Steven's Choice

by John Renesch

  Chapter One: AIN'T LIFE GRAND

  January 30: San Francisco, World Headquarters, Ventures International, 6:08 PM PST

  “Well, I guess that does it—this meeting is adjourned,” said Steven George, CEO and presiding chairman of Ventures International’s board of directors. Steven was a large man, built like a football player—more like a halfback than a lineman. He stood just over six feet tall and still had his hair, although it was mostly white by now. He looked every part like the distinguished executive, evoking trust, wisdom, and rock-solid professionalism.

  With Steven's declaration that the fourth quarter board meeting had been formally concluded, the ten men and two women present began gathering their notes and handouts, shutting down their laptops and PDAs. A few stretched their arms and flexed their backs after sitting for so long. The murmur of multiple private conversations started almost instantly. Hands were shaken, cards were exchanged, and a few farewell hugs took place.

  Steven was somewhat pleased with the day’s outcome, but he didn't have a solution to the dilemma they'd tried to resolve for most of the afternoon. It was past six now, and everyone was tired. Outside it was a dark.

  The board members were exhausted not because they'd spent hours in the meeting. Their exhaustion stemmed from frustration. These were well-intended, intelligent people who shared a common objective—and who couldn't come to a resolution.

  Mark Snow looked up from a sheaf of papers and his eyes met Steven's across the large conference table. The friends started making their way toward each other, saying their good-byes to the other board members as they went. Mark had joined Venture’s board two years ago. He'd been an enormous asset ever since, Steven thought.

  Steven liked Mark. They'd become very good friends since serving together on another board five years ago, for a company started by a mutual friend. Mark was in his late thirties, about fifteen years younger than Steven. He was just over six feet tall with thick brown hair. He was a marathon runner with a trim well-developed body.

  “Thanks a lot for your contribution today,” Steven said, clasping Mark's hand. “It was a tough agenda. Let me buy you a drink.”

  Mark nodded. “Sounds good. Where shall we go?”

  “My office,” Steven said. “I’ve got everything we need there, and I’d like to have a private conversation for just a few minutes. I’ve been on the road for days and want to get home as early as I can.”

  Steven’s executive secretary, Ruth Amada, was busily collecting her notes. Even though the technicians had recorded everything from the booth, she still liked keeping her own notes at board meetings. Ruth would oversee the preparation of complete minutes for Steven to approve and distribute to all the Board members. She was talking with her assistant as the men approached her place at the table.

  “See you in a bit, Ruth,” Steven said as he and Mark headed into his office suite. “Stick your head in before you go home, if you don't mind. Mark and I are going to have a drink.”

  In his office, Steven opened a mirrored door to expose a well-stocked bar. He made himself a martini and poured Mark a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. He knew what Mark liked and made a point of having it on hand whenever he thought Mark might stop by. He carried the glass of wine over to where Mark was already sinking into one of two stuffed leather chairs facing each other.

  Mark raised his glass. “Cheers, Steven,” he said. He paused, sipped the wine, smiled with approval. “Now what did you want to talk about?”

  Steven didn’t respond immediately. He stirred his martini slowly with the olive and stared at the condensation on the frosted glass. Finally he looked up at Mark and spoke.

  “I’m not sure what I want to say, but it involves the dilemma we were dealing with today in the meeting. This problem is coming up more and more these days—for boards all over the world—and I wanted to talk to you off the record. I don’t want to have this conversation with other board members or our legal counsel. I want to explore it with a friend—a friend who is also knowledgeable about the facts and the circumstances…someone who really understands business.”

  Mark sat quietly for a moment. Then he smiled just a little and said, “Hit me with it”

  “Thanks, Mark. You know your friendship means a lot to me,” Steven said. He took a deep breath and began.

  “It’s this corporate responsibility thing…. Combined with our incredibly litigious society. As we saw earlier today, decisions we’d normally make based on our personal values can't be made at the corporate level because of our exposure to shareholder lawsuits, among other things. If I voted my conscience, or even with plain common sense, I might be sued by shareholders, venture capitalists, investment bankers, and others among our colleagues who have financial interests in the company. Their case could center on the fact that I didn't vote for maximizing their short-term return. That's become the mantra of the corporate lawyers who represent plaintiffs in these lawsuits. And God knows there’s plenty of precedent for these suits succeeding!”

  “It's a standard double-bind all directors face these days,” Mark said. “It's a tough issue, and the Corporate Social Responsibility movement is making big strides.”

  “Exactly. I’m old enough to remember the 1960s, when corporate responsibility was being studied at SRI International down in Menlo Park. There was a group researching this subject back then, long before the more recent excesses and scandals made the headlines. I just received an update on a report I commissioned last year. There’s a growing interest among corporate managers, shareholders, and the public in being ‘green.’ But we don’t know how much of it is spin or what price shareholders are willing to pay to be nature-friendly or sustainable.”

  “Yeah,” said Mark. “All it takes is for any group of investors to sue you if they can make a case that the bottom line has been affected even slightly or their dividends might have been lowered as a result of a decision we made in that boardroom—even if our thinking was ethically appropriate. They can use the directors' voting records as evidence for their lawsuits! And, there’s legal precedent for these kinds of lawsuits!”

  “Even is they don’t win,” Steven added, “the lawsuits are a huge sink-hole for time and money, and are often settled out of court simply to stop the bleeding of energy on their account.”

  Steven smiled wanly. “And that’s the rub.” He looked at his drink again.

  Mark was deeply aware of the problem. It was a growing one too—mostly out of sight of the average executive or blue collar worker. The problem mostly faced directors of companies owned by shareholders entirely focused on profit. Sometimes the shareholders were large investment houses, like Ventures; some were pension funds or mutual finds; and some were traders who had no interest in what the company was doing, so long as they could make a few points of short-term profit while they owned the stock or options.

  Mark wasn't as old as Steven, but he'd been around long enough to see the change from investing in a company you liked to casino-like speculation on faceless stocks, where buy decisions had little to do with anything besides financial performance. And he'd heard about “the good old days” from older colleagues and friends who'd been investing since World War II. They recalled how people would invest in companies because they liked them—what they did for the world, the values they stood for, and the reputation they enjoyed—in addition to their potential for long-term gain. Dividends and value appreciation were the primary reasons people purchased stock in a company, but a pride of ownership came into play too. If the stock was widely traded, investors knew they'd never own enough to have any say in how things were done, so an understanding of the company's character, so to speak, was important from the start.

  How often had he heard his older friends lament about the changes over the last fifty years, Mark thought. The phrase “gambling casino” was used frequently to describe the modern investment house. Short-term trading was more the norm now than long-term investing, according to his mentors. Investing ha
d come to mean something much different from what it did a half century ago.

  And, Mark admitted, the short-term approach had made him a millionaire several times over. So why did it bother him? He shifted in his chair uncomfortably and came out of his reverie as Steven spoke.

  “There are times when I wonder if Milton Friedman had any idea about the impact he had when he testified in the Seventies that the corporation’s primary responsibility was to maximize shareholder value,” Steven said. He shook his head. “I mean…an economist in such a position of power and with such a reputation…His words became the war cry—the ultimate justifier—for focusing on the financial bottom line each quarter. And that’s why we find ourselves running around like crazy to have a good quarterly report every three months. It's hard as hell to take a long-term view for the company and its role in the world when everyone expects each quarter to be a financial improvement over the last one.”

  “Right,” Mark said. “Besides, life isn’t like that. Life has cycles—ups and downs. You can’t sustain continuous growth perpetually. But each new generation of managers feels compelled to continue increasing profits on their watch. There’s a growing push among CEOs and their leadership teams to build their reputations—to generate impressive track records for earnings during their tenure and let their successors worry about maintaining the growth rate.”

  The men sipped their drinks in silence. Finally, Steven looked up at Mark with a rueful smile. “Well,” he said, “there it is…one of the biggest ethical conundrums for the modern day business leader.”

  “I've run into it in my other boards too,” Mark said. “It's not talked about much, but many directors are on the horns of this dilemma and it is quite serious. Back in the early Nineties, I heard Robert Waterman talk about it. He co-wrote that blockbuster book, In Search of Excellence. Well, he'd been on several boards where voting for the long-term interest of the company would have opened him up to shareholder lawsuits. I was surprised by how candid he was. That was when I first started thinking about the problem.”

  “Damn,” Steven said. “I don’t like this bind I feel. We should have agreed to pass on this deal today. When Joseph presented the acquisition, none of us liked the prospect of buying this company. But the numbers looked good. And, voting against it would have subjected all of us to major shareholder and financial media criticism, and a likely lawsuit. If it weren’t for Joseph’s enthusiasm and his youth, his eagerness to make a name for himself as an acquisitions specialist—and the homework he did with company counsel, who warned us of the possible outcomes if we voted against it—none of the other board members would have voted for it.”

  “I know my heart wasn’t in it. On the other hand, it will boost our profits, improve our balance sheet, and offset that loss we took last month with the shoe company that used recycled material,” Mark said.

  “Yes, yes, yes. I know,” Steven said, a little irritably. “Joseph made all that clear. But did you see how unenthusiastic everyone was when the final vote was taken? No one seemed genuinely excited. To a person, they all voted with such resignation in their voices. It was sad.” He shook his head for the umpteenth time. “I'd like to be excited about the deals we do here!”

  There was a soft knock, and Ruth peeked in. “Anyone need anything?” she asked.

  “We're fine,” Steven said, “but would you like to join us? You could probably use a drink too.”

  Ruth hesitated. “Well, what’s Mark got there?”

  “A very nice Sauvignon Blanc, Ruth. I think you’ll like it,” Mark said, smiling.

  “Okay,” Ruth said, “I’ll have a glass of that if you’re sure I’m not intruding.”

  “You know you're not intruding,” Steven said, rising and pouring her a glass. He refilled Mark’s glass, and added, “Sit down, Ruth. Mark and I were discussing the dilemma of the board’s charter—doing the right thing versus avoiding a lawsuit.”

  “That’s it, Steven,” Mark said. “You just hit the nail on the head. That’s exactly what the bind is—voting our conscience or covering our asses.”

  “That’s how it seems to me,” Ruth said, “but I’m only an assistant. What do I know?”

  “Plenty,” said Steven. “After all, you’ve read all those reports and put up with my venting on this subject for years now. You probably could cite more cases where litigation resulted from these situations than I can. I’d say you are very qualified to comment, Ruth.”

  Mark leaned in. “The system is taking us in a direction we don't want to go,” he said. “It’s a runaway, taking us away from common sense, socially responsible action, and toward a no-fault, who’s-to-blame paradigm.”

  “Oh, oh,” Steven said. “There’s that fucking word again! Why do you have to use such an elitist word like ‘paradigm’? Damn those academics for creating such a snob word! I used to think people were saying a ‘pair of dimes.’ But I was afraid of looking stupid. So for months I acted like I knew what the word meant until I finally asked a professor at Stanford.”

  Mark grinned. “Do you mean Michael Ray at the business school?”

  “Yeah, that’s the guy,” said Steven, somewhat surprised that Mark had identified the man so quickly. After a slight hesitation, he turned his attention back to Ruth. “Ray was a chaired professor of creativity and marketing, and has written several books. He even started a course called 'The New Paradigm in Business.' You could say that Professor Ray is the ‘new paradigm’ guy when it comes to business theorists.”

  “Hmm…Please excuse my ignorance,” she said, “but I could use some explanation myself. I remember typing that word for you one time months ago, Steven, but I forgot what you said it meant.”

  Mark smiled and looked to Steven with an impish grin. “Go, big guy,” he said with a wave of his hand.

  “Okay, I’ll take a stab at it,” Steven looked upward for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Paradigm means a culture—a set of assumptions about the way things are, or how they're supposed to be—beliefs, habits, and practices —that are shared by a community. Often, when events occur that don’t fit the established paradigm, people won't even see them. They’ll be convinced the event couldn’t be happening, because it doesn’t fit their paradigm.” He looked to Mark for approval. Mark nodded.

  “My favorite example goes back to the days when everyone believed the world was flat,” Steven said. “No—that’s not quite correct. They knew the world was flat.

  “Adventurers who sailed over the horizon and failed to return served as proof for the ‘flat earth society.’ It took at least a century for enough scientific evidence (and a few sailors who returned after going beyond the horizon) to change the mindset of sufficient numbers of people. Then, seemingly overnight, there was mass agreement that the world was really round.”

  Mark interrupted. “The academics I know prefer to use the Copernican revolution as an example of a paradigm shift. But Thomas Kuhn popularized the word in his book The Structure of Scientific Revolutions.

  Steven nodded slightly in agreement, his face showing a mixture of irritation and admiration with Mark for being so knowledgeable. “Yet despite the snobbish academic flavor of the word, its usage continues to grow, even though many people still don’t know how to pronounce it. I've heard it on television commercials, for Christ's sake—even on news broadcasts!”

  “Well, thank you for the explanation, fellas,” Ruth said. “I think I’ve got it now. But what has it got to do with business?”

  Steven looked at Mark and finished his martini. Mark took the nonverbal cue. “Since I brought it up, I’ll tell you how the intellectuals use it in a business context,” he said.

  “The old paradigm in business—the one that’s losing credibility and falling out of favor—is the robber-baron approach of exploiting people and the environment for the sake of profiting financially. The old paradigm consisted of assumptions that resources were unlimited, water and air pollution weren’t really concerns, future generation
s could fend for themselves, customers could be duped or conned and ‘buyer beware’ was the motto of the day. It's based on an underlying assumption that we are all separate from one another and cause leads to effect. The old scientific paradigm dominates the Industrial Age, where 'reality' is defined as that which can be objectively measured using the five physical senses. All this is very mechanistic—like people are machines.” Mark looked at Steven and Ruth, who nodded her understanding and motioned him to continue.

  “Okay, once you become aware that we are in a mindset—and that ‘reality’ is nothing more than how we think about what is—you can see this old paradigm all over the place. After all, it is the 'reality' in which we have lived and worked in these past several decades,” he said. “This collective consensus shows up in the way we evaluate and perceive reality, manage our enterprises…how we objectify each other, nature, and just about everything else. It shows up in our language, such as calling employees ‘human resources’ or ‘human capital.’ Or referring to our hearts as ‘pumps’ as if we were mechanical devices. These may seem like subtle indicators but they are clues to how we think.”

  Steven squirmed a bit and interrupted. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far with this paradigm stuff, but you get the drift, don’t you, Ruth?”

  “Oh yes, of course,” she said, smiling at Mark. “Thank you for such an eloquent explanation.”

  “Wait! I’m not done yet,” Mark said. “I’ve only explained the old paradigm. I haven’t told you about the new one today's thought leaders believe is emerging.”

  “I really do need to get home, Mark. Let’s postpone that until another time,” Steven said determinedly.

  Mark felt cut off, but understood that Steven found many of his ideas on the verge of being anti-business. He nodded, letting his friend off the hook. “Thanks for the great wine, Steven,” he said, rising from his chair to set his glass on the wet bar. “I should be getting home too. Kathy was probably expecting me an hour ago.”

  “Well, I haven’t been home in four days,” Steven said, “and I’m eager to be in my own home, in my own bed, with my dearest Catherine. We talked last night, and it sounds like I have a lot of catching up to do on the family.”

  “Leave everything, fellas. I’ll clean up here before I go,” Ruth offered. “I still have work to do before I leave.”

  “Thanks, Ruth. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Steven said.

  Ruth had joined Steven in 1979. He'd named his little start-up SG Investments, Inc. and hired her the first week. She came along with him when the company was acquired by Ventures in 1986. She was loyal to Steven, dedicated to her work, and incredibly proficient. She was like his partner in many ways, tending to many of his very important relationships—both professional and personal. She knew his family intimately, got along with everyone, and, as far as he knew, her life centered around her role as his executive secretary. Her social life was largely based upon her work relationships.

  “Good night, Ruth, and thanks for all your help during the meeting today,” Mark said as he left. “It was a tough one, so I’m sure it'll be a lot of fun getting it all together for the minutes,” he said with a bit of sarcasm.

  The two men walked down the hall toward the elevator. They rode down to the lobby and parted company in the parking lot as they walked to their cars.

  “Good night, Mark. See you soon and thanks again for today and this evening. I appreciate your input,” Steven said.

  “Likewise, and I’d love to continue our discussion sometime soon,” Mark said. “Good night.”

  January 30: Palo Alto, California, Stanford University campus, 6:45 PM PST

  She was leaving the library later than usual. It had been a rough day for the young woman, who was just three weeks from receiving her MBA.

  Her backpack filled to capacity, she mounted her bicycle and headed toward the Starbuck’s where her friend Terry would be waiting. She thought about calling ahead on her cell phone, but decided she could be there by the time the call would be finished. She flicked on her light and pedaled for the coffee shop three blocks away.

  Jean was excited about completing her time on campus. She had known no other life than school for the past fifteen years, and she was ready to get out into the real world. She wanted to make lots of money and she'd decided over five years ago the business world was for her.

  Born and raised in Pipestone, Minnesota—a small town in the southwest corner of the state—she'd known only the rural life through high school. Except for a few excursions into Minneapolis, she had little familiarity with large cities. Moving to the Bay Area had been quite an adventure.

  When she was accepted at Stanford, she was elated, as was her family. After all, she was the first in her family to attend one of the country’s prestigious universities. Her older brother had dropped out of college and joined the military, and her younger sister was three years behind her. Her parents were blue-collar folks with a strong work ethic. Her father never made much money as a truck mechanic. He worked for a dealership now, but had once tried owning his own business—a repair garage he'd opened when Jean was five. Her mother had found being married to a self-employed business owner too uncertain. She hadn't liked never knowing how much money she’d have at the end of the month. Between his wife’s insecurity, the challenge of running his own business, and having three young mouths to feed, Jean's dad eventually sold the garage and took a salaried job at the local Ford dealership.

  In high school, Jean had met a woman visiting from California. Her name was Pat, and she'd also been raised in Pipestone, where her parents still lived. Pat lived in Palo Alto and Jean had loved talking with her about life “out there.” To the sixteen year-old Minnesotan, the life Pat had talked about so matter-of-factly sounded like an absolute fairy tale. So glamorous. People had nice things. It never snowed and the ground never froze. It had always seemed to Jean that California was where all the really cool things started.

  Pat had made an enormous impression on the high-schooler; she'd filled a void. After that summer visit, Jean knew what she wanted. She dated boys, but would never allow anything serious to develop. She knew she wouldn’t be getting married to any local fellows. She was making big plans for herself.

  Jean was determined to have money. As a child, she'd felt the restrictions a lack of it had caused and she'd listened to her mother’s constant laments about making ends meet for most of her life. She was committed to making a very different life for herself—one that included having anything she wanted. That would take money. She'd noticed the people who made the most money used other people’s money to do it. Mostly, she'd learned, new wealth came from playing in the financial markets, not from making something and selling it—like most people thought about when they thought about business. No, money came from getting as close to insider information as you could and betting on certain outcomes based on that information. Investment bankers, commodity traders, and speculators of all sorts were the ones who made tons of money. That, Jean reasoned, was where she ought to enter the workforce.

  She parked her bike in the rack outside the shop, locked it, and stepped inside to meet Terry.

  January 30: San Francisco, World Headquarters, Ventures International, 6:58 PM PST

  Steven watched Mark head for his BMW, across the lot in visitors' parking, then got into the dark green Mercedes in his reserved space. It purred immediately to life. He fastened his seat belt, and paused. He was still stimulated by the conversation with Mark and Ruth. but also eager to get home. He glanced at the back seat to be sure his wardrobe bag was still there. Then he shifted into reverse and backed out of his spot. It would be a leisurely drive home.

  His house was located in Hillsborough, about thirty minutes south of “The City.” Gradually, his thoughts left the office and the meeting, and he focused on Catherine and all the family news waiting for him at home.

  When publicly traded Ventures had merged with SG Investments in 1986, Steven h
ad become the largest individual shareholder. After a rocky period while the two companies sorted out the new combined culture, Steven had taken the helm. Ventures now served investors in seventy-five countries and had offices in London, Hong Kong, New York, Brussels, Zurich, Tokyo, Bombay, and Caracas besides the corporate headquarters in San Francisco. It employed over seven hundred people around the world and had become a twelve billion dollar company.

  Traffic was light on the freeway. His mind drifted years back to the long weekend when he and Catherine had rented a houseboat at Shasta Lake, several hundred miles north. Their girls had been preschoolers at the time. They invited Steven's mother and his brother Richard. Steven had promised himself he'd make the final decision about selling his company to Ventures over the five days they spent floating around, enjoying the warm weather and sunshine. He remembered how difficult it had been to decide—there had been advantages to remaining independent and, of course, there were other advantages to being a part of an international firm. Despite the difficulty, he decided. And there were only a few occasions since then when he'd regretted it.

  He turned off the freeway and headed for the hills of Hillsborough and his ten-acre homestead, a small estate he and Catherine had acquired shortly after the deal with Ventures.

  January 30: San Francisco Peninsula, Hillsborough, George residence, 7:45 PM PST

  Steven drove through the gate and up the long driveway, parking the car under the drive-through alongside the main house. The exterior light was on over the side door. As he stepped out of the car and retrieved his briefcase and wardrobe bag, Catherine opened the door.

  “Welcome home, honey!” she said. “How’s my road warrior these days?”

  “I’ll be much better in a minute or two,” he said, hoisting his luggage into the house. Inside, Steven dropped his load, took a deep breath, and opened his arms wide, beckoning Catherine to him. She joined him in an embrace.

  “It’s great to be home, sweetheart.”

  They held each other for a full minute without words. Steven was still amazed by how close he felt to his wife after thirty years. “Boy, have I missed you,” he said. “Road trips are getting harder and harder. I don’t know if its age or what, but I don’t enjoy the traveling like I used to. Maybe this road warrior is ready to park it?”

  “Well, I miss you every time you go away, honey. I’ve gotten used to it,” Catherine said, “but if you want to stay home more, I certainly won’t object. Wanna drink?”

  He smiled. “I had one with Mark and Ruth before I left the office, but I don’t feel it.”

  “Martini?” He nodded. His mind wandered back to work as he remembered the one call he had to make before he completely relaxed with his wife.

  He walked through the side entry, past the family room and kitchen, and turned to climb the private stairway to the master bedroom. He felt so at home here in the big house, particularly since they'd remodeled it three years ago. Slightly out of breath from the stairs, he tossed his wardrobe onto the bed. He shed his coat and sat on the ottoman, opened his briefcase, found the number he needed, and dialed.

  “Charlie?” he said. “We need to talk tomorrow about the Yoshida deal. I’d like to get together as early as we can at the office .…No, I can’t talk about it now. I’m pooped, and I just got home…First thing tomorrow will be good. There’s not much we can do tonight anyway…Yeah, check with Ruth when you get in. She knows my schedule better than I do.” He laughed. “Yep. Bye!”

  Now he could relax. He undressed quickly and slipped on his favorite sweatpants and a T-shirt. He went into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, took a deep breath, and exhaled a huge sigh. Before he'd taken two steps for the bedroom door, Catherine walked in with a tray holding two glasses, a chilled half-filled pitcher of crystal-clear liquid, and a small dish of pimento-stuffed green olives skewered on wooden toothpicks.

  “Can I assume you’ll be joining me for a martini or two? Or is that all for me?” asked Steven. “Because if it's all for me, I’ll never make it into the office tomorrow.”

  “No, I decided to join you tonight,” she said. “For one thing, it's been quite some time since I've had one and, for another, it was just faster to mix a batch. And third, I wanted to relax with you up here and not have to go back downstairs to mix another round.” She smirked at him.

  “Sounds like you really thought this out, my dear,” he said.

  “Yes, I can actually plan ahead sometimes, even spontaneously. I know it doesn’t fit my image, so please don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation,” she said.

  They laughed. Despite Catherine’s quiet personality and her widely accepted image as a supportive housewife and mother, Steven knew her to be quite powerful, able to make things happen in a manner vastly different from the way things traditionally got done in business. He absolutely appreciated her softness and the way she got what she wanted without resorting to forcefulness, manipulation, or any other means common to the environment he was so used to. She possessed an elegant way of making things happen. He found her to be as competent a private coach as any of the professional executive coaches he had met over the years. And, what was best?….she was all his!

  “I love you so,” he said, pouring them each a glass of the extra-dry concoction. “I’m so grateful we’re together after all these years.”

  “Not only together, my dear, but so happy! I know lots of married folks who are still together, but they’re miserable.” Catherine frowned. “It's like they signed a truce and are determined to stick it out—it's more like they’re sharing the same prison cell. I guess they are together, though, if that’s all they want. But it seems so sad to me.” She shook her head.

  They sat on the ottoman and nestled into each other's arms without spilling a drop. Their glasses clinked in a silent toast, and they sipped together. Each of them was silent for a minute.

  “Mm, that tastes good!” Catherine said. “I didn’t expect it to be so delicious!”

  “It's certainly better than the one I made at the office,” Steven said. “Do you suppose it has anything to do with who made it?”

  “Could be, my darling,” she said, nodding, “or perhaps who you are sharing it with?” She smiled. “The gin, the olives, and the vermouth are the same—but the fourth ingredient is the love that went into it from someone who thinks you're the most terrific guy on the planet.”

  She always said that kind of thing—and Steven always got a little choked up when she did. His eyes watered, and he spoke quickly. He could get “gushy”—that was how Catherine put it —when he was tired.

  “Well, here’s to your secret ingredient, my dear. May it always add as much as it has tonight. I'm ready to hear about the kids now. What's the news?”

  They had two daughters. Kirsten was thirty-one now, and had followed in her father’s footsteps. She'd also received her MBA from Harvard—his alma mater—and worked as a marketing executive for 3M Corporation. In many ways she was the son Steven had always wanted—the subject of many family jokes. She lived in Minneapolis and spent most of her free time biking, running, or skiing. As yet, she had no special man in her life as far as he knew. Steven teased her about being a jock as well as a workaholic.

  Catherine worried about Kirsten’s drinking, which seemed to have increased as part of her fast-paced lifestyle after she'd left college. But, Steven assured her, most of the marketing people he knew drank a lot. “It goes with the territory,” he said. Still, it bothered her that her oldest daughter had developed such an appetite for alcohol. And Catherine wondered about other things—like cocaine and pills. Kristen was driven and her personality was what could be described as an “addictive type.”

  Chelsea was a completely different girl. She'd attended University of California at Santa Cruz and lived close to campus, even though her parents' home was within commuting distance. Rebellious since puberty, she constantly dated boys who irritated her parents. How they would love to see her involv
ed with a boy next door instead of the punkers, the motorcycle gang types, the boys who looked like those strung-out models in the Calvin Klein ads—creepy-looking guys! She was twenty-five, and had started getting into the New Age movement a couple of years ago. She lived in San Francisco now, in the Marina District which was where most of the 1989 earthquake damage occurred. Chelsea seemed particularly attracted to the work of a spiritual teacher named Timothy Warden, who seemed to have logged a full life of experimenting with various spiritual disciplines and practices. He'd written a book, which was how Chelsea had discovered him. Steven wasn't sure how he felt about this newfound mentor, and he'd shared his concerns with Catherine before.

  “Well, Chelsea was here the other day,” his wife said. “I’m so glad she was by herself this time. I always feel so uncomfortable with the kind of kids she usually drags along, especially the boys. We had a long daughter-mom talk. It was really a nice conversation—just the two of us. She seemed quite open and less guarded than usual. Maybe it was because her friends weren’t around.”

  Catherine sighed. “She's still hanging around a lot of her college buddies. Even though they've all graduated, the core group still lives in or near Santa Cruz. She has a new roommate, another boy. Things today are sure different than when I was her age. All the kids do it, I suppose, but co-ed housing still worries me. Anyway, now she has two male roommates and one girl living in the same house.”

  “Is she still in the place near the ocean?” Steven asked.

  “No, that was the Santa Cruz place, remember?”

  “Oh, that's right. She moved to the city when she got the job at Levi Strauss. How did I forget that?” he said.

  “I don't know, honey. And you got her the job through one of your Harvard buddies, remember?” Catherine said. “You're tired, I suppose.”

  “Probably,” Steven said. “What about Timothy whatshisname?”

  “Phew.” Catherine let out a sharp breath. “I’m worried about her and this guy, Steven. I originally thought you were being too protective, but now I'm starting to share your concerns. It’s starting to sound like a cult of some sort!”

  Steven frowned. “Tell me more.”

  “Maybe I should wait and talk to you more about this tomorrow—not your first night home after a trip?” she said. “I don’t want to burden you with my worries right off the bat.”

  “Catherine,” he said, “the cat’s out of the bag. You’ve got me hooked now.”

  “Okay. And, I’m sorry if I’m sounding like a mother hen about this.” She looked at him, worried, and he nodded impatiently. “Well, this Timothy fellow is an older man, ten years older than you. He seems to attract mostly young gals in their twenties to his seminars and retreats. Now you know me and my own interest in certain esoteric practices. I go to my workshops, I read books on spirituality or metaphysics once in a while, and I listen to tapes and lectures of people who I consider enlightened. But this Timothy fellow bothers me. Maybe it's because it involves my baby girl. I don’t know.”

  “It’s really hard to tell the difference between a community of people with a common belief or commitment”—she paused—”and a cult. I mean, think about the Branch Dividians and David Koresh, the Jim Jones suicides in Guyana, the Rajneesh community in Oregon, the Heaven’s Gate suicides—rational people just lose their ability to think for themselves and kind of implode.” Steven nodded, and the lines in his face deepened. This didn't sound good.

  Catherine continued. “Remember Werner Erhard and EST? Remember how excited I was when I took the EST training in 1975? I loved the work I did on myself there—most of us did—but I found dealing with the organization very difficult, and ultimately so off-putting I stopped taking their programs. Some likened it to a cult. I've always thought Werner Erhard’s fall from grace and the public scandal surrounding him was the result of disallowing feedback from the outside world.”

  “That makes sense,” Steven said.

  “Yes. Well, this Timothy seems to have a following that takes him so seriously, hanging on his every word, I'm reminded of people I knew who went off the deep end as devotees of Rajneesh, Koresh or Jim Jones. Initially, they all had good things to say. These folks were really quite insightful, possibly even enlightened, but the system they allowed to form around them became so self-focused, some of them became downright paranoid. A lot of them armed themselves. They were prepared to defend their strongholds against imaginary enemies and conspiracies.”

  Steven was intrigued. For his normally quiet wife to say so much at once, she had to be very concerned. He started to make a suggestion, and then remembered a lesson he'd learned from a marriage therapist several years ago. His wife often only wanted to be heard. In the past, he'd offered advice or solutions—and he'd been surprised that she didn't want to hear them. He'd learned instead just to let her know he heard her. “Then you are genuinely afraid Chelsea is being taken in by this guy?” he asked.

  “I don’t want her to get hurt, Steven—emotionally, physically, or even psychically. She’s still my baby, and probably always will be.” Catherine sighed. “A lot of my fear is intuition, and I know you don’t put much stock in that. But I’m worried, and I think I’m going to check out this Timothy person.”

  “If it bothers you, my dear, I certainly would. Why not hire that detective I use for checking people out?” Steven said.

  She looked at him as if he suggested something sinister. To break the tension, Steven picked up the pitcher and asked, “Refill?

  “Sure,” she said, extending her glass to him.

  “Another pair of olives?”

  “No thank you, darling.” She smiled at him “You know, talking to you about this makes me realize I'm far more concerned than I'd thought. It is good to have you listening to me. Thank you for letting me get this out and off my chest.”

  “And such a lovely chest it is,” he snickered, as he cuddled her right breast in his free hand.

  “Careful,” she warned. “We still have dinner waiting downstairs, so don’t get too excited this early in the evening.”

  “Okay,” he said. He looked disappointed, like a little boy who'd just been told he couldn't have the cookie he'd just snatched from the jar. He poured the remainder of the martini into his glass and offered another toast.

  “Here’s to your wonderful chest, which will remain unexplored until after dinner!”

  Their glasses clinked again, and she kissed his cheek. They sipped, and neither spoke for a minute or so.

  Catherine broke the silence. “How was the trip? Anything worth telling me? Or was it all business?”

  “Jesse said to say hello. He still remembers our dinner in Maui last year and wanted me to be sure to pass on his regards. And, of course, Mary’s as well,” he said. “Also, I had a good talk with Mark this evening after our board meeting. Boy, I like him! Some of what we talked about would be worth exploring with you sometime.”

  “Oh, can you give me a preview?” she asked.

  “I don’t want to get into particulars now, but I do enjoy running certain things past you. I like the way you think—the big picture stuff, you know,” Steven said. “In any event, it has to do with a growing moral conflict facing many people serving on corporate boards these days.”

  “Sounds very interesting, and my consulting rates are priced right too,” she said with a smile.

  “So what’s for dinner, and when will it be ready?” Steven said.

  Catherine glanced at the clock on the table. “It’s a roast with steamed vegetables. Martha made it all ahead of time, but I have to steam the veggies. Salad is in the fridge, and the roast will be done in about twenty minutes, so our timing is perfect.”

  “Great,” Steven said. “I’ll be down in five. I want to unpack a couple of things first, and change this shirt. It was convenient for getting out of my traveling clothes, but I’d rather put on something a little nicer if we're having such a fine meal.”

  “Okay, my sweet.” Cather
ine picked up the tray and left the room.

  “Oh, by the way,” she called back. “There’s quite a bit of mail waiting for you downstairs, Steven. You might want to look it over while I’m putting the final touches on dinner.”

  January 30: Manhattan, Offices of Tivor Sagi Enterprises, Inc., 11:18 PM EST

  Tivor hung up the phone after a lengthy conversation with a man he'd recently befriended at the health club. His new friend served on the board of directors of one of the largest investment banking firms in the world and had called from California. He made a few final notes and turned off the recorder—which he hadn't told his new friend he was using. Tivor was quite pleased with himself. He was succeeding in getting close to this man who could be a great source of valuable information in the days ahead. If he was any judge of character, this guy was really hard up for a buddy and perhaps a little romance which he’d be happy to arrange. He was especially candid and susceptible after a few drinks. Of course, his “friend” hadn't known he was being set up. Tivor was much too shrewd to be so transparent.

  Tivor was a trader. He often made millions of dollars in a day and rarely held positions very long. He traded almost every day and followed tried and true formulas for the most part. The bulk of his creative time was spent digging up as much information as he could in order to hedge his positions. With so much programmed trading going on these days, he pounced on any opportunity to put his cunning to use and get any advantage whatsoever—opportunities like this sad fellow he had just been talking to.

  Tivor was part of a pack of independent traders directly or indirectly responsible for billions of dollars moving through the markets every day. This economy had little to do with the economy most people felt they belonged to—the one that revolved around the exchange of products and services. Tivor and his colleagues never acquired stocks, futures or options with the intent to hold anything. Sometimes they were “owners” for only thirty seconds!

  The proprietary trading market was much larger than its retail counterpart, what the average lay person considered the stock market. But it was only for those with the stomach and the detachment to make big bets. It was not an economy for the faint of heart, to be sure.

  Tivor knew he wasn't particularly well-liked by his peers. As a distress trader, he and his ilk had been called sharks, bottom feeders and barracudas. But he wasn’t in this game to be popular. He was in it to make a ton of money.

  He'd grown up in poverty in Trenton. Tivor's parents were Hungarian immigrants who'd fled their country when the Soviets invaded in the Fifties. His mother was pregnant with him when they made the trip across the Atlantic. In high school he'd gotten a job at the New York Stock Exchange and was amazed at the amounts of money being made, sometimes in only minutes. He was hooked! Tivor carefully studied a handful of traders who were barely aware of the young man from the Garden State.

  He'd worked his way through college and majored in international finance. His connections from the NYSE floor got him an apprenticeship with Morgan Stanley. After the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in 2001, he left to start his own independent firm. Tivor had grown accustomed to losing as much as a million dollars in an hour, but just as accustomed to raking in enormous profits through his options business. He was quietly amassing a huge fortune.

  At Morgan Stanley, the other traders had called him “Ty”—as in tycoon—a teasing reference to his ambition and obsessive drive. Most of his peers had seen him as a self-centered, egotistic shark whose own interests ranked ahead of his clients. Few of them liked him very much, and he had no close friends. But he'd decided in his teens that if he had enough money, he wouldn’t need anyone—no friends, no bosses, no one to tell him what to do or how to do it.

  He'd tried marriage once. It hadn't lasted six months. He'd taken the experience as validation that he shouldn’t let anyone get close to him. He saw the marriage as one of his major mistakes and Ty didn’t like making mistakes. He'd since reconciled himself to remaining single and free. After all, he reasoned, he could buy anything or anyone he really wanted, any time he had the urge.

  Tivor was thirty-eight now and easily worth two billion dollars. He had four employees—a personal assistant, two researchers, and an understudy just out of grad school. He was rich and single, and loved the art of the deal. He never lacked companionship, enjoyed being seen with beautiful women, owned a couple of racehorses and a collection of fine art. His Central Park West apartment was luxuriously outfitted, as were his London flat and Napa Valley country home He shunned the media, stayed out of high-profile social scenes, and even referred to himself as part of the “stealthy rich.”

  Reviewing his notes, he grinned as he thought about the move he had planned for the next morning. He switched off his desk lamp and headed for home. Tomorrow, he thought, I should be able to make about $10 million if all goes well. Not bad for a day’s work.

  January 30: Hillsborough, George residence, 8:25 PM PST

  Steven hung his favorite traveling suit in the closet. He tossed his dirty laundry in the hamper, and checked his shoes and ties to see if they needed attention before putting them away. Boy, it's good to be home, he thought. Maybe the old road warrior really is ready to hang it up. The novelty, glamour and excitement of business travel had disappeared years ago.

  I still love meeting new people, the deal-making, the thrill of the hunt, and the creative process, he said to himself. All that’s terrific! But the airports, the lines, the delays—just the general hassle….It was getting to be a big drag. He changed his shirt, picked up his nearly empty martini glass, finished the drink, and proceeded downstairs.

  In the kitchen, he came up behind his wife and put his arms around her. He kissed her nape. “Gee, I love you!” he whispered in her ear as he squeezed her waist.

  “The feeling is mutual,” Catherine said. “Dinner will be ready in about ten.”

  “Okay, where’s that mail you mentioned?”

  “I put it on the dining room table because there was so much of it, sweetie. There seemed to be more packages than normal,” she said.

  Steven was used to getting lots of mail at the office. Of course, Ruth sifted through everything each day before he ever saw it and dealt with most of it. She was so good, he thought. He made a mental note to get her a gift in the next day or so.

  The mail at home was usually pretty domestic and Catherine handled most of it. Indeed, there were several packages here. As much as he hated the idea, he was still aware of the warnings he'd received in the corporate security course he'd taken four years before. As CEO of a publicly held, multinational corporation, he could be the target of ill will, including terrorism. Kidnappings, assassinations, and other plots against key figures in influential organizations were more and more common. He'd never shared these thoughts with Catherine but she was too sharp not to notice some of the corporate precautions when they traveled together. A package from an unknown source deserved some attention, especially when it arrived at your home.

  He looked over the packages. There were four of them—one heavy envelope, two cardboard boxes, and a manila envelope that clearly contained more than just a few papers. And there were two letters and a hand-addressed card.

  He looked at the return addresses on the larger packages. The manila envelope looked like the book of poems he’d asked a friend to send him for Catherine on this last trip. Boy, it got here fast! he thought.

  The heavy envelope had to be the manuscript for a yet-to-be-published book by a young business school professor. Steven had promised the young man he’d look at it, and possibly write a blurb endorsing it. This sort of arrangement usually came through the office, but the author was a friend of a friend who'd apparently given him Steven’s home address.

  One of the boxes was from a direct mail company who still had his name in their database. He and Catherine had gone to great lengths to keep their home address private, but some lists always seemed to escape the purge. He set aside this pac
kage for the trash.

  The other package was a mystery. There was no return address on the label, which was typed.

  Steven wondered if he should be concerned. Gently, he picked up the cardboard box, which was about the size that would hold a book. It seemed to be about the right weight for a book too. He shook the box from side to side, gently at first, and then more aggressively. From the way the weight shifted, it felt like a book.

  “Damn!” he muttered. Now his curiosity was really aroused. What was in this thing? It was certainly suspicious, no return address and all. His mind came up with arguments on both sides: Have it checked out by the police? No, they’ll blow it up like I’ve seen on TV, only to find out it was a book, possibly a gift. The debate continued in his head until he decided to ask Catherine for her opinion. She’s so intuitive, he thought, she’ll have a good feel for whether or not it's safe.

  He walked into the kitchen just as she was coming out to get him.

  “Just in time, oh master of the house,” she said. “Dinner is served!”

  “Great!” he said. “All of a sudden, I could eat a horse!”

  The dinette table was set for two. Catherine had even set out candles. Another wave of gratitude washed over him. It was just like it had been when they were in college, most of the time.

  “This looks wonderful!” he said as they sat down.

  “Thank Martha for most of it, darling. All I did was steam the vegetables and serve it up,” Catherine said.

  “Nevertheless, thank you. By the way, did you notice any of those packages in particular?” he asked.

  “Other than there being more than usual for you, Steven, I can’t say I did. Why?”

  “Well, one piece puzzles me.” He frowned. “Now I’m really curious about what’s inside. Maybe you can look at it and give me your hit on it.”

  “Haven’t you opened it?” she said. “Why not just open it and satisfy your curiosity, for God’s sake?”

  He still didn't want to worry her. “Oh, I’d just like to get your hit before I do, that’s all.”

  “Oh, I get it,” she said. “It's that security stuff again, isn’t it? Well, okay. I’ll give it a once-over after we eat. But right now, you're all mine.”

  They were having a cup of decaf after the meal when they realized it was after ten.

  “How did it get so late so fast?” Catherine said.

  “Don’t know,” Steven said, rising from the table and starting to clear it.

  They loaded the dishwasher together. Catherine took a final swipe at the counter with her towel and turned out the light in the kitchen.

  “Shall I look at that mystery package now?” she asked.

  “If you don’t mind, dear,” Steven said. “But…I am eager to get upstairs and pick up where we left off a couple of hours ago.” He gave her an impish grin.

  She smiled back. “I know, I know,” she said, walking over to where he'd left the mail.

  “Is this the one?” she asked, pointing at the unmarked box.

  “That’s it. What do you think? Should I open it, or do we call the bomb squad?” he said. She made a face at him.

  She picked up the box and shook it. She laughed. “It’s a book, silly!” she said matter-of-factly.

  Steven nodded, still undecided. Catherine, however, started up the stairs. His eyes followed her. She pouted her lips, stuck out her butt, and threw her voluptuous breasts forward in Marilyn Monroe fashion as she ascended.

  The package can wait until tomorrow, he thought, rushing to catch up with this sexy seductress who just happened to be his wife.

  January 30: Minneapolis, Minnesota, Interstate 35W, 11:58 PM CT

  “Are you okay?” asked the woman in the passenger seat. Her tone was a combination of concern and intoxicated nonchalance. “Hey, Top Gun, are you okay to be driving this rocket ship?”

  The bright red Porsche Boxster was traveling along the snow-lined interstate at close to ninety miles per hour. That was a fraction of what it could do, but excessive given the conditions—particularly the condition of its driver, affectionately known as “Top Gun” among her co-workers at 3M. The two women were housemates as well as best friends. They also worked together and had just left an office party celebrating a new account, one the Porsche’s driver had been working on for months.

  “Seriously, dear friend, it seems you're really going waaay too fast. How about backing off those afterburners a bit, huh?” The passenger's polite suggestion hardly indicated the fear starting to come up in her gut. The snowplow had been through quite recently but the road still looked slick. The Minnesota Winter weather was behaving itself tonight but the road was damp with slush. The passenger knew her friend had more to drink than she did—a lot more. And she was really feeling woozy, so she couldn't imagine how her friend was staying on the road. The drinks they'd had after leaving the party hadn't helped either.

  The passenger looked over at her friend whose eyes were fixed on the road ahead but glazed over in a very disconcerting fashion.

  “Now, really . . .” she started to say, but the driver interrupted.

  “Hey, back off! I'm fine! After all, I'm Top Gun, right? And . . .”

  She never finished her thought. A dark green sedan had appeared on an upcoming onramp. It was moving slowly, followed closely by an older Chevy Camaro. The two cars were merging into the right lane when the Camaro driver suddenly swerved left around the sedan. It hit a patch of ice and started to spin into the left lane, directly in front of the Porsche. By the time she realized there was no road left for her, Top Gun had no choice but to slam on the brakes, and pray.

  January 31: Hillsborough, George resident, 6:38 AM PST

  Adjusting his tie in the dressing room, Steven thought he heard Martha arriving downstairs. Catherine had decided to stay in bed a bit longer. She watched her man put the final touches on his “uniform,” preparing for his daily battle with venture capitalists, stockbrokers, investors and ambitious staff members. She liked watching him dress—it was something she usually missed because she was normally up before him. She'd been admiring his body, much as he'd admired hers the night before. They were in pretty good shape for a couple in their fifties, she thought.

  She still remembered the first time she'd seen him naked. They'd started dating in college when she was only nineteen, and spent their first weekend together during Spring break. She'd loved his body—a real man’s body. He'd been two years ahead of her in school and had spent a couple of years in the military before college. He was five years her senior and a man of the world, from her perspective. She'd loved cheering for him at track meets and basketball games during the two years they were together before he graduated and left for graduate school in Cambridge.

  “Got to get going, sweetheart,” Steven said, leaning over to kiss her good-bye.

  She came out of her reverie. “Huh? Oh yes. Love you!” she managed to get out as he turned and exited the room.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he saw the dining room table and remembered the mystery package. He altered his trajectory, picked up the box, and continued to the car.

  Martha was in the kitchen. He waved and said hello to her. Normally he'd have chatted with her a bit since he’d been out of town, but he wanted to get to the office to see Jesse, and the traffic on Bayshore would be building soon.

  He tossed his briefcase in the back seat and laid the box on the passenger seat. On the way to the office, Steven’s mind wandered. He smiled as he remembered last night's love-making. Just recalling it, he was getting aroused again. He found himself thinking about Mark’s wife Kathy, his second wife and a much younger woman. She worked as an aerobics instructor. Steven would have been lying if he'd said her body wasn’t a major distraction sometimes. It was firm and hard, but curvaceous. She'd never had children but seemed to be a perfect stepmother for Mark’s two children from his first marriage.

  While he never seriously envied Mark for having a younger wife, Steven had fant
asized about Kathy a few times. He didn’t exactly feel good about that. After all, he was objectifying her completely basing his fantasy totally on her looks. In his heart of hearts, he knew he’d never jeopardize his relationship with Catherine, no matter how attracted he might be to some Playmate-type beauty. In a million years he’d never want to go through the pain of divorce he’d seen most of his friends go through. The legal hassles, the pain and suffering involved for everyone—it just was horrible! Boy, he was fortunate.

  Mark’s kids came to mind too. His oldest, the boy, was nearly as old as his stepmother Kathy. A chip off the old block, Jim was already in business for himself—an entrepreneur like his old man. He'd started a rental car company with two college buddies last year and seemed to be doing okay. He also raced cars and was fortunate to have Mark’s company—World Telcom, Inc.—as his sponsor. The World Telcom Indy Car had already started to provide the company with a lot of publicity and Mark seemed quite pleased with the arrangement.

  Jim was also a close friend of Steven's older daughter. Kirsten and Jim had been classmates at Harvard Business School and had graduated together. Between Kirsten and Mark, Steven was always fully up to date on Jim’s racing and entrepreneurial endeavors.

  Mark’s younger child, Jackie, was less of a parent’s dream child. She'd gotten pregnant at seventeen and now was the single parent of a seven-year-old boy, Robert James. Her pregnancy had come about around the same time Mark and Caroline had been getting divorced—there was probably a connection there, Steven thought. Steven knew Mark still felt a fair amount of guilt about this, despite therapy.

  Again Steven sighed with gratitude that he wouldn't have to go through these sorts of things with his family. Gee, I’m fortunate, he thought.