brief Mr. Sloane when he calls in.”
Sarah looked puzzled. “I’m not familiar with that particular client, but just let me check.”
She pulled open a filing cabinet marked A to H and quickly flicked through the Cs. “He’s not one of Mr. Sloane’s clients,” she said. “There must be some mistake.”
“Try looking under Shifnal Farm,” said Seb.
Sarah turned her attention to the S–Z file, but once again shook her head.
“Must be my mistake,” said Seb. “Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t mention it to Mr. Sloane,” he added as she closed the filing cabinet. He walked slowly back to his office, closed the door, and thought about his conversation with Mr. Vaughan for some time before he picked up the phone and dialed directory inquiries.
When a voice eventually answered, Seb asked for a Mr. Collingwood at Shifnal Farm in Shropshire. It was a few moments before the operator came back on the line.
“I have a Mr. D. Collingwood, Shifnal Farm, Shifnal?”
“That must be him. Can you give me his number?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. He’s ex-directory.”
“But this is an emergency.”
“It may well be, sir, but I’m not allowed to give out ex-directory numbers under any circumstances.” The phone went dead.
Seb hesitated for a moment before he picked up the phone again and dialed an internal number.
“Chairman’s office,” said a familiar voice.
“Rachel, I need fifteen minutes with the boss.”
“Five forty-five, but no more than fifteen minutes, because he has a meeting with the deputy chairman at six and Mr. Buchanan is never late.”
* * *
The embassy Rolls-Royce, Union Jacks fluttering on both wings, was waiting outside the Majestic Hotel long before Harry appeared in the lobby at ten to eight that morning. The same two men were slumped in the corner, pretending not to notice him. Did they ever sleep, Harry wondered.
After Harry had checked out, he couldn’t resist giving his guards a little farewell bow before he left the hotel, Majestic in nothing but name. A chauffeur opened the back door of the Rolls to allow Harry to step inside. He leaned back and began to think about the other reason he’d come to Moscow.
The car made its way through the rain-swept streets of the capital, passing St. Basil’s Cathedral, a building of rare beauty, nestled at the south end of Red Square. The car crossed the Moskova, turned left, and a few moments later the gates of the British Embassy opened, splitting the royal crest in two. The chauffeur drove into the compound and came to a halt outside the front door. Harry was impressed. A palatial residence, worthy of a tsar, towered over him, reminding visitors of Britain’s past empire, rather than its reduced status in the postwar world.
The next surprise came when he saw the ambassador standing on the embassy steps waiting to greet him.
“Good morning, Mr. Clifton,” said Sir Humphrey Trevelyan as Harry stepped out of the car.
“Good morning, your excellency,” said Harry as the two men shook hands—which was appropriate, as they were about to close a deal.
The ambassador led him into a vast circular hall that boasted a life-size statue of Queen Victoria, as well as a full-length portrait of her great-great-granddaughter.
“You won’t have read the Times this morning,” said Trevelyan, “but I can tell you that your speech to the PEN conference seems to have had the desired effect.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Harry. “But I’ll only be convinced when Babakov is released.”
“That might take a little longer,” warned the ambassador. “The Soviets are not known for rushing into anything, especially if it wasn’t their idea in the first place. It might be wise to prepare yourself for the long game. Don’t be disheartened, though, because I can tell you the Politburo has been surprised by the support you’ve received from the international community. However, the other side of that coin is that you’re
Sarah looked puzzled. “I’m not familiar with that particular client, but just let me check.”
She pulled open a filing cabinet marked A to H and quickly flicked through the Cs. “He’s not one of Mr. Sloane’s clients,” she said. “There must be some mistake.”
“Try looking under Shifnal Farm,” said Seb.
Sarah turned her attention to the S–Z file, but once again shook her head.
“Must be my mistake,” said Seb. “Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t mention it to Mr. Sloane,” he added as she closed the filing cabinet. He walked slowly back to his office, closed the door, and thought about his conversation with Mr. Vaughan for some time before he picked up the phone and dialed directory inquiries.
When a voice eventually answered, Seb asked for a Mr. Collingwood at Shifnal Farm in Shropshire. It was a few moments before the operator came back on the line.
“I have a Mr. D. Collingwood, Shifnal Farm, Shifnal?”
“That must be him. Can you give me his number?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. He’s ex-directory.”
“But this is an emergency.”
“It may well be, sir, but I’m not allowed to give out ex-directory numbers under any circumstances.” The phone went dead.
Seb hesitated for a moment before he picked up the phone again and dialed an internal number.
“Chairman’s office,” said a familiar voice.
“Rachel, I need fifteen minutes with the boss.”
“Five forty-five, but no more than fifteen minutes, because he has a meeting with the deputy chairman at six and Mr. Buchanan is never late.”
* * *
The embassy Rolls-Royce, Union Jacks fluttering on both wings, was waiting outside the Majestic Hotel long before Harry appeared in the lobby at ten to eight that morning. The same two men were slumped in the corner, pretending not to notice him. Did they ever sleep, Harry wondered.
After Harry had checked out, he couldn’t resist giving his guards a little farewell bow before he left the hotel, Majestic in nothing but name. A chauffeur opened the back door of the Rolls to allow Harry to step inside. He leaned back and began to think about the other reason he’d come to Moscow.
The car made its way through the rain-swept streets of the capital, passing St. Basil’s Cathedral, a building of rare beauty, nestled at the south end of Red Square. The car crossed the Moskova, turned left, and a few moments later the gates of the British Embassy opened, splitting the royal crest in two. The chauffeur drove into the compound and came to a halt outside the front door. Harry was impressed. A palatial residence, worthy of a tsar, towered over him, reminding visitors of Britain’s past empire, rather than its reduced status in the postwar world.
The next surprise came when he saw the ambassador standing on the embassy steps waiting to greet him.
“Good morning, Mr. Clifton,” said Sir Humphrey Trevelyan as Harry stepped out of the car.
“Good morning, your excellency,” said Harry as the two men shook hands—which was appropriate, as they were about to close a deal.
The ambassador led him into a vast circular hall that boasted a life-size statue of Queen Victoria, as well as a full-length portrait of her great-great-granddaughter.
“You won’t have read the Times this morning,” said Trevelyan, “but I can tell you that your speech to the PEN conference seems to have had the desired effect.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Harry. “But I’ll only be convinced when Babakov is released.”
“That might take a little longer,” warned the ambassador. “The Soviets are not known for rushing into anything, especially if it wasn’t their idea in the first place. It might be wise to prepare yourself for the long game. Don’t be disheartened, though, because I can tell you the Politburo has been surprised by the support you’ve received from the international community. However, the other side of that coin is that you’re
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