The Dryden Note

by Henry Hollensbe

  “ICP wants to settle its relationship with your family. One million dollars has been bandied about as what the Company is willing to pay for your signature.” He hesitated. “Perhaps you could call this Webb and ask what his top dollar is, but...”

  “I’d rather not talk to that man ever again.”

  “Well, there’s something you have to consider.”

  “Which is?”

  “What the Company’s strategy will be if you refuse to sign.”

  Celia stared at Sloan, shaking her head. “I’ve had about as much fun this evening as I can stand, Professor.”

  Sloan stood. “I understand. I’ll let myself out.”

  He was closing the door when Celia called to him. “I don’t know what more I can ask of you, but perhaps you could call me tomorrow? At the store?”

  “I will,” Sloan said and closed the door.

  Chapter 23

  June 30, Atlanta. Webb spent the day researching Roscoe Deere’s habits. The man was a patron of The Spotted Dog, a neighborhood saloon near an industrial park in Cobb County. Webb called the bartender, who assured him Deere would arrive not later than five.

  At 4:30 Webb and Fred Hopkins, assigned for the evening from DAD, took the two barstools furthest from the bar’s entrance, and began sipping draft beer. At five a man who answered Deere’s descriptio n entered and took a stool at the center of the bar. A mixed group of older men and women in dresses of another day soon took the barstools on either side of him. Scotch whisky flowed.

  At midnight the group began leaving. Webb and Hopkins watched Deere drive away in a 1989 Buick. Sloan’s call to Harding the next morning was connected immediately. “I think you should hear about my visit with Ms. Morgan last night.” “Please.”

  Sloan described what he had learned.

  “Incredible.” He paused. “So, what’s next?”

  “Neither of us could think of a next move. There may be a lot of money on the table

  for her, but I think ICP has the ball.” After sending his return FAX to Webb, Mangrum said the ICP Atlanta operator for McQuade.

  “Helsinki’s cold, too, but at least they have heat here. I can’t tell you how pleased I was to be off the ground at St. Pete. We had to scramble for jet fuel. If I hadn’t been Yeltsin’s personal guest, we’d still be on the parking apron at Pulkovo.” He paused. “Now, to business. I’ve reviewed Stan’s plan. We’ll go with it.”

  “When will he act?”

  “Friday morning. Call him for details.”

  “OK.”

  “Let me hear. I’ll be in London Friday morning—in the office by 6:00, your time.”

  “Monica!” Harding yelled. “Get me Geoff Nester. Right now.” “The flashing light,” she yelled.

  “Geoff, it’s Joe Earl. Ready?”

  “No.”

  “No? I thought that...”

  “Steady. I just have to take the final two steps. I wanted to make sure you were

  serious before I spent a lot of your money on a couple of chemicals.”

  “Go. When can you ship?”

  “Late this afternoon.”

  “OK, ship it FedEx to my Georgia office. I’ll put Monica on for the shipping

  information.” July 1, Marietta, Georgia. Sloan stood in front of Bea’s desk, frowning. “You look pensive, Tom.”

  “Your findings regarding Joe Earl's voting record were enlightening. How about

  doing a bit of additional research?”

  She nodded.

  “Let's find out what we can about his climb to power. How he became Chairman of

  his committee and how long it took him.”

  “OK.”

  Sloan stared into the distance. “Hmm. More. Is he satisfied with his chairmanship?

  Has he shown any interest in higher positions?”

  “Majority Leader?”

  “Even Speaker.” Sloan paused. “I know this is a rather amorphous request, but

  you've undertaken worse.

  She nodded. “When do you want this?”

  “ASAP.”

  Chapter 24

  Webb and Hopkins arrived at The Spotted Dog at 9:00. Hopkins waited at the old Buick, while Webb found an empty barstool near where Deere was presiding. He ordered a round of drinks and then introduced himself.

  “Saw you in here last night, didn’t I?” Evan said. “ Sure did. Trying to do some business with a fellow in the neighborhood and we sealed the deal right here in the Dog.”

  “Good for you.”

  After two hours of buying drinks for Deere and his cronies, Webb proposed they move to another bar he knew in Midtown. Deere agreed to accompany the man who was buying the whisky.

  Deere managed to reach the driver’s seat, but passed out before he could start the engine. Hopkins filled a syringe and injected the contents into the web between Deere’s left ring and middle fingers. He shifted the limp body onto the passenger’s side of the Buick’s front seat.

  Webb, in his rental car, led Hopkins to the south entrance to Twopenny Lane. There were no streetlights, but he could make out the lighter-colored mass of the Morgan woman’s Mazda parked in front of Number 17. Hopkins parked the Buick fifty yards short of the Miata.

  Using a parallel street, Webb drove the rental car to the other end of Twopenny Lane, turned it around, and parked fifty yards beyond Number 17.

  He returned in the darkness to the Buick, dismissed Hopkins, and took the driver’s seat. His wristwatch alarm was set for 5:15.

  July 2, Atlanta.

  At 5:15 Webb opened his eyes. There was an unpleasant odor. He wondered if

  Deere had died and his sphincters released, but he found a pulse.

  At 5:31 Webb looked at his watch again. There was a flare of light at the doorway of number 17.

  Webb started the engine. He put the transmission in ‘D’, but held the Buick in place with the brake. He had plenty of time; she still had to walk around the car to the driver’s side. He would hit her just as she entered. The right-front fender of the Buick would crush her body at the juncture of the door and the doorframe.

  As he was about to release the brake, he was shocked to see what he had been unable to see in the darkness: the car was parked headed in the wrong direction; it was facing toward him. She was going to open the door on the curbside.

  He would have to drive over the curb and straddle the sidewalk. Her body would be crushed between the door and the frame.

  Celia was opening the Mazda’s door when she heard the Buick’s engine roar.

  Webb accelerated, but he was late. If she got inside, damage at this low speed would be minimal.

  He jerked the steering wheel to the right. The car lurched over the curb. Celia stared at the oncoming car.

  The jolt resulting from the climb over the curb threw the old man’s body against Webb’s right arm, forcing it down. The heavy car lurched father to the right. Webb shoved the body away from him and straightened the car’s course.

  Celia stood behind the Mazda’s door, transfixed.

  He was too far to his right. The heavy car continued to accelerate. Webb jerked the steering wheel. He was back on track for the Miata’s door.

  Celia came to her senses. She saw the driver’s face.

  She pivoted and dove headfirst toward the front door steps. The big sedan hit the Mazda’s open door, smashed it closed, and rolled on.

  Celia’s head struck the first step. She collapsed, unconscious.

  Webb struggled to return the Buick to the street, but hit a ten-inch pine. The steering wheel compressed his solar plexus; he gasped for breath.

  He looked at Deere. The plan had been to stop the car after the impact with the woman, then pull the stilllimp body under the steering wheel, but Deere’s body had struck the windshield, penetrating the glass. Bright red blood pulsed from a severed carotid artery.

  Webb tried to open the driver’s side door, then scrambled into the back, opened the right-side rear door, and stumbled on
to the lawn.

  Cynthia had heard the Buick’s roar and opened the front door in time to hear the car hit the pine. She stepped outside, stared at the wreck, and then saw the body on the ground in front of her.

  She raised her niece’s head. Celia’s eyes fluttered. She gently laid the head back on the concrete, then hurried into the house and called 911. After describing her niece’s location and condition, she went to her bedroom and fell asleep.

  Nine minutes after Cynthia’s call, a police car arrived, followed by an ambulance. The emergency medical technicians waited for the police to determine the situation. The police officer was about to knock on the door when he saw Celia’s body. He motioned the EMTs forward.

  The ambulance driver did a preliminary examination, while the policeman watched. “Unconscious, but her vitals are strong.”

  Doesn’t look like much to me,” the driver said. “Bumped head.”

  The EMTs were bringing a stretcher as the policeman knocked on the door. There was no answer. He tried the door. Locked. He turned around and found a group of concerned neighbors. “Anyone know who this is?”

  A small, slender man in pajamas and a bathrobe stepped forward. “Is she dead?”

  “No.”

  The man stepped farther forward. “Sure, that’s Celia Morgan. Prettiest woman in seven states.”

  “She live here?” the policeman said.

  “Yes, with her Aunt Cynthia.”

  The policeman took a small black notebook from his pocket. “Celia Morgan.”

  “That’s right.”

  The policeman finished writing and looked at the growing group. “OK, who called 911?”

  No one answered.

  “She sure didn’t call,” the policeman said. “And there doesn’t seem to be anyone at home. So who called?”

  There was no response.

  “Officer, I don’t want to tell you what to do,” an older woman in a pink housecoat said, “but I think you have more pressing business.” She pointed at the old Buick.

  The ambulance driver engaged his siren and flashers and drove away as quickly as the Ansley Park streets allowed.

  After the ambulance had passed, the driver of a Volkswagen parked to the rear of Webb’s original position opened a cell phone and called McQuade.

  “He missed, but the subject apparently injured herself getting out of the way. An ambulance just departed in a hurry. I assume she’s alive.”

  McQuade sighed. “Any idea where they were taking her?”

  “‘Central North Hospital’ was printed on the ambulance’s side.”

  “OK. What happened to our man?”

  “Disappeared.”

  “Is Administrator Potter available?” Mc Quade said.

  “I’ll see, sir. Whom shall I say is calling.”

  “Daniel McQuade. He’ll know the name.”

  No more than a minute passed before a breathless Douglas Potter answered. “Dan,

  I’m pleased you called. I hope this call means Walter is willing...”

  “Yes, Doug, we’re in for the usual, but that’s not why I called.”

  “Wonderful. The Board will be...”

  “Doug!” McQuade exclaimed.

  “Uh, OK. What can I do for you?”

  “I understand an accident victim is on the way to your emergency room. Maybe

  already arrived. A woman who...”

  “What’s your interest?”

  “She may be a friend of Walter’s and...”

  “What do you need?”

  “We’d just like to know if she’s OK.”

  “Where’s she coming in from?”

  “Ansley area—if it’s Walter’s friend. An accident victim. Within the last half hour.”

  Ten minutes later McQuade’s direct line rang. “McQuade.”

  “Doug, Dan. Woman’s name is Celia Morgan. Is that Walter’s friend?” “An acquaintance, actually, but, yes.”

  “OK. No problem. Bump on her head. Maybe a light concussion. Conscious now.

  Nothing serious. We’re going to watch her awhile. Probably release her late afternoon.” “That’s good news, Doug.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, that’s it.”

  “Give Walter our thanks for...” Potter heard the line go dead.

  Mangrum was alone in the Managing Director’s off ice when the London receptionist informed McQuade was calling.

  Mangrum looked at the computer screen; the telephone call was being encrypted.

  “Daniel!” The Chairman was jovial. “Tell me this mess is behind us.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Goddamn it! What happened?”

  “He missed.”

  “Police?”

  “And an ambulance.”

  “Ambulance?”

  “The subject was injured.”

  “How bad?”

  “Nothing serious. At Central North now, but due to be released this afternoon.”

  “But our man got away?”

  “So my man said.”

  “Will the subject be aware it was an attempt?”

  “Probably.”

  “Our man recognized?”

  “We have to assume so.”

  “OK, let’s think. We can’t make an additional move—anything new, including a bolt of lightning or a flood of the Chattahoochee, would be hung on us. Goddamn it!”

  McQuade waited.

  “Would your plan have been better?”

  McQuade hesitated. “Yes, but I can’t recommend it now.”

  “OK.” Mangrum hesitated. “Well, let’s give it some thought.”

  McQuade held his sigh of relief until the connection was broken.

  Chapter 25

  Mangrum stared at the London streets far below, then called Desmond, Ltd. “Implement the plan. Sell as much as you can here and across the Channel. Do most of your borrowing in New York.”

  “I understand. You may depend on me.”

  “I am doing exactly that, Ian. And you know how I feel about errors, do you not?” “I’ve heard.”

  Mangrum next telephoned his secretary. “There should be a FAX from me in your machine. Send the message ASAP to the list of attendees at the Rio sales meeting. Call me when they’ve all gone.”

  Facsimile Xmission from International Construction Products DATE: July 2, 1999

  FROM: Walter M. Mangrum

  TO: Distribution list

  SUBJECT: November, 1999, ICP stock offering CLASSIFICATION: ICP confidential

  Relative to my telephone call to you in mid-May regarding our November offering of our shares, be advised we will discuss the matter in depth at our up-coming sales meeting in Sydney. /s/Walter M. Mangrum,

  Chairman and CEO,

  International Construction Products

  “If there’s no answer at my mother’s house, call Professor Sloan. At Georgia Tech. Thomas Sloan”

  “He’s next of kin?”

  “No. He’s my—he’s my fiancée.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Morgan. Doctor’s orders. Now, rest.”

  The knock on the door brought Rose Waldron out of her afternoon nap. “Come in.”

  A uniformed Federal Express driver extended a FedEx envelope to her. Rose opened the FedEx envelope. There was another envelope. She wrinkled her

  nose; the envelope smelled musty and old. At 4:00 the nurse returned, a clipboard in her hand. She handed it and a pen to Celia. “I can go?”

  “Yes.”

  She went to a telephone, but there was still no answer at her mother’s home. Celia tried Sloan’s office.

  “Tom, please,” Celia said before Bea could answer.

  Sloan answered a moment later. “Celia! Hello! To what do I owe this...?” “Webb tried to run me down! I’m at Central North Hospital. Room 1146. Can you

  come for me?”

  “Leaving now!” Sloan doubleparked his Porsche at the hospital’s entrance. He studied the floor layout diagram. He knocked on the door mar
ked 1146, then opened it. Celia launched her body into his arms. The surprise assault almost toppled him.

  He put his arms around her and patted her back.

  It was a long moment before Celia released him. She grasped his hands, took a half step back, and looked into his face. There were tears in her eyes. “It was terrible. The sound of that old car coming toward me. Then the look on Webb’s face.”

  “Webb!”

  “Yes.”

  Sloan shook his head. “How are you?” He touched the scratches on her forehead and chin.

  “Just a bump on the head. They put some dressing on my face. I’m fine— physically.”

  “And mentally?”

  “I’ll have to let you know.” She stepped forward, embraced him again, and left her cheek resting on his shoulder.

  “I dislike pressing you, but...”

  She disengaged her arms, stepped back in order to see his face, and recounted what he could remember about the attack.

  “The police have been here?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “I told them what I’ve just told you.”

  “What about Webb?”

  “I described him and told the sergeant he worked for ICP. They said they’d look for him.”

  It was after four-thirty when Rose Waldron found Sloan’s office at Georgia Tech. “I don’t know where he is,” Bea explained. “He took a call about half an hour ago and ran out of here like he was possessed.”

  “Hmm. I need to see him. Just for a moment.”

  “Sorry.” Bea shrugged. “His associate, Woody Tyler, is here. Perhaps he could help.”

  “Oh, sure. I know who Mr. Tyler is.”

  “Wooodeee!” Bea yelled.

  Tyler appeared at Bea’s desk.

  “This lady is here to see Tom. I thought you might be able to help her.” “Woody Tyler,” he said. “I’m an associate of Professor Sloan’s.”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Tyler. I’m Rose Waldron—from Joe Earl Harding’s Decatur office.”

  “Of course, Ms. Waldron. Nice to meet you. What can I do for you?”

  “Will you please give this to Professor Sloan?” She handed a manila envelope to Tyler. “I’m sorry to have delayed getting this to him.”

  “Delayed?”

  “Yes. It turns out I’ve had this envelope in the office for thirty-three years. It was out of the Will Morgan file folder. Ever since Joe Earl said me to FAX the contents of the Morgan file to Professor Sloan, I’ve kept thinking about it and I knew there were three items. I only found two, which I FAXed to the Professor. This morning I decided to look through the adjoining files and there, two files in front of ‘Morgan, William’, I found the envelope in ‘Mansfield, Heloise’.”