Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

He tried to move his feet, but they were also clamped to the bed. Why such precautions for an Englishman who had been caught with a banned book? Although the first seven chapters had been fascinating, he sensed that he hadn’t yet discovered the real reason every copy had been destroyed, which only made him even more determined to read the remaining fourteen chapters. They might also explain why he was being treated as if he were a double agent or a mass murderer.

Harry had no way of knowing how long he’d been in the cell. His watch had been removed, and he couldn’t even be sure if it was night or day. He started singing “God Save the Queen,” not as an act of defiant patriotism but more because he wanted to hear the sound of his own voice. Actually, if you’d asked him, Harry would have admitted he preferred the Russian national anthem.

Two eyes peered through the bars but he ignored them and continued singing. Then he heard someone shouting a command, and moments later the door swung open and Colonel Marinkin reappeared, accompanied by his two Rottweilers.

“Mr. Clifton, I must apologize for the state of your accommodation. It’s just that we didn’t want anyone to know where you were before we released you.”

The words “released you” sounded to Harry like Gabriel’s horn.

“Let me assure you, we have no desire to keep you any longer than necessary. Just some paperwork to complete, and a statement for you to sign, and then you can be on your way.”

“A statement? What kind of statement?”

“More of a confession,” admitted the colonel. “But once you’ve signed it, you’ll be driven back to the airport and be on your way home.”

“And if I refuse to sign it?”

“That would be remarkably foolish, Mr. Clifton, because you would then face a trial at which the charge, the verdict, and the sentence have already been decided. You once described a show trial in one of your books. You will be able to give a much more accurate portrayal when you write your next novel—” he paused — “in twelve years’ time.”

“What about the jury?”

“Twelve carefully selected party workers, whose vocabulary only needs to stretch to the word guilty. And just to let you know, your current accommodation is five-star compared to where you would be going. No dripping ceilings, because the water is frozen night and day.”

“You’ll never get away with it.”

“You’re so naïve, Mr. Clifton. You have no friends in high places here to take care of you. You are a common criminal. There will be no solicitor to advise you, and no QC to argue your case in front of an unbiased jury. And unlike America, there is no jury selection, and we don’t even have to pay the judges to get the verdict we want. I will leave you to consider your options, but in my opinion, it is a simple choice. You can fly back to London, first class on BOAC, or take a cattle train to Novaya Uda that only has straw class, and which I’m afraid you’d have to share with several other animals. And I feel I should warn you, it’s a prison from which no one has ever escaped.”

Wrong, thought Harry, as he recalled from chapter three of Uncle Joe that it was the jail Stalin was sent to in 1902, and from which he had escaped.

“How are you, my boy?”

“Well, thank you, Arnold. And you?”

“Never better. And your dear mother?”

“Preparing herself for next week’s trial.”

“Not a pleasant experience to have to go through, especially when there’s so much at stake. Talk in chambers is that it’s too close to call, but the odds are shortening on your mother, as nobody thinks Lady Virginia will endear herself to the jury. She’ll either patronize them, or insult them.”

“I was rather hoping both.”

“Now, why are you calling, Sebastian, because I usually charge by the hour, not that I’ve started the clock yet.”

Seb would have laughed, but he suspected Arnold wasn’t joking. “Word in the City is that you’ve sold your shares in Farthings Bank.”

“Mother’s shares, to be accurate, and only after I was made an offer that it would have been extremely foolish to turn down. Even then I only agreed when I was assured that Adrian Sloane would be removed as chairman, and Ross Buchanan would take his place.”

“But that’s not going to happen,” said Seb. “Sloane’s representative lied to you, and I can prove it if you felt able to answer a couple of questions.”

“Only if they don’t involve a client I represent.”

“Understood,” said Seb, “but I hoped you’d be able to tell me who bought your mother’s shares and how much he paid for them.”

“I can’t answer that, as it would break client confidentiality.” Seb was about to curse when Arnold added, “However, were you to suggest the name of Sloane’s representative, and were I to remain silent, you could draw your own conclusions. But, Sebastian, let me make it clear, one name and one name only. This is not a raffle.”

“Desmond Mellor.” Seb held his breath for several seconds, but there was no response. “And is there any chance you’ll let me know how much he paid for the shares?”

“Under no circumstances,” said Arnold firmly. “And now I must dash, Seb. I’m off to see my mother in Yorkshire, and if I don’t leave immediately I’ll miss the 3:09 to Huddersfield. Do give your mother my kindest regards and wish her luck for the trial.”

“And please pass on my best wishes to Mrs. Hardcastle,” said Seb, but the line had already gone dead.

He checked his watch. It was just after ten, which didn’t make any sense. Seb picked up the phone again and dialed Hakim Bishara’s private line.

“Good morning, Sebastian. Did you have any luck getting your distinguished QC to answer my two questions?”

“Yes, and I think so.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

“He confirmed that it was Desmond Mellor who bought the stock, and I think the price he paid was three pounds and nine shillings per share.”

“Why can’t you be sure? He either told you the price, or he didn’t.”

“He neither did, nor didn’t. But what he did say was that he had to leave immediately or he’d miss the 3:09 to Huddersfield, and as it’s just after ten a.m., and Euston is only twenty minutes away by taxi...”

“Clever man, your Mr. Hardcastle, because I’m sure we won’t have to check whether or not there actually is a 3:09 to Huddersfield. Congratulations. I suspect no one other than you would have been able to get that information out of him. So as they say in my country, I will be forever in your debt, until you have been repaid in full.”

“Well, now you mention it, Hakim, there is something you may be able help me with.”

Bishara listened carefully to Seb’s request. “I’m not sure that your scoutmaster would have approved of what you’re suggesting. I’ll see what I can do, but I make no promises.”

“Good morning, Mr. Mellor. I think you’ve already met my lawyer, Jason Moreland, and my chief accountant, Nick Pirie.”

Mellor shook hands with both men before joining them around an oval table.

“As you’re on the board of Farthings,” said Bishara, “I can only assume you come here as an emissary of Mr. Sloane.”

“Then you assume wrongly,” said Mellor. “He’s the last man I would be willing to represent in any negotiation. Sloane made a complete ass of himself when he turned down your offer.”

“But he told me he had an offer of six pounds on the table, from a well-established City institution.”

“And you knew that wasn’t true, which is why you walked away.”

“And you are willing to walk back, because they were never his shares to sell in the first place.”