This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles 7)

Only half a percent. Sloane smiled. Sorkin had done his research, and had already worked out which one of them would be closing the deal.

Sloane returned to his cabin, undressed, and took a shower, then lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He ignored the bottle of champagne in the ice bucket by the bedside. He needed to concentrate. After all, this could be the deal that would not only decide when he retired, but how much his pension would be.

* * *

At five to eight, there was a light knock on the door. Sloane looked in the mirror and straightened his bow tie before opening the door to find a steward waiting for him.

“Mr. Sorkin hopes you and Mr. Knowles will join him for a drink,” he said, before leading them up a wide staircase.

Their host was standing on the upper deck waiting to greet his guests. Once he had introduced himself, he offered them a glass of champagne. Conrad Sorkin was not at all what Sloane had expected; tall, elegant, with a relaxed confidence that comes with success or breeding. He spoke with a slight South African accent and quickly put his guests at ease. Hard to guess his age, thought Sloane, possibly fifty, fifty-five. After some carefully worded questions, he discovered that Sorkin had been born in Cape Town and educated at Stanford. However, the small bronze bust of Napoleon that stood on the sideboard behind him revealed a possible weakness.

“So where do you live now?” asked Sloane, toying with his champagne.

“This ship is my home. It has everything I require, with the added advantage that I don’t have to pay taxes.”

“Isn’t that a little restricting?” asked Knowles.

“No, in fact the opposite. I quite literally enjoy the best of every world. I can visit any port I choose, and as long as I don’t stay for more than thirty days the authorities take no interest in me. And I think it would be fair to say that this ship has everything a major city could offer, including a chef I stole from the Savoy. So, gentlemen, shall we go through to dinner?”

Sloane took a seat on the right of his host. He heard the engine turning over.

“I’ve asked the captain to sail slowly around the bay. I think you’ll find the lights of Nice harbor make a stunning backdrop,” said Sorkin. A waiter filled their glasses with white wine, while another placed a plate of gravlax in front of them.

Sorkin boasted that the plaice and the Angus steak had been picked up from Grimsby and Aberdeen just hours before they boarded his jet that afternoon. Sloane had to admit that he might have been dining in one of the finest restaurants in London, and the quality of the wine made him want his glass to be constantly refilled. However, he restricted himself to a couple of glasses, as he waited for Sorkin to touch on the reason they were there.

After the last course had been cleared away, and brandy, port, and cigars had been offered, the staff made a discreet withdrawal.

“Shall we get down to business?” said Sorkin, after he’d lit his cigar and taken a couple of puffs.

Sloane took a sip of port and Knowles poured himself a brandy.

“As I see it,” said Sorkin, “you presently control a company that has some major assets, and although Mr. Mellor still owns fifty-one percent of the stock, while he remains in prison he cannot involve himself in any board decisions.”

“I can see you’ve done your homework,” said Sloane, before taking a puff on his cigar. “But what particular assets are you interested in, Mr. Sorkin?”

“Conrad, please. Let me make it clear that I have no interest in acquiring Mellor Travel. However, the company has forty-two travel agencies well placed in high streets throughout the UK. Those properties have a book value of less than two million pounds. But if we were to put them on the market individually, I estimate they have a real value of nearer six, possibly even seven million.”

“But,” interrupted Sloane, “if we were to dispose of our greatest asset, Mellor Travel would be little more than a shell company, unable to carry out its core business. I’m sure you’re aware that Thomas Cook has already made us an offer of two million for the company, and made it clear that they wouldn’t be sacking any staff or disposing of any of the properties.”

“And that two million would be paid to a company that will be run by Cook’s until Desmond Mellor comes out of jail, so the best either of you could hope for is a decent redundancy package. That is why I am willing to equal Cook’s offer, but with a subtle difference. My two million will be deposited in the bank of your choice, in the city of your choice.”

“But the Bank of England—” began Sloane.

“Adrian, the Bank of England is indeed a powerful body, but I can name twenty-three countries in which it has no jurisdiction, or even bilateral agreements. All you will have to do is convince your board to accept my offer, rather than Cook’s. As the company only has five directors, and one of them can’t attend board meetings, that shouldn’t prove too difficult to achieve long before Mr. Mellor is released—which I understand is not imminent.”

“You are well informed,” said Sloane.

“Let’s just say we have contacts in all the right places, and inside information that keeps me ahead of my rivals.”

“If I was to accept your terms,” said Sloane, “is the cash I found in my room a one percent down payment against the two million you’re offering?”

Knowles frowned.

“Certainly not,” said Sorkin. “Consider that no more than a calling card to prove my credentials.”

Sloane drained his glass of port and waited for it to be refilled, before he said, “We have a board meeting in a couple of weeks’ time, Conrad, and you can be assured that I and my fellow directors will take your offer very seriously.”

The chairman of Mellor Travel leaned back and relaxed for the first time, allowing himself to enjoy the port, confident he’d got the measure of Sorkin and that the two million could be treated as an opening bid. He’d already decided the figure he’d settle for, but would wait until breakfast before he made his next move.