Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

Emma picked up the phone book and began flicking through the S’s.

“And if you need me for anything, I’ll be in the library making a long-distance call,” said Seb.

Adrian Sloane was standing in the entrance hall of Farthings Bank at five minutes to eleven. No one could remember the chairman ever coming down to meet a guest before.

Mr. Bishara’s Bentley drew up outside the bank four minutes later and a doorman rushed across to open the car’s back door. As Bishara and his two colleagues entered the building, Sloane stepped forward to greet him.

“Good morning, Mr. Bishara,” he said as they shook hands. “Welcome to your bank.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sloane. I’m sure you’ll remember Mr. Moreland, my lawyer, and Mr. Pirie, my chief accountant.”

“Of course,” said Sloane, shaking hands with both men. He then guided his guests toward a waiting lift as the staff burst into well-rehearsed applause to welcome their new president.

Bishara gave a slight bow and smiled at the three young porters who stood behind the reception desk. “That’s where I began my banking career,” he said to Sloane as he stepped into the lift.

“And now you’re about to become the owner of one of the City’s most respected financial institutions.”

“A day I have looked forward to for many years,” admitted Bishara. A statement that made Sloane feel even more confident that he could forge ahead with his change of plan.

“When we reach the executive floor we’ll go straight through to the boardroom, where the offer documents have been prepared and await your signature.”

“Thank you,” said Bishara, as he stepped out into the corridor. When he entered the boardroom, the bank’s eight directors rose as one and waited for him to take his place at the head of the table before they sat back down. A butler served Bishara with a cup of his favorite Turkish coffee, black and steaming hot, and two McVitie’s shortbread biscuits, also his favorite. Nothing had been left to chance.

Sloane took a seat at the other end of the table.

“On behalf of the board, Mr. Bishara, allow me to welcome you to Farthings Bank. With your permission, I will take you through the procedure for the exchange of ownership.”

Bishara took out his fountain pen, and placed it on the table.

“In front of you are three copies of the offer document, as approved by your lawyers. Both sides have made small emendations, but nothing of any real consequence.” Mr. Moreland nodded his agreement.

“I thought it might be helpful,” continued Sloane, “if I were to highlight the most important issues we have agreed on. You will become the president of Farthings Bank, and can nominate three directors to represent you on the board, one of whom will be appointed deputy chairman.”

Bishara smiled. They weren’t going to like who he had in mind for deputy chairman.

“I will remain as chairman for a period of five years, and the eight board members present here today will also have their contracts renewed for a further five years. And, finally, the sum agreed upon for the takeover is twenty-nine million eight hundred thousand pounds, which values each share at five pounds.”

Bishara turned to his lawyer, who handed him a banker’s draft for the full amount. He placed it on the table in front of him. The sight of it almost caused Sloane to change his mind.

“However,” said Sloane, “something has arisen in the past twenty-four hours that has made it necessary to make a small adjustment to the contract.”

Bishara could have been playing backgammon at the Clermont for all Sloane could tell from the expression on his face.

“Yesterday morning,” continued Sloane, “we had a call from a well-established City institution which offered us six pounds a share. In order to prove their credibility, they placed the full amount in escrow with their solicitors. This offer placed me and the board in a most invidious position, as we are no more than the servants of our shareholders. However, we held a board meeting earlier this morning and it was unanimously agreed that if you were able to match the offer of six pounds a share, we would dismiss the rival bid and honor our original agreement. We have therefore adjusted the offer document to show this change, and have entered the new figure of thirty-five million, seven hundred and sixty thousand pounds.” Sloane gave Bishara an ingratiating smile, and added, “Given the circumstances, I hope you will consider this an acceptable solution.”

Bishara smiled. “Firstly, Mr. Sloane, allow me to thank you for your courtesy in giving me this opportunity to equal the counterbid made by a third party.” Sloane smiled. “However, I must point out that we agreed on the sum of five pounds a share almost a month ago, and as I put down a deposit with my solicitors in good faith, this comes as something of a surprise.”

“Yes, I must apologize for that,” said Sloane. “But you will understand the dilemma I faced, remembering that we have a fiduciary duty to our stockholders.”

“I don’t know what your father did for a living, Mr. Sloane,” said Bishara, “but mine was a carpet trader in Istanbul, and one of the many things he taught me in my youth was that once a price had been agreed upon, coffee was served, and you then sat around for some time pretending to like each other; the equivalent of an Englishman’s handshake followed by lunch at his club. So my offer of five pounds a share is still on the table, and if you decide to take it up I will happily sign the agreement.”

All eight board members turned and looked at the chairman, willing him to accept Bishara’s offer. But Sloane simply smiled, convinced that the carpet trader’s son was bluffing.

“If that is your final offer, Mr. Bishara, I fear I will have to accept the counterbid. I only hope that we can part as friends.”

The eight directors turned their attention to the other end of the table. One of them was sweating.

“Clearly the morals of City bankers are not those I was taught sitting at my father’s feet in the bazaars of Istanbul. Therefore, Mr. Sloane, you have left me with no choice but to withdraw my offer.”

Sloane’s lips began to quiver as Bishara handed the banker’s draft back to his lawyer, rose slowly from his place, and said, “Good day, gentlemen. I wish you a long and successful relationship with your new owner, whoever that might be.”

Bishara left the boardroom flanked by his two advisors. He did not speak again until they were seated in the back of his Bentley, when he leaned forward and said to his driver, “Change of plan, Fred, I need to call Kaufman’s Bank.”

“Could you put me through to Dr. Wolfe,” said Seb.

“Who is calling?”

“Sebastian Clifton.”

“Mr. Clifton, how kind of you to call back. I only wish it were in happier circumstances.”

Seb’s legs gave way, and he collapsed into the chair behind his father’s desk, desperate to find out if anything had happened to Samantha or Jessica.

“Sadly,” continued Dr. Wolfe, “Samantha’s husband, Michael, recently suffered a stroke while on a flight from Chicago back to Washington.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“By the time they got the poor man to a hospital, he had lapsed into a coma. How differently things might have turned out if it had happened an hour earlier or an hour later. This all took place some weeks ago, and his doctors are not optimistic about his recovery. In fact, they have no way of knowing how long he will remain in his present state. But that was not the purpose of my call.”

“I’m guessing that it’s Jessica you called about, and not her stepfather.”

“You’re right. The truth is that medical bills in this country are quite horrendous, and although Mr. Brewer held a high-ranking post in the State Department and was well covered by his health insurance, the expense of the around-the-clock nursing his condition requires has resulted in Samantha deciding to withdraw Jessica from Jefferson Elementary at the end of this term, as she can no longer afford our fees.”