Mightier Than the Sword Read online

  When he saw the guard stationed on the East Berlin border, he didn’t need to be reminded that they didn’t welcome tourists. He entered another building that hadn’t seen a splash of paint since the wall had gone up, and where no one had given a thought for old, tired, or infirm visitors who might just want to sit down. Another queue, another wait, longer this time, before he eventually handed over his passport to a young customs officer who did not greet him with good evening, sir, in any language.

  The official slowly turned each page of his passport, clearly mystified by how many countries this foreigner had visited in the last four years. After he’d turned the final page, he raised the palm of his right hand in the air, like a traffic policeman, and said, “Stay,” clearly the one word of English he knew. He then retreated to the back of the room, knocked on a door marked Kommondant, and disappeared inside.

  It was some time before the door opened again, and when it did, a short, bald-headed man appeared. He looked about the same age as Giles, but it was hard to be sure because his shiny, double-breasted suit was so out of date it might have been his father’s. His graying shirt was frayed at the collar and cuffs, and his red tie looked as if it had been ironed once too often. But the surprise was his command of English.

  “Perhaps you would come with me, Mr. Barrington,” were his opening words.

  “Perhaps” turned out to be an order, because he immediately turned on his heel and headed toward his office without looking back. The young official lifted the counter lid so Giles could follow him.

  The official sat down behind his desk, if a table with a single drawer can be described as a desk. Giles sat opposite him on a hard wooden stool, no doubt a product of the same factory.

  “What is the purpose of your visit to East Berlin, Mr. Barrington?”

  “I’m visiting a friend.”

  “And the name of this friend?”

  Giles hesitated, as the man continued to stare at him. “Karin Pengelly.”

  “Is she a relative?”

  “No, as I said, a friend.”

  “And how long are you intending to stay in East Berlin?”

  “As you can see, my visa is for one week.”

  The official studied the visa for a considerable time, as if hoping to find an irregularity, but Giles had had the document checked by a friend at the Foreign Office who confirmed that every little box had been filled in correctly.

  “What is your profession?” asked the official.

  “I’m a politician.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I used to be a Member of Parliament, and a Foreign Office minister, which is why I’ve traveled so much in recent years.”

  “But you are no longer a minister, or even a Member of Parliament.”

  “No, I am not.”

  “One moment please.” The official picked up a phone, dialled three numbers and waited. When someone answered, he began a protracted conversation of which Giles couldn’t understand a word, but from the man’s deferential tone, he was in no doubt that he was addressing someone far more senior than himself. If only Karin had been there to translate for him.

  The official began to make notes on the pad in front of him, often followed by the word Ja. It wasn’t until after several more Jas that he finally put the phone down.

  “Before I stamp your visa, Mr. Barrington, there are one or two more questions that need to be answered.”

  Giles attempted a weak smile as the official looked back down at his pad.

  “Are you related to Mr. Harry Clifton?”

  “Yes, I am. He’s my brother-in-law.”

  “And are you a supporter of his campaign to have the criminal Anatoly Babakov released from prison?”

  Giles knew that if he answered the question honestly, his visa would be revoked. Couldn’t the man understand that for the past month he’d been counting the hours until he saw Karin again? He was sure Harry would appreciate the dilemma he was facing.

  “I repeat, Mr. Barrington, do you support your brother-in-law’s campaign to have the criminal Anatoly Babakov released?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Giles. “Harry Clifton is one of the finest men I have ever known, and I fully support his campaign to have the author Anatoly Babakov released.”

  The official handed Giles back his passport, opened the drawer of his desk, and placed the visa inside.

  Giles stood up and, without another word, turned and made his way out of the building, to find it had started raining again. He began the long walk back to the West, wondering if he would ever see Karin again.

  SEBASTIAN CLIFTON

  1970

  24

  “DID YOU EVER make a complete fool of yourself when you were my age?” asked Sebastian as they sat drinking on the veranda.

  “Not more than once a week, if my memory still serves me,” said Ross Buchanan. “Mind you, I’ve improved a little over the years, but not much.”

  “But did you ever make such a huge mistake that you’ve regretted it for the rest of your life?” asked Seb, not touching the brandy by his side.

  Ross didn’t reply immediately, because he knew only too well what Seb was referring to. “Nothing I haven’t been able to make amends for.” He took a sip of his whisky before adding, “Are you absolutely convinced you can’t win her back?”

  “I’ve written to her several times, but she never replies. I’ve finally decided I’ll have to go to America and find out if she’d even consider giving me a second chance.”

  “And there hasn’t been anyone else?” said Ross.

  “Not in that way,” said Sebastian. “The occasional fling, too many one-night stands, but frankly Sam was the only woman I loved. She didn’t care if I was penniless. I stupidly did. Did you ever have that problem, Ross?”

  “Can’t pretend I did. When I married Jean, I had twenty-seven pounds, two shillings, and four pence in my personal account, but then you weren’t allowed an overdraft if you worked as a clerk for the Aberdeen Shipping Company. So Jean certainly didn’t marry me for my money.”

  “Lucky man. Why didn’t I learn from Cedric Hardcastle? A handshake should always be enough to close a deal.”

  “Ah, I presume it’s Maurice Swann we’re now talking about.”

  “You know about Mr. Swann?”

  “Only from what Cedric told me. He was convinced that if you closed the Shifnal Farm deal, you’d keep your side of the bargain. So I must assume you didn’t?”

  Seb bowed his head. “That’s why Sam left me. I lost her because I wanted to live in Chelsea, and I didn’t realize she couldn’t give a damn where we lived, as long as we were together.”

  “It’s never too late to admit you’re wrong,” said Ross. “Just pray that Mr. Swann is still alive. If he is, you can be sure he’ll still be desperate to build his theatre. And Kaufman’s, is that enough for you?” asked Ross, changing the subject.

  “What do you mean, is it enough?” asked Seb, picking up his brandy.

  “It’s just that you’re the most ambitious young man I’ve ever come across and I’m not sure you’ll be satisfied until you become chairman of the bank.”

  “Which bank?”

  Ross laughed. “I’ve always assumed that it’s Farthings you’ve had your eye on.”

  “You’re right, and I haven’t been idle. On Bob Bingham’s advice, I’ve been picking up shares for the past five years, always investing fifty percent of the commission I earn on any deal. I already own more than three percent of Farthings’ stock. Once I’ve got my hands on six percent, which shouldn’t be long now, I intend to take my place on the board and wreak havoc.”

  “I wouldn’t be too confident about that, because you can be sure Adrian Sloane will have spotted you on his radar and, like a submarine, he’ll attack when you least expect it.”

  “But what can he do to stop me? The bank’s statutes specify that any company or individual who owns six percent of the stock is automatically entitled to a place on t