"da Cruz, Daniel - Republic of Texas 02 - Texas on the Rocks" - читать интересную книгу автора (Da Cruz Daniel)

"Really?" said Joe Mansour, arching an eyebrow. "Strange, I thought that twelve thousand was the maximum."

Forte looked sharply at the little Lebanese financier, with his long nose and patent-leather hair. Clearly it would be best not to talk down to Joe Mansour. "Well, you're right, of course. Ten to twelve thousand is the usual figure. But for the past three years, a one-and-a-half-degree drop in global temperatures has fouled up rainfall patterns in the entire northern hemisphere, and the number has jumped to around fifteen thousand. If we hadn't thought of using high-speed, high-powered propfan seasleds to drag them away from our rigs, they would have beaten us."

The small Lebanese smiled gently. "They have beaten you, Mr. Forte."

"How do you mean?"

"My Phoenicia Holding Company is only one of four international banking consortia that you have approached for loans during the past thirty days. That sounds to me suspiciously like desperation, a last-ditch attempt to stave off ruin."

Forte forced a laugh. "Not desperation--haste. You see, my seasleds have solved the only real problem in extracting Grand Banks oil--icebergs. From here on in, it's smooth sailing. The oil's there. What I need now is financing for the gathering system, a tanker fleet, and certain downstream facilities. Then all I have to do is turn on the tap and watch the money pour in."

"Provided you have the $300 million, that is."

"Yes, sure. But there's no worry about my getting it. Our Grand Banks reserves have proved out at nearly 4 billion barrels. Rigs, tankers, and auxiliary equipment are available. Nearby American markets for sweet crude are getting better every day. No banker in his right mind would turn down a loan request under these conditions. The only area of negotiation is the rate of interest. And since you're the first on the scene, and known for quick decision, I am prepared to be flexible."

"Very good of you, I'm sure," murmured Mansour. He gazed out the window. The snow squall had ended as

abruptly as it had begun. The masts and stacks of the other ships that lay at anchor in Argentia Bay stood out starkly against the Newfoundland snowscape. "But according to your credit application, the Fourth First National Bank of Houston, the Bank of Chicago, and Boston Federal all hold your notes totaling more than a billion dollars. If your prospects are so rosy, Mr. Forte, why don't you approach them for the relatively paltry sum you still need to put your field into production? Surely they would be more than happy to advance what you require."

Forte fidgeted in the period chair, which barely contained his spacious frame. He took a pull from the glass of bourbon, held it up to the light, and nodded resignedly.

"I did go to those three banks. They turned me down. I still don't know why."

"Maybe they have doubts about your management ability."

"I don't think so. After all, I have brought the company this far, from a standing start to the point where profits are about to take off into, the wild blue yonder."

"But what if you--Ripley Forte--were no longer present? I speak of the unpleasant but ever-present possibility of accidents in this hazardous line of work. Where would that leave the Yellow Rose Oil Company?"

"Just where it is now--in top-notch shape. I've developed strong, experienced managers in every department. Any one of half a dozen men could replace me tomorrow."

"It's all very puzzling," Joe Mansour observed. "Tell me, what would be the situation if, for any reason, you were unable to negotiate this $300 million loan?"

Forte laughed bitterly. "Nothing, except I'd be wiped out for the third time in my life."

Mansour rose and walked across the big salon. It could have been an elegant eighteenth-century Parisian drawing room, with its Beauvias tapestry and works by Valesquez, Steen, Arthur Frick, and Cezanne on the walls, Boulle cabinet and desk, Louis XVI chairs and tables, Bohemian crystal chandelier, and enormous blood-red Bakhtiari carpet. From the desk he took a pink slip of paper. He handed it to Forte.

It was a bank draft for $300 million, dated this day, November 12, 2004, drawn on the Phoenicia Holding Corporation and payable to the Yellow Rose Oil Company.

Forte inspected it, bit his lip in puzzlement, and put it down on the table next to him. He picked up his drink and sipped it carefully. Bankers didn't do things this way.

"Don't think I don't appreciate your confidence in the Yellow Rose Oil Company," he began, "but it would be more businesslike if we discussed the interest rate and conditions of repayment before I accept this, Mr. Mansour."

"There is no interest. There are no conditions."

"I don't get it. I--"

"When I say there are no conditions, I am not being strictly accurate. In fact, there is one condition: that you turn over your responsibilities to any subordinate you select and come work with--observe that I did not say 'for'--me."