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Authors: Jeffrey Archer
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greet him,
but then he remembered that he’d caught an earlier flight, and Maureen wouldn’t
be expecting him back for at least another couple of hours.
Dick ran
upstairs to his bedroom, and quickly stripped off his clothes, dropping them in
a pile on the floor. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower,
allowing the warm jets of water to slowly remove the grime of St. Petersburg
and Aeroflot.
After he’d put
on some casual clothes, Dick checked his appearance in the mirror. At
fifty-three, his hair was turning prematurely gray, and although he tried to
hold his stomach in, he knew he ought to lose a few pounds, just a couple of
notches on his belt–once the deal was signed and he had a little more time, he
promised himself.
He left the
bedroom and went down to the kitchen. He asked the cook to prepare him a salad,
and then strolled into the drawing room, picked up The Times, and glanced at the headlines. A new leader of the Tory
Party, a new leader of the Liberal Democrats, and now Gordon Brown had been
elected leader of the Labor Party. None of the major political parties would be
fighting the next election under the same leader.
Dick looked up
when the phone began to ring. He walked across to his wife’s writing desk and
picked up the receiver, to hear Jill’s voice on the other end of the line.
“The board
meeting is fixed for next Thursday at ten o’clock, and I’ve also arranged for
you to see Sam Cohen in his office at eight tomorrow morning.” Dick removed a
pen from an inside pocket of his blazer. “I’ve emailed every member of the
board to warn them that it’s a priority,” she added.
“What time did
you say my meeting was with Sam?”
“Eight o’clock
at his office. He has to be in court by ten for another client.”
“Fine.” Dick opened his wife’s drawer and grabbed the first
piece of paper available. He wrote down, Sam,
office, 8, Thur board mtg , 10. “Well
done, Jill,” he added. “Better book me back into the Grand Palace Hotel, and
email the minister to warn him what time I’ll be arriving.”
“I already
have,” Jill replied, “and I’ve also booked you on a flight to St. Petersburg on
the Sunday afternoon.”
“Well done. See
you around ten tomorrow.” Dick put the phone down, and strolled through to his
study, with a large smile on his face. Everything was going to plan.
When he reached
his desk, Dick transferred the details of his appointments to his diary. He was
just about to drop the piece of paper into a wastepaper basket when he decided
just to check and see if it contained anything important. He unfolded a letter,
which he began to read.
His smile
turned to a frown, long before he’d reached the final paragraph. He started to
read the letter, marked private and personal, a second time.
Dear Mrs. Barnsley , This is to confirm your
appointment at our office on Friday, 30 April, when we will continue our
discussions on the matter you raised with me last Tuesday. Remembering the full
implications of your decision, I have
asked my senior partner to join us on this occasion.
We both look forward to seeing you on the 30th.
Yours sincerely,
Dick immediately picked up the phone on his desk, and dialed Sam Cohen’s
number, hoping he hadn’t already left for the day. When Sam pick up his private
line, all Dick said was, “Have you come across a lawyer called Andrew Symonds?”
“Only by
reputation,” said Sam, “but then I don’t specialize in divorce.”
“Divorce?” said
Dick, as he heard a car coming up the gravel driveway. He glanced out of the
window to see a Volkswagen swing round the circle and come to a halt outside
the front door. Dick watched as his wife climbed out of her car. “I’ll see you
at eight tomorrow, Sam, and the Russian contract won’t be the only thing on the
agenda.”
Dick’s driver
dropped him outside Sam Cohen’s office in Lincoln’s Inn Field a few minutes
before eight the following morning. The senior
but then he remembered that he’d caught an earlier flight, and Maureen wouldn’t
be expecting him back for at least another couple of hours.
Dick ran
upstairs to his bedroom, and quickly stripped off his clothes, dropping them in
a pile on the floor. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower,
allowing the warm jets of water to slowly remove the grime of St. Petersburg
and Aeroflot.
After he’d put
on some casual clothes, Dick checked his appearance in the mirror. At
fifty-three, his hair was turning prematurely gray, and although he tried to
hold his stomach in, he knew he ought to lose a few pounds, just a couple of
notches on his belt–once the deal was signed and he had a little more time, he
promised himself.
He left the
bedroom and went down to the kitchen. He asked the cook to prepare him a salad,
and then strolled into the drawing room, picked up The Times, and glanced at the headlines. A new leader of the Tory
Party, a new leader of the Liberal Democrats, and now Gordon Brown had been
elected leader of the Labor Party. None of the major political parties would be
fighting the next election under the same leader.
Dick looked up
when the phone began to ring. He walked across to his wife’s writing desk and
picked up the receiver, to hear Jill’s voice on the other end of the line.
“The board
meeting is fixed for next Thursday at ten o’clock, and I’ve also arranged for
you to see Sam Cohen in his office at eight tomorrow morning.” Dick removed a
pen from an inside pocket of his blazer. “I’ve emailed every member of the
board to warn them that it’s a priority,” she added.
“What time did
you say my meeting was with Sam?”
“Eight o’clock
at his office. He has to be in court by ten for another client.”
“Fine.” Dick opened his wife’s drawer and grabbed the first
piece of paper available. He wrote down, Sam,
office, 8, Thur board mtg , 10. “Well
done, Jill,” he added. “Better book me back into the Grand Palace Hotel, and
email the minister to warn him what time I’ll be arriving.”
“I already
have,” Jill replied, “and I’ve also booked you on a flight to St. Petersburg on
the Sunday afternoon.”
“Well done. See
you around ten tomorrow.” Dick put the phone down, and strolled through to his
study, with a large smile on his face. Everything was going to plan.
When he reached
his desk, Dick transferred the details of his appointments to his diary. He was
just about to drop the piece of paper into a wastepaper basket when he decided
just to check and see if it contained anything important. He unfolded a letter,
which he began to read.
His smile
turned to a frown, long before he’d reached the final paragraph. He started to
read the letter, marked private and personal, a second time.
Dear Mrs. Barnsley , This is to confirm your
appointment at our office on Friday, 30 April, when we will continue our
discussions on the matter you raised with me last Tuesday. Remembering the full
implications of your decision, I have
asked my senior partner to join us on this occasion.
We both look forward to seeing you on the 30th.
Yours sincerely,
Dick immediately picked up the phone on his desk, and dialed Sam Cohen’s
number, hoping he hadn’t already left for the day. When Sam pick up his private
line, all Dick said was, “Have you come across a lawyer called Andrew Symonds?”
“Only by
reputation,” said Sam, “but then I don’t specialize in divorce.”
“Divorce?” said
Dick, as he heard a car coming up the gravel driveway. He glanced out of the
window to see a Volkswagen swing round the circle and come to a halt outside
the front door. Dick watched as his wife climbed out of her car. “I’ll see you
at eight tomorrow, Sam, and the Russian contract won’t be the only thing on the
agenda.”
Dick’s driver
dropped him outside Sam Cohen’s office in Lincoln’s Inn Field a few minutes
before eight the following morning. The senior
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