The Vulture Fund Page 2

  “I assume our receptionist offered you refreshments.”

  “Yes, she did. But I am fine. Thank you.” Tashiro attempted to match Mace’s smooth demeanor but could not. “Thank you.” He said the words again, more to calm himself than anything else.

  Tashiro glanced around the ornate, impressive room, a monument to American capitalism. From every angle the dark eyes of stern-faced men—long-dead partners of Walker Pryce & Company, the investment banking firm for which Mace McLain worked—bore down on him. Beautiful dark wood chairs and tables furnished the rich setting, and a glass chandelier hung over Tashiro from the high ceiling like a horrible guillotine. Suddenly he longed for the drab, sterile surroundings of Osaka Trust.

  “Mr. Tashiro, we’ve been working on this transaction for six months.” Mace leaned forward, over the table. His eyes narrowed, and his voice became slightly stern, still calm but more forceful than before. “Why have you picked the last minute to identify a problem? My client is not happy.” Mace knew exactly why Tashiro had picked now to raise his complaint, but he wanted to see Tashiro sweat. He knew that the Japanese detested pointed questions.

  Tashiro leaned back as Mace leaned forward. Americans were too direct. They said exactly what they meant, unlike his countrymen, who might circle a point for hours, discussing irrelevant issues just to test the other side for weaknesses. “I would not say it is a problem, more an issue that needs to be resolved.”

  Doublespeak, Mace thought. An issue that needed to be resolved was a problem. But his face exhibited no irritation or frustration, just stoic calm.

  “Mr. McLain, I am just not certain that the tax treaties work as you say they do. And if they do not, and the interest coming to Osaka Trust is not tax-exempt, my bank will actually be losing money on this loan.”

  Mace stared at Tashiro. The Japanese man knew full well that the treaties were in place to stay and that the deal worked perfectly. They had an ironclad opinion on the structure’s viability from the Washington, D.C., office of Jones Day, the high-profile Cleveland law firm.

  Tashiro knew all this. But he also knew that Mace McLain needed Osaka Trust to get the deal done. He knew that without Osaka, the bank group did not meet a minimum Japanese content as stipulated by the treaties and the transaction would be cratered. At least he thought he knew.

  Mace inhaled slowly. So Tashiro was going to hold up the deal for a better interest rate. But if he gave Tashiro the higher rate, he’d have to give all the other banks the same. Then the pension funds and the insurance companies would find out and start screaming for a better deal too. An irreversible chain reaction would begin, and everything would fall apart.

  “Just how do you propose to get past this issue, Mr. Tashiro?”

  Tashiro adjusted his glasses, then with his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, folded his hands in front of his mouth and stared back at Mace. So McLain was willing to negotiate. Tashiro smiled beneath his hands. His fear ebbed away like a gentle outgoing tide.

  Just as Tashiro was about to speak, a large door at the far end of the room burst open. Mace and Tashiro glanced immediately in the direction of the commotion. Sherman Stevens, a partner at Walker Pryce & Company, strode quickly through the doorway.

  “Jesus Christ, Mace! I’ve been looking all over for you.” Stevens paid no attention to the Japanese banker sitting across from Mace. “The goddamned WestPenn deal is falling apart. Norfolk Southern is going to top our offer price for WestPenn shares. This can’t be happening. I need this deal!” Stevens thundered.

  Mace shot a glance at Tashiro, who appeared completely bewildered.

  Mace’s eyes flashed back to Stevens. The older man’s face was beet red, and his hair rumpled. Mace shook his head slightly. Stevens was a partner, and Mace only a vice-president. Partners were supposed to be partners because they could handle themselves in pressure situations, when the deal was on the line. Yet here was Stevens standing before Mace like some green first-year associate, unable to think clearly because a huge fee seemed to be slipping away and as a result, he might not be able to buy the Grand Cayman vacation home he had his eye on.

  Mace rose, then turned to Tashiro. “I apologize. Please excuse me for a moment.”

  Tashiro jumped up from his seat, nodding and bowing at the same time, uncertain of what was transpiring. He was suspicious that Mace was engaging in theatrics to intimidate him but did not want to insult Stevens in case the older man turned out to be the player.

  “Sit down, please. I’ll be right back,” Mace said to Tashiro.

  Tashiro obeyed immediately.

  Mace turned to Stevens. “Come with me, Sherman.” He said the words firmly, moving past Stevens as he spoke.

  Mace moved out of the conference room and toward another, smaller meeting room down the hall, with Stevens in tow. So another deal was cratering. What else was going to happen this morning?

  Mace and Stevens had been putting together the acquisition of WestPenn—a poorly performing short line railroad operating four hundred miles of spur tracks in western Pennsylvania and eastern Ohio—for nine months. Now suddenly the huge Norfolk & Southern Railroad was going to snap up WestPenn’s shares just as Walker Pryce was about to complete its own deal.

  Mace moved briskly into the small conference room. He closed the door behind Stevens as the older man followed Mace into the room. Mace did not bother to sit. “How did you learn about Norfolk’s bid?” Mace asked quickly.

  “I can’t say.” Stevens’ tone was suddenly confrontational.

  Mace slammed his fist against the wall.

  Stevens flinched. “Jesus Christ! What’s your problem?”

  Mace ignored Stevens. “How did you find out?” His voice rose slightly but his expression remained calm.

  Stevens hesitated. Revealing sources in the investment banking world was something one did not do lightly. But he relented as he glanced at Mace’s burning eyes. “Peter Schmidt over at Morgan Stanley called me. They are going to represent Norfolk Southern.”

  Mace stared at Stevens, then laughed. “That little hemorrhoid. He’s just trying to ruin our deal. Norfolk Southern doesn’t really want WestPenn. It doesn’t fit Norfolk’s strategy. But Peter must have convinced the senior people at Norfolk to do the deal so he could get in our way. He still hasn’t forgiven us for beating him to the punch on that Black and Decker financing two years ago.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter why or how he’s done it. What matters is that he’s done it!”

  Mace turned, grabbed the phone sitting on a small table, and punched out a number. A secretary answered.

  “Peter Schmidt, please.” Mace’s voice was firm.

  “Peter Schmidt.” The Morgan Stanley investment banker picked up the call an instant after the secretary had put Mace on hold. His tone was curt.

  “It’s Mace McLain.”

  “Hello, Mace.” Schmidt’s voice suddenly turned slow and sarcastic.

  Mace grimaced. He could see Schmidt leaning back in his chair, smiling an obnoxious, satisfied smile. “Sherman tells me you’ve ginned up another bidder for WestPenn.”

  “That’s right, my boy,” Schmidt crowed.

  “Norfolk doesn’t want WestPenn, and you know it, Peter.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve made them think they do. And that’s all that counts,” Schmidt said smugly.

  “How about the three-billion-dollar Chengtu Airport bond underwriting in China to be brought to market later this year?” Mace asked quickly. “There will be tremendous fees involved in that transaction, not to mention a huge amount of prestige. Does that deal count too?”

  Schmidt hesitated, uncertain of Mace’s tack. “What do you mean?”

  “As you must know, Walker Pryce has been named lead underwriter in that transaction by the Chinese government. And we’ve selected Morgan Stanley as a colead. Because we have been so kind, Morga
n Stanley is now guaranteed a nice fat syndication fee and lots more business in China, which we all know hasn’t been an easy market for you to break into. But it’s not too late to change our colead manager to, say, Goldman Sachs. You wouldn’t want it to get back to your chairman that Morgan lost the Chengtu deal to Goldman Sachs because of WestPenn, because of you. Would you want that to happen, Peter?”

  There was dead silence at the other end of the line. Finally Schmidt spoke. “You need us as colead on the Chengtu transaction.” But his voice was not convincing.

  “No, we don’t,” Mace said matter-of-factly.

  Again there was a protracted silence.

  “Call off the dogs, Peter. Call off Norfolk Southern,” Mace prompted the Morgan Stanley investment banker.

  Finally Schmidt whispered into the mouthpiece, “Okay.”

  Mace replaced the receiver quickly, not bothering to say good-bye to Schmidt, then snapped his fingers at Stevens. “Norfolk Southern is gone. Close the WestPenn deal, Sherman. Now! Before someone else shows up at the dance and tries to make off with our date.” He brushed past the partner and out of the small room.

  Stevens’ eyes narrowed as he watched Mace move out of the conference room. The kid was good. There was no denying that. But he could be cocky sometimes too. Mace needed to understand the necessity of showing respect to a partner, of the need to kiss the ring. Stevens made a mental note to bring up this problem at the next partners’ meeting.

  Tashiro rose as Mace returned to the large conference room.

  “Sit down,” Mace said. It was time to end this negotiation. He did not retake his seat across from Tashiro, but moved instead to a seat next to him. He stared directly into the other man’s eyes. “In this instance your real issue is price, not concern over the viability of the structure. What you’re trying to do is gouge me for a little extra juice at the eleventh hour because you think you can.”

  Tashiro swallowed hard. “You are wrong, Mr. McLain.”

  “No, I’m not,” Mace snapped. “It’s a very profitable deal as currently structured, Mr. Tashiro. There is no justification for higher pricing. I have another bank ready to go if you don’t want in.” Mace paused. “And if you decline this opportunity, rest assured that the New York branch of Osaka Trust will never see another deal from Walker Pryce & Company.” His eyes bored into the commercial banker. He had no other banks willing to step in at this point. Osaka was the only game in town. It was a bluff, pure and simple. But he was an excellent poker player.

  Suddenly Tashiro wanted no part of this game. His information told him that Mace was bluffing, but Mace’s eyes said otherwise. Tashiro could feel the perspiration building beneath his pin-striped suit. It was a profitable deal as structured. And Osaka Trust would make a great deal of money on this loan, as it had on many other deals Walker Pryce had brought to it in the last few years. If he stood his ground for better pricing and Mace did have another Japanese bank in his hip pocket, the pipeline of deals from Walker Pryce would surely dry up. That would not make his senior managers in Japan happy.

  Slowly, almost painfully, Tashiro looked again into Mace’s eyes. “All right, we do the deal as structured.”

  Mace inhaled slowly and raised an eyebrow. “Good,” he said calmly. “I suggest you return to your office and sign the necessary papers. Immediately.” Mace stood as he finished speaking.

  Tashiro rose also, unsteadily. The Japanese man nodded one more time, picked up his briefcase, and was gone.

  Mace watched him leave, then laughed softly as he moved to the large window overlooking Wall Street far below. He glanced up quickly at the dark January clouds filled with snow, then checked his watch. Eleven o’clock. Two deals were back on track and heading toward multimillion-dollar closing fees. But there was still plenty of time left in the day for something to go wrong with his other six transactions.

  He turned to go. There was so much to do. And tomorrow would be cut short because he had to leave early to teach a class at Columbia in the evening. Sometimes there really weren’t enough hours in the day.

  * * *

  —

  “Thank you for coming tonight. I know these meetings are logistically difficult for you, but as you must realize, complete secrecy is essential, given my position.”

  Lewis Webster stared at the other man, then nodded, as if it hadn’t been a problem to come such a great distance in the dead of night. It galled him to be so deferential, but he had no choice. Not to cooperate, not to take the mammoth risk this man was forcing him toward, would mean a long prison sentence. That had been made abundantly clear. And the sentence would not be endured at a minimum-security white-collar-crime enclosure. He would rot with the likes of mob hit men and serial killers until the day he died. That had been made clear as well.

  “Would you care for a sandwich, Mr. Webster?” The man gestured at the thin slices of roast beef and ham neatly arranged on a tray sitting on the small table next to the hotel suite door.

  Webster shook his head. He was ravenous, but his desire to end the meeting far outweighed his hunger. He stared at the other man, attempting to mask the hatred he felt—and the fear. The scenario had been neatly and coldly laid out for him at the last meeting a month ago. He, Lewis Webster, senior partner of Walker Pryce & Company, one of the most prominent investment banks on Wall Street, was guilty of insider trading, securities fraud, and unlawful manipulation of client accounts. If convicted, he would face a minimum of thirty-one years in prison. Therefore, because he was sixty-two years old, the likelihood of his becoming a free man before he died would be almost zero. And he would be convicted. There was no doubt about it. The other man had shown him the evidence.

  Webster squeezed the arm of the chair. But there was an alternative. A rather nice alternative, the man had said; Webster hated how polite the bastard was. Webster could cooperate. He could make certain resources at Walker Pryce available. If things turned out as planned, the payoff would be huge, in the billions. Walker Pryce would keep some of those billions, and since as senior partner Webster owned a large piece of Walker Pryce, he would benefit personally. Perhaps more important, he would remain a free man. He would not have to endure lock-downs, lice-infested cells, beatings, and rapes. Webster shook involuntarily at the thought.

  “Are you all right? Is it too cold in here? I apologize. I’ll turn up the thermostat. It’s just that I like it cold.” The other man smiled and began to rise from his chair.

  “No, no. It’s fine. Please.” Webster waved his hand.

  The man sat back down in his chair, still smiling. He knew why Webster did not want to eat and why the tremor shook his body every so often. He could see the fear on Webster’s face. The other man laughed to himself.

  “Have you had a chance to consider what we talked about at our last meeting?”

  “Yes,” Webster hissed immediately. He wanted this to be over.

  “And?”

  Webster glanced at the thermostat. It was cold in here. “I don’t see that I have a choice. You know that; I know that. I don’t understand why we waited a month to meet again.”

  “Two reasons. First, I have a very busy schedule. Like New York and investment banking, Washington and politics never rest. Second, I wanted you to have a chance to think very carefully about what I said to you last time we met. This is an extremely important decision you are making.”

  “I’ve thought about it enough.”

  The man leaned forward slowly so that he was very close to Webster. “And are you committed to what we discussed?” His voice dropped to a whisper.

  Webster gazed at the man’s face—strong and calm—reflecting the tremendous power he already wielded and the greater power he desired. “Yes.”

  “Absolutely?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know that if this were to fall apart, you would suffer the consequences, not I.” He did n
ot await Webster’s reply. “And were you to attempt to alert someone, to lay all this out for my enemies, in the best case you would endure a protracted prison sentence. In the worst case, well…”

  As the other man made obvious his threat, Webster’s feelings of hatred and fear coalesced into only fear, a deep physical fear that he had never before known. “I understand.” Webster closed his eyes for several moments. “My problem is that a majority of my partners at Walker Pryce want to go public. Now. They believe the time is right. And if Walker Pryce accesses the public market, there would be no way I could convince the new shareholders to raise the pool of money you want to raise, no way I could convince them to use the proceeds of that fund the way you want to use them.”

  “You need to convince your partners that going public at this juncture is not in their best interest. It’s that simple.”

  “It isn’t that easy,” Webster whispered.

  “The decision of whether or not to go public will be made by the executive committee of Walker Pryce, isn’t that what you told me at our last meeting?”

  “Yes.” Webster glanced at the floor.

  The other man bent down slowly and picked up two thick brown envelopes leaning against a leg of his chair. He handed them to Webster. “These should help.” He smiled as he released his grip on the packages.

  2

  “Ready? Ready, go! Go, go, go!” The captain screamed at the twenty-five men of Assault Unit Three as they burst through one of four main gates of the massive downtown Los Angeles liquid natural gas storage facility. The captain braced for the explosions—mines that the terrorists might have managed to put down in front of the gates—but they did not come. Thank God they had been able to respond so quickly to the crisis, less than an hour after the storage facility had been taken over, negating the terrorists’ ability to entrench themselves.

  As the men spilled into the compound, the sounds of automatic gunfire peppered the air. Riflemen posted in buildings across the street pasted the face of the storage facility’s main administration building with a withering fire to support the four assault teams.