Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune

by Jeffrey Archer

  “But you told me that her company checked out?”

  “And it did. Kirkbridge and Company is based in New York and made a profit of just over a million dollars last year, and surprise, surprise, the majority shareholder is a Mrs. Julia Kirkbridge. And it was only because Su Ling thought she was a phony that I even called to check and see if the company was having a board meeting that morning. When the switchboard operator informed me that Mrs. Kirkbridge couldn’t be disturbed as she was in that meeting, the last piece of the jigsaw fell neatly into place. Now that’s what I mean by attention to detail.”

  “But there’s still a missing link,” said Tom.

  “Yes, and that’s what turns her from an ordinary flim-flam artist into a fraudster of true genius. It was Harry Gates’s amendment to the finance bill that presented her with a hoop that she knew we would have to jump through.”

  “How does Senator Gates get in on the act?” asked Tom.

  “It was he who proposed the amendment to the property bill stipulating that all future transactions enacted with the council should be paid in full on signature of the agreement.”

  “But I told her that the bank would cover whatever surplus proved necessary.”

  “And she knew that wouldn’t be sufficient,” said Nat, “because the senator’s amendment insisted that the principal beneficiary,” Nat opened the brochure at a passage he had underlined, “had to sign both the check and the agreement. The moment you rushed back to inquire if she had a checkbook with her, Julia knew she had you by the balls.”

  “But what if I’d said the deal is off unless you can come up with the full amount?”

  “She would have returned to New York that night, transferred her half million back to Chase, and you would never have heard from her again.”

  “Whereas she pocketed three point one million dollars of our money and held on to her own $500,000,” said Tom.

  “Correct,” said Nat, “and by the time the banks open in San Francisco this morning, that money will have disappeared off to the Cayman Islands via Zurich or possibly even Moscow, and although I’ll obviously go through the motions, I don’t believe we have a hope in hell of retrieving one cent of it.”

  “Oh, God,” said Tom, “I’ve just remembered that Mr. Cooke will be presenting that check this morning, and I gave him my word that it would be cleared the same day.”

  “Then we shall have to clear it,” said Nat. “It’s one thing for the bank to lose money, quite another for it to lose its reputation, a reputation which your grandfather and father took a hundred years to establish.”

  Tom looked up at Nat. “The first thing I must do is resign.”

  “Despite your naïveté, that’s the last thing you should do. Unless, of course, you want everyone to find out what a fool you’ve made of yourself and immediately transfer their accounts to Fairchild’s. No, the one commodity I need is time, so I suggest you take a few days off. In fact, don’t mention the Cedar Wood project again, and if anyone should raise the subject, you simply refer them to me.”

  Tom remained silent for some time, before he said, “The true irony is that I asked her to marry me.”

  “And her true genius is that she accepted,” replied Nat.

  “How did you know that?” asked Tom.

  “It would have all been part of her plan.”

  “Clever girl,” said Tom.

  “I’m not so sure,” said Nat, “because if you two had become engaged, I was ready to offer her a place on the board.”

  “So she had you fooled as well,” said Tom.

  “Oh yes,” replied Nat, “with her grasp of finance she wouldn’t have been a passenger, and had she married you she would have made a lot more than three point one million, so there must be another man involved.” Nat paused. “I suspect he was the one on the other end of the phone.” Nat turned to leave. “I’ll be in my office,” he said, “and remember, we only ever discuss this matter in private, nothing in writing, never on the phone.”

  Tom nodded as Nat closed the door quietly behind him.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cartwright,” said Nat’s secretary as he walked into his office, “did you have a good vacation?”

  “Yes, I did, thank you, Linda,” he replied cheerily. “I’m not sure who enjoyed Disneyland more, Luke or myself.” She smiled. “Any real problems?” he asked innocently.

  “No, I don’t think so. The final documents for the takeover of Bennett’s came through last Friday, so from January first, you’ll be running two banks.”

  Or none, thought Nat. “I need to speak to a Mrs. Julia Kirkbridge, the director of …”

  “Kirkbridge and Company,” said Linda. Nat froze. “You asked for the details of her company just before you went on vacation.”

  “Of course I did,” said Nat.

  Nat was rehearsing what he would say to Mrs. Kirkbridge, when his secretary buzzed through to tell him that she was on the line.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Kirkbridge, my name is Nat Cartwright, I’m the chief executive of Russell’s Bank in Hartford, Connecticut. We have a proposition we thought your company might be interested in, and as I’m in New York later today, I hoped you would be able to spare me a few minutes.”

  “Can I call you back, Mr. Cartwright?” she replied in a crisp English accent.

  “Of course,” said Nat, “I look forward to hearing from you.”

  He wondered how long it would take Mrs. Kirkbridge to discover that he was the chief executive of Russell’s Bank. She was obviously checking, because she didn’t even ask for his telephone number. When the phone rang again his secretary said, “Mrs. Kirkbridge on the line.”

  Nat checked his watch; it had taken her seven minutes.

  “I could see you at two thirty this afternoon, Mr. Cartwright; would that suit you?”

  “Suits me just fine,” said Nat.

  He put the phone down and buzzed Linda. “I’ll need a ticket on today’s eleven-thirty train to New York.”

  Nat’s next call was to Rigg’s Bank in San Francisco, who confirmed his worst fears. They had been instructed to send the money to Banco Mexico only moments after it had been deposited with them. From there, Nat knew it would follow the sun until it finally disappeared over the horizon. He decided it would be pointless to call in the police unless he wanted half the banking community let in on the secret. He suspected that Julia, or whatever her real name was, had also worked that out.

  Nat got through a great deal of the backlog caused by his absence before leaving the office to catch the train to New York. He made it to the offices of Kirkbridge & Co. on 97th Street with only moments to spare. He hadn’t even had time to take a seat in reception before a door opened. He looked up to see an elegant, well-dressed woman standing in the doorway. “Mr. Cartwright?”

  “Yes,” he said, rising from his seat.

  “I’m Julia Kirkbridge; would you like to come through to my office?” The same crisp English accent. Nat could not recall how long ago it was that a director of any company had come to collect him in the reception area rather than sending a secretary, especially one working out of New York.

  “I was intrigued by your call,” said Mrs. Kirkbridge as she ushered Nat through to a comfortable seat by the fireplace. “It’s not often a Connecticut banker comes to New York to visit me.”

  Nat took some papers out of his case, as he tried to assess the woman sitting opposite him. Her clothes, like those of her impersonator, were smartly tailored, but far more conservative, and although she was slim and in her mid-thirties, her dark hair and dark eyes were a total contrast to the blond from Minnesota.

  “Well, it’s quite simple really,” began Nat. “Hartford City Council has put another site on the market that has planning approval for a shopping mall. The bank has purchased the land as an investment and is looking for a partner. We thought you might be interested.”

  “Why us?” asked Julia.

  “You were among the original companies that bid fo
r the Robinson’s site, which, incidentally, has proved to be a great success, so we thought you might want to be involved in this new venture.”

  “I’m somewhat surprised that you didn’t think of approaching us before you made your bid,” said Mrs. Kirkbridge, “because had you done so, you would have discovered that we had already considered the terms far too restrictive.” Nat was taken by surprise. “After all,” continued Mrs. Kirkbridge, “that is what we do.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Nat, buying time.

  “May I ask how much it went for?” asked Mrs. Kirkbridge.

  “Three point six million.”

  “That was way above our estimate,” said Mrs. Kirkbridge, turning a page of the file on the table in front of her.

  Nat had always considered himself a good poker player, but he had no way of knowing if Mrs. Kirkbridge was bluffing. He only had one card left. “Well, I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” he said, rising from his place.

  “Perhaps you haven’t,” said Mrs. Kirkbridge, who remained seated, “because I’m still interested in listening to your proposal.”

  “We’re looking for a fifty-fifty partner,” said Nat, resuming his seat.

  “What does that mean exactly?” asked Mrs. Kirkbridge.

  “You put up $1.8 million, the bank finances the rest of the project, and once the debt has been recouped, all the profits will be divided fifty-fifty.”

  “No bank fees, and the money loaned at prime rate?”

  “I think we would consider that,” said Nat.

  “Then why don’t you leave all the details with me, Mr. Cartwright, and I’ll come back to you. How long have I got before you need a decision?”

  “I’m meeting two other possible investors while I’m in New York,” said Nat. “They were also bidders for the Robinson’s site.”

  From the expression on her face, there was no way of telling if she believed him.

  Mrs. Kirkbridge smiled. “Half an hour ago,” she said, “I had a call from the chief executive of the Hartford City Council, a Mr. Cooke.” Nat froze. “I didn’t take the call as I thought it would be prudent to see you first. However, I find it hard to believe that this was the type of case study they expected you to analyze at Harvard Business School, Mr. Cartwright, so perhaps the time has come for you to tell me why you really wanted to see me.”

  35

  ANNIE DROVE HER husband to City Hall, and it was the first time they had been alone all day. “Why don’t we just go home?” said Fletcher.

  “I expect every candidate feels that way just before the count.”

  “Do you know, Annie, we haven’t once discussed what I’m going to do if I lose.”

  “I’ve always assumed you’d join another law firm. Heaven knows enough have been knocking on your door. Didn’t Simpkins and Welland say they needed someone who specializes in criminal law?”

  “Yes, and they’ve even offered me a partnership, but the truth is that politics is what I enjoy doing most. I’m even more obsessed than your father.”

  “That’s not possible,” said Annie. “By the way, he said to use his parking space.”

  “No way,” said Fletcher, “only the senator should occupy that spot. No, we’ll park down one of the side streets.” Fletcher glanced out of the window to see dozens of people walking up City Hall steps.

  “Where are they going?” asked Annie. “They can’t all be close relations of Mrs. Hunter.”

  Fletcher laughed. “No, they’re not, but the public are allowed to watch the count from the gallery. It’s evidently an old Hartford tradition,” he added as Annie finally found a parking space some distance from City Hall.

  Fletcher and Annie held hands as they joined the crowds heading into the hall. Over the years, he had watched countless politicians and their wives holding hands on election day, and often wondered how many performed the ritual simply for the cameras. He squeezed Annie’s hand as they strolled up the steps trying to look relaxed.

  “Do you feel confident, Mr. Davenport?” asked a local newscaster, thrusting a microphone into his face.

  “No,” said Fletcher honestly. “Nervous as hell.”

  “Do you think you’ve beaten Mrs. Hunter?” tried the reporter again.

  “I’ll be happy to answer that question in a couple of hours’ time.”

  “Do you believe it’s been a clean fight?”

  “You’d be a better judge of that than me,” said Fletcher as he and Annie reached the top step and walked into the building.

  As they entered the hall, there was a ripple of applause from some of those seated in the gallery. Fletcher glanced up, smiled and waved, trying to look confident, even though he didn’t feel it. When he glanced back down, the first face he saw was Harry’s. He looked pensive.

  How different City Hall felt from the day of the debate. All the chairs had been replaced by a horseshoe of long tables. In the center stood Mr. Cooke, who had presided over seven previous elections. This would be his last, as he was due to retire at the end of the year.

  One of his officials was checking the black boxes, which were lined up on the floor inside the horseshoe. Mr. Cooke had made it clear during the briefing he had given both candidates the previous day that the count would not begin until all forty-eight ballot boxes had arrived from their polling stations and had been authenticated. As the poll closed at 8 P.M. this procedure usually took about an hour.

  A second ripple of applause broke out, and Fletcher glanced around to see Barbara Hunter enter the room, also displaying a smile of confidence as she waved to her supporters in the gallery.

  Once all forty-eight boxes had been checked, their seals were broken by the officials and the votes emptied onto the tables ready for counting. Seated on either side of the horseshoe were the hundred or so counters. Each group consisted of one representative from the Republican party, one from the Democrats and a neutral observer standing a pace behind them. If an observer was unhappy about anything once the counting had begun, he or she would raise a hand and Mr. Cooke or one of his officials would go to that table immediately.

  Once the votes had been emptied onto the tables, they were separated into three piles—a Republican pile, a Democratic pile and a third, smaller pile of disputed ballot papers. Most of the constituencies around the nation now carried out this entire process by machine, but not Hartford, although everyone knew that would change the moment Mr. Cooke retired.

  Fletcher began walking around the room, watching as the different piles grew. Jimmy carried out the same exercise, but strolled in the opposite direction. Harry didn’t move as he watched the boxes being unsealed, his eyes rarely straying from what was taking place inside the horseshoe. Once all the boxes had been emptied, Mr. Cooke asked his officials to count the votes and place them in piles of one hundred.

  “This is where the observer becomes important,” Harry explained as Fletcher came to a halt by his side. “He has to be sure that no ballot is counted twice, or two aren’t stuck together.” Fletcher nodded, and continued his perambulation, occasionally stopping to watch a particular count, one moment feeling confident, the next depressed, until Jimmy pointed out that the boxes came from different districts and he could never be sure which ones had come from a Republican stronghold and which from a Democratic area.

  “What happens next?” asked Fletcher, aware that Jimmy was attending his fourth count.

  “Arthur Cooke will add up all the ballots and announce how many people have voted, and calculate what percentage that is of the electorate.” Fletcher glanced up at the clock—it was just after eleven, and in the background, he could see Jimmy Carter on the big screen, chatting to his brother Billy. The early polls suggested that the Democrats were returning to the White House for the first time in eight years. Would he be going to the Senate for the first time?

  Fletcher turned his attention back to Mr. Cooke, who appeared to be in no hurry as he went about his official business. His pace did not reflect the heartbeat of ei
ther candidate. Once he had gathered up all the sheets, he went into a huddle with his officials, and transferred his findings onto a calculator, his only concession to the 1970s. This was followed by the pressing of buttons, nods and mutters, before two numbers were written neatly on a separate piece of paper. He then walked across the floor and up onto the stage at a stately pace. He tapped the microphone, which was enough to bring silence, as the crowd was impatient to hear his words.

  “God damn it,” said Harry, “it’s been over an hour already. Why doesn’t Arthur get on with it?”

  “Calm down,” said Martha, “and try to remember that you’re no longer the candidate.”

  “The number of people who cast votes in the election for the Senate is 42,429, which is a turnout of 52.9%.” Mr. Cooke left the stage without another word, and returned to the center of the horseshoe. His team then proceeded to check the piles of one hundreds, but it was another forty-two minutes before the chief executive climbed back onto the stage. This time he didn’t need to tap the microphone. “I have to inform you,” he said, “that there are seventy-seven disputed ballots, and I will now invite the two candidates to join me in the center of the room so that they can decide which ones should be considered valid.”

  Harry ran for the first time that day and grabbed Fletcher before he joined Mr. Cooke in the horseshoe. “That means that whichever one of you is in the lead, it must be by less than seventy-seven votes, otherwise Cooke wouldn’t be bothering to go through this whole rigmarole of seeking your opinions.” Fletcher nodded his agreement. “So you must select someone to check over those crucial votes for you.”

  “That’s not a difficult choice,” Fletcher replied, “I select you.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Harry, “because that will put Mrs. Hunter on her guard, and for this little exercise you’ll need someone whom she won’t feel threatened by.”

  “Then how about Jimmy?”

  “Good idea, because she’s bound to think that she can get the better of him.”

  “Not a hope,” said Jimmy as he appeared by Fletcher’s side.