by Rory Pralte
Kiwakura’s face broke into a small smile. “We have a deal, Mr Chase. I have some more headed paper here. If we can get the agreement re-typed here now, with the addition of your clause about the cheque, I will sign, you will sign and I will pass the cheque to you.”
By 8.50 the agreement was made. As the two men exited the business room they were greeted by comments from two local Australians that they had booked the bloody room from 8.30, bloody poms. Patrick smiled as he walked with Kiwakura to the hotel entrance.
“Please ensure you keep to the strict letter of that agreement,” Kiwakura almost scolded the Englishman as they waited for a taxi. Patrick was euphoric but the statement slightly took him aback.
“I always keep to agreements, Mr Kiwakura, it’s your side that has the bad track-record in that respect,” and as Kiwakura stepped into the taxi, Patrick turned on his heels without so much as a goodbye.
Patrick was elated to say the least. He was pretty sure he’d really concluded a successful outcome and against that old snake Michael. He returned to his room, closed the door and felt in his right-side jacket pocket for the folded pieces of paper. He unfolded the cheque and stood facing the window looking at it, still subconsciously checking the date, the figures and written amounts matched and reviewing the the signatures. It was all appeared to be in order. He unfolded the typed A4 piece of paper and read the agreement. He had covered everything; money in the bank, and the written conclusion of settlement of the disputes. He looked at his watch; 9.10. That meant it was about one o’clock in the morning in the U.K. Should he ring Anne or wait until a more earthly hour? He’d wait. The good news would be more agreeable to Anne at a sane hour and she’d then also be able to contact the bank fairly quickly.
Patrick sat at the small table and pulled out some sheets of hotel writing paper, picked up the white plastic ballpoint and jotted down the figure of $350,000. That was about how may pounds? Patrick rose, found the copy of the Japan Times and found the exchange rates. $:£ was about £210,000. Patrick did some sums. The company overdraft was £150,000, maybe more with interest. The business loan was £30,000 or so and together with outstanding creditors the settlement should clear all outstanding money but maybe leave little left for working capital. And at the moment there was little business around, due to the confusion the dispute with Skymar had raised with the potential customers. Patrick still needed to do a deal with Kanji Toba of Motu Trading for some ongoing revenues. But, Patrick thought, the actual bank facility was £60,000 so the company should be stable for a few months. Patrick smiled and thought, that will make a nice change.
What to do next? Get the money in the bank, fast. Within five minutes Patrick was in the morning sunshine of Tokyo, walking the thirty minutes to the office of the National Westminster Bank. Forty minutes later he was sitting in a coffee shop in central Tokyo examining the paying-in slip showing $350,000 credited to his company’s account. That should warm Anne’s heart, he mused. It’d take a lot of strain off and he’d hopefully be able to work out any problems over his sexual athletics. God, he felt sorry he’d subjected Anne to such possible humiliation. An hour later a fax was on its way from the Squire Hotel business centre. It was a one-page fax and read, ‘To Anne. All my love. Enclosed copy paying-in slip for $350,000 paid to our account today. Please copy to bank. Will ring later. Time to smile. Love Patrick.’
*
At about the same time, a Lufthansa 747 took off from Narita Airport bound for Frankfurt. In First Class, row one, sat Michael Shoner, not looking forward to an eleven-hour flight followed by a transfer and another one-hour flight to some production meetings in Hanover, especially after all the hassle of the trouble with Chase. He took a glass of Moet et Chandon Champagne from the pretty German stewardess and sipped. After all this, he was looking forward to returning to the sun of California and spending some time with Jeanette. He settled back in the large seat, reclined it further and closed his eyes.
It was about 2pm in the Peacock Show Bar in Hanover. Paul Schmidt was seated at the back of the bar, a striking, dark-skinned, black-haired showgirl sitting next to him, his left arm caressing her exposed thigh. Another girl was on the small stage in the centre of the club, gyrating to the sounds of Tina Turner, a bored, animated look on a face peering through her spread legs.
The black-haired girl gazed at Paul and spoke into his left ear, her face close, to make herself heard over the music. “Can we have some more to drink or would you like to go somewhere private?”
Paul Schmidt, without looking at the girl, shook his head. “Oh come on,” said the girl. “I can show you a really good time. What do you like to do? Tell me. I’m sure I can accommodate you.”
“No, not tonight,” barked Schmidt, “now run along. I am expecting a visitor. When he comes get him a drink, but don’t hang around. Be a good girl and we’ll have some fun another night.” He squeezed the girl’s thigh and let go, slapping the girl hard on her tight pretty arse as she got up. It made her jump. Glancing at his watch, Paul saw it was nearly 2.15. He’d give his contact until 2.30 then he’d go.
At 2.20 a short, fat, perspiring man with a leather coat and a ruddy face entered the show bar, glanced around, including a cursory glance at another girl contorting herself on the small stage, completely undressed and at least looking mildly interested in what she was doing. Paul Schmidt looked up and indicated his presence to the short man with a nod of his head. The short, fat man beckoned to Paul Schmidt to join him in a dark corner seat by the small bar. He sat down and spoke to the girl behind the bar. “Scotch, neat. Tell the manager it’s Stahl. It’s on the house. Make it a large one.”
Paul Schmidt joined the man on the seat. “Herr Stahl. Have you brought my purchase?”
“Yes.” He felt in his pocket and brought out a small black box, 9 inches by 5 inches diameter. He handed it to Schmidt.
“You were shown how to use this? Yes?”
The girl passed a large whisky to Stahl over the bar and interrupted the two men. “Anything you want, let me know, Herr Stahl. Anything.”
Paul Schmidt let the girl return to the other end of the bar. He slipped the package into his own coat pocket. “Yes, I know how to use it. I hope it’s all OK.”
Herr Stahl smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, more of a snarl than a smile. “We don’t mess with sales to the value of this. Rest assured, you have what you paid for.” He gulped his whisky.
Paul Schmidt rose, said goodbye quietly and turned and walked out of the club. Within five minutes he was entering his room, ready to examine his expensive purchase and check its contents. He was not disappointed. It was just what he had wanted, ordered and paid for in $10 notes – all 1,000 of them.
*
People were arriving for Hanover Messe from all over the world to display the latest electronic goods and components. All the major players in the copier and computer industry had extensive stands and hospitality suites to entertain their customers and potential customers. The influx of visitors was so great that taxi drivers arrived from all over Germany to ply their trade during the Messe, as did other professions, including the oldest in the world.
Due to the need for accommodation, prices were driven high and many residents moved in with relatives in order to let their apartments for the duration of the Messe, many gaining the extra cash income to finance their summer holiday in the sun. Paul Schmidt had found such accommodation, belonging to a Frau Leger, for his three-day visit. The apartment was neat, tidy and the epitome of German orderliness, with a typed list of instructions, a list of local restaurants and the telephone number of the owner’s mother, where she was staying, and instructions showing him where to deposit the key when he left.
With his suitcase unpacked and his clothes hanging in the mirrored cupboard of a very pink and feminine bedroom, he sat down with a cold German beer and took the lid from his highly-priced, boxed purchase from his contact in the night
club.
The air pistol contained within the box came with a leather holster together with an elasticated band. In a separate capped container were two small phials with numbered darts, individually sealed in foil. The pistol was activated by a slide on the top between the barrel and stock.
Paul Schmidt held it in his hand, slid the activator and, pointing the empty pistol at his outstretched hand, pulled the trigger. The released compressed air hit his palm very hard, stinging his skin and, even though he had shot the pistol himself, made him jump a little. He smiled. Next he fitted the elasticated band to the small holster. The pistol was no bigger than the palm of his hand and could almost be totally concealed if held by his thumb against his palm. He bent down and removed his shoe on his left foot, sliding his sock off his foot and placing it in his shoe. Raising his trouser leg up to his calf, he then slid the elastic over his foot with the holster attached on the outside of his leg. He bent down and placed the pistol in the holster. It wasn’t right.
In five minutes he had re-fitted the elasticated band to the other side of the holster and was standing in front of one of Frau Leger’s mirrored wardrobe fronts, looking at his left trouser leg. The pistol in the holster on the inside of his calf was completely concealed underneath his trousers. It felt strange.
He bent down again and, lifting his trouser again by the knee, looked at the exposed holster. Perfect. He walked around the flat, jumping up and down every so often ,then returning to the mirror to view his left leg from every angle. No sign at all. He smiled. Two more days and his revenge business with that bastard Michael would be wound up and his friend Pyo’s death avenged. He did one last check. His hand pulled out a leather business-card holder from the left-side pocket of his jacket. He slid the top card out of the holder. It read ‘Rolfe Krabbe, Vice President, Electronic Memory Products – Design and Development’,with a Swiss address and telephone number. He replaced the card and, patting his stomach, said aloud “Right, time for some food. I think a nice steak will be in order.”
He ate that night in an Argentinean steak house in central Hanover. By 10.30 he was back at the apartment, despite a slightly longer journey by taxi than was usual; the taxi driver, like very many during the course of the Messe, being from Munich!
Laying his clothes out ready for his meeting the next day, he undressed. The holster was still intact. He was beginning not to notice he was wearing it. He removed it and put it away in the bedside cabinet next to the box containing two of the deadliest poisonous darts available to man. In ten minutes he was fast asleep.
*
Michael Shoner arrived in Hanover city centre at about 9pm. The flight from Frankfurt was short. Met by Bill Blatch, he was whisked to the Sheraton to meet with other members of Skymar who had flown in for Hanover. He checked with Bill Blatch the appointments for the following day. They were all arranged and planned so that contracts should be signed to make the most of any P.R. opportunities at the start of the Messe, so that Skymar’s other potential customers were egged on to complete deals fast. It was an old ploy that still worked well if executed correctly.
All the Skymar people ate at the top-floor restaurant at 10.15. The wine flowed, the waiters hovered. Michael felt much more relaxed. He was never at his best in Tokyo. He felt out of control to some degree. Maybe it was the culture, or the blank, unresponsive faces of many of the Japanese. Anyway, with his own team around him enjoying the good life, it was beginning to feel like the good old days at Skymar. At around 12.30 all the Skymar people had retired to their rooms. Michael’s suite was quiet, except for the gentle snoring of the occupant, at last sleeping well; if not the sleep of the just, the sleep of the dog-tired.
The following day, Michael Shoner’s meetings went like clockwork. At 10am in his suite, the V.P. of Sales for Mitsui arrived and a $20 million, three-year supply agreement was signed to cover distribution of Skymar’s products in the Pacific Rim by Mitsui Trading. At the same time, an urgent press release was delivered to the Hanover Messe information centre and, through previous oiling of wheels and the purchase of a certain dark-haired Lebanese two nights earlier for the head of the Messe newspaper, a front-page slot was promptly retained for a short piece of news about Skymar’s new contract.
At 12 a longer lunch meeting took place in the Skymar Products suite. This was with IBM, two Product Directors, the Head of Skymar Peripherals Division, lawyers from both sides from the USA and Michael Shoner. After a good lunch, some very expensive wine and lots of exchange of contracts, signing and handshakes, a $30 million five-year research and development agreement with a follow-on production contract was signed. Michael Shoner was pleased but not overly so. It was a previously done deal but, still, it was always nice to conclude business like that. He mused it might even include some of the bloody Englishman’s technology that they’d hope to get for nothing. Despite the wildly differing amounts of money involved, it still grated on Michael’s mind. He hated parting with money like that.
On the roof of Hall Three, Bill Blatch had been in meetings, scheduled every ninety minutes with his senior commercially important contacts of copier and printer manufacturers, showing them new Skymar technology in the private suite that Skymar occupied at every Hanover Messe.
With its two meeting rooms, Skymar could set up equipment demonstrating the technology and products it made and sold, away from the intense bustle of the main halls at the Messe, which - despite its increased size and space every year - always became very heavily congested, as one stand tried to outdo others with displays of various entertainment as well as laser presentations, light shows and the launching of a myriad of new products from every exhibitor.
It was of great comfort to the visitors from the large companies to get away from the hubbub of the main Messe floors to the quieter confines of Skymar’s meeting rooms, with full bar facilities and three pretty hostesses plying drinks and smiles non-stop.
At 3.10pm the tall, blond German, Paul Schmidt, opened the doors at the top of the stairs onto the roof of Hall Three. There were quite a number of people on the roof enjoying the German spring sunshine. Dotted at intervals on the large, flat, concrete roof were single storey office-type buildings, all bearing white numbered signs on black backgrounds. Some also had company logos proudly displayed. Fifty yards to his right he could see the Skymar flag flying in the gentle breeze. He walked towards the office building and with twenty yards to go could already make out the numbers that Bill Blatch had told him. He paused to stop and retie a shoelace, placing his briefcase by his left shoe and carefully and quickly feeling the inside of his left trouser leg by his calf. The pistol sat snugly in the holster, safely fixed to his leg. He rose and said to himself repeatedly as he walked purposefully towards office Suite 3.3.23, “Rolfe Krabbe, Rolfe Krabbe, Rolfe Krabbe, Rolfe Krabbe.” He must remember his new identity. He reached the door of the suite, opened it and stepped into a small entrance lobby and was greeted by a very striking red-headed girl in a very well cut, formal skirt, blouse and scarf. She smiled at him. He responded.
“Hello. Welcome to Skymar. Please can you confirm your appointment Mr…er…?”
“Krabbe, Rolfe Krabbe. I have an appointment to meet Bill Blatch of Skymar.”
“Certainly,” the girl replied, still smiling. “Please be seated. Mr Blatch will be five minutes. In the meantime, can I get you a drink?”
He had just started to sip the tonic water when a door opened at the other side of the reception and a crew-cut, block-headed, cream-suited man popped his head round the door and, beckoning to the red-head, said, “Please bring Mr Krabbe through Irma, we can start now.”
The head disappeared, the door left ajar and Irma ushered Rolfe Krabbe from his seat through the door into a larger formal meeting room with an oval meeting table, at the head of which was seated Bill Blatch.
“Sit down and let’s get the show on the road,” he bellowed in a half-southern, half-western drawl. �
��So what goodies have you got to offer then, Mr Krabbe?”
Rolfe Krabbe sat down, slid a business card across the table and, offering his hand to Bill Blatch, shook the American’s hand and looked him straight in the eye.
“Frankly, Mr Blatch, I’ve got some of the hottest memory and scanning recognition software available today. I want to license this. The major manufacturers will pay dearly for it if presented correctly to them. I am already in discussion with two other parties with a view to distributing this for me but, as I said, I’ve heard Skymar may be the best route for this. Why could Skymar be my best partner, Mr.Blatch?”
He sat down, still looking at Bill Blatch and repeated, “Tell me why, Mr Blatch.” They talked for fully fifty minutes. Bill Blatch explained all about Skymar to the tall German. He needn’t have, but Bill Blatch was not to know that. The German spoke in some detail about his supposed technology. He indicated with enough technical detail its performance, how it had been developed and why it was essentially for sale. The meeting went well. The conclusion was that Bill Blatch said he thought that a meeting with Michael Shoner could be arranged for the following day, but that he’d have to confirm that, and could he ring the German later to confirm?
Rolfe Krabbe was wary, “Sorry, I’m in an apartment and the phone is off so can I ring you later to confirm? As I have said, Mr Blatch, my purpose coming to Hanover Messe is to conclude who is going to be licensed with this software and if I can’t meet Mr Shoner to really try to conclude a deal, then I will undoubtedly have to finalise with one of the other parties. From what you’ve said about Skymar I’m keen, and I believe you understand the significance of my technology. It’s really an industry blockbuster.”