Mightier Than the Sword (28 page)

“Would a hundred thousand dollars be a large sum of money to Mrs. Babakov, or is she comfortably off?”

“She escaped from Russia without a penny, so it would change her whole life.”

“Then if you think Mr. Guinzburg’s offer is fair, my advice is she should accept it. Whenever I want to close a deal, I try to find out how much the other side needs the money, because that will always influence the way I think. If they are desperate for the money, I’m in the driver’s seat. If not…”

Harry nodded.

“However, there’s a caveat in this particular case. Because if you’re the only person she’s willing to tell where the book is hidden, you can be sure she’s also hoping that you’ll be the one who’ll go and pick it up.”

“But it’s in the Soviet Union.”

“Where you’re still persona non grata. So whatever you do, don’t make any promises.”

“I wouldn’t want to let her down.”

“Dad, I know it must be fun to take on the Soviet Empire single-handedly, but it’s only James Bond who always triumphs over the KGB. So can we return to the real world, because I also need some advice.”

“Mine?”

“No, Detective Inspector Warwick’s.”

“Why, are you planning to murder someone?”

“No, just looking for a missing person.”

“Which is why you’re going to the States.”

“Yes. But I don’t know where this person lives or how to find out.”

“I think you’ll find they have a record of her home address on this ship.”

“How’s that possible?”

“Because she traveled with us on the maiden voyage, and would have had to hand in her passport to the purser. So he’s almost certain to have her address on his files. It may be a long shot, as it’s several years ago, but at least it’s somewhere to start. In normal circumstances, I suspect he wouldn’t be willing to release personal information about another passenger, but as you’re a director of the company, and she was your guest on the trip, I imagine that won’t be a problem.”

“How did you know that my missing person was Samantha?”

“Your mother told me.”

“But I didn’t tell her.”

“Not in so many words. But I’ve learned over the years never to underestimate that woman. Mind you, when it’s personal, even she can make mistakes.”

“Like Desmond Mellor?”

“I would never have thought it possible that whoever replaced Alex Fisher could prove even more of a problem.”

“And there’s a big difference between Mellor and Fisher,” said Seb. “Mellor’s bright, which makes him far more dangerous.”

“Do you think he has any chance of becoming deputy chairman?”

“I didn’t, until Ross Buchanan convinced me otherwise.”

“Maybe that’s why Emma’s considering the nuclear option, and forcing Mellor to put his cards on the table.”

“Which table?”

“The boardroom table. She’s going to let him stand as her deputy, but she’ll oppose him and put up her own candidate. If he loses, he’ll have no choice but to resign.”

“And if she loses?”

“She’ll have to learn to live with it.”

“Who’s her candidate?”

“I assumed it must be you.”

“Not a chance. The board would always back Mellor against me, not least because of my age, and that would mean Mother would end up having to resign. Which, come to think of it, might even be part of Mellor’s long-term plan. I’m going to have to talk her out of it. And it’s not as if that’s her only problem at the moment.”

“If you’re referring to Lady Virginia and her libel claim, I think that’s no longer an issue.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I can’t, but we haven’t heard anything on that front for some time. In another twelve months your mother can apply to the courts to have the action struck off the list, but I’ve advised her against that.”

“Why?”

“When you come across a sleeping snake, don’t prod it with a sharp stick in the hope that it will go away, because it’s likely to wake up and bite you.”

“And that woman’s bite is venomous,” said Seb. “Mind you, I don’t even know why she’s suing mother in the first place.”

“I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”

*   *   *

The ship’s purser could not have been more helpful. He was able to supply Sebastian with an address for Miss Samantha Sullivan: 2043 Cable Street, Georgetown, Washington, DC, although he couldn’t be sure if she was still living there, as she hadn’t traveled on the ship since the maiden voyage. Seb hoped 2043 would turn out to be a small apartment where she lived alone or with one of her female colleagues.

He thanked the purser, walked up a couple of flights of stairs to the Grill Room, and joined his father for dinner. It wasn’t until the steward had cleared away the main course that Seb raised the subject of Virginia’s writ.

“Quite dramatic stuff, or at least we all thought so at the time,” said Harry, lighting a Havana cigar, which he couldn’t have purchased on an American ship. “Your mother was addressing the company’s AGM, and during questions from the floor Virginia asked if one of the directors of Barrington’s had sold all his shares with the intention of bringing down the company.”

“So how did Mother deal with the question?”

“She turned it to her advantage by asking if Virginia was referring to the three occasions on which Alex Fisher, her representative on the board, had sold and then bought back her own shares, while at the same time making a handsome profit.”

“But as that’s no more than the truth,” said Seb, “it’s hardly libel.”

“I agree, but your mother couldn’t resist prodding the snake with a very sharp stick by adding—” Harry put his cigar down, leaned back, and closed his eyes—“‘If it was your intention to bring the company down, Lady Virginia, you have failed, and failed lamentably, because you were defeated by decent ordinary people who want this company to succeed…’ no, no,” said Harry, correcting himself, “her exact words were, ‘to be a success.’ The audience cheered, and Virginia stormed out of the room shouting, ‘You’ll be hearing from my solicitor,’ and indeed we did. But that was some time ago, so let’s hope she’s been advised to drop the case and has slithered away into the undergrowth.”

“If she has, she’ll only be curled up waiting to strike again.”

*   *   *

On the last morning of the voyage, Seb joined his father for breakfast, but Harry hardly said a word. He was always the same just before handing in a manuscript to his publishers. The longest three days of his life, he once told Seb, were while he waited to hear Harold Guinzburg’s opinion of his latest work.

“But how can you be sure he’s being completely honest about how he feels when the last thing he would want is to lose you?”

“I don’t listen to a word he says about the book,” admitted Harry. “I’m only interested in the number of hardback copies he will print for the first impression. He can’t bluff that. Because if it’s over a hundred thousand this time, it means he thinks he’s got a number-one best seller.”

“And under a hundred thousand?” said Seb.

“Then he’s not so sure.”

Father and son walked down the gangway together just over an hour later. One of them was clinging onto a manuscript and heading for a publishing house in Manhattan, while the other took a cab to Penn Station armed with no more than an address in Georgetown.

26

S
EBASTIAN STOOD ON
the other side of the road clutching a large bunch of red roses. He stared at the front door of a small, single-story redbrick house. In front, a little square of grass that could have been cut with scissors, was surrounded by begonias. A swept path led up to a recently painted front door with a brass knocker that shone in the late morning sun. So neat, so tidy, and so Samantha.

Why was he fearless whenever he took on Adrian Sloane, or crossed swords with someone over a million-pound deal, when knocking on what might not even prove to be Sam’s front door filled him with apprehension? He took a deep breath, crossed the road, walked slowly up the path, and knocked tentatively on the door. When it opened, his immediate reaction was to turn and run. It had to be Sam’s husband.

“Can I help you?” the man asked, eyeing the roses suspiciously.

“Is Samantha in?” Seb asked, wondering if suspicion would quickly turn to anger.

“She hasn’t lived here for over a year.”

“Do you know where she’s moved?”

“No idea. Sorry.”

“But she must have left a forwarding address,” said Seb desperately.

“The Smithsonian,” the man replied, “that’s where she works.”

“Thanks,” said Seb, but the door had already closed.

This encounter made him feel a little bolder, and he quickly returned to the street and hailed the first passing cab. During the journey to the Smithsonian, he must have repeated to himself a dozen times, stop being so feeble and just get on with it. The worst she can do is …

When he got out of the cab, he found himself standing in front of a very different door: a massive glass panel that never seemed to remain closed for more than a few seconds at a time. He marched into the entrance hall. Three young women in smart blue uniforms were standing behind a reception desk, dealing with visitors’ queries.

Seb approached one of them, who smiled when she saw the roses. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Samantha Sullivan.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know that name, but then I only started last week,” she said, turning to a colleague who had just come off the phone.

“Samantha Sullivan?” she repeated. “You’ve just missed her. She left to pick up her daughter from school. She’ll be back at ten tomorrow.”

Daughter, daughter, daughter. The word rang in Seb’s ears like a discharged bullet. If only he’d known, he wouldn’t—

“Would you like to leave a message for her?”

“No, thank you,” he said, as he turned and headed back toward the door.

“You might still catch her at Jefferson Elementary,” said the voice behind him. “They don’t come out until four.”

“Thank you,” repeated Seb, as he pushed his way through the door, but he didn’t look back. He walked out of the building and went in search of another cab. One immediately drew up by his side. He climbed in and was about to say Union Station, but the words came out as “Jefferson Elementary School.”

The driver eased out into the afternoon traffic and tucked in behind a long line of cars.

“I’ll double whatever’s on the meter if you get me there before four.”

The driver switched lanes, ran the next light, and shot through gaps so tight that Seb had to close his eyes. They drew up outside a massive neo-Georgian brick building with four minutes to spare. Seb looked at the meter and handed the driver a ten-dollar bill. He got out of the cab and quickly disappeared behind several little pockets of chatting mothers waiting for their offspring to appear. Shielded by a tree, he checked out the mums one by one, searching for a face he recognized. But he didn’t see her.

At four o’clock, a bell rang and the doors opened to disgorge a gaggle of noisy young girls dressed in white shirts, crimson blazers, and gray pleated skirts, with school bags swinging by their sides. They ran down the steps and straight to their mothers, as if attracted by magnetism.

Sam looked carefully at the girls. They must have been around five, but how could that be possible when Sam had been in England less than six years ago? And then he saw his little sister charging down the steps. The same mop of wavy black hair, the same dark eyes, the same smile that he could never forget. He wanted to run to her and take her in his arms, but he remained frozen to the spot. She suddenly smiled in recognition, changed direction, and ran toward her mother.

Seb stared at the woman who, when he’d first met her, had struck him dumb. Once again he wanted to cry out, but once again he didn’t. He just stood and watched as the two of them climbed into a car and, like the other mothers and children, set off on their journey home. A moment later they were gone.

Seb stood there dazed. Why hadn’t she told him? He’d never felt sadder or happier in his life. He must win both their hearts, because he would sacrifice anything, everything, to be with them.

The crowd dispersed as the last few children were reunited with their mothers, until finally Seb was left standing on his own, still clutching the bunch of red roses. He crossed another road and entered another door in the hope of finding someone who could tell him where they lived.

He walked down a long corridor, past classrooms on either side that were decorated with pupils’ drawings and paintings. Just before he reached a door on which a sign announced Dr. Rosemary Wolfe, Headmistress, he stopped to admire a child’s painting of her mother. It could have been painted by Jessica twenty years ago. The same confident brushwork, the same originality. It was no different this time. Her work was in a different class from anything else on display. He recalled walking down another corridor when he was ten years old, experiencing exactly the same emotion—admiration, and a desire to know the artist.

“Can I help you?” said a stern-sounding voice.

Seb swung around to see a tall, smartly dressed woman bearing down on him. She reminded him of his aunt Grace.

“I was just admiring the paintings,” he said, somewhat feebly, hoping his exaggerated English accent would throw her off guard. Although she didn’t look like the kind of woman who was easily thrown off guard.

“And this one,” Seb added, pointing to
My Mom,
“is exceptional.”

“I agree,” she said, “but then Jessica has a rare talent … are you feeling all right?” she asked as Seb’s cheeks drained of their color and he staggered forward, quickly steadying himself against the wall.

“I’m fine, just fine,” he said, recovering his composure. “Jessica, you say?”

“Yes, Jessica Brewer. She’s the most accomplished artist we’ve seen at Jefferson Elementary since I’ve been headmistress, and she doesn’t even realize how talented she is.”

“How like Jessica.”

“Are you a friend of the family?”

“No, I knew her mother when she studied in England.”

“If you tell me your name, I’ll let her know you—”