Jeffrey Archer - Cometh the Hour

“I’m sorry, sir, but Mrs. Michael Brewer is unlisted.”

“Then get me Dr. Wolfe at Jefferson Elementary School. She’s the headmistress.”

Seb paced around the room. If he could speak to Dr. Wolfe, she would surely have Sam’s number...

The phone rang again.

“Dr. Wolfe is not answering her phone, Mr. Clifton, and the only flight I can get you on takes off in just under two hours, so you’d have to hurry. All the other London flights are fully booked.”

“Take it. And I’ll need a taxi to get me to Dulles.”

On the way to the airport, Seb didn’t even notice the towering monuments, the fast-flowing Potomac or the densely wooded forests. His mind was preoccupied with the thought of Hakim locked up in a prison cell. Seb accepted that there was no longer any purpose in Arnold delivering the merger papers to the Bank of England after he recalled Hakim’s light-hearted question, “Have you ever been to jail?” He wondered who could be behind something so treacherous. Adrian Sloane immediately came to mind, but he couldn’t have done it on his own.

It was when Seb checked his watch and saw that it was almost 7:30 p.m. that he remembered where he was meant to be at that time. Jessica would assume he’d let them down again. She would never believe anything could be more important than... He paid the taxi driver, dashed into the terminal, checked in, then headed straight for the business-class lounge, where he stepped into the only available phone booth, pressed a coin into the slot and dialed directory enquiries.

“This is the first call for passengers traveling to London Heathrow on the seven fifty-five British Airways flight, will you please make your way...”

“A restaurant in Washington called the Belvedere.” A few moments later she gave him the number. Seb dialed it immediately, only to find it was engaged. He decided to pick up his ticket and try again in a few minutes. Perhaps the plane would be delayed.

He ran back to the phone booth and dialed again. Still engaged.

“This is the final call for passengers traveling to London Heathrow on the seven fifty-five British Airways flight. Please...”

He pressed the coins back in and dialed the number, praying it wouldn’t still be busy. This time he was greeted by a ringing tone.

“Come on, pick it up, pick it up!” he shouted.

“Good evening, this is the Belvedere, how may I help you?”

“This is Sebastian Clifton, and I’m meant to be dining at your restaurant this evening with Samantha and Jessica Brewer.”

“Yes, sir, your party has arrived and are in the lounge waiting for you.”

“I need to speak to Jessica Brewer. Please tell her it’s urgent.”

“Certainly, sir, I’ll ask her to come to the phone.”

Seb waited, but the next voice he heard said, “Please put another fifty cents into the slot.”

He searched his pockets for change, but all he could find was ten cents. He shoved it into the slot and prayed. “Hi Pops, it’s Jessie.”

“Jessie, hi—” Beep, beep, beep, click... purr.

“Would Mr. Sebastian Clifton, traveling to London Heathrow on the seven fifty-five British Airways flight, please report to Gate number fourteen as the gate is about to close.”

The four of them held an unscheduled board meeting at eleven on Monday morning. They sat around a square, vinyl-topped table in a cramped room normally reserved for legal consultations.

Ross Buchanan sat at one end of the table with a sheaf of files on the floor beside him. Hakim Bishara sat opposite him with Arnold Hardcastle on his right and Sebastian on his left.

“Perhaps I should begin,” said Ross, “by letting you know that — so far at least — Farthings shares haven’t lost as much ground as we feared they might.”

“Helped by your robust statement, no doubt,” said Hakim, “which was reported in all the Sunday papers. Indeed, if anything will keep the bank afloat it’s your reputation in the City, Ross.”

“It also looks as if there’s a third party involved,” said Seb, “who’s picking up any available stock.”

“A friend or a predator, I wonder,” said Hakim.

“I can’t be sure, but I’ll let you know the moment I find out.”

“How have Kaufman’s shares been faring?”

“Surprisingly,” said Seb, “they’ve risen slightly, despite Victor making it clear to anyone who asks that, as far as he’s concerned, the merger is still on, and that his late father was a great admirer of yours.”

“That’s generous of him,” said Hakim, placing his elbows on the table. “But how many of our major clients have withdrawn their accounts?”

“Several called to express their concern about the charges you’re facing and to point out that their companies can’t afford to be associated with a drug dealer.”

“And what did you tell them?” asked Arnold, before Hakim could jump in.

“I told them,” continued Ross, “that Mr. Bishara doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink and who do they imagine he could possibly be selling drugs to?”

“What about our smaller customers?” said Hakim. “Are they voting with their feet?”

“A handful have already moved their accounts,” said Seb. “But ironically I’ve been trying to get rid of one or two of them for years, and no doubt they’ll all come crawling back once you’ve proved your innocence.”

“And they’ll find the door slammed in their faces,” said Hakim, banging the table with a clenched fist. “What about your private detective?” he asked Arnold. “Have you managed to track him down?”

“I have, chairman. I found him playing snooker in Romford. He’d read about the case in the News of the World and said the word on the street was that it was a stitch-up, but no one seems to know who’s got the needle and thread, which convinces him it can’t be any of the usual suspects.”

“When is he coming to see me?”

“Six o’clock this evening. Be warned, Barry Hammond isn’t the easiest of men. But if he does decide to take on the assignment, I wouldn’t want to be the person who set you up.”

“What do you mean, ‘if’? Who the hell does he think he is?”

“He despises drug dealers, Hakim,” said Arnold calmly. “Thinks they should all be strung up in Trafalgar Square.”

“If he were even to suggest that I—”

Sebastian placed a hand on Hakim’s arm. “We all understand what you’re going through, chairman, but you have to remain calm, and let Ross, Arnold and me handle the pressure.”

“I’m sorry. Of course you’re right, Seb. Don’t think I’m not grateful to all of you. I look forward to meeting Mr. Hammond.”

“He’s bound to ask you some fairly direct questions,” said Arnold. “Just promise me you won’t lose your temper.”

“I’ll be sweetness and light.”

“How are you passing your time?” asked Ross, trying to lighten the mood. “It can’t be a pleasant experience, being in here.”

“I spent an hour in the gym this morning, which reminded me just how unfit I am. Then I read the FT from cover to cover. I had an hour’s walk around the yard yesterday afternoon, in the company of two other bankers who are in for manipulating share prices, and in the evening I played a few games of backgammon.”

“For money?” asked Seb.

“A pound a game. There’s a guy in for armed robbery who took a couple of quid off me, but I plan to get it back this evening.”

The three visitors burst out laughing.

“I’ve picked up another two percent of Farthings stock,” said Sloane, “so you’re now entitled to a place on the board.”

“Those additional shares turned out to be more expensive than you predicted,” said Mellor.