Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

“The truth is,” said Mellor, “he was playing Russian roulette with my bullet, and it turned out to be a blank. However, I am willing to sell you fifty-one percent of the bank’s stock for the five pounds a share you originally offered.”

“Originally offered is correct, Mr. Mellor. But that offer is no longer on the table. After all, I can buy Farthings on the open market for two pounds and eleven shillings a share, and have been doing so for several weeks.”

“Not the fifty-one percent you want, which would give you overall control of the bank. In any case, I can’t afford to sell them at that price.”

“No,” said Bishara, “I’m sure you can’t. But you can afford to sell them for three pounds and nine shillings a share.”

Mellor’s mouth opened, and didn’t close for some time. “Could you make it four pounds?”

“No, I could not, Mr. Mellor. Three pounds and nine shillings is my final offer.” Bishara turned to his chief accountant who handed him a banker’s draft for £20,562,000. He placed it on the table.

“I may be wrong, Mr. Mellor, but I have a feeling you can’t afford to make the same mistake twice.”

“Where do I sign?”

Mr. Moreland opened a file and placed three identical contracts in front of Mellor. Once he’d signed them, he thrust out a hand and waited for the banker’s draft to be passed across to him.

“And like Mr. Sloane,” said Bishara as he took the top off his fountain pen, “before I can add my signature to the contract, I require one small amendment that I have promised for a friend.”

Mellor stared defiantly at him. “And what might that be?”

The lawyer opened a second file, took out a letter, and placed it in front of Mellor. He read it slowly.

“I can’t sign this. Never.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Bishara, picking up the banker’s draft and handing it back to his chief accountant.

Mellor didn’t move, but when he began to sweat, Bishara realized it was only a matter of time.

“All right, all right,” said Mellor. “I’ll sign the damn letter.”

The lawyer double-checked the signature before placing the letter back in his file. Bishara then signed all three contracts, and the accountant handed Mellor one copy and the banker’s draft for £20,562,000. Mellor left without another word. He didn’t even thank Bishara, nor did he shake hands.

“If he’d called my bluff,” said Bishara to his lawyer once the door had closed, “I would have settled without him having to sign the letter.”

Harry studied the statement they expected him to read out in court. He would have to confess to being a British agent who worked for MI5. If he did so, he would be released immediately and deported back to his homeland, never to be allowed to return to the Soviet Union.

Of course, his family and friends would dismiss the statement for what it was worth. Others might feel he’d been left with little choice. But then there would be the majority who didn’t know him. They would assume that it was true, and that his fight for Babakov had been nothing more than a smoke screen to cover his espionage. One signature, and he would be free but his reputation would be shattered and, more important, Babakov’s cause would be lost for ever. No, he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his reputation, or Anatoly Babakov, quite that easily.

He tore up the confession and threw the little pieces of paper high in the air, like confetti waiting for a bride.

When the colonel returned an hour later armed only with a pen, he stared in disbelief at the scraps of paper strewn across the floor.

“Only an Englishman could be that stupid,” he remarked, before turning and marching back out of the cell, slamming the door behind him.

He’s got a point, thought Harry, then closed his eyes. He knew exactly how he intended to pass any unfulfilled hours. He would try to recall as much as possible of the first seven chapters of Uncle Joe. He began to concentrate. Chapter One...

Josef Stalin was born losif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili in Gori, Georgia, on 18 December 1878. As a child, he was known as Soso, but when he became a young revolutionary he adopted the pseudonym Koba, after a fictional Robin Hood figure he wanted to be compared with, although in fact he was more like the Sheriff of Nottingham. As he rose through the ranks of the party, and his influence grew, he changed his name to Stalin (“Man of Steel”). But...

“Some good news at last,” said Emma, “and I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Lady Virginia has fallen into a concrete mixer, and is now part of a high rise in Lambeth?” suggested Seb.

“Not quite that good, but almost.”

“Dad’s home and he’s got a copy of Uncle Joe ?”

“No, he’s still not back, although he promised he wouldn’t be more than a couple of days.”

“He told me he might visit the Hermitage and see some of the other sights while he was over there, so no need to worry. But come on, Mum, what’s your news?”

“Desmond Mellor has resigned from the board of Barrington’s.”

“Did he give a reason?”

“He was pretty vague — just said it was for personal reasons, and that he wished the company every success in the future. He even sent his best wishes for the trial.”

“How considerate of him.”

“Why do I get the distinct impression my news doesn’t come as a surprise to you?” said Emma.

“Chairman, Mr. Clifton has arrived. Shall I send him in?”

“Yes, do.” Sloane leaned back in his chair, delighted that Clifton had finally come to his senses. But he still intended to give him a hard time.

A few seconds later his secretary opened the door and stood aside to allow Sebastian to enter the chairman’s office.

“Let me say at the outset, Clifton, that my offer of five pounds a share for your six percent is no longer on the table. But as a sign of goodwill, I’m prepared to offer you three pounds a share, which is still considerably above this morning’s market price.”

“It is indeed, but my shares are still not for sale.”

“Then why are you wasting my time?”

“I hope I’m not wasting your time, because as the new deputy chairman of Farthings Bank, I’m here to carry out my first executive action.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Sloane, leaping up from behind his desk.

“At twelve thirty this afternoon, Mr. Desmond Mellor sold his fifty-one percent shareholding in Farthings to Mr. Hakim Bishara.”

“But, Sebastian—”

“Which also made it possible for Mr. Mellor to finally keep his word.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Mellor promised Arnold Hardcastle that you would be removed from the board, and Ross Buchanan would be the next chairman of Farthings.”

“Where’s Harry?” one of the journalists shouted as the taxi pulled up outside the Royal Courts of Justice and Emma, Giles, and Sebastian stepped out.

The one thing Emma hadn’t prepared herself for was twenty or thirty photographers lined up behind two makeshift barriers on either side of the court entrance, bulbs flashing. Journalists hollered questions, even though they didn’t expect them to be answered. The most persistent was, “Where’s Harry?”

“Don’t respond,” said Giles firmly.

If only I knew, Emma wanted to tell them as she walked through the press gauntlet, because she’d thought of little else for the past forty-eight hours.

Seb ran ahead of his mother and held open the door to the law courts so her progress would not be impeded. Mr. Trelford, in his long black gown and carrying a faded wig, was waiting for her on the other side of the double door. Emma introduced her brother and son to the distinguished advocate. If Trelford was surprised that Mr. Clifton was not in attendance, he didn’t show it.