“And the shares have been registered at Companies House in the name of the new owner.”
“But I thought—” repeated Emma, looking directly at her son.
“It must have been a private transaction,” said Sebastian. “I can assure you her shares never came up for sale on the open market. If they had, my broker would have picked them up immediately on behalf of Farthings, and Hakim Bishara would have joined the board as the bank’s representative.”
Everybody in the room began to speak at once. They were all asking the same question. “If Bishara didn’t buy the shares, who did?”
The company secretary waited for the board to settle before he answered their collective cry. “Mr. Desmond Mellor.”
There was immediate uproar, which was silenced only by Sebastian’s curt interjection. “I have a feeling Mellor won’t be returning as a member of the board. It would be far too obvious, and wouldn’t suit his purpose.” Emma looked relieved. “No, I think he’ll select someone else to represent him. Someone who’s never sat on the board before.”
Every eye was now fixed on Sebastian. But it was the admiral who asked, “And who do you think that might be?”
“Adrian Sloane.”
7
A BLACK STRETCH limousine was parked outside the Sherry-Netherland. A smartly dressed chauffeur opened the back door as Harry walked out of the hotel. He climbed in and sank into the backseat, ignoring the morning papers stacked neatly on the cocktail bar opposite him. Who drank at that time in the morning, Harry wondered. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate.
Harry had told Aaron Guinzburg several times that he didn’t need a stretch limo to take him on the short journey from the hotel to the studio, a yellow cab would have been just fine.
“It’s all part of the service the Today program gives its headline guests.”
Harry gave in, although he knew Emma would not have approved. “An extravagant waste of the company’s money,” as NBC would have discovered, if Emma had been its chairman.
Harry recalled the first time he’d appeared on an American breakfast radio show, more than twenty years before, when he had been promoting his debut William Warwick novel. It had been a fiasco. His already brief spot was cut short when the previous two guests, Mel Blanc and Clark Gable, both overran their allotted time, and when it was finally his turn in front of the microphone, Harry had forgotten to mention the title of his book, and it quickly became clear that his host, Matt Jacobs, hadn’t read it. Two decades later, and he accepted that was par for the course.
Harry was determined not to suffer the same fate with Uncle Joe, which the New York Times had already described as the most anticipated book of the season. All three morning shows had offered him their highest rated spot, at 7:24 a.m. Six minutes didn’t sound a long time, but in television terms, only ex-presidents and Oscar winners could take it for granted. As Aaron pointed out, “Just think how much we’d have to pay for a six-minute peak-time advertisement.”
The limo came to a halt outside the glass-fronted studio on Columbus Avenue. A smartly dressed young woman was standing on the sidewalk waiting for him.
“Good morning, Harry,” she said. “My name is Anne and I’m your special assistant. I’ll take you straight through to makeup.”
“Thank you,” said Harry, who still hadn’t got used to people he’d never met calling him by his Christian name.
“As you know, you’re on at 7:24 for six minutes, and your interviewer will be Matt Jacobs.”
Harry groaned. Would he have read the book this time? “Great,” he said.
Harry hated makeup. He’d showered and shaved only an hour before, but it was a ritual he knew he couldn’t refuse, despite insisting, “As little as possible, please.” After a liberal amount of cream was applied to his cheeks, and powder dabbed on his forehead and chin, the makeup girl asked, “Shall I remove those stray gray hairs?”
“Certainly not!” said Harry. She looked disappointed, and satisfied herself with trimming his eyebrows.