Cometh the Hour

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Will you tell Hakim that?” asked Seb.

  “No. Let him at least spend the weekend believing innocent men are never convicted.”

  36

  IT WOULD BE a long weekend for Sebastian, Ross, Arnold, Victor, Clive, Mr. Gray and Mr. Carman, as well as for Desmond Mellor and Adrian Sloane—and an endless one for Hakim Bishara.

  Sebastian woke early on Saturday morning, after catching moments of intermittent sleep. Although it was still dark outside, he got up, put on a tracksuit and jogged to the nearest newsagent. The headlines in the rack outside the shop didn’t make good reading.

  MYSTERY WOMAN’S UNHELPFUL EVIDENCE

  (The Times)

  £10,000 CASH FOUND IN HEROIN BAG

  (Daily Mail)

  BISHARA CAUGHT SMUGGLING £14,000 WATCH INTO UK

  (Sun)

  The Sun even had a picture of the watch on its front page. Seb bought a copy of every paper before he made his way back to his flat. After he’d poured himself a cup of coffee, he sank back into the only comfortable chair in his living room and read the same story again and again, even if the angle taken was slightly different. And by reporting Mr. Carman’s damning words in inverted commas, the journalists were all able to steer well clear of the libel laws. But you didn’t have to read between the lines to work out what they considered the verdict was likely to be.

  Only the Guardian offered an unbiased report, allowing its readers to make up their own minds.

  Seb couldn’t expect every member of the jury to read only the Guardian, and he also doubted if many of them would comply with the judge’s instruction not to read any newspapers while the trial was taking place. “Do not forget,” Mr. Urquhart had reminded them, “that no one sitting on the press benches can decide the outcome of this trial. That is your privilege, and yours alone.” Would all twelve of them have heeded his words?

  Once Seb had read every word of every article that made even a passing reference to Hakim, he dropped the last paper on the floor. He looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece, but it was still only seven thirty. He closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Ross Buchanan only read the Times that morning and, although he felt the trial’s proceedings had been fairly covered by their court reporter, a betting man might have been forgiven for placing a small wager on a guilty verdict. Although he didn’t believe in prayer, he did believe in justice.

  When he addressed his final board meeting the week before the trial opened, Ross had told his fellow directors that the next time they met, the chairman would either be Hakim Bishara or Adrian Sloane. He went on to advise them that they would have to consider their own positions as directors if Hakim didn’t receive a unanimous verdict. He added ominously, “Should the trial end with a hung jury, or even with a verdict in Hakim’s favor by a majority of ten to two, it would be seen as no more than a pyrrhic victory because there would always be a lingering doubt that he’d got away with it; like the damning Scottish judgment Not Proven.” Like any responsible chairman, Ross was preparing for the worst.

  * * *

  Desmond Mellor and Adrian Sloane were already preparing for the best. They met at their club for lunch just before one. The dining room was almost empty, which suited their purpose.

  Mellor checked the press statement Sloane had prepared and planned to release moments after Mr. Justice Urquhart had passed sentence.

  Sloane would be demanding that an extraordinary general meeting of Farthings’ shareholders be convened to discuss the implications of the jury’s decision, and he was confident that Sebastian Clifton wouldn’t be able to oppose the request. He would volunteer his services as temporary chairman of the bank until a suitable candidate could be found. That candidate was sitting on the other side of the table.

  The two of them discussed in great detail how they would set about the takeover of Farthings, while at the same time revive the merger with Kaufman’s. That way, they could bury all of their enemies in one grave.

  * * *

  Arnold Hardcastle spent Saturday afternoon considering two press statements with the bank’s public relations advisor, Clive Bingham. One was headed “Hakim Bishara will appeal and is confident that the verdict will be overturned,” while the other would show a photograph of Hakim sitting behind his desk at the bank, with the words, “Business as usual.”

  Neither of them dwelled on which statement was more likely to be released to the press.

  * * *

  Mr. George Carman QC delivered his peroration while soaking in a hot bath. His wife listened intently from the bedroom.

  “Members of the jury, having heard the evidence presented in this case, there is surely only one verdict you can consider. I want you to put out of your mind the smartly dressed banker you saw in the witness box and think instead of the poor wretches who every day suffer untold agonies as a result of their addiction to illegal drugs. I have no doubt that Mr. Bishara was telling the truth when he said he had never taken a drug in his life, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t prepared to ruin the lives of others less fortunate than himself if he could make a quick profit from their misery. Don’t let’s forget, he failed to close any other deal while he was in Nigeria, so one is bound to ask, why had he taken so much cash to Lagos in the first place? But that is, of course, for you to decide. So when the time comes, members of the jury, to deliver your verdict, you will have to decide if some phantom of Mr. Bishara’s imagination put thirteen ounces of heroin in his bag, or did he, as I would submit, always know the drugs were there in the first place. Should that be your conclusion, then there’s only one verdict you can consider. Guilty.”

  A small round of applause emanated from the bedroom.

  “Not bad, George. If I was on the jury, I’d certainly be convinced.”

  “Though I’m not sure I am,” said Carman quietly, as he pulled the plug.

  * * *

  Gilly Gray didn’t speak to his wife over breakfast. He was not a moody man, but Susan had become used to longer and longer silences whenever a trial was drawing to a close, so she didn’t comment when he left the table and retreated to his study to prepare his closing remarks to the jury. When the phone rang in the hall, Susan rushed to answer it so he wouldn’t be disturbed.

  “Members of the jury, is it credible that a man of Mr. Bishara’s standing could be involved in such a squalid crime? Would someone who had so much to lose entertain for a moment—”

  There was a tap at the door. Gilly swung round, knowing that his wife would not have considered interrupting him unless …

  “There’s a Mr. Barry Hammond on the line. He says it’s urgent.”

  * * *

  For Hakim Bishara, it was not a long weekend, but sixty-seven sleepless hours while he waited to be driven back to the court to learn his fate. He could only hope that when the foreman of the jury rose, he would deliver two words, not one.

  While he was pacing around the prison yard on Sunday afternoon, accompanied by two bankers who would find it difficult ever to open an account again, several inmates came over to wish him luck.

  “Pity one or two of them didn’t appear as witnesses in the trial,” said one of his companions.

  “How would that have helped?” asked Hakim.

  “Rumor on the block is that the drug barons are telling everyone you were never a dealer or a junkie, because they know their customers and suppliers better than any retailer. After all, they can’t advertise, and they don’t have a shop front.”

  “But who would believe them?” asked Hakim.

  37

  SEBASTIAN ARRIVED AT the Old Bailey just after nine thirty on Monday morning. When he entered the court, he was surprised to find Arnold Hardcastle sitting alone on the defense counsel’s bench. Seb glanced across to see that Mr. Carman was already in his place, checking through his closing address. He looked as if he couldn’t wait for the starting pistol to fire so he could burst out of the blocks and head for the tape. There are no silver medals for ba
rristers.

  “Any sign of our esteemed leader?” asked Seb as he sat down next to Arnold.

  “No, but he should be with us at any moment,” said Arnold, checking his watch. “When I rang earlier, his junior told me he wasn’t to be disturbed under any circumstances. Though I must say, he’s cutting it fine.”

  Seb kept looking toward the doorway, through which court officials, lawyers, journalists and other interested parties were streaming, but Mr. Gray was not among them. 9:45 a.m., and still there was no sign of him. 9:50, and Mr. Carman began casting the occasional quizzical glance in their direction. 9:55, and Arnold was becoming quite anxious, as the judge would be certain to ask him where defense counsel was, and he didn’t know. 10:00.

  Mr. Justice Urquhart entered, bowed to the court and took his seat on the raised dais. He checked that the defendant was standing in the dock and waited for the twelve jurors to be seated in the jury box. Finally, he looked down at leading counsel’s bench to see Mr. Carman sitting on the edge of his seat, impatient for proceedings to begin. The judge would have obliged him but he couldn’t see any sign of the defense counsel.

  “I would call you, Mr. Carman, to deliver your closing address, but it appears that Mr. Gray is not among us.”

  No sooner had Mr. Justice Urquhart uttered these words than the door on the far side of the courtroom was flung open and Gilbert Gray came charging in, gown flowing behind him as he readjusted his wig on the move. Once he had settled, the judge said, “Good morning, Mr. Gray. Do you have any objection to my calling Mr. Carman to present his closing address?” He made no attempt to hide his sarcasm.

  “I do apologize, my lord, but I would beg your indulgence and ask if I can call a witness who has fresh evidence to present to the court.”

  Mr. Carman sat down and closed his file with a thud. He leaned back and waited to find out who this witness could possibly be.

  “And who is this new witness, might I ask, Mr. Gray?”

  “I shall not be calling a new witness, my lord, but recalling Mr. Collier to the stand.”

  This request clearly took everyone by surprise, including Mr. Carman, and it was some time before the chattering subsided enough to allow the judge to ask his next question. He leaned forward, peered down at the Crown’s silk and said, “Do you have any objection, Mr. Carman, to Mr. Collier being recalled at this late juncture?”

  Carman wanted to say yes I most certainly do, my lord, but he wasn’t sure on what grounds he could possibly object to the Crown’s principal witness giving further testimony. “I have no objection, my lord, although I am curious to know what fresh evidence can have arisen over the weekend.”

  “Let’s find out, shall we?” said the judge. He nodded to the clerk.

  “Call Mr. David Collier!”

  The senior customs officer entered the room and returned to the witness box. Nothing could be gleaned from the expression on his face. The judge reminded him that he was still under oath.

  “Good morning, Mr. Collier,” said Gray. “Can I confirm that you appear on this occasion at your own request and not as a witness for the prosecution?”

  Sebastian couldn’t help noticing that Mr. Gray had put aside his earlier adversarial manner with this witness in favor of a more conciliatory tone.

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “And why do you wish to reappear?”

  “I feared that if I didn’t, a grave injustice might be done.”

  Once again, loud chattering broke out in the court. Mr. Gray made no attempt to continue until silence prevailed.

  “Perhaps you would care to elaborate, Mr. Collier.”

  “On Friday evening I had a call from a senior colleague in Frankfurt to brief me on a recent case in that city, which he felt I should know about. In the course of that conversation I discovered the reason Mrs. Aisha Obgabo, the stewardess on flight 207, had only been able to present written evidence to this court.”

  “And what was the reason?” asked Mr. Gray.

  “She’s in jail, serving a six-year sentence for a Class A drug offense.”

  This time the judge made no attempt to quell the outburst of chattering caused by Collier’s revelation.

  “And why should that have any bearing on this case?” asked Mr. Gray, once order had been restored.

  “It seems that a few weeks after Bishara’s arrest, Mrs. Obgabo was arrested for being in possession of two ounces of marijuana.”

  “Is marijuana considered a Class A drug in Germany?” asked the judge incredulously.

  “No, my lord. For that offense, the judge gave Mrs. Obgabo a six-month suspended sentence and ordered that she be deported back to Nigeria.”

  “Then why wasn’t she?” demanded the judge.

  “Because during the trial it came to light that Mrs. Obgabo had been having an affair with the captain of the aircraft on which she was a stewardess. If she had been sent back to Nigeria, my lord, she would have been arrested for adultery and, if found guilty, the punishment in that country is death by stoning. So at the end of the trial, when the judge asked her if she wished for any other offenses to be taken into consideration before he passed sentence, she admitted to being paid a large sum of money to place thirteen ounces of heroin in the bag of a first-class passenger on a Nigeria Airways flight from Lagos to London. Mrs. Obgabo couldn’t recall the name of the passenger, but she did remember that the bag she placed the heroin in was embossed in gold with the initials HB. For this offense, the judge sentenced Mrs. Obgabo to six years in prison, which her lawyer assured her was more than enough time for her to apply for asylum as a political refugee.”

  This time the judge accepted that he would have to wait a little longer before the court returned to any semblance of order. He sat back in his chair, while several journalists fled the court in search of the nearest telephone.

  Sebastian noticed that for the first time the jury were looking at the prisoner in the dock, and several of them were even smiling at Hakim. What he didn’t notice was Adrian Sloane slipping quietly out of the gallery. Mr. Gray remained standing but made no attempt to speak until order had once again been restored.

  “Thank you, Mr. Collier, for your integrity and sense of public duty. If I may say so, you bring considerable credit to your profession.” Mr. Gray closed his file, looked up at the judge and said, “I have no more questions, my lord.”

  “Do you have any questions for this witness, Mr. Carman?” asked the judge.

  Carman went into a huddle with the Crown’s team before looking up at the judge and saying, “No, my lord. Although I must confess I find it somewhat ironic that it was I who pointed out to your lordship that this witness’s credentials were beyond reproach.”

  “Chapeau, Mr. Carman,” said the judge, touching his full-bottomed wig.

  “And with that in mind, my lord,” continued Carman, “the Crown withdraws all charges against the defendant.” Mr. Carman sat down to a burst of applause from the public gallery.

  Journalists continued scribbling furiously. Seasoned court officials tried not to reveal any emotion, while the prisoner in the dock simply looked dazed by what was happening all around him. Mr. Justice Urquhart appeared to be the one person in the room who remained totally calm. He turned his attention to the man who was still standing in the dock and said, “Mr. Bishara, the Crown has withdrawn all of the charges against you. You are therefore released from custody and are free to leave the court, and, I must add, without a blemish on your reputation.”

  Sebastian leapt in the air and threw his arms around Ross, as the two leading QCs bowed to each other with mock gravity before shaking hands.

  “As we appear to have the rest of the day off, George,” said Gilly Gray, “perhaps you’d care to join me for lunch and a round of golf?”

  38

  “WELCOME BACK, CHAIRMAN.”

  “Thank you, Ross,” said Hakim, as he took his seat behind the chairman’s desk for the first time in five months. “But in truth, I don’t k
now how to begin to thank you for all you’ve done, not just for me personally but, more importantly, for the bank.”

  “I didn’t do it on my own,” said Ross. “You’ve got a damned fine team here at Farthings, led by Sebastian, who’s been putting in hours that aren’t on a clock.”

  “Arnold tells me I’m also responsible for messing up his private life.”

  “I think you’ll find things have thawed a little on that front.”

  “Would it help if I wrote to Samantha and explained why Seb had to leave Washington at such short notice?”

  “She already knows. But it couldn’t do any harm.”

  “Is there anyone else in particular I ought to thank?”

  “The whole team couldn’t have been more supportive, but Giles Barrington deciding to join the board when he did sent a clear message to friend and foe alike.”

  “I owe so much to the Barrington family, it will be almost impossible to repay them.”

  “They don’t think like that, chairman.”

  “That’s their strength.”

  “And your foes’ weakness.”

  “On a happier note, did you see where our shares opened this morning?”

  “Nearly back to where they were the day before—” Ross hesitated.

  “—I went to prison. And Jimmy Goldsmith called me earlier this morning to say he’ll be releasing his stock slowly onto the market over the next six months.”

  “He should make a handsome profit.”

  “No one will begrudge him that, bearing in mind the risk he took when most people assumed we were going under.”

  “Of whom Adrian Sloane is a prime example. Unfortunately he’ll also make a killing, and for all the wrong reasons.”

  “Well, at least he won’t be able to claim a seat on the board once he’s cashed in his shares. Mind you, I would have paid good money to be at the board meeting when Jimmy told Sloane exactly what he thought of him.”

  “I think you’ll find it’s recorded in some detail in the minutes, chairman.”