The Takeover

by Stephen W. Frey

  The five spectators watched as the two men, one white, one black, jostled the young woman into the light. Phoenix felt a slight anticipation, a quick uptick in his blood pressure, but he controlled it quickly. She was nude except for the high heels, but her nakedness was not what piqued his interest. He did not care that the entertainment was female. It could have just as easily been male, as it had been in Burma four months ago. What he cared about had nothing to do with the sex of the object.

  The woman cried softly, but the men were indifferent to her fate. Grey appreciated the fact that the woman cried. It meant they had not drugged her, which could have made the experience less entertaining. He judged her to be twenty years old. Again he had to slow his heart rate.

  The two men pushed the young woman face first against a tree and tied her hands behind her back with a pliant piece of white cord. She attempted to struggle, but to no avail. The men were too powerful.

  A mammoth block of ice lay in a large plastic tub directly in front of the five chairs. Exactly thirty inches high, with a surface area six feet long by four feet wide, the ice stood waiting for the woman. It was already beginning to melt in the intense heat of the midsummer jungle night. Again Grey wiped perspiration from his brow. He wondered how in the hell they had transported such a huge chunk of ice into the deep jungle.

  The two thugs forced the young woman up onto the ice, steadying her and themselves as they pushed and pulled her to the surface. With her hands tied securely behind her back and her feet deep in the spiked heels, her balance was precarious at best. Grey glanced to the right at the older man next to him. The man stared at the woman luridly as the thugs worked. Obviously he was not indifferent to the sex of the victim.

  Suddenly the woman screamed and attempted to break free. Momentarily it seemed that the two men must lose their balance. She had surprised them with her outburst. But before either of them fell from the ice, the men regained their balance and renewed their efforts. She continued to struggle, but they overpowered her. They were simply too strong. She was defenseless.

  Phoenix Grey smiled. This one was a fighter. The evening could turn out to be very interesting, well worth the twenty-five thousand dollars. What would Rutherford say if he knew? Grey knew the answer to that question.

  The noose hung ominously from the tall tree branch. The white man slipped it over the woman’s head and pulled it down to her neck, tightening the loop so that it was snug about her throat. The rope hung loosely from the branch with several inches of play to its length. This play would give the audience more entertainment time. The black man whispered something into the woman’s ear and then both men jumped carefully down from the ice.

  The small audience watched. There was no sound in the jungle except for the girl’s intermittent entreaties, which went unanswered.

  After a short time, small puddles began to form on the ice’s surface, and imperceptibly, the rope began to tighten, little by little. The woman pleaded with the men in Spanish as she felt the pressure grow against her throat. She screamed and sobbed, promising anything they wanted, but again, they did not care. She yelled the few words of English she knew—“Help me, help me, please!”—but the words had no effect. They were going to watch her die.

  The men watched as she contemplated pulling her feet up, making herself slip so that her life could end quickly, mercifully. But she could not make herself do it. Her will to live was too strong. Her survival instinct merely prolonged her agony, while at the same time it increased the sordid pleasure of the audience.

  Grey began to shake as he watched the death struggle. How long had it lasted so far? He had no idea, which was one of the reasons he liked this so much. It caused him to forget everything else.

  Slowly the woman’s chin rose as the ice melted beneath her, tightening the rope about her throat. She fought the pressure by standing on her toes, but the soles of her shoes would slip out from under her, forcing the noose to tighten even more with each attempt. The end was drawing near, and they all sensed it.

  The surface of the ice had receded so far now that the woman could no longer make contact. The long dark hair cascaded straight down her back, and her body began to twist and writhe at the end of the rope. From time to time her legs would kick wildly, searching for something on which to stand, but there was nothing, only air. She tried to scream, but the rope choked off the sound to a hideous gurgle.

  Blood coursed through Phoenix Grey’s body as he stared. This was it. Death was close. He was no longer able to control his racing heartbeat. He stood, as did the other men, and edged closer to the subject.

  For another full minute the struggle continued, and then, with her chin skyward, the woman expired. Her body quivered spastically several times and finally was still. Slowly, the five men relaxed into their seats.

  Grey stared straight ahead for several moments watching the body twist, then put his head back and stared up at the forest’s canopy. Tomorrow he would buy a thousand dollars worth of very good cigars in downtown Santo Domingo, and after that he would be on to Antigua to continue his mission.

  21

  Byron Mitchell, vice chairman of the Fed, tapped the black gavel gently on the huge table. He was the acting chairman now and not particularly excited about his newly acquired duties. But the President’s nominee to replace Carter Filipelli had not yet begun to negotiate the Senate confirmation hearings. “The meeting will come to order,” Mitchell said. He was a quiet man whose voice faded at the end of his sentences.

  Gradually, the FOMC members ended their conversations and straightened in their chairs. Without Filipelli the room seemed a great deal less intimidating.

  “Let us observe a moment of silence for Governor Filipelli,” Mitchell said, bowing his head.

  Immediately, the other eighteen members bowed their heads also. For half a minute there was no sound in the well-insulated room.

  Finally, Mitchell looked up from his respectful pose. He hadn’t been very fond of Filipelli—none of them except Butler had—but he felt that the recognition was justified. And he wanted it in the official minutes, just in case President Warren had an aide check. “The first order of business this morning will be the bidding war for Penn-Mar Chemicals.” There would be no further mention of Filipelli. “If that is all right with the rest of you.” The members relaxed into their seats. Meetings were going to be very different—at least until the new chairman was confirmed.

  “Personally, I believe the Penn-Mar situation is a good thing. A very good thing,” Wendell Smith said, pulling his chair closer to the table. “It’s what this country is all about. Competition. I know Governor Filipelli, God rest his soul, might not have agreed with that, but it’s true. The shareholders will be rewarded, and Penn-Mar will become a more efficient entity.”

  “But if this investment firm, Veens & Company, wins the bidding, I understand that the National Southern Bank will be heavily involved,” President Flynn said. “We can’t have a bank as big as NASO committing too much capital and extending itself too far in a leveraged situation like this. We all know how big a player they are in the derivative and foreign exchange markets. A NASO hiccup could cause an earthquake in the marketplace.”

  “I hear your concern, President Flynn.” Smith saw the opportunity to take control of the committee, and he would be painfully diplomatic to achieve this goal. “But Wallace Boreman, the chairman of NASO, is one of the most respected men in New York. I don’t know him on a social basis, but his reputation in the financial community is one of prudence. I know he would not put the bank in a compromising position. I’m assured by my aides that he is monitoring this situation extremely closely.”

  “He’s a gunslinger,” Harold Butler interjected. He hadn’t said a word since entering the room but now saw his chance to undermine Smith. “He cut his teeth at the North Carolina National Bank, what is now NationsBank, in the late seventies. I was there at the sa
me time. He took an awful lot of risk in the mid-eighties at NCNB, as the senior vice president in charge of leveraged lending, to jump-start his career. I wouldn’t call all the risks he took ‘prudent.’ I’m sure he’s no different now. You need to go in there with your New York thugs and find out exactly what’s going on at NASO. You need to stand up to that guy.”

  Smith gazed at each of the members in turn. He smiled wryly. “You have all seen that I don’t have a problem standing up to tyrants.” Smith allowed the words to sink in.

  The rest of the members turned toward Butler. He had been Filipelli’s straight man, the lieutenant. But now Filipelli was gone. Smith was their man. Their eyes narrowed and Butler’s head moved down between his shoulders like a turtle pulling in its neck. His clout had drowned in the Bighorn River.

  “I can assure you that Mr. Boreman is no tyrant,” continued Smith. “He is extremely competent. Plus, there are some very talented people reporting to him, and I am told he practices consensus management. He’s a big believer in building a consensus. He wouldn’t make unilateral decisions. It isn’t a one-man show over there. Also, the board of directors is very active in the affairs of NASO. They would not allow the bank to take undue risks. But I will promise you that if I get even a whiff of anything amiss at NASO, my people will be in there like storm troopers.” The other members nodded in agreement. Smith was beyond reproach now. He had emerged as de facto chairman. “Besides, at this point it looks as if DuPont will win the bidding for Penn-Mar anyway. If that happens, we won’t have to worry about NASO.”

  “It would appear so,” said President Flynn. “My God, what’s the total value of the deal now, over thirty-five billion dollars?”

  The rest of the committee shook their heads. It was unbelievable.

  Wendell Smith leaned over the table. “How about some discussion on interest rates?” He wanted to change the topic quickly.

  “I believe we should lower the fed funds rate fifty basis points,” Flynn piped up quickly.

  Byron Mitchell laid the gavel on the tabletop and leaned back into his seat. Let Smith take control. It was all right with him. He didn’t enjoy chairing meetings anyway.

  * * *

  —

  “I’m glad you could get away from the deal for a while. And it was very romantic of you to arrange for the same room as last time.” Jenny ran her fingers along Falcon’s chest as they lay together on the king-size bed of the Four Seasons Hotel.

  Falcon kissed her forehead. “Thanks for coming into the city at such short notice. I missed you.” He rose to a sitting position.

  “What’s the matter?” Jenny asked. “Why are you getting up?” She rose to a sitting position also, not bothering to pull the sheet up around her breasts.

  “I need to get back to Dunlop & Latham.”

  “No, Andrew.” She clasped both hands around his neck. “I won’t let you go. It’s two-thirty in the morning for crying out loud. What can you possibly do at this hour that’s so important?”

  “Can you keep a secret?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  Falcon stared at her. It wasn’t smart to convey this kind of information to anyone, but she was trustworthy and interested, and he felt like talking. “We’re going to top DuPont’s bid.”

  Jenny brought both hands to her mouth. “You’re kidding!”

  Falcon shook his head. “No, I’m not. Tomorrow we’ll announce a bid of eighty-five dollars for Penn-Mar. That beats DuPont by three bucks a share. I convinced the last bank to approve the price increase just before I came over here. It’s a thirty-eight-billion-dollar deal now with the fees included.”

  Jenny kissed him on the neck, then on the cheek. “Well, well, Mr. Finance. Thirty-eight billion dollars. How do you know how to put together a deal like that?”

  Falcon flashed his crooked smile. “It’s all in the wrist.” He pulled away gently, stood, and moved from the bed to the window. He should be exhausted. He had slept only two hours in each of the last three nights, and Jenny had kept him busy since nine o’clock. But he wasn’t tired at all. “Jenny, you can’t use the information I just gave you to profit yourself. The government has strict rules about that.” He glanced at her and raised an eyebrow.

  Jenny smiled at him devilishly. “Are you kidding? I’m going to call my broker and wake him up as soon as you’re gone.” She thought briefly on the irony embedded in that comment as she followed him to the window and wrapped her arms around his torso. “Please stay.”

  “I really can’t.”

  She stared out the window over his shoulder and whispered into his ear. “You were going to tell me something before.”

  “What?”

  “You were going to tell me something about the deal. I can’t remember exactly. Was it the new bid? It seemed as if it was something you were worried about. Maybe it was just the new bid.”

  “Oh.” Falcon hesitated. “It was just silly paranoia. It always happens to me in the middle of a deal. It’s my way of dealing with the stress.”

  “I’m glad to know you actually do feel stress sometimes, because you certainly don’t show it.” She hugged him tightly. “Tell me about your paranoia. I want to hear.” She laughed.

  Falcon turned from the window, took her in his arms, and kissed her. “Just some things that either don’t add up or are strange coincidences.”

  “Such as?”

  Falcon hesitated. Like the bid increase, it wasn’t a good idea to tell her this. “Veens & Company, the investment firm that is trying to buy Penn-Mar, supposedly has a German parent. I know the name of it, but it doesn’t show up on any of the information services. I have some friends in Düsseldorf who have been looking.”

  “Germany is a big country,” Jenny said. She kissed his shoulder.

  “Not the business community. It’s very tight. If there was a Westphalia Nord, my friends would either know of it or be able to find out everything about it in a matter of hours.”

  “Don’t take offense, but that doesn’t sound like a very big deal to me. Will that affect the Penn-Mar transaction? I thought you already had the money.”

  “We do.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  Falcon pushed out his lower lip.

  “There’s more?” Jenny asked. She had seen that look before.

  “Two senior executives at Penn-Mar have died under strange circumstances recently. Both murdered. One death was officially listed as an accident, but it wasn’t. Both of them held the same exact job.”

  “So after the deal is over, if they ask you to take the job those people had at Penn-Mar, turn it down quickly. And watch your back.” She giggled.

  Falcon did not smile. “There’s one other thing.”

  “What?”

  Falcon paused. “I know this is crazy to think. It’s probably just a huge coincidence.”

  “What?”

  “One of the people in Washington who could have really shut us down, really gotten in the way of Veens effecting this takeover, was Carter Filipelli, chairman of the Federal Reserve. Last week he drowned on a fishing trip in Montana. The timing is unbelievable. And the top guy from Veens never worried about Filipelli. Never once. I kept telling him it could be a problem, but he never acknowledged it.”

  Jenny stared into Falcon’s eyes and began to laugh. “You think that…he didn’t really drown. That somebody killed him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She put her arms around him again and kissed him deeply. “Go take a shower. And make it a cold one. Perhaps that will wake you up and bring you back to reality.”

  Falcon laughed. “I suppose you’re right. That is kind of a wild thought. It’s just the deal. My imagination’s playing with my mind because I’m tired even though I don’t think I am,” he said. “I should get going. But I will take that shower first.” He bega
n to move toward the bathroom.

  Jenny caught him by the arm. “Do you mind if I use the bathroom first?”

  “Not at all.” Falcon watched her until she closed the door. He breathed deeply. She was incredible.

  Falcon stretched and as he did, he knocked Jenny’s purse from where it lay on the small mahogany desk below the window, to the floor. Its contents—lipstick, mascara, crumpled tissues, tons of change, and Jenny’s wallet—spilled onto the thick carpet. “Damn it.” Immediately he bent down to put the articles back into the purse. As he picked up the wallet, a small piece of paper floated lazily to the floor. He retrieved it, and when he began to put it back in the wallet, he noticed that the wallet was stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. He counted them. Eight. “Jesus!” Falcon glanced at the paper he had picked up from the floor. On it were ten digits. No name, just the numbers. A telephone number. A 617 area code. Boston. Who did Jenny know in Boston?

  The toilet began to flush. Hurriedly Falcon inserted the piece of paper into the wallet, then carefully put the wallet and the rest of the articles back into Jenny’s pocketbook. He placed the pocketbook back onto the desk and then stretched out on the bed.

  The bathroom door opened, and Jenny moved back to the bed. She lay down on top of him, kissed his chest, then gazed into his eyes. She hoped they wouldn’t try to reach her tonight.

  * * *

  —

  The halls of Dunlop & Latham were quiet as Falcon moved down the dimly lit office-lined corridor. It was three-thirty. Even the cleaning staff had finished for the night. He should have been home in bed, but this was the biggest deal of his life, and he wanted to read the new offer to purchase one more time before they sent it to the three papers for publication. He wanted to make certain it was perfect. It was going to shock the arbitrageurs, who were convinced that DuPont’s bid of eighty-two a share was going to win Penn-Mar.