“Good morning, Mr. Guinzburg.” Aaron was impressed that they knew his name. “We have been instructed, sir, not to allow you to enter the building.”
Aaron was struck dumb. “There must be some mistake,” he eventually managed. “I’m deputy chairman of the company.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but those are our instructions,” said the second guard, stepping forward to block his path.
“There must be some mistake,” repeated Aaron.
“There is no mistake, sir. Our instructions were clear. If you attempt to enter the building, we are to prevent you from doing so.”
Aaron hesitated for a moment before taking a pace back. He stared up at the newly minted sign declaring VIKING MULBERRY, then attempted to enter the building once again, but neither guard budged an inch. Reluctantly, he turned away and hailed a cab, giving the driver his home address. There must be a simple explanation, he kept telling himself as the taxi headed toward 67th Street.
Once he was back in his apartment, Aaron picked up the phone and dialed a number he didn’t need to look up.
“Good morning, Viking Mulberry, how can I help you?”
“Rex Mulberry.”
“Who’s calling please?”
“Aaron Guinzburg.” He heard a click, and a moment later another voice said, “Chairman’s office.”
“This is Aaron Guinzburg. Put me through to Rex.”
“Mr. Mulberry is in a meeting.”
“Then get him out of the meeting,” said Aaron, finally losing his temper.
Another click. He’d been cut off. He dialed the number again, but this time he didn’t get any farther than the switchboard. Collapsing into the nearest chair, he tried to gather his thoughts. It was some time before he picked up the phone again.
“Friedman, Friedman and Yablon,” announced a voice.
“This is Aaron Guinzburg. I need to speak to Leonard Friedman.” He was immediately put through to the senior partner. Aaron took his time explaining what had happened when he’d turned up at his office that morning, and the result of his two subsequent phone calls.
“So your father was right all along.”
“What do you mean?”
“A handshake was always good enough for Curtis Mulberry, but when you deal with his son Rex, just make sure you read the small print.”
“Are you suggesting Mulberry’s got right on his side?”
“Certainly not,” said Friedman, “just the law. As long as he controls sixty-six percent of the company’s stock, he can call the shots. We did warn you at the time of the consequences of being a minority shareholder, but you were convinced it wouldn’t be a problem. Although I have to admit, even I’m shocked by the speed with which Mulberry has taken advantage of his position.”
Once Friedman had taken his client though the relevant details of the contract, Aaron wished he’d read Law at Harvard and not History at Yale. “Still,” said the lawyer, “we did manage to insert clause 19A, which Mulberry will surely now live to regret.”
“Why is clause 19A so important?”
After Friedman had explained the significance of the get-out clause in great detail, Aaron put the phone down and walked across to the drinks cabinet. He poured himself a whisky—before twelve o’clock for the first time in his life. Twelve o’clock, the time of his appointment with Harry. He glanced at his watch: 11:38. He put down his drink, and ran out of the apartment.
He cursed the slow lift as it trundled down to the ground floor, where he hurled back the grille and ran out onto the street. He hailed a yellow cab, never a problem on Fifth Avenue, but once he hit Third, Aaron was faced with the inevitable gridlock. Light after light seemed to turn red just as the cab reached the front of the line. When they ground to a halt at the next set of lights, Aaron handed the driver a five-dollar bill and leapt out. He ran the last two blocks, dodging in and out of the traffic, horns blaring, as he tried to stay on the move.
The two guards were still stationed outside the building, almost as if they were expecting him to return. Aaron checked his watch on the run: four minutes to twelve. He prayed that Harry would be late. Harry was never late. Then he saw him about a hundred yards away, striding in his direction, but he arrived at the front of the building just moments before Aaron. The guards stood aside and allowed him to pass. Someone else they were expecting.
“Harry! Harry!” shouted Aaron, now only a few strides from the front door, but Harry had already entered the building. “Harry!” Aaron screamed again as he reached the entrance, but the two guards marched forward and blocked his path just as Harry stepped into a lift.
* * *
When the lift door opened, Harry was surprised not to find Kirsty waiting for him. Funny how you get used to something, he thought, even take it for granted. He made his way across to the reception desk and told an unfamiliar young woman his name. “I have an appointment with Aaron Guinzburg.”
She checked her day sheet. “Yes, you’re down to see the chairman at twelve, Mr. Clifton. You’ll find him in Mr. Guinzburg’s old office.”
“His old office?” said Harry, unable to mask his surprise.
“Yes, the room at the far end of the corridor.”
“I know where it is,” Harry replied, before heading off toward Aaron’s office. He knocked on the door and waited.
“Come in,” said a voice he didn’t recognize.
Harry opened the door and immediately assumed he’d walked into the wrong room. The walls had been stripped of their magnificent oak paneling and the distinguished authors’ photographs replaced by a set of gaudy prints of SoHo. A man he’d never met before, but whom he recognized from his photograph in that morning’s New York Times, rose from behind a trestle table and thrust out a hand.
“Rex Mulberry. Delighted to meet you at last, Harry.”
“Good morning, Mr. Mulberry,” said Harry. “I have an appointment with my publisher, Aaron Guinzburg.”
“I’m afraid Aaron doesn’t work here any longer,” said Mulberry. “I’m the chairman of the new company, and the board decided that the time had come for Viking to make some radical changes. But, let me assure you, I’m a great admirer of your work.”
“So you’re a fan of Wilfred Warwick, are you?” said Harry.
“Yes, I’m a huge fan of Wilfred’s. Have a seat.” Harry reluctantly sat down opposite the new chairman. “I’ve just been over your latest contract, which I’m sure you’ll agree is generous by normal publishing standards.”
“I have only ever been published by Viking, so I’ve nothing to compare it with.”
“And of course we will honor Aaron’s most recent contract in the Wilfred Warwick series, as well as the one for Uncle Joe.”
Harry tried to think what Sebastian would have done in these circumstances. He was aware that the contract for Uncle Joe was in his inside pocket and, after some considerable persuasion, had been signed by Yelena Babakova.
“Aaron had agreed to prepare a new three-book contract, which I had intended to go over with him today,” he said, playing for time.
“Yes, I have it here,” said Mulberry. “There are a few minor adjustments, none of them of any real significance,” he added as he pushed the contract across the table.
Harry turned to the last page, to find Rex Mulberry’s signature already on the dotted line. He took out his fountain pen—a gift from Aaron—removed the top and stared down at the words, On behalf of the author. He hesitated, before saying the first thing that came into his head.
“I need to go to the lavatory. I came straight from Grand Central as I didn’t want to be late.” Mulberry forced a smile, as Harry placed the elegant Parker on the table beside the contract. “I won’t be long,” Harry added as he rose from his seat and casually left the room.
Harry closed the door behind him, walked quickly down the corridor, past the reception desk and didn’t stop until he reached the lobby, where he stepped inside the first available lift. When the doors opened again on th
e ground floor, he joined the bustle of office workers who were making their way out of the building for their lunch break. He glanced at the two guards, but they didn’t give him a second look as he passed them. They seemed to be focused on someone standing sentinel-like on the opposite side of the street. Harry turned his back on Aaron and hailed a cab.
“Where to?”
“I’m not sure yet,” said Harry, “but could you drive across to the far corner and pick up the gentleman who’s standing there.” The cabbie came to a halt on the other side of the street. Harry wound down the window. “Jump in,” he shouted.
Aaron looked suspiciously inside, but when he saw Harry, he quickly joined him in the back.
“Did you sign the contract?” were his first words.
“No, I did not.”
“What about the Babakov contract?”
“I still have it,” said Harry, touching the inside pocket of his jacket.
“Then we just may be in the clear.”
“Not yet. I persuaded Mrs. Babakova that she should cash Viking’s cheque for $100,000.”
“Help,” said Aaron.
“Where to?” demanded the cabbie again.
“Grand Central Station,” said Harry.
“Can’t you just phone her?” said Aaron.
“She doesn’t have a phone.”
6
“IT’S THE FIRST time I’ve ever known you do something dishonest,” said Emma, as she poured herself a second cup of coffee.
“But surely it’s morally defensible,” said Harry. “After all, the end justified the means.”
“Even that’s questionable. Don’t forget that Mrs. Babakova had already signed the contract and accepted the check in payment.”
“But she hadn’t cashed it and, in any case, she was under the impression Anatoly’s book would be published by Viking.”
“And it still would have been.”
“But not by Aaron Guinzburg, with whom she made the original deal.”
“A High Court judge might consider that an interesting legal dilemma. And who’s going to publish William Warwick, now you’re no longer with Viking?”
“The Guinzburg Press. Anatoly and I will be the company’s first authors, and Aaron will also be presenting me with a new fountain pen.”
“A new pen?”
“It’s a long story, which I’ll save for when you get back from your board meeting,” said Harry, breaking into the top of his egg.
“I’m still a little surprised that Mulberry hadn’t considered the possibility of Aaron setting up his own company and didn’t include a clause in the merger document preventing him from poaching any of Viking’s authors.”
“I’m sure he did consider it, but if he’d inserted such a clause, Aaron’s lawyers would have realized immediately what he was up to.”
“Perhaps he doubted that Aaron would have the resources to set up a new publishing company.”
“Well, he got that wrong,” said Harry. “Aaron’s already had several offers for his shares in Viking Mulberry, including one from Rex Mulberry himself, who clearly doesn’t want any of his rivals to get their hands on Aaron’s thirty-four percent stake.”
“What goes around…” said Emma. Harry smiled as he sprinkled a little salt on his egg. “But however much you like Aaron,” continued Emma, “after his obvious lack of judgment when it came to Mulberry, are you sure he’s the right man to be your American publisher? If you were to sign a three-book contract, and then—”
“I admit I had my doubts,” said Harry, “but I’ve been reassured by the fact that Aaron’s father has agreed to return as president of the new company.”
“Is that a hands-on job?”
“Harold Guinzburg doesn’t do hands-off.”
* * *
“Item number one,” declared Emma in her crisp, clear chairman’s voice. “The latest update on the building of our second luxury liner, the MV Balmoral.” She glanced toward the group’s new chief executive, Eric Hurst, who was looking down at an already open file.
“The board will be pleased to learn,” he said, “that despite a few unavoidable holdups, which is not unusual in such a major undertaking, we are still well on course to launch the new ship in September. Equally important, we remain within our forecast budget, having anticipated most of the issues that so bedevilled the construction of the Buckingham.”
“With one or two notable exceptions,” said Admiral Summers.
“You’re right, admiral,” said Hurst. “I confess that I didn’t foresee the need for a second cocktail bar on the upper deck.”
“Passengers are allowed to drink on deck?” said the admiral.
“I’m afraid so,” said Emma, suppressing a grin. “But it does mean extra money in our coffers.” The admiral didn’t attempt to suppress a snort.
“Although I still need to keep a watchful eye on the timing of the launch,” continued Hurst, “it shouldn’t be too long before we can announce the first booking period for the Balmoral.”
“I wonder if we’ve bitten off more than we can chew?” chipped in Peter Maynard.
“I think that’s the finance director’s department, not mine,” said Hurst.
“It most certainly is,” said Michael Carrick, coming in on cue. “The company’s overall position,” he said, looking down at his pocket calculator, which the admiral had already dismissed as a newfangled machine, “is that our turnover is three percent up on this time last year, and that’s despite a substantial loan from Barclays to make sure that we don’t miss any payments during the building phase.”
“How substantial?” demanded Maynard.
“Two million,” said Carrick, not needing to check the figure.
“Can we afford to service such a large overdraft?”
“Yes, Mr. Maynard, but only because our cash flow is also up on last year, along with increased bookings on the Buckingham. It seems the current generation of seventy-year-olds are refusing to die, and have rather taken to the idea of an annual cruise. So much so that we have recently introduced a loyalty program for customers who’ve taken a holiday with us on more than three occasions.”
“And what does membership entitle them to?” asked Maurice Brasher, Barclays’ representative on the board.
“Twenty percent off the price of any voyage as long as it’s booked more than a year in advance. It encourages our regulars to look upon the Buckingham as their second home.”
“What if they die before the year is up?” asked Maynard.
“They get every penny back,” said Emma. “Barrington’s is in the luxury liner business, Mr. Maynard, we’re not undertakers.”
“But can we still make a profit,” pressed Brasher, “if we give so many of our customers a twenty percent discount?”
“Yes,” said Carrick, “there’s still a further ten percent leeway, and don’t forget, once they’re on board, they spend money in our shops and bars, as well as the twenty-four-hour casino.”
“Something else I don’t approve of,” muttered the admiral.
“What’s our current occupancy rate?” asked Maynard.
“Eighty-one percent over the past twelve months, often a hundred percent on the upper decks, which is why we’re building more staterooms on the Balmoral.”
“And what’s breakeven?”
“Sixty-eight percent,” said Carrick.
“Very satisfactory,” said Brasher.
“While I agree with you, Mr. Brasher, we can’t afford to relax,” said Emma. “Union-Castle are planning to convert the Reina del Mar into a luxury liner, and Cunard and P&O have both recently begun construction on ships that will carry over two thousand passengers.”
There followed a long silence, while members of the board tried to take this information in.
“Is New York still our most lucrative run?” asked Maynard, who hadn’t appeared particularly interested in the other directors’ questions.
“Yes,” said Hurst, “but the Baltic cruise
is also proving popular—Southampton to Leningrad, taking in Copenhagen, Oslo, Stockholm and Helsinki.”
“But now we’re launching a second ship and, considering how many other liners are already on the high seas,” continued Maynard, “do you anticipate any staffing problems?”
Emma was puzzled by the number of questions Maynard was asking. She was beginning to suspect him of having his own agenda.
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” said Captain Turnbull, who hadn’t spoken until then. “Barrington’s is a popular line to work for, especially with the Filipinos. They remain on board for eleven months, never leaving the ship and rarely spending a thing.”
“What about the twelfth month?” asked Sebastian.
“That’s when they go home and hand over their hard-earned cash to their wives and families. Then they report back for duty twenty-eight days later.”
“Poor blighters,” said Brasher.
“In truth, Mr. Brasher,” said Turnbull, “the Filipinos are the happiest members of my crew. They tell me they’d far rather be with the Barrington line than spending twelve months out of work in Manila.”
“What about the officers? Any problems there, captain?”
“At least six qualified men apply for every available job, admiral.”
“Any women?” asked Emma.
“Yes, we now have our first woman on the bridge,” said Turnbull. “Clare Thompson. She’s the first mate, and proving damned effective.”
“What has the world come to?” said the admiral. “Let’s hope I don’t live to see a woman prime minister.”
“Let’s hope you do,” said the chairman, gently chiding her favorite director, “because the world has moved on, and perhaps we should too.” Emma looked at her watch. “Any other business?”
The company secretary coughed, a sign that he had something he needed to tell the board.
“Mr. Webster,” said Emma, sitting back, aware that he was not a man to be hurried.
“I feel I should inform the board that Lady Virginia Fenwick has disposed of her seven and a half percent shareholding in the company.”
“But I thought—” began Emma.
“And the shares have been registered at Companies House in the name of the new owner.”