Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

Seb nodded as the tears welled up uncontrollably. Dr. Wolfe walked across, removed the picture from the wall, and handed it to the stranger.

“Please don’t let them know I was here,” he begged. “It will be better that way.”

“I won’t say a word,” said Dr. Wolfe, offering him her hand.

Cedric Hardcastle would have been able to do business with this woman; someone who didn’t need to sign a contract to keep her word.

“Thank you,” said Seb, handing her the flowers.

He left quickly, clutching the painting under his arm. Once he was outside, he walked and walked. How stupid he’d been to lose her. Doubly stupid. Like the bad cowboy in a B movie, he knew he had to get out of town, and get out fast. Only the sheriff could know he’d ever been there.

“Union Station,” he said as he climbed into the back of another cab. He couldn’t stop staring at My Mom, and would have missed the neon sign if he hadn’t happened to look up for a moment.

“Stop!” he shouted. The cab drew into the kerb.

“I thought you said Union Station. That’s another ten blocks.”

“Sorry, I changed my mind.” He paid the driver, stepped out onto the pavement, and stared up at the sign. This time he didn’t hesitate to walk into the building and straight up to the counter, praying that his hunch was right.

“Which department do you want, sir?” asked the woman standing there.

“I want to buy a photograph of a wedding that I’m sure your paper would have covered.”

“The photographic department is on the second floor,” she said, pointing toward a staircase, “but you’d better hurry. They’ll be closing in a few minutes.”

Seb bounded up the stairs three at a time and charged through some swing doors with PHOTOS stenciled on the beveled glass. On this occasion, it was a young man looking at his watch who was standing behind a counter. Seb didn’t wait for him to speak.

“Did your paper cover the Brewer and Sullivan wedding?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ll check.”

Seb paced back and forth in front of the counter, hoping, willing, praying. At last the young man reappeared carrying a thick folder.

“Seems we did,” he said, dumping the folder on the counter.

Seb opened the buff cover to reveal dozens of photographs and several press cuttings recording the happy occasion: the bride and groom, Jessica, parents, bridesmaids, friends, even a bishop, at a wedding at which he should have been the groom.

“If you’d like to choose a particular photo,” said the young man, “they’re five dollars each, and you can pick them up in a couple of days.”

“What if I wanted to buy every picture in the file. How much would that cost?”

The young man slowly counted them. “Two hundred and ten dollars,” he said eventually.

Seb took out his wallet, removed three hundred-dollar bills and placed them on the counter. “I want to take this file away now.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir. But as I said, if you come back in a couple of days...”

Seb extracted another hundred-dollar bill, and saw the look of desperation on the young man’s face. He knew the deal was all but closed. It was only a matter of how much.

“But I’m not allowed...” he whispered.

Before he could finish his sentence Seb placed another hundred-dollar bill on top of the other four. The young man glanced around to see that most of his colleagues were preparing to leave. He quickly gathered up the five bills, stuffed them in a pocket, and gave Seb a weak smile.

Seb grabbed the file, left the photo department, walked quickly back down the stairs, through the swing doors, and out of the building. He felt like a shoplifter, and continued running until he was sure he had escaped. At last he slowed down, caught his breath, and began to follow the signs to Union Station, the painting tucked under one arm, the folder under the other. He bought a ticket on the Amtrak express to New York, and a few minutes later climbed aboard the waiting train.

Sebastian didn’t open the folder until the train pulled out of the station. By the time he arrived at Penn Station, he couldn’t help wondering if, like Mr. Swann, he would regret not telling her for the rest of his life, because Mrs. Brewer had only been married for three months.

Harold Guinzburg placed the manuscript on the desk in front of him. Harry sat opposite him and waited for his verdict.

Guinzburg frowned when his secretary entered the room and put two steaming hot coffees and a plate of biscuits in front of them, and remained silent while she was in the room. He was clearly enjoying making Harry suffer a few more moments of torture. When the door finally closed behind her, Harry thought he would explode.

The suggestion of a smile appeared on Guinzburg’s face. “No doubt you’re wondering how I feel about your latest work,” he said, turning the screw one more notch.

Harry could have happily strangled the damn man.

“Shall we start by giving Detective Inspector Warwick a clue?”

And then buried him.

“A hundred and twenty thousand copies. In my opinion, it’s the best thing you’ve ever done, and I’m proud to be your publisher.”

Harry was so shocked that he burst into tears, and as neither of them had a handkerchief, they both started to laugh. Once they had recovered, Guinzburg spent some time explaining why he’d enjoyed William Warwick and the Time Bomb so much. Harry quickly forgot that he’d spent the previous two days endlessly walking the streets of New York agonizing over how his publisher would react. He took a sip of his coffee, but it had gone cold.

“May I now turn your attention to another author,” said Guinzburg, “namely Anatoly Babakov, and his biography of Josef Stalin.”

Harry placed his cup back on the saucer.

“Mrs. Babakov tells me that she’s hidden her husband’s book in a place where no one could possibly find it. Worthy of a Harry Clifton novel,” he added. “But, as you know, other than to confirm that it’s somewhere in the Soviet Union, you’re the only person she’s willing to tell the exact location.” Harry didn’t interrupt. “My own view,” continued Guinzburg, “is that you shouldn’t become involved, remembering the Communists don’t exactly consider you to be a national treasure. So if you do find out where it’s hidden, perhaps someone else should go and retrieve it.”

“If I’m not willing to take that risk myself,” said Harry, “then what was the point of all the years I’ve spent trying to get Babakov released? But before I decide, let me ask you one question. If I were able to lay my hands on a copy of Uncle Joe, what would be your first print run?”

“A million copies,” said Guinzburg.

“And you think it’s me who’d be taking a risk!”

“Don’t forget that Svetlana Stalin’s book, Twenty Letters to a Friend, was on the best-seller list for over a year and, unlike Babakov, she never once entered the Kremlin during her father’s reign.” Guinzburg opened a drawer of his desk and extracted a check for $100,000, made out to Mrs. Yelena Babakov. He handed it to Harry. “If you do find the book, she’ll be able to live in luxury for the rest of her life.”

“But if I don’t, or if it isn’t even there? You’ll have spent a hundred thousand dollars and will have nothing to show for it.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” said Guinzburg. “But then any half-decent publisher is a gambler at heart. Now let’s talk about more agreeable things. My beloved Emma, for example, and Sebastian. Not to mention Lady Virginia Fenwick. I can’t wait to hear what she’s been up to.”