by Brian Haig
His knees almost went rubbery when Alice, after apologizing profusely for breaking his concentration, mentioned who was calling. Alice’s predecessor had been fired only the week before. Divorced, three kids, a big mortgage, she was walking on eggshells, trying desperately to avoid that fate. The betting pool around the office gave her two weeks. Three at the outside.
Walters barked, “Put him through.”
A moment later, he heard magic. “Mr. Walters, I suspect you’ve heard about me,” Jack said in a very friendly tone.
Walters tried to smile into the phone. “Sure have, Jack. Couldn’t be sorrier about that stupid meeting with Ed Blank. What an ass.”
“I was hoping you and I could meet,” Jack said abruptly.
“Love to. Say when.”
“Okay, ‘when’ is tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. I’m afraid my schedule’s gotten very cluttered.”
“Yeah, well, my schedule’s pretty loaded, too,” Walters snapped back. The idea that this uppity punk was busier than him was ridiculous. But he quickly regained his composure, and in a tone that was only mildly friendlier suggested, “Why not tomorrow? I’ll tell my secretary to find me an hour.”
“Tell her not to bother.”
“What’s that mean?”
“You know what it means. Good-bye, Mr.—”
“No… wait!” Walters nearly screamed. The clutch of admirals and the assistant secretary politely edged away.
Wiley made no reply. Not a sound, not a peep. At least he hadn’t hung up, though.
“Listen,” Walters said, trying not to sound desperate and failing miserably. “Maybe I can make time tonight.”
“Maybe?”
“Okay, I can. What time?”
“I won’t be free until about nine.”
“Then nine it is.”
“And bring along some of your directors, Mr. Walters. This is a fast train. I want to be sure you can commit to a deal.”
Walters was fiercely tempted to tell him to cram it. Who did this guy think he was, ordering him around like some snot-nosed junior executive? He worked up every bit of his nerve and said, “Sure, no problem. Where?”
“I’m in town, so how about your headquarters?”
Walters was about to reply when the phone line suddenly went dead. One of the admirals sank a thirty-footer. “Good shot, sailor,” Walters yelled over his shoulder. “Sorry, gotta go, boys, finish without me,” and he jogged back to the clubhouse, howling into his phone for Alice, the temporary assistant, to arrange champagne and snacks, and to contact three directors and tell them to be there at all costs.
Tell them the fifteen-billion-dollar man is back.
Dan Bellweather was personally awaiting Jack in the downstairs lobby when he arrived, alone, hauling a small black suitcase. Bellweather shook his hand with great enthusiasm, escorted him past the security people and up in the elevator to the tenth floor, where the spacious senior executive suites were located. “We’re glad you came back,” he happily informed Jack on the way up.
“I’m not exactly back, Mr. Secretary,” Jack replied, polite but poker-faced.
Bellweather smiled nicely. Oh yes, boy, you’re definitely back. After a moment, he said, “I understand you were a military brat.”
“I grew up bouncing around Army posts. Fun life.”
Bellweather could almost recite from memory the many places Jack had lived. “And you were in the Army yourself,” he noted, “and your father was a lifer. Why did you leave it?”
“The war was over. I did my part, time to enjoy the peace.”
“You mean make money, huh?”
“Sure, why not.”
“I admire that motive,” Bellweather said, and his smile widened and sparkled. Nice to see Jack had honorable ambitions.
They had reached the tenth floor and Jack encouraged Bellweather to step out first. After a fast trip down a long hallway, he ushered Jack into a large wood-paneled conference room where three other gentlemen in a mixture of thousand-dollar suits and blazers were picking at snacks on a side table and waiting.
“Jack,” Bellweather said, almost gushing with pride, “I’d like you to meet Alan Haggar and Phil Jackson, two of our directors. And of course Mitch Walters, our CEO.”
Like nearly every other CG director, Alan Haggar was a former high government official, a deputy secretary of defense, number two in the mammoth Pentagon hierarchy, who had left the current administration only six months before. He was short and flabby with a pinched face and narrow, indistinct eyes blurred behind thick bifocals: he appeared to have been hatched in a bureaucracy. His smile was tight, obviously forced and slightly nervous. He was the newest and, at forty-five, the youngest CG director.
To his right, Phil Jackson, a lawyer, had been a close confidant to many presidents—Republicans or Democrats, he went both ways—particularly when they got into legal trouble and needed a slick operator to stonewall, obscure, twist elbows, and finagle a way out. In a town loaded with powerful fixers, Phil Jackson had written the textbooks they all studied. He was tall, skeletally thin, entirely bald, stone-faced, with severely narrowed eyes that looked slightly snakish.
The four men quickly gathered around Jack in a tight huddle, hands were shaken, then Bellweather led Jack to a wall upon which hung twelve photographs in elegant gold frames. “Our directors, Jack”—he waved a hand reverently across the gallery—“I think it would be fair to say we’re led by a rather distinguished, illustrious group.”
What an understatement: at one time or another the heavyweights on the wall had ruled and/or misruled a healthy chunk of the planet. The engraved plaques attached to the bottom of the frames were a waste of space and money; few of CG’s directors required any form of introduction.
Included in the august group were a former French president, an Australian prime minister, a former British defence minister, a former secretary of state, even a former American president. Jack spent a politely dutiful minute moving down the line, gazing at the photos, before he glanced at his watch and suggested, “It’s getting late. Why don’t we get started?”
“Okay, fine,” Walters said. “Would you care for a glass of champagne?”
“Maybe afterward,” Jack answered, pausing briefly before he pointedly added, “if there’s something to celebrate.”
Only thirty minutes before, they had all listened to—or in several cases, relistened to—the tape of Jack running circles around their LBO boys. The four men couldn’t help smiling at one another. We know your games now, Jack, they felt like saying; nice try, but don’t think we’ll fall for your tricks again.
They quietly sat around the conference table, the four CG heavyweights on one side, Jack, alone and seriously outgunned, on the other.
Jack carefully placed his suitcase on the floor, unbuttoned his jacket, offered a nervous smile, opened by briskly thanking them for meeting with him on such short notice, at this late hour, then came right to the point. “I have met with four other firms about this offer. All four are intensely interested, all four are making seriously generous bids.”
A quiet moment of mild confusion ensued while Mitch Walters glanced at his directors and they quietly decided who would take the lead. Nobody seemed to feel this was a bluff. This mistake would not be repeated. Bellweather cleared his throat, edged forward in his chair, and said, “I don’t wish to be rude, Jack, but it’s not clear exactly what you’re offering.”
“A takeover. I’m sure you’ve all heard the particulars about the company, so I won’t waste your time with a regurgitation.”
“Yes, I think we’re all aware of the polymer and its remarkable qualities.” Nods from the others on his side of the table—Yes, yes, we want this deal. Come on, Jack, let’s get rich together. “Please continue,” Bellweather plunged in very politely.
“All right, here’s what I’m offering. I know the company, and I’ve mapped out a way to take it over. It’s vulnerable and ripe. Ma
ke the right moves and it’ll fall into our lap in no time. I’ve done a lot of research. It will work.”
No mights, no maybes, no probablys. It will work, simple as that.
“We have plenty of in-house expertise at takeovers,” Bellweather noted, careful not to sound pushy or dismissive.
“I know you do. And I’m open to better ideas, though I doubt your people will improve on my plan,” Jack replied, looking and sounding quite sure of himself.
Mitch Walters came to the point they were all wondering. “What do you get in return, Jack?”
“For starters, I intend to resign my partnership at Cauldron. It would be a conflict of interest for me to remain there.”
“A job, is that what you want?”
“A job, no. Call it a limited partnership, and I’d like an office in this building. A small out-of-the-way cubbyhole will suit me. No assistant, no staff; I don’t intend to be a burden. I don’t plan to be here often, but I’d like the accessibility.”
“Easy enough.”
“And I want to personally orchestrate the takeover. I’ll need help from a few of your people, of course. But it’s my baby and I want to bring it home.”
Sure, why not? If he screwed it up, they’d simply take it away from him. Maybe they’d take it away on general principle. “We’re agreeable to that,” Walters answered, a vague assurance at best.
“And a twenty million finder’s fee for bringing you this deal.” Jack paused and searched their faces, then specified, “Payable the moment we complete the takeover.”
The heads from CG looked at each other a moment. Twenty million? That’s it, only twenty? Peanuts for a deal that would quickly grow in magnitude to billions. He could’ve demanded fifty and they wouldn’t have blinked an eye. A hundred million was worthy of negotiation. Was he really leaving that much on the table?
Probably not, they collectively thought. Obviously the boy with a diamond in his pocket had something else up his sleeve, something much bigger. Jack waited until all the eyes were fixed on his face, then said very firmly, “And I want twenty-five percent ownership.”
A long moment before the mouths fell open. Bellweather actually squeezed his arms against his sides and popped his lips. Jackson and Haggar rolled their eyes and exchanged incredulous looks.
“Out of the question,” Walters snorted, speaking loudly and insistently for all of them. “We’re perfectly prepared to give you a larger finder’s fee. And certainly, a piece of ownership isn’t out of the question. A few percent, fine. But a quarter? Forget it,” he repeated, shaking his head emphatically. “I mean it. Not even negotiable.”
“Think again, Mitch,” Jack answered, not giving an inch. “I have two offers of twenty percent burning holes in my pocket. That and considerably larger finder’s fees.”
“But you wouldn’t be back here if you didn’t know we’re your best bet, Jack,” Mitch persisted with a sneer. He crossed his arms, worked his lips into a tight pucker, and made clear he meant it.
Instead of debating that point, Jack bent over and started rummaging through the small black suitcase he had hauled in and placed on the floor. He popped back up after a moment and tossed a green canvas bag on the conference table. The bag slid, then stopped almost dead center. Walters and Bellweather took one look, just one short look—with sinking stomachs, they knew exactly what was inside the sack. They didn’t need to be told—they knew!
Jackson and Haggar, the other two directors, stared at it. “What’s that?” Haggar demanded, clueless.
“Oh, this?” Jack asked, as if the question surprised him. “A nasty present I found in my garage,” he mentioned with maddening casualness. “Five pounds of marijuana. High-grade stuff, planted in my home to frame me. Enough to get me five to ten, my lawyer tells me. Can you imagine anybody doing something so slimy and stupid?”
Apparently not; at least, nobody ventured a response. Blank expressions all around; two sincere, two faking it for all they were worth.
Jack pushed back his chair and gazed thoughtfully at their faces. “The boys you sent were good, but lazy. Here’s one of the things they overlooked: electronically activated cameras in the ceiling that switch on in the event of a break-in.”
Walters took a stab at playing innocent and with a loud show of indignation declared, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And I don’t like being treated like I’m stupid.”
“I’m not—”
“Mitch, listen before you open your mouth. I have some expensive artwork, and in addition to the cameras, my alarm is dual-wired and my home is flooded with infrared beams. It gets me a nice discount from my insurance company. A signal is sent to Vector, with a simultaneous signal to a private security firm I’d prefer not to disclose.”
“So what?” Walters said as if he could care less.
“So my security firm dispatched a few people to my house. For over two hours the burglars rummaged around inside. Naturally, my people became curious. Where was Vector’s response? And why did the burglars remain inside so long?”
Jack let the questions linger in the air for a moment. Bellweather and Walters weren’t about to surrender or retreat, and both shrugged as though it was a complete mystery and they were dying to hear the answer.
Jack looked directly at Walters. “It was as if they knew I was in Washington and wouldn’t be back till midnight. So my boys staked it out until the burglars were finished, then trailed them.”
“Jack, Jack, I have no idea what you’re getting at,” Walters protested, his tone up about three octaves, nearly vibrating with innocence. He was battling an irresistible temptation to get up and flee. “You’re not inferring we had anything to do with this?”
Jack ignored him and pushed on. “Here’s where it gets more interesting. Afterward, these burglars—three of them, if you don’t already know—checked into a Best Western on 95, a few miles outside Princeton. Spent the night, had a nice leisurely breakfast at a local diner, and left plenty of fingerprints and DNA traces in their wake. The DNA and prints were collected, then run through a national database. One was a black hole, a cipher. The other two are former military. Their prints and DNA are on file and easily accessed. After the Army, they fell off the map, though I would bet they continued in government service of some sort. Probably CIA. What do you think?”
Bellweather, in his most deeply paternal tone, and with a frown so sorrowful it verged on tears, took his best stab. “Look, we’re sorry to hear about the break-in, Jack, all of us.”
“Are you?”
“Sure. It’s a lousy world filled with crooked people. I’m sure you live in a big, prosperous house, the kind that attracts burglars. But don’t go paranoid on us. CG doesn’t do this sort of thing.”
“The burglars work for a security firm here, in D.C.,” Jack continued—the denials were expected, his expression said. “TFAC, it’s called. Can anybody help me out? I’ll be damned if I can figure out what the letters stand for.”
By now Bellweather’s face was red and his jaw was clenched. “That’s enough, Jack. You’re barking up the wrong tree. It’s a disgrace coming in here accusing us of this.”
Jack stared at him a long moment, then bent down and dug around in his suitcase again. He flipped a large black-and-white photo onto the table. “The TFAC headquarters,” Jack said. Then, in an effort to be helpful, he pointed at the building in the background. “Who does that look like leaving the building two days ago?”
Four heads jerked forward. Four sets of eyes collectively gawked at the picture. The photo was slightly grainy and out of focus, but without question it was Mitch Walters, actually grinning stupidly at the cameraman as they passed on the sidewalk outside the entrance.
Grinning!
The last attempts at denial or phony innocence shot out the window. Why act any stupider than they already looked? Why issue more denials that were obvious lies? Walters was now staring down at the photo, dumbfounded, gaping in shock. How
had they caught him? He wanted to sink into the woodwork and disappear.
Bellweather, now exuding anger, stared hard at Walters—how idiotic could he be, getting caught like that? He wanted to reach over and strangle the CEO.
Phil Jackson, the lawyer, reacted with the instinctive violence honed by decades of D.C. political brawls and scandals. “This proves nothing,” he yelled, on his feet and shaking his finger like a half-cocked pistol. “There are a million possible explanations. Nothing you’ve showed us will stand up in court. It’s all circumstantial conjecture,” he roared.
Jack relaxed back into his chair. He smiled pleasantly at Jackson. “You might be right, or you might be wrong, Phil. It doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant.”
“Why’s that?” Haggar asked.
“What good would it do me to see you prosecuted? And if it were my intention to sue you, I wouldn’t be here tonight. My lawyer would, spewing threats and dropping subpoenas like confetti.”
“Okay.” Jackson dropped the finger and the bluster. He straightened his tie, struggling to conceal a considerable sense of irritation and relief. “Why are you here?”
“This is your last chance at this deal. As I said, others are offering twenty percent. I’ll be a billionaire inside three years, and I can live with that.” Jack paused before he added, “It won’t hurt to speed it up, though. Considering the circumstances, I thought you might see your way to up the ante another five percent.” Jack pointed at the picture and offered them a cool smile. “Call it the cost of getting caught. I think it’s a fair price, don’t you?”
“Are you threatening us?” Jackson asked, pinching his eyes together.
“Threatening is such an ugly world. Just say I’m adding a little more to the pot than I offered the others.”
“If you don’t mind, we have to talk,” Walters quickly intervened, avoiding the eyes of his three directors.
“Good idea.” Jack stood and adjusted his coat. “Five minutes, then I’m gone.” He picked up his horrible little suitcase filled with terrible things and looked perfectly ready to bolt. “I won’t be back after this, gentlemen. Remember, five minutes.”
