Yelena, who hadn’t spoken until then, simply said, “We accept their terms.”
“Then you’ll need to leave now,” said the equerry, “because the only flight to Moscow today departs in an hour and a half.”
“Have a car ready to take them to the airport,” said Carl Gustaf. Turning to Yelena, he added, “Your husband could not have been better represented, Mrs. Babakova. Please return to Stockholm as my guest whenever you wish. Mr. Clifton, Mrs. Clifton, I will be eternally in your debt. I would make a speech, but as you have a plane to catch, it would be neither adequate nor appropriate. Hang not a thread on protocol, and be gone.”
Harry smiled and bowed for a different reason.
The three of them returned to their rooms to find their cases already packed, and a few minutes later they were being escorted to a waiting car.
“I could get used to this,” said Emma.
“Don’t,” said Harry.
When Yelena walked into the airport on Harry’s arm, passengers took out their pens, biros, pencils and held them in the air as she passed by.
During the flight to Moscow, Harry was so exhausted he finally fell asleep.
*
Virginia wasn’t surprised to receive a call from Adrian Sloane. He didn’t waste any time getting to the point.
“You probably know that the board have asked me to take over as chairman of Mellor Travel while Desmond is … away, if you’ll forgive the euphemism.”
Not with his blessing, Virginia was about to say, but she kept her counsel.
“Miss Castle tells me you’re the only other person who knows the code to Desmond’s safe.”
“That is correct.”
“I need to get hold of some papers for the next board meeting. When I visited Desmond last week at Ford, he told me that they were in the safe and you could give me the code.”
“Why didn’t he give it to you himself?” asked Virginia innocently.
“He didn’t want to risk it. Said there were listening devices in his cell that could pick up every word we said.”
Virginia smiled at his simple mistake. “I’ll be happy to give you the code, Adrian, but not until you’ve paid me the twenty-five thousand pounds you promised to help cover my legal bills when I sued Emma Clifton. A drop in the ocean, if I recall your exact words.”
“Give me the code, and I’ll transfer the full amount to your account immediately.”
“That’s very considerate of you, Adrian, but I don’t think I’ll risk it a second time. I’ll tell you the code, but only after you’ve transferred twenty-five thousand pounds to my account at Coutts.”
When the bank confirmed that the money had been transfered, Virginia kept her side of the bargain. After all, it was no more than Desmond Mellor had instructed.
*
How different it all was from the last time Harry had visited the Russian capital, when they didn’t want to let him in, and couldn’t wait to throw him out.
On this occasion, when he stepped off the plane he was met by the British Ambassador.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Babakova,” said Sir Curtis Keeble, as a chauffeur opened the back door of a Rolls-Royce to allow Yelena to get in. Before Harry could join her, the ambassador whispered, “Congratulations on your speech, Mr. Clifton. But be warned, they’ve only granted you a visa on condition there will be no heroics this time.”
Harry was well aware what Sir Curtis was referring to. “Then why are they allowing me to attend the funeral?” he asked.
“Because they consider it the lesser of two evils. If they don’t let you in, they’re afraid you’ll say Babakov was never released, but if they do, they can claim that he was never in jail, always a schoolteacher and is being buried at his local church.”
“Who do they expect to fool with such blatant propaganda?”
“They don’t care what the West thinks, they’re only interested in how it plays out in Russia, where they control the press.”
“How many people are expected to attend the funeral?” asked Emma.
“Only a few friends and relations will have the courage to turn up,” said Yelena. “I’d be surprised if it was more than half a dozen.”
“I think it may be a few more than that, Mrs. Babakova,” said the ambassador. “All the morning papers are carrying photographs of you receiving the Nobel Prize on your husband’s behalf.”
“I’m surprised they allowed that,” said Harry.
“It’s all part of a carefully orchestrated campaign known as ‘overnight history.’ Anatoly Babakov was never in jail, he lived peacefully in the suburbs of Moscow and the prize was for his poetry and brilliant novella Moscow Revisited. Not one paper mentions Uncle Joe, or refers to the speech you gave last night.”
“Then how do you know about it?” asked Harry.
“It’s all over the wires. There are even photos of you holding up your pen.”