Cometh the Hour

by Jeffrey Archer

  “What a dreadful idea,” said Giles. “No, we work on legal precedent.”

  “And even your head of state isn’t elected!”

  “Of course not, she’s a hereditary monarch, appointed by the Almighty.”

  “And you have the nerve to claim you’re a democracy.”

  “Yes, we do. And just think how much money we save, and you waste, by electing everyone from dog catcher to president, just to prove how democratic you are.”

  “You’re trying to get off the hook, Giles.”

  “All right, then tell me how much you had to raise before you could even consider running for governor?”

  “Five, six million. And it’s getting more expensive with every election.”

  “What did you spend it on?”

  “Mostly negative advertising. Letting the electorate know why they shouldn’t be voting for the other guy.”

  “That’s something else we’ll never do. Which is another reason our system is more civilized than yours.”

  “You may well have a point, my lord, but let’s get back to the real world,” said Hayden. “Because I need your advice.”

  “Fire away, Hayden. I was intrigued by your letter and I can’t wait to find out how one of your constituents can possibly have come across my ex-wife.”

  “Cyrus T. Grant III is one of my oldest friends, and has also been one of my biggest financial backers over the years, so I’m hugely indebted to him. He’s a good, kind and decent man, and although I don’t know what the T stands for, it might as well be ‘trusting.’”

  “If he’s that trusting, how did he make his fortune?”

  “He didn’t. He owes that piece of luck to his grandfather, who founded the canning business that bears his name. Cyrus’s father took the company on to the New York Stock Exchange, and his son now lives comfortably off the dividends.”

  “And you have the nerve to criticize the hereditary system. But that doesn’t explain how this kind, decent and trusting man crossed swords with Virginia.”

  “Some five years ago, Cyrus was visiting London and was invited to lunch by someone with the unlikely name of Bofie Bridgwater.”

  “I’m afraid Lord Bridgwater is not a convincing argument for the hereditary system. He makes Bertie Wooster look shrewd and decisive.”

  “During lunch, Cyrus sat next to Lady Virginia Fenwick and he was clearly overwhelmed by all her ‘member of the royal family’ and ‘distant niece of the Queen Mother’ rubbish. Afterwards, she went shopping with him in Bond Street to buy an engagement ring for his high school sweetheart, Ellie May Campbell, whom he later married. After Cyrus had bought the ring, he invited Lady Virginia back to his suite at the Ritz for tea, and the next thing he remembers is waking up in bed beside her, and the only thing she was wearing was the engagement ring.”

  “That’s impressive, even by Virginia’s standards,” said Giles. “So what happened next?”

  “That was when Cyrus made his first big mistake. Instead of grabbing the ring and telling her to get lost, he took the next flight back to the States. For a while, all he thought he’d lost was the ring, until Lady Virginia turned up at his wedding looking seven months pregnant.”

  “Not the sort of wedding present he was hoping for.”

  “Gift-wrapped. The next day, Buck Trend, one of the sharpest and meanest lawyers west of the Mississippi, gave Cyrus’s in-house lawyer a call, and once again my friend panicked. He ended up instructing his lawyer to settle before he and Ellie May returned from their honeymoon. Trend extracted more than a pound of flesh, and Cyrus ended up paying a million dollars up front, and a further ten thousand a month until the child has completed his education.”

  “That’s not a bad return for a one-night stand.”

  “If it ever was a one-night stand. What Virginia hadn’t bargained for was Ellie May Campbell—now Ellie May Grant—who turns out to be cut from the same Scottish cloth as her ladyship. When Cyrus finally confessed to what had taken place in London, Ellie May didn’t believe a word of Virginia’s story. She hired a Pinkerton detective and sent him across the Atlantic with instructions not to return until he’d found out the truth.”

  “And did he come up with anything?” said Giles.

  “He reported back that he wasn’t convinced Lady Virginia had ever had a child, and that even if she had, there was no reason to believe Cyrus was the father of the Hon. Frederick Archibald Iain Bruce Fenwick.”

  “A blood test might narrow down the possibility.”

  “And it might not. But in any case, while the boy’s at pre-prep in Scotland, Cyrus can hardly drop in and ask the headmaster for a sample.”

  “But if he contested a paternity suit in open court the judge would have to call for a blood test.”

  “Yes, but even if they turned out to share the same blood group it still wouldn’t be absolutely conclusive.”

  “As I well know,” said Giles, without explanation. “So how can I help?”

  “As Lady Virginia is your ex-wife, Cyrus and I wondered if you could throw any light on what she was up to during the time he was in London.”

  “All I can remember is that she’d been having some financial difficulties and had disappeared off the scene for some time. But when she reappeared, she’d moved into a far larger establishment and was once again employing a butler and a housekeeper as well as a nanny. And as for her son, Freddie, he’s rarely seen in London. He even spends the school holidays at Fenwick Hall in Scotland.”

  “Well, that at least confirms what our detective has been telling us,” said the governor. “And according to his report, the nanny, a Mrs. Crawford, is five foot one in her stockinged feet and weighs about ninety pounds. Although she looks as if she could be blown away by a puff of wind, the detective said he’d prefer to deal with the Mafia than have to face her again.”

  “If she’s not proving helpful,” said Giles, “what about all the other people Virginia’s employed over the years? Butlers, chauffeurs, housekeepers? Surely one of them must know something and be willing to talk.”

  “Our man has already tracked down several of her ladyship’s former employees, but none of them is prepared to say a word against her, either because they’re being paid to keep quiet or they’re simply terrified of her.”

  “I was terrified of her too,” admitted Giles. “So I can’t blame them. But don’t give up on that front. She’s sacked an awful lot of people in her time and she certainly doesn’t believe in handing out farewell presents.”

  “Cyrus is also terrified of her. But not Ellie May. She’s been trying to convince him to stop the payments and call Virginia’s bluff.”

  “Virginia is not easily bluffed. She’s cunning, manipulative and as stubborn as the Democrat mascot. A dangerous combination that leads her to believe she’s always right.”

  “What in God’s name ever possessed you to marry the woman?”

  “Ah, I forgot to mention. She’s stunningly beautiful, and when she wants something, she can be irresistibly charming.”

  “How do you think she’ll react if the payments suddenly dry up?”

  “She’ll fight like an alley cat. But if Cyrus isn’t Freddie’s father, she couldn’t risk going to court. She would be well aware she could end up in prison for obtaining money under false pretences.”

  “I can’t believe the earl would be pleased about that,” said Hayden, “and what about poor Freddie?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Giles. “But I can tell you, there’s been no sighting of the Hon. Freddie, or the formidable Mrs. Crawford, in London recently.”

  “So if Cyrus did cut Virginia off, do you think Freddie would suffer?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so. But I have a speaking engagement in Scotland next week so if I pick up anything worthwhile I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you, Giles. But if you’re in Scotland, why don’t you just drive up to Fenwick Hall, bang on the front door and ask the earl for his vote?”

&nbs
p; “Earls don’t have a vote.”

  * * *

  “Why haven’t I received this month’s payment?” demanded Virginia.

  “Because I didn’t get mine,” said Trend. “When I called Cyrus’s lawyer he told me you wouldn’t be getting another red cent. Then he hung up on me.”

  “Then let’s sue the bastard!” shrieked Virginia. “And if he doesn’t pay up, you can tell his lawyer that Freddie and I will take up residence in Baton Rouge, and we’ll see how they like that.”

  “Before you book your flight, Ginny, I ought to tell you that I did call back and threaten them with every kind of legal proceedings. Their response was short and to the point. ‘Your client had better be able to prove that Cyrus T. Grant is Freddie’s father, and that she is even the boy’s mother.’”

  “That will be simple enough to confirm. I have the birth certificate and am still in touch with the doctor who delivered Freddie.”

  “I pointed all that out, but I couldn’t make head nor tail of their response. However, they assured me that you would understand all too well.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “They told me that Ellie May Grant has recently employed a new butler and housekeeper for her home in Louisiana, a Mr. and Mrs. Morton.”

  * * *

  Comrade Pengelly was ushered into Marshal Koshevoi’s massive oak-paneled office. The KGB chief didn’t stand to greet him, just gave a dismissive nod to indicate that he should sit.

  Pengelly was understandably nervous. You are only summoned to KGB headquarters when you are about to be sacked or promoted, and he wasn’t sure which it was going to be.

  “The reason I called for you, comrade commander,” said Koshevoi, looking like a bull about to charge, “is that we have discovered a traitor among your agents.”

  “Julius Kramer?” asked Pengelly.

  “No, Kramer was a smokescreen. He is completely reliable and totally committed to our cause. Although the British are still under the impression he’s working for them.”

  “Then who?” said Pengelly, who thought he knew every one of his thirty-one agents.

  “Karin Brandt.”

  “But she’s been passing on some very useful information recently.”

  “And we have now discovered the source of that information. It was a tip-off from a most unlikely quarter that gave her away.” Pengelly didn’t interrupt. “I instructed Agent Kramer to inform Brandt that we wanted you to report back to Moscow.”

  “And she delivered that message.”

  “But not before she had passed it on to someone else.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Tell me the route you took to Moscow.”

  “I drove from my home in Cornwall to Heathrow. I took a plane to Manchester, a coach to Newcastle—”

  “And from there you flew to Amsterdam, where you took a barge along the Rhine, the Main and the Danube to Vienna.” Pengelly shifted uneasily in his seat. “You then traveled from Vienna to Warsaw by train, before finally boarding a plane to Moscow. Shadowed every inch of the way by a succession of British agents, the last of whom accompanied you on your flight to Moscow. He didn’t even bother to get off the plane before going back to London because he knew exactly where you were going.”

  “But how is that possible?”

  “Because Brandt informed her English handler that I had ordered you back to Moscow even before she told you about it. Comrade, they literally saw you coming.”

  “Then my whole operation is blown apart and there’s no point in my returning to England.”

  “Unless we turn the situation to our advantage.”

  “How do you plan to do that?”

  “You will return to England by an equally circuitous route, so they think we have no idea that Brandt has betrayed us. You will then go back to work as usual but, in future, every message we send through Kramer to Brandt, the British will be confident they have intercepted.”

  “It will be interesting to see how long we can get away with that before MI6 begin to wonder which side she’s on,” said Pengelly.

  “The moment they do, it will be time to dispose of her, and then you can return to Moscow.”

  “How did you find out she’s switched sides?”

  “A piece of luck, comrade commander, that we nearly overlooked. There’s a member of the House of Lords called Viscount Slaithwaite. A hereditary peer who would be of no particular interest to us, except that he was a contemporary of Burgess, Maclean and Philby at Cambridge. Once he joined the university’s Communist Party, we no longer considered recruiting him as an agent, although he’d like you to believe he’s the sixth man. Over the years Slaithwaite has regularly passed on information to our embassy which, at best, was out of date and, at worst, planted to mislead us. But then, without having any idea of its significance, he finally came up with gold dust. He sent a note to say that Lord Barrington’s wife—he has no idea that she is one of our agents—was seen regularly in the House of Lords tearoom in the company of Baroness Forbes-Watson.”

  “Cynthia Forbes-Watson?”

  “No less.”

  “But I thought MI6 pensioned her off years ago?”

  “So did we. But it seems she’s been resuscitated to act as Brandt’s handler. And what better cover than tea in the House of Lords, while Lord Barrington toils away on the front bench.”

  “Baroness Forbes-Watson must be eighty—”

  “Eighty-four.”

  “She can’t go on for much longer.”

  “Agreed, but we’ll keep the counteroperation running for as long as she does.”

  “And when she dies?”

  “You’ll only have one more job to carry out, comrade commander, before you return to Moscow.”

  HARRY AND EMMA CLIFTON

  1978

  47

  THERE WAS A hesitant tap on the library door. The second in the past seven years.

  Harry put down his pen. As Emma was at the hospital and Jessica had returned to London, he could only wonder who would consider interrupting him while he was writing. He swiveled his chair around to face the intruder.

  The door opened slowly. Markham appeared in the doorway but didn’t enter the room. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but it’s No.10 on the line and apparently it’s urgent.”

  Harry rose from his chair immediately. He wasn’t quite sure why he remained standing when he picked up the phone.

  “Please hold on, sir, I’ll put you through to the Cabinet Secretary.”

  Harry remained standing.

  “Mr. Clifton, it’s Alan Redmayne.”

  “Good afternoon, Sir Alan.”

  “I rang because I have some wonderful news and I wanted you to be the first to know.”

  “Tell me Anatoly Babakov has been released?”

  “Not yet, but it can’t be long now. I’ve just had a call from our ambassador in Stockholm to say that the Swedish prime minister will be announcing in an hour’s time that Mr. Babakov has been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.”

  * * *

  Within moments of the announcement being made, the phone started to ring, and Harry was made aware for the first time what “off the hook” really meant.

  For the next hour he answered questions thrown at him by journalists calling from all over the world.

  “Do you think the Russians will finally release Babakov?”

  “They should have released him years ago,” responded Harry, “but at least this will give Mr. Brezhnev an excuse to do so now.”

  “Will you be going to Stockholm for the ceremony?”

  “I hope to be among the audience when Anatoly is presented with the prize.”

  “Will you fly to Russia, so you can accompany your friend to Stockholm?”

  “He has to be released from jail before anyone can accompany him anywhere.”

  Markham reappeared in the doorway, the same anxious look as before on his face. “The King of Sweden is on the other lin
e, sir.” Harry put down one phone and picked up another. He was surprised to find it wasn’t a private secretary on the line, but the King himself.

  “I do hope you and Mrs. Clifton will be able to attend the ceremony as my personal guests.”

  “We’d be delighted to, Your Majesty,” said Harry, hoping he’d used the correct form of address.

  In between repeatedly answering the same questions from yet more journalists, Harry broke off to make a call of his own.

  “I’ve just heard the news,” said Aaron Guinzburg. “I rang you immediately but your phone has been constantly engaged. But no need to worry, I’ve already been on to the printers and ordered another million copies of Uncle Joe.”

  “I wasn’t calling to ask how many copies you’re having printed, Aaron,” snapped Harry. “Get yourself over to the Lower West Side and take care of Yelena. She’ll have no idea how to handle the press.”

  “You’re right, Harry. Thoughtless of me, sorry. I’m on my way.”

  Harry put the phone down to see Markham once again hovering in the doorway. “The BBC is asking if you’ll be making a statement.”

  “Tell them I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  He sat back down at his desk, ignored the ringing phone, pushed Inspector Warwick to one side and began to think about the message he wanted to get across. He was aware that he might never be given an opportunity like this again.

  When he picked up his pen, the words flowed easily, but then he’d waited a dozen years to be given this chance. He read through his statement, made a couple of emendations, then checked he knew it by heart. He stood up, took a deep breath, straightened his tie and walked out into the hall. Markham, who was clearly enjoying every moment of the unfolding drama, opened the front door and stood aside.

  Harry had expected to face a few local reporters but as he stepped out of the door a mob of journalists and photographers surged toward him, all of them shouting at once. He stood on the top step and waited patiently until they’d all realized he wasn’t going to say anything before he had their attention.

  “This is not a day for celebration,” he began quietly. “My friend and colleague, Anatoly Babakov, is still languishing in a Russian prison, for the crime of daring to write the truth. The Nobel Prize committee has honored him, and rightly so, but I will not rest until he is released and can be reunited with his wife, Yelena, so they can spend the rest of their days enjoying the freedom that the rest of us take for granted.”