by E. J. Simon
“With the help of several eyewitnesses, the LAPD was able to reconstruct the last moments of Herbert Stein’s life. According to the hotel guests who had been in the parking area of the Chateau Marmont, it appeared that Mr. Stein stepped into his car and, as he began to drive away, the Cadillac suddenly and violently accelerated, crashing into a concrete wall on the opposite side of Sunset Boulevard. He was alone in the car. Mr. Stein was pronounced dead upon arrival at Cedars Sinai Hospital. Police are pursuing two theories behind the accident, speculating that Mr. Stein may have suffered an incapacitating stroke, thereby losing control of his car and are also examining the vehicle for a malfunction in its acceleration parts, possibly caused by electronic interference with the car’s advanced computer system.”
Looking forward to his morning pot of coffee and hot croissants, Michael opened the door as the server rolled in the room service cart. As the aspiring actress set the table for breakfast for two, she saw the newspaper opened to the article about last night’s death of Herbert Stein.
“Oh my God, wasn’t that terrible?” she said, whispering after she noticed Sindy in bed through the open door to the bedroom.
“Yes, it’s unbelievable. I saw him doing a shoot in the lobby when we checked in. I always admired his work.” Michael said.
“That’s not all, someone broke into his room right after and stole all his pictures and his cameras. Can you imagine? I mean, the poor guy’s barely cold and you go and rob his room. I mean, what’s the world coming to?”
She put the finishing touch on the perfectly set table, looked again at Michael and, after a sigh, said simply, “May I pour your coffee?”
Chapter 36
West Hollywood, California
Frank Cortese took his special cell phone in hand and headed down to the hotel garage. He knew his way by now. He’d already installed a GPS tracking device under the body of Michael’s rented black BMW sedan.
Monsignor 007—the Vatican’s equivalent of James Bonds’ Q who headed up the MI6’s gadget lab—had supplied him with his newest technological breakthrough, the “Car Crasher.” Once linked through a Bluetooth connection to certain high-tech cars, like the latest model BMWs, the app allowed Cortese to cyberhijack and take over most functions of the car through his cell phone.
He knew that Michael and Steele were scheduled to be at the UCLA auditorium for the annual global business conference in the morning. Tonight, he would connect his device to Michael’s car and, in the morning, wait for him to drive away, following him until he saw the proper location—either over a cliff or into a barrier at a high speed—to send Michael and his girlfriend into oblivion.
He knew that Monsignor 007 wouldn’t be happy once he found out that he’d used the device for two jobs in the same city in two days, but the photographer had interfered with his plans. As long as the accident didn’t occur too close to the Marmont, he felt any connection between the two was unlikely to be made, after all, the police were still convinced that Stein’s car simply malfunctioned or he’d had a stroke.
Not seeing Michael’s car as he entered the garage, he switched onto the GPS function on his phone. He looked closely at the screen waiting for the indicator to point him to the car. Thinking there was a mistake, he looked closer. The car was in a parking lot at LAX airport.
Chapter 37
New York City
“We’re being taken over.” His words seemed to echo back to him inside the executive conference room at Gibraltar Financial’s Manhattan headquarters.
Michael’s statement wasn’t news to Karen DiNardo, who had been privy to his conversations and correspondence with Perkins and Hightower. He knew that Maggie O’Brien had been down this road before. Like Karen, she had worked for Michael Nicholas for several years and, like Karen, she had been through corporate upheavals before. The only surprise was the exact timing.
“The announcement had to be accelerated, that’s why Perkins and Hightower canceled their trip to L.A. and I had to come back early. Not that I cared much about attending the conference this year.”
Michael appreciated the fact that Maggie had not come to corporate America through the usual channels. After graduating Trinity College in Dublin, she had been a nurse and a professional bartender, tending the famous curved bar, the same one James Joyce rested his glass and elbows on, at Davy Byrnes Pub on Duke Street in Dublin. Michael had often thought that perhaps dealing with the sick and sometimes inebriated was one reason that Maggie had become so talented in her job as a highly successful senior executive of a major American financial institution.
Unlike Karen, however, she was not aware of Michael’s venture into the underworld of his brother’s business. Not that it mattered. Today’s crisis had only to do with Gibraltar Financial, the legitimate firm that Michael led. The firm that was no longer bleeding millions each quarter.
Michael’s sixtieth-floor office overlooked Fifth Avenue. He had a clear view of the rooftop pools, gardens and luxury offices and penthouses, a view that “makes you feel like the whole world is rich.” Today, he thought, it seemed a fitting backdrop to the coming debate about the widely divergent fates of those in power—and those who are powerless.
“What does this mean?” Maggie asked, although Michael knew that she knew.
“Cartan’s official line is, of course, that nothing will change,” he said.
“Yes, the corporate takeover equivalent of ‘the check’s in the mail.’ ” Karen said.
“But, everything will change, of course.” he said. “We’re going to have to eliminate another two hundred jobs. And Cartan Holdings is going to leverage the purchase, pull several million in equity out of Gibraltar and finance our takeover with our own equity. So they pocket another ten million and add it on to our books as debt and then we have to meet these additional debt payments out of our earnings.”
“Do they understand that once we make these cuts and add on the debt that we won’t be that profitable?” Maggie asked. He could see Maggie’s Irish temper flaring up. She was back in Davy Byrnes Pub.
“They know but they’ll turn around and sell off Gibraltar before the shit really hits the fan.”
Santana’s “Black Magic Woman,” coming from Michael’s BlackBerry, interrupted the discussion. He knew it was Sindy and excused himself, quickly walking out of his office into the hallway. He made a mental note to change her ringtone.
“It’s not a great time. Is everything OK?” he whispered into the phone.
“Not really. Lester was right. It’s even worse than we thought. Rosen’s bets were a wipeout for him. He’s into us for well over a million. It’s like a worst-case scenario. He’s a zero with the ponies and the games.”
Michael braced himself for the rest of the story. He glanced back at his office and the agitated Maggie O’Brien. He wondered which one of his two lives at that moment were the least painful. “Are we going to have a problem?” he asked.
Steele was all business, “He’s told Skinny Lester that he can’t pay right now.”
Michael’s voice was no longer a whisper, “You’ve got to be kidding. This guy is one of the biggest hot shots on the planet. What do you mean he can’t pay right now? What does that mean? Not today?”
She cut him off, “Not ever.”
Chapter 38
Paris, France
As Steele arose from the steamy depths of the Paris Metro, at the Ecole Militaire station, she couldn’t help but admire the view. The River Seine was behind her, just feet away, while towering blocks ahead and dominating the sky, stood the grand Eiffel Tower.
But she was not there to sightsee. She walked slowly past the outdoor market, admiring the hundreds of French cheeses, some firm, others oozing a soft cream; fish of every conceivable variety, so fresh they appeared to be staring back; bright red filet mignons and racks of lamb; pink hams; dark red and white-speckled salamis; terrines and foie gras; and delicate rich pastries and custards; all on display for the passing pedestrians. It was
a gourmet’s delight. She walked the hundred feet to the Pont de l’Alma, crossed the Quai d’Orsay and proceeded down Avenue Bosquet until she reached the address she was looking for, number four, a well-preserved, ten-story apartment residence. She looked at the small directory with the names of the residents alongside a small black intercom button for each apartment. When she saw the listing, “10F: B. Rosen,” she pressed the button and waited to hear his voice and the buzzer signaling the unlocked lobby door.
Her stilettos clicked on the black and white marble floor. The elevator was small but looked like a delicate mahogany and polished brass jewel box. The ride up to the tenth floor was agonizingly slow despite the adrenaline rushing through her body. Finally, the elevator door opened and she pulled open the collapsible brass gate. An ornate spiral staircase was directly in front of her. As she passed it, she looked down to the lobby floor from which she had just arisen. Rosen’s door was just a few feet from the elevator.
The front door was already open, and there stood Bertrand Rosen waiting for her, smiling, his eyes open wide. As she entered the apartment, he seemed pleased, if not incredulous, that she was there. She nodded, walked by him and through the opened door. With her high heels, she was several inches taller than him. She could feel Rosen’s eyes following her, leering she was sure, at the back of her long slim legs and tight skirt.
“Madame Steele, what a pleasant surprise. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“Perhaps we could have a glass of wine?” she said.
“Bien s�r,” he answered in French as he motioned her to the living room and headed to the kitchen to fulfill her request. She took a quick stroll through as much of the spacious apartment as she could see without causing suspicion. A large, rotund cat rubbed up against her, purring.
“May I use the toilet?” she called out.
After determining that they were alone, she returned to the living room and sat on the long white velvet couch, just as Rosen was entering with two Baccarat crystal goblets of Sancerre. To her surprise, he sat down on the couch too, just close enough to make it clear that he misjudged the purpose of her visit. Perhaps worse, she thought, he had clearly misjudged her.
He motioned as though to make a toast but she ignored the gesture and took a long sip of her wine. But she was certain that Rosen had misjudged again. Looking into her eyes he said, “Don’t be nervous. I’m delighted that you came.”
But she wasn’t nervous. Instead, she took her first sip, then looked around the room and began her mental calculations, assessing the physical surroundings and situation and comparing it to the detailed options she had run through in her mind before arriving.
She placed her glass on the coffee table. Rosen did the same. He looked into her eyes.
She clutched her Louis Vuitton handbag and inserted her right hand inside, gripping the silencer-equipped HK45 handgun, still out of sight from Rosen and, abruptly, stood up. He remained seated, clearly unsure of what was happening. She moved to the other side of the coffee table, thereby putting several feet between them.
“Bertrand,” she said, dispensing with the formalities of French address, “this is not a personal visit. This is business, strictly business. Mr. Nicholas’ business. You have a debt which must be paid.”
His head jerked back ever so slightly, perhaps the recognition on his part that she was not attracted to him or his riches.
“But, of course, it will be paid. Very soon. Of course.”
Something in the exuberance of his smile, a subtle hint of French or male condescension—or perhaps it was just her own intuitive sense from having dealt with people on the edge of desperation—whispered to her that he was lying.
“When exactly will you pay us?” she asked.
“In due time, in due time, my dear.”
Still hidden inside her bag, she placed her hand on the pistol handle and inserted her right index finger into the trigger. “The money is owed now.”
“But, madam, we are speaking of an extraordinary sum of money, over a million euros…”
She cut him off, “Had you won, you would have expected several times that from us—and immediately.”
“Perhaps, you are correct. Nevertheless, I am not in a position to pay you at this moment.” His smile was gone. His expression had turned from amusement to tension, even anger. “How dare you come here demanding money? Who do you think you are? My business is with Monsieur Nicholas, with Michael. Not with you.”
“I’m leaving here with cash, a check or some negotiable instrument which I can take directly to your bank.”
His look was incredulous. “Madame Steele, I suggest you leave my apartment.”
She pulled the gun out of her bag and, with both hands, leveled it at him. If the appearance of the steel black pistol alone wasn’t enough, she was sure the addition of the long silencer convinced Rosen that the threat was imminent and deadly. His mouth opened slightly, his eyes looked back into hers.
“Very well, I will do whatever you want. Or at least, whatever is possible.” His face softened, appearing to relax or, perhaps, it was resignation. “I have little to lose.”
“You have your life to lose,” she said softly, wondering what he meant.
“I have no money, no money at all. And, therefore, perhaps not much life either.”
“Who the fuck are you kidding? You manage billions. Maybe I’m imagining this place,” she looked around at the Louis XIV furnishings, the Matisse and Picasso oils on the walls in their ornate, gold frames, the silk drapes, the large floor-to-ceiling windows. She continued, revving up her own anger, “Your villa in Cannes, your penthouse in New York. A million either way can’t make that much difference to you.”
He looked down, his eyes nearly closed, sad. “I cannot pay you. I’m sorry. I can’t explain it now but it will soon be evident to you, to everyone.”
“That’s not good enough. You think I’m going to believe you?” Motioning toward the large window, she said, “Go over there and open the window.”
He hesitated.
She lifted the gun, aiming it higher now, toward his head. “I don’t think you’re in a position to defy me. Move!”
“Killing me will not get you your money.” His voice was soft, cracking.
“It doesn’t look like we’re going to get it anyway. And we can’t stay in business allowing people to walk away from their debts. Go to the window and open it.”
He shrugged and walked across the large living room to the wall of floor-to-ceiling, square-paned windows, opening two of the large panels. As she stepped several steps closer to him, he turned back toward her. “Are you going to shoot me or push me? What is it that you want?”
She smiled, “Maybe I’ll give you the choice. But what I really want is our money, Bertrand. I would prefer not to kill you but I will if I have to. I think you know that.”
“But, you see, I have nothing to live for,” he said, calmly.
She wondered how that could possibly be. Was this a well-orchestrated bluff by Rosen? Either way, had she exhausted her leverage? No, there was more to this situation, more to Bertrand Rosen than she could figure out at this moment. Perhaps, she thought, she had made her point. He was certainly scared—but, oddly, appeared almost resigned, ready to die. Too ready. She was missing something. Perhaps he was stalling, almost as though he was waiting for something … or someone. Had he pushed a security alarm button without her seeing it? And, if there was any chance he would pay up, there was no point in killing him. Not now, not yet anyway. She’d push just a little harder; she had to find out what he was hiding. Then, she could reevaluate her next move.
The warm air flowed into the room, neutralizing the chill of the air conditioning. She could see a sliver of the steel side of the Eiffel Tower. The fat cat reappeared, purring and rubbing against her leg.
“Give me a portion of what you owe us, write the check right now, or my first shot will cut through your knee. Then, we’ll work up from t
here.”
He looked at her, laughed and said, simply, “Fuck you.”
It was then that Bertrand Rosen, without even appearing to look, threw himself headfirst out the window. She rushed to the window and looked down just as his body hit the sidewalk. A dull thud carried up the ten floors. She immediately ducked back into the room, took a deep breath, gulped down the remaining wine in her glass, placed the glass in her bag and proceeded toward the door.
But just as she was preparing to turn the polished brass door handle to make her hurried exit, she heard the doorbell ring followed by the sound of a key in the lock—and then saw the handle turn.
How the hell could anyone possibly get up here so fast, she thought. Her mind was racing, she had seen that the sidewalk was empty when his body hit, so whomever it was, they had to have been on their way up before Rosen went out the window. They think he’s here.
As the lock was turning, she ran several feet in the opposite direction from the entry hall and into what appeared to be a coat closet. She tucked herself securely inside, leaving the door ajar an inch or so. As she again gripped her gun, she hoped the person entering was not the maid.
She watched from her perch as the front door swung open. It was a woman but she couldn’t get a good look at her face. “Bertrand, are you home? It’s me. Are you on the phone? Bertrand?”
Steele knew the voice. All too well. Her heart racing, she watched as Samantha Nicholas cautiously entered the apartment, leaving the front door open as she proceeded down the long hallway to the living room on her left. And just as Samantha entered the room, Steele silently slipped out the front door, calmly removing her high heels and walking quickly yet silently down the ten flights of the building’s ornate circular stairway.