The Takeover

by Stephen W. Frey

  Winthrop watched the hysteria, arms folded across his chest. He breathed deeply. He had been hunting Falcon. Now Falcon was hunting him. He could feel it. Somehow the man had turned the tables.

  * * *

  —

  “Alexis?”

  “Andrew! Where are you?”

  “I’m in New York.”

  “Where? Tell me where.”

  “I’m staying at a boardinghouse on 132nd Street in Manhattan. But I won’t be here for long. Just tonight.” He heard her committing the street number to memory.

  “Isn’t that Harlem?”

  “Yes.”

  “What in God’s name are you doing there?” she asked.

  “Some things have happened.”

  “What things?”

  “I can’t tell you. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.”

  “Andrew!”

  Falcon cut off the call, waited for the tone, and dialed the second number.

  “Hello.”

  “Jenny?”

  “Andrew?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you still in Dallas?”

  “No. I’m back in New York.”

  “Jesus, Barksdale and his secretary have been calling all morning. He really needs to speak to you.”

  Falcon laughed. “I’m sure he does. Listen, Jenny. I’m staying in a boardinghouse on 132nd Street in Manhattan. I’m just here for the night. But don’t tell anyone. Not a soul. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but what’s going on?”

  “I can’t tell you. I’ll call you later.”

  “Andrew—”

  He cut off the call again. Coincidences were no longer coincidence. Friends were enemies until proven otherwise. Lovers might be carrying poison. And survival was the name of the game now.

  29

  “Hello, pretty lady. What you like today?”

  “I’d like a soft cone, please.”

  “And what flavor you want?”

  “Vanilla.”

  “Sure, sure. You got it.”

  Cassandra Stone smiled. Here was a man who was happy with life. He dipped ice cream for a living and probably didn’t make much doing it. But the money didn’t matter to him. He got to work outdoors all day and put smiles on people’s faces. She would like to do that someday. Just hand out smiles for a living.

  “Here you go, nice lady.”

  “Thanks.” She took the cone in exchange for several dollars.

  “Have a good day. Come back and see me again, okay?”

  “I will. You have a good day too.” Cassandra turned away from the ice-cream stand, took a long, delicious lick from the cone, and then checked her watch. Three-thirty. Falcon was a half hour late. He had called her at five of three and told her to come here immediately, saying that if she wasn’t here by three, he was leaving. So she had sprinted from the Chronicle’s Water Street headquarters. And now he wasn’t here. After all that. Maybe he just liked to jerk people around. Some people were that way. It was a power thing. Maybe she had misjudged him.

  She walked down the cement path to the water and leaned against the retaining wall overlooking New York Harbor. Battery Park. It was a lovely nook of greenery tucked into the very southern tip of Manhattan. Trees, grass, and flowers surrounded the old fort, which had guarded the island in the very early days of the great city. The breeze coming up from Staten Island to Battery Park smelled wonderful in the afternoon sunshine. She took a deep breath. For the first time in several weeks the oppressive midsummer humidity had broken and the air was fresh and clear.

  “Hello, Cassandra.”

  Cassandra turned. Falcon stood twenty feet away, leaning against the wall, staring down into the water. She barely recognized him with the dark blue windbreaker zipped up about his neck and the Australian outback hat pulled down over his face. His beard was rough. “Hello, yourself. Why are you always late for our appointments?” She began to move toward him.

  “I have to be kind of careful all of a sudden.”

  “Would you mind telling me why?”

  “Don’t come any closer.”

  Cassandra stopped ten feet from where Falcon stood. “What?”

  “Look out into the harbor. Don’t look at me when you speak to me.” He was nervous.

  “Andrew, aren’t you—”

  “Do as I ask!”

  “Okay.” Cassandra turned toward the harbor and gazed at the Verrazano Bridge in the distance. She was becoming irritated at his inane demands.

  Falcon rotated his body so that his back rested against the retaining wall. He folded his arms across his chest and from behind the dark glasses searched the park for any sign of someone watching them. There were only a few people in the park now. A few hours ago, during lunchtime, it had been jammed with bankers and secretaries.

  He had been watching Cassandra for thirty minutes, searching for any indication that she was being followed. Or that she was working with someone. He could trust no one now. That was why he had called her by surprise and told her to come immediately—because that way she would have less time to alert anyone. Less time to set him up if she were a plant. He had seen her running from a quarter of a mile away. He had watched her fall onto the bench and clutch her chest after running all the way from the Chronicle. And he felt bad for putting her through all this. But he couldn’t be too careful at this point.

  Just like Alexis, Cassandra had come into his life suddenly, though not quite as coincidentally. Falcon had confirmed for certain that Cassandra was a Financial Chronicle reporter. He had spoken to her senior editor to be sure that the Chronicle was really running the story on him. He had gone to the midtown library to read stories of hers in the back issues of the Chronicle. He had found her work in the Minneapolis Star Tribune. He had even found her picture in the 1984 Emory University yearbook he had sent for by Federal Express. Everything she had told him checked out.

  But they could have arranged for Cassandra too. They were very powerful. Falcon was convinced of that.

  “I’m sorry to put you through all this, but I think I’m involved in something that’s, well, pretty bad. I know that sounds crazy, but I have to be very careful.”

  “It would if I hadn’t been watching the screens all afternoon, as you told me to do.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Haven’t you heard?”

  “No.”

  “There was a bombshell dropped in Baltimore federal court this morning.”

  Falcon smiled. “Let me guess who dropped it. Turner Prescott, of the law firm of Cleveland, Miller & Prescott.”

  “Yes. So you’ve heard?”

  Falcon shook his head. “No.” He pointed to the bag at his feet. “It’s all in there. Have they released the information about the real estate partnerships yet? About NASO’s thirteen billion dollars in bad loans and investments in Penn-Mar and the six billion dollars of bad loans to certain real estate partnerships? About how nineteen billion dollars of bad investments completely wipes out NASO’s capital?”

  Cassandra stared at Falcon.

  “I told you not to look directly at me.”

  Cassandra’s gaze snapped back toward the harbor.

  “Has all of that information been released?”

  “Yes, but how did you know?”

  “And NASO is going down, isn’t it?” Andrew ignored her.

  “That’s the rumor.”

  “I bet the financial markets are going nuts.”

  “The Dow Jones industrial average was off seven hundred points at two o’clock. It’s the biggest single one-day decline in the Dow, ever. They were talking about shutting the exchange down early when I ran over here. All the other markets are off too. People are talking about a crash of the entire U.S. financial system. NASO can’t cover its fore
ign-exchange positions, its swap obligations, or its deposits. People are trying to pull money out of NASO like there’s no tomorrow. But they can’t get it. NASO doesn’t have any. And other institutions are rumored to be in trouble too. The ones with big exposures to NASO. It’s surreal. The reporters on CNN can’t even keep up with the developments. Everyone’s crowded around TV sets. Nobody’s working. It’s incredible. The next sound you hear is going to be people hitting the pavements as they throw themselves out of windows. The President is supposed to make an announcement at four-thirty.”

  Andrew stared at her. “The Fed isn’t stepping up to stabilize the system, is it?”

  “No. CNN is screaming about how the Fed’s been invisible. The rumor is that the New York Fed is crawling all over NASO, but they haven’t said anything about stabilizing the bank or the market. It’s crazy.”

  “Of course they haven’t.” Falcon thought about Filipelli drowning in the Bighorn River.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Falcon searched the trees of the park for anyone lurking in the shadows. “My God, they are sharp.”

  “Excuse me? ‘They,’ Andrew? Who are ‘they’?”

  Falcon stared at Cassandra. “A group called the Sevens.”

  “The Sevens.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who exactly are the Sevens?” Cassandra asked cynically.

  “Forget the details at this point. Suffice it to say they are a small group of very powerful men with some very important connections.”

  “Are you talking about the mob?”

  “No. I’m talking blue bloods.”

  “What?”

  “Yes.”

  “How powerful are these people?” she asked.

  “Do you think the president of the New York Federal Reserve is a powerful man? Or how about the senior partner of Winthrop, Hawkins?”

  “Of course.” Cassandra stopped short. She realized what he was saying. “You must be joking.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  They stood in silence for a few moments. Falcon continued to check the shadows of the park for anything suspicious. But he saw only a pair of lovers walking slowly through the trees.

  “Did you check out those two names, Rutherford and Henderson?”

  Cassandra nodded. “I’m still checking on Rutherford. Henderson was easy.”

  “What do you mean?” His eyes moved quickly from the trees to her. There was something strange in her voice.

  “Henderson’s my boss. He’s the president and CEO of the Chronicle.”

  Falcon stared at Cassandra Stone, trying to understand the implications of what she had just said. “What!” He swallowed hard. Death could be very close. They might be using her and she wouldn’t even know it. Her line could be tapped. Worse still, she might be part of the scheme. But he dismissed that quickly. If she were, he would probably already be dead. “Will you help me, Cassandra?” Falcon glanced through the trees again.

  “Of course.”

  “You could be putting yourself in great danger by helping me.”

  “Why?”

  “I think these men know that I am aware of what they are trying to do.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  Falcon turned toward Cassandra Stone. “Look at me, Cassandra.”

  “I thought I wasn’t supposed to look at you.”

  “Look at me!”

  “All right!” She turned.

  Falcon stared at the dark brown eyes. “I have to be able to trust someone. Are you involved with them?”

  “What? With whom?”

  “The Sevens.” It was stupid to ask her this way, but he had absolute faith in his ability to read a face. And she was still calling him Andrew, not Falcon.

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  It wasn’t the words which convinced him that she was telling the truth. It was the eyes. She hadn’t once looked away from him.

  “I can’t believe you would think that of me!”

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Will you help me?”

  Cassandra stared at Falcon for a moment. “It is very dangerous, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get the information you have in that bag?” Her face showed fear.

  “I broke into one of the Sevens’ offices at Penn-Mar’s headquarters building in Toledo, Ohio, while I was out there two days ago. I already had information that made me suspicious, and when I got into this office I sort of hit the mother lode.” Falcon did not tell her about the guard.

  “All of what you have told me is in there?”

  “And more.”

  “Am I going to regret this?”

  “Probably.” He paused. “So, will you help me?”

  “Why don’t you go to the authorities?”

  “Not yet. I don’t have enough information, and I can’t get to it. I need you to help me get that information.” He scanned the park quickly.

  “You can’t go to your office to use the systems, can you? You’re afraid they’ll find you.”

  “No and yes to those two questions.”

  “What do you need?”

  From his pocket Falcon removed a folded piece of paper. He moved the short distance to Cassandra, took her by the arm, and pressed the paper into her open palm. “First, I need you to get the telephone bills for the last six months for each of the men on that list I just gave you. Second, I need to know who William Rutherford is. He’s the only name on that list I can’t place. I need to know everything about him. I think you have his phone number, the number next to his name. Third, I need to know what the hell Lodestar Investment Management is. I need to know if a guy named Peter Lane works there or is somehow associated with it. And fourth, I need you to contact Jeremy Case’s widow. Case is the man I think the Sevens paid off for the environmental information before they killed him. Call his wife and see if there is anything you can get out of her about his death. You can get the background of his death from Nexis.”

  “What am I supposed to get out of her?”

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I’m grabbing at straws at this point.”

  “I’ve got to write all this down.”

  “No. It’s all written on the paper I gave you. The four things I need you to follow up on.”

  “I hope I live to regret this.”

  “I hope you do too.” Falcon searched the park one more time. “I’ve got to get going. I need to make a twenty-five-hundred-dollar down payment on some information.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Wait for my call, Cassandra. Oh, and one other thing.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “One of the names on that list I just gave you is Bailey Henderson, the chief executive of your Financial Chronicle.”

  Cassandra gaped at Falcon, not fully comprehending what he had just said, unable to believe it.

  “By the way, you’re going to need a napkin.” Falcon nodded downward.

  Cassandra looked at her right hand. “Oh, God.” She had completely forgotten about the ice-cream cone. It had melted all over her wrist. She looked up again, but Falcon was already moving into the shadows of the park.

  She glanced at the stand where she had purchased the cone. A man stood leaning against the structure, reading a paper. Was he really reading the paper, or was he watching her? She took a deep breath. Paranoia was already setting in.

  * * *

  —

  “¿Dónde está el gringo?”

  The swarthy man behind the counter of the bodega grinned slyly at Phoenix Grey, exposing a gold tooth. He said nothing.

  “¿Dónde está el gringo?” Phoenix asked impatiently. He glanced at his watch: 8:20. Rutherford’s female contact here in New York had been specific. Falcon would
only be at the boardinghouse tonight, and then he was leaving. Moving to a new location because he was nervous sleeping in the same place more than one night. “Por favor.”

  The Puerto Rican shopkeeper smiled triumphantly. The white man was no longer so condescending. “Yo sé dónde el ésta.”

  Phoenix breathed deeply. So the man knew where Falcon was. Now they were making progress. “Diga me. Por favor.” Phoenix said “please” dutifully. He would say “please” all day to the old man to get this information.

  “¡Dinero!”

  Phoenix reached quickly into his boot for the wad of cash. The information he was about to receive could easily be false, but he had no time to argue. Time was running out. He threw a fifty-dollar bill on the counter next to the huge jar of pickles. “¡Diga me!”

  The Puerto Rican’s eyes grew wide. He reached for the cash, but Phoenix caught the man’s wrist before his fingers could scoop up the money.

  “¡Diga me!”

  The shopkeeper could feel the strength of the white man, and he was surprised. The white man did not appear to be that strong.

  “Dos tres dos.” The Puerto Rican jerked his head backward. “Entre Avenidas Segunda y Tercera.”

  “Bueno.” Phoenix released the man’s wrist.

  The shopkeeper scooped up the fifty-dollar bill and stuffed it into his pocket.

  “You’d better be sure.”

  The man gestured obscenely at Grey, who did not see the motion. He was already moving out the creaky door of the small shop.

  Though he wanted to, Phoenix did not run as he moved east along the south side of 132nd Street. He walked slowly and carefully. This was a Puerto Rican stronghold of New York City, and whites were not welcome here. He did not want to attract any more attention than he had to. Phoenix had no doubt that he could handle four or five at a time—unless they had weapons. There was no defense in the world against an AK-47 or Black Rhinos, no defense at all against the firepower that the gangs and the drug merchants carried these days in this part of New York City.