The Kiwi Target

handed one to Peter and then sat down. “How much do you know about corporate raiders?” he asked.
    “Largely what I read in The Wall Street Journal. I don’t think any self-respecting vulture would care for their company.”
    “You’re not alone.”
    Peter caught his mood. “Recently some British tycoon went after an American company. You probably read about it. He failed, but he cleared a ninety-four-million-dollar profit. To me, that’s obscene.”
    “I couldn’t agree more,” Charlie said. “Peter, they’re after us.”
    That was stunning news, and the impact took a few moments to sink in. Peter had so far invested six years of his life in Swarthmore and Stone, and a vice presidency didn’t seem to be too far into the future. He and Charlie often conferred because they worked well together. “Who is it?” he asked.
    “Pricane.”
    It could hardly have been worse. Pricane Industries was one of the largest and most ruthless conglomerates born of the merger frenzy that had been in high gear for some time. As one ousted executive had put it, “If Pricane comes after you, grab whatever you can and run for the exits.”
    Peter ignored his drink. “Pricane wants to buy us out,” he said by way of confirmation.
    “Yes.”
    “But you hold a controlling interest—at least, that’s what I understand.”
    Swarthmore leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “I wish to hell that I did,” he said. “But I don’t, not since we went public. Pricane has been buying us up through straw men and street-address accounts for the past two months. I only just got wind of it. Stupid of me, but I didn’t see it coming.”
    “Then we’d better get out proxy solicitations as of now,” Peter said. “I know it will cost, but we’ve got to protect ourselves.”
    Swarthmore shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Peter. Pricane is very good at covering their tracks. We’ve got only one hope, and that’s Bishop.”
    This time Peter reached for his drink. “I never heard of him.”
    Charlie rotated his shoulders for a moment to ease the muscular tension. “When Stone pulled out some years ago, it was perfectly amiable; his decision entirely. He sold a block of his stock to a man named Bishop, took his profit, and got out of the picture. Apparently he knew he had terminal cancer.”
    “What about the rest of his stock?”
    “His family sold it on the open market when we went public. Bishop hung on to his.”
    “Then we’d better get on to Bishop, and fast,” Peter said. “Unless you’re going to tell me that he sits on Pricane’s board, or something like that.”
    Charlie straightened up and faced Peter across the desk. “I’ll tell you all I know about him. He lives in New Zealand, but we don’t have an address. All contacts are through his attorney, a man called Raymond O’Malley. Bishop, apparently, is a Howard Hughes type who treasures his privacy. And I gather he can afford it.”
    “First name?”
    “Alfred. That’s it, period.”
    Peter was thinking swiftly. “Have you met O’Malley?”
    “No. but he’s in good standing, I checked on that.”
    “If he likes privacy so much, he may not care to have Pricane take over his shares in us without his approval.”
    Charlie got up and began to walk around his office, something he often did when he had a decision to make. “Peter, you have a New Zealand connection, I seem to recall.”
    Peter stayed in his chair; as close as he felt to his boss, it wasn’t his office. “My mother was born there,” he said. “When she married my father, he brought her back here. I was born about two years after that.”
    “Then she must have—”
    Peter interrupted by shaking his head. “I was five when she died: leukemia. After that, Dad never spoke of her; it hurt him too much. I’ve got a few pictures, one or two keepsakes she brought with her—that’s all.”
    “I’m not trying to pry, Peter.”
    “That’s all right. I lost my father three years ago, about the same time I was divorced.”
    Charlie picked up a pen from his desk set and then replaced it again. “Have you got any contacts in New Zealand? Relatives, perhaps?”
    “My mother had a sister, but we’ve never been in touch. That’s about it. I have no idea where she is now.”
    Swarthmore thought for another few seconds before he declared himself. “Peter, as things stand, whether or not we’re going to be able to survive as an independent