“Let’s be honest here. I’m overweight, I can’t remember the last time I worked out, and I haven’t had a full head of hair since you were in diapers. So tell me what Tate really wants you to do for me.”
“He told me to make sure you were comfortable and that you enjoyed yourself. Nothing more,” she said, nonchalantly. “Any attraction I have to you has nothing to do with Wayland Tate.”
“Give me a break. A woman like you is rarely attracted to a man like me unless…”
She finished the sentence for him, “…unless she’s paid to be? Is that what you think? Sorry, David. I have no such arrangement with Wayland Tate.” She stood up and began walking away. Before reaching the door, she looked back at him. “Sometimes, women like me are only attracted to men like you.”
“Why?” Quinn said. He was certain she was lying, but still curious about how she might respond.
“Because you’re fascinating,” Vargas said, taking a step toward him and then another. “You’re a man who can have anything he wants. You could walk away from Musselman today and enjoy a life of indulgence and pleasure, but you won’t because the challenge of taking your company to new heights makes you feel alive. Men like you are not common, David. Besides, young and handsome is overrated and much too predictable.”
“You’re almost believable,” Quinn said, smiling at her. “And you’re right, I won’t throw away my life for a passing indulgence.”
“I don’t want you to throw anything away, David,” she said, taking another step toward him. “I know what kind of reputation you’ve spent your life creating. I’d just like to get to know you better.”
“Sorry, Andrea, I’m not your man.”
She raised her eyebrows with a charming coyness. “See you in the morning, David. Our relationship will remain strictly professional.” She opened the door to the cabin and exited without looking back. Seducing David Quinn may prove tougher than originally planned, she mused, but the challenge excited her.
After Vargas left, Quinn took off his robe and got into bed. He’d allowed himself to be enchanted by Vargas’ stunning beauty and disarming openness, but it wasn’t the first time something like this had happened to him. Vargas was right. A man’s power and wealth attracted some women far more than all the other male attributes combined. But he’d decided long ago that one woman in his life was enough, and although Vargas had aroused him, his years of resolve had taught him how to quickly overcome such temptations. Within minutes he was enjoying the comfort of his principles while falling asleep. No second thoughts.
Andrea Vargas’ international call from onboard the Executive Class charter came through to Wayland Tate’s suite at Suvretta House a few minutes before six o’clock in the morning, St. Moritz time. Tate had just finished showering and was primping in front of the mirror, when he lifted the cordless phone to his ear. “Yes?” he said, walking to the beige chenille sofa in boxers and an unbuttoned shirt.
“Sensual desire does not seem to be David’s weakness, although he’s tempted,” Vargas said, getting straight to the point. She relished her interactions with Wayland Tate because she loved the challenge of manipulating powerful men almost as much as he did.
“I’m not surprised. What else?” Tate asked as he sat down on the sofa, eager to obtain Vargas’ initial assessment of David Quinn.
“Musselman’s depressed stock price is causing him a lot of anxiety. It seems that the only reason he accepted your invitation to St. Moritz was to meet with you and Jules Kamin. He sees you playing a key role in holding his company together.”
“Why do you think he’s so obsessed with staying at the helm of Musselman?” Tate asked, standing up and stepping to the balcony windows that overlooked the frozen lake. He knew from past experience with Vargas that when it came to quickly diagnosing a client’s peculiar mix of hidden motivations and obsessions, her intuition and judgment were usually spot-on.
“Based on what’s in his file and reading between the lines of our brief conversations,” Vargas said, pausing a moment to confirm the words she was about to speak. “I’d say he’s obsessively conscious of his place in the world. Breaking up Musselman, especially during this time of difficulty, is completely unacceptable to him because it would undo what he’s already done.”
“In other words, he’s willing to betray his precious principles to avoid getting ousted by the board.”
“Musselman is David Quinn. The company’s future is his offspring. He’ll do whatever is takes to guarantee survival.”
“Perfect,” Tate said, mentally reviewing his history with David Quinn. Like most people with substantial wealth and power, Quinn would justify unprincipled behavior to preserve his institution. They all did it, because they could get away with it. Whoever has the money makes the rules.
“I don’t need to tell you that Quinn is nobody’s fool, even if he may look and act a little frumpy,” Vargas said.
“Getting attached?”
“I wouldn’t have a problem staying with David for awhile,” she said, feeling more and more energized by the challenge. She admired Quinn’s obsession and fantasized about having it directed at her. Of course there was also the money. Tate’s compensation program was extremely generous, as long as he got what he wanted.
“Really? Well, let’s make sure he doesn’t get away. Nice work, Andrea. I’ll see you in a few hours. Get some sleep,” Tate said, smiling to himself as he said good-bye and put down the phone. Vargas could make any man want her, Tate imagined. Thanks to Morita, she’d become an invaluable contributor to Tate Waterhouse and its clients.
Weintraub, Drake, Heinke & Redd’s law offices were unmistakably designed for discreet client handling, Wilson thought as he introduced himself to one of the three receptionists sitting behind a large circular desk. She was an Asian woman, with severe looking black glasses, who quickly ushered him into one of several small conference rooms encircling the foyer. As she closed the door behind her, she informed him that Mr. Redd would be with him momentarily.
Within seconds, Daniel Redd walked through a door at the opposite end of the elegantly sparse conference room. He was dressed in uniform—dark expensive suit with white monogrammed shirt. Only their ties were different: Daniel’s was yellow, Wilson’s purple. “How’s your father?” Daniel asked.
“Stable. They’re still doing tests, but Malek’s team seems optimistic about him regaining consciousness. Injury to his medulla seems less likely than the doctors in Sun Valley originally diagnosed, which means brain damage is no longer as much of a concern.”
“We may need to increase security around him,” Daniel said.
“Two men from your firm are outside his ICU along with two uniformed policemen. Detective Zemke alerted Boston’s police chief, who happens to be a close friend of his. The uniforms have been there around the clock. If you think we need more than that, then there’s something you’re not telling me,” Wilson said, suddenly anxious about Daniel’s comment.
“Maybe I’m being paranoid,” Daniel said. “Let’s get this closing over with; then we can talk.”
Wilson’s anxiety lingered as Daniel led him into the mahogany filled boardroom. KaneWeller’s Chairman and CEO Marshall Winthorpe, COO Jules Kamin, and their team of executives were already assembled at one end of the forty-foot conference table, ready for the signing. Bill Heinke, managing partner of Weintraub, Drake, Heinke & Redd, along with Daniel’s team of lawyers entered the boardroom next. After Daniel made the formal introductions, Wilson shook hands with the eight KaneWeller executives, Bill Henke, and Daniel’s team of six lawyers. When everyone had shaken hands, they sat down in the burgundy leather chairs and turned their attention to the task at hand. Wilson and Marshall sat next to each other under the ornate crystal chandelier at the center of the room.
Marshall began by giving a brief speech summarizing how Fielder & Company would become KaneWeller’s flagship for entering the management consulting business. Thanks to changes by the Federal Reserve concerning investment banks along with green lights from the SEC and Justice Department, management consulting businesses and investment banks could now be comingled under the same ownership and management. Historically, investment houses such as KaneWeller had been prevented from owning or operating traditional management consulting businesses, even though they’d been offering management advice to their corporate clients for years. Marshall Winthorpe seemed particularly pleased that the business press was heralding the acquisition as a predatory coup for KaneWeller and a major step toward strengthening the nation’s commercial and investment banking institutions. “The long line of Fielder financial giants should be very proud of this merger,” Winthorpe said in conclusion, looking at Wilson.
“I’m sure they are,” Wilson said before graciously expressing his satisfaction in being able to execute his father’s desire to merge Fielder & Company with KaneWeller. After Wilson’s brief remarks, he and Marshall turned to the four piles of papers in front of them on the conference table. Daniel directed the order of the signings from a seat he had taken on the other side of the table. Jules Kamin, President and COO of KaneWeller, who Wilson remembered as a business associate of his father’s, stood behind Wilson and Marshall. The others sat watching and quietly conversing. At one point during the signing, Wilson turned to look at Kamin. As their eyes locked, they smiled at each other, but the sardonic look on Kamin’s face left Wilson with a strange uneasiness that lingered throughout the signing.
KaneWeller’s lawyers had spent several days reviewing the company’s client files and discussing them at length with Fielder executives. How much have Kamin and Marshall missed or ignored in their due-diligence evaluation of my father’s business practices? Wilson wondered. What about Kamin? He’s been an associate of my father’s for years. How much does he know? What about the others? Daniel had assured Wilson that neither he nor his family would suffer any liability, regardless of what might come to light after the transaction was completed. Everyone in the room seemed satisfied, except maybe Cheryl O’Grady. She was one of KaneWeller’s attorneys, who kept staring at Wilson like a schoolteacher suspecting a student of cheating during an exam, which only served to amplify Wilson’s anxiety and wariness.
When all the documents were signed and properly distributed, Marshall Winthorpe handed Daniel a wire transfer order for $3.2 billion and stock certificates worth $1.8 billion to be deposited in an escrow account at UBS, where they would remain for the next thirty days. To speed up the negotiations, Daniel had proposed a thirty-day grace period during which KaneWeller could back out of the deal with sufficient cause, namely the discovery of any material misrepresentation of the facts by Fielder & Company. Daniel didn’t expect any problems since KaneWeller wasn’t looking for a way out. Wilson hoped he was right.
Less than forty-five minutes after they’d sat down at the boardroom table, Marshal Winthorpe and Wilson Fielder stood, shook hands, and congratulated each other. KaneWeller’s acquisition of his father’s eighty-two percent ownership of Fielder & Company had been consummated, at least provisionally. As the hand shaking and congratulations extended to the others in the boardroom, staffers from Daniel’s law firm brought in the traditional cigars and whiskey—Bolivar Corona Gigantes and Chivas Regal Royal Salute. An hour later, only Daniel and Wilson were left in the boardroom.
“I’m glad that’s completed,” Daniel said.
“You’re worried, aren’t you?”
Daniel gazed at Wilson for a prolonged moment. “Just glad there were no last minute surprises. Now we can accelerate the rest of the liquidation.”
“What else?”
“We have about seventy percent of your father’s stock positions and investment partnerships left to monetize.”
“No. I mean what else is bothering you? You said we’d talk about it after the signing,” Wilson said.
“Nothing that time won’t resolve,” Daniel said as he began picking up the documents from the conference table.
Wilson’s frustration was rising. He placed his hand on Daniel’s arm to stop his busywork. “I need to know what else is going on, Daniel.”
Daniel glared at Wilson before responding. “I’m concerned about the mounting surveillance,” he said abruptly and then returned to picking up papers.
This time Wilson grabbed Daniel’s arm. The jolt sent some of the papers sliding across the table and onto the floor. “Goddammit. What aren’t you telling me?” Wilson demanded.
“We didn’t expect this level of surveillance,” Daniel said, his eyes like pinwheels. “The number of people, the equipment, it’s more than we…”
“Where are they?”
“One of their locations is across the street from your family’s home on Brattle Street, on the top floor…”
“The Broadhead place? They wouldn’t…”
“The Broadheads don’t know about it. They’re in the Bahamas for four more weeks. Looks like the graduate student taking care of the house in their absence couldn’t resist the opportunity to make some extra cash. He’s temporarily moved into a bedroom in the basement.”
“How many people?”
“More than a dozen—four at the Broadhead house.”
“What kind of equipment?”
“Everything. Remote listening devices, motion-sensitive cameras, scanners that identify phone numbers and email addresses, car tracking satellite systems … you name it, they’ve got it.”
“Our security service hasn’t reported anything unusual,” Wilson said.
“They’re looking for burglars and intruders, not highly trained surveillance professionals.”
Wilson studied Daniel. The mix of puzzlement and fear in his eyes remained. Daniel’s in over his head, Wilson thought. “Can they hear everything we say in the house?”
“Probably.”
“What about here?”
“No. We’re jamming any surveillance.”
“Who else are they watching?”
“Carter Emerson and your girlfriend Emily Klein.”
“I haven’t seen her in months,” Wilson said, his anxiety spiking again. “Why the sudden escalation?”