Chapter 6: A Chance Encounter

September 11, 1994, London, England

“«Доброе утро»,” an elderly man who seemed to be an usher said as I stepped inside the narthex of the Cathedral. (“Good morning.”)

“«Доброе утро»,” I replied, then added something Tanya had taught me, “«Извините, я не говор по-русски.»” (“Good morning.”; “Excuse me, I don’t speak Russian.”)

“Ah, no problem! I speak English. Good morning. Welcome to the Cathedral. Are you a visitor?”

“Yes, from Chicago. I’m an inquirer.”

He nodded, “It’s nice of you to visit. Are you aware our Divine Liturgy is in Russian?”

Actually, the prayers would be in Church Slavonic, but I knew what he meant. I suspected the homily might be in Russian, rather than English, but that didn’t bother me.

“Yes, a priest in Chicago explained that to me. I know the service well enough to follow along.”

He nodded and I walked forward into the nave of the church, taking in the peaceful beauty of an Orthodox church. While I might have a major impediment to joining, something about the environment simply made me feel at peace. I found a place to stand on the left side, about thirty feet back from the iconostasis, set about clearing my mind, and waited for the service to begin.

The familiar hymns and the familiar cadence of the prayers were strangely comforting, despite being in a language I didn’t understand. The thing was, I KNEW what was being sung and chanted and in my mind I heard the English words. There were a few places, with the hymns for the day, where I was completely lost, but otherwise, the service followed the form I knew from Chicago.

As the service neared completion, I had to decide what to do. It was the norm to socialize after the service, but I wanted a nice, quiet peaceful afternoon, and going to whatever passed for ‘coffee hour’ simply didn’t fit with that plan. So, when the service ended, I walked from the Cathedral to make my way back towards Piccadilly. I needed lunch, so I stopped at a traditional English take-away and got a curry, which I ate while sitting near the Long Water in Hyde Park.

When I finished my lunch, I walked around Hyde Park and mapped out a path to run in the morning. I planned to set my travel alarm clock for 5:45am, run, shower, eat a complimentary breakfast, and then walk across the street to the law firm’s offices. During my walk, I found myself in front of Kensington Palace, which reminded me I wanted to at least walk past the Houses of Parliament and see Big Ben, well the clock tower, anyway, as the bell was the real ‘Big Ben’. As I headed back towards the May Fair InterContinental, I took a detour through Green Park to walk past Buckingham Palace, and then continued on to Westminster to see Big Ben.

As I walked past the Houses of Parliament I thought about Guy Fawkes, a Catholic monarchist, who once plotted to blow up Parliament to restore absolutist rule. While I could certainly sympathize with his sentiment at blowing up Parliament, just as I could the sentiment of ‘first thing we do is kill all the lawyers’, both of those were about establishing what amounted to dictatorships, not about a way to freedom. I did, though, agree with the English toast that Fawkes was ‘the last man to enter Parliament with honest intentions’.

I made my way back to the hotel and once I’d arrived, I showered and dressed for my dinner with Sir Danny Hunter. He’d invited me to his club, and as such, I was wearing my tailored black suit, a white fitted dress shirt, and a red tie. My outfit was completed with wing tips and my black fedora. When I told the doorman my destination, he asked if I preferred an expensive short cab ride or a ten-minute walk. I had enough time to walk, and as the weather was nice, I decided to do that. The doorman gave me precise instructions which I repeated back to him.

I walked faster than the doorman estimated, and just over five minutes later, I was standing in front of Buck’s Club on Clifford Street. There was no sign on the building or on the door, so I used the ornate knocker. A very nattily dressed doorman open the door and inquired if I was a member. I explained I was meeting Sir Danny Hunter and gave my name. He allowed me in and escorted me to a well-appointed room where he spoke to a very good looking black man who appeared to be about forty.

“Sir Danny? Mr. Adams has arrived.”

“Thank you,” Sir Danny said, dismissing the doorman.

“Hi, Steve!” he said extending his hand.

“Sir Danny,” I said, shaking his hand.

“It’s good to put a name to a face,” he said. “And please, call me Danny. I really don’t prefer the title, though in some circumstances, it helps. Shall we have a drink before we go to the dining room?”

I agreed and asked for a suggestion.

“I’m having McClelland’s Highland Single Malt. I’d heartily recommend it.”

“Then that’s what I’ll have as well, thanks.”

He signaled to waiter who came over and took the drinks order. I looked around the room and noticed that the clientele was mostly male, and remembered that most clubs like this were male only.

“Winston Churchill was a member here,” Sir Danny said.

“Well, then, I suppose brandy and cigars after dinner?”

He laughed, “Either that or Pol Roger Champagne. There’s a famous photo of a case of that champagne being carried into Number 10. That’s the Prime Minister’s residence, by the way.”

I smiled, “I know. My usual source of news is The Economist.”

He laughed, “One point for reading a good newspaper. As for cigars, I think we can come up with some Cubans from Sautter, who do business here in Mayfair. Do you know what Sir Winston said were the four necessities of life?”

“No.”

“Hot baths, cold champagne, new peas, and old brandy.”

“I prefer a sauna, but when I was in Japan last month, I learned the value of a hot bath. I tend to prefer bourbon to champagne, but I could go for his prescription. What’s with the peas?”

“A British staple is ‘mushy peas’. It’s often served with fish and chips.”

Our whisky arrived and we toasted the Lundgren Foundation.

“How do you know Alec Glass?” I asked.

“I met him in a pub about twenty years ago. We got to talking, he bought me a drink, and we’ve been friends ever since. We’ve done some business together. Terrible thing about Lisa.”

“It is.”

We finished our Scotch and we went to a very formal dining room where we ate an exquisite meal. After dinner, we drank brandy and smoked Cuban cigars. Our conversation had ranged over a host of topics, including family and kids. Jeri or Alec had clearly filled him in on my unique situation, as he didn’t blink when I mentioned my wives and kids. When we finished our cigars and brandy, we shook hands and I headed back to the hotel where I undressed, brushed my teeth, and collapsed into bed. My last waking thought was to set the alarm, which I did, then fell asleep.

September 12, 1994, London, England

My alarm jarred me awake from a sound sleep and I groaned softly as I climbed out of bed. I slipped on my running clothes, grabbed my passport and room key, and left the hotel. I walked to Hyde Park, stretched, and set out at a fairly leisurely pace. There were a few other runners, a couple of whom nodded to me as I passed. It took me about ten minutes to feel like actually running, and when I did, I completed the course I’d mapped out, then walked back to the hotel for a shower and breakfast.

After breakfast I went upstairs and got my suit coat and tie, grabbed my bag, and headed across the street to the offices of Moore, Martin & Walker. I took the lift up to the sixth floor and walked to the reception desk. I was greeted by a woman about my age who had, as everyone I’d encountered so far, a wonderful English accent. There were obvious variations, but I didn’t know how to classify them.

A paralegal was called and I was escorted into a conference room where the managing partner, Mr. Barry Jeffords, was waiting with a technician from the company that supported their PCs. The technician had completed the server setup and had tested the network connections from each computer, as well as ensured they were running the correct version of Windows. We discussed the installation plan I’d faxed over the previous week, confirmed everything with Mr. Moore, then got to work.

Jim Weber, the technician, began installing the client software on each PC, while I installed the server software and configured the database. It was relatively straightforward because Greg, and later Sam, had written scripts that did the bulk of the tedious work. When I had everything configured, I ran several QA scripts to verify everything was working, and then loaded the sample test data. I found Jim and asked for a workstation to begin testing. I pulled out the checklist and ran through just over eighty checks, finishing just before lunch.

Jim offered to take me for authentic fish and chips at a local pub and I agreed. We ate and chatted about computers and the client while I enjoyed the battered fish, thick-cut French fries, and mushy peas, and washed it down with sparkling water. When we finished eating, we went back to the office and I began the first of three training sessions that would take place over the next few days. It went well, and when we finished, I went back to the hotel. I was struggling with the time change, so I decided I’d have dinner in the hotel restaurant, take a walk, and then get to bed.

“Are you alone?” a female voice asked from just to my right.

Thinking it was the hostess, I nodded, “I am.”

I turned to see it wasn’t the hostess, but a blonde woman in her mid-20s.

“I’d prefer not eating alone, if you’d care to join me,” she said.

I considered, and played a hunch, based on the slightly accented English.

“«Ja visst, det skulle vill jag, »” I said with a grin. (“Of course, I’d love to.”)

“«Du är svensk?!»” she asked, clearly surprised. (“You’re Swedish?!”)

I laughed, “«Nej. Jag är Amerikan, men jag bodde i Sverige.»” (“No. I’m an American, but I lived in Sweden.”)

She laughed and shook her head, and I asked the actual hostess for a table for two. We continued our conversation in Swedish.

“Steve Adams,” I said, extending my hand.

“Magdalena Axelsson,” she said, taking my hand lightly. “Call me Lena.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too. How long did you live in Göteborg?”

“A year. I guess you can still hear the accent after fourteen years!”

“Wow!” she exclaimed. “Fourteen years? And you still speak Swedish? And learned it in a year?”

“Yes. A good friend of mine from Hovås, which is south of Göteborg, lives in Chicago now, and we speak Swedish all the time. I also have friends in Sweden I converse with regularly, both on the phone and by mail. And I’ve been back a few times. Where are you from?”

“Luleå. Do you know where that is?”

I nodded, “About as far north and east as you can go before you get to Finland. What are you doing in London?”

“I’m an attorney. We’re dealing with an India-UK-Sweden child custody case, and it’s very complex. I’m here for depositions this week. What are you doing here?”

“My company makes legal software and I’m here to install it and train them.”

“You’re a computer technician?” she asked.

I shook my head, “No. I own the company; I’m a combination programmer and CEO. I decided to do this set of installs, and combine it with some other work my company has contracts to do in London, the Netherlands, and Munich.”

“What law firm?”

“Moore, Martin & Walker,” I said.

“They’re our adversaries in this case. I’ll be in their offices for the rest of the week.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow doing training, and Wednesday to do support and customization.”

“And then you’re leaving?”

“No, I’ll be here until late on Friday when I leave for Amsterdam. I have another client I’m doing some work for on Thursday and Friday. How long are you here?”

“Until Friday afternoon; then I head back to Sweden.”

A waitress came to the table and took our drink and dinner orders.

“I deal with lawyers all the time, so I won’t be offended if you can’t answer, but what’s the case about?”

“I can tell you what’s public. A little girl who is the daughter of a Swedish woman. The little girl’s father is from India, but emigrated to the UK. He has a custody order from an Indian court, and when his daughter came to visit here, he refused to send her home. The mother knew nothing of the Indian custody order, and it was granted ex parte. You know that phrase?”

“Yes, neither she, nor a lawyer representing her, was at the hearing.”

“In Sweden, unlike in the UK, India, Australia, and the US, such proceedings are usually not allowed. It’s only permitted if it’s impossible to locate the other party. So a Swedish court declared the Indian court ruling to be invalid as a matter of law. If the father were in India, he could safely ignore the Swedish court. But he’s here in London, and we’re in the British courts first to prevent him from taking the little girl to India, and second to have a proper custody hearing under UK law, which we feel would be in our client’s favor.”

I shook my head, “Wow. That is complicated!”

“It is. All the governments are involved, and international law in this area is very, very complicated, especially with three governments, each having their own opinions. It’s even more complicated because India is part of the British Commonwealth. In one sense, it’s too bad that India eliminated appeals from their Supreme Court to the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council, which would allow us to directly challenge the case in a court recognized a supreme by both India and the UK. But that went away in 1950. So, we’re struggling with three courts following two different legal traditions, three governments, two parents, and a little girl, who is the object of this tug-of-war.”

“How old is she?”

“Five.”

“Born in Sweden?”

“Yes, with a Swedish passport, but her father had her declared an Indian citizen before he moved to the UK last year.”

“I take it they were never married?”

“No they weren’t. They met when the mother was on holiday in India. He’s a very successful, very wealthy businessman.”

“And the depositions?”

“We have an emergency order preventing him from taking the child out of England; the depositions are on that matter. We hope to win a permanent order until the matter is resolved.”

“Will you win?”

She shrugged the way I’d seen Jamie, Thad Baker, Ben Jackson, Ben van Hoek, and other lawyers shrug over the years.

“We should,” she said, “but you never know.”

I laughed softly, “Sorry for laughing, but every lawyer I know has that same shrug and says the same thing when I ask that question. I guess it’s not just American lawyers.”