The Chairman

by Stephen Frey

  “When did this happen?” Gillette demanded.

  “Yesterday. Strazzi called Mason at his apartment after the funeral reception to set up a meeting. Strazzi knew what happened before I did, for Christ’s sake. Before any of us but you, apparently.”

  So there was a rat inside Everest. Miles Whitman had warned him that Strazzi would do anything to get an advantage, and having someone inside Everest would be the best way to do it. Now he knew for sure Whitman was right, and he needed to ID the traitor immediately. Quentin Stiles could help. And he could help find out who e-mailed him last night just before the attack in front of the gas station.

  “And you aren’t going to let Moses or me have even one chair position,” Faraday continued, ranting. “You’re going to promote Kyle and Marcie to managing partner and let them have the chairs right away. This is fucking bullshit!”

  Gillette glanced at Cohen. So Ben was filling in Faraday after all. At least on some things. Probably things he was pissed off about, such as Kyle and Marcie’s promotions. “Yes,” he confirmed. “I’m going to promote them. And I’m going to give each of them 5 percent of the ups.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” yelled Faraday, springing out of his chair. “They don’t deserve 5 percent.”

  “Shut up, Nigel,” Gillette snapped. “Kyle and Marcie are extremely talented. Tom McGuire tells me Kyle’s been approached several times in the last six months by other private equity firms.” He glanced at Cohen. “Marcie, too. Right?”

  Cohen nodded.

  “So, if I don’t promote them and give them a piece of the action, they’ll leave. Then we’d have to hire people from the outside who’d squeeze us for more than 10 percent. People we wouldn’t know.” Gillette paused. “Sit down, Nigel.”

  Faraday sank slowly back into his chair, teeth gritted.

  “I’m going to meet with Marcie and Kyle after this,” Gillette explained. “I’ll write an e-mail to the rest of the firm in the morning making the announcement.”

  “How much of the ups of Fund Eight are you going to give Cohen and me?” Faraday blurted out angrily, unable to control himself.

  “Jesus, Nigel. Don’t be so pushy,” Cohen urged.

  “Fuck you, Moses. He’s going to screw us. I know it.”

  “I’m going to give you what you deserve, Nigel,” Gillette said calmly. “If you raise the fund quickly, you’ll do well. If not, you’ll be disappointed.”

  “How much are you going to keep for yourself?” Faraday demanded.

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “More than twenty-fucking-five percent, I’ll bet.”

  “Like I said, I haven’t—” Gillette stopped talking as the door opened and Cohen’s assistant entered the room.

  She leaned down and whispered something into Cohen’s ear. Cohen’s jaw slowly dropped.

  “What is it?” Gillette demanded.

  Cohen didn’t answer right away.

  “Ben.”

  Cohen shook his head. “Richard Harris was killed this afternoon in Dallas,” he murmured. “Three blocks from U.S. Petroleum’s headquarters.”

  Gillette felt his mouth go dry. “How?”

  Cohen glanced up at his assistant, then back at Gillette. “He was run down near his office.

  Cohen’s face blurred in front of Gillette’s eyes. First Donovan. Then the guy up in Canada. Now Harris.

  12

  The Government. Serving and protecting, faithfully.

  Until the evil in those who wield power deem the probability of their crimes being discovered small enough to abuse their positions for personal gain. Or, worse, they’re blinded by ambition.

  If you’ve never been the target of a government conspiracy, you can’t truly comprehend the frustration—and, ultimately, the fear—involved. If you have, you know that despite your innocence, you’re very vulnerable. Because the government can do almost anything it wants in its pursuit of you—legal or not. And you can do almost nothing to stop it.

  Then, even if you’ve been an atheist all your life, you suddenly believe in God. Because, at that point, he’s your best chance. Your only chance.

  TYPICALLY, PAUL STRAZZI SURROUNDED HIMSELF with his success: His office at Apex filled with elegant furniture and antiques. A Rolls-Royce limousine. His five-bedroom penthouse atop the most prestigious apartment building in Manhattan, a sprawling East Hampton estate, fine wines from France, and cigars imported from Havana by an old friend who knew his way around customs at Newark Airport.

  Opulence. Everywhere, all the time.

  But this office was bare-bones: ten by ten and windowless—a prison cell. Walls unpainted. Furnished with just a metal desk and two spindly chairs. Tucked into one corner of a run-down warehouse located in a war-zone section of the Bronx.

  It reminded Strazzi of the East New York hellhole tenement he’d grown up in. Despite how much he abhorred its appearance, it did serve one extremely important purpose. It provided him a place to meet with someone in secrecy. When that person was a U. S. senator, it took on an even greater importance.

  He glanced to his left at the lone decoration on the wall. The only item he’d kept all these years as a reminder of a childhood he despised. Hanging by a twisted wire from a single nail, encased by a simple black frame—the letter from the insurance company denying his mother the money she needed to fight her cancer.

  At the time the doctor discovered her sickness, she’d missed four monthly premiums in a row because she’d had to use the money she usually set aside for health insurance to put food on the table for her three boys. The man she worked for as a maid in Manhattan had repeatedly stiffed her, always telling her he’d pay her next week. Finally she’d realized that he had no intention of ever paying. And because she was a single mother—Strazzi’s father had abandoned them years ago—there was no other source of income.

  There had been no compassion from the insurance company. The pleas for making an exception this one time had fallen on deaf ears, and she’d died in her bedroom on a hot summer afternoon.

  It had taught Strazzi the most important lesson of his life: Most people have no compassion for those they don’t know—even for many they do. In the end everything comes down to money.

  So, he’d learned to have no compassion himself—except for those very few he was closest to. He’d learned to bring it down to money, just like everyone else did. To use all those he wasn’t close to for personal gain.

  Now, because of the sense of purpose and focus the lesson had instilled, he was worth billions. Sometimes he wondered if he would have traded it all for a loving father and a normal childhood.

  Strazzi gazed at the name at the bottom of the letter from the insurance company. Harold Bleaker. The man who’d denied his mother coverage, a chance at living. Fifteen years ago, he’d ruined Bleaker’s life, destroyed the one-shop dry-cleaning business Bleaker had poured his life savings into after he’d tired of the insurance business. Strazzi had opened his own shop, next door to Bleaker’s, charging half of what Bleaker charged for everything, put Bleaker out of business in three months. He also paid an attractive young woman to approach Bleaker one night in a bar as his business was collapsing, get him drunk, and take him to a hotel, where their encounter was secretly recorded. Then Strazzi had the tape delivered anonymously to Mrs. Bleaker. He did the same thing to Bleaker’s married son, using the same woman.

  Strazzi smiled as he stared at Bleaker’s signature. Whoever said revenge didn’t taste sweet was a pussy. It was sweeter than honey, and he’d loved every second of it.

  There was a light tap on the door and Strazzi rose from his chair, passing one large hand over his gray crew cut, musing at how a powerful person could knock so meekly.

  He opened the door and Stockman moved quickly past him into the office, as if something was chasing him. Strazzi leaned into the dimly lit corridor and glanced around. Satisfied no one was there, he closed and relocked the door. Stockman had already removed his coat and taken a seat in
front of the desk.

  “Morning, George.”

  “Hello, Paul.” Stockman checked the letter hanging on the wall to his right, peering at it hard so he could read the small print. He abandoned the effort when he realized it was one of those artifacts that held significance only for the person who had hung it. “Nice place,” he said sarcastically, gesturing around.

  “It serves its purpose.”

  “Uh-huh. So, why did you have me come here?”

  Strazzi chuckled. “I figured you didn’t make it to this section of the Bronx very often, and I thought it might do you some good to see how your constituents live.”

  “Thanks for the educational opportunity,” Stockman replied drily. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “Let’s start with Donovan’s widow.”

  “I made the call,” Stockman confirmed. “I told her I had information from a reliable source that there were significant problems in the Everest portfolio. As we agreed.”

  “I know you did,” Strazzi confirmed.

  “You do?”

  “Yup.”

  “How?”

  “She called to tell me that she plans on seeing Gillette this afternoon.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “And once the information on Dominion Savings & Loan is released to the public through your friend in the House, she’ll sell out to me immediately. She’ll roll over on Gillette so fast he won’t have a chance to react. As soon as Pete Allen has his press conference.”

  Peter Allen, the senior congressman from Idaho, was vice chairman of the House Select Committee on Corporate Abuse. A man Stockman controlled.

  Stockman flicked a piece of lint from his pants. “Are you worried that it won’t be enough?”

  “That what won’t be enough?”

  “What we’re going to claim is wrong at Dominion.”

  “Enough to what?”

  “To make the widow sell her stake in Everest to you,” Stockman answered, irritated that Strazzi wasn’t seeing things as clearly as he was.

  “You spoke to her. You heard her voice. She’s a cat on a hot tin roof. She’s looking for an excuse to sell. Why wouldn’t it be enough? The newspapers will be all over it. She’ll be out of her mind. She’ll think her whole net worth is about to evaporate.”

  “Everest doesn’t control Dominion anymore,” Stockman pointed out. “They only own about 10 percent of it now that it’s public. Gillette might be able to deflect the heat so there’s no real damage to Everest.”

  “But what we’re saying we have on them would have happened while they did control Dominion,” Strazzi countered. “And Allen has to point that out in the news conference. He has to say that we have documents that show Everest’s direct involvement.”

  “He will,” Stockman assured Strazzi.

  Strazzi leaned back in his chair, not satisfied. Of course, he never was satisfied in situations like this. Not until he actually saw the scenario play out and everybody did what they were supposed to do. “Are we still on for Friday?”

  Stockman nodded. “Allen will hold the press conference sometime around noon.”

  “You sure he’s going to do this?”

  “Absolutely. I’m his godfather in the Senate. He needs me.”

  “Has Allen pushed you at all on whether or not the information is credible? Has he asked to see documentation?”

  “No. And he won’t. He knows better than that. I helped him with a tough situation he had a while back. Something that could have snowballed and destroyed him. Everything’s good.”

  Strazzi broke into a broad smile. He couldn’t help himself. “Gillette will have to abort his try at that next fund before it even gets off the ground. And the widow will sell me her stake in Everest. I’ll call for a vote of the limited partners right away and have Gillette thrown out on his ass. Then I’ll install my person as chairman.” His smile grew broader. “Me. Hell, with 25 percent of the vote in my back pocket, it’ll be a lock. Gillette only won by one vote the other day, and there wasn’t even a scandal at that point. I’ll probably get a hundred percent.”

  “It would be nice if you had something on Gillette personally,” Stockman pointed out. “Because we won’t be able to pin Dominion on him. We’ll be able to pin it on Everest, but not him specifically. He’d be able to prove very quickly that he wasn’t involved. That it was just Donovan and Marcie Reed who worked on the Dominion IPO. I mean that’s the whole reason for using it—because he wasn’t close to it. So he won’t be able to figure out what we’re doing.”

  “I’m working on that,” Strazzi answered.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I hired the Everest managing partner Gillette fired last weekend. His name’s Troy Mason. If there’s anyone who can give us dirt on Gillette or the companies he works with directly, it’s Mason. He’ll know where the bodies at Everest are buried.” Strazzi paused. “When will you announce your candidacy, George?”

  “Right after Allen’s press conference on Everest. Right after he tells the world he’s going to investigate them.”

  “Nice symmetry.” Strazzi nodded approvingly. “Once we have control of Everest, you’ll have yourself another couple million votes—and my checkbook,” he added.

  “And, because of my help, you’ll control twice as much private equity,” Stockman countered. “The two most powerful private equity firms in the world. It goes both ways, Paul.”

  Strazzi nodded slowly. He already had his empire but, very shortly, he’d double the size of it, and destroy Donovan’s legacy at the same time. Very quickly he’d wipe the man off the face of the private equity map.

  “How are you going to pay for all this?” Stockman wanted to know. “The widow’s share of Everest and my campaign, I mean. You told me her stake is going to cost at least two billion, which is what I told her someone might offer her. Like you told me to do on the call. And you promised me a hundred million for my campaign.”

  Strazzi glanced over at Stockman. He didn’t really have to tell anyone how he was going to pay for anything. It was none of Stockman’s business. But he wanted the senator to be confident about everything when he gave Pete Allen the go-ahead to hold the press conference on Friday. “My stake in Apex is worth almost 5 billion. I’ve already had discussions with several of my personal bankers about using it as collateral. I haven’t told them what for yet, but it won’t be a problem to get at least two billion in cash out of that. I might even be able to use the Everest stake as collateral, too. But if the bankers think there are problems with that portfolio, I won’t get much.” He paused. “Plus, I’m going to negotiate with the widow.”

  “What do you mean?” Stockman asked.

  “I mean I’m going to try to use her as the bank, too.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When I meet with her to talk about buying her stake, I’m going to tell her I’ll pay her a billion in cash and the other billion over five years. Two hundred million a year.”

  “She might not agree to that,” Stockman said worriedly. “Don’t blow this, Paul.”

  Strazzi let out an exasperated breath. Politicians. Idiots, most of them because they never actually had to make money. They lived off others. They didn’t understand that everything in business was a negotiation. Right down to the price of paper clips. “Relax, George. It’ll be fine.”

  “What about my campaign? Let’s say the widow holds out for all cash up front and you have to come up with two billion. How are you going to pay for my campaign then?”

  “I’ve got three hundred million in CDs, my friend.” Strazzi saw relief spread across the senator’s face. “It won’t be a problem. Trust me.”

  “And you’re going to let me use your portfolio companies as places for speeches and announcements. At Apex and Everest, right?”

  “Just like we talked about. Don’t worry.”

  “I want access to that media company Everest owns right away,” Stockman kept on. “I want the TV and rad
io stations.”

  “You’ll have it.”

  They were silent for a while, and Strazzi thought about what he was so close to.

  Finally Stockman spoke up. “Are you sure that guy you just hired from Everest is on our side?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I hate to admit it, but Gillette’s pretty cagey. Maybe he cut the guy loose as a ploy, knowing you’d go after him immediately. Maybe the guy’s a Trojan horse. Maybe he’s still working for Gillette.”

  Strazzi’s eyes narrowed. Stupid as most politicians were about business, they understood intrigue. “That thought crossed my mind,” he admitted, “but I have an insurance policy. Mason’s on our side. I’m positive.”

  Stockman took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  Strazzi reached into the desk’s top drawer, pulled out a cigar, and ran the length of it slowly under his nose. “Do you think Donovan ever told Gillette he found out you and I were working together?”

  Donovan had discovered what was going on thanks to an aide in Stockman’s office who he had on the payroll, an aide who was quickly dismissed.

  “I don’t think so,” Stockman answered. “He and Gillette weren’t very close the last couple of years. At least, according to your contact.”

  Strazzi lit the cigar and took several puffs. “I think that’s right.” He shook his head. “It wouldn’t be good for us if Donovan had. Gillette might see through this thing very quickly.”

  Stockman cleared his throat. “Do you think Bill Donovan was murdered?”

  Strazzi’s eyes flashed to Stockman’s. “How would I know?” he demanded.

  “The timing of his death certainly worked out well for us.”

  Strazzi glared at Stockman, thinking about how the senator wasn’t really risking much in this but was getting a great deal in return. Really, he was risking nothing. Just providing access to Congressman Allen and the House Select Committee on Corporate Abuse. In return he was getting a campaign war chest, votes at Apex and Everest, a radio and television network, and corporate venues for speeches in front of thousands of cheering employees, which would be made into wonderful video bites for the evening news.