Cometh the Hour: A Novel (45 page)

And then Harry spotted a lone reporter, who had withdrawn from the melee around the steps and turned her back on the aircraft. She was speaking straight to camera, no longer taking any interest in the disembarking passengers. Harry walked across the room to the television and turned up the volume.

“We have just received a news flash from the Russian news agency, TASS. It is reporting that the Nobel Laureate Anatoly Babakov was rushed to hospital earlier this morning after suffering a stroke. He died a few minutes ago. I repeat…”

48

Y
ELENA
B
ABAKOVA COLLAPSED,
both mentally and physically, when she heard the news of her husband’s death. Emma rushed to her side and took the broken woman in her arms.

“I need an ambulance, quickly,” she told an equerry, who picked up the nearest phone.

Harry knelt by his wife’s side. “God help her,” he said, as Emma checked her pulse.

“Her heart is weak, but I suspect the real problem is she no longer has any reason to live.”

The door swung open and two paramedics entered the room carrying a stretcher, onto which they gently lifted Mrs. Babakova. The equerry whispered something to one of them.

“I’ve instructed them to take Mrs. Babakova straight to the palace,” he told Harry and Emma. “It has a private medical wing, with a doctor and two nurses always in attendance.”

“Thank you,” said Emma, as one of the paramedics placed an oxygen mask over Yelena’s face before they lifted the stretcher and carried her out of the room. Emma held her hand as they progressed slowly down a corridor and out of the building, where an ambulance, with its back doors already open, awaited them.

“His Majesty wondered if you and Mr. Clifton would be willing to stay at the palace, so you can be near Mrs. Babakova once she regains consciousness.”

“Of course. Thank you,” said Emma, as she and Harry joined Yelena in the back of the ambulance.

Emma didn’t let go of Yelena’s hand during the thirty-minute journey, accompanied by police outriders neither even realized were there. The palace gates swung open to allow the ambulance to enter and it came to a halt in a large cobbled courtyard, from where a doctor guided the paramedics to the hospital wing. Yelena was lifted off the stretcher and onto a bed that was normally only occupied by patients who’d spilt blue blood.

“I’d like to stay with her,” said Emma, who still hadn’t let go of her hand.

The doctor nodded. “She’s suffering from severe shock and her heart is weak, which is hardly surprising. I’m going to give her an injection so she can at least get some sleep.”

Emma noticed that the equerry had joined them in the room but he said nothing while Yelena was being examined.

“His Majesty hopes you will join him in the drawing room when you’re ready,” said the equerry.

“There’s not much more you can do here at the moment,” said the doctor once his patient had fallen into a deep sleep.

Emma nodded. “But once we’ve seen the King, I’d like to come straight back.”

The silent equerry led Harry and Emma out of the hospital wing and through a dozen gilded rooms, whose walls were covered with paintings both of them would normally have wanted to stop and admire. The equerry finally came to a halt outside a floor-to-ceiling set of Wedgwood-blue sculpted double doors. He knocked, and the doors were pulled open by two liveried footmen. The King stood the moment his guests entered the room.

Emma recalled the occasion when the Queen Mother had visited Bristol to launch the
Buckingham;
wait until you’re spoken to, never ask a question. She curtsied while Harry bowed.

“Mr. and Mrs. Clifton, I’m sorry we have to meet in such unhappy circumstances. But how fortunate Mrs. Babakova is to have such good friends by her side.”

“The medical team arrived very quickly,” said Emma, “and couldn’t have done a better job.”

“That is indeed a compliment, coming from you, Mrs. Clifton,” said the King, as he ushered them both toward two comfortable chairs. “And what a cruel blow you have been dealt, Mr. Clifton, after spending so many years campaigning for your friend’s release, only to have his life snatched away when he was about to receive the ultimate accolade.”

The door opened and a footman appeared carrying a large silver tray laden with tea and cakes.

“I arranged for some tea, which I hope is acceptable.” Emma was surprised when the King picked up the teapot and began to pour. “Milk and sugar, Mrs. Clifton?”

“Just milk, sir.”

“And you, Mr. Clifton?”

“The same, sir.”

“Now, I must confess,” said the King once he had poured himself a cup, “I had an ulterior motive for wanting to see you both privately. I have a problem that frankly only the two of you can solve. The Nobel Prize ceremony is one of the highlights of the Swedish calendar, and I enjoy the privilege of presiding over the awards, as my father and grandfather did before me. Mrs. Clifton, we must hope that Mrs. Babakova has recovered sufficiently by tomorrow evening to feel able to accept the prize on her husband’s behalf. I suspect it will take all your considerable skills to persuade her that she is up to carrying out such a task. But I wouldn’t want her to spend the rest of her days unaware of the affection and respect in which her husband is held by the people of Sweden.”

“If it’s at all possible, sir, be assured I’ll do my damnedest.” Emma regretted the word the moment she’d uttered it.

“I suspect your damnedest is pretty formidable, Mrs. Clifton.” They both laughed. “And Mr. Clifton, I need your help with an even more demanding challenge, which if I had to ask you on bended knee I would happily do.” He paused to take a sip of tea. “The highlight of tomorrow’s ceremony would have been Mr. Babakov’s acceptance speech. I can think of no one better qualified, or more appropriate, to take his place for the occasion, and I have a feeling he would be the first to agree with me. However, I realize such a request would be onerous at the best of times, and I will of course understand if you feel unable to consider it at such short notice.”

Harry didn’t reply immediately. Then he recalled the three days he’d spent in a prison cell with Anatoly Babakov, and the twenty years he hadn’t.

“I’d be honored to represent him, sir, although no one could ever take his place.”

“A nice distinction, Mr. Clifton, and I’m most grateful because, as a feeble orator myself, who has three speechwriters to carry out the task of preparing my words, I am only too aware of the challenge I have set you. With that in mind, I will detain you no longer. I suspect you will need every minute between now and tomorrow evening to prepare.”

Harry rose, not having touched his tea. He bowed again, before accompanying Emma out of the room. When the doors opened, they found the equerry waiting for them. This time he led them in a different direction.

“His Majesty has put this room aside for you, Mr. and Mrs. Clifton,” he said as they came to a halt outside a door which another footman opened to reveal a large corner suite. They walked in to find a desk and a large pile of paper, as well as a dozen of Harry’s favorite pens, a double bed turned down and a second table laid for supper.

“The King can’t have been in much doubt that I would agree to his request,” said Harry.

“I wonder how many people turn down a king,” said Emma.

“You will have two secretaries at your disposal, Mr. Clifton,” said the equerry, “and if there is anything else you require, a footman will be waiting outside the door with no other purpose than to carry out your slightest wish. And now, if there is nothing else you need, I will accompany Mrs. Clifton back to the hospital wing.”

*   *   *

During the next twenty-four hours, Harry managed to fill three wastepaper baskets with rejected material, devour several plates of meatballs and far too many freshly baked bread rolls, sleep for a couple of hours and take a cold shower, by which time he had completed the first draft of his speech.

Somewhere in between, the King’s personal valet took away his suit, shirt and shoes, and they were returned an hour later, looking even crisper and cleaner than they had on his son’s wedding day. For a moment, and only a moment, Harry experienced what it was like to be a king.

Secretaries appeared and disappeared as each new draft was produced and, like his books, every page was worked on for at least an hour, so that by four o’clock that afternoon he was checking through the twelfth draft, changing only the occasional word. After he had turned the last page, he collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep.

*   *   *

When Harry woke, he could hear a bath being run. He climbed off the bed, put on a dressing gown and slippers and padded into the bathroom to find Emma testing the water.

“How’s Yelena?” were his first words.

“I’m not sure she’ll ever fully recover. But I think I finally managed to persuade her to attend the ceremony. What about you? Have you finished your speech?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure it’s any good.”

“You never are, darling. I read the most recent draft while you were asleep, and I think it’s inspired. I have a feeling it will resonate far beyond these walls.”

As Harry stepped into the bath he wondered if Emma was right, or if he should cross out the final paragraph and replace it with a more traditional ending. He still hadn’t made up his mind by the time he finished shaving.

He returned to his desk and checked through the latest draft, but made only one small change, replacing “magnificent” with “heroic.” He then underlined the last two words of each paragraph to allow him to look up at the audience, so that when he looked back down, he would immediately find his place. Harry dreaded experiencing the same problem he’d suffered at his mother’s funeral. Finally he added the word “mandate” to the last sentence, but still wondered if the ending was too great a risk and he should scrap it. He walked across to the door, opened it and asked the waiting secretary to type the speech up yet again, but this time double-spaced on A5 cards, in large enough print for him not to have to rely on glasses. She’d run off even before he had time to thank her.

“Perfect timing,” said Emma, turning her back on Harry as he returned to the room. He walked over to her and zipped up a long crimson evening gown he’d never seen before.

“You look stunning,” he said.

“Thank you, my darling. If you don’t intend to deliver your speech in a dressing gown, perhaps it’s time for you to get dressed too.”

Harry dressed slowly, rehearsing some of the speech’s key lines. But when it came to tying his white tie, Emma had to come to his rescue. She stood behind him as they both looked in the mirror and she managed it first time.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“Like a penguin,” she said, giving him a hug. “But a very handsome penguin.”

“Where’s my speech?” said Harry nervously, looking at his watch.

As if they’d heard him, there was a knock at the door and the secretary handed him the final draft.

“The King is downstairs waiting for you, sir.”

*   *   *

That same morning, Virginia caught the 8:45 from Paddington to Temple Meads, arriving in Bristol a couple of hours later. She still had no idea what was in either package, and she was impatient to complete her side of the bargain and return to something like normality. Once again, Miss Castle unlocked the chairman’s office, and left her alone. Virginia took down the oil painting she didn’t much care for, entered the safe’s code and placed the large package where the smaller one had previously been.

She had considered opening both packages, and even ignoring Mellor’s instructions, but hadn’t done so, for three reasons. The thought of what revenge Mellor might exact when he was released in a few weeks’ time; the possibility of even more largesse, once Mellor had his feet back under the boardroom table; and, perhaps the most compelling, Virginia hated Sloane even more than she despised Mellor.

She locked the safe, returned the painting to the wall and joined Miss Castle in her office. “When are you next expecting Mr. Sloane?”

“You can never be sure,” said Miss Castle. “He often turns up unannounced, stays for a few hours, then leaves.”

“Has he ever asked you for the code to Mr. Mellor’s private safe?”

“Several times.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth. I didn’t even know Mr. Mellor had a private safe.”

“If he should ask you again, tell him that I’m the only other person who knows the code.”

“Certainly, my lady.”

“And I think you have something for me, Miss Castle.”

“Oh, yes.” The secretary unlocked the top drawer of her desk, took out a thick white envelope and handed it to Lady Virginia.

This package she did open, but not until she was locked into a first-class lavatory on the train to Paddington. As promised, it contained a thousand pounds in cash. She only hoped Desmond would ask her to visit him again, and in the not-too-distant future.

49

F
OUR OUTRIDERS FROM
the royal motor pool led a convoy of vehicles out of the palace gates and made their way toward the city centre. King Carl Gustaf and Queen Silvia traveled in the first car, while Prince Philip and the two princesses were in the second, with Yelena, Harry and Emma in the third.

A large crowd had gathered outside the town hall, and cheers broke out when the King’s car came into sight. The royal equerry and a young ADC leapt out of the fourth car even before the first had come to a halt and were standing to attention when the King stepped out onto the pavement. King Carl Gustaf was met on the steps of the town hall by Ulf Adelsohn, the Mayor of Stockholm, who accompanied Their Majesties into the building.

When the King entered the great hall, half a dozen trumpeters nestling in the archways high above them struck up a fanfare, and three hundred guests—the men in white tie and tails, the women in brilliantly colored gowns—rose to greet the royal party. Yelena, Emma and Harry were guided to three chairs in the middle of the row behind the King.

Once Harry was seated, he began to study the layout of the room. There was a raised platform at the front, with a wooden lectern placed at its center. Looking down from the lectern, a speaker would see eleven high-backed blue velvet chairs set out in a semicircle, where that year’s Laureates would be seated. But, on this occasion, one of the chairs would be left empty.