by Peter James
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘I – er – I – er – I’m Harry Slan. I have an appointment – eleven o’clock, with Mr Sleder.’ He realized she was watching him look down the front of her dress; what surprised him was that she smiled.
‘Yes, Mr Slan. Mr Sleder is expecting you. I’ll tell him you’re here.’
Slan opened his mouth to say thank you, but nothing came out. Her perfume had just hit him, and it drove him mad with desire; he was in love with her. He had to get back to Adamsville by this evening; it was his wife Myrtle’s birthday, and they were having a party. The Jonklins and the Ormsbys were coming round, and he had promised Myrtle faithfully that he would not be late back. ‘Would you care to join me for dinner tonight?’ he asked.
She smiled at him, a long smile that was full of desire. He started to compose his letter to Myrtle. The letter told her he was sorry, but life was too short and he felt he had not seen enough of it. Maybe he’d come back some day, and maybe he wouldn’t; he hoped she’d understand. They’d had a lot of good times together, she wasn’t to take it personally. There wasn’t anyone else. It was just – well – he wanted to be alone for a while, have time to think things over, think what it was he really wanted to do with his life, or at least the rest of his life until Myrtle tracked him down.
‘I’m sorry, I already have a date.’ The smile, for a moment, went from her face. Slan’s stomach hit the floor, and stayed there for several long seconds.
All Gebruder Sleder’s receptionists, and several other members of his office staff, at offices all around the world, were paid salaries way above the going rate for the posts. The reason for this was that the girls’ duties included sleeping with whoever they were instructed to, and when they were instructed to. But no one had instructed Barbara Lindell to sleep with this fat, sweating, half-cut stump of a man who stood leering at her from the other side of her ITT switchboard, and she counted her blessings. She smiled sweetly at Slan, pressed the intercom button to Deke Sleder’s private secretary and spoke into the telephone receiver. ‘Mr Harry Slan is here.’ She listened for a moment, smiled, and replaced the receiver. ‘Go right up, Mr Slan, take the internal elevator over there to the seventy-third floor, and you’ll be met.’
‘Thank you.’ Slan paused, but he hadn’t ever been much good at chatting up women, and although his ego had been boosted by his four days with Eva, at the age of forty-five he was discovering that his patter was even slower in coming now than when he was twenty. He grinned a rather unsure grin, and fled for the elevator. As the doors shut, he kicked himself. He should have tried harder; then he thought about Myrtle, and decided it was best that she had said no.
The doors opened again, and he stepped out into a large anteroom. Two burly security guards stood up from their chairs. ‘Good morning, Mr Slan,’ they said courteously. ‘Routine security – I’m afraid we’ll have to do a quick body-search, if you don’t mind.’
Slan did mind, but his brain was weakened by the mixture of expensive alcohol and the girl nine floors below, and he put his hands in the air and grinned.
When they were satisfied that the fat man was not carrying any apparatus that could either blow holes in their boss, or cut bits off him, they allowed him to pass into the next room, in which sat the most sexy girl in the world. She wore a charcoal-grey, knitted dress, that appeared to have been made at a time when there was a severe, international wool-shortage. What Slan saw was the almost naked body of a girl, decorated with the odd grey strand of wool; the only item of clothing that actually covered any of her body was the Woolmark label.
Slan was swept in a trance through polished-wood double doors into Sleder’s office. Now, he thought, he was beginning to understand why men fought and cheated and stole and killed to get to the top; because if this was what awaited them, then to hell with the wrath of God. There was nothing any devil could come up with in the hereafter that could possibly make one regret having lived a life like this.
The office was enormous, with a staggering view through the blinds – which took the glare but not the warmth from the streaming November sun – down towards the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, and a panorama of other high-rise buildings. Up here was an intimate little village in the sky. One looked out at other high-rises as equals, instead of up at them as towering dominating monsters. It was a view that could make any man happy to come to work. The office was the size of a football pitch, and Sleder’s desk the size of a tennis court. Sleder sat behind it, in total command of it, wearing a white sports jumper and a cream open-necked shirt. The desk was almost bare, with just an intercom, dictating machine and, surprisingly thought Slan, just one telephone.
Sleder extended a hand, and Slan marched over. As he got near, Sleder stood up. Slan didn’t even attempt to reach across the desk, but walked round the side and shook the outstretched hand.
‘It’s very good to see you again,’ said Sleder in an accent that made even the toughest of the Anglo-Saxon female breed go weak at the knees. ‘I trust you had a good journey?’
‘Terrific!’ said Slan. ‘I’d travel Sleder any time!’
They both laughed, then Slan stiffened. He didn’t know why Sleder wanted to see him, but he knew why he wanted to see Sleder. He’d drunk too much and he had let his guard drop; he’d better pull himself together now – fast.
‘Will you have a glass of coffee, or would you prefer something stronger?’
‘Coffee will be fine, thank you.’
Sleder pushed a cigar box at him. ‘Havana?’
Slan shook his head.
Sleder pushed an onyx cigarette box. ‘Cigarette?’
‘I gave up.’
‘Did you? So did I. I don’t find it easy, though, do you?’
‘It takes a while. Five years now, I haven’t touched one.’
‘That’s good. Did you smoke many?’
‘Two packs a day.’
‘It’s good you gave it up; that’s too many, much too many.’
Slan was beginning to wonder whether Sleder had summoned him all the way here merely for a discussion about giving up smoking.
‘I agree,’ he said. He wanted to say, ‘Who the hell was responsible for sending me those photographs?’ Instead he said, ‘How many did you smoke?’
‘About one pack. But that was too many also.’ Sleder smiled – a big, warm smile.
The girl with the outfit that could have bankrupted the International Wool Secretariat delivered coffee and reduced Slan to a jellied mass. When she had departed and his senses began to return to him, he decided he was going to recommend to American Fossilized that they trade in their coffee-vending machine for one like her. He wondered whether Sleder regarded her merely as an ornament, or whether his interests in her extended to extra-curricular activities.
‘Did you enjoy your trip with us on Chanson II?’ asked Sleder.
The girl came in again and placed a dispenser of saccharin tablets on the coffee tray. Slan longingly watched her firm buttocks and taut thighs rub past each other as she walked out of the room with a careless stride.
‘I had one hell of a time. A real ball! Any time you’re short of a crew member, let me know!’ Slan laughed, but this time Sleder didn’t laugh; he merely smiled politely.
‘You looked as if you were enjoying yourself. I thought the photographs were great fun – you got them all right?’
Slan snapped out of his fantasies. ‘I got them all right. Why the hell did you send them?’
‘Why?’ Sleder looked hurt. For a moment, Slan felt guilty that he had offended him. ‘I thought everyone who goes on holiday likes to have their … holiday snaps – a little souvenir, memento, something to look back at when you are old and grey and you can’t get your pecker up any more.’ Sleder grinned.
Slan grinned too, but it was a nervous grin. Something in Sleder’s tone of voice wasn’t quite right. ‘But let us hope there are – how is the expression – many more summers before the swan d
ies!’
Slan looked curiously at him.
‘It’s an expression I took from a book by an English writer – Huxley – about a rich man, a very rich man who does not want to grow old, he wants to find the key to eternal life. The book is called After Many a Summer Dies the Swan.’
Slan looked blank. He only understood three things in life: eating, sex and the manufacture of fuels. Literature had always been beyond him; he never even read the words in girlie magazines.
‘You are probably wondering why I asked you to come and see me?’
Slan nodded.
‘Well, it is because I consider you a friend – a personal friend, a good personal friend, a friend with whom I share my summer holiday – that I’m asking you this, if the answer is no, then just tell me, and we won’t say any more. I need a favour – a very small favour.’
Slan now had a feeling that his reaction when the photographs landed on his desk had been the right one, a feeling that he had bolstered when Sleder’s personal assistant had telephoned, and a feeling that was being further bolstered now. He had a feeling that today was pay-day and it was he who was going to be writing out the cheques. ‘What – er – what sort of favour?’
‘A very small one, Harry. Well, one that is small to you, but will mean much to me.’
Slan stared Sleder in the eye.
‘My company is having problems at the moment, big problems. The whole world economy – it is not good. I have a large company – turnover last year is eleven hundred million dollars – and it is a private company – I own it all. But now there are big problems: we manufacture textiles – fabrics for curtains, for dresses, for seat covers – but the world textile trade is in severe recession. We are producing oil and exploring for more, but the exploration is costing more than the profits we are making from the production. We are producing explosives, but there is a world surplus, and there are many legal restrictions, and many countries are cutting back on their spending on defence. We are farming, but the profits in food at the moment are slim. We produce component parts for railway trains, but the railways are in decline.
‘You see, this business was founded by my grandfather, and was rooted in the areas that were growth areas in his lifetime; they were still growth areas in my father’s lifetime; but now, for me, times are changed. I must find new areas. And we have moved into one new area where there is real potential for growth: the manufacture of nuclear fuels.’
Slan nodded. ‘You want me to give you information?’
‘No. I don’t need information; that I have – all I want. What I need are customers; I need orders! I need orders for AtomSled! This is the name of my new company: AtomSled. Punchy, eh? It has balls, don’t you think?’
Slan nodded. If Sleder thought it had balls, then it had balls.
‘Gebruder Sleder has a good reputation throughout the world. Everyone knows that Gebruder Sleder delivers on time, and it delivers what has been ordered! Because of our reputation for reliability, we have been granted licences to produce nuclear fuel for power stations in eleven countries, including the United States; but we cannot seem to break through and get the big meaty orders that we need.’
‘I thought you were going to buy American Fossilized. It was widely rumoured – still is. We’ve got plenty of orders; if you buy the company, you’ll get them all!’
‘Ha! I would love to, but I cannot afford it. Your turnover is five thousand million dollars, with a profit last year of seven hundred million. I do not have the kind of money that would buy a company of that size. I know there has been speculation in the financial press, and I have not discouraged such rumours – they are good for prestige – but the press do not know the size of my business, nor the money I have. My company is spread across the world; there are holding companies in Liechtenstein, Switzerland, Panama, and other, very private places. The press can only guess at the size of my business and the extent of my personal wealth, and, as is usually the case when the press don’t know something, they err on the large side. Big sums of money, big deals – that sells newspapers.’
The wind had suddenly gone from Slan’s sails. He had been assuming all along that Sleder was going to buy the company, which was why Sleder was interested in him, probably saw in him the company’s future president, and now this was not the case, not the case at all. ‘What – er – what are you wanting me to do?’
‘Harry, I want you to buy our fuel rods and our fuel assemblies.’
‘You’re joking. How can I do that? We don’t buy either rods or complete assemblies from other companies. We make them ourselves. That’s our business.’
‘I know this. You are the exclusive manufacturer of fuel for fifteen power stations in the United States, and for two in Canada. In addition, you supply many other power stations with some of their requirements. American Fossilized manufactures twenty-three per cent of all the nuclear fuel used on the North American continent. If you were to stop manufacturing overnight, that would leave a very big gap in the market …’
Slan’s mouth dropped open.
‘… and we would have the stocks ready to fill in right away.’
‘What do you mean?’ Slan’s face had turned a deep shade of ivory.
‘Harry, I want you to sabotage your plant.’
‘You’re mad.’
Sleder grinned. ‘No, I am not mad. It’s simple. You fix for an accident to happen in the plant – you know there are plenty of ways an accident can happen, you are the expert in these things, not I. You make it a good accident, and cause a radiation leak, contaminating your plant. Obviously, the plant has to be shut down right away. It cannot continue with production until the contamination has been cleared up, and this will be a long process. Your company has two options: either you tell the United States Nuclear Regulatory Commission what has happened, in which case they will close you down – for a minimum of many months, until they have investigated and until you have cleaned up – and your customers will have to look for other suppliers. Naturally, they will come to us. Or, you keep quiet, you do not tell the NRC anything has happened. Keep the whole thing under wraps, quietly get on and clear up, and quietly buy the fuel from us to supply to your customers.’
‘And then you blow the gaff when it suits you?’
Sleder smiled. ‘Maybe, maybe not. It would depend on how trade goes.’
Slan shook his head. ‘There’s no way,’ he said, ‘no way under the sun. I like my company, and I like my job, and I’m not going to do that. No way. It’s totally immoral; a lot of people could get hurt, maybe killed – and they’re my friends. You picked the wrong guy; count me out.’
‘No,’ said Sleder, ‘I will not count you out.’
A little colour had returned to Harry Slan’s face; it now drained out again. ‘What do you mean?’
‘If you do not agree, I shall arrange for a considerably more comprehensive set of holiday photographs than I sent to you to be mailed to your wife. They are at the present moment sitting in a sealed envelope, addressed to Mrs Myrtle Slan, at the address I have written on this piece of paper – your correct home address, I believe? They will be sent in the noon post unless I ring down to stop them.’
Slan glared at him, then looked down at his watch. It was five to twelve. ‘You said when I arrived that if I didn’t want to help you, then I didn’t have to.’
Sleder leaned even further forward; his blue eyes turned to a menacing shade of grey, but his lips broke into a warm, cheerful smile. ‘I lied.’
Slan didn’t speak for well over a minute. He was searching desperately for some alternative, and he knew his search was a waste of time, because there was no alternative. Sleder had him hook, line and sinker, and Sleder knew it. It was over the third glass of vintage Remy Martin, that Slan had quietly confided to his host, after a magnificent dinner on Chanson II, that he had never before been unfaithful to his wife – not because he didn’t lust after other women, but because of his terror of her. It all came flooding back
now, and it was too late to start cursing. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ll do it.’
Sleder’s smile turned to a big grin. ‘Thank you, Harry, that’s what friends are for.’
‘Don’t give me any more of that “friends” crap.’
Sleder sounded hurt again. ‘It’s not crap, Harry. I can’t afford to do without this business. American Fossilized Corporation can. No one’s going to suffer. So the shares might dip a little, if the news gets out, but this plant of yours in Adamsville, it is only a part of the whole business; it would not affect it too dramatically. And besides, the news isn’t going to get out. So it will cost your company a little more to buy the fuel than to make it, but I will be fair with my prices; I am going to give your company good prices.’
‘What about the danger to my men?’
‘That, I’m afraid, is your problem. I am sure you can find a time when no one is around – I don’t know when: the middle of the night, or a Saturday – you will have to choose.’
‘And when do you want me to do this?’
‘Very soon. Before the end of November.’
‘That gives me less than three weeks.’
‘So how long does it take you to throw a few switches and undo a couple of bolts?’
‘I think you are as aware as I am that it will not be as simple as that. There are elaborate safety systems at all stages. I’m going to have to give it very careful thought.’
‘Don’t look so gloomy, Harry. Cheer up, I am full of confidence in you! By the way,’ he lied, ‘Eva sends her love. She said, if you ever get to Germany, give her a call.’ Sleder was a maestro.
‘Really?’ said Slan.
‘Yes. I think she’s pretty hooked on you – it’s too bad you have a wife when there are so many nice girls around in the world.’
‘You have some pretty good-looking ones in here.’