Hostile Takeover td-81

by Warren Murphy

  Glances were exchanged. Shoulders jumped in unknowing shrugs.

  "No one knows," a woman volunteered.

  "Okay" Remo, said snapping off a bear claw and tossing it to the woman who spoke. "You tell him I was here. I'll be back."

  A shaky male voice lifted above the crowd, warning, "No, you won't."

  Remo tilted his bear helmet doggy-style, the better to see the source of the warning.

  A blue-uniformed security guard stepped through the crowd, a gun held before him. The gun was as shaky as his voice, maybe shakier, Remo saw. Remo rested defiant paws on his furry hips.

  "You got a license to hunt bear?" he demanded of the guard.

  The guard crept forward.

  He sneered. "You're no bear."

  "That's no bull," Remo shot back. "Okay, you got me. I surrender," he added, throwing up his paws.

  "Good," the guard said, lifting out of his careful half-crouch. "Do as I say and you won't be hurt."

  "Exactly what are you going to do?" Remo wanted to know.

  "Handcuff you," the guard said firmly.

  Remo's paws dropped together, outstretched. "My wrists are yours," he said.

  Reaching behind his gunbelt, the guard pulled out a clinking pair of handcuffs.

  Remo waited patiently. He didn't want to spook the nervous guard into any wild shooting. When one wristlet flopped into his arm, Remo swiped the gun from the other's grasp. The paw tangled up in the trigger guard, and the gun fell to the floor.

  The guard reached down.

  Remo stamped on the weapon, thinking the guard was going for it.

  Unfortunately, the guard was going for his ankle-holstered backup gun. He brought it up and snapped off a hasty shot.

  Remo sidestepped to the left. The bullet passed to his right, striking an acoustical ceiling panel. The guard corrected his aim. Remo slid aside so fast the guard was aiming at the spot where his eyes told him Remo was. But he wasn't there anymore.

  The guard snapped off a shot he never heard. Remo's paws took him by the face and squeezed his nose and mouth shut. The guard fainted long before he would have lapsed into unconsciousness from asphyxiation.

  Remo let him drop to the floor, and lifted quelling paws.

  "Don't worry," he called out. "He just fainted. And I'm outta here. But keep watching the windows. I'll be back. "

  Remo crawled out the window as a Polaroid camera flashed, capturing his buttoned-up rear end for posterity.

  After he had vanished, the employees on the trading floor of Looncraft, Dymstar d took a hasty poll.

  The consensus was that they would clean up the mess and not breathe a word of any of this to humorless P. M. Looncraft when he returned. There were no dissenting votes, not even from the security guard after he woke up screaming.

  Chapter 9

  Remo Williams was surprised that the address of Nostrum, Inc. was a modern twelve-story chrome-and-blued-glass building near Wall Street. He stopped in front of the building, thinking that he had misremembered the address Smith had told him.

  "Smitty's too cheap to own a nice place like this," he muttered, going through the revolving door.

  Remo went to the lobby directory. A maintenance man had the glass front open and was replacing white plastic letters.

  "Say, buddy," Remo asked him, "is there a Nostrum, Inc. in this building?"

  The workman finished what he was doing and closed the glass before answering.

  "That's the old name," he said. "Now it's Nostrum, Ink. "

  "What's the difference?" Remo asked.

  "Take a look for yourself," the man told him, jerking a thumb at the directory.

  Remo looked. He found a "NOSTRUM, INK" listed on the eighth floor.

  "I hate to tell you this, but 'Ink' is misspelled."

  "That's a matter of opinion. When the chief says to change it, I change it. We don't question the chief around here. "

  "This chief," Remo inquired. "Would he be about five feet tall with the complexion of an eighty-year-old walnut?"

  "That's the chief, all right. 'Cept he doesn't look a day over seventy-five."

  "I guess I've got the right address after all," Remo said, catching an upward-bound elevator.

  On the eighth floor, Remo walked down a very long corridor, at the end of which a woman squatted on the rug under a brass plaque that read "NOSTRUM, INK." A fax telephone, Rolodex, and open appointment book lay before her crossed legs. The nameplate by her knee read

  "FAITH DAVENPORT."

  "Someone steal your desk?" Remo asked, giving her the benefit of a friendly grin.

  The grin was returned as a polite smile. She was a clean-scrubbed ash blond in a charcoal Lady Brooks pantsuit. Her eyes were the same blue as the sky, but Remo decided her uptilted nose was her best feature.

  "The chief has liberated us from the tyranny of chairs and desks," she told him in a crisp voice. "We're very close to the earth here at Nostrum, Ink. Do you have an appointment?"

  "Actually, no," Remo admitted.

  The smile stayed in place but the warmth in Faith's eyes went cool. "I didn't think so," she said, eyeing Remo's T-shirt and chinos.

  "I'm a friend of Chiun's," Remo explained. "You can tell him I'm here, and I'm sure it'll be all right. The name's Remo."

  "Last name?" the blond said, picking up the phone.

  "He'll know who it is," Remo assured her.

  "Mr. Chiun," Faith said after a pause. "There is a gentleman here who claims to know you. Remo. He won't give his last name."

  Faith looked up. "He insists upon having a last name."

  "Oh, give me a break," Remo said. "Tell him it's Remo . . . Stallone."

  "Remo Stallone," Faith said into the receiver. She listened briefly. "I understand." She hung up. "He asks that you make an appointment," she told Remo.

  "He what?"

  "The chief is a very, very busy man."

  "All right, I'll play along. When's he free?"

  "Actually, he's free right now. He hates appointments." Faith looked at her watch. "It's eleven-thirty-two now. Why don't we pencil you in for, say, eleven-thirty-three?"

  "Are you serious?"

  "Please take a seat," Faith said, gesturing to a bare spot by the wall.

  Remo settled on the spot. In his head, he counted off the seconds until Faith called to him. Her watch was five seconds late by Remo's internal clock.

  "I'll announce you now," she said, picking up the phone. "Mr. Chiun, Remo Stallone to see you. Yes, he does have an appointment."

  Faith hung up. "Go right in."

  "Thanks," Remo said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  "I thought you looked Italian," she called after him.

  Remo walked into a large room where suspender-festooned young workers sat behind banks of computer screens. The screens were on the floor. So were the telephones and other office impedimenta. Not to mention the workers. They looked uncomfortable, and a few could be heard complaining about their backs.

  Remo breezed past them to a door on which the word "CHIEF" was painted in black lettering. He entered without knocking.

  Inside, the Master of Sinanju looked up from his tatami mat on the bare floor.

  "Remo!" Chiun said brightly. "Welcome to Nostrum, Ink. "

  "I see you've got everyone dancing to your tune," Remo said, closing the door.

  "Why not?" Chiun returned proudly. "I am their chief. My employees are very loyal to me. It is all very tribal."

  "I'm glad you're settling in so well."

  "It is not all easy," Chiun said. "I have had to fire some of them already."

  "Embezzlers?"

  "Poor spellers. They could not properly write a simple word such as 'ink.' It was unbelievable, Remo. Everywhere I look, the signs said 'Nostrum, Inc.' With a 'c.' "

  "Pitiful. The U.S. educational system is to blame."

  "I blame Smith," Chiun sniffed. "He hired cheap help. But I am well on my way to setting things right."

  "So what
does Nostrum do, anyway?"

  Chiun looked to the closed door. He leaned closer.

  "It makes money," he said low-voiced.

  "No kidding?" Remo said, suppressing a smile.

  "No, really. Look." Chiun picked a sheet of paper from a pile and handed it to Remo. Remo took it.

  It was a stock certificate in the name of Nostrum, Inc.

  "I think you'll have to reprint these," Remo said. "It still says 'Inc.' With a 'c'."

  "This is an old one," Chiun said. "We sell these."

  "Yeah, that's how it works, all right."

  "You do not understand, Remo. We also print them. In this very building. We print them, and people pay vast sums for these worthless things."

  "Maybe they like the design."

  "I thought of that too," Chiun said, taking the certificate back. He looked at the face. "But in truth it is an ugly design. I am having that changed as well."

  "Well, maybe Smith can explain it. I've been running around town all morning and came up goose-eggs. "

  "You wore the suit?" Chiun asked anxiously.

  Remo sighed. "Yeah, I wore the suit."

  "Where is it now?"

  "I stashed it in a locker in Grand Central."

  Chiun looked hurt. "What?"

  "Hey, take it easy. I'm in my civilian identity."

  "Ah, I understand," Chiun said. "I watched the video. I know how these things work. After terrorizing the villains, you have assumed your true identity, the better to safeguard yourself from their cowardly attacks upon your person. "

  "Something like that," Remo agreed.

  "You did terrorize them?" Chiun asked in concern.

  "They'll have bear nightmares into the year 2000," Remo promised. "But I don't know what good it will do. Nobody broke down and confessed or anything. But all Smith wanted was for me to shake them up. Maybe one of them will make a move."

  The intercom buzzed. Chiun touched a button with a delicate finger.

  "Yes?"

  "Mr. Chiun-"

  "I told you to call me 'Chief,' " Chiun said querulously. "I am your chief executive officer. You must use the proper form of address."

  "Sorry, Chief," Faith said.

  "That is better," Chiun said importantly as Remo rolled his eyes ceilingward. "Now, what is it?"

  "Two messengers just arrived with shipments."

  "I will be right out," Chiun said.

  He stood up. "Come, Remo. I will show you how to run a business. Someday Nostrum may be yours."

  "This ought to be good," Remo said, following him out through the busy workroom, where suddenly every worker sat up straight and began talking in a loud voice about how comfortable the floor was, and into the reception area-such as it was.

  A pair of uniformed armored-car messengers stood there, arms resting on hand trucks stacked with wooden crates. They were breathing hard. One of them rubbed a sweaty brow with a green bandanna. Chiun drifted up to the two, his arms tucked into his kimono sleeves, saying "I am Chiun, chief of Nostrum."

  The man with the green bandanna finished with his forehead and puffed, "Delivery from Goldman Sachs. Two hundred and fifty ingots."

  "Ingots?" Remo said.

  "Hush, Remo," Chiun told him. To the messenger he said, "Open the crates and I will count them personally."

  "Sure thing." The guard pried the lid off the top crate with a short prybar. One by one, he counted out fifty small gold ingots, stacking them in neat piles. The other man waited his turn until all 250 ingots lay open for display.

  Chiun counted them three times before he turned to Faith at her reception mat.

  "Issue this man three hundred shares of preferred," he said.

  "Yes, Chief." Faith picked up the phone and began talking.

  "Who is next?" Chiun asked.

  "I am. Salomon Brothers. One hundred ingots."

  "You know, Little Father," Remo said as the second set of ingots was brought forth, "I don't think this is how they normally do it on Wall Street."

  "It is the way I do it. Do you know that when I arrived this morning, they were selling my obviously priceless stocks for mere money? Often credit. It was unbelievable. I asked to see the Global stock we owned, and my hirelings told me that although we owned it, we did not have possession of it. I asked when we would take possession and they told me that was not how it was done. The stocks would remain in the hands of a third party. We owned it in name only. It is a ridiculous system these people have. The money changes hands, but not the property. I put a stop to that at once."

  "I'll bet you did."

  A green-suspendered clerk came out of the office with a sheaf of stocks. He handed them over to the Goldman Sachs messenger, who went away just as Chiun finished counting the second gold shipment.

  After the other messenger had left with his stock, Remo put a question to Chiun.

  "Does Smith know how you're running this place?" he asked.

  "I have not spoken with him all day," Chiun admitted. "But I am certain he will be delighted. I have sold more Nostrum stock today than in the previous month."

  "Really?" Remo asked.

  "I will let you in on a secret," Chiun said conspiratorially as clerks came out to gather up the gold in mail carts and wheel them into a side room. "Men will pay incredible sums if they believe a thing is valuable. Smith offered Nostrum stocks for mere credit, and few bought. I insisted upon gold, paid in full upon delivery, and they are beside themselves to own it."

  "Little Father," Remo said sincerely, "I think you've got the hang of how they do business on Wall Street."

  Chapter 10

  P. M. Looncraft came into his office late. This time, it was not considered unusual by his employees. It was a Saturday.

  On the way to his office, Looncraft stopped to lay a firm hand on the pink-striped shoulder of Ronald Johnson, who wore the gold tie of Looncraft, Dymstar d proudly.

  "How are we today?" Looncraft said, low-voiced, knowing that every man on the floor would notice the personal interest he was taking in Johnson. He made a point of not calling Johnson by name-the better to keep the man in line.

  "Excellent, sir."

  "And Global?"

  "I've acquired over five thousand shares for the company. They will execute Monday morning at the opening price."

  "Hmmm. Only that?"

  "I did buy some for myself," Johnson admitted.

  "Good man. How many shares?"

  "One thousand, sir. It will empty my bank account."

  "Brave soul," Looncraft said in sympathy.

  "Sir?"

  "We may have to divest. I hear rumblings about Global."

  "What kind?" Johnson squeaked. Catching himself, he lowered his voice. "I mean-"

  "I know what you mean," Looncraft whispered. "It seems Global may be having FCC difficulties. And they are overleveraged. They may have to divest. Possibly downsize significantly."

  "But . . . but my entire savings is in Global," Johnson croaked.

  Looncraft clapped a hand on Johnson's shoulder. "You are a loyal employee, Johnson," he said magnanimously. "I value you. LD rb losses better than you. The firm will buy your shares at market, if you wish to sell. "

  "Yes!" Johnson said fervently, tears coming into his eyes. "I'll execute it immediately."

  "Wise man. No sense being long and wrong, as they say."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Looncraft started to walk away. Johnson's voice brought him up short.

  "Mr. Looncraft. One moment, please."

  "Yes?" Looncraft asked, making sure to suppress the greedy grin on his cadaverous face before he turned around.

  "Nostrum. You asked me to look into them."

  "So I did," Looncraft said. "In my office, Johnson."

  "Certainly, sir. Let me execute the Global transfer first."

  Looncraft started to object, but caught himself. "Do that, by all means."

  Looncraft went to his office, telling the secretary, "Johnson will want to see me pres
ently. Keep him waiting ten minutes."

  "Yes, sir."

  That will teach the upstart, Looncraft told himself as he placed his briefcase beside his desk. He hung his chesterfield coat on an old-fashioned wooden rack. He went to his deskside computer terminal and logged onto a bulletin board that bore the legend "MAYFLOWER DESCENDANTS."

  His lantern jaw fell when he saw the message on his screen "CHECK," it said. There was a number next to the message, along with the notation: "MADE REDUNDANT. CAUSE UNKNOWN." It told Looncraft that they had lost the Reuters connection. It was distressing news.

  He sat back to ponder the matter. A new element had apparently entered the game. He would have to be prepared. Then his secretary announced the arrival of Johnson.

  "Has he been waiting a full ten minutes?" Looncraft asked. When the reply was affirmative, Looncraft said, "Send him in."

  "Here is the signed contract," Johnson said, placing a sheet of paper on Looncraft's spacious desk. Looncraft's glance flicked to it, and seeing that it was properly and irrevocably executed he waved for Johnson to sit.

  "Tell me about Nostrum," Looncraft said, steepling his fingers. He was looking, not at Johnson, but off toward his great-great-great-great-grandfather H. P. Looncraft.

  "They're a NASDAQ stock," Johnson said, reading from his notes. "Very difficult to dig up information on."

  "But you did."

  "Some, sir. It's very odd. They went public only a year ago, and I had a tip only this morning that their stock is heating up."

  "Really?" Looncraft said, swiveling in Johnson's direction.

  "I don't know what you make of this, but their stock has been selling like crazy all morning."

  "Today? Today is Saturday. The market is closed."

  "That's the crazy part. They've bypassed NASDAQ. They're selling it from their offices. No credit, no trading. Strictly cash-and-carry."

  "Preposterous!" Looncraft sputtered, leaning forward.

  Johnson had his full attention now and pressed the point home. "They accept payment in gold only," he said. "And the price has jumped six times just this morning. They're trading at one-ten a share and upticking."

  "Gold?"

  "Yes, sir. The rules are, if you deliver the cash equivalent in gold, you come away with the stock."

  "The physical stock? Sold over the counter like yard goods? Absurd. No one trades in the physical stock anymore. It's not practicable."