the end of his opening address when he caught Harry’s eye and gave him a warm smile.

“And now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” he said. “An address by our distinguished colleague from England, the writer of nine highly successful crime novels featuring Detective Sergeant William Warwick. I only wish that my own French counterpart, Inspector Benoît, was half as popular. Perhaps we are about to find out why?”

After the laughter had died down, Bouchard continued: “It is my honor to invite Harry Clifton, the president of English PEN, to address the conference.”

Harry made his way slowly up to the platform, surprised by the flashing bulbs of so many photographers surrounding the stage, while at the same time his every step was dogged by a stalking television crew.

He shook hands with Bouchard before taking his place behind the lectern. He took a deep breath and looked up to face the firing squad.

“Mr. President,” he began, “allow me to start by thanking you for your kind words, but I should warn you that I will not be speaking today about either Detective Sergeant William Warwick, or Inspector Benoît, but about a man who is not a fictional character, but flesh and blood, like every one of us in this room. A man who is unable to attend this conference today, because he is locked up far away in the Siberian gulag. His crime? Writing a book. I am of course referring to that martyr, and I use the word advisedly, Anatoly Babakov.”

Even Harry was surprised by the outburst of applause that followed. Book conferences are usually sparsely attended by thoughtful academics, who manage a polite round of applause once the speaker has sat down. But at least the interruption allowed him a few moments to gather his thoughts.

“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

“N
OT 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?”