Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

He adjusted his seatback, closed his eyes, and went over the list in his mind again and again. By the time the plane touched down at Heathrow, he was mentally and physically exhausted. He was only glad being a spy wasn’t his full-time job.

Harry was the first to disembark from the aircraft, and he wasn’t surprised to see Sir Alan waiting on the tarmac at the bottom of the steps. He joined him in the back of a car that made its way quickly out of the airport without being bothered by a customs officer.

Other than, “Good morning, Clifton,” the cabinet secretary didn’t say a word before he passed over the inevitable pad and pen.

Harry wrote out the twelve names, nine addresses, and twenty-one telephone numbers that had been lodged in his mind for several hours. He double-checked the list before handing it to Sir Alan.

“I am most grateful,” he said. “And I thought you’d be pleased to hear that I’ve added a couple of paragraphs to the speech the foreign secretary will be making at the UN next week, which I hope will assist Mr. Babakov’s cause. By the way, did you spot my two minders sitting across the aisle from you in first class? I put them there to protect you, just in case you had any trouble.”

“There’s no deal for one point six million in the offing that I’m aware of,” said Cedric, “and it’s hardly likely to be something I’d forget. I’m bound to wonder what Sloane’s up to.”

“I’ve no idea,” said Sebastian, “but I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.”

“And you say he won’t be back until Friday?”

“That’s right. He’s at a conference in York.”

“So that gives us a couple of days to look into it. You’re probably right, and there’s a simple explanation. But one point six million,” he repeated. “And Mr. Collingwood has accepted his offer?”

“That’s what Mr. Vaughan of Savills said.”

“Ralph Vaughan is old school and doesn’t make that kind of mistake.” Cedric remained silent for a few moments before adding, “You’d better go up to Shifnal first thing in the morning and start digging around. Begin at the local pub. The publican always knows everything that’s going on in his village, and one point six million would have all the gossips chattering. After you’ve spoken to him, check the local estate agents, but make sure you don’t go anywhere near Collingwood. If you do, Sloane is certain to hear about it and will assume you’re trying to undermine him. I think we’d better keep this between ourselves in case it turns out to be totally innocent. When you get back to London, come straight round to Cadogan Place and you can brief me over dinner.”

Seb decided that this wasn’t the time to tell Cedric that he’d booked a table at the Mirabelle for dinner tomorrow night with Samantha. The clock on the mantelpiece struck six, so he knew the deputy chairman, Ross Buchanan, would be waiting outside. He rose to leave.

“Well done, Seb,” said Cedric. “Let’s hope there is a simple explanation. But in any case, thank you for keeping me briefed.”

Seb nodded. When he reached the door he turned back to say good night, to see Cedric swallowing a pill. He pretended not to notice, as he closed the door behind him.

Seb was up, dressed, and had left the house before Sam woke the following morning.

Cedric Hardcastle never traveled first-class, but he always allowed his senior management to do so when it was a long journey. Although Seb picked up a copy of the Financial Times at Euston, he barely glanced at the headlines during the three-hour journey to Shropshire. His mind was preoccupied with how best to use his time once he arrived in Shifnal.

The train pulled into Shrewsbury station just after eleven thirty, and Seb didn’t hesitate to take a taxi on to Shifnal rather than wait for the connecting train because on this occasion time was money. He waited until they had left the county town behind them, before he fired his first question at the driver. “Which is the best pub in Shifnal?”

“Depends what you’re looking for, good grub or the best ale in the county.”

“I always think you can judge a pub by its landlord.”

“Then it has to be the Shifnal Arms, owned by Fred and Sheila Ramsey. They don’t just run the pub, but the village as well. He’s president of the local cricket club, and used to open the bowling for the village. Even played for the county on a couple of occasions. And she sits on the parish council. But be warned, the food’s lousy.”

“Then it’s the Shifnal Arms,” said Seb. He sat back and began to go over his strategy, aware that he didn’t need Sloane to discover why he wasn’t in the office.

The taxi drew up outside the Shifnal Arms a few minutes after twelve. Seb would have given the driver a larger tip, but he didn’t want to be remembered.

He strolled into the pub trying to look casual, which wasn’t easy when you’re the first customer of the day, and took a close look at the man standing behind the bar. Although he must have been over forty, and his cheeks and nose revealed that he enjoyed the product he sold, while his paunch suggested he preferred pork pies to fine dining, it was not hard to believe this giant of a man had once opened the bowling for Shifnal.

“Afternoon,” said the landlord. “What can I get you?”

“A half of your local beer will suit me fine,” said Seb, who didn’t usually drink during working hours, but today it was part of the job. The publican drew half a pint of Wrekin IPA and placed it on the bar. “That’ll be one shilling and sixpence.” Half the price Seb would have had to pay in London. He took a sip. “Not bad,” he said, before bowling his first long hop. “It’s not a West Country brew, but it’s not half bad.”

“So you’re not from around these parts?” said the publican.

“No, I’m a Gloucestershire lad, born and bred,” Seb told him before taking another sip.

“So what brings you to Shifnal?”

“My firm is opening a branch in Shrewsbury, and my wife won’t agree to the move unless I can find a house in the country.”

“You don’t play cricket by any chance?”

“I open the batting for the Somerset Stragglers. Another reason why I’m not that keen on moving.”

“We’ve got a decent enough eleven, but we’re always on the lookout for fresh talent.”

Seb pointed to a photograph behind the bar. “Is that you holding up the cup?”

“It is. 1951. When I was about fifteen years younger and some fifteen pounds lighter. We won the county cup that year, for the first and, I’m sorry to say, last time. Although we did reach the semi-finals last year.”

Time for another slow long hop. “If I was thinking of buying a house in the area, who would you suggest I deal with?”

“There’s only one half-decent estate agent in town. Charlie Watkins, my wicket keeper. You’ll find his place on the High Street, can’t miss it.”

“Then I’ll go and have a chat with Mr. Watkins, and come back for a bite of lunch.”

“Dish of the day is steak and kidney pie,” said the publican, patting his stomach.

“I’ll see you later,” said Seb after he’d downed his drink.

It wasn’t difficult to find the High Street, or to spot Watkins Estate Agency with its gaudy sign flapping in the breeze. Seb took some time studying the properties for sale in the window. The prices seemed to range from seven hundred pounds to twelve thousand, so how was it possible for anything in the area to be worth one point six million?

He opened the front door to the sound of a jangling bell and as he stepped inside a young man looked up from behind his desk.

“Is Mr. Watkins around?” asked Seb.