Jeffrey Archer - Cometh the Hour

Harry put down his pen. As Emma was at the hospital and Jessica had returned to London, he could only wonder who would consider interrupting him while he was writing. He swiveled his chair around to face the intruder.

The door opened slowly. Markham appeared in the doorway but didn’t enter the room. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but it’s No.10 on the line and apparently it’s urgent.”

Harry rose from his chair immediately. He wasn’t quite sure why he remained standing when he picked up the phone.

“Please hold on, sir, I’ll put you through to the Cabinet Secretary.”

Harry remained standing.

“Mr. Clifton, it’s Alan Redmayne.”

“Good afternoon, Sir Alan.”

“I rang because I have some wonderful news and I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Tell me Anatoly Babakov has been released?”

“Not yet, but it can’t be long now. I’ve just had a call from our ambassador in Stockholm to say that the Swedish prime minister will be announcing in an hour’s time that Mr. Babakov has been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.”

Within moments of the announcement being made, the phone started to ring, and Harry was made aware for the first time what “off the hook” really meant.

For the next hour he answered questions thrown at him by journalists calling from all over the world.

“Do you think the Russians will finally release Babakov?”

“They should have released him years ago,” responded Harry, “but at least this will give Mr. Brezhnev an excuse to do so now.”

“Will you be going to Stockholm for the ceremony?”

“I hope to be among the audience when Anatoly is presented with the prize.”

“Will you fly to Russia, so you can accompany your friend to Stockholm?”

“He has to be released from jail before anyone can accompany him anywhere.”

Markham reappeared in the doorway, the same anxious look as before on his face. “The King of Sweden is on the other line, sir.” Harry put down one phone and picked up another. He was surprised to find it wasn’t a private secretary on the line, but the King himself.

“I do hope you and Mrs. Clifton will be able to attend the ceremony as my personal guests.”

“We’d be delighted to, Your Majesty,” said Harry, hoping he’d used the correct form of address.

In between repeatedly answering the same questions from yet more journalists, Harry broke off to make a call of his own.

“I’ve just heard the news,” said Aaron Guinzburg. “I rang you immediately but your phone has been constantly engaged. But no need to worry, I’ve already been on to the printers and ordered another million copies of Uncle Joe. ”

“I wasn’t calling to ask how many copies you’re having printed, Aaron,” snapped Harry. “Get yourself over to the Lower West Side and take care of Yelena. She’ll have no idea how to handle the press.”

“You’re right, Harry. Thoughtless of me, sorry. I’m on my way.”

Harry put the phone down to see Markham once again hovering in the doorway. “The BBC is asking if you’ll be making a statement.”

“Tell them I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

He sat back down at his desk, ignored the ringing phone, pushed Inspector Warwick to one side and began to think about the message he wanted to get across. He was aware that he might never be given an opportunity like this again.

When he picked up his pen, the words flowed easily, but then he’d waited a dozen years to be given this chance. He read through his statement, made a couple of emendations, then checked he knew it by heart. He stood up, took a deep breath, straightened his tie and walked out into the hall. Markham, who was clearly enjoying every moment of the unfolding drama, opened the front door and stood aside.

Harry had expected to face a few local reporters but as he stepped out of the door a mob of journalists and photographers surged toward him, all of them shouting at once. He stood on the top step and waited patiently until they’d all realized he wasn’t going to say anything before he had their attention.

“This is not a day for celebration,” he began quietly. “My friend and colleague, Anatoly Babakov, is still languishing in a Russian prison, for the crime of daring to write the truth. The Nobel Prize committee has honored him, and rightly so, but I will not rest until he is released and can be reunited with his wife, Yelena, so they can spend the rest of their days enjoying the freedom that the rest of us take for granted.”

Harry turned and walked back into the house as the journalists continued to holler their questions. Markham closed the door.

It was the first time Virginia had ever visited a prison, although over the years one or two of her chums had been incarcerated, and several others certainly should have been.

In truth, she wasn’t looking forward to the experience. Mind you, it had solved one problem. She no longer had to pretend that Desmond Mellor had the slightest chance of being awarded a knighthood. “Sir Desmond” remained the fantasy it had always been.

Unfortunately, it also meant that a regular source of income had dried up. She wouldn’t have considered visiting Mellor in prison if her bank manager hadn’t kept reminding her about her overdraft. She could only hope that Mellor was still capable of turning red into black, despite being behind bars.

Virginia wasn’t altogether certain what Mellor had been charged with. But she wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Adrian Sloane was involved somehow.

She drove down to Arundel just after breakfast as she didn’t want anyone to spot her on the train or taking a taxi to Ford Open Prison. She was a few minutes late by the time she drove into the car park but then she’d never intended to be on time. Spending an hour surrounded by a bunch of villains wasn’t her idea of how to spend a Sunday afternoon.

After she’d parked her Morris Minor, Virginia made her way to the gatehouse, where she was met in reception by a prison officer. Once she’d been searched, she was asked for proof of her identity. She handed over her driving license to show she was the Lady Virginia Fenwick, even if the photograph was out of date. The officer ticked her name off the authorized visitors’ list, then handed her a key and asked her to deposit all her valuables in a small locker, before she was politely warned that any attempt to pass cash to a prisoner during a visit was a criminal offense and she could be arrested and end up with a six-month jail sentence. She didn’t tell the officer that she was rather hoping it would be the other way around.

Once she had been handed a key and placed her handbag and jewelry in the small gray locker, she accompanied a female officer down a long, fiercely lit corridor before being ushered into a sparsely furnished room with a dozen or so tables, each surrounded by one red and three blue chairs.

Virginia spotted Desmond sitting on a red chair in the far corner of the room. She walked across to join him, her first sentence already prepared.

“I’m sorry it’s come to this,” Virginia said, as she took the seat opposite him. “And I’d just heard from his grace the duke of Hertford that your knighthood—”

“Cut the crap, Virginia. We’ve only got forty-three minutes left, so let’s dispense with the platitudes and get down to why I needed to see you. How much do you know about why I’m in here?”

“Almost nothing,” replied Virginia, who was just as relieved as Desmond that the case hadn’t been reported in the national press.

“I was arrested and charged with perverting the course of justice, but not until Sloane had turned Queen’s evidence, leaving me with no choice but to plead guilty to a lesser offense. I ended up with an eighteen-month sentence, which should be reduced to seven on appeal, so I’ll be out in a few weeks’ time. But I don’t intend to sit around waiting until I’m released to get my revenge on that bastard Sloane, which is why I needed to see you.”