“Ah, yes,” said Sloane. “Now I remember. You’re quite right, we were acting for a Swiss client who prefers anonymity, but the bank charges three percent commission on every deal we carry out for that particular customer.”
“And it didn’t take a great deal of research,” said Cedric, patting a pile of papers on the desk in front of him, “to discover that that particular client has conducted another six transactions during the past year, and made himself a handsome profit.”
“But isn’t that what my department is supposed to do?” protested Sloane. “Make profits for our clients, while at the same time earning the bank a handsome commission?”
“It is indeed,” said Cedric, trying to remain calm. “It’s just a pity the Swiss client’s account is in your name.”
“How can you possibly know that,” blurted out Sloane, “when client accounts in Switzerland are not named but numbered?”
“I didn’t. But you’ve just confirmed my worst fears, so your number is up.”
Sloane leapt from his chair. “I’ve made a twenty-three percent profit for the bank over the past ten months.”
“And if my calculations are correct,” came back Cedric, “you’ve made another forty-one percent for yourself during the same period. And I have a feeling Shifnal Farm was going to be your biggest payday yet.”
Sloane collapsed back in his chair, a look of desperation on his face. “But...”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” continued Cedric, “but this is one deal you’re not going to pull off for your Swiss client, because I called Mr. Vaughan at Savills a few minutes ago and withdrew our bid for Shifnal Farm.”
“But we could have made a massive profit on that deal,” said Sloane, now staring defiantly at the chairman. “Possibly as much as a million pounds.”
“I don’t think you mean we,” said Cedric, “I think you mean you. Although it was the bank’s money you were putting up as collateral, not your own.”
“But you only know half the facts.”
“I can assure you, Sloane, that thanks to Mr. Swann, I know all the facts.”
Sloane rose slowly from his seat.
“You are a stupid old man,” he said, spitting out the words. “You’re out of touch, and you don’t begin to understand modern banking. The sooner you make way for a younger man, the better.”
“No doubt in time I will,” said Cedric, as he stood up to face his adversary, “but of one thing I’m certain, that young man is no longer going to be you.”
“You’ll live to regret this,” said Sloane, leaning across the desk and eyeballing the chairman.
“Don’t waste your time threatening me, Sloane. Far bigger men than you have tried and failed,” said Cedric, his voice rising with every word. “There’s only one thing left for you to do, and that’s make sure you’ve cleared your desk and are off the premises within thirty minutes, because if you’re not, I’ll personally put your belongings out on the pavement for every passerby to see.”
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyers,” shouted Sloane, as he turned to leave.
“I don’t think so, unless you plan to spend the next few years in prison, because I can assure you, once this stupid old man has reported your behavior to the ethics committee of the Bank of England, you’ll never work in the City again.”
Sloane turned back, his face as white as a sheet and, like a gambler with only one chip left, spun the wheel for the last time. “But I could still make the bank a fortune, if you’ll only—”
“Twenty-nine minutes,” shouted Cedric, trying to control his temper, as he lurched forward and grabbed the edge of his desk.
Sloane didn’t move as the chairman pulled open a drawer and took out a small bottle of pills. He fumbled with the safety cap, but lost his grip and dropped the bottle on to his desk. They both watched as it rolled on to the floor. Cedric attempted to fill a glass with water, but he no longer had the strength to pick up the jug.
“I need your help,” he slurred, looking up at Sloane, who just stood there, watching him carefully.
Cedric stumbled, took a pace backward, and fell heavily on the floor, gasping for breath. Sloane walked slowly around the desk, his eyes never leaving the chairman as he lay on the floor fighting for his life. He picked up the bottle and unscrewed the cap. Cedric stared up at him as he shook the pills on to the floor, just out of his reach. He then wiped the empty bottle with a handkerchief from his top pocket and placed it in the chairman’s hand.
Sloane leaned over and listened carefully, to find that the chairman was no longer breathing quite so heavily. Cedric tried to raise his head, but he could only watch helplessly as Sloane gathered up all the papers on his desk that he’d been working on for the past twenty-four hours. Sloane turned and walked slowly away, without once looking back, avoiding those eyes that were burning into him.
He opened the door and looked out into the corridor. No one in sight. He closed the door quietly behind him and went in search of the chairman’s secretary. Her hat and coat were no longer on the stand, so he assumed she must have left for the weekend. He tried to remain calm as he walked down the corridor, but beads of sweat were pouring off his forehead and he could feel his heart pounding.
He stood for a moment and listened, like a bloodhound sniffing for danger. He decided to throw the dice once again.
“Anyone around?” he shouted.
His voice echoed through the high-ceilinged corridor as if it were a concert hall, but there was no response. He checked the executive offices one by one, but they were all locked. No one on the top floor, other than Cedric, would still be in the office at six o’clock on a Friday evening. Sloane knew there would still be junior staff in the building who wouldn’t think of leaving before their bosses, but none of them would consider disturbing the chairman, and the cleaners wouldn’t be returning until five o’clock on Monday morning. That only left Stanley, the night porter, who would never budge from his comfortable chair at the front desk unless the building was on fire.
Sloane took the lift to the ground floor and, as he crossed the lobby, he noticed that Stanley was dozing quietly. He didn’t disturb him.
“The Rijksmuseum,” said Sam as they entered the Dutch national gallery, “houses one of the finest collections on earth. The Rembrandts are showstoppers but the Vermeers, De Wittes, and Steens are also among the finest examples of the Dutch masters you’ll ever see.”
Hand in hand they made their way slowly around the grand gallery, Sam often stopping to point out a character, or a feature of a particular work, without ever once referring to her guidebook. Whenever heads turned, and they often did, Seb wanted to shout, “And she’s bright, too!”
At the far end of the gallery stood a small crowd, admiring a single work.
“The Night Watch,” said Sam, “is a masterpiece, and probably Rembrandt’s best-known work. Although sadly we’ll never know what the original looked like because the city council later trimmed the painting to fit between two columns in the town hall.”
“They should have knocked down the columns,” said Seb, unable to take his eyes off the group of figures surrounding a finely dressed man carrying a lantern.
“Pity you weren’t on the town council,” said Sam as they walked into the next room. “And here’s a painting that will feature in my PhD thesis,” she continued as they stopped in front of a large canvas. “It’s hard to believe that Rubens completed the work in a weekend, because he had to attend the signing of a peace treaty between the English and Spanish on the following Monday. Most people are quite unaware that he was a diplomat as well as an artist,” she said before moving on.