by Stephen Frey
“He wants your backup quarterback. They’re struggling at that position. Ricky Poe ain’t cutting it.”
Segal was familiar with Poe. “He’s not very good.”
“So you understand their problem?”
“Yes.”
“But your guy’s being a horse’s ass,” the man said, coming closer. “To print the trade he’s asking for an all-pro linebacker, a former all-pro placekicker, and five million bucks.”
Segal nodded. “That does seem like a lot.”
“It is a lot.” The man pulled out his wallet, sat down on the couch beside Segal, reached inside, and pulled out a picture of Segal’s daughter walking to class at Cornell. “Just so you know I’m not kidding around.”
“I know you’re not kidding around,” Segal answered as calmly as he could. Suddenly the lawsuits and the pending strike at his mining company didn’t seem so important. “What do you want me to do?”
HEWITT AND MASSEY sat on the long, covered back porch of the ranch’s main house, looking out over Texas grassland a hundred miles north of Dallas. The huge timber and stone structure was built atop a bluff on the eastern side of the twenty-five-thousand-acre property, and from the porch they had a sweeping view of green pastures stretching into the distance. Other than a couple of burgundy barns trimmed in white, there were no other buildings in sight. The dark red was so pretty against the lush grass, Hewitt thought to himself. Soon, a lot of that grass would turn brown beneath the summer sun.
Hewitt only made it out here a few days a month, but it was a working ranch. Five thousand head of cattle, fifty miles of barbed-wire fences, and eight full-time ranch hands. He’d always kept the number of ranch hands at eight, ever since he’d bought the property a decade ago—two years after he’d been tapped to join the Order. Just as he had eight full-time executive assistants around the globe at U.S. Oil. He didn’t need that many executive assistants—probably didn’t need eight full-time ranch hands, either—but he liked the symmetry of it all. Eight ranch hands, eight executive assistants—with him as the master.
He and Massey were enjoying a vintage bottle of Scotch, a couple of fine Cuban cigars from the humidor inside the wide double doors behind them, and the serenity of it all as dusk settled over the ranch. They were the only ones staying in the rambling mansion tonight. Hewitt’s daughter-in-law was coming up tomorrow and she was bringing Three Sticks. Hewitt hadn’t seen his grandson in almost a month, and he was excited—he was going to take the boy white-tailed deer hunting on the ranch. The boy was growing like a weed—he was six three, weighed two hundred pounds, and could run like the wind. He’d been asked to try out for his high school’s varsity football team in the fall. Hewitt hoped he’d play for Princeton someday.
They wouldn’t be here until late afternoon tomorrow, so he and Massey had the sprawling place to themselves for now. Massey would leave by noon, so there was no chance of Hewitt’s daughter-in-law catching them by surprise.
From Maine, Hewitt had taken a direct flight to Dallas. Massey had flown to Houston first, then taken a small plane to Dallas. It was a roundabout route for the former senator, but no two members of the Order were to travel on the same plane, and Hewitt wasn’t going to be the one inconvenienced.
Massey took a long drag of the cigar then blew white smoke into the air. The wind was calm this evening and the smoke hung above them like a small cloud. “A shame about Jim Benson’s suicide.”
“Yeah, but probably for the best,” Hewitt said gruffly, putting his boots up on another chair.
“What do you mean?”
“Better he died now than for him and his family to have to go through those last few days. Better for us, too.”
“Why?”
“No telling what Benson might have babbled about if they’d juiced him up with morphine at the hospital.”
Massey nodded. “I never even thought about that. Guess that’s why you’re the master, Samuel,” he said, grinning. “Have you told the other members?”
“Not yet.” After he’d heard the shot, Hewitt had gotten Don Roth to help him locate Benson’s body and bring it inside, where they’d stowed it in the large basement freezer. After everyone had left in the morning, Hewitt had arranged for several men who worked for him to come and get the body. They’d taken it back to Naples, Florida, where Benson had retired, and made it appear as though the ex-DIA director had been shot on a quiet street by unknown assailants. After all, the Order couldn’t have cops crawling all over Champagne Island trying to confirm Benson’s death as a suicide. A robbery gone bad—Benson’s wallet had been left open and empty of cash and credit cards on the sidewalk beside him—was how the newspapers explained it. It was helpful to have “friends,” Hewitt thought to himself. “I’ll tell everyone at the next meeting.”
“You mean that he was shot in Naples, right?”
“Of course. No reason to let the truth go any farther than you and me.”
“Exactly. Besides, it doesn’t make any difference to the other guys. All they care about is that Jim’s gone. Better they think he was killed down there, too. Better to keep the circle as small as possible on this one.”
“Right.”
“When’s the next meeting?” Massey asked.
“Probably next week.”
“So soon? Why?”
“I’m worried about Jesse Wood. I want to accelerate our plans.”
“Believe me, I’m with you. Can you imagine a nigger running this country?” Massey shook his head and took a long swig of Scotch. “And could you believe Kohler and McDonnell at the meeting?” he asked, teeth gritted. “We don’t need that kind of dissension.”
Hewitt gazed out over his ranch. He loved it here, loved his life, loved his way of life. But he knew it was in danger. He was more convinced than ever that if Jesse Wood were elected president, everything the population swings could eventually bring on would be accelerated by decades. He wanted his grandson to have this ranch. And his grandson after him, and so on, forever. He couldn’t bear to think of this place being arbitrarily turned over to some black or Mexican family in thirty or forty years. But that’s what happened when you lost a war—to the victor went the spoils. There were examples of it happening many times through the course of history. And no matter what anyone else said, no matter how they tried to characterize it, this was war.
“No, we don’t need it,” Hewitt agreed firmly. “And we won’t let it happen. I won’t ever let it happen to my Order. Kohler and McDonnell can get in line or else.”
Massey settled farther back into his chair. “Or else what?”
Hewitt could feel the Scotch. “You know what,” he said quietly.
“Think there’s any chance any of the others feel the same way Kohler and McDonnell do?” Massey asked. “Think any of them were just siding publicly with us at the meeting because they felt they had to? I mean, there’s absolutely no chance Dahl or Laird would ever sympathize with them,” he said, partially answering his own question. “Dahl might as well be a Nazi, and Laird would be too scared about his tapes getting out.” Massey paused. “But what about the others? Think they might be in that camp? Think they might feel we’re going too far this time?”
Hewitt looked out over the ranch again. God, he loved it here. “No chance. It’s Kohler and McDonnell, that’s it.” He puffed on his cigar, then sipped the Scotch. “Just those two sons of bitches.”
CHRISTIAN PULLED OUT his BlackBerry as the private jet touched down at O’Hare in Chicago. He watched the messages load up on the display quickly now that they were on the ground. One of them caught his eye. Faith. He brought it up. It read:
Chris, I love you, but I can’t do this anymore. We’re almost never together, and when we do talk on the phone (rarely!!), I feel like you can’t wait to get off. I know you’re so busy at Everest, my God, I don’t know how you do what you do, how there’s enough time in the day for you to talk to all the people who scream for your attention. I just don’t want to be on
e of those people anymore. I want someone who’s with me all the time, someone who calls me all the time, who thinks of me all the time. I’ve finally realized that. Call me needy, I guess, but that’s me. You can’t do all those things I want. It’s not your fault, I know, but it still hurts to be ignored. This makes me so sad. I’m crying. I’ll be back in the United States soon and we can talk about it then. I can’t compete with Everest anymore. I love you. Faith.
Christian stared at her name at the end of the message for several moments. The bad thing was that he understood what she was saying. He didn’t mean to ignore her, it just happened. Like she said, there simply wasn’t enough time in the day. But he didn’t have an answer. He was managing billions and billions of dollars for people who expected total commitment. The only solution was to have Faith travel with him, but she couldn’t. She had her own career, which he couldn’t ask her to give up. Not because he was worried she’d hate him for putting his needs ahead of hers. He was afraid to ask her. What if she said yes?
His cell phone rang and he snatched it up off the table in front of him. “Hello.”
“Christian?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s Ray Lancaster.”
Christian could hear excitement in Lancaster’s voice. “What’s up?”
“You’re not going to believe this but the Buffalo Bills just called. I swear I was going to ice them like you said, I wasn’t going to call them, but they called me.”
“And?”
“And they’re ready to deal, Christian. I don’t know what happened. All they want is one defensive tackle and a third-round pick in next year’s draft. If we agree to that, we get our quarterback. That’s all we have to do. We don’t have to give up anything else. It’s crazy.”
It was crazy, Christian realized. “What made them change their minds?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I was too excited.”
“You think this quarterback you want has some kind of injury we don’t know about? Maybe he fell down stairs at home this afternoon or something.”
“Maybe, but we’ll find out. No trade in the NFL clears until the players involved pass physicals. If he’s hurt, the trade’s nullified.”
Christian remembered hearing that before.
“I don’t think they’d offer what they did unless our guy was healthy,” Lancaster said.
“Then what do you think did happen?”
“I don’t know,” Lancaster answered, “and I don’t really care. All I care is that we’ve got a quarterback who can win. I might be able to get you to the play-offs this year after all.”
Christian looked out the window as the jet pulled up to the general aviation terminal. It would be nice not to have to care about why something good happened, to simply believe that lady luck was on your side. But that was a naïve approach to life. Everything happened for a reason, and it was always best to know what that reason was. Having information, knowing why something happened—whether it was good or bad for you—was the key to success. Being surprised was a much worse outcome. Then you couldn’t do anything about it.
What bothered him was that there seemed to be more and more things happening that he couldn’t explain, that he needed to investigate. He couldn’t decide if that was coincidence—brought on by external forces he couldn’t control—or if it was lack of focus. Maybe Faith was right. Maybe it was him, not the situation. With her and Everest.
HEWITT STOOD in the darkness by the gate, awestruck by the multitude of stars above him. They called Montana Big Sky Country, but the Texas sky was actually bigger and better. He’d seen both many times and he had no doubt about it.
He watched the headlights of the SUV move slowly along the dirt road toward him. One of his “friends” was driving, bringing him a very important package. As the SUV drew close, he mused on the fact that he thought of these men as more his friends than he did of a man like Stewart Massey. As much as he could have friends, anyway. Of course, maybe that was why he liked them so much. Not just because they were unfailingly loyal and did whatever they were asked without question but also because they knew they could never be close to him. The relationship was steady. Hewitt didn’t have to worry about these men ever thinking they might actually get close to him, ever thinking they might get an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner. They knew they wouldn’t. They knew the boundaries. Guys like Massey always held out hope for more.
The SUV stopped in front of the gate, and a lone man jumped out. He hurried to where Hewitt stood and handed over the package—a CD case—then turned and jogged back toward the vehicle without a word.
Hewitt smiled. Pay people enough and they were loyal to you forever. As long as someone else didn’t pay them more. “Wayne,” he called as the man was about to climb into the truck.
“Yes, sir?”
“Come back here for a second.”
The man hustled back. “Yes, sir?”
Wayne was an ex–Texas Ranger, with a steadfast belief that the country was going to hell very fast and that something needed to be done. Ex-Ranger because Hewitt had offered him triple what the state could pay him. “You’re a good man, Wayne. You and the rest of the boys do a great job.”
“Thank you, sir.” He hesitated. “Is that all?”
“Tell the other guys I appreciate them, too.”
“They know that, sir.”
Hewitt nodded and smiled. “Okay.” Once again he watched Wayne head toward the SUV. Money was the most important thing by far, but sometimes you had to show people a little more to really manipulate them the way you wanted to.
9
GORDON MEADE was in his late fifties. Neatly groomed from his silver hair to his perfectly knotted tie to his shiny shoes. For a man who managed thirty billion dollars, he had a relaxed manner, and when he spoke he did so with a faint smile, as if recalling a secret about a Wallace family member. Something that gave him job security, no matter what. Christian had known Meade now for several years and always wondered about that faint smile—and what it represented.
“I’m glad to hear our investment in your fund is doing so well,” Meade said, taking a sip of coffee. They were almost finished with dinner. “You really think it’s doubled in value?”
People always heard what they wanted to hear, especially about their investments. Christian had never said that. “Not quite, Gordon. I think your five’s worth about eight now.” Meade had rounded up, like so many people did about so many things—their salaries, the value of their houses. “That’s pretty good, given that we haven’t invested all the money yet.”
“Remind me again: How big is the fund?”
Meade managed thirty billion himself, most of which was parceled out to other investment managers in much smaller blocks than five billion. So it wasn’t surprising that he wouldn’t know all the details of his Everest investment. He was a man with a lot on his plate. “Twenty billion.”
Meade shook his head. “That’s incredible. Any other funds around that large?”
“No. One of the other big buyout shops just raised an eighteen-billion-dollar fund. They were trying for twenty, but they didn’t quite get there.”
“Are you learning?” Meade asked, turning to Allison. Quentin was at the bar, waiting. Meade had asked that it be just the three of them at dinner. “That’s one of the reasons your uncle and I wanted you at Everest, to figure out how this guy does it.” He pointed at Christian. “How the master makes his money.”
“Hey,” Allison spoke up, “I’ve brought a few deals to the table.”
Meade glanced at Christian.
“She has,” he confirmed.
In truth, Allison had turned out to be a great addition to the managing-partner team. She’d gone to the right schools, then worked in Goldman Sachs’s mergers and acquisitions group after getting her MBA, putting in long hours for a few years as she learned the ropes at one of the most prestigious firms on Wall Street, before coming back to Chicago to help manage the family’s eno
rmous wealth. She had the pedigree, the experience; she worked hard; and she was learning how to take full advantage of her long list of connections.
She was learning how to take advantage of her beauty, too. After they got past their egos, men loved working with Allison. She was pretty, she knew sports, and she could drink most men under the table. He’d seen her do it, too, seen her stick around at the bar until the last guy stumbled off to bed. Then be up at seven the next morning, grinding through deal points and tough negotiations while her male counterparts struggled not to lose it on the conference room table as they sucked down cup after cup of black coffee.
Christian smiled as he gazed at her. She was wearing a conservative outfit tonight, a dress that fell below her knees. She would never let on to the family what a party girl she was. She liked the responsibility the elders were giving her, so she tried to act innocent around them and Meade. She knew that Meade told her uncle everything.
“Allison’s found two of the eight companies we’ve bought out of the fund so far,” Christian said. “I’m hoping she’ll stick around for good, Gordon.”
“Oh, no.” Meade shook his head. “She’s working at Everest so she can bring all that experience back to us when this fund is finished. We all know that.”
“I’ll be the one who decides what I do when the fund is finished, Gordon,” Allison said firmly.
Meade gazed at her for a few moments, then turned back to Christian. “How much of the twenty billion have you invested so far?”
“A little over twelve billion, a little over sixty percent of it.”
“Are you going to raise another fund?”
“Absolutely.”
“When does your operating agreement let you free up to start raising the next one?” Meade asked.
“When we’ve invested seventy-five percent of it.”
Investors wanted Christian and his team focused on their money, so there were restrictions on raising additional funds. But the investors also understood that it took time to raise multibillion-dollar pools of money, often a year or more. Christian needed lead time so the next fund would be ready to go when the current fund was out of money. The agreement he had with his investors was that once he’d invested seventy-five percent of the money in the active fund—fifteen billion out of twenty in this case—he could start raising a new one.