Mightier Than the Sword (37 page)

When he finally reached the bookcase on which Mrs. Babakov had said she’d hidden her husband’s work, he closed his eyes and prayed. He opened his eyes to find that
Tess of the d’Urbervilles
was no longer in its place; just a gap covered with a thin layer of dust between
A Tale of Two Cities
and
Daniel Deronda.
Mrs. Babakov had made no mention of
Daniel Deronda.

He glanced back toward the counter, to see the old woman turning a page. Standing on tiptoe, he stretched up and eased
A Tale of Two Cities
off the top shelf, accompanied by a shower of dust that sprinkled down on him. When he opened it, he thought he might have a heart attack, because it was not a copy of Dickens’s work but a slim volume by Anatoly Babakov.

Not wishing to draw attention to his prize, he took two other novels from the same shelf,
Greenmantle
by John Buchan and
Jamaica Inn
by Daphne du Maurier, and pretended to browse as he made his way slowly toward the counter. He almost felt guilty interrupting the old woman as he placed the three books on the counter in front of her.

She opened each of them in turn and checked the prices. Mrs. Babakov had even penciled in the price. If she’d turned one more page, he would have been caught. She didn’t. Using her fingers as an adding machine, she said, “Eight rubles.”

Harry handed her two five-ruble notes, having been warned when he was in Moscow for the conference that shopkeepers had to report anyone who attempted to purchase goods with foreign currency and, more important, that they were to refuse the sale and confiscate the money. He thanked her as she handed him his change. By the time he left the shop, she’d turned another page.

“Back to the airport,” said Harry as he climbed into the waiting taxi. The driver looked surprised, but swung obediently around and set out on the return journey.

Harry opened the book once again to check that it hadn’t been an illusion. The thrill of the chase was replaced by a feeling of triumph. He turned to the first page and began reading. All those hours spent studying Russian were finally proving worthwhile. He turned the page.

An early evening traffic jam meant the journey back to the airport took far longer than he’d originally anticipated. He began to check his watch every few minutes, fearful that he might miss the plane. By the time the taxi dropped him at the airport, he had reached chapter seven and the death of Stalin’s second wife. He handed another five rubles to the driver and didn’t wait for the change, but ran into the airport and followed the signs for the BOAC counter.

“Can you get me on the nine ten back to London?”

“First or economy?” asked the booking clerk.

“First.”

“Window or aisle?”

“Window, please.”

“Six A,” she said, handing him a ticket.

It amused Harry that he would be flying back in the same seat he’d occupied for the incoming flight.

“Do you have any luggage to check in, sir?”

“No, just this,” he said, holding up his bag.

“The flight is due to take off shortly, sir, so it might be wise to make your way through to customs.”

Harry wondered how many times a day she delivered that particular line. He was happy to obey her suggestion and, as he passed a bank of telephones, his thoughts turned to Emma and Mrs. Babakov, but he would have to wait until he was back in London before he could tell them the news.

He was only a couple of strides away from passport control when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He turned to find two heavily built young policemen standing on either side of him.

“Would you come with me,” said one of the officers, confident that Harry spoke Russian.

“Why?” asked Harry. “I’m on my way back to London and I don’t want to miss my flight.”

“We just need to check your bag. If there are no irregularities, you’ll have more than enough time to catch your flight.”

Harry prayed they were looking for drugs, cash, or contraband, as they gripped him firmly by the arm and led him away. He considered making a dash for it. Perhaps twenty years ago …

The policemen stopped outside an unmarked door, unlocked it, and shoved Harry inside. The door slammed behind him and he heard a key turning in the lock. He looked around the room. A small table, two chairs, and no windows. Nothing on the walls other than a large black and white photograph of Comrade Brezhnev, chairman of the party.

Moments later, he heard the key turning in the lock again. Harry already had half a story prepared about having come to St. Petersburg to visit the Hermitage. The door opened and a man entered. The sight of this tall, elegantly dressed officer caused Harry to feel apprehensive for the first time. He was wearing a dark green uniform with three gold stars on his epaulets and too many medals on his chest to suggest that he might be easily intimidated. Two very different men followed him in, whose appearance seemed to disprove Darwin’s theory of evolution.

“Mr. Clifton, my name is Colonel Marinkin and I am the officer in charge of this investigation. Please open your bag.” Harry unzipped the bag and stood back. “Place all the contents on the table.”

Harry took out his wash bag, a pair of pants, a pair of socks, a cream shirt, just in case he had to stay overnight, and three books. The colonel only seemed interested in the books, which he studied for a few moments before placing two of them back on the table.

“You may pack your bag, Mr. Clifton.”

Harry let out a long sigh as he returned his belongings to the bag. At least the whole exercise hadn’t been a complete waste of time. He knew the book existed, and he’d even read seven chapters, which he would write out on the plane.

“Are you aware of what this book is?” asked the colonel, holding it up.

“
A Tale of Two Cities,
” said Harry, “among my favorites but not considered to be Dickens’s masterpiece.”

“Don’t play games with me,” said Marinkin. “We are not the complete fools you arrogant English take us for. This book, as you well know, is
Uncle Joe
by Anatoly Babakov, which you have been trying to get hold of for some years. Today you almost succeeded. You planned everything down to the finest detail. First you visit Mrs. Babakov in Pittsburgh to learn where she had hidden the book. On returning to Bristol, you brush up on your Russian, even impressing your tutor with your grasp of our language. You then fly to Leningrad just a few days before your visa is due to expire. You enter the country carrying only an overnight bag, the contents of which suggest you didn’t plan even to stay overnight, and you change just ten pounds into rubles. You ask a taxi driver to take you to an obscure antiquarian bookshop in the center of the city. You purchase three books, two of which you could have picked up in any bookshop in England. You ask the driver to take you back to the airport and you check yourself in on the next flight home, even the same seat. Who do you imagine you’re fooling? No, Mr. Clifton, your luck has run out, and I am placing you under arrest.”

“On what charge?” asked Harry. “Buying a book?”

“Save it for the trial, Mr. Clifton.”

“Would those passengers traveling to London on BOAC flight number…”

*   *   *

“There’s a Mr. Bishara on line three,” said Rachel. “Shall I put him through?”

“Yes,” said Seb, then placed a hand over the mouthpiece and asked his two colleagues if they could leave him for a few minutes.

“Mr. Clifton, I think it’s time we had another game of backgammon.”

“I’m not sure I can afford it.”

“In exchange for a lesson, I ask for nothing more than information.”

“What do you need to know?”

“Have you ever come across a man by the name of Desmond Mellor?”

“Yes, I have.”

“And your opinion of him?”

“On a scale of one to ten? One.”

“I see. And what about a Major Alex Fisher MP?”

“Minus one.”

“Do you still own six percent of Farthings Bank?”

“Seven percent, and those shares are still not for sale.”

“That’s not why I asked. Shall we say ten o’clock tonight at the Clermont?”

“Could we make it a little later? I’m taking my aunt Grace to see
Death of a Salesman
at the Aldwych, but she always likes to catch the last train back to Cambridge, so I could be with you around eleven.”

“I’m delighted to be stood up in favor of your aunt, Mr. Clifton. I look forward to seeing you at eleven at the Clermont—where we can discuss
Death of a Salesman
.”

35

“A
RROGANCE AND GREED
is the answer to your question,” spat out Desmond Mellor. “You had a banker’s draft, cash in hand, but you still weren’t satisfied. You wanted more, and because of your stupidity, I’m facing bankruptcy.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad, Desmond. After all, you still own fifty-one percent of Farthings, not to mention your other considerable assets.”

“Let me spell it out for you, Sloane, so you’re not under any illusions as to what I’m up against and, more important, what I expect you to do about it. I purchased, on your advice, fifty-one percent of the bank’s stock from Arnold Hardcastle, at a price of three pounds nine shillings a share, which cost me just over twenty million pounds. In order to raise that sum, I had to borrow eleven million from my bank, using the shares, all my assets including two homes, as well as having to sign a personal guarantee. Farthings’ shares are on the market this morning at two pounds eleven shillings, which means I’m showing a shortfall of over five million pounds, for a deal you said we couldn’t lose on. It’s just possible I may avoid going bankrupt, but I’ll certainly be wiped out if I have to put my shares on the market now. Which, I repeat, is because of your arrogance and greed.”

“That isn’t entirely fair,” said Sloane. “At the board meeting last Monday, we all agreed, you included, to put the asking price up to six pounds.”

“True, but the carpet trader’s son called your bluff. He was still willing to go ahead at five pounds a share, which would have got me off the hook and provided us all with a handsome profit. So the least you can do is buy my shares for three pounds and nine shillings, and get me out of a situation you’re responsible for.”

“But as I’ve already explained, Desmond, much as I’d like to help, what you’re suggesting would be breaking the law.”

“That didn’t seem to worry you when you told Bishara that you had a bid of six pounds on the table from a ‘well-established City institution,’ when no such third party existed. I think you’ll find that’s also against the law.”

“I repeat, we all agreed—”

The phone on Sloane’s desk began to ring. He pressed the intercom and barked, “I told you, no interruptions.”

“It’s Lady Virginia Fenwick, and she says it is urgent.”

“I can’t wait to hear what she’s got to say,” said Mellor.

“Good morning, Lady Virginia,” said Sloane, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. “How nice to hear from you.”

“You may not feel that way when you know why I’m calling,” said Virginia. “I’ve just received a pretrial invoice from my solicitors for twenty thousand pounds that has to be settled before the first day of proceedings. You will recall, Adrian, giving me your word that you would cover the costs of my trial. Pennies, in the grand scheme of things, if I remember your words correctly.”

“I did indeed say that, Lady Virginia. But you will also remember that the offer depended on the successful outcome of our negotiations with Mr. Bishara, so I’m afraid—”

“But Major Fisher tells me you only have yourself to blame for that remarkable lack of judgement. You may take this as you wish, Mr. Sloane, but if you do not keep your word and cover my legal costs, let me warn you that I am not without influence in the City…”

“Are you threatening me, Lady Virginia?”

“As I said, Mr. Sloane, you may take it as you wish.”

*   *   *

Virginia slammed down the phone and turned to Fisher. “I’ll give him a couple of days to come up with the twenty thousand, otherwise—”

“That man won’t part with a penny unless you have a written agreement, and perhaps not even then. It’s the way he treats everyone. He promised me a place on the board of Farthings but since the Bishara deal fell through, I haven’t heard a word from him.”

“Well, I can promise you that he won’t be working in the City for much longer if I have anything to do with it. But I’m sorry, Alex, I’m sure that wasn’t the reason you wanted to see me.”

“No, it wasn’t. I thought you ought to know that I was issued with a subpoena this morning from Mrs. Clifton’s solicitors, putting me on notice that they intend to call me as a witness at your trial.”

*   *   *

“I’m sorry I’m late,” said Seb as he climbed on to the barstool. “When we came out of the theatre, it was raining, and I couldn’t find a taxi, so I had to drive my aunt to Paddington to make sure she didn’t miss the last train.”

“Worthy of a boy scout,” said Bishara.

“Good evening, sir,” said the barman. “Campari and soda?”

Seb was impressed, as he’d only visited the club once before. “Yes,” he replied, “thank you.”

“And what does your aunt do in Cambridge?” asked Bishara.

“She’s an English don at Newnham, the family’s bluestocking. We’re very proud of her.”

“You’re so unlike your fellow Englishmen.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Seb as a Campari and soda was placed in front of him.

“You treat everyone as an equal, from the barman to your aunt, and you don’t patronize foreigners, like myself. So many Englishmen would have said, my aunt teaches English at Cambridge University, but you took it for granted that I knew what a don is, that Newnham is one of the five women’s colleges at Cambridge, and that a bluestocking is a girl who aspires to learning. Unlike that patronizing idiot Adrian Sloane, who, because he went to Harrow, thinks he’s well educated.”

“I get the impression you dislike Sloane almost as much as I do.”

“Possibly more, after his latest con trick when he tried to sell me his bank.”