Cometh the Hour

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Thanks for calling back, Seb. I realize you’ve got a lot on your mind at the moment, but I have some sad news. Saul Kaufman has died. I thought you ought to know immediately, not just because of the takeover deal we’re in the middle of, but, more important, I know Victor is one of your oldest friends.”

  “Thank you, Hakim. How very sad. I greatly admired the old man. Victor will be my next call.”

  “Kaufman’s shares have fallen sharply, which is hard to explain, seeing Saul hasn’t been in to the office for over a year.”

  “You and I know that,” said Seb, “but the public doesn’t. Don’t forget, Saul founded the bank. His name is still at the top of the notepaper, so investors who don’t know any better will wonder if it’s a one-man band. But taking into account the bank’s strong balance sheet, and its considerable assets, in my opinion Kaufman’s shares were already well below market value even before Saul’s death.”

  “Do you think they might fall even further?”

  “No one gets in at the bottom and out at the top,” said Seb. “If they fall below three pounds—and they were £3.26 when I left—I’d be a buyer. But remember Farthings already has six percent of Kaufman’s stock, and if we go over ten percent, the bank of England will require us to make a full takeover bid, and we’re not quite ready for that.”

  “I think there may be someone else in the market.”

  “That will be Desmond Mellor, but he’s only a spoiler. He doesn’t have the sort of capital to make a real impact. Believe me, he’ll run out of steam.”

  “Unless he has someone else backing him.”

  “No one in the City would consider backing Mellor, as Adrian Sloane and Jim Knowles have already discovered.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Seb. I’ll buy a few more Kaufman’s shares if they fall below three pounds, and then we can look at the bigger picture once you get back. By the way, how’s it all going out there?”

  “I wouldn’t buy shares in Clifton Enterprises.”

  * * *

  Seb was gradually coming to terms with the oppressive heat and even the traffic jams, but he couldn’t handle the fact that being on time simply wasn’t part of the Indian psyche. He had been pacing up and down the lobby of the Taj since 7:55, but Rohit Singh didn’t come strolling through the revolving doors until a few minutes before nine, offering only a shrug of the shoulders and a smile. He uttered the single word, “Traffic,” as if he had never driven in Bombay before. Sebastian didn’t comment, as he needed Singh on his team.

  “So who do you work for?” Singh asked once they’d sat down in a pair of comfortable seats in the lounge.

  “Tatler,” said Sebastian, who had decided on the magazine overnight. “We want to do a center-page spread on the wedding. We’ve got quite a bit on Priya Ghuman, because she’s been living in London for the past three years, but we don’t even know the name of the man she’s going to marry.”

  “We only found out ourselves yesterday, but no one was surprised to hear it was Suresh Chopra.”

  “Why?”

  “His father is chairman of Bombay Building, so the marriage is more about the joining of two companies than of two people. I’ve got a picture of him if you’d like to see it.” Singh opened his briefcase and took out a photograph. Sebastian stared at a man who looked around fifty, but might have been younger, because he was certainly fifty pounds overweight.

  “Are he and Priya old friends?” he asked.

  “Their parents are, but I’m not sure they themselves have ever met. I’m told the official introductions will be made next week. That’s a ceremony in itself, to which we won’t be invited. Can I ask about payment?” said Singh, changing the subject.

  “Sure. We’ll pay you the full agency rate,” replied Seb, without any idea what that meant, “and an advance payment to make sure you don’t share your pictures with anyone else in England.” He passed over five hundred-rupee notes. “Is that fair?”

  Singh nodded and pocketed the cash in a way that would have impressed the Artful Dodger.

  “So when do you want me to start?”

  “Will you be photographing any members of the family in the near future?”

  “Day after tomorrow. Priya’s got a fitting at Brides of Bombay on Altamont Street at eleven o’clock. Her mother wanted me to take a few shots for a family album she’s preparing.”

  “I’ll be there,” said Seb. “But I’ll keep my distance. I gather Sukhi Ghuman doesn’t care much for London hacks.”

  “He doesn’t care for us either,” said Singh, “unless it suits his purpose. Be warned, Mrs. Ghuman will almost certainly accompany her daughter. That will mean at least two armed guards, which the family have never bothered with in the past. Perhaps Mr. Ghuman just wants to remind everyone how important he is.”

  Not everyone, thought Seb.

  20

  SEBASTIAN WALKED OVER to the reception desk.

  “Good morning, Mr. Clifton. I trust you’re enjoying your stay with us.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “And my brother is proving satisfactory?”

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  “Excellent. And how can I help you today?”

  “First, I’d like you to replace the Ambassador with a motorbike.”

  “Of course, sir,” said the receptionist, not sounding surprised. “Anything else?”

  “I need a florist.”

  “You’ll find one downstairs in the arcade. Fresh flowers were delivered about an hour ago.”

  “Thank you,” said Seb. He jogged down the steps to the arcade, where he spotted a young woman arranging a bunch of vivid orange marigolds in a large vase. She looked up as he approached.

  “I’d like to buy a single rose.”

  “Of course, sir,” she said, gesturing toward a selection of different-colored roses. “Would you like to choose one?”

  Seb took his time picking a red one that was just starting to bloom. “Can I have it delivered?”

  “Yes, sir. Would you like to add a message?” she asked, handing him a pen.

  Seb took a card from the counter, turned it over and wrote:

  To Priya Ghuman,

  Congratulations on your forthcoming marriage.

  From all your admirers at the Taj Hotel.

  He gave the florist Priya’s address and said, “Please charge it to room 808. When will it be delivered?”

  She looked at the address. “Some time between ten and eleven, depending on the traffic.”

  “Will you be here for the rest of the morning?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, looking puzzled.

  “If anyone calls and asks who sent the rose, tell them it was the guest who’s staying in room 808.”

  “Certainly, sir,” said the florist, as he handed her a fifty-rupee note.

  Seb ran back upstairs, aware that he had only a couple of hours to spare, three at the most. When he walked out of the hotel he was pleased to see that the receptionist had carried out his instructions and replaced the Ambassador with a motorbike.

  “Good morning, sir. Where would you like to go today?” asked Vijay, displaying the same irrepressible smile.

  “Santacruz airport. The domestic terminal. And I’m not in a hurry,” he emphasized as he climbed onto the back of the bike.

  He carefully observed the route that Vijay took, noting the occasional blue and white airport signs dotted along the way. Forty-two minutes later Vijay screeched to a halt outside the domestic terminal. Seb jumped off, saying, “Hang around, I’ll only be a few minutes.” He walked inside and checked the departures board. The flight he required was leaving from Gate 14B, and the word “Boarding” was flashing next to the words “New Delhi.” He followed the signs, but when he arrived at the gate, he didn’t join the queue of passengers waiting to board the plane. He checked his watch. It had taken forty-nine minutes from the moment he’d left the hotel to reach the gate. He retraced his steps to find Vijay waiting patiently for him.<
br />
  “I’ll take us back,” said Seb, grabbing the handlebars.

  “But you don’t have a license, sir.”

  “I don’t think anyone will notice.” Seb flicked on the ignition, revved up and waited for Vijay to climb on behind him before he joined the traffic heading into Bombay.

  They were back outside the hotel forty-one minutes later. Seb checked his watch. The rose should be delivered any time now.

  “I’ll be back, Vijay, but I can’t be sure when,” he said before walking quickly up the steps and into the hotel. He took the lift to the eighth floor, went straight to his room, poured himself a cold Cobra and sat down next to the phone. So many jumbled thoughts flooded through his mind. Had the rose been delivered? If it had, would Priya even see it? If she did see it, would she realize who’d sent it? At least he felt confident about that. She would recognize his handwriting, and with one call to the florist she would discover which room he was in. It was clear that her family weren’t letting her out of the house unaccompanied, possibly not even out of their sight. Checking his watch every few minutes he paced up and down the room, occasionally stopping to take a sip of his beer. He glanced at the front page of the Times of India, but didn’t get beyond the headlines. He thought about ringing his uncle Giles, and bringing him up to date, but decided he couldn’t risk the line being busy when she called.

  When the phone made a loud metallic sound, Seb grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “Is that you, Seb?” Priya whispered.

  “Yes it is, black swan. Can you talk?”

  “Only for a minute. What are you doing in Bombay?”

  “I’ve come to take you back to England.” He paused. “But only if that’s what you want.”

  “Of course it’s what I want. Just tell me how.”

  Seb quickly explained exactly what he had planned, and although she remained silent, he felt confident she was listening intently. Suddenly she spoke, her voice formal. “Thank you, yes. You can expect my mother and me around eleven—” A pause. “I’m also looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Don’t forget to bring your passport,” said Seb, just before she put the phone down.

  “Who was that?” Priya’s mother asked.

  “Brides of Bombay,” said Priya, casually, not wanting her mother to become suspicious. “Just confirming our appointment for tomorrow,” she added, trying to conceal her excitement. “They suggested I wear something casual, as I’ll be trying on several outfits.”

  Seb made no attempt to disguise how euphoric he felt. He punched the air and shouted “Hallelujah!” as if he’d just scored the winning goal in the cup final. Once he’d recovered, he sat down and thought about what needed to be done next. After a few moments, he left his room and went downstairs to the front desk.

  “Did you find what you were looking for at the florist, Mr. Clifton?”

  “She couldn’t have been more helpful, thank you. Now I’d like to book two first-class tickets on Air India’s flight to New Delhi at two twenty tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Certainly, sir. I’ll ask our travel desk to send the tickets up to your room as soon as they’re confirmed.”

  Seb sat alone in the hotel restaurant, picking at a curry as he went over his plan again and again, trying to eradicate any possible flaws. After lunch he left the hotel to find Vijay sitting on the bike. He could have given a lapdog lessons in loyalty.

  “Where to now, sir?”

  “Back to the airport,” said Seb, as he grabbed the handlebars and climbed on.

  “Do you require me, sir?”

  “Oh yes. I need someone sitting behind me.”

  Seb knocked three minutes off their previous time to the airport, and once again walked across to Gate 14B, where he double-checked the departure board. On the return trip to the hotel, he knocked another minute off his time, without ever breaking the speed limit.

  “See you at ten tomorrow morning, Vijay,” said Seb, knowing he was talking to someone who didn’t need to be reminded to be on time.

  Vijay gave a mock salute as Sebastian entered the hotel and returned to his room. He ordered a light supper and tried to relax by watching Above Us the Waves on television. He finally climbed into bed just after eleven, but didn’t sleep.

  21

  DESPITE A SLEEPLESS night, Sebastian wasn’t tired when he pulled open the curtains the following morning, letting the first rays of the sun flood into his room. He now knew what an athlete must feel like the morning before an Olympic final.

  He took a long cold shower, put on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of trainers. He ordered breakfast in his room, but only to kill time. He would have called his uncle Giles to bring him up to date if it hadn’t been the middle of the night in London. He went down to the front desk just after ten and asked for his bill.

  “I hope you enjoyed your stay with us, Mr. Clifton,” said the concierge, “and will be returning soon.”

  “I hope so too,” said Seb as he handed over his credit card, although he couldn’t imagine what circumstances would make it possible for him ever to return. When the receptionist handed him back his credit card, he asked, “Shall I send someone up to collect your luggage, Mr. Clifton?”

  Seb was momentarily thrown. “No, I’ll pick it up later,” he stammered.

  “As you wish, sir.”

  When Seb stepped out of the hotel, he was pleased, though not surprised, to see Vijay leaning on the motorbike.

  “Where to this time, sir?”

  “114 Altamont Street.”

  “Posh shopping area. You buy present for your girlfriend?”

  “Something like that,” said Seb.

  They arrived outside Brides of Bombay at twenty minutes past ten. This was never going to be an appointment Seb would be late for. Vijay didn’t comment when Seb asked him to park out of sight, but he was surprised by his next instruction.

  “I want you to take a bus to the airport and wait for me outside the entrance to the domestic terminal.” He took five hundred rupees from his wallet and handed over the well-worn notes to Vijay.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Vijay, before walking away looking even more bemused.

  Seb kept the engine turning over as he remained hidden behind a dilapidated old lorry. He couldn’t decide whether it had been dumped or parked.

  A large black Mercedes drew up outside Brides of Bombay a few minutes after eleven. The chauffeur opened the back door to allow Mrs. Ghuman and her daughter to step out. Priya was wearing jeans, a T-shirt and flat shoes, as Seb had recommended. It didn’t matter what Priya wore, she always looked stunning.

  One guard accompanied them as they entered the bridal shop, while the other remained in the front seat of the car. Seb had assumed that once the chauffeur had delivered his passengers, he would drive off and come back later. But the car remained parked in a restricted zone, and clearly wasn’t going to move until his charges returned; Seb’s first mistake. He had also thought both guards would accompany Mrs. Ghuman into the shop. His second mistake. He switched off the bike’s engine, not wanting to draw attention to himself. His third mistake. He wondered how long it might be before Priya reappeared, and whether she would be alone or accompanied by the guard.

  A few minutes later he spotted Rohit Singh in his wing mirror. The photographer was strolling nonchalantly along the pavement, camera slung over one shoulder, clearly content to be fashionably late. Seb watched as he disappeared into the shop. The next twenty minutes felt like an hour, with Seb continually glancing at his watch. He was sweating profusely. Thirty minutes. Had Priya lost her nerve? Forty minutes. Could she have changed her mind? Fifty minutes. Much longer and they’d miss their flight. And then suddenly, without warning, there she was, running out onto the pavement on her own. She paused briefly, before anxiously looking up and down the road.

  Seb switched on the ignition and revved the engine, but he was only at the side of the lorry by the time the second guard stepped out of the Mercedes and began wa
lking toward the boss’s daughter. The chauffeur was opening the rear door as Seb pulled up by the car. He waved frantically at Priya, who ran out into the street, jumped onto the back of the bike and clung onto him. The guard reacted immediately and charged toward them. Seb was trying to accelerate away when he lunged at him, causing Seb to swerve and almost unseat his passenger. The guard narrowly avoided being hit by a passing taxi and landed spread-eagled in the street.

  Seb quickly recovered and maneuvred the bike into the center lane with Priya clinging on. The guard leapt up and gave chase, but it was an unequal contest. Once he had seen which way the bike turned at the end of the street, Seb’s fourth mistake, the guard immediately changed direction and ran into the shop.

  When Mrs. Ghuman was told the news, she screamed at a petrified shop assistant, “Where’s the nearest phone?” Before she could reply, the manager, hearing the outburst, reappeared and led Mrs. Ghuman into her office. She closed the door and left her alone, while her customer dialed a number she rarely phoned. After several rings a voice said, “Ghuman Enterprises.”

  “It’s Mrs. Ghuman. Put me through to my husband immediately.”

  “He’s chairing a board meeting, Mrs. Ghuman—”

  “Then interrupt it. This is an emergency.” The secretary hesitated. “Immediately, do you hear me?”

  “Who is this?” demanded the next voice.

  “It’s Simran, we have a problem. Priya has run off with Clifton.”

  “How can that be possible?”

  “He was waiting for her on a motorbike outside the shop. All I can tell you is that they turned left at the end of Altamont Street.”

  “They must be heading for the airport. Tell the chauffeur to take both guards to the international terminal and await my instructions.” He slammed down the phone and quickly left the room, leaving twelve bewildered directors sitting around the boardroom table. As he swept through to his office he shouted at his secretary, “Find out the time of the next flight to London. And quickly!”

  Ghuman’s secretary picked up the phone on her desk and called special services at the airport. A few moments later she pressed the intercom button that connected her to the chairman’s desk.