Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

The young man rose unsteadily to his feet. “No, I do not, comrade chairman. The prisoner Babakov is clearly an enemy of the state.”

Harry felt sorry for the young man, who probably believed every word he’d heard in the courtroom that morning. Harry gave a slight nod to show he also agreed, although the young man’s inexperience had once again given the game away. If he had read more Chekhov he would have realized that silence can often be more powerful than the spoken word.

“Take him away,” said the tribunal chairman.

As Babakov was led out of the courtroom, Harry bowed his head as if he no longer wanted anything to do with the man.

“Comrades, it has been a long day,” said the chairman, turning to the jury. “As Monday is a national holiday, on which we will all remember those brave men and women who sacrificed their lives in the Siege of Leningrad, this court will not reconvene until Tuesday morning, when I will sum up the State’s position, so you can decide if the prisoner is guilty.”

Harry wanted to laugh. He wasn’t even going to be allowed to give evidence, but he was now well aware that this was a tragedy, not a comedy, and he still had his part to play.

The tribunal president rose from her chair and led her colleagues out of the courtroom. No sooner had the door closed behind them than two prison guards grabbed Harry by the arms, and dragged him out of the room.

As he had nearly four days of solitude ahead of him, he was already looking forward to the challenge of seeing how much more he could remember of Uncle Joe. Chapter three. He began mouthing the words as they bundled him out of court.

Stalin not only made history, but was also happy to rewrite it, and there is no better example than the way he treated his family. His second wife, Nadya, took her own life because “she would rather die than remain married to such an evil tyrant.” On hearing of her death, Stalin immediately ordered that her suicide was to remain a state secret, as he feared the truth would bring him disgrace in the eyes of his comrades and enemies alike...

One of the guards unlocked the heavy cell door and his colleague pushed the prisoner inside.

Even as he fell on the floor, Harry sensed that he was not alone in the cell. He looked up and saw him hunched in the corner, a forefinger pressed firmly to his lips.

“Speak only in English,” were Babakov’s first words.

Harry nodded, and looked back to see one of the guards staring through the bars. The charade was still being played out. He crouched down a few feet away from Babakov.

“They need to believe you were convinced by everything you’ve just witnessed,” Babakov whispered. “If they do, they’ll allow you to go home.”

“But how will that help you?” asked Harry. “Especially if I have to sign a confession saying that I accept you made it all up.”

“Because I can tell you how to get your hands on a copy of Uncle Joe without being caught.”

“Is that still possible?”

“Yes,” said Babakov.

After listening carefully to his new cellmate’s whispered explanation, Harry smiled. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“I appreciate you finding the time to see me,” said Griff, “especially while you’re in the middle of your sister’s trial.”

“Urgent isn’t a word you use often,” said Giles, “and as you caught the first train to London, I assumed it had to be serious.”

“It won’t become public for a few days,” said Griff, “but my mole in the local Tory party office tells me there’s going to be a meeting of their executive committee this evening, and there’s only one item on the agenda. To call for the member’s resignation.”

“And that would mean a by-election,” said Giles thoughtfully.

“Which is why I caught the first train to London.”

“But Conservative Central Office would never allow Fisher to resign while the government are so far behind in the opinion polls.”

“They won’t have a lot of choice if the press goes on calling Fisher ‘the galloping major,’ and you know only too well what that lot are like, once they smell blood. Frankly, I can’t see Fisher lasting more than a few days. So the sooner you get back down to the constituency, the better.”

“I will, the moment the trial’s over.”

“When is that likely to be?”

“A few more days. A week at the most.”

“If you could come down at the weekend, be seen shopping in Broadmead on Saturday morning, go and watch Rovers play in the afternoon, and then attend Matins at St. Mary Redcliffe on Sunday, it would remind people you’re still alive and kicking.”

“If there is a by-election, how would you rate my chances?”

“Of being reselected as the candidate, or of winning the seat back?”

“Both.”

“You’re still just about favorite to be the candidate, although several women on the executive keep raising the fact that you’ve had two marriages break down. But I’m working on them, and it helps that you turned down a place in the Lords because you wanted to fight the seat again.”

“I told you that in the strictest confidence,” said Giles.

“And I told all sixteen members of the executive committee in the strictest confidence,” replied Griff.

Giles smiled. “And my chances of winning back the seat?”

“A poodle wearing a red rosette would win the by-election if all Ted Heath can come up with is to call a state of emergency every time there’s a strike.”

“Then perhaps it’s time to tell you my other news.”

Griff raised an eyebrow.

“I’m going to ask Karin to marry me.”

“Could it possibly be after the by-election,” begged Griff.

For everyone involved in the libel trial, it turned out to be a long weekend.

Following a short consultation with Mr. Trelford immediately after the court had been adjourned for the day, Giles drove Emma down to Gloucestershire.

“Would you prefer to stay at the hall over the weekend? Marsden will take care of you.”

“It’s kind of you to offer,” said Emma, “but I ought to be at home just in case Harry calls.”

“I think that’s unlikely,” said Giles quietly.

“Why?” demanded Emma.

“I visited Sir Alan at Number Ten before the court resumed yesterday morning, and he told me Harry had booked himself onto a BOAC flight last Friday evening, but never boarded the plane.”

“Then they must have arrested him.”

“I fear so.”

“Why didn’t you tell me immediately?”

“Moments before you went into the witness box? I don’t think that would have been helpful.”

“Did Sir Alan have any other news?”

“He told me that if we haven’t heard from Harry by Monday morning, the foreign secretary will call in the Russian ambassador and demand an explanation.”

“What good will that do?”

“He’ll realize that Harry will be on the front page of every paper around the world the next day if they don’t release him, which is the last thing the Russians will want.”

“Then why arrest him in the first place?” demanded Emma.

“They’re up to something, but even Sir Alan can’t work out what it is.”

Giles didn’t tell Emma about his recent experience when he’d tried to enter East Berlin, not least because he’d assumed that Harry was unlikely to get beyond passport control and would have been frogmarched back on to the next plane to Heathrow. It made no sense that they would detain the president of English PEN without good reason. Even the Soviets don’t like bad publicity if they can possibly avoid it. Like Sir Alan, he couldn’t work out what they were up to.

During a sleepless weekend, Emma occupied herself answering letters, reading, even polishing some of the family silver, but she was never more than a few paces away from the phone.