36
“HOW ARE YOU, my boy?”
“Well, thank you, Arnold. And you?”
“Never better. And your dear mother?”
“Preparing herself for next week’s trial.”
“Not a pleasant experience to have to go through, especially when there’s so much at stake. Talk in chambers is that it’s too close to call, but the odds are shortening on your mother, as nobody thinks Lady Virginia will endear herself to the jury. She’ll either patronize them, or insult them.”
“I was rather hoping both.”
“Now, why are you calling, Sebastian, because I usually charge by the hour, not that I’ve started the clock yet.”
Seb would have laughed, but he suspected Arnold wasn’t joking. “Word in the City is that you’ve sold your shares in Farthings Bank.”
“Mother’s shares, to be accurate, and only after I was made an offer that it would have been extremely foolish to turn down. Even then I only agreed when I was assured that Adrian Sloane would be removed as chairman, and Ross Buchanan would take his place.”
“But that’s not going to happen,” said Seb. “Sloane’s representative lied to you, and I can prove it if you felt able to answer a couple of questions.”
“Only if they don’t involve a client I represent.”
“Understood,” said Seb, “but I hoped you’d be able to tell me who bought your mother’s shares and how much he paid for them.”
“I can’t answer that, as it would break client confidentiality.” Seb was about to curse when Arnold added, “However, were you to suggest the name of Sloane’s representative, and were I to remain silent, you could draw your own conclusions. But, Sebastian, let me make it clear, one name and one name only. This is not a raffle.”
“Desmond Mellor.” Seb held his breath for several seconds, but there was no response. “And is there any chance you’ll let me know how much he paid for the shares?”
“Under no circumstances,” said Arnold firmly. “And now I must dash, Seb. I’m off to see my mother in Yorkshire, and if I don’t leave immediately I’ll miss the 3:09 to Huddersfield. Do give your mother my kindest regards and wish her luck for the trial.”
“And please pass on my best wishes to Mrs. Hardcastle,” said Seb, but the line had already gone dead.
He checked his watch. It was just after ten, which didn’t make any sense. Seb picked up the phone again and dialed Hakim Bishara’s private line.
“Good morning, Sebastian. Did you have any luck getting your distinguished QC to answer my two questions?”
“Yes, and I think so.”
“Curiouser and curiouser.”
“He confirmed that it was Desmond Mellor who bought the stock, and I think the price he paid was three pounds and nine shillings per share.”
“Why can’t you be sure? He either told you the price, or he didn’t.”
“He neither did, nor didn’t. But what he did say was that he had to leave immediately or he’d miss the 3:09 to Huddersfield, and as it’s just after ten a.m., and Euston is only twenty minutes away by taxi…”
“Clever man, your Mr. Hardcastle, because I’m sure we won’t have to check whether or not there actually is a 3:09 to Huddersfield. Congratulations. I suspect no one other than you would have been able to get that information out of him. So as they say in my country, I will be forever in your debt, until you have been repaid in full.”
“Well, now you mention it, Hakim, there is something you may be able help me with.”
Bishara listened carefully to Seb’s request. “I’m not sure that your scoutmaster would have approved of what you’re suggesting. I’ll see what I can do, but I make no promises.”
* * *
“Good morning, Mr. Mellor. I think you’ve already met my lawyer, Jason Moreland, and my chief accountant, Nick Pirie.”
Mellor shook hands with both men before joining them around an oval table.
“As you’re on the board of Farthings,” said Bishara, “I can only assume you come here as an emissary of Mr. Sloane.”
“Then you assume wrongly,” said Mellor. “He’s the last man I would be willing to represent in any negotiation. Sloane made a complete ass of himself when he turned down your offer.”
“But he told me he had an offer of six pounds on the table, from a well-established City institution.”
“And you knew that wasn’t true, which is why you walked away.”
“And you are willing to walk back, because they were never his shares to sell in the first place.”
“The truth is,” said Mellor, “he was playing Russian roulette with my bullet, and it turned out to be a blank. However, I am willing to sell you fifty-one percent of the bank’s stock for the five pounds a share you originally offered.”
“Originally offered is correct, Mr. Mellor. But that offer is no longer on the table. After all, I can buy Farthings on the open market for two pounds and eleven shillings a share, and have been doing so for several weeks.”
“Not the fifty-one percent you want, which would give you overall control of the bank. In any case, I can’t afford to sell them at that price.”
“No,” said Bishara, “I’m sure you can’t. But you can afford to sell them for three pounds and nine shillings a share.”
Mellor’s mouth opened, and didn’t close for some time. “Could you make it four pounds?”
“No, I could not, Mr. Mellor. Three pounds and nine shillings is my final offer.” Bishara turned to his chief accountant who handed him a banker’s draft for ￡20,562,000. He placed it on the table.
“I may be wrong, Mr. Mellor, but I have a feeling you can’t afford to make the same mistake twice.”
“Where do I sign?”
Mr. Moreland opened a file and placed three identical contracts in front of Mellor. Once he’d signed them, he thrust out a hand and waited for the banker’s draft to be passed across to him.
“And like Mr. Sloane,” said Bishara as he took the top off his fountain pen, “before I can add my signature to the contract, I require one small amendment that I have promised for a friend.”
Mellor stared defiantly at him. “And what might that be?”
The lawyer opened a second file, took out a letter, and placed it in front of Mellor. He read it slowly.
“I can’t sign this. Never.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Bishara, picking up the banker’s draft and handing it back to his chief accountant.
Mellor didn’t move, but when he began to sweat, Bishara realized it was only a matter of time.
“All right, all right,” said Mellor. “I’ll sign the damn letter.”
The lawyer double-checked the signature before placing the letter back in his file. Bishara then signed all three contracts, and the accountant handed Mellor one copy and the banker’s draft for ￡20,562,000. Mellor left without another word. He didn’t even thank Bishara, nor did he shake hands.
“If he’d called my bluff,” said Bishara to his lawyer once the door had closed, “I would have settled without him having to sign the letter.”
* * *
Harry studied the statement they expected him to read out in court. He would have to confess to being a British agent who worked for MI5. If he did so, he would be released immediately and deported back to his homeland, never to be allowed to return to the Soviet Union.
Of course, his family and friends would dismiss the statement for what it was worth. Others might feel he’d been left with little choice. But then there would be the majority who didn’t know him. They would assume that it was true, and that his fight for Babakov had been nothing more than a smoke screen to cover his espionage. One signature, and he would be free but his reputation would be shattered and, more important, Babakov’s cause would be lost for ever. No, he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his reputation, or Anatoly Babakov, quite that easily.
He tore up the confession and threw the little pieces of paper high in the air, like confetti waiting for a bride.
When the colonel returned an hour later armed only with a pen, he stared in disbelief at the scraps of paper strewn across the floor.
“Only an Englishman could be that stupid,” he remarked, before turning and marching back out of the cell, slamming the door behind him.
He’s got a point, thought Harry, then closed his eyes. He knew exactly how he intended to pass any unfulfilled hours. He would try to recall as much as possible of the first seven chapters of Uncle Joe. He began to concentrate. Chapter One …
Josef Stalin was born losif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili in Gori, Georgia, on 18 December 1878. As a child, he was known as Soso, but when he became a young revolutionary he adopted the pseudonym Koba, after a fictional Robin Hood figure he wanted to be compared with, although in fact he was more like the Sheriff of Nottingham. As he rose through the ranks of the party, and his influence grew, he changed his name to Stalin (“Man of Steel”). But …
* * *
“Some good news at last,” said Emma, “and I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“Lady Virginia has fallen into a concrete mixer, and is now part of a high rise in Lambeth?” suggested Seb.
“Not quite that good, but almost.”
“Dad’s home and he’s got a copy of Uncle Joe?”
“No, he’s still not back, although he promised he wouldn’t be more than a couple of days.”
“He told me he might visit the Hermitage and see some of the other sights while he was over there, so no need to worry. But come on, Mum, what’s your news?”
“Desmond Mellor has resigned from the board of Barrington’s.”
“Did he give a reason?”
“He was pretty vague—just said it was for personal reasons, and that he wished the company every success in the future. He even sent his best wishes for the trial.”
“How considerate of him.”
“Why do I get the distinct impression my news doesn’t come as a surprise to you?” said Emma.
* * *
“Chairman, Mr. Clifton has arrived. Shall I send him in?”
“Yes, do.” Sloane leaned back in his chair, delighted that Clifton had finally come to his senses. But he still intended to give him a hard time.
A few seconds later his secretary opened the door and stood aside to allow Sebastian to enter the chairman’s office.
“Let me say at the outset, Clifton, that my offer of five pounds a share for your six percent is no longer on the table. But as a sign of goodwill, I’m prepared to offer you three pounds a share, which is still considerably above this morning’s market price.”
“It is indeed, but my shares are still not for sale.”
“Then why are you wasting my time?”
“I hope I’m not wasting your time, because as the new deputy chairman of Farthings Bank, I’m here to carry out my first executive action.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” said Sloane, leaping up from behind his desk.
“At twelve thirty this afternoon, Mr. Desmond Mellor sold his fifty-one percent shareholding in Farthings to Mr. Hakim Bishara.”
“But, Sebastian—”
“Which also made it possible for Mr. Mellor to finally keep his word.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Mellor promised Arnold Hardcastle that you would be removed from the board, and Ross Buchanan would be the next chairman of Farthings.”