Free Cometh the Hour: A Novel by Jeffrey Archer Page A

Giles, are you willing to fight a duel over this young woman?”
    “Name your weapon, and your second.”
    Walter laughed. “More seriously, Giles, do you have any reason to believe she wants to defect?”
    “Yes, her mother has recently died, and the East German authorities won’t allow her father, who’s English and lives in Cornwall, back into the country.”
    Walter took a sip of coffee while he considered the problem. “Would you be able to fly to Berlin at a moment’s notice?”
    “On the next plane.”
    “Impetuous as ever,” said Walter as a waiter placed a brandy in front of him. He swirled it around in the balloon before saying, “Do you have any idea if she speaks Russian?”
    “Fluently. It was her degree subject at language school.”
    “Good, because I’m hosting a bilateral trade meeting with the Russians next month, and they just might agree—”
    “Can I do anything to help?”
    “Just make sure she’s got a British passport.”
    *   *   *
    “My name is Robert Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the Bristol Docklands by-election on May twentieth.” The young man tried to shake hands with a woman who was laden down with shopping bags.
    “What are you doing about Concorde?” she asked.
    “Everything in my power to make sure the plane will be built at Filton and not Toulouse,” said Fielding.
    The woman looked satisfied. “Then I’ll be voting for you. But I’d rather have voted for him,” she said, pointing at Giles. As she walked away, the young man looked despondent.
    “Don’t worry about her. On May twenty-first you’ll be the member and I’ll be history.”
    “And Concorde?”
    “You gave the only credible response. The French will put up a hell of a fight, but then they have every right to, and in the end I suspect the work will be divided fairly equally between the two countries. Just be sure you never spell it with an ‘e,’” said Giles. “You might have asked if her husband worked at Filton because I suspect that’s why she asked the question.”
    “Of course. I should have thought of that. Anything else?”
    “Perhaps Bob Fielding rather than Robert. Don’t want to continually remind your supporters that you went to a public school and Oxford.”
    Fielding nodded and turned to the next passerby. “Hello, my name’s Bob Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on May twentieth. I hope you’ll be supporting me.”
    “Sorry you’re not standing, Sir Giles.”
    “That’s kind of you, sir, but we’ve chosen an excellent candidate. I hope you’ll be voting for Bob Fielding on Thursday May twentieth.”
    “If you say so, Sir Giles,” said the man as he hurried away.
    “Thursday, Thursday, Thursday. Always say Thursday,” said Fielding. “God knows you’ve told me often enough.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” said Giles. “It will soon become a habit, and frankly you’re a much better candidate than I was at my first election.”
    The young man smiled for the first time. “Hello, my name is Bob Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on Thursday May twentieth,” he said as Emma walked up to join her brother.
    “Are you beginning to regret not standing?” she whispered, continuing to hand out leaflets. “Because it’s pretty clear that the voters have either forgiven or forgotten Berlin.”
    “But I haven’t,” said Giles, shaking hands with another passer-by.
    “Has Walter Scheel been back in touch?”
    “No, but that man won’t call until he’s got something to say.”
    “Let’s hope you’re right,” said Emma, “otherwise you really are going to regret it.”
    “Yes, but what you going to do about it?” another constituent was demanding.
    “Well, bringing the country to a standstill with a three-day week isn’t the answer,” said Fielding, “and the Labour party’s first priority has always been unemployment.”
    “Never unemployment,” whispered Giles. “