Mightier Than the Sword

“I’m not sure that’s enough, Harold. So I need to ask you, if I contested Bristol Docklands at the next election, and the local association is pressing me to do so, and you formed the next government, would I have a chance of becoming foreign secretary?”

Wilson puffed away on his pipe for a few moments, something he often did if he needed a little time to consider. “No, not immediately, Giles. That wouldn’t be fair on Denis, who as you know is shadowing the post at the moment. But I can guarantee you would be offered a senior Cabinet post, and if you did well, you’d be among the front-runners if the job became available. Whereas if you took up my offer, at least you’d be back in the House. And if you’re right, and we win the election, it’s no secret that I’d be looking for a Leader of the Lords.”

“I’m a Commons man, Harold, and I don’t think I’m quite ready yet to be put out to grass. So it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“I salute your resolve,” said Wilson. “And now it’s my turn to thank you, because I know you wouldn’t be willing to take that risk unless you believed not only that you can win back your seat, but that I have a good chance of returning to Number Ten. However, should you change your mind, just let me know, and then, like your grandfather, you’ll be sitting on the red benches as Lord Barrington of…”

“Bristol Docklands,” said Giles.

*   *   *

Sebastian entered Farthings Bank for the first time since he’d resigned five years before. He walked up to the reception desk and gave the duty clerk his name.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Clifton,” the man said checking his list. “The chairman is expecting you.”

When he said “the chairman,” Seb’s immediate thought was of Cedric Hardcastle, and not of the usurper who’d been the reason he resigned. “Would you be kind enough to sign the visitors’ book?”

Seb took a pen from an inside pocket of his jacket and slowly unscrewed the cap, giving himself a little time to study the list of those who’d recently visited the chairman. His eye ran quickly down two columns of names, most of which meant nothing to him. But two of them might as well have had flashing neon lights next to them: Desmond Mellor, who Seb knew Sloane had recently appointed as deputy chairman, so that came as no surprise, but what possible reason could Major Alex Fisher MP have had for visiting the chairman of Farthings? One thing was certain, Sloane wasn’t going to tell him. The only other name that caught his eye was that of Hakim Bishara. He was sure he’d read something about Mr. Bishara in the Financial Times recently, but couldn’t remember what.

“The chairman will see you now, sir. His office is on—”

“The top floor,” said Seb. “Many thanks.”

When Seb stepped out of the lift on the executive floor, he walked slowly down the corridor toward Cedric’s old office. He recognized no one, and no one recognized him, but then he knew Sloane hadn’t wasted any time in purging Farthings of all Cedric’s lieutenants.

He didn’t have to knock on Sloane’s door because it swung open when he was a couple of paces away.

“Good to see you, Seb,” said Sloane. “It’s been too long,” he added before he ushered him into his office, but didn’t risk offering to shake his hand.

The first thing that struck Seb as he entered the chairman’s office was that there was no sign of Cedric. No acknowledgement of his thirty years’ stewardship of the bank. No portrait, no photograph, no plaque to remind the next generation of his achievements. Sloane had not only replaced him, but had airbrushed him out of existence, like a Soviet politician who’d fallen from favor.

“Have a seat,” said Sloane, as if he was addressing one of the bank’s junior clerks.

Seb took a closer look at his adversary. He’d put on a few pounds since they’d last met, but it was cleverly masked by a well-tailored double-breasted suit. One thing that hadn’t changed was the insincere smile of a man most people in the City were reluctant to do business with.

Sloane took his seat behind the chairman’s desk and didn’t waste any more time with banalities.

“Seb, someone as bright as you will already have worked out why I wanted to see you.”

“I assumed you were going to offer me a place on the board of Farthings.”

“That’s not exactly what I had in mind.” The false laugh followed, to accompany the insincere smile. “However, it’s been clear for some time that you’ve been buying the bank’s stock on the open market, and you now only need another twenty-two thousand shares to cross the threshold that would allow you to automatically take a place on the board, or to nominate someone else to represent you.”

“Be assured, I’ll be representing myself.”

“Which is why I wanted to talk to you. It’s no secret that we didn’t get on well when you worked under me—”

“Which is why I resigned.”

“It’s also why I feel it would be inappropriate for you to be involved in the day-to-day running of the bank.”