The Vulture Fund

by Stephen W. Frey

  Now he was a member of General Becker’s personal staff because of the Wolverines’ success. The man remembered his friends. There was no question about that. “Thank you, sir.”

  “No, thank you, son.”

  Slade glanced back at Becker. The man had never before called him son. Suddenly he felt a sense of devotion to the man as he never had. But he must bury that feeling. It was all business, he reminded himself.

  Slade smiled. “You know, General, what you need is one more terrorist attack here in the United States, another situation like the one in Los Angeles. That would put you over the top.” Slade thought he noticed a subtle exchange between Becker and Ferris but wasn’t certain.

  “And can you arrange that for us?” Ferris asked, showing the full length of his upper front teeth as he smiled.

  Slade chuckled and held up his hands. “I’m just saying that with respect to the campaign, it would be strategic to have another situation like that. I hope you don’t infer from my comment that I would actually want to see that happen. I still know many of the men in the Wolverines, and I would never want to wish them into battle.” Slade paused. “I still feel guilty for not having gone into the L.A. facility with them.”

  “Nonsense!” bellowed the general. “You’re much too valuable to go in there. Leaders cannot be lost during battle. That is one of the first rules of warfare.” He sucked on the cigar for a moment, then pointed it at Slade. “Another situation like Los Angeles, huh? That would be nice. Slade, you’re starting to think like a politician.”

  “That’s a little scary,” Slade said.

  The three men laughed for several seconds, and then there was a short, uncomfortable silence.

  Finally General Becker drew in a long breath, then coughed. “Well, unfortunately another terrorist attack is something far out of my control. I can’t sit around and wait for a battle. I’ve got to take my battle to Mr. Andrews.” Becker paused. “Speaking of which, Willard and I have got some work to do, Slade.”

  Slade understood the implication. “Yes, sir.” He stood, saluted, and moved to the door. Just as he was about to close the door, he turned around and leaned back into the office. “Sir?”

  Becker glanced up from the desk. “Yes, Major?”

  “There was something you said you needed to speak to me about.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ll contact you later today. At your office. You will be there?”

  “Yes, sir.” Slade saluted again and was gone.

  “What was that all about, Chief?” Ferris asked.

  Becker did not respond immediately. His gaze was focused upon a bank of tiny television monitors standing together on a small table next to the desk. He stared at one of the monitors until Slade Conner had finished speaking to the general’s secretary and exited the outer office, then turned his attention back to Ferris. “Nothing, Willard.”

  There was something there, but Ferris decided not to push. The general maintained his own agenda sometimes. It was better for people not to ask questions. Even the chief of staff.

  Becker crushed the half-finished cigar into a large glass ashtray on the desk. “Always stop smoking a cigar at the halfway point, Willard. Even if it is a Monte Cristo. The smoke in the last half of any cigar will kill you. That’s where the bad stuff is.” Becker removed another cigar from the desk drawer and put it in his mouth but this time did not light it. “Did the president send over the new budget figures?”

  Ferris hesitated. Suddenly the elation of the tape and the discussion of Becker’s run for the presidency faded away. He had been dreading this moment. But as Becker’s chief of staff he had to address the issue even though it was so sensitive.

  “Willard?” The general’s voice rose.

  “We have received the figures,” the Rat Man said quietly.

  “And?”

  “And the information isn’t good.”

  “What does ‘not good’ mean, Willard?”

  Ferris could hear the tension rising in Becker’s voice. “The memorandum, directly from the president’s desk, says that our budget will be cut over the next three years: two billion the first year, then three and five in the next two. It says these numbers are preliminary and could increase after further review.”

  “What?” The general stood up behind his desk.

  “The memorandum cites a study that projects that annual interest expense on the national debt will exceed four hundred billion dollars by the year 2000 unless significant government spending cuts are made. It says here Whitman has decided that raising taxes is out of the question, not even an option. So he will concentrate on the spending side. Apparently Wall Street has told him in no uncertain terms that something must be done about the deficit or it will tag him with the catastrophe even if he’s already gone from office. That’s the spin from the staff office anyway. Obviously he doesn’t want Wall Street pinning the deficit on him, not even if he’s out of office. He wants his place in history secure.”

  “Ten billion dollars?” The general brought one mammoth fist down onto the desktop. The glass ashtray flipped over completely, spilling its contents and coming to rest upside down. But Becker took no notice.

  “It gets worse.”

  “It gets worse? How can it get any worse?” Becker stared down at Ferris from behind the great desk.

  Ferris gazed up at the massive head. The veins of the huge scalp began to bulge and pulsate beneath the crew cut, and the brown eyes seemed to be drilling holes into him. He had seen the general’s volcanic temper only a few times in their thirty years together, and he did not want to see it now. Oftentimes the bearer of bad news, even if he was only the bearer, could be punished as severely as the individual responsible. Ferris took a deep breath. “It says here that Whitman wants a full accounting of all expenses related to the Wolverines since the inception of the program. He refers to several maximum expenditure levels to which you and he agreed at the beginning of the project.” Ferris paused and looked up at the general slowly. “Chief, we are well over those maximums.”

  “I know that!” Becker leaned on the desk with both hands. His right palm came to rest on a cigar ember that had been spilled from the ashtray and had not been completely extinguished. Slowly he stared down at his hand, gritting his teeth. “Andrews,” he whispered. “That bastard Andrews is behind this.”

  Ferris nodded. “Probably.”

  “He’s trying to manufacture or expose financial improprieties here at the agency to offset the financial problems at his family’s business.” Becker’s eyes flashed to Ferris.

  Ferris glanced up at the general. “What problems at his family business, Chief?” Was this something else he was not privy to?

  The general hesitated. He had not meant to convey this piece of information to Ferris yet. But there was no holding back now. Willard might become suspicious if there was no explanation this time. Willard was a suspicious man by nature. “It has come to my attention that Preston Andrews’s family business, the multibillion-dollar Andrews Industries, manufacturer of a wide variety of vehicle component parts used by the Big Three in Detroit, is in deep financial trouble.”

  “I read the Journal and the New York Times every day. There has been no mention of any financial problems at Andrews Industries in either of those papers.”

  “The company is privately held. Just a few members of the Andrews family own shares. There is no public stock. And as a result, there are no third-party shareholders and no Securities and Exchange Commission scrutiny of the company’s financial statements. They don’t even tell their banks what is really going on.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How did you get this information, Chief?” Ferris glanced at the door, wondering if Slade Conner was somehow involved. Becker and Conner had seemed to clam up when he came in the room, but he had thought then that it was s
imply his imagination. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  The general’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t give away sources, not even to you. You should know that by now.”

  Ferris nodded. That was true.

  “I will tell you one more item that you may find even more amazing, Willard.”

  Ferris looked up.

  Becker smiled slightly. “Carter Guilford, the man we lost in Honduras several weeks ago…”

  “Yes.” Ferris leaned forward and shook his head. “A shame. I’m glad it hasn’t become public that he was working with the Ortega drug cartel. It would be very difficult for his wife and family.”

  Becker disregarded the comment about Guilford’s family. “I think I know where his cut of the profits was going.”

  A strange expression clouded the Rat Man’s face. “You don’t mean…” His voice trailed away.

  The general nodded gravely. “Information points to the unsavory fact that Guilford was working with Vice President Andrews. It appears that some of that money from the cartel may have ended up at Andrews Industries, after Guilford had taken his share, of course.”

  Ferris gazed at Becker in amazement. “What?”

  Becker’s eyes narrowed. “Preston is panicking. He can’t have a financial crisis at his company exposed just before the campaign begins. The press would have a field day. So he’s taking money from a drug cartel to save his ass. He’s willing to do almost anything to fund his campaign and keep the problems at the company quiet. And that includes using drug money.”

  Ferris swallowed hard. What Becker was saying seemed incomprehensible. But the general did not make such accusations lightly. Not even when the other person was his mortal enemy. He was too honorable a man.

  12

  “And how was your day, Miss Sommers?”

  Rachel eyed Lewis Webster as he sat, hunched behind the old desk, staring back at her from beneath dark eyebrows. It had been a grueling day. Her first interview had started at nine this morning with a bombastic partner named Sherman Stevens, who was perhaps the most egotistical human being she had ever met. For the first ten minutes of the meeting the man had gone on a raving monologue about his accomplishments at Walker Pryce, about his brilliant and aggressive style of investment banking, and about his beauty queen wife, who, to judge from the large picture of her sitting on his credenza, would have been lucky to have been allowed into the Westminster Dog Show at Madison Square Garden. Rachel had tired quickly of his inane garble, so she had crossed her legs at one point during the monologue—she had worn an old blue business suit for the day of interviews, and the skirt fell slightly farther up from the knee than was typically acceptable—as she sat across from him on the couch of his office, bringing her left leg over her right very slowly, lifting the leg higher than was necessary. For a split second Sherman’s gaze had slipped downward, an almost imperceptible shift of his eyes. But from that moment on he had wanted to know all about her. It wasn’t a move she was proud of, but the meeting was not supposed to be about him.

  From Stevens’s office Rachel had gone on to meet two associates in the Mergers and Acquisitions Advisory Department and a vice-president on the government bond desk, with whom she had gotten along with exceedingly well; they had talked mostly of her experience on the Merrill Lynch trading floor, in which he seemed most interested. Then there had been lunch with Mace and the head of Human Resources in a small, formal dining room with all the amenities, including four forks on the left side of her place setting that she had skillfully manipulated at exactly the correct moments, as the Human Resources director dutifully noted. After that she had interviewed with three more partners and two managing directors.

  She had been peppered with questions about her background, both business and personal; about her studies at Columbia Business School, including her rank in class; about her ability to be a team player; about her ability to be an entrepreneur; about deals she had worked on at Merrill Lynch; and finally about her resolve to do whatever it took to close a deal—whether that meant pulling three all-nighters in a row or taking the red-eye back to New York’s Kennedy Airport from a Seattle deal at two in the morning, then running across the airport to jump on the Concorde to work on another transaction in Paris without so much as a shower in between flights. She had dealt with the usual interview routines: the good cop/bad cop, the partner who kept taking telephone calls until she requested that he ask his secretary to hold calls until they were done, and even the subtle pass from the partner who looked like a movie star. Now it was seven o’clock, and she was exhausted, but she wasn’t about to let Lewis Webster see that.

  “I’m doing very well, thank you. I just wish all my days were this easy.” Rachel smiled at the older man evenly.

  Webster rubbed his beard for a moment and smiled back although it seemed more like a grimace. His eyes moved slowly from her face all the way down to her shoes and back up again. His gaze lingered at her hemline, but she sensed that he was deriving no pleasure from the long look at her short skirt. He was simply registering the fact that it was too short, made of a nonnatural fiber, and slightly frayed in one spot.

  “Walker Pryce is a demanding place to work, Miss Sommers,” he whispered.

  “I’m very confident that I can—”

  Webster held up a hand. “I’m not through.”

  Rachel cut off her words in mid-sentence. The whisper sent a cold shiver down her spine.

  Webster continued. “Many of the people at this institution, with whom you would be interacting on a daily basis, come from privileged backgrounds. You do not. That might create hostility between you and those people.” He paused and smiled slightly. “Some of them will want to tell you about how wealthy they are…all the time.”

  “My turn now?” Rachel asked politely.

  Webster’s grin faded. “Yes.”

  “I can handle anyone.” She said the words calmly, but her eyes flashed. “Most of the students at Columbia are upper-middle-class, at least. Personally I think most of them are as soft as Sherman Stevens’s belly.” She paused to allow her remark to sink in. “Envy makes people hungry. I’ve got enough envy inside me to choke a Rockefeller. I want what you and many of the others here have: financial security. Growing up poor is no fun, and I’m perfectly willing to be very upfront about that. I will work hard, very hard, to be financially secure. As a result, you will benefit.”

  Webster moved a hand to his mouth, then back to his lap. “Walker Pryce has no female partners and only two female managing directors—one in Personnel and one on the trading floor. You want to come into the Corporate Finance Department, where there aren’t any women above the rank of vice-president.”

  “I don’t care.” Rachel said the words coolly. “I like a challenge.”

  The intercom on Webster’s desk buzzed. He reached forward stiffly. “Yes, Sarah.”

  “Ms. Hunt is here to see you.”

  Instantly Rachel’s and Webster’s eyes met.

  “Send her in,” he whispered through the black box. “I’m sorry, Miss Sommers. I’m going to have to end the interview now. I need to see this lady immediately.” He rose from the chair and gestured toward the door without offering Rachel his hand. “Someone from Walker Pryce will get back to you in the next few weeks.”

  Rachel nodded as a lump rose in her throat. This did not sound like a man falling all over himself to hire her. She stood, nodded a quick thank-you to Webster, and moved away from him. As she neared the door, it opened suddenly and she came face-to-face with Leeny Hunt.

  “Good evening. I’m Kathleen Hunt.” Leeny offered her hand.

  Rachel took the other woman’s hand. So Mace and this woman were working together. Well, wasn’t that great! “Rachel Sommers.”

  An expression of recognition suddenly crossed Leeny’s face. “Oh, you’re the ace from Columbia, the one running the fund for the business school that the
professional money managers are all hot and bothered about. Don’t worry about them, Rachel; they’re just jealous.” She released Rachel’s hand and glanced at Webster. “You’d better sign this one on here at Walker Pryce quickly, Lewis. Otherwise Goldman or Morgan will have her, and you’ll look very foolish in about three years.”

  Webster grunted and sat down in his chair.

  Leeny turned back to Rachel and smiled. “Don’t worry about him,” she said softly. “He’s just a grumpy old man. He acts tough because he has to. But Mace adores you. He can’t stop talking about you. As I understand it, you’re one of Walker Pryce’s can’t-miss kids.”

  “Thank you,” Rachel said.

  “You’re welcome. Sorry I interrupted the interview.”

  “It’s all right.” Rachel smiled, then walked quickly out of the office into the hallway beyond.

  When Rachel was gone, Webster pointed at Leeny. “Close the door,” he ordered.

  Leeny pushed the huge door shut, then turned and moved toward Webster.

  “How goes the money-raising business?” His tone was not friendly.

  “Fine,” she said nonchalantly.

  “What does that mean?” Webster was immediately exasperated.

  “It means that it isn’t going to take me very long to raise fifty million dollars from the wealthy families I’ve been talking to. Not long at all,” she hissed. Leeny became suddenly angry, her frustrations at his constant harassment bubbling to the surface from nowhere. And the guilt she was beginning to feel needed an outlet.