“Is that not a view, Tom?”
Sloan could only nod.
Mangrum walked to a double glass door set between the plates that covered the north
wall. “Come, let me show you the view from my balcony!” He pushed one of the heavy doors open and stepped outside. “I had thought of dining out here, but I’m afraid that it would have been too warm.”
After Sloan had dutifully examined the view, Mangrum said, “Let’s go inside to see if we can find anything edible.”
As they took opposing seats at a small gate-leg table, a violin began the music of what Sloan thought was probably Mozart. He cocked his head.
“Miss Kwan selects the music.”
“Miss Kwan?”
“Dove.”
An hour later Mangrum was still eating. Sloan, who had long since eaten his fill, wondered if the dinner were typical: champagne, cheese, salmon, steak, salad, and desert. Three kinds of wine.
When the dishes and silverware had been removed and coffee and brandy poured, Mangrum twisted his chair away from the table and stretched his legs. “Now, Tom, perhaps you’d like to know why I invited you here this evening—other than wanting to meet a distinguished academician.”
“Yes.”
“There’s something I must tell you in strictest confidence.”
Sloan leaned forward.
“You agree?”
“Of course.”
Mangrum lowered his voice. “You and your staff have been disturbed regarding Dan
McQuade’s delay in delivering the documents you requested.”
Sloan nodded.
Mangrum leaned closer to Sloan and lowered his voice further. “We’re under
attack.”
Sloan frowned.”
“By Blue Diamond Industries.”
“The Koreans?”
“Yes!”
“What sort of attack?”
“Takeover.”
“But, the relative size...?”
“No one is safe these days, Tom. Size means nothing if the attacker has the financial
resources.”
“But...?”
“We’ve been stonewalling you, as we’ve been stonewalling everyone. No one has
had access to our records for weeks now.”
“But we have our materials now. We retrieved them yesterday morning.” “ We finally got Board approval for the documents to be released. They are not related to the Company’s current performance, so I convinced the Directors to make an exception.”
Sloan stood and walked to Mangrum’s chair. He extended his hand to be shaken. “Thank you, Mr. Mangrum. I appreciate your efforts.”
“Wally.”
“Of course,” Sloan smiled. “Wally.”
Mangrum led the way to the elevator. “Dove will see you to the door, Tom.” “Thank you.”
The door was about to close when Sloan grasped the rubber edge. “I should tell you
one of my associates was less than sure the documents he retrieved yesterday were authentic.”
Mangrum frowned. “Tom, I guarantee to you the materials were copies of originals.”
“I’m sure now he was wrong. I’m glad we can get on with our work”
Mangrum shook Sloan’s hand again.
Both men were smiling as the doors closed.
Dove was standi ng in front of the doors when they opened in the lobby. “A satisfying dinner, Professor?”
“Exceptional, thank you.”
She guided Sloan toward the glass doors leading to the ICP Plaza.
“I understand you’re the security chief here.”
“I have that honor.”
“The job must be very demanding, especially your files. Because of our interest in your old records, I had planned to ask Wally for a tour, but the time got away from me.”
“But there’s nothing to see but damp concrete and filing cabinets, Professor.”
“And there are backup copies of everything stored elsewhere?”
“I haven’t been here too long,” she explained, “but I’m sure everything is sent here for storage.”
Chapter 9
June 3, Atlanta.
At nine the next morning, Bea yelled at Sloan. “Tom, it’s Woody. Line one.” “Where are you?”
“Dallas. DFW Airport. I couldn’t get a flight out last night. Interesting news! I
called last evening, but you were out.”
Tyler described Professor Cullen’s findings.
“Fakes?” Sloan said.
“Someone has fiddled with the pages of one of the early Board meetings. They’re
hiding something —something big, considering the trouble they’ve gone to.” “I see.”
“I’ve got an eleven something flight. You’ll have Professor Cullen’s official report
this afternoon. Now, what do you have better than that.”
Sloan hesitated, wondering how to break his news. “I have something contradictory.”
He described Mangrum’s presentation of the night before.
Tyler looked at his ticket. Two hours until flight time. He walked aimlessly for ten minutes, then returned to the telephone booth and called Harding’s office.
“Ms. Lester, my name is Woodruff Tyler and I’m part of the Sloan study. I...”
“I know very well who you are, Woody.”
“I have a pressing need to talk to Congressman Harding.”
“Wait, please.”
Seconds later, Harding answered. “This is Joe Earl, Woody. What can I do for you?”
Tyler explained what he had learned on the SMU campus.
“Excellent news, Woody! Excellent. What did Professor Sloan have to say when you reported these findings?”
Tyler’s description of Sloan’s comments regarding his dinner the previous night was brief.
“You did the right thing to call me.” Harding paused, thinking. “Let me put you on hold a minute.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ten minutes later Harding was back. “I’d like to you to catch the next flight to National. Monica has made a reservation for you on American’s 2:45 flight. Puts you on the ground around 5:15, our time. Catch a cab. I’m in the Rayburn Office Building.”
“Yes, sir.”
Monica Lester ushered Tyler into Joe Earl Hard ing’s inner office. There were two walls of photographs, testimonials, and awards.
Harding rose from behind a huge desk. “Woody?” Tyler nodded. “You’re just as the professor described you.” He grabbed Tyler’s right hand.
He gestured toward one of a pair of large, leathercovered wing chairs. “Sit.” Harding walked to a large breakfront, reached for an open bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon and held the bottle for Tyler to see. “It’s long after quitting time. A sip to celebrate your safe arrival?”
“If you are, sir.”
“You may count on that.”
“If I may interrupt?” Monica said. “I was just leaving. Anything else?” “No.” Harding hesitated, then said, “Wait. Yes. Stay for a few minutes, if you will.” She nodded and left the room.
Tyler spent ten minutes detailing his findings.
Harding returned to the bar. “Another?”
“Doing fine with this one, sir.”
Harding returned to his desk. “OK, Woody, I think I have all the details.” “I appreciate your taking time, sir.” He looked at his wristwatch. “I’d better be
getting back to the airport. I think there’s a...” Harding looked at an antique wall clock and said, “Sit a few minutes more, if you will.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ten minutes later, Tyler was about to again mention his return to Atlanta, when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
“Your other visitor, Joe Earl,” Monica Lester said, smiling. “I’m glad you had me stay.” She gestured toward Sloan and added, “We don’t often have such handsome men around this office.”
Tyler stepped to the d
oorway to shake Sloan’s hand. “I can’t say I expected to see you here this evening.”
“Nor did I.”
Sloan walked to Harding’s desk and shook his hand.
“I gather there are some important matters to be considered?”
“Something that would cause me to call you to Washington in such a high-handed manner. Yes.”
Harding gestured toward the other wing back chair. “A drink?”
“I had one on the plane,” Sloan said. “Let me coast a while.”
“And so,” Sloan summarized, “I d etermined if Woody had been able to convince you about his fonts, then he was doubtless correct.” He shrugged. “Which makes me wrong.”
“A welcome submergence of self,” Harding said, smiling.
“Perhaps, but may I now have the details of...?”
“Oh, no, Professor,” Harding interrupted with a smile, “first give us the details of
your assignation with Walter M. Mangrum!”
Sloan, embarrassed at his gullibility, described the tour and dinner. When Sloan had finished his recitation, Harding reached for the glass that had been filled yet again, sipped, then looked at Sloan. “That’s it?” Sloan nodded. “That’s all?” Sloan nodded again. “No job offer?”
“No—no job offer.” Sloan looked confused. “Then you should be feeling pretty despondent. I understand a ‘very high level’ job offer is standard with the ICP leadership in its bribery attempts.”
“Probably couldn’t think of a reasonable way to use a business history professor, is my guess,” Tyler offered with a smile.
“How about women?” Harding continued to press.
“Wellll, there was one there last night I might have found interesting. A Miss Dove Kwan, the security chief, but...”
“Security chief!” Harding howled. “I’ve heard of Wally putting his ladies in a variety of disguises, but security chief is a new low—or maybe a new high.”
“Well, she knew about the files,” Sloan said lamely.
“Anybody who works within a mile of that place knows about the ICP files. They’re famous.”
Sloan feigned despair, then said, “Now, how about a fuller description of your informant’s findings?”
Tyler re-told his story.
Sloan nodded. “So, what was in the old minutes that had to be hidden from us?”
Harding smiled and said, “I think it’s time for you to let Dan McQuade in on your findings and to pose a question or two.”
Sloan and Tyler had adjoining seats on the flight back to Atlanta. When they were settled, Tyler said, “Interesting the efforts Joe Earl is making in this matter.”
“Yes,” Sloan agreed, “but it’s his part of the Task Force’s work and I’m sure he wants anything with his name on it to go well.”
“And so he called us to Washington for a conversation we could have had over the phone?”
Chapter 10
June 4, Atlanta.
Sloan called McQuade as soon as he arrived at his office the next morning “Remember I’m called ‘Dan’.”
“Dan, then.” Sloan smiled. McQuade had apparently been briefed regarding
Mangrum’s success with the gullible acad emician. “I’d like to meet with you as soon as possible. Today, if you can arrange it.”
“What’s the subject, Tom.”
“The documentation we received from Mr. Howard. We’re concerned about its authenticity.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
McQuade hesitated, then said, “Let me look at my book.” He paused. “Would 2:00 suit you?”
“Fine,” Sloan said. “It shouldn’t be a long meeting.” He described Professor Cullen’s opinion. “We have conclude these page are—well, I hesitate to employ the word ‘bogus’, but...” Sloan paused. “Hmm, well, that bit of information was all I wanted to bring to your attention. We can dispense with the meeting. Just understand we’re back to asking for authentic materials.”
“I’d still like to meet—to examine what you found.”
“2:00, then.”
McQuade examined his copies of the altered minutes again. He stared at the ceiling a moment, then called Mangrum’s office, but the Chairman and a party of Indonesian governmental officials were in the air, somewhere between Jakarta and Singapore. Mr. McQuade could try Mr. Mangrum at the Singapore office in one hour and forty-five minutes.
McQuade waited three hours.
“Mangrum!” The growl evidenced fatigue.
“It’s Dan. Do you have time for a report regarding the professor and the minutes?” “No, Secretary, I emphatically do not!” Mangrum paused. “However, I am
sufficiently concerned about how you are conducting your activities in this matter I will make the time.”
“They’re convinced the significant pages are fake.”
“As you feared.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mangrum sighed noisily. “I am convinced that Sloan left our dinner believing your documents were genuine.”
“He no longer believes that and he’s continuing his research.” McQuade paused. “Sir, I request permission to implement the backup solution we’ve discussed—the release program.”
Mangrum hesitated, then said, “All right. Have the Peabody crew prepare the releases, then use Stan Webb to get them signed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, make no additional galactic moves without my express approval! Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
McQuade’s first step was to brief Howard. “In 1966 there was a problem around here with a man named Will Morgan. He claimed the Company owed his grandmother some money. His claims were discredited and he later died in an accident. The woman who was alleged to be owed the money was named Daphne Dryden. D-R-Y-D-E-N. Married name Morgan. We have monitored the births and deaths of her descendants.”
“Why have we...?” McQuade frowned. “Not your problem, John. Now, do the following: get the Dryden/Morgan file from Archives, confirm our list from public records, and provide me with a list of the names, relationships to the Morgan woman, addresses, and telephone numbers of everyone who is a lineal heir. Let me have the list by noon tomorrow.”
McQuade touched the intercom button for Josh Bartlett. “Yes, sir.”
“Josh, is Webb available? Walter has a job for him.” “Is or can be made so. How soon?”
“Now.”
Moments later, Stanley Webb called McQuade. “What’s up?” “ We have a little delicate work to be done. I wonder if you’re available for a few days?”
“Sure.”
“My office tomorrow, after lunch.”
“Cuts into my golf game, Dan’l.”
McQuade didn’t respond.
“See you tomorrow.”
It was just after noon when McQuade met Brian Dudley at the Exchange Club. Brian Dudley was forty-eight years old, short and fat. The fringe of hair above his ears was blond and his cherubic face was florid.
“I have an emergency job for one of your lads.”
“Do I need to make notes?”
“No. It’s simple. I need a general release—a piece of paper that several descendants
of Jane Doe can sign that says for ten dollars and other —you know all that verbiage—the person signing surrenders all claims that he or she has against ICP.”
“Standard.”
“One important facet. We want to force immediate signing by everyone concerned. We’ll accomplish that by withholding payment until everyone signs. But, we have to lock them in at the outset, so if memory serves, we can make it the usual—ah, yes, here it is,” McQuade said, tapping his temple, “‘for ten dollars and other good and valuable services, etc., etc., the undersigned hereby releases ICP, etc., etc.’ Then we give each of them ten dollars and promise the remainder when everyone has signed.”
“Ought to be OK—unless someone wishes he hadn’t signed.”
“Why would anyone want...?”
�
��No idea about that. I’m simply saying with an unspecified total amount and an unspecified last payment date, if a sharp lawyer got involved, you might have a problem.”
“Hmmm.”
Dudley’s face brightened. “In the release, we’ll specify a date and what constitutes full amount for the payment—to be made on or before. The threat of delay in payment remains, since only you dictate what might cause a ‘before’ payment event, i.e., everyone having signed. If someone cries ‘invalid release’, you immediately exercise your right to make full payment to him. Do so. Then, there can be no invalidation.”
McQuade nodded.
“I’ll FAX it to you this afternoon.
Returning from the Exchange Club, McQuade had what he considered to be the most brilliant idea of his career.
Sloan and Tyler were waiting for him when he returned.
“I understand that we’ve goofed. Or, to be more precise, someone in our past. Someone has done some editing of our earliest documents.”
“Your past?” Tyler said.
“No question about it. Like the Orwell book—where they go back to re-write history every time there was a change. Someone’s an important person one moment, fumbles something, and, presto! he never existed.”
“Brave New World,” Tyler said.
“1984,” Sloan corrected.
“One or the other,” McQuade agreed. “That seems to be what we have here. It appears something went on in those early Board meetings that didn’t set well with someone later. A slanderous remark or an unfortunate reference to someone’s wife.”
Sloan frowned.
“Anyway, we’re disturbed by what’s happened. I’ve communicated the problem to the Chairman and he’s said that I extend his sincere apologies. He directed me to proceed with all haste to make the original documents available to you.” McQuade studied his visitors, wondering if they were accepting his tale. “You can’t have them, of course, but you can examine them at the bank and make your own copies, if you like.”
“At the bank?” Tyler frowned.
“At Eastern International. In New York.”
“The originals of your old minutes are stored at your bank?” Tyler said.
“We’ll make the materials available to you there. I’ll call you Monday.”
“Uh, fine,” Sloan said.
“We’ll concentrate on whatever period interests you. Can you tell me what that is?”
The Dryden Note Page 6
