George shrugged. He didn’t feel the need to argue. Thurston continued. ‘Actually, we see plenty of possibilities. We centralise all our design work in Oregon and our customised information systems have the potential to shave costs from your marketing, purchasing, and financial units. Then there’s the advantages of centralised purchasing, our financing costs are way lower than yours - I guess your British banks must be greedy, right? - and, oh, a lot of things.’
He stopped short abruptly. His evangelical fervour had carried him further than he had intended. If Thurston thought Gissings’ potential was as great as all that, then logically Oregon Furniture should be willing to pay top dollar for it. ‘Of course, there are negatives too,’ he added, ‘but we prefer to dwell on the positive.’
‘Would you anticipate a lot of lay-offs?’ asked George.
‘Well, George, we can’t be sure of anything until we’ve put our own people in here and developed a business plan. But remember that our aim is to build a Europeanscale business here. Gissings would only be a first step in a· much broader vision. And, in any case, we will always protect the employment rights of every employee.’
‘We’re proud of our record on employee empowerment,’ chimed O’Shea. ‘Our mission statement draws attention to that.’
That was true. But the story told by the annual reports and the press clippings and all of the other documents that had landed on George’s lap in the pub left no room for doubt. Oregon took over smaller companies. It taught them how to do things the Oregon way, then fired everyone who was no longer needed. Much as George wanted to believe that things would be different, he knew he wasn’t handing the company over to a bunch of sweet-natured philanthropists. And the Gissings name would go, of course. His last obligation to old Tom Gissing would be violated.
‘Are you going to make me an offer, then?’ asked George.
‘Well, George, we can’t commit to that right here. We’ll have to defend any recommendation of ours at our monthly strategy committee, which usually throws it back at us with a whole bunch of questions. Right, Kelly?’
‘Right. We have to present a rigorous business plan, which they’ll do their best to beat up on. It’s a very thorough procedure.’
‘But that means that you will be putting forward a recommendation?’
Thurston was taken aback by George’s bluntness.
‘We haven’t discussed price, yet, George. Or terms and conditions. I guess if we get a provisional go-ahead by the committee, we’ll be back with our legal team and see if we can negotiate ourselves a deal. If we manage to reach agreement with you - and let me be up-front with you, George, we can be pretty tough; tough but fair - then we’ll put forward a recommendation. If we get the committee’s final say-so, then we can close the deal.’
‘How long does all that take?’
‘Well, if you give us everything we ask for, we can move pretty fast, right, Kelly?’ Thurston laughed excessively at his own joke. O’Shea smiled and nodded. Her smile could have sold toothpaste to the toothless, but George’s knees were immune. Maybe he’d gone off pretty women. Thurston continued, ‘But if you insist on negotiating, George, then I’d say the whole process would last around four months.’
‘That’s too long.’ George took out two copies of a document from his desk drawer. It was a contract for the sale of Gissings drawn up by a local solicitor, the same one who had drafted the contract when George had bought the place. This time, the contract was drawn up to be one-sided in favour of the seller. ‘Here’s a contract. There are two blanks in it. One is for the date. One is for the amount you guys are paying. You can have a good read of this contract, take it to as many committees as you wish, then send it back to me. You can make changes if you want to, but if I don’t like them, I won’t sign. You can put in whatever purchase price you want, but if I don’t like it, I won’t sign. There’s not going to be any negotiation. You just have to name your best price and see if I like it. You won’t get a second chance.
‘That’s one thing. The other’s this. The business has to be sold by July the thirteenth. That’s when I need your cash in my bank account. If there’s any delay, even a day or an hour, then we don’t have a deal. That gives you a full three months, so I can’t see you having any problem. Do I make myself clear?’
Thurston picked up the contract uncertainly. They didn’t teach this kind of negotiation in business school.
‘You’re very clear, George, but I’m not sure that the process you’ve outlined is going to lead to an optimal issue resolution matrix. There are some pretty complex issues to think about here.’
‘That’s fine. You do your best. But if you can’t meet my deadline, then I swear to you we don’t have a deal.’
‘You must really want the money on that date, George. What’s happening? Want to put the money on a horse race?’
‘Maybe.’
Thurston remained uncertain. He looked at O’Shea for help, but she didn’t understand what was going on either.
‘Help me out here, George. Any clues what price you’re looking for?’
‘Oh, I know what price I’m looking for,’ said George, tapping a sealed white envelope on his desk. ‘It’s in here. And if you’re even one penny lower, or if your lawyers start playing games with the contract, then it’s no deal. Am I clear?’
Thurston nodded. ‘Couldn’t be clearer,’ he said. There didn’t seem to be much point in hanging around to make conversation, so Thurston and O’Shea gathered themselves up to go. Thurston tucked his papers into his briefcase, O’Shea closed up her laptop and tucked her phone back into the pocket of her ridiculous boiler suit. A tag from the store where she’d bought it still hung from the collar. They stood ready to leave.
‘Great to see you again, George.’
‘Yes. It’s been a great pleasure to see your facility here. We’ve been most impressed.’
Thurston’s iron handshake, O’Shea’s cooling clasp.
‘Thanks for coming. I suppose I’ll be hearing from you.’
Thurston’s eyes strayed one last time to the white envelope on George’s desk. ‘You don’t want me to post that letter for you, George? Huh? Ha, ha.’
Thurston’s nervous laughter and O’Shea’s brilliant smile walked off down the hall. George watched from the upstairs window as they made their way out into the yard, took one last look around and drove off in their hired sports car. Gravel spurted from its tyres as it accelerated away from the factory gates. George wondered whether he’d put them off for ever by his unconventional negotiating stance, but he wasn’t sure he cared. He’d miss Gissings.
A clatter of footsteps on the stairs and Darren’s noisy panting recalled him to reality.
‘Who the friggin’ hell were they? They were unreal. We tried to have a poke round in their car, but it was alarmed and we couldn’t see anything lying about anyway.’
‘They were surveyors.’
‘Yeah, well if they were surveyors then I’m the bleeding King of Spain, I am. But don’t worry, I’ll grab Val when she gets back and get her to dish the dirt. You’re not keeping secrets from me, Georgie.’
‘We’ll see about that, your highness.’
7
The first two dials were locked into position and Matthew stepped forward. A month had passed since he’d first come here. This was the first day of his second spell on vault duty, and his last chance to do as Belial had suggested.
He rotated the dial quickly to begin with, then let it slow as the first number of the combination moved into sight. He found the right number and twirled the dial back the other way. Inside the steel door, an oiled drum moved round, counting off the numbers.
Matthew found the last number and locked the dial into position. Overhead, a camera watched him do it and sent the silent pictures upstairs to be recorded and stored. The security guard put his hand to the wheel and began to open the door. Wind howled for a moment as the pressure equalised, then the gale subsided. The vault fell s
ilent. They walked in.
Matthew had two rubber bands round the ankle of his left leg and a plan in his head, but he didn’t know if he was going to put his plan into action. He’d recently escaped a jail sentence for insider trading at the cost of half a million pounds. Only a lunatic would try to burgle the safest bank vault in England. Was Matthew a lunatic? He didn’t yet know.
The party of three walked round the vaults. The bullion sat in the bullion vault, as precious and as lifeless as ever. The offices just looked like offices. The circular saw on the cutting table was sheathed and silent, but a shower of paper dust hadn’t been cleaned up from the day before, and the Air France calendar had been turned forward to the right month. Cameras watched as the three of them inspected.
They went into the Eurobond vault. The Eurobond vault is more alive than the bullion vault. Gold is eternal. Gold doesn’t pay interest and doesn’t get repaid. Gold could sit in the vaults at Madison for ever, while a million owners bought and sold, won and lost, made their fortunes or ruined them. Eurobonds aren’t like that. Coupons need to be cut. Interest must be claimed. The bonds need to be repaid and the certificates destroyed before companies borrow again to stock the vaults with new bundles of their invaluable paper.
Every day, the bond vault looked a little different, as bonds were taken out, coupons trimmed, old bonds destroyed, new ones filed. As they entered, Matthew looked round to locate the librarian’s trolley. The trolley was in the centre of one of the aisles furthest from the two cameras that Matthew could see. There could well be others. He mustn’t make assumptions. But it was a nice start. Better still, the trolley looked well stocked.
The three men walked round the room, looking for anything amiss. The neon light which had flickered a month ago, still flickered. It was irritating but irrelevant. On their way back towards the door, Matthew let the security guards walk down aisle T-U. He took the slightly longer route down aisle V-Z. The librarian’s trolley was in the middle of the aisle.
When he got to the trolley, he stooped down. His right shoelace had come loose. It was loose because Matthew had loosened it. He knelt down to tie it, leaving the shin of his left leg at about forty-five degrees to the floor. His trouser leg hung open about eight inches from the trolley. Round his ankle, the rubber bands squeezed his leg. ‘Will you or won’t you?’ they asked. ‘Dare you or daren’t you?’
Positioned as he was, Matthew could see the ventilation grille he had noticed the month before. It was still loose.
‘Hey,’ he called. ‘Is that grille meant to be loose over there?’
Matthew pointed. The guard bent down.
‘Doesn’t look like much,’ he said grumpily, and straightened again.
The policeman had a look too. He bent down, then got down on his hands and knees to get a better look.
The security guard hesitated, then knelt down too.
It was just a loose grille. It wasn’t a tunnel. But still. The coppers from ValCom looked down on security guards. Thought they weren’t fully trained. Not real professionals. That’s what they thought. The security guard lay on his belly and pulled himself underneath the rack to get at the grille. Not to be outdone, the policeman pulled out a pocket torch from his trouser pocket and got down too. The rubber bands cut into Matthew’s leg, and sang their question again. ‘Dare you or daren’t you?’
His head didn’t know, but his hands replied.
The middle shelf of the trolley contained a few bundles of miscellaneous bonds. Matthew’s hands skimmed over the bundles taking just a few papers from each one. He was almost perfectly silent. Over the past four weeks he had spent an hour practising every night. First with the lights on. Then with the lights off. He had taped himself and timed himself. He was very fast and very silent.
He had about twenty or thirty sheets of paper in his hand. The policeman was pulling himself out from underneath the rack. It was only a dodgy grille. Something for the maintenance men to look at. Nothing for a copper to worry about. Typical overreaction from the security people. The policeman began to stand up.
Matthew had the sheets of paper inside his left trouser leg. He pulled up the first rubber band over the bonds to mid-calf height. They sat snugly against his leg like a shinpad. He tried to get the second rubber band over the bonds as well, but fluffed the first attempt and decided against trying twice. He pulled his sock up over the bonds and straightened up.
His left trouser leg fell cleanly to the floor. It looked just the same as his other trouser leg. The policeman was standing, waiting, by the door of the vault. The security guard was calling from a wall phone to the control room to report the ventilation grille. The control room sounded bored. Matthew followed the guard and policeman out of the vault.
As they walked back the way they had come, Matthew excused himself and nipped into the loos. He closed the door and checked the ceiling for cameras. No sign of any, but it was foolish to take chances. He went into the urinal and peed. He had drunk a litre and a half of water before leaving the house that morning and now the water was dying to come out. It was a long pee.
Probably long enough, thought Matthew. The vaultuser identification chamber weighed him on entering and leaving the vault. He didn’t even want to be one gram heavier on his way out than on his way in. People don’t get heavier for no reason. People get heavier because they’re taking things they shouldn’t. But if he came out lighter than he went in - well, that could hardly arouse suspicion.
Matthew felt the rubber band slipping a bit. He thought about securing both bands properly round the bonds but decided against it. In the vaults, there were likely to be cameras everywhere. He might have evaded observation first time round, but there was no reason to chance it twice. He washed his hands and left the john.
The policeman, the security guard and Matthew, the thief, left the vaults.
With every step, the bonds inside Matthew’s trouser leg pressed against the rubber band and complained. Matthew’s sock loosened and the rubber band slipped a bit further down his leg.
Matthew thought of stopping to pull up his sock, but he’d already stopped twice. Once to do up a shoelace and once to go to the john. A third time would look excessive. If he’d wanted to adjust anything, he should have done it in the loo.
They walked on. They came to the lift, which was still there, Level Minus 4, waiting. They got in. As Matthew stepped in, he bent his knee just a little too much, and the rubber band pinged down his leg. The bonds collapsed forwards. They were still held securely at the bottom, but at the top a semicircle of accusation had formed below his left knee. A ring of paper, pressing through his trouser leg, calling him to jail.
Matthew froze.
The guard called the control room, needing authority to rise again to ground level. The intercom blinked on and off. The control room checked the video picture and the voice and released the lift. The huge lift slowly, slowly began to climb. In the ceiling, the inevitable cam era blinked on and off, on and off, watching Matthew, watching his rising perspiration. One day they’d invent one which could see fear itself.
The guard and the policeman paid no attention. They leaned against the steel walls and chatted. The head of security in every bank is an ex-copper. The job is dull compared with the thrill of the force, but the pay is double or treble. When you’re passed over for that final career-completing promotion, you start to think about the private sector. You take the money, but your heart stays with the force.
The policeman knew that. He wasn’t yet senior enough to worry, but it was a rule amongst the ValCom policemen to cultivate their contacts at the banks. You never knew when you might want them.
The lift climbed, and Matthew fought to come to a decision. Risk tucking the bonds in again, three feet away from two pairs of eyes and right underneath a security camera? And a camera which the control room might still be actively monitoring, for all Matthew knew. Or risk walking out of the lift, the paper ring begging for him to be arrested?
&nbs
p; In the end, it was no contest. Wise or not, Matthew couldn’t stand the suspense of walking out of the lift, with the evidence pressing forward out of his trouser leg. Hi. I’m a thief. Spot the deliberate mistake. It’s a fair cop, guv. Did people really say that? What would Matthew say?
He bent down, hitched up his trouser leg and rolled the rubber band tightly up his shin again.
If the copper or the guard had turned, Matthew would have had years of leisure to repent his decision. But they didn’t. They went on chatting.
The lift stopped. The guard requested authority to open the doors. There was a delay.
Was it that they were even now deploying a ring of guards around the lift doors, ready to pounce? Or was it that the chap in the control room had left the monitor, gone away for a pee, while Matthew’s crime revealed itself on screen in glorious Technicolor?
The intercom clicked on. An unseen hand released the doors. The doors slid open.
No ring of guards. No accusers. Freedom.
‘See you guys this evening,’ grunted Matthew and walked carefully away.
8
In a mahogany-panelled boardroom on the fortieth floor of a Wall Street skyscraper, the Chairman of Weinstein Lukes - Seth Weinstein III - calls the meeting to order. It is afternoon. The great men have eaten lunch: a light meal of smoked trout followed by grilled chicken and green salad. No wine was served, and for pudding only fruit. Beyond the double doors, a pair of secretaries wait in silence, their task to prevent interruptions. Multi billion dollar deals may hang in the balance. Financial markets may totter and crash. But the rule is final and absolute. The committee is not to be disturbed.
‘Gentlemen, let us move to our next candidate. Please take out your papers for a Mr Zachary Gradley, known as Zack, head of tax in our London office. As you can see from your papers, Mr Gradley is twenty-nine years of age. He has been with the firm for two and a half years. He is currently a vice president only, but it is proposed that he should skip right over the senior vice president bracket and be entered on our roster of partners.’
The Money Makers Page 51
