Mistakes do get made. It’s the nature – the sometimes inevitable result – of the business we’re in. It’s been isolated – dealt with. I do not recommend – would argue as strongly as possible against – any reprimand or censure…’ He paused, a man with the fifth ace in his hand. ‘This is, in fact, an unrecorded composition of the board, and therefore restricted by regulations, of which I am sure we’re all aware. I repeat, a mistake was made – a series of mistakes. We’re all of us fallible. Those mistakes have been corrected. We are, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, meeting in unrecorded session, to which all of us agreed earlier. One of the regulatory restrictions is that decisions made during such discussions legally need to be confirmed by a recorded meeting of the board, the records made available to an annual meeting, or by a specially convened meeting of shareholders…’ The pause was as timed as the words were rehearsed.
‘But that means…’ said a voice.
‘Each of you know the terms of reference of the board’s composition – the company restrictions I have just outlined. My concern – which I anticipated to be the concern of us all to preserve the company – is to limit within corporate legality the sort of public exposure we’ve agreed during this discussion would lead to the total destruction of Dubette…’
Newton was never to be sure that, however briefly, his mouth didn’t visibly fall open in his incredulity at the piratical manoeuvre. Certainly the expression on at least three of the men around the table was of astonishment. Another began scrabbling through a document case, Newton presumed in a search for the company formation regulations.
‘I don’t agree with this… it can’t possibly be legal…’ said the man who had first protested.
‘Everyone has a copy of our formation and incorporation documents,’ said Grant, looking at the man still rummaging through his briefcase. ‘For those who haven’t, I’ll specify the section I’m referring to – it’s paragraphs four through seven – but I’d draw your attention to paragraph nine. Those preceding sections, four to seven, can be superseded by a majority vote, here and now, for us to go on record. Or for a special shareholders’ meeting to be convened.’
‘To commit commercial suicide, like lemmings jumping off a cliff!’ said the outspoken objector.
‘Each of us around this table agreed the terms, presumably upon the advice of our individual investment lawyers,’ said Grant. ‘I certainly did.’
The searching man found what he was looking for, consulted it and sat back in his chair, shaking his head.
Grant said: ‘I am not coercing this board into anything illegal, merely reminding it of its operational parameters. Our research vice president, Dwight Newton, has acknowledged and apologized for his oversight and his error. I propose that is how it remains, a rectified matter restricted to a very limited number of people. The alternative is in your hands, as I have already set out.’
‘How is this board going to look if it does become public knowledge?’ demanded the man with the regulations still in his hand.
‘Like a responsible body of responsible men operating as it is legally empowered to do, to protect its shareholders’ interests and investments, as well as reacting promptly to prevent any harmful effects from a mistaken batch issue,’ said Grant. ‘I invite a vote on the course I am proposing.’
It was unanimous.
A buffet lunch was arranged to follow. At least half the board left without eating anything. Those who remained picked and sampled, the most token of token gestures. What conversation there was was mumbled, serious-faced, with a lot of head-shaking. Newton ate nothing and drank club soda. At his shoulder, as the room thinned with tight, perfunctory farewells, Grant told Newton: ‘Don’t go, not until we’ve talked.’
‘Where can I go?’ asked Newton.
‘Nowhere,’ said Grant, refusing the self-pity.
It was a further hour before they got yet again into the president’s office. As soon as the door closed behind them, Newton said: ‘You hung me out to dry back there.’
‘You deserved to be hung out to dry. You fucked up. There wasn’t a member of the board, me included, who didn’t want to sacrifice you. What I did instead was save your ass.’
‘Yours with it,’ fought back Newton. ‘I didn’t say anything about other meetings like this.’
‘Because there was nothing to say. I told you all along everything had to be safe. You didn’t ensure that it was. You still got a job. Be grateful.’
What right had this manipulative, never-guilty-of-anything motherfucker to treat him with contempt, Newton asked himself. ‘What did you want me to stay on for?’
‘Parnell called Saby direct. Asked about getting everything back. Saby thought Parnell was on the inside. Somehow Parnell knows about the box-number route – he obviously got that from that damned woman.’
‘You heard from Saby direct?’
‘How the hell else would I know?’
‘What did you tell Saby to do?’
‘Send the stuff, as they discussed. I couldn’t do otherwise.’
‘What else did Saby tell him?’
‘That it could be got back – that’s what Saby told me. With the taps lifted, we don’t know exactly what was said, not any more. We got too many loose ends, Parnell the loosest.’
It never appeared to have occurred to anyone at the board meeting to thank Parnell for what he’d possibly prevented, Newton suddenly realized. But then, he accepted, officially it had been an un official, unrecorded meeting, which he supposed meant any corporate gratitude was impossible. ‘You going to see Parnell? There’s enough reason.’
‘Arrogant son of a bitch,’ said Grant.
Not an arrogant son of a bitch, mentally corrected Newton – someone who wasn’t afraid of Edward C. Grant and who hadn’t been sucked into the imploding black hole of Dubette Inc. ‘Are you?’ he repeated.
‘Have Johnson set up some surveillance on him again. Let’s find a weak spot.’
Grant’s modus operandi, thought Newton. ‘What if he hasn’t got one?’
‘Everyone’s got a weak spot,’ insisted the president.
Newton wondered what Edward C. Grant’s weak spot was. Then he thought it was time – long after time – that he tried to evolve some personal protection for himself. But what?
‘Talk time again!’ announced Barbara Spacey, sailing into Parnell’s office on a gust of nicotine.
‘I’m busy.’
‘That’s good. A lot of psychologists deny it, but work is often a good stress reliever. Would you believe that?’
‘I’ll believe anything you tell me.’
‘I’m not asking you to go that far. So, how are you?’
‘As I was when we met last time, I’m fine.’
‘How are you sleeping?’
‘Like a baby.’
‘How do you occupy your spare time?’
‘With the stress-relief of work.’
‘You miss Rebecca?’
‘That’s an offensive question. Of course I miss Rebecca.’
The woman appeared unperturbed. ‘The police getting anywhere?’
‘It’s not a police investigation. It’s the FBI.’
‘The FBI getting anywhere?’ There was no reaction to the correction.
‘They don’t take me into their confidence,’ lied Parnell, suddenly attentive to the questioning. Before she could ask something else, he said: ‘This is the third time we’ve talked. You normally interview staff this many times?’
‘You’re the first staff member to be involved in a murder. A hell of an unusual murder, at that.’
‘I think you misdiagnosed my other assessments,’ he goaded.
‘You’re allowed to lodge an objection. Seek a secondary opinion, even,’ reminded the woman. ‘Don’t forget the Freedom of Information Act. No one can sneak any more!’
‘Didn’t think it important enough. You get many objections?’
