Mightier Than the Sword

by Jeffrey Archer

  “But something that would not have changed, even if Cedric had become chairman of the Bank of England, was his constant refrain that if you take care of the pennies, the pounds will take care of themselves.”

  * * *

  “Do you think we’ve got away with it?” asked Sloane nervously.

  “If, by that, you’re asking if everything you’ve done in the past four days is legal and above board, the answer is yes.”

  “Do we have a quorum?”

  “We do,” said Malcolm Atkins, the bank’s chief legal advisor. “The managing director, the company secretary, and six nonexecutive directors are waiting for you in the boardroom. Mind you,” he added, “I’d be fascinated to know what you said to them when they suggested that perhaps they ought to be attending a funeral in Huddersfield today rather than a board meeting in London.”

  “I told them quite simply that the choice was theirs. They could vote for a place in this world or the next.”

  Atkins smiled and checked his watch. “We should join them. It’s almost ten.”

  The two men left Sloane’s office and walked silently down the thickly carpeted corridor. When Sloane entered the boardroom, everyone stood, just as they’d always done for the late chairman.

  “Gentlemen,” said the company secretary once they had all settled. “This extraordinary meeting has been called for one purpose, namely…”

  * * *

  “Whenever we think of Cedric Hardcastle,” continued the bishop, “we should remember one thing above all. He was quintessentially a Yorkshireman. If the second coming had taken place at Headingley during the tea interval of a Roses match, he would not have been surprised. It was Cedric’s unswerving belief that Yorkshire was a country, not a county. In fact, he considered Farthings Bank to have become international not when he opened a branch in Hong Kong but when he opened one in Manchester.”

  He waited for the laughter to die down before he continued.

  “Cedric was not a vain man, but that didn’t stop him being a proud one. Proud of the bank he served every day, and even prouder of how many customers and staff had prospered under his guidance and leadership. So many of you in this congregation today, from the most junior trainee to the president of Sony International, have been beneficiaries of his wisdom and foresight. But what he will most be remembered for is his unquestionable reputation—for honesty, integrity, and decency. Standards he took for granted when dealing with his fellow men. He considered a good deal was one in which both sides made a profit, and would be happy to raise their hats to each other whenever they passed in the street.”

  * * *

  “The one item on today’s agenda,” continued the company secretary, “is for the board to elect a new chairman, following the tragic death of Cedric Hardcastle. Only one name has been proposed, that of Mr. Adrian Sloane, the head of our highly profitable property division. Mr. Sloane has already obtained the legal backing of sixty-six percent of our shareholders, but he felt his appointment should also be ratified by the board.”

  Malcolm Atkins came in on cue. “It is my pleasure to propose that Adrian Sloane be the next chairman of Farthings Bank, as I feel that is what Cedric would have wanted.”

  “I’m delighted to second that motion,” said Desmond Mellor, a recently appointed non-executive director.

  “Those in favor?” said the company secretary. Eight hands shot up. “I declare the motion carried unanimously.”

  Sloane rose slowly to his feet. “Gentlemen. Allow me to begin by thanking you for the confidence you have shown by electing me as the next chairman of Farthings. Cedric Hardcastle’s shoes are not easy ones to step into. I replace a man who left us in tragic circumstances. A man we all assumed would be with us for many years to come. A man I could not have admired more. A man I considered not only a colleague, but a friend, which makes me all the more proud to pick up his baton and carry it on the next leg of the bank’s race. I respectfully suggest that we all rise, and bow our heads in memory of a great man.”

  * * *

  “But ultimately,” continued the bishop, “Cedric Hardcastle will best be remembered as a family man. He loved Beryl from the day she gave him an extra third of a pint when she was the milk monitor at their primary school in Huddersfield, and he could not have been more proud when their only son, Arnold, became a QC. Although he could never understand why the lad had chosen Oxford, and not Leeds, to complete his education.

  “Allow me to end by summing up my feelings for one of my oldest and dearest friends with the words from the epitaph on Sir Thomas Fairfax by the Duke of Buckingham:

  He never knew what envy was, nor hate;

  His soul was filled with worth and honesty,

  And with another thing besides, quite out of date,

  Called modesty.”

  * * *

  Malcolm Atkins raised a glass of champagne.

  “To the new chairman of Farthings,” he toasted, as Sloane sat in the chair behind Cedric’s desk for the first time. “So, what will be your first executive action?”

  “Make sure we close the Shifnal deal before anyone else works out why it’s so cheap at one point six million.”

  “And your second?” asked Mellor.

  “Sack Sebastian Clifton,” he spat out, “along with anyone else who was close to Hardcastle and went along with his outdated philosophy. This bank is about to join the real world, where profits, not people, will be its only mantra. And if any customers threaten to move their account, let them, especially if they’re from Yorkshire. From now on, the bank’s motto will be, If you’ve only got pennies, don’t bother to bank with us.”

  * * *

  Sebastian bowed his head as the pallbearers lowered the coffin into the grave so no one would see his tears. Ross Buchanan didn’t attempt to hide his feelings. Emma and Harry held hands. They had all lost a good and wise friend.

  As they walked slowly away from the graveside, Arnold Hardcastle and his mother joined them.

  “Why wasn’t Adrian Sloane here?” asked Ross. “Not to mention half a dozen other directors?”

  “Father wouldn’t have missed Sloane,” said Arnold. “He was just about to sack him before he died.”

  “He told you that?” said Ross.

  “Yes. He rang me early on Friday morning to find out what the legal position was if the head of a department was caught using the bank’s money to carry out private deals.”

  “Did he say which head of department?” asked Ross.

  “He didn’t need to.”

  “Did you say six directors?” interrupted Emma.

  “Yes,” said Ross. “Why’s that important?”

  “It constitutes a quorum. If Cedric were still alive, he would have spotted what Sloane was up to.”

  “Oh my God. Now I realize why he needed me to sign those documents,” said Beryl. “Cedric will never forgive me.”

  “Like you, I’m appalled, Mother, but don’t worry, you still own fifty-one percent of the bank.”

  “Can someone kindly explain in simple English,” asked Harry, “what you’re all talking about?”

  “Adrian Sloane has just appointed himself as the new chairman of Farthings,” said Sebastian. “Where’s the nearest phone?”

  13

  SEBASTIAN CHECKED his watch. Just enough time to make one call. He was relieved to find the only phone box within sight was empty, and wasn’t out of order. He dialed a number he knew by heart.

  “Victor Kaufman.”

  “Vic, it’s Seb.”

  “Seb, hi. You sound as if you’re phoning from the other side of the world.”

  “Not quite. I’m at Huddersfield station. I’ve just been to Cedric Hardcastle’s funeral.”

  “I read his obituary in today’s FT. That was one hell of a man you were working for.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Which is why I’m calling. I need to see your father urgently.”

  “Just give his secretary a call, and I’ll make
sure she fixes an appointment.”

  “What I want to discuss can’t wait. I need to see him this evening, tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  “Am I sensing a big deal?”

  “The biggest ever to cross my desk.”

  “Then I’ll speak to him immediately. When will you be back in London?”

  “My train’s due to arrive at Euston at ten past four.”

  “Give me a call from the station and I’ll—”

  A shrill whistle blew and Seb turned to see a green flag waving. He dropped the phone, ran out on to the platform, and jumped onto the moving train.

  He took a seat at the rear of the carriage and, once he’d got his breath back, he thought about how he’d first met Vic at St. Bede’s, when he’d shared a study with him and Bruno Martinez, and they had become his two closest friends; one the son of an immigrant Jew, and the other the son of an Argentinian arms dealer. Over the years they’d become inseparable. That friendship grew even closer when Seb had ended up with a black eye for defending his Jewish friend, not that he had been altogether sure what a Jew was. Like a blind man, unaware of race or religion, he quickly discovered that prejudice was often taught at the breakfast table.

  He turned his attention to the sage advice his mother had given him just before she and Dad had driven back to Bristol after the funeral. He knew she was right.

  Seb took his time writing a first draft, then a second. By the time the train pulled into Euston, he’d completed a final draft which he hoped would meet with both his mother’s and Cedric’s approval.

  * * *

  Sloane immediately recognized the handwriting. He tore open the envelope and pulled out a letter, becoming angrier with each word he read.

  Dear Mr. Sloane,

  I cannot believe that even you could stoop so low as to hold a board meeting on the day of Cedric Hardcastle’s funeral, with the sole purpose of appointing yourself chairman. Unlike me, Cedric would probably not have been surprised by your duplicity.

  You may think you’ve got away with it, but I can assure you, you haven’t, because I will not rest until you are exposed for the fraud you are, as we both know you are the last person Cedric would have wanted to succeed him.

  After reading this letter, you won’t be surprised to learn that I no longer want to work for an amoral charlatan like you.

  S. Clifton

  Sloane leapt out of his chair, unable to control his temper. He charged into his secretary’s office and shouted, “Is he still in the building?”

  “Who?” asked Rachel innocently.

  “Clifton, who else?”

  “I haven’t seen him since he handed me a letter and asked me to put it on your desk.”

  Sloane marched out of his office and down the corridor, still hoping to find Clifton at his desk so he could publicly sack him.

  “Where’s Clifton?” he demanded as he strode into Sebastian’s room. Bobby Rushton, Seb’s young assistant, looked up at the new chairman, and was so petrified he couldn’t get any words out. “Are you deaf?” said Sloane. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Where’s Clifton?”

  “He packed his things and left a few minutes ago,” said Rushton. “He told us all that he’d resigned and wouldn’t be back.”

  “Only minutes before he would have been sacked,” said Sloane. Looking down at the young man, he added, “And you can join him. Make sure you’re off the premises within the hour, and be certain you leave nothing in this room that even hints that Clifton ever existed.”

  Sloane stormed back to his office and sat down at his desk. Five more envelopes, all marked Personal, were waiting to be opened.

  * * *

  “I only met Cedric Hardcastle on half a dozen occasions, mostly social,” said Saul Kaufman. “We never did any business, but I’d have liked to, because he was one of the few men in the City who still believed a handshake closed a deal, not a contract.”

  “Even a contract won’t necessarily close a deal with the new chairman,” said Seb.

  “I’ve never met Adrian Sloane, I only know him by reputation. Is he the reason you wanted to see me so urgently?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Seb. “I was looking into a major deal involving Sloane when the chairman had his heart attack.”

  “Then take me through the deal slowly, and don’t leave out any details.”

  Seb began by telling Mr. Kaufman how he’d taken a phone call from Ralph Vaughan of Savills that had alerted him to what Sloane was up to. And how the following morning, on Cedric’s instructions, he’d travelled up to Shifnal, and how the day had ended with him meeting Mr. Swann and discovering why Sloane was willing to pay way over the odds for a thousand-acre farm in Shropshire.

  When Seb came to the end of his story, an enigmatic smile appeared on Kaufman’s face.

  “Could it be possible that Mr. Swann has stumbled across something we all missed? We’ll find out soon enough, because the government is expected to announce its findings in the next few weeks.”

  “But we haven’t got weeks, only a couple of days. Don’t forget, closing bids have to be in by five o’clock tomorrow.”

  “So you want me to outbid Sloane, on the possibility that Mr. Swann has worked out what the government has planned?”

  “Cedric was willing to take that risk.”

  “And, unlike Sloane, Cedric Hardcastle had the reputation of being a cautious man.” Kaufman placed his hands together as if in prayer, and when his prayer was answered, he said, “I’ll need to make a few phone calls before I come to a final decision, so come back to my office at 4:40 tomorrow afternoon. If I’m convinced, we’ll take it from there.”

  “But by then it will be too late.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Kaufman.

  * * *

  When Seb left the bank he was in a daze, and not at all convinced that Kaufman would go ahead with the deal. But he had nowhere else to turn.

  He hurried home. He wanted to share everything that had happened since he’d left the flat that morning with Samantha. She always saw things from a different angle, often coming out of left field, to use one of her favorite American expressions.

  While Sam prepared supper, Seb told her who’d attended the funeral that morning and, more important, who hadn’t, and what Sloane and his cronies had been up to while he was in Huddersfield … and why he was now looking for a job.

  When he finally stopped pacing around the kitchen and sat down, Sam said, “But you’ve always known Sloane was a crook, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he’d call a board meeting when everyone who would have opposed him was out of town. I bet your mother would have worked that one out.”

  “She did, but by then it was too late. But I still think we can beat Sloane at his own game.”

  “Not at his own game,” said Sam. “Try to think what Cedric would have done in the circumstances, not Sloane.”

  “But if I’m ever going to beat him, I’ll have to think like him.”

  “Possibly, but that doesn’t mean you have to act like him.”

  “Shifnal Farm is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  “That’s not a good enough reason to crawl around in the same gutter as Sloane.”

  “But, Sam, I might never get another chance like this again.”

  “Of course you will, Seb. Think long-term, and you’ll understand the difference between Adrian Sloane and Cedric Hardcastle. Because I’m absolutely sure of one thing, very few people will be attending Sloane’s funeral.”

  * * *

  Friday turned out to be the longest day of Sebastian’s life. He’d hardly slept the previous night as he tried to work out what Kaufman was up to.

  When Sam left to attend a lecture at King’s, he pottered around the flat, pretended to read a morning paper, spent an inordinate amount of time washing up the few breakfast dishes, even went for a run in the park, but by the time he got back, it was still only just after eleven.

  He took a shower, shaved, an
d opened a tin of baked beans. He continually glanced at his watch, but the second hand still only circled the dial every sixty seconds.

  After what passed for a fork lunch, he went upstairs to the bedroom, took his smartest suit out of the wardrobe, and put on a freshly ironed white shirt and his old school tie. He finally polished a pair of shoes until a sergeant major would have been proud of them.

  At four o’clock he was standing at the bus stop waiting for the number 4 to take him into the City. He jumped off at St. Paul’s and, although he walked slowly, he was standing outside Kaufman’s bank on Cheapside by 4:25. There was nothing for it but to stroll around the block. As he walked past so many familiar City institutions, he was reminded just how much he enjoyed working in the Square Mile. He tried not to think about being unemployed for any length of time.

  At 4:38, Seb marched into the bank and said to the receptionist, “I have an appointment with Mr. Kaufman.”

  “Which Mr. Kaufman?” she asked, giving him a warm smile.

  “The chairman.”

  “Thank you, sir. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Seb paced around the lobby watching another second hand make a larger circle around a larger clock but with exactly the same result. His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder and the words, “The chairman is waiting for us in his office. I’ll take you up.”

  Seb was impressed that Vic hadn’t said “Dad.” He could feel the palms of his hands sweating, and as the lift trundled slowly up to the top floor he rubbed them on his trousers. When they entered the chairman’s office, they found Mr. Kaufman on the phone.

  “I need to speak to a colleague before I can make that decision, Mr. Sloane. I’ll call you back around five.” Seb looked horrified, but Kaufman put a finger to his lips. “If that’s convenient.”

  * * *

  Sloane put the receiver down, picked it up again immediately, and without going through to his secretary dialed a number.