Jeffrey Archer - Cometh the Hour

“There is no mistake, sir. Our instructions were clear. If you attempt to enter the building, we are to prevent you from doing so.”

Aaron hesitated for a moment before taking a pace back. He stared up at the newly minted sign declaring VIKING MULBERRY, then attempted to enter the building once again, but neither guard budged an inch. Reluctantly, he turned away and hailed a cab, giving the driver his home address. There must be a simple explanation, he kept telling himself as the taxi headed toward 67th Street.

Once he was back in his apartment, Aaron picked up the phone and dialed a number he didn’t need to look up.

“Good morning, Viking Mulberry, how can I help you?”

“Rex Mulberry.”

“Who’s calling please?”

“Aaron Guinzburg.” He heard a click, and a moment later another voice said, “Chairman’s office.”

“This is Aaron Guinzburg. Put me through to Rex.”

“Mr. Mulberry is in a meeting.”

“Then get him out of the meeting,” said Aaron, finally losing his temper.

Another click. He’d been cut off. He dialed the number again, but this time he didn’t get any farther than the switchboard. Collapsing into the nearest chair, he tried to gather his thoughts. It was some time before he picked up the phone again.

“Friedman, Friedman and Yablon,” announced a voice.

“This is Aaron Guinzburg. I need to speak to Leonard Friedman.” He was immediately put through to the senior partner. Aaron took his time explaining what had happened when he’d turned up at his office that morning, and the result of his two subsequent phone calls.

“So your father was right all along.”

“What do you mean?”

“A handshake was always good enough for Curtis Mulberry, but when you deal with his son Rex, just make sure you read the small print.”

“Are you suggesting Mulberry’s got right on his side?”

“Certainly not,” said Friedman, “just the law. As long as he controls sixty-six percent of the company’s stock, he can call the shots. We did warn you at the time of the consequences of being a minority shareholder, but you were convinced it wouldn’t be a problem. Although I have to admit, even I’m shocked by the speed with which Mulberry has taken advantage of his position.”

Once Friedman had taken his client though the relevant details of the contract, Aaron wished he’d read Law at Harvard and not History at Yale. “Still,” said the lawyer, “we did manage to insert clause 19A, which Mulberry will surely now live to regret.”

“Why is clause 19A so important?”

After Friedman had explained the significance of the get-out clause in great detail, Aaron put the phone down and walked across to the drinks cabinet. He poured himself a whisky — before twelve o’clock for the first time in his life. Twelve o’clock, the time of his appointment with Harry. He glanced at his watch: 11:38. He put down his drink, and ran out of the apartment.

He cursed the slow lift as it trundled down to the ground floor, where he hurled back the grille and ran out onto the street. He hailed a yellow cab, never a problem on Fifth Avenue, but once he hit Third, Aaron was faced with the inevitable gridlock. Light after light seemed to turn red just as the cab reached the front of the line. When they ground to a halt at the next set of lights, Aaron handed the driver a five-dollar bill and leapt out. He ran the last two blocks, dodging in and out of the traffic, horns blaring, as he tried to stay on the move.

The two guards were still stationed outside the building, almost as if they were expecting him to return. Aaron checked his watch on the run: four minutes to twelve. He prayed that Harry would be late. Harry was never late. Then he saw him about a hundred yards away, striding in his direction, but he arrived at the front of the building just moments before Aaron. The guards stood aside and allowed him to pass. Someone else they were expecting.

“Harry! Harry!” shouted Aaron, now only a few strides from the front door, but Harry had already entered the building. “Harry!” Aaron screamed again as he reached the entrance, but the two guards marched forward and blocked his path just as Harry stepped into a lift.

When the lift door opened, Harry was surprised not to find Kirsty waiting for him. Funny how you get used to something, he thought, even take it for granted. He made his way across to the reception desk and told an unfamiliar young woman his name. “I have an appointment with Aaron Guinzburg.”

She checked her day sheet. “Yes, you’re down to see the chairman at twelve, Mr. Clifton. You’ll find him in Mr. Guinzburg’s old office.”

“His old office?” said Harry, unable to mask his surprise.

“Yes, the room at the far end of the corridor.”

“I know where it is,” Harry replied, before heading off toward Aaron’s office. He knocked on the door and waited.

“Come in,” said a voice he didn’t recognize.

Harry opened the door and immediately assumed he’d walked into the wrong room. The walls had been stripped of their magnificent oak paneling and the distinguished authors’ photographs replaced by a set of gaudy prints of SoHo. A man he’d never met before, but whom he recognized from his photograph in that morning’s New York Times, rose from behind a trestle table and thrust out a hand.

“Rex Mulberry. Delighted to meet you at last, Harry.”

“Good morning, Mr. Mulberry,” said Harry. “I have an appointment with my publisher, Aaron Guinzburg.”

“I’m afraid Aaron doesn’t work here any longer,” said Mulberry. “I’m the chairman of the new company, and the board decided that the time had come for Viking to make some radical changes. But, let me assure you, I’m a great admirer of your work.”

“So you’re a fan of Wilfred Warwick, are you?” said Harry.

“Yes, I’m a huge fan of Wilfred’s. Have a seat.” Harry reluctantly sat down opposite the new chairman. “I’ve just been over your latest contract, which I’m sure you’ll agree is generous by normal publishing standards.”

“I have only ever been published by Viking, so I’ve nothing to compare it with.”

“And of course we will honor Aaron’s most recent contract in the Wilfred Warwick series, as well as the one for Uncle Joe .”

Harry tried to think what Sebastian would have done in these circumstances. He was aware that the contract for Uncle Joe was in his inside pocket and, after some considerable persuasion, had been signed by Yelena Babakova.

“Aaron had agreed to prepare a new three-book contract, which I had intended to go over with him today,” he said, playing for time.

“Yes, I have it here,” said Mulberry. “There are a few minor adjustments, none of them of any real significance,” he added as he pushed the contract across the table.

Harry turned to the last page, to find Rex Mulberry’s signature already on the dotted line. He took out his fountain pen — a gift from Aaron — removed the top and stared down at the words, On behalf of the author . He hesitated, before saying the first thing that came into his head.

“I need to go to the lavatory. I came straight from Grand Central as I didn’t want to be late.” Mulberry forced a smile, as Harry placed the elegant Parker on the table beside the contract. “I won’t be long,” Harry added as he rose from his seat and casually left the room.

Harry closed the door behind him, walked quickly down the corridor, past the reception desk and didn’t stop until he reached the lobby, where he stepped inside the first available lift. When the doors opened again on the ground floor, he joined the bustle of office workers who were making their way out of the building for their lunch break. He glanced at the two guards, but they didn’t give him a second look as he passed them. They seemed to be focused on someone standing sentinel-like on the opposite side of the street. Harry turned his back on Aaron and hailed a cab.