Mightier Than the Sword (The Clifton Chronicles 5)

Bishara smiled. “Firstly, Mr. Sloane, allow me to thank you for your courtesy in giving me this opportunity to equal the counterbid made by a third party.” Sloane smiled. “However, I must point out that we agreed on the sum of five pounds a share almost a month ago, and as I put down a deposit with my solicitors in good faith, this comes as something of a surprise.”

“Yes, I must apologize for that,” said Sloane. “But you will understand the dilemma I faced, remembering that we have a fiduciary duty to our stockholders.”

“I don’t know what your father did for a living, Mr. Sloane,” said Bishara, “but mine was a carpet trader in Istanbul, and one of the many things he taught me in my youth was that once a price had been agreed upon, coffee was served, and you then sat around for some time pretending to like each other; the equivalent of an Englishman’s handshake followed by lunch at his club. So my offer of five pounds a share is still on the table, and if you decide to take it up I will happily sign the agreement.”

All eight board members turned and looked at the chairman, willing him to accept Bishara’s offer. But Sloane simply smiled, convinced that the carpet trader’s son was bluffing.

“If that is your final offer, Mr. Bishara, I fear I will have to accept the counterbid. I only hope that we can part as

friends.”

The eight directors turned their attention to the other end of the table. One of them was sweating.

“Clearly the morals of City bankers are not those I was taught sitting at my father’s feet in the bazaars of Istanbul. Therefore, Mr. Sloane, you have left me with no choice but to withdraw my offer.”

Sloane’s lips began to quiver as Bishara handed the banker’s draft back to his lawyer, rose slowly from his place, and said, “Good day, gentlemen. I wish you a long and successful relationship with your new owner, whoever that might be.”

Bishara left the boardroom flanked by his two advisors. He did not speak again until they were seated in the back of his Bentley, when he leaned forward and said to his driver, “Change of plan, Fred, I need to call Kaufman’s Bank.”

* * *

“Could you put me through to Dr. Wolfe,” said Seb.

“Who is calling?”

“Sebastian Clifton.”

“Mr. Clifton, how kind of you to call back. I only wish it were in happier circumstances.”

Seb’s legs gave way, and he collapsed into the chair behind his father’s desk, desperate to find out if anything had happened to Samantha or Jessica.

“Sadly,” continued Dr. Wolfe, “Samantha’s husband, Michael, recently suffered a stroke while on a flight from Chicago back to Washington.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“By the time they got the poor man to a hospital, he had lapsed into a coma. How differently things might have turned out if it had happened an hour earlier or an hour later. This all took place some weeks ago, and his doctors are not optimistic about his recovery. In fact, they have no way of knowing how long he will remain in his present state. But that was not the purpose of my call.”

“I’m guessing that it’s Jessica you called about, and not her stepfather.”

“You’re right. The truth is that medical bills in this country are quite horrendous, and although Mr. Brewer held a high-ranking post in the State Department and was well covered by his health insurance, the expense of the around-the-clock nursing his condition requires has resulted in Samantha deciding to withdraw Jessica from Jefferson Elementary at the end of this term, as she can no longer afford our fees.”

“I’ll cover them.”

“That is most generous of you, Mr. Clifton. However, I should tell you that our fees are fifteen hundred dollars a semester, and Jessica’s extracurricular activities last semester came to a further three hundred and two dollars.”

“I’ll wire you two thousand dollars immediately, and then perhaps you’ll be kind enough to bill me at the end of every semester. However, that is on condition that neither Samantha nor Jessica ever finds out that I’m involved in any way.”

“I had a feeling you might say that, Mr. Clifton, and I think I’ve come up with a strategy that would protect your anonymity. If you were to endow an art scholarship with an annual donation of, say, five thousand dollars, it would then be up to me to select which pupil should be the beneficiary.”

“A nice solution,” said Seb.

“I feel sure your English master would have approved of your correct use of the word nice.”

“My father, actually,” said Seb. “Which reminds me, when my sister needed canvases, paints, drawing paper, brushes, or even pencils, my father always made sure they were of the highest quality. He used to say it mustn’t be our fault if she didn’t succeed. I want the same for my daughter. So if five thousand isn’t enough, Dr. Wolfe, don’t hesitate to give her anything she needs and I’ll cover the extra costs. But I repeat, neither mother nor daughter must ever find out who made this possible.”

“It won’t be the first secret of yours I’ve kept, Mr. Clifton.”

“I apologize,” said Seb, “and also for my next question. When do you retire, Dr. Wolfe?”