Takeover

by Brian Freemantle

  “She called me the other day about the children’s charity. Time to start organizing things, apparently.”

  “She’s very efficient,” said Buckland.

  “Not in everything,” said Fiona, moving her hand harder against him. “I’m better at this.”

  It was her favourite ride and Lady Margaret Buckland tried to make it at least once a week, to the very top of the rolling hill which gave the best view of the Cambridgeshire estate. She reined in and then stood in the stirrups, picking out the boundaries. Further than the eye could see in at least two directions and only just visible in a third: it was right that the family should be proud. It was a pity that Ian didn’t appreciate it more.

  She turned the horse for a full view of the mansion. It stood laid out before her, square and solid, like a man with his legs astride, confident of its own importance. The falling sun sparked off some of the windows, making images of tiny fires. The horse’s head dropped and she let it graze, leaning back assuredly in the saddle. She wished Ian were coming down this weekend. Weekdays were all right because she’d adjusted to fill them, but the weekends were for him and when he stayed away there was a vacuum. A good word, vacuum; an empty vacuous life. Far away, in the direction of Cambridge, she heard a clock bell strike what sounded like a half hour. Time to get back, she thought. Back to the formalized sherry with Ian’s mother and then formalized dinner and then the formalized sessions of bezique. Duty, she thought. Dear God, how she hated duty!

  Henry Smallwood had a fat man’s agility and went quickly into the offices of Samuel Haffaford and Co. John Snaith, who was a partner in the merchant bank and their nominee upon the Buckland House board, was waiting in the foyer and came forward, hand outstretched.

  “It’s good of you to see me, so late on a Friday,” said Smallwood.

  “You described it as urgent,” said Snaith. “The chairman’s waiting for us upstairs.”

  “I think it is urgent,” said Smallwood. “I think something very serious has happened.”

  2

  The flight path of the Lear jet brought them in from the West, over the silver thread of the Potomac. Harry Rudd had a brief view of a neatly patterned city and then the plane dipped further for its approach to Washington National airport. Rudd refastened his seatbelt for the landing, feeling again the stir of curiosity at the senator’s approach for a meeting. Rudd rarely moved unprepared and within a day of the suggestion, through politicians whom he employed as lobbyists in the capital, he ordered a file on Warren Jeplow, to go further back than his chairmanship of the Ways and Means Committee and ten-year membership of the Foreign Relations Committee. The conclusion had been that Jeplow was the doyen among the Washington professionals, a committee and caucus room manipulator with a reputation rivalling Lyndon Johnson’s. Certainly a man for whom it was worth flying down from New York to have breakfast, without the mention of specific reason.

  Normally Rudd travelled with a personal assistant and usually with Walter Bunch as well, to provide legal advice. But discretion had been a word used frequently during the arrangements so Rudd disembarked alone from the executive jet, told the pilot to be ready within three hours, and hurried across the private section of the airport to the waiting limousine. It was a company car and driver, moved down overnight, so no gossip would come from a rental agency. The early morning commuter traffic was building up but it was still not at its peak: they’d arranged eight o’clock and it was still only seven-forty-five when the vehicle moved into Georgetown. Rudd stared out at the ghetto of the privileged and supposed there was a vague similarity with Boston’s Beacon Hill. He wasn’t attracted by the tradition of either. He preferred the upthrust buildings and shoulder-bumping of New York; that’s where the money was, the personal electricity, and the risk-taking. Not that he considered himself a risk-taker. Fortune magazine had described him as an edge-of-the-chair entrepreneur which he’d considered an exaggeration. Rudd, who was honest but not conceited, knew himself very well. He was a businessman and a good one. And good businessmen didn’t take foreseeable chances.

  The house was three-storey and brick, with a small rise of steps leading up from the sidewalk. Over the lintel and higher still, protruding from the wall, were television security monitors, so that any caller would be visible from inside the house. Rudd depressed the bell and stood self-conciously, aware he was under scrutiny. There was hardly any delay and Jeplow personally opened the door. Although the biographical file had been a warning, Rudd was still surprised by the senator. He represented Texas and saw himself as a Southern gentleman. The flowing moustaches which bisected his brightly pink face were completely white, matching the hair which he wore long, to create a patrician effect. The clothes were expertly tailored, the jacket cut to suggest a frock-coat: from photographs, Rudd knew that for evening wear Jeplow often used a stock instead of a black tie.

  Jeplow took Rudd’s hand in both of his and said, “Welcome, sir. Welcome to my house.” Jeplow made it a prolonged greeting, staring straight into Rudd’s face. Finally he stood back, gesturing to their right, to a circular entrance. The breakfast room was heavily furnished with what Rudd guessed were antiques, a large oval table and heavily stuffed chairs, with brocaded curtains and patterned silk walls. One was dominated by a display of photographs, charting Jeplow’s political life. Rudd recognized Kennedy and de Gaulle and Churchill, each with Jeplow close at hand. The serving sideboard was against the far wall, with covered silver chafing dishes.

  “A Southern breakfast, sir. Bloody Mary’s and grits. You like grits, Mr Rudd?”

  “Well enough,” said Rudd. He decided Jeplow wore politeness in the same way as his hair, for effect. Rudd wondered if he was going to like the man. He took his drink, raising his glass to respond to the politician’s toast.

  “Appreciate your coming all the way down from New York,” said Jeplow. “And so early.”

  “I was interested in your suggestion that we meet,” said Rudd honestly, wanting to bring the conversation on course. Jeplow had made the drinks himself, just as he had opened the door. Rudd guessed he’d dispensed with his staff for the same reason that he’d brought his own car down from New York.

  “Why don’t you sit there, by the window?” invited Jeplow, refusing to be hurried.

  Rudd did, looking down at the setting. Damask individual cloth, hallmarked silver and crystal glass, he saw. Jeplow enjoyed living well.

  “Allow me to serve you, sir,” said Jeplow. “There’s kedgeree, kidney, ham. And eggs of course, fried or hashed.’

  “Ham,” said Rudd. “Hashed eggs. And grits.” Jeplow was obviously determined the meeting would go at his pace. Would he have rehearsed it, like a speech?

  The senator offered the plate and freshened Rudd’s glass and then served himself. When he sat, he wedged the napkin flamboyantly into his collar.

  “I’ve made a study of you, Mr Rudd,” announced the politician. “Of you and your company.”

  “It’s a pretty well-known corporation,” said Rudd. He’d let Jeplow make the running.

  “Through you, sir,” said Jeplow, as if seizing an important point. “Through you. You’ve a reputation on Wall Street, with every justification. To take a Boston motel chain with a $3,000,000 turnover to a $500,000,000 multinational leisure conglomerate in ten years is pretty impressive, sir. Pretty impressive.”

  So was Jeplow’s research, thought Rudd. The senator wasn’t offering flattery: he was listing the figures to prove his own professional attention to detail. What sort of deal was he going to offer?

  “I’m proud of it,” said Rudd. He supposed he was, now. But pride hadn’t been the motivation in the beginning. Business – and his complete and utter involvement in it – had been the refuge after Angela’s death.

  “Rightly so,” said Jeplow. “Rightly so.” He gestured towards the covered dishes. “A little more, perhaps?”

  Rudd shook his head, not wanting any interruption.

  “A history of expansion,” sa
id Jeplow, as if offering a motto.

  “And one I hope to continue,” said Rudd. He could detect a glimmer of light, far away.

  “In the last few years the trend seems for you to have gone beyond this country, to the Caribbean and Mexico and Europe. The Middle East, even.”

  “Because the opportunities were better,” said Rudd. Rudd recalled from the file that the senator was coming up for election, and that for the first time in fifteen years he was confronting a serious challenge. He said: “Were the opportunity to present itself here in America, then I’m sure my board would respond to it.”

  “Pleased to hear you say it, sir. Very pleased indeed.” Jeplow sat with his head forward, the mane of hair full around his face. After several minutes’ silence he looked up and said, “Ever considered expansion in Texas, Mr Rudd?”

  Anticipating the question, Rudd shook his head at once. “We’ve two hotels already in the state,” he said. “And we got those by takeover, not initial development. You represent a rich state, senator: I would need a premium price on city land if I were to consider new property.” It was negotiating time, thought Rudd; he felt the excitement begin.

  The silver head went down again and this time Jeplow spoke looking into his glass. “I noticed you came in a car with a New York licence plate,” he said.

  Rudd decided that beneath the artificial exterior Jeplow was a clever man.

  “I’ve noticed your staff are working elsewhere,” said Rudd. Wanting Jeplow to know he matched the preparation, he added: “A cook, a gardener, a maid and a chauffeur, I believe.”

  Jeplow raised his head smiling a smile that didn’t have any humour in it. “I think we understand each other, Mr Rudd.”

  “I understand there are certain negotiations where discretion is essential,” said Rudd.

  “It’s development land that’s at a premium,” said Jeplow. “I know of sites in, say, Dallas, Houston and Corpus Christi zoned for open space that is being offered at a quarter the cost.”

  “For public benefactor purchase,” pointed out Rudd. “What use to me is land, no matter how cheap it is, if I can’t build upon it?”

  Jeplow shrugged. “One of the excitements about politics are the variables,” he said. “Conditions change and when that happens, there’s the need to alter decisions which were made years ago, without any anticipation of what might happen in the future.” Jeplow became aware that both their glasses were empty. He refilled both.

  “Anyone who owned land that was rezoned for development would have a very definite advantage,” conceded Rudd. It had been a worthwhile trip. He said: “Even with that benefit, however, there would still be considerable cost, building in three cities.”

  “How long does it take to develop a hotel complex?” asked the politician.

  “There’s no recognized period,” said Rudd. “But from development consent I like to see an operation under way within a year.”

  “And how much local labour can be absorbed?”

  “The construction can mean work for anything up to a thousand men,” said Rudd. “And there are, of course, ancillaries, like design by local architects and material purchase. Once a hotel is in operation, we budget for a working staff of 200, but again there are ancillaries … laundry, food supply, even though we are largely centralized.”

  This time Jeplow’s smile was different, an expression of satisfaction. “What would you budget, for five hotels?”

  The number surprised Rudd but he didn’t show it. “It’s not possible to be specific,” he said. “I’d estimate $200,000,000.” Conscious of Jeplow’s frown, he went on. “That’s why the consideration for development would have to go beyond land purchase.”

  Jeplow sat back in his ornate chair, fixing Rudd again with that politician’s look of instant candour.

  “How far beyond?” he asked directly.

  Rudd hesitated. There’d be a lot of public officials in the state capital dependent upon Jeplow remaining in Washington. He said, “A state tax lay-off, for the development. And if we went for loans through Texas banks, which would again benefit the local economy, I’d have to have fixed term interest or roll-up.”

  “Roll-up?” queried Jeplow.

  “No month-to-month interest payment during construction,” said Rudd. “The interest is calculated at the conclusion of the development, when there is an income to put against it.”

  “I’d hoped land purchase would be sufficient inducement,” said Jeplow.

  Rudd knew he was in the stronger position. He shook his head. “I would have to have it all.”

  It was several moments before Jeplow replied. “If it could be arranged, what would your attitude be to constructing five hotels in the state?” he asked.

  Rudd recognized that it was time for specifics: he recognized, too, that he had nothing to lose if Jeplow rejected him. “With land purchase, tax lay-offs, and proper funding through Texas banks, I would be happy to build five hotels within your state,” he said. “Without any one of them, I wouldn’t consider it.”

  “That’s not a bargaining position,” protested Jeplow.

  “We’re not bargaining, senator,” reminded Rudd. “We’re having a hypothetical conversation.”

  “The re-zoning is happening very soon,” said Jeplow. “Within a month.”

  “I could buy it in that time,” said Rudd. “But you couldn’t give me the assurances I want in such a tight period.”

  “There’d be a profit on the land, even if nothing else worked,” said Jeplow.

  It was a good argument, thought Rudd: he won either way. “Only if I purchased the right land.”

  “Do you have a pen, Mr Rudd?”

  Rudd lifted his briefcase on to his lap, opened it, and took out the notepad and attached pen. Succinctly, without any reference, Jeplow dictated the locations and in the case of Houston their designation numbers on the local planning map. Rudd wrote without interruption, capped the pen and returned it and the pad to his briefcase.

  “If I were ever asked about this breakfast, I would insist it was purely a social occasion,” said Jeplow. “No one would doubt me: I’m highly respected in this town.”

  “I’d say the same,” said Rudd. “I’m highly respected, too.”

  He was back at Washington airport with thirty minutes to spare on the timing he had given the pilot; it was the way Rudd liked to do business.

  The headquarters of Best Rest occupied the top four floors of a skyscraper block built on reclaimed land at the bottom of New York’s Coenties Slip. Rudd stood at the window of the chairman’s office, with its panoramic view of the East River and Brooklyn beyond, watching a line of barges being hauled up river by a fussy tug. Suddenly its entire length was shadowed by a commuter helicopter arriving at the downtown heliport. His mind moved away from that morning’s Washington meeting, concentrating upon the insect-like machine. Herbert Morrison could arrive for board meetings on time if he used a helicopter from La Guardia instead of risking the traffic on the Triboro Bridge, thought Rudd. But he knew his father-in-law would be late that afternoon, just as he was late for every meeting. His resistance had now degenerated to the level of petulance.

  It had been different in the early days. Then the opposition had been constant and unremitting, to everything proposed or suggested. Rudd had had to fight because Morrison had the support of a board as angry and bewildered as himself at the overnight shift in share control that Angela’s death had caused. Morrison had been implacably determined, prepared to use anything, do anything, to change her will. There had actually been a court action threatened, with papers issued, before Morrison had finally given way to the legal pressure that the bequest was incontestable. And accepted that he had lost a company as well as a daughter. It had never been intended that way. Being responsible, Angela had called it, insisting that they make matching wills. And in hers she had left him not only her own Best Rest shares but those that she had inherited from her mother. He had already been allocated five per cent,
just before the hurried wedding because of Angela’s pregnancy. With an additional thirty per cent Rudd had been elevated literally overnight, from deputy company accountant and junior board member forever fettered in a prison of Morrison’s creation to predominant holder.

  Rudd shrugged aside the reminiscence, turning back into the room. The chair and desk were unostentatious, chosen because Rudd was a small, compact man who thought people looked ridiculous trying to achieve stature from their surroundings. He pressed the call button and at once Edward Hallett came through the linking door from the outer office. The personal assistant was a bespectacled, studious-looking man who worried too much; lines were already etched into his forehead and around his eyes. He carried a stiff-backed leather folder which he opened as soon as he sat down; Rudd thought he looked like a young curate, about to deliver his first sermon from carefully prepared notes.

  “Good meeting?” asked Hallett

  “I think so,” said Rudd cautiously. “Certainly worth pursuing.” He handed over the zoning references that Jeplow had provided, identifying them with the appropriate cities. “I want the sites fully investigated,” he said. “Access routings, public services, everything. I know it’s open land at the moment, but don’t bother about that.”

  Hallett sat head-bent, making notes in his folder.

  “What else is there for today?” asked Rudd.

  Hallett turned to the diary. “Apart from the board meeting, only tonight’s dinner with Mr Bunch and Prince Faysel.”

  Rudd nodded. The idea of how further to use Jeplow’s approach had occurred to him on the return from Washington and he was glad that the Saudi Arabian would be attending the meeting. Rudd had brought Faysel on to the board five years before, wanting the Saudi-backed investment fund for the liquidity to expand into the Caribbean and the Middle East. The arrangement was reciprocal, giving Rudd a place upon the general committee of the Arab investment board. It was a concession made only to four other Westerners – all bankers – and was a recognition of Rudd’s ability to find a way of involving the prince and surplus Arab funds in a Western business operation without offending the Islamic law forbidding riba, the paying or charging of interest upon money.