Mightier Than the Sword

by Jeffrey Archer

  “So who are you going to call?”

  “Major Alex Fisher MP.”

  “But won’t he be a defense witness?”

  “Mr. Trelford doesn’t think so. Fisher could well be as much of a liability for them as you might be for us.”

  “Then perhaps the other side will call me?” said Giles, sounding hopeful.

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “I’d pay good money to see Fisher in the witness box,” said Giles, ignoring his sister’s barb. “Remind Mr. Trelford that he’s got a very short fuse, especially if he’s not treated with the respect he feels he deserves, and that was true even before he became an MP.”

  “The same can be said of Virginia,” said Harry. “She won’t be able to resist reminding everyone that she’s the daughter of an earl. And there won’t be too many of those on the jury.”

  “However,” said Giles, “it would be equally foolish to underestimate Sir Edward. If I may quote Trollope when describing another advocate, he is ‘as bright as a diamond, and as cutting, and also as unimpressionable.’”

  “And I may need those same qualities at next month’s board meeting when I climb into the ring with Mellor.”

  “I have a feeling that Mellor and Virginia must be working together,” said Giles. “The timing’s just a little too convenient.”

  “Not to mention Fisher,” added Harry.

  “Have you decided yet if you’re going to stand against him at the next election?” asked Emma.

  “Perhaps it’s time to tell you that Harold Wilson has offered me a seat in the Lords.”

  “Congratulations!” said Emma, leaping up from her chair and throwing her arms around her brother. “Some good news at last.”

  “And I turned him down.”

  “You did what?”

  “I turned him down. I told him I wanted one more crack at Bristol Docklands.”

  “And one more crack at Fisher, no doubt,” said Harry.

  “That would be part of the reason,” admitted Giles. “But if he beats me again, I’ll call it a day.”

  “I think you’re out of your mind,” said Emma.

  “Which is exactly what you said when I first told you twenty-five years ago that I was going to stand for Parliament.”

  “As a socialist,” Emma reminded him.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” said Giles, “Sebastian agrees with you.”

  “Does that mean you’ve seen him since he got back from New York?” asked Harry.

  “Yes, and before you ask, he clammed up the moment I raised the subject.”

  “A pity,” said Harry. “Such a remarkable girl.”

  “But what I can tell you is that when I dropped into his office before taking him out to lunch, I spotted a child’s painting on the wall behind his desk that I’d never seen before. It was called My Mom, and I could have sworn it was Jessica’s hand.”

  “A painting of me?” asked Emma.

  “No, that’s the strange thing,” said Giles. “It was of Samantha.”

  * * *

  “Sloane offered you ten pounds a share?” said Ross Buchanan. “But that doesn’t make any sense. Farthings are trading at two pounds eight shillings this morning.”

  “He was simply trying to find out what my limit was,” said Seb. “Once he realized I wasn’t interested, he threw in the towel and lost his temper.”

  “That shouldn’t have come as a surprise. But why’s he so desperate to get his hands on your six percent?”

  “And where do Mellor and Fisher fit in?”

  “An unholy alliance that’s up to no good, that’s for sure.”

  “There was another name in the visitors’ book that just might provide the answer. Have you ever come across someone called Hakim Bishara?”

  “I’ve never met him,” said Ross. “But I attended a lecture he gave at the London School of Economics, and I was mightily impressed. He’s Turkish, but was educated in Beirut. He came top in the entrance exam for Oxford, but they didn’t offer him a place.”

  “Why?”

  “It was assumed he must have cheated. After all, how could a boy called Hakim Bishara, the son of a Turkish carpet trader and a Syrian prostitute, possibly beat the cream of the English public school system? So he went to Yale instead, and after he’d graduated he won a scholarship to Harvard Business School, where he’s now a visiting professor.”

  “So he’s an academic?”

  “Far from it. Bishara practices what he preaches. When he was twenty-nine he mounted an audacious coup to take over the Beirut Commerce and Trading Bank. It’s now one of the most respected financial institutions in the Middle East.”

  “So what’s he doing in England?”

  “For some time now he’s been trying to get the Bank of England to grant him a licence to open a branch of BC and T in London, but so far they’ve always turned him down.”

  “Why?”

  “The Bank of England doesn’t have to give a reason, and don’t forget, its committee is made up of the same breed of chinless wonders who prevented Bishara from going to Oxford. But he’s not a man who gives up easily. I recently read in the Questor column of the Telegraph that he now intends to bypass the committee and take over an English bank. And what bank could be riper for takeover than Farthings?”

  “It was staring me in the face, and I didn’t spot it,” said Seb.

  “When you put two and two together, they usually make four,” said Ross. “But it still doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, because Bishara is happily married, a devout Muslim, who’s spent years building a reputation for scrupulous honesty and straight dealing, not unlike Cedric. So why would he be willing to deal with Sloane, who’s built a reputation for being unscrupulous and dishonest, and deals from the bottom of the pile?”

  “There’s only one way I’m going to find out,” said Seb, “and that’s to meet him. Any ideas?”

  “Not unless you’re a world-class backgammon player, because that’s his hobby.”

  “I know what to do with a six and a one on the opening throw, but not much more.”

  “Well, whenever he’s in London he plays regularly at the Clermont Club. He’s part of the ‘Clermont set’—Goldsmith, Aspinall, Lucan. Loners, like him, who don’t fit easily into London society. But don’t take him on, Seb, unless you want to lose the shirt off your back. Frankly, where Bishara’s concerned you don’t have a lot going for you.”

  “I’ve got one thing going for me,” said Seb. “We have something in common.”

  * * *

  “If I were a betting man, Mrs. Clifton, the answer to your question would be even money, but the one imponderable in any trial is how people perform once they’re in the witness box.”

  “Perform? But shouldn’t one just be oneself, and tell the truth?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Mr. Trelford. “However, I don’t want the jury to feel they are members of a committee that’s being chaired by you.”

  “But that’s what I do,” said Emma.

  “Not while you’re in the witness box you don’t. I want all the men on the jury to fall in love with you, and, if possible, the judge as well.”

  “And the women?”

  “They must feel you had to struggle to achieve your amazing success.”

  “Well, at least that’s true. Do you think Sir Edward will be giving Virginia the same advice?”

  “Undoubtedly. He’ll want to portray her as a damsel in distress, lost in the cruel world of commerce and finance, and trodden on by a bully who’s used to having her own way.”

  “But that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

  “I think we’ll have to leave the twelve jurors to decide what the truth is, Mrs. Clifton. But for now, let’s look at the facts in the cold light of day. The first part of your response to Lady Virginia’s question at a well-attended public meeting, and as recorded in the company’s minutes, we will plead as justification. We will point out that Major Fisher was not only
Lady Virginia’s chosen vessel on the board, but that it was his inside knowledge as a director of the company that made it possible for her to buy and sell shares to her advantage. Sir Edward will find that hard to refute, and will pass over it as quickly as possible and concentrate on what you added as she was leaving the hall: ‘If it was your intention to bring the company down, Lady Virginia, then you have failed, and failed lamentably, because you were defeated by decent ordinary people who want the company to be a success.’ ‘Decent ordinary people’ is our problem, because that’s how the jury will see themselves, and Sir Edward will claim that not only is his client a decent, ordinary person, but that the reason she continued to buy Barrington shares was that she had faith in the company, and the last thing she would have wanted was to bring it down.”

  “But every time Virginia sold her shares she made a vast profit and put the stability of the company at risk.”

  “Indeed, that may well be the case, and I’m hoping that Lady Virginia will attempt to present herself as an innocent when it comes to business matters, and try to persuade the jury that all along she was relying on the expertise of her professional advisor, Major Alexander Fisher.”

  “But they were working as a team to bring the company down.”

  “Quite possibly, but when she’s in the witness box Sir Edward will ask Lady Virginia the one question you avoided answering. ‘Who were you referring to, Lady Virginia, when you said’—” Mr. Trelford pushed his half-moon spectacles up his nose and checked the exact words—“‘is it true that one of your directors sold his vast shareholding over the weekend, in an attempt to bring the company down?’”

  “But Cedric Hardcastle wasn’t trying to bring the company down. The exact opposite. He was attempting to save it, as he would have explained himself had he been able to take his place in the witness box.”

  “I’ll word this as delicately as I can in the circumstances, Mrs. Clifton, but I am relieved that the other side can’t call Mr. Hardcastle, because we certainly wouldn’t have.”

  “But why not, when he was a thoroughly decent and honest man?”

  “Of that I have no doubt. But Sir Edward will point out that Mr. Hardcastle was doing exactly the same thing as you are accusing Lady Virginia of.”

  “With the intention of saving the company, not bringing it to its knees.”

  “Possibly, but by then you will have lost both the argument and the case.”

  “I still wish he were alive today,” said Emma.

  “Now, I need you to remember the way you delivered those words, Mrs. Clifton, because that’s exactly how I want the jury to think of you when they are considering their verdict.”

  “I’m not looking forward to this,” admitted Emma.

  “Then perhaps it might be wise for you to consider settling the action.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “To avoid a high-profile trial with all the attendant publicity, and to get back to your normal life.”

  “But that would be admitting she was in the right.”

  “Your statement would be worded carefully—‘the heat of the moment, possibly a little injudicious at the time, and we offer our sincere apologies.’”

  “And the financial implications?”

  “You would have to pay her costs, my fees, and a small donation to the charity of her choice.”

  “Believe me,” said Emma, “if we were to go down that road, Virginia would see it as a sign of weakness and would be even more determined to go ahead with the action. She doesn’t want the case to go away quietly, she wants to be vindicated in court, as well as in the press, preferably with headlines that will humiliate me, day after day.”

  “Possibly, but it would be Sir Edward’s professional responsibility also to put the alternative to her: that if she loses the case, she will end up paying your costs as well as his, and, I assure you, there’s nothing cheap about Sir Edward Makepeace.”

  “She’ll ignore his advice. Virginia doesn’t believe it’s possible she might lose, and I can prove it.” Mr. Trelford sat back and listened carefully to what his client had to say. When she had finished, he believed for the first time that they just might have a chance.

  31

  SEBASTIAN GOT OUT of the car and handed the doorman his keys and a pound note. As he walked up the steps to the entrance of the Clermont, the door was opened for him and he parted with a second.

  “Are you a member, sir?” asked the elegantly dressed man standing behind the front desk.

  “No,” said Seb, this time slipping the man a five-pound note.

  “Just sign here, sir,” the man said, swiveling a form around.

  Seb signed where the finger rested and received a temporary membership card. “The main gaming room is at the top of the stairs on your left, sir.”

  Seb walked up the sweeping marble staircase, admiring the dazzling chandelier, the oil paintings, and the thick plush carpet. Millionaires must be made to feel at home, he concluded, otherwise they wouldn’t be willing to part with their money.

  He entered the gaming room but didn’t look around, as he wanted the onlookers to believe this was his natural habitat. He strolled across to the bar and climbed onto a leather stool.

  “What can I get you, sir?” asked the barman.

  “A Campari and soda,” said Seb, as this clearly wasn’t a club that served draft ale.

  When the drink was placed in front of him, he took out his wallet and placed a pound on the bar.

  “There’s no charge, sir.”

  Establishments that don’t charge for drinks have to be making up for the loss in some other ways, thought Seb, leaving the note where it lay. “Thank you, sir,” said the barman, as Seb swiveled around and slowly took in the “some other ways.”

  Two roulette tables stood next to each other on the far side of the room, and from the large pile of chips in front of each of the players, and their expressionless faces, Seb assumed they were regulars. Hadn’t anyone explained to them that they were paying for the marble staircase, the oil paintings, the chandelier, and the free drinks? His eyes moved on to the blackjack tables. At least there the odds were slightly better, because if you could count the court cards, it was even possible to beat the house—but only once, because after that, you’d never be allowed to darken the club’s doors again. Casinos like winners, but not consistent ones.

  His gaze moved on to two men playing backgammon. One was sipping a black coffee, the other a brandy. Seb turned back to the barman. “Is that Hakim Bishara playing backgammon?”

  The barman looked up. “Yes, it is, sir.”

  Seb took a closer look at the short, pursy, red-cheeked man who looked as if he had to make regular visits to his tailor. He was bald, and his double chin suggested a greater interest in food and drink than weight training or running. A tall, lithe blonde stood by his side, a hand resting on his shoulder. Seb suspected she was less attracted by the deep lines on his forehead than by the thick wallet in his inside pocket. He wasn’t surprised that he kept being rejected by the English establishment. His younger opponent looked like a lamb about to be devoured by a python.

  Seb turned back to the barman. “How do I get a game with Bishara?”

  “It’s not that difficult if you’ve got a hundred pounds to throw away.”

  “He plays for money?”

  “No, for amusement.”

  “But the hundred pounds?”

  “It’s an admission fee that you donate to his favorite charity.”

  “Any tips?”

  “Yes, sir, you’d be better off giving me fifty quid and going home.”

  “But what if I beat him?”

  “Then I’ll give you fifty quid and I’ll go home. Mind you, you’ll enjoy his company for the few minutes the game lasts. And if you were to win, he’ll donate a thousand pounds to the charity of your choice. He’s a real gentleman.”

  Despite appearances, thought Seb as he ordered a second drink. He occasionally glanced
around at the backgammon table, but it was another twenty minutes before the barman whispered, “He’s free now, sir, waiting for his next victim.”

  Seb swung around to see the stout man heave himself out of his chair and begin to walk away with the young woman on his arm.

  “But I thought…” He looked more closely at the lamb that had devoured the python. He could hear Cedric saying, “What did you learn from that, young man?” Bishara looked around forty, perhaps a little older, but his tanned good looks and athletic build suggested that he wouldn’t have to continually empty his wallet to attract a beautiful woman. He had thick, wavy black hair and dark penetrating eyes. Had he been penniless, you might have thought he was an out-of-work actor.

  Seb slipped off the stool and walked slowly toward him, hoping he looked relaxed and in control, because he wasn’t.

  “Good evening, Mr. Bishara, I wondered if you were free for a game?”

  “Not free,” he said, giving Seb a warm smile. “In fact, rather expensive.”

  “Yes, the barman warned me about your terms. But I still want to play you.”

  “Good, then have a seat.” Bishara rolled one die out onto the board.

  Seb was painfully aware after the first half a dozen moves that this man was quite simply in another class. It only took a few minutes before Bishara began removing his counters from the board.

  “Tell me, Mr.…”

  “Clifton, Sebastian Clifton.”

  Bishara reset the board. “As you are clearly not even a respectable pub player, you must have had a good reason for wanting to give away a hundred pounds.”

  “Yes, I did,” said Seb, taking out his check book. “I needed an excuse to meet you.”

  “And why, may I ask?”

  “Because we have several things in common, one in particular.”

  “Clearly not backgammon.”

  “True,” said Seb. “Who should I make the check out to?”