by Stuart Woods
“I don’t think I did know that,” Charley replied. “I know about Calder, though—that in addition to being a top star, he was a terrific businessman.”
“He was, and his estate ran to something over a billion dollars. He left everything to Arrington, and after our marriage I oversaw the liquidation of most of his estate, mostly real estate, with the result that when Arrington died, she mostly held stock in Centurion Studios and in cash. My law firm had prepared her will, without my participation, or even knowledge of its terms. She left me a third of her estate and two-thirds to our son, Peter, in a trust of which I am the sole trustee. Peter doesn’t come into it until he’s thirty, but I have consulted him about the investments I’ve made for the trust. I think it would be a good use of the cash in the trust to invest three hundred million of it in Triangle, and use those funds to close the sale. I’ll talk with Peter about it right away and confirm that.”
“Great, but we’re still missing fifty million.”
“Mike and I are going to loan you that, secured by your share of the partnership, and you can repay the loan as profits come in from the sale of the St. Clair companies.”
“That’s extraordinarily generous of you both,” Charley replied, moved.
“This transaction was your idea, and you brought the knowledge and skills to bear to make it happen. You deserve to be rewarded for that.”
“There’s something else I haven’t mentioned,” Charley said. “I think that three of the companies have come to the point where they can go public in the next year or so, and with our majority ownership, we will reap a huge profit from the initial public offering, and so will the original stockholders who sold to St. Clair. I think everybody will be very, very happy.”
“Are there others on the list that can have IPOs later?” Mike asked.
“Most of them. Those that aren’t ready we can sell separately.”
“That’s wonderful, Charley,” Stone said. “Something else that Mike and I think you deserve is occupancy of St. Clair’s apartment in the building.”
Charley broke into a grin. “I can’t say that that hadn’t crossed my mind.”
“Also, the yacht is owned by a Delaware corporation. We can sell that to ourselves, and Mike and I will loan you the money to buy your third. It shouldn’t take you long to reap enough from the IPOs to repay it.”
“Also,” Mike said, “there are two airplanes and a helicopter owned by St. Clair. Strategic Services will buy one, and we can sell the helicopter, since none of us has much use for it. We can keep the other airplane as a Triangle company aircraft.”
“What are the two airplanes?” Stone asked.
“One is a Gulfstream 450, which we will buy, if you agree. The other is a very new airplane from Cessna, a Citation Latitude, which has a big cabin and a range of twenty-seven hundred miles. It can live in our hangar complex at Teterboro.”
“Suddenly, it seems,” Charley said, “that all my personal needs have been taken care of.” The three of them shook hands and parted company for the evening.
Stone headed home to call Peter, and then to have dinner and meet the personal needs of Marisa Carlsson.
—
ERIK MACHER WAS sitting at his desk the following morning when the board of directors of St. Clair Enterprises arrived, in the company of someone he didn’t know, who was introduced as St. Clair’s new corporate counsel. They all seated themselves at Macher’s conference table.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Macher said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Believe me, Mr. Macher,” Elihu Barnes said, “the pleasure is all ours. By a unanimous vote of the board, you are discharged from your position as CEO of St. Clair Enterprises, with immediate effect.”
“Gentlemen,” Macher replied, unperturbed, “I refer you to the will of Christian St. Clair, which denies you the authority for such an act.”
“The will has been found to be fraudulent,” Barnes said, with obvious satisfaction, “which is why Thomas Berenson is no longer our corporate counsel. Therefore, none of its provisions apply to our action. The matter rests with the district attorney, and I expect you will be hearing from him shortly. We welcome a civil action on your part, should you be unwise enough to bring it.”
“This is outrageous!” Macher spat.
“No, the will was outrageous,” Barnes replied. “Outside this room are two security guards who will escort you to the apartment upstairs and oversee the packing of such of your belongings there. There is a moving company present with a van to haul them away. You have one hour to clear the premises or be forcibly removed.”
Macher’s jaw dropped.
“Oh, also, you may inform Jake Herman and your secretary that they have been discharged as well. Herman will depart the premises immediately, and your secretary may have an hour to pack her things and have them removed. The van, upon departing, will deliver both your belongings to any address in Manhattan.”
“I can’t believe this,” Macher said.
“Good day and goodbye, Mr. Macher,” Barnes said. “Now get out, or we’ll have you thrown out.”
Macher stood up, went to his desk, and put a few things into his briefcase. He rang for his secretary, and she entered. He walked her into the vestibule outside. “You and I have been fired out of hand,” he said to her. “Go and pack your things, and they will be moved for you. We have an hour. Oh, and go see Jake Herman and tell him he has been fired, too, and to clear his office.”
She went pale. “Yes, sir,” she said.
Two burly, uniformed security guards stepped forward and marched Macher upstairs to the apartment, followed by a team of moving men.
A volcanic anger began to build in Macher’s breast.
36
Erik Macher and Jake Herman sat in Macher’s new suite, a small one, at the Lombardy Hotel, surrounded by boxes. Macher’s secretary had been dropped with her boxes at her sister’s apartment building a few blocks away.
Macher poured Herman another drink. “You understand, Jake, you’re still employed by my security company, which I owned before I met Christian St. Clair. The money isn’t quite as good, but it will keep us afloat until we can feather our nests once again.”
“And how are we going to do that?” Jake asked.
“Opportunities will present themselves, and we will capitalize on them.”
“What kind of opportunities?”
“That remains to be seen, but believe me, they will materialize. Christian St. Clair was such an opportunity. There will be others.”
“Okay, whatever you say.”
“But before we make the move back to D.C. we have business to take care of here, with regard to Barrington and Fox.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Don’t worry, there’ll be the two of us working on it. You won’t bear the entire responsibility. I would, however, be grateful for suggestions.”
“A bullet to the brain has always worked for me,” Jake said.
“Not in this case. There are three people to deal with.”
“Three? Whatever happened to just the two?”
“Elihu Barnes will join Charles Fox and Stone Barrington on our list.”
“Who the fuck is Elihu Barnes?”
“He’s the chairman of the St. Clair board, the imperious prick who fired us.”
“Oh. Well, in the circumstances I can hardly blame him,” Jake said.
“I can blame him,” Macher replied.
“Okay, then you kill him. I’ll help with the other two.”
“What I’d like your help on is to think of a way to get them in the same room. I’m well trained and experienced with explosives.”
“Well, they must have further business together. Where would that take place?”
“I would think in the St. Clair mansion,” Macher said.
“Why there?”
“Because I suspect that Barnes and the board are going to offer Charles Fox my job, and probably today.”
&n
bsp; “Why Charley?”
“Because St. Clair hired him, and I expect with the promise of one day replacing Christian in the CEO’s job. Barnes and Company would know that. They’d naturally turn to him, and Fox would take it in the blink of an eye.”
“Well, if you can make a bomb, I guess I can get it into the library, where the board meets.”
“You know that girl in accounting, the one you’ve been diddling since you came to New York?”
“Velma Ottley?”
“That’s the one.”
“She’s not going to plant any bomb,” Jake said.
“No, but she hears things around the office. She’ll know what’s going on.”
“I guess.”
“I think you should ask her to dinner tonight and prepare the ground for the sowing of seeds, so to speak.”
“I guess I could do that.”
“I got you a room down the hall. You can take her there after you dine. Make a reservation in the hotel dining room.”
Jake picked up the phone.
“No, take your things down to your room,” Macher said, handing him the key card. “Use your cell phone to call her.”
“They took my cell phone when they threw us out.”
Macher handed him a burner phone. “This will work.”
Jake picked up his bags and left the suite.
Macher lay down on the bed, his head throbbing. He’d feel better when they were all dead.
—
CHARLEY FOX WALKED into Herb Fisher’s office at Woodman & Weld and introduced himself.
“I hear you’re Stone and Mike’s new partner,” Herbie said.
“That’s right. And I hear you’re the ace attorney Stone turns to when there’s work to be done.”
“I’m his man.”
Charley set his briefcase on Herbie’s desk. “These were delivered to me this morning,” he said. “It’s all the papers you’ll need to prepare the sales contract and the closing statement.”
Herbie took the papers from the case and ran through them, making notes on a printed form.
“What’s the form?” Charley asked.
“It’s a checklist of everything we need for closings—helps bring order to the process.”
“When do you think we can close?”
“When do you think you can come up with a cashier’s check for half a billion dollars?”
“Pretty quick. It’s already in the works.”
Herbie completed his list. “Whaddya know, Mr. Barnes is very well organized. We have every piece of paper we need to move this forward. I just have to write the sales contract. My secretary can put together the closing statement. If I work this weekend, I can be ready to close on Monday morning.”
“Well, Herb, that’s really moving. Stone and Mike will be delighted, and I’ll be in my new apartment on Monday afternoon.”
“Where’s your new apartment?”
“On the top floor of the St. Clair mansion, about three thousand square feet of it, according to the plans.”
“Very nice.”
“And my office will be in the library on the first floor. Can I schedule the closing for noon on Monday?”
“Sure, as long as there’s no hitch. It helps that the banks are not involved. There’s no mortgage on the building, for instance. I’ll call you if any impediment arises, but I think we’re in good shape.”
“Thank you, Herb. Listen, I’m going to need a personal attorney to handle my affairs. Would you like the job?”
“I’d be delighted, Charley.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out another printed form. “Here’s a Woodman & Weld client agreement. It sets out our terms. Read and sign it at your leisure.”
Charley took out his pen, signed the document, and handed it to Herbie.
“Welcome aboard,” Herbie said. The two shook hands, then Charley left him to get on with his work.
—
JAKE HERMAN GOT out of a shower and into a freshly pressed suit. Tonight, he would begin a charm offensive on Velma Ottley, one designed to bend her to his will.
37
Jake was awakened early on Saturday morning by an insistent Velma. They had dined well the evening before, and had adjourned to Jake’s room, where they had done things to each other twice, before rendering each other unconscious.
“It’s Saturday,” Velma said. “No work.”
“You mean there’s nobody at the office?”
“Nobody works Saturdays since St. Clair died.”
“That’s good news,” Jake muttered.
“Why?” Velma asked.
Jake thought about that for a moment. “Because you don’t have to be there, and you can fuck me again.”
“How nice you put it, Jake,” Velma replied, rolling him over and climbing on. “And I’m going to want eggs Benedict after you’re helpless again.”
“Deal,” Jake said, then did his duty.
—
JAKE RANG MACHER’S bell at mid-morning, and his boss was awake and dressed. “Come in here and see this,” he said to Jake.
On the dressing table in Macher’s bedroom was a chunk of plastic explosive the size of a brick, with a burner cell phone taped to it. “No telltale wires,” Macher said. “Entirely self-contained.”
“Very pretty,” Jake said, “but are you going to need that much of the plastic stuff? That could bring the building down, couldn’t it?”
“Not likely,” Macher replied, “but who gives a shit?”
“Velma says the coast is clear on Saturdays—nobody works weekends since St. Clair went away. Oh, she says the board is meeting to sell the company at noon on Monday.”
“And I’ve still got my keys to the building,” Macher said. “Nobody relieved me of them, and I’ll bet money they haven’t changed the alarm code, either.”
“When do you want to do it?” Jake asked.
“As soon as we’ve had a nice brunch,” Macher said.
—
STONE, MARISA, CHARLEY, and Kaley were having a Saturday brunch in the Carlyle Hotel dining room, eggs Benedict and mimosas for everybody.
“You two are looking very self-satisfied,” Kaley said.
“I think the word describes us very well,” Stone replied.
“Why so happy?” Marisa asked.
“Charley has done good work,” Stone said.
“So have we all,” Charley replied.
“What have you done?”
“We have pulled off a coup that wouldn’t have been possible without Charley,” Stone said. “We’ve bought all the assets of a company called St. Clair Enterprises.”
“That guy who tried to buy us out of our clinic?” Marisa asked.
“One and the same.”
“And a yacht,” Charley said, “and a gorgeous house.”
“Yacht, where?” Marisa asked.
“The yacht is in Rockland, Maine,” Stone said, “a stone’s throw from your own fine vessel. And this one doesn’t need sails to sail.”
“A stinkpot?”
“It’s very beautiful, don’t call it names.”
“And when do we get to sail aboard her?”
“How about next weekend? Everybody up for that?”
Affirmative noises were made by all.
“And where’s the house?” Kaley asked.
“Not a dozen blocks from where we sit,” Charley said. “Would you like to see it?”
“How do we get in?” Stone asked.
“I still have my keys, and I’ll bet they haven’t changed the alarm code, and nobody will be there on a Saturday, because both St. Clair and Macher have gone.”
“Check!” Stone called to their waiter.
—
JAKE CHECKED OUT the block while Macher found a parking spot. No security guards, and no one stirring in the building. Macher appeared from around a corner, and Jake waved him on.
They were inside in a moment, and Macher let them into the library.
“Where are you going t
o put it?” Jake asked.
Macher looked around the room. “The wood box, next to the fireplace,” he said. It was an antique box of rusting iron. “It will make wonderful shrapnel.”
Jake opened the box and found it full of firewood.
“Stack it neatly next to the fireplace, and don’t make a mess, somebody might notice,” Macher commanded.
Jake did as he was instructed.
Macher removed the device from a shopping bag and checked its connections. He read the number from a label taped to the back of the phone and entered the number into his own burner, setting it to speed dial when the number nine was pressed. “There,” he said, “we’re all set. I can call this phone from anywhere in the world by just pushing a button.”
“Swell,” Jake said. “Now can we get out of here?”
“I need to run upstairs to my apartment for a moment,” Macher said. “I left my razor in the bathroom.”
“Your razor? You can get one at any drugstore.”
“Not like this one. It’s a straight razor, with a blade of Damascus steel and an ivory handle. I had it made in Istanbul, eight hundred bucks. I hope to God one of those security guys didn’t cop it.” Macher handed Jake his car keys. “The car is around the block, in the next street. You bring it around while I get my razor.”
“Okay,” Jake said, then left.
Macher took the elevator to the top floor and let himself into the apartment and looked around. The heat was running, and it was hot in the room. The bed had been stripped and the place cleaned by the maids. He wished that he had had the chance to take the pictures with him. Christian had had superb taste in art, and Macher knew nothing about it. He made his way to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. There it was, where he’d left it. He put the razor into his jacket pocket and started to leave. As he opened the door, he heard voices downstairs. Who the hell could that be on a Saturday? He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.
—
CHARLEY LET THEM into the house amid oohs and aahs in the marble entryway. “You folks go and see the library, up there,” Charley said, pointing to the double doors. “I want to show Kaley my apartment.” They started up the stairs.
Stone opened the double doors.
“Oh, this is magnificent,” Marisa said, looking around. “When was this house built?”
