Mightier Than the Sword (The Clifton Chronicles 5)

“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.