by Stephen Frey
“Two billion,” he answered quietly, thanking lady luck she hadn’t brought a lawyer or an investment banker with her to negotiate. Probably because she didn’t want to pay the multimillion-dollar fee. He’d heard she was cheap.
“In cash?”
“A billion in cash and another billion in a five-year note,” Strazzi went on. “I’ll pay the note off at the rate of two hundred million a year. Plus, I’ll pay you 5 percent interest.”
“That doesn’t seem like a great deal.”
“It’s what I’m willing to pay,” he answered firmly.
“A few months ago my husband told me the Everest stake was worth at least four billion,” the widow countered.
“Maybe when the sharks weren’t circling the ship and the ship didn’t have a leak. But Everest is going down, Ann. At least, without me.”
“What do you mean by that?” She perked up, listening intently. “What can you do?”
“I have connections. I can take the heat off Everest. I can get Allen to call off the dogs if I agree to get involved. If I tell them I’ll clean up the mess. My people have already had preliminary talks with officials in Washington.” Strazzi wagged a finger at her. “But, Ann, if I’m not involved, Allen will go after Everest with the big guns, make no mistake about it. I mean, look at it from his perspective. It’s a great opportunity. It’ll make him look like he’s doing something to protect the public from Wall Street, which is always popular. Your stake won’t be worth four billion in that scenario. In fact, it could be worth less than two. Much less. Maybe nothing.”
“You just want to toss out Christian Gillette so you can get control of Everest,” the widow snapped.
“A man doesn’t offer $2 billion for something because he’s feeling generous. Not if he’s in his right mind. Sure, I want control of Everest,” Strazzi continued, not giving her a chance to speak. “And, yes, I’d kick Gillette out. As fast as I could. So what? What do you care? As long as you get your two billion.” The widow was gazing at him with a faraway look. He could see her indecision. She didn’t know what to do. It was time to turn the screws—hard. “Hey, if you want to take a chance and try to ride out the storm with Gillette, have at it. I admire your loyalty. But remember this: Gillette doesn’t have anywhere near the investment in Everest you do. He might take more chances because he has so much less to lose.”
The widow stuck out her tiny chin. “I want two and a half billion, and I want it all in cash.”
Strazzi felt his pulse jump. She was in. She was going to sell. She’d made the psychological leap. Now it was just a question of structure because they were close on price. “I won’t go higher than two billion, but I’ll increase the cash portion to a billion five. And, Ann, I can close this thing quickly. I already have a team of lawyers waiting at the first tee. I can have the cash to you by Monday afternoon.”
“Two and a quarter. All cash.”
Strazzi hesitated. He hated giving in—even a little. Especially to a woman. But he wanted this more than anything in the world. “Two billion in cash and $250 million in notes. Take it or leave it, Ann. That’s my final offer, and it won’t be on the table for long.” He stood up and moved toward the door. “I’m going to get some coffee. When I get back, there’s a fifty-fifty chance I’ll still be offering you the deal. If I’m not, I’ll offer you nothing.”
As Strazzi reached for the knob the widow spoke up. “Can you really have the cash to me Monday afternoon?”
He smiled for a moment as he stood with his back to her. “Absolutely,” he confirmed, turning around to face her. “No later than two o’clock.”
She stood up and moved to the door beside him, staring at him intently as she opened it for herself. “All right, I accept your offer. I’m using the same lawyers Bill used for our personal affairs. Porter and Hughes over on Park.”
“I know them.”
“The partner I work with there is John Meyers. He’s expecting your call.”
“I’ll get in touch with him right away.”
“Good. I’ll see myself out.”
“I have several calls into Donovan’s widow.” Miles Whitman was sitting in one of the chairs in the corner of Gillette’s office. “I don’t call her much, but when I do, she usually calls me back quickly.” He hesitated. “Not this time, though. I’m sorry, Christian,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“She’s meeting with Strazzi right now,” said Gillette, sitting across the coffee table from Whitman.
“How do you know?”
“I’m having Strazzi followed. The widow showed up at his office about an hour ago.”
“Are your McGuire guys tailing him?”
Gillette shook his head. “No, I—”
“Christian hired an outside firm,” Cohen interrupted. He was sitting in the chair beside Gillette’s.
“Why?”
“We don’t trust Tom McGuire,” Cohen said bluntly.
“Oh?”
“We may be taking McGuire & Company public soon,” Cohen continued. “Earlier this week, Tom asked Christian about buying the company back. But at a much lower price than what the investment bankers are talking about in the IPO. Tom wasn’t very happy when he found out we were thinking about taking the company public.”
“I’m sure he wasn’t.” Whitman moved to a small refrigerator near Gillette’s desk and pulled out a Coke. “You guys want anything?”
Both of them shook their heads.
“So you hired another security company to follow Strazzi just because of that?” Whitman asked, popping open the can as he sat back down. “Because you thought McGuire would be pissed off about not getting the company, and he might not tell you who Strazzi was meeting with? Or maybe tell Strazzi he’d been hired to tail him? Was that it?”
“It’s more than that,” Gillette answered. “You remember my limousine exploding at Donovan’s funeral?”
“Of course.”
“Well, there’ve been two more attempts on my life this week.”
Whitman straightened up in the chair. “My God. What the hell’s going on?”
“I don’t know. But when Tom approached me about buying the company and I realized he had a conflict, I hired another firm. Partly because of that conversation you and I had at your place earlier this week. Remember? You asked if I could really trust him.”
“Sure I remember.”
“I’m glad I decided to do that,” Gillette said. “The man I hired has turned out to be very good.”
“Thorough, too,” Whitman agreed. “I was basically strip-searched before I could come in here.”
“Sorry about that, Miles, but, given the circumstances, I’ve got to listen to what my guy’s telling me.”
“When it’s the kind of money that’s involved here, I couldn’t agree more.” Whitman took a deep breath. “It’s just a damn shame.”
Gillette looked over at Whitman. “What is?”
“Everything. Dominion. Congressman Allen’s press conference today. Strazzi going after the widow’s stake.” Whitman grimaced. “Unfortunately, I think it’s going to put an end to your fund-raising. At least for a while.”
Gillette ran his fingers through his hair. “If Strazzi gets the widow’s stake, I don’t think I’ll be worrying too much about fund-raising. I’ll be looking for another job.”
Whitman nodded deliberately. “You’re right. He’ll install himself as the—”
Gillette’s cell phone rang, interrupting Whitman.
Gillette picked it up off the coffee table and checked the display. It was Vicky. “Hello.” As he listened to what she was saying, his expression turned grim. “Thanks.”
“Who was that?” Cohen asked.
“An acquaintance.”
“What’s wrong?” Whitman asked.
Gillette took a deep breath. “The widow just agreed to sell her Everest stake to Strazzi for $2.25 billion.” Gillette had gotten Mason’s files, but it hadn’t stopped Strazzi fr
om getting what he wanted. Strazzi and Stockman had been able to scare the widow into selling her stake using Dominion’s crash as the stick. “The transaction is closing Monday.”
At least Stockman was going to get his for being involved, Gillette thought to himself. That was about the only thing he could take solace in at this point.
“So, Ben, are you now officially the chief operating officer of Everest Capital?” Whitman asked.
Cohen’s eyes flashed to Gillette’s. “Um, I, uh . . .” Cohen’s voice trailed off. “Christian, I didn’t tell anyone anything about this. I swear to you.”
Gillette nodded at Whitman. “Yeah, I told Miles the other day.” Cohen had that deer-in-the-headlights look. But why? “Well, actually, Miles asked if there had been any organizational changes and I told him I was promoting you.”
“Oh,” Cohen said quietly.
Suddenly Cohen seemed very uncomfortable, Gillette realized.
“I just don’t want you to think I’ve been blabbing this all around,” Cohen added.
“I’m sure you haven’t,” Gillette agreed. “Besides, it’s no big deal if you have.”
“So, is Ben officially chief operating officer?” Whitman asked again.
Gillette turned to Whitman. “Yes, he is.”
Stiles pressed his arm against the pocket of his jacket, making certain the envelope was there. Then he moved out of the dark Manhattan doorway and fell in behind a man in a long winter coat who’d just passed by.
At the corner the man stopped, waiting for the traffic light to change. Rubbing his hands together to try to keep them warm as traffic roared by in front of him on Fifth Avenue.
“Chilly out tonight,” Stiles said cheerfully as he ambled up beside the man.
The man gave Stiles a quick up and down. “Yeah, chilly,” he agreed indifferently.
Stiles pointed at him. “Hey, I recognize you.”
The man stopped rubbing his hands together, a curious expression coming to his face. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Stiles continued, “I saw you on television today when Senator Stockman made his announcement about running for president. You were behind him along with some other people. Right?”
“You’ve got quite a memory for faces.”
“Always have.” Stiles hesitated. “You are?”
“Frank Galway, the senator’s assistant chief of staff,” he replied, holding out his hand.
Trained to constantly chum for votes, Stiles thought to himself. “You must be pretty excited,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket.
“Yep,” Galway agreed. “The senator is clearly the man to beat. He’s got the experience and the track record. We think he’ll be ahead when the new polls come out next week. Now that will be exciting.”
“Well, I know he’ll be excited about these, too,” Stiles spoke up, pressing the envelope to Galway’s chest.
“What the hell—”
“Photographs,” Stiles said, his voice turning harsh.
Galway’s fingers closed around the envelope.
“A few pictures of the good senator and a woman named Rita Jones coming out of their love nest in Queens,” Stiles continued. “You’re familiar with the place. You pay the rent.”
“Oh, Christ,” Galway whispered.
“Don’t look so worried. As long as the senator cooperates, these pictures won’t see the light of day.”
“What do you mean, ‘cooperates’?”
“I’ll let you know when I contact you next.” Stiles turned around and headed off abruptly.
Leaving Galway confused, concerned, and alone.
The apartment was in Greenwich Village. It was a quiet one-bedroom place on Houston Street in the West Village that Stiles used as a safe house.
Stiles’s men had gone to great lengths to get Faith to it secretly. They’d smuggled her out a back entrance to the Waldorf after she and Gillette had said good-bye, then taken her up to Connecticut, changed cars in a dark parking lot, driven her to New Jersey and changed cars again, before finally bringing her back to the city. She’d been here since, protected by three of Stiles’s men who were getting her what she needed so she didn’t have to leave the apartment.
Gillette took off his coat and laid it over a chair by the door. He’d spent the last several hours enduring the same routine Faith had, and he was irritated. Stiles hadn’t allowed him any contact with the outside world during the trip around the metro area. No cell phones, no Blackberry, no nothing. Gillette hated wasting time like that, but it had to be this way. They couldn’t risk anyone finding out where Faith was. Or, worse, that they were the ones protecting her.
“Hi.” Faith rose from the couch as Gillette came through the apartment door, putting down the crossword puzzle she’d been working on.
“Hello.”
She went to put her arms around him, then hesitated, pulling back at the last minute. “How have you been?”
“Fine.”
“Thanks again for your help with my contract,” she said, hands clasped behind her. “With the ad budget, I mean. It’s already been increased. There was a big spread in USA Today, and I’ve already heard a bunch of stuff on the radio.”
Gillette smiled briefly. “No problem.” He pointed toward the couch. “Let’s sit down.”
“Do you want something to drink?”
“No.”
When they were seated, Gillette turned to her, putting one arm up on the back of the couch behind her. “Who are you working for?” he asked bluntly.
“Tom McGuire,” she answered right away. “He approached me two months ago. I was supposed to keep track of you when he gave me the order, supposed to get close to you.”
Gillette shook his head. “But why?”
She glanced down. “You know why,” she said softly. “So McGuire could set you up.”
“No, no. Why would you do it? You’ve got a great career going, you’re immensely popular. Why would you agree to help Tom McGuire?”
“Careers in my business come and go very fast, especially when the music label isn’t supporting you. I knew the record label was going to screw me on this album because Donovan told them to. It would have destroyed my career. McGuire promised me that whoever ultimately replaced Donovan at Everest would make sure my career was taken care of.” She put her hand on his. “He told me you wouldn’t help me, but you did. When I heard what they were going to do to you, I called right away. When McGuire approached me, he told me you had agreed with Donovan about pulling back support for me. He also told me that they were going to destroy you, not kill you. I’m no murderer, Christian. I had no idea they were going to do what they did to Donovan, either. If I’d had any idea what they were really doing, I would never have gotten involved.”
Gillette nodded. “It’s a good thing you contacted me when you did,” he said softly. “I would have been dead. Literally.” He paused. “Who’s McGuire working with at Everest?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know who. But I know it’s someone high up.”
22
Routines. Most of us are creatures of habit, more comfortable with order than anarchy. By maintaining a routine, we avoid original thought. We make it easier on ourselves.
But routines can also create opportunity for the enemy.
STRAZZI PUT ONE FOOT UP on the bench and tightened the laces of his running shoe, his breath rising in front of him as he leaned over. It was a crisp, clear Saturday morning in Central Park. The temperature was hovering around freezing and the sun was only halfway above the horizon.
He jogged several mornings a week in the park, usually doing around three miles. From Monday to Friday, the days he jogged would vary, depending on his hectic schedule. But, on weekends when he was in the city, he always ran on Saturday and Sunday mornings. And always at the same time.
Finished with the laces, Strazzi put his feet together and bent over, trying to touch his toes. For a man in his late fifties he was still in good shape. He straightened up, stret
ched his upper body, took a few quick breaths, then headed off at a slow but steady trot. Moving north along the eastern edge of the park. Tasting last night’s cigar as he jogged.
Near Harlem, he cut left, toward the running trails he liked.
Ten minutes later he was moving along a narrow path through dense woods, thinking about how very soon he would control 25 percent of the Everest vote. How, once he controlled the widow’s stake, he’d immediately call a meeting of the investors to vote on removing Gillette. Win the vote easily and install himself as chairman after convincing the rest of the investors that he was the best, really the only, alternative. That, without him, the government was going to descend on Everest like the Allies on Normandy.
He smiled to himself as the path turned steep. As chairman of Everest, he would control the two largest private equity firms in the world—and more than $40 billion. He wouldn’t just be a god of private equity, he’d be the god.
Halfway up the hill, Strazzi thought he heard someone behind him. Despite his own loud, labored breathing, he was almost certain he heard footsteps. Twenty to thirty feet back, pacing him. He tried glancing over his shoulder, but tripped on a rock jutting out from the rutted path before he could spot anyone. He stumbled forward several steps, barely regaining his balance, sweat coursing down his face.
Forty billion dollars. Enough to make a man paranoid. Enough to make him a target.
The footsteps were still there. He was sure of it. Closing in on him as he headed through the most remote section of the trail, deserted this early in the morning.
Finally, he reached the top of the hill. Here the path was level and smoother. He could look back without having to worry about losing his balance.
When he did, he saw a man who was his size but much younger. The man wore running shorts, a Windbreaker, a baseball cap, and dark glasses despite the low light.
Strazzi put his head down and ran as fast as he could. His legs churned, and he gasped for air as lactic acid quickly built up in his muscles.
