Heads You Win

by Jeffrey Archer

  “It’s not natural for a woman to be Prime Minister,” said Elena.

  “Don’t let Fiona Hunter hear you saying that,” said Sasha, “unless you want to be banished to the Tower.”

  “If that woman ever became Prime Minister, I’d seriously consider returning to Russia,” said Elena. “Meanwhile, some of us ought to be getting back to work, especially if we’re going to have a Member of Parliament in the family. I’m told they’re not very well paid.”

  “And they don’t get any tips either,” said Charlie.

  “Other than everyone telling them how to govern the country,” said Sasha as he ran a finger down the evening bookings, coming to a halt when he noticed a familiar name.

  “I didn’t know Alf Rycroft was booked in for tonight.”

  “Yes,” said Elena. “He rang this morning, said he hoped both of you would be able to join him for dinner, as there’s something important he needs to discuss with you.”

  “He’s probably hoping you’ll agree to contest Merrifield again at the general election,” said Charlie. “But of course he doesn’t know that you’re about to be selected for a safe seat.”

  “He’ll be delighted when he hears the news,” said Elena, “and so proud that his protégé will soon be a Member of Parliament. How’s that Hunter woman getting on?”

  “Rather well, actually,” said Sasha. “After only a couple of years of sitting on the green benches, she’s already been appointed as Parliamentary Private Secretary to the Shadow Minister for Rural Affairs.”

  “How important is that?” asked Charlie.

  “It’s the first step on the ladder for MPs who are thought to have a promising career ahead of them.”

  “It will be interesting to see which one of you gets into the Cabinet first,” said Elena.

  “Don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves,” said Charlie.

  “Agreed,” said Sasha. “I’ve still got to make sure I’m selected for Wandsworth Central, and as I’ll have to prepare a completely new speech for the final round you won’t be seeing much of me before next Thursday. By the way, Mother, have you given any more thought to whether you want to run a third restaurant?”

  “Yes, I have,” said Elena, before disappearing into the kitchen.

  * * *

  Sasha opened a bottle of champagne and poured Charlie and himself a glass. “I’ll have to pick the right moment,” he said. “Preferably before Alf even has a chance to raise the subject of Merrifield.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  “I shall behave like an Englishman for a change. Talk about anything else, even the weather, before touching on the one subject that needs to be discussed.”

  “He’s just coming through the door,” whispered Charlie.

  Sasha jumped down from his stool at the bar and walked quickly across the restaurant to greet his former constituency chairman.

  “Do come and join us, Alf. I’ve opened a bottle of champagne in your honor.”

  “Are we celebrating anything in particular?”

  “I’m about to become a father.”

  “And I think I’m the mother,” said Charlie, grinning.

  “Wonderful news,” said Alf, kissing her on both cheeks.

  “Thank you,” said Charlie as a waiter handed them menus.

  “What do you recommend?” asked Alf, not even opening his menu.

  “Elena’s moussaka is the house special,” said Sasha. “Customers travel for miles just to sample it, to quote the Spectator.”

  “Not a magazine I read regularly,” admitted Alf, “but I’ll take their word for it. In any case, I’m a huge fan of your mother, a remarkable woman.”

  “I’m surrounded by remarkable women,” said Sasha, “and I look forward to a child who will worship me.”

  “I suspect it will be the other way around,” said Alf.

  After they had ordered, and Sasha had poured three more glasses of champagne, they discussed the televising of Parliament, the problems in Northern Ireland, and finally the weather, before Sasha suggested they go through to dinner.

  “I can’t wait to hear what Fiona’s been up to,” said Sasha after they had taken their seats.

  “All in good time,” said Alf. “But first, I want to know how you’re getting on at the Courtauld, Charlie.”

  “You are sitting next to Dr. Karpenko,” said Sasha, giving his wife a nod.

  “Many congratulations. You must be very proud.”

  “Not as proud as I am of Sasha, who may well be an MP after the next election,” said Charlie, coming in bang on cue.

  Alf couldn’t hide his disappointment. It was some time before he managed, “So you’ve been selected for another seat?”

  “Not quite yet,” said Charlie, as Gino served their first course. “But he’s on the shortlist for Wandsworth Central, and as he came top in the first round by a fair margin, we’re feeling fairly confident.”

  “Congratulations once again,” said Alf. “I can’t pretend I’m surprised, because I meant it when I said I hoped to live long enough to see you take your place in the Cabinet, though I confess I’d rather hoped it might be as the member for Merrifield.”

  “But you told me you wouldn’t expect me to stand for Merrifield again. And in any case, now that Fiona has begun to establish herself in the House, we can assume it will go back to being a safe Tory seat at the next general election.”

  “I would normally agree with you,” said Alf, “if it weren’t for the recommendations of the boundary commission, which have just been published.”

  “Am I missing something here?” asked Charlie. “I feel like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s tea party.”

  “That’s not surprising, because not many people outside the Westminster hothouse have even heard of the boundary commission. It’s an independent body that comes together as and when required to review the parliamentary landscape, so that any anomalies that have arisen over the years can be ironed out. In their wisdom, the Commission has decided that Merrifield’s boundaries should be redrawn to include Blandford, a few miles up the road, and form a new constituency that will retain the name of Merrifield.”

  “Does that mean Merrifield will become a safe Labour seat?” asked Sasha.

  “No, I can’t pretend it does,” said Alf, “but we’ve done the calculations, and it will certainly be a key marginal. In fact the Guardian has listed it as among the seats that will decide who wins the next election.”

  The waiters cleared away the first course, although Sasha’s soup had gone cold. “And how has Fiona reacted to this bombshell?” he asked.

  “She appealed, of course, and fought the commission’s decision tooth and nail, but she lost, and had to decide whether to look for a safer seat, or stay put and contest Merrifield. I’m told that the chairman of the Conservative Party left Fiona in no doubt what was expected of her, so she’s just announced that she’ll be defending the seat.”

  Although the main courses had been served, Sasha’s knife and fork remained in place.

  “In view of the changed circumstances,” said Alf, “I called a meeting of the committee last night and they unanimously agreed that if you’d be willing to stand as our candidate, we wouldn’t look elsewhere.”

  “How long has he got to make up his mind?” asked Charlie.

  “I’ve promised to report back to the committee by the end of the week.”

  “Before Wandsworth Central select their candidate?” said Sasha.

  “You know perfectly well, Sasha, that whoever Wandsworth Central select will win by a landslide, whereas I’m convinced that you’re our best hope to capture Merrifield, and therefore give the Labour Party a chance of clinging on to power.”

  “That sounds to me like a not very subtle attempt at arm-twisting,” said Charlie.

  “Sometimes known as backroom politics,” said Alf, as Elena came bursting out of the kitchen.

  Alf immediately stood up. “The moussaka was mouthwatering, my d
ear,” he said. “And there’s still your famous banoffee pie to follow.”

  “Yes, but not before we all have another glass of champagne,” said Elena. “I assume Sasha has told you the good news?”

  “We’ve been discussing little else,” said Alf.

  “And I think you’ll find he’s already made up his mind.”

  Alf looked disappointed, Charlie surprised, and Sasha puzzled.

  “Oh yes,” said Elena. “Konstantin if it’s a boy, Natasha for a girl.”

  Sasha, Charlie, and Alf all burst out laughing.

  “What did I say that was so funny?” asked Elena.

  * * *

  Dear Chairman,

  It is with considerable regret, and much soul-searching, that I have decided not to allow my name to go forward as the prospective Labour parliamentary candidate for the constituency of …

  Sasha placed his pen on the desk, leaned back, and thought yet again about the decision he and Charlie had finally agreed on.

  Even at this last moment, he considered changing his mind. After all, it was a decision that could change his whole life. And then he thought about Fiona. He picked up his pen and wrote the words “Wandsworth Central.”

  32

  ALEX

  Boston

  The Cathedral of the Holy Cross was packed for Lawrence Lowell’s funeral. This gentle, modest, and decent man would have been touched by how many people had clearly admired him.

  Alex was honored when Lawrence’s mother, Mrs. Rose Lowell, invited him to deliver one of the three eulogies, especially as the other two orators were Senator Ted Kennedy and Bishop Lomax. Mrs. Evelyn Lowell Halliday sat in the front row, but never once acknowledged Alex.

  After the bishop had given the final blessing and the mourners had departed, Alex was approached by two men; one he knew well, the other he’d never met before.

  Bob Brookes, the chairman of the Boston branch of the Democratic Party, said he needed to speak to him on a private matter. Alex had intended to return to New York that afternoon, but he agreed to delay his departure by twenty-four hours, and they arranged to meet at his hotel at ten o’clock the following morning. The second man turned out to be the Lowell family lawyer, and he had a similar request. However, Mr. Harbottle was unwilling to discuss such a delicate matter outside his office, so Alex made an appointment to see him following his meeting with Brookes.

  Alex returned to the Mayflower Hotel, and called Anna at the gallery to tell her he wouldn’t be back until the next day. She sounded disappointed, but confessed she couldn’t wait to find out why the two men wanted to see him.

  “By the way,” she said, “have you told your mother yet?”

  * * *

  “The vote was unanimous,” said Brookes.

  “I’m flattered,” said Alex, “but I’m afraid the answer is still no. Elena’s has recently opened two new pizza parlors in Denver and Seattle, and the staff have yet to meet their boss, so you’ll have to look for someone else.”

  “You were the only candidate the committee considered,” said Brookes.

  “But I’m from New York. My only connection with Boston was Lawrence.”

  “Alex, I’ve watched you working with Lawrence during the past six weeks, and after a life in politics, I can tell you, you’re a natural.”

  “Why don’t you stand yourself, Bob? You were born and bred in Boston, and everyone knows and respects you.”

  “I could introduce you to a dozen people who can chair their local party committee,” said Brookes, “but only occasionally someone comes along who was born to be the candidate.”

  “I have to admit,” said Alex, “that I have considered politics as a career, but it would make far more sense for me start out in local government in Brighton Beach, where I went to school and founded my business—and perhaps if I’m lucky enough, one day I’ll represent them in Congress. No, Bob, you’ll have to find a local man to fight Blake Hawksley.”

  “But Hawksley isn’t in your class, and the Democratic majority is large enough for you to see him off. Once we’ve got you into Congress, no one will ever prize you out, at least not until you want to become a senator.”

  Alex hesitated. “I wish it was that easy, but it isn’t. So would you be kind enough to thank your committee and say that perhaps in four or five years’ time…”

  “The seat won’t be available in four or five years’ time, Alex. Politics is about timing and opportunity, and those two stars aren’t aligned that often.”

  “I know you’re right, Bob, but the answer is still no. I must get going. I’ve got an appointment with Lawrence’s executor. He asked me to drop by his office on the way to the airport.”

  “If you should change your mind…”

  * * *

  “My name is Ed Harbottle. I’m the senior partner of Harbottle, Harbottle, and McDowell. This firm has had the privilege of representing the Lowell family for over a hundred years. My grandfather,” said Harbottle, glancing at an oil painting of an elderly gentleman wearing a dark blue, pin-striped double-breasted suit with a gold fob watch, “administered the estate of Mr. Ernest Lowell, the distinguished banker and fabled art collector. My father was legal adviser to Senator James Lowell, and for the past eleven years I have been Mr. Lawrence Lowell’s personal attorney and, I would like to think, friend.”

  Alex looked at the man seated on the other side of the desk, who was also dressed in a dark blue, pin-striped double-breasted suit and wearing a gold fob watch, which was unquestionably the same one as in the painting. Alex couldn’t be sure about the suit.

  “We meet in sad circumstances, Mr. Karpenko.”

  “Tragic and unnecessary circumstances,” said Alex with feeling. Harbottle raised an eyebrow. “I hope I live to see the day when people’s sexual preferences are considered irrelevant, including for those who wish to serve in public office.”

  “That isn’t the reason Mr. Lowell committed suicide,” said Harbottle, “but I shall come to that later,” he added, readjusting his half-moon spectacles. “Mr. Lowell instructed this firm to be the sole executor of his last will and testament, and in that capacity, it is my duty to inform you of a certain bequest that has been left to you.”

  Alex remained silent, trying not to anticipate …

  “I shall only make reference to the single clause in the will that applies to you, as I am not at liberty to disclose any other details. Do you have any questions, Mr. Karpenko?”

  “None,” said Alex, who had a dozen questions, but had a feeling that all would be revealed in the fullness of time. Mr. Harbottle’s time. Once again, the elderly lawyer adjusted his glasses before turning several pages of the thick parchment document in front of him.

  “I shall read clause forty-three of the testament,” he announced, finally coming to his purpose. “‘I bequeath to Alexander Konstantinovitch Karpenko my entire shareholding of fifty percent in the Elena Pizza Company, of which we are joint partners.’”

  Alex was momentarily stunned by the generosity of his old friend, before he managed, “I can’t believe that his sister will take that lying down.”

  “I don’t think Mrs. Evelyn Lowell-Halliday will be causing you or anyone else any trouble. On the contrary.”

  “What are you not telling me, Mr. Harbottle?” said Alex, staring across the table.

  The lawyer hesitated for a moment, before removing his glasses and placing them on the desk. “The reasons for his suicide are more complex than the public realize, Mr. Karpenko. Lawrence did not commit suicide because of the press revelations.”

  “Then why?”

  “Lawrence had many worthy qualities, including generosity of heart and pocket, as well as a genuine desire to serve, which made him an ideal candidate for public office. I have no doubt he would have been a very fine congressman.”

  “But?”

  “But,” repeated Harbottle, “a different set of skills and expertise are required to run a modern financial institution, and although
Lawrence was chairman of the Lowell Bank and Trust Company, he held that position in name only, and allowed others to handle the day-to-day business of the bank. Others who were not of the same moral fiber.”

  “How bad is it?” asked Alex, leaning forward.

  “I’m not acquainted with the finer details of the bank’s present financial position, but I can tell you that Douglas Ackroyd, the chief executive, will be announcing his resignation later this afternoon. I’m only relieved that this firm will not be representing that particular gentleman in any forthcoming legal actions that might arise.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” asked Alex.

  “I am not in a position to advise you on that matter, Mr. Karpenko. But Lawrence did ask me to give you this letter.” He opened the drawer of his desk, took out a slim white envelope, and handed it to Alex.

  Alex tore it open and extracted a single sheet of paper, written in Lawrence’s clear, unmistakable hand.

  My dear Alex,

  By now you will know that I have made a complete fool of myself, and more importantly, ruined the good name of my family, earned over a hundred years, and squandered in a generation.

  I apologize for burdening you with my problems, but within days of my death, the Lowell Bank and Trust Company will be subject to an investigation by the IRS. Someone will be left with the unenviable task of having to wind up the bank’s assets, while at the same time doing everything in their power to ensure that its loyal shareholders and customers suffer the minimum loss.

  To that end, I have left all the family assets, including my homes in Boston, Southampton, and the south of France, along with the Lowell art collection, to be disposed of as the new chairman of the company considers fit.

  However, that begs the question of who that chairman should be. I can think of no one I would trust more to carry out that onerous responsibility than you, and if you felt able to do so, I would also leave you my fifty percent shareholding in the bank. However, I would understand if you felt unable to take on such a task, especially as it wouldn’t be the first time you’d come to my rescue.

  For all you have done in the past, my grateful thanks.