11
ONCE SEBASTIAN realized that he wouldn’t be expected back at the office before Monday morning, he began to plan a surprise weekend for Samantha. He spent the morning booking trains, planes, hotels, and even checked the opening times of the Rijksmuseum. He wanted the weekend in Amsterdam to be perfect, so when they emerged from customs, he ignored the signs for buses and trains and headed straight for the taxi rank.
“Cedric must have been pleased when you discovered what Sloane was up to,” said Sam as the cab joined the traffic making its way out of the airport. “What do you think will happen next?”
“I expect Sloane will be sacked around five o’clock this afternoon.”
“Why five this afternoon?”
“That’s when he was hoping to close the Shifnal Farm deal.”
“There’s almost an element of Greek tragedy about that,” said Sam. “So, with a bit of luck, Sloane will be gone by the time you turn up for work on Monday.”
“Almost certainly, because Cedric asked me to report to him first thing.”
“Do you think you’ll get Sloane’s job?” asked Sam as the cab headed on to the motorway.
“Possibly. But it’s only likely to be a temporary appointment while Cedric looks for someone more experienced.”
“But if you managed to pull off the Shifnal deal, he might not bother to look for someone else.”
“That’s also a possibility, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find I was on a train back to Shrewsbury on Monday. Did he go left around that roundabout?”
“No, right,” said Sam, laughing. “Don’t forget we’re on the continent.” She turned to Seb, who was clinging on to the front seat, and placed a hand on his leg. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I sometimes forget about that dreadful accident.”
“I’m fine,” said Seb.
“I like the sound of Mr. Swann. Perhaps it would be wise to keep him on your side.”
“Cedric agrees with you. And if we pull off the deal, we’ll probably end up having to build his school a concert hall,” Seb added as they entered the outskirts of the city.
“I assume we’re staying at the Amstel?” said Sam as the deluxe five-star hotel overlooking the Amstel river loomed up in front of them.
“Not this time, that will have to wait until I’m chairman of the bank. But until then, it’s the Pension De Kanaal, a well-known one-star guest house frequented by the up-and-coming.”
Sam smiled as the taxi drew up outside a little guest house wedged between a greengrocer and an Indonesian restaurant. “Far better than the Amstel,” she declared as they walked into the cramped lobby. Once they’d checked in, Seb lugged their bags up to the top floor, as the pension didn’t have a lift or a porter. He unlocked the door of their room and switched on the light.
“Palatial,” Sam declared.
Seb couldn’t believe how small the room was. There was only just enough space for them to stand on each side of the double bed. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I wanted this weekend to be just perfect.”
Sam took him in her arms. “You are a silly thing at times. This is perfect. I prefer being up-and-coming. Gives us something to look forward to.”
Seb fell back on the bed. “I know what I’m looking forward to.”
“A visit to the Rijksmuseum?” suggested Sam.
* * *
“You wanted to see me?” said Sloane, as he marched into the chairman’s office. He didn’t wait to be offered a seat.
Cedric looked up at the head of his property division, but didn’t smile. “I’ve just finished reading your monthly report.”
“Up two point two percent on last month,” Sloane reminded him.
“Very impressive. But I wonder if you might have done even better if…”
“If what, chairman?” said Sloane abruptly.
“If Shifnal Farm had also been included in your report,” said Cedric, picking up a brochure from his desk.
“Shifnal Farm? Are you sure that’s one of my properties, and not Clifton’s?” said Sloane, nervously touching the knot of his tie.
“I’m absolutely certain it’s one of your properties, Sloane. What I can’t be sure about is whether it’s one of the bank’s.”
“What are you getting at?” said Sloane, suddenly on the defensive.
“When I called Ralph Vaughan, the senior partner of Savills, a few moments ago, he confirmed that you’d put in a bid of one point six million pounds for the property, with the bank acting as guarantor.”
Sloane shifted uneasily in his chair. “You’re quite right, chairman, but as the deal hasn’t finally been closed, you won’t have all the details until I send you next month’s report.”
“One of the details that will take some explaining is why the account is registered to a client in Zurich.”
“Ah, yes,” said Sloane. “Now I remember. You’re quite right, we were acting for a Swiss client who prefers anonymity, but the bank charges three percent commission on every deal we carry out for that particular customer.”
“And it didn’t take a great deal of research,” said Cedric, patting a pile of papers on the desk in front of him, “to discover that that particular client has conducted another six transactions during the past year, and made himself a handsome profit.”
“But isn’t that what my department is supposed to do?” protested Sloane. “Make profits for our clients, while at the same time earning the bank a handsome commission?”
“It is indeed,” said Cedric, trying to remain calm. “It’s just a pity the Swiss client’s account is in your name.”
“How can you possibly know that,” blurted out Sloane, “when client accounts in Switzerland are not named but numbered?”
“I didn’t. But you’ve just confirmed my worst fears, so your number is up.”
Sloane leapt from his chair. “I’ve made a twenty-three percent profit for the bank over the past ten months.”
“And if my calculations are correct,” came back Cedric, “you’ve made another forty-one percent for yourself during the same period. And I have a feeling Shifnal Farm was going to be your biggest payday yet.”
Sloane collapsed back in his chair, a look of desperation on his face. “But…”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” continued Cedric, “but this is one deal you’re not going to pull off for your Swiss client, because I called Mr. Vaughan at Savills a few minutes ago and withdrew our bid for Shifnal Farm.”
“But we could have made a massive profit on that deal,” said Sloane, now staring defiantly at the chairman. “Possibly as much as a million pounds.”
“I don’t think you mean we,” said Cedric, “I think you mean you. Although it was the bank’s money you were putting up as collateral, not your own.”
“But you only know half the facts.”
“I can assure you, Sloane, that thanks to Mr. Swann, I know all the facts.”
Sloane rose slowly from his seat.
“You are a stupid old man,” he said, spitting out the words. “You’re out of touch, and you don’t begin to understand modern banking. The sooner you make way for a younger man, the better.”
“No doubt in time I will,” said Cedric, as he stood up to face his adversary, “but of one thing I’m certain, that young man is no longer going to be you.”
“You’ll live to regret this,” said Sloane, leaning across the desk and eyeballing the chairman.
“Don’t waste your time threatening me, Sloane. Far bigger men than you have tried and failed,” said Cedric, his voice rising with every word. “There’s only one thing left for you to do, and that’s make sure you’ve cleared your desk and are off the premises within thirty minutes, because if you’re not, I’ll personally put your belongings out on the pavement for every passerby to see.”
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyers,” shouted Sloane, as he turned to leave.
“I don’t think so, unless you plan to spend the next few years in prison, because I can assure you, once this stupid old man has reported your behavior to the ethics committee of the Bank of England, you’ll never work in the City again.”
Sloane turned back, his face as white as a sheet and, like a gambler with only one chip left, spun the wheel for the last time. “But I could still make the bank a fortune, if you’ll only—”
“Twenty-nine minutes,” shouted Cedric, trying to control his temper, as he lurched forward and grabbed the edge of his desk.
Sloane didn’t move as the chairman pulled open a drawer and took out a small bottle of pills. He fumbled with the safety cap, but lost his grip and dropped the bottle on to his desk. They both watched as it rolled on to the floor. Cedric attempted to fill a glass with water, but he no longer had the strength to pick up the jug.
“I need your help,” he slurred, looking up at Sloane, who just stood there, watching him carefully.
Cedric stumbled, took a pace backward, and fell heavily on the floor, gasping for breath. Sloane walked slowly around the desk, his eyes never leaving the chairman as he lay on the floor fighting for his life. He picked up the bottle and unscrewed the cap. Cedric stared up at him as he shook the pills on to the floor, just out of his reach. He then wiped the empty bottle with a handkerchief from his top pocket and placed it in the chairman’s hand.
Sloane leaned over and listened carefully, to find that the chairman was no longer breathing quite so heavily. Cedric tried to raise his head, but he could only watch helplessly as Sloane gathered up all the papers on his desk that he’d been working on for the past twenty-four hours. Sloane turned and walked slowly away, without once looking back, avoiding those eyes that were burning into him.
He opened the door and looked out into the corridor. No one in sight. He closed the door quietly behind him and went in search of the chairman’s secretary. Her hat and coat were no longer on the stand, so he assumed she must have left for the weekend. He tried to remain calm as he walked down the corridor, but beads of sweat were pouring off his forehead and he could feel his heart pounding.
He stood for a moment and listened, like a bloodhound sniffing for danger. He decided to throw the dice once again.
“Anyone around?” he shouted.
His voice echoed through the high-ceilinged corridor as if it were a concert hall, but there was no response. He checked the executive offices one by one, but they were all locked. No one on the top floor, other than Cedric, would still be in the office at six o’clock on a Friday evening. Sloane knew there would still be junior staff in the building who wouldn’t think of leaving before their bosses, but none of them would consider disturbing the chairman, and the cleaners wouldn’t be returning until five o’clock on Monday morning. That only left Stanley, the night porter, who would never budge from his comfortable chair at the front desk unless the building was on fire.
Sloane took the lift to the ground floor and, as he crossed the lobby, he noticed that Stanley was dozing quietly. He didn’t disturb him.
* * *
“The Rijksmuseum,” said Sam as they entered the Dutch national gallery, “houses one of the finest collections on earth. The Rembrandts are showstoppers but the Vermeers, De Wittes, and Steens are also among the finest examples of the Dutch masters you’ll ever see.”
Hand in hand they made their way slowly around the grand gallery, Sam often stopping to point out a character, or a feature of a particular work, without ever once referring to her guidebook. Whenever heads turned, and they often did, Seb wanted to shout, “And she’s bright, too!”
At the far end of the gallery stood a small crowd, admiring a single work.
“The Night Watch,” said Sam, “is a masterpiece, and probably Rembrandt’s best-known work. Although sadly we’ll never know what the original looked like because the city council later trimmed the painting to fit between two columns in the town hall.”
“They should have knocked down the columns,” said Seb, unable to take his eyes off the group of figures surrounding a finely dressed man carrying a lantern.
“Pity you weren’t on the town council,” said Sam as they walked into the next room. “And here’s a painting that will feature in my PhD thesis,” she continued as they stopped in front of a large canvas. “It’s hard to believe that Rubens completed the work in a weekend, because he had to attend the signing of a peace treaty between the English and Spanish on the following Monday. Most people are quite unaware that he was a diplomat as well as an artist,” she said before moving on.
Seb felt he ought to be taking notes, but his mind was on other things.
“This is one of my favorites,” said Sam, stopping in front of The Arnolfini Wedding.
“I’ve seen that somewhere else,” said Seb.
“Ah, so you do listen to me occasionally. You saw it when we visited the National Gallery last year.”
“So what’s it doing here?”
“It’s probably on loan,” said Sam. “But only for another month,” she added after taking a closer look at the label on the wall beside the portrait. “But more important, do you remember what I told you about it at the time?”
“Yes, it’s the wedding of a wealthy merchant, and Van Eyck must have been commissioned to record the event.”
“Not bad,” said Sam. “So really Van Eyck was just doing the job of a modern-day wedding photographer.”
Seb was about to say something, but she added, “Look at the texture of the bride’s dress, and the fur on the lapels on the groom’s coat—you can almost feel it.”
“The bride looks heavily pregnant to me.”
“How observant of you, Seb. But any wealthy man at the time had to be sure that the woman he’d chosen to be his wife was capable of producing an heir to inherit his fortune.”
“What a practical lot those Dutch were,” said Seb. “But what if you weren’t rich?”
“The lower classes were expected to behave more properly.”
Seb fell on one knee in front of the painting, looked up at Sam and said, “Samantha Ethel Sullivan, I adore you, and always will, and more than anything on earth I want you to be my wife.”
Sam blushed and, bending down, whispered, “Get up, you idiot. Everyone’s staring at us.”
“Not until you’ve answered my question.”
A small group of visitors had stopped looking at the paintings and were waiting for her reply.
“Of course I’ll marry you,” she said. “I’ve loved you since the day you got me arrested.” Several of the onlookers, looking rather puzzled, tried to translate her words.
Seb stood up, took out a small red leather box from his jacket pocket, and presented it to her. When Sam opened the box and saw the exquisite blue sapphire surrounded by a cluster of little diamonds, she was for once lost for words.
Seb took out the ring and placed it on the third finger of her left hand. When he leant forward to kiss his fiancée, he was greeted with a round of applause. As they walked away, hand in hand, Samantha glanced back at the painting and wondered if she ought to tell him.