Cometh the Hour: A Novel (7 page)

Harry nodded, as the camera swung onto him.

“During the next four days he recited the entire contents of his banned book,
Uncle Joe,
an account of the eleven years he worked in the Kremlin as Joseph Stalin’s interpreter.”

“That is correct,” said Harry.

“So when you were released from prison, four days later, like a professional actor, you knew your part off by heart.”

Harry remained silent, as it was now clear that Jacobs had his own agenda.

“I’m sure you’ll agree, Mr. Clifton, that no actor, however seasoned, could be expected to remember forty-eight thousand words after only four days of rehearsal.”

“I am not an actor,” said Harry.

“Forgive me,” said Jacobs, not looking as if he wanted to be forgiven, “but I suspect that you are a very accomplished actor who has invented this whole story for no other purpose than to promote your latest book. If that’s not the case, perhaps you’ll allow me to put your claim to the test.”

Without waiting for Harry to respond, Jacobs turned to another camera and, holding up the book, said, “If your story is to be believed, Mr. Clifton, you shouldn’t have any difficulty in reciting whichever page I select from Mr. Babakov’s book.” Harry frowned as Jacobs added, “I’m going to turn to a page at random, which will appear on the screen so that all our viewers can see it. You will be the one person who won’t be able to.”

Harry’s heart reached a thumping pace, because he hadn’t read
Uncle Joe
since he’d handed in the manuscript to Aaron Guinzburg some time ago.

“But first,” said Jacobs turning back to face his guest, “let me ask you to confirm that we have never met before.”

“Just once,” Harry replied. “You interviewed me on your radio program twenty years ago, but you’ve clearly forgotten.”

Jacobs looked flustered, but quickly recovered. “Then let’s hope your memory is better than mine,” he said, not making any attempt to hide his sarcasm. He picked up the book, and flicked through several pages before stopping at random. “I’m going to read out the first line of page 127,” he continued, “and then we’ll see if you can complete the rest of the page.” Harry began to concentrate.
“One of the many subjects no one ever dared to raise with Stalin—”

Harry tried to gather his thoughts, and as the seconds passed, the audience began murmuring among themselves, while Jacobs’s smile became broader. He was just about to speak again, when Harry said,
“One of the many subjects no one ever dared to raise with Stalin was the role he played during the siege of Moscow, when the outcome of the Second World War still hung in the balance. Did he, like most of the government ministers and their officials, beat a hasty retreat to Kuibyshev on the Volga, or did he, as he claimed, refuse to leave the capital and remain in the Kremlin, personally organizing the defense of the city? His version became legend, part of the official Soviet history, although several people saw him on the platform moments before the train departed for Kuibyshev, and there are no reliable reports of anyone seeing him in Moscow again until the Russian army had driven the enemy from the gates of the city. Few of those who expressed any doubts about Stalin’s version lived to tell the tale.”
Harry looked into the camera and continued to deliver the next twenty-two lines without hesitation.

He knew he’d come to the end of the page when the studio audience burst into applause. Jacobs took a little longer to recover his composure, but eventually managed, “I might even read this book myself,” with an ingratiating smile.

“That would make a change,” said Harry, immediately regretting his words, although some of the studio audience laughed and applauded even louder, while others just gasped.

Jacobs turned to face the camera. “We’ll take a short break, and return after these messages.”

When the green light came on, Jacobs yanked off his lapel mic, jumped up from the sofa and marched across to the floor manager. “Get him off the set now!”

“But he’s got another three minutes,” said the floor manager, checking his clipboard.

“I don’t give a fuck. Wheel on the next guest.”

“Do you really want to interview Troy Donahue for six minutes?”

“Anyone but that guy,” he said, gesturing in Harry’s direction before beckoning Anne. “Get him off the set now,” he repeated.

Anne hurried across to the sofa. “Will you please come with me, Mr. Clifton,” she said, not sounding as if it was a request. She led Harry out of the studio and didn’t stop until they were back on the sidewalk, where she abandoned her headline guest, although there was no sign of a chauffeur waiting by an open limo door.

Harry hailed a cab and on the way back to the Sherry-Netherland he checked page 127 of his copy of
Uncle Joe
. Had he left out the word “hasty”? He couldn’t be sure. He went straight up to his room, removed his makeup and took his second shower of the morning. He didn’t know if it was the huge arc lights or Jacobs’s hectoring manner that had caused him to sweat so profusely.

Once he’d put on a clean shirt and his other suit, Harry took the lift to the mezzanine floor. When he walked into the dining room, he was surprised how many people gave him a second look. He ordered breakfast, but didn’t open the
New York Times,
as he thought about how angry the Guinzburgs would be after he’d humiliated one of breakfast TV’s leading presenters. He was due to meet them in Aaron’s office at nine to discuss the details of his national tour, but Harry assumed he’d now be heading back to Heathrow on the next available flight.

Harry signed the check, and decided to walk to Aaron’s new office on Lexington Avenue. He left the Sherry-Netherland just after 8:40, and by the time he reached Lexington, he was just about ready to face the headmaster’s wrath. He took the elevator to the third floor, and when the doors opened, Kirsty was standing there. She said only “Good morning, Mr. Clifton” before leading him through to the chairman’s office.

She knocked and opened the door to reveal a carbon copy of the office Harry had such fond memories of. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Greene and Buchan all stared down at him from the oak-paneled walls. Harry stepped inside to see father and son seated opposite each other at the partners’ desk. The moment they saw him they stood and applauded.

“Hail the conquering hero,” said Aaron.

“But I thought you’d be—”

“Ecstatic,” said Harold Guinzburg, slapping him on the back. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook for the past hour, and you’re set to be on every major talk show across the country. But be warned, everyone’s going to pick a different page after your triumph this morning.”

“But what about Jacobs?”

“He’s turned you into an overnight star. You may never be invited back on to his show, but all the other networks are chasing you.”

*   *   *

Harry spent the next seven days flying from airport to airport: Boston, Washington, Dallas, Chicago, San Francisco and Los Angeles. He was rushed from studio to studio in an attempt to fulfil every commitment on his revised schedule.

Whenever he was in the air, in the back of a limousine or in a green room, even in bed, he read and re-read
Uncle Joe,
astounding audiences right across the country with his prodigious memory.

By the time he touched down in Los Angeles to be Johnny Carson’s headline guest on
The Tonight Show,
journalists and television crews were turning up at the airports, hoping to grab an interview with him, even on the move. Exhausted, Harry finally returned on the red-eye to New York, only to be whisked off in yet another limo to his publisher’s office on Lexington Avenue.

When Kirsty opened the door of the chairman’s office, Harold and Aaron Guinzburg were holding up a copy of the
New York Times
bestseller list. Harry leapt in the air when he saw that
Uncle Joe
had hit the top spot.

“How I wish Anatoly could share this moment.”

“You’re looking at the wrong list,” said Aaron.

Harry looked across to the other side of the page to see that
William Warwick and the Smoking Gun
headed the fiction list.

“This is a first even for me,” said Harold as he opened a bottle of champagne. “Number one in fiction and nonfiction on the same day.”

Harry turned, to see Aaron placing a framed photograph of Harry Clifton on the wall, between John Buchan and Graham Greene.

GILES BARRINGTON

1971

8

“I’
M AFRAID THAT
won’t be possible,” said Giles.

“Why not?” demanded Griff. “Most people won’t even remember what happened in Berlin, and, let’s face it, you wouldn’t be the only Member of Parliament who’s been divorced.”

“Twice, and both times for adultery!” said Giles. This silenced his parliamentary agent for a moment. “And I’m afraid there’s another problem I haven’t told you about.”

“Go on, surprise me,” said Griff with an exaggerated sigh.

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with Karin Pengelly.”

“You’ve been what?”

“In fact, I’m on my way to Cornwall to find out if her father can help.”

“Are you out of your tiny mind?”

“Quite possibly,” admitted Giles.

The Labour agent for Bristol Docklands covered his face with his hands. “It was a one-night stand, Giles. Or have you forgotten?”

“That’s the problem. I haven’t forgotten, and there’s only one way to find out if it was more than that for her.”

“Is this the same man who won an MC escaping from the Germans, then built a formidable reputation as a cabinet minister, and when he’s thrown a lifeline which would allow him to return to the House of Commons, rejects it?”

“I know it doesn’t make any sense,” said Giles. “But if it was just a one-night stand, I have to tell you I’ve never spent a night like it.”

“For which she was undoubtedly well rewarded.”

“So what will you do, now I’ve made my decision?” Giles said, ignoring the comment.

“If you’re really not going to fight the seat, I’ll have to appoint a subcommittee to select a new candidate.”

“You’ll have a flood of applications, and while inflation is at ten percent and the Tories’ only solution is a three-day week, a poodle wearing a red rosette would be elected.”

“Which is precisely why you shouldn’t just throw in the towel.”

“Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

“Every word. But if you really have made up your mind, I hope you’ll be available to advise whoever we select as candidate.”

“But what can I possibly tell them that you can’t, Griff? Let’s face it, you were organizing elections when I was still in short trousers.”

“But not as the candidate, that’s a unique experience. So will you accompany him—”

“Or her—” said Giles, smiling.

“—or even her,” said Griff, “when they’re out walking the streets and canvassing the estates?”

“If you think it will help, I’ll make myself available whenever you want me.”

“It could make the difference between just winning, and securing a large enough majority to make it tough for the Tories to overturn at the next election.”

“My God, the Labour Party’s lucky to have you,” said Giles. “I’ll do everything I can to help.”

“Thank you,” said Griff. “I apologize for my earlier outburst. Truth is, I’ve always been a cynic. Goes with the territory, I suppose. So let’s hope I’m wrong this time. Mind you, I’ve never gone much on fairy tales. So if you do change your mind about standing, I can hold off appointing a selection committee for at least a couple of weeks.”

“Won’t you ever give up?”

“Not while there’s the slightest chance of you being the candidate.”

*   *   *

As Giles sat alone in the first-class carriage on the way to Truro, he thought carefully about what Griff had said. Was he sacrificing his whole political career for a woman who might not even have given him a second thought since Berlin? Had he allowed his imagination to override his common sense? And if he did meet Karin again, would the bubble burst?

There was also the possibility—the strong possibility, which he tried to push to the back of his mind—that Karin had been no more than a Stasi plant, simply doing her job, proving that his veteran agent was not a cynic, but simply a realist. By the time the
Penzance Flyer
pulled into Truro station just after six, Giles was none the wiser.

He took a taxi to the Mason’s Arms, where he had agreed to meet John Pengelly later that evening. Once he had signed the register, he climbed the stairs to his room and unpacked his overnight bag. He had a bath, changed his clothes and went down to the bar a few minutes before seven, as he didn’t want to keep Karin’s father waiting.

As Giles walked into the bar, he spotted a man seated at a corner table, at whom he wouldn’t have taken a second look had he not immediately stood and waved.

Giles strode across to join him and shook his outstretched hand. No introduction was necessary.

“Let me get you a drink, Sir Giles,” said John Pengelly, with an unmistakable West Country burr. “The local bitter’s not half bad, or you might prefer a whisky.”

“A half of bitter will be just fine,” said Giles, taking a seat at the small, beer-stained table.

While Karin’s father was ordering the drinks, Giles took a closer look at him. He must have been around fifty, perhaps fifty-five, although his hair had already turned gray. His Harris Tweed jacket was well worn, but still fitted perfectly, suggesting he hadn’t put on more than a few pounds since his army days, and probably exercised regularly. Although he appeared reserved, even diffident, he clearly wasn’t a stranger to these parts, because one of the locals seated at the bar hailed him as if he were a long-lost brother. How cruel that he had to live alone, thought Giles, with his wife and daughter unable to join him, for no other reason than that they were on the wrong side of a wall.

Pengelly returned a few moments later carrying two half-pints, one of which he placed on the table in front of Giles. “It was kind of you to make such a long journey, sir. I only hope you’ll feel it’s been worthwhile.”