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“Please hold on, sir, I’ll put you through to the Cabinet Secretary.”
Harry remained standing.
“Mr. Clifton, it’s Alan Redmayne.”
“Good afternoon, Sir Alan.”
“I rang because I have some wonderful news and I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“Tell me Anatoly Babakov has been released?”
“Not yet, but it can’t be long now. I’ve just had a call from our ambassador in Stockholm to say that the Swedish prime minister will be announcing in an hour’s time that Mr. Babakov has been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.”
* * *
Within moments of the announcement being made, the phone started to ring, and Harry was made aware for the first time what “off the hook” really meant.
For the next hour he answered questions thrown at him by journalists calling from all over the world.
“Do you think the Russians will finally release Babakov?”
“They should have released him years ago,” responded Harry, “but at least this will give Mr. Brezhnev an excuse to do so now.”
“Will you be going to Stockholm for the ceremony?”
“I hope to be among the audience when Anatoly is presented with the prize.”
“Will you fly to Russia, so you can accompany your friend to Stockholm?”
“He has to be released from jail before anyone can accompany him anywhere.”
Markham reappeared in the doorway, the same anxious look as before on his face. “The King of Sweden is on the other lin
e, sir.” Harry put down one phone and picked up another. He was surprised to find it wasn’t a private secretary on the line, but the King himself.
“I do hope you and Mrs. Clifton will be able to attend the ceremony as my personal guests.”
“We’d be delighted to, Your Majesty,” said Harry, hoping he’d used the correct form of address.
In between repeatedly answering the same questions from yet more journalists, Harry broke off to make a call of his own.
“I’ve just heard the news,” said Aaron Guinzburg. “I rang you immediately but your phone has been constantly engaged. But no need to worry, I’ve already been on to the printers and ordered another million copies of Uncle Joe.”
“I wasn’t calling to ask how many copies you’re having printed, Aaron,” snapped Harry. “Get yourself over to the Lower West Side and take care of Yelena. She’ll have no idea how to handle the press.”
“You’re right, Harry. Thoughtless of me, sorry. I’m on my way.”
Harry put the phone down to see Markham once again hovering in the doorway. “The BBC is asking if you’ll be making a statement.”
“Tell them I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
He sat back down at his desk, ignored the ringing phone, pushed Inspector Warwick to one side and began to think about the message he wanted to get across. He was aware that he might never be given an opportunity like this again.
When he picked up his pen, the words flowed easily, but then he’d waited a dozen years to be given this chance. He read through his statement, made a couple of emendations, then checked he knew it by heart. He stood up, took a deep breath, straightened his tie and walked out into the hall. Markham, who was clearly enjoying every moment of the unfolding drama, opened the front door and stood aside.
Harry had expected to face a few local reporters but as he stepped out of the door a mob of journalists and photographers surged toward him, all of them shouting at once. He stood on the top step and waited patiently until they’d all realized he wasn’t going to say anything before he had their attention.
“This is not a day for celebration,” he began quietly. “My friend and colleague, Anatoly Babakov, is still languishing in a Russian prison, for the crime of daring to write the truth. The Nobel Prize committee has honored him, and rightly so, but I will not rest until he is released and can be reunited with his wife, Yelena, so they can spend the rest of their days enjoying the freedom that the rest of us take for granted.”
