Terminal Compromise Part 76

"Oh, I am sorry that you thought I was threatening you, I can a.s.sure you I wasn't." Sir George oozed politeness.

"Bulls.h.i.t. I don't know how the blazes you learned anything about my business, and I don't really care . . ."

"I think you might care, sir, if you will allow me to speak for a moment." Sir George interjected. The sudden interruption caught Henson off guard. He stood his ground in silence.

"Thank you." Sir George waited for an acknowledgement which never arrived, so he continued. "Winston Ellis is old news, Mr.

Henson, very old news. I read today, though, that Miller Pharma- ceuticals is about to have its Anti-AIDS drug turned down by the FDA. Apparently it still has too many side effects and may be too dangerous for humans. I'm sure you've read the reports yourself. Don't you think it would be wise to tell your investors before they sink another $300 Million into a black hole from which there is no escape?" The aristocratic British accent softened the harshness of the words, but not the auger of the meaning.

Henson seethed. "I don't know who you are," he hissed, "but I will not listen to this kind of c.r.a.p. I won't take it from . . ."

"Sorry," Sir George again interrupted, "but I'm afraid you will listen. The instructions are as follows. I want $5 Million in small bills in a silver Samsonite case to be placed into locker number 235 at Grand Central Station, first level. You have 48 hours to comply. If you do not have the money there, we will release these findings to the media and the SEC which will no doubt prompt an investigation into this and other of your deal- ings. Don't you think?"

Blackmail was anathema to Robert Henson, although he should have felt quite comfortable in its milieu. It was effectively the same stunt he performed on many of his investors. n.o.body treats Robert Henson this way, n.o.body. He needed time to think. The last time Fullmaster called it was a bluff, obviously, but then there were no demands. This time, he wanted something. But, how did he know? The FDA reports were still confidential, and he hoped to have completed raising the funds before the reports became public, another few weeks at most. He counted on ineffi- cient government bureaucracy and indifference to delay any an- nouncement. Meanwhile though, he would pocket several millions in banking fees.

"You got me. I'll do it. 235. Right?"

"Very good, Mr. Henson. I'm glad you see it my way. It has been a pleasure doing business with you." Sir George sounded like a used car salesman. "Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Please, Mr. Hen- son, no police. In that case, our deal is off."

"Of course, no police. No problem. Thanks for the call."

Henson hung up. f.u.c.k him. No money, no way.

"Mr. Faulkner, this is John Fullmaster." Sir George was sicken- ingly sweet. "Do you recall our last conversation?"

How couldn't he? This was the only call he had received on his private line since that maniac had last called. Faulkner had had the number changed at least a half a dozen times since, as a matter of course, but still, Fullmaster, if that was his real name, reached him with apparent ease.

"Yes, I remember," he said tersely. "What do you want now?"

"Just a piece of the action, Mr. Faulkner."

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean?"

"Well, according to my records, you have lost quite a sum of money since our last conversation, and it would be such a shame, don't you agree, if California National Bank found out they lost another $2 million to your bad habits?" Sir George instinctively thought Faulkner was a California slime ball, never mind his own actions, and he briefly thought that he might actually be work- ing for the side of good after all.

"You have a real doctor's bedside manner. What do you want?"

Faulkner conveyed extreme nervousness.

"I think, under the circ.u.mstances that, shall we say, oh, one million would do it. Yes, that sounds fair."

"One million? One million dollars?" Faulkner shrieked from his pool side lounge chair.

"Yessir, that sounds just about right." Sir George paused for effect. "Now here is what I want you to do. Go to Las Vegas, and have your credit extended, and acquire small bills. Then, place the money in a silver Samsonite case at Union Station.

Locker number 12. Is that simple enough?" British humor at its best.

"Simple, yes. Possible, no," Faulkner whispered in terror.

"Oh, yes, it is possible, as you well know. You cleared up the $2.4 Million you owed Caesar's only last week. Your credit is excellent."

"There's no way you can know that . . ." Then it occurred to him. The mob. He wasn't losing enough at the tables, they wanted more. Losing money was one thing, his way, but a sore winner is the worst possible enemy. He had no choice. There was only one way out.

"All right, all right. What locker number?"

"Twelve. Within 48 hours. And, I probably needn't mention it, but no police."

"Of course," Faulkner smiled to himself. At last the nightmare would be over.

"Thank you so very much. Have a nice day."

"Merrill! It's the blackmailer again. Merrill, do you hear me?"

Ken Boyers tried to get Senator Rickfield out from the centerfold of the newest Playboy. "Merrill!"

"Oh sorry, Ken. Just reading the articles. Now what is it?"

Rickfield put the magazine down, slowly, for one last l.u.s.tful gaze.

"Merrill, that Fullmaster fellow, the one who called about the Credite Suisse arrangements . . ."

"Shut up! We don't talk about that in this office, you know that!" Rickfield admonished Ken.

"I know, but he doesn't," he said, pointing at the blinking light on the Senator's desk phone.

"I thought he went away. Nothing ever came of it, did it?"

"No, nothing, after we got General Young onto it," Boyers ex- plained. "I thought he took care of it, in his own way. The problem just disappeared like it was supposed to."

"Well," Rickfield said scornfully, "obviously it didn't. Give me the G.o.dd.a.m.ned phone." He picked it up and pressed the lighted b.u.t.ton. His senatorial dignity was absent as he spoke.

"This is Rickfield. Who is this?"

"Ah, thank you for taking my call. Yes, thank you." Sir George spoke slowly, more slowly than necessary. This call was marked critical. That meant, don't screw it up. "My name is John Fullmaster and I believe we spoke about some arrangements you made with General Young and Credite Suisse."

"I remember. So what? That has nothing to do with me," Rick- field retorted. He grabbed a pen and wrote down the name, John Fullmaster. Ken looked at the scribbled writing and shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah, but I'm afraid it does. I see here that Allied Dynamics recently made a significant contribution to a certain account in Credite Suisse. There are only two signators on the pa.s.sbook.

It also says here that they will be building two new factories in your state. Quite an accomplishment. I am sure your const.i.tu- ents would be proud."

The color drained from Rickfield's face. He put his hand over the mouthpiece to speak privately to Ken. "Who else knows?

Don't bulls.h.i.t me, boy. Who else have you told?"

"No one!" Boyers said in genuine shock. "I want to enjoy the money, not pay attorney's fees."

Rickfield waved Boyers away. He appeared satisfied with the response. "This is speculation. You can't prove a thing."

Rickfield took a shot to gauge his opponent.

"Believe that if you wish, Senator, but I don't think it is in either of our best interests to play the other for the fool."

Sir George saw that Rickfield did not attain his position as Chairman of the Senate Committee on s.p.a.ce, Transportation and Technology by caving in to idle demands or threats. In fact, in 34 years of Senate service, Senator Merrill Rickfield had sur- vived 8 presidents, counseling most of them to varying degrees depending upon the partisan att.i.tude of the White House.