by Stephen Frey
“Christian’s the chairman of twenty companies, Ms. Davis,” Nigel spoke up. “You know he’s not involved in the details at CST. There’s no way he could be.”
“Maybe not, but maybe he shouldn’t be chairman of twenty companies, either.” She checked her notebook once more. “How much did Everest make on the CST initial public offering?”
Christian hesitated, knowing how this was going to sound. “Four hundred million.”
“And how much of that did you take home, Mr. Gillette?”
He stared at her for a moment, then glanced at her jacket sleeves. “Twenty.”
HEWITT WATCHED his grandson raise the rifle and peer through the scope, sighting in a magnificent twelve-point buck. The big deer was grazing in front of a grove of live oaks several hundred yards away. He marveled at how steady his grandson’s hand was. They were standing, so Three Sticks had nothing to brace the gun against but his shoulder. Still, Hewitt couldn’t detect any motion of the gun tip. It was as though he was looking at a photograph.
Hewitt loved Three Sticks. Loved him more than anything in the world. More than being CEO of U.S. Oil, more than this ranch, more than all his money, even more than being master of the Order. He loved the boy more than life itself. He had sons, but, for whatever reason, they hadn’t made much of themselves. For all intents and purposes, his grandson had become his only heir.
He watched the fourteen-year-old take a deep breath, let out half of it, hesitate a moment, then calmly squeeze the trigger. Exactly as Hewitt had taught him to do a couple of years ago in a corral behind one of the big barns on the ranch, using tin cans as targets and a little twenty-two as a weapon.
When the gun exploded, Hewitt’s gaze snapped left, just in time to see the buck stagger backward a few feet, then bound away into the trees.
“I got him good!” the boy shouted. “In the lungs. He won’t go far.”
That was the thing about deer. You could blow their lungs—even their hearts—apart with a thirty-caliber shell and they’d still run, still race off into the underbrush as though they hadn’t been hit. Something about them kept the blood pumping even though their hearts were gone. But as long as you hit them in the heart or the lungs, you could follow the blood trail right to the spot where they finally collapsed.
Hewitt and the boy jumped on their horses and galloped toward the grove of trees, quickly finding the spot where the buck had been grazing when he was hit. The grass just inside the shade of the elms was stained red, and, sure enough, there were spatters leading off into the trees. They trotted into the grove, along the blood trail until they reached the buck. Even though it lay spread out on the ground, it was still magnificent.
Hewitt drew a forty-four Magnum from his shoulder holster and put another bullet into the deer’s body, chuckling as his grandson hit the deck in shock at the sound of the explosion. The boy had dismounted too quickly, impatient as all young men are to claim a trophy. Hewitt had seen a buck this size—apparently dead—suddenly stand and gore its killer before dropping for the final time.
He dismounted slowly, wincing as his boots hit the hard ground, feeling the arthritis in his joints. He watched the boy kneel down beside the deer, grab the antlers, and lift the head off the ground. There was foam all over the soft black mouth and a trickle of blood running down one nostril. It was a hell of a trophy.
“Awesome,” Hewitt said proudly, shaking his grandson’s hand, then pushing the brim of his Stetson back. “Awesome,” he repeated quietly.
“Thanks, Granddad.”
Hewitt smiled, pride welling up inside him, suddenly wishing he could live forever, wishing he could watch this boy all the way through his life. Three Sticks had a brilliant future ahead of him. Already an excellent athlete, he’d scored off the charts on his mental aptitude tests as well. There was nothing this boy couldn’t accomplish with the right mentoring—and the world staying the way it was.
THE HEADQUARTERS of Black Brothers Allen was at 9 Wall Street, on the south side of the famous narrow lane just west of Federal Hall—where George Washington had taken the first presidential oath of office. The high-rise building housing the secretive firm was set on almost the same piece of real estate the three founders had chosen in 1860 to start the investment bank. The original building had been replaced twenty years ago by a taller, slicker-looking edifice, but many of the artifacts from that first structure were kept in a museum on the fifty-second floor just off the boardroom. The museum was accessible only to the firm’s management committee—the top nine executives.
The artifacts included the headdress worn by Man Bear at his execution. Only Trenton Fleming knew the significance of that. Everyone else on the management committee just assumed it was some trinket one of the founders had brought back from a trip out West long ago. Fleming knew because he was the great-great-grandson of Prescott Avery Fleming and George Ellis Black, the two founding members of the Order. One of Prescott Fleming’s sons had married one of George Black’s daughters and the families had been inextricably linked forever. Just as they were linked to the Hewitt family—Samuel was his second cousin. And the Laird family—Franklin was his third cousin. There were relationships like that everywhere, but they were kept very quiet. It would have been a challenge if the world knew that the man who ran Black Brothers Allen, one of the most powerful investment banks in the world, was related to the man who ran the Federal Reserve.
Christian and Allison followed a receptionist into an elegantly decorated conference room on the tenth floor—the executive floor. When the woman had poured them both drinks, she smiled and politely bid them good-bye, then closed the door behind her.
“That was strange,” Christian observed, taking a sip of chilled water as he pulled out his cell phone. He was still thinking about how badly this morning’s meeting with Vivian Davis had gone. How he could tell she was licking her chops at the prospect of going after him. How she probably felt like locking horns with him was her big chance to push her career forward at the SEC. He really shouldn’t have expected anything else, and he didn’t harbor any ill will against her. The bigger you were, the more of a target you were. She was just doing her job, carrying out her superiors’ directives. All he could do was try to avert disaster. “Very strange.”
“What was?”
“That woman never asked us what we wanted, just poured.”
Allison gave Christian a curious look. “So?”
“She poured you a Diet Coke.”
“I love Diet Coke.”
“Exactly. And she gave me bottled water, chilled without ice.” Christian pressed speed dial for Debbie’s number at Everest. “Just the way I like it. But she didn’t ask either of us what we wanted. Different drinks, both exactly what we wanted. Strange.”
Allison glanced around suspiciously. “You’re saying she already knew what we wanted.”
Christian held up one hand as Debbie answered his call. “Hey there. Uh-huh. Good. Listen, I know this is a weird question, but did somebody call there this morning asking what I like to drink? Oh, yeah? Allison, too? Okay. Thanks.” He clicked off and slipped the phone back in his pocket. “Good news: They aren’t mind readers. Just well prepared.”
Before Allison could say anything, the door opened and two men entered. Both wore dark suits, starched white shirts, and conservative ties. Christian recognized the taller of the two immediately. It was Trenton Fleming, the firm’s chairman. Christian had never met Fleming, but he recognized the face from a sketch in a recent, front-page Journal article. The article had appeared a month ago and had gone into detail about how secretive the firm was. Absent from the article were quotes from anyone inside Black Brothers, including Fleming. The only people quoted in the story were investment bankers and lawyers at other firms.
Fleming was tall and slim, with thinning blond hair and round, wire-rimmed glasses. His face was tanned deeply, and Christian remembered that the article had described him as an avid seaman who had sailed around the world by
himself several times.
“Hello, Christian. I’m Trenton Fleming. Good to finally meet you. I’ve read a lot about you.”
“Likewise.” Christian gestured toward Allison. “This is Allison Wallace.”
“We know Allison.” Fleming turned toward her. “How’s your uncle, honey?”
Christian noticed her give him a quick, sidelong glance. When he’d asked her if she knew anyone here at Black Brothers, she hadn’t mentioned that she knew the man who ran the place. Knew him well enough that he called her “honey.” Seemed like that would have been a natural thing to say.
“He’s fine,” she answered quickly. “Thanks.”
Fleming nodded at the man to his left. “This is Roy Inkster. He’s the lead investment banker in our energy department.”
Inkster leaned in to shake hands. “I appreciate you two taking the time to come down here to see us.”
When they were all seated, Christian wasted no time getting to the point. “Trenton, why do you think you can sell Laurel Energy for me if Morgan Stanley can’t? Morgan Stanley’s energy group is excellent.”
Fleming removed his glasses and placed them carefully on the shiny tabletop. “They certainly do have a fine group, but, Christian, we’re known for our ability to handle…special situations. To get things done when other firms can’t.”
“What makes you guys so good?”
“Connections. Simple as that. What makes the world go round. We believe we can get to anyone anywhere. Because of who we know in many different places, we feel we can get to the people who can drive a deal, like in this Laurel situation,” he interrupted himself, “with much fewer degrees of separation than any other firm that might represent you. As I’m sure you’d agree, the fewer the degrees of separation, the more likely people are to listen. It’s all about connections, which is what you need in this situation. Our ability to get to the CEO of every major energy company in the world, not just to the mid-level guys like I’m sure Morgan Stanley’s been contacting. You know, head of business development, head of corporate finance—those kinds of folks. Certainly people that matter, but not the CEO. We’ll go directly to the CEOs.”
“Have you looked at Laurel Energy yet?” Christian asked.
“I’ve had a couple of our top analysts all over it the past few days. We’re convinced you can get at least four and a half billion for it, based on our assessment of the reserves.”
That sounded good. It wasn’t five billion, but it was close. Close enough to get him interested. “Who do you think buys it?”
Fleming smiled politely. The same way the receptionist had, Christian thought. Like he knew something you wanted to know—and he knew you wanted to know it—but he wasn’t going to tell you, at least not right now. Not until you paid him a big fat fee. Christian looked around. This place had a cult feel to it.
“Well.” Fleming chuckled in a way that told everyone in the room he was very sure of himself. “That’s where we come in, isn’t it?”
Fleming seemed awfully pleased with himself. Like a cat who was about to bag a big canary.
“I suppose,” Christian agreed grudgingly, aware of what was coming.
“Let’s talk about our fee to do this deal,” Fleming suggested. “What our connections will cost you.”
One of the main points of the Wall Street Journal article was that, while Black Brothers seemed to be able to get things done that other firms couldn’t, they charged exorbitant fees to do it. Christian nodded. “Okay.”
“We’ll get ten million up front just to take on the project, then we’ll get a success fee of seven percent of whatever we get for the company on top of that.”
Christian gazed steadily at Fleming, trying not to give away his aggravation. He’d been ready for something like one or two percent, maybe three, but seven was ridiculous. If Black Brothers really got four and a half billion for Laurel Energy, their fee would be well over three hundred million, an obscene amount of money. “That seems heavy, Trenton,” he said, trying to be diplomatic.
“It’s a difficult situation. As you’ve found.”
Christian glanced out the window overlooking Wall Street. Three hundred million to make a few calls. Now that was a hell of a phone bill. “Why are you here, Trenton?” he asked.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Why did you come to this meeting? Why didn’t you let Roy handle it himself?” Christian motioned toward Inkster. “No offense.” He looked back at Fleming. “But candidly, Trenton, I was surprised when you walked in.”
“You’re an important guy, Christian. Candidly, we’d like to do more business with you and Everest Capital. Roy’s a talented man, but I figure the chairman of Everest Capital wants to meet the chairman of Black Brothers Allen when he comes to Wall Street.”
CARMINE TORINO came to with a start. He’d always been a light sleeper—you had to be to survive in the Mob.
He slipped out of the old bed and instantly hit a creaky floorboard. He winced, then grabbed the shotgun that was propped against the mattress. As he brought the gun to his shoulder, he heard the noise again: something—or someone—in the kitchen.
He stole down the narrow, musty hallway, brushing a cobweb aside, praying he wouldn’t hit another creaking board. When he reached the end of the hallway, he stood there for several moments, getting up his nerve to take the next step. He just prayed there weren’t more than two of them. He could handle two, but three would be tough. It was an over-and-under shotgun so he had five shots, but to kill three would still be very hard—even with the element of surprise.
Torino counted to five, then swung around the corner and leveled the gun into the kitchen. As he did, a huge object came rushing at him through the air, screeching. He threw his arms up and ducked as a hawk sailed by his head. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted, tumbling to the floor. He glanced up just in time to see the bird sail outside through the open living room window behind him.
After several moments he got up and dusted himself off, still shaking. He’d left a half-eaten cheeseburger on the kitchen counter last night. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
CHRISTIAN LOOKED UP from his computer at the sound of a knock on his office door.
“You wanted to see me?” Nigel asked from the doorway.
“Yeah, come in. Close the door, will you?”
“What is it?”
Christian had called Nigel a few minutes ago on a private intercom connecting their two offices. “I need you to take the lead on this CST thing—with the SEC, I mean. I’m going to be tied up for a while, and I want to try to figure out what’s going on at CST fast.” He had to focus on the casino license and the sale of Laurel Energy himself, but he couldn’t wait to start digging into the CST problem. Couldn’t let the SEC get ahead. “By the end of the week at the latest.”
Nigel nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
“Don’t do your best, just do it.” Christian pointed at Nigel. “First things first. Call Frank Conway over at Tucker Simpson. He’s the top lawyer in the city when it comes to this SEC stuff. Fill him in, then ask him what we should and shouldn’t be doing.”
“I’ll call him as soon as we’re done here.”
“Second, I want you to start poking around at CST itself. Get close to somebody you trust out in Chicago, a low-level controller maybe,” Christian suggested. “You know those people pretty well from the IPO. If something’s going on, I want to know about it before the SEC raids the place with their storm troopers. And don’t mention this to Conway. He’d probably tell you to stay away, but I don’t care.”
“Shouldn’t we follow Conway’s—”
“Do it, Nigel.”
“But what if—”
“When did you become Mr. Patient, for Christ sake? Usually I’m holding you back.”
“I know, but this is different. This is the SEC. I don’t want to get sideways with them.”
“I hate to tell you,” Christian muttered, “but we already are. Did you see the
look in Vivian Davis’s eyes this morning?”
Nigel nodded glumly. “Yeah, she’s out for blood.”
“Which is why we’ve got to act fast. I want to be proactive on this thing, I don’t want to play defense.”
“All right, all right,” Nigel agreed. “The last thing you need, the last thing any of us need, is for your name to get dragged through the newspapers because of some kind of scandal at CST. I hate to say this, but you know as well as I do that the reporters will try to connect it to you as fast as they can. You’re a big target, being on magazine covers as much as you have been lately and with a girlfriend like Faith Cassidy. You being named in a scandal will sell a lot of copies.”
Christian had already thought of that, and Nigel was exactly right. Which was why you did everything you could in life to avoid publicity, so people didn’t know who you were and your name wouldn’t sell copies. But, as Everest’s chairman and with what had happened a couple of years ago, that had turned out to be impossible.
“This whole thing seems so strange to me,” Christian said. “I trust Bob Galloway and his staff, and we’ve never had any cash flow problems. Accounting hocus-pocus only gets you so far. Enron and MCI proved that. Sooner or later there’s no cash left, and you gotta pay the piper.” He shook his head. “But we’re doing fine with cash at CST, right?”
“As far as I know.”
“I don’t get it.”
Nigel shrugged. “I know, it’s crazy. And you’re right: I trust Bob, too. Besides, the investment bankers, the accountants, and the lawyers were all over CST for months before we took it public. Somebody should have caught something.”
