Master of the Game motg-1

by Sidney Sheldon

  Tony worked twice as hard as anyone else at Kruger-Brent, Ltd. He drove himself mercilessly, trying to rid himself of memories too searing to bear. He wrote to Dominique, but his letters

  were returned unopened. He telephoned Maitre Cantal, but Dominique no longer modeled at the school. She had disappeared.

  Tony handled his job expertly and methodically, with neither passion nor love, and if he felt a deep emptiness inside himself, no one suspected it. Not even Kate. She received weekly reports on Tony, and she was pleased with them.

  "He has a natural aptitude for business," she told Brad Rogers.

  To Kate, the long hours her son worked were proof of how much he loved what he was doing. When Kate thought of how Tony had almost thrown his future away, she shuddered and was grateful she had saved him.

  In 1948 the Nationalist Party was in full power in South Africa, with segregation in all public places. Migration was strictly controlled, and families were split up to suit the convenience of the government. Every black man had to carry a bewy-shoek, and it was more than a pass, it was a Lifeline, his birth certificate, his work permit, his tax receipt. It regulated his movements and his life. There were increasing riots in South Africa, and they were ruthlessly put down by the police. From time to time, Kate read newspaper stories about sabotage and unrest, and Banda's name was always prominently mentioned. He was still a leader in the underground, despite his age. Of course he would fight for his people, Kate thought. He's Banda.

  Kate celebrated her fifty-sixth birthday alone with Tony at the house on Fifth Avenue. She thought, This handsome twenty-four-year-old man across the table can't be my son. I'm too young. And he was toasting her, "To m-my f-fantastic m-mother. Happy b-birthday!"

  "You should make that to my fantastic old mother." Soon I'll be retiring, Kate thought, but my son will take my place. My son!

  At Kate's insistence, Tony had moved into the mansion on Fifth Avenue.

  "The place is too bloody large for me to rattle around in alone," Kate told him. "You'll have the whole east wing to

  yourself and all the privacy you need." It was easier for Tony to give in than to argue.

  Tony and Kate had breakfast together every morning, and the topic of conversation was always Kruger-Brent, Ltd. Tony marveled that his mother could care so passionately for a faceless, soulless entity, an amorphous collection of buildings and machines and bookkeeping figures. Where did the magic lie? With all the myriad mysteries of the world to explore, why would anyone want to waste a lifetime accumulating wealth to pile on more wealth, gathering power that was beyond power? Tony did not understand his mother. But he loved her. And he tried to live up to what she expected of him.

  The Pan American flight from Rome to New York had been uneventful. Tony liked the airline. It was pleasant and efficient. He worked on his overseas acquisitions reports from the time the plane took off, skipping dinner and ignoring the stewardesses who kept offering him drinks, pillows or whatever else might appeal to their attractive passenger.

  "Thank you, miss. I'm fine."

  "If there's anything at all, Mr. Blackwell..."

  'Thank you."

  A middle-aged woman in the seat next to Tony was reading a fashion magazine. As she turned a page, Tony happened to glance over, and he froze. There was a picture of a model wearing a ball gown. It was Dominique. There was no question about it. There were the high, delicate cheekbones and the deep-green eyes, the luxuriant blond hair. Tony's pulse began to race.

  "Excuse me," Tony said to his seat companion. "May I borrow that page?"

  Early the following morning, Tony called the dress shop and got the name of their advertising agency. He telephoned them. "I'm trying to locate one of your models," he told the switchboard operator. "Could you—"

  "One moment, please."

  A man's voice came on. "May I help you?"

  "I saw a photograph in this month's issue of Vogue. A model advertising a ball gown for the Rothman stores. Is that your account?"

  "Yes."

  'Can you give me the name of your model agency?"

  "That would be the Carleton Blessing Agency." He gave Tony the telephone number.

  A minute later, Tony was talking to a woman at the Blessing Agency. "I'm trying to locate one of your models," he said. "Dominique Masson."

  "I'm sorry. It is our policy not to give out personal information." And the line went dead.

  Tony sat there, staring at the receiver. There had to be a way to get in touch with Dominique. He went into Brad Rogers's office.

  "Morning, Tony. Coffee?"

  "No, thanks. Brad, have you heard of the Carleton Blessing Model Agency?"

  "I should think so. We own it."

  "What?"

  "It's under the umbrella of one of our subsidiaries."

  "When did we acquire it?"

  "A couple of years ago. Just about the time you joined the company. What's your interest in it?"

  "I'm trying to locate one of their models. She's an old friend."

  "No problem. I'll call and—"

  "Never mind. I'll do it. Thanks, Brad."

  A feeling of warm anticipation was building up inside Tony.

  Late that afternoon, Tony went uptown to the offices of the Carleton Blessing Agency and gave his name. Sixty seconds later, he was seated in the office of the president, a Mr. Tilton.

  "This is certainly an honor, Mr. Blackwell, I hope there's no problem. Our profits for the last quarter—"

  "No problem. I'm interested in one of your models. Domi-nique Masson."

  Tilton's face lighted up. "She's turned out to be one of our very best. Your mother has a good eye."

  Tony thought he had misunderstood him. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Your mother personally requested that we engage Dominique. It was part of our deal when Kruger-Brent, Limited, took us over. It's all in our file, if you'd care to—"

  "No." Tony could make no sense of what he was hearing. Why would his mother—? "May I have Dominique's address, please?"

  "Certainly, Mr. Blackwell. She's doing a layout in Vermont today, but she should be back"—he glanced at a schedule on his desk—"tomorrow afternoon."

  Tony was waiting outside Dominique's apartment building when a black sedan pulled up and Dominique stepped out. With her was a large, athletic-looking man carrying Dominique's suitcase. Dominique stopped dead when she saw Tony.

  "Tony! My God! What—what are you doing here?"

  "I need to talk to you."

  "Some other time, buddy," the athlete said. "We have a busy afternoon."

  Tony did not even look at him. "Tell your friend to go away."

  "Hey! Who the hell do you think—?"

  Dominique turned to the man. "Please go, Ben. I'll call you this evening."

  He hesitated a moment, then shrugged. "Okay." He glared at Tony, got back in the car and roared off.

  Dominique turned to Tony. "You'd better come inside."

  The apartment was a large duplex with white rugs and drapes and modern furniture. It must have cost a fortune.

  "You're doing well," Tony said.

  "Yes. I've been lucky." Dominique's fingers were picking nervously at her blouse. "Would you like a drink?"

  "No, thanks. I tried to get in touch with you after I left Paris."

  "I moved."

  'To America?"

  "Yes."

  "How did you get a job with the Carleton Blessing Agency?"

  "I—I answered a newspaper advertisement," she said lamely.

  "When did you first meet my mother, Dominique?"

  "I—at your apartment in Paris. Remember? We—"

  "No more games," Tony said. He felt a wild rage building in him. "It's over. I've never hit a woman in my life, but if you tell me one more lie, I promise you your face won't be fit to photograph."

  Dominique started to speak, but the fury in Tony's eyes stopped her.

  "I'll ask you once more. When did you first meet my mother?" />
  This time there was no hesitation. "When you were accepted at Ecole des Beaux-Arts. Your mother arranged for me to model there."

  He felt sick to his stomach. He forced himself to go on. "So I could meet you?"

  "Yes, I—"

  "And she paid you to become my mistress, to pretend to love me?"

  "Yes. It was just after the war—it was terrible. I had no money. Don't you see? But Tony, believe me, I cared. I really cared—"

  "Just answer my questions." The savagery in his voice frightened her. This was a stranger before her, a man capable of untold violence.

  "What was the point of it?"

  "Your mother wanted me to keep an eye on you."

  He thought of Dominique's tenderness and her lovemaking— bought and paid for, courtesy of his mother—and he was sick with shame. All along, he had been his mother's puppet, controlled, manipulated. His mother had never given a damn about him. He was not her son. He was her crown prince, her heir apparent. All that mattered to her was the company. He took one last look at Dominique, then turned and stumbled out. She looked after him, her eyes blinded by tears, and she thought, / didn't lie about loving you, Tony. I didn't lie about that.

  Kate was in the library when Tony walked in, very drunk.

  "I t-talked to D-dominique," he said. "You t-two m-must have had a w-wonderful time 1-laughing at me behind my back."

  Kate felt a quick sense of alarm. 'Tony—"

  "From now on I want you to s-stay out of my p-personal 1-life. Do you hear me?" And he turned and staggered out of the room.

  Kate watched him go, and she was suddenly filled with a terrible sense of foreboding.

  The following day, Tony took an apartment in Greenwich Village. There were no more sociable dinners with his mother. He kept his relationship with Kate on an impersonal, businesslike basis. From time to time Kate made conciliatory overtures, which Tony ignored.

  Kate's heart ached. But she had done what was right for Tony. Just as she had once done what was right for David. She could not have let either of them leave the company. Tony was the one human being in the world Kate loved, and she watched as he became more and more insular, drawing deep within himself, rejecting everyone. He had no friends. Where once he had been warm and outgoing, he was now cool and reserved. He had built a wall around himself that no one was able to breach. He needs a wife to care for him, Kate thought. And a son to carry on. I must help him. I must.

  Brad Rogers came into Kate's office and said, 'I'm afraid we're in for some more trouble, Kate." "What's happened?"

  He put a cable on her desk. "The South African Parliament has outlawed the Natives' Representative Council and passed the Communist Act."

  Kate said, "My God!" The act had nothing to do with communism. It stated that anyone who disagreed with any government policy and tried to change it in any way was guilty under the Communist Act and could be imprisoned.

  "It's their way of breaking the black resistance movement," she said. "If—" She was interrupted by her secretary.

  "There's an overseas call for you. It's Mr. Pierce in Johannesburg."

  Jonathan Pierce was the manager of the Johannesburg branch office. Kate picked up the phone. "Hello, Johnny. How are you?"

  "Fine, Kate. I have some news I thought you'd better be aware of."

  "What's that?"

  "I've just received a report that the police have captured Banda."

  Kate was on the next flight to Johannesburg. She had alerted the company lawyers to see what could be done for Banda. Even the power and prestige of Kruger-Brent, Ltd., might not be able to help him. He had been designated an enemy of the state, and she dreaded to think what his punishment would be. At least she must see him and talk to him and offer what support she could.

  When the plane landed in Johannesburg, Kate went to her office and telephoned the director of prisons.

  "He's in an isolation block, Mrs. Blackwell, and he's allowed no visitors. However, in your case, I will see what can be done..."

  The following morning, Kate was at the Johannesburg prison, face to face with Banda. He was manacled and shackled, and there was a glass partition between them. His hair was completely white. Kate had not known what to expect—despair, defiance—but Banda grinned when he saw her and said, "I knew you'd come. You're just like your daddy. You can't stay away from trouble, can you?"

  "Look who's talking," Kate retorted. "Bloody hell! How do we get you out of here?"

  "In a box. That's the only way they're going to let me go."

  "I have a lot of fancy lawyers who—"

  "Forget it, Kate. They caught me fair and square. Now I've got to get away fair and square."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I don't like cages, I never did. And they haven't built one yet that can keep me."

  Kate said, "Banda, don't try it. Please. They'll kill you."

  "Nothing can kill me," Banda said. "You're talking to a man who lived through sharks and land mines and guard dogs." A soft gleam came into his eyes. "You know something, Kate? I think maybe that was the best time of my life."

  When Kate went to visit Banda the next day, die superintendent said, "I'm sorry, Mrs. BlackwelL We've had to move him for security reasons."

  "Where is he?"

  'I'm not at liberty to say."

  When Kate woke up the following morning, she saw the headline in the newspaper carried in with her breakfast tray. It read: rebel leader killed while trying to escape prison. She was at the prison an hour later, in the superintendent's office.

  "He was shot during an attempted prison break, Mrs. Black-well. That's all there is to it."

  You're wrong, thought Kate, there's more. Much more. Banda was dead, but was his dream of freedom for his people dead?

  Two days later, after making the funeral arrangements, Kate was on the plane to New York. She looked out the window to take one last look at her beloved land. The soil was red and rich and fertile, and in the bowels of its earth were treasures beyond man's dreams. This was God's chosen land, and He had been lavish in his generosity. But there was a curse upon the country. I'll never come back here again, Kate thought sadly. Never.

  One of Brad Rogers's responsibilities was to oversee the Long-Range Planning Department of Kruger-Brent, Ltd. He was brilliant at finding businesses that would make profitable acquisitions.

  One day in early May, he walked into Kate Blackwell's office. "I've come across something interesting, Kate." He placed two folders on her desk. 'Two companies. If we could pick up either one of them, it would be a coup."

  "Thanks, Brad. I'll look them over tonight."

  That evening, Kate dined alone and studied Brad Rogers's confidential reports on the two companies—Wyatt Oil & Tool and International Technology. The reports were long and detailed, and both ended with the letters nis, the company code for Not Interested in Selling, which meant that if the companies were to be acquired, it would take more than a straightforward business transaction to accomplish it. And, Kate thought, they're well worth taking over. Each company was privately controlled by a wealthy and strong-minded individual, which eliminated any possibility of a takeover attempt. It was a challenge, and it had been a long time since Kate had faced a challenge. The more she thought about it, the more the possibilities began to excite her. She studied again the confidential balance sheets. Wyatt Oil & Tool was owned by a Texan, Charlie Wyatt, and the company's assets included producing oil wells, a utility company and dozens of potentially profitable oil leases. There was no question about it, Wyatt Oil & Tool would make a handsome acquisition for Kruger-Brent, Ltd.

  Kate turned her attention to the second company. International Technology was owned by a German, Count Frederick Hoffman. The company had started with a small steel mill in Essen, and over the years had expanded into a huge conglomerate, with shipyards, petrochemical plants, a fleet of oil tankers and a computer division.

  As large as Kruger-Brent, Ltd., was, it could digest only on
e of these giants. She knew which company she was going after. nis, the sheet read.

  We'll see about that, Kate thought.

  Early the following morning, she sent for Brad Rogers. "I'd love to know how you got hold of those confidential balance sheets," Kate grinned. "Tell me about Charlie Wyatt and Frederick Hoffman."

  Brad had done his homework. "Charlie Wyatt was born in Dallas. Flamboyant, loud, runs his own empire, smart as hell. He started with nothing, got lucky in oil wildcatting, kept expanding and now he owns about half of Texas."

  "How old is he?"

  "Forty-seven."

  "Children?"

  "One daughter, twenty-five. From what I hear, she's a raving beauty."

  "Is she married?"

  "Divorced."

  "Frederick Hoffman."

  "Hoffman's a couple of years younger than Charlie Wyatt. He's a count, comes from a distinguished German family going back to the Middle Ages. He's a widower. His grandfather started with a small steel mill. Frederick Hoffman inherited it from his father and built it into a conglomerate. He was one of the first to get into the computer field. He holds a lot of patents on microprocessors. Every time we use a computer, Count Hoffman gets a royalty."

  "Children?"

  "A daughter, twenty-three."

  "What is she like?"

  "I couldn't find out," Brad Rogers apologized. "It's a very buttoned-up family. They travel in their own little circles." He hesitated. "We're probably wasting our time on this, Kate. I had a few drinks with a couple of top executives in both companies.

  Neither Wyatt nor Hoffman has the slightest interest in a sale, merger or joint venture. As you can see from their Financials, they'd be crazy even to think about it."

  That feeling of challenge was there in Kate again, tugging at her.

  Ten days later Kate was invited by the President of the United States to a Washington conference of leading international industrialists to discuss assistance to underdeveloped countries. Kate made a telephone call, and shortly afterward Charlie Wyatt and Count Frederick Hoffman received invitations to attend the conference.

  Kate had formed a mental impression of both the Texan and the German, and they fitted her preconceived notions almost precisely. She had never met a shy Texan, and Charlie Wyatt was no exception. He was a huge man—almost six feet four inches—with enormous shoulders and a football player's body that had gone to fat. His face was large and ruddy, and his voice loud and booming. He came off as a good oF boy—or would have if Kate had not known better. Charlie Wyatt had not built bis empire by luck. He was a business genius. Kate had talked to him for less than ten minutes when she knew that there was no way this man could be persuaded to do anything he did not want to do. He was opinionated, and he had a deep stubborn streak. No one was going to cajole him, threaten him or con him out of his company. But Kate had found his Achilles' heel, and that was enough.