Takeover

by Brian Freemantle

  “Is London grouped with Europe?” asked Bunch.

  Hallett shook his head, went back to his papers. “Page 9,” he itemized. “Europe covers Paris, Rome, Venice and Cannes. A total of eight hotels. London’s a separate company.…” He turned the pages. “There are nine throughout Africa, six in the Far East and India and two here in America, the King Court in Manhattan and the Louis in San Francisco.”

  “A total of twenty-seven?” queried Rudd. The feeling of anticipation that had come after Faysel’s telephone call from London was still with him.

  Hallett nodded agreement. “And then there are the liners,” he said. “A separate company again. There’s a fleet of seven, the largest 65,000 tons built in 1945 and still the flagship of their commodore. Average tonnage is around 45,000. They predominantly run passenger routings across the Atlantic and to the Far East and Australia. In the last few years they’ve attempted the cruise market, competing with P & O and the Scandinavian carriers in the Caribbean and the Pacific, but their airconditioning is obsolete. There have been stories in the travel papers of complaints and breakdowns. No record of any capacity booking. Their engines are old and expensive, too, designed before there was any problem with oil.”

  “What’s the quotation?” asked Rudd.

  “Wrong,” said Hallett at once. “Last property valuation appears to have been carried out about ten years ago, from the publicly registered papers I’ve been able to find. Listing on the London exchange at close last night was 102p a share, which I’d say was too low.”

  “What about personal details?” asked Rudd. Morrison thought him impetuous, seeking takeovers and mergers on a whim, but the reality was that Rudd never moved without being as fully briefed as possible.

  The personal assistant looked up at the Arab. “Perhaps the Prince can help there better than I can,” he said. “All I’ve been able to get is impressions from newspaper clippings.” He waited hopefully, but Faysel shook his head. Hallett went back to his file. “Sir Ian Buckland is the grandson of the founder,” he said. “Took over the chairmanship five years ago on the death of his father. Married, with no children. Seems to be a keen yachtsman and something of a playboy. Lot of references to him at first nights and society events. Gambler, apparently. Lord Condway and Sir Richard Penhardy were contemporaries of his father. A third director, Gore-Pelham, went to school with Sir Ian. There was a merchant bank nominee brought in about three years ago.…” He hesitated, looking sideways again. “Prince Faysel went on a year later.” He blinked nervously up at Rudd. “Not much, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s fine,” said Rudd. “Thank you.” He turned to Faysel. “How does that square with what you think?”

  The Arab looked immaculate, despite the 3500-mile flight. “It’s ripe for plucking,” he said. “At the meeting it was agreed to cover up an irregular gambling loan rather than create any uncertainty in the City. They’re right up against their liquidity margin and the merchant bank has put its shutters up.”

  “Outright refusal?” intruded Rudd at once.

  Faysel shook his head. “Limited availability. Just sufficient to make a dividend, but close audit and complete management restructure.”

  “What’s wrong with management at the moment?”

  Faysel considered his reply. “It hardly exists,” he said. “The Buckland grandfather and father ran everything as a private empire and were strong enough to do it. Which meant that no one on the board had to do anything but rubber stamp the decisions and enjoy the profits. Buckland hasn’t inherited the flair. He’s tried to behave like his father without the knowledge of how to do it. As far as I can gather there hasn’t been any head office scrutiny of running operations, and certainly not any visits, for three years.”

  “Christ!” said Rudd, who insisted on twice-yearly head office audits and personally toured each of their complexes once every twelve months.

  “Are the cracks beginning to show?” said Bunch.

  “Not yet,” said Faysel.

  “It won’t take long,” predicted Rudd. “We’re this far away, have hardly gone further than first base with any sort of enquiry and we can see the takeover possibility. Somebody in the City will realize it, soon enough.”

  “Samuel Haffaford and Co. are financial advisers to Trust-house Forte and Grand Metropolitan: both would jump at a bid for Buckland House, if they thought there was a chance,” said Faysel.

  “So we’ve got to make our minds up,” accepted Rudd. He listened to the howl of a police siren approach and then recede, far below; it had to be one of the most persistent sounds in the city.

  “I sought out Buckland,” said Faysel. “He’s getting edgy.”

  “Did he admit the merchant bank resistance?”

  “Not directly,” said the Arab. “He talked vaguely about looking for alternative finance.”

  “Did he ask you openly?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That I would need to consult: I didn’t say with whom.”

  “I think it’s worth going for,” said Rudd positively. It was a decision he had reached before the meeting began.

  From Faysel and Bunch there were immediate nods of assent. To the Arab Rudd said, “It’ll have to be approved, with a vote from the board. So if you’re going back to London I’ll need your proxy.”

  “Of course,” said Faysel.

  “Don’t even hint a commitment until I get there,” said Rudd, looking for a withdrawal route before he planned the attack. “We’ll Trojan Horse it.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Bunch.

  For an hour Rudd outlined the strategy he had begun to formulate within minutes of receiving Faysel’s call after the Sunday in the country and determined upon once he’d considered Hallett’s report.

  “It would be clever if it works,” said Bunch admiringly.

  “It’ll work,” said Rudd. It would make him chairman of the biggest and best anywhere in the world. Where would he go after that? he wondered.

  “If I’m going to set up the meeting in London, I won’t be able to arrange the investment for the Texas hotels,” warned Faysel. “It’ll have to wait a week or two.”

  “We’ll have to commit ourselves before then,” said Bunch.

  “Buckland House is too good an opportunity to miss,” said Rudd decisively. “We’ve got the sufficient liquidity for the Texas sites from our own funds. We’ll either adjust or reallocate the investment fund money when it comes in. It’s a book-keeping entry, that’s all.”

  “When shall I go down and sign?” asked Bunch.

  “Tonight,” said Rudd. “I want it all settled and you back here as soon as possible. If we go ahead for Buckland House there’ll be a lot of work for you.”

  Herbert Morrison approached the cemetery carefully, aware that Rudd made visits. Morrison didn’t want the man to know his own pilgrimages were just as frequent. The crypt in which Angela and the child were laid, alongside his wife, was on an exposed hill and Morrison shrugged deeper into the collar of his coat as he scuffed along the approach road. It was a large monument, with a small iron fence around the immaculately kept garden area. The weekly changed flowers were still fresh, but Morrison leant forward, lifting away some twigs that had been blown across, marring the tightly clipped grass. He stared at the inscription, wiping his hands across his eyes against the wetness he was sure the strength of the wind was causing.

  ANGELA RUDD (Née Morrison)

  1951–1972

  Beloved wife of Harry Rudd

  And Herbert, aged one day

  Forever missed

  Even here the bastard had tried to be ingratiatingly clever, insisting he’d given instructions for the hurried baptism from London because he’d known Angela had wanted the child to have her father’s name. Morrison hadn’t known then how she’d been tricked and cheated and pressured into giving away her birthright.

  “Poor baby,” muttered Morrison. “You poor baby.”

 
; He brought the handkerchief to his eyes and tried to get his collar up even further.

  “He’ll suffer, my darling,” he said. “I promise he’ll suffer.” Please God, he thought, don’t let it take much longer.

  Buckland began to quicken and looked down to where she knelt over him, hair forward like a curtain, expecting her to pull away. She didn’t, instead staying crouched there holding him between her hands, draining him. He fell back, groaning. It was several minutes before he felt her release him.

  “I like that,” she said indistinctly. “It gives me a feeling of great power.”

  “It gives me a feeling of great soreness.”

  “Don’t you want me to do it again?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Fiona moved up, to lie level with him on the bed. “Going home?” she said.

  Outside some of the street lights had gone off, operated by a time-switch, and there were hardly any night sounds, only the occasional brief blur of a car engine.

  “Maybe not,” he said.

  “I like it when you stay,” she said. “It’s nice having you next to me in the morning.” She turned over on to her back and in the dim half-light he saw her pert breasts sticking directly upwards, tight little pink-topped mounds. He wondered if they had been siliconized, to be so firm.

  “Do you like the house?” he said. It was in the mews off Sloane Street and very close to his London home. She’d moved in three weeks before.

  “It’s cute,” she said. “You’re very kind.”

  “You’ve given the bank instructions?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Why is it important?”

  “It’s listed against one of the company’s overseas holdings,” he said. He’d have to telephone Kevin Sinclair in Hong Kong, and then write, to be completely safe. That bloody business with the gambling cheque had taught him to be cautious.

  “There couldn’t be any trouble, could there?”

  He shook his head. “I’m going to Cambridge at the weekend,” he said.

  Fiona gave a mew of disappointment. “I thought we could go down to the boat again: fucking in a bunk is like doing it in a drawer.”

  “I should go to the country this time.”

  “Do you make love to Margaret?”

  Buckland hesitated, disconcerted by the question. Then he said, “No.”

  She moved away, propping herself up on her elbow. “Never!”

  “Not for a long time. Did you make love to Peter, when you were doing it with other people?”

  “Of course,” she said. “He used to like me to beat him: he got very hard when I beat him. Would you like me to beat you?”

  “Good heavens, no,” said Buckland.

  “A lot of men who’ve been to public school do like it,” she said. “And other things.”

  “I don’t like that either.”

  She grinned down at him. “Don’t be boring,” she said.

  7

  The only hobby Herbert Morrison had allowed himself, and that decreasingly with age, was fishing. He had developed the art with a determination to be good at it and briefly attained championship level. Until five years before, when the doctor had warned against such prolonged exposure, the month-long trip to the salmon-fishing rivers of Canada had been a regular calendar entry. Morrison would contentedly stand for hours up to his thighs in the freezing, rushing water, using the carefully learned expertise to lure the big ones and then play them, quietly at first, so that they hardly realized they had been hooked, and then with increasing strength until they were tired enough to be landed. His personal best, the year before Angela died, was 25lb: he’d had it stuffed and put into a glass case for pride of place over the mantelpiece of his study. He could still look at it and remember the burst of excitement that had gone through him when he’d felt the bite and seen the first flash of silver break water and realized the chance for which he’d waited so long.

  It came again now, within minutes of Rudd beginning his address to the board, the same physical feeling of numbness high in his chest. Morrison bent over the papers before him on the conference table, unsure if he could keep any expression from his face; Rudd never expected him to smile and that was what Morrison felt like doing. Laughing almost. It had come, like he’d always known it would: he’d have to be careful – more careful than he’d ever been in his life – to ensure he made the strike at precisely the right moment and then let Rudd thrash and twist to exhaust himself. Not a salmon, thought Morrison, maintaining the analogy. More a predator, like a pike.

  While Rudd talked Morrison made brief reminder notes, limiting the entries to single words with significance only to himself: there was a lot to be done before he could consider coming public and even then never completely. He looked around the table. How easy would it be to regain their following? Impossible with Bunch or the absent Faysel, he recognized at once. But he didn’t need them all.

  At the far end of the table Rudd sat back in his chair, coming to the end of his presentation, looking expectantly towards Morrison.

  Even the predictable opposition would be in his favour, thought Morrison: it would be important for everything to be right from this moment, the first provable beginning.

  “You actually propose that we make a purchase offer for the Buckland House shipping fleet?” he said.

  Rudd sighed at the need for repetition. “That’s the suggestion that Faysel is going to put forward,” he said. “It’s the biggest loss maker in their organization, so the appeal should be immediate. They can dispose of a financial drain and achieve the liquidity they seek from the purchase price. It should be irresistible.”

  “Why should we want to saddle ourselves with uneconomic, out-of-date passenger liners?” demanded Morrison. Everything would have to be available when the records were studied. He looked towards the smaller table: the tape was turning to supplement Hallett’s notes.

  “Because for us they wouldn’t be,” insisted Rudd patiently. “Buckland House are losing money because of the routes they attempt, twelve thousand-mile voyages to Australia and around-the-world cruises: even their attempts in the Caribbean fail because they’ve got a three to four thousand-mile journey to get there and then another three thousand miles back to England. In addition to that, they’re hamstrung on manning levels by the British seamen’s union. We’d have none of those problems. I’d refit the ships here in America to the sort of airconditioning levels our customers would expect and then sail them either from one of the Florida or Texas ports. We could use them as a combination, carriers to our installations in the Caribbean or Mexico or as straight cruise liners. No cruise would extend 1500 miles in total, bringing fuel costs well down to manageable levels. We’d operate them one class, which would cut manning requirements even before we open negotiations with the union on acceptable levels. And think of the media appeal! These ships are famous, old and traditional and British, exactly the sort of nostalgia America loves. The Queen Mary makes a profit tied up on Long Beach, for God’s sake! We’d have a winner, even if we went no further than a simple purchase from the British.”

  It was a sound, businesslike argument and Morrison sensed the approval of the other men around the table.

  “What’s the estimated cost?” persisted Morrison. This would all be important later.

  “That’s an obvious uncertainty, until we begin negotiations,” said Rudd. “I’ve pencilled in a preliminary costing of between $4,000,000 to $6,000,000 per vessel: some will be priced more than others, but there should be an averaging out.”

  “Taking $5,000,000 as the average, you’re anticipating a purchase commitment of $35,000,000?”

  “About that,” agreed Rudd.

  “What about refit costs?”

  “Expensive,” conceded the chairman at once. “These are class vessels built to high specifications, teak and silk, not plastic and nylon. If we’re going to go for traditional, bygone luxury, then we’d have to keep it that way. It would be a ridiculous economy o
therwise.”

  “What’s the estimate?” persisted Morrison.

  “Maybe $1,000,000 per ship.”

  “What about the Texas investment?” demanded Morrison.

  Rudd frowned. “What’s that got to do with it?”

  That would be a telling admission later, thought Morrison. “The liner purchase is only the beginning,” he said. “I’m considering our total group expenditure projecting beyond this immediate year.”

  “I’ve already reported that I’ve committed us, by land purchase.”

  “I thought that was to be a Saudi investment,” said Walker.

  “Faysel is too involved with Buckland House at the moment. There can easily be an adjustment later.”

  “Even if we get tax advantages, we’ll be involved in an additional total expenditure of $120,000,000?”

  “That’s well within our capabilities,” said Walker.

  Morrison turned to his original partner. “Not for the ultimate proposal that’s been put to us.”

  “On the quoted valuation on the London stock exchange, there would still only need to be a borrowing of between $2,000,000 to $3,000,000,” said Bunch.

  Morrison decided he’d taken it almost far enough. “I can understand the surface attraction of wanting to acquire Buckland House,” he said. “I recognize, too, that it would make this corporation the most prestigious in the world. Everything we’ve heard today suggests it is an out-of-date, unmanageable, collapsing organization. Even with the advantages we have through Prince Faysel, I do not think we should proceed with the suggestions that have been made.”

  Morrison saw the expressions settle around the table and was confident he had got it just right; he was going to enjoy the sight of them gasping, on the bank, when they realized what had happened.