by Stephen Frey
“What did he want?”
“He wanted to know if they could help out.”
“What was his name?” Christian wondered if it was the same guy who’d called him.
“I don’t remember. I saved the message on my answering machine. I’ll forward it to you in the morning,” she said, raising her voice as the band broke into an up-tempo song.
“It is the morning.”
“Okay, later this morning.”
“Why did he call you? You aren’t working on that deal.”
“Gordon probably had something to do with it.”
“What do you mean?”
“My family’s done business with Black Brothers for a long time. They raised a lot of money for our railroad back in the day.”
Allison’s great-great-grandfather had founded the Chicago & Western Railway in the 1850s and ultimately made hundreds of millions selling it to what was now the Burlington Northern. That was how the Wallace Family had made its first fortune. After that they’d made it big in real estate, then in the cell phone explosion.
“Black Brothers underwrote bonds for us to pay for tracks, engines, cars,” Allison continued. “That’s when the relationship started. My uncle and his brother still do a lot of business with those guys. Obviously, so does Gordon.”
“It’s a pretty secretive outfit. You don’t hear much about them.”
“That’s the way they want it, I guess.”
“You know people there?” Christian asked.
She shrugged. “Eh. Why?
“Just wondering.” Maybe it was time to change horses on the Laurel deal after all. At least time to have a talk with the Black Brothers guy.
“What about the casino?” Allison wanted to know. “You never told me how it went with the Gaming Commission.”
She hadn’t asked about business last night in Vegas at all. For some reason, tonight was different. “It’s going to take a little more massaging than I thought, but it’ll be fine.”
She put her hand on his shoulder. “You deal with so much.”
“Nah.” She didn’t even know about the SEC dogging CST.
They watched for a few more minutes, then, when the band broke into another fast song, Allison took Christian’s hand. “Come on!” she urged, trying to pull him off the bar stool.
But he stayed put, grabbing the seat with his other hand.
“I want to dance.”
“No way.”
She grabbed his arm with both hands and pulled hard. “Please,” she begged.
“Nope.”
But she wasn’t going to be denied, and before Christian knew it he was on the dance floor, aware that everyone was watching them. He’d made such a production of trying to resist and she looked so damn good. Well, what the hell? If you’re going to do something, don’t do it half-assed.
When they reached the middle of the polished parquet floor, Christian squeezed Allison’s hand and spun her twice, then twirled her around the floor, dodging the other two couples skillfully. He’d learned a thing or two about doing the pretzel while he was at Princeton.
When the song finished, the room broke into loud applause and there were shouts for an encore—even the band waved for them to come back. But one dance was enough. He’d let go enough for the night.
Allison hugged him when they got back to the bar. “That was awesome,” she bubbled, breathing hard. “I never would have guessed.”
“Hey, I can move a little.”
“A little? I’m calling you Twinkle Toes around the office from now on.”
“You do and I’ll kill you.”
“No, you won’t.”
“You’re right, I won’t. I’ll have Quentin kill you. That’s his gig.”
“I’m going to the ladies’ room to freshen up,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “Just when I think I know Christian Gillette, I find out something else about him. Some little nugget hidden behind that mysterious façade.”
As Christian watched her walk away, he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to face Quentin. “What?”
“Hey, Twinkle Toes.”
“Don’t you start.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Quentin wanted to know, nodding after Allison.
“What do you mean?” But he knew exactly what Quentin was asking. “Look, I’m just having a little fun.”
“We talked about this already. She’s your business partner, Chris. No dipping the pen in the company ink.”
“Believe me, it’s innocent.”
“All evil springs from innocence.”
“Okay, Nietzsche.”
Quentin rolled his eyes. “I’m trying to help.”
“I know, I know. But, my God, she’s fun, beautiful, and I get to see her on a regular basis.” Which wasn’t true of the other women he’d dated over the last ten years, including Faith. “The way I look at it, that’s a damn good start. Maybe I ought to at least get to know her a little bit more outside work.”
Quentin hesitated. “Chris, I think it’s a mistake.”
“It’ll be fine,” Christian said, checking his BlackBerry one more time.
And there it was. Another e-mail from Faith, this one telling him how wrong she’d been to send the first one. How she’d just opened her eyes in her Paris hotel room and she missed him so much.
He glanced up. Allison was coming back from the ladies’ room, staring straight at him, walking that devil-may-care walk, smiling that sly smile.
PATTY ROTH climbed the stairs to the third floor of the lodge quickly, not bothering to look back over her shoulder in the dim light. She had to do this fast. She knew it was so risky, but her curiosity was killing her.
She’d waited until she was certain Don was asleep, lying in bed for two hours staring at the ceiling until he finally settled into the loud, rhythmic snore that had kept her awake during the first few months of their relationship. Then she’d slipped on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, snatched Don’s keys quietly off his dresser, and headed out of the bedroom.
When she reached the third floor, she trotted down the carpeted hallway on her bare feet to that door, to the one she’d finally found the courage to make it to the other day. She cringed as the door swung slowly back on its hinges and creaked loudly. The last thing she wanted to do was wake up Don.
When it was open, she reached inside and found the light switch, a smell of mildew wafting to her nostrils as the room was bathed in light. For a few moments she stared through the room at the steel door with the two latches on the far wall, then she moved across the floor and knelt down to start trying keys in the latch near the floor. Her hands shook terribly as she tried the first one.
“Goddamn it! What the hell are you doing?”
Patty spun around in terror, falling back against the door, cold and hard against her back. “Nothing, sweetheart. I—I—I’m just—” But that was all she got out.
Roth strode to where she was sprawled, grabbed the keys from her hand, tossed them back toward the hallway, clamped her wrist in his big hand, jacked her to her feet, and pushed her against the steel door, hard.
She’d never seen him like this before, never seen him so furious. Instinctively, she put her hands up and turned her head to the side.
“I told you never to come in here! Never, never, never!” he shouted, his eyes glowing. “I meant it, damn it! Don’t ever do it again!” He was breathing hard. “Or so help me.”
“SAMUEL HEWITT is certifiable.”
They were meeting on the darkened playground of a public elementary school a few towns west of Greenwich, in a grove of trees beside the swings.
“Blanton, some of the things he’s talking about are insane,” Kohler continued. “I mean, I understand trying to make it harder to immigrate into the United States and making it harder to become a citizen once you’re here. And I don’t have a problem with that as long as you don’t make it impossible. It ought to be tough to get in here and stay here. Hell, this is an incredibl
e country. But some of the other stuff he’s talking about is crazy.” He held up one hand and began to tick off the list. “Getting his buddies at the CIA to help the cartels in South America get their filth past customs. Getting his pals at the FBI to make sure the gangs in the inner cities get their hands on drugs. Funding inner city abortion clinics? Influencing state legislatures to make abortions legal until the end of the second trimester? Assassinating Jesse Wood? How far does it go, Blanton?”
McDonnell tried to break in, but there was no stopping Kohler at this point. He was on a roll.
“And I wouldn’t get so worked up about it because it seems so crazy, but…I mean, he might actually be able to pull it off.” Kohler’s voice became hushed. “The guy is more connected than any human being on earth. He might as well be president for Christ sake. Of course, then he’d have to actually listen to other people’s opinions. No, Samuel Hewitt would be happy only if he could be dictator.” Kohler shook his head. “I know he could have Wood killed, and no one would ever figure out he was behind it. And, if you want my opinion, Jesse Wood is exactly what this country needs right now. Someone who can unite us, not tear us apart.”
“I agree,” said McDonnell, finally able to break in, “but what do we do about our tapes? My wife would…She’d take me for everything with that kind of evidence. I’d be ruined. I—I can’t deal with that, Mace.” His voice was shaking. “I’ve worked my whole life to get where I am.”
Kohler nodded. “I know, I know.” This was exactly what the Order’s infidelity requirement was supposed to do: terrify you into loyalty. “Did you get the message about the next meeting?”
“Yeah.”
“Hewitt’s gonna lay the whole thing out for us then,” Kohler said. “I can feel it. And we’re going to have to do something at that point. We can’t let him go after Jesse Wood. If we do, we’re as bad as he is.”
“So what the hell are we going to do?”
Kohler looked off into the distance, toward the darkened school buildings. There was only one thing he could think of. But it was so damn risky.
11
VIVIAN DAVIS was a senior investigator at the Securities and Exchange Commission, the woman who had called Bob Galloway, the chief financial officer of Central States Telecom and Satellite. African American, Vivian was tall and angular, and her blue chalk-striped suit hung loosely on her lanky frame. She was wearing three-inch heels, so when she and Christian came together in the middle of her office to shake hands, she was at eye level with him. Most tall women he knew wore flats, sometimes even stooped a little to downplay their height, but Vivian was advertising it. No problem with confrontation here, thought Christian. She wasn’t going to have any issues going after him, no matter who he was. He was here; he was prey. It was that simple.
Christian noticed that the sleeves of Vivian’s suit jacket were a little long. A mid-level government employee, she probably didn’t make much, which meant that she wouldn’t waste money on alterations because she wouldn’t wear the jacket that often. That also meant she wouldn’t have much sympathy for a man whose net worth had been estimated at half a billion dollars by Forbes. In fact, she’d probably hate him for it.
“Hello, Mr. Gillette.”
“Hello, Ms. Davis.”
She had a strong grip and an air of forced friendliness about her. He sensed that she didn’t want to smile but felt she had to, that she realized he was a man of power and influence, so she was going to give him at least some measure of respect before moving in on him. Like a matador’s bow to a bull before the fight.
“This is Nigel Faraday,” Christian said, gesturing to his right. “He’s the number two person at Everest Capital.”
Vivian gave Nigel the same forced smile but no handshake. “Are you an officer of Central States Telecom, too?”
Nigel shook his head.
“I thought it would be a good idea for Nigel to join us,” Christian explained. “I travel a lot, and I want you to be able to get in touch with us anytime. Besides, Nigel is more familiar than anyone else at Everest with CST’s daily operations as well as with the IPO. We just want to make sure we cooperate with you the best way we can.”
“Oh, you’ll cooperate,” Vivian said confidently.
Too confidently, almost arrogantly. Christian didn’t like people who were caught up in their power, but he bit his lip.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Faraday,” Vivian continued, “but if you’re not an officer of CST, then you have no reason to be here.” She looked back at Christian. “I didn’t ask you to come to my office today in your capacity as the chairman of Everest Capital. I asked you to come here as the chairman of CST. I’m sorry, but Mr. Faraday will have to wait outside.”
Christian reached out and grabbed Nigel’s arm. He’d been turning to go. “I really think it would be helpful to have another person here, just so there’s no misunderstanding later on about what was said.” This wasn’t starting off well, but he wasn’t going to back down. “I hope you understand,” he said politely. She couldn’t force Faraday to leave. He knew that—so did she. She’d been trying to con him, and it irritated him that she thought he was so naïve. “It’s my right to have another person in here with me. You know that.”
“Already spoke to your lawyer, did you? Worried about something?”
“I’m careful, Ms. Davis,” he said calmly. “Nigel and I manage billions of dollars of other people’s money. We have to be careful.”
“Then I’m surprised you didn’t bring that lawyer of yours along.” She moved behind her desk and sat down, motioning for them to sit in the chairs in front of the desk. “Wouldn’t that have been the best thing to do if you were worried?”
“I didn’t say I was worried,” Christian answered sharply. “You did.” He glanced at the fresh flower in the buttonhole of her lapel. A pink carnation. Her way of telling you she was a friendly person—outside the office. “I said I was careful.”
Vivian flipped through a spiral-bound notebook, scanning several pages, then leaned forward, putting her elbows on the desk. “Let me get right to the point, Mr. Gillette. I’m almost certain we’re going to initiate an investigation of CST. We’ve received what we believe is credible information that there may have been some serious misrepresentations in your S-1, in the initial public offering document you and Everest put out six months ago.”
“Let me get right to my point,” Christian said. “The company, its investment bankers, and its attorneys put those documents together. I’m sure you’re very familiar with the investment bankers and the attorneys on the deal—top-shelf all the way. It wasn’t Everest who put out the S-1, it was the company.”
“The company you’re chairman of, Mr. Gillette. You’re supposed to know everything that’s going on at a company you’re chairman of.”
“Oh, come on,” Nigel broke in. “That’s ridiculous. How can Christian possibly know everything that’s going on at a company as large as CST?”
“Let me rephrase,” Vivian offered. “Everything important that’s going on. An initial public offering certainly falls into that category.”
“What kind of misrepresentations are you talking about?” Christian asked.
“About your net income, about your earnings per share,” Vivian answered. “The key things investors look at when they’re trying to decide whether or not to buy your shares. To get to the heart of this whole thing, Mr. Gillette, we believe you significantly overstated revenues at CST during the three years you owned the company before you took it public. We think you’re still doing it.” She glanced over at Nigel, then back at Christian. “And we all know what overstating revenue means. It means your net income and therefore your earnings per share figures are overstated, as well—way overstated. Meaning the stock price is too high because CST isn’t doing as well as you’d have us believe it is.” Her eyes narrowed. “We think the overstatements were intentional, too, not just an oversight on some clerk’s part. Not just a one-time mistaken
entry in the books somewhere. We think this is serial fraud and that several senior people at CST knew what was going on.” She paused. “Possibly you.”
Christian’s eyes moved smoothly to hers.
“That’s absurd!” Nigel shouted. “Christian’s got one of the cleanest reputations in the business world. You can’t possibly—”
Christian reached over and touched Nigel’s shoulder, silencing him immediately. “Where exactly did you get your information?” he asked.
“Can’t tell you.”
“I have a right to know who’s accusing me.”
Vivian leaned back and smiled. “Maybe you should have brought your attorney with you after all.”
“Look, I’m not here to admit or deny anything. I can’t: I don’t have the facts. I don’t even really know what you’re talking about because overstating revenues can mean lots of different things. But I do know that as long as we were following generally accepted accounting principles, which I believe we were, we weren’t overstating anything.” He was thinking clearly, not rattled at all by her aggressiveness or the situation. It was a gift to be able to act calmly and think clearly under pressure, a gift from his father. He’d seen Clayton do it under fire several times—on TV and in person. Only once had he seen his father lose his cool, fall completely apart. “What I will say is this. We’re extremely diligent at CST—at all our companies—about financial controls. We have an audit committee that works with our independent accounting firm to make certain every measure possible is taken to protect the integrity of our financial statements. That’s the only way our public shareholders can really judge how well the company is doing, and we want them to have as much information as they need to make those judgments.” He nodded toward Nigel. “As Nigel said, I can’t know everything that goes on at CST—it’s too big a company. But if you tell me you think there’s a problem with the way we account for revenues, I’ll do everything I can to find out if you’re right. I promise you that.”
Vivian clapped slowly several times. “Nice speech, Mr. Gillette. I liked it a lot.” She broke into a broad smile. “I think one of the senior executives of MCI Worldcom made almost exactly that same speech the first time we brought him in. Said there was no way he could know everything that was going on, but he’d help us get to the bottom of anything that was.” She smiled. “He ended up getting ten years behind bars.”
