29
“MR. SLOANE CALLED while you were at lunch,” said Rachel.
“Did he say what he wanted?” asked Seb.
“No, other than that it was a personal matter.”
“I’m sure it is. He’s worked out that I’ve got nearly six percent of Farthings’ stock, so it’s suddenly very personal.”
“He suggested you meet at his office at eleven tomorrow. There’s space in your diary.”
“Forget it. If he wants to see me, he can damn well come here.”
“I’ll ring and find out if that’s convenient.”
“I have a feeling it will be, because this time I’m in the driving seat.” Rachel didn’t comment, and turned to leave the room. “You’re not convinced, are you, Rachel?” said Seb before she reached the door. She turned back, but before she could offer an opinion he asked, “What would Cedric have done?”
“He would have given Sloane the impression that he was falling in with his plans, so he would lower his guard.”
“Would he?” said Seb. “Then tell Sloane to expect me at eleven tomorrow morning, and add how much I’m looking forward to seeing him.”
“No, that would be overdoing it. But don’t be late.”
“Why not?”
“Gives him back the advantage.”
* * *
Giles wasn’t looking forward to returning to the House of Commons for the first time since he’d lost his seat. The policeman at the St. Stephen’s entrance saluted him.
“Nice to see you, sir. Hope it won’t be long before you’re back.”
“Thank you,” said Giles as he walked into the building, past Westminster Hall, and along the corridor where members of the public wait patiently, hoping to be allocated a seat in the Strangers’ Gallery so they can follow the business of the day. Giles marched on past them into Central Lobby, walking briskly so as not to be held up by former colleagues offering their commiserations and adding platitudes they rarely meant.
Passing another policeman, he stepped on to the thick green carpet he’d trodden for so many years. He glanced at the ticker-tape machine that kept members up to date with what was happening around the world, but didn’t stop to check the latest headline. On past the members’ library, dreading he might bump into one particular member he didn’t want to see. He took a left when he reached the office of the Leader of the House, and came to a halt outside a room he hadn’t entered for years. He knocked on the door of Her Majesty’s Leader of the Opposition, and walked in to find seated at their desks the same two secretaries who had served the former prime minister when he was in Downing Street.
“Nice to see you again, Sir Giles. You can go straight in, Mr. Wilson is expecting you.”
Another knock on another door, and he entered the room to see the familiar sight of a man attempting to light his pipe. He gave up when he saw Giles.
“Giles, I’ve been looking forward to this all day. It’s good to see you.”
“And it’s good to see you, Harold,” responded Giles, not shaking hands with his colleague in the Palace of Westminster, maintaining a tradition that had been upheld for centuries.
“Such bad luck to lose by only twenty-one votes,” said Wilson. “I can’t pretend I care much for your successor.”
“This place will find him out,” said Giles. “It always does.”
“And how are you coping with the postelection blues?”
“Not that well. I’m bound to admit, I miss the place.”
“I was sorry to hear about you and Gwyneth. I hope you’ll find it possible to remain friends.”
“I hope so too, because I’m to blame. I’m afraid we’d begun to drift apart some time ago.”
“This place doesn’t help,” said Harold. “You need a very understanding wife when you’re rarely home before ten o’clock most nights.”
“And what about you, Harold. How are you taking to being Leader of the Opposition again?”
“Like you, not that well. So tell me, what’s it like out there in the real world?”
“I’m not enjoying it, and I won’t pretend otherwise. When you’ve been in politics for a quarter of a century, you’re not really qualified to do much else.”
“Then why don’t we do something about it,” said Wilson, finally managing to light his pipe. “I need a front-bench spokesman on foreign affairs in the House of Lords, and I can’t think of a better person for the job.”
“I’m flattered, Harold, and I thought that might be the reason you wanted to see me. I’ve given it a great deal of thought, and I wondered if I might ask you a question before I make a decision.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t think Ted Heath is proving to be any better in government than he was in opposition. The voters’ view of him as the grocer rather sums it up. And more important, I’m convinced we still have an excellent chance of winning the next election.”
“As my Jewish friends would say, from your lips to God’s ears.”
“And if I’m right, it won’t be that long before you’re back in Number Ten.”
“Amen to that.”
“And both of us know that the real power is in the Commons, not the Lords. Frankly, it’s a deluxe old people’s retirement home, a reward for party hacks with a record of long service and good conduct.”
“With the possible exception of those who sit on the front bench and revise regulation,” suggested Wilson.
“But I’m only fifty, Harold, and I’m not sure I want to spend the rest of my life waiting to be called to an even higher place.”
“I’d put you to work,” said Wilson, “and you’d have a place in the shadow cabinet.”
“I’m not sure that’s enough, Harold. So I need to ask you, if I contested Bristol Docklands at the next election, and the local association is pressing me to do so, and you formed the next government, would I have a chance of becoming foreign secretary?”
Wilson puffed away on his pipe for a few moments, something he often did if he needed a little time to consider. “No, not immediately, Giles. That wouldn’t be fair on Denis, who as you know is shadowing the post at the moment. But I can guarantee you would be offered a senior Cabinet post, and if you did well, you’d be among the front-runners if the job became available. Whereas if you took up my offer, at least you’d be back in the House. And if you’re right, and we win the election, it’s no secret that I’d be looking for a Leader of the Lords.”
“I’m a Commons man, Harold, and I don’t think I’m quite ready yet to be put out to grass. So it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“I salute your resolve,” said Wilson. “And now it’s my turn to thank you, because I know you wouldn’t be willing to take that risk unless you believed not only that you can win back your seat, but that I have a good chance of returning to Number Ten. However, should you change your mind, just let me know, and then, like your grandfather, you’ll be sitting on the red benches as Lord Barrington of…”
“Bristol Docklands,” said Giles.
* * *
Sebastian entered Farthings Bank for the first time since he’d resigned five years before. He walked up to the reception desk and gave the duty clerk his name.
“Ah, yes, Mr. Clifton,” the man said checking his list. “The chairman is expecting you.”
When he said “the chairman,” Seb’s immediate thought was of Cedric Hardcastle, and not of the usurper who’d been the reason he resigned. “Would you be kind enough to sign the visitors’ book?”
Seb took a pen from an inside pocket of his jacket and slowly unscrewed the cap, giving himself a little time to study the list of those who’d recently visited the chairman. His eye ran quickly down two columns of names, most of which meant nothing to him. But two of them might as well have had flashing neon lights next to them: Desmond Mellor, who Seb knew Sloane had recently appointed as deputy chairman, so that came as no surprise, but what possible reason could Major Alex Fisher MP have had for visiting the chairman of Farthings? One thing was certain, Sloane wasn’t going to tell him. The only other name that caught his eye was that of Hakim Bishara. He was sure he’d read something about Mr. Bishara in the Financial Times recently, but couldn’t remember what.
“The chairman will see you now, sir. His office is on—”
“The top floor,” said Seb. “Many thanks.”
When Seb stepped out of the lift on the executive floor, he walked slowly down the corridor toward Cedric’s old office. He recognized no one, and no one recognized him, but then he knew Sloane hadn’t wasted any time in purging Farthings of all Cedric’s lieutenants.
He didn’t have to knock on Sloane’s door because it swung open when he was a couple of paces away.
“Good to see you, Seb,” said Sloane. “It’s been too long,” he added before he ushered him into his office, but didn’t risk offering to shake his hand.
The first thing that struck Seb as he entered the chairman’s office was that there was no sign of Cedric. No acknowledgement of his thirty years’ stewardship of the bank. No portrait, no photograph, no plaque to remind the next generation of his achievements. Sloane had not only replaced him, but had airbrushed him out of existence, like a Soviet politician who’d fallen from favor.
“Have a seat,” said Sloane, as if he was addressing one of the bank’s junior clerks.
Seb took a closer look at his adversary. He’d put on a few pounds since they’d last met, but it was cleverly masked by a well-tailored double-breasted suit. One thing that hadn’t changed was the insincere smile of a man most people in the City were reluctant to do business with.
Sloane took his seat behind the chairman’s desk and didn’t waste any more time with banalities.
“Seb, someone as bright as you will already have worked out why I wanted to see you.”
“I assumed you were going to offer me a place on the board of Farthings.”
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind.” The false laugh followed, to accompany the insincere smile. “However, it’s been clear for some time that you’ve been buying the bank’s stock on the open market, and you now only need another twenty-two thousand shares to cross the threshold that would allow you to automatically take a place on the board, or to nominate someone else to represent you.”
“Be assured, I’ll be representing myself.”
“Which is why I wanted to talk to you. It’s no secret that we didn’t get on well when you worked under me—”
“Which is why I resigned.”
“It’s also why I feel it would be inappropriate for you to be involved in the day-to-day running of the bank.”
“I have absolutely no interest in the day-to-day running of the bank. I assume you have capable staff to carry out that job. That was never my intention.”
“Then what is your intention?” demanded Sloane, barely able to hide his irritation.
“To play a role in ensuring that this bank returns to the high standards it enjoyed under your predecessor, and to be sure that the shareholders are kept informed of what goes on in their name.” Seb decided to roll a small hand grenade across the table and see if it exploded when it reached the other side. “Because it’s clear to me, after reading the minutes of past board meetings, that you are not telling stockholders the whole story.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Sloane, a little too quickly.
“I think you know all too well what I mean.”
“Perhaps we can make a deal. After all, you always were a brilliant dealer.”
From bully to flatterer with hardly a moment’s pause in between. Maurice Swann would have cast Sloane as Richard III, and he could have played it without a script.
“What sort of deal do you have in mind?” asked Seb.
“Over the past five years you must have paid an average of around two pounds ten shillings per share. I’m prepared to double that, and offer you five pounds a share, which I’m sure you’ll agree is generous.”
Far too generous, thought Seb. Three pounds should have been his opening bid, and four his closing. Why was Sloane so keen to keep him off the board?
“More than generous,” Seb replied. “But I still intend to take my place on the board. You see, with me it’s personal.”
“Then I shall have to make an official complaint to the Bank of England, pointing out that you have no interest in supporting the bank’s long-term aims.”
“Frankly, I’m only interested in finding out what Farthings’ long-term aims are. Which is why I visited the Bank of England last week and had a long chat with Mr. Craig, the chief compliance officer. He was kind enough to check the bank’s statutes, and has confirmed in writing that as long as I have a stockholding of six percent, I’m entitled to a place on the board. But do by all means give him a call.”
If Sloane had been a dragon, flames would have been belching out of his nostrils. “And if I were to offer you ten pounds a share?”
Sloane was clearly out of control, so Seb decided to lob a second grenade. “Then I’d begin to think the rumors were true.”
“What rumors?” demanded Sloane.
Did he dare risk taking another pin out? “Why don’t you ask Desmond Mellor and Alex Fisher what they’ve been up to behind your back?”
“How did you know—”
The hand grenade had exploded in Sloane’s face, but Seb couldn’t resist one more sortie. “You have a lot of enemies in the Square Mile, Sloane, and even one or two in your own office.”
“It’s time for you to leave, Clifton.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right. But I look forward to seeing you and your colleagues at next month’s board meeting. I have so many questions for them, particularly for Mr. Mellor, who seems quite happy to open the batting for both teams.”
Sloane didn’t move, but the flush in his cheeks showed another hand grenade had exploded.
Seb smiled for the first time, rose from his place, and turned to leave, when Sloane lobbed his own hand grenade.
“I fear I won’t be seeing you again for some time, Sebastian.”
“Why not?” demanded Seb, swinging round.
“Because at the last board meeting we passed a resolution stating that any outsider who wished to join the board in future would be required to own ten percent of the company’s stock.”
“You can’t do that,” said Seb, defiantly.
“I can and I have,” said Sloane, “and I feel sure you’ll be pleased to hear that Mr. Craig, the chief compliance officer at the Bank of England, has given our unanimous resolution his blessing. So I’ll see you in about five years’ time. But don’t hold your breath, Seb, because if you did get hold of ten percent, we would just have to pass another resolution.”