Cometh the Hour

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Buy Amalgamated Wire.” He paused the tape. “Seventy-six, Mr. Bishara’s normal level.” He pressed Play. “But don’t let anyone know I authorized it. Eighty-four. Because that would be insider trading. Seventy-six, back to normal. Keep up the good work, Gavin. Eighty-one.”

  “How do you explain the discrepancy?” asked Mr. Foreman.

  “Because as I suggested, sir, the tape that was provided to this committee is a compilation drawn from four different conversations. To use a vulgar American expression, the originals have been sliced and diced. I concluded that two of the conversations were conducted on the telephone in Mr. Bishara’s office as their levels are between 74 and 76; one was from overseas, when people have a tendency to speak up—in this case the level increased to 84; and one from Mr. Bishara’s home in the country, when the level is 81, and where the sound of birds—blue tits and sparrows, I believe—can be heard faintly in the background.”

  “But,” said Mr. Foreman, “he did say ‘Buy Amalgamated Wire.’”

  “I accept that,” said the professor. “But if you listen carefully to that section of the tape, I think you’ll come to the same conclusion as I did: that a word has been cut out. I’d stake my reputation and experience on that word being ‘don’t.’ In doctored tapes, that is the most common word to be deleted. So Mr. Bishara’s actual words were ‘Don’t buy Amalgamated Wire.’ You will of course be able to test my theory more fully when you interview Mr. Buckland again.”

  “With that in mind, professor,” said the chairman, “may we call on your services when we see Mr. Buckland?”

  “I would be happy to assist you,” said the professor, “but my wife and I are only in England for a week conducting further research.”

  “Into what?” asked Sir Piers, unable to resist.

  “I plan to record the sonic output of London’s buses, particularly double-deckers, and to spend some time at Heathrow recording 707 takeoffs and landings. We’re also going to attend a concert by the Rolling Stones at Wembley, when Matilda’s little indicator may hit its maximum level of 120 for the first time.”

  The chairman allowed himself a chuckle before saying, “We appreciate your giving us your time, professor, and look forward to seeing you and Matilda again in the near future.”

  “And I have to confess,” Horowitz said, as he placed a plastic cover over his offspring and zipped her up, “you only got me just in time.”

  “And why is that?” asked Sir Piers.

  “Scotland Yard have set me an interesting conundrum that Matilda can’t handle on her own. However, I’ve almost perfected an odious little boyfriend for her, called Harvey, but he’s not quite ready to be let loose on the world.”

  “And what will Harvey be able to do?” the chairman asked on behalf of everyone in the room.

  “He’s an equalizer, so it won’t be too long before I will be able to take any tape that has been sliced and diced and reproduce it at a constant level of 74 to 76. If whoever tampered with Mr. Buckland’s tape had been aware of Harvey, Mr. Bishara would not have been able to prove his innocence.”

  “Now I recall why I know your name,” said Sir Piers. “Mr. Hardcastle told us that you were awarded the Congressional Science Medal, but he didn’t tell us what for. Do remind us, Mr. Hardcastle.”

  Arnold stood up again, opened the Horowitz file and read out the citation. “At the time of President Nixon’s impeachment, Professor Horowitz was invited by Congress to study the Nixon tapes and see if he could show that there had been any deletions or tampering with their content.”

  “Which is exactly what I did,” said the professor. “And as a staunch Republican, it was a sad day for me when the president was impeached. I came to the conclusion that Matilda must be a Democrat.”

  They all burst out laughing.

  “Mind you, if I had perfected Harvey a little earlier, the president might still have served his full two terms.”

  * * *

  Adrian Sloane picked up the phone on his desk, curious to know who was calling him on his private line.

  “Is this Adrian Sloane?” said a voice he didn’t recognize.

  “Depends who’s asking.” There was a long pause.

  “Chief Inspector Mike Stokes. I’m attached to the drugs squad at Scotland Yard.”

  Sloane felt his whole body go cold.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Stokes?”

  “I’d like to make an appointment to see you, sir.”

  “Why?” asked Sloane bluntly.

  “I can’t discuss the matter over the phone, sir. Either I could come to you, or you could visit me at Scotland Yard, whichever is more convenient.”

  Sloane hesitated. “I’ll come to you.”

  43

  THE TOASTMASTER WAITED for the applause to die down before he banged his gavel several times and announced, “Your excellency, my lord, ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for the bridegroom, Mr. Sebastian Clifton.”

  Warm applause greeted Sebastian as he rose from his place at the top table.

  “Best-man speeches are almost always appalling,” said Seb, “and Victor is clearly a man who doesn’t believe in breaking with tradition.” He turned to his old friend. “If I was given a second chance to choose between you and Clive…” Laughter and a smattering of applause broke out.

  “I want to begin by thanking my father-in-law for so generously allowing Samantha and me to be married in this magnificent embassy with its romantic past. I didn’t realize until Jessica told me that the palazzo had its own lady chapel, and I can’t think of a more idyllic place to marry the woman I love.

  “I would also like to thank my parents, of whom I am inordinately proud. They continue to set standards I could never hope to live up to, so let’s be thankful that I’ve married a woman who can. And of course, I want to thank all of you who have traveled from different parts of the world to be with us in Rome today to celebrate an event that should have taken place ten years ago. I can promise you I intend to spend the rest of my life making up for those lost years.

  “My final thanks go to my precocious, adorable and talented menace of a daughter, Jessica, who somehow managed to bring her mother and me back together, for which I will be eternally grateful. I hope all of you will enjoy today, and have a memorable time while you’re in Rome.”

  Sebastian sat down to prolonged applause, and Jessica, who was seated next to him, handed him the dessert menu. He began to study the different dishes.

  “The other side,” she said, trying not to sound exasperated.

  Seb turned over the menu to find a charcoal drawing of himself delivering his speech.

  “You just get better and better,” he said, placing an arm around her shoulder. “I wonder if you could do me a favor?”

  “Anything, Pops.” Jessica listened to her father’s request, grinned and quietly left the table.

  * * *

  “What a fascinating job, being an ambassador,” said Emma as an affogato was placed in front of her.

  “Especially when they give you Rome,” said Patrick Sullivan. “But I’ve often wondered what it must be like to chair a great hospital, with so many different and complex issues every day—not just the patients, doctors, nurses and—”

  “The car park,” said Emma. “I could have done with your diplomatic skills when it came to that particular problem.”

  “I’ve never had a car parking problem,” admitted the ambassador.

  “And neither did I, until I decided to charge for parking at the infirmary, when one of the local papers launched a campaign to get me to change my mind and described me as a heartless harridan!”

  “And did you change your mind?”

  “Certainly not. I’d authorized over a million pounds of public money to be spent building that car park, and I didn’t expect the general public to use it for free parking whenever they wanted to go shopping. So I decided to charge the same rate as the nearest municipal car park, with concessions for hospital staff and
patients, so it would only be used by the people it had been originally intended for. Result: uproar, protest marches, burning effigies! This, despite a terminally ill patient having to be driven around in circles for over an hour because her husband was unable to find a space. And if that wasn’t enough, when I bumped into the paper’s editor and explained why it was necessary, all he said was, of course you’re right, Emma, but a good campaign always sells newspapers.”

  Mr. Sullivan laughed. “On balance, I think I’ll stick to being the American ambassador in Rome.”

  “Grandma,” said a youthful voice behind her. “A little memory of today.” Jessica handed her a drawing of Emma making a point to the ambassador.

  “Jessica, it’s wonderful. I’ll definitely show it to the editor of my local paper, and explain why I was wagging my finger.”

  * * *

  “How’s Giles enjoying the Lords?” asked Harry.

  “He isn’t,” said Karin. “He’d rather be back in the Commons.”

  “But he’s a member of the Cabinet.”

  “And he’s not sure he will be for much longer. Now the Tories have elected Margaret Thatcher as their leader, Giles feels they will have a good chance of winning the next election. And I confess I could vote for her,” whispered Karin, before she quickly added, “What’s the latest on your campaign to have Anatoly Babakov released from prison?”

  “Not a lot of progress, I’m afraid. The Russians won’t even let us know if he’s still alive.”

  “And how’s Mrs. Babakova bearing up?”

  “She’s moved to New York and is renting a small apartment on the Lower West Side. I visit her whenever I’m in the States. Yelena remains an eternal optimist and continues to believe that they’re just about to release Anatoly. I haven’t the heart to tell her it isn’t going to happen in the foreseeable future, if ever.”

  “Let me give the problem some thought,” said Karin. “After spending so many years behind the Iron Curtain, I might be able to come up with something that would irritate the Russians enough to reconsider their position.”

  “You might also mention my lack of progress to your father. After all, he hates the communists every bit as much as you do,” said Harry, carefully observing how Karin reacted. But she gave nothing away.

  “Good idea. I’ll discuss it with him when I next go down to Cornwall,” she said, sounding as if she meant it, although Harry doubted if she would ever raise the subject of Anatoly Babakov with her controller.

  “Karin,” said Jessica, handing her a copy of the menu. “A little gift to mark our first meeting.”

  “I’ll treasure it,” said Karin, giving her a warm hug.

  * * *

  “Do you ever hear from Gwyneth or Virginia?” asked Grace.

  “Gwyneth occasionally,” said Giles. “She’s teaching English at Monmouth School, which should please you, and has recently become engaged to one of the house masters.”

  “You’re right, that does please me,” said Grace. “She was a fine teacher. And Virginia?”

  “Only what I pick up in the gossip columns. You will have seen that her father died a couple of months ago. Funny old stick, but I confess I rather liked him.”

  “Did you go to his funeral?”

  “No, I didn’t feel that was appropriate, but I wrote to Archie Fenwick, who’s inherited the title, saying that I hoped he’d play an active role in the Upper House. I received a very courteous reply.”

  “But you surely don’t approve of the hereditary system?” said Grace.

  “No, I don’t. But as long as we keep losing votes to the Tories in the Commons, reform of the House of Lords will have to be shelved until after the next election.”

  “And if Mrs. Thatcher wins that election, reform of the Lords won’t be shelved, it will be buried.” Grace drained her glass of champagne before adding, “Touching on a more sensitive subject, “I’m so sorry you and Karin haven’t had any children.”

  “God knows we’ve tried everything, even sex.” Grace didn’t laugh. “We both visited a fertility clinic. It seems that Karin has a blood problem and, after two miscarriages, the doctor feels the risk would be too great.”

  “How sad,” said Grace. “No one to follow you into the Lords.”

  “Or, more important, open the batting for England.”

  “Have you thought about adoption?”

  “Yes, but we’ve put it on hold until after the election.”

  “Don’t put it on hold for too long. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, Giles, but there are some things more important than politics.”

  “I apologize for interrupting you, Aunt Grace, but may I give you this small gift?” Jessica said, handing over another portrait.

  Grace studied the drawing for some time before she offered an opinion. “Although I am not an expert, you undoubtedly have promise, my dear. Be sure you don’t squander your talent.”

  “I’ll try not to, Aunt Grace.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Ah, the same age as Picasso when he held his first public exhibition—in which city, young lady?”

  “Barcelona.”

  Grace awarded her a slight bow. “I shall have my portrait framed, hang it in my study in Cambridge and tell my fellow dons and pupils alike that you are my great-niece.”

  “Praise indeed,” said Giles. “Where’s mine?”

  “I can’t fit you in today, Uncle Giles. Another time perhaps.”

  “I’ll certainly hold you to that. How would you like to stay with me at Barrington Hall while your parents are away on honeymoon? In return, you could paint a portrait of Karin and myself. And while you’re with us you could visit your grandparents, who are just a couple of miles down the road at the Manor House.”

  “They’ve already invited me to stay. And didn’t try to bribe me.”

  “Never forget, my dear,” said Grace, “that your great-uncle is a politician.”

  * * *

  “Have you heard anything back from the Bank of England?” asked Hakim.

  “Nothing official,” said Arnold Hardcastle. “But, strictly between ourselves, Sir Piers rang me on Friday afternoon to let me know that Gavin Buckland didn’t show up for his second interview, and the committee have decided not to pursue the matter any further.”

  “I could have told them he was unlikely to turn up because his letter of resignation was on my desk even before I’d got back from our meeting with the Ethics Committee.”

  “He’ll never be offered another job in the City,” said Arnold. “I can only wonder what he’ll do next.”

  “He’s gone to Cyprus,” said Hakim. “Barry Hammond followed him to Nicosia, where he’s taken a job on the commodities desk of a local Turkish bank. He was good at his job, so let’s just hope there aren’t too many racetracks in Cyprus.”

  “Any news of Sloane or Mellor?”

  “Gone to ground, according to Barry. But he’s pretty sure they’ll resurface in the spring like all pond life, when no doubt we’ll find out what they’ve got planned next.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Arnold. “I was at the Bailey last week, and a police sergeant told me that—”

  “A little gift for you, Mr. Bishara, on behalf of my father.” Hakim swung around nervously, thinking someone might have overheard their conversation.

  “What a wonderful surprise,” he said when he saw the portrait. “I’ve always admired the drawing of your mother that hangs in your father’s office, and I’ll certainly put this one in mine.”

  “I do hope you’ll do one of me,” said Arnold, admiring the drawing.

  “I’d be delighted to, Mr. Hardcastle, but I must warn you, I charge by the hour.”

  * * *

  The loud banging of a gavel could be heard coming from the top table. The guests fell silent as Victor Kaufman stood up once again.

  “Not another speech, I promise. I thought you’d want to know that the bri
de and groom will be leaving in a few minutes’ time, so if you would like to make your way to the entrance, we can all see them off.”

  The guests began to rise from their places and drift out of the ballroom.

  “Where are they going on honeymoon?” Emma asked Harry.

  “No idea, but I know someone who will. Jessica!”

  “Yes, Grandpops,” she said, running across to join them.

  “Where are your mother and father spending their honeymoon?”

  “Amsterdam.”

  “Such a lovely city,” said Emma. “Any particular reason?”

  “It’s where Dad first proposed to Mom, eleven years ago.”

  “How romantic,” said Emma. “Are they staying at the Amstel?”

  “No, Pops booked the attic room of the Pension De Kanaal, which is where they stayed last time.”

  “Another lesson learned,” said Harry.

  “And have they finally decided which country they are going to live in?” asked Emma.

  “I decided,” said Jessica. “England.”

  “And have you let them know?”

  “Pops can hardly be expected to run Farthings from Washington, and in any case Mom has been shortlisted for a job at the Tate.”

  “I’m so glad you’ve been able to sort everything out to your satisfaction,” said Emma.

  “Got to go,” said Jessica. “I’m in charge of confetti distribution.”

  A few minutes later, Samantha and Sebastian came down the sweeping staircase arm in arm, Seb’s limp now almost indiscernible. They walked slowly through a tunnel of well-wishers throwing confetti vaguely in their direction, until they emerged into the evening sun of the courtyard, to be surrounded by friends and family.

  Samantha looked at a dozen hopeful young women, then turned and tossed her bouquet of blush-pink roses over her head and high into the air. It landed in Jessica’s arms, which was greeted with wild laughter and applause.

  “God help the man,” said Sebastian as the chauffeur opened the back door of the waiting car.

  The ambassador took his daughter in his arms and seemed reluctant to let her go. When he finally relinquished her, he whispered to Seb, “Please take care of her.”