Jeffrey Archer - Cometh the Hour

Without a word, she removed the small brown package from her handbag and, as agreed, exchanged it for the Harrods bag. She then turned and left the pub without a word being spoken. She only began to relax when the taxi had rejoined the evening traffic.

Virginia didn’t look inside the bag until she had closed and double-locked the front door of her home in Onslow Gardens. She took out a larger package, which she left unopened. After a light supper, she retired to bed early, but didn’t sleep.

After the plane had taxied to a halt at Arlanda Airport, an emissary from the Royal Palace was waiting to greet them at the bottom of the steps, with a personal message from King Carl Gustaf of Sweden. His Majesty hoped that Mrs. Babakova and her husband would stay at the palace as his guests.

Harry, Emma and Mrs. Babakova were escorted to the airport’s Royal Lounge, where the reunion would take place. A television in the corner of the room was showing live coverage of the camera crews, journalists and photographers assembled on the tarmac waiting to greet the new Nobel Laureate.

Although several bottles of champagne were opened during the next hour, Harry limited himself to one glass, while Yelena, who couldn’t sit still, didn’t touch a drop. Harry explained to Emma that he wanted to be “stone cold sober” when Anatoly stepped off the plane. He checked his watch every few minutes. The long years of waiting were finally coming to an end.

Suddenly a cheer went up, and Harry looked out of the window to see an Aeroflot 707 approaching through the clouds. They all stood by the window to watch the plane as it landed and taxied to a halt in front of them.

Steps were maneuvred into place and a red carpet rolled out. Moments later the cabin door swung open. A stewardess appeared on the top step and stood aside to allow the passengers to disembark. Television cameras began to whirr, photographers jostled for a clear view of Anatoly Babakov as he stepped off the plane and journalists had their pens poised.

And then Harry spotted a lone reporter, who had withdrawn from the melee around the steps and turned her back on the aircraft. She was speaking straight to camera, no longer taking any interest in the disembarking passengers. Harry walked across the room to the television and turned up the volume.

“We have just received a news flash from the Russian news agency, TASS. It is reporting that the Nobel Laureate Anatoly Babakov was rushed to hospital earlier this morning after suffering a stroke. He died a few minutes ago. I repeat...”

Yelena Babakova collapsed, both mentally and physically, when she heard the news of her husband’s death. Emma rushed to her side and took the broken woman in her arms.

“I need an ambulance, quickly,” she told an equerry, who picked up the nearest phone.

Harry knelt by his wife’s side. “God help her,” he said, as Emma checked her pulse.

“Her heart is weak, but I suspect the real problem is she no longer has any reason to live.”

The door swung open and two paramedics entered the room carrying a stretcher, onto which they gently lifted Mrs. Babakova. The equerry whispered something to one of them.

“I’ve instructed them to take Mrs. Babakova straight to the palace,” he told Harry and Emma. “It has a private medical wing, with a doctor and two nurses always in attendance.”

“Thank you,” said Emma, as one of the paramedics placed an oxygen mask over Yelena’s face before they lifted the stretcher and carried her out of the room. Emma held her hand as they progressed slowly down a corridor and out of the building, where an ambulance, with its back doors already open, awaited them.

“His Majesty wondered if you and Mr. Clifton would be willing to stay at the palace, so you can be near Mrs. Babakova once she regains consciousness.”

“Of course. Thank you,” said Emma, as she and Harry joined Yelena in the back of the ambulance.

Emma didn’t let go of Yelena’s hand during the thirty-minute journey, accompanied by police outriders neither even realized were there. The palace gates swung open to allow the ambulance to enter and it came to a halt in a large cobbled courtyard, from where a doctor guided the paramedics to the hospital wing. Yelena was lifted off the stretcher and onto a bed that was normally only occupied by patients who’d spilt blue blood.

“I’d like to stay with her,” said Emma, who still hadn’t let go of her hand.

The doctor nodded. “She’s suffering from severe shock and her heart is weak, which is hardly surprising. I’m going to give her an injection so she can at least get some sleep.”

Emma noticed that the equerry had joined them in the room but he said nothing while Yelena was being examined.

“His Majesty hopes you will join him in the drawing room when you’re ready,” said the equerry.

“There’s not much more you can do here at the moment,” said the doctor once his patient had fallen into a deep sleep.

Emma nodded. “But once we’ve seen the King, I’d like to come straight back.”

The silent equerry led Harry and Emma out of the hospital wing and through a dozen gilded rooms, whose walls were covered with paintings both of them would normally have wanted to stop and admire. The equerry finally came to a halt outside a floor-to-ceiling set of Wedgwood-blue sculpted double doors. He knocked, and the doors were pulled open by two liveried footmen. The King stood the moment his guests entered the room.

Emma recalled the occasion when the Queen Mother had visited Bristol to launch the Buckingham; wait until you’re spoken to, never ask a question. She curtsied while Harry bowed.

“Mr. and Mrs. Clifton, I’m sorry we have to meet in such unhappy circumstances. But how fortunate Mrs. Babakova is to have such good friends by her side.”

“The medical team arrived very quickly,” said Emma, “and couldn’t have done a better job.”

“That is indeed a compliment, coming from you, Mrs. Clifton,” said the King, as he ushered them both toward two comfortable chairs. “And what a cruel blow you have been dealt, Mr. Clifton, after spending so many years campaigning for your friend’s release, only to have his life snatched away when he was about to receive the ultimate accolade.”

The door opened and a footman appeared carrying a large silver tray laden with tea and cakes.

“I arranged for some tea, which I hope is acceptable.” Emma was surprised when the King picked up the teapot and began to pour. “Milk and sugar, Mrs. Clifton?”

“Just milk, sir.”

“And you, Mr. Clifton?”

“The same, sir.”

“Now, I must confess,” said the King once he had poured himself a cup, “I had an ulterior motive for wanting to see you both privately. I have a problem that frankly only the two of you can solve. The Nobel Prize ceremony is one of the highlights of the Swedish calendar, and I enjoy the privilege of presiding over the awards, as my father and grandfather did before me. Mrs. Clifton, we must hope that Mrs. Babakova has recovered sufficiently by tomorrow evening to feel able to accept the prize on her husband’s behalf. I suspect it will take all your considerable skills to persuade her that she is up to carrying out such a task. But I wouldn’t want her to spend the rest of her days unaware of the affection and respect in which her husband is held by the people of Sweden.”

“If it’s at all possible, sir, be assured I’ll do my damnedest.” Emma regretted the word the moment she’d uttered it.

“I suspect your damnedest is pretty formidable, Mrs. Clifton.” They both laughed. “And Mr. Clifton, I need your help with an even more demanding challenge, which if I had to ask you on bended knee I would happily do.” He paused to take a sip of tea. “The highlight of tomorrow’s ceremony would have been Mr. Babakov’s acceptance speech. I can think of no one better qualified, or more appropriate, to take his place for the occasion, and I have a feeling he would be the first to agree with me. However, I realize such a request would be onerous at the best of times, and I will of course understand if you feel unable to consider it at such short notice.”