by Stephen Frey
“Carolyn.”
“Did you get her number?”
“No.”
“Did you try?”
“Yes.”
Hewitt motioned for the others to refrain from asking any more questions on this subject. “Anything you want to tell us about your personal life?”
Laird glanced toward the head of the table, fear in his eyes. “Yes.”
“Go on.”
“A few weeks ago I hired a personal assistant. A twenty-seven-year-old blond woman,” Laird continued, his voice trembling. “She’s very capable.”
“And beautiful,” someone assumed.
“Yes,” Laird agreed quietly. “Very beautiful.”
“Have you had sex with her?”
Laird drew tiny circles on the table with his index finger. “Yes,” he whispered.
“Have you videoed that for us yet, Mr. Laird?” asked Stewart Massey. Massey was a grizzled ex–United States senator from Texas. He’d been a prosecutor before going into politics.
“No,” Laird admitted.
“Do,” Hewitt instructed. “Within the next thirty days.”
“All right.”
“Does she have any fetishes?” Massey wanted to know.
Hewitt watched Laird struggle. He was so obviously uncomfortable, which was exactly how it was supposed to be. The founders of the Order were brilliant, Hewitt thought to himself. It was a beautifully conceived ritual—with a little modern technology baked in over the years.
Laird took a deep breath. “She likes to be tied up.”
“Make certain you get that on tape,” Hewitt ordered, glancing around the table at the others. “I think that’s enough. Thank you, Mr. Laird.”
Laird eased back from the table into his chair, smiling like a man who’d won a reprieve from the electric chair.
It was such a beautifully conceived ritual, Hewitt thought to himself. Such a beautifully conceived Order.
ELIJAH FORTE was one of the wealthiest black men in America, one of the wealthiest men in America. And he hadn’t achieved his success by wasting time on indecisive people. But this was important, critically important, so he was forcing himself to be patient. “You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I was approached.”
“By who?” Forte asked.
The other person hesitated.
“Who approached you?” Forte asked again, dialing up the pressure in his voice.
“Someone who wanted to know about Jesse Wood.”
Forte glanced over at Heath Johnson, his executive vice president. Johnson raised one eyebrow and nodded. “What did this person want to know?” Forte asked.
“Whatever I was willing to say.”
“What did you say?”
“That I had to think about the offer.”
“What was the offer?”
“Money.”
Forte’s eyes narrowed, anticipating the shakedown. “Is that what you want from me? Money?”
“No.”
Forte looked up from an old ballpoint pen he’d pulled out of his shirt pocket, surprised by the response. “Then what do you want?”
“I want you to protect Jesse Wood. I want the dream to come true. I don’t want this person to hurt Jesse or keep Jesse from getting what we all want him to get. What we’ve all worked so hard for him to get.”
Forte rarely felt deep sentiment. He’d endured a brutally hard childhood and his emotions were buried deep, but this was an amazing display of loyalty. He felt a warm moistness coming to his eyes. He coughed and looked away for a moment. “Do you think this person would hurt Jesse?”
“If that were the only alternative, the only way left to stop Jesse, I think this person would have Jesse killed.”
Forte let out a long, concerned breath. “I’ll protect Jesse,” he promised, “but I’ll need your help.”
“I’m willing to do anything.”
“Good.” Forte leaned forward in his seat. “Tell me the name of the person who approached you.”
3
QUENTIN STILES was an Everest Capital managing partner and Christian Gillette’s best friend. Christian’s father, Clayton, had been a wealthy California investment banker turned United States senator, and Christian had grown up wanting for nothing material. At the other end of the economic and social spectrums, Quentin had grown up dirt-poor in Harlem. He had never known his father, and his mother had died of an overdose when he was still a kid. But they were both self-made men who’d overcome mountains to get where they were—Christian because his stepmother had left him penniless the day his father died, Quentin because he’d had nothing to begin with.
Christian wanted Quentin in Las Vegas with him to help figure out what was going on with the casino license. If there was one guy in the world he trusted with a job like this, it was Quentin. The guy was a bloodhound, and fearless.
He glanced across the table as they sat on the suite’s balcony, watching Quentin munch on an apple. Quentin was tall, broad-shouldered, and cut, a handsome African-American man with a smooth way about him, like he was totally in control of himself and his surroundings at all times. He loved cars and guns and he rarely wore any color but black.
To get him out of Harlem and away from a tough street gang he’d hooked up with, Quentin’s grandmother had sent him off to the Army at eighteen. It had been the turning point of his life, he often told people. He’d become one of the youngest Army Rangers ever—a legend in that elite force now—was later recruited into several highly classified clandestine military and domestic anticrime operations, and ended up on President Clinton’s Secret Service detail. After a few years serving the White House, he’d resigned from government to start his own security company, quickly picking up a solid list of high-profile clients, including Christian.
A couple of years ago, Christian had bought Quentin’s firm, QS Security, using a much larger Everest portfolio company to make the acquisition. Christian had paid five million dollars for QS, then made Quentin a managing partner at Everest. Some, including a few inside Everest, had questioned the deal. Quentin had saved Christian’s life a year before, taking a bullet to the chest, and there were whispers that five million bucks and a senior executive position at Everest were payback for the pain and suffering. That QS wasn’t really worth the price and Quentin didn’t deserve the position. But it had been two years since the transaction and QS was now worth at least twenty million. The critics had gone silent.
“Better not make a habit of that, robo-chairman.” Quentin pointed at a plate of half-eaten blueberry pancakes. Christian had ordered the pancakes after Ray Lancaster left. “Not if you want to keep your cover-boy status.”
“First of all, I don’t care about being a cover boy.” Which was absolutely true; Christian hated publicity. But, as chairman of the largest private equity firm in the world and chairman of so many portfolio companies, he couldn’t avoid the spotlight. In the last two months he’d been on the covers of both Fortune and Forbes. “Second of all, looks don’t matter when it comes to Fortune and Forbes. They’re business rags.”
“Forbes and Fortune today, GQ and People tomorrow. Maybe even Time,” Quentin muttered. “And I bet if you talked to the editors at those business rags and they were being completely honest, they’d tell you one of the reasons they put you on the covers is that you got a mug women don’t mind looking at.”
Christian had sharp facial features—a thin, still slightly bent nose despite the plastic surgery; strong jaw; prominent chin; high, defined cheekbones; and intense gray eyes. His hair was black—parted on one side and combed back over his ears—and flecks of silver were starting to appear at the temples. Forty years old, he kept himself in good shape. Six two, one ninety-five, he regularly won his age group in competitive 10Ks. More and more, he was appearing on high-profile most-eligible-bachelor lists.
“Pretty soon you’re gonna have rock-star status,” Quentin observed, “just l
ike your better half.”
Christian groaned. “I hope not.”
“Me personally? Hey, I don’t know what women see in you.”
“Give me a—”
“Speaking of your better half,” Quentin cut in, “how’s Faith doing?”
Faith Cassidy was Christian’s girlfriend, though they hadn’t seen much of each other lately. A pop star, Faith was petite, blond, and vivacious with a tremendous voice and dance moves to match. She’d released three albums, all of which had gone platinum. Right now she was in Europe on a concert tour. Sixteen cities in five weeks.
“She’s fine,” Christian answered, pulling out his BlackBerry to check e-mails. “I talked to her before I left New York yesterday. She’s in Paris for a few nights.”
“Those tours must be a grind. You guys doing okay?”
Christian hesitated. “I guess. It’s tough when we both travel so much, but it’ll work out.”
“When’s she back?”
“Two weeks.”
“You miss her?”
Christian looked up from the device. “Why the third degree, big guy?”
Quentin put on his sunglasses as he looked out over Las Vegas. The city was bathed in sunshine.
A stall tactic. Christian knew him so well. “What’s the matter, pal?”
“I swore I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Quentin.”
“All right, all right. Faith called last night.”
Christian recoiled slightly. Faith and Quentin knew each other pretty well. Still, it was surprising that she’d call him. “Why?”
“She was checking up on you. She’s worried.”
“About what?”
“Allison.”
Christian rolled his eyes. “Jesus.”
Allison Wallace had joined Everest a few years ago when Christian and Nigel were raising the firm’s latest corporate buyout fund. A twenty-billion-dollar megafund, the largest of its kind ever raised. Out of Chicago, Allison’s family was one of the richest in the country. They’d committed five billion to the new fund, but, of course, there’d been a catch to the huge commitment. Gordon Meade, an outsider who ran all the Wallace investments, had demanded that Christian allow the family to put at least one of their own people on the ground at Everest Capital. To watch over their money—and to learn. Christian wasn’t happy about the demand—it wasn’t a good idea to have your investors so close to you because then they could second-guess all your decisions—but he’d relented. After all, five billion dollars was five billion dollars.
Allison had moved to Manhattan and joined Everest full-time. In her early thirties, she was very pretty; very well connected; and, when she wasn’t working, very into having a good time.
“I can understand why Faith worries about her, Chris,” Quentin said. “Allison’s beautiful; you see her a lot more than you see Faith; and, well, Allison seems to like you.” He paused. “A lot.”
“No more than she likes you.”
Quentin spread his hands. “Hey, man, it’s me. No need to bullshit. You know what I’m talking about.”
Quentin was right. There’d been a spark between them the first time he and Allison had dinner—in Manhattan, just the two of them—but they’d never acted on it. They’d always kept it professional. “I’ll call Faith later,” Christian promised. “And I won’t let on that you told me about her calling you.”
“Good. So, how’d it go with Ray Lancaster, robo-chairman?”
Christian gritted his teeth. “Cut the robo tag, will you?”
Quentin put his head back and laughed loudly. “You know, they should have an action figure named after you. A little guy dressed up in a pin-striped business suit and a black cape with a big C on it. I’m going to call one of the toy companies and suggest that.”
“And they should have one of you wearing anything but black. Look, it’s been a while since all that happened. I mean, are you really still jealous?” It had been two years, but there wasn’t a week that went by that Quentin hadn’t made some kind of joke about it.
“Damn right,” Quentin said. “You keep saying you told the reporters about me, but I bet you didn’t. You wanted the spotlight all to yourself.”
“Oh, sure. You know how much I crave atten—”
“Glory hound.”
Christian was about to fire back, but he caught himself. Quentin loved ribbing him, loved getting a reaction. No point giving it to him.
“Did Ray Lancaster ask about it?” Quentin wanted to know.
“Oh, yeah. Found the articles on the Internet.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“The truth. That a couple of high ups inside the federal government were using one of our companies to hide some big developments their people had made in nanotechnology. That we figured out they were also trying to cut the technology out of the government for themselves. That they did everything they could to set me up when they realized what we knew, including murdering that woman in Maryland and trying to hang it on me.”
Quentin shook his head. “You were quite a story there for a few weeks.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, I forgot to ask you on the way out here. You ever get in touch with Carmine Torino about the Dice license?”
“Nope. Pisses me off, too. We’ve paid that guy a lot of money.”
“Yeah, I know,” Quentin agreed. “Carmine was supposed to take care of this kind of red-tape crap. I’ll check around the city while you’re meeting with the Gaming Commission today. See if I can scare him out from beneath whatever rock he crawled under.”
“I’m not meeting with the commission today.”
Quentin looked over. “Huh? I thought you were sitting down with the chairman, with Alan Agee.”
“I was, but he canceled on me this morning. Said he’d call later to let me know if he could do it tomorrow.” Christian grimaced. “He didn’t sound very good when I talked to him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He sounded scared.” Christian pursed his lips. “We’ve put almost a billion dollars into the Dice Casino. It’ll be over a billion one by the time everything’s all said and done. It’s going to be hard to make any money on it if I can’t open the craps tables.”
“Who do you think got to Agee? The Mob?”
“Who else would it have been?” Christian had been afraid the Mafia might pull something like this ever since they’d made the final decision to build the casino. But if they were the ones who’d gotten to Agee, they ought to be making contact. Their angles were always money or revenge, and there wasn’t anything they needed to take revenge for in this situation. Not that he knew of anyway. “We’ve had a great track record at Everest. Writing off a billion dollars would suck. To put it mildly.”
“Well, the investors would have to understand something like this. There’s no way you can control the Mob. Besides, you’ve made our investors a lot more than a billion dollars over the last five years.”
“They won’t understand, Quentin. They’ll say I should have known what the Mob would do. In this business, you’re only as good as your last deal. Remember that.”
“I’ll find Torino,” Quentin promised. “We’ll figure out what’s going on. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried.” He was worried, of course—deeply worried—but there was no upside to letting anyone in on that. Even Quentin. He was the chairman, the man who stayed calm in every situation, no matter how grim things looked. “It’ll work out.”
“What are you going to do about Chicago?”
Christian banged the arm of the chair. “Chicago, that’s right.” He was supposed to be in Chicago tonight for dinner with Gordon Meade, the man who ran the Wallace Family money. Meade had asked for an update on how the fund was doing—the answer was: great if you assumed they got the casino license, terrible if you assumed they didn’t. Allison was supposed to be flying in from San Francisco to join Christian and Meade for dinner. “I’ve got to call Gordon and move dinner to tomorrow night.�
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“You really going to screw around out here for another day? That’s a lot of wasted time.”
“I don’t have any choice. Getting the casino license is number one on my Christmas list right now.”
“What if Agee never calls and you can’t reach him? What if he disappears like Torino?”
“I’ll put you on his trail, too.” Christian pulled out a notepad that contained all his to-do lists. “I need you to get me information on someone,” he said, eyeing the first item on one of the pages.
“Who’s the mark?”
“A guy named Samuel Hewitt. He’s—”
“Chairman of U.S. Oil. I know who he is. He’s a damn important guy. What do you need to know about him?”
“Anything you can find out.”
“Why?”
“I’m meeting with him,” Christian explained. “He graduated from Princeton, too. There’s a bunch of alumni stuff going on in a few days at the campus, and he wants to get together with me then. Called me about it yesterday.”
“Did he say why he wants to meet?”
“No.”
“Hopefully it’s about Laurel Energy.”
Christian shut his eyes tightly. Everybody at Everest Capital was focused on the sale of Laurel Energy, especially the managing partners. If the sale went down, the payout was going to be huge, the biggest in Everest history.
They’d acquired Laurel several years ago for three hundred million, then, after the purchase, discovered a vast new reserve field on an option property that had come along with the company. It had been a bonanza. Everest’s investment bankers—Morgan Stanley—had told Christian that one of the big boys—U.S. Oil, Exxon, or Shell—should pay at least five billion for Laurel, meaning that Everest would make nine hundred and forty million—20 percent of the $4.7 billion profit. Nine hundred and forty million dollars, and a lot of that would go to the top people: Christian and his five managing partners. Which was why they were constantly asking about it.
But in all the time Laurel had been for sale, Everest had gotten just two offers, both from bottom feeders, neither anywhere near five billion. The big boys hadn’t even sniffed at it, and Morgan Stanley couldn’t figure out why. Laurel was a great company; the reserves were proven. The fact that it hadn’t sold made no sense. But then that was how business went sometimes, Christian knew. How life could go. Sure things turned into train wrecks, and train wrecks became sure things. But Laurel had been a sure, sure thing.