What I hadn’t anticipated was just how long Stalin would cling on, and he certainly had no intention of releasing the reins of power before the pallbearers had lowered him into the ground, and more than one or two of his enemies remained silent for several days after his death, just in case he rose again.
A great deal has been written about Stalin’s death. The official communiqué, which I translated for the international press, claimed that he died at his desk in the Kremlin after suffering a stroke, and that was the accepted version for many years. Whereas in truth he was staying at his dacha, and after a drunken dinner with his inner circle, which included Lavrenti Beria, his deputy premier and former secret police chief, Nikita Khrushchev, and Georgy Malenkov, he retired to bed, but not before all his guests had left the dacha.
Beria, Malenkov, and Khrushchev all feared for their lives, because they knew Stalin planned to replace them with younger, more loyal lieutenants. After all, that was exactly how each of them had got his own job in the first place.
The following day, Stalin still hadn’t risen by late afternoon and one of his guards, worried that he might be ill, phoned Beria, who dismissed the man’s fears and told him Stalin was probably just sleeping off a hangover. Another hour passed before the guard called Beria again. This time he summoned Khrushchev and Malenkov and they immediately drove over to the dacha.
Beria gave the order to unlock the door of the room in which Stalin had spent the night, and the three of them tentatively entered, to find him lying on the floor, unconscious but still breathing. Khrushchev bent down to check his pulse, when suddenly a muscle twitched. Stalin stared up at Beria and grabbed him by the arm. Khrushchev fell on his knees, placed his hands around Stalin’s throat, and strangled him. Stalin struggled for a few minutes, while Beria and Malenkov held him down.
Once they were convinced he was dead, they left the room, locking the door behind them. Beria immediately issued an order that all of Stalin’s personal guards—sixteen of them—were to be shot, so there could be no witnesses to what had happened. No one was informed of Stalin’s death until the official announcement was made several hours later, the one I translated, which claimed he’d died of a stroke while working at his desk in the Kremlin. In fact he was strangled by Khrushchev and left lying in a pool of his own urine for several hours before his body was removed from the dacha.
For the next fourteen days, Stalin’s body lay in state in the Hall of Columns, dressed in full military uniform, wearing his hero of the Soviet Union and Hero of Socialist Labor medals. Beria, Malenkov, and Khrushchev, heads bowed, stood in respectful silence beside the embalmed corpse of their former leader.
These three men were to become the troika who grabbed power in his place, although Stalin hadn’t considered any of them worthy to succeed him, and they knew it. Khrushchev, thought of as no more than a peasant, became secretary of the party. Malenkov, whom Stalin once described as an obese, spineless pen pusher, was appointed prime minister, while the ruthless Beria, whom Stalin regarded as a sordid sex addict, took control of the nation’s security services.
A few months later, in June 1953, Khrushchev had Beria arrested and later, not much later, executed for treason. Within a year, he had removed Malenkov and appointed himself prime minister as well as supreme leader. He only spared Malenkov’s life once he agreed to announce publicly that it was Beria who had murdered Stalin.
Emma fell asleep.
47
WHEN EMMA WOKE the following morning, she found Harry kneeling on the floor, trying to sort out various different bits of paper and arrange them in neat piles: BOAC writing paper, the backs of a dozen first-class menus, and even lavatory paper. She joined him, concentrating on the lavatory paper. Forty minutes later, they had a book.
“What time do we have to be in court?” asked Harry as they made their way downstairs to join Giles and Seb for breakfast.
“Ten, in theory,” said Emma, “but Mr. Trelford doesn’t think the jury will return much before midday.”
Breakfast was the first real meal Harry had eaten for the best part of a week, but despite that, he was surprised how little he could manage. They sat in silence as he regaled them with everything he’d experienced since they’d last seen him. They were introduced to the taxi driver, the old woman in the bookshop, the KGB colonel, the tribunal chairman, the chief prosecutor, the defense attorney, the jury, and, finally, Anatoly Babakov, whom he’d liked and admired. He told them how that truly remarkable man had spent every hour he could stay awake telling Harry his story.
“Won’t he be in considerable danger if the book is published?” suggested Giles.
“The answer must be yes, but he was adamant that Uncle Joe be published before he died, because it would allow his wife to live in comfort for the rest of her life. So once the trial is over, I plan to fly back to the States and hand over the manuscript to Harold Guinzburg. I’ll then travel on to Pittsburgh to see Yelena Babakov, and pass on several messages from her husband,” he added as Big Ben struck the first of ten chimes.
“It can’t be that late,” said Emma, leaping up from the table. “Seb, go and find a cab while your father and I get ready.”
Seb smiled. He wondered when mothers stopped treating their children as if they were perpetually fifteen years old.
Ten minutes later, they were all heading up Whitehall toward the Strand.
“Are you looking forward to being back in the House?” asked Harry as they drove past Downing Street.
“I haven’t even been selected as the candidate yet,” said Giles.
“Well, at least this time Alex Fisher won’t cause you any trouble.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Giles.
“You must be a shoo-in,” said Emma.
“In politics there are no shoo-ins,” Giles assured her as they drew up outside the law courts.
The cameras began flashing even before Emma had stepped out of the cab. She and Harry walked arm in arm through the phalanx of journalists and photographers, most of whom seemed more interested in her husband than in the defendant.
“Are you relieved to be back home, sir?” shouted one of them.
“Is London colder than Siberia?” quipped another.
“Is it good to have him back, Mrs. Clifton?” yelled a third.
Emma broke Giles’s golden rule. “Yes, it most certainly is,” she said as she squeezed Harry’s hand.
“Do you think you’ll win today?” persisted another, which she pretended not to hear. Seb was waiting for them, and held open the massive door to allow them through.
“Are you hoping to be the Labour candidate in the Bristol by-election, Sir Giles?” But Giles simply waved and smiled, giving them a picture but no words, before he disappeared into the building.
The four of them made their way up the wide marble staircase to find Mr. Trelford occupying his favorite corner bench on the first floor. Trelford stood the moment he saw Emma approaching. She introduced him to Harry.
“Good morning, Detective Inspector Warwick,” said Trelford. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Harry shook the barrister warmly by the hand. “I must apologize for not being here sooner, but I have—”
“I know,” said Trelford, “and I can’t wait to read it.”
The tannoy crackled. “Would all those involved in the Lady Virginia Fenwick versus…”
“The jury must have reached a decision,” Trelford said, already on the move. He looked around to check that they were all following him, and bumped into someone. He apologized, but the young man didn’t look back. Sebastian, who had walked on ahead, held open the door to court number fourteen so his mother and her silk could resume their places in the front row.
Emma was too nervous to speak and, fearing the worst, kept glancing anxiously over her shoulder at Harry, who sat in the row behind her as they waited for the jury to appear.
When Mrs. Justice Lane entered the courtroom, everyone rose.
She bowed before resuming her place. Emma transferred her attention to the closed door beside the jury box. She didn’t have to wait long before it swung open, and the bailiff reappeared followed by his twelve disciples. They took their time finding their places, treading on each other’s toes like late-arriving theatregoers. The bailiff waited for them to settle before he banged his rod three times on the floor and shouted, “Will the foreman please rise.”
The foreman rose to his full five feet four inches and looked up at the judge. Mrs. Justice Lane leaned forward and said, “Have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?”
Emma thought her heart would stop beating as she waited for his reply.
“No, my lady.”
“Then have you reached a verdict on which you are agreed by a majority of at least ten to two?”
“We did, my lady,” said the foreman, “but unfortunately, at the last moment, one of our number changed his mind, and we have been stuck on nine votes to three for the past hour. I am not convinced that will change, so once again I am seeking your guidance as to what we should do next.”
“Do you believe you could reach a majority of ten to two, if I gave you a little more time?”
“I do, my lady, because on one particular matter, all twelve of us are in agreement.”
“And what is that?”
“If we were allowed to know the contents of the letter Major Fisher wrote to Mr. Trelford, we might well be able to come to a decision fairly quickly.”
Everybody’s eyes were fixed on the judge, except for Sir Edward Makepeace, who was looking closely at Trelford. Either he was a formidable poker player or he didn’t want the jury to know what was in that letter.
Trelford rose from his seat and reached into his inside pocket, only to find that the letter was no longer there. He looked across to the far side of the court, to see that Lady Virginia was smiling.
He returned her smile.
The story continues in
VOLUME SIX OF THE CLIFTON CHRONICLES
Coming 2016
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www.jeffreyarcher.com
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JEFFREY ARCHER was educated at Oxford University. He has served five years in Britain’s House of Commons and twenty-two years in the House of Lords. All of his novels and short story collections—including Be Careful What You Wish For, Best Kept Secret, The Sins of the Father, and Only Time Will Tell—have been international bestselling books. Archer is married with two sons and lives in London and Cambridge. Or sign up for email updates here.
www.JeffreyArcher.com
ALSO BY JEFFREY ARCHER
THE CLIFTON CHRONICLES
Only Time Will Tell
The Sins of the Father
Best Kept Secret
Be Careful What You Wish For
NOVELS
Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less
Shall We Tell the President?
Kane & Abel
The Prodigal Daughter
First Among Equals
A Matter of Honor
As the Crow Flies
Honor Among Thieves
The Fourth Estate
The Eleventh Commandment
Sons of Fortune
False Impression
The Gospel According to Judas
(with the assistance of Professor Francis J. Moloney)
A Prisoner of Birth
Paths of Glory
SHORT STORIES
A Quiver Full of Arrows
A Twist in the Tale
Twelve Red Herrings
The Collected Short Stories
To Cut a Long Story Short
Cat O’ Nine Tales
And Thereby Hangs a Tale
PLAYS
Beyond Reasonable Doubt
Exclusive
The Accused
PRISON DIARIES
Volume One—Belmarsh: Hell
Volume Two—Wayland: Purgatory
Volume Three—North Sea Camp: Heaven
SCREENPLAYS
Mallory: Walking off the Map
False Impression
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Family Tree
Epigraph
Prologue
I. Harry and Emma 1964–1965
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
II. Lady Virginia Fenwick 1966
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
III. Giles Barrington 1970
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
IV. Sebastian Clifton 1970
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
V. Lady Virginia Fenwick 1970
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
VI. Sebastian Clifton 1970
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
VII. Harry and Emma 1970
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
About the Author
Also by Jeffrey Archer
Copyright
JEFFREYARCHERBOOKS.COM
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD. Copyright © 2015 by Jeffrey Archer. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Michael Storrings
Cover photo-illustration © Reginald Polynice
Cover photographs: train station © Driendl Group/Getty Images; man © Nejron Photo/Shutterstock.com; woman © Pandorabox/Shutterstock.com
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to
[email protected] The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Archer, Jeffrey, 1940–
Mightier than the sword / Jeffrey Archer.—First U.S. edition.
p. cm.—(Clifton Chronicles; book 5)
ISBN 978-1-250-03451-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-07317-4 (special edition)
ISBN 978-1-250-03450-2 (e-book)
1. Families—England—History—20th century—Fiction. 2. Social classes—England—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6051.R285M54 2015
823'.914—dc23
2014042833
e-ISBN 9781250034502
First published in Great Britain by Macmillan, an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmi
llan Publishers Limited
First U.S. Edition: March 2015
Jeffrey Archer, Mightier Than the Sword
(Series: # )
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