by Predators
“If Mrs. Painter isn’t going, we should be okay.”
“I’d leave the two kids behind if I could,” Leo continued, “but, as I said, I promised Griswold’s late mother I’d look after him. She couldn’t see the weasel she’d raised. She once said…do you believe this…‘he’s a lot like you.’ He’s as much like me as Paris Hilton is like Mother Theresa.”
In some ways, Travis thought, but wouldn’t articulate, she’d been right. Bobby Griswold presented just as self-centered, arrogant, and lacking in conscience as, he thought, Leo. Unlike Leo, however, he had not acquired any of his stepfather’s ruthlessness or drive. Had he, he might be in position to head the company, if and when Leo died. Travis had witnessed Leo’s will the previous February and that possibility existed, at least as an option if shrewdly executed. Travis could make that happen if he wanted to. It stood second on his list as Plan B. Plan A centered on his own elevation to the presidency—a plan that would be monkey-wrenched if the company went public too soon. Time. He needed time. And that, after Leo’s three major cardiac arrests and a quadruple by-pass, seemed increasingly uncertain.
Travis didn’t press about this new advisor, Greshenko. He guessed Leo was up to something that he did not want to know about but, in his need to stay alive in the sea of sharks in which he swam, he’d better find out. He tapped his papers back into a neat stack and stowed them in his briefcase. “There are papers to be signed to move the IPO forward. Are you sure you want them dated after you return from Botswana? If something happened to you—”
“Like what?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, but your heart, Leo. It’s not too reliable, and if you should…well, it could lead to certain complications.”
Leo laughed.
As it currently stood, Travis’ only hope for the future did not rest exclusively with the event that Leo would die or retire soon, leaving him a clear shot at the board of directors, most of whom he had carefully cultivated over the last decade. Travis had an alternative that he could put into effect, but not now. Later. With Bobby Griswold’s shares, the right combination of Board members, and other interested parties, he…well. If Earth Global were to function in the absence of Leo Painter, it would be with Travis at the helm.
“One last thing…”
“What?”
“Your will, is it in order?” Travis asked as a formality. “Henry tells me you haven’t done anything since the last one after—”
“Margaret died? After the company goes public, I will see about a new one that covers all the changes. For now, let it be. Hell, if I die, I won’t be around to care, will I?”
“It’s a stretch, I know, but, you realize that might put Bobby…”
“Then it’s in everybody’s best interest to keep me alive. Everybody’s,” he repeated, and smiled. Like a wolf eyeing an injured deer.
Travis’ expression did not alter. Not quite, boss man, he thought. He finished his briefing and snapped his case shut. Leo returned to the window. “It’s a good thing we’re heading out. It looks like a bitch of a winter is on the way.”
“Yes, sir. We leave Friday at six AM, from Signature Flight Support, that’s at Midway—”
“I know, I know. Just tell it to the driver. Oh, and make sure Rose calls everyone to confirm the time and have her send a car for the boy and the bimbo. They’re liable to oversleep.”
CHAPTER 5
Mr. Pako, her supervisor, did not like Sanderson. It was nothing personal; he just felt that being a game ranger was not a suitable job for a woman. This opinion he shared with the local police superintendent, Inspector Mwambe. Even though the police force had employed women constables for several years, the police superintendent rankled under this government decision. If the the chiefs, were still in charge…well that wasn’t true anymore either. There was that Kgosi Mosadi, that woman chief…well.dikgosi, if
When queried as to what jobs these two important persons considered appropriate for women, they had no answer. Out in the north, acceptance of change lagged behind the south. Gaborone had many women in big jobs, even on the High Court and in the National Assembly. Mr. Pako and his friend despaired at the direction their country seemed to be headed. If it were up to them, this Sanderson would be tending goats.
Mr. Pako shuffled papers at his desk. Sanderson stood still, waiting for him to speak. He looked up at her. What to do? The request from the village subchief for an investigation into the disappearance of a young boy topped the pile of papers on his desk. Why had they waited so long?
It would be a futile task. No good could come from it. He would send Sanderson. He authorized the use of the old Land Rover and sent her away. Good riddance. The phone rang. He straightened his uniform, slicked back the scant hair on his nearly bald head, and answered. The district superintendent had a position to fill. Did Mr. Pako have a reason not to accept a transfer? He thought a moment. No he did not.
***
Sanderson met with the subchief and then with the men in the village from which the boy disappeared.
“Why did so much time go by before this reporting?” she asked.
“That boy was a bad boy,” he said. “When he ran, we waited for him to return. What kind of a foolish person will run into the bush at night? Surely the Kalanga taught him sense in Zimbabwe. We believed he went to the road and on to Kasane, so we went to our houses to sleep. In the morning, things were busy with the cattle being herded to the kraal for transport to the abattoir and then there were other things…” His voice trailed off.
Sanderson understood “other things”…she had passed the bottle store and bar hut on her way in.
“He is a bad boy,” the old man repeated. “We thought, well, he has gone to another village to be bad. He will not return here. Then Rre Amanzie sees the vultures and we are then thinking, maybe this boy has not gone to another village after all.”
“Which way did he run?”
The old man pointed up the hill, toward the bush. Sanderson walked back to the Rover and unsheathed the rifle. It was not likely that she would have trouble in the daylight, but she wouldn’t take that chance. She loaded it, got behind the wheel and drove off the road and slowly into the bush.
She found the scant remains of Lovermore Ndlovu four hundred meters in. He had been dragged some distance, it seemed. After studying the broken bones and bits of clothing she guessed a big cat had taken him. After it had finished, other animals had cleaned up. She inspected the ground. Too many sets of spoor to reveal much. She noted the larger set, those of the cat, and squatted in the dust to examine them more closely. An old leopard might have done it. But she’d heard no reports of a leopard this close to the town. Although leopards hunt at night and would not be averse to taking down a man if they happened on one like this, they were shy and rarely ventured this close to civilization. Too much time had elapsed to be sure of anything. She put her finger in the paw depression. Time had blurred its edges and even size. Still it looked more like a lion, probably an immature rogue or nomad. The owner of those paws was not heavy enough to be full grown and probably too heavy to be a leopard. There were always young lions about this time of year, raiding kraals and stealing cattle. So, a lion, not a leopard. But she couldn’t be positive.
She stood and glanced once again at what was left of that bad boy. All that remained belonged to the insects. She put on rubber gloves. Collecting body parts would not be pleasant nor would she be expected to do a complete job. Bits and pieces would be scattered over a half hectare. She returned to the village half an hour later and deposited the plastic bag with the headman who would try to contact the Zimbabwe officials.
“Missus,” the old subchief said, “These wheels must be returned to their rightful owners. You must take them to the police.”
She inspected the wheels; saw where the bad boy had started to repaint the rims. She loaded them, into the back of the Rover. When she returned to Kasane, she attempted to deposit them at the police station. Inspect
or Mwambe gave her a hard look and told her to take them away, that he had no time for her and did not need more paper work. She asked what she should do with them.
“Do whatever you like, woman,” he said and lowered his eyes back to the shiny, very empty surface of his desk as he dismissed her with an impatient wave.
Mr. Pako had no suggestions for her either when she called him.
“Throw them away. I do not wish to have a conversation with you about it.”
***
Bloody and beaten, Sekoa staggered into the bush and settled in the shade of an acacia tree. He had not walked away, as wisdom would have suggested, but stayed through a second attack and then he turned and walked. He had not been badly injured in this his last battle. In the past, his bouts with other lions had frequently ended in severe wounds, the scars of which still marked his face and shoulders. And he had managed to impose on his conqueror a few wounds as well. In the distance he heard the roaring and yelping as his replacement assumed sovereignty over the pride and decimated the youngest cubs—the older males raced away into the grassland where they would live or die by their wits. Soon this new alpha male would mate with the females and receive, as his dowry, the disease that, more than his strength, had won him his victory.
Sekoa had not hunted in years. That duty usually belonged to the females. He instinctively knew he could not run down any fleet-footed animal and did not have strength enough to pull down slower, larger ones. His only hope was to feed on the carrion left by others, to steal the kill of smaller predators, to hunt down the sick, the lame, and those like him who were dying. And then there were the hated hyenas who, if they sensed his weakness, would track him, waiting for the moment when he collapsed. The eternal animosity between the two species would be played out once more. He huffed and swished his tail at the plague of flies that had come to torment him.
He would go to the water. Eventually all animals had to go to the water. There would be game there for the taking. He might survive another day.
***
Sanderson detoured to her house before parking the Land Rover. She needed to deposit Lovermore Ndlovu’s purloined wheels in her court. She had no idea if they would work on the HiLux. She was not mechanical and assumed that all automobile wheels were pretty much the same. Perhaps larger or smaller but the significance of the number of lug nuts for each had never registered. Four, five—who knew?
Michael slept fitfully under his mosquito netting. It had become necessary to fit this gossamer cone of protection over him as he, in his weakened state, could barely brush the flies and mosquitoes away. She tiptoed into the room and looked in on him, half hoping he would wake so she could tell him her good news, tell him of their change in luck. After a minute she left. The vehicle must be returned to its proper place. Mr. Pako must be assured of her presence on duty.
CHAPTER 6
Henry Farrah took the call even though he couldn’t imagine what Bobby Griswold’s wife wanted from him.
She told him.
“What you’re asking for is confidential lawyer-client information,” he protested. “Now wait a minute, Brenda…” He clenched his jaw, his face turned a bright, first-day-at-the-beach red. “Okay, okay, I hear you, but this has got to stop. Remember, you may embarrass me, but, if I have to, I can destroy you. What happened at that club is history and don’t forget, I didn’t interfere with you and Robert when I could have, so we should be even.”
He held the phone away from his ear and sighed. “No need to use that kind of language. Very well, but I can only give you a rough outline—only what concerns your husband. That will have to do for now. Is that clear? Good.” He ran his fingers through his still thick hair. It had once been red but with the years had turned muddy, the red fading into gray.
“This is the last will Mr. Painter executed as far as I know. Since I am his attorney, you may assume it is definitive. There is a 25 percent share in the company’s stock that is held in trust by Leo until Robert turns thirty-three. What?…I don’t know. Leo must have been genuinely fond of Robert’s mother, Brenda. That fondness doesn’t extend to Robert, by the way. Anyway, if Leo dies before Robert turns thirty-three, he inherits it immediately.”
Farrah wasn’t sure how much of what he related would register with the woman whom he’d first encountered in the Golden Cage night club. Just another gold-digger who, he believed, would milk whatever assets Griswold had and then dump him.
“The what?” Farrah’s expression switched from condescension to alarm. “How did you hear about the public offering? It’s supposed to be a secret…Bobby told you? I, we, the company, that is, could get into big trouble with the SEC if they find out…Okay, but don’t say anything to anyone else, you hear? I mean it. If it comes out, the wrong people know the sale could be canceled.”
A new problem to aggravate his ulcer. He reached into a desk drawer and retrieved a package of antacids, shelled one out and placed it on his tongue.
“No, if the offering goes through, Bobby’s stock converts to preferred stock. Since he is not top management, it confers no stock options to him.”
This conversation had drifted into areas the woman could not possibly grasp, he thought, and wished he had never begun.
“What?…Well, it means that combined with his mother’s share he received at her death he’d have a very nice income stream. Preferred stock is paid dividends before common stock. That’s pretty much it.”
Farrah listened as Brenda summarized her understanding of what he’d said. To his surprise, she had it right. When she’d finished, he acknowledged it as correct and hung up. With the news about the possibility of the IPO leak, he had a full day ahead. It had used up all his favors, and then some, to convince the board to force an IPO on Leo. This leak could ruin everything. The SEC needed to be queried—discreetly. He had contacts there. And the firms he’d contacted needed to be warned that there might be other parties in play when the offering was announced, if it made it that far.
***
While Henry Farrah fenced with Brenda Griswold and fed his ulcer antacids, Travis also placed a phone call. He’d used Dalton Inquiries frequently in the past. His continued climb in the corporate world required that he know as much as possible about his rivals, subordinates, and employer. Andrew Dalton supplied that information for a price. A high price, in fact, but one Travis paid without question. Dalton’s data was always reliable.
“Andy, I have an assignment for you and I need a report by Thursday.”
“That’s not much time, Mr. Parizzi.”
“I know, I’ll pay—”
“Of course you will. What is it you need?”
“Everything you can find out about a man named Yuri Greshenko. It’s important.”
“Hell, Mr. Parizzi. I don’t need to wait until Thursday, I can give that to you right now. The word on the street is Yuri Greshenko is Russian Mafia.”
“Russian Mafia? I didn’t know Chicago had—”
“They’re not big here, not yet, anyway. Greshenko is what you might call their advance man.”
“Russian Mafia. Jesus, what is Leo thinking?”
“Your boss is dealing with this guy?’
“I don’t know. I guess he must be.”
“I’ll send some stuff over to you today. A word to the wise, Mr. Parizzi: give Greshenko a very wide berth. He could be poison.”
“I’ll be careful. Send the ActiVox file over as well.”
The board had discussed ActiVox when the revolutionary process had been announced. They had authorized Leo to bid on it when the Australians had indicated a willingness to sell. The chemical leaching process could restore played-out mines, particularly nickel, to profitable production again. To their consternation they were quickly outbid by a Canadian group who, in turn, before Earth Global had a chance to counter, sold it, at an enormous profit, reportedly in the billions of dollars, to a Russian syndicate. Travis knew from Leo’s personal secretary, to whom he paid substantial bonuses,
that Leo had not given up on ActiVox. Earth Global had options on several played out mines and controlled vast holdings where they continued mining. They were barely profitable and Travis intended to see them shut down so the company could pour its resources into sectors with a better return on investment.
But who was Greshenko? More appropriately what was Greshenko, besides a Mafioso? What were Russians who dealt in that business called anyway? Was he the Russian connection Leo needed to close the ActiVox deal? He needed to know more about him. Timing, it all came down to timing.
***
Brenda stared unseeing at Lake Michigan through skeletal tree branches. The sky had turned darker, grayer. It would snow soon. Bobby had gone out, God only knew where, and she had some serious thinking to do. If Farrah had told her the truth, there would be some huge changes if and when the IPO thing went through. On the other hand, if Leo’s heart were to crap out, this time for good, her—well, Bobby’s—options were considerably brighter than she’d imagined. She could raise the money to redeem Bobby’s shares from that slime-ball Travis Parizzi. Frankie at the Golden Cage could arrange for the funds, if she explained it to him right. She’d have to pay a pretty high vigorish to the sharks, probably, but it would be worth it. Anyone wanting a major stake in Earth Global would jump at a chance to buy them out—for really big bucks. But that would have to be before the IPO, or with Leo dead.
“Income stream,” Farrah had said. Crapola. That might appeal to the congenitally lazy Bobby, but not to her. Leo was a tough old bastard, though. He was just contrary enough to live another ten years. And Farrah said if the wrong people…or was it the right people? If they found out the IPO had been leaked, it might be canceled. She needed to think about that, too.
***
Leo Painter settled behind his desk and steepled his hands. He considered lighting a cigar. Smoking was strictly forbidden in the offices, and by his doctors, but Leo ignored those dicta as he did most others. RHIP, he would say whenever someone called him on it, rank has its privileges. He rolled the cigar, one smuggled in from Cuba, between thumb and forefinger next to his ear. Perfecto. He decided to wait. It would taste better after lunch with his second martini.
