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“I’d be quite willing to do that,” said Harry without hesitation. “But I will expect something in return.”
“I’ll do anything within my power.”
“I want the foreign secretary to make an official protest about the imprisonment of Anatoly Babakov.”
“Stalin’s interpreter? Didn’t he write a book that was banned—what was it called…”
“Uncle Joe,” said Harry.
“Ah yes, of course. Well, I’ll do what I can, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
“And he must also make an official statement to all national and foreign press agencies the day before I fly to Russia.”
“I can’t promise you that, but be assured I’ll recommend that the foreign secretary supports your campaign to have Mr. Babakov released.”
“I’m sure you will, Sir Alan. But if you are unable to assist me with Babakov’s plight,” he paused, “you can bugger off and find someone else to be your messenger boy.”
Harry’s words had exactly the effect he had hoped for. The cabinet secretary was speechless.
* * *
Emma looked up as her secretary entered the office, accompanied by a man she knew as soon as they shook hands she wasn’t going to like. She ushered Mr. Mellor toward two comfortable chairs by the fireplace.
“It’s very nice to meet you at last, Mrs. Clifton,” he said. “I’ve heard, and read, so much about you over the years.”
“And I’ve recently been reading a great deal about you, Mr. Mellor,” said Emma as she sat down and took a closer look at the man seated opposite her. She knew from a recent profile in the Financial Times that Desmond Mellor had left school at sixteen and begun his working life as a booking clerk at Cooks Travel. By the age of 23, he’d started up his own company, which he’d recently sold for close to £2 million, having had several well-chronicled scrapes along the way. But Emma accepted that that would be true of most successful entrepreneurs. She had been prepared for his charm, but was surprised to find that he looked far younger than his forty-eight years. He was clearly fit, with no surplus pounds that needed to be shed, and she had to agree with her secretary that he was a good-looking man, even if his dress sense hadn’t quite kept pace with his financial success.
“Not all bad, I hope,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh.
“Well, if your recent takeover battle is anything to go by, Mr. Mellor, you certainly don’t believe in taking prisoners.”
“It’s tough out there at the moment, Mrs. Clifton, as I’m sure you’re finding, so sometimes you have to cover your backside, if you’ll excuse the expression.”
Emma wondered if she could come up with an excuse to cut the meeting short, despite the fact that she had instructed her secretary that she was not to be disturbed for at least thirty minutes.
“I’ve been following your husband’s activities on behalf of Babakov,” said Mellor. “Seems he might also have to cover his backside,” he added with a grin.
“Harry feels passionately about Mr. Babakov’s plight.”
“As I’m sure we all do. But I have to ask, is it worth the candle? Those Russians don’t seem to give a damn about human rights.”
“That won’t stop Harry fighting for something he believes in.”
“Is he away often?”
“Not that much,” Emma said, trying not to show she’d been taken by surprise by the sudden change of subject. “The occasional book tour or conference. But when you chair a public company, that can sometimes be a blessing in disguise.”
“I know just how you feel,” said Mellor, leaning forward. “My wife prefers to live in the country, which is why I stay in Bristol during the week.”
“Do you have any children?” asked Emma.
“One girl by my first marriage. She’s a secretary in London. And another by my second.”
“And how old is she?”
“Kelly is four, and, of course, I know your son Sebastian has recently joined the board of Barrington’s.”
Emma smiled. “Then perhaps I can ask, Mr. Mellor, why you want to join us on the board?”
