Takeover

by Brian Freemantle

  “Any further discussion to the motion?” invited Rudd.

  No one responded.

  “I propose that the chairman open negotiations,” said Bunch formally.

  There were a few seconds of silence and then Ottway said, “I second.”

  “For?” said Rudd.

  Five hands immediately went up and Rudd said, “The proxy of Prince Faysel is vested in me, for chairman’s discretion. I put it in favour. Against?”

  Morrison raised his hand.

  “The proposal is carried,” said Rudd.

  Morrison was anxious to make the appointment immediately the meeting finished but held back from using the telephone from the Best Rest headquarters, wanting there to be no trace of the contact. Indeed he used a pay phone in La Guardia, letting Patrick Walker wait for him in the company Lear which Best Rest had acquired with their takeover of Belle Air. Gene Grearson had been his lawyer from the time of the tavern ownership in Boston: Morrison’s request for a meeting meant re-arranging his schedule, he said, but if it were urgent they could meet at four that afternoon.

  “I think you’re wrong, Herb,” said Walker, as the company jet headed north over the jagged, inlet-riven coastline of New England. “It’s a good deal.”

  “It isn’t even a deal yet,” said Morrison.

  “Rudd will make it one,” said Walker. “That boy’s got a burr up his ass that makes it impossible for him to stop running.”

  A day earlier the open admiration would have annoyed Morrison. He smiled at it but said nothing. When they arrived in Boston Walker invited him for lunch at the businessman’s club but Morrison declined, wanting to prepare himself for the afternoon meeting, going straight to Beacon Hill instead. He stood for several moments gazing at the mounted stuffed fish: how long, he wondered, would it take him to land the prize this time.

  Although the division of responsibility between them had put Patrick Walker in charge of accounts and finance in the tavern and in the early expansion days, Morrison had paid close attention to finance, with his constant fear of over-commitment. This was superseded by an altogether different reason after he lost control to Rudd. Since Rudd’s elevation to chairmanship Morrison had monitored every statement, share issue, takeover account and financial involvement, searching for the smallest mistake he might use to attack the man. It had become his hobby, far more absorbing than fishing. He had created an indexing and cross-referencing system and believed, with good reason, that there was no one – not even Rudd himself and certainly not the company accountants working on separate, unconnected divisions of the corporation – who had a more comprehensive knowledge of Best Rest.

  Rudd had insisted on retaining at headquarters the breakdown analysis of Buckland House, but Morrison had made sufficient notes and was confident enough of his memory not to regard that as a problem.

  There was a master file, showing the complete spread of Best Rest throughout the world, individually tabbed with running and expansion costs, loan attachments and profit figures. The Texas hotel expansion was already annotated. Against it Morrison marked the development figures that Rudd had provided that morning.

  He created a separate sheet, setting out the cost of acquiring the Buckland House liner fleet and then, ultimately, the group itself.

  With the two spread side by side across his desk, Morrison drew up a simple subtraction calculation, giving himself the figure that would be needed for Best Rest to succeed, and sat back smiling with satisfaction.

  Bunch had been right at the meeting in assessing their borrowing requirements at only $3,000,000. But he had been too glib. These were the requirements only if the shares of Buckland House remained at their current quoted price of 102p a share. A stock manipulation, properly timed and with the sudden effect of sending the price higher, would cut Rudd off from liquidity like a man left standing on an ice-floe suddenly breaking away from the glacier, and threatening him with just about the same amount of exposure.

  Sure now that the idea that had come to him in the Best Rest boardroom was possible, Morrison returned all the papers to their immaculately kept and listed folders and put them in their cabinets. He then arranged his own stock portfolio and bank statements; like the earlier study, it was for confirmation of what he already knew. He could do it, Morrison decided.

  He pushed back in his chair, looking up once more at the championship salmon, recapturing again the moment when he’d seen the flicker of silver. He supposed, at some stage, it might be possible to make out a criminal case. It was dismissed, a passing thought: it was the best chance he’d had – ever – and he wasn’t going to let it go, any more than he’d considered losing the salmon that had almost broken his back to land.

  Morrison arrived at the downtown offices of Gene Grearson early, but the lawyer emerged immediately, arms wide in greeting. There were handshakes and back-slapping and then Grearson led the hotelier back into the inner sanctum with an arm slung around his shoulders.

  “Good to see you, Herb,” said Grearson.

  “And you.”

  “Read your stock report in the Journal the other day. Pretty impressive.”

  “We’re doing well enough,” said Morrison.

  “Well enough! Believe me I wouldn’t mind a piece of your action.”

  “I want you to look at these,” said Morrison. He rose from the chair and placed before the lawyer his personal stock portfolio and bank statements.

  Grearson looked down, briefly, to see what they were and then frowned up. “What for?”

  “It’s important,” said Morrison. “From the portfolio you’ll see that in holdings and stock options there’s an equity value of nearly $8,000,000.”

  “Yes,” said Grearson. The doubt in his voice was obvious.

  “And there’s $3,500,000 in the accounts.”

  Grearson looked up, nodding in further agreement. Morrison handed him a further document.

  “Buckland House?” said Grearson.

  “An English holding company, based in London, controlling the other divisions I’ve listed there,” said Morrison. “I want stock purchases, Gene. Whenever and however any stock comes on to a market, anywhere, I want it. I’m not interested in the price, just the acquisition. That’s why I wanted you to see the portfolio, as well as the available liquidity, to know how far you can go. If there isn’t sufficient money, then raise equity against the stocks: I’ll notify any authority that’s necessary.”

  Grearson looked up, shaking his head again. “Why are you telling me all this, Herb? Go to your broker.”

  “No,” said Morrison at once. “I want secrecy. Absolute secrecy.”

  Grearson sat back from the desk. “There’s nothing wrong with this, is there?” He raised his hands at once. “Don’t misunderstand me. It’s just a question I’ve got to ask, professionally.”

  Until negotiations were actually concluded Morrison decided that technically he was not breaking any law. “No,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong.”

  Grearson pulled a yellow jotting pad towards him. “Nominee purchases, then?” he said.

  “More protected than that, even,” insisted Morrison. “I want the purchases initiated through American brokers but not made by them. The buys are to be made by European brokers.”

  Grearson frowned. “That’s quite a shell you’re making for yourself.”

  “It’s something I’ve been waiting to do for a long time,” said Morrison.

  Rudd answered the door at her first knock, standing back for her to enter. Joanne Hinkler came familiarly into the penthouse, barely hesitating in case he wanted to kiss her. Sometimes he did, but not often. He made no movement and so she continued on. She stopped, just inside, allowing him to take her coat. She was beautiful and aware of it, but in a controlled, assured way, blond hair cut short and cowled around a perfect oval face, straightnosed and with startling violet eyes. She wore a model silk dress, cut just sufficiently low to hint at the rise of her breasts, with the casual ease of the model
she had once been before finding a better paid profession. There was little jewellery, just a slim gold chain at her throat and a single diamond ring; it was five carat.

  Edward Hallett had found Joanne working through the best and most discreet house in Manhattan, just over a year ago. Even now she was unaware of the enquiries Rudd had demanded into her background, discretion and other clients before he’d made the first call.

  Joanne carried only a small clasp bag; Rudd was quite straight. There were times when he didn’t even take her to bed.

  “Can I get you a drink?” she said. She knew the penthouse well.

  “There’s a pitcher of martini in the refrigerator,” said Rudd. He’d responded automatically to her telephone call on the private line an hour before, but wished now he hadn’t agreed to the usual visit: there were at least four calls outstanding.

  The girl prepared his drink expertly, finally paring off a sliver of lemon. She added lemon to her own glass; with a considerable income dependent upon her face and figure, it was club soda. The telephone rang as she returned from the bar. It was Bunch, calling from Houston.

  Joanne put Rudd’s drink carefully on the coaster and then moved away to the windows overlooking Central Park, to distance herself from the conversation.

  Bunch said he’d signed the realtors’ undertaking on behalf of the company for the two sites in Houston, one in Dallas and one in Corpus Christi, and there was nothing further that needed attention for at least another month. Rudd listened, hunched forward over the low table, and agreed finally to meet the lawyer for a conference in Washington the following day.

  “Sorry,” he said, replacing the telephone.

  “Usually happens,” said the girl, moving back into the room. “How was the weekend in the country?”

  Rudd smiled: they’d talked about his going to Connecticut during her previous visit. “Smoky,” he said. “And I got bitten.”

  “Told you that you weren’t a backwoodsman,” she said. Sometimes they spent weekends together. She had a brownstone on 62nd Street and occasionally kept house for him. There had been times, in the early months, when she had wondered if their relationship might progress beyond a business level but she didn’t think that any more.

  “Actually I rather enjoyed it,” he said. He wasn’t sorry he’d agreed to her coming. It was easy to relax with her. It was an attribute of the profession he supposed, but what was wrong with professionalism? It suited him very well.

  “I want to ask your advice, Harry,” she said. She hesitated, recognizing the nearness of indiscretion, but said anyway, “I’ve been advised, on some investments. Told to go into either Ford or General Motors.” Joanne Hinkler, who was twenty-eight, assessed her working life quite objectively at another five years, if she wanted sufficient time to marry, have children and settle down. She intended to go West, California or maybe Washington State. A complete realist, she intended by then to have a portfolio sufficient to support her for life, just in case she didn’t marry or if, having done so, it didn’t work out. She knew a lot of men whose marriages hadn’t worked out and felt sorry for their wives.

  Rudd shook his head. “Not with oil uncertainty,” he said. “They’re coming into compacts, but they mistimed it. Autos are never going to make a good return. What do you want, high yield or safety?”

  “Safety,” she said at once.

  He offered his empty glass and she refilled it for him. “Never forget a basic rule of commerce,” he said “People have got to buy again what they consume. Try food or maybe clothes. It’s slow and it’s never going to startle Wall Street. But it’s safe.”

  She returned with the martini. “What about food commodities?”

  He turned his mouth down. “Too volatile,” he said. “A bad harvest in Kansas or some disease in barley and you’re extended on a margin, borrowing to pay your debts.” Rudd laughed suddenly, in genuine amusement. “Considering why you’re here and our relationship, this is some conversation!” he said.

  She laughed with him. The recollection of those weekends at 62nd street came to her after a while. She knew about the tragedy with his wife and wondered if it might have been different if he’d undergone some sort of analysis. It wasn’t the proper thought for her to have and she closed her mind to it. But it took the laughter from her. Rudd was abruptly serious, too. Joanne was moving to prevent an atmosphere when there was a summons at the door and Rudd said, relieved at the interruption, “I’ve arranged supper.”

  It was the girl who admitted the waiters. They entered with discreet efficiency, pushing silver-festooned trolleys ahead of them. The table was set in the window area, complete with bud roses in silver finger stands. The sommelier from the restaurant personally brought the wine. Rudd tasted it and nodded approval. There were clams, Chateaubriand, fruit and salad. Rudd had just finished the shellfish when the telephone call came from Faysel in London.

  “Very enthusiastic,” reported Faysel.

  “Did you fix a meeting?”

  “The half-yearly investment meeting is scheduled in Zürich on Wednesday,” reminded Faysel. “I said we would come to London after that.”

  Rudd nodded at the psychology. “So it’s to our convenience?”

  “Absolutely,” confirmed the Arab. “I said it was a sudden idea that I hadn’t even discussed with you but which I would pursue if he considered it worthwhile. He asked me to go ahead. How was it at your end?”

  “Everyone enthusiastic, except Morrison.”

  “Whom we can discount anyway,” said the Arab.

  “So it’s virtually unanimous,” agreed Rudd. He was aware of Joanne’s presence; normally he didn’t find her intrusive.

  “Zürich isn’t going to be the normal sort of meeting,” warned Faysel. “I had a briefing through the embassy here in London. Some sort of investment cut-back apparently.”

  Rudd didn’t reply at once. Then he said, “To affect our relationship?”

  “I’m going home tonight,” said Faysel. “I shan’t know until I get there.”

  To be deprived of the Saudi money would be an irritant, but no more, Rudd decided. “I’ll be in Zürich on Wednesday,” he said.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “I like the feel of Buckland House,” said Rudd.

  “So do I,” concluded Faysel.

  Joanne had kept the meat warm over the spirit lamp. She offered it to Rudd, who carved. She only took one slice and just a small helping of salad. The wine was French imported, a claret: she allowed herself a token sip.

  “I’ve got to be away early tomorrow,” he said. He didn’t want her to stay, not now. He always felt guilty about his need, unable completely to avoid thinking of it as a betrayal. It was ridiculous, he knew, but he couldn’t disregard it.

  “I understand.”

  “I’m glad you came though.”

  “So am I,” she said. “I always am.” She hadn’t meant to say that; she bent over her plate.

  “And I shall be in Europe next week … I’m not sure for how long.”

  “Shall I wait for you to telephone?”

  “That would be best.”

  “You will call, won’t you?” That was wrong, too.

  “Of course,” he said.

  Neither of them was particularly interested in eating, so they took their coffee to one of the low tables further into the room.

  “It used to be fun on 62nd Street,” she said. Why was she doing this! If she weren’t careful, she’d screw it, like some two-buck, short-time-in-an-alley hooker.

  “Yes,” he agreed. It had been a mistake ever going there.

  She waited and when he said nothing, she said, “We could try it again sometime.”

  “It would be fun,” he said unconvincingly.

  Joanne, who knew the rules she had broken and who was surprised by it, said “I should be going.”

  “There’s no need, not yet. Not if you don’t have to,” he said politely.

  “You’ve still got work to do …
calls to come in,” she anticipated.

  “When I get back,” he promised again. “I’ll call when I get back.”

  He followed her to the vestibule, took her coat from the closet and helped her into it. As she turned he took $500 from his money clip and held it out. There had been too many lapses in her professionalism for one night; she took it immediately and said, “Thanks, Harry.”

  “Consumer shares,” he said. “Don’t forget.”

  “I won’t.”

  “See you Joanne.”

  “I hope so.”

  8

  Buckland turned the Rolls eastwards at Baldock, slowing not just because he was leaving the motorway but for the challenge he always set himself here, the one he’d played since he was a child, recognizing the landmarks of the shallow Cambridgeshire countryside as it flattened out for the eventual journey to the Fens. The harvest was in and the stubble ends were being burned to keep the soil pure, giving the land an unshaven look, like a five o’clock shadow. Buckland had been born here and educated at university here and this final section, just before he reached the family home, always gave him a feeling of security.

  He contemplated the word, realizing its importance. He hadn’t felt secure lately. He’d felt threatened. And frightened. It was an honest admission, the first he’d allowed himself and he accepted it was late coming, like so much else. He’d been complacent and careless, believing nothing could ever happen to his regulated, ordered pattern of life. And been wrong. Buckland shifted against the leather upholstery, uncomfortable at the thought. He didn’t like being wrong. Thank God he’d faced the reality in time and become the businessman he was supposed to have been but wasn’t. And that Prince Faysel had made it possible.

  Buckland looked up at the oast-house and knew he’d missed four earlier sightings and abandoned the usual pastime, more interested in the reflections about the Arab’s idea of selling the liner fleet. The family – certainly his mother – would oppose it. Just as he was reluctant. It was part of their heritage, their tradition. But he’d relied too much upon tradition. The practicalities were that the fleet was too old and too expensive but might, if Faysel were right, give him the way out of his present difficulties. He’d enjoy presenting the fait accompli to Smallwood and Snaith and Haffaford’s: showing them that almost overnight he’d reversed a bad trading position into one of positive profit and at the same time cut away the money-draining division. It had panache, the sort of entrepreneurial flair that in thirty years had taken his grandfather from a Glasgow shipping clerk to fleet owner and world hotelier. Buckland sighed. It was still going to be difficult convincing his mother.