“He hasn’t been the same since Charles was shot.”
“No one has!” Tate said emphatically.
“I’m not suggesting Redd did anything intentionally. An offhanded comment or a hint of uncertainty might have been the only excuse O’Grady needed to intensify her probing.”
“You think she baited him?” Tate asked.
“Redd’s too smart for that. But she may have convinced him …”
Tate interrupted, “… to tell her what’s really going on? Forget it.”
“No,” Kamin said, his voice rising. “She may have convinced him to admit his own growing uncertainties.”
Tate fell silent. He slid open the balcony door and walked out into the cold, hoping it might help drop his blood pressure.
“Redd’s vulnerable, Wayland,” Kamin continued. “Has been since White Horse. And if he is, we are.”
Bristling at the comment, Tate watched a red fox chase a snow rabbit across the blanket of white into the dark pines. The more unpredictable the fox, the more rabbits it snares. He smiled and walked back into his suite. “Maybe it’s time to kill the KaneWeller deal.”
“We can’t …”
“Easy, Jules,” Tate said. “I know you’ve been waiting a long time to assume the helm at KaneWeller, but Musselman will give us the resources to acquire Morgan. Anything you want to do at KaneWeller you can do at Morgan or another investment house, and that includes acquiring Fielder amp; Company. You may be right about Redd, and O’Grady is clearly a threat. It’s time to move the game to a new playing field,” Tate said, knowing it would be brutal for Kamin to leave KaneWeller after so many years of patiently positioning himself for the top spot. But there was no other alternative, Tate mulled. Not if we expect to preserve the partnership. O’Grady had always been a free spirit. She should have been removed from the equation when Kamin had the chance. Now, it was too late. Control had been lost. And Kamin knew it. If there was any lesson Tate had learned from history, it was that control belonged to the ruthless. Whenever it was lost, it had to be retaken immediately, no matter the cost.
“How do we kill it?” Kamin asked wearily.
“Leave that to me. Contingency plans are already in place,” Tate said. “Right now we need to focus on Musselman. It’s time to start buying as much stock as we can.”
“You’ve confirmed Quinn?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll put things in motion before I get on the plane. Buying can start first thing Monday morning,” Kamin said with a deepening resignation in his voice. He’d learned a long time ago that it never paid to disagree with Wayland Tate-not once he’d made a decision.
“How many entities do we need?” Tate asked.
“At least thirty,” Kamin said.
“I’ll let Swatling know. If you have any reservations about Quinn tomorrow night, you can call it off,” Tate said, attempting to appease Kamin.
“The stock was selling at ten percent below book value at today’s closing,” Kamin said, just having pulled up Musselman’s stock report on his screen.
“Perfect. If Quinn is as hungry as he seems, we’ll be able to generate several billion on Musselman.”
“I look forward to meeting him,” Kamin said, a slight glint returning to his eyes.
“Needless to say, he’s very anxious to meet you. The depressed stock price is driving him crazy. We’re scheduled for dinner tomorrow night at eight.”
“Have you talked to our new investors?” Kamin asked.
“Not yet, but I will. Opportunities like this don’t come along everyday,” Tate said, feeling invincible. Things were coming together on Musselman just as he’d planned. The advertising campaign alone could double the company’s stock price within thirty days of its launch. Even if the America’s Warehouse strategy turned out to have no long-term sustainability-as Wilson Fielder and his Kresge team were predicting-Musselman’s stock price was projected to quadruple by the end of summer. Tate and his partners were not only poised to harvest a financial windfall from J. B. Musselman, they were insulated against all downsides. Any implementation failures would be laid at the feet of David Quinn and his management team. It was exactly the sort of scenario Tate relished.
When Tate said good-bye to Kamin, he walked to the closet and retrieved another cell phone-one of the encryption phones he would use and discard. He punched in the number and waited for his personal assassin. Within seconds the call was received in Boston by a similar phone. “This is Marco.”
“It’s Wayland. I want you to go ahead as planned. Tonight.”
“Done,” Marco said, before ending the call and dismantling the phone. He dropped the pieces into a frog pond in Boston Common.
10
Daniel — Boston, MA
Cheryl O’Grady was waiting when Daniel Redd arrived at the bar of the Exelsior, a swank New American-style restaurant overlooking Boston Public Garden. The maitre d’ escorted them to a table in one of the restaurant’s secluded alcoves. Cheryl had called Daniel after the merger closing and asked for a private meeting. He’d quickly decided that a public meeting would raise fewer questions than a private encounter. When they sat down in the Queen Anne wing chairs, Daniel casually placed a small surveillance-nullifying device in the middle of their table.
“Is that what I think it is?” she asked.
“Depends on whether you’re thinking like KaneWeller or Fielder amp; Company.”
“Both, and I’d say it’s a counter-surveillance device, not a recorder.”
“Correct.”
“You know what I want to talk about, don’t you?”
“I think so.”
“Can I see them?”
“We agreed they would remain in our custody,” Daniel said. “It was all spelled out in the documents we signed a few hours ago. Remember?”
“Let me make this simple, Daniel. Either I get access to those files or I scuttle the merger.”
Daniel searched her eyes. They looked no more sympathetic than an attacking Doberman’s. She was not about to back down. “I’ll let you see the files under my supervision-in our offices-on one condition.”
“What’s the condition?”
“You can only use the information as background. None of it can be copied or shared with your colleagues. And none of it can be used in any way to justify your scuttling of the merger.”
“Agreed. My only interest is to understand exactly what we’re walking into-so we know what to avoid going forward.”
“Let’s have a drink,” Daniel said. “Then I’ll take you back to our office.”
After sharing a bottle of Shiraz and a platter of imported goat and sheep cheeses along with professional small talk, Daniel and Cheryl exited the restaurant onto Boylston Street. They walked to the intersection of Arlington and Boylston across from the Boston Public Garden and waited for the light to change.
Daniel hoped he wouldn’t regret bringing Cheryl to the office to examine the fifty-two files. But all things considered, he had little choice. As Deputy General Counsel for KaneWeller, Cheryl certainly had the power and influence to scuttle the deal if she were so inclined. Allowing her to review the files with an opportunity to explain their true purpose, he told himself, might well be the only way to save the merger and distance Wilson from Fielder amp; Company. Hopefully, it would also avert any negative press that might compromise liquidation of Charles’ other assets.
When the traffic light changed, Daniel and Cheryl began crossing Boylston Street. They walked past the center island, commenting on the beautiful budding elms and maples that lined the edge of the Public Garden.
Suddenly, without warning, a car swerved out from behind a lane of stopped traffic, crashed through a street
