Cometh the Hour Read online

  “Thanks for calling back, Seb. I realize you’ve got a lot on your mind at the moment, but I have some sad news. Saul Kaufman has died. I thought you ought to know immediately, not just because of the takeover deal we’re in the middle of, but, more important, I know Victor is one of your oldest friends.”

  “Thank you, Hakim. How very sad. I greatly admired the old man. Victor will be my next call.”

  “Kaufman’s shares have fallen sharply, which is hard to explain, seeing Saul hasn’t been in to the office for over a year.”

  “You and I know that,” said Seb, “but the public doesn’t. Don’t forget, Saul founded the bank. His name is still at the top of the notepaper, so investors who don’t know any better will wonder if it’s a one-man band. But taking into account the bank’s strong balance sheet, and its considerable assets, in my opinion Kaufman’s shares were already well below market value even before Saul’s death.”

  “Do you think they might fall even further?”

  “No one gets in at the bottom and out at the top,” said Seb. “If they fall below three pounds—and they were £3.26 when I left—I’d be a buyer. But remember Farthings already has six percent of Kaufman’s stock, and if we go over ten percent, the bank of England will require us to make a full takeover bid, and we’re not quite ready for that.”

  “I think there may be someone else in the market.”

  “That will be Desmond Mellor, but he’s only a spoiler. He doesn’t have the sort of capital to make a real impact. Believe me, he’ll run out of steam.”

  “Unless he has someone else backing him.”

  “No one in the City would consider backing Mellor, as Adrian Sloane and Jim Knowles have already discovered.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Seb. I’ll buy a few more Kaufman’s shares if they fall below three pounds, and then we can look at the bigger picture once you get back. By the way, how’s it all going out there?”

  “I wouldn’t buy shares in Clifton Enterprises.”

  * * *

  Seb was gradually coming to terms with the oppressive heat and even the traffic jams, but he couldn’t handle the fact that being on time simply wasn’t part of the Indian psyche. He had been pacing up and down the lobby of the Taj since 7:55, but Rohit Singh didn’t come strolling through the revolving doors until a few minutes before nine, offering only a shrug of the shoulders and a smile. He uttered the single word, “Traffic,” as if he had never driven in Bombay before. Sebastian didn’t comment, as he needed Singh on his team.

  “So who do you work for?” Singh asked once they’d sat down in a pair of comfortable seats in the lounge.

  “Tatler,” said Sebastian, who had decided on the magazine overnight. “We want to do a center-page spread on the wedding. We’ve got quite a bit on Priya Ghuman, because she’s been living in London for the past three years, but we don’t even know the name of the man she’s going to marry.”

  “We only found out ourselves yesterday, but no one was surprised to hear it was Suresh Chopra.”

  “Why?”

  “His father is chairman of Bombay Building, so the marriage is more about the joining of two companies than of two people. I’ve got a picture of him if you’d like to see it.” Singh opened his briefcase and took out a photograph. Sebastian stared at a man who looked around fifty, but might have been younger, because he was certainly fifty pounds overweight.

  “Are he and Priya old friends?” he asked.

  “Their parents are, but I’m not sure they themselves have ever met. I’m told the official introductions will be made next week. That’s a ceremony in itself, to which we won’t be invited. Can I ask about payment?” said Singh, changing the subject.

  “Sure. We’ll pay you the full agency rate,” replied Seb, without any idea what that meant, “and an advance payment to make sure you don’t share your pictures with anyone else in England.” He passed over five hundred-rupee notes. “Is that fair?”

  Singh nodded and pocketed the cash in a way that would have impressed the Artful Dodger.

  “So when do you want me to start?”

  “Will you be photographing any members of the family in the near future?”

  “Day after tomorrow. Priya’s got a fitting at Brides of Bombay on Altamont Street at eleven o’clock. Her mother wanted me to take a few shots for a family album she’s preparing.”

  “I’ll be there,” said Seb. “But I’ll keep my distance. I gather Sukhi Ghuman doesn’t care much for London hacks.”

  “He doesn’t care for us either,” said Singh, “unless it suits his purpose. Be warned, Mrs. Ghuman will almost certainly accompany her daughter. That will mean at least two armed guards, which the family have never bothered with in the past. Perhaps Mr. Ghuman just wants to remind everyone how important he is.”

  Not everyone, thought Seb.

  20

  SEBASTIAN WALKED OVER to the reception desk.

  “Good morning, Mr. Clifton. I trust you’re enjoying your stay with us.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “And my brother is proving satisfactory?”

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  “Excellent. And how can I help you today?”

  “First, I’d like you to replace the Ambassador with a motorbike.”

  “Of course, sir,” said the receptionist, not sounding surprised. “Anything else?”

  “I need a florist.”

  “You’ll find one downstairs in the arcade. Fresh flowers were delivered about an hour ago.”

  “Thank you,” said Seb. He jogged down the steps to the arcade, where he spotted a young woman arranging a bunch of vivid orange marigolds in a large vase. She looked up as he approached.

  “I’d like to buy a single rose.”

  “Of course, sir,” she said, gesturing toward a selection of different-colored roses. “Would you like to choose one?”

  Seb took his time picking a red one that was just starting to bloom. “Can I have it delivered?”

  “Yes, sir. Would you like to add a message?” she asked, handing him a pen.

  Seb took a card from the counter, turned it over and wrote:

  To Priya Ghuman,

  Congratulations on your forthcoming marriage.

  From all your admirers at the Taj Hotel.

  He gave the florist Priya’s address and said, “Please charge it to room 808. When will it be delivered?”

  She looked at the address. “Some time between ten and eleven, depending on the traffic.”

  “Will you be here for the rest of the morning?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, looking puzzled.

  “If anyone calls and asks who sent the rose, tell them it was the guest who’s staying in room 808.”

  “Certainly, sir,” said the florist, as he handed her a fifty-rupee note.

  Seb ran back upstairs, aware that he had only a couple of hours to spare, three at the most. When he walked out of the hotel he was pleased to see that the receptionist had carried out his instructions and replaced the Ambassador with a motorbike.

  “Good morning, sir. Where would you like to go today?” asked Vijay, displaying the same irrepressible smile.

  “Santacruz airport. The domestic terminal. And I’m not in a hurry,” he emphasized as he climbed onto the back of the bike.

  He carefully observed the route that Vijay took, noting the occasional blue and white airport signs dotted along the way. Forty-two minutes later Vijay screeched to a halt outside the domestic terminal. Seb jumped off, saying, “Hang around, I’ll only be a few minutes.” He walked inside and checked the departures board. The flight he required was leaving from Gate 14B, and the word “Boarding” was flashing next to the words “New Delhi.” He followed the signs, but when he arrived at the gate, he didn’t join the queue of passengers waiting to board the plane. He checked his watch. It had taken forty-nine minutes from the moment he’d left the hotel to reach the gate. He retraced his steps to find Vijay waiting patiently for him.