optimization by NetSeek
©
Michael Ridpath 2005
|
-
1 -
June 18, 1988
I'm scared. There, I've written it. After twenty minutes staring at
the empty page trying to think of a way to begin this diary, I've realized
I can't start until I get this down.
I'm scared.
Of whom? Of what? Of Neels, for sure. When he lost
his temper last night and clenched those meaty fists, for a moment I
thought he was going to strike me, more than that, beat the life out
of me. But what scares me most about Neels is that I'm losing him. Losing
him and I don't know why.
I'm scared of South Africa, or maybe for South Africa.
I'm scared of what white is doing to black and black is doing to white.
Like Neels, I'm scared the whole place will go up in flames at any moment.
And I'm scared of myself, what's happening to me.
I feel all alone, alone in the middle of my family.
Neels spends so much time in the States now. Caroline is sweet, but
she's just twelve and such a quiet little thing. I only realized how
much I wanted Todd back home when I got that letter from him today telling
me he wasn't coming. He's planning to stay in Hampshire with some friends
from school over the summer vacation. What is my son doing thousands
of miles away in a boarding school in England? And why do I need him
so much?
I thought it would help to write it all down. Somehow
I need to figure out who I am, what I'm going to do. I bought this fancy
notebook in Paris last year. It's black moleskine, the kind of notebook
Bruce Chatwin carried across Africa and Australia. It's begging to be
filled with great thoughts and insights, but I don't have any of those.
I don't know what I think. I didn't want to use a journalist's spiral
notebook. I'm not a journalist any more. So what am I? Wife. Mother.
Stepmother. Prisoner. Prisoner of my ideals. Prisoner of my fears.
All questions, no answers.
Goddammit to hell.
- 2 -
It was quiet at Langthorpe Aerodrome. There was no roar of aircraft
engines running up twenty yards outside the flying school, nor whine
of those same engines in the circuit a thousand feet above. The only
sound was the gentle plink of recently deposited rain water as it fell
in fat irregular drops from the gutters and trees. The air was damp,
cold and still. The lurid orange windsock hung limp by the fire truck.
A grey mass of cloud, scarcely able to hold its many tons of tiny water
droplets, pressed its great weight down on to the runway and the line
of poplars on the far side. The sea, seven miles to the north, was invisible.
So too was the round church tower of the village of Langthorpe, barely
half a mile distant.
Alex Calder peered vainly at the cloud for any sign
of sun. According to the weather forecast the slow-moving cold front
was supposed to clear at any moment, leaving behind the newly washed
brilliant blue skies and tufts of cloud through which it was such a
joy to fly. But that wasn't going to happen, at least not for the next
couple of hours, so Calder sent home the student who had been hovering
around the reception area hoping that part of his scheduled lesson on
`recovery from unusual attitudes' could be salvaged.
There was a pile of recent Notices to Airmen from
the Civil Aviation Authority to be gone through, but Calder couldn't
resist bringing up the Spreadfinex page on his computer. Numbers flashed
up blue and red, familiar numbers, representing the bond markets of
the United States, Britain, Japan and the euro zone. There was a time
when Calder had been immersed in these numbers ten hours a day, buying
and selling millions of dollars of bonds on behalf of his employer,
Bloomfield Weiss, a large American investment bank. But two years previously
he had quit that world in disgust and together with a partner had bought
the aerodrome and its attached flying school. He still missed it: the
thrill of pitting his wits against the market, of watching those winking
figures as they indicated losses transformed to profit. Throwing his
little red Pitts Special aerobatic biplane around the sky went some
distance towards slaking his thirst for risk, but not far enough. So
in the last few months he had begun to bet on the direction of the bond
markets, using an internet spread-betting service. It was almost like
the real thing, except he no longer had an edge over the market, he
knew he was more likely to lose than to win and the sums he was playing
with were thousands of pounds of his own money rather than millions
of dollars of someone else's.
That morning he was down fifteen hundred quid on a
bet he had made that US bond prices would rise. They hadn't. Yet. He
was confident that they would. Perhaps he should bet a little more?
He glanced up as he heard rapid footsteps along the
path outside his window. A man and a woman strolled by. The man was
young, tall and confident. And the woman...
Calder grinned and leaped to his feet. He met them
as they entered the reception area. When the woman saw Calder her face
lit up and she unhooked her arm from her companion's and embraced him.
`Kim, I can't believe it,' Calder said. `I haven't
seen you for-'
`Ten years,' the woman said.
Calder looked at her. She had changed very little.
Kim O'Connell's Irish ancestry had always been obvious, with her white
skin, jet-black hair and grey eyes. The hair was cut shorter and the
unruly curls had been tamed, faint lines etched the edges of her mouth
and eyes, but the smile was there, that warm, generous, flirtatious
smile that she bestowed on everyone and anyone.
`You're staring,' she said. `Do I pass?'
`Sorry,' Calder said. `It was just so unexpected.
But it's good to see you!'
`This is my husband, Todd.'
`Hi, Alex, how are you?' The man thrust out a hand
and shook Calder's firmly. He was a couple of inches taller than Calder,
with a square jaw, blond hair brushed back from his forehead and bright
blue eyes. He was dressed in a turtleneck, chinos and an expensive suede
jacket. Handsome. Definitely handsome. But Calder would have expected
nothing less from Kim.
`I'd heard you got married,' he said.
`Of course you had. We invited you to the wedding!'
`Yeah. Sorry I couldn't come. I think I was working
in New York at the time.'
`The wedding was in Philadelphia! Pathetic, Alex.'
Calder smiled and shrugged. `Well, I'm sorry I missed it.'
`What about you? Is there a girlfriend? A wife? Little
flying Calders?'
Calder tried not to wince as he thought about Sandy.
The row that they had had on the phone following his disastrous trip
to New York to see her was still raw. `No,' he said flatly.
Kim's eyes narrowed. Calder could see her curiosity
was piqued, but she decided not to pursue it.
`Look, are you hungry?' he said. `It's just about
lunch time and there's a nice pub in the village I live in. It's not
far.' He glanced at the sky, if anything pressing lower on the airfield.
`Not much is going to happen here for a while.'
There wasn't room for them all to fit into Calder's
Maserati so they hopped into Todd and Kim's hired car and Calder directed
them through the village of Langthorpe and north towards the sea and
Hanham Staithe. Kim rattled on about their drive to Norfolk from her
parents' house in Liverpool. He had forgotten how much she talked, but
he noticed that the Liverpudlian tinge to her accent he remembered from
university had been replaced with a hint of American.
Ten minutes later they were all installed in the Admiral
Nelson, an ancient white stone pub, mostly empty on a weekday lunch
time. It overlooked the pot-holed hard, newly inundated with rainwater
from above and seawater from below. A variety of vessels, sailing dinghies,
small fishing boats and even a couple of thirty-foot yachts, strained
against their moorings in the creek as they were thrust upstream by
the flooding tide. The marsh beyond brooded under the dark clouds. Calder
ordered drinks at the bar, a pint of local bitter for Todd, half a cider
for Kim, and a ginger beer for him: there was still a possibility he
might have to fly that afternoon.
Of course he knew Kim had got married. And whom she
had married, even if he hadn't recalled her husband's first name. Todd
was the son of Cornelius van Zyl, a newspaper tycoon originally from
South Africa who owned the Herald, a British mid-market tabloid, and
other newspapers in America and elsewhere. The wedding had caused a
stir among the group of friends from Cambridge which Calder kept up
with, and although some of them had seen Kim since then, Calder hadn't.
Which was a shame. They had been good friends at university, sharing
an overcrowded student house in the Kite in their second year.
`So what brings you to Norfolk?' Calder asked as he
returned to their table with the drinks.
`We were over in England visiting with Kim's folks,'
Todd said, `and we figured we would drop in and see you on the way back
down to London.' His accent was odd, almost standard English, but with
traces of American and South African. Of course Norfolk was nowhere
near a straight line from Liverpool to London, but no doubt Calder would
find out what they wanted later.
`So you left the City?' Kim asked. `Last time I saw
you you'd just joined Bloomfield Weiss.'
`Yes,' said Calder. `I stuck it out until a couple
of years ago. I enjoyed the bond trading, and I was pretty good at it
too, but the office politics got a bit much for me.'
`We read about that business with the hedge fund,'
Todd said. `Kim got all excited that she knew you. It sounded like quite
a mess.'
`It was,' Calder said. Calder had uncovered a scandal
the previous year involving Bloomfield Weiss and a large hedge fund
that had connived with the investment bank to hide losses of hundreds
of millions of dollars. A woman who worked for Calder had been killed
as a result. When the scandal eventually saw the light of day Calder
had received his fifteen minutes of fame. People still occasionally
spoke to him about it.
`And now you're running this flying school?' Kim said.
`With my partner, Jerry. It's going quite well, we're
building up a nice reputation. But it's a struggle just to break even.'
`Did you think about going back to the RAF? I loved
the idea of you whizzing about the sky dropping bombs and things. It
was so you.'
`They wouldn't let me fly fast jets any more. I injured
my spine ejecting, which is why I left. I suppose I could try and join
an airline or something, but I like running my own show.'
`You've got some nice airplanes there,' Todd said.
`What was that big single-engined plane with the red star on the side?'
`Oh, that. It's a Yak. A Yak-11, made in 1956. The
insignia is from the old Russian air force. It's great to fly.'
`Looks cool.'
`I'd take you up if the weather wasn't so bad.'
Todd's interest perked up. Kim frowned. Calder was amused to see Kim
cast in the role of worried wife.
`What about you?' he said to her. `You were off to
Harvard to do an MBA.'
`That's where I met Todd. Then I worked for a management
consultancy in Philadelphia. I usually don't admit it but I rather enjoyed
myself. Lots of telling people what to do and then waltzing off before
you see the damage you've caused. But we moved to a little town in New
Hampshire a couple of years ago. Todd teaches English at a boys' school
there. And I work in the local hospital administering things.'
There was the tiniest tinge of resentment as Kim said
this. Not enough to be rude or disloyal, but just enough for Calder
to pick up. And for Todd, of course, who stiffened slightly.
`We decided to get out of the race,' Todd said. `I
was working for my father - '
`Todd just couldn't stand it,' Kim interrupted. `He
realized the newspaper business just wasn't what he wanted to do. Somerford
is a beautiful little town and we love it there.'
Calder couldn't quite see Kim getting out of the rat
race. She was more the type to elbow herself to the front. She glanced
at him quickly, seemed to read his thoughts, and then moved a hand on
to her husband's as if to reaffirm her loyalty. It was funny how he
could still tell what she was thinking all these years later.
Calder picked up the menu. `Shall we order something?
The fish pie here is usually delicious. The fish comes from a man in
the village.'
They ordered, then Calder leaned back in his chair.
`So, what's up?'
Kim and Todd exchanged glances. `Actually, we wondered if you could
help us with something,' she began.
`I hope so,' Calder smiled.
`It's to do with Bloomfield Weiss.'
Calder's smile disappeared.
Kim noticed, but ploughed on. `You probably remember
who Todd's father is?'
`Yes, I do.' Calder admitted.
`Right. Well, Todd's mother, Martha, was American.
They lived in South Africa, near Cape Town. When Todd was about sixteen
she was killed in a game reserve near the Kruger Park in the north of
the country. The authorities said she was murdered by guerrillas but
Todd has never believed that, have you darling?' Kim touched her husband's
sleeve.
`How long ago was this?' Calder asked.
`1988,' Todd said. `When South Africa was still under
apartheid rule.' He hesitated, glanced at Calder, and then went on.
`I was at boarding school in England at the time. My Mom and Dad were
going through a difficult patch, the worst I'd seen by a long way. Things
had been really tense the last time I was home and that was the main
reason I arranged to spend part of that summer holiday staying with
a friend in England. Mom was unhappy about that.
`The fights got worse and Mom decided to go off by
herself to a private game farm near the Kruger Park for the weekend.
It's a bit of a mystery why she chose that particular reserve; it was
a place called Kupugani and she'd never been there before.'
Todd swallowed. Kim's hand tightened on her husband's
arm. Todd was staring into his beer, seemingly unaware of her or Calder.
`I pestered my father until he told me what happened. They put her up
in a cottage a few hundred yards away from the main camp. It was the
morning, she was alone in bed and the other guests had gone off on the
morning game drive.' He swallowed again.
`You don't have to tell Alex if you don't want to,'
Kim said.
`No that's OK, unless you don't want to hear it.'
Todd glanced up at Calder. Calder could tell he wanted to talk.
`Go on.'
`The cottage was next to a dried-out riverbed. Apparently,
guerrillas used to come through the area on their way into South Africa
from Mozambique. If they were picked up they would claim they were refugees.
The police said a group of them passed through Kupugani that day. They
saw the cottage and Mom inside, and one of them fired through the window
from the far bank of the riverbed. Mom was hit by three rounds in the
chest. She was killed instantly.' His voice quivered and he paused to
compose himself. `I'm sorry. It's a long time ago and you'd think I
was over it by now, but I don't see why anyone would want to do that
to my mother. She was a wonderful woman. She believed in the struggle,
in the abolition of apartheid, she always said that was one of the main
reasons she married Dad and moved to South Africa.'
`But you don't think the guerrillas shot her?'
`No,' Todd said. `It's too convenient. It wasn't just
a random killing.'
`Martha knew someone was going to kill her,' Kim said.
`Or at least she had a strong suspicion someone was going to try.'
`How do you know this?' Calder asked.
`Martha's mother, Todd's grandmother, died a couple
of months ago,' Kim said. `Todd was looking through her papers when
he found a letter to her from Martha. In it she says that she has discovered
some information about Zyl News which if it came to light would destroy
everything. She seems very frightened. She also mentions a diary which
she wants her mother to find and keep safe. We,' Kim paused and glanced
at her husband, `we think that this information might give us a better
idea of why she was killed and who killed her.'
`Can't you just ask Cornelius van Zyl?'
`We have. Or at least Todd has. And other members
of his family. But none of them seems to know anything. Or at least
that's what they say.'
`I think my Dad has tried to erase that whole period
from his memory,' Todd said. `I'm sure he feels guilty about all the
fights they had. But I can't do that. I need to know what happened to
her.'
`So you have no idea what the information in this
letter is?' Calder asked.
`No,' said Kim. `But Martha did mention who she had
discussed it with. He's a banker. A banker who works for Bloomfield
Weiss.'
`I see,' said Calder. `You want me to talk to this
person?'
`Todd's tried,' said Kim. `But he won't agree to meet
him and he doesn't even answer his phone calls.'
`Can't your father pull strings?'
`Dad's not quite comfortable –'
`He could but he won't,' Kim interrupted. `But I told
Todd I was sure you could help us. This banker works in London, you
probably know him, and if you don't, you would know someone who does.
Also I know I can trust you to be careful with whatever you do find
out.' Kim smiled at Calder in encouragement.
`We read about what you did to uncover the scandal
with that hedge fund,' Todd said. `This is just a case of asking a couple
of questions and getting some answers.'
`Who's the banker?' Calder asked.
`Benton Davis,' said Kim.
Calder closed his eyes. When he opened them, Kim was watching his face
with concern.
`You do know him?' she said. `I can tell you know
him!'
Calder nodded. `I do. And I'm afraid I can't help
you.'
Kim frowned. She glanced at Todd who gave the tiniest
of shrugs. Calder had the feeling that she had assured her husband of
his assistance and he had disappointed her. `May I ask why?' she said.
`It would just be a question of calling him up and going to London to
see him.'
Calder took a deep breath. `Benton Davis is the head
of Bloomfield Weiss's London office. He was in charge when I resigned
from there a couple of years ago. A woman who worked for me had brought
a sexual harassment case against the firm. They made her life hell,
and so she quit. She died soon after, falling from a sixth floor window.
At first it looked like suicide: I held Benton responsible, amongst
others. That's why I left the firm. It turned out she had actually been
murdered, but I still blame Benton for the way she was treated, and
he knows that. There's no love lost between us; I think the chances
of him talking to me are nil. Besides which I've left all that behind
me, and I don't want to go back to it.'
`The poor woman!' Kim said indignantly. `That's a
terrible story. What a bastard.'
`What about just giving him a call and asking him
to see us?' Todd said.
Calder shook his head. `Even if I did, he wouldn't take any notice.
Can't you show this to the police?'
`This was an unexplained death in South Africa in
the nineteen eighties,' Kim said. `There were hundreds of those. Thousands.'
`Anything you can do would be really appreciated,'
Todd said. `I was very fond of my mother … that's a dumb thing to say,
everyone's fond of their mother, but I was away at school in England
when she died. I hadn't seen her for four months. I wasn't there. I
know it's stupid but I kind of blame myself for that. And I have no
idea why she died. It was obvious at the time that the authorities were
covering something up, but what? And why? Perhaps the South African
security police killed her. Or somebody else. My family has been desperate
to bury it all in the past, but that's not right. We have to know the
truth. I have to know the truth.'
Calder looked at the couple. Their disappointment
was plain. They had come a long way to see him. And he sympathized with
Todd. His own mother had died at about the same stage in his life. That
was a road accident, a head-on collision with a farm worker who had
had too much to drink, but Calder too had in some way felt responsible.
She had been rushing to pick him up from school after he had missed
the bus. His life had never been the same since. And if his own mother
had been murdered he wouldn't have rested until he had found out why.
He was tempted to offer to help.
But Benton Davis? The man at the very heart of all
the scheming manipulation he so much detested at Bloomfield Weiss. No.
No, he couldn't do it. There was no point in even trying.
`I'm sorry,' he said.
The food came, and after a couple of awkward minutes
the conversation picked up. Todd was an affable, pleasant guy, seemingly
unspoilt by all the advantages with which he had been born. Calder found
himself warming to him. And Kim, well Kim was as lively as she always
had been, and she had that smile, that you-are-the-most-important-person-in-the-world
smile, which she flashed at him every few minutes, and which sparked
a familiar flicker of excitement every time, just as it had all those
years ago. To Calder's disappointment Kim had always been someone else's
girlfriend. At university that someone else had invariably turned out
to be a good-looking, charming bastard. But from what Calder could see
that wasn't the case with Todd. And he was pleased. Kim deserved to
have someone who treated her well.
Lunch finished and they stepped outside into the small
pub car park. The creek had swollen with the tide, its waters now reached
half way up the hard. The clouds were still low and grey: no chance
of any more flying that day.
Calder was still feeling bad about his refusal to
help. `I tell you what, Todd. The weather's supposed to get even worse
tomorrow and stay bad until the weekend. But if you're around next week
and it's cleared up, I can take you up in the Yak. Show you a bit of
Norfolk from the air.'
Todd grinned. `I'd love to do that,' he said. He glanced
at Kim, who looked doubtful. `We're staying with my father in London
for the next few days, flying back to the States next Wednesday. So,
next Tuesday, maybe?'
`Great,' Calder said. `Let's talk early Tuesday morning
and see what the weather's doing.'
`Your
guests from Bloomfield Weiss have arrived, Mr van Zyl.'
Cornelius looked up from his desk as Nimrod stood at the entrance to
his rather grand study. Despite his dashing name, Nimrod was a small,
wiry Xhosa with a lined face, watchful eyes and flashes of gold in his
teeth, whose suits were always just a little too big for him. He had
proved his loyalty over thirty years as driver, fixer and right-hand
man, and he was the one relic of Cornelius's South African past that
Cornelius was happy to keep around.
`Show them in.'
Cornelius grabbed a pad encased in a leather wallet,
and placed it at the centre of the long walnut table. Edwin was already
sitting there, waiting, peering through his thick lenses at a sheet
of paper bearing closely printed figures. Cornelius was in shirt sleeves,
but his balding son's flabby body was squeezed into a three-piece suit,
as always. Edwin was Cornelius's eldest child, a product of the first
and least successful of his three marriages. The boy was diligent, and
he worked hard, but he lacked the charisma or vision of his younger
half-brother, Todd. Boy? He was in his mid-forties. But no matter how
earnestly Edwin acted, and he did act very earnest, Cornelius could
never take him seriously.
Cornelius himself was over seventy, but he stood tall
and straight and precious little of the muscle he had carried when he
had played centre three-quarter for the Western Province rugby team
fifty years before had turned to fat. His square jaw, firm cheekbones
and shock of white hair gave the impression of a block of granite, all
the stronger for its age. In his youth, he had earned the nickname of
`the Dart' for his ability to pierce a defensive line of three-quarters,
but it could equally well have been used to describe his mind, which
if anything had sharpened over the years. He was good at what he did.
And what he did was buy newspapers and make money out of them.
The bankers from Bloomfield Weiss had come to advise him on perhaps
his boldest move so far, at least since he had taken over the Herald
in the late nineteen eighties. The Times was for sale. It's owner, Laxton
Media, had bought the paper from an Australian group at the turn of
the millennium, the only real-world property in a string of internet
acquisitions. The canny Australian had taken cash not shares, and since
the dot-com boom had turned to bust, Laxton Media had limped along under
the burden of its borrowings, holding out for an unrealistically high
price for what had become the crown jewel of its portfolio. But pressure
from creditors was building, and there were rumours that Laxton was
close to an agreed sale to Beckwith Communications, a private company
owned by Sir Evelyn Gill. Gill already owned the tabloid Mercury, but
he had made no secret of the fact that he wanted to own a world-class
property like The Times.
But so did Cornelius.
Three men came into the room. The first, and by far
the most striking, was a tall elegant black man of about fifty. He held
out his hand to Cornelius.
`Benton, how are you?' Cornelius said shaking it.
`I hope you don't mind meeting at my house. It's not that I don't trust
the Herald people, I do completely, but the more secrecy we can preserve
the better.'
`Not at all,' Benton replied in a deep rich American
accent. `I do love these Nash terraces. And what a wonderful view of
the park!' He moved over to the window. From his first-floor study,
Cornelius could indeed see over the hedges into Regent's Park, dotted
with office workers and tourists enjoying the May sunshine. Benton scanned
the room. Computer, printer, telephone and filing cabinets were carefully
blended in with the paraphernalia of a gentleman's library: bookshelves
holding leather-bound volumes, decanters of liquid in tints of amber
and gold, sturdy but comfortable chairs and tables, a globe, some lithe
bronzes, and, scattered among shelves and alcoves, three or four replicas
of old racing Bentleys. `Is that really a Wyeth?' Benton asked, moving
over to a picture of a pair of ten-year-old boys wading through the
long grass towards a wooden farm house on the brow of a hill. `I don't
remember that from the last time I was here.'
`I'm glad to see you haven't lost your eye for good
art, Benton,' Cornelius said. `We bought it last year.'
`Does it remind you of where you grew up?'
Cornelius snorted. `Oudtshoorn is so dry it's almost
desert. And they farm ostriches there. This was actually painted near
our farm in Pennsylvania.' He paused. `But there is something. The American
wagon trains heading west; the Boers trekking over the veld. And the
freedom to run around barefoot in the fields. I don't do much of that
any more.' He smiled, and then turned to shake hands with the other
two bankers, younger, smaller, more intense men. `Now. Have a seat,
gentlemen.'
They took their places opposite Cornelius and Edwin,
the sunshine from the large window bouncing off the polished table between
them.
Cornelius began, peering over his half-moon reading glasses at the bankers.
The spectacles appeared tiny on his broad strong face and he used them
more as a prop to look over than an aid to see through. `We think we
have an opportunity to snatch The Times from under Evelyn Gill's nose,
if we can move quickly enough.' He paused to let the excitement build.
He was talking about a deal, and a deal meant fees, and fees were what
got these Bloomfield Weiss bankers excited. `Edwin is pretty sure Gill
is offering seven hundred million for The Times and the Sunday Times.'
`That's a full price,' Benton said.
`Yes. But it's not as unrealistic as the billion plus
Laxton were talking about a few months ago. We think they're under pressure
to do a clean quick deal, which is why they are suddenly talking to
Gill at the lower price. If we're going to shut him out I suggest we
offer eight hundred and fifty. Cash. And we leave the offer open for
seven days only. Laxton can take it or leave it.'
`They'll want to take it,' Benton said.
`I think they will,' Cornelius said. `And I don't
think Gill will be able to get hold of an extra hundred and fifty million
in a week. But the big question is, can we get hold of that much money?'
Benton glanced at his colleagues. Cornelius knew it
was they who would run the deal, but none the less it was good to see
Benton Davis still around. Cornelius had always liked the man, ever
since he had agreed to travel down to South Africa during apartheid
to help with the acquisition of the Herald, the deal that had moved
Cornelius up into the big league. For a black American, that had taken
courage and some independence of mind.
The shorter and chubbier of the two, an Englishman
called Dower, answered. `I think we can, just. You
have a hundred million of cash in Zyl News. We should be able to raise
five hundred million in the bank-loan market fairly comfortably. That
leaves three hundred and change we would need to raise from a high-yield
bond issue.'
`Three hundred and change?' Cornelius said. `Don't
you mean two hundred and fifty?'
Dower shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Benton smiled.
`Fees, Cornelius, you mustn't forget the fees.'
`That much? That's over fifty million pounds!'
`At least that much,' Benton said. `It's not just
for us, it's for the banks, the lawyers, the printers, the accountants.'
He shrugged. `OK, most of it's for us, but if we can get a deal like
this away, we deserve it.'
`Fifty million is outrageous,' said Cornelius, scowling.
But he knew and the Bloomfield Weiss bankers knew that if they could
pull off this deal Cornelius would be happy to pay. `Could you get a
junk-bond deal that size away?'
`Junk bond' was market slang for `high-yield bond',
a bond that paid a high rate of interest to investors because there
was a high risk that the issuer would go bust. Even in its most prosperous
moments Zyl News had always been in the high-risk category.
`At the moment, I think so,' Dower said. `You've been
issuing in the junk market for what, twenty years? You've seen it go
through good times and bad during that time. Well, we've been through
a bad patch, but it looks like we're coming out the other side. Since
we're funding a UK acquisition, we'd probably do a sterling deal. There's
demand out there from the European fund managers, and not much product.
The forward calendar looks thin: we only know of a couple of deals of
any size coming to the sterling market and neither of them are in the
media space.'
`I haven't missed an interest payment yet,' Cornelius
said with defiant pride.
`That's true. But this is going to be tight.'
Cornelius glanced at Edwin. `We know,' Edwin said.
`But Laxton have been mismanaging the paper for the last five years.
There's plenty of duplication between The Times and the Herald. We think
we can squeeze eleven million a year out of things like pre-press, advertising,
newsprint, duplicated editorial services and getting rid of a layer
of management. We plan to invest some of those savings in improving
the editorial quality of the newspaper. We're sure we can increase circulation
and win readers back from the competition. We've got a lot of ideas.'
`Good ideas,' Cornelius said. `You know there's nothing
I like to buy better than a badly managed paper. I've done this before.'
`You'll need to convince the banks and the investors,'
Dower said. Then he smiled. `But I'm sure you can manage that.'
Cornelius grinned. Investors loved him. So did bankers.
No matter how high the targets he set himself, often written down in
black and white in bond documentation and loan agreements, he met them.
Always. It was true that at the price they were planning to pay, The
Times would be a challenge. But it was one of the few truly classy newspaper
properties in the world: there was The New York Times, of course, The
Washington Post, the Los Angeles Times perhaps, Le Monde, Le Figaro,
not many more. At seventy-two Cornelius was nearing his last deal. Zyl
News already owned over eighty newspapers in America, Britain and Australia,
the two largest being The Philadelphia Intelligencer, which he had bought
in the early eighties, and the Herald, but it lacked a flagship title.
If he could snatch The Times from Evelyn Gill then Zyl News would be
one of the two or three leading players in the world. He glanced at
the petulant face of his son and heir, who was glaring belligerently
at the investment bankers and the warm glow of anticipation cooled.
Then what would happen? That was another problem he would have to deal
with.
`So,' he said. `How long will it take to put the bid
together?'
`The bank loan shouldn't be a problem, the banks will
be falling over themselves to lend to you. Obviously it will take several
weeks to put the bond issue together, but Bloomfield Weiss can underwrite
a bridge loan to provide you with the funds until then. Under the takeover
code you will need a letter from us saying we are committed to the funding.'
Dower paused. `We should be able to get all that together in seven days
if we push it.'
`Excellent.'
`Subject to internal credit approval,' Dower added.
`What?' Cornelius's glared at Dower.
`I'm sure you understand that a bridge loan of this
size is a big risk for Bloomfield Weiss; we need to have it signed off
at the highest level.'
`Harrison Brothers have been knocking at my door for
the last couple of years desperate to deal with me. They say they can
sign letters like that on the spot.'
`And that's exactly what I tell my competitors' clients,'
Benton said with a grin. `Don't worry, the approvals are only a formality.
You'll have your letter in a week.'
Cornelius glanced at Benton. `All right. But let me
make one thing clear. I demand total commitment from my bankers. Once
we're in a deal, we're in it together. No dithering, no waiting for
conditions to improve, no delays while you bring one of your other clients
to market. I want The Times, and what I want I get. I will need one
hundred per cent effort from you, is that understood?' Cornelius switched
his stare back to Dower as he said this. Surprised and intimidated,
the banker dithered.
`Of course we understand that, Cornelius,' Benton
said with a smile. `When has Bloomfield Weiss given you anything less?'
`Hm,' Cornelius said. `OK. Let's do it. If you need
any more detailed information, ask Edwin. He's had our accountants prepare
some initial due diligence for you. Don't go to anyone else in Zyl News.
I want the surprise to be total.'
Cornelius grinned as he thought of Evelyn Gill's reaction
to his bid being topped. Cornelius had never liked the man. He posed
as a hard-nosed Yorkshire businessman impatient with the egos and vanities
of his editors. But Cornelius knew his rival. Evelyn Gill wanted The
Times more than anything else in the world. And he wasn't going to get
it.
Edwin saw the investment bankers out of the house,
and came back upstairs to Cornelius's study.
Cornelius rubbed his hands. `This is going to work.
I can feel this is going to work.'
`I hope so,' said Edwin. `But I don't see how we can
make the numbers stack up.'
`Of course we can make them stack up,' Cornelius said
impatiently. `As long we get the business right, the numbers will come
out right as well. And there is so much we could do with The Times.'
`Pa?'
`Yes?'
`You know we spoke yesterday about Todd coming back
into the business?'
`Yes.'
`I'm not sure he'll do it. And I'm not sure it's such
a good idea if he does.'
Cornelius glared at his eldest son. `He'll do it,'
he said. `And I'm going to tell him that tonight.' He sat down at his
desk, placed his reading glasses on his nose and picked up a report.
`Haven't you got some numbers to crunch?'
Edwin was dismissed.
`Ah, there you are, Todd, it's so good to see you!'
Cornelius strode into his expensively furnished drawing room and clapped
his son on the shoulder. `And you, Kim.' He turned to his daughter-in-law
and embraced her. `I'm sorry to leave you alone down here, but Edwin
and I were working on something upstairs. Edwin has to go on to a dinner
shortly, but he wanted to stop and say hello.'
Edwin was hovering behind his father at the doorway.
He gave his half-brother a thin smile.
`I see Nimrod found you both a drink,' Cornelius went
on. `Is that the Meerlust ?' Cornelius moved over to the sideboard and
picked up the wine bottle to check the label. `Not bad, is it Todd?'
`It's very good,' said Todd.
`It's absolutely delicious,' added Kim with more enthusiasm.
Despite the damp weather, she was wearing a blue summer dress in honour
of her father-in-law and had even applied some lipstick and eye shadow,
which had the effect of making her face seem even paler under her dark
curls.
`If you don't mind, I'll have something stronger,'
Cornelius said. He poured himself a brandy and coke and Edwin a tomato
juice with a squirt of Worcester sauce. `Sit, please.' They all found
armchairs and sofas to perch on. Despite the quality of the furniture
and the paintings, the room had a cosy feel to it. Outside, dusk was
falling over Regent's Park and Nimrod had drawn the heavy gold drapes.
`So you've just come from you parents, Kim? I hope they are well?'
`Oh, they're both in wonderful form, thanks,' Kim
replied. `Liverpool are through to the FA Cup final, which makes Dad
very happy, and there seems to have been a complete breakdown in marital
fidelity up and down our road, which has given my mother countless hours
of amusement.'
`I must come and watch a game with your father sometime,'
Cornelius said.
`He'd love that,' said Kim. `And how's Jessica?'
Jessica Montgomery was Cornelius's third wife, the daughter of a prominent
Philadelphia family. They had been married twelve years. `Oh, she's
excited. She's just bought a new horse and she's at the farm schooling
him now. I would have brought her with me to London, but this is very
much a working trip, isn't it Edwin?'
Edwin grunted. They all sipped their drinks.
`We drove down here via Norfolk,' Kim said. ` We dropped
in on an old friend of mine who has bought an airfield up there.'
`Oh, yes? Did he take you up in anything?'
`It was too cloudy,' Todd said. `But he promised to
give me a ride in an old Yak provided the weather clears up before we
go back to the States.'
`Sounds fun,' said Cornelius.
`I'm dubious,' Kim said. `It's a very old plane. It
looked to me like something out of a museum.'
`He knows Benton Davis,' Todd said.
Cornelius frowned. `I hope that wasn't why you were seeing him.'
`I've been trying to see Davis ever since I arrived
in England but he's refused to meet me. We thought perhaps Kim's friend
might have better luck.'
`Who is this man?' Cornelius demanded.
`His name's Alex Calder,' Kim said. `We were at university
together. He used to be a bond trader at Bloomfield Weiss. Which is
where Benton Davis still works, as I'm sure you know.'
`Did he say he would help?'
`Er …' Todd hesitated.
`We're working on him,' Kim said firmly.
Cornelius frowned into his drink.
`Do you still have contact with Benton Davis, Dad?'
Todd asked.
Cornelius slammed his drink down on to the little
table beside his chair. `Yes, I do. But I've told you before, I'm not
going to talk to him about that damned letter. Martha was killed nearly
twenty years ago. That's all in the past, in a different world and it's
going to stay that way.'
`She was my mother, Dad,' Todd said quietly. `I have
a right to know how she died.'
`How she died? We all know how she died. She was shot,
man!' Cornelius's voice was rising.
`Yes, but who shot her? And why?'
`Guerrillas. Guerrillas shot her.'
`You don't really believe that, do you Dad?'
Cornelius was about to spit out an angry response
when he controlled himself.
`I don't know who killed her, Todd. It could have been guerrillas,
it could have been poachers, it might even have been the security police
for all I know. But the thing is she's dead and there's nothing we can
do to bring her back to life. You won't remember, but South Africa was
a nightmare in the nineteen eighties, hundreds of people dying every
year, blacks and whites. I lost my brother. I lost my wife. You lost
your mother. That's why I took you and Edwin and Caroline to America,
to put all that behind us, to start again.'
`I need to know,' said Todd. Cornelius stared at his
son. Todd stared back.
Edwin coughed. `I really must be going,' he said, carefully placing
his half-drunk tomato juice on a side table. `I'll be late.' He murmured
goodbyes to Todd and Kim who responded in kind and left.
There was silence for a moment or two. They all sipped
their drinks. Kim and Todd could distinctly hear Edwin go back up the
stairs to Cornelius's study. The dinner engagement was an excuse, but
one they were quite happy to accept.
Cornelius could hear his eldest son too. `Edwin and I have been working
on an interesting deal,' he said.
`Uh huh,' said Todd, with the barest hint of polite
curiosity.
`It's still very much at the confidential stage, but
I can talk to you about it since you are family.'
`No, please,' Todd said. `I know how careful you have
to be about that kind of thing these days.'
Cornelius forced a smile. `I'd like to tell you about
it. Tell both of you. It's important to all of us.' Todd didn't demur.
Cornelius could see that he had awakened his son's attention. `It's
The Times.'
`You're going to buy The Times?'
`That's the idea. I was talking to Bloomfield Weiss
just now about raising the financing.' Cornelius leaned back in his
armchair watching his son's reaction.
`That will be quite a coup if you get it.'
`Oh, we'll get it,' Cornelius said. `And you're right,
it's just what Zyl News needs.'
Todd smiled grudgingly at his father and raised his
glass. `Well, good luck. I'll watch what happens with interest.'
`I was hoping you would do rather more than watch.'
`You mean...'
`I'd like you to come back. It's five years since
you worked for me. We miss you.'
Todd shook his head. `I'm sorry, Dad. I enjoy teaching,
I like the school, I've made my career choice and I want to stick with
it.'
`Todd, I'm a realist, I know this is likely to be
my last big deal. But it will be a good one. Zyl News will become one
of the top newspaper groups in the world. And when I retire I want a
van Zyl to run it.'
`What about Edwin? He has much more experience than
me.'
`It's not experience that's needed,' Cornelius said.
`You can hire that. It's imagination. Vision. I had it. You have it,
I saw you when you were working for me. You definitely have it. But
I'm afraid Edwin doesn't.'
`I'm flattered, Dad, but really. I don't want to work
in newspapers. I want to teach kids.'
Cornelius tensed. He leaned forward in his chair.
Todd was still. There was a hint of fear in his face. It took a lot
of courage to stand up to Cornelius van Zyl.
`Can you leave us for a moment, Kim,' Cornelius said,
his voice barely above a whisper.
Kim glanced at her husband. `Stay,' he said. `Please
stay.'
`I'd like to speak to you in private,' Cornelius said.
`You're going to talk to me about what I do with my
life,' Todd said. `Kim's part of my life. I want her to hear it.'
`Very well,' said Cornelius, glancing at Kim. Kim
stared back, politeness replaced by defiance. `A teacher's salary can't
be very high these days?'
`It isn't,' said Todd.
`And I understand you've given up your management
consulting?'
`For the time being,' Kim said, with steel in her
voice.
`So you will have to rely on your trust fund to provide
for you and Kim and your children in the future – '
`Stop right there,' Kim said.
`I'm talking to my son.'
`You're not talking to him, you're bribing him. You're
trying to buy him!'
Cornelius glared at his daughter-in-law. `I'm merely pointing out the
harsh economic realities of the world.'
`No, you're not. You're trying to make him do what
you want him to do, rather than what he wants to do. Well, you can't.
His life, our life, isn't for sale.'
`Kim...' Todd said.
`This is between Todd and me,' Cornelius said.
`You asked Todd whether he wanted to work for you.
That was a very generous offer, but he said no, as you knew he would.
End of story. There's nothing more to be said.'
`Young lady, I will decide what needs to be said.
This is the family business we're talking about, something I have spent
most of my life building up. If I want my son to take it over then that's
my prerogative.'
`No, don't you see?' said Kim, her voice rising in
frustration. `That's the whole point. It's his prerogative not yours.'
Cornelius turned to his son. `Tell your wife to shut
the fuck up.'
A hostile silence snapped shut on the room. Todd looked
from his wife to his father. The agitation left him as he came to a
decision. Slowly he drew himself to his feet. `I think we won't be staying
for dinner. In fact we won't be staying here at all.'
His father stood up and faced him. Even at seventy-two,
father was about an inch taller than son. `You will stay here,' he growled.
Todd blinked. For a moment it seemed as if he would
crack, but the moment passed. `Come on Kim,' he said, and turned for
the door.
`I was serious about the trust fund,' Cornelius said.
`If you walk out of that door you will regret it. Believe me.'
`Goodnight, Dad,' Todd said, and he and Kim were gone.
Cornelius picked up his crystal glass of brandy and
coke and flung it at the fireplace where it shattered into a hundred
fragments. It was a long long time since he had been that angry.
back to top
|
