The cat claimed dominion over the farm and all its buildings, and he regarded it as his right to go wherever he pleased.
Whenever a window or door was left open, the cat would enter the farmhouse, steal whatever food had been left unattended, and squirt his ammonia-laced urine on as much furniture as he could.
Bzuchar threw rocks at the intruder, put down poisoned fish, set huge rat-traps baited with raw meat, but it was all to no avail.
As the battle waged it seemed that the cat developed an almost human smile, as if it took pleasure in teasing the humans and urinating on their territory.
Bzuchar decided to try a different approach, satisfied that open conflict was getting nowhere. He ignored the cat, pretended not even to be aware of its existence as it stalked through the farmhouse and stole food from the kitchen table, and even put out a saucer of goat's milk for it in a back room. A room without windows. At first the cat ignored the offering, but as Bzuchar continued to feign indifference, the cat became bolder and the milk offerings more regular. Bzuchar had the patience of a saint. It was three weeks before he had the cat trapped in the windowless room, the door locked behind him and a wicker picnic basket in his hands. The cat spat and slashed, and ran around and around, looking for a way out. There was none, and again Bzuchar exercised his reptile-like patience, squatting on the floor, the basket in his hands and his eyes on the cat, occasionally licking his lips like a snake testing the air. For two hours he waited until the cat let down its guard. Bzuchar sprang forward and slammed the basket down, trapping the cat and transforming it into a hissing ball of matted fur and teeth.
He slid a sheet of metal under the basket and then up-ended it and weighted it down with an old flat iron. He stood for a while with his hands on his hips, grinning at his trapped adversary, then he opened the door and called for his brother. Together they manhandled the picnic basket out into the cobbled courtyard, its occupant wailing and hissing like a grieving old woman.
Gilani had suggested that they take him to another farm, miles away, so that he could torment someone else, but Bzuchar had shaken his head and said that exile was too good for him. He wanted something more appropriate. Something more permanent. He disappeared into a barn and a few minutes later reappeared on a rusting, smoke-belching tractor which he parked next to the basket. The cat thrashed about uselessly, as if sensing what was to come.
Gilani had stood scratching his head, not wanting to appear stupid by asking his brother what he planned to do. His first thought was that Bzuchar was going to run over the picnic basket and crush the cat with the thick rubber tyres of the rattling old tractor, but it became clear that he had other plans. He took a coiled hosepipe and fitted it to the tractor's exhaust pipe, taking care not to burn himself on the hot metal. The other end of the hosepipe he slotted into the basket.
'Give me your coat,' Bzuchar had said, and reluctantly Gilani had handed it over. He'd started shivering, and had never known whether it was a reaction to the bone-numbing cold of the Siberian spring or anticipation of the killing. He'd watched, fascinated, as Bzuchar had dropped the coat over the wicker basket and jumped up into the tractor's seat. Bzuchar grinned wickedly, winked at Gilani, then stamped on the accelerator and gunned it, sending clouds of hot exhaust down the pipe and into the home-made gas chamber.
Gilani would never forget the cries of the cat as it died.
He'd seen and heard many men die since, almost too many to remember, but never again had he ever heard anything like the banshee screams of the cat. Not pain, not anguish, not fear.
Anger. Pure, unadulterated anger. It echoed around the walls of the courtyard and up into the cold spring air, scaring the birds into silence and raising the hackles of a wolfhound five miles away on the other side of the hill. The screams had subsided eventually, followed by wheezing and spluttering, then coughs, then nothing.
Bzuchar had stuck the feline corpse on a pole and planted it in the middle of a field of beetroot, giving the birds a chance to exact their revenge on their tormentor.
It was the first killing by the brothers Utsyev, but not the last, and from that day on they never referred to a killing as a killing.
Instead they took their victims on a picnic.
Utsyev rubbed his hands together. 'I've got a good feeling about this, Gilani. A really good feeling.'
'He picked up on the land pretty quick,' Sabatino said apprehensively.
'So what? We own the little shit, Gilani. We own him. The way he's been helping us launder money through the company, we own him.'
'Yeah, but what if the Freemans work out what we want the land for?'
Utsyev narrowed his eyes. 'First of all, they won't,' he said.
'As far as anyone else is concerned, it's a piece of useless industrial land which no one wants. Second of all, so what if they do? That land is worth millions to us because we can get planning permission for the marina. There's no way that they or anyone else could get the marina built. They don't carry the weight that we do. They don't have the leverage that we do.' He laughed. It was a slow drawn-out sound, like the warning of a rattlesnake preparing to strike. The leverage was in the form of an incriminating videotape of a state official and photocopies of records pertaining to a Swiss bank account containing almost half a million dollars. 'And third of all, even if they find out that we're planning to build a marina on the site, they won't know what we're going to do with it. To anyone else it's just a hotel complex with berths for several hundred boats. But we don't give a fuck whether or not we make money from the marina or not because it's also the perfect way to get our drugs into the country. No more running them through the DEA patrols around the Florida keys, just straight into our very own marina then up 1-95 to New York. That marina is going to be worth tens of millions of dollars in the first year it's in operation. From then on, the sky's the limit.'
He gripped his brother's leg just above the knee and squeezed tight. 'Oh yeah. And fourth of all, the company is tainted. No one's gonna believe that the Freemans weren't in on the money laundering. This way we cover our tracks, and we get our own marina. It's perfect. They can't do nothing, Gilani. They're caught between a rock and a hard place. We're gonna be richer than we ever hoped. And if I've gotta break a few heads along the way, well, who gives a shit, right?'
'Right,' Sabatino agreed. Bzuchar's hand gripped tighter, hard enough to hurt.
Anthony Freeman walked back to his office, a cup of scalding coffee in each hand. Jo wasn't at her desk, so he put her coffee on her blotter and went to sit on his sofa to go through a stack of technical reports from the development department. Josh Bowers was pushing for more funding for a sniper spotting system he'd been working on for the best part of a year, but with CRW's precarious cash position Freeman knew that he had no alternative but to turn down his proposal. He wasn't happy about having to give Josh yet another thumbs-down because if the MIT-trained engineer wasn't given some encouragement soon he'd be looking for another job. And with his qualifications and experience, he wouldn't be looking for long.
Freeman sipped his coffee and studied Josh's figures. The market for the system was there, no doubt about it. It used a miniature video camera and a backpack-sized computer to track incoming bullets and calculate the source of the gunfire.
The equipment could eventually be connected to a computer controlled weapon that would be capable of returning fire on its own. Police forces and the military would be ready customers, but it would require at least a quarter of a million dollars to get a working model and as much again to put it into production.
CRW didn't have five hundred dollars to spare, never mind five hundred thousand.
Jo blew into his office like a tornado, her hair flying behind her, a smile splitting her face almost in two. She was waving a fax in the air.
Good news?' he said, getting to his feet.
'Oh, yes,' she said. 'Yes, yes, yes.' She thrust the document at him and waited while he scanned it, shifting her weight from foot to f
oot.
Freeman read it once quickly, and then read it again to make sure that he hadn't got it wrong. There was no mistake. 'My God,' he said.
'Isn't it great?'Jo gushed. 'Just when we needed it. It couldn't have come at a better time, could it?'
Freeman was stunned. He read through the fax for a third time. It was advance notice of an order from the Thai government for five hundred MIDAS systems. It would be worth just over seven million dollars, minus the usual 'commissions' to various Thai government officials and middle-men. The order would keep CRW's workforce going for several months and would solve the company's immediate cash-flow problems.
The Thais were always prompt payers once a contract had been signed and the requisite bribes paid. 'This is unbelievable,' Freeman said. 'We didn't even tender for this. They've bought from us before, but never an order of this size. Our fairy godmother must be smiling down on us.'
Jo impulsively hugged him, hard enough to force the air from his body. 'Shall I draw up a memo to put on the noticeboards?' she said when she finally released him.
'Not yet,' Freeman said, shaking his head. 'Let's not count our chickens until they've signed on the dotted line.'
Jo tutted. 'You always look on the black side.' She flounced back to her desk. Freeman read the fax for a fourth time. He hoped that his secretary was right. He'd love to believe that they'd at least turned the corner, but there was still a nagging doubt at the back of his mind. He left his office, holding the fax.
'I'm going up to see Maury to give him the good news,' he said.
Jo nodded brightly and gave him a thumbs-up. Freeman found Anderson sitting at his desk, his head buried in his hands. 'Are you okay?' he asked. It was unusual for Anderson to be tired in the middle of the day. He was normally a powerhouse, rushing around trying to get everything done as if his life depended on clearing his desk by dusk.
'Just had a bad night, that's all. What's up?'
Freeman handed over the fax and paced up and down as Anderson read it. He seemed to take for ever. 'Well?' Freeman said. 'What do you think?'
'Five hundred?' Anderson mused. 'They want to buy five hundred?'
'It's like a miracle,' Freeman said.
'But we didn't tender for this, did we?'
'No. It's come right out of the blue. It'll see us through till spring.'
Anderson gave him the fax. He ran a hand through his uncombed hair. He looked as if he hadn't shaved for a couple of days. 'That's great, Tony. Just great.'
'Are you okay?' Freeman said, concerned. He'd expected a bit more enthusiasm from his financial director.
'I'm fine. Just fine.'
Freeman tilted his head to one side, frowning. Anderson looked bone tired. There were bags under his eyes and his hands were trembling. He kept sniffing as if he was starting a cold. 'You should be at home, in bed,' Freeman said, sitting down on the edge of his desk. 'Take the rest of the day off. I'll follow up on this and I can look after anything else that crops up.'
Anderson shook his head. 'I'll be okay. Really.'
'Well, you look like shit.'
'Thanks. Thanks a million.'
Freeman waved the fax in his face. 'And you don't seem especially thrilled about this, either.'
Anderson sighed. 'It's only one order, Tony.'
'Come on, man. Get a grip on yourself. It's a lifeline and we're going to grab it with both hands.'
'Yeah, you're right.'
'I know I'm right. Now you go home and get rid of that cold.'
'Have you got time for a chat?'
'Sure. What's on your mind?' Freemen went over to one of the over-stuffed sofas and dropped down on to it. It enveloped him like a cloud.
Anderson picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desktop.
'The guys from Ventura Investments have been on to me about increasing the size of their investment.'
'Yeah, so you said.'
'No, they wanna put even more into the company.' The tapping intensified, like a woodpecker attacking a tree. 'They wanna make an outright bid.'
Freeman wasn't sure that he'd heard correctly, so he leaned forward. 'What?'
'They want to buy out the existing shareholders.'
Freeman sat stunned. What he was hearing didn't make any sense. 'Ventura Investments? The venture capital company?'
'That's the guys. They're prepared to offer two million dollars for the entire stock, plus they'll take on all CRW's bank loans.
They'll run the company as a wholly owned subsidiary.'
'Maury, what the hell does a venture capital company know about running a defence contractor?'
Anderson gripped the ends of the pencil with both hands as if preparing to snap it. 'They're businessmen. They'll knock the business into shape, sell off non-producing assets, they'll…'
'Whoa,' Freeman interrupted, holding up his hand. 'Stop right there. You mean they'll close us down. That's what you're saying.' / 'They'll do what they have to do,' Anderson said, choosing his words carefully.
'If this company needs knocking into shape, we'll do it. You and I. We're the ones who are running CRW, not a bunch of bean-counters.'
'They're not bean-counters, they're professional managers.'
Anderson's knuckles whitened as he gripped the pencil tighter.
'You were the one who said we should listen to Nelson and his plans for the company. What's wrong with letting the Ventura guys sort it out?'
Freeman stared at Anderson, shaking his head slowly. 'Listen to yourself, Maury. You're not suggesting we bring in outside advice, you're telling me that you want to sell the company to outsiders. This is my life, for God's sake. Yours too.'
'I'm not saying I want to do this. I'm saying that they're willing to buy, and it seems a fair price to me considering the state this company's in.'
'Do you think Katherine is going to sell her stake? Her father founded this company. He built it up from nothing.'
'Yeah? And between us we've just about run it into the ground.' The pencil snapped and Anderson looked at it as if wondering why it had broken.
'You're making it sound like we ruined the company, but you know full well that's not what happened. Things have changed.
The world has changed. We're going to have to adapt to the new order and by God that's what we're going to do.'
Anderson shrugged and dropped the broken pencil into his wastepaper bin. 'It's not working out like we hoped. You're going to have to accept it. Better we sell out now and at least get something for our shares.'
'Our shares? The way I remember it, you don't have more than a few thousand shares. What do you get out of it if we sell out?'
'What do you mean?'
'You know what I mean,' Freeman snapped. 'The first thing the new management will do is to get rid of the present structure.
We'll all be out of a job and the company isn't in a fit state to give us golden parachutes – unless you've already worked out a deal.'
'Oh, come on, Tony. I'm not doing this behind your back.
I'm telling you exactly what I know. They've made an initial approach, that's all.'
'That's not what it sounds like to me,' Freeman said. 'What do they plan to do with the workforce?'
Anderson picked up another pencil and began toying with it.
'I don't know. Honestly I don't.'
'Do you at least know if they plan to keep production going?'
Anderson shook his head. 'I don't know what they intend to do.'
Freeman had the feeling that Anderson knew a lot more than he was letting on. Anderson looked up from the pencil and held Freeman's gaze. They sat looking at each other for several seconds without speaking. Anderson looked away first.
Freeman wasn't prepared to let him off the hook that easily.
'What's going on, Maury?' he pressed.
Anderson shrugged. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and exhaled deeply. 'I'm just telling you what the Ventura people told me,' he said. 'They thought it would be more diplom
atic if the approach came through me.' He tossed the pencil on to the desk and put his hands flat on the blotter. 'Look, Tony, it's a good offer and I think we should accept it. Things aren't going to get better, they're going to get worse, and the sooner you accept that the better. Let's sell out now while we still can. Next year we might not be able to get anything for CRW.'
Freeman stood up. 'You're wrong. If you want to pursue it further, I suggest you raise it at the next board meeting.' He headed for the door. 'But I can tell you here and now that Katherine will never sell out. Never.'
Anderson got to his feet. He held out one of his hands as if trying to grab Freeman and pull him back. 'Wait,' he said.
'What the hell is the matter with you?' Freeman asked.
'Don't go yet. Hear me out.' There was a pleading tone to Anderson's voice, like a beggar asking for spare change.
Freeman stood with his arms folded across his chest. 'I'm listening,' he said.
Anderson looked flustered. His hair was in disarray and there was a wild look in his eyes. 'You have to sell. And you have to tell Katherine to sell, too.'
'You're not making sense, Maury.'
Anderson's eyes flicked from side to side like a trapped rat looking for a way out. 'Wait. Just listen.' Freeman said nothing.
He waited. Anderson seemed to be struggling to find the right words. 'These people…" He tailed off.
'What do you mean? What about them?'
Anderson's hands were shaking. 'Just listen to me. Listen to what I'm saying. These people, they want the company and I don't think there's anything you can do to stop them.'
Freeman went over to the desk. Anderson looked almost manic. His bloodshot eyes were wide and staring and his lower jaw was trembling like that of a child about to burst into tears.
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