The Takeover

by Stephen W. Frey

  Suddenly her face changed, as if someone had thrown a switch. “Why, yes, it is.”

  Thirty seconds later he knew the exact location of Chambers’ office.

  * * *

  —

  Falcon peered through the darkness toward the Penn-Mar building. It loomed in the night like a ship drifting silently on a dead-calm sea. Amiable and unthreatening, it seemed almost to beckon to him. Falcon pushed a button on his digital wristwatch. The liquid crystal display glowed a bluish-green color: 10:15. A pair of headlights moved up the long driveway that meandered through the golf course surrounding the building. Falcon crawled farther beneath the huge boxwood bush. The car moved slowly around the circle before the main entrance and stopped in front of the huge pair of double doors. Falcon was fifty yards from the doorway but was able to see the faces of the two security guards in the arc of the main entrance light as they emerged from the sedan. One man leaned back against the car and lit a cigarette as the other began to walk hurriedly around the building, shining a powerful flashlight before him. The beam of light bobbed to the rhythm of his gait.

  Several minutes later, the man who had set off into the darkness reappeared in the main entrance light from the other side of the building. Falcon checked his watch again, careful to cup one hand over the display so as not to chance detection. The man had taken just over eight minutes to circle the building, just as he had a half hour ago. There was no way the guard could have entered the building during this round. If he had, he would have taken much more than eight minutes to complete the inspection.

  The men got back into the car and drove away, toward the guardhouse at the bottom of the hill. The guardhouse was approximately half a mile from the headquarters building, located at the intersection of the Penn-Mar driveway and the main road. A huge hedge growing on the chain-link fence surrounding and protecting the entire property rendered traffic on the main road nearly inaudible. The hedge and fence had proven quite an obstacle for Falcon nearly two hours before.

  The red taillights of the sedan disappeared into the distance. If he was really going to do this, it had to be now. He had a little more than twenty minutes before the guards would be back, provided they kept the same schedule they had since eight-thirty this evening.

  Falcon crawled out from beneath the boxwood bush, stood, and began running along a curved line of maple trees growing parallel to the long fairway. He ran for several hundred yards, until he had maneuvered to the structure’s east side—the side of the building opposite the front entrance. It was pitch black on this side, making it the safest point of entry. Falcon moved behind a large oak tree, hesitated as he glanced about, and then sprinted across the closely cropped lawn to the brick wall of the building, a distance of a hundred feet or so.

  He was in excellent shape but found himself breathing hard. The night was hot and fortunately overcast—there was a full moon. He knew about the full moon because he had checked with the Washington office of the National Weather Service. To some it might seem a silly detail. But Falcon knew the value of covering all the details. Diligence could be the difference between winning a deal and losing it. This was not a deal he wanted to lose. This was a deal he couldn’t lose.

  Falcon had called the National Weather Service from a pay phone at a nearby strip mall, where he had also procured the dark jeans, shirt, and boots he was now wearing. He had donated his suit, dress shirt, and shoes to a Goodwill office at the end of the mall. The Hermès tie that had overpowered Chambers’ secretary was stuffed in his back pocket. It was one of his favorites, and what the hell did the Goodwill need with a tie anyway?

  Falcon hesitated for a few moments to allow his breathing to become regular. He was perspiring heavily in the humid air. After thirty seconds, he withdrew a small flashlight from his pocket and began sliding between the dark wall and the perfectly manicured bushes that surrounded the building. Finally, in the dim light, he located the large piece of wadded paper he had dropped that afternoon to mark the window he had unlocked. By stepping onto the thick limbs of the bushes, Falcon was able to boost himself to the old window. The bottoms of the first-floor windows were high up, at least ten feet off the ground. He reached and pushed. It opened easily. No one had checked. Thank God.

  Falcon pulled himself through the aperture and tumbled onto the carpeted office floor of the building. He picked himself up and closed the window. Quickly, he moved out of the office, into the dark hallway, and toward Chambers’ office. He didn’t know what, if anything, he would find there, but he knew that it was the only place to start looking for explanations.

  Barksdale was already back in New York. Or so Falcon hoped. The flight had departed exactly on time, at four-thirty that afternoon. Barring any major problems at La Guardia, Barksdale was at this very moment reclining in his Park Avenue apartment watching his beloved Yankees.

  At the last minute, as the plane had been about to board, Falcon had rushed up to Barksdale from the pay phones to tell him that he had generated another potential acquisition deal in Dallas and that he was going to go directly to Dallas from Toledo. He would be in touch in the morning. At that point it was obvious that Barksdale’s primary concern was getting home as quickly as possible, and he voiced no dissent.

  Falcon didn’t leave the boarding area until the plane had rolled back from the gate, taxied to the runway, and taken off. He didn’t leave until he was certain Barksdale was airborne and unable to contact anyone. The plane was small, a puddle jumper, and would connect with another flight in Cleveland. Because it was an older, smaller plane, there were no phones on board. Barksdale might have conveyed a message to someone on the outside from the cockpit, but that seemed unlikely.

  At the airport, Falcon rented a car using his personal credit card and then drove all over Toledo to make certain that he was not being followed. It was cloak-and-daggerish, and at times he felt foolish, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.

  Before leaving the airport, he called Jenny to have her make reservations at the Dallas Hilton, stressing that he had passed the trip by Barksdale. She complained about not seeing him for another day but promised to make the reservations immediately. Then he called Alexis to tell her that he wouldn’t be home, that he was going to Dallas. She seemed indifferent.

  Falcon moved quickly and quietly up a stairway to the second floor. He had been all over the building during the afternoon break in the meeting with Landon, searching for cameras, infrared alarm systems, and other detection equipment in the halls and offices. But there weren’t any. After all, this was Toledo and Penn-Mar was just a chemical company. The research-and-development center, the only potential target of corporate espionage, was located in Seattle. Besides, the facility was protected by the fifteen-foot fence and the guardhouse. What else did they need? Falcon’s hands were perspiring heavily inside the work gloves he had purchased at the strip mall’s hardware store. The gloves were hot, but they would mask his fingerprints.

  Falcon reached Chambers’ office. The door was locked, as he had anticipated, so from his belt he removed a long, industrial-strength screwdriver, purchased from the same store as the gloves. The lock popped easily, and the aging doorknob crashed to the tile floor.

  “Shhhh! Jesus Christ!” His nerves were on fire.

  He pushed the door, and it gave way. He moved into the dusty outer office to the inner office door. The inner door was also locked, and again he used the long screwdriver; however, this lock did not yield quite so easily. He leaned against it heavily. Finally it gave way. He checked his watch. It had been twelve minutes since the guards had guided the sedan back down the driveway. There was no way he was going to make it out before the next check. When the timer on his wristwatch read eighteen minutes, he would have to turn the flashlight off and sit tight.

  The whole thing was idiotic. If he was caught in here, it would be difficult—if not impossible—to explain. He would probably be fired and forf
eit the five million. And for what? Because he had some silly, unfounded suspicions. Maybe he should get out of here as quickly as possible. Falcon glanced around the office. No way. He had come this far. He wasn’t turning back now.

  He moved to the old metal desk. What was he looking for? He had no idea. He pried the desk open with the screwdriver and checked the drawers. And in the lower right-hand drawer he found it. He knew immediately it was something he needed to inspect.

  He placed the wooden box on the desktop. It looked to be an antique in the dim glow of the small flashlight. The edges were beveled and the joints dovetailed. On top of the box was a gold plate inscribed with initials—DCC—which Falcon assumed were Chambers’. The box’s latch was secured by a tiny silver padlock. He found a large stapler on the credenza behind the desk and smashed the lock as he held the box down on the desk’s blotter. The lid popped open immediately. He peered inside and removed four legal-size manila folders.

  The first folder was marked “the Sevens.” Falcon caught his breath. The Sevens were a clandestine society at Harvard University. Of all of the university’s secret groups, they were the oldest, most powerful, and most revered. In the school library he had read about them—their fabulous gifts to the school, their secrecy, and their history. He had seen the seven painted on the business school’s wall in white paint every day for two years. But could this be the same group?

  His heart was in his throat as he pulled the folder from the box. Inside the folder was a single piece of paper and on the paper was simply a list of names with several ten-digit numbers opposite each name. A flash of heat whipped through his body as he saw the first name: Granville Winthrop. And there was Chambers’ name, and Boreman’s, and Wendell Smith’s, whom he recognized immediately as the president of the New York Federal Reserve. My God! What was this? And then he remembered the brand on Boreman’s inner forearm. It was the Sevens. It had to be.

  He gazed at the last three names on the list but did not recognize them, then scanned the ten-digit numbers. Phone numbers. That’s what they were. They had to be. Falcon stared at the number opposite the last name: William Rutherford. He could not place the name, but the number seemed very familiar.

  Falcon dropped the file on the desk and moved to the second folder, marked “PM—Environment Information.” It was thick, and he leafed through the pages quickly. Suddenly a handwritten note on one page caught his attention. “J. Case, Crossings Strip Mall, 10/18.” His eyes widened.

  Falcon flashed the light on the tabs of the other two folders. They were marked “Real Estate” and “Lodestar.” What the hell had he found?

  Suddenly, the door of the office burst open and the overhead lights flashed on.

  “Hold it right there!”

  Falcon froze, paralyzed by the sight of the security guard’s pistol pointed at him.

  “Get your hands up where I can see them!” The guard moved slowly into the office, both hands on his gun.

  The desk stood between Falcon and the guard, and he was able to drop the flashlight and the work gloves to the carpet without the guard noticing before he raised his hands above his head. How could he have been so stupid? The guard was early, but he should have anticipated this possibility. The man must have seen the flashlight through the window.

  “Officer, I’m working on a project that Mr. Chambers wants out by tomorrow morning.” The man wasn’t a police officer. That was clear. But he wanted the guard to think that the intruder felt inferior. So he addressed the man as “officer.” “You do know who Devon Chambers is?”

  The guard nodded but seemed unimpressed.

  “Good. I’m a representative of Veens & Company, the firm that just bought Penn-Mar. The firm Devon belongs to also.” Falcon attempted to make his voice stern but not overly so. He stared straight into the other man’s eyes.

  “We have no record of anyone checking into the building late. Everyone who had checked into our logbook today was out of the complex at seven forty-seven this evening. This building is supposed to be empty.”

  “Look, I’m—”

  “Quiet!”

  Falcon could see that the guard was nervous. The man had probably never before confronted an intruder at Penn-Mar. Falcon glanced toward the door to see if the other guard was in the vicinity, but he saw nothing. If this inspection was running like the others, the second guard was standing next to the sedan, smoking a cigarette, waiting for this man to return. But in a few minutes the other guard was going to realize that his partner was late.

  Falcon searched for a two-way radio on the guard’s belt but did not see one. That was good.

  “Name, please.”

  “What?”

  “What is your name?”

  Falcon stared at the guard. There was no reason to give his real name yet. “Frank Scudder.” He said the words quickly and convincingly.

  “All right, Mr. Scudder, although I’m not certain why you would be sneaking around Mr. Chambers’ office in the dark if you are who you say you are, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But you have to appreciate my position.”

  “Of course.” Falcon smiled smoothly. Experience. There was nothing like it. He wasn’t glad to have been held at gunpoint before, not glad that Bernstein had burst into his office, waved the shotgun at him, and killed Froworth and Hudson in cold blood; but that experience was enabling him to remain calm instead of panicking. He had seen the eye of a wild man who didn’t care whom he killed. This man didn’t have that look. Far from it. In fact, it was obvious to Falcon that this man would do anything he could to avoid firing the pistol.

  “I’m going to call the guardhouse and tell my men what’s going on.”

  Falcon and the guard glanced simultaneously at the telephone on the desk. The guard would have to come quite close to where Falcon stood to use it. With a little luck he might be able to get the gun away from the other man. It was a ridiculous notion, but Falcon was desperate. He could be killed, easily. But if the guards detained him, Chambers and the rest of the Sevens would know that he had seen these files. And then he might be a dead man anyway.

  The guard realized how close together they would come also. “Move back a bit, Mr. Scudder.”

  “Certainly.” Falcon smiled and took a step back.

  The guard moved toward the desk, eyes glued to Falcon, and reached for the receiver.

  At the exact instant the guard’s hand touched the telephone, Falcon kicked the flashlight on the floor behind the desk as hard as he could. It flew across the aging gray carpet and smashed into the far wall. The guard turned toward the sound, and in a fraction of a second Falcon was over the desk and on the man. They crashed to the floor together, and as they did, the gun exploded.

  Falcon jumped to his feet immediately. He stared down at the guard. Blood was already oozing from a hole in the white shirt. The bullet had passed through the guard’s upper chest.

  “Help me,” the man whispered. A small stream of blood began to drip from one side of his mouth.

  Falcon shook violently. The man had taken the bullet in his lung. It was a serious wound but might not be fatal. Falcon stared at the man through widening eyes. If he lived, he would be able to identify Falcon. He needed this man to die. It was an awful thought. In a split second it had come to that, and his life had changed forever.

  “Please help me.” The man reached up toward Falcon with both hands. Blood began pouring down both sides of his mouth. He began to cough, spitting red liquid on the floor.

  Falcon moved backward instinctively. The gun lay beside the guard. Falcon spotted it, moved quickly to where it lay, and kicked it out of the guard’s reach. As Falcon kicked the gun, the guard reached for his leg and grabbed hold. “Jesus Christ!” Falcon shook his leg but the man would not let go. “Get off me. Get the hell off me!” Falcon reached down and tried to pry the guard’s fingers from his leg, but they were locked
in place.

  Wrenching spasms began to rack the guard’s body. He dug his fingers deeply into Falcon’s calf as he convulsed. Suddenly, he rolled to one side, pulling Andrew to the floor. They struggled desperately, tumbling into a floor lamp, which crashed to the carpet. The bulb exploded on impact, sending blue sparks shooting across the room.

  For an instant Falcon felt the guard’s fingers relax. Quickly, as the guard grasped his own chest, Falcon scrambled away. He crawled to the wall and watched in horror as the convulsions intensified. Falcon’s chest heaved. The guard was going to die. Falcon had no medical training, but judging from the amount of blood pouring from the wound and his mouth, it would not be long. But how long would it be? That was critical. The other guard had to know something was wrong by now. He might even have heard the gunshot and already be running this way. Falcon could probably still escape, but the man might hold on long enough to give the other guard a description of him. How the hell had this happened?

  The guard’s body was racked by another huge spasm, causing the man to grab his chest again. He groaned loudly, ripping at the shirt and the black uniform tie. He tried to rise to his feet but only reached his knees. The veins of his forehead throbbed as he struggled, and then a huge vein of his neck began to pulsate rapidly. There was a gurgling sound in the man’s throat, and he fell backward onto the floor. He gazed at Falcon for several seconds, and then, slowly, his eyes rolled back into his head.

  Falcon’s breathing was labored. He was covered with perspiration and there was blood on his dark jeans. He fell onto his knees beside the man, reaching for the man’s wrist, searching for a pulse. But there was none. The guard was dead.

  Quickly, Falcon shoved his flashlight and the work gloves into his pocket. He grabbed the four manila folders, turned out the office lights with his palm, and ran down the hallway. He just wanted to make it back to New York now. Never in his life had he thought he would want to see the city so badly. Suddenly the timer on his wristwatch began to beep loudly.