Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

“Thank you,” said Giles as he walked into the building, past Westminster Hall, and along the corridor where members of the public wait patiently, hoping to be allocated a seat in the Strangers’ Gallery so they can follow the business of the day. Giles marched on past them into Central Lobby, walking briskly so as not to be held up by former colleagues offering their commiserations and adding platitudes they rarely meant.

Passing another policeman, he stepped on to the thick green carpet he’d trodden for so many years. He glanced at the ticker-tape machine that kept members up to date with what was happening around the world, but didn’t stop to check the latest headline. On past the members’ library, dreading he might bump into one particular member he didn’t want to see. He took a left when he reached the office of the Leader of the House, and came to a halt outside a room he hadn’t entered for years. He knocked on the door of Her Majesty’s Leader of the Opposition, and walked in to find seated at their desks the same two secretaries who had served the former prime minister when he was in Downing Street.

“Nice to see you again, Sir Giles. You can go straight in, Mr. Wilson is expecting you.”

Another knock on another door, and he entered the room to see the familiar sight of a man attempting to light his pipe. He gave up when he saw Giles.

“Giles, I’ve been looking forward to this all day. It’s good to see you.”

“And it’s good to see you, Harold,” responded Giles, not shaking hands with his colleague in the Palace of Westminster, maintaining a tradition that had been upheld for centuries.

“Such bad luck to lose by only twenty-one votes,” said Wilson. “I can’t pretend I care much for your successor.”

“This place will find him out,” said Giles. “It always does.”

“And how are you coping with the postelection blues?”

“Not that well. I’m bound to admit, I miss the place.”

“I was sorry to hear about you and Gwyneth. I hope you’ll find it possible to remain friends.”

“I hope so too, because I’m to blame. I’m afraid we’d begun to drift apart some time ago.”

“This place doesn’t help,” said Harold. “You need a very understanding wife when you’re rarely home before ten o’clock most nights.”

“And what about you, Harold. How are you taking to being Leader of the Opposition again?”

“Like you, not that well. So tell me, what’s it like out there in the real world?”

“I’m not enjoying it, and I won’t pretend otherwise. When you’ve been in politics for a quarter of a century, you’re not really qualified to do much else.”

“Then why don’t we do something about it,” said Wilson, finally managing to light his pipe. “I need a front-bench spokesman on foreign affairs in the House of Lords, and I can’t think of a better person for the job.”

“I’m flattered, Harold, and I thought that might be the reason you wanted to see me. I’ve given it a great deal of thought, and I wondered if I might ask you a question before I make a decision.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t think Ted Heath is proving to be any better in government than he was in opposition. The voters’ view of him as the grocer rather sums it up. And more important, I’m convinced we still have an excellent chance of winning the next election.”

“As my Jewish friends would say, from your lips to God’s ears.”

“And if I’m right, it won’t be that long before you’re back in Number Ten.”

“Amen to that.”

“And both of us know that the real power is in the Commons, not the Lords. Frankly, it’s a deluxe old people’s retirement home, a reward for party hacks with a record of long service and good conduct.”

“With the possible exception of those who sit on the front bench and revise regulation,” suggested Wilson.

“But I’m only fifty, Harold, and I’m not sure I want to spend the rest of my life waiting to be called to an even higher place.”

“I’d put you to work,” said Wilson, “and you’d have a place in the shadow cabinet.”

“I’m not sure that’s enough, Harold. So I need to ask you, if I contested Bristol Docklands at the next election, and the local association is pressing me to do so, and you formed the next government, would I have a chance of becoming foreign secretary?”

Wilson puffed away on his pipe for a few moments, something he often did if he needed a little time to consider. “No, not immediately, Giles. That wouldn’t be fair on Denis, who as you know is shadowing the post at the moment. But I can guarantee you would be offered a senior Cabinet post, and if you did well, you’d be among the front-runners if the job became available. Whereas if you took up my offer, at least you’d be back in the House. And if you’re right, and we win the election, it’s no secret that I’d be looking for a Leader of the Lords.”

“I’m a Commons man, Harold, and I don’t think I’m quite ready yet to be put out to grass. So it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“I salute your resolve,” said Wilson. “And now it’s my turn to thank you, because I know you wouldn’t be willing to take that risk unless you believed not only that you can win back your seat, but that I have a good chance of returning to Number Ten. However, should you change your mind, just let me know, and then, like your grandfather, you’ll be sitting on the red benches as Lord Barrington of...”

“Bristol Docklands,” said Giles.

Sebastian entered Farthings Bank for the first time since he’d resigned five years before. He walked up to the reception desk and gave the duty clerk his name.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Clifton,” the man said checking his list. “The chairman is expecting you.”

When he said “the chairman,” Seb’s immediate thought was of Cedric Hardcastle, and not of the usurper who’d been the reason he resigned. “Would you be kind enough to sign the visitors’ book?”

Seb took a pen from an inside pocket of his jacket and slowly unscrewed the cap, giving himself a little time to study the list of those who’d recently visited the chairman. His eye ran quickly down two columns of names, most of which meant nothing to him. But two of them might as well have had flashing neon lights next to them: Desmond Mellor, who Seb knew Sloane had recently appointed as deputy chairman, so that came as no surprise, but what possible reason could Major Alex Fisher MP have had for visiting the chairman of Farthings? One thing was certain, Sloane wasn’t going to tell him. The only other name that caught his eye was that of Hakim Bishara. He was sure he’d read something about Mr. Bishara in the Financial Times recently, but couldn’t remember what.

“The chairman will see you now, sir. His office is on—”

“The top floor,” said Seb. “Many thanks.”

When Seb stepped out of the lift on the executive floor, he walked slowly down the corridor toward Cedric’s old office. He recognized no one, and no one recognized him, but then he knew Sloane hadn’t wasted any time in purging Farthings of all Cedric’s lieutenants.

He didn’t have to knock on Sloane’s door because it swung open when he was a couple of paces away.

“Good to see you, Seb,” said Sloane. “It’s been too long,” he added before he ushered him into his office, but didn’t risk offering to shake his hand.

The first thing that struck Seb as he entered the chairman’s office was that there was no sign of Cedric. No acknowledgement of his thirty years’ stewardship of the bank. No portrait, no photograph, no plaque to remind the next generation of his achievements. Sloane had not only replaced him, but had airbrushed him out of existence, like a Soviet politician who’d fallen from favor.