Jeffrey Archer - Cometh the Hour

“Who’s this?”

“Des Mellor.”

“Oh, hi, Des,” said Sloane, his voice changing from bully to sycophant without missing a beat. “What can I do for you?”

“Have you got rid of all my Farthings shares? I noticed they were at a new high this morning.”

“You’re down to the last fifty thousand but you’ve already covered your original investment, even made a small profit. So you can hold onto them and see if they go any higher, or cash in.”

“Always cash in when you’re ahead, Adrian. I thought I’d taught you that.”

“We wouldn’t have needed to,” said Sloane, clearly chastened by the barb, “if that stupid Nigerian bitch had kept her mouth shut. We could be running the bank now. Still, I’ll get the bastard next time.”

“There isn’t going to be a next time,” said Mellor, “unless it’s a hundred percent foolproof.”

“It’s better than foolproof,” retorted Sloane. “This time he’ll be done for insider trading and lose his banking license.”

“Bishara would never involve himself in anything that irresponsible.”

“But one of his dealers might. Someone who used to work for me when I was chairman of Farthings.”

“What have you got on him?”

“He has a gambling problem. If you could be paid out for backing the last horse in every race, he’d be a millionaire. Unfortunately his bookies are putting pressure on him to settle his account.”

“So what? The moment Bishara finds out, he’ll sack the man, and no one will believe for a minute that he was involved.”

“It would be hard for Bishara to deny his involvement if we had the whole conversation on tape.”

“How’s that possible?” barked Mellor.

“Bishara is constantly on the phone to the dealing room from wherever he is in the world, and it’s amazing what a skilful electrical engineer can do with the help of the latest equipment. Just listen to these four tapes.” There was a moment’s pause, before Mellor heard a click and then the words, Don’t buy Amalgamated Wire, because we’re currently in negotiations with them, and that would be insider trading .

“And now a second,” said Sloane. Another pause. Buy your secretary something special, Gavin. She’s served the bank well over the years. Charge it to me, but don’t let anyone know I authorized it.

“And a third: You’ve had an excellent year, Gavin, keep up the good work, and I’m sure it will be reflected in your annual bonus.” An even longer silence followed, when Mellor began to wonder if he’d been cut off.

“Now, after a professional cut-and-paste job,” said Sloane, “it sounds like this: Buy Amalgamated Wire, but don’t let anyone know I authorized it, because that would be insider trading. Keep up the good work, Gavin, and I’m sure it will be reflected in your annual bonus. ”

“That’s good,” said Mellor. “But what happens if the other tapes are discovered?”

“Unlike Richard Nixon, I’ll personally destroy them.”

“But your contact could once again be the weak link in the chain.”

“Not this time. The people Gavin deals with don’t take kindly to punters who fail to pay their gambling debts. They’ve already threatened to break his legs.”

“But what’s to stop him changing his mind once we’ve paid them off?”

“I won’t be handing over any money until he’s delivered the tape to the Bank of England, along with an It’s with considerable regret that I have to inform you ... letter.”

“How much is it going to cost me?”

“Just over a thousand pounds.”

“And there’s no chance of anyone knowing I’m involved?”

“Was there last time?” said Sloane.

“No, but there’s more at stake this time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Strictly entre nous, Adrian, there’s just a possibility that I might be in the New Year’s honors list.” He hesitated. “A knighthood.”

“Many congratulations,” said Sloane. “I have a feeling the Bank of England would approve of Sir Desmond Mellor taking over as chairman of Farthings.”

“When will your man deliver the tape to the Bank of England?”

“Some time next week.”

The buzzer on Mai Ling’s alarm clock starting purring.

“Perfect timing,” said Mellor, as he slammed down the phone, got off the table and disappeared into the bathroom.

Mai Ling agreed. While Mellor was in the shower she unscrewed the mouthpiece on the phone and removed the recording device. She then folded up the massage table, placed the bottles back in the case and threw the soiled towels in the laundry basket.

By the time Mellor came out of the bathroom holding up a ten-pound note, Mai Ling was getting into a car parked outside the Swan Hotel. As she handed the tape to Barry Hammond she said, “Thank God I’ll never have to see that man again.”

“Sir Desmond,” said Virginia, as the butler showed her protégé into the drawing room.

“Not yet,” said Mellor.

“But I have a feeling it won’t be too long now. Ah,” Virginia said, looking over Mellor’s shoulder. “Miles, good of you to drop by, considering how busy you must be. Have you two met before? Desmond Mellor is one of the country’s leading businessmen. Desmond, Sir Miles Watling, chairman of Watling Brothers.”

“We met at Ascot, Sir Miles,” said Mellor, as the two men shook hands. “But there’s no reason you should remember.” Always be respectful to those who already have a title, was one of Virginia’s golden rules.

“How could I forget?” said Sir Miles. “You were in Virginia’s box and you gave me the only winner I backed all afternoon. How are you, old chap?”

“Never better, thank you,” said Desmond, as Virginia reappeared with a tall, elderly, gray-haired gentleman on her arm.

“So good of you to come, your grace,” she said, emphasizing the last two words.

“Who in their right mind would even consider missing one of your parties, my dear?”

“How kind of you to say so, Peregrine. May I introduce Mr. Desmond Mellor, the well-known philanthropist?”

“Good evening, your grace,” said Mellor, following Virginia’s lead. “How nice to meet you.”

“I’m so sorry the duchess isn’t with you,” said Virginia.

“I’m afraid she’s a bit under the weather, poor gal,” said the duke. “But I’m sure she’ll be as right as rain in no time,” he added, as Bofie Bridgwater walked across to join them, right on cue.

“Good evening, Desmond,” said Bofie, as he was handed a glass of champagne. “I understand congratulations are in order?”

“You’re a little premature, Bofie,” replied Mellor, placing a finger to his lips. “Although I think I can safely say we’re in the home straight.”

The duke and Sir Miles pricked up their ears.

“Should I be picking up a few more shares in Mellor Travel before the news of the takeover becomes public?”

Desmond winked conspiratorially. “But mum’s the word, Bofie.”

“You can rely on me, old chap. I won’t tell a soul.”

After he’d had a long chat with the duke, Virginia took Desmond by the arm and guided him around the room to meet her other guests. “Dame Eleanor, I don’t think you’ve met Desmond Mellor, who—”

“No, I haven’t,” said Dame Eleanor, “but it gives me the opportunity to thank Mr. Mellor for his generous donation to the Sick Children’s Trust.”

“I’m only too happy to support the amazing work you do,” said Desmond. Virginia’s stock answer, when dealing with the president of any charity.

By the time Desmond had spoken to everyone in the room, he was exhausted. Small talk and social etiquette were not his idea of how to spend a Friday evening. He was growing impatient to leave for his dinner with Adrian Sloane, when he would find out if the tape and the letter had been delivered to the Bank of England. But he hung back until the last of Virginia’s guests had departed so he could have a private word with her.