by Stephen Frey
“Jesus, Quentin.”
“It’s bad,” Stiles gasped. “I know . . . Chris.”
“I’m gonna get you out of here, brother. I promise.” Gillette glanced at Kathy. She was sitting on the floor in a far corner of the room, sobbing. Holding her knees tightly to her chin and rocking. He pulled out his cell phone and pushed a button at random, lighting the screen. No signal way out here in rural Mississippi. It had been that way in the driveway, too, but he’d hoped he’d get something here. “Shit.” He glanced at Stiles, then at Kathy. “Stay here. Don’t move.”
There had to be a phone in the house somewhere. He’d noticed the lines overhead as he and Stiles were coming up the driveway. The best bet was the living room, he figured. He looked down the hallway and saw that someone had turned on a light in the living room. He moved that way, holding the gun in front of him, swinging the barrel from side to side, trying to anticipate where the one who’d run away was hiding, trying to anticipate which door he’d come out from behind.
He spotted the phone on a table by the fireplace and raced toward it. As his fingers closed around the receiver, he heard glass smashing and bullets whining angrily past.
Gillette dropped to his stomach as the huge front windows disintegrated under the hail of bullets. He aimed at the lamp and pulled the trigger, shattering it with one shot, and the room plunged into darkness. But the steady stream of bullets didn’t stop.
Gillette grabbed the phone again and dialed the number he’d memorized. Tom McGuire’s cell phone number. He could barely hear it ringing over the barrage. “Pick up!” he shouted. “Pick up!”
Suddenly, there was the sound of hurried footsteps on the porch and the front door flew open. Gillette fired blindly at the door as the phone continued to ring in his ear. Someone went down heavily outside, but then a torch skittered across the living-room floor. It came to rest against a couch and the upholstery caught instantly.
“Hello.”
Finally an answer.
“Tom!” Gillette shouted above the noise of the flames, which were suddenly as loud as a freight train. “It’s Christian Gillette.”
“What the fuck? How are you—”
“Yeah, I’m not dead.” There was nothing but silence. “Tom!” Obviously he was stunned. “Tom!”
“What the hell do you want?”
“I know you’re outside the cabin, Tom. If you ever want to see your brother alive, call off the dogs! I’ve got Vince back in New York! If the people who have him don’t hear from me by six this morning, he’s a dead man.”
Tom McGuire let the cell phone fall away from his ear. He had fifteen of his men around the cabin, and the flames in the living room were growing brighter and brighter. Soon, the flames and the smoke would become too much, and everyone trapped inside would have to run. Then they’d be caught. Then they’d be dealt with. It was a perfect plan.
Perfect.
Except that Gillette was still alive. And he’d gotten Vince.
Gillette watched as the flames climbed higher and higher—until they were licking the ceiling. They’d have to run for it, he knew. They only had a few more seconds.
Then the bullets stopped.
26
THE UNOPENED BOTTLE OF SCOTCH sat squarely in the middle of the desk. Gillette, seated in his leather chair, stared at it through the gloom of the late evening, then at the computer screen—the only source of light in the office. Dominion’s stock price stared back at him: forty-seven dollars a share. In the first few trading days of the week the price had regained everything it had lost—and then some.
There was a gentle tap on the office door. “Christian.”
It was Faraday. “What?”
“Can I come in?”
Gillette hesitated. He wanted to be alone, but Faraday had been trying to see him and he had been putting him off for a while. “Yes.”
Faraday moved into the office and sat down in front of Gillette’s desk. “How you doing?”
“Fine.”
“I’m sorry about Stiles,” he said quietly.
“It isn’t over yet. He could still pull through.”
Faraday cleared his throat. “I also wanted to say how sorry I am about the way I’ve treated you since Bill’s death.”
Gillette glanced up. The apology seemed sincere. He’d heard honesty and contrition in Faraday’s tone. “Thanks, Nigel.”
Faraday settled into the chair. “Now, will you please tell me what the fuck happened over the last couple of weeks?”
Gillette rubbed his eyes. This would take some time and he was tired. But Faraday was the only other managing partner left, and he needed to know what had happened so he could explain it to the outside world. “Over the last couple of years, Miles Whitman made some terrible investments. He took a bath on a bunch of technology stocks, then put a pile of money into some very speculative energy projects in South America that went bust, too.”
“How much did he lose?”
“Over five billion.”
Faraday whistled. “Jesus H. Christ.”
“He was hiding it all from the CEO of North America Guaranty and from NAG’s board of directors. Not only because of the size of the losses, but because he was outside his charter, too. He wasn’t supposed to be investing in those kinds of things.”
“He might have a criminal problem.”
“I think he definitely has a criminal problem. In more ways than one.”
“But what does all of that have to do with us and Laurel?” Faraday asked.
“Whitman found out that our option property in Canada contained the mother lode. Huge oil and natural gas reserves. So he came up with a plan to have a shell company called Coyote Oil, that NAG ultimately owned, buy Laurel cheap. Ultimately, he was going to turn around and sell Laurel a few months after he got it to one of the big oil companies. He knew he’d rake in more than enough to cover his losses on the tech stocks and South American power investments. Then he was going to allocate the gain from Laurel internally to the bad investments to make it look like he hadn’t done anything wrong. He was senior enough at NAG to manipulate information like that without anyone knowing.”
“How did he find out that our property had those huge reserves?”
“He secretly shot seismic up there about six months ago,” Gillette answered.
“Didn’t we just do that?”
“Yes.”
“So then we should have known about the reserves.”
Gillette pulled a glass from the lower left-hand drawer of the desk and placed it beside the scotch bottle. “People who were working for Whitman switched the tapes we had taken with tapes that showed the reserves were small.”
“How’d they do that?”
“The guy in charge of the shoot was bringing the tapes back one night alone. Whitman’s people had tampered with the truck, and it stalled out on the guy in the middle of nowhere near Lake McKenzie. At that point they jumped him. They cut a hole in the ice and made him take a swim. Needless to say, he didn’t last very long. An ice fisherman dragged him out a few days later, dead. The guy thought he’d caught the fish of a lifetime. He was a little surprised when he saw an arm coming up at him through the hole and not a fish.”
“Holy shit.”
“In water that cold you don’t last long.” Gillette glanced at the scotch bottle again. He couldn’t stop thinking about Stiles. The guy had saved his life twice. Now he was fighting for his own life. “Anyway, that’s when they switched the tapes. The tapes we analyzed showed that there was a minimal amount of reserves on the property. The authentic tapes reconfirmed the shoot Whitman had done six months ago on the property.”
“But how did Whitman know you’d sell Laurel to him?” Faraday asked. “I mean, maybe you just would have held on to it if the price wasn’t right.”
“That’s why he sent the McGuires after me. In return, he was going to give them half their company back. He was going to have NAG buy McGuire & Company, then give the
m half the stock for no money down.”
“But the limited partners might have brought in someone that would have held on to Laurel, too.”
“Not for at least thirty days,” Gillette said.
“Why not?”
“Once I was gone, Cohen would have automatically become chairman of Everest Capital for a minimum of thirty days.”
Cohen had been arrested as an accessory to Bill Donovan’s murder.
A confused expression came to Faraday’s face. “Why?”
“It’s in our operating document. Upon the death of the chairman, the chief operating officer automatically becomes chairman for a period of not less than thirty days.”
“Really? I had no idea.”
“Neither did I,” Gillette replied grimly. “I guess I should have thought something was up when he pushed so hard for me to give him the title.”
“So, let me get this straight,” Faraday continued. “Whitman has Donovan murdered and sets up Troy Mason with this woman Kathy Hays.”
“That’s right.”
“But he backed you in the partner meeting where you were elected chairman.”
“He knew Troy or I would win the vote at that meeting, and he wanted both of us out of the way so he could get Cohen into the chair position. In exchange for Whitman getting him the chairman position, Cohen was going to sell Laurel to Coyote Oil for basically nothing.”
“But why did Whitman back you so hard?”
“Because he knew he could take Troy down without having to kill him. He knew Troy’s weakness. He had Lefors tell me that Troy and Kathy Hays were in the basement at the funeral reception. He knew me well enough to know I’d fire Troy on the spot. He also knew that if Troy was elected chairman, any sexual harassment suit would go bye-bye. The chairman isn’t going to fire himself.”
“Oh, okay. Now I get it.” Faraday glanced longingly at the bottle of scotch. “Did I hear that the cops nabbed Lefors?”
“Yeah. This afternoon in New Orleans.”
“What was he doing there?”
Gillette shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“What about Whitman?”
Gillette shook his head. “He’s gone. Into the mist. Just like Tom and Vince McGuire. Whitman probably stashed money in banks around the world in case something like this happened. Probably did it for the McGuires, too.”
“Do you think Whitman was behind Strazzi’s death, as well?” Faraday wanted to know.
“Yup. Strazzi was about to ruin everything with the Dominion thing. If he’d gotten control of Everest, he would have installed himself as chairman. Cohen wouldn’t have had a chance.”
“Do you think Whitman would have let Cohen stay on as chairman after the thirty days?”
Gillette shrugged.
They were silent for several moments.
“So what are your plans, Christian?” Faraday finally asked.
Gillette glanced up. “We’re going to raise the next fund. All fifteen billion of it.” He grinned. “And we’re going to buy Apex.”
Faraday’s eyes bugged out. “What?”
Gillette reached for the bottle. “I’m going to buy it from Strazzi’s estate. Nigel, in a very short time we’re going to be the most powerful private equity firm in the world.” He leaned forward and put the bottle down in front of Faraday. “Here, a small gift for your loyalty. Now, go figure out how to raise $15 billion in six months. And I’ll figure out how we’re going to make Apex ours.”
Faraday grabbed the bottle and stood up. “Yes, sir,” he said, moving to the door. When he reached it, he stopped and turned around. “Thanks for keeping me around, Christian. Seriously. If I’d been you, I’d have probably fired me.”
Gillette smiled and nodded. He almost had.
When Faraday was gone, Gillette reached for his Blackberry and scrolled through the Outlook, looking for a number, thinking about Isabelle. How she’d turned on him. How she’d admitted that McGuire had gotten to her. How he’d been obsessed with covering as many angles as he could. How he’d threatened to kill Jose and Selma if she didn’t help. How he’d threatened to kill her. Gillette shook his head. A shame, but she was going to spend a long time in jail.
When Gillette found the number, he punched it into his desk phone quickly, then listened to the ring, hoping the person would answer.
“Hello?”
He took a deep breath and relaxed into his chair. “Hi, Faith. How are you?”
BY STEPHEN FREY
THE TAKEOVER
THE VULTURE FUND
THE INNER SANCTUM
THE LEGACY
THE INSIDER
TRUST FUND
THE DAY TRADER
SILENT PARTNER
SHADOW ACCOUNT
The Chairman is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by Stephen Frey
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Frey, Stephen W.
The chairman: a novel / Stephen Frey.
p. cm.
1. Capitalists and financiers—Fiction. 2. Investment bankers—Fiction. 3. Corporate culture—Fiction. 4. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 5. Wall Street—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3556.R4477C47 2005
813′.54—dc22 2004046210
Ballantine Books website address: www.ballantinebooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-345-48207-5
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