Mightier Than the Sword (36 page)

“Perhaps you should be chairman,” said Emma.

“All in good time, Mother. But what I need you to do now is get straight on the phone to Admiral Summers, because he’s probably already written his resignation letter. Let’s just hope he hasn’t posted it.”

Emma picked up the phone book and began flicking through the S’s.

“And if you need me for anything, I’ll be in the library making a long-distance call,” said Seb.

*   *   *

Adrian Sloane was standing in the entrance hall of Farthings Bank at five minutes to eleven. No one could remember the chairman ever coming down to meet a guest before.

Mr. Bishara’s Bentley drew up outside the bank four minutes later and a doorman rushed across to open the car’s back door. As Bishara and his two colleagues entered the building, Sloane stepped forward to greet him.

“Good morning, Mr. Bishara,” he said as they shook hands. “Welcome to your bank.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sloane. I’m sure you’ll remember Mr. Moreland, my lawyer, and Mr. Pirie, my chief accountant.”

“Of course,” said Sloane, shaking hands with both men. He then guided his guests toward a waiting lift as the staff burst into well-rehearsed applause to welcome their new president.

Bishara gave a slight bow and smiled at the three young porters who stood behind the reception desk. “That’s where I began my banking career,” he said to Sloane as he stepped into the lift.

“And now you’re about to become the owner of one of the City’s most respected financial institutions.”

“A day I have looked forward to for many years,” admitted Bishara. A statement that made Sloane feel even more confident that he could forge ahead with his change of plan.

“When we reach the executive floor we’ll go straight through to the boardroom, where the offer documents have been prepared and await your signature.”

“Thank you,” said Bishara, as he stepped out into the corridor. When he entered the boardroom, the bank’s eight directors rose as one and waited for him to take his place at the head of the table before they sat back down. A butler served Bishara with a cup of his favorite Turkish coffee, black and steaming hot, and two McVitie’s shortbread biscuits, also his favorite. Nothing had been left to chance.

Sloane took a seat at the other end of the table.

“On behalf of the board, Mr. Bishara, allow me to welcome you to Farthings Bank. With your permission, I will take you through the procedure for the exchange of ownership.”

Bishara took out his fountain pen, and placed it on the table.

“In front of you are three copies of the offer document, as approved by your lawyers. Both sides have made small emendations, but nothing of any real consequence.” Mr. Moreland nodded his agreement.

“I thought it might be helpful,” continued Sloane, “if I were to highlight the most important issues we have agreed on. You will become the president of Farthings Bank, and can nominate three directors to represent you on the board, one of whom will be appointed deputy chairman.”

Bishara smiled. They weren’t going to like who he had in mind for deputy chairman.

“I will remain as chairman for a period of five years, and the eight board members present here today will also have their contracts renewed for a further five years. And, finally, the sum agreed upon for the takeover is twenty-nine million eight hundred thousand pounds, which values each share at five pounds.”

Bishara turned to his lawyer, who handed him a banker’s draft for the full amount. He placed it on the table in front of him. The sight of it almost caused Sloane to change his mind.

“However,” said Sloane, “something has arisen in the past twenty-four hours that has made it necessary to make a small adjustment to the contract.”

Bishara could have been playing backgammon at the Clermont for all Sloane could tell from the expression on his face.

“Yesterday morning,” continued Sloane, “we had a call from a well-established City institution which offered us six pounds a share. In order to prove their credibility, they placed the full amount in escrow with their solicitors. This offer placed me and the board in a most invidious position, as we are no more than the servants of our shareholders. However, we held a board meeting earlier this morning and it was unanimously agreed that if you were able to match the offer of six pounds a share, we would dismiss the rival bid and honor our original agreement. We have therefore adjusted the offer document to show this change, and have entered the new figure of thirty-five million, seven hundred and sixty thousand pounds.” Sloane gave Bishara an ingratiating smile, and added, “Given the circumstances, I hope you will consider this an acceptable solution.”

Bishara smiled. “Firstly, Mr. Sloane, allow me to thank you for your courtesy in giving me this opportunity to equal the counterbid made by a third party.” Sloane smiled. “However, I must point out that we agreed on the sum of five pounds a share almost a month ago, and as I put down a deposit with my solicitors in good faith, this comes as something of a surprise.”

“Yes, I must apologize for that,” said Sloane. “But you will understand the dilemma I faced, remembering that we have a fiduciary duty to our stockholders.”

“I don’t know what your father did for a living, Mr. Sloane,” said Bishara, “but mine was a carpet trader in Istanbul, and one of the many things he taught me in my youth was that once a price had been agreed upon, coffee was served, and you then sat around for some time pretending to like each other; the equivalent of an Englishman’s handshake followed by lunch at his club. So my offer of five pounds a share is still on the table, and if you decide to take it up I will happily sign the agreement.”

All eight board members turned and looked at the chairman, willing him to accept Bishara’s offer. But Sloane simply smiled, convinced that the carpet trader’s son was bluffing.

“If that is your final offer, Mr. Bishara, I fear I will have to accept the counterbid. I only hope that we can part as friends.”

The eight directors turned their attention to the other end of the table. One of them was sweating.

“Clearly the morals of City bankers are not those I was taught sitting at my father’s feet in the bazaars of Istanbul. Therefore, Mr. Sloane, you have left me with no choice but to withdraw my offer.”

Sloane’s lips began to quiver as Bishara handed the banker’s draft back to his lawyer, rose slowly from his place, and said, “Good day, gentlemen. I wish you a long and successful relationship with your new owner, whoever that might be.”

Bishara left the boardroom flanked by his two advisors. He did not speak again until they were seated in the back of his Bentley, when he leaned forward and said to his driver, “Change of plan, Fred, I need to call Kaufman’s Bank.”

*   *   *

“Could you put me through to Dr. Wolfe,” said Seb.

“Who is calling?”

“Sebastian Clifton.”

“Mr. Clifton, how kind of you to call back. I only wish it were in happier circumstances.”

Seb’s legs gave way, and he collapsed into the chair behind his father’s desk, desperate to find out if anything had happened to Samantha or Jessica.

“Sadly,” continued Dr. Wolfe, “Samantha’s husband, Michael, recently suffered a stroke while on a flight from Chicago back to Washington.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“By the time they got the poor man to a hospital, he had lapsed into a coma. How differently things might have turned out if it had happened an hour earlier or an hour later. This all took place some weeks ago, and his doctors are not optimistic about his recovery. In fact, they have no way of knowing how long he will remain in his present state. But that was not the purpose of my call.”

“I’m guessing that it’s Jessica you called about, and not her stepfather.”

“You’re right. The truth is that medical bills in this country are quite horrendous, and although Mr. Brewer held a high-ranking post in the State Department and was well covered by his health insurance, the expense of the around-the-clock nursing his condition requires has resulted in Samantha deciding to withdraw Jessica from Jefferson Elementary at the end of this term, as she can no longer afford our fees.”

“I’ll cover them.”

“That is most generous of you, Mr. Clifton. However, I should tell you that our fees are fifteen hundred dollars a semester, and Jessica’s extracurricular activities last semester came to a further three hundred and two dollars.”

“I’ll wire you two thousand dollars immediately, and then perhaps you’ll be kind enough to bill me at the end of every semester. However, that is on condition that neither Samantha nor Jessica ever finds out that I’m involved in any way.”

“I had a feeling you might say that, Mr. Clifton, and I think I’ve come up with a strategy that would protect your anonymity. If you were to endow an art scholarship with an annual donation of, say, five thousand dollars, it would then be up to me to select which pupil should be the beneficiary.”

“A nice solution,” said Seb.

“I feel sure your English master would have approved of your correct use of the word nice.”

“My father, actually,” said Seb. “Which reminds me, when my sister needed canvases, paints, drawing paper, brushes, or even pencils, my father always made sure they were of the highest quality. He used to say it mustn’t be our fault if she didn’t succeed. I want the same for my daughter. So if five thousand isn’t enough, Dr. Wolfe, don’t hesitate to give her anything she needs and I’ll cover the extra costs. But I repeat, neither mother nor daughter must ever find out who made this possible.”

“It won’t be the first secret of yours I’ve kept, Mr. Clifton.”

“I apologize,” said Seb, “and also for my next question. When do you retire, Dr. Wolfe?”

“Not long after your daughter will have won the Hunter Prize Scholarship to the American College of Art, which will be a first for Jefferson Elementary.”

34

H
ARRY WAS CHECKING
his traveler’s checks when the stewardess began her final round, making sure the first-class passengers had fastened their seat belts as the plane began its descent into Leningrad.

“Excuse me,” said Harry. “Do you know when your next flight back to London is?”

“This aircraft has a four-hour turnaround, and is scheduled to return to London at nine ten this evening.”

“That’s a bit rough on you, isn’t it?”

“No,” she said, suppressing a smile. “We always have a stopover in Leningrad. So if you were to return on this evening’s flight, you’d be served by a completely different crew.”

“Thank you,” said Harry. “That’s most helpful.” He looked out of the cabin window to watch Tolstoy’s favorite city looming larger by the second, although he suspected the great author would have been appalled by its change of name. As he heard the hydraulics lowering the wheels into place he wondered if there would be enough time for him to carry out his shopping spree and be back on board before the cabin door was locked.

When the wheels touched the ground, Harry felt a surge of adrenalin he’d only previously experienced when he’d been behind enemy lines during the war. He sometimes forgot that was nearly thirty years ago, when he was a stone lighter and a whole lot nimbler. Well, at least this time he wouldn’t be expected to face a regiment of Germans advancing toward him.

After leaving Mrs. Babakov, he had committed everything she had said to memory. He hadn’t written anything down for fear of someone discovering what he had planned. He had told no one other than Emma the real reason he was visiting Leningrad, although Giles had worked out that he must be going there to collect the book—although “collect” was the wrong verb.

As the plane bumped along the potholed runway he estimated that it would be at least an hour before he cleared customs and was able to convert some sterling into the local currency. In fact, it took an hour and fourteen minutes, despite his only having an overnight bag and exchanging ten pounds for twenty-five rubles. He then had to join the end of a long taxi queue, because the Russians hadn’t quite got the hang of free enterprise.

“The corner of Nevsky Prospekt and Bolshaya Morskaya Street,” he instructed the driver in his native tongue, hoping he would know where it was. All those hours learning Russian, when in truth he would only need a few well-honed phrases, as he intended to be on his way back to England in a few hours, mission completed, as his old commanding officer would say.

During the drive into the city they passed the Yusupov Palace, when Harry’s thoughts turned to Rasputin. The arch manipulator might have enjoyed his little subterfuge. Harry only hoped he wouldn’t end up being poisoned, wrapped in a carpet and then dropped through an ice-hole in the Malaya Nevka river. Harry realized that if he was going to be back at the airport in time to board the 21:10 to Heathrow, he would only have twenty or thirty minutes to spare. But that should be more than enough.

The taxi driver stopped outside an antiquarian bookshop and pointed to the meter. Harry took out a five-ruble note and handed it to him.

“I don’t expect to be long, so would you be kind enough to wait?”

The driver pocketed the note and gave him a curt nod.

The moment Harry stepped inside the shop, he could see why Mrs. Babakov had chosen this particular establishment in which to secrete her treasure. It was almost as if they didn’t want to sell anything. An elderly woman was seated behind the counter, her head in a book. Harry smiled at her, but she didn’t even look up when the bell rang above the door.

He took a couple of books down from a nearby shelf and pretended to peruse them as he edged his way slowly to the back of the shop, his heart beating a little faster with each step he took. Would it still be there? Had someone already bought it, only to discover when they got home that they’d got the wrong book? Had another customer captured the prize and destroyed
Uncle Joe
for fear they might be caught with it? He could think of a dozen reasons why the three-thousand-mile round trip could turn out to be a wasted journey. But for the moment, hope still triumphed over expectation.