He’s got a point, thought Harry, then closed his eyes. He knew exactly how he intended to pass any unfulfilled hours. He would try to recall as much as possible of the first seven chapters of Uncle Joe. He began to concentrate. Chapter One …

Josef Stalin was born losif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili in Gori, Georgia, on 18 December 1878. As a child, he was known as Soso, but when he became a young revolutionary he adopted the pseudonym Koba, after a fictional Robin Hood figure he wanted to be compared with, although in fact he was more like the Sheriff of Nottingham. As he rose through the ranks of the party, and his influence grew, he changed his name to Stalin (“Man of Steel”). But …

*   *   *

“Some good news at last,” said Emma, “and I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Lady Virginia has fallen into a concrete mixer, and is now part of a high rise in Lambeth?” suggested Seb.

“Not quite that good, but almost.”

“Dad’s home and he’s got a copy of Uncle Joe?”

“No, he’s still not back, although he promised he wouldn’t be more than a couple of days.”

“He told me he might visit the Hermitage and see some of the other sights while he was over there, so no need to worry. But come on, Mum, what’s your news?”

“Desmond Mellor has resigned from the board of Barrington’s.”

“Did he give a reason?”

“He was pretty vague—just said it was for personal reasons, and that he wished the company every success in the future. He even sent his best wishes for the trial.”

“How considerate of him.”

“Why do I get the distinct impression my news doesn’t come as a surprise to you?” said Emma.

*   *   *

“Chairman, Mr. Clifton has arrived. Shall I send him in?”

“Yes, do.” Sloane leaned back in his chair, delighted that Clifton had finally come to his senses. But he still intended to give him a hard time.

A few seconds later his secretary opened the door and stood aside to allow Sebastian to enter the chairman’s office.

“Let me say at the outset, Clifton, that my offer of five pounds a share for your six percent is no longer on the table. But as a sign of goodwill, I’m prepared to offer you three pounds a share, which is still considerably above this morning’s market price.”

“It is indeed, but my shares are still not for sale.”

“Then why are you wasting my time?”

“I hope I’m not wasting your time, because as the new deputy chairman of Farthings Bank, I’m here to carry out my first executive action.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Sloane, leaping up from behind his desk.

“At twelve thirty this afternoon, Mr. Desmond Mellor sold his fifty-one percent shareholding in Farthings to Mr. Hakim Bishara.”

“But, Sebastian—”