by Stephen Frey
“Well, I—”
His cell phone rang and he pulled it hastily from his jacket pocket. “Yes,” he answered, turning away from her and pressing the tiny phone tightly to his ear so she wouldn’t hear.
“Christian, it’s Jose.”
“Yes?”
“You were right. He was keeping files on companies at Everest. We got them. All the ones in his safe at his apartment.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Gillette closed the phone, and gazed at Isabelle. It was crazy to think she could be working with anyone who would want to kill him. Wasn’t it?
Stiles smiled as he snapped pictures of Stockman coming out of the apartment building with Rita Jones on his arm at dawn. Gillette would be happy. Which made Stiles happy. He liked Gillette. Hadn’t thought he would at first, but Gillette had proven to be a man of courage and compassion. A man he respected.
Stiles chuckled as he snapped a picture of Stockman and Rita Jones kissing on the street corner. People were so stupid sometimes. So incredibly stupid.
19
Choices. Sometimes there are no good ones. Sometimes, because of our own actions, we create situations where any choice is awful. Then it comes down to making the one that’s simply the least bad.
MASON SAT IN HIS SPACIOUS office at Apex, dreading the interoffice call from Vicky that would let him know Strazzi was ready to talk. He glanced nervously at his watch: 6:58. They were supposed to meet at seven, but Strazzi was usually five to ten minutes early. Maybe, by some incredible stroke of luck, Strazzi had been delayed—or wasn’t coming in. Maybe he’d been—
Mason’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen. Vicky. He picked up the receiver slowly. “Yes?”
“Paul’s ready to meet. He wants you in his office right away.”
Mason swallowed hard. These were the bad times.
Three minutes later he was in Strazzi’s office.
“Sit down.”
“Yes, Mr. Strazzi.”
“It’s Paul today.”
Mason sat down in the chair in front of Strazzi’s desk. “Okay . . . Paul.” Strazzi was one weird fuck. Maybe getting out of Apex was the best thing, which was surely how this was going to end up anyway. Thrown out was more accurate. Or worse.
“Do you have what I want?” Strazzi asked, his gaze intense.
Mason swallowed hard, felt his breath shorten. Strazzi versus the two men from last night. Neither option was much of a bargain.
But he’d lived through what the two men from last night would do—hung from his balcony forty-two stories above the street. Just before they’d left last night with his files, they’d told him if he gave Strazzi any information—even verbally—they’d kill him. Told him they’d know right away if he did because they had an inside contact, and somehow he believed them. He’d looked long and hard into the eyes of the one with the gun—dead, black, shark eyes—and seen a man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill.
On the other hand, Strazzi was an unknown. His threats might be empty. There was that chance. And Strazzi’s people couldn’t be any worse than the two men who’d terrorized him and Melissa last night.
“Troy!”
“I don’t have the files,” Mason muttered, eyes down.
Strazzi banged the desk. “What!”
“I don’t have the files,” Mason repeated. The half million had hit his account late yesterday afternoon, as promised. “I’ll give the money back right—”
“I don’t give a damn about the money.” Strazzi was seething. “Where are the files?”
“I don’t have them anymore.”
Veins in Strazzi’s forehead bulged. “Did Gillette get to you?”
As Mason was removing the files from the wall safe in the bedroom last night, listening to Melissa’s muffled sobs as she lay on the couch bound and gagged, he’d realized that only one person in the world could have been responsible for what was happening, only one person had the motive, the knowledge, and the courage. Christian Gillette.
There was no way to prove Gillette’s involvement. The only way to prove it would be to locate one of the men and get him to talk, which wasn’t going to happen. There were fifteen million people in the New York metropolitan area. It would be a complete waste of time to attempt to find the men. Besides, even if he could find them, they’d probably never admit to being involved with Gillette.
“No,” Mason answered, glancing around the office, wondering if Gillette had bugged Strazzi’s office. “He didn’t.” Wondering if that’s what the two men meant when they’d warned him not to say anything to Strazzi about what had happened. It wouldn’t surprise him if there was a bug in here. Gillette would stop at nothing. He was that driven, Mason knew. “It wasn’t Gillette.”
“Then what happened?” Strazzi roared.
“I destroyed the files.”
“You what?”
“Last night I reread the confidentiality agreement I signed as part of the separation agreement from Everest. It’s a bear, Paul. Very tight. But what the hell was I supposed to do? I need that million bucks.” He glanced up at Strazzi. “I spoke to my lawyer. He warned me I might do jail time if I gave you those files.”
“That’s ridiculous. This is civil, not criminal. You would—” Strazzi interrupted himself as he stood up, towering over Mason. “Where are the files, Troy?”
“I told you. I don’t have them. I destroyed them.”
Gillette greeted the three Coyote Oil executives, taking their business cards without looking at them or giving them his. Cohen and Kyle Lefors had already been in here with them for fifteen minutes.
“This is Don Hansen,” Cohen said as Gillette shook hands with the third man. “Don’s the CEO of Coyote.”
“Hi.” Gillette gave Hansen a quick nod, then sat down at the head of the table. He motioned for the others to sit, too, glancing first at Cohen, then at Lefors, who had already taken extensive notes, which were now spread out on the table in front of him. “So, you have an interest in Laurel Energy?” he asked before Hansen was seated.
Hansen pulled his chair up and folded his hands together on the table. “I heard you were a damn direct son-of-a-bitch,” he said in a heavy Texas accent.
Hansen looked uncomfortable to Gillette, as if his suit was a size too small. As if he couldn’t wait to get back to Coyote headquarters in Wyoming to put on his plaid flannel shirt, boots, Stetson, and jeans with a big silver belt buckle. “How’d you hear I was so direct, Don?”
“Your damn partners,” Hansen answered, pointing at Cohen and Lefors with a wry grin. “They’ve been singing your praises. Said I better hold on to my damn wallet while I’m in here. Apparently, if I’m not careful, you’ll get it from me and I won’t even know you took it. They say you’re one of the best damn negotiators around.”
Hansen tossed ‘damn’ around as much as Faraday dropped the f-bomb, Gillette noticed. Everybody had to have their handle. “They did, huh?”
“Yup.”
“Well, Don, time is money. As a CEO, I’m sure you appreciate that.”
“Of course.”
“So, what’s your interest?” Gillette asked again.
Hansen sat up straight in his chair and forced a serious expression onto his face. “We’re prepared to offer you what U.S. Petroleum did. A billion in cash for your stock, and we take over the Citibank debt.”
“How exactly do you know what U.S. Petroleum offered?” Gillette asked, his eyes flashing to Cohen, who glanced guiltily away.
Hansen didn’t answer for a moment. “Well, I, uh, uh . . .” he stammered.
“I told him, Christian,” Cohen admitted. “I thought it would be more efficient that way. Everybody puts their cards on the table and we see what’s what. No screwing around.”
Gillette gritted his teeth. The first rule of negotiation was never to open the bidding as a seller. Cohen was terrible at this. “Why are you willing to pay us what U.S. Petroleum offered? Is it because of the option properties?”
&
nbsp; Hansen shook his head. “No. Mr. Cohen told us the seismic tests you did showed there wasn’t much to those properties. Some reserves, but no mother lode.”
“Why a billion then?” No sense beating around the bush when both sides had perfect information. Thanks to Cohen singing like a canary, everybody knew everything. “The level of reserves at Laurel may not justify that kind of price.”
Hansen smiled widely at Cohen and Lefors. “Damn. For a savvy negotiator that’s one hell of a strategy your partner has. Negotiating against himself when I—”
“All the same,” Gillette cut in. “Why?”
“Okay, okay,” Hansen said, his head bobbing. Appreciating where Gillette was coming from. “Let me explain something. We’re backed by a group who’s trying to buy up reserves very quickly, specifically those in Canada.”
“I know I’m repeating myself, Don, but why?”
Hansen’s eyes flashed around the room and his head settled down into his shoulders, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to talk. “The confidentiality agreement we signed goes both ways, right?”
Before agreeing to meet with the Coyote executives, Gillette had instructed Lefors to make them sign a nondisclosure agreement that made Coyote liable for monetary damages if they disclosed any confidential information about Laurel Energy to the outside world.
“Yes,” Gillette agreed. “Under the terms of the agreement Kyle had you sign, we have to stay quiet about anything you tell us concerning Coyote Oil.”
“All right,” Hansen said, his voice dropping. “Based on good inside information, we think there are still some huge undiscovered fields up in Canada. So, we need a base of operations there. We need critical mass.”
The explanation seemed thin to Gillette. “Our information is that the experts think Canada is played.”
Hansen began rocking slowly back and forth in his chair. “Mr. Gillette, I’ve been in this business forty years. Started out at seventeen on a rig in the Gulf of Mexico as a grease monkey. Now I’m a CEO. Been just about everything in this industry you can be and been almost every place in the world where there’s reserves. You know what I’ve learned?”
Gillette knew what was coming. Guys like Hansen in every industry said it: When everybody else is getting out, you should be getting in. The contrarian play. Gillette could have given the speech word for word himself, he’d heard it so many times. But, in the unlikely event Hanson was serious about doing a deal, he wasn’t going to steal the man’s thunder in front of two subordinates and piss him off. “What’s that, Don?”
“When everybody goes left, you go right, and when everybody goes right, you go left. If you do the opposite of what others are doing, as long as you have good information and conviction, then you make big money.” He stopped rocking. “Unfortunately, your option properties are pretty dry. But, like I said, we think there are still some huge undiscovered fields in Canada. In the same general area as your properties. My experience is you don’t find those gems unless you got feet on the ground so you can hear things you wouldn’t from a thousand miles away. Laurel’s an excellent company. We think a lot of the senior executives and believe they can help us make progress quickly. A couple of our guys know a couple of your guys from way back, so we’re willing to pay a little more to get access and experience.”
A decent speech, Gillette thought to himself. Probably practiced a dozen times on the flight from Casper to New York to make it sound natural, but there was still something forced about it. “Who’s your backer, Don?”
“A European group.”
“You’ve got to be more specific. If we’re going to start negotiating, I have to understand that you have money, that you can come up with a billion dollars and convince Citibank to stay with Laurel after you take control. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course, of course,” Hansen replied quickly. “How about if I get a name to Mr. Cohen and you two call them together. Or go visit with them if you feel like it. They’re based in Switzerland.”
Criminal liability. That was bullshit and Mason knew it. “Damn it!” Strazzi cursed loudly. Stockman was right. Without Mason’s files, Donovan’s widow might not agree to sell her stake in Everest. He’d told her he had proof. Not being able to produce the files might blow the whole thing.
Strazzi picked up the TV remote and turned the set on. He was scheduled to meet with her later, after the announcement had been made. He checked his watch: 12:55. He’d only have to wait another five minutes.
20
The Attack. Most times you can’t predict exactly where or when it will come. All you can do is prepare and try to anticipate what the enemy will do, then counter with everything you have when the guns go off.
“THANKS FOR YOUR TIME TODAY.” Hansen pumped Gillette’s hand energetically. “I really hope we can get a deal done. This thing makes a lot of sense for everybody.”
During the rest of the meeting, Gillette had quizzed Hansen hard about his experience in the energy industry, trying to make certain he was who he said he was. Toward the end of the meeting, Stiles had come into the conference room and placed a full background report on Hansen down in front of Gillette, which Gillette had read right in front of Hansen as Hansen described how he’d made a lot of other people a lot of money for a lot of years. How it was his turn to get rich. Admitting his Swiss backers had cut him a very good deal, but only because he deserved it.
“We’ll get back to you next week,” said Gillette. He and Hansen stood facing each other at the entrance to the Everest lobby. The other two Coyote executives were already headed toward the elevators. “Cohen and Lefors will follow up with your people by phone tomorrow morning. I doubt we’ll actually go to Switzerland, but I appreciate your making that option available to us.”
“Sure, sure. Anything to help move the deal forward quickly.” Hansen paused and looked around the ornate setting.
Gillette noticed something wistful in Hansen’s expression, which made him certain the Coyote Oil headquarters were barren compared to this.
“I look forward to hearing from you,” Hansen finally said.
When Gillette turned back toward his office, he spotted Cohen walking quickly toward him. Cohen’s face was pale. “What’s the matter, Ben?”
“Come with me,” Cohen urged, his voice low. “Right now.”
When they were inside Gillette’s office with the door closed, Cohen turned on the television and flipped the channel to CNN. “I just got word,” Cohen said breathlessly. “From one of our contacts down in D.C.”
“Word about what?”
Cohen pointed at the screen as the picture switched from a pretty blond anchorwoman to a wooden lectern. “This is it.”
An alarm went off inside Gillette’s head as he gazed at the screen. He moved quickly to his desk and clicked into Bloomberg, glancing back and forth between the television screen and the computer monitor. He’d checked the Dominion S&L stock price several hours ago, a few minutes after the 9:30 open. It had drifted down twenty-five cents in the first few minutes of trading, but there had been no major move at that point.
Gillette clicked the mouse one last time and the price flashed onto the screen. Off fifteen dollars to ten dollars a share. Dominion’s stock had dropped 60 percent in the last three hours. Three billion dollars of shareholder value gone in less time than it took to play a pro football game. Three hundred million of that was Everest’s. Fifty million the widow’s.
Gillette glanced back to the television screen, his head pounding. Cameras were clicking madly.
Congressman Peter Allen moved behind the lectern and acknowledged the press corps assembled in front of him, smiling confidently at no one in particular. He was a tall man with gray hair and stark features who had a reputation in Washington for straight talk.
An aide nodded.
Allen took the cue. Buttoning his chalk-stripe suit jacket and putting on a dour expression, then turning his head slightly to one side for effect. “Thank you for coming
today,” he began in a low voice. “As most of you know, I’m Peter Allen, congressman from Idaho and vice chairman of the House Select Committee on Corporate Abuse. I’m here today to talk about another example of insatiable greed in the corporate boardroom, of insiders preying on unsuspecting small public investors, on individuals, to make themselves rich. In the terrible tradition of Enron, Worldcom, and Tyco.” Allen paused to check his notes. “This time the guilty party is a well-known investment firm in New York.” He looked up. “Everest Capital.”
Allen took a moment to stare out at America without speaking, allowing the cameras to document his stern expression.
“The partners at Everest Capital recently sold one of their companies to the public,” Allen continued. “A savings and loan business called Dominion. Many of us here in the Washington, D.C., area are familiar with Dominion,” he added. “It has branches all around the District and across the Potomac River in Virginia.
“With a fast-growing loan portfolio, Dominion had been a highflier for Everest, so Everest decided to do an IPO. They decided to sell most of their ownership in Dominion to people like you and me. To dump it on us while it looked like Dominion was doing well. Trying to make us believe Dominion would do even better in the future.” Allen paused. “Unfortunately, Dominion wasn’t doing as well as the partners at Everest Capital led us to believe. The loan portfolio, mostly residential mortgages, was actually in terrible shape. Dominion bought a significant number of large, prepackaged portfolios from mortgage bankers, and, apparently, didn’t do its diligence. Didn’t review those portfolios as well as it should have before buying them.” He took a deep breath to let everyone know this was a crucial point in the press conference. “I have information indicating that billions of dollars of those loans will never be repaid, that many of the loans are already nonperforming. In other words, the people who owe money on the loans haven’t sent in their monthly mortgage checks in a long, long time.
