Trump Tower

by Jeffrey Robinson

  They both ordered salads, and while they ate Mrs. Essenbach went on and on about the committee and about how Pierre Belasco had promised her everything would be all right.

  David sat there taking it all in, agreeing with every opinion she expressed.

  At one point, a man seemed to pass very close to their table, and David was distracted briefly by him. But he didn’t think twice about it.

  When he and Mrs. Essenbach finished their salad, he asked her if she wanted dessert and coffee.

  She said, “Neither.”

  “I’ll have coffee,” he said, and was about to change the subject to money, when she suddenly stood up and announced, “So nice to see you again. Please send my love to Tina. And do come for a meal one evening. Thank you for lunch. I shall be in touch.”

  She patted his head and left.

  Goddamn. He was annoyed with himself for wasting all that time listening to her ramble on about her jungle.

  Now his cell phone beeped that a message had come in.

  It was a photo taken very close by of him sitting at that table with Mrs. Essenbach.

  The text message with it said, “The health of you and your loved ones.”

  Oh fuck! He looked around.

  That man who’d walked so close by the table.

  He was nowhere to be seen.

  In a panic, David dialed his pilot Barry at home.

  Putting his hand over his mouth so no one could hear him, he said, “Sorry to call you on short notice like this. But I need you to gas up the plane.”

  “Where we going?”

  “File a flight plan to Houston.”

  “Okay, boss. We overnighting in Houston?”

  “We’re not going to Houston.”

  “But you said . . .”

  “I know what I said. But I don’t know where we’re going. I’ll think of something once we get off the ground.”

  ALONE IN the office, Tina moved her trading account offshore to the Caymans, then moved half of what was left in her joint account with David—a little under $600,000—into one of her own offshore accounts in the Bahamas.

  All told, between those accounts, another account in the Caymans, and the trust account in Liechtenstein, she figured she was cash rich to the tune of roughly $16.5 million.

  She owned the apartment jointly with David, had six investment rental properties in her own name in Calgary, Canada, four chalets she rented out in Breckenridge, Colorado, plus a five-bedroom house that she also rented in San Francisco’s Sea Cliff neighborhood.

  That will do, she said to herself, not even bothering to add in her stock portfolio because whatever she had tied up in the markets was at the whim and mercy of the markets and, by her way of thinking, it wasn’t worth anything until she cashed out.

  Then, she took her jewelry, put everything in a carryall, walked two blocks to the bank where she rented a large safety deposit box and put the carryall inside. Back at Trump Tower, she told Luisa, “I need you to help me pack, please.”

  “Is madam going on a trip?”

  “Yes. For a little while.”

  While Luisa was packing, Tina phoned her old school friend Li Ming. When she answered, Tina said, “I hope I didn’t wake you, but if I did, I know that you will forgive me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On my way to see you.”

  “You’re coming to Hong Kong?”

  “I’ll e-mail you when I’ve got a flight number and arrival time.”

  “This is so exciting. To what do we owe the honor?”

  “No big deal,” she said. “I’m leaving David.”

  59

  He hurried through the staff meeting.

  Little Sam, the human resources section head, noted that Antonia wasn’t present. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Belasco maintained. “She’s not required to be here.” He looked around the table. “If no one else has anything . . .”

  “Scarpe Pietrasanta,” Harriet said, “they’re still delinquent.”

  “I’m aware. But there have been several problems, not the least of which is a break-in on their premises. I’m dealing with it and we’re going to give them some breathing space.” He pointed to Riordan, “You want to add anything about the break-in?”

  “Police are dealing with it,” Riordan said, reaching into a folder and handing everyone around the table a CCTV photo of two men. “We believe this is the pair that caused the break-in. Show it around and see if anybody recognizes them.” He ended by looking at Belasco, “My office is on the case and will continue to do whatever is necessary to maintain security here . . . whatever is necessary . . . no matter what.”

  Without responding, Belasco adjourned the meeting.

  As he was leaving the conference room, Riordan handed him several copies of the two photos. “You forgot these. Please show them to your staff.”

  Belasco took them, “Thank you,” and left.

  Before he got to the elevators to go back downstairs, Carole Ann Mendelsohn caught up with him. “Pierre, you need to know that we received notice from Dregger Simmons that they intend to sue on behalf of Katarina Essenbach.”

  “No surprise,” he shrugged. “You said yesterday you knew they would.”

  “Yes. And in their brief outline of particulars, it seems to be pretty much along the lines of what we expected. But what is unexpected is that you’re the only party named.”

  He didn’t understand. “And the significance of that is . . . what?”

  “She’s suing you, not us.”

  He still didn’t understand. “Okay . . . so?”

  “So she is suing you, not in your professional capacity, but personally.”

  “Does it matter? After all, I haven’t done anything.”

  “It does matter that she’s suing you personally, and it doesn’t matter that you say you haven’t done anything.”

  “It’s a nuisance suit.”

  “It’s more serious than that.”

  “What does she want?”

  “One hundred million dollars.”

  He was astonished. “That’s absurd.”

  “Of course, it is.”

  “Completely absurd. With that kind of money, even if she wins, she loses. After all . . . if she was suing me for a million dollars I’d worry. But a hundred million? You can’t get milk from a stone.”

  “Obviously not.”

  “What is she playing at? Does she think I’ll settle for half?”

  “I agree,” Mendelsohn conceded, “and if she was suing us . . . except she isn’t. We’re not party to this in any way. She’s suing you personally, which says to me that, in her mind, this is strictly personal.”

  “She’s hallucinating.”

  “Whether she is or isn’t hardly matters to Dregger Simmons. They know that money is no object for their client. In other words, they have no incentive to settle this at all. Quite the opposite.”

  “They have a cash cow, she’s delusional, and I’m caught in the middle. This is a nightmare.”

  “You’ve summed it up perfectly.”

  “What can I do to make this go away?”

  “Not much.”

  “I need to find a way. There must be something.”

  “Not that’s legal.”

  “How about if someone throws her off the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge?”

  “This is not something you should talk about, even if it is a joke. I will disregard that question, as if it was never asked.”

  “You’re saying that she’s coming after me personally and there’s nothing I can do about it? I cannot . . . will not . . . accept that.”

  “It’s only natural that you’re upset . . .”

  “I’m more than upset. I’m bewildered and I’m angry. I’m pretty far out of my comfort zone and I don’t understand how I got here.”

  “As I see it, you have two options. You can resign your position here and hope that satisfies her.”

 
“I will not.”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “That’s not an option.”

  “It has to be. This woman knows she is never going to get a huge amount of money out of you and, plainly, she doesn’t need what little she might get. Because this is personal, she wants to inflict pain. Forcing you out might satisfy her. On the other hand, it might not. I’m not advising you one way or the other. I’m merely setting out your options.”

  “It’s not going to happen. What’s option two?”

  “You can fight it.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll do.”

  “Then we need to get you a lawyer. Our insurance will cover this to some extent. But you will be out of pocket.”

  “How much?”

  “I told you yesterday that Dregger Simmons specializes in going after people who can afford to fight. Imagine how much pain they can inflict when you’re David and they’re Goliath.”

  “As I remember the story, David won.”

  “I believe one definition of the word fable is myth.”

  He stared at her for a long time. “I’d be grateful if you could find me a lawyer, please . . . with a big slingshot and a lot of stones.”

  Downstairs, Belasco handed the photos Riordan had given him to Pierro. He explained who the men were and wanted to make sure that the entire lobby staff, on all three shifts, saw them.

  Just before noon, Belasco headed upstairs to Scarpe Pietrasanta.

  Gabriella was there with Carlos clearing the floor space in the showroom. She told Belasco that her mother was still talking about closing the business. “When she gets something in her head like that, she can be very stubborn.”

  That’s when Forbes arrived. Belasco introduced Gabriella to him as someone who was going to help them but didn’t go into any detail about who he was or exactly what he would be doing.

  Belasco asked Gabriella, “Did your father keep any business files at home?”

  She said, “Not that I know of. But I don’t think so.”

  “What about your mother? Did she bring files home?”

  “Again, I don’t think so. She might have, but I doubt it. I never saw any office files at home.”

  “That means what we’re looking for has to be here. Tell Mr. Forbes about your father’s letter to his cousin, and the one he wrote to you and your mother.”

  She did.

  Belasco turned to Forbes. “We find those letters here, and it’s not the cousin. We don’t find them, and that’s what the guys who broke into this place came to destroy.”

  60

  Although Carson’s flight to Tokyo had left an hour late on Wednesday, the pilot was able to make up a little time and they’d landed at Narita Airport at around four on Thursday afternoon.

  At the Peninsula Hotel, the front desk manager had personally welcomed him back and had escorted him to the huge Peninsula Suite on the twenty-third floor, overlooking Hibiya Park and the Imperial Palace Gardens.

  The bedroom featured a double king–sized bed with an enormous en suite dark, marble bathroom, a large whirlpool bath and a gorgeous view of the city while you were soaking in it.

  There was a big living room and very handsome dining room—both with spectacular views—plus an outdoor balcony, an office, a tea ceremony area, a minigym, and a fully equipped kitchen and pantry. And in every room throughout the suite there were forty-two-inch plasma television screens.

  As soon as he’d unpacked, he’d gotten onto the NBC Nightly News site and watched Alicia’s interview with Clinton. Then he’d phoned her.

  “It was terrific. I loved it.”

  “Apparently everybody else did, too. Even Bill. His office called and left a message. After I edited it, Brian said he liked it, and as I was leaving the newsroom he said to me, ‘welcome aboard.’”

  “I’m really proud of you.” Then he’d broached the subject of her book. “What’s happening with your friend Mr. Farmer?”

  All she’d say was, “It’s under control.”

  At 7:30, the feng shui expert—a very small, very round man who reminded Carson of Buddha—had arrived at his door and, without a word, had gone about rearranging the dining room.

  He’d removed the table and all the chairs from the room, as well as the decorative pottery and vases on the shelves.

  He’d then placed two chairs in very specific spots—the slightly larger one facing the window, the smaller with its back to the window—and had moved a low coffee table between the two.

  Carson had shown him where he wanted to put his laptop, open to him so that Mr. Shigetada could not see it from the smaller chair, and after that was done, the little man had placed two glasses and one bottle of still water on the table. Next, he’d turned on the overhead light and all the room lamps, then he’d shut them off one by one, until there was only one lamp left on. It was in the far corner and slightly behind where Carson would sit.

  Stepping back, the little man had surveyed the room, bowed and left the suite.

  Carson sat in both chairs, slowly understanding what he’d accomplished. The bigger chair, his chair, was more comfortable. He’d be more likely to want to stay longer. It also had a view out the window. The smaller chair, Shigetada’s, was less comfortable and with nothing else to focus on but Carson. He’d be more likely to want to leave sooner.

  Did that mean Shigetada would be more likely to settle this in Warring’s favor? Carson didn’t know. But he could see that from the way the lamp would cast shadows, Shigetada was supposed to feel that he was no longer in charge.

  ON FRIDAY, he’d had a pleasant lunch with the Japanese lawyers at a private dining club in the Ginza. After that, he’d climbed into bed and slept through dinner.

  An hour before Mr. Shigetada arrived, he’d showered and shaved, dressed in a suit, then Skyped Kenneth Warring in Omaha to rehearse their banter.

  Now, at three in the morning Tokyo time—Saturday morning in Japan but still Friday afternoon in the United States—Carson Haynes stared at the short, flat-faced man with a large, bald head and bulging eyes, sitting opposite him in the suite’s near-empty dining room.

  “Our answer to that,” Carson said yet again, “is no.”

  Mr. Shigetada stared back at Carson, not giving anything away.

  “This is bullshit,” Warring growled from the screen on Carson’s laptop. “We’re getting nowhere.”

  Mr. Shigetada showed no emotion.

  For three hours, he had not budged from his original position. “I will not sell. There is no reason for me to buy. And I will not permit you to walk away. I am insisting that you honor your commitment.”

  Finally, Warring announced he’d had enough. “I’m going home.”

  Carson looked at the screen—which Mr. Shigetada could not see—and watched Warring cleaning his nails with a letter opener.

  “On Monday morning,” Warring went on, “short and simple, we’re going to liquidate the company.”

  Slowly at first, then with ever-increasing anger, Mr. Shigetada began shaking his head.

  “You cannot. You cannot. I built this business . . .” For the first time all night, he came dangerously close to losing his temper. “My father and I built this together. I will not permit you to dishonor his memory . . .”

  Warring snapped, “I turned your father’s business into something neither you nor he ever dreamed of. You brought us in because you needed us and we came in because we saw potential. I found your father to be an honorable man. But you, pal, are not your father.”

  Mr. Shigetada’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Carson. “I will not permit you . . .”

  “Sell your shares to me,” Warring demanded, “or buy ours. But you’d better let me know right now. I’m standing up and walking out of my office, and as soon as I shut off my lights, I turn off your lights.”

  Carson saw Warring put the letter opener down, lean back in his chair and toss his legs on top of his desk.

  “This is not the way I do busine
ss,” Mr. Shigetada insisted. “It is not the way we do business in Japan.”

  “Forty-two or forty-six,” Warring said. “Or sayonara.”

  Mr. Shigetada blurted out, “I give you forty, the same price you offer me.”

  “No, you give me forty-six.”

  Mr. Shigetada repeated, “Forty. And if you don’t accept my offer right now, it will come down to thirty-eight.”

  “I love it when people think they can threaten me.” Warring reached forward, grabbed an open bottle of beer that was sitting on his desk and took a swig. “Carson . . . tell him that I’m standing at the door and that I’m two seconds away from turning off the lights. This is the moment of truth. Deal or no deal?”

  Carson looked at Mr. Shigetada and gestured. “What do you want to do?”

  Mr. Shigetada simply stared back at Carson.

  Carson waited a long time before he said to Warring, “Mr. Shigetada’s answer is no answer.”

  “Okay,” Warring said. “No answer, no deal. Carson, shut down your computer, I’m going home. Have a good weekend.”

  “Forty-two,” Mr. Shigetada announced. “Final offer.”

  Warring said, “Too late. Monday morning, it’s over. Fire-sale prices. We don’t care.”

  “Then I buy back at fire-sale prices.”

  “Not quite, because we’re not going to sell to you. It will be a private sale. There are several interested parties, including Kami whatever they’re called.”

  That was Mr. Shigetada’s biggest rival.

  He suddenly stood up and yelled a word in Japanese.

  Carson didn’t know what the word meant or what Mr. Shigetada was going to do.

  “Forty-four,” he shouted angrily at Carson’s computer, “Forty-four. Not one penny more. Take it or leave it.”

  Warring said calmly, “All cash.”

  Mr. Shigetada nodded at Carson.

  “That’s a yes,” Carson told Warring. “Forty-four . . . all cash.”

  “Done,” Warring said.

  Carson looked at Mr. Shigetada. “Done?”

  Mr. Shigetada pointed at Carson, then at Carson’s computer, yelled that same word in Japanese, and stormed out of the suite.