“I’m suggesting that shareholders might justifiably expect it as a return upon their money,” said Snaith. “For a nine-month period, uncompounded, that would represent £71,437.”
“This is outrageous!” said Buckland.
“So is using public money for private purposes,” said Faysel.
“I think it would be wrong for this meeting to degenerate into unpleasantness,” said Gore-Pelham. He looked worriedly to Condway and Penhardy for support.
“Hear, hear,” said Penhardy, lapsing into the parliamentary cliché.
“Without interest payment in full, I would not be able to support any backdated minute,” said Snaith. “Nor would I be able to let it pass unnoticed through any shareholders’ meeting.”
“Nor would I,” said Faysel. “The investment fund for which I am responsible has £3,000,000 entrusted in this company.”
“I accept an interest payment of £71,437,” said Buckland. His voice was brittle.
“Move the vote,” said Gore-Pelham. “I think we all accept a misunderstanding has arisen: there’s no point in embarrassing the chairman further.”
Prince Faysel, Snaith and Smallwood were the last to raise their hands.
“This meeting has gone on longer than usual,” said Buckland. “I think we might have to forego the customary luncheon.”
“It would have been difficult for me to have attended anyway,” said Snaith.
“Me too,” said Faysel.
Bastards, thought Buckland: let them go and eat their hamburgers and chips elsewhere.
Senator Warren Jeplow moved familiarly through the reception crush in the White House East Room, acknowledging the greetings and the nods of respect. It was respect, he knew. Respect and recognition. From the administration and the cabinet and even from the President himself. Perhaps particularly from the President. The President knew, like the campaign managers knew, that without the influence of Warren Jeplow New York wouldn’t have been so solid in the last election. Or California. The big states, with the highest percentage of electoral votes. It was proper that there should be recognition, Jeplow decided; he was a kingmaker in a country which didn’t have kings.
The Saudi ambassador had been manoeuvred near the window leading out on to the lawns, exactly as he’d been told to expect. The Secretary of State, Edward Bell, gestured and Jeplow feigned surprise, moving into the group. There were perfunctory and unnecessary introductions, because Jeplow knew the Arab from previous receptions, as well as from social gatherings of the Foreign Relations Committee. Jeplow considered it perfectly rehearsed; almost choreographed. The conversation continued but gradually the State Department people moved away, no one making it appear obvious, until finally there was only the Arab and one or two other Saudis forming part of the group.
Jeplow said, “We’re always interested, on the Foreign Relations Committee, in how other countries regard the current administration.”
“I think we’ve made our attitude abundantly clear, during the period of office,” said the ambassador diplomatically.
“We regard Saudi Arabia as a friend,” said Jeplow.
“We regard the United States of America as a friend,” said the Arab.
“It’s important that the friendship continues,” said Jeplow.
“Vitally important,” agreed the diplomat, waiting for the approach.
“Sometimes we wonder if the friendship could not be improved,” said Jeplow.
“I’m sure my country would be interested in achieving an improvement, if one were possible,” said the Arab.
“There are some domestic problems of concern to the government,” said Jeplow.
“I’m sorry to hear of them.”
“Energy costs, particularly. It’s contributing greatly to our recession.”
“Saudi Arabia has always regarded itself as a moderating voice against oil price increases,” said the ambassador.
“For which we are grateful and which we recognize,” agreed Jeplow. “Unfortunately there are other oil producers with less responsibility than yourselves.”
“We do our best to achieve a unified attitude,” said the Arab.
“We feel that security creates a situation where price increases can be demanded automatically at every meeting of the oilproducing countries,” said Jeplow.
“Oil is a scarce commodity.”
“Not for Saudi Arabia,” said Jeplow. “It could afford to overproduce for a limited period.”
“To what purpose?”
“To teach the less responsible producers that high prices are not automatic.” Jeplow paused. “I know there would be fitting gratitude for such an attitude.”
For the first time the ambassador frowned, at the sudden directness. “What sort of gratitude?” he demanded, matching it.
“There is an agreement to supply thirty aircraft to Israel in the next six months,” said Jeplow.
“We’re aware of your arms commitment,” said the Arab.
“It’s no secret that the President is concerned at the belligerent attitude currently being shown by Israel,” said Jeplow.
“I don’t recall any recent protest,” said the ambassador.
“The thought is to make it more than a verbal objection.”
“Practical, you mean?”
“It could easily become practical, yes,” agreed Jeplow.
The ambassador paused. “I’ve enjoyed our talk, senator.”
“So have I, Excellency.”
“It is essential for friends to understand each other.”
“Essential,” agreed Jeplow. He was used to being an emissary, where direct government involvement might be embarrassing. He’d acted for administrations other than this one. Sometimes kingmaker and sometimes puppet-master, he thought. He enjoyed either role. That was why the Texas development was important: he didn’t want to lose the power. Rudd would have to be taught a lesson, though. Jeplow had had to make all the concessions and he didn’t like that.
Morrison colour-coded and indexed the report which Rudd had made after his Washington visit, and carefully filed it. Sighing, he went to the study window, staring out over the Common. His house was one of the oldest and best preserved on Beacon Hill, with the purple glass windows which had been the result of a defective batch of glazing but which now marked as original the houses which had it; the mauvish tint made the park look dark, like the last few moments before a storm. There hadn’t been anything to storm about on what Rudd had proposed. Or at any other meeting, stretching back for years. Rudd had been lucky, Morrison decided. Efficient and clever and a good businessman, but still lucky. It couldn’t last. After so long there had to be a mistake and, when it came, Morrison would be ready for it. He had to be ready for it; he’d waited too long and too patiently for it to slip by.
4
Rudd had never before been to Bunch’s Connecticut estate and was surprised at its size. The house was four-storeyed and colonial-styled, white-fronted and with doric columns facing out on to a sweeping gravel drive that wound half a mile from the road through fir and rhododendron. There was a tennis court at the side of the house and the pool led off the rear patio where the barbecue pit was built. The grounds were roughly landscaped, some areas of tended grass but other parts allowed to grow wild. Yellow gorse and some blue flowers he didn’t know the name of flared out.
Rudd, in his stiff new Levis, sat at a canopied table, drinking Budweizer from the can. The lawyer was trying to coax the charcoal alight and Mary was ferrying steaks and salad from the kitchen on to the outside preparation tables. Tom and Sally were in the pool, fighting for the occupation of an inflatable raft. Rudd watched them, smiling. His son would have been a year older, he calculated. He wondered if it would have been necessary for the boy’s teeth to be encased in those metal braces distorting the smiles of both the Bunch children.
Bunch came away from the fire, wiping his hands on a rag. He tugged the ring off a beer can, raised it towards Rudd and said, “Isn’t this great!”
&
nbsp; “Great,” agreed Rudd. Hallett knew where he was, so there was no risk of his being out of touch.
Sally won the battle in the pool and paddled hurriedly away from her brother in a churn of water. Mary finished laying out the food and came across to the table.
“What do you want to drink?” said the lawyer.
“Beer,” said the woman. “But civilized, from the glass.”
“These weekends are supposed to be rough,” insisted the lawyer.
“Not for my fantasies they’re not,” said Mary.
The affection was obvious in the banter between them. They were very much in love, Rudd knew. Just as he knew that despite the opportunities the travelling and the circumstances provided, Bunch didn’t fool around.
“Your health, Harry,” she said. Mary Bunch was a dark-haired, thin-featured woman who looked elegant in jeans and sports shirt. She insisted on her own career and ran one of the most successful interior design agencies in Manhattan. She was a direct, honest woman and Rudd liked her.
“Cheers,” he responded.
“I’m glad you came,” she said.
“Walt said you insisted.”
“I did,” she said “Everyone should get out of New York at the weekends.”
Rudd supposed he and Angela would have had a weekend place. Out on the Cape, he guessed. That’s where her father had the summer-house and she’d enjoyed it there, walking on the beach and swimming and sailing.
“How do you want your meat?” asked Bunch.
“Medium,” said Rudd.
“Hope you like it flavoured,” said the lawyer. “I’ve put hickory chips on the fire.”
“Hickory’s fine,” said Rudd.
Bunch went back to the barbecue. Smoke billowed out when he raised the cowl. He clapped his hands to disperse it and began placing the meat on the grill. He picked up a frisby, shouted to the children and skimmed it towards them. They missed it. Bunch really did look happy in jeans and loafers, Rudd decided.
He turned attentively to the house, listened, and then came back to Mary. Seeing her look he smiled apologetically.
“There’s an extension bell,” she said. “We’d hear the telephone.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t you ever relax, Harry?”
“Of course I do.”
She shook her head. “Surely this absolute investment isn’t necessary any more?”
He shrugged, unoffended at the openness. “I guess it’s become a habit.”
“Why not try to break it?”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
“Ever thought of marrying again?”
“No.”
She put her head to one side at the immediacy of the answer. “Don’t you think Angela might have wanted it?”
“Maybe,” he said. Mary wouldn’t understand he wasn’t interested. He’d made arrangements for the physical side of things and that was enough.
Bunch came back to them, wet-eyed from the charcoal smoke. “Just a few minutes,” he said.
“What about Texas?” said Rudd. As it had turned out, there was good reason for him to be in Connecticut: the lawyer had come directly here from Houston.
Mary sighed theatrically. She got up and started towards the pool. “Tell me when the weekend begins,” she said.
Bunch smiled after her and then said, “It’s good, Harry: we could get every site for a fifth of the cost of normal development land.”
“Did you put in bids?”
Bunch nodded. “We’d have our asses in a sling if the foreknowledge ever became public,” he said.
“So would Jeplow,” said Rudd. “And I think he’s got a very tender ass. How long do you think it will take?”
Bunch made an uncertain gesture. “Not long,” he said. “No one’s rushing to buy land they can’t do anything with. We’re going to need Faysel’s money soon.”
“He’s given the understanding,” said Rudd. “It’ll be pretty much a formality.”
“The steaks will be ready,” said Bunch. He looked again to the pool. “Come on,” he shouted to his wife and children. “We’re going to eat.”
The children emerged in a rush and stood, dripping wetly, around the table. Mary shooed them off towards the changing cabins. Rudd wondered if it hurt to eat with the metal devices clamped into their mouths. He realized he didn’t know how to behave with the children. Would it be acceptable to give them money when he left?
“I’ve arranged to go back to Austin on Monday,” said Bunch.
“So it could all be settled by next week?” said Rudd.
“I don’t see why not.”
“If you’re going to be out of town, I think I’ll stay up here with the kids,” said Mary, “There’s nothing at the office I can’t handle by telephone.”
“That makes sense,” said Bunch. He looked at Rudd. “I’ll leave Mary the car and fly back with you.”
“I’ve been lecturing Harry on the error of his ways,” she said lightly.
“What?” said her husband.
“To stop the human dynamo routine and start enjoying himself.”
Rudd opened another can of beer. “This isn’t exactly Fortune magazine’s idea of the chairman at work,” he said. The wind changed and he blinked against the charcoal smoke.
“How long’s it been?” said Mary.
“What?”
“Since you’ve done anything like this?”
“Quite a while,” admitted Rudd. He’d sailed with Faysel about eight months before. He hadn’t enjoyed being cut off from any sort of communication apart from an open radio.
Bunch took the meat from the pit and Mary added salad to the plates before serving them.
“Do you want any wine?” asked Bunch.
“Beer’s fine,” said Rudd. The lawyer had used too many hickory chips, over-flavouring the steaks. “The meat’s terrific,” said Rudd politely. He’d eaten two mouthfuls when the telephone sounded.
“Shit!” said Mary. To her son she said, “Get it, Tom.”
The extension was on the patio bar. Rudd watched, so he was ready when the boy signalled that the call was for him.
“Put it back on the grill,” he said to Bunch.
It was Hallett, reporting the London call from Prince Faysel and the arrangement the personal assistant had made for the Arab to telephone him in New York at seven that evening.
“What is it?” said Rudd.
“He didn’t say,” said Hallett. “Just that it was important and he wanted to speak to you.”
“Get back to him and say seven is OK.”
Rudd cleared the line and called the airport at Hartford so that the plane would be ready. It was ten minutes before he returned to the poolside table. When Bunch brought back the steak, it was well done.
“I’ll cook you another,” offered the lawyer.
“Don’t bother,” said Rudd. “This is fine. We’re going back earlier. Faysel’s called from London.”
“Now you’re happy,” accused Mary.
“What?”
“You’re going to need help if you’re not careful, Harry,” she said. “You’re at the top. Learn to enjoy the view and stop looking around for bigger mountains.”
When he moved from Boston Rudd had taken an apartment on Riverside Drive, just off Cathedral Parkway, but abandoned it after six months in preference for the hotel. The Park Summit was the most prestigious of their New York holdings, on Central Park South overlooking the zoo. Originally there had been two penthouse suites but Rudd had removed the dividing wall, giving him the entire floor. It created a complex of four bedrooms, with a dining room separate from the main living area overlooking the park. There was a little used kitchen and a bar as well. Living in the hotel meant that he had staff available twenty-four hours a day without the intrusion of their presence where he actually lived, and a telephone switchboard which ensured he never missed any calls. Rudd worried about missing calls.
Mary Bunch had done the inter
ior design, starkly modern, contrasting colours – predominantly blacks and purples – with a lot of glass for table tops and split room screening. There were five pictures of Angela in the main room, the posed professional photographs of their wedding and the grained amateur snapshots he had sought out and had copied and blown up after her death. He wished there had been more. She had been a shy girl and it had shown in the pictures; every one portrayed her wider-eyed than she’d really been, with a startled, wary look. The eyes had been deep brown, appearing almost black at times, like her hair. She hadn’t inherited the red colouring of her father; when they’d first met, outside the Mugar Library, he’d thought she was Italian.
There was a permanent security guard on the secondary lift from the publicly used fiftieth floor and a corridor’s length to walk between one elevator and the other, so that it took five minutes from the downstairs lobby to the private apartment. As soon as he entered Rudd notified the telephonist but she said, “I’ve already been advised of your return, Mr Rudd.”
Rudd was pleased at the efficiency.
“Mary’s concerned she might have upset you,” said Bunch. The laywer had returned with him to the hotel.
“How?”
“Talking about relaxing and marrying again. She didn’t mean to.”
“I wasn’t upset,” said Rudd.
“Why don’t you come up more often?” said Bunch.
The over-flavoured meat had given him indigestion and although they’d left before evening, the mosquitoes had swarmed; Rudd could feel the swelling developing irritatingly on his left arm. “We’ll see,” he said. “I certainly enjoyed it.”
Faysel’s call came exactly on time. It was a long conversation, because of Rudd’s concentrated interest and the questions he asked. Before it finished Rudd relayed the Texas negotiations and warned they would soon need the Saudi money if it were to be allocated under their investment agreement.
Throughout the London call Bunch sat forward on the angularly square, white chair, frowning with the effort to follow it. “Buckland House?” guessed the lawyer, when Rudd replaced the telephone.
Rudd nodded. “He says it’s shaky. That it wouldn’t be easy, but that there might be a way.” Absent-mindedly he scratched the insect bite.
Takeover Page 5
