Hostile Takeover td-81

by Warren Murphy

  Looncraft looked away from the Telerate screen. Global had a long way to go before he needed to act. He picked up the two-star edition of The Wall Street journal, neatly folded beside his telephone, and opened it casually, one eye on the frantic activity on the trading floor, visible through the glass inner-office wall.

  An hour later he looked up from the paper and to his surprise, saw that Global was now at fifty-nine and three-eighths. He blinked, grabbed the telephone.

  "Ask the floor manager-his name escapes me at the moment-to give me a report on the last hour's worth of GBL activity."

  "At once, Mr. Looncraft. And his name is Lawrence."

  "Whatever," Looncraft said dismissively. In fact, he knew the name of every employee on the payroll of Looncraft, Dymstar d, right down to the boy who had started working in the mailroom two days before. Some of the firm's best people came up from the mailroom. Looncraft had made it his business to know their names. He subscribed to the ancient superstition-it was actually more than that-that held that the ability to call a person or thing by its right name conferred power over that person or thing.

  The intercom beeped.

  "Mr. Lawrence on line one, Mr. Looncraft."

  "Who?"

  "The floor manager."

  "Oh, of course." Looncraft pressed line one. "Go ahead."

  "Global issues are rebounding from a low of twenty-one and an eighth," Lawrence said crisply.

  "Who's buying?"

  "DeGoone Slickens, for one."

  "What!" Looncraft exploded. "That scoundrel! He wouldn't dare. Who else?"

  "Nostrum, Inc., was the first. But others have jumped in."

  "Nostrum! Never heard of them."

  "I think they're venture capitalists. Their own stock trades on NASDAQ. Do you want me to look into it?"

  "Later. Is this a rally, or just a short-term run-up?"

  "The entire market seems to be stabilizing. Volume is at five hundred and eighty-nine million shares across the board. I think we're going to pull out of this tailspin. Could be the start of a dead-cat bounce."

  "Blast," Looncraft said under his breath.

  "Sir?"

  "Buy Global," Looncraft snapped. "As much as you can get your hands on. Now. Then find out whatever you can about these Nostrum interlopers."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Damn," P. M. Looncraft said angrily. "This is the limit." He reached for the telephone, hesitated, and then, thinking that even his vice-chairmanship of the New York Stock Exchange did not exclude him from SEC investigation, moved his caster-wheeled chair to a personal computer on a gunmetal typewriter stand.

  He logged on and got an electronic bulletin board. The legend across the top read "MAYFLOWER DESCENDANTS" in ragged block letters. His fingers keyed like twitching spiders.

  "Knight to Bishop Two," he keyed. Then he logged off.

  Within moments the Telerate screen began to show a dramatic rise in Global's selling price. Looncraft's undertaker's face frowned darkly.

  It held that expression well into the afternoon, as the stock market rebounded slowly. Frequent calls from his secretary were met with a curt, "Take a message." Until her voice came over the intercom with even more hesitancy than usual.

  "Ronald Johnson to see you, sir."

  Looncraft's eyebrows lifted in astonishment.

  "Who?" he asked, momentarily taken aback.

  "He's one of your floor traders."

  "Cheeky sort, isn't he?" Looncraft muttered. Only ten years ago a Wall Street trader would have been beneath his notice. But not these days. The whole financial world had been turned turtle after a decade of leveraged buy-outs and junk bonds.

  "Show him in," Looncraft said. He did not say, "Show him in, Miss McLean." It was better if his employees thought he didn't know them by name, as if such minutiae were beneath his lordly notice.

  Johnson stepped into Looncraft's spacious office like a nervous poodle. Looncraft silently waved him into a black leather chair and tented his long aristocratic fingers.

  Looncraft waited for the young man to sit down, and then looked at Johnson with eyes that invited explanation rather than asked or demanded it. Looncraft had an inkling why a mere floor trader would leave his post at such a hectic time. Johnson handled the Global account.

  Ronald Johnson cleared his throat before speaking. He wore the uniform of a broker-striped shirt, red suspenders, and a haircut that reinforced his poodlelike demeanor.

  "Mr. Looncraft, sir," he said deferentially, "I realize that I may be out of line asking to speak with you at a time like this, but-"

  Looncraft cut him off with a wave of his hand that made his Rolex flash in the late-afternoon sunlight coming through the thirty-fourth-floor window.

  "But," the young man continued, "as you may know, I handled the Global transaction, and I'm puzzled by the buying we've done."

  "Puzzled? In what way?"

  "Sir, we liquidated our Global positions this morning at forty-six. Now we're buying back at fifty-eight. It makes no sense. We'll take punishing losses."

  "Oh?" P. M. Looncraft asked, with just the right arching of his right eyebrow. Behind him, portraits of past owners of Looncraft, Dymstar d hung in massive gilt frames that could be considered tasteful only because of their great age. There were no Dymstars or Buttonwoods on the wall. Only Looncrafts. The Looncrafts had forced out the Dymstars and Buttonwoods generations before keeping only their reputations. The Looncrafts looked down with imperious glares, making the young trader in the black leather chair even more nervous than he would have been. Just as P. M. Looncraft knew they would. That was why they hung along the walls of the office: so that wherever a visitor looked, he either stared at a Looncraft-living or dead-or kept his eyes on the floor.

  "Yes," the young man said. "I wonder if in the heat of the meltdown-"

  "There is no meltdown," Looncraft snapped. "The Dow is rebounding. The system is very resilient. We are merely experiencing a correction."

  "Excuse me, sir. You're right, of course. But I couldn't help but wonder if in the excitement, the buy orders weren't miscommunicated."

  "They were not," Looncraft said flatly.

  "I see," Ronald Johnson said vaguely. He adjusted his neat blue tie.

  "No, you do not see," Looncraft said. He knew that in trader's logic, a transaction was either profitable or unprofitable. In that way, they were as binary in their thinking as his computer. Buy cheap and sell dear was their prime directive. So when the chairman of LD and rebought the same shares at significant cash losses, it simply did not compute. "And you would like to know why," Looncraft added.

  Ronald Johnson leaned closer, his eyes almost feverish.

  "Is this something new?" he asked hoarsely. Looncraft suppressed a smile. He knew that shine. It was greed. He had seen it in younger eyes than Johnson's-seen it grow brighter as the eyes behind it grew dimmer. He saw it in the mirror every morning.

  "No," P. M. Looncraft said. "It is not a new market strategy. "

  Ronald Johnson's face fell. He was disappointed.

  "As you know, we divested ourselves of all Global stock when the price reached forty-six points."

  "Yes, sir. I executed that liquidation personally."

  "While I was out of the office," Looncraft added pointedly. "Had I been in the office, my curious young man, I would have overridden that move. For I have heard rumors of an intended takeover of Global."

  "By whom?" Johnson blurted out.

  Looncraft shushed him with a wave. "It would be illegal if I were to tell you. But I heard it. I heard it perfectly."

  Ronald Johnson smiled. He knew that when P. M. Looncraft said he heard rumors of an intended takeover, it was gospel. And Looncraft knew that within minutes of leaving his office, Ronald Johnson would buy as many shares of Global as his personal portfolio could absorb.

  "When I arrived at the office," Looncraft continued, "the damage had been done. I've been monitoring the situation with care. I first thought that I woul
d wait until just before the closing bell and buy back Global at rockbottom prices. A happy accident-although I disliked not enjoying a solid position in Global for the brief hours that was true."

  "But when the market rebounded . . . " Ronald Johnson said.

  " I had no choice. Obviously, the takeover rumors I had been hearing had reached other ears. Thus the hasty and admittedly costly buy order."

  "Yes, yes," Johnson said eagerly. "It makes sense. Those shares will be worth much more. But it's still a tremendous amount of stock. Too much. What if the price drops again?"

  "There is no such thing as too much stock," P. M. Looncraft said severely.

  "Perhaps you're right, sir. But it is risky."

  "That is why it's called risk arbitrage, and why the term 'junk bond' was invented."

  Ronald Johnson blinked. He realized his superior was not simply talking about acquiring soon-to-be-hot shares. He was hinting that LD self be involved in a takeover of Global Communications.

  He cleared his throat. " I think I understand."

  "You are a very bright young man."

  "But our position is massive. If the stock falls again, we could be ruined. All of us."

  "Negative thinking," Looncraft clucked. " I do not believe in negative thinking. I would appreciate it if you did not spread such sentiments around the trading floor-or at one of those watering holes you traders like to frequent after hours."

  "No, sir. Count on me, sir."

  "I will," said P. M. Looncraft, touching his intercom. "Send Lawrence in. Instantly."

  Almost before Looncraft's gaze left the intercom, a tall management type stepped into the room. He wore conservative gray pinstripes and a gold silk tie. A complacent expression settled over his clean-shaven face as he said, "Yes, Mr. Looncraft?"

  "Give Johnson your tie," said P. M. Looncraft.

  The complacent expression fell apart. "Sir?"

  "Your tie. Give it to Johnson." Turning to the floor trader, he added, "Johnson, would you please lend this man your tie for the remainder of the day so he will be presentable?"

  Ronald Johnson came to his feet, beaming. "Yes, sir, Mr. Looncraft. Of course, sir. I appreciate this, I really do. "

  "But, Mr. Looncraft," Lawrence moaned, his face dropping like that of a man whose proposal of marriage has been rejected, "I am supposed to have this another three days."

  "Let me remind you that the gold tie belongs to the firm," Looncraft said aridly.

  "But, sir, I earned it. This is my month to wear the gold tie. "

  "It belongs to Johnson now," Looncraft told him. "He has earned it by his concern and ernestness during a most unsettling business day. Johnson has performed with great presence of mind, and LD o recognize that service."

  Lawrence stiffened. His hands stayed at his sides. He ignored the offered blue tie.

  "I must remind you, sir," he went on hoarsely, "that company policy expressly stipulates that the gold tie may be worn for thirty days before an employee is required to surrender it." Tears were streaming from Lawrence's eyes now. This was a humiliation. He was being degraded for no reason that he could fathom. " I must protest this in the strongest terms."

  "I accept your protest," P. M. Looncraft said evenly. "Now, give Johnson your tie."

  Lawrence whirled on Johnson like a cornered animal.

  "Johnson! What is Johnson? A sniveling wet-behind-the-ears trader. I have been with LD twenty years, and the first time you call me by name is to ask me to surrender the tie. I have attained the gold tie seven times. That is an LD

  "Duly noted. Now, give Johnson your tie," Looncraft repeated. His voice remained even.

  Lawrence looked at the impassive face of his superior, then at the outstretched hand of the eager young trader, Johnson. " I won't have this," he sniffled. " I won't be treated like this. I quit!"

  And Lawrence flung off the gold tie, throwing it in Johnson's shocked face before storming out of the office blubbering.

  Ronald Johnson gingerly picked up the tie from the maroon rug, and after apologizing for his coworker's unfortunate outburst, began to tie it around his neck in a standard foulard knot.

  "I can't tell you how much this means to me, Mr. Looncraft," Johnson said fawningly.

  Looncraft rose from behind his desk. "I understand," he said, smiling humorlessly as he shook the trembling hands of his young employee. "Now, I want you to get back to work. You needn't trouble yourself with these well-intentioned concerns of yours. You have a bright future with us."

  "I know," Ronald Johnson said, his eyes bright with that familiar gleam.

  P. M. Looncraft returned to his desk, knowing he had chosen well. He had selected Johnson to manage the Global account because the man was, whatever else, conscientious. This was as it always was with conscientious men. Offer them mere money to ignore an irregularity and they would spurn it with ill-disguised distaste. But offer them recognition or glory, and they were your servants. It had worked since the early days of Looncraft, Dymstar d. It had worked for his ancestors, back in the days before there was a United States of America. His ancestors would simply wave a sword over a man's head and call him knight, and the man would give up his life for that title and those who conferred it upon him. It was the same with the gold tie. It was just a silk tie. Anyone could buy one. But when P. M. Looncraft dubbed it the company tie and forbade any employee to wear one like it, every man on the floor doubled his productivity to vie for the gold tie. Status-hungry traders who couldn't be bothered to earn raises because they were already earning obscene amounts in commissions were slaves to their desire to wear three feet of golden silk around their necks.

  Still, Looncraft was disappointed in Johnson. He had not tied his tie with a full Windsor, and that was the mark of a slacker. Ah, well, the man was probably Scandinavian. Most Johnsons were.

  Looncraft turned his attention back to the Telerate machine. The Dow Jones Industrial Average was holding just over nineteen hundred. He keyed in on Global. It remained unchanged at fifty-eight and five-eighths.

  Looncraft cursed under his breath. The Dow would close significantly below opening quotes, but not as low as Looncraft had expected. Or wanted.

  "Tomorrow is another day," he told himself glumly.

  Chapter 5

  Remo Williams pulled his blue Buick coupe into the driveway of his Rye, New York, home. He got out and started for the back door, holding a newspaper in front of his face like a mafioso arriving in court.

  "Ah, the hell with it," Remo said suddenly. He stopped, lowered the paper, and doubled back. "I'm sick of this." He paused at the front door, not caring who saw him, and boldly checked his mailbox.

  He found only junk mail, which did not surprise him. The bills-what few there were-were made out to a James Churchward. That was the name on the box. There was no such person as James Churchward. It was a cover identity he'd used to buy the house.

  Remo inserted the key in the lock and entered. The nearly bare living room greeted him with its slight odor of incense and candle wax. It smelled like a Chinese church.

  Remo noticed that the only piece of living-room furniture-a large-screen TV was a shambles of wood and electronics.

  "Chiun! Are you at it again?"

  A bedroom door opened like a book, framing a tiny figure in aquamarine silk.

  "I found another of Smith's insects," said Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju and Remo's trainer. He lifted a silvery disk between delicate fingernails. The nails were exceedingly long. His eyes were hazel almonds in the network of wrinkles that was his face. The puffs of white hair over his tiny ears were like thinning steam.

  Remo accepted it as Chiun joined him, his aquamarine kimono skirts rustling.

  "You mean a bug," Remo said. "This is a listening device. And this is getting ridiculous. We find them, and he plants new ones."

  "He has gone mad."

  "You've been saying that for years," Remo said, rubbing the bug between compressed palms until he got a sound like gra
vel in a sifter. He walked over to a wastebasket and spanked his hands together. What remained of the listening device sprinkled into the receptacle like powdered aluminum.

  "We're going to have to talk to him," Remo said fiercely.

  Chiun cocked his head. "I understood you vowed never to speak with Smith again," he said.

  "I did. But I'm going to make an exception, just this once. "

  "You are still angry with him over the unfortunate incident?"

  "You bet I am. After all these years of working for that old tight-ass, I find out he's got my house rigged with listening devices and a gas-delivery system so anytime Smith wants, he presses one of his damn computer keys and I'm anesthetized in my sleep. It would have happened to you too, you know, if you hadn't been in Korea when Smith lowered the boom."

  "Smith did not lower the boom, as you call it," Chiun corrected. "It was that villain Ransome."

  Remo threw up his hands. "Smith. Ransome. Who cares? It was Smith's boom. Ransome lowered it. And I'm retired to death row with my memory wiped clean back to Johnson's presidency. I don't even know if I have all my original memories back."

  Chiun's wrinkled face started.

  "I had not considered that possibility," he said slowly. His child-bright hazel eyes refocused on Remo.

  "Do you remember that illustrious day when I saved your life?"

  "I remember a couple of times that happened. What of it?"

  "And the promise you made to me of your own free will?"

  Remo's eyes narrowed. "What promise?" he asked warily.

  "That you would not rest until Cheeta Ching became my bride."

  "Cheeta? You mean the TV anchorwoman?"

  Chiun took an involuntary step backward. He sucked in his parchment-dry cheeks with mock horror.

  "No!" he cried. "It is true. That fiend Smith deprived you of your most treasured memories. Come. We must confront him with this latest proof of his perfidy. We will demand that he restore you to your full faculties."