The Takeover

by Stephen W. Frey

  Grey crossed Fifth Avenue. The question had been where on 132nd. Falcon hadn’t been specific, and the woman had not wanted to push, for fear of causing suspicion. So Phoenix had had to search for Falcon. He had been to four bodegas, where no one would help him, before he found the swarthy shopkeeper. The others all knew where Falcon was staying, as surely as they knew their own names, because Falcon would stick out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood. But they wouldn’t help. Not even at the offer of money. Because you didn’t rat on people in this hell. By ratting, you aligned yourself with one side. If your side lost, you paid dearly, because word always got back. It was just better to say you didn’t know.

  But there was always one who would risk life and limb for the almighty dollar. Always one. Phoenix smiled. People were so weak.

  * * *

  —

  The building was nothing but a shell, an abandoned brick carcass. But it provided perfect cover to observe the boardinghouse directly across the street. Falcon kicked a pile of rusty syringes across the floor. He had time. The crackheads wouldn’t be moving in for another two hours or so.

  Falcon turned and checked 132nd Street from the glassless basement window. Nothing. Just a few children playing noisily with a broken toy wagon. The daylight was beginning to fade as the sun set. Falcon checked the street again. Still nothing. He glanced at his watch: 8:35. If the Sevens were using Jenny or Alexis, or worse, if Jenny or Alexis were working for the Sevens, someone would be by soon to look for him. He was certain of that.

  He glanced back against the far wall and noticed the outline of a huge rat crawling along the base of the brick. This neighborhood was active at night.

  The other white man moved slowly but with purpose down 132nd Street toward the boardinghouse. He passed the children, who stopped to look at him. They so rarely saw a white person. The man did not acknowledge them. Falcon’s eyes narrowed. This man was coming for him. He sensed it immediately. The man quickly climbed the four cement steps leading to the boardinghouse and disappeared inside. Falcon shifted his attention to a window on the third floor. He waited for what seemed like forever, but he knew that it was only a matter of minutes. Finally, a woman leaned out of the window and waved a bandanna.

  Falcon glanced back at the front door of the boardinghouse. The man reappeared almost instantly and took a long look around the street. Falcon moved back behind the edge of the window, his heart pounding. With one eye, he watched the man from around the edge of the window. After a few moments the man shrugged his shoulders and began to walk back the way he had come.

  The prostitute had thought at first that Falcon wanted a “roll” this morning when he offered her the hundred dollars. She laughed when all he asked was for her to watch his door that evening and then wave the bandanna out the window if anyone came to or tried to enter his room. She had taken the money, but Falcon was afraid she wouldn’t come through.

  There were only two people in the world he had told of his whereabouts, only two people who could have given the information to the man who had come to his room: Jenny and Alexis. At least one of them was working with the Sevens. There was no doubt now. Falcon breathed hard and allowed his heart rate to return to normal—or at least as normal as could be expected under the circumstances.

  Falcon leaned out of the burned-out building’s window and looked up the street. The man was gone. He waited another five minutes just to be certain, then picked up the bag containing the four files, moved out of an open back door, walked across a vacant lot, and started off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction from which the man had gone.

  Darkness had almost befallen the city, and there were no working streetlights in this part of town. They had all been shot out. The street was dark and intimidating. He wanted to get out of here quickly. Somehow the sight of the man they had sent had unnerved him. The man was not physically imposing, but there was something evil about the way he moved. As if he had been moving in the shadows all of his life.

  Falcon turned the corner at 132nd Street and Second Avenue and saw the man immediately. He stopped short. The man stood in the doorway of a pizzeria, chewing on a slice. Recognition was immediate. Falcon saw it in the man’s eyes. The man had probably been given photographs. Those pictures could have come from myriad sources, including Jenny or Alexis. They gazed at each other momentarily. Falcon bolted first, across Second Avenue, through the traffic. Then the man dropped his pizza on the filthy sidewalk and sprinted after him.

  A city bus swerved to avoid Falcon. The driver leaned on his horn, but the warning was not enough for a red Ford next to the bus. Falcon heard the impact but did not see it. He tucked the bag tightly in the crook of his arm like a football, dodged a cab, and crossed the last two lanes of the avenue. He glanced over his shoulder and in the headlights of the cars could see the man in pursuit.

  The man might not be physically imposing, but they wouldn’t have sent an amateur. He would fight the man if it came to that, if he were caught, but he did not expect to survive a struggle.

  A thought rushed into Falcon’s brain as he tore up the sidewalk. The man probably had a gun. Immediately, he began to swerve from side to side to make himself a more elusive target, just in case. It cost him valuable time, but it might save his life. He wondered how bullets would feel ripping through his body. He had seen the shotgun pellets burst out the back of Froworth’s body. He had seen the damage a shotgun shell could do. But what would a bullet feel like when it hit? He put his head down and ran faster than he ever had in his life.

  At 134th Street, Falcon moved back out into the traffic. He could hear the man breathing heavily in pursuit. The man couldn’t be more than twenty feet behind. When would the bullets hit? Maybe they already had but he didn’t realize.

  The car horns screamed. He waved frantically for a cab as he ran, but there was no way any halfway savvy New York cabbie was going to pick him up. He was being chased. There was only one chance now.

  Falcon bolted through the gleam of the headlights to the west side of Second Avenue, aware that he had been able to put some distance between himself and his pursuer by zigzagging through traffic. To the shouts of Andale! Andale! from the onlookers he leaped over the curve and raced west on 135th Street. Adrenaline pumped through Falcon’s body. He sprinted across Third Avenue. Lexington was next. If he could only last.

  Phoenix Grey churned after Falcon. He was in excellent physical condition, but he was not fast afoot. Never had been. And Falcon was faster than Phoenix had expected. Phoenix felt the gun in the shoulder holster beneath his light jacket banging against his chest. That was only the last resort, per Rutherford’s orders. But if he had to shoot to bring Falcon down, he would. He wasn’t going to let him escape. That message from Rutherford had been loud and clear.

  Another half a block, if he remembered his subway map correctly. Falcon sucked in air. 135th and Lex. There was a subway station entrance at that corner. Thank God for his memory.

  He tried to place the man’s face as he ran. He had seen it somewhere before. He knew it. But where? And then he remembered. God! The Portland Hotel. The first time he had called Martinez. They had been watching him since the outset. He would never worry about being paranoid again.

  Grey felt his lungs beginning to burn. The prey always had the advantage in these situations. It was do or die for the quarry. For the predator it simply meant going hungry. He felt the heavy gun against his chest. It was almost time to bring it out. He was perhaps twenty-five feet behind Falcon. By the time he could remove the gun from the holster and aim, Falcon would have gained another twenty-five to fifty feet. Phoenix was extremely accurate at seventy-five feet. At fifty feet he didn’t miss.

  Falcon was gaining ground. There was no choice now. Phoenix stopped, whipped the gun from the holster, and aimed. But as he pulled the trigger of the .38-caliber pistol, Falcon disappeared.

  Falcon heard the report of the
gun as he ducked down into the subway station. He heard the bullet ricochet off the yellow metal banister and carom away with a scream. Falcon leaped three of the grimy stairs at a time, narrowly avoiding several people coming up the steps.

  Grey bolted forward, stuffing the piece back in its holster as he moved. He reached the stairway and scrambled down to the platform, knocking over an elderly black lady wearing a floral-patterned hat as he descended. The woman cursed him, but Phoenix paid no attention. He was losing vital seconds and the prey was escaping. He could feel it.

  Grey jumped the last four steps to the platform level and hurdled the turnstile. He reached the edge of the tracks. There was no train in the station and only ten or fifteen people milling about, waiting for the next train. Phoenix looked to the left and right, but Falcon was not on this side of the platform. He ran the length of the platform, staring at the downtown side in case Falcon had hopped down onto the tracks, jumped the live rail, and pulled himself up on the opposite side. But he wasn’t there. Phoenix could sense Falcon slipping away. These were vital seconds. Where could he have gone? Phoenix Grey began to panic. What was he going to tell Rutherford? He could lie, but then he would have to get to Falcon before Rutherford did.

  Nothing. Falcon was not in the station. Grey trotted to the other end of the platform. There was nowhere else to hide. He must have made it to the other side, pulled himself up onto the other platform, and headed up the stairs back to the street. He would be long gone by now.

  Phoenix turned. Three young black men stood just ten feet away. Despite the heat, each man wore a wool ski hat and a sweatshirt, as well as a nasty expression.

  “We ain’t too happy about the way you treated Mrs. Jones on the stairway there.” The one in the middle, the big one, spoke in a heavy ghetto accent. He was huge, over six feet four and well over two hundred pounds.

  “Well, I’ll just go apologize to her.” Phoenix checked the waists of their pants. No guns. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to use his.

  “Oh, man, white boy, what’s up with that? It’s a little late for apologies.” The man to the right of the huge man spoke. He had a squeaky voice, but a cool delivery.

  “Gentlemen, I suggest you leave before you get hurt.”

  The three men laughed and gave each other high fives, then turned suddenly serious.

  The huge man made his move. Instantly, Phoenix came down with a devastating chop kick directly to his attacker’s left knee. The man doubled over, and as he did, Phoenix reached for his neck. Taking time to find the softest flesh, he grabbed the man’s windpipe and ripped. It was a perfect counter. Part of the throat came away in his hand. The huge man went down hard on the cement, gasping for air, which now had no way of getting to his lungs. Phoenix held the bleeding flesh before the other two men’s faces.

  Without a word, they turned and bolted for the stairs.

  * * *

  —

  Falcon pulled himself up onto the platform at 126th Street and lay on the cement. He was sweating heavily, not only from the heat, fear, and physical exertion, but also because he was slightly claustrophobic. It had taken all of his intestinal fortitude to run through the tunnel. But he’d done it because there was no other choice.

  A kind-faced Hispanic woman knelt down beside him. “Are you okay?”

  Falcon smiled up at her, still breathing hard. “Yes, thank you.” He pulled himself up to one elbow, took her hand, and kissed it, then lay back down on the cement.

  So at least one of them was feeding the Sevens information. Jenny or Alexis. It couldn’t be Cassandra. He hadn’t told her where he was staying. And he hadn’t been followed from Battery Park. He had made certain of that. It was Alexis or Jenny. One of them had sacrificed her soul. And for what? Money? Revenge? Falcon rolled to his stomach and then made it to his knees. He had to get going. Phoenix Grey might come running out of that tunnel any second. He shook his head. It didn’t matter why one of them had done it now, only that she had. And it was imperative to find out which one.

  30

  Falcon lay on the bed and scanned the crisp copy of the Financial Chronicle he had just purchased downstairs in the lobby of the Princeton Hyatt Hotel. On the nightstand were unopened editions of the day’s New York Times and Wall Street Journal. The headlines were all the same, screaming about Penn-Mar, NASO, and the imminent collapse of the country’s financial system. He read the Chronicle first. He would pore over the others afterward.

  Falcon was about to begin the article concerning yesterday’s twelve-hundred-point crash of the Dow Jones industrial average when another headline caught his eye: PRESIDENT LINKED TO INSIDER ACTIVITY AT LODESTAR.

  Falcon froze. “What the…?” His focus moved immediately to the text of the article.

  By R. Walker Davis

  Staff Writer for the Financial Chronicle

  Washington, D.C., August 16.—Early this morning, officials of the Securities and Exchange Commission, the Department of Justice, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation stormed the Washington offices of Lodestar Investment Management. Lodestar is a high-profile investment-management firm known primarily for working with some of Washington’s most influential figures, including the President himself.

  Details remain sketchy, but apparently the authorities were tipped off that Lodestar was guilty of insider-trading violations related to the July takeover battle for Penn-Mar Chemicals, ultimately won by Veens & Company, a New York investment firm. Records indicate that Lodestar purchased 645 shares of Penn-Mar at $31 a share on July 2, little more than a week before Veens announced its tender offer for Penn-Mar at $75. Veens’ final tender price was $85 a share, netting a one-month profit of approximately $35,000 on a $20,000 investment. In addition, the firm bought call options on Penn-Mar stock, which netted another $143,000 profit. Records also indicate that these trades were made on behalf of and for the account of the President of the United States, Buford Warren.

  The early-morning raid, carried out by more than 100 officers of the three government agencies, apparently yielded significant information, including a confidential internal memorandum that indicated the President had personally instructed Victor Farinholt to make the investment in Penn-Mar.

  Through his press secretary, Peter Arland, the President has officially denied direct contact with Farinholt or any other employee of Lodestar since depositing money in a blind trust with the firm four years ago. The President has scheduled a press conference for today at 4:00 P.M. EST to discuss the situation. The press conference will be carried live by all four major networks, CNN, and Bloomberg Television News.

  A senior White House official, speaking on the condition of anonymity, admitted that the situation could prove extremely damaging unless addressed immediately. Unfortunately, the President has been completely distracted by the national banking crisis brought about by the NASO–Penn-Mar debacle and the continuing Wall Street meltdown, the source said.

  Falcon allowed the Chronicle to fall to his chest. Lodestar Investment Management. The fourth file. He gazed at the gray bag sitting on a table next to the remnants of the room service and laughed. Incredible. It was all about taking down an administration. Penn-Mar, NASO, the Sevens, the real estate, and Lodestar. All of it. It was about seven Yankee conservatives destroying one southern liberal. About sending Buford Warren back to Alabama in disgrace. About restoring their people to power. And they were succeeding. The bastards were winning.

  Falcon picked up the paper from his chest and skimmed the article about the free fall of the Dow and the collapse of the banking system. Not only did the article relate the events of the previous day, but it also outlined, in detail, the failures of the President with respect to the situation—a front-page editorial within a news story. The article screamed that by appointing the autocratic Carter Filipelli to head the Federal Reserve, the President had actually created a situation whereby this kind of meltdown could occ
ur. Filipelli had taken away the power of the Federal Reserve field examiners to act independently. Filipelli and his personal staff had been so dictatorial over the past four years that the people in the field, the people monitoring the national banking system on a day-to-day basis, had become confused about how much flexibility they were to give to the member institutions and about their role in safeguarding the system. As a result, abuses had occurred. Testimonials to this effect were given by high-ranking Republicans on the Senate and House banking committees. It had been a time bomb waiting to explode, but they had been powerless to do anything because of their minority status on the committees.

  Now the President wasn’t reacting quickly enough to the crisis situation. He was focusing on the revelation of his involvement with Lodestar and his long relationship with Victor Farinholt, on the insider-trading charge, which was rumored to be imminent, and on the Lane Memo, as it was being called. The President was completely preoccupied with personal damage control, and the rest of his staff was in a state of paralysis. It was an administration in chaos. And the nation’s economy was on the brink of collapse.

  Falcon grabbed the Wall Street Journal, skimmed it, then did the same with the New York Times. They too were full of stories about Penn-Mar, the lawsuit, and the surprising revelations yesterday in Baltimore’s federal courtroom; about NASO’s insolvency and the cracks forming in the financial system; about how banks other than NASO were experiencing funding problems in the overnight market, particularly those that had joined NASO in lending to Penn-Mar; about long lines at bank doors across the country; and about the Dow’s crash. But there were only small stories about the Lodestar raid and no mention of a confidential memorandum linking the President to insider trading. The raid had taken place at two o’clock that morning, much too late for either the Journal or the Times to include it as a major story. But the Chronicle had conveniently waited. Because Bailey Henderson, president and CEO of the Chronicle, knew exactly what was going to occur. The Sevens had set up the Chronicle as a vehicle of manipulation. No wonder it sold at such a low price. The Sevens didn’t care about profits. They wanted market share.