Mightier Than the Sword Read online

  “No time for such frivolity,” said Samantha. “In any case, my father’s got us a couple of tickets for the theatre.”

  “What are you going to see?” asked Emma.

  “Hello, Dolly!”

  “And that’s not frivolous?” said Harry.

  “Dad considers Wagner’s Ring Cycle a tad too trendy,” explained Seb before asking, “Where’s Uncle Giles?”

  “He was among the first to leave the ship,” said Emma, as a waiter poured her a second cup of coffee. “Our ambassador whisked him off to the United Nations so they could go over his speech before the afternoon session.”

  “Perhaps we should try and fit the UN in as well?” suggested Sam.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Seb. “The last time I attended one of my uncle’s speeches, he had a heart attack shortly afterward and failed to become the leader of the Labour Party.”

  “That’s something you haven’t mentioned before!”

  “There’s still a lot you don’t know about our family,” Seb admitted.

  “Which reminds me,” said Harry. “I haven’t had the chance to congratulate you on being elected to the board.”

  “Thank you, Dad. And now that I’ve read the minutes of the last meeting, I can’t wait”—Seb looked up to see an anxious look on his mother’s face—“to meet my fellow board members, especially the admiral.”

  “A one-off,” said Emma, although she was still wondering if the next board meeting would be her last, because if the truth came out she’d be left with no choice but to resign. However, as the memory of that first morning at sea began to fade, she relaxed, and she was feeling a little more confident now that the Buckingham had docked in New York. She glanced out of the window. As far as she could see, there were no press hounds hovering at the bottom of the gangway, barking and baying while flashbulbs popped. Perhaps they were more interested in the result of the presidential election. But she wouldn’t breathe a sigh of relief until the Buckingham had set sail on its return journey to Avonmouth.

  “So how do you plan to spend your day, Dad?” asked Seb, breaking into his mother’s reverie.

  “I’m having lunch with my publisher, Harold Guinzburg. No doubt I’ll find out what he has planned for my latest book, and what he thought of it.”

  “Any hope of an early copy for my mom?” said Samantha. “She’s such a fan.”

  “Of course,” said Harry.

  “That will be nine dollars ninety-nine cents,” said Seb, holding out his hand. Samantha placed a hot boiled egg in it. “And what about you, Mum? Any plans for painting the hull?”

  “Don’t encourage her,” said Harry, not laughing.

  “I’ll be the last off the ship and the first back on board. Although I do intend to visit my cousin Alistair and apologize for not attending Great-aunt Phyllis’s funeral.”

  “Seb was in hospital at the time,” Harry reminded her.

  “So where are we going to start?” demanded Seb as he folded his napkin.

  Sam looked out of the window to check the weather. “We’ll take a cab to Central Park and walk the loop before visiting the Met.”

  “Then we’d better get going,” said Seb as he rose from the table. “Have a good day, revered parents.”

  Emma smiled as the two of them left the dining room, hand in hand. “I wish I’d known they were sleeping together.”

  “Emma, it’s the second half of the twentieth century and, let’s face it, we are hardly in a position to—”

  “No, I wasn’t moralizing,” said Emma. “It’s just that I could have sold the extra cabin.”

  4

  “IT WAS GOOD OF YOU to fly back at such short notice, colonel,” said Sir Alan Redmayne, as if he’d had any choice.

  The SAS commander had been handed a telegram the moment he stepped off the Buckingham in New York. A car had whisked him to JFK, where he boarded the first flight back to London. Another car and driver were waiting for him at the bottom of the aircraft steps at Heathrow.

  “The cabinet secretary thought you would want to see this morning’s papers,” was all the driver said before setting off for Whitehall.

  IN YOUR HEART YOU KNEW HE’D LOSE was the headline in the Telegraph. The colonel turned the pages slowly, but there was no mention of the Buckingham, or any article filed under the name of Derek Hart, because if there had been, despite Lyndon Johnson’s landslide election victory over Barry Goldwater, it would surely have led the front page.

  The Buckingham did make the center pages of the Daily Express, with a glowing report from the paper’s travel correspondent, extolling the pleasures of crossing the Atlantic on the latest luxury liner. The Daily Mail had pictures of their twelve lucky readers posing in front of the Statue of Liberty. Another twelve free tickets offered for some future date ensured that there was no reference to any inconvenience caused by the Home Fleet.

  One hour later, having had no change of clothes or a chance to shave, Colonel Scott-Hopkins was sitting opposite the cabinet secretary in his office at No.10 Downing Street.

  The colonel began with a detailed debrief before answering Sir Alan’s questions.

  “Well, at least some good came out of this,” said Sir Alan, taking a leather attaché case from under his desk and placing it on top. “Thanks to the diligence of your SAS colleagues, we located an IRA warehouse in Battersea. We also recovered over twenty-three thousand pounds in cash from the boot of the taxi that took Martinez to Heathrow. I suspect that Kevin ‘four fingers’ Rafferty will soon be known as ‘three fingers’ if he can’t explain to his area commander what happened to the money.”

  “And Martinez? Where is he now?”

  “Our ambassador in Buenos Aires assures me that he’s frequenting his usual haunts. I don’t think we’ll be seeing him or his sons at Wimbledon or Ascot again.”

  “And Doherty and his compatriots?”

  “On their way back to Northern Ireland, not on a luxury liner this time, but on a Royal Navy ship. Once they dock in Belfast, they’ll be transported straight to the nearest prison.”

  “On what charge?”

  “That hasn’t been decided yet,” said Sir Alan.

  “Mrs. Clifton warned me that a journalist from the Telegraph had been sniffing around, asking far too many questions.”

  “Derek Hart. The damn man ignored the IMF loan story that Giles fed him, went ahead and filed his copy on the Home Fleet incident the moment he set foot in New York. However, there were so many ifs and buts in the piece it wasn’t difficult to convince the editor to spike it, not least because he was far more interested in finding out how Leonid Brezhnev, an old school hard-liner, managed to replace Khrushchev in a surprise coup.”

  “And how did he?” asked the colonel.

  “I suggest you read tomorrow’s Telegraph.”

  “And Hart?”

  “I’m told he’s on his way to Johannesburg to try to get an interview with a terrorist called Nelson Mandela, which might prove difficult, as the man’s been in prison for more than two years, and no other journalist has been allowed anywhere near him.”

  “Does that mean my team can be stood down from protecting the Clifton family?”

  “Not yet,” said Sir Alan. “The IRA will almost certainly lose interest in the Barrington and Clifton families now Don Pedro Martinez is no longer around to pay the bills. However, I still need to convince Harry Clifton to assist me in another matter.” The colonel raised an eyebrow, but the cabinet secretary simply rose and shook hands with the SAS commanding officer. “I’ll be in touch” was all he said.

  * * *

  “Have you made up your mind?” asked Seb as they strolled past the Boathouse Café on the east side of Central Park.

  “Yes,” said Samantha, letting go of his hand. Seb turned to face her and waited anxiously. “I’ve already written to King’s College and told them I’d like to take up their offer to do my PhD at London University.”

  Seb leapt in the air with undisguised
delight and screamed “Great balls of fire!” at the top of his voice. No one gave them a second look, but then they were in New York. “Does that mean you’ll move in with me once I find a new flat? We could even choose it together,” he added before she could reply.

  “Are you sure that’s what you really want?” asked Samantha, quietly.

  “I couldn’t be surer,” said Seb, taking her in his arms. “And as you’ll be based in the Strand, while I’m working in the City, perhaps we should look for a place somewhere near, like Islington?”

  “Are you sure?” Sam repeated.

  “As sure as I am that Bristol Rovers will never win the Cup.”

  “Who are Bristol Rovers?”

  “We don’t know each other well enough for me to burden you with their problems,” said Seb as they left the park. “Perhaps given time, a lot of time, I’ll tell you about eleven hopeless men who regularly ruin Saturday afternoons for me,” he added as they reached Fifth Avenue.

  * * *

  When Harry walked into the offices of the Viking Press, a young woman he recognized was waiting in reception.

  “Good morning, Mr. Clifton,” said Harold Guinzburg’s secretary, stepping forward to greet him. He couldn’t help wondering how many authors received this sort of treatment. “Mr. Guinzburg is looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Thank you, Kirsty,” said Harry. She led him through to the publisher’s oak-panelled office, adorned with photographs of past and present authors: Hemingway, Shaw, Fitzgerald, and Faulkner. He wondered if you had to die before your picture could be added to the Guinzburg collection.

  Despite being nearly seventy, Guinzburg leapt up from behind his desk the moment Harry entered the room. Harry had to smile. Dressed in a three-piece suit and wearing a half-hunter pocket watch with a gold chain, Guinzburg looked more English than the English.

  “So how’s my favorite author?”

  Harry laughed as they shook hands. “And how many times a week do you greet authors with those words?” he asked as he sank down in the high, buttoned-back leather chair facing his publisher.

  “A week?” said Guinzburg. “At least three times a day, sometimes more—especially when I can’t remember their names.” Harry smiled. “However, I can prove it’s true in your case, because after reading William Warwick and the Defrocked Vicar, I’ve decided the first print run will be eighty thousand copies.”

  Harry opened his mouth, but didn’t speak. His last William Warwick novel had sold 72,000 copies so he was well aware of the commitment his publisher was making.

  “Let’s hope there won’t be too many returns.”

  “The advance orders rather suggest that eighty thousand won’t be enough. But forgive me,” Guinzburg said, “first tell me, how is Emma? And was the maiden voyage a triumph? I couldn’t find a mention of it, despite scouring the New York Times this morning.”

  “Emma couldn’t be better, and sends her love. At this moment, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s buffing up the brass-work on the bridge. As for the maiden voyage, I have a feeling she’ll be quite relieved there’s no mention of it in the New York Times—although the whole experience may have given me an idea for my next novel.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Not a hope,” replied Harry. “You’ll just have to be patient, which I’m well aware is not your strongest suit.”

  “Then let’s hope your new responsibilities won’t cut into your writing schedule. Many congratulations.”

  “Thank you. Though I only allowed my name to go forward as president of English PEN for one reason.”

  Guinzburg raised an eyebrow.

  “I want a Russian called Anatoly Babakov to be released from prison immediately.”

  “Why do you feel so strongly about Babakov?” asked Guinzburg.

  “If you’d been locked up in prison for a crime you hadn’t committed, Harold, believe me, you’d feel strongly. And don’t forget, I was in an American jail, which frankly is a Holiday Inn compared to a gulag in Siberia.”

  “I can’t even remember what Babakov was meant to have done.”

  “He wrote a book.”

  “That’s a crime in Russia?”

  “It is if you decide to tell the truth about your employer, especially if your employer was Josef Stalin.”

  “Uncle Joe, I remember,” said Guinzburg, “but the book was never published.”

  “It was published but Babakov was arrested long before a copy reached the bookshelves, and after a show trial he was sentenced to twenty years in prison, with no right of appeal.”

  “Which only makes one wonder what can be in that book to make the Soviets so determined that no one should ever get to read it.”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Harry. “But I do know that every copy of Uncle Joe was removed from the bookshelves within hours of publication. The publisher was shut down, Babakov was arrested, and he hasn’t been seen since his trial. If there’s a copy out there I intend to find it when I go to the international book conference in Moscow in May.”

  “If you do lay your hands on a copy, I’d love to have it translated and publish it over here, because I can guarantee that not only would it be a runaway best seller but also it would finally expose Stalin as a man every bit as evil as Hitler. Mind you, Russia’s a pretty big haystack in which to be searching for that particular needle.”

  “True, but I’m determined to find out what Babakov has to say. Don’t forget, he was Stalin’s personal interpreter for thirteen years, so few people would have had a better insight into the regime—although even he didn’t anticipate how the KGB would react when he decided to publish his version of what he witnessed firsthand.”

  “And now that Stalin’s old allies have removed Khrushchev and are back in power, no doubt some of them have things they’d prefer to keep hidden.”

  “Like the truth about Stalin’s death,” said Harry.

  “I’ve never seen you so worked up about anything,” said Guinzburg. “But it might not be wise for you to poke a stick at the big bear. The new hard-line regime there seems to have little regard for human rights, whichever country you come from.”

  “What’s the point of being president of PEN if I can’t express my views?”

  The carriage clock on the bookshelf behind Guinzburg’s desk struck twelve.

  “Why don’t we go and have lunch at my club, and we can discuss less contentious matters, like what Sebastian’s been up to.”

  “I think he’s about to propose to an American girl.”

  “I always knew that boy was smart,” said Guinzburg.

  * * *

  While Samantha and Seb were admiring the shopwindows on Fifth Avenue, and Harry was enjoying a rib-eye steak at the Harvard Club with his publisher, a yellow cab came to a halt outside a smart brownstone on 64th and Park.

  Emma stepped out, carrying a shoebox with “Crockett & Jones” emblazoned on the lid. Inside was a pair of size nine, made-to-measure black brogues, which she knew would fit her cousin Alistair perfectly, because he always had his shoes made in Jermyn Street.

  As Emma looked up at the shiny brass knocker on the front door, she recalled the first time she had climbed those steps. A young woman, barely out of her teens, she’d been shaking like a leaf and had wanted to run away. But she’d spent all her money to get to America, and didn’t know who else to turn to in New York if she was to find Harry, who was locked up in an American prison for a murder he hadn’t committed. Once she’d met Great-aunt Phyllis, Emma didn’t return to England for over a year—until she found out Harry was no longer in America.

  This time she climbed the steps more confidently, rapped firmly with the brass knocker, stood back, and waited. She hadn’t made an appointment to see her cousin because she had no doubt he’d be in residence. Although he’d recently retired as the senior partner of Simpson, Albion & Stuart, he was not a country animal, even at weekends. Alistair was quintessentially a New Yorker. He’d been born on 64th and Park, and t
hat, undoubtedly, was where he would die.

  When the door opened a few moments later, Emma was surprised to see a man she immediately recognized, although it must have been more than twenty years since she had last seen him. He was dressed in a black morning coat, striped trousers, white shirt, and gray tie. Some things never change.

  “How nice to see you, Mrs. Clifton,” he said as if she dropped by every day.

  Emma felt embarrassed as she wrestled to recall his name, knowing that Harry would never have forgotten it. “And it’s so nice to see you,” she ventured. “I was rather hoping to catch up with my cousin Alistair, if he’s at home.”

  “I fear not, madam,” said the butler. “Mr. Stuart is attending the funeral of Mr. Benjamin Rutledge, a former partner of the firm, and isn’t expected back from Connecticut until tomorrow evening.”

  Emma couldn’t hide her disappointment.

  “Perhaps you’d care to come inside and I could make you a cup of tea—Earl Grey, if I remember correctly?”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Emma, “but I ought to be getting back to the ship.”

  “Of course. I do hope the Buckingham’s maiden voyage was a success?”

  “Better than I might have hoped for,” she admitted. “Would you be kind enough to pass on my best wishes to Alistair, and say how sorry I was to miss him?”

  “I’d be delighted to do so, Mrs. Clifton.” The butler gave a slight bow before closing the door.

  Emma made her way back down the steps and began searching for a cab, when she suddenly realized she was still clutching the shoebox. Feeling embarrassed, she climbed the steps a second time and rapped the door with the brass knocker a little more tentatively.

  Moments later the door opened a second time and the butler reappeared. “Madam?” he said, giving her the same warm smile.

  “I’m so sorry, but I quite forgot to give you this gift for Alistair.”

  “How thoughtful of you to remember Mr. Stuart’s favorite shoe shop,” he said as Emma handed over the box. “I know he’ll appreciate your kindness.”