Fred Willard stopped with one hand on the glass doors and turned to see Ivan Kramitz waving at him from the sidewalk. Forcing a smile, he waved back and waited to see what the son-of-a-bitch wanted.
He hated Ivan with a passion, and knew it was reciprocated. Their dislike for each other was not particularly surprising as the men were physical and cultural opposites competing successfully in identical positions. Ivan was a recent immigrant to America-some said a refugee from the Russo-Chinese War-while Fred was from a long line of fringe-poor Americans. Where Ivan was the image of a Hungarian fencing master in appearance, poise, and arrogance, Fred knew his rounded figure and rolling gait brought to mind a beer-swilling, red-necked cop. Add to this their age difference-Fred in his mid-fifties, Ivan in his early thirties-and the fact that they were employed by rival corporations, and it was inevitable that each saw his rival as the personification of everything he hated and fought against.
However, you couldn't ignore a chance to talk with the second-in-command of Oil's negotiating team outside of the conference room, particularly if you're third in command of the Communications negotiating team. So Fred waited while Ivan closed the distance between them at a leisurely saunter.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, my friend, but I did want to speak with you before you headed in." Ivan smiled through his accent.
Fred returned his smile with an equally insincere toothiness. He had discovered several weeks ago that when he wanted to, Ivan could speak flawless English and only used the accent to irritate Fred.
"No problem, Ivan. What can I do for you?"
"I was merely curious if your team was still interested in that four million barrels of fuel?"
Interested? Damn straight they were interested. They had forty fighter planes grounded until they could get reserves back up.
"I'm not sure, Ivan. I'll have to check with the boys. Why? Are the Oil czars loosening up a bit?"
"Possibly. I've heard a few rumors I might be able to follow up on. Just because they refused your first few offers doesn't mean they aren't interested. Maybe if you offered an exchange instead of a simple purchase. I have relatively reliable information that they might be willing to release the fuel if Communications were willing to share the plans for the throat-mike communicators currently in use."
Bingo! Those bastards wouldn't be so ready to deal if those throat-mike systems weren't giving them real problems. Time to twist the old knife a little.
"I dunno, Ivan. The boys are mighty touchy about those little toys. I don't think they'd be too wild about our trading them off that easily."
Ivan grinned like a barracuda.
"As a matter of fact, Frederick, the rumor I heard stated specifically that your troops were not to be notified of the exchange. You know, a little...'under the table' deal between old friends."
You son-of-a-bitch! You want us to sell our own men down the river! You want us to turn your Oil Slicker wolves loose with those hookups without warning our own troops!
"N-F-W! No fucking way, baby!" He maintained his smile even though it hurt. "No way will we turn those toys loose unannounced for a few crummy gallons of fuel!"
"You disappoint me, my friend. Certainly my superiors are aware that such an exchange would require some additional bonuses for Communications."
"Such as what?"
"Unfortunately those figures are not available at this time. Perhaps we could continue our discussion over lunch?" Without waiting for an answer, he stepped past Fred and disappeared into the depths of the building.
Those figures are not available-damn! That bastard had the pat phrases down cold. In corporate jargon, he had just said, "Eat your heart out, sweetheart. I'm not saying anything more until I'm good and ready!"
Shit! It was times like this you hated being a negotiator. It was clear that the Oilers wanted those hookups and on their terms. And they'd get them. Ivan was far too confident not to be sure his offer would be beyond refusal.
The irritating part was that he had specifically chosen Fred to make his offer to. Not only did he know his offer couldn't be refused, he also knew Fred hated like the plague to give in. If Fred had his way, Oil could offer their entire North American-hell, their whole western hemisphere holdings before he sold their own men down the river.
But he followed orders just like everyone else, and if the Lord High Muckity-Mucks decided it was a good idea, he'd have to knuckle under and accept it. Ivan knew that and was doubtlessly glorying in it.
Not for the first time, Fred contemplated what Ivan's face would look like mashed to a bloody pulp. With a deep sigh he entered the conference room.
It was a spacious room, even with two dozen men in it. Fred smiled at the two groups huddled at their respective ends of the room, murmuring together and casting dark glances at their opposing numbers. He was greeted by the traditional assortment of grunts and vague waves. Really friendly bunch, this. But then again, they weren't being paid to be friendly. Like everyone else in the world of corporations they were paid for results.
The unfortunate part about being a negotiator was that no one was ever satisfied with your results. Everyone could have done better. Small wonder the rate of casualties due to nervous breakdowns and/or suicide was so high. Of those that survived, most retired young. Fred was the exception; at fifty-three, he was one of the oldest and most respected negotiators in the business.
"Gentlemen, could we get started now?"
It was the Senior Negotiator for Oil, it being Oil's day to chair the meeting. One by one the team members drifted to their seats. There was no hurry as it would take at least fifteen minutes from the time the room was sealed before the electronic detectors could confirm the room was free of listening devices.
Fred dropped heavily into his seat in the move so characteristic of overweight men. As were many of his habitual moves and gestures, this move was theoretically exaggerated to irritate and mislead his opponents. Anyone observing him would dismiss him as a harmless, slightly comical character-that is, anyone who hadn't seen him sidestep an angry longshoreman, then ram the offending party's head through a wall. Fred Willard learned his diplomacy not in a fine old university but on the streets and dockyards of Chicago.
"The meeting will come to order!"
Fred sighed and punched the buttons on his console for his regular morning stimulants. The tray hissed into view bearing his ungodly trio: a glass of orange juice, a cup of black coffee, and a cold can of beer. Fred took private glee in his traditional can of beer among the bloody marys and screwdrivers of his colleagues. He knew it irritated them, and an irritated opponent is a careless opponent.
"The chair recognizes the Third Negotiator for Oil."
Fred groaned inwardly. Those bastards! Why did they always have to start their damn cute maneuvers so early in the morning? The cuter the move, the earlier they started, and this one promised to be a beaut. With a grimace, he punched the record button on his console. Better get this on tape. He'd want to study it later.
The Third Negotiator for Oil was Judy Simmons, an attractive young girl fresh out of college. When she first joined the negotiations, many had ignored her, thinking her to be a "companion" of one of the men. This illusion was short-lived. She had proved herself to be as cold and merciless as any man on the team-maybe a little colder. No one could get a firm line on her background, but it was Fred's theory she had been recruited from one of the campus radical groups-the ones who execute hostages one at a time until their demands are met. Some of the men still speculated privately as to her availability as a bed partner, but Fred had long since reached an opinion: he'd rather sleep with a king cobra than let her near him, even if the opportunity presented itself.