by Gil Hogg
“How do you know all this?” Sophie asked.
“I know what I saw at the Sherry. Mom talked a lot when she was stewed. The lawyer who drew up the trust talked to me. It’s true, Soph.”
It helped Sophie to see Emma as she sketched in this other part of herself. It explained the tension between her and John. It provided a possible reason for Emma’s waywardness: expelled from two schools, taking drugs, associating with a man who ran a bar in New York who was a convicted child molester… Emma had quite a background.
“I guess John is wasting his time in thinking he can win you over,” Sophie said.
“Yeah,” Emma said, stubbing out her second cigarette. “And it didn’t help when he treated my mother badly, although God knows she deserved what she got. She was besotted. I think he only married her to keep close to the shares. You know, adopting us. He drove her to the bottle and then, you know, the car smash. You can tell John it wouldn’t matter if he came here and licked my shit off the terrace. He’ll never get his hands on those shares. So Paul’s takeover is safe, even if he doesn’t give a damn for me.”
Emma’s blasé manner concealed bitter hurts. Sophie sensed too that Emma was saving face by going home.
“Is there anything I can do?” Sophie asked softly.
“Yeah, kick that big Aussie in the butt and marry him. I’m being generous in defeat. Alex is a joke even if he is my brother. Don’t waste your time on him. As for John, you don’t deserve such a fate.”
“I’m working for the opposition team. I couldn’t do anything about Paul even if I wanted to.”
“Bang both their silly heads together.”
*
Later, Sophie went with Emma in a cab to Darwin International Airport and they sat together waiting for boarding time silently, watching Aboriginal youngsters fooling with pinball machines in the lounge and occasionally begging for change.
When Emma had checked in and Sophie was about to say goodbye at the security barrier. Emma kissed her and said, “Paul is sore about you. He thinks you’re Marchmont’s property. It gives him the needle!”
“Well, maybe I am his property, at this stage. I take the golden shilling,” Sophie said uncertainly.
21
When Sophie returned to the Intercontinental from the airport she received a message at the desk that a meeting had been called to discuss Haldane’s peace mission. She met Sean Donelly in the lift and he didn’t know the details, but the word was that Haldane had done well. As they assembled in the conference room later there was certain optimism in the air.
One surprise for Sophie was that Werner Fliegler, John’s New York lawyer and friend, was there; modest, quiet, smiling, chatting to Max Haldane and his advisers about legal matters which had nothing to do with the case.
They took their seats at the conference table, Fliegler beside Marchmont. He had just flown in. He was an elegant, birdlike man with thin, plastered-down black hair, a beaky nose and a sallow complexion. He was uniformed rather than dressed in a tailored six-button double-breasted suit.
Max Haldane reduced himself quickly to shirt-sleeves, a loose Gucci tie and a cigar. He prepared to unfold his account of the discussions with Edward Carvello, Travis’s solicitor.
“We were well received,” Haldane began, “Ed Carvello’s an old friend of mine, and apparently Travis feels the war has gone on long enough and welcomes an agreement.”
“I’ll believe that when I hear the offer,” Marchmont said quietly.
Haldane twisted his heavy lips confidently and launched into a long introduction showing how hard he and his people had argued and he threw about a lot of legal phrases like ‘best evidence’ and ‘balance of probabilities’.
Sophie felt herself dozing off.
Marchmont eventually cut Haldane off. “Let’s get to the offer.”
The lawyer was annoyed but he was used to demanding clients. “This is what we worked out, John: split the mine three ways. You, Travis’s syndicate and the Aborigine Trust. You return the sacred stone you have at Mirabilly. It’s a trivial point but the Aboriginal side make a lot of it. The roads and workings of the mine are to be kept apart from the sacred ground. Again, this is not too difficult. Finally, you agree to Travis’s company taking over yours, with you to stay on the board as chairman for a year, always with the option of accepting re-election. Argo appear to have sufficient votes to take MCM by vote, so it represents a gain to keep you on the board. I think this can be presented to look good for you and MCM stockholders.”
Haldane smiled and looked round for approval. His own group were plainly enthusiastic and nodding. Marchmont’s team looked at each other and began to nod too. Curtis Lefain was unhesitating in his praise: “Nice work, Max. I’m sure we couldn’t have done better.”
Curtis looked round at the rest of the Marchmont team seeking confirmation. There was a general murmur of approval around the table as they whispered and listed the pros and cons on their fingers or in their notebooks. The consensus seemed to be that Travis could have driven a harder bargain. Yes, it was a good offer.
After a few moments the talk stilled as they realised that John Marchmont himself was silent and poker-faced. Werner Fliegler’s black dome shone and his button eyes were bright, but he too had said nothing.
“That’s it, is it?” Marchmont asked loudly, silencing the talk. “There’s no more?”
Max Haldane looked surprised. “That’s a lot, John and a very good offer in the circumstances. Of course there’s small print to be worked out…”
“And if I don’t accept?”
“Frankly, Travis will have you for breakfast. You’ll lose MCM, your reputation and a hell of a lot of money,” Haldane said with blunt, almost malicious confidence, drawing in a lungful of smoke from his cigar and half-closing his eyes.
Marchmont raised his eyebrows and turned slowly to Fliegler. Fliegler returned a small, modest smile but said nothing. The room fell silent.
They all knew then that something was wrong. The seconds ticked by awkwardly, perhaps half a minute elapsed.
“Max,” Marchmont began, his voice rich and gentle. “I employed you to fight this action and you come back with a proposal that I get a third of what is mine. And another proposal that the control of my whole company, with all its interests will pass to a meat-fisted bushwhacker, interests that have been in my family for generations. What kind of mutual settlement is that?”
“Better than a disaster. Certainly some billions of dollars better over a period of years,” Haldane said, affronted. “Your other assets will be in no way diminished.”
Marchmont’s tone changed. “Who are you working for?” he snarled. And then he shouted: “Fight! I said fight! Don’t you understand plain Australian? I haven’t even begun to fight yet!”
Haldane rocked back in his chair. He tightened his tie and brushed ash off his shirt, leaving grey streaks on the white cotton. “John, my old friend, I well understand how you feel but you have to be realistic. Travis is going to wipe you out.”
Marchmont let the words settle and swept cold eyes over the Australian legal team. “You’re fired, all of you, as of this moment!”
Haldane’s face pulsed with sheer astonishment and then a stiff smile. “It may give you a good deal of satisfaction to say that, John. I know how strongly you feel about Mirabilly. And I can take it. But I beg you in your own interests to think again. You’re a few days from trial. You can’t possibly go ahead without representation. Nobody could pick up a brief like this immediately. It’s too complicated.”
“You’re fired, Max. Take your partners and hangers-on and get out. I’m instructing a small local firm, Michael Davros. Hand everything to them tonight. Mr Davros is in the next room. I’ll arrange an introduction because I don’t expect you are on conversational terms with him. He’ll give you a cheque for your costs to date when you’ve had an opportunity to formulate your bill. Goodnight, Max.”
“Good grief, John…” Curtis Lefain began,
alarmed but apparently stilled by Marchmont’s determination. “Can’t we talk about this…?” his voice trailed off into the noise of people muttering and packing up their files and departing. The hurt in the air was palpable. Nobody was listening.
Haldane reared up at the table, his usual detachment gone. He must have known with the mention of Davros that there was an established plan to sack him. Otherwise Davros wouldn’t be in the next room. Sophie could see that there never was going to be a deal. Haldane had been working his ass off for nothing, except money. His face was blotched red and yellow. He jerked his head at his team to say ‘clear out!’ It was all over.
As they filed out of the door, Werner Fliegler, who had not spoken a word, was saying goodbye, shaking hands and whispering, “I’m sorry it had to end like this,” dissociating himself from the rude and difficult client they shared.
To Sophie, Marchmont seemed to have seized the opportunity to reject Travis’s offer without weighing its intrinsic value. He was inviting rather than avoiding disaster. She couldn’t try to reason with him. He normally valued her views but on this he would be unapproachable.
22
The next day when John Marchmont’s executives and advisers took their seats in the conference room the air itself seemed bruised. Nobody smiled. Few spoke.
It now appeared that Werner Fliegler was in charge. He took the chair at the head of the table with Marchmont on his right and Michael Davros, whom none of them had met before, on his left.
Fliegler smiled charmingly when they were settled and bid everybody good morning. He was dressed more casually today in a tan garberdine suit, a fawn silk shirt and a plain green silk tie. “This is Mr Michael Davros who will be representing us in court.” He gestured toward the thick-necked, bullet-headed man in his mid-thirties, who looked to Sophie more like a paratrooper in a civilian clothes. Davros was short, crop-haired with large eyes and a nondescript grey suit, which bulged at the strain of containing his muscular physique. He nodded, half-rose from his chair and then fell back.
Fliegler kept the floor. “I’m afraid our amigos from Sydney have not quite got the right idea. Nor has Mr Travis. Mr Travis has a tiger by the tail. Oh, yes, he’s been quite clever up to now, but it’s time for the tiger to turn and bite.”
Fliegler smiled in a disarming way, talking as though he was saying the obvious, his shiny head bobbing round to fix a glance on various members of the team as he did so. “You see, litigation is not just a process of measuring the evidence of one side against another, it is a tactical weapon and we have to use it as such. Mr Travis has what seems like a good case I must admit, but by the time we have contested every word of it and every line, in every court available to us in this fine country, appeal after appeal, years will have rolled by. Years, my friends! Where will Mr Travis be then? His offer to buy MCM will have lapsed. His partners in Argo, who want to exploit a mine not to fight in court, will have deserted him. The Aborigine Trust will realise that they have a turkey for a partner. Victory will not be so sweet three or five years from now, if victory it is, because litigation is also a dangerous game! Our main man, Mr Davros, will be in charge of this part of our strategy.”
Sophie could feel that the members of the team who had been grimly wondering what could possibly happen next, were beginning to perk up and see a new viewpoint. This approach sounded practical and feasible. Marchmont sat back with a slight smile while Fliegler went on in complete command.
“The second string of our strategy will be to beef up our campaign with stockholders. Martin Thorpe in New York and Sophie Ryland here will blitz them with material showing up the Argo jackasses – or should I say dingoes? Of course we are vulnerable if Travis can amass a majority of the stock, but John is satisfied that he can rely on the vote of his stepdaughter, Emma, who has a very large holding. Or get a majority without her. And even if not, the acquisition process is very complicated. It can and will become a long and wearisome process when we have thrown a few legal spanners into the works. I will deal with this part of the case.”
Fliegler paused, seeking approval in the faces of his audience and finding it. His attention darted to each of them; each felt specially important. Even Sophie felt Fliegler spoke as though he was speaking personally to her.
Satisfied, he went on. “The third part of our strategy will be to lobby local and national politicians, pointing out that Argo are holding up a development which will be highly beneficial for the country. John will head this initiative personally.”
The maestro paused again to make sure his message was not only received but accepted.
“And the fourth and final aspect of our strategy will be to ask my friend Nathan Kowalski from New York, who runs one of the most effective private investigation outfits in the US, to have a look at the credentials of Paul Travis.”
Sophie shivered. There was an evil tint in Fliegler’s grin as he searched the table again for approval.
“Nobody makes as much money as quickly as Paul Travis without cutting a few corners. We need to know his peccadilloes, his sins and his crimes and so do our stockholders and the politicians of this country. Don’t forget, mining uranium is a hot potato politically. It can only be done by Mr Clean. I’ve given a first instalment of Nathan’s work to Martin Thorpe for dissemination in the right places.”
Fliegler turned to Marchmont with a modest inclination of the head. “That, John, is your strategy,” he said flourishing his arm.
“Sounds great to me, Werner,” Marchmont said, lighting a cigar. “This is fighting talk!”
“It’ll cost you a few million dollars, but a lot less than accepting Travis’s offer. It will protect your reputation and I’ll bet anybody here ten bucks that we get a better offer from Travis eighteen months from now.”
Nobody took the bet.
In her naivety, Sophie had been certain that Marchmont was beaten and was behaving like a selfish child. She believed most of the team thought so too. But suddenly this softly confident little New York lawyer had conjured up a campaign that was credible, a war of attrition. It had nothing to do with the merits of the case, but struck at its heart; it was focussed on stalling and damaging Paul Travis personally.
It was apparent to her now that there was nothing new about these plans. Werner Fliegler had been beavering away for some time. Marchmont must have suspected from his early meetings in Sydney that Haldane was not going to meet his requirements. Sophie’s instinct now was that it was not Marchmont but Travis who was in danger.
The Marchmont team ended that evening with a champagne dinner. The court case which they had launched against the Aborigine Trust and Argo that had rumbled to a halt was now beginning to gather speed. They would probably lose the argument but there would be an appeal. And another. And another. What mattered was the war, the long, bitter campaign. The executives and advisers who had been quietly prophesying Marchmont’s ruin were now convinced that he would survive. Sophie thought that some of them believed they had conceived the plan themselves it was so natural and obvious. They were already criticising Haldane and his ludicrously inadequate proposal. All except Curtis Lefain.
Lefain was troubled by the general acceptance of the strategy. Jostled by Marchmont to show approval after they had finished the meal, he said “I don’t like working this way, John. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
When he had left the room, John laughed. “Poor old Curtis, he’s got no balls!” The others in the room joined his laughter, except Sophie, but her opinion didn’t rank in that company and nobody even noticed her reaction.
23
Sophie flew to Mirabilly with John Marchmont, Werner Fliegler and Curtis Lefain the next morning for the weekend. The case was to begin on Monday and except for Sophie they were in good spirits. She tried to be the unemotional public relations executive and carry out Marchmont’s wishes. The atmosphere in the team was now buoyant. One event in a long campaign was not difficult to face and no reputations were immediately in issue.
Fliegler also passed her a copy of the notes from Nathan Kowalski on the investigation into Paul Travis’s private life. She scanned them quickly in revulsion. She had never thought a court case could become so personal. Travis was said to have run his early aircraft business without properly certified pilots or planes. He was supposed to have ditched his partner Karantis when he sold out to Ansett, clearing the way for them to take over the company. In his mining company it was alleged that he had abused Aborigine interests to further his own. A trawl of his sexual life had hooked two fish. A girl in Brisbane claimed he was the father of her baby and he was said to have had an affair with the wife of a leading federal politician.
“This isn’t much,” Fliegler said, “but by the time you and Martin have written it up, it’ll look fairly nasty. And of course there’ll be more. And better. Trust Nathan for that.”
