Phoenix Rising

by Nance, John J. ;

  There was silence from the other end.

  “Maybe. I can certainly give it a go. Who’s doing this, Elizabeth?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I came to Inverness, to get some help finding out.”

  “Strange place for such a mission. Edinburgh or Glasgow I could understand,” he said, fishing. For some reason she had been reluctant to tell him about MacRae.

  “Alastair, we can’t let this fail. My back’s against a wall. I can make the investors you’ve lined up feel better if you’ll get them in a conference room by, say, one-thirty P.M.”

  “It shall be done, dear lady. Have a good, quick flight back.”

  On her first day in Seattle she had insisted that her new secretary reduce all the company telephone numbers to a floppy disk so she could load them on her computer. She snapped her notebook computer on now, pulling out Fred Kinnen’s home number. Letting him know where she was seemed inevitable, but there was no longer any need to pretend anyway. “They” already knew where she was.

  “Hello?” The voice was sullen and sleepy.

  “Fred? This is Elizabeth Sterling. I need some emergency help.”

  “Eliz … oh. Are you still in London?”

  The question froze her in her tracks.

  He wasn’t supposed to know where I am!

  Ron Lamb was supposed to have kept her whereabouts secret.

  “What did you ask?” she said.

  “In London. Weren’t you in London?” he repeated.

  “Fred, who told you where I was?”

  “You did. I got a fax from you, remember? You asked me to send a packet of financial data to a number over there immediately.”

  She sank back on the bed.

  “Fred, I sent no such fax.”

  “But—”

  “I’m telling you, I did not send you any such instructions.”

  “It had your signature on it!” He sounded panicked.

  “What exactly did you send out of the office, Fred? And to whom?”

  “Well, it didn’t seem very smart, since this has been our worst week ever, but I prepared a special weekly cash flow printout through today’s close of business, along with a weekly traffic analysis, and several others. This week our load factor’s been at forty-eight percent, because of all the bad press, you know, and we’re down in current cash to less than twenty-three million.”

  She felt her head swimming, but pressed on. He had the name of the company and the fax number he had sent the materials to, and a copy of “her” fax with a forged signature.

  “Okay, Fred, did you send a memo of any sort at any time to Ron Lamb discussing the load factors and asking him not to let the financial community know?”

  “A memo?”

  “Yes, a memo. Did you write one or send one?”

  There was a telling hesitation, as if he needed time to formulate an acceptable answer.

  “You mean an interoffice memo?”

  “Dammit, Fred, you speak English. Did you send a memo to Ron Lamb about the load factor, or didn’t you?”

  “Uh … no. No, I … I didn’t write any memos about the load factor.”

  She could read the hesitation. “Okay, Fred, what did you send to London in the way of a memo?”

  “You asked me to write one to Ron Lamb and send a copy to that number, and I did. I had no way of knowing it wasn’t you. The memo just said you were making progress, and as long as nothing leaked out, you’d have things put together in a few days. That’s all.”

  Someone used it as a template and inserted their own language, Elizabeth thought.

  “Get a pen, Fred. Here’s what I need, and I need it in the next three hours, faxed to Mr. Alastair Wood at the following number.”

  She gave him a list of financial summaries for the previous five months.

  “Those will show a prettier picture, I trust?”

  “Yes. Of course. We were doing well, until the past week.”

  He promised to dress and head for the office instantly.

  “And, Fred, call Joe Taylor at home.”

  “The chairman?”

  “Yes. Ask him if he ever wrote a memo to Ron recommending Chapter Eleven. And fax me a copy of his signature off a letter or anything else. I want to compare it to something over here he supposedly signed. Also send me a copy of that damn memo you wrote.”

  “I’ll have to call him at home—”

  “You sure will! And while you’re at it, call our entire corporate finance staff and get them into the office. My secretary, too. Have everybody stand by to provide figures, summary sheets, facts, and whatever else I need to convince a roomful of doubting financiers that we’re not really in trouble. This is an all-nighter, and everyone’s job is at stake. Understood?”

  “I guess so.” There was, at last, the sound of real fear in his voice. “One thing, though.”

  “Go.”

  “That forty-eight-percent load factor?”

  “Yes?”

  “Our director of reservations believes that’s essentially false. She told everyone yesterday that she thinks someone’s worked a computer scam on us to show our flights as overbooked. It started last week.”

  “Call her at home. Tell her to be prepared to tell that story to me by phone at five-thirty A.M., your time. Have her give you the appropriate number and stand by the phone.”

  “Elizabeth, she’s not in our department. I can’t order all these people around like that.”

  “Fred, order whoever needs to be ordered, and do it on my authority. I don’t have time to argue. If I don’t succeed, kiddo, we’re out of business.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh, and one other thing. Unless you actually hear my voice, don’t follow any orders that supposedly come from me. If you get any more faxed orders to do something or provide something over my signature, get me on the phone immediately. In the meantime, don’t do it.”

  She checked her watch then and called Brian at his office, feeling a warm rush when his voice came over the line.

  With their passengers placed on other airline flights to Frankfurt, and replacement electronic components installed, Brian and his crew had ferried their 767 back to Seattle from Gander, with Kelly and Virginia Sterling aboard. While they headed for Bellingham, Brian had headed for the office, eager to get back on the trail of whoever had monkeyed with his files.

  “I’m gonna find that bastard, Elizabeth. I’m convinced all of this is the same person or the same team, well financed and organized, and determined to kill us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The files, the blown 747 engine, the attempt to bring us down on Clipper Forty, and probably even the stuff you’re fighting with the loans. It’s all the same campaign.”

  She told him briefly of the latest agony, including the upcoming briefing.

  “I don’t know whether I can pull it off, Brian. I’ve asked to speak to these men, and they’re not going to be eager to believe me. It turns out some of the devastatingly bad financial data they received is correct, and was in effect stolen from my assistant, but it isn’t representative of what the company’s been doing.”

  “Tell them the truth. Tell them we’re being attacked, and we’re about to gain the upper hand.”

  “Brian, would you want to lend large amounts of money to a company under such an assault, on the gamble that the smear tactics won’t be successful? That’s what I’m going to be asking them to do.”

  “Tell them,” he said, “that they’ve had smoke blown in their faces by people who know we’re going to succeed. Tell them that Pan Am has the opportunity for faster growth and greater monetary success than any other airline on earth. And tell them that eventually whoever is behind this will end up paying Pan Am hundreds of millions in damages.”

  That puzzled her. “You’ve got an idea, don’t you? Who?”

  “Not on the phone, Elizabeth.”

  “No, I need to know now. If you’ve got a theory, let me ha
ve it.”

  There was a long silence before he answered.

  “You can’t tell anyone this. They’d think you were paranoid. Hell, I sound paranoid, but ask yourself this question: Whose profits do we threaten?”

  “Well …”

  “We threaten the big three in North America, don’t we? Which carriers own the biggest reservations systems and have the biggest bucks to sabotage a growing airline like ours?”

  “Brian, that’s crazy.”

  “Is it? Think about it.”

  “You’re saying the three major air carriers of North America are engaging in criminal sabotage?”

  “Not directly. But who’d have to refurbish their fleets if our interiors and service—Compartment Class, for instance—became the standard? Suppose we get too big? You’re talking about literally hundreds of millions, if not billions, of dollars at stake.”

  “Brian, that’s nuts. And there are foreign carriers with as much at stake, too. It could be any one of them.”

  “Elizabeth, I’m not saying that the leaders of those airlines or their boards would ever do anything like this, but somebody with money and some degree of sophistication is tearing us apart. The only reason I can see that happening would be to protect the dominance of the big three. Nothing else makes sense to me. There’s no way a single nut case could plant a bomb in our 747, slip a reworked black box in my 767, sabotage the reservations computer, and block you at every turn in the financial world. No lone wolf could be that clever or powerful or sophisticated.”

  “Brian, you’re scaring me.”

  “I know it. I’m scaring myself,” he said.

  “Have you told Ron Lamb? I’m sorry, I mean—”

  “You mean Chad Jennings?”

  “Yes.” The thought of Jennings running the company still seemed very strange. He seemed competent enough, but Brian had already hinted at a darker side to the man’s abilities.

  “Not yet,” he replied, “but I may. We’ve got to act fast before they finally succeed and bring one of our airplanes down in flames.”

  “What can Jennings do about it, Brian?” Elizabeth asked.

  “I don’t know, but something has to be done. I feel like the kid pointing out the naked emperor. No one wants to believe me.”

  They ended the call with Elizabeth feeling hunted again.

  She was opening the door to leave when the phone rang. This time Craig MacRae’s voice filled her ear.

  “Miss Sterling?”

  “Elizabeth, please.”

  There was an uncomfortable hesitation. “Very well. Elizabeth, then. Lloyd White insists on calling me Craig, but I prefer Creighton.”

  “Thank you, Creighton. I’m in a rush for the airport …”

  “I’ll be brief. I spent last evening in research, and I’ve some promising leads. I’m leaving this morning as well, but I shan’t tell you where just yet. Be careful not to mention my involvement to anyone. Do not even inform your office of our arrangement. I have your numbers. I’ll be in touch within a few days. But … Elizabeth …”

  “Yes?”

  “I must warn you of something. If your company is up against the level of adversary I believe you are, understand that they have enough money to corrupt anyone. Trust no one with any information, however hackneyed that advice may sound.”

  “Don’t trust … what exactly does that mean?” She knew she sounded skeptical.

  “Dammit, woman, it means don’t confide in anyone you aren’t absolutely certain of, and give no substantive information over the phone at any time! I’m going to try to find you a new credit line, as well as a path to the enemy camp. But you’d be well advised to assume they’re watching and listening to you at all times. Considering what they’ve already done, I feel certain they’ll bend all efforts to deny you the money you need.”

  She sat deep in thought and said nothing as he slowly took offense.

  “Look here. You searched me out because I’d been through the same. Kindly give me the benefit of experience and take the ruddy advice.”

  She should have been irritated all over again at his outburst.

  Instead, she was overwhelmingly glad he was on her side.

  The flight to London was a blur of conflicting thoughts and rapid notetaking as she tried to organize what to say. She had tried to call Ron Lamb in his Seattle hospital room before getting on the plane. But his speech was still massively impeded, and his wife recommended she wait a few days before trying again.

  “Tell him I’m pulling for him, and I’m doing my best over here,” Elizabeth told her.

  “I will, dear, and he’ll be appreciative. he’s mentally sharp, he just … has trouble speaking.” She had ended the call with an audible sob.

  The taxi ride from Heathrow to East Central London was uncharacteristically quick. Alastair Wood greeted her at his office door with a stack of faxed financial reports from Fred Kinnen and a detailed briefing on the men who would be in the meeting—as well as detailed background information on those who had yet to sign. Elizabeth took thirty minutes to prepare herself before Alastair showed her into the modern, diminutive screening room and introduced her to the two dozen tight-lipped men who limply shook her hand and sat quietly, staring at her with cold skepticism.

  All but five of them had already signed the loan agreement. She’d memorized the names of the five holdouts and emblazoned their faces in her memory as Alastair introduced them. As he closed the door to the small theater, she walked to the front with a relaxed air and smiled at them—willing the shaking inside to go away.

  “Gentlemen, I appreciate your coming on short notice. In a nutshell, someone is trying to sabotage our deal by misrepresenting our performance, our stability, and our potential for profit. Even our own Federal Bureau of Investigation is working on this. In the meantime, I have verified data faxed in from my office in Seattle to prove to you that we are an excellent risk. The new Pan Am is not unprofitable. We are not failing as a going business. We are hiding nothing. And we are perhaps the brightest star in the airline constellation, which is why we have frantic enemies who become more desperate as we succeed.”

  She moved to one side and examined the rug for a second. “You probably already know that I have only been CFO of Pan Am for the past two weeks. So how could I possibly know this airline’s potential and its performance?” She let the question sink in as she moved to the edge of the stage and leaned against it. “Because I’m the very investment banker who spent two years constructing the financial package that put this airline in the air to begin with. You’re all aware of Pan Am’s marvelous start-up package, and I expect that most of you saw the cover article in The Economist two years ago about it. Well, the architect and the engineer of what they called a ‘stunning success in orchestration of financial interests’ is the person you’re listening to right now. Me. That’s what I do for a living, bring investors and investments together for mutual profit, and Pan Am’s smooth start-up and subsequent success was no accident. It was carefully engineered.”

  Alastair had converted the new information sheets from Seattle to overhead transparencies, and Elizabeth began showing them now, tracing the rising curve of business and load factors through the previous months down to the previous week, when all of a sudden the sabotage of the reservations system had begun chasing away passengers by the thousands. She ticked off the elements of sabotage, including the FAA violations, the physical tampering with two airplanes, the files, and the reservations systems, and outlined how the first CFO had stupidly dismantled her carefully constructed start-up package, which she was now in the process of repairing.

  “Not only is this week’s downturn unusual and temporary, but I have on a speakerphone our director of reservations, to tell you just how artificial it really is.”

  The men in the room were slightly startled by the phone connection, but the voice of Laura Perkins in Seattle could be heard clearly as she explained that the legitimate load factor would have been above e
ighty-eight percent for the same week if the reservations computer hadn’t been penetrated.

  “Our projected load factor next week,” Perkins told them, “despite all the bad publicity, is currently showing eighty-two percent.”

  “That’s twenty-one percent above break-even,” Elizabeth added.

  Alastair Wood was smiling quietly from the far corner of the room as he watched her deft performance. He had seen her hands shaking before they walked in, and had harbored his own doubts about her abilities—doubts that were now gone.

  There was a smile in the first row, the first break in the icy façade of professional caution that had greeted her.

  Then another investor caught her eye and nodded. Many of them had been attacked before in business, and they could identify with what Pan Am was experiencing, as she went through the litany now of the frantic efforts of their enemies to scare away investors and interdict Pan Am operations.

  She opened the floor to questions and they came hot and heavy, Elizabeth fielding each one with ease and a few with a promise for more information accompanied by a nod to Alastair’s assistant, who instantly relayed the request to Fred Kinnen back in Seattle. By the time the questions had subsided, all the additional answers had been faxed in from Pan Am’s offices in an impressive show of coordination.

  After an hour and twenty minutes, Elizabeth permitted herself to survey the room once more. She had hardly dared to poll the expressions on those twenty-three faces, but now she was overwhelmed to see that the vast majority of the men were smiling and relaxed—and all but one of the critical five seemed satisfied.

  That last one, however, raised his hand at last with a deep scowl.

  “Yes, sir?”

  The man was portly and distinguished, and he readjusted his position in his seat now, crossing his legs as if to underscore what appeared to be contempt. His voice rasped into the room with thundering authority, the Oxfordian accent carrying a laconic string of words designed to put this bit of American fluff in her place.

  “Young lady, nary a bit of this blizzard of paper with which you are attempting to inundate us has had the benefit of notarization, nor, for that matter, has any of the glib and pretty promises you’re purveying had the underscoring security of being sworn to by some responsible party, nor, I might add, have any of your polished polemics regarding the nay-sayers of Pan Am’s future been counterchecked or endorsed officially by any independent auditor we’ve yet heard about. Put another way, dear girl, I’ve heard nothing I can well and truly trust. You may indeed be correct. And then again you may be selling worthless paper. Now”—he shifted position again, recrossing his legs as he propped his meaty right hand under his chin and waved some papers in his left—“perhaps the bloke who sent me these damning pages last night was lying, and perhaps he was an angel of mercy determined to prevent me from mucking up my portfolio with a dangerous loan. I can’t tell which. And when I can’t resolve an issue like this, I stay bloody well clear of the thing!”