Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

“Then I suggest,” said Anscott, “that such a proposal also be included in Mr. Clifton’s report, and any recommendations should be circulated to all board members before the next meeting.”

“Agreed,” said Emma. “So all we have to decide now is when that meeting will be.”

As usual, some considerable time was spent selecting a date that was convenient for all the board members.

“And let us hope,” said Emma, “that by the time we next meet, the Home Fleet incident will be nothing more than folklore. Any other business?” she asked, looking around the table.

“Yes, chairman,” said Knowles. “You asked us to suggest possible candidates for the other vacant position on the board.”

“Who do you have in mind?”

“Desmond Mellor.”

“The man who founded the Bristol Bus company?”

“The same, but he sold out to National Buses last year. Made a handsome profit, and now finds himself with time on his hands.”

“And considerable knowledge of the transport business,” chipped in Anscott, revealing that he and Knowles were working in tandem.

“Then why don’t I invite Mr. Mellor to come in and see me some time next week,” said Emma, before either man could put it to a vote.

Knowles reluctantly agreed.

When the meeting broke up, Emma was delighted to see how many directors went over to Sebastian and welcomed him to the board. So much so, that it was some time before she was able to have a private word with her son.

“Your plan worked perfectly,” she whispered.

“Yes, but it was pretty obvious that your idea was more palatable to the majority of the board than mine. But I’m still not convinced, Mother, that we should risk such a large capital outlay on building another ship. If the financial outlook for Britain is as bad as Uncle Giles is suggesting, we could be stuck with two turkeys next Christmas. And if that’s the case, it will be the board of Barrington’s who are stuffed.”

“How kind of you to find the time to see me, Mr. Clifton,” said the cabinet secretary, ushering Harry to a seat at the small oval table in the center of the room, “especially remembering how busy you are.”

Harry would have laughed if he hadn’t been sitting in No.10 Downing Street opposite one of the busiest men in the country. A secretary appeared and placed a cup of tea in front of him, as if he were a regular at his local café.

“I hope your wife and son are well?”

“They are, thank you, Sir Alan.” Harry would have inquired about the cabinet secretary’s family, but he had no idea if he even had one. He decided to cut the small talk. “I presume it was Martinez who was behind the bombing?” he ventured, after taking a sip of his tea.

“It was indeed, but as he’s now back in Buenos Aires, and all too aware that if he or either of his sons ever set foot in England they’ll be arrested immediately, I don’t think he’ll be troubling you again.”

“And his Irish friends?”

“They were never his friends. They were only interested in his money, and as soon as that dried up, they were quite prepared to dispose of him. But as their ringleader and two of his associates are now safely behind bars, I can’t imagine we’ll be hearing from them for some considerable time.”

“Did you find out if there were any other IRA operatives on board the ship?”

“Two. But they haven’t been seen since. Intelligence reports that they’re holed up somewhere in New York, and aren’t expected to return to Belfast for the foreseeable future.”

“I’m grateful, Sir Alan,” said Harry, assuming the meeting was over. The cabinet secretary nodded, but just as Harry was about to rise, he said, “I must confess, Mr. Clifton, that wasn’t the only reason I wanted to see you.”

Harry sat back down and began to concentrate. If this man wanted something, he’d better be wide awake.

“Your brother-in-law once told me something that I found difficult to believe. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to indulge me, so I can see if he was exaggerating.”

“Politicians do have a tendency to do that.”

Sir Alan didn’t reply but simply opened a file in front of him, extracted a single sheet of paper, slid it across the table, and said, “Would you be kind enough to read that through slowly?”

Harry looked at a memo that was about three hundred words in length, containing several place-names and details of troop movements in the Home Counties, with the ranks of all the senior officers involved. He read the seven paragraphs as instructed, and when he’d finished, he looked up and nodded. The cabinet secretary retrieved the piece of paper and replaced it on the table with a lined pad and a biro.

“Would you now be kind enough to write out what you’ve just read?”

Harry decided to play the game. He picked up the biro and began writing. When he’d finished, he passed the pad to the cabinet secretary, who compared it with the original.

“So it’s true,” he said a few moments later. “You are one of those rare people with a photographic memory. Though you made one mistake.”

“Godalming and not Godmanchester?” said Harry. “Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention.”

A man who was not easily impressed was impressed.

“So are you hoping to recruit me for your pub quiz team?” asked Harry.

Sir Alan didn’t smile. “No, I’m afraid it’s a little more serious than that, Mr. Clifton. In May you’ll be travelling to Moscow as the president of English PEN. Our ambassador there, Sir Humphrey Trevelyan, has come into possession of a document that is so sensitive he can’t even risk sending it in the diplomatic pouch.”

“Can I ask its contents?”

“It’s a comprehensive list of the name and location of every Russian spy operating in the UK. Sir Humphrey hasn’t even shown it to his deputy. If you could bring it back in your head, we would be able to dismantle the entire Soviet spy network in this country, and as no documents would be involved you wouldn’t be in any danger.”

“I’d be quite willing to do that,” said Harry without hesitation. “But I will expect something in return.”

“I’ll do anything within my power.”

“I want the foreign secretary to make an official protest about the imprisonment of Anatoly Babakov.”

“Stalin’s interpreter? Didn’t he write a book that was banned — what was it called...”

“Uncle Joe,” said Harry.

“Ah yes, of course. Well, I’ll do what I can, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

“And he must also make an official statement to all national and foreign press agencies the day before I fly to Russia.”

“I can’t promise you that, but be assured I’ll recommend that the foreign secretary supports your campaign to have Mr. Babakov released.”

“I’m sure you will, Sir Alan. But if you are unable to assist me with Babakov’s plight,” he paused, “you can bugger off and find someone else to be your messenger boy.”

Harry’s words had exactly the effect he had hoped for. The cabinet secretary was speechless.

Emma looked up as her secretary entered the office, accompanied by a man she knew as soon as they shook hands she wasn’t going to like. She ushered Mr. Mellor toward two comfortable chairs by the fireplace.

“It’s very nice to meet you at last, Mrs. Clifton,” he said. “I’ve heard, and read, so much about you over the years.”

“And I’ve recently been reading a great deal about you, Mr. Mellor,” said Emma as she sat down and took a closer look at the man seated opposite her. She knew from a recent profile in the Financial Times that Desmond Mellor had left school at sixteen and begun his working life as a booking clerk at Cooks Travel. By the age of 23, he’d started up his own company, which he’d recently sold for close to £2 million, having had several well-chronicled scrapes along the way. But Emma accepted that that would be true of most successful entrepreneurs. She had been prepared for his charm, but was surprised to find that he looked far younger than his forty-eight years. He was clearly fit, with no surplus pounds that needed to be shed, and she had to agree with her secretary that he was a good-looking man, even if his dress sense hadn’t quite kept pace with his financial success.