In the first twenty minutes of today’s Dow, Redman stock has fallen eleven points-and it’s still dropping.
“Before coming here, a source of mine at Redman International phoned to inform me that George Redman and his directors are in a state of panic. In order to make this deal with WestTex work, Redman was counting on a deal he made privately with Iran. It was a deal that not only would have made him Iran’s chief exporter of oil, but one that also would have made him billions. In theory, his idea was brilliant-but the agreement was only verbal. Redman chanced everything on a verbal commitment because Iran refused to sign anything until WestTex became Redman International’s. They felt it was a waste of time to commit themselves otherwise, and they were correct.”
He shook his head as though the risk Redman took was wildly inappropriate. “Unfortunately for George Redman, Anastassios Fondaras had a similar deal in the works with Iran-and his was finalized only minutes after Redman signed the final papers with WestTex, thus leaving him with $10 billion in added debt, and a shipping company that can’t support itself.”
Glances were exchanged while Louis sat. Then Charles Stout, a former chairman at American Express and a proverbial thorn in Louis’ side, spoke. “So, what are you suggesting, Louis? That we take over the company?”
Louis smiled at Stout. “That’s precisely what I’m suggesting, Charles. By taking over Redman International, we not only will become a world leader in steel and textiles, but we’ll also acquire a commercial airline and some of the more attractive and profitable hotels and casinos in the world-not to mention the Redman International Building itself, which, if handled correctly, could be a veritable gold mine in rental opportunities. We owe this to our shareholders.”
Stout was incredulous. “Owe this to our shareholders?” he said. “Are you implying that we owe it to our shareholders to take over a company that’s just assumed $10 billion in debt? A shipping company that’s been floundering for months? Our stock will plummet. We’ll wind up where Redman is now.”
Louis was absolutely calm. “Look at the big picture, Charles. We’ll sell WestTex. We’ll get rid of the debt.’’
“Who are we selling it to, Louis? Who in the world is going to buy that shipping company? We’d be lucky if we could give it away, let alone sell it to someone for $10 billion dollars.”
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Louis, who had shown no reaction to Stout’s outburst, pulled his trump card and went in for the kill. “I already have a buyer, Charles. Before this meeting, I phoned Anastassios Fondaras in Iran and he’s agreed to buy WestTex in the event that Redman International becomes ours. He needs a larger fleet with this new deal. And he’s agreed to pay the full $10 billion.”
Stout’s eyes widened. He moved to speak, but now he was speechless.
Relishing the moment, Louis looked around the table, saw looks ranging from interest to mild surprise before his gaze stopped at Florence Holt, the civil rights leader and New York lawyer who was, without question, the savviest person on the board. She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “You’re certain about this?” she said. “Fondaras is willing to put this promise of his into writing?”
Louis nodded. “If it’s the board’s decision to move on this, he told me himself that he’d immediately sign a contract.” He paused. “I want you to understand one thing,” he said to the board. “This decision is yours. If you’re uncomfortable with it, just say the word and there will be no hard feelings. I won’t push for it. But if you should decide to pursue this, I feel we could get ourselves a bargain-”
“Provided we aren’t challenged,” Stout interrupted. “What if there’s a bidding war?”
Louis face remained impassive. “It’s my opinion that there won’t be. As you yourself have so eloquently pointed out, Charles, who would want to assume George Redman’s $10 billion mistake? Privately, we’ve secured Fondaras, who is committed to the deal. We are the right company for this takeover. It’s my belief that, if we move quickly, we’ll also have management. Redman just lost his daughter. On Sunday, his best friend committed suicide. He is no longer emotionally fit to run that company and his board of directors know it. If we offer the board a number that is higher than the price their stock has ever traded for, if we agree to take care of their employees, then I’m certain we could work with them. We can get them out of this mess.”
“I still disagree,” Stout said. “If we go ahead with this, Redman International will be put into play. The stock will soar and we’ll wind up paying billions more than we should.” He leaned forward in his seat and looked at each board member. “Do I have to remind everyone in this room that Redman International is still one of the world’s most powerful conglomerates? Yes, Redman made a mistake, but he’s a brilliant man. In time, he’ll rise above this. He’ll make WestTex work-regardless if he’s just lost his daughter and best friend. And who’s to say that he couldn’t sell WestTex to Fondaras? If we go after the company, there’s no question in my mind that Redman will try to take it private.” He looked hard at Louis. “Especially if you go after it. No offense, Louis, but we all know that Redman would rather shit in his hat than let you run his company.”
Louis looked at Stout, but said nothing. He pushed back his chair and stood.
“I’m leaving this in your hands,” he said to the group. “But please consider what I’ve said. Please leave behind your emotions and look at the facts. I know we can make this work. We have Fondaras. We have the means. I’m certain we can get management. And I know this could take Manhattan Enterprises to a new level of power and wealth. While I’m gone, think what a great team our two companies would make. Think of the absolute power we and our shareholders could rise to.”
And he left the room, leaving the board to caucus.
They were not long in making their decision.
When Louis was summoned back to the boardroom, he looked not at the board, but at Peter Horrigan, who stood while Louis sat, his face coolly impassive, absolutely unreadable.
Suddenly, he was nervous. As Horrigan reclaimed his seat, Louis searched the younger man’s eyes for some sign of triumph, some glimmer of victory, but found nothing. He looked down the length of the table and glanced at each grim face, hesitating when he saw what might have been a smile on Charles Stout’s lips.
Could it be that they turned him down?
“Louis,” Florence Holt said, “it’s with regret that I inform you that it’s the strong sense of the board that we’re not prepared to let you go forward with the takeover of Redman International.”
Thunderstruck, his heart stopped. How could they…?
Holt folded her hands on the desk. Her voice was firm when she spoke. “It’s our belief that if we made a bid for Redman International, it would put the company into play regardless of George Redman’s $10 billion error-and the stock would skyrocket, which ultimately would be detrimental to our shareholders should we end up paying top price. As you know, with Redman International at the forefront of the world’s…”
Her voice became thinner and thinner until he heard nothing but his own blood, hot and searing, coursing through his system.
In his office, he moved toward his desk and the photograph of Anne that sat on top of it. After all these years, she still possessed him, still owned him, her grip as fierce as it had been when they first met on that windy afternoon in March, chasing a group of runaway dogs through downtown Cambridge. Looking at her now, longing for what could have been, he finished the last of his drink and closed his eyes, the years lifting like veils.
He was young again and stumbling blindly down a steep embankment, pushing past groups of horrified onlookers, slipping on the pockmarked snow, stopping just short of a river that no longer was choked with ice, but broken and splintered.
The air was cold and charged with worry and excitement. Snow blazed from the night sky. High above on the ruined bridge, police pointed beams of light down at the boiling water, exposing the large hole in the river’s cracked surface and offering a brief glimpse of what might have been red paint.
From where he stood, only a few hundred yards from the bridge and the crater that lay beneath it, Louis could see his wife’s fate, could see the glimmering fender of her car as it slowly dipped beneath the boiling surface.
Even then he had the idea that this was no accident.
Now, his mind clear again with resolve, he went to the wall safe that was behind his parents’ wedding picture and entered the code to access it. He opened the metal door to a flash of amber light.
Inside was Anne’s journal, a thin, narrow composition book he found the year following her death. It was in
