Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

“I can explain that in one word,” said Emma. “Envy. And you’d better get used to it if you’re hoping to climb further up the corporate ladder.”

“But I never had that problem when I worked for Mr. Hardcastle.”

“Of course you didn’t, because Cedric never saw you as a threat.”

“Sloane thinks I’m a threat?”

“Yes. He assumes you’re after his job, and that only makes him more secretive, insecure, paranoid, call it what you will. But to use one of Des Mellor’s favorite expressions, just be sure you cover your backside.”

When Seb reported to Sloane, his boss came straight to the point, and didn’t seem to mind that his secretary was listening to every word.

“As you weren’t at your desk when I came in this morning, I assume you must have been visiting a client.”

“No, I was at the American Embassy dealing with a personal matter.”

This silenced Sloane for a moment. “Well, in future, when you’re dealing with personal matters, do it in your own time, and not the company’s. We’re running a bank, not a social club.”

Seb gritted his teeth. “I’ll remember that in future, Adrian.”

“I’d prefer to be called Mr. Sloane, during working hours.”

“Anything else... Mr. Sloane?” asked Seb.

“No, not for the moment, but I expect to see your monthly report on my desk by close of business this evening.”

Seb returned to his office, relieved to be a step ahead of Sloane, as he’d already prepared his monthly report over the weekend. His figures were up again, for the tenth month in a row, although it had recently become clear to him that Sloane was adding his own results in with Seb’s, and taking the credit. If Sloane hoped that his tactics would eventually grind Seb down, even force him to resign, he needn’t hold his breath. As long as Cedric was chairman of the bank, Seb knew his position was secure, and while he continued to deliver, he need have no fear of Sloane, because the chairman was well capable of reading between the lines.

At one o’clock, Seb grabbed a ham sandwich from a nearby café and ate it on the move, not something his mother would have approved of — at your desk if you have to, but not on the move.

As he searched for a taxi, he thought about some of the lessons he’d learned from Cedric when it came to closing a deal, some basic, some more subtle, but most of it good old-fashioned common sense.

“Know how much you can afford, never overstretch yourself, and try to remember that the other side are also hoping to make a profit. And build good contacts because they’ll be your lifeline during bad times, as only one thing is certain in banking — you will experience bad times. And by the way,” he’d added, “never buy retail.”

“Who taught you that?” Seb had asked.

“Jack Benny.”

Armed with sound advice from both Cedric Hardcastle and Jack Benny, Seb went in search of an engagement ring. The contact had been suggested by his old school chum, Victor Kaufman, who now worked on the foreign exchange desk at his father’s bank, just a few blocks away from Farthings. He’d advised Seb to visit a Mr. Alan Gard in Hatton Garden.

“He’ll supply you with a larger stone, at half the price of any jeweller on the high street.”

Seb was eating on the move and taking a taxi because he knew he had to be back at his desk within the hour if he didn’t want to fall foul of Adrian Sloane yet again. It pulled up outside a green door that Seb would have passed without noticing if the number 47 hadn’t been painted neatly on it. There was nothing to hint of the treasures that lay within. Seb realized that he must be dealing with a private and cautious man.

He pressed the bell, and a moment later a Dickensian figure wearing a skull cap and with long black ringlets greeted him. When Seb said he was a friend of Victor Kaufman, he was quickly ushered through to Mr. Gard’s inner sanctum.

A wiry man, no taller than five feet, and dressed casually in an open-necked shirt and well-worn jeans, rose from behind his desk and gave his potential customer a warm smile. When he heard the name Kaufman, the smile broadened and he rubbed his hands together as if he was about to roll some dice.

“If you’re a friend of Saul Kaufman, you’re probably expecting to get the Koh-I-Noor for five pounds.”

“Four,” said Seb.

“And you’re not even Jewish.”

“No,” said Seb, “but I was trained by a Yorkshireman.”

“That explains everything. So how can I help you, young man?”

“I’m looking for an engagement ring.”

“And who’s the lucky girl?”

“An American, called Sam.”

“Then we’ll have to find Sam something special, won’t we?” Mr. Gard opened his desk drawer, took out a vast key ring, and selected a single key from the bunch. He walked across to a large safe embedded in the wall, unlocked the heavy door, and opened it to reveal a dozen neatly stacked trays. After hesitating for a moment, he selected the third tray from the bottom, pulled it out, and placed the contents on his desk.

Several small diamonds winked up at Seb. He studied them for a few moments before shaking his head gravely. The gemologist made no comment. He returned the tray to the safe and extracted the one above.

Seb took a little more time considering the slightly larger stones that shone up at him, but once again rejected them.

“Are you sure you can afford this girl?” asked the jeweller, as he removed the third tray from the top.

Seb’s eyes lit up the moment he saw a sapphire surrounded by a cluster of tiny diamonds that rested in the center of the black velvet cloth.

“That one,” he said without hesitation.

Gard picked up a loupe from his desk and studied the ring more closely. “This beautiful sapphire came from Ceylon, and is one point five carats. The cluster of eight diamonds are all point zero five of a carat, and were recently purchased from India.”

“How much?”

Gard didn’t reply for some time. “I have a feeling you’re going to be a long-term customer,” he finally said, “so I’m tempted to let you have this magnificent ring at an introductory price. Shall we say one hundred pounds?”

“You can say anything you like, but I don’t have a hundred pounds.”

“Look upon it as an investment.”

“For whom?”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Gard, returning to his desk and opening a large ledger. He turned over several pages, then ran a forefinger down a list of figures. “To show how confident I am that you’ll be a future customer, I’ll let you have the ring for the price I paid for it. Sixty pounds.”

“We’ll have to go back to the bottom shelf,” said Seb reluctantly.

Gard threw his arms in the air. “How can a poor man hope to make a profit when he has to bargain with someone as sharp as you? My lowest possible offer is,” he paused, “fifty pounds.”

“But I only have about thirty pounds in my bank account.”

Gard considered this for a few moments. “Then let us agree on a ten-pound deposit and five pounds a month for one year.”

“But that takes it back up to seventy pounds!”

“Eleven months.”

“Ten.”

“You have a deal, young man. The first of many, I hope,” he added, as he shook Seb’s hand.

Seb wrote out a check for ten pounds, while Mr. Gard selected a small red leather box in which to place the ring.

“Pleasure to do business with you, Mr. Clifton.”

“One question, Mr. Gard. When do I get to see the top shelf?”

“Not until you’re chairman of the bank.”

On the day before Harry flew to Moscow, Michael Stewart, the British foreign secretary, summoned the Russian ambassador to his office in Whitehall and, on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government, protested in the strongest possible terms about the disgraceful treatment of Anatoly Babakov. He went as far as to suggest that Babakov be released from prison, and the ban on his book lifted immediately.