Takeover

by Brian Freemantle

“There’s the matter of commission,” agreed Rudd.

  “Man in my position has to be careful, sir,” confided Jeplow. He indicated a path that would lead them parallel with the buildings and Rudd fell into step alongside. “Washington’s got a problem with gossip … malicious innuendo.”

  “I fully appreciate the need for caution,” said Rudd.

  “Mr Bunch gave me to understand we might be able to reach some convenient arrangement,” said the politician.

  Everyone had their schemes of arrangement, thought Rudd. “Entirely to your convenience,” he said.

  “Don’t like cheques,” insisted Jeplow.

  “I think we can avoid that.”

  Jeplow nodded and gave a quick on-off smile. “You familiar with Liechtenstein, sir?”

  “No,” said Rudd.

  “Admirable little country; admirable, discreet banking arrangements.”

  Jeplow was more financially sophisticated than he had imagined, conceded Rudd. “We have divisions in Europe, of course,” he said.

  “There’s a firm of solicitors and accountants, in Vaduz. Handles things for me. Name of Gotwieler and Sturnden. My account number with them is 987-4457. Designation letter is F.”

  “Wouldn’t there need to be some letter of introduction?” asked Rudd.

  Jeplow got on the path leading back towards his office. “They’ll be advised,” he said.

  “We didn’t decide upon a definite date for the re-zoning,” reminded Rudd.

  Jeplow stopped, smiling. “Nor we did,” he said, as if he were surprised at the prompting. “I’d guess it to be the 21st.”

  “I’d expect the commission payment to go into Liechtenstein on the 22nd,” said Rudd. For a moment he thought the senator was going to argue, but then the man nodded agreement and said, “Perfect.”

  The path led back to Independence Avenue, facing the Madison and Cannon Buildings. Jeplow paused, waiting for the lights to change so they could cross. He said, “Isn’t this a wonderful city?”

  “Wonderful,” agreed Rudd.

  “People know what they’re doing here,” said the politician. “They’re professionals.”

  Some, thought Rudd, more than others.

  Because it was a limousine without a division between the driver and the passengers there was no detailed conversation between the lawyer and Rudd on the way to the airport. The flight plan for the Lear jet was already filed for the return to New York so there was no delay. Bunch leaned back in his seat, looking down at the receding city beneath them and said, “You were pretty rough.”

  “He deserved it,” said Rudd.

  “How are we going to do it?”

  “We’re going to need a lot of liquid money for Buckland House,” said Rudd. “Put through a major transference, say $23,000,000, into London, but I want to start mopping up the loose shares throughout the group. That means broker funding in France, South Africa, England and Hong Kong for the Asian holdings. Let’s say $5,000,000 apiece. Make up Jeplow’s commission in sideway transfers.”

  “Are we really going to have to pay the whole lot over in cash?”

  “That’s what Jeplow wanted,” said Rudd. “But I don’t see why we can’t provide Gotwieler and Sturnden with the bearer’s cheque: that will give us a traceable number, even though Jeplow’s name won’t be on it. The inference would be sufficient, if his association with them became public.”

  “He could be useful to us in the future,” said the lawyer.

  Rudd nodded. “I hope he doesn’t get too greedy,” he said.

  The two telephone calls that night were made just one hour and a little over two hundred miles apart. Herbert Morrison apologized for intruding business into the home of Gene Grearson, but explained he wanted to take advantage of the time difference with Europe. Grearson said he understood and that it didn’t matter.

  “I want a buying push, until Friday,” said Morrison. “Anything and everything there is associated with Buckland House or any of its subsidiaries. And then on Friday, we stop.”

  “Any financial limit?”

  “None,” said Morrison. “I’ll buy whatever the price.”

  “Why Friday closure?” demanded the lawyer.

  To keep within the law, thought Morrison. He said, “By then I’ll have enough.”

  When Joanne Hinkler didn’t personally answer her telephone, there was always a crisply efficient female voice. Rudd had wondered, months before, about an answering service and Joanne had shaken her head at the lack of discretion and called the woman her secretary. Rudd had wondered the extent of that role, too, but not openly; it wasn’t his business.

  “I’m afraid Miss Hinkler isn’t available,” said the voice. “She won’t be for the rest of the evening.”

  “It is late,” agreed Rudd.

  “Can she get back to you tomorrow?”

  “No,” said Rudd. “I’m leaving the city early, for Europe.”

  “Is there a message?” There was never a request for a name.

  “No,” said Rudd. “No message.”

  Because of the summer the court had moved to Jeddah to get the benefit of the sea-wind, and it was there that Faysel and Hassain met. Faysel’s palace was separate from the larger family home, really an elaborate castellated villa, pure white and built against the shore-line. For comfort both men wore robes as they relaxed on the verandah overlooking the Red Sea. The sun was low on the horizon, soft crimson after the glare of the day.

  “It’s been decided to announce officially what we’ve been doing, in advance of the OPEC meeting,” said Hassain.

  “Why?”

  “To get a longer agreement on stability,” said Hassain.

  “There’s a risk of it having the opposite effect, from the militants,” said Faysel.

  “The Council feel the risk is justified,” said Hassain. He sipped his tea. “I’m sorry for the effect upon the investments allowed you,” he said.

  “We expected it,” said Faysel.

  “Will it cause you personal embarrassment?”

  “It will pass,” said Faysel.

  “There was an irony in your American commitment being allocated to the development in Texas,” said Hassain.

  Faysel looked curiously across the gathering darkness at his friend, frowning as Hassain explained Jeplow’s encounter with the Saudi ambassador. “Yes,” Faysel agreed at the end. “An amazing irony.”

  16

  Buckland gazed at the other directors grouped in front of him, experiencing a feeling of contentment he’d never known before. He’d come of age, he decided; even that didn’t properly describe how he felt, but it was close. Never again would they doubt him, comparing him to his father. And he knew they all had, every one of them. And not just Snaith and Smallwood and the absent Faysel. Condway and Penhardy, too, for all their apparent support; even Gore-Pelham. To them all he’d been the rich man’s son, silver-spooned into position by name instead of by ability. But not any longer. He’d earned the right to be where he was in this boardroom: the right to be called chairman.

  It was Condway who spoke first. He looked up from the American letter of intent and said, “I think our chairman deserves a vote of thanks from this board.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Penhardy.

  “It was not without its difficulties,” said Buckland, wanting to prolong the enjoyment. “But I think it’s been concluded in our favour.”

  “Absolutely,” said Gore-Pelham. “I think you’ve done a damned fine piece of negotiating.”

  “It’s a letter of intent, not a formal offer,” said Snaith.

  Buckland smiled condescendingly at the predictable attitude of the merchant banker. “I would not have brought it before the board unless I’d been confident of it becoming one,” he said. “There is a meeting arranged between myself and Rudd tomorrow. I’ve already had confirmation of his return from New York and there can be only one conclusion from that.”

  It was the perfect rebuff and Snaith looked away disconce
rted.

  “Was there any indication of agreement from the American board in that message?” said Smallwood.

  Buckland knew he had complete control. “He’d hardly be coming back if there hadn’t been, would he?”

  “We’re responsible for redundancy,” said Snaith.

  “They’re our employees,” said Condway, letting the irritation show.

  “How much will that be?” persisted Smallwood.

  “I haven’t had it costed at this stage,” said Buckland. “There is the statutory regulation, about which you’re all aware: no doubt our industrial staff will have to negotiate with the unions. Quite clearly at this point it would be wrong to open those talks.”

  “They’ll sell the property, of course,” said Smallwood.

  Buckland sighed pointedly. “I’ve already made it clear that the offer began at half the figure I was eventually able to get. To achieve that increase, I had to appear to make concessions. The redundancy is our liability anyway. The property will be superfluous to our needs and I considered its sacrifice justified, for the final offer.”

  “Quite understandable,” said Penhardy. “I think it would be a good idea if members of this board recognised what has positively been achieved and stopped nitpicking at unimportant details.”

  “This solves our short-term needs, if it’s successfully concluded” said Snaith. “What about the long term?”

  “Long term?” queried Gore-Pelham.

  “The uneconomical running of our hotels,” said Snaith.

  “I don’t consider that what’s being achieved with the fleet sale is just a short-term solution,” said Buckland positively. “It enables us completely to settle our outstanding bank liability. And that represents a yearly saving of £1,230,000 in loan servicing and commission. Disposing of the fleet will get rid of a £550,000 loss. The combined saving is £1,780,000, against this year’s deficit of £800,000. To my reckoning, we’re back in profitability within a year.”

  Snaith frowned at the chairman. “That doesn’t follow at all!” he protested. “Our hotels are losing and those losses are increasing. If we don’t impose a proper management structure, then in two years’ time we’ll be back where we started.”

  “I wonder if that would be the view of the other merchant bank organizations,” said Buckland. He spoke as the idea came to him and felt a leap of satisfaction at the thought. If Haffaford’s loan was settled, they could be dispensed with and the company could switch to another merchant bank. He had the boardroom power to make such a move now. And he’d bloody well do it: he’d been humiliated enough by these damned penny-pinching Shylocks.

  “I think this is extending the discussion far beyond what is necessary,” said Condway. “We were summoned to consider the liner sale, not devise future planning structure. There’s time enough for that, if it’s necessary at all, in the coming months.”

  Buckland and Snaith exchanged glances and Buckland knew the banker had understood the threat. He said, “You’ve all had the opportunity to consider the terms of the American offer. Do I have the board’s permission to continue?”

  “I formerly propose,” said Gore-Pelham.

  “Seconded,” said Penhardy.

  The vote was unanimous, as Buckland knew it had to be. He’d proved himself, he thought again. He couldn’t remember a day he’d enjoyed more.

  Lady Margaret Buckland’s involvement in charity work was more than a compensation for the part-time relationship that she had with her husband. She was genuinely enthusiastic about organization. At university she had been secretary of the Cambridge Union. She had accompanied her father on two ambassadorial postings, to Athens and then Madrid, and acted as his social secretary on both occasions. Because of the old lady’s insistence, it was Margaret who divided the housekeeping bills between the two houses in Cambridgeshire. She kept account books of all her own expenditure, even though they were never called for. The clothes in her wardrobes and closets were arranged both in order of colour and season: sweaters and scarfs and shirts and underwear had their separate drawers and each item was precisely folded and partitioned, often with tissue paper to avoid creasing. Invariably she found she could improve upon her maid’s work. Margaret Buckland was a very tidy woman.

  Because the children’s charity ball was to be held at the Berridge, she convened the meeting of the organizing committee there, in one of the first-floor suites. Lady Fiona Harvey was among the eight serving on the committee. They arrived to find laid out for them a complete breakdown of the previous year’s working, an analysis sheet setting expenditure against income and a separate list of suggestions for improvements. Margaret ran the meeting with the precision of her report, a stopwatch prominently set before her to prevent the discussion becoming a display of public-speaking. Every one of her proposals was accepted. She scheduled three hours but the meeting only took two and a half, so even with the straggled, breaking-up conversation, she and Fiona were still in the grill room ahead of Vanessa.

  “Congratulations for your usual efficiency,” said Fiona.

  “I enjoy detail,” said Margaret. She was dutiful about it, like everything else.

  “How’s Ian?”

  “Fine,” said Margaret. “I was sorry to hear about you and Peter.”

  “I wasn’t,” said Fiona. “The marriage had been falling apart for years; he was bloody dull.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Enjoy myself,” said Fiona.

  “Is there anyone else?”

  Fiona hesitated. “I’m up to ‘B’ in the telephone book.”

  Vanessa entered proprietorially, which Margaret supposed was justified, smiling at the immediate recognition from managers and head waiters and allowing herself to be escorted to a table in a half circle of men. She flustered down into her chair, accepted the wine that Margaret had already ordered, bent forward to kiss Fiona and said, “Hell of a morning. A list of things to do as long as my arm and I’ve done none of it. How about you two?”

  “Margaret has guided us as always, like sheep,” said Fiona.

  Vanessa looked at her sister-in-law. “I wish I could be like you,” she said. “I bet you don’t even sweat in the sun.”

  “I do, actually,” said Margaret. “How’s the house?”

  “A shambles,” said Vanessa. “It was a mistake to have opened it.”

  “Why not move back with us?”

  “I might. I spoke to Rupert this morning and he asked me when I was coming back.”

  “When are you?” said Fiona.

  “No sooner than I have to,” said Vanessa. “Yorkshire bores me stiff. There’s not a decent man for miles.”

  “I get bored in Cambridgeshire sometimes.” Margaret was aware of both women looking at her.

  “I think the world ends north of Golders Green,” said Fiona. “Certainly as far as men worth taking to bed are concerned.”

  “What’s divorce like?” said Vanessa.

  “Great. I should have done it years ago: men seem to find it an aphrodisiac.”

  “I’ve been looking for an effective one for years,” said Vanessa.

  Margaret felt uncomfortable with the brittle conversation, unable to join in. She didn’t want to join in. There was nothing chic or sophisticated, boasting of affairs or the virility of lovers. She thought it was cheap. She bent over her plate, embarrassed at the thought of the fantasies she sometimes had. But that’s all they were, fantasies. And she was sure all women had them. At least she didn’t try to put them into practice, like these two.

  Aware that Vanessa was talking to her, she looked up.

  “Are you going up to Cambridge this weekend?”

  “Probably. Ian’s thinking of inviting that American.”

  “I thought he had gone back to New York.”

  “He has. Apparently he’s coming back again.”

  Vanessa stared around for the wine waiter and then impatiently refilled her own glass. “What did you think of him?” she said.<
br />
  “He seemed pleasant enough,” said Margaret.

  “That’s not an answer.”

  Margaret thought and then said, “He’s not what I expected, for the sort of businessman he’s supposed to be; far quieter. I think he hides away a lot.”

  “Did you like him?” asked Vanessa.

  “Difficult to decide that, after just one meeting.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “I thought he was nice,” said Margaret, forced to give an opinion. She realized she was looking forward to seeing him again. “What did you think?”

  “Cold,” judged Vanessa.

  “I thought it was shyness.”

  Vanessa shook her head. “Cold,” she insisted.

  “Shan’t bother with an introduction then,” said Fiona.

  It had been Richard Haffaford’s idea to compose a loosely structured committee to decide their actions over Buckland House and to have upon it the men who had confronted Buckland and Condway when they made their overdraft request. The three men listened without interruption to Snaith’s account of that morning’s board meeting and then Haffaford said, “Faysel”. It was right under our bloody noses and we didn’t realize it!”

  “What was Condway’s reaction when you met him?” Snaith asked Haffaford.

  “Non committal,” conceded the banker.

  “It’s not any longer,” said Smallwood. “Apart from Snaith and myself, they’re fully behind him now. And they’ll stay that way.”

  “You sure they won’t consider any management reorganization?” asked Sir Herbert White.

  “Any actual decision was postponed,” said Snaith. “But I’m sure they won’t”.

  “It’s like selling off the family silver for gin money,” said the third director, Henry Pryke.

  “Do you think he’ll switch his funding arrangements when they pay off the overdraft?” asked Haffaford.

  “That was the obvious inference,” said Smallwood.

  “Perhaps we should consider ourselves lucky we got the money back,” said White.

  “Our business is selling money,” reminded Haffaford. “Not getting debts settled. And it doesn’t end with the overdraft repayment .…” He looked down at some papers on his desk. “We’ve got something like £3,500,000 worth of clients’ money invested in Buckland House and its subsidiaries.”