“Did Sir Alan have any other news?”
“He told me that if we haven’t heard from Harry by Monday morning, the foreign secretary will call in the Russian ambassador and demand an explanation.”
“What good will that do?”
“He’ll realize that Harry will be on the front page of every paper around the world the next day if they don’t release him, which is the last thing the Russians will want.”
“Then why arrest him in the first place?” demanded Emma.
“They’re up to something, but even Sir Alan can’t work out what it is.”
Giles didn’t tell Emma about his recent experience when he’d tried to enter East Berlin, not least because he’d assumed that Harry was unlikely to get beyond passport control and would have been frogmarched back on to the next plane to Heathrow. It made no sense that they would detain the president of English PEN without good reason. Even the Soviets don’t like bad publicity if they can possibly avoid it. Like Sir Alan, he couldn’t work out what they were up to.
* * *
During a sleepless weekend, Emma occupied herself answering letters, reading, even polishing some of the family silver, but she was never more than a few paces away from the phone.
Sebastian rang on Saturday morning and when she heard his voice she thought for a moment, just a moment, that it was Harry.
* * *
“It’s ours to lose,” was the expression Sir Edward used during the consultation with Lady Virginia in his chambers on the Friday evening. He advised her to spend a quiet weekend, no late nights, and not to drink too much. She had to be rested, calm, and ready to do battle with Trelford when she stepped into the witness box on Monday morning.
“Just confirm that you always allowed Major Fisher, your professional advisor, to handle anything to do with Barrington’s. ‘At arm’s length,’” was the phrase he kept repeating. “You’ve never heard of Mr. Benny Driscoll, and it came as a great shock when you discovered that Cedric Hardcastle had been dumping all his shares on the market the weekend before the AGM. You simply felt, as a stockholder, that Mrs. Clifton should tell you the truth and not fob you off with a self-serving platitude. And whatever you do, don’t rise to Trelford’s bait, because he’ll try to tickle you under the chin like a trout. Swim in the deep water and don’t be tempted to come up to the surface because, if you do, he’ll hook you and slowly reel you in. And finally, just because things have gone well for us so far, that doesn’t mean you should become overconfident. I’ve seen far too many cases lost on the last day of the trial by a client who thought they’d already won. Remember,” he repeated, “it’s ours to lose.”
* * *
Sebastian spent most of his weekend at the bank, trying to catch up with a backlog of unanswered correspondence and dozens of “urgent” queries that Rachel had left in his in-tray. It took all of Saturday morning just to tackle the first pile.
Mr. Bishara’s inspired choice as the new chairman of Farthings had been greeted in the City with acclamation, which made Seb’s life much easier. A few customers closed their accounts when Sloane departed, but many more returned when they discovered his successor would be Ross Buchanan: an experienced, shrewd operator, with bottom, was how the Sunday Times described him.
Sebastian called his mother just before lunch on Saturday and tried to reassure her that there was nothing for her to worry about.
“He probably can’t get through. Can you imagine what the Russian telephone service must be like?”
But he wasn’t convinced by his own words. His father had expressly told him he would be back in time for the trial, and he couldn’t help remembering one of his papa’s favorite maxims, “There’s only one excuse to be late for a lady: death.”
Seb grabbed a quick lunch with Vic Kaufman, who was worried about his own father, but for a different reason. It was the first time he’d mentioned Alzheimer’s.
“I’m becoming painfully aware that Dad is a one-man band. He beats the big drum while the rest of us are occasionally allowed to bang the cymbals. Perhaps the time has come for Farthings and Kaufman’s to consider a merger.”
Seb couldn’t pretend that the idea hadn’t crossed his mind since he’d become deputy chairman, but Vic’s suggestion couldn’t have come at a worse time, while he had so many other things on his mind.
“Let’s talk about it as soon as the trial is over. And by the way,” Seb added, “be sure to keep a close eye on Sloane because rumor in the City is that he’s also showing a keen interest in your father’s health.”
Seb was back behind his desk just after two o’clock and went on attacking the pile of unopened mail for the rest of the day. He didn’t get home until after midnight.
A security man let him into the bank on Sunday morning, but it wasn’t until late on Sunday afternoon that he came across a cream envelope marked PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL, with six George Washington stamps in the top right-hand corner. He ripped it open and read a letter from Rosemary Wolfe. How could he possibly take time off to go to America now? How could he possibly not?
* * *
Giles did as he was told. He spent Saturday morning walking up and down Broadmead carrying a large, empty Marks and Spencer shopping bag. He shook hands with anyone who stopped to talk to him about the dreadful Conservative government, and that awful Ted Heath. If anyone raised the subject of Major Fisher, he remained diplomatic.
“I wish you were still our MP.”
“If only I’d known, I would never have voted for him.”
“It’s a scandal. The damn man ought to resign,” to which Giles responded with a well-prepared reply: “That’s a decision for Major Fisher and his constituency party to make, so we’ll just have to wait and see.”