Once he was back in his apartment, Aaron picked up the phone and dialed a number he didn’t need to look up.

“Good morning, Viking Mulberry, how can I help you?”

“Rex Mulberry.”

“Who’s calling please?”

“Aaron Guinzburg.” He heard a click, and a moment later another voice said, “Chairman’s office.”

“This is Aaron Guinzburg. Put me through to Rex.”

“Mr. Mulberry is in a meeting.”

“Then get him out of the meeting,” said Aaron, finally losing his temper.

Another click. He’d been cut off. He dialed the number again, but this time he didn’t get any farther than the switchboard. Collapsing into the nearest chair, he tried to gather his thoughts. It was some time before he picked up the phone again.

“Friedman, Friedman and Yablon,” announced a voice.

“This is Aaron Guinzburg. I need to speak to Leonard Friedman.” He was immediately put through to the senior partner. Aaron took his time explaining what had happened when he’d turned up at his office that morning, and the result of his two subsequent phone calls.

“So your father was right all along.”

“What do you mean?”

“A handshake was always good enough for Curtis Mulberry, but when you deal with his son Rex, just make sure you read the small print.”

“Are you suggesting Mulberry’s got right on his side?”

“Certainly not,” said Friedman, “just the law. As long as he controls sixty-six percent of the company’s stock, he can call the shots. We did warn you at the time of the consequences of being a minority shareholder, but you were convinced it wouldn’t be a problem. Although I have to admit, even I’m shocked by the speed with which Mulberry has taken advantage of his position.”

Once Friedman had taken his client though the relevant details of the contract, Aaron wished he’d read Law at Harvard and not History at Yale. “Still,” said the lawyer, “we did manage to insert clause 19A, which Mulberry will surely now live to regret.”

“Why is clause 19A so important?”

After Friedman had explained the significance of the get-out clause in great detail, Aaron put the phone down and walked across to the drinks cabinet. He poured himself a whisky—before twelve o’clock for the first time in his life. Twelve o’clock, the time of his appointment with Harry. He glanced at his watch: 11:38. He put down his drink, and ran out of the apartment.

He cursed the slow lift as it trundled down to the ground floor, where he hurled back the grille and ran out onto the street. He hailed a yellow cab, never a problem on Fifth Avenue, but once he hit Third, Aaron was faced with the inevitable gridlock. Light after light seemed to turn red just as the cab reached the front of the line. When they ground to a halt at the next set of lights, Aaron handed the driver a five-dollar bill and leapt out. He ran the last two blocks, dodging in and out of the traffic, horns blaring, as he tried to stay on the move.