Jeffrey Archer - Cometh the Hour

“Sixty seconds to transmission,” said a voice from somewhere beyond the arc lights.

“Where will it be?” asked Jacobs.

“The page will come up on camera two,” said the floor manager.

“Thirty seconds.”

This was the moment when Harry always wanted to get up and leave the studio. Uncle Joe, Uncle Joe, Uncle Joe , he repeated under his breath. Don’t forget to keep mentioning the title of the book, Aaron had reminded him, because it’s not your name on the cover.

“Ten seconds.”

Harry took a sip of water as a hand appeared in front of his face, displaying five splayed fingers.

“Five, four...”

Jacobs dropped his notes on the floor.

“Three, two...”

And looked straight into the camera.

“One.” The hand disappeared.

“Welcome back,” said Jacobs, reading directly from the teleprompter. “My next guest is the crime novelist Harry Clifton, but today we’re not discussing one of his works, but a book he smuggled out of the Soviet Union.” Jacobs held up his copy of Uncle Joe, which filled the whole screen.

Good start, thought Harry.

“But let me make it clear,” continued Jacobs, “that it was not the book itself that Mr. Clifton smuggled out, just the words. He says that while he was locked up in a Russian prison cell with Anatoly Babakov, Uncle Joe ’s author, he learned the entire manuscript by heart in four days, and after he had been released he wrote it out word for word. Some people might find this hard to believe,” said Jacobs, before turning to face Harry for the first time, and from the incredulous look on his face, he was clearly one of them.

“Let me try and understand what you’re suggesting, Mr. Clifton. You shared a cell with the distinguished author Anatoly Babakov, a man you’d never met before.”

Harry nodded, as the camera swung onto him.

“During the next four days he recited the entire contents of his banned book, Uncle Joe, an account of the eleven years he worked in the Kremlin as Joseph Stalin’s interpreter.”

“That is correct,” said Harry.

“So when you were released from prison, four days later, like a professional actor, you knew your part off by heart.”

Harry remained silent, as it was now clear that Jacobs had his own agenda.

“I’m sure you’ll agree, Mr. Clifton, that no actor, however seasoned, could be expected to remember forty-eight thousand words after only four days of rehearsal.”

“I am not an actor,” said Harry.

“Forgive me,” said Jacobs, not looking as if he wanted to be forgiven, “but I suspect that you are a very accomplished actor who has invented this whole story for no other purpose than to promote your latest book. If that’s not the case, perhaps you’ll allow me to put your claim to the test.”

Without waiting for Harry to respond, Jacobs turned to another camera and, holding up the book, said, “If your story is to be believed, Mr. Clifton, you shouldn’t have any difficulty in reciting whichever page I select from Mr. Babakov’s book.” Harry frowned as Jacobs added, “I’m going to turn to a page at random, which will appear on the screen so that all our viewers can see it. You will be the one person who won’t be able to.”

Harry’s heart reached a thumping pace, because he hadn’t read Uncle Joe since he’d handed in the manuscript to Aaron Guinzburg some time ago.

“But first,” said Jacobs turning back to face his guest, “let me ask you to confirm that we have never met before.”

“Just once,” Harry replied. “You interviewed me on your radio program twenty years ago, but you’ve clearly forgotten.”

Jacobs looked flustered, but quickly recovered. “Then let’s hope your memory is better than mine,” he said, not making any attempt to hide his sarcasm. He picked up the book, and flicked through several pages before stopping at random. “I’m going to read out the first line of page 127,” he continued, “and then we’ll see if you can complete the rest of the page.” Harry began to concentrate. “One of the many subjects no one ever dared to raise with Stalin—”

Harry tried to gather his thoughts, and as the seconds passed, the audience began murmuring among themselves, while Jacobs’s smile became broader. He was just about to speak again, when Harry said, “One of the many subjects no one ever dared to raise with Stalin was the role he played during the siege of Moscow, when the outcome of the Second World War still hung in the balance. Did he, like most of the government ministers and their officials, beat a hasty retreat to Kuibyshev on the Volga, or did he, as he claimed, refuse to leave the capital and remain in the Kremlin, personally organizing the defense of the city? His version became legend, part of the official Soviet history, although several people saw him on the platform moments before the train departed for Kuibyshev, and there are no reliable reports of anyone seeing him in Moscow again until the Russian army had driven the enemy from the gates of the city. Few of those who expressed any doubts about Stalin’s version lived to tell the tale.” Harry looked into the camera and continued to deliver the next twenty-two lines without hesitation.

He knew he’d come to the end of the page when the studio audience burst into applause. Jacobs took a little longer to recover his composure, but eventually managed, “I might even read this book myself,” with an ingratiating smile.

“That would make a change,” said Harry, immediately regretting his words, although some of the studio audience laughed and applauded even louder, while others just gasped.

Jacobs turned to face the camera. “We’ll take a short break, and return after these messages.”

When the green light came on, Jacobs yanked off his lapel mic, jumped up from the sofa and marched across to the floor manager. “Get him off the set now!”

“But he’s got another three minutes,” said the floor manager, checking his clipboard.

“I don’t give a fuck. Wheel on the next guest.”

“Do you really want to interview Troy Donahue for six minutes?”

“Anyone but that guy,” he said, gesturing in Harry’s direction before beckoning Anne. “Get him off the set now,” he repeated.

Anne hurried across to the sofa. “Will you please come with me, Mr. Clifton,” she said, not sounding as if it was a request. She led Harry out of the studio and didn’t stop until they were back on the sidewalk, where she abandoned her headline guest, although there was no sign of a chauffeur waiting by an open limo door.

Harry hailed a cab and on the way back to the Sherry-Netherland he checked page 127 of his copy of Uncle Joe . Had he left out the word “hasty”? He couldn’t be sure. He went straight up to his room, removed his makeup and took his second shower of the morning. He didn’t know if it was the huge arc lights or Jacobs’s hectoring manner that had caused him to sweat so profusely.

Once he’d put on a clean shirt and his other suit, Harry took the lift to the mezzanine floor. When he walked into the dining room, he was surprised how many people gave him a second look. He ordered breakfast, but didn’t open the New York Times, as he thought about how angry the Guinzburgs would be after he’d humiliated one of breakfast TV’s leading presenters. He was due to meet them in Aaron’s office at nine to discuss the details of his national tour, but Harry assumed he’d now be heading back to Heathrow on the next available flight.

Harry signed the check, and decided to walk to Aaron’s new office on Lexington Avenue. He left the Sherry-Netherland just after 8:40, and by the time he reached Lexington, he was just about ready to face the headmaster’s wrath. He took the elevator to the third floor, and when the doors opened, Kirsty was standing there. She said only “Good morning, Mr. Clifton” before leading him through to the chairman’s office.