Mightier Than the Sword

Bishara listened carefully to Seb’s request. “I’m not sure that your scoutmaster would have approved of what you’re suggesting. I’ll see what I can do, but I make no promises.”

*   *   *

“Good morning, Mr. Mellor. I think you’ve already met my lawyer, Jason Moreland, and my chief accountant, Nick Pirie.”

Mellor shook hands with both men before joining them around an oval table.

“As you’re on the board of Farthings,” said Bishara, “I can only assume you come here as an emissary of Mr. Sloane.”

“Then you assume wrongly,” said Mellor. “He’s the last man I would be willing to represent in any negotiation. Sloane made a complete ass of himself when he turned down your offer.”

“But he told me he had an offer of six pounds on the table, from a well-established City institution.”

“And you knew that wasn’t true, which is why you walked away.”

“And you are willing to walk back, because they were never his shares to sell in the first place.”

“The truth is,” said Mellor, “he was playing Russian roulette with my bullet, and it turned out to be a blank. However, I am willing to sell you fifty-one percent of the bank’s stock for the five pounds a share you originally offered.”

“Originally offered is correct, Mr. Mellor. But that offer is no longer on the table. After all, I can buy Farthings on the open market for two pounds and eleven shillings a share, and have been doing so for several weeks.”

“Not the fifty-one percent you want, which would give you overall control of the bank. In any case, I can’t afford to sell them at that price.”

“No,” said Bishara, “I’m sure you can’t. But you can afford to sell them for three pounds and nine shillings a share.”

Mellor’s mouth opened, and didn’t close for some time. “Could you make it four pounds?”

“No, I could not, Mr. Mellor. Three pounds and nine shillings is my final offer.” Bishara turned to his chief accountant who handed him a banker’s draft for £20,562,000. He placed it on the table.

“I may be wrong, Mr. Mellor, but I have a feeling you can’t afford to make the same mistake twice.”

“Where do I sign?”

Mr. Moreland opened a file and placed three identical contracts in front of Mellor. Once he’d signed them, he thrust out a hand and waited for the banker’s draft to be passed across to him.

“And like Mr. Sloane,” said Bishara as he took the top off his fountain pen, “before I can add my signature to the contract, I require one small amendment that I have promised for a friend.”

Mellor stared defiantly at him. “And what might that be?”

The lawyer opened a second file, took out a letter, and placed it in front of Mellor. He read it slowly.

“I can’t sign this. Never.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Bishara, picking up the banker’s draft and handing it back to his chief accountant.

Mellor didn’t move, but when he began to sweat, Bishara realized it was only a matter of time.

“All right, all right,” said Mellor. “I’ll sign the damn letter.”

The lawyer double-checked the signature before placing the letter back in his file. Bishara then signed all three contracts, and the accountant handed Mellor one copy and the banker’s draft for £20,562,000. Mellor left without another word. He didn’t even thank Bishara, nor did he shake hands.

“If he’d called my bluff,” said Bishara to his lawyer once the door had closed, “I would have settled without him having to sign the letter.”

*   *   *

Harry studied the statement they expected him to read out in court. He would have to confess to being a British agent who worked for MI5. If he did so, he would be released immediately and deported back to his homeland, never to be allowed to return to the Soviet Union.

Of course, his family and friends would dismiss the statement for what it was worth. Others might feel he’d been left with little choice. But then there would be the majority who didn’t know him. They would assume that it was true, and that his fight for Babakov had been nothing more than a smoke screen to cover his espionage. One signature, and he would be free but his reputation would be shattered and, more important, Babakov’s cause would be lost for ever. No, he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his reputation, or Anatoly Babakov, quite that easily.

He tore up the confession and threw the little pieces of paper high in the air, like confetti waiting for a bride.

When the colonel returned an hour later armed only with a pen, he stared in disbelief at the scraps of paper strewn across the floor.

“Only an Englishman could be that stupid,” he remarked, before turning and marching back out of the cell, slamming the door behind him.

He’s got a point, thought Harry, then closed his eyes. He knew exactly how he intended to pass any unfulfilled hours. He would try to recall as much as possible of the first seven chapters of Uncle Joe. He began to concentrate. Chapter One …