Celia nodded, then looked over his shoulder at the approaching figure of Mandy Brenner. “I’ll tell you what, Pietro, why don’t you take both me and Mandy to dinner at some incredibly expensive place where we’ll figure out a story for your superiors that will allow you to keep your job?”
Gambrelli escorted the two Americans back to Hotel Mascagni, then called Webb. “Not a chance, Stan. The evening wasn’t a real loss, though. Maybe the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen!” He paused for Webb’s comment, but there was none. “The real problem, and this will be underlined in my report to you, is she had been warned someone from ICP might approach her with an offer and she shouldn’t accept.”
“I see.” A long silence followed, then Webb shook himself from his musing. “OK, good try, Pete. Send the report.”
Gambrelli was about to break the connection when he heard Webb’s voice again. “Did you try adding to the three thousand?”
“Yes. Fifty, then a hundred. Nothing.”
“OK.”
Chapter 19
June 26, Riyadh.
The ICP operator found the Chairman in his hotel room. “We encrypted?” Webb
said.
“Through the Atlanta switchboard.”
Webb described Gambrelli’s efforts and results.
“Pretty hard to sell into a warning like that,” Mangrum said.
“Yes.”
“OK, you need to score when she hits Atlanta. We don’t want to have to go the other
way with her.”
“Right.”
“Can we do any more with the family pressure? Get your man inside to push?” “Yes.”
“How about some more money to everyone?”
“Possible, but suspicious.”
“Oh, did Gambrelli try the bonus idea?”
“Yes, but nothing doing.”
The Chairman pondered. “Let’s be realistic: there’s no real reason to believe you’ll
be successful with the woman, is there? Do your best with her, but get started on the
backup plan.”
As soon as Mangrum had completed his call to Webb, he told the ICP operator to find Dan McQuade and to encrypt the call.
“And that’s it,” Mangrum said, completing his description of Webb’s efforts regarding William Hawkins Morgan. “Now, regarding the woman.” Mangrum described Webb’s plan and Gambrelli’s failure. “I’m sure we have the professor to thank for the warning.”
Ian Desmond answered his own telephone.
“Ian?”
“Walter, is it?”
“Yes. Ian, we’ve talked from time to time about my stock being over-priced?” “Yes.”
“I think the time may be near to take advantage of that situation.”
“Very well.”
“I’d like for you to prepare a shorting plan. Very quiet. Cut-outs. Swiss banks.
Channel Islands. You know your business.”
“Yes.”
“No way back to me.”
“Very well. The split?”
“Ninetyfive, five.”
“Meaning you’ll provide all of the cash?”
“Yes.”
“Max purchase?”
“As many as thirtythree million shares.”
Desmond whistled. “That will require a great deal of money, Walter.” “I have a great deal of money and I can borrow a great deal more.”
“May I ask why you’re doing this?”
“I’m hedging my bet.”
“Your bet?”
“There is something going on that may adversely affect the stock price. If it occurs, I
intend to profit.”
“May I know the source of the disturbance?”
“No. I’m not even sure there is one. I just want to throw an anchor to windward.” “Very well, three questions: one, whence the money?”
“I’ll wire funds. Open a new account at ICB and let me have the number. Contact
me when you need more.”
“Two, when do I begin?”
“I’ll call you. We might want to begin at any moment.”
“And, three: if the market begins to tremble, whence the purchases to supply the upticks and zeroplus ticks?”
“I’ll handle that. If they aren’t there, it’s not your fault.”
“Then a fourth, necessary question.”
“Yes?”
“If the stock does not in fact fall and there are no shorting profits to share, how will I
be compensated?”
“Twentyfive cents per share, U.S?”
“That’s fair. Waiting for you, then, Walter. Thank you for the call.”
Webb told Morgan his cousin had refused to sign the release. If he was available, perhaps they could meet to plan a way to change her mind?
“Just say where and when.”
“I have to drive to your side of town. How about our usual McDonald’s—in an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
Sloan was reading one of the reports he had carried back from Wilmington, when Tyler entered his office. “It’s Saturday, Woodruff. I assumed you would be out challenging par.”
“Too hot. Too much on my mind. I’m getting antsy.”
“Antsy?”
“They could use us in Wilmington.”
“I agree, but these initial du Pont reports look fine to me.”
Tyler sighed, but did not reply.
“I understand, though. I’d like to put this behind us, too.”
Tyler didn’t respond.
“We have to wait to meet with the Morgan woman. Remember Joe Earl’s encouragement?”
“Not to mention his major motivational speech after we reviewed the two letters he sent to us,” Tyler said. “Ever think Joe Earl is more than somewhat anxious for us to continue looking into ICP?”
“Yes.”
They sat in silence.
“How about this?” Sloan said. “While we wait for the Morgan woman, how about delving into their joint history?”
“Their?”
“Joe Earl and ICP.”
“Hmm. Well, we know about the 1966 matter and...”
“Let’s do the whole thing. In depth.”
“OK—sure.” Tyler said, happy to have something to do.
Morgan had the heavy shoulders, narrow waist, dark brown hair, and blue eyes of the offspring of Will Morgan, but there the family resemblance ended. He had a receding chin and ears too large for his head.
“How can you get your Cousin Celia to sign?”
“She’ll be at a family funeral tomorrow. I’ll put a little pressure on her afterwards.” “Good.” Webb handed him a business card. “Here’s my home phone number. Call
me as soon as you’ve talked with her.”
“OK.”
Webb stood, then said, “I’m going to have to go see her one of these days. Where
does she live?”
“Ansley Park. With my Aunt Cynthia.”
“Do you have an address?”
“No, but they ought to be in the phone book. Cynthia Morgan and Celia Morgan.” “OK, thanks. Call me after you talk with her.”
Among the four pages of MORGAN listings in the Atlanta telephone directory, Webb found ‘Cynthia J.’, who lived at 17 Twopenny Lane, Northeast. The address was in an area marked on his map as ‘Ansley Park’, an older, now upper middle class neighborhood in Midtown Atlanta.
Twopenny Lane was a narrow, one-block street and Number 17 was a mediumsized, two-story-and-attic, brick Georgian, covered in ivy. The lot was small, with the front door no more than five or six steps from the sidewalk. There was an attached onecar garage. A dirty white Mazda Miata was parked at the curb.
Twopenny Lane’s houses had garages, but several automobiles were parked at the curb. There were stop signs at both ends of the street. Carol Morgan and her sister-in-law Cynthia were waiting in the international concourse when Delta’s Flight 71 arrived on time.
More years sep
arated Carol Morgan from her modeling career than she liked to remember, but she was well preserved. Her dark brown hair had become streaked with white. Her eyes were very pale blue. Her dress and shoes were attestations of her former profession and her daughter’s employment by the city’s foremost fashion house.
Cynthia Morgan, two years Carol Morgan’s junior, was shorter than her sister-in-law and very slim. Her hair was dark red, dressed—as was she—in a style from an earlier time.
Carol Morgan departed the airport and drove north on I-85 toward the City. The highlights of Celia’s travels dominated the conversation for several miles, but soon the conversation became sober.
“I appreciate your waiting for me,” Celia said. “I’d have hated to miss it.”
“We knew you’d feel that way.”
Chapter 20
June 27, Atlanta. Sunday was hot and windy. The services for William Hawkins Morgan were over quickly. As they walked from the grave, Celia clutched her black hat in one hand and her mother’s arm with the other. Cynthia hung onto her sister-inlaw’s other arm.
When they reached the funeral director’s limousine, Morgan was waiting. “I’m sorry about Grandpa,” he said.
No one responded to the comment. Cynthia had returned to the dream world she inhabited and neither Carol nor Celia bothered to hide their dislike.
He tried again. “Did you hear what I said, Celia?”
“I heard. Thank you.”
The driver opened a rear door. Cynthia climbed in first, followed by Carol. Celia was bending her head to enter, when Morgan grabbed her right arm.
“I guess you’re ready to sign that ICP paper now?”
Celia stood. “Derek, I consider this neither the time nor the place to discuss such a thing, but as long as you’ve said in such a pleasant way, let me give you a correspondingly direct answer: no, I’m not ready to sign any release from ICP.”
Morgan tightened his grip on her arm. “Why not?”
Celia shook herself free. “What’s the hurry, Derek? Got a habit that needs support?” He looked at her without replying. “If ICP owes me money today, they’ll owe it tomorrow. Or next week. Or next year. I want to know a lot more about the circumstances than I do now.”
“What about the rest of us?” His shrill questioning caused the other mourners to take notice. “Just because you don’t need the money doesn’t mean the rest of the family doesn’t.” The voice continued to rise in pitch.
“Let me tell you this, Derek,” Celia said, her own voice rising, “I was offered a fifty thousand dollar bribe in Rome to sign that paper. I refused.” Morgan’s mouth fell open. “If ICP will offer that kind of money just to get my signature, there’s no telling what’s at stake. Can you follow that line of reasoning?”
Morgan grasped Celia’s shoulder and began to squeeze. “The next time you have a chance to sign that paper, you damned well better do it.”
Celia shifted her weight to her left leg and brought her right knee to her cousin’s groin. He fell onto the grass at her feet, whimpering and clutching his crotch.
Ten minutes later, Morgan was able to drive away. He found a pay phone on the wall of a convenience store and called Webb.
“Yes?”
“My cousin claims she was offered a bribe of fifty grand to sign. You know anything about that?”
“No. Who’d offer her that kind of money? And if someone did, why would she turn it down? Would you?”
“No.”
“No, you wouldn’t have turned down that kind of money and neither would she. She’s playing games with your head.”
“Yeah, you’re right. But why would she want to mess with my head? And why won’t she sign?”
“You got me on that one, kid.” Webb paused. “Let me take over for now. I’ll catch her after she’s home from the funeral.”
“Bitch is lucky I didn’t knock her into next week!”
It was well after 4:00 by the time Carol Morgan stopped in front of 17 Twopenny Lane.
“I wonder what in the world is going on with crazy Derek,” Celia said.
Cynthia got out of the automobile without speaking.
“Me, too,” Carol said. She started the car’s engine, then twisted to clutch her daughter’s hand. “Welcome back, dear. I’ll call you.”
Celia had jammed the last of her canvas bags under her bed when the telephone rang. “Celia Morgan?”
“Yes.”
“Stan Webb, Ms. Morgan. I’m with ICP”
“Yes?”
“I hope this isn’t a bad time for you, Ms. Morgan, but I’ve something to...” “It’s quite a bad time. I’ve just come from a funeral and I don’t wish to talk to you or
anyone else.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, Ms. Morgan, but if you could just give me...” “If it’s about the ICP release, I’ve already been hustled by your man in Rome. You
have nothing to say I want to hear, particularly now.”
“Could we meet, say, tomorrow, Ms. Morgan?”
“It will be a waste of your time and mine, Mr.—what did you say your name was?” Webb. Stan Webb.”
“But if it will get you off the phone now, yes, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She
hesitated. “No, not tomorrow. I can’t work you in tomorrow. Tuesday. And briefly.” “Lunch at, say, Pittypat’s Por…”
“The lobby at the Wachovia Bank at Perimeter Center. 11:00. I’ll be wearing...”
She paused. “A blue dress. If you call again between now and then, I promise you we’ll never meet at all. Is that clear?”
“Tuesday at 11:00.” It was after 7:00 that evening when the ICP operator called Webb. “Sorry, Stan. Mr. Mangrum is at the Metropole Hotel in St. Petersburg, but there’s no answer. I’ll find him and then call you.”
“I’ll stay here until I hear from you.” That evening Webb read the lead story in the Metro section of the Sunday edition of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. The article commented on what was becoming a nearscandal, the lenient handling of those charged with driving under the influence of alcohol. Chapter 21
June 28, Atlanta.
Sloan turned his computer off and yelled for Bea. “A little research?” She nodded.
“I’d like to have Harding’s voting record.”
“How far back?”
“From his first day in the House. Elected in 1968.”
“Can do.”
“One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Characterize the votes.”
“In what manner?”
“Hmm. Conservative or liberal. Isolationist or not. Pro- or anti-business. Ask me if
you need any interpretations.”
“How soon?”
“Don’t let any of your regular work suffer, but...”
“OK.”
Mangrum returned Webb’s call through the Atlanta switchboard.
“What is it?”
“Reporting. It doesn’t go well.”
“Something else.”
“My man inside the Morgan family got nowhere. I was barely able to get her to agree
to a meeting tomor row morning. I don’t expect much success.”
“As predicted. And the failsafe plan?”
“Auto accident. Have you been following all of the DUI problems around here?” “I’ve noticed a headline or two.”
Webb explained his idea.
“Hmm, sounds feasible. Encode the details and FAX them to me when you have
them. I’ll be in Helsinki.”
“I will.”
“When does the action take place?”
“I’ve got to give tomorrow’s meeting with the woman a chance to succeed. In the
meantime, I’ll be looking for a candidate.”
“Execute as soon as you can after my approval—if you must, that is. We don’t know
what the other side is doing.”
Webb called the Rich’s buyers’ office and learned that, due to the int
ernational aspect of the store’s buying activities, the buyers arrived at a variety of hours. When he had said when he might telephone Ms. Morgan, he was told she arrived at 6:00—but she was currently in the office. Webb hung up. The offices of the Rich’s buyers were located at Perimeter Center. Therefore, the Morgan woman would be driving against whatever early morning traffic there was and so probably wouldn’t leave for her office until 5:30.
The paperwork that had accumu lated on Celia’s desk required most of Monday morning. It was after lunch when she had time to call the Sloan. The University’s faculty directory gave her a number.
Professor Sloan was away from his desk.
“Just tell him Celia Morgan called. I can be reached during the day at...” “Excuse me, Miss Morgan. I’ll find Tom for you right away.”
Celia’s eyebrows rose at the instant change in attitude.
“Miss Morgan, this is Tom Sloan. I appreciate your calling.”
“As you suggested in your cable, Professor.”
“Would it be convenient for you to see me?”
“Well, I’m catching up here at the office after a long trip and trying to get over jet lag.
How about tomorrow evening?”
“What time?”
“Seven.”
“Where should we meet?”
“My house? In Ansley Park. 17 Twopenny Lane.”
“17 Twopenny Lane. I’ll find it.”
Before Celia could hang up, Sloan continued. “Before you go, Miss Morgan, may I
once again suggest you not sign any releases or similar documents that ICP may want you to sign.” “ I think I can remember that, Professor. I’ve had some mini-adventures to tell you about along those lines.”
“Miniadventures? Would you care to tell...?”
“They’ll wait. See you tomorrow evening.”
Late that morning, Tyler handed Sloan a sin gle sheet of paper. “Here’s something for you to consider while we wait—a short history of Joe Earl Harding and ICP.”
Sloan accepted the sheet and began to paraphrase. “On the adversarial side of their relationship, we have the 1966 matter.”
Tyler nodded.
“But after Joe Earl quit that case, he had overt political and financial support from the Company, beginning with his 1968 campaign. The vote in his subsequent elections has become lopsided in his favor.”
“And?”
“And the romance seems to continue to this day.”
“No reason for Harding to be angry with the Company.”
The Dryden Note Page 11
