Heads You Win

by Jeffrey Archer

  “I don’t think so,” said Charlie. “Meanwhile, some of us have to do a day’s work. Be sure to call me the moment you hear anything. And don’t forget you’re taking Natasha to school this morning,” she added before leaving to catch the Underground to Victoria.

  Sasha topped his egg to find it had already gone hard. When Natasha left the room to collect her bag, he tried to read the morning papers. History. How he wanted to read tomorrow’s papers and discover if he’d been offered a job.

  Natasha stuck her head around the door. “Come on, Dad, it’s time to go. I can’t afford to be late.”

  Sasha abandoned his half-finished egg, grabbed the car keys from the sideboard, and quickly followed his daughter out onto the street.

  “Did I tell you I’ll be playing Portia in the school play this year, Papa?” said Natasha as she fastened her seatbelt.

  “Which Portia?” asked Sasha as he drove off.

  “Julius Caesar.”

  “You are a true and honorable wife, as dear to me as are the ruddy drops that visit my sad heart.”

  Natasha paused, before she delivered the next line. “If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but withal a woman that Lord Brutus took to wife.”

  “Not bad,” said Sasha.

  “We’re still looking for a Brutus, Papa, just in case you’ve got nothing better to do,” Natasha said as they drew up outside the school gates.

  “Not a bad offer. I’ll let you know this evening if I get a better one.”

  “By the way,” Natasha said as she got out of the car, “you made a one-word mistake.”

  “Which word?”

  “Haven’t you always told me, don’t be lazy, child, look it up? Have a good day, Papa, and the best of luck!”

  * * *

  Sasha let the phone ring three times before he picked it up.

  “Sasha, it’s Ben. Just calling to wish you luck.”

  “I’m sorry you lost your seat, old friend. But I’m sure you’ll be back.”

  “I doubt it. I have a feeling your party will be sitting on the government benches for some time.”

  “Perhaps they’ll send you to the Lords?”

  “Too young. And in any case, there’s likely to be a fairly long queue in front of me.”

  “Let’s keep in touch,” said Sasha, aware that that was no longer going to be quite as easy.

  “I’ll get off the line,” said Ben. “I know you must be waiting for a call from Number 10. Good luck.”

  Sasha hadn’t even sat back down before the phone rang again. He grabbed it before it could ring a second time.

  “This is Number 10,” said a switchboard voice. “The Prime Minister wondered if you could see him at three twenty this afternoon.”

  I’ll check my diary and see if that’s convenient, Sasha was tempted to say. “Of course,” he replied.

  For the next hour he pretended to watch the news, read the papers, and even eat lunch. He took calls from several colleagues who had already received the summons, or were still anxiously waiting, and from many others, including Alf Rycroft, to wish him luck. In between, he fed the cat, who was fast asleep, and read the second act of Julius Caesar to discover his one-word mistake.

  He drove to the Commons just after 2:30 p.m., and parked in the members’ car park. The policeman on the gate saluted the moment he saw him. Did he know something Sasha didn’t? He left the Palace of Westminster just after three, and walked slowly across Parliament Square and up Whitehall past the Foreign Office. Were the mandarins inside waiting for him? The policeman on duty at Downing Street didn’t need to check his clipboard.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Karpenko,” he said, and opened the gate to let him through.

  “Good afternoon,” Sasha replied, as he began the long gallows walk up Downing Street to discover his fate.

  He was surprised when the door to number 10 opened while he was still a few paces away. He stepped inside for the first time, to find a young woman waiting for him.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Karpenko. Would you be kind enough to follow me?” She led him up a flight of stairs, past the portraits of former Prime Ministers. John Major was already in place.

  When they reached the first floor, she stopped outside a door and knocked quietly, opened it, and stood aside. Sasha walked in to find the Prime Minister sitting opposite an empty chair in which it looked as if several people had already sat. A secretary, pen poised, was seated behind him.

  “I’m sure this won’t come as much of a surprise,” said the Prime Minister once Sasha had sat down, “but I’d like you to join Robin at the Foreign Office as his Minister of State. I hope you’ll feel able to accept the post.”

  “I’d be honored,” said Sasha. “And delighted to serve in your first administration.”

  “I’d also like you to keep me briefed on what’s happening in Russia,” said the Prime Minister, “particularly if your personal situation should change.”

  “My personal situation, Prime Minister?”

  “Our ambassador in Moscow tells me that if you were to return to Russia and stand against Yeltsin, you’d end up with an even bigger majority than I have. In which case it will be me trying to get an appointment with you.”

  “But Yeltsin doesn’t come up for election for another three years.”

  “Yes, but the polls currently show his approval rating is in single figures, and still falling.”

  “The polls are irrelevant, Prime Minister. What matters in Russia is how many voting slips end up in the ballot box, who put them there, and even more important, who counts them.”

  “So much for glasnost,” said Blair. “But I have a feeling your time may well come, Sasha, so please keep me informed, and in the meantime, good luck in your new job.”

  The secretary leaned forward and whispered in the Prime Minister’s ear. Sasha didn’t need to be told the meeting was over, and was about to leave when the PM added, “Your name is also on the list of ministers who will be invited to join the Privy Council.”

  “Thank you, Prime Minister,” said Sasha as he rose, and the two men shook hands.

  When Sasha left the PM’s office, he found the same young woman still standing in the corridor. “If you come with me, minister, you’ll find a car outside waiting to take you to the Foreign Office.”

  Denis Healey had once told Sasha that you never forget the first person who calls you minister. But within a week, you’ll think it’s your Christian name.

  As Sasha left number 10 he passed Chris Smith on his way in, and wondered what job he was about to be offered. He stepped out onto the pavement, and a burly man who looked as if he might play in the front row of his local rugby team introduced himself. “Good afternoon, minister, my name is Arthur, and I’m your driver,” he said, holding open the back door of the waiting car.

  “I’d prefer to sit in the front,” said Sasha.

  “I’m afraid not, sir. Security reasons.”

  Sasha climbed into the back. He couldn’t help wondering why he even needed a car, as the Foreign Office was only a few hundred yards away. “Security reasons,” he could hear Arthur assuring him.

  “Can I make a phone call?”

  “It’s in the armrest, minister. Just pick it up and you’ll be straight through to the FO’s switchboard. Tell them who you want and they’ll connect you immediately.”

  “Presumably I’ll need to give them the number?”

  “That won’t be necessary, sir.”

  Sasha lifted the armrest and picked up the phone. “Good afternoon, minister,” said a voice, “how can I help?”

  “I’d like to speak to my wife.”

  “Of course, sir, I’ll put you through.”

  Fiona had once told him it takes a little time to get used to the sudden change of lifestyle from opposition to government.

  “Hello?” said the voice on the other end of the line.

  “Good afternoon, this is the Right Honorable Sasha Karpenk
o, Her Majesty’s Minister of State at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.”

  He waited for Charlie to burst out laughing. “I’m so sorry, minister,” said the voice, “but your wife is away from her desk at the moment. I’ll let her know that you called.”

  “I do apologize—” began Sasha, but the phone had already gone dead.

  “I’ve just made my first gaffe, Arthur.”

  “And I feel sure it won’t be your last. But I must admit, you’re the first of my ministers who managed it even before he’d reached the Foreign Office.”

  43

  ALEX

  Boston and Davos, 1999

  The board meeting had gone smoothly enough until Jake raised the final item on the agenda, “Any other business.”

  “Evelyn wants what?” asked the chairman, staring in disbelief at his chief executive.

  “To sell her fifty percent stake in the bank. She’s offering us first refusal.”

  “How much would her shares fetch on the open market?” asked Bob Underwood.

  “Four, possibly five hundred million.”

  “And how much is she asking for?” asked Mitch Blake.

  “A billion.”

  A group of men who were capable of playing poker for hours without moving a facial muscle gasped in disbelief.

  “Evelyn’s well aware that while she owns fifty percent of the company’s stock, she can put a gun to our head.”

  “Then she may as well pull the trigger,” said Alex, “because we don’t have that sort of money available.”

  “As George Soros once said, if you own fifty-one percent of a company you are its master, if you own forty-nine or less, you are its servant.”

  “Anyone got any ideas?” asked Alex, looking around the boardroom table.

  “Kill her,” said Bob Underwood.

  “That wouldn’t solve the problem,” said Jake matter-of-factly, “because her husband, Todd Halliday, would inherit her estate, and then we’d have to deal with him.”

  “We could call her bluff,” said Underwood. “She’d soon find out that no one else is willing to pay her such a ridiculous sum.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Jake. “The Bank of Boston would love to get their hands on our Russian portfolio, which is now outperforming all our rivals, and I suspect they’d be willing to pay well above the asking price.”

  “Why don’t we just ignore the damned woman,” suggested Blake, “and perhaps she’ll go away.”

  “She’s already anticipated that,” said Jake, “and decided to park her tanks on our front lawn.”

  “And what does she plan to use as ammunition?” asked Alex.

  “The company statutes.”

  “Which one in particular?” asked Andy Harbottle, who thought he knew them all off by heart.

  “Number 92.”

  The rest of the board waited while Harbottle thumbed through a well-worn leather-bound book. When he came to the relevant statute, he read it out loud. “Should one shareholder or group of shareholders own fifty percent or more of the company stock, they would be entitled to hold up any board decision for six months.”

  “She’s listed eleven decisions we’ve made during the past year that she intends to challenge,” said Jake. “That would bring the bank to a standstill for six months, and she says that if we don’t pay up, she’ll come to the AGM next month and carry out her threat in person.”

  “Who put her up to this?” said Underwood.

  “Ackroyd would be my bet,” said Jake. “But as he’s got a criminal record, he can’t risk putting his head above the parapet. So we’re going to have to deal with Evelyn personally.”

  “But in view of her past relationship with Ackroyd,” said Underwood, “why don’t we offer her four hundred million and see how she responds?”

  “We could try,” said Jake. “But have I got any room to maneuver?”

  “Six hundred, and even that’s extortionate,” said Alex.

  “I think, as a board, we’ll have to assume that she’ll carry out her threat,” said Jake. “In which case Ackroyd will advise her to offer her shares to the Bank of Boston for seven hundred million.”

  “She should be hanged from the nearest gibbet, as many of her English ancestors were,” said Underwood.

  “It’s me who should be hanged,” said Alex. “Don’t forget, she once offered me her fifty percent for a million dollars, and I turned her down.”

  “Drawn and quartered,” said Underwood.

  “Not quite yet,” said Jake. “We still have one ace up our sleeve.”

  * * *

  “Congratulations,” said Anna. “It’s always a bit special to be recognized by your peers.”

  “Thank you,” said Alex. “Especially as Davos is attended by all the players who really matter in the financial world.”

  “What do they want you to speak about?”

  “Russia’s role in the new world order. The only problem is, it couldn’t have come at a worse time for the bank.”

  “Evelyn causing trouble again?”

  “She’s threatening to hijack the AGM if we don’t agree to her outrageous demands.”

  “Perhaps we should cancel our weekend in London and fly straight to Davos?”

  “No, we both need a break, and you’ve been looking forward to the trip for months.”

  “Years,” said Anna, “ever since Mr. Rosenthal told me I’d never really understand the significance of the English watercolor until I’d seen the Turners at the Tate.”

  * * *

  After paying a discreet visit to Boston’s most exclusive wigmaker he booked a return flight to Nice, and paid with cash. The travel agent also reserved him a room at the Hôtel de Paris, open-ended, as he couldn’t be sure how long it would take him to carry out his plan.

  By training he was a micromanager, obsessed with detail. His hero, General Eisenhower, had written in his memoirs that all things being equal, planning and preparation are what will decide who wins the battle. By the time he boarded the plane for Nice, he was more than ready to confront her on any battlefield she chose.

  * * *

  Miss Robbins had booked them into the Connaught, Lawrence’s favorite hotel in London. As they only had a long weekend before flying on to Davos, every minute of their stay had to be accounted for.

  The National Gallery, the Wallace Collection, and the Royal Academy were compulsory viewing, and didn’t disappoint. Henry Goodman’s haunting Shylock made them want to extend their visit and see every other production at the National Theatre. And how did one decide between the Natural History Museum, the V&A, and the Science Museum, unless you did all three of them on the run?

  Anna saved the Turner Collection at the Tate for their last morning, and both of them were standing outside the entrance even before the gallery had opened its doors. A View of the Archbishop’s Palace, painted when the artist was only fifteen, could not have left anyone in any doubt of Turner’s genius. But after seeing The Shipwreck and Venice, Anna wanted to say to Alex, Why don’t you go on to Davos without me?

  She turned to see him chatting to a woman who didn’t look like a tourist, and her lapel badge suggested she might work at the Tate. Anna had for some time wanted to ask someone about Turner’s fractious relationship with Constable, his great contemporary and rival, so she strolled across to join them.

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman was saying. “I thought for a moment you were my … How stupid of me.” She hurried away, looking embarrassed.

  “What was that all about?” asked Anna.

  “I’m not sure, but I think she mistook me for someone else.”

  “Leading a double life are you, my darling?” she teased. “Because she’s just your type, dark eyes, dark hair, and she looked highly intelligent.”

  “I found one of those some time ago,” said Alex, putting his arm around his wife, “and frankly, one is quite enough.”

  “Do I sense that you’re beginning to feel a little ner
vous about your speech?”

  “You could be right.”

  “Then let’s go back to the hotel and we can go over it one more time.”

  Neither of them noticed the gallery’s head conservator watching them from her office window as they made their way out onto Millbank and hailed a black cab. If it hadn’t been for the Brooks Brothers suit and his American accent, Charlie could have sworn … and then she remembered. Could it possibly be the woman who’d worked at the Rosenthal gallery, and was now the curator of the Lowell Collection?

  * * *

  He took his seat in first class, and was relieved to find he didn’t recognize any of the other passengers. He used the long flight across the Atlantic to go over his strategy again and again, although he knew he would need to look surprised when they first met. As with any seasoned orator, even the ad libs had to be rehearsed.

  He turned to her personal file, suspecting that by now he knew more about her than even her closest friends. By the time the plane touched down, he was wondering what could go wrong. Because there would always be something you hadn’t anticipated. Eisenhower.

  Once he’d passed through passport control and retrieved his two large leather cases, he took a taxi to the Hôtel de Paris, checked in, and was accompanied to his suite. He gave the porter a large tip, all part of the plan. He needed to be remembered. He could never sleep on planes, so he went straight to bed and didn’t wake until eight the following morning.

  He spent the day acquainting himself with the layout of the hotel as well as the casino on the other side of the square, not that he ever gambled. It was important for him to look and sound like a regular before they bumped into each other. And most important of all, it was the evenings that needed to be rehearsed to a split second.

  On Monday night, he dined alone in the hotel restaurant, and took his time gaining the confidence of Jacques, the maître d’, helped by leaving another extravagant tip before he returned to his room. By Tuesday, Jacques had confirmed that she and her husband dined at the hotel restaurant every Friday, before walking across the square where they would remain at the gaming tables until the early hours.

  On Wednesday, Jacques moved him to the table next to the one they always sat at, and he selected a seat that would place him with his back to her. By Thursday, Jacques was well aware of the part he was expected to play. But then, monsieur had left him several large incentives, and he anticipated that if he played his part, there was still more where that came from.