The Tin Man Read Online Free PDF

we were at Princeton?”
    Al-Jaafari winced in pain. Thanks to a run-in with a coat rack, it hurt him to speak. And to breathe. He was certain at least one of his ribs was cracked.
    “Of course I remember,” Sahid replied, shooting a glance his way. “Whatever became of it?”
    Feeling the bite of an old resentment, Al- Jaafari bit out through clenched teeth, “Do you not recall? My parsimonious father forced me to sell it when he refused to pay to ship it back to Riyadh.”
     
    * * * *
     
    Milo Osbourne leaned back in his leather captain’s chair just far enough to block from view the message he was texting on his silenced cell phone. As the Global Media CEO hit the send key, he looked left at Ben Dogan, his chief legal counsel, then right toward Carl Jackson, his second in command. Both were looking down the long mahogany conference table at Duncan Gibson, who was giving a PowerPoint presentation outlining the strategies for resisting a hostile takeover.
    Though Gibson was a masterful jouster, he was, as a presenter, about as scintillating as soggy toast. Anxiously awaiting a reply to his text, Osbourne glowered down the table at the attorney. “What do we know about this punk, anyway?”
    “Quite a bit, actually.” Gibson switched to the next slide.
    The projection screen displayed a head shot of a fortyish man with movie-star good looks. Dark hair, chiseled face, cleft chin, penetrating blue eyes. Oddly, something about the man’s appearance struck Osbourne as familiar. Had they met somewhere before? Despite the niggling feeling of recognition, he didn’t think so. Even at his advanced age, he was adept at remembering faces. He looked into the eyes, which appeared cold and hard. Reptilian, one might say. There was a cruel edge to the thin mouth as well.
    Something about the takeover artist’s expression reminded Osbourne of himself at that age, which scared him some. If this man was half as unscrupulous as he’d been, Golden Age Media was in serious trouble.
    “He’s a handsome bugger,” Dogan inserted. “I’ll give him that.”
    “But also a real S.O.B., I’d be willing to wager,” Osbourne added.
    “A ruthless predator, by all accounts,” Gibson confirmed with a nod.
    “And his dossier?” Jackson asked.
    Gibson, clearing his throat, set his hands on the table and leaned closer, looking from face to face. “He attended the London School of Economics, then did a couple of years of med school, oddly enough, before taking a job as a stockbroker. Paternoster Square, you know. The London Stock Exchange, not Wall Street. He specialized in options and did well enough to buy himself a seat on the exchange. Olympus Enterprises is the name of his firm. Last year, he acquired a seat on the New York exchange as well.”
    “And his name?” Osbourne wanted to know.
    “Robert Sterling ,” Gibson replied.
    Osbourne shifted in his chair, still studying the face of his black knight. That nagging feeling of familiarity refused to let go. “Where did he grow up? Who were his parents?”
    Standing taller, Gibson crossed his arms over his gray double-breasted suit coat. “He was raised by a single mother —a schoolteacher—in a rural village up near Yorkshire. She was a real religious fanatic, apparently. She died in a house fire, just about the time the lad came of age. Burned to death while in bed with a lover, according to the news archives.”
    “And the father?”
    “Nobody knows.” The barrister shrugged. “And we haven’t yet been able to track down a birth certificate.”
    No record of his birth? That probably meant the punk was illegitimate. Born at home to protect the father’s identity, he ’d wager, which probably meant the surname was a cover as well.
    “And what prompted the little bastard to become a corporate raider?” Osbourne inquired.
    Gibson cleared his throat again. “It seems he acquired a taste for it after doubling his money on some undervalued stock he acquired quite by