The birthday girl

by Stephen Leather

  'They were built for a contractor who went under last year. You're never going to unload them,' Nelson said. 'And they're not the only assets that are being carried on the books at way above their market value.' He tapped the unopened file on the table. 'According to the financial projections I've made, you'll be lucky to break even in the current year, and next year you'll be in the red to the tune of 95,000 dollars. Gentlemen, diversification is the key to the survival of your company. And to that end, I have two words for you.'

  Freeman grinned. 'Golden parachutes?' he said.

  Nelson smiled tightly to show that he'd got the joke, but his eyes remained cold. 'Video phones,' he said.

  'Video phones?' Anderson repeated. He looked at Freeman.

  'Video phones?'

  'Video phones,' Nelson repeated. 'Do you have any idea how many telephones there are in this country alone? More than one billion. And within the next ten years they're all going to be replaced by video phones. It's the technology of the future, and I think CRW is perfectly situated to get in on the ground floor. The video guidance system you've been developing for surface-to-air missiles could easily be adapted to a communications system. Think about it.'

  Freeman stared at Nelson in amazement. He couldn't believe that a man more than ten years his junior, a man with clearly no business experience other than the management lectures he'd attended and the textbooks he'd read, should be telling him how to run his company. CRW had its own research team working flat out to come up with new products, and in fact they had already considered expanding their video capability, but it wasn't as simple as Nelson made out. Some of the largest corporations in the world were researching video technology and it didn't make sense to go up against them in the company's present precarious financial position. He was just about to unleash a torrent of sarcasm at the man when he felt a hand on his arm. It was Walter. 'More coffee, Tony?' the banker asked, the concern clear on his face. Freeman realised it was Walter's way of asking him not to make a scene. Walter Carey had been CRW's banker for more than a quarter of a century, and he'd been a pallbearer at the funeral of Freeman's father-in-law. He'd been a tower of strength, but now he looked like a weak old man, frightened for his job. The two men held each other's stare for a few seconds, then Freeman nodded almost imperceptibly. 'Please, Walter.'

  The banker poured, his hand shaking noticeably. Nelson sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the manila file.

  'It's an interesting thought, Lonnie,' Freeman said.

  'It's Lennie,' Nelson said, his smile unchanged.

  'It's an interesting thought, Lennie. I'll speak to our development people about it.' Freeman nodded at the file. 'Does that file contain details of the other new products we're developing? The computerised navigation system we're hoping to produce for the

  recreational boating market? The night surveillance aids we're hoping will appeal to hunters?'

  'And our new line of police equipment,' Anderson added.

  'We're also working on a sniper identification system which tracks bullets back through the line of…'

  Nelson nodded and held up a hand to silence Anderson. 'I've noted them. But until they work through to sales, they're just pipedreams. You need orders now to keep your cash flow in the positive. Has anything happened on that front recently?'

  'We've a group of Middle Eastern buyers coming over to look at our minefield neutralisation system,' Anderson said.

  'How much are we looking at, assuming they go ahead?' Nelson asked, reaching into his jacket pocket. His hand reappeared holding a slim gold pen.

  'That depends on how many they want,' Anderson said.

  Nelson clicked his pen. 'And how many do you think that might be, Maury?' he asked. 'Ballpark figure?'.

  'Ballpark? A hundred. Maybe more.'

  'Let's say one hundred, shall we? I don't see any reason for being optimistic at the moment. So, that would be in the region of one and a half million dollars, right?'

  Freeman nodded. Nelson might be an arrogant son-of-a-bitch but he certainly knew his way around the company's numbers.

  'Any other orders in the pipeline?'

  Anderson shook his head.

  'Well, that'll be a help,' Nelson said, making a few notes on a small yellow notepad. 'But it's not going to keep the wolf from the door for long.'

  'Now just one minute,' Freeman said. 'What wolf are we talking about here? The only wolf at our door at the moment seems to be you.'

  Nelson smiled, and there was something canine about the expression. 'Perhaps wolf wasn't quite the right word,' he said.

  He put the pen back in his jacket pocket. 'But I think it is fair to say that CRW is now on the bank's watch-list. We'll be wanting to see you on a monthly basis, and I'd like to be kept informed of any major changes in the business picture. Any new orders, any cancellations, union problems, investment plans…'

  you? Is that what you're saying?' Walter flinched and Freeman realised he'd raised his voice.

  'It isn't necessary to clear anything with us, Tony. But we want to be kept fully informed of what's happening at CRW.'

  'For what reason?'

  Nelson leant back in his seat. An inch of starched cotton peered out from beneath the cuffs of his suit and Freeman saw the glint of gold cufflinks. 'The bank has a considerable exposure to your company. With things the way they are at the moment, we aren't prepared to risk that exposure. If you're heading for Chapter 11 or worse, we want to know in advance.'

  'You mean as soon as it looks as if we're going under, you want first claim on what assets we have left?'

  'We already have that. Most of the bank's recent loans to you were against specific properties owned by CRW.'

  'Most, but not all,' Freeman said. 'Is that it?' The First Bank wasn't the only institution which had lent money to the company, and CRW had used various buildings as collateral against other loans. Now he understood what was worrying Nelson. If the company went bankrupt with zero cash and a next-to-worthless inventory, it would be lucky to get half of its investment back; if it foreclosed its loans right away, it would just about break even.

  But taking its money back would be a self-fulfilling prophecy the company wouldn't be able to survive without it. Perversely, that would work in Nelson's favour because he could point to the collapse of the firm as a sign that he'd made the right decision in pulling the plug. He'd come out of it as a hero, the man whose shrewd business savvy had saved the bank's millions.

  'I think it fair to say that we would be happier if we had more collateral,' Nelson said. 'But CRW isn't exactly rich in unencumbered assets, is it?' He looked at Freeman like a prosecutor grilling a hostile witness.

  'There's the land we own near Annapolis,' Anderson said, trying to take the heat off Freeman.

  Nelson shook his head. 'Undeveloped. I'm surprised you didn't sell it years ago.'

  Freeman felt as if he had to defend himself, even though Nelson had made a valid point. 'It was where my father-in-law built his first factory. He kept it for sentimental reasons long after the buildings were demolished.'

  Nelson smiled. 'You won't believe how many times I've seen sentimentality ruin a perfectly good business. Managers can get too attached to a workforce or a product and they fail to take die necessary steps to safeguard their business.' He bent over the table, his body as tense as a sprinter waiting for the starter's gun. 'Being a good manager is like being a surgeon. You have to recognise when the body is unhealthy, and you mustn't be afraid to cut to save the patient. Better to lose a leg than have the patient die.'

  Freeman looked at his watch. 'Is there anything else we have to discuss?'

  Nelson and Walter exchanged looks. There obviously was something else. It was Walter who spoke first. 'Tony, don't take this the wrong way, but the bank feels that until you're through this period, it might be better if we had a representative on your board.'

  'A representative?' Freeman repeated.

  'Namely myself,' Nelson said.
<
br />   'Let me get this straight,' Freeman said. 'We have to report to you each month, and you want a seat on the board?'

  'In a purely non-executive capacity,' Nelson added. 'You'll still be running the company. I'll just be…'

  'Interfering…' Anderson interrupted.

  '… keeping an eye on things. Looking out for the bank's interests,' Nelson finished. 'I hope you'll come to see me as an asset to your management team.'

  'Do we have a choice?' Freeman asked, but he could see from the look of anguish on Walter's face that he didn't.

  'I understand the board meets next Thursday at three o'clock,'

  Nelson said. 'I'll see you then.'

  Freeman felt like a schoolboy being dismissed from the headmaster's presence. He felt his cheeks flush involuntarily and his stomach churned. There was nothing he could say, nothing that would be productive anyway. He stood up and picked up his briefcase. Nelson leapt to his feet and extended his hand. Freeman felt like turning his back on the young banker but he knew that would be childish. He shook hands with the man, and Anderson did the same. On the way out of the office, Walter patted him gently on the back like a relative at a funeral, wanting to reassure him that life went on, no matter how bad things looked.

  Anderson said nothing as they rode down in the elevator and the silence continued as they walked towards the car. 'What do you think?' Freeman said eventually as he opened the car door.

  'About the boy-wonder banker?'

  'Yeah.' Freeman slid into the car and opened the door for Anderson.

  'We're caught between a rock and a hard place,' Anderson said as he climbed into the car and slammed the door shut.

  'But at least they're not closing us down,' Freeman said.

  'Yeah. But I don't like the idea of Nelson watching our every move.'

  'You never know, he might be a help,' Freeman said. He started the Lumina and drove to the car park exit.

  'He's barely out of college,' Anderson protested. 'What the hell could he know about running a business? Especially a business like ours.' He slammed his hand down on the dashboard.

  'Yeah, I know what you mean,' Freeman agreed. 'But I don't see that we've got a choice. I think you should start looking for alternative sources of finance. See if any of our other banks will take over First's loans. Maybe see if we can bring in new money.'

  Anderson pulled a face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.

  'Yeah, yeah, I know,' Freeman said. 'But I can dream, can't I?'

  Mersiha ran her fingers through the magazines on the table, looking for something, anything, worth reading. She picked up a copy of People magazine and flicked through it. She couldn't concentrate on the photographs of movie stars and television personalities and after a few minutes she threw the magazine back on the table. She looked at her watch. It was exactly five o'clock, the time her session was due to start, and Dr Brown was usually punctual to the point of obsession. She wondered if he was having trouble with one of his patients. An unstable teenager threatening suicide, maybe. A middle-aged woman professing her undying love for the psychiatrist, offering him her heart and soul if he'd only take her there and then on the office floor. Mersiha smiled at the thought. Dr Brown was an unlikely lover, a small, chubby man with a receding hairline and small, baby-like lips.

  'Are you okay, kiddo?' Katherine asked.

  'Sure,' she replied, reaching for another magazine.

  'What are you smiling at?'

  Mersiha shrugged. 'Nothing. Just happy, I guess. Can we get ice-cream after this?'

  'Sure, kiddo.' Katherine went back to reading a dog-eared copy of Vanity Fair. Mersiha studied the door to Dr Brown's office. In the three years she'd been attending weekly sessions at the psychiatrist's office, she'd never seen one of his other patients. There were two doors to his inner sanctum: one led to the waiting room where she was sitting with Katherine, the other opened on to a corridor that led to the car park. It was a simple system, but it worked: arriving and departing patients never met.

  'Katherine,' Mersiha asked, 'how much longer do I have to do this?'

  'Do what?'

  'Come to Dr Brown's. It's a waste of time. And money. Think of the money you'd save if I stopped coming.'

  Katherine looked at her as if considering the offer, then shook her head. 'When Dr Brown says there's no need for you to come any more, then you can stop.'

  Mersiha flopped back in her chair and pouted. 'But I'm going to be sixteen in two weeks.'

  'No buts. And don't worry about money. This isn't a matter of how much it costs, it's whether or not it's good for you.'

  'It's a total waste of time.' Mersiha folded her arms and glared at the door to Dr Brown's office as if daring him to come out.

  Katherine looked across at Dr Brown's receptionist, a heavyset matron who could be a harridan or sweetness and light, depending on the state of her relationship with her live-in lover, a burly steelworker who wasn't averse to knocking her around after he'd had a few drinks too many. Today she was in a good mood and she smiled sympathetically at Katherine. 'Can I get you a cup of coffee, Mrs Freeman? Dr Brown shouldn't be too long.'

  Katherine shook her head. 'No thanks, Nancy.' Before Katherine could go back to reading her magazine, the intercom on Nancy's desk buzzed.

  'Okay, Mersiha, Dr Brown will see you now,' the receptionist said.

  'Great,' Mersiha said under her breath as she pushed herself up from the sofa.

  'Be nice,' Katherine warned, but Mersiha had already slipped into the inner office.

  Dr Brown was sitting behind his huge oak desk as usual, almost dwarfed by his big leather chair. Mersiha reckoned he used the oversized furniture to compensate for his lack of stature, but in fact it had the opposite effect – it served only to emphasise what a small man he was. 'Hiya, Dr Brown,' she said. 'How are you today?' It hadn't taken Mersiha long to realise that the quickest way out of the psychiatrist's office was to be pleasant.

  The more she smiled, the more she seemed anxious to answer his questions, the sooner he'd tell her that the session was over and that he'd see her the same time next week.

  'I'm fine, Mersiha. Sit down, why don't you?' Mersiha flopped down on to one of the two grey sofas by the window. Dr Brown waited until she was sitting before he got up from his own seat and walked around the desk. 'How's school?' he asked.

  'Mainly Bs,' she said. 'I got an A in chemistry, though.'

  'It's still your best subject?'

  Mersiha nodded. 'Chemistry and art. Pretty eclectic, huh?'

  Dr Brown nodded. 'How are you sleeping?'

  Mersiha shrugged laconically. 'Okay, I guess.'

  'Dreams?'

  'Sure. Everybody dreams.'

  Dr Brown smiled. Mersiha smiled back. She'd grown to enjoy the verbal jousting with her therapist, though she knew it was important not to antagonise him too much.

  'I meant bad dreams. Nightmares.'

  'Some,' she admitted. 'But not as much as before.'

  'What about sleepwalking?'

  Mersiha smiled sweetly. 'If I walk when I sleep, I wouldn't know about it, would I?'

  Dr Brown smiled back with equal sweetness, but his eyes glittered like wet pebbles. He walked over to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase and picked up a wooden figure and took it over to the sofas. He handed it to her as he sat down. 'Have you seen one of these before? It's a Russian doll. They call it a matrioshka.'

  Mersiha held the smooth wooden figurine and studied it. It was a peasant woman with a green and red shawl around her shoulders, big black eyes and scarlet lips. It was in two pieces that seemed to be screwed together. It felt heavy, as if it was solid. 'Sure. I had one of these when I was a kid. It's pretty.'

  'How long have you been coming to see me, Mersiha?' Dr Brown asked, holding out his hand for the doll.

  Mersiha shrugged and passed it back to him. 'Two years, I guess.'

  'It's more like three,' Dr Brown said as he set the doll down on the table. 'Imagine that's you,' he said.<
br />
  Mersiha sighed theatrically, but Dr Brown flashed her a warning look. He was serious. 'Okay,' she said.

  Dr Brown tapped the doll with the flat of his hand. 'It's hard outside, it looks solid. When you first came to see me three years ago, that's what you were like. Hard. But the hardness doesn't go right through. As you know, it comes apart. Try it.'

  Mersiha twisted the two halves. They separated easily. Inside was another figure, slightly smaller but in a different paint scheme. It was also in two halves. She moved to pull them apart, but Dr Brown held up his hand to stop her.

  'That's the stage we've got to, you and I. During the conversations we've had, I've come to know a little bit about what goes on inside your head, your thought processes. But you've only told me so much.'

  He nodded at her, encouraging her to pull the second doll apart. She did as he wanted. Now there were three dolls on the table. 'But as you can see, there's more to be discovered inside the second shell. And it goes further than that. Keep on going.'

  Mersiha unscrewed the third doll. There was a fourth inside.

  And a fifth inside that. By the time she'd finished there were seven dolls standing on the coffee table in front of her. Only the smallest was solid. Dr Brown picked it up and held it between a finger and thumb. 'This is you too. This is the real you, at the heart of all the shells.' Mersiha stared at the wooden doll. The face seemed to be staring back at her with wide eyes. 'You've surrounded yourself with shells, Mersiha.

  You've protected yourself by putting layers and layers on top of your real feelings.'

  Mersiha pulled her eyes away from the doll. Dr Brown was giving her his earnest smile, trying to put her at ease. It looked artificial and his eyes were as cold as the painted eyes of the Russian doll. 'I'm not doing it deliberately,' she said.

  'No, I know that,' the psychiatrist said. 'It's a defence mechanism. You're frightened of being hurt again because of what happened to you when you were younger. That's why you find it difficult to make friends. You've told me that yourself, haven't you? You've lots of acquaintances, but no real friends.

  Perhaps you're worried about letting people get close to you.'