The Dryden Note

by Henry Hollensbe

  “Let me see!” Seamus shouldered his way between two men bloc king the center two TV monitors. He stared at the right screen. “Dumb son of a bitch! He did what he shouldn’t have done.”

  “What you were sure he wouldn’t do, you mean,” Yang murmured. Hanrahan glared at his lieutenant, then looked back at the screen. “Braked! Right in the middle of the overpass. At sixty-plus miles an hour. You don’t do things like that! What kind of driver is that!”

  “Lucky. Or smart,” Yang murmured. The tractortrailer’s momentum carried it far to the right. The driver had been prepared to hit a heavy vehicle that was no longer there. He began maximum braking, but the lateral momentum proved to be stronger than the brakes. The cab and the trailer loaded with cement blocks, crashed into the retaining wall, then slid forward amid a shower of sparks.

  The driver of the red truck lost control. His momentum carried him across the shoulder and into the retaining wall. He looked for an opportunity to escape, but there was only the rear of the trailer, with its bed level with his eyes.

  The SUV was by then several yards in front of the eighteen wheeler. Sloan and Celia watched the driver struggle to regain control.

  Tyler glanced over his right shoulder. “I don’t think he’s going to make it!”

  “I don’t think he’s going over,” Sloan exclaimed, “but the concrete blocks will.”

  “The traffic under us!” Celia shouted.

  “Did you see Han?” Yang said.

  “No.”

  “Rode under the trailer’s bed. He’s gone.”

  “Where does that leave us?” Mangrum said softly.

  “Bad shape, Chairman. The Explorer is east bound on I285.”

  Mangrum shook his head. “You’re sure that rig can’t be traced to..?” “I’m sure, Walter, very sure.”

  “And what about the goddamn helicopter?”

  Hanrahan smiled. “It was stolen in Birmingham. It’ll be dumped in someone’s

  parking lot.”

  Mangrum didn’t comment.

  “But incriminating equipment is not very high on your list of problems, is it?” “No!” Mangrum screamed. He turned to the desk at his side and pounded his fists.

  “Goddamn! Goddamn! Goddamn!” He looked at Hanrahan, who remained looking at the TV presentation on the nearest monitor. “This is your fault, Hanrahan!” Hanrahan looked at Sam Yang and shook his head. “Pack it up. Tell the troops to disperse. I’ll debrief tomorrow. Nine o’clock.”

  “Wait!” Yang exclaimed. “What about Durham at the hotel. He can still...”

  “No, he’s out of business. A car-jacking on top of this is more than I could ask anyone to believe. Tell him to stand down.”

  “Woody, Power’s Ferry is the next exit.”

  Tyler exited and stopped at the Amoco station.

  “Sorry, but it’s the bathroom for me,” Celia stammered. She struggled with the right

  side door, but couldn’t open it.

  Tyler opened the left side rear door for her. “The other door’s jammed.” “Of course,” she said apologetically.

  He walked around to the right side of the SUV and looked at the damage. He shook

  his hea d, then returned to the driver’s seat.

  “Twentyfive hundred dollars,” he said.

  “Nothing serious, then?”

  “Driveable. And now?”

  “Collect Celia, then on to the Ramada.”

  “Are you in, sir?” Evonne said via the intercom.

  “Depends on who’s calling.”

  “A man trying to report to Seamus, but the switchboard can’t find him.” “Put him through.”

  “Who’s this?” the voice said.

  “Walter Mangrum.”

  “Wow! How’d I get you?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Seamus told me to report and no one can find him and...”

  “What is it?” Mangrum snarled again.

  “My report. From below the overpass. I was supposed to watch for a blue Explorer

  falling off the overpass, then search the car for a letter. And make sure the woman on board was dead.”

  Mangrum didn’t respond.

  “Well, no Explorer fell off the overpass, but a hell of a bunch of cement blocks did. Covered the back half of a bread truck! Loaves of bread and rolls everywhere.” Mangrum again didn’t respond. “Well, what am I supposed to do now?”

  Mangrum replaced his handset and lowered his forehead to his desktop.

  At 4:00 Mangrum descended to the 61st floor and walked to the FAD war-room. The room was empty. He walked along the corridor to Hanrahan’s private office.

  Hanrahan was at his desk, with Yang seated across from him. Neither man stood nor spoke.

  “You men taking the rest of the day off?”

  Hanrahan nodded. “It’s about over.”

  “Maybe. Seamus, I had an interesting call a few minutes ago. A man got me after being unable to reach you.”

  “I’m not taking calls right now.”

  “He said he was under the overpass, waiting to search a Ford Explorer that was supposed to have fallen there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, well, how did your plan go wrong? You said ‘using FAD was like using a cannon to kill a mouse’.”

  “If I had had enough time and been informed as to the quality of the opposition, this would have gone down a different way.”

  Mangrum shook his head again. “What are you going to do?”

  Hanrahan looked at his wristwatch, then said, “Well, as I said, the day’s about over. Sam and I are about ready to head for the saloon. I’ll start off with a cold Bud.” He looked at Yang. “How about you?”

  “Might start with a Tsingtao—show I’m still a homeboy at heart.”

  “Join us, Walter?”

  Seamus watched the transformation. Mangrum grew an inch taller and his chest expanded. His eyes blazed. “Goddamn, Hanrahan, here I am, CEO of one of the most important corporations in the world and I have to listen to a couple of third class thugs invite me for a drink?”

  “Don’t want to come, Walter, don’t come,” Hanrahan chuckled.

  “Argh!” Mangrum bellowed and left the room.

  Chapter 39

  Celia got into the Explorer. “Sorry. I’m not accustomed to quite this much excitement.” She looked at Sloan. “What about those people below?”

  “I’m afraid we won’t know until we see the evening news.” Sloan looked at Tyler and said, “In the meantime, Woodruff, we have a press conference to hold.”

  Tyler made his way back onto I-285 east.

  After a few hundred yards, Celia spoke again. “How did they find us? How did they know where we’d be? I don’t—oh,” she said softly, “the phone call to Mother. Somehow they...”

  “Yes, I think so,” Sloan said gently.

  Tyler nodded.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t see how I could have been so stupid.”

  “Not a problem,” Sloan said. “We didn’t know. We were just taking precautions.”

  “And if it hadn’t been this, it would have doubtless been something else,” Tyler added. “At least we know we survived this one.”

  They rode in silence for a mile, then Tyler spoke. “Thomas, it just occurred to me we’re leaving the scene of an accident.”

  “Our presentation is more pressing.”

  Tyler nodded.

  There was a momentary silence, then Sloan said, “I’d better call Joe Earl.”

  “Joe Earl.” Celia said. “What does he have to do with this?”

  “He should know about what just happened.”

  Celia shook her head.

  Harding took the call immediately.

  Sloan described the attack.

  “Damn!” He paused. “Where are you now?”

  “We’re on I-285, headed to the press conference.”

  “Let me hear how it goes.”

  “I’ll call as soon as I’ve talked
with the police.”

  “Police?”

  “Yes. I have to report the ‘accident’.”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but what can you do from..?”

  “If I can’t handle this little job for you, I shouldn’t be sitting in this chair. Just tell

  Woody if anyone asks, he should remember how distressed he was following the accident.”

  “Delicate fellow.”

  “Exactly. Now, as to the press conference...”

  “We’re running a few minutes late. I hope we can catch the reporters before they leave.”

  “Call the hotel, tell them to start happy hour early. They’ll all be there when you arrive.”

  Tyler parked the Explorer near the entrance to the Ramada Inn/Sandy Springs. “Not many cars.”

  “This is the right hotel?”

  “I’m sure, Tom.”

  There was an easel in the lobby holding a hand-lettered sign:

  MORGAN-ICP PRESS CONFERENCE, JEB STUART ROOM. A man wearing a dark blue suit and a large carnation in his lapel awaited them. Sloan pointed to the sign and said, “We’re here for the conference.”

  “You’re from what organization?” the man said.

  “This is Miss Morgan,” Sloan said.

  “Ah, Ms. Morgan,” he said, “good to have you. And thank you for selecting the

  Ramada Inn/Sandy Springs.” He looked at a schedule. “You have the JEB Stuart Room.”

  “Where is it?” Sloan said.

  The man pointed to a hallway to the right of the desk. “Second door on the right.” Sloan started in that direction.

  “But you have guests in the bar.” The man pointed to a small brass sign.

  REBEL SALOON There was a woman seated on a stool and a man standing beside her —and empty highball glasses in front of both.

  “Are you folks here for a press conference?” Sloan said.The man held out his hand. “Ted Cole, WSPP-TV. Glad you made it,” he chuckled. “Gloria and I were afraid we were going to have to pay for our own drinks.”

  The woman held out her hand. “Gloria Barnes, CNN.”

  “I’m Tom Sloan, this is Celia Morgan—who’s the subject of our presentation today— and Woody Tyler.”

  Sloan looked around the bar. “It’s quiet here now, but let’s move to our own room?”

  “Fine by me,” the man agreed. “But could we..?” He raised his empty glass.

  Sloan nodded. “Another round for our guests, please. We’re in the Stuart Room.”

  “What we’re doing today is announcing the co mpletion of certain negotiations between Walter M. Mangrum, CEO of International Construction Products, and Miss Morgan here. We think you’ll find the terms of those completed negotiations of interest to your audience.”

  Sloan described his and Tyler’s current responsibilities and explained how they had become interested in the Morgan family. Then, doing his best to avoid slander, Sloan explained most of what had happened to Celia’s family, ending with the agreement by the CEO of ICP to make payment under the default provision of the note. “And here,” he said, holding the Letter of Agreement for the reporters to see, is Mr. Mangrum’s letter.”

  The man from WSPPTV raised his hand. “You’re telling us Walter Mangrum has agreed ICP owes Ms. Morgan here sixty-seven million shares of ICP stock? Worth, maybe, two and a half billion dollars?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Both reporters were silent.

  Sloan said, “Questions?”

  The woman from CNN said, “I can’t tell you what’s going through my esteemed

  colleague’s mind, Professor Sloan, but I am flabbergasted. I shudder to think how close I came to not coming this afternoon.” “ What can you tell us about your next move?” the TV reporter said. “Where and when will you—Ms. Morgan, that is—get the stock?”

  “Good question. One of the reasons we have for making this information public is to solicit the aid of suitable counsel. After we discovered the note, we began looking for attorneys to handle...”

  “You didn’t just knock on the door at ICP and ask for the stock?” the CNN woman said, laughing.

  “Ah, no,” Sloan said, “seemed like the wrong approach.

  “Anyway, we couldn’t find any attorneys in Atlanta who wanted to take on the case. We offered a very generous contingency, but no one wanted the job.”

  “What did you offer?” the CNN woman said.

  “We offered one of the firms one percent.”

  “One percent of the stock that you expect to receive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Twentyfive million dollars!”

  “At today’s market value.”

  Both reporters were silent.

  “And that,” Sloan said, “concludes our presentation.”

  Sloan led Celia and Tyler back to the lobby. “Anyone for a drink before we move on? I’m not sure I’m ready for traffic, even with Woodruff at the wheel.”

  “Capital plan,” Tyler agreed.

  “Me, too.”

  When they were seated in the bar, Sloan looked at Celia. “I’m sorry I didn’t work you into the presentation. It was over before I knew it.”

  “You didn’t need me.”

  “A question,” Tyler said. “Why’d you leave out the bad stuff? Two attacks on Celia. Maybe her Grandfather’s death.”

  “I wanted to lay all of that on Mangrum’s doorstep, but it wasn’t the time or the place. And for that matter, there may never be a time and or a place.” Tyler frowned. “I think we’ve accomplished our mission.” Sloan began ticking off points on his hand. “Wally can’t make a move on Celia now. We have the Letter of Agreement and the media knows about it.”

  Celia sighed. “What do you think will happen to the Company now?”

  “ICP’ll be just fine. It’s a strong Company with good management—except for a little trimming needed in the upper branches. Some adjustments in corporate philosophy are indicated, too. But the right CEO can handle all that with little trouble.” “And Mr. Mangrum?”

  “Difficult call. Maybe nothing—maybe a new Board will make him Chairman Emeritus—see he’s placed on some charity boards and allow him to disappear from the scene.”

  “Doesn’t seem quite right,” Tyler said.

  Monica interrupted Harding in yet another meeting on peanut subsidies. “ We only had two attendees—CNN and WSPPTV,” Sloan said, “but they bought the story. I think we can expect some coverage.”

  “Excellent, Professor, excellent.”

  At the 61st floor lobby, Mangrum entered his express elevator, then stared at the increasing numbers.

  The 80th floor was deserted. At the penthouse bar, he poured himself a quadruple shot of whisky, then walked to his balcony’s railing.

  He appeared to be looking at the city’s traffic, but he was preparing for the Board meeting in two days.

  At 5:00 WSPP-TV reported the rumor International Construction Products had agreed to settle the terms of a defaulted note, promising to deliver some sixty-seven million shares of the Company’s common stock to Ms. Celia Morgan, of Atlanta. Ms. Morgan was quoted as hoping to complete the transfer of the subject shares as soon as adequate legal counsel could be secured.

  At 6:00 CNN’s Lou Dobbs Moneyline reported the story in full, but stated ICP management had yet to comment.

  Chapter 40 July 13, Atlanta.

  Television and print reporters were clamoring outside 17 Twopenny Lane at dawn. “I don’t know when I’ll receive the stock,” Celia said, “or what I’ll do with it, but I

  plan to use most of the money in the public good.” She resisted any further speculation, then closed the door.

  ICP common had lost 7 ½ points in international trading by the time trading opened in New York. “Desmond, Ltd.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Desmond is engaged. May I..?” “This is Walter Mangrum. Get him right now!”

  “Walter, why so brusque? Surely you…”

&
nbsp; “Cover my shorts! Do nothing else until you’ve finished.” Mangrum was staring at the airport traffic when McQuade tiptoed into his office. He didn’t turn. “Evonne doesn’t have a mincing step, so it must be you, McQuade. Additional bad news, I assume.”

  “A call from Dudley. He aplogized, but it seems the junior partner in the firm assigned to read the Congressional Record had not connected a report concerning management of the CPS Task Force with us.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Joe Earl has been in charge of this study we’ve been involved in.”

  Mangrum dismissed McQuade with a wave of his arm. “Do? Nothing. I’m not a

  vengeful man. There’s no profit in revenge. It’s history now, Secretary.” Evonne, standing in the open doorway, shook her head, then closed the door. “Monica, I do not give a damn what the travel office says. Delta will find a seat for me—in the front of the airplane—or the office can get ready for some serious unemployment. The ICP Board meeting is Wednesday and I will be in Atlanta.”

  “JE, I don’t…”

  “I will be there and you’re going to be damn sure I am!” Sloan called for Mangrum later that morning.

  “I know you and the Chairman have things to talk about, Professor,” Evonne said, “but he has been explicit. He’s unavailable for telephone calls until after our Board of Directors meeting tomorrow.”

  “What time is the meeting?”

  “At 2:00. And he believes the meeting may require a considerable amount of time.”

  “I’ll call Thursday.”

  Harding called Sloan midmorning. “You’ve seen the headlines?” “Yes. Plus a line on CNN Headline News and Lou Dobbs’ coverage last evening.” “Good work, Professor.”

  “And I have a desktop full of attorney messages to return.”

  “As we expected. We all did our work well.”

  “Yes.”

  “How is Miss Morgan taking it?”

  “She’s ecstatic—but in what I would term a wholesome way.”

  “Cinderella?”

  “Precisely.”

  Sloan paused. “Joe Earl, I have a favor to ask.”

  “Ask.”

  “I wonder if you’d mind Woody overseeing the study for a while—until I can get