Double, Double, Oil and Trouble

by Emma Lathen

  Shouldering the phone, Hugo Cramer thrust a fistful of silver at the bellboy. “Here, just dump them there, will you?”

  “The closet is here, sir—”

  “Fine,” said Cramer, with a large impatient gesture that sped the London Hilton staff on its way. His briskness on the phone was not so impersonal. “My thinking’s the same as it was when I got on the plane this morning, Arthur. What did you expect? Hell, I haven’t unpacked yet.”

  This irritability did not deflect Arthur Shute back in Houston. Macklin’s new president was not part of the tough, stubborn world of field engineers with their battered, expensive leather luggage. He was a nationally known executive who had scored successes in both the public and private sectors. In Texas he had revealed another gift; he could hold his own with old hands like Cramer, his vice president of operations.

  “Now that Black Tuesday has reneged on its promise to release Wylie,” he said as if Cramer had not spoken, “Macklin is in a ticklish predicament. I have Phil and Jensen here with me and we all agree that from now on we’re going to have to play it by ear. Macklin won’t spare any effort to get Wylie back safely, as I don’t have to tell you. At the same time, we’ve got to be realistic. The Noss Head negotiations are supposed to start tomorrow. I’ve just come from a board meeting, and there was a consensus—”

  “Arthur,” said Cramer heavily, “save your speeches for the board, huh? And since we’re on the subject, hold your committee meeting after I’m off the line.”

  At Macklin, Arthur Shute and Hugo Cramer ran the show. Their division of labor, like their mutual respect, if not liking, was complete. Out of committee, Shute became less of a politician and Cramer less of a rough diamond. Phil and Jensen were asked to leave.

  “Has the London office heard anything new?” Shute demanded.

  “I already told you.” Cramer planted himself on the bed with a thump that made the springs protest. “They met me at Heathrow and said Dave was still missing. What more is there to hear?”

  In spite of himself, Shute lowered his voice. “You know I told PR to keep on top of the press coverage? Well, so far there hasn’t been anything in the papers tying Dave to Noss Head.”

  For a moment, Cramer did not see what he was driving at. “So?” he asked impatiently.

  “But what if Black Tuesday knows anyhow? What if they figure that they’re onto something better than they hoped? They could be hanging on to Wylie for a second installment.”

  “Don’t go off half-cocked. It’s a possibility, but it’s an outside chance.”

  Shute continued to gnaw his bone. “They could really put us through the wringer.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t remember terrorists ever playing that game.” Cramer plucked thoughtfully at his lower lip. “Look, Macklin’s bid for Noss Head isn’t exactly front-page news. Black Tuesday probably never heard of it.”

  “I’d like to believe that.”

  “What the hell’s gotten into you, Arthur? If they want more money, they’ve got to ask someone for it. There hasn’t been a sound at Houston, there hasn’t been a sound here in London. Who else are they going to talk to?”

  Arthur Shute was too accustomed to Cramer’s manner to be offended.

  “Hugo, I realize everything’s landing on you. You’re going to have to ask the British if they’re willing to grant a delay—”

  “And a fat chance I’ve got there,” Cramer interrupted, renewing an old argument.

  Shute pushed on. “You’re going to have to do Dave’s job if he doesn’t turn up. But there’s one possibility about Black Tuesday that’s occurred to me. They might have contacted Mrs. Wylie.”

  “Francesca?” Cramer said blankly.

  “Why not? They might be afraid our offices are knee deep in police by now. And they could count on her being frightened enough about Wylie to do whatever they ordered.”

  “But . . .” Slowly Cramer closed his mouth and suppressed the remark he had been about to make. Instead, he said, after a pause: “All right, I suppose it’s worth checking out.”

  Even as he spoke, he was shaking his head dubiously.

  Any American man who spends his entire adult life on the Continent is likely to have a European wife. Hugo Cramer appreciated that fact, but he knew in his bones that it was going to make this interview more difficult. His previous acquaintance with Francesca Ercoli Wylie had been limited to her fleeting trips to Houston. It had never occurred to him, in those happier days, that he might have to deal with her alone.

  “This must be a hard time for you, Francesca. I want you to know that we’ll do anything we can to help,” he began.

  “Of course, I am very anxious about David’s welfare,” she said gravely. “Like all his friends, I hoped he would be released immediately after the ransom payment. Now I do not know what to think. I can only hope that he is safe.”

  Her formal declaration of concern was as good as a six-foot wall between them. Grimly Cramer tried to effect a breach.

  “Look,” he said awkwardly, “I know you and Dave haven’t been hitting it off lately.”

  Francesca’s eyebrows rose. “Do you mean that David told you I have filed for divorce?”

  “No, I didn’t know it had gone that far.”

  “Perhaps he thought it was none of your business,” Francesca said evenly.

  Cramer reddened. “I’m not trying to butt into your affairs. But if Macklin didn’t know about your divorce, maybe Black Tuesday doesn’t either. In which case, you’d be a natural person to contact.”

  With complete self-possession Francesca responded: “Yes, I follow your reasoning. But, Hugo, I think you must have forgotten that this is not a private kidnapping. Terrorists always make their communications as public as possible. And if they want more money, they are thinking in terms of a sum that they know I could never amass.”

  Cramer set his jaw. “Look, Francesca, I’m not trying to swap theories with you. I’m asking you flat out. Have you heard from Dave or anyone who says they’ve got him? And for God’s sake, don’t clam up on me. If you don’t want me to go to the cops, I won’t. But I’ve got to know.”

  “I have heard nothing. But perhaps you should know that I have been in Germany. I only returned home this morning.”

  “You mean you’ve been away?” Cramer made it into an ‘accusation. “They could have been trying to get you for days and we wouldn’t even know!”

  Francesca saw no need to apologize. “It is unfortunate, but it was business.”

  “Great!” Cramer stubbed out his cigarette and glanced at his hostess.

  Francesca Wylie was an attractive woman, built on Rubenesque lines, who wielded her considerable sexuality with skill and composure. None of this bothered Cramer who had a wide experience of mature Venezuelan sirens. What jarred him was the fatal word business. He was dimly aware that whenever a German or Swedish film was dubbed into Italian, the dulcet Tuscan accents of the heroine were likely to be those of Francesca Wylie. But he had grown up in a different world. He knew he was hopelessly old-fashioned and that today younger Macklin wives were probably talking about their own advertising agencies or their own law practices. Lord, the wife of one of the accountants was even an oil engineer for Texaco! This self-knowledge did not reconcile him to Francesca’s life-style; it did make him aware of the need for conciliation.

  “Well, I suppose it can’t be helped,” he admitted. “I’m sorry if I sound tense, but this is a tough time for Dave to go missing.”

  “Of course.” Francesca nodded to herself. “The Noss Head contract is about to be awarded.”

  Cramer frowned at her suspiciously. How did she know that? Dave had moved out of this Kensington apartment three months ago. Could Francesca have been . . . ? Suddenly Cramer remembered some gossip he had overheard.

  “I forgot,” he said sourly. “You’ve got your own sources.”

  Francesca laughed outright. “Surely that is irrelevant. Even before David left here, he was busy ingratiati
ng himself with the entire British government. There is little likelihood that I could have avoided knowing about Noss Head.”

  “You make it sound as if he was groveling on his knees. He was trying to find out what problems were really worrying the Department of Energy so we could come up with solutions.”

  “Very well then. Call it what you will.” Francesca shrugged away these distinctions. “I only know that it required my attendance at innumerable restaurants and clubs.”

  Actually, Cramer would have called it pressing the flesh, but he wanted Francesca’s cooperation.

  “I know that kind of thing can be a drag,” he said in mollifying tones, “but we’re past that stage now. With the timetable so critical, you’ll understand we don’t want any delay in communications. So if you hear anything about Dave, you’ll let me know right away, won’t you?”

  “I shall.” She spoke more to herself than to Cramer. “We all have our own timetables and to each of us, they are critical.”

  “And if there’s anything we can do for you,” said Cramer, returning full circle to his starting point.

  “But there is.” She caught at his sleeve as he rose to go. “We must make it a fair exchange. Promise to call me, immediately, if you at Macklin hear any news at all.”

  “You can depend on it,” he assured her. “Whatever, and whenever, we hear about Dave, we’ll be in touch with you.”

  She dropped her eyes. “Thank you, Hugo. You must imagine how difficult this is for me. This waiting— it is not easy.”

  North Sea oil, on the other hand, could wait for no man. Simon Livermore, a senior civil servant in the Department of Energy, was making this plain to Hugo Cramer the following morning.

  “In view of the very unusual circumstances, I have already raised the possibility of a delay with my minister. He feels that the presentations must take place as originally scheduled, although he is naturally shocked and appalled by this latest terrorist outrage.”

  Indeed the minister was so moved he had dispatched his own personal assistant to be present and express his concern directly.

  “I have been asked to assure you, Mr. Cramer, that we are keeping abreast of the entire situation,” the assistant said resonantly.

  Cramer’s acknowledgment of this civility was a grunt. “That kind of knocks the pins from under me,” he confessed. “I was going to ask if there was any chance for a delay.”

  The personal assistant produced a regretful smile. “I’m afraid not. But we are receiving daily reports from Istanbul and we will know as soon as there is any news. The Turkish police are being most cooperative.”

  Hugo Cramer might lack polish but he had long ago learned to distinguish the important man in any team huddle. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on Simon Livermore. “Sure, everyone’s cooperative and concerned—until it comes to the crunch. Then it’s business as usual, even if Macklin is crippled without Dave.”

  “No, you mustn’t think of it that way, Mr. Cramer.” Simon Livermore’s tailoring was a shade less expensive than the assistant’s, his neatly slicked hair was not as modish, his accent a trifle less clipped, but he was not parroting somebody else’s words. “We will be going ahead exactly as planned on the basis of the preliminaries already completed by Mr. Wylie. That, as we both know, is half the battle. And should Mr. Wylie’s absence continue, you as his superior will be able to make the presentation in his place.”

  It was as magnanimous a statement as one could ask from a bureaucrat. Cramer was fully aware of this.

  “Yes, of course I’ll stand in for Dave.” Nonetheless he sighed heavily. “But I still don’t like it.”

  Simon Livermore became even more human.

  “Neither do I.”

  Macklin’s misfortune had moved Simon Livermore a centimeter or so toward a show of sympathy. Four hours later it was the competition’s chance. They, too, managed to edge him toward a display of emotion. But this time it was not sympathy. And the minister had not felt it necessary to send an emissary.

  “It is always a pleasure to see you, Herr Engelhart. I am sorry I have so little time available this afternoon.”

  Under the rules governing this type of exchange, it was now the turn of Klaus Engelhart, marketing manager for Norddeutsche Werke GmbH of Hamburg, to apologize for demanding the meeting at a moment’s notice. Without warning he departed from protocol.

  “I must tell you, Mr. Livermore, that it is a surprise and disappointment to my firm to learn that secret negotiations between Macklin and the Department of Energy to delay the Noss Head award are now in progress.”

  Livermore was rigid with disapproval. “It is certainly true that Macklin requested such a delay. I fail to understand your characterization of this request as a secret negotiation.”

  Klaus Engelhart was a good ten years younger than any of the other principals clustering around the North Sea bonanza, and he looked like the kind of young man who moves ahead rapidly. Short and stocky, with a gleaming bald pate, he narrowed his eyes behind thick glasses as he continued heatedly: “You cannot deny that NDW has an interest, a vital interest, in this issue. With your experience of complex undertakings, you could scarcely expect such a maneuver by Macklin to remain concealed from us for long.”

  “If you will allow me to continue,” Livermore said with reproof, “Macklin requested a delay. The request was denied. We are, therefore, proceeding as planned. No interests, except possibly those of Macklin, have been affected.”

  “Nonetheless, we should have been informed,” Engelhart insisted. “What if there had been any doubt as to your decision? It would have been only correct that the minister hear NDW’s views . . . and those of the other bidders, too, of course.”

  Livermore hid a smile at this reluctant recognition of the other formal contenders still in the race with Macklin and NDW. “If there had been any question of change, all those concerned would have been given such an opportunity. And in view of the worldwide publicity attaching to this latest outrage, I cannot believe any of them would have been surprised at Macklin’s request.”

  “My company disapproves of these terrorists as much as everyone else. But Macklin cannot expect the world to stand still because of their difficulties.” Engelhart shrugged. “After all, contracts are awarded on the basis of proposals, not of personalities. We are not to blame for Davidson Wylie’s tragedy because our proposal is best.”

  It was common knowledge in certain parts of London that Klaus Engelhart firmly believed NDW’s bid had a technical edge over that of Macklin. He was, however, uneasily aware that Wylie had been more resourceful in producing modifications tailor-made to conform to British desires. More disinterested observers considered the two rivals as running neck-and-neck technically, with Wylie displaying more flexibility in his approach to the Ministry.

  “Leaving aside the question of which bid will be most acceptable to my government,” Livermore said smoothly, “we still have a problem. The minister is naturally concerned lest Mr. Wylie’s enforced absence turn into a windfall for his competitors. On the other hand it is inconceivable that the deliberations of my government should be dictated by a band of terrorists.”

  Engelhart nodded too eagerly. “Very true.”

  Remembering what had just been said about the impossibility of maintaining secrets, Livermore decided to indulge himself by revealing one.

  “As a matter of fact, I advised a delay,” he admitted. “But my superiors overruled me. So we go on, as planned. And I suppose that is defensible. The development of Noss Head is, after all, more important than any one company—or any one man.”

  The British had already written off Davidson Wylie.

  Not so Engelhart, to whom he was still real, dangerous, and very much in the running.

  “Far more important,” he agreed somberly. “But I hope, in the pressure of business, you will not forget that I look forward to having you and Mrs. Livermore as my guests some evening in the near future.”

  “Indeed I have
not,” answered Livermore, relieved to have an excuse at hand, “but my wife has extended her stay in the Mediterranean.”

  “Another time then,” said Engelhart, rising. “Still, we will meet tomorrow morning. Your misgivings may be in vain. It is still possible that Davidson Wylie will be found in time to represent Macklin. If he is in any condition to do so, that is.”

  “Condition?” Livermore was startled.

  “He may already be dead,” Engelhart said reasonably. “Well, it is useless to speculate. We cannot know.”

  “No, we cannot,” Simon Livermore agreed, more and more pleased that his wife had extended her stay abroad.

  An hour later a phone was picked up on its third ring.

  “Francesca?”

  “Klaus!” she cried. “I’ve been waiting for your call.”

  Chapter 4

  Energy Costs

  Bruno Hauptmann taught the world that waiting is one of the peculiar cruelties of kidnapping. Since then, there have been too many racking vigils, too many anguished ordeals, too many unanswered prayers.

  In the case of Davidson Wylie, there were also too many unanswered questions. During the period immediately following his disappearance, friends, associates, and even the police were preoccupied with meeting the ransom demands. But when Black Tuesday failed to honor its bargain, the queries began in earnest.

  “What can they want?” Arthur Shute demanded of the men gathered in Macklin’s Houston headquarters. “They must be softening us up for something. Do you have any idea what?”

  But the men sitting around the table, with experience in many far-flung hot spots, had already exhausted the possibilities.

  “What does Hugo think?” one of them asked in desperation.

  “He says he’s never seen anything like it,” Shute said bitterly.

  In London it was the other way around.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” the man at Scotland Yard reported to Hugo Cramer. “Interpol has not been able to produce any information on Black Tuesday, not one single item. It has to be a new group.”

  “What difference does it make whether they’re old or new?” grated Cramer.