Gold Digger

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “I can get back sooner.”

  “No. You take your holiday. You’ve been working like a mule the last few months. Relax. Spend time with your father.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “No problem. There’s just one thing, and I think you should know it. Our share price is up five percent on last month. Daily trading volume is significantly up.”

  “Let me guess, since Monday?”

  “Yes.”

  “The bastards are starting to buy us.”

  “It looks like it. Somebody is building a significant position in Cybele. My guess is, LeBeau was on the phone to his brokerage and a few banks and gave them a big order of our shares.”

  “Looks like it. Damn. I’m so sorry.”

  “I better get on the phone with a rescuer, then.”

  “If you need me to help . . .”

  “You stay put,” Ruslan ordered in no uncertain way.

  “Yes, sir.” Nikolai bit back a grin. Laid-back Ruslan giving in-your-face orders was just so out of character. “I hope the lead works out.”

  “It should. Anyway. Keep an eye on the share price, but I’m pretty sure that’s what’s driving it.”

  “It might attract attention.”

  “Or people might start wondering about a consolidation game. Doesn’t really matter for us. We can’t buy back significant quantities of the stock; the money is all tied up. But we do have a couple large investors who should be happy to keep the stock, unless they’re happier to take the profit and exit emerging markets gold exploration to switch the money into China telcos like everybody else is doing. It’s all a gamble at this stage.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t ditch my Apple stock when Jobs died, that’s all I know about tech stocks.”

  “That was a good market call,” Ruslan said. “You could always change horses and become an analyst.”

  “I’d rather keep your respect.” They laughed, and Nikolai ended the call. He headed back into the living room where Vadim was following the news, but looked up when Nikolai came closer. Nikolai sat on the couch next to him and leaned back. “I hate politics.”

  Vadim lifted an eyebrow. “That’s a statement from somebody who’s no good at it.”

  “I just hate people destroying other people’s dreams, you know. Like the world’s not big enough for everybody’s plans and dreams. Buying Cybele is now just revenge.”

  “You said it’s an opportunity.”

  “Yes. Lots of gold involved.”

  “Then it might be just about the money.” Vadim muted the television.

  “I told the CEO to go fuck himself. I imagine that made it personal for him. Well. Maybe we’ll get bought by a different company; that should solve that problem.”

  Vadim glanced at him. “So you think they might do it to get back at you?”

  “Maybe. Yes.”

  “You can always sell up and leave if it’s about you.”

  Or maybe it wasn’t. Hard to say what was driving the older LeBeau. Building and consolidating an empire to hand over to Henri. In a plan of that scale, Nikolai probably didn’t figure at all. Vadim had put it all back into perspective. “Way to pull me back to earth.”

  “Wars always feel personal, but they aren’t.”

  He glanced at the TV and the mute horror of the Syrian civil war. Vadim didn’t even look; he’d have to have seen it all, which was ten kinds of depressing. Nikolai leaned back, and Vadim’s arm moved from the back of the sofa to rest on his shoulders. The weight and solidity was terribly reassuring, and although they never touched easily (and there was a nagging voice in his head that said Vadim wasn’t his biological father and hence what did a touch mean?), it felt good, paternal, caring. Maybe Vadim had exhausted what words he’d had and now just spoke by touch.

  Nikolai smiled, moved closer, and leaned his head against Vadim’s shoulder. It might look weird on the outside, but it didn’t actually feel strange. Just one of the easy, casual (or really not casual at all), meaningful touches he hadn’t received as a child. Making up for lost time.

  “There’s something I think you should have,” Vadim said when they were sitting in Vadim’s kitchen back in the house in Palmy with coffees and breakfast before leaving for the airport. “Come.” He stood, leaving the scrambled eggs to cool, and headed to the living room.

  Nikolai followed, but stopped dead when he saw Vadim take a sword off the wall. It had hung between photos and frames and various mementos, but nothing that reminded anybody of the military years. Vadim kept those locked away somewhere, or maybe no outwardly visible tokens existed.

  “I remember that.” Nikolai reached over and examined the handle more closely.

  “It was Szandor’s. In his will, he left it to me.”

  “Never draw me in anger, never sheath me in dishonor,” Nikolai quoted—the words he’d seen written on the sheath of Szandor’s training sword. He’d been impressed enough as a boy that those words came back immediately, more than twenty years later.

  “The old gentleman’s duel.” Vadim nodded at Nikolai. “I want you to have it. I’m going to keep his silver medal for a while longer, but it’s waiting for you.”

  Nikolai shook his head. “I don’t want to think about inheritances. Not just yet.”

  “I’ll be around for a while. I just want you to have it rather than Anya. Though she might not want anything that’s mine.”

  “Well, hate to break it to her, but she’s got the genes,” Nikolai joked, because not joking opened up too many potentially painful issues. “I’d love to have it. I really would. I admired him a great deal. But right now I have no place to put it, and I’d hate to hear what customs has to say about me carrying an antique sword all over the world. Least they’ll do is imprison me as the lowest-tech terrorist ever.”

  Vadim lifted his eyebrows. “You might even go back to fencing.”

  “Maybe.” Nikolai regarded the sword. Szandor would like that—he’d lived for the sport and the art of it, and while Nikolai might never get to a competitive level, he could still do what Vadim did and at least be a decent amateur. “Once I’ve settled down. The kit is too bulky for my two suitcases.”

  “Good.” Vadim pressed his shoulder and took the sword out of his hands to re-hang it on the wall. “Send me an email when you have a place for it.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Nikolai couldn’t help but grin at his father’s bright smile at that. Always so serious, but when something really touched Vadim’s heart, he smiled like this, lighting up his face and the whole world around him.

  It hurt to leave, though Vadim waited with him until he was ready to jump onto the plane, and Nikolai soaked up his silent, attentive presence. He should come down to New Zealand more often, and he promised he would. He meant it, too. It seemed like a great place to retire, too, far away as it was. Above all, it was where his father had found his own version of peace, and Nikolai kept that image of Vadim firmly in his mind, healthy and silently content.

  “I expect you to keep me up to date.”

  “Oh the hardship,” Nikolai countered, and let Vadim go after a tight, heartfelt hug. “Take care. I’ll be in touch.” He grabbed his carry-on and all but jogged the few meters to departures—really just a door leading out onto the airfield.

  The hop to Auckland was easy, and he grabbed a coffee and a handful of fruit in the airport before he boarded the plane to Dubai. And then it was just sleeping and reading through the newest drilling reports on his laptop.

  He drafted an email to Lizabeta, then rewrote it and rewrote it again, telling her that he understood if she wanted nothing to do anymore with the crazy Krasnoradas, but that he hadn’t been sent by his sister and only wanted to make sure she was okay and Szandor was okay, and that he’d help her in whatever way she could use. He didn’t want to be a stranger to the kid, though “Uncle Nikolai” was probably the best he could hope for. Nevertheless, that could mean something, considering that some of the best people in his life had been supportive s
emi-strangers.

  He kept it all friendly and neutral, no pressure, no mentions of Katya or Anya. He didn’t even congratulate her on escaping—she likely still felt too raw to appreciate that sentiment. At some point, she had loved Anya, and might still, so it was way too early to touch that wound.

  He sent the email from his hotel room in Dubai and promptly crashed, then awoke with a dehydration headache. He filled up on water, then checked his emails. One from Ruslan, telling him to change destinations and meet him in London for a chat with a South African bank and a number of emerging markets investors.

  Nikolai groaned at the idea of traipsing around from meeting to meeting in London, but of course, Ruslan was doing it and he wanted backup. Which meant more running around in his suit and smiling and chatting and doing his presentation. Hobnobbing.

  But hell, if it saved Cybele, he’d even do it with a smile.

  London on the company dime was something else. Nikolai pulled his tie loose the moment he reached his room in the St. Martins Lane hotel, a stupidly modern five-star within walking distance of Westminster, and checked his cell phone.

  He’d texted Henri the name of the hotel and the room number, and he was half-hoping for a response. Just a few emails and texts and calls since they’d met the last time, but part of him craved a great deal more. At least whenever he had a moment in between all the stupid meetings. Whenever an investor asked casually about LeBeau Mining, the name went right through Nikolai like a hot needle.

  And yeah, of course, LeBeau Mining had acquired just over twenty percent of Cybele in the last few days, pushing the stock price up thirty percent while the whole sector moved down or sideways at best, which made most people keen to sell, and a few contrarians keen to buy.

  They’d gone from meeting to meeting, brokerage to investment bank to pension fund, then met analysts for coffee or lunch, and now Nikolai’s feet hurt from the polished leather shoes. He wanted nothing more than to fall on his bed, but they had to prepare for a meeting with some Aureus people, and that was probably the most important meeting of them all.

  There was a lot of talk with their lawyers—of poison pills and other dastardly defensive moves against the hostile takeover. The problem was, there was no way to defend against the takeover itself. Even the stock options plan written into Cybele’s structure only meant that LBM would pay significantly more than the current stock price, as inflated as it was. But even if they paid a one hundred percent premium, LBM would barely feel it. Cybele wasn’t worth that much, but this was no longer about the pure mathematics of the takeover. The elder LeBeau had a history of overpaying for assets he really wanted. When they talked to their largest shareholders, asking them not to sell, nobody was surprised.

  Nikolai felt rather like he was back on the piste with Anya—outgunned, out-maneuvered, but above all, he just didn’t have the same passion for winning. And there were several ways for LBM to win. They could buy the stock outright until they had enough voting rights to take control of the board and simply fire Ruslan, or get enough of the shareholders behind the plan without actually buying more of the company than they already had. Nikolai assumed that the elder LeBeau would go for option one, but that wasn’t a given. Nobody was keeping LeBeau from calling up their shareholders and making some kind of shady deal with them. Going public had been the original sin. Now Cybele was at the mercy of strangers.

  A corporate war was terribly exhausting; just too many unknowns, too many double-faced lies. Nikolai couldn’t help but admire Ruslan’s stoic patience with the process, given that it was his baby that was on the line. They made a good team in those meetings; Ruslan was the quiet but charismatic guy who spoke slowly and carefully after due consideration, while Nikolai handled the small stuff, the questions, keeping Ruslan’s back free so he could focus on the big issues.

  Back in his hotel room, Nikolai pulled off his jacket and the shirt underneath, washed up, used deodorant, and then selected a freshly ironed shirt. Thank God for laundry service—he’d have run out long ago. He buttoned up and took the jacket on the way down to the hotel restaurant. Maybe he’d even manage to wrangle a day’s holiday (or three) out of Ruslan to enjoy the city itself, but he’d approach that topic after the corporate battle was over.

  He found Ruslan in the lounge, demolishing a plate of finger food, mostly vegetables cut into sticks. After spending days in air-conditioned meeting rooms with tea and coffee and cookies, carrots and celery looked a great deal more appealing than they normally would.

  Ruslan was making notes with one hand and eating with the other. His ability to focus on several things at once was disconcerting at times, but Nikolai had long agreed with Tamás that Ruslan was simply a genius.

  “Hi, Nikolai. Well. Apparently, the takeover story is now in the news.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Editor of Mining & Exploration Week.” Ruslan nodded to a smart-looking woman in her forties at the bar nursing what looked like a martini. “She asked me for a comment and told me she’s breaking the story in the next issue and online tomorrow. It’ll attract even more attention.”

  “Means the stock price will go up further.”

  “Yes, most likely. There’ll be some risk-takers who’ll ride the volatility.” Ruslan typed a number into his phone’s calculator app, then scribbled the result down. “It’s always a possibility to just exit now.”

  Nikolai paused, then shook his head as if he had water in his ears. “What? You’re not thinking of selling, are you?”

  “This might be the highest the price is going to be for a while, especially with the stock options thrown in. And, of course, it would mean cashing out now rather than in a few years’ time. Hanging around that long when it’s no longer our company . . .”

  “No. Cybele is like a part of my family. Just less weird and destructive, I guess,” he conceded immediately. “For once in my life, I’ve found people I like . . . I trust. I’m not giving Cybele up. Or you.”

  Ruslan eyed him wearily from under drooping eyebrows. He looked like a farmer or horse trader of years gone by, Nikolai sometimes thought. Unkempt, dark hair shot through with silver, sunken eyes a light brown, a pointy, triangular nose, and a stocky build, his small, fleshy hands holding a great deal of strength. He managed to look rumpled in a freshly pressed thousand-dollar suit, too. “We can always start again.”

  “Weren’t we going to meet the Aureus people for dinner?”

  Ruslan fished under his pile of papers and pulled out a salmon-colored segment of the Financial Times.

  The headline caught Nikolai’s attention. Strike at largest mine sends Aureus stock down 5%.

  “They cancelled dinner,” Ruslan said laconically.

  “The fuckers are bowing out?”

  “Thanks to the mass strike, which involves police action and dead miners, Aureus has a great deal of its own problems. It’s even possible that Cybele would look bad now getting into bed with them. Depending on how they manage their own crisis.”

  “Fuck!” Nikolai gritted his teeth. “And of course, once things calm down, it might be too late to help us. And they can probably find similar prospects elsewhere where the share price hasn’t skyrocketed.”

  “That’s it.” Ruslan glanced at the Financial Times headline. “Perfect storm and all.”

  “Damn. All this . . . for nothing, then?”

  Ruslan shrugged. “We didn’t make this game, Kolya. If it’s just about replacing me, maybe we can strike a deal. Nobody else is going to bite.”

  “No.” Nikolai rubbed his face, thoughts tumbling over how he could get Ruslan to stand up and fight for the company—his life’s work and achievement. “It’s a good fucking company, Ruslan. We can’t just let them harvest all your hard work.”

  His phone buzzed, and he tried to ignore it, but it had thrown him off the mental rail, so he muttered, “Sorry,” and took the call. “Yes?”

  “Where are you, sexy?” Henri’s voice, a low purr that made Nikolai’s
hair stand on end, but in a good way. Instinctively, he turned around, and he saw a dark-haired guy just walking in. Yep, Henri.

  “Holy shit, you’re the most accomplished stalker I’ve ever met.”

  “It’s not stalking if you like it,” Henri responded and ended the call, coming toward him with a smile.

  Nikolai glanced at Ruslan, who looked questioning. This might be difficult to explain. “Um. Ruslan.”

  Henri came closer. Ruslan stood when Henri arrived at their table. “Ruslan, this is Henri LeBeau, Henri, Ruslan Polunin.”

  “I know,” Ruslan said. “Saw his photo on LBM’s corporate website.”

  Henri smiled, but not too brightly; this smile was all business. “Mr. Polunin. I’m glad to finally get to meet you.”

  “Mr. LeBeau. Please sit with us. I assume you have a reason for being here?”

  “Several,” Henri responded smoothly. “And, gladly. I could use a drink after the flight. But first I’d like to snatch Nikolai away for five minutes, if that’s okay?”

  Ruslan’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Nikolai?”

  “It’s personal. I know this looks weird, but this is personal. Right, Henri?”

  “Oh yes.” Henri gave him a quizzical look and then gently pulled Nikolai away to a corner of the bar, out of sight of both the journalist and Ruslan. God knew what either of them would make of the up-and-coming hope of LBM meeting either Ruslan or himself in London, hotbed of European finance. Nobody would believe it was about sex.

  “What the hell are you thinking, Henri? This looks like I made a deal with the enemy.”

  “He doesn’t know you’re gay?”

  “I’m not gay. If anything, I’m bisexual, and no, the matter never came up.”

  “Oops,” Henri said under his breath. “Sorry about that. Of course not. And that’s fine. Hardly anybody knows that about me, either.”

  Nikolai glanced toward the bar. “Well, yeah. I mean, I trust Ruslan. Why on earth are you here?”

  “I fully intend to have hot monkey sex with you in this hotel, but before that, I’m taking care of business.” Henri’s agitation was odd and endearing, so very him, and Nikolai found himself smiling. “Cute” wasn’t a word for Henri, but damn, he was a manly version of that.