by Jeff Buick
“So it’s going to die,” Leona said.
“No guarantees, but that would be my best guess right now.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Leona set the phone back in its cradle and leaned against her desk. What were the chances? First Reginald Morgan disappears, then Claire Buxton dies in a car crash. Both were opponents of the income trust conversion in one form or another. And both dead. Who stood to gain? Derek Swanson was the logical choice. He was the largest shareholder outside Reginald and Amelia Morgan. Amelia probably controlled the shares now that the CEO was dead, but her influence on the company would be far less than her husband’s. That left Swanson. Alone in first place.
She glanced down at her desk. Her cell phone was moving across the surface, silently vibrating. She picked it up and looked to see who was calling. Unknown number. She thought for a moment, then answered.
“Miss Leona,” a voice said through the static. It was Kubala.
“Hello, Kubala.” She sucked in a nervous breath. “Did you find Mike?”
“I know where he is,” he answered. “The police have taken him.”
Leona stood beside her desk, listening as Kubala detailed his trip to see Nikala Shambu. The prison, closed years ago—the captors, police working outside their official boundaries. None of it good news. Mike Anderson was in serious trouble. She had always suspected this day may arrive, but had chosen to think of it as conjecture more than fact. Now it was fact.
“Is there anything else you can do?” she asked when he finished talking.
“This is very dangerous, Miss Leona. Nikala Shambu is a ruthless man who would think nothing of killing me and my entire family. And the police who are holding Mr. Mike will not be happy if I knock on their door. I don’t see how I can be of any help.”
“What if you went to the regular police station and filed a report. A missing person’s report. Tell them that you expected Mike to show up over a week ago, but you haven’t seen him. The report will probably get to the people who are holding him. They may come looking for you.”
“And that’s a good thing? These men are kidnappers and murderers, Miss Leona.”
“They want money, Kubala. You could promise them money if they released Mike.”
“Where do I get the money? The cash Mr. Mike brought with him is already in the bank and they’re not going to release it without the proper signatures.”
“Can we get the right people to sign something that will allow the bank to release the money?”
“That means I have to travel to Samburu, meet with them, have them sign documents, get the money from the local bank and bring it back to Nairobi. This will take two weeks, maybe a month.”
“Why so long?” Leona asked, shocked. “You can travel back to Samburu in a day.”
“Yes, but getting everyone together takes a few days. And then the bank has to bring in the money.”
“The bank doesn’t have enough money?”
“No. They keep very little money on deposit. And almost no foreign currency. We are always waiting for the money, even after all the documents are signed.”
“I never knew this,” Leona said.
“That is one of the reasons Mr. Mike stayed in Kenya after he had deposited the money in Nairobi—to be sure we could access it.”
“I see. So what can we do? We have to help him.”
“Can you send more money?” Kubala asked.
“No. That doesn’t work. The money needs to be brought in by courier. That’s why Mike always traveled to Nairobi with negotiable bearer bonds.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I wonder if sending someone from the American Embassy to speak with the police holding him would be a good idea,” Leona said.
“I would think that might get Mr. Mike killed.”
“It probably would. The kidnappers would know they’d been uncovered.”
Silence filled the line for a few seconds, then Kubala said, “I could try filing the report.”
“Only if you think it’s safe to do so, Kubala. I do not want you to risk your life. Is that understood?”
“Yes. I’ll be careful. If I think it’s too dangerous, I won’t go to the police station.”
“Okay. Can you keep me informed? Let me know what’s happening?”
“I’ll try, but finding a telephone I can call you on is difficult. Most phones don’t allow long-distance calls. Not overseas, anyway.”
“You’re resourceful. You can do this, Kubala.”
“I’ll do my best, Miss Leona. I should go now.”
“Call me the moment you get news.”
“Immediately.”
Leona snapped her cell phone closed and dropped into her chair. She stared blankly about her office, her mind a mess of conflicting thoughts. Mike Anderson’s life in jeopardy. The possibility that Derek Swanson was murdering people to keep the income trust conversion on track. Crazy times, crazy thoughts. But one was very real. Mike Anderson was in serious trouble. And there was little she could do to help him. Jumping on a plane to Nairobi was foolish. She would be equally ineffective once there, perhaps even more so. At least while she was in the US, she could access money and wire it to an account in a country that wasn’t as convoluted and corrupt as Kenya. If Kubala could initiate contact with the kidnappers.
The alarm on her computer beeped. Quarter to two. Fifteen minutes. She closed her eyes and thought about Senator Claire Buxton and Reginald Morgan. Both involved with Coal-Balt. And both dead. There was something else, some other place in the reports that she had seen a notation of a death. Where was it? Who was it? Leona opened her eyes and dug into the pile of reports. It took her five minutes to find it.
Four years ago a business agent with one of the unions had been stirring up a lot of resentment against the company. He had disappeared. But six weeks later he showed up—when the rope someone used to tie his ankles to a heavy weight came loose and his corpse floated to the top of a lake a few miles from the mine site. No one had ever been arrested for the man’s murder. Leona fixated on the single paragraph describing the incident. This one was definitely a murder. And right at the time when the union rep was making waves for Coal-Balt. Coincidence again knocking at the door?
She checked her watch, then closed the folder. Time to present her report to Anthony Halladay. She stood on shaky legs and picked up the file from her desk. For a moment, she stood, unmoving, her eyes focused on the thick document. What was happening? The edges of her well-ordered life were fraying—like an ill-kept book. Chaos was creeping into her world. Somehow, this wasn’t how she had envisioned success.
31
The twelfth-floor boardroom was a testosterone-charged bastion of the good old days in banking when pinstripe suits and cigars were the order of the day. Thick carpets covered the floors and four low-hanging chandelier-style light fixtures were evenly spaced over the mahogany table. The walls were dark walnut from floor to ceiling, with pictures of every man who had served as president of DC Trust. Almost to a person they were white males in their sixties or early seventies. Only one had made the grade while still in his fifties. And he was the son of a previous president. It was a good-old-boys network if there ever was one.
Leona walked in, the file tucked into a leather briefcase, and took a seat two chairs down from Anthony Halladay. Also present were two other vice presidents, James Maher and Robert Grist, and she acknowledged all three men as she pulled out copies of her report and set them on the table. The final version was eighty-one pages, bound with a glossy cover. Once each man had a report, she started her presentation with no preamble.
“This was not an easy process,” Leona said as the men flipped through the pages. “Coal-Balt is a major source of carbon dioxide emissions, and their equipment at both the coal-mining facility and the power-generating plant is quickly becoming antiquated. Major work is necessary to bring it back to acceptable standards.”
“I understand the work at the plant is ongoing.” A
nthony Halladay crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.
“It is, but each renovation is less than twenty percent of the power plant’s current value, which allows Coal-Balt to circumnavigate the Environmental Protection Agency’s laws. In essence, the work being done is to improve production, not to reduce emissions.”
“Is the plant still within acceptable government standards?” Robert Grist asked.
“Yes. But that could change if new legislation is introduced that would close certain loopholes that Coal-Balt currently uses to continue burning coal in an environmentally unfriendly manner.”
“Does that legislation exist?” Halladay asked.
“No, not yet. But it appears inevitable. At some point, Coal-Balt is going to be backed into a corner and the cost of the upgrades will be astronomical. Those figures are noted on page eighteen.” She waited while the men perused the documents, then continued. “The mining facility is depleting its resources at an alarming rate. The Demonstrated Reserve Base is detailed on page thirty-one, and the projections show that the mine will be completely depleted of usable reserves in five years, give or take six months. And a high percentage of what they are mining is low-grade bituminous coal. It burns dirty and produces a lot of carbon dioxide. That means even bigger problems when the legislation to control fossil-fuel power-plant emissions is introduced.”
“Do you have anything good to say?” Halladay shut his report.
“Of course. At present, the company is profitable, has adequate cash reserves and owes no outstanding taxes. The labor situation is currently in hand, although they will be entering negotiations with five unions later this year. This could be a tough time for the company, as the unions want concessions on wages and pensions. Coal-Balt is not in a position to sweeten the pension pot, as the plan is only fifty percent funded at present.”
Halladay tapped the report. “What’s the bottom line, Leona? Is the bank behind the conversion?”
“My initial thought was to exercise caution and not approve Coal-Balt’s application. But then I took time to look at the picture strictly from a risk perceptive. The increase in Coal-Balt’s net worth due to the anticipated share price increase substantially diminishes our risk. Strictly from a risk point of view, the bank’s position is safe. That led me to approve the conversion,” she said.
Halladay’s face brightened. “Good news, Leona. And a job very well done.”
“On one condition,” she continued.
The room was deathly silent. “What would that be?” Halladay’s voice was suddenly cool.
“The senator drafting the bill calling for stricter emissions controls died in a car crash on Sunday. Claire Buxton. You may have read about it in the paper this morning. We need to wait for the coroner’s report on the accident before giving this the green light.”
“Why? What does her death have to do with the issue we have on the table?” Halladay asked.
“Public perception,” Leona responded. “We have a fiduciary duty to our shareholders to ensure every company we fund is entirely above reproach.”
Halladay leaned forward on his elbows. “Are you suggesting that there was something suspicious about the senator’s death?”
“Absolutely not. What concerns me is the public’s perception, nothing more. The chances are probably a million to one that Senator Claire Buxton’s death was anything but an accident. But what would happen if there were something strange about the crash? The press would be all over it. Especially if they could somehow tie in Reginald Morgan’s disappearance from the cruise ship. And the first place they would look is at the companies fighting her new bill. Coal-Balt is front and center. It’s due diligence to wait for the results on the accident.”
“How long will that take?” Halladay asked.
Leona shrugged. “I don’t know. A few days. Not long.”
Anthony Halladay stood up and walked to the south-facing bank of windows. Sunlight illuminated his face and reflected off his eyes. He remained motionless for a minute, then turned back to the table. “I don’t like the delay, Leona. Coal-Balt has regulatory approval, but that can be rescinded at any point. I think we should move ahead right now.”
Leona shook her head. “If a decision has to be made one way or the other today, I can’t okay it. There’s too much risk for the bank if the police find something unusual in their investigation.”
“Are you saying that if you were pressed to give a firm decision today, you would reject the proposal?” Halladay asked.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
No one spoke for a full minute. Finally, Halladay said, “I could override your report, Leona. Veto any objections you have and use my position as CEO to okay this project.”
Leona swallowed. This was a shaky limb on a skinny tree, and Halladay had a saw. But it was exactly where she had foreseen this going and she was ready. “Anthony, you and I both know that vetoing something like this doesn’t make the report disappear. It gets filed with the application. And then if something goes wrong, it’s not hard to figure out who everybody is going to be looking at for making a poor decision.”
Halladay was thoughtful. “You’re sure it won’t take long for the police to wrap up their investigation?”
“Not positive, but my best guess is about five days.”
He nodded, a slight and very slow motion. “Then we wait for the results from the Utah police.”
“And if they come up empty, you’ll give this a green light?” James Maher said.
“Yes.”
“All right,” Halladay said. “This is your file, Leona. Your career. I trust your judgment when it comes to protecting the bank.” It was all lip service. He didn’t sound overly happy.
“Thanks,” she said, packing the report back in her briefcase. “If there are no other questions . . .”
There were none. Leona left the room and headed directly back to her office. She closed the door behind her and sat down, her heart beating fast. What had she done? Her decision was to approve the conversion, but once she was in the boardroom, she had waffled. The simple way out was to give Halladay what he so obviously wanted. But she couldn’t do it. Reginald Morgan disappearing was strange, weird even. Claire Buxton dying was bizarre. And then the union rep. How often did one hear of bodies floating to the surface of a quiet lake in rural West Virginia? Not often. If there were something dark going on with Coal-Balt, she didn’t want her name associated with it. Or the bank’s.
Leona ran her hands through her curls and rubbed her temples. She had bought some time, but ultimately she would have to give Anthony Halladay her firm decision. If it mirrored what he wanted, her new job was safe. And her father would be pleased. If not, she could well lose what she had worked so hard to achieve. But what was that? What had she worked so hard for? The job? That was what her father wanted. Maybe she already had what was important to her. Integrity. Honesty to herself and her convictions. A clear conscience.
There was a knock on the door and she called for the person to enter. Bill Cawder stuck his head in and smiled.
“Things went well?”
She shrugged. “Not really. Halladay didn’t get what he wanted.”
Cawder pushed the door open and stood a couple of feet inside the threshold. “What happened?”
“Bad timing on a couple of things. I had to attach a caveat to the approval. He didn’t like that.”
“I thought you said it was a go,” Cawder said.
“I thought so, but like I said, things happened that changed the outcome.”
“That’s too bad. Is it fixable?”
“Maybe. Time will tell. Can’t really say any more than that.”
“Of course.”
“At least things went okay for one of us today.”
Cawder gave her a slight nod. “This was important for you. I wish it had gone smoother.”
“Me, too.”
“Got to run. See you Monday.”
“Have a good
weekend.”
Cawder closed the door behind him and quiet settled over the room. Why was her father in that boardroom with her? How the hell did he get in there? Never physically, just in her head. Telling her to okay the deal, keep her job, move ahead, make something of herself. Christ, why didn’t he realize the greatest impact she was making in her life was thousands of miles away in the sticky jungles and sweltering savannahs that bordered Samburu? There, she was changing lives, helping feed hungry children and saving a few hundred of the world’s most regal mammals from being slaughtered for their tusks. Here, she was just another banker in a city full of lawyers and politicians and bankers. No matter how high she climbed in DC, her greatest achievements would always be on the other side of the world. She closed her eyes as the tears began as she realized that an opportunity to make a difference on this side of the world had been handed to her, and that she had dropped the ball. She should have stopped Derek Swanson in his tracks when she had the chance. Now she had painted herself into a corner and left no way out. If the police investigation turned up nothing suspicious, she had to okay the conversion. And the curtain was drawn back on exactly what it was. A well-orchestrated business maneuver that would make a few people very rich—and eventually wipe out a whole lot more.
She felt sick. Even sicker when she thought that this was the one moment when she would have her father’s approval.
32
“What do you mean she’s reneging?” Swanson asked. His face was crimson and his hand was shaking with rage, threatening to crush the plastic telephone receiver.
“She’s not going to approve the conversion. Without her onside, you probably won’t get regulatory approval,” the voice said.
“Who the hell is this woman?” Swanson yelled. His voice echoed about his house.
“Leona Hewitt. She’s no pushover. I warned you she could be trouble.”
