The Takeover Page 15

  Lane was agitated. His leg bounced up and down beneath the table. “Something about some people on the Eastern Shore of Maryland who had their dairy herd killed by polluted water. They claim that Penn-Mar illegally dumped toxic chemicals on this farm, the drums leaked, and the shit got into the cows’ water supply. So they clean up the site, pay the people some compensation for the loss of Elsie and the rest of the herd, which probably ended up as dog chow, and everybody gets on with their lives. The thing will get settled before it ever gets to the jury. Every one of these things gets settled. Penn-Mar pays a couple a million bucks, and it’s over. It isn’t going to affect the stock price one way or the other. Penn-Mar is too big. Besides, I’m not recommending a long-term strategy. I’d keep it in the President’s portfolio for six months. The juice will be out of it by then.”

  Farinholt drew in a long breath, then exhaled loudly. He did not like to tinker with the composition of the President’s portfolio. It was full of blue-chip companies because the last thing he wanted was a real problem with one of the President’s stocks. Just keep up with the Dow. That was all he wanted to do with that portfolio. But the truth was the President’s portfolio had not kept pace with the Dow. It had increased just four percent since the beginning of the year, half the Dow’s performance. He needed a winner. “All right. Buy twenty thousand dollars’ worth. And some call options. That will be ten percent of the President’s portfolio, enough to make a difference if you’re right. Yet it won’t hurt us too badly if you’re wrong. And you’d better not be wrong, Lane. Sell IBM to get the money. Use Alex Brown. You got that?”

  “Sure, sure.” Lane rose to go.

  “What’s the upside on this thing, Peter? Short term.”

  “It will be at forty-five dollars a share by Christmas. I guarantee it.”

  * * *

  —

  “Twenty thousand dollars at thirty-one is done!” the Alex Brown broker screamed the words into Lane’s ear. “That’s six hundred forty-five shares. I’ll send you a confirmation later.”

  “And I need one other thing too.”

  “What?”

  “Call options. What’s the strike on the Septembers?”

  “Uh, hold on.” People screamed in the background. “Yeah, thirty-five.”

  “Price?”

  “Three and a quarter.”

  “Still a hundred options to a contract?”

  “Yep!”

  “Buy me fifty contracts. For the same account.”

  “Done. I’ll send you the confirm on that transaction too.”

  “Take your time.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Yeah. You have a nice day too,” Lane said sarcastically. He hung up the phone. A wave of relief coursed through him. For a moment he had been worried that Farinholt was not going to give the approval to purchase the Penn-Mar shares. Then he might not have received the five hundred thousand dollars. If these people wanted Penn-Mar in the President’s portfolio, so be it. He didn’t care. He had no particular political affinity, except that he was beginning to approach the level of income where he would run into this President’s new tax rates.

  Even if Farinholt had turned down the recommendations, he could have simply lied and told the woman that they had put the President into Penn-Mar. But something about the woman’s eyes told him that might not be a good idea. “We’ll be listening” was what she had said. Lane didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he had an idea. Bugging devices were common in Washington.

  Five hundred thousand dollars. In cash. No taxes. He would quit and go lie on a beach somewhere. Lane wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead. Farinholt had bought the crap about cost-reduction programs at Penn-Mar so easily. God, people were gullible.

  * * *

  —

  Money moves over the wire effortlessly, nothing more than electric pulses travelling between huge computers installed in the back offices of financial institutions around the world. As long as the notification is properly encoded, no questions are asked, and the money flows directly to its destination. Sometimes it moves through several institutions before it reaches its ultimate destination, depending on who has a correspondent relationship with whom. But it always arrives.

  The amount was not large, thirty thousand dollars. A minuscule amount compared to the billions that come and go each day. Not enough to create the slightest suspicion. That was the way they wanted it.

  The wire transfer found its way into NASO as a snake would enter the basement of a home. Silently. Smoothly. Through the darkest passageways. Searching for prey. But the wire, the thirty thousand dollars, did not remain at NASO for long, as the snake, locating no prey in the basement of the first home, would exit through another darkened passage, searching for another basement in which to hunt.

  The wire remained at NASO just long enough to nestle into an account that had been set up for Falcon only the day before. An account of which he was completely unaware. The wire moved into the account and then moved almost immediately back out again into the system, into the numbered Citibank squirrel account, which even the bankruptcy judge had been unable to find upon the demise of MD Link. It was an account Falcon should have closed many months before but hadn’t. They appreciated his uncharacteristic lack of attention to detail. The money did not remain in the unclosed squirrel account for long either. Just long enough for Citibank to record its presence.

  Then it moved on again, this time to a Chase Manhattan general clearing account. The Chase account was maintained by Winthrop, Hawkins and used as a depository for clients’ funds. The funds were used by large institutions and wealthy individuals to purchase stocks and bonds through Winthrop, Hawkins security brokers.

  Winthrop, Hawkins bought and sold securities only for large institutions and very high net-worth individuals. Normally, Falcon would not have met the minimum net-worth requirements for using Winthrop, Hawkins brokers. But today he was being offered a special opportunity, an opportunity of which, again, he was not aware. He would have given anything to know what was happening and who was behind the movement of money and the “gift” that found its way into the special brokerage account at Winthrop, Hawkins. Because if he had known, he might have been able to avert the disaster.

  Thirty-two dollars a share. Nine hundred and thirty-seven shares. A gift to Falcon from an anonymous donor. A gift that could potentially provide him a forty-to fifty-thousand-dollar gain—as well as a five- to seven-year prison sentence. A sentence he could not survive.

  * * *

  —

  The camera bulbs popped and flashed at Carter Filipelli and Wendell Smith as the two men stood on the steps of the Federal Building, across Wall Street from the Stock Exchange. It was from the Federal Building that George Washington had addressed a nation after being elected its first President. As a sign of respect, and at President Warren’s direction, Filipelli had made a special trip to New York, to Smith’s territory, to host a conciliatory luncheon at Tavern on the Green—Smith’s favorite restaurant. In attendance were other senior members of the New York Fed, local politicians, and top investment bankers.

  After dessert, Filipelli gave a short speech, praising Smith’s service to the Federal Reserve, his knowledge of how markets interacted, and his economic insights. Then they had travelled to Wall Street together, by limousine, for the photo session with the press. The two men stood close together, hands clasped in what had become a five-minute handshake.

  “Lots of people here!” Smith yelled the words above the din of the screaming reporters’ questions. He nodded approvingly as camera bulbs flashed all around them.

  “Yeah, they’ll be calling this Fed Bowl in the morning,” Filipelli yelled back.

  “You know, you’re not such a bad guy!” Smith screamed at Filipelli.

  Filipelli smiled broadly for the cameras and leaned toward Smith’s ear. “Yeah, but y
ou’re still a son of a bitch!”

  14

  The square-shaped boardroom on the top floor of the NASO Headquarters building, forty-seven stories above Park Avenue, was easily large enough to accommodate NASO’s sixteen directors and invited guests during the bank’s quarterly board meetings. The ceiling, at least twenty feet high, was covered with exotic Philippine seashells. The insides of the shells reflected all colors of the spectrum as spotlights, hidden behind the cornice molding, slowly rotated.

  Like the room, the table, covered entirely by beige felt cloth, was square. The shape made the middle of the table completely useless, Falcon thought as he stared at the beautiful centerpiece of fresh roses. It was the wrong room for this meeting. There would be just four people in attendance today. This room would overpower the presentation, and Falcon was keenly aware of how vital aesthetics were to a successful presentation. But Barksdale wanted the meeting here, so here it would be. He had selected this venue primarily because there was an elevator that ran directly from the basement to the forty-seventh floor, making no stops in between. Today’s attendees, including Falcon, would be able to come and go anonymously.

  Falcon moved to the huge window on the south side of the room. Despite the thick midday humidity, he could see all the way downtown, his view only slightly obstructed by the Chrysler Building, and behind it, the Empire State Building. The World Trade Center’s towers soared skyward in the distance to the right, seemingly not so much taller than the NASO building at this great distance. To the left, in the center of the downtown area, rose the spires of the AIG headquarters and the uncharacteristically modern J. P. Morgan building at 60 Wall Street.

  New York. It was an incredible city. A city in which one was tremendously happy or tremendously unhappy. Exuberant today and despondent tomorrow. There was no middle ground here. And Falcon had revelled in that volatility when he was younger because the short down periods made the highs even more intense. It had made him proud to survive in New York. Now it just made him tired.

  During the last few days, huddled over the computer, one question kept reverberating through his mind, over and over. If he had money, five million dollars, for instance, would he stay in this godforsaken city? A city he derisively nicknamed the Bad Apple? The answer kept coming up no. The answer was to escape as quickly as possible. He would take the money, two million after taxes, sink half a million into a comfortable but conservative farm in the outer reaches of Vermont, and live out his existence on the remainder of the money and whatever else he could earn out there.

  Alexis probably wouldn’t agree to that life. She would be horrified at the thought of being more than a few miles from a major metropolitan center, horrified at the thought of being more than a few minutes from Fifth Avenue. But so what? Maybe he didn’t want her to go. He flexed his left hand. Maybe Jenny really ought to be the one. In Vermont, her background wouldn’t matter.

  Falcon gazed out over the concrete wasteland and suddenly began to laugh. It was a dream, a goddamn pipe dream, to think he would go to Vermont. He’d be living in New York chasing the almighty dollar until the day he died. Not because he necessarily required what those dollars could buy, but because money was the yardstick of success or failure in this society. It was the constant against which every individual could be measured objectively. And he would be damned if he wasn’t on top when the measuring was done. He was too driven. It would be his undoing someday. Granville’s words kept coming back. He hadn’t known until now what the older man meant.

  “Falcon.” Barksdale’s melodious voice filled the boardroom.

  Falcon turned. He had not heard the elevator door open. Following Barksdale toward him were two other men, who looked neither to the left nor the right, but maintained their gaze steadily upon Falcon. They came to where he stood, and he was strangely irritated that they would invade the space in which he had been fantasizing about the idyllic Vermont farm.

  “Falcon, this is Devon Chambers and Werner Prausch. Werner is a partner in the German-based investment firm Westphalia Nord. Devon represents Westphalia’s U.S. affiliate, Veens & Company. Veens will be the entity making the acquisition.”

  “Good afternoon.” Falcon shook the German’s hand first. The man was blond, blue-eyed, and of average height. Falcon judged him to be around forty. “I’ve not heard of Westphalia Nord or Veens & Company,” he said.

  Chambers stepped in front of the German without offering his hand to Falcon. “It was formed two years ago. It specializes in chemical-company acquisitions both in Europe and in the United States. It is very private and very publicity averse. We have completed several small purchases since our inception. Our money comes primarily from institutions within Germany with which our chairman has strong connections.” Chambers spoke in a low whisper, through labored breaths. “You will receive more detailed information later for your perusal.”

  Falcon tried to summon the trademark crooked smile as he stared down at Devon Chambers, but somehow he could not. Chambers was small and frail, and the charcoal-gray suit appeared to be pinned to his body in certain places. The dress shirt fit loosely around his neck, as if it had been purchased at a time when Chambers’ neck was healthier. The man’s skin was pallid, almost devoid of pigment, and the dark hair contrasted sharply with the pale skin. He looked like a walking corpse.

  Finally, Chambers took Falcon’s outstretched hand. Chambers’ hand was actually cold to the touch, and Falcon had to make a conscious effort not to recoil.

  “Good afternoon, Devon.” It seemed unnatural to address this man by his first name, but Falcon forced himself to do so. It was a quick way to put those much older on equal ground in a business setting. He had learned that long ago. But it had to be done authoritatively.

  “Hello.” The same low whisper. Chambers’ lips, thin and dry, barely moved. He exhibited no friendliness at all.

  Chambers’ eyes did not leave Falcon’s and did not blink. It unnerved Falcon, and he felt the small hairs on his neck rising. But he betrayed no emotion.

  “Why don’t we all sit down?” Barksdale was acting too friendly. He was visibly agitated, Falcon noticed. Chambers intimidated him. “Let’s have some coffee.” Barksdale guided the two clients to one corner of the huge boardroom table.

  Falcon followed them to the table and sat around the corner so that he faced them.

  “Falcon, as you know, Wallace will be unable to join us today.” Barksdale turned to the other men. “Wallace is in Tokyo speaking to the chairman of the Long Term Credit Bank about the transaction.”

  The other two men nodded solemnly.

  “Why don’t we get right to it?” Chambers said bluntly.

  “An excellent idea.” Falcon slipped into his presentation mode. “But if I could first be so bold as to ask about your background, Devon.”

  “Falcon, you’ll get all of that—”

  “It’s all right.” Chambers cut off Barksdale. His gaze was overtly unfriendly for the first time. “I was chairman of DuPont until six years ago, when I retired. I played golf and travelled for a while after that, but it wasn’t enough.” Chambers paused to breathe. “I was fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of Werner and his partners. It has given me an opportunity to get back in the game.”

  Falcon stared at the man. “Of course. You spoke at Harvard Business School. You spoke to my second-year business policy class.”

  Chambers nodded. “I did that every year. We at DuPont tried to remain very active at Harvard. DuPont recruits heavily from both the undergraduate and business schools.”

  “Did you graduate from HBS?”

  Chambers nodded. “Harvard undergraduate as well. Now, can we discuss Penn-Mar, please?”

  Falcon glanced at Werner. He wanted to ask about Prausch’s background but didn’t. Chambers was clearly in charge, so Prausch’s background probably didn’t matter anyway.

  Falcon passed each
of the men a small bound booklet. “Devon, I would appreciate your comments at any point.”

  “I won’t hesitate.” As if saying this had caused him too much effort, the older man touched his chest.

  Falcon took a deep breath, but before he could begin the presentation, Chambers began to cough—short, innocent coughs at first, as though he were simply clearing his throat. Chambers removed a handkerchief from his suit pocket, covered his mouth, and motioned for Falcon to begin the presentation. But the coughing deepened to an unpleasant hack which sounded as though it were tearing Chambers’ lung tissue apart. The older man leaned onto the table, dropped the handkerchief, and grabbed the felt material tightly as he convulsed. His knuckles turned snow-white as what little blood circulated through his fingers drained away. “Katherine! Katherine, help me!”

  Barksdale and Prausch stood quickly. They looked around frantically but were paralyzed by the attack.

  “Katherine, the pills!”

  Barksdale and Prausch looked at each other but did not understand.

  Falcon moved quickly to Chambers’ aid. He leaned down close to the old man’s pallid cheek. “Where?” he asked urgently.

  “Pocket.” It was all Chambers could do to speak.

  In the side pocket of Chambers’ coat Falcon located a small vial. He pulled it out quickly, glanced at the prescription, and turned to Barksdale. “Water! Now!”

  But Barksdale was still frozen. It was as if his shoes were bolted to the thick Persian rug. His mouth opened and closed but he made no sound.

  Finally, Prausch responded. He sprinted to the far end of the room, where there was a dumbwaiter on which was a ewer of water. He grabbed the entire pitcher and a glass and ran back to Chambers. Falcon pulled Chambers to a sitting position, shoved two of the light-green tablets into his mouth, and forced water down his throat. When Chambers opened his mouth again to cough, Falcon saw that he had swallowed the pills.