“And so we come together this evening to honor a remarkable man, whose death will not diminish his life’s achievement, but will only help to ensure that it will endure. Anatoly Babakov possessed a gift that we lesser mortals can only aspire to. An author whose heroism will surely survive the whirligig of time, and who now joins his immortal fellow countrymen Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Pasternak and Solzhenitsyn as their equal.”
Harry paused, looked up at the audience, and waited for that moment before he knew the spell would be broken. And then, almost in a whisper, he said, “It takes a heroic figure to rewrite history so that future generations might know the truth and benefit from his sacrifice. Quite simply, Anatoly Babakov fulfilled the ancient prophecy: cometh the hour, cometh the man.”
The whole audience rose as one, assuming that the speech had ended. Although Harry continued to grip the sides of the lectern, it was some time before they realized he had more to say. One by one they resumed their seats, until the acclamation of the throng had been replaced by an expectant silence. Only then did Harry take a fountain pen from an inside pocket, unscrew the cap and hold the pen high in the air. “Anatoly Yuryevich Babakov, you have proved to every dictator who ever ruled without the people’s mandate that the pen is mightier than the sword.”
King Carl Gustaf was the first to rise from his place, take out his fountain pen and hold it high in the air before repeating, “The pen is mightier than the sword.” Within moments, the rest of the audience followed suit, as Harry left the stage and returned to his seat, almost deafened by the prolonged cheers that accompanied him. He finally had to lean forward and beg the King to sit down.
A second cheer, every bit as tumultuous, followed when Yelena Babakova stepped forward on her husband’s behalf to accept the Nobel medal and the citation from the King.
Harry hadn’t slept the night before because of the fear of failure. He didn’t sleep that night because of the triumph of success.
50
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Harry, Emma and Yelena joined the King for breakfast.
“Last night was a triumph,” said Carl Gustaf, “and the Queen and I wondered if you’d like to spend a few days in Stockholm as our guests. I’m assured this is the best hotel in town.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir,” said Emma, “but I’m afraid I have a hospital to run, not to mention the family business.”
“And it’s time I got back to William Warwick,” said Harry. “That is, if I’m still hoping to meet my deadline.”
There was a gentle tap on the door and a moment later the equerry appeared. He bowed before he spoke to the King.
Carl Gustaf raised a hand. “I think, Rufus, it might save time if you were to speak in English.”
“As you wish, sir.” He turned to Harry. “I’ve just had a call from Sir Curtis Keeble, the British Ambassador in Moscow, to say that the Russians have relented and granted you, your wife and Mrs. Babakova twenty-four-hour visas so you can attend Laureate Babakov’s funeral.”
“That’s wonderful news,” said Emma.
“But as always with the Russians, there are caveats,” the equerry added.
“Like what?” said Harry.
“You will be met off the plane by the ambassador and driven directly to St. Augustine’s church on the outskirts of Moscow, where the funeral will take place. Once the service is over, you must go straight back to the airport and leave the country immediately.
Yelena, who hadn’t spoken until then, simply said, “We accept their terms.”
“Then you’ll need to leave now,” said the equerry, “because the only flight to Moscow today departs in an hour and a half.”
“Have a car ready to take them to the airport,” said Carl Gustaf. Turning to Yelena, he added, “Your husband could not have been better represented, Mrs. Babakova. Please return to Stockholm as my guest whenever you wish. Mr. Clifton, Mrs. Clifton, I will be eternally in your debt. I would make a speech, but as you have a plane to catch, it would be neither adequate nor appropriate. Hang not a thread on protocol, and be gone.”
Harry smiled and bowed for a different reason.
The three of them returned to their rooms to find their cases already packed, and a few minutes later they were being escorted to a waiting car.
“I could get used to this,” said Emma.
“Don’t,” said Harry.
When Yelena walked into the airport on Harry’s arm, passengers took out their pens, biros, pencils and held them in the air as she passed by.
During the flight to Moscow, Harry was so exhausted he finally fell asleep.
* * *
Virginia wasn’t surprised to receive a call from Adrian Sloane. He didn’t waste any time getting to the point.
“You probably know that the board have asked me to take over as chairman of Mellor Travel while Desmond is … away, if you’ll forgive the euphemism.”
Not with his blessing, Virginia was about to say, but she kept her counsel.
“Miss Castle tells me you’re the only other person who knows the code to Desmond’s safe.”
“That is correct.”
“I need to get hold of some papers for the next board meeting. When I visited Desmond last week at Ford, he told me that they were in the safe and you could give me the code.”
“Why didn’t he give it to you himself?” asked Virginia innocently.
“He didn’t want to risk it. Said there were listening devices in his cell that could pick up every word we said.”
Virginia smiled at his simple mistake. “I’ll be happy to give you the code, Adrian, but not until you’ve paid me the twenty-five thousand pounds you promised to help cover my legal bills when I sued Emma Clifton. A drop in the ocean, if I recall your exact words.”
“Give me the code, and I’ll transfer the full amount to your account immediately.”
“That’s very considerate of you, Adrian, but I don’t think I’ll risk it a second time. I’ll tell you the code, but only after you’ve transferred twenty-five thousand pounds to my account at Coutts.”
When the bank confirmed that the money had been transfered, Virginia kept her side of the bargain. After all, it was no more than Desmond Mellor had instructed.
* * *
How different it all was from the last time Harry had visited the Russian capital, when they didn’t want to let him in, and couldn’t wait to throw him out.
On this occasion, when he stepped off the plane he was met by the British Ambassador.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Babakova,” said Sir Curtis Keeble, as a chauffeur opened the back door of a Rolls-Royce to allow Yelena to get in. Before Harry could join her, the ambassador whispered, “Congratulations on your speech, Mr. Clifton. But be warned, they’ve only granted you a visa on condition there will be no heroics this time.”
Harry was well aware what Sir Curtis was referring to. “Then why are they allowing me to attend the funeral?” he asked.
“Because they consider it the lesser of two evils. If they don’t let you in, they’re afraid you’ll say Babakov was never released, but if they do, they can claim that he was never in jail, always a schoolteacher and is being buried at his local church.”
“Who do they expect to fool with such blatant propaganda?”
“They don’t care what the West thinks, they’re only interested in how it plays out in Russia, where they control the press.”
“How many people are expected to attend the funeral?” asked Emma.
“Only a few friends and relations will have the courage to turn up,” said Yelena. “I’d be surprised if it was more than half a dozen.”
“I think it may be a few more than that, Mrs. Babakova,” said the ambassador. “All the morning papers are carrying photographs of you receiving the Nobel Prize on your husband’s behalf.”
“I’m surprised they allowed that,” said Harry.
“It’s all part of a carefully orchestrated campaign known as ‘overnight history.’ Anatoly Babak
ov was never in jail, he lived peacefully in the suburbs of Moscow and the prize was for his poetry and brilliant novella Moscow Revisited. Not one paper mentions Uncle Joe, or refers to the speech you gave last night.”
“Then how do you know about it?” asked Harry.
“It’s all over the wires. There are even photos of you holding up your pen.”
Emma took Yelena’s hand. “Anatoly will defeat the bastards in the end,” she said.
It was Harry who saw them first. To begin with, small pockets of people huddled together on street corners, holding up pens, pencils, biros, as the car swept by. By the time they drew up outside the little church, the crowd had grown—several hundred, a thousand perhaps, all making their silent protest.
Yelena entered the packed church on Harry’s arm, and the three of them were shown to reserved places in the front row. The coffin was borne in on the shoulders of a brother, a cousin and two nephews, none of whom Yelena had seen in years. In fact one of her nephews, Boris, hadn’t even been born when Yelena had escaped to America.
Harry had never attended a Russian Orthodox funeral before. He translated the priest’s words for Emma, although his Russian was a little rusty. When the service came to an end, the congregation filed out of the church to reassemble around a freshly dug grave.
Harry and Emma stood on either side of Yelena as her husband was lowered into the ground. As his next of kin, she was the first to throw a handful of earth onto the coffin. She then knelt beside the open grave. Harry suspected that nothing would have moved her if the ambassador hadn’t bent down and whispered, “We must leave, Mrs. Babakova.”
Harry helped her back to her feet. “I won’t be going with you,” she said quietly.
Emma was about to protest, but Harry simply said, “Are you sure?”
“Oh yes,” she replied. “I left him once. I’ll never leave him again.”
“Where will you live?” asked Emma.
“With my brother and his wife. Now their children have left home, they have a spare room.”
“Are you absolutely certain?” asked the ambassador.
“Tell me, Sir Curtis,” said Yelena, looking up at the ambassador, “will you be buried in Russia? Or is there some village in your green and pleasant land…?” He didn’t reply.
Emma embraced Yelena. “We’ll never forget you.”
“Nor I you. And like me, Emma, you married a remarkable man.”
“We must leave,” said the ambassador a little more firmly.
Harry and Emma gave Yelena one last hug before they reluctantly left her. “I’ve never seen her happier,” said Harry as he joined Emma in the back of the ambassador’s Rolls-Royce.
Outside the churchyard, the crowd had grown, every one of them holding their pens high in the air. Harry was about to get back out of the car and join them when Emma put a hand on his arm.
“Be careful, my darling. Don’t do anything that will harm Yelena’s chances of living a peaceful life.”
Harry reluctantly removed his hand from the door handle, but defiantly waved to the crowd as the car sped away.
At the airport, the police were waiting for them. Not this time to arrest Harry and throw him into jail, but to escort him and Emma onto their plane as quickly as possible. Harry was just about to climb the aircraft steps when a distinguished-looking man stepped forward and touched him on the elbow. Harry turned around, but it was a few moments before he recognized the colonel.
“I’m not going to detain you this time,” said Colonel Marinkin. “But I wanted you to have this.” He handed Harry a small package and hurried away. Harry walked up the steps to the waiting aircraft and took his seat next to Emma, but didn’t open the package until the plane had taken off.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s the only surviving copy of Uncle Joe in Russian, the one Yelena hid in the bookshop.”
“How did you get it?”
“An old man gave it to me. He must have decided I ought to have it, even though he told the court it had been destroyed.”
EPILOGUE
1978
“IT IS SATURDAY, isn’t it?” said Emma.
“Yes. Why do you ask?” said Harry, not looking up from his morning paper.
“A post office van’s just driven through the gates. But Jimmy doesn’t usually deliver on a Saturday morning.”
“Unless it’s a telegram?”
“I hate telegrams. I always assume the worst,” said Emma, as she jumped up from the table and hurried out of the room. She had opened the front door before Jimmy could ring the bell.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Clifton,” he said, touching his cap. “I’ve been instructed by head office to deliver this letter.”
He handed over a long thin cream envelope addressed to Harry Clifton Esq. The first thing Emma noticed was that it didn’t have a stamp, just a royal crest embossed in red above the words BUCKINGHAM PALACE.
“It must be an invitation to the Queen’s garden party.”
“December seems a strange time to be inviting someone to a garden party,” said Jimmy, who touched his cap again, returned to his van and drove off.
Emma closed the front door and quickly returned to the breakfast room. “It’s for you, darling,” she said, handing the envelope to Harry. “From Buck House,” she added nonchalantly, as she hovered behind him.
Harry put down his paper and studied the envelope, before picking up a knife and slowly slitting it open. He pulled out a letter and unfolded it. He read the contents slowly, then looked up.
“Well?”
He handed the letter to Emma, who had read no further than the opening words, I am commanded by Her Majesty, before she said, “Congratulations, my darling. I only wish your mother was still alive. She would have enjoyed accompanying you to the Palace.” Harry didn’t respond. “Well, say something.”
“This letter should have been addressed to you. You deserve the honor so much more than I do.”
* * *
“Great photograph of Harry on the front page of the Times, holding up a pen,” said Giles.
“Yes, and have you read the speech he gave at the Nobel Prize ceremony?” said Karin. “Hard to believe he wrote it in twenty-four hours.”
“Some of the most memorable speeches ever written were composed at a time of crisis. Churchill’s ‘blood, toil, tears and sweat.’ for example, and Roosevelt’s ‘day of infamy’ address to Congress the day after Pearl Harbor, were both delivered at a moment’s notice,” said Giles, as he poured himself another cup of coffee.
“Praise indeed,” said Karin. “You should phone Harry and congratulate him. He’d be particularly pleased to hear it coming from you.”
“You’re right. I’ll call him after breakfast,” said Giles, turning the page of his paper. “Oh, how sad,” he said, his voice suddenly changing when he saw her photograph on the obituaries page.
“Sad?” repeated Karin, putting down her coffee.
“Your friend Cynthia Forbes-Watson has died. I had no idea she used to be the deputy director of MI6. Did she ever mention it to you?”
Karin froze. “No, no never.”
“I always knew she’d been something in the Foreign Office, and now I know what that something was. Still, eighty-five, not a bad innings. Are you all right, darling?” Giles said, looking up. “You’re as white as a sheet.”
“I’ll miss her,” said Karin. “She was very kind to me. I’d like to attend her funeral.”
“We should both go. I’ll find out the details when I’m in the Lords.”
“Please do. Perhaps I should cancel my trip to Cornwall.”
“No, she wouldn’t have wanted that. In any case, your father will be looking forward to seeing you.”
“And what are you doing today?” asked Karin, trying to recover.
“I’ve got a running three-line whip on the education bill, so I don’t suppose I’ll be back much before midnight. I’ll give you a call first thing in the morning.”
* * *
The last couple of years had been a nightmare for Virginia.
Once Buck Trend had warned her that Ellie May had tracked down Mr. and Mrs. Morton, she knew the game was up and reluctantly accepted that there was no point in pursuing Cyrus for any more money. And worse, Trend had made it clear he was no longer willing to represent her unless she paid him a monthly retainer in advance. His way of saying she was a lost cause.
If that wasn’t enough, the bank manager had reappeared on the scene. While purporting to offer his condolences on the death of her father, in the next breath he suggested it might be wise given the circumstances—his way of reminding her that the earl’s monthly allowance had ceased—for her to consider putting Onslow Gardens on the market, withdrawing Freddie from his expensive pre-prep school, and disposing of her butler, housekeeper and nanny.
What the bank manager didn’t realize was that her father had promised to leave her the Glen Fenwick Distillery along with its annual profit of over £100,000. Virginia had traveled up to Scotland the night before to attend the reading of the will, and was looking forward to reminding Mr. Fairbrother that, in future, he should only ever address her through a third party.
But there still remained the problem of what to do about Freddie. This wasn’t the time to tell her brother, the tenth earl, that she wasn’t the child’s mother and, even worse, the father was from below stairs.
“Are you expecting any surprises?” Virginia asked him as they walked back toward Fenwick Hall.
“Seems unlikely,” said Archie. “Father disliked surprises almost as much as he disliked taxes, which is why he signed the estate over to me almost twenty years ago.”
“We all benefited,” said Fraser, throwing another stick for his Labrador to retrieve. “I ended up with Glencarne, and Campbell got the town house in Edinburgh, all thanks to Pa.”
“I think Pa always planned to leave this world as he entered it,” said Archie. “Naked and penniless.”
Cometh the Hour Page 37
