industrial machinery. Ellie didn’t know what that meant, but she knew it didn’t matter.
They make baked beans, they make space satellites, it’s only details
, Blanchard had told her.
They have capital, they have
debts, they have shareholders and liabilities. All that matters is they have a price
.
In this case the shareholder was an old man, son of the founder and no less Russian in his obstinacy. After three hours locked in a meeting room, drinking black tea out of Styrofoam cups, they were no closer to finding his price than when they’d walked in. When it came to negotiations Blanchard seemed driven by an animal spirit, a hunger for the deal that cajoled and encouraged, threatened and harried the opposition towards conceding. At times he would jump out of his chair and prowl around the room; other times he leaned forward on the table and listened with half-closed eyes as the old man banged his fist and repeated himself for the umpteenth time. But the old man soaked up the pressure and never flinched, while his son – a sullen, dark-eyed forty-something – sat by his side and glared.
‘The patrimony is the pillar of the family,’ Rosenberg senior said yet again. ‘It is a father’s duty to protect it. We have rationalised our workforce, invested in new equipment, consolidated our supply chain, everything the consultants tell us. We are an old company, but everything is state of the art. This is how we have always been and this is what my son will inherit.’
Blanchard was in a foul temper when they left. ‘This patrimony is garbage,’ he raged. ‘Did you see his son? He would sell the company, take the money, in five seconds if he had the chance. But he is a coward, he does not dare tell this to his father.’
Ellie flipped through the file. ‘The old man must be almost eighty. How much longer can he hold on?’
‘To life? Too long.’
‘I didn’t mean …’
‘If this deal does not happen in the next two weeks, the logic will no longer exist and the client will pull out. We will lose the fee, the dozens of hours we have already invested in it. And all because of a frightened child and a stubborn old man.’
‘The old man’s frightened too.’ She surprised herself by saying it out loud, though she was sure it was true. She’d grown up surrounded by fear. Fear of losing your job, your house, your dignity. She knew the signs, the false pride and chippy bravado, the darkness in their eyes.
‘Frightened of what?’ A stillness overtook Blanchard. ‘His son?’
‘A vulnerability.’ Ellie stared at the back of the driver’s seat and thought furiously. ‘Not his son – he knows he can control him. Something in the business. Every time we got close to discussing it he closed us down.’
‘Find it.’ Suddenly Blanchard was alive again, feeding off the hope she offered. ‘Pull this company apart, look for anything we missed. Find it, and give it to me by Wednesday.’
Back at the office, Ellie switched off her mobile phone and hid from her e-mails. She pulled up everything she could find on the company: their accounts, their customers, their products. She dug out the notes from her course and looked for all the telltale signs she’d learned: underperforming divisions, foreign subsidiaries bleeding cash, investments gone wrong. There was nothing. Rosenberg managed his company as conservatively as his father.
We have rationalised our workforce, invested in new equipment, consolidated our supply chain, everything the consultants tell us.
There’d been bitterness in his voice, the shame of a proud man being told how to run his business. But also something else.
The world outside grew dark. The lights in the great officetowers she could see through her window began to blink off. Numbers swam in front of Ellie’s eyes.
And then she found it. One line in the accounts, nothing more. Not even definite – just a suggestion, the end of a thread that she might unravel.
A discreet knock broke
They make baked beans, they make space satellites, it’s only details
, Blanchard had told her.
They have capital, they have
debts, they have shareholders and liabilities. All that matters is they have a price
.
In this case the shareholder was an old man, son of the founder and no less Russian in his obstinacy. After three hours locked in a meeting room, drinking black tea out of Styrofoam cups, they were no closer to finding his price than when they’d walked in. When it came to negotiations Blanchard seemed driven by an animal spirit, a hunger for the deal that cajoled and encouraged, threatened and harried the opposition towards conceding. At times he would jump out of his chair and prowl around the room; other times he leaned forward on the table and listened with half-closed eyes as the old man banged his fist and repeated himself for the umpteenth time. But the old man soaked up the pressure and never flinched, while his son – a sullen, dark-eyed forty-something – sat by his side and glared.
‘The patrimony is the pillar of the family,’ Rosenberg senior said yet again. ‘It is a father’s duty to protect it. We have rationalised our workforce, invested in new equipment, consolidated our supply chain, everything the consultants tell us. We are an old company, but everything is state of the art. This is how we have always been and this is what my son will inherit.’
Blanchard was in a foul temper when they left. ‘This patrimony is garbage,’ he raged. ‘Did you see his son? He would sell the company, take the money, in five seconds if he had the chance. But he is a coward, he does not dare tell this to his father.’
Ellie flipped through the file. ‘The old man must be almost eighty. How much longer can he hold on?’
‘To life? Too long.’
‘I didn’t mean …’
‘If this deal does not happen in the next two weeks, the logic will no longer exist and the client will pull out. We will lose the fee, the dozens of hours we have already invested in it. And all because of a frightened child and a stubborn old man.’
‘The old man’s frightened too.’ She surprised herself by saying it out loud, though she was sure it was true. She’d grown up surrounded by fear. Fear of losing your job, your house, your dignity. She knew the signs, the false pride and chippy bravado, the darkness in their eyes.
‘Frightened of what?’ A stillness overtook Blanchard. ‘His son?’
‘A vulnerability.’ Ellie stared at the back of the driver’s seat and thought furiously. ‘Not his son – he knows he can control him. Something in the business. Every time we got close to discussing it he closed us down.’
‘Find it.’ Suddenly Blanchard was alive again, feeding off the hope she offered. ‘Pull this company apart, look for anything we missed. Find it, and give it to me by Wednesday.’
Back at the office, Ellie switched off her mobile phone and hid from her e-mails. She pulled up everything she could find on the company: their accounts, their customers, their products. She dug out the notes from her course and looked for all the telltale signs she’d learned: underperforming divisions, foreign subsidiaries bleeding cash, investments gone wrong. There was nothing. Rosenberg managed his company as conservatively as his father.
We have rationalised our workforce, invested in new equipment, consolidated our supply chain, everything the consultants tell us.
There’d been bitterness in his voice, the shame of a proud man being told how to run his business. But also something else.
The world outside grew dark. The lights in the great officetowers she could see through her window began to blink off. Numbers swam in front of Ellie’s eyes.
And then she found it. One line in the accounts, nothing more. Not even definite – just a suggestion, the end of a thread that she might unravel.
A discreet knock broke
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