The birthday girl

by Stephen Leather

  He took a slow, deep breath. 'You had a son, didn't you, Mr Freeman?' The 'Mr Freeman' came almost as an afterthought, as if Elliott was nearing the end of his patience. Freeman didn't reply. The room seemed suddenly cold. He held Elliott's stare and gripped the wheels of his chair. 'Are you sure you want to do this for the best of motives?' Elliott continued. Still Freeman didn't reply. He knew that the State Department official was trying to provoke him, to prove that he was unstable, and that if Freeman did lose his temper they'd never let him take Mersiha.

  'There are also problems with adoption, Mr Freeman,' Elliott said. 'The authorities here aren't keen to allow their children to be taken away. They feel that their needs are best served among their own people.'

  'In concentration camps?'

  'You might also find it difficult to get the adoption approved back in the United States.'

  Freeman kept his eyes on Elliott. He had only one card left to play, one threat to use against the hard-faced State Department official and his file. 'If you insist on leaving her in that camp, I'll have no choice but to go public,' he said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. 'I'll speak to every newspaper and TV correspondent I can find. I'll go to London and hold a press conference there, and then I'll do the same all across the United States.' He slapped the side of his wheelchair. 'I'll sit in this chair and I'll tell the world how a mercenary with blue eyes and a Virginia accent tried to blow away a little girl, and I'll tell them that the State Department wanted her to be kept in a concentration camp because they didn't want the world to know the truth.' – j Elliott studied Freeman, his forehead creased as if he were {v* contemplating a mathematical problem. 'No one will care,' he said. 'Besides, the mercenaries, if indeed they were mercenaries, were acting on your behalf.'

  'They'll care,' Freeman replied. 'And you know as well as I do that once it gets into the media, you'll have no choice but to let her into the States. And I don't think it'll be too difficult to prove that they were assisted by the State Department. I'm sure the New York Times would love to know what you and Connors are doing here.' He paused for breath. 'Look, this isn't a poker game. I've no reason to bluff. You allow my wife and me to adopt Mersiha, or I go public. One or the other. Your choice. And don't worry about the adoption. I'll go to the best lawyers in the States, I'll pay whatever it takes.

  Whatever.'

  Elliott looked across at the Serb. Freeman kept his eyes on Elliott, as if he could get the answer he wanted by sheer force of will. He didn't see how the Serb had reacted, but he heard Connors shift position behind the wheelchair.

  'You take her,' Elliott said. 'You take her today. I'll arrange the paperwork at this end, you'll be responsible for all costs.'

  Freeman nodded. 'Agreed.'

  'I haven't finished,' Elliott said smoothly. 'You are never to come back to this country, Mr Freeman. Neither is the girl. If the girl leaves, she is never to return. And you, Mr Freeman, are never to speak of this again. To anyone.'

  Freeman nodded. He couldn't stop himself smiling. He'd won. He'd played his last card and it had been a trump.

  'I hope you understand what I'm saying, Mr Freeman,' Elliott said, his voice suddenly hardening. 'You will not talk to anyone about what happened. In the cellar. At the camp. Or within these four walls. It never happened.'

  Elliott stared at him, and Freeman knew that there was more that the State Department official wanted to say. He wanted to tell him what would happen if he broke the agreement, and Freeman knew that it would involve a man like Connors, or maybe a man with blue eyes and a Virginia accent, and he was suddenly scared. Before Elliott could continue, Freeman nodded, almost too eagerly. 'I understand,' he said. 'Mersiha's all I want. Nothing else matters.'

  Elliott continued to stare at Freeman, and for a moment Freeman feared that he was about to change his mind. 'Thank you,' he said. He looked across at the Serb. 'Thank you,' he repeated.

  The Serb and Elliott exchanged glances, then left the room without a word. Freeman turned his chair around to find Connors leaning against the wall with a sly smile on his face, slowly shaking his head. 'You're a lucky man, Freeman,' he said enigmatically.

  Freeman opened the refrigerator door and peered inside. He pulled out a carton of orange juice and took it over to the sink.

  As he poured himself a glassful he looked through the window and across the lawn to the line of trees that separated his property from that of his neighbour. Mersiha was playing with Buffy, throwing a blue frisbee for the dog and laughing each time she ,* brought it back. It was a game Buffy would happily play for hours " amp;' at a time without getting bored. Mersiha's laughter carried into the kitchen and Freeman smiled. The teenager who was running across the lawn was a far cry from the frightened girl he'd taken from the camp in Serbia almost three years earlier. She was a great deal taller, almofffa* young woman, and her jet-black hair was thick and shiny.

  'Go get it, Buffy!' she shouted. There was hardly any trace of a Bosnian accent any more. The all-American girl. Freeman drank his orange juice. Mersiha saw him and ran to the back door. She burst into the kitchen with all the energy of a SWAT team.

  'Hiya, Dad,' she said, hugging him around the waist.

  'Hiya, pumpkin. Do you want a ride to school?'

  'No, thanks. Katherine will take me later.'

  Freeman put his glass in the sink and untangled himself from Mersiha's hug. She picked his briefcase up and handed it to him.

  'What time are you coming home?' she asked.

  'About six,' Freeman said. Mersiha was always asking him where he was going, and when he'd be back. Bearing in mind her background, he wasn't surprised by her insecurity.

  In some ways it was reassuring. He had many friends who'd love to have the same degree of concern from their adolescent children.

  Buffy stood outside the kitchen door, barking at Mersiha to return to their game, but she ignored her. She looked at Freeman and frowned, deep lines creasing her forehead. 'Is everything okay?' she said.

  'Of course. Why?' Freeman was already late but he put his I briefcase back on the table.

  Mersiha shrugged. 'You look worried. Like the world was =', ¦?» about to end and only you know.' f Freeman smiled. 'Everything's fine. I have everything I've ever wanted. A home. A family.' Buffy barked, louder and more insistent. 'And a dog. What more could any man want?'

  Mersiha looked at him for a few seconds before she smiled.

  'A million dollars?' she said.

  'Ah, the American Dream,' Freeman sighed.

  'America is truly a wonderful country,' Mersiha said, putting on a thick European accent and then collapsing in a fit of giggles.

  She picked up his briefcase and carried it out to the car for him.

  'Don't forget your seat belt,' she said before he could even reach over his shoulder for it.

  'Do I ever?' he asked, buckling himself in. A sudden wave of sadness washed over him and he shivered. He caught himself just in time and managed to keep smiling.

  Mersiha saw the change in his face and immediately realised what was going through his mind. She flushed. 'I didn't mean…'

  'I know, I know,' he said.

  'I just meant I wanted you to drive safely, that's all.'

  'Mersiha, there's no need to explain, I know what you meant.'

  'Yeah, but I don't want you to think that I…'

  Freeman took her hand and squeezed it. 'Shhhh,' he said. 'I promise to drive carefully. Now go and play with your dog.'

  He waved goodbye to Mersiha and backed the Chevrolet Lumina out of the driveway into the road. In the driving mirror Freeman saw her stand and watch him drive away. It had been more than five years since Luke had died in the car crash, but the memory of it still brought tears to Freeman's eyes and he blinked several times. He and Katherine had explained to Mersiha what had happened and why they had no children of their own, and it pained Freeman to see how carefully she tried to avoid the subject. He knew she was trying to protect his feelings, a
nd that made it all the worse. If anything it was he who should be trying to help her. He could only imagine what a tangled mess her emotions must be. There were times, usually when she didn't know that he was watching her, when he saw a look of such sadness cross her face that his heart would melt. He knew that she must be thinking about her real mother and father.

  Both Freeman's parents were alive and reasonably well, living in a bungalow in Bishopbriggs, a suburb of Glasgow, and whereas he saw them only once or twice a year, he knew how much he'd miss them when they eventually passed away. And not a day went by when he didn't think of Luke. God only knew how Mersiha had dealt with the loss of her parents and her brother, especially considering the circumstances in which they'd died, circumstances that she had yet to really talk about.

  Mersiha was seeing a psychiatrist on a regular basis, but he wasn't making much progress with her. It wasn't that she was uncommunicative or withdrawn, quite the opposite in fact. She was bright, she was outgoing and she was as cute as a button, but she simply refused to tell anyone what had happened to her in the months before Freeman had met her. The psychiatrist, Dr Brown, had said that it was just a matter of time and that eventually she would open up. It would probably happen once she felt totally safe in her new home, Dr Brown had said, and he'd stressed that it was up to Katherine and Tony to demonstrate that she had a loving, supportive family that would always be there for her. That wasn't a problem; they were more than happy to have her. More than happy. She went some way towards filling the void that Luke's death had left, but it was more than that – they couldn't have loved her more if she had been their own child.

  Freeman was still thinking about Mersiha when he pulled into the parking lot of CRW Electronics and drove over the painted letters that spelled out his name and title: chairman.

  Maury Anderson's white Corvette was already in its space and Freeman found him sitting in his plush office reading a computer printout and drinking a cup of black coffee.

  'Hiya, Tony, you ready for the inquisition?' he asked.

  'As I'll ever be,' Freeman said. He nodded at the printout in Maury's hands. 'Anything I should know about?'

  Anderson held the paper out. 'I was just taking a last-minute look at the figures. It's not a pretty picture.' He sniffed and ran the back of his hand under his nose.

  'Tell me something new,' Freeman said, scanning the numbers.

  He knew Anderson was right. The company's financial position was precarious at best and he could see no reasons for optimism. They were due to see their bankers at 11.15 and Freeman was expecting the worst. CRW Electronics was covering its interest payments, but cash-flow projections suggested that this state of affairs wouldn't continue for much longer. Even the time and place of the meeting underlined the way the company's fortunes were progressing. In the good old days of the Reagan arms build-up the bank officials would come to CRW's offices for lunch in the boardroom, eager to fund their expansion programmes. Now it was a half-hour at the bank's city headquarters with the minimum of hospitality. The next stage on the slippery slope would be Chapter 11, protection from creditors, unless he and Maury could do something to stop the rot. Freeman passed the printout back to Anderson. 'Your car or mine?'

  Anderson smiled. 'I think they'd rather see us in the Lumina, don't you? Under the circumstances.' He sniffed again.

  Freeman grinned. 'Maybe we should take the bus. Are you coming down with a cold?'

  'Just a sniffle,' Anderson said. 'I think it's the air-conditioning.

  Hey, what do you call a blind elk?'

  Freeman shrugged.

  'No eye-deer,' Anderson said. '

  Freeman gave Anderson a half-smile and checked his wristwatch.

  'Better we get there early,' he said.

  They parked the Lumina in an underground car park close to the headquarters of the First Bank of Baltimore. As they sped up to the top floor, Freeman checked himself in the mirrored wall of the elevator. Anderson chuckled. 'It's like being sent to the principal's office, isn't it?'

  'Yeah. I was just thinking that it wasn't that long ago that they were beating a path to our door.'

  'They will again, Tony. Once we're back on our feet.'

  They were made to sit in the bank's reception area for a full ten minutes, which Freeman took to be yet another sign of the institution's displeasure, but when they were finally ushered into the corporate lending office at least he was able to greet a friendly face, that of Walter Carey, an affable man in his early sixties with whom he'd been doing business since he started at CRW. There was no game-playing with Walter. He walked quickly from behind his desk to shake hands with Freeman and Anderson in the centre of the room and his handshake was firm and dry. He showed them to a highly polished rosewood table, big enough to seat twenty, and waited until they had taken their places before sitting down himself. The office door opened and Walter's secretary, a smiling matron with grey curly hair and surgical stockings, backed in carrying a tray with a pot of coffee and cups and saucers. Walter got to his feet and took the tray from her, thanking her profusely. He was a gentleman of the old school, and Freeman wondered how he'd managed to survive in the cut-throat world of modern banking.

  Walter put the tray down on the table as the secretary closed the door behind her. Freeman noticed that there were four cups and saucers on the brass tray – either the secretary had made a mistake or they were expecting another. Without asking, the banker poured coffee for Freeman and Anderson and waved his hand over the milk and sugar, suggesting that they help themselves. He served himself last and waited until they had sipped the hot coffee before speaking, and even then it was to enquire about their respective spouses. Walter stirred his cup slowly, far more than necessary to dissolve the single spoonful of sugar he'd put in. Freeman realised he was waiting for something. Or someone. The door opened and, as it did, Walter's spoon clattered against the side of the cup, spilling some of his coffee into the saucer. Freeman caught his eye and smiled reassuringly. Walter smiled back, but he couldn't hide the apprehension he was obviously feeling. It suddenly hit Freeman that perhaps Walter's position at the bank wasn't as secure as he'd thought. He turned to look at the new arrival.

  A tall black man was closing the door, a manila file under his arm. He had broad shoulders, a square jaw and close-cropped hair, and he walked across the office like a male model on a catwalk. He flashed a smile that showed perfect teeth and as he held out his hand Freeman saw a big gold watch on the man's wrist. 'Tony, Maury, I'd like you to meet Lennie Nelson,'

  Walter said as he got to his feet. 'Lennie's our new VP in charge of business development.'

  Nelson's handshake was as firm as Walter's had been, but there was a slightly damp feeling to it. 'Good to meet you both,' he said, handing out business cards. He pulled out the chair at the far end of the table, the one opposite Walter, and dropped the file in front of him as he sat down. 'So,' he said. 'No need for me to ask how business is, is there?' He patted the manila file as if it were a sick child. 'This is depressing reading, but I guess you guys know that, right?'

  Freeman nodded, wondering where the conversation was going and knowing that he wasn't going to enjoy the journey.

  'We're suffering from the peace dividend, that's for sure,' he said.

  Nelson nodded. 'You and every other defence contractor in this country,' he said. He sat back in his chair and unbuttoned his jacket. His shirt gleamed as brightly as his teeth. 'I tell you, when Gorbachev announced the break-up of the Soviet Union, while everyone was cheering and saying what a great guy he was and how it was peace at last, I was on the phone selling defence stocks like there was no tomorrow. People don't look ahead, most of them. They don't think. If I was in the defence business, I'd have seen the writing on the wall years ago and started diversifying. The margins in the defence business are like nowhere else, but if there's no business, what good does it do you, right?'

  Freeman found himself nodding in agreement and saw that Anderson was doing the same
. Freeman tried to speak, but Nelson raised a hand and continued unabated. 'I'm obviously not as close to the company as you are, I understand that, but I do have a fresh perspective. I can, as it were, see the wood for the trees.

  And gentlemen, I have to tell you that the wood is pretty rotten.'

  'I don't think that's…' Freeman started to say, but before he could get any further Nelson started speaking again. Freeman tried to continue but Nelson simply carried on talking. It was clear that he had no intention of stopping and it was Freeman who gave up first. He looked at Walter and the old man gave him a sympathetic smile.

  'The way I see it, your company's problems stem from its inability, or unwillingness, to move into new product areas. From what I've seen of your inventory, the company manufactures nothing but defence equipment. Correct?'

  'That's what we do,' Anderson said. 'We're a defence contractor.'

  'Exactly,'

  Nelson said, as if Anderson had made an amazing intuitive leap. 'But unless the Cold War starts to heat up again, only die big boys are going to stay in the game. Smaller independents like CRW are going to be squeezed out. If we were having this conversation two years ago, I'd suggest that you sell the company, but I don't think that's an option any more. To be frank, I don't think you'd find a buyer.'

  'Sell the company?' Freeman repeated incredulously. 'What in God's name are you talking about? We made profits last year.'

  'You made a pre-tax profit of 330,000 dollars last year. But you made no provision for the write-down of obsolete inventory you're holding. You're carrying missile guidance systems to the value of six million dollars on the books. How much do you think they're worth now bearing in mind the SALT talks?'

  Anderson shrugged. 'We might still find a buyer. That's why they've not been written down.'

  Nelson looked at Freeman and raised his eyebrows. 'What do you want me to say?' Freeman asked. 'You're right, we're probably not going to sell them, not right now anyway.'