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“Will anyone second Mr. Clifton’s proposal that Mr. Ross Buchanan stand in as chairman until Mr. Bishara returns?” asked the company secretary.
“I will be delighted to do so,” said Jimmy Goldsmith.
“Those in favor?” asked the company secretary.
Everyone around the table except Sloane raised their hand.
“Those against?”
Sloane raised his hand and said, “I want it minuted that if Bishara is convicted of drug smuggling, I shall expect every one of you to resign.”
“And if he isn’t?” asked Victor Kaufman.
“Then naturally I will have to consider my own position.”
“That’s something else I’d like minuted,” said Victor. The company secretary duly wrote down his words.
“Perhaps,” said Ross, “we should now move on. I’d like to begin by welcoming Lord Barrington and Mr. James Goldsmith as members of the board, before asking our chief executive, Sebastian Clifton, to report on the effect recent events have had on the company’s finances, and the latest position concerning the merger.”
“Our shares are down by twelve percent, Mr. Chairman,” said Sebastian, “but I’m pleased to report that the market appears to have steadied, not least because of the intervention of Mr. Goldsmith, who clearly not only believes in Mr. Bishara’s innocence but also in the long-term future of the bank. And can I say how delighted I am that he has taken his place on the board and been able to join us today.”
“But like Mr. Buchanan,” said Goldsmith, “I intend to withdraw as a director as soon as Mr. Bishara returns.”
“And if he doesn’t return?” said Sloane. “What will you do then, Mr. Goldsmith?”
“I will remain on the board and do everything in my power to make sure that a little shit like you doesn’t become chairman.”
“Mr. Chairman,” protested Sloane. “This is the board meeting of a leading City bank, not a casino, where clearly Mr. Goldsmith would be more at home.”
“My reason for not wanting Mr. Sloane to return as chairman of this bank,” said Goldsmith, “is not just because he’s a shit but, far more important, because the last time he held that position he almost succeeded in bringing Farthings to its knees, and I suspect that is his present purpose.”
“That is a disgraceful slur on my reputation,” said Sloane. “You have left me with no choice but to place the matter in the hands of my solicitors.”
“I can’t wait,” said Goldsmith. “Because when you were chairman of Farthings and Mr. Bishara withdrew his bid for the bank, you stated at a full board meeting, which was minuted, that there was another leading financial institution willing to pay considerably more for Farthings shares than Mr. Bishara was offering. It’s always been a bit of a mystery to me who that leading financial institution was. Perhaps you would care to enlighten us now, Mr. Sloane.”
“I don’t have to take any more insults from the likes of you, Goldsmith.” Sloane rose from his place and, as he knew his words would be recorded in the minutes, added, “You will all have to resign when Bishara is convicted. The next meeting of this board I attend will be as chairman. Good day, gentlemen,” he said, and walked out.
Goldsmith didn’t wait for the door to close before saying, “Never be afraid to attack a bully because they always turn out to be cowards, and the moment they come under any pressure they run away.”
A small round of applause followed. When it had died down, Giles Barrington leaned across the table. “I wonder, Jimmy, if you’d consider joining the Labour Party? There are one or two members of the Shadow Cabinet I’d love to see the back of.”
Ross Buchanan waited for the laughter to subside before he said, “Sloane was right about one thing. If Hakim is convicted, we’ll all have to resign.”
HAKIM BISHARA
1975
33
COURT NUMBER FOUR of the Old Bailey was packed long before ten o’clock on Thursday morning. Counsel were in their places, the press benches were heaving and the gallery above resembled the dress circle of a West End theatre on opening night.
Sebastian had attended every day of the trial, even the morning when the jury was being selected. He hated having to witness Hakim coming up from below to take his place in the dock, a policeman standing on either side of him as if he were a common criminal. The American system, where the defendant sits at a table with his legal team, seemed so much more civilized.
Hakim’s counsel was Mr. Gilbert Gray QC, while the Crown was represented by Mr. George Carman QC. They were like two seasoned gladiators in the Roman Colosseum, cut and thrust, but so far neither had managed to inflict anything more serious than the occasional flesh wound. Sebastian couldn’t help thinking that if they were to change sides, all the feigned passion, the barbed insults, the angry protests would still have been displayed in equal measure.
In their opening speeches, Mr. Gray and Mr. Carman had set out their stalls, and Sebastian was sure the jury hadn’t been swayed one way or the other by the time they sat back down. The first three witnesses—the captain of flight 207, the purser and Mrs. Aisha Obgabo, a Nigerian stewardess who had supplied written evidence—added little to the case, as none of them could remember the woman seated in 3B, and they certainly hadn’t witnessed anyone slipping something into Mr. Bishara’s bag. So a great deal now rested on the next witness, Mr. Collier, a senior customs officer at Heathrow, who had arrested the defendant.
“Call Mr. Collier!” bellowed a policeman standing by the entrance to the court.
