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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781453226476 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 08/23/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 346 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Brian Freemantle (b. 1936) is one of Britain’s most acclaimed authors of spy fiction. His novels have sold over ten million copies worldwide. Born in Southampton, Freemantle entered his career as a journalist, and began writing espionage thrillers in the late 1960s. Charlie M (1977) introduced the world to Charlie Muffin and won Freemantle international success. He would go on to publish fourteen titles in the series. Freemantle has written dozens of other novels, including two about Sebastian Holmes, an illegitimate son of Sherlock Holmes, and the Cowley and Danilov series, about a Russian policeman and an American FBI agent who work together to combat organized crime in the post–Cold War world. Freemantle lives and works in Winchester, England.
Read an Excerpt
Takeover
By Brian Freemantle
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1982 Jonathan EvansAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-2647-6
CHAPTER 1
Sir Ian Buckland decided it had been a mistake to agree to the meeting, despite Condway's insistence upon its importance. Friday, after all. And Condway knew damned well he always went out of London on a Friday, just as Condway invariably did. And sooner than this, too. What the hell was there that couldn't wait until Tuesday? Nothing, Buckland knew; absolutely nothing. Buckland looked needlessly at the desk clock, establishing that Condway was more than half an hour late. Either testing the humidity of some Havana-Havana or debating with the sommelier the superiority of the Vintage Dow against a 1969 Warre.
Buckland sighed. Fiona had said she understood when he'd telephoned, but he thought he'd detected an edge to her voice. It was still new enough for him to care about upsetting her. Bloody man.
Buckland thrust up and began pacing the chairman's office which was his by title but hardly by occupation, needing positive movement in his irritation. It was a large room originally designed by his grandfather and panelled still in dark Victorian teak, creating the impression of frames. In each square there was either a photograph or a print of one of their hotels throughout the world, London to the immediate right, Europe next, then Africa and finally India. Along the outer wall, where the windows overlooked Leadenhall Street, the shipping fleet was in modelled convoy, seven glass-encased liners steaming majestically back towards the desk that Buckland had vacated.
He walked jerkily trying to reassure himself the day could still be salvaged. Another fifteen minutes and he'd abandon the confounded man altogether. He could be at Fiona's by three and down to the Hamble by late afternoon. The yard were expecting him and knew it was more than their worth to close before he got there; he could have the yacht out into the Solent and into refit sea trials before the evening. And then an uninterrupted weekend with a woman who made love as if she'd invented it and was anxious to share the secret.
He was striding purposefully back towards his desk and the door that led to the outer office when the intercom sounded. He was annoyed that he hadn't made the decision earlier, to avoid being trapped. He punched the button and hoped Condway would detect the annoyance in his voice. If he had there was no indication of it having made any impression when the deputy chairman entered the room with his steady, measured tread. Lord Condway was plump, white-haired and port-mottled, the sort of British business director chosen as much for a lineage of four centuries as for his business acumen. The man carried a cigar still four inches long; he paused by Buckland's desk to dislodge a ring of white ash.
"You said two o'clock, George," reminded Buckland.
"Unavoidably delayed," said Condway, without an apology.
"I've an appointment."
Buckland remained standing. Condway nodded, settling himself expansively in one of the soft leather armchairs fronting the desk. "Necessary that we talk this through, Ian," he said.
Reluctantly Buckland settled himself behind the desk. "What?" he demanded. If Condway could be discourteous, so could he.
Condway moved his head again, absent-mindedly, suddenly interested in the burn of his cigar. "We've got a good finance director in Henry Smallwood," he said.
"What the hell are you talking about?" said Buckland. Smallwood was their most junior director, a round-bodied, round-faced man: even his spectacles were circular, making him appear exactly as Buckland regarded him, a clerk.
"Came to see me yesterday," disclosed the deputy chairman. "Something he can't understand in the accounts."
Buckland sighed, looking at the desk clock again. "Couldn't this have waited until Tuesday, George?"
Condway raised his eyes from the cigar, shaking his head. "There's a company cheque with your signature on it, Ian. For £635,000, made out to Leinman Properties and provisionally entered under investment."
Buckland's annoyance leaked away. "It was a private matter," he said shortly.
Condway shook his head again and Buckland was reminded of his housemaster at Eton: he'd smoked cigars and drunk port and been patronising. "It's a company cheque," said the deputy chairman.
"Buckland House is my company!"
"No it's not, Ian. And you know it. It's a public company with public investors. The only Leinman Properties Smallwood can find in the company register own casinos in Curzon Street and Hertford Street."
Buckland laughed dismissively. "It was a debt," he said.
"A gambling debt?"
"Yes."
Condway sat regarding him expressionlessly for several moments. When he spoke it was slowly, for the words to be understood. "You've committed a criminal offence, under the Company Acts."
"What!"
"A charge could be brought against you, under the fraud provisions."
"That's ridiculous."
"That's the law," said Condway, with quiet persistence.
"Your interpretation of it? Or Smallwood's?"
"My interpretation," said Condway. "Smallwood wanted to know if it was an executive decision we'd made between us in the absence of the full board and omitted to have entered into the minutes."
"What did you say?" demanded Buckland.
"Condway hesitated again. Then he said, "I told him I had a vague recollection but that I'd have to check my notes."
"It could have been an executive decision," said Buckland, seeing the way out and grabbing for it. "We only need three directors to agree."
"Was it your intention to attempt to get £635,000 through the company books?" asked Condway formally.
Not his housemaster, corrected Buckland. His father. The tone had always been like this, slightly weary, vaguely superior. Condway had served on the board under his father and Buckland knew the deputy chairman made comparisons, as they all did.
"It was an oversight," he insisted. "I happened to have a company cheque book on me and it was the convenient thing to do...." He stopped, conscious of the other man's concentration. "An oversight," he repeated.
"It could be listed as an executive decision on a director's loan," said Condway. "Could you repay it?"
"Of course."
"Now?"
"That's offensive."
"I'm being practical. And trying to avoid some public embarrassment," said Condway.
From the top, right-hand drawer of his desk Buckland took his personal cheque book and hurriedly completed an entry. In his annoyance he tore it out badly, leaving part of the counterfoil still attached, which made the gesture seem petulant. Slowly Condway reached forward for it and said, "I'll see it goes to accounts this afternoon, with a memo. There'll need to be a retroactive minute, which will mean board discussion."
"I understand," said Buckland. He looked obviously at the desk clock: he was more than an hour late for Fiona.
"It is an offence," said Condway.
"You've made your point."
"I just felt it was worth repeating," said Condway. He was unable any longer to maintain the white ash at the top of his cigar and it snowed down on to the carpet.
"You're driving too fast."
"I want to cast off before six," said Buckland. "After that the water starts to drop."
"You're in a rotten mood, too," accused Lady Fiona Harvey. She had a little-girl voice: occasionally, when she was excited, it actually came out as a squeak. Usually Buckland found it attractive but today it grated.
"Something awkward at the office," he said. "I'm sorry."
"I had a letter from Peter's solicitors today. They've given me a week to get out of the flat."
"I thought it was yours, under the terms of the settlement," said Buckland. She was bloody lucky there'd been a change in the British divorce laws, making an irretrievable breakdown the only grounds necessary. Sir Peter Harvey had proof of six different men with whom she'd committed adultery and a scandal would have been inevitable.
"It's one of the things that's got to be sold, for the division of the family property."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know," she said. "It's a bloody nuisance." She moved her hand across into his lap and began caressing him. "I could always move into one of your hotels, I suppose: would I get preferential rates?"
"How could I explain the visits?" he said, laughing with her. He shifted on the seat, making it easier for her, feeling himself stir under her touch. He'd never known anyone as sexual as Fiona.
"What did you tell Margaret?" she said.
"The truth," said Buckland. "That I was going to Hamble to put the yacht in the water."
"But forgot to mention me?"
Buckland smiled quickly to her. "She regards you as a close friend," he said, "though not that close."
"She called me the other day about the children's charity. Time to start organizing things, apparently."
"She's very efficient," said Buckland.
"Not in everything," said Fiona, moving her hand harder against him. "I'm better at this."
It was her favourite ride and Lady Margaret Buckland tried to make it at least once a week, to the very top of the rolling hill which gave the best view of the Cambridgeshire estate. She reined in and then stood in the stirrups, picking out the boundaries. Further than the eye could see in at least two directions and only just visible in a third: it was right that the family should be proud. It was a pity that Ian didn't appreciate it more.
She turned the horse for a full view of the mansion. It stood laid out before her, square and solid, like a man with his legs astride, confident of its own importance. The falling sun sparked off some of the windows, making images of tiny fires. The horse's head dropped and she let it graze, leaning back assuredly in the saddle. She wished Ian were coming down this weekend. Weekdays were all right because she'd adjusted to fill them, but the weekends were for him and when he stayed away there was a vacuum. A good word, vacuum; an empty vacuous life. Far away, in the direction of Cambridge, she heard a clock bell strike what sounded like a half hour. Time to get back, she thought. Back to the formalized sherry with Ian's mother and then formalized dinner and then the formalized sessions of bezique. Duty, she thought. Dear God, how she hated duty!
Henry Smallwood had a fat man's agility and went quickly into the offices of Samuel Haffaford and Co. John Snaith, who was a partner in the merchant bank and their nominee upon the Buckland House board, was waiting in the foyer and came forward, hand outstretched.
"It's good of you to see me, so late on a Friday," said Smallwood.
"You described it as urgent," said Snaith. "The chairman's waiting for us upstairs."
"I think it is urgent," said Smallwood. "I think something very serious has happened."
CHAPTER 2The flight path of the Lear jet brought them in from the West, over the silver thread of the Potomac. Harry Rudd had a brief view of a neatly patterned city and then the plane dipped further for its approach to Washington National airport. Rudd refastened his seatbelt for the landing, feeling again the stir of curiosity at the senator's approach for a meeting. Rudd rarely moved unprepared and within a day of the suggestion, through politicians whom he employed as lobbyists in the capital, he ordered a file on Warren Jeplow, to go further back than his chairmanship of the Ways and Means Committee and ten-year membership of the Foreign Relations Committee. The conclusion had been that Jeplow was the doyen among the Washington professionals, a committee and caucus room manipulator with a reputation rivalling Lyndon Johnson's. Certainly a man for whom it was worth flying down from New York to have breakfast, without the mention of specific reason.
Normally Rudd travelled with a personal assistant and usually with Walter Bunch as well, to provide legal advice. But discretion had been a word used frequently during the arrangements so Rudd disembarked alone from the executive jet, told the pilot to be ready within three hours, and hurried across the private section of the airport to the waiting limousine. It was a company car and driver, moved down overnight, so no gossip would come from a rental agency. The early morning commuter traffic was building up but it was still not at its peak: they'd arranged eight o'clock and it was still only seven-forty-five when the vehicle moved into Georgetown. Rudd stared out at the ghetto of the privileged and supposed there was a vague similarity with Boston's Beacon Hill. He wasn't attracted by the tradition of either. He preferred the up-thrust buildings and shoulder-bumping of New York; that's where the money was, the personal electricity, and the risk-taking. Not that he considered himself a risk-taker. Fortune magazine had described him as an edge-of-the-chair entrepreneur which he'd considered an exaggeration. Rudd, who was honest but not conceited, knew himself very well. He was a businessman and a good one. And good businessmen didn't take foreseeable chances.
The house was three-storey and brick, with a small rise of steps leading up from the sidewalk. Over the lintel and higher still, protruding from the wall, were television security monitors, so that any caller would be visible from inside the house. Rudd depressed the bell and stood self-conciously, aware he was under scrutiny. There was hardly any delay and Jeplow personally opened the door. Although the biographical file had been a warning, Rudd was still surprised by the senator. He represented Texas and saw himself as a Southern gentleman. The flowing moustaches which bisected his brightly pink face were completely white, matching the hair which he wore long, to create a patrician effect. The clothes were expertly tailored, the jacket cut to suggest a frock-coat: from photographs, Rudd knew that for evening wear Jeplow often used a stock instead of a black tie.
Jeplow took Rudd's hand in both of his and said, "Welcome, sir. Welcome to my house." Jeplow made it a prolonged greeting, staring straight into Rudd's face. Finally he stood back, gesturing to their right, to a circular entrance. The breakfast room was heavily furnished with what Rudd guessed were antiques, a large oval table and heavily stuffed chairs, with brocaded curtains and patterned silk walls. One was dominated by a display of photographs, charting Jeplow's political life. Rudd recognized Kennedy and de Gaulle and Churchill, each with Jeplow close at hand. The serving sideboard was against the far wall, with covered silver chafing dishes.
"A Southern breakfast, sir. Bloody Mary's and grits. You like grits, Mr Rudd?"
"Well enough," said Rudd. He decided Jeplow wore politeness in the same way as his hair, for effect. Rudd wondered if he was going to like the man. He took his drink, raising his glass to respond to the politician's toast.
"Appreciate your coming all the way down from New York," said Jeplow. "And so early."
"I was interested in your suggestion that we meet," said Rudd honestly, wanting to bring the conversation on course. Jeplow had made the drinks himself, just as he had opened the door. Rudd guessed he'd dispensed with his staff for the same reason that he'd brought his own car down from New York.
"Why don't you sit there, by the window?" invited Jeplow, refusing to be hurried.
Rudd did, looking down at the setting. Damask individual cloth, hallmarked silver and crystal glass, he saw. Jeplow enjoyed living well.
"Allow me to serve you, sir," said Jeplow. "There's kedgeree, kidney, ham. And eggs of course, fried or hashed.'
"Ham," said Rudd. "Hashed eggs. And grits." Jeplow was obviously determined the meeting would go at his pace. Would he have rehearsed it, like a speech?
The senator offered the plate and freshened Rudd's glass and then served himself. When he sat, he wedged the napkin flamboyantly into his collar.
"I've made a study of you, Mr Rudd," announced the politician. "Of you and your company."
"It's a pretty well-known corporation," said Rudd. He'd let Jeplow make the running.
"Through you, sir," said Jeplow, as if seizing an important point. "Through you. You've a reputation on Wall Street, with every justification. To take a Boston motel chain with a $3,000,000 turnover to a $500,000,000 multinational leisure conglomerate in ten years is pretty impressive, sir. Pretty impressive."
So was Jeplow's research, thought Rudd. The senator wasn't offering flattery: he was listing the figures to prove his own professional attention to detail. What sort of deal was he going to offer?
"I'm proud of it," said Rudd. He supposed he was, now. But pride hadn't been the motivation in the beginning. Business – and his complete and utter involvement in it – had been the refuge after Angela's death.
"Rightly so," said Jeplow. "Rightly so." He gestured towards the covered dishes. "A little more, perhaps?"
Rudd shook his head, not wanting any interruption.
"A history of expansion," said Jeplow, as if offering a motto.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Takeover by Brian Freemantle. Copyright © 1982 Jonathan Evans. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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