Robin cupped her breasts with her hands and pushed them up. There had been a time years ago when they had maintained this lifted position all on their own. Not now. She had never been pregnant, but gravity and time had worked just as effectively to make them sag. Robin removed her hands and watched them fall to their natural state. “Ugh.” Was she still attractive? She primped her auburn hair for a moment. Rumors of late-night trysts between the vice president and her—rumors that had run rampant during the early days of his term and were completely unfounded—had faded away in the past two years. Perhaps that was the best indicator of all that her appearance had deteriorated. No one would believe the rumor now because no one would believe that the vice president might want her anymore. She glanced into the mirror one more time. Her body hadn’t really gotten that bad.
Quickly Robin removed the soft full-length cotton robe from the hook on the back of the bathroom door and slipped into it. She moved out of the bathroom and padded across the thickly carpeted living room of the beautiful suite until she reached the sliding glass door leading to the balcony. The door moved easily to the side, and she stepped from the living room into the darkness, walking across the cement of the balcony floor in her bare feet until she reached the railing, where she leaned against the iron and stared into the Arabian night. From her twenty-fifth-floor perch Robin could see several green and red lights twinkling far out in the darkness. They were running lights of oil tankers, churning constantly north and south on the Persian Gulf, full of oil for export or on their way to take on another hold of the black gold.
She laughed as she lighted a cigarette and inhaled deeply. People had started awful rumors about Preston and her in the early days of his term as Bob Whitman’s vice president. About how she and Andrews would purposely schedule long international trips for weeks at a time to get Preston away from Sandra, his wife. About how they always stayed in adjoining suites on these trips. And about how they had actually been caught in bed together on several occasions. Robin inhaled again. None of the rumors was true. They were typical Washington intimidation techniques. She had worried terribly the first time she had heard the whispers and wished that people would stop. Now she vaguely wished the rumors would resurface.
Robin checked her watch: five in the morning. She had better touch base with Preston one more time before she turned in for a few hours’ sleep. No doubt he was awake. The man seemed never to need sleep, a prerequisite for any top politician. At two o’clock he had seemed adamant about not needing her for the rest of the night, but that meant nothing. He expected her to check in constantly.
She stepped back into the suite and locked the sliding glass door—a silly precaution since she was protected by at least fifty Secret Service men on the roof above her suite, in the hallway just outside the living room door, and on the floor below them—then moved toward the short hallway connecting her suite to the vice president’s. Robin tiptoed down the dark hall, then tapped on the vice president’s door lightly. Without awaiting a response, she pushed the door open and leaned into the room.
Preston Andrews sat in the far corner of the living room with his back to Robin. Sitting next to him was a dark man, with bushy black hair and a thick black mustache that she could see only because the man was turned in his seat toward Andrews. They were huddled close together, muttering in subdued tones. This was strange, she thought. She knew Preston’s schedule like the back of her hand, and he had nothing on the docket until noon—a boring luncheon with one of the emirs. So what was this man doing here at five in the morning?
“Preston?” Robin moved into the suite without closing the door to the small hallway after her.
The vice president rose instantly, obviously surprised by her entrance. He turned toward her as he stood, smiling nervously. The other man seemed to bend down in his seat so as not to be seen. Or was it simply her imagination?
“Robin, Robin. I thought I told you to go to bed.” The vice president spread his arms as he reached her and enveloped her in a huge hug.
She felt him guiding her gently but firmly back toward the door through which she had just entered. “Who is that man, Preston?”
Preston kissed her gently on the cheek. “Do you know how beautiful you look in that robe?”
“Like Miss America, I’m sure.” She turned to try to catch one more look at the dark man sitting in the chair as Preston opened the door and pushed her back toward her suite. “Who is that man?”
“Don’t be surprised if I finally try to crawl in bed with you tonight, sweetheart. We need to validate all those rumors sometime.”
Robin stared at him in shock. “Preston?”
“See you soon.” He smiled at her as he closed the door in her face. For a moment Andrews stared at the door he had just shut. He was breathing hard. Then he turned and gazed at the dark man sitting in the living room of his suite. It would be light soon. They needed to finish this quickly.
10
Frigid February gusts whipped empty paper cups, gum wrappers, and old napkins up off the black pavement into chaotic frenzies, as frigid economic gusts sometimes whipped Wall Street traders into chaos on the New York Stock Exchange, just down the block from the Walker Pryce headquarters. Mace dodged several pieces of flying paper and slipped into the backseat of the stretch limousine, nodding at the elderly driver, who stood stiffly in his long dark coat, holding the door open against the cold wind. The old man had been waiting for Mace in front of Walker Pryce for the last half hour and was not happy because twice he had been forced to move the huge limousine at the request of one of New York’s men in blue. The door slammed shut as Mace relaxed into the deep leather. He rubbed his hands together quickly, then passed them through his dark hair.
“You look fine.”
Mace turned slowly to his right to face the woman sitting on the backseat beside him. Darkness had overtaken Manhattan an hour before, but several lights glowed softly inside the limousine, and he could see her quite well.
“In fact you look more than fine.” Her voice was smooth.
“Mace McLain.” He extended his hand toward the woman.
She responded slowly, smiling demurely at him before gently putting her hand in his. “Kathleen Hunt.”
Her hand seemed very warm, almost as if her body temperature were running slightly above normal. Mace glanced down. Her fingers were long and thin and uncluttered by jewelry. Her nails were perfectly manicured, painted dark red. His eyes moved back up to hers.
“Mr. McLain, we are headed to Columbia Business School, is that correct?” The driver’s nasal voice emanated from a speaker positioned above the limousine’s small television set.
“That’s right.” He attempted to release the woman’s hand from his, but she held on for a moment longer before letting go. “Take the West Side Highway.” He glanced toward the woman. She smiled again, then turned away from him and gazed out the tinted window at the entrance to the Bank of New York at One Wall Street.
“Thank you.” The speaker clicked once, and the static, which had been coming through the speaker with the man’s voice, was gone.
This wasn’t going to be easy, Mace thought.
“Mace…” the woman said. “That’s an interesting name.”
Mace turned back toward her as the limousine began to move slowly forward. “I’m an interesting guy.” Immediately he regretted the remark. After all, none of this was her fault. She was simply being opportunistic. Still, he felt she wasn’t necessary, and he did not have time for an extraneous level of management.
“So I understand.”
He inhaled heavily. “Look, I’m sorry I kept you waiting, but I got caught in a meeting that went longer than I had anticipated.”
“Not a problem.” She nodded at the tiny television. “I spent this time with Peter Jennings. He’s kind of an interesting guy as well.”
Mace ignored her comment. “It�
�s too bad we had to meet this way, on a limousine ride up to Columbia Business School, but my schedule has been extremely full. This is the first free time I’ve had in several days, what with trying to close two deals before jumping into this fund idea of Webster’s.”
“I think it’s kind of a nice way for us to get to know each other. We’ll have a beautiful view of the Hudson River and the lights from the boats as we drive up the West Side Highway.” She tilted her head back and played with her earrings.
Mace watched her adjust the tiny gold chains hanging from her lobes and wondered if all this civility was just an act designed to engender initial feelings of goodwill or if it was a sincere attempt to lay the groundwork for a strong working relationship. He rubbed his chin. She was older than he, probably in her late thirties. He judged her to be this age by the faint lines at the corners of her mouth. But the age lines did not detract noticeably from her beauty. She was an attractive woman, he had to admit, and she did not fit into the female professional mold of pumps, pearls, and panty hose. Long blond hair cascaded loosely down her neck, onto a fashionable black sweater, violating the Wall Street rule that a woman’s hair be worn off the shoulders. The knee-length skirt clung sexily to long legs that appeared to be well maintained, probably with regular visits to the gym, he thought. Her legs were not imprisoned in stockings, which he found sexy. Her face was thin, and she wore an unusual pair of clear-rimmed glasses that seemed to enhance her facial features. Although it was difficult to determine accurately as they sat in the limousine, he decided that she was probably tall, perhaps five-eight or more. Being tall himself, Mace liked tall women.
“So you are going to raise a billion dollars for Lewis Webster’s little fund, for his bold foray into the vultures’ world.” Mace folded his hands on his lap. He wasn’t going to warm up to Kathleen Hunt too quickly. He was going to make certain that she knew where he stood.
“I take it you aren’t one hundred percent behind this idea.” Her voice gave away no irritation at his cynical tone. “Lewis told me that you weren’t completely convinced that Walker Pryce ought to be raising this fund.”
Her voice was naturally soothing, like a steamy shower or a hot cup of coffee after a long walk on a snowy winter evening. He made a mental note to remember not to be mesmerized by it.
The limousine moved into the Battery Park Tunnel. Mace watched the lights lining the tunnel walls flash by as the vehicle picked up speed. He had to be careful. First impressions were lasting impressions, and despite his reservations about the fund, the reality of the situation was that this woman was his superior and would probably report any insubordination directly to Webster. “I think it’s a big risk for the firm. Let’s just say that.”
“No risk, no reward,” she said.
“Mmm.” The limousine broke out of the tunnel into the Lower West Side of Manhattan. “Look, I’m sure you’ve got great credentials and you believe we are going to be wildly successful with the fund, but I think the partnership really had its collective heart set on going public and cashing out at a big multiple now. Therefore you, and I, for that matter, have a tough row to hoe. If the fund works, we’ll be heroes. If it doesn’t, we’ll be looking for work elsewhere.”
“Uh-huh.” She seemed to be mulling over Mace’s comment. Suddenly she pointed out the window. “Hey, isn’t that the Downtown Athletic Club?”
Mace leaned toward her side of the limousine and glanced out her window. “Yes, it is.”
“That’s where they award the Heisman Trophy each year to the outstanding college football player, right?”
Mace nodded, wondering what the connection was.
“Herschel Walker won the Heisman in 1982.”
“Yes. How did you know that?” Mace smiled despite himself.
“Walker played running back at the University of Georgia, and I’m from Georgia. I used to love to watch him run the ball. I’d go to the games on Saturday afternoon with my boyfriend and a bunch of friends. We would tailgate and drink, then go into the stadium and watch them play between the hedges. Those were good times.” Her voice was wistful. “You were an excellent football player in college, Mace.” She said the words offhandedly, in the same faraway tone.
Mace’s eyes raced to hers, but he said nothing.
“You passed for over two thousand yards your senior year and threw for fourteen touchdowns.” She continued. “Not quite Heisman statistics, but certainly more than respectable. You tried out for the Minnesota Vikings as a free agent, but it’s hard to make a pro team when you aren’t drafted,” she said sympathetically.
So Kathleen Hunt could use research systems too. Well, that was great, but it wasn’t going to raise them a billion dollars. He had to admit that it was a nice touch for her to go over his college football statistics.
“You’re from Georgia?”
“Yes.” She laughed as she turned toward Mace.
“But you don’t have an accent.”
“How far do you think I’d get on Wall Street with a thick southern accent?” She broke into a heavy Georgia drawl.
“Not very far.” Mace acknowledged what she was saying. She was smooth, with an answer for everything. Engaging was the word people used. Easy, Mace, he told himself. Don’t give in so easily.
The limousine moved past the World War II aircraft carrier Intrepid, now a floating maritime museum at the Forty-sixth Street pier. “Who will you go to for the money?” he asked. He wanted some answers before they got to Columbia.
She leaned her head in one direction and passed a hand slowly through the entire length of her golden hair. “Very wealthy families here in the United States.”
“Specifically.”
“You’re very persistent.”
“I thought I was ‘interesting.’ ”
The woman smiled at Mace. Lewis Webster had warned her about him. He was not a man to be taken lightly or to be easily manipulated. Her demeanor became serious. “I’ll go to the Rockefellers, the Mellons, the Basses, the Stillmans, Sam Walton’s family, the Koch family, and Bill Gates…to name a few.”
Mace whistled cynically. “You certainly seem to move in the right circles. Do you really know those people?” He was unconvinced.
“In most cases I know at least one family member or their advisers.”
“How?”
“In the mid and late eighties I worked at Kohlberg, Kravis & Roberts. Some of those families were KKR’s biggest investors, and I met them there. In 1989 I moved to LeClair and Foster in San Francisco, and I developed more investor contacts there. More wealthy families. They like to buy companies quietly.”
KKR. LeClair and Foster. Those were players, real players. Mace leaned against the door as the driver guided the limousine off the highway and into the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It would not be long now before they’d arrive at Columbia. “And you think your relationships with those people are strong enough to raise a billion-dollar fund to speculate on Manhattan real estate and Big Board stocks?”
She leaned forward and touched his knee. “I know they are.”
Mace grinned. “And just what makes you so confident?”
“How about this? I’ve already got preliminary commitments from some of those families for two hundred million. You see, I’ve been working on the fund for a couple of months. Lewis didn’t tell you everything, did he?”
Mace swallowed hard. Two months? Two hundred million dollars already? “No, I guess he didn’t.” So all that crap from Webster about waiting until Mace had a chance to talk to this woman before hiring her was just that—crap. Webster had hired her without the slightest input from him. Still, she claimed to have preliminary commitments for two hundred million dollars already. If that were true, it would be big. Because raising a fund was like a snowball rolling down a hill. Once it had developed critical mass, it would keep rolling of its own accord and grow larger and lar
ger as it rolled.
The limousine came to a gentle stop in front of Columbia Business School, but Mace continued to stare at her for a few moments. He did not know any of those wealthy families. His investors consisted mostly of professional money managers who couldn’t be counted on to keep their mouths shut, undoubtedly how Schmidt at Morgan Stanley had found out about and almost destroyed the WestPenn short line railroad transaction. But families were different. They worked in the shadows. They didn’t like the market to know what they were up to. And they seemed to have a ton of cash that they could put to work quickly—without having to deal with investment committees. Mace stared at her. He wanted to like her. After all, they were going to be working together very closely, at least for the foreseeable future. But it wasn’t that easy. She had come into Walker Pryce on day one as a managing director without putting the work into the firm he had. If Webster had promised him two million and his managing director title, Webster had probably promised her five million and partnership status. If she could pull this thing off, he was probably looking at the first female partner in Walker Pryce history.
“Well, it was nice to meet you.” Mace leaned forward and reached for the door handle, not bothering to wait for the driver to open it. “I’m sure it will be interesting working with you. The driver will take you wherever you want to go.”
“I’m going with you.”
“What?” Mace glanced back over his shoulder at her.
She grinned seductively at him. “I want to watch you work. And after you finish teaching class, we’re going to a late dinner so that we can begin mapping out strategy with respect to the fund. I’m going to have a billion dollars for you to invest pretty soon, so we’d better get to work as soon as possible.” The driver opened her door, but instead of stepping out, she leaned closer to Mace. “And my friends call me Leeny. It’s short for Kathleen.”
The Vulture Fund Page 10