The Takeover

by Stephen W. Frey

  * * *

  —

  The small twelve-seater rose steeply away from the Toledo airfield. Falcon stared out the small window at the green and blue ground lights that gleamed eerily in the pitch-black night. The lights grew small quickly as the plane gained altitude. His nerves were balanced on the razor’s edge. The plane could turn around at any second. The cockpit door might swing open suddenly. Or most likely, they would arrest him at the Pittsburgh airport as he changed planes for New York. The whole thing was crazy. Absolutely insane.

  Falcon glanced up the aisle suspiciously at the only other passenger, a woman in her mid-forties who was already asleep. There was no reason at all to be suspicious of her, but he was not rational at this point.

  A small bag, which he had purchased at the all-night airport store, lay between his feet on the floor of the plane. The obese woman behind the counter, who barely fit in her state-issue blue pants, had looked at him strangely even though he had tried to straighten his appearance in the rest room before buying the bag. He had tried to wash the blood from his jeans, but it seemed to Falcon that she stared at the dark water stains too long as she made change for the ten-dollar bill.

  The bag zipped down the middle and was decorated on both sides with the Cleveland Indian baseball logo. He reached down slowly and removed the manila folder marked “the Sevens.” He opened it, and in the dim cabin lights he stared long and hard at the telephone number opposite William Rutherford’s name. Suddenly he made the connection. It was the same number that was on the paper that had floated from Jenny’s purse to the floor of the Four Seasons Hotel room.

  27

  “This is good. Right here,” Falcon said as the taxi rolled to a stop on 82nd Street, several hundred feet east of the entrance to his apartment building. He did not want to get out directly in front of the building. He wanted time to check the street before he committed himself to the high-rise and its limited escape routes.

  “Thanks.” Falcon groaned as he lifted himself out of the cab. He was tired and hot. The four cups of coffee he had consumed on the flight from Pittsburgh were wearing off, and despite the fact that it was only 7:45, the temperature had already reached ninety degrees. The ride in from La Guardia Airport had been miserable because the cab’s air conditioner didn’t work.

  Falcon reached back into the taxi and picked up the nylon traveling bag that held the four manila folders. “Here.” Falcon threw a twenty and a ten through the open passenger’s side window onto the front seat beside the sullen Arab. The cabbie grunted and squealed off without offering change.

  Falcon glanced up and down the street and then at the building’s entrance. No one had followed him from La Guardia, he was certain of that. And he saw nothing suspicious on the street, although it would have been difficult to identify anyone focused on him through the hundreds of commuters already heading toward the subway. He looked around once again and began moving carefully toward the entrance.

  They knew by now. They must. The dead guard had probably been discovered no more than ten minutes after Falcon had raced from the Penn-Mar building with the manila folders under his arm. By the time he had reached the airport, the police had been probably already crawling all over the building and the grounds looking for clues. And by the time the tiny plane had taken off from Toledo, Landon and Chambers had probably reached Penn-Mar to assist in the investigation. Chambers would have realized immediately that the files were gone. Falcon had half expected to be met by a group of police officers as he deplaned in New York. But La Guardia had been quiet, just revving up for the morning rush of lawyers, bankers, and corporate executives screaming off to far-flung destinations.

  He was being paranoid. He knew that. The authorities would have called Landon first. He was still the president of Penn-Mar, so that was probably procedure. Landon would have been the first member of senior management at the scene. That gave Falcon some time. There was no way Landon would come to the conclusion on his own that Falcon was the perpetrator of this crime. No way. The accident had occurred in Chambers’ office, so it would have been logical for Landon to call Chambers immediately, but so what? Why would Chambers automatically assume that Falcon was responsible? Chambers had walked both Barksdale and him to the car after the meeting had ended at Penn-Mar. As far as Chambers knew, they were both going directly back to New York on the same flight. Chambers might have spoken to Barksdale after he reached New York, but that seemed unlikely. Barksdale wasn’t a Seven—at least he wasn’t on the list—so there was no reason to think Barksdale would have called Chambers after arriving in New York, or vice versa.

  And if they had spoken, so what? Barksdale might relay—and then again he might not—the news of Falcon’s trip to Dallas, and that would be that. There would be no reason for Chambers to become suspicious at the news of Falcon’s spur-of-the-moment jaunt to Texas. He was definitely being paranoid, but it was safer to be paranoid. It kept your mind in high gear.

  Falcon reached the steps of his apartment building. He tried to peer into the lobby through the glass, but the morning sunlight was bright, creating a nasty glare.

  The door popped open suddenly. “Jesus Christ! What the…”

  “Morning, Mr. Falcon!”

  “Oh, hi, Johnnie.” Falcon was breathing hard and his heart was suddenly racing madly. He was going to be dead of a coronary before the police or the Sevens ever found him.

  “Everything okay? You’re looking a little out of sorts this morning.” The doorman allowed the glass door to close as Falcon moved into the building.

  “Fine, Johnnie. I’m fine.” The air-conditioning was refreshing. Suddenly Falcon felt as if he could lie down on the lobby carpet and go to sleep. He was utterly exhausted. Falcon turned back toward the doorman. “I was expecting a friend this morning. Anybody come for me yet?”

  “Nobody’s come in yet. Lots of people have gone out, to go to work, you know. But nobody’s come in.”

  “Nobody’s been around asking for me either?”

  “No.” Johnnie shook his head.

  “When did you get in?”

  “I got the graveyard shift this week. I was in at midnight. Only got another five minutes or so before Carmine gets here.” Johnnie held up a fat wrist and gazed at his Rolex watch.

  Falcon glanced at the Rolex. It was an imitation. The second hand did not sweep but ticked. “What time did Alexis get in last night?”

  Johnnie’s face broke into a huge grin. “Checking up on her, Mr. Falcon? I’d marry that woman quick if I were you, before someone else does.”

  Falcon forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m checking up on her. What time did she get in?”

  The doorman’s grin faded. “It was pretty late. Maybe three o’clock.” He hesitated.

  “What is it, Johnnie?”

  “Well, I shouldn’t say this I guess, but…”

  “But you will because I’m the one who’ll write your Christmas bonus check.”

  “Right.” The doorman lowered his voice. “I think she had a little bit to drink.”

  Falcon nodded and tried to appear disgruntled. “Thanks, Johnnie.” He patted the man on the shoulder, then moved toward the elevator.

  “Don’t tell her I told you that, Mr. Falcon,” Johnnie called after him.

  “I won’t,” Falcon said under his breath as he moved into the waiting car. He pushed the button for the tenth floor. Immediately the doors closed and the elevator began to ascend.

  Falcon glanced down at the nylon bag under his arm. He had read and reread each of the four files on the flight from Pittsburgh to New York in his seat at the deserted back of the plane, covering the papers anytime a flight attendant neared. The contents of the file marked the Sevens were self-evident—a list of the men who were members of the society. It could be nothing else. Falcon laughed as he stared at his reflection in the chrome elevator doors. Granville was a Seven. Chamber
s was a Seven. Boreman and Wendell Smith were Sevens. It was incredible. Of course, Boreman could do anything he wanted with NASO. The New York Fed was the law and the sheriff was on the take. And Barksdale would do anything Boreman told him to do. He owed his career to Boreman.

  The file marked PM—Environmental Information was the thickest. It detailed the extent of Penn-Mar’s massive environmental liabilities as well as a senior management conspiracy to dump waste illegally. It described how Jeremy Case and Tom West had fed the Sevens information and ultimately paid for it with their lives.

  Falcon glanced at the bag again. The file marked Real Estate simply listed properties around the United States and what must have been their aggregate purchase value—almost six billion dollars. The Lodestar file was even less helpful. It simply contained an article about the investment management firm and its list of high-profile clients. And there was one name in the file: Peter Lane.

  But what did it all mean? What were they trying to do? Was there anything at all to what he had found? Or was the box just an innocent collection of information? He shook his head. There were too many coincidences now.

  The elevator began to slow its ascent. Why did Jenny have Rutherford’s number? He shook his head again. There was only one conclusion. And it was a conclusion he didn’t want to come to. She was working with them. They wanted to keep an eye on him and they were using her to do so. No wonder her attitude had changed so dramatically. He thought of the eight hundred-dollar bills he had counted in her wallet at the Four Seasons.

  The doors opened and Falcon moved into the hallway. Suddenly he stopped short. Alexis might be working with them too. Why not? In retrospect their meeting at the club had seemed too scripted. She had fallen in love with him too quickly. He might be walking right into the spider’s web. But Johnnie had said there had been no visitors since Alexis had come home. None at all. And it was a secure building. He would be careful. And he wouldn’t stay long.

  Falcon slipped the key into the lock and entered the apartment quietly. He moved silently to the bedroom. Alexis was asleep, passed out as Falcon had expected. He could tell that she had imbibed a great deal of alcohol last night. Her clothes were strewn over the bed and on the floor. Her mouth was wide open and a drool spot was growing in circumference on the pillow. Only when she drank did she breathe so heavily through her mouth. The room actually smelled of alcohol. She would be out for a while. That was good.

  The computer and the Bloomberg terminal flickered to life. He didn’t have enough yet to go to the authorities. He could probably interest a couple of Fed examiners in what he had found and have Boreman suspended, but he couldn’t actually prove anything about the Sevens. He couldn’t really even prove they existed yet. He had the files, but he needed more. He needed to connect the Sevens concretely to Jeremy Case’s murder. He needed telephone records. He needed to find the billion dollars of equity money that had come into NASO a month ago, money that was supposed to have come from Germany but that he now knew had come from the Sevens. Most of all, he needed to figure out the puzzle.

  And how was he going to go to the authorities anyway? There was a dead Penn-Mar security guard in Toledo, Ohio. If he went to the authorities with the files from Chambers’ office, it wouldn’t take them long to figure out that he was connected to the guard’s death. Falcon caught his breath. The guard was dead. Because of him. He had watched the blood pour from the man’s mouth. And prayed for him to die. He shook his head. There was no way he could think of that now. But he would have to come to terms with it later.

  Falcon punched Penn-Mar’s ticket into the Bloomberg terminal. He moved through the system to the news section and found the lawsuit article. He scanned the print quickly. And there it was. The name of the law firm. Cleveland, Miller & Prescott. And the lead attorney for the plaintiffs was Turner Prescott. The same Turner Prescott on the list in the file. Falcon had no doubt of that. He stared at the screen for several minutes. And then the enormity of the whole scheme hit him.

  Suddenly the telephone screamed. He heard Alexis groan. Jesus! He should have pulled the phone wire from the wall. But it was too late now. Falcon stared at the screen. He needed to check out Rutherford and Henderson. But it was too late. He flicked off the terminal and bolted for the door.

  * * *

  —

  “Boreman?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Winthrop.”

  “What is it?” Boreman asked.

  “How are you?”

  “Well, I’d say I’m doing pretty well, given that I’m about to die.”

  Winthrop wasn’t amused at Boreman’s reference to the accident Phoenix Grey was about to stage.

  “Is Prescott still going to deliver the shocker to the Baltimore courtroom tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  Boreman laughed. “I can’t believe the Pleiade Project is almost over.”

  “We’re getting there. Listen, I want you out of New York City and with Grey by three this afternoon. Once Prescott lays the environmental information out to that jury tomorrow, you are going to be a hot item.”

  “I’ll be out. Don’t worry. I’m going to go into the bank this morning, and then I’m to leave at one to get to a two o’clock flight departing from La Guardia for Los Angeles. Or that’s where people will think I’m going. I’m supposed to be visiting our L.A. office. But of course I won’t ever show up.”

  “Good. And you have left the keys to your car where Grey can get to them?”

  “Easy, Granville. I spoke to Phoenix. Everything is taken care of.”

  “Boreman, I’ve been living and breathing this project for four years now. Humor me.”

  “Has Phoenix procured the body yet? When I spoke to him Monday, he still hadn’t gotten it.”

  “He’s gotten it.” Winthrop paused. “How did Barksdale and Falcon’s visit in Toledo go yesterday?”

  “Fine, I suppose. I spoke to Barksdale last night after he got home. They fired Sotos and went over a great deal of other information. It seemed like a lot to go through just for appearance’s sake, given that Prescott’s going to release the information tomorrow. But it would be natural for NASO to want to get out there quickly, so I guess it’s best that they went. And of course Barksdale and Falcon don’t know what’s going on.”

  “How is Falcon?”

  “Okay. He went to Dallas directly from Toledo at the last minute yesterday. He’s generated another M&A transaction and wanted to get right on it.”

  An alarm went off in Winthrop’s mind. “Really?” It was probably nothing.

  “Yeah. By the way, when are we going to release the information about Falcon’s supposed insider trading?” Boreman asked.

  “Not until next week. Bailey Henderson will disclose Lodestar’s trades in the Financial Chronicle tomorrow, and then print Lane’s memo on Friday or maybe Saturday. We don’t want to release too much at one time.”

  “Yeah, I agree…”

  “Boreman, I’ve got another call coming in. I don’t know who the hell this could be, but I’d better take it. How much longer will you be there?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “I might call you back. If I can’t get back to you before you leave, I may call you at NASO.”

  “I thought you weren’t ever going to call me at NASO.”

  “I probably won’t, but we’re close enough to zero hour now that I don’t think it matters too much. After tomorrow they’ll think you’re dead. Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “Bye, Granville.”

  Winthrop switched lines without saying good-bye. “Yes?” He could hear the caller breathing. “Hello? Who is this?”

  “It’s Chambers.”

  Instantly, Winthrop knew something was wrong. He didn’t bother to chastise the man for calling him at this number, as he had explicitly instructed Chambers and the other five not t
o do. “Devon, what is it?”

  “Something very…very bad has happened.” Chambers could barely speak.

  “What?”

  “I can’t believe it.” His voice shook terribly. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What?”

  “There was a break-in.”

  “A break-in? Where?”

  “Yes…yes. Here at Penn-Mar.”

  “Devon, tell me what’s happened. Just tell me. I don’t have time to screw around.”

  “I just found out myself. They called Landon first. Landon didn’t even know I was using it as my office. He didn’t know. I believe him.”

  Chambers was babbling, to the point of being incoherent, but Winthrop understood enough to feel the tiny hairs on the back of his neck beginning to stand on end. “The office you were using. Was that the office that was broken into?” he asked, coaxing Chambers. He had to. The man was barely able to speak.

  “Yes.”

  “Did the intruders get anything?”

  “A security guard was killed. The police believe he must have surprised whoever did this. He was shot with his own gun. And a few of my files…they’re missing.”

  “What files?”

  Chambers was silent.

  “What files, Devon?” Winthrop was losing control.

  “The Sevens, the environmental information on Penn-Mar, the real estate partnerships, Lodestar.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Everything.”

  “Are you kidding me? Tell me you aren’t that stupid, Devon! Tell me this is a horrible joke you have all decided to play on me at the last minute. Tell me that’s what is going on!” This was potentially devastating.

  There was no answer from the other end of the phone.

  A flash of heat passed through Winthrop’s body. Oh, God. Falcon!

  * * *

  —

  “Funds Transfer.”

  “Eddie?” Falcon spoke in a low voice.