Mightier Than the Sword (29 page)

“I’d rather not, headmistress, but I do have an unusual request.” The stern look reappeared. “I’d like to buy this picture and take it back to England, to remind me of both the mother and her daughter.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not for sale,” said Dr. Wolfe, firmly. “But I’m sure if you were to speak to Mrs. Brewer—”

“That’s not possible,” said Seb as he bowed his head.

The headmistress’s expression softened and she took a closer look at the stranger.

“I’d better be going,” said Seb, “or I’ll miss my train.” He wanted to run, but his legs were so weak he could hardly move. When he looked up to say goodbye, the headmistress was still staring at him.

“You’re Jessica’s father.”

Seb nodded as the tears welled up uncontrollably. Dr. Wolfe walked across, removed the picture from the wall, and handed it to the stranger.

“Please don’t let them know I was here,” he begged. “It will be better that way.”

“I won’t say a word,” said Dr. Wolfe, offering him her hand.

Cedric Hardcastle would have been able to do business with this woman; someone who didn’t need to sign a contract to keep her word.

“Thank you,” said Seb, handing her the flowers.

He left quickly, clutching the painting under his arm. Once he was outside, he walked and walked. How stupid he’d been to lose her. Doubly stupid. Like the bad cowboy in a B movie, he knew he had to get out of town, and get out fast. Only the sheriff could know he’d ever been there.

“Union Station,” he said as he climbed into the back of another cab. He couldn’t stop staring at
My Mom,
and would have missed the neon sign if he hadn’t happened to look up for a moment.

“Stop!” he shouted. The cab drew into the kerb.

“I thought you said Union Station. That’s another ten blocks.”

“Sorry, I changed my mind.” He paid the driver, stepped out onto the pavement, and stared up at the sign. This time he didn’t hesitate to walk into the building and straight up to the counter, praying that his hunch was right.

“Which department do you want, sir?” asked the woman standing there.

“I want to buy a photograph of a wedding that I’m sure your paper would have covered.”

“The photographic department is on the second floor,” she said, pointing toward a staircase, “but you’d better hurry. They’ll be closing in a few minutes.”

Seb bounded up the stairs three at a time and charged through some swing doors with
PHOTOS
stenciled on the beveled glass. On this occasion, it was a young man looking at his watch who was standing behind a counter. Seb didn’t wait for him to speak.

“Did your paper cover the Brewer and Sullivan wedding?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ll check.”

Seb paced back and forth in front of the counter, hoping, willing, praying. At last the young man reappeared carrying a thick folder.

“Seems we did,” he said, dumping the folder on the counter.

Seb opened the buff cover to reveal dozens of photographs and several press cuttings recording the happy occasion: the bride and groom, Jessica, parents, bridesmaids, friends, even a bishop, at a wedding at which he should have been the groom.

“If you’d like to choose a particular photo,” said the young man, “they’re five dollars each, and you can pick them up in a couple of days.”

“What if I wanted to buy every picture in the file. How much would that cost?”

The young man slowly counted them. “Two hundred and ten dollars,” he said eventually.

Seb took out his wallet, removed three hundred-dollar bills and placed them on the counter. “I want to take this file away now.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir. But as I said, if you come back in a couple of days…”

Seb extracted another hundred-dollar bill, and saw the look of desperation on the young man’s face. He knew the deal was all but closed. It was only a matter of how much.

“But I’m not allowed…” he whispered.

Before he could finish his sentence Seb placed another hundred-dollar bill on top of the other four. The young man glanced around to see that most of his colleagues were preparing to leave. He quickly gathered up the five bills, stuffed them in a pocket, and gave Seb a weak smile.

Seb grabbed the file, left the photo department, walked quickly back down the stairs, through the swing doors, and out of the building. He felt like a shoplifter, and continued running until he was sure he had escaped. At last he slowed down, caught his breath, and began to follow the signs to Union Station, the painting tucked under one arm, the folder under the other. He bought a ticket on the Amtrak express to New York, and a few minutes later climbed aboard the waiting train.

Sebastian didn’t open the folder until the train pulled out of the station. By the time he arrived at Penn Station, he couldn’t help wondering if, like Mr. Swann, he would regret not telling her for the rest of his life, because Mrs. Brewer had only been married for three months.

27

H
AROLD
G
UINZBURG
placed the manuscript on the desk in front of him. Harry sat opposite him and waited for his verdict.

Guinzburg frowned when his secretary entered the room and put two steaming hot coffees and a plate of biscuits in front of them, and remained silent while she was in the room. He was clearly enjoying making Harry suffer a few more moments of torture. When the door finally closed behind her, Harry thought he would explode.

The suggestion of a smile appeared on Guinzburg’s face. “No doubt you’re wondering how I feel about your latest work,” he said, turning the screw one more notch.

Harry could have happily strangled the damn man.

“Shall we start by giving Detective Inspector Warwick a clue?”

And then buried him.

“A hundred and twenty thousand copies. In my opinion, it’s the best thing you’ve ever done, and I’m proud to be your publisher.”

Harry was so shocked that he burst into tears, and as neither of them had a handkerchief, they both started to laugh. Once they had recovered, Guinzburg spent some time explaining why he’d enjoyed
William Warwick and the Time Bomb
so much. Harry quickly forgot that he’d spent the previous two days endlessly walking the streets of New York agonizing over how his publisher would react. He took a sip of his coffee, but it had gone cold.

“May I now turn your attention to another author,” said Guinzburg, “namely Anatoly Babakov, and his biography of Josef Stalin.”

Harry placed his cup back on the saucer.

“Mrs. Babakov tells me that she’s hidden her husband’s book in a place where no one could possibly find it. Worthy of a Harry Clifton novel,” he added. “But, as you know, other than to confirm that it’s somewhere in the Soviet Union, you’re the only person she’s willing to tell the exact location.” Harry didn’t interrupt. “My own view,” continued Guinzburg, “is that you shouldn’t become involved, remembering the Communists don’t exactly consider you to be a national treasure. So if you do find out where it’s hidden, perhaps someone else should go and retrieve it.”

“If I’m not willing to take that risk myself,” said Harry, “then what was the point of all the years I’ve spent trying to get Babakov released? But before I decide, let me ask you one question. If I were able to lay my hands on a copy of
Uncle Joe,
what would be your first print run?”

“A million copies,” said Guinzburg.

“And you think it’s me who’d be taking a risk!”

“Don’t forget that Svetlana Stalin’s book,
Twenty Letters to a Friend,
was on the best-seller list for over a year and, unlike Babakov, she never once entered the Kremlin during her father’s reign.” Guinzburg opened a drawer of his desk and extracted a check for $100,000, made out to Mrs. Yelena Babakov. He handed it to Harry. “If you do find the book, she’ll be able to live in luxury for the rest of her life.”

“But if I don’t, or if it isn’t even there? You’ll have spent a hundred thousand dollars and will have nothing to show for it.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” said Guinzburg. “But then any half-decent publisher is a gambler at heart. Now let’s talk about more agreeable things. My beloved Emma, for example, and Sebastian. Not to mention Lady Virginia Fenwick. I can’t wait to hear what she’s been up to.”

*   *   *

Lunch with his publisher had gone on far too long and Harry only just made it to Penn Station in time to catch the Pennsylvania Flyer. During the first part of the journey to Pittsburgh, he went over every question Guinzburg wanted answered before he could part with his $100,000.

Later, as Harry dozed off, his mind drifted to his last conversation with Sebastian. He hoped his son could win Samantha back, and not just because he’d always liked her. He felt Seb had finally grown up, and that Sam would rediscover the man she’d fallen in love with.

When the train pulled into Union Station, Harry remembered that there was something he’d always wanted to do if he ever went to Pittsburgh. But there would be no time to visit the Carnegie Museum of Art, which Jessica had once told him housed some of the finest Cassatts in America.

He climbed into the back of a yellow cab and asked the driver to take him to Brunswick Mansions on the north side. The address had an air of middle-class gentility about it, but when they came to a halt twenty minutes later Harry discovered the reality was a decaying slum. The cab sped off the moment he had paid the fare.

Harry climbed the well-worn stone steps of a graffiti-covered tenement building. The Out of Order sign hanging from the lift door had a permanent look about it. He walked slowly up the stairs to the eighth floor and went in search of apartment number 86, which was on the far side of the block. Neighbors looked out from their doorways, suspicious of the smartly dressed man who must surely be a government official.

His gentle knock on the door was answered so quickly she must have been waiting for him. Harry smiled down at an old woman with sad, tired eyes and a deeply lined face. He could imagine just how painful her long separation from her husband must have been by the fact that although they were about the same age, she looked twenty years older than him.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Clifton,” she said with no trace of an accent. “Please come in.” She guided her guest down a narrow, uncarpeted corridor into the living room, where a large photograph of her husband, hanging above a shelf of well-thumbed paperbacks, was the sole adornment on otherwise blank walls.

“Please sit down,” she said, gesturing toward one of the two chairs that were the only pieces of furniture in the room. “It was kind of you to make such a long journey to see me. And I must thank you for your gallant efforts to have my dear Anatoly released. You have proved an indefatigable ally.”

Mrs. Babakov talked about her husband as if he was late home from work and would appear at any moment, rather than serving a twenty-year prison sentence more than seven thousand miles away.

“How did you first meet Anatoly?” he asked.

“We both trained at Moscow’s Foreign Languages Institute. I ended up teaching English at a local state school, while Anatoly moved into the Kremlin soon after he won the Lenin Medal for coming top of his year. When we were first married, I thought we had everything, that we must have been blessed, we were so lucky, and by most people’s standards in Russia, we were. But that changed overnight when Anatoly was chosen to translate the chairman’s speeches so they could be used for propaganda purposes in the West.

“Then the chairman’s official interpreter fell ill, and Anatoly filled in. A temporary appointment, they told him, and how he wished it had been. But he wanted to impress the country’s leader, and he must have done so, because he was quickly promoted to become Stalin’s principal interpreter. You’d understand why, if you’d ever met him.”

“Wrong tense,” said Harry. “You mean I’ll understand why when I meet him.”

She smiled. “When you meet him. That was when his problems began,” she continued. “He became too close to Stalin, and although he was only an apparatchik, he began to witness things that made him realize what a monster Stalin was. The image presented to the people, of a kind, benevolent favorite uncle, could not have been further from the truth. Anatoly would tell me the most horrendous stories when he came back from work, but never in front of anyone else, even our closest friends. If he had spoken out, his punishment would not have been demotion, he would simply have disappeared like so many thousands of others. Yes, thousands, if they so much as raised an eyebrow in protest.

“His only solace was in his writing, which he knew could never be published until after Stalin’s death, and probably not until after his own death. But Anatoly wanted the world to know that Stalin was every bit as evil as Hitler. The only difference being that he’d got away with it. And then Stalin died.

“Anatoly became impatient to let the world know what he knew. He should have waited longer, but when he found a publisher who shared his ideals, he couldn’t stop himself. On the day of publication, even before
Uncle Joe
reached the shops, every copy was destroyed. So great were the KGB’s fears of anyone discovering the truth that even the presses on which Anatoly’s words had been printed were smashed to pieces. The next day he was arrested, and within a week he’d been tried and sentenced to twenty years’ hard labor in the gulag for writing a book that no one had ever read. If he’d been an American who’d written a biography of Roosevelt or Churchill, he would have been on every talk show, and his book would have been a best seller.”

“But you managed to escape.”

“Yes, Anatoly had seen what was coming. A few weeks before publication, he sent me to my mother’s in Leningrad and gave me every ruble he had saved, and a proof copy of the book. I managed to get across the border into Poland, but not until I’d bribed a guard with most of Anatoly’s life savings. I arrived in America without a penny.”

“And the book, did you bring it with you?”

“No, I couldn’t risk that. If I’d been caught and it had been confiscated, Anatoly’s whole life would have served no purpose. I left it somewhere they will never find it.”