Babylon South by Jon Cleary Page B

“You can’t renege, Mr. Safire. The sale has already been through the exchange. It wouldn’t look good for Intercapital if I reported you to the Companies and Securities Commission.” She had them by the throat and she looked up the table at another throat, Venetia’s. “That raises our holding in Springfellow and Company to 19.9 per cent.”
    â€œStill less than ours,” said Justine, shooting cross-fire.
    â€œBut still too big for you to buy out over our heads.”
    â€œI don’t suppose you’d tell us where you got the money?” said Venetia.
    â€œYou’re not that naïve and neither am I,” said Emma. “You’ll find out eventually, but for the time being that’s our business. You’d be surprised how many people are prepared to put up money to fight you.”
    Venetia bent her head for a whispered conference with Broad and Polux, both of whom looked as if they would cut Emma’s throat if there were not so many witnesses. Everyone else, except Justine, seemed at a loss for somewhere to look; one man got up and closely examined the Marie Laurencin, as if he had just been called in to appraise it. All the men in the room were, in these days of takeovers, accustomed to seeing blood spilt. But this was family blood, almost blue, and abruptly they were squeamish.
    Justine leaned across the table towards Emma; for a moment she looked a younger, darker version of her mother, all sharpened steel. “You won’t win, you know that. You’ve done nothing but draw dividends all your life, never contributed a thought or a suggestion to the firm—”
    For once Emma was cool and controlled. “I’ve contributed something now, haven’t I? The other shareholders, the public who have never had a spokesman, may canonize me.” She looked smug enough to do the job herself, if no one else would.
    Safire and Newstead both smiled at that, throwing petrol on Justine’s smouldering fury. “Goddamnit, Emma, you’re doing this out of spite!”
    â€œPartly,” said Emma, still cool; she and Justine were alone in their own arena, “It adds taste to it. But the main reason, as Edwin tried to explain to you when you first made your horrible offer, is to keep the firm, the name, where it started and has always belonged—in the Springfellow family, the real Springfellows.”
    â€œThe real Springfellows will die with you and Uncle Edwin! There’s no one after you—except me! I’m a real Springfellow, I have my father’s name—”
    â€œPerhaps so,” said Emma and for the sharper ears in the room there was an enigmatic note in her voice. “Unfortunately, there isn’t a hint of him in you. You are your mother’s daughter through and through.”
    Justine was leaning across the table, her voice low but strained; she seemed on the verge of reaching for Emma and doing her harm. Emma just sat and stared at her, only moving to gently shake off Edwin’s hand as he tried to put it restrainingly on her arm. There was dead silence in the big room; the air was full of taut invisible wires. Then a man coughed and it sounded thin and shrill, like a castrato caught halfway to a wrong note.
    â€œThat will be all,” said Venetia. “The meeting is adjourned.”
    â€œYou mean you withdraw both your bids?” said Edwin and looked suddenly relieved.
    â€œNo,” said Venetia and looked directly at Emma, “I mean the war is just beginning.”
    II
    â€œVenetia darling,” said the Prime Minister, I had to call you—”
    â€œYou took your time, Philip.”
    â€œDon’t you read the papers? I’ve been in New Zealand with that lesbian PM of theirs. Christ, don’t ever try to work out a defence treaty with a dyke . . . Don’t you follow my movements at all?” He sounded more bewildered than hurt, as if his minders had fallen down on