Page 10 of The List

He stood at his desk. “You know I don’t like you mothering me.”

“Any pain?”

“Not yet,” he said, before adding, “but thanks for asking.”

He knew she cared far more than either of them would ever admit.

He’d never married and she was divorced.

He’d often thought himself the cause of her marriage ending, though neither one of them ever discussed it.

His own bachelorhood at nearly seventy years old was, perhaps, the only overtly odd thing about him, a fact that repeatedly sparked gossip, some even suggesting he was gay. But Nancy knew better.

“Could you try and not let Mr. Lee get you worked up?” she asked.

“That’s much easier said than done.”

“You want me to make a doctor’s appointment?”

He smiled. “Determined, aren’t you?”

“Just concerned, Chris.”

She was much more informal when other people were not around.

“I appreciate it. But no, I don’t need a doctor. I’m truly fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

He’d hoped she wouldn’t notice what he had an hour ago while dressing. A gaunt look had invaded his face, noticeable from the tired eyes and sallow skin. Something more than just old age or stress was happening.

Something bad.

“I’ll let you know when I have a problem.”

She shook her head. “Like hell you will. So I’ll keep asking.”

8:40 A.M.

C HRIS FOLLOWED N ANCY OFF THE ELEVATOR.

Her low heels pounded the carpet as she headed toward a locked mahogany door.

The thirtieth floor accommodated only the company boardroom and a conference center used for large gatherings and occasionally leased out to third parties, the view from its glass walls and observation deck worth the high rent charged.

He watched as Nancy unlocked the boardroom door.

The three executive secretaries alternated preparing for the monthly board gathering.

Hamilton Lee’s handled January, April, July, October.

Larry Hughes’ February, May, August, and November.

Nancy was responsible for March, June, September, and December.

Company rules required that one of the owners always witness the preparations.

Five other rules also governed.

First. Switch on the overhead fluorescents.

Though the space was less than three hundred square feet and a morning sun enveloped, the ceiling lights were always lit.

A Bohemian crystal chandelier, imported from the Czech Republic, dangling from the center, was more for decoration and remained unlit.

Second. Prepare the windows. A wall switch mechanically retracted a set of ivory sheers across the tinted glass.

Their opaqueness still allowed the bright morning to filter through but shielded the interior from any curious viewers.

For night meetings, another row of retractable lined curtains was available that allowed no light in or out.

Both the walls and the glass were soundproof.

Third. Activate the signal jammer that prevented any cell phone reception or remote eavesdropping from outside the room.

Fourth. Prepare the stations. The conference table had been crafted by a north Georgia cabinet shop, carved from Honduran mahogany, its unique shape, like a cog from some intricate machine both circular and individual, with no added prominence given to any one side.

The fusion of the boomerangs formed three individual workstations, each equipped with a leather blotter, four drawers, a computer, and a high-backed chair.

Nothing identified who used which side. Only within the drawers, which stayed locked, did the personalization of each station become apparent.

Nancy withdrew a chamois from a drawer and swiped the table clean of dust. The shiny surface matched the mahogany facade of the room’s polished walls.

The floor was covered in a royal-blue carpet the consistency of a Turkish rug, which likewise helped contain sound.

She straightened each chair and blotter, then switched on the three computers.

Chris glanced at his watch. 8:59 A.M.

Fifth. At no time, once prepared, was the boardroom left unattended.

So he stepped to the door and waited.

9:01 A.M.

C HRIS WATCHED AS THE brASS ELEVATOR DOORS PARTED AND THE remaining two-thirds of the corporation stepped onto the thirtieth floor.

Larry Hughes and Hamilton Lee each wore a tailored business suit.

The only variations in their dark conservative theme were their individual choices of tie, cuff links, and jewelry.

Together, the three men owned the entire company and had since the beginning.

For organizational purposes the everyday responsibilities had been subdivided years ago.

Chris was the moneyman and oversaw accounting, payroll, purchasing, billing, and accounts receivable.

Lee’s realm was production, managing the paper mill, the sawmills, the bag plant, and the building products and forestry divisions.

Hughes got all the rest. Sales, land acquisitions, land management, human resources, and industrial relations.

Within their individual areas, each ruled supreme.

Only together, as the board of directors, could they establish company-wide policy.

Lee smelled of his usual cologne. Hughes of cloves from the gum he habitually chewed. Chris offered only the expected pleasantries with minimal civility. He despised being confined in a room with them, and knew the feeling was mutual.

Nancy left.

He watched her stroll away. She would return to her office, locking access to the thirtieth floor. The elevator only moved between the two floors, installed solely for company use, and the building’s main elevator array had already been barred from access.

The thirtieth floor was now secured.

He closed and locked the boardroom door.

Lee and Hughes headed for their respective side of the conference table.

No one spoke. He watched while Lee unlocked the drawers at his workstation and removed a spectrum analyzer.

A brief sweep of the room confirmed no electronic listening devices.

A check was required by the board itself both prior to and after any meeting. No cell phones were ever allowed.

Lee replaced the monitor in the drawer. “The room’s clean.”

Chris wedged himself into the high-backed chair and rolled close to the table. The other two men did the same. For this calendar year Lee served as designated chairman. The job rotated annually in a set order and carried no additional aura or duties except to chair the meetings.

“This June meeting of the board of directors is called to order.”

Chris slipped a gold watch from his vest pocket and noted the start time on a pad.

9:06 A.M. The task of serving as secretary likewise annually rotated.

He would make notes in his own form of shorthand.

Later, Nancy would generate a polished version of minutes, to be approved at the next meeting, for the official record.

Lee glanced at Hughes. “Item one. Projected third-quarter production figures. Update us, Larry.”

Hughes tapped the keyboard in front of him. Chris watched in silence, remembering last month’s meeting where escalating raw material costs at the paper mill had become a major concern.

“The price of chlorine and natural gas continues to rise. At present, we’re looking at over $2 million for the quarter in new costs that we can expect to be permanent, though the wholesalers swear chlorine should come back down by December.”

Lee shook his head.

“I’m negotiating with the natural gas people,” Hughes said. “We’re their number one customer in Woods County. I’ve told them biomass as a fuel is looking better for the long haul.”

It took an enormous amount of electricity, oil, coal, and natural gas to keep the Concord mill operating—a constant battle to stock an available and affordable supply of each.

Coal had long been their number one energy source.

Cheaper by far. Six years ago, at Chris’ urging, they’d spent $35 million to add a coal fire boiler to help reduce costs.

But coal prices had steadily been increasing and that boiler was looking more and more like a bad investment.

Lee turned toward him. “Chris, are revenues still holding?”

He stopped note taking and tabled his gold pen, a gift from Nancy last Christmas. He turned to his monitor and found the relevant information. A push of a button and he transferred the data to the other two terminals.

“On your screen is the projected flow sheet for the next quarter. What concerns me are timber prices. They’re fluctuating wildly and will definitely affect the bottom line.”

He’d made no secret of his dissatisfaction with Hamilton Lee’s handling of the forestry division.

Timber was the main staple in the mill’s daily diet.

Nearly two thousand cords of wood were laboriously cooked into pulp every twenty-four hours.

The equation was simple—no wood, no paper—so a steady, affordable supply of trees had to be assured.

Company timber from company land helped.

But outside trees were the bulk of it, the open market price changing by the hour.

Which meant it needed constant attention. Something Hamilton Lee rarely provided.

“The damn timber owners seem intent on milking every dime they can,” Lee said. “And the bioenergy people are buying up trees as fast as they mature, driving the prices up for manufacturers.”

“How about our reserves?” Hughes asked.

He winced at the question. Hughes’ answer to everything was to dip deeper into the company cookie jar.

Southern Republic owned or controlled, through long-term leases, thousands of acres of pine trees.

But that wood was designated reserve for a reason, to be used only in emergencies to keep the mill running.

The idea being to negotiate and buy other people’s trees as cheaply as possible, not indiscriminately harvest timber that cost money to grow.