The newspaper headline stared back at William like an accusation written in bold black ink:
"IS HISTORY REPEATING ITSELF?" Harrow Motor Car Bursts Into Flames in Undisclosed Trial—Sources Link Incident to Company's Past Quality Failures
"Son of a bitch," William muttered under his breath, his jaw clenching as he absorbed the words. Then louder, his voice carrying across the room: "How in the hell did they get this?"
The subheadline was even worse, designed to cut deeper into the company's reputation: "Anonymous Industry Sources Suggest 'Dangerous Pattern' in Failing Automaker's Vehicles." Below that damning statement, William could see the beginning of what was clearly a meticulously researched article, complete with professional file photos of previous Harrow vehicle recalls from years past and a prominently placed sidebar titled "A History of Harrow's Problems."
Mrs. Patterson remained silent beside him, her usually perfect posture slightly rigid as she allowed him to absorb the full scope of what could only be described as a calculated disaster. This wasn't merely bad publicity of the kind that automotive companies occasionally faced after accidents or recalls. This was something far more sinister—a carefully orchestrated attack that had been planned well in advance.
Unlike the modern era where information could be gathered instantly through computer databases and internet searches, assembling this kind of comprehensive exposé in 1961 required substantial time, resources, and coordination. Journalists would have needed days or even weeks to compile the historical data, arrange for professional photography, conduct interviews with multiple sources, and coordinate with editors to ensure maximum impact. The recent crash had simply provided the perfect excuse to publish what was clearly a pre-planned character assassination piece.
William's mind raced as he scanned the article more carefully, his eyes picking up details that revealed the depth of preparation involved. Someone with intimate access to company information had provided detailed background about past incidents, including specifics that only a handful of people could have known. Fortunately, the information regarding the current test was relatively vague and appeared to be based more on assumptions and speculation than hard facts. But the newspaper definitely had authentic photos of the wreckage—clear, well-composed shots that could only have been taken by someone with direct access to the crash site.
The cherry on top of this poisonous cake were extensive quotes from unnamed "industry insiders" who spoke knowledgeably about Harrow's alleged "pattern of safety failures" and questioned whether the company had learned anything from its previous mistakes. The quotes were too detailed and too well-informed to be simple speculation—they came from people who knew the automotive industry intimately.
"Who leaked this information?" William asked, his voice dangerously quiet in the way that made his team recognize he was genuinely angry rather than merely frustrated.
"We're not certain yet, sir," Mrs. Patterson replied, her usual unflappable composure showing the first cracks William had ever seen. "I've already asked our security team to begin a quiet investigation."
The failure felt deeply personal to Patterson. Just yesterday, William had specifically asked her to ensure that nothing about the test reached the outside world, and she had confidently assured him that she would take care of it. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, she had been caught completely off guard by a major newspaper story that made her look either incompetent or complicit. Her face showed a mixture of professional disappointment and barely contained anger that William recognized from his own feelings.
William studied her thoughtfully, his analytical mind already working through the logistics of what must have happened. "Start a comprehensive but discreet investigation immediately. Under no circumstances should you respond to any media inquiries yet—there's a very real possibility that we're being baited into walking into an even larger trap. First priority: I want you to identify everyone who brought cameras to the test track yesterday."
The camera angle was actually the most promising lead they had. Unlike the future world William remembered, where everyone carried high-quality cameras in their pockets disguised as phones, photography in 1961 required substantial equipment. Cameras were bulky devices that needed film rolls, careful handling, and often tripods for stability. Taking secret photographs wasn't as simple as discretely pulling out a small device—the heavy equipment would have been noticeable to anyone paying attention. More importantly, access to the test facility was strictly controlled through multiple security checkpoints, which meant the number of people who could have taken those photos was extremely limited.
"Also," William continued, a new investigative angle occurring to him, "check with local banks to see if any of our employees have made unusually large cash deposits in the past few days. Whoever sold these photos to the newspaper would have received substantial payment for exclusive access. Large cash deposits would definitely be documented."
To be completely honest, William didn't have much hope that this approach would yield immediate results. Whoever had orchestrated this attack had demonstrated remarkable patience and sophisticated planning. There was nothing preventing them from opening new bank accounts under false names, borrowing equipment from friends, or using any number of other methods to cover their tracks. There were simply too many variables and potential complications to make this a straightforward investigation.
Mrs. Patterson nodded quickly, already making detailed notes in her ever-present note pad. "I'll look into all of those possibilities, Mr. William," she said, though her tone suggested she understood the complexity of the task ahead.
As she hurried out of the conference room to begin what would undoubtedly be a difficult and time-consuming investigation, William slumped back in his leather chair, staring at the newspaper spread across the mahogany table. He noticed that Mrs. Patterson hadn't given herself a specific deadline for completing the investigation, which indicated that even she recognized the enormous scope of what they were dealing with. But in many ways, the timeline didn't matter as much as people might think. The opponent had played their opening gambit and would definitely follow up with additional attacks designed to maximize damage. A single newspaper article, however damaging, would barely scratch the surface of Harrow's overall reputation in the long term.
In fact, as William considered the situation more analytically, the list of potential suspects was both disturbingly long and strategically revealing. The attack could have been orchestrated by disgruntled board members who had been removed during his aggressive corporate restructuring earlier in the year. It might be the work of union representatives who were angry about the significant changes in work practices and manufacturing processes that had eliminated some traditional jobs while creating others. Competitors throughout the automotive industry certainly had strong motivations for damaging Harrow's reputation, especially as the company's recent improvements had begun attracting positive attention from industry analysts and potential customers.
Even employees who felt they had been passed over for promotions, raises, or other opportunities could potentially be involved, though William suspected the real masterminds were more likely to be found among competitors and former board members. Common employees simply didn't possess the financial resources, industry connections, or strategic sophistication to facilitate such a comprehensive attack. They might have been recruited as sources or accomplices, but they were definitely not the actual masterminds behind this operation.
The sharp sound of the rotary phone on his desk interrupted his increasingly dark thoughts about corporate espionage and sabotage. The brass and wood device looked elegant and substantial sitting on his desk, but it was frustratingly slow to operate compared to the instant telecommunications he remembered from his original timeline. Even simple phone calls required patience and careful dialing.
"William speaking," he answered on the third ring.
"William, I know what happened!" Sam's voice crackled through the connection, filled with unmistakable excitement despite the poor line quality that was typical of calls in 1961.
"Calm down and tell me exactly what you found," William replied, straightening in his chair and focusing completely on the conversation. Good news would be welcome right now.
"It was the tire! It was the goddamn tire that failed!" Sam practically shouted into the phone, his enthusiasm overcoming his usual professional demeanour.
William felt an immediate mixture of relief and renewed concern washing over him. During the early development phase of the Zephyr project, they had quickly realized that standard consumer tires would literally tear themselves apart at speeds above 150-160 miles per hour. The centrifugal forces generated by extreme rotation speeds, combined with the intense heat buildup from friction with the road surface, were simply beyond anything that civilian tires were designed to handle safely.
This discovery had led them deep into the highly specialized world of racing tires, where performance requirements were dramatically different from everyday driving needs. After extensive research, consultation with racing teams, and careful evaluation of available options, they had settled on customized Dunlop R6 tires, which were widely considered the best racing tires available anywhere in the world during 1961. Unfortunately, even these premium tires used cross-ply construction rather than the radial design that William knew would eventually dominate the tire industry and provide superior performance at high speeds.
He had made several attempts to contact Michelin about their experimental radial tire technology, which he knew from his future knowledge would eventually revolutionize automotive performance. But in 1961, radial tires were still in their absolute infancy, suitable only for normal road driving at conventional speeds. The high-speed performance characteristics that would make them legendary simply hadn't been developed yet.
Eventually, through Sam's and Christopher's connections in the racing community, they had managed to arrange a meeting with Dunlop's senior management team at their headquarters in England. The British company had been genuinely intrigued by the technical challenge of creating tires capable of sustained 200 mph performance. Recent racing successes with the Jaguar D-Type and Aston Martin R1(DBR1), both of which had reached speeds approaching 180 mph on the famous Mulsanne Straight at Le Mans, had given Dunlop's engineers considerable confidence that 200 mph was an achievable goal with the right engineering approach.
The solution they had developed involved several innovative modifications to standard racing tire construction. They switched from traditional cotton cord construction to much stronger nylon for improved tensile strength and developed entirely new curing processes to ensure stronger chemical bonding between the rubber compound and the internal cord layers. The resulting prototype tires were theoretically capable of handling sustained 200 mph speeds under racing conditions, but as they had just discovered, theory and real-world performance were clearly two very different things.
"So what exactly went wrong during the test?" William asked, settling back to listen carefully to the technical explanation.
"Heat buildup beyond design parameters," Sam explained, his voice now more controlled but still carrying obvious excitement about solving the puzzle. "We found clear evidence of tire inflation caused by excessive internal heat, followed by catastrophic structural failure and blowout. But here's the really interesting part—our calculations show that the vehicle actually exceeded 200 mph and reached nearly 220 when the tire failed."
William closed his eyes and immediately understood the fundamental problem they had encountered. The tires had been carefully designed and tested for their target speed of exactly 200 mph, but by removing all interior components, sound deadening materials, and other unnecessary weight to optimize the test vehicle, the Zephyr had become capable of significantly higher speeds than originally anticipated. That extra 20 mph of performance had pushed the tires well beyond their carefully calculated design limits and into uncharted territory where failure was almost inevitable.
"Shit," William sighed, the implications becoming clear. "Alright, let me contact Dunlop directly and see what options we have for developing higher-speed-rated tires that can handle whatever speeds the car is actually capable of reaching."
"Actually, wait," he continued, making a quick strategic decision based on the urgency of the situation. "I want you to fly to England personally and work directly with their engineering team. Take a small technical team with you to Erdington so you can collaborate on-site with their best people."
Erdington was a district in Birmingham that housed Dunlop's massive headquarters complex and their primary manufacturing facilities, famously known throughout the industry as Fort Dunlop. The imposing brick fortress was one of Britain's largest and most advanced industrial complexes, representing the absolute cutting edge of tire technology and manufacturing capability anywhere in the world.
"I'm already planning to visit our Aston Martin and Lagonda operations around New Year anyway," William added, thinking through the logistics. "We can coordinate our efforts and resolve this tire issue permanently while I'm handling other business in England. Any problems with spending Christmas in England instead of here?"
Sam chuckled with genuine amusement. "Not at all, boss. It's not like I have anyone particularly special to celebrate with here in Detroit. Might as well be cold and miserable in a different country with better beer."
Sam's personal life was intentionally uncomplicated, which William had learned to respect even if he didn't fully understand it. Sam maintained careful distance from complicated family relationships and seemed to prefer a series of casual romantic arrangements rather than anything permanent or demanding. He appeared genuinely content with this lifestyle, though William sometimes wondered if it was an emotional defence mechanism developed after some past disappointment.
"Is Arthur with you right now?" William asked, wanting to coordinate with his chief engineer while he had both men available.
"Yeah, he's right here. He's actually the one who figured out the tire issue in the first place by recognizing the failure patterns."
"Excellent. Put him on the phone so I can discuss some additional technical modifications."
There was considerable noise and movement on the other end of the line as Sam called for Arthur to come to the phone. The telephone connection made it difficult to hear clearly, but eventually Arthur's familiar voice came through with reasonable clarity.
"William, you wanted to speak with me about something?"
"First, excellent work figuring out the root cause so quickly," William said, making sure to give credit where it was due.
"Thank you, I appreciate that. I've actually seen similar failure patterns before, so I was able to connect the physical symptoms to the probable cause fairly quickly once I knew what to look for."
"You have previous experience with high-speed tire failures of this type?"
"Not exactly high-speed racing applications, but we had some significant issues with Firestone tires during durability testing a few years back when I was working with a different company. I worked directly with their engineering team to identify root causes and develop solutions. The failure patterns are quite distinctive once you understand the underlying physics and know what specific signs to look for."
"Do we have anyone on our current engineering team with specialized tire construction experience?"
"Not specifically in tire engineering, no. We have several people with strong chemical and rubber science backgrounds, but tire construction is really a specialized field that requires dedicated expertise and years of hands-on experience. It's quite different from general automotive engineering."
William nodded thoughtfully, even though Arthur couldn't see the gesture. "That's exactly what I figured. Listen, I have an idea that might help prevent similar accidents in the future, regardless of what tires we end up using. Do you think we could develop some kind of speed limiting system for the production version?"
"speed limiter?" Arthur asked, obvious confusion evident in his voice. "What exactly do you have in mind?"
"I'm thinking of a system that would normally restrict the Zephyr's maximum speed to something relatively safe—maybe 150 or 160 mph for normal driving conditions. But if the driver deliberately activates a special switch or control, it will release the limiter and allow access to the full 200 mph performance capability. It would prevent someone from accidentally reaching such speeds without proper preparation."
The concept was directly inspired by the multiple driving modes that would become common in high-performance cars decades later. William knew from his future knowledge that most drivers would never need or want to exceed 100-120 mph under normal circumstances, even in a car capable of much higher speeds. A speed limiter would allow completely safe operation on public roads and highways while still providing access to the car's full potential in controlled environments like professional racetracks.
"That actually sounds technically feasible with some creative engineering," Arthur said thoughtfully, his mind already working through the mechanical possibilities. "We'd need to modify the fuel delivery system to restrict flow at certain speeds and possibly alter the ignition timing to limit power output. Or maybe we could develop a mechanical lock on the acceleration pedal when speed reaches the predetermined limit. Let me think about the best approach, but it's definitely doable with the right design work."
"Excellent. I'll give you adequate time to work out all the technical details properly. Coordinate with Su on the implementation—Sam will be in England working on the tire issue, but Su knows the systems better than anyone else and can help with the integration work."
"Understood. Should I start working on this immediately?"
"Yes, but don't rush the development process. I want you to design it properly and test it thoroughly. I should be back in America by mid-January, and we can review your progress then."
After ending the call, William leaned back in his chair, feeling some of the oppressive tension finally leaving his shoulders. The tire issue was actually encouraging news disguised as a problem. It meant that the fundamental design and engineering of the Zephyr was completely sound—the problem was with a component that could be relatively easily replaced and upgraded with better versions. If they had discovered a fundamental flaw in the car's aerodynamics, chassis design, or engine performance, redesigning the entire vehicle would have been a complete disaster that could have set them back months or even years. But sourcing better tires from Dunlop, while challenging, was definitely manageable within their timeline and budget.
However, the immediate crisis of the newspaper article still demanded his full attention and required careful strategic thinking. More importantly, he had other pressing obligations in New York that absolutely couldn't be delayed any longer. The stock market situation required his personal oversight, and the timing was becoming increasingly critical with each passing day. After New Year he was not sure how much time he would be able to give to his investment firm.
Several years earlier, in what now seemed like a different lifetime, William had established a small but sophisticated investment firm in Manhattan, initially staffed with just four carefully selected young traders. One of them had valuable previous experience working with the prestigious J.P. Morgan financial empire, while the other three were recent college graduates with strong academic backgrounds and an eagerness to prove themselves in the world of finance. Initially, William hadn't expected any results from them—he primarily needed reliable people who would follow his specific investment instructions while handling routine trading operations and market analysis.
The firm operated through an intentionally complex network of shell corporations and holding companies, many of them established in offshore jurisdictions to provide additional layers of privacy and significant tax advantages. This structure was perfectly legal in 1961 but required careful coordination and expert legal advice to maintain properly. Liz had been a big help here in setting everything up.
Anyway, William had rented a modest but well-located office space just a few blocks from Wall Street, which was absolutely essential since trading in 1961 still required constant physical presence and paper-based transactions. Electronic trading systems were still decades in the future, so proximity to the New York Stock Exchange was crucial for timely execution of trades and access to real-time market information.
Against all of his expectations, the small team had proven remarkably successful at generating profits and building a solid reputation within the financial community. What had started as a simple operation focused on following William's specific instructions had gradually grown into a legitimate investment firm with twenty to thirty full-time employees, complete with specialized traders, agents, research analysts, and even a dedicated risk management department. Over the past year, they had taken steps in establishing representative offices in London and Tokyo.
William had initially invested approximately one million dollars of his own money—a substantial sum by any measure in 1961, though still modest compared to the major Wall Street firms that dominated the financial landscape. A significant portion of that initial capital had been immediately invested in Texas Instruments stock, one of the very few companies from his original timeline that he could clearly remember delivering exceptional returns during the 1950s and 1960s. His detailed knowledge of their future success had come from an unlikely source—researching the company's corporate history years later when purchasing a TI 83 calculator for highschool coursework in his previous life.
The rest of the initial capital had been strategically deployed in general stock trading, carefully calculated margin plays, and other selected growth opportunities that William's future knowledge suggested would be profitable. By the end of 1961, the firm had generated a total profit of approximately 4.2 million dollars, with roughly 3.5 million of that directly attributable to the Texas Instruments investment that had performed even better than William had dared to hope. He had withdrawn funds several times during the year to finance the Zephyr project and other automotive initiatives, or the total would have been closer to five million dollars.
But in October, William had made a much more aggressive and potentially risky financial move. Using his stocks of Harrow Motor Company as collateral, he had successfully negotiated a forty million dollar loan from a consortium of major banks. Forty million dollars was an enormous sum in any historical era—when adjusted for inflation, it represented nearly four hundred million dollars in modern purchasing power and put him in the same financial league as some of the wealthiest individuals in America.
The massive loan had allowed his trading team to establish significant long and short positions in preparation for what William knew with absolute certainty was coming to the American economy. His memory was somewhat fuzzy on the exact dates and specific details, but he was completely certain that a major market correction would begin sometime in early 1962, probably around March, and continue through the summer months with substantial opportunities for those positioned to take advantage of the volatility.
The upcoming crash wouldn't be as severe or long-lasting as the Great Depression or some of the major corrections that would occur later in the century, but it would still present enormous profit opportunities for investors positioned on the right side of the market movements. Based on William's advance knowledge and careful analysis, his team had spent months studying market conditions, identifying vulnerable sectors, and establishing positions that would generate substantial profits from both the initial decline and the eventual recovery that would follow.
Over the years, William's employees had witnessed him demonstrate what appeared to be supernatural insight regarding major stock market events and economic trends. The resulting investment victories had impressed everyone and effectively silenced any questions about his methods or decision-making process. Some of his employees believed he was simply blessed with extraordinary intuition, while others suspected he had access to inside information from government sources or major corporations. The rest simply shrugged and focused on following his instructions, since the results spoke for themselves. But regardless of their personal theories, no one questioned William's orders when he issued specific trading instructions.
Grabbing his leather portfolio and heavy winter overcoat, William quickly left the factory and headed for his car in the executive parking area. The December weather was bitter and unforgiving, with threatening snow clouds gathering in the heavy gray sky overhead. The long drive to his family estate would give him valuable time to organize his thoughts, review his travel plans, and prepare for what were likely to be difficult conversations with his mother about his extended absence during the holiday season.
His first stop was the imposing Farmington estate, where he needed to pack appropriate clothing for the trip and discuss his travel plans with his family. From there, he would drive directly to New York—a journey of several hours through an increasingly urban landscape that would take him from the industrial heart of Connecticut through small towns and eventually into the bustling metropolitan area. After handling the critical investment firm business, he would fly to London to coordinate with the Aston Martin and Lagonda operations that required his personal attention.
The familiar sight of the Farmington estate came into view as William rounded the final curve in the tree-lined private drive that had been in his family for generations. The imposing structure with its stonework and carefully maintained grounds looked particularly grand and substantial in the weak winter afternoon light. As soon as his car came to a complete stop in the circular cobblestone drive, the familiar small retinue of household staff appeared with the practiced efficiency that came from years of dedicated service.
"Good afternoon, Mr. William," George said, appearing at the driver's side door as if by magic. The elderly butler took William's coat and briefcase with the same formal precision and attention to detail that he had maintained throughout his long career. "Your luggage will be transported to your room and your office materials will be placed on your desk momentarily."
William nodded his thanks and walked briskly through the gilded foyer, his footsteps echoing on the polished marble floors. The house always felt somewhat overwhelming after spending time at the practical, industrial environment of the factory—the dramatic contrast between functional pragmatism and inherited luxury was sometimes emotionally jarring.
"Where is Mother?" he asked George, who had followed him through the entrance hall like a devoted shadow.
"Mrs. Harrow is in the garden, sir. She's been working on her winter roses despite the cold weather."
William found his mother in the estate's extensive formal gardens, bundled warmly in a heavy wool coat and working methodically with her pruning shears among the dormant rose bushes. The roses were grown and maintained by Eleanor personally—they were her special passion and pride, and she refused to allow anyone else, including the professional gardener, to ever touch them or interfere with their care.
"Mother," William called softly, not wanting to startle her while she was working with sharp tools.
Eleanor looked up with the warm, genuine smile that immediately reminded William why he had always felt closer to her than to his father, even during his rebellious teenage years. "William, darling. I wasn't expecting you home today. Is everything alright with the business?"
"There have been some complications that require my attention," he said carefully, not wanting to worry her with the full details of the crisis. "I need to travel to New York immediately, and then to London for several days. I wanted to see you and Father before leaving."
Eleanor set down her pruning shears and studied her son's face with the perceptive, analytical gaze of a mother who had learned over the years to read between the lines and understand what he wasn't saying directly. " Complications that can't be handled by your staff?"
"Manageable ones, I hope, but they definitely require my personal attention and can't be delegated to others."
They walked together toward the house, Eleanor linking her arm through his in a gesture that was both naturally affectionate and emotionally supportive. As they approached the main entrance, her expression grew more serious and tinged with the sadness that had become a constant presence since his father's condition had deteriorated.
"Your father remains the same as when you saw him last," she said in a heavy voice filled with barely contained sadness and frustration. "He has brief moments where we feel certain he will wake up and return to us, but it's always the same disappointment. The doctors say there's no way to predict if or when he might recover."
William felt the familiar mixture of pain, guilt, and helpless regret washing over him whenever his father's condition was mentioned. The situation seemed so unfair and arbitrary—his father had okay one moment only to be struck in an accident. Now here he was in coma.
Together, they walked to his father's room, where his father lay motionless on the bed. Dressed in silk pyjamas that his nurses changed regularly, he looked almost peaceful, as if he were simply sleeping deeply. His face had regained some of its healthy, ruddy colour since the immediate aftermath of the accident and treatment, and his breathing was steady and regular. His eyes remained closed, and if not for the IV drip connected to his hand and the various monitoring equipment surrounding the bed, William might have thought his father would wake up at any moment.
William spent several long, silent minutes looking at his father, searching for any sign of awareness or recognition, but finding none. Finally, he said nothing aloud, but sighed deeply and left the room with his mother following quietly behind him. The helplessness of the situation was perhaps the most difficult aspect—there was absolutely nothing anyone could do except wait and hope.
"Will you stay for dinner tonight?" Eleanor asked with unmistakable hope in her voice, clearly dreading the prospect of eating alone again.
William looked at his mother's expectant face and found that he couldn't bear to disappoint her, even though staying would delay his departure and compress his already tight schedule. He nodded his agreement, and Eleanor's face immediately lit up with genuine happiness and relief.
"I'll ask the chef to prepare your favourite meal," she said with obvious pleasure, before walking briskly toward the kitchen to discuss the evening's menu.
As the sun set behind the bare winter trees, William made his way to the family's smaller dining room—one of three such rooms in the massive house. The largest dining room was reserved for entertaining guests and formal occasions, while this more intimate space had been added by his great-grandfather, who had found it unbearable to eat in the cavernous main room when only family members were present.
The dinner was a carefully prepared Indian meal, reflecting a culinary preference that William had developed during his previous life. He had become passionate about authentic Indian cuisine during a two-year assignment in India, and it hadn't taken him long to convert his parents to appreciate the complex spices and sophisticated flavors. Tonight's menu featured genuine butter chicken—not the bastardized, overly sweet version that would eventually become popular in Western restaurants, but the authentic preparation with rich cream, tender chicken, and carefully balanced spices. It was accompanied by fresh naan, colourful salads, fragrant basmati rice, and traditional desserts.
He spent another pleasant hour with his mother after dinner, discussing various aspects of company operations, family matters, and her concerns about his upcoming travel, before finally excusing himself to pack for the extended trip. His childhood bedroom on the second floor had been carefully maintained exactly as it was during his college years, though it now also served as his home office whenever he stayed at the estate for extended periods.
As he packed his suitcase with appropriate clothing for both New York business meetings and London's notoriously cold winter weather, William moved to the adjoining room that he had converted into a private office. Despite having his own condominium in Hartford and another in New Haven, he genuinely preferred staying at the family estate to accompany his mother, especially during this emotionally difficult time when she was dealing with his father's condition largely alone. Over the past three months, a significant portion of his wardrobe and personal belongings had gradually migrated to the estate.
Suddenly, the telephone on his desk rang with startling loudness in the quiet house. Surprised by a call at such a late hour, he quickly picked up the receiver.
"I heard you had some problems with that test car accident," came his grandfather's familiar, gruff voice without any preliminary greeting or social pleasantries.
William was surprised by his grandfather's characteristic directness, though he had learned over the past few months to expect such behaviour from the old man. "Among other things, yes. How did you hear about that so quickly?"
"Word travels fast in this industry, especially bad news. These bastards are like hyenas. Always looking for dead meat" his grandfather replied, referring obliquely to the newspaper article. "I've already received several phone calls from business associates asking for detailed information about the situation."
William found himself wondering exactly who these mysterious associates were and what their interest might be in his company's affairs. His grandfather had extensive connections throughout the automotive and financial industries, built up over decades of successful business dealings.
"The technical issue has been completely resolved," William said carefully, not wanting to reveal too much over an unsecured telephone line. "But there are some publicity and public relations concerns that require immediate personal attention."
"Do you need any support?"
The offer genuinely surprised William. His grandfather had been supportive of his stock purchase and later the corporate restructuring that had been necessary to turn the company around. But the old man usually stayed completely away from day-to-day business matters and operational decisions. This was the first time he had directly offered concrete assistance.
"Not at the moment, but I sincerely appreciate the offer and will definitely contact you if the situation changes."
"Good. I'll be in Reims for the next several weeks handling some business. Call me immediately if you need any kind of support," his grandfather said gruffly before abruptly ending the call without any goodbye or social pleasantries.
Soon the night passed quietly, and as William was preparing to leave early the next morning, his mother followed him outside to the circular drive where his car was waiting. The morning air was crisp and clear, with frost covering the ground and a pale sun struggling to provide warmth.
"How long will you be away this time?" Eleanor asked, her breath visible in small clouds in the cold air.
"Probably ten days to two weeks, depending on how quickly the various issues can be resolved and the business concluded."
"Will you be back for Christmas?" she asked with obvious hope and concern.
William felt a sharp pang of guilt stabbing through him. Christmas was extremely important to his mother, and the family traditions and celebrations meant far more to her than she usually let on, especially now that his father couldn't participate. "I'll do absolutely everything possible to be back by Christmas Eve. If not, I'll certainly be here for New Year's celebrations."
"Please be careful with the flying," Eleanor said, her maternal concern evident in both her voice and her expression. "The weather has been unpredictable lately, and those new jet planes still make me terribly nervous."
William smiled warmly and kissed his mother's cheek affectionately. "I'll be completely fine. The jets are actually much safer than the old propeller planes, and the flight times are dramatically shorter, which reduces exposure to weather problems."
William finished loading his suitcase and carried it to his car, where George was waiting with his overcoat, travel documents, and a thermos of coffee for the long drive ahead. The journey to New York would take most of the morning, but he genuinely preferred driving to flying for domestic trips when time permitted and weather conditions were favourable. The highways were much less crowded in 1961, and his car was comfortable enough for long-distance travel.
"Safe travels, sir," George said with formal politeness, though his tone carried genuine warmth and affection developed over years of loyal service.
"Thank you, George. Please take special care of Mother and Father while I'm away."
"Of course, sir. As always."
William climbed behind the wheel of his car and started the powerful V8 engine, listening to the familiar rumble that was always reassuring. As he pulled away from the estate, he could see his mother standing in the doorway waving goodbye, a solitary figure framed by the imposing architecture of the house.
The drive to New York took him through a diverse landscape of small towns and industrial cities, past factories and farms that represented the economic backbone of American prosperity. The scenery gradually changed from rural countryside to suburban developments to increasingly urban environments as he approached the vast metropolitan area. By the time he reached Manhattan's impressive skyline, it was nearly noon, and the city's famous buildings were gleaming in the winter sunlight against a clear blue sky.
William had reserved a luxurious suite at the prestigious Plaza Hotel, chosen both for its legendary elegance and its convenient proximity to Wall Street and the financial district. The hotel's service and accommodations were impressive even by the standards of someone who had experienced modern five-star luxury in his previous life. The staff was impeccably trained, and the rooms were spacious, well-appointed, and equipped with every amenity a discerning business traveller might require.
After checking in and reviewing his notes for the next day's meetings, William finally allowed himself to relax for a bit.
Tomorrow would begin what could be the one of the most important financial operations of his new life. His team was ready and already establishing themselves. He just needed to see and confirm it once by himself. And If his timing was correct, the next six months would provide the capital necessary to fund his automotive ambitions for years to come. It would also provide him enough fuel for future hunting.
But all this would depend on precise execution, his teams capability and luck. Lots of luck.