Mightier Than the Sword (11 page)

“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 not 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.

“Bravo,” said the ambassador, after double-checking it. “I only wish you were a member of my staff. Now, as we can assume the Soviets will have read the note I left at your hotel, perhaps we shouldn’t disappoint them.” He pressed a button under his desk and a few moments later the doors opened again and two members of staff dressed in white linen jackets and black trousers entered, pushing a trolley.

Over a breakfast of hot coffee, brown toast, Oxford marmalade, and an egg that had been produced by a chicken, the two men chatted about everything from England’s chances in the forthcoming Test series against the South Africans—Harry felt that England would win, the ambassador wasn’t convinced; the abolition of hanging—Harry in favor, the ambassador against; Britain joining the Common Market—something they were able to agree on. They never once touched on the real reason they were having breakfast together.

When the trolley was removed and they were once again alone, Trevelyan said, “Forgive me for being a bore, old chap, but would you be kind enough to carry out the exercise one more time?”

Harry returned to the ambassador’s desk and wrote out the list for a third time.

“Remarkable. I now understand why Sir Alan chose you.” Trevelyan led his guest out of the room. “My car will take you to the airport, and although you may think you have more than enough time, I have a feeling the customs officials will assume I have given you something to take back to England and you will therefore be subject to a lengthy search. They are right, of course, but fortunately it’s not something they can get their hands on. So all that is left for me to do, Mr. Clifton, is to thank you, and suggest that you do not write out the list until the wheels of the aircraft have left the tarmac. You might even feel it advisable to wait until you are no longer in Soviet airspace. After all, there’s bound to be someone on board watching your every move.”

Sir Humphrey accompanied his guest to the front door and they shook hands for a second time before Harry climbed into the back of the Rolls-Royce. The ambassador remained on the top step until the car was out of sight.

The chauffeur dropped Harry outside Sheremetyevo airport, two hours before his flight was due to take off. The ambassador turned out to be correct, because Harry spent the next hour in customs, where they checked, and double-checked, everything in his suitcase, before unstitching the lining of his jacket and overcoat.

After they had failed to find anything, he was taken to a small room and asked to remove his clothes. When their efforts failed yet again, a doctor appeared, and searched in places Harry hadn’t even considered before, but certainly wouldn’t be describing in graphic detail in his next book.

An hour later, his case was reluctantly given a chalk cross to show it had been cleared, but it never did turn up in London. He decided not to protest, even though the guards at customs also failed to return his overcoat, a Christmas present from Emma. He would have to buy an identical one from Ede & Ravenscroft before he drove back to Bristol as he didn’t want his wife to find out the real reason Sir Alan had wanted to see him.

When Harry finally boarded the plane, he was delighted to find he’d been upgraded to first class, as he had been on the last occasion he’d worked for the cabinet secretary. Equally pleasing, no one had been allocated the seat beside him. Sir Alan didn’t leave anything to chance.

He waited until he had been in the air for over an hour before asking a steward for a couple of sheets of BOAC writing paper. But when they arrived, he changed his mind. Two men seated across the aisle from him had glanced in his direction once too often.

He adjusted his seatback, closed his eyes, and went over the list in his mind again and again. By the time the plane touched down at Heathrow, he was mentally and physically exhausted. He was only glad being a spy wasn’t his full-time job.

Harry was the first to disembark from the aircraft, and he wasn’t surprised to see Sir Alan waiting on the tarmac at the bottom of the steps. He joined him in the back of a car that made its way quickly out of the airport without being bothered by a customs officer.

Other than, “Good morning, Clifton,” the cabinet secretary didn’t say a word before he passed over the inevitable pad and pen.

Harry wrote out the twelve names, nine addresses, and twenty-one telephone numbers that had been lodged in his mind for several hours. He double-checked the list before handing it to Sir Alan.

“I am most grateful,” he said. “And I thought you’d be pleased to hear that I’ve added a couple of paragraphs to the speech the foreign secretary will be making at the UN next week, which I hope will assist Mr. Babakov’s cause. By the way, did you spot my two minders sitting across the aisle from you in first class? I put them there to protect you, just in case you had any trouble.”

*   *   *

“There’s no deal for one point six million in the offing that I’m aware of,” said Cedric, “and it’s hardly likely to be something I’d forget. I’m bound to wonder what Sloane’s up to.”

“I’ve no idea,” said Sebastian, “but I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.”

“And you say he won’t be back until Friday?”

“That’s right. He’s at a conference in York.”

“So that gives us a couple of days to look into it. You’re probably right, and there’s a simple explanation. But one point six million,” he repeated. “And Mr. Collingwood has accepted his offer?”

“That’s what Mr. Vaughan of Savills said.”

“Ralph Vaughan is old school and doesn’t make that kind of mistake.” Cedric remained silent for a few moments before adding, “You’d better go up to Shifnal first thing in the morning and start digging around. Begin at the local pub. The publican always knows everything that’s going on in his village, and one point six million would have all the gossips chattering. After you’ve spoken to him, check the local estate agents, but make sure you don’t go anywhere near Collingwood. If you do, Sloane is certain to hear about it and will assume you’re trying to undermine him. I think we’d better keep this between ourselves in case it turns out to be totally innocent. When you get back to London, come straight round to Cadogan Place and you can brief me over dinner.”

Seb decided that this wasn’t the time to tell Cedric that he’d booked a table at the Mirabelle for dinner tomorrow night with Samantha. The clock on the mantelpiece struck six, so he knew the deputy chairman, Ross Buchanan, would be waiting outside. He rose to leave.

“Well done, Seb,” said Cedric. “Let’s hope there is a simple explanation. But in any case, thank you for keeping me briefed.”

Seb nodded. When he reached the door he turned back to say good night, to see Cedric swallowing a pill. He pretended not to notice, as he closed the door behind him.

10

S
EB WAS UP,
dressed, and had left the house before Sam woke the following morning.

Cedric Hardcastle never traveled first-class, but he always allowed his senior management to do so when it was a long journey. Although Seb picked up a copy of the
Financial Times
at Euston, he barely glanced at the headlines during the three-hour journey to Shropshire. His mind was preoccupied with how best to use his time once he arrived in Shifnal.

The train pulled into Shrewsbury station just after eleven thirty, and Seb didn’t hesitate to take a taxi on to Shifnal rather than wait for the connecting train because on this occasion time was money. He waited until they had left the county town behind them, before he fired his first question at the driver. “Which is the best pub in Shifnal?”