Bloodline Sidney Sheldon

“Overdue,” Elizabeth corrected him.

“Yes, ma’am. Overdue.”

“We’re paying the prime rate, plus one percent, plus penalty interest. Why haven’t we paid off the overdue loans and reduced the principal on the others?”

He was beyond surprise now. “Because of—er—certain unfortunate recent occurrences, the company’s cash-flow position is considerably less than we had anticipated. Under ordinary circumstances we would go to the banks and ask for extensions. However, with our current problems, the various litigation settlements, the write-offs in our experimental laboratory, and…” His voice trailed off.

Elizabeth sat there, studying him, wondering whose side he was on. She looked down at the balance sheets again, trying to pinpoint where things had gone wrong. The statement showed a sharp decline over the past three quarters, largely because of the heavy lawsuit payoffs listed under the column “Extraordinary Expenses (Nonrecurring).” In her mind’s eye she saw the explosion in Chile, the cloud of poisonous chemicals spouting into the air. She could hear the screams of the victims. A dozen people dead. Hundreds more taken to hospitals. And in the end all the human pain and misery had been reduced to money, to Extraordinary Expenses (Nonrecurring).

She looked up at Wilton Kraus. “According to your report, Mr. Kraus, our problems are of a temporary nature. We are Roffe and Sons. We’re still a first-class risk for any bank in the world.”

It was his turn to study her. His supercilious air was gone, but he was wary now.

“You must realize, Miss Roffe,” he began cautiously, “that a drug firm’s reputation is as important as its products.”

Who had said that to her before? Her father? Alec? She remembered. Rhys.

“Goon.”

“Our problems are becoming too well-known. The business world is a jungle. If your competitors suspect that you’ve been wounded, they move in for the kill.” He hesitated, then added, “They’re moving in for the kill.”

“In other words,” Elizabeth replied, “our competitors bank with our bankers, too.”

He gave her a brief congratulatory smile. “Exactly. The banks have a limited amount of funds to loan out. If they’re convinced that A is a better risk than B—”

“And do they think that?”

He ran his fingers through his hair, nervously. “Since your father’s death I’ve had several calls from Herr Julius Badrutt. He heads up the banking consortium we’re dealing with.”

“What did Herr Badrutt want?” She knew what was coming.

“He wanted to know who was going to be the new president of Roffe and Sons.”

“Do you know who the new president is?” Elizabeth asked.

“No ma’am.”

“I am.” She watched him try to conceal his surprise. “What do you think will happen when Herr Badrutt learns the news?”

“He’ll pull the plugs on us,” Wilton Kraus blurted out.

“I’ll talk to him,” Elizabeth said. She leaned back in her chair and smiled. “Would you care for some coffee?”

“Why that’s—that’s very kind of you. Yes, thank you.”

Elizabeth watched him relax. He had sensed that she had been testing him, and he felt that he had passed the test.

“I’d like your advice,” Elizabeth said. “If you were in my position, Mr. Kraus, what would you do?”

That faintly patronizing air was back. “Well,” he said confidently, “that’s very simple. Roffe and Sons has enormous assets. If we sold off a substantial block of stock to the public, we could easily raise more than enough money to satisfy all our bank loans.”

She knew now whose side he was on.

 

 

CHAPTER 22

 

Hamburg.

Friday, October 1.

Two a.m.

 

 

The wind was blowing from the sea, and the early-morning air was chill and damp. In the Reeperbahn section of Hamburg the streets were crowded with visitors eager to experience the forbidden pleasures of the city of sin. The Reeperbahn catered to all tastes impartially. Drinks, drugs, girls or boys—they were all available at a price.

The garishly lighted hostess bars were on the main street, while the Grosse Freiheit featured the lewd strip shows. The Herbertstrasse, one block away, was for pedestrians only, and both sides of the street were lined with prostitutes sitting in the windows of their flats, displaying their wares through flimsy soiled nightgowns that concealed nothing. The Reeperbahn was a vast market, a human butcher shop, where you could select any piece of meat you could afford to pay for. For the straitlaced there was simple sex, missionary style; for those who enjoyed a bit of variety there was cunnilingus and analingus and sodomy. On the Reeperbahn you could buy a twelve-year-old boy or girl, or get into bed with a mother and daughter. If you tastes ran that way, you could watch a woman being serviced by a Great Dane, or get yourself whipped until you achieved orgasm. You could hire a toothless crone to perform fellatio on you in a busy alley or buy yourself an orgy in an elaborately mirrorer bedroom with as many girls or boys as your libido required. The Reeperbahn prided itself on having something for everyone. Younger whores in short skirts and tight-fitting blouses cruised the pavements, propositioning men, women and couples impartially.