“That right?”

“Yeah, and we won’t have a prayer.”

“Let me worry about that. What’s two?”

“Two, Arvan is our chief chemical supplier. Without those chemicals, we’re screwed. Totally shut down. Bombs and missiles don’t work without high explosives.”

“Is Arvan the only provider on the market?”

“No, there are two or three others. All farther away, not as cheap, not nearly as reliable.”

“So what’s three?”

“Three, Arvan is our best supplier. Perry Arvan runs a tight ship. I’ll show you the quality control reports if you like. Perry’s got the lowest defect rate of any of our suppliers. His on-time delivery is perfect.”

“Is there a four?”

“Only this. If we pull the rug out from under him, Arvan will surely go bankrupt. We’re Perry’s biggest contract. He’s signed up for sixty-three million this year after he willingly took a seven million cut from last year. It will destroy him and a very fine company.”

It seemed to Dyson that Walters was biting back a smile. “You’re about to make me cry, Dyson.”

“Mitch, it’s bad business, and a bad decision.”

Walters snorted and shook his head. “Who pays you?”

Dyson took a deep swallow. “Take it easy, Mitch.”

“Do I pay you to worry about other companies?”

“No.”

“Remember that. In fact, you just convinced me Arvan’s the ideal candidate. What a great message to send to the others. Don’t tell me you don’t see that.”

“I don’t. Explain it.”

“As good a job as Arvan has done, it’s not good enough. It failed to dig deeper, share more of our pain. Provide an even higher level of quality service.”

Dyson felt like he was going to be sick. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing-his best supplier, about to be sacked, totally without cause, all because that’s where Walters’s finger landed on that page. He liked and greatly admired Perry Arvan, considered him a friend, in fact. The idea of kneecapping him, out of the blue, was revolting. He glanced at the cold blue eyes of the man seated to Walters’s right, hoping vainly for support, a mild nod, a squint of disapproval. Come on, his look was screaming, help me out here, tell the big jerk on your left what an outrageously stupid idea this is.

Must be one of Walters’s bloodless lackeys, another of the squad of yes-men at corporate headquarters, he concluded unhappily: the man glanced away and pretended to be studying the white walls.

“You mean, execute your best soldier to make the other soldiers better?” Dyson asked, hoping Walters would see the insanity of this approach.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. And if we drive it into bankruptcy, all the better.”

“I don’t understand your thinking.”

“ ’Cause it’ll scare the crap out of the rest. The other suppliers will line up at your door begging to offer more concessions.”

Dyson cleared his throat and struggled to clear his conscience. With two kids in college, and nearly two million in CG stock that wouldn’t vest for two more years, there really was no choice. None at all. “Exactly what justification am I supposed to use?” he asked, an abject surrender.

Walters wrinkled his forehead and pretended to ponder this perplexing issue. His corporate counsel at headquarters had studied the contract the night before and cooked up the perfect response. “Failure to perform,” Walters announced, as if the idea had just popped into his brain. “Leave it vague. No particulars, no examples. Don’t give him a legal target. If he decides to sue, leave him punching in the dark.”

“I see.”

Walters stood, as did his younger colleague. An entire half hour, and the younger man had not said a word. Never introduced himself, never so much as acknowledged Dyson.

Walters began easing his way to the door. “I want a call the second it’s done,” he barked on his way out. “Call by close of business, or don’t bother coming into work tomorrow.”

9

The fax arrived at 4:00 p.m. As death notices go, it was entirely lacking in warmth, detail, or civility. It read simply, “Notice effective upon receipt: For failure to perform, Globalbang hereby tenders cancellation of contract number UA124-990, said contract pertaining to all business arrangements between Globalbang and Arvan Chemicals. All future deliveries will be returned to sender, at sender’s cost.”

Perry’s secretary, Agnes Carruthers, took one long and horrified look and with a shaking hand yanked it out of the tray before scampering in the direction of the cramped conference room where Perry was in his weekly meeting with his section chiefs.

She banged the door open and stood, breathless and terrified.

Perry stopped in midsentence. “What is it, Agnes?”

“I…” It suddenly struck her that perhaps she shouldn’t mention this devastating news in front of everybody. Her face was ashen, her mouth hung open. It was just so horrible. Maybe it was a mistake-yes, that’s what it was, what it had to be. Or maybe somebody was playing a joke, a very rotten one. She clasped the paper to her chest and just stared at her boss, uncertain and speechless.

Perry stood and took a step in her direction. “Are you all right, Agnes?”

“Yes… uh, no,” she stammered. “You and Mr. Belton better join me in the hall.”

Agnes was old and occasionally excitable: she had been known over the years to throw the occasional outburst. Her tizzies were rare but legendary around the insular company. She looked positively unhinged, though. Mat Belton stood, and he and Perry followed her out into the hall. “You might want to shut the door,” she murmured quietly.

Mat did and the three of them ended up in a tight huddle. Agnes drew a heavy breath and tried to compose herself. “This just came in,” she whispered, unable to get the tremor out of her voice. She held up the fax so the terrible words could be seen.

Perry quickly read the paper. He yanked it from her hand then slowly reread it, searching line by line for a mistake or some clue that this was a joke, a forgery, a farce.

Nope: it looked dreadfully real. And quite final.

“Jesus” was all Mat could say. He repeated it, then again, and with each repetition the word grew weaker, becoming a faint whisper. If this was true, they were beyond even heavenly salvation. Mat knew what he was staring at, a certain sentence of bankruptcy.

“Failure to perform?” Perry slapped the fax in obvious disbelief. “Ridiculous. No, it’s completely outrageous.”

Mat insisted, “Our deliveries have always been on time. Always. Our reject rate is below a tenth of a percent. The past three years, they gave us the trophy for best supplier. This can’t be right.”

Perry and Mat fell silent and contemplated the ugly situation. Frankly, there was little to think about. Either they convinced Globalbang to rescind this hideous order or inside a week the banking vultures would be picking over Arvan’s corpse.

Perry lurched away in the direction of his office. After a moment, Agnes and Mat scampered behind him. Perry was already on the phone when they entered, seated behind his old, scarred desk, hollering into the mouthpiece at somebody to put him through to Timothy Dyson right away.

After suffering an interminable moment on hold, an assistant coldly informed him that Mr. Dyson wasn’t available at that moment, likely for weeks, maybe months, or possibly ever. At the very least, not until they stopped calling.

Perry slammed down the receiver, clasped his chest, and recoiled back into his chair.

“Are you okay?” Mat asked, moving quickly toward his boss, who appeared to be experiencing a heart attack.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Perry moaned before he lurched over and hung his head over the trash can. “We’re ruined, Mat. Screwed,” he mumbled.

Mat so badly wanted to contradict his boss, to offer some reprieve, some way to calm him, anything to remove the pain.