The Power Broker

by Stephen Frey

  “I hate snobs, too, but what the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  Christian pointed at her. “The first day I met you I thought you were a snob.”

  Allison put her hand on her chest. “What?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Why? We went out to dinner, we had a great time.”

  “We did have a great time at dinner. But, technically, the first time we met was earlier that day, at Everest, when you and Gordon Meade came into the office to talk.”

  She moved back slightly from the table. “Oh, that’s right.”

  “You were Miss Prim and Proper, Ally.” It was the first time he’d ever called her that. It had come from nowhere, but he liked the way it sounded. “You hardly said a word, but when you did you were pretty condescending.”

  “That was business me. I was acting that way for Gordon. My family’s so concerned about appearances, you know?” Allison shook her head. “Most of them are the exact kind of people you hate. Consumed with what other people think of them, who they know, even who they’re related to. God, we have a whole huge book locked away in a safe at one of the mansions in Chicago dedicated to our family tree.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I hear it’s incredible, but I’ve never bothered to look at it.” She smiled at him and slid her hands across the table, wrapping her slender fingers around his. “This is nice, Chris.”

  Her fingers were soft and warm. They’d touched before, but it seemed different this time, very different. Everything seemed different this time. “Yeah.”

  “I’ll do whatever you want me to do. You know I will, and you’ve known it for a while.”

  It was exactly what he’d wanted her to say, but suddenly the responsibility of the commitment she’d just made came barreling at him. If she agreed to a contract he made her sign, she’d expect a lot in return. Not just what was in the contract. “This has to go slowly.”

  “Of course.”

  There was a warmth in her eyes he’d never seen before. “We have to be very careful.”

  She nodded. “I know.” She squeezed his fingers. “And I liked the way you called me Ally.”

  Christian gazed at her over the candles for a few moments, thinking about how right this seemed. “You know, I—” He interrupted himself. He’d spotted Quentin walk in and move directly to the maitre d’—who pointed at their table. Christian could tell right away by Quentin’s expression that something was wrong.

  “Chris,” Quentin called before he even made it to the table. He nodded at Allison.

  “Hello,” she said.

  Strange, Christian thought to himself, he’d heard irritation in her tone. As far as he knew, Allison and Quentin got along fine. She was probably just irritated about being interrupted at this particular moment. “What’s up?”

  Quentin’s eyes flickered to Allison, then back to Christian. “Can I talk to you for a second? Alone.”

  Christian gestured toward Allison. “It’s okay, you can say whatever you want to in front of her.”

  “It’s about that thing, you know?”

  Christian raised both eyebrows and pushed back his chair. “Okay.” He excused himself and followed Quentin through the restaurant, through the entrance, and out onto the sidewalk. “What thing?” he asked loudly. It was almost ten o’clock but Eighth Avenue still swelled with noisy traffic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sorry about the interruption. I tried your cell phone, but it was turned off.”

  “What’s so important it couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning or you couldn’t leave a message?”

  “I’ve got a lead on who tipped the SEC off about Central States Telecom.”

  Christian’s eyes narrowed. He’d told Quentin about the SEC’s pending investigation of CST. Quentin still had all those contacts inside the federal government, so Christian figured maybe he could dig up a clue about what was going on. Who Vivian Davis had gotten her “credible information” from. It was a long shot, but Quentin was a bloodhound. It sounded like he’d sniffed something out.

  Quentin motioned toward the restaurant door. “It’s all leading to Chicago.”

  Christian felt his throat go dry. He glanced over his shoulder at the door, then back at Quentin. “Allison?”

  “I don’t know if Allison’s involved yet, but I’m pretty sure Gordon Meade is.”

  Christian’s mind flashed back to the dinner in Chicago. How Meade had seemed strangely confrontational. “How sure?”

  “Eighty percent, but I’ll know more tomorrow.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Now you know why I wanted to tell you right away.”

  Christian nodded.

  “Were you and Allison holding hands when I walked in?” Quentin asked. He waited for a few moments, then tried another tack when Christian didn’t respond. “Do you think she’s involved?”

  “I don’t know.” Christian hesitated. “But it wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Quentin glanced down the sidewalk. “Yeah, but nothing ever surprises you.”

  Maybe not, Christian thought to himself, but when suspicion turned to truth it still disappointed him. He just hoped Allison wouldn’t turn out to be one of those disappointments.

  CHRISTIAN TOSSED his keys on the kitchen counter, then glanced at the answering machine. The red light was blinking, so he picked up the cordless and checked caller ID. Faith’s number, four times. The same number of times he’d seen that she’d called his cell phone after he’d turned it back on in the cab after saying good night to Allison.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his BlackBerry. He purposely hadn’t checked it until now. Four e-mails from her, too. He put the BlackBerry down on the counter beside his keys without reading the messages and moved out onto the wide balcony overlooking Central Park.

  He took a deep breath as he leaned on the railing and watched the lights move south on Fifth Avenue. A little while ago he’d been thinking about what it would be like to be vice president, maybe even president someday. Now he was thinking about someone in Chicago setting him up on CST—and what it would be like to go to prison.

  17

  “SO THIS IS WHERE it all happens,” said Samuel Hewitt, looking around Christian’s office as he took off his black Stetson, laid it on the desk, and ran a hand through his silver hair. “Where the bottom-line decisions at Everest Capital are made.” He groaned as he eased into the chair. “Command central.”

  “You okay?”

  “Got arthritis in my knees,” Hewitt explained. “My college football days are finally catching up to me.”

  “What position did you play?”

  Hewitt’s eyes gleamed. “You don’t know?”

  According to Quentin, Hewitt had played tight end and linebacker at Princeton, started at both. In those days, the top guys played offense and defense. Christian knew all that, but he didn’t want Hewitt to think he was that interested, didn’t want to scare him off the Laurel Energy deal. He shook his head. “No.”

  “You mean to tell me Quentin Stiles didn’t report that to you, or that you didn’t order a yearbook?” Hewitt grinned. “I’m disappointed in you, son. I know you played rugby, and that sure ain’t on the Everest Web site.” He wagged a finger and used a professor’s voice. “Information, Christian, always get information, as much of it as you can.”

  “Right, Samuel,” he said, smiling politely. “I’ll remember that.”

  “Be resourceful, Christian. Be resourceful without going over the line.” Hewitt chuckled. “Unless you’re sure no one’ll find out. Then go flying past the line, go as far past it as you can.”

  Hewitt’s eyes flickered around as he spoke, Christian noticed, checking out the desk, the bookcases, the credenzas. He understood what Hewitt was doing, not looking just to look. He was looking for data, for a shred of something that might give him a window onto the man, something that might give him an advantage. Christian did the same thing when h
e was in someone else’s office. But Hewitt wasn’t going to find anything in here. Christian didn’t keep things like that around. Except for photos of Faith that he used to have in here.

  Hewitt leaned forward and picked a folder off the front of the desk. “What’s this?”

  God, he should have known. Should have known Hewitt would find something. Never underestimate a man like Samuel Hewitt. How many times had his father hit him over the head with that? “Hey, that’s—”

  “The Clayton House,” Hewitt said, perusing the cover of the folder. “Is this how you spend all that money you make?”

  “Some of it.”

  Hewitt opened the folder. “A home for homeless kids,” he read aloud from a brochure inside the folder. “Damn, Christian, this place looks amazing. Nicer than a lot of hotels I’ve stayed in over the years.” He was leafing through the brochure, checking out the pictures. “Where is it?”

  “Up in Harlem, near the Apollo.”

  “Named it for your dad, huh? How many kids do you take care of?”

  “Depends. We’re always trying to find permanent homes for them, so they come and go. Usually, there’s between seventy and eighty at the house.”

  Hewitt tucked the brochure away and dropped the folder back on Christian’s desk. “That’s a nice thing you do.”

  “I just bring the money, Samuel. Some wonderful women up at the home do the real work, a couple of ladies I couldn’t keep up with even if I tried. They’re angels, really. Wish I could make them executives at a couple of our portfolio companies,” he said half seriously. “They’d probably do better than the guys we’ve got in charge now.”

  “They couldn’t do it without your money.”

  “Money’s money.”

  “Learn to give yourself credit, son.”

  Christian’s eyes shot to Hewitt’s. Exactly what his father had said to him a long time ago, after Christian had won the club golf tournament the summer between his second and third years at Princeton. Exactly the same thing. The same words, tone of voice, everything. In his speech at the trophy presentation Christian had given credit to everyone else—his caddie, the club pro, even the grounds crew—then passed off his part of the win as luck. Clayton had gotten on him about that later. Never be cocky, he’d said, but don’t tell others you were just lucky if you do something great because they might start to believe you. Learn to give yourself credit, son.

  “You miss your dad, Christian?”

  Christian glanced up. He’d been looking at Hewitt’s Stetson lying beside the Clayton House folder.

  “I miss my dad every day,” said Hewitt, “and he lived until he was eighty.”

  Christian nodded. “Yeah, I miss him,” he admitted quietly.

  He and his father had never gone to the Masters like they’d talked about in the study that afternoon, never spent a night in one of the private cabins at Augusta National, never met Ben Crenshaw. His father had never mentioned the trip again, probably because he wanted to forget that whole day, wanted to forget that Lana had told Christian the awful truth. At least forget about the way in which Christian had found out. Forget that he’d been too afraid to admit to his own son that he’d strayed. It was the only time Christian had ever seen his father at a loss for words or action, the only time he’d ever seen Clayton resort to anger as a response. Which meant Clayton didn’t have a response. All he could do was lash out. The way Faith did all the time.

  Christian and Nikki had listened to the battle rage for an hour after dinner in the upstairs rooms. Thuds, running footsteps, furniture being thrown about, Clayton’s booming voice. So unusual because it was normally Lana’s shouts that filled the house. Christian had sent the frightened maids home right away and cleaned up the dinner dishes himself.

  The next morning it had been as though nothing had happened. Clayton was his usual enthusiastic self, and Lana started drinking white wine at noon while she watched her soap operas. No one mentioned a thing about the night before. Clayton left in the afternoon for Washington and Lana staggered up to bed at seven thirty, with a little help from Rita. A normal Monday at the Gillette household.

  “How are you doing with our Princeton library fund-raising?” Hewitt asked.

  Christian hesitated. “I’ve got fifteen million in commitments for you so far,” he answered quietly.

  Hewitt didn’t hide his surprise or his pleasure. “Wow! Now that’s fantastic.”

  “I made a few calls to some old Tigers who want to do business with Everest. Gave away some mandates I probably shouldn’t have, a couple of bond offerings for our portfolio companies we could have done ourselves. But, what the hell, we’re not paying that much for them and the guys I hired will do a good job.”

  “I appreciate that, son. Great work.” Hewitt let out a long breath and raised his eyebrows. “I feel bad now.”

  That sounded ominous. “Why?”

  “Aw, I know I was real bullish on buying Laurel Energy from you a few weeks ago, but I’ve hit a roadblock.”

  Christian made certain his expression remained impassive, but his heart sank. He’d been sure Hewitt would come through on buying Laurel, especially after hearing about how he’d raised fifteen million bucks for the new Princeton library. Christian had already called some of his biggest investors—including Gordon Meade—to let them know he felt better about the Laurel sale actually happening now. Meade wouldn’t benefit financially—the Wallace Family wasn’t invested in the fund that had bought Laurel—but Meade seemed so concerned about the whole thing at dinner in Chicago. Meade had given Christian the old it’s-not-over-till-it’s-over speech on the phone, but Christian had dismissed it. Now he was going to look bad—and he was going to have to call Meade back and eat crow. Worse, it sounded like the deal was dead.

  “What happened?” Christian asked. In addition to disappointed investors, he was going to have some very unhappy managing partners.

  Hewitt waved a hand angrily. “Our CEO didn’t like the idea.”

  “I thought you ran U.S. Oil, Samuel. You’re the chairman, aren’t you?” It was a brazen thing to say to a legend, but he had to try to keep the deal alive somehow. Quentin had reported to Christian that Hewitt had named the CEO just as a public relations move, just to show Wall Street there was a succession plan in place if anything happened to Hewitt. Supposedly, Hewitt still ran the show with an iron fist. “Doesn’t the CEO report to you?”

  “Yes,” Hewitt answered coldly.

  Christian caught Hewitt’s look—the same look Meade had given Allison in Chicago when she’d made it clear she’d be making the decision about what she’d do after the fund was used up. A look that said no one had spoken to Hewitt like that in a long time.

  “Why didn’t the CEO like the idea?”

  “Said he wasn’t convinced the reserves were as big as the engineering reports indicated. Apparently, he had a bad experience in that area of Canada a while back.”

  “That’s ridiculous. The guys who generated those reports are the best engineers in the business. We talked about that.”

  Hewitt held his hands up. “I know, I know. Don’t panic.”

  Christian eased back in his chair, catching himself. “I’m not.” But it sure must have seemed like he was.

  “I’m not saying the deal’s dead,” Hewitt continued. “What I am saying is that you better keep going forward with your sale process as though we weren’t talking. I was going to offer you the full five billion and ask you to give me an exclusive for fifteen days to get things in order on my side, but I’ve got to put that on hold, at least for now.”

  Christian caught his breath. The full five billion in fifteen days. He tried not to let the disappointment register in his expression, but it was tough. He would have been able to stick that number in front of a lot of doubters, and he would have been able to spread nine hundred and forty million around the firm.

  “The CEO called me as I was coming over here.” Hewitt shook his head. “Literally as I was walki
ng in the front door.”

  At this point, Christian only had one card to play. Maybe the prospect of Everest retaining Black Brothers would get Hewitt moving in the right direction again. Black Brothers would gin up more bidders, pushing up the price. Or so Christian hoped. “I guess I’ll have to hire Black Brothers after all.”

  “I understand,” Hewitt said gloomily, but his face immediately brightened. “Let’s plan a trip for you to come to Dallas, to the ranch. Soon.”

  “I don’t know, I’ve got a lot going on.”

  “Oh, come on, Christian, don’t be pissed off.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yeah, you are. I can tell. Look, I’m going to talk to my CEO later today. Like I said, the deal’s not dead. If I can get him over the hump, and I’ve got to pay a little more because you hired Trenton ‘the Great White Shark’ Fleming at Black Brothers”—Hewitt grinned as he said the nickname—“so be it.”

  “What are the odds you’re going to buy Laurel, Samuel?” Christian asked. “Level with me.”

  “Fifty-fifty.”

  Of course. The same thing he would have said. Leave room for hope, but don’t commit to anything. “When were you thinking about me coming down to Dallas?”

  “As soon as possible. I’m headed back there tonight.”

  It was clear to Christian that if he didn’t accept the offer to come to Texas, Hewitt wasn’t going to try to persuade anyone at U.S. Oil to buy Laurel. But if he went to the ranch, maybe there might still be a chance. And Hewitt had suggested that if U.S. Oil did decide to move forward, they’d pay full price. That alone made the trip worthwhile. “I’m meeting with Jesse Wood later this week. How about after that?”

  “Great. Have Debbie call Rhonda to set it up.”

  “Okay.”

  “How’s it going with Jesse, by the way?” Hewitt asked.

  “Fine. Like I said, I’m meeting with him later this week to go over his platform in detail, so we can make a final decision on each other. But it looks like he’s got the nomination locked up.”