The CEO: White Collar Crime Finance Suspense Thriller

by Peter Ralph

  “Pricks!”

  “Take it easy. You’re close, very close.”

  “Are you going to continue to look for other candidates?”

  “Of course, that’s what they’ve hired us for.”

  “I don’t want you to. I want you to act for me solely. What do you get out of an assignment like this? Eighty to a hundred thousand?”

  “We can’t just act for you. You’re not the client and, as you know, we’re more interested in the quality of the candidate rather than the level of our fees,” Smythe said, sounding like a cross between the Pope and the Virgin Mary.

  “I want you to act for me solely, and I’ll pay you a further fifty thousand from my own funds if I’m successful. After I’m appointed, I’ll use my influence to ensure all senior appointments at Mercury are handled exclusively by your firm. Jeremy, this is an opportunity for both of us. Don’t blow it.”

  “Yes, I suppose we might be able to do that. After all, we do think you’re the best candidate, and doubt we’ll find better. You realize of course this has nothing to do with money. It had no influence on my decision.”

  “Yes, of course”, Aspine smirked. “When will you get back to me?”

  “I’ll aim for tomorrow. I’ll use the ploy that you’ve had another offer and they’ll need to move quickly. Don’t worry, Doug, I know how to close. We’ll talk soon.”

  “Thanks, Jeremy. I look forward to hearing from you.”

  If I get the job in the next three days, I might even send some flowers to poor old Bill’s funeral Aspine thought. Perhaps it might motivate a few of the older public company CEOs to throw in the towel before it’s too late.

  When he pulled into the garage, he could hear the pounding of heavy metal music coming from the house and young voices arguing. “Dad, Dad,” his eldest son, Trevor, shouted. “Jemma’s being a bitch. Make her turn the stereo down, I can’t hear the cricket.”

  “Daddy, he’s being mean,” the tall, olive-skinned brunette pouted.

  As Jemma was speaking, the television commentator screamed, “Gilchrist’s hit another six,” and a roar of approval went up from Trevor, and his younger brother, Mark.

  Christ, he couldn’t hear himself think. How could Barbara live with this day after day? “Where’s your mother?” he heard himself yell, just as Mark shrieked, “Get off the phone Jemma, you know I was about to use it.”

  “She’s in the kitchen, Dad,” Trevor responded.

  “Daddy ...”

  “Jemma, get off the phone and turn the sound system down. Trevor, turn the bloody cricket off, and you can all tidy up before tea.”

  No-one moved. “Now!” Aspine shouted, his face flushed. Jemma reluctantly put the phone down and Trevor stared at him defiantly before turning the television off.

  “Hello, darling, I heard you shouting,” Barbara said, her lips brushing his. “Is there something wrong?”

  She was petite with fine features and high cheek bones and, while only a year younger than him, had no noticeable wrinkles. He had often thought that the kids had been blessed when they got her looks and his stature. “Christ, Barbara, how do you live in this bloody madhouse? Why don’t you stop them?”

  She laughed. “I guess I’m used to it, and I like the noise. Come on, let’s have dinner.”

  “Dad, year seven is going to China for five weeks. Can I go?” Mark asked, his mouth half full of steak and chips. “Mum said it would be okay.”

  “How much is it?”

  “Six thousand dollars, plus I’ll need some spending money.”

  Before he could respond, Trevor interrupted, “Will you have time to look at cars this weekend, Dad? You know it’s only three months to my eighteenth, and I’m booked in for my licence that day.”

  “Daddy,” Jemma butted in, “my mobile phone allowance is simply not enough. I’m losing friends. Can I get an increase?”

  Jesus, why isn’t that little prick from the bank here to listen to this? Then maybe he would understand why I can’t save anything. As he was pondering this the phone rang, and chairs went everywhere in the charge to answer to it. “I’m expecting a call,” screamed Jemma. “It’ll be for me.”

  A moment later she returned despondently and said, “It’s for you, Dad. Some guy called Jerry, with a funny snooty voice.”

  “It’s Jeremy,” he growled. “I’ll take it in the study. Hang up after I answer.”

  “Hello, Jeremy. That was quick. What news do you have?” he asked, struggling to keep the excitement from his voice.

  - 2 -

  “MERCURY’S CHAIRMAN, Sir Edwin Philby, wants to meet with you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning at the Victoria Club. Can you make it?”

  “I’ve got a problem. I have a meeting with my CEO at the same time. No, forget that, I’ll email his PA tonight. Yes, I can be there,” Aspine said, while moving books and papers to the side of his desk, so he could rest his legs in the cleared space.

  “That’s a wise decision. Now bear this in mind: Sir Edwin is very conservative and very busy − he’s on at least ten boards and is heavily involved in philanthropy. He’s anxious to resolve the appointment of a new CEO at Mercury and, if you impress him, the position’s as good as yours.” Jeremy said, oozing confidence.

  “What about money? How much am I going to be paid? What about bonuses? How many stock options will I get, and what hurdles will there be before the cash is in my pocket? And what about benefits; you know, car, travel, entertaining and club fees?”

  “Douglas, Douglas, my boy, you really can be quite crass at times. You just make sure you don’t do anything to upset Sir Edwin and leave the salary package to me. And Douglas, don’t say anything remotely favourable about the Labor Party or the trade unions, if you know what I mean.”

  “Don’t worry, Jeremy. I’ll get back to you after I’ve met with Sir Edwin.”

  “Good luck.”

  Aspine finally found Mercury Properties Limited’s latest annual report among the unpaid invoices, statements, final demands and second letter from the school seeking arrears of fees of fifteen thousand seven hundred dollars. Mercury was a long-established top-two-hundred-company with an impeccable reputation. It owned quarries and warehouses, manufactured bricks and cement, developed land, built offices, apartments and houses and managed properties. It was rich in assets with minimal borrowings, but financially it had performed very badly. The balance sheet was lazy and the assets needed to be worked far harder, but that wasn’t a problem − rather an opportunity. With a little downsizing, the sale of some assets and an increase in borrowings, it would be relatively easy to significantly increase profits. He flicked to the page on directors’ remuneration, noting that the former CEO had been paid nearly two million for delivering very mediocre profits. He hadn’t paid much attention to Sir Edwin’s remuneration as chair of the company, but two hundred and seventy-five thousand for chairing twelve meetings a year was a nice little earner. He savoured the thought of a CEO’s big fat salary and the additional millions that he would make in bonuses and options − all his problems would be over. Later he would be invited to join other public company boards as a non-executive director, adding to his esteem and financial resources. He smiled to himself; even if he stuffed up and got fired he’d be paid around five million dollars − a real no-lose proposition. Being a public company CEO left winning the lottery for dead and tomorrow was going to be a life-changing day. His pleasant thoughts were interrupted by Barbara. “Are we in trouble?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I had a phone call from the school today. The fees are nearly six weeks overdue. It was so embarrassing.”

  “So what did you say?”

  “I said the cheque must have been lost in the mail. They asked me to put a stop on it, and to drop another one into the school’s administration by Friday. Are we in trouble?”

  “No, we have a few temporary cash problems, that’s all. Christ, Barbara, do you know what your Mercedes costs,
what you spend on clothes, the cost of your tennis and golf clubs, not to say anything about the gym?”

  “So it’s all my fault is it?”

  “I didn’t say that, but those girlfriends you mix with have some bloody expensive tastes. Is it so important for you keep up with them?”

  “I’ve known them all my life. Maybe if you had a decent-paying job, I wouldn’t have to worry about the kids getting thrown out of school!”

  “Are you worried about them or the shame and embarrassment you’d feel?” he said, his mouth twisted in a cruel smile.

  “You bastard,” she retorted, storming out of the room.

  Normally this would have been the cue for him to stomp out of the house, enraged, and spend a sex-filled night with Charlie. But he was still pissed off with her from this morning, so for once the stomping act was not an attractive option.

  The Victoria Club was situated in Collins Street, Melbourne, on the forty-first level of the skyscraper known as the Rialto Towers; home to some of the most prestigious and influential professional firms in the city. The young receptionist said, “Hello, can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Sir Edwin Philby.”

  “Oh, you must be Mr Aspine. He’s expecting you. I’ll show you to his table.”

  As they entered the dining room he smiled. Only one table was occupied − by a slim, distinguished looking, grey-haired man in his late sixties. He was immaculately dressed in a three-piece pin-striped, navy blue suit with a large gold fob watch attached to the vest. His tie and handkerchief matched perfectly, and his stark white shirt looked like it had been pressed within the past five minutes. He stood up as they approached and extended his hand. “Good morning, Douglas, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you, Anne; could you please bring me another pot of tea? What will you have?”

  “It’s good to meet you Sir Edwin. I’ll have a skinny-cinno.”

  “So you’re health-conscious. That’s good. Look, I only have an hour and we have a lot to cover. Take a seat”

  “Thank you.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase. We have a dossier on you that’s nearly two inches thick, so I’m not going to waste time with small-talk,” Sir Edwin said, smiling warmly. “You have an engineering degree, an MBA, and you’ve held senior management positions since you were thirty, with an impressive record in some difficult situations. Why then, in fifteen years, haven’t you been able to make the jump to CEO?”

  Aspine considered the question carefully before responding. “Many of the CEOs I’ve worked for have been of a similar age to me, or they’ve been founders who won’t finish until they’re carried out.”

  “Like your current boss?”

  “Yes, Bob Dwyer’s a good example. He’s seventy but he’s still fit, very sharp, ambitious and a great deal-maker, not unlike, Rupert Murdoch.”

  “What happened when you looked outside your current employers?”

  “I made the short lists for a number of CEO positions but never quite made it.”

  “Did you ever try for a CEO’s position in a privately owned company?”

  “Never. I’ve only ever applied for public company positions.”

  “There are some very large private companies, you know. Look at Visy Board − it’s a huge private company.”

  “Yes, with the founder’s son running it,” Aspine laughed. “No thanks.”

  “So you don’t think you’ve missed out because of your abrasive nature?”

  “Abrasive nature?”

  “Yes, according to our dossier you told one of your bosses to fuck off and walked out. Then you were in the Federal Court fighting the unions, and you’ve had some equal opportunity trouble as well. Worse, your wife applied for a restraining order and accused you of being violent toward her. Isn’t that right?” Sir Edwin asked, pouring another cup of tea. “Would you like more coffee?”

  “No thanks, one’s enough. I was very young when I walked out, and defeating the unions and the equal opportunity people was critical to the culture of the businesses I was involved in. As far as my wife goes, we had tiff which blew up, but I never laid a hand on her. I presume you know that she withdrew the application for the restraining order?” Aspine replied, surprised at the depth of information they’d managed to dig up on him.

  “Yes, I thought the business with your wife was probably a storm in a teacup, but I needed to check. I agree with you regarding culture − it’s critical. That’s what appealed about you, despite your lack of CEO experience. Mercury needs cultural change − massive cultural change.”

  “Why didn’t the last CEO implement it?”

  Sir Edwin chuckled. “Harry Denton was with the company forty years. He was an institution, who was immoveable until he finally retired, late last year. He’s still on the board as a non-executive director, which really is a little sad.”

  “Why didn’t you get rid of him?”

  “I was appointed just over two years ago by the institutional investors who were unhappy with the company’s performance, but so long as Harry was CEO, I was stuffed.”

  “Why?”

  “The board has six directors, of which I’m the oldest, but you’d never know it. The other four are all dedicated supporters of Harry. Some are only in their fifties, but with their lack of flair you’d think they were in their nineties. Wait until you meet them.”

  Aspine found the last comment encouraging. “You’re not making the job sound overly appealing.”

  “But you know it is, Douglas, and you’re hungry, ambitious, and this is your stepping stone to breathing the rarified air peculiar only to public company CEOs. What do you think of Mercury’s balance sheet?”

  “It’s lazy.”

  “Lazy? It’s moribund and my supporters in the institutions want it fixed. If you haven’t already guessed, I have a reputation to look after.”

  “I can increase profits by at least fifty per cent in the first year.”

  “How certain are you of that?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Good. Very good,” Sir Edwin said checking his watch. “I have one last question. Am I anything like what you expected?”

  “I’m not with you.”

  “Come on. Weren’t you expecting an eccentric with a title, a hound’s-tooth jacket, a pompous voice and hardly any business knowledge?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “You’re very diplomatic. Let me explain. My father was an extremely successful inventor who was knighted for his contribution to science and the community. When he passed away, he left most of his money in charitable trusts under my stewardship, and I’ve spent most of my life giving it away. As a result, I was knighted for my philanthropic endeavours,” he said, roaring with laughter. “Next time we meet, I’ll be Ed, even though there will be occasions, when it will be more proper to use my full title.”

  “So we’ll be meeting again?”

  “Yes, Douglas, I think we’ll work very well together,” Sir Edwin said, extending his hand. “Sorry I have to rush, but someone will be in touch. It was nice meeting you.”

  It was warm and sunny when Aspine left the Rialto Towers and bounced down the street with a fresh spring in his stride. He wanted to let out an almighty whoopee and share his euphoria with the rest of the world. It was a ten-minute walk to Biotech’s offices, but in what seemed no time at all, he was sitting behind his desk replaying the interview. It’d gone almost perfectly, but he wasn’t sure what his face had betrayed when Sir Edwin had raised the matter of violence with Barbara. That was over ten years ago and he hadn’t really hit her − at the worst it had been no more than a solid backhander. On reflection, he was confident his explanation had been accepted. He toyed with the idea of phoning Jeremy, but he didn’t really need him anymore − other than to negotiate a big fat salary package, that is. No, Jeremy could wait while he basked in the afterglow of the meeting and what was going to be a very prosperous future. His thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of
his intercom. “Douglas, Mr Dwyer, would like to see you in his office.”

  “Thanks, Sally, I’m on my way.”

  Bob Dwyer occupied the smallest of the executive offices. It was about three metres square and there was barely room for a visitor’s chair. Some said he liked to understate his importance, but others thought he liked to grill his underlings in a confined and inescapable space. The door was open. “You wanted to see me, Bob.”

  “Close the door and take a chair,” Dwyer said, not looking up.

  He was dressed in his standard attire of crinkled, open-neck, check shirt, old blue cardigan with holes in the elbows, grey pants, and black shoes that had been re-soled many times. His shareholding in Biotech was worth more than five hundred million dollars, but no-one could ever accuse Bob Dwyer of standing on ceremony. He looked up and peered over the top of his glasses; his large nose and thinning, fading red hair reminded Aspine of a hawk − a very nasty hawk. “You faked the meeting with the Sigma people. You were a bloody embarrassment.”

  “You’re wrong. I think they were impressed with the presentation.”

  “Don’t fucking tell me I’m wrong! I’ve forgotten more about this business than you’ll ever know. You’re right about those Sigma bozos though; they had no idea you were snowing them, but that’s no excuse for your abysmal performance. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, because you’re hardly ever here these days.”

  “I’ve worked countless weekends and nights for this company. In the last few days I had a few personal matters I had to take care of, but don’t try and hang some guilt rap on me.”

  Dwyer laughed, but his eyes were cold. “So you think I’m trying to hang a guilt rap on you? If I’d been trying to do that, I would’ve mentioned the thirty-five thousand bucks you hold your hand out for at the end of every month. You mightn’t believe this, but you don’t earn a salary like that working from nine to five.”