by Stephen Frey
“I’ll pay you five grand a day plus two for each additional man. But you have to start right now.”
Stiles eyed Gillette for a few moments, then glanced around the office. As if he was trying to figure out whether or not all this was real.
“Okay,” Stiles agreed, moving back to where Gillette stood and handing him a business card. “I’ll be with your executive assistant for the next half hour, going over your schedule and your routine. Before the end of the day, I’ll need fifteen minutes to sweep your office for listening devices. Call if you need me,” he said. Then he was gone.
Gillette went to his desk. “Debbie, have Ben come in,” he instructed through the intercom. “And give Mr. Stiles any information he needs.”
“Anything?”
“Anything,” Gillette confirmed, checking stock prices on Bloomberg. Dominion S&L was off 3 percent in early trading, but the overall market was up. There might be a fly in the ointment, a silver-haired one with designs on the Oval Office.
A few minutes later, Cohen entered Gillette’s office and sat down. “Who’s out there with Debbie?” he asked.
“A guy named Quentin Stiles. He’ll be my personal bodyguard from now on. We’ll pay him five thousand a day plus expenses.”
“Five thousand?”
“And two thousand a day for any additional people he uses. He’ll have a contract to you this afternoon.”
“But Tom McGuire has people with you,” Cohen protested.
“I need my own person,” Gillette said firmly. “Not Tom’s, not yours, not anyone else’s. Just mine.”
“That seems like a pretty big non sequitur to me.”
Gillette drew himself up in his chair, tempted to forbid the use of Latin at Everest, but he controlled himself. “No more questions about this.” He wasn’t going to tell Cohen about last night’s shooting. There was no need for him to justify anything to Cohen. Or anyone else for that matter. “Got it?”
Cohen squinted. “Got it.”
“Good.” Gillette checked Bloomberg again. Dominion’s share price had fallen another twenty cents in the last few minutes. “Have you gotten the money to those kids yet?”
“It’s all taken care of.”
“Thank you.”
“Sure.”
“How about those questions I had about Faith?” Gillette asked. Yesterday afternoon he’d tasked Cohen with following up on what Tom McGuire had relayed about Faith Cassidy. “Anything?”
“Yeah.” Cohen flipped back several pages in his pad. “Sales of her latest album are off 30 percent from her first one—when you compare where the first one was after the same number of release weeks.”
“When was that last album released?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“And her contract negotiations have been on hold for a while?”
“Yes,” Cohen confirmed. “According to the chief counsel at her record label, anyway.”
“Did he give you specifics on the marketing dollars the label committed to that album versus the first one?” asked Gillette.
Cohen nodded deliberately. “Fifty percent less.”
“Fifty percent? Did he tell you why?”
“He’s still checking.”
“That prick,” Gillette muttered under his breath.
“What was that?” Cohen asked quickly.
“Nothing.” The situation was exactly as McGuire had described it. Donovan was getting back at Faith for not letting him have what he wanted in the limousine. This was all about revenge.
“When are you seeing her again?” Cohen wanted to know.
“She’s on the West Coast doing some PR. She’s supposed to be back tonight or tomorrow.”
“Be careful,” Cohen warned.
“Don’t worry, Ben.” Gillette checked another stock quote. “You were going to give me the latest on Laurel Energy, right? Did they finish shooting seismic up there yet?”
“Yeah, but it’s strange,” Cohen said, shaking his head.
Gillette glanced up from the computer. “What is?”
“Last night they found the team leader’s SUV abandoned fifty miles north of this no-phone, one-horse town called Amachuck. The tapes from the shoot were in the front seat, but he was gone. There was no sign of him.”
“Did we get the tapes to the lab?”
“They’re analyzing them as we speak.”
“Any idea what happened to the guy?”
Cohen shrugged. “The truck died. There were heavy snows up there yesterday. Our people think he must have tried to make it out on foot. But he’d been up there quite a few times. He would have known that he was still fifty miles from town. He should have just stayed in the truck. That was his best shot.”
Gillette peered at Cohen for a few moments, thinking. “You said the truck’s battery died?”
Cohen checked his notes. “That’s what I was told. The key was in the truck when the guys found it. They tried to start it but it wouldn’t go.”
“How does a battery die out in the middle of nowhere? I mean, once the engine starts, the battery doesn’t matter anymore, right?”
“I guess. I don’t know much about cars.”
“Why would you turn the engine off and let the battery die?”
Cohen shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me.”
“Let me know as soon as the lab calls,” Gillette instructed.
“Of course.”
“Have we heard from the U.S. Petroleum lawyers?” asked Gillette.
“They called our attorneys about the oil field service division yesterday. Richard Harris must really want Laurel.”
“Yeah,” Gillette agreed. “Maybe he knows something we don’t.”
“You really think so?”
“Maybe. Listen, you, Faraday, and I are getting together later to talk about promoting Kyle and Marcie.”
“What’s to talk about?” Cohen grumbled. “You’ve already made the decision.”
Gillette nodded. “Yes, I have.”
“And you aren’t going to let me be the chairman of even one company.”
“We’ve been over that, Ben,” Gillette said firmly. “You’re going to be focused internally. You’re going to be in charge of what goes on here at Everest. I need you to do that for me while I run most of our portfolio companies and help Faraday raise the next fund.”
“Okay,” Cohen said quietly after a few moments. “I don’t like it, but I accept it.”
“Good.”
“And you know I’ll do the best job I can.”
That was true, Gillette thought to himself. That was Cohen. If he accepted a job, he did the best he could. Whether he was excited about it or not. “I do.”
“But if that’s how it’s going to be, I need people around here to know I’m in charge.”
“I’ll make an announcement tomorrow,” Gillette assured him.
“I need more than that,” Cohen pressed.
“What do you mean?”
“I need a title.”
“A title?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re already a managing partner.”
“I need to be the chief operating officer.”
Gillette pushed out his lower lip. That didn’t seem like a big deal. If Cohen wanted to be COO of Everest, so be it. He almost felt grateful to Cohen for coming up with a solution that gave them both what they wanted. “You got it. From now on, Ben, you’re COO.”
Richard Harris stood on a crowded Dallas street corner, waiting for the light to change. He could have sent his executive assistant to pick up his roast beef and provolone sandwich, but the deli was only a few blocks away from U.S. Petroleum’s shiny new sixty-seven-story headquarters building and it was a beautiful day. The exercise would do him good. Make him feel better about having potato salad with his sandwich.
Harris glanced back over his right shoulder at the skyscraper that had been his pet project for the last two years. It was an impressive structure, dominating the Dalla
s skyline. In thirty days he’d have Laurel Energy to add to the trophy case, he thought to himself, smiling. Christian Gillette thought of himself as a master negotiator, but the young buck still had a lot to learn about red herrings and hidden agendas. Someday he’d be as good as Donovan, but not today.
As the Metro bus barreled along beside the curb, a man in the crowd on the corner slipped behind Harris and pushed. Not hard. Just a subtle shoulder to Harris’s back. Just enough to make him stumble into the street with the bus ten feet away.
One moment Harris was on the street in front of the crowd. The next he was gone. Cartwheeling across the intersection like a rag doll. Dead before his body stopped tumbling—three hundred feet from where he’d been struck.
In the ensuing chaos the man who had pushed Harris walked calmly away into the Dallas afternoon.
Last night, he’d missed. Gillette was still alive. But today had been a different story. Harris was dead.
Now it was time to finish off Gillette.
11
Partners. The hardest things in life to have.
“LET’S GO.” GILLETTE MOTIONED FOR Debbie to close the door of the small conference room outside Donovan’s old office. Where Donovan and the managing partners had always met.
It seemed strange not to have the old man here, Gillette thought to himself. Even stranger that he’d thought about it. He wasn’t a sentimental man.
He’d already had the personal items in Donovan’s office boxed and sent to the estate, and all Everest-related information in Donovan’s desk and credenzas catalogued and filed. He’d move in this weekend. Not that he liked the office very much, but he had to take it. It was the alpha office, and everyone needed to know he was the alpha dog.
“We’ve got a lot to cover,” he continued as Debbie sat down beside him. He was pushing things forward the same way Donovan would have. The only other people in the room were Cohen and Faraday. It was the first time they’d met as a group since the funeral.
“What’s she doing here?” Faraday demanded, his British accent more pronounced than usual.
Over time, Gillette had come to recognize what flare-ups of Faraday’s accent meant. Faraday was irritated. “She’s taking the minutes of the meeting.”
“Bill never brought his assistant in to take minutes.”
“Maybe he should have.” Gillette glanced across the small table at Faraday, glad he’d made time earlier to go out and pick up the new contacts. No more blurry images. And it had given him a chance to see Stiles in action, which had impressed him. “Don’t be afraid of change, Nigel,” he counseled, noticing that today’s razor cut was on Faraday’s chin.
“Speaking of that,” Faraday piped up, “I vote we go business casual now that Bill’s gone. Everybody else in New York is, and I’m sick of wearing suits and ties.”
Gillette shook his head. He liked formality. The same way Donovan had. It made people serious. “No.”
“Don’t be afraid of change, Christian,” Faraday said sarcastically, giving Gillette an irritated stare, then looking over at Cohen. “What do you think, Moses? Want to go casual?”
“It’s Christian’s decision.”
“Yeah, but what do you think?”
Cohen shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
Faraday groaned. “Have your own opinion once in a while, will you?”
“Hey, I—”
“Who’s the black guy hanging around today?” Faraday continued, switching subjects. “The one who looks like he could break me in half with two fingers.”
“Quentin Stiles,” Gillette replied, amused at the way Faraday had easily segued from topic to topic. He was the consummate salesman. “My new bodyguard.” The fact that Faraday had asked about Stiles indicated that Cohen and Faraday hadn’t buddied up since they’d been passed over for chairman. Cohen had known since this morning about Stiles but apparently hadn’t told Faraday. They’d never been close, but Gillette figured they might form some kind of alliance after the events of the last week. He was glad they hadn’t. “Stiles will be with me full-time from now on.”
“I thought Tom McGuire was taking care of your personal security,” Faraday said.
“I needed another set of eyes and ears, given what’s happened.”
“Hmm. Hey, what about Bill’s old office? You going to take it?” Faraday wanted to know. “Because if you don’t, I will,” he volunteered quickly. “In fact, I should get it. I’m the lead money-raiser around here. I deal with investors more than anyone else. It makes sense for me to have it. Always good to impress the investors with the best digs.”
“I’m taking it,” Gillette said firmly. “But thanks for bringing up our investors and getting us to the first agenda item. Which is the new fund.”
“New fund?” Faraday asked.
“Yes. Everest Capital Partners Eight.”
“I thought Seven was only 50 percent invested.”
“Over 50 percent,” Gillette made clear. “Which means I can start raising Eight whenever I want to.”
Faraday turned to Cohen. “Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve already started the raise, Nigel,” Gillette continued. “I met with Miles Whitman over at North America Guaranty yesterday morning.”
Faraday sat back in his chair and folded his arms tightly across his chest. “Thanks for telling me,” he muttered.
“I wanted to get things kicked off as soon as possible. Miles was available on short notice. He committed a billion five.”
“A billion five?” Faraday asked incredulously.
“Yes. And, Nigel, there’s no need for you to follow up with Miles. I’ll deal directly with him on this.”
“But, I—”
“Don’t sweat it,” Gillette broke in, hearing the insecurity in Faraday’s tone loud and clear. “You’re going to have your hands full bringing in the other thirteen and a half billion.”
“Thirteen and a half?”
“That’s right.”
“Holy shit. You mean we’re going to try to raise fifteen fucking billion?”
“Yes.”
“No one’s ever raised a private equity fund that big.”
“We’ll be the first,” Gillette said matter-of-factly. “By the way, Paul Strazzi is going to be in the market raising a $10 billion fund for Apex at the same time.”
“That’s comforting news.”
“Have confidence, Nigel.”
Faraday gave Gillette a quick salute. “Aye, aye, Captain. But in the future, could you at least let me know when you’re going to talk to one of our big investors? We’ll look like fucking amateurs if I call one of these guys and he says you’ve already been in touch.”
“Of course,” Gillette agreed. “Let’s get together later and talk specifics. You’re going to need to hire at least one more person. Maybe two.”
“Maybe three.”
“Like I said, let’s talk later.” Gillette looked around. “Next topic. I’ve agreed to sell Laurel Energy to U.S. Petroleum for a billion dollars. We invested three hundred million in that business, so it’s an excellent transaction for us: a seven-hundred-million-dollar profit. And we know the buyer’s good for the money. There’ll be no financing contingency.” He glanced at Cohen. “Ben, I’ve asked Kyle to take the lead on this one.”
“Right!” Cohen jotted down a note to himself.
“I want to close the transaction quickly,” Gillette continued. “No earlier than January first, though. We don’t want our partners getting hit with capital gains taxes this year.”
“Whoa,” Faraday spoke up. “At least Bill let us have some discussion about selling a portfolio company before he made his decision.”
“The offer came out of nowhere,” Gillette explained. “Directly from Richard Harris, the CEO of U.S. Petroleum, at Bill’s funeral reception. I had to make a decision right there.” Here was another sign that Cohen wasn’t running to Faraday to tell him about what was going on. “Ben was in t
he room with me when Harris made the offer.”
“Shouldn’t we get info on the seismic tests in Canada before we commit to Harris?” Faraday asked.
“We’ll get those next week,” Gillette answered. “If we win the lotto, we’ll renegotiate. Any more questions?”
“Yeah,” Faraday said. “Why does Cohen already know everything?”
“I’ve promoted Ben to chief operating officer,” Gillette answered without hesitation. “Things happened fast in the last few days, and I needed someone with me while I negotiated. I’m going to need someone focused internally, too. Ben’s the best suited for that job.”
Faraday shoved his hands in his pockets and slouched back in his chair, annoyed. “What about our portfolio companies?” he asked, the edge in his tone sharpening. “Who’s getting the chair positions now that Donovan and Mason are gone?”
“I’ll chair fifteen of the twenty-seven. Kyle and Marcie will split the other twelve, six and six.”
Faraday was quiet for a few moments. Finally he looked over at Cohen. “Did you know about this, too?”
Cohen looked away.
“Yes, he did,” Gillette admitted.
“Christ!” Faraday shouted, yanking one hand out of his pocket and banging the table.
“Oh, God.” Debbie dropped the pen and put her hands to her chest. She’d been focused on taking minutes and hadn’t seen Faraday’s explosion coming.
“Easy, Nigel,” Gillette warned.
“Easy? Damn it, Chris. You’re making major decisions, and I’m hearing about them days later. But Cohen’s in on everything real time. I’m a managing partner here, too. And you tell me to be easy?”
“I have to do what’s best for the firm,” said Gillette calmly. “I’m the chairman.”
“Good for fucking you.”
“Nigel, I don’t think—”
“I didn’t even find out first from you that you’d axed Mason.” Faraday wasn’t finished with his tirade.
Gillette’s eyes narrowed. “So, how did you find out?”
“Troy called me.” Faraday raised one eyebrow. “Did you know that Paul Strazzi hired him?”
Gillette stared back at Faraday but said nothing.
“Ha,” Faraday crowed triumphantly. “You didn’t know.”