I Stand With You (Gold Streaks Book 1)

  Sylvie

  Nathan

  I Stand With You

  (The Full Series)

  Copyright © 2015 Sylvie Nathan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Other books by Sylvie Nathan:

  The Temptation Game

  Disguise by Choice

  Disguise by Will

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  Table of Contents

  Book 1

  Book 2

  Book 3

  Free Gift

  About The Author

  Other Books by Sylvie Nathan

  Insiders’ Club

  I Stand With You – Book 1

  Chapter 1

  It is late afternoon, and the sunlight slants in through the tall windows of Sue Montmorency's office at the headquarters of Gold Ridge Mining. Everything about the office reflects the status of the company as one of the country's leading mining concerns; from the discrete velvety cream of the walls to the white wood of the desk and the sheer size of the windows.

  Sue smiles, and stretches, catlike, where she sits facing the windows. This is her favorite time of the day: the meetings are finished, the assessments and documents read and dealt with, and the building is quiet for the day. This is her time; the time she can relax and enjoy the sweet golden of the African sunset. Sue is ambitious, hard and driven, and the years of building up the company and fighting her way to the top have been demanding. She relishes this short half-hour each day; time to enjoy the fruits of those difficult years.

  “Ms Montmorency?” the voice of her secretary shatters the stillness, breaking her warm reverie.

  “Yes, Elspeth?”, her secretary wilts visibly at the hard tone.

  “Sorry for disturbing you: Mr. Molo from the Union is here to see you.”

  “There had better be a good reason for this. It's an unscheduled disturbance.” Sue's voice is like ice.

  There is one thing her employees all know, and that is that she has a fixed schedule and hates being disturbed. Elspeth swallows; then replies.

  “Mr. Molo did say it was urgent. Something about discontented workers.”

  “Very well. Thank you, Elspeth. Show him in.”

  The secretary nods, and departs, to come back with the Union representative behind her; a tall, solid

  African man.

  “Good afternoon, Ms Montmorency.” He looks at her directly, distantly; a challenge.

  “Mr. Molo. Good afternoon. Do sit down. I presume that this business is urgent, since it couldn't wait for tomorrow.” Sue says, archly.

  “Yes, very...urgent. It could not wait.”

  He seats himself in the white-upholstered chair opposite her desk, exhaling as his knees creak.

  “Very well. Let's hear it, then.”

  Sue leans back; one hand braced on the desk. She has an aura of absolute authority, something one would not readily combine with a slim frame and blonde hair; except that on her the visual beauty combines to give a sense of unreachable authority. The evening sunset blazes in through the window, lighting gold highlights in her styled hair and glowing on the pale white wool of her suit. Her eyes are ice-blue and piercing. She is slight; petite. Fine-boned face, delicate hands. Authority shines out of her.

  Mr Molo is unruffled by the icy woman before him. He clears his throat, unhurried.

  “It's like this, Ms Montmorency. This afternoon, some workers came to me. They said the crane they were working with is unsafe. It dropped a load again this morning, and crushed a man's foot. He went to hospital earlier...And this is the fourth set of complaints I have had this last three weeks. One of the foremen struck two workers; a truck had faulty brakes. Two men were intimidated by a foreman. The workers are angry. This is all...neglectful. Unacceptable.”

  He is opening his mouth to say more, warming to the theme.

  “What exactly are you saying, Mr Molo?”, Sue's voice cuts the air like a lash.

  Behind the desk, Linus Molo blinks. Swallows. Disrupting his speech has thrown him off guard.

  “...I'm...I'm saying there is neglectful conduct on this mine, Ms Montmorency. That it is...badly managed. Ill-managed. And the workers are neglected. Their rights are infringed. This is illegal conduct.”

  His courage returning, he looks her in the eye, the coldness in his gaze at odds with his incendiary speech.

  “Have you any statements? Any witnesses? Their names? Who is carrying out these intimidations? These are serious accusations, Mr Molo and I will need more evidence than hearsay. Then those responsible can be disciplined.” Sue's voice, suddenly hard.

  “I...I don't reveal names, Ms Montmorency. This is a delicate business. This was told to me in confidence. The workers...they have rights. Non-disclosure of identity. What if you victimised the people who spoke out? What then? I have to maintain rights to privacy.”

  “Yes, yes. I am aware of this.” Sue's voice is weary. Her left hand is at her temple, against the oncoming headache, and she makes a dismissive gesture with the right. “But until you can bring me names of the perpetrators, I cannot give your workers any redress. You will have to gather this information for me, and come back. Then we can make arrangements. Have the complainant workers transferred to another foreman, and bring me his name. Until then...” She makes an eloquent lift of her shoulders; a shrug that is half-apology, half dismissal.

  “I will. But...this is not going to go away, Ms Montmorency. This is a grave issue.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that. Tomorrow, Mr Molo. Bring me names tomorrow. Until then, I cannot help you, or do anything for the workers. I'll see you at ten?” She glances down at her day-plan, laid out discreetly to one side of the desk on an elegant polished wooden note-stand.

  “At ten, Ms Montmorency.” Mr Molo inclines his head, a bare gesture to her authority, stiffly given.

  “If that is all, then..?” She stands, ready to show him out. Extends her hand to shake his. A solid, firm grip. “And...one last thing. You won't be contacting the courts in this regard?”

  “I will see. I do what I must, to protect the workers. We are not finished with this issue.”

  Sue groans inwardly, fixes a bright, firm smile on her features.

  “Right. That is your job, and you do your job thoroughly, Mr Molo, for which we are all grateful. See you at our meeting tomorrow.”

  When he is gone, she sinks back into her chair, and exhales wearily; her hand across her eyes. The evening sun slants in and dyes the air orange-gold, catching her hair and making haloes on the polished desk.

  “Is there never to be any peace in this place?” Sue asks, under her breath, and rests her head wearily in cupped hands. The silent office offers no answers. Outside, the sun sinks behind the ridge, cooling the evening to deep velvety blue.

  Sue looks at the planner again. A gala dinner is the next thing on schedule...starting at eight this evening. She groans inwardly. There will be representatives from the government to meet, prominent
people to shake hands with, business friends to talk to and corporate rivals to avoid. And...and the press. Clarence. Her ex-husband is the editor-in-chief of the dominant newspaper in the region. He is at every major event. And after their lengthy, painful court-case, and the accusations, fighting and wearying emotional trauma she endured from him for many years before, he is the last person she wants to see now; when she is feeling harrowed.

  “Oh, well; Ms Montmorency. You'll have to put a good face on it.”

  She glances at her reflection where it shines from the polished glass of a photograph-frame on the desk. Clear, level blue eyes, delicate high cheekbones; a fine, straight nose and a firm mouth. Perfect ivory skin. Sue traces the barely-noticeable, thin lines around the edges of her eyes; a legacy of years of struggle and hard work in this company.

  “It'll have to do.” She sighs, then smiles. “Let's knock 'em dead.”

  Chapter 2

  “Come on, come on..!”

  The morning traffic is slow, but not as slow as usual. Sue has woken early, despite a late night, so that she can arrive on time to prepare for her meeting with the union representative.

  She is behind the wheel of her BMW; her manicured fingernails tapping an impatient tune on the wheel's rim.

  She has dressed carefully for today's meeting: a pale sky-blue blouse of pure cotton, soft and delicate and exactly the same tone as her eyes. Silk suit in aching white; hair rolled back in a French roll; discrete silver chain. She always dresses in a classic, elegant way; a style that speaks volumes about her authority.

  The traffic is moving again, and Sue lets out a sigh of relief. Rolls down the window to liberate the scent of Chanel and let in fresh air. Breathes deeply as she changes gear and pulls into the fast lane, on the work-run that she could drive blindfolded.

  The stereo is playing something by Shostakovitch; elegant and distant; tuneful; and Sue closes her eyes; letting the music soothe her ragged temper, a brief moment. The years have not been easy as a woman in a male-dominated world, and the struggles have made her weary of such things. She had hoped business would get easier as chief executive; at least as far as not having to argue with anyone. This incident with the unions has disturbed her; she admits that much to herself. But she still feels confident that it will blow over. Nothing that can't be dealt with fairly, directly, and quickly.

  The music is reaching a peaceful movement, the morning air washes in through the window, and Sue relaxes a little; feeling the mantle of calm descend around her. She rolls in towards the gate, at a measured pace. A new day. She feels ready for it – settled, calm, ready to meet it head on.

  The sound of chanting hits her; a solid wall that jars, staccato, like a physical blow; shattering everything it touches.

  “Jikelele! Viva!”

  Sue listens carefully. She can hear whistles and drums; clapping and stamping, the African melodies of a protest song, weaving their way through shouts and screams and claps.

  “Shit! That Molo bastard. He's stirred them up.” Her equilibrium disrupted, Sue snaps instantly to icy alertness. She rolls down the window, calls to one of the gate guards, her voice cold.

  “What is the meaning of this? Where is this protest?”

  “Outside the main building, Ma'am. We couldn't stop them. Not in our job description, to stop protests. We wouldn't be allowed to.”

  Sue rolls her eyes.

  “No, it isn't. But you could maintain the safety. How many guards are there to keep an eye on the protesters? It sounds...quite violent.”

  “The local police have been called in, Ma'am. There are two cars of men there.”

  “Two cars? How many workers?” The two guards look at each other, a question between them.

  “No idea, Ma'am. Maybe three hundred?”

  “Three hundred. And six, maybe eight, officers?”

  “Yes, Ma'am. Peaceful protest, Ma'am. They're only – they're merely voicing their discontent.”

  The two guards look quite relaxed. One is smoking, and the cigarette smoke drifts over to the car on still air.

  The sound of the singing is swelling in the morning air; stronger and louder.

  “Safety! Worker safety! Viva!”

  There are cries now, as the singing stops and the stamping and clapping increases. Whistles and shouts merge with it in rhythm.

  “I'd better go and see what's going on.” Sue mutters.

  She shows her card at the sensor at the gate; drives the BMW slowly through; rolls up the window and moves on.

  On the main path, going to the central parking lot, the police have lined up, facing a small army of workers. The path is impassable. Sue groans, inwardly. Puts her foot on the brake and slows to a crawl. Inside, she is shaking; fear and anger mixed. Outside, she is achingly calm; radiating barely-reined fury.

  She gestures to the police-chief; a question. How must I get through? He shrugs, the mere off-handedness of it a questionable insult; makes a turning gesture with his hand. Turn that way. Go in round the back.

  The workers have seen her car, now; and some of them surge forward.

  “Exploiter! Exploiter! We demand justice.” They are shouting; gesturing at the car. Some have wooden staves, which they shake and stamp; others bend to pick up stones. The shouting and gesturing is guided now; directed at the BMW and Sue behind the wheel.

  The singing resumes; a wall of chanting, hot with derision, anger and violence; barely-contained.

  The sheer wall of their anger is paralyzing; frightening. But she will not show fear.

  Sue reverses the car; opens the window.

  “You will have redress. Go back to work. I promise justice. I am having a meeting...”

  Her voice trails off; lost in the wall of clapping, stamping chaos. The police are struggling to hold them back. The last thing Sue needs is firing from the police, or tear-gas; reported police brutality against the employees, on top of what the press has probably already reported. Sue groans at the thought; rolls the window back; puts her foot on the clutch and reverses slowly; making the right turn to the distant second parking. That means a long walk to her office, but at least she will get there on time, and in safety.

  She glances at the discreet gold Longines watch that shows above the loose cuff of her blue blouse. Nine-twenty-five. She shakes her head, impatient. Half an hour to calm down before having to argue with the Unions again. Her blonde hair has loosened from the bun, and whips around her face as she turns.

  She drives round the back of the building, the songs decreasing in volume as she moves away.

  On the steering, her hands are shaking, uncontrollably. Her heart is racing. Her arms wobbly with exhaustion whe she finally draws up the car; stops.

  Sue takes a deep breath. She opens the door, gathers her bag, and stands. Her legs are trembling and she leans on the roof of the car for support, chest working as she draws fresh morning air into her lungs.

  “Come on, Susan.” She mutters to herself. “Get yourself together. There's lots of work to do.”

  She makes her way slowly across the parking lot, ready to start the new day.

  In the office, the sounds of the workers are made indistinct; muffled by distance. They are still out there. Sue sets her things down on the desk; hangs up her bag; adjusts her lipstick – a pale, barely-noticeable nude tone – and paces back to the door. She cannot settle here. She needs to stop this. She marches back past Elspeth, the secretary, who looks at her incredulously.

  “Ms Montmorency?”

  “Set my meetings on hold, Elspeth. I'm going out there.”

  Sue draws herself up grimly, standing tall for her petite height of five foot ten. She stalks to the main door, high-heels clicking on the marble entrance tiles.

  The main building has a wide front terrace, which faces out, stretching along the main parking area. Sue stands on the central steps, where six of the company's own security personnel have taken up place, to keep the workers from assaulting employees as they enter or leave.
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br />   “Good morning!” She grabs a loud-hailer from the nearest security man; addresses the stamping, shouting crowd.

  “Good morning!” She says again.

  The shouting in the front, closest to her, stills. The silence ripples out across the crowd, until there is only muttering, among those too far back to hear her. The sudden stillness is the calm after a tornado; the eerie stillness that promises barely-held rebellion. The low cloud mutes the light to sullen silver, which sparks off Sue's pale hair and the white silk coat. The workers at the back, unable to hear her, still grumble and sway to some chanted rhythms.

  “I have heard your complaints,” she says, loudly and clearly.

  Her crisp voice echoes off the main building and around the sudden silence, breaking the quiet.

  “I have heard them;” she continues; “and I will address them. There are systems in place to compensate and redress all injured parties. You know that. And any foreman who shows misconduct will be investigated, and fired.”

  Her voice warms, strengthens, as she makes more impact with them, gaining their respect. At the back, the chanting is quietening, as the workers strain to hear her words.